The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 27 November 1919, Page 3

The Storyteller

By William Carleton.

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

CHAPTER Vlll.— (Continued.) The roads of Ireland at this period—if roads they could be —were not only in a most shameful, but dangerous state. In summer they were a foot deep with dust, and in winter at least 18 inches with mud. This, however, was by no • means the worst of it. They were studded, at due intervals, with ruts so deep, that if a horse happened to get into one of them, he went down to the saddle-skirts. They were treacherous, too, and such as no caution could guard against; because, where the whole surface of the road was one mass of mud, it was impossible to distinguish these horse-traps at all. Then in addition to them, were deep gullies across the road, worn away by small rills, proceeding from rivers in the adjoining uplands, which were principally dry, or at least mere threads of water in summer, but in winter became pigmy torrents that tore up the roads across which they passed, leaving them in the dangerous state we have described.

As Reilly and his companion had got out upon the road, they were a good deal surprised, and not a little alarmed, to see a horse, without a rider, struggling to extricate himself out of one of the ruts in question. “What is this?” said Fergus; “bo on your guard.” “The horse,” observed Reilly, “is without a rider; see what it means.”

Fergus approached with all duo caution, and on examining the place discovered a man lying apparently in a state of insensibility.

“I fear,” said he, on returning to Reilly, “that his rider has been hurt ; he is lying senseless about two or three yards before the horse.”

“Good God” exclaimed the other, “perhaps he has been killed; let us instantly assist him. Hold this portfolio whilst I render him whatever assistance I can.”

As he spoke they heard a heavy groan, and on approaching found the man sitting, but still unable to rise.

“ You have unfortunately been thrown, sir,” said Reilly; “I trust in God you are not seriously hurt.”

“I hope not, sir,” replied the man; “but I was stunned, and have been insensible for some time; how long, I cannot say.” ,

“Good God, sir!” exclaimed Reilly. “Is this Mr. Brown

“It is, Mr. Reilly; for heaven’s sake, aid me to my limbs — is, if I shall bo able to stand upon them.” Reilly did so, but found that he could not stand or walk without assistance. The horse, in the meantime, had extricated himself. _

“Come, Mr. Brown,” said Reilly, “you must allow me to assist you home. It is very fortunate that you have not many perches to go. This poor man will lead your horse up to the stable.” “Thank you, Mr. Reilly,” replied the gentleman, “and in requital for your kindness, you must take a bed at my house to-night. I am aware of your position,” ha added, in a confidential voice, “and that you cannot sleep safely in your own. With me, you will be safe.” Reilly thanked him, and said that this kind offer was most welcome and acceptable, as, in point of fact, he scarcely knew that night wherq to seek rest with safety. They accordingly proceeded to the parsonage ; for Mr. Brown was no other than the Protestant Rector of the parish, a man with whom Reilly was on the most friendly and intimate terms, and a man, we may add, who omitted no opportunity of extending shelter, protection, and countenance to such Roman Catholics as fell under the suspicion or operation of the law. On this occasion he had been called very suddenly to the death-bed of a parishioner, and was then on his return home, after having administered to the dying man the last consolations of religion. hi

On reaching the parsonage, Fergus handed the portfolio to its owner, and withdrew to seek shelter in some of his usual haunts for the night"; but Mr. Brown, aided by his wife, who sat up for him, contrived that Reilly should be conducted to a. . private room without the knowledge of the servants, who were sent as soon as possible to bed. Before Reilly withdrew," however, that night, he requested Mr. Brown to take charge of his money and

family papers, which the latter did, assuring him that .they should be forthcoming whenever he thought proper to call.for them. Mr. Brown had not been seriously hurt, and was able, in a day or two, to pay the usual attention to the discharge of his duties. V. Reilly, having been told where to find his bed-room, retired with confidence to rest. Yet we can scarcely term it rest, after considering the tumultuous and disagreeable events of the evening. He began to ponder upon the life “of persecution to which Miss Folliard must necessarily be exposed, in consequence of. her father’s impetuous and fiery temper; and, indeed, the fact was that he felt this reflection infinitely more bitter - than any that touched himself. In these affectionate calculations of her domestic persecution he was a good deal mistaken, however. Sir Robert Whitecraft had now gained ,a complete ascendancy over the disposition and passions of'her father. The latter, like many another country squireespecially of that day—when his word and will were law to his tenants and dependents, was a very great man indeed when dealing with them. He could bluster and threaten, and even carry his threats into execution, with a confident swagger that had more of magisterial pride and the pomp of property in it, than a sense of either right or justice. But -on the other hand, let him meet a man of his own rank, who cared nothing about his authority as a magistrate, or his assumption as a man of large landed property, and he was nothing but a poor, weak-minded tool in his hands. So far our description is correct; but when such a knave as Sir Robert Whitecraft came in his way a knave at once calculating, deceitful, plausible, and cunningwhy, our worthy old squire, who thought himself a second Solomon, might be taken by the nose and led round the whole barony.

