Rumor of _Cooleen Bawn_'s Treachery--How it appears--Conclusion.
Life, they say, is a life of trials, and so may it be said of this
tale--at least of the conclusion of it; for we feel that it devolves
upon us once more to solicit the presence of our readers to the same
prison in which the Red Rapparee and Sir Robert Whitecraft received
their sentence of doom.
As it is impossible to close the mouth or to silence the tongue of fame,
so we may assure our readers, as we have before, that the: history of
the loves of those two celebrated individuals, to wit, Willy Reilly and
the far-famed _Cooleen Bawn_, had given an interest to the coming trial
such as was never known within the memory of man, at that period, nor
perhaps equalled since. The Red Rapparee, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and all
the other celebrated “villains of that time, have nearly perished out of
tradition itself, whilst those of our hero and heroine are still fresh
in the feelings of the Connaught and Northern peasantry, at whose
hearths, during the winter evenings, the rude but fine old ballad that
commemorated that love is still sung with sympathy, and sometimes, as
we can I testify, with tears. This is fame. One circumstance, however,
which deepened the interest felt by the people, told powerfully against
the consistency of the _Cooleen Bawn_, which was, that she had resolved
to come forward that day to bear evidence against; her lover. Such
was the general impression received from her father, and the attorney
Doldrum, who conducted the trial against Reilly, although our readers
are well aware that on this point they spoke without authority. The
governor of the prison, on going that morning to conduct him to the bar,
said:
“I am sorry, Mr. Reilly, to be the bearer of bad news; but as the
knowledge of it may be serviceable to you or your lawyers, I think I
ought to mention it to you.”
“Pray, what is it?” asked Reilly.
“Why, sir, it is said to be a fact that the _Cooleen Bawn_ has proved
false and treacherous, and is coming this day to bear her testimony
against you.”
Reilly replied with a smile of confidence, which the darkness of the
room prevented the other from seeing, “Well, Mr. O'Shaugh-nessy, even
if she does, it cannot be helped; have you heard what the nature of her
evidence is likely to be?”
“No; it seems her father and Doldrum the attorney asked her, and she
would not tell them; but she said she had made her mind up to attend the
trial and see justice done. Don't be cast down, Mr. Reilly, though, upon
my soul, I think she ought to have stood it out in your favor to the
last.”
“Come,” said Reilly, “I am ready; time will tell, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, and
a short time too; a few hours now, and all will know the result.”
“I hope in God it may be in your favor, Mr. Reilly.”
“Thank you, O'Shaughnessy; lead on; I am ready to attend you.”
The jail was crowded even to suffocation; but this was not all. The
street opposite the jail was nearly as much crowded as the jail itself,
a moving, a crushing mass of thousands having been collected to abide
and hear the issue. It was with great difficulty, and not without the
aid of a strong military force, that a way could be cleared for the
judge as he approached the prison. The crowd was silent and passive,
but in consequence of the report that the _Cooleen Bawn_ was to appear
against Reilly, a profound melancholy and an expression of deep sorrow
seemed to brood over it. Immediately after the judge's carriage came
that of the squire, who was accompanied by his daughter, Mrs. Brown and
Mrs. Hastings, for Helen had insisted that her father should procure
their attendance. A private room in the prison had, by previous
arrangement, been prepared for them, and to this they were conducted by
a back way, so as to avoid the crushing of the crowd. It was by this
way also that the judge and lawyers entered the body of the court-house,
without passing through the congregated mass.
At length the judge, having robed himself, took his seat on the bench,
and, on casting his eye over the court-house, was astonished at the
dense multitude that stood before him. On looking at the galleries, he
saw that they were crowded with ladies of rank and fashion. Every thing
having been now ready, the lawyers, each with his brief before him, and
each with a calm, but serious and meditative aspect, the Clerk of
the Crown cried out, in a voice which the hum of the crowd rendered
necessarily loud:
“Mr. Jailer, put William Reilly to the bar.”
At that moment a stir, a murmur, especially among the ladies in the
gallery, and a turning of faces in the direction of the bar, took place
as Reilly came forward, and stood erect in front of the judge. The
very moment he made his appearance all eyes were fastened on him, and
whatever the prejudices may have been against the _Cooleen Bawn_ for
falling in love with a Papist, that moment of his appearance absolved
her from all--from every thing. A more noble or majestic figure never
stood at that or any other bar. In the very prime of manhood, scarcely
out of youth, with a figure like that of Antinous, tall, muscular, yet
elegant, brown hair of the richest shade, a lofty forehead, features of
the most manly cast, but exquisitely formed, and eyes which, but for
the mellow softness of their expression, an eagle might have envied
for their transparent brilliancy. The fame of his love for the _Cooleen
Bawn_ had come before him. The judge surveyed him with deep interest;
so did every eye that could catch a view of his countenance; but,
above all, were those in the gallery riveted upon him with a degree of
interest--and, now that they had seen him, of sympathy--which we shall
not attempt to describe. Some of them were so deeply affected that
they could not suppress their tears, which, by the aid of their
handkerchiefs, they endeavored to conceal as well as they could.
Government, in this case, as it was not one of political interest,
did not prosecute. A powerful bar was retained against Reilly, but an
equally powerful one was engaged for him, the leading lawyer being, as
we have stated, the celebrated advocate Fox, the Curran of his day.
The charge against him consisted of only two counts--that of robbing
Squire Folliard of family jewels of immense value, and that of running
away with his daughter, a ward of Chancery, contrary to her consent and
inclination, and to the laws in that case made and provided.
The first witness produced was the sheriff--and, indeed, to state the
truth, a very reluctant one was that humane gentleman on the occasion.
Having been sworn, the leading counsel proceeded:
“You are the sheriff of this county?”
“I am.”
“Are you aware that jewellery to a large amount was stolen recently from
Mr. Folliard?”
“I am not.”
“You are not? Now, is it not a fact, of which you were an eye-witness,
that the jewellery in question was found upon the person of the prisoner
at the bar, in Mr. Folliard's house?”
“I must confess that I saw him about to be searched, and that a very
valuable case of jewellery was found upon his person.”
“Yes, found upon his person--a very valuable case of jewellery, the
property of Mr. Folliard, found upon his person; mark that, gentlemen of
the jury.”
“Pardon me,” said the sheriff, “I saw jewellery found upon him; but I
cannot say on my oath whether it belonged to Mr. Folliard or not; all I
can say is, that Mr. Folliard claimed the jewels as his.”
“As his--just so. Nobody had a better right to claim them than the
person to whom they belonged. What took place on the occasion?”
“Why, Mr. Folliard, as I said, claimed them, and Mr. Reilly refused to
give them up to him.”
“You hear that, gentlemen--refused to surrender him the property of
which he had robbed him, even in his own house.”
“And when you searched the prisoner?”
“We didn't search him; he refused to submit to a search.”
“Refused to submit to a search! No wonder, I think! But, at the time he
refused to submit to a search, had he the jewellery upon his person?”
“He had.”
“He had? You hear that gentlemen--at the time he refused to be searched
he had the jewellery upon his person.”
The sheriff was then cross-examined by Fox, to the following effect:
“Mr. Sheriff, have you been acquainted, or are you acquainted, with the
prisoner at the bar?”
“Yes; I have known him for about three years--almost ever since he
settled in this county.”
“What is your opinion of him?”
“My opinion of him is very high.”
“Yes--your opinion of him is very high,” with a significant glance at
the jury--“I believe it is, and I believe it ought to be. Now, upon
your oath, do you believe that the prisoner at the bar is capable of the
theft or robbery imputed to him?”
“I do not!”
“You do not? What did he say when the jewels were found upon him?”
“He refused to surrender them to Mr. Folliard as having no legal claim
upon them, and refused, at first, to place them in any hands but Miss
Folliard's own; but, on understanding that she was not in--a state to
receive them from him, he placed them in mine.”
