After Malcomson quitted him, the squire2, with his golden-headed cane3, went to saunter about his beautiful grounds and his noble demesne4, proud, certainly, of his property, nor insensible to the beautiful scenery which it presented from so many points of observation. He had not been long here when a poor-looking peasant, dressed in shabby frieze5, approached him at as fast a pace as he could accomplish; and the squire, after looking at him, exclaimed, in an angry tone:
“Well, you rascal6, what the devil brings you here?”
The man stood for a little, and seemed so much exhausted7 and out of breath that he could not speak.
“I say, you unfortunate old vagrant8,” repeated the squire, “what brought you here?”
“It is a case of either life or death, sir,” replied the poor peasant.
“Why,” said the squire, “what crime did you commit? Or, perhaps, you broke prison, and are flying from the officers of justice; eh! is that it? And you come to ask a magistrate9 to protect you!”
“I am flying from the agents of persecution10, sir, and know not where to hide my head in order to avoid them.”
The hard-pressed but amiable11 priest—for such he was—adopted this language of truth, because he knew the squire's character, and felt that it would serve him more effectually than if he had attempted to conceal12 his profession. “I am a Catholic priest, sir, and felt from bitter experience that this disguise was necessary to the preservation13 of my life. I throw myself upon your honor and generosity14, for although hasty, sir, you are reported to have a good and kind heart.”
“You are disposed to place confidence in me, then?”
“I am, sir; my being before you now, and putting myself in your power, is a proof of it.”
“Who are pursuing you? Sir Robert Whitecraft—eh?”
“No, sir, Captain Smellpriest and his gang.”
“Ay, out of the frying pan into the fire; although I don't know that, either. They say Smellpriest can do a generous thing sometimes—but the other, when priest-hunting, never. What's your name?”
“I'll tell you, without hesitation15, sir—Macguire; I'm of the Macguires of Fermanagh.”
“Ay! ay! why, then, you have good blood in your veins16. But what offence were you guilty of that you—but I need not ask; it is enough, in the present state of the laws, that you are a Catholic priest. In the meantime, are you aware that I myself transported a Catholic priest, and that he would have swung only for my daughter, who went to the viceroy, and, with much difficulty, got his sentence commuted18 to transportation for life? I myself had already tried it, and failed; but she succeeded, God bless her!”
“Yes, God bless her!” replied the priest, “she succeeded, and her fame has gone far and near, in consequence; yes, may God of his mercy bless and guard her from all evil!” and as the poor hunted priest spoke19, the tears came to his eyes. This symptom of respect and affection, prompted by the generous and heroic conduct of the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, touched her father, and saved the priest.
“Well,” said he, after musing20 for a while, “so you say Smellpriest is after you?”
“He is, sir; they saw me at a distance, across the country, scrambling21 over the park wall, and indeed I was near falling into their hands by the difficulty I had in getting over it.”
“Well, come,” replied the squire, “since you have had the courage to place confidence in me, I won't abuse it; come along, I will both conceal and protect you. I presume there is little time to be lost, for those priest hounds will be apt to ride round to the entrance gate, which I will desire the porter to close and lock, and then leave the lodge22.”
On their way home he did so, and ordered the porter up to the house. The magnificent avenue was a serpentine23 one, and our friends had barely time to get out of sight of the lodge, by a turn in it, when they heard the voices of the pursuers, hallooing for the porter, and thundering at the gate.
“Ay, thunder away, only don't injure my gate, Smellpriest, or I'll make you replace it; bawl24 yourselves hoarse—you are on the wrong side for once!”
When they were approaching the hall-door, which generally lay open—
“Confound me,” said the squire, “if I know what to do with you; I trust in God I won't get into odium by this. At all events, let us steal upstairs as quietly as we can, and, if possible, without any one seeing us.”
To the necessity of this the priest assented25, and they had reached the first landing of the staircase when out popped right in their teeth two housemaids each with brush in hand. Now it instantly occurred to the squire that in this unlucky crisis bribery27 was the safest resource. He accordingly addressed them:
“Come here, you jades28, don't say a word about this man's presence here—don't breathe it; here's five shillings apiece for you, and let one of you go and bring me up, secretly, the key of the green-room in the garret; it has not been opened for some time. Be quick now; or stay, desire Lanigan to fetch it, and refreshment29 also; there's cold venison and roast beef, and a bottle of wine; tell Lanigan I'm going to lunch, and to lay the table in my study. Lanigan can be depended on,” he added, after the chambermaid had gone, “for when I concealed30 another priest here once, he was entrusted31 with the secret, and was faithful.”
Now it so happened that one of those maids, who was a bitter Protestant, at once recognized Father Maguire, notwithstanding his disguise. She had been a servant for four or five years in the house of a wealthy farmer who lived adjoining him, and with whom he had been in the habit of frequently dining when no danger was to be apprehended32 from the operation of the laws. Indeed, she and Malcomson, the gardener, were the only two individuals in the squire's establishment who were not Catholics. Malcomson was a manoeuvrer34, and, as is pretty usual with individuals of his class and country, he looked upon “Papistry” as an abomination that ought to be removed from the land. Still, he was cautious and shrewd, and seldom or never permitted those opinions to interfere35 with or obstruct36 his own interests. Be this is it may, the secret was not long kept. Esther Wilson impeached37 her master's loyalty38, and she herself was indignantly assailed39 for her treachery by Molly Finigan, who hoped in her soul that her master and young mistress would both die in the true Church yet.
The whole kitchen was in a buzz; in fact, a regular scene ensued. Every one spoke, except Lanigan, who, from former experience, understood the case perfectly40; but, as for Malcomson, whose zeal41 on this occasion certainly got the better of his discretion42, he seemed thunderstruck.
“Eh, sirs! did ony one ever hear the like o' this?—to hide a rebel priest frae the offended laws! But it canna be that this puir man is athegether right in his head. Lord ha'e a care o' us! the man surely must be demented, or he wouldna venture to bring such a person into his ain house—into the vara house. I think, Maisther Lanigan, it wad be just a precious bit o' service to religion and our laws to gang and tell the next magistrate. Gude guide us! what an example he is settin' to his loyal neighbors, and his hail connections! That ever we should see the like o' this waefu' backsliding at his years! Lord ha'e a care o' us, I say aince mair.”
“Oh, but there's more to come,” said one of them, for, in the turmoil43 produced by this shocking intelligence, they had forgotten to deliver the message to Lanigan.
“Mr. Lanigan,” said Esther, and her breath was checked by a hysteric hiccup44, “Mr. Lanigan, you are to bring up the key of the green-room, and plenty of venison, roast beef, and a bottle of wine! There!”
“Baal, Maisther Lanigan, I winna stay langer under this roof; it's nae cannie; I'll e'en gang out, and ha'e some nonsense clavers wi' yon queer auld45 carl i' the gerden. The Lord ha'e a eare o' us!—what will the warld come to next!”
He accordingly repaired to the garden, where the first thing he did was to give a fearful account to Reilly of their master's political profligacy46. The latter felt surprised, but not at all at Malcomson's narrative47. The fact was, he knew the exact circumstances of the case, because he knew the squire's character, which was sometimes good, and sometimes the reverse—just according to the humor he might be in: and in reply observed to Malcomson, that—
“As his honor done a great dale o' good! to the poor o' the counthry, I think it wouldn't be daicent in us, Misther Malcomson, to go for to publish this generous act to the poor priesht; if he is wrong, let us lave him to Gad48, shir.”
