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diff --git a/16003-0.txt b/16003-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f1e659e --- /dev/null +++ b/16003-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,28286 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of +Ballytrain, by William Carleton + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain + The Works of William Carleton, Volume One + +Author: William Carleton + +Illustrator: M. L. Flanery + +Release Date: June 7, 2005 [EBook #16003] +Last Updated: March 1, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK BARONET *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE BLACK BARONET; + +OR, THE CHRONICLES OF BALLYTRAIN. + + +By William Carleton + + + + CONTENTS: + + CHAPTER + + I.--A Mail Coach by Night, and a Bit + of Moonshine + + II.--The Town and its Inhabitants + + III.--Paudeen Gair's Receipt how to + make a Bad Dinner a Good One + --The Stranger finds Fenton as + Mysterious as Himself + + IV.--An Anonymous Letter--Lucy Gourlay + Avows a Previous Attachment + + V.--Sir Thomas Gourlay Fails in Unmasking + the Stranger--Mysterious Conduct of Fenton + + VI.--Extraordinary Scene between Fenton + and the Stranger + + VII.--The Baronet attempts by Falsehood + to urge his Daughter into + an Avowal of her Lover's Name. + + VIII.--The Fortune-Teller--An Equivocal + Prediction + + IX. --Candor and Dissimulation + + X. --A Family Dialogue--and a Secret + nearly Discovered + + XI.--The Stranger's Visit to Father + MacMahon + + XII.--Crackenfudge Outwitted by Fenton + --The Baronet, Enraged at + his Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her + + XIII.--The Stranger's Second Visit to + Father MacMahon--Something + like an Elopement + + XIV.--Crackenfudge put upon a Wrong + Scent--Miss Gourlay takes Refuge + with an Old Friead + + XV.--Interview between Lady Gourlay + and the Stranger--Dandy Dulcimer + makes a Discovery--The + Stranger Receives Mysterious + Communications + + XVI.--Conception and Perpetration of a + Diabolical Plot against Fenton + + XVII.--A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's + --Retributive Justice, or the Robber + Robbed + + XVIII. --Dunphy visits the County Wicklow + --Old Sam and his Wife + + XIX.--Interview between Trailcudgel + and the Stranger--A Peep at + Lord Dunroe and his Friend + + XX.--Interview between Lords Cullamore, + Dunroe, and Lady Emily + --Tom Norton's Aristocracy + fails him--His Reception by + Lord Cullamore + + XXI.--A Spy Rewarded--Sir Thomas + Gourlay Charged Home by the + Stranger with, the Removal and + Disappearance of his Brother's Son + + XXII.--Lucy at.Summerfield Cottage + + XXIII.-- A Lunch in Summerfield Cottage. + + XXIV.--An Irish Watchhouse in the time + of the “Charlies” + + XXV.--The Police Office -- Sir Spigot + Sputter and Mr. Coke--An “Unfortunate + Translator--Decision in “a Law Case” + + XXVI.-- The Priest Returns Sir Thomas's + Money and Pistols--A Bit of + Controversy--A New Light Begins + to Appear + + XXVII. --Sir Thomas, who Shams Illness, + is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, + who visits Him--Lucy calls upon + Lady Gourlay, where she meets her + Lover--Affecting Interview between + Lucy and Lady Gourlay + + XXVIII.--Innocence and Affection + overcome by Fraud and Hypocrisy--Lucy + yields at Last + + XXIX.--Lord Dunroe's Affection for his + Father--Glimpse of a new Character + --Lord Cullamore's Rebuke to his Son, + who greatly Refuses to give up his Friend + + XXX.--A Courtship on Novel Principles + + XXXI.--The Priest goes into Corbet's + House very like a Thief--a Sederunt, + with a Bright look up for Mr. Gray + + XXXII.--Discovery of the Baronet's Son + --Who, however, is Shelved for a Time + + XXXIII.--The Priest asks for a Loan of + Fifty Guineas, and Offers “Freney + the Robber” as Security + + XXXIV.--Young Gourlay's Affectionate + Interview with His Father--Risk + of Strangulation -- Movements + of M'Bride + + XXXV.--Lucy's Vain but Affecting + Expostulation with her Father--Her + Terrible Denunciation of + Ambrose Gray + + XXXVI.--Which contains a variety of + Matters, some to Laugh and some + to Weep at + + XXXVII.--Dandy's Visit to Summerfield + Cottage, where he Makes a most Ungallant + Mistake -- Return with Tidings of both + Mrs. Norton and Fenton--and Generously + Patronizes his Master + + XXXVIII.--Anthony Corbet gives Important + Documents to the Stranger--An + Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe + --Norton catches a Tartar + + XXXIX.--Fenton Recovered--The Mad-House + + XL.--Lady Gourlay sees her Son + + XLI.--Denouement + + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The incidents upon which this book is founded seem to be extraordinary +and startling, but they are true; for, as Byron says, and as we all +know, “Truth is strange--stranger than Fiction.” Mr. West, brother to +the late member from Dublin, communicated them to me exactly as they +occurred, and precisely as he communicated them, have I given them +to the reader, at least, as far as I can depend upon my memory. With +respect, however, to his facts, they related only to the family which is +shadowed forth under the imaginary name of Gourlay; those connected with +the aristocratic house of Cullamore, I had from another source, and they +are equally authentic. The Lord Dunroe, son to the Earl of Cullamore, is +not many years dead, and there are thousands still living, who can bear +testimony to the life of profligacy and extravagance, which, to the very +last day of his existence, he persisted in leading. That his father was +obliged to get an act of Parliament passed to legitimize his children, +is a fact also pretty well known to many. + +At first, I had some notion of writing a distinct story upon each class +of events, but, upon more mature consideration, I thought it better to +construct such a one as would enable me to work them both up into the +same narrative; thus contriving that the incidents of the one house +should be connected with those of the other, and the interest of both +deepened, not only by their connection, but their contrast. It is +unnecessary to say, that the prototypes of the families who appear upon +the stage in the novel, were, in point of fact, personally unknown +to each other, unless, probably, by name, inasmuch as they resided +in different and distant parts of the kingdom. They were, however, +contemporaneous. Such circumstances, nevertheless, matter very little +to the novelist, who can form for his characters whatsoever connections, +whether matrimonial or otherwise, he may deem most proper; and of this, +he must be considered himself as the sole, though probably not the best, +judge. The name of Red Hall, the residence of Sir Thomas Gourlay, is +purely fictitious, but not the description of it, which applies very +accurately to a magnificent family mansion not a thousand miles from +the thriving little town of Ballygawley. Since the first appearance, +however, of the work, I have accidentally discovered, from James +Frazer's admirable. “Hand-book for Ireland,” the best and most correct +work of the kind ever published, and the only one that can be relied +upon, that there actually is a residence named Red Hall in my own native +county of Tyrone. I mention this, lest the respectable family to whom it +belongs might take offence at my having made it the ancestral property +of such a man as Sir Thomas Gourlay, or the scene of his crimes and +outrages. On this point, I beg to assure them that the coincidence of +the name is purely accidental, and that, when I wrote the novel, I had +not the slightest notion that such a place actually existed. Some of +those coincidences are very odd and curious. For instance, it so happens +that there is at this moment a man named Dunphy actually residing on +Constitution Hill, and engaged in the very same line of life which I +have assigned to one of my principal characters of that name in the +novel, that of a huckster; yet of this circumstance I knew nothing. The +titles of Cullamore and Dunroe are taken from two hills, one greater +than the other, and not far asunder, in my native parish; and I have +heard it said, by the people of that neighborhood, that Sir William +Richardson, father to the late amiable Sir James Richardson Bunbury, +when expecting at the period of the Union to receive a coronet instead +of a baronetcy, had made his mind up to select either one or the other +of them as the designation of his rank. + +I think I need scarcely assure my readers that old Sam Roberts, the +retired soldier, is drawn from life; and I may add, that I have scarcely +done the fine old fellow and his fine old wife sufficient justice. They +were two of the most amiable and striking originals I ever met. Both +are now dead, but I remember Sam to have been for many years engaged in +teaching the sword exercise in some of the leading schools in and about +Dublin. He ultimately gave this up, however, having been appointed to +some comfortable situation in the then Foundling Hospital, where his +Beck died, and he, poor fellow, did not, I have heard, long survive her. + +Owing to painful and peculiar circumstances, with which it would be +impertinent to trouble the reader, there were originally only five +hundred copies of this work published. The individual for whom it was +originally written, but who had no more claim upon it than the Shah +of Persia, misrepresented me, or rather calumniated me, so grossly to +Messrs. Saunders & Otley, who published it, that he prevailed upon them +to threaten me with criminal proceedings for having disposed of my own +work, and I accordingly received an attorney's letter, affording me +that very agreeable intimation. Of course they soon found they had been +misled, and that it would have been not only an unparalleled outrage, +but a matter attended with too much danger, and involving too severe a +penalty to proceed in. Little I knew or suspected at the time, however, +that the sinister and unscrupulous delusions which occasioned me and +my family so much trouble, vexation, and embarrassment, were only the +foreshadowings of that pitiable and melancholy malady which not long +afterwards occasioned the unhappy man to be placed apart from society, +which, it is to be feared, he is never likely to rejoin. I allude to +those matters, not only to account for the limited number of the work +that was printed, but to satisfy those London publishers to whom the +individual in question so foully misrepresented me, that my conduct in +every transaction I have had with booksellers has been straightforward, +just, and honorable, and that I can publicly make this assertion, +without the slightest apprehension of being contradicted. That the book +was cushioned in this country, I am fully aware, and this is all I +shall say upon that part of the subject. Indeed it was never properly +published at all--never advertised--never reviewed, and, until now, lay +nearly in as much obscurity as if it had been still in manuscript. A few +copies of it got into circulating libraries, but, in point of fact, +it was never placed before the public at all. What-ever be its merits, +however, it is now in the hands of a gentleman who will do it justice, +if it fails, the fault will not at least be his. + +My object in writing the book was to exhibit, in contrast, three of the +most powerful passions that can agitate the human heart--I mean love, +ambition, and revenge. To contrive the successive incidents, by which +the respective individuals on whose characters they were to operate +should manifest their influence with adequate motives, and without +departing from actual life and nature, as we observe them in action +about us, was a task which required a very close study of the human mind +when placed in peculiar circumstances. In this case the great struggle +was between love and ambition. By ambition, I do not mean the ambition +of the truly great man, who wishes to associate it with truth and +virtue, and whose object is, in the first place, to gratify it by +elevating his country and his kind; no, but that most hateful species +of it which exists in the contrivance and working out of family +arrangements and insane projects for the aggrandizement of our +offspring, under circumstances where we must know that they cannot be +accomplished without wrecking the happiness of those to whom they are +proposed. Such a passion, in its darkest aspect--and in this I +have drawn it--has nothing more in view than the cruel, selfish +and undignified object of acquiring some poor and paltry title +or distinction for a son or daughter, without reference either to +inclination or will, and too frequently in opposition to both. It +is like introducing a system of penal laws into domestic life, and +establishing the tyranny of a moral despot among the affections of the +heart. Sometimes, especially in the case of an only child, this ambition +grows to a terrific size, and its miserable victim acts with all the +unconscious violence of a monomaniac. + +In Sir Thomas Gourlay, the reader will perceive that it became the great +and engrossing object of his life, and that its violence was strong in +proportion to that want of all moral restraint, which resulted from +the creed of an infidel and sceptic. And I may say here, that it was my +object to exhibit occasionally the gloomy agonies and hollow delusions +of the latter, as the hard and melancholy system on which he based +his cruel and unsparing ambition. His character was by far the most +difficult to manage. Love has an object; and, in this case, in the +person of Lucy Gourlay it had a reasonable and a noble one. Revenge has +an object; and in the person of Anthony Corbet, or Dunphy, it also +had, according to the unchristian maxims of life, an unusually strong +argument on which to work and sustain itself. But, as for Sir Thomas +Gourlay's mad ambition, I felt that, considering his sufficiently +elevated state of life, I could only compensate for its want of all +rational design, by making him scorn and reject the laws both civil and +religious by which human society is regulated, and all this because he +had blinded his eyes against the traces of Providence, rather than take +his own heart to task for its ambition. Had he been a Christian, I +do not think he could have acted as he did. He shaped his own creed, +however, and consequently, his own destiny. In Lady Edward Gourlay, I +have endeavored to draw such a character as only the true and obedient +Christian can present; and in that of his daughter, a girl endowed with +the highest principles, the best heart, and the purest sense of honor--a +woman who would have been precisely such a character as Lady Gourlay +was, had she lived longer and been subjected to the same trials. +Throughout the whole work, however, I trust that I have succeeded in +the purity and loftiness of the moral, which was to show the pernicious +effects of infidelity and scepticism, striving to sustain and justify an +insane ambition; or, in a word, I endeavored + + “To vindicate the ways of God to man.” + +A literary friend of mine told me, a few days ago, that the poet +Massinger had selected the same subject for his play of. “A New Way to +pay Old Debts,” the same in which Sir Giles Overreach is the prominent +character. I ought to feel ashamed to say, as I did say, in reply +to this, that I never read the play alluded to, nor a single line of +Massinger's works; neither have I ever seen Sir Giles Overreach even +upon the stage. If, then, there should appear any resemblance in the +scope or conduct of the play or novel, or in the character of Sir +Thomas Gourlay and Overreach, I cannot be charged either with theft or +imitation, as I am utterly ignorant of the play and of the character of +Sir Giles Overreach alluded to. + +I fear I have dwelt much too long on this subject, and I shall therefore +close it by a short anecdote. + +Some months ago I chanced to read a work--I think by an American +writer--called, as well as I can recollect, “The Reminiscences of +a late Physician.” I felt curious to read the book, simply because I +thought that the man who could, after, “The Diary of a late Physician,” + come out with a production so named, must possess at the least either +very great genius or the most astounding assurance. Well, I went on +perusing the work, and found almost at once that it was what is called a +catchpenny, and depended altogether, for its success, upon the fame and +reputation of its predecessor of nearly the same name. I saw the trick +at once, and bitterly regretted that I, in common I suppose with others, +had been taken in and bit. Judge of my astonishment, however, when, as I +proceeded to read the description of an American lunatic asylum, I found +it to be _literatim et verbatim_ taken--stolen--pirated--sentence by +sentence and page by page, from my own description of one in the third +volume of the first edition of this book, and which I myself took from +close observation, when, some years ago, accompanied by Dr. White, I was +searching in the Grangegorman Lunatic Asylum and in Swift's for a case +of madness arising from disappointment in love. I was then writing. +“Jane Sinclair,” and to the honor of the sex, I have to confess that +in neither of those establishments, nor any others either in or about +Dublin, could I find such a case. Here, however, in the Yankee's book, +there were neither inverted commas, nor the slightest acknowledgment of +the source from which the unprincipled felon had stolen it. + +With respect to mad-houses, especially as they were conducted up until +within the last thirty years, I must say with truth, that if every fact +originating in craft, avarice, oppression, and the most unscrupulous +ambition for family wealth and hereditary rank, were known, such a dark +series of crime and cruelty would come to light as time public mind +could scarcely conceive--nay, as would shock humanity itself. Nor has +this secret system altogether departed from us. It is not long since +the police offices developed some facts rather suspicious, and pretty +plainly impressed with the stamp of the old practice. The Lunatic +Commission is now at work, and I trust it will not confine its +investigations merely to public institutions of that kind, but will, +if it possess authority to do so, strictly and rigidly examine every +private asylum for lunatics in the kingdom. + +Of one other character, Ginty Cooper, I have a word to say. Any person +acquainted with the brilliant and classical little capital of Cultra, +lying on the confines of Monaghan and Cavan, will not fail to recognize +the remains of grace and beatty, which once characterized that +celebrated, and well-known individual. + +With respect to the watch-house scene, and that in the police office, +together with the delineation of the. “Old Charlies,” as the guardians +of the night were then called; to which I may add the portraits of the +two magistrates; I can confidently refer to thousands now alive for +their truth. Those matters took place long before our present admirable +body of metropolitan police were established. At that period, the police +magistracies were bestowed, in most cases, from principles by no means +in opposition to the public good, and not, as now, upon gentlemen +perfectly free from party bias, and well qualified for that difficult +office by legal knowledge, honorable feeling, and a strong sense of +public duty, impartial justice, and humanity. + +W Carleton. + +(Dublin, October 26, 1857.) + + + + +CHAPTER I. A Mail-coach by Night, and a Bit of Moonshine. + + +It has been long observed, that every season sent by the Almighty has +its own peculiar beauties; yet, although this is felt to be universally +true--just as we know the sun shines, or that we cannot breathe without +air--still we are all certain that even the same seasons have brief +periods when these beauties are more sensibly felt, and diffuse a +more vivid spirit of enjoyment through all our faculties. Who has not +experienced the gentle and serene influence of a calm spring evening? +and perhaps there is not in the whole circle of the seasons anything +more delightful than the exquisite emotion with which a human heart, +not hardened by vice, or contaminated by intercourse with the world, is +softened into tenderness and a general love for the works of God, by the +pure spirit which breathes of holiness, at the close of a fine evening +in the month of March or April. + +The season of spring is, in fact, the resurrection of nature to life and +happiness. Who does not remember the delight with which, in early youth, +when existence is a living poem, and all our emotions sanctify the +spirit-like inspiration--the delight, we say, with which our eye rested +upon a primrose or a daisy for the first time? And how many a long and +anxious look have we ourselves given at the peak of Knockmany, morning +after morning, that we might be able to announce, with an exulting +heart, the gratifying and glorious fact, that the snow had disappeared +from it--because we knew that then spring must have come! And that +universal song of the lark, which fills the air with music; how can we +forget the bounding joy with which our young heart drank it in as we +danced in ecstacy across the fields? Spring, in fact, is the season +dearest to the recollection of man, inasmuch as it is associated with +all that is pure, and innocent, and beautiful, in the transient annals +of his early life. There is always a mournful and pathetic spirit +mingled with our remembrances of it, which resembles the sorrow that we +feel for some beloved individual whom death withdrew from our affections +at that period of existence when youth had nearly completed its allotted +limits, and the promising manifestations of all that was virtuous +and good were filling the parental hearts with the happy hopes which +futurity held out to them. As the heart, we repeat, of such a parent +goes back to brood over the beloved memory of the early lost, so do +our recollections go back, with mingled love and sorrow, to the tender +associations of spring, which may, indeed, be said to perish and pass +away in its youth. + +These reflections have been occasioned, first, by the fact that its +memory and associations are inexpressibly dear to ourselves; and, +secondly, because it is toward the close of this brief but beautiful +period of the year that our chronicles date their commencement. + +One evening, in the last week of April, a coach called the “Fly” stopped +to change horses at a small village in a certain part of Ireland, which, +for the present, shall be nameless. The sun had just sunk behind the +western hills; but those mild gleams which characterize his setting at +the close of April, had communicated to the clouds that peculiarly soft +and golden tint, on which the eye loves to rest, but from which its +light was now gradually fading. When fresh horses had been put to, a +stranger, who had previously seen two large trunks secured on the +top, in a few minutes took his place beside the guard, and the coach +proceeded. + +“Guard,” he inquired, after they had gone a couple of miles from the +village, “I am quite ignorant of the age of the moon. When shall we have +moonlight?” + +“Not till it's far in the night, sir.” + +“The coach passes through the town of Ballytrain, does it not?” + +“It does, sir.” + +“At what hour do we arrive there?” + +“About half-past three in the morning sir.” + +The stranger made no reply, but cast his eyes over the aspect of the +surrounding country. + +The night was calm, warm, and balmy. In the west, where the sun had +gone down, there could still be noticed the faint traces of that subdued +splendor with which he sets in spring. The stars were up, and the whole +character of the sky and atmosphere was full of warmth, and softness, +and hope. As the eye stretched across a country that seemed to be rich +and well cultivated, it felt that dream-like charm of dim romance, which +visible darkness throws over the face of nature, and which invests +her groves, her lordly mansions, her rich campaigns, and her white +farm-houses, with a beauty that resembles the imagery of some delicious +dream, more than the realities of natural scenery. + +On passing along, they could observe the careless-looking farmer driving +home his cows to be milked and put up for the night; whilst, further +on, they passed half-a-dozen cars returning home, some empty and +some loaded, from a neighboring fair or market, their drivers in high +conversation--a portion of them in friendship, some in enmity, and +in general all equally disposed, in consequence of their previous +libations, to either one or the other. Here they meet a solitary +traveler, fatigued and careworn, carrying a bundle slung over his +shoulder on the point of a stick, plodding his weary way to the next +village. Anon they were passed by a couple of gentlemen-farmers or +country squires, proceeding at a brisk trot upon their stout cobs or +bits of half-blood, as the case might be; and, by and by, a spanking +gig shoots rapidly ahead of them, driven by a smart-looking servant in +murrey-colored livery, who looks back with a sneer of contempt as he +wheels round a corner, and leaves the plebeian vehicle far behind him. + +As for the stranger, he took little notice of those whom they met, be +their rank of position in life what it might; his eye was seldom off the +country on each side of him as they went along. It is true, when they +passed a village or small market-town, he glanced into the houses as +if anxious to ascertain the habits and comforts of the humbler classes. +Sometimes he could catch a glimpse of them sitting around a basket of +potatoes and salt, their miserable-looking faces lit by the dim light +of a rush-candle into the ghastly paleness of spectres. Again, he +could catch glimpses of greater happiness; and if, on the one hand, the +symptoms of poverty and distress were visible, on the other there was +the jovial comfort of the wealthy farmer's house, with the loud laughter +of its contented inmates. Nor must we omit the songs which streamed +across the fields, in the calm stillness of the hour, intimating that +they who sang them were in possession, at all events, of light, if not +of happy hearts. + +As the night advanced, however, all these sounds began gradually to die +away. Nature and labor required the refreshment of rest, and, as the +coach proceeded at its steady pace, the varied evidences of waking life +became few and far between. One after another the lights, both near and +at a distance, disappeared. The roads became silent and solitary, and +the villages, as they passed through them, were sunk in repose, unless, +perhaps, where some sorrowing family were kept awake by the watchings +that were necessary at the bed of sickness or death, as was evident by +the melancholy steadiness of the lights, or the slow, cautious motion by +which they glided from one apartment to another. + +The moon had now been for some time up, and the coach had just crossed a +bridge that was known to be exactly sixteen miles from the town of which +the stranger had made inquiries. + +“I think,” said the latter, addressing the guard, “we are about sixteen +miles from Ballytrain.” + +“You appear to know the neighborhood, sir,” replied the guard. + +“I have asked you a question, sir,” replied the other, somewhat +sternly, “and, instead of answering it, you ask me another.” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the guard, smiling, “it's the +custom of the country. Yes, sir, we're exactly sixteen miles from +Ballytrain--that bridge is the mark. It's a fine country, sir, from this +to that--” + +“Now, my good fellow,” replied the stranger, “I ask it as a particular +favor that you will not open your lips to me until we reach the town, +unless I ask you a question. On that condition I will give you a +half-a-crown when we get there.” + +The fellow put his hand to his lips, to hint that he was mute, and +nodded, but spoke not a word, and the coach proceeded in silence. + +To those who have a temperament fraught with poetry or feeling, there +can be little doubt that to pass, of a calm, delightful spring night, +under a clear, starry sky, and a bright moon, through a country +eminently picturesque and beautiful, must be one of those enjoyments +which fill the heart with a memory that lasts forever. But when we +suppose that a person, whose soul is tenderly alive to the influence of +local affections, and, who, when absent, has brooded in sorrow over the +memory of his native hills and valleys, his lakes and mountains--the +rivers, where he hunted the otter and snared the trout, and who has +never revisited them, even in his dreams, without such strong emotions +as caused him to wake with his eyelashes steeped in tears--when such a +person, full of enthusiastic affection and a strong imagination, +returns to his native place after a long absence, under the peculiar +circumstances which we are describing, we need not feel surprised that +the heart of the stranger was filled with such a conflicting tumult of +feelings and recollections as it is utterly impossible to portray. + +From the moment the coach passed the bridge we have alluded to, every +hill, and residence, and river, and lake, and meadow, was familiar to +him, and he felt such an individual love and affection for them, as +if they had been capable of welcoming and feeling the presence of the +light-hearted boy, whom they had so often made happy. + +In the gairish eye of day, the contemplation of this exquisite landscape +would have been neither so affecting to the heart, nor so beautiful +to the eye. He, the stranger, had not seen it for years, except in his +dreams, and now he saw it in reality, invested with that ideal beauty in +which fancy had adorned it in those visions of the night. The river, as +it gleamed dimly, according as it was lit by the light of the moon, +and the lake, as it shone with pale but visionary beauty, possessed an +interest which the light of day would never have given them. The light, +too, which lay on the sleeping groves, and made the solitary church +spires, as they went along, visible, in dim, but distant beauty, and the +clear outlines of his own mountains, unchanged and unchangeable--all, +all crowded from the force of the recollections with which they were +associated, upon his heart, and he laid himself back, and, for some +minutes, wept tears that were at once both sweet and bitter. + +In proportion as they advanced toward the town of Ballytrain, the +stranger imagined that the moon shed a diviner radiance over the +surrounding country; but this impression was occasioned by the fact that +its aspect was becoming, every mile they proceeded, better and better +known to him. At length they came to a long but gradual elevation in +the road, and the stranger knew that, on reaching its eminence, he could +command a distinct view of the magnificent valley on which his native +parish lay. He begged of the coachman to stop for half a minute, and the +latter did so. The scene was indeed unrivalled. All that constitutes a +rich and cultivated country, with bold mountain scenery in the distance, +lay stretched before him. To the right wound, in dim but silver-like +beauty, a fine river, which was lost to the eye for a considerable +distance in the wood of Gallagh. To the eye of the stranger, every scene +and locality was distinct beyond belief, simply because they were +lit up, not only by the pale light of the moon, but by the purer and +stronger light of his own early affections and memories. + +Now it was, indeed, that his eye caught in, at a glance, all those +places and objects that had held their ground so strongly and firmly in +his heart. The moon, though sinking, was brilliant, and the cloudless +expanse of heaven seemed to reflect her light, whilst, at the same time, +the shadows that projected from the trees, houses, and other elevated +objects, were dark and distinct in proportion to the flood of mild +effulgence which poured down upon them from the firmament. Let not +our readers hesitate to believe us when we say, that the heart of the +stranger felt touched with a kind of melancholy happiness as he passed +through their very shadows--proceeding, as they did, from objects that +he had looked upon as the friends of his youth, before life had opened +to him the dark and blotted pages of suffering and sorrow. There, dimly +shining to the right below him, was the transparent river in which he +had taken many a truant plunge, and a little further on he could see +without difficulty the white cascade tumbling down the precipice, and +mark its dim scintillations, that looked, under the light of the +moon, like masses of shivered ice, were it not that such a notion was +contradicted by the soft dash and continuous murmur of its waters. + +But where was the gray mill, and the large white dwelling of the miller? +and that new-looking mansion on the elevation--it was not there in +his time, nor several others that he saw around him; and, hold--what +sacrilege is this? The coach is not upon the old road--not on that with +every turn and winding of which the light foot of his boyhood was +so familiar! What, too! the school-house down--its very foundations +razed--its light-hearted pupils, some dead, others dispersed, its master +in the dust, and its din, bustle, and monotonous murmur--all banished +and gone, like the pageantry of a dream. Such, however, is life; and +he who, on returning to his birthplace after an absence of many years, +expects to find either the country or its inhabitants as he left +them, will experience, in its most painful sense, the bitterness of +disappointment. Let every such individual prepare himself for the +consequences of death, change, and desolation. + +At length the coach drove into Ballytrain, and, in a few minutes, the +passengers found themselves opposite to the sign of the Mitre, which +swung over the door of the principal inn of that remarkable town. + +“Sir,” said the guard, addressing the stranger, “I think I have kept my +word.” + +The latter, without making any reply, dropped five shillings into his +hand; but, in the course of a few minutes--for the coach changed horses +there--he desired him to call the waiter or landlord, or any one to whom +he could intrust his trunks until morning. + +“You are going to stop in the 'Mithre,' sir, of course,” said the guard, +inquiringly. + +The traveler nodded assent, and, having seen his luggage taken into the +inn, and looking, for a moment, at the town, proceeded along the shadowy +side of the main street, and, instead of seeking his bed, had, in a +short time, altogether vanished, and in a manner that was certainly +mysterious, nor did he make his appearance again until noon on the +following day. + +It may be as well to state here that he was a man of about thirty, +somewhat above the middle size, and, although not clumsy, yet, on being +closely scanned, he appeared beyond question to be very compact, closely +knit, well-proportioned, and muscular. Of his dress, however, we must +say, that it was somewhat difficult to define, or rather to infer from +it whether he was a gentleman or not, or to what rank or station of life +he belonged. His hair was black and curled; his features regular; and +his mouth and nose particularly aristocratic; but that which constituted +the most striking feature of his face was a pair of black eyes, which +kindled or became mellow according to the emotions by which he happened +to be influenced. + +“My good lad,” said he to “Boots,” after his return, “Will you send me +the landlord?” + +“I can't, sir,” replied the other, “he's not at home.” + +“Well, then, have the goodness to send me the waiter.” + +“I will, sir,” replied the monkey, leaving the room with an evident +feeling of confident alacrity. + +Almost immediately a good-looking girl, with Irish features, brown hair, +and pretty blue eyes, presented herself. + +“Well, sir,” she said, in an interrogative tone. + +“Why,” said the stranger, “I believe it is impossible to come at any +member of this establishment; I wish to see the waiter.” + +“I'm the waiter, sir,” she replied, with an unconscious face. + +“The deuce you are!” he exclaimed; “however,” he added, recovering +himself, “I cannot possibly wish for a better. It is very likely that I +may stay with you for some time--perhaps a few months. Will you see now +that a room and bed are prepared for me, and that my trunks are put into +my own apartment? Get a fire into my sitting-room and bedchamber. Let +my bed be well aired; and see that everything is done cleanly and +comfortably, will you?” + +“Sartinly, sir, an' I hope we won't lave you much to complain of. As for +the sheets, wait till you try them. The wild myrtles of Drumgau, beyant +the demesne 'isliout, is foulded in them; an' if the smell of them won't +make you think yourself in Paradise, 'tisn't my fault.” + +The stranger, on looking at her somewhat more closely, saw that she +was an exceedingly neat, tight, clean-looking young woman, fair and +youthful. + +“Have you been long in the capacity of waiter, here.” he asked. + +“No, sir,” she replied; “about six months.” + +“Do you never keep male waiters in this establishment,” he inquired. + +“Oh, yes, sir; Paudeen Gair and I generally act week about. This is my +week, sir, an' he's at the plough.” + +“And where have you been at service before you came here, my good girl?” + +“In Sir Thomas Gourlay's, sir.” + +The stranger could not prevent himself from starting. + +“In Sir Thomas Gourlay's!” he exclaimed. “And pray in what capacity were +you there?” + +“I was own maid to Miss Gourlay, sir.” + +“To Miss Gourlay! and how did you come to leave your situation with +her?” + +“When I find you have a right to ask, sir,” she replied, “I will tell +you; but not till then.” + +“I stand reproved, my good girl,” he said; “I have indeed no right to +enter into such inquiries; but I trust I have for those that are more to +the purpose. What have you for dinner?” + +“Fish, flesh, and fowl, sir,” she replied, with a peculiar smile, “and a +fine fat buck from the deer-park.” + +“Well, now,” said he, “that really promises well--indeed it is more than +I expected--you had no quarrel, I hope, at parting? I beg your pardon--a +fat buck, you say. Come, I will have a slice of that.” + +“Very well, sir,” she replied; “what else would you wish?” + +“To know, my dear, whether Sir Thomas is as severe upon her +as--ahem!--anything at all you like--I'm not particular--only don't +forget a slice of the buck, out of the haunch, my dear; and, whisper, as +you and I are likely to become better acquainted--all in a civil way, +of course--here is a trifle of earnest, as a proof that, if you be +attentive, I shall not be ungenerous.” + +“I don't know,” she replied, shaking her head, and hesitating; “you're a +sly-looking gentleman--and, if I thought that you had any--” + +“Design, you would say,” he replied; “no--none, at any rate, that is +improper; it is offered in a spirit of good-will and honor, and in such +you may fairly accept of it. So,” he added, as he dropped the money into +her hand, “Sir Thomas insisted that you should go? Hem!--hem!” + +The girl started in her turn, and exclaimed, with a good deal of +surprise: + +“Sir Thomas insisted! How did you come to know that, sir? I tould you +no such thing.” + +“Certainly, my dear, you--a--a--hem--did you not say something to that +effect? Perhaps, however,” he added, apprehensive lest he might have +alarmed, or rather excited her suspicions--“perhaps I was mistaken. I +only imagined, I suppose, that you said something to that effect; but it +does not matter--I have no intimacy with the Gourlays, I assure you--I +think that is what you call them--and none at all with Sir Thomas--is +not that his name? Goodby now; I shall take a walk through the town--how +is this you name it? Ballytrain, I think--and return at five, when I +trust you will have dinner ready.” + +He then put on his hat, and sauntered out, apparently to view the town +and its environs, fully satisfied that, in consequence of his having +left it when a boy, and of the changes which time and travel had wrought +in his appearance, no living individual there could possibly recognize +him. + + + + +CHAPTER II. The Town and its Inhabitants. + + +The town itself contained about six thousand inhabitants, had a church, +a chapel, a meeting-house, and also a place of worship for those who +belonged to the Methodist connection, It was nearly half a mile long, +lay nearly due north and south, and ran up an elevation or slight hill, +and down again on the other side, where it tapered away into a string of +cabins. It is scarcely necessary to say that it contained a main street, +three or four with less pretensions, together with a tribe of those vile +alleys which consist of a double row of beggarly cabins, or huts, facing +each other, and lying so closely, that a tall man might almost stand +with a foot on the threshold of each, or if in the middle, that is +half-way between them, he might, were he so inclined, and without moving +to either side, shake hands with the inhabitants on his right and left. +To the left, as you went up from the north, and nearly adjoining the +cathedral church, which faced you, stood a bishop's palace, behind which +lay a magnificent demesne. At that time, it is but just to say that +the chimneys of this princely residence were never smokeless, nor its +saloons silent and deserted as they are now, and have been for years. +No, the din of industry was then incessant in and about the offices of +that palace, and the song of many a light heart and happy spirit rang +sweetly in the valleys, on the plains and hills, and over the meadows +of that beautiful demesne, with its noble deer-park stretching up to the +heathy hills behind it. Many a time, when a school-boy, have we mounted +the demesne wall in question, and contemplated its meadows, waving under +the sunny breeze, together with the long strings of happy mowers, the +harmonious swing of whose scythes, associated with the cheerful noise +of their whetting, caused the very heart within us to kindle with such a +sense of pure and early enjoyment as does yet, and ever will, constitute +a portion of our best and happiest recollections. + +At the period of which we write it mattered little whether the prelate +who possessed it resided at home or not. If he did not, his family +generally did; but, at all events, during their absence, or during their +residence, constant employment was given, every working-day in the year, +to at least one hundred happy and contented poor from a neighboring and +dependent village, every one of whom was of the Roman Catholic creed. + +I have stood, not long ago, upon a beautiful elevation in that demesne, +and, on looking around me, I saw nothing but a deserted and gloomy +country. The happy village was gone--razed to the very foundations--the +demesne was a solitude--the songs of the reapers and mowers had +vanished, as it were, into the recesses of memory, and the magnificent +palace, dull and lonely, lay as if it were situated in some land of the +dead, where human voice or footstep had not been heard for years. + +The stranger, who had gone out to view the town, found, during that +survey, little of this absence of employment, and its consequent +destitution, to disturb him. Many things, it is true, both in the town +and suburbs, were liable to objection. + +Abundance there was; but, in too many instances, he could see, at a +glance, that it was accompanied by unclean and slovenly habits, and that +the processes of husbandry and tillage were disfigured by old +usages, that were not only painful to contemplate, but disgraceful to +civilization. + +The stranger was proceeding down the town, when he came in contact with +a ragged, dissipated-looking young man, who had, however, about him the +evidences of having seen better days. The latter touched his hat to him, +and observed, “You seem to be examining our town, sir?” + +“Pray, what is your name?” inquired the stranger, without seeming to +notice the question. + +“Why, for the present, sir,” he replied, “I beg to insinuate that I am +rather under a cloud; and, if you have no objection, would prefer to +remain anonymous, or to preserve my incognito, as they say, for some +time longer.” + +“Have you no alias, by which you may be known?” + +“Unquestionably, an alias I have,” replied the other; “for as to passing +through life, in the broad, anonymous sense, without some token to +distinguish you by, the thing, to a man like me, is impossible. I am +consequently known as Frank Fenton, a name I borrowed from a former +friend of mine, an old school-fellow, who, while he lived, was, like +myself, a bit of an original in his way. How do you like our town, sir,” + he added, changing the subject. + +“I have seen too little of it,” replied the stranger, “to judge. Is this +your native town, Mr. Fenton,” he added. + +“No, sir; not my native town,” replied Fenton; “but I have resided here +from hand to mouth long enough to know almost every individual in the +barony at large.” + +During this dialogue, the stranger eyed Fenton, as he called himself, +very closely; in fact, he watched every feature of his with a degree of +curiosity and doubt that was exceedingly singular. + +“Have you, sir, been here before.” asked Fenton; “or is this your first +visit?” + +“It is not my first visit,” replied the other; “but it is likely I shall +reside here for some months.” + +“For the benefit of your health, I presume,” asked modest Frank. + +“My good friend,” replied the stranger, “I wish to make an observation. +It is possible, I say, that I may remain here for some months; now, +pray, attend, and mark me--whenever you and I chance, on any future +occasion, to meet, it is to be understood between us that you are to +answer me in anything I ask, which you know, and I to answer you in +nothing, unless I wish it.” + +“Thank you, sir,” he replied, with a low and not ungraceful bow; “that's +a compliment all to the one side, like Clogher.” * + + * The proverb is pretty general throughout Tyrone. The town + of Clogher consists of only a single string of houses. + +“Very well,” returned the stranger; “I have something to add, in order +to make this arrangement more palatable to you.” + +“Hold, sir,” replied the other; “before you proceed further, you must +understand me. I shall pledge myself under no terms--and I care not what +they may be--to answer any question that may throw light upon my own +personal identity, or past history.” + +“That will not be necessary,” replied the stranger. + +“What do you mean, sir,” asked Fenton, starting; “do you mean to hint +that you know me?” + +“Nonsense,” said the other; “how could I know a man whom I never saw +before? No; it is merely concerning the local history of Ballytrain and +its inhabitants that I am speaking.” + +There was a slight degree of dry irony, however, on his face, as he +spoke. + +“Well,” said the other, “in the mean time, I don't see why I am to +comply with a condition so dictatorially laid down by a person of whom I +know nothing.” + +“Why, the truth is,” said our strange friend, “that you are evidently a +lively and intelligent fellow, not badly educated; I think--and, as it +is likely that you have no very direct connection with the inhabitants +of the town and surrounding country, I take it for granted that, in the +way of mere amusement, you may be able to--” + +“Hem! I see--to give you all the scandal of the place for miles about; +that is what you would say? and so I can. But suppose a spark of the +gentleman should--should--but come, hang it, that is gone, hopelessly +gone. What is your wish?” + +“In the first place, to see you better clothed. Excuse me--and, if I +offend you, say so--but it is not my wish to say anything that might +occasion you pain. Are you given to liquor?” + +“Much oftener than liquor is given to me, I assure you; it is my meat, +drink, washing, and lodging--without it I must die. And, harkee, now; +when I meet a man I like, and who, after all, has a touch of humanity +and truth about him, to such a man, I say, I myself am all truth, at +whatever cost; but to every other--to your knave, your hypocrite, or +your trimmer, for instance, all falsehood--deep, downright, wanton +falsehood. In fact, I would scorn to throw away truth upon them. + +“You are badly dressed.” + +“Ah! after all, how little is known of the human heart and character!” + exclaimed Fenton. “The subject of dress and the associations connected +with it have all been effaced from my mind and feelings for years. So +long as we are capable of looking to our dress, there is always a sense +of honor and self-respect left. Dress I never think of, unless as a mere +animal protection against the elements.” + +“Well, then,” observed the other, surveying this unfortunate wretch with +compassion, “whether all perception of honor and self-respect is lost in +you I care not. Here are five pounds for you; that is to say--and pray +understand me--I commit them absolutely to your own keeping--your own +honor, your self-respect, or by whatever name you are pleased to call +it. Purchase plain clothes, get better linen, a hat and shoes: when this +is done, if you have strength of mind and resolution of character to do +it, come to me at the head inn, where I stop, and I will only ask +you, in return, to tell me anything you know or have heard about such +subjects as may chance to occur to me at the moment.” + +On receiving the money, the poor fellow fastened his eyes on it with +such an expression of amazement as defies description. His physical +strength and constitution, in consequence of the life he led, were +nearly gone--a circumstance which did not escape the keen eye of +the stranger, on whose face there was an evident expression of deep +compassion. The unfortunate Frank Fenton trembled from head to foot, his +face became deadly pale, and after surveying the notes for a time, he +held them out to the other, exclaiming, as he extended his hand-- + +“No, no! have it, no! You are a decent fellow, and I will not impose +upon you. Take back your money; I know myself too well to accept of it. +I never could keep money, and I wouldn't have a shilling of this in my +possession at the expiration of forty-eight hours.” + +“Even so,” replied the stranger, “it comes not back to me again. +Drink it--eat it--spend it is you may; but I rely on your own honor, +notwithstanding what you say, to apply it to a better purpose.” + +“Well, now, let me see,” said Fenton, musing, and as if in a kind of +soliloquy; “you are a good fellow, no doubt of it--that is, if you have +no lurking, dishonest design in all this. Let me see. Why, now, it is +a long time since I have had the enormous sum of five shillings in my +possession, much less the amount of the national debt, which I presume +must be pretty close upon five pounds; and in honest bank notes, too. +One, two, three--ha!--eh! eh!--oh yes,” he proceeded, evidently struck +with some discovery that astonished him. “Ay!” he exclaimed, looking +keenly at a certain name that happened to be written upon one of the +notes; “well, it is all right! Thank you, sir; I will keep the money.” + + + + +CHAPTER III. Pauden Gair's Receipt how to make a Bad Dinner a Good One + +--The Stranger finds Fenton as mysterious as Himself. + + +The stranger, on reaching the inn, had not long to wait for dinner, +which, to his disappointment, was anything but what he had been taught +to expect. The fair “waiter” had led his imagination a very ludicrous +dance, indeed, having, as Shakspeare says, kept the word of promise to +his ear, but broken it to his hope, and, what was still worse, to +his appetite. On sitting down, he found before him two excellent salt +herrings to begin with; and on ringing the bell to inquire why he was +provided with such a dainty, the male waiter himself, who had finished +the field he had been ploughing, made his appearance, after a delay of +about five minutes, very coolly wiping his mouth, for he had been at +dinner. + +“Are you the waiter,” asked the stranger, sharply. + +“No, sir, I'm not the waiter, myself; but I and Peggy Moylan is.” + +“And why didn't you come when I rang for you at first?” + +“I was just finishin' my dinner, sir,” replied the other, pulling a bone +of a herring from between his teeth, then going over and deliberately +throwing it into the fire. + +The stranger was silent with astonishment, and, in truth, felt a +stronger inclination to laugh than to scold him. This fellow, thought +he, is clearly an original; I must draw him out a little. + +“Why, sir,” he proceeded, “was I served with a pair of d--d salt +herrings, as a part of my dinner?” + +“Whist, sir,” replied the fellow, “don't curse anything that +God--blessed be his name--has made; it's not right, it's sinful.” + +“But why was I served with two salt herrings, I ask again?” + +“Why wor you sarved with them?--Why, wasn't it what we had ourselves?” + +“Was I not promised venison?” + +“Who promised it to you?” + +“That female waiter of yours.” + +“Peggy Moylan? Well, then, I tell you the fau't wasn't hers. We had a +party o' gintlemen out here last week, and the sorra drop of it they +left behind them. Devil a drop of venison there is in the house now. +You're an Englishman, at any rate, sir, I think by your discourse?” + +“Was I not promised part of a fat buck from the demesne adjoining, and +where is it? I thought I was to have fish, flesh, and fowl.” + +“Well, and haven't you fish.” replied the fellow. “What do you call +them!” he added, pointing to the herrings; “an' as to a fat buck, faith, +it isn't part of one, but a whole one you have. What do you call that.” + He lifted an old battered tin cover, and discovered a rabbit, gathered +up as if it were in the act of starting for its burrow. “You see, Peggy, +sir, always keeps her word; for it was a buck rabbit she meant. Well, +now, there's the fish and the flesh; and here,” he proceeded, uncovering +another dish, “is the fowl.” + +[Illustration: PAGE 329-- A pair of enormous legs, with spurs on them] + +On lifting the cover, a pair of enormous legs, with spurs on them an +inch and a half long, were projected at full length toward the guest, as +if the old cock--for such it was--were determined to defend himself to +the last. + +“Well,” said the stranger, “all I can say is, that I have got a very bad +dinner.” + +“Well, an' what suppose? Sure it has been many a betther man's case. +However, you have one remedy; always ait the more of it--that's the sure +card; ever and always when you have a bad dinner, ait, I say, the more +of it. I don't, think, sir, beggin' your pardon, that you've seen much +of the world yet.” + +“Why do you think so,” asked the other, who could with difficulty +restrain his mirth at the fellow's cool self-sufficiency and assurance. + +“Because, sir, no man that has seen the world, and knows its ups and +downs, would complain of sich a dinner as that. Do you wish for any +liquor? But maybe you don't. It's not every one carries a full purse +these times; so, at any rate, have the sense not to go beyant your +manes, or whatsomever allowance you get.” + +“Allowance! what do you mean by allowance?” + +“I mane,” he replied, “that there's not such a crew of barefaced liars +on the airth as you English travellers, as they call you. What do you +think, but one of them had the imperance to tell me that he was allowed +a guinea a-day to live on! Troth, I crossed mysolf, and bid him go about +his business, an' that I didn't think the house or place was safe while +he was in it--for it's I that has the mortal hatred of a liar.” + +“What liquor have you got in the house?” + +“No--if there's one thing on airth that I hate worse than another, it's +a man that shuffles--that won't tell the truth, or give you a straight +answer. We have plenty o' liquor in the house--more than you'll use, at +any rate.” + +“But what descriptions? How many kinds? for instance--” + +“Kinds enough, for that matther--all sorts and sizes of liquor.” + +“Have you any wine?” + +“Wine! Well, now, let me speak to you as a friend; sure, 't is n't wine +you'd be thinking of?” + +“But, if I pay for it?” + +“Pay for it--ay, and break yourself--go beyant your manes, as I +said. No, no--I'll give you no wine--it would be only aidin' you in +extravagance, an' I wouldn't have the sin of it to answer for. We have +all enough, and too much to answer for, God knows.” + +The last observation was made _sotto voce_, and with the serious manner +of a man who uttered it under a deep sense of religious truth. + +“Well,” replied the stranger, “since you won't allow me wine, have you +no cheaper liquor? I am not in the habit of dining without something +stronger than water.” + +“So much the worse for yourself. We have good porther.” + +“Bring me a bottle of it, then.” + +“It's beautiful on draught.” + +“But I prefer it in bottle.” + +“I don't doubt it. Lord help us! how few is it that knows what's good +for them! Will you give up your own will for wanst, and be guided by a +wiser man? for health--an' sure health's before everything--for health, +ever and always prefer draught porther.” + +“Well, then, since it must be draught, I shall prefer draught ale.” + +“Rank poison. Troth, somehow I feel a liking for you, an' for that very +reason, devil a drop of draught ale I'll allow to cross your lips. Jist +be guided by me, an' you'll find that your health an' pocket will both +be the betther for it. Troth, it's fat and rosy I'll have you in no +time, all out, if you stop with us. Now ait your good dinner, and I'll +bring you the porther immediately.” + +“What's your name.” asked the stranger, “before you go.” + +“I'll tell you when I come back--wait till I bring you the portlier, +first.” + +In the course of about fifteen mortal, minutes, he returned with a quart +of porter in his hand, exclaiming-- + +“Bad luck to them for pigs, they got into the garden, and I had to drive +them out, and cut a lump of a bush to stop the gap wid; however, I think +they won't go back that way again. My name you want? Why, then, my name +is Paudeen Gair--that is, Sharpe, sir; but, in troth, it is n't Sharpe +by name and Sharpe by nature wid me, although you'd get them that 'ud +say otherwise.” + +“How long have you been here,” asked the other. + +“I've been laborin' for the master goin' on fourteen years; but I'm only +about twelve months attendin' table.” + +“How long has your fellow-servant--Peggy, I think, you call her--been +here?” + +“Not long.” + +“Where had she been before, do you know.” + +“Do I know, is it? Maybe 'tis you may say that.” + +“What do you mean? I don't understand you.” + +“I know that well enough, and it is n't my intention you should.” + +“In what family was she at service.” + +“Whisper;--in a bad family, wid _one_ exception. God protect _her_, the +darlin'. Amin! _A wurra yeelsh!_ may the curse that's hanging over him +never fall upon her this day!” + +A kind and complacent spirit beamed in the fine eyes of the stranger, as +the waiter uttered these benevolent invocations; and, putting his hand +in his pocket, he said, + +“My good friend Paudeen, I am richer than you are disposed to give me +credit for; I see you are a good-hearted fellow, and here's a crown for +you.” + +“No! consumin' to the farden, till I know whether you're able to afford +it or not. It's always them that has least of it, unfortunately, that's +readiest to give it. I have known many a foolish creature to do what you +are doing, when, if the truth was known, they could badly spare it; but, +at any rate, wait till I deserve it; for, upon my reputaytion, I won't +finger a testher of it sooner.” + +He then withdrew, and left the other to finish his dinner as best he +might. + +For the next three or four days the stranger confined himself mostly +to his room, unless about dusk, when he glided out very quietly, and +disappeared rather like a spirit than anything else; for, in point of +fact, no one could tell what had become of him, or where he could have +concealed himself, during these brief but mysterious absences. Paudeen +Gair and Peggy observed that he wrote at least three or four letters +every day, and knew that he must have put them into the post-office with +his own hands, inasmuch as no person connected with the inn had been +employed for that purpose. + +On the fourth day, after breakfast, and as Pat Sharpe--by which version +of his name he was sometimes addressed--was about to take away the +things, his guest entered into conversation with him as follows: + +“Paudeen, my good friend, can you tell me where the wild, ragged fellow, +called Fenton, could be found?” + +“I can, sir. Fenton? Begorra, you'd hardly know him if you seen him; +he's as smooth as a new pin--has a plain, daicent suit o' clothes on +him. It's whispered about among us this long time, that, if he had his +rights, he'd be entitled to a great property; and some people say now +that he has come into a part of it.” + +“And pray, what else do they say of him?” + +“Wiry, then, I heard Father M'Mahon himself say that he had great +learnin', an' must a' had fine broughten-up, an' could, act the real +gintleman whenever he wished.” + +“Is it known who he is, or whether he is a native of this neighborhood?” + +“No, sir; he doesn't belong to this neighborhood; an' the truth is, +that nobody here that ever I heard of knows anything at all, barrin' +guesswork, about the unfortunate poor creature. If ever he was a +gintleman,” exclaimed the kind-hearted waiter, “he's surely to be +pitied, when one sees the state he's brought to.” + +“Well, Paudeen, will you fetch him to me, if you know where he is? Say I +wish to see him.” + +“What name, if you plaise,” asked the waiter, with assumed indifference; +for the truth was, that the whole establishment felt a very natural +curiosity to know who the stranger was. + +“Never mind the name, Paudeen, but say as I desire you.” + +Paudeen had no sooner disappeared than the anonymous gentleman went to +one of his trunks, and, pulling out a very small miniature, surveyed +it for nearly half a minute; he then looked into the fire, and seemed +absorbed in long and deep reflection. At length, after once more gazing +closely and earnestly at it, he broke involuntarily into the following +soliloquy: + +“I know,” he exclaimed, “that resemblances are often deceitful, and not +to be depended upon. In this case, however, there is scarcely a trace +that could constitute any particular peculiarity--a peculiarity +which, if it existed, would strengthen--I know not whether to say--my +suspicions or my hopes. The early disappearance of that poor boy, +without the existence of a single vestige by which he could be traced, +resembles one of those mysteries that are found only in romances. The +general opinion is, that he has been made away with, and is long dead; +yet of late, a different impression has gone abroad, although we know +not exactly how it has originated.” + +He then paced, with a countenance of gloom, uncertainty, and deep +anxiety, through the room, and after a little time, proceeded: + +“I shall, at all events, enter into conversation with this person, after +which I will make inquiries concerning the gentry and nobility of the +neighborhood when I think I shall be able to observe whether he +will pass the Gourlay family over, or betray any consciousness of a +particular knowledge of their past or present circumstances. 'Tis true, +he may overreach me; but if he does, I cannot help it. Yet, after all,” + he proceeded, “if he should prove to be the person I seek, everything +may go well; I certainly observed faint traces of an honorable feeling +about him when I gave him the money, which, notwithstanding his +indigence and dissipation, he for a time refused to take.” + +He then resumed his seat, and seemed once more buried in thought and +abstraction. + +Our friend Paudeen was not long in finding the unfortunate object of the +stranger's contemplation and interest. On meeting him, he perceived that +he was slightly affected with liquor, as indeed was the case generally +whenever he could procure it. + +“Misther Fenton,” said Paudeen, “there's a daicent person in our house +that wishes to see you.” + +“Who do you call a decent person, you bog-trotting Ganymede.” replied +the other. + +“Why, a daicent tradesman, I think, from--thin sorra one of me knows +whether I ought to say from Dublin or London.” + +“What trade, Ganymede?” + +“Troth, that's more than I can tell; but I know that he wants you, for +he sent me to bring you to him.” + +“Well, Ganymede, I shall see your tradesman,” he replied. “Come, I shall +go to him.” + +On reaching the inn, Paudeen, in order to discharge the commission +intrusted to him fully, ushered Fenton upstairs, and into the stranger's +sitting-room. “What's this,” exclaimed Fenton. “Why, you have brought me +to the wrong room, you blundering villain. I thought you were conducting +me to some worthy tradesman. You have mistaken the room, you blockhead; +this is a gentleman. How do you do, sir? I hope you will excuse this +intrusion; it is quite unintentional on my part; yet I am glad to see +you.” + +“There is no mistake at all in it,” replied the other, laughing. “That +will do, Paudeen,” he added, “thank you.” + +“Faix,” said Paudeen to himself, when descending the stairs, “I'm afeard +that's no tradesman--whatever he is. He took on him a look like a lord +when that unfortunate Fenton went into the room. Troth, I'm fairly +puzzled, at any rate!” + +“Take a seat, Mr. Fenton,” said the stranger, handing him a chair, and +addressing him in terms of respect. + +“Thank, you, sir,” replied the other, putting, at the same time, a +certain degree of restraint upon his maimer, for he felt conscious of +being slightly influenced by liquor. + +“Well,” continued the stranger, “I am glad to see that you have improved +your appearance.” + +“Ay, certainly, sir, as far as four pounds--or, I should rather say, +three pounds went, I did something for the outer man.” + +“Why not the five?” asked the other. “I wished you to make yourself as +comfortable as possible, and did not imagine you could have done it for +less.” + +“No, sir, not properly, according to the standard of a gentleman; but I +assure you, that, if I were in a state of utter and absolute starvation, +I would not part with one of the notes you so generously gave me, +scarcely to save my life.” + +“No!” exclaimed the stranger, with a good deal of surprise. “And pray, +why not, may I ask?” + +“Simply,” said Fenton, “because I have taken a fancy for it beyond its +value. I shall retain it as pocket-money. Like the Vicar of Wakefield's +daughters, I shall always keep it about me; and then, like them also, I +will never want money.” + +“That is a strange whim,” observed the other, “and rather an +unaccountable one, besides.” + +“Not in the slightest degree,” replied Fenton, “if you knew as much as +I do; but, at all events, just imagine that I am both capricious and +eccentric; so don't be surprised at anything I say or do.” + +“Neither shall I,” replied “the anonymous” “However, to come to other +matters, pray what kind of a town is this of Ballytrain?” + +“It is by no means a bad town,” replied Fenton, “as towns and times +go. It has a market-house, a gaol, a church, as you have seen--a +Roman Catholic chapel, and a place of worship for the Presbyterian and +Methodist. It has, besides, that characteristic locality, either +of English legislation or Irish crimes--or, perhaps, of both--a +gallows-green. It has a public pump, that has been permitted to run dry, +and public stocks for limbs like those of your humble servant, that are +permitted to stand (the stocks I mean) as a libel upon the inoffensive +morals of the town.” + +“How are commercial matters in it?” + +“Tolerable. Our shopkeepers are all very fair as shopkeepers. But, +talking of that, perhaps you are not aware of a singular custom which +even I--for I am not a native of this place--have seen in it?” + +“What may it have been.” asked the stranger. + +“Why, it was this: Of a fair or market-day,” he proceeded, “there lived +a certain shopkeeper here, who is some time dead--and I mention this to +show you how the laws were respected in this country; this shopkeeper, +sir, of a fair or market-day had a post that ran from his counter to +the ceiling; to this post was attached a single handcuff, and it always +happened that, when any person was caught in the act of committing a +theft in his shop, one arm of the offender was stretched up to this +handcuff, into which the wrist was locked; and, as the handcuff was +movable, so that it might be raised up or down, according to the height +of the culprit, it was generally fastened so that the latter was forced +to stand upon the top of his toes so long as was agreeable to the +shopkeeper of whom I speak.” + +“You do not mean to say,” replied his companion, who, by the way, had +witnessed the circumstances ten times for Fenton's once, “that such +an outrage upon the right of the subject, and such a contempt for the +administration of law and justice, could actually occur in a Christian +and civilized country?” + +“I state to you a fact, sir,” replied Fen-ton, “which I have witnessed +with my own eyes; but we have still stranger and worse usages in this +locality.” + +“What description of gentry and landed proprietors have you in the +neighborhood?” + +“Hum! as to that, there are some good, more bad, and many indifferent, +among them. Their great fault in general is, that they are incapable of +sympathizing, as they ought, with their dependents. The pride of class, +and the influence of creed besides, are too frequently impediments, not +only to the progress of their own independence, but to the improvement +of their tenantry. Then, many of them employ servile, plausible, and +unprincipled agents, who, provided they wring the rent, by every species +of severity and oppression, out of the people, are considered by their +employers valuable and honest servants, faithfully devoted to their +interests; whilst the fact on the other side is, that the unfortunate +tenantry are every day so rapidly retrograding from prosperity, that +most of the neglected and oppressed who possess means to leave the +country emigrate to America.” + +“Why, Fenton, I did not think that you looked so deeply into the state +and condition of the country. Have you no good specimens of character in +or about the town itself?” + +“Unquestionably, sir. Look out now from this window,” he proceeded, and +he went to it as he spoke, accompanied by the stranger; “do you see,” + he added, “that unostentatious shop, with the name of James Trimble over +the door?” + +“Certainly,” replied the other, “I see it most distinctly.” + +“Well, sir, in that shop lives a man who is ten times a greater +benefactor to this town and neighborhood than is the honorable and right +reverend the lordly prelate, whose silent and untenanted palace stands +immediately behind us. In every position in which you find him, this +admirable but unassuming man is always the friend of the poor. When an +industrious family, who find that they cannot wring independence, by +hard and honest labor, out of the farms or other little tenements +which they hold, have resolved to seek it in a more prosperous country, +America, the first man to whom they apply, if deficient in means to +accomplish their purpose, is James Trimble. In him they find a friend, +if he knows, as he usually does, that they have passed through life with +a character of worth and hereditary integrity. If they want a portion of +their outfit, and possess not means to procure it, in kind-hearted +James Trimble they are certain to find a friend, who will supply their +necessities upon the strength of their bare promise to repay him. +Honor,--then--honor, sir, I say again, to the unexampled faith, +truth, and high principle of the industrious Irish peasant, who, in no +instance, even although the broad Atlantic has been placed between them, +has been known to defraud James Trimble of a single shilling. In all +parochial and public meetings--in every position where his influence +can be used--he is uniformly the friend of the poor, whilst his high +but unassuming sense of honor, his successful industry, and his firm, +unshrinking independence, make him equally appreciated and respected +by the rich and poor. In fact, it is such men as this who are the +most unostentatious but practical benefactors to the lower and middle +classes.” + +He had proceeded thus far, when a carriage-and-four came dashing up the +street, and stopped at the very shop which belonged to the subject +of Fenton's eulogium. Both went to the window at the same moment, and +looked out. + +“Pray, whose carriage is that.” asked the stranger, fastening his eyes, +with a look of intense scrutiny, upon Fenton's face. + +“That, sir,” he replied, “is the carriage of Sir Thomas Gourlay.” + +As he spoke, the door of it was opened, and a lady of surpassing +elegance and beauty stepped out of it, and entered the shop of the +benevolent James Trimble. + +“Pray, who is that charming girl?” asked the stranger again. + +To this interrogatory, however, he received no reply. Poor Fenton +tottered over to a chair, became pale as death, and trembled with such +violence that he was incapable, for the time, of uttering a single word. + +“Do you know, or have you ever known, this family?” asked the other. + +After a pause of more than a minute, during which the emotion subsided, +he replied: + +“I have already said that I could not--” he paused. “I am not well,” + said he; “I am quite feeble--in fact, not in a condition to answer +anything. Do not, therefore, ask me--for the present, at least.” + +Fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed before he succeeded in mastering +this singular attack. At length he rose, and placing his chair somewhat +further back from the window, continued to look out in silence, not so +much from love of silence, as apparently from inability to speak. The +stranger, in the mean time, eyed him keenly; and as he examined his +features from time to time, it might be observed that an expression +of satisfaction, if not almost of certainty, settled upon his own +countenance. In a quarter of an hour, the sound of the carriage-wheels +was heard on its return, and Fenton, who seemed to dread also a return +of his illness, said: + +“For heaven's sake, sir, be good enough to raise the window and let in +air. Thank you, sir.” + +The carriage, on this occasion, was proceeding more slowly than +before--in fact, owing to a slight acclivity in that part of the street, +the horses were leisurely walking past the inn window at the moment the +stranger raised it. The noise of the ascending sash reached Miss Gourlay +(for it was she), who, on looking up, crimsoned deeply, and, with one +long taper finger on her lips, as if to intimate caution and silence, +bowed to the stranger. The latter, who had presence of mind enough to +observe the hint, did not bow in return, and consequently declined to +appropriate the compliment to himself. Fenton now surveyed his companion +with an appearance of as much interest and curiosity as the other had +bestowed on him. He felt, however, as if his physical powers were wholly +prostrated. + +“I am very weak,” said he, bitterly, “and near the close of my brief and +unhappy day. I have, however, one cure--get me drink--drink, I say; that +is what will revive me. Sir, my life, for the last fourteen years, has +been a battle against thought; and without drink I should be a madman--a +madman! oh, God!” + +The other remonstrated with him in vain; but he was inexorable, and +began to get fierce and frantic. At length, it occurred to him, that +perhaps the influence of liquor might render this strange individual +more communicative, and that by this means he might succeed in relieving +himself of his doubts--for he still had doubts touching Fenton's +identity. In this, however, he was disappointed, as a circumstance +occurred which prevented him from then gratifying Fenton's wish, or +winning him into confidence. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. An Anonymous Letter + +--Lucy Gourlay avows a previous Attachment. + + +Whilst Fenton was thus sketching for the stranger a few of the public +characters of Ballytrain, a scene, which we must interrupt them to +describe, was taking place in the coffee-room of the “Mitre.” As +everything, however, has an origin, it is necessary, before we raise the +curtain, which, for the present, excludes us from that scene, to enable +the reader to become acquainted with the cause of it. That morning, +after breakfast, Sir Thomas Gourlay went to his study, where, as usual, +he began to read his letters and endorse them--for he happened to be one +of those orderly and exact men who cannot bear to see even a trifle +out of its place. Having despatched three or four, he took up one--the +last--and on opening it read, much to his astonishment and dismay, as +follows; + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay,--There is an adventurer in disguise near you. +Beware of your daughter, and watch her well, otherwise she may give you +the slip. I write this, that you may prevent her from throwing herself +away upon an impostor and profligate. I am a friend to her, but none to +you; and it is on her account, as well as for the sake of another, that +you are now warned.” + +On perusing this uncomfortable document, his whole frame became moved +with a most vehement fit of indignation. He rose from his seat, and +began to traverse the floor with lengthy and solemn strides, as a man +usually does who knows not exactly on whom to vent his rage. There hung +a large mirror before him, and, as he approached it from time to time, +he could not help being struck by the repulsive expression of his own +features. He was a tall, weighty man, of large bones and muscles; his +complexion was sallow, on a black ground; his face firm, but angular; +and his forehead, which was low, projected a good deal over a pair of +black eyes, in one of which there was a fearful squint. His eyebrows, +which met, were black, fierce-looking, and bushy, and, when agitated, +as now, with passion, they presented, taken in connection with his +hard, irascible lips, short irregular teeth and whole complexion, an +expression singularly stern and malignant. + +On looking at his own image, he could not help feeling the conviction, +that the visage which presented itself to him was not such a one as was +calculated to diminish the unpopularity which accompanied him wherever +he went, and the obloquy which hung over his name. + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, however, although an exceedingly forbidding and +ugly man, was neither a fool nor novice in the ways of the world. No man +could look upon his plotting forehead, and sunken eyes closely placed, +without feeling at once that he was naturally cunning and circumventive. +Nor was this all; along with being deep and designing, he was also +subject to sudden bursts of passion, which, although usual in such a +temperament, did not suddenly pass away. On the contrary, they were +sometimes at once so tempestuous and abiding, that he had been rendered +ill by their fury, and forced to take to his bed for days together. +On the present occasion, a considerable portion of his indignation was +caused by the fact, that he knew not the individual against whom to +direct it. His daughter, as a daughter, had been to him an object of +perfect indifference, from the day of her birth up to that moment; that +is to say, he was utterly devoid of all personal love and tenderness +for her, whilst, at the same time, he experienced, in its full force, a +cold, conventional ambition, which, although without honor, principle, +or affection, yet occasioned him to devote all his efforts and energies +to her proper establishment in the world. In her early youth, for +instance, she had suffered much from delicate health, so much, indeed, +that she was more than once on the very verge of death; yet, on no +occasion, was he ever known to manifest the slightest parental sorrow +for her illness. Society, however, is filled with such fathers, and with +too many mothers of a like stamp. So far, however, as Lucy Gourlay was +concerned, this proud, unprincipled spirit of the world supplied to her, +to a certain extent at least, the possession of that which affection +ought to have given. Her education was attended to with the most +solicitous anxiety--not in order to furnish her mind with that healthy +description of knowledge which strengthens principle and elevates the +heart, but that she might become a perfect mistress of all the necessary +and fashionable accomplishments, and shine, at a future day, an object +of attraction on that account. A long and expensive array of masters, +mistresses, and finishers, from almost every climate and country of +Europe, were engaged in her education, and the consequence was, that few +young persons of her age and sex were more highly accomplished. If his +daughter's head ached, her father never suffered that circumstance to +disturb the cold, stern tenor of his ambitious way; but, at the same +time, two or three of the most eminent physicians were sent for, as a +matter of course, and then there were nothing but consultations until +she recovered. Had she died, Sir Thomas Gourlay would not have shed one +tear, but he would have had all the pomp and ceremony due to her station +in life solemnly paraded at her funeral, and it is very likely that one +or other of our eminent countrymen, Hogan or M'Dowall, had they then +existed, would have been engaged to erect her a monument. + +And yet the feeling which he experienced, and which regulated his life, +was, after all, but a poor pitiful parody upon true ambition. The latter +is a great and glorious principle, because, where it exists, it never +fails to expand the heart, and to prompt it to the performance of all +those actions that elevate our condition and dignify our nature. Had he +experienced anything like such a feeling as this, or even the beautiful +instincts of parental affection, he would not have neglected, as he +did, the inculcation of all those virtues and principles which render +education valuable, and prevent it from degenerating into an empty +parade of mere accomplishments. + +It is true, Sir Thomas Gourlay enjoyed the reputation of being an +admirable father, and, indeed, from mere worldly principle he was so, +and we presume gave himself credit for being so. In the mean time, our +readers are to learn that earth scarcely contained a man who possessed +a greedier or more rapacious spirit; and, if ever the demon of envy, +especially with respect to the possession of wealth and property, +tortured the soul of a human being, it did that of our baronet. His +whole spirit, in fact, was dark, mean, and intensely selfish; and for +this reason, it was a fearful thing for any one to stand in his way when +in the execution of his sordid projects, much less to attempt his +defeat in their attainment. Reckless and unscrupulous, he left no means +unattempted, however odious and wicked, to crush those who offended him, +or such as stood in the way of his love of wealth and ambition. + +For some minutes after the perusal of the anonymous letter, one would +have imagined that the image which met his gaze, from time to time, in +the looking-glass, was that of his worst and deadliest enemy, so fierce +and menacing were the glances which he cast on it as he paced the floor. +At length he took up the document, and, having read it again, exclaimed: + +“Perhaps, after all, I'm angry to no purpose; certainly to no purpose, +in one sense, I am, inasmuch as I know not who this anonymous person +is. But stay, let me be cautious--is there such a person? May this +communication not be a false one--written to mislead or provoke me? Lucy +knows that I am determined she shall marry Lord Dunroe, and I am not +aware that she entertains any peculiar objection to him. In the mean +time, I will have some conversation with her, in order to ascertain what +her present and immediate feeling on the subject is. It is right that I +should see my way in this.” + +He accordingly rang the bell, when a well-powdered footman, in rich +livery, entered. + +“Let Miss Gourlay understand that I wish to see her.” + +This he uttered in a loud, sharp tone of voice, for it was in such he +uniformly addressed his dependents. + +The lackey bowed and withdrew, and, in the course of a few minutes, his +daughter entered the study, and stood before him. At the first +glance, she saw that something had discomposed him, and felt a kind of +instinctive impression that it was more or less connected with herself. + +Seldom, indeed, was such a contrast between man and woman ever +witnessed, as that which presented itself on this occasion. There +stood the large, ungainly, almost misshapen father, with a countenance +distorted, by the consequences of ill-suppressed passion, into a deeper +deformity--a deformity that was rendered ludicrously hideous, by a +squint that gave, as we have said, to one of his eyes, as he looked at +her, the almost literal expression of a dagger. Before him, on the other +hand, stood a girl, whose stature was above the middle height, with a +form that breathed of elegance, ease, and that exquisite grace +which marks every look, and word, and motion of the high-minded and +accomplished lady. Indeed, one would imagine that her appearance would +have soothed and tranquillized the anger of any parent capable of +feeling that glowing and prideful tenderness, with which such an +exquisitely beautiful creature was calculated to fill a parent's heart. +Lucy Gourlay was a dark beauty--a brunette so richly tinted, that the +glow of her cheek was only surpassed by the flashing brilliancy of her +large, dark eyes, that seemed, in those glorious manifestations, to +kindle with inspiration. Her forehead was eminently intellectual, and +her general temperament--Celtic by the mother's side--was remarkable +for those fascinating transitions of spirit which passed over her +countenance like the gloom and sunshine of the early summer. Nothing +could be more delightful, nor, at the same time, more dangerous, than to +watch that countenance whilst moving under the influence of melancholy, +and to observe how quickly the depths of feeling, or the impulses of +tenderness, threw their delicious shadows into its expression--unless, +indeed, to watch the same face when lit up by humor, and animated into +radiance by mirth. Such is a faint outline of Lucy Gourlay, who, whether +in shadow or whether in light, was equally captivating and irresistible. + +On entering the room, her father, incapable of appreciating even the +natural graced and beauty of her person, looked at her with a gaze of +sternness and inquiry for some moments, but seemed at a loss in what +terms to address her. She, however, spoke first, simply saying: + +“Has anything discomposed you, papa?” + +“I have been discomposed, Miss Gourlay”--for he seldom addressed her as +Lucy--“and I wish to have some serious conversation with you. Pray be +seated.” + +Lucy sat. + +“I trust, Miss Gourlay,” he proceeded, in a style partly interrogatory +and partly didactic--“I trust you are perfectly sensible that a child +like you owes full and unlimited obedience to her parents.” + +“So long, at least, sir, as her parents exact no duties from her that +are either unreasonable or unjust, or calculated to destroy her own +happiness. With these limitations, I reply in the affirmative.” + +“A girl like you, Miss Gourlay, has no right to make exceptions. Your +want of experience, which is only another name for your ignorance of +life, renders you incompetent to form an estimate of what constitutes, +or may constitute, your happiness.” + +“Happiness!--in what sense, sir?” + +“In any sense, madam.” + +“Madam!” she replied, with much feeling. “Dear papa--if you will allow +me to call you so--why address me in a tone of such coldness, if not +of severity? All I ask of you is, that, when you do honor me by an +interview, you will remember that I am your daughter, and not speak to +me as you would to an utter stranger.” + +“The tone which I may assume toward you, Miss Gourlay, must be regulated +by your own obedience.” + +“But in what have I ever failed in obedience to you, my dear papa?” + +“Perhaps you compliment your obedience prematurely, Lucy--it has never +yet been seriously tested.” + +Her beautiful face crimsoned at this assertion; for she well knew that +many a severe imposition had been placed upon her during girlhood, and +that, had she been any other girl than she was, her very youth would +have been forced into opposition to commands that originated in whim, +caprice, and selfishness. Even when countenanced, however, by the +authority of her other parent, and absolutely urged against compliance +with injunctions that were often cruel and oppressive, she preferred, at +any risk, to accommodate herself to them rather than become the cause of +estrangement or ill-feeling between him and her mother, or her mother's +friends. Such a charge as this, then, was not only ungenerous, but, as +he must have well known, utterly unfounded. + +“I do not wish, sir,” she replied, “to make any allusion to the past, +unless simply to say, that, if severe and trying instances of obedience +have been exacted from me, under very peculiar circumstances, I trust I +have not been found wanting in my duty to you.” + +“That obedience, Miss Gourlay, which is reluctantly given, had better +been forgotten.” + +“You have forced me to remember it in my own defence, papa; but I am not +conscious that it was reluctant.” + +“You contradict me, madam.” + +“No, sir; I only take the liberty of setting you right. My obedience, +if you recollect, was cheerful; for I did not wish to occasion ill-will +between you and mamma--my dear mamma.” + +“I believe you considered that you had only one parent, Miss Gourlay?” + +“That loved me, sir, you would add. But, papa, why should there be such +a dialogue as this between you and your daughter--your orphan +daughter, and your only child? It is not natural, Something, I see, has +discomposed your temper; I am ignorant of it.” + +“I made you aware, some time ago, that the Earl of Cullamore and I had +entered into a matrimonial arrangement between you and his son, Lord +Dunroe.” + +A deadly paleness settled upon her countenance at these words--a +paleness the more obvious, as it contrasted so strongly with the +previous rich hue of her complexion, which had been already heightened +by the wanton harshness of her father's manner. The baronet's eyes, or +rather his eye, was fixed upon her with a severity which this incident +rapidly increased. + +“You grow pale, Miss Gourlay; and there seems to be something in this +allusion to Lord Dunroe that is painful to you. How is this, madam? I do +not understand it.” + +“I am, indeed, pale, and I feel that I am; for what is there that could +drive the hue of modesty from the cheek of a daughter, sooner than +the fact of her own father purposing to unite her to a profligate? You +seldom jest, papa; but I hope you do so now.” + +“I am not disposed to make a jest of your happiness, Miss Gourlay.” + +“Nor of my misery, papa. You surely cannot but know--nay, you cannot +but feel--that a marriage between me and Lord Dunroe is impossible. His +profligacy is so gross, that his very name is indelicate in the mouth +of a modest woman. And is this the man to whom you would unite your only +child and daughter? But I trust you still jest, sir. As a man, and +a gentleman, much less as a parent, you would not think seriously of +making such a proposal to me?” + +“All very fine sentiment--very fine stuff and nonsense, madam; the +young man is a little wild--somewhat lavish in expenditure--and for the +present not very select in the company he keeps; but he is no fool, as +they say, and we all know how marriage reforms a man, and thoroughly +sobers him down.” + +“Often at the expense, papa,” she replied with tears, “of many a broken +heart. That surely, is not a happy argument; for, perhaps, after all, +I should, like others, become but a victim to my ineffectual efforts at +his reformation.” + +“There is one thing, Miss Gourlay, you are certain to become, and that +is, Countess of Cullamore, at his father's death. Remember this; and. +remember also, that, victim or no victim, I am determined you shall +marry him. Yes, you shall marry him,” he added, stamping with vehemence, +“or be turned a beggar upon the world. Become a victim, indeed! Begone, +madam, to your room, and prepare for that obedience which your mother +never taught you.” + +She rose as he spoke, and with a graceful inclination of her head, +silently withdrew. + +This dialogue caused both father and daughter much pain. Certain +portions of it, especially near the close, were calculated to force +upon the memory of each, analogies that were as distressing to the +warm-hearted girl, as they were embarrassing to her parent. The truth +was, that her mother, then a year dead, had indeed become a victim to +the moral profligacy of a man in whose character there existed nothing +whatsoever to compensate her for the utter absence of domestic affection +in all its phases. His principal vices, so far as they affected the +peace of his family, were a brutal temper, and a most scandalous +dishonesty in pecuniary transactions, especially in his intercourse with +his own tenantry and tradesmen. Of moral obligation he seemed to possess +no sense or impression whatever. A single day never occurred in which +he was not guilty of some most dishonorable violation of his word to the +poor, and those who were dependent on him. Ill-temper therefore toward +herself, and the necessity of constantly witnessing a series of vile +and unmanly frauds upon a miserable scale, together with her incessant +efforts to instil into his mind some slight principle of common +integrity, had, during an unhappy life, so completely harassed a mind +naturally pure and gentle, and a constitution never strong, that, as +her daughter hinted, and as every one intimate with the family knew, she +literally fell a victim to the vices we have named, and the incessant +anxiety they occasioned her. These analogies, then, when unconsciously +alluded to by his daughter, brought tears to her eyes, and he felt that +the very grief she evinced was an indirect reproach to himself. + +“Now,” he exclaimed, after she had gone, “it is clear, I think, that +the girl entertains something more than a mere moral objection to this +match. I would have taxed her with some previous engagement, but that I +fear it would be premature to do so at present. Dunroe is wild, no doubt +of it; but I cannot believe that women, who are naturally vain and fond +of display, feel so much alarm at this as they pretend. I never did +myself care much about the sex, and seldom had an opportunity of +studying their general character, or testing their principles; but +still I incline to the opinion, that, where there is not a previous +engagement, rank and wealth will, for the most part, outweigh every +other consideration. In the meantime I will ride into Ballytrain, and +reconnoitre a little. Perhaps the contents, of this communication are +true--perhaps not; but, at all events, it can be no harm to look about +me in a quiet way.” + +He then read the letter a third time--examined the handwriting +closely--locked it in a private drawer--rang the bell--ordered his +horse--and in a few minutes was about to proceed to the “Mitre” inn, +in order to make secret inquiries after such persons as he might find +located in that or the other establishments of the town. At this moment, +his daughter once more entered the apartment, her face glowing with deep +agitation, and her large, mellow eyes lit up with a fixed, and, if one +could judge, a lofty purpose. Her reception, we need hardly say, was +severe and harsh. + +“How, madam,” he exclaimed, “did I not order you to your room? Do you +return to bandy undutiful hints and arguments with me?” + +“Father,” said she, “I am not ignorant, alas! of your stern and +indomitable character; but, upon the subject of forced and unsuitable +matches, I may and I do appeal directly to the experience of your own +married life, and of that of my beloved mother. She was, unhappily for +herself--” + +“And for me, Miss Gourlay--” + +“Well, perhaps so; but if ever woman was qualified to make a man happy, +she was. At all events, sir, unhappily she was forced into marriage +with you, and you deliberately took to your bosom a reluctant bride. She +possessed extraordinary beauty, and a large fortune. I, however, am not +about to enter into your heart, or analyze its motives; it is enough to +say that, although she had no previous engagement or affection for any +other, she was literally dragged by the force of parental authority +into a union with you. The consequence was, that her whole life, owing +to--to--the unsuitableness of your tempers, and the strongly-contrasted +materials which formed your characters, was one of almost unexampled +suffering and sorrow. With this example before my eyes, and with the +memory of it brooding over and darkening your own heart--yes, +papa--my dear papa, let me call you with the full and most distressing +recollections connected with it strong upon both of us, let me entreat +and implore that you will not urge nor force me into a union with +this hateful and repulsive profligate. I go upon my knees to you, and +entreat, as you regard my happiness, my honor, and my future peace of +mind, that you will not attempt to unite me to this most unprincipled +and dishonorable young man.” + +Her father's brow grew black as a thunder-cloud; the veins of his +temples swelled up, as if they had been filled with ink, and, after a +few hasty strides through the study, he turned upon her such a look of +fury as we need not attempt to describe. + +“Miss Gourlay,” said he, in a voice dreadfully deep and stern, “there +is not an allusion made in that undutiful harangue--for so I must call +it--that does not determine me to accomplish my purpose in effecting +this union. If your mother was unhappy, the fault lay in her own weak +and morbid temper. As for me, I now tell you, once for all, that your +destiny is either beggary or a coronet; on that I am resolved!” + +She stood before him like one who had drawn strength from the full +knowledge of her fate. Her face, it is true, had become pale, but it was +the paleness of a calm but lofty spirit, and she replied, with a full +and clear voice: + +“I said, sir--for I had her own sacred assurance for it--that my mother, +when she married you, had no previous engagement; it is not so with your +daughter--my affections are fixed upon another.” + +There are some natures so essentially tyrannical, and to whom resistance +is a matter of such extraordinary novelty, that its manifestation +absolutely surprises them out of their natural character. In this +manner Sir Thomas Gourlay was affected. Instead of flying into a fresh +hurricane of rage, he felt so completely astounded, that he was only +capable of turning round to her, and asking, in a voice unusually calm: + +“Pray name him, Miss Gourlay.” + +“In that, sir, you will excuse me--for the present. The day may come, +and I trust soon will, when I can do so with honor. And now, sir, having +considered it my duty not to conceal this fact from your knowledge, I +will, with your permission, withdraw to my own apartment.” + +She paid him, with her own peculiar grace, the usual obeisance, and left +the room. The stem and overbearing Sir Thomas Gourlay now felt himself +so completely taken aback by her extraordinary candor and firmness, that +he was only able to stand and look after her in silent amazement. + +“Well!” he exclaimed, “I have reason to thank her for this important +piece of information. She has herself admitted a previous attachment. +So far my doubts are cleared up, and I feel perfectly certain that the +anonymous information is correct. It now remains for me to find out +who the object of this attachment is. I have no doubt that he is in the +neighborhood; and, if so, I shall know how to manage him.” + +He then mounted his horse, and rode into Ballytrain, with what purpose +it is now unnecessary, we trust, to trouble the reader at farther +length. + + + + +CHAPTER V. Sir Thomas Gourlay fails in unmasking the Stranger + +--Mysterious Conduct of Fenton + + +When Sir Thomas Gourlay, after the delay of better than an hour in town, +entered the coffee-room of the “Mitre,” he was immediately attended by +the landlord himself. + +“Who is this new guest you have got, landlord,” inquired the +baronet--“They tell me he is a very mysterious gentleman, and that no +one can discover his name. Do! you know anything about him?” + +“De'il a syllable, Sir Tammas,” replied the landlord, who was a +northern--“How ir you, Counsellor Crackenfudge,” he added, speaking +to a person who passed upstairs--“There he goes,” proceeded Jack the +landlord--“a nice boy. But do you know, Sir Tammas, why he changed his +name to Crackenfudge?” + +Sir Thomas's face at this moment, had grown frightful. While the +landlord was speaking, the baronet, attracted by the noise of a carriage +passing, turned to observe it, just at the moment when his daughter was +bowing so significantly to the stranger in the window over them, as +we have before stated. Here was a new light thrown upon the mystery or +mysteries by which he felt himself surrounded on all hands. The strange +guest in the Mitre inn, was then, beyond question, the very individual +alluded to in the anonymous letter. The baronet's face had, in the +scowl of wrath, got black, as mine host was speaking. This expression, +however, gradually diminished in the darkness of that wrathful shadow +which lay over it. After a severe internal struggle with his tremendous +passions, he at length seemed to cool down. His face became totally +changed; and in a few minutes of silence and struggle, it passed from +the blackness of almost ungovernable rage to a pallid hue, that might +not most aptly be compared to the summit of a volcano covered with snow, +when about to project its most awful and formidable eruptions. + +The landlord, while putting the question to the baronet, turned his +sharp, piercing eyes upon him, and, at a single glance, perceived that +something had unusually moved him. + +“Sir Tammas,” said he, “there is no use in denyin' it, now--the blood's +disturbed in you.” + +“Give your guest my compliments--Sir Thomas Gourlay's compliments--and I +should feel obliged by a short interview.” + +On going up, Jack found the stranger and Fenton as we have already +described them--“Sir,” said he, addressing the former--“there's a +gentleman below who wishes to know who you ir.” + +“Who I am!” returned the other, quite unmoved; “and, pray who may he +be?” + +“Sir Tammas Gourlay; an' all tell you what, if you don't wish to see +him, why don't see him. A 'll take him the message, an' if there's +anything about you that you don't wish to be known or heard, make +him keep his distance. He's this minute in a de'il of a passion about +something, an' was comin' up as if he'd ait you without salt, but a' +would n't allow it; so, if you don't wish to see him, am the boy won't +be afeard to say so. He's not coming as a friend, a' can tell you.” + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay's in the house, then,” said the stranger, with a +good deal of surprise. He then paused for some time, and, during this +pause, he very naturally concluded that the baronet had witnessed his +daughter's bow, so cautiously and significantly made to himself as she +passed. Whilst he turned over these matters in his mind, the landlord +addressed Fenton as follows: + +“You can go to another room, Fenton. A'm glad to see you in a decent +suit of clothes, any way--a' hope you'll take yourself up, and avoid +drink and low company; for de'il a haet good ever the same two brought +anybody; but, before you go, a'll give you a gless o' grog to drink the +Glorious Memory. Come, now, tramp, like a good fellow.” + +“I have a particular wish,” said the stranger, “that Mr. Fenton should +remain; and say to Sir Thomas Gourlay that I am ready to see him.” + +“A' say, then,” said Jack, in a friendly whisper, “be on your edge with +him, for, if he finds you saft, the very de'il won't stand him.” + +“The gentleman, Sir Tammas,” said Jack, on going down stairs, “will be +glad to see you. He's overhead.” + +Fenton, himself, on hearing that Sir Thomas was about to come up, +prepared to depart; but the other besought him so earnestly to stay, +that he consented, although with evident reluctance. He brought his +chair over to a corner of the room, as if he wished to be as much out of +the way as possible, or, it may be, as far from Sir Thomas's eye, as +the size of the apartment would permit. Be this as it may, Sir Thomas +entered, and brought his ungainly person nearly to the centre of +the room before he spoke. At length he did so, but took care not to +accompany his words with that courtesy of manner, or those rules of +good-breeding, which ever prevail among gentlemen, whether as friends or +foes. After standing for a moment, he glanced from the one to the other, +his face still hideously pale; and ultimately, fixing his eye upon the +stranger, he viewed him from head to foot, and again from foot to head, +with a look of such contemptuous curiosity, as certainly was strongly +calculated to excite the stranger's indignation. Finding the baronet +spoke not, the other did. + +“To what am I to attribute the honor of this visit, sir?” + +Sir Thomas even then did not speak, but still kept looking at him with +the expression we have described. At length he did speak: + +“You have been residing for some time in our neighborhood, sir.” The +stranger simply bowed. + +“May I ask how long?” + +“I have the honor, I believe, of addressing Sir Thomas Gourlay?” + +“Yes, you have that honor.” + +“And may I beg to know his object in paying me this unceremonious +visit, in which he does not condescend either to announce himself, or to +observe the usual rules of good-breeding?” + +“From my rank and known position in this part of the country, and in my +capacity also as a magistrate, sir,” replied the baronet, “I'm entitled +to make such inquiries as I may deem necessary from those who appear +here under suspicious circumstances.” + +“Perhaps you may think so, but I am of opinion, sir, that you would +consult the honor of the rank and position you allude to much more +effectually, by letting such inquiries fall within the proper province +of the executive officers of law, whenever you think there is a +necessity for it.” + +“Excuse me, but, in that manner, I shall follow my own judgment, not +yours.” + +“And under what circumstances of suspicion do you deem me to stand at +present?” + +“Very strong circumstances. You have been now living here nearly a week, +in a privacy which no gentleman would ever think of observing. You have +hemmed yourself in by a mystery, sir; you have studiously concealed your +name--your connections--and defaced every mark by which you could be +known or traced. This, sir, is not the conduct of a gentleman; and +argues either actual or premeditated guilt.” + +“You seem heated, sir, and you also reason in resentment, whatever may +have occasioned it. And so a gentleman is not to make an excursion to a +country town in a quiet way--perhaps to recruit his health, perhaps to +relax his mind, perhaps to gratify a whim--but he must be pounced upon +by some outrageous dispenser of magisterial justice, who thinks, +that, because he wishes to live quietly and unknown, he must be some +cutthroat, or raw-head-and-bloody-bones coming to eat half the country?” + +“I dare say, sir, that is all very fine, and very humorous; but when +these mysterious vagabonds--” + +The eye of the stranger blazed; lightning itself, in fact, was not +quicker than the fire which gleamed from it, as the baronet uttered the +last words. He walked over deliberately, but with a step replete with +energy and determination: + +“How, sir,” said he, “do you dare to apply such an expression to me?” + +The baronet's eye quailed. He paused a moment, during which he could +perceive that the stranger had a spirit not to be tampered with. + +“No, sir,” he replied, “not exactly to you, but when persons such as +you come in this skulking way, probably for the purpose of insinuating +themselves into families of rank--” + +“Have I, sir, attempted to insinuate myself into yours,” asked the +stranger, interrupting him. + +“When such persons come under circumstances of strong suspicion,” + said the other, without replying to him, “it is the business of every +gentleman in the country to keep a vigilant eye upon them.” + +“I shall hold myself accountable to no such gentleman,” replied the +stranger; “but will consider every man, no matter what his rank or +character may be, as unwarrantably impertinent, who arrogantly attempts +to intrude himself in affairs that don't--” he was about to add, “that +don't concern him,” when he paused, and added, “into any man's affairs. +Every man has a right to travel incognito, and to live incognito, if he +chooses; and, on that account, sir, so long as I wish to maintain mine, +I shall allow no man to assume the right of penetrating it. If this has +been the object of your visit, you will much oblige me by relinquishing +the one, and putting an end to the other, as soon as may be.” + +“As a magistrate, sir, I demand to know your name,” said the baronet, +who thought that, in the stranger's momentary hesitation, he had +observed symptoms of yielding. + +“As an independent man, sir, and a gentleman, I shall not answer such a +question.” + +“You brave me, sir--you defy me.” continued the other, his face still +pale, but baleful in its expression. + +“Yes, sir,” replied the other, “I brave you--I defy you.” + +“Very well, sir,” returned the baronet--“remember these words.” + +“I am not in the habit of forgetting anything that a man of spirit +ought to remember,” said the other--“I have the honor of wishing you a +good-morning.” + +The baronet withdrew in a passion that had risen to red heat, and was +proceeding to mount his horse at the door, when Counsellor Crackenfudge, +who had followed him downstairs, thus addressed him: + +“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas; I happened to be sitting in the +back-room while you were speaking to that strange fellow above; I pledge +you my honor I did not listen; but I could not help overhearing, you +know--well, Sir Thomas, I can tell you something about him.” + +“How!” said the baronet, whose eye I gleamed with delight--“Can you, in +truth, tell me anything about him, Mr. Crackenfudge? You will oblige me +very much if you do.” + +“I will tell you all I know about him, Sir Thomas,” replied the worthy +counsellor; “and that is, that I know he has paid many secret visits to +Mr. Birney the attorney.” + +“To Birney!” exclaimed the other; and, as he spoke, he seemed actually +to stagger back a step or two, whilst the paleness of his complexion +increased to a hue that was ghastly--“to Birney!--to my blackest +and bitterest enemy--to the man who, I suspect, has important +family documents of mine in his possession. Thanks, even for this, +Crackenfudge--you are looking to become of the peace. Hearken now; aid +me in ferreting out this lurking scoundrel, and I shall not forget your +wishes.” He then rode homewards. + +The stranger, during this stormy dialogue with Sir Thomas Gourlay, +turned his eye, from time to time, toward Fenton, who appeared to have +lost consciousness itself so long as the baronet was in the room. On the +departure, however, of that gentleman, he went over to him, and said: + +“Why, Fenton, what's the matter?” Fenton looked at him with a face of +great distress, from which the perspiration was pouring, but seemed +utterly unable to speak. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. Extraordinary Scene between Fenton and the Stranger. + +The character of Fenton was one that presented an extraordinary variety +of phases. With the exception of the firmness and pertinacity with which +he kept the mysterious secret of his origin and identity--that is, if +he himself knew them, he was never known to maintain the same moral +temperament for a week together. Never did there exist a being so +capricious and unstable. At one time, you found him all ingenuousness +and candor; at another, no earthly power could extort a syllable of +truth from his lips. For whole days, if not for weeks together, he +dealt in nothing but the wildest fiction, and the most extraordinary and +grotesque rodomontade. The consequence was, that no reliance could be +placed on anything he said or asserted. And yet--which appeared to +be rather unaccountable in such a character--it could be frequently +observed that he was subject to occasional periods of the deepest +dejection. During those painful and gloomy visitations, he avoided +all intercourse with his fellow-men, took to wandering through the +country--rarely spoke to anybody, whether stranger or acquaintance, but +maintained the strictest and most extraordinary silence. If he passed a +house at meal-time he entered, and, without either preface or apology, +quietly sat down and joined them. To this freedom on his part, in a +country so hospitable as Ireland in the days of her prosperity was, and +could afford to be, no one ever thought of objecting. + +“It was,” observed the people, “only the poor young gentleman who is not +right in the head.” + +So that the very malady which they imputed to him was only a passport +to their kindness and compassion. Fenton had no fixed residence, nor any +available means of support, save the compassionate and generous interest +which the inhabitants of Ballytrain took in him, in consequence of those +gentlemanly manners which he could assume whenever he wished, and the +desolate position in which some unknown train of circumstances had +unfortunately placed him. + +When laboring under these depressing moods to which we have alluded, +his memory seemed filled with recollections that, so far as appearances +went, absolutely stupefied his heart by the heaviness of the suffering +they occasioned it; and, when that heart, therefore, sank as far as its +powers of endurance could withstand this depression, he uniformly had +recourse to the dangerous relief afforded by indulgence in the fiery +stimulant of liquor, to which he was at all times addicted. + +Such is a slightly detailed sketch of an individual whose fate is deeply +involved in the incidents and progress of our narrative. + +The horror which we have described as having fallen upon this +unfortunate young man, during Sir Thomas Gourlay's stormy interview with +the stranger, so far from subsiding, as might be supposed, after his +departure, assumed the shape of something bordering on insanity. On +looking at his companion, the wild but deep expression of his eyes began +to change into one of absolute frenzy, a circumstance which could not +escape the stranger's observation, and which, placed as he was in the +pursuit of an important secret, awoke a still deeper interest, whilst at +the same time it occasioned him much pain. + +“Mr. Fenton,” said he, “I certainly have no wish, by any proceeding +incompatible with an ungentlemanly feeling of impertinent curiosity, to +become acquainted with the cause of this unusual excitement, which the +appearance of Miss Gourlay and her father seems to produce upon you, +unless in so far as its disclosure, in honorable confidence, might +enable me, as a person sincerely your friend, to allay or remove it.” + +“Suppose, sir, you are mistaken.” replied the other--“Do you not know +that there are memories arising from association, that are touched and +kindled into great pain, by objects that are by no means the direct +cause of them, or the cause of them in any sense?” + +“I admit the truth of what you say, Mr. Fenton; but we can only draw our +first inferences from appearances. It is not from any idle or prurient +desire to become acquainted with the cause of your emotion that I +speak, but simply from a wish to serve you, if you will permit me. It is +distressing to witness what you suffer.” + +“I have experienced,” said Fenton, whose excitement seemed not only to +rise as he proceeded, but in a considerable degree to give that fervor +and elevation to his language, which excitement often gives; “yes, sir,” + he proceeded, his eyes kindling almost into fury, “I have experienced +much treacherous and malignant sympathy, under the guise of pretended +friendship--sympathy! why do I say sympathy? Persecution--vengeance. +Yes, sir, till I have become mad--or--or nearly so. No,” he added, “I +am not mad--I never was mad--but I understand your object--avaunt, +sir--begone--or I shall throw you out of the window.” + +“Be calm, Mr. Fenton--be calm,” replied the stranger, “and collect +yourself. I am, indeed, sincerely your friend.” + +“Who told you, sir, that I was mad?” + +“I never said so, Mr. Fenton.” + +“It matters not, sir--you are a traitor--and as such I denounce you. +This room is mine, sir, and I shall forthwith expel you from it--” and, +as he spoke, he started up, and sprung at the stranger, who, on +seeing him rise for the purpose, instantly rang the bell. The waiter +immediately entered, and found the latter holding poor Fenton by the +two wrists, and with such a tremendous grasp as made him feel like an +infant, in point of strength, in his hands. + +“This is unmeaning violence, sir,” exclaimed the latter, calmly but +firmly, “unless you explain yourself, and give a reason for it. If you +are moved by any peculiar cause of horror, or apprehension, or danger, +why not enable me to understand it, in order that you may feel assured +of my anxious disposition to assist you?” + +“Gintlemen,” exclaimed Paudeen, “what in the name of Pether White and +Billy Neelins is the reason of this? But I needn't ax--it's one of Mr. +Fenton's tantrams--an' the occasion of it was, lying snug and warm +this mornin', in one of Andy Trimble's whiskey barrels. For shame, Mr. +Fenton, you they say a gintleman born, and to thrate one of your own +rank--a gintleman that befriended you as he did, and put a daicint shoot +of clo'es on your miserable carcase; when you know that before he did +it, if the wind was blowing from the thirty-two points of the compass, +you had an openin' for every point, if they wor double the number. +Troth, now, you're ongrateful, an' if God hasn't said it, you'll thravel +from an onpenitent death-bed yet. Be quiet, will you, or my sinful sowl +to glory, but I'll bundle you downstairs?” + +“He will be quiet, Pat,” said the stranger. “In truth, after all, this +is a mere physical malady, Mr. Fenton, and will pass away immediately, +if you will only sit down and collect yourself a little.” + +Fenton, however, made another unavailable attempt at struggle, and +found that he was only exhausting himself to no purpose. All at once, or +rather following up his previous suspicions, he seemed to look upon the +powerful individual who held him, as a person who had become suddenly +invested with a new character that increased his terrors; and yet, if +we may say so, almost forced him into an anxiety to suppress their +manifestation. His limbs, however, began to tremble excessively; his +eyes absolutely dilated, and became filled by a sense of terror, nearly +as wild as despair itself. The transitions of his temper, however, like +those of his general conduct, supervened upon each other with remarkable +rapidity, and, as it were, the result of quick, warm, and inconsiderate +impulses. + +“Well,” he exclaimed at length, “I will be quiet, I am, I assure you, +perfectly harmless; but, at the same time,” he added, sitting down, “I +know that the whole dialogue between you and that awful-looking man, was +a plot laid for me. Why else did you insist on my being present at it? +This accounts for your giving me a paltry sum of money, too--it does, +sir--and for your spurious and dishonest humanity in wishing to see me +well clothed. Yes, I perceive it all; but, let what may happen, I +will not wear these clothes any longer. They are not the offering of a +generous heart, but the fraudulent pretext for insinuating yourself +into my confidence, in order to--to--yes, but I shall not say it--it +is enough that I know you, sir--that I see through, and penetrate your +designs.” + +He was about to put his threat with respect to the clothes into instant +execution, when the stranger, once more seizing him, exclaimed--“You +must promise, Mr. Fenton, before you leave my grasp, that you will make +no further attempt to tear off your dress. I insist on this;” and as he +spoke he fixed his eye sternly and commandingly on that of Fenton. + +“I will not attempt it,” replied the latter; “I promise it, on the word +of a gentleman.” + +“There, then,” said the stranger--“Keep yourself quiet, and, mark me, +I shall expect that you will not violate that word, nor yield to these +weak and silly paroxysms.” + +Fenton merely nodded submissively, and the other proceeded, still with a +view of sounding him: “You say you know me; if so, who and what am I?” + +“Do not ask me to speak at further length,” replied Fenton; “I am quite +exhausted, and I know not what I said.” + +He appeared now somewhat calmer, or, at least, affected to be so. By +his manner, however, it would appear that some peculiar opinion or +apprehension, with reference either to the baronet or the stranger, +seemed as if confirmed, whilst, at the same time, acting under one of +his rapid transitions, he spoke and looked like a man who was influenced +by new motives. He then withdrew in a mood somewhat between sullenness +and regret. + +When the stranger was left to himself, he paced the room some time in +a state of much anxiety, if not distress. At length he sat down, and, +leaning his head upon his hand, exclaimed unconsciously aloud: + +“Alas! I fear this search is vain. The faint traces of imaginary +resemblance, which I thought I had discovered in this young man's +features, are visible no longer. It is; true, this portrait,” looking +once more at the miniature, “was taken when the original was only +a child of five years; but still it was remarked that the family +resemblances were, from childhood up, both strong and striking. Then, +this unfortunate person is perfectly inscrutable, and not to be managed +by any ordinary procedure at present intelligible to me. Yet,--after +all, as far as I have been able to conjecture, there is a strong +similarity in the cases. The feeling among the people here is, that he +is a gentleman by birth: but this may proceed from the air and manners +which he can assume when he pleases. I would mention my whole design +and object at hazard, but this would be running an unnecessary risk by +intrusting my secret to him; and, although it is evident that he can +preserve his own, it does not necessarily follow that he would keep +mine. However, I must only persevere and bide my time, as the Scotch +say.” + +He again rose, and, pacing the apartment once more, his features assumed +a still deeper expression of inward agitation. + +“And, again,” he exclaimed, “that unfortunate rencounter! Great Heavens, +what if I stand here a murderer, with the blood of a fellow-creature, +hurried, I fear, in the very midst of his profligacy, into eternity! The +thought is insupportable; and I know not, unless I can strictly preserve +my incognito, whether I am at this moment liable, if apprehended, to pay +the penalty which the law exacts. The only consolation that remains +for me is, that the act was not of my seeking, but arrogantly and +imperiously forced upon me.” + + + + +CHAPTER VII. The Baronet attempts by Falsehood + +The Baronet attempts by Falsehood to urge his Daughter into an Avowal of +her Lover's Name. + + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, after his unpleasant interview with the stranger, +rode easily home, meditating upon some feasible plan by which he hoped +to succeed in entrapping his daughter into the avowal of her lover's +name, for he had no doubt whatsoever that the gentleman at the inn and +he were one and the same individual. For this purpose, he determined +to put on a cheerful face, and assume, as far as in him lay, an air of +uncommon satisfaction. Now this was a task of no ordinary difficulty for +Sir Thomas to encounter. The expression of all the fiercer and darker +passions was natural to such a countenance as his; but even to imagine +such a one lit up with mirth, was to conceive an image so grotesque and +ridiculous, that the firmest gravity must give way before it. His frown +was a thing perfectly intelligible, but to witness his smile, or rather +his effort at one, was to witness an unnatural phenomenon of the most +awful kind, and little short of a prodigy. If one could suppose the sun +giving a melancholy and lugubrious grin through the darkness of a total +eclipse, they might form some conception of the jocular solemnity which +threw its deep but comic shadow over his visage. One might expect the +whole machinery of the face, with as much probability as that of a mill, +to change its habitual motions, and turn in an opposite direction. It +seemed, in fact, as if a general breaking up of the countenance was +about to take place, and that the several features, like a crew of +thieves and vagabonds flying from the officers of justice, were all +determined to provide for themselves. + +Lucy saw at a glance that her father was about to get into one of those +tender and complacent moods which were few and far between, and, made +wise by experience, she very properly conjectured, from his appearance, +that some deep design was concealed under it. Anxious, therefore, to +avoid a prolonged dialogue, and feeling, besides, her natural candor +and invincible love of truth to a certain extent outraged by this +treacherous assumption of cordiality, she resolved to commence the +conversation. + +“Has anything agreeable happened; papa?” + +“Agreeable, Lucy, ahem!--why, yes--something agreeable has happened. +Now, Lucy, poor foolish girl, would it not have been better to have +placed confidence in me with respect to this lover of yours? Who can +feel the same interest in your happiness that I do?” + +“None, certainly, sir; unless some one whose happiness may probably +depend on mine.” + +“Yes, your lover--well, that now is a natural enough distinction; but +still, you foolish, naughty girl, don't you know that you are to inherit +my wealth and property, and that they will make you happy? You silly +thing, there's a truth for you.” + +“Were you yourself happy, papa, when we separated this morning? Are +you happy this moment? Are you generally happy? Is there no rankling +anxiety--no project of ambition--no bitter recollection corroding +your heart? Does the untimely loss of my young brother, who would have +represented and sustained your name, never press heavily upon it? I ask +again, Papa, are you generally happy? Yet you are in possession of all +the wealth and property you speak of.” + +“Tut, nonsense, silly child! Nothing is more ridiculous than to hear +a girl like you, that ought to have no will but mine, reasoning like a +philosopher.” + +“But, dear papa,” proceeded Lucy, “if you should persist in marrying me +to a profligate, merely because he is a nobleman--oh, how often is that +honorable name prostituted!--and could give me a title, don't you see +how wretched I should be, and how completely your wealth and property +would fail to secure my happiness?” + +“Very well argued, Lucy, only that you go upon wrong principles. To be +sure, I know that young ladies--that is, very young and inexperienced +ladies, somewhat like yourself, Lucy--have, or pretend to have--poor +fools--a horror of marrying those they don't love; and I am aware, +besides, that a man might as well attempt to make a stream run up hill +as combat them upon this topic. As for me, in spite of all my wealth and +property--I say this in deference to you--I am really very happy this +moment.” + +“I am delighted to hear it, papa. May I ask, what has contributed to +make you so?” + +“I shall mention that presently; but, in the mean time, my theory on +this subject is, that, instead of marrying for love, I would recommend +only such persons to contract matrimony as entertain a kind of lurking +aversion for each other. Let the parties commence with, say, a tolerably +strong stock of honest hatred on both sides. Very well; they, are +united. At first, there is a great deal of heroic grief, and much +exquisite martyrdom on the part of the lady, whilst the gentleman is at +once, if I may say so, indifferent and indignant. By and by, however, +they become tired of this. The husband, who, as well as the wife, +we shall suppose, has a strong spice of the devil in him, begins to +entertain a kind of diabolical sympathy for the fire and temper she +displays; while she, on the other hand, comes by degrees to admire in +him that which she is conscious of possessing herself, that is to say, +a sharp tongue and an energetic temperament. In this way, Lucy, they +go on, until habit has become a second nature to them. The appetite +for strife has been happily created. At length, they find themselves +so completely captivated by it that it becomes the charm of their +existence. Thenceforth a bewitching and discordant harmony prevails +between them, and they entertain a kind of hostile affection for each +other that is desperately delightful.” + +“Why, you are quite a painter, papa; your picture is admirable; all it +wants is truth and nature.” + +“Thank you, Lucy; you are quite complimentary, and have made an artist +of me, as artists now go. But is not this much more agreeable and +animated than the sweet dalliance of a sugar-plum life, or the dull, +monotonous existence resembling a Dutch canal, which we term connubial +happiness?” + +“Well, now, papa, suppose you were to hear me through?” + +“Very well,” he replied; “I will.” + +“I do not believe, sir, that life can present us with anything more +beautiful and delightful than the union of two hearts, two minds, two +souls, in pure and mutual affection, when that affection is founded upon +something more durable than mere beauty or personal attraction--that is, +when it is based upon esteem, and a thorough knowledge of the object we +love.” + +“Yes, Lucy; but remember there are such things as deceit, dissimulation, +and hypocrisy in the world.” + +“Yes, and goodness, and candor, and honor, and truth, and fidelity, +papa; do you remember that? When two beings, conscious, I say, of each +other's virtues--each other's failings, if you will--are united in the +bonds of true and pure affection, how could it happen that marriage, +which is only the baptism of love upon the altar of the heart, should +take away any of the tenderness of this attachment, especially when we +reflect that its very emotions are happiness? Granting that love, in its +romantic and ideal sense, may disappear after marriage, I have heard, +and I believe, that it assumes a holier and still more tender spirit, +and reappears under the sweeter and more beautiful form of domestic +affection. The very consciousness, I should suppose, that our destinies, +our hopes, our objects, our cares--in short, our joys and sorrows, are +identical and mutual, to be shared with and by each other, and that +all those delightful interchanges of a thousand nameless offices of +tenderness that spring up from the on-going business of our own +peculiar life--these alone, I can very well imagine, would constitute +an enjoyment far higher, purer, holier, than mere romantic love. Then, +papa, surely we are not to live solely for ourselves. There are the +miseries and wants of others to be lessened or relieved, calamity to +be mitigated, the pale and throbbing brow of sickness to be cooled, the +heart of the poor and neglected to be sustained and cheered, and the +limbs of the weary to be clothed and rested. Why, papa,” she proceeded, +her, dark eye kindling at the noble picture of human duty she had +drawn, “when we take into contemplation the delightful impression of two +persons going thus, hand in hand, through life, joining in the discharge +of their necessary duties, assisting their fellow-creatures, and +diffusing good wherever they go--each strengthening and reflecting the +virtues of the other, may we not well ask how they could look upon each +other without feeling the highest and noblest spirit of tenderness, +affection, and esteem?” + +“O yes, I was right, Lucy; all romances, all imagination, all honeypot, +with a streak of treacle here and there for the shading,” and, as he +spoke, he committed another felony in the disguise of a horse-laugh, +which, however, came only from the jaws out. + +“But, papa,” she proceeded, anxious to change the subject and curtail +the interview, “as I said, I trust something agreeable has happened; you +seem in unusually good spirits.” + +“Why, yes, Lucy,” he replied, setting his eyes upon her with an +expression of good-humor that made her tremble--“yes, I was in +Ballytrain, and had an interview with a friend of yours, who is stopping +in the 'Mitre.' But, my dear, surely that is no reason why you should +all at once grow so pale! I almost think that you have contracted a +habit of becoming pale. I observed it this morning--I observe it now; +but, after all, perhaps it is only a new method of blushing--the blush +reversed--that is to say, blushing backwards. Come, you foolish girl, +don't be alarmed; your lover had more sense than you have, and knew when +and where to place confidence.” + +He rose up now, and having taken a turn or two across the room, +approached her, and in deep, earnest, and what he intended to be, and +was, an impressive and startling voice, added: + +“Yes, Miss Gourlay, he has told me all.” + +Lucy looked at him, unmoved as to the information, for she knew it +was false; but she left him nothing to complain of with--regard to her +paleness now. In fact, she blushed deeply at the falsehood he attempted +to impose upon her. The whole tenor and spirit of the conversation was +instantly changed, and assumed for a moment a painful and disagreeable +formality. + +“To whom do you allude, sir.” she asked. + +“To the gentleman, madam, to whom you bowed so graciously, and, let me +add, significantly, to-day.” + +“And may I beg to know, sir, what he has told you?” + +“Have I not already said that he has told me all? Yes, madam, I have +said so, I think. But come, Lucy,” he added, affecting to relax, “be a +good girl; as you said, yourself, it should not be sir and madam between +you and me. You are all I have in the world--my only child, and if I +appear harsh to you, it is only because I love and am anxious to make +you happy. Come, my dear child, put confidence in me, and rely upon my +affection and generosity.” + +Lucy was staggered for a moment, but only for a moment, for she +thoroughly understood him. + +“But, papa, if the gentleman you allude to has told you all, what is +there left for me to confide to you?” + +“Why, the truth is, Lucy, I was anxious to test his sincerity, and +to have your version as well as his. He appears, certainly, to be a +gentleman and a man of honor.” + +“And if he be a man of honor, papa, how can you require such a test?” + +“I said, observe, that he appears to be such; but, you know, a man may +be mistaken in the estimate he forms of another in a first interview. +Come, Lucy, do something to make me your friend.” + +“My friend!” she replied, whilst the tears rose to her eyes. “Alas, +papa, must I hear such language as this from a father's lips? Should +anything be necessary to make that father the friend of his only child? +I know not how to reply to you, sir; you have placed me in a position of +almost unexampled distress and pain. I cannot, without an apparent want +of respect and duty, give expression to what I know and feel.” + +“Why not, you foolish girl, especially when you see me in such +good-humor? Take courage. You will find me more indulgent than you +imagine. Imitate your lover yonder.” + +She looked at him, and her eyes sparkled through her tears with shame, +but not merely with shame, for her heart was filled with such an +indignant and oppressive sense of his falsehood as caused her to weep +and sob aloud for two or three minutes. + +“Come, my dear child, I repeat--imitate your lover yonder. Confess; but +don't weep thus. Surely I am not harsh to you now?” + +“Papa,” she replied, wiping her eyes, “the confidence which you solicit, +it is not in my power to bestow. Do not, therefore, press me on this +subject. It is enough that I have already confessed to you that my +affections are engaged. I will now add what perhaps I ought to have +added before, that this was with the sanction of my dear mamma. Indeed, +I would have said so, but that I was reluctant to occasion reflections +from you incompatible with my affection for her memory.” + +“Your mother, madam,” he added, his face blackening into the hue of his +natural temper, “was always a poor, weak-minded woman. She was foolish, +madam, and indiscreet, and has made you wicked--trained you up to +hypocrisy, falsehood, and disobedience. Yes, madam, and in every +instance where you go contrary to my will, you act upon her principles. +Why do you not respect truth, Miss Gourlay?” + +“Alas, sir!” she replied, stung and shocked by his unmanly reflections +upon the memory of her mother, whilst her tears burst out afresh, “I am +this moment weeping for my father's disregard of it.” + +“How, madam! I am a liar, am I? Oh, dutiful daughter!” + +“Mamma, sir, was all truth, all goodness, all affection. She was at once +an angel and a martyr, and I will not hear her blessed memory insulted +by the very man who, above all others, ought to protect and revere it. +I am not, papa, to be intimidated by looks. If it be our duty to defend +the absent, is it not ten thousand times more so to defend the dead? +Shall a daughter hear with acquiescence the memory of a mother, who +would have died for her, loaded with obloquy and falsehood? No, sir! +Menace and abuse myself as much as you wish, but I tell you, that while +I have life and the power of speech, I will fling back, even into a +father's face, the falsehoods--the gross and unmanly falsehoods--with +which he insults her tomb, and calumniates her memory and her virtues. +Do not blame me, sir, for this language; I would be glad to honor you if +I could; I beseech you, my father, enable me to do so.” + +“I see you take a peculiar--a wanton pleasure in calling me a liar.” + +“No, sir, I do not call you a liar; but I know you regard truth no +farther than it serves your own purposes. Have you not told me just now, +that the gentleman in the Mitre Inn has made certain disclosures to you +concerning himself and me? And now, father, I ask you, is there one word +of truth in this assertion? You know there is not. Have you not +sought my confidence by a series of false pretences, and a relation of +circumstances that were utterly without foundation? All this, however, +though inexpressibly painful to me as your daughter, I could overlook +without one word of reply; but I never will allow you to cast foul +and cowardly reproach upon the memory of the best of mothers--upon the +memory of a wife of whom, father, you were unworthy, and whom, to my own +knowledge, your harshness and severity hurried into a premature grave. +Oh, never did woman pay so dreadful a penalty for suffering herself +to be forced into marriage with a man she could not love, and who was +unworthy of her affection! That, sir, was the only action of her life in +which her daughter cannot, will not, imitate her.” + +She rose to retire, but her father, now having relapsed into all his +dark vehemence of temper, exclaimed-- + +“Now mark me, madam, before you go. I say you shall sleep under lock and +key this night. I tell you that I shall use the most rigorous measures +with you, the severest, the harshest, that I can devise, or I shall I +break that stubborn will of yours. Do not imagine for one moment that +you shall overcome me, or triumph in your disobedience. No, sooner than +you should, I would break your spirit--I would break your heart” + +“Be it so, sir. I am ready to suffer anything, provided only you will +forbear to insult the memory of my mother.” + +With these words she sought her own room, where she indulged in a long +fit of bitter grief. + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, in these painful contests of temper with his candid +and high-minded daughter, was by no means so cool and able as when +engaged in similar exercitations with strangers. The disadvantage +against him in his broils with Lucy, arose from the fact that he had +nothing in this respect to conceal from her. He felt that his natural +temper and disposition were known, and that the assumption of any and +every false aspect of character, must necessarily be seen through by +her, and his hypocrisy detected and understood. Not so, however, with +strangers. When manoeuvring with them, he could play, if not a deeper, +at least a safer game; and of this he himself was perfectly conscious. +Had his heart been capable of any noble or dignified emotion, he must +necessarily have admired the greatness of his daughter's mind, her +indomitable love of truth, and the beautiful and undying tenderness with +which her affection brooded over the memory of her mother. Selfishness, +however, and that low ambition which places human happiness in the +enjoyment of wealth, and honors, and empty titles, had so completely +blinded him to the virtues of his daughter, and to the sacred character +of his own duties as a father, bound by the first principles of nature +to promote her happiness, without corrupting her virtues, or weakening +her moral impressions--we say these things had so blinded him, and +hardened his heart against all the purer duties and responsibilities of +life, that he looked upon his daughter as a hardened, disobedient girl, +dead to the influence of his own good--the ambition of the world--and +insensible to the dignified position which awaited her among the +votaries of rank and fashion. But, alas, poor man! how little did he +know of the healthy and substantial virtues which confer upon those +whose station lies in middle and in humble life, a benevolent and hearty +consciousness of pure enjoyment, immeasurably superior to the hollow +forms of life and conduct in aristocratic circles, which, like the +tempting fruit of the Dead Sea, seem beautiful to the eye, but are +nothing more, when tested by the common process of humanity, than ashes +and bitterness to the taste. We do not now speak of a whole class, for +wherever human nature is, it will have its virtues as well as its vices; +But we talk of the system, which cannot be one of much happiness or +generous feeling, so long as it separates itself from the general +sympathies of mankind. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. The Fortune-Teller--An Equivocal Prediction. + + +The stranger's appearance at the “Mitre,” and the incident which +occurred there, were in a peculiar degree mortifying to the Black +Baronet, for so he was generally called. At this precise period he had +projected the close of the negotiation with respect to the contemplated +marriage between Lucy and Lord Dunroe. Lord Cullamore, whose residence +was only a few miles from Red Hall, had been for some time in delicate +health, but he was now sufficiently recovered to enter upon the +negotiation proposed, to which, were it not for certain reasons that +will subsequently appear, he had, in truth, no great relish; and this, +principally on Lucy Gourlay's account, and with a view to her future +happiness, which he did not think had any great chance of being promoted +by a matrimonial alliance with his son. + +Not many minutes after the interview between Lucy and her father, a +liveried servant arrived, bearing a letter in reply to one from Sir +Thomas, to the following effect: + +“My Dear Gourlay,--I have got much stronger within the last fortnight; +that is, so far as my mere bodily health is concerned. As I shall +proceed to London in a day or two, it is perhaps better that I should +see you upon the subject of this union, between your daughter and my +son, especially as you seem to wish it so anxiously. To tell you the +truth, I fear very much that you are, contrary to remonstrance, and +with your eyes open to the consequences, precipitating your charming and +admirable Lucy upon wretchedness and disconsolation for the remainder +of her life; and I can tell her, and would if I were allowed, that the +coronet of a countess, however highly either she or you may appreciate +it, will be found but a poor substitute for the want of that affection +and esteem, upon which only can be founded domestic happiness and +contentment. + +“Ever, my dear Gourlay, faithfully yours, + +“CULLAMORE.” + + +The baronet's face, after having perused this epistle, brightened up +as much as any face of such sombre and repulsive expression could be +supposed to do; but, again, upon taking into consideration what he +looked upon as the unjustifiable obstinacy of his daughter, it became +once more stern and overshadowed. He ground his teeth with vexation +as he paced to and fro the room, as was his custom when in a state of +agitation or anger. After some minutes, during which his passion seemed +only to increase, he went to her apartment, and, thrusting in his head +to ascertain that she was safe, he deliberately locked the door, +and, putting the key in his pocket, once more ordered his horse, and +proceeded to Glenshee Castle, the princely residence of his friend, Lord +Cullamore. + +None of our readers, we presume, would feel disposed to charge our +hardened baronet with any tendency to superstition. That he felt its +influence, however, was a fact; for it may have been observed that there +is a class of minds which, whilst they reject all moral control when any +legitimate barrier stands between them and the gratification of their +evil passions or designs, are yet susceptible of the effects which are +said to proceed from such slight and trivial incidents as are supposed +to be invested with a mysterious and significant influence upon the +actions of individuals. It is not, however, those who possess the +strongest passions that are endowed with the strongest principles, +unless when it happens that these passions are kept in subjection by +religion or reason. In fact, the very reverse of the proposition in +general holds true; and, indeed, Sir Thomas Gourlay was a strong and +startling proof of this. In his case, however, it might be accounted +for by the influence over his mind, when young, of a superstitious nurse +named Jennie Corbet, who was a stout believer in all the superstitious +lore which at that time constituted a kind of social and popular creed +throughout the country. It was not that the reason of Sir Thomas was at +all convinced by, or yielded any assent to, such legends, but a habit of +belief in them, which he was never able properly to throw off, had been +created, which left behind it a lingering impression resulting from +their exhibition, which, in spite of all his efforts, clung to him +through life. + +Another peculiarity of his we may as well mention here, which related +to his bearing while on horseback. It had been shrewdly observed by the +people, that, whilst in the act of concocting any plan, or projecting +any scheme, he uniformly rode at an easy, slow, and thoughtful pace; +but, when under the influence of his angry passions, he dashed along +with a fury and vehemence of speed that startled those whom he met, and +caused them to pause and look after him with wonder. + +The distance between Red Hall and Glenshee Castle was not more than four +miles; the estates of both proprietors lying, in fact, together. The +day was calm, mild, and breathed of the fragrant and opening odors of +spring. Sir Thomas had nearly measured half the distance at a very slow +pace, for, in truth, he was then silently rehearsing his part in the +interview which was about to take place between him and his noble +friend. The day, though calm, as we said, was nevertheless without +sunshine, and, consequently, that joyous and exhilarating spirit of +warmth and light which the vernal sun floods down upon all nature, +rendering earth and air choral with music, was not felt so powerfully. +On the contrary, the silence and gloom were somewhat unusual, +considering the mildness which prevailed. Every one, however, +has experienced the influence of such days--an influence which, +notwithstanding the calm and genial character of the day itself, is felt +to be depressing, and at variance with cheerfulness and good spirits. + +Be this as it may, Sir Thomas was proceeding leisurely along, when a +turn of the road brought him at once upon the brow of the small valley +from which the residence of the Cullamore family had its name--Glenshee, +or, in English, the Glen of the Fairies. Its sides were wild, abrupt, +and precipitous, and partially covered with copse-wood, as was the +little brawling stream which ran through it, and of which the eye of +the spectator could only catch occasional glimpses from among the hazel, +dogberry, and white thorn, with which it was here and there covered. +In the bottom, there was a small, but beautiful green carpet, nearly, +if not altogether circular, about a hundred yards in diameter, in the +centre of which stood one of those fairy rings that gave its name +and character to the glen. The place was, at all times, wild, and so +solitary that, after dusk, few persons in the neighborhood wished to +pass it alone. On the day in question, its appearance was still and +impressive, and, owing to the gloom which prevailed, it presented a +lonely and desolate aspect, calculated, certainly, in some degree, to +inspire a weak mind with something of that superstitious feeling which +was occasioned by its supernatural reputation. We said that the baronet +came to a winding part of the road which brought this wild and startling +spot before him, and just at the same moment he was confronted by +an object quite as wild and as startling. This was no-other than a +celebrated fortune-teller of that day, named Ginty Cooper, a middle-aged +sibyl, who enjoyed a very wide reputation for her extraordinary insight +into futurity, as well as for performing a variety of cures upon both +men and cattle, by her acquaintance, it was supposed, with fairy lore, +the influence of charms, and the secret properties of certain herbs with +which, if you believed her, she had been made acquainted by the _Dainhe +Shee_, or good people themselves. + +The baronet's first feeling was one of annoyance and vexation, and for +what cause, the reader will soon understand. + +“Curse this ill-looking wretch,” he exclaimed mentally; “she is the first +individual I have met since I left home. It is not that I regard the +matter a feather, but, somehow, I don't wish that a woman--especially +such a blasted looking sibyl as this--should be the first person I meet +when going on any business of importance.” Indeed, it is to be observed +here, that some of Ginty's predictions and cures were such as, among an +ignorant and credulous people, strongly impressed by the superstitions +of the day, and who placed implicit reliance upon her prophetic and +sanative faculties, were certainly calculated to add very much to her +peculiar influence over them, originating, as they believed, in her +communion with supernatural powers. Her appearance, too, was strikingly +calculated to sustain the extraordinary reputation which she bore, yet +it was such as we feel it to be almost impossible to describe. Her face +was thin, and supernaturally pale, and her features had a death-like +composure, an almost awful rigidity, that induced the spectator to +imagine that she had just risen from the grave. Her thin lips were +repulsively white, and her teeth so much whiter that they almost filled +you with fear; but it was in her eye that the symbol of her prophetic +power might be said to lie. It was wild, gray, and almost transparent, +and whenever she was, or appeared to be, in a thoughtful mood, +or engaged in the contemplation of futurity, it kept perpetually +scintillating, or shifting, as it were, between two proximate objects, +to which she seemed to look as if they had been in the far distance of +space--that is, it turned from one to another with a quivering rapidity +which the eye of the spectator was unable to follow. And yet it was +evident on reflection, that in her youth she must have been not only +good-looking, but handsome. This quick and unnatural motion of the eye +was extremely wild and startling, and when contrasted with the white and +death-like character of her teeth, and the moveless expression of her +countenance, was in admirable keeping with the supernatural qualities +attributed to her. She wore no bonnet, but her white death-bed like cap +was tied round her head by a band of clean linen, and came under her +chin, as in the case of a corpse, thus making her appear as if she +purposely assumed the startling habiliments of the grave. As for the +outlines of her general person, they afforded evident proof--thin and +emaciated as she then was--that her figure in early life must have been +remarkable for great neatness and symmetry. She inhabited a solitary +cottage in the glen, a fact which, in the opinion of the people, +completed the wild prestige of her character. + +“You accursed hag,” said the baronet, whose vexation at meeting her was +for the moment beyond any superstitious impression which he felt, “what +brought you here? What devil sent you across my path now? Who are you, +or what are you, for you look like a libel on humanity?” + +“If I don't,” she replied, bitterly, “I know who does. There is not much +beauty between us, Thomas Gourlay.” + +“What do you mean by Thomas Gourlay, you sorceress?” + +“You'll come to know that some day before you die, Thomas; perhaps +sooner than you can think or dream of.” + +“How can you tell that, you irreverent old viper?” + +“I could tell you much more than that, Thomas,” she replied, showing her +corpse-like teeth with a ghastly smile of mocking bitterness that was +fearful. + +The Black Baronet, in spite of himself, began to feel somewhat uneasy, +for, in fact, there appeared such a wild but confident significance in +her manner and language that he deemed it wiser to change his tactics +with the woman, and soothe her a little if he could. In truth, her words +agitated him so much that he unconsciously pulled out of his waistcoat +pocket the key of Lucy's room, and began to dangle with it as he +contemplated her with something like alarm. + +“My poor woman, you must be raving,” he replied. “What could a destitute +creature like you know about my affairs? I don't remember that I ever +saw you before.” + +“That's not the question, Thomas Gourlay, but the question is, what have +you done with the child of your eldest brother, the lawful heir of the +property and title that you now bear, and bear unjustly.” + +He was much startled by this allusion, for although aware that the +disappearance of the child in question had been for many long years well +known, yet, involved, as it was, in unaccountable mystery, still the +circumstance had never been forgotten. + +“That's an old story, my good woman,” he replied. “You don't charge me, +I hope, as some have done, with making away with him? You might as well +charge me with kidnapping my own son, you foolish woman, who, you know, +I suppose, disappeared very soon after the other.” + +“I know he did,” she replied; “but neither I nor any one else ever +charged you with that act; and I know there are a great many of opinion +that both acts were committed by some common enemy to your house, who +wished, for some unknown cause of hatred, to extinguish your whole +family. That is, indeed, the best defence you have for the disappearance +of your brother's son; but, mark me, Thomas Gourlay--that defence will +not pass with God, with me, nor with your own heart. I have my own +opinion upon that subject, as well as upon many others. You may ask your +own conscience, Thomas Gourlay, but he'll be a close friend of yours +that will ever hear its answer.” + +“And is this all you had to say to me, you ill-thinking old vermin.” he +replied, again losing his temper. + +“No,” she answered, “I wish to tell your fortune; and you will do well +to listen to me.” + +“Well,” said he, in a milder tone, putting at the same time the key of +Lucy's door again into his pocket, without being in the slightest degree +conscious of it, “if you are, I suppose I must cross your hand with +silver as usual; take this.” + +“No,” she replied, drawing back with another ghastly smile, the meaning +of which was to him utterly undefinable, “from your hand nothing in the +shape of money will ever pass into mine; but listen”--she looked at him +for some moments, during which she paused, and then added--“I will not +do it, I am not able to render good for evil, yet; I will suffer you to +run your course. I am well aware that neither warning nor truth would +have any effect upon you, unless to enable you to prepare and sharpen +your plans with more ingenious villany. But you have a daughter; I will +speak to you about her.” + +“Do,” said the baronet; “but why not take the silver?” + +“You will know that one day before you die, too,” said she, “and I don't +think it will smooth your death-bed pillow.” + +“Why, you are a very mysterious old lady.” + +“I'll now give you a proof of that. You locked in your daughter before +you left home.” + +Sir Thomas could not for his life prevent himself from starting so +visibly that she observed it at once. + +“No such thing,” he replied, affecting a composure which he certainly +did not feel; “you are an impostor, and I now see that you know +nothing.” + +“What I say is true,” she replied, solemnly, “and you have stated, +Thomas Gourlay, what you know to be a falsehood; I would be glad to +discover you uttering truth unless with some evil intention. But now for +your daughter; you wish to hear her fate?” + +“Certainly I do; but then you know nothing. You charge me with +falsehood, but it is yourself that are the liar.” + +She waved her hand indignantly. + +“Will my daughter's husband be a man of title?” he asked, his mind +passing to the great and engrossing object of his ambition. + +“He will be a man of title,” she replied, “and he will make her a +countess.” + +“You must take money,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and +once more pulling out his purse--“that is worth something, surely.” + +She waved her hand again, with a gesture of repulse still more indignant +and frightful than before, and the bitter smile she gave while doing it +again displayed her corpse-like teeth in a manner that was calculated to +excite horror itself. + +“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I will not press you, only don't make +such cursed frightful grimaces. But with respect to my daughter, will +the marriage be with her own consent?” + +“With her own consent--it will be the dearest wish of her heart.” + +“Could you name her husband?” + +“I could and will. Lord Dunroe will be the man, and he will make her +Countess of Cullamore.” + +“Well, now,” replied the other, “I believe you can speak truth, and are +somewhat acquainted with the future. The girl certainly is attached to +him, and I have no doubt the union will be, as you say, a happy one.” + +“You know in your soul,” she replied, “that she detests him; and you +know she would sacrifice her life this moment sooner than marry him.” + +“What, then, do you mean.” he asked, “and why do you thus contradict +yourself?” + +“Good-by, Thomas Gourlay,” she replied. “So far as regards either the +past or the future, you will hear nothing further from me to-day; but, +mark me, we shall meet again---and we have met before.” + +“That, certainly, is not true,” he said, “unless it might be +accidentally on the highway; but, until this moment, my good woman, I +don't remember to have seen your face in my life.” + +[Illustration: PAGE 350-- How will you be prepared to render an account] + +She looked toward the sky, and pointing her long, skinny finger upwards, +said, “How will you be prepared to render an account of all your deeds +and iniquities before Him who will judge you there!” + +There was a terrible calmness, a dreadful solemnity on her white, +ghastly features as she spoke, and pointed to the sky, after which she +passed on in silence and took no further notice of the Black Baronet. + +It is very difficult to describe the singular variety of sensations +which her conversation, extraordinary, wild, and mysterious as it was, +caused this remarkable man to experience. He knew not what to make of +it. One thing was certain, however, and he could not help admitting it +to himself, that, during their short and singular dialogue, she had, he +knew not how, obtained and exercised an extraordinary ascendency over +him. He looked after her, but she was proceeding calmly along, precisely +as if they had not spoken. + +“She is certainly the greatest mystery in the shape of woman,” he said +to himself, as he proceeded, “that I have ever yet met--that is, if she +be a thing of flesh and blood--for to me she seems to belong more to +death and its awful accessories, than to life and its natural reality. +How in the devil's name could she have known that I locked that +obstinate and undutiful girl up. This is altogether inexplicable, upon +principles affecting only the ordinary powers of common humanity. Then +she affirmed, prophesied, or what you will, that Lucy and Dunroe will +be married--willingly and happily! That certainly is strange, and as +agreeable as strange; but I will doubt nothing after the incident of the +locking up, so strangely revealed to me too, at a moment when, perhaps, +no human being knew it but Lucy and myself. And, what is stranger still, +she knows the state of the girl's affections, and that she at present +detests Dunroe. Yet, stay, have I not seen her somewhere before? She +said so herself. There is a faint impression on me that her face is not +altogether unfamiliar to me, but I cannot recall either time or place, +and perhaps the impression is a wrong one.” + + + + +CHAPTER IX. Candor and Dissimulation + + +Glenshee Castle was built by the father of the then Lord Cullamore, at +a cost of upwards of one hundred thousand pounds. Its general effect and +situation were beautiful, imposing, and picturesque in the extreme. Its +north and east sides, being the principal fronts, contained the state +apartments, while the other sides, for the building was a parallelogram, +contained the offices, and were overshadowed, or nearly altogether +concealed, by trees of a most luxuriant growth. In the east front stood +a magnificent circular tower, in fine proportion with it; whilst an +octagon one, of proportions somewhat inferior, terminated the northern +angle. The front, again, on the north, extending from the last mentioned +tower, was connected with a fine Gothic chapel, remarkable for the +beauty of its stained windows, supervening buttresses, and a belfry at +its western extremity. On the north front, which was the entrance, rose +a porch leading into a vestibule, and from thence into the magnificent +hall. From this sprung a noble stone staircase, with two inferior +flights that led to a corridor, which communicated with a gorgeous suit +of bedchambers. The grand hall communicated on the western side with +those rooms that were appropriated to the servants, and those on the +opposite, with the state apartments, which were of magnificent size +and proportions, having all the wood-work of Irish oak, exquisitely +polished. The gardens were in equal taste, and admirably kept. The +pleasure grounds were ornamented with some of the rarest exotics. On +each side of the avenue, as you approached the castle, stood a range +of noble elms, beeches, and oaks intermingled; and, as you reached the +grand entrance, you caught a view of the demesne and deer-park, which +were, and are, among the finest in the kingdom. There was also visible, +from the steps of the hall and front window, the bends of a sweet, and +winding river near the centre of the demesne, spanned by three or four +light and elegant arches, that connected the latter and the deer-park +with each other. Nothing, however, was so striking in the whole +landscape as the gigantic size and venerable appearance of the wood, +which covered a large portion of the demesne, and the patriarchal +majesty of those immense trees, which stood separated from the mass +of forest, singly or in groups, in different parts of it. The evening +summer's deep light, something between gold and purple, as it poured its +mellow radiance upon the green openings between these noble trees, or +the evening smoke, as it arose at the same hour from the chimneys of the +keepers' houses among their branches, were sights worth a whole gallery +of modern art. + +As the baronet approached the castle, he thought again of the woman +and her prophecies, and yielded to their influence, in so far as they +assured him that his daughter was destined to become the proud mistress +of all the magnificence by which he was surrounded. The sun had now +shone forth, and as its clear light fell upon the house, its beautiful +pleasure-grounds, its ornamented lawns, and its stately avenues, he +felt that there was something worth making a struggle for, even at the +expense of conscience, when he contemplated, with the cravings of an +ambitious heart, the spirit of rich and deep repose in which the whole +gorgeous spectacle lay. + +On reaching the hall he rang, and in a few minutes was admitted to his +friend, Lord Cullamore. + +Lord Cullamore was remarkable for that venerable dignity and graceful +ease, which, after all, can only result from early and constant +intercourse with polished and aristocratic society. This person was +somewhat above the middle size, his eye clear and significant, his +features expressive, and singularly indicative of what he felt or said. +In fact, he appeared to be an intelligent, candid man, who, in addition +to that air bestowed upon him by his rank and position, and which could +never for a moment be mistaken, was altogether one of the best specimens +of his class. He had neither those assumptions of hateful condescension, +nor that eternal consciousness of his high birth, which too frequently +degrade and disgrace the commonplace and vulgar nobleman; especially +when he makes the privileges of his class an offence and an oppression +to his inferiors, or considers it a crime to feel or express those noble +sympathies, which, as a first principle, ought to bind him to that class +by whom he lives, and who constitute the great mass of humanity, from +whose toil and labor originate the happiness of his order. When in +conversation, the natural animation of his lordship's countenance was +checked, not only by a polite and complacent sense of what was due to +those with whom he spoke, and a sincere anxiety to put them at their +ease, but evidently by an expression that seemed the exponent of some +undivulged and corroding sorrow. We may add, that he was affectionate, +generous, indolent; not difficult to be managed when he had no strong +purpose to stimulate him; keen of observation, but not prone to +suspicion; consequently often credulous, and easily imposed upon; but, +having once detected fraud or want of candor, the discovery was certain +forever to deprive the offending party of his esteem--no matter what +their rank or condition in life might be. + +We need scarcely say, therefore, that this, amiable nobleman, possessing +as he did all the high honor and integrity by which his whole life was +regulated, (with one solitary exception, for which his heart paid a +severe penalty,) carried along with him, in his old age, that respect, +reverence, and affection, to which the dignified simplicity of his life +entitled him. He was, indeed, one of those few noblemen whose virtues +gave to the aristocratic spirit, true grace and appropriate dignity, +instead of degrading it, as too many of his caste do, by pride, +arrogance, and selfishness. + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, on entering the magnificent library to which he was +conducted, found his lordship in the act of attaching his signature to +some papers. The latter received him kindly and graciously, and shook +hands with him, but without rising, for which he apologized. + +“I am not at all strong, Sir Thomas,” he added; “for although this last +attack has left me, yet I feel that it has taken a considerable +portion of my strength along with it. I am, however, free from pain and +complaint, and my health is gradually improving.” + +“But, my lord, do you think you will be able to encounter the fatigue +and difficulties of a journey to London.” replied the other--“Will you +have strength for it?” + +“I hope so; travelling by sea always agreed with and invigorated my +constitution. The weather, too, is fine, and. I will take the long +voyage. Besides, it is indispensable that I should go. This wild son +of mine has had a duel with some one in a shooting gallery--has been +severely hit--and is very ill; but, at the same time, out of danger.” + +“A duel! Good heavens! My lord, how did it happen.” asked the baronet. + +“I am not exactly aware of all the particulars; but I think they cannot +be creditable to the parties, or to Dunroe, at least; for one of +his friends has so far overshot the mark as to write to me, for my +satisfaction, that they have succeeded in keeping the affair out of the +papers. Now, there must be something wrong when my son's friends are +anxious to avoid publicity in the matter. The conduct of that young man, +my dear Sir Thomas, is a source of great affliction to me; and I tremble +for the happiness of your daughter, should they be united.” + +“You are too severe on Dunroe, my lord,” replied the baronet--“It is +better for a man to sow his wild oats in season than out of season. +Besides, you know the proverb, 'A reformed rake,' etc.” + +“The popularity of a proverb, my good friend, is no proof of its truth; +and, besides, I should wish to place a hope of my son's reformation upon +something firmer and more solid than the strength of an old adage.” + +“But you know, my lord,” replied the other, “that the instances of +post-matrimonial reformation, if I may use the word, from youthful +folly, are sufficient to justify the proverb. I am quite certain, that, +if Lord Dunroe were united to a virtuous and sensible wife, he would +settle down into the character of a steady, honorable, and independent +man. I could prove this by many instances, even within your knowledge +and mine. Why, then, exclude his lordship from the benefit of a +contingency, to speak the least, which we know falls out happily in so +many instances?” + +“You mean you could prove the probability of it, my dear baronet; for, +at present, the case is not susceptible of proof. What you say may +be true; but, on the other hand, it may not; and, in the event of his +marrying without the post-matrimonial reformation you speak of, what +becomes of your daughter's happiness?” + +“Nay, I know generous Dunroe so well, my lord, that I would not, even as +Lucy's father, hesitate a moment to run the risk.” + +“But what says Lucy herself? And how does she stand affected toward him? +For that is the main point. This matter, you know, was spoken over some +few years ago, and conditionally approved of by us both; but my son was +then very young, and had not plunged into that course of unjustifiable +extravagance and profligacy which, to my cost, has disgraced his +latter years. I scorn to veil his conduct, baronet, for it would be +dishonorable under the circumstances between us, and I trust you will be +equally candid in detailing to me the sentiments of your daughter on the +subject.” + +“My lord, I shall unquestionably do so; but Lucy, you must know, is a +girl of a very peculiar disposition. She possesses, in fact, a good deal +of her unworthy father's determination and obstinacy. Urge her with too +much vehemence, and she will resist; try to accelerate her pace, and +she will stand still; but leave her to herself, to the natural and +reasonable suggestions of her excellent sense, and you will get her to +do anything.” + +“That is but a very indifferent character you bestow upon your daughter, +Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship--“I trust she deserves a better one at +your hands.” + +“Why, my lord,” replied the baronet, smiling after his own peculiar +fashion, that is to say, with a kind of bitter sarcasm, “I have as good +a right, I think, to exaggerate the failings of my daughter as you have +to magnify those of your son. But a truce to this, and to be serious: +I know the girl; you know, besides, something about women yourself, my +lord, and I need not say that it is unwise to rely upon the moods and +meditations of a young lady before marriage. Upon the prospect of such +an important change in their position, the best of them will assume a +great deal. The period constitutes the last limited portion of their +freedom; and, of course, all the caprices of the heart, and all the +giddy ebullitions of gratified vanity, manifest themselves so strangely, +that it is extremely difficult to understand them, or know their wishes. +Under such circumstances, my lord, they will, in the very levity of +delight, frequently say 'no,' when they mean 'yes,' and vice versa.” + +“Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship, gravely, “marriage, instead of being +the close, should be the commencement, of their happiness. No woman, +however, of sense, whether before marriage or after it, is difficult to +be understood. Upon a subject of such importance--one that involves the +happiness of her future life--no female possessing truth and principle +would, for one moment, suffer a misconception to exist. Now your +daughter, my favorite Lucy, is a girl of fine sense and high feeling, +and I am at a loss, Sir Thomas, I assure you, to reconcile either one +or the other with your metaphysics. If Miss Gourlay sat for the +disagreeable picture you have just drawn, she must be a great hypocrite, +or you have grossly misrepresented her, which I conceive it is not now +your interest or your wish to do.” + +“But, my lord, I was speaking of the sex in general.” + +“But, sir,” replied his lordship with dignity, “we are here to speak of +your daughter.” + +Our readers may perceive that the wily baronet was beating about the +bush, and attempting to impose upon his lordship by vague disquisitions. +He was perfectly aware of Lord Cullamore's indomitable love of truth, +and he consequently feared to treat him with a direct imposition, taking +it for granted that, if he had, an interview of ten minutes between +Lucy and his lordship might lead to an exposure of his duplicity and +falsehood. He felt himself in a painful and distressing dilemma. Aware +that, if the excellent peer had the slightest knowledge of Lucy's +loathing horror of his son, he would never lend his sanction to the +marriage, the baronet knew not whether to turn to the right or to the +left, or, in other words, whether to rely on truth or falsehood. At +length, he began to calculate upon the possibility of his daughter's +ultimate acquiescence, upon the force of his own unbending character, +her isolated position, without any one to encourage or abet her in what +he looked upon as her disobedience, consequently his complete control +over her; having summoned up all those points together, he resolved to +beat about a little longer, but, at all events, to keep the peer in the +dark, and, if pressed, to hazard the falsehood. He replied, however, to +his lordship's last observation: + +“I assure you, my lord, I thought not of my daughter while I drew the +picture.” + +“Well, then,” replied his lordship, smiling, “all I have to say is, that +you are very eloquent in generalities--generalities, too, my friend, +that do not bear upon the question. In one word, is Miss Gourlay +inclined to this marriage? and I beseech you, my dear baronet, no more +of these generalities.” + +“She is as much so, my lord,” replied the other, “as nineteen women out +of every twenty are in general. But it is not to be expected, I repeat, +that a delicately-minded and modest young creature will at once step +forward unabashed and exclaim, 'Yes, papa, I will marry him.' I protest, +my lord, it would require the desperate heroism of an old maid on the +last legs of hope, or the hardihood of a widow of three husbands, to go +through such an ordeal. We consequently must make allowance for those +delicate and blushing evasions which, after all, only mask compliance.” + +By this reply the baronet hoped to be able to satisfy his friend, +without plunging into the open falsehood. The old nobleman, however, +looked keenly at him, and asked a question which penetrated like a +dagger into the lying soul within him. + +“She consents, then, in the ordinary way?” + +“She does, my lord.” + +“Well,” replied the peer, “that, as the world goes, is, perhaps, as much +as can be expected at present. You have not, I dare say, attempted to +force her very much on the subject, and the poor girl has no mother. +Under such circumstances, the delicacy of a young lady is certainly +entitled to a manly forbearance. Have you alluded to Dunroe's want of +morals?” + +“Your opinion of his lordship and mine differ on this point +considerably, my lord,” replied the baronet--“You judge him with +the severity of a father, I with the moderation of a friend. I have +certainly made no allusion to his morals.” + +“Of course, then, you are aware, that it is your duty to do so; as a +father, that it is a most solemn and indispensable duty?” + +The soul of Sir Thomas Gourlay writhed within him like a wounded +serpent, at the calm but noble truth contained in this apophthegm. He +was not, however, to be caught; the subtlety of his invention enabled +him to escape on that occasion at least. + +“It has this moment occurred to me, my lord, with reference to this very +point, that it may be possible, and by no means improbable--at least I +for one anxiously hope it--that the recent illness of my Lord Dunroe may +have given him time to reflect upon his escapades and follies, and +that he will rejoin society a wiser and a better man. Under these +expectations, I appeal to your own good sense, my lord, whether it would +be wise or prudent by at present alluding--especially if it be +rendered unnecessary by his reformation--to his want of morals, in any +conversation I may hold with my daughter, and thereby deprive him of her +personal respect and esteem, the only basis upon which true affection +and domestic happiness can safely rest. Let us therefore wait, my lord. +Perhaps the loss of some of his hot blood may have cooled him. Perhaps, +after all,” he added, smiling, “we may have reason to thank his +phlebotomist.” + +The peer saw Sir Thomas's play, and, giving him another keen glance, +replied: + +“I never depended much upon a dramatic repentance, my dear baronet. Many +a resolution of amendment has been made on the sick bed; but we know in +general how they are kept, especially by the young. Be this as it may, +our discussion has been long enough, and sufficiently ineffectual. My +impression is, that Miss Gourlay is disinclined to the alliance. In +truth, I dare say she is as well acquainted with his moral reputation as +we are--perhaps better. Dunroe's conduct has been too often discussed in +fashionable life to be a secret to her, or any one else who has access +to it. If she reject him from a principle of virtuous delicacy and +honor, she deserves a better fate than ever to call him husband. But +perhaps she may have some other attachment?” + +“My lord,” replied Sir Thomas, rising, “I think I can perceive on which +side the disinclination lies. You have--and pray excuse me for saying +so--studiously thrown, during the present conference, every possible +obstruction in the way of an arrangement on this subject. If your +lordship is determined that the alliance between our families shall not +take place, I pray you to say so. Upon your own showing my daughter will +have little that she ought to regret in escaping Dunroe.” + +“And Dunroe would have much to be thankful to God for in securing your +daughter. But, Sir Thomas Gourlay, I will be candid and open with you. +Pray observe, sir, that, during this whole discussion, conference, or +what you will, I did not get out of you a single direct answer, and that +upon a subject involving the life-long happiness of your only child. +I tell you, baronet, that your indirectness of purpose, and--you will +excuse me, too, for what I am about to say, the importance of the +subject justifies me--your evasions have excited my suspicions, and +my present impression is, that Miss Gourlay is averse to a matrimonial +union with my son; that she has heard reports of his character which +have justly alarmed her high-minded sense of delicacy and honor; and +that you, her parent, are forcing her into a marriage which she detests. +Look into your own heart, Sir Thomas, and see whether you are not +willing to risk her peace of mind for the miserable ambition of seeing +her one day a countess. Alas! my friend,” he continued, “there is no +talisman in the coronet of a countess to stay the progress of sorrow, or +check the decline of a breaking heart. If Miss Gourlay be, as I fear +she is, averse to this union, do not sacrifice her to ambition and a +profligate. She is too precious a treasure to be thrown away upon two +objects so utterly worthless. Her soul is too pure to be allied to +contamination--her heart too noble, too good, too generous, to be broken +by unavailing grief and a repentance that will probably come too late.” + +“If I assure you, my lord, that she is not averse to the +match--nay”--and here this false man consoled his conscience by falling +back upon the prophecy of Ginty Cooper--“if I assure you that she will +marry Dunroe willingly--nay, with delight, will your lordship then rest +satisfied?” + +“I must depend upon your word, Sir Thomas; am I not in conversation with +a gentleman?” + +“Well, then, my lord, I assure you that it is so. Your lordship will +find, when the time comes, that my daughter is not only not +indisposed to this union, but absolutely anxious to become your +daughter-in-law”--bad as he was, he could not force himself to say, +in so many plain words, “the wife of your son”--“But, my lord,” he +proceeded, “if you will permit me to make a single observation, I will +thank you, and I trust you will excuse me besides.” + +“Unquestionably, Sir Thomas.” + +“Well, then, my lord, what I have observed during our conversation, with +great pain, is, that you seem to entertain--pardon me, I speak in good +feeling, I assure your lordship--that you seem, I say, to entertain +a very unkind and anything but a parental feeling for your son. What, +after all, do his wild eccentricities amount to more than the freedom +and indulgence in those easy habits of life which his wealth and station +hold out to him with greater temptation than they do to others? I +cannot, my lord, in fact, see anything so monstrous in the conduct of +a young nobleman like him, to justify, on the part of your lordship, +language so severe, and, pardon me, so prejudicial to his character. +Excuse me, my lord, if I have taken a liberty to which I am in nowise +entitled.” Socrates himself could scarcely have assumed a tone more +moral, or a look of greater sincerity, or more anxious interest, than +did the Black Baronet whilst he uttered these words. + +The peer rose up, and his eye and whole person were marked by an +expression and an air of the highest dignity, not unmingled with deep +and obvious feeling. + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” said he, “you seem to forget the object of our +conference, and our respective positions.” + +“My Lord,” exclaimed the other, in a deprecating tone, “I meant no +offence, upon my honor.” + +“I have taken none,” replied his lordship; “but I must teach you to +understand me. Whatever my son's conduct may be, one thing is evident, +that you are his apologist; now, as a moral man, anxious for the +happiness of your child, I tell you that you ought to have exchanged +positions with me; it is you who, when about to intrust your daughter to +him for life, ought to have investigated his moral character and habits, +and manifested an anxiety to satisfy yourself whether they were such +as would reflect honor upon her, and secure her peace of mind and +tranquillity in the married state. You say, too, that I do not speak +of my son in a kind or parental feeling; but do you imagine, sir, that, +engaged as I am here, in a confidential and important conference, the +result of which may involve the happiness or misery of two persons +so dear to us both, I would be justified in withholding the truth, or +lending myself to a course of dishonorable deception?” + +He sat down again, and seemed deeply affected. + +“God knows,” he said, “that I love that wild and unthinking young man, +perhaps more than I ought; but do you imagine, sir, that, because I have +spoken of him with the freedom necessary and due to the importance +and solemnity of our object in meeting, I could or would utter such +sentiments to the world at large? I pray you, sir, then, to make and +observe the distinction; and, instead of assailing me for want of +affection as a parent, to thank me for the candor with which I have +spoken.” + +The baronet felt subdued; it is evident that his mind was too coarse and +selfish to understand the delicacy, the truth, and high, conscientious +feeling with which Lord Cullamore conducted his part of this +negotiation. + +“My lord,” said the baronet, who thought of another point on which to +fall back, “there is one circumstance, one important fact, which we have +both unaccountably overlooked, and which, after all, holds out a greater +promise of domestic happiness between these young persons than anything +we have thought of. His lordship is attached to my daughter. Now, where +there is love, my lord, there is every chance and prospect of happiness +in the married life.” + +“Yes, if it be mutual, Sir Thomas; everything depends on that. I am +glad, however, you mentioned it. There is some hope left still; but +alas, alas! what is even love when opposed to selfishness and ambition? +I could--I myself could----” he seemed deeply moved, and paused for some +time, as if unwilling to trust himself with speech--“Yes, I am glad you +mentioned it, and I thank you, Sir Thomas, I thank you. I should wish +to see these two young people happy. I believe he is attached to your +daughter, and I will now mention a fact which certainly proves it. The +gentleman with whom he fought that unfortunate duel was forced into it +by Dunroe, in consequence of his having paid some marked attentions to +Miss Gourlay, when she and her mother were in Paris, some few months +before Lady Gourlay's decease. I did not wish to mention this before, +out of respect for your daughter; but I do so now, confidentially, of +course, in consequence of the turn our conversation has taken.” + +Something on the moment seemed to strike the baronet, who started, +for he was unquestionably an able hand at putting scattered facts and +circumstances together, and weaving a significant conclusion from them. + +“That, my lord, at all events,” said the coarse-minded man, after having +recovered himself, “that is gratifying.” + +“What!” exclaimed Lord Cullamore, “to make your daughter the cause and +subject of a duel, an intemperate brawl in a shooting gallery. The only +hope I have is, that I trust she was not named.” + +“But, my lord, it is, after all, a proof of his affection for her.” + +His lordship smiled sarcastically, and looked at him with something like +amazement, if not with contempt; but did not deign to reply. + +“And now, my lord,” continued the baronet, “what is to be the result +of our conference? My daughter will have all my landed property at my +death, and a large marriage-portion besides, now in the funds. I am +apparently the last of my race. The disappearance and death--I take it +for granted, as they have never since been heard of--of my brother Sir +Edward's heir, and very soon after of my own, have left me without a +hope of perpetuating my name; I shall settle my estates upon Lucy.” + +His lordship appeared abstracted for a few moments--“Your brother and +you,” he observed, “were on terms of bitter hostility, in consequence +of what you considered an unequal marriage on his part, and I +candidly assure you, Sir Thomas, that, were it not for the mysterious +disappearance of your own son, so soon after the disappearance of his, +it would have been difficult to relieve you from dark and terrible +suspicions on the subject. As it is, the people, I believe, criminate +you still; but that is nothing; my opinion is, that the same enemy +perpetrated the double crime. Alas! the worst and bitterest of all +private feuds are the domestic. There is my own brother; in a moment of +passion and jealousy he challenged me to single combat; I had sense to +resist his impetuosity. He got a foreign appointment, and there has been +a gulf like that of the grave between him and his, and me and mine, ever +since.” + +“Nothing, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, his countenance, as he spoke, +becoming black with suppressed rage, “will ever remove the impression +from my mind, that the disappearance or murder of my son was not a +diabolical act of retaliation committed under the suspicion that I was +privy to the removal or death, as the case may be, of my brother's heir; +and while I have life I will persist in charging Lady Gourlay, as I must +call her so, with the crime.” + +“In that impression,” replied his lordship, “you stand alone. Lady +Gourlay, that amiable, mild, affectionate, and heart-broken woman, is +utterly incapable of that, or any act of cruelty whatsoever. A woman who +is the source of happiness, kindness, relief, and support, to so many of +her humble and distressed fellow-creatures, is not likely to commit or +become accessory in any way to such a detestable and unnatural crime. +Her whole life and conduct render such a supposition monstrous and +incredible.” + +Both, after he had closed his observations, mused for some time, when +the baronet, rising and pacing to and fro, as was his custom, at +length asked--“Well, my lord, what say you? Are we never to come to a +conclusion?” + +“My determination is simply this, my dear baronet,--that, if you +and Miss Gourlay are satisfied to take Lord Dunroe, with all his +imperfections on his head, I shall give no opposition. She will, unless +he amends and reforms, take him, I grant you, at her peril; but be it +so. If the union, as, you say, will be the result of mutual attachment, +in God's name let them marry. It is possible, we are assured, that the +'unbelieving husband may be saved by the believing wife.'” + +“I am quite satisfied, my lord, with this arrangement; it is fair, and +just, and honorable, and I am perfectly willing to abide by it. When +does your lordship propose to return to us?” + +“I am tired of public life, my dear baronet. My daughter, Lady Emily, +who, you know, has chiefly resided with her maiden aunt, hopes to +succeed in prevailing on her to accompany us to Glenshee Castle, to +spend the summer and autumn, and visit some of the beautiful scenery of +this unknown land of ours. Something, as to time, depends upon Dunroe's +convalescence. My stay in England, however, will be as short as I can +make it. I am getting too old for the exhausting din and bustle of +society; and what I want now, is quiet repose, time to reflect upon my +past life, and to prepare myself, as well as I can, for a new change. Of +course, we will be both qualified to resume the subject of this marriage +after my return, and, until then, farewell, my dear baronet. But mark +me--no force, no violence.” + +Sir Thomas, as he shook hands with him, laughed--“None will be +necessary, my lord, I assure you--I pledge you my honor for that.” + +The worthy baronet, on mounting his horse, paced him slowly out of the +grounds, as was his custom when in deep meditation. + +“If I don't mistake,” thought he, “I have a clew to this same mysterious +gentleman in the inn. He has seen and become acquainted with Lucy in +Paris, under sanction of her weak-minded and foolish mother. The girl +herself admitted that her engagement to him was with her consent. +Dunroe, already aware of his attentions to her, becomes jealous, and on +meeting him in London quarrels with him, that is to say, forces him, I +should think, into one;--not that the fellow seems at all to be a coward +either,--but why the devil did not the hot-headed young scoundrel take +steadier aim, and send the bullet through his heart or brain? Had he +pinked him, it would have saved me much vexation and trouble.” + +He then passed to another train of thought--“Thomas Gourlay,--plain +Thomas Gourlay--what the devil could the corpse-like hag mean by that? +Is it possible that this insane scoundrel will come to light in spite of +me? Would to Heaven that I could ascertain his whereabouts, and get +him into my power once more. I would take care to put him in a place of +safety.” He then touched his horse with the spurs, and proceeded to Red +Hall at a quicker pace. + + + + +CHAPTER X. A Family Dialogue--and a Secret nearly Discovered. + + +Our scene must necessarily change to a kind of inn or low tavern, or, as +they are usually denominated, eating-houses, in Little Mary street, +on the north side of the good city of Dublin. These eating-houses were +remarkable for the extreme neatness and cleanliness with which they +were kept, and the wonderful order and regularity with which they were +conducted. For instance, a lap of beef is hung from an iron hook on the +door-post, which, if it be in the glorious heat of summer, is half black +with flies, but that will not prevent it from leaving upon your coat a +deep and healthy streak of something between grease and tallow as you +necessarily brush against it--first, on your going in, and secondly, on +your coming out. + +The evening was tolerably advanced, and the hour of dinner long past; +but, notwithstanding this, there were several persons engaged in +dispatching the beef and cabbage we have described. Two or three +large county Meath farmers, clad in immense frieze jackets, corduroy +knee-breeches, thick woollen stockings, and heavy soled, shoes, were not +so much eating as devouring the viands that were before them; whilst in +another part of the rooms sat two or three meagre-looking scriveners' +clerks, rather out at elbows, and remarkable for an appearance of +something that might, without much difficulty, be interpreted into +habits that could not be reconciled with sobriety. + +As there is not much, however, that is either picturesque or agreeable +in the description of such an establishment, we shall pass into an inner +room, where those who wished for privacy and additional comfort might +be entertained on terms somewhat more expensive. We accordingly beg our +readers to accompany us up a creaking pair of stairs to a small backroom +on the first floor, furnished with an old, round oak table, with turned +legs, four or five old-fashioned chairs, a few wood-cuts, daubed with +green and yellow, representing the four seasons, a Christmas carol, +together with that miracle of ingenuity, a reed in a bottle, which stood +on the chimney-piece. + +In this room, with liquor before them, which was procured from a +neighboring public house--for, in establishments of this kind, they are +not permitted to keep liquor for sale--sat three persons, two men and a +woman. One of the men seemed, at first glance, rather good-looking, was +near or about fifty, stout, big-boned, and apparently very powerful as +regarded personal strength. He was respectably enough dressed, and, +as we said, unless when it happened that he fell into a mood of +thoughtfulness, which he did repeatedly, had an appearance of frankness +and simplicity which at once secured instant and unhesitating good will. +When, however, after putting the tumbler to his lips, and gulping down a +portion of it, and then replacing the liquor on the table, he folded his +arms and knitted his brows, in an instant the expression of openness and +good humor changed into one of deep and deadly malignity. + +The features of the elder person exhibited a comic contrast between +nature and habit--between an expression of good humor, broad and +legible, which no one could mistake for a moment, and an affectation +of consequence, self-importance, and mock heroic dignity that were +irresistible. He was a pedagogue. + +The woman who accompanied them we need not describe, having already +made the reader acquainted with her in the person of the female +fortune-teller, who held the mysterious dialogue with Sir Thomas Gourlay +on his way to Lord Cullamore's. + +“This liquor,” said the schoolmaster, “would be nothing the worse of +a little daicent mellowness and flavor; but, at the same time, we must +admit that, though sadly deficient in a spirit of exhilaration, it bears +a harmonious reference to the beautiful beef and cabbage which we got +for dinner. The whole of them are what I designate as sorry specimens of +metropolitan luxury. May I never translate a classic, but I fear I +shall soon wax aegrotat--I feel something like a telegraphic despatch +commencing between my head and my stomach; and how the communication +may terminate, whether peaceably or otherwise, would require, O divine +Jacinta! your tripodial powers or prophecy to predict. The whiskey, in +whatever shape or under whatever disguise you take it, is richly worthy +of all condemnation.” + +“I will drink no more of it, uncle,” replied the other man; “it would +soon sicken me, too. This shan't pass; it's gross imposition--and that +is a bad thing to practise in this world. Ginty, touch the bell, will +you?