The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 4 March 1920, Page 3

The Storyteller

© By William Carleton,

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

CHAPTER XV.— (Continued.) On the next day the squire took a fancy to look at the state of his garden, and, having got his hat and cane, he sallied out to observe how matters were going on, now that Malcolmson had so good an assistant, whom, by the way, he had not yet seen. - “Now, Malcolmson,” said he, “as you have found an assistant, I hope you will soon bring my garden into decent trim. What kind of a ' chap is he, and how did you come by him?” • “Saul, your honor,” replied Malcolmson, “he’s a devilish clever duel, and vara weel acquaint wi’ our noble profession.” “Confound yourself and your noble profession! I think every Scotch gardener of you believes himself a gentleman, simply because he can nail a few stripes of old blanket against a wall. How did you come by this fellow, I say?” “On, just through Lanigan, the cook, your honor.” “Did Lanigan know him?” “Hout, no, your honor; it was an act o’ charity like.” “Ay, ay, Lanigan’s a kind-hearted old fool, and that’s just like him; but, in the meantime, let me see this chap.” “There he is, your honor, trimming and taking care o’ that bed o’ ‘Love-lies-bleeding.’ ” “Ay, ay, I daresay my daughter set him to that task.” “Na, na, sir. The young lady hasna seen him yet, nor hasna been in the gerden for the last week.” “Why, confound it, Malcolmson, that fellow’s more like a beggarmau than a gardener.” “Saul, but he’s a capital hand for a’ that. Yer honor’s na’ to tak’ the beuk by the cover. To be sure he’s awfully vulgar, but, ma faith, ho has a richt glide knowledgeable apprehension o’ buttany and gerdening in general.” The squire then approached our under-gardener, and accosted him. “Well, my good fellow, so you understand gardening?” “A little, your haner,” replied the other, respectfully touching his hat, or caubeen, rather. “Are you a native of this neighborhood?” “No, your haner. I’m fwarther up—from Westport, your haner.” “Who were you engaged with last?” “I wasn’t engaged, shir it was only job-work I was able to do the health wasn’t gud wid me.” “Have you no better clothes than those?” “You see all that I have on me, shir.” “Well, come, I’ll give you the price of a suit rather than see such a scarecrow in my garden.” “I couldn’t take it, shir.” “The devil you couldn’t! Why not, man?” “Bekaise, shir, I’m undher pinance.” “Well, why don’t you shave?” “I can’t, shir, for de same raison.” “Pooh, pooh what the devil did you do that they put such a penance on you?” “Why, I runned away wid a young woman, shir.” “Upon my soul, you’re a devilish likely fellow to run away with a young woman, and a capital taste she must have had to go with you but perhaps you took her away by violence, eh?” “No shir; she was willin’ enough to come; but her fadher wouldn’t consint, and so we made off wid oursel’s.” This was a topic upon which the squire, for obvious reasons, did not like to press him. It was, in fact, a sore subject, and accordingly he changed it. “I suppose you have been about the country a good deal?” “I have indeed, your haner.” “Did you ever happen to hear of, or to meet with, a person called Reilly?” • “Often, shir; met many of dem.” “Oh, but I mean the scoundrel called Willy Reilly.” “Is dat him dat left de country, shir?” “Why, how do you know that he has left the country?” - / • :

