The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 16 October 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

By William Carleton.

WILLY REILLY AND HIS DEAR COLEEN DAWN. (A Tale Founded upon Fact)

CHAPTER IV.(Conti.) .On the evening of the same day, 'probably about the same hour, the old squire, having recruited himself by sleep, and feeling refreshed and invigorated, sent for his daughter to sit with him, as was her wont; for indeed, as the reader may now fully understand, his happiness altogether depended upon her society, and those tender attentions to him which constituted the chief solace of his life. “Well, my girl,” said he, when she entered the dining room, for he seldom left it unless when they had company, “well, darling, what do you think of this Mr. Mahon pooh ! —no —Reillyhe who saved my life, and, probably, was the means of rescuing you from worse than death? Isn’t he a linea noble young fellow?” “Indeed, I think so, papa; he appears to be a perfect gentleman.” “Hang perfect gentlemen, Helen! they are, some of them, the most contemptible whelps upon earth. Hang me, but any fellow with a long-bodied coat, tight-kneed breeches, or stockings and pantaloons, with a watch in each fob, and a frizzled wig, is considered a perfect gentleman—a perfect puppy, Helen, an accomplished trifle. Reilly, however, is none of these, for he is not only a perfect gentleman, but a brave man, that would not hesitate to risk his life in order to save that of a fellow-crea-ture, even although he is a Papist and that fellow-creature a Protestant.” “Well, then, papa, I grant you,” she replied, with a smile, which our readers will understand“l. grant you that he is a—ahemall you say.” “What a pity, Helen, that he is a Papist 1” “Why so, papa?” “Because, if he was a staunch Protestant, by the great Deliverer that saved us from brass money, wooden shoes, and so forth, I’d marry you and him together. I’ll tell yon what, Helen, by the memory of Schomberg, I have a project, and it is you that must work it out.” “Well, papa,” asked his daughter, putting the question with a smile and a blush, “pray what is this speculation “Why, the fact is, I’ll put him into your hands to convert him —make him a staunch Protestant, and take him for your pains. Accomplish this, and let long-legged, knock-kneed Whitecraft, and his thirty thousand a year, go and bite some other fool as he bit mo in ‘Hop-and-go-constant.’ ”

"What are thirty thousand a year, papa, when you know that they could not secure me happiness with such a wretch? Such "a union, sir, could not be, cannot be, must not be, and I will add, whilst I am in the possession of will and reason, shall not be." "Well, Helen," said her father, "if you are obstinate, so am I; but I trust we shall never have to fight for it. We must have Reilly here, and you must endeavor to convert him from Popery. If you succeed, I'll give longshanks his nunc dimittis, and send him home on a trot." "Papa," she replied, "this will be useless— will be ruin—l know Reilly." "The devil you do! When, may I ask, did you become acquainted?"

"I mean," she replied, blushing, "that I have seen enough of him, during his stay here, to feel satisfied that no earthly .persuasion, no argument, could induce him, at this moment especially, to change his religion. And, sir, I will add myself—yes, I will say for myself, dear papa, and for Reilly, too—that if from any unbecoming motive, if for the sake of love itself, I felt satisfied that he could give up and abandon his religion, I would despise him. I should feel at once that his heart was hollow, and that he was unworthy either of my love or my respect." "Well, by the great Boyne, Helen, you have knocked my intellects up. I hope in God you have no Papist predilections, girl. However, it's only fair to give Reilly a trial—long-legs is to dine with us the day after to-morrow —now I will ask Reilly to meet him perhaps if I get an opportunity, I will sound him on the subject myself —or perhaps you will. Will you promise to make the attempt? I'll tako care that you and lie shall have an opportunity." .„" ; "

