Lanigan, on passing the dining parlor1, heard what he conceived to be loud and angry voices inside the room, and as the coast was clear he deliberately2 put his ear to the key-hole, which ear drank in the following conversation:
“I say, Sir Robert, I'll shoot the villain3. Do not hold me. My pistols are unloaded and loaded every day in the year; and ever since I transported that rebel priest I never go without them. But are you sure, Sir Robert? Is it not possible you may be mistaken? I know you are a suspicious fellow; but still, as I said, you are, for that very reason, the more liable to be wrong. But, if it is he, what's to be done, unless I shoot him?”
“Under the last Administration, sir, I could have answered your question; but you know that if you shoot him now you will be hanged. All that's left for us is simply to effect this marriage the day after tomorrow; the documents are all ready, and in the course of to-morrow the license4 can be procured5. In the meantime, you must dispatch him to-night.”
“What do you mean, Sir Robert?”
“I say you must send him about his business. In point of fact, I think the fellow knows that he is discovered, and it is not unlikely that he may make an effort to carry off your daughter this very night.”
“But, Sir Robert, can we not seize him and surrender him to the authorities? Is he not an outlaw6?”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Folliard, he is not an outlaw; I stretched a little too far there. It is true I got his name put into the Hew7 and-Cry, but upon representations which I cannot prove.”
“And why did you do so, Sir Robert?”
“Why, Mr. Folliard, to save your daughter.”
The old man paused.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “that is a bad business—I mean for you; Sir Robert; but we will talk it over. You shall stop and dine with me; I want some one to talk with—some one who will support me and keep me in spirits;” and as he spoke8 he sobbed9 bitterly. “I wish to God,” he exclaimed, “that neither I nor Helen—my dear Helen—had ever seen that fellow's face. You will dine with me, Bob?”
“I will, upon the strict condition that you keep yourself quiet, and won't seem to understand any thing.”
“Would you recommend me to lock her up?”
“By no means; that would only make matters worse. I shall dine with you, but you must be calm and quiet, and not seem to entertain any suspicions.”
“Very well, I shall; but what has become of our lunch? Touch the bell.”
This hint sent Lanigan downstairs, who met the butler coming up with it.
“Why, Pat,” said he, “what kept you so long with the lunch?”
“I was just thinking,” replied Pat, “how it would be possible to poison that ugly, ill-made, long-legged scoundrel, without poisoning my master. What's to be done, Lanigan? He will marry this darlin' in spite of us. And sure, now we have our privileges once more, since this great Earl came to rule over us; and sure, they say, he's a greater gentleman than the king himself. All I can say is, that if this same Sir Robert forces the Cooleen Baum to such an unnatural10 marriage, I'll try a dose, hit or miss, for a cowheel anyway.”
Lanigan laughed, and the butler passed on with the lunch.
We may state here that the squire11, notwithstanding his outspoken12 manner against Popery, like a terrible reverend baronet not long deceased, who, notwithstanding his discovery of the most awful Popish plots, and notwithstanding the most extravagant14 denunciations against Popery, like him, we say, the old squire seldom had more than one or two Protestant servants under his roof. Pat hated Longshanks, as he termed him, as did all the household, which, indeed, was very natural, as he was such a notorious persecutor15 of their religion and their clergy16.
Lanigan lost no time in acquainting Reilly with what he had heard, and the heart of the latter palpitated with alarm on hearing that the next day but one was likely to join his Cooleen Bawn, by violent and unnatural proceedings17, to the man whom she so much detested18. He felt that it was now time to act in order to save her. Arrangements were consequently made between them as to the time and manner of their escape, and those arrangements, together with the dialogue he had overheard, Lanigan communicated to the Cooleen Bawn.
The squire on that day experienced strange alternations of feeling. His spirits seemed to rise and sink, as the quicksilver in the glass is affected19 by the state of the atmosphere. He looked into the future with terror, and again became, to the astonishment20 of his guest—we now talk of their conduct after dinner—actuated by some thought or impulse that put him into high spirits. Whitecraft, cool and cautious, resolved to let him have his way; for the squire was drinking deeply, and the Burgundy was good and strong.
