The next morning rumor had, as they say, her hands and tongues very full
of business. Reilly and the Red Rapparee were lodged in Sligo jail that
night, and the next morning the fact was carried by the aforesaid rumor
far and wide over the whole country. One of the first whose ears it
reached was the gallant and virtuous Sir Robert Whitecraft, who no
sooner heard it than he ordered his horse and rode at a rapid rate
to see Mr. Folliard, in order, now that Reilly was out of the way, to
propose an instant marriage with the _Cooleen Bawn_. He found the old
man in a state very difficult to be described, for he had only just
returned to the drawing-room from the strongly sentinelled chamber of
his daughter. Indignation against Reilly seemed now nearly lost in the
melancholy situation of the wretched _Cooleen Bawn_. He had just seen
her, but, somehow, the interview had saddened and depressed his heart.
Her position and the state of her feelings would have been pitiable,
even to the eye of a stranger; what, then, must they not have been to a
father who loved her as he did? “Helen,” said he, as he took a chair
in her room, after her guards had been desired to withdraw for a time,
“Helen, are you aware that you have eternally disgraced your own name,
and that of your father and your family?”
Helen, who was as pale as death, looked at him with vacant and
unrecognizing eyes, but made no reply, for it was evident that she
either had not heard, or did not understand, a word he said.
“Helen,” said he, “did you hear me?”
She looked upon him with a long look of distress and misery, but there
was the vacancy still, and no recognition.
This, I suppose, thought the father, is just the case with every
love-sick girl in her condition, who will not be allowed to have her own
way; but of what use is a father unless he puts all this nonsense down,
and substitutes his own judgment for that of a silly girl. I will say
something now that will startle her, and I will say nothing but what I
will bring about.
“Helen, my darling,” he said, “are you both deaf and blind, that you can
neither see nor hear your father, and to-morrow your wedding-day? Sir
Robert Whitecraft will be here early; the special license is procured,
and after marriage you and he start for his English estates to spend the
honeymoon there, after which you both must return and live with me, for
I need scarcely say, Helen, that I could not live without you. Now I
think you ought to be a happy girl to get a husband possessed of such
immense property.”
She started and looked at him with something like returning
consciousness. “But where is Willy Reilly?” she asked.
“The villain that would have robbed me of my property and my daughter is
now safe in Sligo jail.”
A flash of something like joy--at least the father took it as
such--sparkled in a strange kind of triumph from her eyes.
“Ha,” said she, “is that villain safe at last? Dear papa, I am tired of
all this--this--yes, I am tired of it, and it is time I should; but you
talked about something else, did you not? Something about Sir Robert
Whitecraft and a marriage. And what is my reply to that? why, it is
this, papa: I have but one life, sir. Now begone, and leave me, or, upon
my honor, I will push you out of the room. Have I not consented to all
your terms. Let Sir Robert come tomorrow and he shall call me his wife
before the sun reaches his meridian. Now, leave me; leave me, I say.”
In this uncertain state her father found himself compelled to retire to
the drawing-room, where Sir Robert and he met.
“Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “is this true?”
“Is what true, Sir Robert?” said he sharply.
“Why, that Reilly and the Red Rapparee are both in Sligo jail?”
“It is true, Sir Robert; and it must be a cursed thing to be in jail for
a capital crime.”
“Are you becoming penitent,” asked the other, “for bringing the laws of
the land to bear upon the villain that would have disgraced, and might
have ruined, your only daughter?”
The father's heart was stung by the diabolical pungency of this
question.
“Sir Robert,” said he, “we will hang him if it was only to get the
villain out of the way; and if you will be here to-morrow at ten
o'clock, the marriage must take place. I'll suffer no further nonsense
about it; but, mark me, after the honeymoon shall have passed, you and
she must come and reside here; to think that I could live without her is
impossible. Be here, then, at ten o'clock; the special license is ready,
and I have asked the Rev. Samson Strong to perform the ceremony. A
couple of my neighbor Ashford's daughters will act as bridesmaids, and
I myself will give her away: the marriage articles are drawn up, as you
know, and there will be little time lost in signing them; and yet, it's
a pity to--but no matter--be here at ten.”
Whitecraft took his leave in high spirits. The arrest and imprisonment
of Reilly had removed the great impediment that had hitherto lain in the
way of his marriage; but not so the imprisonment of the Red Rapparee.
The baronet regretted that that public and notorious malefactor had been
taken out of his own hands, because he wished, as the reader knows, to
make the delivering of him up to the Government one of the elements of
his reconciliation to it. Still, as matters stood, he felt on the whole
gratified at what had happened.
Folliard, after the baronet had gone, knew not exactly how to dispose
of himself. The truth is, the man's heart was an anomaly--a series of
contradictions, in which one feeling opposed another for a brief space,
and then was obliged to make way for a new prejudice equally transitory
and evanescent. Whitecraft he never heartily liked; for though the man
was blunt, he could look through a knave, and appreciate a man of
honor, with a great deal of shrewd accuracy. To be sure, Whitecraft was
enormously rich, but then he was penurious and inhospitable, two vices
strongly and decidedly opposed to the national feeling.
“Curse the long-legged scoundrel,” he exclaimed; “if he should beget
me a young breed of Whitecrafts like himself I would rather my daughter
were dead than marry him. Then, on the other hand, Reilly; hang the
fellow, had he only recanted his nonsensical creed, I could--but then,
again, he might, after marriage, bring her over to the Papists, and
then, by the Boyne, all my immense property would become Roman Catholic.
By Strongbow, he'd teach the very rivers that run through it to sing
Popish psalms in Latin: he would. However, the best way is to hang him
out of the way, and when Jack Ketch has done with him, so has Helen.
Curse Whitecraft, at all events!”
We may as well hint here that he had touched the Burgundy to some
purpose; he was now in that state of mental imbecility where reason,
baffled and prostrated by severe mental suffering and agitation, was
incapable of sustaining him without having recourse to the bottle. In
the due progress of the night he was helped to bed, and had scarcely
been placed and covered up there when he fell fast asleep.
Whitecraft, in the meantime, suspected, of course, or rather he was
perfectly aware of the fact, that unless by some ingenious manoeuvre,
of which he could form no conception, a marriage with the _Cooleen Bawn_
would be a matter of surpassing difficulty; but he cared not, provided
it could be effected by any means, whether foul or fair. The attachment
of this scoundrel to the fair and beautiful _Cooleen Bawn_ was composed
of two of the worst principles of the heart--sensuality and avarice;
but, in this instance, avarice came in to support sensuality. What the
licentious passions of the debauchee might have failed to tempt him to,
the consideration of her large fortune accomplished. And such was the
sordid and abominable union of the motives which spurred him on to the
marriage.
The next morning, being that which was fixed for his wedding-day, he was
roused at an early hour by a loud rapping at his hall-door. He started
on his elbow in the bed, and ringing the bell for his valet, asked, when
that gentleman entered his apartment half dressed, “What was the matter?
what cursed knocking was that? Don't they know I can hunt neither priest
nor Papist now, since this polite viceroy came here.”
“I don't know what the matter is, Sir Robert; they are at it again;
shall I open the door, sir?”
“Certainly; open the door immediately.”
“I think you had better dress, Sir Robert, and see what they want.”
The baronet threw his long fleshless shanks out of the bed, and began to
get on his clothes as fast as he could.
“Ha!” said he, when he was nearly dressed, “what if this should be
a Government prosecution for what I have undertaken to do on my own
responsibility during the last Administration? But no, surely it cannot
be; they would have given me some intimation of their proceedings. This
was due to my rank and station in the country, and to my exertions, a
zealous Protestant, to sustain the existence of Church and State. Curse
Church and State if it be! I have got myself, perhaps, into a pretty
mess by them.”
He had scarcely uttered the last words when Mr. Hastings, accompanied by
two or three officers of justice, entered his bedroom.
