signally fails.
The next morning he and Cummiskey started for Sligo, and, as usual, when
they reached the jail the turnkey was about to conduct the squire to Sir
Robert's room, when the former turned and said:
“I wish to see Mr. Reilly; lead me to his cell.”
“Reilly, sir!” exclaimed the man in astonishment. “Are you sure, sir,
it's not Sir Robert Whitecraft you want?”
“Are you sure, sir, that it's not a cut of my whip about the ears you
want? Conduct me to where Reilly is, you rascal; do you pretend to
know the individual I wish to see better than I do myself? Push along,
sirra.”
The turnkey accordingly conducted him to Reilly's cell, which,
considerably to his surprise, was a much more comfortable one than had
been assigned to the baronet. When they had reached the corridor in
which it was situated, Folliard said, “Knock at the door, and when he
appears tell him that I wish to see him.”
“I will, your honor.”
“Say I won't detain him long.”
“I will, your honor.”
“Hang your honor, go and do what I desire you.”
“I will, your honor.”
Reilly's astonishment was beyond belief on learning that his vindictive
prosecutor had called upon him; but on more mature reflection, and
comparing what had happened before with the only motive which he could
assign for such a visit, he felt pretty certain that the squire came to
revive, in his own person, a subject which he had before proposed to
him through his daughter. There was no other earthly object to which he
could attribute his visit; but of course he made up his mind to receive
him with every courtesy. At length Folliard entered, and, before Reilly
had time to utter a syllable, commenced:
“Reilly,” said he, “you are astonished to see me here?”
“I am, sir,” replied Reilly, “very much.”
“Yes, I thought you would; and very few persons, except myself, would
come upon such an errand to the man that has disgraced my daughter,
myself, and my family; you have stained our name, sir--a name that was
never associated with any thing but honor and purity until you came
among us.”
“If you have paid me this visit, sir, only for the purpose of uttering
language which you know must be very painful to me, I would rather you
had declined to call upon me at all. I perceive no object you can have
in it, unless to gratify a feeling of enmity on your part, and excite
one of sorrow on mine. I say sorrow, because, on considering our
relative positions, and knowing the impetuosity of your temper, I am
sorry to see you here; it is scarcely generous in you to come, for the
purpose of indulging in a poor, and what, after all, may be an equivocal
and premature triumph over a man whose love for your daughter, you must
know, will seal his lips against the expression of one offensive word
towards you.”
“But how, let me ask, sir, do you know what brought me here? I didn't
come to scold you, nor to triumph over you; and I have already said
the worst I shall say. I know very well that you and Whitecraft will be
hanged, probably from the same rope too, but, in the meantime, I would
save you both if I could. I fear indeed that to save him is out of the
question, because it appears that there's a cart-load of indictments
against him.”
“How could you doubt it, sir, when you know the incredible extent of his
villany, both private and public? and yet this is the man to whom you
would have married your daughter!”
“No; when I found Helen reduced to such a state the morning on which
they were to be married, I told her at once that as she felt so bitterly
against him I would never suffer him to become her husband. Neither will
I; if he were acquitted tomorrow I would tell him so; but you, Reilly,
love my daughter for her own sake.”
“For her own sake, sir, as you have said, I love her. If she had
millions, it could not increase my affection, and if she had not a
penny, it would not diminish it.”
“Well, but you can have her if you wish, notwithstanding.”
Reilly first looked at him with amazement; but he was so thoroughly
acquainted with his character, both from what he had seen and heard of
it, that his amazement passed away, and he simply replied:
“Pray how, sir?”
“Why, I'll tell you what, Reilly; except with respect to political
principles, I don't think, after all, that there's the difference of a a
rush between the Papist and the Protestant Churches, as mere religions.
My own opinion is, that there's neither of them any great shakes, as to
any effect they have on society, unless to disturb it. I have known as
good Papists as ever I did Protestants, and indeed I don't know why a
Papist should not be as good a man as a Protestant; nor why a Protestant
should not be as good a man as a Papist, on the other hand. Now, do you
see what I'm driving at?”
