your dragoons, Sir Robert, who came to my relief when it was too
late--insists, from my description of the dress, that it was Reilly.”

“Are you sure he was not dressed in black?” asked Smellpriest. “Did you
observe a beads or crucifix about him?”

“I have described the dress accurately,” replied the sheriff; “but I
am certain that it was not Reilly. On bringing the matter to my
recollection, after I had got rid of the pain and agitation, I was able
to remember that the ruffian had a coarse face and red whiskers. Now
Reilly's hair and whiskers are black.”

“It was a reverend Papist,” said Smellpriest; “one of those from
whom you had levied the fines that day, and who thought it no harm to
transfer them back again to holy Church. You know not how those rascals
can disguise themselves.”

“And you blame them, Smellpriest,” said the squire, “for disguising
themselves? Now, suppose the tables were turned upon us, that Popery got
the ascendant, and that Papists started upon the same principles against
us that we put in practice against them; suppose that Popish soldiers
were halloed on against our parsons, and all other Protestants
conspicuous for an attachment to their religion, and anxious to put down
the persecution under which we suffered; why, hang it, could you blame
the parsons, when hunted to the death, for disguising themselves? And
if you could not, how can you blame the priests? Would you have the poor
devils walk into your hands and say, 'Come, gentlemen, be good enough
to hang or transport us?' I am anxious, to secure Reilly, and either to
hang or transport him. I would say the latter, though.”

“And I the former,” observed Sir Robert.

“Well, Bob, that is as may happen; but in the meantime, I say he never
robbed the sheriff here; and if he were going to the gallows to-morrow,
I would maintain it.”

Neither the clergyman nor Mr. Hastings took much part in the
conversation; but the eye of the latter was, during the greater portion
of the evening, fixed upon the baronet, like that of a basilisk,
accompanied by a hidden meaning, which it was impossible to penetrate,
but which, nevertheless, had such an effect upon Whitecraft that he
could not help observing it.

“It would seem, Mr. Hastings,” said he, “as if you had never seen me
before. Your eye has scarcely been off me during the whole evening. It
is not pleasant, sir, nor scarcely gentlemanly.”

“You should feel proud of it, Sir Robert,” replied Hastings; “I only
admire you.”

“Well, then, I wish you would express your admiration in some other
manner than by staring at me.”

“Gadzooks, Sir Robert,” said the squire, “don't you know that a cat may
look at a king? Hastings must be a man of devilish good taste, Bob, and
you ought to thank him.”

Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings soon afterwards went upstairs, and left the
other gentlemen to their liquor, which they now began to enjoy with
a more convivial spirit. The old squire's loyalty rose to a very high
pitch, as indeed did that of his companions, all of whom entertained the
same principles, with the exception of Lord Deilmacare, whose opinions
never could be got at, for thee very sufficient reason that he did not
know them himself.

“Come, Whitecraft,” said the squire, “help yourself, and push the
bottle; now that those two half-Papists are gone, we can breathe and
speak a little more freely. Here's our glorious Constitution, in Church
and State, and curse all priests and Papists--barring a few, that I know
to be honest.”

“I drink it, but I omit the exception,” said Sir Robert, “and I wonder,
sir, you would make any exception to such a toast.”

“I drink it,” said Smellpriest, “including the rascal priest.”

“And I drink it,” said the sheriff, “as it has been proposed.”

“What was it?” said Lord Deilmacare; “come, I drink it--it doesn't
matter. I suppose, coming from our excellent host, it must be right and
proper.”

They caroused deeply, and in proportion as the liquor affected their
brains, so did their determination to rid the squire of the rebel Reilly
form itself into an express resolution to that effect.

“Hang Reilly--hang the villain--the gallows for him--hurra!” and in this
charitable sentiment their voices all joined in a fierce and drunken
exclamation, uttered with their hands all clasped in each other with a
strong and firm grip. From one mouth alone, however, proceeded, amidst
a succession of hiccups, the word “transportation,” which, when Lord
Deilmacare heard, he changed his principle, and joined the old squire in
the same mitigation of feeling.

“I say, Deilmacare,” shouted Sir Robert, “we must hang him high and
dry.”

“Very well,” replied his lordship, “with all my heart, Sir Robert; we
must hang you high and dry.”

“But, Deilmacare,” said the squire, “we should only transport him.”

“Very good,” exclaimed his lordship, emptying a bumper; “we shall only
transport you, Sir Robert.”

“Hang him, Deilmacare!”

“Very well, hang him!”

“Transport him, I say, Deilmacare,” from the squire.

“Good again,” said his lordship; “transport him, say I.”

And on went the drunken revel, until they scarcely knew what they said.

The clergyman and Mr. Hastings, on reaching the drawing-room, found
Helen in a state of inexpressible distress. A dispute upon the
prevailing morals of all modern young Lidies had been got up by Lady
Joram and Mrs. Oxley, for the express purpose of venting their petty
malice against the girl, because they had taken it into their heads that
she paid more attention to Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings than she did to
them. This dispute was tantamount to what, in the prize ring, is called
_cross_, when the fight is only a mock one, and terminates by the
voluntary defeat of one of the parties, upon a preconcerted arrangement.

“I don't agree with you, my lady; nor can I think that the morals of
young ladies in 'igh life, by witch I mean the daughters and heiresses of
wealthy squires--”

“But, my dear Mrs. Oxley,” said her ladyship, interrupting her, and
placing her hand gently upon her arm, as if to solicit her consent to
the observation she was about to make, “you know, my dear Mrs. Oxley,
that the daughter of a mere country squire can have no pretensions to
come under the definition of high life.”

“Wy not?” replied Mrs. Oxley; “the squires are often wealthier than the
haris-tocracy; and I don't at all see,” she added, “wy the daughter of
such a man should not be considered as moving in 'igh life--always, of
course, provided that she forms no disgraceful attachments to Papists
and rebels and low persons of that 'ere class. No, my lady, I don't at
all agree with you in your view of 'igh life.”

“You don't appear, madam, to entertain a sufficiently accurate estimate
of high life.

“I beg pardon, ma'am, but I think I can understand 'igh life as well as
those that don't know it better nor myself. I've seen a great deal of
'igh life. Feyther 'ad a willar at I'gate, and I'gate is known to be
the 'igh-est place about the metropolis of Lunnon--it and St. Paul's are
upon a bevel.”

“Level, perhaps, you mean, ma'am?”

“Level or bevel, it doesn't much diversify--but I prefer the bevel to
the level on all occasions. All I knows is,” she proceeded, “that it is
a shame for any young lady, as is a young lady, to take a liking to a
Papist, because we know the Papists are all rebel; and would cut our
throats, only for the protection of our generous and merciful laws.”

“I don't know what you mean by merciful laws,” observed Mrs. Brown.
“They surely cannot be such laws as oppress and persecute a portion
of the people, and give an unjust license to one class to persecute
another, and to prevent them from exercising the duties which their
religion imposes upon them.”

“Well,” said Lady Joram, “all I wish is, that the Papists were
exterminated; we should then have no apprehensions that our daughters
would disgrace themselves, by falling in love with them.”

This conversation was absolutely cruel, and the amiable Mrs. Brown, from
compassion to Helen, withdrew her into a corner of the room, and
entered into conversation with her upon a different topic, assuring her
previously that she would detail their offensive and ungenerous remarks
to her father, who, she trusted, would never see them under his roof
again, nor give them an opportunity of indulging in their vulgar
malignity a second time. Helen thanked her, and said their hints and
observations, though rude and ungenerous, gave her but little pain.
The form of language in which they were expressed, she added, and the
indefensible violation of all the laws of hospitality, blunted the
severity of what they said.

“I am not ashamed,” she said, “of my attachment to the brave and
generous young man who saved my father's life. He is of no vulgar birth,
but a highly educated and a highly accomplished gentleman--a man, in
fact, my dear Mrs. Brown, whom no woman, be her rank in life ever so
high or exalted, might blush to love. I do not blush to make the avowal
that I love him; but, unfortunately, in consequence of the existing laws
of the country, my love for him, which I will never conceal, must be a
hopeless one.”

“I regret the state of those laws, my dear Miss Folliard, as much as you
do; but still their existence puts a breach between you and Reilly, and
under those circumstances my advice to you is to overcome your affection
for him if you can. Marriage is out of the question.”

“It is not marriage I think of--for that is out of the question--but
Reilly's life and safety. If he were safe, I should feel comparatively
happy; happiness, in its full extent, I never can hope to enjoy; but
if he were only safe--if he were only safe, my dear Mrs. Brown! I know
that he is hunted like a beast of prey, and under such circumstances as
disturb and distract the country, how can he escape?”

The kind-hearted lady consoled her as well as she could; but, in fact,
her grounds for consolation were so slender that her arguments only
amounted to those general observations which, commonplace as they
are, we are in the habit of hearing from day to day. Helen was too
high-minded to shed tears, but Mrs. Brown could plainly perceive the
depth of her emotion, and feel the extent of wrhat she suffered.

We shall not detail at further length the conversation of the other
ladies--if ladies they can be called; nor that of the gentlemen, after
they entered the drawing-room. Sir Robert Whitecraft attempted to enter
into conversation with Helen, but found himself firmly and decidedly
repulsed. In point of fact, some of the gentlemen were not in a state
to grace a drawing-room, and in a short time they took their leave and
retired.

CHAPTEE XII.--Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportsman

--Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing.

“'Tis conscience that makes cowards of us all,” said Shakespeare, with
that wonderful wisdom which enlightens his glorious pages; and, in fact,
Sir Robert Whitecraft, in his own person, fully corroborated the truth
of the poet's apophthegm. The man, besides, was naturally a coward; and
when to this we add the consciousness of his persecutions and cruelties,
and his apprehensions from the revenge of Reilly--the destruction of
whose property, without any authority from Government for the act, he
felt himself guilty of--the reader may understand the nature and extent
of his terrors on his way home. The distance between his own house and
that of his intended father-in-law was about three miles, and there lay
a long space of level road, hedged in, as was then the custom, on both
sides, from behind which hedges an excellent aim could be taken. As Sir
Robert proceeded along this lonely path, his horse stumbled against some
stones that were in his way, or perhaps that had been purposely placed
there. Be that as it may, the baronet fell, and a small man, of compact
size and vigorous frame, was found aiding him to rise. Having helped
him into the saddle, the baronet asked him, with an infirm and alarmed
voice, who he was.

“Why, Sir Robert,” he replied, “you must know I am not a Papist, or I
wouldn't be apt to render you any assistance; I am somewhat of your own
kidney--a bit of a priest-hunter, on a small scale. I used to get them
for Captain Smellpriest, but he paid me badly, and as there was great
risk among the bloody Papists, I made up my mind to withdraw out of his
service; but you are a gentleman, Sir Robert, what Captain Smellpriest
is not, and if you want an active and useful enemy to Popery, I am your
man.”

“I want such a person, certainly,” replied the baronet, who, in
consequence of the badness of the road and the darkness of the night,
was obliged to walk his horse with caution. “By the way,” said he, “did
you not hear a noise behind the hedge?”

“I did,” replied the other, “but it was the noise of cattle.”

“I am not aware,” replied Sir Robert, “what the devil cattle can have to
do immediately behind the hedge. I rather think they are some of our own
species;” and as he ceased speaking the tremendous braying of a jackass
came upon their ears.

“You were right, Sir Robert,” replied his companion; “I beg pardon, I
mean that was right; you know now it was cattle.”

“What is your name?” asked Sir Robert.

“Rowland Drum, Sir Robert; and, if you will permit me, I should like to
see you safe home. I need not say that you are hated by the Papists; and
as the road is lonesome and dangerous, as a priest-hunter myself I think
it an act of duty not to leave you.”

“Thank you,” said Sir Robert, “you are a civil person, and I will accept
your escort.”

“Whatever danger you may run, Sir Robert, I will stand by your side and
partake of it.”

“Thank you, friend,” replied Sir Robert; “there is a lonely place before
us, where a ghost is said to be seen--the ghost of a priest whom I
hunted for a long time; Smellpriest, it is said, shot him at the place
I allude to. He was disguised as a drummer, and is said to haunt the
locality where he was shot.”

“Well, I shall see you safe over the place, Sir Robert, and go home
with you afterwards, provided you will promise to give me a bed and my
supper; to-morrow we can talk on matters of business.”

“I shall certainly do so,” replied Sir Robert, “not only in consequence
of your attention to me, but of our common purpose.”

They then proceeded onwards--passed the haunted spot--without either
hearing or seeing the spectral drummer. On arriving at home, Sir Robert,
who drank privately, ordered wine for himself, and sent Rowland Drum
to the kitchen, where he was rather meagerly entertained, and was
afterwards lodged for the night in the garret.

The next morning, after breakfast, Sir Robert sent for Mr. Drum, who, on
entering the breakfast parlor, was thus addressed by his new patron:

“What's this you say your name is?”

“Rowland Drum, sir.”

“Rowland Drum! Well, now, Rowland Drum, are you well acquainted with the
priests of this diocese?”

“No man better,” replied the redoubtable Rowland. “I know most of them
by person, and have got private descriptions of them all from Captain
Smellpriest, which will be invaluable to you, Sir Robert. The fact
is--and this I mention in the strictest confidence--that Smellpriest is
suspicious of your attachment to our glorious Constitution.”