“Ah, Hastings, my dear friend, what is the matter? Is there any thing
wrong, or can I be of any assistance to you? if so, command me. But we
are out of power now, you know. Still, show me how I can assist you. How
do you do?” and as he spoke he put his hand out to shake hands with. Mr.
Hastings.
[Illustration: PAGE 143--No, Sir Robert, I cannot take your hand]
“No, Sir Robert, I cannot take your hand, nor the hand of any man that
is red with the blood of murder. This,” said he, turning to the officers,
“is Sir Robert Whitecraft; arrest him for murder and arson.”
“Why, bless me, Mr. Hastings, are you mad? Surely, I did nothing, unless
under the sanction and by the instructions of the last Government?”
“That remains to be seen, Sir Robert; but, at all events, I cannot enter
into any discussion with you at present. I am here as a magistrate.
Informations have been sworn against you by several parties, and you
must now consider yourself our prisoner and come along with us. There is
a party of cavalry below to escort you to Sligo jail.”
“But how am I to be conveyed there? I hope I will be allowed my own
carriage?”
“Unquestionably,” replied Mr. Hastings; “I was about to have proposed it
myself. You shall be treated with every respect, six.”
“May I not breakfast before I go?”
“Certainly, sir; we wish to discharge our duty in the mildest possible
manner.”
“Thank you, Hastings, thank you; you were always a good-hearted,
gentlemanly fellow. You will, of course, breakfast with me; and these
men must be attended to.”
And he rang the bell.
“I have already breakfasted, Sir Robert; but even if I had not, it would
not become me, as your prosecutor, to do so; but perhaps the men--”
“What,” exclaimed the baronet, interrupting him, you my prosecutor! For
what, pray?”
“That will come in time,” replied the other; “and you may rest assured
that I would not be here now were I not made aware that you were about
to be married to that sweet girl whom you have persecuted with such a
mean and unmanly spirit, and designed to start with her for England this
day.”
Whitecraft, now that he felt the dreadful consequences of the awful
position in which he was placed, became the very picture of despair and
pusillanimity; his complexion turned haggard, his eyes wild, and his
hands trembled so much that he was not able to bring the tea or bread
and butter to his lips; in fact, such an impersonation of rank and I
unmanly cowardice could not be witnessed. He rose up, exclaiming, in
a faint and hollow voice, that echoed no other sensation than that of
horror:
“I cannot breakfast; I can eat nothing. What a fate is this! on the very
day, too, which I thought would have consummated my happiness! Oh, it is
dreadful!”
His servant then, by Mr. Hastings' orders, packed up changes of linen
and apparel in his trunk, for he saw that he himself had not the
presence of mind to pay attention to any thing. In the course of a few
minutes the carriage was ready, and with tottering steps he went down
the stairs, and was obliged to be assisted into it by two constables,
who took their places beside, him. Mr. Hastings bowed to him coldly,
but said nothing; the coachman smacked his whip, and was about to start,
when he turned round and said:
“Where am I to drive, Sir Robert?”
“To Sligo jail,” replied one of the constables, “as quick as you can
too.”
The horses got a lash or two, and bounded on, whilst an escort of
cavalry, with swords drawn, attended the coach until it reached its
gloomy destination, where we will leave it for the present.
The next morning, as matters approached to a crisis, the unsteady old
squire began to feel less comfortable in his mind than he could have
expected. To say truth, he had often felt it rather an unnatural process
to marry so lovely a girl to “such an ugly stork of a man as Whitecraft
was, and a knave to boot. I cannot forget how he took me in by the
'Hop-and-go-constant' affair. But then he's a good Protestant--not that
I mean he has a single spark of religion in his nondescript carcass;
but in those times it's not canting and psalm-singing we want, but good
political Protestantism, that will enable us to maintain our ascendancy
by other means than praying. Curse the hound that keeps him? Is this a
day for him to be late on? and it now half past ten o'clock; however,
he must come soon; but, upon my honor, I dread what will happen when
he does. A scene there will be no doubt of it; however, we must only
struggle through it as well as we can. I'll go and see Helen, and try to
reconcile her to this chap, or, at all events, to let her know at once
that, be the consequences what they may, she must marry him, if I were
myself to hold her at the altar.”
When he had concluded this soliloquy, Ellen Connor, without whose
society Helen could now scarcely live, and who, on this account, had not
been discharged after her elopement, she, we say, entered the room,
her eye resolute with determination, and sparkling with a feeling which
evinced an indignant sense of his cruelty in enforcing this odious
match. The old man looked at her with surprise, for, it was the first
time she had ever ventured to obtrude her conversation upon him,or to
speak, unless when spoken to.
“Well, madam,” said he, “what do you want? Have you any message from
your mistress? if not, what brings you here?”
“I have no message from my mistress,” she replied in a loud, if not in
a vehement, voice; “I don't think my mistress is capable of sending a
message; but I came to tell you that the God of heaven will soon send
you a message, and a black one too, if you allow this cursed marriage to
go on.”
“Get out, you jade--leave the room; how is it your affair?”
“Because I have what you want--a heart of pity and affection in my
breast. Do you want to drive your daughter mad, or to take her life?”
“Begone, you impudent hussy; why do you dare to come here on such an
occasion, only to annoy me?”
“I will not begone,” she replied, with a glowing cheek, “unless I am put
out by force--until I point out the consequences of your selfish tyranny
and weakness. I don't come to annoy you, but I come to warn you, and to
tell you, that I know your daughter better than you do yourself. This
marriage must not go on; or, if it does, send without delay to a lunatic
asylum for a keeper for that only daughter. I know her well, and I tell
you that that's what it'll come to.”
The squire had never been in the habit of being thus addressed by any of
his servants; and the consequence was that the thing was new to him; so
much so that he felt not only annoyed, but so much astounded, that he
absolutely lost, for a brief period, the use of his speech. He looked at
her with astonishment--then about the room--then up at the ceiling, and
at length spoke:
“What the deuce does all this mean? What are you driving at? Prevent the
marriage, you say?”
“If the man,” proceeded Connor, not even waiting to give him an
answer--“if the man--had but one good point--one good quality--one
virtue in his whole composition to redeem him from contempt and
hatred--if he had but one feature in his face only as handsome as
the worst you could find in the devil's--yes, if he had but one good
thought, or one good feature in either his soul or body, why--vile as
it would be--and barbarous as it would be--and shameful and cruel as it
would be--still, it would have the one good thought, and the one good
feature to justify it. But here, in this deep and wretched villain,
there is nothing but one mass of vice and crime and deformity; all
that the eye can ses, or the heart discover, in his soul or body, is as
black, odious, and repulsive as could be conceived of the worst imp
of perdition. And this is the man--the persecutor--the miser--the
debauchee--the hypocrite--the murderer, and the coward, that you are
going to join your good--virtuous--spotless--and beautiful daughter
to! Oh, shame upon you, you heartless old man; don't dare to say, or
pretend, that you love her as a father ought, when you would sacrifice
her to so base and damnable a villain as that. And again, and what is
more, I tell you not to prosecute Reilly; for, as sure as the Lord
above is in heaven, your daughter is lost, and you'll not only curse
Whitecraft, but the day and hour in which you were born--black and
hopeless will be your doom if you do. And now, sir, I have done; I felt
it to be my duty to tell you this, and to warn you against what I know
will happen unless you go back upon the steps you have taken.”
She then courtesied to him respectfully, and left the room in a burst of
grief which seized her when she had concluded.
Ellen Connor was a girl by no means deficient in education--thanks to
the care and kindness of the _Cooleen Bawn_, who had herself instructed
her. 'Tis true, she had in ordinary and familiar conversation a touch
of the brogue; but, when excited, or holding converse with respectable
persons, her language was such as would have done no discredit to many
persons in a much higher rank of life.
After she had left the room, Folliard looked towards the door by
which she had taken her exit, as if he had her still in his vision.
He paused--he meditated--he walked about, and seemed taken thoroughly
aback.
