"Don't you know me, Helen? don't you know your loving father? Oh, speak to me, child of my heart! speak but one word as a proof that you know me."

She looked on him, but that look filled his heart with unutterable anguish; he clasped her to that heart, he kissed her lips, he strove to soothe and console her--but in vain. There was the vacant but unsettled eye, from which the bright expression of reason was gone; but no recognition--no spark of reflection or conscious thought--nothing but the melancholy inquiry from those beautiful lips of--"Where's William Reilly? They have taken me from him--and will not allow me to see him.

Oh, bring me to William Reilly!"

"Oh, wretched fate!" exclaimed her distracted father, "I am--I am a murderer, and faithful Connor was right--Mrs. Brown--Mrs. Hastings--hear me, both--I was warned of this, but I would not listen either to reason or remonstrance, and now I am punished, as Connor predicted. Great heaven, what a fate both for her and me--for her the innocent, and for me the guilty!"

It is unnecessary to dwell upon the father's misery and distraction; but, from all our readers have learned of his extraordinary tenderness and affection for that good and lovely daughter, they may judge of what he suffered. He immediately ordered his carriage, and had barely time to hear that Reilly had been sentenced to transportation for seven years.

His daughter was quite meek and tractable; she spoke not, nor could any ingenuity on their part extract the slightest reply from her. Neither did she shed a single tear, but the vacant light of her eyes had stamped a fatuitous expression on her features that was melancholy and heartbreaking beyond all power of language to describe.

No other person had seen her since the bereavement of her reason, except the officer who kept guard on the lobby, and who, in the hurry and distraction of the moment, had been dispatched by Mrs. Brown for a gla.s.s of cold water. Her father's ravings, however, in the man's presence, added to his own observation, and the distress of her female friends were quite sufficient to satisfy him of the nature of her complaint, and in less than half an hour it was through the whole court-house, and the town besides, that the _Cooleen Bawn_ had gone mad on hearing the sentence that was pa.s.sed upon her lover. Her two friends accompanied her home, and remained with her for the night.

Such was the melancholy conclusion of the trial of w.i.l.l.y Reilly; but even taking it at its worst, it involved a very different fate from that of his vindictive rival, Whitecraft. It appeared that that worthy gentleman and the Red Rapparee had been sentenced to die on the same day, and at the same hour. It is true, Whitecraft was aware that a deputation had gone post-haste to Dublin Castle to solicit his pardon, or at least some lenient commutation of punishment. Still, it was feared that, owing to the dreadful state of the roads, and the slow mode of travelling at that period, there was a probability that the pardon might not arrive in time to be available; and indeed there was every reason to apprehend as much. The day appointed for the execution of the Red Rapparee and him arrived--nay, the very hour had come; but still there was hope, among his friends. The sheriff, a firm, but fair and reasonable man, waited beyond the time named by the judge for his execution. At length he felt the necessity of discharging his duty; for, although more than an hour beyond the appointed period had now elapsed, yet this delay proceeded from no personal regard he entertained for the felon, but from respect for many of those who had interested themselves in his fate.

After an unusual delay the sheriff felt himself called upon to order both the Rapparee and the baronet for execution. In waiting so long for a pardon, he felt that he had transgressed his duty, and he accordingly ordered them out for the last ceremony. The hardened Rapparee died sullen and silent; the only regret he expressed being that he could not live to see his old friend turned off before him.

"Troth," replied the hangman, "only that the sheriff has ordhered me to hang you first as bein' the betther man, I would give you that same satisfaction; but if you're not in a very great hurry to the warm corner you're goin' to, and if you will just take your time for a few minutes, I'll engage to say you will soon have company. G.o.d speed you, any way,"

he exclaimed as he turned him off; "only take your time, and wait for your neighbors. Now, Sir Robert," said he, "turn about, they say, is fair play--it's your turn now; but you look unbecomin' upon it. Hould up your head, man, and don't be cast down. You'll have company where you're goin'; for the Red Rapparee tould me to tell you that he'd wait for you.

Hallo!--what's that?" he exclaimed as he cast his eye to the distance and discovered a horseman riding for life, with a white handkerchief, or flag of some kind, floating in the breeze. The elevated position in which the executioner was placed enabled him to see the signal before it could be perceived by the crowd. "Come, Sir Robert," said he, "stand where I'll place you--there's no use in asking you to hould up your head, for you're not able; but listen. You hanged my brother that you knew to be innocent; and now I hang you that I know to be guilty. Yes, I hang you, with the white flag of the Lord Lieutenant's pardon for you wavin' in the distance; and listen again, remember w.i.l.l.y Reilly;" and with these words he launched him into eternity.

The uproar among his friends was immense, as was the cheering from the general crowd, at the just fate of this bad man. The former rushed to the gallows, in order to cut him down, with a hope that life might still be in him, a process which the sheriff, after perusing his pardon, permitted them to carry into effect. The body was accordingly taken into the prison, and a surgeon procured to examine it; but altogether in vain; his hour had gone by, life was extinct, and all the honor they could now pay Sir Robert Whitecraft was to give him a pompous funeral, and declare him a martyr to Popery both of which they did.

On the day previous to Reilly's departure his humble friend and namesake, Fergus, at the earnest solicitation of Reilly himself, was permitted to pay him a last melancholy visit. After his sentence, as well as before it, every attention had been paid to him by O'Shaughnessy, the jailer, who, although an avowed Protestant, and a brand plucked from the burning, was, nevertheless, a lurking Catholic at heart, and felt a corresponding sympathy with his prisoner. When Fergus entered his cell he found him neither fettered nor manacled, but perfectly in the enjoyment at least of bodily freedom. It is impossible, indeed, to say how far the influence of money may have gone in securing him the comforts which surrounded him, and the attentions which he received. On entering his cell, Fergus was struck by the calm and composed air with which he received him. His face, it is true, was paler than usual, but a feeling of indignant pride, if not of fixed but stern indignation, might be read under the composure into which he forced himself, and which he endeavored to suppress. He approached Fergus, and extending his hand with a peculiar smile, very difficult to be described, said:

"Fergus, I am glad to see you; I hope you are safe--at least I have heard so."

"I am safe, sir, and free," replied Fergus; "thanks to the Red Rapparee and the sheriff for it."

"Well," proceeded Reilly, "you have one comfort--the Red Rapparee will neither tempt you nor trouble you again; but is there no danger of his gang taking up his quarrel and avenging him?"

"His gang, sir? Why, only for me he would a' betrayed every man of them to Whitecraft and the Government, and had them hanged, drawn, and quartered--ay, and their heads grinning at us in every town in the county."

"Well, Fergus, let his name and his crimes perish with him; but, as for you, what do you intend to do?"

"Troth, sir," replied Fergus, "it's more than I rightly know. I had my hopes, like others; but, somehow, luck has left all sorts of lovers of late--from Sir Robert Whitecraft to your humble servant."

"But you may thank G.o.d," said Reilly, with a smile, "that you had not Sir Robert Whitecraft's luck."

"Faith, sir," replied Fergus archly, "there's a pair of us may do so.

You went nearer his luck--such as it was--than I did."

"True enough," replied the other, with a serious air; "I had certainly a narrow escape; but I wish to know, as I said, what you intend to do? It is your duty now, Fergus, to settle industriously and honestly."

"Ah, sir, honestly. I didn't expect that from you, Mr. Reilly."

"Excuse me, Fergus," said Reilly, taking him by the hand; "when I said honestly I did not mean to intimate any thing whatsoever against your integrity. I know, unfortunately, the harsh circ.u.mstances which drove you to a.s.sociate with that remorseless villain and his gang; but I wish you to resume an industrious life, and, if Ellen Connor is disposed to unite her fate with yours, I have provided the means--ample means for you both to be comfortable and happy. She who was so faithful to her mistress will not fail to make you a good wife."

