CHAPTER XV.—More of Whitecraft's Plots and Pranks
On the Sunday following, Miss Folliard, as was her usual custom, attended divine service at her parish church, accompanied by the virtuous Miss Herbert, who scarcely ever let her for a moment out of her sight, and, in fact, added grievously to the misery of her life. After service had been concluded, she waited until Mr. Brown had descended from the pulpit, when she accosted him, and expressed a wish to have some private conversation with him in the vestry-room. To this room they were about to proceed, when Miss Herbert advanced with an evident intention of accompanying them.
“Mr. Brown,” said the Cooleen Bawn, looking at him significantly, “I wish that our interview should be private.”
“Certainly, my dear Miss Folliard, and so it shall be. Pray, who is this lady?”
“I am forced, sir, to call her my maid.”
Mr. Brown was startled a good deal, not only at the words, but the tone in which they were uttered.
“Madam,” said he, “you will please to remain here until your mistress shall return to you, or, if you wish, you can amuse yourself by reading the inscriptions on the tombstones.”
“Oh, but I have been ordered,” replied Miss Herbert, “by her father and another gentleman, not to let her out of my sight.”
Mr. Brown, understanding that something was wrong, now looked at her more closely, after which, with a withering frown, he said,
“I think I know you, madam, and I am very sorry to hear that you are an attendant upon this amiable lady. Remain where you are, and don't attempt to intrude yourself as an ear-witness to any communication Miss Folliard may have to make to me.”
The profligate creature and unprincipled spy bridled, looked disdain and bitterness at the amiable clergyman, who, accompanied by our heroine, retired to the vestry. It is unnecessary to detail their conversation, which was sustained by the Cooleen Bawn with bitter tears. It is enough to say that the good and pious minister, though not aware until then that Miss Herbert had, by the scoundrel baronet, been intruded into Squire Folliard's family, was yet acquainted, from peculiar sources, with the nature of the immoral relation in which she stood to that hypocrite. He felt shocked beyond belief, and assured the weeping girl that he would call the next day and disclose the treacherous design to her father, who, he said, could not possibly have been aware of the wretch's character when he admitted her into his family. They then parted, and our heroine was obliged to take this vile creature into the carriage with her home. On their return, Miss Herbert began to display at once the malignity of her disposition, and the volubility of her tongue, in a fierce attack upon, what she termed, the ungentlemanly conduct of Mr. Brown. To all she said, however, Helen uttered not one syllable of reply. She neither looked at her nor noticed her, but sat in profound silence, not, however, without a distracted mind and breaking heart.
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 Mr. Malcomson had got an assistant, whom, by the way, he had not yet seen.
“Now, Malcomson,” 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 Malcomson, “he's a divilish clever chiel, and vara weel acquent 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?”
“Ou, 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 of that bed of 'love-lies-bleeding.'”
“Ay, ay; I dare say my daughter set him to that task.”
“Na, na, sir. The young leddy hasna seen him yet, nor hasna been in the gerden for the last week.”
“Why, confound it, Malcomson, that fellow's more like a beggarman than a gardener.”
“Saul, but he's a capital hand for a' that. Your honor's no' to tak the beuk by the cover. To be sure he's awfully vulgar, but, ma faith, he has a richt gude knowledgeable apprehension o' buttany and gerdening in generhal.”
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 fwaither 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 these?”
“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 under 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 wit' 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, slur; she was willin' enough to come; but her fadher wouldn't consint, and so we made off wit' ourselves.”
This was a topic on 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 o' dem.”
“Oh, but I mean the scoundrel called Willy Reilly.”
“Is dat him dat left the 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 sayhi' it. Dey say dat himself and wan of our bishops went to France togither”
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?”
“Fwhy, shir, dey say his last one was a Miss Herbert, and dat she had a young one by him, and dat she was an Englishwoman. It isn't ginerally known, I believe, shir, but dey do be sayin' dat she was brought to bed in de cottage of some bad woman named Mary Mahon, dat does be on de 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.”
“Oh, I expect my pinance will be out before a mont', shir; but, until den, I couldn't take any money.”
“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 undergoing.”
“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't—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 o' their religion. We have felt and kenned that in Scotland, sairly. I'm no freend to persecution, in ony shape. But, as to this chiel, I ken naething aboot him, but that he is a gude buttanist. Hout, your honor, to be sure I'll gi'e 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 after him, and exclaimed to himself, “my certie, there's a bee in that man's bonnet.”