“Well, I can't exactly say that I do,” replied Reilly.
[Illustration: PAGE 157--There is not a toss-up between them]
“Then the upshot of the argument is this, that there is not a toss-up
between them, and any man getting into a scrape, and who could get out
of it by changing from one to the other--of course I mean from Popery to
Protestantism--would prove himself a man of good sound sense, and above
the prejudices of the world.”
The truth is, Reilly saw ere this what Folliard was approaching, and, as
he determined to allow him full scope, his reply was brief:
“You seem fond of indulging in speculation, sir,” replied Reilly, with
a smile; “but I should be glad to know why you introduce this subject to
me?”
“To you?” replied Folliard; “why, who the devil else should or could I
introduce it to with such propriety? Here now are two religions; one's
not sixpence better nor worse than the other. Now, you belong to one of
them, and because you do you're here snug and fast. I say, then, I have
a proposal to make to you: you are yourself in a difficulty--you
have placed me in a difficulty--and you have placed poor Helen in a
difficulty--which, if any thing happens you, I think will break her
heart, poor child. Now you can take her, yourself, and me, out of all
our difficulties, if you have only sense enough to shove over from the
old P---- to the young P----. As a Protestant, you can marry Helen,
Reilly--but as a Papist, never! and you know the rest; for if you are
obstinate, and blind to your own interests, I must do my duty.”
“Will you allow me to ask, sir, whether Miss Folliard is aware of this
mission of yours to me?”
“She aware! She never dreamt of it; but I have promised to tell her the
result after dinner to-day.”
“Well, sir,” replied Reilly, “will you allow me to state to you a few
facts?”
“Certainly; go on.”
“In the first place, then, such is your daughter's high and exquisite
sense of integrity and honor that, if I consented to the terms you
propose, she would reject me with indignation and scorn, as she ought
to do. There, then, is your project for accomplishing my selfish and
dishonest apostacy given to the winds. Your daughter, sir, is too pure
in all her moral feelings, and too noble-minded, to take to her arms a
renegade husband--a renegade, too, not from conviction, but from selfish
and mercenary purposes.”
“Confound the thing, this is but splitting hairs, Reilly, and talking
big for effect. Speak, however, for yourself; as for Helen, I know very
well that, in spite of your heroics and her's, she'd be devilish glad
you'd become a Protestant and marry her.”
“I am sorry to say, sir, that you don't know your own daughter; but as
for me, Mr. Folliard, if one word of your's, or of her's, could place
me on the British throne, I would not abandon my religion. Under no
circumstances would I abandon it; but least of all, now that it is
so barbarously persecuted by its enemies. This, sir, is my final
determination.”
“But do you know the alternative?”
“No, sir, nor do you.”
“Don't I, faith? Why, the alternative is simply this--either marriage or
hanging!”
“Be it so; in that case I will die like a man of honor and a true
Christian and Catholic, as I hope I am.”
“As a true fool, Reilly--as a true fool. I took this step privately,
out of respect for your character. See how many of your creed become
Protestants for the sake of mere property; think how many of them join
our Church for the purpose of ousting their own fathers and relatives
from their estates; and what is it all, on their parts, but the
consequence of an enlightened judgment that shows them the errors of
their old creed, and the truth of ours? I think, Reilly, you are loose
about the brains.”
“That may be, sir, but you will never find me loose about my
principles.”
“Are you aware, sir, that Helen is to appear against you as an
evidence?”
“No, sir, I am not, neither do I believe it. But now, sir, I beg you to
terminate this useless and unpleasant interview. I can look into my
own conscience with satisfaction, and am prepared for the worst. If
the scaffold is to be my fate, I cannot but remember that many a noble
spirit has closed the cares of an unhappy life upon it. I wish you
good-day, Mr. Folliard.”
“By the Boyne! you are the most obstinate blockhead that ever lived; but
I've done; I did all in my power to save you--yet to no purpose. Upon my
soul, I'll come to your execution.”
