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Willy Reilly by William Carleton

W >> William Carleton >> Willy Reilly




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."

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