The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 13 November 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

WILLY REILLY AND HIS DEAR COLEEN BAWN. . V (A Tale Founded upon Fact) ' By William Carleton. «* -'■•'- CHAPTER Vl.—(Continued.) \ The night had now become very dark, but they knew the country well, and soon found themselves upon the old road they were seeking. "I will go up," said Reilly, '-'to the cabin of poor Widow Buckley, where we will stop until we think those bloodhounds have gone home. She has a free cottage and garden from me, and has besides been a pensioner of mine for some time back, and I know I can depend upon her discretion and fidelity. Her little place is remote and solitary, and not more than three-quarters of a mile from US," They accordingly kept the old road for some time, until they reached a point of it where there was an abrupt angle, when to their utter alarm and consternation they found themselves within about 20 or 30 yards of a military party. "Fly," whispered Fergus, "and leave mo to deal with them —if you don't it's all up with you. They won't know mo from Adam, but they'll know you at a glance." "I cannot leave you in danger," said Reilly. "You're mad," replied the other. "Is it an ould beggarman they'd meddle with? Oft" with you, unless you wish to sleep in Sligo Gaol before mornin'." Reilly, who felt too deeply the truth of what he said, bounded across the bank which enclosed the road on the right-hand side, and which, by the way, was a tolerably high one, but fortunately without bushes. In the meantime, a voice cried out: "D n yon, who goes there? Stand, at your peril, or you will have a dozen bullets in your carcase." Fergus advanced towards them, whilst they themselves approached him at a rapid pace, until they met. In a moment they were all about him. "Come, my customer," said their leader, "'who and what are you? Quick —give an account of yourself." "A poor crature that's looking for my bit, sir, God help me." "What's your name?" "One Paddy Brennan, sir, hlaiso your honor." "Ay— Paddy Brennan —(hiccough)andand— one Paddy Brennan, where do you go of a Sunday?" "I don't go out at all, sir, of a Sunda' ; wherever I stop of a Saturday night I always stop until Monday mornin'." •■-.-•_ .- "I mean, are you a Papish?" "Troth, I oughtn't to say I am, your honoror at least a very bad one." "But you are a Papish?" "A kind of a one, sir." "D n me, the fellow's humbuggin' you, sergeant," said one of the men; "to be sure, he's a Papish." "To be sure," replied several of the others, "doesn't he admit he's a Papish?" ; "D n me —if —l'll bear this," replied tho sergeant. "I'm as senior offoffofficer conduct-in' the examination, and I'll suffer no —man to hither fare. I must have subororordination, or I'll know what for. Leave him to me, then, and I'll work him up, never fear. George Johnston isn't the blessed babe to be imposed upon that's what I say. Come, my good fellow, markmark me now. If you let but a quarther of —of —an inch of a d d lie out of your lips, you're a dead man. Are you all charged, gentlemen?" . -: "All charged, sergeant, with loyalty and poteen at any rate; d n the Pope." "Shoulder —well done. Present' arms. Where is—i s this rascal? O yes, here he is. Well, you are there —aro you?" : "I'm here, captain." "Well, d n me, that's —not —bad, my good fellow; if I'm not a captain, worse men have been —(hiccough)—that's what I say."' "Hadn't we better make a prisoner of him at once, "and bring him to Sir Robert's observed another. ■" Simpson, hold —old —your tongue, I say. D— nme if I'll suffer any man to intherfare' with me in tho discharge of my duty." ~.,...

"How ■do you know, said another, "but he’s a RapMrnself 1 ” disguise?—for tllat matther, he may be Reilly i "Captain and gintlemen,” said Fergus, "if you have any suspicion of me, I’m willing to go anywhere you like; and above all things. I’d like to go to Sir Robert’s, beeaise they know me there—many a good bit and sup I got in his kitchen.” . 1

“Ho ho!” exclaimed the sergeant; “now I have you —now I know whether you can tell truth or not. Answer me this. Did ever Sir Robert himself give you charity ? Como now.” J .

Fergus perceived the drift of the question at once. Ihe penurious character of the baronet was so well known throughout the whole barony, that if he had replied in the affirmative every man of them would have felt that ins assertion was a lie, and he would consequently have been detected. He was prepared, however, i I’ioth, then, Sintlemen,” he replied, "since you must have the truth, and although maybe what I’m goin’ to say wont be plaisin’ to you, as Sir Robert’s friends, I must come out wid it; devil resave the color of his money over i seen yet, and it isn’t but often I axed him for it. Nobut the sarvints often sind me up a bit from the kitchen below.”

