“The villain that would have robbed me of my property and my daughter is now safe in Sligo jail.”
A flash of something like joy—at least the father took it as such—sparkled in a strange kind of triumph from her eyes.
“Ha,” said she, “is that villain safe at last? Dear papa, I am tired of all this—this—yes, I am tired of it, and it is time I should; but you talked about something else, did you not? Something about Sir Robert Whitecraft and a marriage. And what is my reply to that? why, it is this, papa: I have but one life, sir. Now begone, and leave me, or, upon my honor, I will push you out of the room. Have I not consented to all your terms. Let Sir Robert come tomorrow and he shall call me his wife before the sun reaches his meridian. Now, leave me; leave me, I say.”
In this uncertain state her father found himself compelled to retire to the drawing-room, where Sir Robert and he met.
“Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “is this true?”
“Is what true, Sir Robert?” said he sharply.
“Why, that Reilly and the Red Rapparee are both in Sligo jail?”
“It is true, Sir Robert; and it must be a cursed thing to be in jail for a capital crime.”
“Are you becoming penitent,” asked the other, “for bringing the laws of the land to bear upon the villain that would have disgraced, and might have ruined, your only daughter?”
The father's heart was stung by the diabolical pungency of this question.