Produced by David Widger





THE BLACK BARONET;

OR, THE CHRONICLES OF BALLYTRAIN.


By William Carleton



     CONTENTS:

     CHAPTER

     I.--A Mail Coach by Night, and a Bit
     of Moonshine

     II.--The Town and its Inhabitants

     III.--Paudeen Gair's Receipt how to
     make a Bad Dinner a Good One
     --The Stranger finds Fenton as
     Mysterious as Himself

     IV.--An Anonymous Letter--Lucy Gourlay
     Avows a Previous Attachment

     V.--Sir Thomas Gourlay Fails in Unmasking
     the Stranger--Mysterious Conduct of Fenton

     VI.--Extraordinary Scene between Fenton
     and the Stranger

     VII.--The Baronet attempts by Falsehood
     to urge his Daughter into
     an Avowal of her Lover's Name.

     VIII.--The Fortune-Teller--An Equivocal
     Prediction

     IX. --Candor and Dissimulation

     X. --A Family Dialogue--and a Secret
     nearly Discovered

     XI.--The Stranger's Visit to Father
     MacMahon

     XII.--Crackenfudge Outwitted by Fenton
     --The Baronet, Enraged at
     his Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her

     XIII.--The Stranger's Second Visit to
     Father MacMahon--Something
     like an Elopement

     XIV.--Crackenfudge put upon a Wrong
     Scent--Miss Gourlay takes Refuge
     with an Old Friead

     XV.--Interview between Lady Gourlay
     and the Stranger--Dandy Dulcimer
     makes a Discovery--The
     Stranger Receives Mysterious
     Communications

     XVI.--Conception and Perpetration of a
     Diabolical Plot against Fenton

     XVII.--A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's
     --Retributive Justice, or the Robber
     Robbed

     XVIII. --Dunphy visits the County Wicklow
     --Old Sam and his Wife

     XIX.--Interview between Trailcudgel
     and the Stranger--A Peep at
     Lord Dunroe and his Friend

     XX.--Interview between Lords Cullamore,
     Dunroe, and Lady Emily
     --Tom Norton's Aristocracy
     fails him--His Reception by
     Lord Cullamore

     XXI.--A Spy Rewarded--Sir Thomas
     Gourlay Charged Home by the
     Stranger with, the Removal and
     Disappearance of his Brother's Son

     XXII.--Lucy at.Summerfield Cottage

     XXIII.-- A Lunch in Summerfield Cottage.

     XXIV.--An Irish Watchhouse in the time
     of the “Charlies”

     XXV.--The Police Office -- Sir Spigot
     Sputter and Mr. Coke--An “Unfortunate
     Translator--Decision in “a Law Case”

     XXVI.-- The Priest Returns Sir Thomas's
     Money and Pistols--A Bit of
     Controversy--A New Light Begins
     to Appear

     XXVII. --Sir Thomas, who Shams Illness,
     is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring,
     who visits Him--Lucy calls upon
     Lady Gourlay, where she meets her
     Lover--Affecting Interview between
     Lucy and Lady Gourlay

     XXVIII.--Innocence and Affection
     overcome by Fraud and Hypocrisy--Lucy
     yields at Last

     XXIX.--Lord Dunroe's Affection for his
     Father--Glimpse of a new Character
     --Lord Cullamore's Rebuke to his Son,
     who greatly Refuses to give up his Friend

     XXX.--A Courtship on Novel Principles

     XXXI.--The Priest goes into Corbet's
     House very like a Thief--a Sederunt,
     with a Bright look up for Mr. Gray

     XXXII.--Discovery of the Baronet's Son
     --Who, however, is Shelved for a Time

     XXXIII.--The Priest asks for a Loan of
     Fifty Guineas, and Offers “Freney
     the Robber” as Security

     XXXIV.--Young Gourlay's Affectionate
     Interview with His Father--Risk
     of Strangulation -- Movements
     of M'Bride

     XXXV.--Lucy's Vain but Affecting
     Expostulation with her Father--Her
     Terrible Denunciation of
     Ambrose Gray

     XXXVI.--Which contains a variety of
     Matters, some to Laugh and some
     to Weep at

     XXXVII.--Dandy's Visit to Summerfield
     Cottage, where he Makes a most Ungallant
     Mistake -- Return with Tidings of both
     Mrs. Norton and Fenton--and Generously
     Patronizes his Master

     XXXVIII.--Anthony Corbet gives Important
     Documents to the Stranger--An
     Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe
     --Norton catches a Tartar

     XXXIX.--Fenton Recovered--The Mad-House

     XL.--Lady Gourlay sees her Son

     XLI.--Denouement





PREFACE.


The incidents upon which this book is founded seem to be extraordinary
and startling, but they are true; for, as Byron says, and as we all
know, “Truth is strange--stranger than Fiction.” Mr. West, brother to
the late member from Dublin, communicated them to me exactly as they
occurred, and precisely as he communicated them, have I given them
to the reader, at least, as far as I can depend upon my memory. With
respect, however, to his facts, they related only to the family which is
shadowed forth under the imaginary name of Gourlay; those connected with
the aristocratic house of Cullamore, I had from another source, and they
are equally authentic. The Lord Dunroe, son to the Earl of Cullamore, is
not many years dead, and there are thousands still living, who can bear
testimony to the life of profligacy and extravagance, which, to the very
last day of his existence, he persisted in leading. That his father was
obliged to get an act of Parliament passed to legitimize his children,
is a fact also pretty well known to many.

At first, I had some notion of writing a distinct story upon each class
of events, but, upon more mature consideration, I thought it better to
construct such a one as would enable me to work them both up into the
same narrative; thus contriving that the incidents of the one house
should be connected with those of the other, and the interest of both
deepened, not only by their connection, but their contrast. It is
unnecessary to say, that the prototypes of the families who appear upon
the stage in the novel, were, in point of fact, personally unknown
to each other, unless, probably, by name, inasmuch as they resided
in different and distant parts of the kingdom. They were, however,
contemporaneous. Such circumstances, nevertheless, matter very little
to the novelist, who can form for his characters whatsoever connections,
whether matrimonial or otherwise, he may deem most proper; and of this,
he must be considered himself as the sole, though probably not the best,
judge. The name of Red Hall, the residence of Sir Thomas Gourlay, is
purely fictitious, but not the description of it, which applies very
accurately to a magnificent family mansion not a thousand miles from
the thriving little town of Ballygawley. Since the first appearance,
however, of the work, I have accidentally discovered, from James
Frazer's admirable. “Hand-book for Ireland,” the best and most correct
work of the kind ever published, and the only one that can be relied
upon, that there actually is a residence named Red Hall in my own native
county of Tyrone. I mention this, lest the respectable family to whom it
belongs might take offence at my having made it the ancestral property
of such a man as Sir Thomas Gourlay, or the scene of his crimes and
outrages. On this point, I beg to assure them that the coincidence of
the name is purely accidental, and that, when I wrote the novel, I had
not the slightest notion that such a place actually existed. Some of
those coincidences are very odd and curious. For instance, it so happens
that there is at this moment a man named Dunphy actually residing on
Constitution Hill, and engaged in the very same line of life which I
have assigned to one of my principal characters of that name in the
novel, that of a huckster; yet of this circumstance I knew nothing. The
titles of Cullamore and Dunroe are taken from two hills, one greater
than the other, and not far asunder, in my native parish; and I have
heard it said, by the people of that neighborhood, that Sir William
Richardson, father to the late amiable Sir James Richardson Bunbury,
when expecting at the period of the Union to receive a coronet instead
of a baronetcy, had made his mind up to select either one or the other
of them as the designation of his rank.

I think I need scarcely assure my readers that old Sam Roberts, the
retired soldier, is drawn from life; and I may add, that I have scarcely
done the fine old fellow and his fine old wife sufficient justice. They
were two of the most amiable and striking originals I ever met. Both
are now dead, but I remember Sam to have been for many years engaged in
teaching the sword exercise in some of the leading schools in and about
Dublin. He ultimately gave this up, however, having been appointed to
some comfortable situation in the then Foundling Hospital, where his
Beck died, and he, poor fellow, did not, I have heard, long survive her.

Owing to painful and peculiar circumstances, with which it would be
impertinent to trouble the reader, there were originally only five
hundred copies of this work published. The individual for whom it was
originally written, but who had no more claim upon it than the Shah
of Persia, misrepresented me, or rather calumniated me, so grossly to
Messrs. Saunders & Otley, who published it, that he prevailed upon them
to threaten me with criminal proceedings for having disposed of my own
work, and I accordingly received an attorney's letter, affording me
that very agreeable intimation. Of course they soon found they had been
misled, and that it would have been not only an unparalleled outrage,
but a matter attended with too much danger, and involving too severe a
penalty to proceed in. Little I knew or suspected at the time, however,
that the sinister and unscrupulous delusions which occasioned me and
my family so much trouble, vexation, and embarrassment, were only the
foreshadowings of that pitiable and melancholy malady which not long
afterwards occasioned the unhappy man to be placed apart from society,
which, it is to be feared, he is never likely to rejoin. I allude to
those matters, not only to account for the limited number of the work
that was printed, but to satisfy those London publishers to whom the
individual in question so foully misrepresented me, that my conduct in
every transaction I have had with booksellers has been straightforward,
just, and honorable, and that I can publicly make this assertion,
without the slightest apprehension of being contradicted. That the book
was cushioned in this country, I am fully aware, and this is all I
shall say upon that part of the subject. Indeed it was never properly
published at all--never advertised--never reviewed, and, until now, lay
nearly in as much obscurity as if it had been still in manuscript. A few
copies of it got into circulating libraries, but, in point of fact,
it was never placed before the public at all. What-ever be its merits,
however, it is now in the hands of a gentleman who will do it justice,
if it fails, the fault will not at least be his.

My object in writing the book was to exhibit, in contrast, three of the
most powerful passions that can agitate the human heart--I mean love,
ambition, and revenge. To contrive the successive incidents, by which
the respective individuals on whose characters they were to operate
should manifest their influence with adequate motives, and without
departing from actual life and nature, as we observe them in action
about us, was a task which required a very close study of the human mind
when placed in peculiar circumstances. In this case the great struggle
was between love and ambition. By ambition, I do not mean the ambition
of the truly great man, who wishes to associate it with truth and
virtue, and whose object is, in the first place, to gratify it by
elevating his country and his kind; no, but that most hateful species
of it which exists in the contrivance and working out of family
arrangements and insane projects for the aggrandizement of our
offspring, under circumstances where we must know that they cannot be
accomplished without wrecking the happiness of those to whom they are
proposed. Such a passion, in its darkest aspect--and in this I
have drawn it--has nothing more in view than the cruel, selfish
and undignified object of acquiring some poor and paltry title
or distinction for a son or daughter, without reference either to
inclination or will, and too frequently in opposition to both. It
is like introducing a system of penal laws into domestic life, and
establishing the tyranny of a moral despot among the affections of the
heart. Sometimes, especially in the case of an only child, this ambition
grows to a terrific size, and its miserable victim acts with all the
unconscious violence of a monomaniac.

In Sir Thomas Gourlay, the reader will perceive that it became the great
and engrossing object of his life, and that its violence was strong in
proportion to that want of all moral restraint, which resulted from
the creed of an infidel and sceptic. And I may say here, that it was my
object to exhibit occasionally the gloomy agonies and hollow delusions
of the latter, as the hard and melancholy system on which he based
his cruel and unsparing ambition. His character was by far the most
difficult to manage. Love has an object; and, in this case, in the
person of Lucy Gourlay it had a reasonable and a noble one. Revenge has
an object; and in the person of Anthony Corbet, or Dunphy, it also
had, according to the unchristian maxims of life, an unusually strong
argument on which to work and sustain itself. But, as for Sir Thomas
Gourlay's mad ambition, I felt that, considering his sufficiently
elevated state of life, I could only compensate for its want of all
rational design, by making him scorn and reject the laws both civil and
religious by which human society is regulated, and all this because he
had blinded his eyes against the traces of Providence, rather than take
his own heart to task for its ambition. Had he been a Christian, I
do not think he could have acted as he did. He shaped his own creed,
however, and consequently, his own destiny. In Lady Edward Gourlay, I
have endeavored to draw such a character as only the true and obedient
Christian can present; and in that of his daughter, a girl endowed with
the highest principles, the best heart, and the purest sense of honor--a
woman who would have been precisely such a character as Lady Gourlay
was, had she lived longer and been subjected to the same trials.
Throughout the whole work, however, I trust that I have succeeded in
the purity and loftiness of the moral, which was to show the pernicious
effects of infidelity and scepticism, striving to sustain and justify an
insane ambition; or, in a word, I endeavored

     “To vindicate the ways of God to man.”

A literary friend of mine told me, a few days ago, that the poet
Massinger had selected the same subject for his play of. “A New Way to
pay Old Debts,” the same in which Sir Giles Overreach is the prominent
character. I ought to feel ashamed to say, as I did say, in reply
to this, that I never read the play alluded to, nor a single line of
Massinger's works; neither have I ever seen Sir Giles Overreach even
upon the stage. If, then, there should appear any resemblance in the
scope or conduct of the play or novel, or in the character of Sir
Thomas Gourlay and Overreach, I cannot be charged either with theft or
imitation, as I am utterly ignorant of the play and of the character of
Sir Giles Overreach alluded to.

I fear I have dwelt much too long on this subject, and I shall therefore
close it by a short anecdote.

Some months ago I chanced to read a work--I think by an American
writer--called, as well as I can recollect, “The Reminiscences of
a late Physician.” I felt curious to read the book, simply because I
thought that the man who could, after, “The Diary of a late Physician,”
 come out with a production so named, must possess at the least either
very great genius or the most astounding assurance. Well, I went on
perusing the work, and found almost at once that it was what is called a
catchpenny, and depended altogether, for its success, upon the fame and
reputation of its predecessor of nearly the same name. I saw the trick
at once, and bitterly regretted that I, in common I suppose with others,
had been taken in and bit. Judge of my astonishment, however, when, as I
proceeded to read the description of an American lunatic asylum, I found
it to be _literatim et verbatim_ taken--stolen--pirated--sentence by
sentence and page by page, from my own description of one in the third
volume of the first edition of this book, and which I myself took from
close observation, when, some years ago, accompanied by Dr. White, I was
searching in the Grangegorman Lunatic Asylum and in Swift's for a case
of madness arising from disappointment in love. I was then writing.
“Jane Sinclair,” and to the honor of the sex, I have to confess that
in neither of those establishments, nor any others either in or about
Dublin, could I find such a case. Here, however, in the Yankee's book,
there were neither inverted commas, nor the slightest acknowledgment of
the source from which the unprincipled felon had stolen it.

With respect to mad-houses, especially as they were conducted up until
within the last thirty years, I must say with truth, that if every fact
originating in craft, avarice, oppression, and the most unscrupulous
ambition for family wealth and hereditary rank, were known, such a dark
series of crime and cruelty would come to light as time public mind
could scarcely conceive--nay, as would shock humanity itself. Nor has
this secret system altogether departed from us. It is not long since
the police offices developed some facts rather suspicious, and pretty
plainly impressed with the stamp of the old practice. The Lunatic
Commission is now at work, and I trust it will not confine its
investigations merely to public institutions of that kind, but will,
if it possess authority to do so, strictly and rigidly examine every
private asylum for lunatics in the kingdom.

Of one other character, Ginty Cooper, I have a word to say. Any person
acquainted with the brilliant and classical little capital of Cultra,
lying on the confines of Monaghan and Cavan, will not fail to recognize
the remains of grace and beatty, which once characterized that
celebrated, and well-known individual.

With respect to the watch-house scene, and that in the police office,
together with the delineation of the. “Old Charlies,” as the guardians
of the night were then called; to which I may add the portraits of the
two magistrates; I can confidently refer to thousands now alive for
their truth. Those matters took place long before our present admirable
body of metropolitan police were established. At that period, the police
magistracies were bestowed, in most cases, from principles by no means
in opposition to the public good, and not, as now, upon gentlemen
perfectly free from party bias, and well qualified for that difficult
office by legal knowledge, honorable feeling, and a strong sense of
public duty, impartial justice, and humanity.

W Carleton.

(Dublin, October 26, 1857.)




CHAPTER I. A Mail-coach by Night, and a Bit of Moonshine.


It has been long observed, that every season sent by the Almighty has
its own peculiar beauties; yet, although this is felt to be universally
true--just as we know the sun shines, or that we cannot breathe without
air--still we are all certain that even the same seasons have brief
periods when these beauties are more sensibly felt, and diffuse a
more vivid spirit of enjoyment through all our faculties. Who has not
experienced the gentle and serene influence of a calm spring evening?
and perhaps there is not in the whole circle of the seasons anything
more delightful than the exquisite emotion with which a human heart,
not hardened by vice, or contaminated by intercourse with the world, is
softened into tenderness and a general love for the works of God, by the
pure spirit which breathes of holiness, at the close of a fine evening
in the month of March or April.

The season of spring is, in fact, the resurrection of nature to life and
happiness. Who does not remember the delight with which, in early youth,
when existence is a living poem, and all our emotions sanctify the
spirit-like inspiration--the delight, we say, with which our eye rested
upon a primrose or a daisy for the first time? And how many a long and
anxious look have we ourselves given at the peak of Knockmany, morning
after morning, that we might be able to announce, with an exulting
heart, the gratifying and glorious fact, that the snow had disappeared
from it--because we knew that then spring must have come! And that
universal song of the lark, which fills the air with music; how can we
forget the bounding joy with which our young heart drank it in as we
danced in ecstacy across the fields? Spring, in fact, is the season
dearest to the recollection of man, inasmuch as it is associated with
all that is pure, and innocent, and beautiful, in the transient annals
of his early life. There is always a mournful and pathetic spirit
mingled with our remembrances of it, which resembles the sorrow that we
feel for some beloved individual whom death withdrew from our affections
at that period of existence when youth had nearly completed its allotted
limits, and the promising manifestations of all that was virtuous
and good were filling the parental hearts with the happy hopes which
futurity held out to them. As the heart, we repeat, of such a parent
goes back to brood over the beloved memory of the early lost, so do
our recollections go back, with mingled love and sorrow, to the tender
associations of spring, which may, indeed, be said to perish and pass
away in its youth.

These reflections have been occasioned, first, by the fact that its
memory and associations are inexpressibly dear to ourselves; and,
secondly, because it is toward the close of this brief but beautiful
period of the year that our chronicles date their commencement.

One evening, in the last week of April, a coach called the “Fly” stopped
to change horses at a small village in a certain part of Ireland, which,
for the present, shall be nameless. The sun had just sunk behind the
western hills; but those mild gleams which characterize his setting at
the close of April, had communicated to the clouds that peculiarly soft
and golden tint, on which the eye loves to rest, but from which its
light was now gradually fading. When fresh horses had been put to, a
stranger, who had previously seen two large trunks secured on the
top, in a few minutes took his place beside the guard, and the coach
proceeded.

“Guard,” he inquired, after they had gone a couple of miles from the
village, “I am quite ignorant of the age of the moon. When shall we have
moonlight?”

“Not till it's far in the night, sir.”

“The coach passes through the town of Ballytrain, does it not?”

“It does, sir.”

“At what hour do we arrive there?”

“About half-past three in the morning sir.”

The stranger made no reply, but cast his eyes over the aspect of the
surrounding country.

The night was calm, warm, and balmy. In the west, where the sun had
gone down, there could still be noticed the faint traces of that subdued
splendor with which he sets in spring. The stars were up, and the whole
character of the sky and atmosphere was full of warmth, and softness,
and hope. As the eye stretched across a country that seemed to be rich
and well cultivated, it felt that dream-like charm of dim romance, which
visible darkness throws over the face of nature, and which invests
her groves, her lordly mansions, her rich campaigns, and her white
farm-houses, with a beauty that resembles the imagery of some delicious
dream, more than the realities of natural scenery.

On passing along, they could observe the careless-looking farmer driving
home his cows to be milked and put up for the night; whilst, further
on, they passed half-a-dozen cars returning home, some empty and
some loaded, from a neighboring fair or market, their drivers in high
conversation--a portion of them in friendship, some in enmity, and
in general all equally disposed, in consequence of their previous
libations, to either one or the other. Here they meet a solitary
traveler, fatigued and careworn, carrying a bundle slung over his
shoulder on the point of a stick, plodding his weary way to the next
village. Anon they were passed by a couple of gentlemen-farmers or
country squires, proceeding at a brisk trot upon their stout cobs or
bits of half-blood, as the case might be; and, by and by, a spanking
gig shoots rapidly ahead of them, driven by a smart-looking servant in
murrey-colored livery, who looks back with a sneer of contempt as he
wheels round a corner, and leaves the plebeian vehicle far behind him.

As for the stranger, he took little notice of those whom they met, be
their rank of position in life what it might; his eye was seldom off the
country on each side of him as they went along. It is true, when they
passed a village or small market-town, he glanced into the houses as
if anxious to ascertain the habits and comforts of the humbler classes.
Sometimes he could catch a glimpse of them sitting around a basket of
potatoes and salt, their miserable-looking faces lit by the dim light
of a rush-candle into the ghastly paleness of spectres. Again, he
could catch glimpses of greater happiness; and if, on the one hand, the
symptoms of poverty and distress were visible, on the other there was
the jovial comfort of the wealthy farmer's house, with the loud laughter
of its contented inmates. Nor must we omit the songs which streamed
across the fields, in the calm stillness of the hour, intimating that
they who sang them were in possession, at all events, of light, if not
of happy hearts.

As the night advanced, however, all these sounds began gradually to die
away. Nature and labor required the refreshment of rest, and, as the
coach proceeded at its steady pace, the varied evidences of waking life
became few and far between. One after another the lights, both near and
at a distance, disappeared. The roads became silent and solitary, and
the villages, as they passed through them, were sunk in repose, unless,
perhaps, where some sorrowing family were kept awake by the watchings
that were necessary at the bed of sickness or death, as was evident by
the melancholy steadiness of the lights, or the slow, cautious motion by
which they glided from one apartment to another.

The moon had now been for some time up, and the coach had just crossed a
bridge that was known to be exactly sixteen miles from the town of which
the stranger had made inquiries.

“I think,” said the latter, addressing the guard, “we are about sixteen
miles from Ballytrain.”

“You appear to know the neighborhood, sir,” replied the guard.

“I have asked you a question, sir,” replied the other, somewhat
sternly, “and, instead of answering it, you ask me another.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied the guard, smiling, “it's the
custom of the country. Yes, sir, we're exactly sixteen miles from
Ballytrain--that bridge is the mark. It's a fine country, sir, from this
to that--”

“Now, my good fellow,” replied the stranger, “I ask it as a particular
favor that you will not open your lips to me until we reach the town,
unless I ask you a question. On that condition I will give you a
half-a-crown when we get there.”

The fellow put his hand to his lips, to hint that he was mute, and
nodded, but spoke not a word, and the coach proceeded in silence.

To those who have a temperament fraught with poetry or feeling, there
can be little doubt that to pass, of a calm, delightful spring night,
under a clear, starry sky, and a bright moon, through a country
eminently picturesque and beautiful, must be one of those enjoyments
which fill the heart with a memory that lasts forever. But when we
suppose that a person, whose soul is tenderly alive to the influence of
local affections, and, who, when absent, has brooded in sorrow over the
memory of his native hills and valleys, his lakes and mountains--the
rivers, where he hunted the otter and snared the trout, and who has
never revisited them, even in his dreams, without such strong emotions
as caused him to wake with his eyelashes steeped in tears--when such a
person, full of enthusiastic affection and a strong imagination,
returns to his native place after a long absence, under the peculiar
circumstances which we are describing, we need not feel surprised that
the heart of the stranger was filled with such a conflicting tumult of
feelings and recollections as it is utterly impossible to portray.

From the moment the coach passed the bridge we have alluded to, every
hill, and residence, and river, and lake, and meadow, was familiar to
him, and he felt such an individual love and affection for them, as
if they had been capable of welcoming and feeling the presence of the
light-hearted boy, whom they had so often made happy.

In the gairish eye of day, the contemplation of this exquisite landscape
would have been neither so affecting to the heart, nor so beautiful
to the eye. He, the stranger, had not seen it for years, except in his
dreams, and now he saw it in reality, invested with that ideal beauty in
which fancy had adorned it in those visions of the night. The river, as
it gleamed dimly, according as it was lit by the light of the moon,
and the lake, as it shone with pale but visionary beauty, possessed an
interest which the light of day would never have given them. The light,
too, which lay on the sleeping groves, and made the solitary church
spires, as they went along, visible, in dim, but distant beauty, and the
clear outlines of his own mountains, unchanged and unchangeable--all,
all crowded from the force of the recollections with which they were
associated, upon his heart, and he laid himself back, and, for some
minutes, wept tears that were at once both sweet and bitter.

In proportion as they advanced toward the town of Ballytrain, the
stranger imagined that the moon shed a diviner radiance over the
surrounding country; but this impression was occasioned by the fact that
its aspect was becoming, every mile they proceeded, better and better
known to him. At length they came to a long but gradual elevation in
the road, and the stranger knew that, on reaching its eminence, he could
command a distinct view of the magnificent valley on which his native
parish lay. He begged of the coachman to stop for half a minute, and the
latter did so. The scene was indeed unrivalled. All that constitutes a
rich and cultivated country, with bold mountain scenery in the distance,
lay stretched before him. To the right wound, in dim but silver-like
beauty, a fine river, which was lost to the eye for a considerable
distance in the wood of Gallagh. To the eye of the stranger, every scene
and locality was distinct beyond belief, simply because they were
lit up, not only by the pale light of the moon, but by the purer and
stronger light of his own early affections and memories.

Now it was, indeed, that his eye caught in, at a glance, all those
places and objects that had held their ground so strongly and firmly in
his heart. The moon, though sinking, was brilliant, and the cloudless
expanse of heaven seemed to reflect her light, whilst, at the same time,
the shadows that projected from the trees, houses, and other elevated
objects, were dark and distinct in proportion to the flood of mild
effulgence which poured down upon them from the firmament. Let not
our readers hesitate to believe us when we say, that the heart of the
stranger felt touched with a kind of melancholy happiness as he passed
through their very shadows--proceeding, as they did, from objects that
he had looked upon as the friends of his youth, before life had opened
to him the dark and blotted pages of suffering and sorrow. There, dimly
shining to the right below him, was the transparent river in which he
had taken many a truant plunge, and a little further on he could see
without difficulty the white cascade tumbling down the precipice, and
mark its dim scintillations, that looked, under the light of the
moon, like masses of shivered ice, were it not that such a notion was
contradicted by the soft dash and continuous murmur of its waters.

But where was the gray mill, and the large white dwelling of the miller?
and that new-looking mansion on the elevation--it was not there in
his time, nor several others that he saw around him; and, hold--what
sacrilege is this? The coach is not upon the old road--not on that with
every turn and winding of which the light foot of his boyhood was
so familiar! What, too! the school-house down--its very foundations
razed--its light-hearted pupils, some dead, others dispersed, its master
in the dust, and its din, bustle, and monotonous murmur--all banished
and gone, like the pageantry of a dream. Such, however, is life; and
he who, on returning to his birthplace after an absence of many years,
expects to find either the country or its inhabitants as he left
them, will experience, in its most painful sense, the bitterness of
disappointment. Let every such individual prepare himself for the
consequences of death, change, and desolation.

At length the coach drove into Ballytrain, and, in a few minutes, the
passengers found themselves opposite to the sign of the Mitre, which
swung over the door of the principal inn of that remarkable town.

“Sir,” said the guard, addressing the stranger, “I think I have kept my
word.”

The latter, without making any reply, dropped five shillings into his
hand; but, in the course of a few minutes--for the coach changed horses
there--he desired him to call the waiter or landlord, or any one to whom
he could intrust his trunks until morning.

“You are going to stop in the 'Mithre,' sir, of course,” said the guard,
inquiringly.

The traveler nodded assent, and, having seen his luggage taken into the
inn, and looking, for a moment, at the town, proceeded along the shadowy
side of the main street, and, instead of seeking his bed, had, in a
short time, altogether vanished, and in a manner that was certainly
mysterious, nor did he make his appearance again until noon on the
following day.

It may be as well to state here that he was a man of about thirty,
somewhat above the middle size, and, although not clumsy, yet, on being
closely scanned, he appeared beyond question to be very compact, closely
knit, well-proportioned, and muscular. Of his dress, however, we must
say, that it was somewhat difficult to define, or rather to infer from
it whether he was a gentleman or not, or to what rank or station of life
he belonged. His hair was black and curled; his features regular; and
his mouth and nose particularly aristocratic; but that which constituted
the most striking feature of his face was a pair of black eyes, which
kindled or became mellow according to the emotions by which he happened
to be influenced.

“My good lad,” said he to “Boots,” after his return, “Will you send me
the landlord?”

“I can't, sir,” replied the other, “he's not at home.”

“Well, then, have the goodness to send me the waiter.”

“I will, sir,” replied the monkey, leaving the room with an evident
feeling of confident alacrity.

Almost immediately a good-looking girl, with Irish features, brown hair,
and pretty blue eyes, presented herself.

“Well, sir,” she said, in an interrogative tone.

“Why,” said the stranger, “I believe it is impossible to come at any
member of this establishment; I wish to see the waiter.”

“I'm the waiter, sir,” she replied, with an unconscious face.

“The deuce you are!” he exclaimed; “however,” he added, recovering
himself, “I cannot possibly wish for a better. It is very likely that I
may stay with you for some time--perhaps a few months. Will you see now
that a room and bed are prepared for me, and that my trunks are put into
my own apartment? Get a fire into my sitting-room and bedchamber. Let
my bed be well aired; and see that everything is done cleanly and
comfortably, will you?”

“Sartinly, sir, an' I hope we won't lave you much to complain of. As for
the sheets, wait till you try them. The wild myrtles of Drumgau, beyant
the demesne 'isliout, is foulded in them; an' if the smell of them won't
make you think yourself in Paradise, 'tisn't my fault.”

The stranger, on looking at her somewhat more closely, saw that she
was an exceedingly neat, tight, clean-looking young woman, fair and
youthful.

“Have you been long in the capacity of waiter, here.” he asked.

“No, sir,” she replied; “about six months.”

“Do you never keep male waiters in this establishment,” he inquired.

“Oh, yes, sir; Paudeen Gair and I generally act week about. This is my
week, sir, an' he's at the plough.”

“And where have you been at service before you came here, my good girl?”

“In Sir Thomas Gourlay's, sir.”

The stranger could not prevent himself from starting.

“In Sir Thomas Gourlay's!” he exclaimed. “And pray in what capacity were
you there?”

“I was own maid to Miss Gourlay, sir.”

“To Miss Gourlay! and how did you come to leave your situation with
her?”

“When I find you have a right to ask, sir,” she replied, “I will tell
you; but not till then.”

“I stand reproved, my good girl,” he said; “I have indeed no right to
enter into such inquiries; but I trust I have for those that are more to
the purpose. What have you for dinner?”

“Fish, flesh, and fowl, sir,” she replied, with a peculiar smile, “and a
fine fat buck from the deer-park.”

“Well, now,” said he, “that really promises well--indeed it is more than
I expected--you had no quarrel, I hope, at parting? I beg your pardon--a
fat buck, you say. Come, I will have a slice of that.”

“Very well, sir,” she replied; “what else would you wish?”

“To know, my dear, whether Sir Thomas is as severe upon her
as--ahem!--anything at all you like--I'm not particular--only don't
forget a slice of the buck, out of the haunch, my dear; and, whisper, as
you and I are likely to become better acquainted--all in a civil way,
of course--here is a trifle of earnest, as a proof that, if you be
attentive, I shall not be ungenerous.”

“I don't know,” she replied, shaking her head, and hesitating; “you're a
sly-looking gentleman--and, if I thought that you had any--”

“Design, you would say,” he replied; “no--none, at any rate, that is
improper; it is offered in a spirit of good-will and honor, and in such
you may fairly accept of it. So,” he added, as he dropped the money into
her hand, “Sir Thomas insisted that you should go? Hem!--hem!”

The girl started in her turn, and exclaimed, with a good deal of
surprise:

“Sir Thomas insisted! How did you come to know that, sir? I tould you
no such thing.”

“Certainly, my dear, you--a--a--hem--did you not say something to that
effect? Perhaps, however,” he added, apprehensive lest he might have
alarmed, or rather excited her suspicions--“perhaps I was mistaken. I
only imagined, I suppose, that you said something to that effect; but it
does not matter--I have no intimacy with the Gourlays, I assure you--I
think that is what you call them--and none at all with Sir Thomas--is
not that his name? Goodby now; I shall take a walk through the town--how
is this you name it? Ballytrain, I think--and return at five, when I
trust you will have dinner ready.”

He then put on his hat, and sauntered out, apparently to view the town
and its environs, fully satisfied that, in consequence of his having
left it when a boy, and of the changes which time and travel had wrought
in his appearance, no living individual there could possibly recognize
him.




CHAPTER II. The Town and its Inhabitants.


The town itself contained about six thousand inhabitants, had a church,
a chapel, a meeting-house, and also a place of worship for those who
belonged to the Methodist connection, It was nearly half a mile long,
lay nearly due north and south, and ran up an elevation or slight hill,
and down again on the other side, where it tapered away into a string of
cabins. It is scarcely necessary to say that it contained a main street,
three or four with less pretensions, together with a tribe of those vile
alleys which consist of a double row of beggarly cabins, or huts, facing
each other, and lying so closely, that a tall man might almost stand
with a foot on the threshold of each, or if in the middle, that is
half-way between them, he might, were he so inclined, and without moving
to either side, shake hands with the inhabitants on his right and left.
To the left, as you went up from the north, and nearly adjoining the
cathedral church, which faced you, stood a bishop's palace, behind which
lay a magnificent demesne. At that time, it is but just to say that
the chimneys of this princely residence were never smokeless, nor its
saloons silent and deserted as they are now, and have been for years.
No, the din of industry was then incessant in and about the offices of
that palace, and the song of many a light heart and happy spirit rang
sweetly in the valleys, on the plains and hills, and over the meadows
of that beautiful demesne, with its noble deer-park stretching up to the
heathy hills behind it. Many a time, when a school-boy, have we mounted
the demesne wall in question, and contemplated its meadows, waving under
the sunny breeze, together with the long strings of happy mowers, the
harmonious swing of whose scythes, associated with the cheerful noise
of their whetting, caused the very heart within us to kindle with such a
sense of pure and early enjoyment as does yet, and ever will, constitute
a portion of our best and happiest recollections.

At the period of which we write it mattered little whether the prelate
who possessed it resided at home or not. If he did not, his family
generally did; but, at all events, during their absence, or during their
residence, constant employment was given, every working-day in the year,
to at least one hundred happy and contented poor from a neighboring and
dependent village, every one of whom was of the Roman Catholic creed.

I have stood, not long ago, upon a beautiful elevation in that demesne,
and, on looking around me, I saw nothing but a deserted and gloomy
country. The happy village was gone--razed to the very foundations--the
demesne was a solitude--the songs of the reapers and mowers had
vanished, as it were, into the recesses of memory, and the magnificent
palace, dull and lonely, lay as if it were situated in some land of the
dead, where human voice or footstep had not been heard for years.

The stranger, who had gone out to view the town, found, during that
survey, little of this absence of employment, and its consequent
destitution, to disturb him. Many things, it is true, both in the town
and suburbs, were liable to objection.

Abundance there was; but, in too many instances, he could see, at a
glance, that it was accompanied by unclean and slovenly habits, and that
the processes of husbandry and tillage were disfigured by old
usages, that were not only painful to contemplate, but disgraceful to
civilization.

The stranger was proceeding down the town, when he came in contact with
a ragged, dissipated-looking young man, who had, however, about him the
evidences of having seen better days. The latter touched his hat to him,
and observed, “You seem to be examining our town, sir?”

“Pray, what is your name?” inquired the stranger, without seeming to
notice the question.

“Why, for the present, sir,” he replied, “I beg to insinuate that I am
rather under a cloud; and, if you have no objection, would prefer to
remain anonymous, or to preserve my incognito, as they say, for some
time longer.”

“Have you no alias, by which you may be known?”

“Unquestionably, an alias I have,” replied the other; “for as to passing
through life, in the broad, anonymous sense, without some token to
distinguish you by, the thing, to a man like me, is impossible. I am
consequently known as Frank Fenton, a name I borrowed from a former
friend of mine, an old school-fellow, who, while he lived, was, like
myself, a bit of an original in his way. How do you like our town, sir,”
 he added, changing the subject.

“I have seen too little of it,” replied the stranger, “to judge. Is this
your native town, Mr. Fenton,” he added.

“No, sir; not my native town,” replied Fenton; “but I have resided here
from hand to mouth long enough to know almost every individual in the
barony at large.”

During this dialogue, the stranger eyed Fenton, as he called himself,
very closely; in fact, he watched every feature of his with a degree of
curiosity and doubt that was exceedingly singular.

“Have you, sir, been here before.” asked Fenton; “or is this your first
visit?”

“It is not my first visit,” replied the other; “but it is likely I shall
reside here for some months.”

“For the benefit of your health, I presume,” asked modest Frank.

“My good friend,” replied the stranger, “I wish to make an observation.
It is possible, I say, that I may remain here for some months; now,
pray, attend, and mark me--whenever you and I chance, on any future
occasion, to meet, it is to be understood between us that you are to
answer me in anything I ask, which you know, and I to answer you in
nothing, unless I wish it.”

“Thank you, sir,” he replied, with a low and not ungraceful bow; “that's
a compliment all to the one side, like Clogher.” *

     * The proverb is pretty general throughout Tyrone. The town
     of Clogher consists of only a single string of houses.

“Very well,” returned the stranger; “I have something to add, in order
to make this arrangement more palatable to you.”

“Hold, sir,” replied the other; “before you proceed further, you must
understand me. I shall pledge myself under no terms--and I care not what
they may be--to answer any question that may throw light upon my own
personal identity, or past history.”

“That will not be necessary,” replied the stranger.

“What do you mean, sir,” asked Fenton, starting; “do you mean to hint
that you know me?”

“Nonsense,” said the other; “how could I know a man whom I never saw
before? No; it is merely concerning the local history of Ballytrain and
its inhabitants that I am speaking.”

There was a slight degree of dry irony, however, on his face, as he
spoke.

“Well,” said the other, “in the mean time, I don't see why I am to
comply with a condition so dictatorially laid down by a person of whom I
know nothing.”

“Why, the truth is,” said our strange friend, “that you are evidently a
lively and intelligent fellow, not badly educated; I think--and, as it
is likely that you have no very direct connection with the inhabitants
of the town and surrounding country, I take it for granted that, in the
way of mere amusement, you may be able to--”

“Hem! I see--to give you all the scandal of the place for miles about;
that is what you would say? and so I can. But suppose a spark of the
gentleman should--should--but come, hang it, that is gone, hopelessly
gone. What is your wish?”

“In the first place, to see you better clothed. Excuse me--and, if I
offend you, say so--but it is not my wish to say anything that might
occasion you pain. Are you given to liquor?”

“Much oftener than liquor is given to me, I assure you; it is my meat,
drink, washing, and lodging--without it I must die. And, harkee, now;
when I meet a man I like, and who, after all, has a touch of humanity
and truth about him, to such a man, I say, I myself am all truth, at
whatever cost; but to every other--to your knave, your hypocrite, or
your trimmer, for instance, all falsehood--deep, downright, wanton
falsehood. In fact, I would scorn to throw away truth upon them.

“You are badly dressed.”

“Ah! after all, how little is known of the human heart and character!”
 exclaimed Fenton. “The subject of dress and the associations connected
with it have all been effaced from my mind and feelings for years. So
long as we are capable of looking to our dress, there is always a sense
of honor and self-respect left. Dress I never think of, unless as a mere
animal protection against the elements.”

“Well, then,” observed the other, surveying this unfortunate wretch with
compassion, “whether all perception of honor and self-respect is lost in
you I care not. Here are five pounds for you; that is to say--and pray
understand me--I commit them absolutely to your own keeping--your own
honor, your self-respect, or by whatever name you are pleased to call
it. Purchase plain clothes, get better linen, a hat and shoes: when this
is done, if you have strength of mind and resolution of character to do
it, come to me at the head inn, where I stop, and I will only ask
you, in return, to tell me anything you know or have heard about such
subjects as may chance to occur to me at the moment.”

On receiving the money, the poor fellow fastened his eyes on it with
such an expression of amazement as defies description. His physical
strength and constitution, in consequence of the life he led, were
nearly gone--a circumstance which did not escape the keen eye of
the stranger, on whose face there was an evident expression of deep
compassion. The unfortunate Frank Fenton trembled from head to foot, his
face became deadly pale, and after surveying the notes for a time, he
held them out to the other, exclaiming, as he extended his hand--

“No, no! have it, no! You are a decent fellow, and I will not impose
upon you. Take back your money; I know myself too well to accept of it.
I never could keep money, and I wouldn't have a shilling of this in my
possession at the expiration of forty-eight hours.”

“Even so,” replied the stranger, “it comes not back to me again.
Drink it--eat it--spend it is you may; but I rely on your own honor,
notwithstanding what you say, to apply it to a better purpose.”

“Well, now, let me see,” said Fenton, musing, and as if in a kind of
soliloquy; “you are a good fellow, no doubt of it--that is, if you have
no lurking, dishonest design in all this. Let me see. Why, now, it is
a long time since I have had the enormous sum of five shillings in my
possession, much less the amount of the national debt, which I presume
must be pretty close upon five pounds; and in honest bank notes, too.
One, two, three--ha!--eh! eh!--oh yes,” he proceeded, evidently struck
with some discovery that astonished him. “Ay!” he exclaimed, looking
keenly at a certain name that happened to be written upon one of the
notes; “well, it is all right! Thank you, sir; I will keep the money.”




CHAPTER III. Pauden Gair's Receipt how to make a Bad Dinner a Good One

--The Stranger finds Fenton as mysterious as Himself.


The stranger, on reaching the inn, had not long to wait for dinner,
which, to his disappointment, was anything but what he had been taught
to expect. The fair “waiter” had led his imagination a very ludicrous
dance, indeed, having, as Shakspeare says, kept the word of promise to
his ear, but broken it to his hope, and, what was still worse, to
his appetite. On sitting down, he found before him two excellent salt
herrings to begin with; and on ringing the bell to inquire why he was
provided with such a dainty, the male waiter himself, who had finished
the field he had been ploughing, made his appearance, after a delay of
about five minutes, very coolly wiping his mouth, for he had been at
dinner.

“Are you the waiter,” asked the stranger, sharply.

“No, sir, I'm not the waiter, myself; but I and Peggy Moylan is.”

“And why didn't you come when I rang for you at first?”

“I was just finishin' my dinner, sir,” replied the other, pulling a bone
of a herring from between his teeth, then going over and deliberately
throwing it into the fire.

The stranger was silent with astonishment, and, in truth, felt a
stronger inclination to laugh than to scold him. This fellow, thought
he, is clearly an original; I must draw him out a little.

“Why, sir,” he proceeded, “was I served with a pair of d--d salt
herrings, as a part of my dinner?”

“Whist, sir,” replied the fellow, “don't curse anything that
God--blessed be his name--has made; it's not right, it's sinful.”

“But why was I served with two salt herrings, I ask again?”

“Why wor you sarved with them?--Why, wasn't it what we had ourselves?”

“Was I not promised venison?”

“Who promised it to you?”

“That female waiter of yours.”

“Peggy Moylan? Well, then, I tell you the fau't wasn't hers. We had a
party o' gintlemen out here last week, and the sorra drop of it they
left behind them. Devil a drop of venison there is in the house now.
You're an Englishman, at any rate, sir, I think by your discourse?”

“Was I not promised part of a fat buck from the demesne adjoining, and
where is it? I thought I was to have fish, flesh, and fowl.”

“Well, and haven't you fish.” replied the fellow. “What do you call
them!” he added, pointing to the herrings; “an' as to a fat buck, faith,
it isn't part of one, but a whole one you have. What do you call that.”
 He lifted an old battered tin cover, and discovered a rabbit, gathered
up as if it were in the act of starting for its burrow. “You see, Peggy,
sir, always keeps her word; for it was a buck rabbit she meant. Well,
now, there's the fish and the flesh; and here,” he proceeded, uncovering
another dish, “is the fowl.”

[Illustration: PAGE 329-- A pair of enormous legs, with spurs on them]

On lifting the cover, a pair of enormous legs, with spurs on them an
inch and a half long, were projected at full length toward the guest, as
if the old cock--for such it was--were determined to defend himself to
the last.

“Well,” said the stranger, “all I can say is, that I have got a very bad
dinner.”

“Well, an' what suppose? Sure it has been many a betther man's case.
However, you have one remedy; always ait the more of it--that's the sure
card; ever and always when you have a bad dinner, ait, I say, the more
of it. I don't, think, sir, beggin' your pardon, that you've seen much
of the world yet.”

“Why do you think so,” asked the other, who could with difficulty
restrain his mirth at the fellow's cool self-sufficiency and assurance.

“Because, sir, no man that has seen the world, and knows its ups and
downs, would complain of sich a dinner as that. Do you wish for any
liquor? But maybe you don't. It's not every one carries a full purse
these times; so, at any rate, have the sense not to go beyant your
manes, or whatsomever allowance you get.”

“Allowance! what do you mean by allowance?”

“I mane,” he replied, “that there's not such a crew of barefaced liars
on the airth as you English travellers, as they call you. What do you
think, but one of them had the imperance to tell me that he was allowed
a guinea a-day to live on! Troth, I crossed mysolf, and bid him go about
his business, an' that I didn't think the house or place was safe while
he was in it--for it's I that has the mortal hatred of a liar.”

“What liquor have you got in the house?”

“No--if there's one thing on airth that I hate worse than another, it's
a man that shuffles--that won't tell the truth, or give you a straight
answer. We have plenty o' liquor in the house--more than you'll use, at
any rate.”

“But what descriptions? How many kinds? for instance--”

“Kinds enough, for that matther--all sorts and sizes of liquor.”

“Have you any wine?”

“Wine! Well, now, let me speak to you as a friend; sure, 't is n't wine
you'd be thinking of?”

“But, if I pay for it?”

“Pay for it--ay, and break yourself--go beyant your manes, as I
said. No, no--I'll give you no wine--it would be only aidin' you in
extravagance, an' I wouldn't have the sin of it to answer for. We have
all enough, and too much to answer for, God knows.”

The last observation was made _sotto voce_, and with the serious manner
of a man who uttered it under a deep sense of religious truth.

“Well,” replied the stranger, “since you won't allow me wine, have you
no cheaper liquor? I am not in the habit of dining without something
stronger than water.”

“So much the worse for yourself. We have good porther.”

“Bring me a bottle of it, then.”

“It's beautiful on draught.”

“But I prefer it in bottle.”

“I don't doubt it. Lord help us! how few is it that knows what's good
for them! Will you give up your own will for wanst, and be guided by a
wiser man? for health--an' sure health's before everything--for health,
ever and always prefer draught porther.”

“Well, then, since it must be draught, I shall prefer draught ale.”

“Rank poison. Troth, somehow I feel a liking for you, an' for that very
reason, devil a drop of draught ale I'll allow to cross your lips. Jist
be guided by me, an' you'll find that your health an' pocket will both
be the betther for it. Troth, it's fat and rosy I'll have you in no
time, all out, if you stop with us. Now ait your good dinner, and I'll
bring you the porther immediately.”

“What's your name.” asked the stranger, “before you go.”

“I'll tell you when I come back--wait till I bring you the portlier,
first.”

In the course of about fifteen mortal, minutes, he returned with a quart
of porter in his hand, exclaiming--

“Bad luck to them for pigs, they got into the garden, and I had to drive
them out, and cut a lump of a bush to stop the gap wid; however, I think
they won't go back that way again. My name you want? Why, then, my name
is Paudeen Gair--that is, Sharpe, sir; but, in troth, it is n't Sharpe
by name and Sharpe by nature wid me, although you'd get them that 'ud
say otherwise.”

“How long have you been here,” asked the other.

“I've been laborin' for the master goin' on fourteen years; but I'm only
about twelve months attendin' table.”

“How long has your fellow-servant--Peggy, I think, you call her--been
here?”

“Not long.”

“Where had she been before, do you know.”

“Do I know, is it? Maybe 'tis you may say that.”

“What do you mean? I don't understand you.”

“I know that well enough, and it is n't my intention you should.”

“In what family was she at service.”

“Whisper;--in a bad family, wid _one_ exception. God protect _her_, the
darlin'. Amin! _A wurra yeelsh!_ may the curse that's hanging over him
never fall upon her this day!”

A kind and complacent spirit beamed in the fine eyes of the stranger, as
the waiter uttered these benevolent invocations; and, putting his hand
in his pocket, he said,

“My good friend Paudeen, I am richer than you are disposed to give me
credit for; I see you are a good-hearted fellow, and here's a crown for
you.”

“No! consumin' to the farden, till I know whether you're able to afford
it or not. It's always them that has least of it, unfortunately, that's
readiest to give it. I have known many a foolish creature to do what you
are doing, when, if the truth was known, they could badly spare it; but,
at any rate, wait till I deserve it; for, upon my reputaytion, I won't
finger a testher of it sooner.”

He then withdrew, and left the other to finish his dinner as best he
might.

For the next three or four days the stranger confined himself mostly
to his room, unless about dusk, when he glided out very quietly, and
disappeared rather like a spirit than anything else; for, in point of
fact, no one could tell what had become of him, or where he could have
concealed himself, during these brief but mysterious absences. Paudeen
Gair and Peggy observed that he wrote at least three or four letters
every day, and knew that he must have put them into the post-office with
his own hands, inasmuch as no person connected with the inn had been
employed for that purpose.

On the fourth day, after breakfast, and as Pat Sharpe--by which version
of his name he was sometimes addressed--was about to take away the
things, his guest entered into conversation with him as follows:

“Paudeen, my good friend, can you tell me where the wild, ragged fellow,
called Fenton, could be found?”

“I can, sir. Fenton? Begorra, you'd hardly know him if you seen him;
he's as smooth as a new pin--has a plain, daicent suit o' clothes on
him. It's whispered about among us this long time, that, if he had his
rights, he'd be entitled to a great property; and some people say now
that he has come into a part of it.”

“And pray, what else do they say of him?”

“Wiry, then, I heard Father M'Mahon himself say that he had great
learnin', an' must a' had fine broughten-up, an' could, act the real
gintleman whenever he wished.”

“Is it known who he is, or whether he is a native of this neighborhood?”

“No, sir; he doesn't belong to this neighborhood; an' the truth is,
that nobody here that ever I heard of knows anything at all, barrin'
guesswork, about the unfortunate poor creature. If ever he was a
gintleman,” exclaimed the kind-hearted waiter, “he's surely to be
pitied, when one sees the state he's brought to.”

“Well, Paudeen, will you fetch him to me, if you know where he is? Say I
wish to see him.”

“What name, if you plaise,” asked the waiter, with assumed indifference;
for the truth was, that the whole establishment felt a very natural
curiosity to know who the stranger was.

“Never mind the name, Paudeen, but say as I desire you.”

Paudeen had no sooner disappeared than the anonymous gentleman went to
one of his trunks, and, pulling out a very small miniature, surveyed
it for nearly half a minute; he then looked into the fire, and seemed
absorbed in long and deep reflection. At length, after once more gazing
closely and earnestly at it, he broke involuntarily into the following
soliloquy:

“I know,” he exclaimed, “that resemblances are often deceitful, and not
to be depended upon. In this case, however, there is scarcely a trace
that could constitute any particular peculiarity--a peculiarity
which, if it existed, would strengthen--I know not whether to say--my
suspicions or my hopes. The early disappearance of that poor boy,
without the existence of a single vestige by which he could be traced,
resembles one of those mysteries that are found only in romances. The
general opinion is, that he has been made away with, and is long dead;
yet of late, a different impression has gone abroad, although we know
not exactly how it has originated.”

He then paced, with a countenance of gloom, uncertainty, and deep
anxiety, through the room, and after a little time, proceeded:

“I shall, at all events, enter into conversation with this person, after
which I will make inquiries concerning the gentry and nobility of the
neighborhood when I think I shall be able to observe whether he
will pass the Gourlay family over, or betray any consciousness of a
particular knowledge of their past or present circumstances. 'Tis true,
he may overreach me; but if he does, I cannot help it. Yet, after all,”
 he proceeded, “if he should prove to be the person I seek, everything
may go well; I certainly observed faint traces of an honorable feeling
about him when I gave him the money, which, notwithstanding his
indigence and dissipation, he for a time refused to take.”

He then resumed his seat, and seemed once more buried in thought and
abstraction.

Our friend Paudeen was not long in finding the unfortunate object of the
stranger's contemplation and interest. On meeting him, he perceived that
he was slightly affected with liquor, as indeed was the case generally
whenever he could procure it.

“Misther Fenton,” said Paudeen, “there's a daicent person in our house
that wishes to see you.”

“Who do you call a decent person, you bog-trotting Ganymede.” replied
the other.

“Why, a daicent tradesman, I think, from--thin sorra one of me knows
whether I ought to say from Dublin or London.”

“What trade, Ganymede?”

“Troth, that's more than I can tell; but I know that he wants you, for
he sent me to bring you to him.”

“Well, Ganymede, I shall see your tradesman,” he replied. “Come, I shall
go to him.”

On reaching the inn, Paudeen, in order to discharge the commission
intrusted to him fully, ushered Fenton upstairs, and into the stranger's
sitting-room. “What's this,” exclaimed Fenton. “Why, you have brought me
to the wrong room, you blundering villain. I thought you were conducting
me to some worthy tradesman. You have mistaken the room, you blockhead;
this is a gentleman. How do you do, sir? I hope you will excuse this
intrusion; it is quite unintentional on my part; yet I am glad to see
you.”

“There is no mistake at all in it,” replied the other, laughing. “That
will do, Paudeen,” he added, “thank you.”

“Faix,” said Paudeen to himself, when descending the stairs, “I'm afeard
that's no tradesman--whatever he is. He took on him a look like a lord
when that unfortunate Fenton went into the room. Troth, I'm fairly
puzzled, at any rate!”

“Take a seat, Mr. Fenton,” said the stranger, handing him a chair, and
addressing him in terms of respect.

“Thank, you, sir,” replied the other, putting, at the same time, a
certain degree of restraint upon his maimer, for he felt conscious of
being slightly influenced by liquor.

“Well,” continued the stranger, “I am glad to see that you have improved
your appearance.”

“Ay, certainly, sir, as far as four pounds--or, I should rather say,
three pounds went, I did something for the outer man.”

“Why not the five?” asked the other. “I wished you to make yourself as
comfortable as possible, and did not imagine you could have done it for
less.”

“No, sir, not properly, according to the standard of a gentleman; but I
assure you, that, if I were in a state of utter and absolute starvation,
I would not part with one of the notes you so generously gave me,
scarcely to save my life.”

“No!” exclaimed the stranger, with a good deal of surprise. “And pray,
why not, may I ask?”

“Simply,” said Fenton, “because I have taken a fancy for it beyond its
value. I shall retain it as pocket-money. Like the Vicar of Wakefield's
daughters, I shall always keep it about me; and then, like them also, I
will never want money.”

“That is a strange whim,” observed the other, “and rather an
unaccountable one, besides.”

“Not in the slightest degree,” replied Fenton, “if you knew as much as
I do; but, at all events, just imagine that I am both capricious and
eccentric; so don't be surprised at anything I say or do.”

“Neither shall I,” replied “the anonymous” “However, to come to other
matters, pray what kind of a town is this of Ballytrain?”

“It is by no means a bad town,” replied Fenton, “as towns and times
go. It has a market-house, a gaol, a church, as you have seen--a
Roman Catholic chapel, and a place of worship for the Presbyterian and
Methodist. It has, besides, that characteristic locality, either
of English legislation or Irish crimes--or, perhaps, of both--a
gallows-green. It has a public pump, that has been permitted to run dry,
and public stocks for limbs like those of your humble servant, that are
permitted to stand (the stocks I mean) as a libel upon the inoffensive
morals of the town.”

“How are commercial matters in it?”

“Tolerable. Our shopkeepers are all very fair as shopkeepers. But,
talking of that, perhaps you are not aware of a singular custom which
even I--for I am not a native of this place--have seen in it?”

“What may it have been.” asked the stranger.

“Why, it was this: Of a fair or market-day,” he proceeded, “there lived
a certain shopkeeper here, who is some time dead--and I mention this to
show you how the laws were respected in this country; this shopkeeper,
sir, of a fair or market-day had a post that ran from his counter to
the ceiling; to this post was attached a single handcuff, and it always
happened that, when any person was caught in the act of committing a
theft in his shop, one arm of the offender was stretched up to this
handcuff, into which the wrist was locked; and, as the handcuff was
movable, so that it might be raised up or down, according to the height
of the culprit, it was generally fastened so that the latter was forced
to stand upon the top of his toes so long as was agreeable to the
shopkeeper of whom I speak.”

“You do not mean to say,” replied his companion, who, by the way, had
witnessed the circumstances ten times for Fenton's once, “that such
an outrage upon the right of the subject, and such a contempt for the
administration of law and justice, could actually occur in a Christian
and civilized country?”

“I state to you a fact, sir,” replied Fen-ton, “which I have witnessed
with my own eyes; but we have still stranger and worse usages in this
locality.”

“What description of gentry and landed proprietors have you in the
neighborhood?”

“Hum! as to that, there are some good, more bad, and many indifferent,
among them. Their great fault in general is, that they are incapable of
sympathizing, as they ought, with their dependents. The pride of class,
and the influence of creed besides, are too frequently impediments, not
only to the progress of their own independence, but to the improvement
of their tenantry. Then, many of them employ servile, plausible, and
unprincipled agents, who, provided they wring the rent, by every species
of severity and oppression, out of the people, are considered by their
employers valuable and honest servants, faithfully devoted to their
interests; whilst the fact on the other side is, that the unfortunate
tenantry are every day so rapidly retrograding from prosperity, that
most of the neglected and oppressed who possess means to leave the
country emigrate to America.”

“Why, Fenton, I did not think that you looked so deeply into the state
and condition of the country. Have you no good specimens of character in
or about the town itself?”

“Unquestionably, sir. Look out now from this window,” he proceeded, and
he went to it as he spoke, accompanied by the stranger; “do you see,”
 he added, “that unostentatious shop, with the name of James Trimble over
the door?”

“Certainly,” replied the other, “I see it most distinctly.”

“Well, sir, in that shop lives a man who is ten times a greater
benefactor to this town and neighborhood than is the honorable and right
reverend the lordly prelate, whose silent and untenanted palace stands
immediately behind us. In every position in which you find him, this
admirable but unassuming man is always the friend of the poor. When an
industrious family, who find that they cannot wring independence, by
hard and honest labor, out of the farms or other little tenements
which they hold, have resolved to seek it in a more prosperous country,
America, the first man to whom they apply, if deficient in means to
accomplish their purpose, is James Trimble. In him they find a friend,
if he knows, as he usually does, that they have passed through life with
a character of worth and hereditary integrity. If they want a portion of
their outfit, and possess not means to procure it, in kind-hearted
James Trimble they are certain to find a friend, who will supply their
necessities upon the strength of their bare promise to repay him.
Honor,--then--honor, sir, I say again, to the unexampled faith,
truth, and high principle of the industrious Irish peasant, who, in no
instance, even although the broad Atlantic has been placed between them,
has been known to defraud James Trimble of a single shilling. In all
parochial and public meetings--in every position where his influence
can be used--he is uniformly the friend of the poor, whilst his high
but unassuming sense of honor, his successful industry, and his firm,
unshrinking independence, make him equally appreciated and respected
by the rich and poor. In fact, it is such men as this who are the
most unostentatious but practical benefactors to the lower and middle
classes.”

He had proceeded thus far, when a carriage-and-four came dashing up the
street, and stopped at the very shop which belonged to the subject
of Fenton's eulogium. Both went to the window at the same moment, and
looked out.

“Pray, whose carriage is that.” asked the stranger, fastening his eyes,
with a look of intense scrutiny, upon Fenton's face.

“That, sir,” he replied, “is the carriage of Sir Thomas Gourlay.”

As he spoke, the door of it was opened, and a lady of surpassing
elegance and beauty stepped out of it, and entered the shop of the
benevolent James Trimble.

“Pray, who is that charming girl?” asked the stranger again.

To this interrogatory, however, he received no reply. Poor Fenton
tottered over to a chair, became pale as death, and trembled with such
violence that he was incapable, for the time, of uttering a single word.

“Do you know, or have you ever known, this family?” asked the other.

After a pause of more than a minute, during which the emotion subsided,
he replied:

“I have already said that I could not--” he paused. “I am not well,”
 said he; “I am quite feeble--in fact, not in a condition to answer
anything. Do not, therefore, ask me--for the present, at least.”

Fifteen or twenty minutes had elapsed before he succeeded in mastering
this singular attack. At length he rose, and placing his chair somewhat
further back from the window, continued to look out in silence, not so
much from love of silence, as apparently from inability to speak. The
stranger, in the mean time, eyed him keenly; and as he examined his
features from time to time, it might be observed that an expression
of satisfaction, if not almost of certainty, settled upon his own
countenance. In a quarter of an hour, the sound of the carriage-wheels
was heard on its return, and Fenton, who seemed to dread also a return
of his illness, said:

“For heaven's sake, sir, be good enough to raise the window and let in
air. Thank you, sir.”

The carriage, on this occasion, was proceeding more slowly than
before--in fact, owing to a slight acclivity in that part of the street,
the horses were leisurely walking past the inn window at the moment the
stranger raised it. The noise of the ascending sash reached Miss Gourlay
(for it was she), who, on looking up, crimsoned deeply, and, with one
long taper finger on her lips, as if to intimate caution and silence,
bowed to the stranger. The latter, who had presence of mind enough to
observe the hint, did not bow in return, and consequently declined to
appropriate the compliment to himself. Fenton now surveyed his companion
with an appearance of as much interest and curiosity as the other had
bestowed on him. He felt, however, as if his physical powers were wholly
prostrated.

“I am very weak,” said he, bitterly, “and near the close of my brief and
unhappy day. I have, however, one cure--get me drink--drink, I say; that
is what will revive me. Sir, my life, for the last fourteen years, has
been a battle against thought; and without drink I should be a madman--a
madman! oh, God!”

The other remonstrated with him in vain; but he was inexorable, and
began to get fierce and frantic. At length, it occurred to him, that
perhaps the influence of liquor might render this strange individual
more communicative, and that by this means he might succeed in relieving
himself of his doubts--for he still had doubts touching Fenton's
identity. In this, however, he was disappointed, as a circumstance
occurred which prevented him from then gratifying Fenton's wish, or
winning him into confidence.




CHAPTER IV. An Anonymous Letter

--Lucy Gourlay avows a previous Attachment.


Whilst Fenton was thus sketching for the stranger a few of the public
characters of Ballytrain, a scene, which we must interrupt them to
describe, was taking place in the coffee-room of the “Mitre.” As
everything, however, has an origin, it is necessary, before we raise the
curtain, which, for the present, excludes us from that scene, to enable
the reader to become acquainted with the cause of it. That morning,
after breakfast, Sir Thomas Gourlay went to his study, where, as usual,
he began to read his letters and endorse them--for he happened to be one
of those orderly and exact men who cannot bear to see even a trifle
out of its place. Having despatched three or four, he took up one--the
last--and on opening it read, much to his astonishment and dismay, as
follows;

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,--There is an adventurer in disguise near you.
Beware of your daughter, and watch her well, otherwise she may give you
the slip. I write this, that you may prevent her from throwing herself
away upon an impostor and profligate. I am a friend to her, but none to
you; and it is on her account, as well as for the sake of another, that
you are now warned.”

On perusing this uncomfortable document, his whole frame became moved
with a most vehement fit of indignation. He rose from his seat, and
began to traverse the floor with lengthy and solemn strides, as a man
usually does who knows not exactly on whom to vent his rage. There hung
a large mirror before him, and, as he approached it from time to time,
he could not help being struck by the repulsive expression of his own
features. He was a tall, weighty man, of large bones and muscles; his
complexion was sallow, on a black ground; his face firm, but angular;
and his forehead, which was low, projected a good deal over a pair of
black eyes, in one of which there was a fearful squint. His eyebrows,
which met, were black, fierce-looking, and bushy, and, when agitated,
as now, with passion, they presented, taken in connection with his
hard, irascible lips, short irregular teeth and whole complexion, an
expression singularly stern and malignant.

On looking at his own image, he could not help feeling the conviction,
that the visage which presented itself to him was not such a one as was
calculated to diminish the unpopularity which accompanied him wherever
he went, and the obloquy which hung over his name.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, however, although an exceedingly forbidding and
ugly man, was neither a fool nor novice in the ways of the world. No man
could look upon his plotting forehead, and sunken eyes closely placed,
without feeling at once that he was naturally cunning and circumventive.
Nor was this all; along with being deep and designing, he was also
subject to sudden bursts of passion, which, although usual in such a
temperament, did not suddenly pass away. On the contrary, they were
sometimes at once so tempestuous and abiding, that he had been rendered
ill by their fury, and forced to take to his bed for days together.
On the present occasion, a considerable portion of his indignation was
caused by the fact, that he knew not the individual against whom to
direct it. His daughter, as a daughter, had been to him an object of
perfect indifference, from the day of her birth up to that moment; that
is to say, he was utterly devoid of all personal love and tenderness
for her, whilst, at the same time, he experienced, in its full force, a
cold, conventional ambition, which, although without honor, principle,
or affection, yet occasioned him to devote all his efforts and energies
to her proper establishment in the world. In her early youth, for
instance, she had suffered much from delicate health, so much, indeed,
that she was more than once on the very verge of death; yet, on no
occasion, was he ever known to manifest the slightest parental sorrow
for her illness. Society, however, is filled with such fathers, and with
too many mothers of a like stamp. So far, however, as Lucy Gourlay was
concerned, this proud, unprincipled spirit of the world supplied to her,
to a certain extent at least, the possession of that which affection
ought to have given. Her education was attended to with the most
solicitous anxiety--not in order to furnish her mind with that healthy
description of knowledge which strengthens principle and elevates the
heart, but that she might become a perfect mistress of all the necessary
and fashionable accomplishments, and shine, at a future day, an object
of attraction on that account. A long and expensive array of masters,
mistresses, and finishers, from almost every climate and country of
Europe, were engaged in her education, and the consequence was, that few
young persons of her age and sex were more highly accomplished. If his
daughter's head ached, her father never suffered that circumstance to
disturb the cold, stern tenor of his ambitious way; but, at the same
time, two or three of the most eminent physicians were sent for, as a
matter of course, and then there were nothing but consultations until
she recovered. Had she died, Sir Thomas Gourlay would not have shed one
tear, but he would have had all the pomp and ceremony due to her station
in life solemnly paraded at her funeral, and it is very likely that one
or other of our eminent countrymen, Hogan or M'Dowall, had they then
existed, would have been engaged to erect her a monument.

And yet the feeling which he experienced, and which regulated his life,
was, after all, but a poor pitiful parody upon true ambition. The latter
is a great and glorious principle, because, where it exists, it never
fails to expand the heart, and to prompt it to the performance of all
those actions that elevate our condition and dignify our nature. Had he
experienced anything like such a feeling as this, or even the beautiful
instincts of parental affection, he would not have neglected, as he
did, the inculcation of all those virtues and principles which render
education valuable, and prevent it from degenerating into an empty
parade of mere accomplishments.

It is true, Sir Thomas Gourlay enjoyed the reputation of being an
admirable father, and, indeed, from mere worldly principle he was so,
and we presume gave himself credit for being so. In the mean time, our
readers are to learn that earth scarcely contained a man who possessed
a greedier or more rapacious spirit; and, if ever the demon of envy,
especially with respect to the possession of wealth and property,
tortured the soul of a human being, it did that of our baronet. His
whole spirit, in fact, was dark, mean, and intensely selfish; and for
this reason, it was a fearful thing for any one to stand in his way when
in the execution of his sordid projects, much less to attempt his
defeat in their attainment. Reckless and unscrupulous, he left no means
unattempted, however odious and wicked, to crush those who offended him,
or such as stood in the way of his love of wealth and ambition.

For some minutes after the perusal of the anonymous letter, one would
have imagined that the image which met his gaze, from time to time, in
the looking-glass, was that of his worst and deadliest enemy, so fierce
and menacing were the glances which he cast on it as he paced the floor.
At length he took up the document, and, having read it again, exclaimed:

“Perhaps, after all, I'm angry to no purpose; certainly to no purpose,
in one sense, I am, inasmuch as I know not who this anonymous person
is. But stay, let me be cautious--is there such a person? May this
communication not be a false one--written to mislead or provoke me? Lucy
knows that I am determined she shall marry Lord Dunroe, and I am not
aware that she entertains any peculiar objection to him. In the mean
time, I will have some conversation with her, in order to ascertain what
her present and immediate feeling on the subject is. It is right that I
should see my way in this.”

He accordingly rang the bell, when a well-powdered footman, in rich
livery, entered.

“Let Miss Gourlay understand that I wish to see her.”

This he uttered in a loud, sharp tone of voice, for it was in such he
uniformly addressed his dependents.

The lackey bowed and withdrew, and, in the course of a few minutes, his
daughter entered the study, and stood before him. At the first
glance, she saw that something had discomposed him, and felt a kind of
instinctive impression that it was more or less connected with herself.

Seldom, indeed, was such a contrast between man and woman ever
witnessed, as that which presented itself on this occasion. There
stood the large, ungainly, almost misshapen father, with a countenance
distorted, by the consequences of ill-suppressed passion, into a deeper
deformity--a deformity that was rendered ludicrously hideous, by a
squint that gave, as we have said, to one of his eyes, as he looked at
her, the almost literal expression of a dagger. Before him, on the other
hand, stood a girl, whose stature was above the middle height, with a
form that breathed of elegance, ease, and that exquisite grace
which marks every look, and word, and motion of the high-minded and
accomplished lady. Indeed, one would imagine that her appearance would
have soothed and tranquillized the anger of any parent capable of
feeling that glowing and prideful tenderness, with which such an
exquisitely beautiful creature was calculated to fill a parent's heart.
Lucy Gourlay was a dark beauty--a brunette so richly tinted, that the
glow of her cheek was only surpassed by the flashing brilliancy of her
large, dark eyes, that seemed, in those glorious manifestations, to
kindle with inspiration. Her forehead was eminently intellectual, and
her general temperament--Celtic by the mother's side--was remarkable
for those fascinating transitions of spirit which passed over her
countenance like the gloom and sunshine of the early summer. Nothing
could be more delightful, nor, at the same time, more dangerous, than to
watch that countenance whilst moving under the influence of melancholy,
and to observe how quickly the depths of feeling, or the impulses of
tenderness, threw their delicious shadows into its expression--unless,
indeed, to watch the same face when lit up by humor, and animated into
radiance by mirth. Such is a faint outline of Lucy Gourlay, who, whether
in shadow or whether in light, was equally captivating and irresistible.

On entering the room, her father, incapable of appreciating even the
natural graced and beauty of her person, looked at her with a gaze of
sternness and inquiry for some moments, but seemed at a loss in what
terms to address her. She, however, spoke first, simply saying:

“Has anything discomposed you, papa?”

“I have been discomposed, Miss Gourlay”--for he seldom addressed her as
Lucy--“and I wish to have some serious conversation with you. Pray be
seated.”

Lucy sat.

“I trust, Miss Gourlay,” he proceeded, in a style partly interrogatory
and partly didactic--“I trust you are perfectly sensible that a child
like you owes full and unlimited obedience to her parents.”

“So long, at least, sir, as her parents exact no duties from her that
are either unreasonable or unjust, or calculated to destroy her own
happiness. With these limitations, I reply in the affirmative.”

“A girl like you, Miss Gourlay, has no right to make exceptions. Your
want of experience, which is only another name for your ignorance of
life, renders you incompetent to form an estimate of what constitutes,
or may constitute, your happiness.”

“Happiness!--in what sense, sir?”

“In any sense, madam.”

“Madam!” she replied, with much feeling. “Dear papa--if you will allow
me to call you so--why address me in a tone of such coldness, if not
of severity? All I ask of you is, that, when you do honor me by an
interview, you will remember that I am your daughter, and not speak to
me as you would to an utter stranger.”

“The tone which I may assume toward you, Miss Gourlay, must be regulated
by your own obedience.”

“But in what have I ever failed in obedience to you, my dear papa?”

“Perhaps you compliment your obedience prematurely, Lucy--it has never
yet been seriously tested.”

Her beautiful face crimsoned at this assertion; for she well knew that
many a severe imposition had been placed upon her during girlhood, and
that, had she been any other girl than she was, her very youth would
have been forced into opposition to commands that originated in whim,
caprice, and selfishness. Even when countenanced, however, by the
authority of her other parent, and absolutely urged against compliance
with injunctions that were often cruel and oppressive, she preferred, at
any risk, to accommodate herself to them rather than become the cause of
estrangement or ill-feeling between him and her mother, or her mother's
friends. Such a charge as this, then, was not only ungenerous, but, as
he must have well known, utterly unfounded.

“I do not wish, sir,” she replied, “to make any allusion to the past,
unless simply to say, that, if severe and trying instances of obedience
have been exacted from me, under very peculiar circumstances, I trust I
have not been found wanting in my duty to you.”

“That obedience, Miss Gourlay, which is reluctantly given, had better
been forgotten.”

“You have forced me to remember it in my own defence, papa; but I am not
conscious that it was reluctant.”

“You contradict me, madam.”

“No, sir; I only take the liberty of setting you right. My obedience,
if you recollect, was cheerful; for I did not wish to occasion ill-will
between you and mamma--my dear mamma.”

“I believe you considered that you had only one parent, Miss Gourlay?”

“That loved me, sir, you would add. But, papa, why should there be such
a dialogue as this between you and your daughter--your orphan
daughter, and your only child? It is not natural, Something, I see, has
discomposed your temper; I am ignorant of it.”

“I made you aware, some time ago, that the Earl of Cullamore and I had
entered into a matrimonial arrangement between you and his son, Lord
Dunroe.”

A deadly paleness settled upon her countenance at these words--a
paleness the more obvious, as it contrasted so strongly with the
previous rich hue of her complexion, which had been already heightened
by the wanton harshness of her father's manner. The baronet's eyes, or
rather his eye, was fixed upon her with a severity which this incident
rapidly increased.

“You grow pale, Miss Gourlay; and there seems to be something in this
allusion to Lord Dunroe that is painful to you. How is this, madam? I do
not understand it.”

“I am, indeed, pale, and I feel that I am; for what is there that could
drive the hue of modesty from the cheek of a daughter, sooner than
the fact of her own father purposing to unite her to a profligate? You
seldom jest, papa; but I hope you do so now.”

“I am not disposed to make a jest of your happiness, Miss Gourlay.”

“Nor of my misery, papa. You surely cannot but know--nay, you cannot
but feel--that a marriage between me and Lord Dunroe is impossible. His
profligacy is so gross, that his very name is indelicate in the mouth
of a modest woman. And is this the man to whom you would unite your only
child and daughter? But I trust you still jest, sir. As a man, and
a gentleman, much less as a parent, you would not think seriously of
making such a proposal to me?”

“All very fine sentiment--very fine stuff and nonsense, madam; the
young man is a little wild--somewhat lavish in expenditure--and for the
present not very select in the company he keeps; but he is no fool, as
they say, and we all know how marriage reforms a man, and thoroughly
sobers him down.”

“Often at the expense, papa,” she replied with tears, “of many a broken
heart. That surely, is not a happy argument; for, perhaps, after all,
I should, like others, become but a victim to my ineffectual efforts at
his reformation.”

“There is one thing, Miss Gourlay, you are certain to become, and that
is, Countess of Cullamore, at his father's death. Remember this; and.
remember also, that, victim or no victim, I am determined you shall
marry him. Yes, you shall marry him,” he added, stamping with vehemence,
“or be turned a beggar upon the world. Become a victim, indeed! Begone,
madam, to your room, and prepare for that obedience which your mother
never taught you.”

She rose as he spoke, and with a graceful inclination of her head,
silently withdrew.

This dialogue caused both father and daughter much pain. Certain
portions of it, especially near the close, were calculated to force
upon the memory of each, analogies that were as distressing to the
warm-hearted girl, as they were embarrassing to her parent. The truth
was, that her mother, then a year dead, had indeed become a victim to
the moral profligacy of a man in whose character there existed nothing
whatsoever to compensate her for the utter absence of domestic affection
in all its phases. His principal vices, so far as they affected the
peace of his family, were a brutal temper, and a most scandalous
dishonesty in pecuniary transactions, especially in his intercourse with
his own tenantry and tradesmen. Of moral obligation he seemed to possess
no sense or impression whatever. A single day never occurred in which
he was not guilty of some most dishonorable violation of his word to the
poor, and those who were dependent on him. Ill-temper therefore toward
herself, and the necessity of constantly witnessing a series of vile
and unmanly frauds upon a miserable scale, together with her incessant
efforts to instil into his mind some slight principle of common
integrity, had, during an unhappy life, so completely harassed a mind
naturally pure and gentle, and a constitution never strong, that, as
her daughter hinted, and as every one intimate with the family knew, she
literally fell a victim to the vices we have named, and the incessant
anxiety they occasioned her. These analogies, then, when unconsciously
alluded to by his daughter, brought tears to her eyes, and he felt that
the very grief she evinced was an indirect reproach to himself.

“Now,” he exclaimed, after she had gone, “it is clear, I think, that
the girl entertains something more than a mere moral objection to this
match. I would have taxed her with some previous engagement, but that I
fear it would be premature to do so at present. Dunroe is wild, no doubt
of it; but I cannot believe that women, who are naturally vain and fond
of display, feel so much alarm at this as they pretend. I never did
myself care much about the sex, and seldom had an opportunity of
studying their general character, or testing their principles; but
still I incline to the opinion, that, where there is not a previous
engagement, rank and wealth will, for the most part, outweigh every
other consideration. In the meantime I will ride into Ballytrain, and
reconnoitre a little. Perhaps the contents, of this communication are
true--perhaps not; but, at all events, it can be no harm to look about
me in a quiet way.”

He then read the letter a third time--examined the handwriting
closely--locked it in a private drawer--rang the bell--ordered his
horse--and in a few minutes was about to proceed to the “Mitre” inn,
in order to make secret inquiries after such persons as he might find
located in that or the other establishments of the town. At this moment,
his daughter once more entered the apartment, her face glowing with deep
agitation, and her large, mellow eyes lit up with a fixed, and, if one
could judge, a lofty purpose. Her reception, we need hardly say, was
severe and harsh.

“How, madam,” he exclaimed, “did I not order you to your room? Do you
return to bandy undutiful hints and arguments with me?”

“Father,” said she, “I am not ignorant, alas! of your stern and
indomitable character; but, upon the subject of forced and unsuitable
matches, I may and I do appeal directly to the experience of your own
married life, and of that of my beloved mother. She was, unhappily for
herself--”

“And for me, Miss Gourlay--”

“Well, perhaps so; but if ever woman was qualified to make a man happy,
she was. At all events, sir, unhappily she was forced into marriage
with you, and you deliberately took to your bosom a reluctant bride. She
possessed extraordinary beauty, and a large fortune. I, however, am not
about to enter into your heart, or analyze its motives; it is enough to
say that, although she had no previous engagement or affection for any
other, she was literally dragged by the force of parental authority
into a union with you. The consequence was, that her whole life, owing
to--to--the unsuitableness of your tempers, and the strongly-contrasted
materials which formed your characters, was one of almost unexampled
suffering and sorrow. With this example before my eyes, and with the
memory of it brooding over and darkening your own heart--yes,
papa--my dear papa, let me call you with the full and most distressing
recollections connected with it strong upon both of us, let me entreat
and implore that you will not urge nor force me into a union with
this hateful and repulsive profligate. I go upon my knees to you, and
entreat, as you regard my happiness, my honor, and my future peace of
mind, that you will not attempt to unite me to this most unprincipled
and dishonorable young man.”

Her father's brow grew black as a thunder-cloud; the veins of his
temples swelled up, as if they had been filled with ink, and, after a
few hasty strides through the study, he turned upon her such a look of
fury as we need not attempt to describe.

“Miss Gourlay,” said he, in a voice dreadfully deep and stern, “there
is not an allusion made in that undutiful harangue--for so I must call
it--that does not determine me to accomplish my purpose in effecting
this union. If your mother was unhappy, the fault lay in her own weak
and morbid temper. As for me, I now tell you, once for all, that your
destiny is either beggary or a coronet; on that I am resolved!”

She stood before him like one who had drawn strength from the full
knowledge of her fate. Her face, it is true, had become pale, but it was
the paleness of a calm but lofty spirit, and she replied, with a full
and clear voice:

“I said, sir--for I had her own sacred assurance for it--that my mother,
when she married you, had no previous engagement; it is not so with your
daughter--my affections are fixed upon another.”

There are some natures so essentially tyrannical, and to whom resistance
is a matter of such extraordinary novelty, that its manifestation
absolutely surprises them out of their natural character. In this
manner Sir Thomas Gourlay was affected. Instead of flying into a fresh
hurricane of rage, he felt so completely astounded, that he was only
capable of turning round to her, and asking, in a voice unusually calm:

“Pray name him, Miss Gourlay.”

“In that, sir, you will excuse me--for the present. The day may come,
and I trust soon will, when I can do so with honor. And now, sir, having
considered it my duty not to conceal this fact from your knowledge, I
will, with your permission, withdraw to my own apartment.”

She paid him, with her own peculiar grace, the usual obeisance, and left
the room. The stem and overbearing Sir Thomas Gourlay now felt himself
so completely taken aback by her extraordinary candor and firmness, that
he was only able to stand and look after her in silent amazement.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “I have reason to thank her for this important
piece of information. She has herself admitted a previous attachment.
So far my doubts are cleared up, and I feel perfectly certain that the
anonymous information is correct. It now remains for me to find out
who the object of this attachment is. I have no doubt that he is in the
neighborhood; and, if so, I shall know how to manage him.”

He then mounted his horse, and rode into Ballytrain, with what purpose
it is now unnecessary, we trust, to trouble the reader at farther
length.




CHAPTER V.  Sir Thomas Gourlay fails in unmasking the Stranger

--Mysterious Conduct of Fenton


When Sir Thomas Gourlay, after the delay of better than an hour in town,
entered the coffee-room of the “Mitre,” he was immediately attended by
the landlord himself.

“Who is this new guest you have got, landlord,” inquired the
baronet--“They tell me he is a very mysterious gentleman, and that no
one can discover his name. Do! you know anything about him?”

“De'il a syllable, Sir Tammas,” replied the landlord, who was a
northern--“How ir you, Counsellor Crackenfudge,” he added, speaking
to a person who passed upstairs--“There he goes,” proceeded Jack the
landlord--“a nice boy. But do you know, Sir Tammas, why he changed his
name to Crackenfudge?”

Sir Thomas's face at this moment, had grown frightful. While the
landlord was speaking, the baronet, attracted by the noise of a carriage
passing, turned to observe it, just at the moment when his daughter was
bowing so significantly to the stranger in the window over them, as
we have before stated. Here was a new light thrown upon the mystery or
mysteries by which he felt himself surrounded on all hands. The strange
guest in the Mitre inn, was then, beyond question, the very individual
alluded to in the anonymous letter. The baronet's face had, in the
scowl of wrath, got black, as mine host was speaking. This expression,
however, gradually diminished in the darkness of that wrathful shadow
which lay over it. After a severe internal struggle with his tremendous
passions, he at length seemed to cool down. His face became totally
changed; and in a few minutes of silence and struggle, it passed from
the blackness of almost ungovernable rage to a pallid hue, that might
not most aptly be compared to the summit of a volcano covered with snow,
when about to project its most awful and formidable eruptions.

The landlord, while putting the question to the baronet, turned his
sharp, piercing eyes upon him, and, at a single glance, perceived that
something had unusually moved him.

“Sir Tammas,” said he, “there is no use in denyin' it, now--the blood's
disturbed in you.”

“Give your guest my compliments--Sir Thomas Gourlay's compliments--and I
should feel obliged by a short interview.”

On going up, Jack found the stranger and Fenton as we have already
described them--“Sir,” said he, addressing the former--“there's a
gentleman below who wishes to know who you ir.”

“Who I am!” returned the other, quite unmoved; “and, pray who may he
be?”

“Sir Tammas Gourlay; an' all tell you what, if you don't wish to see
him, why don't see him. A 'll take him the message, an' if there's
anything about you that you don't wish to be known or heard, make
him keep his distance. He's this minute in a de'il of a passion about
something, an' was comin' up as if he'd ait you without salt, but a'
would n't allow it; so, if you don't wish to see him, am the boy won't
be afeard to say so. He's not coming as a friend, a' can tell you.”

“Sir Thomas Gourlay's in the house, then,” said the stranger, with a
good deal of surprise. He then paused for some time, and, during this
pause, he very naturally concluded that the baronet had witnessed his
daughter's bow, so cautiously and significantly made to himself as she
passed. Whilst he turned over these matters in his mind, the landlord
addressed Fenton as follows:

“You can go to another room, Fenton. A'm glad to see you in a decent
suit of clothes, any way--a' hope you'll take yourself up, and avoid
drink and low company; for de'il a haet good ever the same two brought
anybody; but, before you go, a'll give you a gless o' grog to drink the
Glorious Memory. Come, now, tramp, like a good fellow.”

“I have a particular wish,” said the stranger, “that Mr. Fenton should
remain; and say to Sir Thomas Gourlay that I am ready to see him.”

“A' say, then,” said Jack, in a friendly whisper, “be on your edge with
him, for, if he finds you saft, the very de'il won't stand him.”

“The gentleman, Sir Tammas,” said Jack, on going down stairs, “will be
glad to see you. He's overhead.”

Fenton, himself, on hearing that Sir Thomas was about to come up,
prepared to depart; but the other besought him so earnestly to stay,
that he consented, although with evident reluctance. He brought his
chair over to a corner of the room, as if he wished to be as much out of
the way as possible, or, it may be, as far from Sir Thomas's eye, as
the size of the apartment would permit. Be this as it may, Sir Thomas
entered, and brought his ungainly person nearly to the centre of
the room before he spoke. At length he did so, but took care not to
accompany his words with that courtesy of manner, or those rules of
good-breeding, which ever prevail among gentlemen, whether as friends or
foes. After standing for a moment, he glanced from the one to the other,
his face still hideously pale; and ultimately, fixing his eye upon the
stranger, he viewed him from head to foot, and again from foot to head,
with a look of such contemptuous curiosity, as certainly was strongly
calculated to excite the stranger's indignation. Finding the baronet
spoke not, the other did.

“To what am I to attribute the honor of this visit, sir?”

Sir Thomas even then did not speak, but still kept looking at him with
the expression we have described. At length he did speak:

“You have been residing for some time in our neighborhood, sir.” The
stranger simply bowed.

“May I ask how long?”

“I have the honor, I believe, of addressing Sir Thomas Gourlay?”

“Yes, you have that honor.”

“And may I beg to know his object in paying me this unceremonious
visit, in which he does not condescend either to announce himself, or to
observe the usual rules of good-breeding?”

“From my rank and known position in this part of the country, and in my
capacity also as a magistrate, sir,” replied the baronet, “I'm entitled
to make such inquiries as I may deem necessary from those who appear
here under suspicious circumstances.”

“Perhaps you may think so, but I am of opinion, sir, that you would
consult the honor of the rank and position you allude to much more
effectually, by letting such inquiries fall within the proper province
of the executive officers of law, whenever you think there is a
necessity for it.”

“Excuse me, but, in that manner, I shall follow my own judgment, not
yours.”

“And under what circumstances of suspicion do you deem me to stand at
present?”

“Very strong circumstances. You have been now living here nearly a week,
in a privacy which no gentleman would ever think of observing. You have
hemmed yourself in by a mystery, sir; you have studiously concealed your
name--your connections--and defaced every mark by which you could be
known or traced. This, sir, is not the conduct of a gentleman; and
argues either actual or premeditated guilt.”

“You seem heated, sir, and you also reason in resentment, whatever may
have occasioned it. And so a gentleman is not to make an excursion to a
country town in a quiet way--perhaps to recruit his health, perhaps to
relax his mind, perhaps to gratify a whim--but he must be pounced upon
by some outrageous dispenser of magisterial justice, who thinks,
that, because he wishes to live quietly and unknown, he must be some
cutthroat, or raw-head-and-bloody-bones coming to eat half the country?”

“I dare say, sir, that is all very fine, and very humorous; but when
these mysterious vagabonds--”

The eye of the stranger blazed; lightning itself, in fact, was not
quicker than the fire which gleamed from it, as the baronet uttered the
last words. He walked over deliberately, but with a step replete with
energy and determination:

“How, sir,” said he, “do you dare to apply such an expression to me?”

The baronet's eye quailed. He paused a moment, during which he could
perceive that the stranger had a spirit not to be tampered with.

“No, sir,” he replied, “not exactly to you, but when persons such as
you come in this skulking way, probably for the purpose of insinuating
themselves into families of rank--”

“Have I, sir, attempted to insinuate myself into yours,” asked the
stranger, interrupting him.

“When such persons come under circumstances of strong suspicion,”
 said the other, without replying to him, “it is the business of every
gentleman in the country to keep a vigilant eye upon them.”

“I shall hold myself accountable to no such gentleman,” replied the
stranger; “but will consider every man, no matter what his rank or
character may be, as unwarrantably impertinent, who arrogantly attempts
to intrude himself in affairs that don't--” he was about to add, “that
don't concern him,” when he paused, and added, “into any man's affairs.
Every man has a right to travel incognito, and to live incognito, if he
chooses; and, on that account, sir, so long as I wish to maintain mine,
I shall allow no man to assume the right of penetrating it. If this has
been the object of your visit, you will much oblige me by relinquishing
the one, and putting an end to the other, as soon as may be.”

“As a magistrate, sir, I demand to know your name,” said the baronet,
who thought that, in the stranger's momentary hesitation, he had
observed symptoms of yielding.