“Ou ay, weel I dinna but you're richt; the mair that we won't hae to answer for his transgressions49; sae e'en let every herring hang by its ain tail.”
In the meantime, Lanigan, who understood the affair well enough, addressed the audience in the kitchen to the following effect:
“Now,” said he, “what a devil of a hubbub50 you all make about nothing! Pray, young lady,” addressing Esther Wilson, who alone had divulged51 the circumstance, “did his honor desire you to keep what you seen saicret?”
“He did, cook, he did,” replied Esther; “and gave us money not to speak about it, which is a proof of his guilt17.”
“And the first thing you did was to blaze it to the whole kitchen! I'll tell you what it is now—if he ever hears that you breathed a syllable52 of it to mortal man, you won't be under his roof two hours.”
“Oh, but, surely, cook—”
“Oh, but, surely, madam,” replied Lanigan, “you talk of what you don't understand; his honor knows very well what he's about, mid53 has authority for it.”
This sobered her to some purpose; and Lanigan proceeded to execute his master's orders.
It is true Miss Esther and Malcomson were now silent, for their own sakes; but it did not remove their indignation; so far from that, Lanigan himself came in for a share of it, and was secretly looked upon in the light of the squire's confidant in the transaction.
Whilst matters were in this position, the Red Rapparee began gradually to lose the confidence of his unscrupulous employer. He had promised that worthy54 gentleman to betray his former gang, and deliver them up to justice, in requital55 for the protection which he received from him. This he would certainly have done, were it not for Fergus, who, happening to meet one of them a day or two after the Rapparee had taken service with Whitecraft upon the aforesaid condition,—informed the robber of that fact, and advised him, if he wished to provide for his own safety and that of his companions, to desire them forthwith to leave the country, and, if possible, the kingdom. They accordingly took the hint; some of them retired57 to distant and remote places, and others went beyond seas for their security. The promise, therefore, which the Rapparee had made to the baronet as a proof of gratitude58 for his protection, he now found himself incapable59 of fulfilling, in consequence of the dispersion and disappearance60 of his band. When he stated this fact to Sir Robert, he gained little credit from him; and the consequence was that his patron felt disposed to think that he was not a man to be depended on. Still, what he had advanced in his own defence might be true; and although his confidence in him was shaken, he resolved to maintain him yet in his service, and that for two reasons—one of which was, that by having him under his eye, and within his grasp, he could pounce61 upon him at any moment; the other was, that, as he knew, from the previous shifts and necessities of his own lawless life, all those dens62 and recesses63 and caverns64 to which the Catholic priesthood, and a good number of the people, were obliged to fly and conceal themselves, he must necessarily be a useful guide to him as a priest-hunter. It is true he assured him that he had procured66 his pardon from Government, principally, he said, in consequence of his own influence, and because, in all his robberies, it had not been known that he ever took away human life. In general, however, this was the policy of the Rapparees, unless when they identified themselves with political contests and outrages68, and on those occasions they were savage69 and cruel as fiends. In simple robbery on the king's highway, or in burglaries in houses, they seldom, almost never, committed murder, unless when resisted, and in defence of their lives. On the contrary, they were quite gallant70 to females, whom they treated with a kind of rude courtesy, not unfrequently returning the lady of the house her gold watch—but this only on occasions when they had secured a large booty of plate and money. The Threshers of 1805-6 and '7, so far as cruelty goes, were a thousand times worse; for they spared neither man nor woman in their infamous71 and nocturnal visits; and it is enough to say, besides, that their cowardice72 was equal to their cruelty. It has been proved, at special commissions held about those periods, that four or five men, with red coats on them, have made between two or three hundred of the miscreants74 run for their lives, and they tolerably well-armed. Whether Sir Robert's account of the Rapparee's pardon was true or false will appear in due time; for the truth is, that Whitecraft was one of those men who, in consequence of his staunch loyalty and burning zeal in carrying out the inhuman75 measures of the then Government, was permitted with impunity76 to run into a licentiousness77 of action, as a useful public man, which no modern government would, or dare, permit. At the period of which we write, there was no press, so to speak, in Ireland, and consequently no opportunity of at once bringing the acts of the Irish Government, or of public men, to the test of public opinion. Such men, therefore, as Whitecraft, looked upon themselves as invested with irresponsible power; and almost in every instance their conduct was approved of, recognized, and, in general, rewarded by the Government of the day. The Beresford family enjoyed something like this unenviable privilege, during the rebellion of '98, and for some time afterwards. We have alluded79 to Mrs. Oxley, the sheriffs, fat wife; whether fortunately or unfortunately for the poor sheriff, who had some generous touches of character about him, it so happened, at this period of our narrative she popped off one day, in a fit of apoplexy, and he found himself a widower80. Now, our acquaintance, Fergus Reilly, who was as deeply disguised as our hero, had made his mind up, if possible, to bring the Rapparee into trouble. This man had led his patron to several places where it was likely that the persecuted81 priests might be found; and, for this reason, Fergus knew that he was serious in his object to betray them. This unnatural82 treachery of the robber envenomed his heart against him, and he resolved to run a risk in watching his motions. He had no earthly doubt that it was he who robbed the sheriff. He knew, from furtive83 observations, as well as from general report, that a discreditable intimacy84 existed between him and Mary Mahon. This woman's little house was very convenient to that of Whitecraft, to whom she was very useful in a certain capacity. She had now given up her trade of fortune-telling—a trade which, at that period, in consequence of the ignorance of the people, was very general in Ireland. She was now more beneficially employed. Fergus, therefore, confident in his disguise, resolved upon a bold and hazardous85 stroke. He began to apprehend33 that if ever Tom Steeple, fool though he was, kept too much about the haunts and resorts of the Rapparee, that cunning scoundrel, who was an adept86 in all the various schemes and forms of detection, might take the alarm, and, aided probably by Whitecraft, make his escape out of the country. At best, the fool could only assure him of his whereabouts; but he felt it necessary, in addition to this, to procure65, if the matter were possible, such evidence of his guilt as might render his conviction of the robbery of the sheriff complete and certain. One evening a wretched-looking old man, repeating his prayers, with beads88 in hand, entered her cottage, which consisted of two rooms and a kitchen; and after having presented himself, and put on his hat—for we need scarcely say that no Catholic ever prays covered—he asked lodging89 in Irish, for the night, and at this time it was dusk.
“Well, good man,” she replied, “you can have lodgings90 here for this night. God forbid I'd put a poor wandherer out, an' it nearly dark.”
Fergus stared at her as if he did not understand what she said; she, however, could speak Irish right well, and asked him in that language if he could speak no English—“Wuil Bearlha agud?” (Have you English?)
“Ha neil foccal vaun Bearlha agum.” (I haven't one word of English.)
“Well,” said she, proceeding91 with the following short conversation in Irish, “you can sleep here, and I will bring you in a wap o' straw from the garden, when I have it to feed my cow, which his honor, Sir Robert, gives me grass for; he would be a very kind man if he was a little more generous—ha! ha! ha!”