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-rooom, and Mr. Brown replied:
“Sir, a circumstance which, for baseness and diabolical iniquity, is unparalleled in civilized 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 tenter hooks.”
“I shall not do so long, my dear friend. Who do you imagine your 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 who recommended her; for, on hearing that the maid she had, Ellen Connor, was 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—his 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 demand satisfaction 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 dare devil—Hector was nothing to him; no, confound me, nor mad Tom Simpson, that wears a sword on each side, and a double case of pistols, to frighten the bailiffs. The scuundrel of hell!—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 unavailable. 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—I tell you what, my dear friend—-let 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, you will instantly dismiss this abandoned creature.”
He 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 do—Miss Herbert—egad, you've hit it; be quick, sirra.”
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 about your business. Ill just give you ten minutes to disappear.”
“What's all this about, master?”
“Master!—why, curse your brazen impudence, how dare you call me master? Begone, you jade of perdition.”
“No more a jade of perdition, sir, than you are; nor I shan't begone till I gets a quarter's wages—I tell you that.”
“You shall get whatever's coming to you; not another penny. The house-steward will pay you—begone, I say!”
“No, sir, I shan'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' me 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 I have a crow to pluck with him. Off, I say.”
“Oh, I suppose you mean the love-child I had by him—ha, 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? I was never 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 Tom'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 Malion'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 the Protestant magistracy and gentry—nay, and many of the nobility besides—to state that their conduct was both liberal and generous to the unfortunate victims of those cruel laws. It 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—who had sufficient courage to denounce the spirit in which the country was governed and depopulated at the same time. One of the latter—a 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—this 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 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 the laws, then existed 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 be able with safety to return to the mission here, 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 here 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 Abbe, 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, administering to them religious instruction, and the ordinance 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—by; what means it is impossible to conjecture—that the Abbe was to go on the day in question to relieve a poor sick family, at about a distance of two miles from 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 villany 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—a 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 other sanction than his own. At all events the party, consisting of about thirty men, remained in a deep and narrow lane, surrounded by high whitethorn hedges, which prevented the horsemen—for they were all dragoons—from being noticed by the country people. Alas, for the poor Abbe! they had not remained there more than twenty 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. The poor old priest closed his breviary, and looked around him; but he felt no alarm, because he was conscious of no offence, and imagined himself safe under the protection of a distinguished Protestant nobleman.
“Gentlemen,” said he, calmly and meekly, but without fear, “what is the cause of this conduct towards an inoffensive old man? It is true I am a Catholic priest, but I am under the protection of the Marquis of———. He is a Protestant nobleman, and I am sure the very mention of his name will satisfy you, that I cannot be the object either of your suspicion or your enmity.”
“But, my dear sir,” replied Sir Robert, “the nobleman you mention is a suspected man himself, and I have reported him as such to the Government. He is married to a Popish wife, and you are a seminary priest and harbored by her and her husband.”
“But what is your object in stopping and surrounding me,” asked the priest, “as if I were some public delinquent who had violated the laws? Allow me, sir, to pass, and prevent me at your peril; and permit me, before I proceed, to ask your name?” and the old man's eyes flashed with an indignant sense of the treatment he was receiving.
“Did you ever hear of Sir Robert Whitecraft?”
“The priest-hunter, the persecutor, the robber, the murderer? I did, with disgust, with horror, with execration. If you are he, I say to you that I am, as you see, an old man, and a priest, and have but one life; take it, you will anticipate my death only by a short period; but I look by the light of an innocent conscience into the future, and I now tell you that a woful and a terrible retribution is hanging over your head.”
“In the meantime,” said Sir Robert, very calmly, as he dismounted from his horse, which he desired one of the men to hold. “I have a warrant from Government to arrest you, and send you back again to your own country without delay. You are here as a spy, an incendiary, and must go on your travels forthwith. In this, I am acting as your friend and protector, and so is Government, who do not wish to be severe upon you, as you are not a natural subject. See sir, here is another warrant for your arrest and imprisonment. The fact is, it was left to my own discretion, either to imprison you, or send you out of the country. Now, sir, from a principle of lenity, I am determined on the latter course.”
“But,” replied the priest, after casting his eye over both documents, “as I am conscious of no offence, either against your laws or your Government, I decline to fly like a criminal, and I will not; put me in prison, if you wish, but I certainly shall not criminate myself, knowing as I do that I am innocent. In the meantime, I request that you will accompany me to the castle of my patron, that I may acquaint him with the charges against me, and the cause of my being forced to leave his family for a time.”
