Difficulty.
On the day after the outrage we have described, the indignant old
squire's carriage stopped at the hall-door of Sir Robert Whitecraft,
whom he found at home. As yet, the latter gentleman had heard nothing of
the contumelious dismissal of Miss Herbert; but the old squire was not
ignorant of the felonious abduction of the priest. At any other time,
that is to say, in some of his peculiar stretches of loyalty, the act
might, have been a feather in the cap of the loyal baronet; but, at
present, he looked both at him and his exploits through the medium of
the insult he had offered to his daughter. Accordingly, when he entered
the baronet's library, where he found him literally sunk in papers,
anonymous letters, warrants, reports to Government, and a vast variety
of other documents, the worthy Sir Robert rose, and in the most cordial
manner, and with the most extraordinary suavity of aspect, held out his
hand, saying:
“How much obliged am I, Mr. Folliard, at the kindness of this visit,
especially from one who keeps at home so much as you do.”
The squire instantly repulsed him, and replied:
“No, sir; I am an honest, and, I trust, and honorable man. My hand,
therefore, shall never touch that of a villain.”
“A villain!--why, Mr. Folliard, these are hard and harsh words, and they
surprise me, indeed, as proceeding from your lips. May I beg, my friend,
that you will explain yourself?”
“I will, sir. How durst you take the liberty of sending one of your
cast-off strumpets to attend personally upon my pure and virtuous
daughter? For that insult I come this day to demand that satisfaction
which is due to the outraged feelings of my daughter--to my own also,
as her father and natural protector, and also as an Irish gentleman, who
will brook no insult either to his family or himself. I say, then, name
your time and place, and your weapon--sword or pistol, I don't care
which, I am ready.”
“But, my good sir, there is some mystery here; I certainly engaged a
female of that name to attend on Miss Folliard, but most assuredly she
was a well-conducted person.”
“What! Madam Herbert well conducted! Do you imagine, sir, that I am a
fool? Did she not admit that you debauched her?”
“It could not be, Mr. Folliard; I know nothing whatsoever about her,
except that she was daughter to one of my tenants, who is besides a
sergeant of dragoons.”
“Ay, yes, sir,” replied the squire sarcastically; “and I tell you it
was not for killing and eating the enemy that he was promoted to his
seirgeantship. But I see your manoeuvre, Sir Robert; you wish to shift
the conversation, and sleep in a whole skin. I say now, I have provided
myself with a friend, and I ask, will you fight?”
“And why not have sent your friend, Mr. Folliard, as is usual upon such
occasions?”
“Because he is knocked up, after a fit of drink, and I cannot be just so
cool, under such an insult, as to command patience to wait. My friend,
however, will attend us on the ground; but, I ask again, will you
fight?”
“Most assuredly not, sir; I am an enemy to duelling on principle; but
in your case I could not think of it, even if I were not. What! raise my
hand against the life of Helen's father!--no, sir, I'd sooner die than
do so. Besides, Mr. Folliard, I am, so to speak, not my own property,
but that of my King, my Government, and my country; and under these
circumstances not at liberty to dispose of my life, unless in their
quarrel.”
“I see,” replied the squire bitterly; “it is certainly an admirable
description of loyalty that enables a man, who is base enough to insult
the very woman who was about to become his wife, and to involve her own
father in the insult, to ensconce himself, like a coward, behind his
loyalty, and refuse to give the satisfaction of a man, or a gentleman.”
“But, Mr. Folliard, will you hear me? there must, as I said, be some
mystery here; I certainly did recommend a young female named Herbert to
you, but I was utterly ignorant of what you mention.”
Here the footman entered, and whispered something to Sir Robert, who
apologized to the squire for leaving him two or three minutes. “Here is
the last paper,” said he, “and I trust that before you go I will be able
to remove clearly and fully the prejudices which you entertain against
me, and which originate, so far as I am concerned, in a mystery which I
am unable to penetrate.”
He then followed the servant, who conducted him to Hennessy, whom he
found in the back parlor.