“By earth and sky,” he exclaimed, “but that's the most comical affair I
have seen yet. Comical! no, not a touch of comicality in it. Zounds, is
it possible that the, jade has coerced and beaten me?--dared to beard
the lion in his own den--to strip him, as it were, of his claws, and
to pull the very fangs out of his jaws, and, after all, to walk away in
triumph? Hang me, but I must have a strong touch of the coward in me
or I would not have knuckled as I did to the jade. Yet, hold--can I, or
ought I to be angry with her, when I know that this hellish racket all
proceeded from her love to Helen. Hang me, but she's a precious bit
of goods, and I'll contrive to make her a present, somehow, for her
courage. Beat me! by sun and sky she did.”
He then proceeded to Helen's chamber, and ordered her attendants out of
the room; but, on looking at her, he felt surprised to perceive that
her complexion, instead of being pale, was quite flushed, and her
eyes flashing with a strange wild light that he had never seen in them
before.
“Helen,” said he, “what's the matter, love? are you unwell?”
She placed her two snowy hands on her temples, and pressed them tightly,
as if striving to compress her brain and bring it within the influence
of reason.
“I fear you are unwell, darling,” he continued; “you look flushed and
feverish. Don't, however, be alarmed; if you're not well, I'd see that
knave of a fellow hanged before I'd marry you to him, and you in that
state. The thing's out of the question, my darling Helen, and must not
be done. No: God forbid that I should be the means of murdering my own
child.”
So much, we may fairly presume, proceeded from the pithy lecture of
Ellen Connor; but the truth was, that the undefinable old squire was the
greatest parental coward in the world. In the absence of his daughter
he would rant and swear and vapor, strike the ground with his staff, and
give other indications of the most extraordinary resolution, combined
with fiery passion, that seemed alarming. No sooner, however, did he go
into her presence, and contemplate not only her wonderful beauty, but
her goodness, her tenderness and affection for himself, than the bluster
departed from him, his resolution fell, his courage oozed away, and he
felt that he was fairly subdued, under which circumstances he generally
entered into a new treaty of friendship and affection with the enemy.
Helen's head was aching dreadfully, and she felt feverish and
distracted. Her father's words, however, and the affection which they
expressed, went to her heart; she threw her arms about him, kissed him,
and was relieved by a copious flood of tears.
“Papa,” she said, “you are both kind and good; surely you wouldn't kill
your poor Helen?”
“Me kill you, Helen!--oh, no, faith. If Whitecraft were hanged to-morrow
it wouldn't give me half so much pain as if your little finger ached.”
Just at this progress of the dialogue a smart and impatient knock came
to the door.
“Who is that?” said the squire; “come in--or, stay till I see who you
are.” He than opened the door and exclaimed, “What! Lanigan!--why, you
infernal old scoundrel! how dare you have the assurance to look me in
the face, or to come under my roof at all, after what I said to you
about the pistols?”
“Ay, but you don't know the good news I have for you and Miss Helen.”
“Oh, Lanigan, is Reilly safe?--is he set at large? Oh, I am sure he must
be. Never was so noble, so pure, and so innocent a heart.”
“Curse him, look at the eye of him,” said her father, pointing his cane
at Lanigan; “it's like the eye of a sharp-shooter. What are you grinning
at; you old scoundrel?”
“Didn't you expect Sir Robert Whitecraft here to-day to marry Miss
Folliard, sir?”
“I did, sirra, and I do; he'll be here immediately.”
“Devil a foot he'll come to-day, I can tell you; and that's the way he
treats your daughter!”
“What does this old idiot mean, Helen? Have you been drinking, sirra?”
“Not yet, sir, but plaise the Lord I'll soon be at it.”
“Lanigan,” said Helen, “will you state at once what you have to say?”
“I will, miss; but first and foremost, I must show you how to dance the
'Little House under the Hill,'” and as he spoke he commenced whistling
that celebrated air and dancing to it with considerable alacrity and
vigor, making allowances for his age.
The father and daughter looked at each other, and Helen, notwithstanding
her broken spirits, could not avoid smiling. Lanigan continued the
dance, kept wheeling about to all parts of the room, like an old madcap,
cutting, capering, and knocking up his heels against his ham, with a
vivacity that was a perfect mystery to his two spectators, as was his
whole conduct.
“Now, you drunken old scoundrel,” said his master, catching him by the
collar and flourishing the cane over his head, “if you don't give a
direct answer I will cane you within an inch of your life. What do you
mean when you say that Sir Robert Whitecraft won't come here to-day?”
“Becaise, sir, it isn't convanient to him.”
“Why isn't it convenient, you scoundrel?”
“Bekaise, sir, he took it into his head to try a change of air for the
benefit of his health before he starts upon his journey; and as he got
a very friendly invitation to spend some time in Sligo jail he accepted
it, and if you go there you will find him before you. It seems he
started this morning in great state, with two nice men belonging to the
law in the carriage with him, to see that he should want for nothing,
and a party of cavalry surroundin' his honor's coach, as if he was one
of the judges, or the Lord Lieutenant.”
The figurative style of his narrative would unquestionably have caused
him to catch the weight of the cane aforesaid had not Helen interfered
and saved him for the nonce.
“Let me at him, Helen, let me at him--the drunken old rip; why does he
dare to humbug us in this manner?”
“Well, then, sir, if you wish to hear the good news, and especially you,
Miss Folliard, it will probably relieve your heart when I tell you that
Sir Robert Whitecraft is, before this time, in the jail of Sligo, for
a charge of murdher, and for burnin' Mr. Reilly's house and premises,
which it now seems aren't Mr. Reilly's at all--nor ever were--but
belong to Mr. Hastings.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the squire, “this is dreadful: but is it true,
sirra?”
“Why, sir, if you go to his house you'll find it so.”
“Oh, papa,” said Helen, “surely they wouldn't hang him?”
“Hang him, Helen; why, Helen, the tide's turned; they want to make him
an example for the outrages that he and others have committed against
the unfortunate Papists. Hang him!--as I live, he and the Red Rapparee
will both swing from the same gallows; but there is one thing I say--if
he hangs I shall take care that that obstinate scoundrel, Reilly, shall
also swing along with him.”
Helen became as pale as ashes, the flush had disappeared from her
countenance, and she burst again into tears.
“Oh, papa,” she exclaimed, “spare Reilly: he is innocent.”
“I'll hang him,” he replied, “if it should cost me ten thousand pounds.
Go you, sirra, and desire one of the grooms to saddle me Black Tom; he
is the fastest horse in my stables; I cannot rest till I ascertain the
truth of this.”
On passing the drawing-room he looked in, and found Mr. Strong and
the two Misses Ashford waiting, the one to perform, and the others to
attend, at the ceremony.
“Sir. Strong and ladies,” said he, with looks of great distraction, “I
fear there will be no marriage here to-day. An accident, I believe, has
happened to Sir Robert Whitecraft that will prevent his being a party in
the ceremony, for this day at least.”
“An accident!” exclaimed the ladies and the clergyman. “Pray, Mr.
Folliard, what is it? how did it happen?”
“I am just going to ride over to Sir Robert's to learn everything about
it,” he replied; “I will be but a short time absent. But now!” he added,
“here's his butler, and I will get everything from him. Oh, Thomas, is
this you? follow me to my study, Thomas.”
As the reader already knows all that Thomas could tell him, it is only
necessary to say that he returned to the drawing-room with a sad and
melancholy aspect.
“There is no use,” said he, addressing them, “in concealing what will
soon be known to the world. Sir Robert Whitecraft has been arrested on a
charge of murder and arson, and is now a prisoner in the county jail.”
This was startling intelligence to them all, especially to the parson,
who found that the hangman was likely to cut him out of his fees.
The ladies screamed, and said, “it was a shocking thing to have that
delightful man hanged;” and then asked if the bride-elect had heard it.
