Читать книгу Willy Reilly - William Carleton - Страница 12

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We will not attempt to describe the tumult of delight which agitated Reilly's heart on his way home, after this tender interview with the most celebrated Irish beauty of that period. The term Cooleen Bawn, in native Irish, has two meanings, both of which were justly applied to her, and met in her person. It signifies fair locks, or, as it may be pronounced fair girl; and in either sense is peculiarly applicable to a blonde beauty, which she was. The name of Cooleen Bawn was applied to her by the populace, whose talent for finding out and bestowing epithets indicative either of personal beauty or deformity, or of the qualities of the mind or character, be they good or evil, is, in Ireland, singularly felicitous. In the higher ranks, however, she was known as “The Lily of the Plains of Boyne,” and as such she was toasted by all parties, not only in her own native county, but throughout Ireland, and at the viceregal entertainments in the Castle of Dublin. At the time of which we write, the penal laws were in operation against the Roman Catholic population of the country, and her father, a good-hearted man by nature, was wordy and violent by prejudice, and yet secretly kind and friendly to many of that unhappy creed, though by no means to all. It was well known, however, that in every thing that was generous and good in his character, or in the discharge of his public duties as a magistrate, he was chiefly influenced by the benevolent and liberal principles of his daughter, who was a general advocate for the oppressed, and to whom, moreover, he could deny nothing. This accounted for her popularity, as it does for the extraordinary veneration and affection with which her name and misfortunes are mentioned down to the present day. The worst point in her father's character was that he never could be prevailed on to forgive an injury, or, at least, any act that he conceived to be such, a weakness or a vice which was the means of all his angelic and lovely daughter's calamities.

Reilly, though full of fervor and enthusiasm, was yet by no means deficient in strong sense. On his way home he began to ask himself in what this overwhelming passion for Cooleen Bawn must end. His religion, he was well aware, placed an impassable gulf between them. Was it then generous or honorable in him to abuse the confidence and hospitality of her father by engaging the affections of a daughter, on whose welfare his whole happiness was placed, and to whom, moreover, he could not, without committing an act of apostasy that he abhorred, ever be united as a husband? Reason and prudence, moreover, suggested to him the danger of his position, as well as the ungenerous nature of his conduct to the grateful and trusting father. But, away with reason and prudence—away with everything but love. The rapture of his heart triumphed over every argument; and, come weal or woe, he resolved to win the far-famed “Star of Connaught,” another epithet which she derived from her wonderful and extraordinary beauty.

On approaching his own house he met a woman named Mary Mahon, whose character of a fortune-teller was extraordinary in the country, and whose predictions, come from what source they might, had gained her a reputation which filled the common mind with awe and fear.

“Well, Mary,” said he, “what news from futurity? And, by the way, where is futurity? Because if you don't know,” he proceeded, laughing, “I think I could tell you.”

“Well,” replied Mary, “let me hear it. Where is it, Mr. Reilly?”

“Why,” he replied, “just at the point of your own nose, Mary, and you must admit it is not a very long one; pure Milesian, Mary; a good deal of the saddle in its shape.”

The woman stood and looked at him for a few moments.

“My nose may be short,” she replied, “but shorter will be the course of your happiness.”

“Well, Mary,” he said, “I think as regards my happiness that you know as little of it as I do myself. If you tell me any thing that has passed, I may give you some credit for the future, but not otherwise.”

“Do you wish to have your fortune tould, then,” she asked, “upon them terms?”

“Come, then, I don't care if I do. What has happened me, for instance, within the last forty-eight hours?”

“That has happened you within the last forty-eight hours that will make her you love the pity of the world before her time. I see how it will happen, for the complaint I speak of is in the family. A living death she will have, and you yourself during the same time will have little less.”

“But what has happened me, Mary?”

“I needn't tell you—you know—it. A proud heart, and a joyful heart, and a lovin' heart, you carry now, but it will be a broken heart before long.”

“Why, Mary, this is an evil prophecy; have you nothing good to foretell?”

“If it's a satisfaction to you to know, I will tell you: her love for you is as strong, and stronger, than death itself; and it is the suffering of what is worse than death, Willy Reilly, that will unite you both at last.”

Reilly started, and after a pause, in which he took it for granted that Mary spoke merely from one of those shrewd conjectures which practised impostors are so frequently in the habit of hazarding, replied, “That won't do, Mary; you have told me nothing yet that has happened within the last forty-eight hours. I deny the truth of what you say.”