“And if you do, you will see me die like a man and a gentleman; may I
humbly add, like a Christian!”
The squire, on his way home, kept up a long, low whistle, broken only
by occasional soliloquies, in which Reilly's want of common-sense, and
neglect not only of his temporal interests, but of his life itself, were
the prevailing sentiments. He regretted his want of success, which he
imputed altogether to Reilly's obstinacy, instead of his integrity,
firmness, and honor.
This train of reflection threw him into one of those capricious fits of
resentment so peculiar to his unsteady temper, and as he went along he
kept lashing himself up into a red heat of indignation and vengeance
against that unfortunate gentleman. After dinner that day he felt
somewhat puzzled as to whether he ought to communicate to his daughter
the result of his interview with Reilly or not. Upon consideration,
however, he deemed it more prudent to avoid the subject altogether,
for he felt apprehensive that, however she might approve of her lover's
conduct, the knowledge of his fate, which depended on it, would only
plunge her into deeper distress. The evening consequently passed without
any allusion to the subject, unless a peculiar tendency to melody, on
his part, might be taken to mean something; to this we might add
short abrupt ejaculations unconsciously uttered--such as--“Whew, whew,
whew--o--whew--o--hang the fellow! Whew, whew--o--whew--he's a
cursed goose, but an obstinate--whew, whew--o--whew--o. Ay, but no
matter--well--whew, whew--o, whew, whew! Helen, a cup of tea. Now,
Helen, do you know a discovery I have made--but how could you? No, you
don't, of course; but listen and pay attention to me, because it deeply
affects myself.”
The poor girl, apprehensive that he was about to divulge some painful
secret, became pale and a good deal agitated; she gave him a long,
inquiring look, but said nothing.
“Yes, Helen, and the discovery is this: I find from experience that tea
and Burgundy--or, indeed, tea and any kind of wine--don't agree with my
constitution: curse the fel--whew, whew, whew, whew--o--whew; no, the
confounded mixture turns my stomach into nothing more nor less than a
bag of aquafortis--if he had but common--whew--”
“Well, but, papa, why do you take tea, then?”
“Because I'm an old fool, Helen; and if I am, there are some young ones
besides; but it can't be helped now--whew, whew--it was done for the
best.”
In this manner he went on for a considerable time, ejaculating mysteries
and enigmas, until he finished the second bottle, after which he went to
bed.
It may be necessary to state here that, notwithstanding the incredible
force and tenderness of his affection for his daughter, he had,
ever since her elopement with Reilly, kept her under the strictest
surveillance, and in the greatest seclusion--that is to say, as the
proverb has it, “he locked the stable door when the steed was stolen;”
or if he did not realize the aphorism, he came very near it.
Time, however, passes, and the assizes were at hand, a fearful Avatar of
judicial power to the guilty. The struggle between the parties who were
interested in the fate of Whitecraft, and those who felt the extent of
his unparalleled guilt, and the necessity not merely of making him an
example but of punishing him for his enormous crimes, was dreadful. The
infatuation of political rancor on one side, an infatuation which could
perceive nothing but the virtue of high and resolute Protestantism in
his conduct, blinded his supporters to the enormity of his conduct, and,
as a matter of course, they left no stone unturned to save his life. As
we said, however, they were outnumbered; but still they did not despair.
Reilly's friends had been early in the legal market, and succeeded in
retaining some of the ablest men at the bar, his leading counsel being
the celebrated advocate Fox, who was at that time one of the most
distinguished men at the Irish bar. Helen, as the assizes approached,
broke down so completely in her health that it was felt, if she remained
in that state, that she would be unable to attend; and although Reilly's
trial was first on the list, his opposing counsel succeeded in getting
it postponed for a day or two in order that an important witness, then
ill, he said, might be able to appear on their part.
It is not our intention to go through the details of the trial of the
Red Rapparee. The evidence of Mary Mahon, Fergus O'Reilly, and
the sheriff, was complete; the chain was unbroken; the change of
apparel--the dialogue in Mary Mahon's cabin, in which he; avowed the
fact of his having robbed the sheriff--the identification of his person
by the said sheriff in the farmer's house, as before stated, left
nothing for the jury to do I but to bring in a verdict of guilty.
