"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 n.o.ble 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 bra.s.s 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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAGE 28 (and Frontispiece)--You must endeavor to convert him from Popery]

"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 G.o.d 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 princ.i.p.ally 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 s.e.x, 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, w.i.l.l.y Reilly--the famous w.i.l.l.y 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-gla.s.s, 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!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: PAGE 29--Readjustment of his toilet, at the large mirror]