“Bob, my boy,” said he, “you don't drink, and that is a bad sign. You have either a bad head of late, or a bad heart, which is worse. Hang you, sir, why don't you drink? I have seen you lay lots of my guests under the table when you were quite cool; but now, what are you at? They can't run away to-night. Helen doesn't know that the discovery has been made. And now, Bob, you dog, listen to me, I say—would you have had the manliness21 and courage to expose yourself for the sake of a pretty girl as he did?—that is—here's a bumper22 to Helen! Curse you, will nothing make you drink? No, faith, he hadn't seen Helen at the time; it was for a worthless old fellow like me that he exposed himself; but no matter, you may be right; perhaps it was a plot to get acquainted with her. Still, I'm not sure of that; but if it was, I'll make him smart.”
After dinner the squire drank deeply—so deeply, indeed, that Whitecraft was obliged to call up some of the male servants to carry him to his chamber23 and put him to bed. In this task Lanigan assisted, and thanked his stars that he was incapacitated from watching the lovers, or taking any means to prevent their escape. As for Whitecraft, thought he, I will soon send him about his business. Now, this gentleman's suspicions were the more deeply excited, in consequence of Helen's refusal to meet him at either lunch or dinner, a refusal which she gave on the plea of indisposition. He had therefore made up his mind to watch the motions of Cooleen Bawn, and he would have included Reilly in his surveillance were it not that Lanigan informed him of what he termed the mysterious disappearance24 of the under-gardener.
“What!” exclaimed Whitecraft, “is he gone?”
“He has gone, Sir Robert, and he left his week's wages behind him, for he never came to the steward25 to ask it. And now, Sir Robert, to tell you the truth, I'm not sorry he's gone; he was a disagreeable old fellow, that nobody could make either head or tail of; but, Sir Robert, listen—wait, sir, till I shut the door—it will soon be getting dusk: you know you're not liked in the country, and now that we—I mean the Catholics—have the countenance26 of Government, I think that riding late won't be for your health. The night air, you know, isn't wholesome27 to some people. I am merely givin' you a hint, Sir Robert, bekaise you are a friend of my masther's, and I hope for your own sake you'll take it. The sooner you mount your horse the better; and if you be guided by me, you'll try and reach your own house before the darkness sets in. Who knows what Reilly may be plotting? You know he doesn't like a bone in your honor's skin; and the Reillys are cruel and desperate.”
“But, Lanigan, are you aware of any plot or conspiracy28 that has been got up against my life?”
“Not at all, your honor; but I put it to yourself, sir, whether you don't feel that I'm speaking the truth.”
“I certainly know very well,” replied the baronet, “that I am exceedingly unpopular with the Popish party; but, in my conduct towards them, I only carried out the laws that had been passed against them.”
“I know that, Sir Robert, and, as a Catholic, I am sorry that you and others were supported and egged on by such laws. Why, sir, a hangman could—give the same excuse, because if he put a rope about your neck, and tied his cursed knot nately under your left ear, what was he doin' but fulfillin' the law as you did? And now, Sir Robert, who would shake hands with a hangman, unless some unfortunate highway robber or murderer, that gives him his hand because he knows that he will never see his purty face agin. This discourse29 is all folly30, however—you haven't a minute to lose—shall I order your horse?”
“Yes, you had better, Lanigan,” replied the other, with a dogged appearance of cowardice31 and revenge. He could not forgive Lanigan the illustration that involved the comparison of the hangman; still his conscience and his cowardice both whispered to him that the cook was in the right.
