A \ B \ C \ D \ E \ F \ G \ H \ I \ J \ K \ L \ M \ N \ O \ P \ R \ S \ T \ U \ V \ W \Z

Willy Reilly by William Carleton

W >> William Carleton >> Willy Reilly




When they had gone, the Rapparee and his companions looked after them
with blank faces for some minutes.

"Well," said their leader, "Reilly has knocked up our game for this
night. Only for him I'd have had a full and sweet revenge. However,
never mind: it'll go hard with me, or I'll have it yet. In the mane time
it won't be often that such another opportunity will come in our way."

"Well, now that it is over, what was your intention, Randal?" asked the
person to whom Reilly had addressed himself.

"Why," replied the miscreant, "after the deed was done, what was to
prevent us from robbing the house to-night, and taking away his daughter
to the mountains. I have long had my eye on her, I can tell you, and
it'll cost me a fall, or I'll have her yet."

"You had better," replied Fergus Reilly, for such was his name, "neither
make nor meddle with that family afther this night. If you do, that
terrible relation of mine will hang you like a dog."

"How will he hang me like a dog?" asked the Rapparee, knitting his
shaggy eyebrows, and turning upon him a fierce and gloomy look.

"Why, now, Randal, you know as well as I do," replied the other, "that
if he only raised his finger against you in the country, the very people
that harbor both you and us would betray us, aye, seize us, and bind us
hand and foot, like common thieves, and give us over to the authorities.
But as for himself, I believe you have sense enough to let him alone.
When you took away Mary Traynor, and nearly kilt her brother, the young
priest--you know they were Reilly's tenants--I needn't tell you what
happened: in four hours' time he had the country up, followed you
and your party--I wasn't with you then, but you know it's truth I'm
spakin'--and when he had five to one against you, didn't he make them
stand aside until he and you should decide it between you? Aye, and you
know he could a' brought home every man of you tied neck and heels, and
would, too, only that there was a large reward offered for the takin'
of you livin' or dead, and he scorned to have any hand in it on that
account."

"It was by a chance blow he hit me," said the Rapparee--"by a chance
blow."

"By a couple dozen chance blows," replied the other; "you know he
knocked you down as fast as ever you got up--I lave it to the boys here
that wor present."

"There's no use in denyin' it, Randal," they replied; "you hadn't a
chance wid him."

"Well, at all events," observed the Rapparee, "if he did beat me, he's
the only man in the country able to do it; but it's not over, curse
him--Ill have another trial with him yet."

"If you take my advice," replied Reilly, "you'll neither make nor meddle
with him. He's the head o' the Catholics in this part of the country,
and you know that; aye, and he's their friend, and uses the friendship
that the Protestants have towards him for their advantage, wherever he
can. The man that would injure Willy Reilly is an enemy to our religion,
as well as to every thing that's good and generous; and mark me, Randal,
if ever you cross him in what he warned you against this very night,
I'll hang you myself, if there wasn't another livin' man to do it, and
to the back o' that again I say you must shed no blood so long as I am
with you."

"That won't be long, then," replied the Rapparee, pulling out a purse;
"there's twenty guineas for you, and go about your business; but take
care, no treachery."

"No," replied the other, "I'll have none of your money; there's blood in
it. God forgive me for ever joinin' you. When I want money I can get
it; as for treachery, there's none of it in my veins; good-night, and
remember my words."

Having thus spoken, he took his way along the same road by which the old
squire and his party went.

"That fellow will betray us," said the Rapparee.

"No," replied his companions firmly, "there never was treachery in his
part of the family; he is not come from any of the Queen's O'Reillys.*
We wish you were as sure of every man you have as you may be of him."

* Catholic families who were faithful and loyal to Queen
Elizabeth during her wars in Ireland were stigmatized by the
nickname of the Queen's friends, to distinguish them from
others of the same name who had opposed her, on behalf of
their religion, in the wars which desolated Ireland during
her reign; a portion of the family of which we write were on
this account designated as the Queen's O'Reillys.

"Well, now," observed their leader, "a thought strikes me; this ould
squire will be half dead all night. At any rate he'll sleep like a top.
Wouldn't it be a good opportunity to attack the house--aise him of his
money, for he's as rich as a Jew--and take away the _Colleen Bawn_?
We'll call at Shane Bearna's** stables on our way and bring the other
boys along wid us. What do you say?"