“It won't be long so, then, Mr. Reilly; you saved the life of the old half-mad squire of Corbo. Yes, you saved his life, and you have taken his daughter's! for indeed it would be better for her to die at wanst than to suffer what will happen to you and her.”

“Why, what is to happen?”

“You'll know it too soon,” she replied, “and there's no use in making you unhappy. Good-by, Mr. Reilly; if you take a friend's advice you'll give her up; think no more of her. It may cost you an aching heart to do so, but by doin' it you may save her from a great deal of sorrow, and both of you from a long and heavy term of suffering.”

Reilly, though a young man of strong reason in the ordinary affairs of life, and of a highly cultivated intellect besides, yet felt himself influenced by the gloomy forebodings of this notorious woman. It is true he saw, by the force of his own sagacity, that she had uttered nothing which any person acquainted with the relative position of himself and Cooleen Bawn, and the political circumstances of the country, might not have inferred as a natural and probable consequence. In fact he had, on his way home, arrived at nearly the same conclusion. Marriage, as the laws of the country then stood, was out of the question, and could not be legitimately effected. What, then, must the consequence of this irresistible but ill-fated passion be? An elopement to the Continent would not only be difficult but dangerous, if not altogether impossible. It was obviously evident that Mary Mahon had drawn her predictions from the same circumstances which led himself to similar conclusions; yet, notwithstanding all this, he felt that her words had thrown a foreshadowing of calamity and sorrow over his spirit, and he passed up to his own house in deep gloom and heaviness of heart. It is true he remembered that this same Mary Mahon belonged to a family that had been inimical to his house. She was a woman who had, in her early life, been degraded by crime, the remembrance of which had been by no means forgotten. She was, besides, a paramour to the Red Rapparee, and he attributed much of her dark and ill-boding prophecy to a hostile and malignant spirit.

On the evening of the same day, probably about the same hour, the old squire having recruited himself by sleep, and felt refreshed and invigorated, sent for his daughter to sit with him as was her wont; for indeed, as the reader may now fully understand, his happiness altogether depended upon her society, and those tender attentions to him which constituted the chief solace of his life.

“Well, my girl,” said he, when she entered the dining-room, for he seldom left it unless when they had company, “Well, darling, what do you think of this Mr. Mahon—pooh!—no—oh, Reilly—he who saved my life, and, probably, was the means of rescuing you from worse than death? Isn't he a fine—a noble young fellow?”

“Indeed, I think so, papa; he appear's to be a perfect gentleman.”

“Hang perfect gentlemen, Helen! they are, some of them, the most contemptible whelps upon earth. Hang me, but any fellow with a long-bodied coat, tight-kneed breeches, or stockings and pantaloons, with a watch in each fob, and a frizzled wig, is considered a perfect gentleman—a perfect puppy, Helen, an accomplished trifle. Reilly, however, is none of these, for he is not only a perfect gentleman, but a brave man, who would not hesitate to risk his life in order to save that of a fellow-creature, even although he is a Papist, and that fellow-creature a Protestant.”

“Well, then, papa, I grant you,” she replied with a smile, which our readers will understand, “I grant you that he is a—ahem!—all you say.”

“What a pity, Helen that he is a Papist.”

“Why so, papa?”

“Because, if he was a staunch Protestant, by the great Deliverer that saved us from brass money, wooden shoes, and so forth, I'd marry you and him together. I'll tell you what, Helen, by the memory of Schomberg, I have a project, and it is you that must work it out.”

“Well, papa,” asked his daughter, putting the question with a smile and a blush, “pray what is this speculation?”

“Why, the fact is, I'll put him into your hands to convert him—make him a staunch Protestant, and take him for your pains. Accomplish this, and let long-legged, knock-kneed Whitecraft, and his twelve thousand a year, go and bite some other fool as he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant.'”

“What are twelve thousand a year, papa, when you know that they could not secure me happiness with such a wretch? Such a union, sir, could not be—cannot be—must not be, and I will add, whilst I am in the possession of will and reason, shall not be.”

“Well, Helen,” said her father, “if you are obstinate, so am I; but I trust we shall never have to fight for it. We must have Reilly here, and you must endeavor to convert him from Popery. If you succeed, I'll give long-shanks his nunc dimittis, and send him home on a trot.”