“As an independent man, sir, and a gentleman, I shall not answer such a
question.”

“You brave me, sir--you defy me.” continued the other, his face still
pale, but baleful in its expression.

“Yes, sir,” replied the other, “I brave you--I defy you.”

“Very well, sir,” returned the baronet--“remember these words.”

“I am not in the habit of forgetting anything that a man of spirit
ought to remember,” said the other--“I have the honor of wishing you a
good-morning.”

The baronet withdrew in a passion that had risen to red heat, and was
proceeding to mount his horse at the door, when Counsellor Crackenfudge,
who had followed him downstairs, thus addressed him:

“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas; I happened to be sitting in the
back-room while you were speaking to that strange fellow above; I pledge
you my honor I did not listen; but I could not help overhearing, you
know--well, Sir Thomas, I can tell you something about him.”

“How!” said the baronet, whose eye I gleamed with delight--“Can you, in
truth, tell me anything about him, Mr. Crackenfudge? You will oblige me
very much if you do.”

“I will tell you all I know about him, Sir Thomas,” replied the worthy
counsellor; “and that is, that I know he has paid many secret visits to
Mr. Birney the attorney.”

“To Birney!” exclaimed the other; and, as he spoke, he seemed actually
to stagger back a step or two, whilst the paleness of his complexion
increased to a hue that was ghastly--“to Birney!--to my blackest
and bitterest enemy--to the man who, I suspect, has important
family documents of mine in his possession. Thanks, even for this,
Crackenfudge--you are looking to become of the peace. Hearken now; aid
me in ferreting out this lurking scoundrel, and I shall not forget your
wishes.” He then rode homewards.

The stranger, during this stormy dialogue with Sir Thomas Gourlay,
turned his eye, from time to time, toward Fenton, who appeared to have
lost consciousness itself so long as the baronet was in the room. On the
departure, however, of that gentleman, he went over to him, and said:

“Why, Fenton, what's the matter?” Fenton looked at him with a face of
great distress, from which the perspiration was pouring, but seemed
utterly unable to speak.




CHAPTER VI. Extraordinary Scene between Fenton and the Stranger.

The character of Fenton was one that presented an extraordinary variety
of phases. With the exception of the firmness and pertinacity with which
he kept the mysterious secret of his origin and identity--that is, if
he himself knew them, he was never known to maintain the same moral
temperament for a week together. Never did there exist a being so
capricious and unstable. At one time, you found him all ingenuousness
and candor; at another, no earthly power could extort a syllable of
truth from his lips. For whole days, if not for weeks together, he
dealt in nothing but the wildest fiction, and the most extraordinary and
grotesque rodomontade. The consequence was, that no reliance could be
placed on anything he said or asserted. And yet--which appeared to
be rather unaccountable in such a character--it could be frequently
observed that he was subject to occasional periods of the deepest
dejection. During those painful and gloomy visitations, he avoided
all intercourse with his fellow-men, took to wandering through the
country--rarely spoke to anybody, whether stranger or acquaintance, but
maintained the strictest and most extraordinary silence. If he passed a
house at meal-time he entered, and, without either preface or apology,
quietly sat down and joined them. To this freedom on his part, in a
country so hospitable as Ireland in the days of her prosperity was, and
could afford to be, no one ever thought of objecting.

“It was,” observed the people, “only the poor young gentleman who is not
right in the head.”

So that the very malady which they imputed to him was only a passport
to their kindness and compassion. Fenton had no fixed residence, nor any
available means of support, save the compassionate and generous interest
which the inhabitants of Ballytrain took in him, in consequence of those
gentlemanly manners which he could assume whenever he wished, and the
desolate position in which some unknown train of circumstances had
unfortunately placed him.

When laboring under these depressing moods to which we have alluded,
his memory seemed filled with recollections that, so far as appearances
went, absolutely stupefied his heart by the heaviness of the suffering
they occasioned it; and, when that heart, therefore, sank as far as its
powers of endurance could withstand this depression, he uniformly had
recourse to the dangerous relief afforded by indulgence in the fiery
stimulant of liquor, to which he was at all times addicted.

Such is a slightly detailed sketch of an individual whose fate is deeply
involved in the incidents and progress of our narrative.

The horror which we have described as having fallen upon this
unfortunate young man, during Sir Thomas Gourlay's stormy interview with
the stranger, so far from subsiding, as might be supposed, after his
departure, assumed the shape of something bordering on insanity. On
looking at his companion, the wild but deep expression of his eyes began
to change into one of absolute frenzy, a circumstance which could not
escape the stranger's observation, and which, placed as he was in the
pursuit of an important secret, awoke a still deeper interest, whilst at
the same time it occasioned him much pain.

“Mr. Fenton,” said he, “I certainly have no wish, by any proceeding
incompatible with an ungentlemanly feeling of impertinent curiosity, to
become acquainted with the cause of this unusual excitement, which the
appearance of Miss Gourlay and her father seems to produce upon you,
unless in so far as its disclosure, in honorable confidence, might
enable me, as a person sincerely your friend, to allay or remove it.”

“Suppose, sir, you are mistaken.” replied the other--“Do you not know
that there are memories arising from association, that are touched and
kindled into great pain, by objects that are by no means the direct
cause of them, or the cause of them in any sense?”

“I admit the truth of what you say, Mr. Fenton; but we can only draw our
first inferences from appearances. It is not from any idle or prurient
desire to become acquainted with the cause of your emotion that I
speak, but simply from a wish to serve you, if you will permit me. It is
distressing to witness what you suffer.”

“I have experienced,” said Fenton, whose excitement seemed not only to
rise as he proceeded, but in a considerable degree to give that fervor
and elevation to his language, which excitement often gives; “yes, sir,”
 he proceeded, his eyes kindling almost into fury, “I have experienced
much treacherous and malignant sympathy, under the guise of pretended
friendship--sympathy! why do I say sympathy? Persecution--vengeance.
Yes, sir, till I have become mad--or--or nearly so. No,” he added, “I
am not mad--I never was mad--but I understand your object--avaunt,
sir--begone--or I shall throw you out of the window.”

“Be calm, Mr. Fenton--be calm,” replied the stranger, “and collect
yourself. I am, indeed, sincerely your friend.”

“Who told you, sir, that I was mad?”

“I never said so, Mr. Fenton.”

“It matters not, sir--you are a traitor--and as such I denounce you.
This room is mine, sir, and I shall forthwith expel you from it--” and,
as he spoke, he started up, and sprung at the stranger, who, on
seeing him rise for the purpose, instantly rang the bell. The waiter
immediately entered, and found the latter holding poor Fenton by the
two wrists, and with such a tremendous grasp as made him feel like an
infant, in point of strength, in his hands.

“This is unmeaning violence, sir,” exclaimed the latter, calmly but
firmly, “unless you explain yourself, and give a reason for it. If you
are moved by any peculiar cause of horror, or apprehension, or danger,
why not enable me to understand it, in order that you may feel assured
of my anxious disposition to assist you?”

“Gintlemen,” exclaimed Paudeen, “what in the name of Pether White and
Billy Neelins is the reason of this? But I needn't ax--it's one of Mr.
Fenton's tantrams--an' the occasion of it was, lying snug and warm
this mornin', in one of Andy Trimble's whiskey barrels. For shame, Mr.
Fenton, you they say a gintleman born, and to thrate one of your own
rank--a gintleman that befriended you as he did, and put a daicint shoot
of clo'es on your miserable carcase; when you know that before he did
it, if the wind was blowing from the thirty-two points of the compass,
you had an openin' for every point, if they wor double the number.
Troth, now, you're ongrateful, an' if God hasn't said it, you'll thravel
from an onpenitent death-bed yet. Be quiet, will you, or my sinful sowl
to glory, but I'll bundle you downstairs?”

“He will be quiet, Pat,” said the stranger. “In truth, after all, this
is a mere physical malady, Mr. Fenton, and will pass away immediately,
if you will only sit down and collect yourself a little.”

Fenton, however, made another unavailable attempt at struggle, and
found that he was only exhausting himself to no purpose. All at once, or
rather following up his previous suspicions, he seemed to look upon the
powerful individual who held him, as a person who had become suddenly
invested with a new character that increased his terrors; and yet, if
we may say so, almost forced him into an anxiety to suppress their
manifestation. His limbs, however, began to tremble excessively; his
eyes absolutely dilated, and became filled by a sense of terror, nearly
as wild as despair itself. The transitions of his temper, however, like
those of his general conduct, supervened upon each other with remarkable
rapidity, and, as it were, the result of quick, warm, and inconsiderate
impulses.

“Well,” he exclaimed at length, “I will be quiet, I am, I assure you,
perfectly harmless; but, at the same time,” he added, sitting down, “I
know that the whole dialogue between you and that awful-looking man, was
a plot laid for me. Why else did you insist on my being present at it?
This accounts for your giving me a paltry sum of money, too--it does,
sir--and for your spurious and dishonest humanity in wishing to see me
well clothed. Yes, I perceive it all; but, let what may happen, I
will not wear these clothes any longer. They are not the offering of a
generous heart, but the fraudulent pretext for insinuating yourself
into my confidence, in order to--to--yes, but I shall not say it--it
is enough that I know you, sir--that I see through, and penetrate your
designs.”

He was about to put his threat with respect to the clothes into instant
execution, when the stranger, once more seizing him, exclaimed--“You
must promise, Mr. Fenton, before you leave my grasp, that you will make
no further attempt to tear off your dress. I insist on this;” and as he
spoke he fixed his eye sternly and commandingly on that of Fenton.

“I will not attempt it,” replied the latter; “I promise it, on the word
of a gentleman.”

“There, then,” said the stranger--“Keep yourself quiet, and, mark me,
I shall expect that you will not violate that word, nor yield to these
weak and silly paroxysms.”

Fenton merely nodded submissively, and the other proceeded, still with a
view of sounding him: “You say you know me; if so, who and what am I?”

“Do not ask me to speak at further length,” replied Fenton; “I am quite
exhausted, and I know not what I said.”

He appeared now somewhat calmer, or, at least, affected to be so. By
his manner, however, it would appear that some peculiar opinion or
apprehension, with reference either to the baronet or the stranger,
seemed as if confirmed, whilst, at the same time, acting under one of
his rapid transitions, he spoke and looked like a man who was influenced
by new motives. He then withdrew in a mood somewhat between sullenness
and regret.

When the stranger was left to himself, he paced the room some time in
a state of much anxiety, if not distress. At length he sat down, and,
leaning his head upon his hand, exclaimed unconsciously aloud:

“Alas! I fear this search is vain. The faint traces of imaginary
resemblance, which I thought I had discovered in this young man's
features, are visible no longer. It is; true, this portrait,” looking
once more at the miniature, “was taken when the original was only
a child of five years; but still it was remarked that the family
resemblances were, from childhood up, both strong and striking. Then,
this unfortunate person is perfectly inscrutable, and not to be managed
by any ordinary procedure at present intelligible to me. Yet,--after
all, as far as I have been able to conjecture, there is a strong
similarity in the cases. The feeling among the people here is, that he
is a gentleman by birth: but this may proceed from the air and manners
which he can assume when he pleases. I would mention my whole design
and object at hazard, but this would be running an unnecessary risk by
intrusting my secret to him; and, although it is evident that he can
preserve his own, it does not necessarily follow that he would keep
mine. However, I must only persevere and bide my time, as the Scotch
say.”

He again rose, and, pacing the apartment once more, his features assumed
a still deeper expression of inward agitation.

“And, again,” he exclaimed, “that unfortunate rencounter! Great Heavens,
what if I stand here a murderer, with the blood of a fellow-creature,
hurried, I fear, in the very midst of his profligacy, into eternity! The
thought is insupportable; and I know not, unless I can strictly preserve
my incognito, whether I am at this moment liable, if apprehended, to pay
the penalty which the law exacts. The only consolation that remains
for me is, that the act was not of my seeking, but arrogantly and
imperiously forced upon me.”




CHAPTER VII. The Baronet attempts by Falsehood

The Baronet attempts by Falsehood to urge his Daughter into an Avowal of
her Lover's Name.


Sir Thomas Gourlay, after his unpleasant interview with the stranger,
rode easily home, meditating upon some feasible plan by which he hoped
to succeed in entrapping his daughter into the avowal of her lover's
name, for he had no doubt whatsoever that the gentleman at the inn and
he were one and the same individual. For this purpose, he determined
to put on a cheerful face, and assume, as far as in him lay, an air of
uncommon satisfaction. Now this was a task of no ordinary difficulty for
Sir Thomas to encounter. The expression of all the fiercer and darker
passions was natural to such a countenance as his; but even to imagine
such a one lit up with mirth, was to conceive an image so grotesque and
ridiculous, that the firmest gravity must give way before it. His frown
was a thing perfectly intelligible, but to witness his smile, or rather
his effort at one, was to witness an unnatural phenomenon of the most
awful kind, and little short of a prodigy. If one could suppose the sun
giving a melancholy and lugubrious grin through the darkness of a total
eclipse, they might form some conception of the jocular solemnity which
threw its deep but comic shadow over his visage. One might expect the
whole machinery of the face, with as much probability as that of a mill,
to change its habitual motions, and turn in an opposite direction. It
seemed, in fact, as if a general breaking up of the countenance was
about to take place, and that the several features, like a crew of
thieves and vagabonds flying from the officers of justice, were all
determined to provide for themselves.

Lucy saw at a glance that her father was about to get into one of those
tender and complacent moods which were few and far between, and, made
wise by experience, she very properly conjectured, from his appearance,
that some deep design was concealed under it. Anxious, therefore, to
avoid a prolonged dialogue, and feeling, besides, her natural candor
and invincible love of truth to a certain extent outraged by this
treacherous assumption of cordiality, she resolved to commence the
conversation.

“Has anything agreeable happened; papa?”

“Agreeable, Lucy, ahem!--why, yes--something agreeable has happened.
Now, Lucy, poor foolish girl, would it not have been better to have
placed confidence in me with respect to this lover of yours? Who can
feel the same interest in your happiness that I do?”

“None, certainly, sir; unless some one whose happiness may probably
depend on mine.”

“Yes, your lover--well, that now is a natural enough distinction; but
still, you foolish, naughty girl, don't you know that you are to inherit
my wealth and property, and that they will make you happy? You silly
thing, there's a truth for you.”

“Were you yourself happy, papa, when we separated this morning? Are
you happy this moment? Are you generally happy? Is there no rankling
anxiety--no project of ambition--no bitter recollection corroding
your heart? Does the untimely loss of my young brother, who would have
represented and sustained your name, never press heavily upon it? I ask
again, Papa, are you generally happy? Yet you are in possession of all
the wealth and property you speak of.”

“Tut, nonsense, silly child! Nothing is more ridiculous than to hear
a girl like you, that ought to have no will but mine, reasoning like a
philosopher.”

“But, dear papa,” proceeded Lucy, “if you should persist in marrying me
to a profligate, merely because he is a nobleman--oh, how often is that
honorable name prostituted!--and could give me a title, don't you see
how wretched I should be, and how completely your wealth and property
would fail to secure my happiness?”

“Very well argued, Lucy, only that you go upon wrong principles. To be
sure, I know that young ladies--that is, very young and inexperienced
ladies, somewhat like yourself, Lucy--have, or pretend to have--poor
fools--a horror of marrying those they don't love; and I am aware,
besides, that a man might as well attempt to make a stream run up hill
as combat them upon this topic. As for me, in spite of all my wealth and
property--I say this in deference to you--I am really very happy this
moment.”

“I am delighted to hear it, papa. May I ask, what has contributed to
make you so?”

“I shall mention that presently; but, in the mean time, my theory on
this subject is, that, instead of marrying for love, I would recommend
only such persons to contract matrimony as entertain a kind of lurking
aversion for each other. Let the parties commence with, say, a tolerably
strong stock of honest hatred on both sides. Very well; they, are
united. At first, there is a great deal of heroic grief, and much
exquisite martyrdom on the part of the lady, whilst the gentleman is at
once, if I may say so, indifferent and indignant. By and by, however,
they become tired of this. The husband, who, as well as the wife,
we shall suppose, has a strong spice of the devil in him, begins to
entertain a kind of diabolical sympathy for the fire and temper she
displays; while she, on the other hand, comes by degrees to admire in
him that which she is conscious of possessing herself, that is to say,
a sharp tongue and an energetic temperament. In this way, Lucy, they
go on, until habit has become a second nature to them. The appetite
for strife has been happily created. At length, they find themselves
so completely captivated by it that it becomes the charm of their
existence. Thenceforth a bewitching and discordant harmony prevails
between them, and they entertain a kind of hostile affection for each
other that is desperately delightful.”

“Why, you are quite a painter, papa; your picture is admirable; all it
wants is truth and nature.”

“Thank you, Lucy; you are quite complimentary, and have made an artist
of me, as artists now go. But is not this much more agreeable and
animated than the sweet dalliance of a sugar-plum life, or the dull,
monotonous existence resembling a Dutch canal, which we term connubial
happiness?”

“Well, now, papa, suppose you were to hear me through?”

“Very well,” he replied; “I will.”

“I do not believe, sir, that life can present us with anything more
beautiful and delightful than the union of two hearts, two minds, two
souls, in pure and mutual affection, when that affection is founded upon
something more durable than mere beauty or personal attraction--that is,
when it is based upon esteem, and a thorough knowledge of the object we
love.”

“Yes, Lucy; but remember there are such things as deceit, dissimulation,
and hypocrisy in the world.”

“Yes, and goodness, and candor, and honor, and truth, and fidelity,
papa; do you remember that? When two beings, conscious, I say, of each
other's virtues--each other's failings, if you will--are united in the
bonds of true and pure affection, how could it happen that marriage,
which is only the baptism of love upon the altar of the heart, should
take away any of the tenderness of this attachment, especially when we
reflect that its very emotions are happiness? Granting that love, in its
romantic and ideal sense, may disappear after marriage, I have heard,
and I believe, that it assumes a holier and still more tender spirit,
and reappears under the sweeter and more beautiful form of domestic
affection. The very consciousness, I should suppose, that our destinies,
our hopes, our objects, our cares--in short, our joys and sorrows, are
identical and mutual, to be shared with and by each other, and that
all those delightful interchanges of a thousand nameless offices of
tenderness that spring up from the on-going business of our own
peculiar life--these alone, I can very well imagine, would constitute
an enjoyment far higher, purer, holier, than mere romantic love. Then,
papa, surely we are not to live solely for ourselves. There are the
miseries and wants of others to be lessened or relieved, calamity to
be mitigated, the pale and throbbing brow of sickness to be cooled, the
heart of the poor and neglected to be sustained and cheered, and the
limbs of the weary to be clothed and rested. Why, papa,” she proceeded,
her, dark eye kindling at the noble picture of human duty she had
drawn, “when we take into contemplation the delightful impression of two
persons going thus, hand in hand, through life, joining in the discharge
of their necessary duties, assisting their fellow-creatures, and
diffusing good wherever they go--each strengthening and reflecting the
virtues of the other, may we not well ask how they could look upon each
other without feeling the highest and noblest spirit of tenderness,
affection, and esteem?”

“O yes, I was right, Lucy; all romances, all imagination, all honeypot,
with a streak of treacle here and there for the shading,” and, as he
spoke, he committed another felony in the disguise of a horse-laugh,
which, however, came only from the jaws out.

“But, papa,” she proceeded, anxious to change the subject and curtail
the interview, “as I said, I trust something agreeable has happened; you
seem in unusually good spirits.”

“Why, yes, Lucy,” he replied, setting his eyes upon her with an
expression of good-humor that made her tremble--“yes, I was in
Ballytrain, and had an interview with a friend of yours, who is stopping
in the 'Mitre.' But, my dear, surely that is no reason why you should
all at once grow so pale! I almost think that you have contracted a
habit of becoming pale. I observed it this morning--I observe it now;
but, after all, perhaps it is only a new method of blushing--the blush
reversed--that is to say, blushing backwards. Come, you foolish girl,
don't be alarmed; your lover had more sense than you have, and knew when
and where to place confidence.”

He rose up now, and having taken a turn or two across the room,
approached her, and in deep, earnest, and what he intended to be, and
was, an impressive and startling voice, added:

“Yes, Miss Gourlay, he has told me all.”

Lucy looked at him, unmoved as to the information, for she knew it
was false; but she left him nothing to complain of with--regard to her
paleness now. In fact, she blushed deeply at the falsehood he attempted
to impose upon her. The whole tenor and spirit of the conversation was
instantly changed, and assumed for a moment a painful and disagreeable
formality.

“To whom do you allude, sir.” she asked.

“To the gentleman, madam, to whom you bowed so graciously, and, let me
add, significantly, to-day.”

“And may I beg to know, sir, what he has told you?”

“Have I not already said that he has told me all? Yes, madam, I have
said so, I think. But come, Lucy,” he added, affecting to relax, “be a
good girl; as you said, yourself, it should not be sir and madam between
you and me. You are all I have in the world--my only child, and if I
appear harsh to you, it is only because I love and am anxious to make
you happy. Come, my dear child, put confidence in me, and rely upon my
affection and generosity.”

Lucy was staggered for a moment, but only for a moment, for she
thoroughly understood him.

“But, papa, if the gentleman you allude to has told you all, what is
there left for me to confide to you?”

“Why, the truth is, Lucy, I was anxious to test his sincerity, and
to have your version as well as his. He appears, certainly, to be a
gentleman and a man of honor.”

“And if he be a man of honor, papa, how can you require such a test?”

“I said, observe, that he appears to be such; but, you know, a man may
be mistaken in the estimate he forms of another in a first interview.
Come, Lucy, do something to make me your friend.”

“My friend!” she replied, whilst the tears rose to her eyes. “Alas,
papa, must I hear such language as this from a father's lips? Should
anything be necessary to make that father the friend of his only child?
I know not how to reply to you, sir; you have placed me in a position of
almost unexampled distress and pain. I cannot, without an apparent want
of respect and duty, give expression to what I know and feel.”

“Why not, you foolish girl, especially when you see me in such
good-humor? Take courage. You will find me more indulgent than you
imagine. Imitate your lover yonder.”

She looked at him, and her eyes sparkled through her tears with shame,
but not merely with shame, for her heart was filled with such an
indignant and oppressive sense of his falsehood as caused her to weep
and sob aloud for two or three minutes.

“Come, my dear child, I repeat--imitate your lover yonder. Confess; but
don't weep thus. Surely I am not harsh to you now?”

“Papa,” she replied, wiping her eyes, “the confidence which you solicit,
it is not in my power to bestow. Do not, therefore, press me on this
subject. It is enough that I have already confessed to you that my
affections are engaged. I will now add what perhaps I ought to have
added before, that this was with the sanction of my dear mamma. Indeed,
I would have said so, but that I was reluctant to occasion reflections
from you incompatible with my affection for her memory.”

“Your mother, madam,” he added, his face blackening into the hue of his
natural temper, “was always a poor, weak-minded woman. She was foolish,
madam, and indiscreet, and has made you wicked--trained you up to
hypocrisy, falsehood, and disobedience. Yes, madam, and in every
instance where you go contrary to my will, you act upon her principles.
Why do you not respect truth, Miss Gourlay?”

“Alas, sir!” she replied, stung and shocked by his unmanly reflections
upon the memory of her mother, whilst her tears burst out afresh, “I am
this moment weeping for my father's disregard of it.”

“How, madam! I am a liar, am I? Oh, dutiful daughter!”

“Mamma, sir, was all truth, all goodness, all affection. She was at once
an angel and a martyr, and I will not hear her blessed memory insulted
by the very man who, above all others, ought to protect and revere it.
I am not, papa, to be intimidated by looks. If it be our duty to defend
the absent, is it not ten thousand times more so to defend the dead?
Shall a daughter hear with acquiescence the memory of a mother, who
would have died for her, loaded with obloquy and falsehood? No, sir!
Menace and abuse myself as much as you wish, but I tell you, that while
I have life and the power of speech, I will fling back, even into a
father's face, the falsehoods--the gross and unmanly falsehoods--with
which he insults her tomb, and calumniates her memory and her virtues.
Do not blame me, sir, for this language; I would be glad to honor you if
I could; I beseech you, my father, enable me to do so.”

“I see you take a peculiar--a wanton pleasure in calling me a liar.”

“No, sir, I do not call you a liar; but I know you regard truth no
farther than it serves your own purposes. Have you not told me just now,
that the gentleman in the Mitre Inn has made certain disclosures to you
concerning himself and me? And now, father, I ask you, is there one word
of truth in this assertion? You know there is not. Have you not
sought my confidence by a series of false pretences, and a relation of
circumstances that were utterly without foundation? All this, however,
though inexpressibly painful to me as your daughter, I could overlook
without one word of reply; but I never will allow you to cast foul
and cowardly reproach upon the memory of the best of mothers--upon the
memory of a wife of whom, father, you were unworthy, and whom, to my own
knowledge, your harshness and severity hurried into a premature grave.
Oh, never did woman pay so dreadful a penalty for suffering herself
to be forced into marriage with a man she could not love, and who was
unworthy of her affection! That, sir, was the only action of her life in
which her daughter cannot, will not, imitate her.”

She rose to retire, but her father, now having relapsed into all his
dark vehemence of temper, exclaimed--

“Now mark me, madam, before you go. I say you shall sleep under lock and
key this night. I tell you that I shall use the most rigorous measures
with you, the severest, the harshest, that I can devise, or I shall I
break that stubborn will of yours. Do not imagine for one moment that
you shall overcome me, or triumph in your disobedience. No, sooner than
you should, I would break your spirit--I would break your heart”

“Be it so, sir. I am ready to suffer anything, provided only you will
forbear to insult the memory of my mother.”

With these words she sought her own room, where she indulged in a long
fit of bitter grief.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, in these painful contests of temper with his candid
and high-minded daughter, was by no means so cool and able as when
engaged in similar exercitations with strangers. The disadvantage
against him in his broils with Lucy, arose from the fact that he had
nothing in this respect to conceal from her. He felt that his natural
temper and disposition were known, and that the assumption of any and
every false aspect of character, must necessarily be seen through by
her, and his hypocrisy detected and understood. Not so, however, with
strangers. When manoeuvring with them, he could play, if not a deeper,
at least a safer game; and of this he himself was perfectly conscious.
Had his heart been capable of any noble or dignified emotion, he must
necessarily have admired the greatness of his daughter's mind, her
indomitable love of truth, and the beautiful and undying tenderness with
which her affection brooded over the memory of her mother. Selfishness,
however, and that low ambition which places human happiness in the
enjoyment of wealth, and honors, and empty titles, had so completely
blinded him to the virtues of his daughter, and to the sacred character
of his own duties as a father, bound by the first principles of nature
to promote her happiness, without corrupting her virtues, or weakening
her moral impressions--we say these things had so blinded him, and
hardened his heart against all the purer duties and responsibilities of
life, that he looked upon his daughter as a hardened, disobedient girl,
dead to the influence of his own good--the ambition of the world--and
insensible to the dignified position which awaited her among the
votaries of rank and fashion. But, alas, poor man! how little did he
know of the healthy and substantial virtues which confer upon those
whose station lies in middle and in humble life, a benevolent and hearty
consciousness of pure enjoyment, immeasurably superior to the hollow
forms of life and conduct in aristocratic circles, which, like the
tempting fruit of the Dead Sea, seem beautiful to the eye, but are
nothing more, when tested by the common process of humanity, than ashes
and bitterness to the taste. We do not now speak of a whole class, for
wherever human nature is, it will have its virtues as well as its vices;
But we talk of the system, which cannot be one of much happiness or
generous feeling, so long as it separates itself from the general
sympathies of mankind.




CHAPTER VIII. The Fortune-Teller--An Equivocal Prediction.


The stranger's appearance at the “Mitre,” and the incident which
occurred there, were in a peculiar degree mortifying to the Black
Baronet, for so he was generally called. At this precise period he had
projected the close of the negotiation with respect to the contemplated
marriage between Lucy and Lord Dunroe. Lord Cullamore, whose residence
was only a few miles from Red Hall, had been for some time in delicate
health, but he was now sufficiently recovered to enter upon the
negotiation proposed, to which, were it not for certain reasons that
will subsequently appear, he had, in truth, no great relish; and this,
principally on Lucy Gourlay's account, and with a view to her future
happiness, which he did not think had any great chance of being promoted
by a matrimonial alliance with his son.

Not many minutes after the interview between Lucy and her father, a
liveried servant arrived, bearing a letter in reply to one from Sir
Thomas, to the following effect:

“My Dear Gourlay,--I have got much stronger within the last fortnight;
that is, so far as my mere bodily health is concerned. As I shall
proceed to London in a day or two, it is perhaps better that I should
see you upon the subject of this union, between your daughter and my
son, especially as you seem to wish it so anxiously. To tell you the
truth, I fear very much that you are, contrary to remonstrance, and
with your eyes open to the consequences, precipitating your charming and
admirable Lucy upon wretchedness and disconsolation for the remainder
of her life; and I can tell her, and would if I were allowed, that the
coronet of a countess, however highly either she or you may appreciate
it, will be found but a poor substitute for the want of that affection
and esteem, upon which only can be founded domestic happiness and
contentment.

“Ever, my dear Gourlay, faithfully yours,

“CULLAMORE.”


The baronet's face, after having perused this epistle, brightened up
as much as any face of such sombre and repulsive expression could be
supposed to do; but, again, upon taking into consideration what he
looked upon as the unjustifiable obstinacy of his daughter, it became
once more stern and overshadowed. He ground his teeth with vexation
as he paced to and fro the room, as was his custom when in a state of
agitation or anger. After some minutes, during which his passion seemed
only to increase, he went to her apartment, and, thrusting in his head
to ascertain that she was safe, he deliberately locked the door,
and, putting the key in his pocket, once more ordered his horse, and
proceeded to Glenshee Castle, the princely residence of his friend, Lord
Cullamore.

None of our readers, we presume, would feel disposed to charge our
hardened baronet with any tendency to superstition. That he felt its
influence, however, was a fact; for it may have been observed that there
is a class of minds which, whilst they reject all moral control when any
legitimate barrier stands between them and the gratification of their
evil passions or designs, are yet susceptible of the effects which are
said to proceed from such slight and trivial incidents as are supposed
to be invested with a mysterious and significant influence upon the
actions of individuals. It is not, however, those who possess the
strongest passions that are endowed with the strongest principles,
unless when it happens that these passions are kept in subjection by
religion or reason. In fact, the very reverse of the proposition in
general holds true; and, indeed, Sir Thomas Gourlay was a strong and
startling proof of this. In his case, however, it might be accounted
for by the influence over his mind, when young, of a superstitious nurse
named Jennie Corbet, who was a stout believer in all the superstitious
lore which at that time constituted a kind of social and popular creed
throughout the country. It was not that the reason of Sir Thomas was at
all convinced by, or yielded any assent to, such legends, but a habit of
belief in them, which he was never able properly to throw off, had been
created, which left behind it a lingering impression resulting from
their exhibition, which, in spite of all his efforts, clung to him
through life.

Another peculiarity of his we may as well mention here, which related
to his bearing while on horseback. It had been shrewdly observed by the
people, that, whilst in the act of concocting any plan, or projecting
any scheme, he uniformly rode at an easy, slow, and thoughtful pace;
but, when under the influence of his angry passions, he dashed along
with a fury and vehemence of speed that startled those whom he met, and
caused them to pause and look after him with wonder.

The distance between Red Hall and Glenshee Castle was not more than four
miles; the estates of both proprietors lying, in fact, together. The
day was calm, mild, and breathed of the fragrant and opening odors of
spring. Sir Thomas had nearly measured half the distance at a very slow
pace, for, in truth, he was then silently rehearsing his part in the
interview which was about to take place between him and his noble
friend. The day, though calm, as we said, was nevertheless without
sunshine, and, consequently, that joyous and exhilarating spirit of
warmth and light which the vernal sun floods down upon all nature,
rendering earth and air choral with music, was not felt so powerfully.
On the contrary, the silence and gloom were somewhat unusual,
considering the mildness which prevailed. Every one, however,
has experienced the influence of such days--an influence which,
notwithstanding the calm and genial character of the day itself, is felt
to be depressing, and at variance with cheerfulness and good spirits.

Be this as it may, Sir Thomas was proceeding leisurely along, when a
turn of the road brought him at once upon the brow of the small valley
from which the residence of the Cullamore family had its name--Glenshee,
or, in English, the Glen of the Fairies. Its sides were wild, abrupt,
and precipitous, and partially covered with copse-wood, as was the
little brawling stream which ran through it, and of which the eye of
the spectator could only catch occasional glimpses from among the hazel,
dogberry, and white thorn, with which it was here and there covered.
In the bottom, there was a small, but beautiful green carpet, nearly,
if not altogether circular, about a hundred yards in diameter, in the
centre of which stood one of those fairy rings that gave its name
and character to the glen. The place was, at all times, wild, and so
solitary that, after dusk, few persons in the neighborhood wished to
pass it alone. On the day in question, its appearance was still and
impressive, and, owing to the gloom which prevailed, it presented a
lonely and desolate aspect, calculated, certainly, in some degree, to
inspire a weak mind with something of that superstitious feeling which
was occasioned by its supernatural reputation. We said that the baronet
came to a winding part of the road which brought this wild and startling
spot before him, and just at the same moment he was confronted by
an object quite as wild and as startling. This was no-other than a
celebrated fortune-teller of that day, named Ginty Cooper, a middle-aged
sibyl, who enjoyed a very wide reputation for her extraordinary insight
into futurity, as well as for performing a variety of cures upon both
men and cattle, by her acquaintance, it was supposed, with fairy lore,
the influence of charms, and the secret properties of certain herbs with
which, if you believed her, she had been made acquainted by the _Dainhe
Shee_, or good people themselves.

The baronet's first feeling was one of annoyance and vexation, and for
what cause, the reader will soon understand.

“Curse this ill-looking wretch,” he exclaimed mentally; “she is the first
individual I have met since I left home. It is not that I regard the
matter a feather, but, somehow, I don't wish that a woman--especially
such a blasted looking sibyl as this--should be the first person I meet
when going on any business of importance.” Indeed, it is to be observed
here, that some of Ginty's predictions and cures were such as, among an
ignorant and credulous people, strongly impressed by the superstitions
of the day, and who placed implicit reliance upon her prophetic and
sanative faculties, were certainly calculated to add very much to her
peculiar influence over them, originating, as they believed, in her
communion with supernatural powers. Her appearance, too, was strikingly
calculated to sustain the extraordinary reputation which she bore, yet
it was such as we feel it to be almost impossible to describe. Her face
was thin, and supernaturally pale, and her features had a death-like
composure, an almost awful rigidity, that induced the spectator to
imagine that she had just risen from the grave. Her thin lips were
repulsively white, and her teeth so much whiter that they almost filled
you with fear; but it was in her eye that the symbol of her prophetic
power might be said to lie. It was wild, gray, and almost transparent,
and whenever she was, or appeared to be, in a thoughtful mood,
or engaged in the contemplation of futurity, it kept perpetually
scintillating, or shifting, as it were, between two proximate objects,
to which she seemed to look as if they had been in the far distance of
space--that is, it turned from one to another with a quivering rapidity
which the eye of the spectator was unable to follow. And yet it was
evident on reflection, that in her youth she must have been not only
good-looking, but handsome. This quick and unnatural motion of the eye
was extremely wild and startling, and when contrasted with the white and
death-like character of her teeth, and the moveless expression of her
countenance, was in admirable keeping with the supernatural qualities
attributed to her. She wore no bonnet, but her white death-bed like cap
was tied round her head by a band of clean linen, and came under her
chin, as in the case of a corpse, thus making her appear as if she
purposely assumed the startling habiliments of the grave. As for the
outlines of her general person, they afforded evident proof--thin and
emaciated as she then was--that her figure in early life must have been
remarkable for great neatness and symmetry. She inhabited a solitary
cottage in the glen, a fact which, in the opinion of the people,
completed the wild prestige of her character.

“You accursed hag,” said the baronet, whose vexation at meeting her was
for the moment beyond any superstitious impression which he felt, “what
brought you here? What devil sent you across my path now? Who are you,
or what are you, for you look like a libel on humanity?”

“If I don't,” she replied, bitterly, “I know who does. There is not much
beauty between us, Thomas Gourlay.”

“What do you mean by Thomas Gourlay, you sorceress?”

“You'll come to know that some day before you die, Thomas; perhaps
sooner than you can think or dream of.”

“How can you tell that, you irreverent old viper?”

“I could tell you much more than that, Thomas,” she replied, showing her
corpse-like teeth with a ghastly smile of mocking bitterness that was
fearful.

The Black Baronet, in spite of himself, began to feel somewhat uneasy,
for, in fact, there appeared such a wild but confident significance in
her manner and language that he deemed it wiser to change his tactics
with the woman, and soothe her a little if he could. In truth, her words
agitated him so much that he unconsciously pulled out of his waistcoat
pocket the key of Lucy's room, and began to dangle with it as he
contemplated her with something like alarm.

“My poor woman, you must be raving,” he replied. “What could a destitute
creature like you know about my affairs? I don't remember that I ever
saw you before.”

“That's not the question, Thomas Gourlay, but the question is, what have
you done with the child of your eldest brother, the lawful heir of the
property and title that you now bear, and bear unjustly.”

He was much startled by this allusion, for although aware that the
disappearance of the child in question had been for many long years well
known, yet, involved, as it was, in unaccountable mystery, still the
circumstance had never been forgotten.

“That's an old story, my good woman,” he replied. “You don't charge me,
I hope, as some have done, with making away with him? You might as well
charge me with kidnapping my own son, you foolish woman, who, you know,
I suppose, disappeared very soon after the other.”

“I know he did,” she replied; “but neither I nor any one else ever
charged you with that act; and I know there are a great many of opinion
that both acts were committed by some common enemy to your house, who
wished, for some unknown cause of hatred, to extinguish your whole
family. That is, indeed, the best defence you have for the disappearance
of your brother's son; but, mark me, Thomas Gourlay--that defence will
not pass with God, with me, nor with your own heart. I have my own
opinion upon that subject, as well as upon many others. You may ask your
own conscience, Thomas Gourlay, but he'll be a close friend of yours
that will ever hear its answer.”

“And is this all you had to say to me, you ill-thinking old vermin.” he
replied, again losing his temper.

“No,” she answered, “I wish to tell your fortune; and you will do well
to listen to me.”

“Well,” said he, in a milder tone, putting at the same time the key of
Lucy's door again into his pocket, without being in the slightest degree
conscious of it, “if you are, I suppose I must cross your hand with
silver as usual; take this.”

“No,” she replied, drawing back with another ghastly smile, the meaning
of which was to him utterly undefinable, “from your hand nothing in the
shape of money will ever pass into mine; but listen”--she looked at him
for some moments, during which she paused, and then added--“I will not
do it, I am not able to render good for evil, yet; I will suffer you to
run your course. I am well aware that neither warning nor truth would
have any effect upon you, unless to enable you to prepare and sharpen
your plans with more ingenious villany. But you have a daughter; I will
speak to you about her.”

“Do,” said the baronet; “but why not take the silver?”

“You will know that one day before you die, too,” said she, “and I don't
think it will smooth your death-bed pillow.”

“Why, you are a very mysterious old lady.”

“I'll now give you a proof of that. You locked in your daughter before
you left home.”

Sir Thomas could not for his life prevent himself from starting so
visibly that she observed it at once.

“No such thing,” he replied, affecting a composure which he certainly
did not feel; “you are an impostor, and I now see that you know
nothing.”

“What I say is true,” she replied, solemnly, “and you have stated,
Thomas Gourlay, what you know to be a falsehood; I would be glad to
discover you uttering truth unless with some evil intention. But now for
your daughter; you wish to hear her fate?”

“Certainly I do; but then you know nothing. You charge me with
falsehood, but it is yourself that are the liar.”

She waved her hand indignantly.

“Will my daughter's husband be a man of title?” he asked, his mind
passing to the great and engrossing object of his ambition.

“He will be a man of title,” she replied, “and he will make her a
countess.”

“You must take money,” said he, thrusting his hand into his pocket, and
once more pulling out his purse--“that is worth something, surely.”

She waved her hand again, with a gesture of repulse still more indignant
and frightful than before, and the bitter smile she gave while doing it
again displayed her corpse-like teeth in a manner that was calculated to
excite horror itself.

“Very well,” replied the baronet; “I will not press you, only don't make
such cursed frightful grimaces. But with respect to my daughter, will
the marriage be with her own consent?”

“With her own consent--it will be the dearest wish of her heart.”

“Could you name her husband?”

“I could and will. Lord Dunroe will be the man, and he will make her
Countess of Cullamore.”

“Well, now,” replied the other, “I believe you can speak truth, and are
somewhat acquainted with the future. The girl certainly is attached to
him, and I have no doubt the union will be, as you say, a happy one.”

“You know in your soul,” she replied, “that she detests him; and you
know she would sacrifice her life this moment sooner than marry him.”

“What, then, do you mean.” he asked, “and why do you thus contradict
yourself?”

“Good-by, Thomas Gourlay,” she replied. “So far as regards either the
past or the future, you will hear nothing further from me to-day; but,
mark me, we shall meet again---and we have met before.”

“That, certainly, is not true,” he said, “unless it might be
accidentally on the highway; but, until this moment, my good woman, I
don't remember to have seen your face in my life.”

[Illustration: PAGE 350-- How will you be prepared to render an account]

She looked toward the sky, and pointing her long, skinny finger upwards,
said, “How will you be prepared to render an account of all your deeds
and iniquities before Him who will judge you there!”

There was a terrible calmness, a dreadful solemnity on her white,
ghastly features as she spoke, and pointed to the sky, after which she
passed on in silence and took no further notice of the Black Baronet.

It is very difficult to describe the singular variety of sensations
which her conversation, extraordinary, wild, and mysterious as it was,
caused this remarkable man to experience. He knew not what to make of
it. One thing was certain, however, and he could not help admitting it
to himself, that, during their short and singular dialogue, she had, he
knew not how, obtained and exercised an extraordinary ascendency over
him. He looked after her, but she was proceeding calmly along, precisely
as if they had not spoken.

“She is certainly the greatest mystery in the shape of woman,” he said
to himself, as he proceeded, “that I have ever yet met--that is, if she
be a thing of flesh and blood--for to me she seems to belong more to
death and its awful accessories, than to life and its natural reality.
How in the devil's name could she have known that I locked that
obstinate and undutiful girl up. This is altogether inexplicable, upon
principles affecting only the ordinary powers of common humanity. Then
she affirmed, prophesied, or what you will, that Lucy and Dunroe will
be married--willingly and happily! That certainly is strange, and as
agreeable as strange; but I will doubt nothing after the incident of the
locking up, so strangely revealed to me too, at a moment when, perhaps,
no human being knew it but Lucy and myself. And, what is stranger still,
she knows the state of the girl's affections, and that she at present
detests Dunroe. Yet, stay, have I not seen her somewhere before? She
said so herself. There is a faint impression on me that her face is not
altogether unfamiliar to me, but I cannot recall either time or place,
and perhaps the impression is a wrong one.”




CHAPTER IX. Candor and Dissimulation


Glenshee Castle was built by the father of the then Lord Cullamore, at
a cost of upwards of one hundred thousand pounds. Its general effect and
situation were beautiful, imposing, and picturesque in the extreme. Its
north and east sides, being the principal fronts, contained the state
apartments, while the other sides, for the building was a parallelogram,
contained the offices, and were overshadowed, or nearly altogether
concealed, by trees of a most luxuriant growth. In the east front stood
a magnificent circular tower, in fine proportion with it; whilst an
octagon one, of proportions somewhat inferior, terminated the northern
angle. The front, again, on the north, extending from the last mentioned
tower, was connected with a fine Gothic chapel, remarkable for the
beauty of its stained windows, supervening buttresses, and a belfry at
its western extremity. On the north front, which was the entrance, rose
a porch leading into a vestibule, and from thence into the magnificent
hall. From this sprung a noble stone staircase, with two inferior
flights that led to a corridor, which communicated with a gorgeous suit
of bedchambers. The grand hall communicated on the western side with
those rooms that were appropriated to the servants, and those on the
opposite, with the state apartments, which were of magnificent size
and proportions, having all the wood-work of Irish oak, exquisitely
polished. The gardens were in equal taste, and admirably kept. The
pleasure grounds were ornamented with some of the rarest exotics. On
each side of the avenue, as you approached the castle, stood a range
of noble elms, beeches, and oaks intermingled; and, as you reached the
grand entrance, you caught a view of the demesne and deer-park, which
were, and are, among the finest in the kingdom. There was also visible,
from the steps of the hall and front window, the bends of a sweet, and
winding river near the centre of the demesne, spanned by three or four
light and elegant arches, that connected the latter and the deer-park
with each other. Nothing, however, was so striking in the whole
landscape as the gigantic size and venerable appearance of the wood,
which covered a large portion of the demesne, and the patriarchal
majesty of those immense trees, which stood separated from the mass
of forest, singly or in groups, in different parts of it. The evening
summer's deep light, something between gold and purple, as it poured its
mellow radiance upon the green openings between these noble trees, or
the evening smoke, as it arose at the same hour from the chimneys of the
keepers' houses among their branches, were sights worth a whole gallery
of modern art.

As the baronet approached the castle, he thought again of the woman
and her prophecies, and yielded to their influence, in so far as they
assured him that his daughter was destined to become the proud mistress
of all the magnificence by which he was surrounded. The sun had now
shone forth, and as its clear light fell upon the house, its beautiful
pleasure-grounds, its ornamented lawns, and its stately avenues, he
felt that there was something worth making a struggle for, even at the
expense of conscience, when he contemplated, with the cravings of an
ambitious heart, the spirit of rich and deep repose in which the whole
gorgeous spectacle lay.

On reaching the hall he rang, and in a few minutes was admitted to his
friend, Lord Cullamore.

Lord Cullamore was remarkable for that venerable dignity and graceful
ease, which, after all, can only result from early and constant
intercourse with polished and aristocratic society. This person was
somewhat above the middle size, his eye clear and significant, his
features expressive, and singularly indicative of what he felt or said.
In fact, he appeared to be an intelligent, candid man, who, in addition
to that air bestowed upon him by his rank and position, and which could
never for a moment be mistaken, was altogether one of the best specimens
of his class. He had neither those assumptions of hateful condescension,
nor that eternal consciousness of his high birth, which too frequently
degrade and disgrace the commonplace and vulgar nobleman; especially
when he makes the privileges of his class an offence and an oppression
to his inferiors, or considers it a crime to feel or express those noble
sympathies, which, as a first principle, ought to bind him to that class
by whom he lives, and who constitute the great mass of humanity, from
whose toil and labor originate the happiness of his order. When in
conversation, the natural animation of his lordship's countenance was
checked, not only by a polite and complacent sense of what was due to
those with whom he spoke, and a sincere anxiety to put them at their
ease, but evidently by an expression that seemed the exponent of some
undivulged and corroding sorrow. We may add, that he was affectionate,
generous, indolent; not difficult to be managed when he had no strong
purpose to stimulate him; keen of observation, but not prone to
suspicion; consequently often credulous, and easily imposed upon; but,
having once detected fraud or want of candor, the discovery was certain
forever to deprive the offending party of his esteem--no matter what
their rank or condition in life might be.

We need scarcely say, therefore, that this, amiable nobleman, possessing
as he did all the high honor and integrity by which his whole life was
regulated, (with one solitary exception, for which his heart paid a
severe penalty,) carried along with him, in his old age, that respect,
reverence, and affection, to which the dignified simplicity of his life
entitled him. He was, indeed, one of those few noblemen whose virtues
gave to the aristocratic spirit, true grace and appropriate dignity,
instead of degrading it, as too many of his caste do, by pride,
arrogance, and selfishness.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, on entering the magnificent library to which he was
conducted, found his lordship in the act of attaching his signature to
some papers. The latter received him kindly and graciously, and shook
hands with him, but without rising, for which he apologized.

“I am not at all strong, Sir Thomas,” he added; “for although this last
attack has left me, yet I feel that it has taken a considerable
portion of my strength along with it. I am, however, free from pain and
complaint, and my health is gradually improving.”

“But, my lord, do you think you will be able to encounter the fatigue
and difficulties of a journey to London.” replied the other--“Will you
have strength for it?”

“I hope so; travelling by sea always agreed with and invigorated my
constitution. The weather, too, is fine, and. I will take the long
voyage. Besides, it is indispensable that I should go. This wild son
of mine has had a duel with some one in a shooting gallery--has been
severely hit--and is very ill; but, at the same time, out of danger.”

“A duel! Good heavens! My lord, how did it happen.” asked the baronet.

“I am not exactly aware of all the particulars; but I think they cannot
be creditable to the parties, or to Dunroe, at least; for one of
his friends has so far overshot the mark as to write to me, for my
satisfaction, that they have succeeded in keeping the affair out of the
papers. Now, there must be something wrong when my son's friends are
anxious to avoid publicity in the matter. The conduct of that young man,
my dear Sir Thomas, is a source of great affliction to me; and I tremble
for the happiness of your daughter, should they be united.”

“You are too severe on Dunroe, my lord,” replied the baronet--“It is
better for a man to sow his wild oats in season than out of season.
Besides, you know the proverb, 'A reformed rake,' etc.”

“The popularity of a proverb, my good friend, is no proof of its truth;
and, besides, I should wish to place a hope of my son's reformation upon
something firmer and more solid than the strength of an old adage.”

“But you know, my lord,” replied the other, “that the instances of
post-matrimonial reformation, if I may use the word, from youthful
folly, are sufficient to justify the proverb. I am quite certain, that,
if Lord Dunroe were united to a virtuous and sensible wife, he would
settle down into the character of a steady, honorable, and independent
man. I could prove this by many instances, even within your knowledge
and mine. Why, then, exclude his lordship from the benefit of a
contingency, to speak the least, which we know falls out happily in so
many instances?”

“You mean you could prove the probability of it, my dear baronet; for,
at present, the case is not susceptible of proof. What you say may
be true; but, on the other hand, it may not; and, in the event of his
marrying without the post-matrimonial reformation you speak of, what
becomes of your daughter's happiness?”

“Nay, I know generous Dunroe so well, my lord, that I would not, even as
Lucy's father, hesitate a moment to run the risk.”

“But what says Lucy herself? And how does she stand affected toward him?
For that is the main point. This matter, you know, was spoken over some
few years ago, and conditionally approved of by us both; but my son was
then very young, and had not plunged into that course of unjustifiable
extravagance and profligacy which, to my cost, has disgraced his
latter years. I scorn to veil his conduct, baronet, for it would be
dishonorable under the circumstances between us, and I trust you will be
equally candid in detailing to me the sentiments of your daughter on the
subject.”

“My lord, I shall unquestionably do so; but Lucy, you must know, is a
girl of a very peculiar disposition. She possesses, in fact, a good deal
of her unworthy father's determination and obstinacy. Urge her with too
much vehemence, and she will resist; try to accelerate her pace, and
she will stand still; but leave her to herself, to the natural and
reasonable suggestions of her excellent sense, and you will get her to
do anything.”

“That is but a very indifferent character you bestow upon your daughter,
Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship--“I trust she deserves a better one at
your hands.”

“Why, my lord,” replied the baronet, smiling after his own peculiar
fashion, that is to say, with a kind of bitter sarcasm, “I have as good
a right, I think, to exaggerate the failings of my daughter as you have
to magnify those of your son. But a truce to this, and to be serious:
I know the girl; you know, besides, something about women yourself, my
lord, and I need not say that it is unwise to rely upon the moods and
meditations of a young lady before marriage. Upon the prospect of such
an important change in their position, the best of them will assume a
great deal. The period constitutes the last limited portion of their
freedom; and, of course, all the caprices of the heart, and all the
giddy ebullitions of gratified vanity, manifest themselves so strangely,
that it is extremely difficult to understand them, or know their wishes.
Under such circumstances, my lord, they will, in the very levity of
delight, frequently say 'no,' when they mean 'yes,' and vice versa.”

“Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship, gravely, “marriage, instead of being
the close, should be the commencement, of their happiness. No woman,
however, of sense, whether before marriage or after it, is difficult to
be understood. Upon a subject of such importance--one that involves the
happiness of her future life--no female possessing truth and principle
would, for one moment, suffer a misconception to exist. Now your
daughter, my favorite Lucy, is a girl of fine sense and high feeling,
and I am at a loss, Sir Thomas, I assure you, to reconcile either one
or the other with your metaphysics. If Miss Gourlay sat for the
disagreeable picture you have just drawn, she must be a great hypocrite,
or you have grossly misrepresented her, which I conceive it is not now
your interest or your wish to do.”

“But, my lord, I was speaking of the sex in general.”

“But, sir,” replied his lordship with dignity, “we are here to speak of
your daughter.”

Our readers may perceive that the wily baronet was beating about the
bush, and attempting to impose upon his lordship by vague disquisitions.
He was perfectly aware of Lord Cullamore's indomitable love of truth,
and he consequently feared to treat him with a direct imposition, taking
it for granted that, if he had, an interview of ten minutes between
Lucy and his lordship might lead to an exposure of his duplicity and
falsehood. He felt himself in a painful and distressing dilemma. Aware
that, if the excellent peer had the slightest knowledge of Lucy's
loathing horror of his son, he would never lend his sanction to the
marriage, the baronet knew not whether to turn to the right or to the
left, or, in other words, whether to rely on truth or falsehood. At
length, he began to calculate upon the possibility of his daughter's
ultimate acquiescence, upon the force of his own unbending character,
her isolated position, without any one to encourage or abet her in what
he looked upon as her disobedience, consequently his complete control
over her; having summoned up all those points together, he resolved to
beat about a little longer, but, at all events, to keep the peer in the
dark, and, if pressed, to hazard the falsehood. He replied, however, to
his lordship's last observation:

“I assure you, my lord, I thought not of my daughter while I drew the
picture.”

“Well, then,” replied his lordship, smiling, “all I have to say is, that
you are very eloquent in generalities--generalities, too, my friend,
that do not bear upon the question. In one word, is Miss Gourlay
inclined to this marriage? and I beseech you, my dear baronet, no more
of these generalities.”

“She is as much so, my lord,” replied the other, “as nineteen women out
of every twenty are in general. But it is not to be expected, I repeat,
that a delicately-minded and modest young creature will at once step
forward unabashed and exclaim, 'Yes, papa, I will marry him.' I protest,
my lord, it would require the desperate heroism of an old maid on the
last legs of hope, or the hardihood of a widow of three husbands, to go
through such an ordeal. We consequently must make allowance for those
delicate and blushing evasions which, after all, only mask compliance.”

By this reply the baronet hoped to be able to satisfy his friend,
without plunging into the open falsehood. The old nobleman, however,
looked keenly at him, and asked a question which penetrated like a
dagger into the lying soul within him.

“She consents, then, in the ordinary way?”

“She does, my lord.”

“Well,” replied the peer, “that, as the world goes, is, perhaps, as much
as can be expected at present. You have not, I dare say, attempted to
force her very much on the subject, and the poor girl has no mother.
Under such circumstances, the delicacy of a young lady is certainly
entitled to a manly forbearance. Have you alluded to Dunroe's want of
morals?”

“Your opinion of his lordship and mine differ on this point
considerably, my lord,” replied the baronet--“You judge him with
the severity of a father, I with the moderation of a friend. I have
certainly made no allusion to his morals.”

“Of course, then, you are aware, that it is your duty to do so; as a
father, that it is a most solemn and indispensable duty?”

The soul of Sir Thomas Gourlay writhed within him like a wounded
serpent, at the calm but noble truth contained in this apophthegm. He
was not, however, to be caught; the subtlety of his invention enabled
him to escape on that occasion at least.

“It has this moment occurred to me, my lord, with reference to this very
point, that it may be possible, and by no means improbable--at least I
for one anxiously hope it--that the recent illness of my Lord Dunroe may
have given him time to reflect upon his escapades and follies, and
that he will rejoin society a wiser and a better man. Under these
expectations, I appeal to your own good sense, my lord, whether it would
be wise or prudent by at present alluding--especially if it be
rendered unnecessary by his reformation--to his want of morals, in any
conversation I may hold with my daughter, and thereby deprive him of her
personal respect and esteem, the only basis upon which true affection
and domestic happiness can safely rest. Let us therefore wait, my lord.
Perhaps the loss of some of his hot blood may have cooled him. Perhaps,
after all,” he added, smiling, “we may have reason to thank his
phlebotomist.”

The peer saw Sir Thomas's play, and, giving him another keen glance,
replied:

“I never depended much upon a dramatic repentance, my dear baronet. Many
a resolution of amendment has been made on the sick bed; but we know in
general how they are kept, especially by the young. Be this as it may,
our discussion has been long enough, and sufficiently ineffectual. My
impression is, that Miss Gourlay is disinclined to the alliance. In
truth, I dare say she is as well acquainted with his moral reputation as
we are--perhaps better. Dunroe's conduct has been too often discussed in
fashionable life to be a secret to her, or any one else who has access
to it. If she reject him from a principle of virtuous delicacy and
honor, she deserves a better fate than ever to call him husband. But
perhaps she may have some other attachment?”

“My lord,” replied Sir Thomas, rising, “I think I can perceive on which
side the disinclination lies. You have--and pray excuse me for saying
so--studiously thrown, during the present conference, every possible
obstruction in the way of an arrangement on this subject. If your
lordship is determined that the alliance between our families shall not
take place, I pray you to say so. Upon your own showing my daughter will
have little that she ought to regret in escaping Dunroe.”

“And Dunroe would have much to be thankful to God for in securing your
daughter. But, Sir Thomas Gourlay, I will be candid and open with you.
Pray observe, sir, that, during this whole discussion, conference, or
what you will, I did not get out of you a single direct answer, and that
upon a subject involving the life-long happiness of your only child.
I tell you, baronet, that your indirectness of purpose, and--you will
excuse me, too, for what I am about to say, the importance of the
subject justifies me--your evasions have excited my suspicions, and
my present impression is, that Miss Gourlay is averse to a matrimonial
union with my son; that she has heard reports of his character which
have justly alarmed her high-minded sense of delicacy and honor; and
that you, her parent, are forcing her into a marriage which she detests.
Look into your own heart, Sir Thomas, and see whether you are not
willing to risk her peace of mind for the miserable ambition of seeing
her one day a countess. Alas! my friend,” he continued, “there is no
talisman in the coronet of a countess to stay the progress of sorrow, or
check the decline of a breaking heart. If Miss Gourlay be, as I fear
she is, averse to this union, do not sacrifice her to ambition and a
profligate. She is too precious a treasure to be thrown away upon two
objects so utterly worthless. Her soul is too pure to be allied to
contamination--her heart too noble, too good, too generous, to be broken
by unavailing grief and a repentance that will probably come too late.”

“If I assure you, my lord, that she is not averse to the
match--nay”--and here this false man consoled his conscience by falling
back upon the prophecy of Ginty Cooper--“if I assure you that she will
marry Dunroe willingly--nay, with delight, will your lordship then rest
satisfied?”

“I must depend upon your word, Sir Thomas; am I not in conversation with
a gentleman?”

“Well, then, my lord, I assure you that it is so. Your lordship will
find, when the time comes, that my daughter is not only not
indisposed to this union, but absolutely anxious to become your
daughter-in-law”--bad as he was, he could not force himself to say,
in so many plain words, “the wife of your son”--“But, my lord,” he
proceeded, “if you will permit me to make a single observation, I will
thank you, and I trust you will excuse me besides.”

“Unquestionably, Sir Thomas.”

“Well, then, my lord, what I have observed during our conversation, with
great pain, is, that you seem to entertain--pardon me, I speak in good
feeling, I assure your lordship--that you seem, I say, to entertain
a very unkind and anything but a parental feeling for your son. What,
after all, do his wild eccentricities amount to more than the freedom
and indulgence in those easy habits of life which his wealth and station
hold out to him with greater temptation than they do to others? I
cannot, my lord, in fact, see anything so monstrous in the conduct of
a young nobleman like him, to justify, on the part of your lordship,
language so severe, and, pardon me, so prejudicial to his character.
Excuse me, my lord, if I have taken a liberty to which I am in nowise
entitled.” Socrates himself could scarcely have assumed a tone more
moral, or a look of greater sincerity, or more anxious interest, than
did the Black Baronet whilst he uttered these words.

The peer rose up, and his eye and whole person were marked by an
expression and an air of the highest dignity, not unmingled with deep
and obvious feeling.

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” said he, “you seem to forget the object of our
conference, and our respective positions.”

“My Lord,” exclaimed the other, in a deprecating tone, “I meant no
offence, upon my honor.”

“I have taken none,” replied his lordship; “but I must teach you to
understand me. Whatever my son's conduct may be, one thing is evident,
that you are his apologist; now, as a moral man, anxious for the
happiness of your child, I tell you that you ought to have exchanged
positions with me; it is you who, when about to intrust your daughter to
him for life, ought to have investigated his moral character and habits,
and manifested an anxiety to satisfy yourself whether they were such
as would reflect honor upon her, and secure her peace of mind and
tranquillity in the married state. You say, too, that I do not speak
of my son in a kind or parental feeling; but do you imagine, sir, that,
engaged as I am here, in a confidential and important conference, the
result of which may involve the happiness or misery of two persons
so dear to us both, I would be justified in withholding the truth, or
lending myself to a course of dishonorable deception?”

He sat down again, and seemed deeply affected.

“God knows,” he said, “that I love that wild and unthinking young man,
perhaps more than I ought; but do you imagine, sir, that, because I have
spoken of him with the freedom necessary and due to the importance
and solemnity of our object in meeting, I could or would utter such
sentiments to the world at large? I pray you, sir, then, to make and
observe the distinction; and, instead of assailing me for want of
affection as a parent, to thank me for the candor with which I have
spoken.”

The baronet felt subdued; it is evident that his mind was too coarse and
selfish to understand the delicacy, the truth, and high, conscientious
feeling with which Lord Cullamore conducted his part of this
negotiation.

“My lord,” said the baronet, who thought of another point on which to
fall back, “there is one circumstance, one important fact, which we have
both unaccountably overlooked, and which, after all, holds out a greater
promise of domestic happiness between these young persons than anything
we have thought of. His lordship is attached to my daughter. Now, where
there is love, my lord, there is every chance and prospect of happiness
in the married life.”

“Yes, if it be mutual, Sir Thomas; everything depends on that. I am
glad, however, you mentioned it. There is some hope left still; but
alas, alas! what is even love when opposed to selfishness and ambition?
I could--I myself could----” he seemed deeply moved, and paused for some
time, as if unwilling to trust himself with speech--“Yes, I am glad you
mentioned it, and I thank you, Sir Thomas, I thank you. I should wish
to see these two young people happy. I believe he is attached to your
daughter, and I will now mention a fact which certainly proves it. The
gentleman with whom he fought that unfortunate duel was forced into it
by Dunroe, in consequence of his having paid some marked attentions to
Miss Gourlay, when she and her mother were in Paris, some few months
before Lady Gourlay's decease. I did not wish to mention this before,
out of respect for your daughter; but I do so now, confidentially, of
course, in consequence of the turn our conversation has taken.”

Something on the moment seemed to strike the baronet, who started,
for he was unquestionably an able hand at putting scattered facts and
circumstances together, and weaving a significant conclusion from them.

“That, my lord, at all events,” said the coarse-minded man, after having
recovered himself, “that is gratifying.”

“What!” exclaimed Lord Cullamore, “to make your daughter the cause and
subject of a duel, an intemperate brawl in a shooting gallery. The only
hope I have is, that I trust she was not named.”

“But, my lord, it is, after all, a proof of his affection for her.”

His lordship smiled sarcastically, and looked at him with something like
amazement, if not with contempt; but did not deign to reply.

“And now, my lord,” continued the baronet, “what is to be the result
of our conference? My daughter will have all my landed property at my
death, and a large marriage-portion besides, now in the funds. I am
apparently the last of my race. The disappearance and death--I take it
for granted, as they have never since been heard of--of my brother Sir
Edward's heir, and very soon after of my own, have left me without a
hope of perpetuating my name; I shall settle my estates upon Lucy.”

His lordship appeared abstracted for a few moments--“Your brother and
you,” he observed, “were on terms of bitter hostility, in consequence
of what you considered an unequal marriage on his part, and I
candidly assure you, Sir Thomas, that, were it not for the mysterious
disappearance of your own son, so soon after the disappearance of his,
it would have been difficult to relieve you from dark and terrible
suspicions on the subject. As it is, the people, I believe, criminate
you still; but that is nothing; my opinion is, that the same enemy
perpetrated the double crime. Alas! the worst and bitterest of all
private feuds are the domestic. There is my own brother; in a moment of
passion and jealousy he challenged me to single combat; I had sense to
resist his impetuosity. He got a foreign appointment, and there has been
a gulf like that of the grave between him and his, and me and mine, ever
since.”

“Nothing, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, his countenance, as he spoke,
becoming black with suppressed rage, “will ever remove the impression
from my mind, that the disappearance or murder of my son was not a
diabolical act of retaliation committed under the suspicion that I was
privy to the removal or death, as the case may be, of my brother's heir;
and while I have life I will persist in charging Lady Gourlay, as I must
call her so, with the crime.”

“In that impression,” replied his lordship, “you stand alone. Lady
Gourlay, that amiable, mild, affectionate, and heart-broken woman, is
utterly incapable of that, or any act of cruelty whatsoever. A woman who
is the source of happiness, kindness, relief, and support, to so many of
her humble and distressed fellow-creatures, is not likely to commit or
become accessory in any way to such a detestable and unnatural crime.
Her whole life and conduct render such a supposition monstrous and
incredible.”

Both, after he had closed his observations, mused for some time, when
the baronet, rising and pacing to and fro, as was his custom, at
length asked--“Well, my lord, what say you? Are we never to come to a
conclusion?”

“My determination is simply this, my dear baronet,--that, if you
and Miss Gourlay are satisfied to take Lord Dunroe, with all his
imperfections on his head, I shall give no opposition. She will, unless
he amends and reforms, take him, I grant you, at her peril; but be it
so. If the union, as, you say, will be the result of mutual attachment,
in God's name let them marry. It is possible, we are assured, that the
'unbelieving husband may be saved by the believing wife.'”

“I am quite satisfied, my lord, with this arrangement; it is fair, and
just, and honorable, and I am perfectly willing to abide by it. When
does your lordship propose to return to us?”

“I am tired of public life, my dear baronet. My daughter, Lady Emily,
who, you know, has chiefly resided with her maiden aunt, hopes to
succeed in prevailing on her to accompany us to Glenshee Castle, to
spend the summer and autumn, and visit some of the beautiful scenery of
this unknown land of ours. Something, as to time, depends upon Dunroe's
convalescence. My stay in England, however, will be as short as I can
make it. I am getting too old for the exhausting din and bustle of
society; and what I want now, is quiet repose, time to reflect upon my
past life, and to prepare myself, as well as I can, for a new change. Of
course, we will be both qualified to resume the subject of this marriage
after my return, and, until then, farewell, my dear baronet. But mark
me--no force, no violence.”

Sir Thomas, as he shook hands with him, laughed--“None will be
necessary, my lord, I assure you--I pledge you my honor for that.”

The worthy baronet, on mounting his horse, paced him slowly out of the
grounds, as was his custom when in deep meditation.

“If I don't mistake,” thought he, “I have a clew to this same mysterious
gentleman in the inn. He has seen and become acquainted with Lucy in
Paris, under sanction of her weak-minded and foolish mother. The girl
herself admitted that her engagement to him was with her consent.
Dunroe, already aware of his attentions to her, becomes jealous, and on
meeting him in London quarrels with him, that is to say, forces him, I
should think, into one;--not that the fellow seems at all to be a coward
either,--but why the devil did not the hot-headed young scoundrel take
steadier aim, and send the bullet through his heart or brain? Had he
pinked him, it would have saved me much vexation and trouble.”

He then passed to another train of thought--“Thomas Gourlay,--plain
Thomas Gourlay--what the devil could the corpse-like hag mean by that?
Is it possible that this insane scoundrel will come to light in spite of
me? Would to Heaven that I could ascertain his whereabouts, and get
him into my power once more. I would take care to put him in a place of
safety.” He then touched his horse with the spurs, and proceeded to Red
Hall at a quicker pace.




CHAPTER X. A Family Dialogue--and a Secret nearly Discovered.


Our scene must necessarily change to a kind of inn or low tavern, or, as
they are usually denominated, eating-houses, in Little Mary street,
on the north side of the good city of Dublin. These eating-houses were
remarkable for the extreme neatness and cleanliness with which they
were kept, and the wonderful order and regularity with which they were
conducted. For instance, a lap of beef is hung from an iron hook on the
door-post, which, if it be in the glorious heat of summer, is half black
with flies, but that will not prevent it from leaving upon your coat a
deep and healthy streak of something between grease and tallow as you
necessarily brush against it--first, on your going in, and secondly, on
your coming out.

The evening was tolerably advanced, and the hour of dinner long past;
but, notwithstanding this, there were several persons engaged in
dispatching the beef and cabbage we have described. Two or three
large county Meath farmers, clad in immense frieze jackets, corduroy
knee-breeches, thick woollen stockings, and heavy soled, shoes, were not
so much eating as devouring the viands that were before them; whilst in
another part of the rooms sat two or three meagre-looking scriveners'
clerks, rather out at elbows, and remarkable for an appearance of
something that might, without much difficulty, be interpreted into
habits that could not be reconciled with sobriety.

As there is not much, however, that is either picturesque or agreeable
in the description of such an establishment, we shall pass into an inner
room, where those who wished for privacy and additional comfort might
be entertained on terms somewhat more expensive. We accordingly beg our
readers to accompany us up a creaking pair of stairs to a small backroom
on the first floor, furnished with an old, round oak table, with turned
legs, four or five old-fashioned chairs, a few wood-cuts, daubed with
green and yellow, representing the four seasons, a Christmas carol,
together with that miracle of ingenuity, a reed in a bottle, which stood
on the chimney-piece.

In this room, with liquor before them, which was procured from a
neighboring public house--for, in establishments of this kind, they are
not permitted to keep liquor for sale--sat three persons, two men and a
woman. One of the men seemed, at first glance, rather good-looking, was
near or about fifty, stout, big-boned, and apparently very powerful as
regarded personal strength. He was respectably enough dressed, and,
as we said, unless when it happened that he fell into a mood of
thoughtfulness, which he did repeatedly, had an appearance of frankness
and simplicity which at once secured instant and unhesitating good will.
When, however, after putting the tumbler to his lips, and gulping down a
portion of it, and then replacing the liquor on the table, he folded his
arms and knitted his brows, in an instant the expression of openness and
good humor changed into one of deep and deadly malignity.

The features of the elder person exhibited a comic contrast between
nature and habit--between an expression of good humor, broad and
legible, which no one could mistake for a moment, and an affectation
of consequence, self-importance, and mock heroic dignity that were
irresistible. He was a pedagogue.

The woman who accompanied them we need not describe, having already
made the reader acquainted with her in the person of the female
fortune-teller, who held the mysterious dialogue with Sir Thomas Gourlay
on his way to Lord Cullamore's.

“This liquor,” said the schoolmaster, “would be nothing the worse of
a little daicent mellowness and flavor; but, at the same time, we must
admit that, though sadly deficient in a spirit of exhilaration, it bears
a harmonious reference to the beautiful beef and cabbage which we got
for dinner. The whole of them are what I designate as sorry specimens of
metropolitan luxury. May I never translate a classic, but I fear I
shall soon wax aegrotat--I feel something like a telegraphic despatch
commencing between my head and my stomach; and how the communication
may terminate, whether peaceably or otherwise, would require, O divine
Jacinta! your tripodial powers or prophecy to predict. The whiskey, in
whatever shape or under whatever disguise you take it, is richly worthy
of all condemnation.”

“I will drink no more of it, uncle,” replied the other man; “it would
soon sicken me, too. This shan't pass; it's gross imposition--and that
is a bad thing to practise in this world. Ginty, touch the bell, will
you?--we will make them get us better.”

A smile of a peculiar nature passed over the woman's ghastly features as
she looked with significant caution at her brother, for such he was.

“Yes, do get better whiskey,” she said; “it's too bad that we should
make my uncle sick from mere kindness.”

“I cannot exactly say that I am much out of order as yet,” replied the
schoolmaster, “but, as they say, if the weather has not broken, the sky
is getting troubled; I hope it is only a false, alarm, and may pass away
without infliction. If there is any of the minor miseries of life more
trying than another, it is to drink liquor that fires the blood, splits
the head, but basely declines to elevate and rejoice the heart. O,
divine poteen! immortal essence of the _hordeum beatum!_--which is
translated holy barley--what drink, liquor, or refreshment can be
placed, without the commission of something like small sacrilege,
in parallel with thee! When I think of thy soothing and gradually
exhilarating influence, of the genial spirit of love and friendship
which, owing to thee, warms the heart of man, and not unfrequently of
the softer sex also; when I reflect upon the cheerful light which
thou diffusest by gentle degrees throughout the soul, filling it with
generosity, kindness, and courage, enabling it to forget care and
calamity, and all the various ills that flesh is heir to; when I
remember too that thou dost so frequently aid the inspiration of the
bard, the eloquence of the orator, and changest the modesty of the
diffident lover into that easy and becoming assurance which is so
grateful to women, is it any wonder I should feel how utterly incapable
I am, without thy own assistance, to expound thy eulogium as I ought!
Hand that tumbler here, Charley,--bad as it is, there is no use, as
the proverb says, in laving one's liquor behind them. We will presently
correct it with better drink.”

Charley Corbet, for such was the name of the worthy schoolmaster's
nephew, laughed heartily at the eloquence of his uncle, who, he could
perceive, had been tampering a little with something stronger than water
in the course of the evening.

“What can keep this boy.” exclaimed Ginty; “he knew we were waiting for
him, and he ought to be here now.”

“The youth will come,” said the schoolmaster, “and a hospitable youth
he is--_me ipso teste_, as I myself can bear witness. I was in his
apartments in the _Collegium Sanctae Trinitatis_, as they say, which
means the blessed union of dulness, laziness, and wealth, for which
the same divine establishment has gained an appropriate and just
celebrity--I say I was in his apartments, where I found himself and
a few of his brother students engaged in the agreeable relaxation of
taking a hair of the same dog that bit them, after a liberal compotation
on the preceding night. Third place, as a scholar! Well! who may he
thank for that, I interrogate. Not one Denis O'Donegan!--O no; the said
Denis is an ignoramus, and knows nothing of the classics. Well, be it
so. All I say is, that I wish I had one classical lick at their provost,
I would let him know what the master of a plantation seminary (*--a
periphrasis for hedge-school) could do when brought to the larned
scratch?”

“How does Tom look, uncle.” asked Corbet; “we can't say that he has
shown much affection for his friends since he went to college.”

“How could you expect it, Charley, my worthy nepos.” said the
schoolmaster--“These sprigs of classicality, when once they get
under the wing of the collegium aforesaid, which, like a comfortable,
well-feathered old bird of the stubble, warms them into what is
ten times better than celebrity--_videlicet_, snug and independent
dulness--these sprigs, I say, especially, when their parents or
instructors happen to be poor, fight shy of the frieze and caubeen at
home, and avoid the risk of resuscitating old associations. Tom, Charley
looks--at least he did when I saw him to-day--very like a lad who is
more studious of the bottle than the book; but I will not prejudge the
youth, for I remember what he was while under my tuition. If he be
as cunning now and assiduous in the prosecution of letters as I found
him--if he be as cunning, as ripe at fiction, and of as unembarrassed
brow as he was in his schoolboy career, he will either hang, on the one
side, or rise to become lord chancellor or a bishop on the other.”

“He will be neither the one nor the other then,” said the prophetess,
“but something better both for himself and his friends.”

“Is this by way of the oracular, Ginty?”

“You may take it so if you like,” replied the female.

“And does the learned page of futurity present nothing in the shape of
a certain wooden engine, to which is attached a dangling rope, in
association with the youth? for in my mind his merits are as likely to
elevate him to the one as to the other. However, don't look like the
pythoness in her fury, Ginty; a joke is a joke; and here's that he
may be whatever you wish him! Ay, by the bones of Maro, this liquor is
pleasant discussion!” We may observe here that they had been already
furnished with a better description of drink--“But with regard to the
youth in question, there is one thing puzzles me, oh, most prophetical
niece, and that is, that you should take it into your head to effect an
impossibility, in other words, to make a gentleman of him; _ex quovis
ligno nonfit Mercurius_, is a good ould proverb.”

“That is but natural in her, uncle,” replied Corbet, “if you knew
everything; but for the present you can't; nobody knows who he is, and
that is a secret that must be kept.”

“Why,” replied the pedagogue, “is he not a slip from the Black Baronet,
and are not you, Ginty----?”

“Whether the child you speak of,” she replied, “is living or dead is
what nobody knows.”

“There is one thing I know,” said Corbet, “and that is, that I could
scald the heart and soul in the Black Baronet's body by one word's
speaking, if I wished; only the time is not yet come; but it will come,
and that soon, I hope.”

“Take care, Charley,” replied the master; “no violation of sacred ties.
Is not the said Baronet your foster-brother?”

“He remembered no such ties when he brought shame and disgrace on our
family,” replied Corbet, with a look of such hatred and malignity as
could rarely be seen on a human countenance.

“Then why did you live with him, and remain in his confidence so long,”
 asked his uncle.

“I had my own reasons for that--may be they will be known soon, and may
be they will never be known,” replied his nephew--“Whisht! there's a
foot on the stairs,” he added; “it's this youth, I'm thinking.”

Almost immediately a young man, in a college-gown and cap, entered, the
room, apparently the worse for liquor, and approaching the schoolmaster,
who sat next him, slapped his shoulder, exclaiming:

“Well, my jolly old pedagogue, I hope you have enjoyed yourself since
I saw you last? Mr. Corbet, how do you do? And Cassandra, my darling
death-like old prophetess, what have you to predict for Ambrose Gray,”
 for such was the name by which he went.

“Sit down, Mr. Gray,” said Corbet, “and join us in one glass of punch.”

“I will, in half-a-dozen,” replied the student; “for I am always glad to
see my friends.”

“But not to come to see them,” said Mrs. Cooper--“However, it doesn't
matter; we are glad to see you, Mr. Ambrose. I hope you are getting on
well at college?”

“Third place, eh, my old grinder: are you not proud of me,” said
Ambrose, addressing the schoolmaster.

“I think, Mr. Gray, the pride ought to be on the other side,” replied
O'Donegan, with an affectation of dignity--“but it was well, and I
trust you are not insensible of the early indoctrination you received
at--whose hands I will not say; but I think it might be guessed
notwithstanding.”

During this conversation, the eyes of the prophetess were fixed upon the
student, with an expression of the deepest and most intense interest.
His personal appearance was indeed peculiar and remarkable. He was
about the middle size, somewhat straggling and bony in his figure; his
forehead was neither good nor bad, but the general contour of his face
contained not within it a single feature with the expression of which
the heart of the spectator could harmonize. He was beetle-browed, his
mouth diabolically sensual, and his eyes, which were scarcely an inch
asunder, were sharp and piercing, and reminded one that the deep-seated
cunning which lurked in them was a thing to be guarded against and
avoided. His hands and feet were large and coarse, his whole figure
disagreeable and ungainly, and his voice harsh and deep.

The fortune-teller, as we have said, kept her eyes fixed upon his
features, with a look which seemed to betray no individual feeling
beyond that of some extraordinary and profound interest. She appeared
like one who was studying his character, and attempting to read his
natural disposition in his countenance, manner, and conversation.
Sometimes her eye brightened a little, and again her death-like face
became overshadowed with gloom, reminding one of that strange darkness
which, when the earth is covered with snow, falls with such dismal
effect before an approaching storm.

“I grant you, my worthy old grinder, that you did indoctrinate me, as
you say, to some purpose; but, my worthy old grinder, again I say to
you, that, by all the gerunds, participles, and roots you ever ground
in your life, it was my own grinding that got me the third place in the
scholarship.”

“Well, Mr. Ambrose,” rejoined the pedagogue, who felt disposed to draw
in his horns a little, “one thing is clear, that, between us both, we
did it. What bait, what line, what calling, or profession in life, do
you propose to yourself, Mr. Ambrose? Your course in college has been
brilliant so far, thanks to--ahem--no matter--you have distinguished
yourself.”

“I have carried everything before me,” replied Ambrose--“but what then?
Suppose, my worthy old magister, that I miss a fellowship--why,
what remains, but to sink down into a resident mastership, and grind
blockheads for the remainder of my life? But what though I fail
in science, still, most revered and learned O'Donegan, I have
ambition--ambition--and, come how it may, I will surge up out of
obscurity, my old buck. I forgot to tell you, that I got the first
classical premium yesterday, and that I am consequently--no, I didn't
forget to tell you, because I didn't know it myself when I saw you
to-day. Hip, hip--hurra!”

His two male companions filled their glasses, and joined him heartily.
O'Donegan shook him by the hand, so did Corbet, and they now could
understand the cause of his very natural elevation of spirits.

“So you have all got legacies,” proceeded Mr. Ambrose; “fifty pounds
apiece, I hear, by the death of your brother, Mr. Corbet, who was
steward to Lady Gourlay--I am delighted to hear it--hip, hip, hurra,
again.”

“It's true enough,” observed the prophetess, “a good, kind-hearted man
was my poor brother Edward.”

“How is that old scoundrel of a Black Baronet in your neighborhood--Sir
Thomas--he who murdered his brother's heir?”

“For God's sake, Mr. Ambrose, don't say so. Don't you know that he got
heavy damages against Captain Furlong for using the same words?”

“He be hanged,” said the tipsy student; “he murdered him as sure as I
sit at this table; and God bless the worthy, be the same man or woman,
who left himself, as he left his brother's widow, without an heir to his
ill-gotten title and property.”

The fortune-teller rose up, and entreated him not to speak harshly
against Sir Thomas Gourlay, adding, “That, perhaps, he was not so bad
as the people supposed; but,” she added, “as they--that is, she and
her brother--happened to be in town, they were anxious to see him (the
student); and, indeed, they would feel obliged if he came with them into
the front room for ten minutes or so, as they wished to have a little
private conversation with him.”

The change in his features at this intimation was indeed surprising.
A keen, sharp sense of self-possession, an instant recollection of his
position and circumstances, banished from them, almost in an instant,
the somewhat careless and tipsy expression which they possessed on his
entrance.

“Certainly,” said he--“Mr. O'Donegan, will you take care of yourself
until we return?”

“No doubt of it,” replied the pedagogue, as they left the room, “I shall
not forget myself, no more than that the image and superscription of Sir
Thomas Gourlay, the Black Baronet, is upon your diabolical visage.”

Instead of ten minutes, the conference between the parties in the next
room lasted for more than an hour, during which period O'Donegan did not
omit to take care of himself, as he said. The worthy pedagogue was one
of those men, who, from long habit, can never become tipsy beyond a
certain degree of elevation, after which, no matter what may be the
extent of their indulgence, nothing in the shape of liquor can affect
them. When Gray and his two friends returned, they found consequently
nothing but empty bottles before them, whilst the schoolmaster viewed
them with a kind of indescribable steadiness of countenance, which could
not be exactly classed with either drunkenness or sobriety, but was
something between both. More liquor, however, was ordered in, but, in
the meantime, O'Donegan's eyes were fastened upon Mr. Gray with a
degree of surprise, which, considering the change in the young man's
appearance, was by no means extraordinary. Whatever the topic of
their conversation may have been, it is not our purpose at present to
disclose; but one thing is certain, that the transition which took
place in Gray's features, as well as in his whole manner, was remarkable
almost beyond belief. This, as we have said, manifested itself in some
degree, on hearing that Corbet and his sister had something to say to
him in the next room. Now, however, the change was decided and striking.
All symptoms of tipsy triumph, arising from his success in college,
had completely disappeared, and were replaced by an expression of
seriousness and mingled cunning, which could not possibly escape
observation. There was a coolness, a force of reflection, a keen, calm,
but agitated lustre in his small eyes, that was felt by the schoolmaster
to be exceedingly disagreeable to contemplate. In fact, the face of the
young man was, in a surprising degree, calculating and sinister. A great
portion of its vulgarity was gone, and there remained something behind
that seemed to partake of a capacity for little else than intrigue,
dishonesty, and villany. It was one of those countenances on which, when
moved by the meditations of the mind within, nature frequently expresses
herself as clearly as if she had written on it, in legible characters,
'Beware of this man'.

After a little time, now that the object of this mysterious meeting had
been accomplished, the party separated.

We mentioned that Corbet and Sir Thomas Gourlay were foster-brothers--a
relation which, in Ireland and the Highlands of Scotland, formed the
basis of an attachment, on the part of the latter, stronger, in many
instances, than that of nature itself. Corbet's brother stood also to
him in the same relation as he did to the late Sir Edward Gourlay,
under whom, and subsequently under his widow, he held the situation of
house-steward until his death. Edward Corbet, for his Christian name had
been given him after that of his master--his mother having nursed both
brothers--was apparently a mild, honest, affectionate man, trustworthy
and respectful, as far, at least, as ever could be discovered to the
contrary, and, consequently, never very deep in the confidence of his
brother Charles, who was a great favorite with Sir Thomas, was supposed
to be very deeply in his secrets, and held a similar situation in his
establishment. It was known, or at least supposed, that his brother
Edward, having lived since his youth up with a liberal and affectionate
master, must have saved a good deal of money; and, as he had
never married, of course his brother, and also his sister--the
fortune-teller--took it for granted that, being his nearest relations,
whatever savings he had put together, must, after his death, necessarily
pass into their hands. He was many years older than either, and as they
maintained a constant and deferential intercourse with him--studied
all his habits and peculiarities--and sent him, from time to time,
such little presents as they thought might be agreeable to him, the
consequence was, that they maintained their place in his good opinion,
so far at least as to prevent him from leaving the fruits of his honest
and industrious life to absolute strangers. Not that they inherited
by any means his whole property, such as it was, several others of his
relatives received more or less, but his brother, sister, and maternal
uncle--the schoolmaster--were the largest inheritors.

The illness of Edward Corbet was long and tedious; but Lady Gourlay
allowed nothing to be wanting that could render his bed of sickness or
death easy and tranquil, so far as kindness, attention, and the ministry
of mere human comforts could effect it. During his illness, his brother
Charles visited him several times, and had many private conversations
with him. And it may be necessary to state here, that, although these
two relatives had never lived upon cold or unfriendly terms, yet the
fact was that Edward felt it impossible to love Charles with the fulness
of a brother's affection. The natural disposition of the latter, under
the guise of an apparently good-humored and frank demeanor, was in
reality inscrutable.

Though capable, as we said, of assuming a very different character
whenever it suited his purpose, he was nevertheless a man whose full
confidence was scarcely ever bestowed upon a human being. Such an
individual neither is nor can be relished in society; but it is
precisely persons of his stamp who are calculated to win their way with
men of higher and more influential position in life, who, when moved
by ambition, avarice, or any other of the darker and more dangerous
passions of our nature, feel an inclination, almost instinctive, to
take such men into their intrigues and deliberations. The tyrant and
oppressor discovers the disposition and character of his slave and
instrument with as much sagacity as is displayed by the highly bred dog
that scents out the game of which the sportsman is in pursuit. In this
respect, however, it not unfrequently happens, that even those who are
most confident in the penetration with which they make such selections,
are woefully mistaken in the result.

We allude particularly to the death of Edward Corbet, at this stage
of our narrative, because, from that event, the train of circumstances
which principally constitute the body of our narrative originated.

His brother had been with him in the early part of the day on which he
breathed his last. On arriving at the mansion in Merrion square, he met
Lady Gourlay on the steps of the hall door, about to enter her carriage.

“I am glad you are come, Corbet,” she said--“Your poor brother has been
calling for you--see him instantly--for his sands are numbered. The
doctor thinks he cannot pass the turn of the day.”

“God bless your ladyship,” replied Corbet, “for your uncommon kindness
and attention to him during his long and severe illness. All that could
be done for a person in his circumstances, your ladyship did; and I know
he is deeply sensible of it, my lady.”

“It was only my duty, Corbet,” she replied, “to a true-hearted and
faithful servant, for such he was to our family. I could not forget
the esteem in which his master, my dear husband, held him, nor the
confidence which he never failed, and justly, to repose in him. Go
immediately to him, for he has expressed much anxiety to see you.”

His brother, indeed, found him hovering on the very brink of the grave.
What their conversation was, we know not, unless in so far as a portion
of it at least may be inferred from the subsequent circumstances of our
story. After having spent about an hour with him, his brother, who,
it seems, had some pressing commissions to execute for Sir Thomas, was
obliged to leave him for a time, but promised to return as soon as he
could, get them discharged. In the meantime, poor Corbet sank rapidly
after Charles's departure, and begged, with a degree of anguish that
was pitiable, to see Lady Gourlay, as he had something, he said, of the
utmost importance to communicate to her. Lady Gourlay, however, had gone
out, and none of the family could give any opinion as to the period of
her return; whilst the dying man seemed to experience a feeling that
amounted almost to agony at her absence. In this state he remained for
about three hours, when at length she returned, and found him with the
mild and ghastly impress of immediate death visible in his languid,
dying eyes, and hollow countenance.

“They tell me you wish to see me, Corbet,” she said--“If there is
anything that can be done to soothe your mind, or afford you ease and
comfort in your departing hour, mention it, and, if it be within our
power, it shall be done.”

He made an effort to speak, but his voice was all but gone. At length,
after several efforts, he was able to make, her understand that he
wished her to bend down her head to him; she did so; and in accents that
were barely, and not without one or two repetitions, intelligible, he
was able to say, “Your son is living, and Sir Thomas knows----”

Lady Gourlay was of a feminine, gentle, and quiet disposition, in fact,
a woman from whose character one might expect, upon receiving such a
communication, rather an exhibition of that wild and hysteric excitement
which might be most likely to end in a scream or a fainting fit. Here,
however, the instincts of the defrauded heart of the bereaved and
sorrowing mother were called into instant and energetic life. The
physical system, instead of becoming relaxed or feeble, grew firm
and vigorous, and her mind collected and active. She saw, from the
death-throes of the man, that a single moment was not to be lost, and
instantly, for her mouth was still at his ear, asked, in a distinct and
eager voice, “Where, Corbet, where? for God's mercy, where? and what
does Sir Thomas know?”