--we will make them get us better.” + +A smile of a peculiar nature passed over the woman's ghastly features as +she looked with significant caution at her brother, for such he was. + +“Yes, do get better whiskey,” she said; “it's too bad that we should +make my uncle sick from mere kindness.” + +“I cannot exactly say that I am much out of order as yet,” replied the +schoolmaster, “but, as they say, if the weather has not broken, the sky +is getting troubled; I hope it is only a false, alarm, and may pass away +without infliction. If there is any of the minor miseries of life more +trying than another, it is to drink liquor that fires the blood, splits +the head, but basely declines to elevate and rejoice the heart. O, +divine poteen! immortal essence of the _hordeum beatum!_--which is +translated holy barley--what drink, liquor, or refreshment can be +placed, without the commission of something like small sacrilege, +in parallel with thee! When I think of thy soothing and gradually +exhilarating influence, of the genial spirit of love and friendship +which, owing to thee, warms the heart of man, and not unfrequently of +the softer sex also; when I reflect upon the cheerful light which +thou diffusest by gentle degrees throughout the soul, filling it with +generosity, kindness, and courage, enabling it to forget care and +calamity, and all the various ills that flesh is heir to; when I +remember too that thou dost so frequently aid the inspiration of the +bard, the eloquence of the orator, and changest the modesty of the +diffident lover into that easy and becoming assurance which is so +grateful to women, is it any wonder I should feel how utterly incapable +I am, without thy own assistance, to expound thy eulogium as I ought! +Hand that tumbler here, Charley,--bad as it is, there is no use, as +the proverb says, in laving one's liquor behind them. We will presently +correct it with better drink.” + +Charley Corbet, for such was the name of the worthy schoolmaster's +nephew, laughed heartily at the eloquence of his uncle, who, he could +perceive, had been tampering a little with something stronger than water +in the course of the evening. + +“What can keep this boy.” exclaimed Ginty; “he knew we were waiting for +him, and he ought to be here now.” + +“The youth will come,” said the schoolmaster, “and a hospitable youth +he is--_me ipso teste_, as I myself can bear witness. I was in his +apartments in the _Collegium Sanctae Trinitatis_, as they say, which +means the blessed union of dulness, laziness, and wealth, for which +the same divine establishment has gained an appropriate and just +celebrity--I say I was in his apartments, where I found himself and +a few of his brother students engaged in the agreeable relaxation of +taking a hair of the same dog that bit them, after a liberal compotation +on the preceding night. Third place, as a scholar! Well! who may he +thank for that, I interrogate. Not one Denis O'Donegan!--O no; the said +Denis is an ignoramus, and knows nothing of the classics. Well, be it +so. All I say is, that I wish I had one classical lick at their provost, +I would let him know what the master of a plantation seminary (*--a +periphrasis for hedge-school) could do when brought to the larned +scratch?” + +“How does Tom look, uncle.” asked Corbet; “we can't say that he has +shown much affection for his friends since he went to college.” + +“How could you expect it, Charley, my worthy nepos.” said the +schoolmaster--“These sprigs of classicality, when once they get +under the wing of the collegium aforesaid, which, like a comfortable, +well-feathered old bird of the stubble, warms them into what is +ten times better than celebrity--_videlicet_, snug and independent +dulness--these sprigs, I say, especially, when their parents or +instructors happen to be poor, fight shy of the frieze and caubeen at +home, and avoid the risk of resuscitating old associations. Tom, Charley +looks--at least he did when I saw him to-day--very like a lad who is +more studious of the bottle than the book; but I will not prejudge the +youth, for I remember what he was while under my tuition. If he be +as cunning now and assiduous in the prosecution of letters as I found +him--if he be as cunning, as ripe at fiction, and of as unembarrassed +brow as he was in his schoolboy career, he will either hang, on the one +side, or rise to become lord chancellor or a bishop on the other.” + +“He will be neither the one nor the other then,” said the prophetess, +“but something better both for himself and his friends.” + +“Is this by way of the oracular, Ginty?” + +“You may take it so if you like,” replied the female. + +“And does the learned page of futurity present nothing in the shape of +a certain wooden engine, to which is attached a dangling rope, in +association with the youth? for in my mind his merits are as likely to +elevate him to the one as to the other. However, don't look like the +pythoness in her fury, Ginty; a joke is a joke; and here's that he +may be whatever you wish him! Ay, by the bones of Maro, this liquor is +pleasant discussion!” We may observe here that they had been already +furnished with a better description of drink--“But with regard to the +youth in question, there is one thing puzzles me, oh, most prophetical +niece, and that is, that you should take it into your head to effect an +impossibility, in other words, to make a gentleman of him; _ex quovis +ligno nonfit Mercurius_, is a good ould proverb.” + +“That is but natural in her, uncle,” replied Corbet, “if you knew +everything; but for the present you can't; nobody knows who he is, and +that is a secret that must be kept.” + +“Why,” replied the pedagogue, “is he not a slip from the Black Baronet, +and are not you, Ginty----?” + +“Whether the child you speak of,” she replied, “is living or dead is +what nobody knows.” + +“There is one thing I know,” said Corbet, “and that is, that I could +scald the heart and soul in the Black Baronet's body by one word's +speaking, if I wished; only the time is not yet come; but it will come, +and that soon, I hope.” + +“Take care, Charley,” replied the master; “no violation of sacred ties. +Is not the said Baronet your foster-brother?” + +“He remembered no such ties when he brought shame and disgrace on our +family,” replied Corbet, with a look of such hatred and malignity as +could rarely be seen on a human countenance. + +“Then why did you live with him, and remain in his confidence so long,” + asked his uncle. + +“I had my own reasons for that--may be they will be known soon, and may +be they will never be known,” replied his nephew--“Whisht! there's a +foot on the stairs,” he added; “it's this youth, I'm thinking.” + +Almost immediately a young man, in a college-gown and cap, entered, the +room, apparently the worse for liquor, and approaching the schoolmaster, +who sat next him, slapped his shoulder, exclaiming: + +“Well, my jolly old pedagogue, I hope you have enjoyed yourself since +I saw you last? Mr. Corbet, how do you do? And Cassandra, my darling +death-like old prophetess, what have you to predict for Ambrose Gray,” + for such was the name by which he went. + +“Sit down, Mr. Gray,” said Corbet, “and join us in one glass of punch.” + +“I will, in half-a-dozen,” replied the student; “for I am always glad to +see my friends.” + +“But not to come to see them,” said Mrs. Cooper--“However, it doesn't +matter; we are glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose. I hope you are getting on +well at college?” + +“Third place, eh, my old grinder: are you not proud of me,” said +Ambrose, addressing the schoolmaster. + +“I think, Mr. Gray, the pride ought to be on the other side,” replied +O'Donegan, with an affectation of dignity--“but it was well, and I +trust you are not insensible of the early indoctrination you received +at--whose hands I will not say; but I think it might be guessed +notwithstanding.” + +During this conversation, the eyes of the prophetess were fixed upon the +student, with an expression of the deepest and most intense interest. +His personal appearance was indeed peculiar and remarkable. He was +about the middle size, somewhat straggling and bony in his figure; his +forehead was neither good nor bad, but the general contour of his face +contained not within it a single feature with the expression of which +the heart of the spectator could harmonize. He was beetle-browed, his +mouth diabolically sensual, and his eyes, which were scarcely an inch +asunder, were sharp and piercing, and reminded one that the deep-seated +cunning which lurked in them was a thing to be guarded against and +avoided. His hands and feet were large and coarse, his whole figure +disagreeable and ungainly, and his voice harsh and deep. + +The fortune-teller, as we have said, kept her eyes fixed upon his +features, with a look which seemed to betray no individual feeling +beyond that of some extraordinary and profound interest. She appeared +like one who was studying his character, and attempting to read his +natural disposition in his countenance, manner, and conversation. +Sometimes her eye brightened a little, and again her death-like face +became overshadowed with gloom, reminding one of that strange darkness +which, when the earth is covered with snow, falls with such dismal +effect before an approaching storm. + +“I grant you, my worthy old grinder, that you did indoctrinate me, as +you say, to some purpose; but, my worthy old grinder, again I say to +you, that, by all the gerunds, participles, and roots you ever ground +in your life, it was my own grinding that got me the third place in the +scholarship.” + +“Well, Mr. Ambrose,” rejoined the pedagogue, who felt disposed to draw +in his horns a little, “one thing is clear, that, between us both, we +did it. What bait, what line, what calling, or profession in life, do +you propose to yourself, Mr. Ambrose? Your course in college has been +brilliant so far, thanks to--ahem--no matter--you have distinguished +yourself.” + +“I have carried everything before me,” replied Ambrose--“but what then? +Suppose, my worthy old magister, that I miss a fellowship--why, +what remains, but to sink down into a resident mastership, and grind +blockheads for the remainder of my life? But what though I fail +in science, still, most revered and learned O'Donegan, I have +ambition--ambition--and, come how it may, I will surge up out of +obscurity, my old buck. I forgot to tell you, that I got the first +classical premium yesterday, and that I am consequently--no, I didn't +forget to tell you, because I didn't know it myself when I saw you +to-day. Hip, hip--hurra!” + +His two male companions filled their glasses, and joined him heartily. +O'Donegan shook him by the hand, so did Corbet, and they now could +understand the cause of his very natural elevation of spirits. + +“So you have all got legacies,” proceeded Mr. Ambrose; “fifty pounds +apiece, I hear, by the death of your brother, Mr. Corbet, who was +steward to Lady Gourlay--I am delighted to hear it--hip, hip, hurra, +again.” + +“It's true enough,” observed the prophetess, “a good, kind-hearted man +was my poor brother Edward.” + +“How is that old scoundrel of a Black Baronet in your neighborhood--Sir +Thomas--he who murdered his brother's heir?” + +“For God's sake, Mr. Ambrose, don't say so. Don't you know that he got +heavy damages against Captain Furlong for using the same words?” + +“He be hanged,” said the tipsy student; “he murdered him as sure as I +sit at this table; and God bless the worthy, be the same man or woman, +who left himself, as he left his brother's widow, without an heir to his +ill-gotten title and property.” + +The fortune-teller rose up, and entreated him not to speak harshly +against Sir Thomas Gourlay, adding, “That, perhaps, he was not so bad +as the people supposed; but,” she added, “as they--that is, she and +her brother--happened to be in town, they were anxious to see him (the +student); and, indeed, they would feel obliged if he came with them into +the front room for ten minutes or so, as they wished to have a little +private conversation with him.” + +The change in his features at this intimation was indeed surprising. +A keen, sharp sense of self-possession, an instant recollection of his +position and circumstances, banished from them, almost in an instant, +the somewhat careless and tipsy expression which they possessed on his +entrance. + +“Certainly,” said he--“Mr. O'Donegan, will you take care of yourself +until we return?” + +“No doubt of it,” replied the pedagogue, as they left the room, “I shall +not forget myself, no more than that the image and superscription of Sir +Thomas Gourlay, the Black Baronet, is upon your diabolical visage.” + +Instead of ten minutes, the conference between the parties in the next +room lasted for more than an hour, during which period O'Donegan did not +omit to take care of himself, as he said. The worthy pedagogue was one +of those men, who, from long habit, can never become tipsy beyond a +certain degree of elevation, after which, no matter what may be the +extent of their indulgence, nothing in the shape of liquor can affect +them. When Gray and his two friends returned, they found consequently +nothing but empty bottles before them, whilst the schoolmaster viewed +them with a kind of indescribable steadiness of countenance, which could +not be exactly classed with either drunkenness or sobriety, but was +something between both. More liquor, however, was ordered in, but, in +the meantime, O'Donegan's eyes were fastened upon Mr. Gray with a +degree of surprise, which, considering the change in the young man's +appearance, was by no means extraordinary. Whatever the topic of +their conversation may have been, it is not our purpose at present to +disclose; but one thing is certain, that the transition which took +place in Gray's features, as well as in his whole manner, was remarkable +almost beyond belief. This, as we have said, manifested itself in some +degree, on hearing that Corbet and his sister had something to say to +him in the next room. Now, however, the change was decided and striking. +All symptoms of tipsy triumph, arising from his success in college, +had completely disappeared, and were replaced by an expression of +seriousness and mingled cunning, which could not possibly escape +observation. There was a coolness, a force of reflection, a keen, calm, +but agitated lustre in his small eyes, that was felt by the schoolmaster +to be exceedingly disagreeable to contemplate. In fact, the face of the +young man was, in a surprising degree, calculating and sinister. A great +portion of its vulgarity was gone, and there remained something behind +that seemed to partake of a capacity for little else than intrigue, +dishonesty, and villany. It was one of those countenances on which, when +moved by the meditations of the mind within, nature frequently expresses +herself as clearly as if she had written on it, in legible characters, +'Beware of this man'. + +After a little time, now that the object of this mysterious meeting had +been accomplished, the party separated. + +We mentioned that Corbet and Sir Thomas Gourlay were foster-brothers--a +relation which, in Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland, formed the +basis of an attachment, on the part of the latter, stronger, in many +instances, than that of nature itself. Corbet's brother stood also to +him in the same relation as he did to the late Sir Edward Gourlay, +under whom, and subsequently under his widow, he held the situation of +house-steward until his death. Edward Corbet, for his Christian name had +been given him after that of his master--his mother having nursed both +brothers--was apparently a mild, honest, affectionate man, trustworthy +and respectful, as far, at least, as ever could be discovered to the +contrary, and, consequently, never very deep in the confidence of his +brother Charles, who was a great favorite with Sir Thomas, was supposed +to be very deeply in his secrets, and held a similar situation in his +establishment. It was known, or at least supposed, that his brother +Edward, having lived since his youth up with a liberal and affectionate +master, must have saved a good deal of money; and, as he had +never married, of course his brother, and also his sister--the +fortune-teller--took it for granted that, being his nearest relations, +whatever savings he had put together, must, after his death, necessarily +pass into their hands. He was many years older than either, and as they +maintained a constant and deferential intercourse with him--studied +all his habits and peculiarities--and sent him, from time to time, +such little presents as they thought might be agreeable to him, the +consequence was, that they maintained their place in his good opinion, +so far at least as to prevent him from leaving the fruits of his honest +and industrious life to absolute strangers. Not that they inherited +by any means his whole property, such as it was, several others of his +relatives received more or less, but his brother, sister, and maternal +uncle--the schoolmaster--were the largest inheritors. + +The illness of Edward Corbet was long and tedious; but Lady Gourlay +allowed nothing to be wanting that could render his bed of sickness or +death easy and tranquil, so far as kindness, attention, and the ministry +of mere human comforts could effect it. During his illness, his brother +Charles visited him several times, and had many private conversations +with him. And it may be necessary to state here, that, although these +two relatives had never lived upon cold or unfriendly terms, yet the +fact was that Edward felt it impossible to love Charles with the fulness +of a brother's affection. The natural disposition of the latter, under +the guise of an apparently good-humored and frank demeanor, was in +reality inscrutable. + +Though capable, as we said, of assuming a very different character +whenever it suited his purpose, he was nevertheless a man whose full +confidence was scarcely ever bestowed upon a human being. Such an +individual neither is nor can be relished in society; but it is +precisely persons of his stamp who are calculated to win their way with +men of higher and more influential position in life, who, when moved +by ambition, avarice, or any other of the darker and more dangerous +passions of our nature, feel an inclination, almost instinctive, to +take such men into their intrigues and deliberations. The tyrant and +oppressor discovers the disposition and character of his slave and +instrument with as much sagacity as is displayed by the highly bred dog +that scents out the game of which the sportsman is in pursuit. In this +respect, however, it not unfrequently happens, that even those who are +most confident in the penetration with which they make such selections, +are woefully mistaken in the result. + +We allude particularly to the death of Edward Corbet, at this stage +of our narrative, because, from that event, the train of circumstances +which principally constitute the body of our narrative originated. + +His brother had been with him in the early part of the day on which he +breathed his last. On arriving at the mansion in Merrion square, he met +Lady Gourlay on the steps of the hall door, about to enter her carriage. + +“I am glad you are come, Corbet,” she said--“Your poor brother has been +calling for you--see him instantly--for his sands are numbered. The +doctor thinks he cannot pass the turn of the day.” + +“God bless your ladyship,” replied Corbet, “for your uncommon kindness +and attention to him during his long and severe illness. All that could +be done for a person in his circumstances, your ladyship did; and I know +he is deeply sensible of it, my lady.” + +“It was only my duty, Corbet,” she replied, “to a true-hearted and +faithful servant, for such he was to our family. I could not forget +the esteem in which his master, my dear husband, held him, nor the +confidence which he never failed, and justly, to repose in him. Go +immediately to him, for he has expressed much anxiety to see you.” + +His brother, indeed, found him hovering on the very brink of the grave. +What their conversation was, we know not, unless in so far as a portion +of it at least may be inferred from the subsequent circumstances of our +story. After having spent about an hour with him, his brother, who, +it seems, had some pressing commissions to execute for Sir Thomas, was +obliged to leave him for a time, but promised to return as soon as he +could, get them discharged. In the meantime, poor Corbet sank rapidly +after Charles's departure, and begged, with a degree of anguish that +was pitiable, to see Lady Gourlay, as he had something, he said, of the +utmost importance to communicate to her. Lady Gourlay, however, had gone +out, and none of the family could give any opinion as to the period of +her return; whilst the dying man seemed to experience a feeling that +amounted almost to agony at her absence. In this state he remained for +about three hours, when at length she returned, and found him with the +mild and ghastly impress of immediate death visible in his languid, +dying eyes, and hollow countenance. + +“They tell me you wish to see me, Corbet,” she said--“If there is +anything that can be done to soothe your mind, or afford you ease and +comfort in your departing hour, mention it, and, if it be within our +power, it shall be done.” + +He made an effort to speak, but his voice was all but gone. At length, +after several efforts, he was able to make, her understand that he +wished her to bend down her head to him; she did so; and in accents that +were barely, and not without one or two repetitions, intelligible, he +was able to say, “Your son is living, and Sir Thomas knows----” + +Lady Gourlay was of a feminine, gentle, and quiet disposition, in fact, +a woman from whose character one might expect, upon receiving such a +communication, rather an exhibition of that wild and hysteric excitement +which might be most likely to end in a scream or a fainting fit. Here, +however, the instincts of the defrauded heart of the bereaved and +sorrowing mother were called into instant and energetic life. The +physical system, instead of becoming relaxed or feeble, grew firm +and vigorous, and her mind collected and active. She saw, from the +death-throes of the man, that a single moment was not to be lost, and +instantly, for her mouth was still at his ear, asked, in a distinct and +eager voice, “Where, Corbet, where? for God's mercy, where? and what +does Sir Thomas know?” + +The light and animation of life were fast fading from his face; he +attempted to speak again, but voice and tongue refused to discharge +their office--he had become speechless. Feeling conscious, however, that +he could not any longer make himself understood by words, he raised his +feeble hand, and attempted to point as if in a certain direction, but +the arm fell powerlessly down--he gave a deep sigh and expired. + +Thus far only can we proceed at present. How and why the stranger +makes his appearance at Ballytrain, and whether in connection with this +incident or not, are circumstances which we will know in due time. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. The Stranger's Visit to Father MacMalum. + + +The stranger, after Fenton had gone, began to feel that it was +impossible either to wheedle or extort any information whatsoever, +whether of importance or otherwise, from that extraordinary and not very +sane individual. That, however, there was a deep mystery about him, +be it what it might, he could not, for a moment, doubt; and, for this +reason, he resolved by no means to relax his exertions, or suffer +Fenton, if he could fairly prevent it, to slip through his fingers. +His unaccountable conduct and terror, during, as well as after, his own +angry altercation with the baronet, went, in his opinion, strongly to +connect him, in some manner, with that unscrupulous man. But how to +develop the nature of this connection constituted the very difficulty +which not only disappointed but mortified him. + +“I will call upon Birney,” thought he; “he is acute and sensible, and +probably, from his greater experience of life, will be able to throw +out some hint that may be valuable, and enable me to proceed with more +effect.” + +We have already said, that it was somewhat difficult to commonplace +observers to determine his (the stranger's) exact position in society +by a first glance at his dress. This ambiguity of appearance, if, after +all, it could properly be called so, was assumed for the express purpose +of avoiding observation as much as possible. The fact, however, of +finding that his desire to remain unnoticed had been not merely observed +and commented on, but imputed to him almost as a crime, determined +him no longer to lie _perdu_ in his inn, but to go abroad, and appear in +public like another; whilst, at the same time, his resolution remained +fixed as ever, for various reasons, to conceal his name. The moment, +therefore, he had made up his mind to this course, that assumed +restraint of manner and consciousness of not being what we appear to be +were completely thrown aside, and the transition which ensued was indeed +extraordinary. His general deportment became at once that of a perfect +gentleman, easy, elegant, if not absolutely aristocratic; but without +the slightest evidence of anything that could be considered supercilious +or offensive. His dress was tastefully within the fashion, but not +in its extreme, and his admirable figure thus displayed to the best +advantage; whilst his whole person was utterly free from every symptom +of affectation or foppery. Nor was the change in the tone of his +features less striking. Their style of beauty was at once manly and +intellectual, combining, as they did, an expression of great sweetness, +obvious good sense, and remarkable determination. He bore, in fact, the +aspect of a man who could play with a child on the green, or beard a +lion in his lair. + +The sagacity of the Irish people, in the estimate they form of personal +appearance and character, is, indeed, very extraordinary. Our friend, +the stranger, when casting his eye over the town of Ballytrain, on his +way to have an interview with Birney, who, we may as well observe, was +in his confidence, perceived that it was market-day. As he went out +upon the street, a crowd of persons were standing opposite the inn door, +where an extensive yarn market, in these good old times, was always +held; and we need scarcely say that his gentlemanly and noble figure, +and the striking elegance of his manner, at once attracted their +attention. + +“Well,” said one of them, “there goes a real gintleman, begad, at any +rate.” + +“Divil a lie in that,” added another; “there's no mistakin' the true +blood.” + +“Who is he,” asked a third--“Does nobody know him?” + +“Troth,” said the other, “it doesn't signify a traneen who or what he +is; whether he's gentle or simple, I say that the whole country ought to +put their heads under his feet.” + +“Why so, Jemmy Trailcudgel,” asked a fourth; “what did he do for the +counthry?” + +“I'll tell you that, Micky,” replied the other--“The Black Baronet, +bad luck to him, came to the inn where he stops, and insisted, right or +wrong, on knowing who and what he was.” + +“I wouldn't put it past him, the turk o' blazes! Well, an' what +happened?” + +“Why, the gintleman got up, and tuck a hoult o' the black villain by +the nose, led him to the head of the stairs, then turned him down before +him, and made his feet right and left play against the barrow knight, +like the tucks of a cloth mill, until he thrundled him clane--I'm not so +sure of that, though--out o' the hall door.” + +“An' for that same, God prosper him! Begad, he's a bully gentleman,” + observed a stout, frieze-coated fellow, with a large bunch of green +linen yarn on his lusty arm--“he is, and it's in him, and upon him, as +every one that has eyes to see may know.” + +The object of their praise, on entering the office of his friend Birney, +found him at his desk, with professional papers and documents before +him. After the ordinary greetings of the day, and an accurate account of +the baronet's interview with him, the stranger introduced the topic in +which he felt so deep an interest. + +“I am unfortunate, Mr. Birney,” said he; “Fenton, notwithstanding his +eccentricity, insanity, or whatever it may be termed, seems to suspect +my design, and evades, with singular address, every attempt, on my part, +to get anything out of him. Is he absolutely deranged, think you? For, +I assure you, I have just now had a scene with him, in which his conduct +and language could proceed from nothing short of actual insanity. A +little affected with liquor he unquestionably was, when he came in +first. The appearance, however, of Sir Thomas not only reduced him to +a state of sobriety, but seemed to strike him with a degree of terror +altogether inexplicable.” + +“How was that,” asked Birney. + +The stranger accordingly described the scene between himself and Fenton, +with which the reader is acquainted. + +“He is not a madman, certainly, in the ordinary sense of the word,” + replied Birney, after a pause; “but, I think, he may be called a kind of +lunatic, certainly. My own opinion is, that, whatever insanity he may be +occasionally afflicted with results more from an excessive indulgence in +liquor than from any other cause. Be that, however, as it may, there +is no question but that he is occasionally seized with fits of mental +aberration. From what you tell me, and his exaggerated suspicions of a +plot between you and Sir Thomas Gourlay, I think it most probable that +he is your man still.” + +“I, too, think it probable,” replied the stranger; “but, alas, I think +it possible he may not. On comparing his features with the miniature, +I confess I cannot now trace the resemblance which my sanguine +imagination--and that only, I fear--first discovered.” + +“But, consider, sir, that that miniature was taken when the original of +it was only five or six years of age; and you will also recollect that +growth, age, education, and peculiar habits of life, effect the most +extraordinary changes in the features of the same individual. No, sir, I +would not advise you to feel disheartened by this.” + +“But, can you fall upon no hint or principle, Mr. Birney, by which I +might succeed in unlocking the secret which this young man evidently +possesses?” + +“All I can recommend to you, sir, is comprised within one +word--patience. Mark him well; ingratiate yourself with him; treat +him with kindness; supply his wants; and I have no doubt but you may +ultimately win upon his confidence.” + +“Is there no sagacious old person in the neighborhood, no senachie or +genealogist, to whom you could refer me, and from whose memory of past +events in this part of the country I might be able to gain something to +guide me?” + +“There is one woman,” replied Birney, “who, were she tractable as to +the past as she is communicative of the future, could furnish you more +details of family history and hereditary scandal than any one else I +can think of just now. Some of her predictions--for she is a +fortune-teller--have certainly been amazing.” + +“The result, I have no doubt,” replied the other, “of personal +acquaintance with private occurrences, rendered incredible under +ordinary circumstances, in consequence of her rapid transitions from +place to place. I shall certainly not put myself under the guidance of +an impostor, Mr. Birney.” + +“In this case, sir, I think you are right; for it has been generally +observed that, in no instance, has she ever been known to make any +reference to the past in her character of fortune-teller. She affects to +hold intercourse with the fairies, or good people, as we term them, +and insists that it is from them that she derives the faculty of a +prophetess. She also works extraordinary cures by similar aid, as she +asserts. The common impression is, that her mind is burdened with some +secret guilt, and that it relieves her to contemplate the future, as it +regards temporal fate, but that she dares not look back into the past. +I know there is nothing more certain than that, when asked to do so, +in peculiar moods of mind, she manifests quite as much of the maniac as +poor Fenton.” + +“Away with the old impostress!” exclaimed the stranger; “I will have +none of her! Can you think of no one else?” + +“Of course, you have not had time to become acquainted with our parish +priest?” replied Birney. “Since 'Aroint thee, witch,' is your creed, I +think you had better try him.” + +“Not an unnatural transition,” replied the stranger, smiling; “but what +is he like? Give me an outline.” + +“He is named the Rev. Peter M'Mahon,and I forewarn you, that you are as +likely, if he be not in the mood, to get such a reception as you may not +relish. He is somewhat eccentric and original, but, at the same time, +his secret piety and stolen benevolence are beyond all question. With +his limited means, the good he does is incalculable. He is, in fact, +simple, kind-hearted, and truly religious. In addition to all, he is a +considerable bit of a humorist; when the good man's mind is easy, his +humor is kindly, rich, and mellow; but, when any way in dudgeon, it is +comically sarcastic.” + +“I must see this man,” said the stranger; “you have excited my +curiosity. By all accounts he is worth a visit.” + +“He is more likely to serve you in this matter than any one I know,” + said the attorney; “or, if he can't himself, perhaps he may find out +those that can. Very little has happened in the parish within the last +thirty-five years with which he is not acquainted.” + +“I like the man,” replied the other, “from your description of him.” + +“At all events, you would if you knew him,” replied Birney. “He is both +a good priest and a good man.” + +He then directed him to the worthy clergy-man's residence, which was not +more than a mile and a half from the town, and the stranger lost little +time in reaching it. + +On approaching the house, he was much struck with the extraordinary air +of neatness, cleanliness, and comfort, which characterized not only the +house itself, but everything about it. A beautiful garden facing the +south, stretched down to the left, as you approached the elegant little +whitewashed dwelling, which, placed on a green knoll, literally +shone for miles over the beautiful and serene country by which it +was surrounded. Below it, to the south, between firm green banks and +meadows, wound a beautiful river, and to the north rose one of the most +picturesque hills, probably, in the kingdom; at the hip of which was a +gloomy, precipitous glen, which, for wildness and solitary grandeur, is +unrivalled by anything of the kind we have seen. On the top of the hill +is a cave, supposed to be Druidical, over which an antiquarian would +dream half a life; and, indeed, this is not to be wondered at, inasmuch +as he would find there some of the most distinctly traced Ogham +characters to be met with in any part of the kingdom. + +On entering the house, our nameless friend found the good priest in what +a stranger might be apt to consider a towering passion. + +“You lazy bosthoon,” said he, to a large, in fact to a huge young +fellow, a servant, “was it to allow the pigs, the destructive vagabonds, +to turn up my beautiful bit of lawn that I undertook to give you +house-room, wages, and feeding--eh? and a bitther business to me the +same feeding is. If you were a fellow that knew when he had enough, I +could bear the calamity of keeping you at all. But that's a subject, God +help you, and God help me too that has to suffer for it, on which your +ignorance is wonderful. To know when to stop so long as the blessed +victuals is before you is a point of polite knowledge you will never +reach, you immaculate savage. Not a limb about you but you'd give six +holidays to out of the seven, barrin' your walrus teeth, and, if God +or man would allow you the fodder, you'd give us an elucidation of the +perpetual motion. Be off, and get the strongest set of rings that Jemmy +M'Quade can make for those dirty, grubbing bastes of pigs. The Lord +knows I don't wondher that the Jews hated the thieves, for sure they +are the only blackguard animals that ever committed suicide, and set the +other bastes of the earth such an unchristian example. Not that a slice +of ham is so bad a thing in itself, especially when it is followed by a +single tumbler of poteen punch.” + +“Troth, masther, I didn't see the pigs, or they'd not have my sanction +to go into the lawn.” + +“Not a thing ever you see, or wish to see, barring your dirty victuals.” + +“I hope, sir,” said the stranger, much amused in the meantime, but with +every courtesy of manner, “that my request for a short interview does +not come at an unseasonable hour?” + +“And, do you hear me, you bosthoon,” proceeded his reverence--this, +however, he uttered sotto voce, from an apprehension lest the stranger +should hear his benevolent purposes--“did you give the half crown to +Widow Magowran, whose children, poor creatures, are lying ill of fever?” + +Not a word to the stranger, who, however, overheard him. + +“I did, plaise your reverence,” replied the huge servant. + +“What did she say,” asked the other, “when you slipped it to her?” + +“She said nothing, sir, for a minute or so, but dropped on her knees, +and the tears came from her eyes in such a way that I couldn't help +letting down one or two myself. 'God spare him,' she then said, 'for +his piety and charity makes him a blessin' to the parish.' Throth, I +couldn't help lettin' down a tear or two myself.” + +“You couldn't now.” exclaimed the simple-hearted priest; “why, then, I +forgive you the pigs, you great, good-natured bosthoon.” + +The stranger now thought that he might claim some notice from his +reverence. + +“I fear, sir,” said he-- + +“And whisper, Mat,” proceeded the priest--paying not the slightest +attention to him, “did you bring the creel of turf to poor Barney +Farrell and his family, as I desired you?” + +“I did, your reverence, and put a good heap on it for the creatures.” + +“Well, I forgive you the pigs!” exclaimed the benevolent priest, +satisfied that his pious injunctions had been duly observed, and +extending a portion of his good feeling to the instrument; “and as for +the appetite I spoke of, sure, you good-natured giant you, haven't you +health, exercise, and a most destructive set of grinders? and, indeed, +the wonder would be if you didn't make the sorrow's havoc at a square of +bacon; so for heaping the creel I forgive you the digestion and the pigs +both.” + +“Will you permit me.” interposed the stranger, a third time. + +“But listen again,” proceeded his reverence, “did you bring the bread +and broth to the poor Caseys, the creatures?” + +“No, sir,” replied Mat, licking his lips, as the stranger thought, “it +was Kitty Kavanagh brought that; you know you never trust me wid the +vittles--ever since--” + +“Yes, I ought to have remembered that notorious fact. There's where your +weakness is strongest, but, indeed, it is only one of them; for he that +would trust you with the carriage of a bottle of whiskey might be said +to commit a great oversight of judgment. With regard to the victuals, +I once put my trust in God, and dispatched you, after a full meal, with +some small relief to a poor family, in the shape of corned beef and +greens, and you know the sequel, that's enough. Be off now, and get the +rings made as I desired you.” + +He then turned to the stranger, whom he scanned closely; and we need +hardly assure our reader that the other, in his turn, marked the +worthy priest's bearing, manner, and conversation with more than usual +curiosity. The harmless passion in which he found him--his simple but +touching benevolence, added to the genuine benignity with which he +relaxed his anger against Mat Euly, the gigantic servant, because he +told him that he had put a heap upon the creel of turf which he brought +to poor Barney Farrell and his family, not omitting the tears he +represented himself to have shed from Christian sympathy with Widow +Magowran, both of which acts were inventions of the purest water, +resorted to in order to soften the kind-hearted priest; all this, we +say, added to what he had heard from Birney, deeply interested the +stranger in the character of Father Peter. Nor was he less struck by his +appearance. Father MacMahon was a round, tight, rosy-faced little +man, with laughing eyes, full of good nature, and a countenance which +altogether might be termed a title-page to benevolence. His lips were +finely cut, and his well-formed mouth, though full of sweetness, was +utterly free from every indication of sensuality or passion. Indeed, it +was at all times highly expressive of a disposition the most kind and +placable, and not unfrequently of a comical spirit, that blended +with his benevolence to a degree that rendered the whole cast of his +features, as they varied with and responded to the kindly and natural +impulses of his heart, a perfect treat to look upon. That his heart and +soul were genuinely Irish, might easily be perceived by the light of +humor which beamed with such significant contagion from every feature of +his face, as well as by the tear which misery and destitution and sorrow +never failed to bring to his cheek, thus overshadowing for a time, if we +may say so, the whole sunny horizon of his countenance. But this was +not all; you might read there a spirit of kindly sarcasm that was in +complete keeping with a disposition always generous and affectionate, +mostly blunt and occasionally caustic. Nothing could exceed the extreme +neatness with which he attended to his dress and person. In this point +he was scrupulously exact and careful; but this attention to the minor +morals was the result of anything but personal pride, for we are bound +to say, that, with all his amiable eccentricities, more unaffected +humility never dwelt in the heart of a Christian minister. + +He had, in fact, paid little or no attention to the stranger until +Mat Ruly went out; when, on glancing at him with more attention, +he perceived at once that he was evidently a person of no ordinary +condition in life. + +“I have to ask your pardon, sir,” said he, “for seeming to neglect you +as I did, but the truth is, I was in a white heat of passion with +that great good-natured colossus of mine, Mat Ruly, for, indeed, he is +good-natured, and that I can tell you makes me overlook many a thing in +him that I would not otherwise pass by. Ah, then, sir, did you observe,” + he added, “how he confessed to heaping the creel of turf for the +Farrells, and crying with poor Widow Magowran?” + +The stranger could have told him that, if he had seen the comical wink +which the aforesaid Mat had given to one of the servant-maids, as +he reported his own sympathy and benevolence to his master, he might +probably have somewhat restricted his encomium upon him. + +“I can't say, sir,” he replied, “that I paid particular attention to the +dialogue between you.” + +“Bless me,” exclaimed Father Peter, “what am I about? Walk into the +parlor, sir. Why should I have kept you standing here so long? Pray, +take a seat, sir. You must think me very rude and forgetful of the +attention due to a gentleman of your appearance.” + +“Not at all, sir,” replied the other, seating himself--“I rather think +you were better engaged and in higher duties than any that are likely to +arise from my communication with you.” + +“Well, sir,” replied the priest, smiling, “that you know is yet to be +determined on; but in the mane time I'll be happy to hear your business, +whatever it is; and, indeed, from your looks, although the Lord knows +they're often treacherous, I tell you that if I can stretch a point +to sarve you I will; provided always that I can do so with a good +conscience, and provided also that I find your character and conduct +entitle you to it. So, then, I say, let us have at the business you +spake of, and to follow up this proposition with suitable energy, what's +your name and occupation? for there's nothing like knowing the ground +a man stands on. I know you're a stranger in this neighborhood, for I +assure you there is not a face in the parish but I am as well acquainted +with as my own, and indeed a great deal betther, in regard that I +never shave with a looking-glass. I tried it once or twice and was near +committing suicide in the attempt.” + +There was something so kind, frank, yet withal so eccentric, and, as +it would seem, so unconsciously humorous in the worthy father's manner, +that the stranger, whilst he felt embarrassed by the good-natured +bluntness of his interrogations, could not help experiencing a sensation +that was equally novel and delightful, arising as it did from the candor +and honesty of purpose that were so evident in all the worthy man did +and said. + +“I should never have supposed, from the remarkable taste of your dress +and your general appearance,” he replied, “that you make your toilet +without a looking-glass.” + +“It's a fact, though; neither I nor my worthy father before me ever +troubled one; we left them to the girshas and the women; habit is +everything, and for that reason I could shave as well at midnight as at +the hour of noon. However, let us pass that by, thank God I can go out +with as clane a face, and I trust with as clear a conscience, always +barring the passions that Mat Euly puts me into, as some of my +neighbors; yet, God forgive me, why should I boast? for I know and +feel that I fall far short of my duty in every sense, especially when I +reflect how much of poverty and destitution are scattered through this +apparently wealthy parish. God forgive me, then, for the boast I made, +for it was both wrong and sinful!” + +A touch of feeling which it would be difficult to describe, but which +raised him still more highly in the estimation of the stranger, here +passed over his handsome and benevolent features, but after it had +passed away he returned at once to the object of the stranger's visit. + +“Well,” said he, “to pass now from my omissions and deficiencies, let us +return to the point we were talking of; you haven't told me your name, +or occupation, or profession, or business of any kind--that is, if you +have any?” + +“I assure you, reverend sir,” replied the other, “that I am at the +present moment placed in such a position, that I fear it is out of my +power to satisfy you in any of these points. Whilst, at the same time, +I confess that, nameless and stranger as I am, I feel anxious to receive +your advice and assistance upon a matter of considerable--indeed of the +deepest--importance to an unfortunate and heart-broken lady, whose +only son, when but six years of age, and then heir to a large property, +disappeared many years ago in a manner so mysterious, that no trace, +until very recently, has ever been found of him. Nor, indeed, has she +found any clew to him yet, beyond a single intimation given to her by +her house-steward--a man named Corbet--who, on his death-bed, had merely +breath to say that 'your son lives, and that Sir Thomas--' These, sir, +were the man's last words; for, alas! unhappy for the peace of mind of +this excellent lady, he expired before he could complete the sentence, +or give her the information for which her heart yearned. Now, reverend +sir,” he added, “I told you that it is out of my power, for more than +one reason, to disclose my name; but, I assure you, that the fact of +making this communication to you, which you perceive I do frankly and +without hesitation, is placing a confidence in you, though a personal +stranger to me, which I am certain you will respect.” + +“Me a stranger!” exclaimed the priest, “in my own parish where I have +lived curate and parish priest for close upon forty years; hut hut! this +is a good joke. Why, I tell you, sir, that there is not a dog in the +parish but knows me, with the exception of a vile cur belonging to Jemmy +M'Gurth, that I have striven to coax and conciliate a hundred ways, +and yet I never pass but he's out at me. Indeed, he's an ungrateful +creature, and a mane sconce besides; for I tell you, that when leaving +home, I have often put bread in my pocket, and on going past his owner's +house, I would throw it to him--now not a lie in this--and what do you +think the nasty vermin would do? He'd ait the bread, and after he had +made short work of it--for he's aquil to Mat Kuly in appetite--he'd +attack me as fresh, and indeed a great dale fresher in regard of what he +had got; ay, and with more bitterness, if possible, than ever. Now, sir, +I remember that greedy and ungrateful scrub of an animal about three +years ago; for indeed the ill feeling is going on between us for nearly +seven--I say I remember him in the dear year, when he wasn't able to +bark at me until he staggered over and put himself against the ditch on +the roadside, and then, heaven knows, worse execution of the kind was +never heard. However, there's little else than ingratitude in this +world, and eaten bread, like hunger, is soon forgotten, though far +seldomer by dogs, I am sorry to say, than by man--a circumstance which +makes the case I am repeating to you of this cur still worse. But, +indeed, he served me right; for bribery, even to a dog, does not deserve +to prosper. But I beg your pardon, sir, for obtruding my own little +grievances upon a stranger. What is it you expect me to do for you in +this business? You allude, I think, to Lady Gourlay; and, in truth, if +it was in my power to restore her son to her, that good and charitable +lady would not be long without him.” + +“I do,” replied the other--“She is under a strong impression, in +consequence of the dying man's allusion to the boy's uncle, Sir Thomas, +'who,' he said, 'knows,' that he is cognizant of the position--whatever +it may be--in which her unfortunate son is placed.” + +“Not unlikely, but still what can I do in this?” + +“I am scarcely aware of that myself,” replied the other; “but I may +say that it was Mr. Birney, who, under the circumstances of peculiar +difficulty in which I am placed, suggested to me to see you, and who +justified me besides in reposing this important confidence in you.” + +“I thank Mr. Birney,” said Father Peter, “and you may rest assured, that +your confidence will not be abused, and that upon a higher principle, +I trust, than my friendship for that worthy and estimable gentleman. I +wish all in his dirty roguish profession were like him. By the way,” + he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, “perhaps you are the worthy +gentleman who kicked the Black Baronet downstairs in the Mitre inn?” + +“No,” he replied; “some warm words we had, which indeed for one reason I +regret; but that was all. Sir Thomas, sir, I believe, is not popular in +the neighborhood?” + +“I make it a point, my friend,” replied the priest, “never to spake ill +of the absent; but perhaps you are aware that his only son disappeared +as mysteriously as the other, and that he charges his sister-in-law +as the cause of it; so that, in point of fact, their suspicions are +mutual.” + +“I believe so,” said the other; “but I wish to direct your attention to +another fact, or, rather, to another individual, who seems to me to be +involved in considerable mystery.” + +“And pray, who is that.” replied the priest--“Not yourself, I hope; for +in truth, by all accounts, you're as mysterious as e'er a one of them.” + +“My mystery will soon disappear, I trust,” said the stranger, +smiling--“The young man's name to whom I allude is Fenton; but I appeal +to yourself, reverend sir, whether, if Sir Thomas Gourlay were to +become aware of the dying man's words, with which I have just made you +acquainted, he might not be apt, if it be a fact that he has in safe and +secret durance his brother's son, and the heir to the property which +he himself now enjoys, whether, I say, he might not take such steps +as Would probably render fruitless every search that could be made for +him?” + +“You needn't fear me, sir,” replied his reverence; “if you can keep your +own secret as well as I will, it won't travel far, I can tell you. But +what about this unfortunate young man, Fenton? I think I certainly heard +the people say from time to time that nobody knows anything about him, +either as to where he came from or who he is. How is he involved in this +affair, though?” + +“I cannot speak with any certainty,” replied the other; “but, to tell +you the truth, I often feel myself impressed with strong suspicions, +that he is the very individual we are seeking.” + +“But upon what reasons do you ground those suspicions.” asked his +reverence. + +The stranger then related to him the circumstances in connection with +Fenton's mysterious terror of Sir Thomas Gourlay, precisely as the +reader is already acquainted with them. + +“But,” said the priest, “can you believe now, if Sir Thomas was the +kidnapper in this instance, that he would allow unfortunate Fenton, +supposing he is his brother's heir, and who, they say, is often _non +compos_, to remain twenty-four hours at large?” + +“Probably not; but you know he may be unaware of his residence so near +him. Sir Thomas, like too many of his countrymen, has been an absentee +for years, and is only a short time in this country, and still a shorter +at Red Hall. The young man probably is at large, because he may have +escaped. There is evidently some mysterious relation between Fenton +and the baronet, but what it is or can be I am utterly unable to trace. +Fenton, with all his wild eccentricity or insanity, is cautious, and on +his guard against me; and I find it impossible to get anything out of +him.” + +The worthy priest fell into a mood of apparently deep but agreeable +reflection, and the stranger felt a hope that he had fallen upon some +plan, or, at all events, that he had thought of or recalled to memory +some old recollection that might probably be of service to him. + +“The poor fellow, sir,” said he, addressing the other with singular +benignity, “is an orphan; his mother is dead more than twelve years, +and his father, the idle and unfortunate man, never has been of the +slightest use to him, poor creature.” + +“What,” exclaimed the stranger, with animation, “you, then, know his +father!” + +“Know him! to be sure I do. He is, or rather he was, a horse-jockey, +and I took the poor neglected young lad in because he had no one to look +after him. But wasn't it kind-hearted of the creature to heap the creel +of turf though, and shed tears for poor Widow Magowran? In truth, I +won't forget either of these two acts to him.” + +“You speak, sir, of your servant, I believe.” observed the other, with +something like chagrin. + +“In truth, there's not a kind-hearted young giant alive this day. Many +a little bounty that I, through the piety and liberality of the +charitable, am enabled to distribute among my poor, and often send to +them with Mat; and I believe there's scarcely an instance of the kind in +which he is the bearer of it, that he doesn't shed tears just as he did +with Widow Magowran. Sure I have it from his own lips.” + +“I have little doubt of it,” replied the stranger. + +“And one day,” proceeded the credulous, easy man, “that I was going +along the Race-road, I overtook him with a creel of turf, the same way, +on his back, and when I looked down from my horse into the creel, I saw +with astonishment that it wasn't more than half full. 'Mat,' said I, +'what's the raison of this? Didn't I desire you to fill the creel to the +top, and above it?' + +“'Troth,' said poor Mat, 'I never carried such a creelful in my life as +it was when I left home.' + +“'But what has become of the turf, then?' I asked. + +“He gave me a look and almost began to cry--'Arra now, your reverence,' +he replied, 'how could you expict me to have the heart to refuse a few +sods to the great number of poor creatures that axed me for them, to +boil their pratees, as I came along? I hope, your reverence, I am not so +hard-hearted as all that comes to.'” + +“I know,” proceeded the priest, “that it was wrong not to bring the +turf to its destination; but, you see, sir, it was only an error of +judgment--although the head was wrong, the heart was right--and that's a +great point.” + +It was not in human nature, however, to feel annoyed at this +characteristic ebullition. The stranger's chagrin at once disappeared, +and as he was in no particular hurry, and wished to see as much of the +priest as possible, he resolved to give him his own way. + +He had not long to wait, however. After about a minute's deep thought, +he expressed himself as follows--and it may be observed here, once for +all, that on appropriate occasions his conversation could rise and adapt +itself to the dignity of the subject, with a great deal of easy power, +if not of eloquence--“Now, sir,” said he, “you will plaise to pay +attention to what I am about to say: Beware of Sir Thomas Gourlay--as a +Christian man, it is my duty to put you on your guard; but consider that +you ask me to involve myself in a matter of deep family interest and +importance, and yet, as I said, you keep yourself wrapped, up in a veil +of impenetrable mystery. Pray, allow me to ask, is Mr. Birney acquainted +with your name and secret?” + +“He is,” replied the other, “with both” + +“Then, in that case,” said the worthy priest, with very commendable +prudence, “I will walk over with you to his house, and if he assures me +personally that you are a gentleman in whose objects I may and ought +to feel an interest, I then say, that I shall do what I can for you, +although that may not be much. Perhaps I may put you in a proper train +to succeed. I will, with these conditions, give you a letter to an old +man in Dublin, who may give you, on this very subject, more information +than any other person I know, with one exception.” + +“My dear sir,” replied the stranger, getting on his legs--“I am quite +satisfied with that proposal, and I feel that it is very kind of you to +make it.” + +“Yes, but you won't go,” said the priest, “till you take some +refreshment. It's now past two o'clock.” + +“I am much obliged to you,” replied the other, “but I never lunch.” + +“Not a foot you'll stir then till you take something--I don't want you +to lunch--a bit and a sup just--come, don't refuse now, for I say you +must.” + +The other smiled, and replied--“But, I assure you, my dear sir, I +couldn't--I breakfasted late.” + +“Not a matter for that, you must have something, I say--a drop of dram +then--pure poteen--or maybe you'd prefer a glass of wine? say which; +for you must taste either the one or the other”--and as he spoke, with a +good-humored laugh, he deliberately locked the door, and put the key in +his pocket--“It's an old proverb,” he added, “that those who won't take +are never ready to give, and I'll think you after all but a poor-hearted +creature if you refuse it. At any rate, consider yourself a prisoner +until you comply.” + +“Well, then,” replied our strange friend, still smiling, “since your +hospitality will force me, at the expense of my liberty, I think I +must--a glass of sherry then, since you are so kind.” + +“Ah,” replied his reverence, “I see you don't know what's good--that's +the stuff,” he added, pointing to the poteen, “that would send the +radical heat to the very ends of your nails--I never take more than a +single tumbler after my dinner, but that's my choice.” + +The stranger then joined him in a glass of sherry, and they proceeded to +Mr. Birney's. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. Crackenfudge Outwitted by Fenton + +--The Baronet, Enraged at His Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her. + + +Crackenfudge, who was completely on the alert to ascertain if possible +the name of the stranger, and the nature of his business in Ballytrain, +learned that Fenton and he had had three or four private interviews, and +he considered it very likely that if he could throw himself in that wild +young fellow's way, without any appearance of design, he might be able +to extract something concerning the other out of him. In the course, +then, of three or four days after that detailed in our last chapter, +and we mention this particularly, because Father M'Mahon was obliged +to write to Dublin, in order to make inquiries touching the old man's +residence to whom he had undertaken to give the stranger a letter--in +the course, we say, of three or four days after that on which the worthy +priest appears in our pages, it occurred that Crackenfudge met the +redoubtable Fenton in his usual maudlin state, that is to say, one in +which he could be termed neither drunk nor sober. We have said +that Fenton's mind was changeful and unstable; sometimes evincing +extraordinary quietness and civility, and sometimes full of rant and +swagger, to which we may add, a good deal of adroitness and tact. In +his most degraded state he was always known to claim a certain amount of +respect, and would scarcely hold conversation with any one who would not +call him Mr. Fenton. + +On meeting Fenton, the worthy candidate for the magistracy, observing +the condition he was in, which indeed was his usual one, took it for +granted that his chance was good. He accordingly addressed him as +follows: + +“Fenton,” said he, “what's the news in town?” + +“To whom do you speak, sirra?” replied Fenton, indignantly. “Take off +your hat, sir, whenever you address a gentleman.” + +“Every one knows you're a gentleman, Mr. Fenton,” replied Crackenfudge; +“and as for me, a'd be sorry to address you as anything else.” + +“I'm sorry I can't return the compliment, then,” said Fenton; “everyone +knows you're anything but a gentleman, and that's the difference between +us. What piece of knavery have you on the anvil now, my worthy embryo +magistrate?” + +“You're severe this morning, Mr. Fenton; a' don't think a' ever deserved +that at your hands. But come, Mr. Fenton, let us be on good terms. A' +acknowledge you are a gentleman, Mr. Fenton.” + +“Take care,” replied Fenton, “and don't overdo the thing neither. +Whether is it the knave or fool predominates in you to-day, Mr. +Crackenfudge?” + +“A' hope a'm neither the one nor the other,” replied the embryo +magistrate. “A' hope a'm not, Mr. Fenton.” + +“I believe, however, you happen to be both,” said Fenton; “that's a fact +as well known, my good fellow, as the public stocks there below; and if +Madam Fame reports aright, it's a pity you should be long out of them. +Avaunt, you upstart! Before the close of your life, you will die with +as many aliases as e'er a thief that ever swung from a gallows, and will +deserve the swing, too, better than the thief.” + +“A' had a right to change my name,” replied the other, “when a' got into +property. A' was ashamed of my friends, because there's a great many of +them poor.” + +“Invert the tables, you misbegotten son of an elve,” replied Fenton; +“'tis they that are ashamed of you; there is not one among the humblest +of them but would blush to name you. So you did not uncover, as I +desired you; but be it so. You wish to let me, sir, who am a gentleman, +know, and to force me to say, that there is a knave under your hat. +But come, Mr. Crackenfudge,” he continued, at once, and by some +unaccountable impulse, changing his manner, “come, my friend +Crackenfudge, you must overlook my satire. Thersites' mood has past, and +now for benevolence and friendship. Give us your honest hand, and bear +not malice against your friend and neighbor.” + +“You must have your own way, Mr. Fenton,” said Crackenfudge, smiling, or +assuming a smile, and still steady as a sleuthhound to his purpose. + +“Where now are you bound for, oh, benevolent and humane Crackenfudge?” + +“A' was jist thinking of asking this strange fellow--” + +“Right, O Crackenfudgius! that impostor is a fellow; or if you prefer +the reverse of the proposition, that fellow is an impostor. I have found +him out.” + +“A' hard,” replied Crackenfudge, “that he and you were on rather +intimate terms, and--” + +“And so as being my companion, you considered him a fellow! Proceed, +Crackenfudgius.” + +“No, not at all; a' was thinkin' of makin' his acquaintance, and paying +some attention to him; that is, if a' could know who and what he is.” + +“And thou shalt know, my worthy mock magistrate. I am in a communicative +humor to-day, and know thou shalt.” + +“And what may his name be, pray, Mr. Fenton?” with a peculiar emphasis +on the Mr. + +“Caution,” said Fenton; “don't overdo the thing, I say, otherwise I am +silent as the grave. Heigh-ho! what put that in my head? Well, sir, you +shall know all you wish to know. In the first place, as to his name--it +is Harry Hedles. He was clerk to a toothbrush-maker in London, but it +seems he made a little too free with a portion of the brush money: he +accordingly brushed off to our celebrated Irish metropolis, ycleped +Dublin, where, owing to a tolerably good manner, a smooth English +accent, and a tremendous stock of assurance, he insinuated himself into +several respectable families as a man of some importance. Among others, +it is said that he has engaged the affections of a beautiful creature, +daughter and heiress to an Irish baronet, and that they are betrothed +to each other. But as to the name or residence of the baronet, O +Crackenfudgius, I am not in a condition to inform you--for this good +reason, that I don't know either myself.” + +“But is it a fair question, Mr. Fenton, to ask how you became acquainted +with all this?” + +“How?” exclaimed Fenton, with a doughty but confident swagger; +“incredulous varlet, do you doubt the authenticity of my information? He +disclosed to me every word of it himself, and sought me out here for +the purpose of getting me to influence my friends, who, you distrustful +caitiff, are persons of rank and consequence, for the purpose of +bringing about a reconciliation between him and old Grinwell, the +toothbrush man, and having the prosecution stopped. Avaunt! now, begone! +This is all the information I can afford upon the subject of that stout +but gentlemanly impostor.” + +Crackenfudge, we should have said, was on horseback during the previous +dialogue, and no sooner had Fenton passed on, with a look of the +most dignified self-consequence on his thin and wasted, though rather +handsome features, than the candidate magistrate set spurs to his horse, +and with a singularly awkward wabbling motion of his feet and legs about +the animal's sides, his right hand flourishing his whip at the same +time into circles in the air, he approached Red Hall, as if he brought +tidings of some great national victory. + +He found the baronet perusing a letter, who, after having given him +a nod, and pointing to a chair, without speaking, read on, with an +expression of countenance which almost alarmed poor Crackenfudge. +Whatever intelligence the letter may have contained, one thing seemed +obvious--that it was gall and wormwood to his heart. His countenance, +naturally more than ordinarily dark, literally blackened with rage and +mortification, or perhaps with both; his eyes flashed fire, and seemed +as about to project themselves out of his head, and poor Crackenfudge +could hear most distinctly the grinding of his teeth. At length he rose +up, and strode, as was his custom, through the room, moved by such a +state of feeling as it was awful to look upon. During all this time +he never seemed to notice Crackenfudge, whose face, on the other hand, +formed a very ludicrous contrast with that of the baronet. There was +at any time very little meaning, to an ordinary observer, in the +countenance of this anxious candidate for the magisterial bench, but +it was not without cunning; just as in the case of a certain class of +fools, any one may recollect that anomalous combination of the latter +with features whose blankness betokens the natural idiot at a first +glance. Crackenfudge, who, on this occasion, felt conscious of the +valuable intelligence he was about to communicate, sat with a face in +which might be read, as far at least as anything could, a full sense +of the vast importance with which he was charged, and the agreeable +surprise which he must necessarily give the raging baronet. Not that the +expression, after all, could reach anything higher than that union of +stupidity and assurance which may so frequently be read in the same +countenance. + +“A' see, Sir Thomas,” he at length said, “that something has vexed you, +and a'm sorry to see it.” + +The baronet gave him a look of such fury, as in a moment banished not +only the full-blown consciousness of the important intelligence he was +about to communicate, but its very expression from his face, which waxed +meaningless and cowardly-looking as ever. + +“A' hope,” he added, in an apologetical tone, “that a' didn't offend you +by my observation; at least, a' didn't intend it.” + +“Sir,” replied the baronet, “your apology is as unseasonable as the +offence for which you make it. You see in what a state of agitation I +am, and yet, seeing this, you have the presumption to annoy me by your +impertinence. I have already told you, that I would help you to this +d----d magistracy: although it is a shame, before God and man to put +such a creature as you are upon the bench. Don't you see, sir, that I am +not in a mood to be spoken to?” + +Poor Crackenfudge was silent; and, upon remembering his previous +dialogue with Fenton, he could not avoid thinking that he was treated +rather roughly between them, The baronet, however, still moved backward +and forward, like an enraged tiger in his cage, without any further +notice of Crackenfudge; who, on his part, felt likely to explode, +unless he should soon disburden himself of his intelligence. Indeed, so +confident did he feel of the sedative effect it would and must have upon +the disturbed spirit of this dark and terrible man, that he resolved to +risk an experiment, at all hazards, after his own way. He accordingly +puckered his face into a grin that was rendered melancholy by the terror +which was still at his heart, and, in a voice that had one of the most +comical quavers imaginable, he said: “Good news, Sir Thomas.” + +“Good devil, sir! what do you mean?” + +“A' mean good news, Sir Thomas. The fellow in the inn--a' know +everything about him.” + +“Eh! what is that? I beg your pardon, Crackenfudge; I have treated you +discourteously and badly--but you will excuse me. I have had such cause +for excitement as is sufficient to drive me almost mad. What is the good +news you speak of, Crackenfudge?” + +“Do you know who the fellow in the inn is, Sir Thomas?” + +“Not I; but I wish I did.” + +“Well, then, a' can tell you.” + +Sir Thomas turned abruptly about, and, fastening his dark gleaming eyes +upon him, surveyed him with an expression of which no language could +give an adequate description. + +“Crackenfudge,” said he, in a voice condensed into tremendous power +and interest, “keep me not a moment in suspense--don't tamper with me, +sir--don't attempt to play upon me--don't sell your intelligence, nor +make a bargain for it. Curse your magistracy--have I not already told +you that I will help you to it? What is the intelligence--the good news +you speak of?” + +“Why, simply this, Sir Thomas,” replied the other,--“that a' know who +and what the fellow in the inn is; but, for God's sake, Sir Thomas, keep +your temper within bounds, or if you don't, a' must only go home again, +and keep my secret to myself. You have treated me very badly, Sir +Thomas; you have insulted me, Sir Thomas; you have grossly offended +me, Sir Thomas, in your own house, too, and without the slightest +provocation. A' have told you that a' know everything about the fellow +in the inn; and now, sir, you may thank the treatment a' received that +a' simply tell you that, and have the honor of bidding you good day.” + +“Crackenfudge,” replied. Sir Thomas, who in an instant saw his error, +and felt in all its importance the value of the intelligence with which +the other was charged, “I beg your pardon; but you may easily see that I +was not--that I am not myself.” + +“You pledge your honor, Sir Thomas, that you will get me the magistracy? +A' know you can if you set about it. A' declare to God, Sir Thomas, +a' will never have a happy day unless I'm able to write J. P. after my +name. A' can think of nothing else. And, Sir Thomas, listen to me; my +friends--a' mean my relations--poor, honest, contemptible creatures, are +all angry with me, because a' changed my name to Crackenfudge.” + +“But what has this to do with the history of the fellow in the inn?” + replied Sir Thomas. “With respect to the change of your name, I have +been given to understand that your relations have been considerably +relieved by it.” + +“How, Sir Thomas?” + +“Because they say that they escape the disgrace of the connection; +but, as for myself,” added the baronet, with a peculiar sneer, “I don't +pretend to know anything about the matter--one way or other. But let it +pass, however; and now for your intelligence.” + +“But you didn't pledge your honor that you would get me the magistracy.” + +“If,” said. Sir Thomas, “the information you have to communicate be of +the importance I expect, I pledge my honor, that whatever man can do to +serve you in that matter, I will. You know I cannot make magistrates at +my will--I am not the lord chancellor.” + +“Well, then, Sir Thomas, to make short work of it, the fellow's name is +Harry Hedles. He was clerk to the firm of Grinwell and Co., the great +tooth-brush manufacturers--absconded with some of their cash, came +over here, and smuggled himself, in the shape of a gentleman, into +respectable families; and a'm positively informed, that he has succeeded +in seducing the affections, and becoming engaged to the daughter and +heiress of a wealthy baronet.” + +The look which Sir Thomas turned upon Crackenfudge made the cowardly +caitiff tremble. + +“Harkee, Mr. Crackenfudge,” said he; “did you hear the name of the +baronet, or of his daughter?” + +“A' did not, Sir Thomas; the person that told me was ignorant of this +himself.” + +“May I ask who your informant was, Mr. Crackenfudge?” + +“Why, Sir Thomas, a half mad fellow, named Fenton, who said that he saw +this vagabond at an establishment in England conducted by a brother of +this Grinwell's.” + +The baronet paused for a moment, but the expression which took +possession of his features was one of the most intense interest that +could be depicted on the human countenance; he fastened his eyes upon +Crackenfudge, as if he would have read the very soul within him, and by +an effort restrained himself so far as to say, with forced composure, +“Pray, Mr. Crackenfudge, what kind of a person is this Fenton, whom you +call half-mad, and from whom you had this information?” + +Crackenfudge described Fenton, and informed Sir Thomas that in the +opinion of the people he was descended of a good family, though +neglected and unfortunate. “But,” he added, “as to who he really is, or +of what family, no one can get out of him. He's close and cunning.” + +“Is he occasionally unsettled in his reason?” asked the baronet, with +assumed indifference. + +“No doubt of it, Sir Thomas; he'll sometimes pass a whole week or +fortnight and never open his lips.” + +The baronet appeared to be divided between two states of feeling so +equally balanced as to leave him almost without the power of utterance. +He walked, he paused, he looked at Crackenfudge as if he would speak, +then resumed his step with a hasty and rapid stride that betokened the +depth of what he felt. + +“Well, Crackenfudge,” he said, “your intelligence, after all, is but mere +smoke. I thought the fellow in the inn was something beyond the rank of +clerk to a tooth-brush maker; he is not worth our talk, neither is that +madman Fenton. In the mean time, I am much obliged to you, and you may +calculate upon my services wherever they can be made available to your +interests. I would not now hurry you away nor request you to curtail +your visit, were it not that I expect Lord Cullamore here in about half +an hour, or perhaps less, and I wish to see Miss Gourlay previous to his +arrival.” + +“But you won't forget the magistracy, Sir Thomas? A'm dreaming of it +every night. A' think that a'm seated upon a bench with five or six +other magistrates along with me, and you can't imagine the satisfaction +I feel in sending those poor vermin that are going about in a state of +disloyalty and starvation to the stocks or the jail. Oh, authority is a +delightful thing, Sir Thomas, especially when a man can exercise it upon +the vile rubbish that constitutes the pauper population of the country. +You know, if a' were a magistrate, Sir Thomas, a' would fine every +one--as well as my own tenants, whom I do fine--that did not take off +their hat or make me a courtesy.” + +“And if you were to do so, Crackenfudge,” replied the baronet, with +a grim, sardonic smile, or rather a sneer, “I assure you, that such a +measure would become a very general and heavy impost upon the +country. But goodby, now; I shall remember your wishes as touching the +magistracy. You shall have J. P. after your name, and be at liberty to +fine, flog, put in the stocks, and send to prison as many of the rubbish +you speak of as you wish.” + +“That will be delightful, Sir Thomas. A'll then make many a vagabond +that despises and laughs at me suffer.” + +“In that case, the country at large will suffer heavily; for to tell you +the truth, Crackenfudge, you are anything but a favorite. Goodby, now, I +must see my daughter.” And so he nodded the embryo magistrate out. + +After the latter had taken his departure, Sir Thomas rubbed his hands, +with a strong turbid gleam of ferocious satisfaction, that evidently +resulted from the communication that Crackenfudge had made to him. + +“It can be no other,” thought he; “his allusion to the establishment +of Grinwell is a strong presumptive proof that it is; but he must be +secured forthwith, and that with all secrecy and dispatch, taking it +always for granted that he is the fugitive for whom we have been seeking +so long. One point, however, in our favor is, that as he knows neither +his real name nor origin, nor even the hand which guided his destiny, +he can make no discovery of which I may feel apprehensive. Still it is +dangerous that he should be at large, for it is impossible to say +what contingency might happen--what chance would, or perhaps early +recollection might, like a spark of light to a train, blow up in a +moment the precaution of years. As to the fellow in the inn, the account +of him may be true enough, for unquestionably Grinwell, who kept the +asylum, had a brother in the tooth-brush business, and this fact gives +the story something like probability, as does the mystery with which +this man wraps himself so closely. In the meantime, if he be a clerk, +he is certainly an impostor of the most consummate art, for assuredly so +gentlemanly a scoundrel I have never yet come in contact with. But, +good heavens! if such a report should have gone abroad concerning that +stiff-necked and obstinate girl, her reputation and prospects in life +are ruined forever. What would Dunroe say if he heard it? as it is +certain he will. Then, again, here is the visit from this conscientious +old blockhead, Lord Cullamore, who won't allow me to manage my daughter +after my own manner. He must hear from her own lips, forsooth, how she +relishes this union. He must see her, he says; but, if she betrays me +now and continues restive, I shall make her feel what it is to provoke +me. This interview will ruin me with old Cullamore; but in the meantime +I must see the girl, and let her know what the consequences will be if +she peaches against me.” + +All this, of course, passed through his mind briefly, as he walked to +and fro, according to his usual habit. After a few minutes he rang, and +with a lowering brow, and in a stern voice, ordered Miss Gourlay to be +conducted to him. This was accordingly done, her maid having escorted +her to the library door, for it is necessary to say here, that she +had been under confinement since the day of her father's visit to Lord +Cullamore. + +She appeared pale and dejected, but at the same time evidently sustained +by serious composure and firmness. On entering the room, her father +gazed at her with a long, searching look, that seemed as if he wished to +ascertain, from her manner, whether imprisonment had in any degree tamed +her down to his purposes. He saw, indeed, that she was somewhat paler +than usual, but he perceived at once that not one jot of her resolution +had abated. After an effort, he endeavored to imitate her composure, and +in some remote degree the calm and serene dignity of her manner. Lucy, +who considered herself a prisoner, stood after having entered the room, +as if in obedience to her father's wishes. + +“Lucy, be seated,” said he; and whilst speaking, he placed himself in +an arm-chair, near the fire, but turned toward her, and kept his eyes +steadily fixed upon her countenance. “Lucy,” he proceeded, “you are to +receive a visit from Lord Cullamore, by and by, and it rests with you +this day whether I shall stand in his estimation a dishonored man or +not.” + +“I do not understand you, papa.” + +“You soon shall. I paid him a visit, as you are aware, at his own +request, a few days ago. The object of that visit was to discuss the +approaching union between you and his son. He said he would not have you +pressed against your inclinations, and expressed an apprehension that +the match was not exactly in accordance with your wishes. Now, mark me, +Lucy, I undertook, upon my own responsibility, as well as upon yours, to +assure him that it had your fullest concurrence, and I expect that you +shall bear me out and sustain me in this assertion.” + +“I who am engaged to another?” + +“Yes, but clandestinely, without your father's knowledge or +approbation.” + +“I admit my error, papa; I fully and freely acknowledge it, and the only +atonement I can make to you for it is, to assure you that although I +am not likely ever to marry according to your wishes, yet I shall never +marry against them.” + +“Ha!” thought the baronet, “I have brought her down a step already.” + +“Now, Lucy,” said he, “it is time that this undutiful obstinacy on your +part should cease. It is time you should look to and respect--yes, and +obey your father's wishes. I have already told you that I have impressed +Lord Cullamore with a belief that you are a free and consenting party to +this marriage, and I trust you have too much delicacy and self-respect +to make your father a liar, for that is the word. I admit I told him a +falsehood, but I did so for the honor and exaltation of my child. You +will not betray me, Lucy?” + +“Father,” said she, “I regret that you make these torturing +communications to me. God knows I wish to love and respect you, but +when, under solemn circumstances, you utter, by your own admission, a +deliberate falsehood to a man of the purest truth and honor; when +you knowingly and wilfully mislead him for selfish and ambitious +purposes;--nay, I will retract these words, and suppose it is from an +anxiety to secure me rank and happiness,--I say, father, when you thus +forget all that constitutes the integrity and dignity of man, and stoop +to the discreditable meanness of falsehood, I ask you, is it manly, +or honorable, or affectionate, to involve me in proceedings so utterly +shameful, and to ask me to abet you in such a wanton perversion +of truth? Sir, there are fathers--indeed, I believe, most fathers +living--who would rather see any child of theirs stretched and +shrouded up in the grave than know them to be guilty of such a base and +deliberate violation of all the sacred principles of truth as this.” + +“You will expose me then, and disgrace me forever with this cursed +conscientious old blockhead? I tell you that he doubts my assertion as +touching your consent, and is coming to hear the truth from your own +lips. But hearken, girl, betray me to him, and by heavens you know not +the extent to which my vengeance will carry me.” + +He rose up, and glared at her in a manner that made her apprehensive for +her personal safety. + +“Father,” said she, growing pale, for the dialogue, brief as it was, had +brought the color into her cheeks, “will you permit me to withdraw? I am +quite unequal to these contests of temper and opinion; permit me, sir, +to withdraw. I have already told you, that provided you do not attempt +to force me into a marriage contrary to my wishes I shall never marry +contrary to yours.” + +The baronet swore a deep and blasphemous oath that he would enter into +no such stipulation. The thing, he said, was an evasion, an act of moral +fraud and deceit upon her part, and she should not escape from him. + +“You wish to gain time, madam, to work out your own treacherous +purposes, and to defeat my intentions with respect to you; but it shall +not be. You must see Lord Cullamore; you must corroborate my assertions +to him; you must save me from shame and dishonor or dread the +consequences. A paltry sacrifice, indeed, to tell a fib to a doting old +peer, who thinks no one in the world honest or honorable but himself!” + +“Think of the danger of what you ask,” she replied; “think of the deep +iniquity--the horrible guilt, and the infamy of the crime into which +you wish to plunge me. Reflect that you are breaking down the restraints +of honor and conscience in iny heart; that you are defiling my soul +with falsehood; and that if I yield to you in this, every subsequent +temptation will beset me with more success, until my faith, truth, +honor, integrity, are gone forever--until I shall be lost. Is there no +sense of religion, father? Is there no future life? Is there no God--no +judgment? Father, in asking me to abet your falsehood, and sustain you +in your deceit, you transgress the limits of parental authority, and the +first principles of natural affection. You pervert them, you abuse them; +and, I must say, once and for all, that be the weight of your vengeance +what it may, I prefer bearing it to enduring the weight of a guilty +conscience.” + +The baronet rose, and rushing at her, raised his open hand and struck +her rather severely on the side of the head. She felt, as it were, +stunned for a little, but at length she rose up, and said: “Father, this +is the insanity of a bad ambition, or perhaps of affection, and you know +not what you have done.” She then approached him, and throwing her arms +about his neck, exclaimed: “Papa, kiss me; and I shall never think of +it, nor allude to it;” as she spoke the tears fell in showers from her +eyes. + +“No, madam,” he replied, “I repulse you; I throw you off from me now and +forever.” + +“Be calm, papa; compose yourself, my dear papa. I shall not see Lord +Cullamore; it would be now impossible; I could not sustain an interview +with him. You, consequently, can have nothing to fear; you can say I am +ill, and that will be truth indeed.” + +“I shall never relax one moment,” he replied, “until I either subdue +you, or break your obstinate heart. Come, madam,” said he, “I will +conduct you to your apartment.” + +She submissively preceded him, until he committed her once more to +the surveillance of the maid whom he had engaged and bribed to be her +sentinel. + +It is unnecessary to say that the visit of the honorable old nobleman +ended in nothing. Lucy was not in a condition to see him; and as her +father at all risks reiterated his assertions as to her free and hearty +consent to the match, Lord Cullamore went away, now perfectly satisfied +that if his son had any chance of being reclaimed by the influence of +a virtuous wife, it must be by his union with Lucy. The noble qualities +and amiable disposition of this excellent young lady were so well known +that only one opinion prevailed with respect to her. + +Some wondered, indeed, how such a man could be father to such a +daughter; but, on the other hand, the virtues of the mother were +remembered, and the wonder was one no longer. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. The Stranger's Second Visit to Father M'Mahon + +--Something like an Elopement. + + +On the evening of the same day the stranger desired Paudeen Gair to +take a place for him in the “Fly,” which was to return to Dublin on that +night. He had been furnished with a letter from Father M'Mahon, to whom +he had, in Mr. Birney's, fully disclosed his name and objects. He felt +anxious, however, to engage some trustworthy servant or attendant, on +whose integrity he could fully rely, knowing, or at least apprehending, +that he might be placed in circumstances where he could not himself act +openly and freely without incurring suspicion or observation. Paudeen, +however, or, as we shall call him in future, Pat Sharpe, had promised +to procure a person of the strictest honesty, in whom every confidence +could be placed. This man's name, or rather his nickname, was Dandy +Dulcimer, an epithet bestowed upon him in consequence of the easy and +strolling life he led, supporting himself, as he passed from place to +place, by his performances upon that simple but pleasing instrument. + +“Pat,” said the stranger in the course of the evening, “have you +succeeded in procuring me this cousin of yours?” for in that relation he +stood to Pat. + +“I expect him here every minute, sir,” replied Pat; “and there's one +thing I'll lay down my life on--you may trust him as you would any one +of the twelve apostles--barring that blackguard Judas. Take St. Pettier, +or St. Paul, or any of the dacent apostles, and the divil a one of them +honester than Dandy. Not that he's a saint like them either, or much +overburdened with religion, poor fellow; as for honesty and truth--divil +a greater liar ever walked in the mane time; but, by truth, I mane truth +to you, and to any one that employs him--augh, by my soul, he's the +flower of a boy.” + +“He won't bring his dulcimer with him, I hope.” + +“Won't he, indeed? Be me sowl, sir, you might as well separate sowl and +body, as take Dandy from his dulcimer. Like the two sides of a scissors, +the one's of no use widout the other. They must go together, or Dandy +could never cut his way through the world by any chance. Hello! here he +is. I hear his voice in the hall below.” + +“Bring him up, Pat,” said the stranger; “I must see and speak to him; +because if I feel that he won't suit me, I will have nothing to do with +him.” + +Dandy immediately entered, with his dulcimer slung like a peddler's bos +at his side, and with a comic movement of respect, which no presence or +position could check, he made a bow to the stranger, that forced him to +smile in spite of himself. + +“You seem a droll fellow,” said the stranger. “Are you fond of truth?” + +“Hem! Why, yes, sir. I spare it as much as I can. I don't treat it as +an everyday concern. We had a neighbor once, a widow M'Cormick, who +was rather penurious, and whenever she saw her servants buttering their +bread too thickly, she used to whisper to them in a confidential +way, 'Ahagur, the thinner you spread it the further it will go.' Hem! +However, I must confess that once or twice a year I draw on it by way of +novelty, that is, on set days or bonfire nights; and I hope, sir, you'll +admit that that's treating it with respect.” + +“How did you happen to turn musician?” asked the other. + +“Why, sir, I was always fond of a jingle; but, to tell you the truth, +I would rather have the same jingle in my purse than in my instrument. +Divil such an unmusical purse ever a man was cursed with than I have +been doomed to carry during my whole life.” + +“Then it was a natural love of music that sent you abroad as a +performer?” + +“Partly only, sir; for there were three causes went to it. There is a +certain man named Dandy Dulcimer, that I had a very loving regard for, +and I thought it against his aise and comfort to ask him to strain his +poor bones by hard work. I accordingly substituted pure idleness for +it, which is a delightful thing in its way. There, sir, is two of the +causes--love of melody and a strong but virtuous disinclination to +work. The third--” but here he paused and his face darkened. + +“Well,” inquired the stranger, “the third? What about the third?” + +Dandy significantly pointed back with his thumb over his shoulder, in +the direction of Red Hall. “It was him,” he said; “the Black Baronet--or +rather the incarnate divil.” + +“That's truth, at all events,” observed Pat corroborating the incomplete +assertion. + +“It was he, sir,” continued Dandy, “that thrust us out of our +comfortable farm--he best knows why and wherefore--and like a true +friend of liberty, he set us at large from our comfortable place, to +enjoy it.” + +“Well,” replied the stranger, “if that be true it was hard; but you know +every story has two sides; or, as the proverb goes, one story is well +until the other is told. Let us dismiss this. If I engage you to attend +me, can you be faithful, honest, and cautious?” + +“To an honest man, sir, I can; but to no other. I grant I have acted +the knave very often, but it was always in self-defence, and toward far +greater knaves than myself. An honest man did once ax me to serve him in +an honest way; but as I was then in a roguish state of mind I tould him +I couldn't conscientiously do it.” + +“If you were intrusted with a secret, for instance, could you undertake +to keep it?” + +“I was several times in Dublin, sir, and I saw over the door of some +public office a big, brazen fellow, with the world on his back; and you +know that from what he seemed to suffer I thought he looked very like a +man that was keeping a secret. To tell God's truth, sir, I never like a +burden of any kind; and whenever I can get a man that will carry a share +of it, I--” + +“Tut! your honor, never mind him,” said Pat. “What the deuce are you +at, Dandy? Do you want to prevent the gintleman from engagin' you? Never +mind him, sir; he's as honest as the sun.” + +“It matters not, Pat,” said the stranger; “I like him. Are you willing +to take service with me for a short time, my good fellow?” + +“If you could get any one to give you a caracther, sir, perhaps I +might,” replied Dandy. + +“How, sirrah! what do you mean?” said the stranger. + +“Why, sir, that we humble folks haven't all the dishonesty to ourselves. +I think our superiors come in now and then for the lion's share of it. +There, now, is the Black Baronet.” + +“But you are not entering the service of the Black Baronet.” + +“No; but the ould scoundrel struck his daughter to-day, because she +wouldn't consent to marry that young profligate, Lord Dunroe; and has +her locked up besides.” + +The stranger had been standing with his back to the fire, when the Dandy +mentioned these revolting circumstances; for the truth was, that +Lucy's maid had taken upon her the office of that female virtue called +curiosity, and by the aid of her eye, her ear, and an open key-hole +was able to communicate to one or two of the other servants, in the +strictest confidence of course, all that had occurred during the +interview between father and daughter. Now it so happened, that Dandy, +who had been more than once, in the course of his visits, to the +kitchen, promised, as he said, to _metamurphy_ one of them into Mrs. +Dulcimer, _alias_ Murphy--that being his real name--was accidentally in +the kitchen while the dialogue lasted, and for some time afterwards; and +as the expectant Mrs. Dulcimer was one of the first to whom the secret +was solemnly confided, we need scarcely say that it was instantly +transferred to Dandy's keeping, who mentioned it more from honest +indignation than from any other motive. + +It would be difficult to describe the combination of feelings that might +be read in the stranger's fine features--distress, anger, compassion, +love, and sorrow, all struggled for mastery. He sat down, and there was +an instant pause in the conversation; for both Dandy and his relative +felt that he was not sufficiently collected to proceed with it. They +consequently, after glancing with surprise at each other, remained +silent, until the stranger should resume it. At length, after a struggle +that was evidently a severe one, he said, + +“Now, my good fellow, no more of this buffoonery. Will you take service +with me for three months, since I am willing to accept you? Ay or no?” + +“As willing as the flowers of May, your honor; and I trust you will +never have cause to find fault with me, so far as truth, honesty, and +discretion goes. I can see a thing and not see it. I can hear a thing +and not hear it. I can do a thing and not do it--but it must be honest. +In short, sir, if you have no objection, I'm your man. I like your face, +sir; there's something honorable and manly in it.” + +“Perhaps you would wish to name the amount of the wages you expect. If +so, speak.” + +“Divil a wage or wages I'll name, sir; that's a matter I'll lave to your +own generosity.” + +“Very well, then; I start by the 'Fly' tonight, and you, observe, are to +accompany me. The trunk which I shall bring with me is already packed, +so that you will have very little trouble.” + +Dandy and his relative both left him, and he, with a view of allaying +the agitation which he felt, walked toward the residence of Father +M'Mahon, who had promised, if he could, to furnish him with further +instructions ere he should start for the metropolis. + +After they had left the room, our friend Crackenfudge peeped out of the +back apartment, in order to satisfy himself that the coast was clear; +and after stretching his neck over the stairs to ascertain that there +was no one in the hall, he tripped down as if he were treading on +razors, and with a face brimful of importance made his escape from the +inn, for, in truth, the mode of his disappearing could be termed little +else. + +Now, in the days of which we write, it so happened that there was a vast +portion of bitter rivalry between mail coaches and their proprietors. +At this time an opposition coach, called “the Flash of Lightning”--to +denominate, we presume, the speed at which it went--ran against the +“Fly,” to the manifest, and frequently to the actual, danger of the +then reigning monarch's liege and loyal subjects. To the office of this +coach, then, did Crackenfudge repair, with an honorable intention of +watching the motions of our friend the stranger, prompted thereto by +two motives--first, a curiosity that was naturally prurient and mean; +secondly, by an anxious wish to serve Sir Thomas Gourlay, and, if +possible, to involve himself in his affairs, thus rendering his interest +touching the great object of his ambition--the magistracy--a matter +not to be withheld. He instantly took his seat for Dublin--an inside +seat--in order to conceal himself as much as possible from observation. +Having arranged this affair, he rode home in high spirits, and made +preparations for starting, in due time, by “the Flash of Lightning.” + +The stranger, on his way to Father M'Mahon's, called upon his friend +Birney, with whom he had a long confidential conversation. They had +already determined, if the unfortunate heir of Red Hall could be traced, +and if his disappearance could, be brought home to the baronet, to take +such public or rather legal proceedings as they might be advised to by +competent professional advice. Our readers may already guess, however, +that the stranger was influenced by motives sufficiently strong and +decisive to prevent him, above all men, from appearing, publicly or at +all, in any proceedings that might be taken against the baronet. + +On arriving at Father M'Mahon's, he found that excellent man at home; +and it was upon this occasion that he observed with more attention than +before the extraordinary neatness of his dwelling-house and premises. +The cleanliness, the order, the whiteness, the striking taste displayed, +the variety of culinary utensils, not in themselves expensive, but +arranged with surprising regularity, constituting a little paradise of +convenience and comfort, were all perfectly delightful to contemplate. +The hall-door was open, and when the stranger entered, he found no one +in the kitchen, for it is necessary to say here that, in this neat but +unassuming abode of benevolence and goodness, that which we have termed +the hall-door led, in the first instance, to the beautiful little +kitchen we have just described. The stranger, having heard voices +in conversation with the priest, resolved to wait a little until his +visitors should leave him, as he felt reluctant to intrude upon him +while engaged with his parishioners. He could not prevent himself, +however, from overhearing the following portion of their I conversation. + +“And it was yesterday he put in the distraint?” + +“It was, your reverence.” + +“Oh, the dirty Turk; not a landlord at all is half so hard to ourselves +as those of our own religion: they'll show some lenity to a Protestant, +and I don't blame them for that, but they trample those belonging to +their own creed under their inhuman hoofs.” + +“How much is it, Nogher?” + +“Only nine pounds, your reverence.” + +“Well, then, bring me a stamp in the course of the day, and I'll pass my +bill to him for the amount.” + +“Troth, sir, wid great respect, your reverence will do no such thing. +However I may get it settled, I won't lug you in by the head and +shoulders. You have done more of that kind of work than you could +afford. No, sir; but if you will send Father James up to my poor wife +and daughter that's so ill with this faver--that's all I want.” + +“To be sure he'll go, or rather I'll go myself, for he won't be home +till after station. Did this middleman landlord of yours know that there +was fever in your family when he; sent in the bailiffs?” + +“To do him justice, sir, he did not; but he knows it since the day +before yesterday, and yet he won't take them off unless he gets either +the rent or security.” + +“Indeed, and the hard-hearted Turk will have the +security;--whisper,--call down tomorrow with a stamp, and I'll put my +name on it; and let these men, these keepers, go about their business. +My goodness! to think of having two strange fellows night and day in a +sick and troubled family! Oh, dear me! one half the world doesn't know +how the other lives. If many of the rich and wealthy, Michael, could +witness the scenes that I witness, the sight might probably soften their +hearts. Is this boy your son, Nogher?” + +“He is, sir.” + +“I hope you are giving him a good education; and I hope, besides, that +he is a good boy. Do you attend to your duty regularly, my good lad?” + +“I do, plaise your reverence.” + +“And obey your parents?” + +“I hope so, sir.” + +“Indeed,” said his father, “poor Mick doesn't lave us much to complain +of in that respect; he's a very good boy in general, your reverence.” + +“God bless you, my child,” said the priest, solemnly, placing his hand +upon the boy's head, who was sitting, “and guide your feet in the paths +of religion and virtue!” + +“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the poor affectionate lad, bursting into tears, “I +wish you would come to my mother! she is very ill, and so is my sister.” + +“I will go, my child, in half-an-hour. I see you are a good youth, and +full of affection; I will go almost immediately. Here, Mat Ruly,” + he shouted, raising the parlor window, on seeing that neat boy +pass;--“here, you colossus--you gigantic prototype of grace and +beauty;--I say, go and saddle Freney the Robber immediately; I must +attend a sick call without delay. What do you stare and gape for? shut +that fathomless cleft in your face, and be off. Now, Nogher,” he said, +once more addressing the man, “slip down to-morrow with the stamp; or, +stay, why should these fellows be there two hours, and the house and the +family as they are? Sit down here for a few minutes, I'll go home with +you; we can get the stamp in Ballytrain, on our way,--ay, and draw up +the bill there too;--indeed we can and we will too; so not a syllable +against it. You know I must have my will, and that I'm a raging lion +when opposed.” + +“God bless your reverence,” replied the man, moved almost to tears +by his goodness; “many an act of the kind your poor and struggling +parishioners has to thank you for.” + +On looking into the kitchen, for the parlor door was open, he espied +the stranger, whom he approached with every mark of the most profound +respect, but still with perfect ease and independence. + +After the first salutations were over-- + +“Well, sir,” said the priest, “do you hold to your purpose of going to +Dublin?” + +“I go this night,” replied the other; “and, except through the old man +to whom you are so kind as to give me the letter, I must confess I have +but slight expectations of success. Unless we secure this unfortunate +young man, that is, always supposing that he is alive, and are able +clearly and without question to identify his person, all we may do must +be in vain, and the baronet is firm in both title and estates.” + +“That is evident,” replied the priest. “Could you find the heir alive, +and identify his person, of course your battle is won. Well; if there +be anything like a thread to guide you through the difficulties of this +labyrinth, I have placed it in your hands.” + +“I am sensible of your good wishes, sir, and I thank you very much +for the interest you have so kindly taken in the matter. By the way, I +engaged a servant to accompany me--one Dulcimer, Dandy Dulcimer; pray, +what kind of moral character does he bear?” + +“Dandy Dulcimer!” exclaimed the priest; “why, the thief of the world! is +it possible you have engaged him?” + +“Why? is he not honest?” asked the other, with surprise. + +“Honest!” replied the priest; “the vagabond's as honest a vagabond as +ever lived. You may trust him in anything and everything. When I call +him a vagabond, I only mean it in a kind and familiar sense; and, by +the way, I must give you an explanation upon the subject of my pony. You +must have heard me call him 'Freney the Robber' a few minutes ago. Now, +not another sense did I give him that name in but in an ironical one, +just like _lucus a non lucendo_, or, in other words, because the poor +creature is strictly honest and well tempered. And, indeed, there are +some animals much more moral in their disposition than others. Some are +kind, affectionate, benevolent, and grateful; and some, on the other +hand, are thieving robbers and murderers. No, sir, I admit that I was +wrong, and, so to speak, I owe Freney an apology for having given him +a bad name; but then again I have made it up to him in other respects. +Now, you'll scarcely believe what I am going to tell you, although you +may, for not a word of lie in it. When Freney sometimes is turned out +into my fields, he never breaks bounds, nor covets, so to speak, his +neighbor's property, but confines himself strictly and honestly to +his own; and I can tell you it's not every horse would do that, or man +either. He knows my voice, too, and, what is more, my very foot, for he +will whinny when he hears it, and before he sees me at all.” + +“Pray,” said the stranger, exceedingly amused at this narrative, “how +does your huge servant get on?” + +“Is it Mat Ruly?--why, sir, the poor boy's as kind-hearted and +benevolent, and has as sharp an appetite as ever. He told me that he +cried yesterday when bringing a little assistance to a poor family in +the neighborhood. But, touching this matter on which you are engaged, +will you be good enough to write to me from time to time? for I shall +feel anxious to hear how you get on.” + +The stranger promised to do so, and after having received two letters +from him they shook hands and separated. + +We have stated before that Dandy Dulcimer had a sweetheart in the +service of Sir Thomas Gourlay. Soon after the interview between the +stranger and Dandy, and while the former had gone to get the letters +from Father M'Mahon, this same sweetheart, by name Alley Mahon, came to +have a word or two with Paudeen Gair, or Pat Sharpe. When Paudeen saw +her, he imputed the cause of her visit to something connected with +Dandy Dulcimer, his cousin; for, as the latter had disclosed to him the +revelation which Alley had made, he took it for granted that the Dandy +had communicated to her the fact of his being about to accept service +with the stranger at the inn, and to proceed with him to Dublin. And, +such, indeed, was the actual truth. Paudeen had, on behalf of Dandy, all +but arranged the matter with the stranger a couple of days before, Dandy +being a consenting party, so that nothing was wanting but an interview +between the latter and the stranger, in order to complete the +negotiation. + +“Pat,” said Alley, after he had brought her up to a little back-room on +the second story, “I know that your family ever and always has been an +honest family, and that a stain of thraichery or disgrace was never upon +one of their name.” + +“Thank God, and you, Alley; I am proud to know that what you say is +right and true.” + +“Well, then,” she replied, “it is, and every one knows it. Now, then, +can you keep a secret, for the sake of truth and conscience, ay, and +religion; and if all will not do, for the sake of her that paid back to +your family, out of her own private purse, what her father robbed them +of?” + +“By all that's lovely,” replied Pat, “if there's a livin' bein' I'd +sacrifice my life for, it's her.” + +“Listen; I want you to secure two seats in the 'Fly,' for this night; +inside seats, or if you can't get insides, then outsides will do.” + +“Stop where you are,” replied Pat, about to start downstairs; “the thing +will be done in five minutes.” + +“Are you mad, Pat?” said she; “take the money with you before you go.” + +“Begad,” said Pat, “my heart was in my mouth--here, let us have it. And +so the darling young lady is forced to fly from the tyrant?” + +“Oh, Pat,” said Alice, solemnly, “for the sake of the living God, don't +breathe that you know anything about it; we're lost if you do.” + +“If Dandy was here, Alley,” he replied, “I'd make him swear it upon your +lips; but, hand us the money, for there's little time to be lost; I hope +all the seats aren't taken.” + +He was just in time, however; and in a few minutes returned, having +secured for two the only inside seats that were left untaken at the +moment, although there were many claimants for them in a few minutes +afterwards. + +“Now, Alley,” said he, after he had returned from the coach-office, +which, by the way, was connected with the inn, “what does all this mane? +I think I could guess something about it. A runaway, eh?” + +“What do you mean by a runaway?” she replied; “of course she is running +away from her brute of a father, and I am goin' with her.” + +“But isn't she goin' wid somebody else?” he inquired. + +“No,” replied Alley; “I know where she is goin'; but she is goin' wid +nobody but myself.” + +“Ah, Alley,” replied Pat, shrewdly, “I see she has kept you in the dark; +but I don't blame her. Only, if you can keep a secret, so can I.” + +“Pat,” said she, “desire the coachman to stop at the white gate, where +two faymales will be waitin' for it, and let the guard come down and +open the door for us; so that we won't have occasion to spake. It's aisy +to know one's voice, Pat.” + +“I'll manage it all,” said Pat; “make your mind aisy--and what is more, +I'll not breathe a syllable to mortual man, woman, or child about it. +That would be an ungrateful return for her kindness to our family. May +God bless her, and grant her happiness, and that's the worst I wish +her.” + +The baronet, in the course of that evening, was sitting in his +dining-room alone, a bottle of Madeira before him, for indeed it +is necessary to say, that although unsocial and inhospitable, he +nevertheless indulged pretty freely in wine. He appeared moody, and +gulped down the Madeira as a man who wished either to sustain his mind +against care, or absolutely to drown memory, and probably the force of +conscience. At length, with a flushed face, and a voice made more deep +and stern by his potations, and the reflections they excited, he rang +the bell, and in a moment the butler appeared. + +“Is Gillespie in the house, Gibson?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Send him up.” + +In a few minutes Gillespie entered; and indeed it would be difficult to +see a more ferocious-looking ruffian than this scoundrel who was groom +to the baronet. Fame, or scandal, or truth, as the case may be, had +settled the relations between Sir Thomas and him, not merely as those of +master and servant, but as those of father and son. Be this as it may, +however, the similarity of figure and feature was so extraordinary, that +the inference could be considered by no means surprising. + +“Tom,” said the baronet, “I suppose there is a Bible in the house?” + +“I can't say, sir,” replied the ruffian. “I never saw any one in use. O, +yes, Miss Gourlay has one.” + +“Yes,” replied the other, with a gloomy reflection, “I forgot; she is, +in addition to her other accomplishments, a Bible reader. Well, stay +where you are; I shall get it myself.” + +He accordingly rose and proceeded to Lucy's chamber, where, after having +been admitted, he found the book he sought, and such was the absence of +mind, occasioned by the apprehensions he felt, that he brought away the +book, and forgot to lock the door. + +“Now, sir,” said the baronet, sternly, when he returned, “do you respect +this book? It is the Bible.” + +“Why, yes, sir. I respect every book that has readin' in it--printed +readin'.” + +“But this is the Bible, on which the Christian religion is founded.” + +“Well, sir, I don't doubt that,” replied the enlightened master of +horse; “but I prefer the _Seven Champions of Christendom_, or the +_History of Valentine and Orson_, or _Fortunatus's Purse_.” + +“You don't relish the Bible, then?” + +“I don't know, sir; I never read a line of it--although I heard a great +deal about! it. Isn't that the book the parsons preach I from?” + +“It is,” replied the baronet, in his deep voice. “This book is the +source and origin and history of the revelation of God's will to man; +this is the book on which oaths are taken, and when taken falsely, +the falsehood is perjury, and the individual so perjuring himself is +transported, either for life or a term of years, while living and when +dead, Gillespie--mark me well, sir--when dead, his soul goes to eternal +perdition in the flames of hell. Would you now, knowing this--that you +would be transported in this world, and damned in the next--would you, I +say, take an oath upon this book and break it?” + +“No, sir, not after what you said.” + +“Well, then, I am a magistrate, and I wish to administer an oath to +you.” + +“Very well, sir, I'll swear whatever you like.” + +“Then listen--take the book in your right hand--you shall swear the +truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God! You +swear to execute whatever duty I may happen to require at your hands, +and to keep the performance of that duty a secret from every living +mortal, and besides to keep secret the fact that I am in any way +connected with it--you swear this?” + +“I do, sir,” replied the other, kissing the book. + +The baronet paused a little. + +“Very well,” he added, “consider yourself solemnly sworn, and pray +recollect that if you violate this oath--in other words, if you +commit perjury, I shall have you transported as sure as your name is +Gillespie.” + +“But your honor has sworn me to secrecy, and yet I don't know the +secret.” + +“Neither shall you--for twenty-four hours longer. I am not and shall not +be in a condition to mention it to you sooner, but I put you under the +obligation now, in order that you may have time to reflect upon its +importance. You may go.” + +Gillespie felt exceedingly puzzled as to the nature of the services +about to be required at his hands, but as every attempt to solve this +difficulty was fruitless, he resolved to await the event in patience, +aware that the period between his anxiety on the subject and a knowledge +of it was but short. + +We need not hesitate to assure our readers, that if Lucy Gourlay had +been apprised, or even dreamt for a moment, that the stranger and she +were on that night to be fellow-travellers in the same coach, she would +unquestionably have deferred her journey to tha metropolis, or, in other +words, her escape from the senseless tyranny of her ambitious father. +Fate, however, is fate, and it is precisely the occurrence of these +seemingly incidental coincidences that in fact, as well as in fiction, +constitutes the principal interest of those circumstances which give +romance to the events of human life and develop its character. + +The “Fly” started from Ballytrain at the usual hour, with only two +inside passengers--to wit, our friend the stranger and a wealthy +stock-farmer from the same parish. He was a large, big-boned, +good-humored fellow, dressed in a strong frieze outside coat or jock, +buckskin breeches, top-boots, and a heavy loaded whip, his inseparable +companion wherever he went. + +The coach, on arriving at the white gate, pulled up, and two females, +deeply and closely veiled, took their seats inside. Of course, the +natural politeness of the stranger prevented him from obtruding his +conversation upon ladies with whom he was not acquainted. The honest +farmer, however, felt no such scruples, nor, as it happened, did one at +least of the ladies in question. + +“This is a nice affair,” he observed, “about the Black Baronet's +daughter.” + +“What is a nice affair?” asked our friend Alley, for she it was, as the +reader of course is already aware--“What is a nice affair?” + +“Why, that Miss Gourlay, they say, fell in love with a buttonmaker's +clerk from London, and is goin' to marry him in spite of all +opposition.” + +“Who's your authority for that?” asked Alley; “but whoever is, is a +liar, and the truth is not in him--that's what I say.” + +“Ay, but what do you know about it?” asked the grazier. “You're not in +Miss Gourlay's saicrets--and a devilish handsome, gentlemanly lookin' +fellow they say the button-maker is. Faith, I can tell you, I give +tooth-an-egg-credit. The fellow will get a darlin' at all events--and +he'll be very bad indeed, if he's not worth a ship-load of that +profligate Lord Dunroe.” + +“Well,” replied Alley, “I agree with you there, at all events; for God +sees that the same Lord Dunroe will make the cream of a bad husband to +whatsoever poor woman will suffer by him. A bad bargain he will be at +best, and in that I agree with you.” + +“So far, then,” replied the grazier, “we do agree; an', dang my buttons, +but I'll lave it to this gentleman if it wouldn't be betther for Miss +Gourlay to marry a daicent button-maker any day, than such a hurler as +Dunroe. What do you say, sir?” + +“But who is this button-maker,” asked the stranger, “and where is he to +be found?” + +Lucy, on recognizing his voice, could scarcely prevent her emotion from +becoming perceptible; but owing to the darkness of the night, and the +folds of her thick veil, her fellow-travellers observed nothing. + +“Why,” replied the grazier, who had evidently, from a lapse of memory, +substituted one species of manufacture for another thing, “they tell me +he is stopping in the head inn in Ballytrain; an', dang my buttons, but +he must be a fellow of mettle, for sure didn't he kick that tyrannical +ould scoundrel, the Black Baronet, down-stairs, and out of the +hall-door, when he came to bullyrag over him about his daughter--the +darlin'?” + +Lucy's distress was here incredible; and had not her self-command +and firmness of character been indeed unusual, she would have felt it +extremely difficult to keep her agitation within due bounds. + +“You labor under a mistake there,” replied the stranger; “I happen to +know that nothing of the kind occurred. Some warm words passed between +them, but no blows. A young person named Fenton, whom I know, was +present.” + +“Why,” observed the grazier, “that's the young fellow that goes mad +betimes, an' a quare chap he is, by all accounts. They say he went mad +for love.” + +From this it was evident that rumor had, as usual, assigned several +causes for Fenton's insanity. + +“Yes, I believe so,” replied the stranger. + +Alley, who thought she had been overlooked in this partial dialogue, +determined to sustain her part in the conversation with a dignity +becoming her situation, now resolved to flourish in with something like +effect. + +“They know nothing about it,” she said, “that calls Miss Gourlay's +sweetheart a button-maker. Miss Gourlay's not the stuff to fall in love +wid any button-maker, even if he made buttons of goold; an' sure they +say that the king an' queen, and the whole royal family wears golden +buttons.” + +“I think, in spaiking of buttons,” observed the grazier, with a grin, +“that you might lave the queen out.” + +“And why should I lave the queen out?” asked Alley, indignantly, and +with a towering resolution to defend the privileges of her sex. “Why +ought I lave the queen out, I say?” + +“Why,” replied the grazier, with a still broader grin, “barring she +wears the breeches, I don't know what occasion she could have for +buttons.” + +“That only shows your ignorance,” said Alley; “don't you know that all +ladies wear habit-shirts, and that habit-shirts must have buttons?” + +“I never heard of a shirt havin' buttons anywhere but at the neck,” + replied the grazier, who drew the inference in question from his own, +which were made upon a very simple and primitive fashion. + +“But you don't know either,” responded Alley, launching nobly into the +purest fiction, from an impression that the character of her mistress +required it for her defence, “you don't know that nobody is allowed to +make buttons for the queen but a knight o' the garther.” + +“Garther!” exclaimed the grazier, with astonishment. “Why what the +dickens has garthers to do wid buttons?” + +“More than you think,” replied the redoubtable Alley. “The queen wears +buttons to her garthers, and the knight o' the garther is always obliged +to try them on; but always, of course, afore company.” + +The stranger was exceedingly amused at this bit of by-play between Alley +and the honest grazier, and the more so as it drew the conversation +from a point of the subject that was painful to him in the last degree, +inasmuch as it directly involved the character of Miss Gourlay. + +“How do you know, then,” proceeded Alley, triumphantly, “but the +button-maker that Miss Gourlay has fallen in love with may be a knight +o' the garther?” + +“Begad, there maybe a great dale in that, too,” replied the unsuspicious +grazier, who never dreamt that Alley's knowledge of court etiquette +might possibly be rather limited, and her accounts of it somewhat +apocryphal;--“begad, there may. Well,” he added, with an honest and +earnest tone of sincerity, “for my part, and from all ever I heard of +that darlin' of a beauty, she deserves a knight o' the shire, let alone +a knight o' the garther. They say the good she does among the poor and +destitute since they came home is un-tellable. God bless her! And that +she may live long and die happy is the worst that I or anybody that +knows her wishes her. It's well known that she had her goodness from her +angel of a mother at all events, for they say that such another woman +for charity and kindness to the poor never lived; and by all accounts +she led an unhappy and miserable life wid her Turk of a husband, who, +they say, broke her heart, and sent her to an early grave.” + +Alley was about to bear fiery and vehement testimony to the truth of +all this; but Lucy, whose bosom heaved up strongly two or three times at +these affecting allusions to her beloved mother, and who almost sobbed +aloud, not merely from sorrow but distress, arising from the whole tenor +of the conversation, whispered a few words into her ear, and she was +instantly silent. The farmer seemed somewhat startled; for, in truth, +as we have said, he was naturally one of those men who wish to hear +themselves talk. In this instance, however, he found, after having made +three or four colloquial attacks upon the stranger, but without success, +that he must only have recourse either to soliloquy or silence. He +accordingly commenced to hum over several old Irish airs, to which +he ventured to join the words--at first in a very subdued undertone. +Whenever the coach stopped, however, to change horses, which it +generally did at some public house or inn, the stranger could observe +that the grazier always went out, and on his return appeared to +be affected with a still stronger relish for melody. By degrees he +proceeded from a tolerably distinct undertone to raise his voice into a +bolder key, when, at last, throwing aside all reserve, he commenced the +song of _Cruiskeen Lawn_, which he gave in admirable style and spirit, +and with a rich mellow voice, that was calculated to render every +justice to that fine old air. In this manner, he literally sang his way +until within a few miles of the metropolis. He was not, however, without +assistance, during, at least, a portion of the journey. Our friend +Dandy, who was on the outside, finding that the coach came to a level +space on the road, placed the dulcimer on his knees, and commenced an +accompaniment on that instrument, which produced an effect equally +comic and agreeable. And what added to the humor of this extraordinary +duet--if we can call it so--was the delight with which each intimated +his satisfaction at the performance of the other, as well as with the +terms in which it was expressed. + +“Well done, Dandy! dang my buttons, but you shine upon the wires. Ah, +thin, it's you that is and ever was the wiry lad--and sure that was what +made you take to the dulcimer of course. Dandy, achora, will you give +us, 'Merrily kissed the Quaker?' and I ask it, Dandy, bekaise we are in +a religious way, and have a quakers' meetn' in the coach.” + +“No,” replied Dandy; “but I'll give you the 'Bonny brown Girl,' that's +worth a thousand of it, you thief.” + +“Bravo, Dandy, and so it is; and, as far as I can see in the dark, dang +my buttons, but I think we have one here, too.” + +“I thank you for the compliment, sir,” said Alley, appropriating it +without ceremony to herself. “I feel much obliged to you, sir; but I'm +not worthy of it.” + +“My darling,” replied the jolly farmer, “you had betther not take me up +till I fall. How do you know it was for you it was intended? You're not +the only lady in the coach, avourneen.” + +“And you're not the only gintleman in the coach, Jemmy Doran,” replied +Alley, indignantly. “I know you well, man alive--and you picked up your +politeness from your cattle, I suppose.” + +“A better chance of getting it from them than from you,” replied, the +hasty grazier. “But I tell you at once to take it aisy, achora; don't +get on fire, or you'll burn the coach--the compliment was not intended +for you, at all events. Come, Dandy, give us the 'Bonny brown Girl,' and +I'll help you, as well as I'm able.” + +In a moment the dulcimer was at work on the top of the coach, and the +merry farmer, at the top of his lungs, lending his assistance inside. + +When the performance had been concluded, Alley, who was brimful of +indignation at the slight which had been put upon her, said, “Many +thanks to you, Misther Doran, but if you plaise we'll dispense wid your +music for the rest of the journey. Remember you're not among your own +bullocks and swine--and that this roaring and grunting is and must be +very disagreeable to polite company.” + +“Troth, whoever you are, you have the advantage of me,” replied the +good-natured farmer, “and besides I believe you're right--I'm afraid +I've given offince; and as we have gone so far--but no, dang my buttons, +I won't--I was going to try 'Kiss my Lady,' along wid Dandy, it goes +beautiful on the dulcimer--but--but--ah, not half so well as on a purty +pair of lips. Alley, darlin',” he proceeded now, evidently in a maudlin +state, “I never lave you, but I'm in a hurry home to you, for it's your +lips that's--” + +“It's false, Mr. Doran,” exclaimed Alley; “how dare you, sir, bring my +name, or my lips either, into comparishment wid yourself? You want to +take away my character, Mr. Doran; but I have friends, and a strong +faction at my back, that will make you suffer for this.” + +The farmer, however, who was elevated into the seventh heaven of +domestic affection, paid no earthly attention to her, but turning to the +stranger said: + +“Sir, I've the best wife that ever faced the sun--” + +“I,” exclaimed Alley, “am not to be insulted and calumnied, ay, an' +backbitten before my own face, Misther Doran, and take my word you'll +hear of this to your cost--I've a faction.” + +“Sir--gintleman--miss, over the way there--for throth, for all so close +as you're veiled, you haven't a married look--but as I was sayin', +we fell in love wid one another by mistake--for there was an ould +matchmaker, by name Biddlety Girtha, a daughter of ould Jemmy +Trailcudgel's--God be good to him--father of the present strugglin' poor +man of that name--and as I had hard of a celebrated beauty that +lived about twelve or fifteen miles down the country that I wished to +coort--and she, on the other hand, having hard of a very fine, handsome +young fellow in my own neighborhood--what does the ould thief do but +brings us together, in the fair of Baltihorum, and palms her off on me +as the celebrated beauty, and palms myself on her as the fine, handsome +young fellow from the parish of Ballytrain, and, as I said, so we fell +in love wid one another by mistake, and didn't discover the imposthure +that the ould vagabond had put on us until afther the marriage. However, +I'm not sorry for it--she turned out a good wife to me, at all +events--for, besides bringin' me a stockin' of guineas, she has brought +me twelve of as fine childre' as you'd see in the kingdom of Ireland, +ay, or in the kingdom of heaven either. Barrin' that she's a little +hasty in the temper--and sometimes--do you persave?--has the use of +her--there's five of them on each hand at any rate--do you +undherstand--I say, barrin' that, and that she often amuses +herself--just when she has nothing else to do--and by way of keepin' her +hand in--I say, sir, and you, miss, over the way--she now and then +amuses herself by turnin' up the little finger of her right hand--but +what matter for all that--there's no one widout their little weeny +failin's. My own hair's a little sandy, or so--some people say it's red, +but I think myself it's only a little sandy--as I said, sir--so out of +love and affection for the best of wives, I'll give you her favorite, +the 'Red-haired man's wife.' Dandy, you thief, will you help me to do +the 'Red-haired man's wife?'” + +“Wid pleasure, Misther Doran,” replied Dandy, adjusting his dulcimer. +“Come now, start, and I'm wid you.” + +The performance was scarcely finished, when a sob or two was heard from +Alley, who, during this ebullition of the grazier's, had been nursing +her wrath to keep it warm, as Burns says. + +“I'm not without friends and protectors, Mr. Doran--that won't see me +rantinized in a mail-coach, and mocked and made little of--whereof I +have a strong back, as you'll soon find, and a faction that will make you +sup sorrow yet.” + +All this virtuous indignation was lost, however, on the honest grazier, +who had scarcely concluded the “Red-haired man's wife,” ere he fell fast +asleep, in which state he remained--having simply changed the style +and character of his melody, the execution of the latter being equally +masterly--until they reached the hotel at which the coach always stopped +in the metropolis. + +The weather, for the fortnight preceding, had been genial, mild, and +beautiful. For some time before they reached the city, that gradual +withdrawing of darkness began to take place, which resembles the +disappearance of sorrow from a heavy heart, and harbinges to the world +the return of cheerfulness and light. The dim, spectral paleness of the +eastern sky by degrees received a clearer and healthier tinge, just as +the wan cheek of an invalid assumes slowly, but certainly, the glow of +returning health. Early as it was, an odd individual was visible here +and there, and it may, be observed, that at a very early hour every +person visible in the streets is characterized by a chilly and careworn +appearance, looking, with scarcely an exception, both solitary and sad, +just as if they had not a single friend on earth, but, on the contrary, +were striving to encounter; struggles and difficulties which they were +incompetent to meet. + +As our travellers entered the city, that bygone class who, as guardians +of the night, were appointed to preserve the public peace, every one of +them a half felon and whole accomplice, were seen to pace slowly along, +their poles under their left arm, their hands mutually thrust into the +capacious cuffs of their watchcoats, and each with a frowzy woollen +nightcap under his hat. Here and there a staggering toper might be +seen on his way home from the tavern brawl or the midnight debauch, +advancing, or attempting to advance, as if he wanted to trace Hogarth's +line of beauty. From some quarters the wild and reckless shriek of +female profligacy might be heard, the tongue, though loaded with +blasphemies, nearly paralyzed by intoxication. Nor can we close here. +The fashionable carriage made its appearance filled with beauty shorn of +its charms by a more refined dissipation--beauty, no longer beautiful, +returning with pale cheeks, languid eyes, and exhausted frame--after +having breathed a thickened and suffocating atmosphere, calculated to +sap the physical health, if not to disturb the pure elements of moral +feeling, principle, and delicacy, without which woman becomes only an +object of contempt. + +Up until the arrival of the “Fly” at the hotel, the gray dusk of +morning, together with the thick black veil to which we have alluded, +added to that natural politeness which prevents a gentleman from staring +at a lady who may wish to avoid observation--owing to these causes, we +say, the stranger had neither inclination nor opportunity to recognize +the features of Lucy Gourlay. When the coach drew up, however, with that +courtesy and attention that are always due to the sex, and, we may add, +that are very seldom omitted with a pretty travelling companion, the +stranger stepped quickly out of it in order to offer her assistance, +which was accepted silently, being acknowledged only by a graceful +inclination of the head. When, however, on leaving the darkness of the +vehicle he found her hand and arm tremble, and had sufficient light to +recognize her through the veil, he uttered an exclamation expressive at +once of delight, wonder, and curiosity. + +“Good God, my dear Lucy,” said he in a low whisper, so as not to let +his words reach other ears, “how is this? In heaven's name, how does it +happen that you travel by a common night coach, and are here at such an +hour?” + +She blushed deeply, and as she spoke he observed that her voice was +infirm and tremulous: “It is most unfortunate,” she replied, “that we +should both have travelled in the same conveyance. I request you will +instantly leave me.” + +“What! leave you alone and unattended at this hour?” + +“I am not unattended,” she replied; “that faithful creature, though +somewhat blunt and uncouth in her manners, is all truth and attachment, +so far as I at least am concerned. But I beg you will immediately +withdraw. If we are seen holding conversation, or for a moment in +each other's society, I cannot tell what the consequences may be to my +reputation.” + +“But, my dear Lucy,” replied the stranger, “that risk may easily be +avoided. This meeting seems providential--I entreat you, let us accept +it as such and avail ourselves of it.” + +“That is,” she replied, whilst her glorious dark eye kindled, and her +snowy temples got red as fire, “that is, that I should elope with you, I +presume? Sir,” she added, “you are the last man from whom I should have +expected an insult. You forget yourself, and you forget me.” + +The high sense of honor that flashed from that glorious eye, and which +made itself felt through the indignant tones of her voice, rebuked him +at once. + +“I have erred,” said he, “but I have erred from an excess of +affection--will you not pardon me?” + +She felt the difficulty and singular distress of her position, and in +spite of her firmness and the unnatural harshness of her father, she +almost regretted the step she had taken. As it was, she made no reply +to the stranger, but seemed absorbed in thoughts of bitterness and +affliction. + +“Let me press you,” said the stranger, “to come into the hotel; you +require both rest and refreshment--and I entreat and implore you, for +the sake both of my happiness and your own, to grant me a quarter of an +hour's conversation.” + +“I have reconsidered our position,” she replied. “Alley will fetch +in our very slight luggage; she has money, too, to pay the guard and +driver--she says it is usual; and I feel that to give you a +short explanation now may possibly enable us to avoid much future +embarrassment and misunderstanding--Alley, however, must accompany +us, and be present in the room. But then,” she added, starting, “is +it proper?--is it delicate?--no, no, I cannot, I cannot; it might +compromise me with the world. Leave me, I entreat, I implore, I command +you. I ask it as a proof of your love. We will, I trust, have other +opportunities. Let us trust, too, to time--let us trust to God--but +I will do nothing wrong, and I feel that this would be unworthy of my +mother's daughter.” + +“Well,” replied the stranger, “I shall obey you as a proof of my love +for you; but will you not allow me to write to you?--will you not give +me your address?” + +“No,” she returned; “and I enjoin you, as you hope, that we shall ever +be happy, not to attempt to trace me. I ask this from you as a man +of honor. Of course it may or perhaps it will be discovered that we +travelled in the same coach. The accident may be misinterpreted. My +father may seek an explanation from you--he may ask if you know where I +am. Should I have placed the knowledge of my retreat in your possession, +you know that, as a man of honor, you could not tell him a falsehood. +Goodby,” she added, “we may meet in better times, but I much fear that +our destinies will be separated forever--Come, Alley.” + +Her voice softened as she uttered the last words, and the stranger felt +the influence of her ascendency over him too strongly to hesitate in +manifesting this proof of his obedience to her wishes. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. Crackenfudge put upon a Wrong Scent + +--Miss Gourlay takes Refuge with an Old Friend. + + +Little did Lucy dream that the fact of their discovery as +fellow-travellers would so soon reach her father's ears, and that the +provision against that event, and the inferences which calumny might +draw from it, as suggested by her prudence and good sense, should render +her advice to the stranger so absolutely necessary. + +Whilst the brief dialogue which we have recited at the close of the last +chapter took place, another, which as a faithful historian we are bound +to detail, was proceeding between the redoubtable Crackenfudge and our +facetious friend, Dandy Dulcimer. Crackenfudge in following the stranger +to the metropolis by the 'Flash of Lightning', in order to watch his +movements, was utterly ignorant that Lucy had been that gentleman's +fellow-traveller in the Fly. A strong opposition, as we have already +said, existed between the two coaches, and so equal was their speed, +that in consequence of the mutual delay caused by changing horses, they +frequently passed each other on the road, the driver, guard, and outside +passengers of both coaches uniformly grimacing at each other amidst a +storm of groans, cheers, and banter on both sides. So equal, however, +were their relative powers of progress, that no effort on either side +was found sufficient to enable any one of them to claim a victory. +On the contrary, their contests generally ended in a dead heat, or +something very nearly approaching it. On the night in question the 'Fly' +had a slight advantage, and but a slight one. Before the coachman had +time to descend from his ample seat, the 'Flash of Lightning' came +dashing in at a most reckless speed--the unfortunate horses snorting and +panting--steaming with smoke, which rose from them in white wreaths, and +streaming in such a manner with perspiration that it was painful to look +upon them. + +Crackenfudge was one of the first out of the 'Flash of Lightning', +which, we should say, drew up at a rival establishment, directly +opposite that which patronized the 'Fly'. He lost no time in sending +in his trunk by “boots,” or some other of those harpies that are always +connected with large hotels in the metropolis. Having accomplished this, +he set himself, but quite in a careless way, to watch the motions of the +stranger. For this purpose he availed himself of a position from whence +he could see without being himself seen. Judge, then, of his surprise on +ascertaining that the female whom he saw with the stranger was no other +than Lucy Gourlay, and in conversation with the very individual with +whose name, motions, and projects he wished so anxiously to become +acquainted. If he watched Miss Gourlay and her companion well however, +he himself was undergoing quite as severe a scrutiny. Dandy Dulcimer +having observed him, in consequence of some hints that he had already +received from a source with which the reader may become ultimately +acquainted, approached, and putting his hand to his hat, exclaimed: + +“Why, then, Counsellor Crackenfudge, is it here I find your honor?” + +“Don't you see a'm here, Dandy, my fine fellow?” and this he uttered +in a very agreeable tone, simply because he felt a weak and pitiable +ambition to be addressed by the title of “Your honor.” + +“What does all this mean, Dandy?” asked Crackenfudge; “it looks vary odd +to see Miss Gourlay in conversation with an impostor--a' think it's an +elopement, Dandy. And pray Dandy, what brought you to town?” + +“I think your honor's a friend to Sir Thomas, counsellor?” replied +Dandy, answering by another question. + +“A' am, Dandy, a stanch friend to Sir Thomas.” + +“Bekaise I know that if you aren't a friend of his, he is a friend of +yours. I was playin' a tune the other day in the hall, and while I +was in the very middle of it I heard him say--'We must have Counsellor +Crackenfudge on the bench;' and so they had a long palaver about you, +and the whole thing ended by Sir Thomas getting the tough old Captain +to promise you his support, with some great man that they called _custos +rascalorum_.” + +“A' am obliged to Sir Thomas,” said Crackenfudge, “and a' know he is a +true friend of mine.” + +“Ay, but will you now be a true friend to him, plaise your honor, +counsellor?” + +“To be sure I will, Dandy, my fine fellow.” + +“Well, then, listen--Sir Thomas got me put into this strange fellow's +sarvice, in ordher to ah--ahem--why, you see in ordher to keep an eye +upon him--and, what do you think? but he's jist afther tellin' me that +he doesn't think he'll have any further occasion for my sarvices.” + +“Well, a' think that looks suspicious--it's an elopement, there's no +doubt about it.” + +“I think so, your honor; although I am myself completely in the dark +about it, any farther than this, counsellor--listen, now--I know the +road they're goin', for I heard it by accident--they'll be off, too, +immediately. Now, if your honor is a true friend to Sir Thomas, you'll +take a post chaise and start off a little before them upon the Isaas +road. You know that by going before them, they never can suspect that +you're followin' them. I'll remain here to watch their motions, and +while you keep before them, I'll keep after them, so that it will be the +very sorra if they escape us both. Whisper, counsellor, your honor--I'm +in Sir Thomas's pay. Isn't that enough? but I want assistance, and if +you're his friend, as you say, you will be guided by me and sarve him.” + +Crackenfudge felt elated; he thought of the magistracy, of his privilege +to sit on the bench in all the plenitude of official authority; he +reflected that he could commit mendicants, impostors, vagrants, and +vagabonds of all descriptions, and that he would be entitled to the +solemn and reverential designation of “Your worship.” Here, then, was +an opening. The very object for which he came to town was +accomplished--that is to say, the securing to himself the magistracy +through the important services rendered to Sir Thomas Gourlay. + +It occurred to him, we admit, that as it must have been evidently a case +of elopement, it might be his duty to have the parties arrested, until +at least the parent of the lady could be apprised of the circumstances. +There was, however, about Crackenfudge a wholesome regard for what is +termed a whole skin, and as he had been, through the key-hole of the +Mitre inn, a witness of certain scintillations and flashes that lit up +the eye of this most mysterious stranger, he did not conceive that such +steps and his own personal safety were compatible. In the meantime, he +saw that there was an air of sincerity and anxiety about Dandy Dulcimer, +which he could impute to nothing but a wish, if possible, to make a +lasting friend of Sir Thomas, by enabling him to trace his daughter. + +Dandy's plea and plan both succeeded, and in the course of a few minutes +Crackenfudge was posting at an easy rate toward the town of Naas. Many a +look did he give out of the chaise, with a hope of being able to observe +the vehicle which contained those for whom he was on the watch, but in +vain. Nothing of the kind was visible; but notwithstanding this he drove +on to the town, where he ordered breakfast in a private room, with the +anxious expectation that they might soon arrive. At length, his patience +having become considerably exhausted, he determined to return to Dublin, +and provided he met them, with Dandy in pursuit, to wheel about and also +to join the musician in the chase. Having settled his bill, which he did +not do without half an hour's wrangling with the waiter, he came to the +hall door, from which a chaise with close Venetian blinds was about to +start, and into which he thought the figure of a man entered, who very +much resembled that of Corbet, Sir Thomas's house steward and most +confidential servant. Of this, however, he could not feel quite certain, +as he had not at all got a glimpse of his face. On inquiring, he found +that the chaise contained another man also, who was so ill as not to +be able to leave it. One of them, however, drank some spirits in the +chaise, and got a bottle of it, together with some provisions, to take +along with them. + +So far had Crackenfudge been most adroitly thrown off the trace of Miss +Gourlay and the stranger; and when Dandy joined his master, who, from +principles of delicacy and respect for Lucy, went to the opposite +inn, he candidly told him of the hoax he had played off on the embryo +magistrate. + +“I sent him, your honor, upon what they call a fool's errand, and +certain I am, he is the very boy will deliver it--not but that he's the +divil's own knave on the other. The truth is, sir, it's just one day a +knave and the other a fool with him.” + +The stranger paid little attention to these observations, but walked +up and down the room in a state of sorrow and disappointment, that +completely abstracted him from every object around him. + +“Good. God!” he exclaimed, “she will not even allow me to know the +place of her retreat, and she may stand in need of aid and support, and +probably of protection, a thousand ways. Would to heaven I knew how to +trace her, and become acquainted with her residence, and that more for +her own sake than for mine!” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Dandy, “I see a cousin o' mine over the +way; would your honor give me a couple of hours to spend wid him? I +haven't seen him this--God knows how long.” + +Well might Dandy say so--the cousin alluded to having been only +conceived and brought forth from his own own fertile fancy at the +moment, or rather, while his master was unconsciously uttering his +soliloquy. The truth was, that while the latter spoke, Dandy, whom +he had ordered to attend him, without well knowing why, observed a +hackney-coach draw up at the door of the opposite hotel; but this fact +would not have in any particular way arrested his attention, had he not +seen Alley Mahon giving orders to the driver. + +“You'll give me a couple of hours, your honor?” + +“I'll give you the whole day, Dandy, if you wish. I shall be engaged, +and will not require any further services from you until to-morrow.” + +Dandy looked at him very significantly, and with a degree of assurance, +for which we can certainly offer no apology, puckered his naturally +comic face into a most mysterious grin, and closing one eye, or in other +words, giving his master a knowing wink, said-- + +“Very well, sir, I know how many banes makes five at any rate--let me +alone.” + +“What do you mean, you varlet,” said his master, “by that impudent +wink?” + +“Wink?” replied Dandy, with a face of admirable composure. “Oh, you +observed it, then? Sure, God help me, it's a wakeness I have in one of +my eyes ever since I had the small-pock.” + +“And pray which eye is it in?” asked his master. + +“In the left, your honor.” + +“But, you scoundrel, you winked at me with the right.” + +“Troth, sir, maybe I did, for it sometimes passes from the one to the +other wid me--but not often indeed--it's principally in my left.” + +“Very well; but in speaking to me, use no such grimaces in future; +and now go see your cousin. I shall sleep for a few hours, for I feel +somewhat jaded, paid out of order on many accounts. But before you go, +listen to me, and mark me well. You saw me in conversation with Miss +Gourlay?” + +Dandy, whose perception was quick as lightning, had his finger on his +lips immediately. “I understand you, sir,” said he; “and once for all, +sir,” he proceeded, “do you listen to me. You may lay it down as one of +the ten commandments, that any secret you may plaise to trust me with, +will be undher a tombstone. I'm not the stuff that a traitor or villain +is made of. So, once for fill, your honor, make your mind aisy on that +point.” + +“It will be your own interest to prove faithful,” said his master. “Here +is a month's wages for you in advance.” + +Dandy, having accepted the money, immediately proceeded to the next +hackney station, which was in the same street, where he took a coach +by the hour; and having got into it, ordered the driver to follow that +which he saw waiting at the door of the hotel aforesaid. + +“Folly that hackney,” said he to the driver, “at what is called a +respectful distance, an' you'll be no loser by it.” + +“Is there a piece of fun in the wind?” asked the driver, with a knowing +grin. + +“When you go to your Padereens tonight,” replied Dandy, “that is, in +case you ever trouble them, you may swear it on them.” + +“Whish! More power--I'm the boy will rowl you on.” + +“There, they're off,” said Dandy; “but don't be in a hurry, for fraid we +might seem to folly them--only for your life and sowl, and as you hope +to get half-a-dozen gum-ticklers when we come come back--don't let them +out o' sight. By the rakes o' Mallow, this jaunt may be the makin' o' +you. Says his lordship to me, 'Dandy,' says he, 'find out where she goes +to, and you and every one that helps you to do so, is a made man.'” + +“Ha, ha!” exclaimed the driver, with glee, “is that it? Come, +then--here's at you--they're off.” + +It was not yet five o'clock, and the stranger requested to be shown to a +bedroom, to which he immediately retired, in order to gain a few hours' +sleep, after the fatigue of his journey and the agitation which he had +Undergone. + +In the meantime, as Dandy followed Miss Gourlay, so shall we follow +him. The chase, we must admit, was conducted with singular judgment and +discretion, the second chaise jogging on--but that, in fact, is not the +term--we should rather say flogging on, inasmuch as that which contained +the fair fugitives went at a rate of most unusual speed. In this manner +they proceeded, until they reached a very pretty cottage, about three +quarters of a mile from the town of Wicklow, situated some fifty or +sixty yards in from the road side. Here they stopped; but Dandy desired +his man to drive slowly on. It was evident that this cottage was the +destination of the fugitives. Dandy, having turned a corner of the road, +desired the driver to stop and observe whether they entered or not; and +the latter having satisfied himself that they did-- + +“Now,” said Dandy, “let us wait where we are till we see whether the +chaise returns or not; if it does, all's right, and I know what I know.” + +In a few minutes the empty chaise started once more for Dublin, +followed, as before, by the redoubtable Dulcimer, who entered the city +a much more important person than when he left it. Knowledge, as Bacon +says, is power. + +About two o'clock the stranger was dressed, had breakfasted, and having +ordered a car, proceeded to Constitution Hill. As he went up the street, +he observed the numbers of the houses as well as he could, for some had +numbers and some had not. Among the latter was that he sought for, and +he was consequently obliged to inquire. At length he found it, and saw +by a glance that it was one of those low lodging-houses to which country +folks of humble rank--chapmen, hawkers, pedlers, and others of a, +similar character--resort. It was evident, also, that the proprietor +dealt in huckstery, as he saw a shop in which there was bacon, meal, +oats, eggs, potatoes, bread, and such other articles as are usually to +be found in small establishments of the kind. He entered the shop, and +found an old man, certainly not less than seventy, but rather beyond it, +sitting behind the counter. The appearance of this man was anything +but prepossessing. His brows were low and heavy; his mouth close, +and remarkably hard for his years; the forehead low and narrow, +and singularly deficient in what phrenologists term the moral and +intellectual qualities. But the worst feature in the whole face might be +read in his small, dark, cunning eyes, which no man of any penetration +could look upon without feeling that they were significant of duplicity, +cruelty, and fraud. His hair, though long, and falling over his neck, +was black as ebony; for although Time had left his impress upon the +general features of his face, it had not discolored a single hair +upon his head; whilst his whiskers, on the contrary, were like snow--a +circumstance which, in connection with his sinister look, gave him a +remarkable and startling appearance. His hands were coarse and strong, +and the joints of his thick fingers were noded either by age or disease; +but, at all events, affording indication of a rude and unfeeling +character. + +“Pray,” said the stranger, “is your name Denis Dunphy?” + +The old man fastened his rat-like eyes upon him, compressed his hard, +unfeeling lips, and, after surveying him for some time, replied-- + +“What's your business, sir, with Denis Dunphy?” + +“That, my friend, can be mentioned only to himself; are you the man?” + +“Well, and what if I be?” + +“But I must be certain that you are.” + +There was another pause, and a second scrutiny, after which he replied, + +“May be my name in Denis Dunphy.” + +“I have no communication to make,” said the stranger, “that you may be +afraid of; but, such as it is, it can be made to no person but Denis +Dunphy himself. I have a letter for him.” + +“Who does it come from?” asked the cautious Denis Dunphy. + +“From the parish priest of Ballytrain,” replied the other, “the Rev. +Father M'Mahon.” + +The old man pulled out a large snuff-box, and took a long pinch, which +he crammed with his thumb first into one nostril, then into the other, +bending his head at the same! time to each side, in order to enjoy it +with greater relish, after which he gave a short deliberative cough or +two. + +“Well,” said he, “I am Denis Dunphy.” + +“In that case, then,” replied the other, “I should very much wish to +have a short private conversation with you of some importance. But you +had better first read the reverend gentleman's letter,” he added, “and +perhaps we shall then understand each other better;” and as he spoke he +handed him the letter. + +The man received it, looked at it, and again took a more rapid and less +copious pinch, peered keenly at the stranger, and asked--“Pray, sir, do +you know the contents of this letter?” + +“Not a syllable of it.” + +He then coughed again, and having opened the document, began +deliberately to peruse it. + +The stranger, who was disagreeably impressed by his whole manner and +appearance, made a point to watch the effect which the contents of the +document might have on him. The other, in the meantime, read on, and, +as he proceeded, it was obvious that the communication was not only +one that gave him no pleasure, but filled him with suspicion and alarm. +After about twenty minutes--for it took him at least that length of time +to get through it--he raised his head, and fastening his small, piercing +eyes upon the stranger, said: + +“But how do I know that this letter comes from Father M'Mahon?” + +“I'd have you to understand, sir,” replied the stranger, nearly losing +his temper, “that you are addressing a gentleman and a man of honor.” + +“Faith,” said the other, “I don't know whether I am or not. I have +only your word for it--and no man's willin' to give a bad character of +himself--but if you will keep the shop here for a minute or two, I'll +soon be able to tell whether it's Father M'Mahon'a hand-write or not.” + +So saying, he deliberately locked both tills of the counter--to wit, +those which contained the silver and coppers--then, surveying the +stranger with a look of suspicion--a look, by the way, that, after +having made his cash safe, had now something of the triumph and +confidence of security in it, he withdrew to a little backroom, that +was divided from the shop by a partition of boards and a glass door, to +which there was a red curtain. + +“It is betther,” said the impudent old sinner, alluding to the cash in +the tills, “to greet over it than greet afther it--just keep the shop +for a couple of minutes, and then we'll undherstand one another, may be. +There's a great many skamers going in this world.” + +Having entered the little room in question, he suddenly popped out his +head and asked: + +“Could you weigh a stone or a half stone of praties, if they were called +for? But, never mind--you'd be apt to give down weight--I'll come out +and do it myself, if they're wanted;” saying which, he drew the red +curtain aside, in order the better, as it would seem, to keep a watchful +eye upon the other. + +The latter was at first offended, but ultimately began to feel amused by +the offensive peculiarities of the old man. He now perceived that he was +eccentric and capricious, and that, in order to lure any information +out of him, it would be necessary to watch and take advantage of the +disagreeable whimsicalities which marked his character. Patience, he saw +clearly, was his only remedy. + +After remaining in the back parlor for about eight or ten minutes, he +put out his thin, sharp face, with a grin upon it, which was intended +for a smile--the expression of which, however, was exceedingly +disagreeable. + +“We will talk this matter over,” he said, “by and by. I have compared +the hand-write in this letther wid a certificate of Father M'Mahon's, +that I have for many years in my possession. Step inside in the +meantime; the ould woman will be back in a few minutes, and when she +comes we'll go upstairs and speak about it.” + +The stranger complied with this invitation, and felt highly gratified +that matters seemed about to take a more favorable turn. + +“I trust,” said he, “you are satisfied that I am fully entitled to any +confidence you may feel disposed to place in me?” + +“The priest speaks well of you,” replied Dunphy; “but then, sure I know +him; he's so kind-hearted a creature, that any one who speaks him fair, +or that he happens to take a fancy to, will be sure to get his good +word. It isn't much assistance I can give you, and it's not on account +of his letther altogether that I do it; but bekaise I think the time's +come, or rather soon will be come. Oh, here,” he said, “is the ould +woman, and she'll keep the shop. Now, sir, come upstairs, if you plaise, +for what we're goin' to talk about is what the very stones oughtn't to +hear so long as that man--” + +He paused, and instantly checked himself, as if he felt that he had +already gone too far. + +“Now, sir,” he proceeded, “what is it you expect from me? Name it at +wanst.” + +“You are aware,” said the stranger, “that the son of the late Sir Edward +Gourlay, and the heir of his property, disappeared very mysteriously and +suspiciously--” + +“And so did the son of the present man,” replied Dunphy, eying the +stranger keenly. + +“It is not of him I am speaking,” replied the other; “although at the +same time I must say, that if I could find a trace even of him I would +leave no stone unturned to recover him.” + +The old man looked into the floor, and mused for some time. + +“It was a strange business,” he observed, “that both should go--you +may take my word, there has been mischief and revenge, or both, at the +bottom of the same business.” + +“The worthy priest, whose letter I presented to you to-day, led me to +suppose, that if any man could put me in a capacity to throw light upon +it you could.” + +“He didn't say, surely, that I could throw light upon it--did he?” + +“No, certainly not--but that if any man could, you are that man.” + +“Ay, ay,” replied old Dunphy; “all bekaise he thinks I have a regard for +the Gourlays. That's what makes him suppose that I know anything about +the business; just as if I was in the saicrets of the family. I may have +suspicions like other people; but that's all.” + +“Can you throw out no hint, or give no clew, that might aid me in the +recovery of this unhappy young man, if he be alive?” + +“You did well to add that, for who can tell whether he is or not?--maybe +it's only thrashing the water you are, after all.” + +The stranger saw the old fellow had once more grown cautious, and +avoided giving a direct reply to him; but on considering the matter, he +was, after all, not much surprised at this. The subject involved a black +and heinous crime, and if it so happened that Dunphy could in any way +have been implicated in or connected with it, even indirectly, it would +be almost unreasonable to expect that he should now become his own +accuser. Still the stranger could observe that in spite of all his +caution, there was a mystery and uneasiness in his manner, when talking +of it, which he could not shake off. + +When the conversation had reached this point, the old woman called her +husband down in a voice that seemed somewhat agitated, but not, as far +as he could guess, disagreeably. + +“Denis, come down a minute,” she said, “come down, will you? here's a +stranger that you haven't seen for some time.” + +“What stranger?” he inquired, peevishly. “Who is it? I wish you wouldn't +bother me--I'm talkin' with a gentleman.” + +“It's Ginty.” + +“Ginty, is it?” said he, musing. “Well, that's odd, too--to think that +she should come at this very moment. Maybe, the hand of G--. I beg your +pardon, sir, for a minute or two--I'll be back immediately.” + +He went down stairs, and found in the back parlor the woman named Ginty +Cooper, the same fortune-teller and prophetess whom we have already +described to the reader. + +The old man seemed to consider her appearance not as an incident that +stirred up any natural affection in himself, but as one that he looked +upon as extraordinary. Indeed, to tell the truth, he experienced a +sensation of surprise, mingled with a superstitious feeling, that +startled him considerably, by her unexpected appearance at that +particular period. He did not resume his conversation with the stranger +for at least twenty minutes; but the latter was perfectly aware, from +the earnestness of their voices, although their words were not audible, +that he and the new-comer were discussing some topic in which they must +have felt a very deep interest. At length he came up and apologized for +the delay, adding: “With regard to this business, it's altogether out of +my power to give you any assistance. I have nothing but my suspicions, +and it wouldn't be the part of a Christian to lay a crime like that to +any man's door upon mere guess.” + +“If you know anything of this dark transaction,” replied the stranger, +whose earnestness of manner was increased by his disappointment, as +well as by an impression that the old man knew more about it than he +was disposed to admit, “and will not enable us to render justice to the +wronged and defrauded orphan, you will have a heavy reckoning of it--an +awful one when you meet your God. By the usual course of nature that +is a reckoning that must soon be made. I advise you, therefore, not to +tamper with your own conscience, nor, by concealing your knowledge of +this great crime to peril your hopes of eternal happiness. Of one thing +you may rest assured, that the justice we seek will not stoop to those +who have been merely instruments in the hands of others.” + +“That's all very fine talk,” replied Dunphy, uneasily however, “and from +the high-flown language you give me, I take you to be a lawyer; but +if you were ten times a lawyer, and a judge to the back of that, a man +can't tell what he doesn't know.” + +“Mark me,” replied the stranger, assailing him through his cupidity, “I +pledge you my solemn word that for any available information you may or +can give us you shall be most liberally and amply remunerated.” + +“I have money enough,” replied Dunphy; “that is to say, as much as +barely does me, for the wealthiest of us cannot bring it to the grave. +I'm thankful to you, but I can give you no assistance.” + +“Whom do you suspect, then?--whom do you even suspect?” + +“Hut!