to . Indeed, papa, I shall certainly mention the subject to him.” J “By the soul of Schomberg, Helen, if you do you’ll convert him.” . ■ Helen was about to make some good-natured reply, when the noise of carriage wheels was heard at the hall door, and her father, going to the window, asked: “What noise is that? A carriage! Who can it be? Whitecraft,-by the Boyne! Well, it can’t be helped.” “I will leave you, papa,” she said. “I do not wish to see this unfeeling and repulsive man, unless when it is unavoidable and in your presence.” She then withdrew. Before we introduce Sir Robert Whitecraft, we must beg our readers to accompany us to the residence of that worthy gentleman, which was not more than three miles from that of Reilly. Sir , Robert had large estates and a sumptuous residence in Ireland, as well as in England, and had made the former principally his place of abode since he became enamored of the celebrated Cohen Hawn. On the occasion in question, ho was walking about through his grounds, when a female- approached him, whom we beg the reader to recognise as Mary Mahon. This mischievous woman, implacable, and without principle, had, with the utmost secrecy, served Sir Robert and many others in a capacity discreditable alike to virtue and her sex, by luring the weak or the innocent within their toils. “Well, Mary,” said he, “what news in the country? You, who are always on the move, should know.” “No very good news for you, Sir Robert,” she replied. “How is that, Mary?” “Why, sir, Willy Reilly, the famous Willy Reilly, has got a footing in the house of old Squire Folliard.” “And how can that be bad news to me, Alary?” “Well, I don’t know,” said she, with a cunning leer; “hut this I know, that they had a love scene together this very morning, and that ho kissed her very sweetly near tho chimley-piece.” Sir Robert Whitecraft did not get into a rage; ho neither cursed nor swore, nor even looked angry; but he gave a peculiar smile, which should be seen in order to bo understood. “Where is your nephew now?” he asked; and as he did so he began to whistle. “Have you another job for him?” she inquired, in her turn, with a peculiar meaning. “Whenever the aunt fails by fair play, her nephew tries it with fold.” “Well, and have not I often saved his neck, as well by my influence as by allowing him to take shelter under my roof whenever ho was hard pressed?” “I know that, your honor; and hasn’t he and 1 often sarved you, on tho other hand?”' “I grant it, Molly; but that is a matter known only to ourselves. You know I have the reputation of being very correct and virtuous.” “I know you have,” said Molly, “with most people, but not with all. You do everything snug and close, and on tho cheapest terms.” “Well, Molly, you know, as far as we are concerned, one good turn deserves another. Where is your nephew now, I ask again.” “Why, then, to tell you the truth, it’s more than I know, at the present speaking.” “Follow me, then,” replied the wily baronet; “I wish you to see him; he is now concealed in my house; but, first, mark me, I don’t believe a word of what you have just repeated.” “It’s as true as Gospel for all that,” she replied ; “and if you wish to hear how I found it out I’ll tell you.” “Well,” said the baronet, calmly, “let us hear it.” “You must know,” she proceeded, “that I have a cousin, one Betty Beatty, who is a housemaid in the squire’s. • Now, this same Betty Beatty was in the back parlor the squire always dines in the front and from a kind of natural curiosity she’s afflicted with, she puts her ear to the keyhole, and afterwards her eye. I happened to be at the squire’s, at the time, and, as blood is thicker than wather, and as she knew I was a friend of yours, she told me what she had both heard and seen, what they said, and how he kissed her.” Sir Robert seemed very calm, and merely said, “Follow me into the house” which she accordingly did, and remained in consultation with him and the Red Rapparee for. nearly an hour, after which Sir Robert ordered his carriage and went to pay a. visit, as we have seen, at Corb'o Castle. Sir Robert Whitecraft, on entering the parlor, shook hands as a matter of course with the squire. At this particular crisis, the vehement, but whimsical old man, whose mind was now full of, another project with reference to his daughter, experienced no great gratification from this visit, and as the baronet shook hands with him ho exclaimed somewhat testily: —• “D— —-n it, Sir Robert, why don’t you shake hands like a man? You put that long yellow paw of yours, all