“Then he considered that they were Miss Folliard's personal property,
and not her father's?”
“So it seemed to me from what he said at the time.”
“That will do, sir; you may go down.”
“Alexander Folliard” and the father then made his appearance on the
table; he looked about him, with a restless eye, and appeared in a
state of great agitation, but it was the agitation of an enraged and
revengeful man.
He turned his eyes upon Reilly, and exclaimed with bitterness: “There
you are, Willy Reilly, who have stained the reputation of my child, and
disgraced her family.”
“Mr. Folliard,” said his lawyer, “you have had in your possession very
valuable family jewels.”
“I had.”
“Whose property were they?”
“Why, mine, I should think.”
“Could you identify them?”
“Certainly I could.”
“Are these the jewels in question?”
The old man put on his spectacles, and examined them closely.
“They are; I know every one of them.”
“They were stolen from you?”
“They were.”
“On whose person, after having been stolen, were they found?”
“On the person of the prisoner at the bar.”
“You swear that?”
“I do; because I saw him take them out of his pocket in my own house
after he had been made prisoner and detected.”
“Then they are your property?”
“Certainly--I consider them my property; who else's property could they
be.”
“Pray, is not your daughter a minor?”
“She is.”
“And a ward in the Court of Chancery?”
“Yes.”
“That will do, sir.”
The squire was then about to leave the table, when Mr. Fox addressed
him:
“Not yet, Mr. Folliard, if you please; you swear the jewels are yours?”
“I do; to whom else should they belong?”
“Are you of opinion that the prisoner at the bar robbed you of them?”
“I found them in his possession.”
“And you now identify them as the same jewels which you found in his
possession?”
“Hang it, haven't I said so before?”
“Pray, Mr. Folliard, keep your temper, if you please, and answer me
civilly and as a gentleman. Suffer me to ask you are there any other
family jewels in your possession?”
“Yes, the Folliard jewels?”
“The Folliard jewels! And how do they differ in denomination from those
found upon the prisoner?”
“Those found upon the prisoner are called the Bingham jewels, from
the fact of my wife, who was a Bingham, having brought them into our
family.”
“And pray, did not your wife always consider those jewels as her own
private property?”
“Why, I believe she did.”
“And did she not, at her death-bed, bequeath those very jewels to her
daughter, the present Miss Folliard, on the condition that she too
should consider them as her private property?”
“Why, I believe she did; indeed, I am sure of it, because I was present
at the time.”
“In what part of the house were those jewels deposited?”
“In a large oak cabinet that stands in a recess in my library.”
“Did you keep what you call the Folliard jewels there?”
“Yes, all our jewellery was kept there.”
“But there was no portion of the Folliard jewellery touched?”
“No; but the Bingham sets were all taken, and all found upon the
prisoner.”
“What was your opinion of the prisoner's circumstances?”
“I could form no opinion about them.”
“Had he not the reputation of being an independent man?”
“I believe such was the impression.”
“In what style of life did he live?”
“Certainly in the style of a gentleman.”
“Do you think, then, that necessity was likely to tempt a man of
independence like him to steal your daughter's jewels?”
“I'd advise you, Sergeant Fox, not to put me out of temper; I haven't
much to spare just now. What the deuce are you at?”
“Will you answer my question?”
“No, I don't think it was.”
“If the Bingham jewellery had been stolen by a thief, do you think that
thief would have left the Folliard jewellery behind him?”
“I'll take my oath you wouldn't, if you had been in the place of the
person that took them. You'd have put the Bingham jewellery in one
pocket, and balanced it with the Folliard in the other. But,” he added,
after a slight pause, “the villain stole from me a jewel more valuable
and dearer to her father's heart than all the jewellery of the universal
world put together. He stole my child, my only child,” and as he spoke
the tears ran slowly down his cheeks. The court and spectators were
touched by this, and Fox felt that it was a point against them. Even he
himself was touched, and saw that, with respect to Reilly's safety, the
sooner he got rid of the old man, for the present at least, the better.
“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “you may withdraw now. Your daughter loved,
as what woman has not? There stands the object of her affections, and I
appeal to your own feelings whether any living woman could be blamed for
loving such a man. You may go down, sir, for the present.”
The prosecuting counsel then said: “My lord, we produce Miss Folliard
herself to bear testimony against this man. Crier, let Helen Folliard be
called.”
Now was the moment of intense and incredible interest. There was the
far-famed beauty herself, to appear against her manly lover. The stir
in the court, the expectation, the anxiety to see her, the stretching
of necks, the pressure of one over another, the fervor of curiosity,
was such as the reader may possibly conceive, but such certainly as
we cannot attempt to describe. She advanced from a side door, deeply
veiled; but the tall and majestic elegance of her figure not only struck
all hearts with admiration, but prepared them for the inexpressible
beauty with which the whole kingdom rang. She was assisted to the table,
and helped into the witness's chair by her father, who seemed to triumph
in her appearance there. On taking her seat, the buzz and murmur of the
spectators became hushed into a silence like that of death, and, until
she spoke, a feather might have been heard falling in the court.
“Miss Folliard,” said the judge, in a most respectful voice, “you are
deeply veiled--but perhaps you are not aware that, in order to give
evidence in a court of justice, your veil should be up; will you have
the goodness to raise it?”
Deliberately and slowly she raised it, as the court had desired
her--but, oh! what an effulgence of beauty, what wonderful brilliancy,
what symmetry, what radiance, what tenderness, what expression!
But we feel that to attempt the description of that face, which almost
had divinity stamped upon it, is beyond all our powers. The whole court,
every spectator, man and woman, all for a time were mute, whilst their
hearts drank in the delicious draught of admiration which such beauty
created. After having raised her veil, she looked around the court with
a kind of wonder, after which her eyes rested on Reilly, and immediately
her lids dropped, for she feared that she had done wrong in looking
upon him. This made many of those hearts who were interested in his fate
sink, and wonder why such treachery should be associated with features
that breathed only of angelic goodness and humanity.
“Miss Folliard,” said the leading counsel engaged against Reilly, “I am
happy to hear that you regret some past occurrences that took place with
respect to you and the prisoner at the bar.”
“Yes,” she replied, in a voice that was melody itself, “I do regret
them.”
Fox kept his eye fixed upon her, after which he whispered something
to one or two of his brother lawyers; they shook their heads, and
immediately set themselves to hear and note her examination.
“Miss Folliard, you are aware of the charges which have placed the
prisoner at the bar of justice and his country?”
“Not exactly; I have heard little of it beyond the fact of his
incarceration.”
“He stands there charged with two very heinous crimes--one of them,
the theft or robbery of a valuable packet of jewels, your father's
property.”
“Oh, no,” she replied, “they are my own exclusive property--not
my father's. They were the property of my dear mother, who, on her
death-bed, bequeathed them to me, in the presence of my father himself;
and I always considered them as mine.”
“But they were found upon the person of the prisoner?”
“Oh, yes; but that is very easily explained. It is no secret now, that,
in order to avoid a marriage which my father was forcing on me with Sir
Robert Whitecraft, I chose the less evil, and committed myself to
the honor of Mr. Reilly. If I had not done so I should have committed
suicide, I think, rather than marry Whitecraft--a man so utterly devoid
of principle and delicacy that he sent an abandoned female into my
father's house in the capacity of my maid and also as a spy upon my
conduct.”
This astounding fact created an immense sensation throughout the court,
and the lawyer who was examining her began to feel that her object in
coming there was to give evidence in favor of Reilly, and not against
him. He determined, however, to try her a little farther, and proceeded:
“But, Miss Folliard, how do you account for the fact of the Bingham
jewels being found upon the person of the prisoner?”
