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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]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** 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 per