The next morning rumor had, as they say, her hands and tongues very full of business. Reilly and the Red Rapparee were lodged in Sligo jail that night, and the next morning the fact was carried by the aforesaid rumor far and wide over the whole country. One of the first whose ears it reached was the gallant and virtuous Sir Robert Whitecraft, who no sooner heard it than he ordered his horse and rode at a rapid rate to see Mr. Folliard, in order, now that Reilly was out of the way, to propose an instant marriage with the Cooleen Bawn. He found the old man in a state very difficult to be described, for he had only just returned to the drawing-room from the strongly sentinelled chamber of his daughter. Indignation against Reilly seemed now nearly lost in the melancholy situation of the wretched Cooleen Bawn. He had just seen her, but, somehow, the interview had saddened and depressed his heart. Her position and the state of her feelings would have been pitiable, even to the eye of a stranger; what, then, must they not have been to a father who loved her as he did? “Helen,” said he, as he took a chair in her room, after her guards had been desired to withdraw for a time, “Helen, are you aware that you have eternally disgraced your own name, and that of your father and your family?”

Helen, who was as pale as death, looked at him with vacant and unrecognizing eyes, but made no reply, for it was evident that she either had not heard, or did not understand, a word he said.

“Helen,” said he, “did you hear me?”

She looked upon him with a long look of distress and misery, but there was the vacancy still, and no recognition.

This, I suppose, thought the father, is just the case with every love-sick girl in her condition, who will not be allowed to have her own way; but of what use is a father unless he puts all this nonsense down, and substitutes his own judgment for that of a silly girl. I will say something now that will startle her, and I will say nothing but what I will bring about.

“Helen, my darling,” he said, “are you both deaf and blind, that you can neither see nor hear your father, and to-morrow your wedding-day? Sir Robert Whitecraft will be here early; the special license is procured, and after marriage you and he start for his English estates to spend the honeymoon there, after which you both must return and live with me, for I need scarcely say, Helen, that I could not live without you. Now I think you ought to be a happy girl to get a husband possessed of such immense property.”

She started and looked at him with something like returning consciousness. “But where is Willy Reilly?” she asked.

“The villain that would have robbed me of my property and my daughter is now safe in Sligo jail.”

A flash of something like joy—at least the father took it as such—sparkled in a strange kind of triumph from her eyes.

“Ha,” said she, “is that villain safe at last? Dear papa, I am tired of all this—this—yes, I am tired of it, and it is time I should; but you talked about something else, did you not? Something about Sir Robert Whitecraft and a marriage. And what is my reply to that? why, it is this, papa: I have but one life, sir. Now begone, and leave me, or, upon my honor, I will push you out of the room. Have I not consented to all your terms. Let Sir Robert come tomorrow and he shall call me his wife before the sun reaches his meridian. Now, leave me; leave me, I say.”

In this uncertain state her father found himself compelled to retire to the drawing-room, where Sir Robert and he met.

“Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “is this true?”

“Is what true, Sir Robert?” said he sharply.

“Why, that Reilly and the Red Rapparee are both in Sligo jail?”

“It is true, Sir Robert; and it must be a cursed thing to be in jail for a capital crime.”

“Are you becoming penitent,” asked the other, “for bringing the laws of the land to bear upon the villain that would have disgraced, and might have ruined, your only daughter?”

The father\'s heart was stung by the diabolical pungency of this question.

“Sir Robert,” said he, “we will hang him if it was only to get the villain out of the way; and if you will be here to-morrow at ten o\'clock, the marriage must take place. I\'ll suffer no further nonsense about it; but, mark me, after the honeymoon shall have passed, you and she must come and reside here; to think that I could live without her is impossible. Be here, then, at ten o\'clock; the special license is ready, and I have asked the Rev. Samson Strong to perform the ceremony. A couple of my neighbor Ashford\'s daughters will act as bridesmaids, and I myself will give her away: the marriage articles are drawn up, as you know, and there will be little time lost in signing them; and yet, it\'s a pity to—but no matter—be here at ten.”