. “I don’t know myself, 'shir; but dat de people does be sayin’ it. Bey say dat himself and wan of our bishops went to . France togeder.” “The squire seemed, to breathe more freely, as he said, in a low soliloquy, “I’m devilish glad of it; for after all it would go against my heart to hang the fellow. Well,” he said aloud, “so he’s gone to France.” “So de people • does be sayin’, shir.” “Well, tell me, do you know a gentleman called Sir Robert Whitecraft?” : ' “Is dat him, shir, dat keeps de misses privately?” “How do you know that : he keeps misses privately?” “Fhwy, shir, dey say his last one was a Miss Herbert, and dat she had a young one by him, and dat she was an English woman. It'isn’t ginerally known, I believe, shir, but dey do be savin’ dat she was brought to bed in the cottage of some bad woman named Mary Mahon, dat does be on the lookout to get sweethearts for him.” “There’s five thirteens for you, and I wish to God, my good fellow, that you would allow yourself to be put in . better feathers.” v .. ' '"Oh, I expect my pinance will be out before a mont, shir,‘but, until den, I couldn’t take any mony.” “Malcomson,” said he to the gardener, “I think that fellow’s a half-fool. I offered him a crown, and also said I would get him a suit of clothes, and he would not take either; but talked about some silly penance he was under.going.” “Saul, then, your honor, he may be a fule in ither things, but de’il a ane of him’s a fule in the sceence o’ buttany. As to that penance, it’s just some Papistrical nonsense he has gotten into his head de’il hae’t mair; but sure they’re a’ full o’ —a’ o’ the same graft, an’ a bad one, I fear, it is.” “Well, I believe so, Malcomson, I believe.so. However, if the unfortunate fool is clever, give him good wages.” “Saul, your honor, I’ll do him justice; only I think that, anent that penance he speaks o’, the hail Papish population, bad as we think them, are suffering penance eneuch, one way or tither. It disna beseem a Protestant that is, a prelatic government —to persecute ony portion o’ Christian people, on account of their religion. We have felt and kenned that in Scotland sairly. I am no freend to persecution in ony shape. But, as to this chiel, I ken naething aboot him, but that he is a gudc buttanist. Hout, your honor, to bo sure I’ll gie him a fair wage for his skeel and labor.” Malcomson, who was what we have often met, a pedant gardener, saw, however, that the squire’s mind was disturbed. In the short conversation which they had he spoke abruptly, and with a flushed countenance; but he was too shrewd to ask him why, he seemed so. It was not, he knew, his business to do so; and as the squire left the garden, to pass into the house, he looked at him, and exclaimed to himself —“my certie, there’s a bee in that man’s bannet.” On going to the drawing-room, the squire found Mr. Brown there, and Helen, in tears. “How,” he exclaimed, “what is this? Helen crying! Why, what’s the matter, my child ? Brown, have you been scolding her, or reading her a homily to teach her repentance? Confound me, but I know it would teach her patience, at all events. What is the matter?” “My dear Miss Folliard,” said the clergyman, “‘if you will have the goodness to withdraw, I will explain this shocking business to your father.” “Shocking business! Why, in God’s name, Brown, what has happened? And why is my daughter in tears, I ask again?” Helen now left the drawing-room, and Mr. Brown replied: “Sir, a circumstance which, for baseness and diabolical Iniquity is unparalleled in civilised society ; I could not pollute your daughter’s ears by reciting it in her presence, and besides she is already aware of it.” “Ay, but what is it? Confound you, don’t keep -me on tenterhooks.” “I shall not do so long, ray dear friend. Who do you imagine our daughter’s maid, I mean that female attendant upon your pure-minded and virtuous child, is?” “Faith, go ask Sir Robert Whitecraft; it was he recommended her; for, on hearing that the maid she had, Ellen Connor, as a Papist, he said he felt uneasy lest she might prevail on my daughter to turn Catholic, and marry Reilly.” “But do you not know who the young woman that is about your daughter’s person is? You are, however, a father who loves your child, and I need not ask such a question. Then, sir, I will tell you who she is. Sir, she is one of Sir Robert Whitecraft’s cast-off mistresses — a profligate wanton, who has had a child by him.”

