On the evening of the same day, probably about the same hour, the old squire having recruited himself by sleep, and felt refreshed and invigorated, sent for his daughter to sit with him as was her wont; for indeed, as the reader may now fully understand, his happiness altogether depended upon her society, and those tender attentions to him which constituted the chief solace of his life.
“Well, my girl,” said he, when she entered the dining-room, for he seldom left it unless when they had company, “Well, darling, what do you think of this Mr. Mahon--pooh!--no--oh, Reilly--he who saved my life, and, probably, was the means of rescuing you from worse than death? Isn't he a fine--a noble young fellow?”
“Indeed, I think so, papa; he appear's to be a perfect gentleman.”
“Hang perfect gentlemen, Helen! they are, some of them, the most contemptible whelps upon earth. Hang me, but any fellow with a long-bodied coat, tight-kneed breeches, or stockings and pantaloons, with a watch in each fob, and a frizzled wig, is considered a perfect gentleman--a perfect puppy, Helen, an accomplished trifle. Reilly, however, is none of these, for he is not only a perfect gentleman, but a brave man, who would not hesitate to risk his life in order to save that of a fellow-creature, even although he is a Papist, and that fellow-creature a Protestant.”
“Well, then, papa, I grant you,” she replied with a smile, which our readers will understand, “I grant you that he is a--ahem!--all you say.”
“What a pity, Helen that he is a Papist.”
“Because, if he was a staunch Protestant, by the great Deliverer that saved us from brass money, wooden shoes, and so forth, I'd marry you and him together. I'll tell you what, Helen, by the memory of Schomberg, I have a project, and it is you that must work it out.”
“Well, papa,” asked his daughter, putting the question with a smile and a blush, “pray what is this speculation?”
“Why, the fact is, I'll put him into your hands to convert him--make him a staunch Protestant, and take him for your pains. Accomplish this, and let long-legged, knock-kneed Whitecraft, and his twelve thousand a year, go and bite some other fool as he bit me in 'Hop-and-go-constant.'”
“What are twelve thousand a year, papa, when you know that they could not secure me happiness with such a wretch? Such a union, sir, could not be--cannot be--must not be, and I will add, whilst I am in the possession of will and reason, shall not be.”