“No, sir,” replied Whitecraft, “I cannot do so, unless I betray the trust which Government reposes in me. I cannot permit you to hold any intercourse whatever with your patron, as you call him, who is justly suspected of being a Papist at heart. Sir, you have been going abroad through the country, under pretence of administering consolation to the sick, and bestowing alms upon the poor; but the fact is, you have been stirring them up to sedition, if not to open rebellion. You must, therefore, come along with us, this instant. You proceed with us to Sligo, from whence we shall ship you off in a vessel bound for France, which vessel is commanded by a friend of mine, who will treat you kindly, for my sake. What shall we do for a horse for him?” he asked, looking at his men for information on that point.
“That, your honor,we'll provide in a crack,” replied the Red Rapparee, looking up the road; “here comes Sterling, the gauger, very well mounted, and, by all the stills he ever seized, he must walk home upon shank's mare, if it was only to give him exercise and improve his appetite.”
We need not detail this open robbery on the king's officer, and on the king's highway besides. It is enough to say that the Rapparee, confident of protection and impunity, with the connivance, although not by the express orders of the baronet, deprived the man of his horse, and, in a few minutes, the poor old priest was placed upon the saddle, and the whole cavalcade proceeded on their way to Sligo, the priest in the centre of them. Fortunately for Sir Robert's project, they reached the quay just as the vessel alluded to was about to sail; and as there was, at that period, no novelty in seeing a priest shipped out of the country, the loungers about the place, whatever they might have thought in their hearts, seemed to take no particular notice of the transaction.
“Your honor,” said the Red Rapparee, approaching and giving a military salute to his patron, “will you allow me to remain in town for an hour or two? I have a scheme in my head that may come to something. I will tell your honor what it is when I get home.”
“Very well, O'Donnel,” replied Sir Robert; “but I'd advise you not to ride late, if you can avoid it. You know that every man in your uniform is a mark for the vindictive resentment of these Popish rebels.”
“Ah! maybe I don't know that, your honor; but you may take my word for it that I will lose little time.”
He then rode down a by-street, very coolly, taking the gauger's horse along with him. The reader may remember the fable of the cat that had been transformed into a lady, and the unfortunate mouse. The Rapparee, whose original propensities were strong as ever, could not, for the soul of him, resist the temptation of selling the horse and pocketing the amount. He did so, and very deliberately proceeded home to his barracks, but took care to avoid any private communication with his patron for some days, lest he might question him as to what he had done with the animal.
In the meantime, this monstrous outrage upon an unoffending priest, who was a natural subject of France, perpetrated, as it was, in the open face of day, and witnessed by so many, could not, as the reader may expect, be long concealed. It soon reached the ears of the Marquis of ———and his lady, who were deeply distressed at the disappearance of their aged and revered friend. The Marquis, on satisfying himself of the truth of the report, did not, as might have been expected, wait upon Sir Robert Whitecraft; but without loss of time set sail for London, to wait upon the French Ambassador, to whom he detailed the whole circumstances of the outrage. And here we shall not further proceed with an account of those circumstances, as they will necessarily intermingle with that portion of the narrative which is to follow.
CHAPTER XVI.—Sir Robert ingeniously extricates Himself out of a great Difficulty.
On the day after the outrage we have described, the indignant old squire's carriage stopped at the hall-door of Sir Robert Whitecraft, whom he found at home. As yet, the latter gentleman had heard nothing of the contumelious dismissal of Miss Herbert; but the old squire was not ignorant of the felonious abduction of the priest. At any other time, that is to say, in some of his peculiar stretches of loyalty, the act might, have been a feather in the cap of the loyal baronet; but, at present, he looked both at him and his exploits through the medium of the insult he had offered to his daughter. Accordingly, when he entered the baronet's library, where he found him literally sunk in papers, anonymous letters, warrants, reports to Government, and a vast variety of other documents, the worthy Sir Robert rose, and in the most cordial manner, and with the most extraordinary suavity of aspect, held out his hand, saying:
“How much obliged am I, Mr. Folliard, at the kindness of this visit, especially from one who keeps at home so much as you do.”
The squire instantly repulsed him, and replied:
“No, sir; I am an honest, and, I trust, and honorable man. My hand, therefore, shall never touch that of a villain.”