“Well, Mr. Hennessy,” said he, impatiently, “what is the matter now?”
“Why,” replied the other, “I have one as good as bagged, Sir Robert.”
“One what?”
“Why, a priest, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Hennessy, I am particularly engaged now; but as to Reilly,
can you not come upon his trail? I would rather have him than a dozen
priests; however, remain here for about twenty minutes, or say half an
hour, and I will talk with you at more length. For the present I am most
particularly engaged.”
“Very well, Sir Robert, I shall await your leisure; but, as to Reilly, I
have every reason to think that he has left the country.”
Sir Robert, on going into the hall, saw the porter open the door, and
Miss Herbert presented herself.
“Oh,” said he, “is this you? I am glad you came; follow me into the
front parlor.”
She accordingly did so; and after he had shut the door he addressed her
as follows:
“Now, tell me how the devil you were discovered; or were you accessory
yourself to the discovery, by your egregious folly and vanity?”
“Oh, la, Sir Robert, do you think I am a fool?”
“I fear you are little short of it,” he replied; “at all events, you
have succeeded in knocking up my marriage with Miss Folliard. How did it
happen that they found you out?”
She then detailed to him the circumstances exactly as the reader is
acquainted with them.
He paused for some time, and then said, “There is some mystery at the
bottom of this which I must fathom. Have you any reason to know how the
family became acquainted with your history?”
“No, sir; not in the least.”
“Do you think Miss Folliard meets any person privately?”
“Not, sir, while I was with her.”
“Did she ever attempt to go out by herself?”
“Not, sir, while I was with her.”
“Very well, then, I'll tell you what you must do; her father is above
with me now, in a perfect hurricane of indignation. Now you must say
that the girl Herbert, whom I recommended to the squire, was a friend of
yours; that she gave you the letter of recommendation which I gave her
to Mr. Folliard; that having married her sweetheart and left the country
with him, you were tempted to present yourself in her stead, and to
assume her name. I will call you up by and by; but what name will you
take?”
“My mother's name, sir, was Wilson.”
“Very good; what was her Christian name?”
“Catherine, sir.”
“And you must say that I know nothing whatsoever of the imposture you
were guilty of. I shall make it worth your while; and if you don't get
well through with it, and enable me to bamboozle the old fellow, I have
done with you. I shall send for you by and by.”
He then rejoined the squire, who was walking impatiently about the room.
“Mr. Folliard,” said he, “I have to apologize to you for this seeming
neglect; I had most important business to transact, and I merely went
downstairs to tell the gentleman that I could not possibly attend to it
now, and to request him to come in a couple of hours hence; pray excuse
me, for no business could be so important as that in which I am now
engaged with you.'”
“Yes, but in the name of an outraged father, I demand again to know
whether you will give me satisfaction or not?”
“I have already answered you, my dear sir, and if you will reflect upon
the reasons I have given you, I am certain you will admit that I have
the laws both of God and man on my side, and I feel it my duty to
regulate my conduct by both. As to the charge you bring against me,
about the girl Herbert, I am both ignorant and innocent of it.”
“Why, sir, how can you say so? how have you the face to say so?--did you
not give her a letter of recommendation to me, pledging yourself for her
moral character and fidelity?”
“I grant it, but still I pledge you my honor that I looked upon her as
an extremely proper person to be about your daughter; you know, sir,
that you as well as I have had--and have still--apprehensions as to
Reilly's conduct and influence over her; and I did fear, and so did
you, that the maid who then attended her, and to whom I was told she was
attached with such unusual affection, might have availed herself of her
position, and either attempted to seduce her from her faith, or connive
at private meetings with Reilly.”
“Sir Robert, I know your plausibility--and, upon my soul, I pay it a
high compliment when I say it is equal to your cowardice.”
“Mr. Folliard, I can bear all this with patience, especially from
you--What's this?” he exclaimed, addressing the footman, who rushed into
the room in a state of considerable excitement.
“Why, Sir Robert, there is a young woman below, who is crying and
lamenting, and saying she must see Mr. Folliard.”