** Shane Bearna was a celebrated Rapparee, who, among his
other exploits, figured principally as a horse-stealer. He
kept the stolen animals concealed in remote mountain caves,
where he trimmed and dyed them in such a way as made it
impossible to recognize them. These caves are curiosities at
the present day, and are now known as Shane Bearna's
Stables. He was a chief in the formidable gang of the
celebrated Redmond O'Manion. It is said of him that he was
called Bearna because he never had any teeth; but tradition
tells us that he could, notwithstanding, bite a piece out of
a thin plate of iron with as much ease as if it were
gingerbread.

"Why, that you'll hang yourself, and every man of us."

"Nonsense, you cowardly dogs," replied their leader indignantly; "can't
we lave the country?"

"Well, if you're bent on it," replied his followers, "we won't be your
hindrance."

"We can break up, and be off to America," he added.

"But what will you do with the _Cooleen Bawn_, if you take her?" they
asked.

"Why, lave her behind us, afther showin' the party creature the inside
of Shane Bearea's stables. She'll be able to find her way back to her
father's, never fear. Come, boys, now or never. To say the truth, the
sooner we get out of the country, at all events, the better."

The Rapparee and his men had moved up to the door of the old chapel
already alluded to, whilst this conversation went on; and now that their
dreadful project had been determined on, they took a short cut
across the moors, in order to procure additional assistance for its
accomplishment.

No sooner had they gone, however, than an individual, who had been
concealed in the darkness within, came stealthily to the door, and
peeping cautiously out, at length advanced a few steps and looked
timidly about him. Perceiving that the coast was clear, he placed
himself under the shadow of the old walls--for there was now sufficient
light to cast a shadow from any prominent object; and from thence having
observed the direction which the Rapparee and his men took, without
any risk of being seen himself, he appeared satisfied. The name of
this individual--who, although shrewd and cunning in many things,
was nevertheless deficient in reason--or rather the name by which he
generally went, was Tom Steeple, a _sobriquet_ given to him on account
of a predominant idea which characterized and influenced his whole
conversation. The great delight of this poor creature was to be
considered the tallest individual in the kingdom, and indeed nothing
could be more amusing than to witness the manner in which he held up his
head while he walked, or sat, or stood. In fact his walk was a complete
strut, to which the pride, arising from the consciousness of, or rather
the belief in, his extraordinary height gave an extremely ludicrous
appearance. Poor Tom was about five feet nine in height, but imagined
himself to be at least a foot higher. His whole family were certainly
tall, and one of the greatest calamities of the poor fellow's life was
a bitter reflection that he himself was by several inches the lowest of
his race. This was the only exception he made with respect to height,
but so deeply did it affect him that he could scarcely ever allude to it
without shedding tears. The life he had was similar in most respects
to that of his unhappy class. He wandered about through the country,
stopping now at one farmer's house, and now at another's, where he
always experienced a kind reception, because he was not only amusing
and inoffensive, but capable of making himself useful as a messenger and
drudge. He was never guilty of a dishonest act, nor ever known to commit
a breach of trust; and as a quick messenger, his extraordinary speed of
foot rendered him unrivalled. His great delight, however, was to attend
sportsmen, to whom he was invaluable as a guide and director. Such
was his wind and speed of foot that, aided by his knowledge of what is
termed the lie of the country, he was able to keep up with any pack of
hounds that ever went out. As a _soho_ man he was unrivalled. The form
of every hare for miles about was known to him, and if a fox or a covey
of partridges were to be found at all, he was your man. In wild-fowl
shooting he was infallible. No pass of duck, widgeon, barnacle, or
curlew, was unknown to him. In fact, his principal delight was to attend
the gentry of the country to the field, either with harrier, foxhound,
or setter. No coursing match went right if Torn were not present; and
as for night shooting, his eye and ear were such as, for accuracy of
observation, few have ever witnessed. It is true he could subsist a
long time without food, but, like the renowned Captain Dalgetty, when an
abundance of it happened to be placed before him, he displayed the most
indefensible ignorance as to all knowledge of the period when he ought
to stop, considering it his bounden duty on all occasions to clear off
whatever was set before him--a feat which he always accomplished with
the most signal success.

"Aha" exclaimed Tom, "dat Red Rapparee is tall man, but not tall as Tom;
him no steeple like Tom; but him rogue and murderer, an' Tom honest;
him won't carry off _Cooleen Bawn_ dough, nor rob her fader avder.
Come, Tom, Steeple Tom, out with your two legs, one afore toder, and
put Rapparee's nose out o' joint. _Cooleen Bawn_ dats good to everybody,
Catlieks (Catholics) an' all, an' often ordered Tom many a bully dinner.
Hicko! hicko! be de bones of Peter White--off I go!"

