“Just as we used to do in Glencullen. Ah, Mary, would that all young women had your prudence and religion, and poor Father Dominic would not be broken-hearted as he is, in fulminating vengeance against broken vows and repairing damaged reputations.”
Notwithstanding my father’s badinage Mary Halligan seemed ill at ease.
“Plase you honour, I would wish to be going,” she said, “and as Father Dominic is not in the way, I would like to say a word or two to Mr. Hackett.”
“Ay, certainly; but, Mary, will you not stop, and see your mistress? Doctor, I must trespass on you to ask my wife to come down.”
The parson left the room, and speedily returned with my mother.
“This, Emily, is an old acquaintance. Not a word, Mary, about bilberries or the bouillee. Bring her to the nursery, my love—and,” he added in a suppressed voice, “be sure you keep her there.”
When the door closed, my father handed the letter he had received from the peasant-girl to the parson, and as the latter read it he became red and pale alternately.
“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed, “how could you with this murderous missive in your hand talk lightly with its bearer, and jest with that fiend in woman’s form, who brought an order that doomed to death or outrage all that your roof-tree covers?”
“Because,” replied my father coolly, “it furnished me with a glorious counterstroke. I threw my eye but hastily over it—read me that precious document!”
The appearance of the paper was remarkable. At the top, a scull and cross-bones were rudely stamped, and though the handwriting was tolerable, the sentences were ungrammatical, and many of the words misspelt. The letter ran thus:—