"Ah," replied Fergus, "it's I that knows that well; but, unfortunately, I have no hope there."

"No hope; how is that? I thought your affection was mutual."

"So it is, sir--or, rather, so it was; but she has affection for n.o.body now, barring the _Cooleen Bawn_."

Reilly paused, and appeared deeply moved by this. "What," said he, "will she not leave her? But I am not surprised at it."

"No, sir, she will not leave her, but has taken an oath to stay by her night and day, until--better times come."

We may say here that Reillys friends took care that neither jailer nor turnkey should make him acquainted with the unhappy state of the _Cooleen Bawn_; he was consequently ignorant of it, and, fortunately, remained so until after his return home.

"Fergus," said Reilly, "can you tell me how the _Cooleen Bawn_ bears the sentence which sends me to a far country?"

"How would she bear it, sir? You needn't ask: Connor, at all events, will not part from her--not, anyway, until you come back."

"Well, Fergus," proceeded Reilly, "I have, as I said, provided for you both; what that provision is I will not mention now. Mr. Hastings will inform you. But if you have a wish to leave this unhappy and distracted country, even without Connor, why, by applying to him, you will be enabled to do so; or, if you wish to stay at home and take a farm, you may do so."

"Divil a foot I'll leave the country," replied the other. "Ellen may stick to the _Cooleen Bawn_, but, be my sowl, I'll stick to Ellen, if I was to wait these seven years. I'll be as stiff as she is stout; but, at any rate, she's worth waitin' for."

"You may well say so," replied Reilly, "and I can quarrel neither with your attachment nor your patience; but you will not forget to let her know the provision which I have left for her in the hands of Mr.

Hastings, and tell her it is a slight reward for her n.o.ble attachment to my dear _Cooleen Bawn_. Fergus," he proceeded, "have you ever had a dream in the middle of which you awoke, then fell asleep and dreamt out the dream?"

"Troth had I, often, sir; and, by the way, talkin' of dreams, I dreamt last night that I was wantin' Ellen to marry me, and she said, 'not yet, Fergus, but in due time.'"

"Well, Fergus," proceeded Reilly, "perhaps there is but half my dream of life gone; who knows when I return--if I ever do--but my dream may be completed? and happily, too; I know the truth and faith of my dear _Cooleen Bawn_. And, Fergus, it is not merely my dear _Cooleen Bawn_ that I feel for, but for my unfortunate country. I am not, however, without hope that the day will come--although it may be a distant one--when she will enjoy freedom, peace, and prosperity. Now, Fergus, good-by, and farewell! Come, come, be a man," he added, with a melancholy smile, whilst a tear stood even in his own eye--"come, Fergus, I will not have this; I won't say farewell for ever, because I expect to return and be happy yet--if not in my own country, at least in some other, where there is more freedom and less persecution for conscience' sake."

Poor Fergus, however, when the parting moment arrived, was completely overcome. He caught Reilly in his arms--wept over him bitterly--and, after a last and sorrowful embrace, was prevailed upon to take his leave.

The history of the _Cooleen Bawn's_ melancholy fate soon went far and near, and many an eye that had never rested on her beauty gave its tribute of tears to her undeserved sorrows. There existed, however, one individual who was the object of almost as deep a compa.s.sion; this was her father, who was consumed by the bitterest and most profound remorse.

His whole character became changed by his terrible and unexpected shock, by which his beautiful and angelic daughter had been blasted before his eyes. He was no longer the boisterous and convivial old squire, changeful and unsettled in all his opinions, but silent, quiet, and abstracted almost from life.