“It is the simplest thing in the world,” she replied. “I brought my own
jewels with me, and finding”, as we proceeded, that I was likely to lose
them, having no pocket sufficiently safe in which to carry them, I asked
Reilly to take charge of them, which he did. Our unexpected capture, and
the consequent agitation, prevented him from returning them to me, and
they were accordingly found upon his person; but, as for stealing them,
he is just as guilty as his lordship on the bench.”
“Miss Folliard,” proceeded the lawyer, “you have taken us by surprise
to-day. How does it happen that you volunteered your evidence against
the prisoner, and, now that you have come forward, every word you utter
is in his favor? Your mind must have recently changed--a fact which
takes very much away from the force of that evidence.”
“I pray you, sir, to understand me, and not suffer yourself to be
misled. I never stated that I was about to come here to give evidence
against Mr. Reilly; but I said, when strongly pressed to come, that I
would come, and see justice done. Had they asked me my meaning, I would
have instantly told them; because, I trust, I am incapable of falsehood;
and I will say now, that if my life could obtain that of William Reilly,
I would lay it willingly down for him, as I am certain he would lay down
his for the preservation of mine.”
There was a pause here, and a murmur of approbation ran through the
court. The opposing counsel, too, found that they had been led astray,
and that to examine her any further would be only a weakening of their
own cause. They attached, however, no blame of insincerity to her, but
visited with much bitterness the unexpected capsize which they had
got, on the stupid head of Doldrum, their attorney. They consequently
determined to ask her no more questions, and she was about to withdraw,
when Fox rose up, and said:
“Miss Folliard, I am counsel for the prisoner at the bar, and I trust
you will answer me a few questions. I perceive, madam, that you are
fatigued of this scene; but the questions I shall put to you will be few
and brief. An attachment has existed for some time between you and the
prisoner at the bar? You need not be ashamed, madam, to reply to it.”
“I am not ashamed,” she replied proudly, “and it is true.”
“Was your father aware of that attachment at any time?”
“He was, from a very early period.”
“Pray, how did he discover it?”
“I myself told him of my love for Reilly.”
“Did your father give his consent to that attachment?”
“Conditionally he did.”
“And pray, Miss Folliard, what were the conditions?”
“That Reilly should abjure his creed, and then no further obstacles
should stand in the way of our union, he said.”
“Was ever that proposal mentioned to Reilly?”
“Yes, I mentioned it to him myself; but, well as he loved me, he would
suffer to go into an early grave, he said, sooner than abandon his
religion; and I loved him a thousand times better for his noble
adherence to it.”
“Did he not save your father's life?”
“He did, and the life of a faithful and attached old servant at the same
time.”
Now, although this fact was generally known, yet the statement of it
here occasioned a strong expression of indignation against the man who
could come forward and prosecute the individual, to whose courage and
gallantry he stood indebted for his escape from murder. The uncertainty
of Folliard's character, however, was so well known, and his whimsical
changes of opinion such a matter of proverb among the people, that many
persons said to each other:
“The cracked old squire is in one of his tantrums now; he'll be a proud
man if he can convict Reilly to-day; and perhaps to-morrow, or in a
month hence, he'll be cursing; himself for what he did--for that's his
way.”
“Well, Miss Folliard,” said Fox, “we will not detain you any longer;
this to you must be a painful scene; you may retire, madam.”
[Illustration: PAGE 175--Give that ring to the prisoner]
She did not immediately withdraw, but taking a green silk purse out of
her bosom, she opened it, and, after inserting her long, white, taper
fingers into it, she brought out a valuable emerald ring, and placing it
in the hands of the crier, she said:
“Give that ring to the prisoner: I know not, William,” she added,
“whether I shall ever see you again or not. It may so happen that this is
the last time my eyes can ever rest upon you with love and sorrow.” Here
a few bright tears ran down her lovely cheeks. “If you should be sent
to a far-off land, wear this for the sake of her who appreciated your
virtues, your noble spirit, and your pure and disinterested love; look
upon it when, perhaps, the Atlantic may roll between us, and when you
do, think of your _Cooleen Bawn_, and the love she bore you; but if a
still unhappier fate should be yours, let it be placed with you in your
grave, and next that heart, that noble heart, that refused to sacrifice
your honor and your religion even to your love for me. I will now go.”
There is nothing so brave and fearless as innocence. Her youth, the
majesty of her beauty, and the pathos of her expressions, absolutely
flooded the court with tears. The judge wept, and hardened old
barristers, with hearts like the nether millstone, were forced to put
their handkerchiefs to their eyes; but as they felt that it might be
detrimental to! their professional characters to be caught weeping, they
shaded off the pathos under the hypocritical pretence of blowing their
noses. The sobs from the ladies in the gallery were loud and vehement,
and Reilly himself was so deeply moved that he felt obliged to put his
face upon his hands, as he bent over the bar, in order to conceal his
emotion. He received the ring with moist eyes, kissed it, and placed it
in a small locket which he put in his bosom.
“Now,” said the _Cooleen Bawn_, “I am ready to go.”
She was then conducted to the room to which we have alluded, where she
met Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, both of whom she found in tears--for
they had been in the gallery, and witnessed all that had happened. They
both embraced her tenderly, and attempted to console her as well as they
could; but a weight like death, she said, pressed upon her heart, and
she begged them not to distract her by their sympathy, kind and generous
as she felt it to be, but to allow her to sit, and nurture her own
thoughts until she could hear the verdict of the jury. Mrs. Hastings
returned to the gallery, and arrived there in time to hear the touching
and brilliant speech of Fox, which we are not presumptuous enough to
imagine, much less to stultify ourselves by attempting to give. He
dashed the charge of Reilly's theft of the jewels to pieces--not a
difficult task, after the evidence that had been given; and then dwelt
upon the loves of this celebrated pair with such force and eloquence
and pathos that the court was once more melted into tears. The closing
speech by the leading counsel against Reilly was bitter; but the gist
of it turned upon the fact of his having eloped with a ward of Chancery,
contrary to law; and he informed the jury that no affection--no consent
upon the part of any young lady under age was either a justification of,
or a protection against, such an abduction as that of which Reilly had
been guilty. The state of the law at the present time, he assured them,
rendered it a felony to marry a Catholic and a Protestant together; and
he then left the case in the hands, he said, of an honest Protestant
jury.
The judge's charge was brief. He told the jury that they could not
convict the prisoner on the imputed felony of the jewels; but that the
proof of his having taken away Miss Folliard from her father's house,
with--as the law stood--her felonious abduction, for the purpose of
inveigling her into an unlawful marriage with himself, was the subject
for their consideration. Even had he been a Protestant, the law could
afford him no protection in the eye of the Court of Chancery.
The jury retired; but their absence from their box was very brief.
Unfortunately, their foreman was cursed with a dreadful hesitation in
his speech, and, as he entered, the Clerk of the Crown said:
“Well, gentlemen, have you agreed in your verdict?”
There was a solemn silence, during which nothing was heard but a
convulsive working about the chest and glottis of the foreman, who at
length said:
“We--we--we--we have.”
“Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”
Here the internal but obstructed machinery of the chest and throat set
to work again, and at last the foreman was able to get out--“Guilty--”
Mrs. Hastings had heard enough, and too much; and, as the sentence was
pronounced, she instantly withdrew; but how to convey the melancholy
tidings to the _Cooleen Bawn_ she knew not. In the meantime the foreman,
who had not fully delivered himself of the verdict, added, after two or
three desperate hiccups--“on the second count.”
This, if the foreman had not labored under such an extraordinary
hesitation, might have prevented much suffering, and many years of
unconscious calamity to one of the unhappy parties of whom we are
writing, inasmuch as the felony of the jewels would have been death,
whilst the elopement with a ward of Chancery was only transportation.
When Mrs. Hastings entered the room where the _Cooleen Bawn_ was
awaiting the verdict with a dreadful intensity of feeling, the latter
rose up, and, throwing her arms about her neck, looked into her face,
with an expression of eagerness and wildness, which Mrs. Hastings
thought might be best allayed by knowing the worst, as the heart, in
such circumstances, generally collects itself, and falls back upon its
own resources.
