“But, are you certain, Ellen, that he actually has joined the Rapparees?”
“Too sure, ma'am—too sure; my father had it in private from his own lips, for, as the poor boy said, he hadn't the courage himsell to tell me.”
“But, Ellen,” asked Miss Folliard, “where had you an opportunity of seeing and becoming acquainted with this young man? You surely could not have known him, or conceived an attachment for him, previous to your coming to reside with us?”
“Oh, no, ma'am,” replied Ellen; “it was at my father's I became acquainted with him, principally whenever I got lave to spend a Sunday at home. And now, my dear mistress,” she proceeded, sobbing, “I must go—your poor, faithful Ellen will never let you, nor the thought of your sorrows, out of her heart. All she can do now is to give you her prayers and her tears. Farewell! my darlin' mistress—may the blessing of God guard and prosper you both, and bring you to the happiness you deserve.” She wept bitterly as she concluded.
“Ellen,” replied her mistress, and she paused—“Ellen,” said she again—she would, indeed, have spoken, but, after a silent struggle, she covered her eyes with her handkerchief, and was fairly carried away by her emotions—“Ellen,” said she, taking her hand, and recovering herself, “be of courage; let neither of us despair—a brighter light may shine on our path yet. Perhaps I may have it in my power to befriend you, hereafter. Farewell, Ellen; and if I can prevail on my father to bring you back, I will.” And so they parted.
Connor's father was a tenant of the squire's, and held rather a comfortable farm of about eighteen or twenty acres. Ellen herself had, when very young, been, by some accident or other, brought within the notice of Mrs. Folliard, who, having been struck by her vivacity, neatness of figure, and good looks, begged permission from her parents to take the little girl under her care, and train her up to wait upon her daughter. She had now been eight years in the squire's family—that is, since her fourteenth—and was only two years older than the Cooleen Baum, who was now, and had been for the last three years, her only mistress. She had consequently grown, is it were, into all her habits, and we may justly say that there was not an individual in existence who had a better opportunity of knowing and appreciating her good qualities and virtues; and, what was much to her honor, she never for a moment obtruded her own private sorrows upon the ear or heart of her mistress, who, she saw, had a sufficient number of her own to bear.
It was late in the evening when she took farewell of her mistress, and twilight had come on ere she had got within half mile of her father's house. On crossing a stile which led, by a pathway, to the little hamlet in which her father lived, she was both surprised and startled by perceiving Fergus Reilly approach her. He was then out of his disguise, and dressed in his own clothes, for he could not prevail upon himself to approach her father's house, or appear before any of the family, in the tattered garb of a mendicant. On this occasion he came to tell them that he had abandoned the gang of the Red Rapparee, and come to the resolution of seeking his pardon from the Government, having been informed that it offered protection to all who would come in and submit to the laws, provided they had not been guilty of shedding human blood. This intelligence, however, was communicated to the family, as a means of preparing them for still more important information upon the subject of his own liberty—a matter with which the reader will soon become acquainted, as he will with the fact of his having left off his disguise only for a brief period. In the meantime, he felt perfectly conscious of the risk he ran of a failure in the accomplishment of his own project, by throwing off his disguise, and was then hastening on his way to the cottage of widow Buckley, where he had left his mendicant apparel for the time being.
When Ellen saw him she felt a tumult in her bosom which almost overcame her. Her heart palpitated almost audibly, and her knees became feeble under her. There was something so terrible associated with the idea of a Rapparee that she took it for granted that some frightful transformation of person and character must have taken place in him, and that she would now meet a man thoroughly imbued with all the frightful and savage vices which were so frequently, and too often so generally, attributed to that fierce and formidable class. Still, the recollection of their former affection, and her knowledge of the oppression which had come upon himself and his family, induced her to hope that the principles of humanity could not have been altogether effaced from his heart. Full of doubt and anxiety, therefore, she paused at the stile, against which she felt it necessary to lean for support, not without a touch of interest and somewhat of curiosity, to control the vague apprehensions which she could not help feeling. We need scarcely inform the reader that the meeting on both sides was accidental and unexpected.
“Heavenly Father!” exclaimed Ellen, in a voice trembling with agitation, “is this Fergus O'Reilly that I see before me? Fergus, ruined and undone!” She then looked cautiously about her, and added, “Fergus, the Rapparee!”
“God bless me!” he exclaimed in return, “and may I ask, is this Ellen Connor on my path?”