Tom, like many other individuals of his description, was never able
to get over the language of childhood--a characteristic which is often
appended to the want of reason, and from which, we presume, the term
"innocent" has been applied in an especial manner to those who are
remarkable for the same defect.

Having uttered the words we have just recited, he started off at a gait,
peculiar to fools, which is known by the name of "a sling trot," and
after getting out upon the old road he turned himself in the direction
which Willy Reilly and his party had taken, and there we beg to leave
him for the present.

The old squire felt his animal heat much revived by the warmth of the
frieze coat, and his spirits, now that the dreadful scene into which he
had been so unexpectedly cast had passed away without danger, began to
rise so exuberantly that his conversation became quite loquacious and
mirthful, if not actually, to a certain extent, incoherent.

"Sir," said he, "you must come home with me--confound me, but you
must, and you needn't say nay, now, for I shall neither take excuse nor
apology. I am a hospitable man, Mr.--what's this your name is?"

"My name, sir," replied the other, "is Reilly--William Reilly, or, as
I am more generally called, Willy Reilly. The name, sir, though an
honorable one, is, in this instance, that of an humble man, but one who,
I trust, will never disgrace it."

"You must come home with me, Mr. Reilly. Not a word now."

"Such is my intention, sir," replied Reilly. "I shall not leave you
until I see that all risk of danger is past--until I place you safely
under your own roof."

"Well, now," continued the old squire, "I believe a Papist can be a
gentleman--a brave man--a man of honor, Mr. Reilly."

"I am not aware that there is any thing in his religion to make him
either dishonorable or cowardly, sir," replied Reilly with a smile.

"No matter," continued the other, who found a good deal of difficulty
in restraining his prejudices on that point, no matter, sir, no
matter, Mr.--a--a--oh, yes, Reilly, we will have nothing to do with
religion--away with it--confound religion, sir, if it prevents one man
from being thankful, and grateful too, to another, when that other
has saved his life. What's your state and condition in society, Mr.--?
confound the scoundrel! he'd have shot me. We must hang that fellow--the
Red Rapparee they call him--a dreadful scourge to the country; and,
another thing, Mr.--Mr. Mahon--you must come to my daughter's wedding.
Not a word now--by the great Boyne, you must. Have you ever seen my
daughter, sir?"

"I have never had that pleasure," replied Reilly, "but I have heard
enough of her wonderful goodness and beauty."

"Well, sir, I tell you to your teeth that I deny your words--you have
stated a falsehood, sir--a lie, sir."

"What do you mean, sir?" replied Reilly, somewhat indignantly. "I am not
in the habit of stating a falsehood, nor of submitting tamely to such an
imputation."

"Ha, ha, ha, I say it's a lie still, my friend. What did you say? Why,
that you had heard enough of her goodness and beauty. Now, sir, by the
banks of the Boyne, I say you didn't hear half enough of either one or
other. Sir, you should know her, for although you are a Papist you are
a brave man, and a gentleman. Still, sir, a Papist is not--curse it,
this isn't handsome of me, Willy. I beg your pardon. Confound all
religions if it goes to that. Still at the same time I'm bound to say
as a loyal man that Protestantism is my forte, Mr. Reilly--there's where
I'm strong, a touch of Hercules about me there, Mr. Reilly--Willy,
I mean. Well, you are a thorough good fellow, Papist and all, though
you--ahem!--never mind though, you shall see my daughter, and you shall
hear my daughter; for, by the great Boyne, she must salute the man that
saved her father's life, and prevented her from being an orphan. And yet
see, Willy, I love that girl to such a degree that if heaven was open
for me this moment, and that Saint Peter--hem!--I mean the Apostle
Peter, slid to me, 'Come, Folliard, walk in, sir,' by the great
Deliverer that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money, and--ahem! I
beg your pardon--well, I say if he was to say so, I wouldn't leave her.
There's affection for you; but she deserves it. No, if ever a girl was
capable of keeping an old father from heaven she is."

"I understand your meaning, sir," replied Reilly with a smile, "and
I believe she is loved by every one who has the pleasure of knowing
her--by rich and poor."

"Troth, Mr. Reilly," observed Andy, "it's a sin for any one to let
their affections, even for one of their own childer, go between them and
heaven. As for the masther, he makes a god of her. To be sure if ever
there was an angel in this world she is one."

"Get out, you old whelp," exclaimed his master; "what do you know about
it?--you who never had wife or child? isn't she my only child?--the
apple of my eye? the love of my heart?"