“Well, Mrs. Hastings, well--the verdict?”
“Collect yourself, my child--be firm--be a woman. Collect yourself--for
you will require it. The verdict--Guilty!”
The _Cooleen Bawn_ did not faint--nor become weak--but she put her fair
white hand to her forehead--then looked around the room, then upon Mrs.
Brown, and lastly upon Mrs. Hastings. They also looked upon her. God
help both her and them! Yes, they looked upon her countenance--that
lovely countenance--and then into her eyes--those eyes! But, alas! where
was their beauty now? Where their expression?
“Miss Folliard! my darling Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Hastings, in
tears--“great God, what is this, Mrs. Brown? Come here and look at her.”
Mrs. Brown, on looking at her, whispered, in choking accents, “Oh! my
God, the child's reason is overturned; what is there now in those once
glorious eyes but vacancy? Oh, that I had never lived to see this awful
day! Helen, the treasure, the delight of all who ever knew you, what
is wrong? Oh, speak to us--recognize us--your own two best
friends--Helen--Helen! speak to us.”
She looked upon them certainly; but it was with a dead and vacant stare
which wrung their hearts.
“Come,” said she, “tell me where is William Reilly? Oh, bring me to
William Reilly; they have taken me from him, and I. know not where to
find him.”
The two kind-hearted ladies looked at one another, each stupefied by the
mystery of what they witnessed.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Hastings, “her father must be instantly sent for Mrs.
Brown, go to the lobby--there is an officer there--desire him to go to
Mr. Folliard and say that--but we had better not alarm him too much,”
she added, “say that Miss Folliard wishes to see him immediately.”
The judge, we may observe here, had not yet pronounced sentence upon
Reilly. The old man, who, under all possible circumstances, was so
affectionately devoted and attentive to his daughter, immediately
proceeded to the room, in a state of great triumph and exultation
exclaiming, “Guilty, guilty; we have noosed him at last.” He even
snapped his fingers, and danced about for a time, until rebuked by Mrs.
Hastings.
“Unhappy and miserable old man,” she exclaimed, with tears, “what
have you done? Look at the condition of your only child, whom you have
murdered. She is now a maniac.”
[Illustration: PAGE 176--What, what is this? What do you mean?]
“What,” he exclaimed, rushing to her, “what, what is this? What do you
mean? Helen, my darling, my child--my delight--what is wrong with you?
Recollect yourself, my dearest treasure. Do you not know me, your own
father? Oh, Helen, Helen! for the love of God speak to me. Say you know
me--call me father--rouse yourself--recollect me--don't you know who I
am?”
There, however, was the frightfully vacant glance, but no reply.
“Oh,” said she, in a low, calm voice, “where is William Reilly? They
have taken me from him, and I cannot find him; bring me to William
Reilly.”
“Don't you know me, Helen? don't you know your loving father? Oh, speak
to me, child of my heart! speak but one word as a proof that you know
me.”
She looked on him, but that look filled his heart with unutterable
anguish; he clasped her to that heart, he kissed her lips, he strove to
soothe and console her--but in vain. There was the vacant but unsettled
eye, from which the bright expression of reason was gone; but no
recognition--no spark of reflection or conscious thought--nothing but
the melancholy inquiry from those beautiful lips of--“Where's William
Reilly? They have taken me from him--and will not allow me to see him.
Oh, bring me to William Reilly!”
“Oh, wretched fate!” exclaimed her distracted father, “I am--I am a
murderer, and faithful Connor was right--Mrs. Brown--Mrs. Hastings--hear
me, both--I was warned of this, but I would not listen either to reason
or remonstrance, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted. Great
heaven, what a fate both for her and me--for her the innocent, and for
me the guilty!”
It is unnecessary to dwell upon the father's misery and distraction;
but, from all our readers have learned of his extraordinary tenderness
and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what
he suffered. He immediately ordered his carriage, and had barely time to
hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation for seven years.
His daughter was quite meek and tractable; she spoke not, nor could any
ingenuity on their part extract the slightest reply from her. Neither
did she shed a single tear, but the vacant light of her eyes had
stamped a fatuitous expression on her features that was melancholy and
heartbreaking beyond all power of language to describe.
No other person had seen her since the bereavement of her reason, except
the officer who kept guard on the lobby, and who, in the hurry and
distraction of the moment, had been dispatched by Mrs. Brown for a glass
of cold water. Her father's ravings, however, in the man's presence,
added to his own observation, and the distress of her female friends
were quite sufficient to satisfy him of the nature of her complaint, and
in less than half an hour it was through the whole court-house, and
the town besides, that the _Cooleen Bawn_ had gone mad on hearing the
sentence that was passed upon her lover. Her two friends accompanied her
home, and remained with her for the night.
Such was the melancholy conclusion of the trial of Willy Reilly; but
even taking it at its worst, it involved a very different fate from
that of his vindictive rival, Whitecraft. It appeared that that worthy
gentleman and the Red Rapparee had been sentenced to die on the same
day, and at the same hour. It is true, Whitecraft was aware that a
deputation had gone post-haste to Dublin Castle to solicit his pardon,
or at least some lenient commutation of punishment. Still, it was feared
that, owing to the dreadful state of the roads, and the slow mode of
travelling at that period, there was a probability that the pardon might
not arrive in time to be available; and indeed there was every reason
to apprehend as much. The day appointed for the execution of the Red
Rapparee and him arrived--nay, the very hour had come; but still
there was hope, among his friends. The sheriff, a firm, but fair and
reasonable man, waited beyond the time named by the judge for his
execution. At length he felt the necessity of discharging his duty; for,
although more than an hour beyond the appointed period had now elapsed,
yet this delay proceeded from no personal regard he entertained for the
felon, but from respect for many of those who had interested themselves
in his fate.
After an unusual delay the sheriff felt himself called upon to order
both the Rapparee and the baronet for execution. In waiting so long for
a pardon, he felt that he had transgressed his duty, and he accordingly
ordered them out for the last ceremony. The hardened Rapparee died
sullen and silent; the only regret he expressed being that he could not
live to see his old friend turned off before him.
“Troth,” replied the hangman, “only that the sheriff has ordhered me
to hang you first as bein' the betther man, I would give you that same
satisfaction; but if you're not in a very great hurry to the warm corner
you're goin' to, and if you will just take your time for a few minutes,
I'll engage to say you will soon have company. God speed you, any way,”
he exclaimed as he turned him off; “only take your time, and wait for
your neighbors. Now, Sir Robert,” said he, “turn about, they say, is
fair play--it's your turn now; but you look unbecomin' upon it. Hould up
your head, man, and don't be cast down. You'll have company where you're
goin'; for the Red Rapparee tould me to tell you that he'd wait for you.
Hallo!--what's that?” he exclaimed as he cast his eye to the distance
and discovered a horseman riding for life, with a white handkerchief,
or flag of some kind, floating in the breeze. The elevated position in
which the executioner was placed enabled him to see the signal before
it could be perceived by the crowd. “Come, Sir Robert,” said he, “stand
where I'll place you--there's no use in asking you to hould up your
head, for you're not able; but listen. You hanged my brother that you
knew to be innocent; and now I hang you that I know to be guilty. Yes,
I hang you, with the white flag of the Lord Lieutenant's pardon for you
wavin' in the distance; and listen again, remember Willy Reilly;” and
with these words he launched him into eternity.
The uproar among his friends was immense, as was the cheering from the
general crowd, at the just fate of this bad man. The former rushed to
the gallows, in order to cut him down, with a hope that life might
still be in him, a process which the sheriff, after perusing his pardon,
permitted them to carry into effect. The body was accordingly taken
into the prison, and a surgeon procured to examine it; but altogether
in vain; his hour had gone by, life was extinct, and all the honor they
could now pay Sir Robert Whitecraft was to give him a pompous funeral,
and declare him a martyr to Popery both of which they did.