--why, the man that every one suspects--Sir Thomas Gourlay.” + +“And upon what grounds, may I ask?” + +“Why, simply because no other man had any interest in getting the child +removed. Every one knows he's a dark, tyrannical, bad man, that wouldn't +be apt to scruple at anything. There now,” he added, “that is all I know +about it; and I suppose it's not more than you knew yourself before.” + +In order to close the dialogue he stood up, and at once led the way down +to the back parlor, where the stranger, on following him, found Ginty +Cooper and the old woman in close conversation, which instantly ceased +when they made their appearance. + +The stranger, chagrined and vexed at his want of success, was about to +depart, when Dunphy's wife said: + +“Maybe, sir, you'd wish to get your fortune tould? bekaise, if you +would, here's a woman that will tell it to you, and you may depend upon +it she'll tell you nothing but the truth.” + +“I am not in a humor for such nonsense, my good woman; I have much more +important matters to think of, I assure you; but I suppose the woman +wishes to have her hand crossed with silver; well, it shall be done. +Here, my good woman,” he said offering her money, “accept this, and +spare your prophecy.” + +“I will not have your money, sir,” replied the prophetess; “and I say so +to let you know that I'm not an impostor. Be advised, and hear me--show +me your hand.” + +The startling and almost supernatural appearance of the woman struck him +very forcibly, and with a kind of good-humored impatience, he stretched +out his hand to her. “Well,” said he, “I will test the truth of what you +promise.” + +She took it into hers, and after examining the lines for a few seconds +said, “The lines in your hand, sir, are very legible--so much so that I +can read your name in it--and it's a name which very few in this country +know.” + +The stranger started with astonishment, and was about to speak, but she +signed to him to be silent. + +“You are in love,” she continued, “and your sweetheart loves you dearly. +You saw her this morning, and you would give a trifle to know where +she will be to-morrow. You traveled with her last night and didn't know +it--and the business that brought you to town will prosper.” + +“You say you know my name,” replied the stranger, “if so, write it on a +slip of paper.” + +She hesitated a moment. + +“Will it do,” she asked, “if I give you the initials?” + +“No,” he replied, “the name in full--and I think you are fairly caught.” + +She gave no reply, but having got a slip of paper and a pen, went to the +wall and knocked three times, repeating some unintelligible words +with an appearance of great solemnity and mystery. Having knocked, she +applied her ear to the wall three times also, after which she seemed +satisfied. + +The stranger of course imputed all this to imposture; but when he +reflected upon what she had already told him, he felt perfectly +confounded with amazement. The prophetess then went to her father's +counter and wrote something upon a small fragment of paper, which she +handed to him. No earthly language could now express his astonishment, +not from any belief he entertained that she possessed supernatural +power, but from the almost incredible fact that she could have known so +much of a man's affairs who was an utter stranger to her, and to whom +she was herself unknown. + +“Well, it is odd enough,” he added; “but this knocking on the wall +and listening was useless jugglery. Did you not say, when first you +inspected my hand, that you could read my name in the lines of it? then, +of course you knew it before you knocked at the wall--the knocking, +therefore, was imposture.” + +“I knew the name,” she replied, “the moment I looked into your hand, but +I was obliged to ask permission to reveal it. Your observation, however, +was very natural. It may, in the meantime, be a consolation for you to +know that I'm not at liberty to mention it to any one but yourself and +one other person.” + +“A man or woman?” + +“A woman--she you saw this morning.” + +“Whether that be true or not,” observed the stranger, “the mention of my +name at present would place me in both difficulty and danger; so that I +hope you'll keep it secret.” + +She threw the slip of paper into the fire. “There it lies,” she replied, +“and you might as well read it in those white ashes as extract it from +me until the proper time comes. But with respect to it, there is one +thing I must tell you before you go.” + +“What is that, pray?” + +“It is a name you will not carry long. Ask me no more questions. I have +already said you will succeed in the object of your pursuit, but not +without difficulty and danger. Take my advice, and never go anywhere +without a case of loaded pistols. I have good reasons for saying so. Now +pass on, for I am silent.” + +There was an air of confidence and superiority about her as she uttered +these words--a sense, as it were, of power--of a privilege to command, +by which the stranger felt himself involuntarily influenced. He once +more offered her money, but, with a motion of her hand, she silently, +and somewhat indignantly refused it. + +Whilst this singular exhibition took place, the stranger observed the +very remarkable and peculiar expression of the old man's countenance. +It is indeed very difficult to describe it. He seemed to experience a +feeling of satisfaction and triumph at the revelations the woman +had made; added to which was something that might be termed shrewd; +ironical, and derisive. In fact, his face bore no bad resemblance to +that of Mephistopheles, as represented in Retsch's powerful conception +and delineation of it in his illustration of Goethe's “Faust,” so +inimitably translated by our admirable countryman, Anster. + +The stranger now looked at his watch, bade them good day, and took his +leave. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. Interview between Lady Gourlay and the Stranger + +--Dandy Dulcimer makes a Discovery--The Stranger receives Mysterious +Communications. + + +From Constitution Hill our friend drove directly to Merrion square, the +residence of Lady Gourlay, whom he found alone in the drawing-room. She +welcomed him with a courtesy that was expressive at once of anxiety, +sorrow, and hope. She extended her hand to him and said, after the usual +greetings were over: + +“I fear to ask what the result of your journey has been--for I cannot, +alas! read any expression of success in your countenance.” + +“As yet,” replied the stranger, “I have not been successful, madam; but +I do not despair. I am, and have been, acting under an impression, +that we shall ultimately succeed; and although I can hold out to your +ladyship but very slender hopes, if any, still I would say, do not +despair.” + +Lady Gourlay was about forty-eight, and although sorrow, and the bitter +calamity with which the reader is already acquainted, had left their +severe traces upon her constitution and features, still she was a woman +on whom no one could look without deep I interest and sympathy. Even +at that age, her fine form and extraordinary beauty bore up in a most +surprising manner against her sufferings. Her figure was tall--its +proportions admirable; and her beauty, faded it is true, still made the +spectator feel, with a kind of wonder, what it must have been when she +was in the prime of youth and untouched by affliction. She possessed +that sober elegance of manner that was in melancholy accordance with her +fate; and evinced in every movement a natural dignity that excited more +than ordinary respect and sympathy for her character and the sorrows +she had suffered. Her face was oval, and had been always of that healthy +paleness than which, when associated with symmetry and expression--as +was the case with her--there is nothing more lovely among women. Her +eyes, which were a dark brown, had lost, it is true, much of the lustre +and sparkle of early life; but this was succeeded by a mild and mellow +light to which an abiding sorrow had imparted an expression that was +full of melancholy beauty. + +For many years past, indeed, ever since the disappearance of her only +child, she had led a secluded life, and devoted herself to the Christian +virtues of charity and benevolence; but in such a way as to avoid +anything like ostentatious display. Still, such is the structure of +society, that it is impossible to carry the virtues for which she +was remarkable to any practical extent, without the world by degrees +becoming cognizant of the secret. The very recipients themselves, in the +fulness of their heart, will commit a grateful breach of confidence with +which it is impossible to quarrel. + +Consoled, as far as any consolation could reach her, by the +consciousness of doing good, as well as by a strong sense of religion, +she led a life which we regret so few in her social position are +disposed to imitate. For many years before the period at which our +narrative commences, she had given up all hope of ever recovering her +child, if indeed he was alive. Whether he had perished by an accidental +death in some place where his body could not be discovered--whether he +had been murdered, or kidnapped, were dreadful contingencies that wrung +the mother's soul with agony. But as habits of endurance give to the +body stronger powers of resistance, so does time by degrees strengthen +the mind against the influence of sorrow. A blameless life, therefore, +varied only by its unobtrusive charities, together with a firm trust in +the goodness of God, took much of the sting from affliction, but could +not wholly eradicate it. Had her child died in her arms--had she closed +its innocent eyes with her own hands, and given the mother's last kiss +to those pale lips on which the smile of affection was never more to +sit--had she been able to go, and, in the fulness of her childless +heart, pour her sorrow over his grave--she would have felt that his +death, compared with the darkness and uncertainty by which she was +enveloped, would have been comparatively a mitigated dispensation, for +which the heart ought to feel almost thankful. + +The death of Corbet, her steward, found her in that mournful apathy +under which she had labored for year's. Indeed she resembled a certain +class of invalids who are afflicted with some secret ailment, which is +not much felt unless when an unexpected pressure, or sudden change of +posture, causes them to feel the pang which it inflicts. From the moment +that the words of the dying man shed the serenity of hope over her +mind, and revived in her heart all those tender aspirations of maternal +affection which, as associated with the recovery of her child, had +nearly perished out of it--from that moment, we say, the extreme +bitterness of her affliction had departed. + +She had already suffered too much, however, to allow herself to +be carried beyond unreasonable bounds by sanguine and imprudent +expectations. Her rule of heart and of conduct was simple, but true--she +trusted in God and in the justice of his providence. + +On hearing the stranger's want of success, she felt more affected by +that than by the faint consolation which he endeavored to hold out to +her, and a few bitter tears ran slowly down her cheeks. + +“Hope had altogether gone,” said she, “and with hope that power in the +heart to cherish the sorrow which it sustains; and the certainty of his +death had thrown me into that apathy, which qualifies but cannot destroy +the painful consequences of reflection. That which presses upon me now, +is the fear that although he may still live, as unquestionably Corbet +on his death-bed had assured me, yet it is possible we may never recover +him. In that case he is dead to me--lost forever.” + +“I will not attempt to offer your ladyship consolation,” replied the +stranger; “but I would suggest simply, that the dying words of your +steward, perhaps, may be looked upon as the first opening--the dawn of a +hopeful issue. I think we may fairly and reasonably calculate that your +son lives. Take courage, madam. In our efforts to trace him, remember +that we have only commenced operations. Every day and every successive +attempt to penetrate this painful mystery will, I trust, furnish us with +additional materials for success.” + +“May God grant it!” replied her ladyship; “for if we fail, my wounds +will have been again torn open in vain. Better a thousand times that +that hope had never reached me.” + +“True, indeed, madam,” replied the stranger; “but still take what +comfort you can. Think of your brother-in-law; he also has lost his +child, and bears it well.” + +“Ah, yes,” she replied, “but you forget that he has one still left, +and that I am childless. If there be a solitary being on earth, it is a +childless and a widowed mother--a widow who has known a mother's love--a +wife who has experienced the tender and manly affection of a devoted +husband.” + +“I grant,” he replied, “that it is, indeed, a bitter fate.” + +“As for my brother-in-law,” she proceeded, “the child which God, in his +love, has spared to him is a compensation almost for any loss. I trust +he loves and cherishes her as he ought, and as I am told she deserves. +There has been no communication between us ever since my marriage. +Edward and he, though brothers, were as different as day and night. +Unless once or twice, I never even saw my niece, and only then at a +distance; nor has a word ever passed between us. They tell me she is an +angel in goodness, as well as in beauty, and that her accomplishments +are extraordinary--but--I, alas!--am alone and childless.” + +The stranger's heart palpitated; and had Lady Gourlay entertained any +suspicion of his attachment, she might have perceived his agitation. He +also felt deep sympathy with Lady Gourlay. + +“Do not say childless, madam,” he replied. “Your ladyship must hope for +the best.” + +“But what have you done?” she asked. “Did you see the young man?” + +“I saw him, madam; but it is impossible to get anything out of him. That +he is wrapped in some deep mystery is unquestionable. I got a letter, +however, from an amiable Roman Catholic clergyman, the parish priest +of Ballytrain, to a man named Dunphy, who lives in a street called +Constitution Hill, on the north side of the city.” + +“He is a relation, I understand, of Edward Corbet, who died in my +service,” replied her ladyship, with an interest that seemed instantly +to awaken her. “Well,” said she, eagerly, “what was the result? Did you +present the letter?” + +“I presented the letter, my lady; and had at first strong hopes--no, not +at first--but in the course of our conversation. He dropped unconscious +hints that induce me to suspect he knows more about the fate of your son +than he wishes to acknowledge. It struck me that he might have been an +agent in this black business, and, on that account, that he is afraid +to criminate himself. I have, besides,” he added, smilingly, “had the +gratification to have heard a prophecy uttered, by which I was assured +of ultimate success in my efforts to trace out your son;--a prophecy +uttered under and accompanied by circumstances so extraordinary and +incomprehensible as to confound and amaze me.” + +He then detailed to her the conversation he had had with old Dunphy and +the fortune-teller, suppressing all allusion to what tha latter had said +concerning Lucy and himself. After which, Lady Gourlay paused for some +time, and seemed at a loss what construction to put upon it. + +“It is very strange,” she at length observed; “that woman has been here, +I think, several times, visiting her late brother, who left her some +money at his death. Is she not extremely pale and wild-looking?” + +“So much so, madam, that there is something awful and almost +supernatural-looking in the expression of her eyes and features. I have +certainly never seen such a face before on a denizen of this life.” + +“It is strange,” replied her ladyship, “that she should have taken upon +her the odious character of a fortune-teller. I was not aware of that. +Corbet, I know, had a sister, who was deranged for some time; perhaps +this is she, and that the gift of fortune-telling to which she pretends +may be a monomania or some other delusion that her unhappy malady has +left behind it.” + +“Very likely, my lady,” replied the other; “nothing more probable. The +fact you mention accounts both for her strange appearance and conduct. +Still I must say, that so far as I had an opportunity of observing, +there did not appear to be any obvious trace of insanity about her.” + +“Well,” she exclaimed, “we know to foretell future events is not now one +of the privileges accorded to mortals. I will place my assurance in the +justice of God's goodness and providence, and not in the delusions of +a poor maniac, or, perhaps, of an impostor. What course do you propose +taking now?” + +“I have not yet determined, madam. I think I will see this old Dunphy +again. He told me that he certainly suspected your brother-in-law, but +assured me that he had no specific grounds for his suspicions--beyond +the simple fact, that Sir Thomas would be the principal gainer by the +child's removal. At all events, I shall see him once more to-morrow.” + +“What stay will you make in town?” + +“I cannot at the present moment say, my lady. I have other matters, +of which your ladyship is aware, to look after. My own rights must be +vindicated; and I dare say you will not regret to hear that everything +is in a proper train. We want only one link of the chain. An important +document is wanting; but I think it will soon be in our hands. Who +knows,” he added, smiling, “but your ladyship and I may ere long be +able to congratulate each other upon our mutual success? And now, madam, +permit me to take my leave. I am not without hope on your account; but +of this you may rest assured, that my most strenuous exertions shall be +devoted to the object nearest your heart.” + +“Alas,” she replied, as she stood up, “it is neither title nor wealth +that I covet. Give me my child--restore me my child--and I shall be +happy. That is the simple ambition of his mother's heart. I wish Sir +Thomas to understand that I shall allow him to enjoy both title and +estates during his life, if, knowing where my child is, he will restore +him to my heart. I will bind, myself by the most solemn forms and +engagements to this. Perhaps that might satisfy him.” + +They then shook hands and separated, the stranger involuntarily +influenced by the confident predictions of Ginty Cooper, although he was +really afraid to say so; whilst Lady Gourlay felt her heart at one time +elevated by the dawn of hope that had arisen, and again depressed by the +darkness which hung over the fate of her son. + +His next visit was to his attorney, Birney, who had been a day or two in +town, and whom he found in his office in Gloucester street. + +“Well, Mr. Birney,” he inquired, “what advance are you making?” + +“Why,” replied Birney, “the state of our case is this: if Mrs. Norton +could be traced we might manage without the documents you have lost;--by +the way, have you any notion where the scoundrel might be whom you +suspect of having taken them?” + +“What! M'Bride? I was told, as I mentioned before, that he and the +Frenchwoman went to America, leaving his unfortunate wife behind him. +I could easily forgive the rascal for the money he took; but the +misfortune was, that the documents and the money were both in the same +pocket-book. He knew their value, however, for unfortunately he was +fully in my confidence. The fellow was insane about the girl, and I +think it was love more than dishonesty that tempted him to the act. I +have little doubt that he would return me the papers if he knew where to +send them.” + +“Have you any notion where the wife is?” + +“None in the world, unless that she is somewhere in this country, having +set out for it a fortnight before I left Paris.” + +“As the matter stands, then,” replied Birney, “we shall be obliged, to +go to France in order to get a fresh copy of the death and the marriage +properly attested--or, I should rather say, of the marriage and the +death. This will complete our documentary evidence; but, unfortunately, +Mrs. Norton, who was her maid at the time, and a witness of both the +death and marriage, cannot be found, although she was seen in Dublin +about three months ago. I have advertised several times for her in the +papers, but to no purpose. I cannot find her whereabouts at all. I fear, +however, and so does the Attorney-General, that we shall not be able to +accomplish our purpose without her.” + +“That is unfortunate,” replied the stranger. “Let us continue the +advertisements; perhaps she may turn up yet. As to the other pursuit, +touching the lost child, I know not what to say. There are but slight +grounds for hope, and yet I am not at all disposed to despair, although +I cannot tell why.” + +“It cannot be possible,” observed Bimey, “that that wicked old baronet +could ultimately prosper in his villainy. I speak, of course, upon the +supposition that he is, or was, the bottom of the business. Your, safest +and best plan is to find out his agents in the business, if it can be +done.” + +“I shall leave nothing unattempted,” replied the other; “and if we fail, +we shall at least have the satisfaction of having done our duty. The +lapse of time, however, is against us;--perhaps the agents are dead.” + +“If this man is guilty,” said the attorney, “he is nothing more nor +less than a modern Macbeth. However, go on, and keep up your resolution; +effort will do much. I hope in this case--in both cases--it will do +all.” + +After some further conversation upon the matter in question, which it is +not our intention to detail here, the stranger made an excursion to +the country, and returned about six o'clock to his hotel. Here he +found Dandy Dulcimer before him, evidently brimful of some important +information on which he (Dandy) seemed to place a high value, and which +gave to his naturally droll countenance such an expression of mock +gravity as was ludicrous in the extreme. + +“What is the matter, sir?” asked his master; “you look very big and +important just now. I hope you have not been drinking.” + +Dandy compressed his lips as if his master's fate depended upon his +words, and pointing with his forefinger in the direction of Wicklow, +replied: + +“The deed is done, sir--the deed is done.” + +“What deed, sirra?” + +“Weren't you tould the stuff that was in me?” he replied. “But God has +gifted me, and sure that's one comfort, glory be to his name. Weren't--” + +“Explain yourself, sir!” said his master, authoritatively. “What do you +mean by the deed is done?' You haven't got married, I hope. Perhaps the +cousin you went to see was your sweetheart?” + +“No, sir, I haven't got married. God keep me a little while longer from +sich a calamity? But I have put you in the way of being so.” + +“How, sirra--put me into a state of calamity? Do you call that a +service?” + +“A state of repentance, sir, they say, is a state of grace; an' when +one's in a state of grace they can make their soul; and anything, you +know, that enables one to make his soul, is surely for his good.” + +“Why, then, say 'God forbid,' when I suppose you had yourself got +married?” + +“Bekaise I'm a sinner, sir,--a good deal hardened or so,--and haven't +the grace even to wish for such a state of grace.” + +“Well, but what deed is this you have done? and no more of your +gesticulations.” + +“Don't you undherstand, sir!” he replied, extending the digit once more +in the same direction, and with the same comic significance. + +“She's safe, sir. Miss Gourlay--I have her.” + +“How, you impudent scoundrel, what kind of language is this to apply to +Miss Gourlay?” + +“Troth, an' I have her safe,” replied the pertinacious Dandy. “Safe as +a hare in her form; but it is for your honor I have her. Cousin! oh, the +divil a cousin has Dandy widin the four walls of Dublin town; but +well becomes me, I took a post-chaise, no less, and followed her hot +foot--never lost sight of her, even while you'd wink, till I seen her +housed.” + +“Explain yourself, sirra.” + +“Faith, sir, all the explanation I have to give you've got, barrin' +where she lives.” + +The stranger instantly thought of Lucy's caution, and for the present +determined not to embarrass himself with a knowledge of her residence; +“lest,” as she said, “her father might demand from him whether he was +aware of it.” In that case he felt fully the truth and justness of her +injunctions. Should Sir Thomas put the question to him he could not +betray her, nor could he, on the other hand, stain his conscience by a +deliberate falsehood; for, in truth, he was the soul of honor itself. + +“Harkee, Dandy,” said he, not in the slightest degree displeased with +him, although he affected to be so, “if you wish to remain in my service +keep the secret of Miss Gourlay's residence--a secret not only from +me, but from every human being that lives. You have taken a most +unwarrantable and impudent liberty in following her as you did. You know +not, sirra, how you may have implicated both her and me by such conduct, +especially the young lady. You are known to be in my service; although, +for certain reasons, I do not intend, for the present at least, to put +you into livery; and you ought to know, sir, also, that it will be taken +for granted that you acted by my orders. Now, sir, keep that secret to +yourself, and let it not pass your lips until I may think proper to ask +you for it.” + +One evening, on the second day after this, he reached his hotel at six +o'clock, and was about to enter, when a young lad, dancing up to him, +asked in a whisper if that was for him, at the same time presenting a +note. The other, looking at it, saw that it was addressed to him only by +his initials. + +“I think it is, my boy,” said he; “from whom did it come, do you know?” + +The lad, instead of giving him any reply, took instantly to his heels, +as if he had been pursued for life and death, without even waiting to +solicit the gratuity which is usually expected on such occasions. Our +friend took it for granted that it had come from the fortune-teller, +Ginty Cooper; but on opening it he perceived at a glance that he must +have been mistaken, as the writing most certainty was not that of this +extraordinary sibyl. The hand in which she had written his name was +precisely such as one would expect from such a woman--rude and vulgar +--whereas, on the contrary, that in the note was elegant and lady-like. +The contents were as follows: + +“Sir,--On receipt of this you will, if you wish to prosper in that which +you have undertaken to accomplish, hasten to Ballytrain, and secure the +person of a young man named Fenton, who lives in or about the town. You +will claim him as the lawful heir of the title and property of Red Hall, +for such in fact he is. Go then to Sir Thomas Gourlay, and ask him the +following questions: + +“1st. Did he not one night, about sixteen years ago, engage a man who +was so ingeniously masked that the child neither perceived the mask, nor +knew the man's person, to lure, him from Red Hall, under the pretence of +bringing him to see a puppet show? + +“2d. Did not Sir Thomas give instructions to this man to take him out of +his path, out of his sight, and out of his hearing? + +“3d. Was not this man well rewarded by Sir Thomas for that act? + +“There are other questions in connection with the affair that could he +put, but at present they would be unseasonable. The curtain of this dark +drama is beginning to rise; truth will, ere long, be vindicated, justice +rendered to the defrauded orphan, and guilt punished. + +“A Lover of Justice.” + +It is very difficult to describe the feelings with which the stranger +perused this welcome but mysterious document. To him, it was one of +great pleasure, and also of exceedingly great pain. Here was something +like a clew, to the discovery which he was so deeply interested in +making. But, then, at whose expense was this discovery to be made? He +was betrothed to Lucy Gourlay, and here he was compelled by a sense of +justice to drag her father forth to public exposure, as a criminal of +the deepest dye. What would Lucy say to this? What would she say to the +man who should entail the heavy ignominy with which a discovery of this +atrocious crime must blacken her father's name. He knew the high and +proud principles by which she was actuated, and he knew how deeply the +disgrace of a guilty parent would affect her sensitive spirit. Yet what +was he to do? Was the iniquity of this ambitious and bad man to deprive +the virtuous and benevolent woman--the friend of the poor and destitute, +the loving mother, the affectionate wife who had enshrined her departed +husband in the sorrowful recesses of her pure and virtuous heart, was +this coldblooded and cruel tyrant to work out his diabolical purposes +without any effort being made to check him in his career of guilt, or +to justify her pious trust in that God to whom she looked for protection +and justice? No, he knew Lucy too well; he knew that her extraordinary +sense of truth and honor would justify him in the steps he might be +forced to take, and that whatever might be the result, he at least was +the last man whom she could blame for rendering justice to the widow +of her father's brother. But, then again, what reliance could be placed +upon anonymous information--information which, after all, was but +limited and obscure? Yet it was evident that the writer--a female beyond +question--whoever she was, must be perfectly conversant with his motives +and his objects. And if in volunteering him directions how to proceed, +she had any purpose adversative to his, her note was without meaning. +Besides, she only reawakened the suspicion which he himself had +entertained with respect to Fenton. At all events, to act upon the hints +contained in the note, might lead to something capable of breaking the +hitherto impenetrable cloud under which this melancholy transaction lay; +and if it failed to do this, he (the stranger) could not possibly stand +worse in the estimation of Sir Thomas Gourlay than he did already. In +God's name, then, he would make the experiment; and in order to avoid +mail-coach adventures in future, he would post it back to Ballytrain as +quietly, and with as little observation as possible. + +He accordingly ordered Dandy to make such slight preparations as +were necessary for their return to that town, and in the meantime he +determined to pay another visit to old Dunphy of Constitution Hill. + +On arriving at the huckster's, he found him in the backroom, or parlor, +to which we have before alluded. The old man's manner was, he thought, +considerably changed for the better. He received him with more +complacency, and seemed as if he felt something like regret for the +harshness of his manner toward him during his first visit. + +“Well, sir,” said he, “is it fair to ask you, how you have got on in +ferritin' out this black business?” + +There are some words so completely low and offensive in their own +nature, that no matter how kind and honest the intention of the speaker +may be, they are certain to vex and annoy those to whom they are +applied. + +“Ferreting out!” thought the stranger--“what does the old scoundrel +mean?” Yet, on second consideration, he could not for the soul of him +avoid admitting that, considering the nature of the task he was engaged +in, it was by no means an inappropriate illustration. + +“No,” said he, “we have made no progress, but we still trust that you +will enable us to advance a step. I have already told you that we only +wish to come at the principals. Their mere instruments we overlook. +You seem to be a poor man--but listen to me--if you can give us any +assistance in this affair, you shall be an independent one during +the remainder of your life. Provided murder has not been committed I +guarantee perfect safety to any person who may have only acted under the +orders of a superior.” + +“Take your time,” replied the old man, with a peculiar expression. “Did +you ever see a river?” + +“Of course,” replied the other; “why do you ask?” + +“Well, now, could you, or any livin' man, make the strame of that river +flow faster than its natural course?” + +“Certainly not,” replied the stranger. + +“Well, then--I'm an ould man and be advised by me--don't attempt to +hurry the course o' the river. Take things as they come. If there's a +man on this earth that's a livin' divil in flesh and blood, it's Sir +Thomas Gourlay, the Black Barrownight; and if there's a man livin' that +would go half way into hell to punish him, I'm that man. Now, sir, you +said, the last day you were here, that you were a gentleman and a man of +honor, and I believe you. So these words that have spoken to you about +him you will never mention them--you promise that?” + +“Of course I can, and do. To what purpose should I mention them?” + +“For your own sake, or, I should say, for the sake of the cause you are +engaged in, don't do it.” + +The bitterness of expression which darkened the old man's features, +while he spoke of the Baronet, was perfectly diabolical, and threw him +back from the good opinion which the stranger was about to form of him, +notwithstanding his conduct on the previous day's visit. + +“You don't appear to like Sir Thomas,” he said. “He is certainly no +favorite of yours.” + +“Like him,” replied the old man, bitterly. “He is supposed to be the +best friend I have; but little you know the punishment he will get in +his heart, sowl, and spirit--little you know what he will be made to +suffer yet. Of course now you undherstand, that if I could help you, +as you say, to advance a single step in finding the right heir of +this property I would do it. As matthers stand now, however, I can do +nothing--but I'll tell you what I will do--I'll be on the lookout--I'll +ask, seek, and inquire from them that have been about him at the time +of the child's disappearance, and if I can get a single particle worth +mentionin' to you, you shall have it, if I could only know where a +letther would find you.” + +The cunning, the sagacity, the indefinable twinkle that scintillated +from the small, piercing eyes, were too obvious to be overlooked. The +stranger instantly felt himself placed, as it were, upon his guard, and +he replied, + +“It is possible that I may not be in town, and my address is uncertain; +but the moment you are in a capacity to communicate any information +that may be useful, go to the proper quarter--to Lady Gourlay herself. I +understand that a relation of yours lived and died in her service?” + +“That's true,” said the man, “and a betther mistress never did God put +breath in, nor a betther masther than Sir Edward. Well, I will follow +your advice, but as for Sir Thomas--no matther, the time's comin'--the +river's flowin--and if there's a God in heaven, he will be punished +for all his misdeeds--for other things as well as takin' away the +child--that is, if he has taken him away. Now, sir, that's all I can say +to you at present--for I know nothing about this business. Who can tell, +however, but I may ferret out something? It won't be my heart, at any +rate, that will hinder me.” + +There was nothing further now to detain the stranger in town. He +accordingly posted it at a rapid rate to Ballytrain, accompanied +by Dandy and his dulcimer, who, except during the evenings among +the servants in the hotel, had very little opportunity of creating a +sensation, as he thought he would have done as an amateur musician in +the metropolis. + +“Musha, you're welcome back, sir,” said Pat Sharpe, on seeing the +stranger enter the Mitre; “troth, we were longin' for you, sir. And +where is herself, your honor?” + +“Whom do you mean, Pat?” said the stranger, sharply. + +Pat pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward Red Hall. “Ah!” he +exclaimed, with a laugh, “by my soul I knew you'd manage it well. And +troth, I'll drink long life an' happiness an' a sweet honeymoon to yez +both, this very night, till the eyes stand in my head. Ah, thin, but she +is the darlin', God bless her!” + +If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, the stranger could +not have felt more astonishment; but that is not the +word--sorrow--agony--indignation. + +“Gracious heaven!” he exclaimed, “what is this? what villanous calumny +has gone abroad?” + +Here Dandy saw clearly that his master was in distress, and generously +resolved to step in to his assistance. + +“Paudeen,” said he, “you know nothing about this business, my hurler. +You're a day before the fair. They're not married yet--but it's as +good--so hould your prate about it till the knot's tied--then trumpet it +through the town if you like.” + +The stranger felt that to enter into an altercation with two such +persons would be perfect madness, and only make what now appeared to be +already too bad, much worse. He therefore said, very calmly, + +“Pat, I assure you, that my journey to Dublin had nothing whatsoever to +do with Miss Gourlay's. The whole matter was accidental. I know nothing +about her; and if any unfortunate reports have gone abroad they are +unfounded, and do equal injustice to that lady and to me.” + +“Divil a thing else, now, Paudeen,” said Dandy, with a face full of +most villanous mystery--that had runaway and elopement in every line +of it--and a tone of voice that would have shamed a couple-beggar--“bad +scran to the ha'p'orth happened. So don't be puttin' bad constructions +on things too soon. However, there's a good time comin', plaise God--so +now, Paudeen, behave yourself, can't you, and don't be vexin' the +masther.” + +“Pat,” said the stranger, feeling that the best way to put an end to +this most painful conversation was to start a fresh topic, “will you +send for Fenton, and say I wish to see him?” + +“Fenton, sir!--why, poor Mr. Fenton has been missed out of the town and +neighborhood ever since the night you and Miss Gour--I beg pardon--” + +“Upon my soul, Paudeen,” said Dandy, “I'll knock you down if you say +that agin now, afther what the masther an' I said to you. Hang it, can't +you have discretion, and keep your tongue widin your teeth, on this +business at any rate?” + +“Is not Fenton in town?” asked the stranger. + +“No, sir; he has neither been seen nor heard of since that night, and +the people's beginin' to wonder what has become of him.” + +Here was a disappointment; just at the moment when he had determined, by +seizing upon Fenton, with a view to claim him as the son of the late +Sir Edward Gourlay, and the legitimate heir of Red Hall, in order, if it +were legally possible, to bring about an investigation into the justice +of those claims, it turned out that, as if in anticipation of his +designs, the young man either voluntarily disappeared, or else was +spirited forcibly away. How to act now he felt himself completely at a +loss, but as two heads he knew were better than one, he resolved to see +Father M'Mahon, and ask his opinion and advice upon this strange and +mysterious occurrence. In the mean time, while he is on the way to visit +that amiable and benevolent priest, we shall so far gratify the reader +as to throw some light upon the unaccountable disappearance of the +unfortunate Fenton. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +Conception and Perpetration of a Diabolical Plot against Fenton. + + +Sir Thomas Gourlay was a man prompt and inexorable in following up +his resolutions. On the night of Lucy's flight from Red Hall, he had +concocted a plan which it was not his intention to put in execution for +a day or two, as he had by no means made up his mind in what manner to +proceed with it. On turning over the matter, however, a second time in +his thoughts, and comparing the information which he had received from +Crackenfudge respecting the stranger, and the allusion to the toothpick +manufacturer, he felt morally certain that Fenton was his brother's son, +and that by some means or other unknown to him he had escaped from the +asylum in which he had been placed, and by some unaccountable fatality +located himself in the town of Ballytrain, which, in fact, was a portion +of his inheritance. + +“I am wrong,” thought he, “in deferring this project. There is not a +moment to be lost. Some chance incident, some early recollection, even +a sight of myself--for he saw me once or twice, to his cost--may awaken +feelings which, by some unlucky association, might lead to a discovery. +Curse on the cowardly scoundrel, Corbet, that did not take my hint, and +put him at once and forever out of my path, sight, and hearing. But +he had scruples, forsooth; and here now is the serpent unconsciously +crossing my path. This is the third time he has escaped and broken out +of bounds. Upon the two former I managed him myself, without a single +witness; and, but that I had lost my own child--and there is a mystery I +cannot penetrate--I would have--” + +Here he rang the bell, and a servant entered. + +“Send up Gillespie.” + +The servant, as usual, bowed, and Gillespie entered. + +“Gillespie, there is a young fellow in Ballytrain, named--Fenton, I +think?” + +“Yes, your honor; he is half-mad, or whole mad, as a good many people +think.” + +“I am told he is fond of liquor.” + +“He is seldom sober, Sir Thomas.” + +“Will you go into Ballytrain, and try to see him? But first see the +butler, and desire him, by my orders, to give you a bottle of whiskey. I +don't mean this moment, sirra,” he said, for Gillespie was proceeding to +take him instantly at his word. + +“Listen, sir. See Fenton--lure him as quietly and secretly as you can +out of town--bring him into some remote nook--” + +“Sir Thomas, I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Gillespie, getting pale; “if +you mean that I should--” + +“Silence, sir,” replied the baronet, in his sternest and deepest voice; +“hear me; bring him, if you can, to some quiet place, where you will +both be free from observation; then produce your bottle and glass, and +ply him with liquor until you have him drunk.” + +“It's very likely that I'll find him drunk as it is, sir; he is seldom +otherwise.” + +“So much the better; you will have the less trouble. Well, when you have +him sufficiently drunk, bring him to the back gate of the garden, which +you will find unlocked; lodge him in the tool-house, ply him with more +liquor, until he becomes helpless. In the meantime, lock the back gate +after you--here is the key, which you can keep in your pocket. Having +left him in the tool-house--in a sufficiently helpless state, mark--lock +him in, put that key in your pocket, also; then get my travelling +carriage ready, put to the horses, and when all this is done, come to me +here; I shall then instruct you how and where to proceed. I shall also +accompany you myself to the town of ------, after which you shall take +a post-chaise, and proceed with this person to the place of his +destination. Let none of the servants see you; and remember we are not +to start from the garden gate until about twelve o'clock, or later.” + +Gillespie promised compliance, and, in fact, undertook the business +with the greater alacrity, on hearing that there was to be a bottle of +whiskey in the case. As he was leaving the room, however, Sir +Thomas called him back, and said, with a frown which nobody could +misunderstand, “Harkee, Gillespie, keep yourself strictly sober, and--oh +yes, I had nearly forgotten it--try if there is a hard scar, as if left +by a wound, under his chin, to the left side; and if you find none, have +nothing to do with him. You understand, now, all I require of you?” + +“Perfectly, your honor. But I may not be able to find this Fenton.” + +“That won't be your own fault, you must only try another time, when +you may have better success. Observe, however, that if there is no scar +under the left side of his chin, you are to let him pass--he is not the +person in whom I feel interested, and whom I am determined to serve, +if I can--even against his wishes. He is, I believe, the son of an old +friend, and I will endeavor to have him restored to the perfect use of +his reason, if human skill can effect it.” + +“That's very kind of you, Sir Thomas, and very few would do it,” replied +Gillespie, as he left the apartment, to fulfil his execrable mission. + +Gillespie having put the bottle of strong spirits into his pocket, +wrapped a great coat about him, and, by a subsequent hint from Sir +Thomas, tied a large handkerchief across his face, in order the better +to conceal his features, and set out on his way to Ballytrain. + +It may be remarked with truth, that the projects of crime are frequently +aided by those melancholy but felicitous contingencies, which, though +unexpected and unlooked for, are calculated to enable the criminal to +effect his wicked purposes with more facility and less risk. Gillespie, +on the occasion in question, not only met Fenton within a short distance +of the town, and in a lonely place, but also found him far advanced in a +state of intoxication. + +“Is this Mr. Fenton?” said he. “How do you do, Mr. Fenton? A beautiful +night, sir.” + +“Yes, sir,” replied the unfortunate young man; “it is Mr. Fenton, and +you are a gentleman. Some folks now take the liberty of calling me +Fenton, which is not only impudently familiar and ridiculous, but a +proof that they do not know how to address a gentleman.” + +“You are leaving the town, it seems, Mr. Fenton?” + +“Yes, there's a wake down in Killyfaddy, where there will be a +superfluity, sir, of fun; and I like to see fun and sorrow associated. +They harmonize, my friend--they concatenate.” + +“Mr. Fenton,” proceeded Gillespie, “you are a young gentleman--” + +“Yes, sir, that's the term. I am a gentleman. What can I do for you? I +have rare interest among the great and powerful.” + +“I don't at all doubt it,” replied Gillespie; “but I was go in' to say, +sir, that you are a young gentleman that I have always respected very +highly.” + +“Thanks, my friend, thanks.” + +“If it wouldn't be takin' a liberty, I'd ask a favor of you.” + +“Sir, you are a gentleman, and it should be granted. Name it.” + +“The night, sir, although a fine enough night, is a little sharp, for +all that. Now, I happen to have a sup of as good liquor in my pocket as +ever went down the red lane, and if we could only get a quiet sheltering +spot, behind one of these ditches, we could try its pulse between us.” + +“The project is good and hospitable,” replied poor Fenton, “and has my +full concurrence.” + +“Well, then, sir,” said the other, “will you be so good as to come along +with me, and we'll make out some snug spot where I'll have the pleasure +of drinkin' your honor's health.” + +“Good again,” replied the unlucky dupe; “upon my soul you're an +excellent fellow; Proceed, I attend you. The liquor's good, you say?” + +“Betther was never drank, your honor.” + +“Very well, sir, I believe you. We shall soon, however, put the truth of +that magnificent assertion to the test; and besides, sir, it will be an +honor for you to share your bottle with a gentleman.” + +In a few minutes they reached a quiet little dell, by which there led a +private pathway, open only to the inmates of Red Hall when passing to or +from the town, and which formed an agreeable and easy shortcut when any +hurried message was necessary. This path came out upon an old road +which ran behind the garden, and joined the larger thoroughfare, about a +quarter of a mile beyond it. + +In a sheltered little cul de sac, between two white-thorn hedges, they +took their seats; and Gillespie having pulled out his bottle and glass, +began to ply the luckless young man with the strong liquor. And an easy +task he found it; for Fenton resembled thousands, who, when the bounds +of moderation are once passed, know not when to restrain themselves. +It would be both painful and disagreeable to dwell upon the hellish +iniquity of this merciless and moral murder; it is enough to say +that, having reduced the young man to the precise condition which was +necessary for his purpose, this slavish and unprincipled ruffian, as +Delahunt did with his innocent victim, deliberately put his hand to his +throat, or, rather, to the left side of his neck, and there found beyond +all doubt a large welt, or cicatrice, precisely as had been described +by Sir Thomas. After the space of about two hours--for Gillespie was +anxious to prolong the time as much as possible--he assisted Fenton, now +unable to walk without support, and completely paralyzed in his organs +of speech, along the short and solitary path to the back gate of the +garden.. He opened it, dragged Fenton in like a dog whom he was about to +hang, but still the latter seemed disposed to make some unconscious and +instinctive resistance. It was to no purpose, however. The poor young +man was incapable of resistance, either by word or deed. In a short time +they reached the tool-house, where he threw Fenton on a heap of apples, +like a bag, and left him to lie in cold and darkness, as if he were +some noxious animal, whom it would be dangerous to set at large. He then +locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went to acquaint the +baronet with the success of his mission. + +The latter, on understanding from Gillespie that Fenton was not only +secured, but that his suspicions as to his identity were correct, +desired him to have the carriage ready in the course of about an hour. +He had already written a letter, containing a liberal enclosure, to the +person into whose merciless hands he was about to commit him. In the +meantime, it is impossible to describe the confused character of his +feelings--the tempest, the tornado of passions, that swept through his +dark and ambitious spirit. + +“This is the third time,” he thought to himself, as he paced the room in +such a state of stormy agitation as reacted upon himself, and tilled +him with temporary alarm. His heart beat powerfully, his pulsations were +strong and rapid, and his brain felt burning and tumultuous. +Occasional giddiness also seized him, accompanied by weakness about the +knee-joints, and hoarseness in the throat. In fact, once or twice he +felt as if he were about to fall. In this state he hastily gulped down +two or three large glasses of Madeira, which was his favorite wine, and +he felt his system more intensely strung. + +“That woman,” said he, alluding to Lady Gourlay, “has taken her revenge +by destroying my son. There can be no doubt of that. And what now +prevents me from crushing this viper forever? If my daughter were not +with me, it should be done; yes, I would do it silently and secretly, +ay, and surely, with my own hand. I would have blood for blood. What, +however, if the mur--if the act came to light! Then I must suffer; +my daughter is involved in my infamy, and all my dreams for her +aggrandizement come to worse than nothing. But I know not how it is, I +fear that girl. Her moral ascendency, as they call it, is so dreadful to +me, that I often feel as if I hated her. What right has she to subjugate +a spirit like mine, by the influence of her sense of honor and her +virtuous principles? or to school me to my face by her example? I am not +a man disposed to brook inferiority, yet she sometimes makes me feel as +if I were a monster. However, she is a fool, and talks of happiness as +if it were anything but a chimera or a dream. Is she herself happy? I +would be glad to see the mortal that is. Do her virtues make her happy? +No. Then where is the use of this boasted virtue, if it will not procure +that happiness after which all are so eager in pursuit, but which none +has ever yet attained? Was Christ, who is said to have been spotless, +happy? No; he was a man of sorrows. Away, then, with this cant of +virtue. It is a shadow, a deception; a thing, like religion, that has +no existence, but takes our senses, our interests, and our passions, and +works with them under its own mask. Yet why am I afraid of my daughter? +and why do I, in my heart, reverence her as a being so far superior to +myself? Why is it that I could murder--ay, murder--this worthless object +that thrust himself, or would thrust himself, or might thrust himself, +between me and the hereditary honors of my name, were it not that her +very presence, if I did it, would, I feel, overpower and paralyze me +with a sense of my guilt? Yet I struck her--I struck her; but her spirit +trampled mine in the dust--she humiliated me. Away! I am not like other +men. Yet for her sake this miserable wretch shall live. I will not +imbrue my hands in his blood, but shall place him where he will never +cross me more. It is one satisfaction to me, and security besides, that +he knows neither his real name nor lineage; and now he shall enter this +establishment under a new one. As for Lucy, she shall be Countess of +Cullamore, if she or I should die for it.” + +He then swallowed another glass of wine, and was about to proceed to +the stables, when a gentle tap came to the door, and Gillespie presented +himself. + +“All's ready, your honor.” + +“Very well, Gillespie. I shall go with you to see that all is right, +In the course of a few minutes will you bring the carriage round to the +back gate? The horses are steady, and will remain there while we conduct +him down to it. Have you a dark lantern?” + +“I have, your honor.” + +Both then proceeded toward the stables. The baronet perceived that +everything was correct; and having seen Gillespie, who was his coachman, +mount the seat, he got into the carriage, and got out again at the door +of the tool-house, where poor Fenton lay. After unlocking the door, for +he had got the key from Gillespie, he entered, and cautiously turning +the light of the lantern in the proper direction, discovered his unhappy +victim, stretched cold and apparently lifeless. + +Alas, what a melancholy picture lay before him! Stretched upon some +apples that were scattered over the floor, he found the unhappy young +man in a sleep that for the moment resembled the slumber of the dead. +His hat had fallen off, and on his pale and emaciated temples seemed +indeed to dwell the sharp impress of approaching death. It appeared, +nevertheless, that his rest had not been by any means unbroken, nor so +placid as it then appeared to be; for the baronet could observe that he +must have been weeping in his sleep, as his eyelids were surcharged with +tears that had not yet had time to dry. The veins in his temples were +blue, and as fine as silk; and over his whole countenance was spread +an expression of such hopeless sorrow and misery as was sufficient to +soften the hardest heart that ever beat in human bosom. One touch of +nature came over even that of the baronet. “No,” said he, “I could not +take his life. The family likeness is obvious, and the resemblance to +his cousin Lucy is too strong to permit me to shed his blood; but I +will secure him so that he shall never cross my path again. He will not, +however, cross it long,” he added to himself, after another pause, “for +the stamp of death is upon his face.” + +Gillespie now entered, and seizing Fenton, dragged him up upon his legs, +the baronet in the meantime turning the light of |the lantern aside. +The poor fellow, being properly neither asleep nor awake, made no +resistance, and without any trouble they brought him down to the back +gate, putting him into the coach, Sir Thomas entering with him, and +immediately drove off, about half-past twelve at night, their victim +having fallen asleep again almost as soon as he entered the carriage. + +The warmth of the carriage, and the comfort of its cushioned sides and +seat occasioned his sleep to become more natural and refreshing. The +consequence was, that he soon began to exhibit symptoms of awakening. At +first he groaned deeply, as if under the influence of physical pain, or +probably from the consciousness of some apprehension arising from the +experience of what he had already suffered. By and by the groan subsided +to a sigh, whose expression was so replete with misery and dread, that +it might well have touched and softened any heart. As yet, however, the +fumes of intoxication had not departed, and his language was so mingled +with the feeble delirium resulting from it, and the terrors arising from +the situation in which he felt himself placed, that it was not only wild +and melancholy by turns, but often scarcely intelligible. Still it was +evident that one great apprehension absorbed all his other thoughts and +sensations, and seemed, whilst it lasted, to bury him in the darkness of +despair. + +“Hold!” he exclaimed; “where am I?--what is this? Let me see, or, +rather, let me feel where I am, for that is the more appropriate +expression, considering that I am in utter obscurity. What is this, I +ask again? Is my hospitable friend with me? he with whom I partook of +that delicious liquor under 'the greenwood-tree'?” + +He then searched about, and in doing so his hands came necessarily in +contact with the bulky person of the baronet. “What!” he proceeded, +supposing still that it was Gillespie, “is this you, my friend?--but I +take that fact for granted. Sir, you are a gentleman, and know how to +address a gentleman with proper respect; but how is this, you have on +your hat? Sir, you forget yourself--uncover, and remember you are in my +presence.” + +As he uttered the words, he seized the baronet's hat, tore it forcibly +off, and, in doing so, accidentally removed a mask which that worthy +gentleman had taken the precaution to assume, in order to prevent +himself from being recognized. + +“Ha!” exclaimed Fenton, with something like a shriek--“a mask! Oh, +my God! This mysterious enemy is upon me! I am once more caught in his +toils! What have I done to deserve this persecution? I am innocent of +all offence--all guilt. My life has been one of horror and of suffering +indescribable, but not of crime; and although they say I am insane, I +know there is a God above who will render me justice, and my oppressor +justice, and who knows that I have given offence to none. + + There is a bird that sings alone--heigh ho! + And every note is but a tone of woe. + Heigh ho!” + +The baronet grasped his wrist tightly with one hand--and both feeble and +attenuated was that poor wrist--the baronet, we say, grasped it, and in +an instant had regained possession of the mask, which he deliberately +replaced on his face, after which he seized the unfortunate young man +by the neck, and pressed it with such force as almost to occasion +suffocation. Still he (Sir Thomas) uttered not a syllable, a +circumstance which in the terrified mind of his unhappy victim caused +his position as well as that of his companion to assume a darker, and +consequently a more terrible mystery. + +“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a low and trembling voice, “I know you now. You +are the stranger who came to stop in the 'Mitre.' Yes, you came down +to stop in the 'Mitre.' I know you by your strong grasp. I care not, +however, for your attempt to strangle me. I forgive you--I pardon you; +and I will tell you why--treat me as violently as you may--I feel that +there is goodness in your face, and mercy in your heart. But I did see +a face, one day, in the inn,” he added, in a voice that gradually became +quite frantic--“a face that was dark, damnable, and demoniac--oh, oh! +may God of heaven ever preserve me from seeing that face again!” he +exclaimed, shuddering wildly. “Open me up the shrouded graves, my +friend; I will call you so notwithstanding what has happened, for +I still think you are a gentleman; open me up, I say, the shrouded +graves--set me among the hideous dead, in all their ghastly and +loathsome putrefaction--lay me side by side with the sweltering carcass +of the gibbeted murderer--give me such a vision, and expose me to the +anger of the Almighty when raging in his vengeance; or, if there be a +pitch of horror still beyond this, then I say--mark me, my friend--then +I say, open me up all hell at full work--hissing, boiling, bubbling, +scalding, roasting, frying, scorching, blazing, burning, but +ever-consuming hell, sir, I say, in full operation--the whole dark and +penal machinery in full play--open it up--there they are--the yell, +the scream, the blasphemy, the shout, the torture, the laughter of +despair--with the pleasing consciousness that all this is to be eternal; +hark ye, sir, open me up a view of this aforesaid spectacle upon the +very brow of perdition, and having allowed me time to console myself +by a contemplation of it, fling me, soul and body, into the uttermost +depths of its howling tortures; do any or all of these things, sooner +than let me have a sight of that face again--it bears such a terrible +resemblance to that which blighted me.” + +He then paused for a little, and seemed as if about to sink into a +calmer and more thoughtful mood--at least the baronet inferred as +much from his silence. The latter still declined to speak, for he felt +perfectly aware, from this incoherent outburst, that although Fenton had +seen him only two or three times, many years ago, when the unfortunate +young man was scarcely a boy, yet he had often heard his voice, and he +consequently avoided every possibility of giving the former a clew to +his identity. At length Fenton broke silence. + +“What was I saying?” he asked. “Did I talk of that multitudinous limbo +called hell? Well, who knows, perhaps there may be a general jail +delivery there yet; but talking of the thing, I assure you, sir, I +feel a portion of its tortures. Like Dives--no, not like the rich and +hardened glutton--I resemble him in nothing but my sufferings. Oh! a +drink, a drink--water, water--my tongue, my mouth, my throat, my blood, +my brain, are all on fire?” + +Oh, false ambition, to what mean and despicable resources, to what low +and unscrupulous precautions dost thou stoop in order to accomplish thy +selfish, dishonest, and heartless designs! The very gratification of +this expected thirst had been provided for and anticipated. As Fenton +spoke, the baronet took from one of the coach pockets a large flask of +spirits and water, which he instantly, but without speaking, placed in +the scorching wretch's hands, who without a moment's hesitation, put it +to his lips and emptied it at one long, luxurious draught. + +“Thanks, friend,” he then exclaimed; “I have been agreeably mistaken in +you, I find. You are--you must be--no other than my worthy host of the +'Hedge.' Poor Dives! D--n the glutton; after all, I pity him, and would +fain hope that he has got relief by this time. As for Lazarus, I fear +that his condition in life was no better than it deserved. If he had +been a trump, now, and anxious to render good for evil, he would have +dropped a bottle of aquapura to the suffering glutton, for if worthy +Dives did nothing else, he fed the dogs that licked the old fellow's +sores. Fie, for shame, old Lazarus, d--n me, if I had you back again, +but we'd teach you sympathy for Dives; and how so, my friend of the +hawthorn--why, we'd send him to the poor-house,* or if that wouldn't do, +to the mad-house--to the mad-house. Oh, my God--my God! what is this? +Where are you bringing me, sir? but I know--I feel it--this destiny +that's over me!” + + * It is to be presumed, that Fenton speaks here from his + English experience. We find no poor-houses at the time. + +He again became silent for a time, but during the pause, we need +scarcely say, that the pernicious draught began to operate with the +desired effect. + +“That mask,” he then added, as if speaking to himself, “bodes me nothing +but terror and persecution, and all this in a Christian country, where +there are religion and laws--at least, they say so--as for raypart, I +could never discover them. However, it matters not, let us clap a stout +heart to a steep brae, and we may jink them and blink them yet; that's +all. + + There was a little bird, a very little bird, + And a very little bird was he; + And he sang his little song all the summer day long, + On a branch of the fair green-wood tree. + Heigh ho!” + +This little touch of melody, which he sang to a sweet and plaintive air, +seemed to produce a feeling of mournfulness and sorrow in his spirit, +for although the draught he had taken was progressing fast in its +operations upon his intellect, still it only assumed a new and +more affecting shape, and occasioned that singular form and ease of +expression which may be observed in many under the influence of similar +stimulants. + +“Well,” he proceeded, “I will soon go home; that is one consolation! +There is a sickness, my friend, whoever you are, at my heart here, and +in what does that sickness consist? I will tell you--in the memory of +some beautiful dreams that I had when a child or little-boy: I remember +something about green fields, groves, dark mountains, and summer rivers +flowing sweetly by. This now, to be sure, is a feeling which but few can +understand. It is called homesickness, and assumes different aspects, +my worthy friend. Sometimes it is a yearning after immortality, which +absorbs and consumes the spirit, and then we die and go to enjoy that +which we have pined for. Now, my worthy mute friend, mark me, in my +case the malady is not so exalted. I only want my green fields, my +dark mountains, my early rivers, with liberty to tread them for a brief +space. There lies over them in my imagination--there does, my worthy and +most taciturn friend, upon my soul there does--a golden light so clear, +so pure, so full of happiness, that I question whether that of heaven +itself will surpass it in radiance. But now I am caged once more, and +will never see anything even like them again.” + +The poor young man then wept for a couple of minutes, after which he +added, “Yes, sir, this is at once my malady and my hope. You see, then, +I am not worth a plot, nor would it be a high-minded or honorable act +for any gentleman to conspire against one who is nobody's enemy, but +appears to have all the world against him. Yes, and they thought when +I used to get into my silent moods that I was mad. No, but I was in +heaven, enjoying, as I said, my mountains, my rivers, and my green +fields. I was in heaven, I say, and walked in the light of heaven, for I +was a little boy once more, and saw its radiance upon them, as I used +to do long ago. But do you know what occurs to me this moment, most +taciturn?” He added, after a short pause, being moved, probably, by one +of those quick and capricious changes to which both the intoxicated and +insane are proverbially liable: “It strikes me, that you probably are +descended from the man in the iron mask--ha--ha--ha! Or stay, was there +ever such a thing in this benevolent and humane world of ours as a +man with an iron heart? If so, who knows, then, but you may date your +ancestry from him? Ay, right enough; we are in a coach, I think, and +going--going--going to--to--to--ah, where to? I know--oh, my God--we are +going to--to--to----” and here poor Fenton once more fell asleep, as was +evident by his deep but oppressive breathing. + +Now the baronet, although he maintained a strict silence during their +journey, a silence which it was not his intention to break, made up +for this cautious taciturnity by thought and those reflections which +originated from his designs upon Fenton. He felt astonished, in the +first place, at the measures, whatever they might have been, by which +the other must have obtained means of escaping from the asylum to which +he had been committed with such strict injunctions as to his secure +custody. It occurred to him, therefore, that by an examination of his +pockets he might possibly ascertain some clew to this circumstance, and +as the man was not overburdened with much conscience or delicacy, he +came to the determination, as Fenton was once more dead asleep, to +search for and examine whatever papers he should find about him, if any. +For this purpose he ignited a match--such as they had in those days--and +with this match lit up a small dark lantern, the same to which we have +already alluded. Aided by its light, he examined the sleeping young +man's pockets, in which he felt very little, in the shape of either +money or papers, that could compensate him for this act of larceny. In +a breast-pocket, however, inside his waistcoat, he found pinned to the +lining a note--a pound note--on the back of which was jotted a brief +memorandum of the day on which it was written, and the person from +whom he had received it. To this was added a second memorandum, in the +following words: “Mem. This note may yet be useful to myself if I could +get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name--Thomas +Skipton--is written here upon it. He is the man I want, for I know his +signature.” + +No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several +names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently +by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes +gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous +triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through +such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express. + +“Unhappy wretch,” thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, “it +is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living +over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither +of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak. Even fate is against +you; that fate which has consigned this beggarly representative of +wealth to my hands, through your own instrumentality. I now feel +confident; nay, I am certain that my projects will and must succeed. +The affairs of this world are regulated unquestionably by the immutable +decrees of destiny. What is to be will be; and I, in putting this +wretched, drunken, mad, and besotted being out of my way, am only an +instrument in the hands of that destiny myself. The blame then is not +mine, but that of the law which constrains--forces me to act the part I +am acting, a part which was allotted to me from the beginning; and this +reflection fills me with consolation.” + +He then re-examined the note, put it into a particular fold of his +pocket-book which had before been empty, in order to keep it distinct, +and once more thrusting it into his pocket, buttoned it carefully up, +extinguished the lantern, and laid himself back in the corner of the +carriage, in which position he reclined, meditating upon the kind +partiality of destiny in his favor, the virtuous tendencies of his own +ambition, and the admirable, because successful, means by which he was +bringing them about. + +In this manner they proceeded until they reached the entrance of the +next town, when the baronet desired Gillespie to stop. “Go forward,” + said he, “and order a chaise and pair without delay. I think, however, +you will find them ready for you; and if Corbet is there, desire him to +return with you. He has already had his instructions. I am sick of this +work, Gillespie; and I assure you it is not for the son of a common +friend that I would forego my necessary rest, to sit at such an hour +with a person who is both mad and drunk. What is friendship, however, +if we neglect its duties? Care and medical skill may enable this +unfortunate young man to recover his reason, and take a respectable +position in the world yet. Go now and make no delay. I shall take charge +of this poor fellow and the horses until you return. But, mark me, my +name is not to be breathed to mortal, under a penalty that you will find +a dreadful one, should you incur it.” + +“Never fear, your honor,” replied Gillespie; “I am not the man to betray +trust; and indeed, few gentlemen of your rank, as I said, would go so +far for the son of an auld friend. I'll lose no time, Sir Thomas.” + Sir Thomas, we have had occasion to say more than once, was quick +and energetic in all his resolutions, and beyond doubt, the fact that +Gillespie found Corbet ready and expecting him on this occasion, fully +corroborates our opinion. + +Indeed, it was his invariable habit, whenever he found that more than +one agent or instrument was necessary, to employ them, as far as was +possible, independently of each other. For instance, he had not at all +communicated to Gillespie the fact of his having engaged Corbet in the +matter, nor had the former any suspicion of it until he now received the +first hint from Sir Thomas himself. A chaise and pair in less than five +minutes drove gently, but with steady pace, back to the spot where +the baronet stood at the head of his horses, watching the doors of the +carriage on each side every quarter of a minute, lest by any possible +chance his victim might escape him. Of this, however, there was not the +slightest danger; poor Fenton's sleep, like that of almost all drunken +men, having had in it more of stupor than of ordinary and healthful +repose. + +We have informed our readers that the baronet was not without a strong +tinge of superstition, notwithstanding his religious infidelity, and his +belief in the doctrine of fate and necessity. On finding himself alone +at that dead and dreary hour of the night--half-past two--standing +under a shady range of tall trees that met across the road, and gave a +character of extraordinary gloom and solitude to the place, he began to +experience that vague and undefined terror which steals over the mind +from an involuntary apprehension of the supernatural. A singular degree +of uneasiness came over him: he coughed, he hemmed, in order to break +the death-like stillness in which he stood. He patted the horses, he +rubbed his hand down their backs, but felt considerable surprise and +terror on finding that they both trembled, and seemed by their snorting +and tremors to partake of his own sensations. Under such terrors there +is nothing that extinguishes a man's courage so much as the review of +an ill-spent life, or the reproaches of an evil conscience. Sir Thomas +Gourlay could not see and feel, for the moment, the criminal iniquity +of his black and ungodly ambition, and the crimes into which it involved +him. Still, the consciousness of the flagitious project in which he was +engaged against the unoffending son of his brother, the influence of the +hour, and the solitude in which he stood, together with the operation +upon his mind of some unaccountable fear apart from that of personal +violence--all, when united, threw him into a commotion that resulted +from such a dread as intimated that something supernatural must be near +him. He was seized by a violent shaking of the limbs, the perspiration +burst from every pore; and as he patted the horses a second time for +relief, he again perceived that their terrors were increasing and +keeping pace with his own. At length, his hair fairly stood, and his +excitement was nearly as high as excitement of such a merely ideal +character could go, when he thought he heard a step--a heavy, solemn, +unearthly step--that sounded as if there was something denouncing and +judicial in the terrible emphasis with which it went to his heart, or +rather to his conscience. Without having the power to restrain himself, +he followed with his eyes this symbolical tread as it seemed to +approach the coach door on the side at which he stood. This was the more +surprising and frightful, as, although he heard the tramp, yet he could +for the moment see nothing in the shape of either figure or form, +from which he could resolve what he had heard into a natural sound. +At length, as he stood almost dissolved in terror, he thought that +an indistinct, or rather an unsubstantial figure stood at the +carriage-door, looked in for a moment, and then bent his glance at him, +with a severe and stem expression; after which, it began to rub out or +efface a certain portion of the armorial bearings, which he had added +to his heraldic coat in right of his wife. The noise of the chaise +approaching now reached his ears, and he turned as a relief to ascertain +if Gillespie and Corbet were near him. As far as he could judge, they +were about a couple of hundred yards off, and this discovery recalled +his departed courage; he turned his eyes once more to the carriage-door, +but to his infinite relief could perceive nothing. A soft, solemn, +mournful blast, however, somewhat like a low moan, amounting almost to +a wail, crept through the trees under which he stood; and after it had +subsided--whether it was fact or fancy cannot now be known--he thought +he heard the same step slowly, and, as it were with a kind of sorrowful +anger, retreating in the distance. + +“If mortal spirit,” he exclaimed as they approached, “ever was permitted +to return to this earth, that form was the spirit of my mortal brother. +This, however,” he added, but only in thought, when they came up to him, +and after he had regained his confidence by their presence, “this is all +stuff--nothing but solitude and its associations acting upon the nerves; +thus enabling us, as we think, to see the very forms created only by our +fears, and which, apart from them, have no existence.” + +The men and the chaise were now with him--Gillespie on horseback, that +is to say, he was to bring back the same animal on which Sir Thomas had +secretly despatched Corbet from Red Hall to the town of ------, for +the purpose of having the chaise ready, and conducting Fenton to his +ultimate destination. The poor young man's transfer from the carriage +to the chaise was quickly and easily effected. Several large flasks of +strong spirits and water were also transferred along with him. + +“Now, Corbet,” observed Sir Thomas apart to him, “you have full +instructions how to act; and see that you carry them out to the letter. +You will find no difficulty in keeping this person in a state of +intoxication all the way. Go back to ------, engage old Bradbury to +drive the chaise, for, although deaf and stupid, he is an excellent +driver. Change the chaise and horses, however, as often as you can, so +as that it may be difficult, if not impossible, to trace the route you +take. Give Benson, who, after all, is the prince of mad doctors, the +enclosure which you have in the blank cover; and tell him, he shall have +an annuity to the same amount, whether this fellow lives or dies. Mark +me, Corbet--whether his charge lives or dies. Repeat these words to +him twice, as I have done to you. Above all things, let him keep him +safe--safe--safe. Remember, Corbet, that our family have been kind +friends to yours. I, therefore, have trusted you all along in this +matter, and calculate upon your confidence as a grateful and honest man, +as well as upon your implicit obedience to every order I have given you. +I myself shall drive home the carriage; and when we get near Red Hall, +Gillespie can ride forward, have his horse put up, and the stable and +coachhouse doors open, so that everything tomorrow morning may look as +if no such expedition had taken place.” + +They then separated; Corbet to conduct poor Fenton to his dreary cell +in a mad-house, and Sir Thomas to seek that upon which, despite his most +ambitious projects, he had been doomed all his life to seek after in +vain--rest on an uneasy pillow. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's + +--Retributive Justice, or the Robber robbed. + + +In the days of which we write, travelling was a very different process +from what it is at present. Mail-coaches and chaises were the only +vehicles then in requisition, with the exception of the awkward gingles, +buggies, and other gear of that nondescript class which were peculiar +to the times, and principally confined to the metropolis. The result of +this was, that travellers, in consequence of the slow jog-trot motion +of those curious and inconvenient machines, were obliged, in order to +transact their business with something like due dispatch, to travel both +by night and day. In this case, as in others, the cause produced the +effect; or rather, we should say, the temptation occasioned the crime. +Highway-robbery was frequent; and many a worthy man--fat farmer and +wealthy commoner--was eased of his purse in despite of all his armed +precautions and the most sturdy resistance. The poorer classes, in every +part of the country, were, with scarcely an exception, the friends +of those depredators; by whom, it is true, they were aided against +oppression, and assisted in their destitution, as a compensation for +connivance and shelter whenever the executive authorities were in +pursuit of them. Most of these robberies, it is true, were the result of +a loose and disorganized state of society, and had their direct origin +from oppressive and unequal laws, badly or partially administered. +Robbery, therefore, in its general character, was caused, not so much +by poverty, as from a desperate hatred of those penal statutes which +operated for punishment but not for protection. Our readers may not feel +surprised, then, when we assure them that the burgler and highway-robber +looked upon this infamous habit as a kind of patriotic and political +profession, rather than a crime; and it is well known that within the +last century the sons of even decent farmers were bound apprentices to +this flagitious craft, especially to that of horse stealing, which was +then reduced to a system of most extraordinary ingenuity and address. +Still, there were many poor wretches who, sunk in the deepest +destitution, and contaminated by a habit which familiarity had deprived +in their eyes of much of its inherent enormity, scrupled not to relieve +their distresses by having recourse to the prevalent usage of the +country. + +Having thrown out these few preparatory observations, we request our +readers to follow us to the wretched cabin of a man whose _nom de +guerre_ was that of Jemmy Trailcudgel--a name that was applied to him, +as the reader may see, in consequence of the peculiar manner in which he +carried the weapon aforesaid. Trailcudgel was a man of enormous personal +strength and surprising courage, and had distinguished himself as the +leader of many a party and faction fight in the neighboring fairs +and markets. He had been, not many years before, in tolerably good +circumstances, as a tenant under Sir Thomas Gourlay; and as that +gentleman had taken it into his head that his tenantry were bound, as +firmly as if there had been a clause to that effect in their leases, +to bear patiently and in respectful silence, the imperious and ribald +scurrility which in a state of resentment, he was in the habit of +pouring upon them, so did he lose few opportunities of making them feel, +for the most-trivial causes, all the irresponsible insolence of the +strong and vindictive tyrant. Now, Jemmy Trailcudgel was an honest man, +whom every one liked; but he was also a man of spirit, whom, in another +sense, most people feared. Among his family he was a perfect child +in affection and tenderness--loving, playful, and simple as one of +themselves. Yet this man, affectionate, brave, and honest, because he +could not submit in silence and without vindication, to the wanton +and overbearing violence of his landlord, was harassed by a series of +persecutions, under the pretended authority of law, until he and his +unhappy family were driven to beggary--almost to despair. + +“Trailcudgel,” said Sir Thomas to him one day that he had sent for him +in a fury, “by what right and authority, sirra, did you dare to cut turf +on that part of the bog called Berwick's Bank?” + +“Upon the right and authority of my lease, Sir Thomas,” replied +Trailcudgel; “and with great respect, sir, you had neither right nor +authority for settin' my bog, that I'm payin' you rent for, to another +tenant.” + +The baronet grew black in the face, as he always did when in a passion, +and especially when replied to. + +“You are a lying scoundrel, sirra,” continued the other; “the bog does +not belong to you, and I will set it to the devil if I like.” + +“I know nobody so fit to be your tenant,” replied Trailcudgel. “But I +am no scoundrel, Sir Thomas,” added the independent fellow, “and there's +very few dare tell me so but yourself.” + +“What, you villain! do you contradict me? do you bandy words and +looks with me?” asked the baronet, his rage deepening at Trailcudgel's +audacity in having replied at all. + +“Villain!” returned his gigantic tenant, in a voice of thunder. “You +called me a scoundrel, sirra, and you have called me a villain, sirra, +now I tell you to your teeth, you're a liar--I am neither villain nor +scoundrel; but you're both; and if I hear another word of insolence +out of your foul and lying mouth, I'll thrash you as I would a shafe of +whate or oats.” + +The black hue of the baronet's rage changed to a much modester tint; +he looked upon the face of the sturdy yeoman, now flushed with honest +resentment; he looked upon the eye that was kindled at once into an +expression of resolution and disdain; and turning on his toe, proceeded +at a pace by no means funereal to the steps of the hall-door, and having +ascended them, he turned round and said, in a very mild and quite a +gentlemanly tone, + +“Oh, very well, Mr. Trailcudgel; very well, indeed. I have a memory, Mr. +Trailcudgel--I have a memory. Good morning!” + +“Betther for you to have a heart,” replied Trailcudgel; “what you never +had.” + +Having uttered these words he departed, conscious at the same time, from +his knowledge of his landlord's unrelenting malignity, that his own fate +was sealed, and his ruin accomplished. And he was right. In the course +of four years after their quarrel, Trailcudgel found himself, and his +numerous family, in the scene of destitution to which we are about to +conduct the indulgent reader. + +We pray you, therefore, gentle reader, to imagine yourself in a small +cabin, where there are two beds--that is to say, two scanty portions of +damp straw, spread out thinly upon a still damper foot of earth, in a +portion of which the foot sinks when walking over it. The two beds--each +what is termed a shake down--have barely covering enough to preserve +the purposes of decency, but not to communicate the usual and necessary +warmth. In consequence of the limited area of the cabin floor they +are not far removed from each other. Upon a little three-legged stool, +between them, burns a dim rush candle, whose light is so exceedingly +feeble that it casts ghastly and death-like shadows over the whole +inside of the cabin. That family consists of nine persons, of whom five +are lying ill of fever, as the reader, from the nature of their bedding, +may have already anticipated--for we must observe here, that the +epidemic was rife at the time. Food of any description has not been +under that roof for more than twenty-four hours. They are all in bed +but one. A low murmur, that went to the heart of that one, with a noise +which seemed to it louder and more terrible than the deepest peal that +ever thundered through the firmament of heaven--a low murmur, we say, of +this description, arose from the beds, composed of those wailing sounds +that mingle together as they proceed from the lips of weakness, pain, +and famine, until they form that many-toned, incessant, and horrible +voice of multiplied misery, which falls upon the ear with the echoes of +the grave, and upon the heart as something wonderful in the accents of +God, or, as we may suppose the voice of the accusing angel to be, whilst +recording before His throne the official inhumanity of councils and +senates, who harden their hearts and shut their ears to “the cry of the +poor.” + +Seated upon a second little stool was a man of huge stature, clothed, +if we can say I so, with rags, contemplating the misery around him, and +having no sounds to listen to but the low, ceaseless wail of pain +and suffering which we have described. His features, once manly and +handsome, are now sharp and hollow; his beard is grown; his lips are +white; and his eyes without I speculation, unless when lit up into +an occasional blaze of fire, that seemed to proceed as much from the +paroxysms of approaching insanity as from the terrible scene which +surrounds him, as well as from his own I wolfish desire for food. +His cheek bones project fearfully, and his large temples seem, by the +ghastly skin which is drawn tight about them, to remind one of those of +a skeleton, were it not that the image is made still more appalling by +the existence of life. Whilst in this position, motionless as a statue, +a voice from one of the beds called out “Jemmy,” with a tone so low and +feeble that to other ears it would probably not have been distinctly +audible. He went to the bedside, and taking the candle in his hand, +said, in a voice that had lost its strength but not its tenderness: + +“Well, Mary dear?” + +“Jemmy,” said she, for it was his wife who had called him, “my time has +come. I must lave you and them at last.” + +“Thanks be to the Almighty,” he exclaimed, fervently; “and don't be +surprised, darlin' of my life, that I spake as I do. Ah, Mary dear,” he +proceeded, with, a wild and bitter manner, “I never thought that my love +for you would make me say such words, or wish to feel you torn out of my +breakin' heart; but I know how happy the change will be for you, as +well as the sufferers you are lavin' behind you. Death now is our only +consolation.” + +“It cannot be that God, who knows the kind and affectionate heart you +have, an' ever had,” replied his dying wife, “will neglect you and them +long,”--but she answered with difficulty. “We were very happy,” she +proceeded, slowly, however, and with pain; “for, hard as the world was +of late upon us, still we had love and affection among ourselves; and +that, Jemmy, God in his goodness left us, blessed be his--his--holy +name--an' sure it was betther than all he took from us. I hope poor +Alley will recover; she's now nearly a girl, an' will be able to take +care of you and be a mother to the rest. I feel that my tongue's gettin' +wake; God bless you and them, an', above all, her--for she was our +darlin' an' our life, especially yours. Raise me up a little,” she +added, “till I take a last look at them before I go.” He did so, and +after casting her languid eyes mournfully over the wretched sleepers, +she added: “Well, God is good, but this is a bitther sight for a +mother's heart. Jemmy,” she proceeded, “I won't be long by myself in +heaven; some of them will be with me soon--an' oh, what a joyful meeting +will that be. But it's you I feel for most--it's you I'm loath to lave, +light of my heart. Howsomever, God's will be done still. He sees we +can't live here, an' He's takin' us to himself. Don't, darlin', don't +kiss me, for fraid you might catch this fav----” + +She held his hand in hers during this brief and tender dialogue, but +on attempting to utter the last word he felt a gentle pressure, then +a slight relaxation, and on holding the candle closer to her emaciated +face--which still bore those dim traces of former beauty, that, in many +instances, neither sickness nor death can altogether obliterate--he +stooped and wildly kissed her now passive lips, exclaiming, in words +purposely low, that the other inmates of the cabin might not hear them: + +“A million favers, my darlin' Mary, would not prevent me from kissin' +your lips, that will never more be opened with words of love and +kindness to my heart. Oh, Mary, Mary! little did I drame that it would +be in such a place, and in such a way, that you'd lave me and them.” + +[Illustration: PAGE 409-- He stooped and wildly kissed her now passive +lips] + +He had hardly spoken, when one of the little ones, awaking, said: + +“Daddy, come here, an' see what ails Alley; she won't spake to me.” + +“She's asleep, darlin', I suppose,” he replied; “don't spake so loud, or +you'll waken her.” + +“Ay, but she's as could as any tiling,” continued the little one; “an'I +can't rise her arm to put it about me the way it used to be.” + +Her father went over, and placing' the dim light close to her face, as +he had done to that of her mother, perceived at a glance, that when +the spirit of that affectionate mother--of that faithful wife--went to +happiness, she had one kindred soul there to welcome her. + +The man, whom we need not name to the reader, now stood in the centre of +his “desolate hearth,” and it was indeed a fearful thing to contemplate +the change which the last few minutes had produced on his appearance. +His countenance ceased to manifest any expression of either grief or +sorrow; his brows became knit, and fell with savage and determined +gloom, not unmingled with fury, over his eyes, that now blazed like +coals of lire. His lips, too, became tight and firm, and were pressed +closely together, unconsciously and without effort. In this mood, we +say, he gazed about him, his heart smote with sorrow and affliction, +whilst it boiled with indignation and fury. “Thomas Gourlay,” he +exclaimed--“villain--oppressor--murdherer--devil--this is your work! +but I here entreat the Almighty God “--he droppe'd on his knees as he +spoke--“never to suffer you to lave this world till he taches you that +he can take vengeance for the poor.” Looking around him once more, he +lit a longer rushlight, and placed it in the little wooden candlestick, +which had a slit at the top, into which the rush was pressed. Proceeding +then to the lower corner of the cabin, he put up his hand to the top of +the side wall, from which he took down a large stick, or cudgel, having +a strong leathern thong in the upper part, within about six inches of +the top. Into this thong he thrust his hand, and twisting it round his +wrist, in order that no accident or chance blow might cause him to +lose his grip of it, he once more looked upon this scene of unexampled +wretchedness and sorrow, and pulling his old caubeen over his brow, left +the cabin. + +It is altogether impossible to describe the storm of conflicting +passions and emotions that raged and jostled against each other within +him. Sorrow--a sense of relief--on behalf of those so dear to him, +who had been rescued from such misery; the love which he bore them +now awakened into tenfold affection and tenderness by their loss; +the uncertain fate of his other little brood, who were ill, but still +living; then the destitution--the want of all that could nourish +or sustain them--the furious ravenings of famine, which he himself +felt--and the black, hopeless, impenetrable future--all crowded, upon +his heart, swept through his frantic imagination, and produced those +maddening but unconscious impulses, under the influence of which great +crimes are frequently committed, almost before their perpetrator is +aware of his having committed them. + +Trailcudgel, on leaving his cabin, cared not whither he went; but, by +one of those instincts which direct the savage to the peculiar haunts +where its prey may be expected, and guides the stupid drunkard to his +own particular dwelling, though unconscious even of his very existence +at the time--like either, or both, of these, he went on at as rapid +a pace as his weakness would permit, being quite ignorant of his +whereabouts until he felt himself on the great highway. He looked at +the sky now with an interest he had never felt before. The night +was exceedingly dark, but calm and warm. An odd star here and there +presented itself, and he felt glad at this, for it removed the monotony +of the darkness. + +“There,” said he to himself, “is the place where Mary and Alley live +now. Up there, in heaven. I am glad of it; but still, how will I enther +the cabin, and not hear their voices? But the other poor creatures! +musn't I do something for them, or they will go too? Yes, yes,--but +whisht! what noise is that? Ha! a coach. Now for it. May God support me! +Here comes the battle for the little ones--for the poor weak hand that's +not able to carry the drink to its lips. Poor darlins! Yes, darlins, +your father is now goin' to fight your battle--to put himself, for your +sakes, against the laws of man, but not against the laws of nature that +God has put into my heart for my dying childre. Either the one funeral +will carry three corpses to the grave, or I will bring yez relief. It's +comin' near, and I'll stand undher this tree.” + +In accordance with this resolution, he planted himself under a large +clump of trees where, like the famished tiger, he awaited the arrival of +the carriage. And, indeed, it is obvious that despair, and hunger, and +sorrow, had brought him down to the first elements of mere animal life; +and finding not by any process of reasoning or inference, but by the +agonizing pressure of stern reality, that the institutions of social +civilization were closed against him and his, he acted precisely as +a man would act in a natural and savage state, and who had never been +admitted to a participation in the common rights of humanity--we mean, +the right to live honestly, when willing and able to contribute his +share of labor and industry to the common stock. + +Let not our readers mistake us. We are not defending the crime of +robbery, neither would we rashly palliate it, although there are +instances of it which deserve not only palliation, but pardon. We +are only describing the principles upon which this man acted, and, +considering his motives, we question whether this peculiar act, +originating as it did in the noblest virtues and affections of our +nature, was not rather an act of heroism than of robbery. This point, +however, we leave to metaphysicians, and return to our narrative. + +The night, as we said, was dark, and the carriage in question was +proceeding at that slow and steady pace which was necessary to insure +safety. Sir Thomas, for it was he, sat on the dickey; Gillespie having +proceeded in advance of him, in order to get horses, carriage, and +everything safely put to rights without the possibility of observation. + +We may as well mention here that his anxiety to keep the events of the +night secret had overcome his apprehensions of the supernatural, and +indeed, it may not be impossible that he made acquaintance with one of +the flasks that had been destined for poor Fenton. Of this, however, +we are by no means certain; we only throw it out, therefore, as a +probability. + +It is well known that the stronger and more insupportable passions +sharpen not only the physical but the mental faculties in an +extraordinary degree. The eye of the bird of prey, which is mostly +directed by the savage instincts of hunger, can view its quarry at an +incredible distance; and, instigated by vengeance, the American Indian +will trace his enemy by marks which the utmost ingenuity of civilized +man would never enable him to discover. Quickened by something of the +kind, Trailcudgel instantly recognized his bitter and implacable foe, +and in a moment an unusual portion of his former strength returned, +with the impetuous and energetic resentment which the appearance of the +baronet, at that peculiar crisis, had awakened. When the carriage came +nearly opposite where he stood, the frantic and unhappy man was in an +instant at the heads of the horses, and, seizing the reins, brought them +to a stand-still. + +“What's the matter there?” exclaimed the baronet, who, however, began to +feel very serious alarm. “Why do you stop the horses, my friend? All's +right, and I'm much obliged--pray let them go.” + +“All's wrong,” shouted the other in a voice so deep, hoarse, and +terrible in the wildness of its intonations, that no human being could +recognize it as that of Trailcudgel; “all's wrong,” he shouted; “I +demand your money! your life or your money--quick!” + +“This is highway-robbery,” replied Sir Thomas, in a voice of +expostulation, “think of what you are about, my friend.” + +But, as he spoke, Trailcudgel could observe that he put his hand behind +him as if with the intent of taking fire-arms out of his pocket. Like +lightning was the blow which tumbled him from his seat upon the two +horses, and a fortunate circumstance it proved, for there is little +doubt that his neck would have been broken, or the fall proved otherwise +fatal to so heavy a man, had he been precipitated directly, and from +such a height, upon the hard road. As it was, he found himself instantly +in the ferocious clutches of Trailcudgel, who dragged him from the +horses, as a tiger would a bull, and ere he could use hand or word in +his own defence, he felt the muzzle of one of his own pistols pressed +against his head. + +“Easy, mfriend!” he exclaimed, in a voice that was rendered infirm by +terror; “do not take my life--don't murder me--you shall have my money.” + +“Murdher!” shouted the other. “Ah, you black dog of hell, it is on your +red sowl that many a murdher lies. Murdher!” he exclaimed, in words that +were thick, vehement, and almost unintelligible with rage. “Ay, murdher +is it? It was a just God that put the words into your guilty heart--and +wicked lips--prepare, your last moment's come--your doom is sealed--are +you ready to die, villain?” + +The whole black and fearful tenor of the baronet's life came like a +vision of hell itself over his conscience, now fearfully awakened to the +terrible position in which he felt himself placed. + +“Oh, no!” he replied, in a voice whose tremulous tones betrayed the +full extent of his agony and terrors. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “Spare me, +whoever you are--spare my life, and if you will come to mo to-morrow, I +promise, in the presence of God, to make you independent as long as you +live. Oh, spare me, for the sake of the living God--for I am not fit +to die. If you kill me now, you will have the perdition of my soul to +answer for at the bar of judgment. If you spare me, I will reform my +life--I will become a virtuous man.” + +“Well,” replied the other, relaxing--“for the sake of the name you have +used, and in the hope that this may be a warnin' to you for your good, I +will leave your wicked and worthless life with you. No, I'll not be the +man that will hurl you into perdition--but it is on one condition--you +must hand me out your money before I have time to count ten. Listen +now--if I haven't every farthing that's about you before that reckonin's +made, the bullet that's in this pistol will be through your brain.” + +The expedition of the baronet was amazing, for as Jemmy went on with +this disastrous enumeration, steadily and distinctly, but not quickly, +he had only time to get as far as eight when he found himself in +possession of the baronet's purse. + +“Is it all here?” he asked. “No tricks--no lyin'--the truth? for I'll +search you.” + +“You may,” replied the other, with confidence; “and you may shoot me, +too, if you find another farthing in my possession.” + +“Now, then,” said Trailcudgel, “get home as well as you can, and reform +your life as you promised--as for me, I'll keep the pistols; indeed, +for my own sake, for I have no notion of putting them into your hands at +present.” + +He then disappeared, and the baronet, having with considerable +difficulty gained the box-seat, reached home somewhat lighter in pocket +than he had left it, convinced besides that an unexpected visit from a +natural apparition is frequently much more to be dreaded than one from +the supernatural. + +The baronet was in the general affairs of life, penurious in money +matters, but on those occasions where money was necessary to enable him +to advance or mature his plans, conceal his proceedings, or reward +his instruments, he was by no means illiberal. This, however, was mere +selfishness, or rather, we should say, self-preservation, inasmuch +as his success and reputation depended in a great degree upon the +liberality of his corruption. On the present occasion he regretted, no +doubt, the loss of the money, but we are bound to say, that he would +have given its amount fifteen times repeated, to get once more into his +hands the single pound-note of which he had treacherously and like +a coward robbed Fenton while asleep in the carriage. This loss, in +connection With the robbery which occasioned it, forced him to retrace +to a considerable extent the process of ratiocination on the subject +of fate and destiny, in which he had so complacently indulged not long +before. + +No matter how deep and hardened any villain may be, the most reckless +and unscrupulous of the class possess some conscious principle within, +that tells them of their misdeeds, and acquaints them with the fact that +a point in the moral government of life has most certainly been made +against them. So was it now with the baronet. He laid himself upon his +gorgeous bed a desponding, and, for the present, a discomfited man; +nor could he for the life of him, much as he pretended to disregard the +operations of a Divine Providence, avoid coming to the conclusion that +the highway robbery committed on him looked surprisingly like an act +of retributive justice. He consoled himself, it is true, with the +reflection, that it was not for the value of the note that he had +committed the crime upon Fenton, for to him the note, except for its +mere amount, was in other respects valueless. But what galled him to +the soul, was the bitter reflection that he did not, on perceiving its +advantage to Fenton, at once destroy it--tear it up--eat it--swallow +it--and thus render it utterly impossible to ever contravene his +ambition or his crimes. In the meantime slumber stole upon him, but it +was neither deep nor refreshing. His mind was a chaos of dark projects +and frightful images. Fenton--the ragged and gigantic robber, who was +so much changed by famine and misery that he did not know him--the +stranger--his daughter--Ginty Cooper, the fortune-teller--Lord +Cullamore--the terrible pistol at his brain--Dunroe--and all those +who were more or less concerned in or affected by his schemes, flitted +through his disturbed fancy like the figures in a magic lantern, +rendering his sleep feverish, disturbed, and by many degrees more +painful than his waking reflections. + +It has been frequently observed, that violence and tyranny overshoot +their mark; and we may add, that no craft, however secret its +operations, or rather however secret they are designed to be, can cope +with the consequences of even the simplest accident. A short, feverish +attack of illness having seized Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, on the +night of Fenton's removal, she persuaded one of the maids to sit up with +her, in order to provide her with whey and nitre, which she took from +time to time, for the purpose of relieving her by cooling the system. +The attack though short was a sharp one, and the poor woman was really +very ill. In the course of the night, this girl was somewhat surprised +by hearing noises in and about the stables, and as she began to +entertain apprehension from robbers, she considered it her duty to +consult the sick woman as to the steps she ought to take. + +“Take no steps,” replied the prudent housekeeper, “till we know, if we +can, what the noise proceeds from. Go into that closet, but don't take +the candle, lest the light of it might alarm them--it overlooks the +stable-yard--open the window gently; you know it turns upon hinges--and +look out cautiously. If Sir Thomas is disturbed by a false alarm, you +might fly at once; for somehow of late he has lost all command of his +temper.” + +“But we know the reason of that, Mrs. Morgan,” replied the girl. “It's +because Miss Gourlay refuses to marry Lord Dunroe, and because he's +afraid that she'll run away with a very handsome gentleman that stops in +the Mitre. That's what made him lock her up.” + +“Don't you breathe a syllable of that,” said the cautious Mrs. Morgan, +“for fear you might get locked up yourself. You know, nothing that +happens in this family is ever to be spoken of to any one, on pain of +Sir Thomas's severest displeasure; and you have not come to this time +of day without understanding what what means. But don't talk to me, +or rather, don't expect me to talk to you. My head is very ill, and my +pulse going at a rapid rate. Another drink of that whey, Nancy; then +see, if you can, what that noise means.” + +Nancy, having handed her the whey, went to the closet window to +reconnoitre; but the reader may judge of her surprise on seeing Sir +Thomas himself moving about with a dark lantern, and giving directions +to Gillespie, who was putting the horses to the carriage. She returned +to the housekeeper on tip-toe, her face brimful of mystery and delight. + +“What do you think, Mrs. Morgan? If there isn't Sir Thomas himself +walking about with a little lantern, and giving orders to Gillespie, who +is yoking the coach.” + +Mrs. Morgan could not refrain from smiling at this comical expression of +yoking the coach; but her face soon became serious, and she said, with +a sigh, “I hope in God this is no further act of violence against his +angel of a daughter. What else could he mean by getting out a carriage +at this hour of the night? Go and look again, Nancy, and see whether you +may not also get a glimpse of Miss Gourlay.” + +Nancy, however, arrived at the window only in time to see her master +enter the carriage, and the carriage disappear out of the yard; but +whether Miss Gourlay was in it along with him, the darkness of the night +prevented her from ascertaining. After some time, however, she threw out +a suggestion, on which, with the consent of the patient, she immediately +acted. This was to discover, if possible, whether Miss Gourlay with her +maid was in her own room or not. She accordingly went with a light and +stealthy pace to the door; and as she knew that its fair occupant always +slept with a night-light in her chamber, she put her pretty eye to the +keyhole, in order to satisfy herself on this point. All, however, so far +as both sight and hearing could inform her, was both dark and silent. +This was odd; nay, not only odd, but unusual. She now felt her heart +palpitate; she was excited, alarmed. What was to be done? She would take +a bold step--she would knock--she would whisper through the key-hole, +and set down the interruption to anxiety to mention Mrs. Morgan's sudden +and violent illness. Well, all these remedies for curiosity were tried, +all these, steps taken, and, to a certain extent, they were successful; +for there could indeed be little doubt that Miss Gourlay and her maid +were not in the apartment. Everything now pertaining to the mysterious +motions of Sir Thomas and his coachman was as clear as crystal. He had +spirited her away somewhere--“placed her, the old brute, under some +she-dragon or other, who would make her feed on raw flesh and cobwebs, +with a view of reducing her strength and breaking her spirit.” + +Mrs. Morgan, however, with her usual good sense and prudence, +recommended the lively girl to preserve the strictest silence on what +she had seen, and to allow the other servants to find the secret out +for themselves if they could. To-morrow might disclose more, but as at +present they had nothing stronger than suspicion, it would be wrong +to speak of it, and might, besides, be prejudicial to Miss Gourlay's +reputation. Such was the love and respect which all the family felt for +the kind-hearted and amiable Lucy, who was the general advocate with +her father when any of them had incurred his displeasure, that on her +account alone, even if dread of Sir Thomas did not loom like a gathering +storm in the background, not one of them ever seemed to notice her +absence, nor did the baronet himself until days had elapsed. On the +morning of the third day he began to think, that perhaps confinement +might have tamed her down into somewhat of a more amenable spirit; and +as he had in the interval taken all necessary steps to secure the +person of the man who robbed him, and offered a large reward for his +apprehension, he felt somewhat satisfied that he had done all that could +be done, and was consequently more at leisure, and also more anxious to +ascertain the temper of mind in which he should find her. + +In the meantime, the delicious scandal of the supposed elopement was +beginning to creep abroad, and, in fact, was pretty generally rumored +throughout the redoubtable town of Ballytrain on the morning of the +third or fourth day. Of course, we need scarcely assure our intelligent +readers, that the friends of the parties are the very last to whom such +a scandal would be mentioned, not only because such an office is always +painful, but because every one takes it for granted that they are +already aware of it themselves. In the case before us, such was the +general opinion, and Sir Thomas's silence on the subject was imputed +by some to the natural delicacy of a father in alluding to a subject so +distressing, and by others to a calm, quiet spirit of vengeance, which +he only restrained until circumstances should place him in a condition +to crush the man who had entailed shame and disgrace upon his name and +family. + +Such was the state of circumstances upon the third or fourth morning +after Lucy's disappearance, when Sir Thomas called the footman, and +desired him to send Miss Gourlay's maid to him; he wished to speak with +her. + +By this, time it was known through the whole establishment that Lucy and +she had both disappeared, and, thanks to Nancy--to pretty Nancy--“that +her own father, the hard-hearted old wretch, had forced her off--God +knows where--in the dead of night.” + +The footman, who had taken Nancy's secret for granted; and, to tell the +truth, he had it in the most agreeable and authentic shape--to wit, +from her own sweet lips--and who could be base enough to doubt any +communication so delightfully conveyed?--the footman, we say, on +hearing this command from his master, started a little, and in the +confusion or forgetfulness of the moment, almost stared at him. + +“What, sirrah,” exclaimed the latter; “did you hear what I said?” + +“I did, sir,” replied the man, still more confused; “but, I thought, +your honor, that--” + +“You despicable scoundrel!” said his master, stamping, “what means this? +You thought! What right, sir, have you to think, or to do anything but +obey your orders from me. It was not to think, sir, I brought you +here, but to do your duty as footman. Fetch Miss Gourlay's maid, sir, +immediately. Say I desire to speak with her.” + +“She is not within, sir,” replied the man trembling. + +“Then where is she, sir? Why is she absent from her charge?” + +“I cannot tell, sir. We thought, sir--” + +“Thinking again, you scoundrel!--speak out, however.” + +“Why, the truth is, your honor, that neither Miss Gourlay nor she has +been here since Tuesday night last.” + +The baronet had been walking to and fro, as was his wont, but this +information paralyzed him, as if by a physical blow on the brain. He now +went, or rather tottered over, to his arm-chair, into which he dropped +rather than sat, and stared at Gibson the footman as if he had forgotten +the intelligence just conveyed to him. In fact, his confusion was +such--so stunning was the blow--that it is possible he did forget it. + +“What is that, Gibson?” said he; “tell me; repeat what you said.” + +“Why, your honor,” replied Gibson, “since last Tuesday night neither +Miss Gourlay nor her maid has been in this house.” + +“Was there no letter left, nor any verbal information that might satisfy +us as to where they have gone?” + +“Not any, sir, that I am aware of.” + +“Was her room examined?” + +“I cannot say, sir. You know, sir, I never enter it unless when I am +rung for by Miss Gourlay; and that is very rarely.” + +“Do you think, Gibson, that there is any one in the house that knows +more of this matter than you do?” + +Gibson shook his head, and replied, “As to that, Sir Thomas, I cannot +say.” + +The baronet was not now in a rage. The thing was impossible; not within +the energies of nature. He was stunned, stupefied, rendered helpless. + +“I think,” he proceeded, “I observed a girl named Nancy--I forget what +else, Nancy something--that Miss Gourlay seemed to like a good deal. +Send her here. But before you do so, may I beg to know why her father, +her natural guardian and protector, was kept so long in ignorance of her +extraordinary disappearance? Pray, Mr. Gibson, satisfy me on that head?” + +“I think, sir,” replied Gibson, most un-gallantly shifting the danger +of the explanation from his own shoulders to the pretty ones of Nancy +Forbes--“I think, sir, Nancy Forbes, the girl you speak of, may know +more about the last matter than I do.” + +“What do you mean by the last matter?” + +“Why, sir, the reason why we did not tell your honor of it sooner--” + +Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Go,” he added, “send her here.” + +“D--n the old scoundrel,” thought Gibson to himself; “but that's a fine +piece of acting. Why, if he hadn't been aware of it all along he would +have thrown me clean out of the window, even as the messenger of such +tidings. However, he is not so deep as he thinks himself. We know +him--see through him--on this subject at least.” + +When Nancy entered, her master gave her one of those stern, searching +looks which often made his unfortunate menials tremble before him. + +“What's your name, my good girl?” + +“Nancy Forbes, sir.” + +“How long have you been in this family?” + +“I'm in the first month of my second quarter, your honor,” with a +courtesy. + +“You are a pretty girl.” + +Nancy, with another courtesy, and a simper, which vanity, for the life +of her, could not suppress, “Oh la, sir, how could your honor say such +a thing of a humble girl like me? You that sees so many handsome great +ladies.” + +“Have you a sweetheart?” + +Nancy fairly tittered. “Is it me, sir--why, who would think of the like +of me? Not one, sir, ever I had.” + +“Because, if you have,” he proceeded, “and that I approve of him, I +wouldn't scruple much to give you something that might enable you and +your husband to begin the world with comfort.” + +“I'm sure it's very kind, your honor, but I never did anything to +desarve so much goodness at your honor's hands.” + +“The old villain wants to bribe me for something,” thought Nancy. + +“Well, but you may, my good girl. I think you are a favorite with Miss +Gourlay?” + +“Ha, ha!” thought Nancy, “I am sure of it now.” + +“That's more than I know, sir,” she replied. “Miss Gourlay--God bless +and protect her--was kind to every one; and not more so to me than to +the other servants.” + +“I have just been informed by Gibson, that she and her maid left the +Hall on Tuesday night last. Now, answer me truly, and you shall be the +better for it. Have you any conception, any suspicion, let us say, where +they have gone to?” + +“La, sir, sure your honor ought to know that better than me.” + +“How so, my pretty girl? How should I know it? She told me nothing about +it.” + +“Why, wasn't it your honor and Tom Gillespie that took her away in the +carriage on that very night?” + +Here now was wit against wit, or at least cunning against cunning. +Nancy, the adroit, hazarded an assertion of which she was not certain, +in order to probe the baronet, and place him in a position by which she +might be able by his conduct and manner to satisfy herself whether her +suspicions were well-founded or not. + +“But how do you know, my good girl, that I and Gillespie were out that +night?” + +It is unnecessary to repeat here circumstances with which the reader is +already acquainted. Nancy gave him the history of Mrs. Morgan's sudden +illness, and all the other facts already mentioned. + +“But there is one thing that I still cannot understand,” replied the +baronet, “which is, that the disappearance of Miss Gourlay was never +mentioned to me until I inquired for her maid, whom I wished to speak +with.” + +“But sure that's very natural, sir,” replied Nancy; “the reason we +didn't speak to you upon the subject was because we thought that it was +your honor who brought her away; and that as you took such a late hour +in the night for it, you didn't wish that we should know anything about +it.” + +The baronet's eye fell upon her severely, as if he doubted the truth +of what she said. Nancy's eye, however, neither avoided his nor quailed +before it. She now spoke the truth, and she did so, in order to prevent +herself and the other servants from incurring his resentment by their +silence. + +“Very well,” observed Sir Thomas, calmly, but sternly. “I think you have +spoken what you believe to be the truth, and what, for all you know, may +be the truth. But observe my words: let this subject be never +breathed nor uttered by any domestic in my establishment. Tell your +fellow-servants that such are my orders; for I swear, if I find that any +one of you shall speak of it, my utmost vengeance shall pursue him or +her to death itself. That will do.” And he signed to her to retire. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. Dunphy visits the County Wicklow + +--Old Sam and his Wife. + + +It was about a week subsequent to the interview which the stranger had +with old Dunphy, unsuccessful as our readers know it to have been, that +the latter and his wife were sitting in the back parlor one night after +their little shop had been closed, when the following dialogue took +place between them: + +“Well, at all events,” observed the old man, “he was the best of them, +and to my own knowledge that same saicret lay hot and heavy on his +conscience, especially to so good a master and mistress as they were to +him. The truth is, Polly, I'll do it.” + +“But why didn't he do it himself?” asked his wife. + +“Why?--why?” he replied, looking at her with his keen ferret eyes--“why, +don't you know what a weak-minded, timorsome creature he was, ever since +the height o' my knee?” + +“Oh, ay,” she returned; “and I hard something about an oath, I think, +that they made him take.” + +“You did,” said her husband; “and it was true, too. They swore him never +to breathe a syllable of it until his dying day--an' although they meant +by that that he should never reveal it at all, yet he always was of +opinion that he might tell it on that day, but on no other one. And it +was his intention to do so.” + +“Wasn't it an unlucky thing that she happened to be out when he could +do it with a safe conscience?” observed his wife. + +“They almost threatened the life out of the poor creature,” pursued +her husband, “for Tom threatened to murder him if he betrayed them; and +Ginty to poison him, if Tom didn't keep his word--and I believe in my +sowl that the same devil's pair would a' done either the one or the +other, if he had broken his oath. Of the two, however, Ginty's the +worst, I think; and I often believe, myself, that she deals with the +devil; but that, I suppose, is bekaise she's sometimes not right in her +head still.” + +“If she doesn't dale with the devil, the devil dales with her at any +rate,” replied the other. “They'll be apt to gain their point, Tom and +she.” + +“Tom, I know, is just as bitther as she is,” observed the old man, “and +Ginty, by her promises as to what she'll do for him, has turned his +heart altogether to stone; and yet I know a man that's bittherer against +the black fellow than either o' them. She only thinks of the luck that's +before her; but, afther all, Tom acts more from hatred to him than from +Ginty's promises. He has no bad feelin' against the young man himself; +but it's the others he's bent on punishing. God direct myself, I wish +at any rate that I never had act or hand in it. As for your time o' life +and mine, Polly, you know that age puts it out of our power ever to be +much the betther one way or the other, even if Ginty does succeed in her +devilry. Very few years now will see us both in our graves, and I don't +know but it's safer to lave this world with an aisy conscience, than to +face God with the guilt of sich a black saicret as that upon us.” + +“Well, but haven't you promised them not to tell?” + +“I have--an' only that I take sich delight in waitin' to see the black +scoundrel punished till his heart 'll burst--I think I'd come out +with it. That's one raison; and the other is, that I'm afraid of the +consequences. The law's a dangerous customer to get one in its crushes, +an' who can tell how we'd be dealt with?” + +“Troth, an' that's true enough,” she replied. + +“And when I promised poor Edward on his death-bed,” proceeded the old +man, “I made him give me a sartin time; an' I did this in ordher to +allow Ginty an opportunity of tryin' her luck. If she does not manage +her point within that time, I'll fulfil my promise to the dyin' man.” + +“But, why,” she asked, “did he make you promise to do it when he +could--ay, but I forgot. It was jist, I suppose, in case he might be +taken short as he was, and that you wor to do it for him if he hadn't +an opportunity? But, sure, if Ginty succeeds, there's an end to your +promise.” + +“Well, I believe so,” said the old man; “but if she does succeed, why, +all I'll wondher at will be that God would allow it. At any rate she's +the first of the family that ever brought shame an' disgrace upon the +name. Not but she felt her misfortune keen enough at the time, since +it turned her brain almost ever since. And him, the villain--but no +matter--he, must be punished.” + +“But,” replied the wife, “wont Ginty be punishin' him?” + +“Ah, Polly, you know little of the plans--the deep plans an' plots that +he's surrounded by. We know ourselves that there's not such a plotter in +existence as he is, barin' them that's plottin' aginst him. Lord bless +us! but it's a quare world--here is both parties schamin' an' +plottin' away--all bent on risin' themselves higher in it by pride and +dishonesty. There's the high rogue and the low rogue--the great villain +and the little villain--musha! Polly, which do you think is worst, eh?” + +“Faith, I think it's six o' one and half-a-dozen of the other with them. +Still, a body would suppose that the high rogue ought to rest contented; +but it's a hard thing they say to satisfy the cravin's of man's heart +when pride, an' love of wealth an' power, get into it.” + +“I'm not at all happy in my mind, Polly,” observed her husband, +meditatively; “I'm not at aise--and I won't bear this state of mind much +longer. But, then, again, there's my pension; and that I'll lose if I +spake out. I sometimes think I'll go to the country some o' these days, +and see an ould friend.” + +“An where to, if it's a fair question?” + +“Why,” he replied, “maybe it's a fair-question to ask, but not so fair +to answer. Ay! I'll go to the country--I'll start in a few days--in a +few days! No, savin' to me, but I'll start to-morrow. Polly, I could +tell you something if I wished--I say I have a secret that none o' them +knows--ay, have I. Oh, God pardon me! The d----d thieves, to make me, me +above all men, do the blackest part of the business--an' to think o' the +way they misled Edward, too--who, after all, would be desavin' poor Lady +Gourlay, if he had tould her all as he thought, although he did not know +that he would be misleadin' her. Yes, faith, I'll start for the country +tomorrow, plaise God; but listen, Polly, do you know who's in town?” + +“Arra, no!--how could I?” + +“Kate M'Bride, so Ginty tells me; she's livin' with her.” + +“And why didn't she call to see you?” asked his wife. “And yet God knows +it's no great loss; but if ever woman was cursed wid a step-daughter, I +was wid her.” + +“Don't you know very well that we never spoke since her runaway match +with M'Bride. If she had married Cummins, I'd a' given her a purty penny +to help him on; but instead o' that she cuts off with a sojer, bekaise +he was well faced, and starts with him to the Aist Indies. No; I +wouldn't spake to her then, and I'm not sure I'll spake to her now +either; and yet I'd like to see her--the unfortunate woman. However, +I'll think of it; but in the mane time, as I said, I'll start for the +country in the mornin'.” + +And to the country he did start the next morning; and if, kind reader, +it so happen that you feel your curiosity in any degree excited, all you +have to do is to take a seat in your own imagination, whether outside +or in, matters not, the fare is the same, and thus you will, at no great +cost, be able to accompany him. But before we proceed further we shall, +in the first place, convey you in ours to the ultimate point of his +journey. + +There was, in one of the mountain districts of the county Wicklow, that +paradise of our country, a small white cottage, with a neat flower plot +before, and a small orchard and garden behind. It stood on a little +eminence, at the foot of one of those mountains, which, in some +instances, abut from higher ranges. It was then bare and barren; but at +present presents a very different aspect, a considerable portion of it +having been since reclaimed and planted. Scattered around this rough +district were a number of houses that could be classed with neither +farm-house nor cabin, but as humble little buildings that possessed a +feature of each. Those who; dwelt in them held in general four or five +acres of rough land, some more, but very few less; and we allude to +these small tenements, because, as our readers are aware, the wives +of their proprietors were in the habit of eking out the means of +subsistence, and paying their rents, by nursing illegitimate children +or foundlings, which upon a proper understanding, and in accordance +with the usual arrangements, were either transmitted to them from the +hospital of that name in Dublin, or taken charge of by these women, and +conveyed home from that establishment itself. The children thus nurtured +were universally termed parisheens, because it was found more convenient +and less expensive to send a country foundling to the hospital +in Dublin, than to burden the inhabitants of the parish with its +maintenance. A small sum, entitling it to be received in the hospital, +was remitted, and as this sum, in most instances, was levied off the +parish, these wretched creatures were therefore called parisheens, that +is, creatures! aided by parish allowance. + +The very handsome little cottage into which we are about to give the +reader admittance, commanded a singularly beautiful and picturesque +view. From the little elevation on which it stood could be seen the +entrancing vale of Ovoca, winding in its inexpressible loveliness toward +Arklow, and diversified with green meadows, orchard gardens, elegant +villas, and what was sweeter! than all, warm and comfortable homesteads, +more than realizing our conceptions of Arcadian happiness and beauty. +Its precipitous sides were clothed with the most enchanting variety +of plantation; whilst, like a stream of liquid light, the silver Ovoca +shone sparkling to the sun, as it followed, by the harmonious law of +nature, that graceful line of beauty which characterizes the windings of +this unrivalled valley. The cottage which commanded this rich prospect +we have partially described. It was white as snow, and had about it all +those traits of neatness and good taste which are, we regret! to say, +so rare among, and so badly understood by, our humbler countrymen. The +front walls were covered by honeysuckles, rose trees, and wild brier, +and the flower plot in front was so well stocked, that its summer bloom +would have done credit to the skill of an ordinary florist. The inside +of this cottage was equally neat, clean, and cheerful. The floor, an +unusual thing then, was tiled, which gave it a look of agreeable warmth; +the wooden vessels in the kitchen were white with incessant scouring, +whilst the pewter, brass, and tin, shone in becoming rivalry. The room +you entered was the kitchen, off which was a parlor and two bedrooms, +besides one for the servant. + +As may be inferred from what we have said, the dresser was a perfect +treat to look at, and as the owners kept a cow, we need hardly add that +the delightful fragrance of milk which characterizes every well-kept +dairy, was perfectly ambrosial here. The chairs were of oak, so were the +tables; and a large arm-chair, with a semicircular back, stood at one +side of the clean hearth, whilst over the chimney-piece hung a portrait +of General Wolfe, with an engraving of the siege of Quebec. A series of +four silver medals, enclosed in red morocco cases, having the surface +of each protected by a glass cover, hung from a liliputian rack made of +mahogany, at once bearing testimony to the enterprise and gallantry +of the owner, as well as to the manly pride with which he took such +especial pains to preserve these proud rewards of his courage, and the +ability with which he must have discharged his duty as a soldier. On the +table lay a large Bible, a Prayer-book, and the “Whole Duty of Man,” + all neatly and firmly, but not ostentatiously bound. Some works of a +military character lay upon a little hanging shelf beside the dresser. +Over this shelf hung a fishing-rod, unscrewed and neatly tied up; and +upon the top of the other books lay one bound with red cloth, in which +he kept his flies. On one side of the window sills lay a backgammon box, +with which his wife and himself amused themselves for an hour or two +every evening; and fixed in recesses intended for the purpose, Sam +Roberts, for such was his name, having built the house himself, were +comfortable cupboards filled with a variety of delft, several curious +and foreign ornaments, an ostrich's egg, a drinking cup made of the +polished shell of a cocoanut, whilst crossed saltier-wise over a +portrait of himself and of his wife, were placed two feathers of the +bird of paradise, constituting, one might imagine, emblems significant +of the happy life they led. But we cannot close our description here. +Upon the good woman's bosom, fastened to her kerchief, was a locket +which contained a portion of beautiful brown hair, taken from the +youthful head of a deceased son, a manly and promising boy, who died at +the age of seventeen, and whose death, although it did not and could +not throw a permanent gloom over two lives so innocent and happy, +occasioned, nevertheless, periodical recollections of profound and +bitter sorrow. Old Sam had his locket also, but it was invisible; +its position being on that heart whose affections more resembled the +enthusiasm of idolatry than the love of a parent. His wife was a placid, +contented looking old woman, with a complexion exceedingly hale and +fresh for her years; a shrewd, clear, benevolent eye, and a general +air which never fails to mark that ease and superiority of manner to +be found only in those who have had an enlarged experience in life, +and seen much of the world. There she sits by the clear fire and clean, +comfortable hearth, knitting a pair of stockings for her husband, who +has gone to Dublin. She is tidily and even, for a woman of her age, +tastefully dressed, but still with a sober decency that showed her good +sense. Her cap is as white as snow, with which a well-fitting brown +stuff gown, that gave her a highly respectable appearance, admirably +contrasted. She wore an apron of somewhat coarse muslin, that seemed, +as it always did, fresh from the iron, and her hands were covered with a +pair of thread mittens that only came half-way down the fingers. Hanging +at one side was a three-cornered pincushion of green silk, a proof +at once of a character remarkable for thrift, neatness, and industry. +Whilst thus employed, she looks from time to time through a window that +commanded a prospect of the road, and seems affected by that complacent +expression of uneasiness which, whilst it overshadows the features, +never disturbs their benignity. At length, a good-looking, neat girl, +their servant, enters the cottage with a can of new milk, for she had +been to the fields a-milking; her name is Molly Byrne. + +“Molly,” said her mistress, “I wonder the master has not come yet. I +am getting uneasy. The coach has gone past, and I see no appearance of +him.” + +“I suppose, then, he didn't come by the coach, ma'am.” + +“Yes, but he said he would.” + +“Well, ma'am, something must 'a prevented him.” + +“Molly,” said her mistress, smiling, “you are a good hand at telling us +John Thompson's news; that is, any thing we know ourselves.” + +“Well, ma'am, but you know many a time he goes to Dublin, an' doesn't +come home by the coach.” + +“Yes, whenever he visits Rilmainham Hospital, and gets into conversation +with some of his old comrades; however, that's natural, and I hope he's +safe.” + +“Well, ma'am,” replied Molly, looking out, “I have betther news for you +than Jenny Thompson's now.” + +“Attention, Molly; John Thompson's the word,” said her mistress, with +the slightest conceivable air of professional form; for if she had +a foible at all, it was that she gave all her orders and exacted all +obedience from her servant in a spirit of military discipline, which +she, had unconsciously borrowed from her husband, whom she imitated as +far as she could. “Where, Molly? Fall back, I say, till I get a peep at +dear old Sam.” + +“There he is, ma'am,” continued Molly, at the same time obeying her +orders, “and some other person along with him.” + +“Yes, sure enough; thank God, thank God!” she exclaimed. “But who can +the other person be, do you think?” + +“I don't know, ma'am,” replied Molly. “I only got a glimpse of them, but +I knew the master at once. I would know him round a corner.” + +“Advance, then, girl; take another look; reconnoitre, Molly, as Sam +says, and see if you can make out who it is.” + +“I see him now well enough, ma'am,” replied the girl, “but I don't know +him; he's a stranger. What can bring a stranger here, ma'am, do you +think?” she inquired. + +“Why your kind master, of course, girl; isn't that sufficient? Whoever +comes with my dear old Sam is welcome, to be sure.” + +Her clear, cloudless face was now lit up with a multiplicity of kind and +hospitable thoughts, for dear old Sam and his friend were not more than +three or four perches from the house, and she could perceive that her +husband was in an extraordinary state of good humor. + +“I know, Molly, who the strange man is now,” she said. “He's an old +friend of my husband's, named Dunphy; he was once in the same regiment +with him; and I know, besides, our own good man has heard some news that +has delighted him very much.” + +She had scarcely uttered the words when Sam and old Dunphy entered. + +“Beck, my girl, here I am, safe and sound, and here's an old friend come +to see us, and you know how much we are both indebted to him; I felt, +Beck, and so did you, old girl, that we must have something to love +and provide for, and to keep the heart moving, but that's natural, you +know--quite natural--it's all the heart of man.” + +“Mr. Dunphy,” said Beck--a curtailment of Rebecca--“I am glad to see +you; take a seat; how is the old woman?” + +“As tough as ever, Mrs. Roberts. 'Deed I had thought last winter that +she might lave me a loose leg once more; but I don't know how it is, +she's gatherin' strength on my hands, an' a young wife, I'm afraid, +isn't on the cards--ha--ha--ha! And how are you yourself, Mrs. +Roberts?--but, indeed, one may tell with half an eye--fresh and well you +look, thank God!” + +“Doesn't she, man?” exclaimed Sam, slapping him with delight on the +shoulder; “a woman that travelled half the world, and improved in every +climate. Molly, attention!--let us turn in to mess as soon as possible. +Good news, Beck--good news, but not till after mess; double-quick, +Molly.” + +“Come, Molly, double-quick,” added her mistress; “the master and his +friend must be hungry by this time.” + +Owing to the expeditious habits to which Mrs. Roberts had disciplined +Molly, a smoking Irish stew, hot and savory, was before them in a few +minutes, which the two old fellows attacked with powers of demolition +that would have shamed younger men. There was for some time a very +significant lull in the conversation, during which Molly, by a hint from +her mistress, put down the kettle, an act which, on being observed by +Dunphy, made his keen old eye sparkle with the expectation of what it +suggested. Shovelful after shovelful passed from dish to plate, until a +very relaxed action on the part of each was evident. + +“Dunphy,” said Sam, “I, believe our fire is beginning to slacken; but +come, let us give the enemy another round, the citadel is nearly won--is +on the point of surrender.” + +“Begad,” replied Dunphy, who was well acquainted with his friend's +phraseology, and had seen some service, as already intimated, in the +same regiment, some fifty years before. “I must lay down my arms for the +present.” + +“No matter, friend Dunphy, we'll renew the attack at supper; an easy +mind brings a good appetite, which is but natural; it's all the heart of +man.” + +“Well, I don't know that,” said Dunphy, replying to, the first of the +axioms; “I have often aiten a hearty dinner enough when my mind was, God +knows, anything but aisy.” + +“Well, then,” rejoined Sam, “when the heart's down, a glass of old +stingo, mixed stiff, will give it a lift; so, my old fellow, if there's +anything wrong with you, we'll soon set it to rights.” + +The table was now cleared, and the word “Hot wate-r-r,” was given, as if +Molly had been on drill, as in fact, she may be considered to have been +every day in the week; then the sugar and whiskey in the same tone. But +whilst she is preparing and producing the materials, as they have been +since termed, we shall endeavor to give an outline of old Sam. + +Old Sam, then, was an erect, square-built, fine-looking old fellow, with +firm, massive, but benevolent features; not, however, without a dash of +determination in them that added very considerably to their interest. +His eyes were gray, kind, and lively; his eyebrows rather large, but +their expression was either stern or complacent, according to the +mood of the moment. That of complacency, however, was their general +character. Upon the front part of his head he had received a severe +wound, which extended an inch or so down the side of his forehead, +he had also lost the two last fingers of his left hand, and received +several other wounds that were severe and dangerous when inflicted, +but as their scars were covered by his dress, they were consequently +invisible. Sam was at this time close upon seventy, but so regular had +been his habits of life, so cheerful and kind his disposition, and so +excellent his constitution, that he did not look more than fifty-five. +It was utterly impossible not to read the fine old soldier in every one +of his free, but well-disciplined, movements. The black stock, the bold, +erect head, the firm but measured step, and the existence of something +like military ardor in the eye and whole bearing; or it might be the +proud consciousness of having bravely and faithfully discharged his duty +to his king and his country; all this, we say, marked the man with an +impress of such honest pride and frank military spirit, as, taken into +consideration with his fine figure, gave the very _beau ideal_ of an old +soldier. + +When each had mixed his tumbler, Sam, brimful of the good news to which +he had alluded, filled a small glass, as was his wont, and placing it +before Beck, said: + +“Come, Beck, attention!--'The king, God bless him!' Attention, +Dunphy!--off with it.” + +“The king, God bless him!” having been duly honored, Sam proceeded: + +“Beck, my old partner, I said I had good news for you. Our son and +his regiment--three times eleven, eleven times three--the gallant +thirty-third, are in Dublin.” + +Beck laid down her stocking, and her eyes sparkled with delight. + +“But that's not all, old girl, he has risen from the ranks--his +commission has been just made out, and he is now a commissioned officer +in his majesty's service. But I knew it would come to that. Didn't I say +so, old comrade, eh?” + +“Indeed you did, Sam,” replied his wife; “and I thought as much myself. +There was something about that boy beyond the common.” + +“Ay, you may say that, girl; but who found it out first? Why, I did; +but the thing was natural; it's all the heart of man--when that's in the +right place nothing will go wrong. What do you say, friend Dunphy? Did +you think it would ever come to this?” + +“Troth, I did not, Mr. Roberts; but it's you he may thank for it.” + +“God Almighty first, Dunphy, and me afterwards. Well, he shan't want a +father, at all events; and so long as I have a few shiners to spare, he +shan't want the means of supporting his rank as a British officer and +gentleman should. There's news for you, Dunphy. Do you hear that, you +old dog--eh?” + +“It's all the heart of man, Sam,” observed his wife, eying him with +affectionate admiration. “When the heart's in the right place, nothing +will go wrong.” + +Now, nothing gratified Sam so much as to hear his own apothegms honored +by repetition. + +“Eight, girl,” he replied; “shake hands for that. Dunphy, mark the truth +of that. Isn't she worth gold, you sinner?” + +“Troth she is, Mr. Roberts, and silver to the back o' that.” + +“What?” said Sam, looking at him with comic surprise. “What do you mean +by that, you ferret? Why don't you add, and 'brass to the back of that?' +By fife and drum, I won't stand this to Beck. Apologize instantly, +sir.” Then breaking into a hearty laugh--“he meant no offence, Beck,” he +added; “he respects and loves you--I know he does--as who doesn't that +knows you, my girl?” + +“What I meant to say, Mr. Roberts--” + +“Mrs. Roberts, sir; direct the apology to herself.” + +“Well, then, what I wanted to say, Mrs. Roberts, was, that all the +gold, silver, and brass in his majesty's dominions--(God bless him! +parenthetice, from Sam)--couldn't purchase you, an' would fall far short +of your value.” + +“Well done--thank you, Dunphy--thank you, honest old Dunphy; shake +hands. He's a fine old fellow, Beck, isn't he, eh?” + +“I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Dunphy; but you overrate me a great +deal too much,” replied Mrs. Roberts. + +“No such thing, Beck; you're wrong there, for once; the thing couldn't +be done--by fife and drum! it couldn't; and no man has a better right to +know that than myself--and I say it.” + +Sam, like all truly brave men, never boasted of his military exploits, +although he might well have done so. On the contrary, it was a subject +which he studiously avoided, and on which those who knew his modesty as +well as his pride never ventured. He usually cut short such as referred +to it, with: + +“Never mind that, my friend; I did my duty, and that was all; and so did +every man in the British army, or I wouldn't be here to say so. Pass the +subject.” + +Sam and Dunphy, at all events, spent a pleasant evening; at least, +beyond question, Sam did. As for Dunphy, he seemed occasionally relieved +by hearing Sam's warm and affectionate allusions to his son; and, on +the other hand, he appeared, from time to time, to fall into a mood that +indicated a state of feeling between gloom and reflection. + +“It's extraordinary, Mr. Roberts,” he observed, after awakening from one +of these reveries; “it looks as if Providence was in it.” + +“God Almighty's in it, sir,--didn't I say so? and under him, Sam +Roberts. Sir, I observed that boy closely from the beginning. He +reminded me, and you too, Beck, didn't he, of him that--that--we +lost”--here he paused a moment, and placed his hand upon his heart, +as if to feel for something there that awoke touching and melancholy +remembrances; whilst his wife, on the other hand, unpinned the locket, +and having kissed it, quietly let fall a few tears; after which she +restored it to its former position. Sam cleared his voice a little, and +then proceeded: + +“Yes; I could never look at the one without thinking of the other; but +'twas all the heart of man. In a week's time he could fish as well as +myself, and in a short time began to teach me. 'Gad! he used to take +the rod out of my hand with so much kindness, so gently and +respectfully--for, I mark me, Dunphy, he respected me from the +beginning--didn't lie, Beck?” + +“He did, indeed, Sam.” + +“Thank you, Beck; you're a good creature. So gently and respectfully, +as I was saying, and showed me in his sweet words, and with his smiling +eyes--yes, and his hair, too, was the very color of his brother's--I was +afraid I might forget that. Well--yes, with such smiling eyes that it +was impossible not to love him--I couldn't but love him--but, sure, it +was only natural--all the heart of man, Dunphy. 'Ned,' said I to him one +day, 'would you like to become a soldier--a soldier, Ned?'” And as +the old man repeated the word “soldier” his voice became full and +impressive, his eyes sparkled with pride, and his very form seemed to +dilate at the exulting reminiscences and heroic associations connected +with it. + +“Above all things in this life,” replied the boy; “but you know I'm too +young.” + +“'Never mind, my boy,' said I, 'that's a fault that every day will mend; +you'll never grow less;' so I consulted with Beck there, and with you, +Dunphy, didn't I?” + +“You did, indeed, Mr. Roberts, and wouldn't do anything till you had +spoken to me on the subject.” + +“Eight, Dunphy, right--well, you know the rest. 'Education's the point,' +said I to Beck--ignorance is a bad inheritance. What would I be to-day +if I didn't write a good hand, and was a keen accountant! But no matter, +off he went with a decent outfit to honest Mainwairing--thirty pounds +a-year--five years--lost no time--was steady, but always showed a +spirit. Couldn't get him a commission then, for I hadn't come in for my +Uncle's legacy, which I got the other day.--dashed him into the ranks +though--and here he is--a commissioned officer--eh, old Dunphy! Well, +isn't that natural? but it's all the heart of man.” + +“It's wonderful,” observed Dunphy, ruminating, “it's wonderful indeed. +Well, now, Mr. Roberts, it really is wonderful. I came down here to +spake to you about that very boy, and see the news I have before me. +Indeed, it is wonderful, and the hand o' God is surely in it.” + +“Right, Dunphy, that's the word; and under him, in the capacity of agent +in the business, book down Sam Roberts, who's deeply thankful to God +for making him, if I may say so, his adjutant in advancing the boy's +fortunes.” + +“Did you see him to-day, Sam?” asked Mrs. Roberts. + +“No,” replied Sam, “he wasn't in the barracks, but I'll engage we'll +both see him tomorrow, if he has life, that is, unless he should happen +to be on duty. If he doesn't come to-morrow, however, I'll start the day +after for Dublin.” + +“Well, now, Mr. Roberts,” said Dunphy, “if you have no objection, I +didn't care if I turned into bed; I'm not accustomed to travelin', +and I'm a thrifle fatigued; only tomorrow morning, plaise God, I have +something to say to you about that boy that may surprise you.” + +“Not a syllable, Dunphy, nothing about him that could surprise me.” + +“Well,” replied the hesitating and cautious old man, “maybe I will +surprise you for all that.” + +This he said whilst Mrs. Roberts and Molly Byrne were preparing his bed +in one of the neat sleeping rooms which stood off the pleasant kitchen +where they sat; “and listen, Mr. Roberts, before I tell it, you must +pledge your honor as a soldier, that until I give you lave, you'll never +breathe a syllable of what I have to mention to any one, not even to +Mrs. Roberts.” + +“What's that? Keep a secret from Beck? Come, Dunphy, that's what I never +did, unless the word and countersign when on duty, and, by fife and +drum, I never will keep your secret then; I don't want it, for as sure +as I hear it, so shall she. And is it afraid of old Beck you are? By +fife and drum, sir, old Beck has more honor than either of us, and would +as soon take a fancy to a coward as betray a secret. You don't know her, +old Dunphy, you don't know her, or you wouldn't spake as if you feared +that she's not truth and honesty to the backbone.” + +“I believe it, Mr. Roberts, but they say, afther all, that once a woman +gets a secret, she thinks herself in a sartin way, until she's delivered +of it'.” + +Sam, who liked a joke very well, laughed heartily at this, bad as it +was, or rather he laughed at the shrewd, ludicrous, but satirical grin +with which old Dunphy's face was puckered whilst he uttered it. + +“But, sir,” said he, resuming his gravity, “Beck, I'd have you to know, +is not like other women, by which I mean that no other woman could be +compared to her. Beck's the queen of women, upon my soul she is; and all +I have to say is, that if you tell me the secret, in half an hour's time +she'll be as well acquainted with it as either of us. I have no notion, +Dunphy, at this time of life, to separate my mind from Beck's; my +conscience, sir, is my store-room; she has a key for it, and, by fife +and drum, I'm not going to take it from her now. Do you think Beck would +treat old Sam so? No. And my rule is, and ever has been, treat your wife +with confidence if you respect her, and expect confidence in your turn. +No, no; poor Beck must have it if I have it. The truth is, I have no +secrets, and never had. I keep none, Dunphy, and that's but natural; +however, it's all the heart of man.” + +The next morning the two men took an early walk, for both were in the +habit of rising betimes. Dunphy, it would appear, was one of those +individuals, who, if they ever perform a praiseworthy act, do it +rather from weakness of character and fear, than from a principle of +conscientious rectitude. After having gone to bed the previous night he +lay awake for a considerable time debating with himself the purport of +his visit, pro and con, without after all, being able to accomplish a +determination on the subject. He was timid, cunning, shrewd, avaricious, +and possessed, besides, a large portion of that peculiar superstition +which does not restrain from iniquity, although it renders the mind +anxious and apprehensive of the consequences. Now the honest fellow with +whom he had to deal was the reverse of all this in every possible +phase of his character, being candid, conscientious, fearless, +and straightforward. Whatever he felt to be his duty, that he did, +regardless of all opinion and all consequences. He was, in fact, an +independent man, because he always acted from right principles, or +rather from right impulses; the truth being, that the virtuous action +was performed before he had allowed himself time to reason upon it. +Every one must have observed that there is a rare class of men whose +feelings, always on the right side, are too quick for their reason, +which they generously anticipate, and have the proposed virtue completed +before either reason or prudence have had time to argue either for or +against the act. Old Sam was one of the latter, and our readers may +easily perceive the contrast which the two individuals presented. + +After about an hour's walk both returned to breakfast, and whatever may +have been the conversation that took place between them, or whatever +extent of confidence Dunphy reposed in old Sam, there can be little +doubt that his glee this morning was infinitely greater than on the +preceding-evening, although, at Dunphy's earnest request, considerably +more subdued. Nay, the latter had so far succeeded with old Sam as to +induce him to promise, that for the present at least, he would +forbear to communicate it to his wife. Sam, however, would under no +circumstances promise this until he should first hear the nature of it, +upon which, he said, he would then judge for himself. After hearing it, +however, he said that on Dunphy's own account he would not breathe it +even to her without his permission. + +“Mind,” said Dunphy, at the conclusion of their dialogue, and with his +usual caution, “I am not sartin of what I have mentioned; but I hope, +plaise God, in a short time to be able to prove it; and, if not, as +nobody knows it but yourself an' me, why there's no harm done. Dear +knows, I have a strong reason for lettin' the matter lie as it is, even +if my suspicions are true; but my conscience isn't aisy, Mr. Eoberts, +an' for that raison' I came to spake to you, to consult with you, and to +have your advice.” + +“And my advice to you is, Dunphy, not to attack the enemy until your +plans are properly laid, and all your forces in a good position. The +thing can't be proved now, you say; very well; you'd be only a fool for +attempting to prove it.” + +“I'm not sayin',” said the cautious old sinner again, “that it can be +proved at any time, or proved at all--that is, for a sartinty; but I +think, afther a time, it may. There's a person not now in the country, +that will be back shortly, I hope; and if any one can prove what I +mentioned to you, that person can. I know we'd make a powerful friend by +it, but--” + +Here he squirted his thin tobacco spittle “out owre his beard,” but +added nothing further. + +“Dunphy, my fine old fellow,” said Sam, “it was very kind of you to come +to me upon this point. You know the affection I have for the young man; +thank you, Dunphy; but it's natural--it's all the heart of man. Dunphy, +how long is it, now, since you and I messed together in the gallant +eleven times three? Fifty years, I think, Dunphy, or more. You were +a smart fellow then, and became servant, I think, to a young +captain--what's this his name was? oh! I remember--Gourlay; for, Dunphy, +I remember the name of every officer in our regiment, since I entered +it; when they joined, when they exchanged, sold out, or died like brave +men in the field of battle. It's upwards of fifty. By the way, he left +us--sold out immediately after his father's death.” + +“Ay, ould Sir Edward--a good man; but he had a woman to his wife, and if +ever there was a divil--Lord bless us!--in any woman, there was one, and +a choice bad one, too, in her. The present barrownight, Sir Thomas, is +as like her as if she had spat him out of her mouth. The poor ould man, +Sir Edward, had no rest night or day, because he wouldn't get himself +made into a lord, or a peer, or some high-flown title of the kind; and +all that she herself might rank as a nobleman's lady, although she was +a 'lady,' by title, as it was, which, God knows, was more than she +desarved, the thief.” + +“Ah, she was different from Beck, Dunphy. Talking of wives, have I not +a right to feel thankful that God in his goodness gifted me with such a +blessing? You don't know what I owe to her, Dunphy. When I was sick and +wounded--I bear the marks of fifteen severe wounds upon me--when I was +in fever, in ague, in jaundice, and several other complaints belonging +to the different countries we were in, there she was--there she was, +Dunphy; but enough said; ay, and in the field of battle, too,” he added, +immediately forgetting himself, “lying like a log, my tongue black and +burning. Oh, yes, Beck's a great creature; that's all, now--that's all. +Come in to breakfast, and now you shall know what a fresh egg means, for +we have lots of poultry.” + +“Many thanks to you, Mr. Roberts, I and my ould woman know that.” + +“Tut--nonsense, man; lots of poultry, I say--always a pig or two, and +never without a ham or a flitch, you old dog. Except the welfare of +that boy, we have nothing on earth, thank God, to trouble us; but that's +natural--it's all the heart of man, Dunphy” + +After having made a luxurious breakfast, Dunphy, who felt that he +could not readily remain away from his little shop, bade this most +affectionate and worthy couple good-by and proceeded on his way home. + +This hesitating old man felt anything but comfortable since the partial +confidence he had placed in old Sam. It is true, he stated the purport +of his disclosure to him as a contingency that might or might not +happen; thus, as he imagined, keeping himself on the safe side. But in +the meantime, he felt anxious, apprehensive and alarmed, even at the +lengths to which his superstitious fears had driven him; for he felt +now that one class of terrors had only superinduced another, without +destroying the first. But so must it ever be with those timid and +pusillanimous villains who strive to impose upon their consciences, and +hesitate between right and wrong. + +On his way home, however, he determined to visit the barracks in which +the thirty-third regiment lay, in order, if possible, to get a furtive +glance at the young ensign. In this he was successful. On entering the +barrack, square, he saw a group of officers chatting together on the +north side, and after inquiring from a soldier if Ensign Roberts was +among them, he was answered in the affirmative. + +“There he is,” said the man, “standing with a whip in his hand--that +tall, handsome young fellow.” + +Dunphy, who was sufficiently near to get a clear view of him, was +instantly struck by his surprising resemblance to Miss Gourlay, whom he +had often seen in town. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. Interview between Trailcudgel and the Stranger + +--A Peep at Lord Dunroe and His Friend. + + +It was on the morning that Sir Thomas Gourlay had made the disastrous +discovery of the flight of his daughter--for he had not yet heard the +spreading rumor of the imaginary elopement--that the stranger, on his +way from Father M'Mahon's to the Mitre, was met in a lonely part of +the road, near the priest's house, by a man of huge stature and +savage appearance. He was literally in rags; and his long beard, gaunt +features, and eyes that glared as if with remorse, distraction, or +despair, absolutely constituted him an alarming as well as a painful +spectacle. As he approached the stranger, with some obvious and +urgent purpose, trailing after him a weapon that resembled the club of +Hercules, the latter paused in his step and said, + +“What is the matter with you, my good fellow? You seem agitated. Do you +want anything with me? Stand back, I will permit you to come no nearer, +till I know your purpose. I am armed.” + +The wretched man put his hand upon his eyes, and groaned as if his heart +would burst, and for some moments was unable to make any reply. + +“What can this mean?” thought the stranger; “the man's features, though +wild and hollow, are not those of a ruffian.” + +“My good friend,” he added, speaking in a milder tone, “you seem +distressed. Pray let me know what is the matter with you?” + +“Don't be angry with me,” replied the man, addressing him with dry, +parched lips, whilst his Herculean breast heaved up and down with +agitation; “I didn't intend to do it, or to break in upon it, but now +I must, for it's life or death with the three that's left me; and I +durstn't go into the town to ask it there. I have lost four already. +Maybe, sir, you could change this pound note for me? For the sake of the +Almighty, do; as you hope for mercy don't refuse me. That's all I ask. +I know that you stop in the inn in the town there above--that you're a +friend of our good priest's--and that you are well spoken of by every +one.” + +Now, it fortunately happened that the stranger had, on leaving the inn, +put thirty shillings of silver in his pocket, not only that he +might distribute through the hands of Father M'Mahon some portion of +assistance to the poor whom that good man had on his list of distress, +but visit some of the hovels on his way back, in order personally to +witness their condition, and, if necessary, relieve them. The priest, +however, was from home, and he had not an opportunity of carrying the +other portion of his intentions into effect, as he was only a quarter of +a mile from the good man's residence, and no hovels of the description +he wished to visit had yet presented themselves. + +“Change for a pound!” he exclaimed, with a good deal of surprise. “Why, +from your appearance, poor fellow, I should scarcely suspect to find +such a sum in your possession. Did you expect to meet me here?” + +“No, sir, I was on my way to the priest, to open my heart to him, for if +I don't, I know I'll be ragin' mad before forty-eight hours. Oh, sir, if +you have it, make haste; every minute may cost me a life that's dearer +to me a thousand times than my own. Here's the note, sir.” + +The stranger took the note out of his hand, and on looking at the face +of it made no observation, but, upon mechanically turning up the back, +apparently without any purpose of examining it, he started, looked +keenly at the man, and seemed sunk in the deepest possible amazement, +not unrelieved, however, by an air of satisfaction. The sudden and +mysterious disappearance of Fenton, taken in connection with the +discovery of the note which he himself had given him, and now in the +possession of a man whose appearance was both desperate and suspicious, +filled him with instant apprehensions for the safety of Fenton. + +His brow instantly became stern, and in a voice full of the most +unequivocal determination, he said, + +“Pray, sir, how did you come by this note?” + +“By the temptation of the devil; for although it was in my possession, +it didn't save my two other darlins from dying. A piece of a slate would +be as useful as it was, for I couldn't change it--I durstn't.” + +“You committed a robbery for this note, sir?” + +The man glared at him with something like incipient fury, but paused, +and looking on him with a more sorrowful aspect, replied, + +“That is what the world will call it, I suppose; but if you wish to +get anything out of me, change the tone of your voice. I haven't at the +present time, much command over my temper, and I'm now a desperate man, +though I wasn't always so. Either give me the change or the note back +again.” + +The stranger eyed him closely. Although desperate, as he said, still +there were symptoms of an honest and manly feeling, even in the very +bursts of passion which he succeeded with such effort in restraining. + +“I repeat it, that this note came into your hands by an act of +robbery--perhaps of murder.” + +“Murder!” replied the man, indignantly. “Give me back the note, sir, and +provoke me no farther.” + +“No,” replied the other, “I shall not; and you must consider yourself +my prisoner. You not only do not deny, but seem to admit, the charge of +robbery, and you shall not pass out of my hands until you render me an +account of the person from whom you took this note. You see,” he added, +producing a case of pistols--for, in accordance with the hint he had +received in the anonymous note, he resolved never to go out without +them--“I am armed, and that resistance is useless.” + +The man gave a proud but ghastly smile, as he replied--dropping his +stick, and pulling from his bosom a pair of pistols much larger, and +more dangerous than those of the stranger, + +“You see, that if you go to that I have the advantage of you.” + +“Tell me,” I repeat, “what has become of Mr. Fenton, from whom you took +it.” + +“Fenton!” exclaimed the other, with surprise; “is that the poor young +man that's not right in his head?” + +“The same.” + +“Well, I know nothing about him.” + +“Did you not rob him of this note?” + +“No.” + +“You did, sir; this note was in his possession; and I fear you have +murdered him I besides. You must come with me,”--and as he spoke, our +friend, Trailcudgel, saw two pistols, one in each hand, levelled at him. +“Get on before me, sir, to the town of Ballytrain, or, resist at your +peril.” + +Almost at the same moment the two pistols, taken from Sir Thomas +Gourlay, were levelled at the stranger. + +“Now,” said the man, whilst his eyes shot fire and his brow darkened, +“if it must be, it must; I only want the sheddin' of blood to fill up +my misery and guilt; but it seems I'm doomed, and I can't help it. Sir,” + said he, “think of yourself. If I submit to become your prisoner, my +life's gone. You don't know the villain you are goin' to hand me over +to. I'm not afraid of you, nor of anything, but to die a disgraceful +death through his means, as I must do.” + +“I will hear no reasoning on the subject,” replied the other; “go on +before me.” + +The man kept his pistols presented, and there they stood, looking +sternly into each other's faces, each determined not to yield, and each, +probably, on the brink of eternity. + +At length the man dropped the muzzles of the weapons, and holding +them reversed, approached the stranger, saying, in a voice and with an +expression of feeling that smote the other to the heart, + +“I will be conqueror still, sir! Instead of goin' with you, you will +come with me. There are my pistols. Only come to a house of misery and +sorrow and death, and you will know all.” + +“This is not treachery,” thought the stranger. “There can be no +mistaking the anguish--the agony--of that voice; and those large tears +bear no testimony to the crime of murder or robbery.” + +“Take my pistols, sir,” the other repeated, “only follow me.” + +“No,” replied the stranger, “keep them: I fear you not--and what is +more, I do not now even suspect you. Here are thirty shillings in +silver--but you must allow me to' keep this note.” + +We need not describe anew the scene to which poor Trailcudgel introduced +him. It is enough to say, that since his last appearance in our pages he +had lost two more of his children, one by famine and the other by fever; +and that when the stranger entered his hovel--that libel upon a human +habitation--that disgrace to landlord inhumanity--he saw stretched out +in the stillness of death the emaciated bodies of not less than four +human beings--to wit, this wretched man's wife, their daughter, a sweet +girl nearly grown,--and two little ones. The husband and father looked +at them for a little, and the stranger saw a singular working or change, +taking place on his features. At length he clasped his hands, and first +smiled--then laughed outright, and exclaimed, “Thank God that they,” + pointing to the dead, “are saved from any more of this,”--but the +scene--the effort at composure--the sense of his guilt--the condition of +the survivors--exhaustion from want of food, all combined, overcame him, +and he fell senseless on the floor. + +The stranger got a porringer of water, bathed his temples, opened his +teeth with an old knife, and having poured some of it down his throat, +dragged him--and it required all his strength to do so, although a +powerful man--over to the cabin-door, in order to get him within the +influence of the fresh air. At length he recovered, looked wildly about +him, then gazed up in the face of the stranger, and made one or two deep +respirations. + +“I see,” said he, “I remember--set me sittin' upon this little ditch +beside the door--but no, no--” he added, starting--“come away--I must +get them food--come--quick, quick, and I will tell you as we go along.” + +He then repeated the history of his ruin by Sir Thomas Gourlay, of the +robbery, and of the scene of death and destitution which drove him to +it. + +“And was it from Sir Thomas you got this note?” asked the stranger, whose +interest was now deeply excited. + +“From him I got it, sir; as I tould you,” he replied, “and I was on my +way to the priest to give him up the money and the pistols, when the +situation of my children, of my family of the livin' and the dead, +overcame me, and I was tempted to break in upon one pound of it for +their sakes. Sir, my life's in your hands, but there is something in +your face that tells my heart that you won't betray me, especially +afther what you have seen.” + +The stranger had been a silent and attentive listener to this narrative, +and after he had ceased he spoke not for some time. He then added, +emphatically but quickly, and almost abruptly: + +“Don't fear me, my poor fellow. Your secret is as safe as if you had +never disclosed it. Here are other notes for you, and in the meantime +place yourself in the hands of your priest, and enable him to restore +Sir Thomas Gourlay his money and his pistols, I shall see you and your +family again.” + +The man viewed the money, looked at him for a moment, burst into tears, +and hurried away, without saying a word, to procure food for himself and +his children. + +Our readers need not imagine for a moment that the scenes with which we +have endeavored to present them, in,the wretched hut of Trailcudgel, +are at all overdrawn. In point of fact, they fall far short of thousands +which might have been witnessed, and were witnessed, during the years of +'47, '48, '49, and this present one of '50. We are aware that so many +as twenty-three human beings, of all ages and sexes, have been found by +public officers, all lying on the same floor, and in the same bed--if +bed it can be termed--nearly one-fourth of them stiffened and putrid +corpses. The survivors weltering in filth, fever, and famine, and +so completely maddened by despair, delirium, and the rackings of +intolerable pain, in its severest shapes--aggravated by thirst and +hunger--that all the impulses of nature and affection were not merely +banished from the heart, but superseded by the most frightful peals +of insane mirth, cruelty, and the horrible appetite of the ghoul and +vampire. Some were found tearing the flesh from the bodies of the +carcasses that were stretched beside them. Mothers tottered off under +the woful excitement of misery and frenzy, and threw their wretched +children on the sides of the highways, leaving them there, with shouts +of mirth and satisfaction, to perish or be saved, as the chances might +turn out--whilst fathers have been known to make a wolfish meal upon the +dead bodies of their own offspring. We might, therefore, have carried +on our description up to the very highest point of imaginable horror, +without going beyond the truth. + +It is well for the world that the schemes and projects of ambition +depend not in their fulfilment upon the means and instruments with +which they are sought to be accomplished. Had Sir Thomas Gourlay, +for instance, not treated his daughter with such brutal cruelty, an +interview must have taken place between her and Lord Cullamore, which +would, as a matter of course, have put an end forever to her father's +hopes of the high rank for which he was so anxious to sacrifice her. +The good old nobleman, failing of the interview he had expected, went +immediately to London, with a hope, among other objects, of being in +some way useful to his son, whom he had not seen for more than two +years, the latter having been, during that period, making the usual tour +of the Continent. + +On the second day of his arrival, and after he had in some degree +recovered from the effects of the voyage--by which, on the whole, he was +rather improved--he resolved to call upon Dunroe, in pursuance of a note +which he had written to him to that effect, being unwilling besides to +take him unawares. Before he arrives, however, we shall take the liberty +of looking in upon his lordship, and thus enable ourselves to form +some opinion of the materials which constituted that young nobleman's +character and habits. + +The accessories to these habits, as exponents of his life and character, +were in admirable keeping with both, and a slight glance at them will be +sufficient for the reader. + +His lordship, who kept a small establishment of his own, now lies in a +very elegantly furnished bedroom, with a table beside his bed, on which +are dressings for his wound, phials of medicines, some loose comedies, +and a volume still more objectionable in point both of taste and morals. +Beside him is a man, whether young or of the middle age it is difficult +to say. At the first glance, his general appearance, at least, seemed +rather juvenile, but after a second--and still more decidedly after a +third--it was evident to the spectator that he could not be under forty. +He was dressed in quite a youthful style, and in the very extreme +of fashion. This person's features were good, regular, absolutely +symmetrical; yet was there that in his countenance which you could not +relish. The face, on being examined, bespoke the life of a battered +rake; for although the complexion was or had been naturally good, it was +now set in too high a color for that of a young man, and was hardened +into a certain appearance which is produced on some features by the +struggle that takes place between dissipation and health. The usual +observation in such cases is--“with what a constitution has that man +been blessed on whose countenance the symptoms of a hard life are so +slightly perceptible.” The symptoms, however, are there in every case, +as they were on his. This man's countenance, we say, at the first +glance, was good, and his eye seemed indicative of great mildness +and benignity of heart--yet here, again, was a drawback, for, upon +a stricter examination of that organ, there might be read in it the +expression of a spirit that never permitted him to utter a single word +that was not associated with some selfish calculation. Add to this, that +it was unusually small and feeble, intimating duplicity and a want +of moral energy and candor. In the mere face, therefore, there was +something which you could not like, and which would have prejudiced +you, as if by instinct, against the man, were it not that the pliant +and agreeable tone of his conversation, in due time, made you forget +everything except the fact that Tom Norton was a most delightful fellow, +with not a bit of selfishness about him, but a warm and friendly wish to +oblige and serve every one of his acquaintances, as far as he could, and +with the greatest good-will in the world. But Tom's excellence did not +rest here. He was disinterested, and frequently went so far as almost +actually to quarrel with some of his friends on their refusing to be +guided by his advice and experience. Then, again, Tom was generous and +delicate, for on finding that his dissuasions against some particular +course had been disregarded, and the consequences he had predicted had +actually followed, he was too magnanimous ever to harass them by useless +expostulations or vain reproofs; such as--“I told you how it would +happen”--“I advised you in time”--“you would not listen to +reason”--and other posthumous apothegms of the same character. No, on +the contrary, he maintained a considerate and gentlemanly silence on the +subject--a circumstance which saved them from the embarrassment of much +self-defence, or a painful admission of their error--and not only +satisfied them that Tom was honest and unselfish, but modest and +forbearing. It is true, that an occasional act or solecism of manner, +somewhat at variance with the conventional usages of polite society, and +an odd vulgarism of expression, were slight blemishes which might be +brought to his charge, and would probably have told against any one +else. But it was well known that Mr. Norton admitted himself to be a +Connaught gentleman, with some of the rough habits of his country, as +well of manner as of phraseology, about him; and it was not to be +expected that a Connemara gentleman, no matter how high his birth and +connection, could at once, or at all, divest himself of these piquant +and agreeable peculiarities. + +So much for Tom, who had been for at least a couple of years previous to +his present appearance fairly domesticated with his lordship, acting not +only as his guide, philosopher, and friend, but actually as major-domo, +or general steward of the establishment, even condescending to pay the +servants, and kindly undertaking to rescue his friend, who was ignorant +of business, from the disagreeable trouble of coming in contact with +tradesmen, and making occasional disbursements in matters of which Lord +Dunroe knew little or nothing. Tom was indeed a most invaluable friend, +and his lordship considered it a very fortunate night on which they +first became acquainted; for, although he lost to the tune of five +hundred pounds to him in one of the most fashionable gaming-houses of +London, yet, as a compensation--and more than a compensation--for that +loss, he gained Tom in return. + +His lordship was lying on one side in bed, with the Memoirs of ------ +on the pillow beside him, when Tom, who had only entered a few minutes +before, on looking at the walls of the apartment, exclaimed, “What the +deuce is this, my lord? Are you aware that your father will be here in a +couple of hours from this time?” and he looked at his watch. + +“Oh, ay; the old peer,” replied his lordship, in a languid voice, +“coming as a missionary to reform the profane and infidel. I wish he +would let me alone, and subscribe to the Missionary Society at once.” + +“But, my dear Dunroe, are you asleep?” + +“Very nearly, I believe. I wish I was.” + +“But what's to be done with certain of these pictures? You don't intend +his lordship should see them, I hope?” + +“No; certainly not, Tom. We must have them removed. Will you see about +it, Tom, like a good fellow? Stow them, however, in some safe place, +where they won't be injured.” + +“Those five must go,” said Norton. + +“No,” replied his lordship, “let the Magdalen stay; it will look like a +tendency to repentance, you know, and the old peer may like it.” + +“Dunroe, my dear fellow, you know I make no pretence to religion; but +I don't relish the tone in which you generally speak of that most +respectable old nobleman, your father.” + +“Don't you, Tom? Well, but, I say, the idea of a most respectable old +nobleman is rather a shabby affair. It's merely the privilege of age, +Tom. I hope I shall never live to be termed a most respectable old +nobleman. Pshaw, my dear Tom, it is too much. It's a proof that he wants +character.” + +“I wish, in the mean time, Dunroe, that you and I had as much of that +same commodity as the good old peer could spare us.” + +“Well, I suppose you do, Tom; I dare say. My sister is coming with him +too.” + +“Yes; so he says in the letter.” + +“Well, I suppose I must endure that also; an aristocratic lecture on the +one hand, and the uncouth affections of a hoiden on the other. It's hard +enough, though.” + +Tom now rang the bell, and in a few moments a servant entered. + +“Wilcox,” said Norton, “get Taylor and M'Intyre to assist you in +removing those five pictures; place them carefully in the green closet, +which you will lock.” + +“Yes, carefully, Wilcox,” said his lordship; “and afterwards give the +key to Mr. Norton.” + +“Yes, my lord.” + +In a few minutes the paintings were removed, and the conversation began +where it had been left off. + +“This double visit, Tom, will be a great bore. I wish I could avoid +it--philosophized by the father, beslobbered by the sister--faugh!” + +“These books, too, my lord, had better be put aside, I think.” + +“Well, I suppose so; lock them in that drawer.” + +Norton did so, and then proceeded. “Now, my dear Dunroe--” + +“Tom,” said his lordship, interrupting him, “I know what you are going +to say--try and put yourself into something like moral trim for the old +peer--is not that it? Do you know, Tom, I have some thoughts of becoming +religious? What is religion, Tom? You know we were talking about it +the other day. You said it was a capital thing for the world--that it +sharpened a man, and put him up to anything, and so on.” + +“What has put such a notion into your head now, my lord?” + +“I don't know--nothing, I believe. Can religion be taught, Tom? Could +one, for instance, take lessons in it?” + +“For what purpose do you propose it, my lord?” + +“I don't know--for two or three purposes, I believe.” + +“Will your lordship state them?” + +“Why, Tom, I should wish to do the old peer; and touching the baronet's +daughter, who is said to be very conscientious--which I suppose means +the same thing as religion--I should wish to--” + +“To do her too,” added Norton, laughing. + +“Yes, I believe so; but I forget. Don't the pas'ns teach it?” + +“Yes, my lord, by precept, most of them do; not so many by example.” + +“But it's the theory only I want. You don't suppose I intend to practice +religion, Tom, I hope?” + +“No, my lord, I have a different opinion of your principles.” + +“Could you hire me a pas'n, to give lessons in it--say two a week--I +shall require to know something of it; for, my dear Tom, you are not +to be told that twelve thousand a year, and a beautiful girl, are worth +making an effort for. It is true she--Miss Gourlay, I mean--is not to be +spoken of in comparison with the cigar-man's daughter; but then, twelve +thousand a year, Tom--and the good old peer is threatening to curtail my +allowance. Or stay, Tom, would hypocrisy do as well as religion?” + +“Every bit, my lord, so far as the world goes. Indeed, in point of fact, +it requires a very keen eye to discover the difference between them. +For one that practises religion, I there are five thousand who practise +hypocrisy.” + +“Could I get lessons in hypocrisy? Are there men set apart to teach it? +Are there, for instance, professors of hypocrisy as there are of music +and dancing?” + +“Not exactly, my lord; but many of the professors of religion come very +nearly to the same point.” + +“How is that, Tom? Explain it, like a good fellow.” + +“Why a great number of them deal in both--that is to say, they teach +the one by their doctrine, and the other by their example. In different +words, they inculcate religion to others, and practise hypocrisy +themselves.” + +“I see--that is clear. Then, Tom, as they--the pas'ns I mean--are the +best judges of the matter, of course hypocrisy must be more useful than +religion, or they--and such! an immense majority as you say--would not +practise it.” + +“More useful it unquestionably is, my lord.” + +“Well, in that case, Tom, try and find me out a good hypocrite, a sound +fellow, who properly understands the subject, and I will take lessons +from him. My terms will be! liberal, say--” + +“Unfortunately for your lordship, there are no professors to be had; +but, as I said, it comes to the same thing. Engage a professor of +religion, and whilst you pretend to study his doctrine, make a point +also to study his life, and ten to one but you will close! your studies +admirably qualified to take a degree in hypocrisy, if there were such an +honor, and that you wish to imitate your teacher. Either that, my lord, +or it may tend to cure you of a leaning toward hypocrisy as long as you +live.” + +“Well, I wish I could make some progress in either one or the other, it +matters not which, provided it be easier to learn, and more useful. We +must think about it, Tom. You will remind me, of course. Was Sir George +here to-day?” + +“No, my lord, but he sent to inquire.” + +“Nor Lord Jockeyville?” + +“He drove tandem to the door, but didn't come in. The other members of +our set have been tolerably regular in their inquiries, especially since +they were undeceived as to the danger of your wound.” + +“By the way, Norton, that was a d----d cool fellow that pinked me; +he did the thing in quite a self-possessed and gentlemanly way, too. +However it was my own fault; I forced him into it. You must know I had +reason to suppose that he was endeavoring to injure me in a certain +quarter; in short, that he had made some progress in the affections of +Lucy Gourlay. I saw the attentions he paid to her at Paris, when I was +sent to the right about. In short--but hang it--there--that will do--let +us talk no more about it--I escaped narrowly--that is all.” + +“And I must leave you, my lord, for I assure you I have many things to +attend to. Those creditors are unreasonable scoundrels, and must be put +off with soft words and hard promises for some time longer. That Irish +wine-merchant of yours, however, is a model to every one of his tribe.” + +“Ah, that is because he knows the old peer. Do you know, Tom, after all, +I don't think it so disreputable a thing to be termed a respectable old +nobleman; but still it indicates want of individual character. Now Tom, +I think I have a character. I mean an original character. Don't +every one almost say--I allude, of course, to every one of sense and +penetration--Dunroe's a character--quite an original--an enigma--a +sphinx--an inscription that cannot be deciphered--an illegible +dog--eh--don't they, Tom?” + +“Not a doubt of it, my lord. Even I, who ought to know you so well, can +make nothing of you.” + +“Well, but after all, Tom, my father's name overshadows a great number +of my venialities. Dunroe is wild, they say, but then he is the son of a +most respectable old nobleman; and so, many of them shrug and pity, when +they would otherwise assail and blame.” + +“And I hope to live long enough to see you a most respectable old +'character' yet, my dear Dunroe. I must go as your representative to +these d-----d ravenous duns. But mark me, comport yourself in your +father's and sister's presence as a young man somewhat meditating upon +the reformation of his life, so that a favorable impression may be made +here, and a favorable report reach the baronet's fair daughter. _Au +revoir_.