With his usual impetuosity, however, when laboring6 under what he supposed to be a sense of injury, he soon brought matters to a crisis.
“Sir Robert,” said he, “are the Papists quiet now?”
“They are quiet, sir,” replied the other, “because they dare not be otherwise.”
“By the great Deliverer, that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass7 money and wooden shoes, I think the country will never be quiet till they are banished8 out of it.”
“Indeed, Mr. Folliard, I agree with you.”
“And so do I, Sir Robert,” said Reilly. “I wish from my soul there was not a Papist, as you call them, in this unfortunate country! In any other country beyond the bounds of the British dominions9 they could enjoy freedom. But I wish it for another reason, gentlemen; if they were gone, you would then be taught to your cost the value of your estates and the source of your incomes. And now, Mr. Folliard, I am not conscious of having given you any earthly offence, but I cannot possibly pretend to misunderstand the object of your altered conduct and language. I am your guest, at your own express invitation. You know I am a Roman Catholic—Papist, if you will—yet, with the knowledge of this, you have not only insulted me personally, but also in the creed10 to which I belong. As for that gentleman, I can only say that this roof and the presence of those who are under it constitute his protection. But I envy not the man who could avail himself of such a position, for the purpose of insinuating11 an insult which he dare not offer under other circumstances. I will not apologize for taking my departure, for I feel that I have been too long here.”
Cooleen Bawn arose in deep agitation12. “Dear papa, what is this?” she exclaimed. “What can be the cause of it? Why forget the laws of hospitality? Why, above all things, deliberately13 insult the man to whom you and I both owe so much? Oh, I cannot understand it. Some demon14, equally cowardly and malignant15, must have poisoned your own naturally generous mind. Some villain16, equally profligate17 and hypocritical, has, for some dark purpose, given this unworthy bias18 to your mind.”
“You know nothing of it, Helen. You're altogether in the dark, girl; but in a day or two it will all be made clear to you.”
“Do not be discomposed, my dear Miss Folliard,” said Sir Robert, striding over to her. “Allow me to prevail upon you to suspend your judgment19 for a little, and to return to the beautiful air you were enchanting20 us with.”
As he spoke21 he attempted to take her hand. Reilly, in the meantime, was waiting for an opportunity to bid his love goodnight.
Page 35-- Touch Me Not, Sir
“Touch me not, sir,” she replied, her glorious eyes flashing with indignation. “I charge you as the base cause of drawing down the disgrace of shame, the sin of ingratitude22, on my father's head. But here that father stands, and there you, sir, stand; and sooner than become the wife of Sir Robert Whitecraft I would dash myself from the battlements of this castle. William Reilly, brave and generous young man, goodnight! It matters not who may forget the debt of gratitude23 which this family owe you—I will not. No cowardly slanderer24 shall instil25 his poisonous calumnies26 against you into my ear. My opinion of you is unchanged and unchangeable. Farewell! William Relly!”
We shall not attempt to describe the commotions27 of love, of happiness, of rapture28, which filled Reilly's bosom29 as he took his departure. As for Cooleen Bawn, she had now passed the Rubicon, and there remained nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the result what it might. She had, indeed, much of the vehemence30 of her father's character in her; much of his unchangeable purpose, when she felt or thought she was right; but not one of his unfounded whims31 or prejudices; for she was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced by unbecoming or inadequate32 motives33. With an indignant but beautiful scorn, that gave grace to resentment34, she bowed to the baronet, then kissed her father affectionately and retired35.
The old man, after she had gone, sat for a considerable time silent. In fact, the superior force of his daughter's character had not only surprised, but overpowered him for the moment. The baronet attempted to resume the conversation, but he found not his intended father-in-law in the mood for it. The light of truth, as it flashed from the spirit of his daughter, seemed to dispel36 the darkness of his recent suspicions; he dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude with a temporary remorse37.
