--Mysterious Disappearance of His Gang--The Avowal
We must go back a little. When Helen sank under the dreadful
intelligence of the attempt made to assassinate her father, we stated at
the time that she was not absolutely insensible; and this was the fact.
Reilly, already enraptured by such wonderful grace and beauty as the
highest flight of his imagination could never have conceived, when
called upon by her father to carry her to the sofa, could scarcely
credit his senses that such a lovely and precious burden should ever be
entrusted to him, much less borne in his very arms. In order to prevent
her from falling, he was literally obliged to throw them around her,
and, to a certain extent, to press her--for the purpose of supporting
her--against his heart, the pulsations of which were going at a
tremendous speed. There was, in fact, something so soft, so pitiable,
so beautiful, and at the same time so exquisitely pure and fragrant, in
this lovely creature, as her head lay drooping on his shoulder, her pale
cheek literally lying against his, that it is not at all to be wondered
at that the beatings of his heart were accelerated to an unusual degree.
Now she, from her position upon his bosom, necessarily felt this rapid
action of its tenant; when, therefore, her father, after her recovery,
on reciting for her the fearful events of the evening, and dwelling upon
Reilly's determination and courage, expressed alarm at the palpitations
of her heart, a glance passed between them which each, once and forever,
understood. She had felt the agitation of him who had risked his life in
defence of her father, for in this shape the old man had truly put it;
and now she knew from her father's observation, as his arm lay upon her
own, that the interest which his account of Reilly's chivalrous conduct
throughout the whole affair had excited in it were discovered. In this
case heart spoke to heart, and by the time they sat down to dinner,
each felt conscious that their passion, brief as was the period of their
acquaintance, had become, whether for good or evil, the uncontrollable
destiny of their lives.
William Reilly was the descendant of an old and noble Irish family. His
ancestors had gone through all the vicissitudes and trials, and been
engaged in most of the civil broils and wars, which, in Ireland, had
characterized the reign of Elizabeth. As we are not disposed to enter
into a disquisition upon the history of that stormy period, unless to
say that we believe in our souls both parties were equally savage and
inhuman, and that there was not, literally, a toss up between them, we
have only to add that Reilly's family, at least that branch of it to
which he belonged, had been reduced by the ruin that resulted from the
civil wars, and the confiscations peculiar to the times. His father
had made a good deal of money abroad in business, but feeling that
melancholy longing for his native soil, for the dark mountains and the
green fields of his beloved country, he returned to it, and having taken
a large farm of about a thousand acres, under a peculiar tenure, which
we shall mention ere we close, he devoted himself to pasturage and
agriculture. Old Reilly had been for some years dead, and his eldest
son, William, was now not only the head of his immediate family, but
of that great branch of it to which he belonged, although he neither
claimed nor exercised the honor. In Reilly, many of those irreconcilable
points of character, which scarcely ever meet in the disposition of any
but an Irishman, were united. He was at once mild and impetuous; under
peculiar circumstances, humble and unassuming, but in others, proud
almost to a fault; a bitter foe to oppression in every sense, and to
bigotry in every creed. He was highly educated, and as perfect a master
of French, Spanish, and German, as he was of either English or Irish,
both of which he spoke with equal fluency and purity. To his personal
courage we need not make any further allusion. On many occasions it
had been well tested on the Continent. He was an expert and unrivalled
swordsman, and a first-rate shot, whether with the pistol or
fowling-piece.
At every athletic exercise he was matchless; and one great cause of his
extraordinary popularity among the peasantry was the pleasure he took in
promoting the exercise of such manly sports among them. In his person
he combined great strength with remarkable grace and ease. The wonderful
symmetry of his form took away apparently from his size; but on looking
at and examining him closely, you felt surprised at the astonishing
fulness of his proportions and the prodigious muscular power which lay
under such deceptive elegance. As for his features, they were replete
with that manly expression which changes with, and becomes a candid
exponent of, every feeling that influences the heart. His mouth was
fine, and his full red lips exquisitely chiselled; his chin was full of
firmness; and his large dark eyes, though soft, mellow, and insinuating,
had yet a sparkle in them that gave evidence of a fiery spirit when
provoked, as well as of a high sense of self-respect and honor. His
complexion was slightly bronzed by residence in continental climates, a
circumstance that gave a warmth and mellowness to his features, which,
when taken into consideration with his black, clustering locks, and the
snowy whiteness of his forehead, placed him in the very highest order of
handsome men.