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. Interview between Lords Cullamore, Dunroe, and Lady Emily + +--Tom Norton's Aristocracy fails Him--His Reception by Lord Cullamore. + + +At the hour appointed, Lord Dunroe's father and sister arrived. The old +peer, as his son usually, but not in the most reverential spirit, termed +him, on entering his sleeping chamber, paused for a moment in the middle +of the room, as if to ascertain his precise state of health; but his +sister, Lady Emily, with all the warmth of a young and affectionate +heart, pure as the morning dew-drop, ran to his bedside, and with tears +in her eyes, stooped down and kissed him, exclaiming at the same time, + +“My dear Dunroe; but no--I hate those cold and formal titles--they are +for the world, but not for brother and sister. My dear John, how is your +wound? Thank God, it is not dangerous, I hear. Are you better? Will you +soon be able to rise? My dear brother, how I was alarmed on hearing it; +but there is another kiss to help to cure you.” + +“My dear Emily, what the deuce are you about? I tell you I have a +prejudice against kissing female relations. It is too tame, and somewhat +of a bore, child, especially to a sick man.” + +His father now approached him with a grave, but by no means an unfeeling +countenance, and extending his hand, said, “I fear, John, that this +has been a foolish business; but I am glad to find that, so far as your +personal danger was concerned, you have come off so safely. How do you +find yourself?” + +“Rapidly recovering, my lord, I thank you. At first they considered the +thing serious; but the bullet only grazed the rib slightly, although the +flesh wound was, for a time, troublesome enough. I am now, however, free +from fever, and the wound is closing fast.” + +“Whilst this brief dialogue took place, Lady Emily sat on a chair by the +bedside, her large, brilliant eyes no longer filled with tears, but +open with astonishment, and we may as well add with pain, at the utter +indifference with which her brother received her affectionate caresses. +After a few moments' reflection, however, her generous heart supposed it +had discovered his apology. + +“Ah,” thought the sweet girl, “I had forgotten his wound, and of course +I must have occasioned him great pain, which his delicacy placed to a +different motive. He did not wish to let me know that I had hurt +him.” And her countenance again beamed with the joy of an innocent and +unsuspecting spirit. + +“But, Dunroe,” she said--“John, I mean, won't you soon be able to get +up, and to walk about, or, at all events, to take an airing with us in +the carriage? Will you not, dear John?” + +“Yes, I hope so, Emily. By the way, Emily, you have grown quite a woman +since I saw you last. It is now better than two years, I think, since +then.” + +“How did you like the Continent, John?” + +“Why, my dear girl, how is this? What sympathy can you feel with the +experience of a young fellow like me on the Continent? When you know the +world better, my dear girl, you will feel the impropriety of asking such +a question. Pray be seated, my lord.” + +Lord Cullamore sat, as if unconsciously, in an arm-chair beside the +table on which were placed his son's dressings and medicines, and +resting his head on his hand for a moment, as if suffering pain, at +length raised it, and said, + +“No, Dunroe; no. I trust my innocent girl will never live to feel the +impropriety of asking a question so natural?” + +“I'm sure I hope not, my lord, with all my heart,” replied Dunroe. “Have +you been presented, Emily? Have you been brought out?” + +“She has been presented,” said her father, “but not brought out; nor +is it my intention, in the obvious sense of that word, that she ever +shall.” + +“Oh, your lordship perhaps has a tendency to Popery, then, and there +is a convent in the background? Is that it, my good lord?” he asked, +smiling. + +“No,” replied his father, who could not help smiling in return, “not at +all, John. Emily will not require to be brought out, nor paraded through +the debasing formalities of fashion. She shall not be excluded from +fashion, certainly; but neither shall I suffer her to run the vulgar +gauntlet of heartless dissipation, which too often hardens, debases, +and corrupts. But a truce to this; the subject is painful to me; let us +change it.” + +The last observation of Dunroe to his sister startled her so much that +she blushed deeply, and looked with that fascinating timidity which +is ever associated with innocence and purity from her brother to her +father. + +“Have I said anything wrong, papa?” she asked, when Lord Cullamore had +ceased to speak. + +“Nothing, my love, nothing, but precisely what was natural and right. +Dunroe's reply, however, was neither the one nor the other, and he ought +to have known it.” + +“Well now, Emily,” said her brother, “I don't regret it, inasmuch as it +has enabled me to satisfy myself upon a point which I have frequently +heard disputed--that is, whether a woman is capable of blushing or not. +Now I have seen you blush with my own eyes, Emily; nay, upon my honor, +you blush again this moment.” + +“Dunroe,” observed his father, “you are teasing your sister; forbear.” + +“But don't you see, my lord,” persisted his son, “the absolute necessity +for giving her a course of fashionable life, if it were only to remove +this constitutional blemish. If it were discovered, she is ruined; +to blush being, as your lordship knows, contrary to all the laws and +statutes of fashion in that case made and provided.” + +“Dunroe,” said his father, “I intend you shall spend part of the summer +and all the autumn in Ireland, with us.” + +“Oh, yes, John, you must come,” said his sister, clapping her snow-white +hands in exultation at the thought. “It will be so delightful.” + +“Ireland!” exclaimed Dunroe, with well-feigned surprise; “pray where is +that, my lord?” + +“Come, come, John,” said his father, smiling; “be serious.” + +“Ireland!” he again exclaimed; “oh, by the way, that's an island, I +think, in the Pacific--is it not?” + +“No,” replied his father; “a more inappropriate position you could not +have possibly found for it.” + +“Is not that the happy country where the people live without food? Where +they lead a life of independence, and starve in such an heroic spirit?” + +“My dear Dunroe,” said his father, seriously, “never sport with +the miseries of a people, especially when that people are your own +countrymen.” + +“My lord,” he replied, disregarding the rebuke he had received, “for +Heaven's sake conceal that disgraceful fact. Remember, I am a young +nobleman; call me profligate--spendthrift--debauchee--anything you will +but an Irishman. Don't the Irish refuse beef and mutton, and take to +eating each other? What can be said of a people who, to please their +betters, practise starvation as their natural pastime, and dramatize +hunger to pamper their most affectionate lords and masters, who, +whilst the latter witness the comedy, make the performers pay for their +tickets? And yet, although the cannibal system flourishes, I fear they +find it anything but a Sandwich island.” + +“Papa,” said Lady Emily, in a whisper, and with tears in her eyes, “I +fear John's head is a little unsettled by his illness.” + +“You will injure yourself, my dear Dunroe,” said his father, “if you +talk so much.” + +“Not at all, my good lord and father. But I think I recollect one of +their bills of performance, which runs thus: 'On Saturday, the 25th +inst., a tender and affectionate father, stuffed by so many cubic +feet of cold wind, foul air, all resulting from extermination and +the benevolence of a humane landlord, will in the very wantonness +of repletion, feed upon, the dead body of his own child--for which +entertaining performance he will have the satisfaction, subsequently, +of enacting with success the interesting character of a felon, and be +comfortably lodged at his Majesty's expense in the jail of the county.' +Why, my lord, how could you expect me to acknowledge such a country? +However, I must talk to Tom Norton about this. He was born in the +country you speak of--and yet Tom has an excellent appetite; eats like +other people; abhors starvation; and is no cannibal. It is true, I +have frequently seen him ready enough to eat a fellow--a perfect +raw-head-and-bloody-bones--for which reason, I suppose, the principle, +or instinct, or whatever you call it, is still latent in his +constitution. But, on the other hand, whenever Tom gnashed his teeth at +any one _a la cannibale_, if the other gnashed his teeth at him, all the +cannibal disappeared, and Tom was quite harmless.” + + * This alludes to a dreadful fact of cannibalism, which + occurred in the South of Ireland in 1846. + +“By the way, Dunroe,” said his father, “who is this Tom Norton you speak +of?” + +“He is my most particular friend, my lord--my companion--and traveled +with me over the Continent. He is kind enough to take charge of my +affairs: he pays my servants, manages my tradesmen--and, in short, is +a man whom I could not do without. He's up to everything; and is +altogether indispensable to me.” + +Lord Cullamore paused for some time, and seemed for a moment absorbed in +some painful reflection or reminiscence. At length he said, + +“This man, Dunroe, must be very useful to you, if he be what you have +just described him. Does he also manage your correspondence?” + +“He does, my lord; and is possessed of my most unlimited confidence. In +fact, I could never get on without him. My affairs are in a state of +the most inextricable confusion, and were it not for his sagacity +and prudence, I could scarcely contrive to live at all. Poor Tom; he +abandoned fine prospects in order to devote himself to my service.” + +“Such a friend must be invaluable, John,” observed his sister. “They say +a friend, a true friend, is the rarest thing in the world; and when one +meets such a friend, they ought to appreciate him.” + +“Very true, Emily,” said the Earl; “very true, indeed.” He spoke, +however, as if in a state of abstraction. “Norton!--Norton. Do you know, +John, who he is? Anything of his origin or connections?” + +“Nothing whatever,” replied Dunroe; “unless that he is well +connected--he told me so himself--too well, indeed, he hinted, to render +the situation of a dependent one which he should wish his relatives to +become acquainted with--Of course, I respected his delicacy, and did +not, consequently, press him further upon the point.” + +“That was considerate on your part,” replied the Earl, somewhat dryly; +“but if he be such as you have described him, I agree with Emily in +thinking he must be invaluable. And now, John, with respect to another +affair--but perhaps this interview may be injurious to your health. +Talking much, and the excitement attending it, may be bad, you know.” + +“I am not easily excited, my lord,” replied Dunroe; “rather a cool +fellow; unless, indeed, when I used to have duns to meet. But now Norton +manages all that for me. Proceed, my lord.” + +“Yes, but, John,” observed Lady Emily, “don't let affection for papa and +me allow you to go beyond your strength.” + +“Never mind, Emily; I am all right, if this wound were healed, as it +will soon be. Proceed, my lord.” + +“Well, then, my dear Dunroe, I am anxious you should know that I have +had a long conversation with Sir Thomas Gourlay, upon the subject of +your marriage with his beautiful and accomplished daughter.” + +“Yes, the Black Baronet; a confounded old scoundrel by all accounts.” + +“You forget, sir,” said the Earl, sternly, “that he is father to your +future wife.” + +“Devilish sorry for it, my lord. I wish Lucy was daughter to any one +else--but it matters not; I am not going to marry the black fellow, but +twelve thousand a year and a pretty girl. I know a prettier, though.” + +“Impossible, John,” replied Lady Emily, with enthusiasm. “I really think +Lucy Gourlay the most lovely girl I have ever seen--the most amiable, +the most dignified, the most,accomplished, the most--dear John, how +happy I shall be to call her sister!” + +“Dunroe,” proceeded his father, “I beg you consider this affair +seriously--solemnly--the happiness of such a girl as Lucy Grourlay is +neither to be sported with nor perilled. You will have much to reform +before you can become worthy of her. I now tell you that the reformation +must be effected, sincerely and thoroughly, before I shall ever give my +consent to your union with her. There must be neither dissimulation nor +hypocrisy on your part. Your conduct must speak for you, and I must, +from the clearest evidence, be perfectly satisfied that in marrying you +she is not wrecking her peace and happiness, by committing them to a man +who is incapable of appreciating her, or who is insensible to what is +due to her great and shining virtues.” + +“It would be dreadful, John,” said his sister, “if she should not feel +happy. But if John, papa, requires reformation, I am sure he will reform +for Lucy's sake.” + +“He ought to reform from a much higher principle, my dear child,” + replied her father. + +“And so he will, papa. Will you not, dear brother?” + +“Upon my honor, my lord,” said Dunroe, “I had a conversation this very +morning upon the subject with Tom Norton.” + +“I am glad to hear it, my dear son. It is not too late--it is never too +late--to amend the life; but in this instance there is an event about +to take place which renders a previous reformation, in its truest sense, +absolutely indispensable.” + +“My lord,” he replied, “the truth is, I am determined to try a course of +religion. Tom Norton tells me it is the best thing in the world to get +through life with.” + +“Tom Norton might have added that it is a much better thing to get +through death with,” added the Earl, gravely. + +“But he appears to understand it admirably, my lord,” replied Dunroe. +“He says it quickens a man's intellects, and not only prevents him from +being imposed upon by knaves and sharpers, but enables him, by putting +on a long face, and using certain cabalistic phrases, to overreach--no, +not exactly that, but to--let me see, to steer a safe course through the +world; or something to that effect. He says, too, that religious folks +always come best off, and pay more attention to the things of this life, +than any one else; and that, in consequence, they thrive and prosper +under it. No one, he says, gets credit so freely as a man that is +supposed to be religious. Now this struck me quite forcibly, as a thing +that might be very useful to me in getting out of my embarrassments. But +then, it would be necessary to go to church, I believe--to pray--sing +psalms--read the Bible--and subscribe to societies of some kind or +other. Now all that would be very troublesome. How does a person pray, +my lord? Is it by repeating the Ten Commandments, or reading a religious +book?” + +Despite the seriousness of such a subject, Lord Cullamore and his +daughter, on glancing at each other, could scarcely refrain from +smiling. + +“Now, I can't see,” proceeded Dunroe, “how either the one or the other +of the said commandments would sharpen a man for the world, as Tom +Norton's religion does.” + +The good old Earl thought either that his son was affecting an ignorance +on the subject which he did not feel, or that his ignorance was in +reality so great that for the present, at least, it was useless to +discuss the matter with him. + +“I must say, my dear Dunroe,” he added, in a kind and indulgent voice, +“that your first conceptions of reformation are very original, to say +the least of them.” + +“I grant it, my lord. Every one knows that all my views, acts, and +expressions are original. 'Dunroe's a perfect original' is the general +expression among my friends. But on the subject of religion, I am +willing to be put into training. I told Tom Norton to look out and +hire me a pas'n, or somebody, to give me lessons in it. Is there such a +thing, by the way, as a Religious Grammar? If so, I shall provide +one, and make myself master of all the rules, cases, inflections, +interjections, groans, exclamations, and so on, connected with it. The +Bible is the dictionary, I believe?” + +Poor Lady Emily, like her father, could not for the life of her suppose +for a moment that her brother was serious: a reflection that relieved +her from much anxiety of mind and embarrassment on his account. + +“Papa,” said, she, whilst her beautiful features were divided, if we may +so say, between smiles and tears, “papa, Dunroe is only jesting; I am +sure he is only jesting, and does not mean any serious disrespect to +religion.” + +“That may be, my dear Emily; but he will allow me to tell him that it +is the last subject upon which he, or any one else, should jest. Whether +you are in jest or earnest, my dear Dunroe, let me advise you to bring +the moral courage and energies of a man to the contemplation of your +life, in the first place; and in the next, to its improvement. It is not +reading the Bible, nor repeating prayers, that will, of themselves, make +you religious, unless the heart is in earnest; but a correct knowledge +of what is right and wrong--in other words, of human duty--will do much +good in the first place; with a firm resolution to avoid the evil and +adopt the good. Remember that you are accountable to the Being who +placed you in this life, and that your duty here consists, not in the +indulgence of wild and licentious passions, but in the higher and nobler +ones of rendering as many of your fellow-creatures happy as you can: +for such a course will necessarily insure happiness to yourself. This is +enough for the present; as soon as you recover your strength you shall +come to Ireland.” + +“When I recover my strength!” he exclaimed. “Ay, to be eaten like a +titbit. Heavens, what a delicious morsel a piece of a young peer would +be to such fellows! but I will not run that horrible risk. Lucy must +come to me--I am sure the prospect of a countess's coronet ought to be +a sufficient inducement to her. But, to think that I should run the risk +of being shot from behind a hedge--made a component part of a midnight +bonfire, or entombed in the bowels of some Patagonian cannibal, savagely +glad to feed, upon the hated Saxon who has so often fed upon him!--No, +I repeat, Lucy, if she is to be a countess, must travel in this +direction.” + +The indelicacy and want of all consideration for the feelings of his +father, so obvious in his heartless allusion to a fact which could +only result from that father's death, satisfied the old man that any +reformation in his son was for the present hopeless, and even Lady Emily +felt anxious to put an end to the visit as soon as possible. + +“By the way,” said his father, as they were taking their leave, “I have +had an unpleasant letter from my brother, in which he states that he +wrote to you, but got no answer.” + +“I never received a letter from him,” replied his lordship; “none ever +reached me; if it had, the very novelty of a communication from such a +quarter would have prevented me from forgetting it.” + +“I should think so. His letter to me, indeed, is a strange one. He +utters enigmatical threats--” + +“Come, I like that--I am enigmatical myself--you see it is in the +family.” + +“Enigmatical threats which I cannot understand, and desires me to hold +myself prepared for certain steps which he is about to take, in justice +to what he is pleased to term his own claims. However, it is not worth +notice. But this Norton, I am anxious to see him, Dunroe--will you +request him to call upon me to-morrow at twelve o'clock?--of course, I +feel desirous to make the acquaintance of a man who has proved himself +such a warm and sterling friend to my son.” + +“Undoubtedly, my lord, he shall attend on you--I shall take care of +that. Good-by, my lord--good by, Emily--good--good--my dear girl, never +mind the embrace--it is quite undignified--anything but a patrician +usage, I assure you.” + +Now it is necessary that we should give our readers a clearer conception +of Lord Dunroe's character than is to be found in the preceding +dialogue. This young gentleman was one of those who wish to put every +person who enters into conversation with them completely at fault. It +was one of his whims to affect ignorance on many subjects with which he +was very well acquainted. His ambition was to be considered a character; +and in order to carry this idea out, he very frequently spoke on the +most commonplace topics as a man might be supposed to do who had just +dropped from the moon. He thought, also, that there was something +aristocratic in this fictitious ignorance, and that it raised him above +the common herd of those who could talk reasonably on the ordinary +topics of conversation or life. His ambition, the reader sees, was to +be considered original. It had besides, this advantage, that in matters +where his ignorance is anything but feigned, it brought him out safely +under the protection of his accustomed habit, without suffering from the +imputation of the ignorance he affected. It was, indeed, the ambition of +a vain and silly mind; but provided he could work out this paltry joke +upon a grave and sensible though unsuspecting individual, he felt quite +delighted at the feat; and took the person thus imposed upon into the +number of his favorites. It was upon this principle among others that +Norton, who pretended never to see through his flimsy irony, contrived +to keep in his favor, and to shape him according to his wishes, whilst +he made the weak-minded young man believe that everything he did and +every step he took was the result of his own deliberate opinion, whereas +in fact he was only a puppet in his hands. + +His father, who was naturally kind and indulgent, felt deeply grieved +and mortified by the reflections arising from this visit. During the +remainder of the day he seemed wrapped in thought; but we do not attempt +to assert that the dialogue with his son was the sole cause of this. +He more than once took out his brother's letter which he read with +surprise, not unmingled with strong curiosity and pain. It was, as +he said, extremely enigmatical, whilst at the same time it contained +evidences of that deplorable spirit which almost uniformly embitters +so deeply the feuds which arise from domestic misconceptions. On this +point, however, we shall enable the reader to judge for himself. The +letter was to the following effect: + +“My Lord Cullamore.--It is now nine months and upwards since I addressed +a letter to your son; and I wrote to him in reference to you, because it +had been for many years my intention never to have renewed or held any +communication whatsoever with you. It was on this account, therefore, +that I opened, or endeavored to open, a correspondence with him rather +than with his father. In this I have been disappointed, and my object, +which was not an unfriendly one, frustrated. I do not regret, however, +that I have been treated with contempt. The fact cancelled the foolish +indulgence with which an exhibition of common courtesy and politeness, +if not a better feeling, on the part of your son, might have induced me +to treat both you and him. As matters now stand between us, indulgence +is out of the question; so is compromise. I shall now lose little time +in urging claims which you will not be able to withstand. Whether you +suspect the nature of these claims or not is more than I know. Be that, +however, as it may, I can assure you that I had resolved not to disturb +your last days by prosecuting them during your lifetime. That resolution +I have now rescinded, and all that remains for me to say is; that as +little time as possible shall be lost in enforcing the claims I allude +to, in justice to my family. + +“I am, my Lord Cullamore, + +“Your obedient servant, + +“RICHARD STAPLETON.” + + +This strange and startling communication caused the good old man much +uneasiness, even although its object and purpose were altogether beyond +his comprehension. The only solution that occurred to him of the mystery +which ran through it, was that it must have been written under some +misconception or delusion for which he could not account. Another key +to the difficulty--one equally replete with distress and alarm--was +that his brother's reason had probably become unsettled, and that the +communication in question was merely the emanation of mental alienation. +And, indeed, on this point only could he account for the miscarriage of +the letter to his son, which probably had never been written at all and +existed only in the disturbed imagination of his unfortunate brother. + +At all events, the contents of this document, like those mysterious +presentiments of evil which sometimes are said to precede calamity, hung +like a weight upon his mind, view them as he might. He became nervous, +depressed, and gloomy, pleaded illness as an apology for not dining +abroad; remained alone and at home during the whole evening, but arose +the next morning in better spirits, and when our friend Tom Norton +presented himself, he had regained sufficient equanimity and composure +to pay proper attention to that faithful and friendly gentleman. + +Now Tom, who resolved to make an impression, as it is termed, was +dressed in the newest and most fashionable morning visit costume, drove +up to the hall-door at that kind of breakneck pace with which your +celebrated whips delight to astonish the multitude, and throwing the +reins to a servant, desired, if he knew how to pace the horse up and +down, to do so; otherwise to remember that he had a neck. + +The servant in question, a stout, compact fellow, with a rich Milesian +face and a mellow brogue, looked at him with a steady but smiling eye. + +“Have a neck, is it?” he exclaimed; “by my sowl, an' it's sometimes an +inconvenience to have that same. My own opinion is, sir, that the neck +now is jist one of the tenderest joints in the body.” + +Norton looked at him for a moment with an offended and haughty stare. + +“If you are incapable of driving the landau, sir,” he replied, “call +some one who can; and don't be impertinent.” + +“Incapable,” replied the other, with a cool but humorous kind of +gravity; “troth, then it's disgrace I'd bring on my taicher if I +couldn't sit a saddle an' handle a whip with the best o' them. And wid +regard to the neck, sir, many a man has escaped a worse fall than one +from the box or the saddle.” + +Norton drew himself up with a highly indignant scowl, and turning his +frown once more upon this most impertinent menial, encountered a look +of such comic familiarity, easy assurance, and droll indifference, as +it would not be easy to match. The beau started, stared, again pulled +himself to a still greater height--as if by the dignity of the attitude +to set the other at fault--frowned more awfully, then looked bluster, +and once more surveyed the broad, knowing face and significant laughing +eyes that were fixed upon him--set, as they were, in the centre of a +broad grin--after which he pulled up his collar with an air--taking +two or three strides up and down with what he intended as aristocratic +dignity-- + +“Hem! ahem! What do you mean, sir?” + +To this, for a time, there was no reply; but there, instead, were the +laughing fascinators at work, fixed not only upon him, but in him, +piercing him through; the knowing grin still increasing and gathering +force of expression by his own confusion. + +“Curse me, sir, I don't understand this insolence. What do you mean? Do +you know who it is you treat in this manner?” + +Again he stretched himself, pulled up his collar as before, displaying a +rich diamond ring, then taking out a valuable gold watch, glanced at +the time, and putting it in his fob, looked enormously big and haughty, +exclaiming again, with a frown that was intended to be a stunner--after +again pacing up and down with the genuine tone and carriage of true +nobility-- + +“I say, sir, do you know the gentleman whom you are treating with +such impertinence? Perhaps you mistake me, on account of a supposed +resemblance, for some former acquaintance of yours. If, so, correct +yourself; I have never seen you till this moment.” + +There, however, was the grin, and there were the eyes as before, +to which we must add a small bit of pantomime on the part of Morty +O'Flaherty, for such was the servant's name, which bit of pantomime +consisted in his (Morty's) laying his forefinger very knowingly +alongside his nose, exclaiming, in a cautious and friendly voice +however, + +“Barney, achora, don't be alarmed; there's no harm done yet. You're safe +if you behave yourself.” + +“What!” said Norton. “By the bones of St. Patrick but you are Morty +O'Flaherty! Confound it, my dear Morty, why didn't you make yourself +known at once? it would have relieved both of us.” + +“One of us, you mane,” replied Morty, with a wink. + +“Upon my soul I am glad to free you, Morty. And how are you, man alive? +In a snug berth here, I see, with the father of my friend, Lord Dunroe.” + +“Ha!” exclaimed Morty, shrewdly; “is that it? Your friend; Oh, I see. +Nate as ever, like a clane sixpence. Well, Barney, the world will have +its way.” + +“Ay, Morty, and we must comply with it. Some it brings up, and others it +brings down.” + +“Whisht, now, Barney,” said Morty; “let by-gones be by-gones. That it +didn't bring you up, be thankful to a gracious Providence and a light +pair o' heels; that's all. And what are you now?” + +“No longer Barney Bryan, at any rate,” replied the other. “My name, at +present, is Norton.” + +“At present! Upon my sowl, Barney, so far as names goes, you're a +walkin' catalogue.” + +“Thomas Norton, Esquire; residing with that distinguished young +nobleman, Lord Dunroe, as his bosom friend and inseparable companion.” + +“Hem! I see,” said Morty, with a shrug, which he meant as one of +compassion for the aforesaid Lord Dunroe; “son to my masther. Well, God +pity him, Barney, is the worst I wish him. You will take care of him; +you'll tache him a thing or two--and that's enough. But, Barney--” + +“Curse Barney--Mr. Norton's the word.” + +“Well, Mr. Norton--ah, Mr. Norton, there's one person you'll not +neglect.” + +“Who is that, Morty?” + +“Faith, your mother's son, achora. However, you know the proverb--'A +burnt child dreads the fire.' You have a neck still, Barney--beg pardon, +Mr. Norton--don't forget that fact.” + +“And I'll take care of the said neck, believe me, Morty; I shall keep it +safe, never fear.” + +“Take care you don't keep it a little too safe. A word to the wise is +enough, Bar--Mr. Norton.” + +“It is, Morty; and I trust you will remember that that is to be a +regulation between us. 'A close mouth is the sign of a wise head,' too; +and there's a comrade for your proverb--but we are talking too long. +Listen; keep my secret, and I will make it worth your while to do so. +You may ruin me, without serving yourself; but as a proof that you will +find me your friend, I will slip you five guineas, as a recompense, you +know, for taking care of the landau and horses. In short, if we work +into each other's hands it will be the better for us both.” + +“I'll keep your' saicret,” replied honest Morty, “so long, Barney--hem! +Mr. Norton--as you keep yourself honest; but I'll dirty my hands wid +none o' your money. If I was willin' to betray you, it's not a bribe +would prevent me.” + +Mr. Norton, in a few moments, was ushered into the presence of Lord +Cullamore. + +On entering the apartment, the old nobleman, with easy and native +courtesy, rose up, and received him with every mark of attention and +respect. + +“I am happy, Mr. Norton,” he proceeded, “to have it in my power to thank +you for the friendship and kindness which my son, Lord Dunroe, has been +so fortunate as to receive at your hands. He speaks of you with such +warmth, and in terms of such high esteem, that I felt naturally anxious +to make your acquaintance, as his friend. Pray be seated.” + +Norton, who was a quick and ready fellow, in more senses than one, bowed +lowly, and with every mark of the deepest respect; but, at the same +time, he certainly started upon a high and a rather hazardous theory--to +wit, that of a man of consequence, who wished to be considered with +respect to Dunroe rather as a patron than a dependent. + +The fellow, we should have stated to the reader, was originally from +Kerry, though he adopted Connaught, and consequently had a tolerable +acquaintance with Latin and Greek--an acquisition which often stood him +in stead through life; joined to which was an assurance that nothing +short of a scrutiny such as Morty O'Maherty's could conquer. + +“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “you quite overrate any trifling +services I may have rendered to my friend Dunroe. Upon my soul and honor +you do. I have done nothing for him--that is, nothing to speak of. But +the truth is, I took a fancy to Dunroe; and I do assure you again, Lord +Cullamore, that when I do take a fancy to any person--a rare case with +me, I grant--I would go any possible lengths to serve him. Every man has +his whim, my lord, and that is mine. I hope your lordship had a pleasant +trip across Channel?” + +“Yes, thank you, Mr. Norton; but I have been for some time past in +delicate health, and am not now so capable of bearing the trip as +formerly. Still I feel no reason to complain, although far from strong. +Dunroe, I perceive, is reduced considerably by his wound and the +consequent confinement.” + +“Oh, naturally, of course, my lord; but a few days now will set him upon +his legs.” + +“That, it seems to me, Mr. Norton, was a very foolish and unpleasant +affair altogether.” + +“Nothing could be more so, my lord. It was altogether wrong on the part +of Dunroe, and so I told him.” + +“Could you not have prevented it, Mr. Norton?” + +“Ha, ha, ha! very good, Lord Cullamore. Ask me could I prevent or check +a flash of lightning. Upon my soul and honor, the thing was over, and my +poor friend down, before you could say 'Jack Robinson'--hem!--as we say +in Connaught.” + +“You have travelled, too, with my son, Mr. Norton, and he is perfectly +sensible of the services you have rendered him during his tour.” + +“God forbid, my Lord Cullamore, that I should assume any superiority +over poor, kind-hearted, and honorable Dunroe; but as you are his +father, my lord, I may--and with pride and satisfaction I do it--put the +matter on its proper footing, and say, that Dunroe travelled with me. +The thing is neither here nor there, of course, nor would I ever allude +to it unless as a proof of my regard and affection for him.” + +“That only enhances your kindness, Mr. Norton.” + +“Why, my lord, I met Dunroe in Paris--no matter, I took him out of some +difficulties, and prevented him from getting into more. He had been set +by a clique of--but I will not dwell on this, it looks like egotism--I +said before, I took a fancy to him--for it frequently happens, my good +lord, that you take a fancy to the person you have served.” + +“True enough, indeed, Mr. Norton.” + +“I am fond of travelling, and was about to make my fourth or fifth tour, +when I met your son, surrounded by a crew of--but I have alluded to this +a moment ago. At all events, I saw his danger--a young man exposed to +temptation--the most alluring and perilous. Well, my lord, mine was +a name of some weight and authority, affording just the kind of +countenance and protection your son required. Well, I travelled with +him, guarded him, guided him, for as to any inconvenience I may myself +have experienced in taking him by the most comprehensive routes, and +some other matters, they are not worth naming. Of course I introduced +him to some of the most distinguished men of France--to the Marquis De +Fogleville, for instance, the Count Rapscallion, Baron Snottellin, and +some others of the first rank and nobility of the country. The pleasure +of his society, however, more than compensated me for all.” + +“But, pardon me, Mr. Norton, I believe the title and family of De +Fogleville have been extinct. The last of them was guillotined not long +since for an attempt to steal the crown jewels of France, I think.” + +“True, my lord, you are perfectly right, the unhappy man was an insane +legitimist; but the title and estates have been revived in the person of +another member of the family, the present marquis, who is a nobleman of +high consideration and honor.” + +“Oh, indeed! I was not aware of that, Mr. Norton,” said his lordship. “I +am quite surprised at the extent of your generosity and goodness to my +son.” + +“But, my lord, it is not my intention to give up Dunroe or abandon the +poor fellow yet awhile. I am determined to teach him economy in managing +his affairs, to make him know the value of time, of money, and of +system, in everything pertaining to Life and business. Nor do I regret +what I have done, nor what I propose to do; far from it, my lord. All +I ask is, that he will always look upon me as a friend or an elder +brother, and consult me, confide in me, and come to me, in fact, or +write to me, whenever he may think I can be of service to him.” + +“And in his name, of course, I may at least thank you, Mr. Norton,” + replied the Earl, with a slight irony in his manner, “not only for all +you have done, but for all you propose to do, as you say.” + +Norton shook his head peremptorily. + +“Pardon me, my lord, no thanks. I am overpaid by the pleasure of ranking +Dunroe among the number of my friends.” + +“You are too kind, indeed, Mr. Norton; and I trust my son will be duly +grateful, as he is duly sensible of all you have done for him. By +the way, Mr. Norton, you alluded to Connaught. You are, I presume, an +Irishman?” + +“I am an Irishman, my lord.” + +“Of course, sir, I make no inquiry as to your individual family. I am +sure from what I have seen of you they must have been, and are, persons +of worth and consideration; but I wished to ask if the name be a +numerous one in Ireland, or rather, in your part of it--Connaught?” + +“Numerous, my lord, no, not very numerous, but of the first +respectability.” + +“Pray, is your father living, Mr. Norton? If he be, why don't you bring +him among us? And if you have any brother, I need scarcely say what +pleasure it would afford me, having, as you are aware, I presume, some +influence with ministers, to do anything I could for him, should he +require it; probably in the shape of a foreign appointment, or something +that way. Anything, Mr. Norton, to repay a portion of what is due to you +by my family.” + +“I thank your lordship,” replied Tom. “My poor father was, as too many +other Irish gentlemen have been, what is termed a hard goer (the honest +man was a horse jockey like myself, thought Tom)--and indeed ran through +a great deal of property during the latter part of his life (when he was +huntsman to Lord Rattlecap, he went through many an estate).” + +“Well, but your brother?” + +“Deeply indebted, my lord, but I have no brother living. Poor Edward did +get a foreign appointment many years ago (he was transported for horse +stealing), by the influence of one of the most eminent of our judges, +who strongly advised him to accept it, and returned his name to +government as a worthy and suitable candidate. He died there, my lord, +in the discharge of his appointed duties. Poor Ned, however, was never +fond of public business under government, and, indeed, accepted the +appointment in question with great reluctance.” + +“The reason why I made these inquiries about the name of Norton,” said +Lord Cullamore, “is this. There was, several years ago, a respectable +female of the name, who held a confidential situation in my family; I +have long lost sight of her, however, and would be glad to know whether +she is living or dead.” + +(“My sister-in-law,” thought Tom.) “I fear,” he replied, “I can render +you no information on that point, my lord; the last female branch of our +part of the family was my grandmother, who died about three years ago.” + +At this moment a servant entered the apartment, bearing in his hand a +letter, for which office he had received a bribe of half-a-crown. “I beg +pardon, my lord, but there's a woman at the hall-door, who wishes this +letter to be handed to that gentleman; but I fear there's some mistake,” + he added, “it is directed to Barney Bryan. She insists he is here, and +that she saw him come into the house.” + +“Barney Bryan,” said Tom, with great coolness; “show me the letter, +for I think I know something about it. Yes, I am right. It is an insane +woman, my lord, wife to a jockey of mine, who broke his neck riding my +celebrated horse, Black and all Black, on the Curragh. The poor creature +cannot believe that her husband is dead, and thinks that I enjoy that +agreeable privilege. The circumstance, indeed, was a melancholy one; but +I have supported her ever since.” + +Morty O'Flaherty, who had transferred his charge to other hands, fearing +that Mister Norton might get into trouble, now came to the rescue. + +“Pray,” said Tom, quick as lightning, “is that insane creature below +still, a poor woman whose husband broke his neck riding a race for me on +the Curragh, and she thinks that I stand to her in that capacity?” + +“Oh, yes; she says,” added the man who brought the letter, “that this +gentleman's name is not Norton, but Bryan--Barney Bryan, I think--and +that he is her husband, exactly as the gentleman says.” + +“Just so, my lord,” said Tom, smiling; “poor thing! what a melancholy +delusion.” + +“I was present at the accident, Mr. Norton,” added Morty, boldly, “and +remember the circumstance, in throth, very well. Didn't the poor woman +lose her senses by it?” + +“Yes,” replied Tom, “I have just mentioned the circumstance to his +lordship.” + +“And--beg pardon, Mr. Norton--doesn't she take you for her husband from +that day to this?” + +“Yes, so I have said.” + +“Oh, God help her, poor thing! Isn't she to be pitied?” added Morty, +with a dry roguish glance at Mr. Norton; “throth, she has a hard fate of +it. Howaniver, she is gone. I got her off, an' now the place is I clear +of the unfortunate creature. The lord look to her!” + +The servants then withdrew, and Norton made his parting bow to Lord +Cullamore, whom we now leave to his meditations on the subject of this +interview. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. A Spy Rewarded + +--Sir Thomas Gourlay Charged Home by the Stranger with the Removal and +Disappearance of his Brother's Son. + + +We left the Black Baronet in a frame of mind by no means to be envied by +our readers. The disappearance of his daughter and her maid had stunned +and so completely prostrated him, that he had not sufficient energy even +for a burst of his usual dark and overbearing resentment. In this state +of mind, however, he was better able to reflect upon the distressing +occurrence that had happened. He bethought him of Lucy's delicacy, +of her sense of honor, her uniform propriety of conduct, her singular +self-respect, and after all, of the complacent spirit of obedience with +which, in everything but her contemplated union with Lord Dunroe, she +had, during her whole life, and under the most trying circumstances, +accommodated herself to his wishes. He then reflected upon the fact of +her maid having accompanied her, and concluded, very naturally, that +if she had resolved to elope with this hateful stranger, she would have +done so in pursuance of the precedent set by most young ladies who take +such steps--that is, unaccompanied by any one but her lover. From this +view of the case he gathered comfort, and was beginning to feel his +mind somewhat more at ease, when a servant entered to say that Mr. +Crackenfudge requested to see him on particular business. + +“He has come to annoy me about that confounded magistracy, I suppose,” + exclaimed the baronet. “Have you any notion what the worthless scoundrel +wants, Gibson?” + +“Not the least, your honor, but he seems brimful of something.” + +“Ay, brimful of ignorance, and of impertinence, too, if he durst show +it; yes, and of as much pride and oppression as could well be contained +in a miserable carcass like his. As he is a sneaking, vigilant rascal, +however, and has a great deal of the spy in his composition, it is not +impossible that he may be able to give me some information touching the +disappearance of Miss Gourlay.” + +Gibson, after making his bow, withdrew, and the redoubtable Crackenfudge +was ushered into the presence of the baronet. + +The first thing the former did was to survey the countenance of his +patron, for as such he wished to consider him and to find him. There, +then, Sir Thomas sat, stern but indifferent, with precisely the +expression of a tiger lying gloomily in his den, the natural ferocity +“in grim repose” for the time, but evidently ready to blaze up at +anything that might disturb or provoke him. Had Crackenfudge been gifted +with either tact or experience, or any enlarged knowledge of the human +heart, especially of the deep, dark, and impetuous one that beat in the +bosom then before him, he would have studied the best and least alarming +manner of conveying intelligence calculated to produce such terrific +effects upon a man like Sir Thomas Gourlay. Of this, however, he knew +nothing, although his own intercourse with him might have well taught +him the necessary lesson. + +“Well, Mr. Crackenfudge,” said the latter, without moving, “what's wrong +now? What's the news?” + +“There's nothing wrong, Sir Thomas, and a've good news.” + +The baronet's eye and brow lost some of their gloom; he arose and +commenced, as was his custom, to walk across the room. + +“Pray what is this good news, Mr. Crackenfudge? Will you be kind enough, +without any unnecessary circumlocution, to favor your friends with it?” + +“With pleasure, Sir Thomas, because a' know you are anxious to hear it, +and it deeply concerns you.” + +Sir Thomas paused, turned round, looked at him for a moment with an +impatient scowl; but in the meaningless and simpering face before him he +could read nothing but what appeared to him to be an impudent chuckle of +satisfaction; and this, indeed, was no more than what Crackenfudge felt, +who had altogether forgotten the nature of the communication he was +about to make, dreadful and disastrous as it was, and thought only of +the claim upon Sir Thomas's influence which he was about to establish +with reference to the magistracy. It was the reflection, then, of this +train of little ambition which Sir Thomas read in his countenance, and +mistook for some communication that might relieve him, and set his mind +probably at ease. The scowl we allude to accordingly disappeared, and +Sir Thomas, after the glance we have recorded, said, checking himself +into a milder and more encouraging tone: + +“Go on, Mr. Crackenfudge, let us hear it at once.” + +“Well, then, Sir Thomas, a' told you a'd keep my eye on that chap.” + +“On whom? name him, sir.” + +“A' can't, Sir Thomas; the fellow in the inn.” + +“Oh! what about him?” + +“Why he has taken her off.” + +“Taken whom off?” shouted the baronet, in a voice of thunder. “You +contemptible scoundrel, whom has he taken off?” + +“Your daughter, Sir Thomas--Miss Gourlay. They went together in the +'Fly' on Tuesday night last to Dublin; a' followed in the 'Flash of +Lightning,' and seen them in conversation. Dandy Dulcimer, who is +your friend--For God's sake, Sir Thomas, be quiet. You'll shake +me--a-a-ach--Sir--Thom-a-as--w-wi-will you not take my--my +--li-life----” + +“You lie like a villain, you most contemptible reptile,” shouted the +other. “My daughter, sirrah, never eloped with an adventurer. She never +eloped at all, sir. She durst not elope. She knows what my vengeance +would be, sirrah. She knows, you lying whelp of perdition, that I would +pursue herself and her paramour to the uttermost ends of the earth; that +I would shoot them both dead--that I would trample upon and spurn +their worthless carcasses, and make an example of them to all time, and +through all eternity. And you--you prying, intermeddling scoundrel--how +durst you--you petty, beggarly tyrant--hated and despised by poor and +rich--was it to mock me--” + +“Sir Thom-a-as, +a'm--a'm--I--I--aach--ur-ur-ur-mur-murd-murd-er-er-err-errr.” + +“Was it to jeer and sneer at me--to insult me--you miserable knave--to +drive me mad--into raging frenzy--that you came, with a smirk of +satisfaction on your face, to communicate the disgrace and dishonor of +my family--the ruin of my hopes--the frustration of my ambition--of all +I had set my heart on, and that I perilled my soul to accomplish? Yes, +you villain, your eye was smiling--elated--your heart was glad--for, +sirrah, you hate me at heart.” + +“God! oh, oh! a'm--a'm--ur-urr-urrr--whee-ee-ee-hee-hee-hee. God +ha-ha-ha-have mer-mer-mercy on my sinf-sinfu-l sou-so-soul! a'm gone.” + +“Yes, you hate me, villain, and this is a triumph to you; every one +hates me, and every one will rejoice at my shame. I know it, you +accursed miscreant, I feel it; and in return I hate, with more than the +malignity of the devil, every human creature that God has made. I have +been at enmity with them, and in that enmity I shall persist; deep and +dark as hell shall it be, and unrelenting as the vengeance of a devil. +There,” he added, throwing the almost senseless body of Crackenfudge +over on a sofa, “there, you may rest on that sofa, and get breath; get +breath quickly, and mark, obey me.” + +“Yes, Sir Thomas, a' will; a'll do anything, provided that you'll let me +escape with my life. God! a'm nearly dead, the fire's not out of my eyes +yet.” + +“Silence, you wretched slave!” shouted the baronet, stamping with rage; +not another word of complaint, but listen to n--listen to me, I say: go +on, and let me hear, fully and at large, the withering history of this +burning and most flagitious disgrace.” + +“But if a' do, you'll only beat and throttle me to death, Sir Thomas.” + +“Whether I may or may not do so, go on, villain, and--go on, that +quickly, or by heavens I shall tear the venomous heart from your body, +and trample the black intelligence out of it. Proceed instantly.” + +With a face of such distress as our readers may well imagine, and a +voice whose quavers of terror wrere in admirable accordance with it, +the unfortunate Crackenfudge related the circumstance of Lucy's visit to +Dublin, as he considered it, and, in fact, so far as he was acquainted +with her motions, as it appeared to him a decided elopement, without the +possibility of entertaining either doubt or mistake about it. + +In the meantime, how shall we describe the savage fury of the baronet, +as the trembling wretch proceeded? It is impossible. His rage, the +vehemence of his gestures, the spasms that seemed to sey;e sometimes +upon his features and sometimes upon his limbs, as well as upon +different parts of his body, transformed him into the appearance of +something that was unnatural and frightful. He bit his lips in the +effort to restrain these tremendous paroxysms, until the bloody foam +fell in red flakes from his mouth, and as portions of it were carried +by the violence of his gesticulations over several parts of his face, +he had more the appearance of some bloody-fanged ghoul, reeking from the +spoil of a midnight grave, than that of a human being. + +“Now,” said he, “how did it happen that--brainless, worthless, and +beneath all contempt, as you are, most execrable scoundrel--you suffered +that adroit ruffian, Dulcimer--whom I shall punish, never fear--how came +it, you despicable libel on nature and common sense--that you allowed +him to humbug you to your face, to laugh at you, to scorn you, to spit +upon you, to poke your ribs, as if you were an idiot, as you are, and +to kick you, as it were, in every imaginable part of your worthless +carcass--how did it come, I say, that you did not watch them properly, +that you did not get them immediately arrested, as you ought to have +done, or that you did not do more than would merely enable you to +chronicle my disgrace and misery?” + +“A' did all a' could, Sir Thomas. A' searched through all Dublin for her +without success; but as to where he has her, a' can't guess. The first +thing a' did, after takin' a sleep, was to come an' tell you to-day; for +a' travelled home by last night's coach. You ought to do something, Sir +Thomas, for every one has it now. It's through all Ballytrain. 'Deed a' +pity you, Sir Thomas.” + +Now this unfortunate being took it for granted that the last brief +silence of the baronet resulted from, some reasonable attention to +what he (Crackenfudge) had been saying, whereas the fact was, that +his terrible auditor had been transfixed into the highest and most +uncontrollable fit of indignation by the substance of his words. + +“What!” said he, in a voice that made Crackenfudge leap at least a foot +from the sofa. “You pity me, do you!--you, you diabolical eavesdropper, +you pity me. Sacred heaven! And again, you searched through all +Dublin for my daughter!--carrying her disgrace and infamy wherever you +appeared, and advertising them as you went along, like an emissary of +shame and calumny, as you are. Yes,” said he, as he foamed with the fury +of a raging bull; “'I--I--I,' you might have said, 'a nameless whelp, +sprung from the dishonest clippings of a counter--I, I say, am in quest +of Miss Gourlay, who has eloped with an adventurer, an impostor--with a +brushmaker's clerk.'” + +“A tooth-brush manufacturer, Sir Thomas, and, you know, they are often +made of ivory.” + +“Come, you intermeddling rascal, I must either tear you asunder or my +brain will burst; I will not have such a worthless life as yours on my +hands, however; you vermin, out with you; I might have borne anything +but your compassion, and even that too; but to blazon through a gaping +metropolis the infamy of my family--of all that was dear to me--to turn +the name of my child into a polluted word, which modest lips would feel +ashamed to utter; nor, lastly, can I forgive you the crime of making me +suffer this mad and unexampled agony.” + +Action now took the place of words, and had, indeed, come in as +an auxiliary for some time previous. He seized the unfortunate +Crackenfudge, and as, with red and dripping lips, he gave vent to the +furious eruptions of his fiery spirit, like a living Vesuvius--for we +know of no other comparison so appropriate--he kicked and cuffed the +wretched and unlucky intelligencer, until he fairly threw him out at the +hall-door, which he himself shut after him. + +“Begone, villain!” he exclaimed; “and may you never die till you feel +the torments which you have kindled, like the flames of hell, within +me!” + +On entering the room again, he found, however, that with a being even so +wretched and contemptible as Crackenfudge, there had departed a portion +of his strength. So long as he had an object on which to launch his +fury, he felt that he could still sustain the battle of his passions. +But now a heavy sense came over him, as if of something which he could +not understand or analyze. His heart sank, and he felt a nameless and +indescribable terror within him--a terror, he thought, quite distinct +from the conduct of his daughter, or of anything else he had heard. He +had, in fact, lost all perception of his individual misery, and a moral +gloom, black as night, seemed to cover and mingle with those fiery +tortures which were consuming him. An apprehension, also, of immediate +dissolution came over him--his memory grew gradually weaker and weaker, +until he felt himself no longer able to account for the scene which had +just taken place; and for a brief period, although he neither swooned +nor fainted, nor fell into a fit of any kind, he experienced a stupor +that amounted to a complete unconsciousness of being, if we except an +undying impression of some great evil which had befallen him, and +which lay, like a grim and insatiable monster, tearing up his heart. +At length, by a violent effort, he recovered a little, became once more +conscious, walked about for some time, then surveyed himself in the +glass, and what between the cadaverous hue of his face and the flakes +of red foam which we have described, when taken in connection with his +thick, midnight brows, it need not be wondered at that he felt alarmed +at the state to which he awakened. + +After some time, however, he rang for Gibson, who, on seeing him, +started. + +“Good God, sir!” said he, quite alarmed, “whit is the matter?” + +“I did not ring for you, sir,” he replied, “to ask impertinent +questions. Send Gillespie to me.” + +Gibson withdrew, and in the mean time his master went to his +dressing-room, where he washed himself free of the bloody evidences of +his awful passions. This being done, he returned to the library, where, +in a few minutes, Gillespie attended him.” + +“Gillespie,” he exclaimed, “do you fear God?” + +“I hope I do, Sir Thomas, as well as another, at any rate.” + +“Well, then, begone, for you are useless to me--begone, sirrah, and get +me some one that fears neither God nor devil.” + +“Why, Sir Thomas,” replied the ruffian, who, having expected a job, felt +anxious to retrieve himself, “as to that matter, I can't say that I ever +was overburdened with much fear of either one or other of them. Indeed, +I believe, thank goodness, I have as little religion as most people.” + +“Are you sure, sirrah, that you have no conscience?” + +“Why--hem--I have done things for your honor before, you know. As to +religion, however, I'll stand upon having as little of it as e'er a man +in the barony. I give up to no one in a want of that commodity.” + +“What proof can you afford me that you are free from it?” + +“Why, blow me if I know the twelve commandments, and, besides, I was +only at church three times in my life, and I fell asleep under the +sermon each time; religion, sir, never agreed with me.” + +“To blazon my shame!--bad enough; but the ruin of my hopes, d--n you, +sir, how durst you publish my disgrace to the world?” + +“I, your honor! I'll take my oath I never breathed a syllable of it; +and you know yourself, sir, the man was too drunk to be able to speak or +remember anything of what happened.” + +“Sir, you came to mock and jeer at me; and, besides, you are a liar, she +has not eloped.” + +“I don't understand you, Sir Thomas,” said Gillespie, who saw at once by +his master's disturbed and wandering eye, that the language he uttered +was not addressed to him. + +“What--what,” exclaimed the latter, rising up and stretching himself, +in order to call back his scattered faculties. “Eh, Gillespie!--what +brought you here, sirrah? Are you too come to triumph over the ambitious +projector? What am I saying? I sent for you, Gillespie, did I not?” + +“You did, Sir Thomas; and with regard to what we were speaking about--I +mean religion--I'll hould a pound note with Charley Corbet, when he +comes back, that I have less of it than him; and we'll both leave it to +your honor, as the best judge; now, if I have less of it than Charley, I +think I deserve the preference.” + +The baronet looked at him, or rather in the direction where he stood, +which induced Gillespie to suppose that he was paying the strictest +attention to what he said. + +“Besides, I once caught Charley at his prayers, Sir Thomas; but I'd be +glad to see the man that ever caught me at them--that's the chat.” + +Sir Thomas placed his two hands upon his eyes for as good as a minute, +after which he removed them, and stared about him like one awakening +from a disturbed dream. + +“Eh?--Begone, Gillespie; I believe I sent for you, but you may go. I am +unwell, and not in a condition to speak to you. When I want you again, +you shall be sent for.” + +“I don't care a d---- about either hell or the devil, Sir Thomas, +especially when I'm drunk; and I once, for a wager, outswore Squire +Leatherings, who was so deaf that I was obliged to swear with my mouth +to the end of his ear-trumpet. I was backed for fifty guineas by Colonel +Brimstone, who was head of the Hellfire Club.” + +The baronet signed to him impatiently to begone, and this worthy +moralist withdrew, exclaiming as he went: + +“Take my word for it, you will find nothing to your hand equal to +myself; and if there's anything to be done, curse me but I deserve a +preference. I think merit ought to have its reward at any rate.” + +Sir Thomas, we need not say, felt ill at ease. The tumults of his mind +resembled those of the ocean after the violence of the tempest has swept +over it, leaving behind that dark and angry agitation which indicates +the awful extent of its power. After taking a turn or two through the +room, he felt fatigued and drowsy, with something like a feeling of +approaching illness. Yielding to this heaviness, he stretched himself on +a sofa, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. + +All minds naturally vicious, or influenced by the impulses of bad and +irregular passions, are essentially vulgar, mean, and cowardly. Our +baronet was, beyond question, a striking proof of this truth. Had +he possessed either dignity, or one spark of gentlemanly feeling, or +self-respect, he would not have degraded himself from what ought to +have been expected from a man in his position, by his violence to the +worthless wretch, Crackenfudge, who was slight, comparatively feeble, +and by no means a match for him in a personal contest. The only apology +that can be offered for him is, that it is probable he was scarcely +conscious, in the whirlwind and tempest of his passions, that he allowed +himself to act such a base and unmanly part to a person who had not +willingly offended him, and who was entitled, whilst under his roof, to +forbearance, if not protection, even in virtue of the communication he +had made. + +After sleeping about an hour, he arose considerably refreshed in body; +but the agony of mind, although diminished in its strength by its own +previous paroxysms, was still intense and bitter. He got up, surveyed +himself once more in the glass, adjusted his dress, and helped himself +to a glass or two of Madeira, which was his usual specific after these +internal conflicts. + +This day, however, was destined to be one of trial to him, although +by no means his last; neither was it ordained to bring forth the final +ordeals that awaited him. He had scarcely time to reflect upon the +measures which, under the present circumstances, he ought to pursue, +although he certainly was engaged in considering the matter, when Gibson +once more entered to let him know that a gentleman requested the favor +of a short interview. + +“What gentleman? Who is he? I'm not in a frame of mind to see any +stranger--I mean, Gibson, that I'm not well.” + +“Sorry, to hear it, sir; shall I tell the gentleman you can't see him?” + +“Yes--no--stay; do you know who he is?” + +“He is the gentleman, sir, who has been stopping for some time at the +Mitre.” + +“What!” exclaimed the baronet, bouncing to his feet. + +“Yes, sir.” + +If some notorious felon, red with half-a-dozen murders, and who, having +broken jail, left an empty noose in the hands of the hangman, had taken +it into his head to return and offer himself up for instant execution +to the aforesaid hangman, and eke to the sheriff, we assert that neither +sheriff nor hangman, nor hangman nor sheriff, arrange them as you may, +could feel a thousandth part of the astonishment which seized Sir Thomas +Gourlay on learning the fact conveyed to him by Gibson. Sir Thomas, +however, after the first natural start, became, if we may use the +expression, deadly, fearfully calm. It was not poor, contemptible +Crackenfudge he had to deal with now, but the prime offender, the great +felon himself, the author of his shame, the villain who poured in the +fire of perdition upon his heart, who blasted his hopes, crumbled into +ruin all his schemes of ambition for his daughter, and turned her very +name into a byword of pollution and guilt. This was the man whom he was +now about to get into his power; the man who, besides, had on a former +occasion bearded and insulted him to his teeth;--the skulking adventurer +afraid to disclose his name--the low-born impostor, living by the +rinsings of foul and fetid teeth--the base upstart--the thief--the +man who robbed and absconded from his employer; and this wretch, this +cipher, so low in the scale of society and life, was the individual +who had left him what he then felt himself to be--a thing crushed, +disgraced, trodden in the dust--and then his daughter!---- + +“Gibson,” said he, “show him into a room--say I will see him presently, +in about ten minutes or less; deliver this message, and return to me.” + +In a few moments Gibson again made his appearance. + +“Gibson,” continued his master, “where is Gillespie? Send him to me.” + +“Gillespie's gone into Ballytrain, sir, to get one of the horses fired.” + +“Gibson, you are a good and faithful servant. Go to my bedroom and fetch +me my pistols.” + +“My God, Sir Thomas! oh, sir, for heaven's sake, avoid violence! The +expression of your face, Sir Thomas, makes me tremble.” + +Sir Thomas spoke not, but by one look Gibson felt that he must obey +him. On returning with the arms, his master took them out of his hands, +opened the pans, shook and stirred the powder, examined the flints, saw +that they were sharp and firm, and having done so, he opened a drawer in +the table at which he usually wrote, and there placed them at full +cock. Gibson could perceive that, although unnaturally calm, he was +nevertheless in a state of great agitation; for whilst examining the +pistols, he observed that his hand trembled, although his voice was low, +condensed, and firm. + +“For God's sake, Sir Thomas! for the Almighty God's sake--” + +“Go, Gibson, and desire the 'gentleman' to walk up--show him the way.” + +Sir Thomas's mind was, no doubt, in a tumult; but, at the same time, it +was the agitation of a man without courage. After Gibson had left the +room, he grew absolutely nervous, both in mind and body, and felt as if +he were unequal to the conflict that he expected. On hearing the firm, +manly tread of the stranger, his heart sank, and a considerable portion +of his violence abandoned him, though not the ungenerous purpose which +the result of their interview might possibly render necessary. At all +events, he felt that he was about to meet the stranger in a much more +subdued spirit than he had expected; simply because, not being naturally +a brave or a firm man, his courage, and consequently his resentment, +cooled in proportion as the distance between them diminished. + +Sir Thomas was standing with his back to the fire as the stranger +entered. The manner of the latter was cool, but cautious, and his bow +that of a perfect gentleman. The baronet, surprised into more than he +had intended, bowed haughtily in return--a mark of respect which it was +not his intention to have paid him. + +“I presume, sir,” said he, “that I understand the object of this visit?” + +“You and I, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the stranger, “have had +one interview already--and but one; and I am not aware that anything +occurred then between us that could enable you to account for my +presence here.” + +“Well, sir, perhaps so,” replied the baronet, with a sneer; “but to what +may I attribute the honor of that distinguished presence?” + +“I come, Sir Thomas Gourlay, to seek for an explanation on a subject of +the deepest importance to the party under whose wishes and instructions +I act.” + +“That party, sir,” replied the baronet, who alluded to his daughter, +“has forfeited every right to give you instructions on that, or any +other subject where I am concerned. And, indeed, to speak candidly, +I hardly know whether more to admire her utter want of all shame in +deputing you on such a mission, or your own immeasurable effrontery in +undertaking it.” + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the stranger, with a proud smile on his +lips, “I beg to assure you, once for all, that it is not my intention to +notice, much less return, such language as you have now applied to me. +Whatever you may forget, sir, I entreat you to remember that you are +addressing a gentleman, who is anxious in this interview, as well as +upon all occasions when we may meet, to treat you with courtesy. And I +beg to say now, that I regret the warmth of my language to you, though +not unprovoked, on a former occasion.” + +“Oh, much obliged, sir,” replied the baronet, with a low, ironical +inclination of the head, indicative of the most withering contempt; +“much obliged, sir. Perhaps you would honor me with your patronage, too. +I dare say that will be the next courtesy. Well, I can't say but I am a +fortunate fellow. Will you have the goodness, however, to proceed, sir, +and open your negotiations? unless, in the true diplomatic spirit, you +wish to keep me in ignorance of its real object.” + +“It is a task that I enter upon with great pain,” replied the other, +without noticing the offensive politeness of the baronet, “because I +am aware that there are associations connected with it, which you, as a +father, cannot contemplate without profound sorrow.” + +“Don't rest assured of that,” said Sir Thomas. “Your philosophy may +lead you astray there. A sensible man, sir, never regrets that which is +worthless.” + +The stranger looked a good deal surprised; however, he opened the +negotiation, as the baronet said, in due form. + +“I believe, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” he proceeded, “you remember that the +son and heir of your late brother, Sir Edward Gourlay, long deceased, +disappeared very mysteriously some sixteen or eighteen years ago, and +has been lost to the family ever since.” + +“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the baronet, with no little surprise, “I beg your +pardon. Your exordium was so singularly clear, that I did not understand +you before. Pray proceed.” + +“I trust, then, you understand me now, sir,” replied the stranger; “and +I trust you will understand me better before we part.” + +The baronet, in spite of his hauteur and contemptuous sarcasm, began to +feel uneasy; for, to speak truth, there was in the stranger's words and +manner, an earnestness of purpose, joined to a cool and manly spirit, +that could not be treated lightly, or with indifference. + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” proceeded the stranger-- + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the other, interrupting him; “plain +Thomas Gourlay, if you please. Is not that your object?” + +“Truth, sir, is our object, and justice, and the restoration of the +defrauded orphan's rights. These, sir, are our objects; and these we +shall endeavor to establish. Sir Thomas Gourlay, you know that the son +of your brother lives.” + +“Indeed!” + +“Yes, sir; disguise it--conceal it as you will. You know that the son of +your brother lives. I repeat that emphatically.” + +“So I perceive. You are evidently a very emphatic gentleman.” + +“If truth, sir, constitute emphasis, you shall find me so.” + +“I attend to you, sir; and I give you notice, that when you shall have +exhausted yourself, I have my explanation to demand; and, I promise you, +a terrible one you shall find it.” + +This the wily baronet said, in order, if possible, to confound the +stranger, and throw him out of the directness of his purpose. In this, +however, he found himself mistaken. The other proceeded: + +“You, Sir Thomas Gourlay, did, one night about eighteen years ago, as +I said, engage a man, disguised in a mask for the purpose of concealing +his features, to kidnap your brother's child from Red Hall--from this +very house in which we both stand.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Sir Thomas, “I forgot that circumstance in the +blaze of your eloquence; perhaps you will have the goodness to take a +seat;” and in the same spirit of bitter sarcasm, he motioned him with +mock courtesy, to sit down. The other, pausing only until he had spoken, +proceeded: + +“You engaged this man, I repeat, to kidnap your brother's son and heir, +under the pretence of bringing him to see a puppet-show. Now, Sir Thomas +Gourlay,” proceeded the stranger, “suppose that the friends of +this child, kidnapped by you, shall succeed in proving this fact by +incontestable evidence, in what position will you stand before the +world?” + +“Much in the same position in which I stand now. In Red Hall, as its +rightful proprietor, with my back probably to the fire, as it is at +present.” + +It is undeniable, however, that despite all this haughty coolness of the +baronet, the charge involved in the statement advanced by the stranger +stunned him beyond belief; not simply because the other made it, for +that was a mere secondary consideration, but because he took it for +granted that it never could have been made unless through the medium of +treachery; and we all know that when a criminal, whether great or small, +has reason to believe that he has been betrayed, his position is not +enviable, inasmuch as all sense of security totters from under him. The +stranger, as he proceeded, watched the features of his auditor closely, +and could perceive that the struggle then going on between the tumult of +alarm within and the effort at calmness without, was more than, with all +his affected irony and stoicism, he could conceal. + +“But, perhaps,” proceeded the baronet, “you who presume to be so well +acquainted with the removal of my brother's child, may have it in your +power to afford me some information on the disappearance of my own. I +wish you, however, to observe this distinction. As the history you have +given happens to be pure fiction, I should wish the other to be nothing +but--truth.” + +“The loss of your child I regret, sir” (Sir Thomas bowed as before), +“but I am not here to speak of that. You perceive now that we have got a +clew to this painful mystery--to this great crime. A portion of the veil +is raised, and you may rest assured that it shall not fall again until +the author of this injustice shall be fully exposed. I do not wish to +use harsher language.” + +“As to that,” replied Sir Thomas, “use no unnecessary delicacy on the +subject. Thank God, the English language is a copious one. Use it to +its full extent. You will find all its power necessary to establish +the pretty conspiracy you are developing. Proceed, sir, I am quite +attentive. I really did not imagine I could have felt so much amused. +Indeed, I am very fortunate in this respect, for it is not every man who +could have such an excellent farce enacted at his own fireside.” + +“All this language is well, and no doubt very witty, Sir Thomas; but, +believe me, in the end you will find this matter anything but a farce. +Now, sir, I crave your attention to a proposal which I am about to make +to you on this most distressing subject. Restore this young man to +his mother--use whatever means you may in bringing this about. Let it +appear, for instance, that he was discovered accidentally, or in such a +way, at least, that your name or agency, either now or formerly, may in +no manner be connected with it. On these terms you shall be permitted +to enjoy the title and property during your life, and every necessary +guarantee to that effect shall be given you. The heart of Lady Gourlay +is neither in your present title nor your present property, but in +her child, whom that heart yearns to recover. This, then, Sir Thomas +Gourlay, is the condition which I propose; and, mark me, I propose it +on the alternative of our using the means and materials already in our +hands for your exposure and conviction should you reject it.” + +“There is one quality about you, sir,” replied the baronet, “which I +admire extremely, and that is your extraordinary modesty. Nothing else +could prompt you to stand up and charge a man of my rank and character, +on my own hearth, with the very respectable crime of kidnapping my +brother's child. Extremely modest, indeed! But how you should come to +be engaged in this vindictive plot, and how you, above all men living, +should have the assurance to thus insult me, is a mystery for the +present. Of course, you see, you are aware, that I treat every word +you have uttered with the utmost degree of contempt and scorn which the +language is capable of expressing. I neither know nor care who may have +prompted you, or misled you; be that, however, as it may, I have only +simply to state that, on this subject I defy them as thoroughly as I +despise you. On another subject, however, I experience toward you a +different, feeling, as I shall teach you to understand before you leave +the room.” + +“This being your reply, I must discharge my duty fully. Pray mark me, +now, Sir Thomas. Did you not give instructions to a certain man to take +your brother's child _out of your path--out of your sight--out of your +hearing?_ And, Sir Thomas, was not that man _very liberally rewarded_ +for that act? I pray you, sir, to think seriously of this, as I need not +say that if you persist in rejecting our conditions, a serious matter +you will find it.” + +Another contemptuous inclination, and “you have my reply, sir,” was all +the baronet could trust himself to say. + +“I now come to a transaction of a more recent date, Sir Thomas.” + +“Ah!” said the baronet, “I thought I should have had the pleasure of +introducing the discussion of that transaction. You really are, however, +quite a universal genius--so clear and eloquent upon all topics, that I +suppose I may leave it in your hands.” + +“A young man, named Fenton, has suddenly disappeared from this +neighborhood.” + +“Indeed! Why, I must surely live at the antipodes, or in the moon, or I +could not plead such ignorance of those great events.” + +“You are aware, Sir Thomas, that the person passing under that name is +your brother's son--the legitimate heir to the title and property of +which you are in the unjust possession.” + +Another bow. “I thank you, sir. I really am deriving much information at +your hands.” + +“Now I demand, Sir Thomas Gourlay, in the name of his injured mother, +what you have done with that young man?” + +“It would be useless to conceal it,” replied the other. “As you seem +to know everything, of course you know that. To your own knowledge, +therefore, I beg most respectfully to refer you.” + +“I have only another observation to make, Sir Thomas Gourlay. You +remember last Tuesday night, when you drove at an unseasonable hour to +the town of------? Now, sir, I use your words, on _that_ subject, to +_your own knowledge_ I beg most respectfully to refer you. I have done.” + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, when effort was necessary, could certainly play an +able and adroit part. There was not a charge brought against him in +the preceding conference that did not sink his heart into the deepest +dismay; yet did he contrive to throw over his whole manner and bearing +such a veil of cold, hard dissimulation as it was nearly impossible +to penetrate. It is true, he saw that he had an acute, sensible, +independent man to deal with, whose keen eye he felt was reading every +feature of his face, and every motion of his body, and weighing, as +it were, with a practised hand, the force and import of every word he +uttered. He knew that merely to entertain the subject, or to discuss it +at all with anything like seriousness, would probably have exposed him +to the risk of losing his temper, and thus placed himself in the power +of so sharp and impurturbable an antagonist. As the dialogue proceeded, +too, a portion of his attention was transferred from the topic in +question to the individual who introduced it. His language, his manner, +his dress, his _tout ensemble_ were unquestionably not only those of an +educated gentleman, but of a man who was well acquainted with life and +society, and who appeared to speak as if he possessed no unequivocal +position in both. + +“Who the devil,” thought he to himself several times, “can this person +be? How does he come to speak on behalf of Lady Gourlay? Surely such a +man cannot be a brush manufacturer's clerk--and he has very little the +look of an impostor, too.” + +All this, however, could not free him from the deep and deadly +conviction that the friends of his brother's widow were on his trail, +and that it required the whole united powers of his faculties for +deception, able and manifold as they were, to check his pursuers and +throw them off the scent. It was now, too, that his indignation against +his daughter and him who had seduced her from his roof began to deepen +in his heart. Had he succeeded in seeing her united to Lord Dunroe, +previous to any exposure of himself--supposing even that discovery +was possible--his end, the great object of his life, was, to a certain +extent, gained. Now, however, that that hope was out of the question, +and treachery evidently at work against him, he felt that gloom, +disappointment, shame, and ruin were fast gathering round him. He +was, indeed, every way hemmed in and hampered. It was clear that this +stranger was not a man to be either cajoled or bullied. He read a +spirit--a sparkle--in his eye, which taught him that the brutality +inflicted upon the unfortunate Crackenfudge, and such others as he knew +he might trample on, would never do here. + +As matters stood, however, he thought the only chance of throwing the +stranger off his guard was to take him by a _coup de main_. With this +purpose, he went over, and sitting down to his desk before the drawer +that contained his pistols, thus placing himself between the stranger +and the door, he turned upon him a look as stern and determined as +he could possibly assume; and we must remark here, that he omitted +no single consideration connected with the subject he was about to +introduce that was calculated to strengthen his determination. + +“Now, sir,” said he, “in the first place, may I take the liberty +of asking where you have concealed my daughter? I will have no +equivocation, sir,” he added, raising his voice--“no evasion, no +falsehood, but in one plain word, or in as many as may be barely +necessary, say where you have concealed Miss Gourlay.” + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the other, “I can understand your +feelings upon this subject, and I can overlook much that you may say in +connection with it; but neither upon that nor any other, can I permit +the imputation of falsehood against myself. You are to observe this, +sir, and to forbear the repetition of such an insult. My reply is +brief and candid: I know not where Miss Gourlay is, upon my honor as a +gentleman.” + +“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you and she did not elope in the same +coach on Tuesday night last?” + +“I do, sir; and I beg to tell you, that such a suspicion is every way +unworthy of your daughter.” + +“Take care, sir; you were seen together in Dublin.” + +“That is true. I had the honor of travelling in the same coach with +her to the metropolis; but I was altogether unconscious of being her +fellow-traveller until we arrived in Dublin. A few brief words of +conversation I had with her in the coach, but nothing more.” + +“And you presume to say that you know not where she is--that you are +ignorant of the place of her retreat'?” + +“Yes, I presume to say so, Sir Thomas; I have already pledged my honor +as a gentleman to that effect, and I shall not repeat it.” + +“As a gentleman!--but how do I know that you are a man of honor and a +gentleman?” + +“Sir Thomas, don't allow your passion or prejudice to impose upon your +judgment and penetration as a man of the world. I know you feel this +moment that you are addressing a man who is both; and your own heart +tells you that every word I have uttered respecting Miss Gourlay is +true.” + +“You will excuse me there, sir,” replied the baronet. “Your position in +this neighborhood is anything but a guarantee to the truth of what you +say. If you be a gentleman--a man of honor, why live here, incognito, +afraid to declare your name, or your rank, if you have any?--why lie +_perdu_, like a man under disgrace, or who had fled from justice?” + +“Well, then, I beg you to rest satisfied that I am not under disgrace, +and that I have motives for concealing my name that are disinterested, +and even honorable, to myself, if they were known.” + +“Pray, will you answer me another question--Do you happen to know a firm +in London named Grinwell and Co.? they are toothbrush manufacturers? +Now, mark my words well--I say Grinwell and Co., tooth-brush +manufacturers.” + +“I have until this moment never heard of Grinwell and Co., tooth-brush +manufacturers.” + +“Now, sir,” replied Sir Thomas, “all this may be very well and very +true; but there is one fact that you can neither deny nor dispute. You +have been paying your addresses clandestinely to my daughter, and there +is a mutual attachment between you.” + +“I love your daughter--I will not deny it.” + +“She returns your affections?” + +“I cannot reply to anything involving Miss Gourlay's opinions, who is +not here to explain them; nor is it generous in you to force me into the +presumptuous task of interpreting her sentiments on such a subject.” + +“The fact, however, is this. I have for some years entertained other +and different views with respect to her settlement in life. You may be a +gentleman, or you may be an impostor; but one thing is certain, you have +taught her to contravene my wishes--to despise the honors to which a +dutiful obedience to them would exalt her--to spurn my affection, and to +trample on my authority. Now, sir, listen to me. Renounce her--give up +all claims to her--withdraw every pretension, now and forever; or, by +the living God! you shall never carry your life out of this room. Sooner +than have the noble design which I proposed for her frustrated; sooner +than have the projects of my whole life for her honorable exaltation +ruined, I could bear to die the death of a common felon. Here, sir, is +a proposition that admits of only the one fatal and deadly alternative. +You see these pistols; they are heavily loaded; and you know my purpose; +--it is the purpose, let me tell you, of a resolved and desperate man.” + +“I know not how to account for this violence, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” + replied the stranger with singular coolness; “all I can say is, that on +me it is thrown away.” + +“Refuse the compliance with the proposition I have made, and by heavens +you have looked upon your last sun. The pistols, sir, are cocked; if one +fails, the other won't.” + +“This outrage, Sir Thomas, upon a stranger, in your own house, under the +protection of your own roof, is as monstrous as it is cowardly.” + +“My roof, sir, shall never afford protection to a villain,” said the +baronet, in a loud and furious voice. “Renounce my daughter, and that +quickly. No, sir, this roof will afford you no protection.” + +[Illustration: PAGE 446-- Pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held +ready] + +“Well, sir, I cannot help that,” replied the stranger, deliberately +taking out of his breast, where they were covered by an outside coat, a +case of excellent pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held ready +for action: “If your roof won't, these good friends will. And now, +Sir Thomas, hear me; lay aside your idle weapons, which, were I even +unarmed, I would disregard as much as I do this moment. Our interview +is now closed; but before I go, let me entreat you to reflect upon the +conditions I have offered you; reflect upon them deeply--yes, and accept +them, otherwise you will involve yourself in all the consequences of a +guilty but unsuccessful ambition--in contempt--infamy--and ruin.” + +The baronet's face became exceedingly blank at the exhibition of the +fire-arms. Pistol for pistol had been utterly out of the range of +his calculations. He looked upon the stranger with astonishment, not +un-mingled with a considerable portion of that wholesome feeling which +begets self-preservation. In fact, he was struck dumb, and uttered not a +syllable; and as the stranger made his parting bow, the other could only +stare at him as if he had seen an apparition. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. Lucy at Summerfield Cottage. + + +On his way to the inn, the stranger could not avoid admiring the +excellent sense and prudence displayed by Lucy Gourlay, in the brief +dialogue which we have already detailed to our readers. He felt clearly, +that if he had followed up his natural impulse to ascertain the place +of her retreat, he would have placed himself in the very position which, +knowing her father as she did, she had so correctly anticipated. In +the meantime, now that the difficulty in this respect, which she +had apprehended, was over, his anxiety to know her present residence +returned upon him with full force. Not that he thought it consistent +with delicacy to intrude himself upon her presence, without first +obtaining her permission to that effect. He was well and painfully aware +that a lying report of their elopement had gone abroad, but as he did +not then know that this calumny had been principally circulated by +unfortunate Crackenfudge, who, however, was the dupe of Dandy Dulcimer, +and consequently took the fact for granted. + +Lucy, however, to whom we must now return, on arriving at the neat +cottage already alluded to, occasioned no small surprise to its +proprietor. The family, when the driver knocked, were all asleep, or +at least had not arisen, and on the door being opened by a broad-faced, +good-humored looking servant, who was desired to go to a lady in the +chaise, the woman, after rubbing her eyes and yawning, looked about her +as if she were in a dream, exclaiming, “Lord bless us! and divil a sowl +o' them out o' the blankets yet!” + +“You're nearly asleep,” said the driver; “but I'll hould a testher that +a tight crapper Would soon brighten your eye. Come, come,” he added, as +she yawned again, “shut your pittaty trap, and go to the young lady in +the chaise.” + +The woman settled her cap, which was awry, upon her head, by plucking it +quickly over to the opposite side, and hastily tying the strings of her +apron, so as to give herself something of a tidy look, she proceeded, +barefooted, but in slippers, to the chaise. + +“Will you have the kindness,” said Lucy, in a very sweet voice, “to say +to Mrs. Norton that a young friend of hers wishes to see her.” + +“And tell her to skip,” added Alley Mahon, “and not keep us here all the +blessed mornin'.” + +“Mrs. Norton!” exclaimed the woman; “I don't know any sich parson as +that, Miss.” + +“Why,” said Lucy, putting her head out of the chaise, and re-examining +the cottage, “surely this is where my friend Mrs. Norton did live, +certainly. She must have changed her residence, Alley. This is most +unfortunate!--What are we to do? I know not where to go.” + +“Whisht! Miss,” said Alley, “we'll put her through her catechiz again. +Come here, my good woman; come forrid; don't be ashamed or afeard in the +presence of ladies. Who does live here?” + +“Mr. Mainwarin',” replied the servant, omitting the “Miss,” + notwithstanding that Alley had put in her claim for it by using the +plural number. + +“This is distressing--most unfortunate!” exclaimed Lucy; “how long has +this gentleman--Mr.--Mr.------” + +“Mainwarin', Miss,” added the woman, respectfully. + +“She's a stupid lookin' sthreel, at all events,” said Alley, half to +herself and half to her mistress. + +“Yes, Mainwaring,” continued Lucy; “how long has he been living here?” + +“Troth, and that's more than I can tell you, Miss,” replied the woman; +“I'm from the county Wexford myself, and isn't more than a month here.” + +Whilst this little dialogue went on, or rather, we should say, after it +was concluded, a tapping was heard at one of the windows, and a signal +given with the finger for the servant to return to the house. She did +so; but soon presented herself a second time at the chaise door with +more agreeable intelligence. + +“You're right, Miss,” said she; “the mistress desired me to ask you in; +she seen you from the windy, and desired me to bring your things too; +you're to come in, then, Miss, you, an' the sarvint that's along wid +you.” + +On entering, an intelligent, respectable-looking female, of lady-like +manners, shook hands with and even kissed Lucy, who embraced her with +much affection. + +“My dear Mrs. Norton,” she said, “how much surprised you must feel at +this abrupt and unseasonable visit.” + +“How much delighted, you mean, my dear Miss Gourlay; and if I am +surprised, I assure you the surprise is an agreeable one.” + +“But,” said the innocent girl, “your servant told me that you did not +live here, and I felt so much distressed!” + +“Well,” replied Mrs. Norton, “she was right, in one sense: if Mrs. +Norton that was does not live here, Mrs. Mainwaring that is certainly +does--and feels both proud and flattered at the honor Miss Gourlay does +her humble residence.” + +“How is this?” said Lucy, smiling; “you have then--” + +“Yes, indeed, I have changed my condition, as the phrase goes; but +neither my heart nor my affections to you, Miss Gourlay. Pray sit down +on this sofa. Your maid, I presume, Miss Gourlay?” + +“Yes,” replied Lucy; “and a faithful creature has she proved to me, Mrs. +Nor--” but I beg your pardon, my dear madam; how am I--oh, yes, Mrs. +Mainwaring!” + +“Nancy,” said the latter, “take this young woman with you, and make her +comfortable. You seem exhausted. Miss Gourlay; shall I get some tea?” + +“Thank you, Mrs. Nor--Mainwaring, no; we have had a hasty cup of tea in +Dublin. But if it will not be troublesome, I should like to go to bed +for a time.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring flew out of the room, and called Nancy Gallaher. “Nancy, +prepare a bed immediately for this lady; her maid, too, will probably +require rest. Prepare a bed for both.” + +She was half in and half out of the room as she spoke; then returning +with a bunch of keys dangling from her finger, she glanced at Miss +Gourlay with that slight but delicate and considerate curiosity which +arises only from a friendly warmth of feeling--but said nothing. + +“My dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, who understood her look, “I feel +that I have acted very wrong. I have fled from my father's house, and I +have taken refuge with you. I am at present confused and exhausted, but +when I get some rest, I will give you an explanation. At present, it is +sufficient to say that papa has taken my marriage with that odious Lord +Dunroe so strongly into his head, that nothing short of my consent will +satisfy him. I know he loves me, and thinks that rank and honor, because +they gratify his ambition, will make me happy. I know that that ambition +is not at all personal to himself, but indulged in and nurtured on my +account, and for my advancement in life. How then can I blame him?” + +“Well, my child, no more of that at present; you want rest.” + +“Yes, Mrs. Mainwaring, I do; but I am very wretched and unhappy. +Alas! you know not, my dear friend, the delight which I have always +experienced in obeying papa in everything, with the exception of this +hateful union; and now I feel something like remorse at having abandoned +him.” + +She then gave a brief account to her kind-hearted friend of her journey +to Dublin by the “Fly,” in the first instance, suppressing one or two +incidents; and of her second to Mrs. Mainwaring's, who, after hearing +that she had not slept at all during the night, would permit no further +conversation on that or any other subject, but hurried her to bed, she +herself acting as her attendant. Having seen her comfortably settled, +and carefully tucked her up with her own hands, she kissed the fair +girl, exclaiming, “Sleep, my love; and may God bless and protect you +from evil and unhappiness, as I feel certain He will, because you +deserve it.” + +She then left her to sepose, and in a few minutes Lucy was fast asleep. + +Whilst this little dialogue between Lucy and Mrs. Mainwaring was +proceeding in the parlor of Summerfield cottage, another was running +parallel with it between the two servants in the kitchen. + +“God bless me,” said Nancy Gallaher, addressing Alley, “you look +shockin' bad afther so early a journey! I'll get you a cup o' tay, to +put a bloom in your cheek.” + +“Thank you, kindly, ma'am,” replied Alley, with a toss of her head which +implied anything but gratitude for this allusion to her complexion: +“a good sleep, ma'am, will bring back the bloom--and that's aisy done, +ma'am, to any one who has youth on their side. The color will come and +go then, but let a wrinkle alone for keepin' its ground.” + +This was accompanied by a significant glance at Nancy's face, on which +were legible some rather unequivocal traces of that description. +Honest Nancy, however, although she saw the glance, and understood the +insinuation, seemed to take no notice of either--the fact being that +her whole spirit was seized with an indomitable curiosity, which, like a +restless familiar, insisted on being gratified. + +In the case of those who undertake journeys similar to that which Lucy +had just accomplished, there may be noticed almost by every eye those +evidences of haste, alarm, and anxiety, and even distress, which to a +certain extent at least tell their own tale, and betray to the observer +that all can scarcely be right. Now Nancy Gallaher saw this, and having +drawn the established conclusion that there must in some way be a lover +in the case, she sat down in form before the fortress of Alley Mahon's +secret, with a firm determination to make herself mistress of it, if the +feat were at all practicable. In Alley, however, she had an able general +to compete with--a general who resolved, on the other hand, to make a +sortie, as it were, and attack Nancy by a series of bold and unexpected +manoeuvres. + +Nancy, on her part, having felt her first error touching Alley's +complexion, resolved instantly to repair it by the substitution of a +compliment in its stead. + +“Throth, an' it'll be many a day till there's a wrinkle in your face, +avourneen--an' now that I look at you agin--a pretty an' a sweet face +it is. 'Deed it's many a day since I seen two sich faces as yours and +the other young lady's; but anyway, you had betther let me get you a +comfortable cup o' tay--afther your long journey. Oh, then, but that +beautiful creature has a sorrowful look, poor thing.” + +These words were accompanied by a most insinuating glance of curiosity, +mingled up with an air of strong benevolence, to show Alley that it +proceeded only from the purest of good feeling. “Thank you,” replied +Alley, “I will take a cup sure enough. What family have you here? if +it's a fair question.” + +“Sorra one but ourselves,” replied Nancy, without making her much the +wiser. + +“But, I mane,” proceeded Alley, “have you children? bekase if you have I +hate them.” + +“Neither chick nor child there will be under the roof wid you here,” + responded Nancy, whilst putting the dry tea into a tin tea-pot that +had seen service; “there's only the three of us--that is, myself, the +misthress, and the masther--for I am not countin' a slip of a girl that +comes in every day to do odd jobs, and some o' the rough work about the +house.” + +“Oh, I suppose,” said Alley, indifferently, “the childre's all married +off?” + +“There's only one,” replied Nancy; “and indeed you're right enough--she +is married, and not long either--and, in truth, I don't envy her the +husband, she got. Lord save and guard us! I know I wouldn't long keep my +senses if I had him.” + +“Why so?” asked Alley. “Has he two heads upon him?” + +“Troth, no,” replied the other; “but he's what they call a mad docther, +an' keeps a rheumatic asylum--that manes a place where they put mad +people, to prevent them from doin' harm. They say it would make the hair +stand on your head like nettles even to go into it. However, that's not +what I'm thinkin' of, but that darlin' lookin' creature that's wid +the misthress. The Lord keep sorrow and cross-fortune from her, poor +thing--for she looks unhappy. Avillish! are you and she related? for, +as I'm a sinner, there's a resemblance in your faces--and even in your +figures--only you're something rounder and fuller than she is.” + +“Isn't she lovely?” returned Alley, making the most of the compliment. +“Sure, wasn't it in Dublin her health was drunk as the greatest toast in +Ireland.” She then added after a pause, “The Lord knows I wouldn't--” + +“Wouldn't what--avourneen?” + +“I was just thinkin', that I wouldn't marry a mad docther, if there was +ne'er another man in Ireland. A mad docther! Oh, beetha. Then will you +let us know the name that's upon him?” she added in a most wheedling +tone. + +“His name is Scareman, my misthress tells me--he's related by the +mother's side to the Moontides of Ballycrazy, in the barony of Quarther +Clift--arrah, what's this your name is, avourneen?” + +“Alley Mahon I was christened,” replied her new friend; “but,” she +added, with an air of modest dignity that was inimitable in its way--“in +regard of my place as maid of honor to Lady Lucy, I'm usually called +Miss Mahon, or Miss Alley. My mistress, for her own sake, in ordher to +keep up her consequence, you persave, doesn't like to hear me called +anything else than either one or t'other of them.” + +“And it's all right,” replied the other. “Well, as I was going to say, +that Mrs. Mainwaring is breakin' her heart about this unforthunate +marriage of her daughter to Scareman. It seems--but this is between +ourselves--it seems, my dear, that he's a dark, hard-hearted scrub, +that 'id go to hell or farther for a shillin', for a penny, ay, or for +a farden. An' the servant that was here afore me--a clean, good-natured +girl she was, in throth--an' got married to a blacksmith, at the +cross-roads beyant--tould me that the scrames, an' yells, an' howlins, +and roarins--the cursin' and blasphaymin'--an' the laughin', that she +said was worse than all--an' the rattlin' of chains--the Lord save +us--would make one think themselves more in hell than in any place upon +this world. And it appears the villain takes delight in it, an' makes +lashins of money by the trade.” + +“The sorra give him good of it!” exclaimed Alley; “an' I can tell you, +it's Lady Lucy--(divil may care, thought she--I'll make a lady of her +at any rate--this ignorant creature doesn't know the differ) it's Lady +Lucy, I say, that will be sorry to hear of this same marriage--for you +must know--what's this your name is?” + +“Nancy Gallaher, dear.” + +“And were you ever married, Nancy?” + +“If I wasn't the fau't was my own, ahagur! but I'll tell you more about +that some day. No, then, I was not, thank God!” + +“Thank God! Well, throth, it's a quare thing to thank God for that, +at any rate.” This, of course, was parenthetical. “Well, my dear,” + proceeded Alley, “you must know that Mrs. Scareman before her +marriage--of course, she was then Miss Norton--acted in the kippacity of +tutherer general to Lady Lucy, except durin' three months that she was +ill, and had to go to England to thry the wathers.” + +“What wathers?” asked Nancy. “Haven't we plenty o' wather, an' as good as +they have, at home?” + +“Not at all,” replied Alley, who sometimes, as the reader may have +perceived, drew upon an imagination of no ordinary fertility; “in +England they have spakin' birds, singin' trees, and goolden wather. So, +as I was sayin', while she went to thry the goolden wather------” + +“Troth, if ever I get poor health, I'll go there myself,” observed +Nancy, with a gleam of natural humor in her clear blue eye.” + +“Well, while she went to thry this goolden watlier, her mother, Mrs. +Norton, came in her place as tutherer general, an' that's the way they +became acquainted--Lady Lucy and her. But, my dear, I want to tell you a +saicret.” + +We are of opinion, that if Nancy's cap had been off at the moment, her +two ears might have been observed to erect themselves on each side of +her head with pure and unadulterated curiosity. + +“Well, Miss Alley, what is it, ahagur?” + +“Now, you won't breathe this to any human creature?” + +“Is it me? Arrah! little you know the woman you're spakin' to. Divil +a mortal could beat me at keepin' a saicret, at any rate; an' when +you tell me this, maybe I'll let you know one or two that'll be worth +hearin'.” + +“Well,” continued Alley, “it's this--Never call my mistress Lady Lucy, +because she doesn't like it.” + +This was an apple from the shores of the Dead Sea. Nancy's face bore +all the sudden traces of disappointment and mortification; and, from a +principle of retaliation, she resolved to give her companion a morsel +from the same fruit. + +“Now, Nancy,” continued the former, “what's this you have to tell us?” + +“But you swear not to breathe it to man, woman, or child, boy or girl, +rich or poor, livin' or dead?” + +“Sartainly I do.” + +“Well, then, it's this. I understand that Docthor Scareman isn't likely +to have a family. Now, ahagur, if you spake, I'm done, that's all.” + +Having been then called away to make arrangements necessary to Lucy's. +comfort, their dialogue was terminated before she could worm out of +Alley the cause of her mistress's visit. + +“She's a cunnin' ould hag,” said the latter, when the other had gone. “I +see what she wants to get out o' me; but it's not for nothing Miss Lucy +has trusted me, an' I'm not the girl to betray her secrets to them that +has no right to know them.” + +This, indeed, was true. Poor Alley Mahon, though a very neat and +handsome girl, and of an appearance decidedly respectable, was +nevertheless a good deal vulgar in her conversation. In lieu of this, +however, notwithstanding a large stock of vanity, she was gifted with a +strong attachment to her mistress, and had exhibited many trying proofs +of truthfulness and secrecy under circumstances where most females in +her condition of life would have given way. As a matter of course, she +was obliged to receive her master's bribes, otherwise she would have +been instantly dismissed, as one who presumed to favor Lucy's interest +and oppose his own. Her fertility of fancy, however, joined to +deep-rooted affection for his daughter, enabled her to return as a +recompense for Sir Thomas's bribes, that description of one-sided truth +which transfuses fiction into its own character and spirit, just as a +drop or two of any coloring fluid will tinge a large portion of water +with its own hue. Her replies, therefore, when sifted and examined, +always bore in them a sufficient portion of truth to enable her, on the +strong point of veracity on which she boldly stood, to bear herself +out with triumph; owing, indeed, to a slight dash in her defence of the +coloring we have described. Lucy felt that the agitation of mind, or +rather, we should say, the agony of spirit which she had been of late +forced to struggle with, had affected her health more than she could +have anticipated. That and the unusual fatigue of a long journey in a +night coach, eked out by a jolting drive to Wicklow at a time when she +required refreshment and rest, told upon her constitution, although a +naturally healthy one. For the next three or four days after her arrival +at Summerfield Cottage, she experienced symptoms of slight fever, +apparently nervous. Every attention that could be paid to her she +received at the hands of Mrs. Mainwaring, and her own maid, who seldom +was a moment from her bedside. Two or three times a day she was seized +with fits of moping, during which she deplored her melancholy lot in +life, feared she had offended her kind hostess by intruding, without +either notice or announcement, upon the quiet harmony of her family, and +begged her again and again to forgive her; adding, “That as soon as her +recovery should be established, she would return to her father's house +to die, she hoped, and join mamma; and this,” she said, “was her last +and only consolation.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring saw at once that her complaint was principally on the +nerves, and lost no time in asking permission to call in medical advice. +To this, Lucy, whose chief object was to remain unknown and in secrecy +for the present, strongly objected; but by the mild and affectionate +remonstrances of Mrs. Mainwaring, as well as at the earnest entreaties +of Alley, she consented to allow a physician to be called in. + +This step was not more judicious than necessary. The physician, on +seeing her, at once pronounced the complaint a nervous fever, but hoped +that it would soon yield to proper treatment. He prescribed, and saw her +every second day for a week, after which she gave evident symptoms of +improvement. Her constitution, as we have said, was good; and nature, +in spite of an anxious mind and disagreeable reflections, bore her +completely out of danger. + +It was not until the first day of her appearance in the parlor +subsequent to her illness, that she had an opportunity of seeing Mr. +Mainwaring, of whom his wife spoke in terms of great tenderness and +affection. She found him to be a gentlemanly person of great good sense +and delicacy of feeling. + +“I regret,” said he, after the usual introduction had taken place, “to +have been deprived so long of knowing a young lady of whose goodness +and many admirable qualities I have heard so much from the lips of Mrs. +Mainwaring. It is true I knew her affectionate nature,” he added, with +a look of more than kindness at his wife, “and I allowed something for +high coloring in your case, Miss Gourlay, as well as in others, that I +could name; but I now find, that with all her good-will, she sometimes +fails to do justice to the original.” + +“And, my dear John, did I not tell you so?” replied his wife, smiling; +“but if you make other allusions, I am sure Miss Gourlay can bear me +out.” + +“She has more than borne you out, my dear,” he replied, purposely +misunderstanding her. “She has more than borne you out; for, truth to +tell, you have in Miss Gourlay's case fallen far short of what I see she +is.” + +“But, Mr. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, smiling in her turn, “it is certainly +very strange that she can please neither of us. The outline she gave me +of your character was quite shocking. She said you were--what's this you +said of him, Mrs. Mainwaring--oh, it was very bad, sir. I think we must +deprive her of all claim to the character of an artist. Do you know I +was afraid to meet the original, in consequence of the gloomy colors +in which she sketched what she intended, I suppose, should be the +likeness.” + +“Well, my dear Miss Gourlay,” observed Mrs. Mainwaring, “now that I have +failed in doing justice to the portraits of two of my dearest friends, I +think I will burn my palette and brushes, and give up portrait painting +in future.” + +Mr. Mainwaring now rose up to take his usual stroll, but turning to Lucy +before he went, he said, + +“At all events, my dear Miss Gourlay, what between her painting and the +worth of the original, permit me to say that this house is your home +just as long as you wish. Consider Mrs. Mainwaring and me as parents to +you; willing, nay, most anxious, in every sense, to contribute to +your comfort and happiness. We are not poor, Miss Gourlay; but, on the +contrary, both independent and wealthy. You must, therefore, want for +nothing. I am, for as long as may be necessary, your parent, as I said, +and your banker; and if you will permit me the honor, I would wish to +add, your friend. Good-by, my dear child, I am going to take my daily +ramble; but I am sure you are in safe hands when I leave you in my dear +Martha's. Good-by, my love.” + +The amiable man took his golden-headed cane, and sauntered out to amuse +himself among the fields, occasionally going into the town of Wicklow, +taking a glance at the papers in the hotel, to which he generally added +a glass of ale and a pipe. + +It was not until he had left them that Lucy enjoyed an opportunity of +pouring out, at full length, to her delicate-minded and faithful friend, +the cause of her flight from home. This narrative, however, was an +honorable proof of the considerate forbearance she evinced when, +necessarily alluding to the character and conduct of her father. Were +it not, in fact, that Mrs. Mainwaring had from personal opportunity been +enabled to thoroughly understand the temper, feelings, and principles of +the worthy baronet, she would have naturally concluded that Lucy was a +disobedient girl, and her father a man who had committed no other error +than that of miscalculating her happiness from motives of excessive +affection. + +Mrs. Mainwaring heard it all with a calm and matronly benignity that +soothed poor Lucy; for it was for the first time she had ever disclosed +the actual state of her feelings to any one, with the exception of her +late mother. + +“Now, my dear Miss Gourlay--” + +“Call me Lucy, Mrs. Mainwaring,” said the affectionate girl, wiping +her eyes, for we need not assure our readers that the recital of her +sufferings, no matter how much softened down or modified, cost her many +a bitter tear. + +“I will indeed, my love, I will, Lucy,” she replied, kissing her cheek, +“if it gratifies you. Why should I not? But you know the distance there +is between us.” + +“Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, no. What are the cold forms of the +world but disguises and masks, under which the hardened and heartless +put themselves in a position of false eminence over the humble and +the good. The good are all equal over the earth, no matter what their +relative situations may be; and on this account, not-withstanding my +rank, I am scarcely worthy to sit at your feet.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring, with a kind of affectionate enthusiasm, put her hand +upon the beautiful girl's hand, and was about to speak; but she +paused for more than half a minute, during which space her serene +and benevolent face assumed an expression of profound thought and +seriousness. At length she sighed rather deeply, and said, + +“My dear Lucy, it is too bad that the happiness of such a girl as you +should be wrecked; but, worst of all, that it should be wrecked upon a +most unprincipled profligate. You know the humbleness of my birth; the +daughter of a decent farmer, who felt it a duty to give his children the +only boon, except his blessing, that he had to bestow upon them--a good +education. Well, my dear child, I beg that you will not be disheartened, +nor suffer your spirits to droop. You will look surprised when I tell +you that I think it more than probable, if I am capable of judging your +father's heart aright, that I shall be able by a short interview with +him to change the whole current of his ambition, and to bring about +such a revulsion of feeling against Lord Dunroe, as may prevent him from +consenting to your union with that nobleman under any circumstances. +Nay, not to stop here; but that I shall cause him to look upon the +breaking up of this contemplated marriage as one of the greatest +blessings that could befall his family.” + +“Such an event might be possible,” replied Lucy, “were I not +unfortunately satisfied that papa is already aware of Dunroe's loose +habits of life, which he views only as the giddiness of a young and +buoyant spirit that marriage would reform. He says Dunroe is only sowing +his wild oats, as, with false indulgence, he is pleased to term it. +Under these circumstances, then, I fear he would meet you with the same +arguments, and as they satisfy himself so you will find him cling to the +dangerous theory they establish.” + +“But, Lucy, my dear child, you are quite mistaken in your estimate +of the arguments which I should use, because you neither can know nor +suspect their import. They apply not at all to Lord Dunroe's morals, I +assure you. It is enough to say, at present, that I am not at liberty +to disclose them; and, indeed, I never intended to do so; but as a +knowledge of the secret I possess may not only promote your happiness, +but relieve you from the persecution and misery you endure on this young +nobleman's account, I think it becomes my duty to have an interview with +your father on the subject.” + +“Before you do so, my dear madam,” replied Lucy, “it is necessary that I +should put you in possession of--of--” there was here a hesitation, and +a blush, and a confusion of manner, that made Mrs. Mainwaring look at +her with some attention. + +“Take care, Lucy,” she said smiling; “a previous engagement, I'll +warrant me. I see you blush.” + +“But not for its object, Mrs. Mainwaring,” she replied. “However, you +are right; and papa is aware of it.” + +“I see, Lucy; and on that account he wishes to hurry on this hated +marriage--?” + +“I think so.” + +“And what peculiar dislike has papa against the object of your +choice?--are you aware?” + +“The same he would entertain against any choice but his own--his +great ambition. The toil and labor of all his thoughts, hopes, and +calculations, is to see me a countess before he dies. I know not whether +to consider this as affection moved by the ambition of life, or ambition +stimulated by affection.” + +“Ah, my dear Lucy, I fear very much that if your papa's heart were +analyzed it would be found that he is more anxious to gratify his own +ambition than to promote your happiness, and that, consequently, his +interest in the matter altogether absorbs yours. But we need not discuss +this now. You say he is aware of your attachment?” + +“He is; I myself confessed it to him.” + +“Is he aware of the name and condition in life of your lover?” + +“Alas, no! Mrs. Mainwaring. He has seen him, but that is all. He +expressed, however, a fierce and ungovernable curiosity to know who +and what he is; but, unfortunately, my lover, as you call him, is so +peculiarly circumstanced, that I could not disclose either the one or +the other.” + +“But, my dear Lucy, is not this secrecy, this clandestime conduct, +on the part of your lover, wrong? Ought you, on the other hand, to +entertain an attachment for any person who feels either afraid or +ashamed to avow his name and rank? Pardon me, my love.” + +Lucy rose up, and Mrs. Mainwaring felt somewhat alarmed at the length +she had gone, especially on observing that the lovely girl's face and +neck were overspread with a deep and burning blush. + +“Pardon you, my dear madam! Is it for uttering sentiments worthy of +the purest friendship and affection, and such only as I would expect to +proceed from your lips? But it is necessary to state, in my own defence, +that beloved mamma was aware of, and sanctioned our attachment. A +mystery there is, unquestionably, about my lover; but it is one with +which she was acquainted, for she told me so. It is not, however, upon +this mystery or that mystery--but upon the truth, honor, delicacy, +disinterestedness, of him to whom I have yielded my heart, that I speak. +In true, pure, and exalted love, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, there is an +intuition of the heart which enables the soul to see into and comprehend +its object, with a completeness of success as certain and effectual as +the mission of an angel. When such love exists--and such only--all +is soon known--the spirit is satisfied; and, except those lessons of +happiness and delight that are before it, the heart, on that subject, +has nothing more to learn. This, then, is my reply; and as for the +mystery I speak of, every day is bringing us nearer and nearer to its +disclosure, and the knowledge of his worth.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring looked, on with wonder. Lucy's beauty seemed to +brighten, as it were with a divine light, as she uttered these glowing +words. In fact, she appeared to undergo a transfiguration from the +mortal state to the angelic, and exemplified, in her own person--now +radiant with the highest and holiest enthusiasm of love--all that divine +purity, all that noble pride and heroic devotedness of heart, by which +it is actuated and inspired. Her eyes, as she proceeded, filled with +tears, and on concluding, she threw herself, weeping, into her friend's +arms, exclaiming, + +“Alas! my dear, dear Mrs. Mainwaring, I am not worthy of him.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring kissed, and cherished, and soothed her, and in a short +time she recovered herself, and resumed an aspect of her usual calm, +dignified, yet graceful beauty. + +“Alas!” thought her friend, as she looked on her with mingled compassion +and admiration, “this love is either for happiness or death. I now see, +after all, that there is much of the father's character stamped into her +spirit, and that the same energy with which he pursues ambition actuates +his daughter in love. Each will have its object, or die.” + +“Well, my love,” she exclaimed aloud, “I am sorry we permitted our +conversation to take such a turn, or to carry us so far. You are, I +fear, not yet strong enough for anything calculated to affect or agitate +you.” + +“The introduction of it was necessary, my dear madam,” replied Lucy; +“for I need not say that it was my object to mention the subject of our +attachment to you before the close of our conversation.” + +“Well, at all events,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, “we shall go and have +a walk through the fields. The sun is bright and warm; the little burn +below, and the thousand larks above, will give us their melody; and +Cracton's park--our own little three-cornered paddock--will present us +with one of the sweetest objects in the humble landscape--a green +field almost white with daisies--pardon the little blunder, Lucy--thus +constituting it a poem for the heart, written by the hand of nature +herself.” + +Lucy, who enjoyed natural scenery with the high enthusiasm that was +peculiar to her character, was delighted at the proposal, and in a few +minutes both the ladies sauntered out through the orchard, which was now +white and fragrant with blossoms. + +As they went along, Mrs. Mainwaring began to mention some particulars of +her marriage; a circumstance to which, owing to Lucy's illness, she had +not until then had an opportunity of adverting. + +“The truth is, my dear Lucy,” she proceeded, “I am naturally averse +to lead what is termed a solitary life in the world. I wish to have a +friend on whom I can occasionally rest, as upon a support. You know +that I kept a boarding-school in the metropolis for many years after my +return from the Continent. That I was successful and saved some money +are facts which, perhaps, you don't know. Loss of health, however, +caused me to resign the establishment to Emily, your former governess; +but, unfortunately, her health, like mine, gave way under the severity +of its duties. She accordingly disposed of it, and accepted the +important task of superintending the general course of your education, +aided by all the necessary and usual masters. To this, as you are aware, +she applied herself with an assiduity that was beyond her yet infirm +state of health. She went to Cheltenham, where she recovered strength, +and I undertook her duties until her return. I then sought out for some +quiet, pretty, secluded spot, where I could, upon the fruits of my own +industry, enjoy innocently and peacefully the decline of, I trust, a +not unuseful life. Fortunately, I found our present abode, which I +purchased, and which has been occasionally honored by your presence, +as well as by that of your beloved mamma. Several years passed, and the +widow was not unhappy; for my daughter, at my solicitation, gave up her +profession as a governess, and came to reside with me. In the meantime, +we happened to meet at the same party two individuals--gentlemen--who +had subsequently the honor of carrying off the mother and daughter +with flying colors. The one was Dr. Scareman, to whom Emily--my +dear, unfortunate girl, had the misfortune to get married. He was a +dark-faced, but handsome man--that is to say, he could bear a first +glance or two, but was incapable of standing anything like a close +scrutiny. He passed as a physician in good practice, but as the marriage +was--what no marriage ought to be--a hasty one--we did not discover, +until too late, that the practice he boasted of consisted principally in +the management of a mad-house. He is, I am sorry to say, both cruel and +penurious--at once a miser and a tyrant--and if his conduct to my child +is not kinder and more generous, I shall feel it my duty to bring her +home to myself, where, at all events, she can calculate upon peace and +affection. The doctor saw that Emily was beautiful--knew that she had +money--and accordingly hurried on the ceremony. + +“Such is the history of poor Emily's marriage. Now for my own. + +“Mr. Main waring was, like myself, a person who had been engaged +in educating the young. For many years he had conducted, with great +success, a boarding-school that soon became eminent for the number +of brilliant and accomplished men whom it sent into society and the +institutions of the country. Like me, he had saved money--like me +he lost his health, and like me his destiny conducted him to this +neighborhood. We met several times, and looked at each other with a +good deal of curiosity; he anxious to know what kind of animal an +old schoolmistress was, and I to ascertain with what tribe an old +school-master should be classed. There was something odd, if not +comical, in this scrutiny; and the best of it all was, that the more +closely we inspected and investigated, the more accurately did we +discover that we were counterparts--as exact as the two sides of a +tally, or the teeth of a rat-trap--with pardon to dear Mr. Mainwaring +for the nasty comparison, whatever may have put it into my head. He, in +fact, was an old school-master and a widower; I an old school-mistress +and a widow; he wanted a friend and companion, so did I. Each finding +that the other led a solitary life, and only required that solace +and agreeable society, which a kind and rational companion can most +assuredly bestow, resolved to take the other, as the good old phrase +goes, for better for worse; and accordingly here we are, thank God, with +no care but that which proceeds from the unfortunate mistake which poor +Emily made in her marriage. The spirit that cemented our hearts was +friendship, not love; but the holiness of marriage has consecrated that +friendship into affection, which the sweet intercourse of domestic life +has softened into something still more agreeable and tender. My girl's +marriage, my dear Lucy, is the only painful thought that throws its +shadow across our happiness.” + +“Poor Emily,” sighed Lucy, “how little did that calm, sweet-tempered, +and patient girl deserve to meet such a husband. But perhaps he may +yet improve. If gentleness and affection can soften a heart by time and +perseverance, his may yet become human.” + +Such was the simple history of this amiable couple, who, although +enjoying as much happiness as is usually allotted to man and woman, were +not, however, free from those characteristic traces that enabled their +friends to recognize without much difficulty the previous habits of +their lives. + +“Mrs. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, “I must write to my father, I cannot +bear to think of the anguish he will feel at my sudden and mysterious +disappearance. It will set him distracted, perhaps cause illness.” + +“Until now, my dear child, you know you had neither time, nor health, +nor strength to do so; but I agree with you, and think without doubt you +ought to make his mind as easy upon this point as possible. At the same +time I do not see that it is necessary for you to give a clew to your +present residence. Perhaps it would be better that I should see him +before you think of returning; but of that we will speak in the course +of the evening, or during to-morrow, when we shall have a little more +time to consider the matter properly, and determine what may be the best +steps to take.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. A Lunch in Summerfield Cottage. + + +The little spot they strolled in was beautiful, from the natural +simplicity of the sweet but humble scenery around them. They traversed +it in every direction; sat on the sunny side of grassy eminences, +gathered wild flowers, threw pebbles into the little prattling stream +that ran over its stony bed before them; listened to and talked of and +enjoyed the music of the birds as they turned the very air and hedges +into harmony. Lucy thought how happy she could be in such a calm and +delightful retreat, with the society of the man she loved, far from the +intrigue, and pride, and vanity, and ambition of life; and she could +scarcely help shuddering when she reflected upon the track of criminal +ambition and profligacy into which, for the sake of an empty and perhaps +a painful title, her father wished to drag her. + +This train of thought, however, was dissipated by the appearance of Mr. +Mainwaring, who had returned from his stroll, and came out to seek for +them, accompanied by a young officer of very elegant and gentlemanly +appearance, whom he introduced as Captain Roberts, of the 33d, then +quartered in Dublin. + +As an apology for the fact of Mr. Mainwaring having introduced a +stranger to Lucy, under circumstances where privacy was so desirable, it +may be necessary to say here, that Mrs. Mainwaring, out of delicacy +to Lucy, forbore to acquaint him even with a hint at the cause of her +visit, so far as Lucy, on the morning of her arrival, had hastily and +briefly communicated it to her. This she was resolved not to do without +her express permission. + +“Allow me, ladies, to present to you my friend, Captain Roberts, of the +33d--or, as another older friend of mine, his excellent father, terms +it, the three times eleven--by the way, not a bad paraphrase, and worthy +of a retired school-master like myself. It is turning the multiplication +table into a vocabulary and making it perform military duty.” + +After the usual formalities had been gone through, Mr. Mainwaring, who +was in peculiarly excellent spirits, proceeded: + +“Of course you know, every officer when introduced or travelling is +a captain--CAPTAIN--a good travelling name!--_Vide_ the play-books, +_passim_. My young friend, however, is at the present--you remember _as +in pasenti_, Edward--only an ensign, but, please God, old as some of +us are, Mrs. M. to wit--ahem! we will live to shake hands with him as +captain yet.” + +“You mean, of course, my dear,” said his wife, “that I will live to +do so; the youngest, as the proverb has it, lives longest. No man, Mr. +Roberts, will more regret the improbability of verifying his own wishes +than Mr. Mainwaring.” + +“Ah, Martha! you're always too hard for me,” he replied, laughing. “But +you must know that this young officer, of whom I feel so proud, is an +old pupil of mine, and received his education at my feet. I consequently +feel a more than usual interest in him. But come, we lose-time. It is +now past two o'clock, and, if I don't mistake, there's a bit of cold +ham and chicken to be had, and my walk has prepared me for lunch, as it +usually does, and besides, Martha, there's an old friend of mine, his +father, waiting for our return, to whom I must introduce you both, +ladies, as a sample of the fine old soldier, who is a capital version of +human nature.” + +On reaching the cottage they found our worthy friend, old Sam Roberts, +in the garden, throwing crumbs of bread to a busy little flock of +sparrows, behind one of the back windows that opened into it. His honest +but manly face was lit up with all the eager and boisterous enjoyment +of a child whilst observing with simple delight the fierce and angry +quarrels of the parents, as they fought on behalf of their young, for +the good things so providentially cast in their way. + +“Come, now,” said Sam, “I'm commissary-general for this day, and, for a +miracle, an honest one--fight fair, you wretches--but I don't wonder at +the spunk you show, for the rations, I can tell you, are better, poor +things, than you are accustomed to. Hello, there! you, sir--you big +fellow--you hulk of a cock--what business have you here? This is a +quarrel among the ladies, sirrah, who are mothers, and it is for their +young ones--on behalf of their children--they are showing fight; and +you, sir, you overgrown glutton, are stuffing yourself, like many +another 'foul bird' before you, with the public property. Shame, you +little vulture! Don't you see they fly away when they have gotten' an +allowance, and give it to their starving children? D---- your principle, +sir, it's a bad one. You think the strongest ought to take most, do you? +Bravo! Well done, my little woman. Go on, you have right and nature +on your side--that's it, peck the glutton--he's a rascal--a public +officer--a commissary-general that--lay on him--well done--never mind +military discipline--he's none of your officer--he's a robber--a +bandit--and neither a soldier nor a gentleman--by fife and drum, that's +well done. But it's all nature--all the heart of man.” + +“Well, old friend,” said he, “and so this is your good lady. How do you +do, ma'am? By fife and drum, Mr. Mainwaring, but it's a good match. You +were made for one another. And this young lady your daughter, ma'am? How +do you do, Miss Mainwaring?” + +“My dear Mr. Roberts,” said Mainwaring, “we are not so happy as to claim +this young lady as a daughter. She is Miss Gourlay, daughter to Sir +Thomas Gourlay, of Red Hall, now here upon a visit for the good of her +health.” + +“How do you do, Miss Gourlay? I am happy to say that I have seen a young +lady that I have heard so much of--so much, I ought to say, that was +good of.” + +Lucy, as she replied, blushed deeply at this unintentional mention of +her name, and Mrs. Mainwaring, signing to her husband, by putting her +finger on her lips, hinted to him that he had done wrong. + +Old Sam, however, on receiving this intelligence, looked occasionally, +with a great deal of interest, from Lucy to the young officer, and again +from the young officer to Lucy; and as he did it, he uttered a series of +ejaculations to himself, which were for the most part inaudible to +the rest. “Ha!--dear me!--God bless me!--very strange!--right, old +Corbet--right for a thousand--nature will prove it--not a doubt +of it--God bless me!--how very like they are!--perfect brother and +sister!--bless me--it's extraordinary--not a doubt of it. Bravo, Ned!” + +“Come, ladies,” said Mr. Mainwaring; “come, my friend, old Sam, as you +like to be called, and you, Edward, come one, come all, till we try the +cold ham and chicken. Miss Gou--ehem--come, Lucy, my dear, the short +cut through the window; you see it open, and now, Martha, your hand; but +there is old Sam's. Well done, Sam; your soldier's ever gallant. Help +Miss--help the young lady up the steps, Edward. Good! he has anticipated +me.” + +In a few minutes they were enjoying their lunch, during which the +conversation became very agreeable, and even animated. Young Roberts had +nothing of the military puppy about him whatsoever. On the contrary, his +deportment was modest, manly, and unassuming. Sensible of his father's +humble, but yet respectable position, he neither attempted to swagger +himself into importance by an affectation of superior breeding or +contempt for his parent, nor did he manifest any of that sullen +taciturnity which is frequently preserved, as a proof of superiority, +or a mask for conscious ignorance and bad breeding; the fact being +generally forgotten that it is an exponent of both. + +“So, Edward, you like the army, then?” inquired Mr. Mainwaring. + +“I do, sir,” replied young Roberts; “it's a noble profession.” + +“Eight, Ned--a noble profession--that's the word,” said old Sam; “and so +it is, my boy, and a brave and a generous one.” + +Lucy Gourlay and the young soldier had occasionally glanced at each +other; and it might have been observed, that whenever they did so, each +seemed surprised, if not actually confused. + +“Is it difficult, Edward,” asked Mainwaring, after they had taken wine +together, “to purchase a commission at present?” + +“It is not very easy to procure commissions just now,” replied the +other; “but you know, Mr. Mainwaring, that I had the honor to be raised +from the ranks.” + +“Bravo, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, slapping him him on the back; “I am +glad to see that you take that honor in its true light. Thousands may +have money to buy a commission, but give me the man that has merit to +deserve it; especially, Ned, at so young an age as yours.” + +“You must have distinguished yourself, sir,” observed Lucy, “otherwise +it is quite unusual, I think, to witness the promotion from the ranks of +so young a man.” + +“I only endeavored to do my duty, madam,” replied Roberts, bowing +modestly, whilst something like a blush came over his cheeks. + +“Never mind him, Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed Sam--“never mind; he did +distinguish himself, and on more than one occasion, too, and well +deserved his promotion. When one of the British flags was seized upon +and borne off, after the brave fellow whose duty it was to defend it +with his life had done so, and was cut down by three French soldiers, +our gentleman here, for all so modest as he looks, pursued them, fought +single-handed against the three, rescued the flag, and, on his way back, +met the general, who chanced to be a spectator of the exploit; when +passing near him, bleeding, for he had been smartly wounded, the general +rides over to him. 'Is the officer who bore that flag killed?' he +asked. 'He is, general,' replied Ned.--'You have rescued it?'--'I have, +sir.'--'What is your name?'--He told him.--'Have you received an +education?'--'A good education, general'--'Very good,' proceeded the +general. 'You have recovered the flag, you say?'--'I considered it +my duty either to die or to do so, general,' replied Ned.--'Well said, +soldier,' returned the general, 'and well done, too: as for the flag +itself, you must only keep it for your pains. Your commission, young +man, shall be made out. I will take charge of that myself.'--There, now, +is the history of his promotion for you.” + +“It is highly honorable to him in every sense,” observed Lucy. “But it +was an awful risk of life for one man to pursue three.” + +“A soldier, madam,” replied Roberts, bowing to her for the compliment, +“in the moment of danger, or when the flag of his sovereign is likely +to be sullied, should never remember that he has a life; or remember +it only that it may be devoted to the glory of his country and the +maintenance of her freedom.” + +“That's well said, Edward,” observed Mr. Mainwaring; “very well +expressed indeed. The clauses of that sentence all follow in a neat, +consecutive order. It is, indeed, all well put together as if it were an +exercise.” + +Edward could not help smiling at this unconscious trait of the old +school-master peeping out. + +“That general is a fine old fellow,” said Sam, “and knew how to reward +true courage. But you see, Mr. Mainwaring and ladies, it's all natural, +all the heart of man.” + +“There's Mr. Mitchell, our clergyman,” observed Mrs. Mainwaring, looking +out of the window; “I wish he would come in. Shall I call him, dear?” + +“Never mind now, my love,” replied her husband. “I like the man well +enough; he is religious, they say, and charitable, but his early +education unfortunately was neglected. His sermons never hang well +together; he frequently omits the exordium, and often winds them up +without the peroration at all. Then he mispronounces shockingly, and is +full of false quantities. It was only on last Sunday that he laid the +accent on _i_ in Dalilah. Such a man's sermons, I am sorry to say, +can do any educated man little good. Her's a note, my love, from Mrs. +Fletcher. I met the servant coming over with it, and took it from him. +She wishes to hear from you in an hour or two: it's a party, I think.” + +He threw the note over to his wife, who, after apologizing to the +company, opened, and began to read it. + +Honest old Mainwaring was an excellent man, and did a great deal of +good in a quiet way, considering his sphere of life. In attending to the +sermon, however, when at church, he laid himself back in his pew, shut +his eyes, put the end of his gold-headed cane to his lips, and set +a criticising. If all the rhetorical rules were duly observed, the +language clear, and the parts of the sermon well arranged, and if, +besides, there was neither false accent, nor false quantity, nor any +bad grammar, he pronounced it admirable, and praised the preacher to +the skies. Anything short of this, however, he looked upon not only as +a failure, but entertained strong doubts of the man's orthodoxy, as well +as of the purity of his doctrine. + +“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, after having glanced over +the note, “you are right; it is a party; and we are both asked; but I +wonder, above all things, that Miss Fletcher should never cross her t's; +then the tails of her letters are so long that they go into the line +below them, which looks so slovenly, and shows that her writing must +have bean very much neglected. I also know another fair neighbor of ours +who actually puts 'for' before the infinitive mood, and flourishes her +large letters like copperplate capitals that are only fit to appear in a +merchant's books.” + +“But you know, my dear,” said her husband, “that she is a grocer's +widow, and, it is said, used to keep his accounts.” + +“That is very obvious, my dear; for, indeed, most of her invitations to +tea are more like bills duly furnished than anything else. I remember +one of them that ran to the following effect: + +“'Mrs. Allspice presents compliments to Messrs. Mainwaring &, Co.--to +wit, Miss Norton '--this was my daughter--' begs to be favored, per +return of post, as to whether it will suit convenience for to come +on next Tuesday evening, half-past seven, to take a cup of the best +flavored souchong, 7s. 6d. per lb., and white lump, Jamaica, Is. per +ditto, with a nice assortment of cakes, manufactured by ourselves. +Punctuality to appointment expected.'” + +“Well, for my part,” said Sam, “I must say it's the entertainment I'd +look to both with her and the parson, and neither the language nor the +writing. Mrs. Mainwaring, will you allow me to propose a toast ma'am? +It's for a fine creature, in her way; a lily, a jewel.” + +“With pleasure, Mr. Roberts,” said that lady, smiling, for she knew old +Sam must always have his own way. + +“Well, then, fill, fill, each of you. Come, Miss Gourlay, if only for +the novelty of the thing; for I dare say you never drank a toast before. +Ned, fill for her. You're an excellent woman, Mrs. Mainwaring: and +he was a lucky old boy that got you to smooth down the close of his +respectable and useful life--at least, it was once useful--but we can't +be useful always--well, of his harmless life--ay, that is nearer the +thing. Yes, Mrs. Mainwaring, by all accounts you are a most excellent +and invaluable woman, and deserve all honor.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring sat with a comely simper upon her good-natured face, +looking down with a peculiar and modest appreciation of the forthcoming +compliment to herself. + +“Come now,” Sam went on, “to your legs. You all, I suppose, know who I +mean. Stand, if you please, Miss Gourlay. Head well up, and shoulders a +little more squared, Mainwaring. Here now, are you all ready?” + +“All ready,” responded the gentlemen, highly amused. + +“Well, then, here's my Beck's health! and long life to her! She's the +pearl of wives, and deserves to live forever!” + +A fit of good-humored laughter followed old Sam's toast, in which Mrs. +Mainwaring not only came in for an ample share, but joined very heartily +herself; that worthy lady taking it for granted that old Sam was about +to propose the health of the hostess, sat still, while the rest rose; +even Lucy stood up, with her usual grace and good-nature, and put the +glass to her lips; and as it was the impression that the compliment was +meant for Mrs. Mainwaring, the thing seemed very like what is vulgarly +called a bite, upon the part of old Sam, who in the meantime, had +no earthly conception of anything else than that they all thoroughly +understood him, and were aware of the health he was about to give. + +“What!” exclaimed Sam, on witnessing their mirth; “by fife and drum, +I see nothing to laugh at in anything connected with my Beck. I always +make it a point to drink the old girl's health when I'm from home; for I +don't know how it happens, but I think I'm never half so fond of her as +when we're separated.” + +“But, Mr. Eoberts,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, laughing, “I assure you, from +the compliments you paid me, I took it for granted that it was my health +you were about to propose.” + +“Ay, but the compliments I paid you, ma'am, were all in compliment to +old Beck; but next to her, by fife and drum, you deserve a bumper. Come, +Mainwaring, get to legs, and let us have her health. Attention, now; +head well up, sir; shoulders square; eye on your wife.” + +“It shall be done,” replied Mainwaring, entering into the spirit of the +joke. “If it were ambrosia, she is worthy of a brimmer. Come, then, fill +your glasses. Edward, attend to Miss Gourlay. Sam, help Mrs. Mainwaring. +Here, then, my dear Martha; like two winter apples, time has only +mellowed us. We have both run parallel courses in life; you, in +instructing the softer and more yielding sex; I, the nobler and more +manly.” + +“Keep strictly to the toast, Matthew,” she replied, “or I shall rise to +defend our sex. You yielded first, you know. Ha, ha, ha!” + +“As the stronger yields to the weaker, from courtesy and compassion. +However, to proceed. We have both conjugated _amo_ before we ever saw +each other, so that our recurrence to the good old verb seemed somewhat +like a Saturday's repetition. As for _doceo_, we have been both +engaged in enforcing it, and successfully, Martha”--here he shook his +purse--“during the best portion of our lives; for which we have made +some of the most brilliant members of society our debtors. _Lego_ is +now one of our principal enjoyments; sometimes under the shadow of +a spreading tree in the orchard, during the serene effulgence of a +summer's eve; or, what is still more comfortable, before the cheering +blaze of the winter's fire, the blinds down, the shutters closed, +the arm-chair beside the table--on that table an open book and a warm +tumbler--and Martha, the best of wives-- + +“Attention, Mainwaring; my Beck's excepted.” + +“Martha, the best of wives--old Sam's Beck always excepted--sitting at +my side. As for _audio_, the truth is, I have been forced to experience +the din and racket of that same verb during the greater portion of my +life, in more senses than I am willing to describe. I did not imagine, +in my bachelor days, that the fermenting tumult of the school-room could +be surpassed by a single instrument; but, alas!--well, it matters not +now; all I can say is, that I never saw her--heard I mean, for I am on +_audio_--that the performance of that same single instrument did not +furnish me with a painful praxis of the nine parts of speech all going +together; for I do believe that nine tongues all at work could not have +matched her. But peace be with her! she is silent at last, and cannot +hear me now. I thought I myself possessed an extensive knowledge of +the languages, but, alas I was nothing; as a linguist she was without a +rival. However, I pass that over, and return to the subject of my toast. +Now, my dear Martha, since heaven gifted me with you--” + +“Attention, Mainwaring! Eyes up to the ceiling, sir, and thank God!” + +Mainwaring did so; but for the life of him could not help throwing a +little comic spirit into the action, adding in an undertone that he +wished to be heard. “Ah, my dear Sam, how glad I am that you did not bid +me go farther. However, to proceed--No, my dear Martha, ever since +our most felicitous conjugation, I hardly know what the exemplary +verb _audio_ means. I could scarcely translate it. Ours is a truly +grammatical union. Not the nominative case with verb--not the relative +with the antecedent--not the adjective with the substantive--affords +a more appropriate illustration of conjugal harmony, than does our +matrimonial existence. Peace and quietness, however, are on your +tongue--affection and charity in your heart--benevolence in your hand, +which is seldom extended empty to the pool--and, altogether, you +are worthy of the high honor to which,”--this he added with a bit of +good-natured irony--“partly from motives of condescension, and partly, +as I said, from motives of compassion, I have, in the fulness of a +benevolent heart, exalted you.” The toast was then drank. + +“Attention, ladies!” said Sam, who had been looking, as before, from the +young officer to Lucy, and vice versa--“Mainwaring, attention! Look upon +these two--upon Miss Gourlay, here, and upon Ned Roberts--and tell me if +you don't think there's a strong likeness.” + +The attention of the others was instantly directed to an examination of +the parties in question, and most certainly they were struck with the +extraordinary resemblance. + +“It is very remarkable, indeed, Mr. Roberts,” observed their hostess, +looking at them again; “and what confirms it is the fact, that I +noticed the circumstance almost as soon as Mr. Roberts joined us. It is +certainly very strange to find such a resemblance in persons not at all +related.” + +Lucy, on finding the eyes of her friends upon her, could not avoid +blushing; nor was the young officer's complexion without a somewhat +deeper tinge. + +“Now,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, smiling, “the question is, which we are to +consider complimented by this extraordinary likeness.” + +“The gentleman, of course, Mrs. Mainwaring,” replied Sam. + +“Unquestionably,” said Edward, bowing to Lucy; “I never felt so much +flattered in my life before, nor ever can again, unless by a similar +comparison with the same fair object.” + +Another blush on the part of Lucy followed this delicate compliment, and +old Sam exclaimed: + +“Attention, Mainwaring! and you, ma'am,”--addressing Mrs. Mainwaring. +“Now did you ever see brother and sister more like? eh!” + +“Very seldom ever saw brother and sister so like,” replied Mainwaring. +“Indeed, it is most extraordinary.” + +“Wonderful! upon my word,” exclaimed his wife. + +“Hum!--Well,” proceeded Sam, “it is, I believe, very odd--very--and may +be not, either--may be not so odd. Ahem!--and yet, still--however, no +matter, it's all natural; all the heart of man--eh! Mainwaring?” + +“I suppose so, Mr. Roberts; I suppose so.” + +After old Sam and his son had taken their departure, Lucy once more +adverted to the duty as well as the necessity of acquainting her +father with her safety, and thus relieving his mind of much anxiety +and trouble. To this her friend at once consented. The baronet, in the +meantime, felt considerably the worse for those dreadful conflicts +which had swept down and annihilated all that ever had any tendency to +humanity or goodness in his heart. He felt unwell--that is to say, he +experienced none of those symptoms of illness which at once determine +the nature of any specific malady. The sensation, however, was that of +a strong man, who finds his frame, as it were, shaken--who is aware that +something of a nameless apprehension connected with his health hangs +over him, and whose mind is filled with a sense of gloomy depression +and restlessness, for which he neither can account nor refer to any +particular source of anxiety, although such in reality may exist. It +appeared to be some terrible and gigantic hypochondriasis--some waking +nightmare--coming over him like the shadow of his disappointed ambition, +blighting his strength, and warning him, that when the heart is made the +battle-field of the passions for too long a period, the physical powers +will ultimately suffer, until the body becomes the victim of the spirit. + +Yet, notwithstanding this feeling, Sir Thomas's mind was considerably +relieved. Lucy had not eloped; but then, the rumor of her elopement +had gone abroad. This, indeed, was bitter; but, on the other hand, +time--circumstances--the reappearance of this most mysterious +stranger--and most of all, Lucy's high character for all that was great +and good, delicate and honorable, would ere long, set her right with the +world. Nothing, he felt, however, would so quickly and decidedly effect +this as her return to her father's roof; for this necessary step would +at once give the lie to calumny. + +In order, therefore, to ascertain, if possible, the place of her present +concealment, he resolved to remove to his metropolitan residence, having +taken it for granted that she had sought shelter there with some of her +friends. Anxious, nervous, and gloomy, he ordered his carriage, and in +due time arrived in Dublin. + +Thither the stranger had preceded him. The latter, finding that +Ballytrain could no longer be the scene of his operations, also sought +the metropolis. Fenton had disappeared--Lucy was no longer there. His +friend Birney was also in town, and as in town his business now lay, to +town therefore he went. + +In the meantime, we must turn a little to our friend Crackenfudge, who, +after the rough handling he had received from the baronet, went home, +if not a sadder and a wiser, at least a much sorer man. The unfortunate +wretch was sadly basted. The furious baronet, knowing the creature he +was, had pitched into him in awful style. He felt, however, when cooled +down, that he had gone too far; and that, for the sake of Lucy, and in +order to tie up the miserable wretch's babbling tongue, it was necessary +that he should make some apology for such an unjustifiable outrage. He +accordingly wrote him the following letter before he went to town: + +“DEAR SIR,--The nature of the communication which, I am sure from kind +feelings, you made to me the other day, had such an effect upon a temper +naturally choleric, that I fear I have been guilty of some violence +toward you. I am, unfortunately, subject to paroxysms of this sort, and +while under their influence feel utterly unconscious of what I do or +say. In your case, will you be good enough to let me know--whether I +treated you kindly or otherwise; for the fact is, the paroxysm I speak +of assumes an affectionate character as well as a violent one. Of what I +did or said on the occasion in question I have no earthly recollection. +In the meantime, I have the satisfaction to assure you that Miss Gourlay +has not eloped, but is residing with a friend, in the metropolis. I +have seen the gentleman to whom you alluded, and am satisfied that their +journey to town was purely accidental. He knows not even where she is; +but I do, and am quite easy on the subject. Have the kindness to mention +this to all your friends, and to contradict the report of her elopement +wherever and whenever you hear it. + +“Truly yours, + +“Thomas Gourlay. + +“Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq. + +“P. S.--In the meantime, will you oblige me by sending up to my address +in town a list of your claims for a seat on the magisterial bench. Let +it be as clear and well worded as you can make it, and as authentic. You +may color a little, I suppose, but let the groundwork be truth--if you +can; if not truth--then that which comes as near it as possible. Truth, +you know, is always better than a lie, unless where a lie happens to be +better than truth. + +“T. G.” + + +To this characteristic epistle our bedrubbed friend sent the following +reply: + +“My dear Sir Thomas,--A' would give more than all mention to be gifted +with your want of memory respecting what occurred the other day. Never +man had such a memory of that dreadful transaction as a' have; from head +to heel a'm all memory; from heel to head a'm all memory--up and down +--round--about--across--here and there, and everywhere--a'm all +memory; but in one particular place, Sir Thomas--ah! there's where a' +suffer--however, it doesn't make no matter; a' only say that you taught +me the luxury of an easy chair and a. soft cushion ever since, Sir +Thomas. + +“Your letter, Sir Thomas, has given me great comfort, and has made me +rejoice, although it is with groans a' do it, at the whole transaction. +If you succeed in getting me the magistracy, Sir Thomas, it will be the +most blessed and delightful basting that ever a lucky man got. If a' +succeed in being turned into a bony fidy live magistrate, to be called +'your worship,' and am to have the right of fining and flogging and +committing the people, as a' wish and hope to do, then all say that the +hand of Providence was in it, as well as your foot, Sir Thomas. Now, +that you have explained the circumstance, a' feel very much honored by +the drubbing a' got, Sir Thomas; and, indeed, a' don't doubt, after +all, but it was meant in kindness, as you say, Sir Thomas; and a'm sure +besides, Sir Thomas, that it's not every one you'd condescend to drub, +and that the man you would drub, Sir Thomas, must be a person of some +consequence. A' will send you up my claims as a magistrate some of these +days--that is, as soon as a' can get some long-headed fellow to make +them out for me. + +“And have the honor to be, my dear Sir Thomas, your much obliged and +favored humble servant. + +“Periwinkle Crackenfudge. + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay, Bart.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV.--An Irish Watchhouse in the time of the “Charlies.” + + +Another subject which vexed the baronet not a little was the loss of his +money and pistols by the robbery; but what he still felt more bitterly, +was the failure of the authorities to trace or arrest the robber. +The vengeance which he felt against that individual lay like a black +venomous snake coiled round his heart. The loss of the money and the +fire-arms he might overlook, but the man, who, in a few moments, taught +him to know himself as he was--who dangled him, as it were, over the +very precipice of hell--with all his iniquities upon his head, the man +who made him feel the crimes of a whole life condensed into one fearful +moment, and showed them to him darkened into horror by the black +lightning of perdition; such a man, we say, he could never forgive. It +was in vain that large rewards were subscribed and offered, it was in +vain that every effort was made to discover the culprit. Not only was +there no trace of him got, but other robberies had been committed by a +celebrated highwayman of the day, named Finnerty, whom neither bribe nor +law could reach. + +Our readers may remember, with reference to the robbery of the baronet, +the fact of Trailcudgel's having met the stranger on his way to disclose +all the circumstances to the priest, and that he did not proceed farther +on that occasion, having understood that Father M'Mahon was from home. +Poor Trailcudgel, who, as the reader is aware, was not a robber either +from principle or habit, and who only resorted to it when driven by the +agonizing instincts of nature, felt the guilt of his crime bitterly, +and could enjoy rest neither night nor day, until he had done what he +conceived to be his duty as a Christian, and which was all he or any man +could do: that is, repent for his crime, and return the property to him +from whom he had taken it. This he did, as it is usually done, through +the medium of his pastor; and on the very day after the baronet's +departure both the money and pistols were deposited in Father M'Mahon's +hands. + +In a few days afterwards the worthy priest, finding, on inquiry, that +Sir Thomas had gone to Dublin, where, it was said, he determined to +reside for some time, made up his mind to follow him, in order to +restore him the property he had lost. This, however, was not the sole +purpose of his visit to the metropolis. The letter he had given the +stranger to Corbet, or Dunphy, had not, he was sorry to find, been +productive of the object for which it had been written. Perhaps it was +impossible that it could; but still the good priest, who was as shrewd +in many things as he was benevolent and charitable in all, felt strongly +impressed with a belief that this old man was not wholly ignorant, or +rather unconnected with the disappearance of either one or the other of +the lost children. Be this, however, as it may, he prepared to see the +baronet for the purpose already mentioned. + +He accordingly took his place--an inside one--in the redoubtable “Fly,” + which, we may add, was the popular vehicle at the time, and wrapping +himself up in a thick frieze cloak, or great coat, with standing collar +that buttoned up across his face to the very eyes, and putting a shirt +or two, and some other small matters, into a little bundle--tying, at +the same time, a cotton kerchief over his hat and chin--he started +on his visit to the metropolis, having very much the appearance of a +determined character, whose dress and aspect were not, however, such +as to disarm suspicion. He felt much more careful of the baronet's +pocket-book than he did of his own, and contrived to place it in an +inside pocket, which being rather small for it, he was obliged to rip +a little in order to give it admittance. The case of pistols he slipped +into the pockets of his jock, one in each, without ever having once +examined them, or satisfied himself--simple man--as to whether they +were loaded or not. His own pocket-book was carelessly placed in the +right-hand pocket of the aforesaid jock, along with one of the pistols. + +The night was agreeable, and nothing worth recording took place until +they had come about five miles on the side of ------, when a loud voice +ordered the coachman to stop. + +“Stop the coach, sir!” said the voice, with a good deal of reckless and +bitter expression in it; “stop the coach, or you are a dead man.” + +Several pistols were instantly leveled at both coachman and guard, and +the same voice, which was thin, distinct, and wiry, proceeded--“Keep all +steady now, boys, and shoot the first that attempts to move. I will see +what's to be had inside.” + +He went immediately to the door of the “Fly,” and opening it, held up +a dark lantern, which, whilst it clearly showed him the dress, +countenances, and condition of the passengers, thoroughly concealed his +own. + +The priest happened to be next him, and was consequently the first +person on whom this rather cool demand was made. + +“Come, sir,” said the highwayman, “fork out, if you please; and be quick +about it, if you're wise.” + +“Give a body time, if you plaise,” responded the priest, who at that +moment had about him all the marks and tokens of a farmer, or, at least, +of a man who wished to pass for one. “I think,” he added, “if you knew +who you had, you'd not only pass me by, but the very coach I'm travelin' +in. Don't be unaisy, man alive,” he proceeded; “have patience--for +patience, as everybody knows, is a virtue--do, then, have patience, or, +maybe--oh! ay!--here it is--here is what you want--the very thing, I'll +be bound--and you must have it, too.” And the poor man, in the hurry and +alarm of the moment, pulled out one of the baronet's pistols. + +The robber whipped away the lantern, and instantly disappeared. “By the +tarn, boys,” said he, “it's Finnerty himself, disguised like a farmer. +But he's mid to travel in a public coach, and the beaks on the lookout +for him. Hello! all's right, coachman; drive on, we won't disturb you +this night, at all events. Gee hup!--off you go; and off we go--with +empty pockets.” + +It happened that this language, which the robber did not intend to have +reached the ears of the passengers, was heard nevertheless, and from +this moment until they changed horses at ------ there was a dead silence +in the coach. + +On that occasion one gentleman left it, and he had scarcely been half a +minute gone when a person, very much in the garb and bearing of a modern +detective, put in his head, and instantly withdrew it, exclaiming, + +“Curse me, it's a hit--he's inside as snug as a rat in a trap. Up with +you on top of the coach, and we'll pin him when we reach town. 'Gad, +this is a windfall, for the reward is a heavy one.--If we could now +manage the baronet's business, we were made men.” + +He then returned into the coach, and took his seat right opposite +the priest, in order the better to watch his motions, and keep him +completely under his eye. + +“Dangerous traveling by night, sir,” said he, addressing the priest, +anxious to draw his man into conversation. + +“By night or by day, the roads are not very safe at the present time,” + replied his reverence. + +“The danger's principally by night, though,” observed the other. “This +Finnerty is playing the devil, they say; and is hard to be nabbed by all +accounts.” + +The observation was received by several hums, and hems, and has, and +very significant ejaculations, whilst a fat, wealthy-looking fellow, who +sat beside the peace-officer--for such he was--in attempting to warn him +of Finnerty's presence, by pressing on his foot, unfortunately pressed +upon that of the priest in mistake, who naturally interpreted the hems +and has aforesaid to apply to the new-corner instead of himself. This +cannot be matter of surprise, inasmuch as the priest had his ears so +completely muffled up with the collar of his jock and a thick cotton +kerchief, that he heard not the allusions which the robber had made +outside the coach, when he mistook him for Finnerty. He consequently +peered very keenly at the last speaker, who to tell the truth, had +probably in his villanous features ten times more the character and +visage of a highwayman and cutthroat than the redoubtable Finnerty +himself. + +“It's a wonder,” said the priest, “that the unfortunate man has not been +taken.” + +“Hum!” exclaimed the officer; “unfortunate man. My good fellow, that's +very mild talk when speaking of a robber. Don't you know that all +robbers deserve the gallows, eh?” + +“I know no such thing,” replied the priest. “Many a man has lived by +robbing, in his day, that now lives by catching them; and many a poor +fellow, as honest as e'er an individual in this coach--” + +“That's very shocking language,” observed a thin, prim, red-nosed lady, +with a vinegar aspect, who sat erect, and apparently fearless, in the +corner of the coach--“very shocking language, indeed. Why, my good man, +should you form any such wile kimparison?” + +“Never mind, ma'am; never mind,” said the officer, whose name was Darby; +“let him proceed; from what he is about to say, I sha'n't be surprised +if he justifies robbery--not a bit--but will be a good deal, if he +don't. Go on, my good fellow.” + +“Well,” proceeded the priest, “I was going to say, that many a poor +wretch, as honest as e'er an individual, man or woman--” + +Here there was, on the part of the lady, an indignant toss of the head, +and a glance of supreme scorn leveled at the poor priest; whilst Darby, +like a man who had generously undertaken the management of the whole +discussion, said, with an air of conscious ability, if not something +more, “nevermind him, ma'am; give him tether.” + +“As honest,” persisted the priest, “as e'er an individual, man or woman, +in this coach--and maybe, if the truth were known, a good deal honester +than some of them.” + +“Good,” observed the officer; “I agree with you in that--right enough +there.” + +The vinegar lady, now apprehensive that her new ally had scandalously +abandoned her interests, here dropped her eyes, and crossed her hands +upon her breast, as if she had completely withdrawn herself from the +conversation. + +“I finds,” said she to herself, in a contemptuous soliloquy, “as how +there ain't no gentleman in this here wehicle.” + +“Just pay attention, ma'am,” said the officer--“just pay attention, +that's all.” + +This, however, seemed to have no effect--at least the lady remained in +the same attitude, and made no reply. + +“Suppose now,” proceeded the priest, “that an unfortunate father, in +times of scarcity and famine, should sit in his miserable cabin, and see +about him six or seven of his family, some dying of fever, and others +dying from want of food; and suppose that he was driven to despair by +reflecting that unless he forced it from the rich who would not out of +their abundance prevent his children from starving, he can procure +them relief in no other way, and they must die in the agonies of hunger +before his face. Suppose this, and that some wealthy man, without +sympathy for his fellow-creatures, regardless of the cries of the +poor-heartless, ambitious, and oppressive; and suppose besides that it +was this very heartless and oppressive man of wealth who, by his pride +and tyranny, and unchristian vengeance, drove that poor man and his +wretched family to the state I have painted them for you, in that cold +and dreary hovel; suppose all this, I say, and that that wretched +poor man, his heart bursting, and his brain whirling, stimulated by +affection, goaded by hunger and indescribable misery; suppose, I say, +that in the madness of despair he sallies out, and happens to meet the +very individual who brought him and his to such a dreadful state--do you +think that he ought to let him pass--” + +“I see,” interrupted the officer, “without bleeding him; I knew you +would come to that--go along.” + +“That he ought to let that wealthy oppressor pass, and allow the wife +of his bosom and his gasping little ones to perish, whilst he knows +that taking that assistance from him by violence which he ought to give +freely would save them to society and him? Mark me, I'm not justifying +robbery. Every general rule has its exception; and I'm only supposing a +case where the act of robbery may be more entitled to compassion than to +punishment--but, as I said, I'm not defending it.” + +“Ain't you, faith?” replied the officer; “it looks devilish like it, +though. Don't you think so, ma'am?” + +“I never listens to no nonsense like that ere,” replied the lady. “All I +say is, that a gentleman as I've the honor of being acquainted with, 'as +been robbed the other night of a pocket-book stuffed with banknotes, and +a case of Hirish pistols that he kept to shoot robbers, and sich other +wulgar wretches as is to be found nowhere but in Hireland.” + +“Stuffed!” exclaimed the priest, disdainfully; “as much stuffed, ma'am, +as you are.” + +The officer's very veins tingled with delight on hearing the admission +which was involved in the simple priest's exclamation. He kept it, +however, to himself, on account of the large reward that lay in the +background. + +“I stuffed!” exclaimed the indignant lady, whose thin face had for a +considerable time been visible, for it was long past dawn; “I defy +you, sir,” she replied, “you large, nasty, Hirish farmer, as feeds upon +nothing but taters. I stuffed!--no lady--you nasty farmer--goes without +padding, which is well known to any man as is a gentleman. But stuffed! +I defy you, nasty Paddy; I was never stuffed. Those as stuff use 'oss +'air; now I never uses 'oss 'air.” + +“If you weren't stuffed, then,” replied the priest, who took a natural +disrelish to her affectation of pride and haughtiness, knowing her as he +now did--“many a better woman was. If you weren't, ma'am, it wasn't your +own fault. Sir Thomas Gourlay's English cook need never be at a loss for +plenty to stuff herself with.” + +This was an extinguisher. The heaven of her complexion was instantly +concealed by a thick cloud in the shape of a veil. She laid herself +back in the corner of the carriage, and maintained the silence of a +vanquished woman during the remainder of the journey. + +On arriving in town the passengers, as is usual, betook themselves to +their respective destinations. Father M'Mahon, with his small bundle +under his arm, was about to go to the Brazen Head Tavern, when he found +himself tapped on the shoulder by our friend Darby, who now held a +pistol in his hand, and said: + +“There are eight of us, Mr. Finnerty, and it is useless to shy Abraham. +You're bagged at last, so come off quietly to the office.” + +“I don't understand you,” replied the priest, who certainly felt +surprised at seeing himself surrounded by so many constables, for it was +impossible any longer to mistake them. “What do you mean, my friend? or +who do you suppose me to be?” + +The constable gave him a knowing wink, adding with as knowing an +air--“It's no go here, my lad--safe's the word. Tramp for the office, +or we'll clap on the wrist-buttons. We know you're a shy cock, Mr. +Finnerty, and rather modest, too--that's the cut. Simpson, keep the +right arm fast, and, you, Gamble, the left, whilst we bring up the rear. +In the meantime, before he proceeds a step, I, as senior, will take the +liberty to--just--see--what--is--here,” whilst, suiting the word to +the action, he first drew a pistol from the left pocket, and immediately +after another from the right, and--shades of Freney and O'Hanlon!