There is no doubt that ho had sapiently laid down his plans to harass and persecute his daughter into a marriage with Sir Robert, and would have probably driven her from under his roof, had he not received the programme of his conduct from Whitecraft. That cowardly caitiff had a double motive in this. Ho found that if her father should “pepper her with persecution,” as the old fellow said, before marriage, its consequences must fall upon his own unlucky head afterwards in other words, that Helen would most assuredly make him then suffer, to some purpose, for all that his pretensions to her hand had occasioned her to undergo previous to their union; for in truth, if there was one doctrine which Whitecraft detested more than another —and with good reason, too —■ it was that of Retribution.

“Mr. Folliard,” said Whitecraft, in the very last conversation they had on this subject, “you must not persecute your daughter on my account.” “Mustn’t I? Why, d n it, Sir Robert, isn’t persecution the order of the day? By , if she doesn’t marry you quietly and willingly, we’ll turn her out and hunt her like a priest.” “No, Mr. Folliard, violence will never do. On the contrary, you must change your hand, and try an opposite course. If you wish to rivet her affections upon that Jesuitical traitor still jnnore strongly, persecute her ; for there is nothing in this life that strengthens love so much as opposition and violence. The fair ones begin to look upon themselves as martyrs, and in proportion as you are severe and inexorable, so, in proportion, are they resolved to win the crown that is before them. I would not press your daughter, but that I believe love to be a thing that exists before marriage never after. There’s the honeymoon, for instance. Did ever mortal man or mortal woman hear or dream of a second honeymoon? No, sir; for Cupid, like a large blue-bottle, falls into, and is drowned in the honey-pot.” “D n me,” replied the squire, “if I understand a word you say. However, I dare say it may bo - very good sense, for all that; for you always had a long noddle. Go on.”

“My advice to you, then,' sir, is this —make as few allusions to her marriage with me as possible; but, in the meantime, you may praise me a little, if you wish; but, above all things, don’t run down Reilly immediately after paying my mind or person any compliment. Allow the young lady to remain" quiet for , some time. Treat her with your usual kindness and affection, for it is possible, after all, that she may do more from her tenderness and affection for you, than we could expect from any other motive, at all events, until we shall succeed in hanging or transporting this rebellious scoundrel.” “Very good—so he is. Good heavens! what a son-in-law I should have! I, who have transported one priest

already ! ’ ’ , “Well, sir, as I was saying, until we shall have succeeded in hanging or transporting him. The first would bo the safest, no doubt; but until we shall be able to accomplish either one or the other, we have riot much to expect in -the shape of compliance from your daughter. ; When

the villain is removed, - however, hope, : on her : part, will soon die —love will -- lose _ its pabulum.” “Its what?” asked the squire, staring at him with a pair of round eyes that were fillip of; perplexity and wonder.

“Why, it means food, or rather fodder.” “D n you, sir,” replied the squire, indignantly; “do you want . to. make a beast -of my daughter “But it’s a word, sir;-! applied by- the poets as the food of Cupid.” ' ■' “Cupid! I thought he was drowned in the honey pot yet he’s up again, and as brisk as ever, it appears. However, go on—let us understand fairly what you’re at. I think 1 see a glimpse of it; and knowing your character upon the subject of persecution as I do, it’s more, I must say, than I expected from you. Go —I bid you”” “I say, then, sir, that if Reilly were either hanged or out of the country, the consciousness of this would soon alter matters with Miss Folliard. If you, then, sir, will enter into an agreement with me, I shall undertake so to make the laws bear upon Reilly as to rid either the world or the country of him; and you shall promise not to press upon your daughter the subject of her marriage with me until then. Still, there is one thing you must do; and that is to keep her under the strictest surveillance.”

“What the devil’s that?” said the squire. “It means,” returned his expected son-in-law, “that she must bo well watched; but without feeling that she is so.”

“Would it not be better to lock her up at once?” said her father. “That would be making the matter sure.” “Not at all,” replied Whitecraft. ’ “So sure as you lock her up, so sure she will break prison.” “Well, upon my soul,” replied her father, “I can’t see that. A strong lock and key are certainly the best surety for the due appearance of any young woman disposed to run away. I think the best way would be to make her feel at once that her father is a magistrate, and commit her to her own room until called upon to appear.” Whitecraft, whose object was occasionally to puzzle his friend, gave a cold grin, and added: “I suppose your next step would be to make her put in security. No —-no, Mr. Folliard; if you will be advised by me, try the soothing system, antiphlogistic remedies are always the best in a case like hers.”

“Anti —what? D n me if I can understand every tenth word you say. However, I give you groat credit, Whitecraft; for, upon my soul, I didn’t think you knew half as much -as yon do. That last, however, is a tickler —a nut that I can’t crack. I wish to heavens I could get my tongue about it, till I’d send it among the Grand Jury, and maybe there wouldn’t bo wigs on the green in making it out.”

