Chapter XXV: Reilly stands his Trial (2)

“Poor man!” she replied, “it is not she, but you, that is to be pitied. No; after this miserable sight, never shall my lips breathe one syllable of censure against you. Your punishment is too dreadful for that. But when I look upon her--look upon her now--oh, my God! what is this?”--

“Help the girl,” said Mrs. Brown quickly, and with alarm. “Oh, she has fallen--raise her up, Mr. Folliard. Oh, my God, Mrs. Hastings, what a scene is this!”

They immediately opened her stays, and conveyed her to another settee, where she lay for nearly a quarter of an hour in a calm and tranquil insensibility. With the aid of the usual remedies, however, she was, but with some difficulty, restored, after which she burst into tears, and wept for some time bitterly. At length she recovered a certain degree of composure, and, after settling her dress and luxuriant brown hair, aided by Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Hastings, she arose, and once more approaching her lovely, but unconscious, mistress, knelt down, and, clasping her hands, looked up to heaven, whilst she said:

“Here, I take the Almighty God to witness, that from this moment out I renounce father and mother, brother and sister, friend and relative, man and woman, and will abide by my dear unhappy _Cooleen Bawn_--that blighted flower before us--both by day and by night--through all seasons--through all places wherever she may go, or be brought, until it may please God to restore her to reason, or until death may close her sufferings, should I live so long, and have health and strength to carry out this solemn oath; so may God hear me, and assist me in my intention.”

She then rose, and, putting her arms around the fair girl, kissed her lips, and poured forth a copious flood of tears into her bosom.

“I am yours now,” she said, caressing her mournfully: “I am yours now, my ever darling mistress; and from this hour forth nothing but death will ever separate your own Connor from you.”

Well and faithfully did she keep that generous and heroic oath. Ever, for many a long and hopeless year, was she to be found, both night and day, by the side of that beautiful but melancholy sufferer. No other hand ever dressed or undressed her; no other individual ever attended to her wants, or complied with those little fitful changes and caprices to which persons of her unhappy class are subject. The consequence of this tender and devoted attachment was singular, but not by any means incompatible, we think, even with her situation. If Connor, for instance, was any short time absent, and another person supplied her place, the _Cooleen Bawn_, in whose noble and loving heart the strong instincts of affection could never die, uniformly appeared dissatisfied and uneasy, and looked around her, as if for some object that would afford her pleasure. On Ellen's reappearance a faint but placid smile would shed its feeble light over her countenance, and she would appear calm and contented; but, during all this time, word uttered she none, with the exception of those to which we have already alluded.

These were the only words she was known to utter, and no stranger ever came in her way to whom she did not repeat them. In this way her father, her maid, and herself passed through a melancholy existence for better than six years, when a young physician of great promise happened to settle in the town of Sligo, and her father having heard of it had him immediately called in. After looking at her, however, he found himself accosted in the same terms we have already given:

“Oh! can you tell me where is William Reilly?”

“William Reilly will soon be with you,” he replied; “he will soon be here.”

A start--barely, scarcely perceptible, was noticed by the keen eye of the physician; but it passed away, and left nothing but that fixed and beautiful vacancy behind it.

“Sir,” said the physician, “I do not absolutely despair of Miss Folliard's recovery: the influence of some deep excitement, if it could be made accessible, might produce a good effect; it was by a shock it came upon her, and I am of opinion that if she ever does recover it will be by something similar to that which induced her pitiable malady.”

“I will give a thousand pounds--five thousand--ten thousand, to any man who will be fortunate enough to restore her to reason,” said her father.

“One course,” proceeded the physician, “I would recommend you to pursue; bring her about as much as you can; give her variety of scenery and variety of new faces; visit your friends, and bring her with you. This course may have some effect; as for medicine, it is of no use here, for her health is in every other respect good.”

He then took his leave, having first received a fee which somewhat astonished him.

His advice, however, was followed; her father and she, and Connor, during the summer and autumn months, visited among their acquaintances and friends, by whom they were treated with the greatest and most considerate kindness; but, so far as poor Helen was concerned, no symptom of any salutary change became visible; the long, dull blank of departed reason was still unbroken.

* * * * * * *

Better than seven years--and a half had now elapsed, when she and her father came by invitation to pay a visit to a Mr. Hamilton, grandfather to the late Dacre Hamilton of Monaghan, who--the grandfather we mean--was one of the most notorious priest-hunters of the day, We need not say that her faithful Connor was still in attendance. Old Folliard went riding out with his friend, for he was now so much debilitated as to be scarcely able to walk abroad for any distance, when, about the hour of two o'clock, a man in the garb, and with all the bearing of a perfect gentleman, knocked at the door, and inquired of the servant who opened it whether Miss Folliard were not there. The servant replied in the affirmative, upon which the stranger asked if he could see her.