, ."Well, come,” said the sergeant, “if you have been lyin’ all your life, you’ve spoken the truth now. I think we may let him go.” “I don’t think we ought,” said one of them, named Steen, a man of about 50 years of age, and of Dutch descent; "as Barnet said, we don’t know what he is, and I agree with him. He may bo a Ra|pparee in disguise or, what is worse, Reilly himself.” “What Reilly do yes mane, gintlemen, wid submission?” asked Fergus. "Why, Willy Reilly, the d d Papish,” replied the sergeant. (We don’t wish to fatigue the reader with his drunken stutterings.) “It has been sworn that he’s training the Papishes every night to prepare them for rebellion, and there’s a warrant out for his apprehension. Do you know him?”

“Troth I do, well; and, to tell yes the truth, he doesn’t stand very high wid his own sort.” "Why so, my good fellow?” Becaise they think that he keeps too much company "id Prodestans, an’ that he’s half a Prodestan himself, and that it’s only the shame that prevents him from goin’ over to them altogether. Indeed, it's the general opinion among the Catholics ”

"Papishes! you old dog.” "Well, then, Papishes—that ho will—an’ troth I don’t think the Papishes would put much trust in the same mail.”

“Where are you bound for now, and what brings you out at an illegal hour on this lonely road?” asked Steen.

“Troth, then, I’m on my way to Mr. Graham’s above ; for sure, whenever I’m near him, poor Paddy Brennan never wants for the good bit and sup, and the comfortable straw' bed in the barn. May God reward him and his for it,”

Now, the truth was that Graham, a wealthy and respectable Protestant farmer-, was uncle to the sergeant; a fact which Fergus well knew, in consequence of having been a house-servant with him for two or three years. “Sergeant,” said the Williamite settler, "I think this matter may be easily settled. Let two of the men go back to your uncle’s with him, and see whether they know him there or not.”

.; "Very well,” replied the sergeant, “let you and Simpson go back with him—l have no objection. . If my uncle’s people don’t know- him, why then bring him down to Sir Robert’s.”

"It’s not fair to put such a task upon a man of my age,” replied Steen, "when you know that you have younger men here.”

“It was you who proposed it, then,” said the sergeant, “and d n me, if you be a true man, you have a right to go, and no right at all to shirk your duty. But stop l’ll settle it in a word’s speaking: here you —you old Papisli, where are you?—O I seeyou’re there, are :you?' Come, noW, gentlemen, shoulder arms all right —present arms. Now, you d d Papish, you say that you have often slept in my undo’s barn?” “Is Mr. Graham your uncle, sir?—becaise if he is, I know that I’m in the hands of a respectable man.”

“Come, now—was there anything particular in the inside of . that barn? — Gentlemen, are you ready to slap in to him if we find him to'be an imposther?” "All ready, sergeant.” . . - ,

“Come, now, you d d Papish, answer me ”

"Troth, and I can do that, sergeant. You say Mr. Graham’s your uncle, an’ of course, you have often been

