The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 23 October 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

WILLY REILLY AND HIS DEAR COLEEN BAWN. (A Tale Founded upon Fact) By William Carleton. CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) Until the morning of the day on which the two rivals were to meet, Miss Folliard began to entertain a dreadful apprehension that the fright into which the Red Rapparee had thrown her father was likely to terminate ere long in insanity. The man at best was eccentric, and full of the most unaccountable changes of temper and purpose, hot, passionate, vindictive, generous, implacable, and benevolent. What he had seldom been accustomed to do, he commenced soliloquizing aloud, and talking to himself in such broken hints and dark mysterious allusions, drawing from unknown premises such odd and ludicrous inferences; at one time brushing himself up in Scripture; at another moment questioning his daughter about her opinion on Poperysometimes dealing about political and religious allusions with great sarcasm, in which ho was a master when he wished, and sometimes with considerable humor of illustration, so far, at least, as he could be understood. "Confound these Jesuits," said he, "I wish they were scourged out of Europe. Every man of them is sure to put his finger in the pie, and then into his mouth to taste what it's like; not so the parsons Hallo! where am I ? Take care, old Folliard; take care, you old dog; what have you to say in favor of theso same parsons negligent fellows, who snore and slumber, feed well, clothe well, and think first of number one? Egad, I'm in a mess between them. One makes a slave of you, and the other allows you to play the tyrant. A plague, as I heard a fellow say in a play once, a plague o' both your houses: if you paid more attention to your duties and scrambled less for wealth and power, and this world's honors, you would not turn it upside down as you do. Helen "Well, papa." "I have doubts whether I shall allow you to sound Reilly on Popery." "I would rather decline it, sir." "I'll tell you what; I'll see Andy Cummiskey—Andy's opinion is good on anything." And accordingly he proceeded to see his confidential old servant. With this purpose, and in his own original manner, ho went about consulting every servant under his roof upon their respective notions of Popery, as he called iti, and striving to allure them, at one time by kindness, and at another by threatening them, into an avowal of its idolatrous tendency. Those to whom he spoke, however, knew very little about it, and like those of all creeds in a similar predicament, he found that, in proportion to their ignorance of its doctrines, arose the vehemence and sincerity of their defence of it. This, however, is human nature, and we do not see how the learned can condemn it. Upon the day appointed for dinner, only four sat! down to it, that is to say, the squire, his daughter, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and Reilly. They had met in the drawing-room some time before its announcement, and as the old man introduced the two latter, Reilly's bow was courteous and gentlemanly, whilst that of the baronet, who not only detested Reilly with the hatred of a demon, but resolved to make him feel the superiority of rank-and wealth, was frigid, supercilious, and offensive. Reilly at once saw this, and, as he knew not that the baronet was in possession of his secret, he felt his ill-bred insolence the more deeply. He was too much of a gentleman, however, and too well acquainted with the principles and forms of good breeding, to seem to notice it in the slightest degree. The old squire,, at this time, had not at all given Reilly up, but still his confidence in him was considerably shaken. He saw, moreover, thai) notwithstanding what had occurred at their last interview, the baronet had forgotten the respect due both to himself and his daughter; and, as he had, amidst all his eccentricities, many strong touches of the old Irish gentleman about him, he resolved to punish him for his ungentlemanly deportment. Accordingly, when dinner was announced, he said: "Mr. Reilly, you will give Miss Folliard your arm. We do not say that the worthy baronet squinted, but there was a bad, vindictive look in his small, cunning eyes, which, as they turned upon Reilly, 'was ten times more repulsive than the worst squint that ever disfigured a human countenance. To add .to . his chagrin, too, the squire came out with a bit of his usual sarcasm.