The light and animation of life were fast fading from his face; he
attempted to speak again, but voice and tongue refused to discharge
their office--he had become speechless. Feeling conscious, however, that
he could not any longer make himself understood by words, he raised his
feeble hand, and attempted to point as if in a certain direction, but
the arm fell powerlessly down--he gave a deep sigh and expired.

Thus far only can we proceed at present. How and why the stranger
makes his appearance at Ballytrain, and whether in connection with this
incident or not, are circumstances which we will know in due time.




CHAPTER XI. The Stranger's Visit to Father MacMalum.


The stranger, after Fenton had gone, began to feel that it was
impossible either to wheedle or extort any information whatsoever,
whether of importance or otherwise, from that extraordinary and not very
sane individual. That, however, there was a deep mystery about him,
be it what it might, he could not, for a moment, doubt; and, for this
reason, he resolved by no means to relax his exertions, or suffer
Fenton, if he could fairly prevent it, to slip through his fingers.
His unaccountable conduct and terror, during, as well as after, his own
angry altercation with the baronet, went, in his opinion, strongly to
connect him, in some manner, with that unscrupulous man. But how to
develop the nature of this connection constituted the very difficulty
which not only disappointed but mortified him.

“I will call upon Birney,” thought he; “he is acute and sensible, and
probably, from his greater experience of life, will be able to throw
out some hint that may be valuable, and enable me to proceed with more
effect.”

We have already said, that it was somewhat difficult to commonplace
observers to determine his (the stranger's) exact position in society
by a first glance at his dress. This ambiguity of appearance, if, after
all, it could properly be called so, was assumed for the express purpose
of avoiding observation as much as possible. The fact, however, of
finding that his desire to remain unnoticed had been not merely observed
and commented on, but imputed to him almost as a crime, determined
him no longer to lie _perdu_ in his inn, but to go abroad, and appear in
public like another; whilst, at the same time, his resolution remained
fixed as ever, for various reasons, to conceal his name. The moment,
therefore, he had made up his mind to this course, that assumed
restraint of manner and consciousness of not being what we appear to be
were completely thrown aside, and the transition which ensued was indeed
extraordinary. His general deportment became at once that of a perfect
gentleman, easy, elegant, if not absolutely aristocratic; but without
the slightest evidence of anything that could be considered supercilious
or offensive. His dress was tastefully within the fashion, but not
in its extreme, and his admirable figure thus displayed to the best
advantage; whilst his whole person was utterly free from every symptom
of affectation or foppery. Nor was the change in the tone of his
features less striking. Their style of beauty was at once manly and
intellectual, combining, as they did, an expression of great sweetness,
obvious good sense, and remarkable determination. He bore, in fact, the
aspect of a man who could play with a child on the green, or beard a
lion in his lair.

The sagacity of the Irish people, in the estimate they form of personal
appearance and character, is, indeed, very extraordinary. Our friend,
the stranger, when casting his eye over the town of Ballytrain, on his
way to have an interview with Birney, who, we may as well observe, was
in his confidence, perceived that it was market-day. As he went out
upon the street, a crowd of persons were standing opposite the inn door,
where an extensive yarn market, in these good old times, was always
held; and we need scarcely say that his gentlemanly and noble figure,
and the striking elegance of his manner, at once attracted their
attention.

“Well,” said one of them, “there goes a real gintleman, begad, at any
rate.”

“Divil a lie in that,” added another; “there's no mistakin' the true
blood.”

“Who is he,” asked a third--“Does nobody know him?”

“Troth,” said the other, “it doesn't signify a traneen who or what he
is; whether he's gentle or simple, I say that the whole country ought to
put their heads under his feet.”

“Why so, Jemmy Trailcudgel,” asked a fourth; “what did he do for the
counthry?”

“I'll tell you that, Micky,” replied the other--“The Black Baronet,
bad luck to him, came to the inn where he stops, and insisted, right or
wrong, on knowing who and what he was.”

“I wouldn't put it past him, the turk o' blazes! Well, an' what
happened?”

“Why, the gintleman got up, and tuck a hoult o' the black villain by
the nose, led him to the head of the stairs, then turned him down before
him, and made his feet right and left play against the barrow knight,
like the tucks of a cloth mill, until he thrundled him clane--I'm not so
sure of that, though--out o' the hall door.”

“An' for that same, God prosper him! Begad, he's a bully gentleman,”
 observed a stout, frieze-coated fellow, with a large bunch of green
linen yarn on his lusty arm--“he is, and it's in him, and upon him, as
every one that has eyes to see may know.”

The object of their praise, on entering the office of his friend Birney,
found him at his desk, with professional papers and documents before
him. After the ordinary greetings of the day, and an accurate account of
the baronet's interview with him, the stranger introduced the topic in
which he felt so deep an interest.

“I am unfortunate, Mr. Birney,” said he; “Fenton, notwithstanding his
eccentricity, insanity, or whatever it may be termed, seems to suspect
my design, and evades, with singular address, every attempt, on my part,
to get anything out of him. Is he absolutely deranged, think you? For,
I assure you, I have just now had a scene with him, in which his conduct
and language could proceed from nothing short of actual insanity. A
little affected with liquor he unquestionably was, when he came in
first. The appearance, however, of Sir Thomas not only reduced him to
a state of sobriety, but seemed to strike him with a degree of terror
altogether inexplicable.”

“How was that,” asked Birney.

The stranger accordingly described the scene between himself and Fenton,
with which the reader is acquainted.

“He is not a madman, certainly, in the ordinary sense of the word,”
 replied Birney, after a pause; “but, I think, he may be called a kind of
lunatic, certainly. My own opinion is, that, whatever insanity he may be
occasionally afflicted with results more from an excessive indulgence in
liquor than from any other cause. Be that, however, as it may, there
is no question but that he is occasionally seized with fits of mental
aberration. From what you tell me, and his exaggerated suspicions of a
plot between you and Sir Thomas Gourlay, I think it most probable that
he is your man still.”

“I, too, think it probable,” replied the stranger; “but, alas, I think
it possible he may not. On comparing his features with the miniature,
I confess I cannot now trace the resemblance which my sanguine
imagination--and that only, I fear--first discovered.”

“But, consider, sir, that that miniature was taken when the original of
it was only five or six years of age; and you will also recollect that
growth, age, education, and peculiar habits of life, effect the most
extraordinary changes in the features of the same individual. No, sir, I
would not advise you to feel disheartened by this.”

“But, can you fall upon no hint or principle, Mr. Birney, by which I
might succeed in unlocking the secret which this young man evidently
possesses?”

“All I can recommend to you, sir, is comprised within one
word--patience. Mark him well; ingratiate yourself with him; treat
him with kindness; supply his wants; and I have no doubt but you may
ultimately win upon his confidence.”

“Is there no sagacious old person in the neighborhood, no senachie or
genealogist, to whom you could refer me, and from whose memory of past
events in this part of the country I might be able to gain something to
guide me?”

“There is one woman,” replied Birney, “who, were she tractable as to
the past as she is communicative of the future, could furnish you more
details of family history and hereditary scandal than any one else I
can think of just now. Some of her predictions--for she is a
fortune-teller--have certainly been amazing.”

“The result, I have no doubt,” replied the other, “of personal
acquaintance with private occurrences, rendered incredible under
ordinary circumstances, in consequence of her rapid transitions from
place to place. I shall certainly not put myself under the guidance of
an impostor, Mr. Birney.”

“In this case, sir, I think you are right; for it has been generally
observed that, in no instance, has she ever been known to make any
reference to the past in her character of fortune-teller. She affects to
hold intercourse with the fairies, or good people, as we term them,
and insists that it is from them that she derives the faculty of a
prophetess. She also works extraordinary cures by similar aid, as she
asserts. The common impression is, that her mind is burdened with some
secret guilt, and that it relieves her to contemplate the future, as it
regards temporal fate, but that she dares not look back into the past.
I know there is nothing more certain than that, when asked to do so,
in peculiar moods of mind, she manifests quite as much of the maniac as
poor Fenton.”

“Away with the old impostress!” exclaimed the stranger; “I will have
none of her! Can you think of no one else?”

“Of course, you have not had time to become acquainted with our parish
priest?” replied Birney. “Since 'Aroint thee, witch,' is your creed, I
think you had better try him.”

“Not an unnatural transition,” replied the stranger, smiling; “but what
is he like? Give me an outline.”

“He is named the Rev. Peter M'Mahon,and I forewarn you, that you are as
likely, if he be not in the mood, to get such a reception as you may not
relish. He is somewhat eccentric and original, but, at the same time,
his secret piety and stolen benevolence are beyond all question. With
his limited means, the good he does is incalculable. He is, in fact,
simple, kind-hearted, and truly religious. In addition to all, he is a
considerable bit of a humorist; when the good man's mind is easy, his
humor is kindly, rich, and mellow; but, when any way in dudgeon, it is
comically sarcastic.”

“I must see this man,” said the stranger; “you have excited my
curiosity. By all accounts he is worth a visit.”

“He is more likely to serve you in this matter than any one I know,”
 said the attorney; “or, if he can't himself, perhaps he may find out
those that can. Very little has happened in the parish within the last
thirty-five years with which he is not acquainted.”

“I like the man,” replied the other, “from your description of him.”

“At all events, you would if you knew him,” replied Birney. “He is both
a good priest and a good man.”

He then directed him to the worthy clergy-man's residence, which was not
more than a mile and a half from the town, and the stranger lost little
time in reaching it.

On approaching the house, he was much struck with the extraordinary air
of neatness, cleanliness, and comfort, which characterized not only the
house itself, but everything about it. A beautiful garden facing the
south, stretched down to the left, as you approached the elegant little
whitewashed dwelling, which, placed on a green knoll, literally
shone for miles over the beautiful and serene country by which it
was surrounded. Below it, to the south, between firm green banks and
meadows, wound a beautiful river, and to the north rose one of the most
picturesque hills, probably, in the kingdom; at the hip of which was a
gloomy, precipitous glen, which, for wildness and solitary grandeur, is
unrivalled by anything of the kind we have seen. On the top of the hill
is a cave, supposed to be Druidical, over which an antiquarian would
dream half a life; and, indeed, this is not to be wondered at, inasmuch
as he would find there some of the most distinctly traced Ogham
characters to be met with in any part of the kingdom.

On entering the house, our nameless friend found the good priest in what
a stranger might be apt to consider a towering passion.

“You lazy bosthoon,” said he, to a large, in fact to a huge young
fellow, a servant, “was it to allow the pigs, the destructive vagabonds,
to turn up my beautiful bit of lawn that I undertook to give you
house-room, wages, and feeding--eh? and a bitther business to me the
same feeding is. If you were a fellow that knew when he had enough, I
could bear the calamity of keeping you at all. But that's a subject, God
help you, and God help me too that has to suffer for it, on which your
ignorance is wonderful. To know when to stop so long as the blessed
victuals is before you is a point of polite knowledge you will never
reach, you immaculate savage. Not a limb about you but you'd give six
holidays to out of the seven, barrin' your walrus teeth, and, if God
or man would allow you the fodder, you'd give us an elucidation of the
perpetual motion. Be off, and get the strongest set of rings that Jemmy
M'Quade can make for those dirty, grubbing bastes of pigs. The Lord
knows I don't wondher that the Jews hated the thieves, for sure they
are the only blackguard animals that ever committed suicide, and set the
other bastes of the earth such an unchristian example. Not that a slice
of ham is so bad a thing in itself, especially when it is followed by a
single tumbler of poteen punch.”

“Troth, masther, I didn't see the pigs, or they'd not have my sanction
to go into the lawn.”

“Not a thing ever you see, or wish to see, barring your dirty victuals.”

“I hope, sir,” said the stranger, much amused in the meantime, but with
every courtesy of manner, “that my request for a short interview does
not come at an unseasonable hour?”

“And, do you hear me, you bosthoon,” proceeded his reverence--this,
however, he uttered sotto voce, from an apprehension lest the stranger
should hear his benevolent purposes--“did you give the half crown to
Widow Magowran, whose children, poor creatures, are lying ill of fever?”

Not a word to the stranger, who, however, overheard him.

“I did, plaise your reverence,” replied the huge servant.

“What did she say,” asked the other, “when you slipped it to her?”

“She said nothing, sir, for a minute or so, but dropped on her knees,
and the tears came from her eyes in such a way that I couldn't help
letting down one or two myself. 'God spare him,' she then said, 'for
his piety and charity makes him a blessin' to the parish.' Throth, I
couldn't help lettin' down a tear or two myself.”

“You couldn't now.” exclaimed the simple-hearted priest; “why, then, I
forgive you the pigs, you great, good-natured bosthoon.”

The stranger now thought that he might claim some notice from his
reverence.

“I fear, sir,” said he--

“And whisper, Mat,” proceeded the priest--paying not the slightest
attention to him, “did you bring the creel of turf to poor Barney
Farrell and his family, as I desired you?”

“I did, your reverence, and put a good heap on it for the creatures.”

“Well, I forgive you the pigs!” exclaimed the benevolent priest,
satisfied that his pious injunctions had been duly observed, and
extending a portion of his good feeling to the instrument; “and as for
the appetite I spoke of, sure, you good-natured giant you, haven't you
health, exercise, and a most destructive set of grinders? and, indeed,
the wonder would be if you didn't make the sorrow's havoc at a square of
bacon; so for heaping the creel I forgive you the digestion and the pigs
both.”

“Will you permit me.” interposed the stranger, a third time.

“But listen again,” proceeded his reverence, “did you bring the bread
and broth to the poor Caseys, the creatures?”

“No, sir,” replied Mat, licking his lips, as the stranger thought, “it
was Kitty Kavanagh brought that; you know you never trust me wid the
vittles--ever since--”

“Yes, I ought to have remembered that notorious fact. There's where your
weakness is strongest, but, indeed, it is only one of them; for he that
would trust you with the carriage of a bottle of whiskey might be said
to commit a great oversight of judgment. With regard to the victuals,
I once put my trust in God, and dispatched you, after a full meal, with
some small relief to a poor family, in the shape of corned beef and
greens, and you know the sequel, that's enough. Be off now, and get the
rings made as I desired you.”

He then turned to the stranger, whom he scanned closely; and we need
hardly assure our reader that the other, in his turn, marked the
worthy priest's bearing, manner, and conversation with more than usual
curiosity. The harmless passion in which he found him--his simple but
touching benevolence, added to the genuine benignity with which he
relaxed his anger against Mat Euly, the gigantic servant, because he
told him that he had put a heap upon the creel of turf which he brought
to poor Barney Farrell and his family, not omitting the tears he
represented himself to have shed from Christian sympathy with Widow
Magowran, both of which acts were inventions of the purest water,
resorted to in order to soften the kind-hearted priest; all this, we
say, added to what he had heard from Birney, deeply interested the
stranger in the character of Father Peter. Nor was he less struck by his
appearance. Father MacMahon was a round, tight, rosy-faced little
man, with laughing eyes, full of good nature, and a countenance which
altogether might be termed a title-page to benevolence. His lips were
finely cut, and his well-formed mouth, though full of sweetness, was
utterly free from every indication of sensuality or passion. Indeed, it
was at all times highly expressive of a disposition the most kind and
placable, and not unfrequently of a comical spirit, that blended
with his benevolence to a degree that rendered the whole cast of his
features, as they varied with and responded to the kindly and natural
impulses of his heart, a perfect treat to look upon. That his heart and
soul were genuinely Irish, might easily be perceived by the light of
humor which beamed with such significant contagion from every feature of
his face, as well as by the tear which misery and destitution and sorrow
never failed to bring to his cheek, thus overshadowing for a time, if we
may say so, the whole sunny horizon of his countenance. But this was
not all; you might read there a spirit of kindly sarcasm that was in
complete keeping with a disposition always generous and affectionate,
mostly blunt and occasionally caustic. Nothing could exceed the extreme
neatness with which he attended to his dress and person. In this point
he was scrupulously exact and careful; but this attention to the minor
morals was the result of anything but personal pride, for we are bound
to say, that, with all his amiable eccentricities, more unaffected
humility never dwelt in the heart of a Christian minister.

He had, in fact, paid little or no attention to the stranger until
Mat Ruly went out; when, on glancing at him with more attention,
he perceived at once that he was evidently a person of no ordinary
condition in life.

“I have to ask your pardon, sir,” said he, “for seeming to neglect you
as I did, but the truth is, I was in a white heat of passion with
that great good-natured colossus of mine, Mat Ruly, for, indeed, he is
good-natured, and that I can tell you makes me overlook many a thing in
him that I would not otherwise pass by. Ah, then, sir, did you observe,”
 he added, “how he confessed to heaping the creel of turf for the
Farrells, and crying with poor Widow Magowran?”

The stranger could have told him that, if he had seen the comical wink
which the aforesaid Mat had given to one of the servant-maids, as
he reported his own sympathy and benevolence to his master, he might
probably have somewhat restricted his encomium upon him.

“I can't say, sir,” he replied, “that I paid particular attention to the
dialogue between you.”

“Bless me,” exclaimed Father Peter, “what am I about? Walk into the
parlor, sir. Why should I have kept you standing here so long? Pray,
take a seat, sir. You must think me very rude and forgetful of the
attention due to a gentleman of your appearance.”

“Not at all, sir,” replied the other, seating himself--“I rather think
you were better engaged and in higher duties than any that are likely to
arise from my communication with you.”

“Well, sir,” replied the priest, smiling, “that you know is yet to be
determined on; but in the mane time I'll be happy to hear your business,
whatever it is; and, indeed, from your looks, although the Lord knows
they're often treacherous, I tell you that if I can stretch a point
to sarve you I will; provided always that I can do so with a good
conscience, and provided also that I find your character and conduct
entitle you to it. So, then, I say, let us have at the business you
spake of, and to follow up this proposition with suitable energy, what's
your name and occupation? for there's nothing like knowing the ground
a man stands on. I know you're a stranger in this neighborhood, for I
assure you there is not a face in the parish but I am as well acquainted
with as my own, and indeed a great deal betther, in regard that I
never shave with a looking-glass. I tried it once or twice and was near
committing suicide in the attempt.”

There was something so kind, frank, yet withal so eccentric, and, as
it would seem, so unconsciously humorous in the worthy father's manner,
that the stranger, whilst he felt embarrassed by the good-natured
bluntness of his interrogations, could not help experiencing a sensation
that was equally novel and delightful, arising as it did from the candor
and honesty of purpose that were so evident in all the worthy man did
and said.

“I should never have supposed, from the remarkable taste of your dress
and your general appearance,” he replied, “that you make your toilet
without a looking-glass.”

“It's a fact, though; neither I nor my worthy father before me ever
troubled one; we left them to the girshas and the women; habit is
everything, and for that reason I could shave as well at midnight as at
the hour of noon. However, let us pass that by, thank God I can go out
with as clane a face, and I trust with as clear a conscience, always
barring the passions that Mat Euly puts me into, as some of my
neighbors; yet, God forgive me, why should I boast? for I know and
feel that I fall far short of my duty in every sense, especially when I
reflect how much of poverty and destitution are scattered through this
apparently wealthy parish. God forgive me, then, for the boast I made,
for it was both wrong and sinful!”

A touch of feeling which it would be difficult to describe, but which
raised him still more highly in the estimation of the stranger, here
passed over his handsome and benevolent features, but after it had
passed away he returned at once to the object of the stranger's visit.

“Well,” said he, “to pass now from my omissions and deficiencies, let us
return to the point we were talking of; you haven't told me your name,
or occupation, or profession, or business of any kind--that is, if you
have any?”

“I assure you, reverend sir,” replied the other, “that I am at the
present moment placed in such a position, that I fear it is out of my
power to satisfy you in any of these points. Whilst, at the same time,
I confess that, nameless and stranger as I am, I feel anxious to receive
your advice and assistance upon a matter of considerable--indeed of the
deepest--importance to an unfortunate and heart-broken lady, whose
only son, when but six years of age, and then heir to a large property,
disappeared many years ago in a manner so mysterious, that no trace,
until very recently, has ever been found of him. Nor, indeed, has she
found any clew to him yet, beyond a single intimation given to her by
her house-steward--a man named Corbet--who, on his death-bed, had merely
breath to say that 'your son lives, and that Sir Thomas--' These, sir,
were the man's last words; for, alas! unhappy for the peace of mind of
this excellent lady, he expired before he could complete the sentence,
or give her the information for which her heart yearned. Now, reverend
sir,” he added, “I told you that it is out of my power, for more than
one reason, to disclose my name; but, I assure you, that the fact of
making this communication to you, which you perceive I do frankly and
without hesitation, is placing a confidence in you, though a personal
stranger to me, which I am certain you will respect.”

“Me a stranger!” exclaimed the priest, “in my own parish where I have
lived curate and parish priest for close upon forty years; hut hut! this
is a good joke. Why, I tell you, sir, that there is not a dog in the
parish but knows me, with the exception of a vile cur belonging to Jemmy
M'Gurth, that I have striven to coax and conciliate a hundred ways,
and yet I never pass but he's out at me. Indeed, he's an ungrateful
creature, and a mane sconce besides; for I tell you, that when leaving
home, I have often put bread in my pocket, and on going past his owner's
house, I would throw it to him--now not a lie in this--and what do you
think the nasty vermin would do? He'd ait the bread, and after he had
made short work of it--for he's aquil to Mat Kuly in appetite--he'd
attack me as fresh, and indeed a great dale fresher in regard of what he
had got; ay, and with more bitterness, if possible, than ever. Now, sir,
I remember that greedy and ungrateful scrub of an animal about three
years ago; for indeed the ill feeling is going on between us for nearly
seven--I say I remember him in the dear year, when he wasn't able to
bark at me until he staggered over and put himself against the ditch on
the roadside, and then, heaven knows, worse execution of the kind was
never heard. However, there's little else than ingratitude in this
world, and eaten bread, like hunger, is soon forgotten, though far
seldomer by dogs, I am sorry to say, than by man--a circumstance which
makes the case I am repeating to you of this cur still worse. But,
indeed, he served me right; for bribery, even to a dog, does not deserve
to prosper. But I beg your pardon, sir, for obtruding my own little
grievances upon a stranger. What is it you expect me to do for you in
this business? You allude, I think, to Lady Gourlay; and, in truth, if
it was in my power to restore her son to her, that good and charitable
lady would not be long without him.”

“I do,” replied the other--“She is under a strong impression, in
consequence of the dying man's allusion to the boy's uncle, Sir Thomas,
'who,' he said, 'knows,' that he is cognizant of the position--whatever
it may be--in which her unfortunate son is placed.”

“Not unlikely, but still what can I do in this?”

“I am scarcely aware of that myself,” replied the other; “but I may
say that it was Mr. Birney, who, under the circumstances of peculiar
difficulty in which I am placed, suggested to me to see you, and who
justified me besides in reposing this important confidence in you.”

“I thank Mr. Birney,” said Father Peter, “and you may rest assured, that
your confidence will not be abused, and that upon a higher principle,
I trust, than my friendship for that worthy and estimable gentleman. I
wish all in his dirty roguish profession were like him. By the way,”
 he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, “perhaps you are the worthy
gentleman who kicked the Black Baronet downstairs in the Mitre inn?”

“No,” he replied; “some warm words we had, which indeed for one reason I
regret; but that was all. Sir Thomas, sir, I believe, is not popular in
the neighborhood?”

“I make it a point, my friend,” replied the priest, “never to spake ill
of the absent; but perhaps you are aware that his only son disappeared
as mysteriously as the other, and that he charges his sister-in-law
as the cause of it; so that, in point of fact, their suspicions are
mutual.”

“I believe so,” said the other; “but I wish to direct your attention to
another fact, or, rather, to another individual, who seems to me to be
involved in considerable mystery.”

“And pray, who is that.” replied the priest--“Not yourself, I hope; for
in truth, by all accounts, you're as mysterious as e'er a one of them.”

“My mystery will soon disappear, I trust,” said the stranger,
smiling--“The young man's name to whom I allude is Fenton; but I appeal
to yourself, reverend sir, whether, if Sir Thomas Gourlay were to
become aware of the dying man's words, with which I have just made you
acquainted, he might not be apt, if it be a fact that he has in safe and
secret durance his brother's son, and the heir to the property which
he himself now enjoys, whether, I say, he might not take such steps
as Would probably render fruitless every search that could be made for
him?”

“You needn't fear me, sir,” replied his reverence; “if you can keep your
own secret as well as I will, it won't travel far, I can tell you. But
what about this unfortunate young man, Fenton? I think I certainly heard
the people say from time to time that nobody knows anything about him,
either as to where he came from or who he is. How is he involved in this
affair, though?”

“I cannot speak with any certainty,” replied the other; “but, to tell
you the truth, I often feel myself impressed with strong suspicions,
that he is the very individual we are seeking.”

“But upon what reasons do you ground those suspicions.” asked his
reverence.

The stranger then related to him the circumstances in connection with
Fenton's mysterious terror of Sir Thomas Gourlay, precisely as the
reader is already acquainted with them.

“But,” said the priest, “can you believe now, if Sir Thomas was the
kidnapper in this instance, that he would allow unfortunate Fenton,
supposing he is his brother's heir, and who, they say, is often _non
compos_, to remain twenty-four hours at large?”

“Probably not; but you know he may be unaware of his residence so near
him. Sir Thomas, like too many of his countrymen, has been an absentee
for years, and is only a short time in this country, and still a shorter
at Red Hall. The young man probably is at large, because he may have
escaped. There is evidently some mysterious relation between Fenton
and the baronet, but what it is or can be I am utterly unable to trace.
Fenton, with all his wild eccentricity or insanity, is cautious, and on
his guard against me; and I find it impossible to get anything out of
him.”

The worthy priest fell into a mood of apparently deep but agreeable
reflection, and the stranger felt a hope that he had fallen upon some
plan, or, at all events, that he had thought of or recalled to memory
some old recollection that might probably be of service to him.

“The poor fellow, sir,” said he, addressing the other with singular
benignity, “is an orphan; his mother is dead more than twelve years,
and his father, the idle and unfortunate man, never has been of the
slightest use to him, poor creature.”

“What,” exclaimed the stranger, with animation, “you, then, know his
father!”

“Know him! to be sure I do. He is, or rather he was, a horse-jockey,
and I took the poor neglected young lad in because he had no one to look
after him. But wasn't it kind-hearted of the creature to heap the creel
of turf though, and shed tears for poor Widow Magowran? In truth, I
won't forget either of these two acts to him.”

“You speak, sir, of your servant, I believe.” observed the other, with
something like chagrin.

“In truth, there's not a kind-hearted young giant alive this day. Many
a little bounty that I, through the piety and liberality of the
charitable, am enabled to distribute among my poor, and often send to
them with Mat; and I believe there's scarcely an instance of the kind in
which he is the bearer of it, that he doesn't shed tears just as he did
with Widow Magowran. Sure I have it from his own lips.”

“I have little doubt of it,” replied the stranger.

“And one day,” proceeded the credulous, easy man, “that I was going
along the Race-road, I overtook him with a creel of turf, the same way,
on his back, and when I looked down from my horse into the creel, I saw
with astonishment that it wasn't more than half full. 'Mat,' said I,
'what's the raison of this? Didn't I desire you to fill the creel to the
top, and above it?'

“'Troth,' said poor Mat, 'I never carried such a creelful in my life as
it was when I left home.'

“'But what has become of the turf, then?' I asked.

“He gave me a look and almost began to cry--'Arra now, your reverence,'
he replied, 'how could you expict me to have the heart to refuse a few
sods to the great number of poor creatures that axed me for them, to
boil their pratees, as I came along? I hope, your reverence, I am not so
hard-hearted as all that comes to.'”

“I know,” proceeded the priest, “that it was wrong not to bring the
turf to its destination; but, you see, sir, it was only an error of
judgment--although the head was wrong, the heart was right--and that's a
great point.”

It was not in human nature, however, to feel annoyed at this
characteristic ebullition. The stranger's chagrin at once disappeared,
and as he was in no particular hurry, and wished to see as much of the
priest as possible, he resolved to give him his own way.

He had not long to wait, however. After about a minute's deep thought,
he expressed himself as follows--and it may be observed here, once for
all, that on appropriate occasions his conversation could rise and adapt
itself to the dignity of the subject, with a great deal of easy power,
if not of eloquence--“Now, sir,” said he, “you will plaise to pay
attention to what I am about to say: Beware of Sir Thomas Gourlay--as a
Christian man, it is my duty to put you on your guard; but consider that
you ask me to involve myself in a matter of deep family interest and
importance, and yet, as I said, you keep yourself wrapped, up in a veil
of impenetrable mystery. Pray, allow me to ask, is Mr. Birney acquainted
with your name and secret?”

“He is,” replied the other, “with both”

“Then, in that case,” said the worthy priest, with very commendable
prudence, “I will walk over with you to his house, and if he assures me
personally that you are a gentleman in whose objects I may and ought
to feel an interest, I then say, that I shall do what I can for you,
although that may not be much. Perhaps I may put you in a proper train
to succeed. I will, with these conditions, give you a letter to an old
man in Dublin, who may give you, on this very subject, more information
than any other person I know, with one exception.”

“My dear sir,” replied the stranger, getting on his legs--“I am quite
satisfied with that proposal, and I feel that it is very kind of you to
make it.”

“Yes, but you won't go,” said the priest, “till you take some
refreshment. It's now past two o'clock.”

“I am much obliged to you,” replied the other, “but I never lunch.”

“Not a foot you'll stir then till you take something--I don't want you
to lunch--a bit and a sup just--come, don't refuse now, for I say you
must.”

The other smiled, and replied--“But, I assure you, my dear sir, I
couldn't--I breakfasted late.”

“Not a matter for that, you must have something, I say--a drop of dram
then--pure poteen--or maybe you'd prefer a glass of wine? say which;
for you must taste either the one or the other”--and as he spoke, with a
good-humored laugh, he deliberately locked the door, and put the key in
his pocket--“It's an old proverb,” he added, “that those who won't take
are never ready to give, and I'll think you after all but a poor-hearted
creature if you refuse it. At any rate, consider yourself a prisoner
until you comply.”

“Well, then,” replied our strange friend, still smiling, “since your
hospitality will force me, at the expense of my liberty, I think I
must--a glass of sherry then, since you are so kind.”

“Ah,” replied his reverence, “I see you don't know what's good--that's
the stuff,” he added, pointing to the poteen, “that would send the
radical heat to the very ends of your nails--I never take more than a
single tumbler after my dinner, but that's my choice.”

The stranger then joined him in a glass of sherry, and they proceeded to
Mr. Birney's.




CHAPTER XII. Crackenfudge Outwitted by Fenton

--The Baronet, Enraged at His Daughter's Firmness, strikes Her.


Crackenfudge, who was completely on the alert to ascertain if possible
the name of the stranger, and the nature of his business in Ballytrain,
learned that Fenton and he had had three or four private interviews, and
he considered it very likely that if he could throw himself in that wild
young fellow's way, without any appearance of design, he might be able
to extract something concerning the other out of him. In the course,
then, of three or four days after that detailed in our last chapter,
and we mention this particularly, because Father M'Mahon was obliged
to write to Dublin, in order to make inquiries touching the old man's
residence to whom he had undertaken to give the stranger a letter--in
the course, we say, of three or four days after that on which the worthy
priest appears in our pages, it occurred that Crackenfudge met the
redoubtable Fenton in his usual maudlin state, that is to say, one in
which he could be termed neither drunk nor sober. We have said
that Fenton's mind was changeful and unstable; sometimes evincing
extraordinary quietness and civility, and sometimes full of rant and
swagger, to which we may add, a good deal of adroitness and tact. In
his most degraded state he was always known to claim a certain amount of
respect, and would scarcely hold conversation with any one who would not
call him Mr. Fenton.

On meeting Fenton, the worthy candidate for the magistracy, observing
the condition he was in, which indeed was his usual one, took it for
granted that his chance was good. He accordingly addressed him as
follows:

“Fenton,” said he, “what's the news in town?”

“To whom do you speak, sirra?” replied Fenton, indignantly. “Take off
your hat, sir, whenever you address a gentleman.”

“Every one knows you're a gentleman, Mr. Fenton,” replied Crackenfudge;
“and as for me, a'd be sorry to address you as anything else.”

“I'm sorry I can't return the compliment, then,” said Fenton; “everyone
knows you're anything but a gentleman, and that's the difference between
us. What piece of knavery have you on the anvil now, my worthy embryo
magistrate?”

“You're severe this morning, Mr. Fenton; a' don't think a' ever deserved
that at your hands. But come, Mr. Fenton, let us be on good terms. A'
acknowledge you are a gentleman, Mr. Fenton.”

“Take care,” replied Fenton, “and don't overdo the thing neither.
Whether is it the knave or fool predominates in you to-day, Mr.
Crackenfudge?”

“A' hope a'm neither the one nor the other,” replied the embryo
magistrate. “A' hope a'm not, Mr. Fenton.”

“I believe, however, you happen to be both,” said Fenton; “that's a fact
as well known, my good fellow, as the public stocks there below; and if
Madam Fame reports aright, it's a pity you should be long out of them.
Avaunt, you upstart! Before the close of your life, you will die with
as many aliases as e'er a thief that ever swung from a gallows, and will
deserve the swing, too, better than the thief.”

“A' had a right to change my name,” replied the other, “when a' got into
property. A' was ashamed of my friends, because there's a great many of
them poor.”

“Invert the tables, you misbegotten son of an elve,” replied Fenton;
“'tis they that are ashamed of you; there is not one among the humblest
of them but would blush to name you. So you did not uncover, as I
desired you; but be it so. You wish to let me, sir, who am a gentleman,
know, and to force me to say, that there is a knave under your hat.
But come, Mr. Crackenfudge,” he continued, at once, and by some
unaccountable impulse, changing his manner, “come, my friend
Crackenfudge, you must overlook my satire. Thersites' mood has past, and
now for benevolence and friendship. Give us your honest hand, and bear
not malice against your friend and neighbor.”

“You must have your own way, Mr. Fenton,” said Crackenfudge, smiling, or
assuming a smile, and still steady as a sleuthhound to his purpose.

“Where now are you bound for, oh, benevolent and humane Crackenfudge?”

“A' was jist thinking of asking this strange fellow--”

“Right, O Crackenfudgius! that impostor is a fellow; or if you prefer
the reverse of the proposition, that fellow is an impostor. I have found
him out.”

“A' hard,” replied Crackenfudge, “that he and you were on rather
intimate terms, and--”

“And so as being my companion, you considered him a fellow! Proceed,
Crackenfudgius.”

“No, not at all; a' was thinkin' of makin' his acquaintance, and paying
some attention to him; that is, if a' could know who and what he is.”

“And thou shalt know, my worthy mock magistrate. I am in a communicative
humor to-day, and know thou shalt.”

“And what may his name be, pray, Mr. Fenton?” with a peculiar emphasis
on the Mr.

“Caution,” said Fenton; “don't overdo the thing, I say, otherwise I am
silent as the grave. Heigh-ho! what put that in my head? Well, sir, you
shall know all you wish to know. In the first place, as to his name--it
is Harry Hedles. He was clerk to a toothbrush-maker in London, but it
seems he made a little too free with a portion of the brush money: he
accordingly brushed off to our celebrated Irish metropolis, ycleped
Dublin, where, owing to a tolerably good manner, a smooth English
accent, and a tremendous stock of assurance, he insinuated himself into
several respectable families as a man of some importance. Among others,
it is said that he has engaged the affections of a beautiful creature,
daughter and heiress to an Irish baronet, and that they are betrothed
to each other. But as to the name or residence of the baronet, O
Crackenfudgius, I am not in a condition to inform you--for this good
reason, that I don't know either myself.”

“But is it a fair question, Mr. Fenton, to ask how you became acquainted
with all this?”

“How?” exclaimed Fenton, with a doughty but confident swagger;
“incredulous varlet, do you doubt the authenticity of my information? He
disclosed to me every word of it himself, and sought me out here for
the purpose of getting me to influence my friends, who, you distrustful
caitiff, are persons of rank and consequence, for the purpose of
bringing about a reconciliation between him and old Grinwell, the
toothbrush man, and having the prosecution stopped. Avaunt! now, begone!
This is all the information I can afford upon the subject of that stout
but gentlemanly impostor.”

Crackenfudge, we should have said, was on horseback during the previous
dialogue, and no sooner had Fenton passed on, with a look of the
most dignified self-consequence on his thin and wasted, though rather
handsome features, than the candidate magistrate set spurs to his horse,
and with a singularly awkward wabbling motion of his feet and legs about
the animal's sides, his right hand flourishing his whip at the same
time into circles in the air, he approached Red Hall, as if he brought
tidings of some great national victory.

He found the baronet perusing a letter, who, after having given him
a nod, and pointing to a chair, without speaking, read on, with an
expression of countenance which almost alarmed poor Crackenfudge.
Whatever intelligence the letter may have contained, one thing seemed
obvious--that it was gall and wormwood to his heart. His countenance,
naturally more than ordinarily dark, literally blackened with rage and
mortification, or perhaps with both; his eyes flashed fire, and seemed
as about to project themselves out of his head, and poor Crackenfudge
could hear most distinctly the grinding of his teeth. At length he rose
up, and strode, as was his custom, through the room, moved by such a
state of feeling as it was awful to look upon. During all this time
he never seemed to notice Crackenfudge, whose face, on the other hand,
formed a very ludicrous contrast with that of the baronet. There was
at any time very little meaning, to an ordinary observer, in the
countenance of this anxious candidate for the magisterial bench, but
it was not without cunning; just as in the case of a certain class of
fools, any one may recollect that anomalous combination of the latter
with features whose blankness betokens the natural idiot at a first
glance. Crackenfudge, who, on this occasion, felt conscious of the
valuable intelligence he was about to communicate, sat with a face in
which might be read, as far at least as anything could, a full sense
of the vast importance with which he was charged, and the agreeable
surprise which he must necessarily give the raging baronet. Not that the
expression, after all, could reach anything higher than that union of
stupidity and assurance which may so frequently be read in the same
countenance.

“A' see, Sir Thomas,” he at length said, “that something has vexed you,
and a'm sorry to see it.”

The baronet gave him a look of such fury, as in a moment banished not
only the full-blown consciousness of the important intelligence he was
about to communicate, but its very expression from his face, which waxed
meaningless and cowardly-looking as ever.

“A' hope,” he added, in an apologetical tone, “that a' didn't offend you
by my observation; at least, a' didn't intend it.”

“Sir,” replied the baronet, “your apology is as unseasonable as the
offence for which you make it. You see in what a state of agitation I
am, and yet, seeing this, you have the presumption to annoy me by your
impertinence. I have already told you, that I would help you to this
d----d magistracy: although it is a shame, before God and man to put
such a creature as you are upon the bench. Don't you see, sir, that I am
not in a mood to be spoken to?”

Poor Crackenfudge was silent; and, upon remembering his previous
dialogue with Fenton, he could not avoid thinking that he was treated
rather roughly between them, The baronet, however, still moved backward
and forward, like an enraged tiger in his cage, without any further
notice of Crackenfudge; who, on his part, felt likely to explode,
unless he should soon disburden himself of his intelligence. Indeed, so
confident did he feel of the sedative effect it would and must have upon
the disturbed spirit of this dark and terrible man, that he resolved to
risk an experiment, at all hazards, after his own way. He accordingly
puckered his face into a grin that was rendered melancholy by the terror
which was still at his heart, and, in a voice that had one of the most
comical quavers imaginable, he said: “Good news, Sir Thomas.”

“Good devil, sir! what do you mean?”

“A' mean good news, Sir Thomas. The fellow in the inn--a' know
everything about him.”

“Eh! what is that? I beg your pardon, Crackenfudge; I have treated you
discourteously and badly--but you will excuse me. I have had such cause
for excitement as is sufficient to drive me almost mad. What is the good
news you speak of, Crackenfudge?”

“Do you know who the fellow in the inn is, Sir Thomas?”

“Not I; but I wish I did.”

“Well, then, a' can tell you.”

Sir Thomas turned abruptly about, and, fastening his dark gleaming eyes
upon him, surveyed him with an expression of which no language could
give an adequate description.

“Crackenfudge,” said he, in a voice condensed into tremendous power
and interest, “keep me not a moment in suspense--don't tamper with me,
sir--don't attempt to play upon me--don't sell your intelligence, nor
make a bargain for it. Curse your magistracy--have I not already told
you that I will help you to it? What is the intelligence--the good news
you speak of?”

“Why, simply this, Sir Thomas,” replied the other,--“that a' know who
and what the fellow in the inn is; but, for God's sake, Sir Thomas, keep
your temper within bounds, or if you don't, a' must only go home again,
and keep my secret to myself. You have treated me very badly, Sir
Thomas; you have insulted me, Sir Thomas; you have grossly offended
me, Sir Thomas, in your own house, too, and without the slightest
provocation. A' have told you that a' know everything about the fellow
in the inn; and now, sir, you may thank the treatment a' received that
a' simply tell you that, and have the honor of bidding you good day.”

“Crackenfudge,” replied. Sir Thomas, who in an instant saw his error,
and felt in all its importance the value of the intelligence with which
the other was charged, “I beg your pardon; but you may easily see that I
was not--that I am not myself.”

“You pledge your honor, Sir Thomas, that you will get me the magistracy?
A' know you can if you set about it. A' declare to God, Sir Thomas,
a' will never have a happy day unless I'm able to write J. P. after my
name. A' can think of nothing else. And, Sir Thomas, listen to me; my
friends--a' mean my relations--poor, honest, contemptible creatures, are
all angry with me, because a' changed my name to Crackenfudge.”

“But what has this to do with the history of the fellow in the inn?”
 replied Sir Thomas. “With respect to the change of your name, I have
been given to understand that your relations have been considerably
relieved by it.”

“How, Sir Thomas?”

“Because they say that they escape the disgrace of the connection;
but, as for myself,” added the baronet, with a peculiar sneer, “I don't
pretend to know anything about the matter--one way or other. But let it
pass, however; and now for your intelligence.”

“But you didn't pledge your honor that you would get me the magistracy.”

“If,” said. Sir Thomas, “the information you have to communicate be of
the importance I expect, I pledge my honor, that whatever man can do to
serve you in that matter, I will. You know I cannot make magistrates at
my will--I am not the lord chancellor.”

“Well, then, Sir Thomas, to make short work of it, the fellow's name is
Harry Hedles. He was clerk to the firm of Grinwell and Co., the great
tooth-brush manufacturers--absconded with some of their cash, came
over here, and smuggled himself, in the shape of a gentleman, into
respectable families; and a'm positively informed, that he has succeeded
in seducing the affections, and becoming engaged to the daughter and
heiress of a wealthy baronet.”

The look which Sir Thomas turned upon Crackenfudge made the cowardly
caitiff tremble.

“Harkee, Mr. Crackenfudge,” said he; “did you hear the name of the
baronet, or of his daughter?”

“A' did not, Sir Thomas; the person that told me was ignorant of this
himself.”

“May I ask who your informant was, Mr. Crackenfudge?”

“Why, Sir Thomas, a half mad fellow, named Fenton, who said that he saw
this vagabond at an establishment in England conducted by a brother of
this Grinwell's.”

The baronet paused for a moment, but the expression which took
possession of his features was one of the most intense interest that
could be depicted on the human countenance; he fastened his eyes upon
Crackenfudge, as if he would have read the very soul within him, and by
an effort restrained himself so far as to say, with forced composure,
“Pray, Mr. Crackenfudge, what kind of a person is this Fenton, whom you
call half-mad, and from whom you had this information?”

Crackenfudge described Fenton, and informed Sir Thomas that in the
opinion of the people he was descended of a good family, though
neglected and unfortunate. “But,” he added, “as to who he really is, or
of what family, no one can get out of him. He's close and cunning.”

“Is he occasionally unsettled in his reason?” asked the baronet, with
assumed indifference.

“No doubt of it, Sir Thomas; he'll sometimes pass a whole week or
fortnight and never open his lips.”

The baronet appeared to be divided between two states of feeling so
equally balanced as to leave him almost without the power of utterance.
He walked, he paused, he looked at Crackenfudge as if he would speak,
then resumed his step with a hasty and rapid stride that betokened the
depth of what he felt.

“Well, Crackenfudge,” he said, “your intelligence, after all, is but mere
smoke. I thought the fellow in the inn was something beyond the rank of
clerk to a tooth-brush maker; he is not worth our talk, neither is that
madman Fenton. In the mean time, I am much obliged to you, and you may
calculate upon my services wherever they can be made available to your
interests. I would not now hurry you away nor request you to curtail
your visit, were it not that I expect Lord Cullamore here in about half
an hour, or perhaps less, and I wish to see Miss Gourlay previous to his
arrival.”

“But you won't forget the magistracy, Sir Thomas? A'm dreaming of it
every night. A' think that a'm seated upon a bench with five or six
other magistrates along with me, and you can't imagine the satisfaction
I feel in sending those poor vermin that are going about in a state of
disloyalty and starvation to the stocks or the jail. Oh, authority is a
delightful thing, Sir Thomas, especially when a man can exercise it upon
the vile rubbish that constitutes the pauper population of the country.
You know, if a' were a magistrate, Sir Thomas, a' would fine every
one--as well as my own tenants, whom I do fine--that did not take off
their hat or make me a courtesy.”

“And if you were to do so, Crackenfudge,” replied the baronet, with
a grim, sardonic smile, or rather a sneer, “I assure you, that such a
measure would become a very general and heavy impost upon the
country. But goodby, now; I shall remember your wishes as touching the
magistracy. You shall have J. P. after your name, and be at liberty to
fine, flog, put in the stocks, and send to prison as many of the rubbish
you speak of as you wish.”

“That will be delightful, Sir Thomas. A'll then make many a vagabond
that despises and laughs at me suffer.”

“In that case, the country at large will suffer heavily; for to tell you
the truth, Crackenfudge, you are anything but a favorite. Goodby, now, I
must see my daughter.” And so he nodded the embryo magistrate out.

After the latter had taken his departure, Sir Thomas rubbed his hands,
with a strong turbid gleam of ferocious satisfaction, that evidently
resulted from the communication that Crackenfudge had made to him.

“It can be no other,” thought he; “his allusion to the establishment
of Grinwell is a strong presumptive proof that it is; but he must be
secured forthwith, and that with all secrecy and dispatch, taking it
always for granted that he is the fugitive for whom we have been seeking
so long. One point, however, in our favor is, that as he knows neither
his real name nor origin, nor even the hand which guided his destiny,
he can make no discovery of which I may feel apprehensive. Still it is
dangerous that he should be at large, for it is impossible to say
what contingency might happen--what chance would, or perhaps early
recollection might, like a spark of light to a train, blow up in a
moment the precaution of years. As to the fellow in the inn, the account
of him may be true enough, for unquestionably Grinwell, who kept the
asylum, had a brother in the tooth-brush business, and this fact gives
the story something like probability, as does the mystery with which
this man wraps himself so closely. In the meantime, if he be a clerk,
he is certainly an impostor of the most consummate art, for assuredly so
gentlemanly a scoundrel I have never yet come in contact with. But,
good heavens! if such a report should have gone abroad concerning that
stiff-necked and obstinate girl, her reputation and prospects in life
are ruined forever. What would Dunroe say if he heard it? as it is
certain he will. Then, again, here is the visit from this conscientious
old blockhead, Lord Cullamore, who won't allow me to manage my daughter
after my own manner. He must hear from her own lips, forsooth, how she
relishes this union. He must see her, he says; but, if she betrays me
now and continues restive, I shall make her feel what it is to provoke
me. This interview will ruin me with old Cullamore; but in the meantime
I must see the girl, and let her know what the consequences will be if
she peaches against me.”

All this, of course, passed through his mind briefly, as he walked to
and fro, according to his usual habit. After a few minutes he rang, and
with a lowering brow, and in a stern voice, ordered Miss Gourlay to be
conducted to him. This was accordingly done, her maid having escorted
her to the library door, for it is necessary to say here, that she
had been under confinement since the day of her father's visit to Lord
Cullamore.

She appeared pale and dejected, but at the same time evidently sustained
by serious composure and firmness. On entering the room, her father
gazed at her with a long, searching look, that seemed as if he wished to
ascertain, from her manner, whether imprisonment had in any degree tamed
her down to his purposes. He saw, indeed, that she was somewhat paler
than usual, but he perceived at once that not one jot of her resolution
had abated. After an effort, he endeavored to imitate her composure, and
in some remote degree the calm and serene dignity of her manner. Lucy,
who considered herself a prisoner, stood after having entered the room,
as if in obedience to her father's wishes.

“Lucy, be seated,” said he; and whilst speaking, he placed himself in
an arm-chair, near the fire, but turned toward her, and kept his eyes
steadily fixed upon her countenance. “Lucy,” he proceeded, “you are to
receive a visit from Lord Cullamore, by and by, and it rests with you
this day whether I shall stand in his estimation a dishonored man or
not.”

“I do not understand you, papa.”

“You soon shall. I paid him a visit, as you are aware, at his own
request, a few days ago. The object of that visit was to discuss the
approaching union between you and his son. He said he would not have you
pressed against your inclinations, and expressed an apprehension that
the match was not exactly in accordance with your wishes. Now, mark me,
Lucy, I undertook, upon my own responsibility, as well as upon yours, to
assure him that it had your fullest concurrence, and I expect that you
shall bear me out and sustain me in this assertion.”

“I who am engaged to another?”

“Yes, but clandestinely, without your father's knowledge or
approbation.”

“I admit my error, papa; I fully and freely acknowledge it, and the only
atonement I can make to you for it is, to assure you that although I
am not likely ever to marry according to your wishes, yet I shall never
marry against them.”

“Ha!” thought the baronet, “I have brought her down a step already.”

“Now, Lucy,” said he, “it is time that this undutiful obstinacy on your
part should cease. It is time you should look to and respect--yes, and
obey your father's wishes. I have already told you that I have impressed
Lord Cullamore with a belief that you are a free and consenting party to
this marriage, and I trust you have too much delicacy and self-respect
to make your father a liar, for that is the word. I admit I told him a
falsehood, but I did so for the honor and exaltation of my child. You
will not betray me, Lucy?”

“Father,” said she, “I regret that you make these torturing
communications to me. God knows I wish to love and respect you, but
when, under solemn circumstances, you utter, by your own admission, a
deliberate falsehood to a man of the purest truth and honor; when
you knowingly and wilfully mislead him for selfish and ambitious
purposes;--nay, I will retract these words, and suppose it is from an
anxiety to secure me rank and happiness,--I say, father, when you thus
forget all that constitutes the integrity and dignity of man, and stoop
to the discreditable meanness of falsehood, I ask you, is it manly,
or honorable, or affectionate, to involve me in proceedings so utterly
shameful, and to ask me to abet you in such a wanton perversion
of truth? Sir, there are fathers--indeed, I believe, most fathers
living--who would rather see any child of theirs stretched and
shrouded up in the grave than know them to be guilty of such a base and
deliberate violation of all the sacred principles of truth as this.”

“You will expose me then, and disgrace me forever with this cursed
conscientious old blockhead? I tell you that he doubts my assertion as
touching your consent, and is coming to hear the truth from your own
lips. But hearken, girl, betray me to him, and by heavens you know not
the extent to which my vengeance will carry me.”

He rose up, and glared at her in a manner that made her apprehensive for
her personal safety.

“Father,” said she, growing pale, for the dialogue, brief as it was, had
brought the color into her cheeks, “will you permit me to withdraw? I am
quite unequal to these contests of temper and opinion; permit me, sir,
to withdraw. I have already told you, that provided you do not attempt
to force me into a marriage contrary to my wishes I shall never marry
contrary to yours.”

The baronet swore a deep and blasphemous oath that he would enter into
no such stipulation. The thing, he said, was an evasion, an act of moral
fraud and deceit upon her part, and she should not escape from him.

“You wish to gain time, madam, to work out your own treacherous
purposes, and to defeat my intentions with respect to you; but it shall
not be. You must see Lord Cullamore; you must corroborate my assertions
to him; you must save me from shame and dishonor or dread the
consequences. A paltry sacrifice, indeed, to tell a fib to a doting old
peer, who thinks no one in the world honest or honorable but himself!”

“Think of the danger of what you ask,” she replied; “think of the deep
iniquity--the horrible guilt, and the infamy of the crime into which
you wish to plunge me. Reflect that you are breaking down the restraints
of honor and conscience in iny heart; that you are defiling my soul
with falsehood; and that if I yield to you in this, every subsequent
temptation will beset me with more success, until my faith, truth,
honor, integrity, are gone forever--until I shall be lost. Is there no
sense of religion, father? Is there no future life? Is there no God--no
judgment? Father, in asking me to abet your falsehood, and sustain you
in your deceit, you transgress the limits of parental authority, and the
first principles of natural affection. You pervert them, you abuse them;
and, I must say, once and for all, that be the weight of your vengeance
what it may, I prefer bearing it to enduring the weight of a guilty
conscience.”

The baronet rose, and rushing at her, raised his open hand and struck
her rather severely on the side of the head. She felt, as it were,
stunned for a little, but at length she rose up, and said: “Father, this
is the insanity of a bad ambition, or perhaps of affection, and you know
not what you have done.” She then approached him, and throwing her arms
about his neck, exclaimed: “Papa, kiss me; and I shall never think of
it, nor allude to it;” as she spoke the tears fell in showers from her
eyes.

“No, madam,” he replied, “I repulse you; I throw you off from me now and
forever.”

“Be calm, papa; compose yourself, my dear papa. I shall not see Lord
Cullamore; it would be now impossible; I could not sustain an interview
with him. You, consequently, can have nothing to fear; you can say I am
ill, and that will be truth indeed.”

“I shall never relax one moment,” he replied, “until I either subdue
you, or break your obstinate heart. Come, madam,” said he, “I will
conduct you to your apartment.”

She submissively preceded him, until he committed her once more to
the surveillance of the maid whom he had engaged and bribed to be her
sentinel.

It is unnecessary to say that the visit of the honorable old nobleman
ended in nothing. Lucy was not in a condition to see him; and as her
father at all risks reiterated his assertions as to her free and hearty
consent to the match, Lord Cullamore went away, now perfectly satisfied
that if his son had any chance of being reclaimed by the influence of
a virtuous wife, it must be by his union with Lucy. The noble qualities
and amiable disposition of this excellent young lady were so well known
that only one opinion prevailed with respect to her.

Some wondered, indeed, how such a man could be father to such a
daughter; but, on the other hand, the virtues of the mother were
remembered, and the wonder was one no longer.




CHAPTER XIII. The Stranger's Second Visit to Father M'Mahon

--Something like an Elopement.


On the evening of the same day the stranger desired Paudeen Gair to
take a place for him in the “Fly,” which was to return to Dublin on that
night. He had been furnished with a letter from Father M'Mahon, to whom
he had, in Mr. Birney's, fully disclosed his name and objects. He felt
anxious, however, to engage some trustworthy servant or attendant, on
whose integrity he could fully rely, knowing, or at least apprehending,
that he might be placed in circumstances where he could not himself act
openly and freely without incurring suspicion or observation. Paudeen,
however, or, as we shall call him in future, Pat Sharpe, had promised
to procure a person of the strictest honesty, in whom every confidence
could be placed. This man's name, or rather his nickname, was Dandy
Dulcimer, an epithet bestowed upon him in consequence of the easy and
strolling life he led, supporting himself, as he passed from place to
place, by his performances upon that simple but pleasing instrument.

“Pat,” said the stranger in the course of the evening, “have you
succeeded in procuring me this cousin of yours?” for in that relation he
stood to Pat.

“I expect him here every minute, sir,” replied Pat; “and there's one
thing I'll lay down my life on--you may trust him as you would any one
of the twelve apostles--barring that blackguard Judas. Take St. Pettier,
or St. Paul, or any of the dacent apostles, and the divil a one of them
honester than Dandy. Not that he's a saint like them either, or much
overburdened with religion, poor fellow; as for honesty and truth--divil
a greater liar ever walked in the mane time; but, by truth, I mane truth
to you, and to any one that employs him--augh, by my soul, he's the
flower of a boy.”

“He won't bring his dulcimer with him, I hope.”

“Won't he, indeed? Be me sowl, sir, you might as well separate sowl and
body, as take Dandy from his dulcimer. Like the two sides of a scissors,
the one's of no use widout the other. They must go together, or Dandy
could never cut his way through the world by any chance. Hello! here he
is. I hear his voice in the hall below.”

“Bring him up, Pat,” said the stranger; “I must see and speak to him;
because if I feel that he won't suit me, I will have nothing to do with
him.”

Dandy immediately entered, with his dulcimer slung like a peddler's bos
at his side, and with a comic movement of respect, which no presence or
position could check, he made a bow to the stranger, that forced him to
smile in spite of himself.

“You seem a droll fellow,” said the stranger. “Are you fond of truth?”

“Hem! Why, yes, sir. I spare it as much as I can. I don't treat it as
an everyday concern. We had a neighbor once, a widow M'Cormick, who
was rather penurious, and whenever she saw her servants buttering their
bread too thickly, she used to whisper to them in a confidential
way, 'Ahagur, the thinner you spread it the further it will go.' Hem!
However, I must confess that once or twice a year I draw on it by way of
novelty, that is, on set days or bonfire nights; and I hope, sir, you'll
admit that that's treating it with respect.”

“How did you happen to turn musician?” asked the other.

“Why, sir, I was always fond of a jingle; but, to tell you the truth,
I would rather have the same jingle in my purse than in my instrument.
Divil such an unmusical purse ever a man was cursed with than I have
been doomed to carry during my whole life.”

“Then it was a natural love of music that sent you abroad as a
performer?”

“Partly only, sir; for there were three causes went to it. There is a
certain man named Dandy Dulcimer, that I had a very loving regard for,
and I thought it against his aise and comfort to ask him to strain his
poor bones by hard work. I accordingly substituted pure idleness for
it, which is a delightful thing in its way. There, sir, is two of the
causes--love of melody and a strong but virtuous disinclination to
work. The third--” but here he paused and his face darkened.

“Well,” inquired the stranger, “the third? What about the third?”

Dandy significantly pointed back with his thumb over his shoulder, in
the direction of Red Hall. “It was him,” he said; “the Black Baronet--or
rather the incarnate divil.”

“That's truth, at all events,” observed Pat corroborating the incomplete
assertion.

“It was he, sir,” continued Dandy, “that thrust us out of our
comfortable farm--he best knows why and wherefore--and like a true
friend of liberty, he set us at large from our comfortable place, to
enjoy it.”

“Well,” replied the stranger, “if that be true it was hard; but you know
every story has two sides; or, as the proverb goes, one story is well
until the other is told. Let us dismiss this. If I engage you to attend
me, can you be faithful, honest, and cautious?”

“To an honest man, sir, I can; but to no other. I grant I have acted
the knave very often, but it was always in self-defence, and toward far
greater knaves than myself. An honest man did once ax me to serve him in
an honest way; but as I was then in a roguish state of mind I tould him
I couldn't conscientiously do it.”

“If you were intrusted with a secret, for instance, could you undertake
to keep it?”

“I was several times in Dublin, sir, and I saw over the door of some
public office a big, brazen fellow, with the world on his back; and you
know that from what he seemed to suffer I thought he looked very like a
man that was keeping a secret. To tell God's truth, sir, I never like a
burden of any kind; and whenever I can get a man that will carry a share
of it, I--”

“Tut! your honor, never mind him,” said Pat. “What the deuce are you
at, Dandy? Do you want to prevent the gintleman from engagin' you? Never
mind him, sir; he's as honest as the sun.”

“It matters not, Pat,” said the stranger; “I like him. Are you willing
to take service with me for a short time, my good fellow?”

“If you could get any one to give you a caracther, sir, perhaps I
might,” replied Dandy.

“How, sirrah! what do you mean?” said the stranger.

“Why, sir, that we humble folks haven't all the dishonesty to ourselves.
I think our superiors come in now and then for the lion's share of it.
There, now, is the Black Baronet.”

“But you are not entering the service of the Black Baronet.”

“No; but the ould scoundrel struck his daughter to-day, because she
wouldn't consent to marry that young profligate, Lord Dunroe; and has
her locked up besides.”

The stranger had been standing with his back to the fire, when the Dandy
mentioned these revolting circumstances; for the truth was, that
Lucy's maid had taken upon her the office of that female virtue called
curiosity, and by the aid of her eye, her ear, and an open key-hole
was able to communicate to one or two of the other servants, in the
strictest confidence of course, all that had occurred during the
interview between father and daughter. Now it so happened, that Dandy,
who had been more than once, in the course of his visits, to the
kitchen, promised, as he said, to _metamurphy_ one of them into Mrs.
Dulcimer, _alias_ Murphy--that being his real name--was accidentally in
the kitchen while the dialogue lasted, and for some time afterwards; and
as the expectant Mrs. Dulcimer was one of the first to whom the secret
was solemnly confided, we need scarcely say that it was instantly
transferred to Dandy's keeping, who mentioned it more from honest
indignation than from any other motive.

It would be difficult to describe the combination of feelings that might
be read in the stranger's fine features--distress, anger, compassion,
love, and sorrow, all struggled for mastery. He sat down, and there was
an instant pause in the conversation; for both Dandy and his relative
felt that he was not sufficiently collected to proceed with it. They
consequently, after glancing with surprise at each other, remained
silent, until the stranger should resume it. At length, after a struggle
that was evidently a severe one, he said,

“Now, my good fellow, no more of this buffoonery. Will you take service
with me for three months, since I am willing to accept you? Ay or no?”

“As willing as the flowers of May, your honor; and I trust you will
never have cause to find fault with me, so far as truth, honesty, and
discretion goes. I can see a thing and not see it. I can hear a thing
and not hear it. I can do a thing and not do it--but it must be honest.
In short, sir, if you have no objection, I'm your man. I like your face,
sir; there's something honorable and manly in it.”

“Perhaps you would wish to name the amount of the wages you expect. If
so, speak.”

“Divil a wage or wages I'll name, sir; that's a matter I'll lave to your
own generosity.”

“Very well, then; I start by the 'Fly' tonight, and you, observe, are to
accompany me. The trunk which I shall bring with me is already packed,
so that you will have very little trouble.”

Dandy and his relative both left him, and he, with a view of allaying
the agitation which he felt, walked toward the residence of Father
M'Mahon, who had promised, if he could, to furnish him with further
instructions ere he should start for the metropolis.

After they had left the room, our friend Crackenfudge peeped out of the
back apartment, in order to satisfy himself that the coast was clear;
and after stretching his neck over the stairs to ascertain that there
was no one in the hall, he tripped down as if he were treading on
razors, and with a face brimful of importance made his escape from the
inn, for, in truth, the mode of his disappearing could be termed little
else.

Now, in the days of which we write, it so happened that there was a vast
portion of bitter rivalry between mail coaches and their proprietors.
At this time an opposition coach, called “the Flash of Lightning”--to
denominate, we presume, the speed at which it went--ran against the
“Fly,” to the manifest, and frequently to the actual, danger of the
then reigning monarch's liege and loyal subjects. To the office of this
coach, then, did Crackenfudge repair, with an honorable intention of
watching the motions of our friend the stranger, prompted thereto by
two motives--first, a curiosity that was naturally prurient and mean;
secondly, by an anxious wish to serve Sir Thomas Gourlay, and, if
possible, to involve himself in his affairs, thus rendering his interest
touching the great object of his ambition--the magistracy--a matter
not to be withheld. He instantly took his seat for Dublin--an inside
seat--in order to conceal himself as much as possible from observation.
Having arranged this affair, he rode home in high spirits, and made
preparations for starting, in due time, by “the Flash of Lightning.”

The stranger, on his way to Father M'Mahon's, called upon his friend
Birney, with whom he had a long confidential conversation. They had
already determined, if the unfortunate heir of Red Hall could be traced,
and if his disappearance could, be brought home to the baronet, to take
such public or rather legal proceedings as they might be advised to by
competent professional advice. Our readers may already guess, however,
that the stranger was influenced by motives sufficiently strong and
decisive to prevent him, above all men, from appearing, publicly or at
all, in any proceedings that might be taken against the baronet.

On arriving at Father M'Mahon's, he found that excellent man at home;
and it was upon this occasion that he observed with more attention than
before the extraordinary neatness of his dwelling-house and premises.
The cleanliness, the order, the whiteness, the striking taste displayed,
the variety of culinary utensils, not in themselves expensive, but
arranged with surprising regularity, constituting a little paradise of
convenience and comfort, were all perfectly delightful to contemplate.
The hall-door was open, and when the stranger entered, he found no one
in the kitchen, for it is necessary to say here that, in this neat but
unassuming abode of benevolence and goodness, that which we have termed
the hall-door led, in the first instance, to the beautiful little
kitchen we have just described. The stranger, having heard voices
in conversation with the priest, resolved to wait a little until his
visitors should leave him, as he felt reluctant to intrude upon him
while engaged with his parishioners. He could not prevent himself,
however, from overhearing the following portion of their I conversation.

“And it was yesterday he put in the distraint?”

“It was, your reverence.”

“Oh, the dirty Turk; not a landlord at all is half so hard to ourselves
as those of our own religion: they'll show some lenity to a Protestant,
and I don't blame them for that, but they trample those belonging to
their own creed under their inhuman hoofs.”

“How much is it, Nogher?”

“Only nine pounds, your reverence.”

“Well, then, bring me a stamp in the course of the day, and I'll pass my
bill to him for the amount.”

“Troth, sir, wid great respect, your reverence will do no such thing.
However I may get it settled, I won't lug you in by the head and
shoulders. You have done more of that kind of work than you could
afford. No, sir; but if you will send Father James up to my poor wife
and daughter that's so ill with this faver--that's all I want.”

“To be sure he'll go, or rather I'll go myself, for he won't be home
till after station. Did this middleman landlord of yours know that there
was fever in your family when he; sent in the bailiffs?”

“To do him justice, sir, he did not; but he knows it since the day
before yesterday, and yet he won't take them off unless he gets either
the rent or security.”

“Indeed, and the hard-hearted Turk will have the
security;--whisper,--call down tomorrow with a stamp, and I'll put my
name on it; and let these men, these keepers, go about their business.
My goodness! to think of having two strange fellows night and day in a
sick and troubled family! Oh, dear me! one half the world doesn't know
how the other lives. If many of the rich and wealthy, Michael, could
witness the scenes that I witness, the sight might probably soften their
hearts. Is this boy your son, Nogher?”

“He is, sir.”

“I hope you are giving him a good education; and I hope, besides, that
he is a good boy. Do you attend to your duty regularly, my good lad?”

“I do, plaise your reverence.”

“And obey your parents?”

“I hope so, sir.”

“Indeed,” said his father, “poor Mick doesn't lave us much to complain
of in that respect; he's a very good boy in general, your reverence.”

“God bless you, my child,” said the priest, solemnly, placing his hand
upon the boy's head, who was sitting, “and guide your feet in the paths
of religion and virtue!”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the poor affectionate lad, bursting into tears, “I
wish you would come to my mother! she is very ill, and so is my sister.”

“I will go, my child, in half-an-hour. I see you are a good youth, and
full of affection; I will go almost immediately. Here, Mat Ruly,”
 he shouted, raising the parlor window, on seeing that neat boy
pass;--“here, you colossus--you gigantic prototype of grace and
beauty;--I say, go and saddle Freney the Robber immediately; I must
attend a sick call without delay. What do you stare and gape for? shut
that fathomless cleft in your face, and be off. Now, Nogher,” he said,
once more addressing the man, “slip down to-morrow with the stamp; or,
stay, why should these fellows be there two hours, and the house and the
family as they are? Sit down here for a few minutes, I'll go home with
you; we can get the stamp in Ballytrain, on our way,--ay, and draw up
the bill there too;--indeed we can and we will too; so not a syllable
against it. You know I must have my will, and that I'm a raging lion
when opposed.”

“God bless your reverence,” replied the man, moved almost to tears
by his goodness; “many an act of the kind your poor and struggling
parishioners has to thank you for.”

On looking into the kitchen, for the parlor door was open, he espied
the stranger, whom he approached with every mark of the most profound
respect, but still with perfect ease and independence.

After the first salutations were over--

“Well, sir,” said the priest, “do you hold to your purpose of going to
Dublin?”

“I go this night,” replied the other; “and, except through the old man
to whom you are so kind as to give me the letter, I must confess I have
but slight expectations of success. Unless we secure this unfortunate
young man, that is, always supposing that he is alive, and are able
clearly and without question to identify his person, all we may do must
be in vain, and the baronet is firm in both title and estates.”

“That is evident,” replied the priest. “Could you find the heir alive,
and identify his person, of course your battle is won. Well; if there
be anything like a thread to guide you through the difficulties of this
labyrinth, I have placed it in your hands.”

“I am sensible of your good wishes, sir, and I thank you very much
for the interest you have so kindly taken in the matter. By the way, I
engaged a servant to accompany me--one Dulcimer, Dandy Dulcimer; pray,
what kind of moral character does he bear?”

“Dandy Dulcimer!” exclaimed the priest; “why, the thief of the world! is
it possible you have engaged him?”

“Why? is he not honest?” asked the other, with surprise.

“Honest!” replied the priest; “the vagabond's as honest a vagabond as
ever lived. You may trust him in anything and everything. When I call
him a vagabond, I only mean it in a kind and familiar sense; and, by
the way, I must give you an explanation upon the subject of my pony. You
must have heard me call him 'Freney the Robber' a few minutes ago. Now,
not another sense did I give him that name in but in an ironical one,
just like _lucus a non lucendo_, or, in other words, because the poor
creature is strictly honest and well tempered. And, indeed, there are
some animals much more moral in their disposition than others. Some are
kind, affectionate, benevolent, and grateful; and some, on the other
hand, are thieving robbers and murderers. No, sir, I admit that I was
wrong, and, so to speak, I owe Freney an apology for having given him
a bad name; but then again I have made it up to him in other respects.
Now, you'll scarcely believe what I am going to tell you, although you
may, for not a word of lie in it. When Freney sometimes is turned out
into my fields, he never breaks bounds, nor covets, so to speak, his
neighbor's property, but confines himself strictly and honestly to
his own; and I can tell you it's not every horse would do that, or man
either. He knows my voice, too, and, what is more, my very foot, for he
will whinny when he hears it, and before he sees me at all.”

“Pray,” said the stranger, exceedingly amused at this narrative, “how
does your huge servant get on?”

“Is it Mat Ruly?--why, sir, the poor boy's as kind-hearted and
benevolent, and has as sharp an appetite as ever. He told me that he
cried yesterday when bringing a little assistance to a poor family in
the neighborhood. But, touching this matter on which you are engaged,
will you be good enough to write to me from time to time? for I shall
feel anxious to hear how you get on.”

The stranger promised to do so, and after having received two letters
from him they shook hands and separated.

We have stated before that Dandy Dulcimer had a sweetheart in the
service of Sir Thomas Gourlay. Soon after the interview between the
stranger and Dandy, and while the former had gone to get the letters
from Father M'Mahon, this same sweetheart, by name Alley Mahon, came to
have a word or two with Paudeen Gair, or Pat Sharpe. When Paudeen saw
her, he imputed the cause of her visit to something connected with
Dandy Dulcimer, his cousin; for, as the latter had disclosed to him the
revelation which Alley had made, he took it for granted that the Dandy
had communicated to her the fact of his being about to accept service
with the stranger at the inn, and to proceed with him to Dublin. And,
such, indeed, was the actual truth. Paudeen had, on behalf of Dandy, all
but arranged the matter with the stranger a couple of days before, Dandy
being a consenting party, so that nothing was wanting but an interview
between the latter and the stranger, in order to complete the
negotiation.

“Pat,” said Alley, after he had brought her up to a little back-room on
the second story, “I know that your family ever and always has been an
honest family, and that a stain of thraichery or disgrace was never upon
one of their name.”

“Thank God, and you, Alley; I am proud to know that what you say is
right and true.”

“Well, then,” she replied, “it is, and every one knows it. Now, then,
can you keep a secret, for the sake of truth and conscience, ay, and
religion; and if all will not do, for the sake of her that paid back to
your family, out of her own private purse, what her father robbed them
of?”

“By all that's lovely,” replied Pat, “if there's a livin' bein' I'd
sacrifice my life for, it's her.”

“Listen; I want you to secure two seats in the 'Fly,' for this night;
inside seats, or if you can't get insides, then outsides will do.”

“Stop where you are,” replied Pat, about to start downstairs; “the thing
will be done in five minutes.”

“Are you mad, Pat?” said she; “take the money with you before you go.”

“Begad,” said Pat, “my heart was in my mouth--here, let us have it. And
so the darling young lady is forced to fly from the tyrant?”

“Oh, Pat,” said Alice, solemnly, “for the sake of the living God, don't
breathe that you know anything about it; we're lost if you do.”

“If Dandy was here, Alley,” he replied, “I'd make him swear it upon your
lips; but, hand us the money, for there's little time to be lost; I hope
all the seats aren't taken.”

He was just in time, however; and in a few minutes returned, having
secured for two the only inside seats that were left untaken at the
moment, although there were many claimants for them in a few minutes
afterwards.

“Now, Alley,” said he, after he had returned from the coach-office,
which, by the way, was connected with the inn, “what does all this mane?
I think I could guess something about it. A runaway, eh?”

“What do you mean by a runaway?” she replied; “of course she is running
away from her brute of a father, and I am goin' with her.”

“But isn't she goin' wid somebody else?” he inquired.

“No,” replied Alley; “I know where she is goin'; but she is goin' wid
nobody but myself.”

“Ah, Alley,” replied Pat, shrewdly, “I see she has kept you in the dark;
but I don't blame her. Only, if you can keep a secret, so can I.”

“Pat,” said she, “desire the coachman to stop at the white gate, where
two faymales will be waitin' for it, and let the guard come down and
open the door for us; so that we won't have occasion to spake. It's aisy
to know one's voice, Pat.”

“I'll manage it all,” said Pat; “make your mind aisy--and what is more,
I'll not breathe a syllable to mortual man, woman, or child about it.
That would be an ungrateful return for her kindness to our family. May
God bless her, and grant her happiness, and that's the worst I wish
her.”

The baronet, in the course of that evening, was sitting in his
dining-room alone, a bottle of Madeira before him, for indeed it
is necessary to say, that although unsocial and inhospitable, he
nevertheless indulged pretty freely in wine. He appeared moody, and
gulped down the Madeira as a man who wished either to sustain his mind
against care, or absolutely to drown memory, and probably the force of
conscience. At length, with a flushed face, and a voice made more deep
and stern by his potations, and the reflections they excited, he rang
the bell, and in a moment the butler appeared.

“Is Gillespie in the house, Gibson?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Send him up.”

In a few minutes Gillespie entered; and indeed it would be difficult to
see a more ferocious-looking ruffian than this scoundrel who was groom
to the baronet. Fame, or scandal, or truth, as the case may be, had
settled the relations between Sir Thomas and him, not merely as those of
master and servant, but as those of father and son. Be this as it may,
however, the similarity of figure and feature was so extraordinary, that
the inference could be considered by no means surprising.

“Tom,” said the baronet, “I suppose there is a Bible in the house?”

“I can't say, sir,” replied the ruffian. “I never saw any one in use. O,
yes, Miss Gourlay has one.”

“Yes,” replied the other, with a gloomy reflection, “I forgot; she is,
in addition to her other accomplishments, a Bible reader. Well, stay
where you are; I shall get it myself.”

He accordingly rose and proceeded to Lucy's chamber, where, after having
been admitted, he found the book he sought, and such was the absence of
mind, occasioned by the apprehensions he felt, that he brought away the
book, and forgot to lock the door.

“Now, sir,” said the baronet, sternly, when he returned, “do you respect
this book? It is the Bible.”

“Why, yes, sir. I respect every book that has readin' in it--printed
readin'.”

“But this is the Bible, on which the Christian religion is founded.”

“Well, sir, I don't doubt that,” replied the enlightened master of
horse; “but I prefer the _Seven Champions of Christendom_, or the
_History of Valentine and Orson_, or _Fortunatus's Purse_.”

“You don't relish the Bible, then?”

“I don't know, sir; I never read a line of it--although I heard a great
deal about! it. Isn't that the book the parsons preach I from?”

“It is,” replied the baronet, in his deep voice. “This book is the
source and origin and history of the revelation of God's will to man;
this is the book on which oaths are taken, and when taken falsely,
the falsehood is perjury, and the individual so perjuring himself is
transported, either for life or a term of years, while living and when
dead, Gillespie--mark me well, sir--when dead, his soul goes to eternal
perdition in the flames of hell. Would you now, knowing this--that you
would be transported in this world, and damned in the next--would you, I
say, take an oath upon this book and break it?”

“No, sir, not after what you said.”

“Well, then, I am a magistrate, and I wish to administer an oath to
you.”

“Very well, sir, I'll swear whatever you like.”

“Then listen--take the book in your right hand--you shall swear the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God! You
swear to execute whatever duty I may happen to require at your hands,
and to keep the performance of that duty a secret from every living
mortal, and besides to keep secret the fact that I am in any way
connected with it--you swear this?”

“I do, sir,” replied the other, kissing the book.

The baronet paused a little.

“Very well,” he added, “consider yourself solemnly sworn, and pray
recollect that if you violate this oath--in other words, if you
commit perjury, I shall have you transported as sure as your name is
Gillespie.”

“But your honor has sworn me to secrecy, and yet I don't know the
secret.”

“Neither shall you--for twenty-four hours longer. I am not and shall not
be in a condition to mention it to you sooner, but I put you under the
obligation now, in order that you may have time to reflect upon its
importance. You may go.”

Gillespie felt exceedingly puzzled as to the nature of the services
about to be required at his hands, but as every attempt to solve this
difficulty was fruitless, he resolved to await the event in patience,
aware that the period between his anxiety on the subject and a knowledge
of it was but short.

We need not hesitate to assure our readers, that if Lucy Gourlay had
been apprised, or even dreamt for a moment, that the stranger and she
were on that night to be fellow-travellers in the same coach, she would
unquestionably have deferred her journey to tha metropolis, or, in other
words, her escape from the senseless tyranny of her ambitious father.
Fate, however, is fate, and it is precisely the occurrence of these
seemingly incidental coincidences that in fact, as well as in fiction,
constitutes the principal interest of those circumstances which give
romance to the events of human life and develop its character.

The “Fly” started from Ballytrain at the usual hour, with only two
inside passengers--to wit, our friend the stranger and a wealthy
stock-farmer from the same parish. He was a large, big-boned,
good-humored fellow, dressed in a strong frieze outside coat or jock,
buckskin breeches, top-boots, and a heavy loaded whip, his inseparable
companion wherever he went.

The coach, on arriving at the white gate, pulled up, and two females,
deeply and closely veiled, took their seats inside. Of course, the
natural politeness of the stranger prevented him from obtruding his
conversation upon ladies with whom he was not acquainted. The honest
farmer, however, felt no such scruples, nor, as it happened, did one at
least of the ladies in question.

“This is a nice affair,” he observed, “about the Black Baronet's
daughter.”

“What is a nice affair?” asked our friend Alley, for she it was, as the
reader of course is already aware--“What is a nice affair?”

“Why, that Miss Gourlay, they say, fell in love with a buttonmaker's
clerk from London, and is goin' to marry him in spite of all
opposition.”

“Who's your authority for that?” asked Alley; “but whoever is, is a
liar, and the truth is not in him--that's what I say.”

“Ay, but what do you know about it?” asked the grazier. “You're not in
Miss Gourlay's saicrets--and a devilish handsome, gentlemanly lookin'
fellow they say the button-maker is. Faith, I can tell you, I give
tooth-an-egg-credit. The fellow will get a darlin' at all events--and
he'll be very bad indeed, if he's not worth a ship-load of that
profligate Lord Dunroe.”

“Well,” replied Alley, “I agree with you there, at all events; for God
sees that the same Lord Dunroe will make the cream of a bad husband to
whatsoever poor woman will suffer by him. A bad bargain he will be at
best, and in that I agree with you.”

“So far, then,” replied the grazier, “we do agree; an', dang my buttons,
but I'll lave it to this gentleman if it wouldn't be betther for Miss
Gourlay to marry a daicent button-maker any day, than such a hurler as
Dunroe. What do you say, sir?”

“But who is this button-maker,” asked the stranger, “and where is he to
be found?”

Lucy, on recognizing his voice, could scarcely prevent her emotion from
becoming perceptible; but owing to the darkness of the night, and the
folds of her thick veil, her fellow-travellers observed nothing.

“Why,” replied the grazier, who had evidently, from a lapse of memory,
substituted one species of manufacture for another thing, “they tell me
he is stopping in the head inn in Ballytrain; an', dang my buttons, but
he must be a fellow of mettle, for sure didn't he kick that tyrannical
ould scoundrel, the Black Baronet, down-stairs, and out of the
hall-door, when he came to bullyrag over him about his daughter--the
darlin'?”

Lucy's distress was here incredible; and had not her self-command
and firmness of character been indeed unusual, she would have felt it
extremely difficult to keep her agitation within due bounds.

“You labor under a mistake there,” replied the stranger; “I happen to
know that nothing of the kind occurred. Some warm words passed between
them, but no blows. A young person named Fenton, whom I know, was
present.”

“Why,” observed the grazier, “that's the young fellow that goes mad
betimes, an' a quare chap he is, by all accounts. They say he went mad
for love.”

From this it was evident that rumor had, as usual, assigned several
causes for Fenton's insanity.

“Yes, I believe so,” replied the stranger.

Alley, who thought she had been overlooked in this partial dialogue,
determined to sustain her part in the conversation with a dignity
becoming her situation, now resolved to flourish in with something like
effect.

“They know nothing about it,” she said, “that calls Miss Gourlay's
sweetheart a button-maker. Miss Gourlay's not the stuff to fall in love
wid any button-maker, even if he made buttons of goold; an' sure they
say that the king an' queen, and the whole royal family wears golden
buttons.”

“I think, in spaiking of buttons,” observed the grazier, with a grin,
“that you might lave the queen out.”

“And why should I lave the queen out?” asked Alley, indignantly, and
with a towering resolution to defend the privileges of her sex. “Why
ought I lave the queen out, I say?”

“Why,” replied the grazier, with a still broader grin, “barring she
wears the breeches, I don't know what occasion she could have for
buttons.”

“That only shows your ignorance,” said Alley; “don't you know that all
ladies wear habit-shirts, and that habit-shirts must have buttons?”

“I never heard of a shirt havin' buttons anywhere but at the neck,”
 replied the grazier, who drew the inference in question from his own,
which were made upon a very simple and primitive fashion.

“But you don't know either,” responded Alley, launching nobly into the
purest fiction, from an impression that the character of her mistress
required it for her defence, “you don't know that nobody is allowed to
make buttons for the queen but a knight o' the garther.”

“Garther!” exclaimed the grazier, with astonishment. “Why what the
dickens has garthers to do wid buttons?”

“More than you think,” replied the redoubtable Alley. “The queen wears
buttons to her garthers, and the knight o' the garther is always obliged
to try them on; but always, of course, afore company.”

The stranger was exceedingly amused at this bit of by-play between Alley
and the honest grazier, and the more so as it drew the conversation
from a point of the subject that was painful to him in the last degree,
inasmuch as it directly involved the character of Miss Gourlay.

“How do you know, then,” proceeded Alley, triumphantly, “but the
button-maker that Miss Gourlay has fallen in love with may be a knight
o' the garther?”

“Begad, there maybe a great dale in that, too,” replied the unsuspicious
grazier, who never dreamt that Alley's knowledge of court etiquette
might possibly be rather limited, and her accounts of it somewhat
apocryphal;--“begad, there may. Well,” he added, with an honest and
earnest tone of sincerity, “for my part, and from all ever I heard of
that darlin' of a beauty, she deserves a knight o' the shire, let alone
a knight o' the garther. They say the good she does among the poor and
destitute since they came home is un-tellable. God bless her! And that
she may live long and die happy is the worst that I or anybody that
knows her wishes her. It's well known that she had her goodness from her
angel of a mother at all events, for they say that such another woman
for charity and kindness to the poor never lived; and by all accounts
she led an unhappy and miserable life wid her Turk of a husband, who,
they say, broke her heart, and sent her to an early grave.”

Alley was about to bear fiery and vehement testimony to the truth of
all this; but Lucy, whose bosom heaved up strongly two or three times at
these affecting allusions to her beloved mother, and who almost sobbed
aloud, not merely from sorrow but distress, arising from the whole tenor
of the conversation, whispered a few words into her ear, and she was
instantly silent. The farmer seemed somewhat startled; for, in truth,
as we have said, he was naturally one of those men who wish to hear
themselves talk. In this instance, however, he found, after having made
three or four colloquial attacks upon the stranger, but without success,
that he must only have recourse either to soliloquy or silence. He
accordingly commenced to hum over several old Irish airs, to which
he ventured to join the words--at first in a very subdued undertone.
Whenever the coach stopped, however, to change horses, which it
generally did at some public house or inn, the stranger could observe
that the grazier always went out, and on his return appeared to
be affected with a still stronger relish for melody. By degrees he
proceeded from a tolerably distinct undertone to raise his voice into a
bolder key, when, at last, throwing aside all reserve, he commenced the
song of _Cruiskeen Lawn_, which he gave in admirable style and spirit,
and with a rich mellow voice, that was calculated to render every
justice to that fine old air. In this manner, he literally sang his way
until within a few miles of the metropolis. He was not, however, without
assistance, during, at least, a portion of the journey. Our friend
Dandy, who was on the outside, finding that the coach came to a level
space on the road, placed the dulcimer on his knees, and commenced an
accompaniment on that instrument, which produced an effect equally
comic and agreeable. And what added to the humor of this extraordinary
duet--if we can call it so--was the delight with which each intimated
his satisfaction at the performance of the other, as well as with the
terms in which it was expressed.

“Well done, Dandy! dang my buttons, but you shine upon the wires. Ah,
thin, it's you that is and ever was the wiry lad--and sure that was what
made you take to the dulcimer of course. Dandy, achora, will you give
us, 'Merrily kissed the Quaker?' and I ask it, Dandy, bekaise we are in
a religious way, and have a quakers' meetn' in the coach.”

“No,” replied Dandy; “but I'll give you the 'Bonny brown Girl,' that's
worth a thousand of it, you thief.”

“Bravo, Dandy, and so it is; and, as far as I can see in the dark, dang
my buttons, but I think we have one here, too.”

“I thank you for the compliment, sir,” said Alley, appropriating it
without ceremony to herself. “I feel much obliged to you, sir; but I'm
not worthy of it.”

“My darling,” replied the jolly farmer, “you had betther not take me up
till I fall. How do you know it was for you it was intended? You're not
the only lady in the coach, avourneen.”

“And you're not the only gintleman in the coach, Jemmy Doran,” replied
Alley, indignantly. “I know you well, man alive--and you picked up your
politeness from your cattle, I suppose.”

“A better chance of getting it from them than from you,” replied, the
hasty grazier. “But I tell you at once to take it aisy, achora; don't
get on fire, or you'll burn the coach--the compliment was not intended
for you, at all events. Come, Dandy, give us the 'Bonny brown Girl,' and
I'll help you, as well as I'm able.”

In a moment the dulcimer was at work on the top of the coach, and the
merry farmer, at the top of his lungs, lending his assistance inside.

When the performance had been concluded, Alley, who was brimful of
indignation at the slight which had been put upon her, said, “Many
thanks to you, Misther Doran, but if you plaise we'll dispense wid your
music for the rest of the journey. Remember you're not among your own
bullocks and swine--and that this roaring and grunting is and must be
very disagreeable to polite company.”

“Troth, whoever you are, you have the advantage of me,” replied the
good-natured farmer, “and besides I believe you're right--I'm afraid
I've given offince; and as we have gone so far--but no, dang my buttons,
I won't--I was going to try 'Kiss my Lady,' along wid Dandy, it goes
beautiful on the dulcimer--but--but--ah, not half so well as on a purty
pair of lips. Alley, darlin',” he proceeded now, evidently in a maudlin
state, “I never lave you, but I'm in a hurry home to you, for it's your
lips that's--”

“It's false, Mr. Doran,” exclaimed Alley; “how dare you, sir, bring my
name, or my lips either, into comparishment wid yourself? You want to
take away my character, Mr. Doran; but I have friends, and a strong
faction at my back, that will make you suffer for this.”

The farmer, however, who was elevated into the seventh heaven of
domestic affection, paid no earthly attention to her, but turning to the
stranger said:

“Sir, I've the best wife that ever faced the sun--”

“I,” exclaimed Alley, “am not to be insulted and calumnied, ay, an'
backbitten before my own face, Misther Doran, and take my word you'll
hear of this to your cost--I've a faction.”

“Sir--gintleman--miss, over the way there--for throth, for all so close
as you're veiled, you haven't a married look--but as I was sayin',
we fell in love wid one another by mistake--for there was an ould
matchmaker, by name Biddlety Girtha, a daughter of ould Jemmy
Trailcudgel's--God be good to him--father of the present strugglin' poor
man of that name--and as I had hard of a celebrated beauty that
lived about twelve or fifteen miles down the country that I wished to
coort--and she, on the other hand, having hard of a very fine, handsome
young fellow in my own neighborhood--what does the ould thief do but
brings us together, in the fair of Baltihorum, and palms her off on me
as the celebrated beauty, and palms myself on her as the fine, handsome
young fellow from the parish of Ballytrain, and, as I said, so we fell
in love wid one another by mistake, and didn't discover the imposthure
that the ould vagabond had put on us until afther the marriage. However,
I'm not sorry for it--she turned out a good wife to me, at all
events--for, besides bringin' me a stockin' of guineas, she has brought
me twelve of as fine childre' as you'd see in the kingdom of Ireland,
ay, or in the kingdom of heaven either. Barrin' that she's a little
hasty in the temper--and sometimes--do you persave?--has the use of
her--there's five of them on each hand at any rate--do you
undherstand--I say, barrin' that, and that she often amuses
herself--just when she has nothing else to do--and by way of keepin' her
hand in--I say, sir, and you, miss, over the way--she now and then
amuses herself by turnin' up the little finger of her right hand--but
what matter for all that--there's no one widout their little weeny
failin's. My own hair's a little sandy, or so--some people say it's red,
but I think myself it's only a little sandy--as I said, sir--so out of
love and affection for the best of wives, I'll give you her favorite,
the 'Red-haired man's wife.' Dandy, you thief, will you help me to do
the 'Red-haired man's wife?'”