“Ay, but doesn't he hunt an' hang, an' transport our priests?”
“Why, indeed, I believe he doesn't like a bone in a priest's body; but then he's of a different religion—and it isn't for you or me to construe92 him after our own way.”
“Well, well,” said Fergus, “it isn't him I'm thinking of; but if I had a mouthful or two of something to ait I'd go to sleep—for dear knows I'm tired and hungry.”
“Why, then, of coorse you'll have something to ait, poor man, and while you're eatin' it I'll fetch in a good bunch of straw, and make a comfortable shake-down for you.”
“God mark you to grace, avourneen!”
She then furnished him with plenty of oaten bread and mixed milk, and while he was helping93 himself she brought in a large launch of straw, which she shook out and settled for him.
“I see,” said she, “that you have your own blankets.”
“I have, acushla. Cheerna, but this is darlin' bread! Arra was this baked upon a griddle or against the muddhia arran?”*.
* The muddhia arran was a forked branch, cut from a tree,
and shaped exactly like a letter A—with a small stick
behind to support it. A piece of hoop94 iron was nailed to
it at the bottom, on which the cake rested—not
horizontally, but opposite the fire. When one side was done
the other was turned, and thus it was baked.
“A griddle! Why, then, is it the likes o' me would have a griddle? that indeed! No; but, any how, sure a griddle only scalds the bread; but you'll find that this is not too much done; bekaise you know the ould proverb, 'a raw dad makes a fat lad.'”
“Troth,” replied Fergus, “it's good bread, and fills the boast** of a man's body; but now that I've made a good supper, I'll throw myself on the straw, for I feel as if my eyelids95 had a millstone apiece upon them. I never shtrip at night, but just throws my blanket over me, an' sleeps like a top. Glory be to God! Oh, then, there's nothing like the health ma'am: may God spare it to us! Amin, this night!”
** Boast—a figurative term, taken from a braggadocio96 or
boaster; it applies to any thing that is hollow or
deceitful: for instance, when some potatoes that grow
unusually large are cut in two, an empty space is found in
the centra, and that potato is termed boast, or empty.
He accordingly threw himself on the shakedown, and in a short time, as was evident by his snoring, fell into a profound sleep.
This was an experiment, though a hazardous one, as we have said; but so far it was successful. In the course of half an hour the Red Rapparee came in, dressed in his uniform. On looking about him he exclaimed, with an oath,
“Who the hell is here?”
“Why,” replied Mary Mahon, “a poor ould man that axed for charity an' lodgin' for the night.”
“And why did you give it to him?”
“Bekaise my charity to him may take away some of my sins.”
“Some of your devils!” replied the savage, “and I think you have enough of them about you. Didn't you know I was to come here to-night, as I do almost every night, for an hour or two?”
“You was drinkin',” she replied, “and you're drunk.”
“I am drunk, and I will be drunk as often as I can. It's a good man's case. Why did you give a lodgin' to this ould vagabone?”
“I tould you the raison,” she replied; “but you needn't care about him, for there's not a word of English in his cheek.”
“Faith, but he may have something in his purse, for all that. Is he ould?”
“A poor ould man.”
“So much the betther; be the livin' I'll try whether he has any ould coins about him. Many a time—no, I don't say many a time—but twic't I did it, and found it well worth my while, too. Some of these ould scamers lie wid a purse o' goolden guineas under their head, and won't confess it till the last moment. Who knows what this ould lad may have about him? I'll thry anyhow,” said the drunken ruffian; “It's not aisy to give up an ould custom, Molly—the sheriff, my darlin', for that. I aised him of his fines, and was near strikin' a double blow—I secured his pocket-book, and made a good attempt to hang Willy Reilly for the robbery into the bargain. Now, hang it, Molly, didn't I look a gentleman in his' clothes, shoes, silver buckles97, and all; wasn't it well we secured them before the house was burned? Here,” he added, “take a sneeshin of this,” pulling at the same time a pint98 bottle of whiskey out of his pocket; “it'll rise your spirits, an' I'll see what cash this ould codger has about him; an', by the way, how the devil do we know that he doesn't understand every word we say. Suppose, now—(hiccup)—that he heard me say I robbed the sheriff, wouldn't I be in a nice pickle99? But, tell me, can you get no trace of Reilly?”
“Devil a trace; they say he has left the country.”
“If I had what that scoundrel has promised me for findin' him out or securin' him—here's—here's—here's to you—I say, if I had, you and I would”—Here he pointed100 with his thumb over his shoulder, as much as to say they would try another climate.
“And now,” he proceeded, “for a search on the shake-down. Who knows but the ould fellow has the yellow boys (guineas) about him? “—and he was proceeding to search Fergus, when Mary flew at him like a tigress.
“Stop, you cowardly robber!” she exclaimed; “would you bring down the curse and the vengeance101 of God upon both of us. We have enough and too much to answer for, let alone to rob the ould an' the poor.”
“Be aisy now,” said he, “I'll make the search; sure I'm undher the scoundrel Whitecraft's protection.”
“Yes, you are, and you're undher my protection too; and I tell you, if you lay a hand upon him it'll be worse for you.”
“What—what do you mane?”
“It's no matther what I mane; find it out.”
“How do I know but he has heard us?”
We must now observe that Fergus's style of sleeping was admirably adapted for his purpose. It was not accompanied by a loud and unbroken snore; on the contrary, after it had risen to the highest and most disagreeable intonations102, it stopped short, with a loud and indescribable backsnort in his nose, and then, after a lull103 of some length, during which he groaned104 and muttered to himself, he again resumed his sternutations in a manner so natural as would have imposed upon Satan himself, if he had been present, as there is little doubt he was, though not exactly visible to the eyes of his two precious agents.
“Listen to that,” replied the woman; “do you think, now, he's not asleep? and even if he was sitting at the fire beside us, devil a syllable we said he could understand. I spoke to him in English when he came in, but he didn't know a word I said.”
“Well, then, let the ould fellow sleep away; I won't touch him.”
“Why, now, that's a good boy; go home to your barracks, and take a good sleep yourself.”
“Ay, yes, certainly; but have you Reilly's clothes safe—shoes, silver buckles, and all?”
“Ay, as safe as the head on your shoulders; and, upon my soul, a great dale safer, if you rob any more sheriffs.”
“Where are they, then?”
“Why, they're in my flat box, behind the bed, where nobody could see them.”
“Very well, Molly, that will do; I may want them wanst more,” he replied, pointing again with his thumb over his shoulder towards Whitecraft's residence; “so goodnight; be a good girl, and take care of yourself.”
“No,” she replied, “but do you be a good boy, and take care of yourself.” And so they parted for the night.
The next day Fergus, possessed105 of very important evidence against the Rapparee, was travelling along the public road, not more than half a mile from the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, when whom should he meet but the identical sheriff, on horseback, that the Rapparee had robbed. He put his hand to his hat, and asked him for charity.
“Help a poor ould man, for the love and honor of God.”
“Why don't you go to work—why don't you go to work?” replied the sheriff.
“I am not able, sir,” returned Fergus; “it wouldn't be good for my health, your honor.”
“Well, pass on and don't trouble me; I have nothing for you.”
