“Well, but,” replied Poll, “what if I could give you hope?”
“You, Poll, what can you mean? You!”
“Yes, me,” said Poll, “poor as I stand here now.”
“Well, but how?”
“Through them that can turn old Val the Vulture round their finger. What do you think brought me here—or who do you think sent me? Don't you know that I have no raison to like a bone in the skin of one o' your family, and that it's more, of coorse, to plaise others than myself that I'm here; but, over and above that, you, Miss M'Loughlin, never offended or injured me, and I'm willin' to sarve you in this business, if you will sarve yourself.”
“But, how—but, how?” replied the distracted girl, “only tell me how?”
“There is one, and only one, that can twist Val round his finger, and in this same business is willing to do so—and that one is his own son, Phil.”
Mary stood for a moment without even breathing; indeed, she exhibited strong symptoms of disgust at his very name.
“He is a person I detest,” she replied, “beyond any human creature.”
“That may be,” said Poll, “but still he can save the man that is to be your husband; and that's what you ought to think of—the time is short now, and the loss of a day may ruin all. Listen Miss M'Loughlin:—Mr. Phil desired me to say to you, that if you will allow him a few minutes' conversation with you behind the garden, about dusk or a little after it, he'll satisfy you that he can and will save him—but it must be on the condition of seeing you, as I say.”