“Wid pleasure, Misther Doran,” replied Dandy, adjusting his dulcimer.
“Come now, start, and I'm wid you.”

The performance was scarcely finished, when a sob or two was heard from
Alley, who, during this ebullition of the grazier's, had been nursing
her wrath to keep it warm, as Burns says.

“I'm not without friends and protectors, Mr. Doran--that won't see me
rantinized in a mail-coach, and mocked and made little of--whereof I
have a strong back, as you'll soon find, and a faction that will make you
sup sorrow yet.”

All this virtuous indignation was lost, however, on the honest grazier,
who had scarcely concluded the “Red-haired man's wife,” ere he fell fast
asleep, in which state he remained--having simply changed the style
and character of his melody, the execution of the latter being equally
masterly--until they reached the hotel at which the coach always stopped
in the metropolis.

The weather, for the fortnight preceding, had been genial, mild, and
beautiful. For some time before they reached the city, that gradual
withdrawing of darkness began to take place, which resembles the
disappearance of sorrow from a heavy heart, and harbinges to the world
the return of cheerfulness and light. The dim, spectral paleness of the
eastern sky by degrees received a clearer and healthier tinge, just as
the wan cheek of an invalid assumes slowly, but certainly, the glow of
returning health. Early as it was, an odd individual was visible here
and there, and it may, be observed, that at a very early hour every
person visible in the streets is characterized by a chilly and careworn
appearance, looking, with scarcely an exception, both solitary and sad,
just as if they had not a single friend on earth, but, on the contrary,
were striving to encounter; struggles and difficulties which they were
incompetent to meet.

As our travellers entered the city, that bygone class who, as guardians
of the night, were appointed to preserve the public peace, every one of
them a half felon and whole accomplice, were seen to pace slowly along,
their poles under their left arm, their hands mutually thrust into the
capacious cuffs of their watchcoats, and each with a frowzy woollen
nightcap under his hat. Here and there a staggering toper might be
seen on his way home from the tavern brawl or the midnight debauch,
advancing, or attempting to advance, as if he wanted to trace Hogarth's
line of beauty. From some quarters the wild and reckless shriek of
female profligacy might be heard, the tongue, though loaded with
blasphemies, nearly paralyzed by intoxication. Nor can we close here.
The fashionable carriage made its appearance filled with beauty shorn of
its charms by a more refined dissipation--beauty, no longer beautiful,
returning with pale cheeks, languid eyes, and exhausted frame--after
having breathed a thickened and suffocating atmosphere, calculated to
sap the physical health, if not to disturb the pure elements of moral
feeling, principle, and delicacy, without which woman becomes only an
object of contempt.

Up until the arrival of the “Fly” at the hotel, the gray dusk of
morning, together with the thick black veil to which we have alluded,
added to that natural politeness which prevents a gentleman from staring
at a lady who may wish to avoid observation--owing to these causes, we
say, the stranger had neither inclination nor opportunity to recognize
the features of Lucy Gourlay. When the coach drew up, however, with that
courtesy and attention that are always due to the sex, and, we may add,
that are very seldom omitted with a pretty travelling companion, the
stranger stepped quickly out of it in order to offer her assistance,
which was accepted silently, being acknowledged only by a graceful
inclination of the head. When, however, on leaving the darkness of the
vehicle he found her hand and arm tremble, and had sufficient light to
recognize her through the veil, he uttered an exclamation expressive at
once of delight, wonder, and curiosity.

“Good God, my dear Lucy,” said he in a low whisper, so as not to let
his words reach other ears, “how is this? In heaven's name, how does it
happen that you travel by a common night coach, and are here at such an
hour?”

She blushed deeply, and as she spoke he observed that her voice was
infirm and tremulous: “It is most unfortunate,” she replied, “that we
should both have travelled in the same conveyance. I request you will
instantly leave me.”

“What! leave you alone and unattended at this hour?”

“I am not unattended,” she replied; “that faithful creature, though
somewhat blunt and uncouth in her manners, is all truth and attachment,
so far as I at least am concerned. But I beg you will immediately
withdraw. If we are seen holding conversation, or for a moment in
each other's society, I cannot tell what the consequences may be to my
reputation.”

“But, my dear Lucy,” replied the stranger, “that risk may easily be
avoided. This meeting seems providential--I entreat you, let us accept
it as such and avail ourselves of it.”

“That is,” she replied, whilst her glorious dark eye kindled, and her
snowy temples got red as fire, “that is, that I should elope with you, I
presume? Sir,” she added, “you are the last man from whom I should have
expected an insult. You forget yourself, and you forget me.”

The high sense of honor that flashed from that glorious eye, and which
made itself felt through the indignant tones of her voice, rebuked him
at once.

“I have erred,” said he, “but I have erred from an excess of
affection--will you not pardon me?”

She felt the difficulty and singular distress of her position, and in
spite of her firmness and the unnatural harshness of her father, she
almost regretted the step she had taken. As it was, she made no reply
to the stranger, but seemed absorbed in thoughts of bitterness and
affliction.

“Let me press you,” said the stranger, “to come into the hotel; you
require both rest and refreshment--and I entreat and implore you, for
the sake both of my happiness and your own, to grant me a quarter of an
hour's conversation.”

“I have reconsidered our position,” she replied. “Alley will fetch
in our very slight luggage; she has money, too, to pay the guard and
driver--she says it is usual; and I feel that to give you a
short explanation now may possibly enable us to avoid much future
embarrassment and misunderstanding--Alley, however, must accompany
us, and be present in the room. But then,” she added, starting, “is
it proper?--is it delicate?--no, no, I cannot, I cannot; it might
compromise me with the world. Leave me, I entreat, I implore, I command
you. I ask it as a proof of your love. We will, I trust, have other
opportunities. Let us trust, too, to time--let us trust to God--but
I will do nothing wrong, and I feel that this would be unworthy of my
mother's daughter.”

“Well,” replied the stranger, “I shall obey you as a proof of my love
for you; but will you not allow me to write to you?--will you not give
me your address?”

“No,” she returned; “and I enjoin you, as you hope, that we shall ever
be happy, not to attempt to trace me. I ask this from you as a man
of honor. Of course it may or perhaps it will be discovered that we
travelled in the same coach. The accident may be misinterpreted. My
father may seek an explanation from you--he may ask if you know where I
am. Should I have placed the knowledge of my retreat in your possession,
you know that, as a man of honor, you could not tell him a falsehood.
Goodby,” she added, “we may meet in better times, but I much fear that
our destinies will be separated forever--Come, Alley.”

Her voice softened as she uttered the last words, and the stranger felt
the influence of her ascendency over him too strongly to hesitate in
manifesting this proof of his obedience to her wishes.




CHAPTER XIV. Crackenfudge put upon a Wrong Scent

--Miss Gourlay takes Refuge with an Old Friend.


Little did Lucy dream that the fact of their discovery as
fellow-travellers would so soon reach her father's ears, and that the
provision against that event, and the inferences which calumny might
draw from it, as suggested by her prudence and good sense, should render
her advice to the stranger so absolutely necessary.

Whilst the brief dialogue which we have recited at the close of the last
chapter took place, another, which as a faithful historian we are bound
to detail, was proceeding between the redoubtable Crackenfudge and our
facetious friend, Dandy Dulcimer. Crackenfudge in following the stranger
to the metropolis by the 'Flash of Lightning', in order to watch his
movements, was utterly ignorant that Lucy had been that gentleman's
fellow-traveller in the Fly. A strong opposition, as we have already
said, existed between the two coaches, and so equal was their speed,
that in consequence of the mutual delay caused by changing horses, they
frequently passed each other on the road, the driver, guard, and outside
passengers of both coaches uniformly grimacing at each other amidst a
storm of groans, cheers, and banter on both sides. So equal, however,
were their relative powers of progress, that no effort on either side
was found sufficient to enable any one of them to claim a victory.
On the contrary, their contests generally ended in a dead heat, or
something very nearly approaching it. On the night in question the 'Fly'
had a slight advantage, and but a slight one. Before the coachman had
time to descend from his ample seat, the 'Flash of Lightning' came
dashing in at a most reckless speed--the unfortunate horses snorting and
panting--steaming with smoke, which rose from them in white wreaths, and
streaming in such a manner with perspiration that it was painful to look
upon them.

Crackenfudge was one of the first out of the 'Flash of Lightning',
which, we should say, drew up at a rival establishment, directly
opposite that which patronized the 'Fly'. He lost no time in sending
in his trunk by “boots,” or some other of those harpies that are always
connected with large hotels in the metropolis. Having accomplished this,
he set himself, but quite in a careless way, to watch the motions of the
stranger. For this purpose he availed himself of a position from whence
he could see without being himself seen. Judge, then, of his surprise on
ascertaining that the female whom he saw with the stranger was no other
than Lucy Gourlay, and in conversation with the very individual with
whose name, motions, and projects he wished so anxiously to become
acquainted. If he watched Miss Gourlay and her companion well however,
he himself was undergoing quite as severe a scrutiny. Dandy Dulcimer
having observed him, in consequence of some hints that he had already
received from a source with which the reader may become ultimately
acquainted, approached, and putting his hand to his hat, exclaimed:

“Why, then, Counsellor Crackenfudge, is it here I find your honor?”

“Don't you see a'm here, Dandy, my fine fellow?” and this he uttered
in a very agreeable tone, simply because he felt a weak and pitiable
ambition to be addressed by the title of “Your honor.”

“What does all this mean, Dandy?” asked Crackenfudge; “it looks vary odd
to see Miss Gourlay in conversation with an impostor--a' think it's an
elopement, Dandy. And pray Dandy, what brought you to town?”

“I think your honor's a friend to Sir Thomas, counsellor?” replied
Dandy, answering by another question.

“A' am, Dandy, a stanch friend to Sir Thomas.”

“Bekaise I know that if you aren't a friend of his, he is a friend of
yours. I was playin' a tune the other day in the hall, and while I
was in the very middle of it I heard him say--'We must have Counsellor
Crackenfudge on the bench;' and so they had a long palaver about you,
and the whole thing ended by Sir Thomas getting the tough old Captain
to promise you his support, with some great man that they called _custos
rascalorum_.”

“A' am obliged to Sir Thomas,” said Crackenfudge, “and a' know he is a
true friend of mine.”

“Ay, but will you now be a true friend to him, plaise your honor,
counsellor?”

“To be sure I will, Dandy, my fine fellow.”

“Well, then, listen--Sir Thomas got me put into this strange fellow's
sarvice, in ordher to ah--ahem--why, you see in ordher to keep an eye
upon him--and, what do you think? but he's jist afther tellin' me that
he doesn't think he'll have any further occasion for my sarvices.”

“Well, a' think that looks suspicious--it's an elopement, there's no
doubt about it.”

“I think so, your honor; although I am myself completely in the dark
about it, any farther than this, counsellor--listen, now--I know the
road they're goin', for I heard it by accident--they'll be off, too,
immediately. Now, if your honor is a true friend to Sir Thomas, you'll
take a post chaise and start off a little before them upon the Isaas
road. You know that by going before them, they never can suspect that
you're followin' them. I'll remain here to watch their motions, and
while you keep before them, I'll keep after them, so that it will be the
very sorra if they escape us both. Whisper, counsellor, your honor--I'm
in Sir Thomas's pay. Isn't that enough? but I want assistance, and if
you're his friend, as you say, you will be guided by me and sarve him.”

Crackenfudge felt elated; he thought of the magistracy, of his privilege
to sit on the bench in all the plenitude of official authority; he
reflected that he could commit mendicants, impostors, vagrants, and
vagabonds of all descriptions, and that he would be entitled to the
solemn and reverential designation of “Your worship.” Here, then, was
an opening. The very object for which he came to town was
accomplished--that is to say, the securing to himself the magistracy
through the important services rendered to Sir Thomas Gourlay.

It occurred to him, we admit, that as it must have been evidently a case
of elopement, it might be his duty to have the parties arrested, until
at least the parent of the lady could be apprised of the circumstances.
There was, however, about Crackenfudge a wholesome regard for what is
termed a whole skin, and as he had been, through the key-hole of the
Mitre inn, a witness of certain scintillations and flashes that lit up
the eye of this most mysterious stranger, he did not conceive that such
steps and his own personal safety were compatible. In the meantime, he
saw that there was an air of sincerity and anxiety about Dandy Dulcimer,
which he could impute to nothing but a wish, if possible, to make a
lasting friend of Sir Thomas, by enabling him to trace his daughter.

Dandy's plea and plan both succeeded, and in the course of a few minutes
Crackenfudge was posting at an easy rate toward the town of Naas. Many a
look did he give out of the chaise, with a hope of being able to observe
the vehicle which contained those for whom he was on the watch, but in
vain. Nothing of the kind was visible; but notwithstanding this he drove
on to the town, where he ordered breakfast in a private room, with the
anxious expectation that they might soon arrive. At length, his patience
having become considerably exhausted, he determined to return to Dublin,
and provided he met them, with Dandy in pursuit, to wheel about and also
to join the musician in the chase. Having settled his bill, which he did
not do without half an hour's wrangling with the waiter, he came to the
hall door, from which a chaise with close Venetian blinds was about to
start, and into which he thought the figure of a man entered, who very
much resembled that of Corbet, Sir Thomas's house steward and most
confidential servant. Of this, however, he could not feel quite certain,
as he had not at all got a glimpse of his face. On inquiring, he found
that the chaise contained another man also, who was so ill as not to
be able to leave it. One of them, however, drank some spirits in the
chaise, and got a bottle of it, together with some provisions, to take
along with them.

So far had Crackenfudge been most adroitly thrown off the trace of Miss
Gourlay and the stranger; and when Dandy joined his master, who, from
principles of delicacy and respect for Lucy, went to the opposite
inn, he candidly told him of the hoax he had played off on the embryo
magistrate.

“I sent him, your honor, upon what they call a fool's errand, and
certain I am, he is the very boy will deliver it--not but that he's the
divil's own knave on the other. The truth is, sir, it's just one day a
knave and the other a fool with him.”

The stranger paid little attention to these observations, but walked
up and down the room in a state of sorrow and disappointment, that
completely abstracted him from every object around him.

“Good. God!” he exclaimed, “she will not even allow me to know the
place of her retreat, and she may stand in need of aid and support, and
probably of protection, a thousand ways. Would to heaven I knew how to
trace her, and become acquainted with her residence, and that more for
her own sake than for mine!”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Dandy, “I see a cousin o' mine over the
way; would your honor give me a couple of hours to spend wid him? I
haven't seen him this--God knows how long.”

Well might Dandy say so--the cousin alluded to having been only
conceived and brought forth from his own own fertile fancy at the
moment, or rather, while his master was unconsciously uttering his
soliloquy. The truth was, that while the latter spoke, Dandy, whom
he had ordered to attend him, without well knowing why, observed a
hackney-coach draw up at the door of the opposite hotel; but this fact
would not have in any particular way arrested his attention, had he not
seen Alley Mahon giving orders to the driver.

“You'll give me a couple of hours, your honor?”

“I'll give you the whole day, Dandy, if you wish. I shall be engaged,
and will not require any further services from you until to-morrow.”

Dandy looked at him very significantly, and with a degree of assurance,
for which we can certainly offer no apology, puckered his naturally
comic face into a most mysterious grin, and closing one eye, or in other
words, giving his master a knowing wink, said--

“Very well, sir, I know how many banes makes five at any rate--let me
alone.”

“What do you mean, you varlet,” said his master, “by that impudent
wink?”

“Wink?” replied Dandy, with a face of admirable composure. “Oh, you
observed it, then? Sure, God help me, it's a wakeness I have in one of
my eyes ever since I had the small-pock.”

“And pray which eye is it in?” asked his master.

“In the left, your honor.”

“But, you scoundrel, you winked at me with the right.”

“Troth, sir, maybe I did, for it sometimes passes from the one to the
other wid me--but not often indeed--it's principally in my left.”

“Very well; but in speaking to me, use no such grimaces in future;
and now go see your cousin. I shall sleep for a few hours, for I feel
somewhat jaded, paid out of order on many accounts. But before you go,
listen to me, and mark me well. You saw me in conversation with Miss
Gourlay?”

Dandy, whose perception was quick as lightning, had his finger on his
lips immediately. “I understand you, sir,” said he; “and once for all,
sir,” he proceeded, “do you listen to me. You may lay it down as one of
the ten commandments, that any secret you may plaise to trust me with,
will be undher a tombstone. I'm not the stuff that a traitor or villain
is made of. So, once for fill, your honor, make your mind aisy on that
point.”

“It will be your own interest to prove faithful,” said his master. “Here
is a month's wages for you in advance.”

Dandy, having accepted the money, immediately proceeded to the next
hackney station, which was in the same street, where he took a coach
by the hour; and having got into it, ordered the driver to follow that
which he saw waiting at the door of the hotel aforesaid.

“Folly that hackney,” said he to the driver, “at what is called a
respectful distance, an' you'll be no loser by it.”

“Is there a piece of fun in the wind?” asked the driver, with a knowing
grin.

“When you go to your Padereens tonight,” replied Dandy, “that is, in
case you ever trouble them, you may swear it on them.”

“Whish! More power--I'm the boy will rowl you on.”

“There, they're off,” said Dandy; “but don't be in a hurry, for fraid we
might seem to folly them--only for your life and sowl, and as you hope
to get half-a-dozen gum-ticklers when we come come back--don't let them
out o' sight. By the rakes o' Mallow, this jaunt may be the makin' o'
you. Says his lordship to me, 'Dandy,' says he, 'find out where she goes
to, and you and every one that helps you to do so, is a made man.'”

“Ha, ha!” exclaimed the driver, with glee, “is that it? Come,
then--here's at you--they're off.”

It was not yet five o'clock, and the stranger requested to be shown to a
bedroom, to which he immediately retired, in order to gain a few hours'
sleep, after the fatigue of his journey and the agitation which he had
Undergone.

In the meantime, as Dandy followed Miss Gourlay, so shall we follow
him. The chase, we must admit, was conducted with singular judgment and
discretion, the second chaise jogging on--but that, in fact, is not the
term--we should rather say flogging on, inasmuch as that which contained
the fair fugitives went at a rate of most unusual speed. In this manner
they proceeded, until they reached a very pretty cottage, about three
quarters of a mile from the town of Wicklow, situated some fifty or
sixty yards in from the road side. Here they stopped; but Dandy desired
his man to drive slowly on. It was evident that this cottage was the
destination of the fugitives. Dandy, having turned a corner of the road,
desired the driver to stop and observe whether they entered or not; and
the latter having satisfied himself that they did--

“Now,” said Dandy, “let us wait where we are till we see whether the
chaise returns or not; if it does, all's right, and I know what I know.”

In a few minutes the empty chaise started once more for Dublin,
followed, as before, by the redoubtable Dulcimer, who entered the city
a much more important person than when he left it. Knowledge, as Bacon
says, is power.

About two o'clock the stranger was dressed, had breakfasted, and having
ordered a car, proceeded to Constitution Hill. As he went up the street,
he observed the numbers of the houses as well as he could, for some had
numbers and some had not. Among the latter was that he sought for, and
he was consequently obliged to inquire. At length he found it, and saw
by a glance that it was one of those low lodging-houses to which country
folks of humble rank--chapmen, hawkers, pedlers, and others of a,
similar character--resort. It was evident, also, that the proprietor
dealt in huckstery, as he saw a shop in which there was bacon, meal,
oats, eggs, potatoes, bread, and such other articles as are usually to
be found in small establishments of the kind. He entered the shop, and
found an old man, certainly not less than seventy, but rather beyond it,
sitting behind the counter. The appearance of this man was anything
but prepossessing. His brows were low and heavy; his mouth close,
and remarkably hard for his years; the forehead low and narrow,
and singularly deficient in what phrenologists term the moral and
intellectual qualities. But the worst feature in the whole face might be
read in his small, dark, cunning eyes, which no man of any penetration
could look upon without feeling that they were significant of duplicity,
cruelty, and fraud. His hair, though long, and falling over his neck,
was black as ebony; for although Time had left his impress upon the
general features of his face, it had not discolored a single hair
upon his head; whilst his whiskers, on the contrary, were like snow--a
circumstance which, in connection with his sinister look, gave him a
remarkable and startling appearance. His hands were coarse and strong,
and the joints of his thick fingers were noded either by age or disease;
but, at all events, affording indication of a rude and unfeeling
character.

“Pray,” said the stranger, “is your name Denis Dunphy?”

The old man fastened his rat-like eyes upon him, compressed his hard,
unfeeling lips, and, after surveying him for some time, replied--

“What's your business, sir, with Denis Dunphy?”

“That, my friend, can be mentioned only to himself; are you the man?”

“Well, and what if I be?”

“But I must be certain that you are.”

There was another pause, and a second scrutiny, after which he replied,

“May be my name in Denis Dunphy.”

“I have no communication to make,” said the stranger, “that you may be
afraid of; but, such as it is, it can be made to no person but Denis
Dunphy himself. I have a letter for him.”

“Who does it come from?” asked the cautious Denis Dunphy.

“From the parish priest of Ballytrain,” replied the other, “the Rev.
Father M'Mahon.”

The old man pulled out a large snuff-box, and took a long pinch, which
he crammed with his thumb first into one nostril, then into the other,
bending his head at the same! time to each side, in order to enjoy it
with greater relish, after which he gave a short deliberative cough or
two.

“Well,” said he, “I am Denis Dunphy.”

“In that case, then,” replied the other, “I should very much wish to
have a short private conversation with you of some importance. But you
had better first read the reverend gentleman's letter,” he added, “and
perhaps we shall then understand each other better;” and as he spoke he
handed him the letter.

The man received it, looked at it, and again took a more rapid and less
copious pinch, peered keenly at the stranger, and asked--“Pray, sir, do
you know the contents of this letter?”

“Not a syllable of it.”

He then coughed again, and having opened the document, began
deliberately to peruse it.

The stranger, who was disagreeably impressed by his whole manner and
appearance, made a point to watch the effect which the contents of the
document might have on him. The other, in the meantime, read on, and,
as he proceeded, it was obvious that the communication was not only
one that gave him no pleasure, but filled him with suspicion and alarm.
After about twenty minutes--for it took him at least that length of time
to get through it--he raised his head, and fastening his small, piercing
eyes upon the stranger, said:

“But how do I know that this letter comes from Father M'Mahon?”

“I'd have you to understand, sir,” replied the stranger, nearly losing
his temper, “that you are addressing a gentleman and a man of honor.”

“Faith,” said the other, “I don't know whether I am or not. I have
only your word for it--and no man's willin' to give a bad character of
himself--but if you will keep the shop here for a minute or two, I'll
soon be able to tell whether it's Father M'Mahon'a hand-write or not.”

So saying, he deliberately locked both tills of the counter--to wit,
those which contained the silver and coppers--then, surveying the
stranger with a look of suspicion--a look, by the way, that, after
having made his cash safe, had now something of the triumph and
confidence of security in it, he withdrew to a little backroom, that
was divided from the shop by a partition of boards and a glass door, to
which there was a red curtain.

“It is betther,” said the impudent old sinner, alluding to the cash in
the tills, “to greet over it than greet afther it--just keep the shop
for a couple of minutes, and then we'll undherstand one another, may be.
There's a great many skamers going in this world.”

Having entered the little room in question, he suddenly popped out his
head and asked:

“Could you weigh a stone or a half stone of praties, if they were called
for? But, never mind--you'd be apt to give down weight--I'll come out
and do it myself, if they're wanted;” saying which, he drew the red
curtain aside, in order the better, as it would seem, to keep a watchful
eye upon the other.

The latter was at first offended, but ultimately began to feel amused by
the offensive peculiarities of the old man. He now perceived that he was
eccentric and capricious, and that, in order to lure any information
out of him, it would be necessary to watch and take advantage of the
disagreeable whimsicalities which marked his character. Patience, he saw
clearly, was his only remedy.

After remaining in the back parlor for about eight or ten minutes, he
put out his thin, sharp face, with a grin upon it, which was intended
for a smile--the expression of which, however, was exceedingly
disagreeable.

“We will talk this matter over,” he said, “by and by. I have compared
the hand-write in this letther wid a certificate of Father M'Mahon's,
that I have for many years in my possession. Step inside in the
meantime; the ould woman will be back in a few minutes, and when she
comes we'll go upstairs and speak about it.”

The stranger complied with this invitation, and felt highly gratified
that matters seemed about to take a more favorable turn.

“I trust,” said he, “you are satisfied that I am fully entitled to any
confidence you may feel disposed to place in me?”

“The priest speaks well of you,” replied Dunphy; “but then, sure I know
him; he's so kind-hearted a creature, that any one who speaks him fair,
or that he happens to take a fancy to, will be sure to get his good
word. It isn't much assistance I can give you, and it's not on account
of his letther altogether that I do it; but bekaise I think the time's
come, or rather soon will be come. Oh, here,” he said, “is the ould
woman, and she'll keep the shop. Now, sir, come upstairs, if you plaise,
for what we're goin' to talk about is what the very stones oughtn't to
hear so long as that man--”

He paused, and instantly checked himself, as if he felt that he had
already gone too far.

“Now, sir,” he proceeded, “what is it you expect from me? Name it at
wanst.”

“You are aware,” said the stranger, “that the son of the late Sir Edward
Gourlay, and the heir of his property, disappeared very mysteriously and
suspiciously--”

“And so did the son of the present man,” replied Dunphy, eying the
stranger keenly.

“It is not of him I am speaking,” replied the other; “although at the
same time I must say, that if I could find a trace even of him I would
leave no stone unturned to recover him.”

The old man looked into the floor, and mused for some time.

“It was a strange business,” he observed, “that both should go--you
may take my word, there has been mischief and revenge, or both, at the
bottom of the same business.”

“The worthy priest, whose letter I presented to you to-day, led me to
suppose, that if any man could put me in a capacity to throw light upon
it you could.”

“He didn't say, surely, that I could throw light upon it--did he?”

“No, certainly not--but that if any man could, you are that man.”

“Ay, ay,” replied old Dunphy; “all bekaise he thinks I have a regard for
the Gourlays. That's what makes him suppose that I know anything about
the business; just as if I was in the saicrets of the family. I may have
suspicions like other people; but that's all.”

“Can you throw out no hint, or give no clew, that might aid me in the
recovery of this unhappy young man, if he be alive?”

“You did well to add that, for who can tell whether he is or not?--maybe
it's only thrashing the water you are, after all.”

The stranger saw the old fellow had once more grown cautious, and
avoided giving a direct reply to him; but on considering the matter, he
was, after all, not much surprised at this. The subject involved a black
and heinous crime, and if it so happened that Dunphy could in any way
have been implicated in or connected with it, even indirectly, it would
be almost unreasonable to expect that he should now become his own
accuser. Still the stranger could observe that in spite of all his
caution, there was a mystery and uneasiness in his manner, when talking
of it, which he could not shake off.

When the conversation had reached this point, the old woman called her
husband down in a voice that seemed somewhat agitated, but not, as far
as he could guess, disagreeably.

“Denis, come down a minute,” she said, “come down, will you? here's a
stranger that you haven't seen for some time.”

“What stranger?” he inquired, peevishly. “Who is it? I wish you wouldn't
bother me--I'm talkin' with a gentleman.”

“It's Ginty.”

“Ginty, is it?” said he, musing. “Well, that's odd, too--to think that
she should come at this very moment. Maybe, the hand of G--. I beg your
pardon, sir, for a minute or two--I'll be back immediately.”

He went down stairs, and found in the back parlor the woman named Ginty
Cooper, the same fortune-teller and prophetess whom we have already
described to the reader.

The old man seemed to consider her appearance not as an incident that
stirred up any natural affection in himself, but as one that he looked
upon as extraordinary. Indeed, to tell the truth, he experienced a
sensation of surprise, mingled with a superstitious feeling, that
startled him considerably, by her unexpected appearance at that
particular period. He did not resume his conversation with the stranger
for at least twenty minutes; but the latter was perfectly aware, from
the earnestness of their voices, although their words were not audible,
that he and the new-comer were discussing some topic in which they must
have felt a very deep interest. At length he came up and apologized for
the delay, adding: “With regard to this business, it's altogether out of
my power to give you any assistance. I have nothing but my suspicions,
and it wouldn't be the part of a Christian to lay a crime like that to
any man's door upon mere guess.”

“If you know anything of this dark transaction,” replied the stranger,
whose earnestness of manner was increased by his disappointment, as
well as by an impression that the old man knew more about it than he
was disposed to admit, “and will not enable us to render justice to the
wronged and defrauded orphan, you will have a heavy reckoning of it--an
awful one when you meet your God. By the usual course of nature that
is a reckoning that must soon be made. I advise you, therefore, not to
tamper with your own conscience, nor, by concealing your knowledge of
this great crime to peril your hopes of eternal happiness. Of one thing
you may rest assured, that the justice we seek will not stoop to those
who have been merely instruments in the hands of others.”

“That's all very fine talk,” replied Dunphy, uneasily however, “and from
the high-flown language you give me, I take you to be a lawyer; but
if you were ten times a lawyer, and a judge to the back of that, a man
can't tell what he doesn't know.”

“Mark me,” replied the stranger, assailing him through his cupidity, “I
pledge you my solemn word that for any available information you may or
can give us you shall be most liberally and amply remunerated.”

“I have money enough,” replied Dunphy; “that is to say, as much as
barely does me, for the wealthiest of us cannot bring it to the grave.
I'm thankful to you, but I can give you no assistance.”

“Whom do you suspect, then?--whom do you even suspect?”

“Hut!--why, the man that every one suspects--Sir Thomas Gourlay.”

“And upon what grounds, may I ask?”

“Why, simply because no other man had any interest in getting the child
removed. Every one knows he's a dark, tyrannical, bad man, that wouldn't
be apt to scruple at anything. There now,” he added, “that is all I know
about it; and I suppose it's not more than you knew yourself before.”

In order to close the dialogue he stood up, and at once led the way down
to the back parlor, where the stranger, on following him, found Ginty
Cooper and the old woman in close conversation, which instantly ceased
when they made their appearance.

The stranger, chagrined and vexed at his want of success, was about to
depart, when Dunphy's wife said:

“Maybe, sir, you'd wish to get your fortune tould? bekaise, if you
would, here's a woman that will tell it to you, and you may depend upon
it she'll tell you nothing but the truth.”

“I am not in a humor for such nonsense, my good woman; I have much more
important matters to think of, I assure you; but I suppose the woman
wishes to have her hand crossed with silver; well, it shall be done.
Here, my good woman,” he said offering her money, “accept this, and
spare your prophecy.”

“I will not have your money, sir,” replied the prophetess; “and I say so
to let you know that I'm not an impostor. Be advised, and hear me--show
me your hand.”

The startling and almost supernatural appearance of the woman struck him
very forcibly, and with a kind of good-humored impatience, he stretched
out his hand to her. “Well,” said he, “I will test the truth of what you
promise.”

She took it into hers, and after examining the lines for a few seconds
said, “The lines in your hand, sir, are very legible--so much so that I
can read your name in it--and it's a name which very few in this country
know.”

The stranger started with astonishment, and was about to speak, but she
signed to him to be silent.

“You are in love,” she continued, “and your sweetheart loves you dearly.
You saw her this morning, and you would give a trifle to know where
she will be to-morrow. You traveled with her last night and didn't know
it--and the business that brought you to town will prosper.”

“You say you know my name,” replied the stranger, “if so, write it on a
slip of paper.”

She hesitated a moment.

“Will it do,” she asked, “if I give you the initials?”

“No,” he replied, “the name in full--and I think you are fairly caught.”

She gave no reply, but having got a slip of paper and a pen, went to the
wall and knocked three times, repeating some unintelligible words
with an appearance of great solemnity and mystery. Having knocked, she
applied her ear to the wall three times also, after which she seemed
satisfied.

The stranger of course imputed all this to imposture; but when he
reflected upon what she had already told him, he felt perfectly
confounded with amazement. The prophetess then went to her father's
counter and wrote something upon a small fragment of paper, which she
handed to him. No earthly language could now express his astonishment,
not from any belief he entertained that she possessed supernatural
power, but from the almost incredible fact that she could have known so
much of a man's affairs who was an utter stranger to her, and to whom
she was herself unknown.

“Well, it is odd enough,” he added; “but this knocking on the wall
and listening was useless jugglery. Did you not say, when first you
inspected my hand, that you could read my name in the lines of it? then,
of course you knew it before you knocked at the wall--the knocking,
therefore, was imposture.”

“I knew the name,” she replied, “the moment I looked into your hand, but
I was obliged to ask permission to reveal it. Your observation, however,
was very natural. It may, in the meantime, be a consolation for you to
know that I'm not at liberty to mention it to any one but yourself and
one other person.”

“A man or woman?”

“A woman--she you saw this morning.”

“Whether that be true or not,” observed the stranger, “the mention of my
name at present would place me in both difficulty and danger; so that I
hope you'll keep it secret.”

She threw the slip of paper into the fire. “There it lies,” she replied,
“and you might as well read it in those white ashes as extract it from
me until the proper time comes. But with respect to it, there is one
thing I must tell you before you go.”

“What is that, pray?”

“It is a name you will not carry long. Ask me no more questions. I have
already said you will succeed in the object of your pursuit, but not
without difficulty and danger. Take my advice, and never go anywhere
without a case of loaded pistols. I have good reasons for saying so. Now
pass on, for I am silent.”

There was an air of confidence and superiority about her as she uttered
these words--a sense, as it were, of power--of a privilege to command,
by which the stranger felt himself involuntarily influenced. He once
more offered her money, but, with a motion of her hand, she silently,
and somewhat indignantly refused it.

Whilst this singular exhibition took place, the stranger observed the
very remarkable and peculiar expression of the old man's countenance.
It is indeed very difficult to describe it. He seemed to experience a
feeling of satisfaction and triumph at the revelations the woman
had made; added to which was something that might be termed shrewd;
ironical, and derisive. In fact, his face bore no bad resemblance to
that of Mephistopheles, as represented in Retsch's powerful conception
and delineation of it in his illustration of Goethe's “Faust,” so
inimitably translated by our admirable countryman, Anster.

The stranger now looked at his watch, bade them good day, and took his
leave.




CHAPTER XV. Interview between Lady Gourlay and the Stranger

--Dandy Dulcimer makes a Discovery--The Stranger receives Mysterious
Communications.


From Constitution Hill our friend drove directly to Merrion square, the
residence of Lady Gourlay, whom he found alone in the drawing-room. She
welcomed him with a courtesy that was expressive at once of anxiety,
sorrow, and hope. She extended her hand to him and said, after the usual
greetings were over:

“I fear to ask what the result of your journey has been--for I cannot,
alas! read any expression of success in your countenance.”

“As yet,” replied the stranger, “I have not been successful, madam; but
I do not despair. I am, and have been, acting under an impression,
that we shall ultimately succeed; and although I can hold out to your
ladyship but very slender hopes, if any, still I would say, do not
despair.”

Lady Gourlay was about forty-eight, and although sorrow, and the bitter
calamity with which the reader is already acquainted, had left their
severe traces upon her constitution and features, still she was a woman
on whom no one could look without deep I interest and sympathy. Even
at that age, her fine form and extraordinary beauty bore up in a most
surprising manner against her sufferings. Her figure was tall--its
proportions admirable; and her beauty, faded it is true, still made the
spectator feel, with a kind of wonder, what it must have been when she
was in the prime of youth and untouched by affliction. She possessed
that sober elegance of manner that was in melancholy accordance with her
fate; and evinced in every movement a natural dignity that excited more
than ordinary respect and sympathy for her character and the sorrows
she had suffered. Her face was oval, and had been always of that healthy
paleness than which, when associated with symmetry and expression--as
was the case with her--there is nothing more lovely among women. Her
eyes, which were a dark brown, had lost, it is true, much of the lustre
and sparkle of early life; but this was succeeded by a mild and mellow
light to which an abiding sorrow had imparted an expression that was
full of melancholy beauty.

For many years past, indeed, ever since the disappearance of her only
child, she had led a secluded life, and devoted herself to the Christian
virtues of charity and benevolence; but in such a way as to avoid
anything like ostentatious display. Still, such is the structure of
society, that it is impossible to carry the virtues for which she
was remarkable to any practical extent, without the world by degrees
becoming cognizant of the secret. The very recipients themselves, in the
fulness of their heart, will commit a grateful breach of confidence with
which it is impossible to quarrel.

Consoled, as far as any consolation could reach her, by the
consciousness of doing good, as well as by a strong sense of religion,
she led a life which we regret so few in her social position are
disposed to imitate. For many years before the period at which our
narrative commences, she had given up all hope of ever recovering her
child, if indeed he was alive. Whether he had perished by an accidental
death in some place where his body could not be discovered--whether he
had been murdered, or kidnapped, were dreadful contingencies that wrung
the mother's soul with agony. But as habits of endurance give to the
body stronger powers of resistance, so does time by degrees strengthen
the mind against the influence of sorrow. A blameless life, therefore,
varied only by its unobtrusive charities, together with a firm trust in
the goodness of God, took much of the sting from affliction, but could
not wholly eradicate it. Had her child died in her arms--had she closed
its innocent eyes with her own hands, and given the mother's last kiss
to those pale lips on which the smile of affection was never more to
sit--had she been able to go, and, in the fulness of her childless
heart, pour her sorrow over his grave--she would have felt that his
death, compared with the darkness and uncertainty by which she was
enveloped, would have been comparatively a mitigated dispensation, for
which the heart ought to feel almost thankful.

The death of Corbet, her steward, found her in that mournful apathy
under which she had labored for year's. Indeed she resembled a certain
class of invalids who are afflicted with some secret ailment, which is
not much felt unless when an unexpected pressure, or sudden change of
posture, causes them to feel the pang which it inflicts. From the moment
that the words of the dying man shed the serenity of hope over her
mind, and revived in her heart all those tender aspirations of maternal
affection which, as associated with the recovery of her child, had
nearly perished out of it--from that moment, we say, the extreme
bitterness of her affliction had departed.

She had already suffered too much, however, to allow herself to
be carried beyond unreasonable bounds by sanguine and imprudent
expectations. Her rule of heart and of conduct was simple, but true--she
trusted in God and in the justice of his providence.

On hearing the stranger's want of success, she felt more affected by
that than by the faint consolation which he endeavored to hold out to
her, and a few bitter tears ran slowly down her cheeks.

“Hope had altogether gone,” said she, “and with hope that power in the
heart to cherish the sorrow which it sustains; and the certainty of his
death had thrown me into that apathy, which qualifies but cannot destroy
the painful consequences of reflection. That which presses upon me now,
is the fear that although he may still live, as unquestionably Corbet
on his death-bed had assured me, yet it is possible we may never recover
him. In that case he is dead to me--lost forever.”

“I will not attempt to offer your ladyship consolation,” replied the
stranger; “but I would suggest simply, that the dying words of your
steward, perhaps, may be looked upon as the first opening--the dawn of a
hopeful issue. I think we may fairly and reasonably calculate that your
son lives. Take courage, madam. In our efforts to trace him, remember
that we have only commenced operations. Every day and every successive
attempt to penetrate this painful mystery will, I trust, furnish us with
additional materials for success.”

“May God grant it!” replied her ladyship; “for if we fail, my wounds
will have been again torn open in vain. Better a thousand times that
that hope had never reached me.”

“True, indeed, madam,” replied the stranger; “but still take what
comfort you can. Think of your brother-in-law; he also has lost his
child, and bears it well.”

“Ah, yes,” she replied, “but you forget that he has one still left,
and that I am childless. If there be a solitary being on earth, it is a
childless and a widowed mother--a widow who has known a mother's love--a
wife who has experienced the tender and manly affection of a devoted
husband.”

“I grant,” he replied, “that it is, indeed, a bitter fate.”

“As for my brother-in-law,” she proceeded, “the child which God, in his
love, has spared to him is a compensation almost for any loss. I trust
he loves and cherishes her as he ought, and as I am told she deserves.
There has been no communication between us ever since my marriage.
Edward and he, though brothers, were as different as day and night.
Unless once or twice, I never even saw my niece, and only then at a
distance; nor has a word ever passed between us. They tell me she is an
angel in goodness, as well as in beauty, and that her accomplishments
are extraordinary--but--I, alas!--am alone and childless.”

The stranger's heart palpitated; and had Lady Gourlay entertained any
suspicion of his attachment, she might have perceived his agitation. He
also felt deep sympathy with Lady Gourlay.

“Do not say childless, madam,” he replied. “Your ladyship must hope for
the best.”

“But what have you done?” she asked. “Did you see the young man?”

“I saw him, madam; but it is impossible to get anything out of him. That
he is wrapped in some deep mystery is unquestionable. I got a letter,
however, from an amiable Roman Catholic clergyman, the parish priest
of Ballytrain, to a man named Dunphy, who lives in a street called
Constitution Hill, on the north side of the city.”

“He is a relation, I understand, of Edward Corbet, who died in my
service,” replied her ladyship, with an interest that seemed instantly
to awaken her. “Well,” said she, eagerly, “what was the result? Did you
present the letter?”

“I presented the letter, my lady; and had at first strong hopes--no, not
at first--but in the course of our conversation. He dropped unconscious
hints that induce me to suspect he knows more about the fate of your son
than he wishes to acknowledge. It struck me that he might have been an
agent in this black business, and, on that account, that he is afraid
to criminate himself. I have, besides,” he added, smilingly, “had the
gratification to have heard a prophecy uttered, by which I was assured
of ultimate success in my efforts to trace out your son;--a prophecy
uttered under and accompanied by circumstances so extraordinary and
incomprehensible as to confound and amaze me.”

He then detailed to her the conversation he had had with old Dunphy and
the fortune-teller, suppressing all allusion to what tha latter had said
concerning Lucy and himself. After which, Lady Gourlay paused for some
time, and seemed at a loss what construction to put upon it.

“It is very strange,” she at length observed; “that woman has been here,
I think, several times, visiting her late brother, who left her some
money at his death. Is she not extremely pale and wild-looking?”

“So much so, madam, that there is something awful and almost
supernatural-looking in the expression of her eyes and features. I have
certainly never seen such a face before on a denizen of this life.”

“It is strange,” replied her ladyship, “that she should have taken upon
her the odious character of a fortune-teller. I was not aware of that.
Corbet, I know, had a sister, who was deranged for some time; perhaps
this is she, and that the gift of fortune-telling to which she pretends
may be a monomania or some other delusion that her unhappy malady has
left behind it.”

“Very likely, my lady,” replied the other; “nothing more probable. The
fact you mention accounts both for her strange appearance and conduct.
Still I must say, that so far as I had an opportunity of observing,
there did not appear to be any obvious trace of insanity about her.”

“Well,” she exclaimed, “we know to foretell future events is not now one
of the privileges accorded to mortals. I will place my assurance in the
justice of God's goodness and providence, and not in the delusions of
a poor maniac, or, perhaps, of an impostor. What course do you propose
taking now?”

“I have not yet determined, madam. I think I will see this old Dunphy
again. He told me that he certainly suspected your brother-in-law, but
assured me that he had no specific grounds for his suspicions--beyond
the simple fact, that Sir Thomas would be the principal gainer by the
child's removal. At all events, I shall see him once more to-morrow.”

“What stay will you make in town?”

“I cannot at the present moment say, my lady. I have other matters,
of which your ladyship is aware, to look after. My own rights must be
vindicated; and I dare say you will not regret to hear that everything
is in a proper train. We want only one link of the chain. An important
document is wanting; but I think it will soon be in our hands. Who
knows,” he added, smiling, “but your ladyship and I may ere long be
able to congratulate each other upon our mutual success? And now, madam,
permit me to take my leave. I am not without hope on your account; but
of this you may rest assured, that my most strenuous exertions shall be
devoted to the object nearest your heart.”

“Alas,” she replied, as she stood up, “it is neither title nor wealth
that I covet. Give me my child--restore me my child--and I shall be
happy. That is the simple ambition of his mother's heart. I wish Sir
Thomas to understand that I shall allow him to enjoy both title and
estates during his life, if, knowing where my child is, he will restore
him to my heart. I will bind, myself by the most solemn forms and
engagements to this. Perhaps that might satisfy him.”

They then shook hands and separated, the stranger involuntarily
influenced by the confident predictions of Ginty Cooper, although he was
really afraid to say so; whilst Lady Gourlay felt her heart at one time
elevated by the dawn of hope that had arisen, and again depressed by the
darkness which hung over the fate of her son.

His next visit was to his attorney, Birney, who had been a day or two in
town, and whom he found in his office in Gloucester street.

“Well, Mr. Birney,” he inquired, “what advance are you making?”

“Why,” replied Birney, “the state of our case is this: if Mrs. Norton
could be traced we might manage without the documents you have lost;--by
the way, have you any notion where the scoundrel might be whom you
suspect of having taken them?”

“What! M'Bride? I was told, as I mentioned before, that he and the
Frenchwoman went to America, leaving his unfortunate wife behind him.
I could easily forgive the rascal for the money he took; but the
misfortune was, that the documents and the money were both in the same
pocket-book. He knew their value, however, for unfortunately he was
fully in my confidence. The fellow was insane about the girl, and I
think it was love more than dishonesty that tempted him to the act. I
have little doubt that he would return me the papers if he knew where to
send them.”

“Have you any notion where the wife is?”

“None in the world, unless that she is somewhere in this country, having
set out for it a fortnight before I left Paris.”

“As the matter stands, then,” replied Birney, “we shall be obliged, to
go to France in order to get a fresh copy of the death and the marriage
properly attested--or, I should rather say, of the marriage and the
death. This will complete our documentary evidence; but, unfortunately,
Mrs. Norton, who was her maid at the time, and a witness of both the
death and marriage, cannot be found, although she was seen in Dublin
about three months ago. I have advertised several times for her in the
papers, but to no purpose. I cannot find her whereabouts at all. I fear,
however, and so does the Attorney-General, that we shall not be able to
accomplish our purpose without her.”

“That is unfortunate,” replied the stranger. “Let us continue the
advertisements; perhaps she may turn up yet. As to the other pursuit,
touching the lost child, I know not what to say. There are but slight
grounds for hope, and yet I am not at all disposed to despair, although
I cannot tell why.”

“It cannot be possible,” observed Bimey, “that that wicked old baronet
could ultimately prosper in his villainy. I speak, of course, upon the
supposition that he is, or was, the bottom of the business. Your, safest
and best plan is to find out his agents in the business, if it can be
done.”

“I shall leave nothing unattempted,” replied the other; “and if we fail,
we shall at least have the satisfaction of having done our duty. The
lapse of time, however, is against us;--perhaps the agents are dead.”

“If this man is guilty,” said the attorney, “he is nothing more nor
less than a modern Macbeth. However, go on, and keep up your resolution;
effort will do much. I hope in this case--in both cases--it will do
all.”

After some further conversation upon the matter in question, which it is
not our intention to detail here, the stranger made an excursion to
the country, and returned about six o'clock to his hotel. Here he
found Dandy Dulcimer before him, evidently brimful of some important
information on which he (Dandy) seemed to place a high value, and which
gave to his naturally droll countenance such an expression of mock
gravity as was ludicrous in the extreme.

“What is the matter, sir?” asked his master; “you look very big and
important just now. I hope you have not been drinking.”

Dandy compressed his lips as if his master's fate depended upon his
words, and pointing with his forefinger in the direction of Wicklow,
replied:

“The deed is done, sir--the deed is done.”

“What deed, sirra?”

“Weren't you tould the stuff that was in me?” he replied. “But God has
gifted me, and sure that's one comfort, glory be to his name. Weren't--”

“Explain yourself, sir!” said his master, authoritatively. “What do you
mean by the deed is done?' You haven't got married, I hope. Perhaps the
cousin you went to see was your sweetheart?”

“No, sir, I haven't got married. God keep me a little while longer from
sich a calamity? But I have put you in the way of being so.”

“How, sirra--put me into a state of calamity? Do you call that a
service?”

“A state of repentance, sir, they say, is a state of grace; an' when
one's in a state of grace they can make their soul; and anything, you
know, that enables one to make his soul, is surely for his good.”

“Why, then, say 'God forbid,' when I suppose you had yourself got
married?”

“Bekaise I'm a sinner, sir,--a good deal hardened or so,--and haven't
the grace even to wish for such a state of grace.”

“Well, but what deed is this you have done? and no more of your
gesticulations.”

“Don't you undherstand, sir!” he replied, extending the digit once more
in the same direction, and with the same comic significance.

“She's safe, sir. Miss Gourlay--I have her.”

“How, you impudent scoundrel, what kind of language is this to apply to
Miss Gourlay?”

“Troth, an' I have her safe,” replied the pertinacious Dandy. “Safe as
a hare in her form; but it is for your honor I have her. Cousin! oh, the
divil a cousin has Dandy widin the four walls of Dublin town; but
well becomes me, I took a post-chaise, no less, and followed her hot
foot--never lost sight of her, even while you'd wink, till I seen her
housed.”

“Explain yourself, sirra.”

“Faith, sir, all the explanation I have to give you've got, barrin'
where she lives.”

The stranger instantly thought of Lucy's caution, and for the present
determined not to embarrass himself with a knowledge of her residence;
“lest,” as she said, “her father might demand from him whether he was
aware of it.” In that case he felt fully the truth and justness of her
injunctions. Should Sir Thomas put the question to him he could not
betray her, nor could he, on the other hand, stain his conscience by a
deliberate falsehood; for, in truth, he was the soul of honor itself.

“Harkee, Dandy,” said he, not in the slightest degree displeased with
him, although he affected to be so, “if you wish to remain in my service
keep the secret of Miss Gourlay's residence--a secret not only from
me, but from every human being that lives. You have taken a most
unwarrantable and impudent liberty in following her as you did. You know
not, sirra, how you may have implicated both her and me by such conduct,
especially the young lady. You are known to be in my service; although,
for certain reasons, I do not intend, for the present at least, to put
you into livery; and you ought to know, sir, also, that it will be taken
for granted that you acted by my orders. Now, sir, keep that secret to
yourself, and let it not pass your lips until I may think proper to ask
you for it.”

One evening, on the second day after this, he reached his hotel at six
o'clock, and was about to enter, when a young lad, dancing up to him,
asked in a whisper if that was for him, at the same time presenting a
note. The other, looking at it, saw that it was addressed to him only by
his initials.

“I think it is, my boy,” said he; “from whom did it come, do you know?”

The lad, instead of giving him any reply, took instantly to his heels,
as if he had been pursued for life and death, without even waiting to
solicit the gratuity which is usually expected on such occasions. Our
friend took it for granted that it had come from the fortune-teller,
Ginty Cooper; but on opening it he perceived at a glance that he must
have been mistaken, as the writing most certainty was not that of this
extraordinary sibyl. The hand in which she had written his name was
precisely such as one would expect from such a woman--rude and vulgar
--whereas, on the contrary, that in the note was elegant and lady-like.
The contents were as follows:

“Sir,--On receipt of this you will, if you wish to prosper in that which
you have undertaken to accomplish, hasten to Ballytrain, and secure the
person of a young man named Fenton, who lives in or about the town. You
will claim him as the lawful heir of the title and property of Red Hall,
for such in fact he is. Go then to Sir Thomas Gourlay, and ask him the
following questions:

“1st. Did he not one night, about sixteen years ago, engage a man who
was so ingeniously masked that the child neither perceived the mask, nor
knew the man's person, to lure, him from Red Hall, under the pretence of
bringing him to see a puppet show?

“2d. Did not Sir Thomas give instructions to this man to take him out of
his path, out of his sight, and out of his hearing?

“3d. Was not this man well rewarded by Sir Thomas for that act?

“There are other questions in connection with the affair that could he
put, but at present they would be unseasonable. The curtain of this dark
drama is beginning to rise; truth will, ere long, be vindicated, justice
rendered to the defrauded orphan, and guilt punished.

“A Lover of Justice.”

It is very difficult to describe the feelings with which the stranger
perused this welcome but mysterious document. To him, it was one of
great pleasure, and also of exceedingly great pain. Here was something
like a clew, to the discovery which he was so deeply interested in
making. But, then, at whose expense was this discovery to be made? He
was betrothed to Lucy Gourlay, and here he was compelled by a sense of
justice to drag her father forth to public exposure, as a criminal of
the deepest dye. What would Lucy say to this? What would she say to the
man who should entail the heavy ignominy with which a discovery of this
atrocious crime must blacken her father's name. He knew the high and
proud principles by which she was actuated, and he knew how deeply the
disgrace of a guilty parent would affect her sensitive spirit. Yet what
was he to do? Was the iniquity of this ambitious and bad man to deprive
the virtuous and benevolent woman--the friend of the poor and destitute,
the loving mother, the affectionate wife who had enshrined her departed
husband in the sorrowful recesses of her pure and virtuous heart, was
this coldblooded and cruel tyrant to work out his diabolical purposes
without any effort being made to check him in his career of guilt, or
to justify her pious trust in that God to whom she looked for protection
and justice? No, he knew Lucy too well; he knew that her extraordinary
sense of truth and honor would justify him in the steps he might be
forced to take, and that whatever might be the result, he at least was
the last man whom she could blame for rendering justice to the widow
of her father's brother. But, then again, what reliance could be placed
upon anonymous information--information which, after all, was but
limited and obscure? Yet it was evident that the writer--a female beyond
question--whoever she was, must be perfectly conversant with his motives
and his objects. And if in volunteering him directions how to proceed,
she had any purpose adversative to his, her note was without meaning.
Besides, she only reawakened the suspicion which he himself had
entertained with respect to Fenton. At all events, to act upon the hints
contained in the note, might lead to something capable of breaking the
hitherto impenetrable cloud under which this melancholy transaction lay;
and if it failed to do this, he (the stranger) could not possibly stand
worse in the estimation of Sir Thomas Gourlay than he did already. In
God's name, then, he would make the experiment; and in order to avoid
mail-coach adventures in future, he would post it back to Ballytrain as
quietly, and with as little observation as possible.

He accordingly ordered Dandy to make such slight preparations as
were necessary for their return to that town, and in the meantime he
determined to pay another visit to old Dunphy of Constitution Hill.

On arriving at the huckster's, he found him in the backroom, or parlor,
to which we have before alluded. The old man's manner was, he thought,
considerably changed for the better. He received him with more
complacency, and seemed as if he felt something like regret for the
harshness of his manner toward him during his first visit.

“Well, sir,” said he, “is it fair to ask you, how you have got on in
ferritin' out this black business?”

There are some words so completely low and offensive in their own
nature, that no matter how kind and honest the intention of the speaker
may be, they are certain to vex and annoy those to whom they are
applied.

“Ferreting out!” thought the stranger--“what does the old scoundrel
mean?” Yet, on second consideration, he could not for the soul of him
avoid admitting that, considering the nature of the task he was engaged
in, it was by no means an inappropriate illustration.

“No,” said he, “we have made no progress, but we still trust that you
will enable us to advance a step. I have already told you that we only
wish to come at the principals. Their mere instruments we overlook.
You seem to be a poor man--but listen to me--if you can give us any
assistance in this affair, you shall be an independent one during
the remainder of your life. Provided murder has not been committed I
guarantee perfect safety to any person who may have only acted under the
orders of a superior.”

“Take your time,” replied the old man, with a peculiar expression. “Did
you ever see a river?”

“Of course,” replied the other; “why do you ask?”

“Well, now, could you, or any livin' man, make the strame of that river
flow faster than its natural course?”

“Certainly not,” replied the stranger.

“Well, then--I'm an ould man and be advised by me--don't attempt to
hurry the course o' the river. Take things as they come. If there's a
man on this earth that's a livin' divil in flesh and blood, it's Sir
Thomas Gourlay, the Black Barrownight; and if there's a man livin' that
would go half way into hell to punish him, I'm that man. Now, sir, you
said, the last day you were here, that you were a gentleman and a man of
honor, and I believe you. So these words that have spoken to you about
him you will never mention them--you promise that?”

“Of course I can, and do. To what purpose should I mention them?”

“For your own sake, or, I should say, for the sake of the cause you are
engaged in, don't do it.”

The bitterness of expression which darkened the old man's features,
while he spoke of the Baronet, was perfectly diabolical, and threw him
back from the good opinion which the stranger was about to form of him,
notwithstanding his conduct on the previous day's visit.

“You don't appear to like Sir Thomas,” he said. “He is certainly no
favorite of yours.”

“Like him,” replied the old man, bitterly. “He is supposed to be the
best friend I have; but little you know the punishment he will get in
his heart, sowl, and spirit--little you know what he will be made to
suffer yet. Of course now you undherstand, that if I could help you,
as you say, to advance a single step in finding the right heir of
this property I would do it. As matthers stand now, however, I can do
nothing--but I'll tell you what I will do--I'll be on the lookout--I'll
ask, seek, and inquire from them that have been about him at the time
of the child's disappearance, and if I can get a single particle worth
mentionin' to you, you shall have it, if I could only know where a
letther would find you.”

The cunning, the sagacity, the indefinable twinkle that scintillated
from the small, piercing eyes, were too obvious to be overlooked. The
stranger instantly felt himself placed, as it were, upon his guard, and
he replied,

“It is possible that I may not be in town, and my address is uncertain;
but the moment you are in a capacity to communicate any information
that may be useful, go to the proper quarter--to Lady Gourlay herself. I
understand that a relation of yours lived and died in her service?”

“That's true,” said the man, “and a betther mistress never did God put
breath in, nor a betther masther than Sir Edward. Well, I will follow
your advice, but as for Sir Thomas--no matther, the time's comin'--the
river's flowin--and if there's a God in heaven, he will be punished
for all his misdeeds--for other things as well as takin' away the
child--that is, if he has taken him away. Now, sir, that's all I can say
to you at present--for I know nothing about this business. Who can tell,
however, but I may ferret out something? It won't be my heart, at any
rate, that will hinder me.”

There was nothing further now to detain the stranger in town. He
accordingly posted it at a rapid rate to Ballytrain, accompanied
by Dandy and his dulcimer, who, except during the evenings among
the servants in the hotel, had very little opportunity of creating a
sensation, as he thought he would have done as an amateur musician in
the metropolis.

“Musha, you're welcome back, sir,” said Pat Sharpe, on seeing the
stranger enter the Mitre; “troth, we were longin' for you, sir. And
where is herself, your honor?”

“Whom do you mean, Pat?” said the stranger, sharply.

Pat pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward Red Hall. “Ah!” he
exclaimed, with a laugh, “by my soul I knew you'd manage it well. And
troth, I'll drink long life an' happiness an' a sweet honeymoon to yez
both, this very night, till the eyes stand in my head. Ah, thin, but she
is the darlin', God bless her!”

If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, the stranger could
not have felt more astonishment; but that is not the
word--sorrow--agony--indignation.

“Gracious heaven!” he exclaimed, “what is this? what villanous calumny
has gone abroad?”

Here Dandy saw clearly that his master was in distress, and generously
resolved to step in to his assistance.

“Paudeen,” said he, “you know nothing about this business, my hurler.
You're a day before the fair. They're not married yet--but it's as
good--so hould your prate about it till the knot's tied--then trumpet it
through the town if you like.”

The stranger felt that to enter into an altercation with two such
persons would be perfect madness, and only make what now appeared to be
already too bad, much worse. He therefore said, very calmly,

“Pat, I assure you, that my journey to Dublin had nothing whatsoever to
do with Miss Gourlay's. The whole matter was accidental. I know nothing
about her; and if any unfortunate reports have gone abroad they are
unfounded, and do equal injustice to that lady and to me.”

“Divil a thing else, now, Paudeen,” said Dandy, with a face full of
most villanous mystery--that had runaway and elopement in every line
of it--and a tone of voice that would have shamed a couple-beggar--“bad
scran to the ha'p'orth happened. So don't be puttin' bad constructions
on things too soon. However, there's a good time comin', plaise God--so
now, Paudeen, behave yourself, can't you, and don't be vexin' the
masther.”

“Pat,” said the stranger, feeling that the best way to put an end to
this most painful conversation was to start a fresh topic, “will you
send for Fenton, and say I wish to see him?”

“Fenton, sir!--why, poor Mr. Fenton has been missed out of the town and
neighborhood ever since the night you and Miss Gour--I beg pardon--”

“Upon my soul, Paudeen,” said Dandy, “I'll knock you down if you say
that agin now, afther what the masther an' I said to you. Hang it, can't
you have discretion, and keep your tongue widin your teeth, on this
business at any rate?”

“Is not Fenton in town?” asked the stranger.

“No, sir; he has neither been seen nor heard of since that night, and
the people's beginin' to wonder what has become of him.”

Here was a disappointment; just at the moment when he had determined, by
seizing upon Fenton, with a view to claim him as the son of the late
Sir Edward Gourlay, and the legitimate heir of Red Hall, in order, if it
were legally possible, to bring about an investigation into the justice
of those claims, it turned out that, as if in anticipation of his
designs, the young man either voluntarily disappeared, or else was
spirited forcibly away. How to act now he felt himself completely at a
loss, but as two heads he knew were better than one, he resolved to see
Father M'Mahon, and ask his opinion and advice upon this strange and
mysterious occurrence. In the mean time, while he is on the way to visit
that amiable and benevolent priest, we shall so far gratify the reader
as to throw some light upon the unaccountable disappearance of the
unfortunate Fenton.




CHAPTER XVI.

Conception and Perpetration of a Diabolical Plot against Fenton.


Sir Thomas Gourlay was a man prompt and inexorable in following up
his resolutions. On the night of Lucy's flight from Red Hall, he had
concocted a plan which it was not his intention to put in execution for
a day or two, as he had by no means made up his mind in what manner to
proceed with it. On turning over the matter, however, a second time in
his thoughts, and comparing the information which he had received from
Crackenfudge respecting the stranger, and the allusion to the toothpick
manufacturer, he felt morally certain that Fenton was his brother's son,
and that by some means or other unknown to him he had escaped from the
asylum in which he had been placed, and by some unaccountable fatality
located himself in the town of Ballytrain, which, in fact, was a portion
of his inheritance.

“I am wrong,” thought he, “in deferring this project. There is not a
moment to be lost. Some chance incident, some early recollection, even
a sight of myself--for he saw me once or twice, to his cost--may awaken
feelings which, by some unlucky association, might lead to a discovery.
Curse on the cowardly scoundrel, Corbet, that did not take my hint, and
put him at once and forever out of my path, sight, and hearing. But
he had scruples, forsooth; and here now is the serpent unconsciously
crossing my path. This is the third time he has escaped and broken out
of bounds. Upon the two former I managed him myself, without a single
witness; and, but that I had lost my own child--and there is a mystery I
cannot penetrate--I would have--”

Here he rang the bell, and a servant entered.

“Send up Gillespie.”

The servant, as usual, bowed, and Gillespie entered.

“Gillespie, there is a young fellow in Ballytrain, named--Fenton, I
think?”

“Yes, your honor; he is half-mad, or whole mad, as a good many people
think.”

“I am told he is fond of liquor.”

“He is seldom sober, Sir Thomas.”

“Will you go into Ballytrain, and try to see him? But first see the
butler, and desire him, by my orders, to give you a bottle of whiskey. I
don't mean this moment, sirra,” he said, for Gillespie was proceeding to
take him instantly at his word.

“Listen, sir. See Fenton--lure him as quietly and secretly as you can
out of town--bring him into some remote nook--”

“Sir Thomas, I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Gillespie, getting pale; “if
you mean that I should--”

“Silence, sir,” replied the baronet, in his sternest and deepest voice;
“hear me; bring him, if you can, to some quiet place, where you will
both be free from observation; then produce your bottle and glass, and
ply him with liquor until you have him drunk.”

“It's very likely that I'll find him drunk as it is, sir; he is seldom
otherwise.”

“So much the better; you will have the less trouble. Well, when you have
him sufficiently drunk, bring him to the back gate of the garden, which
you will find unlocked; lodge him in the tool-house, ply him with more
liquor, until he becomes helpless. In the meantime, lock the back gate
after you--here is the key, which you can keep in your pocket. Having
left him in the tool-house--in a sufficiently helpless state, mark--lock
him in, put that key in your pocket, also; then get my travelling
carriage ready, put to the horses, and when all this is done, come to me
here; I shall then instruct you how and where to proceed. I shall also
accompany you myself to the town of ------, after which you shall take
a post-chaise, and proceed with this person to the place of his
destination. Let none of the servants see you; and remember we are not
to start from the garden gate until about twelve o'clock, or later.”

Gillespie promised compliance, and, in fact, undertook the business
with the greater alacrity, on hearing that there was to be a bottle of
whiskey in the case. As he was leaving the room, however, Sir
Thomas called him back, and said, with a frown which nobody could
misunderstand, “Harkee, Gillespie, keep yourself strictly sober, and--oh
yes, I had nearly forgotten it--try if there is a hard scar, as if left
by a wound, under his chin, to the left side; and if you find none, have
nothing to do with him. You understand, now, all I require of you?”

“Perfectly, your honor. But I may not be able to find this Fenton.”

“That won't be your own fault, you must only try another time, when
you may have better success. Observe, however, that if there is no scar
under the left side of his chin, you are to let him pass--he is not the
person in whom I feel interested, and whom I am determined to serve,
if I can--even against his wishes. He is, I believe, the son of an old
friend, and I will endeavor to have him restored to the perfect use of
his reason, if human skill can effect it.”

“That's very kind of you, Sir Thomas, and very few would do it,” replied
Gillespie, as he left the apartment, to fulfil his execrable mission.

Gillespie having put the bottle of strong spirits into his pocket,
wrapped a great coat about him, and, by a subsequent hint from Sir
Thomas, tied a large handkerchief across his face, in order the better
to conceal his features, and set out on his way to Ballytrain.

It may be remarked with truth, that the projects of crime are frequently
aided by those melancholy but felicitous contingencies, which, though
unexpected and unlooked for, are calculated to enable the criminal to
effect his wicked purposes with more facility and less risk. Gillespie,
on the occasion in question, not only met Fenton within a short distance
of the town, and in a lonely place, but also found him far advanced in a
state of intoxication.

“Is this Mr. Fenton?” said he. “How do you do, Mr. Fenton? A beautiful
night, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the unfortunate young man; “it is Mr. Fenton, and
you are a gentleman. Some folks now take the liberty of calling me
Fenton, which is not only impudently familiar and ridiculous, but a
proof that they do not know how to address a gentleman.”

“You are leaving the town, it seems, Mr. Fenton?”

“Yes, there's a wake down in Killyfaddy, where there will be a
superfluity, sir, of fun; and I like to see fun and sorrow associated.
They harmonize, my friend--they concatenate.”

“Mr. Fenton,” proceeded Gillespie, “you are a young gentleman--”

“Yes, sir, that's the term. I am a gentleman. What can I do for you? I
have rare interest among the great and powerful.”

“I don't at all doubt it,” replied Gillespie; “but I was go in' to say,
sir, that you are a young gentleman that I have always respected very
highly.”

“Thanks, my friend, thanks.”

“If it wouldn't be takin' a liberty, I'd ask a favor of you.”

“Sir, you are a gentleman, and it should be granted. Name it.”

“The night, sir, although a fine enough night, is a little sharp, for
all that. Now, I happen to have a sup of as good liquor in my pocket as
ever went down the red lane, and if we could only get a quiet sheltering
spot, behind one of these ditches, we could try its pulse between us.”

“The project is good and hospitable,” replied poor Fenton, “and has my
full concurrence.”

“Well, then, sir,” said the other, “will you be so good as to come along
with me, and we'll make out some snug spot where I'll have the pleasure
of drinkin' your honor's health.”

“Good again,” replied the unlucky dupe; “upon my soul you're an
excellent fellow; Proceed, I attend you. The liquor's good, you say?”

“Betther was never drank, your honor.”

“Very well, sir, I believe you. We shall soon, however, put the truth of
that magnificent assertion to the test; and besides, sir, it will be an
honor for you to share your bottle with a gentleman.”

In a few minutes they reached a quiet little dell, by which there led a
private pathway, open only to the inmates of Red Hall when passing to or
from the town, and which formed an agreeable and easy shortcut when any
hurried message was necessary. This path came out upon an old road
which ran behind the garden, and joined the larger thoroughfare, about a
quarter of a mile beyond it.

In a sheltered little cul de sac, between two white-thorn hedges, they
took their seats; and Gillespie having pulled out his bottle and glass,
began to ply the luckless young man with the strong liquor. And an easy
task he found it; for Fenton resembled thousands, who, when the bounds
of moderation are once passed, know not when to restrain themselves.
It would be both painful and disagreeable to dwell upon the hellish
iniquity of this merciless and moral murder; it is enough to say
that, having reduced the young man to the precise condition which was
necessary for his purpose, this slavish and unprincipled ruffian, as
Delahunt did with his innocent victim, deliberately put his hand to his
throat, or, rather, to the left side of his neck, and there found beyond
all doubt a large welt, or cicatrice, precisely as had been described
by Sir Thomas. After the space of about two hours--for Gillespie was
anxious to prolong the time as much as possible--he assisted Fenton, now
unable to walk without support, and completely paralyzed in his organs
of speech, along the short and solitary path to the back gate of the
garden.. He opened it, dragged Fenton in like a dog whom he was about to
hang, but still the latter seemed disposed to make some unconscious and
instinctive resistance. It was to no purpose, however. The poor young
man was incapable of resistance, either by word or deed. In a short time
they reached the tool-house, where he threw Fenton on a heap of apples,
like a bag, and left him to lie in cold and darkness, as if he were
some noxious animal, whom it would be dangerous to set at large. He then
locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went to acquaint the
baronet with the success of his mission.

The latter, on understanding from Gillespie that Fenton was not only
secured, but that his suspicions as to his identity were correct,
desired him to have the carriage ready in the course of about an hour.
He had already written a letter, containing a liberal enclosure, to the
person into whose merciless hands he was about to commit him. In the
meantime, it is impossible to describe the confused character of his
feelings--the tempest, the tornado of passions, that swept through his
dark and ambitious spirit.

“This is the third time,” he thought to himself, as he paced the room in
such a state of stormy agitation as reacted upon himself, and tilled
him with temporary alarm. His heart beat powerfully, his pulsations were
strong and rapid, and his brain felt burning and tumultuous.
Occasional giddiness also seized him, accompanied by weakness about the
knee-joints, and hoarseness in the throat. In fact, once or twice he
felt as if he were about to fall. In this state he hastily gulped down
two or three large glasses of Madeira, which was his favorite wine, and
he felt his system more intensely strung.

“That woman,” said he, alluding to Lady Gourlay, “has taken her revenge
by destroying my son. There can be no doubt of that. And what now
prevents me from crushing this viper forever? If my daughter were not
with me, it should be done; yes, I would do it silently and secretly,
ay, and surely, with my own hand. I would have blood for blood. What,
however, if the mur--if the act came to light! Then I must suffer;
my daughter is involved in my infamy, and all my dreams for her
aggrandizement come to worse than nothing. But I know not how it is, I
fear that girl. Her moral ascendency, as they call it, is so dreadful to
me, that I often feel as if I hated her. What right has she to subjugate
a spirit like mine, by the influence of her sense of honor and her
virtuous principles? or to school me to my face by her example? I am not
a man disposed to brook inferiority, yet she sometimes makes me feel as
if I were a monster. However, she is a fool, and talks of happiness as
if it were anything but a chimera or a dream. Is she herself happy? I
would be glad to see the mortal that is. Do her virtues make her happy?
No. Then where is the use of this boasted virtue, if it will not procure
that happiness after which all are so eager in pursuit, but which none
has ever yet attained? Was Christ, who is said to have been spotless,
happy? No; he was a man of sorrows. Away, then, with this cant of
virtue. It is a shadow, a deception; a thing, like religion, that has
no existence, but takes our senses, our interests, and our passions, and
works with them under its own mask. Yet why am I afraid of my daughter?
and why do I, in my heart, reverence her as a being so far superior to
myself? Why is it that I could murder--ay, murder--this worthless object
that thrust himself, or would thrust himself, or might thrust himself,
between me and the hereditary honors of my name, were it not that her
very presence, if I did it, would, I feel, overpower and paralyze me
with a sense of my guilt? Yet I struck her--I struck her; but her spirit
trampled mine in the dust--she humiliated me. Away! I am not like other
men. Yet for her sake this miserable wretch shall live. I will not
imbrue my hands in his blood, but shall place him where he will never
cross me more. It is one satisfaction to me, and security besides, that
he knows neither his real name nor lineage; and now he shall enter this
establishment under a new one. As for Lucy, she shall be Countess of
Cullamore, if she or I should die for it.”

He then swallowed another glass of wine, and was about to proceed to
the stables, when a gentle tap came to the door, and Gillespie presented
himself.

“All's ready, your honor.”

“Very well, Gillespie. I shall go with you to see that all is right,
In the course of a few minutes will you bring the carriage round to the
back gate? The horses are steady, and will remain there while we conduct
him down to it. Have you a dark lantern?”

“I have, your honor.”

Both then proceeded toward the stables. The baronet perceived that
everything was correct; and having seen Gillespie, who was his coachman,
mount the seat, he got into the carriage, and got out again at the door
of the tool-house, where poor Fenton lay. After unlocking the door, for
he had got the key from Gillespie, he entered, and cautiously turning
the light of the lantern in the proper direction, discovered his unhappy
victim, stretched cold and apparently lifeless.

Alas, what a melancholy picture lay before him! Stretched upon some
apples that were scattered over the floor, he found the unhappy young
man in a sleep that for the moment resembled the slumber of the dead.
His hat had fallen off, and on his pale and emaciated temples seemed
indeed to dwell the sharp impress of approaching death. It appeared,
nevertheless, that his rest had not been by any means unbroken, nor so
placid as it then appeared to be; for the baronet could observe that he
must have been weeping in his sleep, as his eyelids were surcharged with
tears that had not yet had time to dry. The veins in his temples were
blue, and as fine as silk; and over his whole countenance was spread
an expression of such hopeless sorrow and misery as was sufficient to
soften the hardest heart that ever beat in human bosom. One touch of
nature came over even that of the baronet. “No,” said he, “I could not
take his life. The family likeness is obvious, and the resemblance to
his cousin Lucy is too strong to permit me to shed his blood; but I
will secure him so that he shall never cross my path again. He will not,
however, cross it long,” he added to himself, after another pause, “for
the stamp of death is upon his face.”

Gillespie now entered, and seizing Fenton, dragged him up upon his legs,
the baronet in the meantime turning the light of |the lantern aside.
The poor fellow, being properly neither asleep nor awake, made no
resistance, and without any trouble they brought him down to the back
gate, putting him into the coach, Sir Thomas entering with him, and
immediately drove off, about half-past twelve at night, their victim
having fallen asleep again almost as soon as he entered the carriage.

The warmth of the carriage, and the comfort of its cushioned sides and
seat occasioned his sleep to become more natural and refreshing. The
consequence was, that he soon began to exhibit symptoms of awakening. At
first he groaned deeply, as if under the influence of physical pain, or
probably from the consciousness of some apprehension arising from the
experience of what he had already suffered. By and by the groan subsided
to a sigh, whose expression was so replete with misery and dread, that
it might well have touched and softened any heart. As yet, however, the
fumes of intoxication had not departed, and his language was so mingled
with the feeble delirium resulting from it, and the terrors arising from
the situation in which he felt himself placed, that it was not only wild
and melancholy by turns, but often scarcely intelligible. Still it was
evident that one great apprehension absorbed all his other thoughts and
sensations, and seemed, whilst it lasted, to bury him in the darkness of
despair.

“Hold!” he exclaimed; “where am I?--what is this? Let me see, or,
rather, let me feel where I am, for that is the more appropriate
expression, considering that I am in utter obscurity. What is this, I
ask again? Is my hospitable friend with me? he with whom I partook of
that delicious liquor under 'the greenwood-tree'?”

He then searched about, and in doing so his hands came necessarily in
contact with the bulky person of the baronet. “What!” he proceeded,
supposing still that it was Gillespie, “is this you, my friend?--but I
take that fact for granted. Sir, you are a gentleman, and know how to
address a gentleman with proper respect; but how is this, you have on
your hat? Sir, you forget yourself--uncover, and remember you are in my
presence.”

As he uttered the words, he seized the baronet's hat, tore it forcibly
off, and, in doing so, accidentally removed a mask which that worthy
gentleman had taken the precaution to assume, in order to prevent
himself from being recognized.

“Ha!” exclaimed Fenton, with something like a shriek--“a mask! Oh,
my God! This mysterious enemy is upon me! I am once more caught in his
toils! What have I done to deserve this persecution? I am innocent of
all offence--all guilt. My life has been one of horror and of suffering
indescribable, but not of crime; and although they say I am insane, I
know there is a God above who will render me justice, and my oppressor
justice, and who knows that I have given offence to none.

     There is a bird that sings alone--heigh ho!
     And every note is but a tone of woe.
     Heigh ho!”

The baronet grasped his wrist tightly with one hand--and both feeble and
attenuated was that poor wrist--the baronet, we say, grasped it, and in
an instant had regained possession of the mask, which he deliberately
replaced on his face, after which he seized the unfortunate young man
by the neck, and pressed it with such force as almost to occasion
suffocation. Still he (Sir Thomas) uttered not a syllable, a
circumstance which in the terrified mind of his unhappy victim caused
his position as well as that of his companion to assume a darker, and
consequently a more terrible mystery.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a low and trembling voice, “I know you now. You
are the stranger who came to stop in the 'Mitre.' Yes, you came down
to stop in the 'Mitre.' I know you by your strong grasp. I care not,
however, for your attempt to strangle me. I forgive you--I pardon you;
and I will tell you why--treat me as violently as you may--I feel that
there is goodness in your face, and mercy in your heart. But I did see
a face, one day, in the inn,” he added, in a voice that gradually became
quite frantic--“a face that was dark, damnable, and demoniac--oh, oh!
may God of heaven ever preserve me from seeing that face again!” he
exclaimed, shuddering wildly. “Open me up the shrouded graves, my
friend; I will call you so notwithstanding what has happened, for
I still think you are a gentleman; open me up, I say, the shrouded
graves--set me among the hideous dead, in all their ghastly and
loathsome putrefaction--lay me side by side with the sweltering carcass
of the gibbeted murderer--give me such a vision, and expose me to the
anger of the Almighty when raging in his vengeance; or, if there be a
pitch of horror still beyond this, then I say--mark me, my friend--then
I say, open me up all hell at full work--hissing, boiling, bubbling,
scalding, roasting, frying, scorching, blazing, burning, but
ever-consuming hell, sir, I say, in full operation--the whole dark and
penal machinery in full play--open it up--there they are--the yell,
the scream, the blasphemy, the shout, the torture, the laughter of
despair--with the pleasing consciousness that all this is to be eternal;
hark ye, sir, open me up a view of this aforesaid spectacle upon the
very brow of perdition, and having allowed me time to console myself
by a contemplation of it, fling me, soul and body, into the uttermost
depths of its howling tortures; do any or all of these things, sooner
than let me have a sight of that face again--it bears such a terrible
resemblance to that which blighted me.”

He then paused for a little, and seemed as if about to sink into a
calmer and more thoughtful mood--at least the baronet inferred as
much from his silence. The latter still declined to speak, for he felt
perfectly aware, from this incoherent outburst, that although Fenton had
seen him only two or three times, many years ago, when the unfortunate
young man was scarcely a boy, yet he had often heard his voice, and he
consequently avoided every possibility of giving the former a clew to
his identity. At length Fenton broke silence.

“What was I saying?” he asked. “Did I talk of that multitudinous limbo
called hell? Well, who knows, perhaps there may be a general jail
delivery there yet; but talking of the thing, I assure you, sir, I
feel a portion of its tortures. Like Dives--no, not like the rich and
hardened glutton--I resemble him in nothing but my sufferings. Oh! a
drink, a drink--water, water--my tongue, my mouth, my throat, my blood,
my brain, are all on fire?”

Oh, false ambition, to what mean and despicable resources, to what low
and unscrupulous precautions dost thou stoop in order to accomplish thy
selfish, dishonest, and heartless designs! The very gratification of
this expected thirst had been provided for and anticipated. As Fenton
spoke, the baronet took from one of the coach pockets a large flask of
spirits and water, which he instantly, but without speaking, placed in
the scorching wretch's hands, who without a moment's hesitation, put it
to his lips and emptied it at one long, luxurious draught.

“Thanks, friend,” he then exclaimed; “I have been agreeably mistaken in
you, I find. You are--you must be--no other than my worthy host of the
'Hedge.' Poor Dives! D--n the glutton; after all, I pity him, and would
fain hope that he has got relief by this time. As for Lazarus, I fear
that his condition in life was no better than it deserved. If he had
been a trump, now, and anxious to render good for evil, he would have
dropped a bottle of aquapura to the suffering glutton, for if worthy
Dives did nothing else, he fed the dogs that licked the old fellow's
sores. Fie, for shame, old Lazarus, d--n me, if I had you back again,
but we'd teach you sympathy for Dives; and how so, my friend of the
hawthorn--why, we'd send him to the poor-house,* or if that wouldn't do,
to the mad-house--to the mad-house. Oh, my God--my God! what is this?
Where are you bringing me, sir? but I know--I feel it--this destiny
that's over me!”

     * It is to be presumed, that Fenton speaks here from his
     English experience. We find no poor-houses at the time.

He again became silent for a time, but during the pause, we need
scarcely say, that the pernicious draught began to operate with the
desired effect.

“That mask,” he then added, as if speaking to himself, “bodes me nothing
but terror and persecution, and all this in a Christian country, where
there are religion and laws--at least, they say so--as for raypart, I
could never discover them. However, it matters not, let us clap a stout
heart to a steep brae, and we may jink them and blink them yet; that's
all.

     There was a little bird, a very little bird,
     And a very little bird was he;
     And he sang his little song all the summer day long,
     On a branch of the fair green-wood tree.
     Heigh ho!”

This little touch of melody, which he sang to a sweet and plaintive air,
seemed to produce a feeling of mournfulness and sorrow in his spirit,
for although the draught he had taken was progressing fast in its
operations upon his intellect, still it only assumed a new and
more affecting shape, and occasioned that singular form and ease of
expression which may be observed in many under the influence of similar
stimulants.

“Well,” he proceeded, “I will soon go home; that is one consolation!
There is a sickness, my friend, whoever you are, at my heart here, and
in what does that sickness consist? I will tell you--in the memory of
some beautiful dreams that I had when a child or little-boy: I remember
something about green fields, groves, dark mountains, and summer rivers
flowing sweetly by. This now, to be sure, is a feeling which but few can
understand. It is called homesickness, and assumes different aspects,
my worthy friend. Sometimes it is a yearning after immortality, which
absorbs and consumes the spirit, and then we die and go to enjoy that
which we have pined for. Now, my worthy mute friend, mark me, in my
case the malady is not so exalted. I only want my green fields, my
dark mountains, my early rivers, with liberty to tread them for a brief
space. There lies over them in my imagination--there does, my worthy and
most taciturn friend, upon my soul there does--a golden light so clear,
so pure, so full of happiness, that I question whether that of heaven
itself will surpass it in radiance. But now I am caged once more, and
will never see anything even like them again.”

The poor young man then wept for a couple of minutes, after which he
added, “Yes, sir, this is at once my malady and my hope. You see, then,
I am not worth a plot, nor would it be a high-minded or honorable act
for any gentleman to conspire against one who is nobody's enemy, but
appears to have all the world against him. Yes, and they thought when
I used to get into my silent moods that I was mad. No, but I was in
heaven, enjoying, as I said, my mountains, my rivers, and my green
fields. I was in heaven, I say, and walked in the light of heaven, for I
was a little boy once more, and saw its radiance upon them, as I used
to do long ago. But do you know what occurs to me this moment, most
taciturn?” He added, after a short pause, being moved, probably, by one
of those quick and capricious changes to which both the intoxicated and
insane are proverbially liable: “It strikes me, that you probably are
descended from the man in the iron mask--ha--ha--ha! Or stay, was there
ever such a thing in this benevolent and humane world of ours as a
man with an iron heart? If so, who knows, then, but you may date your
ancestry from him? Ay, right enough; we are in a coach, I think, and
going--going--going to--to--to--ah, where to? I know--oh, my God--we are
going to--to--to----” and here poor Fenton once more fell asleep, as was
evident by his deep but oppressive breathing.

Now the baronet, although he maintained a strict silence during their
journey, a silence which it was not his intention to break, made up
for this cautious taciturnity by thought and those reflections which
originated from his designs upon Fenton. He felt astonished, in the
first place, at the measures, whatever they might have been, by which
the other must have obtained means of escaping from the asylum to which
he had been committed with such strict injunctions as to his secure
custody. It occurred to him, therefore, that by an examination of his
pockets he might possibly ascertain some clew to this circumstance, and
as the man was not overburdened with much conscience or delicacy, he
came to the determination, as Fenton was once more dead asleep, to
search for and examine whatever papers he should find about him, if any.
For this purpose he ignited a match--such as they had in those days--and
with this match lit up a small dark lantern, the same to which we have
already alluded. Aided by its light, he examined the sleeping young
man's pockets, in which he felt very little, in the shape of either
money or papers, that could compensate him for this act of larceny. In
a breast-pocket, however, inside his waistcoat, he found pinned to the
lining a note--a pound note--on the back of which was jotted a brief
memorandum of the day on which it was written, and the person from
whom he had received it. To this was added a second memorandum, in the
following words: “Mem. This note may yet be useful to myself if I could
get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name--Thomas
Skipton--is written here upon it. He is the man I want, for I know his
signature.”

No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several
names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently
by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes
gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous
triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through
such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express.

“Unhappy wretch,” thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, “it
is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living
over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither
of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak. Even fate is against
you; that fate which has consigned this beggarly representative of
wealth to my hands, through your own instrumentality. I now feel
confident; nay, I am certain that my projects will and must succeed.
The affairs of this world are regulated unquestionably by the immutable
decrees of destiny. What is to be will be; and I, in putting this
wretched, drunken, mad, and besotted being out of my way, am only an
instrument in the hands of that destiny myself. The blame then is not
mine, but that of the law which constrains--forces me to act the part I
am acting, a part which was allotted to me from the beginning; and this
reflection fills me with consolation.”

He then re-examined the note, put it into a particular fold of his
pocket-book which had before been empty, in order to keep it distinct,
and once more thrusting it into his pocket, buttoned it carefully up,
extinguished the lantern, and laid himself back in the corner of the
carriage, in which position he reclined, meditating upon the kind
partiality of destiny in his favor, the virtuous tendencies of his own
ambition, and the admirable, because successful, means by which he was
bringing them about.

In this manner they proceeded until they reached the entrance of the
next town, when the baronet desired Gillespie to stop. “Go forward,”
 said he, “and order a chaise and pair without delay. I think, however,
you will find them ready for you; and if Corbet is there, desire him to
return with you. He has already had his instructions. I am sick of this
work, Gillespie; and I assure you it is not for the son of a common
friend that I would forego my necessary rest, to sit at such an hour
with a person who is both mad and drunk. What is friendship, however,
if we neglect its duties? Care and medical skill may enable this
unfortunate young man to recover his reason, and take a respectable
position in the world yet. Go now and make no delay. I shall take charge
of this poor fellow and the horses until you return. But, mark me, my
name is not to be breathed to mortal, under a penalty that you will find
a dreadful one, should you incur it.”

“Never fear, your honor,” replied Gillespie; “I am not the man to betray
trust; and indeed, few gentlemen of your rank, as I said, would go so
far for the son of an auld friend. I'll lose no time, Sir Thomas.”
 Sir Thomas, we have had occasion to say more than once, was quick
and energetic in all his resolutions, and beyond doubt, the fact that
Gillespie found Corbet ready and expecting him on this occasion, fully
corroborates our opinion.

Indeed, it was his invariable habit, whenever he found that more than
one agent or instrument was necessary, to employ them, as far as was
possible, independently of each other. For instance, he had not at all
communicated to Gillespie the fact of his having engaged Corbet in the
matter, nor had the former any suspicion of it until he now received the
first hint from Sir Thomas himself. A chaise and pair in less than five
minutes drove gently, but with steady pace, back to the spot where
the baronet stood at the head of his horses, watching the doors of the
carriage on each side every quarter of a minute, lest by any possible
chance his victim might escape him. Of this, however, there was not the
slightest danger; poor Fenton's sleep, like that of almost all drunken
men, having had in it more of stupor than of ordinary and healthful
repose.

