Willy Reilly Part 47

"But could you not give evidence against some others of the gang?"

"No, sir; there is not one of them in this part of the kingdom, and I believe the most of them all are out of it altogether. But, even if they were not, I, sir, am not the man to betray them; the Red Rapparee would, if he could get at them; but, thank G.o.d, I've put every man of them beyond his reach."

"You did! and pray, now, why, may I ask, did that happen?"

"Bekaise it came to my ears that it was his intention to inform against them, and to surrender them all to the Government."

"Well, Reilly, after all, I believe you to be an honest fellow, even although you were once a robber; but the question now is, what is to be done? Are you sure of his whereabouts?"

"I think so, sir; or, if I am not, I know one that is. But I have an observation to make. You know, sir, I would a' gone abroad, a freeman before this time, only that it's necessary I should still keep on my disguise, in ordher that I may move about as I wish until I secure this Red Rapparee. After that, sir, please G.o.d, I'll taste a mouthful of freedom. In the meantime I know one, as I said, that will enable us to make sure of him."

"Pray, who is that?"

"Tom Steeple, sir."

"Do you mean the poor fool of that name--or rather, I believe, of that nickname?"

"I do, sir; and in many things he's less of a fool than wiser men. He has been dodg-in' him for the last two or three days; and he's a person that no one would ever suspect, unless, indeed, the cautious and practised Rapparees; but in ordher to meet any such suspicion, I have got upon the right trail myself--we're sure of him now, I think."

"Well, Reilly," proceeded the sheriff, "I leave the management of the capture of this man to yourself. You shall have a strong and determined party to support you. Do you only show them the man, and, take my word for it, they will secure the robber. After this affair is over you must throw off those rags. I will furnish you with decent clothes, and you can go out at large without fear or risk, and that under your own name too. I took your hint, and declined swearing the informations against him before the old squire, as I had intended, from an apprehension that he might possibly blab the fact to Whitecraft, who, if your information be correct, would have given him notice to fly, or otherwise concealed him from justice."

"Well, sir," said Reilly, "it's my opinion that the Rapparee will lodge in Sligo jail before to-morrow mornin'; and it's a thousand pities that Whitecraft shouldn't be sent there to keep him company."

"He certainly is the most unpopular man living. In the exuberance of his loyalty he has contrived to offend almost every liberal Protestant in the county, and that with an unjustifiable degree of wanton, and overbearing insolence, arising from his consciousness of impunity.

However, thank G.o.d, his day is gone by. But, mark me, Reilly--I had almost forgotten--don't neglect to secure the clothes in which the villain robbed me; they will be important."

"I had no intention of forgetting them, sir; and that scheme for throwing the guilt of his own villany on Mr. Reilly is another reason why I appear against him."

It was not, indeed, very easy for the Rapparee to escape. Whitecraft got home safe, a little before dusk, after putting his unfortunate horse to more than his natural speed. On his arrival he ordered wine to be brought, and sat down to meditate upon the most feasible plan for reinstating himself in the good graces of the new Government. After pondering over many speculations to that effect, it occurred to him that to secure the Rapparee, now that he could, as an agent and a guide, be of no further use to him, was the most likely procedure to effect his purpose. He accordingly rang for his usual attendant, and asked him if he knew where O'Donnel was. The man replied that he waa generally in or about Mary Mahon's.

"Then," proceeded his master, "let him be with me to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."

"If I see him, sir, I shall tell him."

"And say that I have something to his advantage to mention to him."

"Yes, sir; I shan't forget it."

"Now," said he, after the servant had withdrawn, and taking a b.u.mper of wine, "I know not how it is, but I feel very uncomfortable somehow.

I certaintly did not expect a change in the Administration, nor a relaxation in the carrying out of the laws against Papists; and, under this impression, I fear I have gone too far, and that I may be brought over the coals for my conduct. I understand that the old French Abbe is returned, and once more a resident in the family of that cursed marquis.

I think, by the way, I should go and apologize to both the marquis and the Abbe, and throw the blame of my own violence upon the conduct and instructions of the last Government; that, and the giving up of this ruffianly Rapparee to the present, may do something for me. This country, however, now that matters have taken such an unexpected turn, shall not long be my place of residence. As for Reilly, my marriage on the day after tomorrow with that stubborn beauty, Helen Folliard, will place an impa.s.sable barrier between him and her. I am glad he has escaped, for he will not be in our way, and we shall start for my English estates immediately after the ceremony. To-morrow, however, I shall secure the Rapparee, and hand him over to the authorities. I could have wished to hang Reilly, but now it is impossible; still, we shall start for England immediately after the nuptial knot is tied, for I don't think I could consider myself safe, now that he is at large, and at liberty to appear in his proper name and person especially after all the mischief I have done him, in addition to the fact of my bearing away his _Cooleen Bawn_, as she is called."

In fact, the man's mind was a turbid chaos of reflections upon the past and the future, in which selfishness, disappointed vengeance, terror, hypocritical policy, and every feeling that could fill the imagination of a man possessed of a vacillating, cowardly, and cruel heart, with the exception only of any thing that could border upon penitence or remorse.

That Miss Folliard was not indifferent to him is true; but the feeling which he experienced towards her contained only two elements--sensuality and avarice. Of love, in its purest, highest, and holiest sense, he was utterly incapable; and he was not ignorant himself that, in the foul attachment which he bore her, he was only carrying into effect the principles of his previous life--those of a private debauchee, and a miser. That amiable, but unhappy and distracted, lady spent that whole evening in making preparations for her flight with Reilly. Her manner was wild and excited; indeed, so much so that the presence of mind and cool good sense, for which her maid Connor was remarkable, were scarcely sufficient to guide and direct her in this distressing emergency. She seemed to be absorbed by but one thought, and that was of her father.