Whitecraft took his leave in high spirits. The arrest and imprisonment of Reilly had removed the great impediment that had hitherto lain in the way of his marriage; but not so the imprisonment of the Red Rapparee. The baronet regretted that that public and notorious malefactor had been taken out of his own hands, because he wished, as the reader knows, to make the delivering of him up to the Government one of the elements of his reconciliation to it. Still, as matters stood, he felt on the whole gratified at what had happened.

Folliard, after the baronet had gone, knew not exactly how to dispose of himself. The truth is, the man\'s heart was an anomaly—a series of contradictions, in which one feeling opposed another for a brief space, and then was obliged to make way for a new prejudice equally transitory and evanescent. Whitecraft he never heartily liked; for though the man was blunt, he could look through a knave, and appreciate a man of honor, with a great deal of shrewd accuracy. To be sure, Whitecraft was enormously rich, but then he was penurious and inhospitable, two vices strongly and decidedly opposed to the national feeling.

“Curse the long-legged scoundrel,” he exclaimed; “if he should beget me a young breed of Whitecrafts like himself I would rather my daughter were dead than marry him. Then, on the other hand, Reilly; hang the fellow, had he only recanted his nonsensical creed, I could—but then, again, he might, after marriage, bring her over to the Papists, and then, by the Boyne, all my immense property would become Roman Catholic. By Strongbow, he\'d teach the very rivers that run through it to sing Popish psalms in Latin: he would. However, the best way is to hang him out of the way, and when Jack Ketch has done with him, so has Helen. Curse Whitecraft, at all events!”

We may as well hint here that he had touched the Burgundy to some purpose; he was now in that state of mental imbecility where reason, baffled and prostrated by severe mental suffering and agitation, was incapable of sustaining him without having recourse to the bottle. In the due progress of the night he was helped to bed, and had scarcely been placed and covered up there when he fell fast asleep.

Whitecraft, in the meantime, suspected, of course, or rather he was perfectly aware of the fact, that unless by some ingenious manoeuvre, of which he could form no conception, a marriage with the Cooleen Bawn would be a matter of surpassing difficulty; but he cared not, provided it could be effected by any means, whether foul or fair. The attachment of this scoundrel to the fair and beautiful Cooleen Bawn was composed of two of the worst principles of the heart—sensuality and avarice; but, in this instance, avarice came in to support sensuality. What the licentious passions of the debauchee might have failed to tempt him to, the consideration of her large fortune accomplished. And such was the sordid and abominable union of the motives which spurred him on to the marriage.

The next morning, being that which was fixed for his wedding-day, he was roused at an early hour by a loud rapping at his hall-door. He started on his elbow in the bed, and ringing the bell for his valet, asked, when that gentleman entered his apartment half dressed, “What was the matter? what cursed knocking was that? Don\'t they know I can hunt neither priest nor Papist now, since this polite viceroy came here.”

“I don\'t know what the matter is, Sir Robert; they are at it again; shall I open the door, sir?”

“Certainly; open the door immediately.”

“I think you had better dress, Sir Robert, and see what they want.”

The baronet threw his long fleshless shanks out of the bed, and began to get on his clothes as fast as he could.

“Ha!” said he, when he was nearly dressed, “what if this should be a Government prosecution for what I have undertaken to do on my own responsibility during the last Administration? But no, surely it cannot be; they would have given me some intimation of their proceedings. This was due to my rank and station in the country, and to my exertions, a zealous Protestant, to sustain the existence of Church and State. Curse Church and State if it be! I have got myself, perhaps, into a pretty mess by them.”

He had scarcely uttered the last words when Mr. Hastings, accompanied by two or three officers of justice, entered his bedroom.

“Ah, Hastings, my dear friend, what is the matter? Is there any thing wrong, or can I be of any assistance to you? if so, command me. But we are out of power now, you know. Still, show me how I can assist you. How do you do?” and as he spoke he put his hand out to shake hands with. Mr. Hastings.