“A villain!—why, Mr. Folliard, these are hard and harsh words, and they surprise me, indeed, as proceeding from your lips. May I beg, my friend, that you will explain yourself?”
“I will, sir. How durst you take the liberty of sending one of your cast-off strumpets to attend personally upon my pure and virtuous daughter? For that insult I come this day to demand that satisfaction which is due to the outraged feelings of my daughter—to my own also, as her father and natural protector, and also as an Irish gentleman, who will brook no insult either to his family or himself. I say, then, name your time and place, and your weapon—sword or pistol, I don't care which, I am ready.”
“But, my good sir, there is some mystery here; I certainly engaged a female of that name to attend on Miss Folliard, but most assuredly she was a well-conducted person.”
“What! Madam Herbert well conducted! Do you imagine, sir, that I am a fool? Did she not admit that you debauched her?”
“It could not be, Mr. Folliard; I know nothing whatsoever about her, except that she was daughter to one of my tenants, who is besides a sergeant of dragoons.”
“Ay, yes, sir,” replied the squire sarcastically; “and I tell you it was not for killing and eating the enemy that he was promoted to his seirgeantship. But I see your manoeuvre, Sir Robert; you wish to shift the conversation, and sleep in a whole skin. I say now, I have provided myself with a friend, and I ask, will you fight?”
“And why not have sent your friend, Mr. Folliard, as is usual upon such occasions?”
“Because he is knocked up, after a fit of drink, and I cannot be just so cool, under such an insult, as to command patience to wait. My friend, however, will attend us on the ground; but, I ask again, will you fight?”
“Most assuredly not, sir; I am an enemy to duelling on principle; but in your case I could not think of it, even if I were not. What! raise my hand against the life of Helen's father!—no, sir, I'd sooner die than do so. Besides, Mr. Folliard, I am, so to speak, not my own property, but that of my King, my Government, and my country; and under these circumstances not at liberty to dispose of my life, unless in their quarrel.”
“I see,” replied the squire bitterly; “it is certainly an admirable description of loyalty that enables a man, who is base enough to insult the very woman who was about to become his wife, and to involve her own father in the insult, to ensconce himself, like a coward, behind his loyalty, and refuse to give the satisfaction of a man, or a gentleman.”
“But, Mr. Folliard, will you hear me? there must, as I said, be some mystery here; I certainly did recommend a young female named Herbert to you, but I was utterly ignorant of what you mention.”
Here the footman entered, and whispered something to Sir Robert, who apologized to the squire for leaving him two or three minutes. “Here is the last paper,” said he, “and I trust that before you go I will be able to remove clearly and fully the prejudices which you entertain against me, and which originate, so far as I am concerned, in a mystery which I am unable to penetrate.”
He then followed the servant, who conducted him to Hennessy, whom he found in the back parlor.
“Well, Mr. Hennessy,” said he, impatiently, “what is the matter now?”
“Why,” replied the other, “I have one as good as bagged, Sir Robert.”
“One what?”
“Why, a priest, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Hennessy, I am particularly engaged now; but as to Reilly, can you not come upon his trail? I would rather have him than a dozen priests; however, remain here for about twenty minutes, or say half an hour, and I will talk with you at more length. For the present I am most particularly engaged.”
“Very well, Sir Robert, I shall await your leisure; but, as to Reilly, I have every reason to think that he has left the country.”
Sir Robert, on going into the hall, saw the porter open the door, and Miss Herbert presented herself.
“Oh,” said he, “is this you? I am glad you came; follow me into the front parlor.”
She accordingly did so; and after he had shut the door he addressed her as follows:
“Now, tell me how the devil you were discovered; or were you accessory yourself to the discovery, by your egregious folly and vanity?”
“Oh, la, Sir Robert, do you think I am a fool?”
“I fear you are little short of it,” he replied; “at all events, you have succeeded in knocking up my marriage with Miss Folliard. How did it happen that they found you out?”
She then detailed to him the circumstances exactly as the reader is acquainted with them.
He paused for some time, and then said, “There is some mystery at the bottom of this which I must fathom. Have you any reason to know how the family became acquainted with your history?”
“No, sir; not in the least.”
“Do you think Miss Folliard meets any person privately?”
“Not, sir, while I was with her.”
“Did she ever attempt to go out by herself?”
“Not, sir, while I was with her.”