His affection for her enlarged and expanded itself in her loving heart, with a force and tenderness that nearly drove her into delirium. Connor, in the meantime, got all things ready, she herself having entrusted the management of every thing to her. The unhappy girl paced to and fro her room, sobbing and weeping bitterly, wringing her hands, and exclaiming from time to time:

"Oh, my father! my dear and loving father! is this the return I am making you for your tenderness and affection? what am I about to do?

what steps am I going to take? to leave you desolate, with no heart for yours to repose upon! Alas! there was but one heart that you cared for, and in the duty and affection of that all your hopes for my happiness lay; and now, when you awake, you will find that that heart, the very heart on which you rested, has deserted you! When you come down to breakfast in the morning, and find that your own Helen, your only one, has gone--oh! who will sustain, or soothe, or calm you in the frenzied grief of your desolation? But alas! what can I do but escape from that cowardly and vindictive villain--the very incarnation of oppression and persecution; the hypocrite, the secret debauchee, the mean, the dastardly, whose inhuman ambition was based upon and nurtured by blood?

Alas! I have but the one remedy--flight with my n.o.ble minded lover, whom that dastardly villain would have hunted, even to his murder, or an ignominious death, which would have been worse. This flight is not spontaneously mine; I am forced to it, and of two evils I will choose the least; surely I am not bound to seal my own misery forever."

Connor had by this time attempted, as far as she could, to disguise her in one of her own dresses; but nothing could conceal the elegance and exquisite proportion of her figure, nor the ladylike harmony and grace of her motions. She then went to the oaken cabinet, mentioned by her father in the opening of our narrative, and as she always had the key of that portion of it which contained her own diamonds, and other property, she took a casket of jewels of immense value from it, and returned to her room, where she found Connor before her.

"Mr. Reilly is ready, miss," she said, "and is waiting for you behind the garden; the only one I dread in the house is Andy c.u.mmiskey; he is so much attached to the master that I think if he knew you were about to escape he would tell him."

"Well, Connor, we must only avoid him as well as we can; but where, or how, shall I carry these jewels? in these slight pockets of yours, Connor, they could not be safe."

"Well, then, can't you give them to him to keep, and they'll be safe?"

"True, Connor, so they will; but I give him a heart which he prizes above them all. But, alas! my father! oh! Connor, shall I abandon him?"

"Do not distress yourself, my dear Miss Folliard; your father loves you too much to hold out his anger against you long. Did you not tell me that if Reilly was a Protestant your father said he would rather marry you to him than to Sir Robert, the villain, with all his wealth?"

"I did, Connor, and my father certainly said so; but the serpent, Connor, entwined himself about the poor credulous man, and succeeded in embittering him against Reilly, who would rather go to the scaffold--yes, and--which he would consider a greater sacrifice--rather abandon even me than his religion. And do you think, Connor, that I do not love my n.o.ble-minded Reilly the more deeply for this? I tell you, Connor, that if he renounced his religion upon no other principle than his love for me, I should despise him as a dishonorable, man, to whom it would not be safe for me to entrust my happiness."

"Well, well; but now it is time to start, and Reilly, as I said, is waiting for you behind the garden."

"Oh, Connor, and is it come to this? my dear papa! but I cannot go until I see him; no, Connor, I could not; I shall go quietly into his room, and take one look at him; probably it may be the last. Oh, my G.o.d! what am I about to do! Connor, keep this casket until I return; I shall not be long."

She then went to his chamber. The blinds and curtains of the windows had not been drawn, and it occurred to her that as her dress was so different from any which her father had ever seen on her, some suspicion might be created should he observe it. She therefore left the candlestick which she had brought with her on the inside sill of a lobby window, having observed at the door that the moonlight streamed in through the windows upon his bed. Judge of her consternation, however, when, on entering the room, her father, turning himself in the bed, asked:

"Is that Helen?"

"It is, papa; I thought you had been asleep, and I came up to steal my good-night kiss without any intention of awakening you."

"I drank too much, Helen, with Whitecraft, whom wine--my Burgundy--instead of warming, seems to turn into an icicle. However, he is a devilish shrewd fellow. Helen, darling, there's a jug of water on the table there; will you hand it to me; I'm all in a flame and a fever."

She did so, and her hand trembled so much that she was near spilling it.

He took a long draught, after which he smacked his lips, and seemed to breathe more freely.

"Helen," said he.

"Well, dear papa."

"Helen, I had something to mention to you, but--"

"Don't disturb yourself to-night, papa; you are somewhat feverish," she added, feeling his pulse; if you will excuse me, papa, I think you drank too much; your pulse is very quick; if you could fall into rest again it would be better for you."

"Yes, it would; but my mind is uneasy and sorrowful. Helen, I thought you loved me, my darling."

"Oh, could you doubt it, papa? You see I am come as usual--no, not as usual, either--to kiss you; I will place my cheek against yours, as I used to do, dear papa, and you will allow me to weep--to weep--and to say that never father deserved the love of a daughter as you have deserved mine; and never did daughter love an affectionate and indulgent father more tenderly than your _Cooleen Bawn_ does you."

"I know it, Helen, I know it; your whole life has been a proof of it, and will be a proof of it; I know you have no other object in this world than to make papa happy; I know I feel that you are great-minded enough to sacrifice everything to that."

"Well, but, papa," she continued, "for all my former offences against you will you pity and forgive me?"

"I do both, you foolish darling; but what makes you speak so?"

"Because I feel melancholy to-night, papa; and now, papa, if ever I should do any thing wrong, won't you pity and forgive your own _Cooleen Bawn_?"