The fiery old squire had" been walking to ; and fro the room, in a state of considerable agitation before mind already charged with the same intelligence, as he had heard it from the gardener (Reilly). He now threw himself into a chair, and ’ putting his hands before his face, muttered out between his fingers: ‘ D n seize the villain ! It is true, then. Well, never mind, I’ll demandsatisfaction . for this insult; I am not too old to pull a trigger, or give a thrust yet; but then the cowardly hypocrite won’t fight. When he has a set of military at his back, and a parcel of unarmed peasants before him, or an unfortunate priest or two, why, he’s a daredevil. Hector was nothing to him — confound me, nor mad Tom Simpson, that wears a sword on each side, and a double case of pistols, to frighten the bailiffs. The d d scoundrel! To impose on me and insult my child!” “Mr. Folliard,” observed the clergyman, calmly, “I can, indeed, scarcely blame your indignation; it is natural; but, at the same time, it is useless and unavailing. Be cool, and restrain your temper. Of course, you could not think of bestowing your daughter, in marriage, upon this man.” “I tell you what, Brown l tell you what, my dear friend — the Devil, Satan, Beelzebub, or whatever you call him from the pulpit —I say, let him come here any time he pleases, in his holiday hoofs and horns, tail and all, and he shall have her sooner than Whitecraft.” Mr. Brown could not help smiling, whilst he said: “Of course, 5-011 will instantly dismiss this abandoned creature.” Ho started up, and exclaimed, “Cog’s ’ounds, what am I about?” He instantly rang the bell, and a footman attended. ’ “John, desire that wench, Herbert, to come here.” “Do you mean Miss Herbert, sir?” “I —Miss Herbert — egad, you’ve hit if; be quick, sirrah.” John bowed and withdrew, and in a few minutes Miss Herbert entered. “Miss Herbert,” said the squire, “leave this house as fast as the devil can drive you ; and he has driven you to some purpose before now; ay, and I dare say, will again. I say, then, as fast as he can drive you, pack up your luggage, and begone to hell about your business. I’ll just give you ten minutes to disappear.” “What’s all this about, Master?” “Master! —why, d u your brazen impudence, how dare you call me master? Begone, you jade of hell!” “No more of a jade of hell, sir, than you are; nor I sha’u’t begone until I gets a quarter’s wages — tell you that.” “You shall get whatever’s coming to you, but not another penny. The house steward will pay you— begone, I say!” “No, sir, I sha’n’t begone till I gets a quarter’s salary in full. You broke your agreement with me, wich is wat no man as is a gentleman would do; and you are puttin’ mo away, too, without no cause.” » “Cause, you vagabond! You’ll find the cause squalling, I suppose, in Mary Mahon’s cottage, somewhere near Sir Robert Whitecraft’s; and when you see him tell him 1 have a crow to pluck with him. Off, I say !” “O! I suppose you mean the love-child I had by himha! ha! is that all? But I never had a hankerin’ after a rebel and a Papist, which is far worser ; and I now tell you you’re no gentleman, you nasty old Hirish squire. You brought me here, and Sir Robert sent me here, to watch your daughter. Now, what kind of a young lady must she be as requires watching? 1 never was watched; because as how I was well conducted, and nothing could ever be laid to my charge but a love-child.” “By the great Boyne,” he exclaimed, running to the window and throwing up the sash —“yes, by the great Boyne, there is Tom Steeple; and if he doesn’t bring you and the pump acquainted, I’m rather mistaken. Here, Tom, I have a job for you. Do you wish to earn a bully dinner, my boy?” Miss Herbert, on hearing 'Ppm’s name mentioned, disappeared like lightning and set about packing her things immediately. The steward, by his master’s desire, paid her exactly what was due to her, which she received without making a single observation. In truth, she entertained such a terror of Tom Steeple, who had been pointed out to her as a wild Irishman, not long- caught in the mountains, that she stole out by the back way, and came, by making a circuit, out upon the road that led to Sir Robert Whitecraft’s house, which she passed without entering, but went ■ directly to Mary Mahon’s, who had provided a nurse for her illegitimate child in the neighborhood. She had not been there long, when she sent her trusty friend, Mary, to acquaint Sir Robert with what had happened. He, was from home, engaged