Page 143-- No, Sir Robert, I Cannot Take Your Hand

“No, Sir Robert, I cannot take your hand, nor the hand of any man that is red with the blood of murder. This,” said he, turning to the officers, “is Sir Robert Whitecraft; arrest him for murder and arson.”

“Why, bless me, Mr. Hastings, are you mad? Surely, I did nothing, unless under the sanction and by the instructions of the last Government?”

“That remains to be seen, Sir Robert; but, at all events, I cannot enter into any discussion with you at present. I am here as a magistrate. Informations have been sworn against you by several parties, and you must now consider yourself our prisoner and come along with us. There is a party of cavalry below to escort you to Sligo jail.”

“But how am I to be conveyed there? I hope I will be allowed my own carriage?”

“Unquestionably,” replied Mr. Hastings; “I was about to have proposed it myself. You shall be treated with every respect, six.”

“May I not breakfast before I go?”

“Certainly, sir; we wish to discharge our duty in the mildest possible manner.”

“Thank you, Hastings, thank you; you were always a good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow. You will, of course, breakfast with me; and these men must be attended to.”

And he rang the bell.

“I have already breakfasted, Sir Robert; but even if I had not, it would not become me, as your prosecutor, to do so; but perhaps the men—”

“What,” exclaimed the baronet, interrupting him, you my prosecutor! For what, pray?”

“That will come in time,” replied the other; “and you may rest assured that I would not be here now were I not made aware that you were about to be married to that sweet girl whom you have persecuted with such a mean and unmanly spirit, and designed to start with her for England this day.”

Whitecraft, now that he felt the dreadful consequences of the awful position in which he was placed, became the very picture of despair and pusillanimity; his complexion turned haggard, his eyes wild, and his hands trembled so much that he was not able to bring the tea or bread and butter to his lips; in fact, such an impersonation of rank and I unmanly cowardice could not be witnessed. He rose up, exclaiming, in a faint and hollow voice, that echoed no other sensation than that of horror:

“I cannot breakfast; I can eat nothing. What a fate is this! on the very day, too, which I thought would have consummated my happiness! Oh, it is dreadful!”

His servant then, by Mr. Hastings\' orders, packed up changes of linen and apparel in his trunk, for he saw that he himself had not the presence of mind to pay attention to any thing. In the course of a few minutes the carriage was ready, and with tottering steps he went down the stairs, and was obliged to be assisted into it by two constables, who took their places beside, him. Mr. Hastings bowed to him coldly, but said nothing; the coachman smacked his whip, and was about to start, when he turned round and said:

“Where am I to drive, Sir Robert?”

“To Sligo jail,” replied one of the constables, “as quick as you can too.”

The horses got a lash or two, and bounded on, whilst an escort of cavalry, with swords drawn, attended the coach until it reached its gloomy destination, where we will leave it for the present.

The next morning, as matters approached to a crisis, the unsteady old squire began to feel less comfortable in his mind than he could have expected. To say truth, he had often felt it rather an unnatural process to marry so lovely a girl to “such an ugly stork of a man as Whitecraft was, and a knave to boot. I cannot forget how he took me in by the \'Hop-and-go-constant\' affair. But then he\'s a good Protestant—not that I mean he has a single spark of religion in his nondescript carcass; but in those times it\'s not canting and psalm-singing we want, but good political Protestantism, that will enable us to maintain our ascendancy by other means than praying. Curse the hound that keeps him? Is this a day for him to be late on? and it now half past ten o\'clock; however, he must come soon; but, upon my honor, I dread what will happen when he does. A scene there will be no doubt of it; however, we must only struggle through it as well as we can. I\'ll go and see Helen, and try to reconcile her to this chap, or, at all events, to let her know at once that, be the consequences what they may, she must marry him, if I were myself to hold her at the altar.”

When he had concluded this soliloquy, Ellen Connor, without whose society Helen could now scarcely live, and who, on this account, had not been discharged after her elopement, she, we say, entered the room, her eye resolute with determination, and sparkling with a feeling which evinced an indignant sense of his cruelty in enforcing this odious match. The old man looked at her with surprise, for, it was the first time she had ever ventured to obtrude her conversation upon him,or to speak, unless when spoken to.