We have informed our readers that the baronet was not without a strong
tinge of superstition, notwithstanding his religious infidelity, and his
belief in the doctrine of fate and necessity. On finding himself alone
at that dead and dreary hour of the night--half-past two--standing
under a shady range of tall trees that met across the road, and gave a
character of extraordinary gloom and solitude to the place, he began to
experience that vague and undefined terror which steals over the mind
from an involuntary apprehension of the supernatural. A singular degree
of uneasiness came over him: he coughed, he hemmed, in order to break
the death-like stillness in which he stood. He patted the horses, he
rubbed his hand down their backs, but felt considerable surprise and
terror on finding that they both trembled, and seemed by their snorting
and tremors to partake of his own sensations. Under such terrors there
is nothing that extinguishes a man's courage so much as the review of
an ill-spent life, or the reproaches of an evil conscience. Sir Thomas
Gourlay could not see and feel, for the moment, the criminal iniquity
of his black and ungodly ambition, and the crimes into which it involved
him. Still, the consciousness of the flagitious project in which he was
engaged against the unoffending son of his brother, the influence of the
hour, and the solitude in which he stood, together with the operation
upon his mind of some unaccountable fear apart from that of personal
violence--all, when united, threw him into a commotion that resulted
from such a dread as intimated that something supernatural must be near
him. He was seized by a violent shaking of the limbs, the perspiration
burst from every pore; and as he patted the horses a second time for
relief, he again perceived that their terrors were increasing and
keeping pace with his own. At length, his hair fairly stood, and his
excitement was nearly as high as excitement of such a merely ideal
character could go, when he thought he heard a step--a heavy, solemn,
unearthly step--that sounded as if there was something denouncing and
judicial in the terrible emphasis with which it went to his heart, or
rather to his conscience. Without having the power to restrain himself,
he followed with his eyes this symbolical tread as it seemed to
approach the coach door on the side at which he stood. This was the more
surprising and frightful, as, although he heard the tramp, yet he could
for the moment see nothing in the shape of either figure or form,
from which he could resolve what he had heard into a natural sound.
At length, as he stood almost dissolved in terror, he thought that
an indistinct, or rather an unsubstantial figure stood at the
carriage-door, looked in for a moment, and then bent his glance at him,
with a severe and stem expression; after which, it began to rub out or
efface a certain portion of the armorial bearings, which he had added
to his heraldic coat in right of his wife. The noise of the chaise
approaching now reached his ears, and he turned as a relief to ascertain
if Gillespie and Corbet were near him. As far as he could judge, they
were about a couple of hundred yards off, and this discovery recalled
his departed courage; he turned his eyes once more to the carriage-door,
but to his infinite relief could perceive nothing. A soft, solemn,
mournful blast, however, somewhat like a low moan, amounting almost to
a wail, crept through the trees under which he stood; and after it had
subsided--whether it was fact or fancy cannot now be known--he thought
he heard the same step slowly, and, as it were with a kind of sorrowful
anger, retreating in the distance.

“If mortal spirit,” he exclaimed as they approached, “ever was permitted
to return to this earth, that form was the spirit of my mortal brother.
This, however,” he added, but only in thought, when they came up to him,
and after he had regained his confidence by their presence, “this is all
stuff--nothing but solitude and its associations acting upon the nerves;
thus enabling us, as we think, to see the very forms created only by our
fears, and which, apart from them, have no existence.”

The men and the chaise were now with him--Gillespie on horseback, that
is to say, he was to bring back the same animal on which Sir Thomas had
secretly despatched Corbet from Red Hall to the town of ------, for
the purpose of having the chaise ready, and conducting Fenton to his
ultimate destination. The poor young man's transfer from the carriage
to the chaise was quickly and easily effected. Several large flasks of
strong spirits and water were also transferred along with him.

“Now, Corbet,” observed Sir Thomas apart to him, “you have full
instructions how to act; and see that you carry them out to the letter.
You will find no difficulty in keeping this person in a state of
intoxication all the way. Go back to ------, engage old Bradbury to
drive the chaise, for, although deaf and stupid, he is an excellent
driver. Change the chaise and horses, however, as often as you can, so
as that it may be difficult, if not impossible, to trace the route you
take. Give Benson, who, after all, is the prince of mad doctors, the
enclosure which you have in the blank cover; and tell him, he shall have
an annuity to the same amount, whether this fellow lives or dies. Mark
me, Corbet--whether his charge lives or dies. Repeat these words to
him twice, as I have done to you. Above all things, let him keep him
safe--safe--safe. Remember, Corbet, that our family have been kind
friends to yours. I, therefore, have trusted you all along in this
matter, and calculate upon your confidence as a grateful and honest man,
as well as upon your implicit obedience to every order I have given you.
I myself shall drive home the carriage; and when we get near Red Hall,
Gillespie can ride forward, have his horse put up, and the stable and
coachhouse doors open, so that everything tomorrow morning may look as
if no such expedition had taken place.”

They then separated; Corbet to conduct poor Fenton to his dreary cell
in a mad-house, and Sir Thomas to seek that upon which, despite his most
ambitious projects, he had been doomed all his life to seek after in
vain--rest on an uneasy pillow.




CHAPTER XVII. A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's

--Retributive Justice, or the Robber robbed.


In the days of which we write, travelling was a very different process
from what it is at present. Mail-coaches and chaises were the only
vehicles then in requisition, with the exception of the awkward gingles,
buggies, and other gear of that nondescript class which were peculiar
to the times, and principally confined to the metropolis. The result of
this was, that travellers, in consequence of the slow jog-trot motion
of those curious and inconvenient machines, were obliged, in order to
transact their business with something like due dispatch, to travel both
by night and day. In this case, as in others, the cause produced the
effect; or rather, we should say, the temptation occasioned the crime.
Highway-robbery was frequent; and many a worthy man--fat farmer and
wealthy commoner--was eased of his purse in despite of all his armed
precautions and the most sturdy resistance. The poorer classes, in every
part of the country, were, with scarcely an exception, the friends
of those depredators; by whom, it is true, they were aided against
oppression, and assisted in their destitution, as a compensation for
connivance and shelter whenever the executive authorities were in
pursuit of them. Most of these robberies, it is true, were the result of
a loose and disorganized state of society, and had their direct origin
from oppressive and unequal laws, badly or partially administered.
Robbery, therefore, in its general character, was caused, not so much
by poverty, as from a desperate hatred of those penal statutes which
operated for punishment but not for protection. Our readers may not feel
surprised, then, when we assure them that the burgler and highway-robber
looked upon this infamous habit as a kind of patriotic and political
profession, rather than a crime; and it is well known that within the
last century the sons of even decent farmers were bound apprentices to
this flagitious craft, especially to that of horse stealing, which was
then reduced to a system of most extraordinary ingenuity and address.
Still, there were many poor wretches who, sunk in the deepest
destitution, and contaminated by a habit which familiarity had deprived
in their eyes of much of its inherent enormity, scrupled not to relieve
their distresses by having recourse to the prevalent usage of the
country.

Having thrown out these few preparatory observations, we request our
readers to follow us to the wretched cabin of a man whose _nom de
guerre_ was that of Jemmy Trailcudgel--a name that was applied to him,
as the reader may see, in consequence of the peculiar manner in which he
carried the weapon aforesaid. Trailcudgel was a man of enormous personal
strength and surprising courage, and had distinguished himself as the
leader of many a party and faction fight in the neighboring fairs
and markets. He had been, not many years before, in tolerably good
circumstances, as a tenant under Sir Thomas Gourlay; and as that
gentleman had taken it into his head that his tenantry were bound, as
firmly as if there had been a clause to that effect in their leases,
to bear patiently and in respectful silence, the imperious and ribald
scurrility which in a state of resentment, he was in the habit of
pouring upon them, so did he lose few opportunities of making them feel,
for the most-trivial causes, all the irresponsible insolence of the
strong and vindictive tyrant. Now, Jemmy Trailcudgel was an honest man,
whom every one liked; but he was also a man of spirit, whom, in another
sense, most people feared. Among his family he was a perfect child
in affection and tenderness--loving, playful, and simple as one of
themselves. Yet this man, affectionate, brave, and honest, because he
could not submit in silence and without vindication, to the wanton
and overbearing violence of his landlord, was harassed by a series of
persecutions, under the pretended authority of law, until he and his
unhappy family were driven to beggary--almost to despair.

“Trailcudgel,” said Sir Thomas to him one day that he had sent for him
in a fury, “by what right and authority, sirra, did you dare to cut turf
on that part of the bog called Berwick's Bank?”

“Upon the right and authority of my lease, Sir Thomas,” replied
Trailcudgel; “and with great respect, sir, you had neither right nor
authority for settin' my bog, that I'm payin' you rent for, to another
tenant.”

The baronet grew black in the face, as he always did when in a passion,
and especially when replied to.

“You are a lying scoundrel, sirra,” continued the other; “the bog does
not belong to you, and I will set it to the devil if I like.”

“I know nobody so fit to be your tenant,” replied Trailcudgel. “But I
am no scoundrel, Sir Thomas,” added the independent fellow, “and there's
very few dare tell me so but yourself.”

“What, you villain! do you contradict me? do you bandy words and
looks with me?” asked the baronet, his rage deepening at Trailcudgel's
audacity in having replied at all.

“Villain!” returned his gigantic tenant, in a voice of thunder. “You
called me a scoundrel, sirra, and you have called me a villain, sirra,
now I tell you to your teeth, you're a liar--I am neither villain nor
scoundrel; but you're both; and if I hear another word of insolence
out of your foul and lying mouth, I'll thrash you as I would a shafe of
whate or oats.”

The black hue of the baronet's rage changed to a much modester tint;
he looked upon the face of the sturdy yeoman, now flushed with honest
resentment; he looked upon the eye that was kindled at once into an
expression of resolution and disdain; and turning on his toe, proceeded
at a pace by no means funereal to the steps of the hall-door, and having
ascended them, he turned round and said, in a very mild and quite a
gentlemanly tone,

“Oh, very well, Mr. Trailcudgel; very well, indeed. I have a memory, Mr.
Trailcudgel--I have a memory. Good morning!”

“Betther for you to have a heart,” replied Trailcudgel; “what you never
had.”

Having uttered these words he departed, conscious at the same time, from
his knowledge of his landlord's unrelenting malignity, that his own fate
was sealed, and his ruin accomplished. And he was right. In the course
of four years after their quarrel, Trailcudgel found himself, and his
numerous family, in the scene of destitution to which we are about to
conduct the indulgent reader.

We pray you, therefore, gentle reader, to imagine yourself in a small
cabin, where there are two beds--that is to say, two scanty portions of
damp straw, spread out thinly upon a still damper foot of earth, in a
portion of which the foot sinks when walking over it. The two beds--each
what is termed a shake down--have barely covering enough to preserve
the purposes of decency, but not to communicate the usual and necessary
warmth. In consequence of the limited area of the cabin floor they
are not far removed from each other. Upon a little three-legged stool,
between them, burns a dim rush candle, whose light is so exceedingly
feeble that it casts ghastly and death-like shadows over the whole
inside of the cabin. That family consists of nine persons, of whom five
are lying ill of fever, as the reader, from the nature of their bedding,
may have already anticipated--for we must observe here, that the
epidemic was rife at the time. Food of any description has not been
under that roof for more than twenty-four hours. They are all in bed
but one. A low murmur, that went to the heart of that one, with a noise
which seemed to it louder and more terrible than the deepest peal that
ever thundered through the firmament of heaven--a low murmur, we say, of
this description, arose from the beds, composed of those wailing sounds
that mingle together as they proceed from the lips of weakness, pain,
and famine, until they form that many-toned, incessant, and horrible
voice of multiplied misery, which falls upon the ear with the echoes of
the grave, and upon the heart as something wonderful in the accents of
God, or, as we may suppose the voice of the accusing angel to be, whilst
recording before His throne the official inhumanity of councils and
senates, who harden their hearts and shut their ears to “the cry of the
poor.”

Seated upon a second little stool was a man of huge stature, clothed,
if we can say I so, with rags, contemplating the misery around him, and
having no sounds to listen to but the low, ceaseless wail of pain
and suffering which we have described. His features, once manly and
handsome, are now sharp and hollow; his beard is grown; his lips are
white; and his eyes without I speculation, unless when lit up into
an occasional blaze of fire, that seemed to proceed as much from the
paroxysms of approaching insanity as from the terrible scene which
surrounds him, as well as from his own I wolfish desire for food.
His cheek bones project fearfully, and his large temples seem, by the
ghastly skin which is drawn tight about them, to remind one of those of
a skeleton, were it not that the image is made still more appalling by
the existence of life. Whilst in this position, motionless as a statue,
a voice from one of the beds called out “Jemmy,” with a tone so low and
feeble that to other ears it would probably not have been distinctly
audible. He went to the bedside, and taking the candle in his hand,
said, in a voice that had lost its strength but not its tenderness:

“Well, Mary dear?”

“Jemmy,” said she, for it was his wife who had called him, “my time has
come. I must lave you and them at last.”

“Thanks be to the Almighty,” he exclaimed, fervently; “and don't be
surprised, darlin' of my life, that I spake as I do. Ah, Mary dear,” he
proceeded, with, a wild and bitter manner, “I never thought that my love
for you would make me say such words, or wish to feel you torn out of my
breakin' heart; but I know how happy the change will be for you, as
well as the sufferers you are lavin' behind you. Death now is our only
consolation.”

“It cannot be that God, who knows the kind and affectionate heart you
have, an' ever had,” replied his dying wife, “will neglect you and them
long,”--but she answered with difficulty. “We were very happy,” she
proceeded, slowly, however, and with pain; “for, hard as the world was
of late upon us, still we had love and affection among ourselves; and
that, Jemmy, God in his goodness left us, blessed be his--his--holy
name--an' sure it was betther than all he took from us. I hope poor
Alley will recover; she's now nearly a girl, an' will be able to take
care of you and be a mother to the rest. I feel that my tongue's gettin'
wake; God bless you and them, an', above all, her--for she was our
darlin' an' our life, especially yours. Raise me up a little,” she
added, “till I take a last look at them before I go.” He did so, and
after casting her languid eyes mournfully over the wretched sleepers,
she added: “Well, God is good, but this is a bitther sight for a
mother's heart. Jemmy,” she proceeded, “I won't be long by myself in
heaven; some of them will be with me soon--an' oh, what a joyful meeting
will that be. But it's you I feel for most--it's you I'm loath to lave,
light of my heart. Howsomever, God's will be done still. He sees we
can't live here, an' He's takin' us to himself. Don't, darlin', don't
kiss me, for fraid you might catch this fav----”

She held his hand in hers during this brief and tender dialogue, but
on attempting to utter the last word he felt a gentle pressure, then
a slight relaxation, and on holding the candle closer to her emaciated
face--which still bore those dim traces of former beauty, that, in many
instances, neither sickness nor death can altogether obliterate--he
stooped and wildly kissed her now passive lips, exclaiming, in words
purposely low, that the other inmates of the cabin might not hear them:

“A million favers, my darlin' Mary, would not prevent me from kissin'
your lips, that will never more be opened with words of love and
kindness to my heart. Oh, Mary, Mary! little did I drame that it would
be in such a place, and in such a way, that you'd lave me and them.”

[Illustration: PAGE 409-- He stooped and wildly kissed her now passive
lips]

He had hardly spoken, when one of the little ones, awaking, said:

“Daddy, come here, an' see what ails Alley; she won't spake to me.”

“She's asleep, darlin', I suppose,” he replied; “don't spake so loud, or
you'll waken her.”

“Ay, but she's as could as any tiling,” continued the little one; “an'I
can't rise her arm to put it about me the way it used to be.”

Her father went over, and placing' the dim light close to her face, as
he had done to that of her mother, perceived at a glance, that when
the spirit of that affectionate mother--of that faithful wife--went to
happiness, she had one kindred soul there to welcome her.

The man, whom we need not name to the reader, now stood in the centre of
his “desolate hearth,” and it was indeed a fearful thing to contemplate
the change which the last few minutes had produced on his appearance.
His countenance ceased to manifest any expression of either grief or
sorrow; his brows became knit, and fell with savage and determined
gloom, not unmingled with fury, over his eyes, that now blazed like
coals of lire. His lips, too, became tight and firm, and were pressed
closely together, unconsciously and without effort. In this mood, we
say, he gazed about him, his heart smote with sorrow and affliction,
whilst it boiled with indignation and fury. “Thomas Gourlay,” he
exclaimed--“villain--oppressor--murdherer--devil--this is your work!
but I here entreat the Almighty God “--he droppe'd on his knees as he
spoke--“never to suffer you to lave this world till he taches you that
he can take vengeance for the poor.” Looking around him once more, he
lit a longer rushlight, and placed it in the little wooden candlestick,
which had a slit at the top, into which the rush was pressed. Proceeding
then to the lower corner of the cabin, he put up his hand to the top of
the side wall, from which he took down a large stick, or cudgel, having
a strong leathern thong in the upper part, within about six inches of
the top. Into this thong he thrust his hand, and twisting it round his
wrist, in order that no accident or chance blow might cause him to
lose his grip of it, he once more looked upon this scene of unexampled
wretchedness and sorrow, and pulling his old caubeen over his brow, left
the cabin.

It is altogether impossible to describe the storm of conflicting
passions and emotions that raged and jostled against each other within
him. Sorrow--a sense of relief--on behalf of those so dear to him,
who had been rescued from such misery; the love which he bore them
now awakened into tenfold affection and tenderness by their loss;
the uncertain fate of his other little brood, who were ill, but still
living; then the destitution--the want of all that could nourish
or sustain them--the furious ravenings of famine, which he himself
felt--and the black, hopeless, impenetrable future--all crowded, upon
his heart, swept through his frantic imagination, and produced those
maddening but unconscious impulses, under the influence of which great
crimes are frequently committed, almost before their perpetrator is
aware of his having committed them.

Trailcudgel, on leaving his cabin, cared not whither he went; but, by
one of those instincts which direct the savage to the peculiar haunts
where its prey may be expected, and guides the stupid drunkard to his
own particular dwelling, though unconscious even of his very existence
at the time--like either, or both, of these, he went on at as rapid
a pace as his weakness would permit, being quite ignorant of his
whereabouts until he felt himself on the great highway. He looked at
the sky now with an interest he had never felt before. The night
was exceedingly dark, but calm and warm. An odd star here and there
presented itself, and he felt glad at this, for it removed the monotony
of the darkness.

“There,” said he to himself, “is the place where Mary and Alley live
now. Up there, in heaven. I am glad of it; but still, how will I enther
the cabin, and not hear their voices? But the other poor creatures!
musn't I do something for them, or they will go too? Yes, yes,--but
whisht! what noise is that? Ha! a coach. Now for it. May God support me!
Here comes the battle for the little ones--for the poor weak hand that's
not able to carry the drink to its lips. Poor darlins! Yes, darlins,
your father is now goin' to fight your battle--to put himself, for your
sakes, against the laws of man, but not against the laws of nature that
God has put into my heart for my dying childre. Either the one funeral
will carry three corpses to the grave, or I will bring yez relief. It's
comin' near, and I'll stand undher this tree.”

In accordance with this resolution, he planted himself under a large
clump of trees where, like the famished tiger, he awaited the arrival of
the carriage. And, indeed, it is obvious that despair, and hunger, and
sorrow, had brought him down to the first elements of mere animal life;
and finding not by any process of reasoning or inference, but by the
agonizing pressure of stern reality, that the institutions of social
civilization were closed against him and his, he acted precisely as
a man would act in a natural and savage state, and who had never been
admitted to a participation in the common rights of humanity--we mean,
the right to live honestly, when willing and able to contribute his
share of labor and industry to the common stock.

Let not our readers mistake us. We are not defending the crime of
robbery, neither would we rashly palliate it, although there are
instances of it which deserve not only palliation, but pardon. We
are only describing the principles upon which this man acted, and,
considering his motives, we question whether this peculiar act,
originating as it did in the noblest virtues and affections of our
nature, was not rather an act of heroism than of robbery. This point,
however, we leave to metaphysicians, and return to our narrative.

The night, as we said, was dark, and the carriage in question was
proceeding at that slow and steady pace which was necessary to insure
safety. Sir Thomas, for it was he, sat on the dickey; Gillespie having
proceeded in advance of him, in order to get horses, carriage, and
everything safely put to rights without the possibility of observation.

We may as well mention here that his anxiety to keep the events of the
night secret had overcome his apprehensions of the supernatural, and
indeed, it may not be impossible that he made acquaintance with one of
the flasks that had been destined for poor Fenton. Of this, however,
we are by no means certain; we only throw it out, therefore, as a
probability.

It is well known that the stronger and more insupportable passions
sharpen not only the physical but the mental faculties in an
extraordinary degree. The eye of the bird of prey, which is mostly
directed by the savage instincts of hunger, can view its quarry at an
incredible distance; and, instigated by vengeance, the American Indian
will trace his enemy by marks which the utmost ingenuity of civilized
man would never enable him to discover. Quickened by something of the
kind, Trailcudgel instantly recognized his bitter and implacable foe,
and in a moment an unusual portion of his former strength returned,
with the impetuous and energetic resentment which the appearance of the
baronet, at that peculiar crisis, had awakened. When the carriage came
nearly opposite where he stood, the frantic and unhappy man was in an
instant at the heads of the horses, and, seizing the reins, brought them
to a stand-still.

“What's the matter there?” exclaimed the baronet, who, however, began to
feel very serious alarm. “Why do you stop the horses, my friend? All's
right, and I'm much obliged--pray let them go.”

“All's wrong,” shouted the other in a voice so deep, hoarse, and
terrible in the wildness of its intonations, that no human being could
recognize it as that of Trailcudgel; “all's wrong,” he shouted; “I
demand your money! your life or your money--quick!”

“This is highway-robbery,” replied Sir Thomas, in a voice of
expostulation, “think of what you are about, my friend.”

But, as he spoke, Trailcudgel could observe that he put his hand behind
him as if with the intent of taking fire-arms out of his pocket. Like
lightning was the blow which tumbled him from his seat upon the two
horses, and a fortunate circumstance it proved, for there is little
doubt that his neck would have been broken, or the fall proved otherwise
fatal to so heavy a man, had he been precipitated directly, and from
such a height, upon the hard road. As it was, he found himself instantly
in the ferocious clutches of Trailcudgel, who dragged him from the
horses, as a tiger would a bull, and ere he could use hand or word in
his own defence, he felt the muzzle of one of his own pistols pressed
against his head.

“Easy, mfriend!” he exclaimed, in a voice that was rendered infirm by
terror; “do not take my life--don't murder me--you shall have my money.”

“Murdher!” shouted the other. “Ah, you black dog of hell, it is on your
red sowl that many a murdher lies. Murdher!” he exclaimed, in words that
were thick, vehement, and almost unintelligible with rage. “Ay, murdher
is it? It was a just God that put the words into your guilty heart--and
wicked lips--prepare, your last moment's come--your doom is sealed--are
you ready to die, villain?”

The whole black and fearful tenor of the baronet's life came like a
vision of hell itself over his conscience, now fearfully awakened to the
terrible position in which he felt himself placed.

“Oh, no!” he replied, in a voice whose tremulous tones betrayed the
full extent of his agony and terrors. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “Spare me,
whoever you are--spare my life, and if you will come to mo to-morrow, I
promise, in the presence of God, to make you independent as long as you
live. Oh, spare me, for the sake of the living God--for I am not fit
to die. If you kill me now, you will have the perdition of my soul to
answer for at the bar of judgment. If you spare me, I will reform my
life--I will become a virtuous man.”

“Well,” replied the other, relaxing--“for the sake of the name you have
used, and in the hope that this may be a warnin' to you for your good, I
will leave your wicked and worthless life with you. No, I'll not be the
man that will hurl you into perdition--but it is on one condition--you
must hand me out your money before I have time to count ten. Listen
now--if I haven't every farthing that's about you before that reckonin's
made, the bullet that's in this pistol will be through your brain.”

The expedition of the baronet was amazing, for as Jemmy went on with
this disastrous enumeration, steadily and distinctly, but not quickly,
he had only time to get as far as eight when he found himself in
possession of the baronet's purse.

“Is it all here?” he asked. “No tricks--no lyin'--the truth? for I'll
search you.”

“You may,” replied the other, with confidence; “and you may shoot me,
too, if you find another farthing in my possession.”

“Now, then,” said Trailcudgel, “get home as well as you can, and reform
your life as you promised--as for me, I'll keep the pistols; indeed,
for my own sake, for I have no notion of putting them into your hands at
present.”

He then disappeared, and the baronet, having with considerable
difficulty gained the box-seat, reached home somewhat lighter in pocket
than he had left it, convinced besides that an unexpected visit from a
natural apparition is frequently much more to be dreaded than one from
the supernatural.

The baronet was in the general affairs of life, penurious in money
matters, but on those occasions where money was necessary to enable him
to advance or mature his plans, conceal his proceedings, or reward
his instruments, he was by no means illiberal. This, however, was mere
selfishness, or rather, we should say, self-preservation, inasmuch
as his success and reputation depended in a great degree upon the
liberality of his corruption. On the present occasion he regretted, no
doubt, the loss of the money, but we are bound to say, that he would
have given its amount fifteen times repeated, to get once more into his
hands the single pound-note of which he had treacherously and like
a coward robbed Fenton while asleep in the carriage. This loss, in
connection With the robbery which occasioned it, forced him to retrace
to a considerable extent the process of ratiocination on the subject
of fate and destiny, in which he had so complacently indulged not long
before.

No matter how deep and hardened any villain may be, the most reckless
and unscrupulous of the class possess some conscious principle within,
that tells them of their misdeeds, and acquaints them with the fact that
a point in the moral government of life has most certainly been made
against them. So was it now with the baronet. He laid himself upon his
gorgeous bed a desponding, and, for the present, a discomfited man;
nor could he for the life of him, much as he pretended to disregard the
operations of a Divine Providence, avoid coming to the conclusion that
the highway robbery committed on him looked surprisingly like an act
of retributive justice. He consoled himself, it is true, with the
reflection, that it was not for the value of the note that he had
committed the crime upon Fenton, for to him the note, except for its
mere amount, was in other respects valueless. But what galled him to
the soul, was the bitter reflection that he did not, on perceiving its
advantage to Fenton, at once destroy it--tear it up--eat it--swallow
it--and thus render it utterly impossible to ever contravene his
ambition or his crimes. In the meantime slumber stole upon him, but it
was neither deep nor refreshing. His mind was a chaos of dark projects
and frightful images. Fenton--the ragged and gigantic robber, who was
so much changed by famine and misery that he did not know him--the
stranger--his daughter--Ginty Cooper, the fortune-teller--Lord
Cullamore--the terrible pistol at his brain--Dunroe--and all those
who were more or less concerned in or affected by his schemes, flitted
through his disturbed fancy like the figures in a magic lantern,
rendering his sleep feverish, disturbed, and by many degrees more
painful than his waking reflections.

It has been frequently observed, that violence and tyranny overshoot
their mark; and we may add, that no craft, however secret its
operations, or rather however secret they are designed to be, can cope
with the consequences of even the simplest accident. A short, feverish
attack of illness having seized Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, on the
night of Fenton's removal, she persuaded one of the maids to sit up with
her, in order to provide her with whey and nitre, which she took from
time to time, for the purpose of relieving her by cooling the system.
The attack though short was a sharp one, and the poor woman was really
very ill. In the course of the night, this girl was somewhat surprised
by hearing noises in and about the stables, and as she began to
entertain apprehension from robbers, she considered it her duty to
consult the sick woman as to the steps she ought to take.

“Take no steps,” replied the prudent housekeeper, “till we know, if we
can, what the noise proceeds from. Go into that closet, but don't take
the candle, lest the light of it might alarm them--it overlooks the
stable-yard--open the window gently; you know it turns upon hinges--and
look out cautiously. If Sir Thomas is disturbed by a false alarm, you
might fly at once; for somehow of late he has lost all command of his
temper.”

“But we know the reason of that, Mrs. Morgan,” replied the girl. “It's
because Miss Gourlay refuses to marry Lord Dunroe, and because he's
afraid that she'll run away with a very handsome gentleman that stops in
the Mitre. That's what made him lock her up.”

“Don't you breathe a syllable of that,” said the cautious Mrs. Morgan,
“for fear you might get locked up yourself. You know, nothing that
happens in this family is ever to be spoken of to any one, on pain of
Sir Thomas's severest displeasure; and you have not come to this time
of day without understanding what what means. But don't talk to me,
or rather, don't expect me to talk to you. My head is very ill, and my
pulse going at a rapid rate. Another drink of that whey, Nancy; then
see, if you can, what that noise means.”

Nancy, having handed her the whey, went to the closet window to
reconnoitre; but the reader may judge of her surprise on seeing Sir
Thomas himself moving about with a dark lantern, and giving directions
to Gillespie, who was putting the horses to the carriage. She returned
to the housekeeper on tip-toe, her face brimful of mystery and delight.

“What do you think, Mrs. Morgan? If there isn't Sir Thomas himself
walking about with a little lantern, and giving orders to Gillespie, who
is yoking the coach.”

Mrs. Morgan could not refrain from smiling at this comical expression of
yoking the coach; but her face soon became serious, and she said, with
a sigh, “I hope in God this is no further act of violence against his
angel of a daughter. What else could he mean by getting out a carriage
at this hour of the night? Go and look again, Nancy, and see whether you
may not also get a glimpse of Miss Gourlay.”

Nancy, however, arrived at the window only in time to see her master
enter the carriage, and the carriage disappear out of the yard; but
whether Miss Gourlay was in it along with him, the darkness of the night
prevented her from ascertaining. After some time, however, she threw out
a suggestion, on which, with the consent of the patient, she immediately
acted. This was to discover, if possible, whether Miss Gourlay with her
maid was in her own room or not. She accordingly went with a light and
stealthy pace to the door; and as she knew that its fair occupant always
slept with a night-light in her chamber, she put her pretty eye to the
keyhole, in order to satisfy herself on this point. All, however, so far
as both sight and hearing could inform her, was both dark and silent.
This was odd; nay, not only odd, but unusual. She now felt her heart
palpitate; she was excited, alarmed. What was to be done? She would take
a bold step--she would knock--she would whisper through the key-hole,
and set down the interruption to anxiety to mention Mrs. Morgan's sudden
and violent illness. Well, all these remedies for curiosity were tried,
all these, steps taken, and, to a certain extent, they were successful;
for there could indeed be little doubt that Miss Gourlay and her maid
were not in the apartment. Everything now pertaining to the mysterious
motions of Sir Thomas and his coachman was as clear as crystal. He had
spirited her away somewhere--“placed her, the old brute, under some
she-dragon or other, who would make her feed on raw flesh and cobwebs,
with a view of reducing her strength and breaking her spirit.”

Mrs. Morgan, however, with her usual good sense and prudence,
recommended the lively girl to preserve the strictest silence on what
she had seen, and to allow the other servants to find the secret out
for themselves if they could. To-morrow might disclose more, but as at
present they had nothing stronger than suspicion, it would be wrong
to speak of it, and might, besides, be prejudicial to Miss Gourlay's
reputation. Such was the love and respect which all the family felt for
the kind-hearted and amiable Lucy, who was the general advocate with
her father when any of them had incurred his displeasure, that on her
account alone, even if dread of Sir Thomas did not loom like a gathering
storm in the background, not one of them ever seemed to notice her
absence, nor did the baronet himself until days had elapsed. On the
morning of the third day he began to think, that perhaps confinement
might have tamed her down into somewhat of a more amenable spirit; and
as he had in the interval taken all necessary steps to secure the
person of the man who robbed him, and offered a large reward for his
apprehension, he felt somewhat satisfied that he had done all that could
be done, and was consequently more at leisure, and also more anxious to
ascertain the temper of mind in which he should find her.

In the meantime, the delicious scandal of the supposed elopement was
beginning to creep abroad, and, in fact, was pretty generally rumored
throughout the redoubtable town of Ballytrain on the morning of the
third or fourth day. Of course, we need scarcely assure our intelligent
readers, that the friends of the parties are the very last to whom such
a scandal would be mentioned, not only because such an office is always
painful, but because every one takes it for granted that they are
already aware of it themselves. In the case before us, such was the
general opinion, and Sir Thomas's silence on the subject was imputed
by some to the natural delicacy of a father in alluding to a subject so
distressing, and by others to a calm, quiet spirit of vengeance, which
he only restrained until circumstances should place him in a condition
to crush the man who had entailed shame and disgrace upon his name and
family.

Such was the state of circumstances upon the third or fourth morning
after Lucy's disappearance, when Sir Thomas called the footman, and
desired him to send Miss Gourlay's maid to him; he wished to speak with
her.

By this, time it was known through the whole establishment that Lucy and
she had both disappeared, and, thanks to Nancy--to pretty Nancy--“that
her own father, the hard-hearted old wretch, had forced her off--God
knows where--in the dead of night.”

The footman, who had taken Nancy's secret for granted; and, to tell the
truth, he had it in the most agreeable and authentic shape--to wit,
from her own sweet lips--and who could be base enough to doubt any
communication so delightfully conveyed?--the footman, we say, on
hearing this command from his master, started a little, and in the
confusion or forgetfulness of the moment, almost stared at him.

“What, sirrah,” exclaimed the latter; “did you hear what I said?”

“I did, sir,” replied the man, still more confused; “but, I thought,
your honor, that--”

“You despicable scoundrel!” said his master, stamping, “what means this?
You thought! What right, sir, have you to think, or to do anything but
obey your orders from me. It was not to think, sir, I brought you
here, but to do your duty as footman. Fetch Miss Gourlay's maid, sir,
immediately. Say I desire to speak with her.”

“She is not within, sir,” replied the man trembling.

“Then where is she, sir? Why is she absent from her charge?”

“I cannot tell, sir. We thought, sir--”

“Thinking again, you scoundrel!--speak out, however.”

“Why, the truth is, your honor, that neither Miss Gourlay nor she has
been here since Tuesday night last.”

The baronet had been walking to and fro, as was his wont, but this
information paralyzed him, as if by a physical blow on the brain. He now
went, or rather tottered over, to his arm-chair, into which he dropped
rather than sat, and stared at Gibson the footman as if he had forgotten
the intelligence just conveyed to him. In fact, his confusion was
such--so stunning was the blow--that it is possible he did forget it.

“What is that, Gibson?” said he; “tell me; repeat what you said.”

“Why, your honor,” replied Gibson, “since last Tuesday night neither
Miss Gourlay nor her maid has been in this house.”

“Was there no letter left, nor any verbal information that might satisfy
us as to where they have gone?”

“Not any, sir, that I am aware of.”

“Was her room examined?”

“I cannot say, sir. You know, sir, I never enter it unless when I am
rung for by Miss Gourlay; and that is very rarely.”

“Do you think, Gibson, that there is any one in the house that knows
more of this matter than you do?”

Gibson shook his head, and replied, “As to that, Sir Thomas, I cannot
say.”

The baronet was not now in a rage. The thing was impossible; not within
the energies of nature. He was stunned, stupefied, rendered helpless.

“I think,” he proceeded, “I observed a girl named Nancy--I forget what
else, Nancy something--that Miss Gourlay seemed to like a good deal.
Send her here. But before you do so, may I beg to know why her father,
her natural guardian and protector, was kept so long in ignorance of her
extraordinary disappearance? Pray, Mr. Gibson, satisfy me on that head?”

“I think, sir,” replied Gibson, most un-gallantly shifting the danger
of the explanation from his own shoulders to the pretty ones of Nancy
Forbes--“I think, sir, Nancy Forbes, the girl you speak of, may know
more about the last matter than I do.”

“What do you mean by the last matter?”

“Why, sir, the reason why we did not tell your honor of it sooner--”

Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Go,” he added, “send her here.”

“D--n the old scoundrel,” thought Gibson to himself; “but that's a fine
piece of acting. Why, if he hadn't been aware of it all along he would
have thrown me clean out of the window, even as the messenger of such
tidings. However, he is not so deep as he thinks himself. We know
him--see through him--on this subject at least.”

When Nancy entered, her master gave her one of those stern, searching
looks which often made his unfortunate menials tremble before him.

“What's your name, my good girl?”

“Nancy Forbes, sir.”

“How long have you been in this family?”

“I'm in the first month of my second quarter, your honor,” with a
courtesy.

“You are a pretty girl.”

Nancy, with another courtesy, and a simper, which vanity, for the life
of her, could not suppress, “Oh la, sir, how could your honor say such
a thing of a humble girl like me? You that sees so many handsome great
ladies.”

“Have you a sweetheart?”

Nancy fairly tittered. “Is it me, sir--why, who would think of the like
of me? Not one, sir, ever I had.”

“Because, if you have,” he proceeded, “and that I approve of him, I
wouldn't scruple much to give you something that might enable you and
your husband to begin the world with comfort.”

“I'm sure it's very kind, your honor, but I never did anything to
desarve so much goodness at your honor's hands.”

“The old villain wants to bribe me for something,” thought Nancy.

“Well, but you may, my good girl. I think you are a favorite with Miss
Gourlay?”

“Ha, ha!” thought Nancy, “I am sure of it now.”

“That's more than I know, sir,” she replied. “Miss Gourlay--God bless
and protect her--was kind to every one; and not more so to me than to
the other servants.”

“I have just been informed by Gibson, that she and her maid left the
Hall on Tuesday night last. Now, answer me truly, and you shall be the
better for it. Have you any conception, any suspicion, let us say, where
they have gone to?”

“La, sir, sure your honor ought to know that better than me.”

“How so, my pretty girl? How should I know it? She told me nothing about
it.”

“Why, wasn't it your honor and Tom Gillespie that took her away in the
carriage on that very night?”

Here now was wit against wit, or at least cunning against cunning.
Nancy, the adroit, hazarded an assertion of which she was not certain,
in order to probe the baronet, and place him in a position by which she
might be able by his conduct and manner to satisfy herself whether her
suspicions were well-founded or not.

“But how do you know, my good girl, that I and Gillespie were out that
night?”

It is unnecessary to repeat here circumstances with which the reader is
already acquainted. Nancy gave him the history of Mrs. Morgan's sudden
illness, and all the other facts already mentioned.

“But there is one thing that I still cannot understand,” replied the
baronet, “which is, that the disappearance of Miss Gourlay was never
mentioned to me until I inquired for her maid, whom I wished to speak
with.”

“But sure that's very natural, sir,” replied Nancy; “the reason we
didn't speak to you upon the subject was because we thought that it was
your honor who brought her away; and that as you took such a late hour
in the night for it, you didn't wish that we should know anything about
it.”

The baronet's eye fell upon her severely, as if he doubted the truth
of what she said. Nancy's eye, however, neither avoided his nor quailed
before it. She now spoke the truth, and she did so, in order to prevent
herself and the other servants from incurring his resentment by their
silence.

“Very well,” observed Sir Thomas, calmly, but sternly. “I think you have
spoken what you believe to be the truth, and what, for all you know, may
be the truth. But observe my words: let this subject be never
breathed nor uttered by any domestic in my establishment. Tell your
fellow-servants that such are my orders; for I swear, if I find that any
one of you shall speak of it, my utmost vengeance shall pursue him or
her to death itself. That will do.” And he signed to her to retire.




CHAPTER XVIII. Dunphy visits the County Wicklow

--Old Sam and his Wife.


It was about a week subsequent to the interview which the stranger had
with old Dunphy, unsuccessful as our readers know it to have been, that
the latter and his wife were sitting in the back parlor one night after
their little shop had been closed, when the following dialogue took
place between them:

“Well, at all events,” observed the old man, “he was the best of them,
and to my own knowledge that same saicret lay hot and heavy on his
conscience, especially to so good a master and mistress as they were to
him. The truth is, Polly, I'll do it.”

“But why didn't he do it himself?” asked his wife.

“Why?--why?” he replied, looking at her with his keen ferret eyes--“why,
don't you know what a weak-minded, timorsome creature he was, ever since
the height o' my knee?”

“Oh, ay,” she returned; “and I hard something about an oath, I think,
that they made him take.”

“You did,” said her husband; “and it was true, too. They swore him never
to breathe a syllable of it until his dying day--an' although they meant
by that that he should never reveal it at all, yet he always was of
opinion that he might tell it on that day, but on no other one. And it
was his intention to do so.”

“Wasn't it an unlucky thing that she happened to be out when he could
do it with a safe conscience?” observed his wife.

“They almost threatened the life out of the poor creature,” pursued
her husband, “for Tom threatened to murder him if he betrayed them; and
Ginty to poison him, if Tom didn't keep his word--and I believe in my
sowl that the same devil's pair would a' done either the one or the
other, if he had broken his oath. Of the two, however, Ginty's the
worst, I think; and I often believe, myself, that she deals with the
devil; but that, I suppose, is bekaise she's sometimes not right in her
head still.”

“If she doesn't dale with the devil, the devil dales with her at any
rate,” replied the other. “They'll be apt to gain their point, Tom and
she.”

“Tom, I know, is just as bitther as she is,” observed the old man, “and
Ginty, by her promises as to what she'll do for him, has turned his
heart altogether to stone; and yet I know a man that's bittherer against
the black fellow than either o' them. She only thinks of the luck that's
before her; but, afther all, Tom acts more from hatred to him than from
Ginty's promises. He has no bad feelin' against the young man himself;
but it's the others he's bent on punishing. God direct myself, I wish
at any rate that I never had act or hand in it. As for your time o' life
and mine, Polly, you know that age puts it out of our power ever to be
much the betther one way or the other, even if Ginty does succeed in her
devilry. Very few years now will see us both in our graves, and I don't
know but it's safer to lave this world with an aisy conscience, than to
face God with the guilt of sich a black saicret as that upon us.”

“Well, but haven't you promised them not to tell?”

“I have--an' only that I take sich delight in waitin' to see the black
scoundrel punished till his heart 'll burst--I think I'd come out
with it. That's one raison; and the other is, that I'm afraid of the
consequences. The law's a dangerous customer to get one in its crushes,
an' who can tell how we'd be dealt with?”

“Troth, an' that's true enough,” she replied.

“And when I promised poor Edward on his death-bed,” proceeded the old
man, “I made him give me a sartin time; an' I did this in ordher to
allow Ginty an opportunity of tryin' her luck. If she does not manage
her point within that time, I'll fulfil my promise to the dyin' man.”

“But, why,” she asked, “did he make you promise to do it when he
could--ay, but I forgot. It was jist, I suppose, in case he might be
taken short as he was, and that you wor to do it for him if he hadn't
an opportunity? But, sure, if Ginty succeeds, there's an end to your
promise.”

“Well, I believe so,” said the old man; “but if she does succeed, why,
all I'll wondher at will be that God would allow it. At any rate she's
the first of the family that ever brought shame an' disgrace upon the
name. Not but she felt her misfortune keen enough at the time, since
it turned her brain almost ever since. And him, the villain--but no
matter--he, must be punished.”

“But,” replied the wife, “wont Ginty be punishin' him?”

“Ah, Polly, you know little of the plans--the deep plans an' plots that
he's surrounded by. We know ourselves that there's not such a plotter in
existence as he is, barin' them that's plottin' aginst him. Lord bless
us! but it's a quare world--here is both parties schamin' an'
plottin' away--all bent on risin' themselves higher in it by pride and
dishonesty. There's the high rogue and the low rogue--the great villain
and the little villain--musha! Polly, which do you think is worst, eh?”

“Faith, I think it's six o' one and half-a-dozen of the other with them.
Still, a body would suppose that the high rogue ought to rest contented;
but it's a hard thing they say to satisfy the cravin's of man's heart
when pride, an' love of wealth an' power, get into it.”

“I'm not at all happy in my mind, Polly,” observed her husband,
meditatively; “I'm not at aise--and I won't bear this state of mind much
longer. But, then, again, there's my pension; and that I'll lose if I
spake out. I sometimes think I'll go to the country some o' these days,
and see an ould friend.”

“An where to, if it's a fair question?”

“Why,” he replied, “maybe it's a fair-question to ask, but not so fair
to answer. Ay! I'll go to the country--I'll start in a few days--in a
few days! No, savin' to me, but I'll start to-morrow. Polly, I could
tell you something if I wished--I say I have a secret that none o' them
knows--ay, have I. Oh, God pardon me! The d----d thieves, to make me, me
above all men, do the blackest part of the business--an' to think o' the
way they misled Edward, too--who, after all, would be desavin' poor Lady
Gourlay, if he had tould her all as he thought, although he did not know
that he would be misleadin' her. Yes, faith, I'll start for the country
tomorrow, plaise God; but listen, Polly, do you know who's in town?”

“Arra, no!--how could I?”

“Kate M'Bride, so Ginty tells me; she's livin' with her.”

“And why didn't she call to see you?” asked his wife. “And yet God knows
it's no great loss; but if ever woman was cursed wid a step-daughter, I
was wid her.”

“Don't you know very well that we never spoke since her runaway match
with M'Bride. If she had married Cummins, I'd a' given her a purty penny
to help him on; but instead o' that she cuts off with a sojer, bekaise
he was well faced, and starts with him to the Aist Indies. No; I
wouldn't spake to her then, and I'm not sure I'll spake to her now
either; and yet I'd like to see her--the unfortunate woman. However,
I'll think of it; but in the mane time, as I said, I'll start for the
country in the mornin'.”

And to the country he did start the next morning; and if, kind reader,
it so happen that you feel your curiosity in any degree excited, all you
have to do is to take a seat in your own imagination, whether outside
or in, matters not, the fare is the same, and thus you will, at no great
cost, be able to accompany him. But before we proceed further we shall,
in the first place, convey you in ours to the ultimate point of his
journey.

There was, in one of the mountain districts of the county Wicklow, that
paradise of our country, a small white cottage, with a neat flower plot
before, and a small orchard and garden behind. It stood on a little
eminence, at the foot of one of those mountains, which, in some
instances, abut from higher ranges. It was then bare and barren; but at
present presents a very different aspect, a considerable portion of it
having been since reclaimed and planted. Scattered around this rough
district were a number of houses that could be classed with neither
farm-house nor cabin, but as humble little buildings that possessed a
feature of each. Those who; dwelt in them held in general four or five
acres of rough land, some more, but very few less; and we allude to
these small tenements, because, as our readers are aware, the wives
of their proprietors were in the habit of eking out the means of
subsistence, and paying their rents, by nursing illegitimate children
or foundlings, which upon a proper understanding, and in accordance
with the usual arrangements, were either transmitted to them from the
hospital of that name in Dublin, or taken charge of by these women, and
conveyed home from that establishment itself. The children thus nurtured
were universally termed parisheens, because it was found more convenient
and less expensive to send a country foundling to the hospital
in Dublin, than to burden the inhabitants of the parish with its
maintenance. A small sum, entitling it to be received in the hospital,
was remitted, and as this sum, in most instances, was levied off the
parish, these wretched creatures were therefore called parisheens, that
is, creatures! aided by parish allowance.

The very handsome little cottage into which we are about to give the
reader admittance, commanded a singularly beautiful and picturesque
view. From the little elevation on which it stood could be seen the
entrancing vale of Ovoca, winding in its inexpressible loveliness toward
Arklow, and diversified with green meadows, orchard gardens, elegant
villas, and what was sweeter! than all, warm and comfortable homesteads,
more than realizing our conceptions of Arcadian happiness and beauty.
Its precipitous sides were clothed with the most enchanting variety
of plantation; whilst, like a stream of liquid light, the silver Ovoca
shone sparkling to the sun, as it followed, by the harmonious law of
nature, that graceful line of beauty which characterizes the windings of
this unrivalled valley. The cottage which commanded this rich prospect
we have partially described. It was white as snow, and had about it all
those traits of neatness and good taste which are, we regret! to say,
so rare among, and so badly understood by, our humbler countrymen. The
front walls were covered by honeysuckles, rose trees, and wild brier,
and the flower plot in front was so well stocked, that its summer bloom
would have done credit to the skill of an ordinary florist. The inside
of this cottage was equally neat, clean, and cheerful. The floor, an
unusual thing then, was tiled, which gave it a look of agreeable warmth;
the wooden vessels in the kitchen were white with incessant scouring,
whilst the pewter, brass, and tin, shone in becoming rivalry. The room
you entered was the kitchen, off which was a parlor and two bedrooms,
besides one for the servant.

As may be inferred from what we have said, the dresser was a perfect
treat to look at, and as the owners kept a cow, we need hardly add that
the delightful fragrance of milk which characterizes every well-kept
dairy, was perfectly ambrosial here. The chairs were of oak, so were the
tables; and a large arm-chair, with a semicircular back, stood at one
side of the clean hearth, whilst over the chimney-piece hung a portrait
of General Wolfe, with an engraving of the siege of Quebec. A series of
four silver medals, enclosed in red morocco cases, having the surface
of each protected by a glass cover, hung from a liliputian rack made of
mahogany, at once bearing testimony to the enterprise and gallantry
of the owner, as well as to the manly pride with which he took such
especial pains to preserve these proud rewards of his courage, and the
ability with which he must have discharged his duty as a soldier. On the
table lay a large Bible, a Prayer-book, and the “Whole Duty of Man,”
 all neatly and firmly, but not ostentatiously bound. Some works of a
military character lay upon a little hanging shelf beside the dresser.
Over this shelf hung a fishing-rod, unscrewed and neatly tied up; and
upon the top of the other books lay one bound with red cloth, in which
he kept his flies. On one side of the window sills lay a backgammon box,
with which his wife and himself amused themselves for an hour or two
every evening; and fixed in recesses intended for the purpose, Sam
Roberts, for such was his name, having built the house himself, were
comfortable cupboards filled with a variety of delft, several curious
and foreign ornaments, an ostrich's egg, a drinking cup made of the
polished shell of a cocoanut, whilst crossed saltier-wise over a
portrait of himself and of his wife, were placed two feathers of the
bird of paradise, constituting, one might imagine, emblems significant
of the happy life they led. But we cannot close our description here.
Upon the good woman's bosom, fastened to her kerchief, was a locket
which contained a portion of beautiful brown hair, taken from the
youthful head of a deceased son, a manly and promising boy, who died at
the age of seventeen, and whose death, although it did not and could
not throw a permanent gloom over two lives so innocent and happy,
occasioned, nevertheless, periodical recollections of profound and
bitter sorrow. Old Sam had his locket also, but it was invisible;
its position being on that heart whose affections more resembled the
enthusiasm of idolatry than the love of a parent. His wife was a placid,
contented looking old woman, with a complexion exceedingly hale and
fresh for her years; a shrewd, clear, benevolent eye, and a general
air which never fails to mark that ease and superiority of manner to
be found only in those who have had an enlarged experience in life,
and seen much of the world. There she sits by the clear fire and clean,
comfortable hearth, knitting a pair of stockings for her husband, who
has gone to Dublin. She is tidily and even, for a woman of her age,
tastefully dressed, but still with a sober decency that showed her good
sense. Her cap is as white as snow, with which a well-fitting brown
stuff gown, that gave her a highly respectable appearance, admirably
contrasted. She wore an apron of somewhat coarse muslin, that seemed,
as it always did, fresh from the iron, and her hands were covered with a
pair of thread mittens that only came half-way down the fingers. Hanging
at one side was a three-cornered pincushion of green silk, a proof
at once of a character remarkable for thrift, neatness, and industry.
Whilst thus employed, she looks from time to time through a window that
commanded a prospect of the road, and seems affected by that complacent
expression of uneasiness which, whilst it overshadows the features,
never disturbs their benignity. At length, a good-looking, neat girl,
their servant, enters the cottage with a can of new milk, for she had
been to the fields a-milking; her name is Molly Byrne.

“Molly,” said her mistress, “I wonder the master has not come yet. I
am getting uneasy. The coach has gone past, and I see no appearance of
him.”

“I suppose, then, he didn't come by the coach, ma'am.”

“Yes, but he said he would.”

“Well, ma'am, something must 'a prevented him.”

“Molly,” said her mistress, smiling, “you are a good hand at telling us
John Thompson's news; that is, any thing we know ourselves.”

“Well, ma'am, but you know many a time he goes to Dublin, an' doesn't
come home by the coach.”

“Yes, whenever he visits Rilmainham Hospital, and gets into conversation
with some of his old comrades; however, that's natural, and I hope he's
safe.”

“Well, ma'am,” replied Molly, looking out, “I have betther news for you
than Jenny Thompson's now.”

“Attention, Molly; John Thompson's the word,” said her mistress, with
the slightest conceivable air of professional form; for if she had
a foible at all, it was that she gave all her orders and exacted all
obedience from her servant in a spirit of military discipline, which
she, had unconsciously borrowed from her husband, whom she imitated as
far as she could. “Where, Molly? Fall back, I say, till I get a peep at
dear old Sam.”

“There he is, ma'am,” continued Molly, at the same time obeying her
orders, “and some other person along with him.”

“Yes, sure enough; thank God, thank God!” she exclaimed. “But who can
the other person be, do you think?”

“I don't know, ma'am,” replied Molly. “I only got a glimpse of them, but
I knew the master at once. I would know him round a corner.”

“Advance, then, girl; take another look; reconnoitre, Molly, as Sam
says, and see if you can make out who it is.”

“I see him now well enough, ma'am,” replied the girl, “but I don't know
him; he's a stranger. What can bring a stranger here, ma'am, do you
think?” she inquired.

“Why your kind master, of course, girl; isn't that sufficient? Whoever
comes with my dear old Sam is welcome, to be sure.”

Her clear, cloudless face was now lit up with a multiplicity of kind and
hospitable thoughts, for dear old Sam and his friend were not more than
three or four perches from the house, and she could perceive that her
husband was in an extraordinary state of good humor.

“I know, Molly, who the strange man is now,” she said. “He's an old
friend of my husband's, named Dunphy; he was once in the same regiment
with him; and I know, besides, our own good man has heard some news that
has delighted him very much.”

She had scarcely uttered the words when Sam and old Dunphy entered.

“Beck, my girl, here I am, safe and sound, and here's an old friend come
to see us, and you know how much we are both indebted to him; I felt,
Beck, and so did you, old girl, that we must have something to love
and provide for, and to keep the heart moving, but that's natural, you
know--quite natural--it's all the heart of man.”

“Mr. Dunphy,” said Beck--a curtailment of Rebecca--“I am glad to see
you; take a seat; how is the old woman?”

“As tough as ever, Mrs. Roberts. 'Deed I had thought last winter that
she might lave me a loose leg once more; but I don't know how it is,
she's gatherin' strength on my hands, an' a young wife, I'm afraid,
isn't on the cards--ha--ha--ha! And how are you yourself, Mrs.
Roberts?--but, indeed, one may tell with half an eye--fresh and well you
look, thank God!”

“Doesn't she, man?” exclaimed Sam, slapping him with delight on the
shoulder; “a woman that travelled half the world, and improved in every
climate. Molly, attention!--let us turn in to mess as soon as possible.
Good news, Beck--good news, but not till after mess; double-quick,
Molly.”

“Come, Molly, double-quick,” added her mistress; “the master and his
friend must be hungry by this time.”

Owing to the expeditious habits to which Mrs. Roberts had disciplined
Molly, a smoking Irish stew, hot and savory, was before them in a few
minutes, which the two old fellows attacked with powers of demolition
that would have shamed younger men. There was for some time a very
significant lull in the conversation, during which Molly, by a hint from
her mistress, put down the kettle, an act which, on being observed by
Dunphy, made his keen old eye sparkle with the expectation of what it
suggested. Shovelful after shovelful passed from dish to plate, until a
very relaxed action on the part of each was evident.

“Dunphy,” said Sam, “I, believe our fire is beginning to slacken; but
come, let us give the enemy another round, the citadel is nearly won--is
on the point of surrender.”

“Begad,” replied Dunphy, who was well acquainted with his friend's
phraseology, and had seen some service, as already intimated, in the
same regiment, some fifty years before. “I must lay down my arms for the
present.”

“No matter, friend Dunphy, we'll renew the attack at supper; an easy
mind brings a good appetite, which is but natural; it's all the heart of
man.”

“Well, I don't know that,” said Dunphy, replying to, the first of the
axioms; “I have often aiten a hearty dinner enough when my mind was, God
knows, anything but aisy.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Sam, “when the heart's down, a glass of old
stingo, mixed stiff, will give it a lift; so, my old fellow, if there's
anything wrong with you, we'll soon set it to rights.”

The table was now cleared, and the word “Hot wate-r-r,” was given, as if
Molly had been on drill, as in fact, she may be considered to have been
every day in the week; then the sugar and whiskey in the same tone. But
whilst she is preparing and producing the materials, as they have been
since termed, we shall endeavor to give an outline of old Sam.

Old Sam, then, was an erect, square-built, fine-looking old fellow, with
firm, massive, but benevolent features; not, however, without a dash of
determination in them that added very considerably to their interest.
His eyes were gray, kind, and lively; his eyebrows rather large, but
their expression was either stern or complacent, according to the
mood of the moment. That of complacency, however, was their general
character. Upon the front part of his head he had received a severe
wound, which extended an inch or so down the side of his forehead,
he had also lost the two last fingers of his left hand, and received
several other wounds that were severe and dangerous when inflicted,
but as their scars were covered by his dress, they were consequently
invisible. Sam was at this time close upon seventy, but so regular had
been his habits of life, so cheerful and kind his disposition, and so
excellent his constitution, that he did not look more than fifty-five.
It was utterly impossible not to read the fine old soldier in every one
of his free, but well-disciplined, movements. The black stock, the bold,
erect head, the firm but measured step, and the existence of something
like military ardor in the eye and whole bearing; or it might be the
proud consciousness of having bravely and faithfully discharged his duty
to his king and his country; all this, we say, marked the man with an
impress of such honest pride and frank military spirit, as, taken into
consideration with his fine figure, gave the very _beau ideal_ of an old
soldier.

When each had mixed his tumbler, Sam, brimful of the good news to which
he had alluded, filled a small glass, as was his wont, and placing it
before Beck, said:

“Come, Beck, attention!--'The king, God bless him!' Attention,
Dunphy!--off with it.”

“The king, God bless him!” having been duly honored, Sam proceeded:

“Beck, my old partner, I said I had good news for you. Our son and
his regiment--three times eleven, eleven times three--the gallant
thirty-third, are in Dublin.”

Beck laid down her stocking, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

“But that's not all, old girl, he has risen from the ranks--his
commission has been just made out, and he is now a commissioned officer
in his majesty's service. But I knew it would come to that. Didn't I say
so, old comrade, eh?”

“Indeed you did, Sam,” replied his wife; “and I thought as much myself.
There was something about that boy beyond the common.”

“Ay, you may say that, girl; but who found it out first? Why, I did;
but the thing was natural; it's all the heart of man--when that's in the
right place nothing will go wrong. What do you say, friend Dunphy? Did
you think it would ever come to this?”

“Troth, I did not, Mr. Roberts; but it's you he may thank for it.”

“God Almighty first, Dunphy, and me afterwards. Well, he shan't want a
father, at all events; and so long as I have a few shiners to spare, he
shan't want the means of supporting his rank as a British officer and
gentleman should. There's news for you, Dunphy. Do you hear that, you
old dog--eh?”

“It's all the heart of man, Sam,” observed his wife, eying him with
affectionate admiration. “When the heart's in the right place, nothing
will go wrong.”

Now, nothing gratified Sam so much as to hear his own apothegms honored
by repetition.

“Eight, girl,” he replied; “shake hands for that. Dunphy, mark the truth
of that. Isn't she worth gold, you sinner?”

“Troth she is, Mr. Roberts, and silver to the back o' that.”

“What?” said Sam, looking at him with comic surprise. “What do you mean
by that, you ferret? Why don't you add, and 'brass to the back of that?'
By fife and drum, I won't stand this to Beck. Apologize instantly,
sir.” Then breaking into a hearty laugh--“he meant no offence, Beck,” he
added; “he respects and loves you--I know he does--as who doesn't that
knows you, my girl?”

“What I meant to say, Mr. Roberts--”

“Mrs. Roberts, sir; direct the apology to herself.”

“Well, then, what I wanted to say, Mrs. Roberts, was, that all the
gold, silver, and brass in his majesty's dominions--(God bless him!
parenthetice, from Sam)--couldn't purchase you, an' would fall far short
of your value.”

“Well done--thank you, Dunphy--thank you, honest old Dunphy; shake
hands. He's a fine old fellow, Beck, isn't he, eh?”

“I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Dunphy; but you overrate me a great
deal too much,” replied Mrs. Roberts.

“No such thing, Beck; you're wrong there, for once; the thing couldn't
be done--by fife and drum! it couldn't; and no man has a better right to
know that than myself--and I say it.”

Sam, like all truly brave men, never boasted of his military exploits,
although he might well have done so. On the contrary, it was a subject
which he studiously avoided, and on which those who knew his modesty as
well as his pride never ventured. He usually cut short such as referred
to it, with:

“Never mind that, my friend; I did my duty, and that was all; and so did
every man in the British army, or I wouldn't be here to say so. Pass the
subject.”

Sam and Dunphy, at all events, spent a pleasant evening; at least,
beyond question, Sam did. As for Dunphy, he seemed occasionally relieved
by hearing Sam's warm and affectionate allusions to his son; and, on
the other hand, he appeared, from time to time, to fall into a mood that
indicated a state of feeling between gloom and reflection.

“It's extraordinary, Mr. Roberts,” he observed, after awakening from one
of these reveries; “it looks as if Providence was in it.”

“God Almighty's in it, sir,--didn't I say so? and under him, Sam
Roberts. Sir, I observed that boy closely from the beginning. He
reminded me, and you too, Beck, didn't he, of him that--that--we
lost”--here he paused a moment, and placed his hand upon his heart,
as if to feel for something there that awoke touching and melancholy
remembrances; whilst his wife, on the other hand, unpinned the locket,
and having kissed it, quietly let fall a few tears; after which she
restored it to its former position. Sam cleared his voice a little, and
then proceeded:

“Yes; I could never look at the one without thinking of the other; but
'twas all the heart of man. In a week's time he could fish as well as
myself, and in a short time began to teach me. 'Gad! he used to take
the rod out of my hand with so much kindness, so gently and
respectfully--for, I mark me, Dunphy, he respected me from the
beginning--didn't lie, Beck?”

“He did, indeed, Sam.”

“Thank you, Beck; you're a good creature. So gently and respectfully,
as I was saying, and showed me in his sweet words, and with his smiling
eyes--yes, and his hair, too, was the very color of his brother's--I was
afraid I might forget that. Well--yes, with such smiling eyes that it
was impossible not to love him--I couldn't but love him--but, sure, it
was only natural--all the heart of man, Dunphy. 'Ned,' said I to him one
day, 'would you like to become a soldier--a soldier, Ned?'” And as
the old man repeated the word “soldier” his voice became full and
impressive, his eyes sparkled with pride, and his very form seemed to
dilate at the exulting reminiscences and heroic associations connected
with it.

“Above all things in this life,” replied the boy; “but you know I'm too
young.”

“'Never mind, my boy,' said I, 'that's a fault that every day will mend;
you'll never grow less;' so I consulted with Beck there, and with you,
Dunphy, didn't I?”

“You did, indeed, Mr. Roberts, and wouldn't do anything till you had
spoken to me on the subject.”

“Eight, Dunphy, right--well, you know the rest. 'Education's the point,'
said I to Beck--ignorance is a bad inheritance. What would I be to-day
if I didn't write a good hand, and was a keen accountant! But no matter,
off he went with a decent outfit to honest Mainwairing--thirty pounds
a-year--five years--lost no time--was steady, but always showed a
spirit. Couldn't get him a commission then, for I hadn't come in for my
Uncle's legacy, which I got the other day.--dashed him into the ranks
though--and here he is--a commissioned officer--eh, old Dunphy! Well,
isn't that natural? but it's all the heart of man.”

“It's wonderful,” observed Dunphy, ruminating, “it's wonderful indeed.
Well, now, Mr. Roberts, it really is wonderful. I came down here to
spake to you about that very boy, and see the news I have before me.
Indeed, it is wonderful, and the hand o' God is surely in it.”

“Right, Dunphy, that's the word; and under him, in the capacity of agent
in the business, book down Sam Roberts, who's deeply thankful to God
for making him, if I may say so, his adjutant in advancing the boy's
fortunes.”

“Did you see him to-day, Sam?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

“No,” replied Sam, “he wasn't in the barracks, but I'll engage we'll
both see him tomorrow, if he has life, that is, unless he should happen
to be on duty. If he doesn't come to-morrow, however, I'll start the day
after for Dublin.”

“Well, now, Mr. Roberts,” said Dunphy, “if you have no objection, I
didn't care if I turned into bed; I'm not accustomed to travelin',
and I'm a thrifle fatigued; only tomorrow morning, plaise God, I have
something to say to you about that boy that may surprise you.”

“Not a syllable, Dunphy, nothing about him that could surprise me.”

“Well,” replied the hesitating and cautious old man, “maybe I will
surprise you for all that.”

This he said whilst Mrs. Roberts and Molly Byrne were preparing his bed
in one of the neat sleeping rooms which stood off the pleasant kitchen
where they sat; “and listen, Mr. Roberts, before I tell it, you must
pledge your honor as a soldier, that until I give you lave, you'll never
breathe a syllable of what I have to mention to any one, not even to
Mrs. Roberts.”

“What's that? Keep a secret from Beck? Come, Dunphy, that's what I never
did, unless the word and countersign when on duty, and, by fife and
drum, I never will keep your secret then; I don't want it, for as sure
as I hear it, so shall she. And is it afraid of old Beck you are? By
fife and drum, sir, old Beck has more honor than either of us, and would
as soon take a fancy to a coward as betray a secret. You don't know her,
old Dunphy, you don't know her, or you wouldn't spake as if you feared
that she's not truth and honesty to the backbone.”

“I believe it, Mr. Roberts, but they say, afther all, that once a woman
gets a secret, she thinks herself in a sartin way, until she's delivered
of it'.”

Sam, who liked a joke very well, laughed heartily at this, bad as it
was, or rather he laughed at the shrewd, ludicrous, but satirical grin
with which old Dunphy's face was puckered whilst he uttered it.

“But, sir,” said he, resuming his gravity, “Beck, I'd have you to know,
is not like other women, by which I mean that no other woman could be
compared to her. Beck's the queen of women, upon my soul she is; and all
I have to say is, that if you tell me the secret, in half an hour's time
she'll be as well acquainted with it as either of us. I have no notion,
Dunphy, at this time of life, to separate my mind from Beck's; my
conscience, sir, is my store-room; she has a key for it, and, by fife
and drum, I'm not going to take it from her now. Do you think Beck would
treat old Sam so? No. And my rule is, and ever has been, treat your wife
with confidence if you respect her, and expect confidence in your turn.
No, no; poor Beck must have it if I have it. The truth is, I have no
secrets, and never had. I keep none, Dunphy, and that's but natural;
however, it's all the heart of man.”

The next morning the two men took an early walk, for both were in the
habit of rising betimes. Dunphy, it would appear, was one of those
individuals, who, if they ever perform a praiseworthy act, do it
rather from weakness of character and fear, than from a principle of
conscientious rectitude. After having gone to bed the previous night he
lay awake for a considerable time debating with himself the purport of
his visit, pro and con, without after all, being able to accomplish a
determination on the subject. He was timid, cunning, shrewd, avaricious,
and possessed, besides, a large portion of that peculiar superstition
which does not restrain from iniquity, although it renders the mind
anxious and apprehensive of the consequences. Now the honest fellow with
whom he had to deal was the reverse of all this in every possible
phase of his character, being candid, conscientious, fearless,
and straightforward. Whatever he felt to be his duty, that he did,
regardless of all opinion and all consequences. He was, in fact, an
independent man, because he always acted from right principles, or
rather from right impulses; the truth being, that the virtuous action
was performed before he had allowed himself time to reason upon it.
Every one must have observed that there is a rare class of men whose
feelings, always on the right side, are too quick for their reason,
which they generously anticipate, and have the proposed virtue completed
before either reason or prudence have had time to argue either for or
against the act. Old Sam was one of the latter, and our readers may
easily perceive the contrast which the two individuals presented.

After about an hour's walk both returned to breakfast, and whatever may
have been the conversation that took place between them, or whatever
extent of confidence Dunphy reposed in old Sam, there can be little
doubt that his glee this morning was infinitely greater than on the
preceding-evening, although, at Dunphy's earnest request, considerably
more subdued. Nay, the latter had so far succeeded with old Sam as to
induce him to promise, that for the present at least, he would
forbear to communicate it to his wife. Sam, however, would under no
circumstances promise this until he should first hear the nature of it,
upon which, he said, he would then judge for himself. After hearing it,
however, he said that on Dunphy's own account he would not breathe it
even to her without his permission.

“Mind,” said Dunphy, at the conclusion of their dialogue, and with his
usual caution, “I am not sartin of what I have mentioned; but I hope,
plaise God, in a short time to be able to prove it; and, if not, as
nobody knows it but yourself an' me, why there's no harm done. Dear
knows, I have a strong reason for lettin' the matter lie as it is, even
if my suspicions are true; but my conscience isn't aisy, Mr. Eoberts,
an' for that raison' I came to spake to you, to consult with you, and to
have your advice.”

“And my advice to you is, Dunphy, not to attack the enemy until your
plans are properly laid, and all your forces in a good position. The
thing can't be proved now, you say; very well; you'd be only a fool for
attempting to prove it.”

“I'm not sayin',” said the cautious old sinner again, “that it can be
proved at any time, or proved at all--that is, for a sartinty; but I
think, afther a time, it may. There's a person not now in the country,
that will be back shortly, I hope; and if any one can prove what I
mentioned to you, that person can. I know we'd make a powerful friend by
it, but--”

Here he squirted his thin tobacco spittle “out owre his beard,” but
added nothing further.

“Dunphy, my fine old fellow,” said Sam, “it was very kind of you to come
to me upon this point. You know the affection I have for the young man;
thank you, Dunphy; but it's natural--it's all the heart of man. Dunphy,
how long is it, now, since you and I messed together in the gallant
eleven times three? Fifty years, I think, Dunphy, or more. You were
a smart fellow then, and became servant, I think, to a young
captain--what's this his name was? oh! I remember--Gourlay; for, Dunphy,
I remember the name of every officer in our regiment, since I entered
it; when they joined, when they exchanged, sold out, or died like brave
men in the field of battle. It's upwards of fifty. By the way, he left
us--sold out immediately after his father's death.”

“Ay, ould Sir Edward--a good man; but he had a woman to his wife, and if
ever there was a divil--Lord bless us!--in any woman, there was one, and
a choice bad one, too, in her. The present barrownight, Sir Thomas, is
as like her as if she had spat him out of her mouth. The poor ould man,
Sir Edward, had no rest night or day, because he wouldn't get himself
made into a lord, or a peer, or some high-flown title of the kind; and
all that she herself might rank as a nobleman's lady, although she was
a 'lady,' by title, as it was, which, God knows, was more than she
desarved, the thief.”

“Ah, she was different from Beck, Dunphy. Talking of wives, have I not
a right to feel thankful that God in his goodness gifted me with such a
blessing? You don't know what I owe to her, Dunphy. When I was sick and
wounded--I bear the marks of fifteen severe wounds upon me--when I was
in fever, in ague, in jaundice, and several other complaints belonging
to the different countries we were in, there she was--there she was,
Dunphy; but enough said; ay, and in the field of battle, too,” he added,
immediately forgetting himself, “lying like a log, my tongue black and
burning. Oh, yes, Beck's a great creature; that's all, now--that's all.
Come in to breakfast, and now you shall know what a fresh egg means, for
we have lots of poultry.”

“Many thanks to you, Mr. Roberts, I and my ould woman know that.”

“Tut--nonsense, man; lots of poultry, I say--always a pig or two, and
never without a ham or a flitch, you old dog. Except the welfare of
that boy, we have nothing on earth, thank God, to trouble us; but that's
natural--it's all the heart of man, Dunphy”

After having made a luxurious breakfast, Dunphy, who felt that he
could not readily remain away from his little shop, bade this most
affectionate and worthy couple good-by and proceeded on his way home.

This hesitating old man felt anything but comfortable since the partial
confidence he had placed in old Sam. It is true, he stated the purport
of his disclosure to him as a contingency that might or might not
happen; thus, as he imagined, keeping himself on the safe side. But in
the meantime, he felt anxious, apprehensive and alarmed, even at the
lengths to which his superstitious fears had driven him; for he felt
now that one class of terrors had only superinduced another, without
destroying the first. But so must it ever be with those timid and
pusillanimous villains who strive to impose upon their consciences, and
hesitate between right and wrong.

On his way home, however, he determined to visit the barracks in which
the thirty-third regiment lay, in order, if possible, to get a furtive
glance at the young ensign. In this he was successful. On entering the
barrack, square, he saw a group of officers chatting together on the
north side, and after inquiring from a soldier if Ensign Roberts was
among them, he was answered in the affirmative.

“There he is,” said the man, “standing with a whip in his hand--that
tall, handsome young fellow.”

Dunphy, who was sufficiently near to get a clear view of him, was
instantly struck by his surprising resemblance to Miss Gourlay, whom he
had often seen in town.




CHAPTER XIX. Interview between Trailcudgel and the Stranger

--A Peep at Lord Dunroe and His Friend.


It was on the morning that Sir Thomas Gourlay had made the disastrous
discovery of the flight of his daughter--for he had not yet heard the
spreading rumor of the imaginary elopement--that the stranger, on his
way from Father M'Mahon's to the Mitre, was met in a lonely part of
the road, near the priest's house, by a man of huge stature and
savage appearance. He was literally in rags; and his long beard, gaunt
features, and eyes that glared as if with remorse, distraction, or
despair, absolutely constituted him an alarming as well as a painful
spectacle. As he approached the stranger, with some obvious and
urgent purpose, trailing after him a weapon that resembled the club of
Hercules, the latter paused in his step and said,

“What is the matter with you, my good fellow? You seem agitated. Do you
want anything with me? Stand back, I will permit you to come no nearer,
till I know your purpose. I am armed.”

The wretched man put his hand upon his eyes, and groaned as if his heart
would burst, and for some moments was unable to make any reply.

“What can this mean?” thought the stranger; “the man's features, though
wild and hollow, are not those of a ruffian.”

“My good friend,” he added, speaking in a milder tone, “you seem
distressed. Pray let me know what is the matter with you?”

“Don't be angry with me,” replied the man, addressing him with dry,
parched lips, whilst his Herculean breast heaved up and down with
agitation; “I didn't intend to do it, or to break in upon it, but now
I must, for it's life or death with the three that's left me; and I
durstn't go into the town to ask it there. I have lost four already.
Maybe, sir, you could change this pound note for me? For the sake of the
Almighty, do; as you hope for mercy don't refuse me. That's all I ask.
I know that you stop in the inn in the town there above--that you're a
friend of our good priest's--and that you are well spoken of by every
one.”

Now, it fortunately happened that the stranger had, on leaving the inn,
put thirty shillings of silver in his pocket, not only that he
might distribute through the hands of Father M'Mahon some portion of
assistance to the poor whom that good man had on his list of distress,
but visit some of the hovels on his way back, in order personally to
witness their condition, and, if necessary, relieve them. The priest,
however, was from home, and he had not an opportunity of carrying the
other portion of his intentions into effect, as he was only a quarter of
a mile from the good man's residence, and no hovels of the description
he wished to visit had yet presented themselves.

“Change for a pound!” he exclaimed, with a good deal of surprise. “Why,
from your appearance, poor fellow, I should scarcely suspect to find
such a sum in your possession. Did you expect to meet me here?”

“No, sir, I was on my way to the priest, to open my heart to him, for if
I don't, I know I'll be ragin' mad before forty-eight hours. Oh, sir, if
you have it, make haste; every minute may cost me a life that's dearer
to me a thousand times than my own. Here's the note, sir.”

The stranger took the note out of his hand, and on looking at the face
of it made no observation, but, upon mechanically turning up the back,
apparently without any purpose of examining it, he started, looked
keenly at the man, and seemed sunk in the deepest possible amazement,
not unrelieved, however, by an air of satisfaction. The sudden and
mysterious disappearance of Fenton, taken in connection with the
discovery of the note which he himself had given him, and now in the
possession of a man whose appearance was both desperate and suspicious,
filled him with instant apprehensions for the safety of Fenton.

His brow instantly became stern, and in a voice full of the most
unequivocal determination, he said,

“Pray, sir, how did you come by this note?”

“By the temptation of the devil; for although it was in my possession,
it didn't save my two other darlins from dying. A piece of a slate would
be as useful as it was, for I couldn't change it--I durstn't.”

“You committed a robbery for this note, sir?”

The man glared at him with something like incipient fury, but paused,
and looking on him with a more sorrowful aspect, replied,

“That is what the world will call it, I suppose; but if you wish to
get anything out of me, change the tone of your voice. I haven't at the
present time, much command over my temper, and I'm now a desperate man,
though I wasn't always so. Either give me the change or the note back
again.”

The stranger eyed him closely. Although desperate, as he said, still
there were symptoms of an honest and manly feeling, even in the very
bursts of passion which he succeeded with such effort in restraining.

“I repeat it, that this note came into your hands by an act of
robbery--perhaps of murder.”

“Murder!” replied the man, indignantly. “Give me back the note, sir, and
provoke me no farther.”

“No,” replied the other, “I shall not; and you must consider yourself
my prisoner. You not only do not deny, but seem to admit, the charge of
robbery, and you shall not pass out of my hands until you render me an
account of the person from whom you took this note. You see,” he added,
producing a case of pistols--for, in accordance with the hint he had
received in the anonymous note, he resolved never to go out without
them--“I am armed, and that resistance is useless.”

The man gave a proud but ghastly smile, as he replied--dropping his
stick, and pulling from his bosom a pair of pistols much larger, and
more dangerous than those of the stranger,

“You see, that if you go to that I have the advantage of you.”

“Tell me,” I repeat, “what has become of Mr. Fenton, from whom you took
it.”

“Fenton!” exclaimed the other, with surprise; “is that the poor young
man that's not right in his head?”

“The same.”

“Well, I know nothing about him.”

“Did you not rob him of this note?”

“No.”

“You did, sir; this note was in his possession; and I fear you have
murdered him I besides. You must come with me,”--and as he spoke, our
friend, Trailcudgel, saw two pistols, one in each hand, levelled at him.
“Get on before me, sir, to the town of Ballytrain, or, resist at your
peril.”

Almost at the same moment the two pistols, taken from Sir Thomas
Gourlay, were levelled at the stranger.

“Now,” said the man, whilst his eyes shot fire and his brow darkened,
“if it must be, it must; I only want the sheddin' of blood to fill up
my misery and guilt; but it seems I'm doomed, and I can't help it. Sir,”
 said he, “think of yourself. If I submit to become your prisoner, my
life's gone. You don't know the villain you are goin' to hand me over
to. I'm not afraid of you, nor of anything, but to die a disgraceful
death through his means, as I must do.”

“I will hear no reasoning on the subject,” replied the other; “go on
before me.”

The man kept his pistols presented, and there they stood, looking
sternly into each other's faces, each determined not to yield, and each,
probably, on the brink of eternity.

At length the man dropped the muzzles of the weapons, and holding
them reversed, approached the stranger, saying, in a voice and with an
expression of feeling that smote the other to the heart,

“I will be conqueror still, sir! Instead of goin' with you, you will
come with me. There are my pistols. Only come to a house of misery and
sorrow and death, and you will know all.”

“This is not treachery,” thought the stranger. “There can be no
mistaking the anguish--the agony--of that voice; and those large tears
bear no testimony to the crime of murder or robbery.”

“Take my pistols, sir,” the other repeated, “only follow me.”

“No,” replied the stranger, “keep them: I fear you not--and what is
more, I do not now even suspect you. Here are thirty shillings in
silver--but you must allow me to' keep this note.”

We need not describe anew the scene to which poor Trailcudgel introduced
him. It is enough to say, that since his last appearance in our pages he
had lost two more of his children, one by famine and the other by fever;
and that when the stranger entered his hovel--that libel upon a human
habitation--that disgrace to landlord inhumanity--he saw stretched out
in the stillness of death the emaciated bodies of not less than four
human beings--to wit, this wretched man's wife, their daughter, a sweet
girl nearly grown,--and two little ones. The husband and father looked
at them for a little, and the stranger saw a singular working or change,
taking place on his features. At length he clasped his hands, and first
smiled--then laughed outright, and exclaimed, “Thank God that they,”
 pointing to the dead, “are saved from any more of this,”--but the
scene--the effort at composure--the sense of his guilt--the condition of
the survivors--exhaustion from want of food, all combined, overcame him,
and he fell senseless on the floor.

The stranger got a porringer of water, bathed his temples, opened his
teeth with an old knife, and having poured some of it down his throat,
dragged him--and it required all his strength to do so, although a
powerful man--over to the cabin-door, in order to get him within the
influence of the fresh air. At length he recovered, looked wildly about
him, then gazed up in the face of the stranger, and made one or two deep
respirations.

“I see,” said he, “I remember--set me sittin' upon this little ditch
beside the door--but no, no--” he added, starting--“come away--I must
get them food--come--quick, quick, and I will tell you as we go along.”

He then repeated the history of his ruin by Sir Thomas Gourlay, of the
robbery, and of the scene of death and destitution which drove him to
it.

“And was it from Sir Thomas you got this note?” asked the stranger, whose
interest was now deeply excited.

“From him I got it, sir; as I tould you,” he replied, “and I was on my
way to the priest to give him up the money and the pistols, when the
situation of my children, of my family of the livin' and the dead,
overcame me, and I was tempted to break in upon one pound of it for
their sakes. Sir, my life's in your hands, but there is something in
your face that tells my heart that you won't betray me, especially
afther what you have seen.”

The stranger had been a silent and attentive listener to this narrative,
and after he had ceased he spoke not for some time. He then added,
emphatically but quickly, and almost abruptly:

“Don't fear me, my poor fellow. Your secret is as safe as if you had
never disclosed it. Here are other notes for you, and in the meantime
place yourself in the hands of your priest, and enable him to restore
Sir Thomas Gourlay his money and his pistols, I shall see you and your
family again.”

The man viewed the money, looked at him for a moment, burst into tears,
and hurried away, without saying a word, to procure food for himself and
his children.

Our readers need not imagine for a moment that the scenes with which we
have endeavored to present them, in,the wretched hut of Trailcudgel,
are at all overdrawn. In point of fact, they fall far short of thousands
which might have been witnessed, and were witnessed, during the years of
'47, '48, '49, and this present one of '50. We are aware that so many
as twenty-three human beings, of all ages and sexes, have been found by
public officers, all lying on the same floor, and in the same bed--if
bed it can be termed--nearly one-fourth of them stiffened and putrid
corpses. The survivors weltering in filth, fever, and famine, and
so completely maddened by despair, delirium, and the rackings of
intolerable pain, in its severest shapes--aggravated by thirst and
hunger--that all the impulses of nature and affection were not merely
banished from the heart, but superseded by the most frightful peals
of insane mirth, cruelty, and the horrible appetite of the ghoul and
vampire. Some were found tearing the flesh from the bodies of the
carcasses that were stretched beside them. Mothers tottered off under
the woful excitement of misery and frenzy, and threw their wretched
children on the sides of the highways, leaving them there, with shouts
of mirth and satisfaction, to perish or be saved, as the chances might
turn out--whilst fathers have been known to make a wolfish meal upon the
dead bodies of their own offspring. We might, therefore, have carried
on our description up to the very highest point of imaginable horror,
without going beyond the truth.

It is well for the world that the schemes and projects of ambition
depend not in their fulfilment upon the means and instruments with
which they are sought to be accomplished. Had Sir Thomas Gourlay,
for instance, not treated his daughter with such brutal cruelty, an
interview must have taken place between her and Lord Cullamore, which
would, as a matter of course, have put an end forever to her father's
hopes of the high rank for which he was so anxious to sacrifice her.
The good old nobleman, failing of the interview he had expected, went
immediately to London, with a hope, among other objects, of being in
some way useful to his son, whom he had not seen for more than two
years, the latter having been, during that period, making the usual tour
of the Continent.

On the second day of his arrival, and after he had in some degree
recovered from the effects of the voyage--by which, on the whole, he was
rather improved--he resolved to call upon Dunroe, in pursuance of a note
which he had written to him to that effect, being unwilling besides to
take him unawares. Before he arrives, however, we shall take the liberty
of looking in upon his lordship, and thus enable ourselves to form
some opinion of the materials which constituted that young nobleman's
character and habits.

The accessories to these habits, as exponents of his life and character,
were in admirable keeping with both, and a slight glance at them will be
sufficient for the reader.

His lordship, who kept a small establishment of his own, now lies in a
very elegantly furnished bedroom, with a table beside his bed, on which
are dressings for his wound, phials of medicines, some loose comedies,
and a volume still more objectionable in point both of taste and morals.
Beside him is a man, whether young or of the middle age it is difficult
to say. At the first glance, his general appearance, at least, seemed
rather juvenile, but after a second--and still more decidedly after a
third--it was evident to the spectator that he could not be under forty.
He was dressed in quite a youthful style, and in the very extreme
of fashion. This person's features were good, regular, absolutely
symmetrical; yet was there that in his countenance which you could not
relish. The face, on being examined, bespoke the life of a battered
rake; for although the complexion was or had been naturally good, it was
now set in too high a color for that of a young man, and was hardened
into a certain appearance which is produced on some features by the
struggle that takes place between dissipation and health. The usual
observation in such cases is--“with what a constitution has that man
been blessed on whose countenance the symptoms of a hard life are so
slightly perceptible.” The symptoms, however, are there in every case,
as they were on his. This man's countenance, we say, at the first
glance, was good, and his eye seemed indicative of great mildness
and benignity of heart--yet here, again, was a drawback, for, upon
a stricter examination of that organ, there might be read in it the
expression of a spirit that never permitted him to utter a single word
that was not associated with some selfish calculation. Add to this, that
it was unusually small and feeble, intimating duplicity and a want
of moral energy and candor. In the mere face, therefore, there was
something which you could not like, and which would have prejudiced
you, as if by instinct, against the man, were it not that the pliant
and agreeable tone of his conversation, in due time, made you forget
everything except the fact that Tom Norton was a most delightful fellow,
with not a bit of selfishness about him, but a warm and friendly wish to
oblige and serve every one of his acquaintances, as far as he could, and
with the greatest good-will in the world. But Tom's excellence did not
rest here. He was disinterested, and frequently went so far as almost
actually to quarrel with some of his friends on their refusing to be
guided by his advice and experience. Then, again, Tom was generous and
delicate, for on finding that his dissuasions against some particular
course had been disregarded, and the consequences he had predicted had
actually followed, he was too magnanimous ever to harass them by useless
expostulations or vain reproofs; such as--“I told you how it would
happen”--“I advised you in time”--“you would not listen to
reason”--and other posthumous apothegms of the same character. No, on
the contrary, he maintained a considerate and gentlemanly silence on the
subject--a circumstance which saved them from the embarrassment of much
self-defence, or a painful admission of their error--and not only
satisfied them that Tom was honest and unselfish, but modest and
forbearing. It is true, that an occasional act or solecism of manner,
somewhat at variance with the conventional usages of polite society, and
an odd vulgarism of expression, were slight blemishes which might be
brought to his charge, and would probably have told against any one
else. But it was well known that Mr. Norton admitted himself to be a
Connaught gentleman, with some of the rough habits of his country, as
well of manner as of phraseology, about him; and it was not to be
expected that a Connemara gentleman, no matter how high his birth and
connection, could at once, or at all, divest himself of these piquant
and agreeable peculiarities.

So much for Tom, who had been for at least a couple of years previous to
his present appearance fairly domesticated with his lordship, acting not
only as his guide, philosopher, and friend, but actually as major-domo,
or general steward of the establishment, even condescending to pay the
servants, and kindly undertaking to rescue his friend, who was ignorant
of business, from the disagreeable trouble of coming in contact with
tradesmen, and making occasional disbursements in matters of which Lord
Dunroe knew little or nothing. Tom was indeed a most invaluable friend,
and his lordship considered it a very fortunate night on which they
first became acquainted; for, although he lost to the tune of five
hundred pounds to him in one of the most fashionable gaming-houses of
London, yet, as a compensation--and more than a compensation--for that
loss, he gained Tom in return.

His lordship was lying on one side in bed, with the Memoirs of ------
on the pillow beside him, when Tom, who had only entered a few minutes
before, on looking at the walls of the apartment, exclaimed, “What the
deuce is this, my lord? Are you aware that your father will be here in a
couple of hours from this time?” and he looked at his watch.

“Oh, ay; the old peer,” replied his lordship, in a languid voice,
“coming as a missionary to reform the profane and infidel. I wish he
would let me alone, and subscribe to the Missionary Society at once.”

“But, my dear Dunroe, are you asleep?”

“Very nearly, I believe. I wish I was.”

“But what's to be done with certain of these pictures? You don't intend
his lordship should see them, I hope?”

“No; certainly not, Tom. We must have them removed. Will you see about
it, Tom, like a good fellow? Stow them, however, in some safe place,
where they won't be injured.”

“Those five must go,” said Norton.

“No,” replied his lordship, “let the Magdalen stay; it will look like a
tendency to repentance, you know, and the old peer may like it.”

“Dunroe, my dear fellow, you know I make no pretence to religion; but
I don't relish the tone in which you generally speak of that most
respectable old nobleman, your father.”

“Don't you, Tom? Well, but, I say, the idea of a most respectable old
nobleman is rather a shabby affair. It's merely the privilege of age,
Tom. I hope I shall never live to be termed a most respectable old
nobleman. Pshaw, my dear Tom, it is too much. It's a proof that he wants
character.”

“I wish, in the mean time, Dunroe, that you and I had as much of that
same commodity as the good old peer could spare us.”

“Well, I suppose you do, Tom; I dare say. My sister is coming with him
too.”

“Yes; so he says in the letter.”

“Well, I suppose I must endure that also; an aristocratic lecture on the
one hand, and the uncouth affections of a hoiden on the other. It's hard
enough, though.”

Tom now rang the bell, and in a few moments a servant entered.

“Wilcox,” said Norton, “get Taylor and M'Intyre to assist you in
removing those five pictures; place them carefully in the green closet,
which you will lock.”

“Yes, carefully, Wilcox,” said his lordship; “and afterwards give the
key to Mr. Norton.”

“Yes, my lord.”

In a few minutes the paintings were removed, and the conversation began
where it had been left off.

“This double visit, Tom, will be a great bore. I wish I could avoid
it--philosophized by the father, beslobbered by the sister--faugh!”

“These books, too, my lord, had better be put aside, I think.”

“Well, I suppose so; lock them in that drawer.”

Norton did so, and then proceeded. “Now, my dear Dunroe--”

“Tom,” said his lordship, interrupting him, “I know what you are going
to say--try and put yourself into something like moral trim for the old
peer--is not that it? Do you know, Tom, I have some thoughts of becoming
religious? What is religion, Tom? You know we were talking about it
the other day. You said it was a capital thing for the world--that it
sharpened a man, and put him up to anything, and so on.”

“What has put such a notion into your head now, my lord?”

“I don't know--nothing, I believe. Can religion be taught, Tom? Could
one, for instance, take lessons in it?”

“For what purpose do you propose it, my lord?”