On the day previous to Reilly's departure his humble friend and
namesake, Fergus, at the earnest solicitation of Reilly himself, was
permitted to pay him a last melancholy visit. After his sentence,
as well as before it, every attention had been paid to him by
O'Shaughnessy, the jailer, who, although an avowed Protestant, and a
brand plucked from the burning, was, nevertheless, a lurking Catholic at
heart, and felt a corresponding sympathy with his prisoner. When
Fergus entered his cell he found him neither fettered nor manacled, but
perfectly in the enjoyment at least of bodily freedom. It is impossible,
indeed, to say how far the influence of money may have gone in securing
him the comforts which surrounded him, and the attentions which he
received. On entering his cell, Fergus was struck by the calm and
composed air with which he received him. His face, it is true, was paler
than usual, but a feeling of indignant pride, if not of fixed but stern
indignation, might be read under the composure into which he forced
himself, and which he endeavored to suppress. He approached Fergus,
and extending his hand with a peculiar smile, very difficult to be
described, said:
“Fergus, I am glad to see you; I hope you are safe--at least I have
heard so.”
“I am safe, sir, and free,” replied Fergus; “thanks to the Red Rapparee
and the sheriff for it.”
“Well,” proceeded Reilly, “you have one comfort--the Red Rapparee will
neither tempt you nor trouble you again; but is there no danger of his
gang taking up his quarrel and avenging him?”
“His gang, sir? Why, only for me he would a' betrayed every man of
them to Whitecraft and the Government, and had them hanged, drawn,
and quartered--ay, and their heads grinning at us in every town in the
county.”
“Well, Fergus, let his name and his crimes perish with him; but, as for
you, what do you intend to do?”
“Troth, sir,” replied Fergus, “it's more than I rightly know. I had my
hopes, like others; but, somehow, luck has left all sorts of lovers of
late--from Sir Robert Whitecraft to your humble servant.”
“But you may thank God,” said Reilly, with a smile, “that you had not
Sir Robert Whitecraft's luck.”
“Faith, sir,” replied Fergus archly, “there's a pair of us may do so.
You went nearer his luck--such as it was--than I did.”
“True enough,” replied the other, with a serious air; “I had certainly a
narrow escape; but I wish to know, as I said, what you intend to do? It
is your duty now, Fergus, to settle industriously and honestly.”
“Ah, sir, honestly. I didn't expect that from you, Mr. Reilly.”
“Excuse me, Fergus,” said Reilly, taking him by the hand; “when I said
honestly I did not mean to intimate any thing whatsoever against your
integrity. I know, unfortunately, the harsh circumstances which drove
you to associate with that remorseless villain and his gang; but I wish
you to resume an industrious life, and, if Ellen Connor is disposed to
unite her fate with yours, I have provided the means--ample means for
you both to be comfortable and happy. She who was so faithful to her
mistress will not fail to make you a good wife.”
“Ah,” replied Fergus, “it's I that knows that well; but, unfortunately,
I have no hope there.”
“No hope; how is that? I thought your affection was mutual.”
“So it is, sir--or, rather, so it was; but she has affection for nobody
now, barring the _Cooleen Bawn_.”
Reilly paused, and appeared deeply moved by this. “What,” said he, “will
she not leave her? But I am not surprised at it.”
“No, sir, she will not leave her, but has taken an oath to stay by her
night and day, until--better times come.”
We may say here that Reillys friends took care that neither jailer
nor turnkey should make him acquainted with the unhappy state of the
_Cooleen Bawn_; he was consequently ignorant of it, and, fortunately,
remained so until after his return home.
“Fergus,” said Reilly, “can you tell me how the _Cooleen Bawn_ bears the
sentence which sends me to a far country?”
“How would she bear it, sir? You needn't ask: Connor, at all events,
will not part from her--not, anyway, until you come back.”
“Well, Fergus,” proceeded Reilly, “I have, as I said, provided for you
both; what that provision is I will not mention now. Mr. Hastings will
inform you. But if you have a wish to leave this unhappy and distracted
country, even without Connor, why, by applying to him, you will be
enabled to do so; or, if you wish to stay at home and take a farm, you
may do so.”
“Divil a foot I'll leave the country,” replied the other. “Ellen may
stick to the _Cooleen Bawn_, but, be my sowl, I'll stick to Ellen, if I
was to wait these seven years. I'll be as stiff as she is stout; but, at
any rate, she's worth waitin' for.”
“You may well say so,” replied Reilly, “and I can quarrel neither with
your attachment nor your patience; but you will not forget to let
her know the provision which I have left for her in the hands of Mr.
Hastings, and tell her it is a slight reward for her noble attachment
to my dear _Cooleen Bawn_. Fergus,” he proceeded, “have you ever had a
dream in the middle of which you awoke, then fell asleep and dreamt out
the dream?”
“Troth had I, often, sir; and, by the way, talkin' of dreams, I dreamt
last night that I was wantin' Ellen to marry me, and she said, 'not yet,
Fergus, but in due time.'”
“Well, Fergus,” proceeded Reilly, “perhaps there is but half my dream
of life gone; who knows when I return--if I ever do--but my dream may
be completed? and happily, too; I know the truth and faith of my dear
_Cooleen Bawn_. And, Fergus, it is not merely my dear _Cooleen Bawn_
that I feel for, but for my unfortunate country. I am not, however,
without hope that the day will come--although it may be a distant
one--when she will enjoy freedom, peace, and prosperity. Now, Fergus,
good-by, and farewell! Come, come, be a man,” he added, with a
melancholy smile, whilst a tear stood even in his own eye--“come,
Fergus, I will not have this; I won't say farewell for ever, because I
expect to return and be happy yet--if not in my own country, at least
in some other, where there is more freedom and less persecution for
conscience' sake.”
Poor Fergus, however, when the parting moment arrived, was completely
overcome. He caught Reilly in his arms--wept over him bitterly--and,
after a last and sorrowful embrace, was prevailed upon to take his
leave.
The history of the _Cooleen Bawn's_ melancholy fate soon went far and
near, and many an eye that had never rested on her beauty gave its
tribute of tears to her undeserved sorrows. There existed, however, one
individual who was the object of almost as deep a compassion; this was
her father, who was consumed by the bitterest and most profound remorse.
His whole character became changed by his terrible and unexpected shock,
by which his beautiful and angelic daughter had been blasted before
his eyes. He was no longer the boisterous and convivial old squire,
changeful and unsettled in all his opinions, but silent, quiet, and
abstracted almost from life.
He wept incessantly, but his tears did not bring him comfort, for they
were tears of anguish and despair. Ten times a day he would proceed to
her chamber, or follow her to the garden where she loved to walk, always
in the delusive hope that he might catch some spark of returning reason
from those calm-looking but meaningless eyes, after which he would weep
like a child. With respect to his daughter, every thing was done for
her that wealth and human means could accomplish, but to no purpose; the
malady was too deeply seated to be affected by any known remedy, whether
moral or physical. From the moment she was struck into insanity she
was never known to smile, or to speak, unless when she chanced to see a
stranger, upon which she immediately approached, and asked, with clasped
hands:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from
him, and, I cannot find him. Oh! can you tell me where is William
Reilly?”
