But this did not satisfy Jack. He longed for a sight of his lady love, who was kept a close prisoner in the house by her father, who suspected Jack’s intentions, and saw in him a possible robber of his daughter’s affections.
At length, after a good deal of cogitation, he hit upon the expedient of adopting the disguise in which I saw him. It was so perfect that his most intimate friends could not penetrate it, and as he was a first rate mimic, he never allowed his voice to betray him, and in order to prevent any possibility of suspicion, he had in his own proper character set out for Dublin, and when a few days after, he returned disguised to Kilkenny, it was as an antiquarian who had come down to spend some weeks there, in studying its ruins. He secured lodgings in the house of an old lady not far from the Quaker’s place of business, which he found it necessary to visit every day to make some trivial purchase, such as gloves, hat bands, kerchiefs, etc.
The old Quaker, suspecting nothing, saw him come in day after day, and never thought it necessary to ask Dorothy to retire. On the contrary, he often quitted the shop, leaving Dorothy talking to the clerical looking old gentleman, and she and Jack continued to have some very agreeable talk together.
Jack had urged his suit with considerable success, but he could not induce the lady to take the only step by which his hopes could be realised—namely, to run away with him; for it was quite certain the old man would never consent to his marriage with his daughter.
Jack had almost begun to despair when he learned that the old gentleman was about to visit Dublin, accompanied by Dorothy, for the purpose of attending a private, but very important, meeting of the Society of Friends in reference to the harsh treatment to which some members of that body had been subjected by the authorities.
Jack also learned that they intended to put up at the “Robin Hood,” at which the coach from Kilkenny used to set down, and he took care to inform the old man that his business in Kilkenny was at an end, and that he intended to set out for Dublin on the day which the Quaker had fixed for his journey. The old man, still wholly unsuspicious, expressed himself delighted that he and his daughter should have him as a companion on the journey to Dublin, and so it came to pass that they were fellow-passengers.
But Jack, although of course, well satisfied with the opportunity of spending a few hours in the society of Dorothy, had not been able to hope for anything definite coming from it, and it was chiefly for the purpose of talking over the matter and getting my advice that he had asked me to dinner with him.
I suggested carrying the girl off, and as she liked Jack I did not hesitate to offer my services. But Jack was adverse to this, as he was unwilling to do violence to the young lady’s feelings. At length, after talking over all kinds of expedients, Jack, tired after his journey and somewhat somnolent from his potations, retired to his room, and I made the best of my way back to college, and awoke next morning to find myself lying in my clothes on the hearthrug, while my cap and boots and cane were placed in the nicest order on the quilt of my undisturbed bed.
It was four of the clock in the afternoon of the next day when I called again on Jack. He was in pretty good spirits. The old man had gone out to attend the meeting, and Jack contrived to have an interview with the maiden, who was nothing loth. But, all the same, he was unable to get her consent to elope with him, although the opportunity was most favourable. Still she showed some signs of relenting. Anyway, she no longer resented the suggestion as something wholly unnatural.
“The old man has just returned,” said Jack to me. “His business here is concluded, and he intends to start for home to-morrow, and if she does not give way before then I am afraid I’ll either have to give her up or carry her off.”