“Well, madam,” said he, “what do you want? Have you any message from your mistress? if not, what brings you here?”

“I have no message from my mistress,” she replied in a loud, if not in a vehement, voice; “I don\'t think my mistress is capable of sending a message; but I came to tell you that the God of heaven will soon send you a message, and a black one too, if you allow this cursed marriage to go on.”

“Get out, you jade—leave the room; how is it your affair?”

“Because I have what you want—a heart of pity and affection in my breast. Do you want to drive your daughter mad, or to take her life?”

“Begone, you impudent hussy; why do you dare to come here on such an occasion, only to annoy me?”

“I will not begone,” she replied, with a glowing cheek, “unless I am put out by force—until I point out the consequences of your selfish tyranny and weakness. I don\'t come to annoy you, but I come to warn you, and to tell you, that I know your daughter better than you do yourself. This marriage must not go on; or, if it does, send without delay to a lunatic asylum for a keeper for that only daughter. I know her well, and I tell you that that\'s what it\'ll come to.”

The squire had never been in the habit of being thus addressed by any of his servants; and the consequence was that the thing was new to him; so much so that he felt not only annoyed, but so much astounded, that he absolutely lost, for a brief period, the use of his speech. He looked at her with astonishment—then about the room—then up at the ceiling, and at length spoke:

“What the deuce does all this mean? What are you driving at? Prevent the marriage, you say?”

“If the man,” proceeded Connor, not even waiting to give him an answer—“if the man—had but one good point—one good quality—one virtue in his whole composition to redeem him from contempt and hatred—if he had but one feature in his face only as handsome as the worst you could find in the devil\'s—yes, if he had but one good thought, or one good feature in either his soul or body, why—vile as it would be—and barbarous as it would be—and shameful and cruel as it would be—still, it would have the one good thought, and the one good feature to justify it. But here, in this deep and wretched villain, there is nothing but one mass of vice and crime and deformity; all that the eye can ses, or the heart discover, in his soul or body, is as black, odious, and repulsive as could be conceived of the worst imp of perdition. And this is the man—the persecutor—the miser—the debauchee—the hypocrite—the murderer, and the coward, that you are going to join your good—virtuous—spotless—and beautiful daughter to! Oh, shame upon you, you heartless old man; don\'t dare to say, or pretend, that you love her as a father ought, when you would sacrifice her to so base and damnable a villain as that. And again, and what is more, I tell you not to prosecute Reilly; for, as sure as the Lord above is in heaven, your daughter is lost, and you\'ll not only curse Whitecraft, but the day and hour in which you were born—black and hopeless will be your doom if you do. And now, sir, I have done; I felt it to be my duty to tell you this, and to warn you against what I know will happen unless you go back upon the steps you have taken.”

She then courtesied to him respectfully, and left the room in a burst of grief which seized her when she had concluded.

Ellen Connor was a girl by no means deficient in education—thanks to the care and kindness of the Cooleen Bawn, who had herself instructed her. \'Tis true, she had in ordinary and familiar conversation a touch of the brogue; but, when excited, or holding converse with respectable persons, her language was such as would have done no discredit to many persons in a much higher rank of life.

After she had left the room, Folliard looked towards the door by which she had taken her exit, as if he had her still in his vision. He paused—he meditated—he walked about, and seemed taken thoroughly aback.

“By earth and sky,” he exclaimed, “but that\'s the most comical affair I have seen yet. Comical! no, not a touch of comicality in it. Zounds, is it possible that the, jade has coerced and beaten me?—dared to beard the lion in his own den—to strip him, as it were, of his claws, and to pull the very fangs out of his jaws, and, after all, to walk away in triumph? Hang me, but I must have a strong touch of the coward in me or I would not have knuckled as I did to the jade. Yet, hold—can I, or ought I to be angry with her, when I know that this hellish racket all proceeded from her love to Helen. Hang me, but she\'s a precious bit of goods, and I\'ll contrive to make her a present, somehow, for her courage. Beat me! by sun and sky she did.”