:.. "Come, baronet," v said he, "here's my arm. I am the old man, and you are the old lady and now for dinner." > v * - V ..In the meantime, Reilly and the Coleen Bawn had gone far enough in advance to be in a condition to speak • without being heard. ... "That," said she, , "is, the husband my father intends for me, or, rather, did intend: for, do you know, that you have found such favor in his sight, thatthat " She hesitated, and Reilly, looking into her face, saw that she blushed deeply, and he felt by her arm that her whole frame trembled with emotion. "Proceed, dearest) love," said he; "what is it?" "I have not time to tell you now," she ..replied, "but he mentioned a project to me, which, if it could be accomplished, would seal both your happiness and mine forever: Your religion is the only obstacle." "And that, my love," ho replied, .."is an unsurmountablo one." "Alas! I feared as much," she replied, sighing bitterly as she spoke. The old squire took the head of the table, and requested Sir Robert to take the foot; his daughter was at his right hand, and Reilly opposite her, by which means, although denied any confidential use of the tongue, their eyes enjoyed very gratifying advantages; and there passed between them occasionally some of those rapid glances which, especially when lovers are under surveillance, concentrate in their lightning flash more significance, more hope, more joy, and more love than ever was conveyed by the longest and tenderest gaze of affection under other circumstances. "Mr. Reilly," said the squire, "I am told that you are a very well-educated man; indeed, the thing is obvious. What, let me ask, is your opinion of education in general?" "Why, sir," replied Reilly, "I think there can be but one opinion about it. Without education a people can never be moral, prosperous, or happy. Without it, how are they to learn the duties of this life, or those still more important ones that prepare them for a better?" "You would entrust the conduct and control of it, I presume, sir, to the clergy?" asked Sir Robert, insidiously. "No, sir," replied Reilly, "I would entrust the conduct and control of it to the State. I look upon the schoolmaster to bo a much more important character than the priest." "Which description of priest do you mean, sir?" inquired tho baronet again. "Every description, sir. If the complete control of education were committed to the priests of any or all . creeds, the consequence would be a generation of bigots, fraught with the worst elements of civil and religious rancor. I would give the priest only such a limited control in education as becomes his position, which is not to educate the youth, but instruct tho man, and only in those duties enjoined by religion." The squire now gave a triumphant look at the baronet and a very kind and gracious one at Reilly. "Pray, sir," continued the baronet, in his cold, supercilious manner, "from the peculiarity of your views, I feel anxious,' if you will pardon me, to ask where you yourself have received your very accomplished education?" "Whether my education, sir, has been an accomplished one or otherwise," replied Reilly, "is a point, I apprehend, beyond the reach of any opportunity you ever had to know. I received my education, sir, such as it is, and if it be not better the fault is my own, in a Jesuit seminary on the Continent." It was now the baronet's time to triumph; and indeed the bitter, glancing look he gave at tho squire, although it was intended for Reilly, resembled that which one of the more cunning and ferocious beasts of prey makes previous to his death-spring upon its victim. The old man's countenance instantly fell. He looked with surprise not unmingled with. sorrow and distrust at Reilly, a circumstance which did not escape his daughter, who could not, for the life of her, avoid fixing her eyes, lovelier even in the disdain they expressed, with an indignant look at the baronet. The latter, however, felt resolved to bring his rival, still further within the toils he was preparing for him, an object which Reilly's candor very much facilitated. "Mr. Reilly," said the squire, "I was not prepared to hearhem!God bless me, it is very odd, very deplorable, very much to be regretted indeed "What is, sir?" > , "Why, that you should be a Jesuit. I must confess I was not —a —hem ! —God bless me. I can't doubt your own word, certainly." "Not on t/his subject," observed the baronet, coolly.

On no subject, sir," replied Reilly, looking at him sternly, and with, an : indignation that was kept within bounds only by his v respect for the other parties, and the root that covered him; "on no subject, Sir Robert Whitecraft, is my word to be doubted." .-'• "I beg your pardon, sir," replied the other, "I did not nay so." :"-'; ..%-. ■, . . .' : ■'■ . "I will neither have it said, sir,, nor insinuated," rejoined Reilly. "I received my education on the Continent, because the laws of this country prevented me from receiving it here. I was placed in a Jesuit seminary, not by my own choice, but by that) of my father, to whom I owed obedience. Your oppressive laws, sir, first keep us ignorant, and then punish us for the crimes which that ignorance produces." - "Do you call the laws of the country oppressive?" asked the baronet, with as much of a sneer as cowardice would permit him to indulge in. "I do, sir, and ever will consider them so, at least so long as they deprive myself and my Catholic fellowcountrymen of their civil and religious rights." "That is strong language, though," observed the other, "at this time of day.!' "Mr. Reilly," said tho squire, "you seem to bo very much attached to your