“The confounded rascal,” replied the baronet. “Did he ever burn as many
Popish houses as I have done? He has no appetite for any thing but
the pursuit and capture of priests; but I have a far more general and
unsparing practice, for I not only capture the priests, where I can, but
every lay Papist that we suspect in the country. Here, for instance. Do
you see those papers? They are blank warrants for the apprehension of
the guilty and suspected, and also protections, transmitted to me from
the Secretary of State, that I may be enabled, by his authority, to
protect such Papists as will give useful information to the Government.
Here they are, signed by the Secretary, but the blanks are left for
myself to fill up.”

“I wish we could get Reilly to come over,” said Mr. Drum.

“Oh! the infernal villain,” said the baronet, “all the protections that
ever were or could be issued from the Secretary's office would not nor
could not save him. Old Folliard and I will hang him, if there was not
another man to be hanged in the three kingdoms.”

At this moment a servant came in and said, “Sir Robert, there is a woman
her who wishes to have some private conversation with you.”

“What kind of a woman is she?” asked the baronet.

“Faith, your honor, a sturdy and strapping wench, somewhat rough, in the
face, but of great proportions.”

Now it so happened that Mr. Drum had been sitting at the window during
this brief conversation, and at once recognized, under the disguise of
a woman, the celebrated informer, the Rev. Mr. Hennessy, a wretch whose
criminal course of life, as we said before, was so gross and reprobate
that his pious bishop deemed it his duty to suspend him from all
clerical functions.

“Sir Robert,” said Drum, “I must go up to my room and shave. My
presence, I apprehend, won't be necessary where there is a lady in
question.”

“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I know not what her business may be;
but I shall be glad to speak with you after she shall have gone.”

It was very well that Hennessy did not see Drum, whom he would at once
have recognized; but, at all events, the interview between the reprobate
priest and the baronet lasted for at least an hour.

After the Rev. Miss Hennessy had taken her departure, Mr. Drum was sent
for by the baronet, whom he still found in the breakfast parlor.

“Drum,” said he, “you have now an opportunity of essentially serving not
only me, but the Government of the country. This lady turns out to be a
Popish priest in disguise, and I have taken him into my confidence as
a guide and auxiliary. Now you have given me proofs of personal
attachment, which is certainly more than he has done as yet. I have
heard of his character as an immoral priest; and the man who could be
false to his own creed is not a man to be relied upon. He has described
to me the position of a cavern, in which are now hiding a set of
proscribed priests; but I cannot have confidence in his information, and
I wish you to go to the ravine or cavern, or whatever the devil it is,
and return to me with correct intelligence. It may be a lure to draw
me into danger, or perhaps to deprive me of my life; but, on second
thought, I think I shall get a military force, and go myself.”

“And perhaps never return, unless with your heels foremost, Sir Robert.
I tell you that this Hennessy is the most treacherous scoundrel on the
face of the earth. You do not know what he's at, but I will tell
you, for I have it from his own cousin. His object is to have you
assassinated, in order to restore himself to the good graces of the
bishop and the Catholic party, who, I must say, however, would not
countenance such a murderous act; still, Sir Robert, if you were taken
off, the man who took you off would have his name honored and exalted
throughout the country.”

“Yes, I believe you are right, Drum; they are thirsting for my blood,
but not more than I am thirsting for theirs.”

“Well, then,” said Drum, “don't trust yourself to the counsels of this
Hennessy, who, in my opinion, only wants to make a scapegoat of you.
Allow me to go to the place he mentions, for I know the ravine well, but
I never knew nor do I believe that there is a cavern at all in it,
and that is what makes me suspect the scoundrel's motives. He can have
hundreds of outlaws secretly armed, who would never suffer you to escape
with your life. The thing is an ambuscade; take my word for it, it is
nothing less. Of course you can go, yourself and your party, if you
wish. You will prevent me from running a great risk; but I am only
anxious for your safety.”

“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “you shall go upon this mission. It may
not be safe for me to do so. Try if you can make out this cavern, if
there be a cavern.”

“I will try, Sir Robert; and I will venture to say, that if it can be
made out, I will make 't out.” Rowland Drum accordingly set out upon
his mission, and having arrived at the cavern, with which he was so well
acquainted, he entered it with the usual risk. His voice, however, was
recognized, and he got instant admittance.

“My dear friends,” said he, after he had entered the inner part of it,
“you must disperse immediately. Hennessy has betrayed you, and if you
remain here twenty-four hours longer, Sir Kobert Whitecraft and a party
of military, guided, probably, by the treacherous scoundrel himself,
will be upon you. The villain had a long interview with him, and gave a
full detail of the cavern and its inmates.”

“But how did you become acquainted with Sir Kobert Whitecraft?” asked
the bishop.

“In order, my lord, to ascertain his intentions and future proceedings,”
 replied Mr. Drum, “that we might guard against his treachery and
persecution. On his way home from a dinner at Squire Folliard's I met
him in a lonely part of the road, where he was thrown from his horse; I
helped him into his saddle, told him I was myself a priest-hunter,
and thus got into his confidence so far as to be able to frustrate
Hennessy's treachery, and to counteract his own designs.”

“Sir,” said the bishop sternly, “you have acted a part unworthy of a
Christian clergyman. We should not do evil that good may follow; and
you have done evil in associating yourself, in any sense and for any
purpose, with this bloodthirsty tiger and persecutor of the faithful.”

“My lord,” replied the priest, “this is not a time to enter into a
discussion on such a subject. Hennessy has betrayed us; and if you do
not disperse to other places of safety, he will himself, as I said, lead
Sir Robert Whitecraft and a military party to this very cavern, and then
may God have mercy on you all.”

“Brethren,” said the bishop, “this is, after all, possible that our
brother has, by the mercy and providence of God, through his casual
meeting with this remorseless man, been made the instrument of our
safety. As for myself, I am willing to embrace the crown of martyrdom,
and to lay down my life, if necessary, for the faith that is in me. You
all know what I have already suffered, and you know that persecution
drives a wise man mad. My children,” he added, “it is possible, and I
fear too probable, that some of us may never see each other in this life
again; but at the same time, let it be our hope and consolation that
we shall meet in a better. And for this purpose, and in order to secure
futurity of happiness, let us lead spotless and irreproachable lives,
such as will enable ur to meet the hour of death, whether it comes by
the hand of God or the persecution of man. Be faithful to the principles
of our holy religion--be faithful to truth--to moral virtue--be faithful
to God, before whose awful tribunal we must all appear, and render an
account of our lives. It would be mere wantonness to throw yourselves
into the hands of our persecutors. Reserve yourselves; for the
continuance and the sustainment of our blessed religion; but if you
should happen to fall, by the snares and devices of the enemy, into the
power of those who are striving to work our extermination, and if
they should press you to renounce your faith, upon the alternative of
banishment or death, then, I say, banishment, or death itself, sooner
than become apostates to your religion. I shall retire to a neighborhood
only a few miles distant from this, where the poor Catholic population
are without spiritual aid or consolation. I have been there before, and
I know their wants, and were it not that I was hunted and pursued with
a view to my death--to my murder, I should rather say--I would have
remained with them still. But that I considered it a duty to that
portion of the Church over which God called upon me to preside and
watch, I would not have avoided those inhuman traffickers in the blood
of God's people. Yet I am bound to say that, from the clergymen of
the Established Church, and from many Protestant magistrates, we have
received kindness, sympathy, and shelter. Their doors, their hearths,
and their hearts have been open to us, and that, too, in a truly
Christian spirit. Let us, then, render them good for good; let us pray
for their conversion, and that they may return to the right path.”

“They have acted generously and nobly,” added Reilly, “and in a truly
Christian spirit. Were it not for the shelter and protection which I
myself received from one of them, my mangled body would probably be
huddled down into some obscure grave, as a felon, and my property--which
is mine only by a necessary fiction and evasion of the law--have passed
into the hands of Sir Robert Whitecraft. I am wrong, however, in saying
that it could. Mr. Hastings, a generous and liberal Protestant, took it
in his own name for my father, but gave me a deed of assignment, placing
it as securely in my hands, and in my power, as if I were Sir Robert
Whitecraft himself; and I must add--which I do with pleasure--that the
deed in question is now in the possession of the Rev. Mr. Brown, the
amiable rector of the parish.”

“But he is a heretic,” said a red-faced little man, dressed in leather
breeches, top boots, and a huntsman's cap; _vade retro sathanas_, It is
a damnable crime to have any intercourse with them, or to receive any
protection from them: _vade retro, sathanas_.”

“If I don't mistake,” said the cook--an archdeacon, by the way--“you
yourself received protection from them, and were glad to receive it.”

“If I did receive protection from one of their heretic parsons, it was
for Christian purposes. My object was not so much to seek protection
from him as to work out his salvation by withdrawing him from his
heresy. But then the fellow was as obstinate as _sathanas_ himself,
and had Greek and Hebrew at his fingers' ends. I made several passes at
him--tried Irish, and told him it was Italian. 'Well,' said he, smiling,
'I understand Italian too;' and to my astonishment he addressed me in
the best Irish I ever heard spoken. 'Now,' said he, still smiling, 'you
perceive that I understand Italian nearly--I will not say so well--as
you do.' Now, as I am a sinner, that, I say, was ungenerous treatment.
He was perfectly irreclaimable.”

This man was, like Mr. Maguire, what has been termed a hedge-priest--a
character which, as we have already said, the poverty of the Catholic
people, during the existence of the penal laws, and the consequent want
of spiritual instruction, rendered necessary. There were no Catholic
colleges in the country, and the result was that the number of foreign
priests--by which I mean Irish priests educated in foreign colleges--was
utterly inadequate to meet the spiritual necessities of the Irish
population. Under those circumstances, men of good and virtuous
character, who understood something of the Latin tongue, were ordained
by their respective bishops, for the purpose which we have already
mentioned. But what a difference was there between those half-educated
men and the class of educated clergymen who now adorn, not only their
Church, but the literature of the country!

“Well, my dear friend,” said the bishop, “let us be thankful for the
protection which, we have received at the hands of the Protestant clergy
and of many of the Protestant laity also. We now separate, and I for one
am sensible how much this cruel persecution has strengthened the bonds
of Christian love among us, and excited our sympathy for our poor
persecuted flocks, so many of whom are now without a shepherd. I leave
you with tears--but they are tears of affection, and not of despair. I
shall endeavor to be useful wherever I may abide. Let each of you do all
the spiritual good you can--all the earthly good--all good in its most
enlarged and purest sense. But we must separate--probably, some of us,
forever; and now may the blessing of the Almighty God--of the Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost, rest upon you all, and be with you and abide in
your hearts, now and forever! Amen!”

Having pronounced these words, he covered his face with his two hands
and wept bitterly. There were indeed few dry eyes around him; they knelt
before him, kissed his ring, and prepared to take their departure out of
the cavern.

“My lord,” said Reilly, who still entertained apprehensions of the
return of his malady, “if you will permit me I shall share your fate,
whatever it may be. The poor people you allude to are not in a condition
to attend to your wants. Allow me, then, to attend and accompany you in
your retreat.”

“My dear friend,” said the bishop, clasping his hand, “you are heaping
coals of fire upon my head. I trust you will forgive me, for I knew not
what I did. I shall be glad of your companionship. I fear I still stand
in need of such a friend. Be it so, then,” he proceeded--“be it so,
my dear friend; only that I should not wish you to involve yourself in
unnecessary danger on my account.”

“Danger, my lord!” replied Reilly; “there is not an individual here
against whom personal malignity has directed the vengeance of the law
with such a bloodthirsty and vindictive spirit as against myself. Why
else am I here? No, I will accompany your lordship, and share your
fate.”

It was so determined, and they left the cavern, each to procure some
place of safety for himself.

In the meantime, Sir Robert Whitecraft, having had another interview
with Hennessy, was prevailed upon to get a military party together, and
the cunning reprobate, in order to excite the baronet's vengeance to
a still higher pitch, mentioned a circumstance which he had before
forgotten, to wit, that Reilly, his arch-enemy, was also in the cave.

“But,” said Sir Robert, who, as we have already said, was a poltroon and
a coward, “what guarantee can you give me that you are not leading me
into an ambuscade? You know that I am unpopular, and the Papists would
be delighted to have my blood; what guarantee, then, can you give me
that you, are acting by me in good faith?”

“The guarantee of my own life,” replied the other. “Let me be placed
between two of your men, and if you see any thing like an ambuscade, let
them shoot me dead on the spot.”

“Why,” replied the baronet, “that is fair; but the truth is, I have been
put on my guard against you by a person who escorted me home last night.
He rendered me some assistance when I fell from my horse, and he slept
here.”

“What is his name?” asked Hennessy.

“He told me,” replied the baronet, “that his name was Drum.”

“Could you give me a description, Sir Robert, of his person?”

Sir Robert did so.

“I declare to God, Sir Robert, you have had a narrow escape from that
man. He is one of the most bigoted priests in the kingdom. He used to
disguise himself as a drummer--for his father was in the army, and he
himself was a drummer in his boyhood; and his object in preventing you
from bringing a military party to the cavern was merely that he might
have an opportunity of giving them notice of your intentions. I now say
that if you lose an hour's time they will be gone.”

