Willy Reilly Part 6

"That's my girl. Twelve thousand a year--and has money lent out at every rate of interest from six per cent. up."

"And yet I cannot consider him as interesting on that account, papa."

"You do, Helen--nonsense, my love--you do, I tell you--it's all make-believe when you speak to the contrary--don't you call the curve on his shoulders the line of beauty? Come--come--you know I only want to make you happy."

"It is time, papa, that I should withdraw," she replied, rising.

Reilly rose to open the door.

"Good-night, papa-dear, dear papa," she added, putting her snowy arms about his neck and kissing him tenderly. "I know," she added, "that the great object of your life is to make your _Cooleen Bawn_ happy--and in doing so, dear papa--there now is another kiss for you--a little bribe, papa--in doing so, consult her heart as well as your own. Good-night."

"Good-night, my treasure."

During this little scene of affectionate tenderness Reilly stood holding the door open, and as she was going out, as if recollecting herself, she turned to him and said, "Pardon me, Mr. Reilly, I fear you must think me ungrateful; I have not yet thanked you for the service--the service indeed so important that no language could find expression for it--which you have rendered to dear papa, and to me. But, Mr. Reilly, I pray you do not think me ungrateful, or insensible, for, indeed, I am neither.

Suffer me to feel what I owe you, and do not blame me if I cannot express it."

"If it were not for the value of the life which it is probable I have saved, and if it were not that your happiness was so deeply involved in it," replied Reilly, "I would say that you overrate what I have done this evening. But I confess I am myself now forced to see the value of my services, and I thank heaven for having made me the humble instrument of saving your father's life, not only for his own sake, Miss Folliard, but for yours. I now feel a double debt of grat.i.tude to heaven for it."

The _Cooleen Bawn_ did not speak, but the tears ran down her cheeks.

"Good-night, sir," she said. "I am utterly incapable of thanking you as you deserve, and as I ought to thank you. Good-night!"

She extended her small snowy hand to him as she spoke. Reilly took it in his, and by some voluntary impulse he could not avoid giving it a certain degree of pressure. The fact is, it was such a hand--so white--so small--so soft--so warm--so provocative of a squeeze--that he felt his own pressing it, he knew not how nor wherefore, at least he thought so at the time; that is to say, if he were capable of thinking distinctly of any thing. But heaven and earth!

Was it true! No delusion? No dream? The pressure returned! the slightest, the most gentle, the most delicate pressure--the barely perceptible pressure! Yes! it was beyond all doubt; for although the act itself was light as delicacy and modesty could make it, yet the spirit--the lightening spirit--which it shot into his bounding and enraptured heart could not be for a moment mistaken.

As she was running up the stairs she returned, however, and again approaching her father, said--whilst Reilly could observe that her cheek was flushed with a feeling that seemed to resemble ecstasy--"Papa,"

said she, "what a stupid girl I am! I scarcely know what I am saying or doing."

"By the great Boyne," replied her father, "I'll describe him to you every night in the week. I knew the curve--the line of beauty--would get into your head; but what is it, darling?"

"Will you and Mr. Reilly have tea in the drawing-room, or shall I send it down to you?"

"I am too comfortable in my easy chair, dear Helen: no, send it down."

"After the shock you have received, papa, perhaps you might wish to have it from the hand of your own Cooleen Bawn?"

As the old man turned his eyes upon her they literally danced with delight. "Ah, w.i.l.l.y!" said he, "is it any wonder I should love her?"

"I have often heard," replied Reilly, "that it is impossible to know her, and not to love her. I now believe it."

"Thank you, Reilly; thank you, w.i.l.l.y; shake hands. Come, Helen, shake hands with him. That's a compliment. Shake hands with him, darling.

There, now, that's all right. Yes, my love, by all means, come down and give us tea here."

Innocent old man--the die is now irrevocably cast! That mutual pressure, and that mutual glance. Alas! alas! how strange and incomprehensible is human destiny!

