Go."

She then courtesied to each, shedding, at the same time, what seemed to be bitter tears of remorse--and took her departure, each of them looking after her, and then at the other, with surprise and wonder.

"Now, Mr. Folliard," said Sir Robert solemnly, "I have one question to ask you, and it is this: could I possibly, or by any earthly natural means, have been apprised of the honor of your visit to me this day? I ask you in a serious--yes, and in a solemn spirit; because the happiness of my future life depends on your reply."

"Why, no," replied the credulous squire, "hang it, no, man--no, Sir Robert; I'll do you that justice; I never mentioned my intention of coming to call you out, to any individual but one, and that on my way hither; he was unwell, too, after a hard night's drinking; but he said he would shake himself up, and be ready to attend me as soon as the place of meeting should be settled on. In point of fact, I did not intend to see you to-day, but to send him with the message; but, as I said, he was knocked up for a time, and you know my natural impatience.

No, certainly not, it was in every sense impossible that you could have expected me: yes, if the devil was in it, I will do you that justice."

"Well, I have another question to ask, my dear friend, equally important with, if not more so than, the other. Do you hold me free from all blame in what has happened through the imposture of that wretched girl?"

"Why, after what has occurred just now, I certainly must, Sir Robert. As you laid no antic.i.p.ation of my visit, you certainly could not, nor had you time to get up a scene."

"Well, now, Mr. Folliard, you have taken a load off my heart; and I will candidly confess to you that I have had my frailties like other men, sown my wild oats like other men; but, unlike those who are not ashamed to boast of such exploits, I did not think it necessary to trumpet my own feelings. I do not say, my dear friend, that I have always been a saint."

"Why, now, that's manly and candid, Sir Robert, and I like you the better for it. Yes, I do exonerate you from blame in this. There certainly was sincerity in that wench's tears, and be hanged to her; for, as you properly said, she was devilish near putting between our families, and knocking up our intimacy. It is a delightful thing to think that I shall be able to disabuse poor Helen's mind upon the subject; for, I give you my honor, it caused her the greatest distress, and excited her mind to a high pitch of indignation against you; but I shall set all to rights."

"And now that the matter is settled, Mr. Folliard, we must have lunch. I will give you a gla.s.s of Burgundy, which, I am sure, you will like."

"With all my heart," replied the placable and hearty old squire; "after the agitation of the day a good gla.s.s of Burgundy will serve me certainly."

Lunch was accordingly ordered, and the squire, after taking half a dozen b.u.mpers of excellent wine, got into fine spirits, shook hands as cordially as ever with the baronet, and drove home completely relieved from the suspicions which he had entertained.

The squire, on his return home, immediately called for his daughter, but for some time to no purpose. The old man began to get alarmed, and had not only Helen's room searched, but every room in the house. At length a servant informed him that she was tending and arranging the green-house flowers in the garden.

"Oh, ay!" said he, after he had dismissed the servants, "Thank G.o.d--thank G.o.d! I will go out to the dear girl; for she is a dear girl, and it is a sin to suspect her. I wish to heaven that that scoundrel Reilly would turn Protestant, and he should have her with all the veins of my heart. Upon my soul, putting religion out of the question, one would think that, in other respects, they were made for each other. But it's all this cursed pride of his that prevents him; as if it signified what any person's religion is, provided he's an honest man, and a loyal subject."

He thus proceeded with his soliloquy until he reached the garden, where he found Reilly and her arranging the plants and flowers in a superb green-house.

"Well, Helen, my love, how is the greenhouse doing? Eh! why, what is this?"

At this exclamation the lovers started, but the old fellow was admiring the improvement, which even he couldn't but notice.

"Why, what is this?" he proceeded; "by the light of day, Helen, you have made this a little paradise of flowers."

"It was not I, papa," she replied; "all that I have been able to contribute to the order; and beauty of the place has been very slight indeed. It is all the result of this poor man's taste and skill. He's an admirable botanist."

"By the great Boyne, my girl, I think he could lick Malcomson himself, as a botanist."

"Shir," observed Reilly, "the young lady is underwaluin' herself; sure, miss, it was yourself directed me what to do, and how to do it."

"Look at that old chap, Helen," said her father, who felt in great good humor; first, because he found that Helen was safe; and again, because Sir Robert, as the unsuspecting old man thought, had cleared up the circ.u.mstances of Miss Herbert's imposture; "I say, Helen, look at that old chap: isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a pretty girl?

and what a taste she must have had to go with him! Upon my soul, it beats c.o.c.k-fighting--confound me, but it does."

[Ill.u.s.tration PAGE 115--Isn't he a nice bit of goods to run away with a pretty girl?]