Mercy was out of the question. The hardened ruffian--the treacherous
ruffian--who had lent himself to the bloodthirsty schemes of
Whitecraft--and all this came out upon his trial, not certainly to the
advantage of the baronet--this hardened and treacherous ruffian, we say,
who had been a scourge to that part of the country for years, now felt,
when the verdict of guilty was brought in against him, just as a smith's
anvil might feel when struck by a feather. On hearing it, he growled a
hideous laugh, and exclaimed:
“To the divil I pitch you all; I wish, though, that I had Tom Bradley,
the prophecy man, here, who tould me that I'd never be hanged, and that
the rope was never born for me.”
“If the rope was not born for you,” observed the judge, “I fear I shall
be obliged to inform you that you were born for the rope. Your life has
been an outrage,upon civilized society.”
“Why, you ould dog!” said the Rapparee, “you can't hang me; haven't I a
pardon? didn't Sir Robert Whitecraft get me a pardon from the Government
for turnin' against the Catholics, and tellin' him where to find the
priests? Why, you joulter-headed ould dog, you can't hang me, or, if you
do, I'll leave them behind me that will put such a half ounce pill into
your guts as will make you turn up the whites of your eyes like a duck
in thundher. You'll hang me for robbery, you ould sinner! But what is
one half the world doin' but robbin' the other half? and what is the
other half doin' but robbin' them? As for Sir Robert Whitecraft, if he
desaved me by lies and falsehoods, as I'm afraid he did, all I say is,
that if I had him here for one minute I'd show him a trick he'd never
tell to mortal. Now go on, bigwig.”
Notwithstanding the solemnity of the position in which this obdurate
ruffian was placed, the judge found it nearly impossible to silence the
laughter of the audience and preserve order in the court. At length he
succeeded, and continued his brief address to the Rapparee:
“Hardened and impenitent reprobate, in the course of my judicial duties,
onerous and often painful as they are and have been, I must say that,
although it has fallen to my lot to pronounce the awful sentence of
death upon many an unfeeling felon, I am bound to say that a public
malefactor so utterly devoid of all the feelings which belong to man,
and so strongly impregnated with those of the savage animal as you
are, has never stood in a dock before me, nor probably before any other
judge, living or dead. Would it be a waste of language to enforce upon
you the necessity of repentance? I fear it would; but it matters not;
the guilt of impenitence be on your own head, still I must do my duty;
try, then, and think of death, and a far more awful judgment than mine.
Think of the necessity you have for; supplicating mercy at the throne of
your Redeemer, who himself died for you, and for all of us, between two
thieves.”
“That has nothing to do with my case; I never was a thief; I robbed like
an honest man on the king's highways; but as for thievin', why, you ould
sinner, I never stole a farthing's worth in my life. Don't, then, pitch
such beggarly comparisons into my teeth. I never did what you and your
class often did; I never robbed the poor in the name of the blessed laws
of the land; I never oppressed the widow or the orphan; and for all that
I took from those that did oppress them, the divil a grain of sorrow
or repentance I feel for it, nor ever will feel for it. Oh! mother of
Moses! if I had a glass of whiskey!”
The judge was obliged to enforce silence a second time; for, to-tell the
truth, there was something so ludicrously impenitent in the conduct of
this hardened convict that the audience could not resist it, especially
when it is remembered that the sympathies of the lower Irish are always
with such culprits.
“Well,” continued the judge, when silence was again restored, “your
unparalleled obduracy has gained one point; it was my intention to have
ordered you for execution tomorrow at the hour of twelve o'clock; but,
as a Christian man, I could not think for a moment of hurrying you into
eternity in your present state. The sentence of the court then is that
you be taken from the dock in which you now stand to the prison from
whence you came, and that from thence you be brought to the place of
execution on next Saturday, and there be hanged by the neck until you be
dead, and may God have mercy on your soul!”
