“Why, no,” replied the credulous squire, “hang it, no, man—no, Sir Robert; I'll do you that justice; I never mentioned my intention of coming to call you out, to any individual but one, and that on my way hither; he was unwell, too, after a hard night's drinking; but he said he would shake himself up, and be ready to attend me as soon as the place of meeting should be settled on. In point of fact, I did not intend to see you to-day, but to send him with the message; but, as I said, he was knocked up for a time, and you know my natural impatience. No, certainly not, it was in every sense impossible that you could have expected me: yes, if the devil was in it, I will do you that justice.”
“Well, I have another question to ask, my dear friend, equally important with, if not more so than, the other. Do you hold me free from all blame in what has happened through the imposture of that wretched girl?”
“Why, after what has occurred just now, I certainly must, Sir Robert. As you laid no anticipation of my visit, you certainly could not, nor had you time to get up a scene.”
“Well, now, Mr. Folliard, you have taken a load off my heart; and I will candidly confess to you that I have had my frailties like other men, sown my wild oats like other men; but, unlike those who are not ashamed to boast of such exploits, I did not think it necessary to trumpet my own feelings. I do not say, my dear friend, that I have always been a saint.”
“Why, now, that's manly and candid, Sir Robert, and I like you the better for it. Yes, I do exonerate you from blame in this. There certainly was sincerity in that wench's tears, and be hanged to her; for, as you properly said, she was devilish near putting between our families, and knocking up our intimacy. It is a delightful thing to think that I shall be able to disabuse poor Helen's mind upon the subject; for, I give you my honor, it caused her the greatest distress, and excited her mind to a high pitch of indignation against you; but I shall set all to rights.”
“And now that the matter is settled, Mr. Folliard, we must have lunch. I will give you a glass of Burgundy, which, I am sure, you will like.”
“With all my heart,” replied the placable and hearty old squire; “after the agitation of the day a good glass of Burgundy will serve me certainly.”
Lunch was accordingly ordered, and the squire, after taking half a dozen bumpers of excellent wine, got into fine spirits, shook hands as cordially as ever with the baronet, and drove home completely relieved from the suspicions which he had entertained.
The squire, on his return home, immediately called for his daughter, but for some time to no purpose. The old man began to get alarmed, and had not only Helen's room searched, but every room in the house. At length a servant informed him that she was tending and arranging the green-house flowers in the garden.
“Oh, ay!” said he, after he had dismissed the servants, “Thank God—thank God! I will go out to the dear girl; for she is a dear girl, and it is a sin to suspect her. I wish to heaven that that scoundrel Reilly would turn Protestant, and he should have her with all the veins of my heart. Upon my soul, putting religion out of the question, one would think that, in other respects, they were made for each other. But it's all this cursed pride of his that prevents him; as if it signified what any person's religion is, provided he's an honest man, and a loyal subject.”