“Mr. Redmond, do not press my endurance in my own house.” And the haughty host motioned to the door.
“Not a word,” whispered Father O’Doherty. “You can make it all right by and by, and if you fail I will succeed.”
Still, Philip was not satisfied. He was the outraged party. He demanded redress for a cruel wrong. Was he to remain in the pillory and be pelted with the mistrust and dislike of the man whom of all others he was most desirous of conciliating. What would she think of him when her father came to tell her his version of the affair? Would he not suffer and stand convicted, however innocent he might be? It was maddening, and Redmond, following his host, brusquely demanded a few minutes’ conversation.
“'Forbid it, Heaven, the hermit cried!’” exclaimed Minchin, playfully seizing our hero by the shoulders and twisting him teetotum-fashion, while the priest engaged the attention of the O’Byrne in another direction.
“Are you mad, Redmond?” said Minchin in a low tone. “On this subject he has a craze. Why, in the name of Jupiter Olympus, did you introduce it?”
“Am I to lie under the imputation of being a peddler, an auctioneer, a blackguard?” asked the other excitedly.
“The thing will be as dead as Queen Anne in five minutes, if you will only let it cross the Styx.”
“But I did not know that Mr. O’Byrne was the present proprietor of Ballymacreedy.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“I would not be listened to.”