“She has heard it,” replied her father, “and I have just left her in
tears; but upon my soul, I don't think there is one of them shed for
him. Well, Mr. Strong, I believe, after all, there is likely to be no
marriage, but that is not your fault; you came here to do your duty, and
I think it only just--a word with you in the next apartment,” he added,
and then led the way to the dining-room. “I was about to say, Mr.
Strong, that it would be neither just nor reasonable to deprive you of
your fees; here is a ten-pound note, and it would have been twenty had
the marriage taken place. I must go to Sligo to see the unfortunate
baronet, and say what can be done for him--that is, if anything can,
which I greatly doubt.”
The parson protested, against the receipt of the ten-pound note very
much in the style of a bashful schoolboy, who pretends to refuse an
apple from a strange relation when he comes to pay a visit, whilst, at
the same time, the young monkey's chops are watering for it. With some
faint show of reluctance he at length received it, and need we say that
it soon disappeared in one of his sanctified pockets.
“Strong, my dear fellow,” proceeded the squire, “you will take a seat
with these ladies in their carriage and see them home.”
“I would, with pleasure, my dear friend, but that I am called upon to
console poor Mrs. Smellpriest for the loss of the captain.”
“The captain! why, what has happened him?”
“Alas! sir, an unexpected and unhappy fate. He went out last night a
priest-hunting, like a godly sportsman of the Church, as he was, and on
his return from an unsuccessful chase fell off his horse while in
the act of singing that far-famed melody called 'Lillibullero,'
and sustained such severe injuries that he died on that very night,
expressing a very ungodly penitence for his loyalty in persecuting so
many treasonable Popish priests.”
The squire seemed amazed, and, after a pause, said:
“He repented, you say; upon my soul, then, I am glad to hear it, for
it is more than I expected from him, and, between you and me, Strong, I
fear it must have taken a devilish large extent of repentance to clear
him from the crimes he committed against both priests and Popery.”
“Ah,” replied Strong, with a groan of deep despondency, “but,
unfortunately, my dear sir, he did not repent of his sins--that is the
worst of it--Satan must have tempted him to transfer his repentance to
those very acts of his life upon which, as Christian champion, he
should have depended for justification above--I mean, devoting his great
energies so zealously to the extermination of idolatry and error. What
was it but repenting for his chief virtues, instead of relying, like a
brave and dauntless soldier of our Establishment, upon his praiseworthy
exertions to rid it of its insidious and relentless enemies?”
The squire looked at him.
“I'll tell you what, Strong---by the great Boyne, I'd give a trifle to,
see you get a smart touch of persecution in your own person; it might
teach you a little more charity towards those who differ with you; but,
upon my honor, if any change in our national parties should soon take
place, and that the Papists should get the upper hand, I tell you to
your teeth that if ever your fat libs should be tickled by the whip of
persecution, they would render you great injustice who should do it for
the sake of religion--a commodity with which I see, from the spirit
of your present sentiments, you are not over-burdened. However, in the
meantime, I daresay that whatever portion you possess of it, you will
charitably expend in consoling his widow, as you say. Good-morning!”
We must return, however, to the close of Smellpriest's very sudden and
premature departure from the scene of his cruel and merciless labors.
Having reached the strip already described to him by Mr. Strong, and to
which he was guided by his men, he himself having been too far advanced
in liquor to make out his way with any kind of certainty, he proceeded,
still under their direction, to the cottage adjoining, which was
immediately surrounded by the troopers. After knocking at the door with
violence, and demanding instant admittance, under the threat of smashing
it in, and burning the house as a harbor for rebellious priests,
the door was immediately opened by a gray-headed old man, feeble and
decrepit in appearance, but yet without any manifestation of terror
either in his voice or features. He held a candle in his hand, and asked
them, in a calm, composed voice, what it was they wanted, and why they
thus came to disturb him and his family at such an unseasonable hour.
“Why, you treasonable old scoundrel,” shouted Smellpriest, “haven't
you got a rebel and recusant Popish priest in the house? I say, you
gray-headed old villain, turn him out on the instant, or, if you
hesitate but half a minute, well make a bonfire of you, him, the house,
and all that's in it. Zounds, I don't see why I shouldn't burn a house
as well as Whitecraft. That cursed baronet is getting ahead of me, but
I think I am entitled to a bonfire as well as he is. Shall we burn the
house?” he added, addressing his men.
“I think you had better not, captain,” replied the principal of them;
“recollect there are new regulations now. It wouldn't be safe, and might
only end in hanging every man of us--yourself among the rest.”
“But why doesn't the old rebel produce the priest?” asked their leader.
“Come here, sirra--hear me--produce that lurking priest immediately.”
“I don't exactly understand you, captain,” replied the old man, who
appeared to know Smellpriest right well. “I don't think it's to my house
you should come to look for a priest.”
“Why not, you villain? I have been directed here, and told that I would
find my game under your roof.”
“In the first place,” replied the old man, with a firm and intrepid
voice, “I am no villain; and in the next, I say, that if any man
directed you to this house in quest of a priest, he must have purposely
sent you upon a fool's errand. I am a Protestant, Captain Smellpriest;
but, Protestant as I am, I tell you to your face that if I could give
shelter to a poor persecuted priest, and save him from the clutches
of such men as you and Sir Robert Whitecraft, I would do it. In the
meantime, there is neither priest nor friar under this roof; you can
come in and search in the house, if you wish.”
“Why, gog's 'ouns, father,” exclaimed one of the men, “how does it come
that we find you here?”
“Very simply, John,” replied his father--for such he was--“I took this
cottage, and the bit of land that goes with it, from honest Andy Morrow,
and we are not many hours in it. The house was empty for the last six
months, so that I say again, whoever sent Captain Smellpriest here sent
him upon a fool's errand--upon a wild-goose chase.”
The gallant captain started upon hearing these latter words.
“What does he say,” he asked--“a wild-goose chase! Right--right,”
he added, in a soliloquy; “Strong is at the bottom of it, the black
scoundrel! but still, let us search the house; the old fellow admits
that he would shelter a priest. Search the house I say.
'There was an old prophecy found in a bog,
Lillibullero, bullen ala, &c., &c.'”
The house was accordingly searched, but it is unnecessary to add that
neither priest nor friar was found under the roof, nor any nook or
corner in which either one or the other could have been concealed.
The party, who then directed their steps homewards, were proceeding
across the fields to the mountain road which ran close by, and parallel
with the stripe, when they perceived at once that Smellpriest was in a
rage, by the fact of his singing “Lillibullero;” for, whenever either
his rage or loyalty happened to run high, he uniformly made a point to
indulge himself in singing that celebrated ballad.
“By jabers,” said one of them to his companions, “there will be a battle
royal between the captain and Mr. Strong if he finds the parson at home
before him.”
“If there won't be a fight with the parson, there will with the wife,”
replied the other. “Hang the same parson,” he added; “many a dreary
chase he has sent us upon, with nothing but the fatigue of a dark and
slavish journey for our pains. With what bitterness he's giving us
'Lillibullero,' and he scarcely able to sit on his horse! I think I'll
advance, and ride beside him, otherwise, he may get an ugly tumble on
this hard road.”
He accordingly did so, observing, as he got near him, “I have taken the
liberty to ride close beside you, lest, as the night is dark, your horse
might stumble.”
“What! do you think I'm drunk, you scoundrel?--fall back, sir,
immediately.
“'Lillibullero, bullen ala.'
“I say I'm not drunk; but I'm in a terrible passion at that treacherous
scoundrel; but no matter, I saw something to-night--never mind, I say.
“'There was an old prophecy found in a bog,
Lillibullero, bullen ala;
That Ireland should be ruled by an Ass and a Dog,
Lillibullero, bullen ala;
And now that same prophecy has come to pass--
Lillibullero, bullen ala;
For Talbot's the Dog, and James is the Ass,
Lillibullero, bullen ala.'
“Never mind, I say; hang me, but I'll crop the villain, or crop both,
which is better still--steady, Schomberg--curse you.”