He wept incessantly, but his tears did not bring him comfort, for they were tears of anguish and despair. Ten times a day he would proceed to her chamber, or follow her to the garden where she loved to walk, always in the delusive hope that he might catch some spark of returning reason from those calm-looking but meaningless eyes, after which he would weep like a child. With respect to his daughter, every thing was done for her that wealth and human means could accomplish, but to no purpose; the malady was too deeply seated to be affected by any known remedy, whether moral or physical. From the moment she was struck into insanity she was never known to smile, or to speak, unless when she chanced to see a stranger, upon which she immediately approached, and asked, with clasped hands:

"Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly? They have taken me from him, and, I cannot find him. Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?"

There was, however, another individual upon whose heart the calamity of the _Cooleen Bawn_ fell like a blight that seemed to have struck it into such misery and sorrow as threatened to end only with life. This was the faithful and attached Ellen Connor. On the day of Reilly's trial she experienced the alternations of hope, uncertainty, and despair, with such a depth of anxious feeling, and such feverish excitement, that the period of time which elapsed appeared to her as if it would never come to an end. She could neither sit, nor stand, nor work, nor read, nor take her meals, nor scarcely think with any consistency or clearness of thought. We have mentioned hope--but it was the faintest and the feeblest element in that chaos of distress and confusion which filled and distracted her mind. She knew the state and condition of the country too well--she knew the powerful influence of Mr. Folliard in his native county--she knew what the consequences to Reilly must be of taking away a Protestant heiress; the fact was there--plain, distinct, and incontrovertible, and she knew that no chance of impunity or acquittal remained for any one of his creed guilty of such a violation of the laws--we say, she knew all this--but it was not of the fate of Reilly she thought. The girl was an acute observer, and both a close and clear thinker. She had remarked in the _Cooleen Bawn_, on several occasions, small gushes, as it were, of unsettled thought, and of temporary wildness, almost approaching to insanity. She knew, besides, that insanity was in the family on her father's side; * and, as she had so boldly and firmly stated to that father himself, she dreaded the result which Reilly's conviction might produce upon a mind with such a tendency, worn down and depressed as it had been by all she had suffered, and more especially what she must feel by the tumult and agitation of that dreadful day.

* The reader must take this as the necessary material for our fiction. There never was insanity in Helen's family; and we make this note to prevent them from taking unnecessary offence.

It was about two hours after dark when she was startled by the noise of the carriage-wheels as they came up the avenue. Her heart beat as if it would burst, the blood rushed to her head, and she became too giddy to stand or walk; then it seemed to rush back to her heart, and she was seized with thick breathing and feebleness; but at length, strengthened by the very intensity of the interest she felt, she made her way to the lower steps of the hall door in time to be present when the carriage arrived at it. She determined, however, wrought up as she was to the highest state of excitement, to await, to watch, to listen. She did so. The carriage stopped at the usual place, the coachman came down and opened the door, and Mr. Folliard came out. After him, a.s.sisted by Mrs.

Brown, came Helen, who was immediately conducted in between the latter and her father. In the meantime poor Ellen could only look on. She was incapable of asking a single question, but she followed them up to the drawing-room where they conducted her mistress. When she was about to enter, Mrs. Brown said:

"Ellen, you had better not come in; your mistress is unwell."

Mrs. Hastings then approached, and, with a good deal of judgment and consideration, said:

"I think it is better, Mrs. Brown, that Ellen should see her, or, rather, that she should see Ellen. Who can tell how beneficial the effect may be on her? We all know how she was attached to Ellen."

In addition to those fearful intimations, Ellen heard inside the sobs and groans of her distracted father, mingled with caresses and such tender and affectionate language as, she knew by the words, could only be addressed to a person incapable of understanding them. Mrs. Brown held the door partially closed, but the faithful girl would not be repulsed. She pushed in, exclaiming:

"Stand back, Mrs. Brown, I must see my mistress!--if she is my mistress, or anybody's mistress now,"--and accordingly she approached the settee on which the _Cooleen Bawn_ sat. The old squire was wringing his hands, sobbing, and giving vent to the most uncontrollable sorrow.