“Why, I suppose you must be aware, sir, of Miss Folliard's unfortunate state of mind, and that she can see nobody; sir, she knows nobody, and I have strict orders to deny her to every one unless some particular friend of the family.”

The stranger put a guinea into his hand, and added, “I had the pleasure of knowing her before she lost her reason, and as I have not seen her since, I should be glad to see her now, or even to look on her for a few minutes.”

“Come up, sir,” replied the man, “and enter the drawing-room immediately after me, or I shall be ordered to deny her.”

The gentleman followed him; but why did his cheek become pale, and why did his heart palpitate as if it would burst and bound out of his bosom? We shall see. On entering the drawing-room he bowed, and was about to apologize for his intrusion, when the _Cooleen Bawn_, recognizing him as a stranger, approached him and said:

“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 any thing about William Reilly?”

The stranger staggered at this miserable sight, but probably more at the contemplation of that love which not even insanity could subdue. He felt himself obliged to lean for support upon the back of a chair, during which brief space he fixed his eyes upon her with a look of the most inexpressible tenderness and sorrow.

“Oh!” she repeated, “can you tell me where is William Reilly?”

“Alas! Helen,” said he, “I am William Reilly.”

“You!” she exclaimed. “Oh, no, the wide, wide Atlantic is between him and me.”

“It was between us, Helen, but it is not now; I am here in life before you--your own William Reilly, that William Reilly whom you loved so well, but so fatally. I am he: do you not know me?”

“You are not William Reilly,” she replied; “if you were, you would have a token.”

“Do you forget that?” he replied, placing in her hand the emerald ring she had given him at the trial. She started on looking at it, and a feeble flash was observed to proceed from her eyes.

“This might come to you,” she said, “by Reilly's death; yes, this might come to you in that way; but there is another token which is known to none but himself and me.”

“Whisper,” said he, and as he spoke he applied his mouth to her ear, and breathed the token into it.

She stood back, her eyes flashed, her beautiful bosom heaved; she advanced, looked once more, and exclaimed, with a scream, “It is he! it is he!” and the next moment she was insensible in his arms. Long but precious was that insensibility, and precious were the tears which his eyes rained down upon that pale but lovel countenance. She was soon placed upon a settee, but Reilly knelt beside her, and held one of her hands in his. After a long trance she opened her eyes and again started. Reilly pressed her hand and whispered in her ear, “Helen, I am with you at last.”

She smiled on him and said, “Help me to sit up, until I look about me, that I may be certain this is not a dream.”

She then looked about her, and as the ladies of the family spoke tenderly to her, and caressed her, she fixed her eyes once more upon her lover, and said, “It is not a dream then; this is a reality; but, alas! Reilly, I tremble to think lest they should take you from me again.”

“You need entertain no such apprehension, my dear Helen,” said the lady of the mansion. “I have often heard your father say that he would give twenty thousand pounds to have you well, and Reilly's wife. In fact, you have nothing to fear in that, or any other quarter. But there's his knock; he and my husband have returned, and I must break this blessed news to him by degrees, lest it might be too much for him if communicated without due and proper caution.”

She accordingly went down to the hall, where they were hanging up their great coats and hats, and brought them into her husband's study.

“Mr. Folliard,” said she with a cheerful face, “I think, from some symptoms of improvement noticed to-day in Helen, that we needn't be without hope.”

“Alas, alas!” exclaimed the poor father, “I have no hope; after such a length of time I am indeed without a shadow of expectation. If unfortunate Reilly were here, indeed her seeing him, as that Sligo doctor told me, might give her a chance. He saw her about a week before we came down, and those were his words. But as for Reilly, even if he were in the country, how could I look him in the face? What wouldn't I give now that he were here, that Helen was well, and that one word of mine could make them man and wife?”

“Well, well,” she replied, “don't be cast down; perhaps I could tell you good news if I wished.”

“You're beating about the bush, Mary, at all events,” said her husband, laughing.

“Perhaps, now, Mr. Folliard,” she continued, “I could introduce a young lady who is so fond of you, old and ugly as you are, that she would not hesitate to kiss you tenderly, and cry with delight on your bosom you old thief.”

They both started at her words with amazement, and her husband said: “Egad, Alick, Helen's malady seems catching. What the deuce do you mean, Molly? or must I, too, send for a doctor?”