“Ah! thin, sir, if you'd give me a trifle, maybe I'd make it worth your while.”
“What do you mean?” asked the sheriff, who knew that persons like him had opportunities of hearing and knowing more about local circumstances, in consequence of their vagrant life, than any other class of persons in society.
“What do you mean by what you have just said?”
“Aren't you the sheriff, sir, that was robbed some time ago?”
“I am.”
“Ah, sir, I see you are dressed in black; and I heard of the death of the misthress, sir.”
“Well, but what has that to do with what you have just now said—that you would make it worth my while if I gave you alms?”
“I said so, sir; and I can, if you will be guided by me.”
“Speak out; I don't understand you.”
“Would you like to see the man that robbed you, sir, and would you know him if you did see him?”
“Unquestionably I would know him. They say it was Reilly, but I have seen Reilly since; and although the dress was the same which Reilly usually wears, yet the faces were different.”
“Is your honor going far?” asked Fergus.
“No, I am going over to that farm-house, Tom Brady's; two or three of his family are ill of fever, and I wish to do something for him; I am about to make him my land bailiff.”
“What stay will you make there, your honor?”
“A very short one—not more than ten or fifteen minutes.”
“Would it be inconvenient106 for your honor to remain there, or somewhere about the house, for an hour, or may be a little longer?”
“For what purpose? You are a mysterious old fellow.”
“Bekaise, if you'd wish to see the man that robbed you, I'll undhertake to show him to you, face to face, within that time. Will your honor promise this?”
The sheriff paused upon this proposal, coming as it did from such an equivocal authority. What, thought he, if it should be a plot for my life, in consequence of the fines which I have been forced to levy107 upon the Catholic priests and bishops108 in my official capacity. God knows I feel it to be a painful duty.
“What is your religion?” he asked, “and why should a gentleman in my condition of life place any confidence upon the word of a common vagrant like you, who must necessarily be imbued109 with all the prejudices of your creed110—for I suppose you are a Catholic?”
“I am, sir; but, for all that, in half an hour's time I'll be a rank Protestant.”
The sheriff smiled and asked, “How the devil's that?”
“You are dressed in black, sir, in murnin' for your wife. I have seen you go into Tom Brady's to give the sick creatures the rites111 of their Church. I give notice to Sir Robert Whitecraft that a priest is there; and my word to you, he and his hounds will soon be upon you. The man that robbed you will be among them—no, but the foremost of them; and if you don't know him, I can't help it—that's all, your honor.”
“Well,” replied the sheriff, “I shall give you nothing now; because I know not whether what you say can be relied upon or not. In the meantime, I shall remain an hour or better, in Brady's house; and if your words are not made good, I shall send to Sir Robert Whitecraft for a military party to escort me home.”
“I know, your honor,” replied Fergus, “that Sir Robert and his men are at home to-day; and if I don't fulfil my words, I'll give your honor lave to whip me through the county.”
“Well,” said the sheriff, “I shall remain an hour or so in Brady's; but I tell you that if you are deceiving me you shall not escape me; so look to it, and think if what you propose to me is honest or not—if it be not, woe112 betide you.”
Fergus immediately repaired to Sir Robert Whitecraft, to whom he represented himself as a poor Protestant of the name of Bingham, and informed him that a Popish priest was then in Tom Brady's house, administering the rites of Popery to those who were sick in the family.
“I seen him, your honor, go into the house; and he's there this minute'. If your honor makes haste you'll catch him.”
In less than a quarter of an hour Sir Robert and his crew were in stirrups, and on their way to Tom Brady's; and in the meantime, too, the sheriff, dressed as he was, in black, came outside the door, from time to time, more in apprehension114 of a plot against his life than of a visit from Whitecraft, which he knew must end in nothing. Now, Whitecraft and his followers115, on approaching Brady's house, caught a glimpse of him—a circumstance which not only confirmed the baronet in the correctness of the information he had received, but also satisfied the sheriff that the mendicant116 had not deceived him. Rapid was the rush they made to Brady's house, and the very first that entered it was the Red Rapparee. He was about to seize the sheriff, whom he pretended not to know; but in a moment Sir Robert and the rest entered, when, on recognizing each other, an explanation took place, with all due apologies to the functionary117, who said:
“The mistake, Sir Robert, is very natural. I certainly have a clerical appearance, as I am in mourning for my wife. I trust you will neither hang nor transport me.”
“I am very sorry indeed, Mr. Oxley; but I only acted on information received.”
“And I don't doubt, Sir Robert,” replied the sheriff, “that the person who gave you the information may have been deceived himself by my ecclesiastical looking dress. I am sorry you have had so much trouble for nothing; but, upon my word, I feel extremely delighted that I am not a priest.”
In the meantime the sheriff had recognized the Rapparee, by a single glance, as the man that had robbed him. He was now certain; but he took care not to bestow118 the least sign of recognition upon him; so far from that, he appeared to pay no attention whatsoever119 to the men; but chatted with Sir Robert for some time, who returned home deeply disappointed, though without imputing120 blame to his informant, who, he thought, was very naturally misled by the dress of the sheriff. Fergus, however, apprehensive121 of being involved in the prosecution122 of the Rapparee, and thus discovered, made a point to avoid the sheriff, whose cross-examination a consciousness of his previous life led him to dread123. Still, he had, to a certain extent, though not definitely, resolved to become evidence against him; but only, as we have said, on the condition of previously124 receiving a full pardon for his own misdeeds, which was granted. For upwards125 of a month, however, the sheriff was confined to his bed, having caught, whilst in Brady's, the malignant126 fever which then raged throughout the country.
CHAPTEE XVIII.—Something not very Pleasant for all Parties.
The position of England at this period was any thing but an easy one. The Rebellion of '45 had commenced, and the young Pretender had gained some signal victories. Independently of this, she was alarmed by the rumor127 of a French invasion on her southern coast. Apprehensive lest the Irish Catholics, galled128 and goaded129 as they were by the influence of the penal130 laws, and the dreadful persecution which they caused them to suffer, should flock to the standard of Prince Charles, himself a Catholic, she deemed it expedient131, in due time, to relax a little, and accordingly she “checked her hand, and changed her pride.” Milder measures were soon resorted to, during this crisis, in order that by a more liberal administration of justice the resentment132 of the suffering Catholics might be conciliated, and their loyalty secured. This, however, was a proceeding less of justice than expediency133, and resulted more from the actual and impending134 difficulties of England than from any sincere wish on her part to give civil and religious freedom to her Catholic subjects, or prosperity to the country in which, even then, their numbers largely predominated. Yet, singular to say, when the Rebellion first broke out, all the chapels135 in Dublin were closed, and the Administration, as if guided by some unintelligible136 infatuation, issued a proclamation, commanding the Catholic priesthood to depart from the city. Those who refused this senseless and impolitic edict were threatened with the utmost severity of the law. Harsh as that law was, the Catholics obeyed it; yet even this obedience137 did not satisfy the Protestant party, or rather that portion of them who were active agents in carrying out this imprudent and unjustifiable rigor138 at such a period. They were seized by a kind of panic, and imagined forsooth that a broken down and disarmed139 people might engage in a general massacre140 of the Irish Protestants. Whether this incomprehensible terror was real, is a matter of doubt and uncertainty141; or whether it was assumed as a justification142 for assailing143 the Catholics in a general massacre, similar to that which they apprehended, or pretended to apprehend, is also a matter of question; yet certain it is, that a proposal to massacre them in cold blood was made in the Privy144 Council. “But,” says O'Connor, “the humanity of the members rejected this barbarous proposal, and crushed in its infancy145 a conspiracy146 hatched in Lurgan to extirpate147 the Catholics of that town and vicinity.”
