—And a Curious Conversation

We return to the party from whom Fergus Reilly had so narrow an escape. As our readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft. That gentleman was alone in his library, surrounded by an immense collection of books which he never read. He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no more than his butler, nor perhaps so much. At once sensual, penurious, and bigoted, he spent his whole time in private profligacy—for he was a hypocrite, too—in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as a champion for Protestant principles. Whenever an unfortunate Roman Catholic, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh and cruel law of which probably he had never heard, who so active in collecting his myrmidons, in order to uncover, hunt, and run down his luckless victim? And yet he was not popular. No one, whether of his own class or any other, liked a bone in his skin. Nothing could infect him with the genial and hospitable spirit of the country, whilst at the same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitality of others, merely because it saved him a meal. All that sustained his character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people called the uncompromising energy of his principles as a sound and vigorous Protestant.

“Sink them all together,” he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of soliloquy—“Church and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to make the best use we can of them? Here I am prevented from going to that girl to-night—and that barbarous old blockhead of a squire, who was so near throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel: and doubly, trebly, quadruply cursed be that same rebel for crossing my path as he has done. The cursed light-headed jade loves him too—there\'s no doubt of that—but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall, and, by —-, his rebel carcass shall feed the crows. But what noise is that? They have returned; I must go down and learn their success.”

He was right. Our friend the tipsy sergeant and his party were at the hall-door, which was opened as he went down, and he ordered lights into the back parlor. In a few minutes they were ushered in, where they found him seated as magisterially as possible in a large arm-chair.

“Well, Johnston,” said he, assuming as much dignity as he could, “what has been your success?”

“A bad evening\'s sport, sir; we bagged nothing—didn\'t see a feather.”

“Talk sense, Johnston,” said he sternly, “and none of this cant. Did you see or hear any thing of the rebel?”

“Why, sir, we did; it would be a devilish nice business if a party led and commanded by George Johnston should go out without hearin\' and seein\' something.”

“Well, but what did you see and hear, sir?”

“Why, we saw Reilly\'s house, and a very comfortable one it is; and we heard from the servants that he wasn\'t at home.”

“You\'re drunk, Johnston.”

“No, sir, begging your pardon, I\'m only hearty; besides, I never discharge my duty half so well as when I\'m drunk; If feel no colors then.”

“Johnston, if I ever know you to get drunk on duty again I shall have you reduced.”

“Reduced!” replied Johnston, “curse the fig I care whether you do or not; I\'m actin\' as a volunteer, and I\'ll resign.”

“Come, sir,” replied Sir Robert, “be quiet; I will overlook this, for you are a very good man if you could keep yourself sober.”

“I told you before, Sir Robert, that I\'m a better man when I\'m drunk.”

“Silence, sir, or I shall order you out of the room.”

“Please your honor,” observed Steen, “I have a charge to make against George Johnston.”

“A charge, Steen—what is it? You are a staunch, steady fellow, I know; what is this charge?”

“Why, sir, we met a suspicious character on the old bridle road beyond Reilly\'s, and he refused to take him prisoner.”

“A poor half-Papist beggarman, sir,” replied Johnston, “who was on his way to my uncle\'s to stop there for the night. Divil a scarecrow in Europe would exchange clothes with him without boot.”

Steen then related the circumstances with which our readers are acquainted, adding that he suggested to Johnston the necessity of sending a couple of men up with him to ascertain whether what, he said was true or not; but that he flatly refused to do so—and after some nonsense about a barn he let him off.

“I\'ll tell you what, sir,” said Johnston, “I\'ll hunt a priest or a Papish that breaks the law with any man livin\', but hang me if ever I\'ll hunt a harmless beggarman lookin\' for his bit.”

At this period of the conversation the Red Rapparee, now in military uniform, entered the parlor, accompanied by some others of those violent men.

“Steen,” said the baronet, “what or who do you suppose this ragged ruffian was?”

“Either a Rapparee, sir, or Reilly himself.”

“O\'Donnel,” said he, addressing the Red Robber, “what description of disguises do these villains usually assume? Do they often go about as beggarmen?”

“They may have changed their hand, sir, since I became a legal subject, but, before that, three-fourths of us—of them—the villains, I mane—went about in the shape of beggars.”

“That\'s important,” exclaimed the baronet. “Steen, take half a dozen mounted men—a cavalry party have arrived here a little while ago, and are waiting further orders—I thought if Reilly had been secured it might have been necessary for them to escort him to Sligo. Well, take half a dozen mounted I men, and, as you very properly suggested, proceed with all haste to farmer Graham\'s, and see whether this mendicant is there or not; if he is there, take him into custody at all events, and if he is not, then it is clear he is a man for whom we ought to be on the lookout.”

“I should like to go with them, your honor,” said the Red Rapparee.

“O\'Donnel,” said Sir Robert, “I have other business for you to-night.”

“Well, plaise your honor,” said O\'Donnel, “as they\'re goin\' in that direction, let them turn to the left after passin\' the little stranie that crosses the road, I mane on their way home; if they look sharp they\'ll find a little boreen that—but indeed they\'ll scarcely make it out in the dark, for it\'s a good way back in the fields—I mane the cabin of widow Buckley. If there\'s one house more than another in the whole countryside where! Reilly is likely to take shelter in, that\'s it. He gave her that cabin and a large garden free, and besides allows her a small yearly pension. But remember, you can\'t bring your horses wid you—you must lave some of the men to take charge of them in the boreen till you come back. I wish you\'d let me go with them, sir.”

