“I am so far in its favor,” said O'Reilly, “that it solves the present difficulty, and prevents all future danger. Should my father succeed in persuading Lady Eleanor to this marriage, the interest of the two families is inseparably united. It is very unlikely that any circumstance, of what nature soever, would induce young Darcy to dispute his sister's claim, or endanger her position in society. This settlement of the question is satisfactory in itself, and shows a good face to the world, and I confess I am curious to know what peculiar objection you can see against it.”
“It has but one fault, sir.”
“And that?”
“Simply, it is impossible.”
“Is it the presumption of a son of mine seeking an alliance with the daughter of Maurice Darcy that appears so very impossible?” said Hickman, with a hissing utterance of each word, that bespoke a fierce conflict of passion within him.
“Certainly not, sir,” replied Nalty, hastily excusing himself. “I am well aware which party contributes most to such a compact. Mr. Beecham O'Reilly might look far higher—”
“Wherein lies the impossibility you speak of, then?” rejoined O'Reilly, sternly.
“I need scarcely remind you, sir,” said Nalty, with an air of deep humility, “you that have seen so much more of life than I have, of what inveterate prejudices these old families, as they like to call themselves, are made up; that, creating a false standard of rank, they adhere to its distinctions with a tenacity far greater than what they exhibit towards the real attributes of fortune. They seem to adopt for their creed the words of the old song,—
“The King may make a Baron bold,
Or an Earl of any fool, sir,
But with all his power, and all his gold
He can never make an O'Toole, sir.”
“These are very allowable feelings when sustained by wealth and fortune,” said O'Reilly, quietly.