Helen's face became crimson as he spoke; and yet, such was the ludicrous appearance which Reilly made, when put in connection with the false scent on which her father was proceeding at such a rate, and the act of gallantry imputed to him, that a strong feeling of humor overcame her, and she burst into a loud ringing laugh, which she could not, for some time, restrain; in this she was heartily joined by her father, who laughed till the tears came down his cheeks.

"And yet, Helen--ha--ha--ha, he's a stalwart old rogue still, and must have been a devil of a tyke when he was young."

After another fit of laughter from both father and daughter, the squire said:

"Now, Helen, my love, go in. I have good news for you, which I will acquaint you with by and by."

When she left the garden, her father addressed Reilly as follows:

"Now, my good fellow, will you tell me how you came to know about Miss Herbert having been seduced by Sir Robert Whitecraft?"

"Fvhy, shir, from common report, shir."

"Is that all? But don't you think," he replied, "that common report is a common liar, as it mostly has been, and is, in this case. That's all I have to say upon the subject. I have traced the affair, and find it to be a falsehood from beginning to ending. I have. And now, go on as you're doing, and I will make Malcomson raise your wages."

"Thank you, shir," and he touched his nondescript with an air of great thankfulness and humility.

"Helen, my darling," said her father, on entering her own sitting-room, "I said I had good news for you."

Helen looked at him with a doubtful face, and simply said, "I hope it is good, papa."

"Why, my child, I won't enter into particulars; it is enough to say that I discovered from an accidental meeting with that wretched girl we had here that she was not Miss Herbert, as she called herself, at all, but another, named Catherine Wilson, who, having got from Herbert the letter of recommendation which I read to you, had the effrontery to pa.s.s herself for her; but the other report was false. The girl Wilson, apprehensive that either I or Sir Robert might send her to jail, having seen my carriage stop at Sir Robert's house, came, with tears in her eyes, to beg that if we would not punish her she would tell us the truth, and she did so."

Helen mused for some time, and seemed to decide instantly upon the course of action she should pursue, or, rather, the course which she had previously proposed to herself. She saw clearly, and had long known that in the tactics and stratagems of life, her blunt but honest father was no match at all for the deep hypocrisy and deceitful plausibility of Sir Robert Whitecraft, the consequence was, that she allowed her father to take his own way, without either remonstrance or contradiction. She knew very well that on this occasion, as on every other where their wits and wishes came in opposition, Sir Robert was always able to outgeneral and overreach him; she therefore resolved to agitate herself as little as possible, and to allow matters to flow on tranquilly, until the crisis--the moment for action came.

"Papa," she replied, "this intelligence must make your mind very easy; I hope, however, you will restore poor faithful Connor to me. I never had such an affectionate and kind creature; and, besides, not one of them could dress me with such skill and taste as she could. Will you allow me to have her back, sir?"

"I will, Helen; but take care she doesn't make a Papist of you."

"Indeed, papa, that is a strange whim: why, the poor girl never opened her lips to me on the subject of religion during her life; nor, if I saw that she attempted it, would I permit her. I am no theologian, papa, and detest polemics, because I have always heard that those who are most addicted to polemical controversy have least religion."

"Well, my love, you shall have back poor Connor; and now I must go and look over some papers in my study. Good-by, my love; and observe, Helen, don't stay out too late in the garden, lest the chill of the air might injure your health."

"But you know I never do, and never did, papa."

"Well, good-by again, my love."

He then left her, and withdrew to his study to sign some papers, and transact some business, which he had allowed to run into arrear. When he had been there better than an hour, he rang the bell, and desired that Malcomson, the gardener, should be sent to him, and that self-sufficient and pedantic person made his appearance accordingly.

"Well, Malcomson," said he, "how do you like the bearded fellow in the garden?"

"Ou, yer honor, weel eneugh; he does ken something o' the sceence o'

b.u.t.tany, an' 'am thinkin' he must hae been a gude spell in Scotland, for I canna guess whare else he could hae become acquent wi' it."

"I see Malcomson, you'll still persist in your confounded pedantry about your science. Now, what the devil has science to do with botany or gardening?"

"Weel, your honor, it wadna just become me to dispute wi' ye upon that or any ither subjeck; but for a' that, it required profoond sceence, and vera extensive learnin' to cla.s.sify an' arrange a' the plants o' the yearth, an' to gie them names, by whilk they dan be known throughout a'

the nations o' the warld."

"Well, well--I suppose I must let you have your way."

"Why, your honor," replied Malcomson, "'am sure it mair becomes me to let you hae yours; but regerding this ould carl, I winna say, but he has been weel indoctrinated in the sceence."