There was, however, another individual upon whose heart the calamity of
the _Cooleen Bawn_ fell like a blight that seemed to have struck it into
such misery and sorrow as threatened to end only with life. This was
the faithful and attached Ellen Connor. On the day of Reilly's trial
she experienced the alternations of hope, uncertainty, and despair, with
such a depth of anxious feeling, and such feverish excitement, that the
period of time which elapsed appeared to her as if it would never come
to an end. She could neither sit, nor stand, nor work, nor read, nor
take her meals, nor scarcely think with any consistency or clearness
of thought. We have mentioned hope--but it was the faintest and the
feeblest element in that chaos of distress and confusion which filled
and distracted her mind. She knew the state and condition of the country
too well--she knew the powerful influence of Mr. Folliard in his native
county--she knew what the consequences to Reilly must be of taking
away a Protestant heiress; the fact was there--plain, distinct, and
incontrovertible, and she knew that no chance of impunity or acquittal
remained for any one of his creed guilty of such a violation of the
laws--we say, she knew all this--but it was not of the fate of Reilly
she thought. The girl was an acute observer, and both a close and clear
thinker. She had remarked in the _Cooleen Bawn_, on several occasions,
small gushes, as it were, of unsettled thought, and of temporary
wildness, almost approaching to insanity. She knew, besides, that
insanity was in the family on her father's side; * and, as she had so
boldly and firmly stated to that father himself, she dreaded the
result which Reilly's conviction might produce upon a mind with such
a tendency, worn down and depressed as it had been by all she had
suffered, and more especially what she must feel by the tumult and
agitation of that dreadful day.
* The reader must take this as the necessary material for
our fiction. There never was insanity in Helen's family; and
we make this note to prevent them from taking unnecessary
offence.
It was about two hours after dark when she was startled by the noise of
the carriage-wheels as they came up the avenue. Her heart beat as if it
would burst, the blood rushed to her head, and she became too giddy to
stand or walk; then it seemed to rush back to her heart, and she was
seized with thick breathing and feebleness; but at length, strengthened
by the very intensity of the interest she felt, she made her way to the
lower steps of the hall door in time to be present when the carriage
arrived at it. She determined, however, wrought up as she was to the
highest state of excitement, to await, to watch, to listen. She did
so. The carriage stopped at the usual place, the coachman came down and
opened the door, and Mr. Folliard came out. After him, assisted by Mrs.
Brown, came Helen, who was immediately conducted in between the latter
and her father. In the meantime poor Ellen could only look on. She was
incapable of asking a single question, but she followed them up to the
drawing-room where they conducted her mistress. When she was about to
enter, Mrs. Brown said:
“Ellen, you had better not come in; your mistress is unwell.”
Mrs. Hastings then approached, and, with a good deal of judgment and
consideration, said:
“I think it is better, Mrs. Brown, that Ellen should see her, or,
rather, that she should see Ellen. Who can tell how beneficial the
effect may be on her? We all know how she was attached to Ellen.”
In addition to those fearful intimations, Ellen heard inside the sobs
and groans of her distracted father, mingled with caresses and such
tender and affectionate language as, she knew by the words, could only
be addressed to a person incapable of understanding them. Mrs. Brown
held the door partially closed, but the faithful girl would not be
repulsed. She pushed in, exclaiming:
“Stand back, Mrs. Brown, I must see my mistress!--if she is my mistress,
or anybody's mistress now,”--and accordingly she approached the settee
on which the _Cooleen Bawn_ sat. The old squire was wringing his hands,
sobbing, and giving vent to the most uncontrollable sorrow.
“Oh, Ellen,” said he, “pity and forgive me. Your mistress is gone,
gone!--she knows nobody!”
“Stand aside,” she replied; “stand aside all of you; let me to her.”
She knelt beside the settee, looked distractedly,--but keenly, at her
for about half a minute--but there she sat, calm, pale, and unconscious.
At length she turned her eyes upon Ellen--for ever since the girl's
entrance she had been gazing on vacancy--and immediately said:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from
him, and I cannot find him. Oh! will you tell me where is William
Reilly?”
Ellen gave two or three rapid sobs; but, by a powerful effort, she
somewhat composed herself.
“Miss Folliard,” she said, in a choking voice, however, “darling Miss
Folliard--my beloved mistress--_Cooleen Bawn_--oh, do you not know
me--me, your own faithful Ellen, that loved you--and that loves you
so well--ay, beyond father and mother, and all others living in this
unhappy world? Oh, speak to me, dear mistress--speak to your own
faithful Ellen, and only say that you know me, or only look upon me as
if you did.”
Not a glance, however, of recognition followed those loving
solicitations; but there, before them all, she sat, with the pale face,
the sorrowful brow, and the vacant look. Ellen addressed her with equal
tenderness again and again, but with the same melancholy effect. The
effect was beyond question--reason had departed; the fair temple was
there, but the light of the divinity that had been enshrined in it was
no longer visible; it seemed to have been abandoned probably for
ever. Ellen now finding that every effort to restore her to rational
consciousness was ineffectual, rose up, and, looking about for a moment,
her eyes rested upon her father.
“Oh, Ellen!” he exclaimed, “spare me, spare me--you know I'm in your
power. I neglected your honest and friendly warning, and now it is too
late.”
“Poor man!” she replied, “it is not she, but you, that is to be pitied.
No; after this miserable sight, never shall my lips breathe one syllable
of censure against you. Your punishment is too dreadful for that. But
when I look upon her--look upon her now--oh, my God! what is this?”--
“Help the girl,” said Mrs. Brown quickly, and with alarm. “Oh, she has
fallen--raise her up, Mr. Folliard. Oh, my God, Mrs. Hastings, what a
scene is this!”
They immediately opened her stays, and conveyed her to another settee,
where she lay for nearly a quarter of an hour in a calm and tranquil
insensibility. With the aid of the usual remedies, however, she was, but
with some difficulty, restored, after which she burst into tears, and
wept for some time bitterly. At length she recovered a certain degree of
composure, and, after settling her dress and luxuriant brown hair, aided
by Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, she arose, and once more approaching
her lovely, but unconscious, mistress, knelt down, and, clasping her
hands, looked up to heaven, whilst she said:
“Here, I take the Almighty God to witness, that from this moment out I
renounce father and mother, brother and sister, friend and relative,
man and woman, and will abide by my dear unhappy _Cooleen Bawn_--that
blighted flower before us--both by day and by night--through all
seasons--through all places wherever she may go, or be brought, until
it may please God to restore her to reason, or until death may close her
sufferings, should I live so long, and have health and strength to
carry out this solemn oath; so may God hear me, and assist me in my
intention.”
She then rose, and, putting her arms around the fair girl, kissed her
lips, and poured forth a copious flood of tears into her bosom.
“I am yours now,” she said, caressing her mournfully: “I am yours now,
my ever darling mistress; and from this hour forth nothing but death
will ever separate your own Connor from you.”
Well and faithfully did she keep that generous and heroic oath. Ever,
for many a long and hopeless year, was she to be found, both night and
day, by the side of that beautiful but melancholy sufferer. No other
hand ever dressed or undressed her; no other individual ever attended to
her wants, or complied with those little fitful changes and caprices to
which persons of her unhappy class are subject. The consequence of
this tender and devoted attachment was singular, but not by any
means incompatible, we think, even with her situation. If Connor, for
instance, was any short time absent, and another person supplied her
place, the _Cooleen Bawn_, in whose noble and loving heart the strong
instincts of affection could never die, uniformly appeared dissatisfied
and uneasy, and looked around her, as if for some object that would
afford her pleasure. On Ellen's reappearance a faint but placid smile
would shed its feeble light over her countenance, and she would appear
calm and contented; but, during all this time, word uttered she none,
with the exception of those to which we have already alluded.
These were the only words she was known to utter, and no stranger ever
came in her way to whom she did not repeat them. In this way her father,
her maid, and herself passed through a melancholy existence for better
than six years, when a young physician of great promise happened to
settle in the town of Sligo, and her father having heard of it had him
immediately called in. After looking at her, however, he found himself
accosted in the same terms we have already given:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?”
“William Reilly will soon be with you,” he replied; “he will soon be
here.”