The Rapparee gazed at him with a look of the most hardened effrontery,
and exclaimed, “Is it in earnest you are?” after which he was once mor|e
committed to his cell, loaded with heavy chains, which he wore, by the I
way, during his trial.
Now, in order to account for his outrageous conduct, we must make a
disclosure to the reader. There is in and about all jails a certain
officer yclept a hangman--an officer who is permitted a freer ingress
and egress than almost any other person connected with those gloomy
establishments. This hangman, who resided in the prison, had a brother
whom Sir Robert Whitecraft had hanged, and, it was thought, innocently.
Be this as it may, the man in question was heard to utter strong threats
of vengeance against Sir Robert for having his brother, whose innocence
he asserted, brought to execution. In some time after this a pistol was
fired one night at Sir Robert from behind a hedge, which missed him; but
as his myrmidons were with him, and the night was light, a pursuit took
place, and the guilty wretch was taken prisoner, with the pistol on his
person, still warm after having been discharged. The consequence was
that he was condemned to death. But it so happened that at this period,
although there were five or six executions to take place, yet there was
no hangman to be had, that officer having died suddenly, after a fit of
liquor, and the sheriff would have been obliged to discharge the office
with his own hands unless a finisher of the law could be found. In
brief, he was found, and in the person of the individual alluded to,
who, in consequence of his consenting to accept the office, got a
pardon from the Crown. Now this man and the Rapparee had been old
acquaintances, and renewed their friendship in prison. Through the means
of the hangman O'Donnel got in as much whiskey as he pleased, and we
need scarcely say that they often got intoxicated together. The secret,
therefore, which we had to disclose to the reader, in explanation of
the Rapparee's conduct at his trial, was simply this, that the man was
three-quarters drunk.
After trial he was placed in a darker dungeon than before; but such was
the influence of the worthy executioner with every officer of the jail,
that he was permitted to go either in or out without search, and as he
often gave a “slug,” as he called it, to the turnkeys, they consequently
allowed him, in this respect, whatever privileges he wished. Even the
Rapparee's dungeon was not impenetrable to him, especially as he put the
matter on a religious footing, to wit, that as the unfortunate robber
was not allowed the spiritual aid of his own clergy, he himself was
the only person left to prepare him for death, which he did with the
whiskey-bottle.
The assizes on that occasion were protracted to an unusual length. The
country was in a most excited state, and party feeling ran fearfully
high. Nothing was talked of but the two trials, par excellence, to wit,
that of Whitecraft and Reilly; and scarcely a fair or market, for a
considerable time previous, ever came round in which there waa not
a battle on the subject of either one or the other of them, and not
unfrequently of both. Nobody was surprised at the conviction of the Red
Rapparee; but, on the contrary, every one was glad that the country had
at last got rid of him.
Poor Helen, however, was not permitted to remain quiet, as she had
expected. When Mr. Doldrum had furnished the leading counsel with his
brief and a list of the witnesses, the other gentleman was surprised to
see the name of Helen Folliard among them.
“How is this?” he inquired; “is not this the celebrated beauty who
eloped with him?”
“It is, sir,” replied Doldrum.
“But,” proceeded the other, “you have not instructed me in the nature of
the evidence she is prepared to give.”
“She is deeply penitent, sir, and in a very feeble state of health; so
much so that we were obliged to leave the tendency of her evidence to be
brought out on the trial.”
“Have you subpoenaed her?”
“No, sir.”
“And why not, Mr. Doldrum? Don't you know that there is no understanding
the caprices of women. You ought to have subpoenaed her, because, if she
be a leading evidence, she may still change her mind and leave us in the
lurch.”
“I certainly did not subpoena her,” replied Doldrum, “because, when I
mentioned it to her father, he told me that if I attempted it he would
break my head. It was enough, he said, that she had given her promise--a
thing, he added, which she was never known to break.”