“I cannot speak to you, Sir Robert,” he said; “I am confused, disturbed, distressed38. If I have treated that young man ungratefully, God may forgive me, but I will never forgive myself.”
“Take care, sir,” said the baronet, “that you are not under the spell of the Jesuit and your daughter too. Perhaps you will find, when it is too late, that she is the more spellbound of the two. If I don't mistake, the spell begins to work already. In the meantime, as Miss Folliard will have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night, sir;” and as he spoke he took his departure.
For a long time the old man sat looking into the fire, where he began gradually to picture to himself strange forms and objects in the glowing embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee about to shoot him; another, Willy Reilly making love to his daughter; and behind all, a high gallows39, on which he beheld40 the said Reilly hanging for his crime.
In about an hour afterwards Miss Folliard returned to the drawing-room, where she found her father asleep in his arm-chair. Having awakened41 him gently from what appeared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and, forgetting for a moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. In a few moments, however, he recollected43 the circumstances that had taken place, and after heaving a deep sigh, he opened his arms for his daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears.
“Helen,” said he, “I am unhappy; I am distressed; I know not what to do!—may God forgive me if I have treated this young man with ingratitude. But, at all events, a few days will clear it all up.”
His daughter was melted by the depth of his sorrow, and the more so as it was seldom she had seen him shed tears before.
“I would do every thing—anything to make you happy, my dear treasure,” said he, “if I only knew how.”
“Dear papa,” she replied, “of that I am conscious; and as a proof that the heart of your daughter is incapable44 of veiling a single thought that passes in it from a parent who loves her so well, I will place its most cherished secret in your own keeping. I shall not be outdone even by you, dear papa, in generosity45, in confidence, in affection. Papa,” she added, placing her head upon his bosom, whilst the tears flowed fast down her cheeks, “papa, I love William Reilly—love him with a pure and disinterested47 passion!—with a passion which I feel constitutes my destiny in this life—either for happiness or misery48. That passion is irrevocable. It is useless to ask me to control or suppress it, for I feel that the task is beyond my power. My love, however, is not base nor selfish, papa, but founded on virtue49 and honor. It may seem strange that I should make such a confession50 to you, for I know it is un—usual in young persons like me to do so; but remember, dear papa, that except yourself I have no friend. If I had a mother, or a sister, or a cousin of my own sex, to whom I might confide46 and unburden my feelings, then indeed it is not probable I would make to you the confession which I have made; but we are alone, and you are the only being left me on whom can rest my sorrow—for indeed my heart is full of sorrow.”
“Well, well, I know not what to say. You are a true girl, Helen, and the very error, if it be one, is diminished by the magnanimity and truth which prompted you to disclose it to me. I will go to bed, dearest, and sleep if I can. I trust in God there is no calamity51 about to overshadow our house or destroy our happiness.”
He then sought his own chamber52; and Cooleen Bawn, after attending him thither53, left him to the care of his attendant and retired herself to her apartment.
On reaching home Reilly found Fergus, one of his own relatives, as we have said, the same who, warned by his remonstrances54, had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, waiting to see him.
“Well, Fergus,” said he, “I am glad that you have followed my advice. You have left the lawless employment of that blood-stained man?”
“I have,” replied the other, “and I'm here to tell you that you can now secure him if you like. I don't look upon sayin' this as treachery to him, nor would I mention it only that Pavideen, the smith, who shoes and doctors his horses, tould me something that you ought to know.”
“Well, Fergus, what is it?”
“There's a plot laid, sir, to send you out o' the country, and the Red Rapparee has a hand in it. He is promised a pardon from government, and some kind of a place as thief-taker, if he'll engage in it against you. Now, you know, there's a price upon his head, and, if you like, you can have it, and get an enemy put out of your way at the same time.”
“No, Fergus,” replied Keilly; “in a moment of indignation I threatened him in order to save the life of a fellow-creature. But let the laws deal with him. As for me, you know what he deserves at my hands, but I shall never become the hound of a government which oppresses me unjustly. No, no, it is precisely55 because a price is laid upon the unfortunate miscreant's head that I would not betray him.”