religion." "Just as much as I am to my life, sir, and would as soon give up the ono as the other." The squire's countenance literally became pale, his last hopo was gone, and so great was his agitation, that, in bringing a glass of. wine to his lips, his hand trembled to such a degree that he spilled a part of it. This, however, was not all. A settled gloom, a morose, dissatisfied expression soon overshadowed his features, from which disappeared the trace of that benignant, open, and friendly hospitality towards Reilly that had hitherto beamed from them. He and the baronet exchanged glances, of whose import, if Reilly was ignorant, not so his beloved Coleen, liawn. For the remainder of the evening the squire treated Reilly with great coolness, always addressing him as Mister, and evidently contemplating him in a spirit which partook of the feeling that animated Sir Robert Whitecraft. Helen roso to withdraw, and contrived by a sudden glance at the door and another as quick in the direction of the drawing room, to let her lover know that she wished him to follow her soon. The hint was not lost, for in less than half an hour Reilly, who was of very temperate habits, joined her" as she had hinted. "Reilly," said she, as she ran to him, "dearest Reilly! there is little time to be lost. I perceive that a secret understanding respecting you exists between papa and that detestable baronet. Be on your guard, especially against the latter, who has evidently, ever since we sat down to dinner, contrived to bring papa round to his own way of thinking, as he will ultimately, perhaps, to worse designs and darker purposes. Above all tilings, speak nothing that can be construed against the existing laws. f find that danger, if not positive, injury, awaits you. I shall, at any risk, give you warning." "At no risk, beloved!" "At every —at all risks, dearest Reilly Nay, more —whatever danger may encompass you shall be shared by me, even at the. risk of my life, or I shall extricate you out of it. But perhaps you will not be faithful to me. If so, I shudder to think what might happen." "Listen," said Reilly, taking her to his bosom; "in the presence of Heaven, I am yours, and yours only, until death!" She repeated his words, after which they embraced each other in haste, and had scarcely taken their seats when the squire and Sir Robert entered the drawing room. CHAPTER V.—THE PLOT AND THE VICTIMS. Sir Robert, on entering tho room along with the squire, found the Coleen Bawn at the spinet. Taking his place at the end of it, so that he could gain a full view of her countenance, he thought he could observe her complexion considerably heightened in color, and from her his glance was directed to Reilly. The squire, on the other hand, sat dull, silent, and unsociable, unless when addressing himself to the baronet, and immediately his genial manner returned to him. With his usual impetuosity, however, when laboring under what he supposed to be a sense of injury, he soon brought matters to a crisis. "Sir Robert," said he, "are the Papists quiet now?" "They are quiet, sir," replied tho other, "because they dare l not be otherwise." "By the great Deliverer, that saved lis from Pope and Popery, brass money, and wooden shoes, I think the country will never be quiet tilL they are banished* out of it." "Indeed, Mr. Folliard, I agree with you."

- '"And so* do I, Sir Robert," said Reilly. "I wish from my soul there was not a Papist—as you r call them this unfortunate country! In ,any other country beyond the bounds of the British dominions, -they could enjoy freedom. But I wish it for another reason, gentlemen; if they were gone, you would tSien be taught to ... your cost the value of your estates .and the; source of your incomes. And now, Mr. Folliard, I am not conscious of having given you any earthly offence, but I cannot possibly pretend to misunderstand the object of your altered conduct and language. I am your guest at your own express invitation. You know I am a Roman Catholic— if you will yet with the knowledge of this, you have not only insulted me personally, but also in the creed to which I belong. As for that gentleman, I can only say that this roof and the presence of those who are under it constitute his protection. But I envy not the man who could avail himself of such a position for the purpose of insinuating an insult which he dare not offer under other circumstances. I will not apologise for taking my departure, for I feel I have been too long here." - " - Coleen Bairn arose in deep agitation. "Dear papa, what is this?" she exclaimed. "What can be the cause of it? Why forget the laws of hospitality? Why, above all things, deliberately insult the man to whom you and I both owe so much? O, I cannot understand it. Some demon, equally cowardly and malignant, must have poisoned your own naturally generous mind. Some villain, equally profligate and hypocritical, has, for some dark purpose, given this unworthy bias to your mind." "You know nothing of it, Helen. You're altogether in the dark, girl; but, in a day or two, it will all be made clear to you." "Do not be discomposed, my dear Miss Folliard," said Sir Robert, striding over to her. "Allow me to prevail upon you to suspend your judgment for a little, and to return to the beautiful air you were enchanting us with." As he spoke, he attempted to take her hand. r; Reilly, in the meantime, was waiting for an opportunity to bid his lovo good-night. "Touch me not, sir," she replied, her splendid eyes flashing with indignation. "I charge 3 T ou as the base cause of drawing down the disgrace of shame, the sin of ingratitude, on my father's head. But