This night was an eventful one. The course of our narrative32 brings us and our readers to the house of Captain Smellpriest, who had for his next-door neighbor the stalwart curate of the parish, the Rev13. Samson Strong, to whom some allusion33 has been I already made in these pages. Now the difference between Smellpriest and Whitecraft was this—Smellpriest was not a magistrate34, as Whitecraft was, and in his priest-hunting expeditions only acted upon warrants issued by some bigoted35 and persecuting36 magistrate or other who lived in the district. But as his propensity37 to hunt those unfortunate persons was known, the execution of the warrants was almost in every instance entrusted39 to his hands. It was not so with Sir Robert, who, being himself a magistrate, might be said to have been in the position at once of judge and executioner. At all events, the race of blood was pretty equal between them, so far as the clergy was concerned; but in general enmity to the Catholic community at large, Whitecraft was far more cruel and comprehensive in his vengeance40. It is indeed an observation founded upon truth and experience, that in all creeds41, in proportion to his ignorance and bigotry42, so is the violence of the persecutor. Whitecraft, the self-constituted champion of Protestantism, had about as much religion as Satan himself—or indeed less, for we are told that he believes and trembles, while Whitecraft, on the contrary, neither believed nor trembled. But if he did not fear God, he certainly feared man, and on the night in question went home with as craven a heart—thanks to Lanigan—as ever beat in a coward's bosom43. Smellpriest, however, differed from Whitecraft in many points; he was brave, though cruel, and addicted44 to deep potations. Whitecraft, it is true, drank more deeply still than he did; but, by some idiosyncrasy of stomach or constitution, it had no more effect upon him than it had upon the cask from which it had been drawn45, unless, indeed, to reduce him to greater sobriety and sharpen his prejudices.
Be this as it may, the Rev. Samson Strong made his appearance in Smellpriest's house with a warrant, or something in the shape of one, which he placed in the gallant46 captain's hands, who was drunk.
“What's this, oh, Samson the Strong? said Smellpriest, laughing and hiccuping47 both at the same time.
“It's a hunt, my dear friend. One of those priests of Baal has united in unholy bands a Protestant subject with a subject of the harlot of abominations.”
“Samson, my buck,” said Smellpriest, “I hope this Popish priest of yours will not turn out to be a wild-goose. You know you have sent me upon many a wild-goose chase before; in—in—in fact, you nev—never sent me upon any other. You're a blockhead, oh, divine Samson; and that—that thick head of yours would flatten48 a cannon-ball. But what is it?—an intermarriage between the two P's—Popish and Protestant?”
“My dear,” said his wife, “you must be aware that the Popishers have only got liberty to clatter49 their beads50 in public; but not to marry a Popisher to a Protestanter. This is a glorious opportunity for you to come home with a feather in your cap, my dear. Has he far to go, Mr. Strong? because he never goes out after the black game, as you call them, sir, that I don't feel as if I—but I can't express what I feel at his dear absence.”
Now we have said that Smellpriest was drunk, which, in point of fact, was true; but not so drunk but that he observed some intelligent glances pass between his wife and the broad-shouldered curate.
“No, madam, only about two miles. Smellpriest, you know Jack51 Houlaghan's stripe?”
“Yes—I know Jack Houlaghan's stripe, in Kilrudden.”
“Well, when you g'et to the centre of the stripe, look a little to your right, and—as the night is light enough—you will see a house—a cottage rather; to this cottage bring your men, and there you will find your game. I would not, captain, under other circumstances, advise you to recruit your spirits with an additional glass or two of liquor; but, as the night is cold, I really do recommend you to fortify52 yourself with a little refreshment53.”
He was easily induced to do so, and he accordingly took a couple of glasses of punch, and when about to mount his horse, it was found that he could not do so without the assistance of his men who were on duty, in all about six, every one of whom, as well as the captain himself, was well armed. It is unnecessary to state to the reader that the pursuit was a vain one. They searched the house to no purpose; neither priest or friar was there, and he, consequently, had the satisfaction of performing another wild-goose chase with his usual success, whenever the Rev. Samson Strong sent him in pursuit. In the meantime the moon went down, and the night became exceedingly dark; but the captain's spirits were high and boisterous54, so much so that they began to put themselves forth55 in song, the song in question being the once celebrated56 satire57 upon James the Second and Tyrconnell, called “Lillibullero,” now “The Protestant Boys.” How this song gained so much popularity it is difficult to guess, for we are bound to say that a more pointless and stupid production never came from the brain of man. Be this as it may, we must leave the gallant captain and his gang singing it in full chorus, and request our readers to accompany us to another locality.