In the meantime, so active was the persecuting148 spirit of such men as Whitecraft and Smellpriest that a great number of the unfortunate priests fled to the metropolis149, where, in a large and populous150 city, they had a better chance of remaining incogniti than when living in the country, exposed and likely to be more marked by spies and informers. A very dreadful catastrophe151 took place about this time. A congregation of Catholic people had heard mass upon an old loft152, which had for many years been decayed—in fact, actually rotten. Mass was over, and the priest was about to give them the parting benediction153, when the floor went down with a terrific crash. The result was dreadful. The priest and a great many of the congregation were killed on the spot, and a vast number of them wounded and maimed for life. The Protestant inhabitants of Dublin sympathized deeply with the sufferers, whom they relieved and succored154 as far as in them lay, and, by their remonstrances155, Government was shamed into a more human administration of the laws.
In order to satisfy our readers that we have not overdrawn156 our picture of what the Catholics suffered in those unhappy times, we shall give a quotation157 from the. Messrs. Chambers158, of Edinburgh, themselves fair and liberal men, and as impartial159 as they are able and well informed:
“Since the pacification160 of Limerick, Ireland had been ruled exclusively by the Protestant party, who, under the influence of feelings arising from local and religious antipathies161, had visited the Catholics with many severities. The oath which had excluded the Catholics from office had been followed, in 1698, by an Act of the Irish Parliament, commanding all Romish priests to leave the kingdom, under the penalty of transportation, a return from which was to be punishable by death. Another law decreed forfeiture162 of property and civil rights to all who should send their children abroad to be educated in the Catholic faith.” *
* “History and Present State of the British Empire.”
Edinburgh, W. and R. Chambers.
Can any reasonable person be in doubt for a moment that those laws were laws of extermination163? In the meantime, let us hear the Messrs. Chambers further:
“After the death of William, who was much opposed to severities on account of religion, Acts of still greater rigor were passed for preventing the growth of Popery. Any child of a Roman Catholic who should declare himself a Protestant was entitled to become the heir of his estate, the father merely holding it for his lifetime, and having no command over it. Catholics were made incapable of succeeding to Protestants, and lands, passing over them, were to go to the next Protestant heir. Catholic parents were prevented from being guardians,to their own children; no Protestant possessing property was to be permitted to marry a Catholic; and Catholics were rendered incapable of purchasing landed property or enjoying long leases. These measures naturally rendered the Catholics discontented I subjects, and led to much turbulence165. The common people of that persuasion166, being denied all access to justice, took it into their own hands, and acquired all those lawless habits for which they have since been remarkable167. Treachery, cruelty, and all the lower passions, were called into vigorous exercise. Even the Protestants, for their own sakes, were often obliged to connive168 at the evasion169 of laws so extremely severe, and which introduced much difficulty in their dealings with Catholics; but, when any Protestant wished to be revenged upon a Catholic, or to extort170 money from him, he found in these laws a ready instrument for his purpose. By an additional Act, in 1726, it was ordained171 that a Roman Catholic priest, marrying a Protestant to a Catholic, should suffer death; and in order that legal redress172 might be still less accessible to the Catholics, it was enacted173, in 1728, that no one should be entitled to practise as an attorney who had not been two years a Protestant.”
This is a clear and succinct174 epitome175 of the penal laws; true, much more might be added; but it is enough to say that those who sow the wind will reap the whirlwind. It is not by placing restrictions176 upon creeds177 or ceremonies that religion can ever be checked, much less extinguished. Like the camomile plant, the more it is trampled178 on the more it will spread and grow; as the rude winds and the inclemency179 of the elements only harden and make more vigorous the constitutions of those who are exposed to them. In our state of the world, those who have the administration of political laws in their hands, if they ever read history, or can avail themselves of the experiences of ages, ought to know that it is not by severity or persecution that the affections of their fellow-subjects can be conciliated. We ourselves once knew a brutal180 ruffian, who was a dealer181 in fruit in the little town of Maynooth, and whose principle of correcting his children was to continue whipping the poor things until they were forced to laugh! A person was one day present when he commenced chastising182 one of them—a child of about seven—upon this barbarous principle. This individual was then young and strong, and something besides of a pugilist; but on witnessing the affecting efforts of the little fellow to do that which was not within the compass of any natural effort, he deliberately183 knocked the ruffian down, after having first remonstrated184 with him to no purpose. He arose, however, and attacked the other, but, thanks to a good arm and a quick eye, he prostrated185 him again, and again, and again; he then caught him by the throat, for he was already subdued186, and squeezing his windpipe to some purpose, the fellow said, in a choking voice, “Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” replied the other, “I only want to see the length of your tongue; don't be alarmed, the whole thing will end merrily; come, now, give three of the heartiest187 laughs you ever gave in your life, or down goes your apple-cart—you know what that means?”
“I—I c—a—n'—t,” said he.
“Yes, you can,” replied his castigator188; “nothing's more easy; come, be merry.”
The caitiff, for he was a coward, and wanted bottom, upon getting a little wind, whilst the other held him by the throat, gave three of the most ludicrous, but disastrous189, howls that ever were witnessed. On his opponent letting him go, he took to his heels, but got a kick on going out that was rather calculated to accelerate his flight. Legislators, therefore, ought to know that no political whipping will ever make a people laugh at the pleasure of it.
But to resume our narrative. England, now apprehensive, as we have said, of a descent of the French upon her southern coast, and startled by the successes of the young Pretender, who had cut Cope's army to pieces, deemed it expedient to send over the celebrated190 Earl of Chesterfield as Viceroy, with instructions to relax the rigor of the laws, and conciliate the Catholics, as well as he could, so, at least, as to prevent them from joining the Pretender, whose object it was understood to be to cross the frontier and march upon London. Lord Chesterfield's policy afforded great gratification to the Catholics, who were now restored to their usual privileges; and its political object was so far successful that, as we have said, not a single man of them ever joined the Pretender. Still, the liberal Protestants, or, as they were termed, the patriotic191 party, were not satisfied with the mere164 removal of the Catholic restrictions. Ireland, at that time, was studded with men, or rather with monsters, like Smellpriest and Whitecraft, who were stained with the blood of their fellow-subjects and fellow-Christians. Sir Robert Whitecraft, especially, was now in a bad position, although he himself was ignorant of it. The French Ambassador demanded satisfaction, in the name of his Court and the French nation, for the outrage67 that had been committed upon a French. subject, and by which international law was so grossly violated. We must say here that Whitecraft, in the abundance of his loyalty and zeal, was in the habit, in his searches after priests, and suspected lay Catholics, to pay domiciliary visits to the houses of many Protestant magistrates192, clergymen, and even gentlemen of wealth and distinction, who were suspected, from their known enmity to persecution, of harboring Catholic priests and others of that persuasion; so that, in point of fact, he had created more enemies in the country than any man living. The Marquis of———, Mr. Hastings, Mr. Brown, together with a great number of the patriotic party, had already transmitted a petition to the Lord Lieutenant193, under the former Administration; but it was not attended to, the only answer they got having been a simple acknowledgment of its receipt. This, on coming to Sir Robert's ears, which it did from one of the underlings of the Castle, only gave a spur to his insolence194, and still more fiercely stimulated195 his persecuting spirit. He felt conscious that Government would protect him, or rather reward him, for any acts of violence which he might commit against the Catholic party, and so far, under his own pet Administration, he was right.