skin and bones, into a man’s hand, and there you let it lie. But, no matter., everyone to his nature. Be seatfed, and tell me what mews. Are the -Papists quiet?” mere is little news stirring, sir; at least, if there be it does not come my : way, with . the . exception of this report about yourself, which 1 hope is not true; that there " as <?wi at J fcei^ pt .. made on yoilr life-yesterday evening?” What signifies that, my dear 'fellow, when your wig is out of balance? It’s a little to the one side, like the ear of an empty jug, as they say.” t « ,“ W 1 lly ’ ir »” replied the baronet, “the fact is, that i felt—hum ! so much—so . much—a—anxiety—hum ! —to see you and—a— know all about it—that—a—i didn t taxe time to— alook to my dress. And besides, as I— humexpect to have—a pleasure of an interview with Miss Folliardahum! —now that I am he! o — l feel anxious to appear to the best advantage—a—hu m ! V hilst speaking, he proceeded with the readjustment of his toilet at the large mirror, an operation which appealed to constitute the groat object on which his mind was engaged, the affair of the squire’s life or death coming in only parenthetically, or as a consideration of minor importance. In height, Sir Robert Whitecraft was fully six feet tSo; but being extremely thin and lank, and to all appearance utterly devoid of substance, and of everything like proportion, he appeared much taller than even Nature had made him. His forehead was low, and its whole character felonious; his eyes were small, deep-set, and cunning; his nose was hooked; his mouth was wide, but his lips thin to a miracle, and such as always are to be found under the nose of a miser; as for chin, we could not conscientiously allow him any; his under-lip sloped off until it met the throat with a curve not larger than that of an oyster, which, when open to the tide, his mouth very much resembled. As for his neck, it was so long that no portion of dress, at that time discovered, was capable of covering more than one-third of it; so that there were always two parts out of three left* stark naked and helplessly exposed to the elements. Whenever he smiled he looked as about to weep. As the squire said, ho was dreadfully roundshouldered, had dangling arms that kept flapping about him as if they were moved by some 1 machinery that had gone out of order, was close-kneed, had the. true telescopic leg, and feet that brought a very large portion of him into the closest possible contact with the earth. ‘‘Are you succeeding, Sir Robert?” inquired the old man, sarcastically, “because if you are, I swear you’re achieving wonders, considering the slight materials you have to work upon.” . “Ah ! sir,” replied the baronet, “1 perceive you are iq. one of your biting humors to-day.” “Biting!” exclaimed tho other, “egad, it’s very well for most of your acquaintances that you’re free from hydrophobia: if you were not, I’d have died pleasantly between two feather beds, leaving my child an orphan long before this.” “0 ay, you allude to the affair of ‘Hop-and-go-con-stant’ and ‘Pat the Spanker’; but you know, ray dear sir, 1 gave you heavy boot”; and as ho spoke, ho pulled up the lapels of his coat, and glanced complacently at the profile of his face and person in the glass. “Pray, is Miss Folliard at home, sir?” “Again I’m forgotten,” thought the squire. “Ah! what an affectionate son-in-law he’d make! What a tender husband for Helen! Why, hang the fellow, he has a heart for nobody but himself She is at home, Sir Robert, but the truth is, I don’t think it would become me, as a father anxious for the happiness of his child, and that child an only one, to sacrifice her happiness— happiness of her whole lifeto wealth or ambition. You know she her- ' self entertains a strong prejudice— that is not the word ” “I beg your pardon, sir; that is the word; her distaste to me is a prejudice, and nothing else.” “No, Sir, Robert; it is not the word. Antipathy is the word. No, I tell you cnee for all, that I will not force my child.” “This change, Mr. Folliard,” observed the baronet, '“is somewhat of the suddenest. Has anything occurred on my part to occasion it?” “Perhaps I may have other views for her, Sir Robert.” “That may be, but is such conduct either fair or honorable towards me, Mr. Folliard? Have I got a rival, and if so, who is he?” “0 Lord! I wouldn’t tell you that for thd world.” “And why not, pray?” “Because,” replied the squire, “if . you found out who ho was, you’d be hanged for cannibalism.” “I really don’t understand you, Mr. Folliard. Excuse me, but it would seem to me that something has put you into no very agreeable humor to-day.”

"You don't understand me! , "Why, Sir Robert," replied the other, "I know you so well that if you 'heard the name of your rival, you would first kill him, then powder him, t and, lastly,| eat him. You are such a terrible fellow that you care about no man's life, not even about mine." •. Now it was to this very point that the calculating baronet wished to bring him. * The .old man, he knew, was whimsical, capricious, and in the habit of taking all his strongest. and most enduring resolutions from sudden contrasts produced by some mistake of his own, or from some discovery made to him on the part of others. "As to your life, Mr. Folliard,* let me assure you," replied Sir Robert,, "that there is no man living prizes it, and, let me add, your character too, more highly than I do; but, my dear sir, your life was never in danger." "Never in danger! What do you mean, Sir Robert? I tell you, sir, that the murdering miscreant, the Red Rapparee, had a loaded gun levelled at me last evening after dark."

"I know it," replied the other, "I am well aware of it, and you were rescued just in the nick of time." "True enough," said the squire, "just in the nick of time ; by that glorious young fellow —a ———Reilly, Willy Reilly." '

"This Willy Reilly, sir, is a very accomplished person, I think." - "A gentleman, Sir Robert, every inch of him, and as handsome and fine-looking a young fellow as ever I laid my eyes upon." "Ho was educated on the Continent by the Jesuits." "No!" replied the squire, dreadfully alarmed at this piece of information, "he was not; by the great Boyne, he wasn't."

This mighty asseveration, however, was exceedingly feeble in moral strength and energy, for, in point of fact, it came out of the squire's lips more in the shape of a question than an oath.

"It is unquestionably true, sir," said the baronet; "ask himself, and he will admit it."

"Well, and granting .that he was," replied the squire, "what else could he do, when the laws would not permit of. his being educated here? I speak not against the laws, God forbid, but of his individual case."