“Damnation, sir,” exclaimed Sir Robert, “what is this? why am I
interrupted in such a manner? I cannot have a gentleman ten minutes in
my study, engaged upon private and important business, but in bolts some
of you, to interrupt and disturb us. What does the girl want with me?”
“It is not you she wants, sir,” replied the footman, “but his honor, Mr.
Folliard.”
“Well, tell her to wait until he is disengaged.”
“No,” replied Mr. Folliard, “send her up at once; what the devil can
this be? but you shall witness it.”
The baronet smiled knowingly. “Well,” said he, “Mr. Folliard, upon my
honor, I thought you had sown your wild oats many a year ago; and, by
the way, according to all accounts--hem--but no matter; this, to be
sure, will be rather a late crop.”
“No, sir, I sowed my wild oats in the right season, when I was hot,
young, and impetuous; but long before your age, sir, that field had been
allowed to lie barren.”
He had scarcely concluded when Miss Herbert, acting upon a plan of
her own, which, were not the baronet a man of the most imperturbable
coolness, might have staggered, if not altogether confounded him,
entered the room.
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, with a flood of tears, kneeling before Mr.
Folliard, “can you forgive and pardon me?”
“It is not against you, foolish girl, that my resentment is or shall be
directed, but against the man who employed you--and there he sits.”
“Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, again turning to that worthy gentleman, who
seemed filled with astonishment.
“In God's name!” said he, interrupting his accomplice, “what can this
mean? Who are you, my good girl?”
“My name's Catherine Wilson, sir.”
“Catherine Wilson!” exclaimed the squire--“why, confound your brazen
face, are you not the person who styled yourself Miss Herbert, and who
lived, thank God, but for a short time only, in my family?”
“I lived in your family, sir, but I am not the Miss Herbert that Sir
Robert Whitecraft recommended to you.”
“I certainly know nothing about you, my good girl,” replied Sir Robert,
“nor do I recollect having ever seen you before; but proceed with what
you have to say, and let us hear it at once.”
“Yes, sir; but perhaps you are not the gentleman as is known to be Sir
Robert Whitecraft--him as hunts the priests. Oh, la, I'll surely be sent
to jail. Gentlemen, if you promise not to send me to jail, I'll tell you
everything.”
“Well, then, proceed,” said the squire; “I will not send you to jail,
provided you tell the truth.”
“Nor I, my good girl,” added Sir Robert, “but upon the same conditions.”
“Well, then, gentlemen, I was acquainted with Miss Herbert--she is
Hirish, but I'm English. This gentleman gave her a letter to you,
Mr. Folliard, to get her as maid to Miss Helen--she told me--oh, my
goodness, I shall surely be sent to jail.”
“Go on, girl,” said the baronet somewhat sternly, by which tone of voice
he intimated--to her that she was pursuing the right course, and she was
quick enough to understand as much.
“Well,” she proceeded, “after Miss Herbert had got the letter, she told
her sweetheart, who wouldn't by no means allow her to take service,
because as why, he wanted to marry her; well, she consented, and they
did get married, and both of them left the country because her father
wasn't consenting. As the letter was of no use to her then, I asked her
for it, and offered myself in her name to you, sir, and that was the way
I came into your family for a short time.”
The baronet rose up, in well-feigned agitation, and exclaimed,
“Unfortunate girl! whoever you may be, you know not the serious mischief
and unhappiness that your imposture was nearly entailing upon me.”
“But did you not say that you bore an illegitimate child to this
gentleman?” asked the squire.
“Oh, la! no, sir; you know I denied that; I never bore an illegitimate
child; I bore a love-child, but not to him; and there is no harm in
that, sure.”
“Well, she certainly has exculpated you, Sir Robert.”
“Gentlemen, will you excuse and pardon me? and will you promise not to
send me to jail?”
“Go about your business,” said Sir Robert, “you unfortunate girl, and be
guilty of no such impostures in future. Your conduct has nearly been
the means of putting enmity between two families of rank; or rather of
alienating one of them from the confidence and good-will of the other.