“Papa,” she replied, “this will be useless—it will be ruin—I know Reilly.”

“The devil you do! When, may I ask, did you become acquainted?”

“I mean,” she replied, blushing, “that I have seen enough of him during his short stay here to feel satisfied that no earthly persuasion, no argument, could induce him, at this moment especially, to change his religion. And, sir, I will add myself—yes, I will say for myself, dear papa, and for Reilly too, that if from any unbecoming motive—if for the sake of love itself, I felt satisfied that he could give up and abandon his religion, I would despise him. I should feel at once that his heart was hollow, and that he was unworthy either of my love or my respect.”

“Well, by the great Boyne, Helen, you have knocked my intellects up. I hope in God you have no Papist predilections, girl. However, it's only fair to give Reilly a trial; long-legs is to dine with us the day after tomorrow—now, I will ask Reilly to meet him here—perhaps, if I get an opportunity, I will sound him on the point myself—or, perhaps, you will. Will you promise to make the attempt? I'll take care that you and he shall have an opportunity.”

“Indeed, papa, I shall certainly mention the subject to him.”

“By the soul of Schomberg, Helen, if you do you'll convert him.”

Helen was about to make some good-natured reply, when the noise of carriage wheels was heard at the hall-door, and her father, going to the window, asked, “What noise is that? A carriage!—who can it be? Whitecraft, by the Boyne! Well, it can't be helped.”

“I will leave you, papa,” she said; “I do not wish to see this unfeeling and repulsive man, unless when it is unavoidable, and in your presence.”

She then withdrew.

Before we introduce Sir Robert Whitecraft, we must beg our readers to accompany us to the residence of that worthy gentleman, which was not more than three miles from that of Reilly. Sir Robert had large estates and a sumptuous residence in Ireland, as well as in England, and had made the former principally his place of abode since he became enamored of the celebrated Cooleen Bawn. On the occasion in question he was walking about through his grounds when a female approached him; whom we beg the reader to recognize as Mary Mahon. This mischievous woman, implacable and without principle, had, with the utmost secrecy, served Sir Robert, and many others, in a capacity discreditable alike to virtue and her sex, by luring the weak or the innocent within their toils.

“Well, Mary,” said he, “what news in the country? You, who are always on the move, should know.”

“No very good news for you, Sir Robert,” she replied.

“How is that, Mary?”

“Why, sir, Willy Reilly—the famous Willy Reilly—has got a footing in the house of old Squire Folliard.”

“And how can that be bad news to me, Mary?”

“Well, I don't know,” said she, with a cunning leer; “but this I know, that they had a love scene together this very morning, and that he kissed her very sweetly near the chimney-piece.”

Sir Robert Whitecraft did not get into a rage; he neither cursed nor swore, nor even looked angrily, but he gave a peculiar smile, which should be seen in order to be understood. “Where is your—ahem—your friend now?” he asked; and as he did so he began to whistle.

“Have you another job for him?” she inquired, in her turn, with a peculiar meaning. “Whenever I fail by fair play, he tries it by foul.”

“Well, and have not I often saved his neck, as well by my influence as by allowing him to take shelter under my roof whenever he was hard pressed?”

“I know that, your honor; and hasn't he and I often sarved you, on the other hand?”

“I grant it, Molly; but that is a matter known only to ourselves. You know I have the reputation of being very correct and virtuous.”

“I know you have,” said Molly, “with most people, but not with all.”

“Well, Molly, you know, as far as we are concerned, one good turn deserves another. Where is your friend now, I ask again?”

“Why, then, to tell you the truth, it's more than I know at the present speaking.”

“Follow me, then,” replied the wily baronet; “I wish you to see him; he is now concealed in my house; but first, mark me, I don't believe a word of what you have just repeated.”

“It's as true as Gospel for all that,” she replied; “and if you wish to hear how I found it out I'll tell you.”

“Well,” said the baronet calmly, “let us hear it.”

“You must know,” she proceeded, “that I have a cousin, one Betty Beatty, who is a housemaid in the squire's. Now, this same Betty Beatty was in the front parlor—for the squire always dines in the back—and, from a kind of natural curiosity she's afflicted with, she puts her ear to the keyhole, and afterwards her eye. I happened to be at the squire's at the time, and, as blood is thicker that wather, and as she knew I was a friend of yourrs, she tould me what she had both heard and seen, what they said, and how he kissed her.”