The same rut or chasm across the more open road on which they had
now got out, and that had nearly been so fatal to Mr. Brown, became
decidedly so to unfortunate Smellpriest. The horse, as his rider spoke,
stopped suddenly, and, shying quickly to the one side, the captain was
pitched off, and fell with his whole weight upon the hard pavement. The
man was an unwieldy, and consequently a heavy man, and the unexpected
fall stunned him into insensibility. After about ten minutes or so he
recovered his consciousness, however, and having been once more placed
upon his horse, was conducted home, two or three of his men, with much
difficulty, enabling him to maintain his seat in the saddle. In this
manner they reached his house, where they stripped and put him to bed,
having observed, to their consternation, that strong gushes of blood
welled, every three or four minutes, from his mouth.
The grief of his faithful wife was outrageous; and Mr. Strong, who was
still there kindly awaiting his safe return, endeavored to compose her
distraction as well as he could.
“My dear madam,” said he, “why will you thus permit your grief to
overcome you? You will most assuredly injure your own precious health by
this dangerous outburst of sorrow. The zealous and truly loyal captain
is not, I trust, seriously injured; he will recover, under God, in a few
days. You may rest assured, my dear Mrs. Smellpriest, that his life is
too valuable to be taken at this unhappy period. No, he will, I trust
and hope, be spared until a strong anti-Popish Government shall come
in, when, if he is to lose it, he will lose it in some great and godly
exploit against the harlot of abominations.”
“Alas! my dear Mr. Strong, that is all very kind of you, to support my
breaking heart with such comfort; but, when he is gone, what will become
of me?”
“You will not be left desolate, my dear madam--you will be
supported--cheered--consoled. Captain my friend, how do you feel now?
Are you easier?”
“I am,” replied the captain feebly--for he had not lost his
speech--“come near me, Strong.”
“With pleasure, dear captain, as becomes my duty, not only as a friend,
but as an humble and unworthy minister of religion. I trust you are not
in danger, but, under any circumstances, it is best, you know, to be
prepared for the worst. Do not then be cast down, nor allow your heart
to sink into despair. Remember that you have acted the part of a zealous
and faithful champion on behalf of our holy Church, and that you have
been a blessed scourge of Popery in this Pope-ridden country. Let that
reflection, then, be your consolation. Think of the many priests you
have hunted--and hunted successfully too; think of how many bitter
Papists of every class you have been the blessed means of committing
to the justice of our laws; think of the numbers of Popish priests
and bishops you have, in the faithful discharge of your pious
duty, committed to chains, imprisonment, transportation, and the
scaffold--think of all these things, I say, and take comfort to
your soul by the retrospect. Would you wish to receive the rites and
consolations of religion at my hands?”
“Come near me, Strong,” repeated Smell-priest. “The rites of religion
from you--the rights of perdition as soon, you hypocritical scoundrel;”
and as he spoke he caught a gush of blood as it issued from his
mouth and flung it with all the strength he had left right into the
clergyman's face. “Take that, you villain,” he added; “I die in every
sense with my blood upon you. And as for my hunting of priests and
Papists, it is the only thing that lies at this moment heavy over my
heart. And as for that wife of mine, I'm sorry she's not in my place.
I know, of course, I'll be damned; but it can't be helped now. If I go
down, as down I will go, won't I have plenty of friends to keep me in
countenance. I know--I feel I'm dying; but I must take the consequences.
In the meantime, my best word and wish is, that that vile jade shan't
be permitted to approach or touch my body after I am dead. My curse upon
you both! for you brought me to this untimely death between you.”
“Why, my dear Smellpriest--” exclaimed the wife.
“Don't call me Smellpriest,” he replied, interrupting her; “my name is
Norbury. But it doesn't matter--it's all up with me, and I know it
will soon be all down with me; for down, down I'll go. Strong, you
hypocritical scoundrel, don't be a persecutor: look at me on the very
brink of perdition for it. And now the only comfort I have is, that I
let the poor Popish bishop off. I could not shoot him, or at any rate
make a prisoner of him, and he engaged in the worship of God.”
“Alas!” whispered Strong, “the poor man is verging on rank Popery--he is
hopeless.”
“But, Tom, dear,” said the wife, “why are you displeased with me, your
own faithful partner? I that was so loving and affectionate to you?
I that urged you on in the path of duty? I that scoured your arms and
regimentals with my own hands--that mixed you your punch before you went
after the black game, as you used to say, and, again, had it ready for
you when you returned to precious Mr. Strong and me after a long hunt.
Don't die in anger with your own Grizzey, as you used to call me, my
dear Tom, or, if you do, I feel that I won't long survive you.”
“Ah! you jade,” replied Tom, “didn't I see the wink between you
to-night, although you thought I was drunk? Ah, these wild-goose
chases!”
“Tom, dear, we are both innocent. Oh, forgive your own Grizaey!”
“So I do, you jade--my curse on you both.”
Whether it was the effort necessary to speak, in addition to the
excitement occasioned by his suspicions, and whether these suspicions
were well founded or not, we do not presume to say; but the fact was,
that, after another outgulp of blood had come up, he drew a long,
deep sigh, his under-jaw fell, and the wretched, half-penitent Captain
Smellpriest breathed his last. After which his wife, whether from
sorrow or remorse, became insensible, and remained in that state for a
considerable time; but at length she recovered, and, after expressing
the most violent sorrow, literally drove the Rev. Mr. Strong out of the
house, with many deep and bitter curses. But to return:
In a few minutes the parties dispersed, and Folliard, too much absorbed
in the fates of Reilly and Whitecraft, prepared to ride to Sligo, to
ascertain if any thing could be done for the baronet. In the meantime,
while he and his old friend Cummiskey are on their way to see that
gentleman, we will ask the attention of our readers to the state of
Helen's mind, as it was affected by the distressing events which had so
rapidly and recently occurred. We need not assure them that deep anxiety
for the fate of her unfortunate lover lay upon her heart like gloom
of death itself. His image and his natural nobility of character, but,
above all, the purity and delicacy of his love for herself his manly and
faithful attachment to his religion, under temptations which few
hearts could resist--temptations of which she herself was, beyond all
comparison, the most trying and the most difficult to be withstood; his
refusal to leave the country on her account, even when the bloodhounds
of the law were pursuing him to his death in every direction; and the
reflection that this resolution of abiding by her, and watching over
her welfare and happiness, and guarding her, as far as he could, from
domestic persecution--all these reflections, in short, crowded upon her
mind with such fearful force that her reason began to totter, and she
felt apprehensive that she might not be able to bear the trial which
Reilly's position now placed before her in the most hideous colors. On
the other hand, there was Whitecraft, a man certainly who had committed
many crimes and murders and burnings, often, but not always, upon his
own responsibility; a man who, she knew, entertained no manly or tender
affection for her; he too about to meet a violent death! That she
detested him with an abhorrence as deep as ever woman entertained
against man was true; yet she was a woman, and this unhappy fate that
impended over him was not excluded out of the code of her heart's
humanity. She wished him also to be saved, if only that he might
withdraw from Ireland and repent of his crimes. Altogether she was in
a state bordering on frenzy and despair, and was often incapable of
continuing a sustained conversation.
When Whitecraft reached the jail in his carriage, attended by a guard
of troopers, the jailor knew not what to make of it; but seeing the
carriage, which, after a glance or two, he immediately recognized as
that of the well-known grand juror, he came out, with hat in hand,
bowing most obsequiously.
“I hope your honor's well; you are coming to inspect the prisoners, I
suppose? Always active on behalf of Church and State, Sir Robert.”
“Come, Mr. O'Shaughnessy,” said one of the constables, “get on with no
nonsense. You're a mighty Church and State man now; but I remember when
there was as rank a rebel under your coat as ever thumped a craw. Sir
Robert, sir, is here as our prisoner, and will soon be yours, for murder
and arson, and God knows what besides. Be pleased to walk into the
hatch, Sir Robert, and there we surrender you to Mr. O'Shaughnessy, who
will treat you well if you pay him well.”
