Willy Reilly Part 49

"Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o'you--who do you suppose could think of a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened? It will kill him."

He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she was utterly unable to conceal.

"Well, Miss Connor," he asked, "what's the matther? You're cryin', I persave."

"All, c.u.mmiskey, my mistress is unwell."

"Unwell! why she wasn't unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o' the garden."

"Oh, yes," replied Connor; "I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her."

"Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?"

"Force! there was no force necessary, c.u.mmiskey. She's now in her own room, quite ill."

"Oh, then, if she's quite ill, it's right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for."

"Ah, but she's now asleep, c.u.mmiskey--that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her."

"Ah, I believe you," he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor's agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; "the sleep will be good for her, the darlin'; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther's sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn't live a week."

"That's true, indeed," she replied; "and if she get's worse, c.u.mmiskey, I'll let the master know."

"That's a good girl; ma gragal that you! war--good-by, acushla," and he immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor went down to the kitchen.

"Now, Mr. Malcomson," said he, "there is a good fire before you. I ax your pardon--just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this candle."

"'Am sayin', Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime to send up anither tankard o' that yill."

To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very deliberately proceeded to that of Helen. The door was open, the bed unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was tenantless, Connor a liar and an accomplice, and the suspicions of himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him.

He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped with w.i.l.l.y Reilly. The uproar then commenced, the house was searched, but no _Cooleen Bawn_ was found. c.u.mmiskey himself remained comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining that she was not in the house, he went upstairs to his master's bedroom, having the candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed:

"Good-night, Helen--good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something to tell you about the discovery of--but I will let you know it to-morrow at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to bed, my love."

"Sir," said c.u.mmiskey, "I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you."

"What? who? who's there? I thought it was my daughter."

"No, sir, I wish it was; I'm come to tell you that Miss Folliard can't be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no purpose: wherever she is, she's not undher this roof. I came to tell you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what's to be done."

"What," he exclaimed, starting up, "my child!--my child--my child gone!

G.o.d of heaven! G.o.d of heaven, support me!--my darling! my treasure! my delight!--Oh, c.u.mmiskey!--but it can't be--to desert me!--to leave me in misery and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!--she that was the prop of my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, c.u.mmiskey, it is not so, it can't be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the house; you don't know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she--ha--what? what?--she wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! and said--Here, c.u.mmiskey, a.s.sist me to dress. Oh, I see it, c.u.mmiskey, I see it! she is gone! she is gone! yes, she bade me farewell; but I was unsteady and unsettled after too much drink, and did not comprehend her meaning."

It is impossible to describe the almost frantic distraction of that loving father, who, as he said, had no prop to lean upon but his _Cooleen Bawn_, for he himself often loved to call her by that appellation.

"c.u.mmiskey," he proceeded, "we will pursue them--we must have my darling back: yes, and I will forgive her, for what is she but a child, c.u.mmiskey, not yet twenty. But in the meantime I will shoot him dead--dead--dead--if he had a thousand lives; and from this night out I shall pursue Popery, in all its shapes and disguises; I will imprison it, transport it, hang it--hang it, c.u.mmiskey, as round as a hoop. Ring the bell, and let Lanigan unload, and then reload my pistols; he always does it; his father was my grandfather's gamekeeper, and he understands fire-arms. Here, though, help me on with my boots first, and then I will be dressed immediately. After giving the pistols to Lanigan, desire the grooms and hostlers to saddle all the horses in the stables. We must set out and pursue them. It is possible we may overtake them yet. I will not level a pistol against my child; but, by the great Boyne! if we meet them, come up with them, overtake them, his guilty spirit will stand before the throne of judgment this night. Go now, give the pistols to Lanigan, and tell him to reload them steadily."

We leave them now, in order that we may follow the sheriff and his party, who went to secure the body of the Red Rapparee. This worthy person, not at all aware of the friendly office which his patron, Sir Robert, intended to discharge towards him, felt himself quite safe, and consequently took very little pains to secure his concealment. Indeed, it could hardly be expected that he should, inasmuch as Whitecraft had led him to understand, as we have said, that Government had pardoned him his social trangressions, as a _per contra_ for those political ones which they still expected from him. Such was his own view of the case, although he was not altogether free from misgiving, and a certain vague apprehension. Be this as it may, he had yet to learn a lesson which his employer was not disposed to teach him by any other means than handing him over to the authorities on the following day. How matters might have terminated between him and the baronet it is out of our power to detail.

The man was at all times desperate and dreadful, where either revenge or anger was excited, especially as he labored under the superst.i.tious impression that he was never to be hanged or perish by a violent death, a sentiment then by no means uncommon among persons of his outrageous and desperate life. It has been observed, and with truth, that the Irish Rapparees seldom indulged in the habit of intoxication or intemperance, and this is not at all to be wondered at. The meshes of authority were always spread for them, and the very consciousness of this fact sharpened their wits, and kept them perpetually on their guard against the possibility of arrest. Nor was this all. The very nature of the lawless and outrageous life they led, and their frequent exposure to danger, rendered habits of caution necessary--and those were altogether incompatible with habits of intemperance. Self-preservation rendered this policy necessary, and we believe there are but few instances on record of a Rapparee having been arrested in a state of intoxication.

Their laws, in fact, however barbarous they were in other matters, rendered three cases of drunkenness a cause of expulsion from the gang.