in the barn yourself. ..y.ery well, sir/don't you know that there s a prop H on one side to keep' up one of the cupples that gave way one. stormy night, and that there's a round hole in the lower part of the door to let the cats in to settle accounts with the mice and rats?" _ "Come, come, boys, it's all right.' 'He has described the barn to a hair. £ That * will ■' do, my Papish old cock. D -n me, as eve , r y man must have a religion, and since the Papishes T won't have ours, why the devil shouldn't they have one.of their own?" -, - "That's dangerous talk," said Steen, "to proceed from your lips, sergeant. It smells of treason, I tell you:' and if you had s/pokeri those" words in the days of the great and good King ; William you might have felt the consequences. . ~;- . _ ~ .... ,_ f "Treason and .King' William be d—d!" replied the sergeant, who was naturally a good-natured but outspoken fellow— sooner than I'd take up a poor devil of a beggar, that has enough to do to make out his bit and sup. Go on about your business, poor devil; you sha'n't be molested. Go to my uncle's, where you'll get a bellyful, and,: a comfortable bed of straw, and a winnow cloth in* the barn.T T7~" 1 . t ' ifc "'Mid. he a nice night's work to go out for \\ illy Reilly, and to bring home a beggarman in his place." This was a narrow escape upon the part of Fergus, who knew that if they had made a prisoner of him, and produced him before Sir Robert Whitecraft, who was a notorious persecutor, and with .whom the Red Rapparee was now located, he would unquestionably have been hanged like a dog. The officer of the party, however—to wit, the worthy sergeantwas one of those men who love a drop of the native, and whose heart besides it expands into a sort of surly kindness, that has something comieal and not disagreeable in it. In addition to this, lie never felt a confidence in his own authority with half the swagger which he did when three-quarters gone. Steen and he were never friends, nor indeed was Steen ever a popular man among his acquaintances. In matters of trade and business he was notoriously. dishonest, and in the moral and social relations of life selfish, uncandid, and treacherous. The sergeant, on the other hand, though .an outspoken and flaming anti-Papist in theory, was, in point of fact, a good friend to his Roman Catholic neighbors, who used to say of him that his bark was worse than his bite. When the party had passed on, Fergus stood for a moment, uncertain as to where ho should direct his steps. He had not long to wait, however; Reilly, who had no thoughts of abandoning him to the mercy of the military, without at least knowing his fate, nor, we may add, without a firm determination of raising Jiis tenantry and rescuing the generous fellow at every risk, immediately sprang across the ditch, and joined him. "Well, Fergus," said he, clasping his hands, "I heard everything, and I can tell you that'"every nerve in my body trembled whilst you were among them." "Why," said Fergus, "I knew them at once by their voices, and only that I changed,my own as I did, I won't say but they'd have nabbed me." ■„■■..•" - "The test of the barn was frightful; I thought you were gone; but you must explain that:" "Ay, but before I do," replied Fergus, "where are we to go? Do you still stand for Widow Buckley's?" "Certainly; that woman may be useful to me." "Well, then, we may as well jog on in that direction, and as Ave go I can tell you." "How, then, did you come to describe the barn—or, rather, was your description correct?" 'JAy, as Gospel. You don't know that, by the best of luck and providence of God, I was two years and a-half an inside laborer with Mr. Graham. As is usual, all the inside men-servants slept, whither and summer, in the barn; and that accounts for our good fortune this night. Only for that scoundrel, Steen, however, the whole. thing would not have signified much; but he's a black and deep villain that. Nobody likes him but his brother-scoundrel, Whitecraft, and he's a favorite with him becaise he's an active and unscrupulous tool in his hands. Many a time, when these menmilitary—yeoman, g{orV ; whatever they call them, are "sent ; . out by this; same. Sir Robert, the poor fellows don't wish to catch r what they call the unfortunate Papishes, and before they come to. the house they'll fire off their guns, pretinding to be in a big passion, " but only to give their poor neighbors notice- to escape as soon as they can." . " S

In a short time they reached Widow Buckley’s cabin, who, on understanding that it was Reilly who sought admittance, lost not a moment in opening the door and letting them in. There .was;;no candle lit when they entered, but there was a"bright .turf ’ fire 1 “blinkin’ bohnilie” in the fireplace, from which a mellow light emanated] that danced upon the few plain plates that were neatly ranged upon her humble dresser, but which fell still more strongly

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upon. a. clean and well-swept* hearth, 1 on one' side of which was* a humble armchair of straw, and on the other a grave but placid-looking cat, purring, with half-closed eyes, her usual song ,for the .. evening.- ; ■ ,• = , v ) “Lord .bless us, Mr. Reilly, is .this you?' Sure, it’s little I 5 expected you any waybut come when you will, you’re^ welcome. And ’ who ought to be welcome to the poor ould widow/' if 'you wouldn’t?” “Take a stool and sit down, honest man,” she said, addressing Fergus; “and you, Mr. Reilly, take my chair; it V" the one you sent me yourself, and if anybody is entitled to a sate in it, surely you are. I must light a rush.”

“No,, Molly,’’ replied Reilly, .“I would be too heavy for your frail chair. I will take one of those stout stools, which will answer me better.”

■ She then ; lit a - rush-light, which she pressed against a small cleft of iron that was driven into a wooden shaft, about three,, feet long, which stood upon a bottom that resembled the head of a churn staff. Such are the lights, and such the candle-sticks, that are to bo found in the cabins and cottages of Ireland! “I suppose, Molly,” said Reilly, “you are surprised at a visit from me just now?” “You. know, Mr. Reilly,” she replied, “that if you came in the deadest hour of the night you’d be welcome, as I said— this poor man is welcome, toosit over to the r fire, poor man, and warm yourself. Maybe you’re hungry; if you are, I’ll get you something to ait.” “Many thanks to you, ma’am,” replied Fergus, “I’m not a taste hungry, and could ait nothing now. I’m much obliged to you at the same time.” “Mr. Reilly, maybe you’d like to ait a bitl can give you a farrel of bread, and a sup o’ nice goat’s milk. God preserve him from evil that gave me the same goats, and that’s your, four quarthers, Mr. Reilly. But sure, everything I have either came or comes from your hand; but if I can’t -thank you, God will do it for me, and that’s betther still.” “No more about that, Molly; not a word more. Your long ■ residence with my poor mother, and your affection for her in all her trials and troubles, entitle you to more than that at the hands of her son.”

“Mrs. Buckley,” replied Fergus, “this is a quietlooking little place you have here.”