in an ■■■ expedition : of which we feel called. upon to give some account to the reader. * At this period, when the persecution ran high against the Catholics, but with peculiar , bitterness against their priesthood, it is but justice to ,a great number of Protestant magistracy and gentrynay, and many of the nobility besides — state that their conduct was both liberal and generous to the unfortunate victims of those cruel laws. I is a well-known fact that many Protestant ' justices of the peace were imprisoned for refusing to execute such oppressive edicts as had gone abroad through the country. Many of them resigned their commissions, and many more were deprived of them. Amongst the latter were several liberal noblemen—Protestants— had sufficient courage to denounce the spirit in which the country was governed and depopulated at the same time. One of the lattera nobleman of the highest rank and acquirements, and of the most amiable disposition, a warm friend to civil freedom, and a firm antagonist to persecution and oppression of every hue — nobleman, we say, married a French lady of rank and fortune, who was a Catholic, and with whom he lived in the tenderest love, and the utmost domestic felicity. The lady, being a Catholic, as we said, brought over with her, from France, a learned, pious, and venerable ecclesiastic, as her domestic chaplain and confessor. This man had been Professor of Divinity for several years in the College of Louvain ; but having lost his health, he accepted a small living near the chateau of , the residence of the Marquis de , in whose establishment he was domesticated as chaplain. In short, he accompanied Lord and his lady to Ireland, where he acted in the same capacity, but so far only as the lady was concerned for, as we have already said, her husband, though a liberal man, was a firm but not a bigoted Protestant. This harmless old man, as was very natural, kept up a correspondence with several Irish and French clergymen, his friends, who, as he had done, held professorships in the same college. Many of the Irish clergymen, knowing the dearth of religious instruction which, in consequence of the severe state of laws then existing in Ireland, were naturally anxious to know the condition of the country, and whether or not any relaxation in their severity had taken place, with a hope that they might bo able with safety to return to the mission there, and bestow spiritual aid and consolation to the suffering and necessarily neglected folds of their own persuasion. On this harmless and pious old man the eye of Hennessy rested. In point of fact, he set him for Sir Robert Whitecraft, to whom he represented him as a spy from, France, and an active agent of the Catholic priesthood, both there and on the Continent. In fact, an incendiary, who, feeling himself ’ sheltered by the protection of the nobleman in question and his countess, was looked upon as a safe man with whom to hold correspondence. The Ahl>6, as they termed him, was in the habit, by his lordship’s desire and that of his lady, of attending the Catholic sick of his large estates, and administering to them religious instruction and the ordinances of their Church, at a time when they could obtain them from no other source. He also acted as their almoner, and distributed relief to the sick, the poor, and the distressed; and thus passed his pious, harmless, and inoffensive, but useful life. Now, all these circumstances were noted by Hennessy, who had been on the lookout to make a present of this good old man to his new patron, Sir Robert. At length, having discovered what means it is impossible to conjecture the Abbe was to go, on the day in question, to relieve a poor sick family, at about a distance of two miles from the Castle , the intelligence was communicated by Hennessy to Sir Robert, who immediately set out for the place, attended by a party of his myrmidons, conducted to it by the Red Rapparee, who, as we have said, was now one of Whitecraft’s band. There is often a stupid infatuation in villainy, which amounts to what they call in Scotland fey —that is, when a man goes on doggedly to commit some act of wickedness, or rush upon some impracticable enterprise, the danger and folly of which must be evident to every person but himself, and that it will end in the loss of his life. Sir Robert, however, had run a long and prosperous career of persecution— career by which he enriched himself by the spoils he had torn, and the property he had wrested, from his victims, generally under the sanction of Government, but very frequently under no sanction but his own. At all events, the party, consisting of about 30 men, reriiained in a deep and narrow lane, surrounded by high whitethorn hedges, which prevented the horsemen they were all dragoonsfrom being noticed by the country people. Alas for the poor Abbe ! They had . not remained there more than 20 minutes when he was seen approaching them, reading his breviary as he came along. They did not move, however, nor seem to notice him, until he had got into

the -midst of them, when they formed a circle*, round him, and the loud voice of Whitecraft commanded him to stand. (To be continued.) '