“He will betray you, then.”
“And let him. I have never violated any law, and even though he should betray me, Fergus, he cannot make me guilty. To the laws, to God, and his own conscience, I leave him. No, Fergus, all sympathy between me and the laws that oppress us is gone. Let them vindicate56 themselves against thieves and robbers and murderers, with as much vigilance and energy as they do against the harmless forms of religion and the rights of conscience, and the country will soon be free from such licentious57 pests as the Red Rapparee and his gang.”
“You speak warmly, Mr. Reilly.”
“Yes,” replied Keilly, “I am warm, I am indignant at my degradation58. Fergus, Fergus, I never felt that degradation and its consequences so deeply as I do this unhappy night.”'
“Well, will you listen to me?”
“I will strive to do so; but you know not the—you know not—alas! I have no language to express what I feel. Proceed, however,” he added, attempting to calm the tumult59 that agitated60 his heart; “what about this plot or plan for putting me out of the country?”
“Well, sir, it's determined61 on to send you, by the means of the same laws you speak of, out of the country. The red villain is to come in with a charge against you and surrender himself to government as a penitent62 man, and the person who is to protect him is Sir Robert Whitecraft.”
“It's all time, Fergus,” said Reilly; “I see it at a glance, and understand it a great deal better than you do. They may, however, be disappointed. Fergus, I have a friend—friend—oh, such a friend! and it will go hard with that friend, or I shall hear of their proceedings63. In the meantime, what do you intend to do?”
“I scarcely know,” replied the other. “I must lie quiet for a while, at any rate.”
“Do so,” said Reilly; “and listen, Fergus. See Paudeen, the smith, from time to time, and get whatever he knows out of him. His father was a tenant64 of ours, and he ought to remember our kindness to him and his.”
“Ay,” said Fergus, “and he does too.”
“Well, it is clear he does. Get from him all the information you can, and let me hear it. I would give you shelter in my house, but that now would be dangerous both to you and me. Do you want money to support you?”
“Well, indeed, Mr. Reilly, I do and I do not. I can—”
“That's enough,” said Reilly; “you want it. Here, take this. I would recommend you, as I did before, to leave this unhappy country; but as circumstances have turned out, you may for some time yet be useful to me. Good-night, then, Fergus. Serve me in this matter as far as you can, for I stand in need of it.”
As nothing like an organized police existed in Ireland at the period of which we speak, an outlaw65 or Rapparee might have a price laid upon his head for months—nay, for years—and yet continue his outrages66 and defy the executive. Sometimes it happened that the authorities, feeling the weakness of their resources and the inadequacy67 of their power, did not hesitate to propose terms to the leaders of these banditti, and, by affording them personal protection, succeeded in inducing them to betray their former associates. Now Reilly was well aware of this, and our readers need not be surprised that the communication made to him by his kinsman68 filled him not only with anxiety but alarm. A very slight charge indeed brought forward by a man of rank and property—such a charge, for instance, as the possession of firearms—was quite sufficient to get a Roman Catholic banished the country.
On the third evening after this our friend Tom Steeple was met by its proprietor69 in the avenue leading to Corbo Castle.
“Well, Tom,” said the squire, “are you for the Big House?” for such is the general term applied70 to all the ancestral mansions71 of the country.
Tom stopped and looked at him—for we need scarcely observe here that with poor Tom there was no respect of persons; he then shook his head and replied, “Me don't know whether you tall or not. Tom tall—will Tom go to Big House—get bully72 dinnel—and Tom sleep under the stairs—eh? Say aye, an' you be tall too.”
“To be sure, Tom; go into the house, and your cousin Larry Lanigan, the cook, will give you a bully dinner; and sleep where you like.”
