“Well, well! but what was in the paper after all? Did any body read it?”
“Ay, did they—that is, Christy read it—none but Christy—but he would not tell us what was in it—but said it was no matter, and he’d not be wasting his time reading an old song—so we thought no more, and he sent the boy up to the castle with a bill for smith’s work, as soon as we had eat the potatoes, and I thought no more about any thing’s being going wrong, no more than a child; and in the evening Christy said he must go to the funeral of a neighbour, and should not be home till early in the morning, may be; and it’s not two hours since he came home and wakened me, and told me where he had been, which was not to the funeral at all, but to the cave where the coat was found; and he put the coat and the broken head of the pike, and the papers all in the pockets, just as we found it, in the cave—and the paper was a list of the names of them rubbles that met there, and a letter telling how they would make Lord Glenthorn their captain, or have his life; this was what made Christy to try and find out more—so he hid hisself in a hole in the side of the cave, and built hisself up with rubbish, only just leaving a place for hisself to breathe—and there he stayed till nightfall; and then on till midnight, God help us! so sure enough, them villains all come filling fast into the cave. He had good courage, God bless him for it—but he always had—and there he heard and saw all—and this was how they were talking:—First, one began by saying, how they must not be delaying longer to show themselves; they must make a rising in the country—then named the numbers in other parts that would join, and that they would not be put down so asy as afore, for they would have good leaders—then some praised you greatly, and said they was sure you favoured them in your heart, by all the ill-will you got in the county the time of the last ‘ruction. But, again, others said you was milk and water, and did not go far enough, and never would, and that it was not in you, and that you was a sleepy man, and not the true thing at all, and neither beef nor vael. Again, thim that were for you spoke and said you would show yourself soon—and the others made reply, and observed you must now spake out, or never spake more; you must either head ‘em, or be tramped under foot along with the rest, so it did not signify talking, and Joey Kelly should not be fribbling any more about it; and it was a wonder, said they, he was not the night at the meeting. And what was this about your being going off for England—what would they do when you was gone with M’Leod the Scotchman, to come in over them again agent, who was another guess sort of man from you, and never slept at all, and would scent ‘em out, and have his corps after ‘em, and that once M’Leod was master, there would be no making any head again his head; so, not to be tiring you too much with all they said, backward and forward, one that was a captain, or something that way, took the word, and bid ‘em all hold their peace, for they did not know what they was talking on, and said that Joey Kelly and he had settled it all, and that the going to England was put off by Joe, and all a sham, and that when you would be walking out to-morrow at nightfall, in those lone places by the sea-side or the abbey, he and Joe was to seize upon you, and when you would be coming back near the abbey, to have you down through the trap-door into the cave, and any way they would swear you to join and head them, and if you would not, out with you, and shove you into the sea, and no more about it, for it would be give out you drown’ yourself in a fit of the melancholy lunacy, which none would question, and it would be proved too you made away wid yourself, by your hat and gloves lying on the bank—Lord save us! What are you laughing at in that, when it is truth every word, and Joe Kelly was to find the body, after a great search. Well, again, say you would swear and join them, and head them, and do whatever they pleased, still that would not save you in the end; for they would quarrel with you at the first turn, because you would not be ruled by them as captain, and then they would shoot or pike you (God save the mark, dear), and give the castle to Joe Kelly, and the plunder all among ‘em entirely. So it was all laid out, and they are all to meet in the cave to-morrow evening—they will go along bearing a funeral, seemingly to the abbey-ground. And now you know the whole truth, and the Lord preserve you! And what will be done? My poor head has no more power to think for you no more than an infant’s, and I’m all in a tremble ever since I heard it, and afraid to meet any one lest they should see all in my face. Oh, what will become of yees now—they will be the death of you, whatever you do!”
By the time she came to these last words, Ellinor’s fears had so much overpowered her, that she cried and sobbed continually, repeating—“What will be done now! What will be done! They’ll surely be the death of you, whatever you do.” As to me, the urgency of the danger wakened my faculties: I rose instantly, wrote a note to Mr. M’Leod, desiring to see him immediately on particular business. Lest my note should by any accident be intercepted or opened, I couched it in the most general and guarded terms; and added a request, that he would bring his last settlement of accounts with him; so that it was natural to suppose my business with him was of a pecuniary nature. I gradually quieted poor Ellinor by my own appearance of composure: I assured her, that we should take our measures so as to prevent all mischief—thanked her for the timely warning she had given me—advised her to go home before she was observed, and charged her not to speak to any one this day of what had happened. I desired that as soon as she should see Mr. M’Leod coming through the gate, she would send Christy after him to the castle, to get his bill paid; so that I might then, without exciting suspicion, talk to him in private, and we might learn from his own lips the particulars of what he saw and heard in the cavern.
Ellinor returned home, promising to obey me exactly, especially as to my injunction of secrecy—to make sure of herself she said “she would go to bed straight, and have the rheumatism very bad all day; so as not to be in a way to talk to none who would call in.” The note to M’Leod was despatched by one of my grooms, and I, returning to bed, was now left at full leisure to finish my morning’s nap.
Joe Kelly presented himself at the usual hour in my room; I turned my head away from him, and, in a sleepy tone, muttered that I had passed a bad night, and should breakfast in my own apartment.
Some time afterwards Mr. M’Leod arrived, with an air of sturdy pride, and produced his accounts, of which I suffered him to talk, till the servant who waited upon us had left the room; I then explained the real cause of my sending for him so suddenly. I was rather vexed, that I could not produce in him, by my wonderful narrative, any visible signs of agitation or astonishment. He calmly observed—“We are lucky to have so many hours of daylight before us. The first thing we have to do is to keep the old woman from talking.”
I answered for Ellinor.
“Then the next thing is for me, who am a magistrate, to take the examinations of her son, and see if he will swear to the same that he says.”
Christy was summoned into our presence, and he came with his bill for smith’s work done; so that the servants could have no suspicion of what was going forward. His examinations were taken and sworn to in a few minutes: his evidence was so clear and direct, that there was no possibility of doubting the truth. The only variation between his story and his mother’s report to me was as to the numbers he had seen in the cavern—her fears had turned thirteen into three hundred.
Christy assured us that there were but thirteen at this meeting, but that they said there were three hundred ready to join them.