They then entered the hatch. The constable produced the _mittimus_ and
the baronet's person both together, after which they withdrew, having
failed to get the price of a glass from the baronet as a reward for
their civility.
Such scenes have been described a hundred times, and we consequently
shall not delay our readers upon this. The baronet, indeed, imagined
that from his rank and influence the jailer might be induced to give him
comfortable apartments. He was in, however, for two capital felonies,
and the jailer, who was acquainted with the turn that public affairs had
taken, told him that upon his soul and conscience if the matter lay
with him he would not put his honor among the felons; but then he had no
discretion, because it was as much as his place was worth to break
the rules--a thing he couldn't think of doing as an honest man and an
upright officer.
“But whatever I can do for you, Sir Robert, I'll do.”
“You will let me have pen and ink, won't you?”
“Well, let me see. Yes, I will, Sir Robert; I'll stretch that far for
the sake of ould times.”
CHAPTEE XXII.
The Squire Comforts Whitecraft in his Affliction.
The old squire and Cummiskey lost little time in getting over the ground
to the town of Sligo, and, in order to reach it the more quickly,
they took a short cut by the old road which we have described at the
beginning of this narrative. On arriving at that part of it from which
they could view the spot where Reilly rescued them from the murderous
violence of the Red Rapparee, Cummiskey pointed to it.
“Does your honor remember that place, where you see the ould buildin'?”
“Yes, I think so. Is not that the place where the cursed Rapparee
attacked us?”
“It is, sir; and where poor Reilly saved both our lives; and yet your
honor is goin' to hang him.”
“You know nothing about it, you old blockhead. It was all a plan got up
by Reilly and the Rapparee for the purpose of getting introduced to
my daughter, for his own base and selfish purposes. Yes, I'll hang him
certainly--no doubt of that.”
“Well, sir,” replied Cummiskey, “it's one comfort that he won't hang by
himself.”
“No,” said the other, “he and the Rapparee will stretch the same rope.”
“The Rapparee! faith, sir, hell have worse company.”
“What do you mean, sirra?”
“Why, Sir Robert Whitecraft, sir; he always had gallows written in his
face; but, upon my soul, he'll soon have it about his neck, please God.”
“Faith, I'm afraid you are not far from the truth, Cummiskey,” replied
his master; “however, I am going to make arrangements with him, to see
what can be done for the unfortunate man.”
“If you'll take my advice, sir, you'll have nothing to do with him. Keep
your hand out o' the pot; there's no man can skim boiling lead with his
hand and not burn his fingers--but a tinker.”
“Don't be saucy, you old dog; but ride on, for I must put Black Tom to
his speed.”
On arriving at the prison, the squire found Sir Robert pent up in a
miserable cell, with a table screwed to the floor, a pallet bed, and
a deal form. Perhaps his comfort might have been improved through
the medium of his purse, were it not that the Prison Board had held a
meeting that very day, subsequent to his committal, in which, with some
dissentients, they considered it their duty to warn the jailer against
granting him any indulgence beyond what he was entitled to as a felon,
and this under pain of their earnest displeasure.
When the squire entered he found the melancholy baronet and
priest-hunter sitting upon the hard form, his head hanging down upon his
breast, or, indeed, we might say much farther; for, in consequence of
the almost unnatural length of his neck, it appeared on that occasion to
be growing out of the middle of his body, or of that fleshless vertebral
column which passed for one.
“Well, baronet,” exclaimed Folliard pretty loudly, “here's an exchange!
from the altar to the halter; from the matrimonial noose to honest Jack
Ketch's--and a devilish good escape it would be to many unfortunate
wretches in this same world.”
“Oh, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “is not this miserable? What will
become of me?”
“Now, I tell you what, Whitecraft, I am come to speak to you upon your
position; but before I go farther, let me say a word or two to make you
repent, if possible, for what you have done to others.”
“For what I have done, Mr. Folliard! why should I not repent, when I
find I am to be hanged for it?”
“Oh, hanged you will be, there is no doubt of that; but now consider a
little; here you are with a brown loaf, and--is that water in the jug?”
“It is.”
“Very well; here you are, hard and fast, you who were accustomed to
luxuries, to the richest meats, and the richest wines--here you are with
a brown loaf, a jug of water, and the gallows before you! However, if
you wish to repent truly and sincerely, reflect upon the numbers that
you and your bloodhounds have consigned to places like this, and sent
from this to the gibbet, while you were rioting in luxury and triumph.
Good God, sir, hold up your head, and be a man. What if you are hanged?
Many a better man was. Hold up your head, I say.”
“I can't, my dear Folliard; it won't stay up for me.”
“Egad! and you'll soon get a receipt for holding it up. Why the mischief
can't you have spunk?”
“Spunk; how the deuce could you expect spunk from any man in my
condition? It is difficult to understand you, Mr. Folliard; you told me
a minute ago to repent, and now you tell me to have spunk; pray what do
you mean by that?”
“Why, confound it, I mean that you should repent with spunk. However,
let us come to more important matters; what can be done for you?”
“I know not; I am incapable of thinking on any thing but that damned
gallows without; yet I should wish to make my will.”
“Your will! Why, I think you have lost your senses; don't you know that
when you're hanged every shilling and acre you are possessed of will be
forfeited to the crown?”
“True,” replied the other, “I had forgotten that. Could Hastings be
induced to decline prosecuting?”
“What! to compromise a felony, and be transported himself. Thank you for
nothing baronet; that's rather a blue look up. No, our only plan is
to try and influence the grand jury to throw out the bills; but then,
again, there are indictments against you to no end. Hastings' case is
only a single one, and, even if he failed, it would not better your
condition a whit. Under the late Administration we could have saved you
by getting a packed jury; but that's out of the question now. All we can
do, I think, is to get up a memorial strongly signed, supplicating the
Lord Lieutenant to commute your sentence from hanging to transportation
for life. I must confess, however, there is little hope even there. They
will come down with their cursed reasoning and tell us that the rank and
education of the offender only aggravate the offence; and that, if they
allow a man so convicted to escape, in consequence of his high position
in life, every humble man found guilty and executed for the same
crime--is murdered. They will tell us it would be a prostitution of the
prerogative of the Crown to connive at crime in the rich and punish it
in the poor. And, again, there's the devil of it; your beggarly want of
hospitality in the first place, and the cursed swaggering severity with
which you carried out your loyalty, by making unexpected domiciliary
visits to the houses of loyal but humane Protestant families, with the
expectation of finding a priest or a Papist under their protection: both
these, I say, have made you the most unpopular man in the county; and,
upon my soul, Sir Robert, I don't think there will be a man upon
the grand jury whose family you have not insulted by your inveterate
loyalty. No one, I tell! you, likes a persecutor. Still, I say, I'll try
what I can do with the grand jury. I'll see my friends and yours--if you
have any now; make out a list of them in a day or two--and you may rest
assured that I will leave nothing undone to extricate you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Folliard; but do you know why I am here?”
“To be sure I do.”
“No, you don't, sir. William Reilly, the Jesuit and Papist, is the cause
of it, and will be the cause of my utter ruin and ignominious death.”
“How is that? Make it plain to me; only make that plain to me.”
“He is the bosom friend of Hastings, and can sway him and move him and
manage him as a father would a child, or, rather, as a child would a
doting father. Reilly, sir, is at the bottom of this, his great object
always having been to prevent a marriage between me and your beautiful
daughter; I, who, after all, have done so much for Protestantism, am the
victim of that Jesuit and Papist.”
This vindictive suggestion took at once, and the impetuous old squire
started as if a new light had been let in upon his mind. We call him
impetuous, because, if he had reflected only for a moment upon the
diabolical persecution, both in person and property, which Reilly had
sustained at the baronet's hands, he ought not to have blamed him had!
he shot the scoundrel as if he had been one of the most rabid dogs that
ever ran frothing across a country. We say the suggestion, poisoned
as it was by the most specious falsehood, failed not to accomplish the
villain's object.