“Yes, I fancy it would teach them a little supererogation.”i(

“A little what? Is it love that has made you so learned, Whitecraft, or so unintelligible— which? Why, man, if your passion increases, in another week there won’t be three men out of Trinity College able to understand you. You will become a perfect oracle. But, in the meantime, let us see how the arrangement stands. Imprimis, you are to hang or transport Reilly; and until then, I am not to annoy my daughter with any allusions to this marriage; but, above all things, not to compare you and Reilly with one another in her presence, lest it might strengthen her prejudices against you.” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Folliard, I did not say so; I fear no comparison with the fellow.” “No matter, Sir Robert, if you did not knock it down you staggered it. Omitting the comparison, however, I suppose that so far I am right.” ■}.

“I think so, sir,” replied the other, conscious after all, that he had got a touch of “Roland for his Oliver.” Then he proceeded: “I’m to watch her closely, . only she’s not to know it. Now, I’ll tell you what, Sir Robert, I know you carry a long noddle, with more hard words in it than ever I gave you credit —but with regard to what you expect from me now ” -y. : ': “I don’t mean that you should watch her personally yourself,- Mr. Folliard.” I. ’ b 'i-.vf > f

“I suppose you don’t: I didn’t think you did; but, I’ll tell you —place the twelve labors of Hercules before me, and I’ll undertake to perform them, if you wish; but to watch a woman. Sir Robertand that' woman keen and sharp upon the cause of such vigilance—without her knowing it in one half-hour’s time, that >is a task that never was, can, or will be ’ accomplished; In the meantime, we must only come as near its accomplishment as we can.” '' A '= jsf • ' “Just so, sir; we can do no more. -Remember, then, that yon • perform your part of this arrangement, and,

with the blessing of God, ' I shall leave nothing undone to perform mine.” „ - ; \ ~ ' « np> .; Q Thus i closed this . rather extraordinary conversation after which Sir Robert betook himself home, to reflect upon the best means of performing his part of it,®with what quickness and despatch, and with what success, our readers r already know. -i-.SC- . The old squire was one of those characters who never are so easily persuaded as when they do not fully comprehend the argument used to convince them. Whenever the squire found himself a little at fault, or confounded by either a difficult word or a hard sentence, he always took it for granted that there was something unusually profound and clever in the matter laid before him. Sir Robert knew this, and. on that account played him off to a. certain extent. He was too cunning, however, to darken any part of the main argument so as to preventits drift from being fully understood, and thereby defeating his own purpose.

CHAPTER VIII.A CONFLAGRATION— ESCAPE —AND AN ADVENTURE. : . We have said that Sir Robert Whitecraft was anything but a popular man— and wo might have added, that, unless among his own clique of bigots and persecutors, he was decidedly unpopular among Protestants in general. In a few days after the events of the night we have described, Reilly, by the advice of Mr. Brown’s brother, an able and distinguished lawyer, gave up the possession of his immense farm, dwelling house, and offices to the landlord. In point of fact, this man had taken the farm for Reilly’s father, in his own name, a step which many of the liberal- and generous Protestants of that period were in the habit of taking, to protect the property for the Roman Catholics, from such rapacious scoundrels as Whitecraft, and others like him, who had accumulated the greater portion of their wealth and estates by the blackest and most iniquitous political profligacy and oppression. For about a month after the first night of the unsuccessful pursuit after Reilly, the whole country was overrun with military parties, and such miserable inefficient police as then existed. In the meantime, Reilly escaped every toil and snare that had been laid for him. Sir Robert Whitecraft, seeing that hitherto he had set them at defiance, resolved to glut his vengeance on -his property, since he could not arrest himself. A description of his person had been, almost from the commencement of the proceedings, published in the Huc-and-Cry, and he had been now outlawed. As even this failed, Sir Robert, as we said, came with a numerous party of his myrmidons, bringing along with them a large number of horses, carts, and cars. The house at this time was in the possession only of a keeper, a poor, feeble man, with a wife and a numerous family of small children, the other servants having fled from the danger in which their connection with Reilly involved them. Sir Robert, however, very deliberately brought up his cars and other vehicles, and having dragged out all the most valuable parts of the furniture, piled it up, and had it conveyed to his own out-houses, where it was carefully stowed. This act, however, excited comparatively little attention, for such outrages were not infrequently committed by those who had, or at least who thought they had, the law in their own hands. It was now dusk, and the house had been gutted of all that had been most valuable in it —but the most brilliant part of the performance was yet to come. We mean no contemptible pun. The young man’s dwellinghouse and office-houses were ignited at the same moment by this man’s military and other official minions, and in about twenty minutes they were all wrapped in one red, merciless mass of flame. The country people, on observing this fearful conflagration, flocked from all quarters, but a cordon of outposts was stationed at some distance around the premises, to prevent the peasantry from marking the chief actors in the nefarious outrage. Two gentlemen, however, approached, who, having given their names, were at once admitted to the burning premises. These men were Mr, Brown, the clergyman, and Mr. Hastings, the actual and legal proprietor of all that had been considered Reilly’s property. Both of them observed that Sir Robert was the busiest man among them, and upon making inquiries from the party, they were informed that they acted by his orders, and that, moreover, he was himself the very first individual who had set fire to the premises. The clergyman made his way to Sir Robert, on whose villainous countenance he could read a dark and diabolical triumph. ■ (To bo continued.)