After she had gone upstairs the old man said, "You see, w.i.l.l.y, how my heart and soul are in that angelic creature. The great object, the great delight of her life, is to antic.i.p.ate all my wants, to study whatever is agreeable to me--in fact, to make me happy. And she succeeds. Every thing she does pleases me. By the grave of Schomberg, she's beyond all price. It is true we never had a baronet in the family, and it would gratify me to hear her called Lady Whitecraft; still, I say, I don't care for rank or ambition; nor would I sacrifice my child's happiness to either. And, between you and me, if she declines to have him, she shan't, thats all that's to be said about it. He's quite round in the shoulders; and yet so inconsistent are women that she calls a protuberance that resembles the letter C the line of beauty. Then again he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant;' and you know yourself, w.i.l.l.y, that no person likes to be bit, especially by the man he intends for his son-in-law. If he gives me the bite before marriage, what would he not do after it?"

"This, sir, is a subject," replied Reilly, "on which I must decline to give an opinion; but I think that no father should sacrifice the happiness of his daughter to his own inclinations. However, setting this matter aside, I have something of deep importance to mention to you."

"To me! Good heavens! What is it?"

"The Red Rapparee, sir, has formed a plan to rob, possibly to murder, you, and what is worse--"

"Worse! Why, what the deuce--worse! Why, what could be worse?"

"The dishonor of your daughter. It is his intention to carry her off to the mountains; but pardon me, I cannot bear to dwell upon the diabolical project."

The old man fell back, pale, and almost insensible, in his chair.

"Do not be alarmed, sir," proceeded Keilly, "he will be disappointed. I have taken care of that."

"But, Mr. Reilly, what--how--for heaven's sake tell me what you know about it. Are you sure of this? How did you come to hear of it? Tell me--tell me every thing about it! We must prepare to receive the villains--we must instantly get a.s.sistance. My child--my life--my Helen, to fall into the hands of this monster!"

"Hear me, sir," said Reilly, "hear me, and you will perceive I have taken measures to frustrate all his designs, and to have him a prisoner before to-morrow's sun arises."

He then related to him the plan laid by the Red Rapparee, as overheard by Tom Steeple, and as it was communicated to himself by the same individual subsequently, after which he proceeded:

"The fact is, sir, I have sent the poor fool, who is both faithful and trustworthy, to summon here forty or fifty of my laborers and tenants.

They must be placed in the out-houses, and whatever arms and ammunition you can spare, in addition to the weapons which they shall bring along with them, must be made available. I sent orders that they should be here about nine o'clock. I, myself, will remain in this house, and you may rest a.s.sured that your life, your property, and your child shall be all safe. I know the strength of the ruffian's band; it only consists of about twelve men, or rather twelve devils, but he and they will find themselves mistaken."

Before Miss Folliard came down to make tea, Reilly had summoned the servants, and given them instructions as to their conduct during the expected attack. Having arranged this, he went to the yard, and found a large body of his tenants armed with such rude weapons as they could procure; for, at this period, it was a felony for a Roman Catholic to have or carry arms at all. The old squire, however, was well provided in that respect, and, accordingly, such as could be spared from the house were distributed among them. Mr. Folliard himself felt his spirit animated by a sense of the danger, and bustled about with uncommon energy and activity, considering what he had suffered in the course of the evening. At all events, they both resolved to conceal the matter from Helen till the last moment, in order to spare her the terror and alarm which she must necessarily feel on hearing of the contemplated violence. At tea, however, she could not avoid observing that something had disturbed her father, who, from his naturally impetuous character, e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, from time to time, "The bloodthirsty scoundrel!--murdering ruffian! We shall hang him, though; we can hang him for the conspiracy.

Would the fool's, Tom Steeples', evidence be taken, do you think?"

"I fear not, sir," replied Reilly. "In the meantime, don't think of it, don't further distress yourself about it."

"To think of attacking my house, though; and if it were only I myself that--however, we are prepared, that's one comfort; we are prepared, and let them--hem!--Helen, my darling, now that we've had our tea, will you retire to your own room. I wish to talk to Mr. Reilly here, on a particular and important subject, in which you yourself are deeply concerned. Withdraw, my love, but don't go to bed until I see you again."

Helen went upstairs with a light foot and a bounding heart. A certain hope, like a dream of far-off and unexpected happiness, rushed into and filled her bosom with a crowd of sensations so delicious that, on reaching her own room, she felt completely overpowered by them, and was only relieved by a burst of tears. There was now but one image before her imagination, but one image impressed upon her pure and fervent heart; that image was the first that love had ever stamped there, and the last that suffering, sorrow, madness, and death were ever able to tear from it.