The sheriff had now recovered from a dreadful attack of the prevailing59 epidemic60, and was able to resume his duties. In the meantime he had heard of the change which had taken place in the administration of affairs at headquarters—a change at which he felt no regret, but rather a good deal of satisfaction, as it relieved him from the performance of very disagreeable and invidious duties, and the execution of many severe and inhuman61 laws. He was now looking over and signing some papers, when he rang the bell, and a servant entered. “Tom,” said he, “there is an old man, a poor mendicant62, to call here, who was once a servant in our family; when he comes show him into the office. I expect some important family information from him respecting the property which we are disputing about in the Court of Chancery.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the servant, “I shall do so.”
This occurred on the day of Whitecraft's visit to Squire Folliard, and it was on the evening of the same that Smellpriest was sent upon the usual chase, on the information of the Rev. Samson Strong; so that the events to which we have alluded63 occurred, as if by some secret relation to each other, on the same day.
At length our friend Fergus entered the office, in his usual garb64 of an aged65 and confirmed mendicant.
“Well, Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am glad you have come. I could have taken up this ruffian, this Red Rapparee, as he is properly called, upon suspicion; but that would have occasioned delay; and it is my object to lodge66 him in jail this night, so as to give him no chance of escape unless he breaks prison; but in order to prevent that, I shall give strict injunctions, in consequence of the danger to be apprehended67 from so powerful and desperate a character, that he be kept in strong irons.”
“If it be within the strength of man, sir, to break prison, he will; he done it twice before; and he's under the notion that he never was born to be hanged; some of the ould prophecy men, and Mary Mahon, it seems, tould him so.”
“In the meantime, Reilly, we shall test the truth of such prophecies. But listen. What is your wish that I should do for you, in addition to what I have already done. You know what I have promised you, and that for some time past, and that I have the Secretary's letter stating that you are free, and have to dread58 neither arrest nor punishment; but that is upon the condition that you shall give all the evidence against this man that you are possessed68 of. In that case the Government will also bountifully reward you besides.”
“The Government need not think of any such thing, your honor,” replied Reilly; “a penny of Government money will never cross my pocket. It isn't for any reward I come against this man, but because he joined the blood-hounds of Sir Robert Whitecraft against his own priests and his own religion; or at last against the religion he professed69, for I don't think he ever had any.”
“Well, then, I can make you one of my officers.”
“Is it to go among the poor and distressed71, sir, and help, maybe, to take the bed from undher the sick father or the sick mother, and to leave them without a stick undher the ould roof or naked walls? No, sir; sooner than do that I'd take to the highway once more, and rob like a man in the face of danger. That I may never see to-morrow,” he proceeded, with vehemence72, “but I'd rather rob ten rich men than harish one poor family. It was that work that druv me to the coorse I left—that an' the persecution73 that was upon us. Take my word, sir, that in nineteen cases out of twenty it was the laws themselves, and the poverty they brought upon the country, that made the robbers.”
“But could you not give evidence against some others of the gang?”
“No, sir; there is not one of them in this part of the kingdom, and I believe the most of them all are out of it altogether. But, even if they were not, I, sir, am not the man to betray them; the Red Rapparee would, if he could get at them; but, thank God, I've put every man of them beyond his reach.”
“You did! and pray, now, why, may I ask, did that happen?”
“Bekaise it came to my ears that it was his intention to inform against them, and to surrender them all to the Government.”
“Well, Reilly, after all, I believe you to be an honest fellow, even although you were once a robber; but the question now is, what is to be done? Are you sure of his whereabouts?”
“I think so, sir; or, if I am not, I know one that is. But I have an observation to make. You know, sir, I would a' gone abroad, a freeman before this time, only that it's necessary I should still keep on my disguise, in ordher that I may move about as I wish until I secure this Red Rapparee. After that, sir, please God, I'll taste a mouthful of freedom. In the meantime I know one, as I said, that will enable us to make sure of him.”