"If you loved her so well you wouldn't make her unhappy then."

"What do you mean, you despicable old Papist?"

"I mean that you wouldn't marry her to a man she doesn't like, as you're
goin' to do. That's a bad way to make her happy, at any rate."

"Overlook the word Papist, Mr. Reilly, that I applied to that old
idolater--the fellow worships images; of course you know, as a Papist,
he does--ahem!--but to show you that I don't hate the Papist without
exception, I beg to let you know, sir, that I frequently have the Papist
priest of our parish to dine with me; and if that isn't liberality the
devil's in it. Isn't that true, you superstitious old Padareen? No, Mr.
Reilly, Mr. Mahon--Willy, I mean--I'm a liberal man, and I hope we'll
be all saved yet, with the exception of the Pope--ahem! yes, I hope we
shall all be saved."

"Throth, sir," said Andy, addressing himself to Reilly, "he's a quare
gentleman, this. He's always abusing the Papists, as he calls us, and
yet for every Protestant servant undher his roof he has three Papists,
as he calls us. His bark, sir, is worse than his bite, any day."

"I believe it," replied Reilly in a low voice, "and it's a pity that
a good and benevolent man should suffer these idle prejudices to sway
him."

"Divil a bit they sway him, sir," replied Andy; "he'll damn and abuse
them and their religion, and yet he'll go any length to serve one o'
them, if they want a friend, and has a good character. But here, now
we're at the gate of the avenue, and you'll soon see the _Cooleen Bawn_"

"Hallo!" the squire shouted out, "what the devil! are you dead or asleep
there? Brady, you Papist scoundrel, why not open the gate?"

The porter's wife came out as he uttered the words, saying, "I beg your
honor's pardon. Ned is up at the Castle;" and whilst speaking she opened
the gate.

"Ha, Molly!" exclaimed her master in a tone of such bland good nature as
could not for a moment be mistaken; "well, Molly, how is little Mick? Is
he better, poor fellow?"

"He is, thank God, and your honor."

"Hallo, Molly," said the squire, laughing, "that's Popery again. You are
thanking God and me as if we were intimate acquaintances. None of that
foolish Popish nonsense. When you thank God, thank him; and when you
thank me, why thank me; but don't unite us, as you do him and your
Popish saints, for I tell you, Molly, I'm no saint; God forbid! Tell the
doctorman to pay him every attention, and to send his bill to me when
the child is properly recovered; mark that--properly recovered."

A noble avenue, that swept along with two or three magnificent bends,
brought them up to a fine old mansion of the castellated style, where
the squire and his two equestrian attendants dismounted, and were
ushered into the parlor, which they found brilliantly lighted up with
a number of large wax tapers. The furniture of the room was exceedingly
rich, but somewhat curious and old-fashioned. It was such, however, as
to give ample proof of great wealth and comfort, and, by the heat of a
large peat fire which blazed in the capacious hearth, it communicated
that sense of warmth which was in complete accordance with the general
aspect of the apartment. An old gray-haired butler, well-powdered,
together with two or three other servants in rich livery, now entered,
and the squire's first inquiry was after his daughter.

"John," said he to the butler, "how is your mistress?" but, without
waiting for a reply, he added, "here are twenty pounds, which you will
hand to those fine fellows at the hall-door."

"Pardon me, sir," replied Reilly, "those men are my tenants, and the
sons of my tenants: they have only performed towards you a duty, which
common humanity would require at their hands towards the humblest person
that lives."

"They must accept it, Mr. Reilly--they must have it--they are humble
men--and as it is only the reward of a kind office, I think it is justly
due to them. Here, John, give them the money."

It was in vain that Reilly interposed; the old squire would not listen
to him. John was, accordingly, dispatched to the hall steps, but found
that they had all gone.

At this moment our friend Toni Steeple met the butler, whom he
approached with a kind of wild and uncouth anxiety.

"Aha! Mista John," said he, "you tall man too, but not tall as
Tom Steeple--ha, ha--you good man too, Mista John--give Tom bully
dinners--Willy Reilly, Mista John, want to see Willy Reilly."

"What do you want with him, Tom? he's engaged with the master."

"Must see him, Mista John; stitch in time saves nine. Hicko! hicko!
God's sake, Mista John: God's sake! Up dere;" and as he spoke he pointed
towards the sky.

"Well, but what is your business, then? What have you to say to him?
He's engaged, I tell you."

Tom, apprehensive that he might not get an opportunity of communicating
with Reilly, bolted in, and as the parlor door stood open, he saw him
standing near the large chimney-piece.

