Willy Reilly Part 33

"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 G.o.d! can you think of n.o.body'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-sh.e.l.l 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 compet.i.tion 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 n.o.bly 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 G.o.d!"

"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 G.o.d may confound that villain, Whitecraft, and bring him snugly to the gallows."

This was immediately complied with, in a spirit of earnestness surpa.s.sing 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 appet.i.te 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 a.s.surances 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.