“Go to her again, Doldrum; for unless we know what she can prove we will
be only working in the dark. Try her, at all events, and glean what you
can out of her. Her father tells me she is somewhat better, so I don't
apprehend you will have much difficulty in seeing her.”
Doldrum did see her, and was astonished at the striking change which
had, in so short a time, taken place in her appearance. She was pale,
and exhibited all the symptoms of an invalid, with the exception of her
eyes, which were not merely brilliant, but dazzling, and full of a
fire that flashed from them with something like triumph whenever her
attention was directed to the purport of her testimony. On this subject
they saw that it; would be quite useless, and probably worse than
useless, to press her, and they did not, consequently, put her to the
necessity of specifying the purport of her evidence.
“I have already stated,” said she, “that I shall attend the trial; that
ought, and must be, sufficient for you. I beg, then, you will withdraw,
sir. My improved health will enable me to attend, and you may rest
assured that if I have life I shall be there, as I have already told
you; but, I say, that if you wish to press me for the nature of my
evidence, you shall have it, and, as she spoke, her eyes flashed
fearfully, as they were in the habit of doing whenever she felt deeply
excited. Folliard himself became apprehensive of the danger which might
result from the discussion of any subject calculated to disturb her,
and insisted that she should be allowed to take her own way. In the
meantime, after they had left her, at her own request, her father
informed the attorney that she was getting both strong and cheerful, in
spite of her looks.
“To be sure,” said he, “she is pale! but that's only natural, after her
recent slight attack, and all the excitement and agitation she has for
some time past undergone. She sings and plays now, although I have heard
neither a song nor a tune from her for a long time past. In the
evening, too, she is exceedingly cheerful when we sit together in the
drawing-room; and she often laughs more heartily than I ever knew her to
do before in my life. Now, do you think, Doldrum, if she was breaking
her heart about Reilly that she would be in such spirits?”
“No, sir; she would be melancholy and silent, and would neither sing,
nor laugh, nor play; at least I felt, so when I was in love with Miss
Swithers, who kept me in a state of equilibrium for better than two
years;--but that wasn't the worst of it, for she knocked the loyalty
clean out of me besides--indeed, so decidedly so that I never once sang
'Lillibullero' during the whole period of my attachment, and be hanged
to her.”
“And what became of her?”
“Why, she married my clerk, who used to serve my love-letters upon her;
and when I expected to come in by execution--that is, by marriage--that
cursed little sheriff, Cupid, made a return of _nulla bona_. She and Sam
Snivel--a kind of half Puritan--entered a _dis_appearance, and I never
saw them since; but I am told they are in America. From what you tell
me, sir, I have no doubt but Miss Folliard will make a capital witness.
In fact, Reilly ought to feel proud of the honor of being hanged by her
evidence; she will be a host in herself.”
We have already stated that the leading counsel against Reilly had
succeeded in getting his trial postponed until Miss Folliard should
arrive at a sufficient state of health to appear against him. In the
meantime, the baronet's trial, which was in a political, indeed,
we might say, a national point of view, of far more importance than
Reilly's, was to come on next day. In the general extent of notoriety
or fame, Reilly had got in advance--though not much--of his implacable
rival. The two trials were, in fact, so closely united by the relative
position of the parties that public opinion was strangely and strongly
divided between them. Reilly and his _Cooleen Bawn_ had, by the unhappy
peculiarity of their fate, excited the interest of all the youthful and
loving part of society--an interest which was necessarily reflected
upon Whitecraft, as Reilly's rival, independently of the hold which
his forthcoming fate had upon grave and serious politicians. Reilly's
leading counsel, Fox, a man of great judgment and ability, gave it as
his opinion that in consequence of the exacerbated state of feeling
produced against the Catholics by the prosecution of Whitecraft--to
appease whom, the opinion went that it was instituted--it seemed
unlikely that Reilly had a single chance. Had his trial, he said, taken
place previous to that of Whitecraft's, he might have escaped many of
the consequences of Whitecraft's conviction; but now, should the latter
be convicted, the opposing party would die in the jury-box rather than
let Reilly escape.