“Very well, then, I'll tell you what you must do; her father is above with me now, in a perfect hurricane of indignation. Now you must say that the girl Herbert, whom I recommended to the squire, was a friend of yours; that she gave you the letter of recommendation which I gave her to Mr. Folliard; that having married her sweetheart and left the country with him, you were tempted to present yourself in her stead, and to assume her name. I will call you up by and by; but what name will you take?”
“My mother's name, sir, was Wilson.”
“Very good; what was her Christian name?”
“Catherine, sir.”
“And you must say that I know nothing whatsoever of the imposture you were guilty of. I shall make it worth your while; and if you don't get well through with it, and enable me to bamboozle the old fellow, I have done with you. I shall send for you by and by.”
He then rejoined the squire, who was walking impatiently about the room.
“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “I have to apologize to you for this seeming neglect; I had most important business to transact, and I merely went downstairs to tell the gentleman that I could not possibly attend to it now, and to request him to come in a couple of hours hence; pray excuse me, for no business could be so important as that in which I am now engaged with you.'”
“Yes, but in the name of an outraged father, I demand again to know whether you will give me satisfaction or not?”
“I have already answered you, my dear sir, and if you will reflect upon the reasons I have given you, I am certain you will admit that I have the laws both of God and man on my side, and I feel it my duty to regulate my conduct by both. As to the charge you bring against me, about the girl Herbert, I am both ignorant and innocent of it.”
“Why, sir, how can you say so? how have you the face to say so?—did you not give her a letter of recommendation to me, pledging yourself for her moral character and fidelity?”
“I grant it, but still I pledge you my honor that I looked upon her as an extremely proper person to be about your daughter; you know, sir, that you as well as I have had—and have still—apprehensions as to Reilly's conduct and influence over her; and I did fear, and so did you, that the maid who then attended her, and to whom I was told she was attached with such unusual affection, might have availed herself of her position, and either attempted to seduce her from her faith, or connive at private meetings with Reilly.”
“Sir Robert, I know your plausibility—and, upon my soul, I pay it a high compliment when I say it is equal to your cowardice.”
“Mr. Folliard, I can bear all this with patience, especially from you—What's this?” he exclaimed, addressing the footman, who rushed into the room in a state of considerable excitement.
“Why, Sir Robert, there is a young woman below, who is crying and lamenting, and saying she must see Mr. Folliard.”
“Damnation, sir,” exclaimed Sir Robert, “what is this? why am I interrupted in such a manner? I cannot have a gentleman ten minutes in my study, engaged upon private and important business, but in bolts some of you, to interrupt and disturb us. What does the girl want with me?”
“It is not you she wants, sir,” replied the footman, “but his honor, Mr. Folliard.”
“Well, tell her to wait until he is disengaged.”
“No,” replied Mr. Folliard, “send her up at once; what the devil can this be? but you shall witness it.”
The baronet smiled knowingly. “Well,” said he, “Mr. Folliard, upon my honor, I thought you had sown your wild oats many a year ago; and, by the way, according to all accounts—hem—but no matter; this, to be sure, will be rather a late crop.”
“No, sir, I sowed my wild oats in the right season, when I was hot, young, and impetuous; but long before your age, sir, that field had been allowed to lie barren.”
He had scarcely concluded when Miss Herbert, acting upon a plan of her own, which, were not the baronet a man of the most imperturbable coolness, might have staggered, if not altogether confounded him, entered the room.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, with a flood of tears, kneeling before Mr. Folliard, “can you forgive and pardon me?”
“It is not against you, foolish girl, that my resentment is or shall be directed, but against the man who employed you—and there he sits.”
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, again turning to that worthy gentleman, who seemed filled with astonishment.
“In God's name!” said he, interrupting his accomplice, “what can this mean? Who are you, my good girl?”
“My name's Catherine Wilson, sir.”
“Catherine Wilson!” exclaimed the squire—“why, confound your brazen face, are you not the person who styled yourself Miss Herbert, and who lived, thank God, but for a short time only, in my family?”
“I lived in your family, sir, but I am not the Miss Herbert that Sir Robert Whitecraft recommended to you.”
“I certainly know nothing about you, my good girl,” replied Sir Robert, “nor do I recollect having ever seen you before; but proceed with what you have to say, and let us hear it at once.”
“Yes, sir; but perhaps you are not the gentleman as is known to be Sir Robert Whitecraft—him as hunts the priests. Oh, la, I'll surely be sent to jail. Gentlemen, if you promise not to send me to jail, I'll tell you everything.”