Folliard grasped him by the hand. “Never-mind,” said he; “keep yourself
quiet, and leave Reilly to me; I have him,that's enough.”
“No,” replied the baronet, “it is not enough, because I know what will
happen: Miss Folliard's influence over you is a proverb; now she will
cajole and flatter and beguile you until she prevails upon you to let
the treacherous Jesuit slip through your fingers, and then he will get
off to the Continent, and laugh at you all, after having taken her with
him; for there is nothing more certain, if he escapes death through
your indulgence, than that you will, in the course of a few years,
find yourself grandfather to a brood of young Papists; and when I say
Papists, need I add rebels?”
“Come,” replied the hot-headed old man, “don't insult me; I am master of
my own house, and, well as I love my daughter, I would not for a moment
suffer her to interfere in a public matter of this or any other kind.
Now good-by; keep your spirits up, and if you are to die, why die like a
man.”
They then separated; and as Folliard was passing through the hatch, he
called the jailer into his own office, and strove to prevail upon him,
not ineffectually, to smuggle in some wine and other comforts to the
baronet. The man told him that he would with pleasure do so if he dared;
but that the caution against it which he had got that very day from the
Board rendered the thing impossible. Ere the squire left him, however,
his scruples were overcome, and the baronet, before he went to bed that
night, had a rost duck for supper, with two bottles of excellent claret
to wash it down and lull his conscience into slumber.
“Confound it,” the squire soliloquized, on their way home, “I am as
stupid as Whitecraft himself, who was never stupid until now; there have
I been with him in that cursed dungeon, and neither of us ever thought
of taking measures for his defence. Why, he must have the best lawyers
at the Bar, and fee them like princes. Gad! I have a great notion to
ride back and speak to him on the subject; he's in such a confounded
trepidation about his life that he can think of nothing else. No matter,
I shall write to him by a special messenger early in the morning.
It would be a cursed slap in the face to have one of our leading men
hanged--only, after all, for carrying out the wishes of an anti-Papist
Government, who connived at his conduct, and encouraged him in it. I
know he expected a coronet, and I have no doubt but he'd have got one
had his party remained in; but now all the unfortunate devil is likely
to get is a rope--and be hanged to them! However, as to my own case
about Reilly--I must secure a strong bar against him; and if we can only
prevail upon Helen to state the facts as they occurred, there is little
doubt that he shall suffer; for hang he must, in consequence of the
disgrace he has brought upon my daughter's name and mine. Whatever I
might have forgiven, I will never forgive him that.”
He then rode on at a rapid pace, and did not slacken his speed until he
reached home. Dinner was ready, and he sat down with none but Helen, who
could scarcely touch a morsel. Her father saw at once the state of her
mind, and felt that it would be injudicious to introduce any subject
that might be calculated to excite her. They accordingly talked upon
commonplace topics, and each assumed as much cheerfulness, and more than
they could command. It was a miserable sight, when properly understood,
to see the father and daughter forced, by the painful peculiarity of
their circumstances, thus to conceal their natural sentiments from each
other. Love, however, is often a disturber of families, as in the case
of Reilly and _Cooleen Bawn_; and so is an avaricious ambition,
when united to a selfish and a sensual attachment, as in the case of
Whitecraft.
It is unnecessary now, and it would be only tedious, to dwell upon the
energetic preparations that were made for the three approaching trials.
Public rumor had taken them up and sent them abroad throughout the
greater portion of the kingdom. The three culprits were notorious--Sir
Robert Whitecraft, the priest-hunter and prosecutor; the notorious Red
Rapparee, whose exploits had been commemorated in a thousand ballads;
and “Willy Reilly,” whose love for the far-famed _Cooleen Bawn_,
together with her unconquerable passion for him, had been known
throughout the empire. In fact, the interest which the public felt in
the result of the approaching trials was intense, not only in Ireland,
but throughout England and Scotland, where the circumstances connected
with them were borne on the wings of the press. Love, however,
especially the romance of it--and here were not only romance but reality
enough--love, we say, overcomes all collateral interests--and the
history of the loves of Willy Reilly and his “dear _Cooleen Bawn_” even
then touched the hearts of thousands, and moistened many a young eye for
his calamities and early fate, and the sorrows of his _Cooleen Bawn_.
Helen's father, inspired by the devilish suggestions of Whitecraft, now
kept aloof from her as much as he could with decency do. He knew his own
weakness, and felt that if he suffered her to gain that portion of his
society to which she had been accustomed, his resolution might break
down, and the very result prognosticated by Whitecraft might be brought
about. Indeed his time was so little his own, between his activity in
defence of that villain and his energetic operations for the prosecution
of Reilly, that he had not much to spare her, except at meals. It
was not, however, through himself that he wished to win her over to
prosecute Reilly. No; he felt his difficulty, and knew that he could not
attempt to influence her with a good grace, or any force of argument. He
resolved, therefore, to set his attorney to work, who, as he understood
all the quirks and intricacy of the law, might be able to puzzle her
into compliance. This gentleman, however, who possessed at once a
rapacious heart and a stupid head, might have fleeced half the country
had the one been upon a par with the other. He was, besides, in his own
estimation, a lady-killer, and knew not how these interviews with
the fair _Cooleen Bawn_ might end. He, at all events, was a sound
Protestant, and if it were often said that you might as well ask a
Highlander for a knee-buckle as an attorney for religion, he could
conscientiously fall back upon the fact that political Protestantism and
religion were very different things--for an attorney.
Instructed by Folliard, he accordingly waited upon her professionally,
in her father's study, during his absence, and opened his case as
follows:
“I have called upon you, Miss Folliard, by the direction of your father,
professionally, and indeed I thank my stars that any professional
business should give me an opportunity of admiring so far-famed a
beauty.”
“Are you not Mr. Doldrum,” she asked, “the celebrated attorney?”
“Doldrum is certainly my name, my lovely client.”
“Well, Mr. Doldrum, I think I have heard of you; but permit me to say
that before you make love, as you seem about to do, I think it better
you should mention your professional business.”
“It is very simple, Miss Folliard; just to know whether you have any
objection to appearing as an evidence against--he--hem--against Mr.
Reilly.”
“Oh, then your business and time with me will be very brief, Mr.
Doldrum. It is my intention to see justice done, and for that purpose
I shall attend the trial, and if I find that my evidence will be
necessary, I assure you I shall give it. But, Mr. Doldrum, one word with
you before you go.”
“A hundred--a thousand, my dear lady.”
“It is this: I beg as a personal favor that you will use your great
influence with my father to prevent him from talking to me on this
subject until the day of trial comes. By being kind enough to do this
you will save me from much anxiety and annoyance.”
“I pledge you my honor, madam, that your wishes shall be complied with
to the letter, as far, at least, as any influence of mine can accomplish
them.”
“Thank you, sir; I wish you a good-morning.”
“Good-morning, madam; it shall not be my fault if you are harassed upon
this most painful subject; and I pledge you my reputation that I never
contributed to hang a man in my life with more regret than I experience
in this unfortunate case.”
It is quite a common thing to find vanity and stupidity united in the
same individual, as they were in Mr. Doldrum. He was Mr. Folliard's
country attorney, and, in consequence of his strong Protestant
politics, was engaged as the law agent of his property; and for the same
reason--that is, because he was a violent, he was considered a very able
man.
