Willy Reilly. William Carleton

loyal man that Protestantism is my forte, Mr. Reilly—there's where I'm strong, a touch of Hercules about me there, Mr. Reilly—Willy, I mean. Well, you are a thorough good fellow, Papist and all, though you—ahem!—never mind though, you shall see my daughter, and you shall hear my daughter; for, by the great Boyne, she must salute the man that saved her father's life, and prevented her from being an orphan. And yet see, Willy, I love that girl to such a degree that if heaven was open for me this moment, and that Saint Peter—hem!—I mean the Apostle Peter, slid to me, 'Come, Folliard, walk in, sir,' by the great Deliverer that saved us from Pope and Popery, brass money, and—ahem! I beg your pardon—well, I say if he was to say so, I wouldn't leave her. There's affection for you; but she deserves it. No, if ever a girl was capable of keeping an old father from heaven she is.”

      “I understand your meaning, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile, “and I believe she is loved by every one who has the pleasure of knowing her—by rich and poor.”

      “Troth, Mr. Reilly,” observed Andy, “it's a sin for any one to let their affections, even for one of their own childer, go between them and heaven. As for the masther, he makes a god of her. To be sure if ever there was an angel in this world she is one.”

      “Get out, you old whelp,” exclaimed his master; “what do you know about it?—you who never had wife or child? isn't she my only child?—the apple of my eye? the love of my heart?”

      “If you loved her so well you wouldn't make her unhappy then.”

      “What do you mean, you despicable old Papist?”

      “I mean that you wouldn't marry her to a man she doesn't like, as you're goin' to do. That's a bad way to make her happy, at any rate.”

      “Overlook the word Papist, Mr. Reilly, that I applied to that old idolater—the fellow worships images; of course you know, as a Papist, he does—ahem!—but to show you that I don't hate the Papist without exception, I beg to let you know, sir, that I frequently have the Papist priest of our parish to dine with me; and if that isn't liberality the devil's in it. Isn't that true, you superstitious old Padareen? No, Mr. Reilly, Mr. Mahon—Willy, I mean—I'm a liberal man, and I hope we'll be all saved yet, with the exception of the Pope—ahem! yes, I hope we shall all be saved.”

      “Throth, sir,” said Andy, addressing himself to Reilly, “he's a quare gentleman, this. He's always abusing the Papists, as he calls us, and yet for every Protestant servant undher his roof he has three Papists, as he calls us. His bark, sir, is worse than his bite, any day.”

      “I believe it,” replied Reilly in a low voice, “and it's a pity that a good and benevolent man should suffer these idle prejudices to sway him.”

      “Divil a bit they sway him, sir,” replied Andy; “he'll damn and abuse them and their religion, and yet he'll go any length to serve one o' them, if they want a friend, and has a good character. But here, now we're at the gate of the avenue, and you'll soon see the Cooleen Bawn”

      “Hallo!” the squire shouted out, “what the devil! are you dead or asleep there? Brady, you Papist scoundrel, why not open the gate?”

      The porter's wife came out as he uttered the words, saying, “I beg your honor's pardon. Ned is up at the Castle;” and whilst speaking she opened the gate.

      “Ha, Molly!” exclaimed her master in a tone of such bland good nature as could not for a moment be mistaken; “well, Molly, how is little Mick? Is he better, poor fellow?”

      “He is, thank God, and your honor.”

      “Hallo, Molly,” said the squire, laughing, “that's Popery again. You are thanking God and me as if we were intimate acquaintances. None of that foolish Popish nonsense. When you thank God, thank him; and when you thank me, why thank me; but don't unite us, as you do him and your Popish saints, for I tell you, Molly, I'm no saint; God forbid! Tell the doctorman to pay him every attention, and to send his bill to me when the child is properly recovered; mark that—properly recovered.”

      A noble avenue, that swept along with two or three magnificent bends, brought them up to a fine old mansion of the castellated style, where the squire and his two equestrian attendants dismounted, and were ushered into the parlor, which they found brilliantly lighted up with a number of large wax tapers. The furniture of the room was exceedingly rich, but somewhat curious and old-fashioned. It was such, however, as to give ample proof of great wealth and comfort, and, by the heat of a large peat fire which blazed in the capacious hearth, it communicated that sense of warmth which was in complete accordance with the general aspect of the apartment. An old gray-haired butler, well-powdered, together with two or three other servants in rich livery, now entered, and the squire's first inquiry was after his daughter.

      “John,” said he to the butler, “how is your mistress?” but, without waiting for a reply, he added, “here are twenty pounds, which you will hand to those fine fellows at the hall-door.”

      “Pardon me, sir,” replied Reilly, “those men are my tenants, and the sons of my tenants: they have only performed towards you a duty, which common humanity would require at their hands towards the humblest person that lives.”

      “They must accept it, Mr. Reilly—they must have it—they are humble men—and as it is only the reward of a kind office, I think it is justly due to them. Here, John, give them the money.”

      It was in vain that Reilly interposed; the old squire would not listen to him. John was, accordingly, dispatched to the hall steps, but found that they had all gone.

      At this moment our friend Toni Steeple met the butler, whom he approached with a kind of wild and uncouth anxiety.

      “Aha! Mista John,” said he, “you tall man too, but not tall as Tom Steeple—ha, ha—you good man too, Mista John—give Tom bully dinners—Willy Reilly, Mista John, want to see Willy Reilly.”

      “What do you want with him, Tom? he's engaged with the master.”

      “Must see him, Mista John; stitch in time saves nine. Hicko! hicko! God's sake, Mista John: God's sake! Up dere;” and as he spoke he pointed towards the sky.

      “Well, but what is your business, then? What have you to say to him? He's engaged, I tell you.”

      Tom, apprehensive that he might not get an opportunity of communicating with Reilly, bolted in, and as the parlor door stood open, he saw him standing near the large chimney-piece.

      “Willy Reilly!” he exclaimed in a voice that trembled with earnestness, “Willy Reilly, dere's news for you—for de squire too—bad news—God's sake come wid Tom—you tall too, Willy Reilly, but not tall as Tom is.”

      “What is the matter, Tom?” asked Reilly; “you look alarmed.”

      “God's sake, here, Willy Reilly,” replied the kind-hearted fool, “come wid Tom. Bad news.”

      “Hallo!” exclaimed the squire, “what is the matter? Is this Tom Steeple? Go to the kitchen, Tom, and get one of your 'bully dinners'—my poor fellow—off with you—and a pot of beer, Tom.”

      An expression of distress, probably heightened by his vague and unconscious sense of the squire's kindness, was depicted strongly on his countenance, and ended in a burst of tears.

      “Ha!” exclaimed Reilly, “poor Tom, sir, was with us to-night on our duck-shooting excursion, and, now that I remember, remained behind us in the old ruin—and then he is in tears. What can this mean? I will go with you, Tom—excuse me, sir, for a few minutes—there can be no harm in hearing what he has to say.”

      He accompanied the fool, with whom he remained for about six or eight minutes, after which he re-entered the parlor with a face which strove in vain to maintain its previous expression of ease and serenity.

      “Well, Willy?” said the squire—“you see, by the way, I make an old acquaintance of you—”

      “You do me honor, sir,” replied Reilly.