—Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn Escape, and are Captured.
Cummiskey had a private and comfortable room of his own, to which he and the cannie Scotchman proceeded, after having ordered from the butler a tankard of strong ale. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, and when the tankard and glasses were placed upon the table the Scotchman observed:
“De\'il be frae my saul, maisther Cummiskey, but ye\'re vera comfortable here.”
“Why, in troth, I can\'t complain, Mr. Malcomson; here\'s your health, sir, and after that we must drink another.”
“Mony thanks, Andrew.”
“Hang it, I\'m not Andrew: that sounds like Scotch; I\'m Andy, man alive.”
“Wfiel mony thanks, Andy; but for the maitter o\' that, what the de\'il waur wad it be gin it were Scotch?”
“Bekaise I wouldn\'t like to be considered a Scotchman, somehow.”
“Weel, Andrew—Andy—I do just suppose as muckle; gin ye war considered Scotch, muckle more might be expeck\' frae you than, being an Irisher as you are, you could be prepared to answer to; whereas—”
“Why, hang it, man alive, we can give three answers for your one.”
“Weel, but how is that now, Andy? Here\'s to ye in the meantime; and \'am no savin\' but this yill is just richt gude drink; it warms the pit o\' the stamach, man.”
“You mane by that the pit o\' the stomach, I suppose.”
“Ay, just that.”
“Troth, Mr. Malcomson, you Scotchers bring everything to the pit o\' the stomach—no, begad, I ax your pardon, for although you take care of the pratie bag, you don\'t forget the pocket.”
“And what for no, Andy? why the de\'il war pockets made, gin they wanna to be filled? but how hae ye Irishers three answers for our ane?”
“Why, first with our tongue; and even with that we bate ye—flog you hollow. You Scotchmen take so much time in givin\' an answer that an Irishman could say his pattherin aves before you spake. You think first and spake aftherwards, and come out in sich a way that one would suppose you say grace for every word you do spake; but it isn\'t \'for what we are to receive\' you ought to say \'may the Lord make us thankful, but for what we are to lose\'—that is, your Scotch nonsense; and, in troth, we ought to be thankful for losin\' it.”
“Weel, man, here\'s to ye, Andy—ou, man, but this yill is extraordinar\' gude.”
“Why,” replied Andy, who, by the way, seldom went sober to bed, and who was even now nearly three sheets in the wind, “it is. Mr. Malcomson, the right stuff. But, as I was sayin\', you Scotchmen think first and spake afther—one of the most unlucky practices that ever anybody had. Now, don\'t you see the advantage that the Irishman has over you; he spakes first and thinks aftherwards, and then, you know, it gives him plenty of time to think—here\'s God bless us all, anyhow—but that\'s the way an Irishman bates a Scotchman in givin\' an answer; for if he fails by word o\' mouth, why, whatever he\'s deficient in he makes up by the fist or cudgel; and there\'s our three Irish answers for one Scotch.”
“Weel, man, a\' richt—a\' richt—we winna quarrel aboot it; but I thocht ye promised to gie us another toast—de\'il be frae my; saul, man, but I\'ll drink as mony as you like wisiccan liquor as this.”
“Ay, troth, I did say so, and devil a thing but your Scotch nonsense put it out o\' my head. And now, Mr. Malcomson, let me advise you, as a friend, never to attempt to have the whole conversation to yourself; it I isn\'t daicent.
“Weel, but the toast, man?”
“Oh, ay; troth, your nonsense would put any thing out of a man\'s head. Well, you see this comfortable room?”
“Ou, ay; an vara comfortable it is; ma faith, I wuss I had ane like it. The auld squire, however, talks o\' buildin\' a new gertlen-hoose.”
“Well, then, fill your bumper. Here\'s to her that got me this room, and had it furnished as you see, in order that I might be at my aise in it for the remaindher o\' my life—I mane the Cooleen Bawn—the Lily of the Plains of Boyle. Come, now, off with it; and if you take it from your lantern jaws! till it\'s finished, divil a wet lip ever I\'ll give you.”
The Scotchman was not indisposed to honor the toast; first, because the ale was both strong and mellow, and secondly, because the Cooleen Bawn was a great favorite of his, in consequence of the deference she paid to him as a botanist.
“Eh, sirs,” he exclaimed, after finishing | his bumper, “but she\'s a bonnie lassie that, and as gude as she\'s bonnie—and de\'il a higher compliment she could get, I think. But, Andy, man, don\'t they talk some clash and havers anent her predilection for that weel-farrant callan, Reilly?”
“All, my poor girl,” replied Cummiskey, shaking his head sorrowfully; “I pity her there; but the thing\'s impossible—they can\'t be married—the law is against them.”
“Weel, Andy, they must e\'en thole it; but \'am thinkin\' they\'ll just break bounds at last, an\' tak\' the law, as you Irish do, into their am hands.”
“What do you mane by that?” asked Andy, whose temper began to get warm by the observation.