The petition we have alluded to having been treated with studied contempt, the persons and party already mentioned came to the determination of transmitting another, still more full and urgent, to the new Viceroy, whose feeling it was, for the reasons we have stated, to reverse the policy of his predecessor196.
His liberal administration encouraged them, therefore, to send him a clear statement of the barbarous outrages committed by such men as Smellpriest and Sir Robert Whitecraft, not only against his Majesty's Roman Catholic subjects, but against many loyal Protestant magistrates, and other Protestants of distinction and property, merely because they were supposed to entertain a natural sympathy for their persecuted fellow-subjects and fellow-countrymen. They said that the conduct of those men and of the Government that had countenanced197 and encouraged them had destroyed the prosperity of the country by interrupting and annulling199 all bonafide commercial transactions between, Protestants and Catholics. That those men had not only transgressed200 the instructions they received, from his predecessor, but all those laws that go to the security of life and property. That they were guilty of several cruel and atrocious murders, arsons, and false imprisonments, for which they were never brought to account; and that, in fine, they were steeped in crime and blood, because they knew that his predecessor, ignorant, perhaps, of the extent of their guilt, threw his shield over them, and held them irresponsible to the laws for those savage outrages.
They then stated that, in their humble201 judgment202, a mere relaxation203 in the operation of the severe and penal laws against Catholics would not be an act of sufficient atonement to them for all they had greviously suffered; that to overlook, or connive at, or protect those great criminals would be at variance204, not only with all principles of justice, but with the spirit of the British Constitution itself, which never recognizes, much less encourages, a wicked and deliberate violation205 of its own laws. That the present was a critical moment, which demanded great judgment and equal humanity in the administration of the laws in Ireland. A rebellion was successfully progressing in Scotland, and it appeared to them that not only common justice but sound policy ought to prompt the Government to attract and conciliate the Catholic population of Ireland by allowing them to participate in the benefits of the Constitution, which hitherto existed not for them, thousands of whom, finding their country but a bed of thorns, might, from a mere sense of relief, or, what was more to be dreaded206, a spirit of natural vengeance, flock to the standard of the Pretender.
His excellency, already aware of the startling but just demand which had been made by the French Ambassador, for the national insult by Whitecraft to his country, was himself startled and shocked by the atrocities207 of those blood-stained delinquents208.
His reply, however, was brief, but to the purpose.
His secretary acknowledged the receipt of the memorial, and stated that the object of his Excellency was not to administer the laws in cruelty, but in mercy; that he considered all classes of his Majesty's subjects equally entitled to their protection; and that with respect to the persons against whom such serious charges and allegations had been made, he had only to say, that if they were substantiated209 against them in a court of justice, they must suffer like other criminals—if they can be proved, Government will leave them, as it would any common felons210, to the laws of the country. His Excellency is determined211 to administer those laws with the strictest impartiality212, and without leaning to any particular class or creed. So far as the laws will allow him, their protection shall be extended, on just and equal principles to the poor and to the rich, to the Catholic and to the Protestant.
This communication, which was kept strictly213 secret, reached the Marquis of —— at a critical period of our narrative. Whitecraft, who was ignorant of it, but sufficiently214 aware of the milder measures which the new Administration had adopted, finding that the trade of priest-hunting and persecution was, for the present, at an end, resolved to accelerate his marriage with Miss Folliard, and for this purpose he waited upon her father, in order to secure his consent. His object was to retire to his English estates, and there pass the remainder of his life with his beautiful but reluctant bride. He paid his visit about two o'clock, and was told that Miss Folliard and her father were in the garden. Hither he accordingly repaired, and found the squire, his daughter, and Reilly, in the green-house. When the squire saw him he cried out, with something of a malicious215 triumph: “Hallo, Sir Robert! why art thou so pale, young lover? why art thou so pale?—and why does thy lip hang, Sir Robert?—new men, new measures, Sir Robert—and so, 'Othello's occupation's gone,' and the Earl of Chesterfield goes to mass every Sunday, and is now able to repeat his padareem in Irish.”
“I am glad to find you so pleasant, Mr. Folliard; but I'm delighted to see the beautiful state of your green-house—oh, Miss Folliard!—excuse me. Your back was to me, and you were engaged in trailing that beautiful shrub216; allow me the honor of shaking hands with you.”
“Sir Robert, I bid you good-day, but you see that I have my garden gloves on; you will excuse me.”
“Oh, Miss Folliard,” he replied, “your will is the spirit of the British Constitution to me.”
“A spirit which, I fear, you have too frequently violated, Sir Robert; but, as papa says, I believe your cruel occupation is gone—at least I hope so.”
“'Gad, you got it there, Sir Robert,” replied her father, laughing.
“I must confess it,” replied the baronet; “but I think, in order to ingratiate myself with Miss Folliard, I shall take whatever side she recommends me. How, Mr. Folliard,” he proceeded, fixing his eyes upon Reilly—“what the deuce is this? Have you got Robinson Crusoe here?”
“We have,” replied the squire; “but his man Friday has got married to a Tipperary woman, and he's now in quest of a desert, island for him and her to settle in.”
“I think, papa,” said Helen, “that if the principles of Sir Robert and his class were carried out, he would not have far to go to look for one.”
“Another hit, Bob, you dog—another hit. W'ell said, Helen—well said, I say. Crusoe, you villain217, hold up your head, and thank God you're christened.”
“Wid de help o' Gad, shir, I was christhened afwhore, sure, by de priesht.”
This visit occurred about six weeks after the appointment of the new Viceroy to the Government of Ireland, and about five after the sheriff's illness.
“Come, Whitecraft,” said the squire, “come and let us have lunch: I'll hold a crown I give you as good a glass of Burgundy as you gave me the other day, and will say done first.”
“Won't Miss Folliard join us at lunch?” asked Whitecraft, looking to her for an assent26.
“Why, I suppose so,” replied her father; “won't you come, Helen?”
“You know, papa, I never lunch.”
“'Gad, and neither you do, Helen. Come, Sir Robert, we will have a mouthful to eat, and something good to wash it down; come along, man. what the devil are you scrutinizing218 poor old Robinson Crusoe for? Come along. I say, the old chap is making the green-house thrive; he beats Malcomson. Here. Malcomson, you know Sir Robert Whitecraft, don't you?”
“Hout, your honor, wha' disna ken56 Sir Robert Whitecraft? Isn't his name far and near, as a braw defender219 o' the faith, and a putter down o' Papistry?”
“By the way, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert, “where did you get Robinson Crusoe, by which I mean that wild-looking man in the green-house?”