"We are travelling from the point, sir," returned the baronet. "I was observing that Reilly is an accomplished person, as, indeed, every Jesuit is. Be that as it may, I again beg to assure you that your life stood in no risk!" "I don't understand you, Sir Robert. You're a perfect oracle: by the great Deliverer from Pope and Popery, wooden shoes, and so forth, only that Reilly made his appearance at that moment 1 was a dead man." "Not the slightest danger, Mr. Folliard. I am aware of that, and of the whole Jesuitical plot from the beginning; base, ingenious, but diabolical as it was." The squire rose up and looked at him for a minute without speaking, then sat down again, and a second time was partially up, but resumed his seat.

"A plot," he exclaimed, "a plot, Sir Robert! What plot?" "A plot, Mr. Folliard, for the purpose of creating an opportunity to make your acquaintance, and of ingratiating himself into the good graces and affections of your lovely daughter; a plot for the purpose of marrying her." The squire seemed, for a moment, thunderstruck; but, in a little time, he recovered. "Marrying her!" he exclaimed "that, you know, could not be done, unless he turned Protestant."

It was now time for the baronet to feel thunderstricken. "He turned Protestant! I don't understand you, Mr. Folliard. Could any change on Reilly's part involve such a probability as a marriage between him and your daughter?"

"I can't believe it was a plot, Sir Robert," said the squire, shifting the question, "nor I won't believe it. There was too much truth and sincerity in his conduct. And, what is more, my house would have been attacked last night; I, myself, robbed and murdered, and my daughter, my child, carried off, only for him. Nay, indeed, it was partially attacked, but when the villains found us prepared they decamped; but, as for marriage, he could not marry my daughter, I say again, so long as he remains a Papist." "Unless he might prevail on her to turn Papist." "By the life of my body, Sir Robert, I won't stand this. Did you come here, sir, to insult me and to drive me into madness? What devil could have put it into your head that my daughter, sir, or anyone with a drop of my blood in their veins to the tenth generation, could ever, for a single moment, think of turning Papist? Sir, I hoped that you would have respected the name both of my daughter and myself, and have'forborne to add this double insult; both to her ■ and me.. The insolence even to dream of,- imputing such an act to ; her "I* cannot, overlook.

You yourself, if you could gain a point or feather your nest by it, are a .thousand times more likely to turn Papist) than either of us. Apologise, instantly, sir, or leave my house.” “I can certainly apologise, Mr. Folliard,” replied the baronet, “and with a good conscience, inasmuch as I had not the most remote intention of offending you, much less Miss Folliard I accordingly do so promptly and at once but as for my allegations against Reilly, T am in a position to establish their truth in the clearest manner, and to prove to you that there wasn’t a single robber nor Rapparee either at or about your house last night, with the exception of Reilly and his, gang. If there were, why were they neither heard nor seen?” “One of them was—the Red Rapparee himself.” “Do not be deceived, Mr. Folliard; did you yourself or any of your family or household see him?” “Why, no, certainlywe did not— l admit that.” “Yes, and you will admit more soon. 1 shall prove the whole conspiracy.” “Well, why don’t you, then?” “Simply because the matter must be brought about with great caution. You must allow me a few days, say three or four, and the proofs shall be given.” “Very well, Sir Robert, but in the meantime I shall not throw Reilly overboard.” “Could I not be permitted to pay my respects to Miss Folliard before I go, sir?” asked Sir Robert. “Don’t insist upon it,” replied her father; “you know perfectly well that shethat you are no favorite with her.” “Nothing on earth, sir, grieves me so much,” said the baronet, affecting a melancholy expression of countenance which was ludicrous to look at. “Well, well,” said the old man, “as you can’t see her now, come and meet Reilly here at dinner the day aftler to-morrow, and you shall have the pleasure.” “It will be with pain, sir, that I shall force myself into that person’s society; however, to oblige you, I shall do it.” “Consider, pray consider, Sir Robert,” replied the old squire, all his pride of family glowing strong within him, “"just consider that my table, sir, and my countenance, sir, and my sense of gratitude, sir, are a sufficient guarantee to the worth and respectability of anyone whom I may ask to my house. And, Sir Robert, in addition to that, just reflect that I ask him to meet my daughter, and, if I don’t mistake, I think I love, honor, and respect her near!]/ as much as I do you. Will you come, then, or will you not?” “Unquestionably, sir, I will do myself the honor.” “Very well,” replied the old squire, clearing up at once —undergoing, in fact, one of those rapid and unaccountable changes which constituted so prominent a portion of his character“very well, Bobby; good-bye, my boy. I am not angry with yon ; shake hands, and d n Popery.” (To be continued.)