--the +redoubtable pocket-book of Sir Thomas Gourlay, each and all marked not +only with his crest, but his name and title at full length. + +The priest was not at a moment's loss how to act. Perceiving their +mistake as to his identity, and feeling the force of appearances against +him, he desired to be conducted at once to the office. There he knew he +could think more calmly upon the steps necessary to his liberation +than he could in a crowd which was enlarging every moment, on its being +understood that Finnerty, the celebrated highwayman, had been at length +taken. Not that the crowd gave expression to any feeling or ebullition +that was at all unfriendly to him. So far from that, it gathered round +him with strong expressions of sympathy and compassion for his unhappy +fate. Many were the anecdotes reported to each other by the spectators +of his humanity--his charity--his benevolence to the poor; and, above +all, of his intrepidity and courage; for it may be observed here--and +we leave moralists, metaphysicians, and political economists to draw +whatever inferences they please from the fact--but fact it is--that in +no instance is any man who has violated the law taken up publicly, +on Irish ground, whether in town or country, that the people do +not uniformly express the warmest sympathy for him, and a strong +manifestation of enmity against his captors. Whether this may be +interpreted favorably or otherwise of our countrymen, we shall not +undertake to determine. As Sir Roger de Coverly said, perhaps much might +be advanced on both sides. + +On entering the watch-house, the heart of the humane priest was +painfully oppressed at the scenes of uproar, confusion, debauchery, and +shameless profligacy, of which he saw either the present exhibition or +the unquestionable evidences. There was the lost and hardened female, +uttering the wild screams of intoxication, or pouring forth from her +dark, filthy place of confinement torrents of polluted mirth; the +juvenile pickpocket, ripe in all the ribald wit and traditional slang +of his profession; the ruffian burglar, with strong animal frame, dark +eyebrows, low forehead, and face full of coarseness and brutality; the +open robber, reckless and jocular, indifferent to consequences, and +holding his life only in trust for the hangman, or for some determined +opponent who may treat him to cold lead instead of pure gold; the +sneaking thief, cool and cowardly, ready-witted at the extricating +falsehood--for it is well known that the thief and liar are convertible +terms--his eye feeble, cunning, and circumspective, and his whole +appearance redolent of duplicity and fraud; the receiver of stolen +goods, affecting much honest simplicity; the good creature, whether man +or woman, apparently in great distress, and wondering that industrious +and unsuspecting people, struggling to bring up their families in +honesty and decency, should be imposed upon and taken in by people that +one couldn't think of suspecting. There, too, was the servant out +of place, who first a forger of discharges, next became a thief, and +heroically adventuring to the dignity of a burglar for which he had +neither skill nor daring, was made prisoner in the act; and there he +sits, half drunk, in that corner, repenting his failure instead of +his crime, forgetting his cowardice, and making moral resolutions with +himself, that, should he escape now, he will execute the next burglary +in a safe and virtuous state of sobriety. But we need not proceed: there +was the idle and drunken mechanic, or, perhaps, the wife, whose Saturday +night visits to the tap-room in order to fetch him home, or to rescue +the wages of his industry from the publican, had at length corrupted +herself. + +Two other characters were there which we cannot overlook, both of whom +had passed through the world with a strong but holy scorn for the errors +and failings of their fellow-creatures. One of them was a man of gross, +carnal-looking features, trained, as it seemed to the uninitiated, into +a severe and sanctified expression by the sheer force of religion. His +face was full of godly intolerance against everything at variance with +the one thing needful, whatever that was, and against all who did not, +like himself, travel on fearlessly and zealously Zionward. He did not +feel himself justified in the use of common and profane language; and, +consequently, his vocabulary was taken principally from the Bible, which +he called “the Lord's word.” Sunday was not Sunday with him, but “the +Lord's day;” and he never went to church in his life, but always to +“service.” Like most of his class, however, he seemed to be influenced +by that extraordinary anomaly which characterizes the saints--that is to +say, as great a reverence for the name of the devil as for that of God +himself; for in his whole life and conversation he was never known to +pronounce it as we have written it. Satan--the enemy--the destroyer, +were the names he applied to him: and this, we presume, lest the world +might suspect that there subsisted any private familiarity between them. +His great ruling principle, however, originated in what he termed a +godless system of religious liberality; in other words, he attributed +all the calamities and scourges of the land to the influence of Popery. +and its toleration by the powers that be. He was a big-boned, coarse +man, with black, greasy hair, cut short; projecting cheek-bones, that +argued great cruelty; dull, but lascivious eyes; and an upper lip like a +dropsical sausage. We forget now the locality in which he had committed +the offence that had caused him to be brought there. But it does +not much matter; it is enough to say that he was caught, about three +o'clock, perambulating the streets, considerably the worse for liquor, +and not in the best society. Even as it was, and in the very face of +those who had detected him so circumstanced, he was railing against the +ungodliness of our “rulers,” the degeneracy of human nature, and the +awful scourges that the existence of Popery was bringing on the land. + +As it happened, however, this worthy representative of his class was +not without a counterpart among the moral inmates of the watch-house. +Another man, who was known among his friends as a Catholic voteen, or +devotee, happened to have been brought to the game establishment, much +in the same circumstances, and for some similar offence. When compared +together, it was really curious to observe the extraordinary resemblance +which these two men bore to each other. Each was dressed in sober +clothes, for your puritan of every creed must, like his progenitors the +Pharisees of old, have some peculiarity in his dress that will gain him +credit for religion. Their features were marked by the same dark, sullen +shade which betokens intolerance. The devotee was thinner, and not so +large a man as the other; but he made up in the cunning energy which +glistened from his eyes for the want of physical strength, as compared +with the Protestant saint; not at all that he was deficient in it _per +se_, for though a smaller man, he was better built and more compact than +his brother. Indeed, so nearly identical was the expression of their +features--the sensual Milesian mouth, and naturally amorous temperament, +hypocrisized into formality, and darkened into bitterness by bigotry +--that on discovering each other in the watch-house, neither could for +his life determine whether the man before him belonged to idolatrous +Rome on the one hand, or the arch heresy on the other. + +There they stood, exact counterparts, each a thousand times more anxious +to damn the other than to save himself. They were not long, however, in +discovering each other, and in a moment the jargon of controversy +rang loud and high amidst the uproar and confusion of the place. The +Protestant saint attributed all the iniquity by which the land, he +said, was overflowed, and the judgments under which it was righteously +suffering, to the guilt of our rulers, who forgot God, and connived at +Popery. + +The Popish saint, on the other hand, asserted that so long as a fat and +oppressive heresy was permitted to trample upon the people, the +country could never prosper. The other one said, that idolatry--Popish +idolatry--was the cause of all; and that it was the scourge by which +“the Lord” was inflicting judicial punishment upon the country at large. +If it were not for that he would not be in such a sink of iniquity at +that moment. Popish idolatry it was that brought him there; and the +abominations of the Romish harlot were desolating the land. + +The other replied, that perhaps she was the only harlot of the kind +he would run away from; and maintained, that until all heresy was +abolished, and rooted out of the country, the curse of God would +sit upon them, as the corrupt law church does now in the shape of an +overgrown nightmare. What brought him, who was ready to die for his +persecuted church, here? He could tell the heretic;--it was Protestant +ascendancy, and he could prove it;--yes, Protestant ascendancy, and +nothing else, was it that brought him to that house, its representative, +in which he now stood. He maintained that it resembled a watch-house; +was it not full of wickedness, noise, and blasphemy; and were there any +two creeds; in it that agreed together, and did not fight like devils? + +How much longer this fiery discussion might have proceeded it is +difficult to say. The constable of the night, finding that the two +hypocritical vagabonds were a nuisance to the whole place, had them +handcuffed together, and both placed in the black hole to finish their +argument. + +In short, there was around the good man--vice, with all her discordant +sounds and hideous aspects, clanging in his ear the multitudinous din +that arose from the loud and noisy tumult of her brutal, drunken, and +debauched votaries. + +The priest, who respected his cloth and character, did not lay aside +his jock, nor expose himself to the coarse jests and ruffianly insolence +with which the vagabond minions of justice were in those days accustomed +to treat their prisoners. He inquired if he could get a person to carry +a message from him to a man named Corbet, living at 25 Constitution +Hill; adding, that he would compensate him fairly. On this, one of those +idle loungers or orderlies about such places offered himself at once, +and said he would bring any message he wished, provided he forked out in +the first instance. + +“Go, then,” said the priest, handing him a piece of silver, “to No. 25 +Constitution Hill, where a man named Corbet--what am I saying--Dunphy, +lives, and tell him to come to me immediately.” + +“Ha!” said Darby, laying his finger along; his nose, as he spoke to one +of his associates, “I smell an alias there. Good; first Corbet and then +Dunphy. What do you call that? That chap is one of the connection. Take +the message, Skipton; mark him well, and let him be here, if possible, +before we bring the prisoner to Sir Thomas Gourlay's.” + +The fellow winked in reply, and approaching the priest, asked, + +“What message have you to send, Mr. Finnerty?” + +“Tell him--but stay; oblige me with a slip of paper and a pen, I will +write it down.” + +“Yes, that's better,” said Darby. “Nothing like black and white, you +know,” he added, aside to Skipton. + +Father M'Mahon then wrote down his office only; simply saying, “The +parish priest of Ballytrain wishes to see Anthony Dunphy as soon as he +can come to him.” + +This description of himself excited roars of laughter throughout the +office; nor could the good-natured priest himself help smiling at the +ludicrous contrast between his real character and that which had been +affixed upon him. + +“Confound me,” said Darby, “but that's the best alias I have heard this +many a day. It's as good as Tom Green's that was hanged, and who always +stuck to his name, no matter how often he changed it. At one time it was +Ivy, at another Laurel, at another Yew, and so on, poor fellow, until he +swung.” Skipton, the messenger, took the slip of paper with high glee, +and proceeded on his embassy to Constitution Hill. + +He had scarcely been gone, when a tumult reached their ears from +outside, in which one voice was heard considerably louder and deeper +than the rest; and almost immediately afterwards an old acquaintance +of the reader's, to wit, the worthy student, Ambrose Gray, in a very +respectable state of intoxication, made his appearance, charged +with drunkenness, riot, and a blushing reluctance to pay his tavern +reckoning. Mr. Gray was dragged in at very little expense of ceremony, +it must be confessed, but with some prospective damage to his tailor, +his clothes having received considerable abrasions in the scuffle, as +well as his complexion, which was beautifully variegated with tints of +black, blue, and yellow. + +“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Darby, “back once more I see? Why, you couldn't +live without us, I think. What's this now?” + +“A deficiency of assets, most potent,” replied Gray, with a +hiccough--“unable to meet a rascally tavern reckoning;” and as Mr. +Gray spoke he thrust his tongue into his cheek, intimating by this +significant act his high respect for Mr. Darby. + +“You had better remember, sir, that you are addressing the senior +officer here,” said the latter, highly offended. + +“Most potent, grave, and reverend senior, I don't forget it; nor that +the grand senior can become a most gentlemanly ruffian whenever he +chooses. No, senior, I respect your ruffianship, and your ruffianship +ought to respect me; for well you wot that many a time before now I've +greased that absorbing palm of yours.” + +“Ah,” replied Darby, “the hemp is grown for you, and the rope is +purchased that will soon be greased for your last tug. Why didn't you +pay your bill, I say?” + +“I told you before, most potent, that that fact originated in a +deficiency of assets.” + +“I rather think, Mr. Gray,” said Darby, “that it originated in a very +different kind of deficiency--a deficiency of inclination, my buck.” + +“In both, most reverend senior, and I act on scriptural principles; for +what does Job say? 'Base is the slave that patient pays.'” + +“Well, my good fellow, if you don't pay, you'll be apt to receive, some +fine day, that's all,” and here he made a motion with his arm, as if +he were administering the cat-o'-nine-tails; “however, this is not my +business. Here comes Mrs. Mulroony to make her charge. I accordingly +shove you over to Ned Nightcap, the officer for the night.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed Gray, “I see, most potent, you have operated before. +Kow-de-dow-de-dow, my boy. There was a professional touch in that jerk +that couldn't be mistaken: that quiver at the wrist was beautiful, and +the position of the arm a perfect triangle. It must have been quite a +pleasure to have suffered from such a scientific hand as yours. How +do you do again, Mrs. Mulroony? Mrs. Mulroony, I hope you did not come +without some refreshment. And you'll withdraw the charge, for the sake +of futurity, Mrs. Mulroony.” + +“If you do, Mrs. Mulroony,” said Darby, “I'm afraid you'll have to +look to futurity for payment. I mean to that part of it commonly called +'to-morrow comenever.'--Make your charge, ma'am.” + +Here a pale-faced, sinister-looking old fellow, in a red woollen +nightcap, with baggy protuberances hanging under his red bleared eyes, +now came to a little half door, inside of which stood his office for +receiving all charges against the various delinquents that the Charlies, +or watchmen of the period, had conducted to him. + +“Here,” said he, in a hoarse, hollow voice, “what's this--what's this? +Another charge against you, Mr. Gray? Garvy,” said he, addressing a +watchman, “tell them vagabones that if they don't keep, quiet I'll put +them in irons.” + +This threat was received with a chorus of derision by those to whom +it was addressed, and the noise was increased so furiously, that it +resembled the clamor of Babel. + +“Here, Garvy,” said honest Ned, “tickle some of them a bit. Touch up +that bullet-headed house-breaker that's drunk--Sam Stancheon, they +call him--lave a nate impression of the big kay on his head; he'll +undherstand it, you know; and there's Molly Brady, or Emily Howard, +as she calls herself, give her a clink on the noddle to stop her +jinteelity. Blast her pedigree; nothing will serve her but she must be +a lady on our hands. Tell her I'll not lave a copper ring or a glass +brooch on her body if she's not quiet.” + +The watchman named Garvy took the heavy keys, and big with the deputed +authority, swept, like the destroying angel upon a small scale, through +the tumultuous crew that were assembled in this villanous pandemonium, +thrashing the unfortunate vagabonds on the naked head, or otherwise, +as the case might be, without regard to age, sex, or condition, leaving +bumps, welts, cuts, oaths, curses, and execrations, _ad infinitum_, +behind him. Owing to this distribution of official justice a partial +calm was restored, and the charge of Mrs. Mulroony was opened in form. + +“Well, Mrs. Mulroony, what charge is this you have against Misther +Gray?” + +“Because,” replied Ambrose, “I wasn't in possession of assets to pay her +own. Had I met her most iniquitous charge at home, honest Ned, I should +have escaped the minor one here. You know of old, Ned, how she lost her +conscience one night, about ten years ago; and the poor woman, although +she put it in the 'Hue and Cry,' by way of novelty, never got it since. +None of the officers of justice knew of such a commodity; _ergo_, Ned, I +suffer.” + +Here Mr. Ambrose winked at Ned, and touched his breeches pocket +significantly, as much as to say, “the bribe is where you know.” + +Ned, however, was strictly impartial, and declined, with most +commendable virtue, to recognize the signal, until he saw whether Mrs. +Mulroony did not understand “generosity” as well as Mr. Gray. + +“Misther Gray, I'll thank you to button your lip, if you plaise. It's +all very right, I suppose; but in the manetime let daicent Mrs. Mulroony +tell her own story. How is it, ma'am?” + +“Faith, plain enough,” she replied; “he came in about half past five +o'clock, with three or four skips from college--” + +“Scamps, Mrs. Mulroony. Be just, be correct, ma'am. We were all +gentlemen scamps, Ned, from college. Everybody knows that a college +scamp is a respectable character, especially if he be a divinity +student, a class whom we are proud to place at our head. You are now +corrected, Mrs. Mulroony--proceed.” + +“Well; he tould me to get a dinner for five; but first asked to see what +he called 'the bill of hair.'” + +“In your hands it is anything but a bill of rights, Mrs. Mulroony.” + +“I tould him not to trouble himself; that my dinner was as good as +another's, which I thought might satisfy him; but instead o' that, he +had the assurance to ask me if I could give them hair soup. I knew very +well what the skip was at.” + +“Scamp, ma'am, and you will oblige me.” + +“For if grief for poor Andy (weeping), that suffered mainly for what he +was as innocent of as the unborn child--if grief, an' every one knows +it makes the hair to fall; an' afther all it's only a bit of a front I'm +wearin';--ah, you villain, it was an ill-hearted cut, that.” + +“It wasn't a cut did it, Mrs. Mulroony; it fell off naturally, and by +instalments--or rather it was a cut, and that was what made you feel it; +that youthful old gentleman, Time, gave it a touch with a certain scythe +he carries. No such croppy as old Time, Mrs. Mulroony.” On concluding, +he winked again at old Ned, and touched his pocket as before. + +“Mr. Amby, be quiet,” said Ned, rather complacently though, “an' let +daicent Mrs. Mulroony go on.” + +“'Well, then,' says he, 'if you haven't, 'hair-soup,' which was as much +as to say--makin' his own fun before the strangers--that I ought to +boil my very wig to plaise him--my front, I mane, 'maybe,' says he, 'you +have oxtail.' Well, flesh and blood could hardly bear that, and I said +it was a scandal for him to treat an industrious, un-projected widow in +such a way; 'if you want a dinner, Mr. Gray,' says I, 'I can give you +and your friends a jacketful of honest corned beef and greens.' Well, my +dear--” + +At this insinuating expression of tenderness, old Ned, aware, for the +first time, that she was a widow, and kept that most convenient of +establishments, an eating-house, cocked his nightcap, with great spirit +and significance, and with an attempt at a leer, which, from the +force of habit, made him look upon her rather as the criminal than the +accuser, he said--“It was scandalous, Mrs. Mulroony; and it is a sad +thing to be unprotected, ma'am; it's a pity, too, to see sich a woman as +you are without somebody to take care of her, and especially one that id +undherstand swindlin'. But what happened next, ma'am?” + +“Why, my dear--indeed, I owe you many thanks for your kindness--you +see, my dear,”--the nightcap here seemed to move and erect itself +instinctively--“this fellow turns round, and says to the other four +skips--'Gentlemen,' says he, 'could you conde--condescend,' I think it +was--yes--'could you condescend to dine upon corned beef and greens? +They said, not unless it would oblige him; and then he said it wasn't to +oblige him, but to sarve the house he did it. So, to make a long story +short, they filled themselves with my victuals, drank seven tumblers +of punch each, kept playin' cards the whole night, and then fell a +fightin'--smashed glass, delft, and everything; and when it was mornin', +slipped out, one by one, till I caught my skip here, the last of them--” + +“Scamp, Mrs. Roony; a gentleman scamp, known to every one as a most +respectable character on town.” + +“When I caught him going off without payment, he fairly laughed in my +face, and offered to toss me.” + +“Oh, the villain!” said Ned; “I only wish I had been there, Mrs. +Mulroony, and you wouldn't have wanted what I am sorry to see you do +want--a protector. The villain, to go to toss such a woman--to go +to take such scandalous liberties! Go on, ma'am--go on, my dear Mrs. +Mulroony.” + +“Well, my dear, he offered, as I said, to toss me for it--double or +quits--and when I wouldn't stand that, he asked me if I would allow +him to kiss it in, at so many kisses a-day; but I told him that coin +wouldn't pass wid me.” + +“He's a swindler, ma'am; no doubt of it, and you'll never be safe +till you have some one to protect you that understands swindlin' and +imposition. Well, ma'am--well, my dear ma'am, what next?” + +“Why, he then attempted to escape; but as I happened to have a stout +ladle in my hand, I thought a good basting wouldn't do him any harm, and +while I was layin' on him two sailors came in, and they took him out of +my hands.” + +“Out of the frying-pan into the fire, you ought to say, Mrs. Mulroony.” + +“So he and they fought, and smashed another lot of glass, and then I set +out and charged him on the watch. Oh, murdher sheery--to think the way +my beautiful beef and greens went!” + +Here Mr. Ambrose, approaching Mrs. Mulroony, whispered--“My dear Mrs. +Mulroony, remember one word--futurity; heir apparent--heir direct; so +be moderate, and a short time will place you in easy circumstances. The +event that's coming will be a stunner.” + +“What's that he's sayin' to you, my dear Mrs. Mulroony?” asked Ned; +“don't listen to him, he'll only soohdher and palaver you. I'll take +your charge, and lock him up.” + +“Darby,” said Mr. Gray, now approaching that worthy, “a single word +with you--we understand one another--I intended to bribe old Ned, the +villain; but you shall have it.” + +“Very good, it's a bargain,” replied the virtuous Darby; “fork out.” + +“Here, then, is ten shillings, and bring me out of it.” + +Darby privately pocketed the money, and moving toward Ned, whispered to +him--“Don't take the charge for a few minutes. I'll fleece them both. +Amby has given me half-a-crown; another from her, and then, half and +half between us. Mrs. Mulroony, a word with you. Listen--do you wish to +succeed in this business?” + +“To be sure I do; why not?” + +“Well, then, if you do, slip me five shillings, or you're dished, like +one of your own-dinners, and that Amby Gray will slice you to pieces. +Ned's his friend at heart, I tell you.” + +“Well, but you'll see me rightified?” + +“Hand the money, ma'am; do you know who you're speaking to? The senior +of the office.” + +On receiving the money, the honest senior whispers to the honest officer +of the night--“A crown from both, that is, half from each; and now +act as you like; but if you take the widow's charge, we'll have a free +plate, at all events, whenever we call to see her, you know.” + +Honest Ned, feeling indignant that he was not himself the direct +recipient of the bribes, and also anxious to win favor in the widow's +eyes, took the charge against Mr. Gray, who was very soon locked +up, with the “miscellanies,” in the black hole, until bail could be +procured. + +On finding that matters had gone against him, Gray, who, although +unaffected in speech, was yet rather tipsy, assumed a look of singular +importance, as if to console himself for the degradation he was about to +undergo; he composed his face into an expression that gave a ludicrous +travesty of dignity. + +“Well,” said he, with a solemn swagger, nodding his head from side +to side as he spoke, in order to impress what he uttered with a more +mysterious emphasis--“you are all acting in ignorance, quite so; little +you know who the person is that's before you; but it doesn't signify--I +am somebody, at all events.” + +“A gentleman in disguise,” said a voice from the black hole. “You'll +find some of your friends here.” + +“You are right, my good fellow--you are perfectly right;” said Ambrose, +nodding with drunken gravity, as before; “high blood runs in my veins, +and time will soon tell that; I shall stand and be returned for the town +of Ballytrain, as soon as there comes a dissolution; I'm bent on that.” + +“Bravo! hurra! a very proper member you'll make for it,” from the black +hole. + +“And I shall have the Augean stables of these corrupt offices swept of +their filth. Ned, the scoundrel, shall be sent to the right about; Mr. +Darby, for his honesty, shall have each wrist embraced by a namesake.” + +Here he was shoved by Garvy, the watchman, head foremost into the black +hole, after having received an impulse from behind, kindly intended to +facilitate his ingress, which, notwithstanding his drunken ambition, +the boast of his high blood, and mighty promises, was made with +extraordinary want of dignity. + +Although we have described this scene nearly in consecutive order, +without the breaks and interruptions which took place whilst it +proceeded, yet the reader should imagine to himself the outrage, the +yelling, the clamor, the by-battles, and scurrilous contests in the +lowest description of blackguardism with which it was garnished; thus +causing it to occupy at least four times the period we have ascribed +to it. The simple-minded priest, who could never have dreamt of such an +exhibition, scarcely knew whether he was asleep or awake, and sometimes +asked himself whether it was not some terrible phantasm by which he +was startled and oppressed. The horrible impress of naked and +hardened villany--the light and mirthful delirium of crime--the wanton +manifestations of vice, in all its shapes, and the unblushing front of +debauchery and profligacy--constituted, when brought together in one +hideous group, a sight which made his heart groan for human nature on +the one hand, and the corruption of human law on the other. + +“The contamination of vice here,” said he to himself, “is so +concentrated and deadly, that innocence or virtue could not long resist +its influence. Alas! alas!” + +Old Dunphy now made his appearance; but he had scarcely time to shake +hands with the priest, when he heard himself addressed from between the +bars of Gray's limbo, with the words, + +“I say, old Corbet, or Dunphy, or whatever the devil they call you; +here's a relation of yours by the mother's side only, you old dog--mark +that; here I am, Ambrose Gray, a gentleman in disguise, as you well +know; and I want you to bail me out.” + +“An' a respectable way you ax it,” said Dunphy, putting on his +spectacles, and looking at him through the bars. + +“Respect! What, to a beggarly old huckster and kidnapper! Why, you +penurious slicer of musty bacon--you iniquitous dealer in light +weights--what respect are you entitled to from me? You know who I +am--and you must bail me. Otherwise never expect, when the time comes, +that I shall recognize you as a base relative, or suffer you to show +your ferret face in my presence.” + +“Ah!” exclaimed the old man, bitterly; “the blood is in you.” + +“Eight, my old potatomonger; as true as gospel, and a great deal truer. +The blood is in me.” + +“Ay,” replied the other, “the blood of the oppressor--the blood of the +villain--the blood of the unjust tyrant is in you, and nothing else. If +you had his power, you'd be what he is, and maybe, worse, if the thing +was possible. Now, listen; I'll make the words you just said to me the +bitterest and blackest to yourself that you ever spoke. That's the last +information I have for you; and as I know that you're just where you +ought to be, among the companions you are fit for, there I leave you.” + +He then turned toward the priest, and left Gray to get bail where he +might. + +When Skipton, the messenger, who returned with Dunphy, or Corbet, as we +shall in future call him, entered the watch-house, he drew Darby aside, +and held some private conversation with him, of which it was evident +that Corbet was the subject, from the significant glances which each +turned upon him from time to time. + +In the meantime, the old man, recognizing the priest rather by his voice +than his appearance, lost no time in acquainting the officers of justice +that they were completely mistaken in the individual. The latter had +briefly mentioned to him the circumstance and cause of his arrest. + +“I want you,” said the priest, “to go to Sir Thomas Gourlay directly, +and tell him that I have his money and pistols quite safe, and that I +was on my way up to town with them, when this unpleasant mistake took +place.” + +“I will, your reverence,” said he, “without loss of time. I see,” he +added, addressing Darby and the others, “that you have made a mistake +here.” + +“What mistake, my good man?” asked Darby. + +“Why, simply, that instead of a robber, you have been sharp enough to +take up a most respectable Catholic clergyman from Ballytrain.” + +“What,” said Darby, “a Popish priest! Curse me, but that's as good, +if not better, than the other thing. No Papist is allowed, under +the penalty of a felony, to carry arms, and here is a Popish priest +travelling with pistols. The other thing, Skipton, was only for the +magistrates, but this is a government affair.” + +“He may be Finnerty, after all,” replied Skipton, aside; “this old +fellow is no authority as to his identity, as you may guess from what I +told you.” + +“At all events,” replied Darby, “we shall soon know which he is--priest +or robber; but I hope, for our own sakes, he'll prove a priest on our +hands. At any rate the magistrates are now in the office, and it's full +time to bring his reverence up.” + +Corbet, in the meantime, had gone to Sir Thomas Gourlay's with his +reverence's message, and in a few minutes afterwards the prisoner, +strongly guarded, was conducted to the police office. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. The Police Office + +--Sir Spigot Sputter and Mr. Coke--An Unfortunate Translator--Decision +in “a Law Case.” + + +It is not our intention to detail the history of occurrences that are +calculated to fill the mind with sorrow, not unmingled with disgust, or +to describe scenes that must necessarily lower our estimate of both man +and woman. On the bench sat two magistrates, of whom we may say that, +from ignorance of law, want of temper, and impenetrable stupidity, the +whole circle of commercial or professional life could not produce a pair +more, signally unqualified for the important offices they occupied. One +of them, named Sputter, Sir Spigot Sputter, was an old man, with a red +face and perpetual grin, whose white hair was cropped close; but in +compensation for this he wore powder and a queue, so that his head, +except in vivacity of motion, might not inappropriately be compared +to an overgrown tadpole struggling to get free from his shoulders, and +escape to the nearest marsh. He also wore a false eye, which gave him +a perennial blink that was sadly at variance with magisterial dignity. +Indeed the consequences of it were sometimes ludicrous enough. When, for +instance, one of those syrens who perambulate our fashionable streets +after the sun has gone down, happened to be brought up to answer some +charge that came under his jurisdiction, Sir Spigot's custom always was +to put his glass to the safe eye, and peer at her in the dock; which +act, when taken in connection with the grin and the droop of the glass +eye, seemed to the spectators as if he and she understood each other, +and that the wink in question was a kind of telegraphic dispatch sent +to let her know that she had a friend on the bench. Sir Spigot was deaf, +too, a felicitous circumstance, which gave him peculiar facility in the +decision of his cases. + +The name of his brother on the bench was Coke, who acted in the capacity +of what is termed a law magistrate. It is enough, however, to say, that +he was a thin man, with a long, dull face, a dull eye, a dull tongue, a +dull ear, and a dull brain. His talents for ambiguity were surprising, +and it always required a hint from the senior of the office, Darby, +to enable him to understand his own decisions. This, however, was not +without some beneficial consequences to the individuals before him; as +it often happened, that when he seemed to have committed some hardened +offender, after the infliction of a long, laborious, obscure harangue, +he has immediately ordered him to be discharged. And, on the contrary, +when some innocent individual heard with delight the sentence of the +court apparently, in his favor, judge of what he must have felt on +finding himself sent off to Newgate, Kilmainham, or the Penitentiary. +In this instance, however, the advantage to the public was nearly equal; +for if the guilty escaped in one case, so did the innocent in another. +Here now is where Darby became useful; for Darby, who was well +acquainted with his style, and with his meaning, when he had any, always +interpreted his decisions to him, and told him in a whisper, or on a +slip of paper, whether he had convicted the prisoner, or not. + +We shall detail one case which occurred this morning. It happened +that an amiable and distinguished literary gentleman, an LL.D., and a +barrister, had lost from his library a book on which he placed great +value, and he found this book on a stall not very far from the office. +On seeing the volume he naturally claimed it, and the woman who had +received it from the thief, who was a servant, refused to give it up, +unless the money she had paid for it were returned to her. Neither would +the wretch disclose the name of the thief, but snapped her fingers in +Dr. A----'s face, saying she defied him, and that he could only bring +her before Mr. Coke, who, she knew very well, would see justice done +her. She lived by buying books, she said, and by selling books; and +as he lived by writing books, she thought it wasn't handsome of him to +insult the profession by bringing such a blackguard charge against them +in her name. + +He summoned her, however, and the case was one of the first called on +the morning in question. The receiver of the stolen book came forward, +with much assurance, as defendant, and modest Dr. A---- as plaintiff; +when Sir Spigot, putting his glass to his eye, and looking from the one +to the other with his wink and grin as usual, said to Darby: + +“What is this man here for?” + +“It's a law case, your worship,” replied the senior officer. + +Coke, who sat solemn and silent, looked at the doctor, and said: + +“Well, sir, what is your case? Please to state it.” + +The case, being a very plain and brief one, was soon stated, the woman's +reply was then heard, after which Mr. Coke looked graver than before, +and proceeded somewhat to the following effect: + +“This is a case of deep interest to that important portion of the +bibiliopolist profession who vend their wares on stalls.” + +“Thank your worship,” said the woman, with a courtesy. + +“This most respectable body of persons, the booksellers--[another +courtesy from the woman]--are divided into several classes; first, those +who sell books in large and splendid shops; next, those who sell them +in shops of less pretension; thirdly, those who sell them on stalls in +thoroughfares, and at the corners of streets; fourthly, those who carry +them in baskets, and who pass from place to place, and combine with the +book-selling business that of flying stationer; and fifthly, those who +do not sell them at all, but only read them; and as those who read, +unless they steal or borrow, must purchase, I accordingly class them as +booksellers indirectly, inasmuch as if they don't sell books themselves, +they cause others to do so. For this reason it is evident that every man +living, and woman too, capable of reading a book, is a bookseller; so +that society at large is nothing but one great bookselling firm. + +“Having thus established the immense extent and importance of the +business, I now proceed to the consideration of the case before us. To +steal a book is not in every case an offence against the law of libel, +nor against the law of arson, nor against the law of insurrection, nor +against the law of primogeniture; in fact, it is only against the law of +theft--it offends only one law--and is innocent with respect to all the +others. A person stealing a book could not be indicted under the statute +of limitations, for instance; except, indeed, in so far as he may be +supposed to limit the property of the person from whom he stole it. But +on this point the opinion of the learned Folderol would go pretty +far, were it not for the opinion of another great man, which I shall +presently quote. Folderol lays it down as a fixed principle in an able +treatise upon the law of weathercocks, that if property be stolen +from an individual, without the aggregate of that property suffering +reduction or diminution, he is not robbed, and the crime of theft has +not been committed. The other authority that I alluded to, is that of +his great and equally celebrated opponent, Tolderol, who lays it down on +the other hand, that when a thief, in the act of stealing, leaves more +behind him than he found there at first, so that the man stolen from +becomes richer by the act of theft than he had been before it, the crime +then becomes _dupleis delicti_, or one of harum-scarum, according to +Doodle, and the thief deserves transportation or the gallows. And the +reason is obvious: if the property of the person stolen from, under the +latter category, were to be examined, and that a larger portion of it +was found there than properly had belonged to him before the theft, +he might be suspected of theft himself, and in this case a double +conviction of the parties would ensue; that is, of him who did not take +what he ought, and of him who had more than he was entitled to. This +opinion, which is remarkable for its perspicuity and soundness, is to +be found in the one hundred and second folio of Logerhedius, tome six +hundred, page 9768. + +“There is another case bearing strongly upon the present one, in +'Snifter and Snivell's Reports,' vol. 86, page 1480, in which an +old woman, who was too poor to purchase a Bible, stole one, and was +prosecuted for the theft. The counsel for the prosecution and the +defence were both equally eminent and able. Counsellor Sleek was for the +prosecution and Rant for the defence. Sleek, who was himself a religious +barrister, insisted that the _locus delicti_ aggravated the offence, +inasmuch as she had stolen the Bible out of a church; but Rant +maintained that the _locus delicti_ was a _prima facie_ evidence of her +innocence, inasmuch as she only complied with a precept of religion, +which enjoins all sinners to seek such assistance toward their spiritual +welfare as the church can afford them. + +“Sleek argued that the principle of theft must have been innate and +strong, when the respect due to that sacred edifice was insufficient to +restrain her from such an act--an act which constituted sacrilege of a +very aggravated kind. + +“Rant replied, that the motive and not the act constituted the crime. +There was _prima facie_ proof that she stole it for pious purposes--to +wit, that she might learn therefrom a correct principle for the conduct +of her life. It was not proved that the woman had sold the book, or +pledged it, or in any-other way disposed of it for her corporal or +temporal benefit; the inference, therefore, was, that the motive, in +the first place, justified the act, which was _in se_ a pious one; and, +besides, had the woman been a thief, she would have stolen the plate and +linen belonging to the altar; but she did not, therefore there existed +on her part no consciousness nor intention of wrong. + +“Sleek rejoined, that if the woman had felt any necessity for religious +advice and instruction, she would have gone to the minister, whose duty +it was to give it. + +“Rant replied, that upon Sleek's own principles, if the minister +had properly discharged his duty, the woman would have been under no +necessity for taking the Bible at all; and that, consequently, in a +strict spirit of justice, the theft, if theft it could be called, was +not the theft of the old woman, but that of the minister himself, who +had failed to give her proper instructions. It was the duty of the +minister to have gone to the old woman, and not that of the old woman +to have gone to the minister; but, perhaps, had the woman been young and +handsome, the minister might have administered consolation. + +“I find that Sleek here made a long speech about religion, which he +charged Rant with insulting; he regretted that a false humanity had +repealed some of those stringent but wholesome laws that had been +enacted for the preservation of holy things, and was truly sorry that +this sacrilegious old wretch could not be brought to the stake. He did +not envy his learned, friend the sneering contempt for religion that ran +through his whole argument. + +“Rant bowed and smiled, and replied that, in his opinion, the only stake +the poor woman ought to be brought to was a beefsteak; for he always +wished to see the law administered with mercy. + +“Sleek was not surprised at hearing such a carnal argument brought to +the defence of such a crime, and concluded by pressing for the severest +punishment the law could inflict against this most iniquitous criminal, +who--and he dared even Rant himself to deny the fact--came before that +court as an old offender; he therefore pressed for a conviction against +a person who had acted so flagrantly _contra bonos mores_. + +“Rant said, she could not or ought not to be convicted. This Bible was +not individual property; it was that of a parish that contained better +than eighteen thousand inhabitants. Now, if any individual were to +establish his right of property in the Bible, and she herself was a +proprietress as well as any of them, the amount would be far beneath any +current coin of the realm, consequently there existed no legal symbol of +property for the value of which a conviction could be had. + +“As I perceive, however,” added Mr. Coke, “that the abstract of the +arguments in this important case runs to about five hundred pages, I +shall therefore recapitulate Judge Nodwell's charge, which has been +considered a very brilliant specimen of legal acumen and judicial +eloquence. + +“'This, gentlemen of the jury,' said his lordship,' is a case of +apparently some difficulty, and I cannot help admiring the singular +talent and high principles displayed by the learned counsel on both +sides, who so ably argued it. Of one thing I am certain, that no +consciousness of religious ignorance, no privation of religious +knowledge, could ever induce my learned friend Sleek to commit such a +theft. Rather than do so, I am sure he would be conscientious enough +to pass through the world without any religion at all. As it is, we all +know that he is a great light in that respect--' + +“'He would be a burning light, too, my lord,' observed Rant. + +“No; his reverence for the Bible is too great, too sincere to profane +it by such vulgar perusal as it may have received at the hands of that +destitute old woman, who probably thumbed it day and night, without +regard either to dog-ears or binding, or a consideration of how she was +treating the property of the parish. The fact, however, gentlemen, seems +to be, that the old woman either altogether forgot the institutions +of society, or resolved society itself in her own mind into first +principles. Now, gentlemen, we cannot go behind first principles, +neither can we go behind the old woman. We must keep her before us, but +it is not necessary to keep the Bible so. It has been found, indeed, +that she did not sell, pledge, bestow, or otherwise make the book +subservient to her temporal or corporal wants, as Mr. Rant very +ingeniously argued. Neither did she take it to place in her library--for +she had no library; nor for ostentation in her hall--for she had no +hall, as my pious friend Counsellor Sleek has. But, gentlemen, even +if this old woman by reading the Bible learned to repent, and felt +conversion of heart, you are not to infer that the act which brought her +to grace and repentance may not have been a hardened violation of the +law. Beware of this error, gentlemen. The old woman by stealing this +Bible may have repented her of her sins, it is true; but it is your +business, gentlemen, to make her repent of the law also. The law is as +great a source of repentance as the Bible any day, and, I am proud to +say, has caused more human tears to be shed, and bitterer ones, too, +than the Word of God ever did. Even although justified in the sight of +heaven, it does not follow that this woman is to escape here. It is +the act, and not the heart, that the law deals with. The purity of +her motives, her repentance, are nothing to the law; but the law is +everything to the person in whom they operate; because, although +the heart may be innocent, the individual person must be punished. A +penitent heart, or a consciousness of the pardon of God, are not fit +considerations for a jury-box. You are, therefore, to exclude the +motive, and to take nothing into consideration but the act; for it is +only that by which the law has been violated. + +“'But is there no such thing as mercy, my lord?' asked a juror. + +“In the administration of the law there is such a fiction--a beautiful +negation, indeed--but we know that Justice always holds the first +place, and when she is satisfied, then we call in Mercy. Such, at least, +is the wholesome practice and constitutional spirit of British law. I +have now, gentlemen, rendered you every assistance in my power. If you +think this old woman guilty, you will find accordingly; if not, you will +give her the benefit of any doubt in her favor which you may entertain. + +“The woman,” continued Coke, “was convicted, and here follows the +sentence of the judge. + +“Martha Dotinghed--you have been convicted by the verdict of twelve +as intelligent and respectable gentlemen as I ever saw in a jury-box; +convicted, I am sorry to say, very properly, of a most heinous crime, +that of attempting to work out your salvation in an improper manner--to +wit, by making illegally free with the Word of God. + +“'In troth, my lord,' replied the culprit, 'the Word of God is become so +scarce nowadays, that unless one steals it, they have but a poor chance +of coming by it honestly, or hearing it at all'.” + +“You have been convicted, I say, notwithstanding a most able defence +by your counsel, who omitted no argument that could prove available for +your acquittal; and I am sorry to hear from your own lips, that you are +in no degree penitent for the crime you have committed. You say, the +Word of God is scarce nowadays--but that fact, unhappy woman, only +aggravates your guilt--for in proportion to the scarcity of the Word +of God, so is its value increased--and we all know that the greater the +value of that which is stolen, the deeper, in the eye of the law, is +the crime of the thief. Had you not given utterance to those impenitent +expressions, the court would have been anxious to deal mercifully with +you. As it is, I tell you to prepare for the heaviest punishment it +can inflict, which is, that you be compelled to read some one of the +Commentaries upon the Book you have stolen, once, at least, before you +die, should you live so long, and may God have mercy on you! + +“Here the prisoner fell into strong hysterics, and was taken away in a +state of insensibility from the dock. + +“Now,” proceeded Coke, closing the ponderous tome, “I read this +case from a feeling that it bears very strongly upon that before us. +Saponificus, the learned and animated civilian, in his reply to the +celebrated treatise of '_Rigramarolius de Libris priggatis,_' commonly +called his _Essay on Stolen Books_, asserts that there never yet was a +book printed but was more or less stolen; and society, he argues, in no +shape, in none of its classes--neither in the prison, lockup, blackhole, +or penitentiary--presents us with such a set of impenitents and +irreclaimable thieves as those who write books. Theft is their +profession, and gets them the dishonest bread by which they live. These +may always read the eighth commandment by leaving the negative out, +and then take it in an injunctive sense. Such persons, in prosecuting +another for stealing a book, cannot come into court with clean hands. +Felons in literature, therefore, appear here with a very bad grace in +prosecuting others for the very crime which they themselves are in the +habit of committing.” + +“But, your worship,” said Dr. A----, “this charge against authors cannot +apply to me; the book in question is a translation.” + +“Pooh!” exclaimed Coke, “only a translation! But even so, has it notes +or comments?” + +“It has, your worship; but they--” + +“And, sir, could you declare solemnly, that there is nothing stolen in +the notes and comments, or introduction, if there is any?” + +The doctor, “Ehem! hem!” + +“But in the meantime,” proceeded Coke, “here have I gone to the trouble +of giving such a profound decision upon a mere translation! Who is the +translator?” + +“I am myself, your worship; and in this case I am both plaintiff and +translator.” + +“That, however,” said Coke, shaking his head solemnly, “makes the case +against you still worse.” + +“But, your worship, there is no case against me. I have already told +you that I am plaintiff and translator; and, with great respect, I don't +think you have yet given any decision whatever.” + +“I have decided, sir,” replied Coke, “and taken the case I read for you +as a precedent.” + +“But in that case, your worship, the woman was convicted.” + +“And so she is in this, sir,” replied Coke. “Officer, put Biddy Corcoran +forward. Biddy Corcoran, you are an old woman, which, indeed, is +evident from the nature of your offence, and have been convicted of the +egregious folly of purchasing a translation, which this gentleman says +was compiled or got up by himself. This is conduct which the court +cannot overlook, inasmuch as if it were persisted in, we might, God help +us, become inundated with translations. I am against translations--I +have ever been against them, and I shall ever be against them. They are +immoral in themselves, and render the same injury to literature that +persons of loose morals do to society. In general, they are nothing +short of a sacrilegious profanation of the dead, and I would almost as +soon see the ghost of a departed friend as the translation of a defunct +author, for they bear the same relation. The regular translator, in +fact, is nothing less than a literary ghoul, who lives upon the mangled +carcasses of the departed--a mere sack-'em-up, who disinters the dead, +and sells their remains for money. You, sir, might have been better and +more honestly employed than in wasting your time upon a translation. +These are works that no men or class of men, except bishops, chandlers, +and pastrycooks, ought to have anything to do with; and as you, I +presume, are not a bishop, nor a chandler, nor a pastrycook, I recommend +you to spare your countrymen in future. Biddy Corcoran, as the court is +determined to punish you severely, the penalty against you is, that you +be compelled to read the translation in question once a week for the +next three months. I had intended to send you to the treadmill for the +same space of time: but, on looking more closely into the nature of your +offence, I felt it my duty to visit you with a much severer punishment.” + +“That, your worship,” replied the translator, “is no punishment at all; +instead of that, it will be a pleasure to read my translation, and as +you have pronounced her to be guilty, it goes in the very teeth of your +decision.” + +“What--what--what kind of language is this, sir?” exclaimed Sir Spigot +Sputter! “This is disrespect to the court, sir. In the teeth of his +decision! His worship's decision, sir, has no teeth.” + +“Indeed, on second thoughts, I think not, sir,” replied, the indignant +wit and translator; “it is indeed a very toothless decision, and +exceedingly appropriate in passing sentence upon an old woman in the +same state.” + +“Eh--eh,” said Sir Spigot, “which old woman? who do you mean, sir? +Yourself or the culprit? Eh? eh?” + +“Your worship forgets that there are four of us,” replied the +translator. + +“Well, sir! well, sir! But as to the culprit--that old woman +there--having no teeth, that is not her fault,” replied Sir Spigot; “if +she hasn't teeth, she has gum enough--eh! eh! you must admit that, sir.” + +“You all appear to have gum enough,” replied the wit, “and nothing but +gum, only it is gum arabic to me, I know.” + +“You have treated this court with disrespect, sir,” said Coke, very +solemnly; “but the court will uphold its dignity. In the meantime you +are fined half-a-crown.” + +“But, your worship,” whispered Darby, “this is the celebrated Dr. A----, +a very eminent man.” + +“I have just heard, sir,” proceeded Coke, “from the senior officer of +the court, that you are a very eminent man; it may be so, and I am very +sorry for it. I have never heard your name, however, nor a syllable of +your literary reputation, before; but as it seems you are an eminent +man, I take it for granted that it must be in a private and confidential +way among your particular friends. I will fine you, however, another +half-crown for the eminence.” + +“Well, gentlemen,” replied the doctor, “I have heard of many 'wise saws +and modern instances,' but--” + +“What do you mean, sir?” said Sir Spigot. “Another insult! You asserted, +sir, already, that Mr. Coke's decision had teeth--” + +“But I admitted my error,” replied the other. + +“And now you mean to insinuate, I suppose, that his worship's saws are +handsaws. You are fined another half-crown, sir, for the handsaw.” + +“And another,” said Coke, “for the _gum arabic_.” + +The doctor fearing that the fines would increase thick and threefold, +forthwith paid them all, and retired indignantly from the court. + +And thus was the author of certainly one of the most beautiful +translations in any language, at least in his own opinion, treated by +these two worthy administrators of the law. (* A fact.) + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. The Priest Returns Sir Thomas's Money and Pistols + +--A Bit of Controversy--A New Light Begins to Appear. + + +Very fortunately for the priest he was not subjected to an examination +before these worthies. Sir Thomas Gourlay, having heard of his arrest +and the cause of it, sent a note with his compliments, to request that +he might be conducted directly to his residence, together with his +pocket-book and pistols, assuring them, at the same time, that their +officers had committed a gross mistake as to his person. + +This was quite sufficient, and ere the lapse of twenty minutes Father +M'Mahon, accompanied by Skipton and another officer, found himself at +the baronet's hall-door. On entering the hall, Sir Thomas himself was in +the act of passing from the breakfast parlor to his study above stairs, +leaning upon the arm of Gibson, the footman, looking at the same time +pale, nervous, and unsteady upon his limbs. The moment Skipton saw him, +he started, and exclaimed, as if to himself, but loud enough for the +priest to hear him: + +“'Gad! I've seen him before, once upon a time; and well I remember the +face, for it is not one to be forgotten.” + +The baronet, on looking round, saw the priest, and desired him to follow +them to his study. + +“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas,” said the officer, “we now place his +reverence safely in your hands; here, too, is your pocket-book and +pistols.” + +“Hand them to him, sir,” replied the baronet, nodding toward the priest; +“and that is enough.” + +“But, Sir Thomas--” + +“What is it, sir? Have you not done your duty?” + +“I hope so, sir; but if it would not be troublesome, sir, perhaps you +would give us a receipt; an acknowledgment, sir.” + +“For what?” + +“For the priest's body, sir, in the first place, and then for the +pocket-book and pistols.” + +“If I were a little stronger,” replied the baronet, in an angry voice, +“I would write the receipt upon your own body with a strong horsewhip; +begone, you impudent scoundrel!” + +Skipton turned upon him a bitter and vindictive look, and replied, “Oh, +very well, sir--come, Tom, you are witness that I did my duty.” + +Sir Thomas on entering the study threw himself listlessly on a sofa, and +desired Gibson to retire. + +“Take a seat, sir,” said he, addressing Father M'Mahon. “I am far from +well, and must rest a little before I speak to you; I know not what is +the matter with me, but I feel all out of sorts.” + +He then drew a long breath, and laid his head upon his hand, as if to +recover more clearly the powers of his mind and intellect. His eyes, +full of thought not unmingled with anxiety, were fixed upon the carpet, +and he seemed for a time wrapped in deep and painful abstraction. At +length he raised himself up, and drawing his breath apparently with more +freedom began the conversation. + +“Well, sir,” said he, in a tone that implied more of authority and +haughtiness than of courtesy or gentlemanly feeling; “it seems the +property of which I have been robbed has come into your possession.” + +“It is true, sir; and allow me to place it in your own hands exactly as +I got it. I took the precaution to seal the pocket-book the moment it +was returned to me, and although it was for a short time in possession +of the officers of justice, yet it is untouched, and the seal I placed +on it unbroken.” + +The baronet's hand, as he took the pocket-book, trembled with an +agitation which he could not repress, although he did everything in his +power to subdue it: his eye glittered with animation, or rather with +delight, as he broke the seal. + +“It was very prudently and correctly done of you, sir, to seal up the +pocket-book; very well done, indeed: and I am much obliged to you +so far, although we must have some conversation upon the matter +immediately--” + +“I only did what, as a Catholic clergyman, Sir Thomas, and an honest +man, I conceived to be my duty.” + +“What--what--what's this?” exclaimed the baronet, his eye blazing with +rage and disappointment. “In the name of hell's fire, sir, what is +this? My money is not all here! There is a note, sir, a one pound note +wanting; a peculiar note, sir; a marked note; for I always put a marked +note among my money, to provide against the contingency of such a +robbery as I sustained. Pray, sir, what has become of that note? I say, +priest, the whole pocket-book ten times multiplied, was not worth a fig +compared with the value I placed upon that note.” + +“How much did you lose, Sir Thomas?” asked the priest calmly. + +“I lost sixty-nine pounds, sir.” + +“Well, then,” continued the other, “would it not be well to see whether +that sum is in the pocket-book. You have not yet reckoned the money.” + +“The note I speak of was in a separate compartment; in a different fold +of the book; apart from the rest.” + +“But perhaps it has got among them? Had you not better try, sir?” + +“True,” replied the other; and with eager and trembling hands he +examined them note by note; but not finding that for which he sought, he +stamped with rage, and dashing the pocket-book, notes and all, against +the floor, he ground his teeth, and approaching the priest with the +white froth of passion rising to his lips, exclaimed, “Hark you, priest, +if you do not produce the missing note, I shall make you bitterly +repent it! You know where it is, sir! You could understand from the +note itself--” He paused, however, for he felt at once that he might be +treading dangerous ground in entering into particulars. “I say, sir,” he +proceeded, with a look of menace and fury, “if you refuse to produce the +note I speak of, or to procure it for me, I shall let you know to your +cost what the power of British law can effect.” + +The priest rose up with dignity, his cheek heightened with that slight +tinge, which a sense of unmerited insult and a consciousness of his own +integrity render natural to man--so long as he is a man. + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” he proceeded, “upon your conduct and want of +gentlemanly temper since I have entered this apartment it is not my +intention to make any comment; but I need not tell you that the minister +of God is received in Christian society with the respect due to his +sacred office.” + +“Minister of the devil, sir,” thundered the baronet; “do you think that +I shall be influenced by this slavish cant? Where is the note I speak +of? If you do not produce it, I shall consider you an accomplice after +the fact, and will hold you responsible as such. Remember, you are but a +Popish priest.” + +“That is a fact, sir, which I shall always recollect with an humble +sense of my own unworthiness; but so long as I discharge its duties +conscientiously and truly, I shall also recollect it with honor. Of the +note you allude to in such unbecoming words, I know nothing; and as to +your threats, I value them not.” + +“If you know nothing of the note, sir, you do certainly of the robber.” + +“I do, Sir Thomas; I know who the man is that robbed you.” + +“Well, sir,” replied the other, triumphantly, “I am glad you have +acknowledged so much. I shall force you to produce him. At least I shall +take care that the law will make you do so.” + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay, I beg you to understand that there is a law beyond +and above your law--the law of God--the law of Christian duty; and that +you shall never force me to transgress. The man who robbed you in +a moment of despair and madness, repented him of the crime; and the +knowledge of that crime, and its consequent repentance were disclosed to +me in one of the most holy ordinances of our religion.” + +“Is it one of the privileges of your religion to throw its veil over the +commission of crime? If so, the sooner your religion is extirpated out +of the land the better for society.” + +“No, sir, our religion does not throw its veil over the criminal, but +over the penitent. We leave the laws of the land to their own resources, +and aid them when we can; but in the case before us, and in all similar +cases, we are the administrators of the laws of God to those who are +truly penitent, and to none others. The test of repentance consists in +reformation of life, and in making restitution to those who have been +injured. The knowledge of this comes to us in administering the sacred +ordinance of penance in the tribunal of confession; and sooner than +violate this solemn compact between the mercy of God and a penitent +heart, we would willingly lay down our lives. It is the most sacred of +all trusts.” + +“Such an ordinance, sir, is a bounty and provocative to crime.” + +“It is a bounty and provocative to repentance, sir; and society has +gained much and lost nothing by its operation. Remember, sir, that those +who do not repent, never come to us to avow their crimes, in which case +we are ignorant both of the crime and criminal. Here there is neither +repentance, on the one hand, nor restitution, on the other, and society, +of course, loses everything and gains nothing. In the other case, the +person sustaining the injury gains that which he had lost, and society +a penitent and reformed member. If, then, this sacred refuge for the +penitent--not for the criminal, remember--had no existence, those +restitutions of property which take place in thousands of cases, could +never be made.” + +“Still, sir, you shield the criminal from his just punishment.” + +“No, sir; we never shield the criminal from his just punishment. God has +promised mercy to him who repents, and we merely administer it without +any reference to the operation of the law. It often happens, Sir Thomas +Gourlay, that a person who has repented and made restitution, is taken +hold of by the law and punished. This ordinance, therefore, does not +stand between the law and its victim; it only deals between him and his +God, leaving him, like any other offender, to the law he has violated.” + +“I am no theologian, sir; but without any reference to your priestly +cant, I simply say, that the man who is cognizant of another's crime +against the law, either of God or man, and who will shield him from +justice, is _particeps criminis_, and I don't care a fig what your +obsolete sacerdotal dogmas may assert to the contrary. You say you know +the man who unjustly deprived me of my property; if then, acknowledging +this, you refuse to deliver him up to justice, I hold you guilty of his +crime. Suppose he had taken my life, as he was near doing, how, pray, +would you have made restitution? Bring me to life again, I suppose, by a +miracle. Away, sir, with this cant, which is only fit for the barbarity +of the dark ages, when your church was a mass of crime, cruelty, and +ignorance; and when a cunning and rapacious priesthood usurped an +authority over both soul and body, ay, and property too, that oppressed +and degraded human nature.” + +“I will reason no longer with you, sir,” replied the priest; “because +you talk in ignorance of the subject we are discussing--but having now +discharged an important duty, I will take my leave.” + +“You may of me,” replied the other; “but you will not so readily shift +yourself out of the law.” + +“Any charge, sir, which either law or Justice may bring against me, I +shall be ready to meet; and I now, for your information, beg to let you +know that the law you threaten me with affords its protection to me and +the class to which I belong, in the discharge of this most sacred and +important trust. Your threats, Sir Thomas, consequently, I disregard.” + +“The more shame for it if it does,” replied the baronet; “but, hark you, +sir, I do not wish, after all, that you and I should part on unfriendly +terms. You refuse to give up the robber?” + +“I would give up my life sooner.” + +“But could you not procure me the missing note?” + +“Of the missing note, Sir Thomas Gourlay, I know nothing. I consequently +neither can nor will make any promise to restore it.” + +“You may tell the robber from me,” pursued the baronet, “that I will +give him the full amount of his burglary, provided he restores me that +note. The other sixty-nine pounds shall be his on that condition, and no +questions asked.” + +“I have already told you, sir, that it was under the seal of confession +the knowledge of the crime came to me. Out of that seal I cannot revert +to the subject without betraying my trust; for, if he acknowledged his +guilt to me under any other circumstances, it would become my duty to +hand him over to the law.” + +“Curse upon all priests!” said the other indignantly; “they are all +the same; a crew of cunning scoundrels, who attempt to subjugate the +ignorant and the credulous to their sway; a pack of spiritual swindlers, +who get possession of the consciences of the people through pious +fraud, and then make slavish instruments of them for their own selfish +purposes. In the meantime I shall keep my eye upon you, Mr. M'Mahon, +and, believe me, if I can get a hole in your coat I shall make a rent of +it.” + +“It is a poor privilege, sir, that of insulting the defenceless. You +know I am doubly so--defenceless from age, defenceless in virtue of my +sacred profession; but if I am defenceless against your insults, Sir +Thomas Gourlay, I am not against your threats, which I despise and +defy. The integrity of my life is beyond your power, the serenity of my +conscience beyond your vengeance. You are not of my flock, but if you +were, I would say, Sir Thomas, I fear you are a bold, bad man, and have +much to repent of in connection with your past and present life--much +reparation to make to your fellow-creatures. Yes; I would say, Sir +Thomas Gourlay, the deep tempest of strong passions within you has +shaken your powerful frame until it totters to its fall. I would say, +beware; repent while it is time, and be not unprepared for the last +great event. That event, Sir Thomas, is not far distant, if I read +aright the foreshadowing of death and dissolution that is evident +in your countenance and frame. I speak these words in, I trust, a +charitable and forgiving spirit. May they sink into your heart, and work +it to a sense of Christian feeling and duty! + +“This I would say were you mine--this I do say, knowing that you are +not; for my charity goes beyond my church, and embraces my enemy as well +as my friend;” and as he spoke he prepared co go. + +“You may go, sir,” replied the baronet, with a sneer of contempt, “only +you have mistaken your man. I am no subject for your craft--not to be +deceived by your hypocrisy--and laugh to scorn your ominous but impotent +croaking. Only before you go, remember the conditions I have offered +the scoundrel who robbed me; and if the theological intricacies of your +crooked creed will permit you, try and get him to accept them. It will +be better for him, and better for you too. Do this, and you may cease to +look upon Sir Thomas Gourlay as an enemy.” + +The priest bowed, and without returning any reply left the apartment and +took his immediate departure. + +Sir Thomas, after he had gone, went to the glass and surveyed himself +steadily. The words of the priest were uttered with much solemnity and +earnestness; but withal in such a tone of kind regret and good feeling, +that their import and impressiveness were much heightened by this very +fact. + +“There is certainly a change upon me, and not one for the better,” he +said to himself; “but at the same time the priest, cunning as he is, has +been taken in by appearances. I am just sufficiently changed in my looks +to justify and give verisimilitude to the game I am playing. When Lucy +hears of my illness, which must be a serious one, nothing on earth will +keep her from me; and if I cannot gain any trace to her residence, a +short paragraph in the papers, intimating and regretting the dangerous +state of my health, will most probably reach her, and have the desired +effect. If she were once back, I know that, under the circumstances +of my illness, and the impression that it has been occasioned by her +refusal to marry Dunroe, she will yield; especially as I shall put the +sole chances of my recovery upon her compliance. Yet why is it that I +urge her to an act which will probably make her unhappy during life? +But it will not. She is not the fool her mother was; and yet I am not +certain that her mother was a fool either. We did not agree; we could +not. She always refused to coincide with me almost in everything; and +when I wished to teach Lucy the useful lessons of worldly policy, out +came her silly maxims of conscience, religion, and such stuff. But yet +religious people are the best. I have always found it so. That wretched +priest, for instance, would give up his life sooner than violate what +he calls--that is, what he thinks--his duty. There must be some fiction, +however, to regulate the multitude; and that fiction must be formed by, +and founded on, the necessities of society. That, unquestionably, is the +origin of all law and all religion. Only religion uses the stronger and +the wiser argument, by threatening us with another world. Well done, +religion! You acted upon a fixed principle of nature. The force of the +enemy we see not may be magnified and exaggerated; the enemy we see not +we fear, especially when described in the most terrible colors by men +who are paid for their misrepresentations, although these same impostors +have never seen the enemy they speak of themselves. But the enemy we see +we can understand and grapple with; ergo, the influence of religion over +law; ergo, the influence of the priest, who deals in the imaginary and +ideal, over the legislator and the magistrate, who deal only in the +tangible and real. Yes, this indeed, is the principle. How we do fear a +ghost! What a shiver, what a horror runs through the frame when we think +we see one; and how different is this from our terror of a living enemy. +Away, then, with this imposture, I will none of it. Yet hold: what was +that I saw looking into the window of the carriage that contained my +brother's son? What was it? Why a form created by my own fears. That +credulous nurse, old mother Corbet, stuffed me so completely with +superstition when I was young and cowardly, that I cannot, in many +instances, shake myself free from it yet. Even the words of that priest +alarmed me for a moment. This, however, is merely the weakness of human +nature--the effect of unreal phantasms that influence the reason while +we are awake, just as that of dreams does the imagination while we are +asleep. Away, then, ye idle brood! I will none of you.” + +He then sat himself down on the sofa, and rang for Gibson, but still the +train of thought pursued him. + +“As to Lucy, I think it is still possible to force her into the position +for which I destined her--quite possible. She reasons like a girl, of +course, as I told her. She reasons like a girl who looks upon that +silly nonsense called love as the great business of life; and acts +accordingly. Little she thinks, however, that love--her love--his +love--both their loves--will never meet twelve months after what is +termed the honey-moon. No, they will part north and south. And yet the +honey-moon has her sharp ends, as well as every other moon. When love +passes away, she will find that the great business of life is, to make +as many as she can feel that she is above them in the estimation of the +world; to impress herself upon her equals, until they shall be forced to +acknowledge her superiority. And although this may be sometimes done by +intellect and principle, yet, in the society in which she must move, +it is always done by rank, by high position, and by pride, that jealous +vindictive pride which is based upon the hatred of our kind, and at once +smiles and scorns. What would I be if I were not a baronet? Sir Thomas +Gourlay passes where Mr. Gourlay would be spurned. This is the game +of life, and we shall play it with the right weapons. Many a cringing +scoundrel bows to the baronet who despises the man; and for this reason +it is that I have always made myself to be felt to some purpose, and so +shall Lucy, if I should die for it. I hate society, because I know that +society hates me; and for that reason I shall so far exalt her, that she +will have the base compound at her feet, and I shall teach her to scorn +and trample upon it. If I thought there were happiness in any particular +rank of life, I would not press her; but I know there is not, and for +that reason she loses nothing, and gains the privilege--the power--of +extorting homage from the proud, the insolent, and the worthless. This +is the triumph she shall and must enjoy.” + +Gibson then entered, and the baronet, on hearing his foot, threw himself +into a languid and invalid attitude. + +“Gibson,” said he, “I am very unwell; I apprehend a serious attack of +illness.” + +“I trust not, sir.” + +“If any person should call, I am ill, observe, and not in a condition to +see them.” + +“Very well, sir.” + +“Unless you should suspect, or ascertain, that it is some person on +behalf of Miss Gourlay; and even then, mark, I am very ill indeed, and +you do not think me able to speak to any one; but will come in and see.” + +“Yes, sir; certainly sir.” + +“There, then, that will do.” + +The priest, on leaving the baronet's residence, was turning his steps +toward the hotel in which the stranger had put up, when his messenger to +Constitution Hill approaching put his hand to his hat, and respectfully +saluted him. + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “and I am sorry, now that I know who +you are, for the trouble you got into.” + +“Thank you, my friend,” said the priest; “I felt it wouldn't signify, +knowing in my conscience that I was no robber. In the meantime, I got +one glimpse of your metropolitan life, as they call it, and the Lord +knows I never wish to get another. Troth, I was once or twice so +confounded with the noise and racket, that I thought I had got into +purgatory by mistake.” + +“Tut, sir, that's nothing,” replied Skipton; “we were very calm and +peaceable this morning; but with respect to that baronet, he's a +niggardly fellow. Only think of him, never once offering us the +slightest compensation for bringing him home his property! There's not +another man in Ireland would send us off empty-handed as he did. The +thing's always usual on recovering property.” + +“Speak for yourself, in the singular number, if you plaise; you don't +imagine that I wanted compensation.” + +“No, sir, certainly not; but I'm just thinking,” he added, after +curiously examining Father M'Mahon's face for some time, “that you and I +met before somewhere.” + +“Is that the memory you have?” said the priest, “when you ought to +recollect that we met this morning, much against my will, I must say.” + +“I don't mean that,” said the man; “but I think I saw you once in a +lunatic asylum.” + +“Me, in a lunatic asylum?” exclaimed the good priest, somewhat +indignantly. “The thing's a bounce, my good man, before you go farther. +The little sense I've had has been sufficient, thank goodness, to keep +me free from such establishments.” + +“I don't mean that, sir,” replied the other, smiling, “but if I don't +mistake, you once brought a clergyman of our persuasion to the lunatic +asylum in ------.” + +“Ay, indeed,” returned the priest; “poor Quin. His was a case of +monomania; he imagined himself a gridiron, on which all heretics were to +be roasted. That young man was one of the finest scholars in the three +kingdoms. But how do you remember that?” + +“Why for good reasons; because I was a servant in the establishment at +the time. Well,” he added, pausing, “it is curious enough that I should +have seen this very morning three persons I saw in that asylum.” + +“If I had been much longer in that watch-house,” replied the other, “I'm +not quite certain but I'd soon be qualified to pay a permanent visit +to some of them. Who were the three persons you saw there, in the mane +time?” + +“That messenger of yours was one of them, and that niggardly baronet was +the other; yourself, as I said, making the third.” + +The priest looked at him seriously; “you mane Corbet,” said he, “or +Dunphy as he is called?” + +“I do. He and the baron brought a slip of a boy there; and, upon my +conscience, I think there was bad work between them. At all events, poor +Mr. Quin and he were inseparable. The lad promised that he would +allow himself to be roasted, the very first man, upon the reverend +gridiron;--and! for that reason Quin took him into hand; and gave him an +excellent education.” + +“And no one,” replied the priest, “was better qualified to do it. But +what bad work do you suspect between Corbet and the baronet?” + +“Why, I have my suspicions,” replied the man. “It's not a month since I +heard that the son of that very baronet's brother, who was heir to the +estate and titles, disappeared, and has never been heard of since. Now, +all the water in the sea wouldn't wash the pair of them clear of what +I suspect, which is--that both had a hand in removing that boy. The +baronet was a young man at the time, but he has a face that no one could +ever forget. As for Corbet, I remember him well, as why shouldn't I? he +came there often. I'll take my oath it would be a charity to bring the +affair to light.” + +“Do you think the boy is there still?” asked the priest, suppressing all +appearance of the interest which he felt. + +“No,” replied the other, “he escaped about two or three years ago; but, +poor lad, when it was discovered that he led too easy a life, and had +got educated, his treatment was changed; a straight waistcoat was put on +him, and he was placed in solitary confinement. At first he was no more +mad than I am; but he did get occasionally mad afterwards. I know he +attempted suicide, and nearly cut his throat with a piece of glass one +day that his hands got loose while they were changing his linen. Old +Rivet died, and the establishment was purchased by Tickleback, who, to +my own knowledge, had him regularly scourged.” + +“And how did he escape, do you know?” inquired the priest. + +“I could tell you that, too, maybe,” replied Skipton; “but I think, sir, +I have told you enough for the present. If that young man is living, I +would swear that he ought to stand in Sir Thomas Gourlay's shoes. And +now do you think, sir,” he inquired, coming at last to the real object +of his communication, “that if his right could be made clear, any one +who'd help him to his own mightn't expect to be made comfortable for +life?” + +“I don't think there's a doubt about it,” replied the priest. “The +property is large, and he could well afford to be both generous and +grateful.” + +“I know,” returned the man, “that he is both one and the other, if he +had it in his power.” + +“Well,” said the priest, seriously; “mark my words--this may be the most +fortunate day you ever saw. In the mane time, keep a close mouth. The +friends of that identical boy are on the search for him this moment. +They had given him up for dead; but it is not long since they discovered +that he was living. I will see you again on this subject.” + +“I am now a constable,” said the man, “attached to the office you were +in to-day, and I can be heard of any time.” + +“Very well,” replied the priest, “you shall hear either from me or from +some person interested in the recovery of the boy that's lost.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. Lucy calls upon Lady Gourlay, where she meets her Lover + +Sir Thomas, who shams Illness, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, who +visits Him--Affecting interview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay + + +Lucy Gourlay, anxious to relieve her father's mind as much as it was in +her power to do, wrote to him the day after the visit of Ensign Roberts +and old Sam to Summerfield Cottage. Her letter was affectionate, and +even tender, and not written without many tears, as was evident by +the blots and blisters which they produced upon the paper. She fully +corroborated the stranger's explanation to her father; for although +ignorant at the time that an interview had taken place between them, +she felt it to be her duty toward all parties to prevent, as far as her +testimony could go, the possibility of any misunderstanding upon the +subject. This letter was posted in Dublin, from an apprehension lest the +local post-office might furnish a clew to her present abode. The truth +was, she feared that if her father could trace her out, he would claim +her at once, and force her home by outrage and violence. In this, +however, she was mistaken; he had fallen upon quite a different and far +more successful plan for that purpose. He knew his daughter well, +and felt that if ever she might be forced to depart from those strong +convictions of the unhappiness that must result from a union between +baseness and honor, it must be by an assumption of tenderness and +affection toward her, as well as by a show of submission, and a +concession of his own will to hers. This was calculating at once upon +her affection and generosity. He had formed this plan before her letter +reached him, and on perusing it, he felt still more determined to +make this treacherous experiment upon her very virtues--thus most +unscrupulously causing them to lay the groundwork of her own permanent +misery. + +In the meantime, Mrs. Mainwaring, having much confidence in the effect +which a knowledge of her disclosure must, as she calculated, necessarily +produce on the ambitious baronet, resolved to lose no time in seeing +him. On the evening before she went, however, the following brief +conversation took place between her and Lucy: + +“My dear Lucy,” said she, “a thought has just struck me. Your situation, +excepting always your residence with us, is one of both pain and +difficulty. I am not a woman who has ever been much disposed to rely on +my own judgment in matters of importance.” + +“But there, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, you do yourself injustice.” + +“No, my dear child.” + +“But what is your thought?” asked Lucy, who felt some unaccountable +apprehension at what her friend was about to say. + +“You tell me that neither you nor your aunt, Lady Gourlay, have ever +met.” + +“Never, indeed,” replied Lucy; “nor do I think we should know each other +if we did.” + +“Then suppose you were, without either favor or ceremony, to call upon +her--to present yourself to her in virtue of your relationship--in +virtue of her high character and admirable principles--in virtue of the +painful position in which you are placed--to claim the benefit of +her experience and wisdom, and ask her to advise you as she would a +daughter.” + +Lucy's eyes glistened with delight, and, stooping down, she imprinted a +kiss upon the forehead of her considerate and kind friend. + +“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” she exclaimed: “a thousand thanks +for that admirable suggestion. Many a time has my heart yearned to know +that extraordinary woman, of whose virtues the world talks so much, +and whose great and trusting spirit even sorrow and calamity cannot +prostrate. Yes, I will follow your advice; I will call upon her; for, +even setting aside all selfish considerations, I should wish to know her +for her own worth.” + +“Very well, then; I am going in to see your father to-morrow--had you +not better come with me? I shall leave you at her house, and can call +for you after my interview with him shall have been concluded. I shall +order a chaise from the hotel to be with us in the morning, so that you +may run little or no risk of being seen or known.” + +“That will be delightful,” replied Lucy; “for I am sure Lady +Gourlay will be a kind and affectionate friend to me. In seeking +her acquaintance--may I hope, her friendship--I am not conscious +of violating any command or duty. Ever since I recollect, it was a +well-known fact, that the families, that is to say, my father and +uncle, never met, nor visited--mamma knew, of course, that to keep up +an intimacy, under such circumstances, would occasion much domestic +disquietude. This is all I know about it; but I never remember having +heard any injunction not to visit.” + +“No,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring; “such an injunction would resemble that +of a man who should desire his child not to forget to rise next morning, +or, to be sure to breathe through his lungs. I can very well understand +why such a prohibition was never given in that case. Well, then, we +shall start pretty early in the morning, please God; but remember that +you must give me a full detail of your reception and interview.” + +The next day, about the hour of two o'clock, a chaise drew up at the +residence of Lady Gourlay, and on the hall-door being opened, a steady, +respectable-looking old footman made his appearance at the chaise door, +and, in reply to their inquiries, stated, “that her ladyship had been +out for some time, but was then expected every moment.” + +“What is to be done?” said Lucy, in some perplexity; “or how am I to +bestow myself if she does not return soon?” + +“We expect her ladyship every moment, madam,” replied the man; “and +if you will have the goodness to allow me to conduct you to the +drawing-room, you will not have to wait long--I may assure you of that.” + +“You had better go in, my dear,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, “and I shall call +for you in about an hour, or, perhaps, a little better.” + +It was so arranged, and Lucy went in accordingly. + +We must now follow Mrs. Mainwaring, who, on inquiring if she could see +Sir Thomas Gourlay, was informed by Gibson, who had got his cue, that he +was not in a condition to see any one at present. + +“My business is somewhat important,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with a +good deal of confidence in the truth of what she said. + +Gibson, however, approached her, and, with the air of a man who was in +possession of the secrets of the family, said, “Perhaps, ma'am, you come +on behalf of Miss Gourlay?” + +“Whatever my business may be,” she replied, indignantly, “be it +important or otherwise, I never communicate it through the medium of a +servant; I mean you no offence,” she proceeded; “but as I have already +stated that it is of importance, I trust that will be sufficient for the +present.” + +“Excuse me, ma'am,” replied Gibson, “I only put the question by Sir +Thomas's express orders. His state of health is such, that unless upon +that subject he can see no one. I will go to him, however, and mention +what you have said. He is very ill, however, exceedingly ill, and I fear +will not be able to see you; but I shall try.” + +Sir Thomas was seated upon a sofa reading some book or other, when +Gibson reappeared. + +“Well, Gibson, who is this?” + +“A lady, sir; and she says she wishes to see you on very important +business.” + +“Hum!--do you think it anything connected with Miss Gourlay?” + +“I put the question to her, sir,” replied the other, “and she bridled a +good deal--I should myself suppose it is.” + +“Well, then, throw me over my dressing-gown and nightcap; here, pull it +up behind, you blockhead;--there now--how do I look?” + +“Why, ahem, a little too much in health, Sir Thomas, if it could be +avoided.” + +“But, you stupid rascal, isn't that a sign of fever? and isn't my +complaint fulness about the head--a tendency of blood there? That will +do now; yes, the plethoric complexion to a shade; and, by the way, it is +no joke either. Send her up now.” + +When Mrs. Mainwaring entered, the worthy invalid was lying incumbent +upon the sofa, his head raised high upon pillows, with his dressing-gown +and night-cap on, and his arms stretched along by his sides, as if he +were enduring great pain. + +“Oh, Mrs. Norton,” said he, after she had courtesied, “how do you do?” + +“I am sorry to see you ill, Sir Thomas,” she replied, “I hope there is +nothing serious the matter.” + +“I wish I myself could hope so, Mrs. Norton.” + +“Excuse me, Sir Thomas, I am no longer Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Mainwaring, at +your service.” + +“Ah, indeed! Then you have changed your condition, as they say. Well, +I hope it is for the better, Mrs. Mainwaring; I wish you all joy and +happiness!” + +“Thank you, Sir Thomas, it is for the better; I am very happily +married.” + +“I am glad to hear it--I am very glad to hear it; that is to say, if +I can be glad at anything. I feel very ill, Mrs. Mainwaring, very ill, +indeed; and this blunt, plain-spoken doctor of mine gives me but little +comfort. Not that I care much about any doctor's opinion--it is what +I feel myself that troubles me. You are not aware, perhaps, that my +daughter has abandoned me--deserted me--and left me solitary--sick--ill; +without care--without attendance--without consolation;--and all because +I wished to make her happy.” + +“This, Sir Thomas,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, avoiding a direct reply as +to her knowledge of Lucy's movements, “is, I presume, with reference to +her marriage with Lord Dunroe.” + +“Oh yes; young women will not, now-a-days, allow a parent to form any +opinion as to what constitutes their happiness; but I cannot be angry +with Lucy now; indeed, I am not. I only regret her absence from my sick +bed, as I may term it; for, indeed, it is in bed I ought to be.” + +“Sir Thomas, I, came to speak with you very seriously, upon the subject +of her union with that young nobleman.” + +“Ah, but I am not in a condition, Mrs. Mainwaring, to enter upon such a +topic at present. The doctor has forbidden me to speak upon any subject +that might excite me. You must excuse me, then, madam; I really cannot +enter upon it. I never thought T loved Lucy so much;--I only want my +child to be with me. She and I are all that I are left together now; but +she has deserted me at the last moment, for I fear I am near it.” + +“But, Sir Thomas, if you would only hear me for a few minutes, I could +satisfy you that--” + +“But I cannot hear you, Mrs. Mainwaring; I cannot hear you; I am not in +a state to do so; I feel feverish, and exceedingly ill.” + +“Five minutes would do, Sir Thomas.” + +“Five minutes! five centuries of torture! I must ring the bell, Mrs. +Mainwaring, if you attempt to force this subject on me. I should be +sorry to treat you rudely, but you must see at once that I am quite +unable to talk of anything calculated to disturb me. I have a tendency +of blood to the head--I am also nervous and irritable. Put it off, my +dear madam. I trust you shall have another and a better opportunity. Do +ring, and desire Lucy to come to me.” + +Mrs. Mainwaring really became alarmed at the situation of the baronet, +and felt, from this request to have his daughter sent to him, which +looked like delirium, that he was not in a state to enter upon or hear +anything that might disappoint or disturb him. She consequently rose to +take her leave, which she did after having expressed her sincere regret +at his indisposition, as she termed it. + +“I wish it was only indisposition, Mrs. Mainwaring, I wish it was. +Present my respects to your husband, and I wish you and him all +happiness;” and so with another courtesy, Mrs. Mainwaring took her leave. + +After she had gone, Gibson once more attended the bell. + +“Well, Gibson,” said his master, sitting up and flinging his nightcap +aside, “did you see that old grindress? Zounds and the devil, what are +women? The old mantrap has got married at these years! Thank heaven, my +grandmother is dead, or God knows what the devil might put into her old +noddle.” + +“Women are very strange cattle, certainly, sir,” replied Gibson, with a +smirk, “and not age itself will keep them from a husband.” + +“Lucy--Miss Gourlay, I mean--is with her; I am certain of it. The girl +was always very much attached to her, and I know the sly old devil has +been sent to negotiate with me, but I declined. I knew better than +to involve myself in a controversy with an old she prig who deals in +nothing but maxims, and morals, and points of duty. I consequently sent +her off in double quick time, as they say. Get me some burgundy and +water. I really am not well. There is something wrong, Gibson, whatever +it is; but I think it's nothing but anxiety. Gibson, listen. I have +never been turned from my purpose yet, and I never shall. Miss Gourlay +must be Countess of Cullamore, or it is a struggle for life and death +between her and me; either of us shall die, or I shall have my way. +Get me the burgundy and water,” and Gibson, with his sleek bow, went to +attend his orders. + +Mrs. Mainwaring having some purchases to make and some visits to pay, +and feeling that her unexpectedly brief visit to Sir Thomas had allowed +her time for both, did not immediately return to call upon Lucy, fearing +that she might only disturb the interview between her and Lady Gourlay. + +Lucy, as the servant said, was shown up to the drawing-room, where she +amused herself as well as she could, by examining some fine paintings, +among which was one of her late uncle. The features of this she studied +with considerable attention, and could not help observing that, although +they resembled collectively those of her father, the deformity of the +one eye only excepted, yet the general result was strikingly different. +All that was harsh, and coarse, and repulsive in the countenance of +her father, was here softened down into an expression of gentleness, +firmness, and singular candor, whilst, at the same time, the family +likeness could not for a moment be questioned or mistaken. + +Whilst thus occupied, a foot was heard, as if entering the drawing-room, +and naturally turning round, she beheld the stranger before her. The +surprise of each was mutual, for the meeting was perfectly unexpected by +either. A deep blush overspread Lucy's exquisite features, which +almost in a moment gave way to a paleness that added a new and equally +delightful phase to her beauty. + +“Good heavens, my dear Lucy,” exclaimed the stranger, “do I find you +here! I had heard that the families were estranged; but on that very +account I feel the more deeply delighted at your presence under Lady +Gourlay's roof. This happiness comes to me with a double sense of +enjoyment, from the fact of its being unexpected.” + +The alternations of red and white still continued as Lucy replied, her +sparkling eye chastened down by the veil of modesty as she spoke: “I am +under Lady Gourlay's roof for the first time in my life. Indeed, I have +come here to make an experiment, if I may use the expression, upon the +goodness of her heart. The amiable lady with whom I now reside suggested +to me to do so, a suggestion which I embraced with delight. I have been +here only a few minutes, and await her ladyship's return, which they +tell me may be expected immediately.” + +“It would indeed be unfortunate,” replied the stranger, “that two +individuals so nearly connected by family, and what is more, the +possession of similar virtues, should not be known to each other.” + +This compliment brought a deeper tinge of color to Lucy's cheek, +who simply replied, “I have often wished most sincerely for +the pleasure--the honor, I should say--of her acquaintance; but +unfortunately the ill-feeling that has subsisted between the families, +or rather between a portion of them, has hitherto prevented it. If I +were now under my father's roof a visit here were out of the question; +but you know, Charles, I cannot, and I ought not, to inherit his +resentments.” + +“True, my dear Lucy, and I am glad to see you here for many, many +reasons. No, your father's resentments would perish for want of nurture +in a heart like yours. But, Lucy, there is a subject in which I trust we +both feel a dearer and a deeper interest than that of family feud. I +am aware of this hateful union which your father wishes to bring about +between you and this Lord Dunroe. I have been long aware of it, as +you know; but need I say that I place every reliance, all honorable +confidence, in your truth and attachment?” + +He had approached, and gently taking her hand in his as he spoke, he +uttered these words in a tone so full at once of tenderness and that +sympathy to which he knew her sufferings on this point had entitled +her, that Lucy was considerably affected, although she restrained her +emotions as well as she could. + +“If it were not so,” she replied, in a voice whose melody was made +more touchingly beautiful by the slight tremor which she endeavored to +repress, “if it were not so, Charles, I would not now be a fugitive. +from my father's roof.” + +The stranger's eye sparkled with the rapturous enthusiasm of love, +as the gentle girl, all blushes, gave expression to an assurance so +gratifying, so delicious to his heart. + +“Dearest Lucy,” said he, “I fear I am unworthy of you. Oh, could you but +know how those words of yours have made my heart tremble with an excess +of transport which language fails to express, you would also know that +the affection with which I love you is as tender, as pure, as unselfish, +as ever warmed the heart of man. And yet, as I said, I fear it is +unworthy of you. I know your father's character, his determination, the +fierce force of his will, and the energy with which he pursues every +object on which he sets his heart or ambition. I say I know all this, +and I sometimes fear the consequences. What can the will of only one +pure, gentle, and delicate heart avail against the united powers of +ambition, authority, persuasion, force, determination, perhaps violence? +What, I repeat, can a gentle heart like yours ultimately avail against +such a host of difficulties? And it is for this reason that I say I am +unworthy of you, for I fear--and you know that perfect love casteth out +all fear.” + +“My dear Charles, if love were without fear it would lose half its +tenderness. An eternal sunshine, would soon sicken the world. But as +for your apprehensions of my solitary heart failing against such +difficulties as it must encounter, you seem to omit one slight element +in calculating your terrors, and that simple element is a host in +itself.” + +“Which is?” + +“Love for you, dear Charles. I know you may probably feel that this +avowal ought to be expressed with more hesitation, veiled over by +the hypocrisy of language, disguised by the hackneyed forms of mere +sentiment, uttered like the assertions of a coquette, and degraded by +that tampering with truth which makes the heart lie unto itself. Oh, +yes!--perhaps, Charles, you may think that because I fail to express +what I feel in that spirit of ambiguity which a love not confident +in the truth, purity, and rectitude of its own principles must always +borrow--that because my heart fails to approach yours by the usual +circuitous route with which ordinary hearts do approach--yes, you may +imagine for all these reasons that my affection is not--but--” and here +she checked herself--“why,” she added, with dignity, whilst her cheeks +glowed and her eyes sparkled, “why should I apologize for the avowal of +a love of which I am not ashamed, and which has its strongest defence in +the worth and honor of its object?” + +Tears of enthusiasm rushed down her cheeks as she spoke, and her lover +could only say, “Dearest Lucy, most beloved of my heart, your language, +your sentiments, your feelings--so pure, so noble, so far above those +commonplaces of your sex, only cause me to shrink almost into nothing +when I compare or contrast myself with you. Let, however, one principle +guide us--the confidence that our love is mutual and cannot be +disturbed. I am for the present placed in circumstances that are +exceedingly painful. In point of fact, I am wrapped in obscurity and +shadow, and there exists, besides, a possibility that I may not become, +in point of fortune, such a man as you might possibly wish to look upon +as your husband.” + +“If you are now suffering your fine mind, Charles, to become +unconsciously warped by the common prejudices of life, I beseech you to +reflect upon the heart to which you address yourself. Society presents +not a single prejudice which in any degree aids or supports virtue, and +truth, and honor, that I do not cherish, and wish you to cherish; but if +you imagine that you will become less dear to me because you may fail to +acquire some of the artificial dignities or honors of life, then it is +clear that you know not how to estimate the spirit and character of Lucy +Grourlay.” + +“I know you will be severely tried, my dear Lucy.” + +“Know me aright, Charles. I have been severely tried. Many a girl, I am +sorry to say, would forget Dunroe's profligacy in his rank. Many a +girl, in contemplating the man, could see nothing but the coronet; for +ambition--the poorest, the vainest, and the most worthless of all +kinds of ambition--that of rank, title, the right of precedence--is +unfortunately cultivated as a virtue in the world of fashion, and as +such it is felt. Be it so, Charles; let me remain unfashionable and +vulgar. Perish the title if not accompanied by worth; fling the gaudy +coronet aside if it covers not the brow of probity and honor. Retain +those, dear Charles--retain worth, probity, and honor--and you retain a +heart that looks upon them as the only titles that confer true rank and +true dignity.” + +The stranger gave her a long gaze of admiration, and exclaimed, deeply +affected, + +“Alas, my Lucy, you are, I fear, unfit for the world. Your spirit is too +pure, too noble for common life. Like some priceless gem, it sparkles +with the brilliancy of too many virtues for the ordinary mass of mankind +to appreciate.” + +“No such thing, Charles: you quite overrate me; but God forbid that +the possession of virtue and good dispositions should ever become a +disqualification for this world. It is not so; but even if it were, +provided I shine in the estimation of my own little world, by which +I mean the affection of him to whom I shall unite my fate, then I am +satisfied: his love and his approbation shall constitute my coronet and +my honor.” + +The stranger was absolutely lost in admiration and love, for he felt +that the force of truth and sincerity had imparted an eloquence and an +energy to her language that were perfectly fascinating and irresistible. + +“My dear life,” said he, “the music of your words, clothing, as it does, +the divine principles they utter, must surely resemble the melody of +heaven's own voices. For my part, I feel relaxed in such a delicious +rapture as I have never either felt or dreamt of before--entranced, as +it were, in a sense of your wonderful beauty and goodness. But, dearest +Lucy, allow me to ask on what terms are you with your father? Have you +heard from him? Have you written to him? Is he aware of your present +residence?” + +“No,” she replied; “he is not aware of my present residence, but I have +written to him. I wished to set his mind at rest as well as I could, and +to diminish his anxiety as far as in me lay. Heaven knows,” she added, +bursting into tears, “that this unnatural estrangement between father +and daughter is most distressing. I am anxious to be with papa, to +render him, in every sense, all the duties of a child, provided only he +will not persist in building up the superstructure of rank upon my own +unhappiness. Have you seen him?” she inquired, drying her eyes, a task +in which she was tenderly assisted by the stranger. + +“I saw him,” he replied, “for a short time;” but the terms in which he +explained the nature of the interview between himself and the baronet +were not such as could afford her a distinct impression of all that +took place, simply because he wished to spare her the infliction of +unnecessary pain. + +“And now, Lucy,” he added, “I feel it necessary to claim a large portion +of your approbation.” + +She looked at him with a smile, but awaited his explanation. + +“You will scarcely credit me when I assure you that I have had a clew to +your place of residence, or concealment, or whatever it is to be termed, +since the first morning of your arrival there, and yet I disturbed you +not, either by letter or visit. Thus you may perceive how sacred your +lightest wish is to me.” + +“And do you imagine that I am insensible to this delicate generosity?” + she asked--“oh, no; indeed, I fully appreciate it; but now, Charles, +will you permit me to ask how, or when, or where you have been +acquainted with my aunt Gourlay, for I was not aware that you had known +each other?” + +“This, my dear Lucy,” he replied, smiling, “you shall have cleared up +along with all my other mysteries. Like every riddle, although it may +seem difficult now, it will be plain enough when told.” + +“It matters not, dear Charles; I have every confidence in your truth and +honor, and that is sufficient.” + +He then informed her briefly, that he should be under the necessity +of going to France for a short space, upon business of the deepest +importance to himself. + +“My stay, however,” he added, “will not be a very long one; and I trust, +that after my return, I shall be in a position to speak out my love. +Indeed, I am anxious for this, dear Lucy, for I know how strong the love +of truth and candor is in your great and generous heart. And yet, for +the sake of one good and amiable individual, or rather, I should say, of +two, the object of my journey to France will not be accomplished without +the deepest pain to myself. It is, I may say here, to spare the feelings +of the two individuals in question, that I have preserved the strict +incognito which I thought necessary since my arrival in this country.” + +“Farewell until then, my dear Charles; and in whatever object you may +be engaged, let me beg that you will not inflict a wanton or unnecessary +wound upon a good or amiable heart; but I know you will not--it is not +in your nature.” + +“I trust not,” he added, as he took his leave. “I cannot wait longer for +lady Gourlay; but before I go, I will write a short note for her in the +library, which will, for the present, answer the same purpose as seeing +her. Farewell, then, dearest and best of girls!--farewell, and be as +happy as you can; would that I could say, as I wish you, until we meet +again.” + +And thus they separated. + +The scene that had just taken place rendered every effort at composure +necessary on the part of Lucy, before the return of Lady Gourlay. This +lady, strange as it may seem, she had yet never seen or met, and she now +began to reflect upon the nature of the visit she had made her, as well +as of the reception she might get. If it were possible that her father +had made away with her child on the one hand, could it be possible, +on the other, that Lady Gourlay would withhold her resentment from the +daughter of the man who had made her childless? But, no; her generous +heart could not for a moment admit the former possibility. She reasoned +not from what she had felt at his hands, but as a daughter, who, because +she abhorred the crime imputed to him, could not suppose him capable +of committing it. His ambition was all for herself. Neither, she felt, +would Lady Gourlay, even allowing for the full extent of her suspicions, +confound the innocent daughter with the offending parent. Then her +reputation for meekness, benevolence, patience, charity, and all those +virtues which, without effort, so strongly impress themselves upon the +general spirit of social life, spoke with a thousand tongues on her +behalf. Yes, she was glad she came; she felt the spirit of a virtuous +relationship strongly in her heart; and in that heart she thanked the +amiable Mrs. Mainwaring for the advice she had given her. + +A gentle and diffident tap at the door interrupted the course of +her reflections; and the next moment, a lady, grave, but elegant in +appearance, entered. She courtesied with peculiar grace, and an air +of the sweetest benignity, to Lucy, who returned it with one in which +humility, reverence, and dignity, were equally blended. Neither, indeed, +could for a single moment doubt that an accomplished and educated +gentlewoman stood before her. Lucy, however, felt that it was her duty +to speak first, and account for a visit so unexpected. + +“I know not,” she said, “as yet, how to measure the apology which I +ought to make to Lady Gourlay for my presence here. My heart tells me +that I have the honor of addressing that lady.” + +“I am, indeed, madam, that unhappy woman.” + +Lucy approached her, and said, “Do not reject me, madam; pardon me--love +me--pity me;--I am Lucy Gourlay.” + +Lady Gourlay opened her arms, exclaiming, as she did it, in a voice of +the deepest emotion, “My dear niece--my child--my daughter if you will;” + and they wept long and affectionately on each other's bosoms. + +“You are the only living individual,” said Lucy, after some time, “whom +I could ask to pity me; but I am not ashamed to solicit your sympathy. +Dear, dear aunt, I am very unhappy. But this, I fear, is wrong; for why +should I add my sorrows to the weight of misery which you yourself have +been compelled to bear? I fear it is selfish and ungenerous to do so.” + +“No, my child; whatever the weight of grief or misery which we are +forced, perhaps, for wise purposes, to bear, it is ordained, for +purposes equally wise and beneficent, that every act of sympathy with +another's sorrow lessens our own. Dear Lucy, let me, if you can, or will +be permitted to do so, be a loving mother to you, and stand to my heart +in relation to the child I have lost; or think that your own dear mother +still survives in me.” + +This kindness and affection fairly overcame Lucy, who sat down on a +sofa, and wept bitterly. Lady Gourlay herself was deeply affected for +some minutes, but, at length, resuming composure, she sat beside Lucy, +and, taking her hand, said: “I can understand, my dear child, the nature +of your grief; but be comforted. Your heart, which was burdened, will +soon become lighter, and better spirits will return; so, I trust, will +better times. It is not from the transient and unsteady, and too often +painful, incidents of life, that we should attempt to draw consolation, +but from a fixed and firm confidence in the unchangeable purposes of +God.” + +“I wish, dear Lady Gourlay--dear aunt--” + +“Yes, that is better, my love.” + +“I wish I had known you before; of late I have been alone--with none +to advise or guide me; for, she, whose affectionate heart, whose tender +look, and whose gentle monition, were ever with me--she--alas, my dear +aunt, how few know what the bitterness is--when forced to struggle +against strong but misguided wills, whether of our own or others'; to +feel that we are without a mother--that that gentle voice is silent +forever; that that well in the desert of life--a mother's heart--is +forever closed to us; that that protecting angel of our steps is +departed from us--never, never to return.” + +As she uttered these words in deep grief, it might have been observed, +that Lady Gourlay shed some quiet but apparently bitter tears. It is +impossible for us to enter into the heart, or its reflections; but it +is not, we think, unreasonable to suppose that while Lucy dwelt so +feelingly upon the loss of her mother, the other may have been thinking +upon that of her child. + +“My dear girl,” she exclaimed, “let the affectionate compact which I +have just proposed be ratified between us. My heart, at all events, has +already ratified it. I shall be as a mother to you, and you shall be to +me as a daughter.” + +“I know not, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, “whether to consider you more +affectionate than generous. How few of our sex, after--after--that +is, considering the enmities--in fact, how a relative, placed as you +unhappily are, would take me to her heart as you have done.” + +“Perhaps, my child, I were incapable of it, if that heart had never been +touched and softened by affliction. As it is, Lucy, let me say to you, +as one who probably knows the world better, do not look, as most young +persons like you do, upon the trials you are at present forced to +suffer, as if they were the sharpest and heaviest in the world. Time, my +love, and perhaps other trials of a still severer character, may one day +teach you to think that your grief and impatience were out of proportion +to what you then underwent. May He who afflicts his people for their +good, prevent that this ever should be so in your case; but, even if +it should, remember that God loveth whom he chasteneth. And above all +things, my dear child, never, never, never despair in his providence. +Dry your eyes, my love,” she added, with a smile of affection and +encouragement, that Lucy felt to be contagious by its cheering +influence upon her; “dry your tears, and turn round to the light until +I contemplate more clearly and distinctly that beauty of which I have +heard so much.” + +Lucy obeyed her with all the simplicity of a child, and turned round so +as to place herself in the position required by the aunt; but whilst she +did so, need we say that the blushes followed each other beautifully and +fast over her timid but sparkling countenance? + +“I do not wonder, my dear girl, that public rumor has borne its ample +testimony to your beauty. I have never seen either it or your figure +surpassed; but it is here, my dear,” she added, placing her hand upon +her heart, “where the jewel that gives value to so fair a casket lies.” + +“How happy I am, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, anxious to change +the subject, since I know you. The very consciousness of it is a +consolation.” + +“And I trust, Lucy, we shall all yet be happy. When the dispensations +ripen, then comes the harvest of the blessings.” + +The old footman now entered, saying: “Here is a note, my lady,” and +he presented one, “which the gentleman desired me to deliver on your +ladyship's return.” + +Lady Gourlay took the note, saying: “Will you excuse me, my dear +niece?--this, I believe, is on a subject that is not merely near to, but +in the innermost recesses of my heart.” + +Lucy now took that opportunity on her part of contemplating the features +of her aunt; but, as we have already described them elsewhere, it is +unnecessary to do so here. She was, however, much struck with their +chaste but melancholy beauty; for it cannot be disputed, that sorrow and +affliction, while they impair the complexion of the most lovely, very +frequently communicate to it a charm so deep and touching, that in +point of fact, the heart that suffers within is taught to speak in the +mournful, grave, and tender expression, which they leave behind them +as their traces. As Lucy surveyed her aunt's features, which had been +moulded by calamity into an expression of settled sorrow--an expression +which no cheerfulness could remove, however it might diminish it, she +was surprised to observe at first a singular degree of sweetness appear; +next a mild serenity; and lastly, she saw that that serenity gradually +kindled into a radiance that might, in the hands of a painter, have +expressed the joy of the Virgin Mother on finding her lost Son in the +Temple. This, however, was again succeeded by a paleness, that for a +moment alarmed Lucy, but which was soon lost in a gush of joyful tears. +On looking at her niece, who did not presume to make any inquiry as to +the cause of this extraordinary emotion, Lady Gourlay saw that her eyes +at least were seeking, by the wonder they expressed, for the cause of +it. + +“May the name,” she exclaimed, “of the just and merciful God be praised +forever! Here, my darling, is a note, in which I am informed upon the +best authority, that my child--my boy, is yet alive--and was seen but +very recently. Dear God of all goodness, is my weak and worn heart +capable of bearing this returning tide of happiness!” + +Nature, however, gave way; and after several struggles and throbbings, +she sank into insensibility. To ring for assistance, to apply all kinds +of restoratives; and to tend her until she revived, and afterwards, were +offices which Lucy discharged with equal promptitude and tenderness. + +On recovering, she took the hand of the latter in hers, and said, with +a smile full of gratitude, joy, and sweetness, “Our first thanks are +always due to God, and to him my heart offers them up; but, oh, how +feebly! Thanks to you, also, Lucy, for your kindness; and many thanks +for your goodness in giving me the pleasure of knowing you. I trust that +we shall both see and enjoy better and happier days. Your visit has been +propitious to me, and brought, if I may so say, an unexpected dawn of +happiness to the widowed mother's heart.” + +Lucy was about to reply, when the old footman came to say that the lady +who had accompanied her was waiting below in the chaise. She accordingly +bade her farewell, only for a time she said, and after a tender embrace, +she went down to Mrs. Mainwaring who respectfully declined on that +occasion to be presented to Lady Gourlay, in consequence of the number +of purchases she had yet to make, and the time it would occupy to make +them. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. Innocence and Affection overcome by Fraud and Hypocrisy + +--Lucy yields at Last. + + +Not many minutes after Mrs. Mainwaring's interview with the baronet, +Gibson entered the library, and handed him a letter on which was stamped +the Ballytrain postmark. On looking at it, he paused for a moment: + +“Who the d------ can this come from?” he said. “I am not aware of having +any particular correspondence at present, in or about Ballytrain. Here, +however, is a seal; let me see what it is. What the d------, again? are +these a pair of asses' ears or wings? Certainly, if the impression +be correct, the former; and what is here? A fox. Very good, perfectly +intelligible; a fox, with a pair of asses' ears upon him! intimating a +combination of knavery and folly. 'Gad, this must be from Crackenfudge, +of whom it is the type and exponent. For a thousand, it contains a list +of his qualifications for the magisterial honors for which he is +so ambitious. Well, well; I believe every man has an ambition for +something. Mine is to see my daughter a countess, that she may trample +with velvet slippers on the necks of those who would trample on hers if +she were beneath them. This fellow, now, who is both slave and tyrant, +will play all sorts of oppressive pranks upon the poor, by whom he knows +that he is despised; and for that very reason, along with others, will +he punish them. That, however, is, after all, but natural; and on this +very account, curse me, but I shall try and shove the beggarly scoundrel +up to the point of his paltry ambition. I like ambition. The man who has +no object of ambition of any kind is unfit for life. Come, then, wax, +deliver up thy trust.'” + +With a dark grin of contempt, and a kind of sarcastic gratification, he +perused the document, which ran as follows: + +“My dear Sir Tomas,--In a letter, which a' had the honer of receiving +from you, in consequence of your very great kindness in condescending to +kick me out of your house, on the occasion of my last visit to Red +Hall, you were pleased to express a wish that a' would send you up as +arthentic a list as a' could conveniently make up of my qualifications +for the magistracey. Deed, a'm sore yet, Sir Tomas, and wouldn't it be +a good joke, as my friend Dr. Twig says, if the soreness should remain +until it is cured by the Komission, which he thinks would wipe out all +recollection of the pain and the punishment. And he says, too, that this +application of it would be putting it to a most proper and legutimate +use; the only use, he insists, to which it ought to be put. But a' don't +go that far, because a' think it would be an honerable dockiment, not +only to my posterity, meaning my legutimate progenitors, if a' should +happen to have any; but, also and moreover, to the good taste and +judgment, and respect for the honer and integrity of the Bench, +manifested by those who attributed to place me on it. + +“A' now come to Klaim No. I, for the magistracey: In the first place +a'm not without expeyrience, having been in the habit of acting as a +magistrate in a private way, and upon my own responsibility, for several +years. A' established a kourt in a little vilage, which--and this is a +strong point in my feavor now-a-days--which a' meself have depopilated; +and a' trust that the depopilation won't be ovelueked. To this kourt +a' com-peled all me taunts to atend. They were obliged to summon one +another as often as they kould, and much oftener than they wished, and +for the slightest kauses. A' presided in it purseondlly; and a'll tell +you why. My system was a fine system, indeed. That is to say, a' fined +them ether on the one side or the tother, but most generally on both, +and then a' put the fines into my own pocet. My tenints a' know didn't +like this kind of law very much--but if they didn't a' did; and a' made +them feel that a' was their landlord. No man was a faverite with me that +didn't frequent my kourt, and for this resin, in order to stand well +with me, they fought like kat and dog. Now, you know, it was my bisness +to enkorage this, for the more they fought and disputed, the more a' +fined them. + +“In fact, a' done everything in my power, to enlitin my tenints. For +instance, a' taught them the doktrine of trespiss. If a' found that a +stranger tuck the sheltry side of my hedge, to blow his nose, I fined +him half-a-crown, as can be proved by proper and undeniable testomony. +A' mention all these matters to satisfy you that a' have practis as a +magistrate, and won't have my duties to lern when a'm called upon to +discharge them. + +“Klaim No. II. is as follows: A'm very unpopilar with the people, which +is a great thing in itself, as a' think no man ought to be risen to the +bench that's not unpopilar; because, when popilar, he's likely to feavor +them, and symperthize with them--wherein his first duty is always to +konsider them in the rong. Nether am a' popilar with the gentry and +magistrates of the kountry, because they despise me, and say that a'm +this, that and tother; that a'm mean and tyrannical; that a' changed my +name from pride, and that a'm overbearing and ignorant. Now this last +charge of ignorance brings me to Klaim No. III. + +“Be it nown to you, then, Sir Tomas, that a' received a chollege +eddycation, which is an anser in full to the play of ignorance. In fact, +a' devoted meself to eddycation till my very brain began to go round +like a whurli-gig; and many people say, that a' never rekovered the +proper use of it since. Hundres will tell you that they would shed their +blood upon the truth of it; but let any one that thinks so transact +bisness with me, or bekome a tenint of mine, and he'll find that a' can +make him bleed in proving the reverse. + +“A' could prove many other klaims equally strong, but a' hope it's not +necessary to seduce any more. A' do think, if the Lord Chanceseller knew +of my qualifications, a' wouldn't be long off the bench. If, then, Sir +Tomas, you, who have so much influence, would write on my behalf, and +rekomend me to the custus rascalorum as a proper kandi-date, I could not +fail to sukceed in reaching the great point of my ambition, which is, +to be accommodated with a seat--anything would satisfy me--even a +close-stool--upon the magisterial bench. Amen, Sir Tomas. + +“And have the honer to be, + +“Your obedient and much obliged, and very thankful servant for what a' +got, as well as for what a' expect, Sir Tomas, + +“Periwinkle Crackenfudge.” + + +Sir Thomas--having perused this precious document, which, by the way, +contains no single fact that could not be substantiated by the clearest +testimony, so little are they at head-quarters acquainted with the +pranks that are played off on the unfortunate people by multitudes of +petty tyrants in remote districts of the country--Sir Thomas, we say, +having perused the aforesaid document, grinned--almost laughed--with a +satirical enjoyment of its contents. + +“Very good,” said he; “excellent: confound me, but Crackenfudge must get +to the bench, if it were only for the novelty of the thing. I will this +moment recommend him to Lord Cullamore, who is _custos rotulorum_ for +the county, and who would as soon, by the way, cut his right hand off as +recommend him to the Chancellor, if he knew the extent of his 'klaims,' +as the miserable devil spells it. Yes, I will recommend him, if it were +only to vex my brother baronet, Sir James B-----, who is humane, and +kind, and popular, forsooth, and a staunch advocate for purity of the +bench, and justice to the people! No doubt of it; I shall recommend you, +Crackenfudge, and cheek by jowl with the best among them, upon the same +magistorial bench, shall the doughty Crackenfudge sit.” + +He instantly sat down to his writing-desk, and penned as strong a +recommendation as he could possibly compose to Lord Cullamore, after +which he threw himself again upon the sofa, and exclaimed: + +“Well, that act is done, and an iniquitous one it is; but no matter, +it is gone off to the post, and I'm rid of him.' Now for Lucy, and my +ambition; she is unquestionably with that shameless old woman who could +think of marrying at such an age. She is with her; she will hear of my +illness, and as certain as life is life, and death death, she will be +here soon.” + +In this he calculated aright, and he felt that he did so. Mrs. +Mainwaring, on the evening of their visit to the city, considered it her +duty to disclose, fully and candidly, to Lucy, the state of her father's +health, that is, as it appeared to her on their interview. Lucy, who +knew that he was subject to sudden attacks upon occasions of less +moment, not only became alarmed, but experienced a feeling like remorse +for having, as she said, abandoned him so undutifully. + +“I will return immediately,” she said, weeping; “he is ill: you say he +speaks of me tenderly and affectionately--oh, what have I done! Should +this illness prove serious--fatal--my piece of mind were gone forever. I +should consider myself as a parricide--as the direct cause of his death. +My God! perhaps even now I am miserable for life--forever--forever!” + +Mrs. Mainwaring soothed her as well as she could, but she refused to +hear comfort, and having desired Alley Mahon to prepare their slight +luggage, she took an affectionate and tearful leave of Mrs. Mainwaring, +bade _adieu_ to her husband, and was about to get into the chaise, which +had been ordered from the inn in Wicklow, when Mrs. Mainwaring said: + +“Now, my dear Lucy, if your father should recover, and have recourse +to any abuse of his authority, by attempting again to force your +inclinations and consummate your misery, remember that my door, my arms, +my heart, shall ever be open to you. I do not, you will observe, suggest +any act of disobedience on your part; on the contrary, I am of opinion +that you should suffer everything short of the last resort, by which +I mean this hateful marriage with Dunroe, sooner than abandon your +father's roof. This union is a subject on which I must see him again. +Poor Lord Cullamore I respect and venerate, for I have reason to +believe that he has, for one contemplated error, had an unhappy if not +a remorseful life. In the meantime, even in opposition to your +father's wishes, I say it, and in confirmation of your strongest +prejudices------” + +“It amounts to antipathy, Mrs. Mainwaring--to hatred, to abhorrence.” + +“Well, my dear child, in confirmation of them all, I implore, I entreat, +I conjure, and if I had authority, I would say, I command you not to +unite your fate with that young profligate.” + +“Do not fear me, Mrs. Mainwaring; but at present I can think of nothing +but poor papa and his illness; I tremble, indeed, to think how I shall +find him; and, my God, to reflect that I am the guilty cause of all +this!” + +They then separated, and Lucy, accompanied by Alley, proceeded to +town at a pace as rapid as the animals that bore them could possibly +accomplish. + +On arriving in town, she was about rushing upstairs to throw herself +in her father's arms, when Gibson, who observed her, approached +respectfully, and said: + +“This haste to see your father, Miss Gourlay, is very natural; but +perhaps you will be good enough to wait a few moments, until he is +prepared to receive you. The doctor has left strict orders that he shall +not see any person; but, above all things, without being announced.” + +“But, Gibson--first, how is he? Is he very ill?” + +Gibson assumed a melancholy and very solemn look, as he replied, “He +is, indeed, ill, Miss Gourlay; but it would not become me to distress +you--especially as I hope your presence will comfort him; he is +perpetually calling for you.” + +“Go, Gibson, go,” she exclaimed, whilst tears, which she could not +restrain, gushed to her eyes. “Go, be quick; tell him I am here.” + +“I will break it to him, madam, as gently as possible,” replied +this sedate and oily gentleman; “for, if made acquainted with it too +suddenly, the unexpected joy might injure him.” + +“Do not injure him, then,” she exclaimed, earnestly; “oh, do not injure +him--but go; I leave it to your own discretion.” + +Lucy immediately proceeded to her own room, and Gibson to the library, +where he found the baronet in his nightcap and morning gown, reading a +newspaper. + +“I have the paragraph drawn up, Gibson,” said he, with a grim smile, +“stating that I am dangerously ill; take and copy it, and see that it be +inserted in to-morrow's publication.” + +“It will not be necessary, sir,” replied the footman; “Miss Gourlay is +here, and impatient to see you.” + +“Here!” exclaimed her father with a start; “you do not say she is in the +house?” + +“She has just arrived, sir, and is now in her own room.” + +“Leave me, Gibson,” said the baronet, “and attend promptly when I ring;” + and Gibson withdrew. “Why,” thought he to himself, “why, do I feel as +I do? Glad that I have her once more in my power, and this is only +natural; but why this kind of terror--this awe of that extraordinary +girl? I dismissed that prying scoundrel of a footman, because I could +not bear that he should observe and sneer at this hypocrisy, although +I know he is aware of it. What can this uncomfortable sensation which +checks my joy at her return mean? Is it that involuntary homage which +they say vice is compelled to pay to purity, truth, and virtue? I know +not; but I feel disturbed, humbled with an impression like that of +guilt--an impression which makes me feel as if there actually were +such a thing as conscience. As my objects, however, are for the foolish +girl's advancement, I am determined to play the game out, and for that +purpose, as I know now by experience that neither harshness nor violence +will do, I shall have recourse to tenderness and affection. I must touch +her heart, excite her sympathy, and throw myself altogether upon her +generosity. Come then--and now for the assumption of a new character.” + +Having concluded this train of meditation, he rang for Gibson, who +appeared. + +“Gibson, let Miss Gourlay know that, ill as I am, I shall try to see +her: be precise in the message, sir; use my own words.” + +“Certainly, Sir Thomas,” replied the footman, who immediately withdrew +to deliver it. + +The baronet, when Gibson went out again, took a pair of pillows, +with which the sofa was latterly furnished, in order to maintain the +appearance of illness, whenever it might be necessary, and having placed +them under his head, laid himself down, pulled the nightcap over his +brows, and affected all the symptoms of a man who was attempting to +struggle against some serious and severe attack. + +In this state he lay, when Lucy entering the room, approached, in a +flood of tears, exclaiming, as she knelt by the sofa, “Oh, papa--dear +papa, forgive me;” and as she spoke, she put her arms round his neck, +and kissed him affectionately. “Dear papa,” she proceeded, “you are +ill--very ill, I fear; but will you not forgive your poor child for +having abandoned you as she did? I have returned, however, to stay with +you, to tend you, to soothe and console you as far as any and every +effort of mine can. You shall have no nurse but me, papa. All that human +hands can do to give you ease--all that the sincerest affection can do +to sustain and cheer you, your own Lucy will do. But speak to me, papa; +am I not your own Lucy still?” + +Her father turned round, as if by a painful effort, and having looked +upon her for some time, replied, feebly, “Yes, you are--you are my own +Lucy still.” + +This admission brought a fresh gush of tears from the affectionate girl, +who again exclaimed, “Ah, papa, I fear you are very ill; but those words +are to me the sweetest that ever proceeded from your lips. Are you glad +to see me, papa?--but I forget myself; perhaps I am disturbing you. Only +say how you feel, and if it will not injure you, what your complaint +is.” + +“My complaint, dear Lucy, most affectionate child--for I see you are so +still, notwithstanding reports and appearances--” + +“Oh, indeed, I am, papa--indeed I am.” + +“My complaint was brought on by anxiety and distress of mind--I will not +say why--I did, I know, I admit, wish to see you in a position of life +equal to your merits; but I cannot talk of that--it would disturb me; +it is a subject on which, alas! I am without hope. I am threatened +with apoplexy or paralysis, Lucy, the doctor cannot say which; but the +danger, he says, proceeds altogether from the state of my mind, acting, +it is true, upon a plethoric system of body; but I care not, dear +Lucy--I care not, now; I am indifferent to life. All my expectations +--all a father's brilliant plans for his child, are now over. The doctor +says that ease of mind might restore, but I doubt it now; I fear it is +too late. I only wish I was better prepared for the change which I know +I shall soon be forced to make. Yet I feel, Lucy, as if I never loved +you until now--I feel how dear you are to me now that I know I must part +with you so soon.” + +Lucy was utterly incapable of resisting this tenderness, as the +unsuspecting girl believed it to be. She again threw her arms around +him, and wept as if her very heart would break. + +“This agitation, my darling,” he added, “is too much for us both. My +head is easily disturbed; but--but--send for Lucy,” he exclaimed, as if +touched by a passing delirium, “send for my daughter. I must have Lucy. +I have been harsh to her, and I cannot die without her forgiveness.” + +“Here, papa--dearest papa! Recollect yourself; Lucy is with you; not to +forgive you for anything, but to ask; to implore to be forgiven.” + +“Ha!” he said, raising his head a little, and looking round like a man +awakening from sleep. “I fear I am beginning to wander. Dear Lucy--yes, +it is you. Oh, I recollect. Withdraw, my darling; the sight of you--the +joy of your very appearance--eh--eh--yes, let me see. Oh, yes; +withdraw, my darling; this interview has been too much for me--I fear +it has--but rest and silence will restore me, I hope. I hope so--I hope +so.” + +Lucy, who feared that a continuance of this interview might very much +aggravate his illness, immediately took her leave, and retired to her +own room, whither she summoned Alley Mahon. This blunt but faithful +attendant felt no surprise in witnessing her grief; for indeed she +had done little else than weep, ever since she heard of her father's +illness. + +“Now don't cry so much, miss,” she said; “didn't I tell you that your +grief will do neither you nor him any good? Keep yourself cool and +quiet, and spake to him like a raisonable crayture, what you are not, +ever since you herd of his being sick. It isn't by shedding tears that +you can expect to comfort him, as you intend to do, but by being calm, +and considerate, and attentive to him, and not allowin' him to see what +you suffer.” + +“That is very true, Alice, I admit,” replied Lucy; but when I consider +that it was my undutiful flight from him that occasioned this attack, +how can I free myself from blame? My heart, Alice, is divided between a +feeling of remorse for having deserted him without sufficient cause, and +grief for his illness, and in that is involved the apprehension of his +loss. After all, Alice, you must admit that I have no friend in the +world but my father. How, then, can I think of losing him?” + +“And even if God took him,” replied Alley, “which I hope after all isn't +so likely--” + +“What do you mean, girl?” asked Lucy, ignorant that Alley only used +a form of speech peculiar to the people, “what language is this of my +father?” + +“Why, I hope it's but the truth, miss,” replied the maid; “for if God +was to call him to-morrow--which may God forbid! you'd find friends that +would take care of you and protect you.” + +“Yes; but, Alice, if papa died, I should have to reproach myself with +his death; and that consideration would drive me distracted or kill me. +I am beginning to think that obedience to the will of a parent is, under +all circumstances, the first duty of a child. A parent knows better what +is for our good than we can be supposed to do. At all events, whatever +exceptions there may be to this rule, I care not. It is enough, and too +much, for me to reflect that my conduct has been the cause of papa's +illness. His great object in life was to promote my happiness. Now this +was affection for me. I grant he may have been mistaken, but still it +was affection; and consequently I cannot help admitting that even his +harshness, and certainly all that he suffered through the very violence +of his own passions, arose from the same source--affection for me.” + +“Ah,” replied Alley, “it's aisy seen that your heart is softened now; +but in truth, miss, it was quare affection that would make his daughter +miserable, bekase he wanted her to become a great lady. If he was a +kind and raisonable father, he would not force you to be unhappy. An +affectionate father would give up the point rather than make you so; but +no; the truth is simply this, he wanted to gratify himself more than he +did you, or why would he act as he did?” + +“Alice,” replied Lucy, “remember that I will not suffer you to speak of +my father with disrespect. You forget yourself, girl, and learn from me +now, that in order to restore him to peace of mind and health, in order +to rescue him from death, and oh,” she exclaimed involuntarily, “above +all things from a death, for which, perhaps, he is not sufficiently +prepared--as who, alas, is for that terrible event!--yes in order to +do this, I am ready to yield an implicit obedience to his wishes: and I +pray heaven that this act on my part may not be too late to restore him +to his health, and relieve his mind from the load of care which presses +it down upon my account.” + +“Good Lord, Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed poor Alley, absolutely frightened +by the determined and vehement spirit in which these words were uttered, +“surely you wouldn't think of makin' a saickerfice of yourself that +way?” + +“That may be the word, Alice, or it may not; but if it be a sacrifice, +and if the sacrifice is necessary, it shall be made--I shall make it. My +disobedience shall never break my father's heart.” + +“I don't wish to speak disrespectfully of your father, miss; but I think +he's an ambitious man.” + +“And perhaps the ambition which he feels is a virtue, and one in which +I am deficient. You and I, Alice, know but little of life and the maxims +by which its great social principles are regulated.” + +“Faith, spake for yourself, miss; as for me, I'm the very girl that has +had my experience. No less than three did I manfully refuse, in spite +of both father and mother. First there was big Bob Broghan, a giant of +a fellow, with a head and pluck upon him that would fill a mess-pot. He +had a chape farm, and could afford to wallow like a swine in filth and +laziness. And well becomes the old couple, I must marry him, whether I +would or not. Be aisy, said I, it's no go; when I marry a man, it'll be +one that'll know the use of soap and wather, at all events. Well, but I +must; I did not know what was for my own good; he was rich, and I'd lead +a fine life with him. Scrape and clane him for somebody else, says I; no +such walkin' dungheap for me. Then they came to the cudgel, and flaked +me; but it was in a good cause, and I tould them that if I must die a +marthyr to cleanliness, I must; and at last they dropped it, and so I +got free of Bob Broghan. + +“The next was a little fellow that kept a small shop of hucksthery, and +some groceries, and the like o' that. He was a near, penurious devil, +hard and scraggy lookin', with hunger in his face and in his heart, too; +ay, and besides, he had the name of not bein' honest. But then his shop +was gettin' bigger and bigger, and himself richer and richer every day. +Here's your man, says the old couple. Maybe not, says I. No shingawn +that deals in light weights and short measures for me. My husband must +be an honest man, and not a keen shaving rogue like Barney Buckley. +Well, miss, out came the cudgel again, and out came I with the same +answer. Lay on, says I; if I must die a marthyr to honesty, why I must; +and may God have mercy on me for the same, as he will. Then they saw +that I was a rock, and so there was an end of Barney Buckley, as well as +Bob Broghan. + +“Well and good; then came number three, a fine handsome young man, by +name Con Coghlan. At first I didn't much like him, bekase he had the +name of being too fond of money, and it was well known that he had +disappointed three or four girls that couldn't show guinea for guinea +with him. The sleeveen gained upon me, however, and I did get fond of +him, and tould him to speak to my father, and so he did, and they met +once or twice to make the match; but, ah, miss, every one has their +troubles. On the last meetin', when he found that my fortune wasn't what +he expected, he shogged off wid himself; and, mother o' mercy, did ever +I think it would come to that?” Here she wiped her eyes, and then with +fresh spirit proceeded, “He jilted me, Miss--the desateful villain +jilted me; but if he did, I had my revenge. In less than a year he came +sneakin' back, and tould my father that as he couldn't get me out of +his head, he would take me with whatever portion they could give me. The +fellow was rich, Miss, and so the ould couple, ready to bounce at him, +came out again. Come, Alley, here's Con Coghlan back. Well, then, says +I, he knows the road home again, and let him take it. One good turn +desarves another. When he could get me he wouldn't take me, and now when +he would take me, he won't get me; so I think we're even. + +“Out once more came the cudgel, and on they laid; but now I wasn't +common stone but whitestone. Lay on, say I; I see, or rather I feel, +that the crown is before me. If I must die a marthyr to a dacent spirit, +why I must; and so God's blessing be with you all. I'll shine in heaven +for this yet. + +“I think now, Miss, you'll grant that I know something about life.” + +“Alice,” replied Lucy, “I have often heard it said, that the humblest +weeds which grow contain virtues that are valuable, if they were only +known. Your experience is not without a moral, and your last lover was +the worst, because he was mean; but when I think of him--the delicate, +the generous, the disinterested, the faithful, the noble-hearted--alas, +Alice!” she exclaimed, throwing herself in a fresh paroxysm of grief +upon the bosom of her maid, “you know not the incredible pain--the +hopeless agony--of the sacrifice I am about to make. My father, however, +is the author of my being, and as his very life depends upon my strength +of mind now, I shall, rather than see him die whilst I selfishly gratify +my own will--yes, Alice, I shall--I shall--and may heaven give me +strength for it!--I shall sacrifice love to duty, and save him; that is, +if it be not already too late.” + +“And if he does recover,” replied Alice, whose tears flowed along with +those of her mistress, but whose pretty eye began to brighten with +indignant energy as she spoke, “if he does recover, and if ever he turns +a cold look, or uses a harsh word to you, may I die for heaven if he +oughtn't to be put in the public stocks and made an example of to the +world.” + +“The scene, however, will be changed then, Alice; for the subject matter +of all our misunderstandings will have been removed. Yet, Alice, +amidst all the darkness and suffering that lie before me, there is one +consolation”--and as she uttered these words, there breathed throughout +her beautiful features a spirit of sorrow, so deep, so mournful, so +resigned, and so touching, that Alley in turn laid her head on her +bosom, exclaiming, as she looked up into her eyes, “Oh, may the God of +mercy have pity on you, my darling mistress! what wouldn't your faithful +Alley do to give you relief? and she can't;” and then the affectionate +creature wept bitterly. “But what is the consolation?” she asked, hoping +to extract from the melancholy girl some thought or view of her position +that might inspire them with hope or comfort. + +“The consolation I allude to, Alice, is the well-known fact that a +broken heart cannot long be the subject of sorrow; and, besides, my +farewell of life will not be painful; for then I shall be able to +reflect with peace that, difficult as was the duty imposed upon me, I +shall have performed it. Now, dear Alice, withdraw; I wish to be alone +for some time, that I may reflect as I ought, and endeavor to gain +strength for the sacrifice that is before me.” + +Her eye as she looked upon Alley was, though filled with a melancholy +lustre, expressive at the same time of a spirit so lofty, calm, and +determined, that its whole character partook of absolute sublimity. +Alley, in obedience to her words, withdrew; but not without an anxious +and earnest effort at imparting comfort. + +When her maid had retired, Lucy began once more to examine her position, +in all its dark and painful aspects, and to reflect upon the destiny +which awaited her, fraught with unexampled misery as it was. Though well +aware, from former experience, of her father's hypocritical disguises, +she was too full of generosity and candor to allow her heart +to entertain suspicion. Her nature was one of great simplicity, +artlessness, and truth. Truth, above all things, was her predominant +virtue; and we need not say, that wherever it resides it is certain to +become a guarantee for the possession of all the rest. Her cruel-hearted +father, himself false and deceitful, dreaded her for this love of truth, +and was so well acquainted with her utter want of suspicion, that he +never scrupled, though frequently detected, to impose upon her, when it +suited his purpose. This, indeed, was not difficult; for such was his +daughter's natural candor and truthfulness, that if he deceived her by a +falsehood to-day, she was as ready to believe him to-morrow as ever. +His last heartless act of hypocrisy, therefore, was such a deliberate +violation of truth as amounted to a species of sacrilege; for it robbed +the pure shrine of his own daughter's heart of her whole happiness. Nay, +when we consider the relations in which they stood, it might be termed, +as is beautifully said in Scripture, “a seething of the kid in the +mother's milk.” + +As it was, however, her father's illness disarmed her generous and +forgiving spirit of every argument that stood in the way of the +determination she had made. His conduct she felt might, indeed, be the +result of one of those great social errors that create so much misery +in life; that, for instance, of supposing that one must ascend through +certain orders of society, and reach a particular elevation before they +can enjoy happiness. This notion, so much at variance with the goodness +and mercy of God, who has not confined happiness to any particular +class, she herself rejected; but, at the same time, the modest estimate +which she formed of her own capacity to reason upon or analyze all +speculative opinions, led her to suppose that she might be wrong, +and her father right, in the inferences which they respectively drew. +Perhaps she thought her reluctance to see this individual case through +his medium, arose from some peculiar idiosyncrasy of intellect or +temperament not common to others, and that she was setting a particular +instance against a universal truth. + +That, however, which most severely tested her fortitude and noble +sense of what we owe a parent, resulted from no moral or metaphysical +distinctions of human duty, but simply and directly from what she must +suffer by the contemplated sacrifice. She was born in a position of +life sufficiently dignified for ordinary ambition. She was surrounded +by luxury--had received an enlightened education--had a heart formed for +love--for that pure and exalted passion, which comprehends and brings +into action all the higher qualities of our being, and enlarges all our +capacities for happiness. God and nature, so to speak, had gifted her +mind with extraordinary feeling and intellect, and her person with +unusual grace and beauty; yet, here, by this act of self-devotion to her +father, she renounced all that the human heart with such strong claims +upon the legitimate enjoyments of life could expect, and voluntarily +entered into a destiny of suffering and misery. She reflected upon +and felt the bitterness of all this; but, on the other hand, +the contemplation of a father dying in consequence of her +disobedience--dying, too, probably in an unprepared state--whose heart +was now full of love and tenderness for her; who, in fact, was in grief +and sorrow in consequence of what he had caused her to suffer. We say +she contemplated all this, and her great heart felt that this was the +moment of mercy. + +“It is resolved!” she exclaimed; “I will disturb him for a little. There +is no time now for meanly wrestling it out, for ungenerous hesitation +and delay. Suspense may kill him; and whilst I deliberate, he may +be lost. Father, I come, Never again shall you reproach me with +disobedience. Though your ambition may be wrong, yet who else than I +should become the victim of an error which originates in affection for +myself? I yield at last, as is my duty; now your situation makes it so; +and my heart, though crushed and broken, shall be an offering of peace +between us. Farewell, now, to love--to love legitimate, pure, and +holy!--farewell to all the divine charities and tendernesses of life +which follow it--farewell to peace of! heart--to the wife's pride of +eye, to the husband's tender glance--farewell--farewell to everything in +this wretched life but the hopes of heaven! I come, my father--I come. +But I had forgotten,” she said, “I must not see him without permission, +nor unannounced, as Gibson said. Stay, I shall ring for Gibson.” + +“Gibson,” said she, when he had made his appearance, “try if your master +could see me for a moment; say I request it particularly, and that I +shall scarcely disturb him. Ask it as a favor, unless he be very ill +indeed--and even then do so.” + +Whilst Gibson went with this message, Lucy, feeling that it might be +dangerous to agitate her father by the exhibition of emotion, endeavored +to compose herself as much as she could, so that by the time of Gibson's +return, her appearance was calm, noble, and majestic. In fact, the +greatness--the heroic spirit--of the coming sacrifice emanated like a +beautiful but solemn light from her countenance, and on being desired to +go in, she appeared full of unusual beauty and composure. + +On entering, she found her father much in the same position: his head, +as before, upon the pillows, and the nightcap drawn over his heavy +brows. + +“You wished to see me, my dear Lucy. Have you any favor to ask, my +child? If so, ask whilst I have recollection and consciousness to grant +it. I can refuse you nothing now, Lucy. I was wrong ever to struggle +with you. It was too much for me, for I am now the victim; but even that +is well, for I am glad it is not you.” + +When he mentioned the word victim, Lucy felt as if a poniard had gone +through her heart; but she had already resolved that what must be done +should be done generously, consequently, without any ostentation of +feeling, and with as little appearance of self-sacrifice as possible. + +It is not for us, she said to herself, to exaggerate the value of the +gift which we bestow, but rather to depreciate it, for it is never +generous to magnify an obligation. + +“I have a favor to ask, papa,” said the generous and considerate girl. + +“It is granted, my darling Lucy, before I hear it,” he replied. “What +is it? Oh how happy I feel that you have returned to me; I shall not +now pass away my last moments on a solitary deathbed. But what is your +request, my love?” + +“You have to-day, papa, told me that the danger of your present attack +proceeds from the anxious state of your mind. Now, my request is, that I +may be permitted to make that state easier; to remove that anxiety, and, +if possible, all other anxiety and care that press upon you. You know, +papa, the topic upon which we have always differed; now, rather than any +distress of feeling connected with it should stand in the way of your +recovery, I wish to say that you may I count upon my most perfect +obedience.” + +“You mean the Dunroe business, dear Lucy?” + +“I mean the Dunroe business, papa.” + +“And do you mean to say that you are willing and ready to marry him?” + +The reply to this was indeed the coming away of the branch by which she +had hung on the precipice of life. On hearing the question, +therefore, she paused a little; but the pause did not proceed from +any indisposition to answer it, but simply from what seemed to be the +refusal of her natural powers to enable her to do so. When about to +speak, she felt as if all her physical strength had abandoned her; as +if her will, previously schooled to the task, had become recusant. She +experienced a general chill and coldness of her whole body; a cessation +for a moment or two of the action of the heart, whilst her very sight +became dim and indistinct. She thought, however, in this unutterable +moment of agony and despair, that she must act; and without feeling able +to analyze either her thoughts or sensations, in this terrible tumult of +her spirit, she heard herself repeat the reply, “I am, papa.” + +For a moment her father forgot his part, and started up into a sitting +posture with as much apparent energy as ever. Another moment, however, +was sufficient to make him feel his error. + +“Oh,” said he, “what have I done? Let me pause a little, my dear Lucy; +that effort to express the joy you have poured into my heart was nearly +too much for me. You make this promise, Lucy, not with a view merely to +ease my mind and contribute to my recovery; but, should I get well, with +a firm intention to carry it actually into execution?” + +“Such, papa, is my intention--my fixed determination, I should say; but +I ought to add, that it is altogether for your sake, dear papa, that +I make it. Now let your mind feel tranquillity and ease; dismiss every +anxiety that distresses you, papa; for you may believe your daughter, +that there is no earthly sacrifice compatible with her duties as a +Christian which she would not make for your recovery. This interview is +now, perhaps, as much as your state of health can bear. Think, then, of +what I have said, papa; let it console and strengthen; and then it will, +I trust, help at least to bring about your recovery. Now, permit me to +withdraw.” + +“Wait a moment, my child. It is right that you should know the effect +of your goodness before you go. I feel already as if a mountain were +removed from my heart--even now I am better. God bless you, my own +dearest Lucy; you have saved your father. Let this consideration comfort +you and sustain you. Now you may go, my love.” + +When Lucy withdrew, which she did with a tottering step, she proceeded +to her own chamber, which, now that the energy necessary for the +struggle had abandoned her, she entered almost unconsciously, and with a +feeling of rapidly-increasing weakness. She approached the bell to ring +for her maid, which she was able to do with difficulty; and having +done so, she attempted to reach the sofa; but exhausted and overwrought +nature gave way, and she fell just sufficiently near it to have her +fall broken and her head supported by it, as she lay there apparently +lifeless. In this state Alley Mahon found her; but instead of ringing +an alarm, or attempting to collect a crowd of the servants to witness +a scene, and being besides a stout as well as a discreet and sensible +girl, she was able to raise her up, place her on a sofa, until, by the +assistance of cold water and some patience, she succeeded in restoring +her to life and consciousness. + +“On opening her eyes she looked about, and Alley observed that her lips +were parched and dry. + +“Here, my darling mistress,” said the affectionate girl, who now wept +bitterly, “here, swallow a little cold water; it will moisten your lips, +and do you good.” + +She attempted to do so, but Ally saw that her hand trembled too much to +bring the water to her own lips. On swallowing it, it seemed to relieve +her a little; she then looked up into Alley's face, with a smile of +thanks so unutterably sweet and sorrowful, that the poor girl's tears +gushed out afresh. + +“Take courage, my darling mistress,” she replied; “I know that something +painful has happened; but for Christ's blessed sake, don't look so +sorrowful and broken-hearted, or you will--” + +“Alice,” said she, interrupting her, in a calm, soft voice, like low +music, “open my bosom--open my bosom, Alice; you will find a miniature +there; take it out; I wish to look upon it.” + +“O thin,” said the girl, as she proceeded to obey her, “happy is he that +rests so near that pure and innocent and sorrowful heart; and great and +good must he be that is worthy of it.” + +There was in the look which Lucy cast upon her when she had uttered +these words a spirit of gentle but affectionate reproof; but she spoke +it not. + +“Give it to me, Alice,” she said; “but unlock it first; I feel that my +hands are too feeble to do so.” + +Alice unlocked the miniature, and Lucy then taking it from her, looked +upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips with a calm +emotion, in which grief and despair seemed to mingle, she exclaimed, + +“Alas! mamma, how much do I now stand in need of your advice and +consolation! The shrine in which your affection and memory dwelt, and +against whose troubled pulses your sweet and serene image lay, is +now broken. There, dearest mamma, you will find nothing in future but +affliction and despair. It has been said, that I have inherited your +graces and your virtues, most beloved parent; and if so, alas! in how +remote a degree, for who could equal you? But how would it have wining +your gentle and loving heart to know that I should have inherited your +secret griefs and sufferings? Yes, mamma, both are painted on that +serene brow; for no art of the limner could conceal their mournful +traces, nor remove the veil of sorrow which an unhappy destiny threw +over your beauty. There, in that clear and gentle eye, is still +the image of your love and sympathy--there is that smile so full of +sweetness and suffering. Alas, alas! how closely do we resemble each +other in all things. Sweet and blessed saint, if it be permitted, +descend and let your spirit be with me--to guide, to soothe, and to +support me; your task will not be a long one, beloved parent. From this +day forth my only hope will be to join you. Life has nothing now but +solitude and sorrow. There is no heart with which I can hold communion; +for my grief, and the act of duty which occasions it, must be held +sacred from all.” + +She kissed the miniature once more, but without tears, and after a +little, she made Alley place it where she had ever kept it--next her +heart. + +“Alice,” said she, “I trust I will soon be with mamma.” + +“My dear mistress,” replied Alice, “don't spake so. I hope there's many +a happy and pleasant day before you, in spite of all that has come and +gone, yet.” + +She turned upon the maid a look of incredulity so hopeless, that Alley +felt both alarmed and depressed. + +“You do not know what I suffer, Alice,” she replied, “but I know it. +This miniature of mamma I got painted unknown to--unknown to--” (here +we need not say that she meant her father) “--any one except mamma, the +artist, and myself. It has laid next my heart ever since; but since +her death it has been the dearest thing to me on earth--one only other +object perhaps excepted. Yes,” she added, with a deep sigh, “I hope I +shall soon be with you, mamma, and then we shall never be separated any +more!” + +Alley regretted to perceive that her grief now had settled down into +the most wasting and dangerous of all; for it was of that dry and silent +kind which so soon consumes the lamp of life, and dries up the strength +of those who unhappily fall under its malignant blight. + +Lucy's journey, however, from Wicklow, the two interviews with her +father, the sacrifice she had so nobly made, and the consequent +agitation, all overcame her, and after a painful struggle between the +alternations of forgetfulness and memory, she at length fell into a +troubled slumber. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. Lord Dunroe's Affection for his Father + +--Glimpse of a new Character--Lord Gullamore's Rebuke to his Son, who +greatly refuses to give up his Friend. + + +A considerable period now elapsed, during which there was little done +that could contribute to the progress of our narrative. Summer had set +in, and the Cullamore family, owing to the failing health of the old +nobleman, had returned to his Dublin residence, with an intention +of removing to Glenshee, as soon he should receive the advice of his +physician. From the day on which his brother's letter reached him, his +lordship seemed to fall into a more than ordinary despondency of mind. +His health for years had been very infirm, but from whatsoever cause it +proceeded, he now appeared to labor under some secret presentiment of +calamity, against which he struggled in vain. So at least he himself +admitted. It is true that age and a constitution enfeebled by delicate +health might alone, in a disposition naturally hypochondriac, occasion +such anxiety; as we know they frequently do even in the youthful. Be +this as it may, one thing was evident, his lordship began to sink more +rapidly than he had ever done before; and like most invalids of his +class, he became wilful and obstinate in his own opinions. His doctor, +for instance, advised him to remove to the delightful air of Glenshee +Castle; but this, for some reason or other, he peremptorily refused to +do, and so long as he chose to remain in town, so long were Lady Emily +and her aunt resolved to stay with him. Dunroe, also, was pretty regular +in inquiries after his health; but whether from a principle of filial +affection, or a more flagitious motive, will appear from the following +conversation, which took place one morning after breakfast, between +himself and Norton. + +“How is your father this morning, my lord?” inquired that worthy +gentleman. “I hope he is better.” + +“A lie, Norton,” replied his lordship--“a lie, as usual. You hope no +such thing. The agency which is to follow on the respectable old peer's +demise bars that--eh?” + +“I give you my honor, my lord, you do me injustice. I am in no hurry +with him on that account; it would be unfeeling,and selfish.” + +“Now, Tom,” replied the other, in that kind of contemptuous familiarity +which slavish minions or adroit knaves like Norton must always put up +with from such men, “now, Tom, my good fellow, you know the case is +this--you get the agency to the Cullamore property the moment my right +honorable dad makes his exit. If he should delay that exit for seven +years to come, then you will be exactly seven years short of the +period in which you will fleece me and my tenants, and put the wool on +yourself.” + +“Only your tenants, my lord, if you please. I may shear them, a little, +I trust; but you can't suppose me capable of shearing--” + +“My lordship. No, no, you are too honest; only you will allow me to +insinuate, in the meantime, that I believe you have fleeced me to some +purpose already. I do not allude to your gambling debts, which, with my +own, I have been obliged to pay; but to other opportunities which have +come in your way. It doesn't matter, however; you are a pleasant and +a useful fellow, and I believe that although you clip me yourself a +little, you would permit no one else to do so. And, by the way, talking +of the respectable old peer, he is anything but a friend of yours, and +urged me strongly to send you to the devil, as a cheat and impostor.” + +“How is that, my lord?” asked Norton, with an interest which he could +scarcely disguise. + +“Why, he mentioned something of a conversation you had, in which you +told him, you impudent dog--and coolly to his face, too--that you +patronized his son while in France, and introduced him to several +distinguished French noblemen, not one of whom, he had reason to +believe, ever existed except in your own fertile and lying imagination.” + +“And was that all?” asked Norton, who I began to entertain apprehensions +of Morty O'Flaherty; “did he mention nothing else?” + +“No,” replied Dunroe; “and you scoundrel, was not that a d--d deal too +much?” + +Norton, now feeling that he was safe from Morty, laughed very heartily, +and replied, + +“It's a fact, sure enough; but then, wasn't it on your lordship's +account I bounced? The lie, in point of fact, if it can be called one, +was, therefore, more your lordship's lie than mine.” + +“How do you mean by 'if it can be called one'?” + +“Why, if I did not introduce you to real noblemen, I did to some +spurious specimens, gentlemen who taught you all the arts and etiquette +of the gaming-table, of which, you know very well, my lord, you were +then so shamefully ignorant, as to be quite unfit for the society of +gentlemen, especially on the continent.” + +“Yes, Tom, and the state of my property now tells me at what cost you +taught me. You see these tenants say they have not money, plead hard +times, failure of crops, and depreciation of property.” + +“Ay, and so they will plead, until I take them in hand.” + +“And, upon my soul, I don't care how soon that may be.” + +“Monster of disobedience,” said Norton, ironically, “is it thus you +speak of a beloved parent, and that parent a respectable old peer? In +other words, you wish him in kingdom come. Repent, my lord--retract +those words, or dread 'the raven of the valley'.” + +“Faith, Tom, there's no use in concealing it. It's not that I wish him +gone; but that I long as much to touch the property at large, as you the +agency. It's a devilish tough affair, this illness of his.” + +“Patience, my lord, and filial affection.” + +“I wish he would either live or die; for, in the first case, I could +marry this brave and wealthy wench of the baronet's, which I can't do +now, and he in such a state of health. If I could once touch the Gourlay +cash, I were satisfied. The Gourlay estates will come to me, too, +because there is no heir, and they go with this wench, who is a brave +wench, for that reason.” + +“So she has consented to have you at last?” + +“Do you think, Tom, she ever had any serious intention of declining the +coronet? No, no; she wouldn't be her father's daughter if she had.” + +“Yes; but your lordship suspected that the fellow who shot you had made +an impression in that quarter.” + +“I did for a time--that is, I was fool enough to think so; she is, +however, a true woman, and only played him off against me.” + +“But why does she refuse to see you?” + +“She hasn't refused, man; her health, they tell me, is not good of late; +of course, she is only waiting to gain strength for the interview, that +is all. Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, I understand women a devilish deal +better than you do.” + +“So you ought; you have had greater experience, and paid more for it. +What will you do with the fair blonde, though. I suppose the matrimonial +compact will send her adrift.” + +“Suppose no such thing, then. I had her before matrimony, and I will +have her after it. No, Tom, I am not ungrateful; fore or aft, she shall +be retained. She shall never say that I acted unhandsomely by her, +especially as she has become a good girl and repented. I know I did +her injustice about the player-man. On that point she has thoroughly +satisfied me, and I was wrong.” + +Norton gave him a peculiar look, one of those looks which an adept in +the ways of life, in its crooked paths and unprincipled impostures, +not unfrequently bestows upon the poor aristocratic dolt whom he is +plundering to his face. The look we speak of might be mistaken for +surprise--it might be mistaken for pity--but it was meant for contempt. + +“Of course,” said he, “you are too well versed in the ways of the world, +my lord, and especially in those of the fair sex, to be imposed upon. If +ever I met an individual who can read a man's thoughts by looking into +his face, your lordship is the man. By the way, when did you see your +father-in-law that is to be?” + +“A couple of days ago. He, too, has been ill, and looks somewhat shaken. +It is true, I don't like the man, and I believe nobody does; but I like +very well to hear him talk of deeds, settlements, and marriage articles. +He begged of me, however, not to insist on seeing his daughter until she +is fully recovered, which he expects will be very soon; and the moment +she is prepared for an interview, he is to let me know. But, harkee, +Tom, what can the old earl want with me this morning, think you?” + +“I cannot even guess,” replied the other, “unless it be to prepare you +for--” + +“For what?” + +“Why, it is said that the fair lady with whom you are about to commit +the crime of matrimony is virtuous and religious, as well as beautiful +and so forth; and, in that case, perhaps he is about to prepare you for +the expected conference. I cannot guess anything else, unless, +perhaps, it may be the avarice of age about to rebuke the profusion and +generosity of youth. In that case, my lord, keep your temper, and don't +compromise your friends.” + +“Never fear, Tom; I have already fought more battles on your account +than you could dream of. Perhaps, after all, it is nothing. Of late +he has sent for me occasionally, as if to speak upon some matter of +importance, when, after chatting upon the news of the day or lecturing +me for supporting an impostor--meaning you--he has said he would defer +the subject on which he wished to speak, until another opportunity. +Whatever it is, he seems afraid of it, or perhaps the respectable old +peer is doting.” + +“I dare say, my lord, it is very natural he should at these years; but +if he,” proceeded Norton, laughing, “is doting now, what will you be at +his years? Here, however, is his confidential man, Morty O'Flaherty.” + +O'Flaherty now entered, and after making a bow that still smacked +strongly of Tipperary, delivered his message. + +“My masther, Lord Cullamore, wishes to see you, my lord. He has come +down stairs, and is facing the sun, the Lord be praised, in the back +drawin'-room.” + +“Go, my lord,” said Norton; “perhaps he wishes you to make a third +luminary. Go and help him to face the sun.” + +“Be my sowl, Mr. Norton, if I'm not much mistaken, it's the father he'll +have to face. I may as well give you the hard word, my lord--troth, I +think you had better be on your edge; he's as dark as midnight, although +the sun is in his face.” + +His lordship went out, after having given two or three yawns, stretched +himself, and shrugged his shoulders, like a man who was about to enter +upon some unpleasant business with manifest reluctance. + +“Ah,” exclaimed Morty, looking after him, “there goes a cute boy--at +last, God forgive him, he's of that opinion himself. What a pity +there's not more o' the family; they'd ornament the counthry.” + +“Say, rather, Morty, that there's one too many.” + +“Faith, and I'm sure, Barney, you oughtn't to think so. Beg pardon--Mr. +Norton.” + +“Morty, curse you, will you be cautious? But why should I not think so?” + +“For sound raisons, that no man knows better than yourself.” + +“I'm not the only person that thinks there's one too many of the family, +Morty. In that opinion I am ably supported by his lordship, just gone +out there.” + +“Where! Ay, I see whereabouts you are now. One too many--faith, so the +blessed pair of you think, no doubt.” + +“Eight, Morty; if the devil had the agency of the ancient earl's soul, +I would soon get that of his ancient property; but whilst he lives it +can't be accomplished. What do you imagine the old bawble wants with the +young one?” + +“Well, I don't know; I'm hammerin' upon that for some time past, and +can't come at it.” + +“Come, then, let us get the materials first, and then put them on the +anvil of my imagination. _Imprimis_--which means, Morty, _in the first +place_, have you heard anything?” + +“No; nothing to speak of.” + +“Well, in the second place, have you seen or observed anything?” + +“Why, no; not much.” + +“Which means--both your answers included--that you have both heard and +seen--so I interpret 'nothing to speak of,' on the one hand, and your +'not much,' on the other. Out with it; two heads are better than one: +what you miss, I may hit.” + +“The devil's no match for you, Bar--Mr. Norton, and it's hard to expect +Dunroe should. I'll tell you, then--for, in troth, I'm as anxious to +come at the meanin' of it myself as you can be for the life of you. Some +few months ago, when we were in London, there came a man to me.” + +“Name him, Morty.” + +“His name was M'Bride.” + +“M'Bride--proceed.” + +“His name was M'Bride. His face was tanned into mahogany, just as every +man's is that has lived long in a hot country. 'Your name,' says he, 'is +O'Flaherty, I understand?'” + +“'Morty O'Flaherty, at your sarvice,' says I, 'and how are you, sir? I'm +happy to see you; only in the mane time you have the advantage of me.'” + +“'Many thanks to you,' said he, 'for your kind inquiries; as to the +advantage, I won't keep it long; only you don't seem to know your +relations.'” + +“'Maybe not,' says I, 'they say it's a wise man that does. Are you one +o' them?'” + +“'I'm one o' them, did you ever hear of ould Kid Flaherty?'” + +“'Well, no; but I did of Buck Flaherty, that always went in boots and +buckskin breeches, and wore two watches and a silver-mounted whip.'” + +“'Well, you must know that Kid was a son'--and here he pointed his thumb +over his left shoulder wid a knowin' grin upon him--'was a son of the +ould Buck's. The ould Buck's wife was a Murtagh; now she again had a +cousin named M'Shaughran, who was married upon a man by name M'Faddle. +M'Faddle had but one sisther, and she was cousin to Frank M'Fud, +that suffered for--but no matther--the M'Swiggins and the M'Fuds +were cleaveens to the third cousins of Kid Flaherty's first wife's +sister-in-law, and she again was married in upon the M'Brides of Newton +Nowhere--so that you see you and I are thirty-second cousins at all +events.'” + +“'Well, anyway he made out some relationship between us, or at least +I thought he did--and maybe that was as good--and faith may be a great +deal better, for if ever a man had the look of a schemer about him the +same customer had. At any rate we had some drink together, and went on +very well till we got befuddled, which, it seems, is his besetting sin. +It was clearly his intention, I could see, to make me tipsy, and I +dare say he might a done so, only for a slight mistake he made in first +getting tipsy himself.” + +“Well, but I'm not much the wiser of this,” observed Norton. “What are +you at?” + +“Neither am I,” replied Morty; “and as to what I'm at--I dunna what the +devil I'm at. That's just what I want to know.” + +“Go on,” said the other, “we must have patience. Who did this fellow +turn out to be?” + +“He insisted he was a relation of my own, as I tould you.” + +“Who the devil cares whether he was or not! What was he, then?” + +“Ay; what was he?--that's what I'm askin' you.” + +“Proceed,” said Norton; “tell it your own way.” + +“He said he came from the Aist Indies beyant; that he knew some members +of his lordship's family there; that he had been in Paris, and that +while he was there he larned to take French lave of his masther.” + +“But who was his master?” + +“That he would not tell me. However, he said he had been in Ireland for +some time before, where he saw an aunt of his, that was half mad; and +then he went on to tell me that he had been once at sarvice wid my +masther, and that if he liked he could tell him a secret; but then, he +said, it wouldn't be worth his while, for that he would soon know it.” + +“Very clear, perfectly transparent, nothing can be plainer. What a +Tipperary sphinx you are; an enigma, half man, half beast, although +there is little enigma in that, it is plain enough. In the meantime, you +bog-trotting oracle, say whether you are humbugging me or not.” + +“Devil a bit I'm humbuggin' you; but proud as you sit there, you have +trotted more bogs and horses than ever I did.” + +“Well, never mind that, Morty. What did this end in?” + +“End in!--why upon my conscience I don't think it's properly begun yet.” + +“Good-by,” exclaimed Norton, rising to go, or at least pretending to do +so. “Many thanks in the meantime for your information--it is precious, +invaluable.” + +“Well, now, wait a minute. A few days ago I seen the same schemer +skulkin' about the house as if he was afeared o' bein' seen; and that +beef and mutton may be my poison, wid health to use them, but I seen +him stealin' out of his lordship's own room. So, now make money o' that; +only when you do, don't be puttin' it in circulation.” + +“No danger of that, Morty, in any sense. At all events, I don't deal in +base coin.” + +“Don't you, faith. I wondher what do you call imposin' Barney Bryan, the +horse-jockey, on his lordship, for Tom Norton, the gentleman? However, +no matther--that's your own affair; and so long as you let the good ould +lord alone among you--keep your secret--I'm not goin' to interfere wid +you. None of your travellers' tricks upon him, though.” + +“No, not on him, Morty; but concerning this forthcoming marriage, if +it takes place, I dare say I must travel; I can't depend upon Dunroe's +word.” + +“Why, unlikelier things has happened, Mr. Norton. I think you'll be +forced to set out.” + +“Well, I only say that if Mr. Norton can prevent it, it won't happen. +I can wind this puppy of a lord, who has no more will of his own than a +goose, nor half so much; I say I can wind him round my finger; and if I +don't get him to make himself, in any interview he may have with her, +so egregiously ridiculous, as to disgust her thoroughly, my name's not +Norton--hem--ha, ha, ha!” + +“Well, your name's not Norton--very good. In the mane time more power +to you in that; for by all accounts it's a sin and a shame to throw away +such a girl upon him.” + +Norton now having gained all he could from his old acquaintance, got +up, and was about to leave the room, when Morty, looking at him +significantly, asked, + +“Where are you bound for now, if it's a fair question?” + +“I will tell you, then, Morty--upon an affair that's anything but +pleasant to me, and withal a little dangerous: to buy a horse for +Dunroe.” + +“Troth, you may well say so; in God's name keep away from horses and. +jockeys, or you'll be found out; but, above all things, don't show your +face on the Curragh.” + +“Well, I don't know. I believe, after all, there's no such vast +distinction there between the jockeys and the gentlemen. Sometimes the +jockey swindles himself up into a gentleman, and sometimes the gentleman +swindles himself down to a jockey. So far there would be no great +mistake; the only thing to be dreaded is, discovery, so far as it +affects the history which I gave of myself to Dunroe and his father. +Then there is the sale of some races against me on that most elastic +sod; and I fear they are not yet forgotten. Yes, I shall avoid the +Curragh; but you know, a fit of illness will easily manage that. +However, pass that by; I wish I knew what the old peer and the young one +are discussing.” + +“What now,” said Norton to himself, after Morty had gone, “can this +M'Bride be scheming about in the family? There's a secret here, I'm +certain. Something troubles the old peer of late, whatever it is. Well, +let me see; I'll throw myself in the way of this same M'Bride, and it +will go hard with me or I'll worm it out of him. The knowledge of it +may serve me. It's a good thing to know family secrets, especially for +a hanger-on like myself. One good effect it may produce, and that +is, throw worthy Lord Dunroe more into my power. Yes, I will see this +M'Bride, and then let me alone for playing my card to some purpose.” + +Dunroe found his father much as Morty had described him--enjoying the +fresh breeze and blessed light of heaven, as both came in upon him +through the open window at which he sat. + +The appearance of the good old man was much changed for the worse. His +face was paler and more emaciated than when we last described it. His +chin almost rested on his breast, and his aged-looking hands were worn +away to skin and bone. Still there was the same dignity about him as +ever, only that the traces of age and illness gave to it something that +was still more venerable and impressive. Like some portrait, by an old +master, time, whilst it mellowed and softened the colors, added that +depth and truthfulness of character by which the value I is at once +known. He was sitting in an arm-chair, with a pillow for his head to +rest upon when he wished it; and on his son's entrance he asked him to +wheel it round nearer the centre of the room, and let down the window. + +“I hope you are better this morning, my lord?” inquired Dunroe. + +“John,” said he in reply, “I cannot say that I am better, but I can that +I am worse.” + +“I am sorry to hear that, my lord,” replied the other, “the season is +remarkably fine, and the air mild and cheerful.” + +“I would much rather the cheerfulness were here,” replied his father, +putting his wasted hand upon his heart; “but I did not ask you here to +talk about myself on this occasion, or about my feelings. Miss Gourlay +has consented to marry you, I know.” + +“She has, my lord.” + +“Well, I must confess I did her father injustice for a time. I ascribed +his extraordinary anxiety for this match less to any predilection of +hers--for I thought it was otherwise--than to his ambition. I am glad, +however, that it is to be a marriage, although I feel you are utterly +unworthy of her; and if I did not hope that her influence may in +time, and in a short time, too, succeed in bringing about a wholesome +reformation in your life and morals, I would oppose it still as far as +lay in my power. It is upon this subject I wish to speak with you.” + +Lord Dunroe bowed with an appearance of all due respect, but at the +same time wished in his heart that Norton could be present to hear the +lecture which he had so correctly prognosticated, and to witness the +ability with which he should bamboozle the old peer. + +“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “I am very willing and anxious +to hear and be guided by everything you shall say. I know I have been +wild--indeed, I am very sorry for it; and if it will satisfy you, my +lord, I will add, without hesitation, that it is time I should turn over +a new leaf--hem!” + +“You have, John, been not merely wild--for wildness I could overlook +without much severity--but you have been profligate in morals, +profligate in expenditure, and profligate in your dealings with those +who trusted in your integrity. You have been intemperate; you have been +licentious; you have been dishonest; and as you have not yet abandoned +any one of these frightful vices, I look upon your union with Miss +Gourlay as an association between pollution and purity.” + +“You are very severe, my lord.” + +“I meant to be so; but am I unjust? Ah, John, let your own conscience +answer that question.” + +“Well, my lord, I trust you will be gratified to hear that I am +perfectly sensible of the life I have led--ahem?” + +“And what is that but admitting that you know the full extent of your +vices?