Sir Robert did not lose an hour's time. The local barracks were within
a few hundred yards of his house. A party of military were immediately
called out, and in a short time they arrived, under the guidance of
Hennessy, to the very mouth of the cavern, which he disclosed to them.
It is unnecessary to detail the particulars of the search. The soldiers
entered it one by one, but found that the birds had flown. The very
fires were burning, but not a living soul in the cave; it was completely
deserted, and nothing remained but some miserable relics of cold
provisions, with which, by the aid of fir splices, that served as
torches, they regaled themselves as far as they went.

Sir Robert Whitecraft now felt full confidence in Hennessy; but would
have given a trifle to renew his acquaintance with Mr. Rowland Drum, by
whose ingenuity he was so completely outwitted. As it was, they scoured
the country in search of the inmates of the cave, but above all things
in search of Reilly, for whose capture Whitecraft would have forgiven
every man in the cavern. The search, however, was unsuccessful; not
a man of them was caught that day, and gallant Sir Robert and his
myrmidons were obliged to return wearied and disappointed men.

CHAPTER XIII.--Reilly is Taken, but Connived at by the Sheriff

--The Mountain Mass

Reilly and the bishop traversed a wild and remote part of the country,
in which there was nothing to be seen but long barren wastes, over which
were studded, here and there, a few solitary huts; upon its extremity,
however, there were some houses of a more comfortable description, the
habitations of middling farmers, who possessed small farms at a
moderate rent. As they went along, the prelate addressed Reilly in the
following-terms:

“Mr. Reilly,” said he, “I would advise you to get out of this unhappy
country as soon as you can.”

“My lord,” replied Reilly, who was all candor and truth, and never could
conceal his sentiments, at whatever risk, “I cannot think of leaving the
country, let the consequences be what they may. I will not trouble
your lordship with my motives, because they are at variance with your
character and religious feelings; but they are not at variance with
religion or morality. It is enough to say that I wish to prevent a
beautiful and innocent girl from being sacrificed. My lord, you know too
well that persecution is abroad; and when I tell you that, through the
influence which this admirable creature has over her father--who, by the
way, has himself the character of a persecutor--many Catholics have been
protected by him, I am sure you will not blame me for the interest
which I feel in her fate. In addition to this, my lord, she has been a
ministering angel to the Catholic poor in general, and has contributed
vast sums, privately, to the relief of such of our priesthood as have
been brought to distress by the persecution of the times. Nay, she has
so far influenced her father that proscribed priests have found refuge
and protection in his house.”

The bishop, on hearing this, stood, and taking off his hat, raised his
right hand, and said: “May the blessing of the Almighty God rest upon
her, and guard her from the snares of those who would make her unhappy!
But, Reilly, as you say you are determined, if possible, to rescue her
from ruin, you know that if you go at large in your usual dress you will
unquestionably be taken. I advise you, then, to disguise yourself in
such a way as that you will not, if possible, be known.”

“Such, my lord, is my intention--but who is this? what--eh--yes, 'tis
Fergus O'Reilly, a distant and humble relation of mine who is also in
disguise. Well, Fergus, where have you been for some time past?”

“It would be difficult to tell that, God knows; I have been
everywhere--but,” he added in a whisper, “may I speak freely?”

“As free as the wind that blows, Fergus.”

“Well, then, I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft has engaged me to be
on the lookout for you, and said that I would be handsomely rewarded if
I could succeed in enabling the scoundrel to apprehend you.”

“But how did that come about, Fergus?”

“Faith, he met me one day--you see I have got a bag at my back--and
taking me for a beggarman, stopped me on the road. 'I say, you, poor
man,' says he, 'what's your name?' 'Paddy M'Fud,' says I--'I belong to
the M'Fuds of Ballymackknockem.' 'You're a beggar,' says he, 'and travel
from place to place about the country.' 'It's true enough, your honor,'
I replied, 'I travel about a good deal, of coorse, and it's only that
way that I get my bit and sup.' 'Do you know the notorious villain
called Willy Reilly'?' 'Not by sight, your honor, but I have often heard
of him. Wasn't he in love with the beautiful _Cooleen Bawn_, Squire
Folliard's daughter?' 'That's not the question between us,' he said,
'but if you enable me to catch Reilly, I will give you twenty pounds.'
'Well, your honor,' says I, 'lave the thing to myself; if he is to be
had it'll go hard but I'll find him.' 'Well, then,' says he, 'if you can
tell me where he is I will give you twenty pounds, as I said.' 'Well,
sir,' says I, 'I expect to hear from you; I am not sure he's in the
country--indeed they say he is not--but if he is, I think I'll find him
for you;' and so we parted.”

“Fergus,” said Reilly, “I feel that a disguise is necessary. Here is
money to enable you to purchase one. I do not know where you may be able
to find me; but go and buy me a suit of frieze, rather worn, a dingy
caubeen hat, coarse Connemara stockings, and a pair of clouted brogues;
some course linen, too; because the fineness of my shirts, should
I happen to be apprehended, might betray me. Leave them with widow
Buckley, and I can find them there.”

It was so arranged. Fergus went on his way, as did Reilly and the
bishop. The latter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer,
whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continental
college. They were both received with the warmest affection, and, so
far as the bishop was concerned, with every expression of the deepest
gratitude. The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not,
reach them. Reilly privately forced upon the farmer compensation for
their support, under a solemn injunction that he should not communicate
that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he. They were here,
then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active vigilance
of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert Whitecraft. He felt that a disguise was
absolutely necessary, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to
the diabolical vengeance of his powerful enemy. In the course of about
ten days after he had commissioned Fergus to procure him the disguise,
he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the necessary
exchange in his apparel. He accordingly set out--very foolishly we must
admit--in open day, to go to the widow's house. The distance was some
miles. No appearance of danger, or pursuit, was evident, until he
came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four powerful
constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made
him prisoner. Resistance was impossible; they were well armed, and he
was without any weapon with which he could defend himself.

“We have a warrant for your apprehension, sir,” said one of them.

“Upon what grounds?” replied Reilly. “I am conscious of no offence
against the laws of the land. Do you know who I am? and is my name in
your warrant?”

“No, but your appearance answers completely to the description given in
the _Hue and Cry_. Your dress is the same as that of the robber, and you
must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed. His house is only
a quarter of a mile from this.”

They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff's house, whom they found at
home. On being informed that they had captured the man “who had robbed
him, he came downstairs with great alacrity, and in a spirit replete
with vengeance against the robber. The sheriff, however, was really
a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a
dishonorable act, nor had he ever been known to do so. When he appeared,
Reilly addressed him:

“I am here, sir,” said he, “under a charge of having robbed you. The
charge against me is ridiculous. I am a gentleman, and never was under
the necessity of having recourse to such unlawful means of raising
money.”

“Well,” replied the sheriff, “your dress is precisely the same as the
fellow wore when he robbed me. But I feel confident that you are not the
man. Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers.
In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the
villain's features distinctly; but I have since thought over the matter,
and I say that I would now know him if I saw him again. This, however,”
 he added, turning--to the constables, “is not the person who robbed
and beat me down from my horse.”

“But he may be Willy Reilly, sir, for all that; and you know the reward
that is offered for his apprehension.”

“I know Willy Reilly,” replied the sheriff, “and I can assure you that
this gentleman is not Willy Reilly. Go, now, continue your pursuit. The
robber lurks somewhere in the neighborhood. You know the reward; catch
him, and you shall have it.” The constables departed; and after they had
gone the sheriff said, “Mr. Reilly, I know you well; but I would scorn
to avail myself of the circumstance which has thus occurred. I am aware
of the motive which urges Sir Robert Whitecraft against you--so is the
whole country. That penurious and unprincipled villain is thirsting for
your blood. Mr. Hastings, however, has a rod in pickle for him, and
he will be made to feel it in the course of time. The present
administration is certainly an anti-Catholic one; but I understand it is
tottering, and that a more liberal one will come in. This Whitecraft
has succeeded in getting some young profligate Catholics to become
Protestants, who have, consequently, ousted their fathers out of their
estates and property; younger sons, who, by this act of treachery, will
get the estates into their own possession. The thing is monstrous
and unnatural. But let that pass; Whitecraft is on our trail in all
directions; beware of him, I say; and I think, with great respect to
you, Mr. Reilly, it is extremely foolish to go abroad in your usual
apparel, and without disguise.”

“Sir,” replied Reilly, “I cannot express, as I would wish, my deep
gratitude to you for your kindness and forbearance. That Sir Robert
Whitecraft is thirsting for my blood I know. The cause of that vengeance
is now notorious.”

“You know Mr. Hastings, Mr. Reilly?”

“Intimately, sir.”

“He took your property in his own name?”

“He did, sir; he purchased it in his own name. The property was
hereditary property, and when my title to it, in point of law, as a
Catholic, was questioned, and when one of my family, as a Protestant,
put in his claim for it, Mr. Hastings came in as the purchaser, and
ousted him. The money was supplied by me. The moment, however, that I
found Whitecraft was after me, I immediately surrendered the whole of
it back to him; so that Sir Robert, in burning what he considered my
property, in fact burned Mr. Hastings.”

“And I have reason to know, Mr. Reilly, that it will be the blackest
act of his guilty life. This, however, I mention to you in the strictest
confidence. Keep the secret, for if it transpired the scoundrel might
escape from the consequences of his own cruelty and oppression. In the
meantime, do you take care of yourself--keep out of his way, and, as I
said, above all things, procure a disguise. Let the consequences be what
they may, I don't think the beautiful _Cooleen Baum_ will ever marry
him.”

“But,” replied Reilly, “is there no risk of compulsion by her father?”

“Why, I must confess there is,” replied the sheriff; “he is obstinate
and headstrong, especially if opposed, and she will find it necessary
to oppose him--and she will oppose him. I myself have had a conversation
with her on the subject, and she is firm as fate against such a union;
and I will tell you more, Reilly--it was she who principally engaged me
to protect you as far as I could, and so I shall, you may rest assured
of it. I had only to name you a few minutes ago, and your fate was
sealed. But, even if she had never spoken to me on the subject, I
could not fend myself to the cruel plots of that villain. God knows, in
consequence of my official situation, I am put upon tasks that are very
painful to me; levying fines from men who are harmless and inoffensive,
who are peaceable members of society, who teach the people to be moral,
well-conducted, and obedient to the laws, and who do not themselves
violate them. Now,” he added, “be advised by me, and disguise yourself.”

“Sir,” said Reilly, “your sentiments do you honor; I am this moment on
my way to put on a disguise, which has been procured for me. I agree
with you and other friends that it would be impossible for me to remain
in the country in my own natural aspect and dress. Allow me, before I
go, to express my sense of your kindness, and believe me I shall never
forget it.”

“The disguise, above all things,” said the sheriff, smiling and holding
out his hand. Reilly seized it with a warm pressure; they bid each other
farewell, and so they parted.

Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of Mrs. Buckle, but not by
the public road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached
her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which his friend
Fergus had provided-a half-worn frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and
a half-worn pair of corduroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara
stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or three coarse shirts,
in perfect keeping with, the other portion of the disguise.

“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “how have you been since I saw you last?”

“Oh, then, Mr. Reilly,” said she, “it's a miracle from God that you did
not think of stopping here! I had several visits from the sogers who
came out to look for you.”

“Well, I suppose so, Mrs. Buckley; but it was one comfort that they did
not find me.”

“God be praised for that!” replied the poor woman, with tears in her
eyes; “it would a' broken my heart if you had been catched in my little
place.”

“But, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly, “were there any plain clothes left for
me here?”

“Oh, indeed there was, sir,” she replied, “and I have them safe for
you; but, in the meantime, I'll go outside, and have an eye about the
country, for somehow they have taken it into their heads that this would
be a very likely place to find you.”

While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes
underwent such a metamorphosis that poor Mrs. Buckley, on reentering the
house, felt quite alarmed.

“Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from? I thought I left
Mr. --” here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly's name.

“Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly; “I am only changed in
outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for
your kindness,” placing money in her hand.

“I can't, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all
the money you have to support yourself. Didn't the thieves of the devil
burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world
without money--keep it yourself, for I don't want it.”

“Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this;
I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the
hell-hounds of the law can't find them. And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley;
I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be
disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden.”

The tears ran down the poor old woman's cheeks, and Reilly left her
sobbing and crying behind him. This indeed was an eventful day to him,
Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and
had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft's. To fly
would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song
at the very top of his lungs. Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of
the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not
cross-examine.

“Hallo, my good fellow,” said the leader of the party, “what is that
you're singin'?”

Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; “_Ha neil bearla
agum;_” that is, “I have no English.”

“Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke.”

A conversation in that language then took place between them which
reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of
Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for
three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable,
and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him.
This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other
persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue,
however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that
it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy
Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had
left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion.

“This blockhead,” said Connor, “knows nothing about him, only what
he has heard; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of
Sligo; come on.”

They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.

On reaching the farmer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the
unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger,
and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting
such persons.

“What do you want here, my good man?” inquired the farmer.

“Do you wish to say anything to me?” asked the bishop.

“A few words,” replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his
purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lordship and the
farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and
respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be
attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently
changed his purpose, and added, “My lord, don't you know me?”

The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny
that he recognized him.

In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this
explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy,
returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, “Now, you damned
desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin' to pry
about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill
of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you
won't catch that, you'll catch this,” and he whirled the cudgel about
his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s
cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the
meditated violence.

“Be quiet, Kelly,” said he, “be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly
disguised.”

“Troth, I must look closely at him first,” replied Kelly; “who knows but
he's imposin' upon you, Dr. Wilson?”

Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of
the cudgel.

“Why, Kelly,” said Reilly, “what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my
voice at least?”

“Well,” replied Kelly, “bad luck to the like o' that ever I see. Holy
Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the
barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you
may thank his lordship here for it that you hadn't a shirtful of sore
bones.”

“Well, my dear friend,” said Reilly, “put up your cudgel; I really don't
covet a shirtful of sore bones; but, after all, perhaps you would have
found my fist a match for your cudgel.”

“Nonsense!” replied Kelly; “but God be praised that you escaped the
welting anyhow; I would never forgive myself, and you the friend of his
lordship.”

He then left the room, his terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly,
after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day,
involving, as they did, the two narrow escapes which he had had. The
bishop thanked God, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he
thought the hand of Providence was protecting him.

The life they led here was, at all events, quiet and peaceable. The
bishop was a man of singular, indeed of apostolic, piety. He spent most
of the day in meditation and prayer; fasting beyond the powers of his
enfeebled constitution: and indeed it was fortunate that Reilly had
accompanied him, for so ascetic were his habits that were it not for his
entreaties, and the influence which he had gained over him, it is not
at all unlikely that his unfortunate malady might have returned. The
neighborhood in which they resided was, as wo have said, remote, and
exclusively Catholic; and upon Sundays the bishop celebrated mass upon
a little grassy platform--or rather in a little cave, into which it
led. This cave was small, barely large enough to contain a table, which
served as a temporary altar, the poor shivering congregation kneeling
on the platform outside. At this period of our story all the Catholic
chapels and places of worship were, as we have said, closed by
proclamation, and the poor people were deprived of the means of meeting
to worship God. It had soon, however, become known to them that an
opportunity of public worship was to be had every Sunday, at the place
we have described.

Messengers had been sent among them with information to that effect; and
the consequence was that they not only kept the secret, but flocked
in considerable numbers to attend mass. On the Sunday following the
adoption of Reilly's disguise, the bishop and he proceeded to the little
cave, or rather cleft, where a table had been placed, together with
the vestments necessary for the ceremony. They found about two or three
hundred persons assembled--most of them of the humblest class. The day
was stormy in the extreme. It was a hard frost, and the snow, besides,
falling heavily, the wind strong, and raging in hollow gusts about the
place. The position of the table-altar, however, saved the bishop and
the chalice, and the other matters necessary for the performance of
worship, from the direct fury of the blast, but not altogether; for
occasionally a whirlwind would come up, and toss over the leaves of the
missal in such a way, and with such violence, that the bishop, who was
now trembling from the cold, was obliged to lose some time in finding
out the proper passages. It was a solemn sight to see two or three
hundred persons kneeling, and bent in prostrate and heartfelt adoration,
in the pious worship of that God who sends and withholds the storm;
bareheaded, too, under the piercing drift of the thick-falling granular
snow, and thinking of nothing but their own sins, and that gladsome
opportunity of approaching the forbidden altar of God, now doubly dear
to them that it ivas forbidden. As the ceremony was proceeding the
bishop was getting on to that portion of the sacred rites where the
consecration and elevation of the Host are necessary, and it was
observed by all that an extraordinary and sudden lull took place, and
that the rage of the storm had altogether ceased. He proceeded, and had
consecrated the Host--hoc est corpus meum--when cry of terror arose from
the affrighted congregation.

“Mylord, fly, and save yourself! Captain Smellpriest and his gang are
upon us.”

The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them; but Reilly
did, and saw that the whole congregation had fled, and that there only
remained the bishop and himself.

“Our day of doom,” said he to himself, “is come. Nothing now can save
us.”

Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in the worship of the Almighty;
when, lo! the military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain
Smellpriest, came thundering up, the captain exclaiming:

“You idolatrous Papist, stop that mummery--or you shall have twelve
bullets in your heart before half a minute's time.”

The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet
had time to receive it.

“Men,” said Smellpriest, “you are all primed and loaded. Present.”

They accordingly did so; every musket was levelled at him. The bishop
now turned round, and, with the calmness of a martyr--a calmness and
conduct that were sublime--he said:

“Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you wish
to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other
place. Give me but a few minutes--I do not ask more.”

“Oh,” said Smellpriest, “we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the
more so because we are sure of you.”

When the bishop turned round again, after having received the Host,
his pale face had altogether changed its complexion--it burned with
an expression which it is difficult to describe. A lofty sense of
the sacrifice he was about to make was visible in his kindling and
enthusiastic eye; his feeble frame, that had been, dining the ceremony
of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible storm that howled
around them, now became firm, and not the slightest mark of fear or
terror was visible in his bearing; calmly and undauntedly he turned
round, and with a voice full and steady he said:

“I am willing to die for my religion, but I say to you that the
slaughter of an inoffensive man at the foot of God's altar will not
smooth the pillow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down
a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Creator, My
congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will
not! I dare not! Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!”

[Illustration: PAGE 91--Here, now, I spread out my arms--fire!]

“I also,” said Reilly, “will partake of whatever fate may befall the
venerable clergyman who is before you,” and he stood up side by side
with the bishop.

The guns were still levelled, the fingers of the men on the triggers,
when Smellpriest shouted out, “Ground arms! By ---,” says he, “here is
a new case; this fellow has spunk and courage, and curse me, although I
give the priests a chase wherever I can, still I am a soldier, and a man
of courage, and to shoot down a priest in the worship of God would be
cowardly. No, I can't do it--nor I won't; I like pluck, and this priest
has shown it. Had he taken to his heels, by ---, he would have had half
a dozen bullets in his rear; but, as I said, I like pluck, and on that
account we shall pass him by this time. To the right about. As to the
clerk, by ---, he has shown pluck too, but be hanged to him, what do we
care about him?”

We must say a word or two here about Smellpriest. He was, in the true
sense of the word, a priest-hunter; but yet, with all his bigotry, he
was a brave man, and could appreciate courage wherever he found it.
The reader already knows that his range of persecution was by no means
either so wide or so comprehensive as that of the coward Whitecraft.
He was a dashing, outspoken fellow, with an equal portion of boisterous
folly and mischief; whereas Whitecraft was a perfect snake--treacherous,
cruel, persevering in his enmity, and unrelenting in his vengeance. Such
was the difference in the character of these two worthies.

After Smellpriest had drawn off his men, the bishop concluded the
ceremony of the mass; but when he turned round to announce its
conclusion in the words, _ite, missa est_, there was not a soul before
him, the terrified congregation, as we have said, having all betaken
themselves to flight. Reilly then assisted him to unrobe, and placed
the vestments, the chalice, pix, and every thing connected with the
ceremony, in a pair of saddle-bags, which belonged to the parish priest,
whose altar was then closed, as we said, by proclamation.

Reilly and the bishop then proceeded to the farmer's house, Reilly
carrying the saddlebags, and as they went along the following
conversation took place between them:

“My lord,” said his companion, “if I might presume to advise you, I
think it would be more prudent for you to retire to the Continent for a
time. This ferocious captain, who, subdued by the sublime tenor of
your conduct, spared you on this occasion, may not under other and less
impressive circumstances, exercise a similar forbearance.”

“But, my dear Reilly,” replied the bishop, in a tone of deep melancholy,
“I am not in circumstances to go to the Continent; I am poor; most of my
available money I have distributed among the unhappy people, until I am
now nearly as poor as themselves; but, independently of that, I do not
think it would be right to abandon the charge which God has entrusted to
my keeping. The shepherd should not desert his flock, especially in the
moment of danger, when the wolves ire abroad.”

“But, my lord,” replied Reilly, “under the present circumstances of the
country your residence here can be of no service to them. The chapels
are all closed, and public worship forbidden by law. This cannot, and, I
hope, will not, last long; but in the meantime, think if it be not wiser
in you to go for a time into what I may call a voluntary exile, than be
forced into banishment by a cruel edict of the law, as you will be if
you should be discovered.”

“There is great truth in what you say, my dear Reilly, and on thinking
over the circumstances of the country, I am indeed of opinion that your
advice is good; but, unfortunately, my present poverty prevents me from
acting on it.”

“But that shall not be, my lord; I have the means--amply, too--of
enabling your lordship to withdraw to the Continent, where you can
remain quite safe until better times return, as I hope in God they will
soon.”

“And yourself, Reilly? why not accompany me? You, it is said, are
outlawed; why then remain in a country where your danger is still
greater than mine?”

“My lord,” replied Reilly, “do not press me on that subject.”

“I do not wish to do so, Reilly; but here are the circumstances: you and
the beautiful daughter of that old squire are attached--in other words,
you love each other passionately. Now, you know, marriage is impossible,
unless you should abandon the creed of your fathers.”

“I think, my lord,” replied Reilly, in a very serious and somewhat
offended tone, “that my conduct this day, and within the last half hour,
was not that of a man likely to abandon the creed of his fathers.”

“Certainly not--most certainly not,” replied the bishop. “I would have
died this day for my religion, and so would you.”

“And so would I certainly, my lord, any day, sooner than renounce it for
the love of woman. So far let your lordship's mind be at rest. But in
the meantime, let me impress upon your lordship's consideration the
absolute necessity of retiring to the Continent for a time. Your
lordship's charity has made you poor; but, thank God, I am not poor--but
in a position to place £200 in your hands to enable you to bear the
expenses of your voyage, and to maintain your ecclesiastical rank and
position for a time, when you get there.”

“Oh,” replied the bishop, “if I were once there, very little money
would be necessary; I could almost immediately get a professorship
of divinity, especially in the College of Louvain, where I held a
professorship for several years.”

It was arranged that the bishop should go, at least until the times
should change, and in the course of a week, Reilly having furnished
him with the necessary funds, he departed and reached the Continent in
safety.

Their separation was extremely affecting. The bishop wept bitterly, not
only in consequence of his parting with Reilly, but still more because
he was forced to separate himself from his flock. Reilly was deeply
affected, nor could he restrain his tears. The bishop put his hand on
his head and blessed him. “I feel,” said he, “as if it were a prophetic
impulse, that God will bring you out of the tribulations that encompass
you. Forget not his word nor his law; love and adhere to your religion;
be guided by its precepts, let them sink deeply into your heart. Take
care, also, that the love of woman shall not seduce you from your
allegiance to our Church. And now, may the Almighty God bless and
protect you, and rescue you from the hands and the snares of your
enemies!” And so they parted.

No stronger proof could exist, so far as the _Cooleen Bawn_ was
concerned, than her extraordinary power of conciliating love and
attachment from all who approached her, or were engaged in attending
upon her person. The singular softness of her sweet and mellow voice
was in itself an exponent of the remarkable suavity and benignity of her
disposition. In fact, she carried a charm about her--an atmosphere
of kindness and benevolence that no human being who came within its
influence could resist. Her smile was a perfect fascination, which, in
addition to her elegance of form--her grace and harmony of motion--her
extensive charity--her noble liberality of sentiment--and, above all,
her dazzling beauty, constituted a character which encircled her with
admiration and something almost bordering on worship.

At this time a scheme came into the fertile brain of Whitecraft, worthy
of being concocted only in the infernal pit itself. This was to prevail
on the squire to remove her faithful, attached, and confidential
maid, Ellen Connor, from about her person, under the plea that as,
unfortunately, Miss Folliard had been seduced into an affection for
Reilly, it was not only probable that her attendant had originated and
encouraged her passion, but that it was also likely that, as Reilly was
a Catholic, Connor, the confidant, being herself of that persuasion,
might so work upon the feelings and principles of his daughter as
to induce her, for the sake of the more easily bringing about their
marriage, to abandon her own religion, and embrace that of her lover.
The old man became instantly alarmed, and, with his usual fiery
impetuosity, lost not a moment in dismissing her altogether from his
family.

When this faithful girl found that she was about to be separated from
her fair and affectionate young mistress, no language could depict
the violence of her grief, nor could that mistress herself refuse the
tribute of her tears to her sense of the loss which she knew she must
sustain by her absence at a crisis when she stood so much in need of her
friendship and attachment.

“Oh! it is not for myself, my dear mistress, that I feel this grief,”
 exclaimed Connor, weeping bitterly as she spoke, “but for you. Here
you will be alone,” she proceeded, “without one being on whom you can
depend, or to whom you can open your heart--for many a time you eased
that poor heart by telling me of your love for him, and by dwellin' upon
his accomplishments and beauty--and, indeed, it's no wonder you should,
for where, oh! where is his aiquil to be found? Like yourself, every
one that comes near him must love him; and, like you, again, isn't he
charity itself to the poor, no matter what their creed may be--oh, no!
it's he that is neither the bigot nor the oppressor, although God
he knows what he himself is sufferin' from both. God's curse on that
blasted Sir Robert Whitecraft! I declare to mercy, I think, if I was a
man, that I'd shoot him, like a mad dog, and free the country of him at
wanst.”

The Cooleen was herself in tears, occasioned by such a glowing picture
of her lover, as well as by the loss of this faithful and devoted girl.
Yet she could not repress a smile at the indignation expressed by
Ellen against the man whom she looked upon with such detestation and
abhorrence,

“My dear Ellen,” said she, drying her tears, “we must only have
patience. Every thing is in the hands of God, and in him let us trust.
Do not weep so. It is true that, without your society, I shall feel
as if I were in a desert, or rather, I should say, in a dungeon; for,
indeed, I fear that I am about to become a prisoner in my father's
house, and entangled more and more every day in the meshes of that
detestable villain. In the meantime, we must, as I said, have courage
and patience, and trust to a change of circumstances for better times.”