here that father stands, and there you, sir, stand; and sooner than become the wife of Sir Robert Whitecraft I would dash myself from the battlements of this castle. William Reilly, brave and generous young man, good-night! Ifl matters not who may forget the debt of gratitude which this family owe youl will not. No cowardly slanderer shall instil his poisonous calumnies against you into my ear.' My opinion of you is unchanged and unchangeable. Farewell! William Reilly!" We shall not attempt to describe the commotions of love, of happiness, of rapture, which filled Reilly's bosom as he took his departure. It was, if we could suppose such a thing, like a storm in heaven; the very gloom which he felt being turned by her love into veiled light. As for Coleen Sawn, she had now passed the Rubicon, and there remained nothing for her but constancy to the truth of her affection, be the result what it might. She had, indeed, much of the vehemence of her father's character in her; much of his unchangeable purpose, when she felt or thought she was right; but not one of his unfounded whims or prejudices for she was too noble-minded and sensible to be influenced by unbecoming or inadequate motives. With an indignant but beautiful scorn, that gave grace to resentment, she bowed to the baronet, then kissed her father affectionately, and retired. The old man, after she had gone, sat for a considerable time silent. In fact, the superior force of his daughter's character had not only surprised but overpowered him for the moment. The baronet attempted to resume the conversation, but ho found not his intended father-in-law in tho mood for it. The light of truth, ,as it flashed from tho spirit of his daughter, seemed to dispel the darkness of his new-born suspicions; he dwelt upon the possibility of ingratitude, with a temporary remorse. i "I cannot speak to you, Sir Robert," he* said; "I am confused, disturbed, distressed. If I have treated that young man ungratefully, God may forgive me, but I will never forgive myself." "Take care, sir," said the baronet, "that you are not under the spell of the Jesuit, and your daughter, too. Perhaps you will find, when it is too late, that she is the more spellbound of the two. If I don't mistake, the spell begins to work already. In the meantime, as Miss Folliard will have it, I withdraw all claims upon her hand and affections. Good-night, sir." And as he spoke he took his departure. V \ ' -;'. _ -■ -. ■ - For a long time the old man sat looking into ' the fire, where he began gradually to picture to himself strange

forms and objects in the glowing" embers, one of whom he thought resembled the Red Rapparee, about to shoot him, another Willy Reilly; making love to his daughter, and behind all a high gallows, on which he beheld the said Willy'hanging for his crime. 7 ' *"'■ "■■-■■ 'V.•:_»*•.:.■•-?;' \~; «"£_ In about an hour afterwards, Miss Folliard returned to the drawing room, where she found her father asleep in his armchair. Having awakened him gently- from what appeared a disturbed dream, he looked about him, and forgetting for a, moment all that had happened, inquired in his usual eager manner where Reilly and Whitecraft were, and if they had gone. In a few moments, however, he recollected the circumstances that had taken place, and, after heaving a deep sigh, he opened his arms for his daughter, and as he embraced her burst into tears. "Helen," said he, "I am unhappy; I am distressed; I know not what to do! —may God ■> forgive me if I have treated this young man with ingratitude. But at all events a few days will clear it all up." His daughter was melted by the depth of his sorrow, and the more so as it was seldom she had seen him shed tears before. "I would do everything, anything to make you happy, my dear treasure," said he, "if I only knew how." "Dear papa," sho replied, "of that I am conscious; and as a proof that the heart of your daughter is incapable of veiling a single thought that passes in it, from a parent who loves her so well, I will place its most cherished secret in your own keeping. I shall not be outdone even by you, dear papa, in generosity, in confidence, in affection. Papa," she added, placing her head upon his bosom, whilst the tears flowed fasti down her cheeks, "papa, I love William Reilly— him with a pure and disinterested passion!with a passion which, I feel, constitutes my destiny in this life —either for happiness or misery. That passion is irrevocable. It is useless to ask me to control or suppress it, for I feel thati the task is beyond my power. My love, however, is not base nor selfish, papa, but founded on virtue and honor. It may seem strange that I should make such a confession to you, for I know it is unusual in young persons like me to do so; but remember, dear, papa, that except yourself I have no friend. If I had a mother, or a sister, or a cousin of my own sex, to whom I might confide and unburden my feelings, then, indeed, it is not probable I would make to you the confession which I have made; but we are alone, and you are the only being left me on whom I can rest my sorrow —for, indeed, my heart is full of sorrow." "Well, well, I know not what to say. You are a true girl, Helen, and the very error, if it be one, is reduced by the magnanimity and truth which prompted you to disclose it to me. I will go to bed, dearest, and sleep, if I can. I trust in God there is no calamity about to overshadow our house or destroy our happiness." He then sought his own chamber; and Cole en Sawn, after attending him thither, left him to the care of his attendant and retired herself to her apartment. (To be continued.)