Such was our hero, the fame of whose personal beauty, as well as that of
the ever-memorable _Cooleen Bawn_, is yet a tradition in the country.
On this occasion the dinner-party consisted only of the squire, his
daughter, and Reilly. The old man, on reflecting that he was now
safe, felt his spirits revive apace. His habits of life were jolly and
convivial, but not actually intemperate, although it must be admitted
that on some occasions he got into the debatable ground. To those who
did not know him, and who were acquainted through common report
only with his unmitigated abuse of Popery, he was looked upon as an
oppressive and overbearing tyrant, who would enforce, to the furthest
possible stretch of severity, the penal enactments then in existence
against Roman Catholics. And this, indeed, was true, so far as any one
was concerned from whom he imagined himself to have received an
injury; against such he was a vindictive tyrant, and a most implacable
persecutor. By many, on the other hand, he was considered as an
eccentric man, with a weak head, but a heart that often set all his
anti-Catholic prejudices at complete defiance.
At dinner the squire had most of the conversation to himself, his
loquacity and good-humor having been very much improved by a few
glasses of his rich old Madeira. His daughter, on the other hand, seemed
frequently in a state of abstraction, and, on more than one occasion,
found herself incapable of answering several questions which he put to
her. Ever and anon the timid, blushing glance was directed at Reilly,
by whom it was returned with a significance that went directly to her
heart. Both, in fact, appeared to be influenced by some secret train
of thought that seemed quite at variance with the old gentleman's
garrulity.
“Well,” said he, “here we are, thank God, all safe; and it is to you,
Willy, we owe it. Come, man, take off your wine. Isn't he a fine young
fellow, Helen?”
Helen's heart, at the moment, had followed her eyes, and she did not
hear him.
“Hello! what the deuce! By the banks of the Boyne, I believe the girl
has lost her hearing. I say, Helen, isn't Willy Reilly here, that
prevented you from being an orphan, a fine young fellow?”
A sudden rosy blush suffused her whole neck and face on hearing this
blunt and inconsiderate question.
“What, darling, have you not heard me?”
“If Mr. Reilly were not present, papa, I might give an opinion on that
subject; but I trust you will excuse me now.”
“Well, I suppose so; there's no getting women to speak to the point.
At all events, I would give more than I'll mention that Sir Hobert
Whitecraft was as good-looking a specimen of a man; I'll engage, if he
was, you would have no objection to say yes, my girl.”
“I look to the disposition, papa, to the moral feelings and principles,
more than to the person.
“Well, Helen, that's right too--all right, darling, and on that account
Sir Robert must and ought to be a favorite. He is not yet forty, and for
this he is himself my authority, and forty is the prime of life; yet,
with an immense fortune and strong temptations, he has never launched
out into a single act of imprudence or folly. No, Helen, he never sowed
a peck of wild oats in his life. He is, on the contrary, sober, grave,
silent--a little too much so, by the way--cautious, prudent, and saving.
No man knows the value of money better, nor can contrive to make it go
further. Then, as for managing a bargain--upon my soul, I don't think he
treated me well, though, in the swop of 'Hop-and-go-constant' against my
precious bit of blood, 'Pat the Spanker.' He made me pay him twenty-five
pounds boot for an old--But you shall see him, Reilly, you shall see
him, Willy, and if ever there was a greater take in--you needn't smile,
He en, nor look at Willy. By the good King William that saved us from
Pope, and--ahem--I beg pardon, Willy, but, upon my soul, he took me
completely in. I say, I shall show you 'Hop-and-go-constant', and when
you see him you'll admit the 'Hop,' but the devil a bit you will find of
the 'Go-constant.'”
“I suppose the gentleman's personal appearance, sir,” observed Reilly,
glancing at Miss Folliard, “is equal to his other qualities.”
“Why--a--ye-s. He's tall and thin and serious, with something about him,
say, of a philosopher. Isn't that true, Helen?”
“Perfectly, papa,” she replied, with a smile of arch humor, which, to
Reilly, placed her character in a new light.
“Perfectly true, papa, so far as you have gone; but I trust you will
finish the portrait for Mr. Reilly.”
“Well, then, I will. Where was I? Oh, yes--tall, thin, and serious; like
a philosopher. I'll go next to the shoulders, because Helen seems to
like them--they are a little round or so. I, myself, wish to goodness
they were somewhat straighter, but Helen says the curve is delightful,
being what painters and glaziers call the line of beauty.”