“I cannot, O\'Donnel; I have other occupation for you to-night.”

Three or four of them declared that they knew the cottage right well, and could find it out without much difficulty. “They had been there,” they said, “some six or eight months before upon a priest chase.” The matter was so arranged, and the party set out upon their expedition.

It is unnecessary to say that these men had their journey for nothing; but at the same time one fact resulted from it, which I was, that the ragged mendicant they had met must have been some one well worth looking after. The deuce of it was, however, that, owing to the darkness of the night, there was not one among them who could have known Fergus the next day if they had met him. They knew, however, that O\'Donnel, the Rapparee, was a good authority on the subject, and the discovery of the pretended mendicant\'s imposture was a proof of it. On this account, when they had reached the boreen alluded to, on their return from Graham\'s, they came to the resolution of leaving their horses in charge, as had been suggested to them, and in silence, and with stealthy steps, pounce at once into the widow\'s cabin. Before they arrived there, however, we shall take the liberty of preceding them for a few minutes, and once more transport our readers to its bright but humble hearth.

About three hours or better had elapsed, and our two friends were still seated, maintaining the usual chat with Mrs. Buckley, who had finished her prayers and once, more rejoined them.

“Fergus, like a good fellow,” whispered Reilly, “slip out for a minute or two; there\'s—a circumstance I wish to mention to Molly—I assure you it\'s of a very private and particular nature and only for her own ear.”

“To be sure,” replied Fergus; “I want, at all events, to stretch my legs, and to see what the night\'s about.”

He accordingly left the cabin.

“Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly, “it was not for nothing I came here to-night. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Your favor\'s granted, sir,” she replied—“granted, Mr. Reilly, even before I hear it—that is, supposin\' always that it\'s in my power—to do it for you.”

“It is simply to carry a letter—and be certain that it shall be delivered to the proper person.”

“Well,” she replied, “sure that\'s aisily done. And where am I to deliver it?” she asked.

“That I shall let you know on some future occasion—perhaps within the course of a week or so.”

“Well, sir,” she replied, “I\'d go twenty miles to deliver it—and will do so wid a heart and a half.”

“Well, Molly, I can tell you your journey won\'t be so far; but there is one thing you are to observe—you must never breathe it to a human creature.”

“I thought you knew me better, Mr. Reilly.”

“It would be impossible, however, to be too strict here, because you don\'t know how much depends upon it.”

At this moment Fergus put in his head, and said, “For Christ\'s sake, snuff out the candle, and Reilly—fly!—There are people in the next field!—quick!—quick!”

Reilly snatched up his hat, and whispered to the widow, “Deny that you saw me, or that there was any one here!—Put out the candle!—they might see our figures darkening the light as we go out!”

Fergus and Reilly immediately planted themselves behind a whitethorn hedge, in a field adjoining the cabin, in order to reconnoitre the party, whoever they might be, which they could do in safety. This act of reconnoitering, however, was performed by the ear, and not at all by the eye; the darkness of the night rendered that impossible. Of course the search in the widow\'s cabin was equally fruitless.

“Now,” whispered Reilly, “we\'ll go in a line parallel with the road, but at a safe distance from them, until they reach the cross-roads. If they turn towards my house, we are forewarned, but if they turn towards Sir Robert\'s, it is likely that I may have an opportunity of securing my cash and papers.” On reaching the cross-roads alluded to, the party, much to the satisfaction of Reilly and his companion, did turn towards the residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft, thus giving the fugitives full assurance that nothing further was to be apprehended from them that night. The men in fact felt fatigued and were anxious to get to bed.

After approaching Reilly\'s house very cautiously, and with much circumspection—not an outhouse, or other place of concealment, having been left unexamined—they were about to enter, when Reilly, thinking that no precaution on such an occasion ought to be neglected, said:

“Fergus, we are so far safe; but, under all circumstances, I think it right and prudent that you should keep watch outside. Mark me, I will place Tom Corrigan—you know him—at this window, and if you happen to see anything in the shape of a human being, or to hear, for instance, any noise, give the slightest possible tap upon the glass, and that will be sufficient.”

It was so arranged, and Reilly entered the house; but, as it happened, Fergus\'s office proved a sinecure; although, indeed, when we consider his care and anxiety, we can scarcely say so. At all events, Reilly returned in about half an hour, bearing under his arm a large dark portfolio, which, by the way, was securely locked.

“Is all right?” asked Fergus.

“All is right,” replied the other. “The servants have entered into an arrangement to sit up, two in turn each night, so as to be ready to give me instant admittance whenever I may chance to come.”

“But now where are you to place these papers?” asked his companion. “That\'s a difficulty.”

“It is, I grant,” replied Reilly, “but after what has happened, I think widow Buckley\'s cabin the safest place for a day or two. Only that the hour is so unseasonable, I could feel little difficulty in finding a proper place of security for them, but as it is, we must only deposit them for the present with the widow.”

The roads of Ireland at this period—if roads they could be called—were not only in a most shameful, but dangerous, state. In summer they were a foot deep with dust, and in winter at least eighteen 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 these, were deep gullies across the roads, worn away by small rills, proceeding from rivule............