A start--barely, scarcely perceptible, was noticed by the keen eye of
the physician; but it passed away, and left nothing but that fixed and
beautiful vacancy behind it.
“Sir,” said the physician, “I do not absolutely despair of Miss
Folliard's recovery: the influence of some deep excitement, if it could
be made accessible, might produce a good effect; it was by a shock it
came upon her, and I am of opinion that if she ever does recover it will
be by something similar to that which induced her pitiable malady.”
“I will give a thousand pounds--five thousand--ten thousand, to any man
who will be fortunate enough to restore her to reason,” said her father.
“One course,” proceeded the physician, “I would recommend you to pursue;
bring her about as much as you can; give her variety of scenery and
variety of new faces; visit your friends, and bring her with you. This
course may have some effect; as for medicine, it is of no use here, for
her health is in every other respect good.”
He then took his leave, having first received a fee which somewhat
astonished him.
His advice, however, was followed; her father and she, and Connor,
during the summer and autumn months, visited among their acquaintances
and friends, by whom they were treated with the greatest and most
considerate kindness; but, so far as poor Helen was concerned, no
symptom of any salutary change became visible; the long, dull blank of
departed reason was still unbroken.
* * * * * * *
Better than seven years--and a half had now elapsed, when she and her
father came by invitation to pay a visit to a Mr. Hamilton, grandfather
to the late Dacre Hamilton of Monaghan, who--the grandfather we
mean--was one of the most notorious priest-hunters of the day, We need
not say that her faithful Connor was still in attendance. Old Folliard
went riding out with his friend, for he was now so much debilitated as
to be scarcely able to walk abroad for any distance, when, about the
hour of two o'clock, a man in the garb, and with all the bearing of a
perfect gentleman, knocked at the door, and inquired of the servant who
opened it whether Miss Folliard were not there. The servant replied in
the affirmative, upon which the stranger asked if he could see her.
“Why, I suppose you must be aware, sir, of Miss Folliard's unfortunate
state of mind, and that she can see nobody; sir, she knows nobody, and
I have strict orders to deny her to every one unless some particular
friend of the family.”
The stranger put a guinea into his hand, and added, “I had the pleasure
of knowing her before she lost her reason, and as I have not seen her
since, I should be glad to see her now, or even to look on her for a
few minutes.”
“Come up, sir,” replied the man, “and enter the drawing-room immediately
after me, or I shall be ordered to deny her.”
The gentleman followed him; but why did his cheek become pale, and why
did his heart palpitate as if it would burst and bound out of his bosom?
We shall see. On entering the drawing-room he bowed, and was about to
apologize for his intrusion, when the _Cooleen Bawn_, recognizing him as
a stranger, approached him and said:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from
him, and I cannot find him. Oh, can you tell me any thing about William
Reilly?”
The stranger staggered at this miserable sight, but probably more at the
contemplation of that love which not even insanity could subdue. He felt
himself obliged to lean for support upon the back of a chair, during
which brief space he fixed his eyes upon her with a look of the most
inexpressible tenderness and sorrow.
“Oh!” she repeated, “can you tell me where is William Reilly?”
“Alas! Helen,” said he, “I am William Reilly.”
“You!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, the wide, wide Atlantic is between him and
me.”
“It was between us, Helen, but it is not now; I am here in life before
you--your own William Reilly, that William Reilly whom you loved so
well, but so fatally. I am he: do you not know me?”
“You are not William Reilly,” she replied; “if you were, you would have
a token.”
“Do you forget that?” he replied, placing in her hand the emerald ring
she had given him at the trial. She started on looking at it, and a
feeble flash was observed to proceed from her eyes.
“This might come to you,” she said, “by Reilly's death; yes, this might
come to you in that way; but there is another token which is known to
none but himself and me.”
“Whisper,” said he, and as he spoke he applied his mouth to her ear, and
breathed the token into it.
[Illustration: PAGE 182--It is he! it is he!]
She stood back, her eyes flashed, her beautiful bosom heaved; she
advanced, looked once more, and exclaimed, with a scream, “It is he!
it is he!” and the next moment she was insensible in his arms. Long but
precious was that insensibility, and precious were the tears which his
eyes rained down upon that pale but lovel countenance. She was soon
placed upon a settee, but Reilly knelt beside her, and held one of her
hands in his. After a long trance she opened her eyes and again started.
Reilly pressed her hand and whispered in her ear, “Helen, I am with you
at last.”
She smiled on him and said, “Help me to sit up, until I look about me,
that I may be certain this is not a dream.”
She then looked about her, and as the ladies of the family spoke
tenderly to her, and caressed her, she fixed her eyes once more upon her
lover, and said, “It is not a dream then; this is a reality; but, alas!
Reilly, I tremble to think lest they should take you from me again.”
“You need entertain no such apprehension, my dear Helen,” said the lady
of the mansion. “I have often heard your father say that he would give
twenty thousand pounds to have you well, and Reilly's wife. In fact,
you have nothing to fear in that, or any other quarter. But there's his
knock; he and my husband have returned, and I must break this
blessed news to him by degrees, lest it might be too much for him if
communicated without due and proper caution.”
She accordingly went down to the hall, where they were hanging up their
great coats and hats, and brought them into her husband's study.
“Mr. Folliard,” said she with a cheerful face, “I think, from some
symptoms of improvement noticed to-day in Helen, that we needn't be
without hope.”
“Alas, alas!” exclaimed the poor father, “I have no hope; after such
a length of time I am indeed without a shadow of expectation. If
unfortunate Reilly were here, indeed her seeing him, as that Sligo
doctor told me, might give her a chance. He saw her about a week before
we came down, and those were his words. But as for Reilly, even if he
were in the country, how could I look him in the face? What wouldn't I
give now that he were here, that Helen was well, and that one word of
mine could make them man and wife?”
“Well, well,” she replied, “don't be cast down; perhaps I could tell you
good news if I wished.”
“You're beating about the bush, Mary, at all events,” said her husband,
laughing.
“Perhaps, now, Mr. Folliard,” she continued, “I could introduce a young
lady who is so fond of you, old and ugly as you are, that she would not
hesitate to kiss you tenderly, and cry with delight on your bosom you
old thief.”
They both started at her words with amazement, and her husband said:
“Egad, Alick, Helen's malady seems catching. What the deuce do you mean,
Molly? or must I, too, send for a doctor?”
“Shall I introduce you to the lady, though?” she proceeded, addressing
the father; “but remember that, if I do, you must be a man, Mr.
Folliard!”
“In God's name! do what you like,” said Mr. Hamilton, “but do it at
once.”
She went upstairs, and said, “As I do not wish to bring your father up,
Helen, until he is prepared for a meeting with Mr. Reilly, I will bring
you down to him. The sight of you now will give him new life.”
“Oh, come, then,” said Helen, “bring me to my father; do not lose a
moment, not a moment--oh, let me see him instantly!”
The poor old man suspected something. “For a thousand!” said he, “this
is some good news about Helen!”
“Make your mind up for that,” replied his mend; “as sure as you live it
is; and if it be, bear it stoutly.”
In the course of a few minutes Mrs. Hamilton entered the room with
Helen, now awakened to perfect reason, smiling, and leaning upon her
arm. “Oh, dear papa!” she exclaimed, meeting him, with a flood of tears,
and resting her head on his bosom.
“What, my darling!--my darling! And you know papa once more!--you know
him again, my darling Helen! Oh, thanks be to God for this happy day!”
And he kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart, and wept over her
with ecstasy and delight. It was a tender and tearful embrace.
“Oh, papa!” said she, “I fear I have caused you much pain and sorrow:
something has been wrong, but I am well now that he is here. I felt the
tones of his voice in my heart.”
“Who, darling, who?”
“Reilly, papa.”
“Hamilton, bring him down instantly; but oh, Helen, darling, how will I
see him?--how can I see him? but he must come, and we must all be happy.
Bring him down.”