The squire walked up and down the avenue in a thoughtful mood for some moments until another of our characters met him on his way towards the entrance gate. This person was no other than Molly Mahon.
“Ha!” said he, “here is another of them—well, poor devils, they must live. This, though, is the great fortune-teller. I will try her.”
“God save your honor,” said Molly, as she approached him and dropped a courtesy.
“Ah, Molly,” said he, “you can see into the future, they say. Well, come now, tell me my fortune; but they say one must cross your palm with silver before you can manage the fates; here's a shilling for you, and let us hear what you have to say.”
“No, sir,” replied Molly, putting back his hand, “imposthors may do that, because they secure themselves first and tell you nothing worth knowin' afterwards. I take no money till I first tell the fortune.”
“Well, Molly, that's honest at all events; let me hear what you have to tell me.”
“Show me your hand, sir,” said she, and taking it, she looked into it with a solemn aspect. “There, sir,” she said, “that will do. I am sorry I met you this evening.”
“Why so, Molly?”
“Because I read in your hand a great deal of sorrow.”
“Pooh, you foolish woman—nonsense!”
“There's a misfortune likely to happen to one of your family; but I think it may be prevented.”
“How will it be prevented?”
“By a gentleman that has a title and great wealth, and that loves the member of your family that the misfortune is likely to happen to.”
The squire paused and looked at the woman, who seemed to speak seriously, and even with pain.
“I don't believe a word of it, Molly; but granting that it be true, how do you know it?”
“That's more than I can tell myself, sir,” she replied. “A feelin' comes over me, and I can't help speakin' the words as they rise to my lips.”
“Well, Molly, here's a shilling for you now; but I want you to see my daughter's hand till I hear what you have to say for her. Are you a Papist, Molly?”
“No, your honor, I was one wanst; but the moment we take to this way of life we mustn't belong to any religion, otherwise we couldn't tell the future.”
“Sell yourself to the devil, eh?”
“Oh, no, sir; but—”
“But what? Out with it.”
“I can't, sir; if I did, I never could tell a fortune agin.”
“Well—well; come up; I have taken a fancy that you shall tell my daughter's for all that.”
“Surely there can be nothing but happiness before her, sir; she that is so good to the poor and distressed; she that has all the world admirin' her wonderful beauty. Sure, they say, her health was drunk in the Lord Lieutenant's house in the great Castle of Dublin, as the Lily of the Plains of Boyle and the Star of Ireland.”
“And so it was, Molly, and so it was; there's another shilling for you. Come now, come up to the house, and tell her fortune; and mark me, Molly, no flattery now—nothing but the truth, if you know it.”
“Did I flatter you, sir?”
“Upon my honor, any thing but that, Molly; and all I ask is that you won't flatter her. Speak the truth, as I said before, if you know it.”
Miss Folliard, on being called down by her father to have her fortune told, on seeing Molly, drew back and said, “Do not ask me to come in direct contact with this woman, papa. How can you, for one moment, imagine that a person of her life and habits could be gifted with that which has never yet been communicated to mortal (the holy prophets excepted)—a knowledge of futurity?”
“No matter, my darling, no matter; give her your hand; you will oblige and gratify me.”
“Here, then, dear papa, to please you—certainly.”
Molly took her lovely hand, and having looked into it, said, turning to the squire, “It's very odd, sir, but here's nearly the same thing that I tould to you awhile ago.”
“Well, Molly,” said he, “let us hear it.”
Miss Folliard stood with her snowy hand in that of the fortune-teller, perfectly73 indifferent to her art, but not without strong feelings of disgust at the ordeal74 to which she submitted.
“Now, Molly,” said the squire, “what have you to say?”
“Here's love,” she replied, “love in the wrong direction—a false step is made that will end in misery—and—and—and—”
“And what, woman?” asked Miss Folliard, with an indignant glance at the fortune-teller. “What have you to add?”
“No!” said she, “I needn't speak it, for it won't come to pass. I see a man of wealth and title who will just come in in time to save you from shame and destruction, and with him you will be happy.”