A sweet light laugh, that rang with the melody of a musical bell, broke
from Helen at this part of the description, in which, to tell the truth,
she was joined by Reilly. The old man himself, from sheer happiness and
good-humor, joined them both, though utterly ignorant of the cause of
their mirth.
“Aye, aye,” he exclaimed, “you may laugh--by the great Boyne, I knew I
would make you laugh. Well, I'll go on; his complexion is of a--a--no
matter--of a good standing color, at all events; his nose, I grant you,
is as thin, and much of the same color, as pasteboard, but as a set-off
to that it's a thorough Williamite. Isn't that true, Helen?”
“Yes, papa; but I think King William's nose was the worst feature in his
face, although that certainly cannot be said of Sir Robert.”
“Do you hear that, Reilly? I wish Sir Robert heard it, but I'll tell
him--there's a compliment, Helen--you're a good girl--thank you, Helen.”
Helen's face was now radiant with mirthful enjoyment, whilst at the same
time Reilly could perceive that from time to time a deep unconscious
sigh would escape from her, such a sigh as induced him to infer that
some hidden care was at work with her heart. This he at once imputed to
her father's determination to force her into a marriage with the worthy
baronet, whom in his simplicity he was so ludicrously describing.
“Proceed, papa, and finish as you have begun it.”
“I will, to oblige and gratify you, Helen. He is a little close about
the knees, Mr. Reilly--a little close about the knees, Willy.”
“And about the heart, papa,” added his daughter, who, for the life of
her, could not restrain the observation.
“It's no fault to know the value of money, my dear child. However, let
me go on--close about the knees, but that's a proof of strength, because
they support one another: every one knows that.”
“But his arms, papa?”
“You see, Reilly, you see, Willy,” said the squire, nodding in the
direction of his daughter, “not a bad sign that, and yet she pretends
not to care about him. She is gratified, evidently. Ah, Helen, Helen!
it's hard to know women.”
“But his arms, papa?”
“Well, then, I wish to goodness you would allow me to skip that part of
the subject--they are an awful length, Willy, I grant. I allow the fact,
it cannot be denied, they are of an awful length.”
“It will give him the greater advantage in over-reaching, papa.”
“Well, as to his arms, upon my soul Willy, I know no more what to do
with them--”
“Than he does himself, papa.”
“Just so, Helen; they hang about him like those of a skeleton on wires;
but, on the other hand, he has a neck that always betokens true
blood, long and thin like that of a racer. Altogether he's a devilish
interesting man, steady, prudent, and sober. I never saw him drink a
third glass of--”
“In the meantime, papa,” observed Helen, “in the enthusiasm of your
description you are neglecting Mr. Reilly.”
Ah, love, love! in how many minute points can you make yourself
understood!
“By the great William, and so I am. Come, Willy, help yourself”--and he
pushed the bottle towards him as he spoke.
And why, gentle reader, did Reilly fill his glass on that particular
occasion until it became literally a brimmer? We know--but if you are
ignorant of it we simply beg you to remain so; and why, on putting the
glass to his lips, did his large dark eyes rest upon her with that
deep and melting glance? Why, too, was that glance returned with the
quickness of thought before her lids dropped, and the conscious blush
suffused her face? The solution of this we must also leave to your own
ingenuity.
“Well,” proceeded the squire, “steady, prudent, sober--of a fine old
family, and with an estate of twelve thousand a year--what do you think
of that, Willy? Isn't she a fortunate girl?”
“Taking his virtues and very agreeable person into consideration, sir,
I think so,” replied Reilly in a tone of slight sarcasm, which was only
calculated to reach one of his audience.
“You hear that, Helen--you hear what Mr. Reilly--what Willy-says. The
fact is, I'll call you nothing but Willy in future, Willy--you hear what
he says, darling?”
“Indeed I do, papa--and understand it perfectly.”
“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 gratitude 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, Willy!” 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, Willy; 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, Willy, how my
heart and soul are in that angelic creature. The great object, the great
delight of her life, is to anticipate 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, Willy, 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 assistance. 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 assured 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,
ejaculated, 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. Nobody
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 assistance 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 passion.
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?”
The question appeared to take her somewhat by surprise, if one could
judge by the look she bestowed upon him with her dark, flashing eyes.
“In Fate, Mr. Reilly? that is a subject, I fear, too deep for a girl
like me. I believe in Providence.”
