Life, they say, is a life of trials, and so may it be said of this tale—at least of the conclusion of it; for we feel that it devolves upon us once more to solicit2 the presence of our readers to the same prison in which the Red Rapparee and Sir Robert Whitecraft received their sentence of doom3.
As it is impossible to close the mouth or to silence the tongue of fame, so we may assure our readers, as we have before, that the: history of the loves of those two celebrated4 individuals, to wit, Willy Reilly and the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, had given an interest to the coming trial such as was never known within the memory of man, at that period, nor perhaps equalled since. The Red Rapparee, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and all the other celebrated “villains of that time, have nearly perished out of tradition itself, whilst those of our hero and heroine are still fresh in the feelings of the Connaught and Northern peasantry, at whose hearths6, during the winter evenings, the rude but fine old ballad7 that commemorated8 that love is still sung with sympathy, and sometimes, as we can I testify, with tears. This is fame. One circumstance, however, which deepened the interest felt by the people, told powerfully against the consistency10 of the Cooleen Bawn, which was, that she had resolved to come forward that day to bear evidence against; her lover. Such was the general impression received from her father, and the attorney Doldrum, who conducted the trial against Reilly, although our readers are well aware that on this point they spoke12 without authority. The governor of the prison, on going that morning to conduct him to the bar, said:
“I am sorry, Mr. Reilly, to be the bearer of bad news; but as the knowledge of it may be serviceable to you or your lawyers, I think I ought to mention it to you.”
“Pray, what is it?” asked Reilly.
“Why, sir, it is said to be a fact that the Cooleen Bawn has proved false and treacherous13, and is coming this day to bear her testimony14 against you.”
Reilly replied with a smile of confidence, which the darkness of the room prevented the other from seeing, “Well, Mr. O'Shaugh-nessy, even if she does, it cannot be helped; have you heard what the nature of her evidence is likely to be?”
“No; it seems her father and Doldrum the attorney asked her, and she would not tell them; but she said she had made her mind up to attend the trial and see justice done. Don't be cast down, Mr. Reilly, though, upon my soul, I think she ought to have stood it out in your favor to the last.”
“Come,” said Reilly, “I am ready; time will tell, Mr. O'Shaughnessy, and a short time too; a few hours now, and all will know the result.”
“I hope in God it may be in your favor, Mr. Reilly.”
“Thank you, O'Shaughnessy; lead on; I am ready to attend you.”
The jail was crowded even to suffocation16; but this was not all. The street opposite the jail was nearly as much crowded as the jail itself, a moving, a crushing mass of thousands having been collected to abide17 and hear the issue. It was with great difficulty, and not without the aid of a strong military force, that a way could be cleared for the judge as he approached the prison. The crowd was silent and passive, but in consequence of the report that the Cooleen Bawn was to appear against Reilly, a profound melancholy18 and an expression of deep sorrow seemed to brood over it. Immediately after the judge's carriage came that of the squire19, who was accompanied by his daughter, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, for Helen had insisted that her father should procure20 their attendance. A private room in the prison had, by previous arrangement, been prepared for them, and to this they were conducted by a back way, so as to avoid the crushing of the crowd. It was by this way also that the judge and lawyers entered the body of the court-house, without passing through the congregated21 mass.
At length the judge, having robed himself, took his seat on the bench, and, on casting his eye over the court-house, was astonished at the dense22 multitude that stood before him. On looking at the galleries, he saw that they were crowded with ladies of rank and fashion. Every thing having been now ready, the lawyers, each with his brief before him, and each with a calm, but serious and meditative23 aspect, the Clerk of the Crown cried out, in a voice which the hum of the crowd rendered necessarily loud:
“Mr. Jailer, put William Reilly to the bar.”
At that moment a stir, a murmur24, especially among the ladies in the gallery, and a turning of faces in the direction of the bar, took place as Reilly came forward, and stood erect25 in front of the judge. The very moment he made his appearance all eyes were fastened on him, and whatever the prejudices may have been against the Cooleen Bawn for falling in love with a Papist, that moment of his appearance absolved26 her from all—from every thing. A more noble or majestic27 figure never stood at that or any other bar. In the very prime of manhood, scarcely out of youth, with a figure like that of Antinous, tall, muscular, yet elegant, brown hair of the richest shade, a lofty forehead, features of the most manly28 cast, but exquisitely29 formed, and eyes which, but for the mellow30 softness of their expression, an eagle might have envied for their transparent31 brilliancy. The fame of his love for the Cooleen Bawn had come before him. The judge surveyed him with deep interest; so did every eye that could catch a view of his countenance32; but, above all, were those in the gallery riveted33 upon him with a degree of interest—and, now that they had seen him, of sympathy—which we shall not attempt to describe. Some of them were so deeply affected35 that they could not suppress their tears, which, by the aid of their handkerchiefs, they endeavored to conceal36 as well as they could. Government, in this case, as it was not one of political interest, did not prosecute37. A powerful bar was retained against Reilly, but an equally powerful one was engaged for him, the leading lawyer being, as we have stated, the celebrated advocate Fox, the Curran of his day.
The charge against him consisted of only two counts—that of robbing Squire Folliard of family jewels of immense value, and that of running away with his daughter, a ward11 of Chancery, contrary to her consent and inclination38, and to the laws in that case made and provided.
The first witness produced was the sheriff—and, indeed, to state the truth, a very reluctant one was that humane39 gentleman on the occasion. Having been sworn, the leading counsel proceeded:
“You are the sheriff of this county?”
“I am.”
“Are you aware that jewellery to a large amount was stolen recently from Mr. Folliard?”
“I am not.”
“You are not? Now, is it not a fact, of which you were an eye-witness, that the jewellery in question was found upon the person of the prisoner at the bar, in Mr. Folliard's house?”
“I must confess that I saw him about to be searched, and that a very valuable case of jewellery was found upon his person.”
“Yes, found upon his person—a very valuable case of jewellery, the property of Mr. Folliard, found upon his person; mark that, gentlemen of the jury.”
“Pardon me,” said the sheriff, “I saw jewellery found upon him; but I cannot say on my oath whether it belonged to Mr. Folliard or not; all I can say is, that Mr. Folliard claimed the jewels as his.”
“As his—just so. Nobody had a better right to claim them than the person to whom they belonged. What took place on the occasion?”
“Why, Mr. Folliard, as I said, claimed them, and Mr. Reilly refused to give them up to him.”
“You hear that, gentlemen—refused to surrender him the property of which he had robbed him, even in his own house.”
“And when you searched the prisoner?”
“We didn't search him; he refused to submit to a search.”
“Refused to submit to a search! No wonder, I think! But, at the time he refused to submit to a search, had he the jewellery upon his person?”
“He had.”
“He had? You hear that gentlemen—at the time he refused to be searched he had the jewellery upon his person.”
The sheriff was then cross-examined by Fox, to the following effect:
“Mr. Sheriff, have you been acquainted, or are you acquainted, with the prisoner at the bar?”
“Yes; I have known him for about three years—almost ever since he settled in this county.”
“What is your opinion of him?”
“My opinion of him is very high.”
“Yes—your opinion of him is very high,” with a significant glance at the jury—“I believe it is, and I believe it ought to be. Now, upon your oath, do you believe that the prisoner at the bar is capable of the theft or robbery imputed40 to him?”
“I do not!”
“You do not? What did he say when the jewels were found upon him?”
“He refused to surrender them to Mr. Folliard as having no legal claim upon them, and refused, at first, to place them in any hands but Miss Folliard's own; but, on understanding that she was not in—a state to receive them from him, he placed them in mine.”
“Then he considered that they were Miss Folliard's personal property, and not her father's?”
“So it seemed to me from what he said at the time.”
“That will do, sir; you may go down.”
“Alexander Folliard” and the father then made his appearance on the table; he looked about him, with a restless eye, and appeared in a state of great agitation41, but it was the agitation of an enraged42 and revengeful man.
He turned his eyes upon Reilly, and exclaimed with bitterness: “There you are, Willy Reilly, who have stained the reputation of my child, and disgraced her family.”
“Mr. Folliard,” said his lawyer, “you have had in your possession very valuable family jewels.”
“I had.”
“Whose property were they?”