“Well, then, proceed,” said the squire; “I will not send you to jail, provided you tell the truth.”
“Nor I, my good girl,” added Sir Robert, “but upon the same conditions.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, I was acquainted with Miss Herbert—she is Hirish, but I'm English. This gentleman gave her a letter to you, Mr. Folliard, to get her as maid to Miss Helen—she told me—oh, my goodness, I shall surely be sent to jail.”
“Go on, girl,” said the baronet somewhat sternly, by which tone of voice he intimated—to her that she was pursuing the right course, and she was quick enough to understand as much.
“Well,” she proceeded, “after Miss Herbert had got the letter, she told her sweetheart, who wouldn't by no means allow her to take service, because as why, he wanted to marry her; well, she consented, and they did get married, and both of them left the country because her father wasn't consenting. As the letter was of no use to her then, I asked her for it, and offered myself in her name to you, sir, and that was the way I came into your family for a short time.”
The baronet rose up, in well-feigned agitation, and exclaimed, “Unfortunate girl! whoever you may be, you know not the serious mischief and unhappiness that your imposture was nearly entailing upon me.”
“But did you not say that you bore an illegitimate child to this gentleman?” asked the squire.
“Oh, la! no, sir; you know I denied that; I never bore an illegitimate child; I bore a love-child, but not to him; and there is no harm in that, sure.”
“Well, she certainly has exculpated you, Sir Robert.”
“Gentlemen, will you excuse and pardon me? and will you promise not to send me to jail?”
“Go about your business,” said Sir Robert, “you unfortunate girl, and be guilty of no such impostures in future. Your conduct has nearly been the means of putting enmity between two families of rank; or rather of alienating one of them from the confidence and good-will of the other. Go.”
She then courtesied to each, shedding, at the same time, what seemed to be bitter tears of remorse—and took her departure, each of them looking after her, and then at the other, with surprise and wonder.
“Now, Mr. Folliard,” said Sir Robert solemnly, “I have one question to ask you, and it is this: could I possibly, or by any earthly natural means, have been apprised of the honor of your visit to me this day? I ask you in a serious—yes, and in a solemn spirit; because the happiness of my future life depends on your reply.”
“Why, no,” replied the credulous squire, “hang it, no, man—no, Sir Robert; I'll do you that justice; I never mentioned my intention of coming to call you out, to any individual but one, and that on my way hither; he was unwell, too, after a hard night's drinking; but he said he would shake himself up, and be ready to attend me as soon as the place of meeting should be settled on. In point of fact, I did not intend to see you to-day, but to send him with the message; but, as I said, he was knocked up for a time, and you know my natural impatience. No, certainly not, it was in every sense impossible that you could have expected me: yes, if the devil was in it, I will do you that justice.”
“Well, I have another question to ask, my dear friend, equally important with, if not more so than, the other. Do you hold me free from all blame in what has happened through the imposture of that wretched girl?”
“Why, after what has occurred just now, I certainly must, Sir Robert. As you laid no anticipation of my visit, you certainly could not, nor had you time to get up a scene.”
“Well, now, Mr. Folliard, you have taken a load off my heart; and I will candidly confess to you that I have had my frailties like other men, sown my wild oats like other men; but, unlike those who are not ashamed to boast of such exploits, I did not think it necessary to trumpet my own feelings. I do not say, my dear friend, that I have always been a saint.”
“Why, now, that's manly and candid, Sir Robert, and I like you the better for it. Yes, I do exonerate you from blame in this. There certainly was sincerity in that wench's tears, and be hanged to her; for, as you properly said, she was devilish near putting between our families, and knocking up our intimacy. It is a delightful thing to think that I shall be able to disabuse poor Helen's mind upon the subject; for, I give you my honor, it caused her the greatest distress, and excited her mind to a high pitch of indignation against you; but I shall set all to rights.”
“And now that the matter is settled, Mr. Folliard, we must have lunch. I will give you a glass of Burgundy, which, I am sure, you will like.”
“With all my heart,” replied the placable and hearty old squire; “after the agitation of the day a good glass of Burgundy will serve me certainly.”
Lunch was accordingly ordered, and the squire, after taking half a dozen bumpers of excellent wine, got into fine spirits, shook hands as cordially as ever with the baronet, and drove home completely relieved from the suspicions which he had entertained.