“I don't know--for two or three purposes, I believe.”

“Will your lordship state them?”

“Why, Tom, I should wish to do the old peer; and touching the baronet's
daughter, who is said to be very conscientious--which I suppose means
the same thing as religion--I should wish to--”

“To do her too,” added Norton, laughing.

“Yes, I believe so; but I forget. Don't the pas'ns teach it?”

“Yes, my lord, by precept, most of them do; not so many by example.”

“But it's the theory only I want. You don't suppose I intend to practice
religion, Tom, I hope?”

“No, my lord, I have a different opinion of your principles.”

“Could you hire me a pas'n, to give lessons in it--say two a week--I
shall require to know something of it; for, my dear Tom, you are not
to be told that twelve thousand a year, and a beautiful girl, are worth
making an effort for. It is true she--Miss Gourlay, I mean--is not to be
spoken of in comparison with the cigar-man's daughter; but then, twelve
thousand a year, Tom--and the good old peer is threatening to curtail my
allowance. Or stay, Tom, would hypocrisy do as well as religion?”

“Every bit, my lord, so far as the world goes. Indeed, in point of fact,
it requires a very keen eye to discover the difference between them.
For one that practises religion, I there are five thousand who practise
hypocrisy.”

“Could I get lessons in hypocrisy? Are there men set apart to teach it?
Are there, for instance, professors of hypocrisy as there are of music
and dancing?”

“Not exactly, my lord; but many of the professors of religion come very
nearly to the same point.”

“How is that, Tom? Explain it, like a good fellow.”

“Why a great number of them deal in both--that is to say, they teach
the one by their doctrine, and the other by their example. In different
words, they inculcate religion to others, and practise hypocrisy
themselves.”

“I see--that is clear. Then, Tom, as they--the pas'ns I mean--are the
best judges of the matter, of course hypocrisy must be more useful than
religion, or they--and such! an immense majority as you say--would not
practise it.”

“More useful it unquestionably is, my lord.”

“Well, in that case, Tom, try and find me out a good hypocrite, a sound
fellow, who properly understands the subject, and I will take lessons
from him. My terms will be! liberal, say--”

“Unfortunately for your lordship, there are no professors to be had;
but, as I said, it comes to the same thing. Engage a professor of
religion, and whilst you pretend to study his doctrine, make a point
also to study his life, and ten to one but you will close! your studies
admirably qualified to take a degree in hypocrisy, if there were such an
honor, and that you wish to imitate your teacher. Either that, my lord,
or it may tend to cure you of a leaning toward hypocrisy as long as you
live.”

“Well, I wish I could make some progress in either one or the other, it
matters not which, provided it be easier to learn, and more useful. We
must think about it, Tom. You will remind me, of course. Was Sir George
here to-day?”

“No, my lord, but he sent to inquire.”

“Nor Lord Jockeyville?”

“He drove tandem to the door, but didn't come in. The other members of
our set have been tolerably regular in their inquiries, especially since
they were undeceived as to the danger of your wound.”

“By the way, Norton, that was a d----d cool fellow that pinked me;
he did the thing in quite a self-possessed and gentlemanly way, too.
However it was my own fault; I forced him into it. You must know I had
reason to suppose that he was endeavoring to injure me in a certain
quarter; in short, that he had made some progress in the affections of
Lucy Gourlay. I saw the attentions he paid to her at Paris, when I was
sent to the right about. In short--but hang it--there--that will do--let
us talk no more about it--I escaped narrowly--that is all.”

“And I must leave you, my lord, for I assure you I have many things to
attend to. Those creditors are unreasonable scoundrels, and must be put
off with soft words and hard promises for some time longer. That Irish
wine-merchant of yours, however, is a model to every one of his tribe.”

“Ah, that is because he knows the old peer. Do you know, Tom, after all,
I don't think it so disreputable a thing to be termed a respectable old
nobleman; but still it indicates want of individual character. Now Tom,
I think I have a character. I mean an original character. Don't
every one almost say--I allude, of course, to every one of sense and
penetration--Dunroe's a character--quite an original--an enigma--a
sphinx--an inscription that cannot be deciphered--an illegible
dog--eh--don't they, Tom?”

“Not a doubt of it, my lord. Even I, who ought to know you so well, can
make nothing of you.”

“Well, but after all, Tom, my father's name overshadows a great number
of my venialities. Dunroe is wild, they say, but then he is the son of a
most respectable old nobleman; and so, many of them shrug and pity, when
they would otherwise assail and blame.”

“And I hope to live long enough to see you a most respectable old
'character' yet, my dear Dunroe. I must go as your representative to
these d-----d ravenous duns. But mark me, comport yourself in your
father's and sister's presence as a young man somewhat meditating upon
the reformation of his life, so that a favorable impression may be made
here, and a favorable report reach the baronet's fair daughter. _Au
revoir_.”




CHAPTER XX. Interview between Lords Cullamore, Dunroe, and Lady Emily

--Tom Norton's Aristocracy fails Him--His Reception by Lord Cullamore.


At the hour appointed, Lord Dunroe's father and sister arrived. The old
peer, as his son usually, but not in the most reverential spirit, termed
him, on entering his sleeping chamber, paused for a moment in the middle
of the room, as if to ascertain his precise state of health; but his
sister, Lady Emily, with all the warmth of a young and affectionate
heart, pure as the morning dew-drop, ran to his bedside, and with tears
in her eyes, stooped down and kissed him, exclaiming at the same time,

“My dear Dunroe; but no--I hate those cold and formal titles--they are
for the world, but not for brother and sister. My dear John, how is your
wound? Thank God, it is not dangerous, I hear. Are you better? Will you
soon be able to rise? My dear brother, how I was alarmed on hearing it;
but there is another kiss to help to cure you.”

“My dear Emily, what the deuce are you about? I tell you I have a
prejudice against kissing female relations. It is too tame, and somewhat
of a bore, child, especially to a sick man.”

His father now approached him with a grave, but by no means an unfeeling
countenance, and extending his hand, said, “I fear, John, that this
has been a foolish business; but I am glad to find that, so far as your
personal danger was concerned, you have come off so safely. How do you
find yourself?”

“Rapidly recovering, my lord, I thank you. At first they considered the
thing serious; but the bullet only grazed the rib slightly, although the
flesh wound was, for a time, troublesome enough. I am now, however, free
from fever, and the wound is closing fast.”

“Whilst this brief dialogue took place, Lady Emily sat on a chair by the
bedside, her large, brilliant eyes no longer filled with tears, but
open with astonishment, and we may as well add with pain, at the utter
indifference with which her brother received her affectionate caresses.
After a few moments' reflection, however, her generous heart supposed it
had discovered his apology.

“Ah,” thought the sweet girl, “I had forgotten his wound, and of course
I must have occasioned him great pain, which his delicacy placed to a
different motive. He did not wish to let me know that I had hurt
him.” And her countenance again beamed with the joy of an innocent and
unsuspecting spirit.

“But, Dunroe,” she said--“John, I mean, won't you soon be able to get
up, and to walk about, or, at all events, to take an airing with us in
the carriage? Will you not, dear John?”

“Yes, I hope so, Emily. By the way, Emily, you have grown quite a woman
since I saw you last. It is now better than two years, I think, since
then.”

“How did you like the Continent, John?”

“Why, my dear girl, how is this? What sympathy can you feel with the
experience of a young fellow like me on the Continent? When you know the
world better, my dear girl, you will feel the impropriety of asking such
a question. Pray be seated, my lord.”

Lord Cullamore sat, as if unconsciously, in an arm-chair beside the
table on which were placed his son's dressings and medicines, and
resting his head on his hand for a moment, as if suffering pain, at
length raised it, and said,

“No, Dunroe; no. I trust my innocent girl will never live to feel the
impropriety of asking a question so natural?”

“I'm sure I hope not, my lord, with all my heart,” replied Dunroe. “Have
you been presented, Emily? Have you been brought out?”

“She has been presented,” said her father, “but not brought out; nor
is it my intention, in the obvious sense of that word, that she ever
shall.”

“Oh, your lordship perhaps has a tendency to Popery, then, and there
is a convent in the background? Is that it, my good lord?” he asked,
smiling.

“No,” replied his father, who could not help smiling in return, “not at
all, John. Emily will not require to be brought out, nor paraded through
the debasing formalities of fashion. She shall not be excluded from
fashion, certainly; but neither shall I suffer her to run the vulgar
gauntlet of heartless dissipation, which too often hardens, debases,
and corrupts. But a truce to this; the subject is painful to me; let us
change it.”

The last observation of Dunroe to his sister startled her so much that
she blushed deeply, and looked with that fascinating timidity which
is ever associated with innocence and purity from her brother to her
father.

“Have I said anything wrong, papa?” she asked, when Lord Cullamore had
ceased to speak.

“Nothing, my love, nothing, but precisely what was natural and right.
Dunroe's reply, however, was neither the one nor the other, and he ought
to have known it.”

“Well now, Emily,” said her brother, “I don't regret it, inasmuch as it
has enabled me to satisfy myself upon a point which I have frequently
heard disputed--that is, whether a woman is capable of blushing or not.
Now I have seen you blush with my own eyes, Emily; nay, upon my honor,
you blush again this moment.”

“Dunroe,” observed his father, “you are teasing your sister; forbear.”

“But don't you see, my lord,” persisted his son, “the absolute necessity
for giving her a course of fashionable life, if it were only to remove
this constitutional blemish. If it were discovered, she is ruined;
to blush being, as your lordship knows, contrary to all the laws and
statutes of fashion in that case made and provided.”

“Dunroe,” said his father, “I intend you shall spend part of the summer
and all the autumn in Ireland, with us.”

“Oh, yes, John, you must come,” said his sister, clapping her snow-white
hands in exultation at the thought. “It will be so delightful.”

“Ireland!” exclaimed Dunroe, with well-feigned surprise; “pray where is
that, my lord?”

“Come, come, John,” said his father, smiling; “be serious.”

“Ireland!” he again exclaimed; “oh, by the way, that's an island, I
think, in the Pacific--is it not?”

“No,” replied his father; “a more inappropriate position you could not
have possibly found for it.”

“Is not that the happy country where the people live without food? Where
they lead a life of independence, and starve in such an heroic spirit?”

“My dear Dunroe,” said his father, seriously, “never sport with
the miseries of a people, especially when that people are your own
countrymen.”

“My lord,” he replied, disregarding the rebuke he had received, “for
Heaven's sake conceal that disgraceful fact. Remember, I am a young
nobleman; call me profligate--spendthrift--debauchee--anything you will
but an Irishman. Don't the Irish refuse beef and mutton, and take to
eating each other? What can be said of a people who, to please their
betters, practise starvation as their natural pastime, and dramatize
hunger to pamper their most affectionate lords and masters, who,
whilst the latter witness the comedy, make the performers pay for their
tickets? And yet, although the cannibal system flourishes, I fear they
find it anything but a Sandwich island.”

“Papa,” said Lady Emily, in a whisper, and with tears in her eyes, “I
fear John's head is a little unsettled by his illness.”

“You will injure yourself, my dear Dunroe,” said his father, “if you
talk so much.”

“Not at all, my good lord and father. But I think I recollect one of
their bills of performance, which runs thus: 'On Saturday, the 25th
inst., a tender and affectionate father, stuffed by so many cubic
feet of cold wind, foul air, all resulting from extermination and
the benevolence of a humane landlord, will in the very wantonness
of repletion, feed upon, the dead body of his own child--for which
entertaining performance he will have the satisfaction, subsequently,
of enacting with success the interesting character of a felon, and be
comfortably lodged at his Majesty's expense in the jail of the county.'
Why, my lord, how could you expect me to acknowledge such a country?
However, I must talk to Tom Norton about this. He was born in the
country you speak of--and yet Tom has an excellent appetite; eats like
other people; abhors starvation; and is no cannibal. It is true, I
have frequently seen him ready enough to eat a fellow--a perfect
raw-head-and-bloody-bones--for which reason, I suppose, the principle,
or instinct, or whatever you call it, is still latent in his
constitution. But, on the other hand, whenever Tom gnashed his teeth at
any one _a la cannibale_, if the other gnashed his teeth at him, all the
cannibal disappeared, and Tom was quite harmless.”

     * This alludes to a dreadful fact of cannibalism, which
     occurred in the South of Ireland in 1846.

“By the way, Dunroe,” said his father, “who is this Tom Norton you speak
of?”

“He is my most particular friend, my lord--my companion--and traveled
with me over the Continent. He is kind enough to take charge of my
affairs: he pays my servants, manages my tradesmen--and, in short, is
a man whom I could not do without. He's up to everything; and is
altogether indispensable to me.”

Lord Cullamore paused for some time, and seemed for a moment absorbed in
some painful reflection or reminiscence. At length he said,

“This man, Dunroe, must be very useful to you, if he be what you have
just described him. Does he also manage your correspondence?”

“He does, my lord; and is possessed of my most unlimited confidence. In
fact, I could never get on without him. My affairs are in a state of
the most inextricable confusion, and were it not for his sagacity
and prudence, I could scarcely contrive to live at all. Poor Tom; he
abandoned fine prospects in order to devote himself to my service.”

“Such a friend must be invaluable, John,” observed his sister. “They say
a friend, a true friend, is the rarest thing in the world; and when one
meets such a friend, they ought to appreciate him.”

“Very true, Emily,” said the Earl; “very true, indeed.” He spoke,
however, as if in a state of abstraction. “Norton!--Norton. Do you know,
John, who he is? Anything of his origin or connections?”

“Nothing whatever,” replied Dunroe; “unless that he is well
connected--he told me so himself--too well, indeed, he hinted, to render
the situation of a dependent one which he should wish his relatives to
become acquainted with--Of course, I respected his delicacy, and did
not, consequently, press him further upon the point.”

“That was considerate on your part,” replied the Earl, somewhat dryly;
“but if he be such as you have described him, I agree with Emily in
thinking he must be invaluable. And now, John, with respect to another
affair--but perhaps this interview may be injurious to your health.
Talking much, and the excitement attending it, may be bad, you know.”

“I am not easily excited, my lord,” replied Dunroe; “rather a cool
fellow; unless, indeed, when I used to have duns to meet. But now Norton
manages all that for me. Proceed, my lord.”

“Yes, but, John,” observed Lady Emily, “don't let affection for papa and
me allow you to go beyond your strength.”

“Never mind, Emily; I am all right, if this wound were healed, as it
will soon be. Proceed, my lord.”

“Well, then, my dear Dunroe, I am anxious you should know that I have
had a long conversation with Sir Thomas Gourlay, upon the subject of
your marriage with his beautiful and accomplished daughter.”

“Yes, the Black Baronet; a confounded old scoundrel by all accounts.”

“You forget, sir,” said the Earl, sternly, “that he is father to your
future wife.”

“Devilish sorry for it, my lord. I wish Lucy was daughter to any one
else--but it matters not; I am not going to marry the black fellow, but
twelve thousand a year and a pretty girl. I know a prettier, though.”

“Impossible, John,” replied Lady Emily, with enthusiasm. “I really think
Lucy Gourlay the most lovely girl I have ever seen--the most amiable,
the most dignified, the most,accomplished, the most--dear John, how
happy I shall be to call her sister!”

“Dunroe,” proceeded his father, “I beg you consider this affair
seriously--solemnly--the happiness of such a girl as Lucy Grourlay is
neither to be sported with nor perilled. You will have much to reform
before you can become worthy of her. I now tell you that the reformation
must be effected, sincerely and thoroughly, before I shall ever give my
consent to your union with her. There must be neither dissimulation nor
hypocrisy on your part. Your conduct must speak for you, and I must,
from the clearest evidence, be perfectly satisfied that in marrying you
she is not wrecking her peace and happiness, by committing them to a man
who is incapable of appreciating her, or who is insensible to what is
due to her great and shining virtues.”

“It would be dreadful, John,” said his sister, “if she should not feel
happy. But if John, papa, requires reformation, I am sure he will reform
for Lucy's sake.”

“He ought to reform from a much higher principle, my dear child,”
 replied her father.

“And so he will, papa. Will you not, dear brother?”

“Upon my honor, my lord,” said Dunroe, “I had a conversation this very
morning upon the subject with Tom Norton.”

“I am glad to hear it, my dear son. It is not too late--it is never too
late--to amend the life; but in this instance there is an event about
to take place which renders a previous reformation, in its truest sense,
absolutely indispensable.”

“My lord,” he replied, “the truth is, I am determined to try a course of
religion. Tom Norton tells me it is the best thing in the world to get
through life with.”

“Tom Norton might have added that it is a much better thing to get
through death with,” added the Earl, gravely.

“But he appears to understand it admirably, my lord,” replied Dunroe.
“He says it quickens a man's intellects, and not only prevents him from
being imposed upon by knaves and sharpers, but enables him, by putting
on a long face, and using certain cabalistic phrases, to overreach--no,
not exactly that, but to--let me see, to steer a safe course through the
world; or something to that effect. He says, too, that religious folks
always come best off, and pay more attention to the things of this life,
than any one else; and that, in consequence, they thrive and prosper
under it. No one, he says, gets credit so freely as a man that is
supposed to be religious. Now this struck me quite forcibly, as a thing
that might be very useful to me in getting out of my embarrassments. But
then, it would be necessary to go to church, I believe--to pray--sing
psalms--read the Bible--and subscribe to societies of some kind or
other. Now all that would be very troublesome. How does a person pray,
my lord? Is it by repeating the Ten Commandments, or reading a religious
book?”

Despite the seriousness of such a subject, Lord Cullamore and his
daughter, on glancing at each other, could scarcely refrain from
smiling.

“Now, I can't see,” proceeded Dunroe, “how either the one or the other
of the said commandments would sharpen a man for the world, as Tom
Norton's religion does.”

The good old Earl thought either that his son was affecting an ignorance
on the subject which he did not feel, or that his ignorance was in
reality so great that for the present, at least, it was useless to
discuss the matter with him.

“I must say, my dear Dunroe,” he added, in a kind and indulgent voice,
“that your first conceptions of reformation are very original, to say
the least of them.”

“I grant it, my lord. Every one knows that all my views, acts, and
expressions are original. 'Dunroe's a perfect original' is the general
expression among my friends. But on the subject of religion, I am
willing to be put into training. I told Tom Norton to look out and
hire me a pas'n, or somebody, to give me lessons in it. Is there such a
thing, by the way, as a Religious Grammar? If so, I shall provide
one, and make myself master of all the rules, cases, inflections,
interjections, groans, exclamations, and so on, connected with it. The
Bible is the dictionary, I believe?”

Poor Lady Emily, like her father, could not for the life of her suppose
for a moment that her brother was serious: a reflection that relieved
her from much anxiety of mind and embarrassment on his account.

“Papa,” said, she, whilst her beautiful features were divided, if we may
so say, between smiles and tears, “papa, Dunroe is only jesting; I am
sure he is only jesting, and does not mean any serious disrespect to
religion.”

“That may be, my dear Emily; but he will allow me to tell him that it
is the last subject upon which he, or any one else, should jest. Whether
you are in jest or earnest, my dear Dunroe, let me advise you to bring
the moral courage and energies of a man to the contemplation of your
life, in the first place; and in the next, to its improvement. It is not
reading the Bible, nor repeating prayers, that will, of themselves, make
you religious, unless the heart is in earnest; but a correct knowledge
of what is right and wrong--in other words, of human duty--will do much
good in the first place; with a firm resolution to avoid the evil and
adopt the good. Remember that you are accountable to the Being who
placed you in this life, and that your duty here consists, not in the
indulgence of wild and licentious passions, but in the higher and nobler
ones of rendering as many of your fellow-creatures happy as you can:
for such a course will necessarily insure happiness to yourself. This is
enough for the present; as soon as you recover your strength you shall
come to Ireland.”

“When I recover my strength!” he exclaimed. “Ay, to be eaten like a
titbit. Heavens, what a delicious morsel a piece of a young peer would
be to such fellows! but I will not run that horrible risk. Lucy must
come to me--I am sure the prospect of a countess's coronet ought to be
a sufficient inducement to her. But, to think that I should run the risk
of being shot from behind a hedge--made a component part of a midnight
bonfire, or entombed in the bowels of some Patagonian cannibal, savagely
glad to feed, upon the hated Saxon who has so often fed upon him!--No,
I repeat, Lucy, if she is to be a countess, must travel in this
direction.”

The indelicacy and want of all consideration for the feelings of his
father, so obvious in his heartless allusion to a fact which could
only result from that father's death, satisfied the old man that any
reformation in his son was for the present hopeless, and even Lady Emily
felt anxious to put an end to the visit as soon as possible.

“By the way,” said his father, as they were taking their leave, “I have
had an unpleasant letter from my brother, in which he states that he
wrote to you, but got no answer.”

“I never received a letter from him,” replied his lordship; “none ever
reached me; if it had, the very novelty of a communication from such a
quarter would have prevented me from forgetting it.”

“I should think so. His letter to me, indeed, is a strange one. He
utters enigmatical threats--”

“Come, I like that--I am enigmatical myself--you see it is in the
family.”

“Enigmatical threats which I cannot understand, and desires me to hold
myself prepared for certain steps which he is about to take, in justice
to what he is pleased to term his own claims. However, it is not worth
notice. But this Norton, I am anxious to see him, Dunroe--will you
request him to call upon me to-morrow at twelve o'clock?--of course, I
feel desirous to make the acquaintance of a man who has proved himself
such a warm and sterling friend to my son.”

“Undoubtedly, my lord, he shall attend on you--I shall take care of
that. Good-by, my lord--good by, Emily--good--good--my dear girl, never
mind the embrace--it is quite undignified--anything but a patrician
usage, I assure you.”

Now it is necessary that we should give our readers a clearer conception
of Lord Dunroe's character than is to be found in the preceding
dialogue. This young gentleman was one of those who wish to put every
person who enters into conversation with them completely at fault. It
was one of his whims to affect ignorance on many subjects with which he
was very well acquainted. His ambition was to be considered a character;
and in order to carry this idea out, he very frequently spoke on the
most commonplace topics as a man might be supposed to do who had just
dropped from the moon. He thought, also, that there was something
aristocratic in this fictitious ignorance, and that it raised him above
the common herd of those who could talk reasonably on the ordinary
topics of conversation or life. His ambition, the reader sees, was to
be considered original. It had besides, this advantage, that in matters
where his ignorance is anything but feigned, it brought him out safely
under the protection of his accustomed habit, without suffering from the
imputation of the ignorance he affected. It was, indeed, the ambition of
a vain and silly mind; but provided he could work out this paltry joke
upon a grave and sensible though unsuspecting individual, he felt quite
delighted at the feat; and took the person thus imposed upon into the
number of his favorites. It was upon this principle among others that
Norton, who pretended never to see through his flimsy irony, contrived
to keep in his favor, and to shape him according to his wishes, whilst
he made the weak-minded young man believe that everything he did and
every step he took was the result of his own deliberate opinion, whereas
in fact he was only a puppet in his hands.

His father, who was naturally kind and indulgent, felt deeply grieved
and mortified by the reflections arising from this visit. During the
remainder of the day he seemed wrapped in thought; but we do not attempt
to assert that the dialogue with his son was the sole cause of this.
He more than once took out his brother's letter which he read with
surprise, not unmingled with strong curiosity and pain. It was, as
he said, extremely enigmatical, whilst at the same time it contained
evidences of that deplorable spirit which almost uniformly embitters
so deeply the feuds which arise from domestic misconceptions. On this
point, however, we shall enable the reader to judge for himself. The
letter was to the following effect:

“My Lord Cullamore.--It is now nine months and upwards since I addressed
a letter to your son; and I wrote to him in reference to you, because it
had been for many years my intention never to have renewed or held any
communication whatsoever with you. It was on this account, therefore,
that I opened, or endeavored to open, a correspondence with him rather
than with his father. In this I have been disappointed, and my object,
which was not an unfriendly one, frustrated. I do not regret, however,
that I have been treated with contempt. The fact cancelled the foolish
indulgence with which an exhibition of common courtesy and politeness,
if not a better feeling, on the part of your son, might have induced me
to treat both you and him. As matters now stand between us, indulgence
is out of the question; so is compromise. I shall now lose little time
in urging claims which you will not be able to withstand. Whether you
suspect the nature of these claims or not is more than I know. Be that,
however, as it may, I can assure you that I had resolved not to disturb
your last days by prosecuting them during your lifetime. That resolution
I have now rescinded, and all that remains for me to say is; that as
little time as possible shall be lost in enforcing the claims I allude
to, in justice to my family.

“I am, my Lord Cullamore,

“Your obedient servant,

“RICHARD STAPLETON.”


This strange and startling communication caused the good old man much
uneasiness, even although its object and purpose were altogether beyond
his comprehension. The only solution that occurred to him of the mystery
which ran through it, was that it must have been written under some
misconception or delusion for which he could not account. Another key
to the difficulty--one equally replete with distress and alarm--was
that his brother's reason had probably become unsettled, and that the
communication in question was merely the emanation of mental alienation.
And, indeed, on this point only could he account for the miscarriage of
the letter to his son, which probably had never been written at all and
existed only in the disturbed imagination of his unfortunate brother.

At all events, the contents of this document, like those mysterious
presentiments of evil which sometimes are said to precede calamity, hung
like a weight upon his mind, view them as he might. He became nervous,
depressed, and gloomy, pleaded illness as an apology for not dining
abroad; remained alone and at home during the whole evening, but arose
the next morning in better spirits, and when our friend Tom Norton
presented himself, he had regained sufficient equanimity and composure
to pay proper attention to that faithful and friendly gentleman.

Now Tom, who resolved to make an impression, as it is termed, was
dressed in the newest and most fashionable morning visit costume, drove
up to the hall-door at that kind of breakneck pace with which your
celebrated whips delight to astonish the multitude, and throwing the
reins to a servant, desired, if he knew how to pace the horse up and
down, to do so; otherwise to remember that he had a neck.

The servant in question, a stout, compact fellow, with a rich Milesian
face and a mellow brogue, looked at him with a steady but smiling eye.

“Have a neck, is it?” he exclaimed; “by my sowl, an' it's sometimes an
inconvenience to have that same. My own opinion is, sir, that the neck
now is jist one of the tenderest joints in the body.”

Norton looked at him for a moment with an offended and haughty stare.

“If you are incapable of driving the landau, sir,” he replied, “call
some one who can; and don't be impertinent.”

“Incapable,” replied the other, with a cool but humorous kind of
gravity; “troth, then it's disgrace I'd bring on my taicher if I
couldn't sit a saddle an' handle a whip with the best o' them. And wid
regard to the neck, sir, many a man has escaped a worse fall than one
from the box or the saddle.”

Norton drew himself up with a highly indignant scowl, and turning his
frown once more upon this most impertinent menial, encountered a look
of such comic familiarity, easy assurance, and droll indifference, as
it would not be easy to match. The beau started, stared, again pulled
himself to a still greater height--as if by the dignity of the attitude
to set the other at fault--frowned more awfully, then looked bluster,
and once more surveyed the broad, knowing face and significant laughing
eyes that were fixed upon him--set, as they were, in the centre of a
broad grin--after which he pulled up his collar with an air--taking
two or three strides up and down with what he intended as aristocratic
dignity--

“Hem! ahem! What do you mean, sir?”

To this, for a time, there was no reply; but there, instead, were the
laughing fascinators at work, fixed not only upon him, but in him,
piercing him through; the knowing grin still increasing and gathering
force of expression by his own confusion.

“Curse me, sir, I don't understand this insolence. What do you mean? Do
you know who it is you treat in this manner?”

Again he stretched himself, pulled up his collar as before, displaying a
rich diamond ring, then taking out a valuable gold watch, glanced at
the time, and putting it in his fob, looked enormously big and haughty,
exclaiming again, with a frown that was intended to be a stunner--after
again pacing up and down with the genuine tone and carriage of true
nobility--

“I say, sir, do you know the gentleman whom you are treating with
such impertinence? Perhaps you mistake me, on account of a supposed
resemblance, for some former acquaintance of yours. If, so, correct
yourself; I have never seen you till this moment.”

There, however, was the grin, and there were the eyes as before,
to which we must add a small bit of pantomime on the part of Morty
O'Flaherty, for such was the servant's name, which bit of pantomime
consisted in his (Morty's) laying his forefinger very knowingly
alongside his nose, exclaiming, in a cautious and friendly voice
however,

“Barney, achora, don't be alarmed; there's no harm done yet. You're safe
if you behave yourself.”

“What!” said Norton. “By the bones of St. Patrick but you are Morty
O'Flaherty! Confound it, my dear Morty, why didn't you make yourself
known at once? it would have relieved both of us.”

“One of us, you mane,” replied Morty, with a wink.

“Upon my soul I am glad to free you, Morty. And how are you, man alive?
In a snug berth here, I see, with the father of my friend, Lord Dunroe.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Morty, shrewdly; “is that it? Your friend; Oh, I see.
Nate as ever, like a clane sixpence. Well, Barney, the world will have
its way.”

“Ay, Morty, and we must comply with it. Some it brings up, and others it
brings down.”

“Whisht, now, Barney,” said Morty; “let by-gones be by-gones. That it
didn't bring you up, be thankful to a gracious Providence and a light
pair o' heels; that's all. And what are you now?”

“No longer Barney Bryan, at any rate,” replied the other. “My name, at
present, is Norton.”

“At present! Upon my sowl, Barney, so far as names goes, you're a
walkin' catalogue.”

“Thomas Norton, Esquire; residing with that distinguished young
nobleman, Lord Dunroe, as his bosom friend and inseparable companion.”

“Hem! I see,” said Morty, with a shrug, which he meant as one of
compassion for the aforesaid Lord Dunroe; “son to my masther. Well, God
pity him, Barney, is the worst I wish him. You will take care of him;
you'll tache him a thing or two--and that's enough. But, Barney--”

“Curse Barney--Mr. Norton's the word.”

“Well, Mr. Norton--ah, Mr. Norton, there's one person you'll not
neglect.”

“Who is that, Morty?”

“Faith, your mother's son, achora. However, you know the proverb--'A
burnt child dreads the fire.' You have a neck still, Barney--beg pardon,
Mr. Norton--don't forget that fact.”

“And I'll take care of the said neck, believe me, Morty; I shall keep it
safe, never fear.”

“Take care you don't keep it a little too safe. A word to the wise is
enough, Bar--Mr. Norton.”

“It is, Morty; and I trust you will remember that that is to be a
regulation between us. 'A close mouth is the sign of a wise head,' too;
and there's a comrade for your proverb--but we are talking too long.
Listen; keep my secret, and I will make it worth your while to do so.
You may ruin me, without serving yourself; but as a proof that you will
find me your friend, I will slip you five guineas, as a recompense, you
know, for taking care of the landau and horses. In short, if we work
into each other's hands it will be the better for us both.”

“I'll keep your' saicret,” replied honest Morty, “so long, Barney--hem!
Mr. Norton--as you keep yourself honest; but I'll dirty my hands wid
none o' your money. If I was willin' to betray you, it's not a bribe
would prevent me.”

Mr. Norton, in a few moments, was ushered into the presence of Lord
Cullamore.

On entering the apartment, the old nobleman, with easy and native
courtesy, rose up, and received him with every mark of attention and
respect.

“I am happy, Mr. Norton,” he proceeded, “to have it in my power to thank
you for the friendship and kindness which my son, Lord Dunroe, has been
so fortunate as to receive at your hands. He speaks of you with such
warmth, and in terms of such high esteem, that I felt naturally anxious
to make your acquaintance, as his friend. Pray be seated.”

Norton, who was a quick and ready fellow, in more senses than one, bowed
lowly, and with every mark of the deepest respect; but, at the same
time, he certainly started upon a high and a rather hazardous theory--to
wit, that of a man of consequence, who wished to be considered with
respect to Dunroe rather as a patron than a dependent.

The fellow, we should have stated to the reader, was originally from
Kerry, though he adopted Connaught, and consequently had a tolerable
acquaintance with Latin and Greek--an acquisition which often stood him
in stead through life; joined to which was an assurance that nothing
short of a scrutiny such as Morty O'Maherty's could conquer.

“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “you quite overrate any trifling
services I may have rendered to my friend Dunroe. Upon my soul and honor
you do. I have done nothing for him--that is, nothing to speak of. But
the truth is, I took a fancy to Dunroe; and I do assure you again, Lord
Cullamore, that when I do take a fancy to any person--a rare case with
me, I grant--I would go any possible lengths to serve him. Every man has
his whim, my lord, and that is mine. I hope your lordship had a pleasant
trip across Channel?”

“Yes, thank you, Mr. Norton; but I have been for some time past in
delicate health, and am not now so capable of bearing the trip as
formerly. Still I feel no reason to complain, although far from strong.
Dunroe, I perceive, is reduced considerably by his wound and the
consequent confinement.”

“Oh, naturally, of course, my lord; but a few days now will set him upon
his legs.”

“That, it seems to me, Mr. Norton, was a very foolish and unpleasant
affair altogether.”

“Nothing could be more so, my lord. It was altogether wrong on the part
of Dunroe, and so I told him.”

“Could you not have prevented it, Mr. Norton?”

“Ha, ha, ha! very good, Lord Cullamore. Ask me could I prevent or check
a flash of lightning. Upon my soul and honor, the thing was over, and my
poor friend down, before you could say 'Jack Robinson'--hem!--as we say
in Connaught.”

“You have travelled, too, with my son, Mr. Norton, and he is perfectly
sensible of the services you have rendered him during his tour.”

“God forbid, my Lord Cullamore, that I should assume any superiority
over poor, kind-hearted, and honorable Dunroe; but as you are his
father, my lord, I may--and with pride and satisfaction I do it--put the
matter on its proper footing, and say, that Dunroe travelled with me.
The thing is neither here nor there, of course, nor would I ever allude
to it unless as a proof of my regard and affection for him.”

“That only enhances your kindness, Mr. Norton.”

“Why, my lord, I met Dunroe in Paris--no matter, I took him out of some
difficulties, and prevented him from getting into more. He had been set
by a clique of--but I will not dwell on this, it looks like egotism--I
said before, I took a fancy to him--for it frequently happens, my good
lord, that you take a fancy to the person you have served.”

“True enough, indeed, Mr. Norton.”

“I am fond of travelling, and was about to make my fourth or fifth tour,
when I met your son, surrounded by a crew of--but I have alluded to this
a moment ago. At all events, I saw his danger--a young man exposed to
temptation--the most alluring and perilous. Well, my lord, mine was
a name of some weight and authority, affording just the kind of
countenance and protection your son required. Well, I travelled with
him, guarded him, guided him, for as to any inconvenience I may myself
have experienced in taking him by the most comprehensive routes, and
some other matters, they are not worth naming. Of course I introduced
him to some of the most distinguished men of France--to the Marquis De
Fogleville, for instance, the Count Rapscallion, Baron Snottellin, and
some others of the first rank and nobility of the country. The pleasure
of his society, however, more than compensated me for all.”

“But, pardon me, Mr. Norton, I believe the title and family of De
Fogleville have been extinct. The last of them was guillotined not long
since for an attempt to steal the crown jewels of France, I think.”

“True, my lord, you are perfectly right, the unhappy man was an insane
legitimist; but the title and estates have been revived in the person of
another member of the family, the present marquis, who is a nobleman of
high consideration and honor.”

“Oh, indeed! I was not aware of that, Mr. Norton,” said his lordship. “I
am quite surprised at the extent of your generosity and goodness to my
son.”

“But, my lord, it is not my intention to give up Dunroe or abandon the
poor fellow yet awhile. I am determined to teach him economy in managing
his affairs, to make him know the value of time, of money, and of
system, in everything pertaining to Life and business. Nor do I regret
what I have done, nor what I propose to do; far from it, my lord. All
I ask is, that he will always look upon me as a friend or an elder
brother, and consult me, confide in me, and come to me, in fact, or
write to me, whenever he may think I can be of service to him.”

“And in his name, of course, I may at least thank you, Mr. Norton,”
 replied the Earl, with a slight irony in his manner, “not only for all
you have done, but for all you propose to do, as you say.”

Norton shook his head peremptorily.

“Pardon me, my lord, no thanks. I am overpaid by the pleasure of ranking
Dunroe among the number of my friends.”

“You are too kind, indeed, Mr. Norton; and I trust my son will be duly
grateful, as he is duly sensible of all you have done for him. By
the way, Mr. Norton, you alluded to Connaught. You are, I presume, an
Irishman?”

“I am an Irishman, my lord.”

“Of course, sir, I make no inquiry as to your individual family. I am
sure from what I have seen of you they must have been, and are, persons
of worth and consideration; but I wished to ask if the name be a
numerous one in Ireland, or rather, in your part of it--Connaught?”

“Numerous, my lord, no, not very numerous, but of the first
respectability.”

“Pray, is your father living, Mr. Norton? If he be, why don't you bring
him among us? And if you have any brother, I need scarcely say what
pleasure it would afford me, having, as you are aware, I presume, some
influence with ministers, to do anything I could for him, should he
require it; probably in the shape of a foreign appointment, or something
that way. Anything, Mr. Norton, to repay a portion of what is due to you
by my family.”

“I thank your lordship,” replied Tom. “My poor father was, as too many
other Irish gentlemen have been, what is termed a hard goer (the honest
man was a horse jockey like myself, thought Tom)--and indeed ran through
a great deal of property during the latter part of his life (when he was
huntsman to Lord Rattlecap, he went through many an estate).”

“Well, but your brother?”

“Deeply indebted, my lord, but I have no brother living. Poor Edward did
get a foreign appointment many years ago (he was transported for horse
stealing), by the influence of one of the most eminent of our judges,
who strongly advised him to accept it, and returned his name to
government as a worthy and suitable candidate. He died there, my lord,
in the discharge of his appointed duties. Poor Ned, however, was never
fond of public business under government, and, indeed, accepted the
appointment in question with great reluctance.”

“The reason why I made these inquiries about the name of Norton,” said
Lord Cullamore, “is this. There was, several years ago, a respectable
female of the name, who held a confidential situation in my family; I
have long lost sight of her, however, and would be glad to know whether
she is living or dead.”

(“My sister-in-law,” thought Tom.) “I fear,” he replied, “I can render
you no information on that point, my lord; the last female branch of our
part of the family was my grandmother, who died about three years ago.”

At this moment a servant entered the apartment, bearing in his hand a
letter, for which office he had received a bribe of half-a-crown. “I beg
pardon, my lord, but there's a woman at the hall-door, who wishes this
letter to be handed to that gentleman; but I fear there's some mistake,”
 he added, “it is directed to Barney Bryan. She insists he is here, and
that she saw him come into the house.”

“Barney Bryan,” said Tom, with great coolness; “show me the letter,
for I think I know something about it. Yes, I am right. It is an insane
woman, my lord, wife to a jockey of mine, who broke his neck riding my
celebrated horse, Black and all Black, on the Curragh. The poor creature
cannot believe that her husband is dead, and thinks that I enjoy that
agreeable privilege. The circumstance, indeed, was a melancholy one; but
I have supported her ever since.”

Morty O'Flaherty, who had transferred his charge to other hands, fearing
that Mister Norton might get into trouble, now came to the rescue.

“Pray,” said Tom, quick as lightning, “is that insane creature below
still, a poor woman whose husband broke his neck riding a race for me on
the Curragh, and she thinks that I stand to her in that capacity?”

“Oh, yes; she says,” added the man who brought the letter, “that this
gentleman's name is not Norton, but Bryan--Barney Bryan, I think--and
that he is her husband, exactly as the gentleman says.”

“Just so, my lord,” said Tom, smiling; “poor thing! what a melancholy
delusion.”

“I was present at the accident, Mr. Norton,” added Morty, boldly, “and
remember the circumstance, in throth, very well. Didn't the poor woman
lose her senses by it?”

“Yes,” replied Tom, “I have just mentioned the circumstance to his
lordship.”

“And--beg pardon, Mr. Norton--doesn't she take you for her husband from
that day to this?”

“Yes, so I have said.”

“Oh, God help her, poor thing! Isn't she to be pitied?” added Morty,
with a dry roguish glance at Mr. Norton; “throth, she has a hard fate of
it. Howaniver, she is gone. I got her off, an' now the place is I clear
of the unfortunate creature. The lord look to her!”

The servants then withdrew, and Norton made his parting bow to Lord
Cullamore, whom we now leave to his meditations on the subject of this
interview.




CHAPTER XXI. A Spy Rewarded

--Sir Thomas Gourlay Charged Home by the Stranger with the Removal and
Disappearance of his Brother's Son.


We left the Black Baronet in a frame of mind by no means to be envied by
our readers. The disappearance of his daughter and her maid had stunned
and so completely prostrated him, that he had not sufficient energy even
for a burst of his usual dark and overbearing resentment. In this state
of mind, however, he was better able to reflect upon the distressing
occurrence that had happened. He bethought him of Lucy's delicacy,
of her sense of honor, her uniform propriety of conduct, her singular
self-respect, and after all, of the complacent spirit of obedience with
which, in everything but her contemplated union with Lord Dunroe, she
had, during her whole life, and under the most trying circumstances,
accommodated herself to his wishes. He then reflected upon the fact of
her maid having accompanied her, and concluded, very naturally, that
if she had resolved to elope with this hateful stranger, she would have
done so in pursuance of the precedent set by most young ladies who take
such steps--that is, unaccompanied by any one but her lover. From this
view of the case he gathered comfort, and was beginning to feel his
mind somewhat more at ease, when a servant entered to say that Mr.
Crackenfudge requested to see him on particular business.

“He has come to annoy me about that confounded magistracy, I suppose,”
 exclaimed the baronet. “Have you any notion what the worthless scoundrel
wants, Gibson?”

“Not the least, your honor, but he seems brimful of something.”

“Ay, brimful of ignorance, and of impertinence, too, if he durst show
it; yes, and of as much pride and oppression as could well be contained
in a miserable carcass like his. As he is a sneaking, vigilant rascal,
however, and has a great deal of the spy in his composition, it is not
impossible that he may be able to give me some information touching the
disappearance of Miss Gourlay.”

Gibson, after making his bow, withdrew, and the redoubtable Crackenfudge
was ushered into the presence of the baronet.

The first thing the former did was to survey the countenance of his
patron, for as such he wished to consider him and to find him. There,
then, Sir Thomas sat, stern but indifferent, with precisely the
expression of a tiger lying gloomily in his den, the natural ferocity
“in grim repose” for the time, but evidently ready to blaze up at
anything that might disturb or provoke him. Had Crackenfudge been gifted
with either tact or experience, or any enlarged knowledge of the human
heart, especially of the deep, dark, and impetuous one that beat in the
bosom then before him, he would have studied the best and least alarming
manner of conveying intelligence calculated to produce such terrific
effects upon a man like Sir Thomas Gourlay. Of this, however, he knew
nothing, although his own intercourse with him might have well taught
him the necessary lesson.

“Well, Mr. Crackenfudge,” said the latter, without moving, “what's wrong
now? What's the news?”

“There's nothing wrong, Sir Thomas, and a've good news.”

The baronet's eye and brow lost some of their gloom; he arose and
commenced, as was his custom, to walk across the room.

“Pray what is this good news, Mr. Crackenfudge? Will you be kind enough,
without any unnecessary circumlocution, to favor your friends with it?”

“With pleasure, Sir Thomas, because a' know you are anxious to hear it,
and it deeply concerns you.”

Sir Thomas paused, turned round, looked at him for a moment with an
impatient scowl; but in the meaningless and simpering face before him he
could read nothing but what appeared to him to be an impudent chuckle of
satisfaction; and this, indeed, was no more than what Crackenfudge felt,
who had altogether forgotten the nature of the communication he was
about to make, dreadful and disastrous as it was, and thought only of
the claim upon Sir Thomas's influence which he was about to establish
with reference to the magistracy. It was the reflection, then, of this
train of little ambition which Sir Thomas read in his countenance, and
mistook for some communication that might relieve him, and set his mind
probably at ease. The scowl we allude to accordingly disappeared, and
Sir Thomas, after the glance we have recorded, said, checking himself
into a milder and more encouraging tone:

“Go on, Mr. Crackenfudge, let us hear it at once.”

“Well, then, Sir Thomas, a' told you a'd keep my eye on that chap.”

“On whom? name him, sir.”

“A' can't, Sir Thomas; the fellow in the inn.”

“Oh! what about him?”

“Why he has taken her off.”

“Taken whom off?” shouted the baronet, in a voice of thunder. “You
contemptible scoundrel, whom has he taken off?”

“Your daughter, Sir Thomas--Miss Gourlay. They went together in the
'Fly' on Tuesday night last to Dublin; a' followed in the 'Flash of
Lightning,' and seen them in conversation. Dandy Dulcimer, who is
your friend--For God's sake, Sir Thomas, be quiet. You'll shake
me--a-a-ach--Sir--Thom-a-as--w-wi-will you not take my--my
--li-life----”

“You lie like a villain, you most contemptible reptile,” shouted the
other. “My daughter, sirrah, never eloped with an adventurer. She never
eloped at all, sir. She durst not elope. She knows what my vengeance
would be, sirrah. She knows, you lying whelp of perdition, that I would
pursue herself and her paramour to the uttermost ends of the earth; that
I would shoot them both dead--that I would trample upon and spurn
their worthless carcasses, and make an example of them to all time, and
through all eternity. And you--you prying, intermeddling scoundrel--how
durst you--you petty, beggarly tyrant--hated and despised by poor and
rich--was it to mock me--”

“Sir Thom-a-as,
a'm--a'm--I--I--aach--ur-ur-ur-mur-murd-murd-er-er-err-errr.”

“Was it to jeer and sneer at me--to insult me--you miserable knave--to
drive me mad--into raging frenzy--that you came, with a smirk of
satisfaction on your face, to communicate the disgrace and dishonor of
my family--the ruin of my hopes--the frustration of my ambition--of all
I had set my heart on, and that I perilled my soul to accomplish? Yes,
you villain, your eye was smiling--elated--your heart was glad--for,
sirrah, you hate me at heart.”

“God! oh, oh! a'm--a'm--ur-urr-urrr--whee-ee-ee-hee-hee-hee. God
ha-ha-ha-have mer-mer-mercy on my sinf-sinfu-l sou-so-soul! a'm gone.”

“Yes, you hate me, villain, and this is a triumph to you; every one
hates me, and every one will rejoice at my shame. I know it, you
accursed miscreant, I feel it; and in return I hate, with more than the
malignity of the devil, every human creature that God has made. I have
been at enmity with them, and in that enmity I shall persist; deep and
dark as hell shall it be, and unrelenting as the vengeance of a devil.
There,” he added, throwing the almost senseless body of Crackenfudge
over on a sofa, “there, you may rest on that sofa, and get breath; get
breath quickly, and mark, obey me.”

“Yes, Sir Thomas, a' will; a'll do anything, provided that you'll let me
escape with my life. God! a'm nearly dead, the fire's not out of my eyes
yet.”

“Silence, you wretched slave!” shouted the baronet, stamping with rage;
not another word of complaint, but listen to n--listen to me, I say: go
on, and let me hear, fully and at large, the withering history of this
burning and most flagitious disgrace.”

“But if a' do, you'll only beat and throttle me to death, Sir Thomas.”

“Whether I may or may not do so, go on, villain, and--go on, that
quickly, or by heavens I shall tear the venomous heart from your body,
and trample the black intelligence out of it. Proceed instantly.”

With a face of such distress as our readers may well imagine, and a
voice whose quavers of terror wrere in admirable accordance with it,
the unfortunate Crackenfudge related the circumstance of Lucy's visit to
Dublin, as he considered it, and, in fact, so far as he was acquainted
with her motions, as it appeared to him a decided elopement, without the
possibility of entertaining either doubt or mistake about it.

In the meantime, how shall we describe the savage fury of the baronet,
as the trembling wretch proceeded? It is impossible. His rage, the
vehemence of his gestures, the spasms that seemed to sey;e sometimes
upon his features and sometimes upon his limbs, as well as upon
different parts of his body, transformed him into the appearance of
something that was unnatural and frightful. He bit his lips in the
effort to restrain these tremendous paroxysms, until the bloody foam
fell in red flakes from his mouth, and as portions of it were carried
by the violence of his gesticulations over several parts of his face,
he had more the appearance of some bloody-fanged ghoul, reeking from the
spoil of a midnight grave, than that of a human being.

“Now,” said he, “how did it happen that--brainless, worthless, and
beneath all contempt, as you are, most execrable scoundrel--you suffered
that adroit ruffian, Dulcimer--whom I shall punish, never fear--how came
it, you despicable libel on nature and common sense--that you allowed
him to humbug you to your face, to laugh at you, to scorn you, to spit
upon you, to poke your ribs, as if you were an idiot, as you are, and
to kick you, as it were, in every imaginable part of your worthless
carcass--how did it come, I say, that you did not watch them properly,
that you did not get them immediately arrested, as you ought to have
done, or that you did not do more than would merely enable you to
chronicle my disgrace and misery?”

“A' did all a' could, Sir Thomas. A' searched through all Dublin for her
without success; but as to where he has her, a' can't guess. The first
thing a' did, after takin' a sleep, was to come an' tell you to-day; for
a' travelled home by last night's coach. You ought to do something, Sir
Thomas, for every one has it now. It's through all Ballytrain. 'Deed a'
pity you, Sir Thomas.”

Now this unfortunate being took it for granted that the last brief
silence of the baronet resulted from, some reasonable attention to
what he (Crackenfudge) had been saying, whereas the fact was, that
his terrible auditor had been transfixed into the highest and most
uncontrollable fit of indignation by the substance of his words.

“What!” said he, in a voice that made Crackenfudge leap at least a foot
from the sofa. “You pity me, do you!--you, you diabolical eavesdropper,
you pity me. Sacred heaven! And again, you searched through all
Dublin for my daughter!--carrying her disgrace and infamy wherever you
appeared, and advertising them as you went along, like an emissary of
shame and calumny, as you are. Yes,” said he, as he foamed with the fury
of a raging bull; “'I--I--I,' you might have said, 'a nameless whelp,
sprung from the dishonest clippings of a counter--I, I say, am in quest
of Miss Gourlay, who has eloped with an adventurer, an impostor--with a
brushmaker's clerk.'”

“A tooth-brush manufacturer, Sir Thomas, and, you know, they are often
made of ivory.”

“Come, you intermeddling rascal, I must either tear you asunder or my
brain will burst; I will not have such a worthless life as yours on my
hands, however; you vermin, out with you; I might have borne anything
but your compassion, and even that too; but to blazon through a gaping
metropolis the infamy of my family--of all that was dear to me--to turn
the name of my child into a polluted word, which modest lips would feel
ashamed to utter; nor, lastly, can I forgive you the crime of making me
suffer this mad and unexampled agony.”

Action now took the place of words, and had, indeed, come in as
an auxiliary for some time previous. He seized the unfortunate
Crackenfudge, and as, with red and dripping lips, he gave vent to the
furious eruptions of his fiery spirit, like a living Vesuvius--for we
know of no other comparison so appropriate--he kicked and cuffed the
wretched and unlucky intelligencer, until he fairly threw him out at the
hall-door, which he himself shut after him.

“Begone, villain!” he exclaimed; “and may you never die till you feel
the torments which you have kindled, like the flames of hell, within
me!”

On entering the room again, he found, however, that with a being even so
wretched and contemptible as Crackenfudge, there had departed a portion
of his strength. So long as he had an object on which to launch his
fury, he felt that he could still sustain the battle of his passions.
But now a heavy sense came over him, as if of something which he could
not understand or analyze. His heart sank, and he felt a nameless and
indescribable terror within him--a terror, he thought, quite distinct
from the conduct of his daughter, or of anything else he had heard. He
had, in fact, lost all perception of his individual misery, and a moral
gloom, black as night, seemed to cover and mingle with those fiery
tortures which were consuming him. An apprehension, also, of immediate
dissolution came over him--his memory grew gradually weaker and weaker,
until he felt himself no longer able to account for the scene which had
just taken place; and for a brief period, although he neither swooned
nor fainted, nor fell into a fit of any kind, he experienced a stupor
that amounted to a complete unconsciousness of being, if we except an
undying impression of some great evil which had befallen him, and
which lay, like a grim and insatiable monster, tearing up his heart.
At length, by a violent effort, he recovered a little, became once more
conscious, walked about for some time, then surveyed himself in the
glass, and what between the cadaverous hue of his face and the flakes
of red foam which we have described, when taken in connection with his
thick, midnight brows, it need not be wondered at that he felt alarmed
at the state to which he awakened.

After some time, however, he rang for Gibson, who, on seeing him,
started.

“Good God, sir!” said he, quite alarmed, “whit is the matter?”

“I did not ring for you, sir,” he replied, “to ask impertinent
questions. Send Gillespie to me.”

Gibson withdrew, and in the mean time his master went to his
dressing-room, where he washed himself free of the bloody evidences of
his awful passions. This being done, he returned to the library, where,
in a few minutes, Gillespie attended him.”

“Gillespie,” he exclaimed, “do you fear God?”

“I hope I do, Sir Thomas, as well as another, at any rate.”

“Well, then, begone, for you are useless to me--begone, sirrah, and get
me some one that fears neither God nor devil.”

“Why, Sir Thomas,” replied the ruffian, who, having expected a job, felt
anxious to retrieve himself, “as to that matter, I can't say that I ever
was overburdened with much fear of either one or other of them. Indeed,
I believe, thank goodness, I have as little religion as most people.”

“Are you sure, sirrah, that you have no conscience?”

“Why--hem--I have done things for your honor before, you know. As to
religion, however, I'll stand upon having as little of it as e'er a man
in the barony. I give up to no one in a want of that commodity.”

“What proof can you afford me that you are free from it?”

“Why, blow me if I know the twelve commandments, and, besides, I was
only at church three times in my life, and I fell asleep under the
sermon each time; religion, sir, never agreed with me.”

“To blazon my shame!--bad enough; but the ruin of my hopes, d--n you,
sir, how durst you publish my disgrace to the world?”

“I, your honor! I'll take my oath I never breathed a syllable of it;
and you know yourself, sir, the man was too drunk to be able to speak or
remember anything of what happened.”

“Sir, you came to mock and jeer at me; and, besides, you are a liar, she
has not eloped.”

“I don't understand you, Sir Thomas,” said Gillespie, who saw at once by
his master's disturbed and wandering eye, that the language he uttered
was not addressed to him.

“What--what,” exclaimed the latter, rising up and stretching himself,
in order to call back his scattered faculties. “Eh, Gillespie!--what
brought you here, sirrah? Are you too come to triumph over the ambitious
projector? What am I saying? I sent for you, Gillespie, did I not?”

“You did, Sir Thomas; and with regard to what we were speaking about--I
mean religion--I'll hould a pound note with Charley Corbet, when he
comes back, that I have less of it than him; and we'll both leave it to
your honor, as the best judge; now, if I have less of it than Charley, I
think I deserve the preference.”

The baronet looked at him, or rather in the direction where he stood,
which induced Gillespie to suppose that he was paying the strictest
attention to what he said.

“Besides, I once caught Charley at his prayers, Sir Thomas; but I'd be
glad to see the man that ever caught me at them--that's the chat.”

Sir Thomas placed his two hands upon his eyes for as good as a minute,
after which he removed them, and stared about him like one awakening
from a disturbed dream.

“Eh?--Begone, Gillespie; I believe I sent for you, but you may go. I am
unwell, and not in a condition to speak to you. When I want you again,
you shall be sent for.”

“I don't care a d---- about either hell or the devil, Sir Thomas,
especially when I'm drunk; and I once, for a wager, outswore Squire
Leatherings, who was so deaf that I was obliged to swear with my mouth
to the end of his ear-trumpet. I was backed for fifty guineas by Colonel
Brimstone, who was head of the Hellfire Club.”

The baronet signed to him impatiently to begone, and this worthy
moralist withdrew, exclaiming as he went:

“Take my word for it, you will find nothing to your hand equal to
myself; and if there's anything to be done, curse me but I deserve a
preference. I think merit ought to have its reward at any rate.”

Sir Thomas, we need not say, felt ill at ease. The tumults of his mind
resembled those of the ocean after the violence of the tempest has swept
over it, leaving behind that dark and angry agitation which indicates
the awful extent of its power. After taking a turn or two through the
room, he felt fatigued and drowsy, with something like a feeling of
approaching illness. Yielding to this heaviness, he stretched himself on
a sofa, and in a few minutes was fast asleep.

All minds naturally vicious, or influenced by the impulses of bad and
irregular passions, are essentially vulgar, mean, and cowardly. Our
baronet was, beyond question, a striking proof of this truth. Had
he possessed either dignity, or one spark of gentlemanly feeling, or
self-respect, he would not have degraded himself from what ought to
have been expected from a man in his position, by his violence to the
worthless wretch, Crackenfudge, who was slight, comparatively feeble,
and by no means a match for him in a personal contest. The only apology
that can be offered for him is, that it is probable he was scarcely
conscious, in the whirlwind and tempest of his passions, that he allowed
himself to act such a base and unmanly part to a person who had not
willingly offended him, and who was entitled, whilst under his roof, to
forbearance, if not protection, even in virtue of the communication he
had made.

After sleeping about an hour, he arose considerably refreshed in body;
but the agony of mind, although diminished in its strength by its own
previous paroxysms, was still intense and bitter. He got up, surveyed
himself once more in the glass, adjusted his dress, and helped himself
to a glass or two of Madeira, which was his usual specific after these
internal conflicts.

This day, however, was destined to be one of trial to him, although
by no means his last; neither was it ordained to bring forth the final
ordeals that awaited him. He had scarcely time to reflect upon the
measures which, under the present circumstances, he ought to pursue,
although he certainly was engaged in considering the matter, when Gibson
once more entered to let him know that a gentleman requested the favor
of a short interview.

“What gentleman? Who is he? I'm not in a frame of mind to see any
stranger--I mean, Gibson, that I'm not well.”

“Sorry, to hear it, sir; shall I tell the gentleman you can't see him?”

“Yes--no--stay; do you know who he is?”

“He is the gentleman, sir, who has been stopping for some time at the
Mitre.”

“What!” exclaimed the baronet, bouncing to his feet.

“Yes, sir.”

If some notorious felon, red with half-a-dozen murders, and who, having
broken jail, left an empty noose in the hands of the hangman, had taken
it into his head to return and offer himself up for instant execution
to the aforesaid hangman, and eke to the sheriff, we assert that neither
sheriff nor hangman, nor hangman nor sheriff, arrange them as you may,
could feel a thousandth part of the astonishment which seized Sir Thomas
Gourlay on learning the fact conveyed to him by Gibson. Sir Thomas,
however, after the first natural start, became, if we may use the
expression, deadly, fearfully calm. It was not poor, contemptible
Crackenfudge he had to deal with now, but the prime offender, the great
felon himself, the author of his shame, the villain who poured in the
fire of perdition upon his heart, who blasted his hopes, crumbled into
ruin all his schemes of ambition for his daughter, and turned her very
name into a byword of pollution and guilt. This was the man whom he was
now about to get into his power; the man who, besides, had on a former
occasion bearded and insulted him to his teeth;--the skulking adventurer
afraid to disclose his name--the low-born impostor, living by the
rinsings of foul and fetid teeth--the base upstart--the thief--the
man who robbed and absconded from his employer; and this wretch, this
cipher, so low in the scale of society and life, was the individual
who had left him what he then felt himself to be--a thing crushed,
disgraced, trodden in the dust--and then his daughter!----

“Gibson,” said he, “show him into a room--say I will see him presently,
in about ten minutes or less; deliver this message, and return to me.”

In a few moments Gibson again made his appearance.

“Gibson,” continued his master, “where is Gillespie? Send him to me.”

“Gillespie's gone into Ballytrain, sir, to get one of the horses fired.”

“Gibson, you are a good and faithful servant. Go to my bedroom and fetch
me my pistols.”

“My God, Sir Thomas! oh, sir, for heaven's sake, avoid violence! The
expression of your face, Sir Thomas, makes me tremble.”

Sir Thomas spoke not, but by one look Gibson felt that he must obey
him. On returning with the arms, his master took them out of his hands,
opened the pans, shook and stirred the powder, examined the flints, saw
that they were sharp and firm, and having done so, he opened a drawer in
the table at which he usually wrote, and there placed them at full
cock. Gibson could perceive that, although unnaturally calm, he was
nevertheless in a state of great agitation; for whilst examining the
pistols, he observed that his hand trembled, although his voice was low,
condensed, and firm.

“For God's sake, Sir Thomas! for the Almighty God's sake--”

“Go, Gibson, and desire the 'gentleman' to walk up--show him the way.”

Sir Thomas's mind was, no doubt, in a tumult; but, at the same time, it
was the agitation of a man without courage. After Gibson had left the
room, he grew absolutely nervous, both in mind and body, and felt as if
he were unequal to the conflict that he expected. On hearing the firm,
manly tread of the stranger, his heart sank, and a considerable portion
of his violence abandoned him, though not the ungenerous purpose which
the result of their interview might possibly render necessary. At all
events, he felt that he was about to meet the stranger in a much more
subdued spirit than he had expected; simply because, not being naturally
a brave or a firm man, his courage, and consequently his resentment,
cooled in proportion as the distance between them diminished.

Sir Thomas was standing with his back to the fire as the stranger
entered. The manner of the latter was cool, but cautious, and his bow
that of a perfect gentleman. The baronet, surprised into more than he
had intended, bowed haughtily in return--a mark of respect which it was
not his intention to have paid him.

“I presume, sir,” said he, “that I understand the object of this visit?”

“You and I, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the stranger, “have had
one interview already--and but one; and I am not aware that anything
occurred then between us that could enable you to account for my
presence here.”

“Well, sir, perhaps so,” replied the baronet, with a sneer; “but to what
may I attribute the honor of that distinguished presence?”

“I come, Sir Thomas Gourlay, to seek for an explanation on a subject of
the deepest importance to the party under whose wishes and instructions
I act.”

“That party, sir,” replied the baronet, who alluded to his daughter,
“has forfeited every right to give you instructions on that, or any
other subject where I am concerned. And, indeed, to speak candidly,
I hardly know whether more to admire her utter want of all shame in
deputing you on such a mission, or your own immeasurable effrontery in
undertaking it.”

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the stranger, with a proud smile on his
lips, “I beg to assure you, once for all, that it is not my intention to
notice, much less return, such language as you have now applied to me.
Whatever you may forget, sir, I entreat you to remember that you are
addressing a gentleman, who is anxious in this interview, as well as
upon all occasions when we may meet, to treat you with courtesy. And I
beg to say now, that I regret the warmth of my language to you, though
not unprovoked, on a former occasion.”

“Oh, much obliged, sir,” replied the baronet, with a low, ironical
inclination of the head, indicative of the most withering contempt;
“much obliged, sir. Perhaps you would honor me with your patronage, too.
I dare say that will be the next courtesy. Well, I can't say but I am a
fortunate fellow. Will you have the goodness, however, to proceed, sir,
and open your negotiations? unless, in the true diplomatic spirit, you
wish to keep me in ignorance of its real object.”

“It is a task that I enter upon with great pain,” replied the other,
without noticing the offensive politeness of the baronet, “because I
am aware that there are associations connected with it, which you, as a
father, cannot contemplate without profound sorrow.”

“Don't rest assured of that,” said Sir Thomas. “Your philosophy may
lead you astray there. A sensible man, sir, never regrets that which is
worthless.”

The stranger looked a good deal surprised; however, he opened the
negotiation, as the baronet said, in due form.

“I believe, Sir Thomas Gourlay,” he proceeded, “you remember that the
son and heir of your late brother, Sir Edward Gourlay, long deceased,
disappeared very mysteriously some sixteen or eighteen years ago, and
has been lost to the family ever since.”

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed the baronet, with no little surprise, “I beg your
pardon. Your exordium was so singularly clear, that I did not understand
you before. Pray proceed.”

“I trust, then, you understand me now, sir,” replied the stranger; “and
I trust you will understand me better before we part.”

The baronet, in spite of his hauteur and contemptuous sarcasm, began to
feel uneasy; for, to speak truth, there was in the stranger's words and
manner, an earnestness of purpose, joined to a cool and manly spirit,
that could not be treated lightly, or with indifference.

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” proceeded the stranger--

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the other, interrupting him; “plain
Thomas Gourlay, if you please. Is not that your object?”

“Truth, sir, is our object, and justice, and the restoration of the
defrauded orphan's rights. These, sir, are our objects; and these we
shall endeavor to establish. Sir Thomas Gourlay, you know that the son
of your brother lives.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sir; disguise it--conceal it as you will. You know that the son of
your brother lives. I repeat that emphatically.”

“So I perceive. You are evidently a very emphatic gentleman.”

“If truth, sir, constitute emphasis, you shall find me so.”

“I attend to you, sir; and I give you notice, that when you shall have
exhausted yourself, I have my explanation to demand; and, I promise you,
a terrible one you shall find it.”

This the wily baronet said, in order, if possible, to confound the
stranger, and throw him out of the directness of his purpose. In this,
however, he found himself mistaken. The other proceeded:

“You, Sir Thomas Gourlay, did, one night about eighteen years ago, as
I said, engage a man, disguised in a mask for the purpose of concealing
his features, to kidnap your brother's child from Red Hall--from this
very house in which we both stand.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Sir Thomas, “I forgot that circumstance in the
blaze of your eloquence; perhaps you will have the goodness to take a
seat;” and in the same spirit of bitter sarcasm, he motioned him with
mock courtesy, to sit down. The other, pausing only until he had spoken,
proceeded:

“You engaged this man, I repeat, to kidnap your brother's son and heir,
under the pretence of bringing him to see a puppet-show. Now, Sir Thomas
Gourlay,” proceeded the stranger, “suppose that the friends of
this child, kidnapped by you, shall succeed in proving this fact by
incontestable evidence, in what position will you stand before the
world?”

“Much in the same position in which I stand now. In Red Hall, as its
rightful proprietor, with my back probably to the fire, as it is at
present.”

It is undeniable, however, that despite all this haughty coolness of the
baronet, the charge involved in the statement advanced by the stranger
stunned him beyond belief; not simply because the other made it, for
that was a mere secondary consideration, but because he took it for
granted that it never could have been made unless through the medium of
treachery; and we all know that when a criminal, whether great or small,
has reason to believe that he has been betrayed, his position is not
enviable, inasmuch as all sense of security totters from under him. The
stranger, as he proceeded, watched the features of his auditor closely,
and could perceive that the struggle then going on between the tumult of
alarm within and the effort at calmness without, was more than, with all
his affected irony and stoicism, he could conceal.

“But, perhaps,” proceeded the baronet, “you who presume to be so well
acquainted with the removal of my brother's child, may have it in your
power to afford me some information on the disappearance of my own. I
wish you, however, to observe this distinction. As the history you have
given happens to be pure fiction, I should wish the other to be nothing
but--truth.”

“The loss of your child I regret, sir” (Sir Thomas bowed as before),
“but I am not here to speak of that. You perceive now that we have got a
clew to this painful mystery--to this great crime. A portion of the veil
is raised, and you may rest assured that it shall not fall again until
the author of this injustice shall be fully exposed. I do not wish to
use harsher language.”

“As to that,” replied Sir Thomas, “use no unnecessary delicacy on the
subject. Thank God, the English language is a copious one. Use it to
its full extent. You will find all its power necessary to establish
the pretty conspiracy you are developing. Proceed, sir, I am quite
attentive. I really did not imagine I could have felt so much amused.
Indeed, I am very fortunate in this respect, for it is not every man who
could have such an excellent farce enacted at his own fireside.”

“All this language is well, and no doubt very witty, Sir Thomas; but,
believe me, in the end you will find this matter anything but a farce.
Now, sir, I crave your attention to a proposal which I am about to make
to you on this most distressing subject. Restore this young man to
his mother--use whatever means you may in bringing this about. Let it
appear, for instance, that he was discovered accidentally, or in such a
way, at least, that your name or agency, either now or formerly, may in
no manner be connected with it. On these terms you shall be permitted
to enjoy the title and property during your life, and every necessary
guarantee to that effect shall be given you. The heart of Lady Gourlay
is neither in your present title nor your present property, but in
her child, whom that heart yearns to recover. This, then, Sir Thomas
Gourlay, is the condition which I propose; and, mark me, I propose it
on the alternative of our using the means and materials already in our
hands for your exposure and conviction should you reject it.”

“There is one quality about you, sir,” replied the baronet, “which I
admire extremely, and that is your extraordinary modesty. Nothing else
could prompt you to stand up and charge a man of my rank and character,
on my own hearth, with the very respectable crime of kidnapping my
brother's child. Extremely modest, indeed! But how you should come to
be engaged in this vindictive plot, and how you, above all men living,
should have the assurance to thus insult me, is a mystery for the
present. Of course, you see, you are aware, that I treat every word
you have uttered with the utmost degree of contempt and scorn which the
language is capable of expressing. I neither know nor care who may have
prompted you, or misled you; be that, however, as it may, I have only
simply to state that, on this subject I defy them as thoroughly as I
despise you. On another subject, however, I experience toward you a
different, feeling, as I shall teach you to understand before you leave
the room.”

“This being your reply, I must discharge my duty fully. Pray mark me,
now, Sir Thomas. Did you not give instructions to a certain man to take
your brother's child _out of your path--out of your sight--out of your
hearing?_ And, Sir Thomas, was not that man _very liberally rewarded_
for that act? I pray you, sir, to think seriously of this, as I need not
say that if you persist in rejecting our conditions, a serious matter
you will find it.”

Another contemptuous inclination, and “you have my reply, sir,” was all
the baronet could trust himself to say.

“I now come to a transaction of a more recent date, Sir Thomas.”

“Ah!” said the baronet, “I thought I should have had the pleasure of
introducing the discussion of that transaction. You really are, however,
quite a universal genius--so clear and eloquent upon all topics, that I
suppose I may leave it in your hands.”

“A young man, named Fenton, has suddenly disappeared from this
neighborhood.”

“Indeed! Why, I must surely live at the antipodes, or in the moon, or I
could not plead such ignorance of those great events.”

“You are aware, Sir Thomas, that the person passing under that name is
your brother's son--the legitimate heir to the title and property of
which you are in the unjust possession.”

Another bow. “I thank you, sir. I really am deriving much information at
your hands.”

“Now I demand, Sir Thomas Gourlay, in the name of his injured mother,
what you have done with that young man?”

“It would be useless to conceal it,” replied the other. “As you seem
to know everything, of course you know that. To your own knowledge,
therefore, I beg most respectfully to refer you.”

“I have only another observation to make, Sir Thomas Gourlay. You
remember last Tuesday night, when you drove at an unseasonable hour to
the town of------? Now, sir, I use your words, on _that_ subject, to
_your own knowledge_ I beg most respectfully to refer you. I have done.”

Sir Thomas Gourlay, when effort was necessary, could certainly play an
able and adroit part. There was not a charge brought against him in
the preceding conference that did not sink his heart into the deepest
dismay; yet did he contrive to throw over his whole manner and bearing
such a veil of cold, hard dissimulation as it was nearly impossible
to penetrate. It is true, he saw that he had an acute, sensible,
independent man to deal with, whose keen eye he felt was reading every
feature of his face, and every motion of his body, and weighing, as
it were, with a practised hand, the force and import of every word he
uttered. He knew that merely to entertain the subject, or to discuss it
at all with anything like seriousness, would probably have exposed him
to the risk of losing his temper, and thus placed himself in the power
of so sharp and impurturbable an antagonist. As the dialogue proceeded,
too, a portion of his attention was transferred from the topic in
question to the individual who introduced it. His language, his manner,
his dress, his _tout ensemble_ were unquestionably not only those of an
educated gentleman, but of a man who was well acquainted with life and
society, and who appeared to speak as if he possessed no unequivocal
position in both.

“Who the devil,” thought he to himself several times, “can this person
be? How does he come to speak on behalf of Lady Gourlay? Surely such a
man cannot be a brush manufacturer's clerk--and he has very little the
look of an impostor, too.”

All this, however, could not free him from the deep and deadly
conviction that the friends of his brother's widow were on his trail,
and that it required the whole united powers of his faculties for
deception, able and manifold as they were, to check his pursuers and
throw them off the scent. It was now, too, that his indignation against
his daughter and him who had seduced her from his roof began to deepen
in his heart. Had he succeeded in seeing her united to Lord Dunroe,
previous to any exposure of himself--supposing even that discovery
was possible--his end, the great object of his life, was, to a certain
extent, gained. Now, however, that that hope was out of the question,
and treachery evidently at work against him, he felt that gloom,
disappointment, shame, and ruin were fast gathering round him. He
was, indeed, every way hemmed in and hampered. It was clear that this
stranger was not a man to be either cajoled or bullied. He read a
spirit--a sparkle--in his eye, which taught him that the brutality
inflicted upon the unfortunate Crackenfudge, and such others as he knew
he might trample on, would never do here.

As matters stood, however, he thought the only chance of throwing the
stranger off his guard was to take him by a _coup de main_. With this
purpose, he went over, and sitting down to his desk before the drawer
that contained his pistols, thus placing himself between the stranger
and the door, he turned upon him a look as stern and determined as
he could possibly assume; and we must remark here, that he omitted
no single consideration connected with the subject he was about to
introduce that was calculated to strengthen his determination.

“Now, sir,” said he, “in the first place, may I take the liberty
of asking where you have concealed my daughter? I will have no
equivocation, sir,” he added, raising his voice--“no evasion, no
falsehood, but in one plain word, or in as many as may be barely
necessary, say where you have concealed Miss Gourlay.”

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the other, “I can understand your
feelings upon this subject, and I can overlook much that you may say in
connection with it; but neither upon that nor any other, can I permit
the imputation of falsehood against myself. You are to observe this,
sir, and to forbear the repetition of such an insult. My reply is
brief and candid: I know not where Miss Gourlay is, upon my honor as a
gentleman.”

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you and she did not elope in the same
coach on Tuesday night last?”

“I do, sir; and I beg to tell you, that such a suspicion is every way
unworthy of your daughter.”

“Take care, sir; you were seen together in Dublin.”

“That is true. I had the honor of travelling in the same coach with
her to the metropolis; but I was altogether unconscious of being her
fellow-traveller until we arrived in Dublin. A few brief words of
conversation I had with her in the coach, but nothing more.”

“And you presume to say that you know not where she is--that you are
ignorant of the place of her retreat'?”

“Yes, I presume to say so, Sir Thomas; I have already pledged my honor
as a gentleman to that effect, and I shall not repeat it.”

“As a gentleman!--but how do I know that you are a man of honor and a
gentleman?”

“Sir Thomas, don't allow your passion or prejudice to impose upon your
judgment and penetration as a man of the world. I know you feel this
moment that you are addressing a man who is both; and your own heart
tells you that every word I have uttered respecting Miss Gourlay is
true.”

“You will excuse me there, sir,” replied the baronet. “Your position in
this neighborhood is anything but a guarantee to the truth of what you
say. If you be a gentleman--a man of honor, why live here, incognito,
afraid to declare your name, or your rank, if you have any?--why lie
_perdu_, like a man under disgrace, or who had fled from justice?”

“Well, then, I beg you to rest satisfied that I am not under disgrace,
and that I have motives for concealing my name that are disinterested,
and even honorable, to myself, if they were known.”

“Pray, will you answer me another question--Do you happen to know a firm
in London named Grinwell and Co.? they are toothbrush manufacturers?
Now, mark my words well--I say Grinwell and Co., tooth-brush
manufacturers.”

“I have until this moment never heard of Grinwell and Co., tooth-brush
manufacturers.”

“Now, sir,” replied Sir Thomas, “all this may be very well and very
true; but there is one fact that you can neither deny nor dispute. You
have been paying your addresses clandestinely to my daughter, and there
is a mutual attachment between you.”

“I love your daughter--I will not deny it.”

“She returns your affections?”

“I cannot reply to anything involving Miss Gourlay's opinions, who is
not here to explain them; nor is it generous in you to force me into the
presumptuous task of interpreting her sentiments on such a subject.”

“The fact, however, is this. I have for some years entertained other
and different views with respect to her settlement in life. You may be a
gentleman, or you may be an impostor; but one thing is certain, you have
taught her to contravene my wishes--to despise the honors to which a
dutiful obedience to them would exalt her--to spurn my affection, and to
trample on my authority. Now, sir, listen to me. Renounce her--give up
all claims to her--withdraw every pretension, now and forever; or, by
the living God! you shall never carry your life out of this room. Sooner
than have the noble design which I proposed for her frustrated; sooner
than have the projects of my whole life for her honorable exaltation
ruined, I could bear to die the death of a common felon. Here, sir, is
a proposition that admits of only the one fatal and deadly alternative.
You see these pistols; they are heavily loaded; and you know my purpose;
--it is the purpose, let me tell you, of a resolved and desperate man.”

“I know not how to account for this violence, Sir Thomas Gourlay,”
 replied the stranger with singular coolness; “all I can say is, that on
me it is thrown away.”

“Refuse the compliance with the proposition I have made, and by heavens
you have looked upon your last sun. The pistols, sir, are cocked; if one
fails, the other won't.”

“This outrage, Sir Thomas, upon a stranger, in your own house, under the
protection of your own roof, is as monstrous as it is cowardly.”

“My roof, sir, shall never afford protection to a villain,” said the
baronet, in a loud and furious voice. “Renounce my daughter, and that
quickly. No, sir, this roof will afford you no protection.”

[Illustration: PAGE 446-- Pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held
ready]

“Well, sir, I cannot help that,” replied the stranger, deliberately
taking out of his breast, where they were covered by an outside coat, a
case of excellent pistols, which he instantly cocked, and held ready
for action: “If your roof won't, these good friends will. And now,
Sir Thomas, hear me; lay aside your idle weapons, which, were I even
unarmed, I would disregard as much as I do this moment. Our interview
is now closed; but before I go, let me entreat you to reflect upon the
conditions I have offered you; reflect upon them deeply--yes, and accept
them, otherwise you will involve yourself in all the consequences of a
guilty but unsuccessful ambition--in contempt--infamy--and ruin.”

The baronet's face became exceedingly blank at the exhibition of the
fire-arms. Pistol for pistol had been utterly out of the range of
his calculations. He looked upon the stranger with astonishment, not
un-mingled with a considerable portion of that wholesome feeling which
begets self-preservation. In fact, he was struck dumb, and uttered not a
syllable; and as the stranger made his parting bow, the other could only
stare at him as if he had seen an apparition.




CHAPTER XXII. Lucy at Summerfield Cottage.


On his way to the inn, the stranger could not avoid admiring the
excellent sense and prudence displayed by Lucy Gourlay, in the brief
dialogue which we have already detailed to our readers. He felt clearly,
that if he had followed up his natural impulse to ascertain the place
of her retreat, he would have placed himself in the very position which,
knowing her father as she did, she had so correctly anticipated. In
the meantime, now that the difficulty in this respect, which she
had apprehended, was over, his anxiety to know her present residence
returned upon him with full force. Not that he thought it consistent
with delicacy to intrude himself upon her presence, without first
obtaining her permission to that effect. He was well and painfully aware
that a lying report of their elopement had gone abroad, but as he did
not then know that this calumny had been principally circulated by
unfortunate Crackenfudge, who, however, was the dupe of Dandy Dulcimer,
and consequently took the fact for granted.

Lucy, however, to whom we must now return, on arriving at the neat
cottage already alluded to, occasioned no small surprise to its
proprietor. The family, when the driver knocked, were all asleep, or
at least had not arisen, and on the door being opened by a broad-faced,
good-humored looking servant, who was desired to go to a lady in the
chaise, the woman, after rubbing her eyes and yawning, looked about her
as if she were in a dream, exclaiming, “Lord bless us! and divil a sowl
o' them out o' the blankets yet!”

“You're nearly asleep,” said the driver; “but I'll hould a testher that
a tight crapper Would soon brighten your eye. Come, come,” he added, as
she yawned again, “shut your pittaty trap, and go to the young lady in
the chaise.”

The woman settled her cap, which was awry, upon her head, by plucking it
quickly over to the opposite side, and hastily tying the strings of her
apron, so as to give herself something of a tidy look, she proceeded,
barefooted, but in slippers, to the chaise.

“Will you have the kindness,” said Lucy, in a very sweet voice, “to say
to Mrs. Norton that a young friend of hers wishes to see her.”

“And tell her to skip,” added Alley Mahon, “and not keep us here all the
blessed mornin'.”

“Mrs. Norton!” exclaimed the woman; “I don't know any sich parson as
that, Miss.”

“Why,” said Lucy, putting her head out of the chaise, and re-examining
the cottage, “surely this is where my friend Mrs. Norton did live,
certainly. She must have changed her residence, Alley. This is most
unfortunate!--What are we to do? I know not where to go.”

“Whisht! Miss,” said Alley, “we'll put her through her catechiz again.
Come here, my good woman; come forrid; don't be ashamed or afeard in the
presence of ladies. Who does live here?”

“Mr. Mainwarin',” replied the servant, omitting the “Miss,”
 notwithstanding that Alley had put in her claim for it by using the
plural number.

“This is distressing--most unfortunate!” exclaimed Lucy; “how long has
this gentleman--Mr.--Mr.------”

“Mainwarin', Miss,” added the woman, respectfully.

“She's a stupid lookin' sthreel, at all events,” said Alley, half to
herself and half to her mistress.

“Yes, Mainwaring,” continued Lucy; “how long has he been living here?”

“Troth, and that's more than I can tell you, Miss,” replied the woman;
“I'm from the county Wexford myself, and isn't more than a month here.”

Whilst this little dialogue went on, or rather, we should say, after it
was concluded, a tapping was heard at one of the windows, and a signal
given with the finger for the servant to return to the house. She did
so; but soon presented herself a second time at the chaise door with
more agreeable intelligence.

“You're right, Miss,” said she; “the mistress desired me to ask you in;
she seen you from the windy, and desired me to bring your things too;
you're to come in, then, Miss, you, an' the sarvint that's along wid
you.”

On entering, an intelligent, respectable-looking female, of lady-like
manners, shook hands with and even kissed Lucy, who embraced her with
much affection.

“My dear Mrs. Norton,” she said, “how much surprised you must feel at
this abrupt and unseasonable visit.”

“How much delighted, you mean, my dear Miss Gourlay; and if I am
surprised, I assure you the surprise is an agreeable one.”

“But,” said the innocent girl, “your servant told me that you did not
live here, and I felt so much distressed!”

“Well,” replied Mrs. Norton, “she was right, in one sense: if Mrs.
Norton that was does not live here, Mrs. Mainwaring that is certainly
does--and feels both proud and flattered at the honor Miss Gourlay does
her humble residence.”

“How is this?” said Lucy, smiling; “you have then--”

“Yes, indeed, I have changed my condition, as the phrase goes; but
neither my heart nor my affections to you, Miss Gourlay. Pray sit down
on this sofa. Your maid, I presume, Miss Gourlay?”

“Yes,” replied Lucy; “and a faithful creature has she proved to me, Mrs.
Nor--” but I beg your pardon, my dear madam; how am I--oh, yes, Mrs.
Mainwaring!”

“Nancy,” said the latter, “take this young woman with you, and make her
comfortable. You seem exhausted. Miss Gourlay; shall I get some tea?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nor--Mainwaring, no; we have had a hasty cup of tea in
Dublin. But if it will not be troublesome, I should like to go to bed
for a time.”

Mrs. Mainwaring flew out of the room, and called Nancy Gallaher. “Nancy,
prepare a bed immediately for this lady; her maid, too, will probably
require rest. Prepare a bed for both.”

She was half in and half out of the room as she spoke; then returning
with a bunch of keys dangling from her finger, she glanced at Miss
Gourlay with that slight but delicate and considerate curiosity which
arises only from a friendly warmth of feeling--but said nothing.

“My dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, who understood her look, “I feel
that I have acted very wrong. I have fled from my father's house, and I
have taken refuge with you. I am at present confused and exhausted, but
when I get some rest, I will give you an explanation. At present, it is
sufficient to say that papa has taken my marriage with that odious Lord
Dunroe so strongly into his head, that nothing short of my consent will
satisfy him. I know he loves me, and thinks that rank and honor, because
they gratify his ambition, will make me happy. I know that that ambition
is not at all personal to himself, but indulged in and nurtured on my
account, and for my advancement in life. How then can I blame him?”

“Well, my child, no more of that at present; you want rest.”

“Yes, Mrs. Mainwaring, I do; but I am very wretched and unhappy.
Alas! you know not, my dear friend, the delight which I have always
experienced in obeying papa in everything, with the exception of this
hateful union; and now I feel something like remorse at having abandoned
him.”

She then gave a brief account to her kind-hearted friend of her journey
to Dublin by the “Fly,” in the first instance, suppressing one or two
incidents; and of her second to Mrs. Mainwaring's, who, after hearing
that she had not slept at all during the night, would permit no further
conversation on that or any other subject, but hurried her to bed, she
herself acting as her attendant. Having seen her comfortably settled,
and carefully tucked her up with her own hands, she kissed the fair
girl, exclaiming, “Sleep, my love; and may God bless and protect you
from evil and unhappiness, as I feel certain He will, because you
deserve it.”

She then left her to sepose, and in a few minutes Lucy was fast asleep.

Whilst this little dialogue between Lucy and Mrs. Mainwaring was
proceeding in the parlor of Summerfield cottage, another was running
parallel with it between the two servants in the kitchen.

“God bless me,” said Nancy Gallaher, addressing Alley, “you look
shockin' bad afther so early a journey! I'll get you a cup o' tay, to
put a bloom in your cheek.”

“Thank you, kindly, ma'am,” replied Alley, with a toss of her head which
implied anything but gratitude for this allusion to her complexion:
“a good sleep, ma'am, will bring back the bloom--and that's aisy done,
ma'am, to any one who has youth on their side. The color will come and
go then, but let a wrinkle alone for keepin' its ground.”

This was accompanied by a significant glance at Nancy's face, on which
were legible some rather unequivocal traces of that description.
Honest Nancy, however, although she saw the glance, and understood the
insinuation, seemed to take no notice of either--the fact being that
her whole spirit was seized with an indomitable curiosity, which, like a
restless familiar, insisted on being gratified.

In the case of those who undertake journeys similar to that which Lucy
had just accomplished, there may be noticed almost by every eye those
evidences of haste, alarm, and anxiety, and even distress, which to a
certain extent at least tell their own tale, and betray to the observer
that all can scarcely be right. Now Nancy Gallaher saw this, and having
drawn the established conclusion that there must in some way be a lover
in the case, she sat down in form before the fortress of Alley Mahon's
secret, with a firm determination to make herself mistress of it, if the
feat were at all practicable. In Alley, however, she had an able general
to compete with--a general who resolved, on the other hand, to make a
sortie, as it were, and attack Nancy by a series of bold and unexpected
manoeuvres.

Nancy, on her part, having felt her first error touching Alley's
complexion, resolved instantly to repair it by the substitution of a
compliment in its stead.

“Throth, an' it'll be many a day till there's a wrinkle in your face,
avourneen--an' now that I look at you agin--a pretty an' a sweet face
it is. 'Deed it's many a day since I seen two sich faces as yours and
the other young lady's; but anyway, you had betther let me get you a
comfortable cup o' tay--afther your long journey. Oh, then, but that
beautiful creature has a sorrowful look, poor thing.”

These words were accompanied by a most insinuating glance of curiosity,
mingled up with an air of strong benevolence, to show Alley that it
proceeded only from the purest of good feeling. “Thank you,” replied
Alley, “I will take a cup sure enough. What family have you here? if
it's a fair question.”

“Sorra one but ourselves,” replied Nancy, without making her much the
wiser.

“But, I mane,” proceeded Alley, “have you children? bekase if you have I
hate them.”

“Neither chick nor child there will be under the roof wid you here,”
 responded Nancy, whilst putting the dry tea into a tin tea-pot that
had seen service; “there's only the three of us--that is, myself, the
misthress, and the masther--for I am not countin' a slip of a girl that
comes in every day to do odd jobs, and some o' the rough work about the
house.”

“Oh, I suppose,” said Alley, indifferently, “the childre's all married
off?”

“There's only one,” replied Nancy; “and indeed you're right enough--she
is married, and not long either--and, in truth, I don't envy her the
husband, she got. Lord save and guard us! I know I wouldn't long keep my
senses if I had him.”

“Why so?” asked Alley. “Has he two heads upon him?”

“Troth, no,” replied the other; “but he's what they call a mad docther,
an' keeps a rheumatic asylum--that manes a place where they put mad
people, to prevent them from doin' harm. They say it would make the hair
stand on your head like nettles even to go into it. However, that's not
what I'm thinkin' of, but that darlin' lookin' creature that's wid
the misthress. The Lord keep sorrow and cross-fortune from her, poor
thing--for she looks unhappy. Avillish! are you and she related? for,
as I'm a sinner, there's a resemblance in your faces--and even in your
figures--only you're something rounder and fuller than she is.”

“Isn't she lovely?” returned Alley, making the most of the compliment.
“Sure, wasn't it in Dublin her health was drunk as the greatest toast in
Ireland.” She then added after a pause, “The Lord knows I wouldn't--”

“Wouldn't what--avourneen?”

“I was just thinkin', that I wouldn't marry a mad docther, if there was
ne'er another man in Ireland. A mad docther! Oh, beetha. Then will you
let us know the name that's upon him?” she added in a most wheedling
tone.

“His name is Scareman, my misthress tells me--he's related by the
mother's side to the Moontides of Ballycrazy, in the barony of Quarther
Clift--arrah, what's this your name is, avourneen?”

“Alley Mahon I was christened,” replied her new friend; “but,” she
added, with an air of modest dignity that was inimitable in its way--“in
regard of my place as maid of honor to Lady Lucy, I'm usually called
Miss Mahon, or Miss Alley. My mistress, for her own sake, in ordher to
keep up her consequence, you persave, doesn't like to hear me called
anything else than either one or t'other of them.”