“Pray, who is that?”
“Tom Steeple, sir.”
“Do you mean the poor fool of that name—or rather, I believe, of that nickname?”
“I do, sir; and in many things he's less of a fool than wiser men. He has been dodg-in' him for the last two or three days; and he's a person that no one would ever suspect, unless, indeed, the cautious and practised Rapparees; but in ordher to meet any such suspicion, I have got upon the right trail myself—we're sure of him now, I think.”
“Well, Reilly,” proceeded the sheriff, “I leave the management of the capture of this man to yourself. You shall have a strong and determined74 party to support you. Do you only show them the man, and, take my word for it, they will secure the robber. After this affair is over you must throw off those rags. I will furnish you with decent clothes, and you can go out at large without fear or risk, and that under your own name too. I took your hint, and declined swearing the informations against him before the old squire, as I had intended, from an apprehension75 that he might possibly blab the fact to Whitecraft, who, if your information be correct, would have given him notice to fly, or otherwise concealed76 him from justice.”
“Well, sir,” said Reilly, “it's my opinion that the Rapparee will lodge in Sligo jail before to-morrow mornin'; and it's a thousand pities that Whitecraft shouldn't be sent there to keep him company.”
“He certainly is the most unpopular man living. In the exuberance78 of his loyalty79 he has contrived80 to offend almost every liberal Protestant in the county, and that with an unjustifiable degree of wanton, and overbearing insolence81, arising from his consciousness of impunity82. However, thank God, his day is gone by. But, mark me, Reilly—I had almost forgotten—don't neglect to secure the clothes in which the villain robbed me; they will be important.”
“I had no intention of forgetting them, sir; and that scheme for throwing the guilt83 of his own villany on Mr. Reilly is another reason why I appear against him.”
It was not, indeed, very easy for the Rapparee to escape. Whitecraft got home safe, a little before dusk, after putting his unfortunate horse to more than his natural speed. On his arrival he ordered wine to be brought, and sat down to meditate84 upon the most feasible plan for reinstating himself in the good graces of the new Government. After pondering over many speculations85 to that effect, it occurred to him that to secure the Rapparee, now that he could, as an agent and a guide, be of no further use to him, was the most likely procedure to effect his purpose. He accordingly rang for his usual attendant, and asked him if he knew where O'Donnel was. The man replied that he waa generally in or about Mary Mahon's.
“Then,” proceeded his master, “let him be with me to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock.”
“If I see him, sir, I shall tell him.”
“And say that I have something to his advantage to mention to him.”
“Yes, sir; I shan't forget it.”
“Now,” said he, after the servant had withdrawn86, and taking a bumper of wine, “I know not how it is, but I feel very uncomfortable somehow. I certaintly did not expect a change in the Administration, nor a relaxation87 in the carrying out of the laws against Papists; and, under this impression, I fear I have gone too far, and that I may be brought over the coals for my conduct. I understand that the old French Abbe is returned, and once more a resident in the family of that cursed marquis. I think, by the way, I should go and apologize to both the marquis and the Abbe, and throw the blame of my own violence upon the conduct and instructions of the last Government; that, and the giving up of this ruffianly Rapparee to the present, may do something for me. This country, however, now that matters have taken such an unexpected turn, shall not long be my place of residence. As for Reilly, my marriage on the day after tomorrow with that stubborn beauty, Helen Folliard, will place an impassable barrier between him and her. I am glad he has escaped, for he will not be in our way, and we shall start for my English estates immediately after the ceremony. To-morrow, however, I shall secure the Rapparee, and hand him over to the authorities. I could have wished to hang Reilly, but now it is impossible; still, we shall start for England immediately after the nuptial88 knot is tied, for I don't think I could consider myself safe, now that he is at large, and at liberty to appear in his proper name and person especially after all the mischief89 I have done him, in addition to the fact of my bearing away his Cooleen Bawn, as she is called.”
