Part 30 (2/2)

”Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly; ”I am only changed in outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for your kindness,” placing money in her hand.

”I can't, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all the money you have to support yourself. Didn't the thieves of the devil burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world without money--keep it yourself, for I don't want it.”

”Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this; I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the h.e.l.l-hounds of the law can't find them. And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley; I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden.”

The tears ran down the poor old woman's cheeks, and Reilly left her sobbing and crying behind him. This indeed was an eventful day to him, Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft's. To fly would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song at the very top of his lungs. Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not cross-examine.

”Hallo, my good fellow,” said the leader of the party, ”what is that you're singin'?”

Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; ”_Ha neil bearla agum;_” that is, ”I have no English.”

”Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke.”

A conversation in that language then took place between them which reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of Reilly's tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable, and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him.

This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue, however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor's wish that it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about w.i.l.l.y Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion.

”This blockhead,” said Connor, ”knows nothing about him, only what he has heard; he's a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of Sligo; come on.”

They pa.s.sed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.

On reaching the farmer's house where he and the bishop lodged, the unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger, and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting such persons.

”What do you want here, my good man?” inquired the farmer.

”Do you wish to say anything to me?” asked the bishop.

”A few words,” replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lords.h.i.+p and the farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compa.s.sion and respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently changed his purpose, and added, ”My lord, don't you know me?”

The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny that he recognized him.

In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy, returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, ”Now, you d.a.m.ned desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin' to pry about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you won't catch that, you'll catch this,” and he whirled the cudgel about his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the meditated violence.

”Be quiet, Kelly,” said he, ”be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly disguised.”

”Troth, I must look closely at him first,” replied Kelly; ”who knows but he's imposin' upon you, Dr. Wilson?”

Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of the cudgel.

”Why, Kelly,” said Reilly, ”what the deuce are you at? Don't you know my voice at least?”

”Well,” replied Kelly, ”bad luck to the like o' that ever I see. Holy Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you may thank his lords.h.i.+p here for it that you hadn't a s.h.i.+rtful of sore bones.”

”Well, my dear friend,” said Reilly, ”put up your cudgel; I really don't covet a s.h.i.+rtful of sore bones; but, after all, perhaps you would have found my fist a match for your cudgel.”

”Nonsense!” replied Kelly; ”but G.o.d be praised that you escaped the welting anyhow; I would never forgive myself, and you the friend of his lords.h.i.+p.”

He then left the room, his terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly, after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day, involving, as they did, the two narrow escapes which he had had. The bishop thanked G.o.d, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he thought the hand of Providence was protecting him.

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