—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.