Sir Robert seemed very calm, and merely said, “Follow me into the house,” which she accordingly did, and remained in consultation with him and the Red Rapparee for nearly an hour, after which Sir Robert ordered his carriage, and went to pay a visit, as we have seen, at Corbo Castle.

Sir Robert Whitecraft, on entering the parlor, shook hands as a matter of course with the squire. At this particular crisis the vehement but whimsical old man, whose mind was now full of another project with reference to his daughter, experienced no great gratification from this visit, and, as the baronet shook hands with him, he exclaimed somewhat testily.

“Hang it, Sir Robert, why don't you shake hands like a man? You put that long yellow paw of yours, all skin and bones, into a man's hand, and there you let it lie. But, no matter, every one to his nature. Be seated, and tell me what news. Are the Papists quiet?”

“There is little news stirring, sir; at least if there be, it does not come my way, with the exception of this report about yourself, which I hope is not true; that there was an attempt made on your life yesterday evening?”

Whilst Sir Robert spoke he approached a looking-glass, before which he presented himself, and commenced adjusting his dress, especially his wig, a piece of vanity which nettled the quick and irritable feelings of the squire exceedingly. The inference he drew was, that this wealthy suitor of his daughter felt more about his own personal appearance before her than about the dreadful fate which he himself had so narrowly escaped.

“What signifies that, my dear fellow, when your wig is out of balance? it's a little to the one side, like the ear of an empty jug, as they say.”

“Why, sir,” replied the baronet, “the fact is, that I felt—hum!—hum—so much—so much—a—anxiety—hum!—to see you and—a—a—to know all about it—that—a—I didn't take time to—a—look to my dress. And besides, as I—hum!—expect to have—a—the pleasure of an interview with Miss Folliard—a—hum!—now that I'm here—I feel anxious to appear to the best advantage—a—hum!”

While speaking he proceeded with the readjustment of his toilet at the large mirror, an operation which appeared to constitute the great object on which his mind was engaged, the affair of the squire's life or death coming in only parenthetically, or as a consideration of minor importance.

In height Sir Robert Whitecraft was fully six feet two; but being extremely thin and lank, and to all appearance utterly devoid of substance, and of every thing like proportion, he appeared much taller than even nature had made him. His forehead was low, and his whole character felonious; his eyes were small, deep set, and cunning; his nose was hooked, his mouth was wide, but his lips thin to a miracle, and such as always—are to be found under the nose of a miser; as for a chin, we could not conscientiously allow him any; his under-lip sloped off until it met the throat with a curve not larger than that of an oyster-shell, which when open to the tide, his mouth very much resembled. As for his neck, it was so long that no portion of dress at that time discovered was capable of covering more than one third of it; so that there were always two parts out of three left stark naked, and helplessly exposed to the elements. Whenever he smiled he looked as if he was about to weep. As the squire said, he was dreadfully round-shouldered—had dangling arms, that kept napping about him as if they were moved by some machinery that had gone out of order—was close-kneed—had the true telescopic leg—and feet that brought a very large portion of him into the closest possible contact with the earth.

“Are you succeeding, Sir Robert?” inquired the old man sarcastically, “because, if you are, I swear you're achieving wonders, considering the slight materials you have to work upon.”

“Ah! sir,” replied the baronet, “I perceive you are in one of your biting humors to-day.”

“Biting!” exclaimed the other. “Egad, it's very well for most of your sporting acquaintances that you're free from hydrophobia; if you were not, I'd have died pleasantly between two feather beds, leaving my child an orphan long before this. Egad, you bit me to some purpose.”

“Oh, ay, you allude to the affair of 'Hop-and-go-constant' and 'Pat the Spanker;' but you know, my dear sir, I gave you heavy boot;” and as he spoke, he pulled up the lapels of his coat, and glanced complacently at the profile of his face and person in the glass.

“Pray, is Miss Folliard at home, sir?”

“Again I'm forgotten,” thought the squire. “Ah, what an affectionate son-in-law he'd make! What a tender husband for Helen! Why, hang the fellow, he has a heart for nobody, but himself. She is at home, Sir Robert, but the truth is, I don't think it would become me, as a father anxious for the happiness of his child, and that child, an only one, to sacrifice her happiness—the happiness of her whole life—to wealth or ambition. You know she herself entertains a strong prejudice—no, that's not the word—”

“I beg your pardon, sir; that is the word; her distaste to me is a prejudice, and nothing else.”