“I could prove to you,” replied the Cooleen Dawn, her face mantling75 with blushes of indignation, “that I am a better prophetess than you are. Ask her, papa, where she last came from.”
“Where did you come from last, Molly?” he asked.
“Why, then,” she replied, “from Jemmy Hamilton's at the foot of Cullaniore.”
“False prophetess,” replied the Cooleen Bawn, “you have told an untruth. I know where you came from last.”
“Then where did I come from, Miss Folliard?” said the woman, with unexpected effrontery76.
“From Sir Robert Whitecraft,” replied Miss Folliard, “and the wages of your dishonesty and his corruption77 are the sources of your inspiration. Take the woman away, papa.”
“That will do, Molly—that will do,” exclaimed the squire, “there is something' additional for you. What you have told us is very odd—very odd, indeed. Go and get your dinner in the kitchen.”
Miss Folliard then withdrew to her own room.
Between eleven and twelve o'clock that night a carriage drew up at the grand entrance of Corbo Castle, out of which stepped Sir Robert Whitecraft and no less a personage than the Red Rapparee. They approached the hall door, and after giving a single knock, it was opened to them by the squire himself, who it would seem had been waiting to receive them privately78. They followed him in silence to his study.
Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by no means so. Of a nervous and plethoric79 habit, though brave, and even intrepid80, yet he was easily affected81 by anything or any person that was disagreeable to him. On seeing the man whose hand had been raised against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating82 sensation of rage and horror that nearly overcame him.
“Sir Robert,” he said, “excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened me. I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have suffered him to come here; under your protection, too. May God forgive me for it! The room is too close—I feel unwell—pray open the door.”
“Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?” said the baronet.
“None in the world! I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour ago. Indeed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless when I have company.”
Sir Robert then opened the door—that is to say, he left it a little more than ajar, and returning again took his seat.
“Don't let the sight of me frighten you, sir,” said the Rapparee. “I never was your enemy nor intended you harm.”
“Frighten me!” replied the courageous83 old squire; “no, sir, I am not a man very easily frightened; but I will confess that the sight of you has sickened me and filled me with horror.”
“Well, now, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “let this matter, this misunderstanding, this mistake, or rather this deep and diabolical84 plot on the part of the Jesuit, Reilly, be at once cleared up. We wish, that is to say I wish, to prevent your good nature from being played upon by a designing villain. Now, O'Donnel, relate, or rather disclose, candidly85 and truly, all that took place with respect to this damnable plot between you and Reilly.”
“Why, the thing, sir,” said the Rapparee, addressing himself to the squire, “is very plain and simple; but, Sir Robert, it was not a plot between me and Reilly—the plot was his own. It appears that he saw your daughter and fell desperately86 in love with her, and knowin' your strong feeling against Catholics, he gave up all hopes of being made acquainted with Miss Folliard, or of getting into her company. Well, sir, aware that you were often in the habit of goin' to the town of Boyle, he comes to me and says in the early part of the day, 'Randal, I will give you fifty goolden guineas if you help me in a plan I have in my head.' Now, fifty goolden guineas isn't easily earned; so I, not knowing what the plan was at the time, tould him I could not say nothing till I heard it. He then tould me that he was over head and ears in love with your daughter, and that have her he should if it cost him his life. 'Well,' says I, 'and how can I help you?' 'Why,' said he, 'I'll show you that: her ould persecuting87 scoundrel of a father'—excuse me, sir—I'm givin' his own words—”
“I believe it, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “for these are the identical terms in which he told me the story before; proceed, O'Donnel.”
