Willy Reilly. William Carleton

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-glass, 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!”

      While speaking he proceeded with the readjustment of his toilet at the large mirror, an operation which appeared to constitute the great object on which his mind was engaged, the affair of the squire's life or death coming in only parenthetically, or as a consideration of minor importance.

      In height Sir Robert Whitecraft was fully six feet two; but being extremely thin and lank, and to all appearance utterly devoid of substance, and of every thing like proportion, he appeared much taller than even nature had made him. His forehead was low, and his whole character felonious; his eyes were small, deep set, and cunning; his nose was hooked, his mouth was wide, but his lips thin to a miracle, and such as always—are to be found under the nose of a miser; as for a chin, we could not conscientiously allow him any; his under-lip sloped off until it met the throat with a curve not larger than that of an oyster-shell, which when open to the tide, his mouth very much resembled. As for his neck, it was so long that no portion of dress at that time discovered was capable of covering more than one third of it; so that there were always two parts out of three left stark naked, and helplessly exposed to the elements. Whenever he smiled he looked as if he was about to weep. As the squire said, he was dreadfully round-shouldered—had dangling arms, that kept napping about him as if they were moved by some machinery that had gone out of order—was close-kneed—had the true telescopic leg—and feet that brought a very large portion of him into the closest possible contact with the earth.

      “Are you succeeding, Sir Robert?” inquired the old man sarcastically, “because, if you are, I swear you're achieving wonders, considering the slight materials you have to work upon.”

      “Ah! sir,” replied the baronet, “I perceive you are in one of your biting humors to-day.”

      “Biting!” exclaimed the other. “Egad, it's very well for most of your sporting acquaintances that you're free from hydrophobia; if you were not, I'd have died pleasantly between two feather beds, leaving my child an orphan long before this. Egad, you bit me to some purpose.”

      “Oh, ay, you allude to the affair of 'Hop-and-go-constant' and 'Pat the Spanker;' but you know, my dear sir, I gave you heavy boot;” and as he spoke, he pulled up the lapels of his coat, and glanced complacently at the profile of his face and person in the glass.

      “Pray, is Miss Folliard at home, sir?”

      “Again I'm forgotten,” thought the squire. “Ah, what an affectionate son-in-law he'd make! What a tender husband for Helen! Why, hang the fellow, he has a heart for nobody, but himself. She is at home, Sir Robert, but the truth is, I don't think it would become me, as a father anxious for the happiness of his child, and that child, an only one, to sacrifice her happiness—the happiness of her whole life—to wealth or ambition. You know she herself entertains a strong prejudice—no, that's not the word—”

      “I beg your pardon, sir; that is the word; her distaste to me is a prejudice, and nothing else.”

      “No, Sir Robert; it is not the word. Antipathy is the word. Now I tell you, once for all, that I will not force my child.”

      “This change, Mr. Folliard,” observed the baronet, “is somewhat of the suddenest. Has any thing occurred on my part to occasion it?”

      “Perhaps I may have other views for her, Sir Robert.”

      “That may be; but is such conduct either fair or honorable towards me, Mr. Folliard? Have I got a rival, and if so, who is he?”

      “Oh, I wouldn't tell you that for the world.”

      “And why not, pray?”

      “Because,” replied the squire, “if you found out who he was, you'd be hanged for cannibalism.”

      “I really don't understand you, Mr. Folliard. Excuse me, but it would seem to me that something has put you into no very agreeable humor to-day.”

      “You don't understand me! Why, Sir Robert,” replied the other, “I know you so well that