“And if you do, you will see me die like a man and a gentleman; may I humbly add, like a Christian!”

The squire, on his way home, kept up a long, low whistle, broken only by occasional soliloquies, in which Reilly’s want of common-sense, and neglect not only of his temporal interests, but of his life itself, were the prevailing sentiments.  He regretted his want of success, which he imputed altogether to Reilly’s obstinacy, instead of his integrity, firmness, and honor.

This train of reflection threw him into one of those capricious fits of resentment so peculiar to his unsteady temper, and as he went along he kept lashing himself up into a red heat of indignation and vengeance against that unfortunate gentleman.  After dinner that day he felt somewhat puzzled as to whether he ought to communicate to his daughter the result of his interview with Reilly or not.  Upon consideration, however, he deemed it more prudent to avoid the subject altogether, for he felt apprehensive that, however she might approve of her lover’s conduct, the knowledge of his fate, which depended on it, would only plunge her into deeper distress.  The evening consequently passed without any allusion to the subject, unless a peculiar tendency to melody, on his part, might be taken to mean something; to this we might add short abrupt ejaculations unconsciously uttered—­such as—­“Whew, whew, whew—­o—­whew—­o—­hang the fellow!  Whew, whew—­o—­whew—­he’s a cursed goose, but an obstinate—­whew, whew—­o—­whew—­o.  Ay, but no matter—­well—­whew, whew—­o, whew, whew!  Helen, a cup of tea.  Now, Helen, do you know a discovery I have made—­but how could you?  No, you don’t, of course; but listen and pay attention to me, because it deeply affects myself.”

The poor girl, apprehensive that he was about to divulge some painful secret, became pale and a good deal agitated; she gave him a long, inquiring look, but said nothing.

“Yes, Helen, and the discovery is this:  I find from experience that tea and Burgundy—­or, indeed, tea and any kind of wine—­don’t agree with my constitution:  curse the fel—­whew, whew, whew, whew—­o—­whew; no, the confounded mixture turns my stomach into nothing more nor less than a bag of aquafortis—­if he had but common—­whew—­”

“Well, but, papa, why do you take tea, then?”

“Because I’m an old fool, Helen; and if I am, there are some young ones besides; but it can’t be helped now—­whew, whew—­it was done for the best.”

In this manner he went on for a considerable time, ejaculating mysteries and enigmas, until he finished the second bottle, after which he went to bed.

It may be necessary to state here that, notwithstanding the incredible force and tenderness of his affection for his daughter, he had, ever since her elopement with Reilly, kept her under the strictest surveillance, and in the greatest seclusion—­that is to say, as the proverb has it, “he locked the stable door when the steed was stolen;” or if he did not realize the aphorism, he came very near it.