“Why, mine, I should think.”
“Could you identify them?”
“Certainly I could.”
“Are these the jewels in question?”
The old man put on his spectacles, and examined them closely.
“They are; I know every one of them.”
“They were stolen from you?”
“They were.”
“On whose person, after having been stolen, were they found?”
“On the person of the prisoner at the bar.”
“You swear that?”
“I do; because I saw him take them out of his pocket in my own house after he had been made prisoner and detected.”
“Then they are your property?”
“Certainly—I consider them my property; who else's property could they be.”
“Pray, is not your daughter a minor43?”
“She is.”
“And a ward in the Court of Chancery?”
“Yes.”
“That will do, sir.”
The squire was then about to leave the table, when Mr. Fox addressed him:
“Not yet, Mr. Folliard, if you please; you swear the jewels are yours?”
“I do; to whom else should they belong?”
“Are you of opinion that the prisoner at the bar robbed you of them?”
“I found them in his possession.”
“And you now identify them as the same jewels which you found in his possession?”
“Hang it, haven't I said so before?”
“Pray, Mr. Folliard, keep your temper, if you please, and answer me civilly and as a gentleman. Suffer me to ask you are there any other family jewels in your possession?”
“Yes, the Folliard jewels?”
“The Folliard jewels! And how do they differ in denomination44 from those found upon the prisoner?”
“Those found upon the prisoner are called the Bingham jewels, from the fact of my wife, who was a Bingham, having brought them into our family.”
“And pray, did not your wife always consider those jewels as her own private property?”
“Why, I believe she did.”
“And did she not, at her death-bed, bequeath those very jewels to her daughter, the present Miss Folliard, on the condition that she too should consider them as her private property?”
“Why, I believe she did; indeed, I am sure of it, because I was present at the time.”
“In what part of the house were those jewels deposited?”
“In a large oak cabinet that stands in a recess45 in my library.”
“Did you keep what you call the Folliard jewels there?”
“Yes, all our jewellery was kept there.”
“But there was no portion of the Folliard jewellery touched?”
“No; but the Bingham sets were all taken, and all found upon the prisoner.”
“What was your opinion of the prisoner's circumstances?”
“I could form no opinion about them.”
“Had he not the reputation of being an independent man?”
“I believe such was the impression.”
“In what style of life did he live?”
“Certainly in the style of a gentleman.”
“Do you think, then, that necessity was likely to tempt34 a man of independence like him to steal your daughter's jewels?”
“I'd advise you, Sergeant46 Fox, not to put me out of temper; I haven't much to spare just now. What the deuce are you at?”
“Will you answer my question?”
“No, I don't think it was.”
“If the Bingham jewellery had been stolen by a thief, do you think that thief would have left the Folliard jewellery behind him?”
“I'll take my oath you wouldn't, if you had been in the place of the person that took them. You'd have put the Bingham jewellery in one pocket, and balanced it with the Folliard in the other. But,” he added, after a slight pause, “the villain5 stole from me a jewel more valuable and dearer to her father's heart than all the jewellery of the universal world put together. He stole my child, my only child,” and as he spoke the tears ran slowly down his cheeks. The court and spectators were touched by this, and Fox felt that it was a point against them. Even he himself was touched, and saw that, with respect to Reilly's safety, the sooner he got rid of the old man, for the present at least, the better.
“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “you may withdraw now. Your daughter loved, as what woman has not? There stands the object of her affections, and I appeal to your own feelings whether any living woman could be blamed for loving such a man. You may go down, sir, for the present.”
The prosecuting47 counsel then said: “My lord, we produce Miss Folliard herself to bear testimony against this man. Crier, let Helen Folliard be called.”
Now was the moment of intense and incredible interest. There was the far-famed beauty herself, to appear against her manly lover. The stir in the court, the expectation, the anxiety to see her, the stretching of necks, the pressure of one over another, the fervor48 of curiosity, was such as the reader may possibly conceive, but such certainly as we cannot attempt to describe. She advanced from a side door, deeply veiled; but the tall and majestic elegance49 of her figure not only struck all hearts with admiration50, but prepared them for the inexpressible beauty with which the whole kingdom rang. She was assisted to the table, and helped into the witness's chair by her father, who seemed to triumph in her appearance there. On taking her seat, the buzz and murmur of the spectators became hushed into a silence like that of death, and, until she spoke, a feather might have been heard falling in the court.
“Miss Folliard,” said the judge, in a most respectful voice, “you are deeply veiled—but perhaps you are not aware that, in order to give evidence in a court of justice, your veil should be up; will you have the goodness to raise it?”
Deliberately51 and slowly she raised it, as the court had desired her—but, oh! what an effulgence52 of beauty, what wonderful brilliancy, what symmetry, what radiance, what tenderness, what expression!
But we feel that to attempt the description of that face, which almost had divinity stamped upon it, is beyond all our powers. The whole court, every spectator, man and woman, all for a time were mute, whilst their hearts drank in the delicious draught53 of admiration which such beauty created. After having raised her veil, she looked around the court with a kind of wonder, after which her eyes rested on Reilly, and immediately her lids dropped, for she feared that she had done wrong in looking upon him. This made many of those hearts who were interested in his fate sink, and wonder why such treachery should be associated with features that breathed only of angelic goodness and humanity.
“Miss Folliard,” said the leading counsel engaged against Reilly, “I am happy to hear that you regret some past occurrences that took place with respect to you and the prisoner at the bar.”
“Yes,” she replied, in a voice that was melody itself, “I do regret them.”
Fox kept his eye fixed54 upon her, after which he whispered something to one or two of his brother lawyers; they shook their heads, and immediately set themselves to hear and note her examination.
“Miss Folliard, you are aware of the charges which have placed the prisoner at the bar of justice and his country?”
“Not exactly; I have heard little of it beyond the fact of his incarceration55.”
“He stands there charged with two very heinous56 crimes—one of them, the theft or robbery of a valuable packet of jewels, your father's property.”
“Oh, no,” she replied, “they are my own exclusive property—not my father's. They were the property of my dear mother, who, on her death-bed, bequeathed them to me, in the presence of my father himself; and I always considered them as mine.”
“But they were found upon the person of the prisoner?”
“Oh, yes; but that is very easily explained. It is no secret now, that, in order to avoid a marriage which my father was forcing on me with Sir Robert Whitecraft, I chose the less evil, and committed myself to the honor of Mr. Reilly. If I had not done so I should have committed suicide, I think, rather than marry Whitecraft—a man so utterly57 devoid58 of principle and delicacy59 that he sent an abandoned female into my father's house in the capacity of my maid and also as a spy upon my conduct.”
This astounding60 fact created an immense sensation throughout the court, and the lawyer who was examining her began to feel that her object in coming there was to give evidence in favor of Reilly, and not against him. He determined61, however, to try her a little farther, and proceeded:
“But, Miss Folliard, how do you account for the fact of the Bingham jewels being found upon the person of the prisoner?”
“It is the simplest thing in the world,” she replied. “I brought my own jewels with me, and finding”, as we proceeded, that I was likely to lose them, having no pocket sufficiently62 safe in which to carry them, I asked Reilly to take charge of them, which he did. Our unexpected capture, and the consequent agitation, prevented him from returning them to me, and they were accordingly found upon his person; but, as for stealing them, he is just as guilty as his lordship on the bench.”
“Miss Folliard,” proceeded the lawyer, “you have taken us by surprise to-day. How does it happen that you volunteered your evidence against the prisoner, and, now that you have come forward, every word you utter is in his favor? Your mind must have recently changed—a fact which takes very much away from the force of that evidence.”
“I pray you, sir, to understand me, and not suffer yourself to be misled. I never stated that I was about to come here to give evidence against Mr. Reilly; but I said, when strongly pressed to come, that I would come, and see justice done. Had they asked me my meaning, I would have instantly told them; because, I trust, I am incapable63 of falsehood; and I will say now, that if my life could obtain that of William Reilly, I would lay it willingly down for him, as I am certain he would lay down his for the preservation64 of mine.”
