Part 17 (1/2)

”Why, they said he was a dacent Papish, I think they called it; and that there wasn't sich another among them. They then lighted their pipes, had a smoke, went about their business, and I saw no more of them from that day to this.”

Reilly felt that this conversation was significant, and that the widow's cabin was any thing but a safe place of refuge, even for a few hours. We have already said that he had been popular with all parties, which was the fact, until his acquaintance with the old squire and his lovely daughter. In the meantime the loves of w.i.l.l.y Reilly and the far-famed _Cooleen Bawn_ had gone abroad over the whole country; and the natural result was that a large majority among those who were anxious to exterminate the Catholic Church by the rigor of bigoted and inhuman laws, looked upon the fact of a tolerated Papist daring to love a Protestant heiress, and the daughter of a man who was considered such a stout prop of the Establishment, as an act that deserved death itself.

Reilly's affection for the _Cooleen Bawn_ was considered, therefore, not only daring but treasonable. Those men, then, he reflected, who had called upon her while in pursuit of the unfortunate priest, had become acquainted with the fact of her dependence upon his bounty; and he took it for granted, very naturally and very properly, as the event will show, that now, while ”on his keeping,” it would not be at all extraordinary if they occasionally searched her remote and solitary cabin, as a place where he might be likely to conceal himself. For this night, however, he experienced no apprehension of a visit from them, but with what correctness of calculation we shall soon see.

”Molly,” said he, this poor man and I must sit with you for a couple of hours, after which we will leave you to your rest.”

”Indeed, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, ”from what I heard this day I can make a party good guess at the raison why you are here now, instead of bein' in your own comfortable house. You have bitther enemies; but G.o.d--blessed be his name--is stronger than any of them. However, I wish you'd let me get you and that poor man something to eat.”

This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-light was nearly burned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a _cam_ or grisset, put it on the hearth-stone, with a portion of hog's lard in it; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire, until the broad portion of them, with which the turf is gripped, became red hot; she then placed the lard in the grisset between them, and squeezed it until nothing remained but pure oil; through this she slowly drew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the grease, after which she left them on a little table to cool. Among the poorer cla.s.ses--small farmers and others--this process is performed every evening a little before dusk. Having thus supplied them with these lights, the pious widow left them to their own conversation and retired to the little room in order to repeat her rosary. We also will leave them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers to follow us to a different scene.

CHAPTER VII.--An Accidental Incident favorable to Reilly

--And a Curious Conversation

We return to the party from whom Fergus Reilly had so narrow an escape.

As our readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft. That gentleman was alone in his library, surrounded by an immense collection of books which he never read. He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no more than his butler, nor perhaps so much. At once sensual, penurious, and bigoted, he spent his whole time in private profligacy--for he was a hypocrite, too--in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as a champion for Protestant principles. Whenever an unfortunate Roman Catholic, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh and cruel law of which probably he had never heard, who so active in collecting his myrmidons, in order to uncover, hunt, and run down his luckless victim? And yet he was not popular. No one, whether of his own cla.s.s or any other, liked a bone in his skin. Nothing could infect him with the genial and hospitable spirit of the country, whilst at the same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitality of others, merely because it saved him a meal. All that sustained his character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people called the uncompromising energy of his principles as a sound and vigorous Protestant.

”Sink them all together,” he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of soliloquy--”Church and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to make the best use we can of them? Here I am prevented from going to that girl to-night--and that barbarous old blockhead of a squire, who was so near throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel: and doubly, trebly, quadruply cursed be that same rebel for crossing my path as he has done. The cursed light-headed jade loves him too--there's no doubt of that--but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall, and, by ---, his rebel carca.s.s shall feed the crows. But what noise is that? They have returned; I must go down and learn their success.”

He was right. Our friend the tipsy sergeant and his party were at the hall-door, which was opened as he went down, and he ordered lights into the back parlor. In a few minutes they were ushered in, where they found him seated as magisterially as possible in a large arm-chair.

”Well, Johnston,” said he, a.s.suming as much dignity as he could, ”what has been your success?”

”A bad evening's sport, sir; we bagged nothing--didn't see a feather.”

”Talk sense, Johnston,” said he sternly, ”and none of this cant. Did you see or hear any thing of the rebel?”

”Why, sir, we did; it would be a devilish nice business if a party led and commanded by George Johnston should go out without hearin' and seein' something.”

”Well, but what did you see and hear, sir?”

”Why, we saw Reilly's house, and a very comfortable one it is; and we heard from the servants that he wasn't at home.”

”You're drunk, Johnston.”

”No, sir, begging your pardon, I'm only hearty; besides, I never discharge my duty half so well as when I'm drunk; If feel no colors then.”

”Johnston, if I ever know you to get drunk on duty again I shall have you reduced.”

”Reduced!” replied Johnston, ”curse the fig I care whether you do or not; I'm actin' as a volunteer, and I'll resign.”

”Come, sir,” replied Sir Robert, ”be quiet; I will overlook this, for you are a very good man if you could keep yourself sober.”

”I told you before, Sir Robert, that I'm a better man when I'm drunk.”

”Silence, sir, or I shall order you out of the room.”

”Please your honor,” observed Steen, ”I have a charge to make against George Johnston.”