Go.”
She then courtesied to each, shedding, at the same time, what seemed to
be bitter tears of remorse--and took her departure, each of them looking
after her, and then at the other, with surprise and wonder.
“Now, Mr. Folliard,” said Sir Robert solemnly, “I have one question to
ask you, and it is this: could I possibly, or by any earthly natural
means, have been apprised of the honor of your visit to me this day? I
ask you in a serious--yes, and in a solemn spirit; because the happiness
of my future life depends on your reply.”
“Why, no,” replied the credulous squire, “hang it, no, man--no, Sir
Robert; I'll do you that justice; I never mentioned my intention of
coming to call you out, to any individual but one, and that on my way
hither; he was unwell, too, after a hard night's drinking; but he said
he would shake himself up, and be ready to attend me as soon as the
place of meeting should be settled on. In point of fact, I did not
intend to see you to-day, but to send him with the message; but, as I
said, he was knocked up for a time, and you know my natural impatience.
No, certainly not, it was in every sense impossible that you could have
expected me: yes, if the devil was in it, I will do you that justice.”
“Well, I have another question to ask, my dear friend, equally important
with, if not more so than, the other. Do you hold me free from all blame
in what has happened through the imposture of that wretched girl?”
“Why, after what has occurred just now, I certainly must, Sir Robert. As
you laid no anticipation of my visit, you certainly could not, nor had
you time to get up a scene.”
“Well, now, Mr. Folliard, you have taken a load off my heart; and I will
candidly confess to you that I have had my frailties like other men,
sown my wild oats like other men; but, unlike those who are not ashamed
to boast of such exploits, I did not think it necessary to trumpet my
own feelings. I do not say, my dear friend, that I have always been a
saint.”
“Why, now, that's manly and candid, Sir Robert, and I like you the
better for it. Yes, I do exonerate you from blame in this. There
certainly was sincerity in that wench's tears, and be hanged to her;
for, as you properly said, she was devilish near putting between our
families, and knocking up our intimacy. It is a delightful thing to
think that I shall be able to disabuse poor Helen's mind upon the
subject; for, I give you my honor, it caused her the greatest distress,
and excited her mind to a high pitch of indignation against you; but I
shall set all to rights.”
“And now that the matter is settled, Mr. Folliard, we must have lunch. I
will give you a glass of Burgundy, which, I am sure, you will like.”
“With all my heart,” replied the placable and hearty old squire;
“after the agitation of the day a good glass of Burgundy will serve me
certainly.”
Lunch was accordingly ordered, and the squire, after taking half a
dozen bumpers of excellent wine, got into fine spirits, shook hands as
cordially as ever with the baronet, and drove home completely relieved
from the suspicions which he had entertained.
The squire, on his return home, immediately called for his daughter, but
for some time to no purpose. The old man began to get alarmed, and had
not only Helen's room searched, but every room in the house. At length a
servant informed him that she was tending and arranging the green-house
flowers in the garden.
“Oh, ay!” said he, after he had dismissed the servants, “Thank
God--thank God! I will go out to the dear girl; for she is a dear girl,
and it is a sin to suspect her. I wish to heaven that that scoundrel
Reilly would turn Protestant, and he should have her with all the veins
of my heart. Upon my soul, putting religion out of the question, one
would think that, in other respects, they were made for each other. But
it's all this cursed pride of his that prevents him; as if it signified
what any person's religion is, provided he's an honest man, and a loyal
subject.”
He thus proceeded with his soliloquy until he reached the garden, where
he found Reilly and her arranging the plants and flowers in a superb
green-house.
“Well, Helen, my love, how is the greenhouse doing? Eh! why, what is
this?”
At this exclamation the lovers started, but the old fellow was admiring
the improvement, which even he couldn't but notice.
“Why, what is this?” he proceeded; “by the light of day, Helen, you have
made this a little paradise of flowers.”
“It was not I, papa,” she replied; “all that I have been able to
contribute to the order; and beauty of the place has been very slight
indeed. It is all the result of this poor man's taste and skill. He's an
admirable botanist.”