There was a pause here, and a murmur of approbation65 ran through the court. The opposing counsel, too, found that they had been led astray, and that to examine her any further would be only a weakening of their own cause. They attached, however, no blame of insincerity to her, but visited with much bitterness the unexpected capsize which they had got, on the stupid head of Doldrum, their attorney. They consequently determined to ask her no more questions, and she was about to withdraw, when Fox rose up, and said:
“Miss Folliard, I am counsel for the prisoner at the bar, and I trust you will answer me a few questions. I perceive, madam, that you are fatigued66 of this scene; but the questions I shall put to you will be few and brief. An attachment67 has existed for some time between you and the prisoner at the bar? You need not be ashamed, madam, to reply to it.”
“I am not ashamed,” she replied proudly, “and it is true.”
“Was your father aware of that attachment at any time?”
“He was, from a very early period.”
“Pray, how did he discover it?”
“I myself told him of my love for Reilly.”
“Did your father give his consent to that attachment?”
“Conditionally he did.”
“And pray, Miss Folliard, what were the conditions?”
“That Reilly should abjure68 his creed69, and then no further obstacles should stand in the way of our union, he said.”
“Was ever that proposal mentioned to Reilly?”
“Yes, I mentioned it to him myself; but, well as he loved me, he would suffer to go into an early grave, he said, sooner than abandon his religion; and I loved him a thousand times better for his noble adherence70 to it.”
“Did he not save your father's life?”
“He did, and the life of a faithful and attached old servant at the same time.”
Now, although this fact was generally known, yet the statement of it here occasioned a strong expression of indignation against the man who could come forward and prosecute the individual, to whose courage and gallantry he stood indebted for his escape from murder. The uncertainty71 of Folliard's character, however, was so well known, and his whimsical changes of opinion such a matter of proverb among the people, that many persons said to each other:
“The cracked old squire is in one of his tantrums now; he'll be a proud man if he can convict Reilly to-day; and perhaps to-morrow, or in a month hence, he'll be cursing; himself for what he did—for that's his way.”
“Well, Miss Folliard,” said Fox, “we will not detain you any longer; this to you must be a painful scene; you may retire, madam.”
Page 175-- Give That Ring to the Prisoner
She did not immediately withdraw, but taking a green silk purse out of her bosom72, she opened it, and, after inserting her long, white, taper73 fingers into it, she brought out a valuable emerald ring, and placing it in the hands of the crier, she said:
“Give that ring to the prisoner: I know not, William,” she added, “whether I shall ever see you again or not. It may so happen that this is the last time my eyes can ever rest upon you with love and sorrow.” Here a few bright tears ran down her lovely cheeks. “If you should be sent to a far-off land, wear this for the sake of her who appreciated your virtues74, your noble spirit, and your pure and disinterested75 love; look upon it when, perhaps, the Atlantic may roll between us, and when you do, think of your Cooleen Bawn, and the love she bore you; but if a still unhappier fate should be yours, let it be placed with you in your grave, and next that heart, that noble heart, that refused to sacrifice your honor and your religion even to your love for me. I will now go.”
There is nothing so brave and fearless as innocence76. Her youth, the majesty77 of her beauty, and the pathos78 of her expressions, absolutely flooded the court with tears. The judge wept, and hardened old barristers, with hearts like the nether79 millstone, were forced to put their handkerchiefs to their eyes; but as they felt that it might be detrimental80 to! their professional characters to be caught weeping, they shaded off the pathos under the hypocritical pretence81 of blowing their noses. The sobs82 from the ladies in the gallery were loud and vehement83, and Reilly himself was so deeply moved that he felt obliged to put his face upon his hands, as he bent84 over the bar, in order to conceal his emotion. He received the ring with moist eyes, kissed it, and placed it in a small locket which he put in his bosom.
“Now,” said the Cooleen Bawn, “I am ready to go.”
She was then conducted to the room to which we have alluded85, where she met Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, both of whom she found in tears—for they had been in the gallery, and witnessed all that had happened. They both embraced her tenderly, and attempted to console her as well as they could; but a weight like death, she said, pressed upon her heart, and she begged them not to distract her by their sympathy, kind and generous as she felt it to be, but to allow her to sit, and nurture87 her own thoughts until she could hear the verdict of the jury. Mrs. Hastings returned to the gallery, and arrived there in time to hear the touching88 and brilliant speech of Fox, which we are not presumptuous89 enough to imagine, much less to stultify90 ourselves by attempting to give. He dashed the charge of Reilly's theft of the jewels to pieces—not a difficult task, after the evidence that had been given; and then dwelt upon the loves of this celebrated pair with such force and eloquence91 and pathos that the court was once more melted into tears. The closing speech by the leading counsel against Reilly was bitter; but the gist92 of it turned upon the fact of his having eloped with a ward of Chancery, contrary to law; and he informed the jury that no affection—no consent upon the part of any young lady under age was either a justification93 of, or a protection against, such an abduction as that of which Reilly had been guilty. The state of the law at the present time, he assured them, rendered it a felony to marry a Catholic and a Protestant together; and he then left the case in the hands, he said, of an honest Protestant jury.
The judge's charge was brief. He told the jury that they could not convict the prisoner on the imputed felony of the jewels; but that the proof of his having taken away Miss Folliard from her father's house, with—as the law stood—her felonious abduction, for the purpose of inveigling95 her into an unlawful marriage with himself, was the subject for their consideration. Even had he been a Protestant, the law could afford him no protection in the eye of the Court of Chancery.
The jury retired96; but their absence from their box was very brief. Unfortunately, their foreman was cursed with a dreadful hesitation97 in his speech, and, as he entered, the Clerk of the Crown said:
“Well, gentlemen, have you agreed in your verdict?”
There was a solemn silence, during which nothing was heard but a convulsive working about the chest and glottis of the foreman, who at length said:
“We—we—we—we have.”
“Is the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty?”
Here the internal but obstructed98 machinery99 of the chest and throat set to work again, and at last the foreman was able to get out—“Guilty—”
Mrs. Hastings had heard enough, and too much; and, as the sentence was pronounced, she instantly withdrew; but how to convey the melancholy tidings to the Cooleen Bawn she knew not. In the meantime the foreman, who had not fully9 delivered himself of the verdict, added, after two or three desperate hiccups—“on the second count.”
This, if the foreman had not labored100 under such an extraordinary hesitation, might have prevented much suffering, and many years of unconscious calamity101 to one of the unhappy parties of whom we are writing, inasmuch as the felony of the jewels would have been death, whilst the elopement with a ward of Chancery was only transportation.
When Mrs. Hastings entered the room where the Cooleen Bawn was awaiting the verdict with a dreadful intensity102 of feeling, the latter rose up, and, throwing her arms about her neck, looked into her face, with an expression of eagerness and wildness, which Mrs. Hastings thought might be best allayed103 by knowing the worst, as the heart, in such circumstances, generally collects itself, and falls back upon its own resources.
“Well, Mrs. Hastings, well—the verdict?”
“Collect yourself, my child—be firm—be a woman. Collect yourself—for you will require it. The verdict—Guilty!”
The Cooleen Bawn did not faint—nor become weak—but she put her fair white hand to her forehead—then looked around the room, then upon Mrs. Brown, and lastly upon Mrs. Hastings. They also looked upon her. God help both her and them! Yes, they looked upon her countenance—that lovely countenance—and then into her eyes—those eyes! But, alas104! where was their beauty now? Where their expression?
“Miss Folliard! my darling Helen!” exclaimed Mrs. Hastings, in tears—“great God, what is this, Mrs. Brown? Come here and look at her.”
Mrs. Brown, on looking at her, whispered, in choking accents, “Oh! my God, the child's reason is overturned; what is there now in those once glorious eyes but vacancy105? Oh, that I had never lived to see this awful day! Helen, the treasure, the delight of all who ever knew you, what is wrong? Oh, speak to us—recognize us—your own two best friends—Helen—Helen! speak to us.”
She looked upon them certainly; but it was with a dead and vacant stare which wrung106 their hearts.
“Come,” said she, “tell me where is William Reilly? Oh, bring me to William Reilly; they have taken me from him, and I. know not where to find him.”
The two kind-hearted ladies looked at one another, each stupefied by the mystery of what they witnessed.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Hastings, “her father must be instantly sent for Mrs. Brown, go to the lobby—there is an officer there—desire him to go to Mr. Folliard and say that—but we had better not alarm him too much,” she added, “say that Miss Folliard wishes to see him immediately.”