“No, Sir Robert; it is not the word. Antipathy is the word. Now I tell you, once for all, that I will not force my child.”

“This change, Mr. Folliard,” observed the baronet, “is somewhat of the suddenest. Has any thing occurred on my part to occasion it?”

“Perhaps I may have other views for her, Sir Robert.”

“That may be; but is such conduct either fair or honorable towards me, Mr. Folliard? Have I got a rival, and if so, who is he?”

“Oh, I wouldn't tell you that for the world.”

“And why not, pray?”

“Because,” replied the squire, “if you found out who he was, you'd be hanged for cannibalism.”

“I really don't understand you, Mr. Folliard. Excuse me, but it would seem to me that something has put you into no very agreeable humor to-day.”

“You don't understand me! Why, Sir Robert,” replied the other, “I know you so well that if you heard the name of your rival you would first kill him, then powder him, and, lastly, eat him. You are such a terrible fellow that you care about no man's life, not even about mine.”

Now it was to this very point that the calculating baronet wished to bring him. The old man, he knew, was whimsical, capricious, and in the habit of taking all his strongest and most enduring resolutions from sudden contrasts produced by some mistake of his own, or from some discovery made to him on the part of others.

“As to your life, Mr. Folliard, let me assure you,” replied Sir Robert, “that there is no man living prizes it, and, let me add, you character too, more highly than I do; but, my dear sir, your life was never in danger.”

“Never in danger! what do you mean, Sir Robert? I tell you, sir, that the murdering miscreant, the Red Rapparee, had a loaded gun levelled at me last evening, after dark.”

“I know it,” replied the other; “I am well aware of it, and you were rescued just in the nick of time.”

“True enough,” said the squire, “just in the nick of time; by that glorious young fellow—a—a—yes—Reilly—Willy Reilly.”

“This Willy Reilly, sir, is a very accomplished person, I think.”

“A gentleman, Sir Robert, every inch of him, and as handsome and fine-looking a young fellow as ever I laid my eyes upon.”

“He was educated on the Continent by the Jesuits.”

“No!” replied the squire, dreadfully alarmed at this piece of information, “he was not; by the great Boyne, he wasn't.”

This mighty asseveration, however, was exceedingly feeble in moral strength and energy, for, in point of fact, it came out of the squire's lips more in the shape of a question than an oath.

“It is unquestionably true, sir,” said the baronet; “ask himself, and he will admit it.”

“Well, and granting that he was,” replied the squire, “what else could he do, when the laws would not permit of his being educated here? I speak not against the laws, God forbid, but of his individual case.”

“We are travelling from the point, sir,” returned the baronet. “I was observing that Reilly is an accomplished person, as indeed every Jesuit is. Be that as it may, I again beg to assure you that your life stood in no risk.”

“I don't understand you, Sir Robert. You're a perfect oracle; by the great Deliverer from Pope and Popery, wooden shoes, and so forth, only that Reilly made his appearance at that moment I was a dead man.”

“Not the slightest danger, Mr. Folliard. I am aware of that, and of the whole Jesuitical plot from the beginning, base, ingenious, but diabolical as it was.”

The squire rose up and looked at him for a minute, without speaking, then sat down again, and, a second time, was partially up, but resumed his seat.

“A plot!” he exclaimed; “a plot, Sir Robert! What plot?”

“A plot, Mr. Folliard, for the purpose of creating an opportunity to make your acquaintance, and of ingratiating himself into the good graces and affections of your lovely daughter; a plot for the purpose of marrying her.”

The Squire seemed for a moment thunderstruck, but in a little time he recovered. “Marrying her!” he exclaimed; “that, you know, could not be done, unless he turned Protestant.”

It was now time for the baronet to feel thunderstricken.

“He turn Protestant! I don't understand you, Mr. Folliard. Could any change on Reilly's part involve such a probability as a marriage between him and your daughter?”

“I can't believe it was a plot, Sir Robert,” said the squire, shifting the question, “nor I won't believe it. There was too much truth and sincerity in his conduct. And, what is more, my house would have been attacked last night; I myself robbed and murdered, and my daughter-my child, carried off, only for him. Nay, indeed, it was partially attacked, but when the villainy found us prepared they decamped; but, as for marriage, he could not marry my daughter, I say again, so long as he remains a Papist.”