"Willy Reilly!" he exclaimed in a voice that trembled with earnestness,
"Willy Reilly, dere's news for you--for de squire too--bad news--God's
sake come wid Tom--you tall too, Willy Reilly, but not tall as Tom is."

"What is the matter, Tom?" asked Reilly; "you look alarmed."

"God's sake, here, Willy Reilly," replied the kind-hearted fool, "come
wid Tom. Bad news."

"Hallo!" exclaimed the squire, "what is the matter? Is this Tom Steeple?
Go to the kitchen, Tom, and get one of your 'bully dinners'--my poor
fellow--off with you--and a pot of beer, Tom."

An expression of distress, probably heightened by his vague and
unconscious sense of the squire's kindness, was depicted strongly on his
countenance, and ended in a burst of tears.

"Ha!" exclaimed Reilly, "poor Tom, sir, was with us to-night on our
duck-shooting excursion, and, now that I remember, remained behind us
in the old ruin--and then he is in tears. What can this mean? I will go
with you, Tom--excuse me, sir, for a few minutes--there can be no harm
in hearing what he has to say."

He accompanied the fool, with whom he remained for about six or eight
minutes, after which he re-entered the parlor with a face which strove
in vain to maintain its previous expression of ease and serenity.

"Well, Willy?" said the squire--"you see, by the way, I make an old
acquaintance of you--"

"You do me honor, sir," replied Reilly. "Well, what was this mighty
matter? Not a fool's message, I hope? eh!"

"No, sir," said the other, "but a matter of some importance."

"John," asked his master, as the butler entered, "did you give those
worthy fellows the money?"

"No, your honor," replied the other, they were gone before I went out."

"Well, well," replied his master, "it can't be helped. You will excuse
me, Mr.--a--a--yes--Mr. Reilly--Willy--Willy--ay, that's it--you will
excuse me, Willy, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is,
neither of us is in a proper trim to go there--both travel-soiled, as
they say--you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride--besides, I
am quite too much fatigued to change my dress--John, some Madeira. I'm
better than I was--but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John,
tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the
Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A glass or two will do
neither of us any harm, Willy, but a great deal of good. God bless me!
what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my
young friend and preserver--for as such I will ever look upon, you."

"Sir," replied Reilly, "I will not deny that the appearance of myself
and my companions, in all probability, saved your life."

"There was no probability in it, Willy--none at all; it would have
been a dead certainty in every sense. My God! here, John--put it down
here--fill for that gentleman and me--thank you, John--Willy," he said
as he took the glass in his trembling hand--"Willy--John, withdraw and
send down, my daughter--Willy"--the old man looked at him, but was too
full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room,
and her father, laying down the glass, opened his arms, and said in a
choking voice, "Helen, my daughter--my child--come to me;" and as she
threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.

"Dear papa!" she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over,
"what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?"

"Look at that noble young man," he exclaimed, directing her attention to
Reilly, who was still standing. "Look at him, my life, and observe him
well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from
the deadly aim of an assassin--from being murdered by O'Donnel, the Red
Rapparee, in the lonely moors."

Reilly, from the moment the far-famed _Cooleen Dawn_ entered the room,
heard not a syllable the old man had said. He was absorbed, entranced,
struck with a sensation of wonder, surprise, agitation, joy, and
confusion, all nearly at the same moment. Such a blaze of beauty,
such elegance of person, such tenderness and feeling as chastened
the radiance of her countenance into something that might be termed
absolutely divine; such symmetry of form; such harmony of motion; such
a seraphic being in the shape of woman, he had, in fact, never seen or
dreamt of. She seemed as if surrounded by an atmosphere of light, of
dignity, of goodness, of grace; but that which, above all, smote
him, heart on, the moment was the spirit of tenderness and profound
sensibility which seemed to predominate in her whole being. Why did his
manly and intrepid heart palpitate? Why did such a strange confusion
seize upon him? Why did the few words which she uttered in her father's
arms fill his ears with a melody that charmed him out of his strength?
Alas! is it necessary to ask? To those who do not understand this
mystery, no explanation could be of any avail; and to those who do, none
is necessary.

Copyright (c) 2007. bestextbooks.com. All rights reserved.

Ithamar Howell - "A Review of the Resources and Industries of the State of Washington, 1909"

Revised by Alexander Leighton - "Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume XXIV."

George Gordon Noel Byron - "Fugitive Pieces"

Everett Titsworth Tomlinson - "Winning His W"