“May the Lord in heaven grant them soon and sudden, for both your
sakes,” ejaculated Ellen. “I pray the Saviour that he may!”

“But, Ellen,” said the Cooleen, “didn't you hint to me, once or twice,
that you yourself have, or had, a lover named Reilly!”

“I did,” she replied, “not that I have, but that I had--and, what is
more, an humble and distant relation of him.”

“You say you had. What do you mean by that, Ellen? Have you, too,
experienced your crosses and calamities?”

“Indeed, ma'am, I have had my share; and I know too well what it is to
have the heart within as full of sorrow, and all but broken.”

“Why, my poor girl, and have you too experienced disappointment and
affliction?”

“God, ma'am, has given me my share; but, in my case, the affliction was
greater than the disappointment, although that too came soon enough upon
me.”

“Why, did not the affliction, in your case, proceed from the
disappointment?”

“Not exactly, miss, but indeed partly it did. It's but a short story,
my dear mistress, and I'll tell it to you. Fergus is his name--Fergus
O'Reilly. His father, for doin' something or other contrary to the
laws--harborin' some outlaw, I believe, that was a relation of his own,
and who was found by the army in his house--well, his father, a very
ould man, was taken prisoner, and put into jail, where he died before
they could try him; and well it was he did so, for, by all accounts,
they'd have transported or hanged the poor ould man, who was then past
seventy. Now, over and above that, they'd have done the same thing with
his son Fergus, but that he disappeared and but few knows what became of
him.”

“Why, did he go without having had an interview with you?” asked the
Cooleen.

“Indeed he did, miss, and small blame to him; for the truth is, he had
little time for leave-takin'--it was as much as he could do to make his
escape, which, thank God, he did. But, indeed, I oughtn't to thank God
for it, I doubt, because it would have been better, and ten times
more creditable to himself, if he had been transported, or hanged
himself--for that, ma'am, is many a good man's case, as every one
knows.”

“I agree with you, Ellen. There is, indeed, a most essential difference
between flagitious crimes, such as theft, robbery, murder, and other
dreadful outrages of that character, and those which may be termed
offences arising from political opinions, which are often honestly
entertained by individuals who, in all the relations of life,
are sometimes the most exemplary members of society. But proceed,
Ellen--what was the result?”

Poor Ellen's eyes filled with tears, and she could scarcely summon
composure enough to reply:

“Worse than transportation or even death, my dear mistress; oh! far
worse--guilt and crime. Yes: he that had gained my affections, and gave
me his, joined the Red Rapparee and his gang, and became--a robber.
I was goin' to say an outlaw, but he was that before he joined them,
because he wouldn't submit to the laws--that is, wouldn't submit to be
transported, or maybe hanged--or you know, ma'am, how little a thing it
is that will either hang or transport any one of our unfortunate creed
now.”

“Alas! my dear Ellen, you forget that I am a living witness of it, and
an afflicted one; but proceed. Have you ever seen your lover since?”

“I did, ma'am, but at that time he mentioned nothing about his havin'
joined the Rapparees. He came, he said, to bid me farewell, and to tell
me that he wasn't worthy of me. 'The stain that's upon me,' said he,
'draws a gulf between you and me that neither of us can ever pass.'
He could scarcely speak, but he dashed away the tears that came to his
eyes--and--and--so he took his departure. Now, my dear young mistress,
you see how well I can understand your case, and the good reason I have
to feel for you, as I do, and ever will, until God in his mercy may set
you both free from what you're sufferin'.”

“But, are you certain, Ellen, that he actually has joined the
Rapparees?”

“Too sure, ma'am--too sure; my father had it in private from his own
lips, for, as the poor boy said, he hadn't the courage himsell to tell
me.”

“But, Ellen,” asked Miss Folliard, “where had you an opportunity of
seeing and becoming acquainted with this young man? You surely could
not have known him, or conceived an attachment for him, previous to your
coming to reside with us?”

“Oh, no, ma'am,” replied Ellen; “it was at my father's I became
acquainted with him, principally whenever I got lave to spend a Sunday
at home. And now, my dear mistress,” she proceeded, sobbing, “I must
go--your poor, faithful Ellen will never let you, nor the thought of
your sorrows, out of her heart. All she can do now is to give you her
prayers and her tears. Farewell! my darlin' mistress--may the blessing
of God guard and prosper you both, and bring you to the happiness you
deserve.” She wept bitterly as she concluded.

“Ellen,” replied her mistress, and she paused--“Ellen,” said she
again--she would, indeed, have spoken, but, after a silent struggle, she
covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and was fairly carried away
by her emotions--“Ellen,” said she, taking her hand, and recovering
herself, “be of courage; let neither of us despair--a brighter light
may shine on our path yet. Perhaps I may have it in my power to befriend
you, hereafter. Farewell, Ellen; and if I can prevail on my father to
bring you back, I will.” And so they parted.

Connor's father was a tenant of the squire's, and held rather a
comfortable farm of about eighteen or twenty acres. Ellen herself had,
when very young, been, by some accident or other, brought within the
notice of Mrs. Folliard, who, having been struck by her vivacity,
neatness of figure, and good looks, begged permission from her parents
to take the little girl under her care, and train her up to wait upon
her daughter. She had now been eight years in the squire's family--that
is, since her fourteenth--and was only two years older than the _Cooleen
Baum_, who was now, and had been for the last three years, her only
mistress. She had consequently grown, is it were, into all her habits,
and we may justly say that there was not an individual in existence who
had a better opportunity of knowing and appreciating her good qualities
and virtues; and, what was much to her honor, she never for a moment
obtruded her own private sorrows upon the ear or heart of her mistress,
who, she saw, had a sufficient number of her own to bear.

It was late in the evening when she took farewell of her mistress, and
twilight had come on ere she had got within half mile of her father's
house. On crossing a stile which led, by a pathway, to the little
hamlet in which her father lived, she was both surprised and startled by
perceiving Fergus Reilly approach her. He was then out of his disguise,
and dressed in his own clothes, for he could not prevail upon himself to
approach her father's house, or appear before any of the family, in the
tattered garb of a mendicant. On this occasion he came to tell them
that he had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, and come to the
resolution of seeking his pardon from the Government, having been
informed that it offered protection to all who would come in and submit
to the laws, provided they had not been guilty of shedding human blood.
This intelligence, however, was communicated to the family, as a means
of preparing them for still more important information upon the subject
of his own liberty--a matter with which the reader will soon become
acquainted, as he will with the fact of his having left off his disguise
only for a brief period. In the meantime, he felt perfectly conscious of
the risk he ran of a failure in the accomplishment of his own project,
by throwing off his disguise, and was then hastening on his way to the
cottage of widow Buckley, where he had left his mendicant apparel for
the time being.

When Ellen saw him she felt a tumult in her bosom which almost overcame
her. Her heart palpitated almost audibly, and her knees became feeble
under her. There was something so terrible associated with the idea of a
Rapparee that she took it for granted that some frightful transformation
of person and character must have taken place in him, and that she would
now meet a man thoroughly imbued with all the frightful and savage vices
which were so frequently, and too often so generally, attributed to that
fierce and formidable class. Still, the recollection of their former
affection, and her knowledge of the oppression which had come upon
himself and his family, induced her to hope that the principles of
humanity could not have been altogether effaced from his heart. Full of
doubt and anxiety, therefore, she paused at the stile, against which she
felt it necessary to lean for support, not without a touch of interest
and somewhat of curiosity, to control the vague apprehensions which
she could not help feeling. We need scarcely inform the reader that the
meeting on both sides was accidental and unexpected.

“Heavenly Father!” exclaimed Ellen, in a voice trembling with agitation,
“is this Fergus O'Reilly that I see before me? Fergus, ruined and
undone!” She then looked cautiously about her, and added, “Fergus, the
Rapparee!”

“God bless me!” he exclaimed in return, “and may I ask, is this Ellen
Connor on my path?”

“Well, I think I may say so, in one sense. Sure enough, I am Ellen
Connor; but, unfortunately, not the Ellen Connor that you wanst knew;
neither, unfortunately again, are you the Fergus O'Reilly that I wanst
knew. We are both changed, Fergus--I into sorrow, and you into crime.”

“Ellen,” said he, nearly as much agitated as herself, “I stand before
you simply as Fergus O'Seilly, but not Fergus the Rapparee.”

“You will not deny your own words to my father,” she replied.

“No, Ellen, I will not--they were true then, but, thank God, they are
not true now.”

“How is that, Fergus?”

“Simply because I was a Rapparee when I spoke to your father; but I have
left them, once and for ever.”

“How long have you left them?”

“Ever since that night. If it were not for Reilly and those that were
out with him duck-shooting, the red villain would have murdered the
squire and Andy Cummiskey, as sure as there is life in my body. After
all, it is owin' to Mr. Reilly that I left him and his cursed crew. And
now, Ellen, that I have met you, let me spake to you about ould times.
In the first place, I am heart sorry for the step I took; but you know
it was oppression and persecution that drove me to it.”

“Fergus,” she replied, “that's no excuse. Persecution may come upon us,
but that's no reason why we should allow it to drive us into evil
and crime. Don't you know that it's such conduct that justifies the
persecutors in their own eyes and in the eyes of the world. What will
become of you now? If you're caught, you must die a shameful death.”

“Devil a fear of it, my darlin' Ellen. I could tell you something, if
I thought myself at liberty to do so--something _mavourneen_, that 'ud
give you a light heart.”

“Indeed, Fergus, I don't wish to hear any of your secrets. It's my
opinion they would not be fit for me to hear. But in the mane time,” she
added--prompted by the undying principle of female curiosity, and, let
us add, a better and more generous feeling--“in the mane time, Fergus,
if it's any thing about yourself, and that it would give me a light
heart, as you say it would, and that there is nothing wrong and
dishonorable in it, I would, for your sake, be glad to hear it.”

“Well then, Ellen, I will tell it; but it must, for reasons that there's
no use in mentionin' to you, be a secret between us, for some time--not
a long time, I hope. I am, thank God, free as the air of heaven, and
may walk abroad, openly, in the face of day, if I like, without any one
darin' to ask me a question.”

“But, Fergus,” said Ellen, “I don't undherstand this. You were a
robber--a Rapparee--and now you are a free man. But what did you do to
deserve this at the hands of the Government?”

“Don't be alarmed, my darlin' Ellen--nothing imbecomin' an honest man.”

“I hope,” she proceeded--her cheeks mantling with indignation and
scorn--“I hope, Fergus, you wouldn't think of stoopin' to treachery
against the unfortunate, ay, or even against the guilty. I hope you
wouldn't sell yourself to the Government, and got your liberty, affcher
all, only as a bribe for villany, instead of a free gift.”

“See, now,” he returned, “what I have brought on myself by tellin' you
any thing at all about it--a regular ould house on my shouldhers. No,
darlin',” he proceeded, “you ought to know me better.”

“Oh, Fergus,” she replied quickly, “I thought I knew you wanst.”

“Is that generous, Ellen?” he said, in a tone of deep and melancholy
feeling, “afther statin' my sorrow for that step?”

“Well,” she replied, moved by what she saw he suffered in consequence of
her words, “if I have given you pain, Fergus, forgive me--you know it's
not in my nature to give pain to any one, but, above all persons in the
world, to you.”

“Well, darlin',” said he, “you will know all in time; but there is a
good deal to be done yet. All I can say, and all I will say, is, that
if God spares me life, I will take away one of the blackest enemies that
Willy Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_ has in existence. He would do any
thing that the villain of perdition he's a slave to would bid him.
Now, I'll say no more; and I'm sure, as the friend of your beautiful
mistress, the fair _Cooleen Bawn_, you'll thank me for what I have
promised to do against the Red Bapparee.”

“I will pry no further into your affairs or intentions, Fergus; but, if
you can take danger out of the way of the _Cooleen Bawn_ or Reilly, I
will forgive you a great deal--every thing, indeed, but treachery or
dishonor. But, Fergus, I have something to mention, that will take a,
start out of you. I have been discharged by the squire from his family,
and--_mavrone_, oh!--I can now be of no service to the _Cooleen Bawn_.”

“Discharged!” replied Fergus with astonishment; “why, how did that come?
But I suppose I needn't ask--some of the mad old Squire's tantrums, I
suppose? And what did the _Cooleen Bawn_ herself say?”

“Why, she cried bitterly when I was lavin' her; indeed if I had been her
sister she couldn't feel more; and, as might be expected from her, she
promised to befriend me as long as she had it in her power; but, poor
thing, if matters go against her, as I'm afeared they will--if she's
forced to marry that villain, it is little for any thing that's either
good or generous ever she'll have in her power; but marry him she never
will I heard her say more than wanst that she'd take her own life first;
and indeed I'm sartain she will, too, if she is forced to it. Either
that, or she'll lose her senses; for, indeed, Fergus, the darlin' girl
was near losin' them wanst or twist as it is--may God pity and relieve
her.”

“Amen,” replied Fergus. “And you're now on your way home, I suppose?”

“I am,” said Ellen, “and every thing belongin' to me is to be sent to my
father's; but indeed, Fergus, I don't much care now what becomes of me.
My happiness in this world is bound up in hers; and if she's to be sunk
in grief and sorrow, I can never be otherwise--we'll have the one
fate, Fergus, and God grant it may be a happy one, although I see no
likelihood of it.”