“'The ould scoundrel of a father,' says he, 'on his return from Boyle, generally comes by the ould road, because it is the shortest cut. Do you and your men lie in wait in the ruins of the ould chapel88, near Loch na Garran'—it is called so, sir, because they say there's a wild horse in it that comes out of moonlight nights to feed on the patches of green that are here and there among the moors—'near Loch na Gaitan,' says he; 'and when he gets that far turn out upon him, charge him with transportin' your uncle, and when you are levellin' your gun at him, I will come, by the way, and save him. You and I must speak angry to one another, you know; then, of course, I must see him home, and he can't do less than ask me to dine with him. At all events, thinkin' that I saved his life, we will become acquainted.'”
The squire paused and mused89 for some time, and then asked, “Was there no more than this between you and him?”
“Nothing more, sir.”
“And tell me, did he pay you the money?”
“Here it is,” replied the Rapparee, pulling out a rag in which were the precise number of guineas mentioned.
“But,” said the squire, “we lost our way in the fog.”
“Yes, sir,” said the Rapparee. “Everything turned out in his favor. That made very little difference. You would have been attacked in or about that place, whether or not.”
“Yes, but did you not attack my house that night? Did not you yourself come down by the skylight, and enter, by violence, into my daughter's apartment?”
“Well, when I heard of that, sir, I said, 'I give Reilly up for ingenuity90.' No, sir, that was his own trick; but afther all it was a bad one, and tells aginst itself. Why, sir, neither I nor any of my men have the power of makin' ourselves invisible. Do you think, sir—I put it to your own common-sense—that if we had been there no one would have seen us? Wasn't the whole country for miles round searched and scoured91, and I ask you, sir, was there hilt or hair of me or any one of my men seen or even heard of? Sir Robert, I must be going now,” he added. “I hope Squire Folliard understands what kind of a man Reilly is. As for myself, I have nothing more to say.”
“Don't go yet, O'Donnel,” said Whitecraft; “let us determine what is to be done with him. You see clearly it is necessary, Mr. Folliard, that this deep-designing Jesuit should be sent out of the country.”
“I would give half my estate he was fairly out of it,” said the squire. “He has brought calamity and misery into my family. Created world! how I and mine have been deceived and imposed upon! Away with him—a thousand leagues away with him! And that quickly too! Oh, the plausible92, deceitful villain! My child! my child!” and here the old man burst into tears of the bitterest indignation. “Sir Robert, that cursed villain was born, I fear, to be the shame and destruction of my house and name.”
“Don't dream of such a thing,” said the baronet. “On the day he dined here—and you cannot forget my strong disinclination to meet him—but even on that day you will recollect42 the treasonable language he used against the laws of the realm. After my return home I took a note of them, and I trust that you, sir, will corroborate93, with respect to this fact, the testimony94 which it is my purpose to give against him. I say this the rather, Mr. Folliard, because it might seriously compromise your own character with the Government, and as a magistrate95, too, to hear treasonable and seditious language at your own table, from a Papist Jesuit, and yet decline to report it to the authorities.”
“The laws, the authorities, and you be hanged, sir!” replied the squire; “my table is, and has been, and ever shall be, the altar of confidence to my guests; I shall never violate the laws of hospitality. Treat the man fairly, I say, concoct96 no plot against him, bribe97 no false witnesses, and if he is justly amenable98 to the law I will spend ten thousand pounds to have him sent anywhere out of the country.”
“He keeps arms,” observed Sir Robert, “contrary to the penal99 enactments100.”
“I think not,” said the squire; “he told me he was on a duck-shooting expedition that night, and when I asked him where he got his arms, he said that his neighbor, Bob Gosford, always lent him his gun whenever he felt disposed to shoot, and, to my own knowledge, so did many other Protestant magistrates101 in the neighborhood, for this wily Jesuit is a favorite with most of them.”
“But I know where he has arms concealed,” said the Rapparee, looking significantly at the baronet, “and I will be able to find them, too, when the proper time comes.”
“Ha! indeed, O'Donnel,” said Sir Robert, with well-feigned surprise; “then there will be no lack of proof against him, you may rest assured, Mr. Folliard; I charge myself with the management of the whole affair. I trust, sir, you will leave it to me, and I have only one favor to ask, and that is the hand of your fair daughter when he is disposed of.”