“By the great Boyne, my girl, I think he could lick Malcomson himself,
as a botanist.”
“Shir,” observed Reilly, “the young lady is underwaluin' herself; sure,
miss, it was yourself directed me what to do, and how to do it.”
“Look at that old chap, Helen,” said her father, who felt in great good
humor; first, because he found that Helen was safe; and again, because
Sir Robert, as the unsuspecting old man thought, had cleared up the
circumstances of Miss Herbert's imposture; “I say, Helen, look at that
old chap: isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a pretty girl?
and what a taste she must have had to go with him! Upon my soul, it
beats cock-fighting--confound me, but it does.”
[Illustration PAGE 115--Isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a
pretty girl?]
Helen's face became crimson as he spoke; and yet, such was the
ludicrous appearance which Reilly made, when put in connection with the
false scent on which her father was proceeding at such a rate, and the
act of gallantry imputed to him, that a strong feeling of humor overcame
her, and she burst into a loud ringing laugh, which she could not, for
some time, restrain; in this she was heartily joined by her father, who
laughed till the tears came down his cheeks.
“And yet, Helen--ha--ha--ha, he's a stalwart old rogue still, and must
have been a devil of a tyke when he was young.”
After another fit of laughter from both father and daughter, the squire
said:
“Now, Helen, my love, go in. I have good news for you, which I will
acquaint you with by and by.”
When she left the garden, her father addressed Reilly as follows:
“Now, my good fellow, will you tell me how you came to know about Miss
Herbert having been seduced by Sir Robert Whitecraft?”
“Fvhy, shir, from common report, shir.”
“Is that all? But don't you think,” he replied, “that common report is
a common liar, as it mostly has been, and is, in this case. That's all
I have to say upon the subject. I have traced the affair, and find it
to be a falsehood from beginning to ending. I have. And now, go on as
you're doing, and I will make Malcomson raise your wages.”
“Thank you, shir,” and he touched his nondescript with an air of great
thankfulness and humility.
“Helen, my darling,” said her father, on entering her own sitting-room,
“I said I had good news for you.”
Helen looked at him with a doubtful face, and simply said, “I hope it is
good, papa.”
“Why, my child, I won't enter into particulars; it is enough to say that
I discovered from an accidental meeting with that wretched girl we had
here that she was not Miss Herbert, as she called herself, at all, but
another, named Catherine Wilson, who, having got from Herbert the
letter of recommendation which I read to you, had the effrontery to
pass herself for her; but the other report was false. The girl Wilson,
apprehensive that either I or Sir Robert might send her to jail, having
seen my carriage stop at Sir Robert's house, came, with tears in her
eyes, to beg that if we would not punish her she would tell us the
truth, and she did so.”
Helen mused for some time, and seemed to decide instantly upon the
course of action she should pursue, or, rather, the course which she had
previously proposed to herself. She saw clearly, and had long known that
in the tactics and stratagems of life, her blunt but honest father was
no match at all for the deep hypocrisy and deceitful plausibility of Sir
Robert Whitecraft, the consequence was, that she allowed her father to
take his own way, without either remonstrance or contradiction. She knew
very well that on this occasion, as on every other where their wits and
wishes came in opposition, Sir Robert was always able to outgeneral and
overreach him; she therefore resolved to agitate herself as little
as possible, and to allow matters to flow on tranquilly, until the
crisis--the moment for action came.
“Papa,” she replied, “this intelligence must make your mind very easy; I
hope, however, you will restore poor faithful Connor to me. I never had
such an affectionate and kind creature; and, besides, not one of them
could dress me with such skill and taste as she could. Will you allow me
to have her back, sir?”
“I will, Helen; but take care she doesn't make a Papist of you.”
“Indeed, papa, that is a strange whim: why, the poor girl never opened
her lips to me on the subject of religion during her life; nor, if I saw
that she attempted it, would I permit her. I am no theologian, papa,
and detest polemics, because I have always heard that those who are most
addicted to polemical controversy have least religion.”