“Come, come, Ellen,” replied Fergus, “you think too much of it. The
one fate!--No, you won't, unless it is a happy one. I am now free, as I
said; and at present I see nothing to stand between your happiness and
mine. We loved one another every bit as well as Reilly and she does--ay,
and do still, I hope; and, if they can't be happy, that's no raison why
you and I shouldn't. Happy! There's nothing to prevent us from bein' so.
I am free, as I said; and all we have to do is to lave this unfortunate
country and go to some other, where there's neither oppression nor
persecution. If you consent to this, Ellen, I can get the means of
bringing us away, and of settlin' comfortably in America.”

“And I to leave the _Cooleen Bawn_ in the uncertain state she's in? No,
never, Fergus--never.”

“Why? of what use can you be to her now, and you separated from her--ay,
and without the power of doin' any thing to sarve her?”

“Fergus,” said she, resolutely, “it's useless at the present time to
speak to me on this subject. I'm glad you've got yourself from among
these cruel and unconscionable Rapparees--I'm glad you're free; but
I tell you that if you had the wealth of Squire Folliard--ay, or of
Whitecraft himself, which they say is still greater, I wouldn't become
your wife so long as she's in the state she's in.”

“That's strong language, Ellen, and I am sorry to hear it from you. My
God! can you think of nobody's happiness but the _Cooleen Bawn_'s? As
for me, it's my opinion I like Reilly as well every bit as you do her;
but, for all that, not even the state he's in, nor the danger that
surrounds him, would prevent me from marryin' a wife--from bindin' your
heart and mine together for life, my darlin' Ellen.”

“Ah! Fergus, you're a man--not a woman--and can't undherstand what true
attachment is. You men never can. You're a selfish set--at least the
most of you are--with some exceptions, I grant.”

“And, upon my soul, Ellen,” replied Fergus, with a good-humored
smile, “I'm one of the choicest and natest of the exceptions. I prefer
everybody's happiness to my own--poor Sir Robert Whitecraft's, for
instance. Now, don't you call that generosity?”

She gave a mournful smile, and replied, “Fergus, I can't join in your
mirth now as I used to do. Many a pleasant conversation we've had; but
then our hearts were light, and free from care. No, Fergus, you must
lave all thoughts of me aside, for I will have nothing of either love or
courtship till I know her fate. Who can say but I may be brought back?
She said she'd try what she could do with her father to effect it. You
know how whimsical the old Squire is; and who knows whether she may not
stand in need of me again? But, Fergus, there's one thing strikes me
as odd, and, indeed, that doesn't rise you much in my good opinion. But
first, let me ask you, what friend it is who'd give you the means of
going to another country?”

“Why, who else but Reilly?” he replied.

“And could you,” she returned, with something like contempt stamped upon
her pretty features--“could you be mane and ungrateful enough to leave
him now in the trouble and sorrow that he's in, and think only of
yourself?”

“No, indeed, my dear Ellen; but I was only layin' the plan whenever
we might be able to put it in practice. I'm not exactly a boy of that
kidney--to desart my friend in the day of his trouble--devil a bit of
it, my darlin'.”

“Well, I am glad to hear you speak as you do,” she said, with a smile;
“and now, to reward your constancy to him, I tell you that whenever
they're settled, or, at all events, out of their troubles, if you think
me worth your while, I won't have any objection to become your wife;
and--there--what are you about, Fergus? See this, now--you've almost
broken the tortoise-shell crooked-comb that she made me a present of.”

“Why, blood alive, Ellen, sure it was only sealin' the bargain I was.”

“But remember it is a bargain, and one I'll stick to. Now leave me; it's
gettin' quite dark; or, if you like, you may see me across the fields.”

Such, in fact, was the indomitable attachment of this faithful girl
to her lovely and affectionate mistress that, with a generosity as
unselfish as it was rare, and almost heroic, she never for a moment
thought of putting her own happiness or prospects in life in competition
with those of the _Cooleen Bawn_. The latter, it is true, was conscious
of this unparalleled attachment, and appreciated it at its true value.
How nobly this admirable girl fulfilled her generous purpose of abiding
by the fate and fortunes of her unhappy mistress will be seen as the
narrative goes along.

Ellen's appearance in her father's house surprised the family not
a little. The expression of sorrow which shaded her very handsome
features, and a paleness which was unusual to her, alarmed them
considerably--not so much from any feeling connected with herself, as
from an apprehension that some new-distress or calamity had befallen the
_Cooleen Bawn_, to whom they all felt almost as deeply attached as she
did herself. After the first affectionate salutations were over, she
said, with a languid smile:

“I suppose you all wonder to see me here at this hour; or, indeed, to
see me here at all.”

“I hope, Ellen,” said-her father, “that nothing unpleasant has happened
to her.”

“May the Lord forbid,” said her mother, “and may the Lord take the
darlin' creature out of all her troubles. But has there, Ellen--has
anything happened to her?”

“Nothing more than usual,” replied their daughter, “barring that I have
been sent away from her--I am no longer her own maid now.”

“_Chierna_!” exclaimed her mother; “and what is that for, _alanna_?”

“Well, indeed, mother, I can't exactly say,” replied Ellen, “but I
suppose it is because they knew I loved her too much to be a spy upon
her. I have raison, however, to suspect that the villain is at the
bottom of it, and that the girl who came in my place will act more like
a jailer than a maid to her. Of course they're all afraid that she'll
run away with Reilly.”

“And do you think she will, Ellen?” asked her father.

“Don't ask me any such questions,” she replied. “It's no matter what I
think--and, besides, it's not my business to mention my thoughts to any
one--but one thing I know, it'll go hard if she ever leaves her father,
who, I really think, would break his heart if she did.”

“Oh!” observed the father, with a smile, “divil a one o' you girls,
Ellen, ever thinks much of father or mother when you have made up your
minds to run away wid your _buchaleens_--sorra a taste.”

“_Arra_, Brian, will you have sinse,” said his wife; “why wouldn't they
think o' them?”

“Did you do it?” he asked, winking at the rest, “when you took a brave
start wid myself across Crockaniska, one summer Sunday night, long ago.
Be me sowl, you proved youself as supple as a two-year-old--cleared,
drain and ditch like a bird--and had me, when we reached my uncle's,
that the ayes wor startin' out o' my head.”

“Bad scran to him, the ould slingpoker! Do you hear him,” she exclaimed,
laughing--“never mind him, children!--troth, he went at sich a snail's
pace that one 'ud think it was to confession he was goin', and that he
did nothing but think of his sins as he went along.”

“That was bekaise I knew that I had the penance before me,” he replied,
laughing also.

“Any how,” replied his wife, “our case was not like their's. We were
both Catholics, and knew that we'd have the consent of our friends,
besides; we only made a runaway because it was the custom of the
counthry, glory be to God!”

“Ay, ay,” rejoined her husband; “but, faith, it was you that proved
yourself the active girl that night, at any rate. However, I hope the
Lord will grant her grace to go, wid him, at all events, for, upon my
sowl, it would be a great boast for the Catholics--bekaise we know there
is one thing sure, and that is, that the divil a long she'd be wid
him till he'd have left her fit to face Europe as a Christian and a
Catholic, bekaise every wife ought to go wid her husband, barrin' he's a
Prodestant.”

Poor Ellen paid little attention to this conversation. She felt deeply
depressed, and, after many severe struggles to restrain herself, at last
burst into tears.

“Come, darlin',” said her father, “don't let this affair cast you
down so much; all will yet turn out for the betther, I hope. Cheer up,
_avillish_; maybe that, down-hearted as you are, I have good news for
you. Your ould sweetheart was here this evenin', and hopes soon to have
his pardon--he's a dacent boy, and has good blood in his veins; and as
for his joinin' O'Donnel, it wasn't a a bad heart set him to do it, but
the oppression that druv him, as it did many others, to take the steps
he took--oppression on the one side, and bitterness of heart on the
other.”

“I saw him awhile ago,” she replied, “and he tould me a good deal about
himself. But, indeed, father, it's not of him I'm thinkin', but on the
darlin' girl that's on the brink of destruction, and what I know she's
sufferin'.”

“I wondher where Reilly is,” said her mother. “My goodness! sure he
ought to make a push, and take her off at wanst. I dunna is he in the
country at all? What do you think, Ellen?”

“Indeed, mother,” she replied, “very few, I believe, knows any thing
about him. All I'm afraid of is, that, wherever he may be, he'll hardly
escape discovery.”

“Well,” said her father, “I'll tell you what we'll do. Let us kneel
down and offer up ten pathers, ten aves, and a creed, that the Lord may
protect them both from their enemies, and grant them a happy marriage,
in spite of laws, parliaments, magistrates, spies, persecutors and
priest-hunters, and, as our hands are in, let us offer up a few that
God may confound that villain, Whitecraft, and bring him snugly to the
gallows.”

This was immediately complied with, in a spirit of earnestness
surpassing probably what they might have felt had they been praying
for their own salvation. The prayers having been concluded, and supper
prepared, in due time the family retired to rest for the night.

When Fergus Reilly took his leave of Ellen, he directed his steps to the
cottage of Mrs. Buckley, where, for certain purpose connected with his
designs on the Red Rapparee, he had been in the habit of meeting: the
sagacious fool, Tom Steeple. It was there, besides, that he had left his
disguise, which the unaccomplished progress of his projects rendered it
necessary that he should once more resume. This, in fact, was the place
of their rendezvous, where they generally met at night. These meetings,
however, were not always very regular; for poor Tom, notwithstanding his
singular and anomalous: cunning, was sometimes led away by his gastric
appetite to hunt for a bully dinner, or a bully supper, or a mug of
strong beer, as the case might be, and after a gorge he was frequently
so completely overtaken by laziness and a consequent tendency to sleep,
that he retired to the barn, or some other outhouse, where he stretched
his limbs on a shake-down of hay or straw, and lapped himself into a
state of luxury which many an epicure of rank and wealth might envy.

On reaching the widow's cottage, Fergus felt somewhat disappointed that
Tom was not there, nor had he been seen that day in any part of the
neighborhood. Fergus, however, whilst the widow was keeping watch
outside, contrived to get on his old disguise once more, after which
he proceeded in the direction of his place of refuge for the night. On
crossing the fields, however, towards the wild and lonely road, which
was at no great distance from the cottage, he met Tom approaching it, at
his usual sling-trot pace.

“Is that Tom?” said he--“tall Tom?”

“Hicco, hicco!” replied Tom, quite gratified with the compliment. “You
be tall, too--not as tall as Tom dough. Tom got bully dinner to-day, and
bully sleep in de barn, and bully supper, but wasn't sleepy den--hicco,
hicco.”

“Well, Tom, what news about what you know?”

“In toder house,” replied Tom; “him sleeps in Peg Finigan's sometimes,
and sometimes in toder again--dat is, Mary Mahon's. Him's afeared o'
something--hard him say so, sure, to ould Peg.”

“Well, Tom, if you will keep your eye on him, so as that you can let us
know where to find him, we engage to give you a bully dinner every day,
and, a bully supper every night of your life, and a swig of stout ale to
wash it down, with plenty of straw to sleep on, and a winnow-cloth and
lots of sacks to keep you as warm and cosey as a winter hob. You know
where to find me every evenin' after dusk, Tom, and when you come with
good news, you'll be a made man; and, listen, Tom, it'll make you a foot
taller, and who knows, man alive, but we may show you for a giant, now.”

“Hicco, hicco!” said Tom; “dat great--never mind; me catch him for you.
A giant!--oh, gorramarcy!--a giant!--hicco!--gorramarcy!” and with these
words he darted off in some different direction, whilst Fergus went to
his usual place of rest for the night.

It would seem by the Red Rapparee s movements at this time as if he
entertained some vague suspicions of awakened justice, notwithstanding
the assurances of safety previously communicated to him by Sir Robert
Whitecraft. Indeed, it is not impossible that even the other individuals
who had distinguished themselves under that zealous baronet might, in
their conversations with each other, have enabled the Rapparee to get
occasional glimpses of the new state of things which had just taken
place, and that, in consequence, he shifted about a good deal, taking
care never to sleep two nights in succession under the same roof. Be
this as it may, the eye of Tom Steeple was on him, without the least
possible suspicion on his part that he was under his surveillance.

CHAPTER XIV.--Reilly takes Service with Squire Folliard.

Reilly led a melancholy life after the departure of the pious bishop. A
week, however, had elapsed, and he felt as if it had been half a year.
His anxiety, however, either to see or hear from his _Cooleen Bawn_
completely overcame him, and he resolved, at all events, to write to
her; in the meantime, how was he to do this? There was no letter-paper
in the farmer's house, nor any to be procured within miles, and, under
these circumstances, he resolved to pay a visit to Mr. Brown. After some
trouble he was admitted to the presence of that gentleman, who could
scarcely satisfy himself of his identity; but, at length, he felt
assured, and asked him into the study.

“My dear Reilly,” said he, “I think you are infatuated. I thought you
had been out of the country long before this. Why, in heaven's name, do
you remain in Ireland, when you know the difficulty of escape? I
have had, since I saw you last, two or three domiciliary visits from
Whitecraft and his men, who searched my whole house and premises in a
spirit of insolence that was, most indelicate and offensive. Hastings
and I have sent a memorial to the Lord Lieutenant, signed by some of the
most respectable Protestant gentry in the, country, in which we
stated his wanton tyranny as well as his oppression of his Majesty's
subjects--harmless and loyal men, and whom he pursues with unsatiable
vengeance, merely because they are Roman Catholics. I certainly do not
expect that our memorial will be attended to by this Administration.
There is a report, however, that the present Ministry will soon go out,
and be succeeded by one more liberal.”