“And it's all right,” replied the other. “Well, as I was going to say,
that Mrs. Mainwaring is breakin' her heart about this unforthunate
marriage of her daughter to Scareman. It seems--but this is between
ourselves--it seems, my dear, that he's a dark, hard-hearted scrub,
that 'id go to hell or farther for a shillin', for a penny, ay, or for
a farden. An' the servant that was here afore me--a clean, good-natured
girl she was, in throth--an' got married to a blacksmith, at the
cross-roads beyant--tould me that the scrames, an' yells, an' howlins,
and roarins--the cursin' and blasphaymin'--an' the laughin', that she
said was worse than all--an' the rattlin' of chains--the Lord save
us--would make one think themselves more in hell than in any place upon
this world. And it appears the villain takes delight in it, an' makes
lashins of money by the trade.”

“The sorra give him good of it!” exclaimed Alley; “an' I can tell you,
it's Lady Lucy--(divil may care, thought she--I'll make a lady of her
at any rate--this ignorant creature doesn't know the differ) it's Lady
Lucy, I say, that will be sorry to hear of this same marriage--for you
must know--what's this your name is?”

“Nancy Gallaher, dear.”

“And were you ever married, Nancy?”

“If I wasn't the fau't was my own, ahagur! but I'll tell you more about
that some day. No, then, I was not, thank God!”

“Thank God! Well, throth, it's a quare thing to thank God for that,
at any rate.” This, of course, was parenthetical. “Well, my dear,”
 proceeded Alley, “you must know that Mrs. Scareman before her
marriage--of course, she was then Miss Norton--acted in the kippacity of
tutherer general to Lady Lucy, except durin' three months that she was
ill, and had to go to England to thry the wathers.”

“What wathers?” asked Nancy. “Haven't we plenty o' wather, an' as good as
they have, at home?”

“Not at all,” replied Alley, who sometimes, as the reader may have
perceived, drew upon an imagination of no ordinary fertility; “in
England they have spakin' birds, singin' trees, and goolden wather. So,
as I was sayin', while she went to thry the goolden wather------”

“Troth, if ever I get poor health, I'll go there myself,” observed
Nancy, with a gleam of natural humor in her clear blue eye.”

“Well, while she went to thry this goolden watlier, her mother, Mrs.
Norton, came in her place as tutherer general, an' that's the way they
became acquainted--Lady Lucy and her. But, my dear, I want to tell you a
saicret.”

We are of opinion, that if Nancy's cap had been off at the moment, her
two ears might have been observed to erect themselves on each side of
her head with pure and unadulterated curiosity.

“Well, Miss Alley, what is it, ahagur?”

“Now, you won't breathe this to any human creature?”

“Is it me? Arrah! little you know the woman you're spakin' to. Divil
a mortal could beat me at keepin' a saicret, at any rate; an' when
you tell me this, maybe I'll let you know one or two that'll be worth
hearin'.”

“Well,” continued Alley, “it's this--Never call my mistress Lady Lucy,
because she doesn't like it.”

This was an apple from the shores of the Dead Sea. Nancy's face bore
all the sudden traces of disappointment and mortification; and, from a
principle of retaliation, she resolved to give her companion a morsel
from the same fruit.

“Now, Nancy,” continued the former, “what's this you have to tell us?”

“But you swear not to breathe it to man, woman, or child, boy or girl,
rich or poor, livin' or dead?”

“Sartainly I do.”

“Well, then, it's this. I understand that Docthor Scareman isn't likely
to have a family. Now, ahagur, if you spake, I'm done, that's all.”

Having been then called away to make arrangements necessary to Lucy's.
comfort, their dialogue was terminated before she could worm out of
Alley the cause of her mistress's visit.

“She's a cunnin' ould hag,” said the latter, when the other had gone. “I
see what she wants to get out o' me; but it's not for nothing Miss Lucy
has trusted me, an' I'm not the girl to betray her secrets to them that
has no right to know them.”

This, indeed, was true. Poor Alley Mahon, though a very neat and
handsome girl, and of an appearance decidedly respectable, was
nevertheless a good deal vulgar in her conversation. In lieu of this,
however, notwithstanding a large stock of vanity, she was gifted with a
strong attachment to her mistress, and had exhibited many trying proofs
of truthfulness and secrecy under circumstances where most females in
her condition of life would have given way. As a matter of course, she
was obliged to receive her master's bribes, otherwise she would have
been instantly dismissed, as one who presumed to favor Lucy's interest
and oppose his own. Her fertility of fancy, however, joined to
deep-rooted affection for his daughter, enabled her to return as a
recompense for Sir Thomas's bribes, that description of one-sided truth
which transfuses fiction into its own character and spirit, just as a
drop or two of any coloring fluid will tinge a large portion of water
with its own hue. Her replies, therefore, when sifted and examined,
always bore in them a sufficient portion of truth to enable her, on the
strong point of veracity on which she boldly stood, to bear herself
out with triumph; owing, indeed, to a slight dash in her defence of the
coloring we have described. Lucy felt that the agitation of mind, or
rather, we should say, the agony of spirit which she had been of late
forced to struggle with, had affected her health more than she could
have anticipated. That and the unusual fatigue of a long journey in a
night coach, eked out by a jolting drive to Wicklow at a time when she
required refreshment and rest, told upon her constitution, although a
naturally healthy one. For the next three or four days after her arrival
at Summerfield Cottage, she experienced symptoms of slight fever,
apparently nervous. Every attention that could be paid to her she
received at the hands of Mrs. Mainwaring, and her own maid, who seldom
was a moment from her bedside. Two or three times a day she was seized
with fits of moping, during which she deplored her melancholy lot in
life, feared she had offended her kind hostess by intruding, without
either notice or announcement, upon the quiet harmony of her family, and
begged her again and again to forgive her; adding, “That as soon as her
recovery should be established, she would return to her father's house
to die, she hoped, and join mamma; and this,” she said, “was her last
and only consolation.”

Mrs. Mainwaring saw at once that her complaint was principally on the
nerves, and lost no time in asking permission to call in medical advice.
To this, Lucy, whose chief object was to remain unknown and in secrecy
for the present, strongly objected; but by the mild and affectionate
remonstrances of Mrs. Mainwaring, as well as at the earnest entreaties
of Alley, she consented to allow a physician to be called in.

This step was not more judicious than necessary. The physician, on
seeing her, at once pronounced the complaint a nervous fever, but hoped
that it would soon yield to proper treatment. He prescribed, and saw her
every second day for a week, after which she gave evident symptoms of
improvement. Her constitution, as we have said, was good; and nature,
in spite of an anxious mind and disagreeable reflections, bore her
completely out of danger.

It was not until the first day of her appearance in the parlor
subsequent to her illness, that she had an opportunity of seeing Mr.
Mainwaring, of whom his wife spoke in terms of great tenderness and
affection. She found him to be a gentlemanly person of great good sense
and delicacy of feeling.

“I regret,” said he, after the usual introduction had taken place, “to
have been deprived so long of knowing a young lady of whose goodness
and many admirable qualities I have heard so much from the lips of Mrs.
Mainwaring. It is true I knew her affectionate nature,” he added, with
a look of more than kindness at his wife, “and I allowed something for
high coloring in your case, Miss Gourlay, as well as in others, that I
could name; but I now find, that with all her good-will, she sometimes
fails to do justice to the original.”

“And, my dear John, did I not tell you so?” replied his wife, smiling;
“but if you make other allusions, I am sure Miss Gourlay can bear me
out.”

“She has more than borne you out, my dear,” he replied, purposely
misunderstanding her. “She has more than borne you out; for, truth to
tell, you have in Miss Gourlay's case fallen far short of what I see she
is.”

“But, Mr. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, smiling in her turn, “it is certainly
very strange that she can please neither of us. The outline she gave me
of your character was quite shocking. She said you were--what's this you
said of him, Mrs. Mainwaring--oh, it was very bad, sir. I think we must
deprive her of all claim to the character of an artist. Do you know I
was afraid to meet the original, in consequence of the gloomy colors
in which she sketched what she intended, I suppose, should be the
likeness.”

“Well, my dear Miss Gourlay,” observed Mrs. Mainwaring, “now that I have
failed in doing justice to the portraits of two of my dearest friends, I
think I will burn my palette and brushes, and give up portrait painting
in future.”

Mr. Mainwaring now rose up to take his usual stroll, but turning to Lucy
before he went, he said,

“At all events, my dear Miss Gourlay, what between her painting and the
worth of the original, permit me to say that this house is your home
just as long as you wish. Consider Mrs. Mainwaring and me as parents to
you; willing, nay, most anxious, in every sense, to contribute to
your comfort and happiness. We are not poor, Miss Gourlay; but, on the
contrary, both independent and wealthy. You must, therefore, want for
nothing. I am, for as long as may be necessary, your parent, as I said,
and your banker; and if you will permit me the honor, I would wish to
add, your friend. Good-by, my dear child, I am going to take my daily
ramble; but I am sure you are in safe hands when I leave you in my dear
Martha's. Good-by, my love.”

The amiable man took his golden-headed cane, and sauntered out to amuse
himself among the fields, occasionally going into the town of Wicklow,
taking a glance at the papers in the hotel, to which he generally added
a glass of ale and a pipe.

It was not until he had left them that Lucy enjoyed an opportunity of
pouring out, at full length, to her delicate-minded and faithful friend,
the cause of her flight from home. This narrative, however, was an
honorable proof of the considerate forbearance she evinced when,
necessarily alluding to the character and conduct of her father. Were
it not, in fact, that Mrs. Mainwaring had from personal opportunity been
enabled to thoroughly understand the temper, feelings, and principles of
the worthy baronet, she would have naturally concluded that Lucy was a
disobedient girl, and her father a man who had committed no other error
than that of miscalculating her happiness from motives of excessive
affection.

Mrs. Mainwaring heard it all with a calm and matronly benignity that
soothed poor Lucy; for it was for the first time she had ever disclosed
the actual state of her feelings to any one, with the exception of her
late mother.

“Now, my dear Miss Gourlay--”

“Call me Lucy, Mrs. Mainwaring,” said the affectionate girl, wiping
her eyes, for we need not assure our readers that the recital of her
sufferings, no matter how much softened down or modified, cost her many
a bitter tear.

“I will indeed, my love, I will, Lucy,” she replied, kissing her cheek,
“if it gratifies you. Why should I not? But you know the distance there
is between us.”

“Oh, no, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, no. What are the cold forms of the
world but disguises and masks, under which the hardened and heartless
put themselves in a position of false eminence over the humble and
the good. The good are all equal over the earth, no matter what their
relative situations may be; and on this account, not-withstanding my
rank, I am scarcely worthy to sit at your feet.”

Mrs. Mainwaring, with a kind of affectionate enthusiasm, put her hand
upon the beautiful girl's hand, and was about to speak; but she
paused for more than half a minute, during which space her serene
and benevolent face assumed an expression of profound thought and
seriousness. At length she sighed rather deeply, and said,

“My dear Lucy, it is too bad that the happiness of such a girl as you
should be wrecked; but, worst of all, that it should be wrecked upon a
most unprincipled profligate. You know the humbleness of my birth; the
daughter of a decent farmer, who felt it a duty to give his children the
only boon, except his blessing, that he had to bestow upon them--a good
education. Well, my dear child, I beg that you will not be disheartened,
nor suffer your spirits to droop. You will look surprised when I tell
you that I think it more than probable, if I am capable of judging your
father's heart aright, that I shall be able by a short interview with
him to change the whole current of his ambition, and to bring about
such a revulsion of feeling against Lord Dunroe, as may prevent him from
consenting to your union with that nobleman under any circumstances.
Nay, not to stop here; but that I shall cause him to look upon the
breaking up of this contemplated marriage as one of the greatest
blessings that could befall his family.”

“Such an event might be possible,” replied Lucy, “were I not
unfortunately satisfied that papa is already aware of Dunroe's loose
habits of life, which he views only as the giddiness of a young and
buoyant spirit that marriage would reform. He says Dunroe is only sowing
his wild oats, as, with false indulgence, he is pleased to term it.
Under these circumstances, then, I fear he would meet you with the same
arguments, and as they satisfy himself so you will find him cling to the
dangerous theory they establish.”

“But, Lucy, my dear child, you are quite mistaken in your estimate
of the arguments which I should use, because you neither can know nor
suspect their import. They apply not at all to Lord Dunroe's morals, I
assure you. It is enough to say, at present, that I am not at liberty
to disclose them; and, indeed, I never intended to do so; but as a
knowledge of the secret I possess may not only promote your happiness,
but relieve you from the persecution and misery you endure on this young
nobleman's account, I think it becomes my duty to have an interview with
your father on the subject.”

“Before you do so, my dear madam,” replied Lucy, “it is necessary that I
should put you in possession of--of--” there was here a hesitation, and
a blush, and a confusion of manner, that made Mrs. Mainwaring look at
her with some attention.

“Take care, Lucy,” she said smiling; “a previous engagement, I'll
warrant me. I see you blush.”

“But not for its object, Mrs. Mainwaring,” she replied. “However, you
are right; and papa is aware of it.”

“I see, Lucy; and on that account he wishes to hurry on this hated
marriage--?”

“I think so.”

“And what peculiar dislike has papa against the object of your
choice?--are you aware?”

“The same he would entertain against any choice but his own--his
great ambition. The toil and labor of all his thoughts, hopes, and
calculations, is to see me a countess before he dies. I know not whether
to consider this as affection moved by the ambition of life, or ambition
stimulated by affection.”

“Ah, my dear Lucy, I fear very much that if your papa's heart were
analyzed it would be found that he is more anxious to gratify his own
ambition than to promote your happiness, and that, consequently, his
interest in the matter altogether absorbs yours. But we need not discuss
this now. You say he is aware of your attachment?”

“He is; I myself confessed it to him.”

“Is he aware of the name and condition in life of your lover?”

“Alas, no! Mrs. Mainwaring. He has seen him, but that is all. He
expressed, however, a fierce and ungovernable curiosity to know who
and what he is; but, unfortunately, my lover, as you call him, is so
peculiarly circumstanced, that I could not disclose either the one or
the other.”

“But, my dear Lucy, is not this secrecy, this clandestime conduct,
on the part of your lover, wrong? Ought you, on the other hand, to
entertain an attachment for any person who feels either afraid or
ashamed to avow his name and rank? Pardon me, my love.”

Lucy rose up, and Mrs. Mainwaring felt somewhat alarmed at the length
she had gone, especially on observing that the lovely girl's face and
neck were overspread with a deep and burning blush.

“Pardon you, my dear madam! Is it for uttering sentiments worthy of
the purest friendship and affection, and such only as I would expect to
proceed from your lips? But it is necessary to state, in my own defence,
that beloved mamma was aware of, and sanctioned our attachment. A
mystery there is, unquestionably, about my lover; but it is one with
which she was acquainted, for she told me so. It is not, however, upon
this mystery or that mystery--but upon the truth, honor, delicacy,
disinterestedness, of him to whom I have yielded my heart, that I speak.
In true, pure, and exalted love, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, there is an
intuition of the heart which enables the soul to see into and comprehend
its object, with a completeness of success as certain and effectual as
the mission of an angel. When such love exists--and such only--all
is soon known--the spirit is satisfied; and, except those lessons of
happiness and delight that are before it, the heart, on that subject,
has nothing more to learn. This, then, is my reply; and as for the
mystery I speak of, every day is bringing us nearer and nearer to its
disclosure, and the knowledge of his worth.”

Mrs. Mainwaring looked, on with wonder. Lucy's beauty seemed to
brighten, as it were with a divine light, as she uttered these glowing
words. In fact, she appeared to undergo a transfiguration from the
mortal state to the angelic, and exemplified, in her own person--now
radiant with the highest and holiest enthusiasm of love--all that divine
purity, all that noble pride and heroic devotedness of heart, by which
it is actuated and inspired. Her eyes, as she proceeded, filled with
tears, and on concluding, she threw herself, weeping, into her friend's
arms, exclaiming,

“Alas! my dear, dear Mrs. Mainwaring, I am not worthy of him.”

Mrs. Mainwaring kissed, and cherished, and soothed her, and in a short
time she recovered herself, and resumed an aspect of her usual calm,
dignified, yet graceful beauty.

“Alas!” thought her friend, as she looked on her with mingled compassion
and admiration, “this love is either for happiness or death. I now see,
after all, that there is much of the father's character stamped into her
spirit, and that the same energy with which he pursues ambition actuates
his daughter in love. Each will have its object, or die.”

“Well, my love,” she exclaimed aloud, “I am sorry we permitted our
conversation to take such a turn, or to carry us so far. You are, I
fear, not yet strong enough for anything calculated to affect or agitate
you.”

“The introduction of it was necessary, my dear madam,” replied Lucy;
“for I need not say that it was my object to mention the subject of our
attachment to you before the close of our conversation.”

“Well, at all events,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, “we shall go and have
a walk through the fields. The sun is bright and warm; the little burn
below, and the thousand larks above, will give us their melody; and
Cracton's park--our own little three-cornered paddock--will present us
with one of the sweetest objects in the humble landscape--a green
field almost white with daisies--pardon the little blunder, Lucy--thus
constituting it a poem for the heart, written by the hand of nature
herself.”

Lucy, who enjoyed natural scenery with the high enthusiasm that was
peculiar to her character, was delighted at the proposal, and in a few
minutes both the ladies sauntered out through the orchard, which was now
white and fragrant with blossoms.

As they went along, Mrs. Mainwaring began to mention some particulars of
her marriage; a circumstance to which, owing to Lucy's illness, she had
not until then had an opportunity of adverting.

“The truth is, my dear Lucy,” she proceeded, “I am naturally averse
to lead what is termed a solitary life in the world. I wish to have a
friend on whom I can occasionally rest, as upon a support. You know
that I kept a boarding-school in the metropolis for many years after my
return from the Continent. That I was successful and saved some money
are facts which, perhaps, you don't know. Loss of health, however,
caused me to resign the establishment to Emily, your former governess;
but, unfortunately, her health, like mine, gave way under the severity
of its duties. She accordingly disposed of it, and accepted the
important task of superintending the general course of your education,
aided by all the necessary and usual masters. To this, as you are aware,
she applied herself with an assiduity that was beyond her yet infirm
state of health. She went to Cheltenham, where she recovered strength,
and I undertook her duties until her return. I then sought out for some
quiet, pretty, secluded spot, where I could, upon the fruits of my own
industry, enjoy innocently and peacefully the decline of, I trust, a
not unuseful life. Fortunately, I found our present abode, which I
purchased, and which has been occasionally honored by your presence,
as well as by that of your beloved mamma. Several years passed, and the
widow was not unhappy; for my daughter, at my solicitation, gave up her
profession as a governess, and came to reside with me. In the meantime,
we happened to meet at the same party two individuals--gentlemen--who
had subsequently the honor of carrying off the mother and daughter
with flying colors. The one was Dr. Scareman, to whom Emily--my
dear, unfortunate girl, had the misfortune to get married. He was a
dark-faced, but handsome man--that is to say, he could bear a first
glance or two, but was incapable of standing anything like a close
scrutiny. He passed as a physician in good practice, but as the marriage
was--what no marriage ought to be--a hasty one--we did not discover,
until too late, that the practice he boasted of consisted principally in
the management of a mad-house. He is, I am sorry to say, both cruel and
penurious--at once a miser and a tyrant--and if his conduct to my child
is not kinder and more generous, I shall feel it my duty to bring her
home to myself, where, at all events, she can calculate upon peace and
affection. The doctor saw that Emily was beautiful--knew that she had
money--and accordingly hurried on the ceremony.

“Such is the history of poor Emily's marriage. Now for my own.

“Mr. Main waring was, like myself, a person who had been engaged
in educating the young. For many years he had conducted, with great
success, a boarding-school that soon became eminent for the number
of brilliant and accomplished men whom it sent into society and the
institutions of the country. Like me, he had saved money--like me
he lost his health, and like me his destiny conducted him to this
neighborhood. We met several times, and looked at each other with a
good deal of curiosity; he anxious to know what kind of animal an
old schoolmistress was, and I to ascertain with what tribe an old
school-master should be classed. There was something odd, if not
comical, in this scrutiny; and the best of it all was, that the more
closely we inspected and investigated, the more accurately did we
discover that we were counterparts--as exact as the two sides of a
tally, or the teeth of a rat-trap--with pardon to dear Mr. Mainwaring
for the nasty comparison, whatever may have put it into my head. He, in
fact, was an old school-master and a widower; I an old school-mistress
and a widow; he wanted a friend and companion, so did I. Each finding
that the other led a solitary life, and only required that solace
and agreeable society, which a kind and rational companion can most
assuredly bestow, resolved to take the other, as the good old phrase
goes, for better for worse; and accordingly here we are, thank God, with
no care but that which proceeds from the unfortunate mistake which poor
Emily made in her marriage. The spirit that cemented our hearts was
friendship, not love; but the holiness of marriage has consecrated that
friendship into affection, which the sweet intercourse of domestic life
has softened into something still more agreeable and tender. My girl's
marriage, my dear Lucy, is the only painful thought that throws its
shadow across our happiness.”

“Poor Emily,” sighed Lucy, “how little did that calm, sweet-tempered,
and patient girl deserve to meet such a husband. But perhaps he may
yet improve. If gentleness and affection can soften a heart by time and
perseverance, his may yet become human.”

Such was the simple history of this amiable couple, who, although
enjoying as much happiness as is usually allotted to man and woman, were
not, however, free from those characteristic traces that enabled their
friends to recognize without much difficulty the previous habits of
their lives.

“Mrs. Mainwaring,” said Lucy, “I must write to my father, I cannot
bear to think of the anguish he will feel at my sudden and mysterious
disappearance. It will set him distracted, perhaps cause illness.”

“Until now, my dear child, you know you had neither time, nor health,
nor strength to do so; but I agree with you, and think without doubt you
ought to make his mind as easy upon this point as possible. At the same
time I do not see that it is necessary for you to give a clew to your
present residence. Perhaps it would be better that I should see him
before you think of returning; but of that we will speak in the course
of the evening, or during to-morrow, when we shall have a little more
time to consider the matter properly, and determine what may be the best
steps to take.”




CHAPTER XXIII. A Lunch in Summerfield Cottage.


The little spot they strolled in was beautiful, from the natural
simplicity of the sweet but humble scenery around them. They traversed
it in every direction; sat on the sunny side of grassy eminences,
gathered wild flowers, threw pebbles into the little prattling stream
that ran over its stony bed before them; listened to and talked of and
enjoyed the music of the birds as they turned the very air and hedges
into harmony. Lucy thought how happy she could be in such a calm and
delightful retreat, with the society of the man she loved, far from the
intrigue, and pride, and vanity, and ambition of life; and she could
scarcely help shuddering when she reflected upon the track of criminal
ambition and profligacy into which, for the sake of an empty and perhaps
a painful title, her father wished to drag her.

This train of thought, however, was dissipated by the appearance of Mr.
Mainwaring, who had returned from his stroll, and came out to seek for
them, accompanied by a young officer of very elegant and gentlemanly
appearance, whom he introduced as Captain Roberts, of the 33d, then
quartered in Dublin.

As an apology for the fact of Mr. Mainwaring having introduced a
stranger to Lucy, under circumstances where privacy was so desirable, it
may be necessary to say here, that Mrs. Mainwaring, out of delicacy
to Lucy, forbore to acquaint him even with a hint at the cause of her
visit, so far as Lucy, on the morning of her arrival, had hastily and
briefly communicated it to her. This she was resolved not to do without
her express permission.

“Allow me, ladies, to present to you my friend, Captain Roberts, of the
33d--or, as another older friend of mine, his excellent father, terms
it, the three times eleven--by the way, not a bad paraphrase, and worthy
of a retired school-master like myself. It is turning the multiplication
table into a vocabulary and making it perform military duty.”

After the usual formalities had been gone through, Mr. Mainwaring, who
was in peculiarly excellent spirits, proceeded:

“Of course you know, every officer when introduced or travelling is
a captain--CAPTAIN--a good travelling name!--_Vide_ the play-books,
_passim_. My young friend, however, is at the present--you remember _as
in pasenti_, Edward--only an ensign, but, please God, old as some of
us are, Mrs. M. to wit--ahem! we will live to shake hands with him as
captain yet.”

“You mean, of course, my dear,” said his wife, “that I will live to
do so; the youngest, as the proverb has it, lives longest. No man, Mr.
Roberts, will more regret the improbability of verifying his own wishes
than Mr. Mainwaring.”

“Ah, Martha! you're always too hard for me,” he replied, laughing. “But
you must know that this young officer, of whom I feel so proud, is an
old pupil of mine, and received his education at my feet. I consequently
feel a more than usual interest in him. But come, we lose-time. It is
now past two o'clock, and, if I don't mistake, there's a bit of cold
ham and chicken to be had, and my walk has prepared me for lunch, as it
usually does, and besides, Martha, there's an old friend of mine, his
father, waiting for our return, to whom I must introduce you both,
ladies, as a sample of the fine old soldier, who is a capital version of
human nature.”

On reaching the cottage they found our worthy friend, old Sam Roberts,
in the garden, throwing crumbs of bread to a busy little flock of
sparrows, behind one of the back windows that opened into it. His honest
but manly face was lit up with all the eager and boisterous enjoyment
of a child whilst observing with simple delight the fierce and angry
quarrels of the parents, as they fought on behalf of their young, for
the good things so providentially cast in their way.

“Come, now,” said Sam, “I'm commissary-general for this day, and, for a
miracle, an honest one--fight fair, you wretches--but I don't wonder at
the spunk you show, for the rations, I can tell you, are better, poor
things, than you are accustomed to. Hello, there! you, sir--you big
fellow--you hulk of a cock--what business have you here? This is a
quarrel among the ladies, sirrah, who are mothers, and it is for their
young ones--on behalf of their children--they are showing fight; and
you, sir, you overgrown glutton, are stuffing yourself, like many
another 'foul bird' before you, with the public property. Shame, you
little vulture! Don't you see they fly away when they have gotten' an
allowance, and give it to their starving children? D---- your principle,
sir, it's a bad one. You think the strongest ought to take most, do you?
Bravo! Well done, my little woman. Go on, you have right and nature
on your side--that's it, peck the glutton--he's a rascal--a public
officer--a commissary-general that--lay on him--well done--never mind
military discipline--he's none of your officer--he's a robber--a
bandit--and neither a soldier nor a gentleman--by fife and drum, that's
well done. But it's all nature--all the heart of man.”

“Well, old friend,” said he, “and so this is your good lady. How do you
do, ma'am? By fife and drum, Mr. Mainwaring, but it's a good match. You
were made for one another. And this young lady your daughter, ma'am? How
do you do, Miss Mainwaring?”

“My dear Mr. Roberts,” said Mainwaring, “we are not so happy as to claim
this young lady as a daughter. She is Miss Gourlay, daughter to Sir
Thomas Gourlay, of Red Hall, now here upon a visit for the good of her
health.”

“How do you do, Miss Gourlay? I am happy to say that I have seen a young
lady that I have heard so much of--so much, I ought to say, that was
good of.”

Lucy, as she replied, blushed deeply at this unintentional mention of
her name, and Mrs. Mainwaring, signing to her husband, by putting her
finger on her lips, hinted to him that he had done wrong.

Old Sam, however, on receiving this intelligence, looked occasionally,
with a great deal of interest, from Lucy to the young officer, and again
from the young officer to Lucy; and as he did it, he uttered a series of
ejaculations to himself, which were for the most part inaudible to
the rest. “Ha!--dear me!--God bless me!--very strange!--right, old
Corbet--right for a thousand--nature will prove it--not a doubt
of it--God bless me!--how very like they are!--perfect brother and
sister!--bless me--it's extraordinary--not a doubt of it. Bravo, Ned!”

“Come, ladies,” said Mr. Mainwaring; “come, my friend, old Sam, as you
like to be called, and you, Edward, come one, come all, till we try the
cold ham and chicken. Miss Gou--ehem--come, Lucy, my dear, the short
cut through the window; you see it open, and now, Martha, your hand; but
there is old Sam's. Well done, Sam; your soldier's ever gallant. Help
Miss--help the young lady up the steps, Edward. Good! he has anticipated
me.”

In a few minutes they were enjoying their lunch, during which the
conversation became very agreeable, and even animated. Young Roberts had
nothing of the military puppy about him whatsoever. On the contrary, his
deportment was modest, manly, and unassuming. Sensible of his father's
humble, but yet respectable position, he neither attempted to swagger
himself into importance by an affectation of superior breeding or
contempt for his parent, nor did he manifest any of that sullen
taciturnity which is frequently preserved, as a proof of superiority,
or a mask for conscious ignorance and bad breeding; the fact being
generally forgotten that it is an exponent of both.

“So, Edward, you like the army, then?” inquired Mr. Mainwaring.

“I do, sir,” replied young Roberts; “it's a noble profession.”

“Eight, Ned--a noble profession--that's the word,” said old Sam; “and so
it is, my boy, and a brave and a generous one.”

Lucy Gourlay and the young soldier had occasionally glanced at each
other; and it might have been observed, that whenever they did so, each
seemed surprised, if not actually confused.

“Is it difficult, Edward,” asked Mainwaring, after they had taken wine
together, “to purchase a commission at present?”

“It is not very easy to procure commissions just now,” replied the
other; “but you know, Mr. Mainwaring, that I had the honor to be raised
from the ranks.”

“Bravo, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, slapping him him on the back; “I am
glad to see that you take that honor in its true light. Thousands may
have money to buy a commission, but give me the man that has merit to
deserve it; especially, Ned, at so young an age as yours.”

“You must have distinguished yourself, sir,” observed Lucy, “otherwise
it is quite unusual, I think, to witness the promotion from the ranks of
so young a man.”

“I only endeavored to do my duty, madam,” replied Roberts, bowing
modestly, whilst something like a blush came over his cheeks.

“Never mind him, Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed Sam--“never mind; he did
distinguish himself, and on more than one occasion, too, and well
deserved his promotion. When one of the British flags was seized upon
and borne off, after the brave fellow whose duty it was to defend it
with his life had done so, and was cut down by three French soldiers,
our gentleman here, for all so modest as he looks, pursued them, fought
single-handed against the three, rescued the flag, and, on his way back,
met the general, who chanced to be a spectator of the exploit; when
passing near him, bleeding, for he had been smartly wounded, the general
rides over to him. 'Is the officer who bore that flag killed?' he
asked. 'He is, general,' replied Ned.--'You have rescued it?'--'I have,
sir.'--'What is your name?'--He told him.--'Have you received an
education?'--'A good education, general'--'Very good,' proceeded the
general. 'You have recovered the flag, you say?'--'I considered it
my duty either to die or to do so, general,' replied Ned.--'Well said,
soldier,' returned the general, 'and well done, too: as for the flag
itself, you must only keep it for your pains. Your commission, young
man, shall be made out. I will take charge of that myself.'--There, now,
is the history of his promotion for you.”

“It is highly honorable to him in every sense,” observed Lucy. “But it
was an awful risk of life for one man to pursue three.”

“A soldier, madam,” replied Roberts, bowing to her for the compliment,
“in the moment of danger, or when the flag of his sovereign is likely
to be sullied, should never remember that he has a life; or remember
it only that it may be devoted to the glory of his country and the
maintenance of her freedom.”

“That's well said, Edward,” observed Mr. Mainwaring; “very well
expressed indeed. The clauses of that sentence all follow in a neat,
consecutive order. It is, indeed, all well put together as if it were an
exercise.”

Edward could not help smiling at this unconscious trait of the old
school-master peeping out.

“That general is a fine old fellow,” said Sam, “and knew how to reward
true courage. But you see, Mr. Mainwaring and ladies, it's all natural,
all the heart of man.”

“There's Mr. Mitchell, our clergyman,” observed Mrs. Mainwaring, looking
out of the window; “I wish he would come in. Shall I call him, dear?”

“Never mind now, my love,” replied her husband. “I like the man well
enough; he is religious, they say, and charitable, but his early
education unfortunately was neglected. His sermons never hang well
together; he frequently omits the exordium, and often winds them up
without the peroration at all. Then he mispronounces shockingly, and is
full of false quantities. It was only on last Sunday that he laid the
accent on _i_ in Dalilah. Such a man's sermons, I am sorry to say,
can do any educated man little good. Her's a note, my love, from Mrs.
Fletcher. I met the servant coming over with it, and took it from him.
She wishes to hear from you in an hour or two: it's a party, I think.”

He threw the note over to his wife, who, after apologizing to the
company, opened, and began to read it.

Honest old Mainwaring was an excellent man, and did a great deal of
good in a quiet way, considering his sphere of life. In attending to the
sermon, however, when at church, he laid himself back in his pew, shut
his eyes, put the end of his gold-headed cane to his lips, and set
a criticising. If all the rhetorical rules were duly observed, the
language clear, and the parts of the sermon well arranged, and if,
besides, there was neither false accent, nor false quantity, nor any
bad grammar, he pronounced it admirable, and praised the preacher to
the skies. Anything short of this, however, he looked upon not only as
a failure, but entertained strong doubts of the man's orthodoxy, as well
as of the purity of his doctrine.

“Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, after having glanced over
the note, “you are right; it is a party; and we are both asked; but I
wonder, above all things, that Miss Fletcher should never cross her t's;
then the tails of her letters are so long that they go into the line
below them, which looks so slovenly, and shows that her writing must
have bean very much neglected. I also know another fair neighbor of ours
who actually puts 'for' before the infinitive mood, and flourishes her
large letters like copperplate capitals that are only fit to appear in a
merchant's books.”

“But you know, my dear,” said her husband, “that she is a grocer's
widow, and, it is said, used to keep his accounts.”

“That is very obvious, my dear; for, indeed, most of her invitations to
tea are more like bills duly furnished than anything else. I remember
one of them that ran to the following effect:

“'Mrs. Allspice presents compliments to Messrs. Mainwaring &, Co.--to
wit, Miss Norton '--this was my daughter--' begs to be favored, per
return of post, as to whether it will suit convenience for to come
on next Tuesday evening, half-past seven, to take a cup of the best
flavored souchong, 7s. 6d. per lb., and white lump, Jamaica, Is. per
ditto, with a nice assortment of cakes, manufactured by ourselves.
Punctuality to appointment expected.'”

“Well, for my part,” said Sam, “I must say it's the entertainment I'd
look to both with her and the parson, and neither the language nor the
writing. Mrs. Mainwaring, will you allow me to propose a toast ma'am?
It's for a fine creature, in her way; a lily, a jewel.”

“With pleasure, Mr. Roberts,” said that lady, smiling, for she knew old
Sam must always have his own way.

“Well, then, fill, fill, each of you. Come, Miss Gourlay, if only for
the novelty of the thing; for I dare say you never drank a toast before.
Ned, fill for her. You're an excellent woman, Mrs. Mainwaring: and
he was a lucky old boy that got you to smooth down the close of his
respectable and useful life--at least, it was once useful--but we can't
be useful always--well, of his harmless life--ay, that is nearer the
thing. Yes, Mrs. Mainwaring, by all accounts you are a most excellent
and invaluable woman, and deserve all honor.”

Mrs. Mainwaring sat with a comely simper upon her good-natured face,
looking down with a peculiar and modest appreciation of the forthcoming
compliment to herself.

“Come now,” Sam went on, “to your legs. You all, I suppose, know who I
mean. Stand, if you please, Miss Gourlay. Head well up, and shoulders a
little more squared, Mainwaring. Here now, are you all ready?”

“All ready,” responded the gentlemen, highly amused.

“Well, then, here's my Beck's health! and long life to her! She's the
pearl of wives, and deserves to live forever!”

A fit of good-humored laughter followed old Sam's toast, in which Mrs.
Mainwaring not only came in for an ample share, but joined very heartily
herself; that worthy lady taking it for granted that old Sam was about
to propose the health of the hostess, sat still, while the rest rose;
even Lucy stood up, with her usual grace and good-nature, and put the
glass to her lips; and as it was the impression that the compliment was
meant for Mrs. Mainwaring, the thing seemed very like what is vulgarly
called a bite, upon the part of old Sam, who in the meantime, had
no earthly conception of anything else than that they all thoroughly
understood him, and were aware of the health he was about to give.

“What!” exclaimed Sam, on witnessing their mirth; “by fife and drum,
I see nothing to laugh at in anything connected with my Beck. I always
make it a point to drink the old girl's health when I'm from home; for I
don't know how it happens, but I think I'm never half so fond of her as
when we're separated.”

“But, Mr. Eoberts,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, laughing, “I assure you, from
the compliments you paid me, I took it for granted that it was my health
you were about to propose.”

“Ay, but the compliments I paid you, ma'am, were all in compliment to
old Beck; but next to her, by fife and drum, you deserve a bumper. Come,
Mainwaring, get to legs, and let us have her health. Attention, now;
head well up, sir; shoulders square; eye on your wife.”

“It shall be done,” replied Mainwaring, entering into the spirit of the
joke. “If it were ambrosia, she is worthy of a brimmer. Come, then, fill
your glasses. Edward, attend to Miss Gourlay. Sam, help Mrs. Mainwaring.
Here, then, my dear Martha; like two winter apples, time has only
mellowed us. We have both run parallel courses in life; you, in
instructing the softer and more yielding sex; I, the nobler and more
manly.”

“Keep strictly to the toast, Matthew,” she replied, “or I shall rise to
defend our sex. You yielded first, you know. Ha, ha, ha!”

“As the stronger yields to the weaker, from courtesy and compassion.
However, to proceed. We have both conjugated _amo_ before we ever saw
each other, so that our recurrence to the good old verb seemed somewhat
like a Saturday's repetition. As for _doceo_, we have been both
engaged in enforcing it, and successfully, Martha”--here he shook his
purse--“during the best portion of our lives; for which we have made
some of the most brilliant members of society our debtors. _Lego_ is
now one of our principal enjoyments; sometimes under the shadow of
a spreading tree in the orchard, during the serene effulgence of a
summer's eve; or, what is still more comfortable, before the cheering
blaze of the winter's fire, the blinds down, the shutters closed,
the arm-chair beside the table--on that table an open book and a warm
tumbler--and Martha, the best of wives--

“Attention, Mainwaring; my Beck's excepted.”

“Martha, the best of wives--old Sam's Beck always excepted--sitting at
my side. As for _audio_, the truth is, I have been forced to experience
the din and racket of that same verb during the greater portion of my
life, in more senses than I am willing to describe. I did not imagine,
in my bachelor days, that the fermenting tumult of the school-room could
be surpassed by a single instrument; but, alas!--well, it matters not
now; all I can say is, that I never saw her--heard I mean, for I am on
_audio_--that the performance of that same single instrument did not
furnish me with a painful praxis of the nine parts of speech all going
together; for I do believe that nine tongues all at work could not have
matched her. But peace be with her! she is silent at last, and cannot
hear me now. I thought I myself possessed an extensive knowledge of
the languages, but, alas I was nothing; as a linguist she was without a
rival. However, I pass that over, and return to the subject of my toast.
Now, my dear Martha, since heaven gifted me with you--”

“Attention, Mainwaring! Eyes up to the ceiling, sir, and thank God!”

Mainwaring did so; but for the life of him could not help throwing a
little comic spirit into the action, adding in an undertone that he
wished to be heard. “Ah, my dear Sam, how glad I am that you did not bid
me go farther. However, to proceed--No, my dear Martha, ever since
our most felicitous conjugation, I hardly know what the exemplary
verb _audio_ means. I could scarcely translate it. Ours is a truly
grammatical union. Not the nominative case with verb--not the relative
with the antecedent--not the adjective with the substantive--affords
a more appropriate illustration of conjugal harmony, than does our
matrimonial existence. Peace and quietness, however, are on your
tongue--affection and charity in your heart--benevolence in your hand,
which is seldom extended empty to the pool--and, altogether, you
are worthy of the high honor to which,”--this he added with a bit of
good-natured irony--“partly from motives of condescension, and partly,
as I said, from motives of compassion, I have, in the fulness of a
benevolent heart, exalted you.” The toast was then drank.

“Attention, ladies!” said Sam, who had been looking, as before, from the
young officer to Lucy, and vice versa--“Mainwaring, attention! Look upon
these two--upon Miss Gourlay, here, and upon Ned Roberts--and tell me if
you don't think there's a strong likeness.”

The attention of the others was instantly directed to an examination of
the parties in question, and most certainly they were struck with the
extraordinary resemblance.

“It is very remarkable, indeed, Mr. Roberts,” observed their hostess,
looking at them again; “and what confirms it is the fact, that I
noticed the circumstance almost as soon as Mr. Roberts joined us. It is
certainly very strange to find such a resemblance in persons not at all
related.”

Lucy, on finding the eyes of her friends upon her, could not avoid
blushing; nor was the young officer's complexion without a somewhat
deeper tinge.

“Now,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, smiling, “the question is, which we are to
consider complimented by this extraordinary likeness.”

“The gentleman, of course, Mrs. Mainwaring,” replied Sam.

“Unquestionably,” said Edward, bowing to Lucy; “I never felt so much
flattered in my life before, nor ever can again, unless by a similar
comparison with the same fair object.”

Another blush on the part of Lucy followed this delicate compliment, and
old Sam exclaimed:

“Attention, Mainwaring! and you, ma'am,”--addressing Mrs. Mainwaring.
“Now did you ever see brother and sister more like? eh!”

“Very seldom ever saw brother and sister so like,” replied Mainwaring.
“Indeed, it is most extraordinary.”

“Wonderful! upon my word,” exclaimed his wife.

“Hum!--Well,” proceeded Sam, “it is, I believe, very odd--very--and may
be not, either--may be not so odd. Ahem!--and yet, still--however, no
matter, it's all natural; all the heart of man--eh! Mainwaring?”

“I suppose so, Mr. Roberts; I suppose so.”

After old Sam and his son had taken their departure, Lucy once more
adverted to the duty as well as the necessity of acquainting her
father with her safety, and thus relieving his mind of much anxiety
and trouble. To this her friend at once consented. The baronet, in the
meantime, felt considerably the worse for those dreadful conflicts
which had swept down and annihilated all that ever had any tendency to
humanity or goodness in his heart. He felt unwell--that is to say, he
experienced none of those symptoms of illness which at once determine
the nature of any specific malady. The sensation, however, was that of
a strong man, who finds his frame, as it were, shaken--who is aware that
something of a nameless apprehension connected with his health hangs
over him, and whose mind is filled with a sense of gloomy depression
and restlessness, for which he neither can account nor refer to any
particular source of anxiety, although such in reality may exist. It
appeared to be some terrible and gigantic hypochondriasis--some waking
nightmare--coming over him like the shadow of his disappointed ambition,
blighting his strength, and warning him, that when the heart is made the
battle-field of the passions for too long a period, the physical powers
will ultimately suffer, until the body becomes the victim of the spirit.

Yet, notwithstanding this feeling, Sir Thomas's mind was considerably
relieved. Lucy had not eloped; but then, the rumor of her elopement
had gone abroad. This, indeed, was bitter; but, on the other hand,
time--circumstances--the reappearance of this most mysterious
stranger--and most of all, Lucy's high character for all that was great
and good, delicate and honorable, would ere long, set her right with the
world. Nothing, he felt, however, would so quickly and decidedly effect
this as her return to her father's roof; for this necessary step would
at once give the lie to calumny.

In order, therefore, to ascertain, if possible, the place of her present
concealment, he resolved to remove to his metropolitan residence, having
taken it for granted that she had sought shelter there with some of her
friends. Anxious, nervous, and gloomy, he ordered his carriage, and in
due time arrived in Dublin.

Thither the stranger had preceded him. The latter, finding that
Ballytrain could no longer be the scene of his operations, also sought
the metropolis. Fenton had disappeared--Lucy was no longer there. His
friend Birney was also in town, and as in town his business now lay, to
town therefore he went.

In the meantime, we must turn a little to our friend Crackenfudge, who,
after the rough handling he had received from the baronet, went home,
if not a sadder and a wiser, at least a much sorer man. The unfortunate
wretch was sadly basted. The furious baronet, knowing the creature he
was, had pitched into him in awful style. He felt, however, when cooled
down, that he had gone too far; and that, for the sake of Lucy, and in
order to tie up the miserable wretch's babbling tongue, it was necessary
that he should make some apology for such an unjustifiable outrage. He
accordingly wrote him the following letter before he went to town:

“DEAR SIR,--The nature of the communication which, I am sure from kind
feelings, you made to me the other day, had such an effect upon a temper
naturally choleric, that I fear I have been guilty of some violence
toward you. I am, unfortunately, subject to paroxysms of this sort, and
while under their influence feel utterly unconscious of what I do or
say. In your case, will you be good enough to let me know--whether I
treated you kindly or otherwise; for the fact is, the paroxysm I speak
of assumes an affectionate character as well as a violent one. Of what I
did or said on the occasion in question I have no earthly recollection.
In the meantime, I have the satisfaction to assure you that Miss Gourlay
has not eloped, but is residing with a friend, in the metropolis. I
have seen the gentleman to whom you alluded, and am satisfied that their
journey to town was purely accidental. He knows not even where she is;
but I do, and am quite easy on the subject. Have the kindness to mention
this to all your friends, and to contradict the report of her elopement
wherever and whenever you hear it.

“Truly yours,

“Thomas Gourlay.

“Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq.

“P. S.--In the meantime, will you oblige me by sending up to my address
in town a list of your claims for a seat on the magisterial bench. Let
it be as clear and well worded as you can make it, and as authentic. You
may color a little, I suppose, but let the groundwork be truth--if you
can; if not truth--then that which comes as near it as possible. Truth,
you know, is always better than a lie, unless where a lie happens to be
better than truth.

“T. G.”


To this characteristic epistle our bedrubbed friend sent the following
reply:

“My dear Sir Thomas,--A' would give more than all mention to be gifted
with your want of memory respecting what occurred the other day. Never
man had such a memory of that dreadful transaction as a' have; from head
to heel a'm all memory; from heel to head a'm all memory--up and down
--round--about--across--here and there, and everywhere--a'm all
memory; but in one particular place, Sir Thomas--ah! there's where a'
suffer--however, it doesn't make no matter; a' only say that you taught
me the luxury of an easy chair and a. soft cushion ever since, Sir
Thomas.

“Your letter, Sir Thomas, has given me great comfort, and has made me
rejoice, although it is with groans a' do it, at the whole transaction.
If you succeed in getting me the magistracy, Sir Thomas, it will be the
most blessed and delightful basting that ever a lucky man got. If a'
succeed in being turned into a bony fidy live magistrate, to be called
'your worship,' and am to have the right of fining and flogging and
committing the people, as a' wish and hope to do, then all say that the
hand of Providence was in it, as well as your foot, Sir Thomas. Now,
that you have explained the circumstance, a' feel very much honored by
the drubbing a' got, Sir Thomas; and, indeed, a' don't doubt, after
all, but it was meant in kindness, as you say, Sir Thomas; and a'm sure
besides, Sir Thomas, that it's not every one you'd condescend to drub,
and that the man you would drub, Sir Thomas, must be a person of some
consequence. A' will send you up my claims as a magistrate some of these
days--that is, as soon as a' can get some long-headed fellow to make
them out for me.

“And have the honor to be, my dear Sir Thomas, your much obliged and
favored humble servant.

“Periwinkle Crackenfudge.

“Sir Thomas Gourlay, Bart.”




CHAPTER XXIV.--An Irish Watchhouse in the time of the “Charlies.”


Another subject which vexed the baronet not a little was the loss of his
money and pistols by the robbery; but what he still felt more bitterly,
was the failure of the authorities to trace or arrest the robber.
The vengeance which he felt against that individual lay like a black
venomous snake coiled round his heart. The loss of the money and the
fire-arms he might overlook, but the man, who, in a few moments, taught
him to know himself as he was--who dangled him, as it were, over the
very precipice of hell--with all his iniquities upon his head, the man
who made him feel the crimes of a whole life condensed into one fearful
moment, and showed them to him darkened into horror by the black
lightning of perdition; such a man, we say, he could never forgive. It
was in vain that large rewards were subscribed and offered, it was in
vain that every effort was made to discover the culprit. Not only was
there no trace of him got, but other robberies had been committed by a
celebrated highwayman of the day, named Finnerty, whom neither bribe nor
law could reach.

Our readers may remember, with reference to the robbery of the baronet,
the fact of Trailcudgel's having met the stranger on his way to disclose
all the circumstances to the priest, and that he did not proceed farther
on that occasion, having understood that Father M'Mahon was from home.
Poor Trailcudgel, who, as the reader is aware, was not a robber either
from principle or habit, and who only resorted to it when driven by the
agonizing instincts of nature, felt the guilt of his crime bitterly,
and could enjoy rest neither night nor day, until he had done what he
conceived to be his duty as a Christian, and which was all he or any man
could do: that is, repent for his crime, and return the property to him
from whom he had taken it. This he did, as it is usually done, through
the medium of his pastor; and on the very day after the baronet's
departure both the money and pistols were deposited in Father M'Mahon's
hands.

In a few days afterwards the worthy priest, finding, on inquiry, that
Sir Thomas had gone to Dublin, where, it was said, he determined to
reside for some time, made up his mind to follow him, in order to
restore him the property he had lost. This, however, was not the sole
purpose of his visit to the metropolis. The letter he had given the
stranger to Corbet, or Dunphy, had not, he was sorry to find, been
productive of the object for which it had been written. Perhaps it was
impossible that it could; but still the good priest, who was as shrewd
in many things as he was benevolent and charitable in all, felt strongly
impressed with a belief that this old man was not wholly ignorant, or
rather unconnected with the disappearance of either one or the other of
the lost children. Be this, however, as it may, he prepared to see the
baronet for the purpose already mentioned.

He accordingly took his place--an inside one--in the redoubtable “Fly,”
 which, we may add, was the popular vehicle at the time, and wrapping
himself up in a thick frieze cloak, or great coat, with standing collar
that buttoned up across his face to the very eyes, and putting a shirt
or two, and some other small matters, into a little bundle--tying, at
the same time, a cotton kerchief over his hat and chin--he started
on his visit to the metropolis, having very much the appearance of a
determined character, whose dress and aspect were not, however, such
as to disarm suspicion. He felt much more careful of the baronet's
pocket-book than he did of his own, and contrived to place it in an
inside pocket, which being rather small for it, he was obliged to rip
a little in order to give it admittance. The case of pistols he slipped
into the pockets of his jock, one in each, without ever having once
examined them, or satisfied himself--simple man--as to whether they
were loaded or not. His own pocket-book was carelessly placed in the
right-hand pocket of the aforesaid jock, along with one of the pistols.

The night was agreeable, and nothing worth recording took place until
they had come about five miles on the side of ------, when a loud voice
ordered the coachman to stop.

“Stop the coach, sir!” said the voice, with a good deal of reckless and
bitter expression in it; “stop the coach, or you are a dead man.”

Several pistols were instantly leveled at both coachman and guard, and
the same voice, which was thin, distinct, and wiry, proceeded--“Keep all
steady now, boys, and shoot the first that attempts to move. I will see
what's to be had inside.”

He went immediately to the door of the “Fly,” and opening it, held up
a dark lantern, which, whilst it clearly showed him the dress,
countenances, and condition of the passengers, thoroughly concealed his
own.

The priest happened to be next him, and was consequently the first
person on whom this rather cool demand was made.

“Come, sir,” said the highwayman, “fork out, if you please; and be quick
about it, if you're wise.”

“Give a body time, if you plaise,” responded the priest, who at that
moment had about him all the marks and tokens of a farmer, or, at least,
of a man who wished to pass for one. “I think,” he added, “if you knew
who you had, you'd not only pass me by, but the very coach I'm travelin'
in. Don't be unaisy, man alive,” he proceeded; “have patience--for
patience, as everybody knows, is a virtue--do, then, have patience, or,
maybe--oh! ay!--here it is--here is what you want--the very thing, I'll
be bound--and you must have it, too.” And the poor man, in the hurry and
alarm of the moment, pulled out one of the baronet's pistols.

The robber whipped away the lantern, and instantly disappeared. “By the
tarn, boys,” said he, “it's Finnerty himself, disguised like a farmer.
But he's mid to travel in a public coach, and the beaks on the lookout
for him. Hello! all's right, coachman; drive on, we won't disturb you
this night, at all events. Gee hup!--off you go; and off we go--with
empty pockets.”

It happened that this language, which the robber did not intend to have
reached the ears of the passengers, was heard nevertheless, and from
this moment until they changed horses at ------ there was a dead silence
in the coach.

On that occasion one gentleman left it, and he had scarcely been half a
minute gone when a person, very much in the garb and bearing of a modern
detective, put in his head, and instantly withdrew it, exclaiming,

“Curse me, it's a hit--he's inside as snug as a rat in a trap. Up with
you on top of the coach, and we'll pin him when we reach town. 'Gad,
this is a windfall, for the reward is a heavy one.--If we could now
manage the baronet's business, we were made men.”

He then returned into the coach, and took his seat right opposite
the priest, in order the better to watch his motions, and keep him
completely under his eye.

“Dangerous traveling by night, sir,” said he, addressing the priest,
anxious to draw his man into conversation.

“By night or by day, the roads are not very safe at the present time,”
 replied his reverence.

“The danger's principally by night, though,” observed the other. “This
Finnerty is playing the devil, they say; and is hard to be nabbed by all
accounts.”

The observation was received by several hums, and hems, and has, and
very significant ejaculations, whilst a fat, wealthy-looking fellow, who
sat beside the peace-officer--for such he was--in attempting to warn him
of Finnerty's presence, by pressing on his foot, unfortunately pressed
upon that of the priest in mistake, who naturally interpreted the hems
and has aforesaid to apply to the new-corner instead of himself. This
cannot be matter of surprise, inasmuch as the priest had his ears so
completely muffled up with the collar of his jock and a thick cotton
kerchief, that he heard not the allusions which the robber had made
outside the coach, when he mistook him for Finnerty. He consequently
peered very keenly at the last speaker, who to tell the truth, had
probably in his villanous features ten times more the character and
visage of a highwayman and cutthroat than the redoubtable Finnerty
himself.

“It's a wonder,” said the priest, “that the unfortunate man has not been
taken.”

“Hum!” exclaimed the officer; “unfortunate man. My good fellow, that's
very mild talk when speaking of a robber. Don't you know that all
robbers deserve the gallows, eh?”

“I know no such thing,” replied the priest. “Many a man has lived by
robbing, in his day, that now lives by catching them; and many a poor
fellow, as honest as e'er an individual in this coach--”

“That's very shocking language,” observed a thin, prim, red-nosed lady,
with a vinegar aspect, who sat erect, and apparently fearless, in the
corner of the coach--“very shocking language, indeed. Why, my good man,
should you form any such wile kimparison?”

“Never mind, ma'am; never mind,” said the officer, whose name was Darby;
“let him proceed; from what he is about to say, I sha'n't be surprised
if he justifies robbery--not a bit--but will be a good deal, if he
don't. Go on, my good fellow.”

“Well,” proceeded the priest, “I was going to say, that many a poor
wretch, as honest as e'er an individual, man or woman--”

Here there was, on the part of the lady, an indignant toss of the head,
and a glance of supreme scorn leveled at the poor priest; whilst Darby,
like a man who had generously undertaken the management of the whole
discussion, said, with an air of conscious ability, if not something
more, “nevermind him, ma'am; give him tether.”

“As honest,” persisted the priest, “as e'er an individual, man or woman,
in this coach--and maybe, if the truth were known, a good deal honester
than some of them.”

“Good,” observed the officer; “I agree with you in that--right enough
there.”

The vinegar lady, now apprehensive that her new ally had scandalously
abandoned her interests, here dropped her eyes, and crossed her hands
upon her breast, as if she had completely withdrawn herself from the
conversation.

“I finds,” said she to herself, in a contemptuous soliloquy, “as how
there ain't no gentleman in this here wehicle.”

“Just pay attention, ma'am,” said the officer--“just pay attention,
that's all.”

This, however, seemed to have no effect--at least the lady remained in
the same attitude, and made no reply.

“Suppose now,” proceeded the priest, “that an unfortunate father, in
times of scarcity and famine, should sit in his miserable cabin, and see
about him six or seven of his family, some dying of fever, and others
dying from want of food; and suppose that he was driven to despair by
reflecting that unless he forced it from the rich who would not out of
their abundance prevent his children from starving, he can procure
them relief in no other way, and they must die in the agonies of hunger
before his face. Suppose this, and that some wealthy man, without
sympathy for his fellow-creatures, regardless of the cries of the
poor-heartless, ambitious, and oppressive; and suppose besides that it
was this very heartless and oppressive man of wealth who, by his pride
and tyranny, and unchristian vengeance, drove that poor man and his
wretched family to the state I have painted them for you, in that cold
and dreary hovel; suppose all this, I say, and that that wretched
poor man, his heart bursting, and his brain whirling, stimulated by
affection, goaded by hunger and indescribable misery; suppose, I say,
that in the madness of despair he sallies out, and happens to meet the
very individual who brought him and his to such a dreadful state--do you
think that he ought to let him pass--”

“I see,” interrupted the officer, “without bleeding him; I knew you
would come to that--go along.”

“That he ought to let that wealthy oppressor pass, and allow the wife
of his bosom and his gasping little ones to perish, whilst he knows
that taking that assistance from him by violence which he ought to give
freely would save them to society and him? Mark me, I'm not justifying
robbery. Every general rule has its exception; and I'm only supposing a
case where the act of robbery may be more entitled to compassion than to
punishment--but, as I said, I'm not defending it.”

“Ain't you, faith?” replied the officer; “it looks devilish like it,
though. Don't you think so, ma'am?”

“I never listens to no nonsense like that ere,” replied the lady. “All I
say is, that a gentleman as I've the honor of being acquainted with, 'as
been robbed the other night of a pocket-book stuffed with banknotes, and
a case of Hirish pistols that he kept to shoot robbers, and sich other
wulgar wretches as is to be found nowhere but in Hireland.”

“Stuffed!” exclaimed the priest, disdainfully; “as much stuffed, ma'am,
as you are.”

The officer's very veins tingled with delight on hearing the admission
which was involved in the simple priest's exclamation. He kept it,
however, to himself, on account of the large reward that lay in the
background.

“I stuffed!” exclaimed the indignant lady, whose thin face had for a
considerable time been visible, for it was long past dawn; “I defy
you, sir,” she replied, “you large, nasty, Hirish farmer, as feeds upon
nothing but taters. I stuffed!--no lady--you nasty farmer--goes without
padding, which is well known to any man as is a gentleman. But stuffed!
I defy you, nasty Paddy; I was never stuffed. Those as stuff use 'oss
'air; now I never uses 'oss 'air.”

“If you weren't stuffed, then,” replied the priest, who took a natural
disrelish to her affectation of pride and haughtiness, knowing her as he
now did--“many a better woman was. If you weren't, ma'am, it wasn't your
own fault. Sir Thomas Gourlay's English cook need never be at a loss for
plenty to stuff herself with.”

This was an extinguisher. The heaven of her complexion was instantly
concealed by a thick cloud in the shape of a veil. She laid herself
back in the corner of the carriage, and maintained the silence of a
vanquished woman during the remainder of the journey.

On arriving in town the passengers, as is usual, betook themselves to
their respective destinations. Father M'Mahon, with his small bundle
under his arm, was about to go to the Brazen Head Tavern, when he found
himself tapped on the shoulder by our friend Darby, who now held a
pistol in his hand, and said:

“There are eight of us, Mr. Finnerty, and it is useless to shy Abraham.
You're bagged at last, so come off quietly to the office.”

“I don't understand you,” replied the priest, who certainly felt
surprised at seeing himself surrounded by so many constables, for it was
impossible any longer to mistake them. “What do you mean, my friend? or
who do you suppose me to be?”

The constable gave him a knowing wink, adding with as knowing an
air--“It's no go here, my lad--safe's the word. Tramp for the office,
or we'll clap on the wrist-buttons. We know you're a shy cock, Mr.
Finnerty, and rather modest, too--that's the cut. Simpson, keep the
right arm fast, and, you, Gamble, the left, whilst we bring up the rear.
In the meantime, before he proceeds a step, I, as senior, will take the
liberty to--just--see--what--is--here,” whilst, suiting the word to
the action, he first drew a pistol from the left pocket, and immediately
after another from the right, and--shades of Freney and O'Hanlon!--the
redoubtable pocket-book of Sir Thomas Gourlay, each and all marked not
only with his crest, but his name and title at full length.

The priest was not at a moment's loss how to act. Perceiving their
mistake as to his identity, and feeling the force of appearances against
him, he desired to be conducted at once to the office. There he knew he
could think more calmly upon the steps necessary to his liberation
than he could in a crowd which was enlarging every moment, on its being
understood that Finnerty, the celebrated highwayman, had been at length
taken. Not that the crowd gave expression to any feeling or ebullition
that was at all unfriendly to him. So far from that, it gathered round
him with strong expressions of sympathy and compassion for his unhappy
fate. Many were the anecdotes reported to each other by the spectators
of his humanity--his charity--his benevolence to the poor; and, above
all, of his intrepidity and courage; for it may be observed here--and
we leave moralists, metaphysicians, and political economists to draw
whatever inferences they please from the fact--but fact it is--that in
no instance is any man who has violated the law taken up publicly,
on Irish ground, whether in town or country, that the people do
not uniformly express the warmest sympathy for him, and a strong
manifestation of enmity against his captors. Whether this may be
interpreted favorably or otherwise of our countrymen, we shall not
undertake to determine. As Sir Roger de Coverly said, perhaps much might
be advanced on both sides.

On entering the watch-house, the heart of the humane priest was
painfully oppressed at the scenes of uproar, confusion, debauchery, and
shameless profligacy, of which he saw either the present exhibition or
the unquestionable evidences. There was the lost and hardened female,
uttering the wild screams of intoxication, or pouring forth from her
dark, filthy place of confinement torrents of polluted mirth; the
juvenile pickpocket, ripe in all the ribald wit and traditional slang
of his profession; the ruffian burglar, with strong animal frame, dark
eyebrows, low forehead, and face full of coarseness and brutality; the
open robber, reckless and jocular, indifferent to consequences, and
holding his life only in trust for the hangman, or for some determined
opponent who may treat him to cold lead instead of pure gold; the
sneaking thief, cool and cowardly, ready-witted at the extricating
falsehood--for it is well known that the thief and liar are convertible
terms--his eye feeble, cunning, and circumspective, and his whole
appearance redolent of duplicity and fraud; the receiver of stolen
goods, affecting much honest simplicity; the good creature, whether man
or woman, apparently in great distress, and wondering that industrious
and unsuspecting people, struggling to bring up their families in
honesty and decency, should be imposed upon and taken in by people that
one couldn't think of suspecting. There, too, was the servant out
of place, who first a forger of discharges, next became a thief, and
heroically adventuring to the dignity of a burglar for which he had
neither skill nor daring, was made prisoner in the act; and there he
sits, half drunk, in that corner, repenting his failure instead of
his crime, forgetting his cowardice, and making moral resolutions with
himself, that, should he escape now, he will execute the next burglary
in a safe and virtuous state of sobriety. But we need not proceed: there
was the idle and drunken mechanic, or, perhaps, the wife, whose Saturday
night visits to the tap-room in order to fetch him home, or to rescue
the wages of his industry from the publican, had at length corrupted
herself.

Two other characters were there which we cannot overlook, both of whom
had passed through the world with a strong but holy scorn for the errors
and failings of their fellow-creatures. One of them was a man of gross,
carnal-looking features, trained, as it seemed to the uninitiated, into
a severe and sanctified expression by the sheer force of religion. His
face was full of godly intolerance against everything at variance with
the one thing needful, whatever that was, and against all who did not,
like himself, travel on fearlessly and zealously Zionward. He did not
feel himself justified in the use of common and profane language; and,
consequently, his vocabulary was taken principally from the Bible, which
he called “the Lord's word.” Sunday was not Sunday with him, but “the
Lord's day;” and he never went to church in his life, but always to
“service.” Like most of his class, however, he seemed to be influenced
by that extraordinary anomaly which characterizes the saints--that is to
say, as great a reverence for the name of the devil as for that of God
himself; for in his whole life and conversation he was never known to
pronounce it as we have written it. Satan--the enemy--the destroyer,
were the names he applied to him: and this, we presume, lest the world
might suspect that there subsisted any private familiarity between them.
His great ruling principle, however, originated in what he termed a
godless system of religious liberality; in other words, he attributed
all the calamities and scourges of the land to the influence of Popery.
and its toleration by the powers that be. He was a big-boned, coarse
man, with black, greasy hair, cut short; projecting cheek-bones, that
argued great cruelty; dull, but lascivious eyes; and an upper lip like a
dropsical sausage. We forget now the locality in which he had committed
the offence that had caused him to be brought there. But it does
not much matter; it is enough to say that he was caught, about three
o'clock, perambulating the streets, considerably the worse for liquor,
and not in the best society. Even as it was, and in the very face of
those who had detected him so circumstanced, he was railing against the
ungodliness of our “rulers,” the degeneracy of human nature, and the
awful scourges that the existence of Popery was bringing on the land.

As it happened, however, this worthy representative of his class was
not without a counterpart among the moral inmates of the watch-house.
Another man, who was known among his friends as a Catholic voteen, or
devotee, happened to have been brought to the game establishment, much
in the same circumstances, and for some similar offence. When compared
together, it was really curious to observe the extraordinary resemblance
which these two men bore to each other. Each was dressed in sober
clothes, for your puritan of every creed must, like his progenitors the
Pharisees of old, have some peculiarity in his dress that will gain him
credit for religion. Their features were marked by the same dark, sullen
shade which betokens intolerance. The devotee was thinner, and not so
large a man as the other; but he made up in the cunning energy which
glistened from his eyes for the want of physical strength, as compared
with the Protestant saint; not at all that he was deficient in it _per
se_, for though a smaller man, he was better built and more compact than
his brother. Indeed, so nearly identical was the expression of their
features--the sensual Milesian mouth, and naturally amorous temperament,
hypocrisized into formality, and darkened into bitterness by bigotry
--that on discovering each other in the watch-house, neither could for
his life determine whether the man before him belonged to idolatrous
Rome on the one hand, or the arch heresy on the other.

There they stood, exact counterparts, each a thousand times more anxious
to damn the other than to save himself. They were not long, however, in
discovering each other, and in a moment the jargon of controversy
rang loud and high amidst the uproar and confusion of the place. The
Protestant saint attributed all the iniquity by which the land, he
said, was overflowed, and the judgments under which it was righteously
suffering, to the guilt of our rulers, who forgot God, and connived at
Popery.

The Popish saint, on the other hand, asserted that so long as a fat and
oppressive heresy was permitted to trample upon the people, the
country could never prosper. The other one said, that idolatry--Popish
idolatry--was the cause of all; and that it was the scourge by which
“the Lord” was inflicting judicial punishment upon the country at large.
If it were not for that he would not be in such a sink of iniquity at
that moment. Popish idolatry it was that brought him there; and the
abominations of the Romish harlot were desolating the land.

The other replied, that perhaps she was the only harlot of the kind
he would run away from; and maintained, that until all heresy was
abolished, and rooted out of the country, the curse of God would
sit upon them, as the corrupt law church does now in the shape of an
overgrown nightmare. What brought him, who was ready to die for his
persecuted church, here? He could tell the heretic;--it was Protestant
ascendancy, and he could prove it;--yes, Protestant ascendancy, and
nothing else, was it that brought him to that house, its representative,
in which he now stood. He maintained that it resembled a watch-house;
was it not full of wickedness, noise, and blasphemy; and were there any
two creeds; in it that agreed together, and did not fight like devils?

How much longer this fiery discussion might have proceeded it is
difficult to say. The constable of the night, finding that the two
hypocritical vagabonds were a nuisance to the whole place, had them
handcuffed together, and both placed in the black hole to finish their
argument.

In short, there was around the good man--vice, with all her discordant
sounds and hideous aspects, clanging in his ear the multitudinous din
that arose from the loud and noisy tumult of her brutal, drunken, and
debauched votaries.

The priest, who respected his cloth and character, did not lay aside
his jock, nor expose himself to the coarse jests and ruffianly insolence
with which the vagabond minions of justice were in those days accustomed
to treat their prisoners. He inquired if he could get a person to carry
a message from him to a man named Corbet, living at 25 Constitution
Hill; adding, that he would compensate him fairly. On this, one of those
idle loungers or orderlies about such places offered himself at once,
and said he would bring any message he wished, provided he forked out in
the first instance.

“Go, then,” said the priest, handing him a piece of silver, “to No. 25
Constitution Hill, where a man named Corbet--what am I saying--Dunphy,
lives, and tell him to come to me immediately.”

“Ha!” said Darby, laying his finger along; his nose, as he spoke to one
of his associates, “I smell an alias there. Good; first Corbet and then
Dunphy. What do you call that? That chap is one of the connection. Take
the message, Skipton; mark him well, and let him be here, if possible,
before we bring the prisoner to Sir Thomas Gourlay's.”

The fellow winked in reply, and approaching the priest, asked,

“What message have you to send, Mr. Finnerty?”

“Tell him--but stay; oblige me with a slip of paper and a pen, I will
write it down.”

“Yes, that's better,” said Darby. “Nothing like black and white, you
know,” he added, aside to Skipton.

Father M'Mahon then wrote down his office only; simply saying, “The
parish priest of Ballytrain wishes to see Anthony Dunphy as soon as he
can come to him.”

This description of himself excited roars of laughter throughout the
office; nor could the good-natured priest himself help smiling at the
ludicrous contrast between his real character and that which had been
affixed upon him.

“Confound me,” said Darby, “but that's the best alias I have heard this
many a day. It's as good as Tom Green's that was hanged, and who always
stuck to his name, no matter how often he changed it. At one time it was
Ivy, at another Laurel, at another Yew, and so on, poor fellow, until he
swung.” Skipton, the messenger, took the slip of paper with high glee,
and proceeded on his embassy to Constitution Hill.

He had scarcely been gone, when a tumult reached their ears from
outside, in which one voice was heard considerably louder and deeper
than the rest; and almost immediately afterwards an old acquaintance
of the reader's, to wit, the worthy student, Ambrose Gray, in a very
respectable state of intoxication, made his appearance, charged
with drunkenness, riot, and a blushing reluctance to pay his tavern
reckoning. Mr. Gray was dragged in at very little expense of ceremony,
it must be confessed, but with some prospective damage to his tailor,
his clothes having received considerable abrasions in the scuffle, as
well as his complexion, which was beautifully variegated with tints of
black, blue, and yellow.

“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Darby, “back once more I see? Why, you couldn't
live without us, I think. What's this now?”

“A deficiency of assets, most potent,” replied Gray, with a
hiccough--“unable to meet a rascally tavern reckoning;” and as Mr.
Gray spoke he thrust his tongue into his cheek, intimating by this
significant act his high respect for Mr. Darby.

“You had better remember, sir, that you are addressing the senior
officer here,” said the latter, highly offended.

“Most potent, grave, and reverend senior, I don't forget it; nor that
the grand senior can become a most gentlemanly ruffian whenever he
chooses. No, senior, I respect your ruffianship, and your ruffianship
ought to respect me; for well you wot that many a time before now I've
greased that absorbing palm of yours.”

“Ah,” replied Darby, “the hemp is grown for you, and the rope is
purchased that will soon be greased for your last tug. Why didn't you
pay your bill, I say?”

“I told you before, most potent, that that fact originated in a
deficiency of assets.”

“I rather think, Mr. Gray,” said Darby, “that it originated in a very
different kind of deficiency--a deficiency of inclination, my buck.”

“In both, most reverend senior, and I act on scriptural principles; for
what does Job say? 'Base is the slave that patient pays.'”

“Well, my good fellow, if you don't pay, you'll be apt to receive, some
fine day, that's all,” and here he made a motion with his arm, as if
he were administering the cat-o'-nine-tails; “however, this is not my
business. Here comes Mrs. Mulroony to make her charge. I accordingly
shove you over to Ned Nightcap, the officer for the night.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Gray, “I see, most potent, you have operated before.
Kow-de-dow-de-dow, my boy. There was a professional touch in that jerk
that couldn't be mistaken: that quiver at the wrist was beautiful, and
the position of the arm a perfect triangle. It must have been quite a
pleasure to have suffered from such a scientific hand as yours. How
do you do again, Mrs. Mulroony? Mrs. Mulroony, I hope you did not come
without some refreshment. And you'll withdraw the charge, for the sake
of futurity, Mrs. Mulroony.”

“If you do, Mrs. Mulroony,” said Darby, “I'm afraid you'll have to
look to futurity for payment. I mean to that part of it commonly called
'to-morrow comenever.'--Make your charge, ma'am.”

Here a pale-faced, sinister-looking old fellow, in a red woollen
nightcap, with baggy protuberances hanging under his red bleared eyes,
now came to a little half door, inside of which stood his office for
receiving all charges against the various delinquents that the Charlies,
or watchmen of the period, had conducted to him.

“Here,” said he, in a hoarse, hollow voice, “what's this--what's this?
Another charge against you, Mr. Gray? Garvy,” said he, addressing a
watchman, “tell them vagabones that if they don't keep, quiet I'll put
them in irons.”

This threat was received with a chorus of derision by those to whom
it was addressed, and the noise was increased so furiously, that it
resembled the clamor of Babel.

“Here, Garvy,” said honest Ned, “tickle some of them a bit. Touch up
that bullet-headed house-breaker that's drunk--Sam Stancheon, they
call him--lave a nate impression of the big kay on his head; he'll
undherstand it, you know; and there's Molly Brady, or Emily Howard,
as she calls herself, give her a clink on the noddle to stop her
jinteelity. Blast her pedigree; nothing will serve her but she must be
a lady on our hands. Tell her I'll not lave a copper ring or a glass
brooch on her body if she's not quiet.”

The watchman named Garvy took the heavy keys, and big with the deputed
authority, swept, like the destroying angel upon a small scale, through
the tumultuous crew that were assembled in this villanous pandemonium,
thrashing the unfortunate vagabonds on the naked head, or otherwise,
as the case might be, without regard to age, sex, or condition, leaving
bumps, welts, cuts, oaths, curses, and execrations, _ad infinitum_,
behind him. Owing to this distribution of official justice a partial
calm was restored, and the charge of Mrs. Mulroony was opened in form.

“Well, Mrs. Mulroony, what charge is this you have against Misther
Gray?”

“Because,” replied Ambrose, “I wasn't in possession of assets to pay her
own. Had I met her most iniquitous charge at home, honest Ned, I should
have escaped the minor one here. You know of old, Ned, how she lost her
conscience one night, about ten years ago; and the poor woman, although
she put it in the 'Hue and Cry,' by way of novelty, never got it since.
None of the officers of justice knew of such a commodity; _ergo_, Ned, I
suffer.”

Here Mr. Ambrose winked at Ned, and touched his breeches pocket
significantly, as much as to say, “the bribe is where you know.”

Ned, however, was strictly impartial, and declined, with most
commendable virtue, to recognize the signal, until he saw whether Mrs.
Mulroony did not understand “generosity” as well as Mr. Gray.

“Misther Gray, I'll thank you to button your lip, if you plaise. It's
all very right, I suppose; but in the manetime let daicent Mrs. Mulroony
tell her own story. How is it, ma'am?”

“Faith, plain enough,” she replied; “he came in about half past five
o'clock, with three or four skips from college--”

“Scamps, Mrs. Mulroony. Be just, be correct, ma'am. We were all
gentlemen scamps, Ned, from college. Everybody knows that a college
scamp is a respectable character, especially if he be a divinity
student, a class whom we are proud to place at our head. You are now
corrected, Mrs. Mulroony--proceed.”

“Well; he tould me to get a dinner for five; but first asked to see what
he called 'the bill of hair.'”

“In your hands it is anything but a bill of rights, Mrs. Mulroony.”

“I tould him not to trouble himself; that my dinner was as good as
another's, which I thought might satisfy him; but instead o' that, he
had the assurance to ask me if I could give them hair soup. I knew very
well what the skip was at.”

“Scamp, ma'am, and you will oblige me.”

“For if grief for poor Andy (weeping), that suffered mainly for what he
was as innocent of as the unborn child--if grief, an' every one knows
it makes the hair to fall; an' afther all it's only a bit of a front I'm
wearin';--ah, you villain, it was an ill-hearted cut, that.”

“It wasn't a cut did it, Mrs. Mulroony; it fell off naturally, and by
instalments--or rather it was a cut, and that was what made you feel it;
that youthful old gentleman, Time, gave it a touch with a certain scythe
he carries. No such croppy as old Time, Mrs. Mulroony.” On concluding,
he winked again at old Ned, and touched his pocket as before.

“Mr. Amby, be quiet,” said Ned, rather complacently though, “an' let
daicent Mrs. Mulroony go on.”

“'Well, then,' says he, 'if you haven't, 'hair-soup,' which was as much
as to say--makin' his own fun before the strangers--that I ought to
boil my very wig to plaise him--my front, I mane, 'maybe,' says he, 'you
have oxtail.' Well, flesh and blood could hardly bear that, and I said
it was a scandal for him to treat an industrious, un-projected widow in
such a way; 'if you want a dinner, Mr. Gray,' says I, 'I can give you
and your friends a jacketful of honest corned beef and greens.' Well, my
dear--”

At this insinuating expression of tenderness, old Ned, aware, for the
first time, that she was a widow, and kept that most convenient of
establishments, an eating-house, cocked his nightcap, with great spirit
and significance, and with an attempt at a leer, which, from the
force of habit, made him look upon her rather as the criminal than the
accuser, he said--“It was scandalous, Mrs. Mulroony; and it is a sad
thing to be unprotected, ma'am; it's a pity, too, to see sich a woman as
you are without somebody to take care of her, and especially one that id
undherstand swindlin'. But what happened next, ma'am?”

“Why, my dear--indeed, I owe you many thanks for your kindness--you
see, my dear,”--the nightcap here seemed to move and erect itself
instinctively--“this fellow turns round, and says to the other four
skips--'Gentlemen,' says he, 'could you conde--condescend,' I think it
was--yes--'could you condescend to dine upon corned beef and greens?
They said, not unless it would oblige him; and then he said it wasn't to
oblige him, but to sarve the house he did it. So, to make a long story
short, they filled themselves with my victuals, drank seven tumblers
of punch each, kept playin' cards the whole night, and then fell a
fightin'--smashed glass, delft, and everything; and when it was mornin',
slipped out, one by one, till I caught my skip here, the last of them--”

“Scamp, Mrs. Roony; a gentleman scamp, known to every one as a most
respectable character on town.”

“When I caught him going off without payment, he fairly laughed in my
face, and offered to toss me.”

“Oh, the villain!” said Ned; “I only wish I had been there, Mrs.
Mulroony, and you wouldn't have wanted what I am sorry to see you do
want--a protector. The villain, to go to toss such a woman--to go
to take such scandalous liberties! Go on, ma'am--go on, my dear Mrs.
Mulroony.”

“Well, my dear, he offered, as I said, to toss me for it--double or
quits--and when I wouldn't stand that, he asked me if I would allow
him to kiss it in, at so many kisses a-day; but I told him that coin
wouldn't pass wid me.”

“He's a swindler, ma'am; no doubt of it, and you'll never be safe
till you have some one to protect you that understands swindlin' and
imposition. Well, ma'am--well, my dear ma'am, what next?”

“Why, he then attempted to escape; but as I happened to have a stout
ladle in my hand, I thought a good basting wouldn't do him any harm, and
while I was layin' on him two sailors came in, and they took him out of
my hands.”

“Out of the frying-pan into the fire, you ought to say, Mrs. Mulroony.”

“So he and they fought, and smashed another lot of glass, and then I set
out and charged him on the watch. Oh, murdher sheery--to think the way
my beautiful beef and greens went!”

Here Mr. Ambrose, approaching Mrs. Mulroony, whispered--“My dear Mrs.
Mulroony, remember one word--futurity; heir apparent--heir direct; so
be moderate, and a short time will place you in easy circumstances. The
event that's coming will be a stunner.”

“What's that he's sayin' to you, my dear Mrs. Mulroony?” asked Ned;
“don't listen to him, he'll only soohdher and palaver you. I'll take
your charge, and lock him up.”

“Darby,” said Mr. Gray, now approaching that worthy, “a single word
with you--we understand one another--I intended to bribe old Ned, the
villain; but you shall have it.”

“Very good, it's a bargain,” replied the virtuous Darby; “fork out.”

“Here, then, is ten shillings, and bring me out of it.”

Darby privately pocketed the money, and moving toward Ned, whispered to
him--“Don't take the charge for a few minutes. I'll fleece them both.
Amby has given me half-a-crown; another from her, and then, half and
half between us. Mrs. Mulroony, a word with you. Listen--do you wish to
succeed in this business?”

“To be sure I do; why not?”

“Well, then, if you do, slip me five shillings, or you're dished, like
one of your own-dinners, and that Amby Gray will slice you to pieces.
Ned's his friend at heart, I tell you.”

“Well, but you'll see me rightified?”

“Hand the money, ma'am; do you know who you're speaking to? The senior
of the office.”

On receiving the money, the honest senior whispers to the honest officer
of the night--“A crown from both, that is, half from each; and now
act as you like; but if you take the widow's charge, we'll have a free
plate, at all events, whenever we call to see her, you know.”

Honest Ned, feeling indignant that he was not himself the direct
recipient of the bribes, and also anxious to win favor in the widow's
eyes, took the charge against Mr. Gray, who was very soon locked
up, with the “miscellanies,” in the black hole, until bail could be
procured.

On finding that matters had gone against him, Gray, who, although
unaffected in speech, was yet rather tipsy, assumed a look of singular
importance, as if to console himself for the degradation he was about to
undergo; he composed his face into an expression that gave a ludicrous
travesty of dignity.

“Well,” said he, with a solemn swagger, nodding his head from side
to side as he spoke, in order to impress what he uttered with a more
mysterious emphasis--“you are all acting in ignorance, quite so; little
you know who the person is that's before you; but it doesn't signify--I
am somebody, at all events.”

“A gentleman in disguise,” said a voice from the black hole. “You'll
find some of your friends here.”

“You are right, my good fellow--you are perfectly right;” said Ambrose,
nodding with drunken gravity, as before; “high blood runs in my veins,
and time will soon tell that; I shall stand and be returned for the town
of Ballytrain, as soon as there comes a dissolution; I'm bent on that.”

“Bravo! hurra! a very proper member you'll make for it,” from the black
hole.

“And I shall have the Augean stables of these corrupt offices swept of
their filth. Ned, the scoundrel, shall be sent to the right about; Mr.
Darby, for his honesty, shall have each wrist embraced by a namesake.”

Here he was shoved by Garvy, the watchman, head foremost into the black
hole, after having received an impulse from behind, kindly intended to
facilitate his ingress, which, notwithstanding his drunken ambition,
the boast of his high blood, and mighty promises, was made with
extraordinary want of dignity.

Although we have described this scene nearly in consecutive order,
without the breaks and interruptions which took place whilst it
proceeded, yet the reader should imagine to himself the outrage, the
yelling, the clamor, the by-battles, and scurrilous contests in the
lowest description of blackguardism with which it was garnished; thus
causing it to occupy at least four times the period we have ascribed
to it. The simple-minded priest, who could never have dreamt of such an
exhibition, scarcely knew whether he was asleep or awake, and sometimes
asked himself whether it was not some terrible phantasm by which he
was startled and oppressed. The horrible impress of naked and
hardened villany--the light and mirthful delirium of crime--the wanton
manifestations of vice, in all its shapes, and the unblushing front of
debauchery and profligacy--constituted, when brought together in one
hideous group, a sight which made his heart groan for human nature on
the one hand, and the corruption of human law on the other.

“The contamination of vice here,” said he to himself, “is so
concentrated and deadly, that innocence or virtue could not long resist
its influence. Alas! alas!”

Old Dunphy now made his appearance; but he had scarcely time to shake
hands with the priest, when he heard himself addressed from between the
bars of Gray's limbo, with the words,

“I say, old Corbet, or Dunphy, or whatever the devil they call you;
here's a relation of yours by the mother's side only, you old dog--mark
that; here I am, Ambrose Gray, a gentleman in disguise, as you well
know; and I want you to bail me out.”

“An' a respectable way you ax it,” said Dunphy, putting on his
spectacles, and looking at him through the bars.

“Respect! What, to a beggarly old huckster and kidnapper! Why, you
penurious slicer of musty bacon--you iniquitous dealer in light
weights--what respect are you entitled to from me? You know who I
am--and you must bail me. Otherwise never expect, when the time comes,
that I shall recognize you as a base relative, or suffer you to show
your ferret face in my presence.”

“Ah!” exclaimed the old man, bitterly; “the blood is in you.”

“Eight, my old potatomonger; as true as gospel, and a great deal truer.
The blood is in me.”

“Ay,” replied the other, “the blood of the oppressor--the blood of the
villain--the blood of the unjust tyrant is in you, and nothing else. If
you had his power, you'd be what he is, and maybe, worse, if the thing
was possible. Now, listen; I'll make the words you just said to me the
bitterest and blackest to yourself that you ever spoke. That's the last
information I have for you; and as I know that you're just where you
ought to be, among the companions you are fit for, there I leave you.”

He then turned toward the priest, and left Gray to get bail where he
might.

When Skipton, the messenger, who returned with Dunphy, or Corbet, as we
shall in future call him, entered the watch-house, he drew Darby aside,
and held some private conversation with him, of which it was evident
that Corbet was the subject, from the significant glances which each
turned upon him from time to time.

In the meantime, the old man, recognizing the priest rather by his voice
than his appearance, lost no time in acquainting the officers of justice
that they were completely mistaken in the individual. The latter had
briefly mentioned to him the circumstance and cause of his arrest.

“I want you,” said the priest, “to go to Sir Thomas Gourlay directly,
and tell him that I have his money and pistols quite safe, and that I
was on my way up to town with them, when this unpleasant mistake took
place.”

“I will, your reverence,” said he, “without loss of time. I see,” he
added, addressing Darby and the others, “that you have made a mistake
here.”

“What mistake, my good man?” asked Darby.

“Why, simply, that instead of a robber, you have been sharp enough to
take up a most respectable Catholic clergyman from Ballytrain.”

“What,” said Darby, “a Popish priest! Curse me, but that's as good,
if not better, than the other thing. No Papist is allowed, under
the penalty of a felony, to carry arms, and here is a Popish priest
travelling with pistols. The other thing, Skipton, was only for the
magistrates, but this is a government affair.”

“He may be Finnerty, after all,” replied Skipton, aside; “this old
fellow is no authority as to his identity, as you may guess from what I
told you.”

“At all events,” replied Darby, “we shall soon know which he is--priest
or robber; but I hope, for our own sakes, he'll prove a priest on our
hands. At any rate the magistrates are now in the office, and it's full
time to bring his reverence up.”

Corbet, in the meantime, had gone to Sir Thomas Gourlay's with his
reverence's message, and in a few minutes afterwards the prisoner,
strongly guarded, was conducted to the police office.




CHAPTER XXV. The Police Office

--Sir Spigot Sputter and Mr. Coke--An Unfortunate Translator--Decision
in “a Law Case.”


It is not our intention to detail the history of occurrences that are
calculated to fill the mind with sorrow, not unmingled with disgust, or
to describe scenes that must necessarily lower our estimate of both man
and woman. On the bench sat two magistrates, of whom we may say that,
from ignorance of law, want of temper, and impenetrable stupidity, the
whole circle of commercial or professional life could not produce a pair
more, signally unqualified for the important offices they occupied. One
of them, named Sputter, Sir Spigot Sputter, was an old man, with a red
face and perpetual grin, whose white hair was cropped close; but in
compensation for this he wore powder and a queue, so that his head,
except in vivacity of motion, might not inappropriately be compared
to an overgrown tadpole struggling to get free from his shoulders, and
escape to the nearest marsh. He also wore a false eye, which gave him
a perennial blink that was sadly at variance with magisterial dignity.
Indeed the consequences of it were sometimes ludicrous enough. When, for
instance, one of those syrens who perambulate our fashionable streets
after the sun has gone down, happened to be brought up to answer some
charge that came under his jurisdiction, Sir Spigot's custom always was
to put his glass to the safe eye, and peer at her in the dock; which
act, when taken in connection with the grin and the droop of the glass
eye, seemed to the spectators as if he and she understood each other,
and that the wink in question was a kind of telegraphic dispatch sent
to let her know that she had a friend on the bench. Sir Spigot was deaf,
too, a felicitous circumstance, which gave him peculiar facility in the
decision of his cases.

The name of his brother on the bench was Coke, who acted in the capacity
of what is termed a law magistrate. It is enough, however, to say, that
he was a thin man, with a long, dull face, a dull eye, a dull tongue, a
dull ear, and a dull brain. His talents for ambiguity were surprising,
and it always required a hint from the senior of the office, Darby,
to enable him to understand his own decisions. This, however, was not
without some beneficial consequences to the individuals before him; as
it often happened, that when he seemed to have committed some hardened
offender, after the infliction of a long, laborious, obscure harangue,
he has immediately ordered him to be discharged. And, on the contrary,
when some innocent individual heard with delight the sentence of the
court apparently, in his favor, judge of what he must have felt on
finding himself sent off to Newgate, Kilmainham, or the Penitentiary.
In this instance, however, the advantage to the public was nearly equal;
for if the guilty escaped in one case, so did the innocent in another.
Here now is where Darby became useful; for Darby, who was well
acquainted with his style, and with his meaning, when he had any, always
interpreted his decisions to him, and told him in a whisper, or on a
slip of paper, whether he had convicted the prisoner, or not.

We shall detail one case which occurred this morning. It happened
that an amiable and distinguished literary gentleman, an LL.D., and a
barrister, had lost from his library a book on which he placed great
value, and he found this book on a stall not very far from the office.
On seeing the volume he naturally claimed it, and the woman who had
received it from the thief, who was a servant, refused to give it up,
unless the money she had paid for it were returned to her. Neither would
the wretch disclose the name of the thief, but snapped her fingers in
Dr. A----'s face, saying she defied him, and that he could only bring
her before Mr. Coke, who, she knew very well, would see justice done
her. She lived by buying books, she said, and by selling books; and
as he lived by writing books, she thought it wasn't handsome of him to
insult the profession by bringing such a blackguard charge against them
in her name.