“Unless he might prevail on her to turn Papist.”

“By the life of my body, Sir Robert, I won't stand this. Did you come here, sir, to insult me and to drive me into madness? What devil could have put it into your head that my daughter, sir, or any one with a drop of my blood in their veins, to the tenth generation, could ever, for a single moment, think of turning Papist? Sir, I hoped that you would have respected the name both of my daughter and myself, and have foreborne to add this double insult both to her and me. The insolence even to dream of imputing such an act to her I cannot overlook. You yourself, if you could gain a point or feather your nest by it, are a thousand times much more likely to turn Papist than either of us. Apologize instantly, sir, or leave my house.”

“I can certainly apologize, Mr. Folliard,” replied the baronet, “and with a good conscience, inasmuch as I had not the most remote intention of offending you, much less Miss Folliard—I accordingly do so promptly and at once; but as for my allegations against Reilly, I am in a position to establish their truth in the clearest manner, and to prove to you that there wasn't a. single robber, nor Rapparee either, at or about your house last night, with the exception of Reilly and his gang. If there were, why were they neither heard nor seen?”

“One of them was—the Red Rapparee himself.”

“Do not be deceived, Mr. Folliard; did you yourself, or any of your family or household, see him?”

“Why, no, certainly, we did not; I admit that.”

“Yes, and you will admit more soon. I shall prove the whole conspiracy.”

“Well, why don't you then?”

“Simply because the matter must be brought about with great caution. You—must allow me a few days, say three or four, and the proofs shall be given.”

“Very well, Sir Robert, but in the meantime I shall not throw Reilly overboard.”

“Could I not be permitted to pay my respects to Miss Folliard before I go, sir?” asked Sir Robert.

“Don't insist upon it,” replied her father; “you know perfectly well that she—that you are no favorite with her.”

“Nothing on earth, sir, grieves me so much,” said the baronet, affecting a melancholy expression of countenance, which was ludicrous to look at.

“Well, well,” said the old man, “as you can't see her now, come and meet Reilly here at dinner the day after to-morrow, and you shall have that pleasure.”

“It will be with pain, sir, that I shall force myself into that person's society; however, to oblige you, I shall do it.”

“Consider, pray consider, Sir Robert,” replied the old squire, all his pride of family glowing strong within him, “just consider that my table, sir, and my countenance, sir, and my sense of gratitude, sir, are a sufficient guarantee to the worth and respectability of any one whom I may ask to my house. And, Sir Robert, in addition to that, just reflect that I ask him to meet my daughter, and, if I don't mistake, I think I love, honor, and respect her nearly as much as I do you. Will you come then, or will you not?”

“Unquestionably, sir, I shall do myself the honor.”

“Very well,” replied the old squire, clearing up at once—undergoing, in fact, one of those rapid and unaccountable changes which constituted so prominent a portion of his character. “Very well, Bobby; good-by, my boy; I am not angry with you; shake hands, and curse Popery.”

Until the morning of the day on which the two rivals were to meet, Miss Folliard began to entertain a dreadful apprehension that the fright into which the Red Rapparee had thrown her father was likely to terminate, ere long, in insanity. The man at best was eccentric, and full of the most unaccountable changes of temper and purpose, hot, passionate, vindictive, generous, implacable, and benevolent. What he had seldom been accustomed to do, he commenced soliloquizing aloud, and talking to himself in such broken hints and dark mysterious allusions, drawing from unknown premises such odd and ludicrous inferences; at one time brushing himself up in Scripture; at another moment questioning his daughter about her opinion on Popery—sometimes dealing about political and religious allusions with great sarcasm, in which he was a master when he wished, and sometimes with considerable humor of illustration, so far, at least, as he could be understood.

“Confound these Jesuits,” said he; “I wish they were scourged out of Europe. Every man of them is sure to put his finger in the pie and then into his mouth to taste what it's like; not so the parsons—Hallo! where am I? Take care, old Folliard; take care, you old dog; what have you to say in favor of these same parsons—lazy, negligent fellows, who snore and slumber, feed well, clothe well, and think first of number one? Egad, I'm in a mess between them. One makes a slave of you, and the other allows you to play the tyrant. A plague, as I heard a fellow say in a play once, a plague o' both your houses: if you paid more attention to your duties, and scrambled less for wealth and power, and this world's honors, you would not turn it upside down as you do. Helen!”