“Shall I introduce you to the lady, though?” she proceeded, addressing the father; “but remember that, if I do, you must be a man, Mr. Folliard!”

“In God's name! do what you like,” said Mr. Hamilton, “but do it at once.”

She went upstairs, and said, “As I do not wish to bring your father up, Helen, until he is prepared for a meeting with Mr. Reilly, I will bring you down to him. The sight of you now will give him new life.”

“Oh, come, then,” said Helen, “bring me to my father; do not lose a moment, not a moment--oh, let me see him instantly!”

The poor old man suspected something. “For a thousand!” said he, “this is some good news about Helen!”

“Make your mind up for that,” replied his mend; “as sure as you live it is; and if it be, bear it stoutly.”

In the course of a few minutes Mrs. Hamilton entered the room with Helen, now awakened to perfect reason, smiling, and leaning upon her arm. “Oh, dear papa!” she exclaimed, meeting him, with a flood of tears, and resting her head on his bosom.

“What, my darling!--my darling! And you know papa once more!--you know him again, my darling Helen! Oh, thanks be to God for this happy day!” And he kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart, and wept over her with ecstasy and delight. It was a tender and tearful embrace.

“Oh, papa!” said she, “I fear I have caused you much pain and sorrow: something has been wrong, but I am well now that he is here. I felt the tones of his voice in my heart.”

“Who, darling, who?”

“Reilly, papa.”

“Hamilton, bring him down instantly; but oh, Helen, darling, how will I see him?--how can I see him? but he must come, and we must all be happy. Bring him down.”

“You know, papa, that Reilly is generosity itself.”

“He is, he is, Helen, and how could I blame you for loving him?”

Reilly soon entered; but the old man, already overpowered by what had just occurred, was not able to speak to him for some time. He clasped and pressed his hand, however, and at length said:

“My son! my son! Now,” he added, after he had recovered himself, “now that I have both together, I will not allow one minute to pass until I give you both my blessing; and in due time, when Helen gets strong, and when I get a little stouter, you shall be married; the parson and the priest will make you both happy. Reilly, can you forgive me?”

“I have nothing to forgive you, sir,” replied Reilly; “whatever you did proceeded from your excessive affection for your daughter; I am more than overpaid for any thing I may have suffered myself; had it been ages of misery, this one moment would cancel the memory of it for ever.”

“I cannot give you my estate, Reilly,” said the old man, “for that is entailed, and goes to the next male issue; but I can give you fifty thousand pounds with my girl, and that will keep you both comfortable for life.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied Reilly, “and for the sake of your daughter I will not reject it; but I am myself in independent circumstances, and could, even without your generosity, support Helen in a rank of life not unsuitable to her condition.”

It is well known that, during the period in which the incidents of our story took place, no man claiming the character of a gentleman ever travelled without his own servant to attend him. After Reilly's return to his native place, his first inquiries, as might be expected, were after his _Cooleen Bawn_; and his next, after those who had been in some degree connected with those painful circumstances in which he had been involved previous to his trial and conviction. He found Mr. Brown and Mr. Hastings much in the same state in which he left them. The latter, who had been entrusted with all his personal and other property, under certain conditions, that depended upon his return after the term of his sentence should have expired, now restored to him, and again reinstated him on the original terms into all his landed and other property, together with such sums as had accrued from it during his absence, so that he now found himself a wealthy man. Next to _Cooleen Bawn_, however, one of his first inquiries was after Fergus Reilly, whom he found domiciled with a neighboring middleman as a head servant, or kind of under steward. We need not describe the delight of Fergus on once more meeting his beloved relative at perfect liberty, and free from all danger in his native land.

“Fergus,” said Reilly, “I understand you are still a bachelor--how does that come?”

“Why, sir,” replied Fergus, “now that you know every thing about the unhappy state of the _Cooleen Bawn_, surely you can't blame poor Ellen for not desartin' her. As for me I cared nothing about any other girl, and I never could let either my own dhrame, or what you said was yours, out o' my head. I still had hope, and I still have, that she may recover.”

Reilly made no reply to this, for he feared to entertain the vague expectation to which Fergus alluded.

“Well, Fergus,” said he, “although I have undergone the sentence of a convict, yet now, after my return, I am a rich man. For the sake of old times--of old dangers and old difficulties--I should wish you to live with me, and to attend me as my own personal servant or man. I shall get you a suit of livery, and the crest of O'Reilly shall be upon it. I wish you to attend upon me, Fergus, because you understand me, and because I never will enjoy a happy heart, or one day's freedom from sorrow again. All hope of that is past, but you will be useful to me--and that you know.”

