“Well, Fergus, let his name and his crimes perish with him; but, as for you, what do you intend to do?”
“Troth, sir,” replied Fergus, “it's more than I rightly know. I had my hopes, like others; but, somehow, luck has left all sorts of lovers of late—from Sir Robert Whitecraft to your humble servant.”
“But you may thank God,” said Reilly, with a smile, “that you had not Sir Robert Whitecraft's luck.”
“Faith, sir,” replied Fergus archly, “there's a pair of us may do so. You went nearer his luck—such as it was—than I did.”
“True enough,” replied the other, with a serious air; “I had certainly a narrow escape; but I wish to know, as I said, what you intend to do? It is your duty now, Fergus, to settle industriously and honestly.”
“Ah, sir, honestly. I didn't expect that from you, Mr. Reilly.”
“Excuse me, Fergus,” said Reilly, taking him by the hand; “when I said honestly I did not mean to intimate any thing whatsoever against your integrity. I know, unfortunately, the harsh circumstances which drove you to associate with that remorseless villain and his gang; but I wish you to resume an industrious life, and, if Ellen Connor is disposed to unite her fate with yours, I have provided the means—ample means for you both to be comfortable and happy. She who was so faithful to her mistress will not fail to make you a good wife.”
“Ah,” replied Fergus, “it's I that knows that well; but, unfortunately, I have no hope there.”
“No hope; how is that? I thought your affection was mutual.”
“So it is, sir—or, rather, so it was; but she has affection for nobody now, barring the Cooleen Bawn.”