“She shall be yours, Sir Robert, the moment that this treacherous102 villain can be removed by the fair operation of the laws; but I will never sanction any dishonorable treatment towards him. By the laws of the land let him stand or fall.”
At this moment a sneeze of tremendous strength and loudness was heard immediately outside the door; a sneeze which made the hair of the baronet almost stand on end.
“What the devil is that?” asked the squire. “By the great Boyne, I fear some one has been listening after all.”
The Rapparee, always apprehensive103 of the “authorities,” started behind a screen, and the baronet, although unconscious of any cause for terror, stood rather undecided. The sneeze, however, was repeated, and this time it was a double one.
“Curse it, Sir Robert,” said the squire, “have you not the use of your legs? Go and see whether there has been an eavesdropper”
“Yes, Mr. Folliard,” replied the doughty104 baronet, “but your house has the character of being haunted; and I have a terror of ghosts.”
The squire himself got up, and, seizing a candle, went outside the door, but nothing in human shape was visible.
“Come here, Sir Robert,” said he, “that sneeze came from no ghost, I'll swear. Who ever heard of a ghost sneezing? Never mind, though; for the curiosity of the thing I will examine for myself, and return to you in a few minutes.”
He accordingly left them, and in a short time came back, assuring them that every one in the house was in a state of the most profound repose105, and that it was his opinion it must have been a cat.
“I might think so myself,” observed the baronet, “were it not for the double sneeze. I am afraid, Mr. Folliard, that the report is too true—and that the house is haunted. O'Donnel, you must come home with me to-night.”
O'Donnel, who entertained no apprehension106 of ghosts, finding that the “authorities” were not in question, agreed to go with him, although he had a small matter on hand which required his presence in another part of the country.
The baronet, however, had gained his point. The heart of the hasty and unreflecting squire had been poisoned, and not one shadow of doubt remained on his mind of Reilly's treachery. And that which convinced him beyond all arguments or assertions was the fact that on the night of the premeditated attack on his house not one of the Red Rapparee's gang was seen, or any trace of them discovered.
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squire
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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8
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dominions
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| 统治权( dominion的名词复数 )； 领土； 疆土； 版图 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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insinuating
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| adj.曲意巴结的，暗示的v.暗示( insinuate的现在分词 )；巧妙或迂回地潜入；（使）缓慢进入；慢慢伸入 | |
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12
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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13
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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profligate
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| adj.行为不检的；n.放荡的人，浪子，肆意挥霍者 | |
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18
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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19
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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20
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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21
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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22
ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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23
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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24
slanderer
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| 造谣中伤者 | |
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25
instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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commotions
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| n.混乱，喧闹，骚动( commotion的名词复数 ) | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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WHIMS
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| 虚妄，禅病 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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35
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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36
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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39
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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41
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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42
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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45
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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46
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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51
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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52
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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53
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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54
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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55
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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56
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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58
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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59
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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60
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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61
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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65
outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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66
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
inadequacy
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| n.无法胜任，信心不足 | |
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68
kinsman
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| n.男亲属 | |
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69
proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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70
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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71
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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72
bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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73
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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74
ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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75
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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76
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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77
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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78
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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79
plethoric
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| adj.过多的，多血症的 | |
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80
intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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81
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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82
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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83
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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84
diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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85
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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86
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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87
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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88
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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89
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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90
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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91
scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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92
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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93
corroborate
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| v.支持，证实，确定 | |
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94
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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95
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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96
concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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97
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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98
amenable
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| adj.经得起检验的；顺从的；对负有义务的 | |
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99
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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100
enactments
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| n.演出( enactment的名词复数 )；展现；规定；通过 | |
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101
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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102
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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103
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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104
doughty
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| adj.勇猛的，坚强的 | |
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105
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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106
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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