“All this morning I have been thinking of the subject. Should it be Fate
that brought me to the rescue of your father last night, I cannot but
feel glad of it; but though it be a Fate that has preserved him--and I
thank Almighty God for it--yet it is one that I fear has destroyed my
happiness.”
“Destroyed your happiness, Mr. Reilly! why, how could the service you
rendered papa last night have such an effect?”
“I will be candid, and tell you, Miss Folliard. I know that what I am
about to say will offend you--it was by making me acquainted with his
daughter, and by bringing me under the influence of beauty which has
unmanned--distracted me--beauty which I could not resist--which has
overcome me--subdued me--and which, because it is beyond my reach and my
deserts, will occasion me an unhappy life--how long soever that life my
last.”
“Mr. Reilly,” exclaimed the _Cooleen Bawn_, “this--this--is--I am quite
unprepared for--I mean--to hear that such noble and generous conduct to
my father should end in this. But it cannot be. Nay, I will not pretend
to misunderstand you. After the service you have rendered to him and to
myself, it would be uncandid in me and unworthy of you to conceal the
distress which your words have caused me.”
“I am scarcely in a condition to speak reasonably and calmly,” replied
Reilly, “but I cannot regret that I have unconsciously sacrificed my
happiness, when that sacrifice has saved you from distress and grief and
sorrow. Now that I know you, I would offer--lay down--my life, if the
sacrifice could save yours from one moment's care. I have often heard of
what love--love in its highest and noblest sense--is able to do and to
suffer for the good and happiness of its object, but now I know it.”
She spoke not, or rather she was unable to speak; but as she pulled
out her snow-white handkerchief, Reilly could observe the extraordinary
tremor of her hands; the face, too, was deadly pale.
“I am not making love to you, Miss Folliard,” he added. “No, my
religion, my position in life, a sense of my own unworthiness, would
prevent that; but I could not rest unless you knew that there is one
heart which, in the midst of unhappiness and despair, can understand,
appreciate, and love you. I urge no claim. I am without hope.”
The fair girl (_Cooleen Bawn_) could not restrain her tears; but
wept--yes, she wept. “I was not prepared for this,” she replied. “I did
not think that so short an acquaintance could have--Oh, I know not what
to say--nor how to act. My father's prejudices. You are a Catholic.”
“And will die one, Miss Folliard.”
“But why should you be unhappy? You do not deserve to be so.”
“That is precisely what made me ask you just now if you believed in
fate.”
“Oh, I know not. I cannot answer such a question; but why should you be
unhappy, with your brave, generous, and noble heart? Surely, surely, you
do not deserve it.”
“I said before that I have no hope, Miss Folliard. I shall carry with
me my love of you through life; it is my first, and I feel it will be my
last--it will be the melancholy light that will burn in the sepulchre
of my heart to show your image there. And now, Miss Folliard, I will bid
you farewell. Your father has proffered me hospitality, but I have not
strength nor resolution to accept it. You now know my secret--a hopeless
passion.”
“Reilly,” she replied, weeping bitterly, “our acquaintance has been
short--we have not seen much of each other, yet I will not deny that
I believe you to be all that any female heart could--pardon me, I am
without experience--I know not much of the world. You have travelled,
papa told me last night; I do not wish that you should be unhappy, and,
least of all, that I, who owe you so much, should be the occasion of it.
No, you talk of a hopeless passion. I know not what I ought to say--but
to the preserver of my father's life, and, probably my own honor, I
will say, be not--but why should love be separated from truth?” she
said--“No, Reilly, be not hopeless.”
“Oh,” replied Reilly, who had gone over near her, “but my soul will not
be satisfied without a stronger affirmation. This moment is the great
crisis of my life and happiness. I love you beyond all the power of
language or expression. You tremble, dear Miss Folliard, and you weep;
let me wipe those precious tears away. Oh, would to God that you loved
me!”
He caught her hand--it was not withdrawn--he pressed it as he had done
the evening before. The pressure was returned--his voice melted into
tenderness that was contagious and irresistible: “Say, dearest Helen,
star of my life and of my fate, oh, only say that I am not indifferent
to you.”
They were both standing near the chimney-piece as he spoke--“only say,”
he repeated, “that I am not indifferent to you.”
“Well, then,” she replied, “you are not indifferent to me.”
“One admission more, my dearest life, and I am happy forever. You love
me? say it, dearest, say it--or, stay, whisper it, whisper it--you love
me!”
“I do,” she whispered in a burst of tears.