“Ah, man,” replied the Scotchman, “dinna let your birses rise at that gate. Noo, there\'s the filbert trees, ma friend, of whilk ane is male and the tither female; and the upshot e\'en is, Andy, that de\'il a pickle o\' fruit ever the female produces until there\'s a braw halesome male tree planted in the same gerden. But, ou, man, Andy, wasna yon she and that bonnie jaud, Connor, that we met the noo? De\'il be frae my laul, but I jalouse she\'s aff wi\' him this vara nicht.”
“Oh, dear, no!” replied Cummiskey, starting; “that would kill her father; and yet there must be something in it, or what would bring them there at such an hour? He and she may love one another as much as they like, but I must think of my mas-ther.”
“In that case, then, our best plan is to gie the alarm.”
“Hould,” replied Andy; “let us be cautious. They wouldn\'t go on foot, I think; and before we rise a ruction in the house, let us find out whether she has made off or not. Sit you here, and I\'ll try to see Connor, her maid.”
“Ah, but, Andy, man, it\'s no just that pleasant to sit hei-e dry-lipped; the tankard\'s, oot, ye ken.”
“Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o\'you—who do you suppose could think of a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened? It will kill him.”
He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she was utterly unable to conceal.
“Well, Miss Connor,” he asked, “what\'s the matther? You\'re cryin\', I persave.”
“All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell.”
“Unwell! why she wasn\'t unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o\' the garden.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Connor; “I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her.”
“Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?”
“Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey. She\'s now in her own room, quite ill.”
“Oh, then, if she\'s quite ill, it\'s right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for.”
“Ah, but she\'s now asleep, Cummiskey—that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her.”
“Ah, I believe you,” he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor\'s agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; “the sleep will be good for her, the darlin\'; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther\'s sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn\'t live a week.”
“That\'s true, indeed,” she replied; “and if she get\'s worse, Cummiskey, I\'ll let the master know.”
“That\'s a good girl; ma gragal that you! war—good-by, acushla,” and he immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor went down to the kitchen.
“Now, Mr. Malcomson,” said he, “there is a good fire before you. I ax your pardon—just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this candle.”
“\'Am sayin\', Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime to send up anither tankard o\' that yill.”
To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very deliberately proceeded to that of Helen. The door was open, the bed unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was tenantless, Connor a liar and an accomplice, and the suspicions of himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him. He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped with Willy Reilly. The uproar then commenced, the house was searched, but no Cooleen Bawn was found. Cummiskey himself remained comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining that she was not in the house, he went upstairs to his master\'s bedroom, having the candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed:
“Good-night, Helen—good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something to tell you about the discovery of—but I will let you know it to-morrow at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to bed, my love.”
“Sir,” said Cummiskey, “I hope you\'ll excuse me for disturbing you.”
“What? who? who\'s there? I thought it was my daughter.”
“No, sir, I wish it was; I\'m come to tell you that Miss Folliard can\'t be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no purpose: wherever she is, she\'s not undher this roof. I came to tell you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what\'s to be done.”
“What,” he exclaimed, starting up, “my child!—my child—my child gone! God of heaven! God of heaven, support me!—my darling! my treasure! my delight!—Oh, Cummiskey!—but it can\'t be—to desert me!—to leave me in misery and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!—she that was the prop of my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, Cummiskey, it is not so, it can\'t be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the house; you don\'t know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she—ha—what? what?—she wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! and said—Here, Cummiskey, assist me to dress. Oh, I see it, Cummiskey, I see it! she is gone! she is gone! yes, she bade me farewell; but I was unsteady and unsettled after too much drink, and did not comprehend her meaning.”
It is impossible to describe the almost frantic distraction of that loving father, who, as he said, had no prop to lean upon but his Cooleen Bawn, for he himself often loved to call her by that appellation.
“Cummiskey,” he proceeded, “we will pursue them—we must have my darling back: yes, and I will forgive her, for what is she but a child, Cummiskey, not yet twenty. But in the meantime I will shoot him dead—dead—dead—if he had a thousand lives; and from this night out I shall pursue Popery, in all its shapes and disguises; I will imprison it, transport it, hang it—hang it, Cummiskey, as round as a hoop. Ring the bell, and let Lanigan unload, and then reload my pistols; he always does it; his father was my grandfather\'s gamekeeper, and he understands fire-arms. Here, though, help me on with my boots first, and then I will be dressed immediately. After giving the pistols to Lanigan, desire the grooms and hostlers to saddle all the horses in the stables. We must set out and pursue them. It is possible we may overtake them yet. I will not level a pistol against my child; but, by the great Boyne! if we meet them, come up with them, overtake them, his guilty spirit will stand before the throne of judgment this night. Go now, give the pistols to Lanigan, and tell him to reload them steadily.”
We leave them now, in order that we may follow the sheriff and his party, who went to secure the body of the Red Rapparee. This worthy person, not at all aware of the friendly office which his patron, Sir Robert, intended to discharge towards him, felt himself quite safe, and consequently took very little pains to secure his concealment. Indeed, it could hardly be expected that he should, inasmuch as Whitecraft had led him to understand, as we have said, that Government had pardoned him his social trangressions, as a per contra for those political ones which they still expected from him. Such was his own view of the case, although he was not altogether free from misgiving, and a certain vague apprehension. Be this ............