“Well, my love, you shall have back poor Connor; and now I must go and
look over some papers in my study. Good-by, my love; and observe, Helen,
don't stay out too late in the garden, lest the chill of the air might
injure your health.”
“But you know I never do, and never did, papa.”
“Well, good-by again, my love.”
He then left her, and withdrew to his study to sign some papers, and
transact some business, which he had allowed to run into arrear. When he
had been there better than an hour, he rang the bell, and desired that
Malcomson, the gardener, should be sent to him, and that self-sufficient
and pedantic person made his appearance accordingly.
“Well, Malcomson,” said he, “how do you like the bearded fellow in the
garden?”
“Ou, yer honor, weel eneugh; he does ken something o' the sceence o'
buttany, an' 'am thinkin' he must hae been a gude spell in Scotland, for
I canna guess whare else he could hae become acquent wi' it.”
“I see Malcomson, you'll still persist in your confounded pedantry
about your science. Now, what the devil has science to do with botany or
gardening?”
“Weel, your honor, it wadna just become me to dispute wi' ye upon that
or any ither subjeck; but for a' that, it required profoond sceence,
and vera extensive learnin' to classify an' arrange a' the plants o' the
yearth, an' to gie them names, by whilk they dan be known throughout a'
the nations o' the warld.”
“Well, well--I suppose I must let you have your way.”
“Why, your honor,” replied Malcomson, “'am sure it mair becomes me to
let you hae yours; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has
been weel indoctrinated in the sceence.”
“Ahem! well, well, go on.”
“An' it's no easy to guess whare he could hae gotten it. Indeed, 'am
of opinion that he's no without a hantle o' book lair; for, to do him
justice, de'il a question I spier at him, anent the learned names o' the
rare plants, that he hasna at his finger ends, and gies to me off-hand.
Naebody but a man that has gotten book lair could do yon.”
“Book lair, what is that?”
“Ou, just a correck knowledge o' the learned names of the plants. I
dinna say, and I winna say, but he's a velliable assistant to me, an'
I shouldna wish to pairt wi' him. If he'd only shave off yon beard, an'
let himsel' be decently happed in good claiths, why he might pass in ony
gentleman's gerden for a skeelful buttanist.”
“Is he as good a kitchen gardener as he is in the green-house, and among
the flowers?”
“Weel, your honor, guid troth, 'am sairly puzzled there; hoot, no, sir;
de'il a thing almost he kens about the kitchen gerden--a' his strength
lies among the flowers and in the green-house.”
“Well, well, that's where we principally want him. I sent for you,
Malcomson, to desire you'd raise his wages--the laborer is worthy of
his hire; and a good laborer of good hire. Let him have four shillings a
week additional.”
“Troth, your honor, 'am no sayin' but he weel deserves it; but, Lord
haud a care o' us, he's a queer one, yon.”
“Why, what do you mean?”
“Why, de'il heat he seems to care about siller any mair than if it was
sklate stains. On Saturday last, when he was paid his weekly wages by
the steward, he met a puir sickly-lookin' auld wife, wi' a string o'
sickly-looking weans at the body's heels; she didna ask him for charity,
for, in troth, he appeared, binna it wearna for the weans, as great an
objeck as hersel'; noo, what wad yer honor think? he gaes ower and gies
till her a hale crown o' siller out o' his ain wage. Was ever onything
heard like yon?”
“Well, I know the cause of it, Malcomson. He's under a penance, and can
neither shave nor change his dress till his silly penance is out; and
I suppose it was to wash off a part of it that he gave this foolish
charity to the poor woman and her children. Come, although I condemn the
folly of it, I don't like him the worse for it.”
“Hout awa', your honor, what is it but rank Papistry, and a dependence
upon filthy works. The doited auld carl, to throw aff his siller that
gate; but that's Papistry a' ower--substituting works for grace and
faith--a' Papistry, a' Papistry! Well, your honor, I sal be conform to
your wushes--it's my duty, that.”