The judge, we may observe here, had not yet pronounced sentence upon Reilly. The old man, who, under all possible circumstances, was so affectionately devoted107 and attentive108 to his daughter, immediately proceeded to the room, in a state of great triumph and exultation109 exclaiming, “Guilty, guilty; we have noosed110 him at last.” He even snapped his fingers, and danced about for a time, until rebuked111 by Mrs. Hastings.
“Unhappy and miserable112 old man,” she exclaimed, with tears, “what have you done? Look at the condition of your only child, whom you have murdered. She is now a maniac113.”
Page 176-- What, What is This? What Do You Mean?
“What,” he exclaimed, rushing to her, “what, what is this? What do you mean? Helen, my darling, my child—my delight—what is wrong with you? Recollect114 yourself, my dearest treasure. Do you not know me, your own father? Oh, Helen, Helen! for the love of God speak to me. Say you know me—call me father—rouse yourself—recollect me—don't you know who I am?”
There, however, was the frightfully vacant glance, but no reply.
“Oh,” said she, in a low, calm voice, “where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him; bring me to William Reilly.”
“Don't you know me, Helen? don't you know your loving father? Oh, speak to me, child of my heart! speak but one word as a proof that you know me.”
She looked on him, but that look filled his heart with unutterable anguish115; he clasped her to that heart, he kissed her lips, he strove to soothe116 and console her—but in vain. There was the vacant but unsettled eye, from which the bright expression of reason was gone; but no recognition—no spark of reflection or conscious thought—nothing but the melancholy inquiry117 from those beautiful lips of—“Where's William Reilly? They have taken me from him—and will not allow me to see him. Oh, bring me to William Reilly!”
“Oh, wretched fate!” exclaimed her distracted father, “I am—I am a murderer, and faithful Connor was right—Mrs. Brown—Mrs. Hastings—hear me, both—I was warned of this, but I would not listen either to reason or remonstrance118, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted. Great heaven, what a fate both for her and me—for her the innocent, and for me the guilty!”
It is unnecessary to dwell upon the father's misery119 and distraction120; but, from all our readers have learned of his extraordinary tenderness and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what he suffered. He immediately ordered his carriage, and had barely time to hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation for seven years. His daughter was quite meek121 and tractable122; she spoke not, nor could any ingenuity123 on their part extract the slightest reply from her. Neither did she shed a single tear, but the vacant light of her eyes had stamped a fatuitous expression on her features that was melancholy and heartbreaking beyond all power of language to describe.
No other person had seen her since the bereavement124 of her reason, except the officer who kept guard on the lobby, and who, in the hurry and distraction of the moment, had been dispatched by Mrs. Brown for a glass of cold water. Her father's ravings, however, in the man's presence, added to his own observation, and the distress125 of her female friends were quite sufficient to satisfy him of the nature of her complaint, and in less than half an hour it was through the whole court-house, and the town besides, that the Cooleen Bawn had gone mad on hearing the sentence that was passed upon her lover. Her two friends accompanied her home, and remained with her for the night.
Such was the melancholy conclusion of the trial of Willy Reilly; but even taking it at its worst, it involved a very different fate from that of his vindictive126 rival, Whitecraft. It appeared that that worthy127 gentleman and the Red Rapparee had been sentenced to die on the same day, and at the same hour. It is true, Whitecraft was aware that a deputation had gone post-haste to Dublin Castle to solicit his pardon, or at least some lenient128 commutation of punishment. Still, it was feared that, owing to the dreadful state of the roads, and the slow mode of travelling at that period, there was a probability that the pardon might not arrive in time to be available; and indeed there was every reason to apprehend129 as much. The day appointed for the execution of the Red Rapparee and him arrived—nay, the very hour had come; but still there was hope, among his friends. The sheriff, a firm, but fair and reasonable man, waited beyond the time named by the judge for his execution. At length he felt the necessity of discharging his duty; for, although more than an hour beyond the appointed period had now elapsed, yet this delay proceeded from no personal regard he entertained for the felon94, but from respect for many of those who had interested themselves in his fate.
After an unusual delay the sheriff felt himself called upon to order both the Rapparee and the baronet for execution. In waiting so long for a pardon, he felt that he had transgressed130 his duty, and he accordingly ordered them out for the last ceremony. The hardened Rapparee died sullen131 and silent; the only regret he expressed being that he could not live to see his old friend turned off before him.
“Troth,” replied the hangman, “only that the sheriff has ordhered me to hang you first as bein' the betther man, I would give you that same satisfaction; but if you're not in a very great hurry to the warm corner you're goin' to, and if you will just take your time for a few minutes, I'll engage to say you will soon have company. God speed you, any way,” he exclaimed as he turned him off; “only take your time, and wait for your neighbors. Now, Sir Robert,” said he, “turn about, they say, is fair play—it's your turn now; but you look unbecomin' upon it. Hould up your head, man, and don't be cast down. You'll have company where you're goin'; for the Red Rapparee tould me to tell you that he'd wait for you. Hallo!—what's that?” he exclaimed as he cast his eye to the distance and discovered a horseman riding for life, with a white handkerchief, or flag of some kind, floating in the breeze. The elevated position in which the executioner was placed enabled him to see the signal before it could be perceived by the crowd. “Come, Sir Robert,” said he, “stand where I'll place you—there's no use in asking you to hould up your head, for you're not able; but listen. You hanged my brother that you knew to be innocent; and now I hang you that I know to be guilty. Yes, I hang you, with the white flag of the Lord Lieutenant's pardon for you wavin' in the distance; and listen again, remember Willy Reilly;” and with these words he launched him into eternity132.
The uproar133 among his friends was immense, as was the cheering from the general crowd, at the just fate of this bad man. The former rushed to the gallows134, in order to cut him down, with a hope that life might still be in him, a process which the sheriff, after perusing135 his pardon, permitted them to carry into effect. The body was accordingly taken into the prison, and a surgeon procured136 to examine it; but altogether in vain; his hour had gone by, life was extinct, and all the honor they could now pay Sir Robert Whitecraft was to give him a pompous137 funeral, and declare him a martyr138 to Popery both of which they did.
On the day previous to Reilly's departure his humble139 friend and namesake, Fergus, at the earnest solicitation140 of Reilly himself, was permitted to pay him a last melancholy visit. After his sentence, as well as before it, every attention had been paid to him by O'Shaughnessy, the jailer, who, although an avowed141 Protestant, and a brand plucked from the burning, was, nevertheless, a lurking142 Catholic at heart, and felt a corresponding sympathy with his prisoner. When Fergus entered his cell he found him neither fettered143 nor manacled, but perfectly144 in the enjoyment145 at least of bodily freedom. It is impossible, indeed, to say how far the influence of money may have gone in securing him the comforts which surrounded him, and the attentions which he received. On entering his cell, Fergus was struck by the calm and composed air with which he received him. His face, it is true, was paler than usual, but a feeling of indignant pride, if not of fixed but stern indignation, might be read under the composure into which he forced himself, and which he endeavored to suppress. He approached Fergus, and extending his hand with a peculiar146 smile, very difficult to be described, said:
“Fergus, I am glad to see you; I hope you are safe—at least I have heard so.”
“I am safe, sir, and free,” replied Fergus; “thanks to the Red Rapparee and the sheriff for it.”
“Well,” proceeded Reilly, “you have one comfort—the Red Rapparee will neither tempt you nor trouble you again; but is there no danger of his gang taking up his quarrel and avenging147 him?”
“His gang, sir? Why, only for me he would a' betrayed every man of them to Whitecraft and the Government, and had them hanged, drawn148, and quartered—ay, and their heads grinning at us in every town in the county.”
“Well, Fergus, let his name and his crimes perish with him; but, as for you, what do you intend to do?”
“Troth, sir,” replied Fergus, “it's more than I rightly know. I had my hopes, like others; but, somehow, luck has left all sorts of lovers of late—from Sir Robert Whitecraft to your humble servant.”
“But you may thank God,” said Reilly, with a smile, “that you had not Sir Robert Whitecraft's luck.”