The squire, on his return home, immediately called for his daughter, but for some time to no purpose. The old man began to get alarmed, and had not only Helen's room searched, but every room in the house. At length a servant informed him that she was tending and arranging the green-house flowers in the garden.
“Oh, ay!” said he, after he had dismissed the servants, “Thank God—thank God! I will go out to the dear girl; for she is a dear girl, and it is a sin to suspect her. I wish to heaven that that scoundrel Reilly would turn Protestant, and he should have her with all the veins of my heart. Upon my soul, putting religion out of the question, one would think that, in other respects, they were made for each other. But it's all this cursed pride of his that prevents him; as if it signified what any person's religion is, provided he's an honest man, and a loyal subject.”
He thus proceeded with his soliloquy until he reached the garden, where he found Reilly and her arranging the plants and flowers in a superb green-house.
“Well, Helen, my love, how is the greenhouse doing? Eh! why, what is this?”
At this exclamation the lovers started, but the old fellow was admiring the improvement, which even he couldn't but notice.
“Why, what is this?” he proceeded; “by the light of day, Helen, you have made this a little paradise of flowers.”
“It was not I, papa,” she replied; “all that I have been able to contribute to the order; and beauty of the place has been very slight indeed. It is all the result of this poor man's taste and skill. He's an admirable botanist.”
“By the great Boyne, my girl, I think he could lick Malcomson himself, as a botanist.”
“Shir,” observed Reilly, “the young lady is underwaluin' herself; sure, miss, it was yourself directed me what to do, and how to do it.”
“Look at that old chap, Helen,” said her father, who felt in great good humor; first, because he found that Helen was safe; and again, because Sir Robert, as the unsuspecting old man thought, had cleared up the circumstances of Miss Herbert's imposture; “I say, Helen, look at that old chap: isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a pretty girl? and what a taste she must have had to go with him! Upon my soul, it beats cock-fighting—confound me, but it does.”
Helen's face became crimson as he spoke; and yet, such was the ludicrous appearance which Reilly made, when put in connection with the false scent on which her father was proceeding at such a rate, and the act of gallantry imputed to him, that a strong feeling of humor overcame her, and she burst into a loud ringing laugh, which she could not, for some time, restrain; in this she was heartily joined by her father, who laughed till the tears came down his cheeks.
“And yet, Helen—ha—ha—ha, he's a stalwart old rogue still, and must have been a devil of a tyke when he was young.”
After another fit of laughter from both father and daughter, the squire said:
“Now, Helen, my love, go in. I have good news for you, which I will acquaint you with by and by.”
When she left the garden, her father addressed Reilly as follows:
“Now, my good fellow, will you tell me how you came to know about Miss Herbert having been seduced by Sir Robert Whitecraft?”
“Fvhy, shir, from common report, shir.”
“Is that all? But don't you think,” he replied, “that common report is a common liar, as it mostly has been, and is, in this case. That's all I have to say upon the subject. I have traced the affair, and find it to be a falsehood from beginning to ending. I have. And now, go on as you're doing, and I will make Malcomson raise your wages.”
“Thank you, shir,” and he touched his nondescript with an air of great thankfulness and humility.
“Helen, my darling,” said her father, on entering her own sitting-room, “I said I had good news for you.”
Helen looked at him with a doubtful face, and simply said, “I hope it is good, papa.”
“Why, my child, I won't enter into particulars; it is enough to say that I discovered from an accidental meeting with that wretched girl we had here that she was not Miss Herbert, as she called herself, at all, but another, named Catherine Wilson, who, having got from Herbert the letter of recommendation which I read to you, had the effrontery to pass herself for her; but the other report was false. The girl Wilson, apprehensive that either I or Sir Robert might send her to jail, having seen my carriage stop at Sir Robert's house, came, with tears in her eyes, to beg that if we would not punish her she would tell us the truth, and she did so.”
Helen mused for some time, and seemed to decide instantly upon the course of action she should pursue, or, rather, the course which she had previously proposed to herself. She saw clearly, and had long known that in the tactics and stratagems of life, her blunt but honest father was no match at all for the deep hypocrisy and deceitful plausibility of Sir Robert Whitecraft, the consequence was, that she allowed her father to take his own way, without either remonstrance or contradiction. She knew very well that on this occasion, as on every other where their wits and wishes came in opposition, Sir Robert was always able to outgeneral and overreach him; she therefore resolved to agitate herself as little as possible, and to allow matters to flow on tranquilly, until the crisis—the moment for action came.
