Part 4 (1/2)
”Aha! Mista John,” said he, ”you tall man too, but not tall as Tom Steeple--ha, ha--you good man too, Mista John--give Tom bully dinners--w.i.l.l.y Reilly, Mista John, want to see w.i.l.l.y Reilly.”
”What do you want with him, Tom? he's engaged with the master.”
”Must see him, Mista John; st.i.tch in time saves nine. Hicko! hicko!
G.o.d's sake, Mista John: G.o.d's sake! Up dere;” and as he spoke he pointed towards the sky.
”Well, but what is your business, then? What have you to say to him?
He's engaged, I tell you.”
Tom, apprehensive that he might not get an opportunity of communicating with Reilly, bolted in, and as the parlor door stood open, he saw him standing near the large chimney-piece.
”w.i.l.l.y Reilly!” he exclaimed in a voice that trembled with earnestness, ”w.i.l.l.y Reilly, dere's news for you--for de squire too--bad news--G.o.d's sake come wid Tom--you tall too, w.i.l.l.y Reilly, but not tall as Tom is.”
”What is the matter, Tom?” asked Reilly; ”you look alarmed.”
”G.o.d's sake, here, w.i.l.l.y Reilly,” replied the kind-hearted fool, ”come wid Tom. Bad news.”
”Hallo!” exclaimed the squire, ”what is the matter? Is this Tom Steeple?
Go to the kitchen, Tom, and get one of your 'bully dinners'--my poor fellow--off with you--and a pot of beer, Tom.”
An expression of distress, probably heightened by his vague and unconscious sense of the squire's kindness, was depicted strongly on his countenance, and ended in a burst of tears.
”Ha!” exclaimed Reilly, ”poor Tom, sir, was with us to-night on our duck-shooting excursion, and, now that I remember, remained behind us in the old ruin--and then he is in tears. What can this mean? I will go with you, Tom--excuse me, sir, for a few minutes--there can be no harm in hearing what he has to say.”
He accompanied the fool, with whom he remained for about six or eight minutes, after which he re-entered the parlor with a face which strove in vain to maintain its previous expression of ease and serenity.
”Well, w.i.l.l.y?” said the squire--”you see, by the way, I make an old acquaintance of you--”
”You do me honor, sir,” replied Reilly. ”Well, what was this mighty matter? Not a fool's message, I hope? eh!”
”No, sir,” said the other, ”but a matter of some importance.”
”John,” asked his master, as the butler entered, ”did you give those worthy fellows the money?”
”No, your honor,” replied the other, they were gone before I went out.”
”Well, well,” replied his master, ”it can't be helped. You will excuse me, Mr.--a--a--yes--Mr. Reilly--w.i.l.l.y--w.i.l.l.y--ay, that's it--you will excuse me, w.i.l.l.y, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is, neither of us is in a proper trim to go there--both travel-soiled, as they say--you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride--besides, I am quite too much fatigued to change my dress--John, some Madeira. I'm better than I was--but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John, tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A gla.s.s or two will do neither of us any harm, w.i.l.l.y, but a great deal of good. G.o.d bless me!
what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my young friend and preserver--for as such I will ever look upon, you.”
”Sir,” replied Reilly, ”I will not deny that the appearance of myself and my companions, in all probability, saved your life.”
”There was no probability in it, w.i.l.l.y--none at all; it would have been a dead certainty in every sense. My G.o.d! here, John--put it down here--fill for that gentleman and me--thank you, John--w.i.l.l.y,” he said as he took the gla.s.s in his trembling hand--”w.i.l.l.y--John, withdraw and send down, my daughter--w.i.l.l.y”--the old man looked at him, but was too full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room, and her father, laying down the gla.s.s, opened his arms, and said in a choking voice, ”Helen, my daughter--my child--come to me;” and as she threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.
”Dear papa!” she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over, ”what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?”
”Look at that n.o.ble young man,” he exclaimed, directing her attention to Reilly, who was still standing. ”Look at him, my life, and observe him well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from the deadly aim of an a.s.sa.s.sin--from being murdered by O'Donnel, the Red Rapparee, in the lonely moors.”
Reilly, from the moment the far-famed _Cooleen Dawn_ entered the room, heard not a syllable the old man had said. He was absorbed, entranced, struck with a sensation of wonder, surprise, agitation, joy, and confusion, all nearly at the same moment. Such a blaze of beauty, such elegance of person, such tenderness and feeling as chastened the radiance of her countenance into something that might be termed absolutely divine; such symmetry of form; such harmony of motion; such a seraphic being in the shape of woman, he had, in fact, never seen or dreamt of. She seemed as if surrounded by an atmosphere of light, of dignity, of goodness, of grace; but that which, above all, smote him, heart on, the moment was the spirit of tenderness and profound sensibility which seemed to predominate in her whole being. Why did his manly and intrepid heart palpitate? Why did such a strange confusion seize upon him? Why did the few words which she uttered in her father's arms fill his ears with a melody that charmed him out of his strength?