“Faith, sir,” replied Fergus archly, “there's a pair of us may do so. You went nearer his luck—such as it was—than I did.”
“True enough,” replied the other, with a serious air; “I had certainly a narrow escape; but I wish to know, as I said, what you intend to do? It is your duty now, Fergus, to settle industriously150 and honestly.”
“Ah, sir, honestly. I didn't expect that from you, Mr. Reilly.”
“Excuse me, Fergus,” said Reilly, taking him by the hand; “when I said honestly I did not mean to intimate any thing whatsoever151 against your integrity. I know, unfortunately, the harsh circumstances which drove you to associate with that remorseless villain and his gang; but I wish you to resume an industrious149 life, and, if Ellen Connor is disposed to unite her fate with yours, I have provided the means—ample means for you both to be comfortable and happy. She who was so faithful to her mistress will not fail to make you a good wife.”
“Ah,” replied Fergus, “it's I that knows that well; but, unfortunately, I have no hope there.”
“No hope; how is that? I thought your affection was mutual153.”
“So it is, sir—or, rather, so it was; but she has affection for nobody now, barring the Cooleen Bawn.”
Reilly paused, and appeared deeply moved by this. “What,” said he, “will she not leave her? But I am not surprised at it.”
“No, sir, she will not leave her, but has taken an oath to stay by her night and day, until—better times come.”
We may say here that Reillys friends took care that neither jailer nor turnkey should make him acquainted with the unhappy state of the Cooleen Bawn; he was consequently ignorant of it, and, fortunately, remained so until after his return home.
“Fergus,” said Reilly, “can you tell me how the Cooleen Bawn bears the sentence which sends me to a far country?”
“How would she bear it, sir? You needn't ask: Connor, at all events, will not part from her—not, anyway, until you come back.”
“Well, Fergus,” proceeded Reilly, “I have, as I said, provided for you both; what that provision is I will not mention now. Mr. Hastings will inform you. But if you have a wish to leave this unhappy and distracted country, even without Connor, why, by applying to him, you will be enabled to do so; or, if you wish to stay at home and take a farm, you may do so.”
“Divil a foot I'll leave the country,” replied the other. “Ellen may stick to the Cooleen Bawn, but, be my sowl, I'll stick to Ellen, if I was to wait these seven years. I'll be as stiff as she is stout154; but, at any rate, she's worth waitin' for.”
“You may well say so,” replied Reilly, “and I can quarrel neither with your attachment nor your patience; but you will not forget to let her know the provision which I have left for her in the hands of Mr. Hastings, and tell her it is a slight reward for her noble attachment to my dear Cooleen Bawn. Fergus,” he proceeded, “have you ever had a dream in the middle of which you awoke, then fell asleep and dreamt out the dream?”
“Troth had I, often, sir; and, by the way, talkin' of dreams, I dreamt last night that I was wantin' Ellen to marry me, and she said, 'not yet, Fergus, but in due time.'”
“Well, Fergus,” proceeded Reilly, “perhaps there is but half my dream of life gone; who knows when I return—if I ever do—but my dream may be completed? and happily, too; I know the truth and faith of my dear Cooleen Bawn. And, Fergus, it is not merely my dear Cooleen Bawn that I feel for, but for my unfortunate country. I am not, however, without hope that the day will come—although it may be a distant one—when she will enjoy freedom, peace, and prosperity. Now, Fergus, good-by, and farewell! Come, come, be a man,” he added, with a melancholy smile, whilst a tear stood even in his own eye—“come, Fergus, I will not have this; I won't say farewell for ever, because I expect to return and be happy yet—if not in my own country, at least in some other, where there is more freedom and less persecution155 for conscience' sake.”
Poor Fergus, however, when the parting moment arrived, was completely overcome. He caught Reilly in his arms—wept over him bitterly—and, after a last and sorrowful embrace, was prevailed upon to take his leave.
The history of the Cooleen Bawn's melancholy fate soon went far and near, and many an eye that had never rested on her beauty gave its tribute of tears to her undeserved sorrows. There existed, however, one individual who was the object of almost as deep a compassion156; this was her father, who was consumed by the bitterest and most profound remorse152. His whole character became changed by his terrible and unexpected shock, by which his beautiful and angelic daughter had been blasted before his eyes. He was no longer the boisterous157 and convivial158 old squire, changeful and unsettled in all his opinions, but silent, quiet, and abstracted almost from life.
He wept incessantly159, but his tears did not bring him comfort, for they were tears of anguish and despair. Ten times a day he would proceed to her chamber160, or follow her to the garden where she loved to walk, always in the delusive161 hope that he might catch some spark of returning reason from those calm-looking but meaningless eyes, after which he would weep like a child. With respect to his daughter, every thing was done for her that wealth and human means could accomplish, but to no purpose; the malady162 was too deeply seated to be affected by any known remedy, whether moral or physical. From the moment she was struck into insanity163 she was never known to smile, or to speak, unless when she chanced to see a stranger, upon which she immediately approached, and asked, with clasped hands:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and, I cannot find him. Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?”
There was, however, another individual upon whose heart the calamity of the Cooleen Bawn fell like a blight164 that seemed to have struck it into such misery and sorrow as threatened to end only with life. This was the faithful and attached Ellen Connor. On the day of Reilly's trial she experienced the alternations of hope, uncertainty, and despair, with such a depth of anxious feeling, and such feverish165 excitement, that the period of time which elapsed appeared to her as if it would never come to an end. She could neither sit, nor stand, nor work, nor read, nor take her meals, nor scarcely think with any consistency or clearness of thought. We have mentioned hope—but it was the faintest and the feeblest element in that chaos166 of distress and confusion which filled and distracted her mind. She knew the state and condition of the country too well—she knew the powerful influence of Mr. Folliard in his native county—she knew what the consequences to Reilly must be of taking away a Protestant heiress; the fact was there—plain, distinct, and incontrovertible, and she knew that no chance of impunity167 or acquittal remained for any one of his creed guilty of such a violation168 of the laws—we say, she knew all this—but it was not of the fate of Reilly she thought. The girl was an acute observer, and both a close and clear thinker. She had remarked in the Cooleen Bawn, on several occasions, small gushes169, as it were, of unsettled thought, and of temporary wildness, almost approaching to insanity. She knew, besides, that insanity was in the family on her father's side; * and, as she had so boldly and firmly stated to that father himself, she dreaded170 the result which Reilly's conviction might produce upon a mind with such a tendency, worn down and depressed171 as it had been by all she had suffered, and more especially what she must feel by the tumult172 and agitation of that dreadful day.
* The reader must take this as the necessary material for
our fiction. There never was insanity in Helen's family; and
we make this note to prevent them from taking unnecessary
offence.
It was about two hours after dark when she was startled by the noise of the carriage-wheels as they came up the avenue. Her heart beat as if it would burst, the blood rushed to her head, and she became too giddy to stand or walk; then it seemed to rush back to her heart, and she was seized with thick breathing and feebleness; but at length, strengthened by the very intensity of the interest she felt, she made her way to the lower steps of the hall door in time to be present when the carriage arrived at it. She determined, however, wrought173 up as she was to the highest state of excitement, to await, to watch, to listen. She did so. The carriage stopped at the usual place, the coachman came down and opened the door, and Mr. Folliard came out. After him, assisted by Mrs. Brown, came Helen, who was immediately conducted in between the latter and her father. In the meantime poor Ellen could only look on. She was incapable of asking a single question, but she followed them up to the drawing-room where they conducted her mistress. When she was about to enter, Mrs. Brown said:
“Ellen, you had better not come in; your mistress is unwell.”
Mrs. Hastings then approached, and, with a good deal of judgment174 and consideration, said:
“I think it is better, Mrs. Brown, that Ellen should see her, or, rather, that she should see Ellen. Who can tell how beneficial the effect may be on her? We all know how she was attached to Ellen.”
In addition to those fearful intimations, Ellen heard inside the sobs and groans175 of her distracted father, mingled176 with caresses177 and such tender and affectionate language as, she knew by the words, could only be addressed to a person incapable of understanding them. Mrs. Brown held the door partially178 closed, but the faithful girl would not be repulsed179. She pushed in, exclaiming:
“Stand back, Mrs. Brown, I must see my mistress!—if she is my mistress, or anybody's mistress now,”—and accordingly she approached the settee on which the Cooleen Bawn sat. The old squire was wringing180 his hands, sobbing181, and giving vent15 to the most uncontrollable sorrow.