“Saul, sir, it's a question I never speered at him. He cam' here as a gaberlunzie, and on stating that he was indoctrinated in the sceence o' buttany, his honor garred me employ him. De'il hae't but the truth I'll tell—he's a clever buttanist, and knows a' the sceentific names aff hand.”
“So that's all you know about him?” said Sir Robert. “He has a devil of a beard, and is shockingly dressed. Why doesn't he shave?”
“Ou, just some Papistry nonsense,” replied the gardener; “but we hae naething to do wi' that, sae lang's we get the worth o' our siller out o' him.”
“Here's a shilling, Malcomson,” said Sir Robert.
“Na, na, your honor; a shilling's no for a man that understands the sceence o' buttany: a shilling's for a flunky in livery; but as for me, I couldna conscientiously220 condescend221 upon less than ten o' them, or may be a pund British, but I'm feart that's contrair to your honor's habits.”
“Well, then,” said Sir Robert, “I have no more silver, and so I leave you to the agreeable society of Robinson Crusoe.”
Reilly had watched Sir Robert's motions, as well as his countenance198, in a manner as furtively222 as possible. Sometimes, indeed, he stared at him broadly, and with a stupid, oafish223 look, and again placed himself in such a position behind the range of flower-pots which were placed upon the ledges224, that he could observe him without being perceived himself. The force of habit, however, is extraordinary. Our hero was a man exceedingly remarkable for personal cleanliness, and consequently made a point to wash his hands morning and evening with peculiar225 care. Be this as it may, the lynx eye of Sir Robert observed their whiteness, and he instantly said to himself, “This is no common laborer226; I know that he is not, from the whiteness of his hands. Besides, he is disguised; it is evident from the length of his beard, and the unnecessary coarseness of his apparel. Then his figure, the symmetry and size of which no disguise can conceal; this, and everything else, assures me that he is disguised, and that he is, besides, no other individual than the man I want, William Reilly, who has been hitherto my evil genius; but it shall go hard with me, or I shall be his now.” Such were his meditations227 as he passed along with the squire to join him at lunch.
When they had left the garden, Reilly addressed his Cooleen Bawn as follows:
“Helen, I am discovered.”
“Discovered! O my God, no!”
“Unquestionably, there is no doubt of it; it is certain.”
“But how do you know that it is certain?”
“Because I observed that Whitecraft's eyes were never off my hands; he knew that a common laborer could not possibly have such hands. Helen, I am discovered, and must fly.”
“But you know that there is a change of Administration, and that the severity of the laws has been relaxed against Catholics.”
“Yes, you told me so, and I have no fear for myself; but what I apprehend is that this discovery, of which I feel certain, will precipitate228 your marriage with that miscreant73; they will entrap229 you into it, and then I am miserable230 for ever.”
“Then, William, we must fly this very night; we will proceed to the Continent, to some Protestant state, where we can get married without any danger to the clergyman who may unite us.”
“It is all that is left for us,” replied Reilly; “I should sooner lose life than you, my beloved Helen; and now, what is to be done? fly we must; and in anticipation231 of the necessity of this step I left a suit of clothes with Lanigan: or rather with a poor widow, who was a pensioner232 of mine—a Mrs. Buckley, from whom Lanigan got them, and has them. I could not think of accompanying you in this vile78 dress. On your way in, try to see Lanigan, and desire him to come out to me. There is not a moment to be lost; and, my dear Helen, show no marks of agitation233; be calm and firm, or we are undone234.”
“Rely on me, dear Reilly, rely on me; I shall, send Lanigan to you.”
She left him, and went to her room, when she rang the bell, and her maid, the faithful Connor, who had been restored to her service, came to her.
“Connor,” said she, “I shall not be able to dine with papa to-day, especially as that wretch87 Whitecraft is likely to dine with him. Go to Lanigan, and tell him to come to me, for I wish to know if he has any thing light and delicate that he could send to my room; Connor, I am very unhappy.”
“But, miss, sure they say that the laws are changed, and that Mr. Reilly may go at large if he wishes.”
“I know that, Connor; but send Lanigan to me immediately.”
“When Lanigan entered he found the Cooleen Bawn in tears.
“My God, Miss Folliard,” said he, “what is the matter with you? why are you crying, or what have they done to you?”
“Lanigan,” she replied, wiping her eyes, “you and Connor only are in our secret; we must fly this night.”
“This night, Miss Folliard!”
“This night, Lanigan; and you must assist us.”
“To the last drop of my blood, I will.”
“Lanigan, Reilly is discovered.”
“Discovered, miss! good God, how was he discovered?”
“By his hands—by the whiteness of his beautiful hands. Now, Lanigan, Sir Robert, aware that he cannot act the tyrant235 at present, as he used to do, will instigate236 my father to some act of outrage against him; for you know, Lanigan, how cowardly, how cruel, how vindictive237, the detestable villain is; and most assuredly he will make my credulous238 and generous, but hot-tempered, father the instrument of his vengeance upon Reilly; and, besides, he will certainly urge him to bring about an immediate113 marriage between himself and me, to which, it is true, I would, and will die, sooner than consent. I will dine here, Lanigan, for I cannot bear to look upon my dear father, whom I am about to—” Here her tears interrupted her, and she could proceed no farther; at length she recovered herself, and resumed: “I know,” she added, “that Whitecraft is now detailing his discovery and his plans. Oh!! that, for Reilly's sake, I could become acquainted with them!”
“What would you wish for dinner, Miss Folliard?” asked Lanigan calmly.
“For dinner? oh, any thing, any thing; I care not what; but see Reilly, tell him I have a second key for the back gate in the garden, and also for the front; and, Lanigan—”
“Well, Miss Folliard; but, for God's sake, don't cry so; your eyes will get red, and your father may notice it.”
“True, thank you, Lanigan; and Reilly, besides, told me to keep myself calm; but how can I, Lanigan? Oh, my father! my beloved father! how can I abandon—desert him? No, Lanigan, I will not go; say to Reilly—say I have changed my mind; tell him that my affection for my father has overcome my love for him; say I will never marry—that my heart is his, and never will or can be another's. But then again—he, the noble-minded, the brave, the generous, the disinterested—alas! I know not what to do, Lanigan, nor how to act. If I remain here, they will strive to force this odious239 marriage on me; and then some fearful catastrophe will happen; for, sooner than marry Whitecraft, I would stab either him or myself. Either that, Lanigan, or I should go mad; for do you know, Lanigan, that there is insanity240 in our family, by my father's side?”
“Unfortunately I know it, Miss Folliard; your uncle died in a mad-house, and it was in that way the estate came to your father. But remember what you say Mr. Reilly told you; be calm; I will send up some light nourishing dinner to you, at the usual hour; and in the meantime I will see him before then, and forge some excuse for bringing it up myself.”
“Stay, Lanigan, I am sadly perplexed241; I scarcely know what I say; I am in a state of inconceivable distraction242. Suppose I should change my mind; it is not unlikely; I am whirled about by a crowd of contending emotions; but—well—let me see—oh, yes—it will be as well, Lanigan, to have two horses ready saddled; that is no crime, I hope, if we should go. I must, of course, put on my riding habit.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Folliard, you'll do no such thing; would you wish to have yourself discovered in the first inn you might put up at? No, dress yourself in one of Connor's dresses so that you may appear as humble as possible, and any thing but a lady of rank; otherwise, it will be difficult for you to escape observation.”