There is a class of men in the world who, when they once engage in a
pursuit or an act of any importance, will persist in working it out,
rather than be supposed, by relinquishing it, when they discover
themselves wrong, to cast an imputation on their own judgments. To such
a class belonged Mr. Folliard, who never, in point of fact, acted upon
any fixed or distinct principle whatsoever; yet if he once took a matter
into his head, under the influence of caprice or impulse, no man could
evince more obstinacy or perseverance, apart from all its justice
or moral associations, so long, at least, as that caprice or impulse
lasted. The reader may have perceived from his dialogue with Helen, on
the morning appointed for her marriage with Whitecraft, that the worthy
baronet, had he made appearance, stood a strong chance of being sent
about his business as rank a bachelor as he had come. And yet, because
he was cunning enough to make the hot-brained and credulous old man
believe that Reilly was at the bottom of the plan for his destruction,
and Hastings only the passive agent in his hands; we say, because he
succeeded in making this impression, which he knew to be deliberately
false, upon his plastic nature, he, Folliard, worked himself up into
a vindictive bitterness peculiar to little minds, as well as a fixed
determination that Reilly should die; not by any means so much because
he took away his daughter as that his death might be marked in this
conflict of parties as a set-off against that of Whitecraft.
In the meantime he and Helen entertained each a different apprehension;
he dreaded that she might exercise her influence over him for the
purpose of softening him against Reilly, whom, if he had suffered
himself to analyze his own heart, he would have found there in the shape
of something very like a favorite. Helen, on the contrary, knew that she
was expected to attend the trial, in order to give evidence against
her lover; and she lived for a few days after his committal under
the constant dread that her father would persecute her with endless
arguments to induce her attendance at the assizes. Such, besides, was
her love of truth and candor, and her hatred of dissimulation in every
shape, that, if either her father or the attorney had asked her, in
explicit terms, what the tendency of her evidence was to be, she would
at once have satisfied them that it should be in favor of her lover. In
the meantime she felt that, as they did not press her on this point,
it would have been madness to volunteer a disclosure of a matter so
important to the vindication of Reilly's conduct. To this we may add her
intimate knowledge of her father's whimsical character and unsteadiness
of purpose. She was not ignorant that, even if he were absolutely aware
that the tenor of her evidence was to go against Reilly, his mind might
change so decidedly as to call upon her to give evidence in his defence.
Under these circumstances she acted with singular prudence, in never
alluding to a topic of such difficulty, and which involved a contingency
that might affect her lover in a double sense.
Her father's conduct, however, on this occasion, saved them both a vast
deal of trouble and annoyance, and the consequence was that they met
as seldom as possible. In addition to this, we may state that
Doldrum communicated the successful result of his interview with Miss
Folliard--her willingness to attend the trial and see justice done, upon
condition that she should not have the subject obtruded on her, either
by her father or any one else, until the appointed day should arrive,
when she would punctually attend. In this state were the relative
positions and feelings of father and daughter about a month before the
opening of the assizes.
In the meantime the squire set himself to work for the baronet. The
ablest lawyers were obtained, but Whitecraft most positively objected
to Folliard's proposal of engaging Doldrum as his attorney; he knew the
stupidity and ignorance of the man, and would have nothing to do with
him as the conductor of his case. His own attorney, Mr. Sharply, was
engaged; and indeed his selection of a keen and able man such as he was
did credit both to his sagacity and foresight.
Considering the state of the country at that particular period, the
matter began to assume a most important aspect, A portion of the
Protestant party, by which we mean those who had sanctioned all
Whitecraft's brutal and murderous excesses, called every energy and
exertion into work, in order to defeat the Government and protect
the leading man of their own clique. On the other hand, there was the
Government, firm and decided, by the just operation of the laws, to make
an example of the man who had not only availed himself of those laws
when they were with him, but who scrupled not to set them aside when
they were against him, and to force his bloodthirsty instincts upon his
own responsibility. The Government, however, were not without large and
active support from those liberal Protestants, who had been disgusted
and sickened by the irresponsible outrages of such persecutors as
Whitecraft and Smellpriest. Upon those men the new Government relied,
and relied with safety. The country was in a tumult, the bigoted party
threatened an insurrection; and they did so, not because they felt
themselves in a position to effect it, but in order to alarm and
intimidate the Government. On the other hand, the Catholics, who had
given decided proofs of their loyalty by refusing to join the Pretender,
now expressed their determination to support the Government if an
outbreak among that section of the Protestant party to which we have
just alluded should take place.
But perhaps the real cause of the conduct of the Government might be
traced to Whitecraft's outrage upon a French subject in the person of
the Abbe ------. The matter, as we have stated, was seriously taken
up by the French Ambassador, in the name, and by the most positive
instructions, of his Court. The villain Whitecraft, in consequence of
that wanton and unjustifiable act, went far to involve the two nations
in a bitter and bloody war. England was every day under the apprehension
of a French invasion, which, of course, she dreaded; something must be
done to satisfy the French Court. Perhaps, had it not been for this,
the general outrages committed upon the unfortunate Catholics of Ireland
would never have become the subject of a detailed investigation. An
investigation, however, took place, by which a system of the most
incredible persecution was discovered, and a milder administration of
the laws was found judicious, in order to conciliate the Catholic party,
and prevent them from embracing the cause of the Pretender. At all
events, what between the necessity of satisfying the claims of the
French Government, and in apprehension of a Catholic defection, the
great and principal criminal was selected for punishment. The Irish
Government, however, who were already prepared with their charges, found
themselves already anticipated by Mr. Hastings, a fact which enabled
them to lie on their oars and await the result.
Such was the state and condition of affairs as the assizes were within
ten days of opening.
One evening about this time the old squire, who never remained long
in the same mode of feeling, sent for his daughter to the dining-room,
where he was engaged at his Burgundy. The poor girl feared that he was
about to introduce the painful subject which she dreaded so much--that
is to say, the necessity of giving her evidence against Reilly, After
some conversation, however, she was relieved, for he did not allude to
it; but he did to the fate of Reilly himself, the very subject which was
wringing her heart with agony.
“Helen,” said he, “I have been thinking of Reilly's affair, and it
strikes me that he may be saved, and become your husband still; because,
you know, that if Whitecraft was acquitted, now that he has been
publicly disgraced, I'd see the devil picking his bones--and very hard
picking he'd find them--before I'd give you to him as a wife.”
“Thank you, my dear papa; but let me ask why it is that you are so
active in stirring up his party to defend such a man?”
“Foolish girl,” he replied; “it is not the man, but the cause and
principle, we defend.”
“What, papa, the cause! bloodshed and persecution! I believe you to be
possessed of a humane heart, papa; but, notwithstanding his character
and his crimes, I do not wish the unfortunate man to be struck into the
grave without repentance.”
“Repentance, Helen! How the deuce could a man feel repentance who does
not believe the Christian religion?”
“But then, sir, has he not the reputation of being a sound and leading
Protestant?”
“Oh, hang his reputation; it is not of him I wish to speak to you, but
Reilly.”
Helen's heart beat rapidly and thickly, but she spoke not.
“Yes,” said he, “I have a project in my head that I think may save
Reilly.”
“Pray, what is it, may I ask, papa?”
“No, you may not; but to-morrow I will give him an early call, and let
you know how I succeed, after my return to dinner; yes, I will tell
you after dinner. But listen, Helen, it is the opinion of the baronet's
friends that they will be able to save him.”
“I hope they may, sir; I should not wish to see any fellow-creature
brought to an ignominious death in the midst of his offences, and in the
prime of life.”
“But, on the contrary, if he swings, we are bound to sacrifice one of
the Papist party for him, and Reilly is the man. Now don't look so pale,
Helen--don't look as if death was settled in your face; his fate may
be avoided; but ask me nothing--the project's my own, and I will
communicate it to no one until after I shall have ascertained whether I
fail in it or not.”
“I trust, sir, it will be nothing that will involve him in anything
dishonorable; but why do I ask? He is incapable of that.”
“Well, well, leave the matter in my hand; and now, upon the strength
of my project, I'll take another bumper of Burgundy, and drink to its
success.”
Helen pleaded some cause for withdrawing, as she entertained an
apprehension that he might introduce the topic which she most
dreaded--that of her duty to give evidence against Reilly. When she
was gone he began to ponder over several subjects connected with the
principal characters of this narrative until he became drowsy, during
which period halters, gibbets, gallowses, hangmen, and judges jumbled
each other alternately through his fancy, until he fell fast asleep in
his easy-chair.