--unless, indeed, you have made a firm resolution to give them +up.” + +“I have made such a resolution, my lord, and it is my intention to keep +it. I know I can do little of myself, but I trust that where there is +a sincere disposition, all will go on swimmingly, as the Bible +says--ahem!” + +“Where does the Bible say that all will go on swimmingly?” + +“I don't remember the exact chapter and verse, my lord,” he replied, +affecting a very grave aspect, “but I know it is somewhere in the Book +of Solomon--ahem!--ahem! Either in Solomon or Exodus the Prophet, I am +not certain which. Oh, no, by the by, I believe it is in the dialogue +that occurs between Jonah and the whale.” + +His father looked at him as if to ascertain whether his worthy son +were abandoned enough to tamper, in the first place, with a subject +so solemn, and, in the next, with the anxiety of his own parent, +while laboring, under age and infirmity, to wean him from a course of +dissipation and vice. Little indeed did he suspect that his virtuous +offspring was absolutely enacting his part, for the purpose of having +a good jest to regale Norton with in the course of their evening's +potations. + +Let it not be supposed that we are overstepping the modesty of nature in +this scene. There is scarcely any one acquainted with life who does not +know that there are hundreds, thousands, of hardened profligates, +who would take delight, under similar circumstances, to quiz the +governor--as a parent is denominated by this class--even at the risk +of incurring his lasting displeasure, or of altogether forfeiting his +affection, rather than lose the opportunity of having a good joke to +tell their licentious companions, when they meet. The present age has as +much of this, perhaps, as any of its predecessors, if not more. But to +return. + +“I know not,” observed Lord Cullamore, “whether this is an ironical +affectation of ignorance, or ignorance itself; but on whichever horn of +the dilemma I hang you, Dunroe, you are equally contemptible and guilty. +A heart must be deeply corrupted, indeed, that can tempt its owner +to profane sacred things, and cast an aged and afflicted parent into +ridicule. You are not aware, unfortunate young man, of the precipice +on which you stand, or the dismay with which I could fill your hardened +heart, by two or three words speaking. And only that I was not a +conscious party in circumstances which may operate terribly against us +both, I would mention them to you, and make you shudder at the fate that +is probably before you.” + +“I really think,” replied his son, now considerably alarmed by what he +had heard, “that you are dealing too severely with me. I am not, so +far as I know, profaning anything sacred; much less would I attempt to +ridicule your lordship. But the truth is, I know little or nothing of +the Bible, and consequently any mistaken references to it that I may +sincerely make, ought not to be uncharitably misinterpreted--ahem! 'We +are going on swimmingly' as Jonah said to the whale, or the whale to +Jonah, I cannot say which, is an expression which I have frequently +heard, and I took it for granted that it was a scriptural quotation. +Your lordship is not aware, besides, that I am afflicted with a very bad +memory.” + +“Perfectly aware of it, Dunroe: since I have been forced to observe that +you forget every duty of life. What is there honorable to yourself or +your position in the world, that you ever have remembered? And supposing +now, on the one hand, that you may for the present only affect a +temporary reformation, and put in practice that worst of vices, a +moral expediency, and taking it for granted, on the other, that +your resolution to amend is sincere, by what act am I to test that +sincerity?” + +“I will begin and read the Bible, my lord, and engage a parson to +instruct me in virtue. Isn't that generally the first step?” + +“I do not forbid you the Bible, nor the instructions of a pious +clergyman; but I beg to propose a test that will much more +satisfactorily establish that sincerity. First, give up your dissipated +and immoral habits; contract your expenditure within reasonable limits; +pay your just debts, by which I mean your debts of honesty, not +of honor--unless they have been lost to a man of honor, and not to +notorious swindlers; forbear to associate any longer with sharpers and +blacklegs, whether aristocratic or plebeian; and as a first proof of +the sincerity you claim, dismiss forever from your society that +fellow, Norton, who is, I am sorry to say, your bosom friend and boon +companion.” + +“With every condition you have proposed, my lord, I am willing and ready +to comply, the last only excepted. I am sorry to find that you have +conceived so strong and unfounded a prejudice against Mr. Norton. You do +not know his value to me, my lord. He has been a Mentor to me--saved me +thousands by his ability and devotion to my interests. The fact is, he +is my friend. Now I am not prepared to give up and abandon my friend +without a just cause; and I regret that any persuasion to such an act +should proceed from you, my lord. In all your other propositions I shall +obey you implicitly; but in this your lordship must excuse me. I cannot +do it with honor, and therefore cannot do it at all.” + +“Ah, I see, Dunroe, and I bitterly regret to see it--this fellow, this +Norton, has succeeded in gaining over you that iniquitous ascendancy +which the talented knave gains over the weak and unsuspicious fool. +Pardon me, for I speak plainly. He has studied your disposition and +habits; he has catered for your enjoyments; he has availed himself of +your weaknesses; he has flattered your vanity; he has mixed himself up +in the management of your affairs; and, in fine, made himself necessary +to your existence; yet you will not give him up?” + +“My lord, I reply to you in one word--he IS MY FRIEND.” + +A shade of bitterness passed over the old man's face as he turned a +melancholy look upon Dunroe. + +“May you never live, Dunroe,” he said, “to see your only son refuse to +comply with your dying request, or to listen with an obedient I spirit +to your parting admonition. It is true, I am not, I trust, immediately +dying, and yet why should I regret it? But, at the same time, I feel +that my steps are upon the very threshold of death--a consideration +which ought to insure obedience to my wishes in any heart not made +callous by the worst experiences of life.” + +“I would comply with your wishes, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “with the +sincerest pleasure, and deny myself anything to oblige you; but in +what you ask there is a principle involved, which I cannot, as a man of +honor, violate. And, besides, I really could not afford to part with him +now. My affairs are in such a state, and he is so well acquainted with +them, that to do so would ruin me.” + +His father, who seemed wrapt in some painful reflection, paid no +attention to this reply, which, in point of fact, contained, so far as +Norton was concerned, a confirmation of the old man's worst suspicions. +His chin had sunk on his breast, and looking into the palms of his hands +as he held them clasped together, he could not prevent the tears from +rolling slowly down his furrowed cheeks. At length he exclaimed: + +“My child, Emily, my child! how will I look upon thee! My innocent, +my affectionate angel; what, what, oh what will become of thee? But it +cannot be. My guilt was not premeditated. What I did I did in ignorance; +and why should we suffer through the arts of others? I shall oppose +them step by step should they proceed. I shall leave no earthly resource +untried to frustrate their designs; and if they are successful, the +cruel sentence may be pronounced, but it will be over my grave. I could +never live to witness the sufferings of my darling and innocent child. +My lamp of life is already all but exhausted--this would extinguish it +forever.” + +He then raised his head, and after wiping away the tears, spoke to his +son as follows: + +“Dunroe, be advised by me; reform your life; set your house in order, +for you know not, you see not, the cloud which is likely to burst over +our heads.” + +“I don't understand you, my lord.” + +“I know you do not, nor is it my intention that you should for the +present; but if you are wise, you will be guided by my instructions and +follow my advice.” + +When Dunroe left him, which he did after some formal words of +encouragement and comfort, to which the old man paid little attention, +turning toward the door, which his son on going out had shut, he looked +as if his eye followed him beyond the limits of the room, and exclaimed: + +“Alas! why was I not born above the ordinary range of the domestic +affections? Yet so long as I have my darling child--who is all +affection--why should I complain on this account? Alas, my Maria, it is +now that thou art avenged for the neglect you experienced at my hands, +and for the ambition that occasioned it. Cursed ambition! Did the +coronet I gained by my neglect of you, beloved object of my first and +only affection, console my heart under the cries of conscience, +or stifle the grief which returned for you, when that ambition was +gratified? Ah, that false and precipitate step! How much misery has it +not occasioned me since I awoke from my dream! Your gentle spirit seemed +to haunt me through life, but ever with that melancholy smile of tender +and affectionate reproach with which your eye always encountered mine +while living. And thou, wicked woman, what has thy act accomplished, if +it should be successful? What has thy fraudulent contrivance effected? +Sorrow to one who was ever thy friend--grief, shame, and degradation to +the innocent!” + +Whilst the old man indulged in these painful and melancholy reflections, +his son, on the other hand, was not without his own speculations. On +retiring to his dressing-room, he began to ponder over the admonitory if +not prophetic words of his father. + +“What the deuce can the matter be?” he exclaimed, surveying himself in +the glass; “a good style of face that, in the meantime. Gad, I knew she +would surrender in form, and I was right. Something is wrong with--that +gold button--yes, it looks better plain--the old gentleman--something's +in the wind--in the meantime I'll raise this window--or why should he +talk so lugubriously as he does? Upon my soul it was the most painful +interview I ever had. There is nothing on earth so stupid as the twaddle +of a sick old lord, especially when repenting for his sins. Repentance! +I can't at all understand that word; but I think the style of the thing +in the old fellow's hands was decidedly bad--inartistic, as they say, +and without taste; a man, at all events, should repent like a gentleman. +As far as I can guess at it, I think there ought to be considerable +elegance of manner in repentance--a kind of genteel ambiguity, that +should seem to puzzle the world as to whether you weep for or against +the sin; or perhaps repentance should say--as I suppose it often +does--'D--n me, this is no humbug; this, look you, is a grand process--I +know what I'm about; let the world look on; I have committed a great +many naughty things during my past life; I am now able to commit no +more; the power of doing so has abandoned me; and I call gods and men to +witness that I am very sorry for it.'--Now, that, in my opinion, would +be a good style of thing. Let me see, however, what the venerable earl +can mean. I am threatened, am I? Well, but nothing can affect the title; +of that I'm sure when the cue, 'exit old peer,' comes; then, as to the +property; why, he is one of the wealthiest men in the Irish peerage, +although he is an English one also. Then, what the deuce can his threats +mean? I don't know--perhaps he does not know himself; but, in any event, +and to guard against all accidents, I'll push on this marriage as fast +as possible; for, in case anything unexpected and disagreeable should +happen, it will be a good move to have something handsome--something +certain, to fall back upon.” + +Having dressed, he ordered his horse, and rode out to the Phoenix Park, +accompanied by his shadow, Norton, who had returned, and heard with much +mirth a full history of the interview, with a glowing description of the +stand which Dunroe made for himself. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. A Courtship on Novel Principles. + + +Having stated that Sir Thomas Gourlay requested Dunroe to postpone an +interview with Lucy until her health should become reestablished, we +feel it necessary to take a glance at the kind of life the unfortunate +girl led from the day she made the sacrifice until that at which we have +arrived in this narrative. Since that moment of unutterable anguish her +spirits completely abandoned her. Naturally healthy she had ever been, +but now she began to feel what the want of it meant; a feeling which to +her, as the gradual precursor of death, and its consequent release from +sorrow, brought something like hope and consolation. Yet this was not +much; for we know that to the young heart entering upon the world of +life and enjoyment, the prospect of early dissolution, no matter by what +hopes or by what resignation supported, is one so completely at variance +with the mysterious gift of existence and the natural tenacity with +which we cling to it, that, like the drugs which we so reluctantly take +during illness, its taste upon the spirit is little else than bitterness +itself. Lucy's appetite failed her; she could not endure society, but +courted solitude, and scarcely saw any one, unless, indeed, her +father occasionally, and her maid Alley Mahon, when her attendance +was necessary. She became pale as a shadow, began to have a wasted +appearance, and the very fountains of her heart seemed to have dried +up, for she found it impossible to shed a tear. A dry, cold, impassive +agony, silent, insidious, and exhausting, appeared to absorb the very +elements of life, and reduce her to a condition of such physical and +morbid incapacity as to feel an utter inability, or at all events +disinclination, to complain. + +Her father's interviews with her were not frequent. That worthy man, +however, looked upon all her sufferings as the mere pinings of a +self-willed girl, lovesick and sentimental, such as he had sometimes +heard of, or read in books, and only worthy to be laughed at and treated +with contempt. He himself was now progressing in an opposite direction, +so far as health was concerned, to that of his daughter. In other words, +as she got ill, he gradually, and with a progress beautifully adapted +to the accomplishment of his projects, kept on recovering. This fact was +Lucy's principal, almost her sole consolation; for here, although she +had sacrificed herself, she experienced the satisfaction of seeing that +the sacrifice was not in vain. + +But, after all, and notwithstanding his base and ungodly views of +life, let us ask, had the baronet no painful visitations of remorse in +contemplating the fading form and the silent but hopeless agony of his +daughter? Did conscience, which in his bosom of stone indulged in an +almost unbroken slumber, never awaken to scourge his hardened spirit +with her whip of snakes, and raise the gloomy curtain that concealed +from him the dark and tumultuous fires that await premeditated guilt and +impenitence? We answer, he was man. Sometimes, especially in the solemn +hours of night, he experienced brief periods, not of remorse, much +less of repentance, but of dark, diabolical guilt--conscious guilt, +unmitigated by either penitence or remorse, as might have taught his +daughter, could she have known them, how little she herself suffered in +comparison with him. These dreadful moments remind one of the heavings +of some mighty volcano, when occasioned by the internal stragglings of +the fire that is raging within it, the power and fury of which may +be estimated by the terrible glimpses which rise up, blazing and +smouldering from its stormy crater. + +“What am I about?” he would say. “What a black prospect does life +present to me! I fear I am a bad man. Could it be possible now, that +there are thousands of persons in life who have committed great crimes +in the face of society, who, nevertheless, are not responsible for half +my guilt? Is it possible that a man may pass through the world, looking +on it with a plausible aspect, and yet become, from the natural iniquity +of his disposition and the habitual influence of present and perpetual +evil within him, a man of darker and more extended guilt than the +murderer or robber? Is it, then, the isolated crime, the crime that +springs from impulse, or passion, or provocation, or revenge?--or is it +the black unbroken iniquity of the spirit, that constitutes the greater +offence, or the greater offender against society? Am I, then, one of I +those reprobates of life in whom there is everything adverse to good and +friendly to evil, yet who pass through existence with a high head, and +look upon the public criminal and felon with abhorrence or affected +compassion? But why investigate myself? Here I am; and that fact is the +utmost limit to which my inquiries and investigations can go. I am what +I am: besides, I did not form nor create myself. I am different from my +daughter, she is different from me. I am different from most people. In +what? May I not have a destined purpose in creation to fulfil; and is it +not probable that my natural disposition has been bestowed upon me for +the purpose of fulfilling it? Yet if all were right, how account +for these dreadful and agonizing glimpses of my inner life which +occasionally visit me? But I dare say every man feels them. What are +they, after all, but the superstitious operations of conscience--of that +grim spectre which is conjured up by the ridiculous fables of the priest +and nurse? Conscience! Why, its fearful tribunal is no test of truth. +The wretched anchorite will often experience as much remorse if he +neglect to scourge his miserable carcass, as the murderer who sheds the +blood of man--or more. Away with it! I am but a fool for allowing it to +disturb me at all, or mar my projects.” + +In this manner would he attempt to reason himself out of these dreadful +visitations, by the shallow sophistry of the sceptic and infidel. + +The time, however, he thought, was now approaching when it was necessary +that something should be done with respect to Lucy's approaching +marriage. He accordingly sent for her, and having made very affectionate +inquiries after her health, for he had not for a moment changed the +affected tenderness of his manner, he asked if she believed herself +capable of granting an interview to Lord Dunroe. Lucy, now that escape +from the frightful penalty of her obedience was impossible, deemed it, +after much painful reflection, better to submit with as little apparent +reluctance as possible. + +“I fear, papa,” she said, in tones that would have touched and softened +any heart but that to which she addressed herself, “I fear that it is +useless to wait until I am better. I feel my strength declining every +day, without any hope of improvement. I may therefore as well see him +now as at a future time.” + +“My dear Lucy, I know that you enter into this engagement with +reluctance. I know that you do it for my sake; and you may rest assured +that your filial piety and obedience will be attended with a blessing. +After marriage you will find that change of scene, Dunroe's tenderness, +and the influence of enlivening society, will completely restore +your health and spirits. Dunroe's a rattling, pleasant fellow; and +notwithstanding his escapades, has an excellent heart. Tut, my dear +child, after a few months you will yourself smile at these girlish +scruples, and thank papa for forcing you into happiness.” + +Lucy's large eyes had been fixed upon him while he spoke, and as he +concluded, two big tears, the first she had shed for weeks, stood within +their lids. They seemed, however, but visionary; for although they did +fall they soon disappeared, having been absorbed, as it were, into the +source from which they came, by the feverish heat of her brain. + +“It is enough, papa,” she said; “I am willing to see him--willing to see +him whenever you wish. I am in your hands, and neither you nor he need +apprehend any further opposition from me.” + +“You are a good girl, Lucy; and you may believe me again that this +admirable conduct of yours will have its reward in a long life of future +happiness.” + +“Future happiness, papa,” she replied, with a peculiar emphasis on the +word; “I hope so. May I withdraw, sir?” + +“You may, my dear child. God bless and reward you, Lucy. It is to your +duty I owe it that I am a living man--that you have a father.” + +When she had gone, he sat down to his desk, and without losing a moment +sent a note to Dunroe, of which the following is a copy: + +“My dear Lord Dunroe,--I am happy to tell you that Lucy is getting on +famously. + +“Of course you know, I suppose, that these vaporish affections are, with +most young girls, nothing but the performance of the part which they +choose to act before marriage; the mere mists of the morning, poor +wenches, which only prognosticate for themselves and their husbands an +unclouded day. All this make-believe is very natural; and it is a good +joke, besides, to see them pout and look grave, and whine and cry, and +sometimes do the hysteric, whilst they are all the time dying in secret, +the hypocritical baggages, to get themselves transformed into matrons. +Don't, therefore, be a whit surprised or alarmed if you find Miss Lucy +in the pout--she is only a girl, after all, and has her little part +to play, as well as the best of them. Still, such a change is often in +reality a serious one to a young woman; and you need not be told that +no animal will allow itself to be caught without an effort. When you see +her, therefore, pluck up your spirits, rattle away, laugh and jest, so +as, if possible, to get her into good humor, and there is no danger of +you. Or stay--I am wrong. Had you followed this advice, it would have +played the deuce with you. Don't be merry. On the contrary, pull a long +face--be grave and serious; and if you can imitate the manner of one of +those fellows who pass for young men of decided piety, you were nothing +but a made man. Have you a Bible? If you have, commit half-a-dozen texts +to memory, and intersperse them judiciously through your conversation. +Talk of the vanity of life, the comforts of religion, and the beauty of +holiness. But don't overdo the thing either. Just assume the part of a +young person on whose mind the truth is beginning to open, because Lucy +knows now very well that these rapid transitions are suspicious. At all +events, you will do the best you can; and if you are here to-morrow--say +about three o'clock--she will see you. + +“Ever, my dear Dunroe, + +“Faithfully, your father-in-law that is to be, + +“Thomas Gourlay.” + + +This precious epistle Dunroe found upon his table after returning from +his ride in the Phoenix Park; and having perused it, he immediately +rang for Norton, from whom he thought it was much too good a thing to be +concealed. + +“Norton,” said he, “I am beginning to think that this black fellow, the +baronet, is not such a disgraceful old scoundrel as I had thought him. +There's not a bad thing in its way--read it.” + +Norton, after throwing his eye over it, laughed heartily. + +“Egad,” said he, “that fellow has a pretty knowledge of life; but it is +well he recovered himself in the instructions, for, from all that I +have heard of Miss Gourlay, his first code would have ruined you, sure +enough.” + +“I am afraid I will break down, however, in the hypocrisy. I failed +cursedly with the old peer, and am not likely to be more successful with +her.” + +“Indeed, I question whether hypocrisy would sit well upon one who has +been so undisguised an offender. The very assumption of it requires some +training. I think a work to be called 'Preparations for Hypocrisy' would +be a great book to the general mass of mankind. You cannot bound at one +step from the licentious to the hypocritical, unless, indeed, upon the +convenient principle of instantaneous conversion. The thing must be done +decently, and by judicious gradations, nor is the transition attended +with much difficulty, in consequence of the natural tendency which +hypocrisy and profligacy always have to meet. Still, I think you ought +to attempt the thing. Get by heart, as her father advises, half-a-dozen +serious texts of Scripture, and drop one in now and then, such as, 'All +flesh is grass.' 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' 'He that +marrieth not doth well, but he that marrieth doth better.' To be sure, +there is a slight inversion of text here, but then it is made more +appropriate.” + +“None of these texts, however,” replied his lordship, “except the last, +are applicable to marriage.” + +“So much the better; that will show her that you can think of other and +more serious things.” + +“But there are very few things more serious, my boy.” + +“At all events,” proceeded the other, “it will be original, and +originality, you know, is your _forte_. I believe it is supposed that +she has no great relish for this match, and is not overburdened with +affection for you?” + +“She must have changed, though,” replied his lordship, “or she wouldn't +have consented.” + +“That may be; but if she should candidly tell you that she does not like +you--why, in that case, your originality must bear you out. Start +some new and original theory on marriage; say, for instance, that your +principle is not to marry a girl who does love you, but rather one +who feels the other way. Dwell fearfully on the danger of love +before marriage: and thus strike out strongly upon the advantages of +indifference--honest indifference. By this means you will meet all her +objections, and be able to capsize her on every point.” + +“Norton,” said his lordship, “I think you are right. My originality will +carry the day; but in the meantime you must give me further instructions +on the subject, so that I may be prepared at all points.” + +“By the by, Dunroe, you will be a happy fellow. I am told she is a +magnificent creature; beautiful, sensible, brilliant, and mistress of +many languages.” + +“Not to be compared with the blonde, though.” + +“I cannot say,” replied Norton, “having not yet seen her. You will get +very fond of her, of course.” + +“Fond--'gad, I hope it will never come to that with me. The moment a +man suffers himself to become fond of his wife, he had better order his +Bible and Prayer-book at once--it is all up with him.” + +“I grant you it's an unfortunate condition to get into; and the worst of +it is, that once you are in, it is next to an impossibility to get out. +Of course, you will take care to avoid it, for your own sake, and, if +you have no objection, for mine. Perhaps her ladyship may take a fancy +to support the venerable peer against me in recommending the process +of John Thrustout. If so, Dunroe, whatever happiness your marriage may +bring yourself, it will bring nothing but bitterness and calamity to +me. I am now so much accustomed--so much--so much--hang it, why conceal +it?--so much attached and devoted to you--that a separation would be the +same as death to me.” + +“Never fear, Norton,” replied Dunroe, “I have not yielded to my father +on this point, neither shall I to my wife. Happen what may, my friend +must never be given up for the whim of any one. But, indeed, you need +entertain no apprehensions. I am not marrying the girl for love, so that +she is not likely to gain any ascendancy whatever over me. It is her +fortune and property that have attracted my affections, just as the +title she will enjoy has inveigled those of the old father.” + +Norton, in deep emotions of gratitude, ably sustained, had already +seized the hand of his patron, and was about to reply--but the effort +was too much for him; his heart was too full; he felt a choking; so, +clapping his handkerchief to his face with one hand, and the other upon +his heart, he rushed out of the room, lest Dunroe might perceive the +incredible force of his affection for him. + +The next day, when Dunroe made his appearance in the drawing-room, +Lucy, before descending, felt as one may be supposed to do who stands +upon the brow of a precipice, conscious at the same time that not only +is retreat from this terrible position impossible, but that the plunge +must be made. On this occasion she experienced none of that fierce +energy which sometimes results from despair, and which one might imagine +to have been in accordance with her candid and generous character, when +driven as she was to such a step. On the contrary, she felt calm, cold, +and apathetic. Her pulse could scarcely be perceived by Alley Mahon; and +all the physical powers of life within her seemed as if about to suspend +their functions. Her reason, however, was clear, even to torture. Those +tumultuous vibrations of the spirit--those confused images and unsettled +thoughts of the brain; and all those excited emotions of the heart, that +are usually called into existence in common minds by such scenes, would +have been to her as a relief, in comparison to what she experienced. +In her case there was a tranquillity of agony--a quiet, unresisting +submission--a gentle bowing of the neck to the stake, at the sacrifice +that resulted from the clear perception of her great mind, which +thus, by its very facility of apprehension, magnified the torture she +suffered. Whilst descending the stairs, she felt such a sinking of the +soul within her, as the unhappy wretch does who ascends from those which +lead to that deadly platform from which is taken the terrible spring +into eternity. + +On entering the room she saw herself in the large mirror that adorned +the mantel-piece, and felt for the first time as if all this was some +dreadful dream. The reality, however, of the misery she felt was too +strongly in her heart to suffer this consoling fiction, painful even +though it was, to remain. The next moment she found Lord Dunroe doing +her homage and obeisance,--an obeisance which she returned with a +lady-like but melancholy grace, that might have told to any other +observer the sufferings she felt, and the sacrifice she was making. + +Dunroe, with as much politeness as he could assume, handed her to +the sofa, close to which he drew a chair, and opened the dialogue as +follows: + +“I am sorry to hear that you have not been well, Miss Gourlay. Life, +however, is uncertain, and we should always be prepared--at least, so +says Scripture. All flesh is grass, I think is the expression--ahem.” + +Lucy looked at him with a kind of astonishment; and, indeed, we think +our readers will scarcely feel surprised that she did so; the reflection +being anything but adapted to the opening of a love scene. + +“Your observation, my lord,” she replied, “is very true--too true, for +we rarely make due preparation for death.” + +“But I can conceive, readily enough,” replied his lordship, “why the +man that wrote the Scripture used the expression. Death, you know Miss +Gourlay, is always represented as a mower, bearing a horrible scythe, +and an hour-glass. Now, a mower, you know, cuts down grass; and there is +the origin of the similitude.” + +“And a very appropriate one it is, I think,” observed Lucy. + +“Well, I dare say it is; but somewhat vulgar though. I should be +disposed to say, now, that the man who wrote that must have been a mower +himself originally.” + +Lucy made no reply to this sapient observation. His lordship, however, +who seemed to feel that he had started upon a wrong principle, if not a +disagreeable one, went on: + +“It is not, however, to talk of death, Miss Gourlay, that we have met, +but of a very different and much more agreeable subject--marriage.” + +“To me, my lord,” she replied, “death is the more agreeable of the two.” + +“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Gourlay; but I think you are in low +spirits, and that accounts for it. Your father tells me, however, that +I have your permission to urge my humble claims. He says you have kindly +and generously consented to look upon me, all unworthy as I feel I am, +as your future husband.” + +“It is true, my lord, I have consented to this projected union; but I +feel that it is due to your lordship to state that I have done so under +very painful and most distressing circumstances. It is better I should +speak now, my lord, than at a future day. My father's mind has been +seized by an unaccountable ambition to see me your wife. This preyed +upon him so severely that he became dangerously ill.” Here, however, +from delicacy to the baronet, she checked herself, but added, “Yes, my +lord, I have consented; but, understand me--you have not my affections.” + +“Why, as to that, Miss Gourlay, I have myself peculiar opinions; and I +am glad that they avail me here. You will think it odd, now, that I +had made my mind up never to marry a woman who loved me. This is really +fortunate.” + +“I don't understand you, my lord.” + +“Well, I suppose you don't; but I shall make myself intelligible as well +as I can. Love before marriage, in my opinion, is exceedingly dangerous +to future happiness; and I will tell you why I think so. In the first +place, a great deal of that fuel which feeds the post-matrimonial flame +is burned away and wasted unnecessarily; the imagination, too, is raised +to a ridiculous and most enthusiastic expectation of perpetual bliss +and ecstasy; then comes disappointment, coolness, indifference, and +the lights go out for want of the fuel I mentioned; and altogether the +domestic life becomes rather a dull and tedious affair. The wife wonders +that the husband is no longer a, lover; and the husband cannot for the +soul of him see all the--the--the--ahem!--I scarcely know what to call +them--that enchanted him before marriage. Then, you perceive, that when +love is necessary, the fact comes out that it was most injudiciously +expended before the day of necessity. Both parties feel, in fact, +that the property has been prematurely squandered--like many another +property--and when it is wanted, there is nothing to fall back upon. +I wish to God affection could be funded, so that when a married couple +found themselves low in pocket in that commodity they could draw the +interest or sell out at once.” + +“And what can you expect, my lord, from those who marry without +affection?” asked Lucy. + +“Ten chances for happiness,” replied his lordship, “for one that results +from love. When such persons meet, mark you, Miss Gourlay, they are not +enveloped in an artificial veil of splendor, which the cares of life, +and occasionally a better knowledge of each other, cause to dissolve +from about them, leaving them stripped of those imaginary qualities of +mind and person which never had any existence at all, except in +their hypochondriac brains, when love-stricken; whereas, your honest, +matter-of-fact people come together--first with indifference, and, +as there is nothing angelic to be expected on either side, there is +consequently no disappointment. There has, in fact, been no sentimental +fraud committed--no swindle of the heart--for love, too, like its +relation, knavery, has its black-legs, and very frequently raises credit +upon false pretences; the consequence is, that plain honesty begins to +produce its natural effects.” + +“Can this man,” thought Lucy, “have been taking lessons from papa? And +pray, my lord,” she proceeded, “what are those effects which marriage +without love--produces?” + +“Why, a good honest indifference, in the first place, which keeps the +heart easy and somewhat indolent withal. There is none of that sharp +jealousy which is perpetually on the spy for offence. None of that +pulling and pouting--falling out and falling in--which are ever the +accessories of love. On the contrary, honest indifference minds the +family--honest indifference, mark, buys the beef and mutton, reckons the +household linen--eschews parties and all places of fashionable resort, +attends to the children--sees them educated, bled, blistered, et cetera, +when necessary; and, what is still better, looks to their religion, +hears them their catechism, brings them, in their clean bibs and +tuckers, to church, and rewards that one who carries home most of the +sermon with a large lump of sugar-candy.” + +“These are very original views of marriage, my lord.” + +“Aha!” thought his lordship, “I knew the originality would catch her.” + +“Why, the fact is, Miss Gourlay, that I believe--at least I think I may +say--that originality is my forte. I have a horror against everything +common.” + +“I thought so, my lord,” replied Lucy; “your sense, for instance, is +anything but common sense.” + +“You are pleased to flatter me, Miss Gourlay, but you speak very truly; +and that is because I always think for myself--I do not wish to be +measured by a common standard.” + +“You are very right; my lord; it would be difficult, I fear, to find a +common standard to measure you by. One would imagine, for instance, +that you have been on this principle absolutely studying the subject of +matrimony. At least, you are the first person I have ever met who has +succeeded in completely stripping it of common sense, and there I must +admit your originality.” + +“Gad!” thought his lordship, “I have her with me--I am getting on +famously.” + +“They would imagine right, Miss Gourlay; these principles are the result +of a deep and laborious investigation into that mysterious and +awful topic. Honest indifference has no intrigues, no elopements, no +disgraceful trials for criminal conversation, no divorces. No; your +lovers in the yoke of matrimony, when they tilt with each other, do it +sharply, with naked weapons; whereas, the worthy indifferents, in the +same circumstances, have a wholesome regard for each other, and rattle +away only with the scabbards. Upon my honor, Miss Gourlay, I am quite +delighted to hear that you are not attached to me. I can now marry upon +my own principles. It is not my intention to coax, and fondle, and tease +you after marriage; not at all. I shall interfere as little as possible +with your habits, and you, I trust, as little with mine. We shall see +each other only occasionally, say at church, for instance, for I hope +you will have no objection to accompany me there. Neither man nor woman +knows what is due to society if they pass through the world without the +comforts of religion. All flesh--ahem!--no--sufficient unto the day--as +Scripture says.” + +“My lord, I think marriage a solemn subject, and--” + +“Most people find it so, Miss Gourlay.” + +--“And on that account that it ought to be exempted from ridicule.” + +“I perfectly agree with you, Miss Gourlay: it is indeed a serious +subject, and ought not to be sported with or treated lightly.” + +“My lord,” said Lucy, “I must crave your attention for a few moments. I +believe the object of this interview is to satisfy you that I have given +the consent which my father required and entreated of me. But, my lord, +you are mistaken. Our union cannot take place upon your principles, and +for this reason, there is no indifference in the case, so far, at least, +as I am concerned. It would not become me to express here, under my +father's roof, the sentiments which I feel. Your own past life, my +lord--your habits, your associates, may enable you to understand them. +It is enough to say, that in wedding you I wed misery, wretchedness, +despair; so that, in my case, at least, there is no 'sentimental fraud' +committed.” + +“Not a bit of it, Miss Gourlay; your conduct, I say, is candid and +honorable; and I am quite satisfied that the woman who has strength of +mind and love of truth to practice this candor before marriage, +gives the best security for fidelity and all the other long list +of matrimonial virtues afterwards. I am perfectly charmed with your +sentiments. Indeed I was scarcely prepared for this. Our position will +be delightful. The only thing I have any apprehension of is, lest this +wholesome aversion might gradually soften into fondness, which, you +know, would be rather unpleasant to us both.” + +“My lord,” replied Lucy, rising up with disdain and indignation glowing +in her face, “there is one sentiment due to every woman whose conduct +is well regulated and virtuous--that sentiment is, respect. From you on +this occasion, at least, and on this subject especially, I had thought +myself entitled to it. I find I have been mistaken, however. Such +a sentiment is utterly incompatible with the heartless tirade of +buffoonery in which you have indulged. This dialogue is very painful, my +lord. I have already intimated to you that I am prepared to fulfil the +engagement into which my father has entered with you. I know--I feel +what the result will be--you are to consider me your victim, my lord, as +well as your wife.” + +“Excuse me, Miss Gourlay, I was utterly unconscious of any buffoonery. +Upon my honor, I expressed on the subject of matrimony no principles +that I do not feel; but as to your charge of disrespect, I solemnly +assure you there is not an individual of your sex in existence whom +I respect more highly; nor do I believe there is a lady living more +signally entitled to it from all who have the honor to know her.” + +“Then, if you be serious, my lord, it betrays a painful equality between +your understanding and your heart. No man with such a heart should enter +into the state of matrimony at all; and no man with an understanding +level to such principles is capable either of communicating or receiving +happiness.” + +“Well, then, suppose I say that I shall submit myself in everything to +your wishes?” + +“Then I should reply, that the husband capable of doing so would +experience from me a sentiment little short of contempt. What, my lord! +so soon to abandon your favorite principles! That is a proof, I fear, +that, after all, you place but little value on them.” + +“Well, but I know I have not been so good a boy as I ought to have been; +I have been naughty now and then; and as I intend to reform, I shall +make you my guide and adviser. I assure you, I am perfectly serious in +the reformation. It shall be on quite an original scale. I intend to +repent, Miss Gourlay; but, then, my repentance won't be commonplace +repentance. I shall do the thing with an aristocratic feeling--or, in +other words, I shall repent like a man of honor and a gentleman.” + +“Like anything but a Christian, my I presume.” + +“Just so; I must be original or die. I will give up everything; for, +after all. Miss Gourlay, what is there more melancholy than the vanity +of life--unless, indeed, it be the beauty of holiness--ahem! All +flesh--no--I repeated that sweet text before. He that marrieth doth +well; but he that marrieth not doth better. Sufficient unto +the day--No, hang it, I think I misquoted it. I believe it runs +correctly--He that giveth 'way, does well; but he that giveth not way, +does better: then, I believe, comes in, Sufficient unto the day is the +evil thereof. What beautiful and appropriate texts are to be found in +Scripture, Miss Gourlay! By the way, the man that wrote it was a +shrewd fellow and a profound thinker. The only pity is, that the work's +anonymous.” + +Lucy rose, absolutely sickened, and said, “My lord, excuse me. The +object of our interview has been accomplished, and as I am far from +well, you will permit me to withdraw. In the meantime, pray make +whatever arrangements and hold, whatever interviews may be necessary in +this miserable and wretched business; but henceforth they must be with +my father.” + +“You are surely not going, Miss Gourlay?” + +She replied not, but turning round, seemed to reflect for a moment, +after which she spoke as follows: + +“I cannot bring myself to think, my lord, after the unusual opinions +you have expressed, that you have been for one moment serious in the +conversation which has taken place between us. Their strangeness and +eccentricity forbid me to suppose this; and if I did not think that it +is so, and that, perhaps, you are making an experiment upon my temper +and judgment, for some purpose at present inconceivable; and if I did +not think, besides, notwithstanding these opinions, that you may possess +sufficient sense and feeling to perceive the truth and object of what I +am about to say, I would not remain one moment longer in your society. +I request, therefore, that you will be serious for a little, and hear me +with attention, and, what is more, if you can, with sympathy. My lord, +the highest instance of a great and noble mind is to perform a generous +act; and when you hear from my own lips the circumstances which I am +about to state, I would hope to find you capable of such an act. I +am now appealing to your generosity--your disinterestedness--your +magnanimity (and you ought to be proud to possess these virtues)--to +all those principles that honor and dignify our nature, and render man a +great example to his kind. My lord, I am very unhappy--I am miserable--I +am wretched; so completely borne down by suffering that life is only a +burden, which I will not be able long to bear; and you, my lord, are the +cause of all this anguish and agony.” + +“Upon my honor, Miss Gourlay, I am very much concerned to hear it. I +would rather the case were otherwise, I assure you. Anything that I can +do, I needn't say, I shall be most happy to do; but proceed, pray.” + +“My lord, I throw myself upon your generosity; do you possess it? Upon +your feeling as a man, upon your honor as a gentleman. I implore, I +entreat you, not to press this unhappy engagement. I implore you for my +sake, for the sake of humanity, for the sake of God; and if that will +not weigh with you, then I ask it for the sake of your own honor, +which will be tarnished by pressing it on. I have already said that you +possess not my affections, and that to a man of honor and spirit ought +to be sufficient; but I will go farther, and say, that if there be one +man living against a union with whom I entertain a stronger and more +unconquerable aversion than another, you are that man.” + +“But you know, Miss Gourlay, if I may interrupt you for a moment, that +that fact completely falls into my principles. There is only one other +circumstance wanting to make the thing complete; but perhaps you +will come to it; at least I hope so. Pray, proceed, madam; I am all +attention.” + +“Yes,” she replied, “I shall proceed; because I would not that my +conscience should hereafter reproach me for having left anything undone +to escape this misery. My lord, I implore you to spare me; force me not +over the brow of this dreadful precipice; have compassion on me--have +generosity--act with honor.” + +“I would crown you with honor, if I could, Miss Gourlay.” + +“You are about to crown me with fire, my lord; to wring my spirit with +torture; to drive me into distraction--despair--madness. But you will +not do so. You know that I cannot love you. I am not to blame for this; +our affections are not always under our own control. Have pity on me, +then, Lord Dunroe. Go to my father, and tell him that you will not be +a consenting party to my misery--and accessory to my death. Say what is +true; that as I neither do nor can love you, the honor of a gentleman, +and the spirit of a man, equally forbid you to act ungenerously to me +and dishonorably to yourself. What man, not base and mean, and sunk +farther down in degradation of spirit than contempt could reach him, +would for a moment think of marrying a woman who, like me, can neither +love nor honor him? Go, my lord; see my father; tell him you are a +man--an Irish gentleman--” + +“Pardon me, Miss Gourlay, I do not wish to be considered such.” + +--“That justice, humanity, self-respect, and a regard for the good +opinion of the world, all combine to make you release me from this +engagement.” + +“Unfortunately, Miss Gourlay, I have it not in my power, even if I +were willing, to release you from this engagement. I am pledged to your +father, and cannot, as a man of honor and a gentleman, recede from that +pledge. All these objections and difficulties only bring you exactly +up to my theory, or very near it. We shall marry upon very original +principles; so that altogether the whole affair is very gratifying to +me. I had expectations that there was a prior attachment; but that would +be too much to hope for. As it is, I am perfectly satisfied.” + +“Then, my lord, allow me to add to your satisfaction by assuring you +that my heart is wholly and unalterably in possession of another; that +that other knows it; and that I have avowed my love for him with the +same truth and candor with which I now say that I both loathe and +despise you.” + +“I perceive you are excited, Miss Gourlay; but, believe me, all this +sentimental affection for another will soon disappear after marriage, +as it always does; and your eyes will become open to a sense of your +enviable position. Yes, indeed, you will live to wonder at these freaks +of a heated imagination; and I have no doubt the day will come when you +will throw your arms about my neck, and exclaim, 'My dear Dunroe, or +Cullamore (you will then be my countess, I hope), what a true prophet +you have been! And what a proof it was of your good sense to overcome +my early folly! I really thought at the time that I was in love with +another; but you knew better. Shan't we spend the winter in England, my +love? I am sick of this dull, abominable country, where nobody that one +can associate with is to be met; and you mustn't forget the box at the +Opera. Yes; we shall have an odd scene or so occasionally of that sort +of thing; and no doubt be as happy as our neighbors.” + +Lucy turned upon him one withering look, in which might be read hatred, +horror, contempt; after which she slightly inclined her head, and +without speaking, for she had now become incapable of it, withdrew to +her own apartment, in a state of feeling which the reader may easily +imagine. + +“Alice,” said she to her maid, and her cheek, that had only a little +before been so pale, now glowed with indignation like fire as she spoke, +“Alice, I have degraded myself; I am sunk forever in my own opinion +since I saw that heartless wretch.” + +“How is that, miss?” asked Alice; “such a thing can't be.” + +“Because,” replied Lucy, “I was mean enough to throw myself on his very +compassion--on his honor--on his generosity--on his pride as a man and +a gentleman--but he has not a single virtue;” and she then, with cheeks +still glowing, related to her the principal part of their conversation. + +“And that was the reply he gave you, miss?” observed Alley; “in truth, +it was more like the answer of a sheriff's bailiff to some poor woman +who had her cattle distrained for rent, and wanted to get time to pay +it.” + +“Alice,” she exclaimed, “I hope in God I may retain my senses, +or, rather, let them depart from me, for then I shall not be +conscious of what I do. Matters are far worse than I had even +imagined--desperate--full of horror. This man is a fool; his intellect +is beneath the very exigencies of hypocrisy, which he would put on if +he could. His infamy, his profligacy, can proceed even from no perverted +energy of character, and must therefore be associated with contempt. +There is a lively fatuity about him that is uniformly a symptom of +imbecility. Among women, at least, it is so, and I have no doubt but it +is the same with men. Alice, I know what my fate will be. It is true, +you may see me married to him; but you will see me drop dead at the +altar, or worse than that may happen. I shall marry him; but to live his +wife!--oh! to live the wife of that man! the thing would be impossible; +death in any shape a thousand times sooner! Think, Alice, how you should +feel if your husband were despised and detested by the world; think of +that, Alice. Still, there might be consolation even there, for the +world might be wrong; but think, Alice, if he deserved that contempt and +detestation--think of it; and that you yourself knew he was entitled, to +nothing else but that and infamy at its hands! Oh, no!--not one spark +of honor--not one trace of feeling--of generosity--of delicacy--of +truth--not one moral point to redeem him from contempt. He may be a +lord, Alice, but he is not a gentleman. Hardened, vicious, and stupid, I +can see he is, and altogether incapable of comprehending what is due to +the feelings of a lady, of a woman, which he I outrages without even the +consciousness of the offence. But, Alice, oh Alice! when I think--when I +compare him with--and may Heaven forgive me for the comparison!--when +I compare him with the noble, the generous, the delicate, the +true-hearted, and intellectual gentleman who has won and retains, +and ever will retain, my affections, I am sick almost to death at the +contrast. Satan, Alice, is a being whom we detest and fear, but cannot +despise. This mean profligate, however, is all vice, and low vice; for +even vice sometimes has its dignity. If you could conceive Michael +the Archangel resplendent with truth, brightness, and the glory of his +divine nature, and compare him with the meanest, basest, and at the same +time wickedest spirit that ever crawled in the depths of perdition, then +indeed you might form an opinion as to the relative character of this +Dunroe and my noble lover. And yet I cannot weep, Alice; I cannot weep, +for I feel that my brain is burning, and my heart scorched. And now, for +my only melancholy consolation!” + +She then pulled from her bosom the portrait of her mother, by the +contemplation of which she felt the tumult of her heart gradually +subside; but, after having gazed at it for some time, she returned it +to its place next her heart; the consolation it had transiently afforded +her passed away, and the black and deadly gloom which had already +withered her so much came back once more. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. The Priest goes into Corbet's House very like a Thief + +--a Sederunt, with a Bright look up for Mr. Gray. + + +It is unnecessary to say that the priest experienced slight regret at +the mistake which had been instrumental in bringing him into collision +with a man, who, although he could not afford them any trace of +unfortunate Fenton, yet enabled them more clearly to identify the +baronet with his fate. The stranger, besides, was satisfied from the +evidence of the pound note, and Trailcudgel's robbery, that his recent +disappearance was also owing to the same influence. Still, the evidence +was far from being complete, and they knew that if Fenton even were +found, it would be necessary to establish his identity as the heir +of Sir Edward Gourlay. No doubt they had made a step in advance, and, +besides, in the right direction; but much still remained to be done; the +plot, in fact, must be gradually, but clearly, and regularly developed; +and in order to do so, they felt that they ought, if the thing could be +managed, to win over some person who had been an agent in its execution. + +From what Skipton had disclosed to Father M'Mahon, both that gentleman +and the stranger had little doubt that old Corbet could render them the +assistance required, if he could only be prevailed upon to speak. It was +evident from his own conversation that he not only hated but detested +Sir Thomas Gourlay; and yet it was equally clear that some secret +influence prevented him from admitting any knowledge or participation +in the child's disappearance. Notwithstanding the sharp caution of his +manner, and his disavowal of the very knowledge they were seeking, it +was agreed upon that Father M'Mahon should see him again, and ascertain +whether or not he could be induced in any way to aid their purpose. +Nearly a week elapsed, however, before the cunning old ferret could be +come at. The truth is, he had for many a long year been of opinion +that the priest entertained a suspicion of his having been in some +way engaged, either directly or indirectly, in the dark plots of the +baronet, if not in the making away with the child. On this account then, +the old man never wished to come in the priest's way whenever he could +avoid it; and the priest himself had often remarked that whenever he +(old Corbet), who lived with the baronet for a couple of years, after +the child's disappearance, happened to see or meet him in Ballytrain, +he always made it a point to keep his distance. In fact, the priest +happened on one occasion, while making a visit to see Quin, the +monomaniac, and waiting in the doctor's room, to catch a glimpse of +Corbet passing through the hall, and on inquiring who he was from one of +the keepers, the fellow, after some hesitation, replied, that he did not +know. + +By this time, however, the mysterious loss of the child had long passed +out of the public mind, and as the priest never paid another visit to +the asylum, he also had ceased to think of it. It is quite possible, +indeed, that the circumstance would never again have recurred to him +had not the stranger's inquiries upon this very point reminded him that +Corbet was the most likely person he knew to communicate information +upon the subject. The reader already knows with what success that +application had been made. + +Day after day had elapsed, and the priest, notwithstanding repeated +visits, could never find him at home. The simple-hearted man had +whispered to him in the watch-house, that he wished to speak to him +upon that very subject--a communication which filled the old fellow with +alarm, and the consequence was, that he came to the resolution of not +seeing him at all, if he could possibly avoid it. + +One day, however, when better than a week had passed, Father M'Mahon +entered his shop, where he found a woman standing', as if she expected +some person to come in. His wife was weighing huckstery with her back to +the counter, so that she was not aware of his presence. Without speaking +a word he passed as quietly as possible into the little back parlor, and +sat down. After about fifteen minutes he heard a foot overhead passing +stealthily across the room, and coming to the lobby, where there was a +pause, as if the person were listening. At length the foot first came +down one stair very quietly, then another, afterwards a third, and again +there was a second pause, evidently to listen as before. The priest kept +his eyes steadily on the staircase, but was placed in such a position +that he could see without being visible himself. At length Corbet's +long scraggy neck was seen projecting like that of an ostrich across the +banisters, which commanded a view of the shop through the glass door. +Seeing the coast, as he thought, clear, he ventured to speak. + +“Is he gone?” he asked, “for I'll take my oath I saw him come up the +street.” + +“You needn't trust your eyes much longer, I think,” replied his wife, +“you saw no such man; he wasn't here at all.” + +“Bekaise I know it's about that poor boy he's coming; and sure, if +I stir in it, or betray the others, I can't keep the country; an', +besides, I will lose my pension.” + +Having concluded these words he came down the stairs into the little +parlor we have mentioned, where he found Father M'Mahon sitting, his +benevolent features lit up with a good deal of mirth at the confusion of +Corbet, and the rueful aspect he exhibited on being caught in the trap +so ingeniously laid for him. + +“Dunphy,” said the priest, for by this name he went in the city, +“you are my prisoner; but don't be afraid in the mane time--better my +prisoner than that of a worse man. And now, you thief o' the world, why +did you refuse to see me for the last week? Why keep me trotting day +after day, although you know I wanted to speak with you? What have you +to say for yourself?” + +Corbet, before replying, gave a sharp, short, vindictive glance at his +wife, whom he suspected strongly of having turned traitress, and played +into the hands of the enemy. + +“Troth, your reverence, I was sorry to hear that you had come so often;” + and as he spoke, another glance toward the shop seemed to say, “You +deceitful old wretch, you have betrayed and played the devil with me.” + +“I don't at all doubt it, Anthony,” replied the priest, “the truth being +that you were sorry I came at all. Come I am, however, and if I were to +wait for twelve months, I wouldn't go without seeing you. Call in Mrs. +Dunphy till I spake to her, and ask her how she is.” + +“You had better come in, ma'am,” said the old fellow, in a tone of voice +that could not be misunderstood; “here's Father M'Mahon, who wants to +spake to you.” + +“Arra, get out o' that!” she replied; “didn't I tell you that he didn't +show his round rosy face to-day yet; but I'll go bail he'll be here for +all that--sorra day he missed for the last week, and it's a scandal for +you to thrate him as you're doin'--sorra thing else.” + +“Stop your goster,” said Dunphy, “and come in--isn't he inside here?” + +The woman came to the door, and giving a hasty and incredulous look +in, started, exclaiming, “Why, then, may I never sin, but he is. Musha! +Father M'Mahon, how in the name o' goodness did you get inside at all?” + +“Aisily enough,” he replied; “I only made myself invisible for a couple +of minutes, and passed in while you were weighing something for a woman +in the shop.” + +“Troth, then, one would think you must a' done so, sure enough, for the +sorrow a stim of you I seen anyhow.” + +“O, she's so attentive to her business, your reverence,” said Anthony, +with bitter irony, “that she sees nothing else. The lord mayor might +drive his coach in, and she wouldn't see him. There's an ould proverb +goin' that says there's none so blind as thim that won't see. Musha, +sir, wasn't that a disagreeable turn that happened you the other +morning?” + +“But it didn't last long, that was one comfort. The Lord save me from +ever seeing such another sight. I never thought our nature was capable +of such things; it is awful, even to think of it. Yes, terrible to +reflect, that there were unfortunate wretches there who will probably +be hurried into eternity without repenting for their transgressions, and +making their peace with God;” and as he concluded, Corbet found that the +good pastor's eye was seriously and solemnly fixed upon him. + +“Indeed--it's all true, your reverence--it'a all true,” he replied. + +“Now, Anthony,” continued the priest, “I have something very important +to spake to you about; something that will be for your own benefit, +not only in this world, but in that awful one which is to come, and for +which we ought to prepare ourselves sincerely and earnestly. Have you +any objection that your wife should be present, or shall we go upstairs +and talk it over there?” + +“I have every objection,” replied Corbet; “something she does know, +but--” + +“O thank goodness,” replied the old woman, very naturally offended at +being kept out of the secret, “I'm not in all your saicrets, nor I don't +wish to know them, I'm sure. I believe you find some of them a heavy +burden; at any rate.” + +“Come, then,” said the priest, “put on your hat and take a walk with me +as far as the Brazen Head inn, where I'm stopping. We can have a private +room there, where there will be no one to interrupt us.” + +“Would it be the same thing to you, sir, if I'd call on you there about +this time to-morrow?” + +“What objection have you to come now?” asked the priest. “Never put +off till tomorrow what can be done to-day, is a good old proverb, and +applies to things of weightier importance than belong to this world.” + +“Why, then, it's a little business of a very particular nature that I +have to attend to; and yet I don't know,” he added, “maybe I'll be +a betther match for them afther seeing you. In the mane time,” he +proceeded, addressing his wife, “if they should come here to look for +me, don't say where I'm gone, nor, above all things, who I'm with. Mark +that now; and tell Charley, or Ginty, whichever o' them comes, that it +must be put off till to-morrow--do you mind, now?” + +She merely nodded her head, by way of attention. + +“Ay,” he replied, with a sardonic grin, “you'll be alive, as you were a +while ago, I suppose.” + +They then proceeded on their way to the Brazen Head, which they reached +without any conversation worth recording. + +“Now, Anthony,” began the priest, after they had seated themselves +comfortably in a private room, “will you answer me truly why you refused +seeing me? why you hid or absconded whenever I went to your house for +the last week?” + +“Bekaise I did not wish to see you, then.” + +“Well, that's the truth,” said the priest, “and I know it. But why did +you not wish to see me?” he inquired; “you must have had some reason for +it.” + +“I had my suspicions.” + +“You had, Anthony; and you've had the same suspicions this many a long +year--ever since the day I saw you pass through the hall in the private +mad-house in--.” + +“Was that the time Mr. Quin was there? asked Anthony, unconsciously +committing himself from the very apprehension of doing so by giving a +direct answer to the question. + +“Ah! ha! Anthony, then you knew Mr. Quin was there. That will do; but +there's not the slightest use in beating about the bush any longer. You +have within the last half-hour let your secret out, within my own +ears, and before my own eyes. And so you have a pension from the Black +Baronet; and you, an old man, and I fear a guilty one, are receiving the +wages of iniquity and corruption from that man--from the man that first +brought shame and everlasting disgrace, and guilt and madness into and +upon your family and name--a name that had been without a stain before. +Yes; you have sold yourself as a slave--a bond-slave--have become the +creature and instrument of his vices--the clay in his hands that he can +mould as he pleases, and that he will crush and trample on, and shiver +to pieces, the moment his cruel, unjust, and diabolical purposes are +served.” + +Anthony's face was a study, but a fearful study, whilst the priest +spoke. As the reverend gentleman went on, it darkened into the +expression of perfect torture; he gasped and started as if every word +uttered had given him a mortal stab; his keen old eye nickered with +scintillations of unnatural and turbid fire, until the rebuke was ended. + +The priest had observed this, and naturally imputed the feeling to an +impression of remorse, not, it is true, unmingled with indignation. We +may imagine his surprise, therefore, on seeing that face suddenly change +into one of the wildest and most malignant delight. A series of dry, +husky hiccoughs, or what is termed the black laugh, rapidly repeated, +proceeded from between his thin jaws, and his eyes now blazed with an +expression of such fiery and triumphant vengeance, that the other felt +as if some fiendish incarnation of malignity, and not a man, sat before +him. + +“Crush me!” he exclaimed, “crush me, indeed! Wait a little. What have I +been doin' all this time? I tell you that I have been every day for this +many a long year windin' myself like a serpent about him, till I get him +fairly in my power; and when I do--then for one sharp, deadly sting +into his heart:--ay, and, like the serpent, it's in my tongue that +sting lies--from that tongue the poison must come that will give me the +revenge that I've been long waitin' for.” + +“You speak,” replied the priest, “and, indeed, you look more like +an evil spirit than a man, Anthony. This language is disgraceful and +unchristian, and such as no human being should utter. How can you think +of death with such principles in your heart?” + +“I'll tell you how I think on death: I'm afeared of it when I think of +that poor, heartbroken woman, Lady Gourlay; but when I think of him--of +him--I do hope and expect that my last thought in this world will be the +delightful one that I've had my revenge on him.” + +“And you would risk the misery of another world for the gratification +of one evil passion in this! Oh, God help you, and forgive you, and turn +your heart!” + +“God help me, and forgive me, and turn my heart! but not so far as he is +consarned. I neither wish it, nor pray for it, and what's more, if you +were fifty priests, I never will. Let us drop this subject, then, for so +long as we talk of him, I feel as if the blood in my ould veins was all +turned into fire.” + +The priest saw and felt that this was true, and resolved to be guided +by the hint he had unconsciously received. To remonstrate with him upon +Christian principles, in that mood of mind, would, he knew, be to no +purpose. If there were an assailable point about him, he concluded, from +his own words, that it was in connection with the sufferings of Lady +Gourlay, and the fate of her child. On this point, therefore, he +resolved to sound him, and ascertain, without, if possible, alarming +him, how far he would go on--whether he felt disposed to advance at all, +or not. + +“Well,” said the priest, “since you are resolved upon an act of +vengeance--against which, as a Christian priest and a Christian man, I +doubly protest--I think it only right that you should perform an act +of justice also. You know it is wrong to confound the innocent with the +guilty. There is Lady Gourlay, with the arrow of grief, and probably +despair, rankling in her heart for years. Now, you could restore that +woman to happiness--you could restore her lost child to happiness, and +bid the widowed mother's heart leap for joy.” + +“It isn't for that I'd do it, or it would, maybe, be done long ago; but +I'm not sayin' I know where her son is. Do you think now, if I did, that +it wouldn't gratify my heart to pull down that black villain--to tumble +him down in the eyes of all the world with disgrace and shame, from the +height he's sittin' on, and make him a world's wondher of villany and +wickedness?” + +“I know very well,” replied the priest, who, not wishing to use an +unchristian argument, thought it still too good to be altogether left +out, “I know very well that you cannot restore Lady Gourlay's son, +without punishing the baronet at the same time. If you be guided by +me, however, you will think only of what is due to the injured lady +herself.” + +“Do you think, now,” persisted Corbet, not satisfied with the priest's +answer, and following up his interrogatory, “do you think, I say, that +I wouldn't 'a' dragged him down like a dog in the kennel, long ago, if I +knew where his brother's son was.” + +“From your hatred to Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the other, “I think it +likely you would have tumbled him long since if you could.” + +“Why,” exclaimed Corbet, with another sardonic and derisive grin, +“that's a proof of how little you know of a man's heart. Do you forget +what I said awhile ago about the black villain--that I have been windin' +myself about him for years, until I get him fairly into my power? When +that time comes, you'll see what I'll do.” + +“But will that time soon come?” asked the other. “Recollect that you are +now an old man, and that old age is not the time to nourish projects of +vengeance. Death may seize you--may take you at a short notice--so that +it is possible you may never live to execute your devilish purpose on +the one hand, nor the act of justice toward Lady Gourlay on the other. +Will that time soon come, I ask?” + +“So far I'll answer you. It'll take a month or two--not more. I have +good authority for what I'm sayin'.” + +“And what will you do then?” + +“I'll tell you that,” he replied; and rising up, he shut his two hands, +turning in his thumbs, and stretching his arms down along his body on +each side, he stooped down, and looking directly and fully into the +priest's eyes, he replied, “I'll give him back his son.” + +“Tut!” returned the clergyman, whose honest heart, and sympathies were +all with the widow and her sorrows; “I was thinking of Lady Gourlay's +son. In the mane time, that's a queer way of punishing the baronet. +You'll give him back his son?--pooh!” + +“Ay,” replied Corbet, “that's the way I'll have my revenge; and maybe +it'll be a greater one than you think. That's all.” + +This was accompanied by a sneer and a chuckle, which the ambiguous old +sinner could not for the blood of him suppress. “And now,” he added, “I +must be off.” + +“Sir,” said Father M'Mahon, rising up and traversing the room with +considerable heat, “you have been tampering with the confidence I was +disposed to place in you. Whatever dark game you are playing, or have +been playing, I know not; but this I can assure you, that Lady Gourlay's +friends know more of your secrets than you suspect. I believe you to +be nothing more nor less than a hardened old villain, whose heart is +sordid, and base, and cruel--corrupted, I fear, beyond all hope of +redemption. You have been playing with me, sir--sneering at me in your +sleeve, during this whole dialogue. This was a false move, however, on +your part, and you will find it so. I am not a man to be either played +with or sneered at by such a snake-like and diabolical old scoundrel as +you are. Listen, now, to me. You think your secret is safe; you think +you are beyond the reach of the law; you think we know nothing of your +former movements under the guidance and in personal company with the +Black Baronet. Pray, did you think it impossible that there was +above you a God of justice, and of vengeance, too, whose providential +disclosures are sufficient to bring your villany to light? Anthony +Corbet, be warned in time. Let your disclosures be voluntary, and they +will be received with gratitude, with deep thanks, with ample rewards; +refuse to make them, endeavor still further to veil the crimes to which +I allude, and sustain this flagitious compact, and we shall drag them up +your throat, and after forcing you to disgorge them, we shall send you, +in your wicked and impenitent old age, where the clank of the felon's +chain will be the only music in your ears, and that chain itself the +only garter that will ever keep up your Connemaras. Now begone, and lay +to heart what I've said to you. It wasn't my intention to have let you +go without a bit of something to eat, and a glass of something to wash +it down afterwards; but you may travel now; nothing stronger than pure +air will cross your lips in this house, unless at your own cost.” + +The old fellow seemed to hesitate, as if struck by some observation +contained in the priest's lecture. + +“When do you lave town, sir?” he asked. + +“Whenever it's my convanience,” replied the other; “that's none of your +affair. I'll go immediately and see Skipton.” + +The priest observed that honest Anthony looked still graver at the +mention of this name. “If you don't go,” he added, “until a couple of +days hence, I'd like to see you again, about this hour, the day afther +tomorrow.” + +“Whether I'll be here, or whether I won't is more than I know. I may be +brought to judgment before then, and so may you. You may come then, or +you may stay away, just as you like. If you come, perhaps I'll see you, +and perhaps I won't. So now good-by! Thank goodness we are not depending +on you!” + +Anthony then slunk out of the room with a good deal of hesitation in his +manner, and on leaving the hall-door he paused for a moment, and seemed +disposed to return. At length he decided, and after lingering awhile, +took his way toward Constitution Hill. + +This interview with the priest disturbed Corbet very much. His +selfishness, joined to great caution and timidity of character, rendered +him a very difficult subject for any man to wield according to his +purposes. There could be no doubt that he entertained feelings of the +most diabolical resentment and vengeance against the baronet, and yet it +was impossible to get out of him the means by which he proposed to visit +them upon him. On leaving Father M'Mahon, therefore, he experienced +a state of alternation between a resolution to make disclosures and a +determination to be silent and work out his own plans. He also feared +death, it is true: but this was only when those rare visitations of +conscience occurred that were awakened by superstition, instead of an +enlightened and Christian sense of religion. This latter was a word +he did not understand, or rather one for which he mistook superstition +itself. Be this as it may, he felt uneasy, anxious, and irresolute, +wavering between the right and the wrong, afraid to take his stand by +either, and wishing, if he could, to escape the consequences of both. +Other plans, however, were ripening as well as his, under the management +of those who were deterred by none of his cowardice or irresolution. The +consideration of this brings us to a family discussion; which it becomes +our duty to detail before we proceed any further in our narrative. + +On the following day, then, nearly the same party of which we have +given an account in an early portion of this work, met in the same +eating-house we have already described; the only difference being that +instead of O'Donegan, the classical teacher, old Corbet himself was +present. The man called Thomas Corbet, the eldest son Anthony, Ginty +Cooper the fortune-teller, Ambrose Gray, and Anthony himself, composed +this interesting sederunt. The others had been assembled for some time +before the arrival of Anthony, who consequently had not an opportunity +of hearing the following brief dialogue. + +“I'm afraid of my father,” observed Thomas; “he's as deep as a +draw-well, and it's impossible to know what he's at. How are we to +manage him at all?” + +“By following his advice, I think,” said Ginty. “It's time, I'm sure, to +get this boy into his rights.” + +“I was very well disposed to help you in that,” replied her brother; +“but of late he has led such a life, that I fear if he comes into the +property, he'll do either us or himself little credit; and what is still +worse, will he have sense to keep his own secret? My father says his +brother, the legitimate son, is dead; that he died of scarlet-fever +many years ago in the country---and I think myself, by the way, that he +looks, whenever he says it, as if he himself had furnished the boy with +the fever. That, however, is not our business. If I had been at Red +Hall, instead of keeping the house and place in town, it's a short time +the other--or Fenton as he calls himself--would be at large. He's now +undher a man that will take care of him. But indeed it's an easy task. +He'll never see his mother's face again, as I well know. Scarman has +him, and I give the poor devil about three months to live. He doesn't +allow him half food, but, on the other hand, he supplies him with more +whiskey than he can drink; and this by the baronet's own written orders. +As for you, Mr. Gray, for we may as well call you so yet awhile, your +conduct of late has been disgraceful.” + +“I grant it,” replied Mr. Gray, who was now sober; “but the truth is, +I really looked, after some consideration, upon the whole plan as quite +impracticable. As the real heir, however, is dead--” + +“Not the real heir, Amby, if you please. He, poor fellow, is in custody +that he will never escape from again. Upon my soul, I often pitied him.” + +“How full of compassion you are!” replied his sister. + +“I have very little for the baronet, however,” he replied; “and I hope +he will never die till I scald the soul in his body. Excuse me, Amby. +You know all the circumstances of the family, and, of course, that you +are the child of guilt and shame.” + +“Why, yes, I'm come on the wrong side as to birth, I admit; but if I +clutch the property and title, I'll thank heaven every day I live for my +mother's frailty.” + +“It was not frailty, you unfeeling boy,” replied Ginty, “so much as my +father's credulity and ambition. I was once said to be beautiful, and +he, having taken it into his head that this man, when young, might love +me, went to the expense of having me well educated. He then threw me +perpetually into his society; but I was young and artless at the time, +and believed his solemn oaths and promises of marriage.” + +“And the greater villain he,” observed her brother; “for I myself did +not think there could be danger in your intimacy, because you and he +were foster-children; and, except in his case, I never knew another +throughout the length and breadth of the country, where the obligation +of that tie was forgotten.” + +“Well,” observed Ambrose, “we must only make the best of our position. +If I succeed, you shall, according to our written agreement, be all +provided for. Not that I would feel very strongly disposed to do much +for that enigmatical old grandfather of mine. The vile old ferret saw +me in the lock-up the other morning, and refused to bail me out; ay, and +threatened me besides.” + +“He did right,” replied his uncle; “and if you're caught there again, +I'll not only never bail you out, but wash my hands of the whole affair. +So now be warned, and let it be for your good. Listen, then; for the +case in which you stand is this: there is Miss Gourlay and Dunroe +going to be married after all; for she has returned to her father, and +consented to marry the young lord. The baronet, too, is ill, and I don't +think will live long. He is burned out like a lime-kiln; for, indeed, +like that, his whole life has been nothing but smoke and fire. Very +well; now pay attention. If we wait until these marriage articles are +drawn up, the appearance or the discovery of this heir here will create +great confusion; and you may take my word that every opposition will be +given, and every inquiry made by Dunroe, who, as there seems to be +no heir, will get the property; for it goes, in that case, with Miss +Gourlay. Every knot is more easily tied than untied. Let us produce the +heir, then, before the property's disposed of, and then we won't have +to untie the knot--to invalidate the marriage articles. So far, so +good--that's our plan. But again, there's the baronet ill; should he die +before we establish this youth's rights, think of our difficulty. And, +thirdly, he's beginning to suspect our integrity, as he is pleased to +call it. That strange gentleman, Ginty, has mentioned circumstances to +him that he says could come only from my father or myself, or you.” + +“Proceed,” replied his sister, “proceed; I may look forward to the +fulfilment of these plans; but I will never live to see it.” + +“You certainly are much changed for the worse,” replied her brother, +“especially since your reason has been restored to you. In the meantime, +listen. The baronet is now ill, although Gibson says there's no danger +of him; he's easier in his mind, however, in consequence of this +marriage, that he has, for life or death, set his heart on; and +altogether this is the best time to put this vagabond's pretensions +forward.” + +“Thank you, uncle,” replied Ambrose, with a clouded brow. “In six months +hence, perhaps, I'll be no vagabond.” + +“Ay, in sixty years hence you will; and indeed, I fear, to tell you the +truth, that you'll never be anything else. That, however, is not the +question now. We want to know what my father may say--whether he will +agree with us, or whether he can or will give us any better advice. +There is one thing, at least, we ought to respect him for; and that is, +that he gave all his family a good education, although he had but little +of that commodity himself, poor man.” + +He had scarcely concluded, when old Anthony made his appearance, with +that mystical expression on his face, half sneer, half gloom, which +would lead one to conclude that his heart was divided between remorse +and vengeance. + +“Well,” said he, “you're at work, I see--honestly employed, of course. +Ginty, how long is Mr. Ambrose here dead now?” + +“He died,” replied her brother, “soon after the intention of changing +the children took place. You took the hint, father, from the worthy +baronet himself.” + +“Ay, I did; and I wish I had not. You died, my good young fellow, of +scarlet-fever--let me see--but divil a much matther it is when you +died; it's little good you'll come to, barrin' you change your heart. +They say, indeed, the divil's children have the divil's luck; but I say, +the divil's children have the divil's face, too; for sure he's as like +the black fiend his father as one egg is to another.” + +“And that will strengthen the claim,” replied the young man, with a +grin. “I don't look too old, I hope?” + +“There's only two years' difference between you and the boy, your +brother, that's dead,” said his mother. “But I wish we were well through +with this. My past life seems to me like a dream. My contemplated +revenge upon that bad man, and my ambition for this boy, are the only +two principles that now sustain me. What a degraded life has Thomas +Gourlay caused me to lead! But I really think that I saw into futurity; +nay, I am certain of it; otherwise, what put hundreds of predictions +into my lips, that were verified by the event?” + +There was a momentary expression of wildness in her eye as she spoke, +which the others observed with pain. + +“Come, Ginty,” said her brother, “keep yourself steady now, at all +events; be cool and firm, till we punish this man. If you want to know +why you foretold so much, I'll tell you. It was because you could put +two and two together.” + +“My whole life has been a blank,” she proceeded, “an empty dream--a +dead, dull level; insanity, vengeance, ambition, all jostling and +crossing each other in my unhappy mind; not a serious or reasonable +duty of life discharged; no claim on society--no station in the work of +life--an impostor to the world, and a dupe to myself; but it was he did +it. Go on; form your plans--make them firm and sure; for, by Him who +withdrew the light of reason from my spirit--by Him from whom it came, I +will have vengeance. Father, I know you well, and I am your daughter.” + +“You know me well, do you?” he replied, with his usual grin. “Maybe you +do, and maybe you don't; but let us proceed. The baronet's son's dead, +you know.” + +“But what makes you look as you do, father, when you say so? Your face +seems to contradict your words. You know you have told us for years that +he's dead.” + +“And I'm a liar, am I?” he replied, looking at him with a peculiar +smile. + +“No, I don't say so; certainly not. But, still, you squeeze your face up +in such a way that you don't seem to believe it yourself.” + +“Come, come,” continued the old man, “this is all useless. What do you +intend to do? How do you intend to proceed?” + +“We sent for you to advise us in that,” replied his son. “You are the +oldest and the wisest here, and of course ought to possess the soundest +judgment.” + +“Well, then, my advice to you is, to go about your business; that is, to +do any lawful business that you have to do, and not to bring yourselves +to disgrace by puttin' forrid this drunken profligate, who will pitch +us all to the devil when he gets himself safe, and tread in his black +father's steps afterwards.” + +“And you must assist us, father,” said Ginty, rising up, and pacing to +and fro the room in a state of great agitation. “You, the first cause, +the original author of my shame; you, to whose iniquitous avarice and +vulgar ambition I fell a sacrifice, as much as I did to the profligacy +and villany of Thomas Gourlay. But I care not--I have my ambition; it is +a mother's, and more natural on that account. I have also my vengeance +to gratify; for, father, we are your children, and vengeance is the +family principle. Father, you must assist us--you must join us--you +must lend us your perjury--supply us with false oaths, with deceitful +accounts, with all that is necessary; for, father, it is to work out +your own principles--that I may be able to die smiling--smiling that +I have overreached and punished him at last. That, you know, will be a +receipt in full for my shame and madness. Now, I say, father, you must +do this, or I will kneel down and curse you.” + +The old man, as she proceeded, kept his eyes fixed upon her, first with +a look of indifference; this, however, became agreeable and complacent; +gradually his eye kindled as he caught her spirit, and when she had +concluded, he ground his black old stumps of teeth together with a +vindictive energy that was revolting, or at least would have been so to +any others unless those that were present. + +“Well, Ginty,” he replied, “I have turned it over in my mind, and as +helpin' you now will be givin' the black fellow an additional stab, I'll +do it. Yes, my lad,” he added, grinning rather maliciously, by the way, +at the object of his promised support, “I will make a present of you to +your father; and a thankful man he ought to be to have the like of you. +I was sometimes for you, and sometimes against you; but, at all events, +the old fellow must have you--for the present at least.” + +This was accompanied by another grin, which was, as usual, perfectly +inexplicable to the others. But as he had expressed his assent and +promised his assistance, they were glad to accept it on his own terms +and in his own way. + +“Well, then,” he proceeded, “now that we've made up our minds to go +through with it, I'll think over what's to be done--what's the best +steps to take, and the best time and place to break it to him. This will +require some time to think of it, and to put things together properly; +so let us have a drop of something to drink, and we can meet again in +few days.” + +Having partaken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon +afterwards separated until another opportunity. + +Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is already acquainted, +took but little part, as may have been perceived, in the discussion of +a project which so deeply affected his own interests. When it was first +discovered to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at +the bare probability of such an event. Subsequent reflection, however, +induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble, that could +not bear the touch of a finger without melting into air. It was true +he was naturally cunning, but then he was also naturally profligate and +vicious; and although not without intellect, yet was he deficient +in self-command to restrain himself when necessary. Altogether, his +character was bad, and scarcely presented to any one a favorable +aspect. When affected with liquor he was at once quarrelsome and +cowardly--always the first to provoke a fight, and the first, also, to +sneak out of it. + +Soon after the disappearance of Sir Edward Gourlay's heir, the notion of +removing the baronet's own son occurred, not to his mother, nor to her +brother, but to old Corbet, who desired his son Charles, then a young +man, and the baronet's foster-brother, as a preparatory step to his +ultimate designs, to inform him that his illegitimate son was dead. Sir +Thomas at this time had not assumed the title, nor taken possession of +the immense estates. + +“Mr. Gourlay,” said Charles, “that child is dead; I was desired to tell +you so by my father, who doesn't wish to speak to you himself upon the +subject.” + +“Well,” replied Mr. Gourlay, “what affair is that of mine?” + +“Why,” said the other, “as the unfortunate mother is insane, and +without means of providing decently for its burial, he thinks it only +reasonable that you should furnish money for that purpose--he, I know, +won't.” + +“What do you mean by providing decently?” asked Mr. Gourlay. “What stuff +that is!--throw the brat into a shell, and bury it. I am cursedly glad +it's gone. There's half-a-crown, and pitch it into the nearest kennel. +Why the deuce do you come to me with such a piece of information?” + +Charles Corbet, being his father's son, looked at him, and we need +not at any length describe the nature of that look nor the feeling it +conveyed. This passed, but was not forgotten; and on being detailed by +Charles Corbet to his father, the latter replied, + +“Ah, the villain--that's his feelin', is it! Well, never mind, I'll +punish him one day.” + +Some months after this he came into Mr. Gourlay's study, with a very +solemn and anxious face, and said, + +“I have something to say to you, sir.” + +“Well, Anthony, what is it you have to say to me?” + +“Maybe I'm wrong, sir, and I know I oughtn't to alarm you or disturb +your mind; but still I think I ought to put you on your guard.” + +“Confound your caution, sir; can't you come out with whatever you have +to say at once?” + +“Would it be possible, sir, that there could be any danger of the child +bein' taken away like the other--like your brother's?” + +“What do you mean--why do you ask such a question?” + +“Bekaise, sir, I observed for the last few days a couple of strange men +peepin' and pimpin' about the place, and wherever the child went they +kept dodgin' afther him.” + +“But why should any one think of taking him away?” + +“Hem!--well, I don't know, sir; but you know that the heir was taken +away.” + +“Come, Anthony, be quiet--walls have ears; go on.” + +“What 'ud you think if there was sich a thing as revinge in the world? +I'm not suspectin' any one, but at the same time, a woman's revinge +is the worst and deepest of all revinges. You know very well that she +suspects you--and, indeed, so does the world.” + +“But very wrongly, you know, Anthony,” replied the baronet, with a smile +dark as murder. + +“Why, ay, to be sure,” replied the instrument, squirting the tobacco +spittle into the fire, and turning on him a grin that might be +considered a suitable commentary upon the smile of his employer. + +“But,” added Mr. Gourlay, “what if it should be the father, instead of +the son, they want?” + +“But why would they be dodgin' about the child, sir?” + +“True; it is odd enough. Well, I shall give orders to have him well +watched.” + +“And, with the help o' God, I'll put a mark upon him that'll make him +be known, at any rate, through all changes, barrin' they should take his +life.” + +“How do you mean by a mark!” asked the other. + +“I learnt it in the army, sir, when I was with Sir Edward. It's done by +gunpowder. It can do no harm, and will at any time durin' his life make +him known among millions. It can do no harm, at any rate, sir.” + +“Very well, Anthony--very well,” replied Mr. Gourlay; “mark him as you +like, and when it is done, let me see it.” + +In about a fortnight afterwards, old Corbet brought his son to him, and +raising his left arm, showed him the child's initials distinctly marked +on the under part of it, together with a cross and the family crest; all +so plainly and neatly executed, that the father was surprised at it. + +Nothing, however, happened at that time; vigilance began to relax as +suspicion diminished, until one morning, about eight months afterwards, +it was found that the child had disappeared. It is unnecessary to add, +that every possible step was taken to discover him. Searches were made, +the hue and cry was up, immense rewards were offered; but all in vain. +From that day forth neither trace nor tidings of him could be found, and +in the course of time he was given up, like the heir of the property, +altogether for lost. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. Discovery of the Baronet's Son + +--Who, however, is Shelved for a Time. + + +Lord Dunroe, as had already been agreed upon between him and her father, +went directly to that worthy gentleman, that he might make a faithful +report of the interview. + +“Well, Dunroe,” said the baronet, “what's the news? How did it go off?” + +“Just as we expected,” replied the other. “Vapors, entreaties, and +indignation. I give you my honor, she asked me to become her advocate +with you, in order to get released from the engagement. That was rather +cool, wasn't it?” + +“And what did you say?” + +“Why, the truth is, I conducted the affair altogether on a new +principle. I maintained that love should not be a necessary element in +marriage; vindicated the rights of honest indifference, and said that it +was against my system to marry any woman who was attached to me.” + +“Why, I remember preaching some such doctrine, in a bantering way, to +her myself.” + +“Guided by this theory, I met her at every turn; but, nevertheless, +there was a good deal of animated expostulation, tears, solicitations, +and all that.” + +“I fear you have mismanaged the matter some way; if you have followed +my advice, and done it with an appearance of common sense, so much the +better. This would have required much tact, for Lucy is a girl very +difficult to be imposed upon by appearances. I am the only person who +can do so, but! that is because I approach her aided by my knowledge of +her filial affection. As it is, however, these things are quite common. +My own wife felt much the same way with myself, and yet we lived as +happily as most people. Every young baggage must have her scenes and her +sacrifices. Ah! what a knack they have got at magnifying everything! How +do you do, my Lady Dunroe? half a dozen times repeated, however, will +awaken her vanity, and banish all this girlish rodomontade.” + +“'Room for the Countess of Cullamore,' will soon follow,” replied his +lordship, laughing, “and that will be still better. The old peer, as +Norton and I call him, is near the end of his journey, and will make his +parting bow to us some of these days.” + +“Did she actually consent, though?” asked the father, somewhat +doubtfully. + +“Positively, Sir Thomas; make your mind easy upon that point. To be +sure, there were protestations and entreaties, and God knows what; but +still the consent was given.” + +“Exactly, exactly,” replied her father; “I knew it would be so. Well, +now, let us not lose much time about it. I told those lawyers to wait a +little for further instructions, because I was anxious to hear how this +interview would end, feeling some apprehension that she might relapse +into obstinacy; but now that she has consented, we shall go on. They may +meet to-morrow, and get the necessary writings drawn up; and then for +the wedding.” + +“Will not my father's illness stand a little in the way?” asked Dunroe. + +“Not a bit; why should it? But he really is not ill, only getting feeble +and obstinate. The man is in his dotage. I saw him yesterday, and he +refused, most perversely, to sanction the marriage until some facts +shall come to his knowledge, of which he is not quite certain at +present. I told him the young people would not wait; and he replied, +that if I give you my daughter now, I shall do so at my peril; and +that I may consider myself forewarned. I know he is thinking of your +peccadilloes, my lord, for he nearly told me as much before. I think, +indeed, he is certainly doting, otherwise there is no understanding +him.” + +“You are light, Sir Thomas; the fuss he makes about morality and +religion is a proof that he is. In the meantime, I agree with you +that there is little time to be lost. The lawyers must set to work +immediately; and the sooner the better, for I am naturally impatient.” + +They then shook hands very cordially, and Dunroe took his leave. + +The reader may have observed that in this conversation the latter +reduced his account of the interview to mere generalities, a mode of +reporting it which was agreeable to both, as it spared each of them +some feeling. Dunroe, for instance, never mentioned a syllable of Lucy's +having frankly avowed her passion for another; neither did Sir Thomas +make the slightest allusion to the settled disinclination to marry +him which he knew she all along felt. Indifferent, however, as Dunroe +naturally was to high-minded feeling or principle, he could not +summon courage to dwell upon this attachment of Lucy to another. +A consciousness of his utter meanness and degradation of spirit in +consenting to marry any woman under such circumstances, filled him with +shame even to glance at it. He feared, besides, that if her knavish +father had heard it, he would at once have attributed his conduct to its +proper motives--that is to say, an eagerness to get into the possession +and enjoyment of the large fortune to which she was entitled. He +himself, in his conversations with the baronet, never alluded to the +subject of dowry, but placed his anxiety for the match altogether to the +account of love. So far, then, each was acting a fraudulent part toward +the other. + +The next morning, about the hour of eleven o'clock, Thomas +Corbet--foster-brother to the baronet, though a much younger man--sent +word that he wished to see him on particular business. This was quite +sufficient; for, as Corbet was known to be more deeply in his confidence +than any other man living, he was instantly admitted. + +“Well, Corbet,” said his master, “I hope there is nothing wrong.” + +“Sir Thomas,” replied the other, “you have a right to be a happy and +a thankful man this morning; and although I cannot mention the joyful +intelligence with which I am commissioned, without grief and shame for +the conduct of a near relation of my own, yet I feel this to be the +happiest day of my life.” + +“What the deuce!” exclaimed the baronet, starting to his feet--“how is +this? What is the intelligence?” + +“Rejoice, Sir Thomas--rejoice and be thankful; but, in the meantime, +pray sit down, if you please, and don't be too much agitated. I know +how evil news, or anything that goes in opposition to your will, affects +you: the two escapes, for instance, of that boy.” + +“Ha! I understand you now,” exclaimed the baronet, whilst the very eyes +danced in his head with a savage delight that was frightful, and, for +the sake of human nature, painful to look upon, “I understand you now, +Corbet--he is dead! eh? Is it not so? Yes, yes--it is--it is true. Well, +you shall have a present of one hundred pounds for the intelligence. You +shall, and that in the course of five minutes.” + +“Sir Thomas,” replied Corbet, calmly, “have patience; the person, Fenton, +you speak about, is still alive; but to all intents and purposes, +dead to you and for you. This, however, is another and a far different +affair. Your son has been found!” + +The baronet's brow fell: he looked grave, and more like a man +disappointed than anything else. In fact, the feeling associated with +the recovery of his son was not strong enough to balance or counteract +that which he experienced in connection with the hoped-for death of the +other. He recovered himself, however, and exclaimed, + +“Found! Tom found!--little Tom found! My God! When--where--how?” + +“Have the goodness to sit down, sir,” replied Corbet, “and I will tell +you.” + +The baronet took a seat, but the feeling of disappointment, although +checked by the intelligence of his son, was not extinguished, and could +still be read in his countenance. He turned his eyes upon Corbet and +said, + +“Well, Corbet, go on; he is not dead, though?” + +“No, sir; thank God, he is not.” + +“Who--who--are you speaking of? Oh, I forgot--proceed. Yes, Corbet, you +are right; I am very much disturbed. Well, speak about my son. Where +is he? In what condition of life? Is he a gentleman--a beggar--a +profligate--what?” + +“You remember, Sir Thomas--hem--you remember that unfortunate affair +with my sister?” + +Corbet's face became deadly pale as he spoke, and his voice grew, by +degrees, hollow and husky; yet he was both calm and cool, as far, at +least, as human observation could form a conjecture. + +“Of course I do; it was a painful business; but the girl was a fool for +losing her senses.” + +“Hear me, Sir Thomas. When her child died, you may remember my father +sent me to you, as its parent, for the means of giving it decent +interment. You cannot forget your words to me on that occasion. I +confess I felt them myself as very offensive. What, then, must his +mother have suffered--wild, unsettled, and laboring, as she was, under a +desperate sense of the injury she had experienced at your hands?” + +“But why have mentioned it to her?” + +“I confess I was wrong there; but I did so to make her feel more +severely the consequences of her own conduct. I did it more in anger +to her than to you. My words, however, instead of producing violence +or outrage on my sister, seemed to make her settle down into a fearful +silence, which none of us could get her out of for several days. It +struck us that her unfortunate malady had taken a new turn, and so it +did.” + +“Well? Well? Well?” + +“Soon after that, your son, Master Thomas, disappeared. You may +understand me now: it was she who took him.” + +“Ah! the vindictive vagabond!” exclaimed the baronet. + +“Have patience, Sir Thomas. She took your little boy with no kind +intention toward him: her object was to leave you without a son; her +object, in fact, was, at first, to murder him, in consequence of your +want, as she thought, of all paternal affection for him she had just +lost, and, in short, of your whole conduct toward her. The mother's +instinct, however, proved stronger than her revenge. She could not take +away the child's life for the thought of her own; but she privately +placed him with an uncle of ours, a classical hedge-school-master, in a +remote part of the kingdom, with whom he lived under a feigned name, and +from whom he received a good education.” + +“But where is he now?” asked the other. “How does he live? Why not bring +him here?” + +“He must first wait your pleasure, you know, Sir Thomas. He's in town, +and has been in town for some time, a student in college.” + +“That's very good, indeed; we must have him out of college, though. Poor +Lucy will go distracted with joy, to know that she has now a brother. +Bring him here, Corbet; but stop, stay--his appearance now--let me +see--caution, Corbet--caution. We must look before us. Miss Gourlay, you +know, is about to be married. Dunroe, I understand; he cares little or +nothing personally about the girl--it is her fortune, but principally +her inheritance, he loves. It is true, he doesn't think that I even +suspect this, much less feel certain of it. How does the young fellow +look, though? Good looking--eh?” + +“Exceedingly like his father, sir; as you will admit on seeing him.” + +“He must have changed considerably, then; for I remember he was supposed +to bear a nearer resemblance to his mother and her family, the only +thing which took him down a little in my affection. But hold; hang it, +I am disturbed more than I have been this long time. What was I speaking +of, Corbet? I forgot--by the way, I hope this is not a bad sign of my +health.” + +“You were talking of Dunroe, sir, and Miss Gourlay's marriage.” + +“Oh, yes, so I was. Well--yes--here it is, Corbet--is it not +possible that the appearance of this young man at this particular +crisis--stepping in, as he does, between Dunroe and the very property +his heart is set upon--might knock the thing to pieces? and there is +all that I have had my heart set upon for years--that grand project of +ambition for my daughter--gone to the winds, and she must put up with +some rascally commoner, after all.” + +“It is certainly possible, sir; and, besides, every one knows that Lord +Dunroe is needy, and wants money at present very much.” + +“In any event, Corbet, it is our best policy to keep this discovery +a profound secret till after the marriage, when it can't affect Miss +Gourlay, or Lady Dunroe as she will then be.” + +“Indeed, I agree with you, Sir Thomas; but, in the meantime, you had +better see your son; he is impatient to come to you and his sister. It +was only last night that the secret of his birth was made known to him.” + +“By what name does he go?” + +“By the name of Ambrose Gray, sir; but I cannot tell you why my sister +gave him such a name, nor where she got it. She was at the time very +unsettled. Of late her reason has returned to her very much, thank God, +although she has still touches of her unfortunate complaint; but they +are slight, and are getting more so every time they come. I trust she +will soon be quite well.” + +The baronet fixed his eye upon the speaker with peculiar steadiness. + +“Corbet,” said he, “you know you have lost a great deal of my confidence +of late. The knowledge of certain transactions which reached that +strange fellow who stopped in the Mitre, you were never able to account +for.” + +“And never will, sir, I fear; I can make nothing of that.” + +“It must be between you and your father, then; and if I thought so--” + +He paused, however, but feared to proceed with anything in the shape of +a threat, feeling that, so far as the fate of poor Fenton was concerned, +he still lay at their mercy. + +“It may have been my father, Sir Thomas, and I am inclined to think it +must, too, as there was no one else could. Our best plan, however, is to +keep quiet and not provoke him. A very short time will put us out of his +power. Fenton's account with this world is nearly settled.” + +“I wish, with all my heart, it was closed,” observed the other; “it's a +dreadful thing to feel that you are liable to every accident, and never +beyond the reach of exposure. To me such a thing would be death.” + +“You need entertain no apprehension, Sir Thomas. The young man is safe, +at last; he will never come to light, you may rest assured. But about +your son--will you not see him?” + +“Certainly; order the carriage, and fetch; him--quietly and as secretly +as you can, observe--his sister must see him, too; and in order to +prepare her, I must first see her. Go now, and lose no time about it.” + +“There is no necessity for a carriage, Sir Thomas; I can have him here +in a quarter of an hour.” + +Sir Thomas went to the drawing-room with the expectation of finding Lucy +there--a proof that the discovery of his son affected him very much, and +deeply; for, in general his habit when he wanted to speak with her was +to have her brought to the library, which was his favorite apartment. +She was not there, however, and without ringing, or making any further +inquiries, he proceeded to an elegant little boudoir, formerly occupied +by her mother and herself, before this insane persecution had rendered +her life so wretched. The chief desire of her heart now was to look at +and examine and contemplate every object that belonged to that mother, +or in which she ever took an interest. On this account, she had of late +selected this boudoir as her favorite apartment; and here, lying asleep +upon a sofa, her cheek resting upon one arm, the baronet found her. He +approached calmly, and with a more extraordinary combination of feelings +than perhaps he had ever experienced in his life, looked upon her; and +whether it was the unprotected helplessness of sleep, or the mournful +impress of suffering and sorrow, that gave such a touching charm to her +beauty, or whether it was the united influence of both, it is difficult +to say; but the fact was, that for an instant he felt one touch of pity +at his heart. + +“She is evidently unhappy,” thought he, as he contemplated her; “and +that face, lovely as it is, has become the exponent of misery and +distress. Goodness me! how wan she is! how pale! and how distinctly do +those beautiful blue veins run through her white and death-like temples! +Perhaps, after all, I am wrong in urging on this marriage. But what can +I do? I have no fixed principle from any source sufficiently authentic +to guide me; no creed which I can believe. This life is everything to +us; for what do we know, what can we know, of another? And yet, could +it be that for my indifference to what is termed revealed truth, God +Almighty is now making me the instrument of my own punishment? But +how can I receive this doctrine? for here, before my eyes, is not the +innocent suffering as much, if not more, than the guilty, even granting +that I am so? And if I am perversely incredulous, is not here my son +restored to me, as if to reward my unbelief? It is a mysterious maze, +and I shall never get out of it; a curse to know that the most we +can ever know is, that we know--nothing. Yet I will go on with this +marriage. Pale as that brow is, I must see it encircled by the coronet +of a countess; I must see her, as she ought to be, high in rank as she +is in truth, in virtue, in true dignity. I shall force the world to make +obeisance to her; and I shall teach her afterwards to despise it. She +once said to me, 'And is it to gain the applause of a world you hate +and despise, that you wish to exalt me to such a bawble?'--meaning the +coronet. I replied, 'Yes, and for that very reason.' I shall not now +disturb her.” + +He was about to leave the room, when he! noticed that her bosom +began suddenly and rapidly to heave, as if by some strong and fearful +agitation; and a series of close, pain-fed sobbings proceeded from her +half-closed lips. This tumult went on for a little, when at length +it was terminated by one long, wild scream, that might be supposed to +proceed from the very agony of despair itself; and opening her eyes, +she started up, her! face, if possible, paler than before, and her eyes +filled as if with the terror of some horrible vision. + +“No,” she said, “the sacrifice is complete--I am your wife; but there is +henceforth an eternal gulf between us, across which you shall never drag +me.” + +On gazing about her with wild and disturbed looks, she paused for +moment, and, seeing her father, she rose up, and with a countenance +changed from its wildness to one in which was depicted an expression so +woe-begone, so deplorable, so full of sorrow, that it was scarcely in +human nature, hardened into the induration of the world's worst +spirit, not to feel its irresistible influence. She then threw her arms +imploringly and tenderly about his neck, and looking into his eyes as +if she were supplicating for immortal salvation at his hands, she said, +“Oh, papa, have compassion on me.” + +“What's the matter, Lucy? what's the matter, my love?” + +But she only repeated the words, “Oh, papa, have pity on me! have mercy +on me, papa! Save me from destruction--from despair--from madness!” + +“You don't answer me, child. You have been dreaming, and are not +properly awake.” + +Still, however, the arms--the beautiful arms--clung around his neck; and +still the mournful supplication was repeated. + +“Oh, papa, have pity upon me! Look at me! Am I not your daughter? Have +mercy upon your daughter, papa!” And still she clung to him; and still +those eyes, from which the tears now flowed in torrents, were imploring +him, and gazing through his into the very soul within him; then she +kissed his lips, and hung upon him as upon her last stay; and the soft +but melting accents were again breathed mournfully and imploringly +as before. “Oh, have pity upon me, beloved papa--have pity upon your +child!” + +“What do you mean, Lucy? what are you asking, my dear girl? I am willing +to do anything I can to promote your happiness. What is it you want?” + +“I fear to tell you, papa; but surely you understand me. Oh, relent! as +you hope for heaven's mercy, pity me. I have, for your sake, undertaken +too much. I have not strength to fulfil the task I imposed on myself. I +will die; you will see me dead at your feet, and then your last one will +be gone. You will be alone; and I should wish to live for your sake, +papa. Look upon me! I am your only child--your only child--your +last, as I said; and do not make your last and only one +miserable--miserable--mad! Only have compassion on me, and release me +from this engagement.” + +The baronet's eye brightened at the last two or three allusions, and +he looked upon her with a benignity that filled her unhappy heart with +hope. + +“Oh, speak, papa,” she exclaimed, “speak. I see, I feel that you are +about to give me comfort--to fill my heart with joy.” + +“I am, indeed, Lucy. Listen to me, and restrain yourself. You are not my +only child!” + +“What!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, papa? What is it?” + +“Have strength and courage, Lucy; and, mark me, no noise nor rout +about what I am going to say. Your brother is found--my son Thomas is +found--and you will soon see him; he will be here presently. Get rid of +this foolish dream you've had, and prepare to receive him!” + +“My brother!” she exclaimed, “my brother! and have I a brother? Then God +has not deserted me; I shall now have a friend. My brother!--my brother! +But is it possible, or am I dreaming still? Oh, where is he, papa? Bring +me to him!--is he in the house? Or where is he? Let the carriage be +ordered, and we will both go to him. Alas, what may not the poor boy +have suffered! What privations, what necessities, what distress and +destitution may he not have suffered! But that matters little; come to +him. In want, in rags, in misery, he is welcome--yes, welcome; and, oh, +how much more if he has suffered.” + +“Have patience, child; he will be here by and by. You cannot long to +see him more than I do. But, Lucy, listen to me; for the present we must +keep his discovery and restoration to us a profound secret.” + +“A profound secret! and why so, papa? Why should we keep it secret? Is +it not a circumstance which we should publish to the world with delight +and gratitude? Surely you will not bring him into this house like a +criminal, in secrecy and silence? Should the lawful heir of your name +and property be suffered to enter otherwise than as becomes him? Oh, +that I could see him! Will he soon be here?” + +“How your tongue runs on, you foolish girl, without knowing what you +say.” + +“I know what I say, papa. I know--I feel--that he will be a friend to +me--that he will share with me in my sorrows.” + +“Yes, the sorrows of being made a countess.” + +“And a wretched woman, papa. Yes, he will sympathize with, sustain, and +console me. Dear, dear brother, how I wish to see you, to press you to +my heart, and to give you a sister's tenderest welcome!” + +“Will you hear me, madam?” said he, sternly; “I desire you to do so.” + +“Yes, papa; excuse me. My head is in a tumult of joy and sorrow; but for +the present I will forget myself. Yes, papa, speak on; I hear you.” + +“In the first place, then, it is absolutely necessary, for reasons which +I am not yet at liberty to disclose to you, that the discovery of this +boy should be kept strictly secret for a time.” + +“For a time, papa, but not long, I hope. How proud I shall feel to go +out with him. We shall be inseparable; and if he wants instructions, I +shall teach him everything I know.” + +“Arrange all that between you as you may, only observe me, I repeat. +None in this house knows of his restoration but I, yourself, and Corbet. +He must not live here; but he shall want neither the comforts nor the +elegancies of life, at all events. This is enough for the present, so +mark my words, and abide by them.” + +He then left her, and retired to his private room, where he unlocked a +cabinet, from which he took out some papers, and having added to them +two or three paragraphs, he read the whole over, from beginning to end, +then locked them up again, and returned to the library. + +The reader may perceive that this unexpected discovery enabled the +baronet to extricate himself from a situation of much difficulty with +respect to Lucy; nor did he omit to avail himself of it, in order to +give a new turn to her feelings. The affectionate girl's heart was now +in a tumult of delight, checked, however, so obviously by the gloomy +retrospection of the obligation she had imposed upon herself, that from +time to time she could not repress those short sobs by which recent +grief, as in the case of children who are soothed after crying, is +frequently indicated. Next to the hated marriage, however, that which +pressed most severely upon her was the recollection of the manly and +admirable qualities of him whom she had now forever lost, especially +as contrasted with those of Dunroe. The former, for some time past, has +been much engaged in attempting to trace Fenton, as well as in business +connected with his own fortunes; and yet so high was his feeling of +generosity and honor, that, if left to the freedom of his own will, he +would have postponed every exertion for the establishment of his just +rights until death should have prevented at least one honored individual +from experiencing the force of the blow which must necessarily be +inflicted on him by his proceedings. + +At the moment when the baronet was giving such an adroit turn to the +distracted state of his daughter's mind, the stranger resolved to see +Birney, who was then preparing to visit France, as agent in his affairs, +he himself having preferred staying near Lucy, from an apprehension that +his absence might induce Sir Thomas Gourlay to force on her marriage. On +passing through the hall of his hotel, he met his friend Father M'Mahon, +who, much to his surprise, looked careworn and perplexed, having +lost, since he saw him last, much of his natural cheerfulness and easy +simplicity of character. He looked travel-stained, too, and altogether +had the appearance of a man on whose kind heart something unpleasant was +pressing. + +“My excellent friend,” said he, “I am heartily glad to see you. But +how is this? you look as if something was wrong, and you have been +travelling. Come upstairs; and if you have any lengthened stay to make +in town, consider yourself my guest. Nay, as it is, you must stop with +me. Here, Dandy--here, you Dulcimer, bring in this gentleman's luggage, +and attend him punctually.” + +Dandy, who had been coming from the kitchen at the time, was about to +comply with his orders, when he was prevented by the priest. + +“Stop, Dandy, you thief. My luggage, sir! In truth, the only luggage I +have is this bundle under my arm. As to my time in town, sir, I hope +it won't be long; but, long or short, I must stop at my ould place, the +Brazen Head, for not an hour's comfort I could have in any other place, +many thanks to you. I'm now on my way to it; but I thought I'd give you +a call when passing.” + +They then proceeded upstairs to the stranger's room, where breakfast was +soon provided for the priest, who expressed an anxiety to know how the +stranger's affairs proceeded, and whether any satisfactory trace of poor +Fenton had been obtained. + +“Nothing satisfactory has turned up in either case,” replied the +stranger. “No additional clew to the poor young fellow has been got, and +still my own affairs are far from being complete. The loss of important +documents obtained by myself in France will render it necessary for +Birney to proceed to that country, in order to procure fresh copies. I +had intended to accompany him myself; but I have changed my mind on that +point, and prefer remaining where I am. A servant in whom I had every +confidence, but who, unfortunately, took to drink, and worse vices, +robbed me of them, and has fled to America, with a pretty Frenchwoman, +after having abandoned his wife.” + +“Ay, ay,” replied the priest, “that is the old story; first drink, +and after that wickedness of every description. Ah, sir, it's a poor +wretched world; but at the same time it is as God made it; and it +becomes our duty to act an honest and a useful part in it, at all +events.” + +“You seemed depressed, sir, I think,” observed the stranger; “I hope +there is nothing wrong. If there is, command my services, my friendship, +my purse; in each, in all, command me.” + +“Many thanks, many thanks,” returned the other, seizing him warmly by +the hand, whilst the tears fell from his eyes. “I wish there were more +in the world like you. There is nothing wrong with me, however, but what +I will be able, I hope, to set right soon.” + +“I trust you will not allow any false delicacy to stand in your way, so +far as I am concerned,” said the stranger. “I possess not only the wish +but the ability to serve you; and if--” + +“Not now,” replied the priest; “nothing to signify is wrong with me. +God bless you, though, and he will, too, and prosper your honorable +endeavors. I must go now: I have to call on old Corbet, and if I can +influence him to assist you in tracing that poor young man, I will do +it. He is hard and cunning, I know; but then he is not insensible to +the fear of death, which, indeed, is the only argument likely to prevail +with him.” + +“You should dine with me to-day,” said his friend, “but that I am myself +engaged to dine with Dean Palmer, where I am to meet the colonel of +the Thirty-third, and some of the officers. It is the first time I have +dined out since I came to the country. The colonel is an old friend of +mine, and can be depended on.” + +“The dean is a brother-in-law of Lady Gourlay's, is he not?” + +“He is.” + +“Yes, and what is better still, he is an excellent man, and a good +Christian. I wish there were more like him in the country. I know the +good done by him in my own neighborhood, where he has established, by +his individual exertions, two admirable institutions for the poor--a +savings' bank and a loan fund--to the manifest, relief of every +struggling man who is known to be industrious and honest; and see the +consequences--he is loved and honored by all who know him, for he is +perpetually doing good.” + +“Your own bishop is not behindhand in offices of benevolence and +charity, any more than Dean Palmer,” observed the stranger. + +“In truth, you may say so,” replied, the other. “With the piety and +humility of an apostle, he possesses the most childlike simplicity of +heart; to which I may add, learning the most profound and extensive. His +private charity to the poor will always cause himself to be ranked among +their number. I wish every dean and bishop in the two churches resembled +the Christian men we speak of; it would be well for the country.” + +“Mr. Birney, I know, stands well with you. I believe, and I take it for +granted, that he does also with the people.” + +“You may be certain of that, my dear sir. He is one of the few attorneys +who is not a rogue, but, what is still more extraordinary, an honest man +and an excellent landlord. I will tell you, now, what he did some time +ago. He has property, you know, in my parish. On that property an arrear +of upwards of eight hundred pounds had accumulated. Now, this arrear, +in consideration of the general depression in the value of agricultural +produce, he not only wiped off, but abated the rents ten per cent. +Again, when a certain impost, which shall be nameless (tithe), became +a settled charge upon the lands, under a composition act, instead of +charging it against the tenants, he paid it himself, never calling upon +a tenant to pay one farthing of it. Now, I mention these things as an +example to be held up and imitated by those who hold landed property in +general, many of whom, the Lord knows, require such an example badly; +but I must not stop here. Our friend Birney has done more than this. + +“For the last fifteen years he has purchased for and supplied his +tenants with flaxseed, and for which, at the subsequent gale time, in +October, they merely repay him the cost price, without interest or any +other charge save that of carriage. + +“He also gives his tenantry, free of all charges, as much turf-bog as is +necessary for the abundant supply of their own fuel. + +“He has all along paid the poor-rates, without charging one farthing to +the tenant. + +“During a season of potato blight, he forgave every tenant paying under +ten pounds, half a year's rent; under twenty, a quarter's rent; and over +it, twenty per cent. Now, it is such landlords as this that are the best +benefactors to the people, to the country, and ultimately to themselves; +but, unfortunately, we cannot get them to think so; and I fear that +nothing but the iron scourge of necessity will ever teach them their +duty, and then, like most other knowledge derived from the same painful +source, it will probably come too late. One would imagine a landlord +ought to know without teaching, that, when he presses his tenantry until +they fall, he must himself fall with them. In truth, I must be off now.” + +“Well, then, promise to dine with me tomorrow.” + +“If I can I will, then, with pleasure; but still it may be out of my +power. I'll try, however. What's your hour?” + +“Suit your own convenience: name it yourself.” + +“Good honest old five o'clock, then; that is, if I can come at all, but +if I cannot, don't be disappointed. The Lord knows I'll do everything in +my power to come, at any rate; and if I fail, it won't be my heart that +will hinder me.” + +When he had gone, the stranger, after a pause, rang his bell, and in a +few moments Dandy Dulcimer made his appearance. + +“Dandy,” said his master, “I fear we are never likely to trace this +woman, Mrs. Norton, whom I am so anxious to find.” + +“Begad, plaise your honor, and it isn't but there's enough of them to be +had. Sure it's a levy I'm houldin' every day in the week wid them, and +only that I'm engaged, as they say, I'd be apt to turn some o' them into +Mrs. Dulcimer.” + +“How is that, Dandy?” + +“Why, sir, I gave out that you're young and handsome, God pardon me.” + +“How, sirra,” said his master, laughing, “do you mean to say that I am +not?” + +“Well, sir, wait till you hear, and then you may answer yourself; as for +me, afther what I've seen, I'll not undertake to give an opinion on the +subject. I suppose I'm an ugly fellow myself, and yet I know a sartin +fair one that's not of that opinion--ahem!” + +“Make yourself intelligible in the meantime,” said his master: “I don't +properly understand you.” + +“That's just what the Mrs. Nortons say, your honor. 'I don't understand +you, sir;' and that is bekaise you keep me in the dark, and that I can't +explain to them properly what you want; divil a thing but an oracle +you've made of me. But as to beauty--only listen, sir. This mornin' +there came a woman to me wid a thin, sharp face, a fiery eye that looked +as if she had a drop in it, or was goin' to fight a north-wester, and a +thin, red nose that was nothing else than a stunner. She was, moreover, +a good deal of the gentleman on the upper lip--not to mention two or +three separate plantations of the same growth on different parts of the +chin. Altogether, I was very much struck with her appearance.” + +“You are too descriptive, Dandy,” said his master, after enjoying the +description, however; “come to the point.” + +“Ay, that's just what she said,” replied Dandy, “coaxing the point +of her nose wid her finger and thumb: 'Come to the point,' said she; +'mention the services your master requires from me.' + +“'From you,' says I, lookin' astonished, as you may suppose--'from you, +ma'am?' + +“'Yes, my good man, from me; I'm Mrs. Norton.' + +“'Are you indeed, ma'am?' says I; 'I hope you're well, Mrs. Norton. My +master will be delighted to see you.' + +“'What kind of a man is he?' she asked. + +“'Young and handsome, ma'am,' says I; 'quite a janious in beauty.' + +“'Well,' says my lady, 'so far so good; I'm young and handsome myself, +as you see, and I dare say we'll live happily enough together;' and as +she spoke, she pushed up an old bodice that was tied round something +that resembled a dried skeleton, which it only touched at points, like +a reel in a bottle, strivin', of course, to show off a good figure; she +then winked both eyes, as if she was meetin' a cloud o' dust, and agin +shuttin' one, as if she was coverin' me wid a rifle, whispered, 'You'll +find me generous maybe, if you desarve it. I'll increase your allowances +afther our marriage.' + +“'Thanks, ma'am,' says I, 'but my masther isn't a marryin' +man--unfortunately, he is married; still,' says I, recoverin' +myself--for it struck me that she might be the right woman, afther +all--'although he's married, his wife's an invalid; so that it likely +you may be the lady still. Were you ever in France, ma'am?' + +“'No,' says she, tossing up the stunner I spoke of, 'I never was in +Prance; but I was in Tipperary, if that would sarve him.' + +“I shook my head, your honor, as much as to say--'It's no go this time.' + +“'Ma'am,' says I, 'that's unfortunate--my masther, when he gets a loose +leg, will never marry any woman that has not been in France, and can +dance the fandango like a Frenchman.' + +“'I am sorry for his taste,' says she, 'and for yours, too; but at +all events, you had better go up and tell him that I'll walk down the +opposite side of the street, and then he can see what he has lost, and +feel what France has cost him.' + +“She then walked, sir, or rather sailed, down the other side of the +street, holdin' up her clothes behind, to show a pair of legs like +telescopes, with her head to it's full height, and one eye squintin' to +the hotel, like a crow lookin' into a marrow bone.” + +“Well,” said his master, “but I don't see the object of all this.” + +“Why, the object, sir, is to show you that it's not so aisy to know +whether a person's young and handsome or not. You, sir, think yourself +both; and so did the old skeleton I'm spakin' of.” + +“I see your moral, Dandy,” replied his master, laughing; “at all events, +make every possible inquiry, but, at the same time, in a quiet way. More +depends upon it than you can imagine. Not,” he added, in a kind of +half soliloquy, “that I am acting in this affair from motives of a mere +personal nature; I am now only the representative of another's wishes, +and on that account, more than from any result affecting myself, do I +proceed in it.” + +“I wish I knew, sir,” said Dandy, “what kind of a woman this Mrs. Norton +is; whether she's old or young, handsome or otherwise. At all events, +I think I may confine myself to them that's young and handsome. It's +always pleasanter, sir, and more agreeable to deal with a hands--” + +“Confine yourself to truth, sir,” replied his master, sharply; +“make prudent inquiries, and in doing so act like a man of sense and +discretion, and don't attempt to indulge in your buffoonery at my +expense. No woman named Norton can be the individual I want to find, who +has not lived for some years in France. That is a sufficient test; and +if you should come in the way of the woman I am seeking, who alone +can answer this description, I shall make it worth your while to have +succeeded.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. The Priest asks for a Loan of Fifty Guineas + +--and Offers “Freney the Robber” as Security. + + +Whilst Father M'Mahon was wending his way to Constitution Hill from the +Brazen Head, where he had deposited his little bundle, containing three +shirts, two or three cravats, and as many pairs of stockings, a dialogue +was taking place in old Corbet's with which we must make the reader +acquainted. He is already aware that Corbet's present wife was his +second, and that she had a daughter by her first marriage, who had gone +abroad to the East Indies, many years ago, with her husband. This woman +was no other than Mrs. M'Bride, wife of the man who had abandoned her +for the French girl, as had been mentioned by the stranger to Father +M'Mahon, and who had, as was supposed, eloped with her to America. Such +certainly was M'Bride's intention, and there is no doubt that the New +World would have been edified by the admirable example of these two +moralists, were it not for the fact that Mrs. M'Bride, herself as shrewd +as the Frenchwoman, and burdened with as little honesty as the husband, +had traced them to the place of rendezvous on the very first night of +their disappearance; where, whilst they lay overcome with sleep and the +influence of the rosy god, she contrived to lessen her husband of the +pocketbook which he had helped himself to from his master's escritoire, +with the exception, simply, of the papers in question, which, not being +money, possessed in her eyes but little value to her. She had read them, +however; and as she had through her husband become acquainted with their +object, she determined on leaving them in his hands, with a hope that +they might become the means of compromising matters with his master, +and probably of gaining a reward for their restoration. Unfortunately, +however, it so happened, that that gentleman did not miss them until +some time after his arrival in Ireland; but, on putting matters +together, and comparing the flight of M'Bride with the loss of his +property, he concluded, with everything short of certainty, that the +latter was the thief. + +Old Corbet and this woman were seated in the little back parlor whilst +Mrs. Corbet kept the shop, so that their conversation could take a freer +range in her absence. + +“And so you tell me, Kate,” said the former, “that the vagabond has come +back to the country?” + +“I seen him with my own eyes,” she replied; “there can be no mistake +about it.” + +“And he doesn't suspect you of takin' the money from him?” + +“No more than he does you; so far from that, I wouldn't be surprised if +it's the Frenchwoman he suspects.” + +“But hadn't you better call on him? that is, if you know where he lives. +Maybe he's sorry for leavin' you.” + +“He, the villain! No; you don't know the life he led me. If he was my +husband--as unfortunately he is--a thousand times over, a single day +I'll never live with him. This lameness, that I'll carry to my grave, is +his work. Oh, no; death any time sooner than that.” + +“Well,” said the old man, after a lung pause, “it's a strange story +you've tould me; and I'm sorry, for Lord Cullamore's sake, to hear it. +He's one o' the good ould gentlemen that's now so scarce in the country. +But, tell me, do you know where M'Bride lives?” + +“No,” she replied, “I do not, neither do I care much; but I'd be glad +that his old master had back his papers. There's a woman supposed to +be livin' in this country that could prove this stranger's case, and he +came over here to find her out if he could.” + +“Do you know her name?” + +“No; I don't think I ever heard it, or, if I did, I can't at all +remember it. M'Bride mentioned the woman, but I don't think he named +her.” + +“At all events,” replied Corbet, “it doesn't signify. I hope whatever +steps they're takin' against that good ould nobleman will fail; and if I +had the papers you speak of this minute, I'd put them into the fire. In +the mane time try and make out where your vagabone of a husband lives, +or, rather, set Ginty to work, as she and you are living together, and +no doubt she'll soon ferret him out.” + +“I can't understand Ginty at all,” replied the woman. “I think, although +she has given up fortune tellin', that her head's not altogether right +yet. She talks of workin' out some prophecy that she tould Sir Thomas +Gourlay about himself and his daughter.” + +“She may talk as much about that as she likes,” replied the old fellow. +“She called him plain Thomas Gourlay, didn't she, and said he'd be +stripped of his title?” + +“So she told me; and that his daughter would be married to Lord Dunroe.” + +“Ay, and so she tould myself; but there she's in the dark. The daughter +will be Lady Dunroe, no doubt, for they're goin' to be married; but +she's takin' a bad way to work out the prophecy against the father by +--hem--” + +“By what?” + +“I'm not free to mention it, Kate; but this very day it's to take place, +and. I suppose it'll soon be known to everybody.” + +“Well, but sure you might mention it to me.” + +“I'll make a bargain with you, then. Set Ginty to work; let her find +out your husband; get me the papers you spake of, and I'll tell you all +about it.” + +“With all my heart, father. I'm sure I don't care if you had them this +minute. Let Ginty try her hand, and if she can succeed, well and good.” + +“Well, Kate,” said her father, “I'm glad I seen you; but I think it was +your duty to call upon me long before this.” + +“I would, but that I was afraid you wouldn't see me; and, besides, Ginty +told me it was better not for some time. She kept me back, or I would +have come months ago.” + +“Ay, ay; she has some devil's scheme in view that'll end in either +nothing or something. Good-by, now; get me these papers, and I'll tell +you what'll be worth hearin'.” + +Immediately after her departure Father M'Mahon entered, and found Corbet +behind his counter as usual. Each on looking at the other was much +struck by his evident appearance for the worse; a circumstance, however, +which caused no observation until after they had gone into the little +back room. Corbet's countenance, in addition to a careworn look, and a +consequent increase of emaciation, presented a very difficult study to +the physiognomist, a study not unobserved! by the priest himself. It was +indicative of the conflicting resolutions which had for some time past +been alternating in his mind; but so roguishly was each resolution +veiled by an assumed expression of an opposite I nature, that although +the general inference was true, the hypocrisy of the whole face made it +individually false. Let us suppose, by way of illustration, that a man +whose heart is full of joy successfully puts on a look of grief, +and vice versa. Of course, the physiognomist will be mistaken in the +conclusions he draws from each individual expression, although correct +in perceiving that there are before him the emotions of joy and grief; +the only difference being, that dissimulation has put wrong labels upon +each emotion. + +“Anthony,” said his reverence, after having taken a seat, “I am sorry to +see such a change upon you for the worse. You are very much broken down +since I saw you last; and although I don't wish to become a messenger of +bad news, I feel, that as a clergyman, it is my duty to tell you so.” + +“Troth, your reverence,” replied the other, “I'm sorry that so far as +bad looks go I must return the compliment. It grieves me: to see you +look so ill, sir.” + +“I know I look ill,” replied the other; “and I know too that these +hints are sent to us in mercy, with a fatherly design on the part of our +Creator, that we may make the necessary preparations for the change, the +awful change that is before us.” + +“Oh, indeed, sir, it's true enough,” replied Corbet, whose visage had +become much blanker at this serious intimation, notwithstanding his +hypocrisy; “it's true enough, sir; too true, indeed, if we could only +remember it as we ought. Have you been unwell, sir?” + +“Not in my bodily health, thank God, but I've got into trouble; and what +is more, I'm coming to you, Anthony, with a firm I hope that you will +bring me out of it.” + +“The trouble can't be very great then,” replied the apprehensive old +knave, “or I wouldn't be able to do it.” + +“Anthony,” said the priest, “I have known you a long time, now forty +years at least, and you need not be told that I've stood by some of +your friends when they wanted it. When your daughter ran away with that +M'Bride, I got him to marry her, a thing he was very unwilling to +do; and which I believe, only for me, he would not have done. On that +occasion you know I advanced twenty guineas to enable them to begin the +world, and to keep the fellow with her; and I did this all for the best, +and not without the hope either that you would see me reimbursed for +what you ought, as her father, to have given them yourself. I spoke to +you once or twice about it, but you lent me the deaf ear, as they call +it, and from that day to this you never had either the manliness or the +honesty to repay me.” + +“Ay,” replied Corbet, with one of his usual grins, “you volunteered to +be generous to a profligate, who drank it, and took to the army.” + +“Do you then volunteer to be generous to an honest man; I will neither +drink It nor take to the army. If he took to the army, he didn't do +so without taking your daughter along with him. I spoke to Sir Edward +Gourlay, who threatened to write to his colonel; and through the +interference of the same humane gentleman I got permission for him to +bring his wife along with him. These are circumstances that you ought +not to forget, Anthony.” + +“I don't forget them, but sure you're always in somebody's affairs; +always goin' security for some of your poor parishioners; and then, when +they're not able to pay, down comes the responsibility upon you.” + +“I cannot see a poor honest man, struggling and industrious, at a loss +for a friendly act. No; I never could stand it, so long as I had it in +my power to assist him.” + +“And what's wrong now, if it's a fair question?” + +“Two or three things; none of them very large, but amounting in all to +about fifty guineas.” + +“Whew!--fifty guineas!” + +“Ay, indeed; fifty guineas, which you will lend me on my own security.” + +“Fifty guineas to you? Don't I know you? Why, if you had a thousand, let +alone fifty, it's among the poor o' the parish they'd be afore a week. +Faith, I know you too well Father Peter.” + +“You know me, man alive--yes, you do know me; and it is just because you +do that I expect you will lend me the money. You wouldn't wish to see my +little things pulled about and auctioned; my laughy little library gone; +nor would you wish to see me and poor Freney the Robber separated. Big +Ruly desaved me, the thief; but I found him out at last. Money I know is +a great temptation, and so is mate when trusted to a shark like him; but +any way, may the Lord pardon the blackguard! and that's the worst I wish +him.” + +There are some situations in life where conscience is more awakened by +comparison, or perhaps we should say by the force of contrast, than +by all the power of reason, religion, or philosophy, put together, and +advancing against it in their proudest pomp and formality. The childlike +simplicity, for instance, of this good and benevolent man, earnest and +eccentric as it was, occasioned reflections more painful and touching +to the callous but timid heart of this old manoeuvrer than could whole +homilies, or the most serious and lengthened exhortations. + +“I am near death,” thought he, as he looked upon the countenance of the +priest, from which there now beamed an emanation of regret, not for his +difficulties, for he had forgotten them, but for his knavish servant--so +simple, so natural, so affecting, so benevolent, that Corbet was deeply +struck by them. “I am near death,” he proceeded, “and what would I not +give to have within me a heart so pure and free from villany as that +man. He has made me feel more by thinkin' of what goodness and piety +can do, than I ever felt in my life; and now if he gets upon Freney the +Robber, or lugs in that giant Ruly, he'll forget debts, difficulties, +and all for the time. Heavenly Father, that I had as happy a heart this +day, and as free from sin!” + +“Anthony,” said the priest, “I must tell you about Freney--” + +“No, sir, if you plaise,” replied the other, “not now.” + +“Well, about poor Mat Ruly; do you know that I think by taking him back +I might be able to reclaim him yet. The Lord has gifted him largely in +one way, I admit; but still--” + +“But still your bacon and greens would pay for it. I know it all, and +who doesn't? But about your own affairs?” + +“In truth, they are in a bad state--the same bacon and greens--he has +not left me much of either; he made clean work of them, at any rate, +before he went.” + +“But about your affairs, I'm sayin'?” + +“Why, they can't be worse; I'm run to the last pass; and Freney now, +the crature, when the saddle's on him, comes to the mounting-stone of +himself, and waits there till I'm ready. Then,” he added, with a deep +sigh, “to think of parting with him! And I must do it--I must;” and here +the tears rose to his eyes so copiously that he was obliged to take out +his cotton handkerchief and wipe them away. + +The heart of the old miser was touched. He knew not why, it is true, but +he felt that the view he got of one immortal spirit uncorrupted by the +crimes and calculating hypocrisy of life, made the contemplation of his +own state and condition, as well as of his future hopes, fearful. + +“What would I not give,” thought he, “to have a soul as free from sin +and guilt, and to be as fit to face my God as that man? And yet they say +it can be brought about. Well, wait--wait till I have my revenge on this +black villain, and I'll see what may be done. Ay, let what will happen, +the shame and ruin of my child must be revenged. And yet, God help me, +what am I sayin'? Would this good man say that? He that forgives every +one and everything. Still, I'll repent in the long run. Come, Father +Peter,” said he, “don't be cast down; I'll thry what I can for you; but +then, again, if I do, what security can you give me?” + +“Poor Freney the Robber--” + +“Well, now, do you hear this!” + +“--Was a name I gave him on account of--” + +“Troth, I'll put on my hat and lave you here, if you don't spake out +about what you came for. How much is it you say you want?” + +The good man, who was startled out of his affection for Freney by the +tone of Corbet's voice more than by his words, now raised his head, and +looked about him somewhat like a person restored to consciousness. + +“Yes, Anthony,” said he; “yes, man alive; there's kindness in that.” + +“In what, sir?” + +“In the very tones of your voice, I say. God has touched your heart, +I hope. But oh, Anthony, if it were His blessed will to soften it--to +teach it to feel true contrition and repentance, and to fill it with +love for His divine will in all things, and for your fellow-creatures, +too--how little would I think of my own miserable difficulties! Father +of all mercy! if I could be sure that I had gained even but one soul to +heaven, I would say that I had not been born and lived in vain!” + +“He'll never let me do it,” thought Corbet, vexed, and still more +softened by the piety, the charity, and the complete forgetfulness of +self, which the priest's conduct manifested. Yet was this change not +brought about without difficulty, and those pitiful misgivings and +calculations which assail and re-assail a heart that has been for a long +time under the influence of the world and those base principles by which +it is actuated. In fact, this close, nervous, and penurious old man +felt, when about to perform this generous action, all that alarm and +hesitation which a virtuous man would feel when on the eve of committing +a crime. He was about to make an inroad upon his own system--going +to change the settled habits of his whole life, and, for a moment, he +entertained thoughts of altering his purpose. Then he began to +think that this visit of the priest might have been a merciful and +providential one; he next took a glimpse at futurity--reflected for a +moment on his unprepared state, and then decided to assist the priest +now, and consider the necessity for repentance as soon as he felt it +convenient to do so afterwards. + +How strange and deceptive, and how full of the subtlest delusions, are +the workings of the human heart! + +“And now, Anthony,” proceeded the priest, “while I think of it, let me +speak to you on another affair.” + +“I see, sir,” replied Corbet, somewhat querulously, “that you're +determined to prevent me from sarvin' you. If my mind changes, I won't +do it; so stick to your own business first. I know very well what you're +goin' to spake about. How much do you want, you say?” + +“Fifty guineas. I'm responsible for three bills to that amount. The +bills are not for myself, but for three honest families that have been +brought low by two of the worst enemies that ever Ireland had--bad +landlords and bad times.” + +“Well, then, I'll give you the money.” + +“God bless you, Anthony!” exclaimed the good man, “God bless you! and +above all things may He enable you and all of us to prepare for the life +that is before us.” + +Anthony paused a moment, and looked with a face of deep perplexity at +the priest. + +“Why am I doin' this,” said he, half repentant of the act, “and me can't +afford it? You must give me your bill, sir, at three months, and I'll +charge you interest besides.” + +“I'll give you my bill, certainly,” replied the priest, “and you may +charge interest too; but be moderate.” + +Corbet then went upstairs, much at that pace which characterizes the +progress of a felon from the press-room to the gallows; here he remained +for some time--reckoning the money--paused on the stairhead--and again +the slow, heavy, lingering step was heard descending, and, as nearly as +one could judge, with as much reluctance as that with which it went +up. He then sat down and looked steadily, but with a good deal of +abstraction, at the priest, after having first placed the money on his +own side of the table. + +“Have you a blank bill?” asked the priest. + +“Eh?” + +“Have you got a blank bill? or, sure we can send out for one.” + +“For what?” + +“For a blank bill.” + +“A blank bill--yes--oh, ay--fifty guineas!--why, that's half a hundre'. +God protect me! what am I about? Well, well; there--there--there; now +put it in your pocket;” and as he spoke he shoved it over hastily to the +priest, as if he feared his good resolution might fail him at last. + +“But about the bill, man alive?” + +“Hang the bill--deuce take all the bills that ever were drawn! I'm the +greatest ould fool that ever wore a head--to go to allow myself to +be made a--a--. Take your money away out of this, I bid you--your +money--no, but my money. I suppose I may bid farewell to it--for so long +as any one tells you a story of distress, and makes a poor mouth to you, +so long you'll get yourself into a scrape on their account.” + +The priest had already put the money in his pocket, but he instantly +took it out, and placed it once more on Corbet's side of the table. + +“There,” said he, “keep it. I will receive no money that is lent in such +a churlish and unchristian spirit. And I tell you now, moreover, that if +I do accept it, it must be on the condition of your listening to what +I feel it my duty to say to you. You, Anthony Corbet, have committed +a black and deadly crime against the bereaved widow, against society, +against the will of a merciful and--take care that you don't find him, +too--a just God. It is quite useless for you to deny it; I have spoken +the truth, and you know it. Why will you not enable that heart-broken +and kind lady--whose whole life is one perpetual good action--to trace +and get back her son?” + +“I can't do it.” + +“That's a deliberate falsehood, sir. Your conscience tells you it's a +he. In your last conversation with me, at the Brazen Head, you as good +as promised to do something of the kind in a couple of months. That time +and more has now passed, and yet you have done nothing.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“Don't I know that the widow has got no trace of her child? And right +well I know that you could restore him to her if you wished. However, I +leave you now to the comfort of your own hardened and wicked heart. The +day will come soon when the black catalogue of your own guilt will rise +up fearfully before you--when a death-bed, with all its horrors, will +startle the very soul within you by its fiery recollections. It is then, +my friend, that you will feel--when it is too late--what it is to have +tampered with and despised the mercy of God, and have neglected, while +you had time, to prepare yourself for His awful judgment. Oh, what would +I not do to turn your heart from the dark spirit of revenge that broods +in it, and changes you into a demon! Mark these words, Anthony. They are +spoken, God knows, with an anxious and earnest wish for your repentance, +and, if neglected, they will rise and sound the terrible sentence of +your condemnation at the last awful hour. Listen to them, then--listen +to them in time, I entreat, I beseech you--I would go on my bare knees +to you to do so.” Here his tears fell fast, as he proceeded, “I would; +and, believe me, I have thought of you and prayed for you, and now +you see that I cannot but weep for you, when I know that you have the +knowledge--perhaps the guilt of this heinous crime locked up in +your heart, and will not reveal it. Have compassion, then, on the +widow--enable her friends to restore her child to her longing arms; +purge yourself of this great guilt, and you may believe me, that even +in a temporal point of view it will be the best rewarded action you ever +performed; but this is little--the darkness that is over your heart will +disappear, your conscience will become light, and all its reflections +sweet and full of heavenly comfort; your death-bed will be one of peace, +and hope, and joy. Restore, then, the widow's son, and forbear your +deadly revenge against that wretched baronet, and God will restore you +to a happiness that the world can neither give nor take away.” + +Corbet's cheek became pale as death itself whilst the good man spoke, +but no other symptom of emotion was perceptible; unless, indeed, +that his hands, as he unconsciously played with the money, were quite +tremulous. + +The priest, having concluded, rose to depart, having completely +forgotten the principal object of his visit. + +“Where are you going?” said Corbet, “won't you take the money with you?” + +“That depends upon your reply,” returned the priest; “and I entreat you +to let me have a favorable one.” + +“One part of what you wish I will do,” he replied; “the other is out of +my power at present. I am not able to do it yet.” + +“I don't properly understand you,” said the other; “or rather, I +don't understand you at all. Do you mean what you have just said to be +favorable or otherwise?” + +“I have come to a resolution,” replied Corbet, “and time will tell +whether it's in your favor or not. You must be content with this, for +more I will not say now; I cannot. There's your money, but I'll take no +bill from you. Your promise is sufficient--only say you will pay me?” + +“I will pay you, if God spares me life.” + +“That is enough; unless, indeed “--again pausing. + +“Satisfy yourself,” said the priest; “I will give you either my bill or +note of hand.” + +“No, no; I tell you. I am satisfied. Leave everything to time.” + +“That may do very well, but it does not apply to eternity, Anthony. In +the meantime I thank you; for I admit you have taken me out of a very +distressing difficulty. Good-by--God bless you; and, above all things, +don't forget the words I have spoken to you.” + +“Now,” said Corbet, after the priest had gone, “something must be done; +I can't stand this state of mind long, and if death should come on me +before I've made my peace with God--but then, the black villain!--come +or go what may, he must be punished, and Ginty's and Tom's schemes must +be broken. That vagabone, too! I can't forget the abuse he gave me in +the watch-house; however, I'll set the good act against the bad one, and +who knows but the one may wipe out the other? I suppose the promisin' +youth has seen his father, and thinks himself the welcome heir of his +title and property by this; and the father too--but wait, if I don't +dash that cup from his lips, and put one to it filled with gall, I'm not +here; and then when it's done, I'll take to religion for the remainder +of my life.” + +What old Corbet said was, indeed, true enough; and this brings us to the +interview between Mr. Ambrose Gray, his parent, and his sister. + +There is nothing which so truly and often so severely tests the state of +man's heart, or so painfully disturbs the whole frame of his moral +being as the occurrence of some important event that is fraught with +happiness. Such an event resembles the presence of a good man among a +set of profligates, causing them to feel the superiority of virtue +over vice, and imposing a disagreeable restraint, not only upon their +actions, but their very thoughts. When the baronet, for instance, went +from his bedroom to the library, he experienced the full force of this +observation. A disagreeable tumult prevailed within him. It is true, he +felt, as every parent must feel, to a greater or less extent delighted +at the contemplation of his son's restoration to him. But, at the same +time, the tenor of his past life rose up in painful array before him, +and occasioned reflections that disturbed him deeply. Should this young +man prove, on examination, to resemble his sister in her views of moral +life in general--should he find him as delicately virtuous, and animated +by the same pure sense of honor, he felt that his recovery would disturb +the future habits of his life, and take away much of the gratification +which he expected from his society. These considerations, we say, +rendered him so anxious and uneasy, that he actually wished to find him +something not very far removed from a profligate. He hoped that he might +be inspired with his own views of society and men, and that he would +now have some one to countenance him in all his selfish designs and +projects. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. Young Gourlay's Affectionate Interview with His Father + +--Risk of Strangulation--Movements of M'Bride. + +It is not necessary here to suggest to the reader that Tom Corbet, +who knew the baronet's secrets and habits of life so thoroughly, had +prepared Mr. Ambrose Gray, by frequent rehearsals, for the more adroit +performance of the task that was before him. + +At length a knock, modest but yet indicative of something like +authority, was heard at the hall-door, and the baronet immediately +descended to the dining-room, where he knew he could see his son with +less risk of interruption. He had already intimated to Lucy that she +should not make her appearance until summoned for that purpose. + +At length Mr. Gray was shown into the dining-room, and the baronet, who, +as usual, was pacing it to and fro, suddenly turned round, and without +any motion to approach his son, who stood with a dutiful look, as if +to await his will, he fixed his eyes upon him with a long, steady, +and scrutinizing gaze. There they stood, contemplating each other +with earnestness, and so striking, so extraordinary was the similarity +between their respective features, that, in everything but years, +they appeared more like two counterparts than father and son. Each, +on looking at the other, felt, in fact, the truth of this unusual +resemblance, and the baronet at once acknowledged its influence. + +“Yes,” he exclaimed, approaching Mr. Gray, “yes, there is no mistake +here; he is my son. I acknowledge him.” He extended his hand, and shook +that of the other, then seized both with a good deal of warmth, and +welcomed him. Ambrose, however, was not satisfied with this, but, +extricating his hands, he threw his arms round the baronet's neck, and +exclaimed in the words of an old play, in which he had been studying a +similar scene for the present occasion, “My father! my dear father! Oh, +and have I a father! Oh, let me press him to my heart!” And as he +spoke he contrived to execute half a dozen dry sobs (for he could not +accomplish the tears), that would have done credit to the best actor of +the day. + +The baronet, who never relished any exhibition of emotion or tenderness, +began to have misgivings as to his character, and consequently suffered +these dutiful embraces instead of returning them. + +“There, Tom,” he exclaimed, laughing, “that will do. There, man,” he +repeated, for he felt that Tom was about recommencing another rather +vigorous attack, whilst the sobs were deafening, “there, I say; don't +throttle me; that will do, sirrah; there now. On this occasion it is +natural; but in general I detest snivelling--it's unmanly.” + +Tom at once took the hint, wiped his eyes, a work in this instance of +the purest supererogation, and replied, “So do I, father; it's decidedly +the province of an old woman when she is past everything else. But on +such an occasion I should be either more or less than man not to feel as +I ought.” + +“Come, that is very well said. I hope you are not a fool like +your--Corbet, go out. I shall send for you when we want you. I hope,” he +repeated, after Corbet had disappeared, “I hope you are not a fool, +like your sister. Not that I can call her a fool, either; but she is +obstinate and self-willed.” + +“I am sorry to hear this, sir. My sister ought to have no will but +yours.” + +“Why, that is better,” replied the baronet, rubbing his hands +cheerfully. “Hang it, how like?” he exclaimed, looking at him once more. +“You resemble me confoundedly, Tom--at least in person; and if you do +in mind and purpose, we'll harmonize perfectly. Well, then, I have a +thousand questions to ask you, but I will have time enough for that +again; in the meantime, Tom, what's your opinion of life--of the +world--of man, Tom, and of woman? I wish to know what kind of stuff +you're made of.” + +“Of life, sir--why, that we are to take the most we can out of it. Of +the world--that I despise it. Of man--that every one is a rogue when +he's found out, and that if he suffers himself to be found out he's a +fool; so that the fools and the rogues have it between them.” + +“And where do you leave the honest men, Tom?” + +“The what, sir?” + +“The honest men.” + +“I'm not acquainted, sir, nor have I ever met a man who was, with any +animal of that class. The world, sir, is a moral fiction; a mere term in +language that represents negation.” + +“Well, but woman?” + +“Born to administer to our pleasure, our interest, or our ambition, with +no other purpose in life. Have I answered my catechism like a good boy, +sir?” + +“Very well, indeed, Tom. Why, in your notions of life and the world, you +seem to be quite an adept.” + +“I am glad, sir, that you approve of them. So far we are likely to +agree. I feel quite proud, sir, that my sentiments are in unison with +yours. But where is my sister, sir? I am quite impatient to see her.” + +“I will send for her immediately. And now that I have an opportunity, +let me guard you against her influence. I am anxious to bring about a +marriage between her and a young nobleman--Lord Dunroe--who will soon be +the Earl of Cullamore, for his old father is dying, or near it, and then +Lucy will be a countess. To effect this has been the great ambition of +my life. Now, you must not only prevent Lucy from gaining you over to +her interests, for she would nearly as soon die as marry him.” + +“Pshaw!” + +“What do you pshaw for, Tom?” + +“All nonsense, sir. She doesn't know her own mind; or, rather, she ought +to have no mind on the subject.” + +“Perfectly right; my identical sentiments. Lucy, however, detests this +lord, notwithstanding--ay, worse than she does the deuce himself. You +must, therefore, not permit yourself to be changed or swayed by her +influence, but support me by every argument and means in your power.” + +“Don't fear me, sir. Your interests, or rather the girl's own, if she +only knows them, shall have my most strenuous support.” + +“Thank you, Tom. I see that you and I are likely to agree thoroughly. +I shall now send for her. She is a superb creature, and less than a +countess I shall not have her.” + +Lucy, when the servant announced her father's wish to see her, was +engaged in picturing to herself the subject of her brother's personal +appearance. She had always heard that he resembled her mother, and on +this account alone she felt how very dear he should be to her. With a +flushing, joyful, but palpitating heart, she descended the stairs, and +with a trembling hand knocked at the door. On entering, she was about +to rush into her newly-found relative's arms, but, on casting her eyes +around, she perceived her father and him standing side by side, so +startlingly alike in feature, expression, and personal figure, that her +heart, until then bounding with rapture, sank at once, and almost became +still. The quick but delicate instincts of her nature took the alarm, +and a sudden weakness seized her whole frame. “In this young man,” + she said to herself, “I have found a brother, but not a friend; not a +feature of my dear mother in that face.” + +This change, and this rush of reflection, took place almost in a moment, +and ere she had time to speak she found herself in Mr. Ambrose Gray's +arms. The tears at once rushed to her eyes, but they were not such +tears as she expected to have shed. Joy there was, but, alas, how much +mitigated was its fervency! And when her brother spoke, the strong, +deep, harsh tones of his voice so completely startled her, that she +almost believed she was on the breast of her father. Her tears flowed; +but they were mingled with a sense of disappointment that amounted +almost to bitterness. + +Tom on this occasion forebore to enact the rehearsal scene, as he had +done in the case of his father. His sister's beauty, at once melancholy +but commanding, her wonderful grace, her dignity of manner, added to the +influence of her tall, elegant figure, awed him so completely, that he +felt himself incapable of aiming at anything like dramatic effect. +Nay, as her warm tears fell upon his face, he experienced a softening +influence that resembled emotion, but, like his father, he annexed +associations to it that were selfish, and full of low, ungenerous +caution. + +“My father's right,” thought he; “I must be both cool and firm here, +otherwise it will be difficult not to support her.” + +“Well, Lucy,” said her father, with unusual cheerfulness, after Tom had +handed her to a seat, “I hope you like your brother. Is he not a fine, +manly young fellow?” + +“Is he not my brother, papa?” she replied, “restored to us after so many +years; restored when hope had deserted us--when we had given him up for +lost.” + +As she uttered the words her voice quivered; a generous reaction had +taken place in her breast; she blamed herself for having withheld from +him, on account of a circumstance over which he had no control, that +fulness of affection, with which she had prepared herself to welcome +him. A sentiment, first of compassion, then of self-reproach, and +ultimately of awakened affection, arose in her mind, associated with and +made still more tender by the melancholy memory of her departed mother. +She again took his hand, on which the tears now fell in showers, and +after a slight pause said, + +“I hope, my dear Thomas, you have not suffered, nor been subject to +the wants and privations which usually attend the path of the young and +friendless in this unhappy world? Alas, there is one voice--but is now +forever still--that would, oh, how rapturously! have welcomed you to a +longing and a loving heart.” + +The noble sincerity of her present emotion was not without its effect +upon her brother. His eyes, in spite of the hardness of his nature, swam +in something like moisture, and he gazed upon her with wonder and pride, +that he actually was the brother of so divine a creature; and a certain +description of affection, such as he had never before felt, for it was +pure, warm, and unselfish. + +“Oh, how I do long to hear the history of your past life!” she +exclaimed. “I dare say you had many an early struggle to encounter; many +a privation to suffer; and in sickness, with none but the cold hand of +the stranger about you; but still it seems that God has not deserted +you. Is it not a consolation, papa, to think that he returns to us in a +condition of life so gratifying?” + +“Gratifying it unquestionably is, Lucy. He is well educated; and will +soon be fit to take his proper position in society.” + +“Soon! I trust immediately, papa; I hope you will not allow him to +remain a moment longer in obscurity; compensate him at least for his +sufferings. But, my dear Thomas,” she proceeded, turning to him, “let me +ask, do you remember mamma? If she were now here, how her affectionate +heart would rejoice! Do you remember her my dear Thomas?” + +“Not distinctly,” he replied; “something of a pale, handsome woman comes +occasionally like a dream of my childhood to my imagination--a graceful +woman, with auburn hair, and a melancholy look, I think.” + +“You--do,” replied Lucy, as her eyes sparkled, “you do remember her; +that is exactly a sketch of her--gentle, benignant, and affectionate, +with a fixed sorrow mingled with resignation in her face. Yes, you +remember her!” + +“Now, Lucy,” said her father, who never could bear any particular +allusion to his wife; “now that you have seen your brother, I think +you may withdraw, at least for the present. He and I have matters +of importance to talk of; and you know you will have enough of him +again--plenty of time to hear his past history, which, by the way, I am +as anxious to hear as you are. You may now withdraw, my love.” + +“Oh, not so soon, father, if you please,” said Thomas; “allow us a +little more time together.” + +“Well, then, a few minutes only, for I myself must take an airing in the +carriage, and I must also call upon old Cullamore.” + +“Papa,” said Lucy, “I am about to disclose a little secret to you which +I hesitated to do before, but this certainly is a proper occasion for +doing it; the secret I speak of will disclose itself. Here is where it +lay both day and night since mamma's death,” she added, putting her hand +upon her heart; “it is a miniature portrait of her which I myself got +done.” + +She immediately drew it up by a black silk ribbon, and after +contemplating it with tears, she placed it in the hands of her brother. + +This act of Lucy's placed him in a position of great pain and +embarrassment. His pretended recollection of Lady Gourlay was, as the +reader already guesses, nothing more than the description of her which +he had received from Corbet, that he might be able to play his part +with an appearance of more natural effect. With the baronet, the task +of deception was by no means difficult; but with Lucy, the case was +altogether one of a different complexion. His father's principles, as +expounded by his illegitimate son's worthy uncle, were not only almost +familiar to him, but also in complete accordance with his own. With him, +therefore, the deception consisted in little else than keeping his own +secret, and satisfying his father that their moral views of life were +the same. He was not prepared, however, for the effect which Lucy's +noble qualities produced upon him so soon. To him who had never met +with or known any other female, combining in her own person such +extraordinary beauty and dignity--such obvious candor of heart--such +graceful and irresistible simplicity, or who was encompassed by an +atmosphere of such truth and purity--the effect was such as absolutely +confounded himself, and taught him to feel how far they go in purifying, +elevating, and refining those who come within the sphere of their +influence. This young man, for instance, was touched, softened, and awed +into such an involuntary respect for her character and virtues, that +he felt himself almost unable to sustain the part he had undertaken to +play, so far at least as she was concerned. In fact, he felt himself +changed for the better, and was forced, as it were, to look in upon his +own heart, and contemplate its deformity by the light that emanated from +her character. Nor was this singular but natural influence unperceived +by her father, who began to fear that if they were to be much together, +he must ultimately lose the connivance and support of his son. + +Thomas took the portrait from her hand, and, after contemplating it for +some time, felt himself bound to kiss it, which he did, with a momentary +consciousness of his hypocrisy that felt like guilt. + +“It is most interesting,” said he; “there is goodness, indeed, and +benignity, as you say, in every line of that placid but sorrowful face. +Here,” said he, “take it back, my dear sister; I feel that it is painful +to me to look upon it.” + +“It has been my secret companion,” said Lucy, gazing at it with deep +emotion, “and my silent monitress ever since poor mamma's death. It +seemed to say to me with those sweet lips that will never more move: +Be patient, my child, and put your firm trust in the hopes of a better +life, for this world is one of trial and suffering.” + +“That is all very fine, Lucy,” said her father, somewhat fretfully; “but +it would have been as well if she had preached a lesson of obedience at +the same time. However, you had better withdraw, my dear; as I told you, +Thomas and I have many important matters to talk over.” + +“I am ready to go, papa,” she replied; “but, by the way, my dear Thomas, +I had always heard that you resembled her very much; instead of that, +you are papa's very image.” + +“A circumstance which will take from his favor with you, Lucy, I fear,” + observed her father; “but, indeed, I myself am surprised at the change +that has come over you, Thomas; for, unquestionably, when young you were +very like her.” + +“These changes are not at all unfrequent, I believe,” replied his son. +“I have myself known instances where the individual when young resembled +one parent, and yet, in the course of time, became as it were the very +image and reflex of the other.” + +“You are perfectly right, Tom,” said his father; “every family is aware +of the fact, and you yourself are a remarkable illustration of it.” + +“I am not sorry for resembling my dear father, Lucy,” observed her +brother; “and I know I shall lose nothing in your good will on that +account, but rather gain by it.” + +Lucy's eyes were already filled with tears at the ungenerous and +unfeeling insinuation of her father. + +“You shall not, indeed, Thomas,” she replied; “and you, papa, are +scarcely just to me in saying so. I judge no person by their external +appearance, nor do I suffer myself to be prejudiced by looks, although +I grant that the face is very often, but by no means always, an index to +the character. I judge my friends by my experience of their conduct--by +their heart--their principles--their honor. Good-by, now, my dear +brother; I am quite impatient to hear your history, and I am sure you +will gratify me as soon as you can.” + +She took his hand and kissed it, but, in the act of doing so, observed +under every nail a semicircular line of black drift that jarred very +painfully on her feelings. Tom then imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, +and she withdrew. + +When she had gone out, the baronet bent his eyes upon her brother with a +look that seemed to enter into his very soul--a look which his son, from +his frequent teachings, very well understood. + +“Now, Tom,” said he, “that you have seen your sister, what do you think +of her? Is it not a pity that she should ever move under the rank of a +countess?” + +“Under the rank of a queen, sir. She would grace the throne of an +empress.” + +“And yet she has all the simplicity of a child; but I can't get her +to feel ambition. Now, mark me, Tom; I have seen enough in this short +interview to convince me that if you are not as firm as a rock, she will +gain you over.” + +“Impossible, sir; I love her too well to lend myself to her prejudices +against her interests. Her objections to this marriage must proceed +solely from inexperience. It is true, Lord Dunroe bears a very +indifferent character, and if you could get any other nobleman with a +better one as a husband for her, it would certainly be more agreeable.” + +“It might, Tom; but I cannot. The truth is, I am an unpopular man among +even the fashionable circles, and the consequence is, that I do not +mingle much with them. The disappearance of my brother's heir has +attached suspicions to me which your discovery will not tend to remove. +Then there is Lucy's approaching marriage, which your turning up at +this particular juncture may upset. Dunroe, I am aware, is incapable of +appreciating such a girl as Lucy.” + +“Then why, sir, does he marry her?” + +“In consequence of her property. You perceive, then, that unless you +lie by until after this marriage, my whole schemes for this girl may be +destroyed.” + +“But how, sir, could my appearance or reappearance effect such a +catastrophe?” + +“Simply because you come at the most unlucky moment.” + +“Unlucky, sir!” exclaimed the youth, with much affected astonishment, +for he had now relapsed into his original character, and felt himself +completely in his element. + +“Don't misunderstand me,” said his father; “I will explain myself. Had +you never appeared, Lucy would have inherited the family estates, which, +in right of his wife, would have passed into the possession of Dunroe. +Your appearance, however, if made known, will prevent that, and probably +cause Dunroe to get out of it; and it is for this reason that I wish to +keep your very existence a secret until the marriage is over.” + +“I am willing to do anything, sir,” replied worthy Tom, with a very +dutiful face, “anything to oblige you, and to fall in with your +purposes, provided my own rights are not compromised. I trust you will +not blame me, sir, for looking to them, and for a natural anxiety to +sustain the honor and prolong the name of my family.” + +“Blame you, sirrah!” said his father, laughing. “Confound me, but you're +a trump, and I am proud to hear you express such sentiments. How the +deuce did you get such a shrewd notion of the world? But, no matter, +attend to me. Your rights shall not be compromised. A clause shall be +inserted in the marriage articles to the effect that in case of your +recovery and restoration, the estates shall revert to you, as the +legitimate heir. Are you satisfied?” + +“Perfectly, sir,” replied Thomas, “perfectly; on the understanding that +these provisions are duly and properly carried out.” + +“Undoubtedly they shall; and besides,” replied his father with a grin of +triumph, “it will be only giving Dunroe a _quid pro quo_, for, as I told +you, he is marrying your sister merely for the property, out of which +you cut him.” + +“Of course, my dear father,” replied the other, “I am in your hands; +but, in the meantime, how and where am I to dispose of myself?” + +“In the first place, keep your own secret--that is the principal +point--in which case you may live wherever you wish; I will give you +a liberal allowance until you can make your appearance with safety to +Lucy's prosperity. The marriage will take place very soon; after which +you can come and claim your own, when it will be too late for Dunroe to +retract. Here, for the present, is a check for two hundred and fifty; +but, Tom, you must be frugal and cautious in its expenditure. Don't +suffer yourself to break out: always keep a firm hold of the helm. Get +a book in which you will mark down your expenses; for, mark me, you must +render a strict account of this money. On the day after to-morrow you +must dine with Lucy and me; but, if you take my advice, you will see her +as seldom as possible until after her marriage. She wishes me to release +her from her engagement, and she will attempt to seduce you to her side; +but I warn you that this would be a useless step for you to take, as my +mind is immovable on the subject.” + +They then separated, each, but especially Mr. Ambrose Gray, as we must +again call him, feeling very well satisfied with the result of the +interview. + +“Now,” said the baronet, as he paced the floor, after his son had gone, +“am I not right, after all, in the views which I entertain of life? I +have sometimes been induced to fear that Providence has placed in human +society a moral machinery which acts with retributive effect upon those +who, in the practice of their lives, depart from what are considered his +laws. And yet here am I, whose whole life has been at variance with and +disregarded them--here I am, I say, with an easier heart than I've had +for many a day: my son restored to me--my daughter upon the point +of being married according to my highest wishes--all my projects +prospering; and there is my brother's wife--wretched Lady Gourlay--who, +forsooth, is religious, benevolent, humane, and charitable--ay, and if +report speak true, who loves her fellow-creatures as much as I scorn and +detest them. Yes--and what is the upshot? Why, that all these virtues +have not made her one whit happier than another, nor so happy as one +in ten thousand. _Cui bono_, then I ask--where is this moral machinery +which I sometimes dreaded? I cannot perceive its operations. It has no +existence; it is a mere chimera; like many another bugbear, the foul +offspring of credulity and fear on the one side--of superstition and +hypocrisy on the other. No; life is merely a thing of chances, and its +incidents the mere combinations that result from its evolutions, just +like the bits of glass in the kaleidoscope, which, when viewed naked, +have neither order nor beauty, but when seen through our own mistaken +impressions, appear to have properties which they do not possess, and +to produce results that are deceptive, and which would mislead us if +we drew any absolute inference from them. Here the priest advances, +kaleidoscope in hand, and desires you to look at his tinsel and observe +its order. Well, you do so, and imagine that the beauty and order you +see lie in the things themselves, and not in the prism through which +you view them. But you are not satisfied--you must examine. You take the +kaleidoscope to pieces, and where then are the order and beauty to be +found? Away! I am right still. The doctrine of life is a doctrine of +chances; and there is nothing certain but death--death, the gloomy and +terrible uncreator--heigho!” + +Whilst the unbelieving baronet was congratulating himself upon the truth +of his principles and the success of his plans, matters were about to +take place that were soon to subject them to a still more efficient test +than the accommodating but deceptive spirit of his own scepticism. +Lord Cullamore's mind was gradually sinking under some secret sorrow or +calamity, which he refused to disclose even to his son or Lady Emily. +M'Bride's visit had produced a most melancholy effect upon him; indeed, +so deeply was he weighed down by it, that he was almost incapable of +seeing any one, with the exception of his daughter, whom he caressed and +wept over as one would over some beloved being whom death was about to +snatch from the heart and eyes forever. + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, since the discovery of his son, called every day for +a week, but the reply was, “His lordship is unable to see any one.” + +One evening, about that time, Ginty Cooper had been to see her brother, +Tom Corbet, at the baronet's, and was on her way home, when she +accidentally spied M'Bride in conversation with Norton, at Lord +Cullamore's hall-door, which, on her way to Sir Thomas's, she +necessarily passed. It was just about dusk, or, as they call it in the +country, between the two lights, and as the darkness was every moment +deepening, she resolved to watch them, for the purpose of tracing +M'Bride home to his lodgings. They, in the meantime, proceeded to +a public-house in the vicinity, into which both entered, and having +ensconced themselves in a little back closet off the common tap-room, +took their seats at a small round table, Norton having previously +ordered some punch. Giuty felt rather disappointed at this caution, but +in a few minutes a red-faced girl, with a blowzy head of hair strong +as wire, and crisped into small obstinate undulations of surface which +neither comb nor coaxing could smooth away, soon followed them with the +punch and a candle. By the light of the latter, Ginty perceived that +there was nothing between them but a thin partition of boards, through +the slits of which she could, by applying her eye or ear, as the case +might be, both see and hear them. The tap-room at the time was empty, +and Ginty, lest her voice might be heard, went to the bar, from whence +she herself brought in a glass of porter, and having taken her seat +close to the partition, overheard the following conversation: + +“In half an hour he's to see you, then?” said Norton, repeating the +words with a face of inquiry. + +“Yes, sir; in half an hour.” + +“Well, now,” he continued, “I assure you I'm neither curious nor +inquisitive; yet, unless it be a very profound secret indeed, I give my +honor I should wish to hear it.” + +“There's others in your family would be glad to hear it as well as you,” + replied M'Bride. + +“The earl has seen you once or twice before on the subject, I think?” + +“He has, sir?” + +“And this is the third time, I believe?” + +“It will be the third time, at all events.” + +“Come, man,” said Norton, “take your punch; put yourself in spirits for +the interview. It requires a man to pluck up to be able to speak to a +nobleman.” + +“I have spoken to as good as ever he was; not that I say anything to his +lordship's disparagement,” replied M'Bride; “but I'll take the punch for +a better reason--because I I have a fellow feeling for it. And yet it +was my destruction, too; however, it can't be helped. Yes, faith, it +made me an ungrateful scoundrel; but, no matter!--sir, here's your +health! I must only, as they say, make the best of a bad bargain--must +bring my cattle to the best market.” + +“Ay,” said Norton, dryly and significantly; “and so you think the old +earl, the respectable old nobleman, is your best chapman? Am I right?” + +“I may go that far, any way,” replied the fellow, with a knowing grin; +“but I don't lave you much the wiser.” + +“No, faith, you don't,” replied Norton, grinning in his turn. “However, +listen to me. Do you not think, now, that if you placed your case in the +hands of some one that stands well with his lordship, and who could use +his influence in your behalf, you might have better success?” + +“I'm the best judge of that myself,” replied M'Bride. “As it is, I +have, or can have, two strings to my bow. I have only to go to a certain +person, and say I'm sorry for what I've done, and I've no doubt but I'd +come well off.” + +“Well, and why don't you? If I were in your case, I'd consider myself +first, though.” + +“I don't know,” replied the other, as if undecided. “I think, afther +all, I'm in better hands. Unless Lord Cullamore is doting, I'm sure of +that fact. I don't intend to remain in this counthry. I'll go back to +France or to America; I can't yet say which.” + +“Take your punch in the meantime; take off your liquor, I say, and it'll +clear your head. Come, off with it. I don't know why, but I have taken +a fancy to you. Your face is an honest one, and if I knew what your +business with his lordship is, I'd give you a lift.” + +“Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “but the truth is, I'm afeard to +take much till after I see him. I must have all my wits about me, and +keep myself steady.” + +“Do put it in my power to serve you. Tell me what your business is, and, +by the honor of my name, I'll assist you.” + +“At present,” replied M'Bride, “I can't; but if I could meet you after I +see his lordship, I don't say but we might talk more about it.” + +“Very well,” replied Norton; “you won't regret it. In the course of a +short time I shall have the complete management of the whole Cullamore +property; and who can say that, if you put confidence in me now, I may +not have it in my power to employ you beneficially for yourself?” + +“Come then, sir,” replied M'Bride, “let me have another tumbler, on the +head of it. I think one more will do me no harm; as you say, sir, it'll +clear my head.” + +This was accordingly produced, and M'Bride began to become, if not more +communicative, at least more loquacious, and seemed disposed to place +confidence in Norton, to whom, however, he communicated nothing of +substantial importance. + +“I think,” said the latter, “if I don't mistake, that I am acquainted +with some of your relations.” + +“That may easily be,” replied the other; “and it has struck me two or +three times that I have seen your face before, but I can't tell where.” + +“Very likely,” replied Norton; “but 111 tell you what, we must get +better acquainted. Are you in any employment at present?” + +“I'm doing nothing,” said the other; “and the few pounds I had are +now gone to a few shillings; so that by to-morrow or next day, I'll be +forced to give my teeth a holiday.” + +“Poor fellow,” replied Norton, “that's too bad. Here's a pound note for +you, at all events. Not a word now; if we can understand each other +you sha'n't want; and I'll tell you what you'll do. After leaving his +lordship you must come to my room, where you can have punch to the eyes, +and there will be no interruption to our chat. You can then tell me +anything you like; but it must come willingly, for I'd scorn to force a +secret from any man--that is, if it is a secret. Do you agree to this?” + +“I agree to it, and many thanks, worthy sir,” replied M'Bride, putting +the pound note in his pocket; after which they chatted upon indifferent +matters until the period for his interview with Lord Cullamore had +arrived. + +Ginty, who had not lost a syllable of this dialogue, to whom, as the +reader perhaps may suspect, it was no novelty, followed them at a safe +distance, until she saw them enter the house. The interest, however, +which she felt in M'Bride's movements, prevented her from going home, or +allowing him to slip through her finger without accomplishing a project +that she had for some time before meditated, but had hitherto found no +opportunity to execute. + +Lord Cullamore, on M'Bride's entrance, was in much the same state which +we have already described, except that in bodily appearance he was +somewhat more emaciated and feeble. There was, however, visible in his +features a tone of solemn feeling, elevated but sorrowful, that seemed +to bespeak a heart at once resigned and suffering, and disposed to +receive the dispensations of life as a man would whose philosophy was +softened by a Christian spirit. In the general plan of life he clearly +recognized the wisdom which, for the example and the benefit of all, +runs with singular beauty through the infinite combinations of human +action, verifying the very theory which the baronet saw dimly, but +doubted; we mean that harmonious adaptation of moral justice to those +actions by which the original principles that diffuse happiness +through social life are disregarded and violated. The very order that +characterizes all creation, taught him that we are not here without a +purpose, and when human nature failed to satisfy him upon the mystery +of life, he went to revelation, and found the problem solved. The +consequence was, that whilst he felt as a man, he endured as a +Christian--aware that this life is, for purposes which we cannot +question, chequered with evils that teach us the absolute necessity of +another, and make us, in the meantime, docile and submissive to the will +of him who called us into being. + +His lordship had been reading the Bible as M'Bride entered, and, after +having closed it, and placed his spectacles between the leaves as a +mark, he motioned the man to come forward. + +“Well,” said he, “have you brought those documents with you?” + +“I have, my lord.” + +“Pray,” said he, “allow me to see them.” + +M'Bride hesitated; being a knave himself, he naturally suspected every +other man of trick and dishonesty; and yet, when he looked upon the +mild but dignified countenance of the old man, made reverend by age and +suffering, he had not the courage to give any intimation of the base +suspicions he entertained. + +“Place the papers before me, sir,” said his lordship, somewhat sharply. +“What opinion can I form of their value without having first inspected +and examined them?” + +As he spoke he took the spectacles from out the Bible, and settled them +on his face. + +“I know, my lord,” replied M'Bride, taking them out of a pocket-book +rather the worse for wear, “that I am placing them in the hands of an +honorable man.” + +His lordship took them without seeming to have heard this observation; +and as he held them up, M'Bride could perceive that a painful change +came over him. He became ghastly pale, and his hands trembled so +violently, that he was unable to read their contents until he placed +them flat upon the table before him. At length, after having read and +examined them closely, and evidently so as to satisfy himself of their +authenticity, he turned round to M'Bride, and said, “Is any person aware +that you are in possession of these documents?” + +“Aha,” thought the fellow, “there's an old knave for you. He would give +a round sum that they were in ashes, I'll engage; but I'll make him +shell out for all that.--I don't think there is, my lord, unless the +gentleman--your lordship knows who I mean--that I took them from.” + +“Did you take them deliberately from him?” + +The man stood uncertain for a moment, and thought that the best thing +he could do was to make a merit of the affair, by affecting a strong +disposition to serve his lordship. + +“The truth is, my lord, I was in his confidence, and as I heard how +matters stood, I thought it a pity that your lordship should be annoyed +at your time of life, and I took it into my head to place them in your +lordship's hands.” + +“These are genuine documents,” observed his lordship, looking at them +again. “I remember the handwriting distinctly, and have in my possession +some letters written by the same individual. Was your master a kind +one?” + +“Both kind and generous, my lord; and I have no doubt at all but he'd +forgive me everything, and advance a large sum besides, in order to +get these two little papers back. Your lordship knows he can do nothing +against you without them; and I hope you'll consider that, my lord.” + +“Did he voluntarily, that is, willingly, and of his own accord, admit +you to his confidence? and, if so, upon what grounds?” + +“Why, my lord, my wife and I were servants to his father for years, and +he, when a slip of a boy, was very fond of me. When he came over here, +my lord, it was rather against his will, and not at all for his own +sake. So, as he knew that he'd require some one in this country that +could act prudently for him, he made up his mind to take me with him, +especially as my wife and myself were both anxious to come back to our +own country. 'I must trust some one, M'Bride,' said he, 'and I will +trust you'; and then he tould me the raison of his journey here.” + +“Well,” replied his lordship, “proceed; have you anything more to add!” + +“Nothing, my lord, but what I've tould you. I thought it a pitiful case +to see a nobleman at your time of life afflicted by the steps he was +about to take, and I brought these papers accordingly to your lordship. +I hope you'll not forget that, my lord.” + +“What value do you place on these two documents?” + +“Why, I think a thousand pounds, my lord.” + +“Well, sir, your estimate is a very low one--ten thousand would come +somewhat nearer the thing.” + +“My lord, I can only say,” said M'Bride, “that I'm willin' to take a +thousand; but, if your lordship, knowin' the value of the papers as you +do, chooses to add anything more, I'll be very happy to accept it.” + +“I have another question to ask you, sir,” said his lordship, “which +I do with great pain, as I do assure you that this is as painful a +dialogue as I ever held in my life. Do you think now, that, provided you +had not taken--that is, stolen-these papers from your master, he would, +upon the success of the steps he is taking, have given you a thousand +pounds?” + +The man hesitated, as if he had caught a glimpse of the old man's object +in putting the question. “Why--hem--no; I don't think I could expect +that, my lord; but a handsome present, I dare say, I might come in for.” + +Lord Cullamore raised himself in his chair, and after looking at the +treacherous villain with a calm feeling of scorn and indignation, +to which his illness imparted a solemn and lofty severity, that made +M'Bride feel as if he wished to sink through the floor, + +“Go,” said he, looking at him with an eye that was kindled into +something of its former fire. “Begone, sir: take away your papers; +I will not--I cannot enter into any compact with an ungrateful and +perfidious villain like you. These papers have come into your hands by +robbery or theft--that is sufficient; there they are, sir--take them +away. I shall defend myself and my rights upon principles of justice, +but never shall stoop to support them by dishonor.” + +On concluding, he flung them across the table with a degree of +energy that surprised M'Bride, whilst his color,hitherto so pale, was +heightened by a flash of that high feeling and untarnished integrity +which are seldom so beautifully impressive as when exhibited in the +honorable indignation of old age. It might have been compared to that +pale but angry red of the winter sky which flashes so transiently over +the snow-clad earth, when the sun, after the fatigues of his short but +chilly journey, is about to sink from our sight at the close of day. + +M'Bride slunk out of the room crestfallen, disappointed, and abashed; +but on reaching the outside of the door he found Norton awaiting him. +This worthy gentleman, after beckoning to him to follow, having been +striving, with his whole soul centred in the key-hole, to hear the +purport of their conference, now proceeded to his own room, accompanied +by M'Bride, where we shall leave them without interruption to their +conversation and enjoyment, and return once more to Ginty Cooper. + +Until the hour of half-past twelve that night Ginty most religiously +kept her watch convenient to the door. Just then it opened very quietly, +and a man staggered down the hall steps, and bent his course toward the +northern part of the city suburbs. A female might be observed to +follow him at a distance, and ever as he began to mutter his drunken +meditations to himself, she approached him more closely behind, in +order, if possible, to lose nothing of what he said. + +“An ould fool,” he hiccupped, “to throw them back to me--hie--an' the +other a kna-a-ve to want to--to look at them; but I was up--up; if the +young-oung L-lor-ord will buy them, he mu-must-ust pay for them, for +I hav-ave them safe. Hang it, my head's turn-turn-turnin' about like +the--” + +At this portion of his reflections he turned into a low, dark line of +cabins, some inhabited, and others ruined and waste, followed by the +female in question; and if the reader cannot ascertain her object in +dogging him, he must expect no assistance in guessing it from us. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. Lucy's Vain but Affecting Expostulation with her Father + +--Her Terrible Denunciation of Ambrose Gray. + + +The next morning, after breakfast, Lord Dunroe found Norton and M'Bride +in the stable yard, when the following conversation took place. + +“Norton,” said his lordship, “I can't understand what they mean by the +postponement of this trial about the mare. I fear they will beat us, and +in that case it is better, perhaps, to compromise it. You know that that +attorney fellow Birney is engaged against us, and by all accounts he has +his wits about him.” + +“Yes, my lord; but Birney is leaving home, going to France, and they +have succeeded in getting it postponed until the next term. My lord, +this is the man, M'Bride, that I told you of this morning. M'Bride, +have you brought those documents with you? I wish to show them to his +lordship, who, I think, you will find a more liberal purchaser than his +father.” + +“What's that you said, sir,” asked M'Bride, with an appearance of deep +interest, “about Mr. Birney going to France?” + +“This is no place to talk about these matters,” said his lordship; +“bring the man up to your own room, Norton, and I will join you there. +The thing, however, is a mere farce, and my father a fool, or he would +not give himself any concern about it. Bring him to your room, where I +will join you presently. But, observe me, Norton, none of these tricks +upon me in future. You said you got only twenty-five for the mare, and +now it appears you got exactly double the sum. Now, upon my honor, I +won't stand any more of this.” + +“But, my lord,” replied Norton, laughing, “don't you see how badly +you reason? I got fifty for the mare; of this I gave your lordship +twenty-five--the balance I kept myself. Of course, then, you can fairly +say, or swear, if you like, that she brought you in nothing but the fair +value. In fact, I kept you completely out of the transaction; but, after +all, I only paid myself for the twenty-five I won off you.” + +Dunroe was by no means in anything like good-humor this morning. The +hints which Norton had communicated to him at breakfast, respecting the +subject of M'Bride's private interviews with his father, had filled him +with more alarm than he wished to acknowledge. Neither, on the other +hand, had he any serious apprehensions, for, unhappily for himself, he +was one of those easy and unreflecting men who seldom look beyond the +present moment, and can never be brought to a reasonable consideration +of their own interests, until, perhaps, it is too late to secure them. + +All we can communicate to the reader with respect to the conference +between these three redoubtable individuals is simply its results. On +that evening Norton and M'Bride started for France, with what object +will be seen hereafter, Birney having followed on the same route the +morning but one afterwards, for the purpose of securing the documents in +question. + +Dunroe now more than ever felt the necessity of urging his marriage with +Lucy. He knew his father's honorable spirit too well to believe that +he would for one moment yield his consent to it under the circumstances +which were now pending. With the full knowledge of these circumstances +he was not acquainted. M'Bride had somewhat overstated the share of +confidence to which in this matter he had been admitted by his master. +His information, therefore, on the subject, was not so accurate as he +wished, although, from motives of dishonesty and a desire to sell his +documents to the best advantage, he made the most of the knowledge he +possessed. Be this as it may, Dunroe determined, as we said, to bring +about the nuptials without delay, and in this he was seconded by Sir +Thomas Gourlay himself, who also had his own motives for hastening them. +In fact, here were two men, each deliberately attempting to impose +upon the other, and neither possessed of one spark of honor or truth, +although the transaction between them was one of the most solemn +importance that can occur in the great business of life. The world, +however, is filled with similar characters; and not all the misery and +calamity that ensue from such fraudulent and dishonest practices will, +we fear, ever prevent the selfish and ambitious from pursuing the same +courses. + +“Sir Thomas,” said Dunroe, in a conversation with the baronet held +on the very day after Norton and M'Bride had set out on their secret +expedition, “this marriage is unnecessarily delayed. I am anxious that +it should take place as soon as it possibly can.” + +“But,” replied the baronet, “I have not been able to see your father on +the subject, in consequence of his illness.” + +“It is not necessary,” replied his lordship. “You know what kind of a +man he is. In fact, I fear he is very nearly _non compos_ as it is. +He has got so confoundedly crotchety of late, that I should not feel +surprised if, under some whim or other, he set his face-against it +altogether. In fact, it is useless, and worse than useless, to consult +him at all about it. I move, therefore, that we go on without him.” + +“I think you are right,” returned the other; “and I have not the +slightest objection: name the day. The contract is drawn up, and only +requires to be signed.” + +“I should say, on Monday next,” replied his lordship; “but I fear we +will have objections and protestations from Miss Gourlay; and if so, how +are we to manage?” + +“Leave the management of Miss Gourlay to me, my lord,” replied her +father. “I have managed her before and shall manage her now.” + +His lordship had scarcely gone, when Lucy was immediately sent for, and +as usual found her father in the library. + +“Lucy,” said he, with as much blandness of manner as he could assume, +“I have sent for you to say that you are called upon to make your father +happy at last.” + +“And myself wretched forever, papa.” + +“But your word, Lucy--your promise--your honor: remember that promise so +solemnly given; remember, too, your duty of obedience as a daughter.” + +“Alas! I remember everything, papa; too keenly, too bitterly do I +remember all.” + +“You will be prepared to marry Dunroe on Monday next. The affair will +be comparatively private. That is to say, we will ask nobody--no +dejeuner--no nonsense. The fewer the better at these matters. Would you +wish to see your brother--hem--I mean Mr. Gray?” + +Lucy had been standing while he spoke; but she now staggered over to +a seat, on which she fell rather than sat. Her large, lucid eyes lost +their lustre; her frame quivered; her face became of an ashy paleness; +but still those eyes were bent upon her father. + +“Papa,” she said, at length, in a low voice that breathed of horror, “do +not kill me.” + +“Kill you, foolish girl! Now really, Lucy, this is extremely ridiculous +and vexatious too. Is not my daughter a woman of honor?” + +“Papa,” she said, solemnly, going down upon her two knees, and joining +her lovely and snowy hands together, in an attitude of the most earnest +and heart-rending supplication; “papa, hear me. You have said that I +saved your life; be now as generous as I was--save mine.” + +“Lucy,” he replied, “this looks like want of principle. You would +violate your promise. I should not wish Dunroe to hear this, or to know +it. He might begin to reason upon it, and to say that the woman who +could deliberately break a solemn promise might not hesitate at the +marriage vow. I do not apply this reasoning to you, but he or others +might. Of course, I expect that, as a woman of honor, you will keep +your word with me, and marry Dunroe on Monday. You will have no +trouble--everything shall be managed by them; a brilliant trousseau can +be provided as well afterwards as before.” + +Lucy rose up; and as she did, the blood, which seemed to have previously +gathered, to her heart, now returned to her cheek, and began to mantle +upon it, whilst her figure, before submissive and imploring, dilated to +its full size. + +“Father,” said she, “since you will not hear the voice of supplication, +hear that of reason and truth. Do not entertain a doubt, no, not for +a moment, that if I am urged--driven--to this marriage, hateful and +utterly detestable to me as it is, I shall hesitate to marry this man. I +say this, however, because I tell you that I am about to appeal to your +interest in my true happiness for the last time. Is it, then, kind; is +it fatherly in you, sir, to exact from me the fulfilment of a promise +given under circumstances that ought to touch your heart into a generous +perception of the sacrifice which in giving it I made for your sake +alone? You were ill, and laboring under the apprehension of sudden +death, principally, you said, in consequence of my refusal to become +the wife of that man. I saw this; and although the effort was infinitely +worse than death to me, I did not hesitate one moment in yielding up +what is at any time dearer to me than life--my happiness--that you might +be spared. Alas, my dear father, if you knew how painful it is to me to +be forced to plead all this in my own defence, you would, you must, pity +me. A generous heart, almost under any circumstances, scorns to plead +its own acts, especially when they are on the side of virtue. But I, +alas, am forced to it; am forced to do that which I would otherwise +scorn and blush to do.” + +“Lucy,” replied her father, who felt in his ambitious and tyrannical +soul the full force, not only of what she said, but of the fraud he had +practised on her, but which she never suspected: “Lucy, my child, you +will drive me mad. Perhaps I am wrong; but at the same time my heart is +so completely fixed upon this marriage, that if it be not brought about +I feel I shall go insane. The value of life would be lost to me, and +most probably I shall die the dishonorable death of a suicide.” + +“And have you no fear for me, my father--no apprehension that I may +escape from this my wretched destiny to the peace of the grave? But you +need not. Thank God, I trust and feel that my regard for His precepts, +and my perceptions of His providence, are too clear and too firm ever +to suffer me to fly like a coward from the post in life which He has +assigned me. But why, dear father, should you make me the miserable +victim of your ambition?--I am not ambitious.” + +“I know you are not: I never could get an honorable ambition instilled +into you.” + +“I am not mean, however--nay, I trust that I possess all that honest and +honorable pride which would prevent me from doing an unworthy act, or +one unbecoming either my sex or my position.” + +“You would not break your word, for instance, nor render your father +wretched, insane, mad, or, perhaps, cause his dreadful malady to return. +No--no--but yet fine talking is a fine thing. Madam, cease to plead your +virtues to me, unless you prove that you possess them by keeping your +honorable engagement made to Lord Dunroe, through the sacred medium of +your own father. Whatever you may do, don't attempt to involve me in +your disgrace.” + +“I am exhausted,” she said, “and cannot speak any longer; but I will not +despair of you, father. No, my dear papa,” she said, throwing her arms +about his neck, laying her head upon his bosom, and bursting into tears, +“I will not think that you could sacrifice your daughter. You will +relent for Lucy as Lucy did for you--but I feel weak. You know, papa, +how this fever on my spirits has worn me down; and, after all, the day +might come--and come with bitterness and remorse to your heart--when you +may be forced to feel that although you made your Lucy a countess she +did not remain a countess long.” + +“What do you mean now?” + +“Don't you see, papa, that my heart is breaking fast? If you will +not hear my words--if they cannot successfully plead for me--let my +declining health--let my pale and wasted cheek--let my want of spirits, +my want of appetite--and, above all, let that which you cannot see nor +feel--the sickness of my unhappy heart--plead for me. Permit me to go, +dear papa; and will you allow me to lean upon you to my own room?--for, +alas! I am not, after this painful excitement, able to go there myself. +Thank you, papa, thank you.” + +He was thus compelled to give her his arm, and, in doing so, was +surprised to feel the extraordinary tremor by which her frame was +shaken. On reaching her room, she turned round, and laying her head, +with an affectionate and supplicating confidence, once more upon his +breast, she whispered with streaming eyes, “Alas! my dear papa, you +forget, in urging me to marry this hateful profligate, that my heart, my +affections, my love--in the fullest, and purest, and most disinterested +sense--are irrevocably fixed upon another; and Dunroe, all mean and +unmanly as he is, knows this.” + +“He knows that--there, sit down--why do you tremble so?--Yes, but he +knows that what you consider an attachment is a mere girlish fancy, a +whimsical predilection that your own good-sense will show you the folly +of at a future time.” + +“Recollect, papa, that he has been extravagant, and is said to be +embarrassed; the truth is, sir, that the man values not your daughter, +but the property to which he thinks he will become entitled, and which +I have no doubt will be very welcome to his necessities. I feel that I +speak truth, and as a test of his selfishness, it will be only necessary +to acquaint him with the reappearance of my brother--your son and +heir--and you will be no further troubled by his importunities.” + +“Troubled by his importunity! Why, girl, it's I that am troubled with +apprehension lest he might discover the existence of your brother, and +draw off.” + +One broad gaze of wonder and dismay she turned upon him, and her face +became crimsoned with shame. She then covered it with her open hands, +and, turning round, placed her head upon the end of the sofa, and moaned +with a deep and bursting anguish, on hearing this acknowledgment of +deliberate baseness from his own lips. + +The baronet understood her feelings, and regretted the words he had +uttered, but he resolved to bear the matter out. + +“Don't be surprised, Lucy,” he added, “nor alarmed at these sentiments; +for I tell you, that rather than be defeated in the object I propose for +your elevation in life, I would trample a thousand times upon all +the moral obligations that ever bound man. Put it down to what you +like--insanity--monomania, if you will--but so it is with me: I shall +work my purpose out, or either of us shall die for it; and from this +you may perceive how likely your resistance and obduracy are to become +available against the determination of such a man as I am. Compose +yourself, girl, and don't be a fool. The only way to get properly +through life is to accommodate ourselves to its necessities, or, in +other words, to have shrewdness and common sense, and foil the world, if +we can, at its own weapons. Give up your fine sentiment, I desire you, +and go down to the drawing-room, to receive your brother; hem will be +here very soon. I am going to the assizes, and shall not return till +about four o'clock. Come, come, all will end better than you imagine.” + +The mention of her brother was anything but a comfort to Lucy. Her +father at first entertained apprehensions, as we have already said, that +this promising youth might support his sister in her aversion against +the marriage. Two or three conversations on the subject soon undeceived +him, however, in the view he had taken of his character; and Lucy +herself now dreaded him, on this subject, almost as much as she did her +father. + +With respect to this same brother, it is scarcely necessary now to +say, that Lucy's feelings had undergone a very considerable change. +On hearing that he not only was in existence, but that she would soon +actually behold him, her impassioned imagination painted him as +she wished and hoped he might prove to be--that is, in the first +place--tall, elegant, handsome, and with a strong likeness to the mother +whom he had been said so much to resemble; and, in the next--oh, how her +trembling heart yearned to find him affectionate, tender, generous, +and full of all those noble and manly virtues on which might rest a +delightful sympathy, a pure and generous affection, and a tender and +trusting confidence between them. On casting her eyes upon him for the +first time, however, she felt at the moment like one disenchanted, or +awakening from some delightful illusion to a reality so much at variance +with the beau ideal of her imagination, as to occasion a feeling of +disappointment that amounted almost to pain. There stood before her +a young man, with a countenance so like her father's, that the fact +startled her. Still there was a difference, for--whether from the +consciousness of birth, or authority, or position in life--there was +something in her father's features that redeemed them from absolute +vulgarity. Here, however, although the resemblance was extraordinary, +and every feature almost identical, there might be read in the +countenance of her brother a low, commonplace expression, that looked as +if it were composed of effrontery, cunning, and profligacy. Lucy for +a moment shrank back from such a countenance, and the shock of +disappointment chilled the warmth with which she had been prepared +to receive him. But, then, her generous heart told her that she might +probably be prejudging the innocent--that neglect, want of education, +the influence of the world, and, worst of all, distress and suffering, +might have caused the stronger, more vulgar, and exceedingly +disagreeable expression which she saw before her; and the reader is +already aware of the consequences which these struggles, at their first +interview, had upon her. Subsequently to that, however, Mr. Ambrose, +in supporting his father's views, advanced principles in such complete +accordance with them, as to excite in his sister's breast, first a +deep regret that she could not love him as she had hoped to do; then +a feeling stronger than indifference itself, and ultimately one little +short of aversion. Her father had been now gone about half an hour, and +she hoped that her brother might not come, when a servant came to say +that Mr. Gray was in the drawing-room, and requested to see her. + +She felt that the interview would be a painful one to her; but still he +was her brother, and she knew she could not avoid seeing him. + +After the first salutations were over, + +“What is the matter with you, Lucy?” he asked; “you look ill and +distressed. I suppose the old subject of the marriage--eh?” + +“I trust it is one which you will not renew, Thomas. I entreat you to +spare me on it.” + +“I am too much your friend to do so, Lucy. It is really inconceivable to +me why you should oppose it as you do. But the truth is, you don't know +the world, or you would think and act very differently.” + +“Thomas,” she replied, whilst her eyes filled with tears, “I am almost +weary of life. There is not one living individual to whom I can turn for +sympathy or comfort. Papa has forbidden me to visit Lady Gourlay or Mrs. +Mainwaring; and I am now utterly friendless, with the exception of God +alone. But I will not despair--so long, at least, as reason is left to +me.” + +“I assure you, Lucy, you astonish me. To you, whose imagination is +heated with a foolish passion for an adventurer whom no one knows, all +this suffering may seem very distressing and romantic; but to me, to my +father, and to the world, it looks like great folly--excuse me, Lucy--or +rather like great weakness of character, grounded upon strong obstinacy +of disposition. Believe me, if the world were to know this you would be +laughed at; and there is scarcely a mother or daughter, from the +cottage to the castle, that would not say, 'Lucy Gourlay is a poor, +inexperienced fool, who thinks she can find a world of angels, and +paragons, and purity to live in.'” + +“But I care not for the world, Thomas; it is not my idol--I do not +worship it, nor shall I ever do so. I wish to guide myself by the voice +of my own conscience, by a sense of what is right and proper, and by the +principles of Christian truth.” + +“These doctrines, Lucy, are very well for the closet; but they will +neyer do in life, for which they are little short of a disqualification. +Where, for instance, will you find them acted on? Not by people of +sense, I assure you. Now listen to me.” + +“Spare me, if you please, Thomas, the advocacy of such principles. You +occasion me great pain--not so much on my own account as on yours--you +alarm me.” + +“Don't be alarmed, I tell you; but listen to me, as I said. Here, now, +is this marriage: you don't love this Dunroe--you dislike, you detest +him. Very well. What the deuce has that to do with the prospects of your +own elevation in life? Think for yourself--become the centre of your own +world; make this Dunroe your footstool--put him under your foot, I say, +and mount by him; get a position in the world--play your game in it as +you see others do; and--” + +“Pray, sir,” said Lucy, scarcely restraining her indignation, “where, or +when, or how did you come by these odious and detestable doctrines?” + +“Faith, Lucy, from honest nature--from experience and observation. Is +there any man with a third idea, or that has the use of his eyes, who +does not know and see that this is the game of life? Dunroe, I dare say, +deserves your contempt; report goes, certainly, that he is a profligate; +but what ought especially to reconcile him to you is this simple +fact--that the man's a fool. Egad, I think that ought to satisfy you.” + +Lucy rose up and went to the window, where she stood for some moments, +her eyes sparkling and scintillating, and her bosom heaving with a tide +of feelings which were repressed by a strong and exceedingly difficult +effort. She then returned to the sofa, her cheeks and temples in a +blaze, whilst ever and anon she eyed her brother as if from a new point +of view, or as if something sudden and exceedingly disagreeable had +struck her. + +“You look at me very closely, Lucy,” said he, with a confident grin. + +“I do,” she replied. “Proceed, sir.” + +“I will. Well, as I was saying, you will find it remarkably comfortable +and convenient in many ways to be married to a fool: he will give you +very little trouble; fools are never suspicious, but, on the contrary, +distinguished for an almost sublime credulity. Then, again, you love +this other gentleman; and, with a fool for your husband, and the example +of the world before you, what the deuce difficulty can you see in the +match?” + +Lucy rose up, and for a few moments the very force of her indignation +kept her silent; at length she spoke. + +“Villain--impostor--cheat! you stand there convicted of an infamous +attempt to impose yourself on me as my legitimate brother--on my father +as his legitimate son; but know that I disclaim you, sir. What! the +fine and gentle blood of my blessed mother to flow in the veins of the +profligate monster who could give utterance to principles worthy of +hell itself, and attempt to pour them into the ears and heart of his own +sister! Sir, I feel, and I thank God for it, that you are not the son of +my blessed mother--no; but you stand there a false and spurious knave, +the dishonest instrument of some fraudulent conspiracy, concocted for +the purpose of putting you into a position of inheriting a name and +property to which you have no claim. I ought, on the moment I first +saw you, to have been guided by the instincts of my own heart, which +prompted me to recoil from and disclaim you. I know not, nor do I wish +to know, in what low haunts of vice and infamy you have been bred; but +one thing is certain, that, if it be within the limits of my power, +you shall be traced and unmasked. I now remember me that--that--there +existed an early scandal--yes, sir, I remember it, but I cannot even +repeat it; be assured, however, that this inhuman and devilish attempt +to poison my principles will prove the source of a retributive judgment +on your head. Begone, sir, and leave the house!” + +The pallor of detected guilt, the consciousness that in this iniquitous +lecture he had overshot the mark, and made a grievous miscalculation in +pushing his detestable argument too far--but, above all, the startling +suspicions so boldly and energetically expressed by Lucy, the truth of +which, as well as the apprehensions that filled him of their discovery, +all united, made him feel as if he stood on the brink of a mine to which +the train had been already applied. And yet, notwithstanding all this, +such was the natural force of his effrontery--such the vulgar insolence +and bitter disposition of his nature, that, instead of soothing her +insulted feelings, or offering either explanation or apology, he could +not restrain an impudent exhibition of ill-temper. + +“You forget yourself, Lucy,” he replied; “you have no authority to +order me out of this house, in which I stand much firmer than yourself. +Neither do I comprehend your allusions, nor regard your threats. The +proofs of my identity and legitimacy are abundant and irresistible. As +to the advice I gave you, I gave it like one who knows the world--” + +“No, sir,” she replied, indignantly; “you gave it like a man who knows +only its vices. It is sickening to hear every profligate quote his own +experience of life, as if it were composed of nothing but crimes and +vices, simply because they constitute the guilty phase of it with +which he is acquainted. But the world, sir, is not the scene of general +depravity which these persons would present it. No: it is full of great +virtues, noble actions, high principles; and, what is better still, of +true religion and elevated humanity. What right, then, sir, have you to +libel a world which you do not understand? You are merely a portion of +its dregs, and I would as soon receive lessons in honesty from a +thief as principles for my guidance in it from you. As for me, I shall +disregard the proofs of your identity and legitimacy, which, however, +must be produced and investigated; for, from this moment, establish +them as you may, I shall never recognize you as a brother, as an +acquaintance, as a man, nor as anything but a selfish and abandoned +villain, who would have corrupted the principles of his sister.” + +Without another word, or the slightest token of respect or courtesy, +she deliberately, and with an air of indignant scorn, walked out of the +drawing-room, leaving Mr. Ambrose Gray in a position which we dare say +nobody will envy him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. Contains a Variety of Matters + +--Some to Laugh and some to Weep at. + +Our readers may have observed that Sir Thomas Gourlay led a secluded +life ever since the commencement of our narrative. The fact was, and he +felt it deeply, that he had long been an unpopular man. That he was a +bad, overbearing husband, too, had been well known, for such was the +violence of his temper, and the unvaried harshness of his disposition +toward his wife, that the general tenor of his conduct, so far even as +she was concerned, could not be concealed. His observations on life and +personal character were also so cynical and severe, not to say unjust, +that his society was absolutely avoided, unless by some few of his own +disposition. And yet nothing could be more remarkable than the contrast +that existed between his principles and conduct in many points, thus +affording, as they did, an involuntary acknowledgment of his moral +errors. + +He would not, for instance, admit his sceptical friends, who laughed at +the existence of virtue and religion, to the society of his daughter, +with the exception of Lord Dunroe, to whose vices his unaccountable +ambition for her elevation completely blinded him. Neither did he wish +her to mingle much with the world, from a latent apprehension that she +might tind it a different thing from what he himself represented it to +be; and perhaps might learn there the low estimate which it had formed +of her future husband. Like most misanthropical men, therefore, whose +hatred of life is derived principally from that uneasiness of conscience +which proceeds from their own vices, he kept aloof from society as far +as the necessities of his position allowed him. + +Mrs. Mainwaring had called upon him several times with an intention of +making some communication which she trusted would have had the effect +of opening his eyes to the danger into which he was about to precipitate +his daughter by her contemplated! marriage with Dunroe. He uniformly +refused, however, to see her, or to allow her any opportunity of +introducing the subject. Finding herself deliberately and studiously +repulsed, this good lady, who still occasionally corresponded with +Lucy, came to the resolution of writing to him on the subject, and, +accordingly, Gibson, one morning, with his usual cool and deferential +manner, presented him with the following letter: + +“SUMMERFIELD COTTAGE. + +“Sir,--I should feel myself utterly unworthy of the good opinion which I +trust I am honored with by your admirable daughter, were I any longer +to remain silent upon a subject of the deepest importance to her future +happiness. I understand that she is almost immediately about to +become the wife of Lord Dunroe. Now, sir, I entreat your most serious +attention; and I am certain, if you will only bestow it upon the few +words I am about to write, that you, and especially Miss Gourlay, will +live to thank God that I interposed to prevent this unhallowed union. +I say then, emphatically, as I shall be able to prove most distinctly, +that if you permit Miss Gourlay to become the wife of this young +nobleman you will seal her ruin--defeat the chief object which you +cherish, for her in life, and live to curse the day on which you +urged it on. The communications which I have to make are of too much +importance to be committed to paper; but if you will only allow me, and +I once more implore it for the sake of your child, as well as for your +own future ease of mind, the privilege of a short interview, I shall +completely satisfy you as to the truth of what I state. + +“I have the honor to be, sir, + +“Your obliged and obedient servant, + +“Martha Mainwaring.” + + +Having perused the first sentence of this earnest and friendly +letter, Sir Thomas indignantly flung it into a drawer where he kept +all communications to which it did not please him at the moment to pay +particular attention. + +Lucy's health in the meantime was fast breaking: but so delicate and +true was her sense of honor and duty that she would have looked upon any +clandestine communication with her lover as an infraction of the solemn +engagement into which she had entered for her father's sake,--and by +which, even at the expense of her own happiness, she considered herself +bound. Still, she felt that a communication on the subject was due to +him, and her principal hope now was that her father would allow her +to make it. If he, however, refused this sanction to an act of common +justice, then she resolved to write to him openly, and make the wretched +circumstances in which she was involved, and the eternal barrier that +had been placed between them, known to him at once. + +Her father, however, now found, to his utter mortification, that he was +driving matters somewhat too fast, and that his daughter's health must +unquestionably be restored before he could think of outraging humanity +and public decency by forcing her from the sick bed to the altar. + +After leaving her brother on the occasion of their last remarkable +interview, she retired to her room so full of wretchedness, indignation, +and despair of all human aid or sympathy, that she scarcely knew whether +their conversation was a dream or a reality. Above all things, the +shock she received through her whole moral system, delicately and finely +tempered as it was, so completely prostrated her physical strength, and +estranged all the virtuous instincts of her noble nature, that it was +with difficulty she reached her own room. When there, she immediately +rang for her maid, who at once perceived by the indignant sparkle of her +eye, the heightened color of her cheek, and the energetic agitation of +her voice, that something exceedingly unpleasant had occurred. + +“My gracious, miss,” she exclaimed, “what has happened? You look so +disturbed! Something, or somebody, has offended you.” + +“I am disturbed, Alice,” she replied, “I am disturbed; come and lend +me your arm; my knees are trembling so that I cannot walk without +assistance; but must sit down for a moment. Indeed, I feel that my +strength is fast departing from me. I scarcely know what I am thinking. +I am all confused, agitated, shocked. Gracious heaven! Come, my dear +Alice, help your mistress; you, Alice, are the only friend I have left +now. Are you not my friend, Alice?” + +She was sitting on a lounger as she spoke, and the poor affectionate +girl, who loved her as she did her life, threw herself over, and leaning +her head upon her mistress's knees wept bitterly. + +“Sit beside me, Alice,” said she; “whatever distance social distinctions +may have placed between us, I feel that the truth and sincerity of +those tears justify me in placing you near my heart. Sit beside me, but +compose yourself; and then you must assist me to bed.” + +“They are killing you,” said Alley, still weeping. “What devil can tempt +them to act as they do? As for me, miss, it's breaking my heart, that I +see what you are suffering, and can't assist you.” + +“But I have your love and sympathy, your fidelity, too, my dear Alice; +and that now is all I believe the world has left me.” + +“No, miss,” replied her maid, wiping her eyes, and striving to compose +herself, “no, indeed; there is another--another gentleman, I mean--as +well as myself, that feels deeply for your situation.” + +Had Lucy's spirit been such as they were wont to be, she could have +enjoyed this little blunder of Alice's; but now her heart, like some +precious jewel that lies too deep in the bosom of the ocean for the +sun's strongest beams to reach, had sunk beneath the influence of either +cheerfulness or mirth. + +“There is indeed, miss,” continued Alice, + +“And pray, Alice,” asked her mistress, “how do you know that?” + +“Why, miss,” replied the girl, “I am told that of late he is looking +very ill, too. They say he has lost his spirits all to pieces, and +seldom laughs--the Lord save us!” + +“They say!--who say, Alice?” + +“Why,” replied Alice, with a perceptible heightening of her color, +“ahem! ahem! why, Dandy Dulcimer, miss.” + +“And where have you seen him? Dulcimer, I mean. He, I suppose, who used +occasionally to play upon the instrument of that name in the Hall?” + +“Yes, ma'am, the same. Don't you remember how beautiful he played it the +night we came in the coach to town?” + +“I remember there was something very-unpleasant between him and a +farmer, I believe; but I did not pay much attention to it at the time.” + +“I am sorry for that, miss, for I declare to goodness, Dandy's dulcimer +isn't such an unpleasant instrument as you think; and, besides, he has +got a new one the other day that plays lovely.” + +Lucy felt a good deal anxious to hear some further information from +Alley upon the subject she had introduced, but saw that Dandy and his +dulcimer were likely to be substituted for it, all unconscious as the +poor girl was of the preference of the man to the master. + +“He looks ill, you say, Alice?” + +“Never seen him look so rosy in my life, miss, nor in such spirits.” + +Lucy looked into her face, and for a moment's space one slight and +feeble gleam, which no suffering could prevent, passed over it, at this +intimation of the object which Alley's fancy then dwelt upon. + +“He danced a hornpipe, miss, to the tune of the Swaggerin' Jig, upon the +kitchen table,” she proceeded; “and, sorra be off me, but it would do +your heart good to see the springs he would give--every one o' them a +yard high--and to hear how he'd crack his fingers as loud as the shot of +a pistol.” + +A slight gloom overclouded Lucy's face; but, on looking at the artless +transition from the honest sympathy which Alley had just felt for her to +a sense of happiness which it was almost a crime to disturb, it almost +instantly disappeared. + +“I must not be angry with her,” she said to herself; “this feeling, +after all, is only natural, and such as God. in his goodness bestows +upon every heart as the greatest gift of life, when not abused. I cannot +be displeased at the naivete with which she has forgotten my lover for +her own; for such I perceive this person she speaks of evidently is.” + +She looked once more at her maid, whose eyes, with true Celtic feeling, +were now dancing with delight, whilst yet red with tears. “Alice,” said +she, in a voice of indulgent reproof, “who are you thinking of?” + +“Why, of Dandy, miss,” replied Alley; but in an instant the force of the +reproof as well as of the indulgence was felt, and sho acknowledged her +error by a blush. + +“I beg your pardon, miss,” she said; “I'm a thoughtless creature. What +can you care about what I was sayin'? But--hem--well, about him--sure +enough, poor Dandy told me that everything is going wrong with him. He +doesn't, as I said, speak or smile as he used to do.” + +“Do you know,” asked her mistress, “whether he goes out much?” + +“Not much, miss, I think; he goes sometimes to Lady Gourlay's and to +Dean Palmer's. But do you know what I heard, miss I hope you won't grow +jealous, though?” + +Lucy gave a faint smile. “I hope not, Alice. What is it?” But here, +on recollecting again the scene she had just closed below stairs, she +shuddered, and could not help exclaiming, “Oh, gracious heaven!” Then +suddenly throwing off, as it were, all thought and reflection connected +with it, she looked again at her maid, and repeated the question, “What +is it, Alice?” + +“Why, miss, have you ever seen Lord Dunroe's sister?” + +“Yes, in London; but she was only a girl, though a lovely girl.” + +“Well, miss, do you know what? She's in love with some one.” + +“Poor girl!” exclaimed, Lucy, “I trust the course of her love may run +smoother than mine; but who is she supposed to be in love with?” she +asked, not, however, without a blush, which, with all her virtues, was, +as woman, out of her power to suppress. + +“Oh,” replied Alley, “not with him--and dear knows it would be +no disgrace to her, but the contrary, to fall in love with such a +gentleman--no; but with a young officer of the Thirty-third, who they +say is lovely.” + +“What is his name, do you not know, Alice?” + +“Roberts, I think. They met at Dean Palmer's and Lady Gourlay's; for it +seems that Colonel Dundas was an old brother officer of Sir Edward's, +when he was young and in the army.” + +“I have met that young officer, Alice,” replied Lucy, “and I know not +how it was, but I felt an--a--a--in fact, I cannot describe it. Those +who were present observed that he and I resembled each other very much, +and indeed the resemblance struck myself very forcibly.” + +“Troth, and if he resembled you, miss, I'm not surprised that Lady Emily +fell in love with him.” + +“But how did you come to hear all this, Alice?” asked Lucy with a good +deal of anxiety. + +“Why, miss, there's a cousin of my own maid to Mrs. Palmer, and you +may remember the evenin' you gave me lave to spend with her. She gave +a party on the same evenin' and Dandy was there. I think I never looked +better; I had on my new stays, and my hair was done up Grecian. Any way, +I wasn't the worst of them.” + +“I am fatigued, Alice,” said Lucy; “make your narrative as short as you +can.” + +“I haven't much to add to it now, miss,” she replied. “It was observed +that Lady Emily's eyes and his were never off one another. She refused, +it seems, to dance with some major that's a great lord in the regiment, +and danced with Mr. Roberts afterwards. He brought her down to supper, +too, and sat beside her, and you know what that looks like.” + +Lucy paused, and seemed as if anxious about something, but at length +asked, + +“Do you know, Alice, was he there?” + +“No, miss,” replied the maid; “Dandy tells me he goes to no great +parties at all, he only dines where there's a few. But, indeed, by all +accounts he's very unhappy.” + +“What do you mean by all accounts,” asked Lucy, a little startled. + +“Why, Dandy, miss; so he tells me.” + +“Poor Alice!” exclaimed Lucy, looking benignantly upon her. “I did not +think, Alice, that any conversation could have for a moment won me from +the painful state of mind in which I entered the room. Aid me me now +to my bedchamber. I must lie down, for I feel that I should endeavor to +recruit my strength some way. If I could sleep, I should be probably the +better for it; but, alas, Alice, you need not be told that misery and +despair are wretched bedfellows.” + +“Don't say despair,” replied Alice; “remember there's a good God above +us, who can do better for us than ever we can for ourselves. Trust in +him. Who knows but he's only trying you; and severely tried you are, my +darlin' mistress.” + +Whilst uttering the last words, the affectionate creature's eyes +filled with tears. She rose, however, and having assisted Lucy to +her sleeping-room, helped to undress her, then fixed her with tender +assiduity in her bed, where, in a few minutes, exhaustion and anxiety of +mind were for the time forgotten, and she fell asleep. + +The penetration of servants, in tracing, at fashionable parties, +the emotions of love through all its various garbs and disguises, +constitutes a principal and not the least disagreeable portion of their +duty. The history of Lady Emily's attachment to Ensign Roberts, though a +profound secret to the world, in the opinion of the parties themselves, +and only hoped for and suspected by each, was nevertheless perfectly +well known by a good number of the quality below stairs. The +circumstance, at all events, as detailed by Alley, was one which in this +instance justified their sagacity. Roberts and she had met, precisely as +Alley said, three or four times at Lady Gourlay's and the Dean's, where +their several attractions were, in fact, the theme of some observation. +Those long, conscious glances, however, which, on the subject of +love are such traitors to the heart, by disclosing its most secret +operations, had sufficiently well told them the state of everything +within that mysterious little garrison, and the natural result was that +Lady Emily seldom thought of any one or anything but Ensign Roberts and +the aforesaid glances, nor Mr. Roberts of anything but hers; for it so +happened, that, with the peculiar oversight in so many things by which +the passion is characterized, Lady Emily forgot that she had herself +been glancing at the ensign, or she could never have observed and +interpreted his looks. With a similar neglect of his own offences, in +the same way must we charge Mr. Roberts, who in his imagination saw +nothing but the blushing glances of this fair patrician. + +Time went on, however, and Lucy, so far from recovering, was nearly +one-half of the week confined to her bed, or her apartment. Sometimes, +by way of varying the scene, and, if possible, enlivening her spirits, +she had forced herself to go down to the drawing-room, and occasionally +to take an airing in the carriage. A fortnight had elapsed, and yet +neither Norton nor his fellow-traveler had returned from France. Neither +had Mr. Birney; and our friend the stranger had failed to get any +possible intelligence of unfortunate Fenton, whom he now believed +to have perished, either by foul practices or the influence of some +intoxicating debauch. Thanks to Dandy Dulcimer, however, as well as to +Alley Mahon, he was not without information concerning Lucy's state of +health; and, unfortunately, all that he could hear about it was only +calculated to depress and distract him. + +Dandy came to him one morning, about this period, and after rubbing his +head slightly with the tips of his fingers, said, + +“Bedad, sir, I was very near havin' cotch the right Mrs. Norton +yestherday--I mane, I thought I was.” + +“How was that?” asked his master. “Why, sir, I heard there was a fine, +good-looking widow of that name, livin' in Meeklenburgh street, +where she keeps a dairy; and sure enough there I found her. Do you +undherstand, sir?” + +“Why should I not, sirra? What mystery is there in it that I should +not?” + +“Deuce a sich a blazer of a widow I seen this seven years. I went early +to her place, and the first thing I saw was a lump of a six-year-ould--a +son of hers--playin' the Pandean pipes upon a whack o' bread and butther +that he had aiten at the top into canes. Somehow, although I can't tell +exactly why, I tuck a fancy to become acquainted with her, and proposed, +if she had no objection, to take a cup o' tay with her yestherday +evenin', statin' at the time that I had something to say that might turn +out to her advantage.” + +“But what mystery is there in all this?” said his master. + +“Mysthery, sir--why, where was there ever a widow since the creation of +Peter White, that hadn't more or less of mysthery about her?” + +“Well, but what was the mystery here?” asked the other. “I do not +perceive any, so far.” + +“Take your time, sir,” replied Dandy; “it's comin'. The young performer +on the Pandeans that I tould you of wasn't more than five or six at the +most, but a woman over the way, that I made inquiries of, tould me the +length o' time the husband was dead. Do you undherstand the mysthery +now, sir?” + +“Go on,” replied the other; “I am amused by you; but I don't see the +mystery, notwithstanding. What was the result?” + +“I tell you the truth--she was a fine, comely, fiaghoola woman; and as I +heard she had the shiners, I began to think I might do worse.” + +“I thought the girl called Alley Mahon was your favorite?” + +“So she is, sir--that is, she's one o' them: but, talkin' o' favorites, +I am seldom without half-a-dozen.” + +“Very liberal, indeed, Dandy; but I wish to hear the upshot.” + +“Why, sir, we had a cup o' tay together yestherday evenin', and, between +you and me, I began, as it might be, to get fond of her. She's very +pretty, sir; but I must say, that the man who marries her will get a +mouth, plaise goodness, that he must kiss by instalments. Faith, if +it could be called property, he might boast that his is extensive; and +divil a mistake in it.” + +“She has a large mouth, then?” + +“Upon my soul, sir, if you stood at the one side of it you'd require a +smart telescope to see to the other. No man at one attempt could ever +kiss her. I began, sir, at the left side--that's always the right side +to kiss at and went on successfully enough till I got half way through; +but you see, sir, the evenin's is but short yet, and as I had no time to +finish, I'm to go back this evenin' to get to the other side. + +“Still I'm at a loss, Dandy,” replied his master, not knowing whether to +smile or get angry; “finish it without going about in this manner.” + +“Faith, sir, and that's more than I could do in kissing the widow. Divil +such a circumbendibus ever a man had as I had in gettin' as far as the +nose, where I had to give up until this evenin' as I said. Now, sir, +whether to consider that an advantage or disadvantage is another +mysthery to me. There's some women, and they have such a small, rosy, +little mouth, that a man must gather up his lips into a bird's bill to +kiss them. Now, there's Miss Gour--” + +A look of fury from his master divided the word in his mouth, and he +paused from terror. His master became more composed, however, and said, +“To what purpose have you told me all this?” + +“Gad, sir to tell you the truth, I saw you were low-spirited, and wanted +something to rouse you. It's truth for all that.” + +“Is this Mrs. Norton, however, the woman whom we are seeking?” + +“Well, well,” exclaimed Dandy, casting down his hand, with vexatious, +vehemence, against the open air; “by the piper o' Moses, I'm the +stupidest man that ever peeled a phatie. Troth, I was so engaged, sir, +that I forgot it; but I'll remember it to-night, plaise goodness.” + +“Ah, Dandy,” exclaimed his master, smiling, “I fear you are a faithless +swain. I thought Alley Mahon was at least the first on the list.” + +“Troth, sir,” replied Dandy, “I believe she is, too. Poor Alley! By the +way, sir, I beg your pardon, but I have news for you that I fear will +give you a heavy heart.” + +“How,” exclaimed his master, “how--what is it? Tell me instantly.” + +“Miss Gourlay is ill, sir. She was goin' to be married to this lord; +her father, I believe, had the day appointed, and she had given her +consent.” + +His master seized him by the collar with both hands, and peering into +his eyes, whilst his own blazed with actual fire, he held him for a +moment as if in a vise, exclaiming, “Her consent, you villain!” But, as +if recollecting himself, he suddenly let him go, and said, calmly, “Go +on with what you were about to say.” + +“I have very little more to say, sir,” replied Dandy; “herself and +Lord Dunroe is only waitin' till she gets well and then they're to be +married?” + +“You said she gave her consent, did you not!” + +“No doubt of it, sir, and that, I believe, is what's breakin' her +heart. However, it's not my affair to direct any one; still, if I was in +somebody's shoes, I know the tune I'd sing.” + +“And what tune would you sing?” asked his master. + +Dandy sung the following stave, and, as he did it, he threw his comic +eye upon his master with such humorous significance that the latter, +although wrapped in deep reflection at the moment, on suddenly observing! +it, could not avoid smiling: + + “Will you list, and come with me, fair maid? + Will you list, and come with me, fair maid? + Will you list, and come with me, fair maid? + And folly the lad with the white cockade?” + +“If you haven't a good voice, sir, you could whisper the words into +her ear, and as you're so near the mouth--hem--a word to the wise--then +point to the chaise that you'll have standin' outside, and my life for +you, there's an end to the fees o' the docther.” + +His master, who had relapsed into thought before he concluded his +advice, looked at him without seeming to have heard it. He then +traversed the room several times, his chin supported by his finger and +thumb, after which he seemed to have formed a resolution. + +“Go, sir,” said he, “and put that letter to Father M'Mahon in the +post-office. I shall not want you for some time.” + +“Will I ordher a chaise, sir?” replied Dandy, with a serio-comic face. + +One look from his master, however, sent him about his business; but +the latter could hear him lilting the “White Cockade,” as he went down +stairs. + +“Now,” said he, when Dandy was gone, “can it be possible that she has +at length given her consent to this marriage? Never voluntarily. It +has been extorted by foul deceit and threatening, by some base fraud +practised upon her generous and unsuspecting nature. I am culpable +to stand tamely by and allow this great and glorious creature to be +sacrificed to a bad ambition, and a worse man, without coming to the +rescue. But, in the meantime, is this information true? Alas, I fear +it is; for I know the unscrupulous spirit the dear girl has, alone and +unassisted, to contend with. Yet if it be true, oh, why should she not +have written to me? Why not have enabled me to come to her defence? I +know not what to think. At all events, I shall, as a last resource, call +upon her father. I shall explain to him the risk he runs in marrying his +daughter to this man who is at once a fool and a scoundrel. But how can +I do so? Birney has not yet returned from France, and I have no proofs +on which to rest such serious allegations; nothing at present but bare +assertions, which her father, in the heat and fury of his ambition, +might not only disbelieve, but misinterpret. Be it so; I shall at +least warn him, take it as he will; and if all else should fail, I will +disclose to him my name and family, in order that he may know, at all +events, that I am no impostor. My present remonstrance may so far alarm +him as to cause the persecution against Lucy to be suspended for a +time, and on' Birney's return, we shall, I trust, be able to speak more +emphatically.” + +He accordingly sent for a chaise, into which he stepped and ordered the +driver to leave him at Sir Thomas Gourlay's and to wait there for him. + +Lord Dunroe was at this period perfectly well aware that Birney's visit +to France was occasioned by purposes that boded nothing favorable to +his interests; and were it not for Lucy's illness, there is little doubt +that the marriage would, ere now, have taken place. A fortnight had +elapsed, and every day so completely filled him with alarm, that he +proposed to Sir Thomas Gourlay the expediency of getting the license at +once, and having the ceremony performed privately in her father's house. +To this the father would have assented, were it not that he had taken it +into his head that Lucy was rallying, and would soon be in a condition +to go through it, in the parish church, at least. A few days, he hoped, +would enable her to bear it; but if not, he was willing to make every +concession to his lordship's wishes. Her delicate health, he said, would +be a sufficient justification. At all events, both agreed that there +could be no harm in having the license provided: and, accordingly, upon +the morning of the stranger's visit, Sir Thomas and Lord Dunroe had just +left the house of the former for the Ecclesiastical Court, in Henrietta +street, a few minutes before his arrival. Sir Thomas was mistaken, +however, in imagining that his daughter's health was improving, The +doctor, indeed, had ordered carriage exercise essentially necessary; and +Lucy being none of those weak and foolish girls, who sink under illness +and calamity by an apathetic neglect of their health, or a criminal +indifference to the means of guarding and prolonging the existence into +which God has called them, left nothing undone on her part to second the +efforts of the physician. Accordingly, whenever she was able to be up, +or the weather permitted it, she sat in the carriage for an hour or two +as it drove through some of the beautiful suburban scenery by which our +city is surrounded. + +The stranger, on the door being opened, was told by a servant, through +mistake, that Sir Thomas Gourlay was within. The man then showed him +to the drawing-room, where he said there was none but Miss Gourlay, he +believed, who was waiting for the carriage to take her airing. + +On hearing this piece of intelligence the stranger's heart began to +palpitate, and his whole system, physical and spiritual, was disturbed +by a general commotion that mounted to pain, and almost banished his +presence of mind for the moment. He tapped at the drawing-room door, and +a low, melancholy voice, that penetrated his heart, said, “Come in.” He +entered, and there on a sofa sat Lucy before him. He did not bow--his +heart was too deeply interested in her fate to remember the formalities +of ceremony--but he stood, and fixed his eyes upon her with a long and +anxious gaze. There she sat; but, oh! how much changed in appearance +from what he had known her on every previous interview. Not that +the change, whilst it spoke of sorrow and suffering, was one which +diminished her beauty; on the contrary, it had only changed its +character to something far more touching and impressive than health +itself with all its blooming hues could have bestowed. Her features were +certainly thinner, but there was visible in them a serene but mournful +spirit--a voluptuous languor, heightened and spiritualized by purity and +intellect into an expression that realized our notions rather of angelic +beauty than of the loveliness of mere woman. To all this, sorrow +had added a dignity so full of melancholy and commanding grace--a +seriousness indicative of such truth and honor--as to make the heart +of the spectator wonder, and the eye almost to weep on witnessing an +association so strange and incomprehensible, as that of such beauty and +evident goodness with sufferings that seem rather like crimes against +purity and innocence, and almost tempt the weak heart to revolt against +the dispensations of Providence. + +When their eyes rested on each other, is it necessary to say that the +melancholy position of Lucy was soon read in those large orbs that +seemed about to dissolve into tears? The shock of the stranger's sudden +and unexpected appearance, when taken in connection with the loss of him +forever, and the sacrifice of her love and happiness, which, to save her +father's life, she had so heroically and nobly made, was so strong, she +felt unable to rise. He approached her, struck deeply by the dignified +entreaty for sympathy and pardon that was in her looks. + +“I am not well able to rise, dear Charles,” she said, breaking the short +silence which had occurred, and extending her hand; “and I suppose +you have come to reproach me. As for me, I have nothing to ask you +for now--nothing to hope for but pardon, and that you will forget me +henceforth. Will you be noble enough to forgive her who was once your +Lucy, but who can never be so more?” + +The dreadful solemnity, together with the pathetic spirit of tenderness +and despair that breathed in these words, caused a pulsation in his +heart and a sense of suffocation about his throat that for the moment +prevented him from speaking. He seized her hand, which was placed +passively in his, and as he put it to his lips, Lucy felt a warm tear or +two fall upon it. At length he spoke: + +“Oh, why is this, Lucy?” he said; “your appearance has unmanned me; +but I see it and feel it all. I have been sacrificed to ambition, yet I +blame you not.” + +“No, dear Charles,” she replied; look upon me and then ask yourself who +is the victim.” + +“But what has happened?” he asked; + +“What machinery of hell has been at work to reduce you to this? Fraud, +deceit, treachery have done it. But, for the sake of God, let me know, +as I said, what has occurred since our last interview to occasion this +deplorable change--this rooted sorrow--this awful spirit of despair that +I read in your face? + +“Not despair, Charles, for I will never yield to that; but it is enough +to say, that a barrier deep as the grave, and which only that can +remove, is between us forever in this life.” + +“You mean to say, then, that you never can be mine?” + +“That, alas, is what I mean to say--what I must say.” + +“But why, Lucy--why, dearest Lucy--for still I must call you so; what +has occasioned this? I cannot understand it.” + +She then related to him, briefly, but feelingly, the solemn promise, +which, as our readers are aware of, she had given her father, and under +what circumstances she had given it, together with his determination, +unchanged and irrevocable, to force her to its fulfilment. Having heard +it he paused for some time, whilst Lucy's eyes were fixed upon him, as +if she expected a verdict of life or death from his lips. + +“Alas, my dear Lucy,” he said; “noble girl! how can I quarrel with your +virtues? You did it to save a father's life, and have left me nothing to +reproach you with; but in increasing my admiration of you, my heart is +doubly struck with anguish at the thought that I must lose you.” + +“All, yes,” she replied; “but you must take comfort from the difference +in our fates. You merely have to endure the pain of loss; but I--oh, +dear Charles--what have I to encounter? You are not forced into a +marriage with one who possesses not a single sentiment or principle of +virtue or honor in common with yourself. No; you are merely--I deprived +of a woman whom you love; but you are not forced into marriage with a +woman, abandoned and unprincipled, whom you hate. Yes, Charles, you must +take comfort, as I said, from the difference of our fates.” + +“What, Lucy! do you mean to say I can take comfort from your misery? Am +I so selfish or ungenerous as to thank God that you, whose happiness +I prefer a thousand times to my own, are more miserable than I am? I +thought you knew me better.” + +“Alas, Charles,” she replied, “have compassion on me. The expression of +these generous sentiments almost kills me. Assume some moral error--some +semblance of the least odious vice--some startling blemish of +character--some weakness that may enable me to feel that in losing you +I have not so much to lose as I thought; something that may make the +contrast between the wretch to whom I am devoted and yourself less +repulsive.” + +“Oh, I assure you, my dear Lucy,” he replied, with a melancholy smile, +“that I have my errors, my weaknesses, my frailties, if that will +comfort you; so many, indeed, that my greatest virtue, and that of which +I am most proud, is my love for you.” + +“Ah, Charles, you reason badly,” she replied, “for you prove yourself to +be capable of that noble affection which never yet existed in a vicious +heart. As for me, I know not on what hand to turn. It is said that when +a person hanging by some weak branch from the brow of a precipice finds +it beginning to give way, and that the plunge below is unavoidable, a +certain courage, gained from despair, not only diminishes the terror of +the fall, but relieves the heart by a bold and terrible feeling that for +the moment banishes fear, and reconciles him to his fate.” + +“It is a dreadful analogy, my dear Lucy; but you must take comfort. +Who knows what a day may bring forth? You are not yet hanging upon the +precipice of life.” + +“I feel that I am,--Charles; and what is more, I see the depth to +which I must be precipitated; but, alas, I possess none of that fearful +courage that is said to reconcile one to the fall.” + +“Lucy,” he replied, “into this gulf of destruction you shall never fall. +Believe me, there is an invisible hand that will support you when you +least expect it; a power that shapes our purposes, roughhew them as we +will. I came to request an interview with your father upon this very +subject. Have courage, dearest girl; friends are at work who I trust +will ere long be enabled to place documents in his hands that will soon +change his purposes. I grant that it is possible these documents may +fail, or may not be procured; and in that case I know not how we are to +act. I mention the probability of failure lest a future disappointment +occasion such a shock as in your present state you may be incapable of +sustaining; but still have hope, for the probability is in our favor.” + +She shook her head incredulously, and replied, “You do not know the +inflexible determination of my father on this point; neither can I +conceive what documents you could place before him that would change his +purpose.” + +“I do not conceive that I am at liberty even to you, Lucy, to mention +circumstances that may cast a stain upon high integrity and spotless +innocence, so long as it is possible the proofs I speak of may fail. +In the latter case, so far at least as the world is concerned, justice +would degenerate into scandal, whilst great evil and little good must +be the consequence. I think I am bound in honor not to place old age, +venerable and virtuous, on the one hand, and unsuspecting innocence on +the other, in a contingency that may cause them irreparable injury. I +will now say, that if your happiness were not involved in the success +or failure of our proceedings, I should have ceased to be a party in the +steps we are taking until the grave had closed upon one individual at +least, while unconscious of the shame that was to fall upon his family.” + +Lucy looked upon him with a feeling of admiration which could not be +misunderstood. “Dear Charles,” she exclaimed; “ever honorable--ever +generous--ever considerate and unselfish; I do not of course understand +your allusions; but I am confident that whatever you do will be done in +a spirit worthy of yourself.” + +The look of admiration, and why should we not add love, which Lucy had +bestowed upon him was observed and felt deeply. Their eyes met, and, +seizing her hand again, he whispered, in that low and tender voice which +breathes the softest and most contagious emotion of the heart, “Alas, +Lucy, you could not even dream how inexpressibly dear you are to me. +Without you, life to me will possess no blessing. All that I ever +conceived of its purest and most exalted enjoyments were centred in you, +and in that sweet communion which I thought we were destined to hold +together; but now, now--oh, my God, what a blank will my whole future +existence be without you!” + +“Charles--Charles,” she replied, but at the same time her eyes were +swimming in tears, “spare me this; do not overload my heart with such an +excess of sorrow; have compassion on me, for I am already too sensible +of my own misery--too sensible of the happiness I have lost. I am +here isolated and alone, with no kind voice to whisper one word of +consolation to my unhappy heart, my poor maid only excepted; and I am +often forced, in order to escape the pain of present reflections, to +make a melancholy struggle once more to entrance myself in the innocent +dreams of my early life. Yes, and I will confess it, to call back if I +can those visions that gave the delicious hues of hope and happiness +to the love which bound your heart and mine together. The illusion, +however, is too feeble to struggle successfully with the abiding +consciousness of my wretchedness, and I awake to a bitterness of anguish +that is drinking up the fountains of my life, out of which life I feel, +if this state continues, I shall soon pass away.” + +On concluding, she wiped away the tears that were fast falling; and her +lover was so deeply moved that he could scarcely restrain his own. + +“There is one word, dearest Lucy,” he replied, “but though short it is +full of comfort--hope.” + +“Alas! Charles, I feel that it has been blotted out of the destiny of my +life. I look for it; I search for it, but in vain. In this life I +cannot find it; I say in this, because it is now, when all about me is +darkness, and pain, and suffering, that I feel the consolation which +arises from our trust in another. This consolation, however, though +true, is sad, and the very joy it gives is melancholy, because it arises +from that mysterious change which withdraws us from existence; and when +it leads us to happiness we cannot forget that it is through the gate of +the grave. But still it is a consolation, and a great one--to a sufferer +like me, the only one--we must all die.” + +Like a strain of soft but solemn music, these mournful words proceeded +from her lips, from which they seemed to catch the touching sweetness +which characterized them. + +“I ought not to shed these tears,” she added; “nor ought you, dear +Charles, to feel so deeply what I say as I perceive you do; but I know +not how it is, I am impressed with a presentiment that this is probably +our last meeting; and I confess that I am filled with a mournful +satisfaction in speaking to you--in looking upon you--yes, I confess +it; and I feel all the springs of tenderness opened, as it were, in my +unhappy heart. In a short time,”--she added, and here she almost sobbed, +“it will be a crime to think of you--to allow my very imagination to +turn to your image; and I shall be called upon to banish that image +forever from my heart, which I must strive to do, for to cherish it +there will be wrong; but I shall struggle, for”--she added, proudly +--“whatever my duty may be, I shall leave nothing undone to preserve my +conscience free from its own reproaches.” + +“Take comfort, Lucy,” he replied; “this will not--shall not be our last +meeting. It is utterly impossible that such a creature as you are should +be doomed to a fate so wretched. Do not allow them to hurry you into +this odious marriage. Gain time, and we shall yet triumph.” + +“Yes, Charles,” she replied; “but, then, misery often grows apathetic, +and the will, wearied down and weakened, loses the power of resistance. +I have more than once felt attacks of this kind, and I know that if +they should observe it, I am lost. Oh, how little is the love of woman +understood! And how little of life is known except through those false +appearances that are certain to deceive all who look upon them as +realities! Here am I, surrounded by every luxury that this world, can +present, and how many thousands imagine me happy! What is there within +the range of fashion and the compass of wealth that I cannot command? +and yet amidst all this dazzle of grandeur I am more wretched than the +beggar whom a morsel of food will make contented.” + +“Resist this marriage, Lucy, for a time, that is all I ask,” replied +her lover; “be firm, and, above all things, hope. You may ere long +understand the force and meaning of my words. At present you cannot, nor +is it in my power, with honor, to speak more plainly.” + +“My father,” replied this high-minded and sensitive creature, “said some +time ago, 'Is not my daughter a woman of honor?' Yes, Charles, I must be +a woman of honor. But it is time you should go; only before you do, hear +me. Henceforth we have each of us one great mutual task imposed upon +us--a task the fulfilment of which is dictated alike by honor, virtue, +and religion.” + +“Alas, Lucy, what is that?” + +“To forget each other. From the moment I become,” she sobbed aloud--“you +know,” she added, “what I would say, but what I cannot--from that moment +memory becomes a crime.” + +“But an involuntary crime, my ever dear Lucy. As for my part,” he +replied, vehemently, and with something akin to distraction, “I feel +that is impossible, and that even were it possible, I would no more +attempt to banish your image from my heart than I would to deliberately +still its pulses. Never, never--such an attempt, such an act, if +successful, would be a murder of the affections. No. Lucy, whilst one +spark of mortal life is alive in my body, whilst memory can remember the +dreams of only the preceding moment, whilst a single faculty of heart or +intellect remains by which your image can be preserved, I shall cling to +that image as the shipwrecked sailor would to the plank that bears him +through the midnight storm--as a despairing soul would to the only good +act of a wicked life that he could plead for his salvation.” + +Whilst he spoke, Lucy kept her eyes fixed upon his noble features, now +wrought up into an earnest but melancholy animation, and when he had +concluded, she exclaimed, “And this is the man of whose love they would +deprive me, whose very acknowledgment of it comes upon my spirit like +an anthem of the heart; and I know not what I have done to be so tried; +yet, as it is the will of God, I receive it for the best. Dear Charles, +you must go; but you spoke of remonstrating with my father. Do not so; +an interview would only aggravate him. And as you admit that certain +documents are wanted to produce a change in his opinions, you may see +clearly that until you produce them an expostulation would be worse than +useless. On the contrary, it might precipitate matters and ruin all. Now +go.” + +“Perhaps you are right,” he replied, “as you always are; how can I go? +How can I tear myself from you? Dearest, dearest Lucy, what a love is +mine! But that is not surprising--who could love you with an ordinary +passion?” + +Apprehensive that her father might return, she rose up, but so +completely had she been exhausted by the excitement of this interview +that he was obliged to assist her. + +“I hear the carriage,” said she; “it is at the door: will you ring for +my maid? And now, Charles, as it is possible that we must meet no more, +say, before you go, that you forgive me.” + +“There is everything in your conduct to be admired and loyed, my dearest +Lucy; but nothing to be forgiven.” + +“Is it possible,” she said, as if in communion with herself, “that we +shall never meet, never speak, never, probably, look upon each other +more?” + +Her lover observed that her face became suddenly pale, and she staggered +a little, after which she sank and would have fallen had he not +supported her in his arms. He had already rung for Alley Mahon, and +there was nothing for it but to place Lucy once more upon the sofa, +whither he was obliged to carry her, for she had fainted. Having placed +her there, it became necessary to support her head upon his bosom, +and in doing so--is it in human nature to be severe upon him?--he +rapturously kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart in a long, +tender, and melancholy embrace. The appearance of her maid, however, +who always accompanied her in the carriage, terminated this pardonable +theft, and after a few words of ordinary conversation they separated. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. Dandy's Visit to Summerfield Cottage + +--Where he Makes a most Ungallant Mistake--Returns with Tidings of both +Mrs. Norton and Fenton--and Generously Patronizes his Master + + +On the morning after this interview the stranger was waited on by +Birney, who had returned from France late on the preceding night. + +“Well, my friend,” said he, after they had shaken hands, “I hope you are +the bearer of welcome intelligence!” + +The gloom and disappointment that were legible in this man's round, +rosy, and generally good-humored countenance were observed, however, by +the stranger at a second glance. + +“But how is this?” he added; “you are silent, and I fear, now that I +look at you a second time, that matters have not gone well with you. +For God's sake, however, let me know; for I am impatient to hear the +result.” + +“All is lost,” replied Birney; “and I fear we have been outgeneralled. +The clergyman is dead, and the book in which the record of her death +was registered has disappeared, no one knows how. I strongly suspect, +however, that your opponent is at the bottom of it.” + +“You mean Dunroe?” + +“I do; that scoundrel Norton, at once his master and his slave, +accompanied by a suspicious-looking fellow, whose name I discovered to +be Mulholland, were there before us, and I fear, carried their point +by securing the register, which I have no doubt has been by this time +reduced to ashes.” + +“In that case, then,” replied the stranger, despondingly, “it's all up +with us.” + +“Unless,” observed Birney, “you have been more successful at home than I +have been abroad. Any trace of Mrs. Norton?” + +“None whatsoever. But, my dear Birney, what you tell me is surprisingly +mysterious. How could Dunroe become aware of the existence of these +documents? or, indeed, of our proceedings at all? And who is this +Mulholland you speak of that accompanied him?” + +“I know nothing whatever about him,” replied Birney, “except that he +is a fellow of dissolute appearance, with sandy hair, not ill-looking, +setting aside what is called a battered look, and a face of the most +consummate effrontery.” + +“I see it all,” replied the other. “That drunken scoundrel M'Bride +has betrayed us, as far, at least, as he could. The fellow, while his +conduct continued good, was in my confidence, as far as a servant ought +to be. In this matter, however, he did not know all, unless, indeed, by +inference from the nature of the document itself, and from knowing +the name of the family whose position it affected. How it might have +affected them, however, I don't think he knew.” + +“But how do you know that this Mulholland is that man?” + +“From your description of him I am confident there can be no mistake +about it--not the slightest; he must have changed his name purposely on +this occasion; and, I dare say, Dunroe has liberally paid him for his +treachery.” + +“But what is to be done now?” asked Birney; “here we are fairly at +fault.” + +“I have seen Miss Gourlay,” replied the other, “and if it were only from +motives of humanity, we must try, by every means consistent with honor, +to stop or retard her marriage with Dunroe.” + +“But how are we to do so?” + +“I know not at present; but I shall think of it. This is most +unfortunate. I declare solemnly that it was only in so far as the facts +we were so anxious to establish might have enabled us to prevent this +accursed union, that I myself felt an interest in our success. Miss +Gourlay's happiness was my sole motive of action.” + +“I believe you, sir,” replied Birney; “but in the meantime we are +completely at a stand. Chance, it is true, may throw something in our +way; but, in the present position of circumstances, chance, nay, all the +chances are against us.” + +“It is unfortunately too true,” replied the stranger; “there is not a +single opening left for us; we are, on the contrary, shut out completely +in every direction. I shall write, however, to a lady who possesses much +influence with Miss Gourlay; but, alas, to what purpose? Miss Gourlay +herself has no influence whatever; and, as to her father, he does not +live who could divert him from his object. His vile ambition only in +the matter of his daughter could influence him, and it will do so to her +destruction, for she cannot survive this marriage long.” + +“You look thin, and a good deal careworn,” observed Birney, “which, +indeed, I am sorry to see. Constant anxiety, however, and perpetual +agitation of spirits will wear any man down. Well, I must bid you good +morning; but I had almost forgotten to inquire about poor Fenton. Any +trace of him during my absence?” + +“Not the slightest. In fact, every point is against us. Lady Gourlay has +relapsed into her original hopelessness, or nearly so, and I myself am +now more depressed than I have ever been. Parish register, documents, +corrupt knaves, and ungrateful traitors--perish all the machinery of +justice on the one hand, and of villainy on the other; only let us +succeed in securing Miss Gourlay's happiness, and I am contented. That, +now and henceforth, is the absorbing object of my life. Let her be +happy; let her be but happy--and this can only be done by preventing her +union with this heartless young man, whose principal motive to it is her +property.” + +Birney then took his departure, leaving his friend in such a state of +distress, and almost of despair, on Lucy's account, as we presume our +readers can very sufficiently understand, without any further assistance +from us. He could not, however, help congratulating himself on his +prudence in withholding from Miss Gourlay the sanguine expectations +which he himself had entertained upon the result of Birney's journey to +France. Had he not done so, he knew that she would have participated in +his hopes, and, as a natural consequence, she must now have had to bear +this deadly blow of disappointment, probably the last cherished hope of +her heart; and under such circumstances, it is difficult to say what its +effect upon her might have been. This was now his only satisfaction, to +which we may add the consciousness that he had not, by making premature +disclosures, been the means of compromising the innocent. + +After much thought and reflection upon the gloomy position in which both +he himself and especially Lucy were placed, he resolved to write to Mrs. +Mainwaring upon the subject; although at the moment he scarcely knew in +what terms to address her, or what steps he could suggest to her, as one +feeling a deep interest in Miss Gourlay's happiness. At length, after +much anxious rumination, he wrote the following short letter, or rather +note, more with a view of alarming Mrs. Mainwaring into activity, than +of dictating to her any line of action as peculiarly suited to the +circumstances. + +“Madam,--The fact of Miss Gourlay having taken refuge with you as her +friend, upon a certain occasion that was, I believe, very painful to +that young lady, I think sufficiently justifies me in supposing that +you feel a warm interest in her fate. For this reason, therefore, I +have taken the liberty of addressing you with reference to her present +situation. If ever a human being required the aid and consolation of +friendship, Miss Gourlay now does; and I will not suppose that a lady +whom she honored with her esteem and affection, could be capable of +withholding from her such aid and such consolation, in a crisis so +deplorable. You are probably aware, madam, that she is on the point of +being sacrificed, by a forced and hated union, to the ambitious views +of her father; but you could form a very slight conception indeed of +the horror with which she approaches the gulf that is before her. Could +there be no means devised by which this unhappy young lady might be +enabled with honor to extricate herself from the wretchedness with which +she is encompassed? I beg of you, madam, to think of this; there is +little time to be lost. A few days may seal her misery forever. Her +health and spirits are fast sinking, and she is beginning to entertain +apprehensions that that apathy which proceeds from the united influence +of exhaustion and misery, may, in some unhappy moment, deprive her of +the power of resistance, even for a time. Madam, I entreat that you will +either write to her or see her; that you will sustain and console her as +far as in you lies, and endeavor, if possible, to throw some obstruction +in the way of this accursed marriage; whether through your influence +with herself, or her father, matters not. I beg, madam, to apologize for +the liberty I have taken in addressing you upon this painful but deeply +important subject, and I appeal to yourself whether it is possible to +know Miss Gourlay, and not to feel the deepest interest in everything +that involves her happiness or misery. + +“I have the honor to be, madam, + +“Your obedient, faithful servant, and Her Sincere Friend. + +“P. S.--I send this letter by my servant, as I am anxious that it should +reach no hands, and be subjected to no eyes, but your own; and I refer +you to Miss Gourlay herself, who will satisfy you as to the honor and +purity of my motives in writing it.” + + +Having sealed this communication, the stranger rang for Dulcimer, who +made his appearance accordingly, and received his instructions for its +safe delivery. + +“You must deliver this note, Dandy,” said he, “to the lady to whom +Miss Gourlay and her maid drove, the morning you took the unwarrantable +liberty of following them there.” + +“And for all that,” replied Dandy, “it happens very luckily that I +chance, for that very raison, to know now where to find her.” + +“It does so, certainly,” replied his master. “Here is money for +you--take a car, or whatever kind of vehicle you prefer. Give this note +into her own hand, and make as little delay as you can.” + +“Do you expect an answer, sir?” replied Dandy; “and am I to wait for +one, or ask for one?” + +“I am not quite certain of that,” said the other; “it is altogether +discretionary with her. But there can be no harm in asking the question, +at all events. Any other Mrs. Norton in the way, Dandy?” + +“Deuce a once, sir. I have sifted the whole city, and, barrin' the three +dozen I made out already, I can't find hilt or hair of another. Faith, +sir, she ought to be worth something when she's got, for I may fairly +say she has cost me trouble enough at any rate, the skulkin' thief, +whoever she is; and me to lose my hundre' pounds into the bargain--bad +scran to her!” + +“Only find me the true Mrs. Norton,” said his master, “and the hundred +pounds are yours, and for Fenton fifty. Be off, now, lose no time, and +bring me her answer if she sends any.” + +Dandy's motions were all remarkably rapid, and we need not say that he +allowed no grass to grow under his feet while getting over his journey. +On arriving at Summerfield Cottage, he learned that Mrs. Mainwaring was +in the garden; and on stating that he had a letter to deliver into her +own hands, that lady desired him to be brought in, as she was then in +conversation with her daughter, who had been compelled at length to +fly from the brutality of her husband, and return once more to the +protection of her mother's roof. On opening the letter and looking at +it, she started, and turning to her daughter said, + +“You must excuse me, my dear Maria, for a few moments, but don't forget +to finish what you were telling me about this unfortunate young man, +Fenton, as he, you say, calls himself, from Ballytrain.” + +“Hello!” thought Dandy, “here's a discovery. By the elevens, I'll hould +goold to silver that this is poor Fenton that disappeared so suddenly.” + +“I beg your pardon, miss,” said he, addressing Mrs. Scarman as an +unmarried lady, as he perceived that she was the person from whom he +could receive the best intelligence on the subject; “I hope it's no +offence, miss, to ax a question?” + +“None, certainly, my good man,” replied her mother, “provided it be a +proper one.” + +“I think, miss,” he continued, “that you were mentioning something to +this lady about a young man named Fenton, from Ballytrain?” + +“I was,” replied Mrs. Scarman, “certainly; but what interest can you +have in him?” + +“If he's the young man I mane,” continued Dandy, “he's not quite steady +in the head sometimes.” + +“If he were, he would not be in his present abode,” replied the lady. + +“And pray, miss--beg pardon again,” said Dandy, with the best bow and +scrape he could manage; “pray, miss, might I be so bould as to ask where +that is?” + +Mrs. Scarman looked at her mother. “Mamma,” said she, “but, bless me! +what is the matter? you are in tears.” + +“I will tell you by and by, my dear Maria,” replied her mother; “but you +were going to ask me something--what was it?” + +“This man,” replied her daughter, “wishes to know the abode of the +person I was speaking about.” + +“Pray, what is his motive? What is your motive, my good man, for asking +such a question?” + +“Bekaise, ma'am,” replied Dandy, “I happen to know a gentleman who has +been for some time on the lookout for him, and wishes very much to find +where he is. If it be the young man I spake of, he disappeared some +three or four months ago from the town of Ballytrain.” + +“Well,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with her usual good-sense and sagacity, +“as I know not what your motive for asking such a question is, I do +not think this lady ought to answer it; but if the gentleman himself is +anxious to know, let him see her; and upon giving satisfactory reasons +for the interest he takes in him, he shall be informed of his present +abode. You must rest satisfied with this. Go to the kitchen and say to +the servant that I desired her to give you refreshment.” + +“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Dandy; “faith, that's a lively message, +anyhow, and one that I feel great pleasure in deliverin'. This Wicklow +air's a regular cutler; it has sharpened my teeth all to pieces; and +if the cook 'ithin shows me good feedin' I'll show her something in the +shape of good atin'. I'm a regular man of talent at my victuals, ma'am, +an' was often tould I might live to die an alderman yet, plaise God; +many thanks agin, ma'am.” So saying, Dandy proceeded at a brisk pace to +the kitchen. + +“That communication, mamma,” said Mrs. Scarman, after Dandy had left +them, “has distressed you.” + +“It has, my child. Poor Miss Gourlay is in a most wretched state. This I +know is, from her lover. In fact, they will be the death--absolutely and +beyond a doubt--the death of this admirable and most lovely creature. +But what can I do? Her father will not permit me to visit her, neither +will he permit her to correspond with me, I have already written to him +on the risk to which he submits his daughter in this ominous marriage, +but I received neither notice of, nor reply to my letter. Oh, no; the +dear girl is unquestionably doomed. I thinks however, I shall write a +few lines in reply to this,” she added, “but, alas the day! they cannot +speak of comfort.” + +Whilst she is thus engaged, we will take, a peep at the on-goings of +Dandy and Nancy Gallaher, in the kitchen, where, in pursuance of his +message our bashful valet was corroborating, by very able practice, the +account which he had given of the talents he had eulogized so justly. + +“Well, in troth,” said he, “but, first and foremost, I haven't the +pleasure of knowin' yer name.” + +“Nancy Gallaher's my name, then,” she replied. + +“Ah,” said Dandy, suspending the fork and an immense piece of ham on the +top of it at the Charybdis which he had opened to an unusual extent +to receive it; “ah, ma'am, it wasn't always that, I'll go bail. My +counthrymen knows the value of such a purty woman not to stamp some of +their names upon her. Not that you have a married look, either, any more +than myself; you're too fresh for that, now that I look at you again.” + +A certain cloud, which, as Dandy could perceive, was beginning to darken +her countenance, suggested the quick turn of his last observation. The +countenance, however, cleared again, and she replied, “It is my name, +and what is more, I never changed it. I was hard to plaise--and I am +hard to plaise, and ever an' always had a dread of gettin' into bad +company, especially when I knew that the same bad company was to last +for life.” + +“An ould maid, by the Rock of Cashel,” said Dandy, to himself. + +“Blood alive, I wondher has she money; but here goes to thry. Ah, +Nancy,” he proceeded, “you wor too hard to plaise; and now, that you +have got money like myself, nothing but a steady man, and a full purse, +will shoot your convanience--isn't that pure gospel, now, you good +lookin' thief?” + +Nancy's face was now like a cloudless sky. “Well,” she replied, “maybe +there's truth in that, and maybe there's not; but I hope you are takin' +care of yourself? That's what I always did and ever will, plaise God. +How do you like the ham?” + +“Divil a so well dressed a bit o' ham ever I ett--it melts into one's +mouth like a kiss from a purty woman. Troth, Nancy, I think I'm kissing +you ever since I began to ait it.” + +“Get out,” said Nancy, laughing; “troth, you're a quare one; but you +know our Wickla' hams is famous.” + +“And so is your Wicklow girls,” replied Dandy; “but for my part, I'd +sooner taste their lips than the best hams that ever were ett any day.” + +“Well, but,” said Nancy, “did you ever taste our bacon? bekaise, if +you didn't, lave off what you're at, and in three skips I'll get you +a rasher and eggs that'll make you look nine ways at once. Here, throw +that by, it's could, and I'll get you something hot and comfortable.” + +“Go on,” replied Dandy; “I hate idleness. Get the eggs and rasher you +spake of, and while you're doin' it I'll thry and amuse myself wid +what's before me. Industhry's the first of virtues, Nancy, and next to +that comes perseverance; I defy you in the mane time to do a rasher as +well as you did this ham--hoeh--och--och. God bless me, a bit was near +stickin' in my throat. Is your wather good here? and the raison why I +ax you is, that I'm the devil to plaise in wather; and on that account +I seldom take it without a sup o' spirits to dilute it, as the docthors +say, for, indeed, that's the way it agrees with me best. It's a kind of +family failin' with us--devil a one o' my blood ever could look a glass +of mere wather in the face without blushin'.” + +Dandy was now upon what they call the simplicity dodge; that is to say, +he affected that character of wisdom for which certain individuals, +whose knowledge of life no earthly experience ever can improve, are so +extremely anxious to get credit. Every word he uttered was accompanied +by an oafish grin, so ludicrously balanced between simplicity and +cunning, that Nancy, who had been half her life on the lookout for +such a man, and who knew that this indecision of expression was the +characteristic of the tribe with which she classed him, now saw before +her the great dream of her heart realized. + +“Well, in troth,” she replied, “you are a quare man; but still it would +be too bad to make you blush for no stronger raison than mere wather. +So, in the name o' goodness, here's a tumbler of grog,” she added, +filling him out one on the instant, “and as you're so modest, you must +only drink it and keep your countenance; it'll prepare you, besides, for +the rasher and eggs; and, by the same token, here's an ould candle-box +that's here the Lord knows how long; but, faix, now it must help to +do the rasher. Come then; if you are stronger than I am, show your +strength, and pull it to pieces, for you see I can't.” + +It was one of those flat little candle-boxes made of deal, with which +every one in the habit of burning moulds is acquainted. Dandy took it +up, and whilst about to pull it to pieces, observed written on a paper +label, in a large hand, something between writing and print, “Mrs. +Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow.” + +“What is this?” said he; “what name is this upon it? Let us see, 'Mrs. +Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow!' Who the dickens is Mrs. Norton?” + +“Why, my present mistress,” replied Nancy; “Mr. Mainwaring is her second +husband, and her name was Mrs. Norton before she married him.” + +“Norton,” said Dandy, whose heart was going at full speed, with a hope +that he had at length got into the right track, “it's a purty name in +troth. Arra, Nancy, do you know was your misthress ever in France?” + +“Ay, was she,” replied Nancy. “Many a year maid to--let me see--what's +this the name is? Ay! Cullamore. Maid to the wife of Lord Cullamore. So +I was tould by Alley Mahon, a young woman that was here on a visit to +me.” + +Dandy put the glass of grog to his mouth, and having emptied it, sprung +to his feet, commenced an Irish jig through the kitchen, in a spirit so +outrageously whimsical--buoyant, mad, hugging the box all the time in +his arms, that poor Nancy looked at him with a degree of alarm and then +of jealousy which she could not conceal. + +“In the name of all that's wonderful,” she exclaimed, “what's +wrong--what's the matter? What's the value of that blackguard box that +you make the mistake about in huggin' it that way? Upon my conscience, +one would think you're in a desolate island. Remember, man alive, that +you're among flesh and blood like your own, and that you have friends, +although the acquaintance isn't very long, I grant, that wishes you +betther than to see you makin' a sweetheart of a tallow-box. What the +sorra is that worth?” + +“A hundred pounds, my darlin'--a hundred pounds--bravo, Dandy--well +done, brave Dulcimer--wealthy Nancy. Faith, you may swear upon the +frying-pan there that I've the cash, and sure 'tis yourself I was +lookin' out for.” + +“I don't think, then, that ever I resembled a candle-box in my life,” + she replied, rather annoyed that the article in question came in for +such a prodigality of his hugs, kisses, and embraces, of all shapes and +characters. + +“Well, Nancy,” said he, “charming Nancy, you're my fancy, but in the +meantime I have the honor and pleasure to bid you a good day.” + +“Why, where are you goin'?” asked the woman. “Won't you wait for the +rasher?” + +“Keep it hot, charming Nancy, till I come back; I'm just goin' to take +a constitutional walk.” So saying, Dandy, with the candle-box under +his arm, darted out of the kitchen, and without waiting to know whether +there was an answer to be brought back or not, mounted his jarvey, and +desiring the man to drive as if the devil and all his imps were at their +heels, set off at full speed for the city. + +“Bad luck to you for a scamp,” exclaimed the indignant cook, shouting +after him; “is that the way you trate a decent woman after gettin' your +skinful of the best? Wait till you put your nose in this kitchen again, +an' it'a different fare you'll get.” + +On reaching his master's hotel, Dandy went upstairs, where he found him +preparing to go out. He had just sealed a note, and leaning himself back +on the chair, looked at his servant with a good deal of surprise, in +consequence of the singularity of Ms manner. Dandy, on the other hand, +took the candle-box from under his arm, and putting it flat on the +table, with the label downwards, placed his two hands upon it, and +looked the other right in the face; after which he closed one eye, and +gave him a very knowing wink. + +“What do you mean, you scoundrel, by this impudence?” exclaimed his +master, although at the same time he could not avoid laughing; for, +in truth, he felt a kind of presentiment, grounded upon Dandy's very +assurance, that he was the bearer of some agreeable intelligence. “What +do you mean, sirra? You're drunk, I think.” + +“Hi tell you what, sir,” replied Dandy, “from this day out, upon my +soul, I'll patronize you like a man as I am; that is to say, provided +you continue to deserve it.” + +“Come, sirra, you're at your buffoonery again, or else you're drunk, as +I said. Did the lady send any reply?” + +“Have you any cash to spare?” replied Dandy. “I want to invest a thrifle +in the funds.” + +“What can this impudence mean, sirra?” asked the other, sadly puzzled to +understand his conduct. “Why do you not reply to me? Did the lady send +an answer?” + +“Most fortunate of all masthers,” replied Dandy, “in havin' such a +servant; the lady did send an answer.” + +“And where is it, sirra?” + +“There it is!” replied the other, shoving the candle-box triumphantly +over to him, The stranger looked steadily at him, and was beginning to +lose his temper, for he took it now for granted that his servant was +drunk. + +“I shall dismiss you instantly, sirra,” he said, “if you don't come to +your senses.” + +“I suppose so,” replied the other, still maintaining his cool, unabashed +effrontery. “I dare say you will, just after I've made a man of +you--changed you from nothing to something, or, rather, from nobody--for +devil a much more you were up to the present time yet--to somebody. In +the meantime, read the lady's answer, if you plaise.” + +“Where is it, you impudent knave? I see no note--no answer.” + +“Troth, sir, I am afeared many a time you were ornamented with the +dunce's cap in your school-days, and well, I'll be bound, you became it. +Don't I say the answer's before you, there?” + +“There is nothing here, you scoundrel, but a deal box.” + +“Eight, sir; and a deal of intelligence can it give you, if you have the +sense to find it out. Now, listen, sir. So long as you live, ever and +always examine both sides of every subject that comes before you, even +if it was an ould deal box.” + +His master took the hint, and instantly turning the box, read to his +astonishment, Mrs. Norton, Summerfield pottage, Wicklow, and then looked +at Dandy for an explanation. The latter nodded with his usual easy +confidence, and proceeded, “It's all right, sir--she was in France--own +maid to Lady Cullamore--came home and got married--first to a Mr. +Norton, and next to a person named Mainwarin': and there she is, the +true Mrs. Norton, safe and sound for you, in Summerfield Cottage, under +the name of Mrs. Mainwarin'.” + +“Dandy,” said his master, starting to his feet, “I forgive you a +thousand times. Throw that letter in the post-office. You shall have the +money, Dandy, more, perhaps, than I promised, provided this is the lady; +but I cannot doubt it. I am now going to Mr. Birney; but, stay, let us +be certain. How did you become acquainted with these circumstances?” + +Dandy gave him his authority; after which his master put on his hat, and +was about proceeding out, when the former exclaimed, “Hello-sir, where +are you goin'?” + +“To see Birney, I have already told you.” + +“Come, come,” replied his man, “take your time--be steady, now--be +cool--and listen to what your friend has to say to you.” + +“Don't trifle with me now, Dandy; I really can't bear it.” + +“Faith, but you must, though. There's one act I patronized you in; now, +how do you know, as I'm actin' the great man, but I can pathronize you +in another?” + +“How is that? For heaven's sake, don't trifle with me; every day, every +hour, every moment, is precious, and may involve the happiness of--” + +“I see, sir,” replied this extraordinary valet, with an intelligent nod, +“but, still, fair and aisy goes far in a day. There's no danger of her, +you know--don't be unaisy. Fenton, sir--ehem--Fenton, I say--Fenton and +fifty I say.” + +“Fenton and a hundred, Dandy, if there's an available trace of him.” + +“I don't know what you call an available trace,” replied Dandy, “but +I can send you to a lady who knows where he is, and where you can find +him.” + +The stranger returned from the door, and sitting down again covered his +face with his hands, as if to collect himself; at length he said, “This +is most extraordinary; tell me all about it.” + +Dandy related that with which the reader is already acquainted, and did +so with such an air of comic gravity and pompous superiority, that his +master, now in the best possible spirits, was exceedingly amused. + +“Well, Dandy,” said he, “if your information respecting Fenton prove +correct, reckon upon another hundred, instead of the fifty I mentioned. +I suppose I may go now?” he added, smiling. + +Dandy, still maintaining his gravity, waved his hand with an air of +suitable authority, intimating that the other had permission to depart. +On going out, however, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but while +you're abroad, I'd take it as a favor if you'd find out the state o' +the funds. Of course, I'll be investin'; and a man may as well do things +with his eyes open--may as well examine both sides o' the candle-box, +you know. You may go, sir.” + +“Well,” thought the stranger to himself, as he literally went on his way +rejoicing toward Birney's office, “no man in this life should ever yield +to despair. Here was I this morning encompassed by doubt and darkness, +and I may almost say by despair itself. Yet see how easily and naturally +the hand of Providence, for it is nothing less, has changed the whole +tenor of my existence. Everything is beginning not only to brighten, +but to present an appearance of order, by which we shall, I trust, be +enabled to guide ourselves through the maze of difficulty that lies, or +that did lie, at all events, before us. Alas, if the wretched suicide, +who can see nothing but cause of despondency about him and before him, +were to reflect upon the possibility of what only one day might evolve +from the ongoing circumstances of life, how many would that wholesome +reflection prevent from the awful crime of impatience at the wisdom of +God, and a want of confidence in his government! I remember the case of +an unhappy young man who plunged into a future life, as it were, to-day, +who, had he maintained his part until the next, would have found himself +master of thousands. No; I shall never despair. I will in this, as in +every other virtue, imitate my beloved Lucy, who said, that to whatever +depths of wretchedness life might bring her, she would never yield to +that.” + +“Good news, Birney!” he exclaimed, on entering that gentleman's office; +“charming intelligence! Both are found at last.” + +“Explain yourself, my dear sir,” replied the other; “how is it? What has +happened? Both of whom?” + +“Mrs. Norton and Fenton.” + +He then explained the circumstances as they had been explained to +himself by Dandy; and Birney seemed gratified certainly, but not so much +as the stranger thought he ought to have been. + +“How is this?” he asked; “this discovery, this double discovery, does +not seem to give you the satisfaction which I had expected, it would?” + +“Perhaps not,” replied the steady man of law, “but I am highly +gratified, notwithstanding, provided everything you tell me turns out to +be correct. But even then, I apprehend that the testimony of this Mrs. +Norton, unsupported as it is by documentary evidence, will not be: +sufficient for our purpose. It will require corroboration, and how are +we to corroborate it?” + +“If it will enable us to prevent the marriage,” replied the other, “I am +satisfied.” + +“That is very generous and disinterested, I grant,” said Birney, “and +what few are capable of; but still there are forms of law and principles +of common justice to be observed and complied with; and these, at +present, stand in our way for want of the documentary evidence I speak +of.” + +“What then ought our next step to be?--but I suppose I can anticipate +you--to see Mrs. Norton.” + +“Of course, to see Mrs. Norton; and I propose that we start immediately. +There is no time to be lost about it. I shall get on my boots, and +change my dress a little, and, with this man of yours to guide us, we +shall be on the way to Summerfield Cottage in half-an-hour.” + +“Should I not communicate this intelligence to Lady Gourlay?” said the +stranger. “It will restore her to life; and surely the removal of only +one day's sorrow such as lies at her heart becomes a duty.” + +“But suppose our information should prove incorrect, into what a +dreadful relapse would you plunge her then!” + +“On, very true--very true, indeed: that is well thought of; let us +first see that there is no mistake, and afterwards we can proceed with +confidence.” + +Poor Lucy, unconscious that the events we have related had taken place, +was passing an existence of which every day brought round to her nothing +but anguish and misery. She now not only refused to see her brother on +any occasion, or under any circumstances, but requested an interview +with her father, in order to make him acquainted with the abominable +principles, by the inculcation of which, as a rule of life and conduct, +he had attempted to corrupt her. Her father having heard this portion +of her complaint, diminished in its heinousness as it necessarily was by +her natural modesty, appeared very angry, and swore roundly at the young +scapegrace, as he called him. + +“But the truth is, Lucy,” he added, “that however wrong and wicked he +may have been, and was, yet we cannot be over severe on him. He has had +no opportunities of knowing better, and of course he will mend. I intend +to lecture him severely for uttering such principles to you; but, on the +other hand, I know him to be a shrewd, keen young fellow, who promises +well, notwithstanding. In truth, I like him, scamp as he is; and I +believe that whatever is bad in him--” + +“Whatever is bad in him! Why, papa, there is nothing good in him.” + +“Tut, Lucy; I believe, I say, that whatever is bad in him he has picked +up from the kind of society he mixed with.” + +“Papa,” she replied, “it grieves me to hear you, sir, palliate the +conduct of such a person--to become almost the apologist of principles +so utterly fiendish. You know that I am not and never have been in the +habit of using ungenerous language against the absent. So far as I am +concerned, he has violated all the claims of a brother--has foregone all +title to a sister's love; but that is not all--I believe him to be so +essentially corrupt and vicious in heart and soul, so thoroughly and +blackly diabolical in his principles--moral I cannot call them--that I +would stake my existence he is some base and plotting impostor, in whose +veins there flows not one single drop of my pure-hearted mother's blood. +I therefore warn you, sir, that he is an impostor, with, perhaps, a +dishonorable title to your name, but none at all to your property.” + +“Nonsense, you foolish girl. Is he not my image?” + +“I admit he resembles you, sir, very much, and I do not deny that he may +be”--she paused, and alternately became pale and red by turns--“what +I mean to say, sir, is what I have already said, that he is not my +mother's son, and that although he may be privileged to bear your name, +he has no claim on either your property or title. Does it not strike +you, sir, that it might be to make way for this person that my +legitimate brother was removed long ago? And I have also heard yourself +say frequently, while talking of my brother, how extremely like mamma +and me he was.” + +“There is no doubt he was,” replied her father, somewhat struck by the +force of her observations; “and I was myself a good deal surprised +at the change which must have taken place in him since his childhood. +However, you know he accounted for this himself very fairly and very +naturally.” + +“Very ingeniously, at least,” she replied; “with more of ingenuity, I +fear, than truth. Now, sir, hear me further. You are aware that I never +liked those Corbets, who have been always so deeply, and, excuse me, +sir, so mysteriously in your confidence.” + +“Yes, Lucy, I know you never did; but that is a prejudice you inherited +from your mother.” + +“I appeal to your own conscience, sir, whether mamma's prejudice against +them was not just and well founded. Yet it was not so much prejudice as +the antipathy which good bears to evil, honesty to fraud, and truth +to darkness, dissimulation, and falsehood. I entreat you, then, to +investigate this matter, papa; for as sure as I have life, so certainly +was my dear brother removed, in order, at the proper time, to make +way for this impostor. You know not, sir, but there may be a base and +inhuman murder involved in this matter--nay, a double murder--that of +my cousin, too; yes, and the worst of all murders, the murder of the +innocent and defenceless. As a man, as a magistrate, but, above all, +a thousand times, as a father--as the father and uncle of the very two +children that have disappeared, it becomes your duty to examine into +this dark business thoroughly.” + +“I have no reason to suspect the Corbets, Lucy. I have ever found them +faithful to me and to my interests.” + +“I know, sir, you have ever found them obsequious and slavish and ready +to abet you in many acts which I regret that you ever committed. There +is the case of that unfortunate man, Trailcudgel, and many similar ones; +were they not as active and cheerful! in bearing out your very harsh +orders against him and others of your tenantry, as if they I had been +advancing the cause of humanity?” + +“Say the cause of justice, if you please, Lucy--the rights of a +landlord.” + +“But, papa, if the unfortunate tenantry by whose toil and labor we live +in affluence and; luxury do not find a friend in their landlord, who is, +by his relation to them, their natural protector, to whom else in the +wide world can they turn? This, however, is not the subject on which I +wish to speak. I do believe that Thomas Corbet is deep, designing, and +vindictive. He was always a close, dark man, without either cheerfulness +or candor. Beware, therefore, of him and of his family. Nay, he has a +capacity for being dangerous; for it strikes me, sir, that his intellect +is as far above his position in life as his principles are beneath it.” + +There was much in what Lucy said that forced itself upon her father's +reflection, much that startled him, and a good deal that gave him pain. +He paused for a considerable time after she had ceased to speak, and +said, + +“I will think of these matters, Lucy. I will probably do more; and if +I find that they have played me foul by imposing upon me--” He paused +abruptly, and seemed embarrassed, the truth being that he knew and felt +how completely he was in their power. + +“Now, papa,” said Lucy, “after having heard my opinion of this young +man--after the wanton outrage upon all female delicacy and virtue of +which he has been guilty, I trust you will not in future attempt to +obtrude him upon me. I will not see him, speak to him, nor acknowledge +him; and such, let what may happen, is my final determination.” + +“So far, Lucy, I will accede to your wishes. I shall take care that he +troubles you with no more wicked exhortations.” + +“Thank you, dear papa; this is kind, and I feel it so.” + +“Now,” said her father, after she had withdrawn, “how am I to act? It is +not impossible but there may be much truth in what she says. I remember, +however, the death of the only son that could possibly be imposed on me +in the sense alluded to her. He surely does not live; or if he does, +the far-sighted sagacity which made the account of his death a fraud +upon my credulity, for such selfish and treacherous purposes, is worthy +of being concocted in the deepest pit of hell. Yet that some one of them +has betrayed me, is evident from the charges brought against me by this +stranger to whom Lucy is so devotedly attached, and which charges Thomas +Corbet could not clear up. If one of these base but dexterous villains, +or if the whole gang were to outwit me, positively I could almost blow +my very brains out, for allowing myself, after all, to become their +dupe and plaything. I will think of it, however. And again, there is the +likeness; there does seem to be a difficulty in that; for, beyond all +doubt, my legitimate child, up until his disappearance, did not bear in +his countenance a single feature of mine but bore a strong resemblance +to his mother; whereas this Tom is my born image! Yet I like him. He has +all my points; knows the world, and despises it as much as I do. He did +not know Lucy, however, or he would have kept his worldly opinions to +himself. It is true he said very little but what we see about us as the +regulating principles of life every day; but Lucy, on the other hand, is +no every-day girl, and will not receive such doctrines, and I am glad +of it They may do very well in a son; but somehow one shudders at +the contemplation of their existence in the heart and principles of a +daughter. Unfortunately, however I am in the power of these Corbets, +and I feel that exposure at this period, the crisis of my daughter's +marriage, would not only frustrate my ambition for her, but occasion my +very death, I fear. I know not how it is, but I think if I were to live +my life over again, I would try a different course.” + + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. An Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe + +--Anthony Corbet gives Important Documents to the Stranger--Norton +catches a Tartar. + + +The next morning the stranger was agreeably surprised by seeing the +round, rosy, and benevolent features of Father M'Mahon, as he presented +himself at his breakfast table. Their meeting was cordial and friendly, +with the exception of a slight appearance of embarrassment that was +evident in the manner of the priest. + +“The last time you were in town,” said the former, “I was sorry to +observe thai you seemed rather careworn and depressed; but I think you +look better now, and a good deal more cheerful.” + +“And I think I have a good right,” replied the priest; “and I think no +man ought to know the, cause of it better than yourself. I charge it, +sir, with an act of benevolence to the poor of my parish, through their +humble pastor; for which you stand.--I beg your pardon--sit there, a +guilty man.” + +“How is that?” asked the other, smiling. + +“By means of an anonymous letter that contained a hundred pound note, +sir.” + +“Well,” said the stranger, “there is no use in telling a falsehood +about it. The truth is, I was aware of the extent to which you involved +yourself, in order to relieve many of the small farmers and other +struggling persons of good repute in your parish, and I thought it too +bad that you should suffer distress yourself, who had so frequently +relieved it in others.” + +“God bless you, my friend,” replied the priest; “for I will call you +so. I wish every man possessed of wealth was guided by your principles. +Freney the Robber has a new saddle and bridle, anyhow; and I came up to +town to pay old Anthony Corbet a sum I borrowed from him the last time I +was here?” + +“Oh, have you seen that cautious and disagreeable old man? We could make +nothing of him, although I feel quite certain that he knows everything +connected with the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's son.” + +“I have no doubt of it myself,” replied the priest; “and I now find, +that what neither religion, nor justice, nor humanity could influence +him to do, superstition is likely to effect. He has had a drame, he +says, in which his son James that was in Lady Gourlay's service has +appeared to him, and threatens that unless he renders her justice, he +has but a poor chance in the other world.” + +“That is not at all unnatural,” said the stranger; “the man, though +utterly without religion, was nevertheless both hesitating and timid; +precisely the character to do a just act from a wrong motive.” + +“Be that as it may,” continued the priest, “I have a message from him to +you.” + +“To me!” replied the other. “I am much obliged to him, but it is now +too late. We have ascertained where Lady Gourlay's son is, without any +assistance from him; and in the course of this very day we shall furnish +ourselves with proper authority for claiming and producing him.” + +“I am delighted to hear it,” said the priest. “God be praised that the +heart of that charitable and Christian woman will be relieved at last, +and made happy; but still I say, see old Anthony. He is as deep as a +draw-well, and as close as an oyster. See him, sir. Take my advice, now +that the drame has frightened him, and call upon the old sinner. He may +serve you in more ways than you know.” + +“Well, as you advise me to do so, I shall; but I do not relish the old +fellow at all.” + +“Nobody does, nor ever did. He and all his family lived as if every one +of them carried a little world of their own within them. Maybe they do; +and God forgive me for saying it, but I don't think if its secrets were +known, that it would be found a very pleasant world. May the Lord change +them, and turn their hearts!” + +After some further chat, the priest took his departure, but promised to +see his friend from time to time, before he should leave town. + +The stranger felt that the priest's advice to see old Corbet again was +a good one. The interview could do no harm, and might be productive +of some good, provided he could be prevailed on to speak out. He +accordingly directed his steps once more to Constitution Hill, where he +found the old man at his usual post behind the counter. + +“Well, Corbet,” said he, “alive still?” + +“Alive still, sir,” he replied; “but can't be so always; the best of us +must go.” + +“Very true, Corbet, if we could think of it as we ought; but, somehow, +it happens that most people live in this world as if they were never to +die.” + +“That's too true, sir--unfortunately too true, God help us!” + +“Corbet,” proceeded the stranger, “nothing can convince me that you +don't know something about--” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man; “we had betther go into the +next room. Here, Polly,” he shouted to his wife, who was inside, “will +you come and stand the shop awhile?” + +“To be sure I will,” replied the old woman, making her appearance. “How +do you do, sir,” she added, addressing the stranger; “I am glad to see +you looking so well.” + +“Thank you, madam,” replied the stranger: “I can return the compliment, +as they say.” + +“Keep the shop, Polly,” said the old man sharply, “and don't make the +same mistake you made awhile ago--give away a stone o' meal for half a +stone. No wondher for us to be poor at sich a rate of doin' things as +that. Walk in, if you plaise, sir.” + +They accordingly entered the room, and the stranger, after they had +taken seats, resumed, + +“I was going to say, Corbet, that nothing can convince me that you don't +know more about the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's heir than you are +disposed to acknowledge.” + +The hard, severe, disagreeable expression returned once more to his +features, as he replied, + +“Troth, sir, it appears you will believe so, whether or not. But now, +sir, in case I did, what would you say? I'm talkin' for supposition's +sake, mind. Wouldn't a man desarve something that could give you +information on the subject?” + +“This avaricious old man,” thought the stranger, pausing as if to +consider the proposition, “was holding us out all along, in order to +make the most of his information. The information, however, is already +in our possession, and he comes too late. So far I am gratified that we +are in a position to punish him by disappointing his avarice.” + +“We would, Corbet, if the information were necessary, but at present it +is not; we don't require it.” + +Corbet started, and his keen old eyes gleamed with an expression between +terror and incredulity. + +“Why,” said he, “you don't require it! Are you sure of that?” + +“Perfectly so. Some time ago we would have rewarded you liberally, had +you made any available disclosure to us; but now it is too late. The +information we had been seeking for so anxiously, accidentally came to +us from another quarter. You see now, Corbet, how you have overshot the +mark, and punished yourself. Had you been influenced by a principle of +common justice, you would have been entitled to expect and receive a +most ample compensation; a compensation beyond your hopes, probably +beyond your very wishes, and certainly beyond your wants. As matters +stand, however, I tell you now that I would not give you sixpence for +any information you could communicate.” + +Anthony gave him a derisive look, and pursed up his thin miser-like lips +into a grin of most sinister triumph. + +“Wouldn't you, indeed?” said he. “Are you quite sure of what you say?” + +“Quite certain of it.” + +“Well, now, how positive some people is. You have found him out, then?” + he asked, with a shrewd look. “You have found him, and you don't require +any information from me.” + +“Whether we have found him or not,” replied the other, “is a question +which I will not answer; but that we require no information from you, is +fact. While it was a marketable commodity, you refused to dispose of it; +but, now, we have got the supply elsewhere.” + +“Well, sir,” said Anthony, “all I can say is, that I'm very glad to hear +it; and it's no harm, surely, to wish you joy of it.” + +The same mocking sneer which accompanied this observation was perfectly +vexatious; it seemed to say, “So you think, but you may be mistaken, +Take care that I haven't you in my power still.” + +“Why do you look in that disagreeable way, Corbet? I never saw a man +whose face can express one thing, and his words another, so effectually +as yours, when you wish.” + +“You mane to say, sir,” he returned, with a true sardonic smile, “that +my face isn't an obedient face; but sure I can't help that. This is the +face that God has given me, and I must be content with it, such as it +is.” + +“I was told this morning by Father M'Mahon,” replied the other, anxious +to get rid of him as soon as he could, “that you had expressed a wish to +see me.” + +“I believe I did say something to that effect; but then it appears you +know everything yourself, and don't want my assistance.” + +“Any assistance we may at a future time require at your hands we shall +be able to extort from you through the laws of the land and of justice; +and if it appears that you have been an accomplice or agent in such a +deep and diabolical crime, neither power, nor wealth, nor cunning, shall +be able to protect you from the utmost rigor of the law. You had neither +mercy nor compassion on the widow or her child; and the probability is, +that, old as you are, you will be made to taste the deepest disgrace, +and the heaviest punishment that can be annexed to the crime you have +committed.” + +A singular change came over the features of the old man. Paleness in +age, especially when conscience bears its secret but powerful testimony +against the individual thus charged home as Corbet was, sometimes +gives an awful, almost an appalling expression to the countenance. The +stranger, who knew that the man he addressed, though cunning, evasive, +and unscrupulous, was, nevertheless, hesitating and timid, saw by his +looks that he had produced an unusual impression; and he resolved to +follow it up, rather to gratify the momentary amusement which he felt at +his alarm, than from any other motive. In fact, the appearance of Corbet +was extraordinary. A death-like color, which his advanced state of life +renders it impossible to describe, took possession of him; his eyes lost +the bitter expression so peculiar to them--his firm thin lips relaxed +and spread, and the corners of his mouth dropped so lugubriously, that +the stranger, although he felt that the example of cowering guilt then +before him was a solemn one, could scarcely refrain from smiling at what +he witnessed. + +“How far now do you think, sir,” asked Corbet, “could punishment in such +a case go? Mind, I'm putting myself out of the question; I'm safe, any +how, and that's one comfort.” + +“For a reply to that question,” returned the other, “you will have to go +to the judge and the hangman. There was a time when you might have asked +it, and answered it too, with safety to yourself; but now that time has +gone by, and I fear very much that your day of grace is past.” + +“That's very like what James tould me in my dhrame,” said the old man, +in a soliloquy, dictated by his alarm. “Well, sir,” he replied, “maybe, +afther all--but didn't you say awhile ago that you wouldn't give +sixpence for any information I could furnish you with?” + +“I did, and I do.” + +A gleam of his former character returned to his eye, as, gathering up +his lips again, 'he said, “I could soon show you to the contrary.” + +“Yes; but you will not do so. I see clearly that you are infatuated. +It appears to me that there is an evil fate hanging over you, like some +hungry raven, following and watching the motions of a sick old horse +that is reduced to skin and bone. You're doomed, I think.” + +“Well, now,” replied Anthony, the corners of whose mouth dropped again +at this startling and not inappropriate comparison, “to show how much +you are mistaken, let me ask how your business with Lord Cullamore +gets on? I believe there's a screw loose there?--eh? I mean on your +side--eh?” + +It wasn't in his nature to restrain the sinister expression which a +consciousness of his advantage over the stranger caused him to feel in +his turn. The grin, besides, which he gave him, after he had thrown out +these hints, had something of reprisal in it; and, to tell the truth, +the stranger's face now became as blank and lugubrious as Anthony's had +been before. + +“If I don't mistake,” he continued--for the other was too much +astonished to reply, “if I don't mistake, there's a couple o' bits of +paper that would stand your friend, if you could lay your claws upon +them.” + +“Whether they could, or could not, is no affair of yours, my good sir,” + replied the stranger, rising and getting his hat; “and whether I have +changed my mind on the subject you hint at is a matter known only to +myself. I wish you good-day.” + +“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony, probably satisfied with the fact of +his having turned the tables and had his revenge on the stranger; “I beg +your pardon, sir. Let us part friends, at all events. Set in case now--” + +“I will listen to none of those half sentences. You cannot possibly +speak out, I see; in fact, you are tongue-tied by the cord of your evil +fate. Upon no subject can you speak until it is too late.” + +“God direct me now!” exclaimed Corbet to himself. “I think the time is +come; for, unless I relieve my conscience before I'm called--James +he tould me the other night--Well, sir,” he proceeded, “listen. If I +befriend you, will you promise to stand my friend, if I should get into +any difficulty?” + +“I will enter into no compromise of the kind with you,” said the other. +“If you are about to do an act of justice, you ought to do it without +conditions; and if you possess any document that is of value to another, +and of none to yourself, and yet will not restore it to the proper +owner, you are grossly dishonest, and capable of all that will soon, +I trust, be established against you and your employers. Good-by, Mr. +Corbet.” + +“Aisy, sir, aisy,” said the tenacious and vacillating old knave. “Aisy, +I say. You will be generous, at any rate; for you know their value. +How much will you give me for the papers I spake of--that is, in case I +could get them for you?” + +“Not sixpence. A friend has just returned from France, who--no,” thought +he, “I will not state a falsehood--Good-day, Mr. Corbet; I am wasting my +time.” + +“One minute, sir--one minute. It may be worth your while.” + +“Yes; but you trifle with me by these reluctant and penurious +communications.” + +Anthony had laid down his head upon his hands, whose backs were +supported by the table; and in this position, as' if he were working +himself into an act of virtue sufficient for a last effort, he remained +until the stranger began to wonder what he meant. At length he arose, +went up stairs as on a former occasion, but with less--and not much +less--hesitation and delay; he returned and handed him the identical +documents of which M'Bride had deprived him. “Now,” said he, “listen to +me. You know the value of these; but that isn't what I want to spake to +you about.--Whatever you do about the widow's son, don't do it without +lettin' me know, and consultin' me--ay, and bein' guided by me; for +although you all think yourselves right, you may find, yourselves in the +wrong box still. Think of this now, and it will be better for you. I'm +not sure, but I'll open all your eyes yet, and that before long; for +I believe the time has come at last. Now that I've given you these +papers,” (extracted, by the way, from M'Bride's pockets during his +drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) “you must +promise me one thing.” + +“What is that?” + +“I suppose you know where this boy is? Now, when you're goin' to find +him, will you bring me with you?” + +“Why so?” + +“It'll plaise an ould man, at any rate; but there may be other raisons. +Will, you do this?” + +The stranger, concluding that the wisest tiring was to give him his way, +promised accordingly, and. the old man seemed somewhat satisfied. + +“One man, at all events, I'll punish, if I should sacrifice every child +I have in doin' so; and it is in order that he may be punished to the +heart--to the marrow--to the soul within him--that I got these papers, +and gave them to you.” + +“Corbet,” said the stranger, “be the cause of your revenge what it may, +its principle in your heart is awful. You are, in fact, a dreadful old +man. May I ask how you came by these papers?” + +“You may,” he replied; “but I won't answer you. At a future time it is +likely I will--but not now. It's enough for you to have them.” + +On his way home the stranger called at Birney's office, where he +produced the documents; and it was arranged that the latter gentleman +should wait upon Lord Cullamore the next day, in order to lay before him +the proofs on which they were about to proceed; for, as they were now +complete, they thought it more respectful to that venerable old nobleman +to appeal privately to his own good sense, whether it would not be +more for the honor of his family to give him an opportunity of yielding +quietly, and without public scandal, than to drag the matter before the +world in a court of justice. It was so arranged; and a suitable +warrant having been procured to enable them to produce the body of the +unfortunate Fenton, the proceedings of that day closed very much to +their satisfaction. + +The next day, between two and three o'clock, a visitor, on particular +business, was announced to Lord Cullamore; and on being desired to walk +up, our friend Birney made his bow to his lordship. Having been desired +to take a seat, he sat down, and his lordship, who appeared to be very +feeble, looked inquiringly at him, intimating thereby that he waited to +know the object of his visit. + +“My lord,” said the attorney, “in the whole course of my professional +life, a duty so painful as this has never devolved upon me. I come +supported with proofs sufficient to satisfy you that your title and +property cannot descend to your son, Lord Dunroe.” + +“I have no other son, sir,” said his lordship, reprovingly. + +“I do not mean to insinuate that you have, my lord. I only assert that +he who is supposed to be the present heir, is not really so at all.” + +“Upon what proofs, sir, do you ground that assertion?” + +“Upon proofs, my lord, the most valid and irrefragable; proofs that +cannot be questioned, even for a moment; and, least of all, by your +lordship, who are best acquainted with their force and authenticity.” + +“Have you got them about you?” + +“I have got copies of the documentary proofs, my lord, and I shall now +place them before you.” + +“Yes; have the goodness to let me see them.” + +Birney immediately handed him the documents, and mentioned the facts +of which they were the proofs. In fact, only one of them was absolutely +necessary, and that was simply the record of a death duly and regularly +attested. + +The old man seemed struck with dismay; for, until this moment he had not +been clearly in possession of the facts which were now brought against +him, as they were stated, and made plain as to their results, by Mr. +Birney. + +“I do not know much of law,” he said, “but enough, I think, to satisfy +me, that unless you have other and stronger proofs than this, you cannot +succeed in disinheriting my son. I have seen the originals of those +before, but I had forgotten some facts and dates connected with them at +the time.” + +“We have the collateral proof you speak of, my lord, and can produce +personal evidence to corroborate those which I have shown you.” + +“May I ask who that evidence is?” + +“A Mrs. Mainwaring, my lord--formerly Norton--who had been maid to your +first wife while she resided privately in Prance--was a witness to her +death, and had it duly registered.” + +“But even granting this, I think you will be called on to prove the +intention on my part: that which a man does in ignorance cannot, and +ought not to be called a violation of the law.” + +“But the law in this case will deal only with facts, my lord; and your +lordship must now see and feel that we are in a capacity to prove +them. And before I proceed further, my lord, I beg to say, that I +am instructed to appeal to your lordship's good sense, and to that +consideration for the feelings of your family, by which, I trust, you +will be influenced, whether, satisfied as you must be of your position, +it would not be more judicious on your own part to concede our just +rights, seeing, as you clearly may, that they are incontrovertible, than +to force us to bring the matter before the public; a circumstance which, +so far as you are yourself concerned, must be inexpressibly painful, +and as regards other members of your family, perfectly deplorable and +distressing. We wish, my lord, to spare the innocent as much as we can.” + +“I am innocent, sir; your proofs only establish an act done by me in +ignorance.” + +“We grant that, my lord, at once, and without for a moment charging you +with any dishonorable motive; but what we insist on--can prove--and your +lordship cannot deny--is, that the act you speak of was done, and +done at a certain period. I do beseech you, my lord, to think well +and seriously of my proposal, for it is made in a kind and respectful +spirit.” + +“I thank you, sir,” replied his lordship, “and those who instructed you +to regard my feelings; but this you must admit is a case of too much +importance, in which interests of too much consequence are involved, for +me to act in it without the advice and opinion of my lawyers.” + +“You are perfectly right, my lord; I expected no less; and if your +lordship will refer me to them, I shall have no hesitation in laying +the grounds of our proceedings before them, and the proofs by which they +will be sustained.” + +This was assented to on the part of Lord Cullamore, and it is only +necessary to say, that, in a few days subsequently, his lawyers, upon +sifting and thoroughly examining everything that came before them, +gave it as their opinion--and both were men of the very highest +standing--that his lordship had no defence whatsoever, and that his +wisest plan was to yield without allowing the matter to go to a public +trial, the details of which must so deeply affect the honor of his +children. + +This communication, signed in the form of a regular opinion by both +these eminent gentlemen, was received by his lordship on the fourth day +after Birney's visit to him on the subject. + +About a quarter of an hour after he had perused it, his lordship's bell +rang, and Morty O'Flaherty, his man, entered. + +“Morty,” said his lordship, “desire Lord Dunroe to come to me; I wish to +speak with him. Is he within?” + +“He has just come in, my lord. Yes, my lord, I'll send him up.” + +His lordship tapped the arms of his easy chair with the lingers of both +hands, and looked unconsciously upon his servant, with a face full of +the deepest sorrow and anguish. + +The look was not lost upon Morty, who said, as he went down stairs, +“There's something beyond the common on my lord's mind this day. He was +bad enough before; but now he looks like a man that has got the very +heart within him broken.” + +He met Dunroe in the hall, and delivered his message, but added, + +“I think his lordship has had disagreeable tidin's of some kind to-day, +my lord. I never saw him look so ill. To tell you the truth, my lord, I +think he has death in his face.” + +“Well, Morty,” replied his lordship, adjusting his collar, “you know we +must all die. I cannot guess what unpleasant tidings he may have heard +to-day; but I know that I have heard little else from him this many a +day. Tell Mr. Norton to see about the bills I gave him, and have them +cashed as soon as possible. If not, curse me, I'll shy a decanter at his +head after dinner.” + +He then went rather reluctantly up stairs, and presented himself, in no +very amiable temper, to his father. + +Having taken a seat, he looked at the old man, and found his eyes fixed +upon him with an expression of reproof, and at the same time the most +profound affliction. + +“Dunroe,” said the earl, “you did not call to inquire after me for the +last two or three days.” + +“I did not call, my lord, certainly; but, nevertheless, I inquired. The +fact is, I feel disinclined to be lectured at such a rate every time +I come to see you. As for Norton, I have already told you, with +every respect for your opinion and authority, that you have taken an +unfounded prejudice against him, and that I neither can nor will get +rid of him, as you call it. You surely would not expect me to act +dishonorably, my lord.” + +“I did not send for you now to speak about him, John. I have a much more +serious, and a much more distressing communication to make to you.” + +The son opened his eyes, and stared at him. + +“It may easily be so, my lord; but what is it?” + +“Unfortunate young man, it is this--You are cut off from the inheritance +of my property and title.” + +“Sickness, my lord, and peevishness, have impaired your intellects, I +think. What kind of language is this to hold to me, your son and heir?” + +“My son, John, but not my heir.” + +“Don't you know, my lord, that what you say is impossible. If I am your +son, I am, of course, your heir.” + +“No, John, for the simplest reason in the world. At present you must +rest contented with the fact which I announce to you--for fact it is. I +have not now strength enough to detail it; but I shall when I feel that +I am equal to it. Indeed, I knew it not myself, with perfect certainty, +until to-day. Some vague suspicion I had of late, but the proofs that +were laid before me, and laid before me in a generous and forbearing +spirit, have now satisfied me that you have no claim, as I said, to +either title or property.” + +“Why, as I've life, my lord, this is mere dotage. A foul conspiracy +has been got up, and you yield to it without a struggle. Do you think, +whatever you may do, that I will bear this tamely? I am aware that a +conspiracy has been getting up, and I also have had my suspicions.” + +“It is out of my power, John, to secure you the inheritance.” + +“This is stark folly, my lord--confounded nonsense--if you will pardon +me. Out of your power! Made silly and weak in mind by illness, your +opinion is not now worth much upon any subject. It is not your fault, I +admit; but, upon my soul, I really have serious doubts whether you are +in a sufficiently sane state of mind to manage your own affairs.” + +“Undutiful young man,” replied his father, with bitterness, “if that +were a test of insanity, you yourself ought to have been this many a day +in a strait waistcoat. I know it is natural that you should feel this +blow deeply; but it is neither natural nor dutiful that you should +address your parent in such unpardonable language.” + +“If what that parent says be true, my lord, he has himself, by his past +vices, disinherited his son.” + +“No, sir,” replied the old man, whilst a languid flush of indignation +was visible on his face, “he has not done so by his vices; but you, +sir, have morally disinherited yourself by your vices, by your general +profligacy, by your indefensible extravagance, and by your egregious +folly, A man placed in the position which you would have occupied, ought +to be a light and an example to society, and. not what you have been, a +reproach to your family, and a disgrace to your class. The virtues of +a man of rank should be in proportion to his station; but you have +distinguished yourself only by holding up to the world the debasing +example of a dishonorable and licentious life. What virtue can you plead +to establish a just claim to a position which demands a mind capable of +understanding the weighty responsibilities that are annexed to it, and +a heart possessed of such enlightened principles as may enable him to +discharge them in a spirit that will constitute him, what he ought to +be, a high example and a generous benefactor to his kind? Not one: +but if selfishness, contempt for all the moral obligations of life, a +licentious spirit that mocks at religion and looks upon human virtue +as an unreality and a jest--if these were to give you a claim to +the possession of rank and property, I know of no one more admirably +qualified to enjoy them. Dunroe, I am not now far from the grave; but +listen, and pay attention to my voice, for it is a warning voice.” + +“It was always so,” replied his son, with sulky indignation; “it was +never anything else; a mere passing bell that uttered nothing but +advices, lectures, coffins, and cross-bones.” + +“It uttered only truth then, Dunroe, as you feel now to your cost. +Change your immoral habits. I will not bid you repent; because you would +only sneer at the word; but do endeavor to feel regret for the kind of +life you have led, and give up your evil propensities; cease to be a +heartless spendthrift; remember that you are a man: remember that you +have important duties to perform; believe that there are such things as +religion, and virtue, and honor in the world; believe that there is a +God a wise Providence, who governs that world upon principles of eternal +truth and justice, and to whom you must account, in another life, for +your conduct in this.” + +“Well, really, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “as it appears that the lecture +is all you have to bestow upon me, I am quite willing that you should +disinherit me of that also. I waive every claim to it. But so do I not +to my just rights. We shall see what a court of law can do.” + +“You may try it, and entail disgrace upon yourself and your sister. As +for my child, it will break her heart. My God! my child! my child!” + +“Not, certainly, my lord, if we should succeed.” + +“All hopes of success are out of the question,” replied his father. + +“No such thing, my lord. Your mind, as I said, is enfeebled by +illness, and you yield too easily. Such conduct on your part is really +ridiculous. We shall have a tug for it, I am determined.” + +“Here,” said his father, “cast your eye over these papers, and they +will enable you to understand, not merely the grounds upon which our +opponents proceed, but the utter hopelessness of contesting the matter +with them.” + +Dunroe took the papers, but before looking at them replied, with a great +deal of confidence, “you are quite mistaken there, my lord, with every +respect. They are not in a position to prove their allegations.” + +“How so?” said his father. + +“For the best reason in the world, my lord. We have had their proofs in +our possession and destroyed them.” + +“I don't understand you.” + +“The fellow, M'Bride, of whom I think your lordship knows something, +had their documents in his possession.” + +“I am aware of that.” + +“Well, my lord, while in a drunken fit, he either lost them, or some one +took them out of his pocket. I certainly would have purchased them from +him.” + +“Did you know how he came by them?” asked his father, with a look of +reproof and anger. + +“That, my lord, was no consideration of mine. As it was, however, he +certainty lost them; but we learned from him that Birney, the attorney, +was about to proceed to France, in order to get fresh attested copies; +upon which, as he knew the party there in whose hands the registry +was kept, Norton and he started a day or two in advance of him, and on +arriving there, they found, much to our advantage, that the register was +dead. M'Bride, however, who is an adroit fellow, and was well acquainted +with his house and premises, contrived to secure the book in which the +original record was made--which book he has burned--so that, in point of +fact, they have no legal proofs on which to proceed.” + +“Dishonorable man!” said his father, rising up in a state of the deepest +emotion. “You have made me weary of life; you have broken my heart: and +so you would stoop to defend yourself, or your lights, by a crime--by a +crime so low, fraudulent, and base--that here, in the privacy of my own +chamber, and standing face to face with you, I am absolutely ashamed to +call you my son. Know, sir, that if it were a dukedom, I should scorn to +contest it, or to retain it, at the expense of my honor.” + +“That's all very fine talk, my lord; but, upon my soul, wherever I can +get an advantage, I'll take it. I see little of the honor or virtue +you speak of going, and, I do assure you, I won't be considered at all +remarkable for acting up to my own principles. On the contrary, it is by +following yours that I should be so.” + +“I think,” said the old man, “that I see the hand of God in this. +Unfortunate, obstinate, and irreclaimable young man, it remains for me +to tell you that the very documents, which you say have been lost by the +villain M'Bride, with whom, in his villainy, you, the son of an earl, +did not hesitate to associate yourself, are now in the possession of +our opponents. Take those papers to your room,” he added, bursting into +tears: “take them away, I am unable to prolong this interview, for +it has been to me a source of deeper affliction than the loss of the +highest title or honor that the hand of royalty could bestow.” + +When Dunroe was about to leave the room, the old man, who had again sat +down, said: + +“Stop a moment. Of course it is unnecessary to say, I should hope, that +this union between you and Miss Gourlay cannot proceed.” + +Dunroe, who felt at once that if he allowed his father to suppose that +he persisted in it, the latter would immediately disclose his position +to the baronet, now replied: + +“No, my lord, I have no great ambition for any kind of alliance with Sir +Thomas Gourlay. I never liked him personally, and I am sufficiently +a man of spirit, I trust, not to urge a marriage with a girl +who--who--cannot appreciate--” He paused, not knowing exactly how to +fill up the sentence. + +“Who has no relish for it,” added his father, “and can't appreciate your +virtues, you mean to say.” + +“What I mean to say, my lord, is, that where there is no great share +of affection on either side, there can be but little prospect of +happiness.” + +“Then you give up the match?” + +“I give up the match, my lord, without a moment's hesitation. You may +rest assured of that.” + +“Because,” added his father, “if I found that you persisted in it, and +attempted to enter the family, and impose yourself on this admirable +girl, as that which you are not, I would consider it my duty to acquaint +Sir Thomas Gourlay with the unfortunate discovery which has been made. +Before you go I will thank you to read that letter for me. It comes, +I think, from the Lord Chancellor. My sight is very feeble to-day, and +perhaps it may require a speedy answer.” + +Dunroe opened the letter, which informed Lord Cullamore, that it +had afforded him, the Lord Chancellor, much satisfaction to promote +Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq., to the magistracy of the county of +------, understanding, as he did, from the communication “of Sir Thomas +Gourlay, enclosed in his lordship's letter, that he (Crackenfudge) +was, by his many virtues, good sense, discretion, humanity, and general +esteem among all classes, as well as by his popularity in the country, a +person in every way fitted to discharge the important duties of such an +appointment. + +“I feel my mind at ease,” said the amiable old nobleman, “in aiding such +an admirable country gentleman as this Crackenfudge must be, to a seat +on the bench; for, after all, Dunroe, it is only by the contemplation of +a good action that we can be happy. You may go.” + +Some few days passed, when Dunroe, having read the papers, the contents +of which he did not wish Norton to see, returned them to his father +in sullen silence, and then rang his bell, and sent for his worthy +associate, that he might avail himself of his better judgment. + +“Norton,” said he, “it is all up with us.” + +“How is that, my lord?” + +“Those papers, that M'Bride says he lost, are in the hands of our +enemies.” + +“Don't believe it, my lord.' I saw the fellow yesterday, and he told me +that he destroyed them in a drunken fit, for which he says he is ready +to cut his throat.” + +“But I have read the opinion of my father's counsel,” replied his +lordship, “and they say we have no defence. Now you know what a lawyer +is: if there were but a hair-breadth chance, they would never make an +admission that might keep a good fat case from getting into their hands. +No; it is all up with us. The confounded old fool above had everything +laid before them, and such is the upshot. What is to be done?” + +“Marriage, without loss of time--marriage, before your disaster reaches +the ears of the Black Baronet.” + +“Yes, but there is a difficulty. If the venerable old nobleman should +hear of it, he'd let the cat out of the bag, and leave me in the +lurch, in addition to the penalty of a three hours' lecture upon honor. +Everything, however, is admirably arranged _quoad_ the marriage. We have +got a special license for the purpose of meeting our peculiar case, so +that the marriage can be private; that is to say, can take place in +the lady's own house. Do you think though, that M'Bride has actually +destroyed the papers?” + +“The drunken ruffian! certainly. He gave me great insolence a couple of +days ago.” + +“Why so?” + +“Because I didn't hand him over a hundred pounds for his journey and the +theft of the registry.” + +“And how much did you give him, pray?” + +“A fifty pound note, after having paid his expenses, which was quite +enough for him. However, as I did not wish to make the scoundrel our +enemy, I have promised him something more, so that I've come on good +terms with him again. He is a slippery customer.” + +“Did you get the bills cashed yet?” + +“No, my lord; I am going about it now; but I tell you beforehand, that I +will have some difficulty in doing it. I hope to manage it, however; and +for that reason I must bid you good-by.” + +“The first thing to do, then, is to settle that ugly business about the +mare. By no means must we let it come to trial.” + +“Very well, my lord, be it so.” + +Norton, after leaving his dupe to meditate upon the circumstances in +which he found himself, began to reflect as he went along, that he +himself was necessarily involved in the ruin of his friend and patron. + +“I have the cards, however, in my own hands,” thought he, “and M'Bride's +advice was a good one. He having destroyed the other documents, it +follows that this registry, which I have safe and snug, will be just +what his lordship's enemies will leap at. Of course they are humbugging +the old peer about the other papers, and, as I know, it is devilish easy +to humbug the young one. My agency is gone to the winds; but I think +the registry will stand me instead. It ought, in a case like this, to be +well worth five thousand; at least, I shall ask this sum--not saying but +I will take less. Here goes then for an interview with Birney, who has +the character of being a shrewd fellow--honorable, they say--but then, +is he not an attorney? Yes, Birney, have at you, my boy;” and having come +to this virtuous conclusion, he directed his steps to that gentleman's +office, whom he found engaged at his desk. + +“Mr. Birney, I presume,” with a very fashionable bow. + +“Yes, sir,” said Birney, “that is my name.” + +“Haw! If I don't mistake, Mr. Birney,” with a very English accent, which +no one could adopt, when he pleased, with more success than our +Kerry boy--“if I don't mistake, we both made a journey to France very +recently?” + +“That may be, sir,” replied Birney, “but I am not aware of it.” + +“But I am, though,” tipping Birney the London cockney. + +“Well, sir,” said Birney, very coolly, “and what follows from that?” + +“Why haw--haw--I don't exactly know at present; but I think a good +dee-al may follow from it.” + +“As how, sir?” + +“I believe you were over there on matters connected with Lord +Cullamore's family--haw?” + +“Sir,” replied Birney, “you are a perfect stranger to me--I haven't the +honor of knowing you. If you are coming to me on anything connected with +my professional services, I will thank you to state it.” + +“Haw!--My name is Norton, a friend of Lord Dunroe's.” + +“Well, Mr. Norton, if you will have the goodness to mention the business +which causes me the honor of your visit, I will thank you; but I beg to +assure you, that I am not a man to be pumped either by Lord Dunroe or +any of his friends. You compel me to speak very plainly, sir.” + +“Haw! Very good--very good indeed! but the truth his, I've given +Dunroe hup.” + +“Well, sir, and how is that my affair? What interest can I feel in your +quarrels? Personally I know very little of Lord Dunroe, and of you, sir, +nothing.” + +“Haw! but everything 'as a beginning, Mr. Birney.” + +“At this rate of going, I fear we shall be a long time ending, Mr. +Norton.” + +“Well,” replied Norton, “I believe you are right; the sooner we +understand each other, the better.” + +“Certainly, sir,” replied Birney; “I think so, if you have any business +of importance with me.” + +“Well, I rayther think you will find it important--that is, to your own +interests. You are an attorney, Mr. Birney, and I think you will admit +that every man in this world, as it goes, ought to look to 'is own +interests.” + +Birney looked at him, and said, very gravely, “Pray, sir, what is your +business with me? My time, sir, is valuable. My time is money--a portion +of my landed property, sir.” + +“Haw! Very good; but you Hirish are so fiery and impatient! However, I +will come to the point. You are about to joust that young scamp, by the +way, out of the title and property. I say so, because I am up to the +thing. Yet you want dockiments to establish your case--haw?” + +“Well, sir, and suppose we do; you, I presume, as the friend of Lord +Dunroe, are not coming to furnish us with them?” + +“That is, Mr. Birney, as we shall understand one another. You failed in +your mission to France?” + +“I shall hear any proposal, sir, you have to make, but will answer no +questions on the subject until I understand your motive for putting +them.” + +“Good--very cool and cautious--but suppose, now, that I, who know you +'ave failed in procuring the dockiments in question, could supply you +with them--haw!--do you understand me now?” + +“Less than ever, sir, I assure you. Observe that you introduced yourself +to me as the friend of Lord Dunroe.” + +“Merely to connect myself with the proceedings between you. I 'ave or +am about to discard him, but I shaunt go about the bush no longer. I'm +a native of Lon'on, w'at is tarmed a cockney--haw, haw!--and he 'as +treated me ill--very ill--and I am detarmined to retaliate.” + +“How, sir, are you determined to retaliate?” + +“The truth is, sir, I've got the dockiments you stand in need of in my +possession, and can furnish you with them for a consideration.” + +“Why, now you are intelligible. What do you want, Murray? I'm engaged.” + +“To speak one word with you in the next room, sir. The gentleman wants +you to say yes or no, in a single line, upon Mr. Fairfield's business, +sir--besides, I've a private message.” + +“Excuse me for a moment, sir,” said Birney; “there's this morning's +paper, if you haven't seen it.” + +“Well, Bob,” said he, “what is it?” + +“Beware of that fellow,” said he: “I know him well; his name is Bryan; +he was a horse jockey on the Curragh, and was obliged to fly the country +for dishonesty. Be on your guard, that is all I had to say to you.” + +“Why, he says he is a Londoner, and he certainly has the accent,” + replied the other. + +“Kerry, sir, to the backbone, and a disgrace to the country, for divil a +many rogues it produces, whatever else it may do.” + +“Thank you, Murray,” said Birney; “I will be doubly guarded now.” + +This occurred between Birney and one of his clerks, as a small interlude +in their conversation. + +“Yes, sir,” resumed Birney, once more taking his place at the desk, “you +can now be understood.” + +“Haw!--yes, I rayther fancy I can make myself so!” replied Norton. +“What, now, do you suppose the papers in question may be worth to your +friends?” + +“You cannot expect me to reply to that question,” said Birney; “I am +acting professionally under the advice and instructions of others; but +I will tell you what I think you had better do--I can enter into no +negotiation on the subject without consulting those who have employed +me, and getting their consent--write down, then, on a sheet of paper, +what you propose to do for us, and the compensation which you expect to +receive for any documents you may supply us with that we may consider of +value, and I shall submit it for consideration.” + +“May I not compromise myself by putting it on paper, though?” + +“If you think so, then, don't do it; but, for my part, I shall have +no further concern in the matter. Verbal communications are of little +consequence in an affair of this kind. Reduce it to writing, and it can +be understood; it will, besides, prevent misconceptions in future.” + +“I trust you are a man of honor?” said Norton. + +“I make no pretensions to anything so high,” replied Birney; “but I +trust I am an honest man, and know how to act when I have an honest man +to deal with. If you wish to serve our cause, or, to be plain with you, +wish to turn the documents you speak of to the best advantage, make your +proposal in writing, as you ought to do, otherwise I must decline any +further negotiation on the subject.” + +Norton saw and felt that there was nothing else for it. He accordingly +took pen and ink and wrote down his proposal--offering to place the +documents alluded to, which were mentioned by name, in the hands of Mr. +Birney, for the sum of five thousand pounds.” + +“Now, sir,” said Birney, after looking over this treacherous +proposition, “you see yourself the advantage of putting matters down +in black and white. The production of this will save me both time and +trouble, and, besides, it can be understood at a glance. Thank you, sir. +Have the goodness to favor me with a call in a day or two, and we shall +see what can be done.” + +“This,” said Norton, as he was about to go, “is a point of honor between +us.” + +“Why, I think, at all events, it ought,” replied Bimey; “at least, so +far as I am concerned, it is not my intention to act dishonorably by any +honest man.” + +“Haw--haw! Very well said, indeed; I 'ave a good opinion of your +discretion. + +“Well, sir, I wish you good morneen; I shall call in a day or two, and +expect to 'ave a satisfactory answer.” + +“What a scoundrel!” exclaimed Birney. + +“Here's a fellow, now, who has been fleecing that unfortunate sheep of +a nobleman for the last four years, and now that he finds him at the +length of his tether, he is ready to betray and sacrifice him, like a +double-distilled rascal as he is. The villain thought I did not know +him, but he was mistaken--quite out in his calculations. He will find, +too, that he has brought his treachery to the wrong market.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. Fenton Recovered--The Mad-House + +Sir Thomas Gourlay, on his return with the special license, was informed +by the same servant who had admitted the stranger, that a gentleman +awaited him in the drawing-room. + +“Who is he, M'Gregor?” + +“I don't know, sir; he paid you a visit once at Red Hall, I think.” + +“How could I know him by that, you blockhead?” + +“He's the gentleman, sir, you had hot words with.” + +“That I kicked out one day? Crackenfudge, eh?” + +“No, faith, sir; not Crackenfudge. I know him well enough; and devil a +kick your honor gave him but I wished was nine. This is a very different +man, sir; and I believe you had warm words with him too, sir.” + +“Oh!” exclaimed his master; “I remember. Is he above?” + +“I believe so, sir.” + +A strange and disagreeable feeling came over the baronet on hearing +these words--a kind of presentiment, as it were, of something +unpleasant and adverse to his plans. On entering the drawing-room, +however, he was a good deal surprised to find that there was nobody +there; and after a moment's reflection, a fearful suspicion took +possession of him; he rang the bell furiously. + +Gibson, who had been out, now entered. + +“Where is Miss Gourlay, sir?” asked his master, with eyes kindled by +rage and alarm. + +“I was out, sir,” replied Gibson, “and cannot tell.” + +“You can never tell anything, you scoundrel. For a thousand, she's off +with him again, and all's ruined. Here, Matthews--M'Gregor--call the +servants, sir. Where's her maid?