“You know, papa, that Reilly is generosity itself.”
“He is, he is, Helen, and how could I blame you for loving him?”
[Illustration: PAGE 183--My son! my son!]
Reilly soon entered; but the old man, already overpowered by what had
just occurred, was not able to speak to him for some time. He clasped
and pressed his hand, however, and at length said:
“My son! my son! Now,” he added, after he had recovered himself, “now
that I have both together, I will not allow one minute to pass until I
give you both my blessing; and in due time, when Helen gets strong, and
when I get a little stouter, you shall be married; the parson and the
priest will make you both happy. Reilly, can you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive you, sir,” replied Reilly; “whatever you did
proceeded from your excessive affection for your daughter; I am more
than overpaid for any thing I may have suffered myself; had it been ages
of misery, this one moment would cancel the memory of it for ever.”
“I cannot give you my estate, Reilly,” said the old man, “for that is
entailed, and goes to the next male issue; but I can give you fifty
thousand pounds with my girl, and that will keep you both comfortable
for life.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied Reilly, “and for the sake of your daughter
I will not reject it; but I am myself in independent circumstances, and
could, even without your generosity, support Helen in a rank of life not
unsuitable to her condition.”
It is well known that, during the period in which the incidents of our
story took place, no man claiming the character of a gentleman ever
travelled without his own servant to attend him. After Reilly's return
to his native place, his first inquiries, as might be expected, were
after his _Cooleen Bawn_; and his next, after those who had been in some
degree connected with those painful circumstances in which he had been
involved previous to his trial and conviction. He found Mr. Brown and
Mr. Hastings much in the same state in which he left them. The latter,
who had been entrusted with all his personal and other property, under
certain conditions, that depended upon his return after the term of his
sentence should have expired, now restored to him, and again reinstated
him on the original terms into all his landed and other property,
together with such sums as had accrued from it during his absence,
so that he now found himself a wealthy man. Next to _Cooleen Bawn_,
however, one of his first inquiries was after Fergus Reilly, whom he
found domiciled with a neighboring middleman as a head servant, or kind
of under steward. We need not describe the delight of Fergus on once
more meeting his beloved relative at perfect liberty, and free from all
danger in his native land.
“Fergus,” said Reilly, “I understand you are still a bachelor--how does
that come?”
“Why, sir,” replied Fergus, “now that you know every thing about the
unhappy state of the _Cooleen Bawn_, surely you can't blame poor Ellen
for not desartin' her. As for me I cared nothing about any other girl,
and I never could let either my own dhrame, or what you said was
yours, out o' my head. I still had hope, and I still have, that she may
recover.”
Reilly made no reply to this, for he feared to entertain the vague
expectation to which Fergus alluded.
“Well, Fergus,” said he, “although I have undergone the sentence of a
convict, yet now, after my return, I am a rich man. For the sake of old
times--of old dangers and old difficulties--I should wish you to live
with me, and to attend me as my own personal servant or man. I shall get
you a suit of livery, and the crest of O'Reilly shall be upon it. I wish
you to attend upon me, Fergus, because you understand me, and because I
never will enjoy a happy heart, or one day's freedom from sorrow again.
All hope of that is past, but you will be useful to me--and that you
know.”
Fergus was deeply affected at these words, although he was gratified
in the highest degree at the proposal. In the course of a few days he
entered upon his duties, immediately after which Reilly set out on his
journey to Monaghan, to see once more his beloved, but unhappy, Cooleen
Baton. On arriving at that handsome and hospitable town, he put up at
an excellent inn, called the “Western Arms,” kept by a man who was the
model of innkeepers, known by the sobriquet of “honest Peter Philips”.
We need, not now recapitulate that with which the reader is already
acquainted; but we cannot omit describing a brief interview which took
place in the course of a few days after the restoration of the _Cooleen
Bawn_ to the perfect use of her reason, between two individuals, who,
we think, have some claim upon the good-will and good wishes of our
readers. We allude to Fergus Reilly and the faithful Ellen Connor.
Seated in a comfortable room in the aforesaid inn--now a respectable
and admirably kept hotel--with the same arms over the door, were the two
individuals alluded to. Before them stood a black bottle of a certain
fragrant liquor, as clear and colorless as water from the purest spring,
and, to judge of it by the eye, quite as harmless; but there was the
mistake. Never was hypocrisy better exemplified than by the contents of
that bottle. The liquor in question came, Fergus was informed, from
the green woods of Truagh, and more especially from a townland named
Derrygola, famous, besides, for stout men and pretty girls.
“Well, now, Ellen darlin',” said Fergus, “if ever any two bachelors *
were entitled to drink their own healths, surely you and I are. Here's
to us--a happy marriage, soon and sudden. As for myself, I've had the
patience of a Trojan.”
* “Bachelor,” in Ireland, especially in the country parts of
it, where English is not spoken correctly, is frequently
applied to both the sexes.
Ellen pledged him beautifully with her eyes, but very moderately with
the liquor.
“Bedad!” he proceeded, “seven years--ay, and a half--wasn't a bad
apprenticeship, at any rate; but, as I tould Mr. Reilly before he left
the country--upon my sowl, says I, Mr. Reilly, she's worth waitin' for;
and he admitted it.”
“But, Fergus, did ever any thing turn out so happy for all parties? To
me it's like a dream; I can scarcely believe it.”
“Faith, and if it be a dhrame, I hope it's one we'll never waken from.
And so the four of us are to be married on the same day; and we're all
to live with the squire.”
“We are, Fergus; the Cooleen Bawn will have it so; but, indeed, her
father is as anxious for it almost as she is. Ah, no, Fergus, she could
not part with her faithful Ellen, as she calls me; nor, after all,
Fergus, would her faithful Ellen wish to part with her?”
“And he's to make me steward; begad, and if I don't make a good one,
I'll make an honest one. Faith, at all events, Ellen, we'll be in a
condition to provide for the childre', plaise God.”
Ellen gave him a blushing look of reproach, and desired him to keep a
proper tongue in his head.
“But what will we do with the five hundred, Ellen, that the squire and
Mr. Reilly made up between them?”
“We'll consult Mr. Reilly about it,” she replied, “and no doubt but
he'll enable us to lay it out to the best advantage. Now, Fergus dear,
I must go,” she added; “you know she can't bear me even now to be any
length of time away from her. Here's God bless them both, and continue
them in the happiness they now enjoy.”
“Amen,” replied Fergus, “and here's God bless ourselves, and make us
more lovin' to one another every day we rise; and here's to take a
foretaste of it now, you thief.”
Some slight resistance, followed by certain smacking sounds, closed the
interview; for Ellen, having started to her feet, threw on her cloak and
bonnet, and hurried out of the room, giving back, however, a laughing
look at Fergus as she escaped.
In a few months afterwards they were married, and lived with the old man
until he became a grandfather to two children, the eldest a boy, and
the second a girl. Upon the same day of their marriage their humble but
faithful friends were also united; so that there was a double wedding.
The ceremony, in the case of Reilly and his _Cooleen Bawn_, was
performed by the Reverend Mr. Brown first, and the parish priest
afterwards; Mr. Strong, who had been for several years conjoined to Mrs.
Smellpriest, having been rejected by both parties as the officiating
clergyman upon the occasion, although the lovely bride was certainly his
parishioner. Age and time, however, told upon the old man; and at the
expiration of three years they laid him, with many tears, in the grave
of his fathers. Soon after this Reilly and his wife, accompanied by
Fergus and Ellen--for the _Cooleen Bawn_ would not be separated from
the latter--removed to the Continent, where they had a numerous family,
principally of sons; and we need not tell our learned readers, at least,
that those young men distinguished not only themselves, but their name,
by acts of the most brilliant courage in continental warfare. And so,
gentle reader, ends the troubled history of Willy Reilly and his own
_Cooleen Bawn_.