“Papa,” she replied, “this intelligence must make your mind very easy; I hope, however, you will restore poor faithful Connor to me. I never had such an affectionate and kind creature; and, besides, not one of them could dress me with such skill and taste as she could. Will you allow me to have her back, sir?”
“I will, Helen; but take care she doesn't make a Papist of you.”
“Indeed, papa, that is a strange whim: why, the poor girl never opened her lips to me on the subject of religion during her life; nor, if I saw that she attempted it, would I permit her. I am no theologian, papa, and detest polemics, because I have always heard that those who are most addicted to polemical controversy have least religion.”
“Well, my love, you shall have back poor Connor; and now I must go and look over some papers in my study. Good-by, my love; and observe, Helen, don't stay out too late in the garden, lest the chill of the air might injure your health.”
“But you know I never do, and never did, papa.”
“Well, good-by again, my love.”
He then left her, and withdrew to his study to sign some papers, and transact some business, which he had allowed to run into arrear. When he had been there better than an hour, he rang the bell, and desired that Malcomson, the gardener, should be sent to him, and that self-sufficient and pedantic person made his appearance accordingly.
“Well, Malcomson,” said he, “how do you like the bearded fellow in the garden?”
“Ou, yer honor, weel eneugh; he does ken something o' the sceence o' buttany, an' 'am thinkin' he must hae been a gude spell in Scotland, for I canna guess whare else he could hae become acquent wi' it.”
“I see Malcomson, you'll still persist in your confounded pedantry about your science. Now, what the devil has science to do with botany or gardening?”
“Weel, your honor, it wadna just become me to dispute wi' ye upon that or any ither subjeck; but for a' that, it required profoond sceence, and vera extensive learnin' to classify an' arrange a' the plants o' the yearth, an' to gie them names, by whilk they dan be known throughout a' the nations o' the warld.”
“Well, well—I suppose I must let you have your way.”
“Why, your honor,” replied Malcomson, “'am sure it mair becomes me to let you hae yours; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has been weel indoctrinated in the sceence.”
“Ahem! well, well, go on.”
“An' it's no easy to guess whare he could hae gotten it. Indeed, 'am of opinion that he's no without a hantle o' book lair; for, to do him justice, de'il a question I spier at him, anent the learned names o' the rare plants, that he hasna at his finger ends, and gies to me off-hand. Naebody but a man that has gotten book lair could do yon.”
“Book lair, what is that?”
“Ou, just a correck knowledge o' the learned names of the plants. I dinna say, and I winna say, but he's a velliable assistant to me, an' I shouldna wish to pairt wi' him. If he'd only shave off yon beard, an' let himsel' be decently happed in good claiths, why he might pass in ony gentleman's gerden for a skeelful buttanist.”
“Is he as good a kitchen gardener as he is in the green-house, and among the flowers?”
“Weel, your honor, guid troth, 'am sairly puzzled there; hoot, no, sir; de'il a thing almost he kens about the kitchen gerden—a' his strength lies among the flowers and in the green-house.”
“Well, well, that's where we principally want him. I sent for you, Malcomson, to desire you'd raise his wages—the laborer is worthy of his hire; and a good laborer of good hire. Let him have four shillings a week additional.”
“Troth, your honor, 'am no sayin' but he weel deserves it; but, Lord haud a care o' us, he's a queer one, yon.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Why, de'il heat he seems to care about siller any mair than if it was sklate stains. On Saturday last, when he was paid his weekly wages by the steward, he met a puir sickly-lookin' auld wife, wi' a string o' sickly-looking weans at the body's heels; she didna ask him for charity, for, in troth, he appeared, binna it wearna for the weans, as great an objeck as hersel'; noo, what wad yer honor think? he gaes ower and gies till her a hale crown o' siller out o' his ain wage. Was ever onything heard like yon?”
“Well, I know the cause of it, Malcomson. He's under a penance, and can neither shave nor change his dress till his silly penance is out; and I suppose it was to wash off a part of it that he gave this foolish charity to the poor woman and her children. Come, although I condemn the folly of it, I don't like him the worse for it.”
“Hout awa', your honor, what is it but rank Papistry, and a dependence upon filthy works. The doited auld carl, to throw aff his siller that gate; but that's Papistry a' ower—substituting works for grace and faith—a' Papistry, a' Papistry! Well, your honor, I sal be conform to your wushes—it's my duty, that.”