“And it is for that I like it,” she replied. “I have pace here, arid the noise of the wicked world seldom reaches me here. My only friend and companion here is the Al—praise and glory be to His name” —and here she devoutly crossed herself “burrin’, indeed, when the lighthearted girshas come a Jcailyee Avid their wheels, to keep the poor ould woman company, arid raise her ould heart by their light and merry songs, the creatures.” “That must be a relief to you, Molly,” observed Reilly, who, however, could with difficulty take any part in this little dialogue. “And so, indeed, it is,” she replied, “and poor things, sure,*' if their sweethearts do .come at the dusk to help them -to carry homo their spinning-wheels, who can be angry Avid them? It’s the way of life, sure, and of the world.” She then went into another little room for the cabin was divided into two — in order to find a ball of woollen thread; her principal occupation being the knitting of mittens and stockings, and while bustling about, heigus observed Avith a smile > •- “Poor Molly! little she thinks that it’s the bachelors, rather than any particular love for her company, that brings the thieves here.” “Yes, but,” said Reilly, “you know its the custom of the country.” ■ , “Mrs. , Buckley,” said Fergus, “did the sogers ever pay you a visit?” . “They did once,” she replied, “about six months ago or more.” ; ~ , . , .. .. “What, in the name of Avondher, he asked, could bring them to you?” • . , “They were out huntin’ a priest,” she replied, that had something contrary to the law.” ? “What did they say, Mrs. Buckley, and how did they behave t -themselves?’’:-

- “Why,” she answered, “they axed me if I had seen about the country a large woman, Avid a blue cloak, striped petticoat;-an: ’a black bonnet on her, and a pair o priest s boots ? I said no, but to the reverse. They then searched the cabin, tossed the two beds about poor Jemmy s—God rest my boy’s soavl ! — an’ -afterwards my owri.- There was one that seemed to hold 5 - authority over • all the - rest, and he axed aa’lio Avas iny.'. landlord ?s-'-r-I‘:said I had no landlord. They then said that surely I must pay. rent to-: someone, hut I said I:paid rent to nobody; .that Mr. Reilly here, God bless him, gave me this house and garden free.” .. f? And what did they say when you named Mr. Reilly

■'" £~4 *■-,£-*. p.l'jfi. v/ 1 -'-A:.- •.--■• -9a*! te«. !'«'• j *"=:•»-r*~' "Why, t they said he was a decent Papish, I think they called it * J and that there wasn't sieh another among them. They j then lighted ! their pipes, had a smoke, went about their business, . and I saw.no more" of them from that day to this..'' ?;•■ ~■ 1c it - - : ' ~,.,. .Reilly, felt that this conversation was; significant and that the widow's cabin was anything but a safe r place of refuge, even for 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, tho loves of Willy "Reilly and the far-famed Coleen Bawn had gone abroad, heaven knows how, over the whole country "arid the 1 " natural result was that a T large majority among those who wero 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. Stoutprop of the-Establishment, as an act that deserved" death itself. Reilly affection for the Coleen 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 ho took it for ; granted, very naturally and very properlyfas 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 bo likely to conceal himself. For ■ this night, however, ho experienced no apprehension- of a : visit from them, but with what correctness of calculation we : shall .soon see. '■■■';■::.>■ ■■■<■:/■ -r : -.; &J&- • %£, Civ^-MA" "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." _... _„.._...„,-,. -r> - ■-■ •..-.--- ~-*gj "Indeed, Mr. Reilly," she replied, "from what ~ I heard this day, I can make a purty good guess at the raisin why you are here now, instead of bein' in your own comfortable house. You Rave bitther enemies; but Godblessed be His name— stronger than any of them. However, I wish you'd let me get you and that poor man something to ait." \,. s r ., it. *---, 1^"~% This kind offer they > declined, and as the short rushlight was nearly burned out, arid as she had not another ready, she got what is called a cam. or grisset, and 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 —small farmers and others process is performed every evening, a little before dusk. Having thus supplied them with. these - lights, . the pious widow left them to their OAvri 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 its to a different scene. (To be continued.) :,,.-.. - . ;

FOR THE CHILD THAT NEVER WAS. O little hands that never were, With apple petalled beauty made, You might have held me close.to joy Whence I have strayed 0 little feet that, never were, Fashioned for tripping melody, Your gladness might have kept ■ me! brave On Calvary : . ■-, ■■( O little lips that would have drawn White love to feed you from my breast, You might have been my love itself % | /"| Made manifest. ■,-. ~- ,■v..y ~\ « % --T* I|. j£» if°"\ :"'" ." : 'l ' -' j ' ' "' " O Child of mine, you never were No throes have thrilled me to rejoice— , ~..._. You would have been my conquering soul, „....,., My singing voice! "• Marguerite Wilkinson, in Current Opinion.