Part 10 (1/2)
”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 grat.i.tude, 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 const.i.tuted 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, pa.s.sionate, 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 ill.u.s.tration, 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 c.u.mmiskey--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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances.