MR. O'REILLY.

Tuapeka Times, Volume III, Issue 111, 24 March 1870, Page 7

M R. O'R EIL L Y.

, (From "London Society.")

How many months ago is it since I lay down, one lovely" autumn afternoon, on the side of Loch Sheogachan, and mentally tossed up " beads or tails " as to what I should do about Mary O'Reilly and her intractable, unbearable, ungovernable papa ? From Christmas to Christmas is twelve months — thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Scarcely fifteen months, and it seems as if a hundred years had passed since then.

Here a certain young person, looking over my shoulder, remarks that I have paid her a very pretty compliment indeed. I explain, however, that I meant the hundred years to express my sense of the happiness which had been compressed into the fifteen months. The explanation appears to myself to be remarkably vague, not to say incoherent ; but it satisfies the young person, who retires, and leaves me to my story. Fifteen months ago, then, I went over to the west of Ireland, in answer to an invitation from an old gentleman, a distant relative of mine, who had some excellent shooting. He did not shoot himself ; he had few neighbours who had not shooting of their own ; he had still, out of habit, kept on his gamekeeper, who supplied the kitchen in autumn and winter ; and so it was that he was right in saying there would be no lack of sport if I went over. A young and briefless barrister, who has the good luck to have some little money of his own, is seldom busy. Above all, he is never busy in the autumn ; so in an expressibly short period of time I found myself at the half farmhouse, half castle, which my venerable friend owned on the shores of Loch Sheogachan.

The shooting, as I had anticipated, was excellent ; and for a week or two I revelled in slaughter. Day after day, wet or dry, I sallied out alone, my ouly companions being the dogs ; and while I sometimes found sufficient difficulty in disposing of the game I shot, so that it might be fetched by some one from the house, that inconvenience was more than atoned for by the freedom I obtaiued from the persecutions of Tim O'Lany, the keeper. Tim was a pig-headed old fool, incorrigibly obstinate in sticking to his own means and methods, and regarding all improvements or alterations in the outfit of a sportsman as something approaching sacrilege. Brcoehloaders, in especial, were his particular abhorrence ; and if, by chance, you missed anything, Tim was invariably ready with an "I told you so." and with a protestation that any other gun would have caught the hare or the duck, as the case might be. So I intimated to Tim, after a day or two in his company had taught me the boundaries of my shooting, that henceforth I should dispense wibh his services. Tim said nothing ; but I know that he prayed to his favourite saint that I might miss every bird or beast at which I might fire. ; and I am certain he was almost moved to tears of vexation on seeing, evening after evening, that the day's bag had not been decreased by his absence.

In midst of this enjoyment, it was my .fortune to have met Mary O'Reilly; and -from that moment I became the wretchedest of human beings. She and her father came from some uunameable district to dine with us one evening. There was no other lady present ; and as my aged friend and Mr. O'Reilly devoted their energies exclusively to discussing the doings of some magistrates in the neighbourhood, the young lady and I were naturally thrown pretty much together. When Mr. O'Reilly did address me, it was merely to say all the insulting things he oould imagine about England and the English These, delivered in a fine rich brogue, he hurled at my head, as if I had specially gone over to become the scapegoat of my countrymen. Miss Mary did her best to deprecate these attacks ; but in vain. "Ye talk about shootin!" he cried. "Is there a man in your counthry who'd wait all the noight in a barrel in a bog — wid plenty of rain to prevint your fallin' aslape — to have a shot at the say-fowl ?" " Why, I've done it myself," said I. "You?" The tone in which he uttered the interrogation sounded remarkably as if he believed that I was lying. " Will, I'll till you, I'll go out wid ye to-morrow noight, now." " All right," said I The challenge, as I suspected, was only a threat ; and Mr. O'Reilly never mentioned the engagement again. However, Mary O'Reilly and 1 became great friends that evening. She was (perhaps I had better say is, lest this sheet should again be submitted to inspection) a very handsome, spiri-ted-looking girl, with dark blue eyes, a fresh complexion, and large masses of jet-black hair. There was fire and life in her every look and motion; and yet she was exceedingly gentle in manner, and soft in voice. She was so unlike her father, that I took it for granted she resembled her mother, who, to judge by Mr. O'Reilly's objurgations against my countrymen, had probably been an Englishwoman. In return, Mr. O'Reilly invited my friend to dine with him, and included me in the invitation. After that evening, I took the liberty of calling at Mr. O'Eeilly's house without seeking

any invitation. Indeed, I fancy he rather liked my going there, that he might indulge his passion for. maligning and sneering at the English. "What he chiefly complained of was their want of spirit. They did not drink, nor fight, nor dance, nor make love, nor do anything in that fine, boisterous Irish fashion which he remembered to have marked his own young days. They were a set of patient, dull, respectable people, introdncing calculation into every matter of life, wanting entirely that daredevil enthusiasm and courage which were alone worthy of a man. All this, and much more, I was accustomed to hear as Mr. O'Reilly sate and drank prodigious quantities of Kinahan and hot water, and while Mary O'Reilly sate at the piano (it might have been a better one, certainly) and played those old Irish airs which arc so full of a sweet and tender pathos.