--call her maid. What a confounded +fool--ass--I was, not to have made that impudent baggage tramp about +her business. It's true, Lucy's off--I feel it--I felt it. Hang her +hypocrisy! It's the case, however, with all women. They have neither +truth, nor honesty of purpose. A compound of treachery, deceit, and +dissimulation; and yet I thought, if there was a single individual of +her sex exempted from their vices, that she was that individual. Come +here, M'Gregor--come here you scoundrel--do you know where Miss Gourlay +is? or her maid?” + +“Here's Matthews, sir; he says she's gone out.” + +“Gone out!--Yes, she's gone out with a vengeance. Do you know where +she's gone, sirra? And did any one go with her?” he added, addressing +himself to Matthews. + +“I think, sir, she's gone to take her usual airing in the carriage.” + +“Who was with her?” + +“No one but her maid, sir.” + +“Oh, no; they would not go off together--that would be too open and +barefaced. Do you know what direction she took?” + +“No, sir; I didn't observe.” + +“You stupid old lout,” replied the baronet, flying at him, and mauling +the unfortunate man without mercy; “take that--and that--and that--for +your stupidity. Why did you not observe the way she went, you! villain? +You have suffered her to elope, you hound! You have all suffered her +to elope with a smooth-faced impostor--a fellow whom no one knows--a +blackleg--a swindler--a thief--a--a--go and saddle half a +dozen horses, and seek her in all directions. Go instantly, +and--hold--easy--stop--hang you all, stop!--here she is--and her maid +with her--” he exclaimed, looking out of the window. “Ha! I am relieved. +God bless me! God bless me!” He then looked at the servants with +something of deprecation in his face, and waving his hand, said, “Go--go +quietly; and, observe me--not a word of this--not a syllable--for your +lives!” + +His anger, however, was only checked in mid-volley. The idea of her +having received a clandestine visit from her lover during his absence +rankled at his heart; and although satisfied that she was still safe, +and in his power, he could barely restrain his temper within moderate +limits. Nay, he felt angry at her for the alarm she had occasioned him, +and the passion he had felt at her absence. + +“Well, Lucy,” said he, addressing her, as she entered, in a voice chafed +with passion, “have you taken your drive?” + +“Yes, papa,” she replied; “but it threatened rain, and we returned +earlier that usual.” + +“You look pale.” + +“I dare say I do, sir. I want rest--repose;” and she reclined on a +lounger as she spoke. “It is surprising, papa, how weak I am!” + +“Not too weak, Lucy, to receive a stolen visit, eh?” + +Lucy immediately sat up, and replied with surprise, “A stolen visit, +sir? I don't understand you, papa.” + +“Had you not a visitor here, in my absence?” + +“I had, sir, but the visit was intended for you. Our interview was +perfectly accidental.” + +“Ah! faith, Lucy, it was too well timed to be accidental. I'm not such a +fool as that comes to. Accidental, indeed! Lucy, you should not say so.” + +“I am not in the habit of stating an untruth, papa. The visit, sir--I +should rather say, the interview--was purely accidental; but I am glad +it took place.” + +“The deuce you are! That is a singular acknowledgment, Lucy, I think.” + +“It is truth, sir, notwithstanding. I was anxious to see him, that I +might acquaint him with the change that has taken place in my unhappy +destiny. If I had not seen him, I should have asked your permission to +write to him.” + +“Which I would not have given.” + +“I would have submitted my letter to you, sir.” + +“Even so; I would not have consented.” + +“Well, then, sir, as truth and honor demanded that act from me, I would +haye sent it without your consent. Excuse me for saying this, papa; but +you need not be told that there are some peculiar cases where duty to a +parent must yield to truth and honor.” + +“Some peculiar cases! On the contrary, the cases you speak of are the +general rule, my girl--the general rule--and rational obedience to +a parent the exception. Where is there a case--and there are +millions--where a parent's wish and will are set at naught and +scorned, in which the same argument is not used? I do not relish these +discussions, however. What I wish to impress upon you is this--you must +see this fellow no more.” + +Lucy's temples were immediately in a blaze. “Are you aware, papa, that +you insult and degrade your daughter, by applying such a term to him? +If you will not spare him, sir, spare me; for I assure you that I feel +anything said against him with ten times more emotion than if it were +uttered against myself.” + +“Well, well; he's a fine fellow, a gentleman, a lord; but, be he what he +may, you must see him no more.” + +“It is not my intention, papa, to see him again.” + +“You must not write to him.” + +“It will not be necessary.” + +“But you must not.” + +“Well, then, I shall not.” + +“Nor receive kis letters.” + +“Nor receive his letters, knowing them to be his.” + +“You promise all this?” + +“I do, sir, faithfully. I hope you are now satisfied, papa?” + +“I am, Lucy--I am. You are not so bad a girl as I sus--no, you are a +very good girl; and when I see you the Countess of Cullamore, I shall +not have a single wish un-gratified.” + +Lucy, indeed, poor girl, was well and vigilantly guarded. No +communication, whether written or otherwise, was permitted to reach +her; nor, if she had been lodged in the deepest dungeon in Europe, and +secured by the strongest bolts that ever enclosed a prisoner, could she +have been more rigidly excluded from all intercourse, her father's and +her maid's only excepted. + +Her lover, on receiving the documents so often alluded to from +old Corbet, immediately transmitted to her a letter of hope and +encouragement, in which he stated that the object he had alluded to was +achieved, and that he would take care to place such documents before her +father, as must cause even him to forbid the bans. This letter, however, +never reached her. Neither did a similar communication from Mrs. +Mainwaring, who after three successive attempts to see either her or +her father, was forced at last to give up all hope of preventing the +marriage. She seemed, indeed, to have been fated. + +In the meantime, the stranger, having, as he imagined, relieved Lucy's +mind from her dreaded union with Dunroe, and left the further and +more complete disclosure of that young nobleman's position to Mrs. +Mainwaring, provided himself with competent legal authority to claim the +person of unfortunate Fenton. It is unnecessary to describe his journey +to the asylum in which the wretched young man was placed; it is enough +to say that he arrived there at nine o'clock in the morning, accompanied +by old Corbet and three officers of justice, who remained in the +carriage; and on asking to see the proprietor, was shown into a parlor, +where he found that worthy gentleman reading a newspaper. + +This fellow was one of those men who are remarkable for thick, massive, +and saturnine features. At a first glance he was not at all ill-looking; +but, on examining his beetle brows, which met in a mass of black thick +hair across his face, and on watching the dull, selfish, cruel eyes +that they hung over--dead as they were to every generous emotion, and +incapable of kindling even at cruelty itself--it was impossible for any +man in the habit of observing nature closely not to feel that a brutal +ruffian, obstinate, indurated, and unscrupulous, was before him. His +forehead was low but broad, and the whole shape of his head such as +would induce an intelligent phrenologist to pronounce him at once a +thief and a murderer. + +The stranger, after a survey or two, felt his blood boil at the +contemplation of his very visage, which was at once plausible and +diabolical in expression. After some preliminary chat the latter said: + +“Your establishment, sir, is admirably situated here. It is remote and +isolated; and these, I suppose, are advantages?” + +“Why, yes, sir,” replied the doctor, “the further we remove our patients +from human society, the better. The exhibition of reason has, in +general, a bad effect upon the insane.” + +“Upon what principle do you account for that?” asked the stranger. “To +me it would appear that the reverse of the proposition ought to hold +true.” + +“That may be,” replied the other; “but no man can form a correct opinion +of insane persons who has not mingled with them, or had them under +his care. The contiguity of reason--I mean in the persons of those who +approach them--always exercises a dangerous influence upon lunatics; and +on this account, I sometimes place those who are less insane as keepers +upon such as are decidedly so.” + +“Does not that, sir, seem very like setting the blind to lead the +blind?” + +“No,” replied the other, with a heavy, I heartless laugh, “your analogy +fails; it is rather like setting a man with one eye to guide another who +has none.” + +“But why should not a man who has two guide him better?” + +“Because the consciousness that there is but the one eye between both of +them, will make him proceed more cautiously.” + +“But that in the blind is an act of reason,” replied the stranger, +“which cannot be applied to the insane, in whom reason is deficient.” + +“But where reason does not exist,” said the doctor, “we must regulate +them by the passions.” + +“By the exercise of which passion do you gain the greatest ascendency +over them?” asked the stranger. + +“By fear, of course. We can do nothing, at least very little, without +inspiring terror.” + +“Ah,” thought the stranger, “I have now got the key to his +conduct!--But, sir,” he added, “we never fear and love the same object +at the same time.” + +“True enough, sir,” replied the ruffian; “but who could or ought to +calculate upon the attachment of a madman? Boys are corrected more +frequently than men, because their reason is not developed: and those +in whom it does not exist, or in whom it has been impaired, must be +subjected to the same discipline. Terror, besides, is the principle upon +which reason itself, and all society, are governed.” + +“But suppose I had a brother, now, or a relative, might I not hesitate +to place him in an establishment conducted on principles which I +condemn?” + +“As to that, sir,” replied the fellow, who, expecting a patient, feared +that he had gone too far, “our system is an adaptable one; at least, our +application of it varies according to circumstances. As our first object +is cure, we must necessarily allow ourselves considerable latitude +of experiment until we hit upon the right key. This being found, the +process of recovery, when it is possible, may be conducted with as much +mildness as the absence of reason will admit. We are mild, when we can, +and severe only where we must.” + +“Shuffling scoundrel!” thought the stranger. “I perceive in this +language the double dealing of an unprincipled villain.--Would you +have any objection, sir,” he said, “that I should look through your +establishment?” + +“I can conduct you through the convalescent wards,” replied the doctor; +“but, as I said, we find that the appearance of strangers--which is +what I meant by the contiguity of reason--is attended with very bad, and +sometimes deplorable consequences. Under all circumstances it retards +a cure, under others occasions a relapse, and in some accelerates the +malady so rapidly that it becomes hopeless. You may see the convalescent +ward, however--that is, if you wish.” + +“You will oblige me,” said the stranger. + +“Well, then,” said he, “if you will remain here a moment, I will send a +gentleman who will accompany you, and explain the characters of some +of the patients, should you desire it, and also the cause of their +respective maladies.” + +He then disappeared, and in a few minutes a mild, intelligent, +gentlemanly man, of modest and unassuming manners, presented himself, +and said he would feel much pleasure in showing him the convalescent +side of the house. The stranger, however, went out and brought old +Corbet in from the carriage, where he and the officers had been sitting; +and this he did at Corbet's own request. + +It is not our intention to place before our readers any lengthened +description of this gloomy temple of departed reason. Every one who +enters a lunatic asylum for the first time, must feel a wild and +indescribable emotion, such as he has never before experienced, and +which amounts to an extraordinary sense of solemnity and fear. Nor +do the sensations of the stranger rest here. He feels as if he were +surrounded by something sacred as well as melancholy, something +that creates at once pity, reverence, and awe. Indeed, so strongly +antithetical to each other are his first impressions, that a kind of +confusion arises in his mind, and he begins to fear that his senses have +been affected by the atmosphere of the place. That a shock takes place +which slightly disarranges the faculty of thought, and generates strong +but erroneous impressions, is still more clearly established by the fact +that the visitor, for a considerable time after leaving an asylum, can +scarcely rid himself of the belief that every person he meets is insane. + +The stranger, on entering the long room in which the convalescents were +assembled, felt, in the silence of the patients, and in their vague and +fantastic movements, that he was in a position where novelty, in general +the source of pleasure, was here associated only with pain. Their +startling looks, the absence of interest in some instances, and its +intensity in others, at the appearance of strangers, without any +intelligent motive in either case, produced a feeling that seemed to +bear the character of a disagreeable dream. + +“All the patients here,” said his conductor, “are not absolutely in a +state of convalescence. A great number of them are; but we also allow +such confirmed lunatics as are harmless to mingle with them. There is +scarcely a profession, or a passion, or a vanity in life, which has not +here its representative. Law, religion, physic, the arts, the sciences, +all contribute their share to this melancholy picture gallery. Avarice, +love, ambition, pride, jealousy, having overgrown the force of +reason, are here, as its ideal skeletons, wild and gigantic--fretting, +gambolling, moping, grinning, raving, and vaporing--each wrapped in +its own Vision, and indifferent to all the influence of the collateral +faculties. There, now, is a man, moping about, the very picture of +stolidity; observe how his heavy head hangs down until his chin rests +upon his breastbone, his mouth open and almost dribbling. That man, sir, +so unpoetical and idiotic in appearance, imagines himself the author of +Beattie's 'Minstrel' He is a Scotchman, and I shall call him over.” + +“Come here, Sandy, speak to this gentleman.” + +Sandy, without raising his lack-lustre eye, came over and replied, +“Aw--ay--'Am the author o' Betty's Menstrel;” and having uttered this +piece of intelligence, he shuffled across the room, dragging one foot +after the other, at about a quarter of a minute per step. Never was poor +Beattie so libellously represented. + +“Do you see that round-faced, good-humored looking man, with a decent +frieze coat on?” said their conductor. “He's a wealthy and respectable +farmer from the county of Kilkenny, who imagines that he is Christ. His +name is Rody Rafferty.” + +“Come here, Rody.” + +Rody came over, and looking at the stranger, said, “Arra, now, do you +know who I am? Troth, I go bail you don't.” + +“No,” replied the stranger, “I do not; but I hope you will tell me.” + +“I'm Christ,” replied Rody; “and, upon my word, if you don't get out o' +this, I'll work a miracle on you.” + +“Why,” asked the stranger, “what will you do?” + +“Troth, I'll turn you into a blackin' brush, and polish my shoes wid +you. You were at Barney's death, too.” + +The poor man had gone deranged, it seemed, by the violent death of his +only child--a son. + +“There's another man,” said the conductor; “that little fellow with the +angry face. He is a shoemaker, who went mad on the score of humanity. He +took a strong feeling of resentment against all who had flat feet, and +refused to make shoes for them.” + +“How was that?” inquired the stranger. + +“Why, sir,” said the other, smiling, “he said that they murdered the +clocks (beetles), and he looked upon every man with flat feet as an +inhuman villain, who deserves, he says, to have his feet chopped +off, and to be compelled to dance a hornpipe three times a day on his +stumps.” + +“Who is that broad-shouldered man,” asked the stranger, “dressed in +rusty black, with the red head?” + +“He went mad,” replied the conductor, “on a principle of religious +charity. He is a priest from the county of Wexford, who had been called +in to baptize the child of a Protestant mother, which, having done, he +seized a tub, and placing it on the child's neck, killed it; exclaiming, +'I am now sure of having sent one soul to heaven.'” + +“You are not without poets here, of course?” said the stranger. + +“We have, unfortunately,” replied the other, “more individuals of +that class than we can well manage. They ought to have an asylum +for themselves. There's a fellow, now, he in the tattered jacket and +nightcap, who has written a heroic poem, of eighty-six thousand verses, +which he entitles 'Balaam's Ass, or the Great Unsaddled.' Shall I call +him over?” + +“Oh, for heaven's sake, no,” replied the stranger; “keep me from the +poets.” + +“There is one of the other species,” replied the gentleman, “the thin, +red-eyed fellow, who grinds his teeth. He fancies himself a wit and a +satirist, and is the author of an unpublished poem, called 'The Smoking +Dunghill, or Parnassus in a Fume.' He published several things, which +were justly attacked on account of their dulness, and he is now in an +awful fury against all the poets of the day, to every one of whom he has +given an appropriate position on the sublime pedestal, which he has, as +it were, with his own hands, erected for them. He certainly ought to be +the best constructor of a dunghill in the world, for he deals in nothing +but dirt. He refuses to wash his hands, because, he says, it would +disqualify him from giving the last touch to his poem and his +characters.” + +“Have you philosophers as well as poets here?” asked the stranger. + +“Oh dear, yes, sir. We have poetical philosophers, and philosophical +poets; but, I protest to heaven, the wisdom of Solomon, or of an +archangel, could not decide the difference between their folly. There's +a man now, with the old stocking in his hand--it is one of his own, for +you may observe that he has one leg bare--who is pacing up and down in +a deep thinking mood. That man, sir, was set mad by a definition of his +own making.” + +“Well, let us hear it,” said the stranger. + +“Why, sir, he imagines that he has discovered a definition for +'nothing.' The definition, however, will make you smile.” + +“And what, pray, is it?” + +“Nothing,” he says, “is--a footless stocking without a leg; and +maintains that he ought to hold the first rank as a philosopher for +having invented the definition, and deserves a pension from the crown.” + +“Who are these two men dressed in black, walking arm in arm?” asked the +stranger. “They appear to be clergymen.” + +“Yes, sir,” replied his conductor, “so they are; two celebrated +polemical controversialists, who, when they were at large, created +by their attacks, each upon the religion of the other, more ill-will, +rancor and religious animosity, than either of their religions, with all +their virtues, could remove. It is impossible to describe the evil they +did. Ever since they came here, however, they are like brothers. They +were placed in the same room, each in a strong strait-waistcoat, for the +space of three months; but on being allowed to walk about, they became +sworn friends, and now amuse themselves more than any other two in the +establishment. They indulge in immoderate fits of laughter, look each +other knowingly in the face, wink, and run the forefinger up the nose, +after which their mirth bursts out afresh, and they laugh until the +tears come down their cheeks.” + +The stranger, who during all this time was on the lookout for poor +Fenton, as was old Corbet, could observe nobody who resembled him in the +least. + +“Have you females in your establishment?” he asked. + +“No, sir,” replied the gentleman; “but we are about to open an asylum +for them in a detached building, which is in the course of being +erected. Would you wish to hear any further details of these unhappy +beings,” he asked. + +“No, sir,” replied the stranger. “You are very kind and obliging, but +I have heard enough for the present. Have you a person named Fenton in +your establishment?” + +“Not, sir, that I know of; he may be here, though; but you had +better inquire from the proprietor himself, who--mark me, sir--I +say--harkee--you have humanity in your face--will probably refuse to +tell you whether he is here or not, or deny him altogether. Harkee, +again, sir--the fellow is a villain--that is, _entre nous_, but mum's +the word between us.” + +“I am sorry,” replied the stranger, “to hear such a character of him +from you, who should know him.” + +“Well, sir,” replied the other, “let that pass--_verbum sap_. And now +tell me, when have you been at the theater?” + +“Not for some months,” returned the other. + +“Have you ever heard Catalani shake?” + +“Yes,” replied the stranger. “I have had that pleasure.” + +“Well, sir, I'm delighted that you have heard her, for there is but one +man living who can rival her in the shake; and, sir, you have the honor +of addressing that man.” + +This was said so mildly, calmly, rationally, and with that gentlemanlike +air of undoubted respectability, which gives to an assertion such an +impress of truth, that the stranger, confused as he was by what he +had seen, felt it rather difficult to draw the line at the moment, +especially in such society, between a sane man and an insane one. + +“Would you wish, sir,” said the guide, “to hear a specimen of my +powers?” + +“If you please,” replied the stranger, “provided you will confine +yourself to the shake.” + +The other then commenced a squall, so tuneless, wild, jarring, and +unmusical, that the stranger could not avoid smiling at the monomaniac, +for such he at once perceived him to be. + +“You seem to like that,” observed the other, apparently much gratified; +“but I thought as much, sir--you are a man of taste.” + +“I am decidedly of opinion,” said the stranger, “that Catalani, in her +best days, could not give such a specimen of the shake as that.” + +“Thank you sir,” replied the singer, taking off his hat and bowing. “We +shall have another shake in honor of your excellent judgment, but +it will be a shake of the hand. Sir, you are a polished and most +accomplished gentleman.” + +As they sauntered up and down the room, other symptoms reached them +besides those that were then subjected to their sight. As a door +opened, a peal of wild laughter might be heard--sometimes groaning--and +occasionally the most awful blasphemies. Ambition contributed a large +number to its dreary cells. In fact, one would imagine that the house +had been converted into a temple of justice, and contained within its +walls most of the crowned heads and generals of Europe, both living and +dead, together with a fair sample of the saints. The Emperor of Russia +was strapped down to a chair that had been screwed into the floor, with +the additional security of a strait-waistcoat to keep his majesty quiet. +The Pope challenged Henry the Eighth to box, and St. Peter, as the +cell door opened, asked Anthony Corbet for a glass of whiskey. Napoleon +Bonaparte, in the person of a heroic tailor, was singing “Bob and +Joan;” and the Archbishop of Dublin said he would pledge his mitre for a +good cigar and a pot of porter. Sometimes a frightful yell would-reach +their ears; then a furious set of howlings, followed again by peals +of maniac laughter, as before. Altogether, the stranger was glad to +withdraw, which he did, in order to prosecute his searches for Fenton. + +“Well, sir,” said the doctor, whom he found again in the parlor, “you +have seen that melancholy sight?” + +“I have, sir, and a melancholy one indeed it is; but as I came on a +matter of business, doctor, I think we had better come to the point at +once. You have a young man named Fenton in your establishment?” + +“No, sir, we have no person of that name here.” + +“A wrong name may have been purposely given you, sir; but the person +I speak of is here. And you had better understand me at once,” he +continued. “I am furnished with such authority as will force you to +produce him.” + +“If he is not here, sir, no authority on earth can force me to produce +him.” + +“We shall see that presently. Corbet, bring in the officers. Here, sir, +is a warrant, by which I am empowered to search for his body; and, +when found, to secure him, in order that he may be restored to his just +rights, from which he has been debarred by a course of villany worthy of +being concocted in hell itself.” + +“Family reasons, sir, frequently render it necessary that patients +should enter this establishment under fictitious names. But these are +matters with which I have nothing to do. My object is to comply with the +wishes of their relatives.” + +“Your object, sir, should be to cure, rather than to keep them; to +conduct your establishment as a house of recovery, not as a prison--of +course, I mean where the patient is curable. I demand, sir, that you +will find this young man, and produce him to me.” + +“But provided I cannot do so,” replied the doctor, doggedly, “what +then?” + +“Why, in that case, we are in possession of a warrant for your own +arrest, under the proclamation which was originally published in +the 'Hue and Cry,' for his detention. Sir, you are now aware of the +alternative. You produce the person we require, or you accompany us +yourself. It has been sworn that he is in your keeping.” + +“I cannot do what is impossible. I will, however, conduct you through +all the private rooms of the establishment, and if you can find or +identify the person you want, I am satisfied. It is quite possible he +may be with me; but I don't know, nor have I ever known him by the name +of Fenton. It's a name I've never heard in my establishment. Come, sir, +I am ready to show you every room in my house.” + +By this time the officers, accompanied by Corbet, entered, and all +followed the doctor in a body to aid in the search. The search, however, +was fruitless. Every room, cell, and cranny that was visible in the +establishment underwent a strict examination, as did their unhappy +occupants. All, however, in vain; and the doctor now was about to assume +a tone of insolence and triumph, when Corbet said: + +“Doctor, all seems plain here. You have done your duty.” + +“Yes,” he replied, “I always do so. No man in the kingdom has given +greater satisfaction, nor stands higher in that painful department of +our profession to which I have devoted myself.” + +“Yes, doctor,” repeated Corbet, with one of his bitterest grins; “you +have done your duty; and for that reason I ask you to folly me.” + +“Where to, my good fellow?” asked the other, somewhat crestfallen. “What +do you mean?” + +“I think I spake plainly enough. I say, folly me. I think, too, I know +something about the outs and ins, the ups and downs of this house still. +Come, sir, we'll show you how you've done your duty; but listen to me, +before we go one foot further--if he's dead before my time has come, +I'll have your life, if I was to swing on a thousand gallowses.” + +One of the officers here tapped the doctor authoritatively on the +shoulder, and said, “Proceed, sir, we are losing time.” + +The doctor saw at once that further resistance was useless. + +“By the by,” said he, “there is one patient in the house that I +completely forgot. He is so desperate and outrageous, however, that +we were compelled, within the last week or so, to try the severest +discipline with him. He, however, cannot be the person you want, for his +name is Moore; at least, that is the name under which he was sent here.” + +Down in a narrow, dark dungeon, where the damp and stench were +intolerable, and nothing could be seen until a light was procured, they +found something lying on filthy straw that had human shape. The hair and +beard were long and overgrown; the features, begrimed with filth, were +such as the sharpest eye could not recognize; and the whole body was so +worn and emaciated, so ragged and tattered in appearance, that it was +evident at a glance that foul practices must have been resorted to in +order to tamper with life.” + +“Now, sir,” said the doctor, addressing the stranger, “I will leave you +and your friends to examine the patient, as perhaps you might feel my +presence a restraint upon you.” + +The stranger, after a glance or two at Fenton, turned around, and said, +sternly, “Peace-officer, arrest that man, and remove him to the parlor +as your prisoner. But hold,” he added, “let us first ascertain whether +this is Mr. Fenton or not.” + +“I will soon tell you, sir,” said Corbet, approaching the object before +them, and feeling the left side of his neck. + +“It is him, sir,” he said; “here he is, sure enough, at last.” + +“Well, then,” repeated the stranger, “arrest that man, as I said, and +let two of you accompany him to the parlor, and detain him there until +we join you.” + +On raising the wretched young man, they found that life was barely in +him; he had been asleep, and being roused up, he screamed aloud. + +“Oh,” said he, “I am not able to bear it--don't scourge me, I am dying; +I am doing all I can to die. Why did you disturb me? I dreamt that I +was on my mother's knee, and that she was kissing me. What is this? What +brings so many of you now? I wish I had told the strange gentleman in +the inn everything; but I feared he was my enemy, and perhaps he was. I +am very hungry.” + +“Merciful God!” exclaimed the stranger; “are such things done in a free +and Christian country? Bring him up to the parlor,” he added, “and let +him be shaved and cleansed; but be careful of him, for his lamp of life +is nearly exhausted. I thank you, Corbet, for the suggestion of the +linen and clothes. What could we have done without them? It would have +been impossible to fetch him in this trim.” + +We must pass over these disagreeable details. It is enough to say that +poor Fenton was put into clean linen and decent clothes, and that in +a couple of hours they were once more on their way with him, to the +metropolis, the doctor accompanying them, as their prisoner. + +The conduct of Corbet was on this occasion very singular. He complained +that the stench of the dungeon in which they found Fenton had sickened +him; but, notwithstanding this, something like ease of mind might be +read in his countenance whenever he looked upon Fenton; something that, +to the stranger at least, who observed him closely, seemed to say, “I am +at last satisfied: the widow's heart will be set at rest, and the plans +of this black villain broken to pieces.” His eye occasionally gleamed +wildly, and again his countenance grew pale and haggard, and he +complained of headache and pains about his loins, and in the small of +his back. + +On arriving in Dublin, the stranger brought Fenton to his hotel, where +he was desirous to keep him for a day or two, until he should regain +a little strength, that he might, without risk, be able to sustain the +interview that was before him. Aware of the capricious nature of the +young man's feelings, and his feeble state of health, he himself kept +aloof from him, lest his presence might occasion such a shock as would +induce anything like a fit of insanity--a circumstance which must mar +the pleasure and gratification of his unexpected reappearance. That +medical advice ought instantly to be procured was evident from his +extreme weakness, and the state of apathy into which he had sunk +immediately after, his removal from the cell. This was at once provided; +but unfortunately it seemed that all human skill was likely to prove +unavailable, as the physician, on seeing and examining him, expressed +himself with strong doubts as to the possibility of his recovery. In +fact, he feared that his unhappy patient had not many days to live. +He ordered him wine, tonics, and light but nutritious food to be taken +sparingly, and desired that he should be brought into the open air as +often as the debility of his constitution could bear it. His complaint, +he said, was altogether a nervous one, and resulted from the effects +of cruelty, terror, want of sufficient nourishment, bad air, and close +confinement. + +In the meantime, the doctor was committed to prison, and had the +pleasure of being sent, under a safe escort, to the jail of the county +that had been so largely benefited by his humane establishment. + +As we are upon this painful subject, we may as well state here that he +was prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment, +with hard labor. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. Lady Gourlay sees her Son. + +Having done all that was possible for poor Fenton, the stranger lost no +time in waiting upon Lady Gourlay, that he might, with as much prudence +as the uncertain state of the young man's health would permit, make +known the long wished for communication, that they had at length got +him in their possession. His task was one of great difficulty, for he +apprehended that an excess of joy on the part of that affectionate woman +might be dangerous, when suddenly checked by the melancholy probability +that he had been restored to her only to be almost immediately removed +by death. He resolved, then, to temper his intelligence in such a way as +to cause her own admirable sense and high Christian feeling to exercise +their usual influence over her heart. As he had promised Corbet, +however, to take no future step in connection with these matters without +consulting him, he resolved, before seeing Lady Gourlay, to pay him +a visit. He was induced the more to do this in consequence of the old +man's singular conduct on the discovery of Fenton. From the very first +interview that he ever had with Corbet until that event, he could +not avoid observing that there was a mystery in everything he did and +said--something enigmatical--unfathomable, and that his looks, and the +disagreeable expression which they occasionally assumed, were frequently +so much at variance with his words, that it was an utter impossibility +to draw anything like a certain inference from them. On the discovery +of Fenton, the old man's face went through a variety of contradictory +expressions. Sometimes he seemed elated--triumphant, sometimes depressed +and anxious, and occasionally angry, or excited by a feeling that was +altogether unintelligible. He often turned his eye upon Fenton, as if +he had discovered some precious treasure, then his countenance became +overcast, and he writhed in an agony which no mortal penetration could +determine as anything but the result of remorse. Taking all this into +consideration, the stranger made up his mind to see him before he should +wait upon Lady Gourlay. + +Although a day had elapsed, he found the old man still complaining of +illness, which, he said, would have been more serious had he not taken +medicine. + +“My mind, however,” said he, “is what's troublin' me. There's a battle +goin' on within me. At one time I'm delighted, but the delight doesn't +give me pleasure long, for then, again, I feel a weight over me that's +worse than death. However, I can't nor won't give it up. I hope I'll +have time to repent yet; who knows but it is God that has put it into my +heart and kept it there for so many years?” + +“Kept what there?” asked the stranger. + +The old man's face literally blackened as he replied, almost with a +scream, “Vengeance!” + +“This language,” replied the other, “is absolutely shocking. Consider +your advanced state of life--consider your present illness, which may +probably be your last, and reflect that if you yourself expect pardon +from God, you must forgive your enemies.” + +“So I will,” he replied; “but not till I've punished them; then I'll +tell them how I made my puppets of them, and when I give their heart +one last crush--one grind--and the old wretch ground his teeth in the +contemplation of this diabolical vision--ay,” he repeated--“one last +grind, then I'll tell them I've done with them, and forgive them; +then--then--ay, but not till then!” + +“God forgive you, Corbet, and change your heart!” replied the stranger. +“I called to say that I am about to inform Lady Gourlay that we have +her son safe at last, and I wish to know if you are in possession of +any facts that she ought to be acquainted with in connection with his +removal--in fact, to hear anything you may wish to disclose to me on the +subject.” + +“I could, then, disclose to you something on the subject that would make +you wondher; but although the time's at hand, it's not come yet. Here I +am, an ould man--helpless--or, at all events, helpless-lookin'--and you +would hardly believe that I'm makin' this black villain do everything +accordin' as I wish it.” + +“That dark spirit of vengeance,” replied the stranger, “is turning your +brain, I think, or you would not say so. Whatever Sir Thomas Gourlay may +be, he is not the man to act as the puppet of any person.” + +“So you think; but I tell you he's acting as mine, for all that.” + +“Well, well, Corbet, that is your own affair. Have you anything of +importance to communicate to me, before I see Lady Gourlay? I ask you +for the last time.” + +“I have. The black villain and she have spoken at last. He yielded to +his daughter so far as to call upon her, and asked her to be present at +the weddin'.” + +“The wedding!” exclaimed the stranger, looking aghast. “God of heaven, +old man, do you mean to say that they are about to be married so +soon?--about to be married at all? But I will leave you,” he added; +“there is no possibility of wringing anything out of you.” + +“Wait a little,” continued Corbet. “What I'm goin' to tell you won't do +you any harm, at any rate.” + +“Be quick, then. Gracious heaven!--married!--Curses seize you, old man, +be quick.” + +“On the mornin' afther to-morrow the marriage is to take place in Sir +Thomas's own house. Lord Dunroe's sisther is to be bridesmaid, and a +young fellow named Roberts--” + +“I know--I have met him.” + +“Well, and did you ever see any one that he resembled, or that resembled +him? I hope in the Almighty,” he added, uttering the ejaculation +evidently in connection with some private thought or purpose of his own, +“I hope in the Almighty that this sickness will keep off o' me for a +couple o' days at any rate. Did you ever see any one that resembled +him?” + +“Yes,” replied the stranger, starting, for the thought had flashed upon +him; “he is the living image of Miss Gourlay! Why do you ask?” + +“Bekaise, merely for a raison I have; but if you have patience, you'll +find that the longer you live, the more you'll know; only at this time +you'll know no more from me, barrin' that this same young officer is to +be his lordship's groom's-man. Dr. Sombre, the clergyman of the parish, +is to marry them in the baronet's house. A Mrs. Mainwaring, too, is to +be there; Miss Gourlay begged that she would be allowed to come, and he +says she may. You see now how well I know everything that happens there, +don't you?” he asked, with a grin of triumph. “But I tell you there +will be more at the same weddin' than he thinks. So now--ah, this +pain!--there's another string of it--I feel it go through me like +an arrow--so now you may go and see Lady Gourlay, and break the glad +tidin's to her.” + +With feelings akin to awe and of repugnance, but not at all of +contempt--for old Corbet was a man whom no one could despise--the +stranger took his departure, and proceeded to Lady Gourlay's, with a +vague impression that the remarkable likeness between Lucy and young +Roberts was not merely accidental. + +He found her at home, placid as usual, but with evidences of a +resignation that was at once melancholy and distressing to witness. +The struggle of this admirable woman's heart, though sustained by high +Christian feeling, was, nevertheless, wearing her away by slow and +painful degrees. The stranger saw this, and scarcely knew in what terms +to shape the communication he had to make, full as it was of ecstasy to +the mother's loving spirit, yet dashed with such doubt and sorrow. + +“Can you bear good tidings, Lady Gourlay,” said he, “though mingled with +some cause of apprehension?” + +“I am in the hands of God,” she replied, “and feel that I ought to +receive every communication with obedience. Speak on.” + +“Your son is found!” + +“What, my child restored to me?” + +She had been sitting in an arm-chair, but on hearing these words she +started up, and said again, as she placed her hands upon the table at +which he sat, that she might sustain herself, “What, Charles, my darling +restored to me! Is he safe? Can I see him? Restored! restored at last!” + +“Moderate your joy, my dear madam; he is safe--he is in my hotel.” + +“But why not here? Safe! oh, at last--at last! But God is a God of +mercy, especially to the patient and long-suffering. But come--oh, come! +Think of me,--pity me, and do not defraud me one moment of his sight. +Bring me to him!” + +“Hear me a moment, Lady Gourlay.” + +“No, no,” she replied, in a passion of joyful tears, “I can hear you +again. I must see my son--my son--my darling child--where is my son? +Here--but no, I will ring myself. Why not have brought him here at once, +sir? Am not I his mother?” + +“My dear madam,” said the stranger, calmly, but with a seriousness of +manner that checked the exuberance of her delight, and placing his hand +upon her shoulder, “hear me a moment. Your son is found; but he is ill, +and I fear in some danger.” + +“But to see him, then,” she replied, looking with entreaty in his face, +“only to see him. After this long and dreary absence, to let my eyes +rest on my son. He is ill, you say; and what hand should be near him +and about him but his mother's? Who can with such love and tenderness +cherish, and soothe, and comfort him, as the mother who would die for +him? Oh, I have a thousand thoughts rushing to my heart--a thousand +affectionate anxieties to gratify; but first to look upon him--to press +him to that heart--to pour a mother's raptures over her long-lost child! +Come with me--oh, come. If he is ill, ought I not, as I said, to see +him the sooner on that account? Come, dear Charles, let the carriage +be ordered; but that will take some time. A hackney-coach will do--a +car--anything that will bring us there with least delay.” + +“But, an interview, my lady, may be at this moment as much as his life +is worth; he is not out of danger.” + +“Well, then, I will not ask an interview. Only let me see him--let his +mother's eyes rest upon him. Let me steal a look--a look; let me steal +but one look, and I am sure, dear Charles, you will not gainsay this +little theft of the mother's heart. But, ah,” she suddenly exclaimed, +“what am I doing? Ungrateful and selfish that I am, to forget my first +duty! Pardon me a few moments; I will return soon.” + +She passed into the back drawing-room, where, although the doors were +folded, he could hear this truly pious woman pouring forth with tears +her gratitude to God. In a few minutes she reappeared; and such were +the arguments she used, that he felt it impossible to prevent her from +gratifying this natural and absorbing impulse of the heart. + +On reaching the hotel, they found, after inquiring, that he was asleep, +a circumstance which greatly pleased the stranger, as he doubted very +much whether Fenton would have been strong enough, either in mind or +body, to bear such an interview as must have taken place between them. + +The unhappy young man was, as we have said, sound asleep. His face was +pale and wan, but a febrile hue had tinged his countenance with a color +which, although it concealed his danger, was not sufficient to remove +from it the mournful expression of all he had suffered. Yet the stranger +thought that he never had seen him look so well. His face was indeed a +fair but melancholy page of human life. The brows were slightly knit, +as if indicative of suffering; and there passed over his features, as he +lay, such varying expressions as we may presume corresponded with some +painful dream, by which, as far as one could judge, he seemed to be +influenced. Sometimes he looked like one that endured pain, sometimes +as if he felt terror; and occasionally a gleam of pleasure or joy would +faintly light up his handsome but wasted countenance. + +Lady Gourlay, whilst she looked upon him, was obliged to be supported +by the stranger, who had much difficulty in restraining her grief within +due bounds. As for the tears, they fell from her eyes in showers. + +“I must really remove you, my lady,” he said, in a whisper; “his +recovery, his very life, may depend upon the soundness of this sleep. +You see yourself, now, the state he is in; and who living has such an +interest in his restoration to health as you have?” + +“I know it,” she whispered in reply. “I will be quiet.” + +As they spoke, a faint smile seemed to light up his face, which, +however, was soon changed to an expression of terror. + +“Don't scourge me,” said he, “don't and I will tell you. It was my +mother. I thought she kissed me, as she used to do long ago, when I was +a boy, and never thought I'd be here.” He then uttered a few faint sobs, +but relapsed into a calm expression almost immediately. + +The violent beatings of Lady Gourlay's heart were distinctly felt by the +stranger, as he supported her; and in order to prevent the sobs which +he knew, by the heavings of her breast, were about to burst forth, from +awakening the sleeper, he felt it best to lead her out of the room; +which he had no sooner done, than she gave way to a long fit of +uncontrollable weeping. + +“Oh, my child!--my child!” she exclaimed, “I fear they have murdered him! +Alas! is he only to be restored to me for a moment, and am I then to be +childless indeed? But I will strive to become calm. Why should I +not? For even this is a blessing--to have seen him, and to have the +melancholy consolation of knowing that if he is to die, he will die in +my own arms.” + +“Well, but I trust, madam, he won't die. The workings of Providence are +never ineffectual, or without a purpose. Have courage, have patience, +and all will, I trust, end happily.” + +“Well, but I have a request to make. Allow me to kiss him; I shall not +disturb him; and if he should recover, as I trust in the Almighty's +mercy he will--oh, how I should like to tell him that the dream about +his mother was not altogether a dream--that I did kiss him. Trust me, +I will not awaken him--the fall of the thistledown will will not be +lighter than the kiss I shall give my child.” + +“Well, be it so, my lady; and get yourself calm, for you know not his +danger, if he should awaken and become agitated.” + +They then reentered the apartment, and Lady Gourlay, after contemplating +him for a moment or two, stooped down and gently kissed his +lips--once--twice--and a third time--and a single tear fell upon his +cheek. At this moment, and the coincidence was beautiful and affecting, +his face became once more irradiated by a smile that was singularly +serene and sweet, as if his very spirit within him had recognized and +felt the affection and tenderness of this timid but loving embrace. + +The stranger then led her out again, and a burden seemed to have been +taken off her heart. She dried her tears, and in grateful and fervid +terms expressed the deep obligations she owed him for his generous and! +persevering exertions in seeking out and restoring her son. + +This sleep was a long one; and proved very beneficial, by somewhat +recruiting the little strength that had been left him. The stranger had +every measure taken that could contribute to his comfort and recovery. +Two nurse tenders were procured, to whose care he was committed, +under the general superintendence of Dandy Dulcimer, whom he at once +recognized, and by whose performance upon that instrument the poor young +man seemed not only much-pleased, but improved in confidence and the +general powers of his intellect. The physician saw him twice a day, so +that at the period of Lady Gourlay's visit, she found that every care +and attention, which consideration and kindness, and anxiety for his +recovery could bestow upon him, had been paid; a fact that eased and +satisfied her mind very much. + +One rather gratifying symptom appeared in him after he awoke on that +occasion. He looked about the room, and inquired for Dulcimer, who soon +made his appearance. + +“Dandy,” said he, for he had known him very well in Ballytrain, “will +you be angry with me if I ask you a question? Dandy, I am a gentleman, +and you will not treat me ill.” + +“I would be glad to see the villain that 'ud dare to do it, Mr. Fenton,” + replied Dandy, a good deal moved, “much less to do it myself.” + +“Ah,” he replied in a tone of voice that was enough to draw tears from +any eye, “but, then, I can depend on no one; and if they should bring me +back there--” His eyes became wild and full of horror, as he spoke, +and he was about to betray symptoms of strong agitation, when Dandy +judiciously brought him back to the point. + +“They won't, Mr. Fenton; don't be afeared of that; you are among friends +now; but what was the question you were goin' to ask me?” + +“A question!--was I?” said he, pausing, as if striving to recover the +train of thought he had lost. “Oh, yes,” he proceeded, “yes; there was +a pound note taken from me. I got it from the strange gentleman in the +inn, and I wish I had it.” + +“Well, sir,” replied Dandy, “if it can be got at all, you must have it. +I'll inquire for it.” + +“Do,” he said; “I wish to have it.” Dandy, in reply to the stranger's +frequent and anxious inquiries about him, mentioned this little +dialogue, and the latter at once recollected that he had the note in his +possession. + +“It may be good to gratify him,” he replied; “and as the note can be of +little use now, we had better let him have it.” + +He accordingly sent it to him by Dandy, who could observe that the +possession of it seemed to give him peculiar satisfaction. + +Had not the stranger been a man capable of maintaining great restraint +over the exercise of very strong feelings, he could never have conducted +himself with so much calmness and self-control in his interview with +Lady Gourlay and poor Fenton. His own heart during all the time was in +a tumult of perfect distraction, but this was occasioned by causes that +bore no analogy to those that passed before him. From the moment he +heard that Lucy's marriage had been fixed for the next day but one, he +felt as if his hold upon hope and life, and all that they promised him, +was lost, and his happiness annihilated forever; he felt as if reason +were about to abandon him, as if all existence had become dark, and the +sun himself had been struck out of the system of the universe. He could +not rest, and only with difficulty think at all as a sane man ought. At +length he resolved to see the baronet, at the risk of life or death--in +spite of every obstacle--in despite of all opposition;--perish social +forms and usages--perish the insolence of wealth, and the jealous +restrictions of parental tyranny. Yes, perish one and all, sooner than +he, a man, with an unshrinking heart, and a strong arm, should tamely +suitor that noble girl to be sacrificed, ay, murdered, at the shrine +of a black and guilty ambition. Agitated, urged, maddened, by these +considerations, he went to the baronet's house with a hope of seeing +him, but that hope was frustrated. Sir Thomas was out. + +“Was Miss Gourlay at home?” + +“No; she too had gone out with her father,” replied Gibson, who happened +to open the door. + +“Would you be kind enough, sir, to deliver a note to Miss Gourlay?” + +“I could not, sir; I dare not.” + +“I will give you five pounds, if you do.” + +“It is impossible, sir; I should lose my situation instantly if I +attempted to deliver it. Miss Gourlay, sir, will receive no letters +unless through her father's hands, and besides, sir, we have repeatedly +had the most positive orders not to receive any from you, above all men +living.” + +“I will give you ten pounds.” + +Gibson shook his head, but at the same time the expression of his +countenance began manifestly to relax, and he licked his lips as he +replied, “I--really--could--not--sir.” + +“Twenty.” + +The fellow paused and looked stealthily in every direction, when, just +at the moment he was about to entertain the subject, Thomas Corbet, the +house-steward, came forward from the front parlor where he evidently had +been listening, and asked Gibson what was the matter. + +“This gentleman,” said Gibson, “ahem--is anxious to have a--ahem--he was +inquiring for Sir Thomas.” + +“Gibson, go down stairs,” said Corbet. “You had better do so. I have +ears, Gibson. Go down at once, and leave the gentleman to me.” + +Gibson again licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and with a visage +rather blank and disappointed, slunk away as he had been desired. When +he had gone, + +“You wish, sir,” said Corbet, “to have a note delivered to Miss +Gourlay?” + +“I do, and will give you twenty pounds if you deliver it.” + +“Hand me the money quietly,” replied Corbet, “and the note also. I shall +then give you a friend's advice.” + +The stranger immediately placed both the money and the note in his +hands; when Corbet, having put them in his pocket, said, “I will +deliver the note, sir; but go to my father, and ask him to prevent this +marriage; and, above all things, to direct you how to act. If any man +can serve you in the business, he can.” + +“Could you not let me see Miss Gourlay herself?” said the stranger. + +“No, sir; she has promised her father neither to see you, nor to write +to you, nor to receive any letters from you.” + +“But I must see Sir Thomas himself,” said the stranger determinedly. + +“You seem a good deal excited, sir,” replied Corbet; “pray, be calm, and +listen to me. I shall be obliged to put this letter under a blank cover, +which I will address in a feigned hand, in order that she may even +receive it. As for her father, he would not see you, nor enter into any +explanation whatsoever with you. In fact, he is almost out of his mind +with delight and terror; with delight, that the marriage is at length +about to take place, and with terror, lest something might occur to +prevent it. One word, sir. I see Gibson peeping up. Go and see my +father; you have seen him more than once before.” + +On the part of Corbet, the stranger remarked that there was something +sneaking, slightly derisive, and intimating, moreover, a want of +sincerity in this short dialogue, an impression that was strengthened +on hearing the relation which he bore to the obstinate old sphinx on +Constitution Hill. + +“But pardon me, my friend,” said he, as Corbet was about to go away; “if +Miss Gourlay will not receive or open my letter, why did you accept such +a sum of money for it?” He paused, not knowing exactly how to proceed, +yet with a tolerably strong suspicion that Corbet was cheating him. + +“Observe, sir,” replied the other, “that I said I would deliver the +letter only--I didn't undertake to make her read it. But I dare say you +are right--I don't think she will even open it at all, much less read +it. Here, sir, I return both money and letter; and I wish you to know, +besides, that I am not a man in the habit of being suspected of improper +motives. My advice that you should see my father is a proof that I am +your friend.” + +The other, who was completely outmanoeuvred by Corbet, at once declined +to receive back either the letter or notes, and after again pressing the +worthy steward to befriend him in the matter of the note as far as he +could, he once more paid a visit to old Anthony. This occurred on the +day before that appointed for the marriage. + +“Corbet,” said he, addressing him as he lay upon an old crazy sofa, the +tarnished cover of which shone with dirt, “I am distracted, and have +come to ask your advice and assistance.” + +“Is it a helpless ould creature like me you'd come to?” replied Corbet, +hitching himself upon the sofa, as if to get ease. “But what is wrong +now?” + +“If this marriage between Miss Gourlay and Lord Dunroe takes place, I +shall lose my senses.” + +“Well, in troth,” replied Anthony, in his own peculiar manner, “if you +don't get more than you appear to be gifted with at present, you won't +have much to lose, and that will be one comfort. But how can you expect +me to assist you?” + +“Did you not tell me that the baronet is your puppet?” + +“I did; but that was for my ends, not for yours.” + +“Well, but could you not prevent this accursed, sacrilegious, +blasphemous union?” + +“For God's sake, spake aisy, and keep yourself quiet,” said Anthony; “I +am ill, and not able to bear noise and capering like this. I'm a weak, +feeble ould man.” + +“Listen to me, Corbet,” continued the other, with vehemence, “command my +purse, my means to any extent, if you do what I wish.” + +“I did like money,” implied Corbet, “but of late my whole heart is +filled with but one thought; and rather than not carry that out, I would +sacrifice every child I have. I love Miss Gourlay, for I know she is a +livin' angel, but--” + +“What? You do not mean to say that you would sacrifice her?” + +“If I would sacrifice my own, do you think I'd be apt to spare her?” he +asked with a groan, for in fact his illness had rather increased. + +“Are you not better?” inquired the stranger, moved by a feeling of +humanity which nothing could eradicate out of his noble and generous +nature. “Allow me to send a doctor to you? I shall do so at my own +expense.” + +Anthony looked upon him with more complacency, but replied, + +“The blackguard knaves, no; they only rob you first and kill you +afterwards. A highway-robber's before them; for he kills you first, and +afther that you can't feel the pain of being robbed. Well, I can't talk +much to you now. My head's beginnin' to get troublesome; but I'll tell +you what you'll do. I'll call for that young man, Fenton, and you +must let him come with me to the wedding to-morrow mornin'. Indeed, I +intended to take a car, and drive over to ask it as a favor from you.” + +“To what purpose should he go, even if he were able? but he is too ill.” + +“Hasn't he been out in a chaise?” + +“He has; but as he is incapable of bearing any agitation or excitement, +his presence there might cause his death.” + +“No, sir, it will not; I knew him to be worse, and he recovered; he will +be better, I tell you: besides, if you wish me to sarve you in one way, +you must sarve me in this.” + +“But can you prevent the marriage?” + +“What I can do, or what I cannot do, a team of horses won't drag out o' +me, until the time--the hour--comes--then! Will you allow the young man +to come, sir?” + +“But his mother, you say, will be there, and a scene between them would +be not only distressing to all parties, and out of place, but might be +dangerous to him.” + +“It's because his mother's to be there, maybe, that I want him to be +there. Don't I tell you that I want to--but no, I'll keep my own mind to +myself--only sink or swim without me, unless you allow him to come.” + +“Well, then, if he be sufficiently strong to go, I shall not prevent +him, upon the condition that you will exercise the mysterious influence +which you seem in possession of for the purpose of breaking up the +marriage.” + +“I won't promise to do any such thing,” replied Anthony. “You must only +make the best of a bad bargain, by lavin' everything to myself. Go away +now, sir, if you plaise; my head's not right, and I want to keep it +clear for to-morrow.” + +The stranger saw that he was as inscrutable as ever, and consequently +left him, half in indignation, and half impressed by a lurking hope +that, notwithstanding the curtness of his manner, he was determined to +befriend him. + +This, however, was far from the heart of old Corbet, whose pertinacity +of purpose nothing short of death itself could either moderate or +change. + +“Prevent the marriage, indeed! Oh, ay! Catch me at it. No, no; that must +take place, or I'm balked of half my revenge. It's when he finds that +he has, by his own bad and blind passions, married her to the +profligate without the title that he'll shiver. And that scamp, too, the +bastard--but, no matther--I must try and keep my head clear, as I said, +for to-morrow will be a great day, either for good or evil, to some +of them. Yes, and when all is over, then my mind will be at aise; this +black thing that's inside o' me for years--drivin' me on, on, on--will +go about his business; and then, plaise goodness, I can repent +comfortably and like a Christian. Oh, dear me!--my head!” + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. Denouement. + +At length the important morning, fraught with a series of such varied +and many-colored events, arrived. Sir Thomas Gourlay, always an early +riser, was up betimes, and paced his room to and fro in a train of +profound reflection. It was evident, however, from his elated yet turbid +eye, that although delight and exultation were prevalent in his +breast, he was by no means free from visitations of a dark and painful +character. These he endeavored to fling off, and in order to do so +more effectually, he gave a loose rein to the contemplation of his own +successful ambition. Yet he occasionally appeared anxious and uneasy, +and felt disturbed and gloomy fits that irritated him even for +entertaining them. He was more than usually nervous; his hand shook, +and his stern, strong voice had in its tones, when he spoke, the audible +evidences of agitation. These, we say, threw their deep shadows over +his mind occasionally, whereas a sense of triumph and gratified pride +constituted its general tone and temper. + +“Well,” said he, “so far so well: Lucy will soon become reconciled to +this step, and all my projects for her advancement will be--nay, already +are, realized. After all, my theory of life is the correct one, no +matter what canting priests and ignorant philosophers may say to the +contrary. Every man is his own providence, and ought to be his own +priest, as I have been. As for a moral plan in the incidents and +vicissitudes of life, I could never see nor recognize such a thing. Or +if there be a Providence that foresees and directs, then we only fulfil +his purposes by whatever we do, whether the act be a crime or a virtue. +So that on either side I am safe. There, to be sure, is my brother's +son, against whom I have committed a crime; ay, but what, after all, is +a crime?--An injury to a fellow-creature. What is a virtue?--A benefit +to the same. Well, he has sustained an injury at my hands--be it +so--that is a crime; but I and my son have derived a benefit from the +act, and this turns it into a virtue; for as to who gains or who loses, +that is not a matter for the world, who have no distinct rule whereby +to determine its complexion or its character, unless by the usages and +necessities of life, which are varied by climate and education to such +an extent, that what is looked upon as a crime in one country or one +creed is frequently considered a virtue in another. As for futurity, +that is a sealed book which no man hitherto has been able to open. We +all know--and a dark and gloomy fact it is--that we must die. +Beyond that, the searches of human intellect cannot go, although the +imagination may project itself into a futurity of its own creation. Such +airy visions are not subjects sufficiently solid for belief. As for me, +if I believe nothing, the fault is not mine, for I can find nothing to +believe--nothing that can satisfy my reason. The contingencies of life, +as they cross and jostle each other, constitute by their accidental +results the only providential wisdom which I can discern, the proper +name of which is Chance. Who have I, for instance, to thank but +myself--my own energy of character, my own perseverance of purpose, my +own determined will--for accomplishing my own projects? I can perceive +no other agent, either visible or invisible. It is, however, a hard +creed--a painful creed, and one which requires great strength of mind +to entertain. Yet, on the other hand, when I reflect that it may be +only the result of a reaction in principle, proceeding from a latent +conviction that all is not right within, and that we reject the tribunal +because we are conscious that it must condemn us--abjure the authority +of the court because we have violated its jurisdiction; yes, when +I reflect upon this, it is then that these visitations of gloom and +wretchedness sometimes agonize my mind until it becomes dark and heated, +like hell, and I curse both myself and my creed. Now, however, when this +marriage shall have taken place, the great object of my life will be +gained--the great struggle will be over, and I can relax and fall back +into a life of comfort, enjoyment, and freedom from anxiety and care. +But, then, is there no risk of sacrificing my daughter's happiness +forever? I certainly would not do that. I know, however, what influence +the possession of rank, position, title, will have on her, when she +comes to know their value by seeing--ay, and by feeling, how they are +appreciated. There is not a husband-hunting dowager in the world of +fashion, nor a female projector or manoeuvrer in aristocratic life, +who will not enable her to understand and enjoy her good fortune. Every +sagacious cast for a title will be to her a homily on content. But, +above all, she will be able to see and despise their jealousy, to laugh +at their envy, and to exercise at their expense that superiority of +intellect and elevation of rank which she will possess; for this +I will teach her to do. Yes, I am satisfied. All will then go on +smoothly, and I shall trouble myself no more about creeds or covenants, +whether secular or spiritual.” + +He then went to dress and shave after this complacent resolution, +but was still a good deal surprised to find that his hand shook so +disagreeably, and that his powerful system was in a state of such +general and unaccountable agitation. + +After he had dressed, and was about to go down stairs, Thomas Corbet +came to ask a favor, as he said. + +“Well, Corbet,” replied his master, “what is it?” + +“My father, sir,” proceeded the other, “wishes to know if you would have +any objection to his being present at Miss Gourlay's marriage, and +if you would also allow him to bring a few friends, who, he says, are +anxious to see the bride.” + +“No objection, Corbet--none in the world; and least of all to your +father. I have found your family faithful and attached to my interests +for many a long year, and it would be too bad to refuse him such a +paltry request as that. Tell him to bring his friends too, and they may +be present at the ceremony, if they wish. It was never my intention that +my daughter's marriage should be a private one, nor would it now, were +it not for her state of health. Let your father's friends and yours +come, then, Corbet, and see that you entertain them properly.” + +Corbet then thanked him, and was about to go, when the other said, +“Corbet!” after which he paused for some time. + +“Sir!” said Corbet. + +“I wish to ask your opinion,” he proceeded, “as to allowing my son to be +present. He himself wishes it, and asked my consent; but as his sister +entertains such an unaccountable prejudice against him, I had doubts +as to whether he ought to appear at all. There are, also, as you know, +other reasons.” + +“I don't see any reason, sir, that ought to exclude him the moment the +marriage words are pronounced. I think, sir, with humility, that it is +not only his right, but his duty, to be present, and that it is a very +proper occasion for you to acknowledge him openly.” + +“It would be a devilish good hit at Dunroe, for, between you and me, +Corbet, I fear that his heart is fixed more upon the Gourlay estates and +her large fortune than upon the girl herself.” + +If I might advise, sir, I think he ought to be present.” + +“And the moment the ceremony is over, be introduced to his +brother-in-law. A good hit. I shall do it. Send word to him, then, +Corbet. As it must be done some time, it may as well be done now. +Dunroe will of course be too much elated, as he ought to be, to feel the +blow--or to appear to feel it, at all events--for decency's sake, you +know, he must keep up appearances; and if it were only on that account, +we will avail ourselves of the occasion which presents itself. This is +another point gained. I think I may so 'Bravo!' Corbet: I have managed +everything admirably, and accomplished all my purposes single-handed.” + +Thomas Corbet himself, deep and cunning as he was, yet knew not how much +he had been kept in the dark as to the events of this fateful day. He +had seen his father the day before, as had his sister, and they both +felt surprised at the equivocal singularity of his manner, well and. +thoroughly as they imagined they had known him. It was, in fact, at his +suggestion that the baronet's son had been induced to ask permission to +be present at the wedding, and also to be then and there acknowledged; +a fact which the baronet either forgot or omitted to mention to +Corbet. Anthony also insisted that his daughter should make one of the +spectators, under pain of disclosing to Sir Thomas the imposition that +had been practised on him in the person of her son. Singular as it may +appear, this extraordinary old man, in the instance before us, moved, by +his peculiar knowledge and sagacity, as if he had them on wires, +almost every person with whom he came in contact, or whose presence he +considered necessary on the occasion. + +“What can he mean?” said Thomas to his sister. “Surely he would not be +mad enough to make Sir Thomas's house the place in which to produce Lady +Gourlay's son, the very individual who is to strip him of his title, and +your son of all his prospects?” + +“Oh no,” replied Ginty, “certainly not; otherwise, why have lent himself +to the carrying out of our speculation with respect to that boy. Such +a step would ruin him--ruin us all--but then it would ruin the man +he hates, and that would gratify him, I know. He is full of mystery, +certainly; but as he will disclose nothing as to his movements, we must +just let him have his own way, as that is the only chance of managing +him.” + +Poor Lucy could not be said to have awoke to a morning of despair and +anguish, because she had not slept at all the night before. Having got +up and dressed herself, by the aid of Alice, she leaned on her as far as +the boudoir to which allusion has already been made. On arriving there +she sat down, and when her maid looked upon her countenance she became +so much alarmed and distressed that she burst into tears. + +“What, my darling mistress, is come over you?” she exclaimed. “You have +always spoken to me until this unhappy mornin' Oh, you are fairly in +despair now; and indeed is it any wonder? I always thought, and hoped, +and prayed that something might turn up to prevent this cursed marriage. +I see, I read, despair in your face.” + +Lucy raised her large, languid eyes, and looked upon her, but did not +speak. She gave a ghastly smile, but that was all. + +“Speak to me, dear Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed the poor girl, with a flood +of tears. “Oh, only speak to me, and let me hear your voice!” + +Lucy beckoned her to sit beside her, and said, with difficulty, that she +wished to wet her lips. The girl knew by the few words she uttered that +her voice was gone; and on looking more closely she saw that her lips +were dry and parched. In a few moments she got her a glass of water, a +portion of which Lucy drank. + +“Now,” said Alice, “that will relieve and refresh you; but oh, for God's +sake, spake to me, and tell me how you feel! Miss Gourlay, darlin', you +are in despair!” + +Lucy took her maid's hand in hers, and after looking upon her with a +smile resembling the first, replied, “No, Alice, I will not despair, but +I feel that I will die. No, I will not despair, Alice. Short as the time +is, God may interpose between me and misery--between me and despair. +But if I am married to this man, Alice, my faith in virtue, in a good +conscience, in truth, purity, and honor, my faith in Providence itself +will be shaken; and then I will despair and die.” + +“Oh, what do you mean, my darlin' Miss Gourlay?” exclaimed her weeping +maid. “Surely you couldn't think of having a hand in your own death? Oh, +merciful Father, see what they have brought you to!” + +“Alice,” said she, “I have spoken wrongly: the moment in which I uttered +the last expression was a weak one. No, I will never doubt or distrust +Providence; and I may die, Alice, but I will never despair.” + +“But why talk about death, miss, so much?” + +“Because I feel it lurking in my heart. My physical strength will break +down under this woful calamity. I am as weak as an infant, and all +before me is dark--in this world I mean--but not, thank God, in the +next. Now I cannot speak much more, Alice. Leave me to my silence and to +my sorrow.” + +The affectionate girl, utterly overcome, laid her head upon her bosom +and wept, until Lucy was forced to soothe and comfort her as well as she +could. They then sat silent for a time, the maid, however, sobbing and +sighing bitterly, whilst Lucy only uttered one word in an undertone, and +as if altogether to herself, “Misery! misery!” + +At this moment her father tapped at the door, and on being admitted, +ordered Alice to leave the room; he wished to have some private +conversation, he said, with her mistress. + +“Don't make it long, if you please, sir,” said she, “for my mistress +won't be aquil to it. It's more at the point of death than the point of +marriage she is.” + +One stern look from the baronet, however, silenced her in a moment, and +after a glance of most affectionate interest at her mistress she left +the room. + +“Lucy,” said her father, after contemplating that aspect of misery which +could not be concealed, “I am not at all pleased with this girlish +and whining appearance. I have done all that man could do to meet your +wishes and to make you happy. I have become reconciled to your aunt for +your sake. I have allowed her and Mrs. Norton--Mainwaring I mean--to +be present at your wedding, that they might support and give you +confidence. You are about to be married to a handsome young fellow, +only a little wild, but who will soon make you a countess. Now, in God's +name, what more do you want?” + +“I think,” she replied, “that I ought not to marry this man. I believe +that I stand justified in the sight of God and man in refusing to seal +my own misery. The promise I made you, sir, was given under peculiar +circumstances--under terror of your death. These circumstances are now +removed, and it is cruel to call on me to make a sacrifice that is +a thousand times worse than death. No, papa, I will not marry this +depraved man--this common seducer. I shall never unite myself to him, +let the consequences be what they may. There is a line beyond which +parental authority ought not to go--you have crossed it.” + +“Be it so, madam; I shall see you again in a few minutes,” he replied, +and immediately left the room, his face almost black with rage and +disappointment. Lucy grew alarmed at the terrible abruptness and +significance of his manner, and began to tremble, although she knew not +why. + +“Can I violate my promise,” said she to herself, “after having made it +so solemnly? And ought I to marry this man in obedience to my father? +Alas! I know not; but may heaven direct me for the best! If I thought it +would make papa happy--but his is a restless and ambitious spirit, and +how can I be certain of that? May heaven direct me and guide me!” + +In a few minutes afterwards her father returned, and taking out of his +pockets a pair of pistols, laid them on the table. + +“Now, Lucy,” said he solemnly, and with a vehemence of manner almost +frantic, “we will see if you cannot yet save your father's life, or +whether you will prefer to have his blood on your soul.” + +“For heaven's sake, papa,” said his daughter, running to him, and +throwing or attempting to throw her arms about him, partly, in the +moment of excitement, to embrace, and partly to restrain him. + +“Hold off, madam,” he replied; “hold off; you have made me +desperate--you have driven me mad. Now, mark me. I will not ask you to +marry this man; but I swear by all that is sacred, that if you disgrace +me--if you insult Lord Dunroe by refusing to be united to him this +day--I shall put the contents of one or both of these pistols through +my brains; and you may comfort yourself over the corpse of a suicide +father, and turn to your brother for protection.” + +Either alternative was sufficiently dreadful for the poor worn and +wearied out girl. + +“Oh, papa,” she exclaimed, again attempting to throw her arms around +him; “put these fearful weapons aside. I will obey you--I will marry +him.” + +“This day?” + +“This day, papa, as soon as my aunt and Mrs. Mainwaring come, and I can +get myself dressed.” + +“Do so, then; or, if not I shall not survive your refusal five minutes.” + +“I will, papa,” she replied, laying her head upon his breast and +sobbing; “I will marry him; but put those vile and dangerous weapons +away, and never talk so again.” + +At this moment the door opened, and Alice, who had been listening, +entered the room in a high and towering passion. Her eyes sparkled: her +complexion was scarlet with rage; her little hands were most heroically +clenched; and, altogether, the very excitement in which she presented +herself, joined to a good face and fine figure, made her look +exceedingly interesting and handsome. + +“How, madam,” exclaimed the baronet, “what brings you here? Withdraw +instantly!” + +“How, yourself, sir,” she replied, walking up and looking him fearlessly +in the face; “none of your 'how, madams,' to me any more; as there's +neither man nor woman to interfere here, I must only do it myself.” + +“Leave the room, you brazen jade!” shouted the baronet; “leave the room, +or it'll be worse for you.” + +“Deuce a one toe I'll lave it. It wasn't for that I came here, but to +tell you that you are a tyrant and a murdherer, a mane old schemer, that +would marry your daughter to a common swindler and reprobate, because +he's a lord. But here I stand, the woman that will prevent this +marriage, if there wasn't another faymale from here to Bally-shanny.” + +“Alice!” exclaimed Lucy, “for heaven's sake, what do you mean?--what +awful language is this? You forget yourself.” + +“That may be, miss, but, by the life in my body, I won't forget you. A +ring won't go on you to that titled scamp so long as I have a drop of +manly blood in my veins--deuce a ring!” + +Amazement almost superseded indignation on the part of the baronet, who +unconsciously exclaimed, “A ring!” + +“No--pursuin' to the ring!” she replied, accompanying the words with +what was intended to be a fearful blow of her little clenched hand upon +the table. + +“Let me go, Lucy,” said her father, “till I put the termagant out of the +room.” + +“Yes, let him go, miss,” replied Alley; “let us see what he'll do. Here +I stand now,” she proceeded, approaching him; “and if you offer to lift +a hand to me, I'll lave ten of as good marks in your face as ever a +woman left since the creation. Come, now--am I afeard of you?” and as +she spoke she approached him still more nearly, with both her hands +close to his face, her fingers spread out and half-clenched, reminding +one of a hawk's talons. + +“Alice,” said Lucy, “this is shocking; if you love me, leave the room.” + +“Love you! miss,” replied the indignant but faithful girl, bursting into +bitter tears; “love you!--merciful heaven, wouldn't I give my life for +you?--who that knows you doesn't love you? and it's for that reason that +I don't wish to see you murdhered--nor won't. Come, sir, you must let +her out of this marriage. It'll be no go, I tell you. I won't suffer it, +so long as I've strength and life. I'll dash myself between them. I'll +make the ole clergyman skip if he attempts it; ay, and what's more, I'll +see Dandy Dulcimer, and we'll collect a faction.” + +“Do not hold me, Lucy,” said her father; “I must certainly put her out +of the room.” + +“Don't, papa,” replied Lucy, restraining him from laying hands upon her, +“don't, for the sake of honor and manhood. Alice, for heaven's sake! +if you love me, as I said, and I now add, if you respect me, leave the +room. You will provoke papa past endurance.” + +“Not a single toe, miss, till he promises to let you cut o' this match. +Oh, my good man,” she said, addressing the struggling baronet, “if +you're for fighting, here I am I for you; or wait,” she added, whipping +up one of the pistols, “Come, now, if you're a man; take your ground +there. Now I can meet you on equal terms; get to the corner there, the +distance is short enough; but no matther, you're a good mark. Come, now, +don't think I'm the bit of goods to be afeard o' you--it's not the first +jewel I've seen in my time, and remember that my name is Mahon”--and she +posted herself in the corner, as if to take her ground. “Come, now,” + she repeated, “you called me a 'brazen jade' awhile ago, and I demand +satisfaction.” + +“Alice,” said Lucy, “you will injure yourself or others, if you do not +lay that dangerous weapon down. For God's sake, Alice, lay it aside--it +is loaded.” + +“Deuce a bit o' danger, miss,” replied the indignant heroine. “I know +more about fire-arms than you think; my brothers used to have them to +protect the house. I'll soon see, at any rate, whether it's loaded or +not.” + +While speaking she whipped out the ramrod, and, making the experiment +found, that it was empty. + +“Ah,” she exclaimed, “you desateful old tyrant: and so you came down +blusterin' and bullyin', and frightenin' your child into compliance, +with a pair of empty pistols! By the life in my body, if I had you in +Ballytrain, I'd post you.” + +“Papa,” said Lucy, “you must excuse this--it is the excess of her +affection for me. Dear Alice,” she said, addressing her, and for a +moment forgetting her weakness, “come with me; I cannot, and will not +bear this; come with me out of the room.” + +“Very well; I'll go to plaise you, miss, but I've made up my mind that +this marriage mustn't take place. Just think of it,” she added, turning +to her master; “if you force her to marry this scamp of a lord, the girl +has sense, and spirit, and common decency, and of course she'll run away +from him; after that, it won't be hard to guess who she'll run to--then +there'll be a con. crim. about it, and it'll go to the lawyers, and from +the lawyers it'll go to the deuce, and that will be the end of it; and +all because you're a coarse-minded tyrant, unworthy of having such a +daughter. Oh, you needn't shake your hand at me. You refused to give me +satisfaction, and I'd now scorn to notice you. Remember I cowed you, and +for that reason never pretend to be a gentleman afther this.” + +Lucy then led her out of the room, which she left, after turning upon +her master a look of the proudest and fiercest defiance, and at the same +time the most sovereign contempt. + +“Lucy,” said her father, “is not this a fine specimen of a maid to have +in personal attendance upon you?” + +“I do not defend her conduct now, sir,” she replied; “but I cannot +overlook her affection, her truth, her attachment to me, nor the many +other virtues which I know she possesses. She is somewhat singular, I +grant, and a bit of a character, and I could wish that her manners were +somewhat less plain; but, on the other hand, she does not pretend to be +a fine lady with her mistress, although she is not without some harmless +vanity; neither is she frivolous, giddy, nor deceitful; and whatever +faults there may be, papa, in her head, there are none in her heart. It +is affectionate, faithful, and disinterested. Indeed, whilst I live I +shall look upon her as my friend.” + +“I am determined, however, she shall not be long under my roof, nor in +your service; her conduct just now has settled that point; but, putting +her out of the question, I trust we understand each other, and that you +are prepared to make your father's heart happy. No more objections.” + +“No, sir; I have said so.” + +“You will go through the ceremony with a good grace?' + +“I cannot promise that, sir; but I shall go through the ceremony.” + +“Yes, but you must do it without offence to Dunroe, and with as little +appearance of reluctance as possible.” + +“I have no desire to draw a painful attention to myself, papa; but you +will please to recollect that I have all my horror, all my detestation +of this match to contend with; and, I may add, my physical weakness, +and the natural timidity of woman. I shall, however, go through the +ceremony, provided nature and reason do not fail me.” + +“Well, Lucy, of course you will do the best you can. I must go now, +for I've many things to think of. Your dresses are admirable, and your +trousseau, considering the short time Dunroe had, is really superb. +Shake hands, my dear Lucy; you know I will soon lose you.” + +Lucy, whose heart was affection itself, threw herself into his arms, and +exclaimed, in a burst of grief: + +“Yes, papa, I feel that you will; and, perhaps, when I am gone, you will +say, with sorrow, that it would have been better to have allowed Lucy to +be happy her own way.” + +“Come, now, you foolish, naughty girl,” he exclaimed affectionately, +“be good--be good.” And as he spoke, he kissed her, pressed her hand +tenderly, and then left the room. + +“Alas!” exclaimed Lucy, still in tears, “how happy might we have been, +had this ambition for my exaltation not existed in my father's heart!” + +If Lucy rose with a depressed spirit on that morning of sorrow, so did +not Lord Dunroe. This young nobleman, false and insincere in everything, +had succeeded in inducing his sister to act as brides-maid, Sir Thomas +having asked her consent as a personal compliment to himself and his +daughter. She was told by her brother that young Roberts would act in an +analogous capacity to him; and this he held out as an inducement to her, +having observed something like an attachment between her and the young +ensign. Not that he at all approved of this growing predilection, for +though strongly imbued with all the senseless and absurd prejudices +against humble birth which disgrace aristocratic life and feeling, +he was base enough to overrule his own opinions on the subject, and +endeavor, by this unworthy play upon his sister's feelings, to prevail +upon her to do an act that would throw her into his society, and which, +under any other circumstances, he would have opposed. He desired her, +at the same time, not to mention the fact to their father, who, he +said, entertained a strong prejudice against upstarts, and was besides, +indisposed to the marriage, in consequence of Sir Thomas Goulray's +doubtful reputation, as regarding the disappearance of his brother's +heir. In consequence of these representations, Lady Emily not only +consented to act as bride's-maid; but also to keep her knowledge of the +forthcoming marriage a secret from her father. + +At breakfast that morning Dunroe was uncommonly cheerful. Norton, on +the other hand, was rather depressed, and could not be prevailed upon +to partake of the gay and exuberant spirit of mirth and buoyancy which +animated Dunroe. + +“What the deuce is the matter with you, Norton?” said his lordship. “You +seem rather annoyed that I am going to marry a very lovely girl with an +immense fortune? With both, you know very well that I can manage without +either the Cullamore title or property. The Gourlay property is as good +if not better. Come, then, cheer up; if the agency of the Cullamore +property is gone, we shall have that on the Gourlay side to look to.” + +“Dunroe, my dear fellow,” replied Norton, “I am thinking of nothing so +selfish. That which distresses me is, that I will lose my friend. This +Miss Gourlay is, they say, so confoundedly virtuous that I dare say she +will allow no honest fellow, who doesn't carry a Bible and a Prayer-book +in his pocket, and quote Scripture in conversation, to associate with +you.” + +“Nonsense, man,” replied Dunroe, “I have satisfied you on that point +before. But I say, Norton, is not this a great bite on the baronet, +especially as he considers himself a knowing one?” + +“Yes, I grant you, a great bite, no doubt; but, at the same time, I +rather guess you may thank me for the possession of Miss Gourlay, and +the property which will go along with her.” + +“As how, Norton?” + +“Why, don't you remember the anonymous note which I wrote to the +baronet, when I was over in Dublin to get the horse changed? He was then +at Red Hall. I am certain that were it not for that hint, there would +have been an elopement. You know it was the fellow who shot you, that +was then in her neighborhood, and he is at present in town. I opened the +baronet's eyes at all events.” + +“Faith, to tell you the truth, Norton, although I know you do me in +money matters now and then, still I believe you to be a faithful fellow. +In fact, you owe me more than you are aware of. You know not how I have +resisted the respectable old nobleman's wishes to send you adrift as +an impostor and cheat. I held firm, however, and told him I could never +with honor abandon my friend.” + +“Many thanks, Dunroe; but I really must say that I am neither an +impostor nor a cheat; and that if ever a man was true friend and +faithful to man, I am that friend to your lordship; not, God knows, +because you are a lord, but because you are a far better thing--a +regular trump. A cheat! curse it,” clapping his hands over his eyes, to +conceal his emotion, “isn't my name Norton? and am I not your friend?” + +At this moment a servant came in, and handed Lord Dunroe a note, which +he was about to throw to Norton, who generally acted as a kind of +secretary to him; but observing the depth and sincerity and also the +modesty of his feelings, he thought it indelicate to trouble him with it +just then. Breakfast was now over, and Dunroe, throwing himself back +in an arm-chair, opened the letter--read it--then another that was +contained in it; after which he rose up, and travelled the room with a +good deal of excitement. He then approached Norton, and said, in a voice +that might be said to have been made up of heat and cold, “What disturbs +you?” + +Norton winked both eyes, did the pathetic a bit, then pulled out his +pocket handkerchief, and blew his nose up to a point little short of +distress itself. In the meantime, Dunroe suddenly left the room without +Norton's knowledge, who replied, however, to the last question, under +the impression that his lordship was present, + +“Ah, my dear Dunroe, the loss of a true friend is a serious thing in a +world like this, where so many cheats and impostors are going.” + +To this, however, he received no reply; and on looking round and finding +that his dupe had gone out, he said: + +“Curse the fellow--he has cut me short. I was acting friendship to the +life, and now he has disappeared. However, I will resume it when I hear +his foot on the return. His hat is there, and I know he will come back +for it.” + +Nearly ten minutes had elapsed, during which he was making the ham and +chicken disappear, when, on hearing a foot which he took for granted +must be that of his lordship, he once more threw himself into his former +attitude, and putting the handkerchief again to his eyes, exclaimed: + +“No, my lord. A cheat! Curse it, isn't my name Norton? and am I not your +friend?” + +“Why, upon my soul, Barney, you used of ould to bring out only one lie +at a time but now you give them in pairs. 'Isn't my name Norton?' says +you. I kept the saicret bekaise you never meddled with Lord Cullamore +or Lady Emily, or attempted your tricks on them, and for that raison you +ought to thank me. Here's a note from Lord Dunroe, who looks as black as +midnight.” + +“What! a note from Dunroe!” exclaimed Norton. “Why he only left me this +minute! What the deuce can this mean?” + +He opened the note, and read, to his dismay and astonishment as follows: + +“Infamous and treacherous scoundrel,--I have this moment received your +letter to Mr. Birney, enclosed by that gentleman to me, in which you +offer, for a certain sum, to betray me, by placing in the hands of my +enemies the very documents you pretended to have destroyed. I now know +the viper I have cherished--begone. You are a cheat, an impostor, and a +villain, whose name is not Norton, but Bryan, once a horse-jockey on the +Curragh, and obliged to fly the country for swindling and dishonesty. +Remove your things instantly; but that shall not prevent me from tracing +you and handing you over to justice for your knavery and fraud. + +“DUNROE.” + + +“All right! Morty---all right!” exclaimed Norton; “upon my soul, Dunroe +is too generous. You know he is going to be married to-day. Was that +Roberts who went up stairs?” + +“It was the young officer, if that's his name,” replied Morty. + +“All right! Morty; he's to be groom's-man--that will do; this requires +no answer. The generous fellow has made me a present on his wedding-day. +That will do, Morty; you may go.” + +“All's discovered,” he exclaimed, when Morty was gone; “however, it's +not too late: I shall give him a Roland for his Oliver before we part. +It will be no harm to give the the respectable old nobleman a hint of +what's going on, at any rate. This discovery, however, won't signify, +for I know Dunroe. The poor fool has no self-reliance; but if left to +himself would die. He possesses no manly spirit of independent will, +no firmness, no fixed principle--he is, in fact, a noun adjective, and +cannot stand alone. Depraved in his appetites and habits of life, he +cannot live without some hanger-on to enjoy his freaks of silly and +senseless profligacy, who can praise and laugh at him, and who will +act at once as his butt, his bully, his pander, and his friend; four +capacities in which I have served him--at his own expense, be it said. +No; my ascendancy over him has been too long established, and I know +that, like a prime minister who has been hastily dismissed, I shall +be ultimately recalled. And yet he is not without gleams of sense, is +occasionally sprightly, and has perceptions of principle that might have +made him a man--an individual being: but now, having neither firmness, +resolution to carry out a good purpose, nor self-respect, he is a +miserable and wretched cipher, whose whole value depends on the +figure that is next him. Yes, I know--I feel--he will recall me to his +councils.” + +At length the hour of half-past eleven arrived, and in Sir Thomas +Gourlay's drawing-room were assembled all those who had been asked to be +present, or to take the usual part in the marriage ceremony. Dr. Sombre, +the clergyman of the parish, had just arrived, and, having entered the +drawing-room, made a bow that would not have disgraced a bishop. He was +pretty well advanced in years, excessively stupid, and possessed so vile +a memory for faces, that he was seldom able to recognize his own guests, +if he happened to meet them in the streets on the following day. He was +an expectant for preferment in the church, and if the gift of a good +appetite were a successful recommendation for a mitre, as that of a +strong head has been before now, no man was better entitled to wear it. +Be this as it may, the good man, who expected to partake of an excellent +_dejuner_, felt that it was a portion of his duty to give a word or two +of advice to the young couple upon the solemn and important duties into +the discharge of which they were about to enter. Accordingly, looking +round the room, he saw Mr. Roberts and Lady Emily engaged, at a window, +in what appeared to him to be such a conversation as might naturally +take place between parties about to be united. Lucy had not yet made her +appearance, but Dunroe was present, and on seeing the Rev. Doctor join +them, was not at all sorry at the interruption. This word of advice, +by the way, was a stereotyped commodity with the Doctor, who had not +married a couple for the last thirty years, without palming it on +them as an extempore piece of admonition arising from that particular +occasion. The worthy man was, indeed, the better qualified to give it, +having never been married himself, and might, therefore, be considered +as perfectly free from prejudices affecting either party upon the +subject. + +“You, my dear children, are the parties about to be united?” said he, +addressing Roberts and Lady Emily, with a bow that had in it a strong +professional innuendo, but of what nature was yet to be learned. + +“Yes, sir,” replied Roberts, who at once perceived the good man's +mistake, and was determined to carry out whatever jest might arise from +it. + +“Oh no, sir,” replied Lady Emily, blushing deeply; “we are not the +parties.” + +“Because,” proceeded the Doctor, “I think I could not do better than +give you, while together, a few words--just a little homily, as it +were--upon the nature of the duties into which you are about to enter.” + +“Oh, but I have told you,” replied Lady Emily, again, “that we are not +the parties, Dr. Sombre.” + +“Never mind her, Doctor,” said Roberts--assuming, with becoming gravity, +the character of the intended husband: “the Doctor, my dear, knows human +nature too well not to make allowances for the timidity peculiar to your +situation. Come, my, love be firm, and let us hear what he has to say.” + +“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “I can understand that; I knew I was right: +and all you want now is the ceremony to make you man and wife.” + +“Indisputable, Doctor; nothing can be more true. These words might +almost appear as an appendix to the Gospel.” + +“Well, my children,” proceeded the Doctor, “listen--marriage may be +divided--” + +“I thought it was rather a union, Doctor.” + +“So it is, child,” replied the Doctor, in the most matter-of-fact +spirit; “but you know that even Unions can be divided. When I was +induced to the Union of Ballycomeasy and Ballycomsharp I--” + +“But, Doctor,” said Roberts, “I beg your pardon, I have interrupted you. +Will you have the kindness to proceed? my fair partner, here, is very +anxious to hear your little homily--are you not, my love?” + +Lady Emily was certainly pressed rather severely to maintain her +gravity--in fact, so much so, that she was unable to reply, Robert's +composure being admirable. + +“Well,” resumed the Doctor, “as I was saying--Marriage may be divided +into three heads--” + +“For heaven's sake, make it only two, if possible, my dear Doctor,” + said Roberts: “the appearance of a third head is rather uncomfortable, I +think.” + +--“Into three heads--first, its duties; next, its rights; and lastly, +its tribulations.” + +The Doctor, we may observe, was in general very unlucky, in the +reception which fell to the share of his little homily--the fact being +with it as with its subject in actual life, that his audience, however +they might feel upon its rights and duties, were very anxious to avoid +its tribulations in any sense, and the consequence was, that in nineteen +cases out of twenty the reverend bachelor himself was left in the midst +of them. Such was his fate here; for at this moment Sir Thomas Gourlay +entered the drawing-room, and approaching Lady Emily, said, “I have to +apologize to you, Lady Emily, inasmuch as it is I who am to blame +for Miss Gourlay's not having seen you sooner. On a subject of such +importance, it is natural that a father should have some private +conversation with her, and indeed this was the case; allow me now to +conduct you to her.” + +“There is no apology whatsoever necessary, Sir Thomas,” replied her +ladyship, taking his arm, and casting a rapid but precious glance at +Roberts. As they went up stairs, the baronet said, in a voice of great +anxiety, + +“You will oblige me, Lady Emily, by keeping her from the looking-glass +as much as possible. I have got her maid--who, although rather plain +in her manners, has excellent taste in all matters connected with the +toilette--I have got her to say, while dressing her, that it is not +considered lucky for a bride to see herself in a looking-glass on the +day of her marriage.” + +“But why should she not, Sir Thomas?” asked the innocent and lovely +girl: “if ever a lady should consult her glass, it is surely upon such +an occasion as this.” + +“I grant it,” he replied; “but then her paleness--is--is--her looks +altogether are so--in fact, you may understand me, Lady Emily--she is, +in consequence of her very delicate health--in consequence of that, +I say, she is more like a corpse than a living being--in complexion +I mean. And now, my dear Lady Emily, will you hurry her? I am +anxious--that is to say, we all are--to have the ceremony over as soon +as it possibly can. She will then feel better, of course.” + +Dr. Sombre, seeing that one of the necessary audience to his little +homily had disappeared, seemed rather disappointed, but addressed +himself to Roberts upon a very different subject. + +“I dare say,” said he, “we shall have a very capital dejeuner to-day.” + +Roberts was startled at the rapid and carnal nature of the transition +in such a reverend-looking old gentleman; but as the! poor Doctor +had sustained a disappointment on the subject of the homily, he was +determined to afford him some comfort on this. + +“I understand,” said he, “from the best authority, that nothing like it +has been seen for years in the city. Several of the nobility and gentry +have privately solicited Sir Thomas for copies of the bill of fare.” + +“That is all right,” replied the Doctor, “that is all excellent, my good +young friend. Who is that large gentleman who has just come in?” + +“Why, sir,” replied Roberts, astonished, “that is Sir Thomas Gourlay +himself.” + +“Bless me, and so it is,” replied the Doctor; “he is getting very +fat--eh? Ay, all right, and will make excellent eating if the cooking be +good.” + +Roberts saw at once what the worthy Doctor was thinking of, and resolved +Lo suggest some other topic, if it were only to punish him for bestowing +such attention upon a subject so much at variance with thoughts that +ought to occupy the mind of a minister of God. + +“I have heard, Doctor, that you are a bachelor,” said he. “How did it +happen, pray, that you kept aloof from marriage?” + +The Doctor, who had been contemplating his own exploits at the dejuner, +now that Roberts had mentioned marriage, took it for granted that he +wanted him to proceed with his homily, and tried to remember where he +had left off. + +“Oh, yes,” said he, “about marriage; I stopped at its tribulations. +I think I had got over its rights and duties, but I stopped at its +tribulations--yes, its tribulations. Very well my dear friend,” he +proceeded, taking him by the hand, and leading him over to a corner, +“accompany me, and you shall enter them now. Where is the young lady?” + +“She will be here by and by,” replied Roberts; “I think you had better +wait till she comes.” + +The Doctor paused for some time, and following up the idea of the +dejuner, said, “I am fond of wild fowl now.” + +“Oh, fie, Doctor,” replied the Ensign; “I did not imagine that so grave +a personage as you are could be fond of anything wild.” + +“Oh, yes,” replied the Doctor, “ever while you live prefer the wild to +the tame; every one, sir,” he added, taking the other by the button, +“that knows what's what, in that respect, does it. Well, but about the +tribulations.” + +As usual the Doctor was doomed to be left in them, for just as he spoke +the doors were thrown more widely open, and Lucy, leaning upon, or +rather supported by, her aunt and Lady Emily, accompanied by Mrs. +Mainwaring, entered the room. Her father had been in close conversation +with Dunroe; but not all his efforts at self-possession and calmness +could prevent his agitation and anxiety from being visible. His eye +was unsettled and blood-shot; his manner uneasy, and the whole bearing +indicative of hope, ecstasy, apprehension, and doubt, all flitting +across each other like clouds in a sky troubled by adverse currents, but +each and all telling a tale of the tumult which was going on within him. + +Yes, Lucy was there, but, alas the day! what a woful sight did she +present to the spectators. The moment she had come down, the servants, +and all those who had obtained permission to be present at the ceremony, +now entered the large drawing-room to witness it. Tom Gourlay entered +a little after his sister, followed in a few minutes by old Anthony, +accompanied by Fenton, who leant upon him, and was provided with an +arm-chair in a remote corner of the room. After them came Thomas Corbet +and his sister, Ginty Cooper, together with old Sam Roberts, and the man +named Skipton, with whom the reader has already been made acquainted. + +But how shall we describe the bride--the wretched, heart-broken +victim of an ambition that was as senseless as it was inhuman? It was +impossible for one moment to glance at her without perceiving that the +stamp of death, misery, and despair, was upon her; and yet, despite +of all this, she carried with her and around her a strange charm, an +atmosphere of grace, elegance, and beauty, of majestic virtue, of innate +greatness of mind, of wonderful truth, and such transparent purity of +heart and thought, that when she entered the room all the noise and chat +and laughter were instantly hushed, and a sense of solemn awe, as if +there were more than a marriage here, came over all present. Nay, more. +We shall not pretend to trace the cause and origin of this extraordinary +sensation. Originate as it may, it told a powerful and startling tale to +her father's heart; but in truth she had not been half a minute in the +room when, such was the dignified but silent majesty of her sorrow, that +there were few eyes there that were not moist with tears. The +melancholy impressiveness of her character, her gentleness, her mournful +resignation, the patience with which she suffered, could not for one +moment be misunderstood, and the contagion of sympathy, and of common +humanity, in the fate of a creature apparently more divine than human, +whose sorrow was read as if by intuition, spread through them with a +feeling of strong compassion that melted almost every I heart, and sent +the tears to every eye. + +Her father approached her, and whispered to her, and caressed her, and +seemed playful and even light-hearted, as if the day were a day of +joy; but out strongly against his mirth stood the solemn spirit of her +sorrow; and when he went to bring over Dunroe, and when he took her +passive hand, in order to place it in his--the agony, the horror, with +which she submitted to the act, were expressed in a manner that made her +appear, as that which she actually was, the lovely but pitiable +victim of ambition. Alley Mahon's grief was loud; Lady Gourlay, Mrs. +Mainwaring, Lady Emily, all were in tears. + +“I am proud to see this,” said Sir Thomas, bowing, as if he were bound +to thank them, and attempting, with his usual tact, to turn their very +sympathy into a hollow and untruthful compliment; “I am proud to see +this manifestation of strong attachment to my daughter; it is a proof of +how she is loved.” + +Lucy had not once opened her lips. She had not strength to do so; her +very voice had abandoned her. + +Two or three persons besides the baronet and the bridegroom felt a +deep interest in what was going forward, or about to go forward. Thomas +Gourlay now absolutely hated her; so did his mother; so did his uncle, +Thomas Corbet. Each and all of them felt anxious to have her married, +in order that she might be out of Tom's way, and that he might enjoy a +wider sphere of action. Old Anthony Corbet stood looking on, with his +thin lips compressed closely together, his keen eyes riveted on the +baronet, and an expression legible on every trace of his countenance, +such as might well have constituted him some fearful incarnation of +hatred and vengeance. Lady Gourlay was so completely engrossed by Lucy +that she did not notice Fenton, and the latter, from his position, could +see nothing of either the bride or the baronet, but their backs. + +Lord Dunroe felt that his best course was to follow the advice of Sir +Thomas, which was, not to avail himself of his position with Lucy, +but to observe a respectful manner, and to avoid entering into any +conversation whatsoever with her, at least until after the ceremony +should be performed. He consequently kept his distance, with the +exception of receiving her passive hand, as we have shown, and +maintained a low and subdued conversation with Mr. Roberts. The only +person likely to interrupt the solemn feeling which prevailed was old +Sam, who had his handkerchief several times alternately to his nose and +eyes, and who looked about him with an indignant expression, that seemed +to say, “There's something wrong here--some one ought to speak; I wish +my boy would step forward. This, surely, is not the heart of man.” + +At length the baronet approached Lucy, and seemed, by his action, as +well as his words, to ask her consent to something. Lucy looked at him, +but neither by her word nor gesture appeared to accede to or refuse his +request; and her father, after complacently bowing, as if to thank her +for her acquiescence, said, + +“I think, Dr. Sombre, we require your services; the parties are +assembled and willing, and the ceremony had better take place.” + +Thomas Corbet had been standing at a front window, and Alley Mahon, on +hearing the baronet's words, instantly changed her position to the front +of Lucy, as if she intended to make a spring between her and Dunroe, as +soon as the matter should come to a crisis. + +In the meantime Dr. Sombre advanced with his book, and Lord Dunroe was +led over by Roberts to take his position opposite the bride, when a +noise of carriage-wheels was heard coming rapidly along, and stopping +as rapidly at the hall door. In an instant a knock that almost shook the +house, and certainly startled some of the females, among whom was the +unhappy bride herself, was heard at the hall door, and the next moment +Thomas Corbet hurried out of the room, as if to see who had arrived, +instantly followed by Gibson. + +Dr. Sombre, who now stood with his finger between the leaves of his +book, where its frequent pressure had nearly obliterated the word +“obedience” in the marriage ceremony, said, + +“My dear children, it is a custom of mine--and it is so because I +conceive it a duty--to give you a few preliminary words of advice, a +little homily, as it were, upon the nature of the duties into which you +are about to enter.” + +This intimation was received with solemn silence, if we except the word +“Attention!” which proceeded in a respectful and earnest, but subdued +tone from old Sam. The Doctor looked about him a little startled, but +again proceeded, + +“Marriage, my children, may be divided into three heads: first, +its duties; next, its rights; and lastly, its tribulations. I place +tribulations last, my children, because, if it were not for its +tribulations--” + +“My good friend,” said Sir Thomas, with impatience, “we will spare you +the little homily you speak of, until after the ceremony. I dare say it +is designed for married life and married people; but as those for whose +especial advantage you are now about to give it are not man and wife +yet, I think you had better reserve it until you make them so. Proceed, +Doctor, if you please, with the ceremony.” + +“I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir,” replied the Doctor; “I +shall be guided here only by Sir Thomas Gourlay himself, as father of +the bride.” + +“Why, Doctor, what the deuce is the matter with you? Am not I Sir Thomas +Gourlay?” + +The Doctor put up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking at him +more closely, exclaimed, + +“Upon my word, and so you are. I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, but with +respect to this dejeuner--homily, I would say--its enunciation here is +exceedingly appropriate, and it is but short, and will not occupy more +than about half-an-hour, or three-quarters, which is only a brief space +when the happiness of a whole life is concerned. Well, my children, I +was speaking about this _dejuner_,” he proceeded; “the time, as I said, +will not occupy more than half-an-hour, or probably three-quarters; +and, indeed, if our whole life were as agreeably spent--I refer now +especially to married life--its tribulations would not--” + +Here he was left once more in his tribulations, for as he uttered the +last word, Gibson returned, pronouncing in a distinct but respectful +voice, “The Earl of Cullamore;” and that nobleman, leaning upon the arm +of his confidential servant, Morty O'Flaherty, immediately entered the +room. + +His venerable look, his feeble state of health, but, above all his +amiable character, well known as it was for everything that was +honorable and benevolent, produced the effect which might be expected. +All who were not standing, immediately rose up to do him reverence and +honor. He inclined his head in token of acknowledgment, but even before +the baronet had time to address him, he said, + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay, has this marriage yet taken place?” + +“No, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “and I am glad it has not. Your +lordship's presence is a sanction and an honor which, considering your +state of ill-health, is such as we must all duly appreciate. I am +delighted to see you here, my lord; allow me to help your lordship to a +seat.” + +“I thank you, Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship; “but before I take a +seat, or before you proceed further in this business, I beg to have some +private conversation with you.” + +“With infinite pleasure, my lord,” replied the baronet. “Dr. Sombre, +whilst his lordship and I are speaking, you may as well go on with the +ceremony. When it is necessary, call me, and I shall give the bride +away.” + +“Dr. Sombre,” said his lordship, “do not proceed with the ceremony, +until I shall have spoken to Miss Gourlay's father. If it be necessary +that I should speak more plainly, I say, I forbid the banns. You will +not have to wait long, Doctor; but by no means proceed with the ceremony +until you shall have permission from Sir Thomas Gourlay.” + +In general, any circumstance that tends to prevent a marriage, where all +the parties are assembled to witness it, and to enjoy the festivities +that attend it, is looked upon with a strong feeling of dissatisfaction. +Here, however, the case was different. Scarcely an individual among +them, with the exception of those who were interested in the event, +that did not feel a sense of relief at what had occurred in consequence +of the appearance of Lord Cullamore. Dunroe's face from that moment was +literally a sentence of guilt against himself. It became blank, haggard, +and of a ghastly white; while his hope of securing the rich and lovely +heiress died away within him. He resolved, however, to make a last +effort. + +“Roberts,” said he, “go to Sombre, and whisper to him to proceed with +the ceremony. Get him to perform it, and you are sure of a certain +sister of mine, who I rather suspect is not indifferent to you.” + +“I must decline to do so, my lord,” replied Roberts. “After what has +just occurred, I feel that it would not be honorable in me, neither +would it be respectful to your father. However I may esteem your sister, +my lord, and appreciate her virtues, yet I am but a poor ensign, as you +know, and not in a capacity to entertain any pretensions--” + +“Well, then,” replied Dunroe, interrupting him, “bring that old dog +Sombre here, will you? I trust you will so far oblige me.” + +Roberts complied with this; but the Doctor was equally firm. + +“Doctor,” said his lordship, after urging several arguments, “you will +oblige Sir Thomas Gourlay very much, by having us married when they come +in. It's only a paltry matter of property, that Sir Thomas acceded to +this morning. Pray, proceed with the ceremony, Doctor, and make two +lovers happy.” + +“The word of your honorable father,” replied the Doctor, “shall ever be +a law to me. He was always a most hospitable man; and, unless my bishop, +or the chief secretary, or, what is better still, the viceroy himself, I +do not know a nobleman more worthy of respect. No, my lord, there is not +in the peerage a nobleman who--gave better dinners.” + +What with this effort on the part of Dunroe, and a variety of chat +that took place upon the subject of the interruption, at least +five-and-twenty minutes had elapsed, and the company began to feel +somewhat anxious and impatient, when Sir Thomas Gourlay entered; and, +gracious heaven, what a frightful change had taken place in him! Dismay, +despair, wretchedness, misery, distraction, frenzy, were all struggling +for expression in his countenance. He was followed by Lord Cullamore, +who, when about to proceed home, had changed his mind, and returned for +Lady Emily. He advanced, still supported by Morty, and approaching Lucy, +took her hand, and said, + +“Miss Gourlay, you are saved; and I thank God that I was made the +instrument of rescuing you from wretchedness and despair, for I read +both in your face. And now,” he proceeded, addressing the spectators, +“I beg it to be understood, that in the breaking off of this marriage, +there is no earthly blame, not a shadow of imputation to be attributed +to Miss Gourlay, who is all honor, and delicacy, and truth. Her father, +if left to himself, would not now permit her to become the wife of my +son; who, I am sorry to say, is utterly unworthy of her.” + +“Attention!” once more was heard from the quarter in which old Sam +stood, as if bearing testimony to the truth of his lordship's assertion. +“John,” said the latter, “you may thank your friend, Mr. Norton, for +enabling me, within the last hour, to save this admirable girl from the +ruin which her union with you would have entailed upon her. You will now +know how to appreciate so faithful and honorable a friend.” + +All that Dunroe must have felt, may be easily conceived by the reader. +The baronet, however, becomes the foremost figure in the group. The +strong, the cunning, the vehement, the overbearing, the plausible, the +unbelieving, the philosophical, and the cruel--these were the divided +streams, as it were, of his character, which all, however, united to +make up the dark and terrible current of his great ambition; great, +however, only as a passion and a moral impulse of action, but puny, +vile, and base in its true character and elements. Here, then, stood the +victim of his own creed, the baffled antagonist of God's providence, who +despised religion, and trampled upon its obligations; the man who strove +to make himself his own deity, his own priest, and who administered to +his guilty passions on the altar of a hardened and corrupted heart--here +he stood; now, struck, stunned, prostrated; whilst the veil which had +hitherto concealed the hideousness of his principles, was raised up, +as if by an awful hand, that he might know what it is for man to dash +himself against the bosses of the Almighty's buckler. His heart beat, +and his brain throbbed; all presence of mind, almost all consciousness, +abandoned him, and he only felt that the great object of his life was +lost--the great plan, to the completion of which he had devoted all his +energies, was annihilated. He imagined that the apartment was filled +with gloom and fire, and that the faces he saw about him were mocking at +him, and disclosing to each other in whispers the dreadful extent, the +unutterable depth of his despair and misery. He also felt a sickness +of heart, that was in itself difficult to contend with, and a weakness +about the knees that rendered it nearly impossible for him to stand. His +head, too, became light and giddy, and his brain reeled so much that +he tottered, and was obliged to sit, in order to prevent himself from +falling. All, however, was not to end here. This was but the first blow. + +Lord Cullamore was now about to depart; for he, too, had become +exceedingly weak and exhausted, by the unusual exercise and agitation to +which he had exposed himself. + +Old Anthony Corbet then stepped forward, and said, + +“Don't go, my lord. There's strange things to come to light this day and +this hour, for this is the day and this is the hour of my vengeance.” + +“I do not understand you,” replied his lordship; “I was scarcely equal +to the effort of coming here, and I feel myself very feeble.” + +“Get his lordship some wine,” said the old man, addressing his son. “You +will be good enough to stop, my lord,” he proceeded, “for a short time. +You are a magistrate, and your presence here may be necessary.” + +“Ha!” exclaimed his lordship, surprised at such language: “this may be +serious. Proceed, my friend: what disclosures have you to make?” + +Old Corbet did not answer him, but turning round to the baronet, who +was not then in a capacity to hear or observe anything apart from the +terrible convulsions of agony he was suffering, he looked upon him, his +keen old eyes in a blaze, his lips open and their expression sharpened +by the derisive and satanic triumph that was legible in the demon sneer +which kept them apart. + +“Thomas Gourlay!” he exclaimed in a sharp, piercing voice of authority +and conscious power, “Thomas Gourlay, rise up and stand forward, your +day of doom is come.” + +“Who is it that has the insolence to call my father Thomas Gourlay under +this roof?” asked his son Thomas, alias Mr. Ambrose Gray. “Begone, old +man, you are mad.” + +“Bastard and impostor!” readied Anthony, “you appear before your time. +Thomas Gourlay, did you hear me?” + +By an effort--almost a superhuman effort--the baronet succeeded in +turning his attention to what was going forward. + +“What is this?” he exclaimed; “is this a tumult? Who dares to stir up +a tumult in such a scene as this? Begone!” said he, addressing several +strangers, who appeared to take a deep interest in what was likely to +ensue. The house was his own, and, as a matter of course, every one left +the room with the exception of those immediately connected with both +families, and with the incidents of our story. + +“Let no one go,” said Anthony, “that I appointed to come here.” + +“What!” said Dunroe, after the strangers had gone, and with a look that +indicated his sense of the baronet's duplicity, “is this gentleman your +son?” + +“My acknowledged son, sir,” replied the other. + +“And, pray, were you aware of that this morning?” + +“As clearly and distinctly as you were that you had no earthly claim to +the title which you bear, nor to the property of your father,” replied +the baronet, with a look that matched that of the other. There they +stood, face to face, each detected in his dishonor and iniquity, and +on that account disqualified to recriminate upon each other, for their +mutual perfidy. + +“Corbet,” said the baronet, now recovering himself, “what is this? +Respect my house and family--respect my guests. Go home; I pardon +you this folly, because I see that you have been too liberal in your +potations this morning.” + +“You mistake me, sir,” replied the adroit old man; “I am going to do you +a service. Call forward Thomas Gourlay.” + +This considerably relieved the baronet, who took it for granted that it +was his son whom he had called in the first instance. + +“What!” exclaimed Lord Cullamore, “is it possible, Sir Thomas, that you +have recovered your lost son?” + +“It is, my lord,” replied the other. “Thomas, come over till I present +you to my dear friend Lord Cullamore.” + +Young Gourlay advanced, and the earl was in the act of extending his +hand to him, when old Anthony interposed, by drawing it back. + +“Stop, my lord,” said he; “that hand is the hand of a man of honor, but +you must not soil it by touchin' that of a bastard and impostor.” + +“That is my son, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “and I acknowledge him as +such.” + +“So you may, sir,” replied Corbet, “and so you ought; but I say that if +he is your son, he is also my grandson.” + +“Corbet,” said his lordship, “you had better explain yourself. This, Sir +Thomas, is a matter very disagreeable to me, and which I should not wish +even to hear; but as it is possible that the interests of my dear friend +here. Lady Gourlay, may be involved in it, I think it my duty not to +go.” + +“Her ladyship's interests are involved in it, my lord,” replied Corbet; +“and you are right to stay, if it was only for her sake. Now, my lady,” + he added, addressing her, “I see how you are sufferin', but I ask it as +a favor that you will keep yourself quiet, and let me go on.” + +“Proceed, then,” said Lord Cullamore; “and do you, Lady Gourlay, +restrain your emotion, if you can.” + +“Thomas Gourlay--I spake now to the father, my lord,” said Corbet. + +“Sir Thomas Gourlay, sir!” said the baronet, haughtily and indignantly, +“Sir Thomas Gourlay!” + +“Thomas Gourlay,” persisted Corbet, “it is now nineteen years, or +thereabouts, since you engaged me, myself--I am the man--to take away +the son of your brother, and you know the ordhers you gave me. I did so: +I got a mask, and took him away with me on the pretence of bringin' him +to see a puppet-show. Well, he disappeared, and your mind, I suppose, +was aisy. I tould you all was right, and every year from that to this +you have paid me a pension of fifty pounds.” + +“The man is mad, my lord,” said Sir Thomas; “and, under all +circumstances, he makes himself out a villain.” + +“I can perceive no evidence of madness, so far,” replied his lordship; +“proceed.” + +“None but a villain would have served your purposes; but if I was +a villain, it wasn't to bear out your wishes, but to satisfy my own +revenge.” + +“But what cause for revenge could you have had against him?” asked, his +lordship. + +“What cause?” exclaimed the old man, whilst his countenance grew dark +as night, “what cause against the villain that seduced my daughter--that +brought disgrace and shame upon my family--that broke through the ties +of nature, which are always held sacred in our country, for she was his +own foster-sister, my lord, suckled at the same breasts, nursed in the +same arms, and fed and clothed and nourished by the same hand;--yes, my +lord, that brought shame and disgrace and madness, my lord--ay, madness +upon my child, that he deceived and corrupted, under a solemn oath of +marriage. Do you begin to undherstand me now, my lord?” + +His lordship made no reply, but kept his eyes intently fixed upon him. + +“Well, my lord, soon after the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's child, +his own went in the same way; and no search, no hunt, no attempt to get +him ever succeeded. He, any more than the other, could not be got. My +lord, it was I removed him. I saw far before me, and it was I removed +him; yes, Thomas Gourlay, it was I left you childless--at least of a +son.” + +“You must yourself see, my lord,” said the baronet, “that--that--when is +this marriage to take place?--what is this?--I am quite confused; let +me see, let me see--yes, he is such a villain, my lord, that you must +perceive he is entitled to no credit--to none whatsoever.” + +“Well, my lord,” proceeded Corbet. + +“I think, my lord,” said Thomas Corbet, stepping forward, “that I ought +to acquaint your lordship with my father's infirmity. Of late, my lord, +he has been occasionally unsettled in his senses. I can prove this on +oath.” + +“And if what he states be true,” replied his lordship, “I am not +surprised at it; it is only right we should hear him, however, as I +have already said, I can perceive no traces of insanity about him.” + +“Ah, my lord,” replied the old man, “it would be well for him if he +could prove me mad, for then his nephew, the bastard, might have a +chance of succeeding to the Gourlay title, and the estates. But I must +go on. Well, my lord, after ten years or so, I came one day to Mr. +Gourlay--he was then called Sir Thomas--and I tould him that I had +relented, and couldn't do with his brother's son as I had promised, and +as he wished me. 'He is living,' said I, 'and I wish you would take him +undher your own care.' I won't wait to tell you the abuse I got from him +for not fulfillin' his wishes; but he felt he was in my power, and was +forced to continue my pension and keep himself quiet. Well, my lord, +I brought him the boy one night, undher the clouds of darkness, and we +conveyed him to a lunatic asylum.” + +Here he was interrupted by something between a groan and a scream from +Lady Gourlay, who, however, endeavored immediately to restrain her +feelings. + +“From that day to this, my lord, the cruelty he received, sometimes +in one madhouse and sometimes in another, sometimes in England and +sometimes in Ireland, it would be terrible to know. Everything that +could wear away life was attempted, and the instruments in that black +villain's hands were well paid for their cruelty. At length, my lord, +he escaped, and wandhered about till he settled down in the town of +Ballytrain. Thomas Gourlay--then Sir Thomas--had been away with his +family for two or three years in foreign parts, but when he went to his +seat, Red Hall, near that town, he wasn't long there till he found out +that the young man named Fenton--something unsettled, they said, in his +mind--was his brother's son, for the baronet had been informed of his +escape. Well, he got him once more into his clutches, and in the dead +hour of night, himself--you there, Thomas Gourlay--one of your villain +servants, by name Gillespie, and my own son--you that stand there, +Thomas Corbet--afther making the poor boy dead drunk, brought him off +to one of the mad-houses that he had been in before. He, Mr. Gourlay, +then--or Sir Thomas, if you like--went with them a part of the way. +Providence, my lord, is never asleep, however. The keeper of the last +mad-house was more of a devil than a man. The letter of the baronet was +written to the man that had been there before him, but he was dead, and +this villain took the boy and the money that had been sent with him, and +there he suffered what I am afraid he will never get the betther of.” + +“But what became of Sir Thomas Gourlay's son?” asked his lordship; “and +where now is Lady Gourlay's?” + +“They are both in this room, my lord. Now, Thomas Gourlay, I will +restore your son to you. Advance, Black Baronet,” said the old man, +walking over to Fenton, with a condensed tone of vengeance and triumph +in his voice and features, that filled all present with awe. “Come, now, +and look upon your own work--think, if it will comfort you, upon what +you made your own flesh and blood suffer. There he is, Black Baronet; +there is your son--dead!” + +A sudden murmur and agitation took place as he pointed to Fenton; but +there was now something of command, nay, absolutely of grandeur, in his +revenge, as well as in his whole manner. + +“Keep quiet, all of you,” he exclaimed, raising his arm with a spirit of +authority and power; “keep quiet, I say, and don't disturb the dead. I +am not done.” + +“I must interrupt you a moment,” said Lord Dunroe. “I thought the +person--the unfortunate young man here--was the son of Sir Thomas's +brother?” + +“And so did he,” replied Corbet; “but I will make the whole thing +simple at wanst. When he was big enough to be grown out of his father's +recollection, I brought back his own son to him as the son of his +brother. And while the black villain was huggin' himself with delight +that all the sufferings, and tortures, and hellish scourgings, and +chains, and cells, and darkness, and damp, and cruelty of all shapes, +were breakin' down the son of his brother to death--the heir that +stood between himself and his unlawful title, and his unlawful +property--instead of that, they were all inflicted upon his own lawfully +begotten son, who now lies there--dead!” + +“What is the matter with Sir Thomas Gourlay?” said his lordship; “what +is wrong?” + +Sir Thomas's conduct, whilst old Corbet was proceeding to detail these +frightful and harrowing developments, gave once or twice strong symptoms +of incoherency, more, indeed, by his action than his language. He +seized, for instance, the person next him, unfortunate Dr. Sombre, and +after squeezing his arm until it became too painful to bear, he ground +his teeth, looked into his face, and asked, “Do you think--would you +swear--that--that--ay--that there is a God?” Then, looking at Corbet, +and trying to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “Villain, demon, +devil;” and he then struck or rather throttled the Doctor, as he sat +beside him. They succeeded, however, in composing him, but his eyes were +expressive of such wildness and horror and blood-shot frenzy, that one +or two of them sat close to him, for the purpose of restraining his +tendency to violence. + +Lady Gourlay, on hearing that Fenton was not her son, wept bitterly, +exclaiming, “Alas! I am twice made childless.” But Lucy, who had +awakened out of the deathlike stupor of misery which had oppressed her +all the morning, now became conscious of the terrible disclosures which +old Corbet was making; and on hearing that Fenton was, or rather +had been, her brother, she flew to him, and on looking at his pale, +handsome, but lifeless features, she threw her arms around him, kissed +his lips in an agony of sorrow, and exclaimed, “And is it thus we meet, +my brother! No word to recognize your sister? No glance of that eye, +that is closed forever, to welcome me to your heart? Oh! miserable fate, +my brother! We meet in death. You are now with our mother; and Lucy, +your sister, whom you never saw, will soon join you. You are gone! Your +wearied and broken spirit fled from disgrace and sorrow. Yes; I shall +soon meet you, where your lips will not be passive to the embraces of +a sister, and where your eyes will not be closed against those looks of +affection and tenderness which she was prepared to give you, but which +you could not receive. Ah, here there is no repugnance of the heart, as +there was in the other instance. Here are my blessed mother's features; +and nature tells me that you are--oh, distressing sight!--that you were +my brother.” + +“Keep silence,” exclaimed Corbet, “you must hear me out. Thomas Gourlay, +there lies your son; I don't know what you may feel now that you know +he's your own--and well you know it;--but I know his sufferings gave you +very little trouble so long as you thought that he was the child of the +widow of your brother that was dead. Well now, my lord,” he proceeded, +“you might think I've had very good revenge upon Thomas Gourlay; but +there's more to come.” + +“Attention!” from old Sam, in a voice that startled almost every one +present. + +“Yes, my lord, I must fulfil my work. Stand forward, Sir Edward Gourlay. +Stand forward, and go to your affectionate mother's arms.” + +“I fear the old man is unsettled, certainly,” said his lordship. “Sir +Edward Gourlay!--there is no Sir Edward Gourlay here.” + +“Attention, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, again taking the head of his cane +out of his mouth, where it had got a merciless mumbling for some time +past. “Attention, Ned! you're called, my boy.” + +Old Corbet went over to Ensign Roberts, and taking him by the hand, led +him to Lady Gourlay, exclaiming, “There, my lady, is your son, and proud +you may be out of him. There is the real heir of the Gourlay name and +the Gourlay property. Look at him and his cousin, your niece, and see +how they resemble one another. Look at his father's features in +his face; but I have plenty of proof, full satisfaction to give you +besides.” + +Lady Gourlay became pale as death. “Mysterious and just Providence,” she +exclaimed, “can this be true? But it is--it must--there are the features +of his departed father--his figure--his every look. He is mine!--he is +mine! My heart recognizes him. Oh, my son!--my child!--are you at length +restored to me?” + +Young Roberts was all amazement. Whilst Lady Gourlay spoke, he looked +over at old Sam, whose son he actually believed himself to be (for the +fine old fellow had benevolently imposed on him), and seemed anxious to +know what this new parentage, now ascribed to him, could mean. + +“All right, Ned! Corbet is good authority: but although I knew you were +not mine, I could never squeeze the truth out of him as to who your +father was. It's true, in spite of all he said, I had suspicions; but +what could I do?---I could prove nothing.” + +We will not describe this restoration of the widow's son. Our readers +can easily conceive it, and, accordingly, to their imagination we will +leave it. + +It was attended, however, by an incident which we cannot pass over +without some notice. Lady Emily, on witnessing the extraordinary turn +which had so providentially taken place in the fate and fortune of +her lover, was observed by Mrs. Mainwaring to grow very pale. A +consciousness of injury, which our readers will presently understand, +prevented her from offering assistance, but running over to Lucy, she +said, “I fear, Miss Gourlay, that Lady Emily is ill.” + +Lucy, who was all tenderness, left her brother, over whom she had been +weeping, and flew to her assistance just in time to prevent her from +falling off her chair. She had swooned. Water, however, and essences, +and other appliances, soon restored her; and on recovering she cast her +eyes about the room as if to search for some one. Lady Gourlay had her +arm round her, and was chafing her temples at the time. Those lovely +fawn-like eyes of hers had not far to search. Roberts, now young Sir +Edward Gourlay, had been standing near, contemplating her beautiful +features, and deeply alarmed by her illness, when their eyes met; and, +to the surprise of Lucy Gourlay, a blush so modest, so beautiful, so +exquisite, but yet so legible in its expression, took place of the +paleness which had been there before. She looked up, saw the direction +of her son's eyes, then looked significantly at Lucy, and smiled. The +tell-tale blush, in fact, discovered the state of their hearts, and +never was a history of pure and innocent love more appropriately or +beautifully told. + +This significant little episode did not last long; and when Lady Emily +found herself recovered, Thomas Corbet advanced, and said: “I don't know +what you mean, father, by saying that the young man who has just +died was Sir Thomas Gourlay's son. You know in your heart that +this”--pointing to his nephew--“is his true and legitimate heir. You +know, too, that his illegitimate son has been dead for years, and that I +myself saw him buried.” + +“My lord, pay attention to what I'll speak,” said his father. “If the +bastard died, and if my son was at his burial, and saw him laid in the +grave, he can tell us where that grave is to be found, at least. His +father, however, will remember the tattooing.” + +The unexpected nature of the question, and its direct bearing upon the +circumstance before them, baffled Thomas Corbet, who left the room, +affecting to be too indignant to reply. + +“Now,” proceeded his father, “he knows he has stated a falsehood. I +have proof for every word I said, and for every circumstance. There's a +paper,” he added, “a pound note, that will prove one link in the chain, +for the very person's name that is written on it by the poor young man +himself, I have here. He can prove the mark on his neck, when in outlier +despair, the poor creature made an attempt on his own life with a piece +of glass. And what is more, I have the very clothes they both wore when +I took them away. In short, I have everything full and clear; but I did +not let either my son or daughter know of my exchangin' the childre', +and palmin' Thomas Gourlay's own son on him as the son of his brother. +That saicret I kept to myself, knowin' that I couldn't trust them. And +now, Thomas Gourlay,” he said, “my revenge is complete. There you stand, +a guilty and a disgraced man; and with all your wisdom, and wealth, and +power, what were you but a mere tool and puppet in my hands up to +this hour? There you stand, without a house that you can call your +own--stripped of your false title--of your false property--but not +altogether of your false character, for the world knew pretty well what +that was.” + +Corbet's daughter then came forward, and laying her hand on the +baronet's shoulder, said, “Do you know me, Thomas Gourlay?” + +“No,” replied the other, looking at her with fury; “you are a spectre; +I have seen you before; you appeared to me once, and your words were +false. Begone, you are a spectre--a spirit of evil.” + +“I am the spirit of death to you,” she replied; “but my prophetic +announcement was true. I called you Thomas Gourlay then, and I call you +Thomas Gourlay now--for such is your name; and your false title is +gone. That young man there, named after you, is my son, and you are his +father--for I am Jacinta Corbet: so far my father's words are true; and +if it were not for his revenge, my son would have inherited your name, +title, and property. Here now I stand the victim of your treachery and +falsehood, which for years have driven me mad. But now the spirit of +the future is upon me; and I tell you, that I read frenzy, madness, and +death in your face. You have been guilty of great crimes, but you will +be guiltier of a greater and a darker still. I read that in your +coward spirit, for I know you well. I also am revenged, but I have been +punished; and my own sufferings have taught me to feel that I am still +a woman. I loved you once--I hated you long; but now I pity you. Yes, +Thomas Gourlay, she whom you drove to madness, and imposture, and +misery, for long years, can now look down upon you with pity!” + +Having thus spoken, she left the room. + +We may add here, in a few brief words, that the proof of the identity of +each of the two individuals in question was clearly, legally, and most +satisfactorily established; in addition to which, if farther certainty +had been wanting, Lady Gourlay at once knew her son by a very peculiar +mole on his neck, of a three-cornered shape, resembling a triangle. + +The important events of the day, so deeply affecting Sir Thomas Gourlay +and his family, had been now brought to a close; all the strangers +withdrew, and Fenton's body was brought up stairs and laid out. Lady +Emily and her father went home together; so did Roberts, now Sir Edward +Gourlay, and his delighted and thankful mother. Her confidence in the +providence of God was at length amply rewarded, and the widow's heart at +last was indeed made to sing for joy. + +“Well, Ned, my boy,” said old Sam, turning to Sir Edward, after having +been introduced to his mother, “I hope I haven't lost a son to-day, +although your mother gained one?” + +“I would be unworthy of my good fortune, if you did,” replied Sir +Edward. “Whilst I have life and sense and memory I shall ever look upon +you as my father, and my best friend.” + +“Eight,” replied the old soldier; “but I knew it was before you. He was +no everyday plant, my lady, and so I told my Beck. Your ladyship must +see my Beck,” he added; “she's the queen of wives, and I knew it +from the first day I married her; my heart told me so, and it was all +right--all the heart of man.” + +The unfortunate old Doctor was to be pitied. He walked about with his +finger in his book, scarcely knowing whether what he had seen and +heard was a dream, or a reality. Seeing Lord Dunroe about to take his +departure, he approached him, and said, “Pray, sir, are we to have no +dejeuner after all? Are not you the young gentleman who was this day +found out--discovered?” + +Dunroe was either so completely absorbed in the contemplation of his ill +fortune, that he did not hear him, or he would not deign him an answer. + +“This is really too bad,” continued the Doctor; “neither a marriage fee +nor a dejeuner! Too bad, indeed! Here are the tribulations, but not the +marriage; under which melancholy circumstances I may as well go on my +way, although I cannot do it as I expected to have done--rejoicing. Good +morning, Mr. Stoker.” + +Our readers ought to be sufficiently acquainted, we presume, with the +state of Lucy's feelings after the events of the day and the disclosures +that had been made. Sir Thomas Gourlay--we may as well call him so for +the short time he will be on the stage--stunned--crushed--wrecked-- +ruined, was instantly obliged to go to bed. The shock sustained by his +system, both physically and mentally, was terrific in its character, and +fearful in its results. His incoherency almost amounted to frenzy. He +raved--he stormed--he cursed--he blasphemed; but amidst this dark tumult +of thought and passion, there might ever be observed the prevalence +of the monster evil--the failure of his ambition for his daughter's +elevation to the rank of a countess. Never, indeed, was there such a +tempest of human passion at work in a brain as raged in his. + +“It's a falsehood, I didn't murder my son,” he raved; “or if I did, what +care I about that? I am a man of steel. My daughter--my daughter was my +thought. Well, Dunroe, all is right at last--eh? ha--ha--ha! I managed +it; but I knew my system was the right one. Lady Dunroe!--very good, +very good to begin with; but not what I wish to see, to hear, to feel +before I die. Nurse me, now, if I died without seeing her Countess +of Cullamore, but I'd break my heart. 'Make way, there--way for the +Countess of Cullamore!'--ha! does not that sound well? But then, the old +Earl! Curse him, what keeps him on the stage so long? Away with the +old carrion!--away with him! But what was that that happened to-day, or +yesterday? Misery, torture, perdition!--disgraced, undone, ruined! Is +it true, though? Is this joy? I expected--I feared something like +this. Will no one tell me what has happened? Here, Lucy--Countess of +Cullamore!--where are you? Now, Lucy, now--put your heel on them--grind +them, my girl--remember the cold and distrustful looks your father got +from the world--especially from those of your own sex--remember it all, +now, Lucy--Countess of Cullamore, I mean--remember it, I say, my lady, +for your father's sake. Now, my girl, for pride; now for the haughty +sneer; now for the aristocratic air of disdain; now for the day of +triumph over the mob of the great vulgar. And that fellow--that reverend +old shark who would eat any one of his Christian brethren, if they were +only sent up to him disguised as a turbot--the divine old lobster, for +his thin red nose is a perfect claw--the divine old lobster couldn't +tell me whether there was a God or not. Curse him, not he; but hold, I +must not be too severe upon him: his god is his belly, and mine was my +ambition. Oh, oh! what is this--what does it all mean? What has +happened to me? Oh, I am ill, I fear: perhaps I am mad. Is the Countess +there--the Countess of Cullamore, I mean?” + +Many of his subsequent incoherencies were still more violent and +appalling, and sometimes he would have got up and committed acts of +outrage, if he had not been closely watched and restrained by force. +Whether his complaint was insanity or brain fever, or the one as +symptomatic of the other, even his medical attendants could scarcely +determine. At all events, whatever medical skill and domestic attention +could do for him was done, but with very little hopes of success. + +The effect of the scene which the worn and invalid Earl had witnessed at +Sir Thomas Gourlay's were so exhausting to his weak frame that they left +very little strength behind them. Yet he complained of no particular +illness; all he felt was, an easy but general and certain decay of his +physical powers, leaving the mind and intellect strong and clear. On the +day following the scene in the baronet's house, we must present him to +the reader seated, as usual--for he could not be prevailed upon to keep +his bed--in his arm-chair, with the papers of the day before him. Near +him, on another seat, was Sir Edward Gourlay. + +“Well, Sir Edward, the proofs, you say, have been all satisfactory.” + +“Perfectly so, my lord,” replied the young baronet; “we did not allow +yesterday to close without making everything clear. We have this morning +had counsel's opinion upon it, and the proof is considered decisive.” + +“But is Lady Emily herself aware of your attachment?” + +“Why, my lord,” replied Sir Edward, blushing a little, “I may say I +think that--ahem!--she has, in some sort, given--a--ahem!--a kind of +consent that I should speak to your lordship on the subject.' + +“My dear young friend,” said his lordship, whose voice became tremulous, +and whose face grew like the whitest ashes. + +“Have you got ill, my lord?” asked Sir Edward, a good deal alarmed: +“shall I ring for assistance?” + +“No,” replied his lordship; “no; I only wish to say that you know not +the extent of your own generosity in making this proposal.” + +“Generosity, my lord! Your lordship will pardon me. In this case I have +all the honor to receive, and nothing to confer in exchange.” + +“Hear me for a few minutes,” replied his lordship, “and after you shall +have heard me, you will then be able at least to understand whether the +proposal you make for my daughter's hand is a generous one or not. My +daughter, Sir Edward, is illegitimate.” + +“Illegitimate, my lord!” replied the other, with an evident shock which +he could not conceal. “Great God! my lord, your words are impossible.” + +“My young friend, they are both possible and true. Listen to me: + +“In early life I loved a young lady of a decayed but respectable family. +I communicated our attachment to my friends, who pronounced me a fool, +and did not hesitate to attribute my affection for her to art on the +part of the lady, and intrigue on that of her relatives. I was at the +time deeply, almost irretrievably, embarrassed. Be this as it may, I +knew that the imputations against Maria, for such was her name, as well +as against her relatives, were utterly false; and as a proof I did so, +I followed her to France, where, indeed, I had first met her. Well, we +were privately married there; for, although young at the time, I was not +without a spirit of false pride and ambition, that tended to prevent me +from acknowledging my marriage, and encountering boldly, as I ought to +have done, the resentment of my relations and the sneers of the world. +Owing to this unmanly spirit on my part, our marriage, though strictly +correct and legal in every respect, was nevertheless a private one, as +I have said. In the meantime I had entered parliament, and it is not +for me to dwell upon the popularity with which my efforts there were +attended. I consequently lived a good deal apart from my wife, whom +I had not courage to present as such to the world. Every day now +established my success in the House of Commons, and increased my +ambition. The constitution of my wife had been naturally a delicate one, +and I understood, subsequently to our union, that there had been decline +in her family to such an extent, that nearly one-half of them had died +of it. In this way we lived for four years, having no issue. About the +commencement of the fifth my wife's health began to decline, and as that +session of parliament was a very busy and a very important one, I was +but little with her. Ever since the period of our marriage, she had been +attended by a faithful maid, indeed, rather a companion, well educated +and accomplished, named Norton, subsequently married to a cousin of her +own name. After a short visit to my wife, in whose constitution decline +had now set in, and whom I ought not to have left, I returned to +parliament, more than ever ambitious for distinction. I must do myself +the justice to say that I loved her tenderly; but at the same time I +felt disappointed at not having a family. On returning to London I found +that my brother, who had opposed all notion of my marriage with peculiar +bitterness, and never spoke of my wife with respect, was himself about +to be married to one of the most fascinating creatures on whom my eyes +ever rested; and, what was equally agreeable, she had an immense fortune +in her own right, and was, besides, of a high and distinguished family. +She was beautiful, she was rich--she was, alas! ambitious. Well, we +met, we conversed, we compared minds with each other; we sang together, +we danced together, until at length we began to feel that the absence of +the one caused an unusual depression in the other. I was said to be one +of the most eloquent commoners of the day--her family were powerful--my +wife was in a decline, and recovery hopeless. Here, then, was a career +for ambition; but that was not all. I was poor--embarrassed almost +beyond hope--on the very verge of ruin. Indeed, so poor, that it was as +much owing to the inability of maintaining my wife in her proper +rank, as to fear of my friends and the world, that I did not publicly +acknowledge her. But why dwell on this? I loved the woman whose heart +and thought had belonged to my brother--loved her to madness; and soon +perceived that the passion was mutual. I had not, however, breathed a +syllable of love, nor was it ever my intention to do so. My brother, +however, was gradually thrown off, treated with coldness, and ultimately +with disdain, while no one suspected the cause. It is painful to dwell +upon subsequent occurrences. My brother grew jealous, and, being a +high-spirited young man, released Lady Emily from her engagement. I was +mad with love; and this conduct, honorable and manly as it was in him, +occasioned an explanation between me and Lady Emily, in which, weak and +vacillating as I was, in the frenzy of the moment I disclosed, avowed my +passion, and--but why proceed? We loved each other, not 'wisely, but too +well.' My brother sought and obtained a foreign lucrative appointment, +and left the country in a state of mind which it is very difficult to +describe. He refused to see me on his departure, and I have never seen +him since. + +“The human heart, my young friend, is a great mystery. I now attached +myself to Lady Emily, and was about to disclose my marriage to her; but +as the state of my wife's health was hopeless, I declined to do so, in +the expectation that a little time might set me free. My wife was then +living in a remote little village in the south of France; most of her +relatives were dead, and those who survived were at the time living in a +part of Connaught, Galway, to which any kind of intelligence, much less +foreign, seldom ever made its way. Now, I do not want to justify myself, +because I cannot do so. I said this moment that the human heart is a +great mystery. So it is. Whilst my passion for Lady Emily was literally +beyond all restraint, I nevertheless felt visitations of remorse +that were terrible. The image of my gentle Maria, sweet, contented, +affectionate, and uncomplaining, would sometimes come before me, +and--pardon me, my friend; I am very weak, but I will resume in a few +moments. Well, the struggle within me was great. I had a young duke as a +rival; but I was not only a rising man, but actually had a party in +the House of Commons. Her family, high and ambitious, were anxious to +procure my political support, and held out the prospect of a peerage. My +wife was dying; I loved Lady Emily; I was without offspring; I was +poor; I was ambitious. She was beautiful, of high family and powerful +connections; she was immensely rich, too, highly accomplished, and +enthusiastically attached to me. These were temptations. + +“At this period it so fell out that a sister of my wife's became +governess in Lady Emily's family; but the latter were ignorant of the +connection. This alarmed me, frightened me; for I feared she would +disclose my marriage. I lost no time in bringing about a private +interview with her, in which I entreated her to keep the matter secret, +stating that a short time would enable me to bring her sister with eclat +into public life. I also prevailed upon her to give up her situation, +and furnished her with money for Maria, to whom I sent her, with +an assurance that my house should ever be her home, and that it +was contrary to my wishes ever to hear my wife's sister becoming a +governess; and this indeed was true. I also wrote to my wife, to the +effect that the pressure of my parliamentary duties would prevent me +from seeing her for a couple of months. + +“In this position matters were for about a fortnight or three weeks, +when, at last, a letter reached me from my sister-in-law, giving a +detailed account of my wife's death, and stating that she and Miss +Norton were about to make a tour to Italy, for the purpose of acquiring +the language. This letter was a diabolical falsehood, Sir Edward; but it +accomplished its purpose. She had gleaned enough of intelligence in the +family, by observation and otherwise, to believe that my wife's death +alone would enable me, in a short time, to become united to Lady Emily; +and that if my marriage with her took place whilst her sister lived, I +believing her to be dead, she would punish me for what she considered my +neglect of her, and my unjustifiable attachment to another woman during +Maria's life. All communication ceased between us. My wife was unable +to write; but from what her sister stated to her, probably with +exaggerations, her pride prevented her from holding any correspondence +with a husband who refused to acknowledge his marriage with her, and +whose affections had been transferred to another. At all events, the +blow took effect. Believing her dead, and deeming myself at liberty, I +married Lady Emily, after a lapse of six months, exactly as many weeks +before the death of my first wife. Of course you perceive now, my +friend, that my last marriage was null and void; and that, hurried on by +the eager impulses of love and ambition, I did, without knowing it, an +act which has made my children illegitimate. It is true, my union with +Lady Emily was productive to me of great results. I was created an Irish +peer, in consequence of the support I gave to my wife's connections. The +next step was an earldom, with an English peerage, together with such +an accession of property in right of my wife, as made me rich beyond +my wishes. So far, you may say, I was a successful man; but the world +cannot judge of the heart, and its recollections. My second wife was +a virtuous woman, high, haughty, and correct; but notwithstanding our +early enthusiastic affection, the experiences of domestic life soon +taught us to feel, that, after all, our dispositions and tastes +were unsuitable. She was fond of show, of equipage, of fashionable +amusements, and that empty dissipation which constitutes, the substance +of aristocratic existence. I, on the contrary, when not engaged in +public life, with which I soon grew fatigued, was devoted to retirement, +to domestic enjoyment, and to the duties which devolved upon me as a +parent. I loved my children with the greatest tenderness, and applied +myself to the cultivation of their principles, and the progress of their +education. All, however, would not do. I was unhappy; unhappy, not +only in my present wife, but in the recollection of the gentle and +affectionate Maria. I now felt the full enormity of my crime against +that patient and angelic being. Her memory began to haunt me--her +virtues were ever in my thoughts; her quiet, uncomplaining submission, +her love, devotion, tenderness, all rose up in fearful array against +me, until I felt that the abiding principle of my existence was a deep +remorse, that ate its way into my happiness day by day, and has never +left me through my whole subsequent life. This, however, was attended +with some good, as it recalled me, in an especial manner, to the nobler +duties of humanity. I felt now that truth, and a high sense of honor, +could alone enable me to redeem the past, and atone for my conduct with +respect to Maria. But, above all, I felt that independence of mind, +self-restraint, and firmness of character, were virtues, principles, +what you will, without which man is but a cipher, a tool of others, or +the sport of circumstances. + +“My second wife died of a cold, caught by going rather thinly dressed +to a fashionable party too soon after the birth of Emily; and my son, +having become the pet and spoiled child of his mother and her relatives, +soon became imbued with fashionable follies, which, despite of all my +care and vigilance, I am grieved to say, have degenerated into worse and +more indefensible principles. He had not reached the period of manhood +when he altogether threw off all regard for my control over him as a +father, and led a life since of which the less that is said the better. + +“The facts connected with my second marriage have been so clearly +established that defence is hopeless. The registry of our marriage, and +of my first wife's death, have been laid before me, and Mrs. Mainwaring, +herself, was ready to substantiate and prove them by her personal +testimony. My own counsel, able and eminent men as they are, have +dissuaded me from bringing the matter to a trial, and thus making public +the disgrace which must attach to my children. You now understand, +Sir Edward, the full extent of your generosity in proposing for my +daughter's hand, and you also understand the nature of my private +communication yesterday with your uncle.” + +“But, my lord, how did your brother become aware of the circumstances +you have just mentioned?” + +“Through Mrs. Mainwaring, who thought it unjust that a profligate should +inherit so much property, with so bad a title to it, whilst there were +virtuous and honorable men to claim it justly; such are the words of a +note on the subject which I have received from her this very morning. +Thus it is that vice often punishes itself. Now, Sir Edward, I am ready +to hear you.” + +“My lord,” replied Sir Edward, “the case is so peculiar, so completely +out of the common course, that, morally speaking, I cannot look upon +your children as illegitimate. I have besides great doubts whether the +prejudice of the world, or its pride, which visits upon the head of the +innocent child the error, or crime if you will, of the guilty parent, +ought to be admitted as a principle of action in life.” + +“Yes,” replied the earl; “but on the other hand, to forbid it altogether +might tend to relax some of the best principles in man and woman. Vice +must frequently be followed up for punishment even to its consequences +as well as its immediate acts, otherwise virtue were little better than +a name. For this, however, there is a remedy--an act of parliament must +be procured to legitimatize my children. I shall take care of that, +although I may not live to see it,” * + + * This was done, and the circumstance is still remembered by + many persons in the north of Ireland. + +“Be that as it may, my lord, I cannot but think that in the eye of +religion and morality your children are certainly legitimate; all that +is against them being a point of law. For my part, I earnestly beg to +renew my proposal for the hand of Lady Emily.” + +“Then, Sir Edward, you do not feel yourself deterred by anything I have +stated?” + +“My lord, I love Lady Emily for her own sake--and for her own sake +only.” + +“Then,” replied her father, “bring her here. I feel very weak--I am +getting heavy. Yesterday's disclosures gave me a shock which I fear +will--but I trust I am prepared--go--remember, however, that my darling +child knows nothing of what I have mentioned to you--Dunroe does. I had +not courage to tell her that she has been placed by her father's pride, +by his ambition, and by his want of moral restraint, out of the pale of +life. Go, and fetch her here.” + +That they approached him with exulting hearts--that he joined their +hands, and blessed them--is all that is necessary to be mentioned now. + +In the course of that evening, a reverend dignitary of the church, Dean +Palmer, whom we have mentioned occasionally in this narrative, and a +very different man indeed from our friend Dr. Sombre, called at Sir +Thomas Goulray's to inquire after his health, and to see Miss Gourlay. +He was shown up to the drawing room, where Lucy, very weak, but still +relieved from the great evil which she had dreaded so much, soon joined +him. + +“Miss Gourlay,” said he, “I trust your father is better?” + +“He is better, sir, in mere bodily health. The cupping, and blistering, +and loss of blood from the arms, have relieved him, and his delirium has +nearly passed away; but, then, he is silent and gloomy, and depressed, +it would seem, beyond the reach of hope or consolation.” + +“Do you think he would see me?” + +“No, sir, he would not,” she replied. “Two or three clergymen have +called for that purpose; but the very mention of them threw him into a +state almost bordering on frenzy.” + +“Under these circumstances,” replied the good Dean, “it would be wrong +to press him. When he has somewhat recovered, I hope he may be prevailed +on to raise his thoughts to a better life than this. And now, my dear +young lady, I have a favor to request at your hands.” + +“At mine, sir! If there is any thing within my power--” + +“This is, I assure you.” + +“Pray, what is it, sir?” + +“Would you so far oblige me as to receive a visit from Lord Dunroe?” + +“In any other thing within the limits of my power, sir--in anything that +ought to be asked of me--I would feel great pleasure in obliging you; +but in this you must excuse me.” + +“I saw Lord Cullamore in the early part of the day,” replied Dean +Palmer, “and he told me to say, that it was his wish you should see him; +he added, that he felt it was a last request.” + +“I shall see him,” replied the generous girl, “instantly; for his +lordship's sake I shall see him, although I cannot conceive for what +purpose Lord Dunroe can wish it.” + +“It is sufficient, Miss Gourlay, that you consent to see him. He is +below in my carriage; shall I bring him up?” + +“Do so, sir. I am going to prevail, if I can, on papa, to take a +composing draught, which the doctors have ordered him. I shall return +again in a few minutes.” + +Sir Thomas Gourlay had got up some hours before, and was seated in an +armchair as she entered. + +“How do you feel now, papa?” she asked, with the utmost affection and +tenderness; “oh, do not be depressed; through all changes of life your +Lucy's affections will be with you.” + +“Lucy,” said he, “come and kiss me.” + +In a moment her arms were about his neck, and she whispered +encouragingly, whilst caressing him, “Papa, now that I have not been +thrust down that fearful abyss, believe me, we shall be very happy yet.” + +He gave her a long look; then shook his head, but did not speak. + +“Endeavor to keep up your spirits, dearest papa; you seem depressed, +but that is natural after what you have suffered. Will you take the +composing draught? It will relieve you.” + +“I believe it will, but I cannot take it from your hand; and he kept his +eyes fixed upon her with a melancholy gaze as he spoke. + +“And why not from mine, papa? Surely you would not change your mind now. +You have taken all your medicine from me, up to this moment.” + +“I will take it myself, presently, Lucy.” + +“Will you promise me, papa?” she said, endeavoring to smile. + +“Yes, Lucy, I promise you.” + +“But, papa, I had forgotten to say that Lord Dunroe has called to ask an +interview with me. He and Dean Palmer are now in the drawing-room.” + +“Have you seen him?” asked her father. + +“Not yet, papa.” + +“Will you see him?” + +“Lord Cullamore sent the Dean to me to say, that it was his earnest +request I should--his last.” + +“His last! Lucy. Well, then, see him--there is a great deal due to a +last request.” + +“Oh, yes, I shall see him. Well, good-by, papa. Remember now that you +take the composing draught; I shall return to you after I have seen Lord +Dunroe.” + +She was closing the door, when he recalled her. “Lucy,” said he, “come +here.” + +“Well, papa; well, dearest papa?” + +“Kiss me again,” said he. + +She stooped as before, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him +like a child. He took her hand in his, and looked on her with the same +long earnest look, and putting it to his lips, kissed it; and as he did, +Lucy felt a tear fall upon it. “Lucy,” said he, “I have one word to say +to you.” + +Lucy was already in tears; that one little drop--the symptom of an +emotion she had never witnessed before--and she trusted the forerunner +of a softened and repentant heart, had already melted hers. + +“Lucy,” he said, “forgive me.” + +The floodgates of her heart and of her eyes were opened at once. She +threw herself on his bosom; she kissed him, and wept long and loudly. + +He, in the meantime, had regained the dread composure, that death-like +calmness, into which he had passed from his frenzy. + +“Forgive you, papa? I do--I do, a thousand times; but I have nothing +to forgive. Do I not know that all your plans and purposes were for my +advancement, and, as you hoped, for my happiness?” + +“Lucy,” said he, “disgrace is hard to bear; but still I would have borne +it had my great object in that advancement been accomplished; but now, +here is the disgrace, yet the object lost forever. Then, my son, Lucy--I +am his murderer; but I knew it not; and even that I could get over; but +you, that is what prostrates me. And, again, to have been the puppet of +that old villain! Even that, however, I could bear; yes, everything but +you!--that was the great cast on which my whole heart was set; but now, +mocked, despised, detested, baffled, detected, defeated. However, it is +all over, like a troubled dream. Dry your eyes now,” he added, “and see +Dunroe.” + +“Would you wish to see Dean Palmer, papa?” + +“No, no, Lucy; not at all; he could do me no good. Go, now, and see +Dunroe, and do not let me be disturbed for an hour or two. You know I +have seen the body of my son to-day, and I wish I had not.” + +“I am sorry you did, papa; it has depressed you very much.” + +“Go, Lucy, go. In a couple of hours I--Go, dear; don't keep his lordship +waiting.” + +Poor Lucy's heart was in a tumult of delight as she went down stairs. +In the whole course of her life she had never witnessed in her father +anything of tender emotion until then, and the tear that fell upon her +hand she knew was the only one she ever saw him shed. + +“I have hope for papa yet,” she said to herself, as she was about to +enter the drawing-room; “I never thought I loved him so much as I find I +do now.” + +On advancing into the room, for an instant's time she seemed confused; +her confusion, however, soon became surprise--amazement, when Dean +Palmer, taking our friend the stranger by the hand, led him toward her, +exclaiming, “Allow me, Miss Gourlay, to have the honor of presenting to +you Lord Dunroe.” + +“Lord Dunroe!” exclaimed Lucy, in her turn, looking aghast with +astonishment. “What is this, sir--what means this, gentlemen? This +house, pray recollect, is a house of death and of suffering.” + +“It is the truth, Miss Gourlay,” replied the Dean. “Here stands the +veritable Lord Dunroe, whose father is now the earl of Cullamore.” + +“But, sir, I don't understand this.” + +“It is very easily understood, however, Miss Gourlay. This gentleman's +father was the late Earl's brother; and he being now dead, his son here +inherits the title of Lord Dunroe.” + +“But the late Earl's son?” + +“Has no claim to the title, Miss Gourlay. His lordship here will give +you the particulars at leisure, and on a more befitting occasion. I saw +the late Earl to-day, not long before his death. He was calm, resigned, +and full of that Christian hope which makes the death of the righteous +so beautiful. He was not, indeed, without sorrow; but it was soothed by +his confidence in the mercy of God, and his belief in the necessity and +wisdom of sorrow and affliction to purify and exalt the heart.” + +“And now, Lucy,” said the stranger--for so we shall call him +still--taking her hand in his, “I trust that all obstacles between our +union are removed at last. Our love has been strongly tested, and you +especially have suffered much. Your trust in Providence, however, like +that of Lady Gourlay, has not been in vain; and as for me, I learned +much, and I hope to learn more, from your great and noble example. I +concealed my name for many reasons: partly from delicacy to my uncle, +the late Earl, and his family; and I was partly forced to do it, in +consequence of an apprehension that I had killed a nobleman in a hasty +duel. He was not killed, however, thank God; nor was his wound so +dangerous as it looked at first; neither was I aware until afterwards +that the individual who forced me into it was my own cousin Dunroe. It +would have been very inconvenient to me to have been apprehended and +probably cast into prison at a time when I had so many interests to +look after; and, indeed, not the least of my motives was the fear +of precipitating your father's enmity against Lady Gourlay's son, by +discovering that I, who am her nephew, should have been seen about the +town of Ballytrain, where, when a boy, I had spent a good deal of my +early life. Had he known my name, he would have easily suspected my +object. Your mother was aware of my design in coming to Ireland; but as +I knew the risk of involving my uncle's children, and the good old man's +reputation besides, in a mesh of public scandal at a time when I did +not feel certain of being able to establish my claims, or rather my +father's, for I myself was indifferent to them, I resolved to keep +as quiet as possible, and not to disclose myself even to you until +necessity should compel me.” + +Much more conversation ensued in connection with matters in which our +lovers felt more or less interest. At length the gentlemen rose to +go away, when Gillespie thrust a face of horror into the door, and +exclaimed, bolting, as he spoke, behind the Dean, “O, gentlemen, for +God's sake, save me! I'll confess and acknowledge everything.” + +“What's the matter, Sir?” asked the Dean. + +“The dead man, sir; he's sitting up in the bed; and I know what he's +come back for. You're a parson, sir, and, for heaven's sake, stand +between him and me.” + +On proceeding to the room where the baronet's son had been laid out, +they found him sitting, certainly, on the bedside, wondering at the +habiliments of death which were about him. That which all had supposed +to have been death, was only a fit of catalepsy, brought on him by the +appearance of his father, who had, on more than one occasion, left a +terrible impress of himself upon his mind, and who, he had been informed +some years before, was the cause of all his sufferings. Even at the +sight of Lucy herself, he had been deeply agitated, although he could +not tell why. He was immediately attended to, a physician sent for, +and poor Lucy felt an elevation of heart and spirits which she had not +experienced for many a long day. + +“Oh, do not go,” she said to her lover and the Dean, “until I +communicate to papa this twofold intelligence of delight; your strange +good fortune, and the resurrection, I may term it, of my brother. The +very object--the great engrossing object of papa's life and ambition +gained in so wonderful a way! Do, pray, gentlemen, remain for a few +minutes until I see him. O, what delight, what ecstasy will it not give +him!” + +She accordingly went up stairs, slowly it is true, for she was weak; +and nothing further was heard except one wild and fearful scream, whose +sharp tones penetrated through the whole house. + +“Ha!” exclaimed Lord Dunroe, “here is evil. Goodness me!--it is Miss +Gourlay's voice; I know it. Let us go up; I fear something is wrong with +her father.” + +They accordingly sought the baronet's apartment, attended by the +servants, whom Lucy's wild scream had alarmed, and brought also toward +the same direction. On entering the room, the body of Lucy was found +lying beside, or rather across that of her father, whom, on removing +her, they found to be dead. Beside him lay a little phial, on which +there was no label, but the small portion of liquid that was found in +it was clear and colorless as water. It was prussic acid. Lucy was +immediately removed, and committed to the care of Alley Mahon and some +of the other females, and the body of the baronet was raised and placed +upon his own bed. The Dean and Lord Dunroe looked upon his lifeless but +stern features with a feeling of awe. + +“Alas!” exclaimed the good Dean, “and is it thus he has gone to his +great account? We shall not follow his spirit into another life; but it +is miserable to reflect that one hour's patience might have saved him to +the world and to God, and showed him, after all, that the great object +of his life had been accomplished. Blind and impatient reasoner!--what +has he done?” + +“Yes,” replied Dunroe, looking on him with a feeling of profound +melancholy; “there he lies--quiet enough now--the tumults of his strong +spirit are over forever. That terrible heart is still at last--that +fiery pulse will beat no more!” + +We have now very little to state which our readers may not anticipate. +Lucy and Lady Emily, each made happy in the great object of woman's +heart--love, only exchanged residences. + +Lucy's life was a long and bountiful blessing to her fellow-creatures. +Her feelings were never contracted within the narrow circle of her own +class, but embraced the great one of general humanity. She acted upon +the noble principle of receiving from God the ample gifts of wealth and +position, not for the purpose of wasting them in expensive and +selfish enjoyments, but for that of causing them to diffuse among her +fellow-creatures the greatest possible portion of happiness. This she +considered her high destination, and well and nobly she fulfilled it +in this, the great and true purpose of life, her husband and she went +heart-in-heart, hand-in-hand; nor were Sir Edward Gourlay, and his kind +and gentle Emily, far behind them in all their good-will and good works. + +Lord Dunroe, having no strength of character to check his profligate +impulses, was, in the course of some years, thrown off by all his high +connections, and reduced to great indigence. Norton's notion of his +character was correct. The society of that treacherous sharper was +necessary to him, and in some time after they were reconciled. Norton +ultimately became driver of a celebrated mail-coach on the great York +road, and the other, its guard; thus resolving, as it would seem, to +keep the whip-hand of the weak and foolish nobleman in every position +of life. Several of our English readers may remember them, for they were +both remarkable characters, and great favorites with the public. + +Dandy Dulcimer and Alley followed the example of their master and +mistress, and were amply provided for by their friends, with whom they +lived in confidential intimacy for the greater portion of their lives. + +Thomas Corbet, his sister, and her son, disappeared; and it was supposed +that they went to America. + +M'Bride, in a short time after the close of our narrative, took a relish +for foreign travel, and resolved to visit a certain bay of botanical +celebrity not far from the antipodes. That he might accomplish this +point with as little difficulty as possible, he asked a gentleman one +evening for the loan of his watch and purse; a circumstance which so +much tickled the fancy of a certain facetious judge of witty memory, +that, on hearing a full account of the transaction, he so far and +successfully interfered with the government as to get his expenses +during the journey defrayed by his Majesty himself. His last place of +residence in this country was a very magnificent one near Kilmainham, +where he led a private and secluded life, occasionally devoting' himself +to the progress of machinery in his hours of recreation, but uniformly +declining to take country exercise. + +Poor Trailcudgel was restored to his farm; and Lucy's brother lived +with her for many years, won back by her affection and kindness to the +perfect use of his reason; and it was well known that her children, boys +and girls, were all very fond of Uncle Thomas. + +Old Corbet took to devotion, became very religious, and lost in temper, +which was never good, as much as he seemed to gain by penitence. He died +suddenly from a fit of paralysis, brought on by the loss of a thirty +shilling note, which was stolen from his till by Mrs. M'Bride. + +On the occasion of Lucy's marriage with her lover, Father M'Mahon, +who was invited to a double wedding--both Sir Edward and Dunroe being +married on the same day--rode all the way to Dublin upon Freney the +Robber, in order that his friend might see the new saddle upon Freney, +and the priest himself upon the new saddle. Mr. Briney was also of the +party, and never was his round rosy face and comic rolling eye more +replete with humor and enjoyment; and as a reward for his integrity, as +well as for the ability with which he assisted the stranger, we may as +well mention that he was made Law Agent to both properties--a recompense +which he well deserved. We need scarcely say that old Sam and Beck were +also there; that their healths were drunk, and that old Sam told them +how there was nothing more plain than that there never was such a wife +in existence as his Beck, and that Providence all through intended Ned +to be restored to his own--he, old Sam, always acting in this +instance as Adjutant under Providence. It was clear, he said--quite +evident--everything the work of Providence on the one hand, and on the +other, _“all the heart of man!”_ + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles +Of Ballytrain, by William Carleton + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK BARONET *** + +***** This file should be named 16003-0.txt or 16003-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/0/0/16003/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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