When the night had advanced to the usual hour for retiring to rest, it was deemed necessary to make Helen acquainted with the meditated outrage, in order to prevent the consequences of a nocturnal alarm for which she might be altogether unprepared. This was accordingly done, and her natural terrors were soothed and combated by Reilly and her father, who succeeded in reviving her courage, and in enabling her to contemplate what was to happen with tolerable composure.

Until about the hour of two o'clock every thing regained silent. n.o.body went to bed--the male servants were all prepared--the females, some in tears, and others sustaining and comforting those who were more feeble-hearted. Miss Folliard was in her own room, dressed. At about half past two she heard a stealthy foot, and having extinguished the light in her apartment, with great presence of mind she rang the bell, whilst at the same moment her door was broken in, and a man, as she knew by his step, entered. In the meantime the house was alarmed; the man having hastily projected his arms about in several directions, as if searching for her, instantly retreated, a scuffle was heard outside on the lobby, and when lights and a.s.sistance appeared, there were found eight or ten men variously armed, all of whom proved to be a portion of the guard selected by Reilly to protect the house and family. These men maintained that they had seen the Red Rapparee on the roof of the house, through which he had descended, and that having procured a ladder from the farmyard, they entered a back window, at a distance of about forty feet from the ground, in hope of securing his person--that they came in contact with some powerful man in the dark, who disappeared from among them--but by what means he had contrived to escape they could not guess.

This was the substance of all they knew or understood upon the subject.

The whole house was immediately and thoroughly searched, and no trace of him could be found until they came to the skylight, which was discovered to be opened--wrenched off the hinges--and lying on the roof at a distance of two or three yards from its place.

It soon became evident that the Rapparee and his party had taken the alarm. In an instant those who were outside awaiting to pounce upon them in the moment of attack got orders to scour the neighborhood, and if possible to secure the Rapparee at every risk; and as an inducement the squire himself offered to pay the sum of five hundred pounds to any one who should bring him to Corbo Castle, which was the name of his residence. This was accordingly attempted, the country far and wide was searched, pursuit given in every direction, but all to no purpose. Not only was the failure complete, but, what was still more unaccountable and mysterious, no single mark or trace of them could be found. This escape, however, did not much surprise the inhabitants of the country at large, as it was only in keeping with many of a far more difficult character which the Rapparee had often effected. The only cause to which it could be ascribed was the supposed fact of his having taken such admirable precautions against surprise as enabled his gang to disappear upon a preconcerted plan the moment the friendly guards were discovered, whilst he himself daringly attempted to secure the squire's cash and his daughter.

Whether the supposition was right or wrong will appear subsequently; but, in the meantime, we may add here, that the event in question, and the disappearance of the burglars, was fatal to the happiness of our lovers, for such they were in the tenderest and most devoted sense of that strange and ungovernable pa.s.sion.

Early the next morning the squire was so completely exhausted by the consequences of watching, anxiety, and want of rest, that he felt himself overcome by sleep, and was obliged to go to bed. Before he went, however, he made Reilly promise that he would not go until he had breakfasted, then shook him cordially by the hand, thanked him again and again for the deep and important obligations he had imposed upon him and his child, and concluded by giving him a general invitation to his house, the doors of which, he said, as well as the heart of its owner, should be ever ready to receive him.

"As for Helen, here," said he, "I leave her to thank you herself, which I am sure she will do in a manner becoming the services you have rendered her, before you go."

She then kissed him tenderly and he retired to rest.

At breakfast, Reilly and Miss Folliard were, of course, alone, if we may say so. Want of rest and apprehension had given a cast of paleness to her features that, so far from diminishing, only added a new and tender character to her beauty. Reilly observed the exquisite loveliness of her hand as she poured out the tea; and when he remembered the gentle but significant pressure which it had given to his, more than once or twice, on the preceding night, he felt as if he experienced a personal interest in her fate--as if their destinies were to be united--as if his growing spirit could enfold hers, and mingle with it forever. The love he felt for her pervaded and softened his whole being with such a feeling of tenderness, timidity, and ecstasy, that his voice, always manly and firm, now became tremulous in its tones; such, in truth, as is always occasioned by a full and overflowing heart when it trembles at the very opportunity of pouring forth the first avowal of its affection.

"Miss Folliard," said he, after a pause, and with some confusion, "do you believe in Fate?"