In fact, the man's mind was a turbid90 chaos91 of reflections upon the past and the future, in which selfishness, disappointed vengeance, terror, hypocritical policy, and every feeling that could fill the imagination of a man possessed of a vacillating, cowardly, and cruel heart, with the exception only of any thing that could border upon penitence92 or remorse93. That Miss Folliard was not indifferent to him is true; but the feeling which he experienced towards her contained only two elements—sensuality and avarice94. Of love, in its purest, highest, and holiest sense, he was utterly95 incapable96; and he was not ignorant himself that, in the foul97 attachment98 which he bore her, he was only carrying into effect the principles of his previous life—those of a private debauchee, and a miser99. That amiable100, but unhappy and distracted, lady spent that whole evening in making preparations for her flight with Reilly. Her manner was wild and excited; indeed, so much so that the presence of mind and cool good sense, for which her maid Connor was remarkable101, were scarcely sufficient to guide and direct her in this distressing102 emergency. She seemed to be absorbed by but one thought, and that was of her father. His affection for her enlarged and expanded itself in her loving heart, with a force and tenderness that nearly drove her into delirium103. Connor, in the meantime, got all things ready, she herself having entrusted the management of every thing to her. The unhappy girl paced to and fro her room, sobbing104 and weeping bitterly, wringing105 her hands, and exclaiming from time to time:
“Oh, my father! my dear and loving father! is this the return I am making you for your tenderness and affection? what am I about to do? what steps am I going to take? to leave you desolate106, with no heart for yours to repose107 upon! Alas108! there was but one heart that you cared for, and in the duty and affection of that all your hopes for my happiness lay; and now, when you awake, you will find that that heart, the very heart | on which you rested, has deserted109 you! When you come down to breakfast in the morning, and find that your own Helen, your only one, has gone—oh! who will sustain, or soothe110, or calm you in the frenzied111 grief of your desolation? But alas! what can I do but escape from that cowardly and vindictive112 villain—the very incarnation of oppression and persecution; the hypocrite, the secret debauchee, the mean, the dastardly, whose inhuman ambition was based upon and nurtured113 by blood? Alas! I have but the one remedy—flight with my noble minded lover, whom that dastardly villain would have hunted, even to his murder, or an ignominious114 death, which would have been worse. This flight is not spontaneously mine; I am forced to it, and of two evils I will choose the least; surely I am not bound to seal my own misery115 forever.”
Connor had by this time attempted, as far as she could, to disguise her in one of her own dresses; but nothing could conceal77 the elegance116 and exquisite117 proportion of her figure, nor the ladylike harmony and grace of her motions. She then went to the oaken cabinet, mentioned by her father in the opening of our narrative, and as she always had the key of that portion of it which contained her own diamonds, and other property, she took a casket of jewels of immense value from it, and returned to her room, where she found Connor before her.
“Mr. Reilly is ready, miss,” she said, “and is waiting for you behind the garden; the only one I dread in the house is Andy Cummiskey; he is so much attached to the master that I think if he knew you were about to escape he would tell him.”
“Well, Connor, we must only avoid him as well as we can; but where, or how, shall I carry these jewels? in these slight pockets of yours, Connor, they could not be safe.”
“Well, then, can't you give them to him to keep, and they'll be safe?”
“True, Connor, so they will; but I give him a heart which he prizes above them all. But, alas! my father! oh! Connor, shall I abandon him?”
“Do not distress70 yourself, my dear Miss Folliard; your father loves you too much to hold out his anger against you long. Did you not tell me that if Reilly was a Protestant your father said he would rather marry you to him than to Sir Robert, the villain, with all his wealth?”
“I did, Connor, and my father certainly said so; but the serpent, Connor, entwined himself about the poor credulous118 man, and succeeded in embittering119 him against Reilly, who would rather go to the scaffold—yes, and—which he would consider a greater sacrifice—rather abandon even me than his religion. And do you think, Connor, that I do not love my noble-minded Reilly the more deeply for this? I tell you, Connor, that if he renounced120 his religion upon no other principle than his love for me, I should despise him as a dishonorable, man, to whom it would not be safe for me to entrust38 my happiness.”