“Well,” replied Reilly, “since I saw you last I have had some narrow
escapes; but I think it would be difficult to know me in my present
disguise.”

“I grant that,” said Mr. Brown, “but then is there nothing to be
apprehended from treachery?”

“I think not,” replied the other. “There is only the farmer and his
family, with whom the bishop and I harbored, who are aware of my
disguise, and to that number I must now add yourself.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Brown, smiling, “I do not think you have much to
apprehend from me.”

“No,” said Reilly, “you have given me too many substantial proofs of
your confidence for that. But I wish to write a letter; and I have
neither pen, ink, nor paper; will you be good enough to lend me the use
of your study for a few minutes, and your writing materials?”

The excellent clergyman immediately conducted him to the study, and
placed the materials before him with his own hands, after which he left
the room. Reilly then sat down, and penned the following letter to his
dear _Cooleen Bawn_:

“I am now thoroughly disguised, indeed so effectually that my nearest
and dearest friends could not know me; nay, I question whether even you
yourself would, except by the keen intuition of affection, which is said
to penetrate all disguises, unless those of falsehood and hypocrisy.
These, however, are disguises I have never worn, nor ever shall
wear--either to you or any human being. I had intended to go to the
Continent until this storm of persecution might blow over; but on
reflection I changed my purpose, for I could not leave you to run the
risk of being ensnared in the subtle and treacherous policy of that
villain. It is my intention to visit your father's house and to see
you if I can. You need not, for the sake of my safety, object to this,
because no one can know me. The description of my dress, though somewhat
undignified, I must give you. In the first place, then, I am, to all
outward appearance, as rude-looking a country lout as ever you looked
upon. My disguise consists, first, of a pair of brogues embroidered with
clouts, or what is vulgarly denominated patches, out of the point of one
of which--that of the right foot--nearly half my toe visibly projects.
The stockings are coarse Connemaras, with sufficient air-holes, both in
feet and legs, to admit the pure atmosphere, and strengthen the muscular
system. My small-clothes are corduroys, bought from a hard-working
laborer, with a large patch upon each knee. A tailor, however, has
promised to get some buttons for them and sew them on. The waistcoat is
altogether indescribable; because, as its materials seem to have been
rescued, that is, stolen, from all the scarecrows in the country, I am'
unable to come at the first fabric. The coat itself is also beautifully
variegated, its patches consisting of all the colors of the rainbow,
with two or three dozen that never appeared in that beautiful
phenomenon. But what shall I say of the pendiment, or caubeen, which is
a perfect gem of its kind? The villain who wore it, I have been told by
the person who acted as factor for me in its purchase, was one of the
most quarrelsome rascals in Ireland, and seldom went without a black eye
or a broken pate. This, I suppose, accounts for the droop in the leaf,
which covers the left eye so completely, as well as for the ventilator,
which so admirably refreshes the head, and allows the rain to come in so
abundantly to cool it. I cannot help reflecting, however, on the fate of
those who have nothing better to wear, and of the hard condition which
dooms them to it. And now, my beloved _Cooleen Bawn_, whilst I have
thus endeavored to make you smile, I assure you I have exaggerated
very little. This dress, you know, is precisely that of a wretched
Connaught-man looking for employment. The woman, who will, through our
confidant, Lanigan, deliver this to you, is a poor faithful creature,
a pensioner of mine, who may be trusted. Appoint through her a day and
hour when, as a man seeking for labor, I will stand at the hall-door. I
am quite satisfied that neither your father, nor the villain, will know
me from Adam. The woman who is to bring this will call on the second day
after its delivery, and I shall be guided by whatever message you may
send me. On one thing, however, I am determined, which is that if it
should cost me my life, I will prevent the meditated marriage between
you and him. Sooner than such an event should take place, I would put
a pistol to his head and blow his guilty soul into that perdition which
awaits it. Don't write; let your message be verbal, and destroy this.”

On going to widow Buckley's, he learned--after some trouble in
identifying himself--that she had several visits from Sir Robert and his
men, at all hours, both by night and day. He therefore hastily gave her
the necessary instructions how to act, and, above all things, to ask to
see Lanigan, and, if possible, to bring some eggs or chickens for sale,
which fact, he said, would give a color to her appearance there, and
prevent the possibility of any suspicion. Having placed the letter in
her keeping, together with some silver to enable her to purchase either
the eggs or the chickens, in case she had them not herself, he then
returned to the farmer's, where he remained quietly and without
disturbance of any kind until the third day, when widow Buckley made
her appearance. He brought her out to the garden, because in discussing
matters connected with his _Cooleen Bawn_ he did not wish that even the
farmer's family should be auditors--although we may say here that not
only were the loves of Willy Reilly and _Cooleen Bawn_ known to the
farmer and his family, but also to the whole country, and, indeed,
through the medium of ballads, to the greater portion of the kingdom.

“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “did you see her?”

“Oh, bad scran to you, Mr. Reilly! you're the very sarra among the
girls when you could persuade that lovely creature to fall in love with
you--and you a Catholic, an' her a Protestant! May I never, if I think
there's her angil out o' heaven! Devil an angel I think in it could
hould a candle to her for beauty and figure. She only wants the wings,
sir--for they say that all the angels have wings; and upon my conscience
if she had them I know the man she'd fly to.”

“But what happened, Mrs. Buckley?”

“Why, I sould some chickens and eggs to the cook, who at wanst knew me,
because I had often sould him chickens and eggs before. He came up to
the hall-door, and--'Well, Mrs. Buckley,' says he, 'what's the news?'
'_Be dhe husth_,' says I, 'before I sell you the chickens, let me ax
is the _Cooleen Bawn_ at home?' 'She is,' says he, lookin' me sharp and
straight in the face; 'do you want her?' 'I would like to see her,' says
I, 'for a minute or two.' 'Ay,' says he, back agin to me, 'you have a
message--and you know besides that she never buys chickens; that's my
business.' 'But,' says I, back agin, 'I was tould by him that you were
faithful, and could be depinded on.' 'Ay,' says he; 'but I thought he
had left the counthry.' 'Troth, then,' says I, 'he's to the fore still,
and won't lave the counthry till he sees her wanst more, at all events.'
'Have you a letther?' 'Betherahin,' says I, 'could you let me see her;
for he tould me to say to her that she is not, to indite letthers to
him, for fraid of discovery.' 'Well,' says he, 'as the master's at home,
I'll have some difficulty in spakin' to her. Devil a move she gives but
he watches; and we got a new servant the other day, and devil a thing
she is but a spy from Sir Robert Whitecraft, and some people say that
her master and she forgot the Gospel between them. Indeed I believe
that's pretty well known; and isn't he a horrid villain to send such a
vagabone to attend and be about the very woman that he expects to be his
own wife?'”

“Don't be so particular in your descriptions, Mrs. Buckley,” said
Reilly. “Did you see the _Cooleen Bawn_?”

“Look at that,” she replied, opening her hand, and showing him a golden
guinea--“don't you know by that that I seen her? but you must let me go
on my own way. 'Well,' says Lanigan, the cook, 'I must go and see what
I can do.' He then went upstairs, and contrived to give her a hint, and
that was enough. 'The Lord bless us, Mr. Reilly, what won't love do?
This girl--as Lanigan tould me--that the villain Whitecraft had sent as
a spy upon her actions, was desired to go to her wardrobe, to pick out
from among her beautiful dresses one that she had promised her as a
present some days before. The cook had this from the girl herself, who
was the sarra for dress; but, anyhow, while the the spy was tumbling
about _Cooleen Bawn_'s dresses, the darlin' herself whipped downstairs,
and coming to me says, 'The cook tells me you have a message for
me.' Jist at this moment, and after she had slipped the letter into
her bosom, her father turns a corner round the garden, and seeing his
daughter, which was a very unusual thing, in conversation with a person
like myself, he took the alarm at once. 'How, Helen? who is this you
are speaking to'? No go-between, I hope? Who are you, you blasted old
she-whelp?' 'I am no more a she-whelp than you are.' 'Then maybe you are
a he one in disguise. What brought you here?' 'Here! I came to sell
my eggs and my chickens, as I done for years.' 'Your eggs and your
chickens! curse you, you old Jezebel, did you ever lay the eggs or hatch
the chickens? And if you did, why not produce the old cock himself, in
proof of the truth of what you say? I'll have you searched, though, in
spite of your eggs and chickens. Here,' he said to one of the footmen,
who was passing through the hall--'here, Jones, send up Lanigan, till we
see whether he knows this old faggot, who has the assurance to tell me
that she lays eggs and hatches chickens.' When Lanigan came up again,
he looked at me as at an old acquaintance, which, in point of fact, we
were. 'Why, your honor,' said he, 'this is a poor, honest creature that
has been selling us eggs and chickens for many years.' 'She wouldn't be
a go-between, Lanigan--eh? What's your name, you old faggot--eh?'
'My name | is Scrahag, your honor,' says I, 'one of the Scrahags of
Ballycumpiatee--an honest and dacint family, sir; but if your honor
would buy the eggs, at any rate, and hatch them yourself,' says I to him
(for she had a large stock of Irish humor), 'you know, sir, you could
have the chickens at first cost.' 'Ha, ha, ha,' and the squire laughed
till he nearly split his sides; 'by --- I'm hit'--God pardon me for
repeatin' his oaths. 'Here, Lanigan, bring her down to the kitchen, and
give her a fog meal.' 'I understand you, sir,' said Lanigan, smiling at
him. 'Yes, Lanigan, give her a cargo of the best in the pantry. She's
a shrewd and comical old blade,' said he; 'give her a kegful of beef
or mutton, or both, and a good swill of ale or porter, or whatever she
prefers. Curse me, but I give the old whelp credit for the hit she gave
me. Pay her, besides, whatever she asks for her eggs and chickens. Here,
you bitter old randle-tree, there are three thirteens for you; and
if you will go down to the kitchen with the cook, he will give you a
regular skinful.' The cook, knowing that the _Cooleen Bawn_ wished to
send some message back to you, sir, brought me down, and gave me not
only plenty to ait and drink, but stuffed the praskeen that I had
carried the eggs and chickens in with as much cold meat and bread as it
could contain.”

“Well, but did you not see her afterwards? and did she send no message?”

“Only two or three words; the day afther to-morrow, at two o'clock, come
to look for labor, and she will contrive to see you.”

This was enough, and Reilly did not allow his ambassadress to leave him
without substantial marks of his bounty also.

When the old squire went to his study, he desired the gardener to be
sent for, and when that individual entered, he found his master in a
towering passion.

“What is the reason, Malcomson,” said he, “that the garden is in such a
shameful state? I declare to God it is scandalous.”

“Ou, your honor,” replied Malcomson, who was a Scotchman, “e'en because
you will not allow me an under gerdener. No one man could manage
your gerden, and it canna be managed without some clever chiel, what
understands the sceence.”

“The what?”

“The sceence, your honor.”

“Why, confound you, sir, what science is necessary in gardening?”

“I tell your honor that the management of a gerden requires baith skeel
and knowledge, and feelosophy.”

“Why, confound you, sir, again, what kind of doctrine is this?”

“It's vera true doctrine, sir. You have large and spacious green-hooses,
and I wad want some one to assist me wha understands buttany.”

“Buttony--Buttony--why, confound you, sirra, send for a tailor, then,
for he understands buttony.”

“I see your honor is detarmined to indulge in a jocular spirit the day.
The truth is, your honor, I hae no men to assist me but common laborers,
who are athegether ignorant of gerdening; now, if I had a man who could
direct the operations--”

“Operations! curse your Scotch impudence, do you think yourself a
general?”

“Na, na, sir; but a better man; and I tell ye that I winna remain in
your service unless I get an assistant; and I say that, if it
were-na for the aid of Miss Folliard, I wouldna been able to keep the
green-hoose e'en in its present state. She has trailed the passionflower
wi' her ain hands until it is nourishing. Then she has a beautiful
little plot of forget-me-nots; but, above a', it wad do your honor's
heart gude to see the beautiful bed she has of sweet-william and
love-lies-bleeding.”

“Ay, ay! love-lies-bleeding; no doubt but she'll take care of that.
Well, go and get an under-gardener wherever you can, and let my garden
be, at all events, such as a stranger can walk through, and such as
becomes my name and property. Engage such a person, give him whatever
you consider fair wages, and the house-steward will pay him weekly.
These are matters I can't trouble myself with now-I have other things to
think of.”

On the day mentioned in _Cooleen Bawn's_ message, Reilly hazarded a
visit to the squire's house, and after giving a single knock, begged to
see the cook. The porter having looked at him with the usual contempt
which menials of his class bestow upon poor persons, went down to the
kitchen with a good deal of reluctance, and told the cook, with a grin,
that one of his relations wanted to see him.

“Well,” replied Lanigan, who had been made aware of the intended visit,
“it's wonderful, in these hard times, the number of respectable but
reduced families that's goin' about. What kind of a gentleman is he,
John? because I am very busy now. To be sure there is a great deal of
cold vittles left, that would be lost and destroyed if we didn't give
them to the poor; and you know the masther, who is a charitable man,
desired us to do so. I'll go up and see what the poor devil wants.”