In time — in fact, in a very short space of time, all this produced its natural consequences. I was madly in love with Mary O'Reilly. I went about the hills and along the side of the loch in a maudlin fashion, oftentimes allowing a hare to scuttle off in safety among brackens not thirty feet from me, and at other times allowing a heron to rise from the reeds and fly unharmed over my head, with his long legs hauging in the air. Finally (and by this time Mary by various little arts and devices, had impressed me with the notion that I should not displease her by so doing), I went and asked her father if he had any objection to my becoming a suitor for her hand.

He had, most decidely. He drank off some raw whiskey, and told me, with profuse and profane language, that his daughter should never marry an Englishman — never! And he invoked all the saints and demons to bear him witness.

So I departed, crestfallen. What was Itodo ? That very evening I received a note from Mary, which she had sent by some servant. She had heard of the quarrel between her father and' myself. She was in decpair. I was never to be allowed near the house again ; and what should she

That was the very question which was pressed upon myself, for the term of my invitation had nearly expired. I began to curse the hour in which I was born on English soil ; and wished that I had been, to please her maniac of a father, a Dutchman, a Bosjesman or a New Zealander.

Next day I had grown desperate. I was moved to sktughter every living thing that came within reach of my breachloader. I was unusuully lucky, too — woodcock, pheasants, hares and ducks falling to my gun, to say nothing of half a dozen rabbits and a long-necked heron. Towards the afternoon I returned lo the spot where I had hung up some of the game in the morning. I sate down on the bank, surrounded by the dogs and the slaughtered birds ; and there I read Mary's letter again, and fell to wondering what was to be done with the Anglophobist who had the honour, and did not appreciate it, of being her father. At length J took my resolve ; slung most of my game on a tree which I knew how to indicate to Tim O'Lany ; went home with the dogs ; and then started over the mountains to Mr. O'Reillv's house.

I hung about there until I saw emerge from the place a little girl whom I recognised as the daughter of O'Reilly's bailiff. I laid hold of her, and bade her quietly go and tell Miss O'Reilly that some one wanted to speak to her. Mary came, in great agitation ; and there and then I proposed that, if her father persisted in his mania, she and I should get married in spite of him.

'■ Has he any other objection to mo than my being an Englishman ? " I asked.

" None," she said ; " but that is quite insuperable. I am in despair. He w'll never give his consent ; and I dare not do what you ask." But she did, all the same, although it took me two or three days, with half a dozen interviews, to persuade her. I had to make arrangements with, my relatives in London ; I had to coax my mother into writing a letter to her, saying that Mary could come direct to her house ; I had then to go to London, and arrange with an elderly official gentleman at Doctors' Commons, and another elderly official person in the neighbourhood of a. certain church ; and finally I hurried across again to Ireland. I confess that I almost repented of the project when I saw the distress the poor girl was in.

"But then," she urged, while she was still struggling to retain her tears, " when he knows we are married, then he will give up his prejudice against Englishmen." " I don't know," said I : " but if he give 3up his prejudice against me so far as to make friends with you, well and good." It was only a week or two after this that, one evening, Mary and I sat on the balcony of a hotel at Konisjswiuter, overlooking the Rhine. We were married, and were on our wedding tour ; but the quiet and loveliness of the surroundings of Konigswinter had kept us chained there fur several days, and we were in no hurry to depart. Besides, we had written for letters, and daily expected them. , A gentleman stepped out from the

salle-a-manger and approached the portion of the balcony where we were sitting. Mary turned her head slightly, and then uttered a little scream. I started np at once, and was confronted by Mr. O'Reilly. " Now,? said I to myself, "we are goiug to have a scene, and it will be better to have it a short and a swiftone."

" Me boy," said Mr. O'Eeilly, " give me your hand ! Did I say ye were an Englishman ? Divil a stupider word did I ever utter, and that's the truth ! Divil an Englishman had iver the courage to carry off his sweetheart in the way ye did ; and it's mighty plased I am wid ye — and proud of ye, me boy; and here, Molly, me girl, come and kiss your ould father !"

The next moment Mr. O'Reilly had turned to me, with a wink, to say that he had brought a " foine dhrop o' the craythur wid him, just to make till matters straight atune us."