“Well, well; but now it is time to start, and Reilly, as I said, is waiting for you behind the garden.”
“Oh, Connor, and is it come to this? my dear papa! but I cannot go until I see him; no, Connor, I could not; I shall go quietly into his room, and take one look at him; probably it may be the last. Oh, my God! what am I about to do! Connor, keep this casket until I return; I shall not be long.”
She then went to his chamber. The blinds and curtains of the windows had not been drawn, and it occurred to her that as her dress was so different from any which her father had ever seen on her, some suspicion might be created should he observe it. She therefore left the candlestick which she had brought with her on the inside sill of a lobby window, having observed at the door that the moonlight streamed in through the windows upon his bed. Judge of her consternation121, however, when, on entering the room, her father, turning himself in the bed, asked:
“Is that Helen?”
“It is, papa; I thought you had been asleep, and I came up to steal my good-night kiss without any intention of awakening122 you.”
“I drank too much, Helen, with Whitecraft, whom wine—my Burgundy—instead of warming, seems to turn into an icicle. However, he is a devilish shrewd fellow. Helen, darling, there's a jug123 of water on the table there; will you hand it to me; I'm all in a flame and a fever.”
She did so, and her hand trembled so much that she was near spilling it. He took a long draught124, after which he smacked125 his lips, and seemed to breathe more freely.
“Helen,” said he.
“Well, dear papa.”
“Helen, I had something to mention to you, but—”
“Don't disturb yourself to-night, papa; you are somewhat feverish,” she added, feeling his pulse; if you will excuse me, papa, I think you drank too much; your pulse is very quick; if you could fall into rest again it would be better for you.”
“Yes, it would; but my mind is uneasy and sorrowful. Helen, I thought you loved me, my darling.”
“Oh, could you doubt it, papa? You see I am come as usual—no, not as usual, either—to kiss you; I will place my cheek against yours, as I used to do, dear papa, and you will allow me to weep—to weep—and to say that never father deserved the love of a daughter as you have deserved mine; and never did daughter love an affectionate and indulgent father more tenderly than your Cooleen Bawn does you.”
“I know it, Helen, I know it; your whole life has been a proof of it, and will be a proof of it; I know you have no other object in this world than to make papa happy; I know I feel that you are great-minded enough to sacrifice everything to that.”
“Well, but, papa,” she continued, “for all my former offences against you will you pity and forgive me?”
“I do both, you foolish darling; but what makes you speak so?”
“Because I feel melancholy126 to-night, papa; and now, papa, if ever I should do any thing wrong, won't you pity and forgive your own Cooleen Bawn?”
“Get along, you gipsy—don't be crying. What could you do that papa wouldn't forgive you, unless to run away with Reilly? Don't you know that you can wind me round your finger?”
“Farewell, papa,” she said, weeping all the time, for, in truth, she found it impossible to control herself; “farewell—good night! and remember that you may have a great deal to forgive your own Cooleen Bawn some of these days.”
On leaving the bedroom, where she was hurried by her feelings into this indiscreet dialogue, she found herself nearly incapable of walking without support. The contending affections for her father and her lover had nearly overcome her. By the aid of the staircase she got to her own room, where she was met by Connor, into whose arms she fell almost helpless.
“Ah, Connor,” she said, alluding127 to her father, whom she could not trust herself to name, “to-morrow morning what will become of him when he finds that I am gone? But I know his affectionate heart. He will relent—he will relent for the sake of his own Cooleen Bawn. The laws against Catholics are now relaxed, and I am glad of it. But I have one consolation128, my dear girl, that I am trusting myself to a man of honor. We will proceed directly to the Continent;—that is, if no calamitous129 occurrence should take place to prevent us; and there, after our nuptials130 shall have been duly celebrated, I will live happy with Reilly—that is, Connor, as happy as absence from my dear father will permit me—and Reilly will live happy, and, at least, free from the persecution of bad laws, and such villains131 as base and vindictive Whitecraft. You, Connor, must accompany me to the back of the garden, and see me off. Take this purse, Connor, as some compensation for your truth and the loss of your situation.”