He accordingly went up to the hall-door, and found Reilly there. It was
to no purpose that he had been already apprised of his disguise--it was
so complete that he did not know him--his beard was half an inch long;
and, besides, Reilly, knowing the risk he ran in this daring adventure,
had discolored his complexion with some wash that gave it the tinge of a
mulatto. The cook was thunderstruck.

“Well, my good fellow,” said he, not in the slightest degree recognizing
him, “what do you want with me?”

“Lanigan,” replied Reilly, “don't you know me?”

“Know you! how the devil should I know you?--I never saw you before.
What do you want with me?”

“Lanigan,” whispered the other, “did you never hear of Willy Reilly?”

“Yes, I did; have you any message from him?”

“I am the man myself,” said Reilly, “but you don't know me, I am so
completely disguised. Don't you know my voice?”

“Merciful Father!” said the cook, “I'm in a doldrum; can I be sure that
you don't come from Sir Robert Whitecraft, the notorious blackguard?”

“Lanigan, I am Willy Reilly: my voice ought to tell you so; but I wish
to see and speak with my dear _Cooleen Bawn_.”

“Oh, my God, sir!” replied Lanigan, “but this love makes strange
transmigrations. She won't know you, sir.”

“Make your mind easy on that point,” replied Reilly; “only let her know
that I am here.”

“Come down to the kitchen then, sir, and I shall put you into the
servants' hall, which branches off it. It is entered, besides, by a
different door from that of the kitchen, and while you stay there--and
you can pass into it without going through the kitchen--I will try to
let her know where you are. She has at present a maid who was sent by
Sir Robert Whitecraft, and she is nothing else than a spy; but it'll go
hard, or I'll baffle her.”

He accordingly placed Reilly in the servants' hall, and on his way to
the drawing-room met Miss Folliard going to her own apartment, which
commanded a view of the front of the house. He instantly communicated
to her the fact of Reilly's presence in the servants' hall; “but,”
 added Lanigan, “you won't know him--his own mother, if she was livin',
wouldn't know a bone in his body.”

“Oh!” she replied, whilst her eyes flashed fearfully, in fact, in a
manner that startled the cook--“oh! if he is there I shall soon know
him. He has a voice, I think--he has a voice! Has he not, Lanigan?”

“Yes, ma'am,” replied Lanigan, “he has a voice, and a heart too.”

“Oh! yes, yes,” she said, “I must go to him; they want to marry me to
that monster--to that bigot and persecutor, on this very day month; but,
Lanigan, it shall never be--death a thousand times sooner than such
a union. If they attempt to bind us, death shall cut the link
asunder--that I promise you, Lanigan. But I must go to him--I must go to
him.”

She ran down the stairs as she spoke, and Lanigan, having looked after
her, seemed deeply concerned.

“My God!” he exclaimed, “what will become of that sweet girl if she is
forced to marry that wealthy scoundrel? I declare to my God I hardly
think she is this moment in her proper senses. There's a fire in her
eyes; and something in her manner, that I never observed before. At
all events, I have locked the door that opens from the kitchen into the
servants' hall, so that they cannot be interrupted from that quarter.”

When the _Cooleen Bawn_ entered, she shrank back instinctively.
The disguise was so complete that she could not impose even on her
imagination or her senses. The complexion was different, in fact, quite
sallow; the beard long, and the costume such as we have described it.
There was, in fact, something extremely ludicrous in the meeting. Here
was an elegant and beautiful young woman of fashion, almost ready, as it
were, to throw herself in the arms of a common pauper, with a beard upon
him better than half an inch long. As it was, she stopped suddenly and
retreated a step or two, saying, as she did so:

“This must be some mistake. Who are you?”

“Helen!”

“Reilly! oh, that voice has set all right. But, my God, who could know
you--in this disguise?”

They approached, and Reilly, seizing her hand, said, “I will shake hands
with you; but until this disguise is off I would consider it sacrilege
to approach nearer to your person.”

“No disguise can ever shut you out from my heart, dear Reilly; but what
is to be done? I have discovered, by one of my maids, who overheard
my father say, in a short soliloquy--'Well, thank God, she'll be Sir
Robert's wife within a month, and then my mind will be easy at last.'
Oh! I'm glad you did not leave this country. But, as I said, what is to
be done? What will become of us?”

“Under our peculiar circumstances,” replied Reilly, “the question
cannot, for the present at least, be answered. As for leaving the
country, I might easily have done it, but I could not think of leaving
you to the snares and windings of that villain. I declare solemnly, I
would rather die than witness a union between you and him.”

“But what, think you, should I feel? You would be only a spectator of
the sacrifice, whereas I should be the victim.”

“Do not be cast down, my love; whilst I have life, and a strong arm, it
snail never be. Before I go I shall make arrangements with Lanigan when
and where to see you again.”

“It will be a matter of some difficulty,” she replied, “for I am
now under the strictest surveillance. I am told, and I feel it, that
Whitecraft has placed a spy upon all my motions.”

“How is that?” inquired Reilly. “Are you not under the protection
of your father, who, when occasion is necessary, has both pride and
spirit?”

“But my poor credulous father is, notwithstanding, easily imposed on. I
know not exactly the particulars,” replied the lovely girl, “but I can
easily suspect them. My father it was, certainly, who discharged my last
maid, Ellen Connor, because, he said, he did not like her, and because,
he added, he would put a better and a more trustworthy one in her place.
I cannot move that she is not either with me or after me; nay, I cannot
write a note that she does not immediately acquaint papa, who is certain
to stroll into my apartment and ask to see the contents of it, adding,
'Helen, when a young lady of rank and property forms a clandestine
and disgraceful attachment it is time that her father should be on the
lookout; so I will just take the liberty of throwing my eye over this
little billet-doux.' I told him often that he was at liberty to inspect
every line I should write, but that I thought that very few parents
would express such want of confidence in their daughters, if, like me,
the latter had deserved such confidence at their hands as I did at his.”

“What is the name of your present maid?” asked Reilly, musing.

“Oh,” replied Miss Folliard, “I have three maids altogether, but she has
been installed as own maid. Her name is Eliza Herbert.”

“A native of England, is she not? Eliza Herbert!” he exclaimed; “in the
lowermost depths of perdition there is not such a villain. This Eliza
Herbert is neither more nor less than one of his--but I will not pain
your pure and delicate mind by mentioning at further length what she is
and was to him. The clergyman of the parish, Mr. Brown, knows the whole
circumstances. See him at church, and get him to communicate them to
your father. The fact is, this villain, who is at once cunning and
parsimonious, had a double motive, each equally base and diabolical, in
sending her here. In the first place, he wished, by getting her a
good place, to make your father the unconscious means of rewarding her
profligacy; and in the second of keeping her as a spy upon you.”

A blush, resulting from her natural sense of delicacy, as well as from
the deepest indignation at a man who did not scruple to place the woman
whom he looked upon as almost immediately to become his wife, in the
society of such a wretch--such a blush, we say, overspread her whole
neck and face, and for about two minutes she shed bitter tears. But she
felt the necessity of terminating their interview, from an apprehension
that Miss Herbert, as she was called, on not finding her in the room,
might institute a search, and in this she was not mistaken.

She had scarcely concluded when the shrill voice of Miss Herbert was
heard, as she rushed rapidly down the stairs, screaming, “Oh, la! oh,
dear me! oh, my goodness! Where, where--oh, bless me, did any one see
Miss Folliard?”

Lanigan, however, had prepared for any thing like a surprise. He planted
himself, as a sentinel, at the foot of the stairs, and the moment he
heard the alarm of Miss Herbert on her way down, he met her half way up,
after having given a loud significant cough.

“Oh, cook, have you seen Miss Folliard? I can't find her in the house!”

“Is her father in his study, Miss Herbert? because I want to see him;
I'm afeared there's a screw loose. I did see Miss Folliard; she went out
a few minutes ago--indeed she rather stole out towards the garden, and,
I tell you the truth, she had a--condemned look of her own. Try the
garden, and if you don't find her there, go to the back gate, which
you'll be apt to find open.”

“Oh, I will, I will; thank you, cook. I'm certain it's an elopement.”

“Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised to find,” replied Lanigan, “that she is
with Reilly this moment; any way you haven't a minute to lose.”

She started towards the garden, which she ran over and over; and there
we shall leave her, executing the fool's errand upon which Lanigan had
sent her. “Now,” said he, going in, “the coast's clear; I have sent that
impertinent jade out to the garden, and as the back gate is open--the
gardener's men are wheeling out the rubbish--and they are now at
dinner--I say, as the back gate is open, it's ten to one but she'll
scour the country. Now, Miss Folliard, go immediately to your room; as
for this poor man, I will take care of him.”

“Most sincerely do I thank you, Lanigan; he will arrange with you when
and where to see me again. Farewell, Reilly--farewell; rely upon my
constancy;” and so they parted, Reilly to the kitchen, and the _Cooleen
Bawn_ to her own room.

“Come into the pantry, poor man,” said good-natured Lanigan, addressing
our hero, “till I give you' something to eat and drink.”

“Many thanks to you, sir,” replied he; “troth and whaix, I didn't taste
a morshel for the last fwhour--hugh--hugh-and twenty hours; and sure,
sir, it's this cough that's killin' me by inches.”

A thought struck Lanigan, who had been also spoken to by the gardener,
about half an hour before, to know if he could tell him where he might
have any chance of finding an assistant. At all events they went into
the pantry, when Lanigan, after having pulled to the door, to prevent
their conversation from being overheard, disclosed a project, which had
just entered his head, of procuring Reilly employment in the garden.
Here it was arranged between them that the latter, who was both a
good botanist and florist, should be recommended to the gardener as
an assistant. To be sure, his dress and appearance were both decidedly
against him; but still they relied upon the knowledge which Reilly
confidently assured the cook that he possessed. After leaving the pantry
with Lanigan, whom our hero thanked in a thorough brogue, the former
called after him, as he was going away:

“Come here again, my good man.”

“What is it, shir? may God bless you anyhow, for your charity to
the--hugh--hugh--hugh--to the poor man. Oh, then, but it's no wondher
for you all to be fat and rosy upon sich beautiful vittles as you gave
to me, shir. What is it, achora? and may the Lord mark you with grace!”

“Would you take employment from the master, his honor Mr. Folliard, if
you got it?”

“Arrah now, shir, you gave me my skinful of what was gud; but don't be
luakin' fwhun o' me after. Would I take employment, achora?--ay, but
where would I get it?”

“Could you work in a garden? Do you know any thing about plants or
flowers?”

“Oh thin, that I may never sup sarra (sorrow), but that's just what I'm
fwhit fwhor.”

“I'm afeared this scoundrel is but an imposthor afther all,” whispered
Lanigan to the other servants; “but in ordher to make sure, we'll try
him. I say--what's this your name is?”

“Solvesther M'Bethershin, shir.”

“Well, now, would you have any objection to come with me to the garden
and see I the gardener? But hould, here he is. Mr. Malcomson,” continued
Lanigan, “here is a poor man, who says he understands plants and
flowers, and weeds of that kind.”

“Speak wi' reverence, Mr. Lanigan, o' the art o' gerdening. Dinna ye ken
that the founder o' the hail human race was a gerdener?-Hout awa, moil;
speak o' it wi' speck.”

“Upon my conscience,” replied Lanigan, “whether he was a good gardener
or not is more than I know; but one thing I do know, that he didn't
hould his situation long, and mismanaged his orchard disgracefully; and,
indeed, like many more of his tribe, he got his walkin' papers in double
quick--was dismissed without a characther--ay, and his wife, like many
another gardener's wife, got a habit of stalin' the apples. However, I
wish Mr. Malcomson, that you, who do undherstand gardenin', would thry
this fellow, because I want to know whether he's an imposthor or not.”

“Weel,” replied Malcomson, “I dinna care if I do. We'll soon find that
out. Come wi' me and Maisther Lanigan here, and we'll see what you ken
about the sceentific profession.”

They accordingly went to the garden, and it is unnecessary to say that
Reilly not only bore the examination well, but proved himself by far the
better botanist of the two. He tempered his answers, however, in such a
way as not to allow the gardener's vanity to be hurt, in which case he
feared that he might have little chance of being engaged.

CHAPTER XV.--More of Whitecraft's Plots and Pranks

On the Sunday following, Miss Folliard, as was her usual custom,
attended divine service at her parish church, accompanied by the
virtuous Miss Herbert, who scarcely ever let her for a moment out of her
sight, and, in fact, added grievously to the misery of her life. After
service had been concluded, she waited until Mr. Brown had descended
from the pulpit, when she accosted him, and expressed a wish to have
some private conversation with him in the vestry-room. To this room
they were about to proceed, when Miss Herbert advanced with an evident
intention of accompanying them.

“Mr. Brown,” said the _Cooleen Bawn_, looking at him significantly, “I
wish that our interview should be private.”

“Certainly, my dear Miss Folliard, and so it shall be. Pray, who is this
lady?”

“I am forced, sir, to call her my maid.”

Mr. Brown was startled a good deal, not only at the words, but the tone
in which they were uttered.

“Madam,” said he, “you will please to remain here until your mistress
shall return to you, or, if you wish, you can amuse yourself by reading
the inscriptions on the tombstones.”

“Oh, but I have been ordered,” replied Miss Herbert, “by her father and