“Oh, Ellen,” said he, “pity and forgive me. Your mistress is gone, gone!—she knows nobody!”
“Stand aside,” she replied; “stand aside all of you; let me to her.”
She knelt beside the settee, looked distractedly,—but keenly, at her for about half a minute—but there she sat, calm, pale, and unconscious. At length she turned her eyes upon Ellen—for ever since the girl's entrance she had been gazing on vacancy—and immediately said:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him. Oh! will you tell me where is William Reilly?”
Ellen gave two or three rapid sobs; but, by a powerful effort, she somewhat composed herself.
“Miss Folliard,” she said, in a choking voice, however, “darling Miss Folliard—my beloved mistress—Cooleen Bawn—oh, do you not know me—me, your own faithful Ellen, that loved you—and that loves you so well—ay, beyond father and mother, and all others living in this unhappy world? Oh, speak to me, dear mistress—speak to your own faithful Ellen, and only say that you know me, or only look upon me as if you did.”
Not a glance, however, of recognition followed those loving solicitations; but there, before them all, she sat, with the pale face, the sorrowful brow, and the vacant look. Ellen addressed her with equal tenderness again and again, but with the same melancholy effect. The effect was beyond question—reason had departed; the fair temple was there, but the light of the divinity that had been enshrined in it was no longer visible; it seemed to have been abandoned probably for ever. Ellen now finding that every effort to restore her to rational consciousness was ineffectual, rose up, and, looking about for a moment, her eyes rested upon her father.
“Oh, Ellen!” he exclaimed, “spare me, spare me—you know I'm in your power. I neglected your honest and friendly warning, and now it is too late.”
“Poor man!” she replied, “it is not she, but you, that is to be pitied. No; after this miserable sight, never shall my lips breathe one syllable182 of censure183 against you. Your punishment is too dreadful for that. But when I look upon her—look upon her now—oh, my God! what is this?”—
“Help the girl,” said Mrs. Brown quickly, and with alarm. “Oh, she has fallen—raise her up, Mr. Folliard. Oh, my God, Mrs. Hastings, what a scene is this!”
They immediately opened her stays, and conveyed her to another settee, where she lay for nearly a quarter of an hour in a calm and tranquil184 insensibility. With the aid of the usual remedies, however, she was, but with some difficulty, restored, after which she burst into tears, and wept for some time bitterly. At length she recovered a certain degree of composure, and, after settling her dress and luxuriant brown hair, aided by Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, she arose, and once more approaching her lovely, but unconscious, mistress, knelt down, and, clasping her hands, looked up to heaven, whilst she said:
“Here, I take the Almighty185 God to witness, that from this moment out I renounce186 father and mother, brother and sister, friend and relative, man and woman, and will abide by my dear unhappy Cooleen Bawn—that blighted187 flower before us—both by day and by night—through all seasons—through all places wherever she may go, or be brought, until it may please God to restore her to reason, or until death may close her sufferings, should I live so long, and have health and strength to carry out this solemn oath; so may God hear me, and assist me in my intention.”
She then rose, and, putting her arms around the fair girl, kissed her lips, and poured forth188 a copious189 flood of tears into her bosom.
“I am yours now,” she said, caressing190 her mournfully: “I am yours now, my ever darling mistress; and from this hour forth nothing but death will ever separate your own Connor from you.”
Well and faithfully did she keep that generous and heroic oath. Ever, for many a long and hopeless year, was she to be found, both night and day, by the side of that beautiful but melancholy sufferer. No other hand ever dressed or undressed her; no other individual ever attended to her wants, or complied with those little fitful changes and caprices to which persons of her unhappy class are subject. The consequence of this tender and devoted attachment was singular, but not by any means incompatible191, we think, even with her situation. If Connor, for instance, was any short time absent, and another person supplied her place, the Cooleen Bawn, in whose noble and loving heart the strong instincts of affection could never die, uniformly appeared dissatisfied and uneasy, and looked around her, as if for some object that would afford her pleasure. On Ellen's reappearance a faint but placid192 smile would shed its feeble light over her countenance, and she would appear calm and contented193; but, during all this time, word uttered she none, with the exception of those to which we have already alluded.
These were the only words she was known to utter, and no stranger ever came in her way to whom she did not repeat them. In this way her father, her maid, and herself passed through a melancholy existence for better than six years, when a young physician of great promise happened to settle in the town of Sligo, and her father having heard of it had him immediately called in. After looking at her, however, he found himself accosted194 in the same terms we have already given:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?”
“William Reilly will soon be with you,” he replied; “he will soon be here.”
A start—barely, scarcely perceptible, was noticed by the keen eye of the physician; but it passed away, and left nothing but that fixed and beautiful vacancy behind it.
“Sir,” said the physician, “I do not absolutely despair of Miss Folliard's recovery: the influence of some deep excitement, if it could be made accessible, might produce a good effect; it was by a shock it came upon her, and I am of opinion that if she ever does recover it will be by something similar to that which induced her pitiable malady.”
“I will give a thousand pounds—five thousand—ten thousand, to any man who will be fortunate enough to restore her to reason,” said her father.
“One course,” proceeded the physician, “I would recommend you to pursue; bring her about as much as you can; give her variety of scenery and variety of new faces; visit your friends, and bring her with you. This course may have some effect; as for medicine, it is of no use here, for her health is in every other respect good.”
He then took his leave, having first received a fee which somewhat astonished him.
His advice, however, was followed; her father and she, and Connor, during the summer and autumn months, visited among their acquaintances and friends, by whom they were treated with the greatest and most considerate kindness; but, so far as poor Helen was concerned, no symptom of any salutary change became visible; the long, dull blank of departed reason was still unbroken.
* * * * * * *
Better than seven years—and a half had now elapsed, when she and her father came by invitation to pay a visit to a Mr. Hamilton, grandfather to the late Dacre Hamilton of Monaghan, who—the grandfather we mean—was one of the most notorious priest-hunters of the day, We need not say that her faithful Connor was still in attendance. Old Folliard went riding out with his friend, for he was now so much debilitated195 as to be scarcely able to walk abroad for any distance, when, about the hour of two o'clock, a man in the garb196, and with all the bearing of a perfect gentleman, knocked at the door, and inquired of the servant who opened it whether Miss Folliard were not there. The servant replied in the affirmative, upon which the stranger asked if he could see her.
“Why, I suppose you must be aware, sir, of Miss Folliard's unfortunate state of mind, and that she can see nobody; sir, she knows nobody, and I have strict orders to deny her to every one unless some particular friend of the family.”
The stranger put a guinea into his hand, and added, “I had the pleasure of knowing her before she lost her reason, and as I have not seen her since, I should be glad to see her now, or even to look on her for a few minutes.”
“Come up, sir,” replied the man, “and enter the drawing-room immediately after me, or I shall be ordered to deny her.”
The gentleman followed him; but why did his cheek become pale, and why did his heart palpitate as if it would burst and bound out of his bosom? We shall see. On entering the drawing-room he bowed, and was about to apologize for his intrusion, when the Cooleen Bawn, recognizing him as a stranger, approached him and said:
“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and I cannot find him. Oh, can you tell me any thing about William Reilly?”
The stranger staggered at this miserable sight, but probably more at the contemplation of that love which not even insanity could subdue197. He felt himself obliged to lean for support upon the back of a chair, during which brief space he fixed his eyes upon her with a look of the most inexpressible tenderness and sorrow.
“Oh!” she repeated, “can you tell me where is William Reilly?”
“Alas! Helen,” said he, “I am William Reilly.”
“You!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, the wide, wide Atlantic is between him and me.”
“It was between us, Helen, but it is not now; I am here in life before you—your own William Reilly, that William Reilly whom you loved so well, but so fatally. I am he: do you not know me?”
“You are not William Reilly,” she replied; “if you were, you would have a token.”
“Do you forget that?” he replied, placing in her hand the emerald ring she had given him at the trial. She started on looking at it, and a feeble flash was observed to proceed from her eyes.
