Part 63 (2/2)
”So it is, sir--or, rather, so it was; but she has affection for n.o.body 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 stout; 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 n.o.ble 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 persecution 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 compa.s.sion; this was her father, who was consumed by the bitterest and most profound remorse.
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 boisterous and convivial old squire, changeful and unsettled in all his opinions, but silent, quiet, and abstracted almost from life.
He wept incessantly, 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 chamber, or follow her to the garden where she loved to walk, always in the delusive 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 malady was too deeply seated to be affected by any known remedy, whether moral or physical. From the moment she was struck into insanity 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 blight 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 feverish 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 chaos 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 impunity or acquittal remained for any one of his creed guilty of such a violation 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 gushes, 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 dreaded the result which Reilly's conviction might produce upon a mind with such a tendency, worn down and depressed as it had been by all she had suffered, and more especially what she must feel by the tumult 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, wrought 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, a.s.sisted 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 judgment 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 groans of her distracted father, mingled with caresses 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 partially closed, but the faithful girl would not be repulsed. 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 wringing his hands, sobbing, and giving vent to the most uncontrollable sorrow.
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