“Well, papa.”

“I have doubts whether I shall allow you to sound Reilly on. Popery.”

“I would rather decline it, sir.”

“I'll tell you what; I'll see Andy Cummiskey—Andy's opinion is good on any thing.” And accordingly he proceeded to see his confidential old servant. With this purpose, and in his own original manner, he went about consulting every servant under his roof upon their respective notions of Popery, as he called it, and striving to allure them, at one time by kindness, and at another by threatening them, into an avowal of its idolatrous tendency. Those to whom he spoke, however, knew very little about it, and, like those of all creeds in a similar predicament, he found that, in proportion to their ignorance of its doctrines, arose the vehemence and sincerity of their defence of it. This, however, is human nature, and we do not see how the learned can condemn it. Upon the day appointed for dinner only four sat down to it—that is to say, the squire, his daughter, Sir Robert Whitecraft, and Reilly. They had met in the drawing-room some time before its announcement, and as the old man introduced the two latter, Reilly's bow was courteous and gentlemanly, whilst that of the baronet, who not only detested Reilly with the hatred of a demon, but resolved to make him feel the superiority of rank and wealth, was frigid, supercilious, and offensive. Reilly at once saw this, and, as he knew not that the baronet was in possession of his secret, he felt his ill-bred insolence the more deeply. He was too much of a gentleman, however, and too well acquainted with the principles and forms of good breeding, to seem to notice it in the slightest degree. The old squire at this time had not at all given Reilly up, but still his confidence in him was considerably shaken. He saw, moreover, that, notwithstanding what had occurred at their last interview, the baronet had forgotten the respect due both to himself and his daughter; and, as he had, amidst all his eccentricities, many strong touches of the old Irish gentleman about him, he resolved to punish him for his ungentlemanly deportment. Accordingly, when dinner was announced, he said:

“Mr. Reilly, you will give Miss Folliard your arm.”

We do not say that the worthy baronet squinted, but there was a bad, vindictive look in his small, cunning eyes, which, as they turned upon Reilly, was ten times more repulsive than the worst squint that ever disfigured a human countenance. To add to his chagrin, too, the squire came out with a bit of his usual sarcasm.

“Come, baronet,” said he, “here's my arm. I am the old man, and you are the old lady; and now for dinner.”

In the meantime Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn had gone far enough in advance to be in a condition to speak without being heard.

“That,” said she, “is the husband my father intends for me, or, rather, did intend; for, do you know, that you have found such favor in his sight that—that—” she hesitated, and Reilly, looking into her face, saw that she blushed deeply, and he felt by her arm that her whole frame trembled with emotion.

“Proceed, dearest love,” said he; “what is it?”

“I have not time to tell you now,” she replied, “but he mentioned a project to me which, if it could be accomplished, would seal both your happiness and mine forever. Your religion is the only obstacle.”

“And that, my love,” he replied, “is an insurmountable one.”

“Alas! I feared as much,” she replied, sighing bitterly as she spoke.

The old squire took the head of the table, and requested Sir Robert to take the foot; his daughter was at his right hand, and Reilly opposite her, by which means, although denied any confidential use of the tongue, their eyes enjoyed very gratifying advantages, and there passed between them occasionally some of those rapid glances which, especially when lovers are under surveillance, concentrate in their lightning flash more significance, more hope, more joy, and more love, than ever was conveyed by the longest and tenderest gaze of affection under other circumstances.

“Mr. Reilly,” said the squire, “I'm told that you are a very well educated man; indeed, the thing is evident. What, let me ask, is your opinion of education in general?”

“Why, sir,” replied Reilly, “I think there can be but one opinion about it. Without education a people can never be moral, prosperous, or happy. Without it, how are they to learn the duties of this life, or those still more important ones that prepare them for a better?”

“You would entrust the conduct and control of it, I presume, sir, to the clergy?” asked Sir Robert insidiously.

“I would give the priest such control in education as becomes his position, which is not only to educate the youth, but to instruct the man, in all the duties enjoined by religion.”

The squire now gave a triumphant look at the baronet, and a very kind and gracious one at Reilly.