He then proceeded to Helen\'s chamber, and ordered her attendants out of the room; but, on looking at her, he felt surprised to perceive that her complexion, instead of being pale, was quite flushed, and her eyes flashing with a strange wild light that he had never seen in them before.

“Helen,” said he, “what\'s the matter, love? are you unwell?”

She placed her two snowy hands on her temples, and pressed them tightly, as if striving to compress her brain and bring it within the influence of reason.

“I fear you are unwell, darling,” he continued; “you look flushed and feverish. Don\'t, however, be alarmed; if you\'re not well, I\'d see that knave of a fellow hanged before I\'d marry you to him, and you in that state. The thing\'s out of the question, my darling Helen, and must not be done. No: God forbid that I should be the means of murdering my own child.”

So much, we may fairly presume, proceeded from the pithy lecture of Ellen Connor; but the truth was, that the undefinable old squire was the greatest parental coward in the world. In the absence of his daughter he would rant and swear and vapor, strike the ground with his staff, and give other indications of the most extraordinary resolution, combined with fiery passion, that seemed alarming. No sooner, however, did he go into her presence, and contemplate not only her wonderful beauty, but her goodness, her tenderness and affection for himself, than the bluster departed from him, his resolution fell, his courage oozed away, and he felt that he was fairly subdued, under which circumstances he generally entered into a new treaty of friendship and affection with the enemy.

Helen\'s head was aching dreadfully, and she felt feverish and distracted. Her father\'s words, however, and the affection which they expressed, went to her heart; she threw her arms about him, kissed him, and was relieved by a copious flood of tears.

“Papa,” she said, “you are both kind and good; surely you wouldn\'t kill your poor Helen?”

“Me kill you, Helen!—oh, no, faith. If Whitecraft were hanged to-morrow it wouldn\'t give me half so much pain as if your little finger ached.”

Just at this progress of the dialogue a smart and impatient knock came to the door.

“Who is that?” said the squire; “come in—or, stay till I see who you are.” He than opened the door and exclaimed, “What! Lanigan!—why, you infernal old scoundrel! how dare you have the assurance to look me in the face, or to come under my roof at all, after what I said to you about the pistols?”

“Ay, but you don\'t know the good news I have for you and Miss Helen.”

“Oh, Lanigan, is Reilly safe?—is he set at large? Oh, I am sure he must be. Never was so noble, so pure, and so innocent a heart.”

“Curse him, look at the eye of him,” said her father, pointing his cane at Lanigan; “it\'s like the eye of a sharp-shooter. What are you grinning at; you old scoundrel?”

“Didn\'t you expect Sir Robert Whitecraft here to-day to marry Miss Folliard, sir?”

“I did, sirra, and I do; he\'ll be here immediately.”

“Devil a foot he\'ll come to-day, I can tell you; and that\'s the way he treats your daughter!”

“What does this old idiot mean, Helen? Have you been drinking, sirra?”

“Not yet, sir, but plaise the Lord I\'ll soon be at it.”

“Lanigan,” said Helen, “will you state at once what you have to say?”

“I will, miss; but first and foremost, I must show you how to dance the \'Little House under the Hill,\'” and as he spoke he commenced whistling that celebrated air and dancing to it with considerable alacrity and vigor, making allowances for his age.

The father and daughter looked at each other, and Helen, notwithstanding her broken spirits, could not avoid smiling. Lanigan continued the dance, kept wheeling about to all parts of the room, like an old madcap, cutting, capering, and knocking up his heels against his ham, with a vivacity that was a perfect mystery to his two spectators, as was his whole conduct.

“Now, you drunken old scoundrel,” said his master, catching him by the collar and flourishing the cane over his head, “if you don\'t give a direct answer I will cane you within an inch of your life. What do you mean when you say that Sir Robert Whitecraft won\'t come here to-day?”

“Becaise, sir, it isn\'t convanient to him.”

“Why isn\'t it convenient, you scoundrel?&............