O'Donnel, however, had now relaxed from the rigid observation of his own rules, princ.i.p.ally for the reasons we have already stated--by which we mean, a conviction of his own impunity, as falsely communicated to him by Sir Robert Whitecraft. The sheriff had not at first intended to be personally present at his capture; but upon second consideration he came to the determination of heading the party who were authorized to secure him. This resolution of Oxley's had, as will presently be seen, a serious effect upon the fate and fortunes of the _Cooleen Bawn_ and her lover. The party, who were guided by Tom Steeple, did not go to Mary Mahon's, but to a neighboring cottage, which was inhabited by a distant relative of O'Donnel. A quarrel had taken place between the fortune-teller and him, arising from his jealousy of Sir Robert, which caused such an estrangement as prevented him for some time from visiting her house. Tom Steeple, however, had haunted him as his shadow, without ever coming in contact with him personally, and on this night he had him set as a soho man has a hare in her form. Guided, therefore, by the intelligent idiot and Fergus, the party readied the cottage in which the Rapparee resided. The house was instantly surrounded and the door knocked at, for the party knew that the man was inside.

"Who is there?" asked the old woman who kept the cottage.

"Open the door instantly," said the sheriff, "or we shall smash it in."

"No, I won't," she replied; "no, I won't, you bosthoon, whoever you are.

I never did nothin' agin the laws, bad luck to them, and I won't open my door to any strolling vagabone like you."

"Produce the man we want," said the sheriff, "or we shall arrest you for harboring an outlaw and a murderer. Your house is now surrounded by military, acting under the king's orders."

"Give me time," said the crone; "I was at my prayers when you came to disturb me, and I'll finish them before I open the door, if you were to burn the house over my head, and myself in it. Up," said she to the Rapparee, "through the roof--get that ould table undher your feet--the thatch is thin--slip out and lie on the roof till they go, and then let them whistle jigs to the larks if they like."

The habits of escape peculiar to the Rapparees were well known to Fergus, who cautioned those who surrounded the house to watch the roof.

It was well they did so, for in less-time than we have taken to describe it the body of the Rapparee was seen projecting itself upwards through the thin thatch, and in an instant several muskets were levelled at him, accompanied by instant orders to surrender on pain of being shot. Under such circ.u.mstances there was no alternative, and in a few minutes he was handcuffed and a prisoner. The party then proceeded along the road on which some of the adventures already recorded in this narrative had taken place, when they were met, at a sharp angle of it, by Reilly and his _Cooleen Bawn_, both of whom were almost instantly recognized by the sheriff and his party. Their arrest was immediate.

"Mr. Reilly," said the sheriff, "I am sorry for this. You must feel aware that I neither am or ever was disposed to be your enemy; but I now find you carrying away a Protestant heiress, the daughter of my friend, contrary to the laws of the land, a fact which in itself gives me the power and authority to take you into custody, which I accordingly do in his Majesty's name. I owe you no ill will, but in the meantime you must return with me to Squire Folliard's house. Miss Folliard, you must, as you know me to be your father's friend, consider that I feel it my duty to restore you to him."

"I am not without means of defence," replied Reilly, "but the exercise of such means would be useless. Two of your lives I might take; but yours, Mr. Sheriff, could not be one of them, and that you must feel."

"I feel, Mr. Reilly, that you are a man of honor; and, in point of fact, there is ample apology for your conduct in the exquisite beauty of the young lady who accompanies you; but I must also feel for her father, whose bereavement, occasioned by her loss, would most a.s.suredly break his heart."

Here a deep panting of the bosom, accompanied by violent sobs, was heard by the party, and _Cooleen Bawn_ whispered to Reilly, in a voice nearly stifled by grief and excitement:

"Dear Reilly, I love you; but it was madness in us to take this step; let me return to my father--only let me see him safe?"

"But Whitecraft?"

"Death sooner. Reilly, I am ill, I am ill; this struggle is too much for me. What shall I do? My head is swimming."

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAGE 140--discharged a pistol at our hero]

She had scarcely uttered these words when her father, accompanied by his servants, dashed rapidly up, and c.u.mmiskey, the old huntsman, instantly seized Reilly, exclaiming, "Mr. Reilly, we have you now;" and whilst he spoke, his impetuous old master dashed his horse to one side, and discharged a pistol at our hero, and this failing, he discharged another. Thanks to Lanigan, however, they were both harmless, that worthy man having forgotten to put in bullets, or even as much powder as would singe an ordinary whisker.

"Forbear, sir," exclaimed the sheriff, addressing c.u.mmiskey; "unhand Mr.

Reilly. He is already in custody, and you, Mr. Folliard, may thank G.o.d that you are not a murderer this night. As a father, I grant that an apology may be made for your resentment, but not to the shedding of blood."

"Lanigan! villain! treacherous and deceitful villain!" shouted the squire, "it was your perfidy that deprived me of my revenge. Begone, you sneaking old profligate, and never let me see your face again. You did not load my pistols as you ought."

"No, sir," replied Lanigan, "and I thank G.o.d that I did not. It wasn't my intention to see your honor hanged for murder."

"Mr. Folliard," observed the sheriff, you ought to bless G.o.d that gave you a prudent servant, who had too much conscience to become the instrument of your vengeance. Restrain your resentment for the present, and leave Mr. Reilly to the laws of his country. We shall now proceed to your house, where, as a magistrate, you can commit him to prison, and I will see the warrant executed this night. We have also another prisoner of some celebrity, the Red Rapparee."

"By sun and moon, I'll go bail for him," replied the infuriated squire.

"I like that fellow because Reilly does not. Sir Robert spoke to me in his favor. Yes, I shall go bail for him, to any amount."

"His offence is not a bailable one," said the cool sheriff; "nor, if the thing were possible, would it be creditable in you, as a magistrate, to offer yourself as bail for a common robber, one of the most notorious highwaymen of the day."