“This might come to you,” she said, “by Reilly's death; yes, this might come to you in that way; but there is another token which is known to none but himself and me.”
“Whisper,” said he, and as he spoke he applied198 his mouth to her ear, and breathed the token into it.
Page 182-- It is He! It Is He!
She stood back, her eyes flashed, her beautiful bosom heaved; she advanced, looked once more, and exclaimed, with a scream, “It is he! it is he!” and the next moment she was insensible in his arms. Long but precious was that insensibility, and precious were the tears which his eyes rained down upon that pale but lovel countenance. She was soon placed upon a settee, but Reilly knelt beside her, and held one of her hands in his. After a long trance she opened her eyes and again started. Reilly pressed her hand and whispered in her ear, “Helen, I am with you at last.”
She smiled on him and said, “Help me to sit up, until I look about me, that I may be certain this is not a dream.”
She then looked about her, and as the ladies of the family spoke tenderly to her, and caressed199 her, she fixed her eyes once more upon her lover, and said, “It is not a dream then; this is a reality; but, alas! Reilly, I tremble to think lest they should take you from me again.”
“You need entertain no such apprehension200, my dear Helen,” said the lady of the mansion201. “I have often heard your father say that he would give twenty thousand pounds to have you well, and Reilly's wife. In fact, you have nothing to fear in that, or any other quarter. But there's his knock; he and my husband have returned, and I must break this blessed news to him by degrees, lest it might be too much for him if communicated without due and proper caution.”
She accordingly went down to the hall, where they were hanging up their great coats and hats, and brought them into her husband's study.
“Mr. Folliard,” said she with a cheerful face, “I think, from some symptoms of improvement noticed to-day in Helen, that we needn't be without hope.”
“Alas, alas!” exclaimed the poor father, “I have no hope; after such a length of time I am indeed without a shadow of expectation. If unfortunate Reilly were here, indeed her seeing him, as that Sligo doctor told me, might give her a chance. He saw her about a week before we came down, and those were his words. But as for Reilly, even if he were in the country, how could I look him in the face? What wouldn't I give now that he were here, that Helen was well, and that one word of mine could make them man and wife?”
“Well, well,” she replied, “don't be cast down; perhaps I could tell you good news if I wished.”
“You're beating about the bush, Mary, at all events,” said her husband, laughing.
“Perhaps, now, Mr. Folliard,” she continued, “I could introduce a young lady who is so fond of you, old and ugly as you are, that she would not hesitate to kiss you tenderly, and cry with delight on your bosom you old thief.”
They both started at her words with amazement202, and her husband said: “Egad, Alick, Helen's malady seems catching203. What the deuce do you mean, Molly? or must I, too, send for a doctor?”
“Shall I introduce you to the lady, though?” she proceeded, addressing the father; “but remember that, if I do, you must be a man, Mr. Folliard!”
“In God's name! do what you like,” said Mr. Hamilton, “but do it at once.”
She went upstairs, and said, “As I do not wish to bring your father up, Helen, until he is prepared for a meeting with Mr. Reilly, I will bring you down to him. The sight of you now will give him new life.”
“Oh, come, then,” said Helen, “bring me to my father; do not lose a moment, not a moment—oh, let me see him instantly!”
The poor old man suspected something. “For a thousand!” said he, “this is some good news about Helen!”
“Make your mind up for that,” replied his mend; “as sure as you live it is; and if it be, bear it stoutly204.”
In the course of a few minutes Mrs. Hamilton entered the room with Helen, now awakened205 to perfect reason, smiling, and leaning upon her arm. “Oh, dear papa!” she exclaimed, meeting him, with a flood of tears, and resting her head on his bosom.
“What, my darling!—my darling! And you know papa once more!—you know him again, my darling Helen! Oh, thanks be to God for this happy day!” And he kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart, and wept over her with ecstasy206 and delight. It was a tender and tearful embrace.
“Oh, papa!” said she, “I fear I have caused you much pain and sorrow: something has been wrong, but I am well now that he is here. I felt the tones of his voice in my heart.”
“Who, darling, who?”
“Reilly, papa.”
“Hamilton, bring him down instantly; but oh, Helen, darling, how will I see him?—how can I see him? but he must come, and we must all be happy. Bring him down.”
“You know, papa, that Reilly is generosity207 itself.”
“He is, he is, Helen, and how could I blame you for loving him?”
Page 183-- My Son! My Son!
Reilly soon entered; but the old man, already overpowered by what had just occurred, was not able to speak to him for some time. He clasped and pressed his hand, however, and at length said:
“My son! my son! Now,” he added, after he had recovered himself, “now that I have both together, I will not allow one minute to pass until I give you both my blessing208; and in due time, when Helen gets strong, and when I get a little stouter209, you shall be married; the parson and the priest will make you both happy. Reilly, can you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive you, sir,” replied Reilly; “whatever you did proceeded from your excessive affection for your daughter; I am more than overpaid for any thing I may have suffered myself; had it been ages of misery, this one moment would cancel the memory of it for ever.”
“I cannot give you my estate, Reilly,” said the old man, “for that is entailed210, and goes to the next male issue; but I can give you fifty thousand pounds with my girl, and that will keep you both comfortable for life.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied Reilly, “and for the sake of your daughter I will not reject it; but I am myself in independent circumstances, and could, even without your generosity, support Helen in a rank of life not unsuitable to her condition.”
It is well known that, during the period in which the incidents of our story took place, no man claiming the character of a gentleman ever travelled without his own servant to attend him. After Reilly's return to his native place, his first inquiries211, as might be expected, were after his Cooleen Bawn; and his next, after those who had been in some degree connected with those painful circumstances in which he had been involved previous to his trial and conviction. He found Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings much in the same state in which he left them. The latter, who had been entrusted212 with all his personal and other property, under certain conditions, that depended upon his return after the term of his sentence should have expired, now restored to him, and again reinstated him on the original terms into all his landed and other property, together with such sums as had accrued213 from it during his absence, so that he now found himself a wealthy man. Next to Cooleen Bawn, however, one of his first inquiries was after Fergus Reilly, whom he found domiciled with a neighboring middleman as a head servant, or kind of under steward214. We need not describe the delight of Fergus on once more meeting his beloved relative at perfect liberty, and free from all danger in his native land.
“Fergus,” said Reilly, “I understand you are still a bachelor—how does that come?”
“Why, sir,” replied Fergus, “now that you know every thing about the unhappy state of the Cooleen Bawn, surely you can't blame poor Ellen for not desartin' her. As for me I cared nothing about any other girl, and I never could let either my own dhrame, or what you said was yours, out o' my head. I still had hope, and I still have, that she may recover.”
Reilly made no reply to this, for he feared to entertain the vague expectation to which Fergus alluded.
“Well, Fergus,” said he, “although I have undergone the sentence of a convict, yet now, after my return, I am a rich man. For the sake of old times—of old dangers and old difficulties—I should wish you to live with me, and to attend me as my own personal servant or man. I shall get you a suit of livery, and the crest215 of O'Reilly shall be upon it. I wish you to attend upon me, Fergus, because you understand me, and because I never will enjoy a happy heart, or one day's freedom from sorrow again. All hope of that is past, but you will be useful to me—and that you know.”
Fergus was deeply affected at these words, although he was gratified in the highest degree at the proposal. In the course of a few days he entered upon his duties, immediately after which Reilly set out on his journey to Monaghan, to see once more his beloved, but unhappy, Cooleen Baton216. On arriving at that handsome and hospitable217 town, he put up at an excellent inn, called the “Western Arms,” kept by a man who was the model of innkeepers, known by the sobriquet218 of “honest Peter Philips”. We need, not now recapitulate219 that with which the reader is already acquainted; but we cannot omit describing a brief interview which took place in the course of a few days after the restoration of the Cooleen Bawn to the perfect use of her reason, between two individuals, who, we think, have some claim upon the good-will and good wishes of our readers. We allude86 to Fergus Reilly and the faithful Ellen Connor. Seated in a comfortable room in the aforesaid inn—now a respectable and admirably kept hotel—with the same arms over the door, were the two individuals alluded to. Before them stood a black bottle of a certain fragrant220 liquor, as clear and colorless as water from the purest spring, and, to judge of it by the eye, quite as harmless; but there was the mistake. Never was hypocrisy221 better exemplified than by the contents of that bottle. The liquor in question came, Fergus was informed, from the green woods of Truagh, and more especially from a townland named Derrygola, famous, besides, for stout men and pretty girls.
