Willy Reilly. William Carleton
asked his master, as the butler entered, “did you give those worthy fellows the money?”
“No, your honor,” replied the other, they were gone before I went out.”
“Well, well,” replied his master, “it can't be helped. You will excuse me, Mr.—a—a—yes—Mr. Reilly—Willy—Willy—ay, that's it—you will excuse me, Willy, for not bringing you to the drawing room. The fact is, neither of us is in a proper trim to go there—both travel-soiled, as they say—you with duck-shooting and I with a long ride—besides, I am quite too much fatigued to change my dress—John, some Madeira. I'm better than I was—but still dreadfully exhausted and afterwards, John, tell your mistress that her father wishes to see her here. First, the Madeira, though, till I recruit myself a little. A glass or two will do neither of us any harm, Willy, but a great deal of good. God bless me! what an escape I've had! what a dreadful fate you rescued me from, my young friend and preserver—for as such I will ever look upon, you.”
“Sir,” replied Reilly, “I will not deny that the appearance of myself and my companions, in all probability, saved your life.”
“There was no probability in it, Willy—none at all; it would have been a dead certainty in every sense. My God! here, John—put it down here—fill for that gentleman and me—thank you, John—Willy,” he said as he took the glass in his trembling hand—“Willy—John, withdraw and send down, my daughter—Willy”—the old man looked at him, but was too full to utter a word. At this moment his daughter entered the room, and her father, laying down the glass, opened his arms, and said in a choking voice, “Helen, my daughter—my child—come to me;” and as she threw herself into them he embraced her tenderly and wept aloud.
“Dear papa!” she exclaimed, after the first burst of his grief was over, “what has affected you so deeply? Why are you so agitated?”
“Look at that noble young man,” he exclaimed, directing her attention to Reilly, who was still standing. “Look at him, my life, and observe him well; there he stands who has this night saved your loving father from the deadly aim of an assassin—from being murdered by O'Donnel, the Red Rapparee, in the lonely moors.”
Reilly, from the moment the far-famed Cooleen Dawn entered the room, heard not a syllable the old man had said. He was absorbed, entranced, struck with a sensation of wonder, surprise, agitation, joy, and confusion, all nearly at the same moment. Such a blaze of beauty, such elegance of person, such tenderness and feeling as chastened the radiance of her countenance into something that might be termed absolutely divine; such symmetry of form; such harmony of motion; such a seraphic being in the shape of woman, he had, in fact, never seen or dreamt of. She seemed as if surrounded by an atmosphere of light, of dignity, of goodness, of grace; but that which, above all, smote him, heart on, the moment was the spirit of tenderness and profound sensibility which seemed to predominate in her whole being. Why did his manly and intrepid heart palpitate? Why did such a strange confusion seize upon him? Why did the few words which she uttered in her father's arms fill his ears with a melody that charmed him out of his strength? Alas! is it necessary to ask? To those who do not understand this mystery, no explanation could be of any avail; and to those who do, none is necessary.
After her father had spoken, she raised herself from his arms, and assuming her full height—and she was tall—looked for a moment with her dark, deep, and terrible eyes upon Reilly, who in the meantime felt rapt, spell-bound, and stood, whilst his looks were riveted upon these irresistible orbs, as if he had been attracted by the influence of some delightful but supernatural power, under which he felt himself helpless.
That mutual gaze and that delightful moment! alas! how many hours of misery—of sorrow—of suffering—and of madness did they not occasion!
“Papa has imposed a task upon me, sir,” she said, advancing gracefully towards him, her complexion now pale, and again over-spread with deep blushes. “What do I say? Alas—a task! to thank the preserver of my father's life—I know not what I say: help me, sir, to papa—I am weak—I am—”
Reilly flew to her, and caught her in his arms just in time to prevent her from falling.
“My God!” exclaimed her father, getting to his feet, “what is the matter? I was wrong to mention the circumstance so abruptly; I ought to have prepared her for it. You are strong, Reilly, you are strong, and I am too feeble—carry her to the settee. There, God bless you!—God bless you!—she will soon recover. Helen! my child! my life! What, Helen! Come, dearest love, be a woman. I am safe, as you may see, dearest. I tell you I sustained no injury in life—not a hair of nay head was hurt; thanks to Mr. Reilly for it thanks to this gentleman. Oh! that's right, bravo, Helen—bravo, my girl! See that, Reilly, isn't she a glorious creature? She recovers now, to set her old loving father's heart at ease.”
The weakness, for it did not amount altogether to insensibility, was only of brief duration.
“Dear papa,” said she, raising herself, and withdrawing gently and modestly from Reilly's support, “I was unprepared for the account of this dreadful affair. Excuse me, sir; surely you will admit that a murderous attack on dear papa's life could not be listened to by his only child with indifference. But do let me know how it happened, papa.”
“You are not yet equal to it, darling; you are too much agitated.”
“I am equal to it now, papa! Pray, let me hear it, and how this gentleman—who will be kind enough to imagine my thanks, for, indeed, no language could express them—and how this gentleman was the means of saving you.”
“Perhaps, Miss Folliard,” said Reilly, “it would be better to defer the explanation until you shall have gained more strength.”
“Oh, no, sir,” she replied; “my anxiety to hear it will occasion me greater suffering, I am sure, than the knowledge of it, especially now that papa is safe.”
Reilly bowed in acquiescence, but not in consequence of her words; a glance as quick as the lightning, but full of entreaty and gratitude, and something like joy—for who does not know the many languages which the single glance of a lovely woman can speak?—such a glance, we say, accompanied her words, and at once won him to assent.
“Miss Folliard may be right, sir,” he observed, “and as the shock has passed, perhaps to make her briefly acquainted with the circumstances will rather relieve her.”
“Right,” said her father, “so it will, Willy, so it will, especially, thank God, as there has been no harm done. Look at this now! Get away, you saucy baggage! Your poor loving father has only just escaped being shot, and now he runs the risk of being strangled.”
“Dear, dear papa,” she said, “who could have thought of injuring you—you with your angry tongue, but your generous and charitable and noble heart?” and again she wound her exquisite and lovely arms about his neck and kissed him, whilst a fresh gush of tears came to her eyes.
“Come, Helen—come, love, be quiet now, or I shall not tell you any thing more about my rescue by that gallant young fellow standing before you.”
This was followed, on her part, by another glance at Reilly, and the glance was as speedily followed by a blush, and again a host of tumultuous emotions crowded around his heart.
The old man, placing her head upon his bosom, kissed and patted her, after which he related briefly, and in such a way as not, if possible, to excite her afresh, the circumstances with which the reader is already acquainted. At the close, however, when he came to the part which Reilly had borne in the matter, and dwelt at more length on his intrepidity and spirit, and the energy of character and courage with which the quelled the terrible Rapparee, he was obliged to stop for a moment, and say,
“Why, Helen, what is the matter, my darling? Are you getting ill again? Your little heart is going at a gallop—bless me, how it pit-a-pats.