After this desperate adjuration there was no refusing my aunt's request.
"You know her well,"—and I looked extremely cunning.
"Do I, Terence? Let me see—I have it. It's Ellen Robinson. No—though her money's safe, there's but five hundred ready."
"Guess again, aunt."
"Is it Bessie Lloyd? No—though the old miller is rich as a Jew, he would not part a guinea to save the whole human race, or make his daughter a duchess."—"Far from the mark as ever, aunt."
"Well," returned Mrs. O'Finn, with sigh, "I'm fairly puzzled."
"Whisper!" and I playfully took her hand, and put my lips close to her cheek. "It's—"
"Who?—who, for the sake of Heaven?"—"Biddy MacGawly!"
"Oh, Jasus!" ejaculated the captain's relict, as she sank upon a chair. "I'm murdered! Give me my salts, there. Terence O'Shaughnessy, don't touch me. I put the cross between us," and she made a crucial flourish with her hand. "You have finished me, ye villain. Holy Virgin! what sins have I committed, that I should be disgraced in my old age? Meat never crossed my lips of a Friday; I was regular at mass, and never missed confession; and, when the company were honest, played as fair as every body else. I wish I was at peace with poor dear Pat O'Finn. Oh! murder! murder!"
I stared in amazement. If Roger MacGawly had been a highwayman, his daughter could not have been an object of greater horror to Mrs O'Finn. At last I mustered words to attempt to reason with her, but to my desultory appeals she returned abuse fit only for a pickpocket to receive.