“Well, now, Ellen darlin',” said Fergus, “if ever any two bachelors * were entitled to drink their own healths, surely you and I are. Here's to us—a happy marriage, soon and sudden. As for myself, I've had the patience of a Trojan.”
* “Bachelor,” in Ireland, especially in the country parts of
it, where English is not spoken correctly, is frequently
applied to both the sexes.
Ellen pledged him beautifully with her eyes, but very moderately with the liquor.
“Bedad!” he proceeded, “seven years—ay, and a half—wasn't a bad apprenticeship222, at any rate; but, as I tould Mr. Reilly before he left the country—upon my sowl, says I, Mr. Reilly, she's worth waitin' for; and he admitted it.”
“But, Fergus, did ever any thing turn out so happy for all parties? To me it's like a dream; I can scarcely believe it.”
“Faith, and if it be a dhrame, I hope it's one we'll never waken from. And so the four of us are to be married on the same day; and we're all to live with the squire.”
“We are, Fergus; the Cooleen Bawn will have it so; but, indeed, her father is as anxious for it almost as she is. Ah, no, Fergus, she could not part with her faithful Ellen, as she calls me; nor, after all, Fergus, would her faithful Ellen wish to part with her?”
“And he's to make me steward; begad, and if I don't make a good one, I'll make an honest one. Faith, at all events, Ellen, we'll be in a condition to provide for the childre', plaise God.”
Ellen gave him a blushing look of reproach, and desired him to keep a proper tongue in his head.
“But what will we do with the five hundred, Ellen, that the squire and Mr. Reilly made up between them?”
“We'll consult Mr. Reilly about it,” she replied, “and no doubt but he'll enable us to lay it out to the best advantage. Now, Fergus dear, I must go,” she added; “you know she can't bear me even now to be any length of time away from her. Here's God bless them both, and continue them in the happiness they now enjoy.”
“Amen,” replied Fergus, “and here's God bless ourselves, and make us more lovin' to one another every day we rise; and here's to take a foretaste of it now, you thief.”
Some slight resistance, followed by certain smacking223 sounds, closed the interview; for Ellen, having started to her feet, threw on her cloak and bonnet224, and hurried out of the room, giving back, however, a laughing look at Fergus as she escaped.
In a few months afterwards they were married, and lived with the old man until he became a grandfather to two children, the eldest225 a boy, and the second a girl. Upon the same day of their marriage their humble but faithful friends were also united; so that there was a double wedding. The ceremony, in the case of Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn, was performed by the Reverend Mr. Brown first, and the parish priest afterwards; Mr. Strong, who had been for several years conjoined to Mrs. Smellpriest, having been rejected by both parties as the officiating clergyman upon the occasion, although the lovely bride was certainly his parishioner. Age and time, however, told upon the old man; and at the expiration226 of three years they laid him, with many tears, in the grave of his fathers. Soon after this Reilly and his wife, accompanied by Fergus and Ellen—for the Cooleen Bawn would not be separated from the latter—removed to the Continent, where they had a numerous family, principally of sons; and we need not tell our learned readers, at least, that those young men distinguished227 not only themselves, but their name, by acts of the most brilliant courage in continental228 warfare229. And so, gentle reader, ends the troubled history of Willy Reilly and his own Cooleen Bawn.
The End
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1
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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2
solicit
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| vi.勾引；乞求；vt.请求，乞求；招揽(生意) | |
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3
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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4
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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5
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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6
hearths
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| 壁炉前的地板，炉床，壁炉边( hearth的名词复数 ) | |
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7
ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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8
commemorated
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| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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10
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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11
ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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12
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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13
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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14
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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15
vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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16
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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17
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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18
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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19
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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20
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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21
congregated
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| （使）集合，聚集( congregate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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23
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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24
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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25
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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26
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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27
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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28
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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29
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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30
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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31
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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32
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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33
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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34
tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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35
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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36
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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37
prosecute
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| vt.告发；进行；vi.告发，起诉，作检察官 | |
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38
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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39
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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40
imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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41
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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42
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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43
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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44
denomination
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| n.命名，取名，(度量衡、货币等的)单位 | |
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45
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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46
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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47
prosecuting
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| 检举、告发某人( prosecute的现在分词 )； 对某人提起公诉； 继续从事（某事物）； 担任控方律师 | |
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48
fervor
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| n.热诚；热心；炽热 | |
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49
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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50
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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51
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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52
effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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53
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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54
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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55
incarceration
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| n.监禁，禁闭；钳闭 | |
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56
heinous
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| adj.可憎的，十恶不赦的 | |
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57
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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58
devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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59
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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60
astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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61
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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62
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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63
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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64
preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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65
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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66
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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67
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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68
abjure
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| v.发誓放弃 | |
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69
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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70
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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71
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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72
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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73
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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74
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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75
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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76
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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77
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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78
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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79
nether
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| adj.下部的，下面的；n.阴间；下层社会 | |
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80
detrimental
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| adj.损害的，造成伤害的 | |
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81
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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82
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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83
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
allude
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| v.提及，暗指 | |
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87
nurture
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| n.养育，照顾，教育；滋养，营养品；vt.养育，给与营养物，教养，扶持 | |
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88
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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89
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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90
stultify
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| v.愚弄；使呆滞 | |
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91
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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92
gist
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| n.要旨；梗概 | |
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93
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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94
felon
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| n.重罪犯；adj.残忍的 | |
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95
inveigling
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| v.诱骗，引诱( inveigle的现在分词 ) | |
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96
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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97
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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98
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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99
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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100
labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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101
calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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102
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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103
allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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105
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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106
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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107
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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108
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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109
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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110
noosed
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| v.绞索，套索( noose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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113
maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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114
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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115
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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116
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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117
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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118
remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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119
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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120
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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121
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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122
tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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123
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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124
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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125
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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126
vindictive
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|
| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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127
worthy
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|
| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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128
lenient
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| adj.宽大的，仁慈的 | |
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129
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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130
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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131
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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132
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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133
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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134
gallows
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| n.绞刑架，绞台 | |
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135
perusing
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| v.读（某篇文字）( peruse的现在分词 )；（尤指）细阅；审阅；匆匆读或心不在焉地浏览（某篇文字） | |
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136
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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137
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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138
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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139
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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140
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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141
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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142
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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143
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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145
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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146
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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147
avenging
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|
| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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148
drawn
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|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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149
industrious
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|
| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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150
industriously
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151
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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152
remorse
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|
| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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153
mutual
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|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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155
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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156
compassion
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|
| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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157
boisterous
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|
| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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158
convivial
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|
| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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159
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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160
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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161
delusive
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| adj.欺骗的，妄想的 | |
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162
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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163
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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164
blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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165
feverish
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|
| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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166
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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167
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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168
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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169
gushes
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| n.涌出，迸发( gush的名词复数 )v.喷，涌( gush的第三人称单数 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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170
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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171
depressed
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|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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172
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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173
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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174
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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175
groans
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|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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176
mingled
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|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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177
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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178
partially
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|
| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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179
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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180
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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181
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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182
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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183
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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184
tranquil
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|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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185
almighty
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|
| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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186
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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187
blighted
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|
| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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188
forth
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|
| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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189
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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190
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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191
incompatible
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|
| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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192
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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193
contented
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|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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194
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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195
debilitated
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|
| adj.疲惫不堪的，操劳过度的v.使（人或人的身体）非常虚弱( debilitate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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197
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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198
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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199
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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200
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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201
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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202
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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203
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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204
stoutly
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|
| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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205
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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206
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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207
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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208
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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209
stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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210
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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211
inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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212
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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213
accrued
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| adj.权责已发生的v.增加( accrue的过去式和过去分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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214
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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215
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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216
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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217
hospitable
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|
| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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218
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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219
recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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220
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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221
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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222
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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223
smacking
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| 活泼的，发出响声的，精力充沛的 | |
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224
bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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225
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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226
expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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227
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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228
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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229
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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