It was now, when the moment of separation approached, that Connor's tears began to flow, far less at the generosity132 of her mistress than her affection, and that which she looked upon as probably their final separation.
“Dear Connor,” said her mistress, “I would expect that support to my breaking heart which I have hitherto experienced from you. Be firm now, for you see I am not firm, and your tears only render me less adequate to encounter the unknown vicissitudes133 which lie before me.”
“Well, then, I will be firm, my dear mistress; and I tell you that if there is a God in heaven that rewards virtue134 and goodness like yours, you will be happy yet. Come, now, he is waiting for you, and the less time we lose the better. We shall go out by the back way—it is the safest.”
They accordingly did so, and had nearly reached the back wall of the garden when they met Malcomson and Cummiskey, on their way into the kitchen, in order to have a mug of strong ale together. The two men, on seeing the females approach, withdrew to the shelter of a clump135 of trees, but not until they were known by Connor.
“Come, my dear mistress,” she whispered, “there is not one second of time to be lost. Cummiskey, who is a Catholic, might overlook our being here at this hour; because, although he is rather in the light of a friend than a servant to your father, still he is a friend to Reilly as well; but as for that ugly Scotchman, that is nothing but bone and skin, I would place no dependence136 whatever upon him.”
We will not describe the meeting between Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn. They had no time to lose in the tender expressions of their feelings. Each shook hands with, and bid farewell to, poor affectionate Connor, who was now drowned in tears; and thus they set off, with a view of leaving the kingdom, and getting themselves legally married in Holland, where they intended to reside.
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1
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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3
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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license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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5
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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outlaw
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| n.歹徒，亡命之徒；vt.宣布…为不合法 | |
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7
hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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8
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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9
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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10
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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11
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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12
outspoken
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| adj.直言无讳的，坦率的，坦白无隐的 | |
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13
rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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14
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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15
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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16
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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17
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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18
detested
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| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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20
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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21
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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22
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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23
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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24
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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25
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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26
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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27
wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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28
conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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29
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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30
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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31
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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32
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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34
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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35
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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36
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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37
propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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38
entrust
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| v.信赖，信托，交托 | |
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39
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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41
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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42
bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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43
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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44
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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45
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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46
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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47
hiccuping
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| v.嗝( hiccup的现在分词 )；连续地打嗝；暂时性的小问题；短暂的停顿 | |
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48
flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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49
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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50
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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51
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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52
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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53
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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54
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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55
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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56
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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57
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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58
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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59
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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60
epidemic
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| n.流行病；盛行；adj.流行性的，流传极广的 | |
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61
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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62
mendicant
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| n.乞丐；adj.行乞的 | |
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63
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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64
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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65
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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66
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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67
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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68
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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69
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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70
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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71
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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72
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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73
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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74
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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75
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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76
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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77
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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78
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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79
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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80
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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81
insolence
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| n.傲慢；无礼；厚颜；傲慢的态度 | |
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82
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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83
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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84
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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85
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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86
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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87
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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88
nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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89
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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90
turbid
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| adj.混浊的，泥水的，浓的 | |
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91
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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92
penitence
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| n.忏悔，赎罪；悔过 | |
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93
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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94
avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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95
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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96
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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97
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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98
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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99
miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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100
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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101
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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102
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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103
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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104
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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105
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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106
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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107
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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108
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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109
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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110
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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111
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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112
vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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113
nurtured
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| 养育( nurture的过去式和过去分词 )； 培育； 滋长； 助长 | |
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114
ignominious
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| adj.可鄙的，不光彩的，耻辱的 | |
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115
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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116
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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117
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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118
credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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120
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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121
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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123
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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124
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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125
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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127
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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128
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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129
calamitous
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| adj.灾难的，悲惨的；多灾多难；惨重 | |
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130
nuptials
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| n.婚礼；婚礼( nuptial的名词复数 ) | |
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131
villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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132
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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133
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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134
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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135
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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