“Well, Lanigan, all I can say is, that he and I shall place ourselves under your advice and guidance. But my father—oh, my dear father!” and again she wrung243 her hands and wept bitterly.
“Miss Helen,” said he, “as sure as the Lord's in heaven, you will discover yourself; and, after all, how do you know that Sir Robert has found out Mr. Reilly? Sure it's nothing but bare suspicion on both your parts. At any rate, I'll saddle Paudeen O'Rafferty wid my own hands, and I'll put on Molly Crudden's big pillion, for you know she's too fat to walk to mass, and you will feel yourself quite easy and comfortable in it”
“No, no, Lanigan; I know not why the impression is on me; but I feel as if I were never to experience comfort more. Go to Mr. Reilly; make what arrangements he and you may think proper, and afterwards you can acquaint me with them. You see, Lanigan, in what a state of excitement and uncertainty I am. But tell Reilly that, rather than be forced into a marriage, with Whitecraft—rather than go distracted—rather than die—I shall fly with him.”
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contravene
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| v.违反，违背，反驳，反对 | |
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squire
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cane
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demesne
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frieze
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rascal
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exhausted
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vagrant
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magistrate
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persecution
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amiable
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conceal
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preservation
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generosity
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hesitation
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veins
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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commuted
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| 通勤( commute的过去式和过去分词 )； 减（刑）； 代偿 | |
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19
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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20
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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21
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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22
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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23
serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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24
bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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25
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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27
bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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28
jades
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| n.玉，翡翠（jade的复数形式）v.（使）疲（jade的第三人称单数形式） | |
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29
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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30
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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31
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
apprehended
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的过去式和过去分词 )； 理解 | |
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33
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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34
manoeuvrer
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35
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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36
obstruct
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| v.阻隔，阻塞(道路、通道等)；n.阻碍物，障碍物 | |
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37
impeached
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| v.控告（某人）犯罪( impeach的过去式和过去分词 )；弹劾；对（某事物）怀疑；提出异议 | |
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38
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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39
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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40
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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41
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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42
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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43
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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44
hiccup
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| n.打嗝 | |
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45
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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46
profligacy
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| n.放荡，不检点，肆意挥霍 | |
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47
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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48
gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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49
transgressions
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| n.违反，违法，罪过( transgression的名词复数 ) | |
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50
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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51
divulged
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| v.吐露，泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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53
mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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54
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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55
requital
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| n.酬劳；报复 | |
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56
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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57
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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58
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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59
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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60
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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61
pounce
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| n.猛扑；v.猛扑，突然袭击，欣然同意 | |
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62
dens
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| n.牙齿，齿状部分；兽窝( den的名词复数 )；窝点；休息室；书斋 | |
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63
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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64
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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65
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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66
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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67
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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68
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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69
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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70
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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71
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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72
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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73
miscreant
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| n.恶棍 | |
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74
miscreants
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| n.恶棍，歹徒( miscreant的名词复数 ) | |
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75
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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76
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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77
licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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78
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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79
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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81
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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82
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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83
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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84
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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85
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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86
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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87
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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88
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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89
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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90
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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91
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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92
construe
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| v.翻译，解释 | |
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93
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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94
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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95
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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96
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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97
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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98
pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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99
pickle
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| n.腌汁，泡菜；v.腌，泡 | |
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100
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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101
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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102
intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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103
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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104
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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105
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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106
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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107
levy
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| n.征收税或其他款项，征收额 | |
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108
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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109
imbued
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| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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110
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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111
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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112
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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113
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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114
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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115
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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116
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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117
functionary
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| n.官员；公职人员 | |
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118
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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119
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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120
imputing
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的现在分词 ) | |
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121
apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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122
prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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123
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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124
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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125
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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126
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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127
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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128
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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129
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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130
penal
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| adj.刑罚的；刑法上的 | |
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131
expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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132
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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133
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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134
impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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135
chapels
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| n.小教堂， （医院、监狱等的）附属礼拜堂( chapel的名词复数 )；（在小教堂和附属礼拜堂举行的）礼拜仪式 | |
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136
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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137
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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138
rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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139
disarmed
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| v.裁军( disarm的过去式和过去分词 )；使息怒 | |
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140
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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141
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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142
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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143
assailing
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| v.攻击( assail的现在分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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144
privy
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| adj.私用的；隐密的 | |
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145
infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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146
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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147
extirpate
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| v.除尽，灭绝 | |
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148
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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149
metropolis
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| n.首府；大城市 | |
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150
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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151
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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152
loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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153
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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154
succored
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| v.给予帮助( succor的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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155
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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156
overdrawn
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| 透支( overdraw的过去分词 )； (overdraw的过去分词) | |
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157
quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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158
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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159
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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160
pacification
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| n. 讲和，绥靖，平定 | |
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161
antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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162
forfeiture
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| n.（名誉等）丧失 | |
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163
extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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164
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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165
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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166
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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167
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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168
connive
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| v.纵容；密谋 | |
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169
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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170
extort
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| v.勒索，敲诈，强要 | |
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171
ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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172
redress
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| n.赔偿，救济，矫正；v.纠正，匡正，革除 | |
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173
enacted
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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174
succinct
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| adj.简明的，简洁的 | |
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175
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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176
restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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177
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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178
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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179
inclemency
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| n.险恶，严酷 | |
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180
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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181
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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182
chastising
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的现在分词 ) | |
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183
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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184
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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185
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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186
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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187
heartiest
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| 亲切的( hearty的最高级 )； 热诚的； 健壮的； 精神饱满的 | |
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188
castigator
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| n.鞭打者；申斥者；修订者；惩罚者 | |
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189
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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190
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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191
patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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192
magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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193
lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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194
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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195
stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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196
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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197
countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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198
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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199
annulling
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| v.宣告无效( annul的现在分词 )；取消；使消失；抹去 | |
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200
transgressed
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| v.超越( transgress的过去式和过去分词 )；越过；违反；违背 | |
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201
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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202
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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203
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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204
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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205
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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206
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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207
atrocities
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| n.邪恶，暴行( atrocity的名词复数 )；滔天大罪 | |
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208
delinquents
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| n.（尤指青少年）有过失的人，违法的人( delinquent的名词复数 ) | |
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209
substantiated
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| v.用事实支持（某主张、说法等），证明，证实( substantiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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210
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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211
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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212
impartiality
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| n. 公平, 无私, 不偏 | |
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213
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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214
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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215
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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216
shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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217
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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218
scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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219
defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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220
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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221
condescend
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| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
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222
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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223
oafish
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| adj.呆子的，白痴的 | |
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224
ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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225
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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226
laborer
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| n.劳动者，劳工 | |
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227
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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228
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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229
entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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230
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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231
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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232
pensioner
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| n.领养老金的人 | |
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233
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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234
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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235
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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236
instigate
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| v.教唆，怂恿，煽动 | |
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237
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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238
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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239
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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240
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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241
perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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242
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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243
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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