“Pray, sir,” continued the baronet, in his cold, supercilious manner, “from the peculiarity of your views, I feel anxious, if you will pardon me, to ask where you yourself have received your very accomplished education.”

“Whether my education, sir, has been an accomplished one or otherwise,” replied Reilly, “is a point, I apprehend, beyond the reach of any opportunity you ever had to know. I received my education, sir, such as it is, and if it be not better the fault is my own, in a Jesuit seminary on the Continent.”

It was now the baronet's time to triumph; and indeed the bitter glancing look he gave at the squire, although it was intended for Reilly, resembled that which one of the more cunning and ferocious beasts of prey makes previous to its death-spring upon its victim. The old man's countenance instantly fell. He looked with surprise, not unmingled with sorrow and distrust, at Reilly, a circumstance which did not escape his daughter, who could not, for the life of her, avoid fixing her eyes, lovelier even in the disdain they expressed, with an indignant look at the baronet.

The latter, however, felt resolved to bring his rival still further within the toils he was preparing for him, an object which Reilly's candor very much facilitated.

“Mr. Reilly,” said the squire, “I was not prepared to hear—a—a—hem—God bless me, it is very odd, very deplorable, very much to be regretted indeed!”

“What is, sir?” asked Reilly.

“Why, that you should be a Jesuit. I must confess I was not—ahem!—God bless me. I can't doubt your own word, certainly.”

“Not on this subject,” observed the baronet coolly.

“On no subject, sir,” replied Reilly, looking him sternly, and with an indignation that was kept within bounds only by his respect for the other parties, and the roof that covered him; “On no subject, Sir Robert Whitecraft, is my word to be doubted.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the other, “I did not say so.”

“I will neither have it said, sir, nor insinuated,” rejoined Reilly. “I received my education on the Continent because the laws of this country prevented me from receiving it here. I was placed in a Jesuit seminary, not by my own choice, but by that of my father, to whom I owed obedience. Your oppressive laws, sir, first keep us ignorant, and then punish us for the crimes which that ignorance produces.”

“Do you call the laws of the country oppressive?” asked the baronet, with as much of a sneer as cowardice would permit him to indulge in.

“I do, sir, and ever will consider them so, at least so long as they deprive myself and my Catholic fellow-countrymen of their civil and religious rights.”

“That is strong language, though,” observed the other, “at this time of day.”

“Mr. Reilly,” said the squire, “you seem to be very much attached to your religion.”

“Just as much as I am to my life, sir, and would as soon give up the one as the other.”

The squire's countenance literally became pale, his last hope was gone, and so great was his agitation that, in bringing a glass of wine to his lips, his hand trembled to such a degree that he spilled a part of it. This, however, was not all. A settled gloom—a morose, dissatisfied expression—soon overshadowed his features, from which disappeared all trace of that benignant, open, and friendly hospitality towards Reilly that had hitherto obtained from them. He and the baronet exchanged glances of whose import, if Reilly was ignorant, not so his beloved Cooleen Bawn. For the remainder of the evening the squire treated Reilly with great coolness; always addressing him as Mister, and evidently contemplating him in a spirit which partook of the feeling that animated Sir Robert Whitecraft.

Helen rose to withdraw, and contrived, by a sudden glance at the door, and another as quick in the direction of the drawing-room, to let her lover know that she wished him to follow her soon. The hint was not lost, for in less than half an hour Reilly, who was of very temperate habits, joined her as she had hinted.

“Reilly,” said she, as she ran to him, “dearest Reilly! there is little time to be lost. I perceive that a secret understanding respecting you exists between papa and that detestable baronet. Be on your guard, especially against the latter, who has evidently, ever since we sat down to dinner, contrived to bring papa round to his own way of thinking, as he will ultimately, perhaps, to worse designs and darker purposes. Above all things, speak nothing that can be construed against the existing laws. I find that danger, if not positive injury, awaits you. I shall, at any risk, give you warning.”

“At no risk, beloved!”

“At every risk—at all risks, dearest Reilly! Nay, more—whatever danger may encompass you shall be shared by me, even at the risk of my life, or I shall extricate you out of it. But perhaps you will not be faithful to me. If so, I shudder to think what might happen.”

“Listen,” said Reilly, taking her by the hand, “In the presence of heaven, I am yours, and yours only, until death!”

She repeated his words, after which they had scarcely taken their seats when the squire and Sir Eobert entered the drawing-room.