Fergus was deeply affected at these words, although he was gratified in the highest degree at the proposal. In the course of a few days he entered upon his duties, immediately after which Reilly set out on his journey to Monaghan, to see once more his beloved, but unhappy, Cooleen Baton. On arriving at that handsome and hospitable town, he put up at an excellent inn, called the “Western Arms,” kept by a man who was the model of innkeepers, known by the sobriquet of “honest Peter Philips”. We need, not now recapitulate that with which the reader is already acquainted; but we cannot omit describing a brief interview which took place in the course of a few days after the restoration of the _Cooleen Bawn_ to the perfect use of her reason, between two individuals, who, we think, have some claim upon the good-will and good wishes of our readers. We allude to Fergus Reilly and the faithful Ellen Connor. Seated in a comfortable room in the aforesaid inn--now a respectable and admirably kept hotel--with the same arms over the door, were the two individuals alluded to. Before them stood a black bottle of a certain fragrant liquor, as clear and colorless as water from the purest spring, and, to judge of it by the eye, quite as harmless; but there was the mistake. Never was hypocrisy better exemplified than by the contents of that bottle. The liquor in question came, Fergus was informed, from the green woods of Truagh, and more especially from a townland named Derrygola, famous, besides, for stout men and pretty girls.

“Well, now, Ellen darlin',” said Fergus, “if ever any two bachelors * were entitled to drink their own healths, surely you and I are. Here's to us--a happy marriage, soon and sudden. As for myself, I've had the patience of a Trojan.”

* “Bachelor,” in Ireland, especially in the country parts of
it, where English is not spoken correctly, is frequently
applied to both the sexes.

Ellen pledged him beautifully with her eyes, but very moderately with the liquor.

“Bedad!” he proceeded, “seven years--ay, and a half--wasn't a bad apprenticeship, at any rate; but, as I tould Mr. Reilly before he left the country--upon my sowl, says I, Mr. Reilly, she's worth waitin' for; and he admitted it.”

“But, Fergus, did ever any thing turn out so happy for all parties? To me it's like a dream; I can scarcely believe it.”

“Faith, and if it be a dhrame, I hope it's one we'll never waken from. And so the four of us are to be married on the same day; and we're all to live with the squire.”

“We are, Fergus; the Cooleen Bawn will have it so; but, indeed, her father is as anxious for it almost as she is. Ah, no, Fergus, she could not part with her faithful Ellen, as she calls me; nor, after all, Fergus, would her faithful Ellen wish to part with her?”

“And he's to make me steward; begad, and if I don't make a good one, I'll make an honest one. Faith, at all events, Ellen, we'll be in a condition to provide for the childre', plaise God.”

Ellen gave him a blushing look of reproach, and desired him to keep a proper tongue in his head.

“But what will we do with the five hundred, Ellen, that the squire and Mr. Reilly made up between them?”

“We'll consult Mr. Reilly about it,” she replied, “and no doubt but he'll enable us to lay it out to the best advantage. Now, Fergus dear, I must go,” she added; “you know she can't bear me even now to be any length of time away from her. Here's God bless them both, and continue them in the happiness they now enjoy.”

“Amen,” replied Fergus, “and here's God bless ourselves, and make us more lovin' to one another every day we rise; and here's to take a foretaste of it now, you thief.”

Some slight resistance, followed by certain smacking sounds, closed the interview; for Ellen, having started to her feet, threw on her cloak and bonnet, and hurried out of the room, giving back, however, a laughing look at Fergus as she escaped.

In a few months afterwards they were married, and lived with the old man until he became a grandfather to two children, the eldest a boy, and the second a girl. Upon the same day of their marriage their humble but faithful friends were also united; so that there was a double wedding. The ceremony, in the case of Reilly and his _Cooleen Bawn_, was performed by the Reverend Mr. Brown first, and the parish priest afterwards; Mr. Strong, who had been for several years conjoined to Mrs. Smellpriest, having been rejected by both parties as the officiating clergyman upon the occasion, although the lovely bride was certainly his parishioner. Age and time, however, told upon the old man; and at the expiration of three years they laid him, with many tears, in the grave of his fathers. Soon after this Reilly and his wife, accompanied by Fergus and Ellen--for the _Cooleen Bawn_ would not be separated from the latter--removed to the Continent, where they had a numerous family, principally of sons; and we need not tell our learned readers, at least, that those young men distinguished not only themselves, but their name, by acts of the most brilliant courage in continental warfare. And so, gentle reader, ends the troubled history of Willy Reilly and his own _Cooleen Bawn_.