He summoned her, however, and the case was one of the first called on
the morning in question. The receiver of the stolen book came forward,
with much assurance, as defendant, and modest Dr. A---- as plaintiff;
when Sir Spigot, putting his glass to his eye, and looking from the one
to the other with his wink and grin as usual, said to Darby:

“What is this man here for?”

“It's a law case, your worship,” replied the senior officer.

Coke, who sat solemn and silent, looked at the doctor, and said:

“Well, sir, what is your case? Please to state it.”

The case, being a very plain and brief one, was soon stated, the woman's
reply was then heard, after which Mr. Coke looked graver than before,
and proceeded somewhat to the following effect:

“This is a case of deep interest to that important portion of the
bibiliopolist profession who vend their wares on stalls.”

“Thank your worship,” said the woman, with a courtesy.

“This most respectable body of persons, the booksellers--[another
courtesy from the woman]--are divided into several classes; first, those
who sell books in large and splendid shops; next, those who sell them
in shops of less pretension; thirdly, those who sell them on stalls in
thoroughfares, and at the corners of streets; fourthly, those who carry
them in baskets, and who pass from place to place, and combine with the
book-selling business that of flying stationer; and fifthly, those who
do not sell them at all, but only read them; and as those who read,
unless they steal or borrow, must purchase, I accordingly class them as
booksellers indirectly, inasmuch as if they don't sell books themselves,
they cause others to do so. For this reason it is evident that every man
living, and woman too, capable of reading a book, is a bookseller; so
that society at large is nothing but one great bookselling firm.

“Having thus established the immense extent and importance of the
business, I now proceed to the consideration of the case before us. To
steal a book is not in every case an offence against the law of libel,
nor against the law of arson, nor against the law of insurrection, nor
against the law of primogeniture; in fact, it is only against the law of
theft--it offends only one law--and is innocent with respect to all the
others. A person stealing a book could not be indicted under the statute
of limitations, for instance; except, indeed, in so far as he may be
supposed to limit the property of the person from whom he stole it. But
on this point the opinion of the learned Folderol would go pretty
far, were it not for the opinion of another great man, which I shall
presently quote. Folderol lays it down as a fixed principle in an able
treatise upon the law of weathercocks, that if property be stolen
from an individual, without the aggregate of that property suffering
reduction or diminution, he is not robbed, and the crime of theft has
not been committed. The other authority that I alluded to, is that of
his great and equally celebrated opponent, Tolderol, who lays it down on
the other hand, that when a thief, in the act of stealing, leaves more
behind him than he found there at first, so that the man stolen from
becomes richer by the act of theft than he had been before it, the crime
then becomes _dupleis delicti_, or one of harum-scarum, according to
Doodle, and the thief deserves transportation or the gallows. And the
reason is obvious: if the property of the person stolen from, under the
latter category, were to be examined, and that a larger portion of it
was found there than properly had belonged to him before the theft,
he might be suspected of theft himself, and in this case a double
conviction of the parties would ensue; that is, of him who did not take
what he ought, and of him who had more than he was entitled to. This
opinion, which is remarkable for its perspicuity and soundness, is to
be found in the one hundred and second folio of Logerhedius, tome six
hundred, page 9768.

“There is another case bearing strongly upon the present one, in
'Snifter and Snivell's Reports,' vol. 86, page 1480, in which an
old woman, who was too poor to purchase a Bible, stole one, and was
prosecuted for the theft. The counsel for the prosecution and the
defence were both equally eminent and able. Counsellor Sleek was for the
prosecution and Rant for the defence. Sleek, who was himself a religious
barrister, insisted that the _locus delicti_ aggravated the offence,
inasmuch as she had stolen the Bible out of a church; but Rant
maintained that the _locus delicti_ was a _prima facie_ evidence of her
innocence, inasmuch as she only complied with a precept of religion,
which enjoins all sinners to seek such assistance toward their spiritual
welfare as the church can afford them.

“Sleek argued that the principle of theft must have been innate and
strong, when the respect due to that sacred edifice was insufficient to
restrain her from such an act--an act which constituted sacrilege of a
very aggravated kind.

“Rant replied, that the motive and not the act constituted the crime.
There was _prima facie_ proof that she stole it for pious purposes--to
wit, that she might learn therefrom a correct principle for the conduct
of her life. It was not proved that the woman had sold the book, or
pledged it, or in any-other way disposed of it for her corporal or
temporal benefit; the inference, therefore, was, that the motive, in
the first place, justified the act, which was _in se_ a pious one; and,
besides, had the woman been a thief, she would have stolen the plate and
linen belonging to the altar; but she did not, therefore there existed
on her part no consciousness nor intention of wrong.

“Sleek rejoined, that if the woman had felt any necessity for religious
advice and instruction, she would have gone to the minister, whose duty
it was to give it.

“Rant replied, that upon Sleek's own principles, if the minister
had properly discharged his duty, the woman would have been under no
necessity for taking the Bible at all; and that, consequently, in a
strict spirit of justice, the theft, if theft it could be called, was
not the theft of the old woman, but that of the minister himself, who
had failed to give her proper instructions. It was the duty of the
minister to have gone to the old woman, and not that of the old woman
to have gone to the minister; but, perhaps, had the woman been young and
handsome, the minister might have administered consolation.

“I find that Sleek here made a long speech about religion, which he
charged Rant with insulting; he regretted that a false humanity had
repealed some of those stringent but wholesome laws that had been
enacted for the preservation of holy things, and was truly sorry that
this sacrilegious old wretch could not be brought to the stake. He did
not envy his learned, friend the sneering contempt for religion that ran
through his whole argument.

“Rant bowed and smiled, and replied that, in his opinion, the only stake
the poor woman ought to be brought to was a beefsteak; for he always
wished to see the law administered with mercy.

“Sleek was not surprised at hearing such a carnal argument brought to
the defence of such a crime, and concluded by pressing for the severest
punishment the law could inflict against this most iniquitous criminal,
who--and he dared even Rant himself to deny the fact--came before that
court as an old offender; he therefore pressed for a conviction against
a person who had acted so flagrantly _contra bonos mores_.

“Rant said, she could not or ought not to be convicted. This Bible was
not individual property; it was that of a parish that contained better
than eighteen thousand inhabitants. Now, if any individual were to
establish his right of property in the Bible, and she herself was a
proprietress as well as any of them, the amount would be far beneath any
current coin of the realm, consequently there existed no legal symbol of
property for the value of which a conviction could be had.

“As I perceive, however,” added Mr. Coke, “that the abstract of the
arguments in this important case runs to about five hundred pages, I
shall therefore recapitulate Judge Nodwell's charge, which has been
considered a very brilliant specimen of legal acumen and judicial
eloquence.

“'This, gentlemen of the jury,' said his lordship,' is a case of
apparently some difficulty, and I cannot help admiring the singular
talent and high principles displayed by the learned counsel on both
sides, who so ably argued it. Of one thing I am certain, that no
consciousness of religious ignorance, no privation of religious
knowledge, could ever induce my learned friend Sleek to commit such a
theft. Rather than do so, I am sure he would be conscientious enough
to pass through the world without any religion at all. As it is, we all
know that he is a great light in that respect--'

“'He would be a burning light, too, my lord,' observed Rant.

“No; his reverence for the Bible is too great, too sincere to profane
it by such vulgar perusal as it may have received at the hands of that
destitute old woman, who probably thumbed it day and night, without
regard either to dog-ears or binding, or a consideration of how she was
treating the property of the parish. The fact, however, gentlemen, seems
to be, that the old woman either altogether forgot the institutions
of society, or resolved society itself in her own mind into first
principles. Now, gentlemen, we cannot go behind first principles,
neither can we go behind the old woman. We must keep her before us, but
it is not necessary to keep the Bible so. It has been found, indeed,
that she did not sell, pledge, bestow, or otherwise make the book
subservient to her temporal or corporal wants, as Mr. Rant very
ingeniously argued. Neither did she take it to place in her library--for
she had no library; nor for ostentation in her hall--for she had no
hall, as my pious friend Counsellor Sleek has. But, gentlemen, even
if this old woman by reading the Bible learned to repent, and felt
conversion of heart, you are not to infer that the act which brought her
to grace and repentance may not have been a hardened violation of the
law. Beware of this error, gentlemen. The old woman by stealing this
Bible may have repented her of her sins, it is true; but it is your
business, gentlemen, to make her repent of the law also. The law is as
great a source of repentance as the Bible any day, and, I am proud to
say, has caused more human tears to be shed, and bitterer ones, too,
than the Word of God ever did. Even although justified in the sight of
heaven, it does not follow that this woman is to escape here. It is
the act, and not the heart, that the law deals with. The purity of
her motives, her repentance, are nothing to the law; but the law is
everything to the person in whom they operate; because, although
the heart may be innocent, the individual person must be punished. A
penitent heart, or a consciousness of the pardon of God, are not fit
considerations for a jury-box. You are, therefore, to exclude the
motive, and to take nothing into consideration but the act; for it is
only that by which the law has been violated.

“'But is there no such thing as mercy, my lord?' asked a juror.

“In the administration of the law there is such a fiction--a beautiful
negation, indeed--but we know that Justice always holds the first
place, and when she is satisfied, then we call in Mercy. Such, at least,
is the wholesome practice and constitutional spirit of British law. I
have now, gentlemen, rendered you every assistance in my power. If you
think this old woman guilty, you will find accordingly; if not, you will
give her the benefit of any doubt in her favor which you may entertain.

“The woman,” continued Coke, “was convicted, and here follows the
sentence of the judge.

“Martha Dotinghed--you have been convicted by the verdict of twelve
as intelligent and respectable gentlemen as I ever saw in a jury-box;
convicted, I am sorry to say, very properly, of a most heinous crime,
that of attempting to work out your salvation in an improper manner--to
wit, by making illegally free with the Word of God.

“'In troth, my lord,' replied the culprit, 'the Word of God is become so
scarce nowadays, that unless one steals it, they have but a poor chance
of coming by it honestly, or hearing it at all'.”

“You have been convicted, I say, notwithstanding a most able defence
by your counsel, who omitted no argument that could prove available for
your acquittal; and I am sorry to hear from your own lips, that you are
in no degree penitent for the crime you have committed. You say, the
Word of God is scarce nowadays--but that fact, unhappy woman, only
aggravates your guilt--for in proportion to the scarcity of the Word
of God, so is its value increased--and we all know that the greater the
value of that which is stolen, the deeper, in the eye of the law, is
the crime of the thief. Had you not given utterance to those impenitent
expressions, the court would have been anxious to deal mercifully with
you. As it is, I tell you to prepare for the heaviest punishment it
can inflict, which is, that you be compelled to read some one of the
Commentaries upon the Book you have stolen, once, at least, before you
die, should you live so long, and may God have mercy on you!

“Here the prisoner fell into strong hysterics, and was taken away in a
state of insensibility from the dock.

“Now,” proceeded Coke, closing the ponderous tome, “I read this
case from a feeling that it bears very strongly upon that before us.
Saponificus, the learned and animated civilian, in his reply to the
celebrated treatise of '_Rigramarolius de Libris priggatis,_' commonly
called his _Essay on Stolen Books_, asserts that there never yet was a
book printed but was more or less stolen; and society, he argues, in no
shape, in none of its classes--neither in the prison, lockup, blackhole,
or penitentiary--presents us with such a set of impenitents and
irreclaimable thieves as those who write books. Theft is their
profession, and gets them the dishonest bread by which they live. These
may always read the eighth commandment by leaving the negative out,
and then take it in an injunctive sense. Such persons, in prosecuting
another for stealing a book, cannot come into court with clean hands.
Felons in literature, therefore, appear here with a very bad grace in
prosecuting others for the very crime which they themselves are in the
habit of committing.”

“But, your worship,” said Dr. A----, “this charge against authors cannot
apply to me; the book in question is a translation.”

“Pooh!” exclaimed Coke, “only a translation! But even so, has it notes
or comments?”

“It has, your worship; but they--”

“And, sir, could you declare solemnly, that there is nothing stolen in
the notes and comments, or introduction, if there is any?”

The doctor, “Ehem! hem!”

“But in the meantime,” proceeded Coke, “here have I gone to the trouble
of giving such a profound decision upon a mere translation! Who is the
translator?”

“I am myself, your worship; and in this case I am both plaintiff and
translator.”

“That, however,” said Coke, shaking his head solemnly, “makes the case
against you still worse.”

“But, your worship, there is no case against me. I have already told
you that I am plaintiff and translator; and, with great respect, I don't
think you have yet given any decision whatever.”

“I have decided, sir,” replied Coke, “and taken the case I read for you
as a precedent.”

“But in that case, your worship, the woman was convicted.”

“And so she is in this, sir,” replied Coke. “Officer, put Biddy Corcoran
forward. Biddy Corcoran, you are an old woman, which, indeed, is
evident from the nature of your offence, and have been convicted of the
egregious folly of purchasing a translation, which this gentleman says
was compiled or got up by himself. This is conduct which the court
cannot overlook, inasmuch as if it were persisted in, we might, God help
us, become inundated with translations. I am against translations--I
have ever been against them, and I shall ever be against them. They are
immoral in themselves, and render the same injury to literature that
persons of loose morals do to society. In general, they are nothing
short of a sacrilegious profanation of the dead, and I would almost as
soon see the ghost of a departed friend as the translation of a defunct
author, for they bear the same relation. The regular translator, in
fact, is nothing less than a literary ghoul, who lives upon the mangled
carcasses of the departed--a mere sack-'em-up, who disinters the dead,
and sells their remains for money. You, sir, might have been better and
more honestly employed than in wasting your time upon a translation.
These are works that no men or class of men, except bishops, chandlers,
and pastrycooks, ought to have anything to do with; and as you, I
presume, are not a bishop, nor a chandler, nor a pastrycook, I recommend
you to spare your countrymen in future. Biddy Corcoran, as the court is
determined to punish you severely, the penalty against you is, that you
be compelled to read the translation in question once a week for the
next three months. I had intended to send you to the treadmill for the
same space of time: but, on looking more closely into the nature of your
offence, I felt it my duty to visit you with a much severer punishment.”

“That, your worship,” replied the translator, “is no punishment at all;
instead of that, it will be a pleasure to read my translation, and as
you have pronounced her to be guilty, it goes in the very teeth of your
decision.”

“What--what--what kind of language is this, sir?” exclaimed Sir Spigot
Sputter! “This is disrespect to the court, sir. In the teeth of his
decision! His worship's decision, sir, has no teeth.”

“Indeed, on second thoughts, I think not, sir,” replied, the indignant
wit and translator; “it is indeed a very toothless decision, and
exceedingly appropriate in passing sentence upon an old woman in the
same state.”

“Eh--eh,” said Sir Spigot, “which old woman? who do you mean, sir?
Yourself or the culprit? Eh? eh?”

“Your worship forgets that there are four of us,” replied the
translator.

“Well, sir! well, sir! But as to the culprit--that old woman
there--having no teeth, that is not her fault,” replied Sir Spigot; “if
she hasn't teeth, she has gum enough--eh! eh! you must admit that, sir.”

“You all appear to have gum enough,” replied the wit, “and nothing but
gum, only it is gum arabic to me, I know.”

“You have treated this court with disrespect, sir,” said Coke, very
solemnly; “but the court will uphold its dignity. In the meantime you
are fined half-a-crown.”

“But, your worship,” whispered Darby, “this is the celebrated Dr. A----,
a very eminent man.”

“I have just heard, sir,” proceeded Coke, “from the senior officer of
the court, that you are a very eminent man; it may be so, and I am very
sorry for it. I have never heard your name, however, nor a syllable of
your literary reputation, before; but as it seems you are an eminent
man, I take it for granted that it must be in a private and confidential
way among your particular friends. I will fine you, however, another
half-crown for the eminence.”

“Well, gentlemen,” replied the doctor, “I have heard of many 'wise saws
and modern instances,' but--”

“What do you mean, sir?” said Sir Spigot. “Another insult! You asserted,
sir, already, that Mr. Coke's decision had teeth--”

“But I admitted my error,” replied the other.

“And now you mean to insinuate, I suppose, that his worship's saws are
handsaws. You are fined another half-crown, sir, for the handsaw.”

“And another,” said Coke, “for the _gum arabic_.”

The doctor fearing that the fines would increase thick and threefold,
forthwith paid them all, and retired indignantly from the court.

And thus was the author of certainly one of the most beautiful
translations in any language, at least in his own opinion, treated by
these two worthy administrators of the law. (* A fact.)




CHAPTER XXVI. The Priest Returns Sir Thomas's Money and Pistols

--A Bit of Controversy--A New Light Begins to Appear.


Very fortunately for the priest he was not subjected to an examination
before these worthies. Sir Thomas Gourlay, having heard of his arrest
and the cause of it, sent a note with his compliments, to request that
he might be conducted directly to his residence, together with his
pocket-book and pistols, assuring them, at the same time, that their
officers had committed a gross mistake as to his person.

This was quite sufficient, and ere the lapse of twenty minutes Father
M'Mahon, accompanied by Skipton and another officer, found himself at
the baronet's hall-door. On entering the hall, Sir Thomas himself was in
the act of passing from the breakfast parlor to his study above stairs,
leaning upon the arm of Gibson, the footman, looking at the same time
pale, nervous, and unsteady upon his limbs. The moment Skipton saw him,
he started, and exclaimed, as if to himself, but loud enough for the
priest to hear him:

“'Gad! I've seen him before, once upon a time; and well I remember the
face, for it is not one to be forgotten.”

The baronet, on looking round, saw the priest, and desired him to follow
them to his study.

“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas,” said the officer, “we now place his
reverence safely in your hands; here, too, is your pocket-book and
pistols.”

“Hand them to him, sir,” replied the baronet, nodding toward the priest;
“and that is enough.”

“But, Sir Thomas--”

“What is it, sir? Have you not done your duty?”

“I hope so, sir; but if it would not be troublesome, sir, perhaps you
would give us a receipt; an acknowledgment, sir.”

“For what?”

“For the priest's body, sir, in the first place, and then for the
pocket-book and pistols.”

“If I were a little stronger,” replied the baronet, in an angry voice,
“I would write the receipt upon your own body with a strong horsewhip;
begone, you impudent scoundrel!”

Skipton turned upon him a bitter and vindictive look, and replied, “Oh,
very well, sir--come, Tom, you are witness that I did my duty.”

Sir Thomas on entering the study threw himself listlessly on a sofa, and
desired Gibson to retire.

“Take a seat, sir,” said he, addressing Father M'Mahon. “I am far from
well, and must rest a little before I speak to you; I know not what is
the matter with me, but I feel all out of sorts.”

He then drew a long breath, and laid his head upon his hand, as if to
recover more clearly the powers of his mind and intellect. His eyes,
full of thought not unmingled with anxiety, were fixed upon the carpet,
and he seemed for a time wrapped in deep and painful abstraction. At
length he raised himself up, and drawing his breath apparently with more
freedom began the conversation.

“Well, sir,” said he, in a tone that implied more of authority and
haughtiness than of courtesy or gentlemanly feeling; “it seems the
property of which I have been robbed has come into your possession.”

“It is true, sir; and allow me to place it in your own hands exactly as
I got it. I took the precaution to seal the pocket-book the moment it
was returned to me, and although it was for a short time in possession
of the officers of justice, yet it is untouched, and the seal I placed
on it unbroken.”

The baronet's hand, as he took the pocket-book, trembled with an
agitation which he could not repress, although he did everything in his
power to subdue it: his eye glittered with animation, or rather with
delight, as he broke the seal.

“It was very prudently and correctly done of you, sir, to seal up the
pocket-book; very well done, indeed: and I am much obliged to you
so far, although we must have some conversation upon the matter
immediately--”

“I only did what, as a Catholic clergyman, Sir Thomas, and an honest
man, I conceived to be my duty.”

“What--what--what's this?” exclaimed the baronet, his eye blazing with
rage and disappointment. “In the name of hell's fire, sir, what is
this? My money is not all here! There is a note, sir, a one pound note
wanting; a peculiar note, sir; a marked note; for I always put a marked
note among my money, to provide against the contingency of such a
robbery as I sustained. Pray, sir, what has become of that note? I say,
priest, the whole pocket-book ten times multiplied, was not worth a fig
compared with the value I placed upon that note.”

“How much did you lose, Sir Thomas?” asked the priest calmly.

“I lost sixty-nine pounds, sir.”

“Well, then,” continued the other, “would it not be well to see whether
that sum is in the pocket-book. You have not yet reckoned the money.”

“The note I speak of was in a separate compartment; in a different fold
of the book; apart from the rest.”

“But perhaps it has got among them? Had you not better try, sir?”

“True,” replied the other; and with eager and trembling hands he
examined them note by note; but not finding that for which he sought, he
stamped with rage, and dashing the pocket-book, notes and all, against
the floor, he ground his teeth, and approaching the priest with the
white froth of passion rising to his lips, exclaimed, “Hark you, priest,
if you do not produce the missing note, I shall make you bitterly
repent it! You know where it is, sir! You could understand from the
note itself--” He paused, however, for he felt at once that he might be
treading dangerous ground in entering into particulars. “I say, sir,” he
proceeded, with a look of menace and fury, “if you refuse to produce the
note I speak of, or to procure it for me, I shall let you know to your
cost what the power of British law can effect.”

The priest rose up with dignity, his cheek heightened with that slight
tinge, which a sense of unmerited insult and a consciousness of his own
integrity render natural to man--so long as he is a man.

“Sir Thomas Gourlay,” he proceeded, “upon your conduct and want of
gentlemanly temper since I have entered this apartment it is not my
intention to make any comment; but I need not tell you that the minister
of God is received in Christian society with the respect due to his
sacred office.”

“Minister of the devil, sir,” thundered the baronet; “do you think that
I shall be influenced by this slavish cant? Where is the note I speak
of? If you do not produce it, I shall consider you an accomplice after
the fact, and will hold you responsible as such. Remember, you are but a
Popish priest.”

“That is a fact, sir, which I shall always recollect with an humble
sense of my own unworthiness; but so long as I discharge its duties
conscientiously and truly, I shall also recollect it with honor. Of the
note you allude to in such unbecoming words, I know nothing; and as to
your threats, I value them not.”

“If you know nothing of the note, sir, you do certainly of the robber.”

“I do, Sir Thomas; I know who the man is that robbed you.”

“Well, sir,” replied the other, triumphantly, “I am glad you have
acknowledged so much. I shall force you to produce him. At least I shall
take care that the law will make you do so.”

“Sir Thomas Gourlay, I beg you to understand that there is a law beyond
and above your law--the law of God--the law of Christian duty; and that
you shall never force me to transgress. The man who robbed you in
a moment of despair and madness, repented him of the crime; and the
knowledge of that crime, and its consequent repentance were disclosed to
me in one of the most holy ordinances of our religion.”

“Is it one of the privileges of your religion to throw its veil over the
commission of crime? If so, the sooner your religion is extirpated out
of the land the better for society.”

“No, sir, our religion does not throw its veil over the criminal, but
over the penitent. We leave the laws of the land to their own resources,
and aid them when we can; but in the case before us, and in all similar
cases, we are the administrators of the laws of God to those who are
truly penitent, and to none others. The test of repentance consists in
reformation of life, and in making restitution to those who have been
injured. The knowledge of this comes to us in administering the sacred
ordinance of penance in the tribunal of confession; and sooner than
violate this solemn compact between the mercy of God and a penitent
heart, we would willingly lay down our lives. It is the most sacred of
all trusts.”

“Such an ordinance, sir, is a bounty and provocative to crime.”

“It is a bounty and provocative to repentance, sir; and society has
gained much and lost nothing by its operation. Remember, sir, that those
who do not repent, never come to us to avow their crimes, in which case
we are ignorant both of the crime and criminal. Here there is neither
repentance, on the one hand, nor restitution, on the other, and society,
of course, loses everything and gains nothing. In the other case, the
person sustaining the injury gains that which he had lost, and society
a penitent and reformed member. If, then, this sacred refuge for the
penitent--not for the criminal, remember--had no existence, those
restitutions of property which take place in thousands of cases, could
never be made.”

“Still, sir, you shield the criminal from his just punishment.”

“No, sir; we never shield the criminal from his just punishment. God has
promised mercy to him who repents, and we merely administer it without
any reference to the operation of the law. It often happens, Sir Thomas
Gourlay, that a person who has repented and made restitution, is taken
hold of by the law and punished. This ordinance, therefore, does not
stand between the law and its victim; it only deals between him and his
God, leaving him, like any other offender, to the law he has violated.”

“I am no theologian, sir; but without any reference to your priestly
cant, I simply say, that the man who is cognizant of another's crime
against the law, either of God or man, and who will shield him from
justice, is _particeps criminis_, and I don't care a fig what your
obsolete sacerdotal dogmas may assert to the contrary. You say you know
the man who unjustly deprived me of my property; if then, acknowledging
this, you refuse to deliver him up to justice, I hold you guilty of his
crime. Suppose he had taken my life, as he was near doing, how, pray,
would you have made restitution? Bring me to life again, I suppose, by a
miracle. Away, sir, with this cant, which is only fit for the barbarity
of the dark ages, when your church was a mass of crime, cruelty, and
ignorance; and when a cunning and rapacious priesthood usurped an
authority over both soul and body, ay, and property too, that oppressed
and degraded human nature.”

“I will reason no longer with you, sir,” replied the priest; “because
you talk in ignorance of the subject we are discussing--but having now
discharged an important duty, I will take my leave.”

“You may of me,” replied the other; “but you will not so readily shift
yourself out of the law.”

“Any charge, sir, which either law or Justice may bring against me, I
shall be ready to meet; and I now, for your information, beg to let you
know that the law you threaten me with affords its protection to me and
the class to which I belong, in the discharge of this most sacred and
important trust. Your threats, Sir Thomas, consequently, I disregard.”

“The more shame for it if it does,” replied the baronet; “but, hark you,
sir, I do not wish, after all, that you and I should part on unfriendly
terms. You refuse to give up the robber?”

“I would give up my life sooner.”

“But could you not procure me the missing note?”

“Of the missing note, Sir Thomas Gourlay, I know nothing. I consequently
neither can nor will make any promise to restore it.”

“You may tell the robber from me,” pursued the baronet, “that I will
give him the full amount of his burglary, provided he restores me that
note. The other sixty-nine pounds shall be his on that condition, and no
questions asked.”

“I have already told you, sir, that it was under the seal of confession
the knowledge of the crime came to me. Out of that seal I cannot revert
to the subject without betraying my trust; for, if he acknowledged his
guilt to me under any other circumstances, it would become my duty to
hand him over to the law.”

“Curse upon all priests!” said the other indignantly; “they are all
the same; a crew of cunning scoundrels, who attempt to subjugate the
ignorant and the credulous to their sway; a pack of spiritual swindlers,
who get possession of the consciences of the people through pious
fraud, and then make slavish instruments of them for their own selfish
purposes. In the meantime I shall keep my eye upon you, Mr. M'Mahon,
and, believe me, if I can get a hole in your coat I shall make a rent of
it.”

“It is a poor privilege, sir, that of insulting the defenceless. You
know I am doubly so--defenceless from age, defenceless in virtue of my
sacred profession; but if I am defenceless against your insults, Sir
Thomas Gourlay, I am not against your threats, which I despise and
defy. The integrity of my life is beyond your power, the serenity of my
conscience beyond your vengeance. You are not of my flock, but if you
were, I would say, Sir Thomas, I fear you are a bold, bad man, and have
much to repent of in connection with your past and present life--much
reparation to make to your fellow-creatures. Yes; I would say, Sir
Thomas Gourlay, the deep tempest of strong passions within you has
shaken your powerful frame until it totters to its fall. I would say,
beware; repent while it is time, and be not unprepared for the last
great event. That event, Sir Thomas, is not far distant, if I read
aright the foreshadowing of death and dissolution that is evident
in your countenance and frame. I speak these words in, I trust, a
charitable and forgiving spirit. May they sink into your heart, and work
it to a sense of Christian feeling and duty!

“This I would say were you mine--this I do say, knowing that you are
not; for my charity goes beyond my church, and embraces my enemy as well
as my friend;” and as he spoke he prepared co go.

“You may go, sir,” replied the baronet, with a sneer of contempt, “only
you have mistaken your man. I am no subject for your craft--not to be
deceived by your hypocrisy--and laugh to scorn your ominous but impotent
croaking. Only before you go, remember the conditions I have offered
the scoundrel who robbed me; and if the theological intricacies of your
crooked creed will permit you, try and get him to accept them. It will
be better for him, and better for you too. Do this, and you may cease to
look upon Sir Thomas Gourlay as an enemy.”

The priest bowed, and without returning any reply left the apartment and
took his immediate departure.

Sir Thomas, after he had gone, went to the glass and surveyed himself
steadily. The words of the priest were uttered with much solemnity and
earnestness; but withal in such a tone of kind regret and good feeling,
that their import and impressiveness were much heightened by this very
fact.

“There is certainly a change upon me, and not one for the better,” he
said to himself; “but at the same time the priest, cunning as he is, has
been taken in by appearances. I am just sufficiently changed in my looks
to justify and give verisimilitude to the game I am playing. When Lucy
hears of my illness, which must be a serious one, nothing on earth will
keep her from me; and if I cannot gain any trace to her residence, a
short paragraph in the papers, intimating and regretting the dangerous
state of my health, will most probably reach her, and have the desired
effect. If she were once back, I know that, under the circumstances
of my illness, and the impression that it has been occasioned by her
refusal to marry Dunroe, she will yield; especially as I shall put the
sole chances of my recovery upon her compliance. Yet why is it that I
urge her to an act which will probably make her unhappy during life?
But it will not. She is not the fool her mother was; and yet I am not
certain that her mother was a fool either. We did not agree; we could
not. She always refused to coincide with me almost in everything; and
when I wished to teach Lucy the useful lessons of worldly policy, out
came her silly maxims of conscience, religion, and such stuff. But yet
religious people are the best. I have always found it so. That wretched
priest, for instance, would give up his life sooner than violate what
he calls--that is, what he thinks--his duty. There must be some fiction,
however, to regulate the multitude; and that fiction must be formed by,
and founded on, the necessities of society. That, unquestionably, is the
origin of all law and all religion. Only religion uses the stronger and
the wiser argument, by threatening us with another world. Well done,
religion! You acted upon a fixed principle of nature. The force of the
enemy we see not may be magnified and exaggerated; the enemy we see not
we fear, especially when described in the most terrible colors by men
who are paid for their misrepresentations, although these same impostors
have never seen the enemy they speak of themselves. But the enemy we see
we can understand and grapple with; ergo, the influence of religion over
law; ergo, the influence of the priest, who deals in the imaginary and
ideal, over the legislator and the magistrate, who deal only in the
tangible and real. Yes, this indeed, is the principle. How we do fear a
ghost! What a shiver, what a horror runs through the frame when we think
we see one; and how different is this from our terror of a living enemy.
Away, then, with this imposture, I will none of it. Yet hold: what was
that I saw looking into the window of the carriage that contained my
brother's son? What was it? Why a form created by my own fears. That
credulous nurse, old mother Corbet, stuffed me so completely with
superstition when I was young and cowardly, that I cannot, in many
instances, shake myself free from it yet. Even the words of that priest
alarmed me for a moment. This, however, is merely the weakness of human
nature--the effect of unreal phantasms that influence the reason while
we are awake, just as that of dreams does the imagination while we are
asleep. Away, then, ye idle brood! I will none of you.”

He then sat himself down on the sofa, and rang for Gibson, but still the
train of thought pursued him.

“As to Lucy, I think it is still possible to force her into the position
for which I destined her--quite possible. She reasons like a girl, of
course, as I told her. She reasons like a girl who looks upon that
silly nonsense called love as the great business of life; and acts
accordingly. Little she thinks, however, that love--her love--his
love--both their loves--will never meet twelve months after what is
termed the honey-moon. No, they will part north and south. And yet the
honey-moon has her sharp ends, as well as every other moon. When love
passes away, she will find that the great business of life is, to make
as many as she can feel that she is above them in the estimation of the
world; to impress herself upon her equals, until they shall be forced to
acknowledge her superiority. And although this may be sometimes done by
intellect and principle, yet, in the society in which she must move,
it is always done by rank, by high position, and by pride, that jealous
vindictive pride which is based upon the hatred of our kind, and at once
smiles and scorns. What would I be if I were not a baronet? Sir Thomas
Gourlay passes where Mr. Gourlay would be spurned. This is the game
of life, and we shall play it with the right weapons. Many a cringing
scoundrel bows to the baronet who despises the man; and for this reason
it is that I have always made myself to be felt to some purpose, and so
shall Lucy, if I should die for it. I hate society, because I know that
society hates me; and for that reason I shall so far exalt her, that she
will have the base compound at her feet, and I shall teach her to scorn
and trample upon it. If I thought there were happiness in any particular
rank of life, I would not press her; but I know there is not, and for
that reason she loses nothing, and gains the privilege--the power--of
extorting homage from the proud, the insolent, and the worthless. This
is the triumph she shall and must enjoy.”

Gibson then entered, and the baronet, on hearing his foot, threw himself
into a languid and invalid attitude.

“Gibson,” said he, “I am very unwell; I apprehend a serious attack of
illness.”

“I trust not, sir.”

“If any person should call, I am ill, observe, and not in a condition to
see them.”

“Very well, sir.”

“Unless you should suspect, or ascertain, that it is some person on
behalf of Miss Gourlay; and even then, mark, I am very ill indeed, and
you do not think me able to speak to any one; but will come in and see.”

“Yes, sir; certainly sir.”

“There, then, that will do.”

The priest, on leaving the baronet's residence, was turning his steps
toward the hotel in which the stranger had put up, when his messenger to
Constitution Hill approaching put his hand to his hat, and respectfully
saluted him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, “and I am sorry, now that I know who
you are, for the trouble you got into.”

“Thank you, my friend,” said the priest; “I felt it wouldn't signify,
knowing in my conscience that I was no robber. In the meantime, I got
one glimpse of your metropolitan life, as they call it, and the Lord
knows I never wish to get another. Troth, I was once or twice so
confounded with the noise and racket, that I thought I had got into
purgatory by mistake.”

“Tut, sir, that's nothing,” replied Skipton; “we were very calm and
peaceable this morning; but with respect to that baronet, he's a
niggardly fellow. Only think of him, never once offering us the
slightest compensation for bringing him home his property! There's not
another man in Ireland would send us off empty-handed as he did. The
thing's always usual on recovering property.”

“Speak for yourself, in the singular number, if you plaise; you don't
imagine that I wanted compensation.”

“No, sir, certainly not; but I'm just thinking,” he added, after
curiously examining Father M'Mahon's face for some time, “that you and I
met before somewhere.”

“Is that the memory you have?” said the priest, “when you ought to
recollect that we met this morning, much against my will, I must say.”

“I don't mean that,” said the man; “but I think I saw you once in a
lunatic asylum.”

“Me, in a lunatic asylum?” exclaimed the good priest, somewhat
indignantly. “The thing's a bounce, my good man, before you go farther.
The little sense I've had has been sufficient, thank goodness, to keep
me free from such establishments.”

“I don't mean that, sir,” replied the other, smiling, “but if I don't
mistake, you once brought a clergyman of our persuasion to the lunatic
asylum in ------.”

“Ay, indeed,” returned the priest; “poor Quin. His was a case of
monomania; he imagined himself a gridiron, on which all heretics were to
be roasted. That young man was one of the finest scholars in the three
kingdoms. But how do you remember that?”

“Why for good reasons; because I was a servant in the establishment at
the time. Well,” he added, pausing, “it is curious enough that I should
have seen this very morning three persons I saw in that asylum.”

“If I had been much longer in that watch-house,” replied the other, “I'm
not quite certain but I'd soon be qualified to pay a permanent visit
to some of them. Who were the three persons you saw there, in the mane
time?”

“That messenger of yours was one of them, and that niggardly baronet was
the other; yourself, as I said, making the third.”

The priest looked at him seriously; “you mane Corbet,” said he, “or
Dunphy as he is called?”

“I do. He and the baron brought a slip of a boy there; and, upon my
conscience, I think there was bad work between them. At all events, poor
Mr. Quin and he were inseparable. The lad promised that he would
allow himself to be roasted, the very first man, upon the reverend
gridiron;--and! for that reason Quin took him into hand; and gave him an
excellent education.”

“And no one,” replied the priest, “was better qualified to do it. But
what bad work do you suspect between Corbet and the baronet?”

“Why, I have my suspicions,” replied the man. “It's not a month since I
heard that the son of that very baronet's brother, who was heir to the
estate and titles, disappeared, and has never been heard of since. Now,
all the water in the sea wouldn't wash the pair of them clear of what
I suspect, which is--that both had a hand in removing that boy. The
baronet was a young man at the time, but he has a face that no one could
ever forget. As for Corbet, I remember him well, as why shouldn't I? he
came there often. I'll take my oath it would be a charity to bring the
affair to light.”

“Do you think the boy is there still?” asked the priest, suppressing all
appearance of the interest which he felt.

“No,” replied the other, “he escaped about two or three years ago; but,
poor lad, when it was discovered that he led too easy a life, and had
got educated, his treatment was changed; a straight waistcoat was put on
him, and he was placed in solitary confinement. At first he was no more
mad than I am; but he did get occasionally mad afterwards. I know he
attempted suicide, and nearly cut his throat with a piece of glass one
day that his hands got loose while they were changing his linen. Old
Rivet died, and the establishment was purchased by Tickleback, who, to
my own knowledge, had him regularly scourged.”

“And how did he escape, do you know?” inquired the priest.

“I could tell you that, too, maybe,” replied Skipton; “but I think, sir,
I have told you enough for the present. If that young man is living, I
would swear that he ought to stand in Sir Thomas Gourlay's shoes. And
now do you think, sir,” he inquired, coming at last to the real object
of his communication, “that if his right could be made clear, any one
who'd help him to his own mightn't expect to be made comfortable for
life?”

“I don't think there's a doubt about it,” replied the priest. “The
property is large, and he could well afford to be both generous and
grateful.”

“I know,” returned the man, “that he is both one and the other, if he
had it in his power.”

“Well,” said the priest, seriously; “mark my words--this may be the most
fortunate day you ever saw. In the mane time, keep a close mouth. The
friends of that identical boy are on the search for him this moment.
They had given him up for dead; but it is not long since they discovered
that he was living. I will see you again on this subject.”

“I am now a constable,” said the man, “attached to the office you were
in to-day, and I can be heard of any time.”

“Very well,” replied the priest, “you shall hear either from me or from
some person interested in the recovery of the boy that's lost.”




CHAPTER XXVII. Lucy calls upon Lady Gourlay, where she meets her Lover

Sir Thomas, who shams Illness, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, who
visits Him--Affecting interview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay


Lucy Gourlay, anxious to relieve her father's mind as much as it was in
her power to do, wrote to him the day after the visit of Ensign Roberts
and old Sam to Summerfield Cottage. Her letter was affectionate, and
even tender, and not written without many tears, as was evident by
the blots and blisters which they produced upon the paper. She fully
corroborated the stranger's explanation to her father; for although
ignorant at the time that an interview had taken place between them,
she felt it to be her duty toward all parties to prevent, as far as her
testimony could go, the possibility of any misunderstanding upon the
subject. This letter was posted in Dublin, from an apprehension lest the
local post-office might furnish a clew to her present abode. The truth
was, she feared that if her father could trace her out, he would claim
her at once, and force her home by outrage and violence. In this,
however, she was mistaken; he had fallen upon quite a different and far
more successful plan for that purpose. He knew his daughter well,
and felt that if ever she might be forced to depart from those strong
convictions of the unhappiness that must result from a union between
baseness and honor, it must be by an assumption of tenderness and
affection toward her, as well as by a show of submission, and a
concession of his own will to hers. This was calculating at once upon
her affection and generosity. He had formed this plan before her letter
reached him, and on perusing it, he felt still more determined to
make this treacherous experiment upon her very virtues--thus most
unscrupulously causing them to lay the groundwork of her own permanent
misery.

In the meantime, Mrs. Mainwaring, having much confidence in the effect
which a knowledge of her disclosure must, as she calculated, necessarily
produce on the ambitious baronet, resolved to lose no time in seeing
him. On the evening before she went, however, the following brief
conversation took place between her and Lucy:

“My dear Lucy,” said she, “a thought has just struck me. Your situation,
excepting always your residence with us, is one of both pain and
difficulty. I am not a woman who has ever been much disposed to rely on
my own judgment in matters of importance.”

“But there, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring, you do yourself injustice.”

“No, my dear child.”

“But what is your thought?” asked Lucy, who felt some unaccountable
apprehension at what her friend was about to say.

“You tell me that neither you nor your aunt, Lady Gourlay, have ever
met.”

“Never, indeed,” replied Lucy; “nor do I think we should know each other
if we did.”

“Then suppose you were, without either favor or ceremony, to call upon
her--to present yourself to her in virtue of your relationship--in
virtue of her high character and admirable principles--in virtue of the
painful position in which you are placed--to claim the benefit of
her experience and wisdom, and ask her to advise you as she would a
daughter.”

Lucy's eyes glistened with delight, and, stooping down, she imprinted a
kiss upon the forehead of her considerate and kind friend.

“Thank you, my dear Mrs. Mainwaring,” she exclaimed: “a thousand thanks
for that admirable suggestion. Many a time has my heart yearned to know
that extraordinary woman, of whose virtues the world talks so much,
and whose great and trusting spirit even sorrow and calamity cannot
prostrate. Yes, I will follow your advice; I will call upon her; for,
even setting aside all selfish considerations, I should wish to know her
for her own worth.”

“Very well, then; I am going in to see your father to-morrow--had you
not better come with me? I shall leave you at her house, and can call
for you after my interview with him shall have been concluded. I shall
order a chaise from the hotel to be with us in the morning, so that you
may run little or no risk of being seen or known.”

“That will be delightful,” replied Lucy; “for I am sure Lady
Gourlay will be a kind and affectionate friend to me. In seeking
her acquaintance--may I hope, her friendship--I am not conscious
of violating any command or duty. Ever since I recollect, it was a
well-known fact, that the families, that is to say, my father and
uncle, never met, nor visited--mamma knew, of course, that to keep up
an intimacy, under such circumstances, would occasion much domestic
disquietude. This is all I know about it; but I never remember having
heard any injunction not to visit.”

“No,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring; “such an injunction would resemble that
of a man who should desire his child not to forget to rise next morning,
or, to be sure to breathe through his lungs. I can very well understand
why such a prohibition was never given in that case. Well, then, we
shall start pretty early in the morning, please God; but remember that
you must give me a full detail of your reception and interview.”

The next day, about the hour of two o'clock, a chaise drew up at the
residence of Lady Gourlay, and on the hall-door being opened, a steady,
respectable-looking old footman made his appearance at the chaise door,
and, in reply to their inquiries, stated, “that her ladyship had been
out for some time, but was then expected every moment.”

“What is to be done?” said Lucy, in some perplexity; “or how am I to
bestow myself if she does not return soon?”

“We expect her ladyship every moment, madam,” replied the man; “and
if you will have the goodness to allow me to conduct you to the
drawing-room, you will not have to wait long--I may assure you of that.”

“You had better go in, my dear,” said Mrs. Mainwaring, “and I shall call
for you in about an hour, or, perhaps, a little better.”

It was so arranged, and Lucy went in accordingly.

We must now follow Mrs. Mainwaring, who, on inquiring if she could see
Sir Thomas Gourlay, was informed by Gibson, who had got his cue, that he
was not in a condition to see any one at present.

“My business is somewhat important,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with a
good deal of confidence in the truth of what she said.

Gibson, however, approached her, and, with the air of a man who was in
possession of the secrets of the family, said, “Perhaps, ma'am, you come
on behalf of Miss Gourlay?”

“Whatever my business may be,” she replied, indignantly, “be it
important or otherwise, I never communicate it through the medium of a
servant; I mean you no offence,” she proceeded; “but as I have already
stated that it is of importance, I trust that will be sufficient for the
present.”

“Excuse me, ma'am,” replied Gibson, “I only put the question by Sir
Thomas's express orders. His state of health is such, that unless upon
that subject he can see no one. I will go to him, however, and mention
what you have said. He is very ill, however, exceedingly ill, and I fear
will not be able to see you; but I shall try.”

Sir Thomas was seated upon a sofa reading some book or other, when
Gibson reappeared.

“Well, Gibson, who is this?”

“A lady, sir; and she says she wishes to see you on very important
business.”

“Hum!--do you think it anything connected with Miss Gourlay?”

“I put the question to her, sir,” replied the other, “and she bridled a
good deal--I should myself suppose it is.”

“Well, then, throw me over my dressing-gown and nightcap; here, pull it
up behind, you blockhead;--there now--how do I look?”

“Why, ahem, a little too much in health, Sir Thomas, if it could be
avoided.”

“But, you stupid rascal, isn't that a sign of fever? and isn't my
complaint fulness about the head--a tendency of blood there? That will
do now; yes, the plethoric complexion to a shade; and, by the way, it is
no joke either. Send her up now.”

When Mrs. Mainwaring entered, the worthy invalid was lying incumbent
upon the sofa, his head raised high upon pillows, with his dressing-gown
and night-cap on, and his arms stretched along by his sides, as if he
were enduring great pain.

“Oh, Mrs. Norton,” said he, after she had courtesied, “how do you do?”

“I am sorry to see you ill, Sir Thomas,” she replied, “I hope there is
nothing serious the matter.”

“I wish I myself could hope so, Mrs. Norton.”

“Excuse me, Sir Thomas, I am no longer Mrs. Norton; Mrs. Mainwaring, at
your service.”

“Ah, indeed! Then you have changed your condition, as they say. Well,
I hope it is for the better, Mrs. Mainwaring; I wish you all joy and
happiness!”

“Thank you, Sir Thomas, it is for the better; I am very happily
married.”

“I am glad to hear it--I am very glad to hear it; that is to say, if
I can be glad at anything. I feel very ill, Mrs. Mainwaring, very ill,
indeed; and this blunt, plain-spoken doctor of mine gives me but little
comfort. Not that I care much about any doctor's opinion--it is what
I feel myself that troubles me. You are not aware, perhaps, that my
daughter has abandoned me--deserted me--and left me solitary--sick--ill;
without care--without attendance--without consolation;--and all because
I wished to make her happy.”

“This, Sir Thomas,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, avoiding a direct reply as
to her knowledge of Lucy's movements, “is, I presume, with reference to
her marriage with Lord Dunroe.”

“Oh yes; young women will not, now-a-days, allow a parent to form any
opinion as to what constitutes their happiness; but I cannot be angry
with Lucy now; indeed, I am not. I only regret her absence from my sick
bed, as I may term it; for, indeed, it is in bed I ought to be.”

“Sir Thomas, I, came to speak with you very seriously, upon the subject
of her union with that young nobleman.”

“Ah, but I am not in a condition, Mrs. Mainwaring, to enter upon such a
topic at present. The doctor has forbidden me to speak upon any subject
that might excite me. You must excuse me, then, madam; I really cannot
enter upon it. I never thought T loved Lucy so much;--I only want my
child to be with me. She and I are all that I are left together now; but
she has deserted me at the last moment, for I fear I am near it.”

“But, Sir Thomas, if you would only hear me for a few minutes, I could
satisfy you that--”

“But I cannot hear you, Mrs. Mainwaring; I cannot hear you; I am not in
a state to do so; I feel feverish, and exceedingly ill.”

“Five minutes would do, Sir Thomas.”

“Five minutes! five centuries of torture! I must ring the bell, Mrs.
Mainwaring, if you attempt to force this subject on me. I should be
sorry to treat you rudely, but you must see at once that I am quite
unable to talk of anything calculated to disturb me. I have a tendency
of blood to the head--I am also nervous and irritable. Put it off, my
dear madam. I trust you shall have another and a better opportunity. Do
ring, and desire Lucy to come to me.”

Mrs. Mainwaring really became alarmed at the situation of the baronet,
and felt, from this request to have his daughter sent to him, which
looked like delirium, that he was not in a state to enter upon or hear
anything that might disappoint or disturb him. She consequently rose to
take her leave, which she did after having expressed her sincere regret
at his indisposition, as she termed it.

“I wish it was only indisposition, Mrs. Mainwaring, I wish it was.
Present my respects to your husband, and I wish you and him all
happiness;” and so with another courtesy, Mrs. Mainwaring took her leave.

After she had gone, Gibson once more attended the bell.

“Well, Gibson,” said his master, sitting up and flinging his nightcap
aside, “did you see that old grindress? Zounds and the devil, what are
women? The old mantrap has got married at these years! Thank heaven, my
grandmother is dead, or God knows what the devil might put into her old
noddle.”

“Women are very strange cattle, certainly, sir,” replied Gibson, with a
smirk, “and not age itself will keep them from a husband.”

“Lucy--Miss Gourlay, I mean--is with her; I am certain of it. The girl
was always very much attached to her, and I know the sly old devil has
been sent to negotiate with me, but I declined. I knew better than
to involve myself in a controversy with an old she prig who deals in
nothing but maxims, and morals, and points of duty. I consequently sent
her off in double quick time, as they say. Get me some burgundy and
water. I really am not well. There is something wrong, Gibson, whatever
it is; but I think it's nothing but anxiety. Gibson, listen. I have
never been turned from my purpose yet, and I never shall. Miss Gourlay
must be Countess of Cullamore, or it is a struggle for life and death
between her and me; either of us shall die, or I shall have my way.
Get me the burgundy and water,” and Gibson, with his sleek bow, went to
attend his orders.

Mrs. Mainwaring having some purchases to make and some visits to pay,
and feeling that her unexpectedly brief visit to Sir Thomas had allowed
her time for both, did not immediately return to call upon Lucy, fearing
that she might only disturb the interview between her and Lady Gourlay.

Lucy, as the servant said, was shown up to the drawing-room, where she
amused herself as well as she could, by examining some fine paintings,
among which was one of her late uncle. The features of this she studied
with considerable attention, and could not help observing that, although
they resembled collectively those of her father, the deformity of the
one eye only excepted, yet the general result was strikingly different.
All that was harsh, and coarse, and repulsive in the countenance of
her father, was here softened down into an expression of gentleness,
firmness, and singular candor, whilst, at the same time, the family
likeness could not for a moment be questioned or mistaken.

Whilst thus occupied, a foot was heard, as if entering the drawing-room,
and naturally turning round, she beheld the stranger before her. The
surprise of each was mutual, for the meeting was perfectly unexpected by
either. A deep blush overspread Lucy's exquisite features, which
almost in a moment gave way to a paleness that added a new and equally
delightful phase to her beauty.

“Good heavens, my dear Lucy,” exclaimed the stranger, “do I find you
here! I had heard that the families were estranged; but on that very
account I feel the more deeply delighted at your presence under Lady
Gourlay's roof. This happiness comes to me with a double sense of
enjoyment, from the fact of its being unexpected.”

The alternations of red and white still continued as Lucy replied, her
sparkling eye chastened down by the veil of modesty as she spoke: “I am
under Lady Gourlay's roof for the first time in my life. Indeed, I have
come here to make an experiment, if I may use the expression, upon the
goodness of her heart. The amiable lady with whom I now reside suggested
to me to do so, a suggestion which I embraced with delight. I have been
here only a few minutes, and await her ladyship's return, which they
tell me may be expected immediately.”

“It would indeed be unfortunate,” replied the stranger, “that two
individuals so nearly connected by family, and what is more, the
possession of similar virtues, should not be known to each other.”

This compliment brought a deeper tinge of color to Lucy's cheek,
who simply replied, “I have often wished most sincerely for
the pleasure--the honor, I should say--of her acquaintance; but
unfortunately the ill-feeling that has subsisted between the families,
or rather between a portion of them, has hitherto prevented it. If I
were now under my father's roof a visit here were out of the question;
but you know, Charles, I cannot, and I ought not, to inherit his
resentments.”

“True, my dear Lucy, and I am glad to see you here for many, many
reasons. No, your father's resentments would perish for want of nurture
in a heart like yours. But, Lucy, there is a subject in which I trust we
both feel a dearer and a deeper interest than that of family feud. I
am aware of this hateful union which your father wishes to bring about
between you and this Lord Dunroe. I have been long aware of it, as
you know; but need I say that I place every reliance, all honorable
confidence, in your truth and attachment?”

He had approached, and gently taking her hand in his as he spoke, he
uttered these words in a tone so full at once of tenderness and that
sympathy to which he knew her sufferings on this point had entitled
her, that Lucy was considerably affected, although she restrained her
emotions as well as she could.

“If it were not so,” she replied, in a voice whose melody was made
more touchingly beautiful by the slight tremor which she endeavored to
repress, “if it were not so, Charles, I would not now be a fugitive.
from my father's roof.”

The stranger's eye sparkled with the rapturous enthusiasm of love,
as the gentle girl, all blushes, gave expression to an assurance so
gratifying, so delicious to his heart.

“Dearest Lucy,” said he, “I fear I am unworthy of you. Oh, could you but
know how those words of yours have made my heart tremble with an excess
of transport which language fails to express, you would also know that
the affection with which I love you is as tender, as pure, as unselfish,
as ever warmed the heart of man. And yet, as I said, I fear it is
unworthy of you. I know your father's character, his determination, the
fierce force of his will, and the energy with which he pursues every
object on which he sets his heart or ambition. I say I know all this,
and I sometimes fear the consequences. What can the will of only one
pure, gentle, and delicate heart avail against the united powers of
ambition, authority, persuasion, force, determination, perhaps violence?
What, I repeat, can a gentle heart like yours ultimately avail against
such a host of difficulties? And it is for this reason that I say I am
unworthy of you, for I fear--and you know that perfect love casteth out
all fear.”

“My dear Charles, if love were without fear it would lose half its
tenderness. An eternal sunshine, would soon sicken the world. But as
for your apprehensions of my solitary heart failing against such
difficulties as it must encounter, you seem to omit one slight element
in calculating your terrors, and that simple element is a host in
itself.”

“Which is?”

“Love for you, dear Charles. I know you may probably feel that this
avowal ought to be expressed with more hesitation, veiled over by
the hypocrisy of language, disguised by the hackneyed forms of mere
sentiment, uttered like the assertions of a coquette, and degraded by
that tampering with truth which makes the heart lie unto itself. Oh,
yes!--perhaps, Charles, you may think that because I fail to express
what I feel in that spirit of ambiguity which a love not confident
in the truth, purity, and rectitude of its own principles must always
borrow--that because my heart fails to approach yours by the usual
circuitous route with which ordinary hearts do approach--yes, you may
imagine for all these reasons that my affection is not--but--” and here
she checked herself--“why,” she added, with dignity, whilst her cheeks
glowed and her eyes sparkled, “why should I apologize for the avowal of
a love of which I am not ashamed, and which has its strongest defence in
the worth and honor of its object?”

Tears of enthusiasm rushed down her cheeks as she spoke, and her lover
could only say, “Dearest Lucy, most beloved of my heart, your language,
your sentiments, your feelings--so pure, so noble, so far above those
commonplaces of your sex, only cause me to shrink almost into nothing
when I compare or contrast myself with you. Let, however, one principle
guide us--the confidence that our love is mutual and cannot be
disturbed. I am for the present placed in circumstances that are
exceedingly painful. In point of fact, I am wrapped in obscurity and
shadow, and there exists, besides, a possibility that I may not become,
in point of fortune, such a man as you might possibly wish to look upon
as your husband.”

“If you are now suffering your fine mind, Charles, to become
unconsciously warped by the common prejudices of life, I beseech you to
reflect upon the heart to which you address yourself. Society presents
not a single prejudice which in any degree aids or supports virtue, and
truth, and honor, that I do not cherish, and wish you to cherish; but if
you imagine that you will become less dear to me because you may fail to
acquire some of the artificial dignities or honors of life, then it is
clear that you know not how to estimate the spirit and character of Lucy
Grourlay.”

“I know you will be severely tried, my dear Lucy.”

“Know me aright, Charles. I have been severely tried. Many a girl, I am
sorry to say, would forget Dunroe's profligacy in his rank. Many a
girl, in contemplating the man, could see nothing but the coronet; for
ambition--the poorest, the vainest, and the most worthless of all
kinds of ambition--that of rank, title, the right of precedence--is
unfortunately cultivated as a virtue in the world of fashion, and as
such it is felt. Be it so, Charles; let me remain unfashionable and
vulgar. Perish the title if not accompanied by worth; fling the gaudy
coronet aside if it covers not the brow of probity and honor. Retain
those, dear Charles--retain worth, probity, and honor--and you retain a
heart that looks upon them as the only titles that confer true rank and
true dignity.”

The stranger gave her a long gaze of admiration, and exclaimed, deeply
affected,

“Alas, my Lucy, you are, I fear, unfit for the world. Your spirit is too
pure, too noble for common life. Like some priceless gem, it sparkles
with the brilliancy of too many virtues for the ordinary mass of mankind
to appreciate.”

“No such thing, Charles: you quite overrate me; but God forbid that
the possession of virtue and good dispositions should ever become a
disqualification for this world. It is not so; but even if it were,
provided I shine in the estimation of my own little world, by which
I mean the affection of him to whom I shall unite my fate, then I am
satisfied: his love and his approbation shall constitute my coronet and
my honor.”

The stranger was absolutely lost in admiration and love, for he felt
that the force of truth and sincerity had imparted an eloquence and an
energy to her language that were perfectly fascinating and irresistible.

“My dear life,” said he, “the music of your words, clothing, as it does,
the divine principles they utter, must surely resemble the melody of
heaven's own voices. For my part, I feel relaxed in such a delicious
rapture as I have never either felt or dreamt of before--entranced, as
it were, in a sense of your wonderful beauty and goodness. But, dearest
Lucy, allow me to ask on what terms are you with your father? Have you
heard from him? Have you written to him? Is he aware of your present
residence?”

“No,” she replied; “he is not aware of my present residence, but I have
written to him. I wished to set his mind at rest as well as I could, and
to diminish his anxiety as far as in me lay. Heaven knows,” she added,
bursting into tears, “that this unnatural estrangement between father
and daughter is most distressing. I am anxious to be with papa, to
render him, in every sense, all the duties of a child, provided only he
will not persist in building up the superstructure of rank upon my own
unhappiness. Have you seen him?” she inquired, drying her eyes, a task
in which she was tenderly assisted by the stranger.

“I saw him,” he replied, “for a short time;” but the terms in which he
explained the nature of the interview between himself and the baronet
were not such as could afford her a distinct impression of all that
took place, simply because he wished to spare her the infliction of
unnecessary pain.

“And now, Lucy,” he added, “I feel it necessary to claim a large portion
of your approbation.”

She looked at him with a smile, but awaited his explanation.

“You will scarcely credit me when I assure you that I have had a clew to
your place of residence, or concealment, or whatever it is to be termed,
since the first morning of your arrival there, and yet I disturbed you
not, either by letter or visit. Thus you may perceive how sacred your
lightest wish is to me.”

“And do you imagine that I am insensible to this delicate generosity?”
 she asked--“oh, no; indeed, I fully appreciate it; but now, Charles,
will you permit me to ask how, or when, or where you have been
acquainted with my aunt Gourlay, for I was not aware that you had known
each other?”

“This, my dear Lucy,” he replied, smiling, “you shall have cleared up
along with all my other mysteries. Like every riddle, although it may
seem difficult now, it will be plain enough when told.”

“It matters not, dear Charles; I have every confidence in your truth and
honor, and that is sufficient.”

He then informed her briefly, that he should be under the necessity
of going to France for a short space, upon business of the deepest
importance to himself.

“My stay, however,” he added, “will not be a very long one; and I trust,
that after my return, I shall be in a position to speak out my love.
Indeed, I am anxious for this, dear Lucy, for I know how strong the love
of truth and candor is in your great and generous heart. And yet, for
the sake of one good and amiable individual, or rather, I should say, of
two, the object of my journey to France will not be accomplished without
the deepest pain to myself. It is, I may say here, to spare the feelings
of the two individuals in question, that I have preserved the strict
incognito which I thought necessary since my arrival in this country.”

“Farewell until then, my dear Charles; and in whatever object you may
be engaged, let me beg that you will not inflict a wanton or unnecessary
wound upon a good or amiable heart; but I know you will not--it is not
in your nature.”

“I trust not,” he added, as he took his leave. “I cannot wait longer for
lady Gourlay; but before I go, I will write a short note for her in the
library, which will, for the present, answer the same purpose as seeing
her. Farewell, then, dearest and best of girls!--farewell, and be as
happy as you can; would that I could say, as I wish you, until we meet
again.”

And thus they separated.

The scene that had just taken place rendered every effort at composure
necessary on the part of Lucy, before the return of Lady Gourlay. This
lady, strange as it may seem, she had yet never seen or met, and she now
began to reflect upon the nature of the visit she had made her, as well
as of the reception she might get. If it were possible that her father
had made away with her child on the one hand, could it be possible,
on the other, that Lady Gourlay would withhold her resentment from the
daughter of the man who had made her childless? But, no; her generous
heart could not for a moment admit the former possibility. She reasoned
not from what she had felt at his hands, but as a daughter, who, because
she abhorred the crime imputed to him, could not suppose him capable
of committing it. His ambition was all for herself. Neither, she felt,
would Lady Gourlay, even allowing for the full extent of her suspicions,
confound the innocent daughter with the offending parent. Then her
reputation for meekness, benevolence, patience, charity, and all those
virtues which, without effort, so strongly impress themselves upon the
general spirit of social life, spoke with a thousand tongues on her
behalf. Yes, she was glad she came; she felt the spirit of a virtuous
relationship strongly in her heart; and in that heart she thanked the
amiable Mrs. Mainwaring for the advice she had given her.

A gentle and diffident tap at the door interrupted the course of
her reflections; and the next moment, a lady, grave, but elegant in
appearance, entered. She courtesied with peculiar grace, and an air
of the sweetest benignity, to Lucy, who returned it with one in which
humility, reverence, and dignity, were equally blended. Neither, indeed,
could for a single moment doubt that an accomplished and educated
gentlewoman stood before her. Lucy, however, felt that it was her duty
to speak first, and account for a visit so unexpected.

“I know not,” she said, “as yet, how to measure the apology which I
ought to make to Lady Gourlay for my presence here. My heart tells me
that I have the honor of addressing that lady.”

“I am, indeed, madam, that unhappy woman.”

Lucy approached her, and said, “Do not reject me, madam; pardon me--love
me--pity me;--I am Lucy Gourlay.”

Lady Gourlay opened her arms, exclaiming, as she did it, in a voice of
the deepest emotion, “My dear niece--my child--my daughter if you will;”
 and they wept long and affectionately on each other's bosoms.

“You are the only living individual,” said Lucy, after some time, “whom
I could ask to pity me; but I am not ashamed to solicit your sympathy.
Dear, dear aunt, I am very unhappy. But this, I fear, is wrong; for why
should I add my sorrows to the weight of misery which you yourself have
been compelled to bear? I fear it is selfish and ungenerous to do so.”

“No, my child; whatever the weight of grief or misery which we are
forced, perhaps, for wise purposes, to bear, it is ordained, for
purposes equally wise and beneficent, that every act of sympathy with
another's sorrow lessens our own. Dear Lucy, let me, if you can, or will
be permitted to do so, be a loving mother to you, and stand to my heart
in relation to the child I have lost; or think that your own dear mother
still survives in me.”

This kindness and affection fairly overcame Lucy, who sat down on a
sofa, and wept bitterly. Lady Gourlay herself was deeply affected for
some minutes, but, at length, resuming composure, she sat beside Lucy,
and, taking her hand, said: “I can understand, my dear child, the nature
of your grief; but be comforted. Your heart, which was burdened, will
soon become lighter, and better spirits will return; so, I trust, will
better times. It is not from the transient and unsteady, and too often
painful, incidents of life, that we should attempt to draw consolation,
but from a fixed and firm confidence in the unchangeable purposes of
God.”

“I wish, dear Lady Gourlay--dear aunt--”

“Yes, that is better, my love.”

“I wish I had known you before; of late I have been alone--with none
to advise or guide me; for, she, whose affectionate heart, whose tender
look, and whose gentle monition, were ever with me--she--alas, my dear
aunt, how few know what the bitterness is--when forced to struggle
against strong but misguided wills, whether of our own or others'; to
feel that we are without a mother--that that gentle voice is silent
forever; that that well in the desert of life--a mother's heart--is
forever closed to us; that that protecting angel of our steps is
departed from us--never, never to return.”

As she uttered these words in deep grief, it might have been observed,
that Lady Gourlay shed some quiet but apparently bitter tears. It is
impossible for us to enter into the heart, or its reflections; but it
is not, we think, unreasonable to suppose that while Lucy dwelt so
feelingly upon the loss of her mother, the other may have been thinking
upon that of her child.

“My dear girl,” she exclaimed, “let the affectionate compact which I
have just proposed be ratified between us. My heart, at all events, has
already ratified it. I shall be as a mother to you, and you shall be to
me as a daughter.”

“I know not, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, “whether to consider you more
affectionate than generous. How few of our sex, after--after--that
is, considering the enmities--in fact, how a relative, placed as you
unhappily are, would take me to her heart as you have done.”

“Perhaps, my child, I were incapable of it, if that heart had never been
touched and softened by affliction. As it is, Lucy, let me say to you,
as one who probably knows the world better, do not look, as most young
persons like you do, upon the trials you are at present forced to
suffer, as if they were the sharpest and heaviest in the world. Time, my
love, and perhaps other trials of a still severer character, may one day
teach you to think that your grief and impatience were out of proportion
to what you then underwent. May He who afflicts his people for their
good, prevent that this ever should be so in your case; but, even if
it should, remember that God loveth whom he chasteneth. And above all
things, my dear child, never, never, never despair in his providence.
Dry your eyes, my love,” she added, with a smile of affection and
encouragement, that Lucy felt to be contagious by its cheering
influence upon her; “dry your tears, and turn round to the light until
I contemplate more clearly and distinctly that beauty of which I have
heard so much.”

Lucy obeyed her with all the simplicity of a child, and turned round so
as to place herself in the position required by the aunt; but whilst she
did so, need we say that the blushes followed each other beautifully and
fast over her timid but sparkling countenance?

“I do not wonder, my dear girl, that public rumor has borne its ample
testimony to your beauty. I have never seen either it or your figure
surpassed; but it is here, my dear,” she added, placing her hand upon
her heart, “where the jewel that gives value to so fair a casket lies.”

“How happy I am, my dear aunt,” replied Lucy, anxious to change
the subject, since I know you. The very consciousness of it is a
consolation.”

“And I trust, Lucy, we shall all yet be happy. When the dispensations
ripen, then comes the harvest of the blessings.”

The old footman now entered, saying: “Here is a note, my lady,” and
he presented one, “which the gentleman desired me to deliver on your
ladyship's return.”

Lady Gourlay took the note, saying: “Will you excuse me, my dear
niece?--this, I believe, is on a subject that is not merely near to, but
in the innermost recesses of my heart.”

Lucy now took that opportunity on her part of contemplating the features
of her aunt; but, as we have already described them elsewhere, it is
unnecessary to do so here. She was, however, much struck with their
chaste but melancholy beauty; for it cannot be disputed, that sorrow and
affliction, while they impair the complexion of the most lovely, very
frequently communicate to it a charm so deep and touching, that in
point of fact, the heart that suffers within is taught to speak in the
mournful, grave, and tender expression, which they leave behind them
as their traces. As Lucy surveyed her aunt's features, which had been
moulded by calamity into an expression of settled sorrow--an expression
which no cheerfulness could remove, however it might diminish it, she
was surprised to observe at first a singular degree of sweetness appear;
next a mild serenity; and lastly, she saw that that serenity gradually
kindled into a radiance that might, in the hands of a painter, have
expressed the joy of the Virgin Mother on finding her lost Son in the
Temple. This, however, was again succeeded by a paleness, that for a
moment alarmed Lucy, but which was soon lost in a gush of joyful tears.
On looking at her niece, who did not presume to make any inquiry as to
the cause of this extraordinary emotion, Lady Gourlay saw that her eyes
at least were seeking, by the wonder they expressed, for the cause of
it.

“May the name,” she exclaimed, “of the just and merciful God be praised
forever! Here, my darling, is a note, in which I am informed upon the
best authority, that my child--my boy, is yet alive--and was seen but
very recently. Dear God of all goodness, is my weak and worn heart
capable of bearing this returning tide of happiness!”

Nature, however, gave way; and after several struggles and throbbings,
she sank into insensibility. To ring for assistance, to apply all kinds
of restoratives; and to tend her until she revived, and afterwards, were
offices which Lucy discharged with equal promptitude and tenderness.

On recovering, she took the hand of the latter in hers, and said, with
a smile full of gratitude, joy, and sweetness, “Our first thanks are
always due to God, and to him my heart offers them up; but, oh, how
feebly! Thanks to you, also, Lucy, for your kindness; and many thanks
for your goodness in giving me the pleasure of knowing you. I trust that
we shall both see and enjoy better and happier days. Your visit has been
propitious to me, and brought, if I may so say, an unexpected dawn of
happiness to the widowed mother's heart.”

Lucy was about to reply, when the old footman came to say that the lady
who had accompanied her was waiting below in the chaise. She accordingly
bade her farewell, only for a time she said, and after a tender embrace,
she went down to Mrs. Mainwaring who respectfully declined on that
occasion to be presented to Lady Gourlay, in consequence of the number
of purchases she had yet to make, and the time it would occupy to make
them.




CHAPTER XXVIII. Innocence and Affection overcome by Fraud and Hypocrisy

--Lucy yields at Last.


Not many minutes after Mrs. Mainwaring's interview with the baronet,
Gibson entered the library, and handed him a letter on which was stamped
the Ballytrain postmark. On looking at it, he paused for a moment:

“Who the d------ can this come from?” he said. “I am not aware of having
any particular correspondence at present, in or about Ballytrain. Here,
however, is a seal; let me see what it is. What the d------, again? are
these a pair of asses' ears or wings? Certainly, if the impression
be correct, the former; and what is here? A fox. Very good, perfectly
intelligible; a fox, with a pair of asses' ears upon him! intimating a
combination of knavery and folly. 'Gad, this must be from Crackenfudge,
of whom it is the type and exponent. For a thousand, it contains a list
of his qualifications for the magisterial honors for which he is
so ambitious. Well, well; I believe every man has an ambition for
something. Mine is to see my daughter a countess, that she may trample
with velvet slippers on the necks of those who would trample on hers if
she were beneath them. This fellow, now, who is both slave and tyrant,
will play all sorts of oppressive pranks upon the poor, by whom he knows
that he is despised; and for that very reason, along with others, will
he punish them. That, however, is, after all, but natural; and on this
very account, curse me, but I shall try and shove the beggarly scoundrel
up to the point of his paltry ambition. I like ambition. The man who has
no object of ambition of any kind is unfit for life. Come, then, wax,
deliver up thy trust.'”

With a dark grin of contempt, and a kind of sarcastic gratification, he
perused the document, which ran as follows:

“My dear Sir Tomas,--In a letter, which a' had the honer of receiving
from you, in consequence of your very great kindness in condescending to
kick me out of your house, on the occasion of my last visit to Red
Hall, you were pleased to express a wish that a' would send you up as
arthentic a list as a' could conveniently make up of my qualifications
for the magistracey. Deed, a'm sore yet, Sir Tomas, and wouldn't it be
a good joke, as my friend Dr. Twig says, if the soreness should remain
until it is cured by the Komission, which he thinks would wipe out all
recollection of the pain and the punishment. And he says, too, that this
application of it would be putting it to a most proper and legutimate
use; the only use, he insists, to which it ought to be put. But a' don't
go that far, because a' think it would be an honerable dockiment, not
only to my posterity, meaning my legutimate progenitors, if a' should
happen to have any; but, also and moreover, to the good taste and
judgment, and respect for the honer and integrity of the Bench,
manifested by those who attributed to place me on it.

“A' now come to Klaim No. I, for the magistracey: In the first place
a'm not without expeyrience, having been in the habit of acting as a
magistrate in a private way, and upon my own responsibility, for several
years. A' established a kourt in a little vilage, which--and this is a
strong point in my feavor now-a-days--which a' meself have depopilated;
and a' trust that the depopilation won't be ovelueked. To this kourt
a' com-peled all me taunts to atend. They were obliged to summon one
another as often as they kould, and much oftener than they wished, and
for the slightest kauses. A' presided in it purseondlly; and a'll tell
you why. My system was a fine system, indeed. That is to say, a' fined
them ether on the one side or the tother, but most generally on both,
and then a' put the fines into my own pocet. My tenints a' know didn't
like this kind of law very much--but if they didn't a' did; and a' made
them feel that a' was their landlord. No man was a faverite with me that
didn't frequent my kourt, and for this resin, in order to stand well
with me, they fought like kat and dog. Now, you know, it was my bisness
to enkorage this, for the more they fought and disputed, the more a'
fined them.

“In fact, a' done everything in my power, to enlitin my tenints. For
instance, a' taught them the doktrine of trespiss. If a' found that a
stranger tuck the sheltry side of my hedge, to blow his nose, I fined
him half-a-crown, as can be proved by proper and undeniable testomony.
A' mention all these matters to satisfy you that a' have practis as a
magistrate, and won't have my duties to lern when a'm called upon to
discharge them.

“Klaim No. II. is as follows: A'm very unpopilar with the people, which
is a great thing in itself, as a' think no man ought to be risen to the
bench that's not unpopilar; because, when popilar, he's likely to feavor
them, and symperthize with them--wherein his first duty is always to
konsider them in the rong. Nether am a' popilar with the gentry and
magistrates of the kountry, because they despise me, and say that a'm
this, that and tother; that a'm mean and tyrannical; that a' changed my
name from pride, and that a'm overbearing and ignorant. Now this last
charge of ignorance brings me to Klaim No. III.

“Be it nown to you, then, Sir Tomas, that a' received a chollege
eddycation, which is an anser in full to the play of ignorance. In fact,
a' devoted meself to eddycation till my very brain began to go round
like a whurli-gig; and many people say, that a' never rekovered the
proper use of it since. Hundres will tell you that they would shed their
blood upon the truth of it; but let any one that thinks so transact
bisness with me, or bekome a tenint of mine, and he'll find that a' can
make him bleed in proving the reverse.

“A' could prove many other klaims equally strong, but a' hope it's not
necessary to seduce any more. A' do think, if the Lord Chanceseller knew
of my qualifications, a' wouldn't be long off the bench. If, then, Sir
Tomas, you, who have so much influence, would write on my behalf, and
rekomend me to the custus rascalorum as a proper kandi-date, I could not
fail to sukceed in reaching the great point of my ambition, which is,
to be accommodated with a seat--anything would satisfy me--even a
close-stool--upon the magisterial bench. Amen, Sir Tomas.

“And have the honer to be,

“Your obedient and much obliged, and very thankful servant for what a'
got, as well as for what a' expect, Sir Tomas,

“Periwinkle Crackenfudge.”


Sir Thomas--having perused this precious document, which, by the way,
contains no single fact that could not be substantiated by the clearest
testimony, so little are they at head-quarters acquainted with the
pranks that are played off on the unfortunate people by multitudes of
petty tyrants in remote districts of the country--Sir Thomas, we say,
having perused the aforesaid document, grinned--almost laughed--with a
satirical enjoyment of its contents.

“Very good,” said he; “excellent: confound me, but Crackenfudge must get
to the bench, if it were only for the novelty of the thing. I will this
moment recommend him to Lord Cullamore, who is _custos rotulorum_ for
the county, and who would as soon, by the way, cut his right hand off as
recommend him to the Chancellor, if he knew the extent of his 'klaims,'
as the miserable devil spells it. Yes, I will recommend him, if it were
only to vex my brother baronet, Sir James B-----, who is humane, and
kind, and popular, forsooth, and a staunch advocate for purity of the
bench, and justice to the people! No doubt of it; I shall recommend you,
Crackenfudge, and cheek by jowl with the best among them, upon the same
magistorial bench, shall the doughty Crackenfudge sit.”

He instantly sat down to his writing-desk, and penned as strong a
recommendation as he could possibly compose to Lord Cullamore, after
which he threw himself again upon the sofa, and exclaimed:

“Well, that act is done, and an iniquitous one it is; but no matter,
it is gone off to the post, and I'm rid of him.' Now for Lucy, and my
ambition; she is unquestionably with that shameless old woman who could
think of marrying at such an age. She is with her; she will hear of my
illness, and as certain as life is life, and death death, she will be
here soon.”

In this he calculated aright, and he felt that he did so. Mrs.
Mainwaring, on the evening of their visit to the city, considered it her
duty to disclose, fully and candidly, to Lucy, the state of her father's
health, that is, as it appeared to her on their interview. Lucy, who
knew that he was subject to sudden attacks upon occasions of less
moment, not only became alarmed, but experienced a feeling like remorse
for having, as she said, abandoned him so undutifully.

“I will return immediately,” she said, weeping; “he is ill: you say he
speaks of me tenderly and affectionately--oh, what have I done! Should
this illness prove serious--fatal--my piece of mind were gone forever. I
should consider myself as a parricide--as the direct cause of his death.
My God! perhaps even now I am miserable for life--forever--forever!”

Mrs. Mainwaring soothed her as well as she could, but she refused to
hear comfort, and having desired Alley Mahon to prepare their slight
luggage, she took an affectionate and tearful leave of Mrs. Mainwaring,
bade _adieu_ to her husband, and was about to get into the chaise, which
had been ordered from the inn in Wicklow, when Mrs. Mainwaring said:

“Now, my dear Lucy, if your father should recover, and have recourse
to any abuse of his authority, by attempting again to force your
inclinations and consummate your misery, remember that my door, my arms,
my heart, shall ever be open to you. I do not, you will observe, suggest
any act of disobedience on your part; on the contrary, I am of opinion
that you should suffer everything short of the last resort, by which
I mean this hateful marriage with Dunroe, sooner than abandon your
father's roof. This union is a subject on which I must see him again.
Poor Lord Cullamore I respect and venerate, for I have reason to
believe that he has, for one contemplated error, had an unhappy if not
a remorseful life. In the meantime, even in opposition to your
father's wishes, I say it, and in confirmation of your strongest
prejudices------”

“It amounts to antipathy, Mrs. Mainwaring--to hatred, to abhorrence.”

“Well, my dear child, in confirmation of them all, I implore, I entreat,
I conjure, and if I had authority, I would say, I command you not to
unite your fate with that young profligate.”

“Do not fear me, Mrs. Mainwaring; but at present I can think of nothing
but poor papa and his illness; I tremble, indeed, to think how I shall
find him; and, my God, to reflect that I am the guilty cause of all
this!”

They then separated, and Lucy, accompanied by Alley, proceeded to
town at a pace as rapid as the animals that bore them could possibly
accomplish.

On arriving in town, she was about rushing upstairs to throw herself
in her father's arms, when Gibson, who observed her, approached
respectfully, and said:

“This haste to see your father, Miss Gourlay, is very natural; but
perhaps you will be good enough to wait a few moments, until he is
prepared to receive you. The doctor has left strict orders that he shall
not see any person; but, above all things, without being announced.”

“But, Gibson--first, how is he? Is he very ill?”

Gibson assumed a melancholy and very solemn look, as he replied, “He
is, indeed, ill, Miss Gourlay; but it would not become me to distress
you--especially as I hope your presence will comfort him; he is
perpetually calling for you.”

“Go, Gibson, go,” she exclaimed, whilst tears, which she could not
restrain, gushed to her eyes. “Go, be quick; tell him I am here.”

“I will break it to him, madam, as gently as possible,” replied
this sedate and oily gentleman; “for, if made acquainted with it too
suddenly, the unexpected joy might injure him.”

“Do not injure him, then,” she exclaimed, earnestly; “oh, do not injure
him--but go; I leave it to your own discretion.”

Lucy immediately proceeded to her own room, and Gibson to the library,
where he found the baronet in his nightcap and morning gown, reading a
newspaper.

“I have the paragraph drawn up, Gibson,” said he, with a grim smile,
“stating that I am dangerously ill; take and copy it, and see that it be
inserted in to-morrow's publication.”

“It will not be necessary, sir,” replied the footman; “Miss Gourlay is
here, and impatient to see you.”

“Here!” exclaimed her father with a start; “you do not say she is in the
house?”

“She has just arrived, sir, and is now in her own room.”

“Leave me, Gibson,” said the baronet, “and attend promptly when I ring;”
 and Gibson withdrew. “Why,” thought he to himself, “why, do I feel as
I do? Glad that I have her once more in my power, and this is only
natural; but why this kind of terror--this awe of that extraordinary
girl? I dismissed that prying scoundrel of a footman, because I could
not bear that he should observe and sneer at this hypocrisy, although
I know he is aware of it. What can this uncomfortable sensation which
checks my joy at her return mean? Is it that involuntary homage which
they say vice is compelled to pay to purity, truth, and virtue? I know
not; but I feel disturbed, humbled with an impression like that of
guilt--an impression which makes me feel as if there actually were
such a thing as conscience. As my objects, however, are for the foolish
girl's advancement, I am determined to play the game out, and for that
purpose, as I know now by experience that neither harshness nor violence
will do, I shall have recourse to tenderness and affection. I must touch
her heart, excite her sympathy, and throw myself altogether upon her
generosity. Come then--and now for the assumption of a new character.”

Having concluded this train of meditation, he rang for Gibson, who
appeared.

“Gibson, let Miss Gourlay know that, ill as I am, I shall try to see
her: be precise in the message, sir; use my own words.”

“Certainly, Sir Thomas,” replied the footman, who immediately withdrew
to deliver it.

The baronet, when Gibson went out again, took a pair of pillows,
with which the sofa was latterly furnished, in order to maintain the
appearance of illness, whenever it might be necessary, and having placed
them under his head, laid himself down, pulled the nightcap over his
brows, and affected all the symptoms of a man who was attempting to
struggle against some serious and severe attack.

In this state he lay, when Lucy entering the room, approached, in a
flood of tears, exclaiming, as she knelt by the sofa, “Oh, papa--dear
papa, forgive me;” and as she spoke, she put her arms round his neck,
and kissed him affectionately. “Dear papa,” she proceeded, “you are
ill--very ill, I fear; but will you not forgive your poor child for
having abandoned you as she did? I have returned, however, to stay with
you, to tend you, to soothe and console you as far as any and every
effort of mine can. You shall have no nurse but me, papa. All that human
hands can do to give you ease--all that the sincerest affection can do
to sustain and cheer you, your own Lucy will do. But speak to me, papa;
am I not your own Lucy still?”

Her father turned round, as if by a painful effort, and having looked
upon her for some time, replied, feebly, “Yes, you are--you are my own
Lucy still.”

This admission brought a fresh gush of tears from the affectionate girl,
who again exclaimed, “Ah, papa, I fear you are very ill; but those words
are to me the sweetest that ever proceeded from your lips. Are you glad
to see me, papa?--but I forget myself; perhaps I am disturbing you. Only
say how you feel, and if it will not injure you, what your complaint
is.”

“My complaint, dear Lucy, most affectionate child--for I see you are so
still, notwithstanding reports and appearances--”

“Oh, indeed, I am, papa--indeed I am.”

“My complaint was brought on by anxiety and distress of mind--I will not
say why--I did, I know, I admit, wish to see you in a position of life
equal to your merits; but I cannot talk of that--it would disturb me;
it is a subject on which, alas! I am without hope. I am threatened
with apoplexy or paralysis, Lucy, the doctor cannot say which; but the
danger, he says, proceeds altogether from the state of my mind, acting,
it is true, upon a plethoric system of body; but I care not, dear
Lucy--I care not, now; I am indifferent to life. All my expectations
--all a father's brilliant plans for his child, are now over. The doctor
says that ease of mind might restore, but I doubt it now; I fear it is
too late. I only wish I was better prepared for the change which I know
I shall soon be forced to make. Yet I feel, Lucy, as if I never loved
you until now--I feel how dear you are to me now that I know I must part
with you so soon.”

Lucy was utterly incapable of resisting this tenderness, as the
unsuspecting girl believed it to be. She again threw her arms around
him, and wept as if her very heart would break.

“This agitation, my darling,” he added, “is too much for us both. My
head is easily disturbed; but--but--send for Lucy,” he exclaimed, as if
touched by a passing delirium, “send for my daughter. I must have Lucy.
I have been harsh to her, and I cannot die without her forgiveness.”

“Here, papa--dearest papa! Recollect yourself; Lucy is with you; not to
forgive you for anything, but to ask; to implore to be forgiven.”

“Ha!” he said, raising his head a little, and looking round like a man
awakening from sleep. “I fear I am beginning to wander. Dear Lucy--yes,
it is you. Oh, I recollect. Withdraw, my darling; the sight of you--the
joy of your very appearance--eh--eh--yes, let me see. Oh, yes;
withdraw, my darling; this interview has been too much for me--I fear
it has--but rest and silence will restore me, I hope. I hope so--I hope
so.”

Lucy, who feared that a continuance of this interview might very much
aggravate his illness, immediately took her leave, and retired to her
own room, whither she summoned Alley Mahon. This blunt but faithful
attendant felt no surprise in witnessing her grief; for indeed she
had done little else than weep, ever since she heard of her father's
illness.

“Now don't cry so much, miss,” she said; “didn't I tell you that your
grief will do neither you nor him any good? Keep yourself cool and
quiet, and spake to him like a raisonable crayture, what you are not,
ever since you herd of his being sick. It isn't by shedding tears that
you can expect to comfort him, as you intend to do, but by being calm,
and considerate, and attentive to him, and not allowin' him to see what
you suffer.”

“That is very true, Alice, I admit,” replied Lucy; but when I consider
that it was my undutiful flight from him that occasioned this attack,
how can I free myself from blame? My heart, Alice, is divided between a
feeling of remorse for having deserted him without sufficient cause, and
grief for his illness, and in that is involved the apprehension of his
loss. After all, Alice, you must admit that I have no friend in the
world but my father. How, then, can I think of losing him?”

“And even if God took him,” replied Alley, “which I hope after all isn't
so likely--”

“What do you mean, girl?” asked Lucy, ignorant that Alley only used
a form of speech peculiar to the people, “what language is this of my
father?”

“Why, I hope it's but the truth, miss,” replied the maid; “for if God
was to call him to-morrow--which may God forbid! you'd find friends that
would take care of you and protect you.”

“Yes; but, Alice, if papa died, I should have to reproach myself with
his death; and that consideration would drive me distracted or kill me.
I am beginning to think that obedience to the will of a parent is, under
all circumstances, the first duty of a child. A parent knows better what
is for our good than we can be supposed to do. At all events, whatever
exceptions there may be to this rule, I care not. It is enough, and too
much, for me to reflect that my conduct has been the cause of papa's
illness. His great object in life was to promote my happiness. Now this
was affection for me. I grant he may have been mistaken, but still it
was affection; and consequently I cannot help admitting that even his
harshness, and certainly all that he suffered through the very violence
of his own passions, arose from the same source--affection for me.”

“Ah,” replied Alley, “it's aisy seen that your heart is softened now;
but in truth, miss, it was quare affection that would make his daughter
miserable, bekase he wanted her to become a great lady. If he was a
kind and raisonable father, he would not force you to be unhappy. An
affectionate father would give up the point rather than make you so; but
no; the truth is simply this, he wanted to gratify himself more than he
did you, or why would he act as he did?”

“Alice,” replied Lucy, “remember that I will not suffer you to speak of
my father with disrespect. You forget yourself, girl, and learn from me
now, that in order to restore him to peace of mind and health, in order
to rescue him from death, and oh,” she exclaimed involuntarily, “above
all things from a death, for which, perhaps, he is not sufficiently
prepared--as who, alas, is for that terrible event!--yes in order to
do this, I am ready to yield an implicit obedience to his wishes: and I
pray heaven that this act on my part may not be too late to restore him
to his health, and relieve his mind from the load of care which presses
it down upon my account.”

“Good Lord, Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed poor Alley, absolutely frightened
by the determined and vehement spirit in which these words were uttered,
“surely you wouldn't think of makin' a saickerfice of yourself that
way?”

“That may be the word, Alice, or it may not; but if it be a sacrifice,
and if the sacrifice is necessary, it shall be made--I shall make it. My
disobedience shall never break my father's heart.”

“I don't wish to speak disrespectfully of your father, miss; but I think
he's an ambitious man.”

“And perhaps the ambition which he feels is a virtue, and one in which
I am deficient. You and I, Alice, know but little of life and the maxims
by which its great social principles are regulated.”

“Faith, spake for yourself, miss; as for me, I'm the very girl that has
had my experience. No less than three did I manfully refuse, in spite
of both father and mother. First there was big Bob Broghan, a giant of
a fellow, with a head and pluck upon him that would fill a mess-pot. He
had a chape farm, and could afford to wallow like a swine in filth and
laziness. And well becomes the old couple, I must marry him, whether I
would or not. Be aisy, said I, it's no go; when I marry a man, it'll be
one that'll know the use of soap and wather, at all events. Well, but I
must; I did not know what was for my own good; he was rich, and I'd lead
a fine life with him. Scrape and clane him for somebody else, says I; no
such walkin' dungheap for me. Then they came to the cudgel, and flaked
me; but it was in a good cause, and I tould them that if I must die a
marthyr to cleanliness, I must; and at last they dropped it, and so I
got free of Bob Broghan.

“The next was a little fellow that kept a small shop of hucksthery, and
some groceries, and the like o' that. He was a near, penurious devil,
hard and scraggy lookin', with hunger in his face and in his heart, too;
ay, and besides, he had the name of not bein' honest. But then his shop
was gettin' bigger and bigger, and himself richer and richer every day.
Here's your man, says the old couple. Maybe not, says I. No shingawn
that deals in light weights and short measures for me. My husband must
be an honest man, and not a keen shaving rogue like Barney Buckley.
Well, miss, out came the cudgel again, and out came I with the same
answer. Lay on, says I; if I must die a marthyr to honesty, why I must;
and may God have mercy on me for the same, as he will. Then they saw
that I was a rock, and so there was an end of Barney Buckley, as well as
Bob Broghan.

“Well and good; then came number three, a fine handsome young man, by
name Con Coghlan. At first I didn't much like him, bekase he had the
name of being too fond of money, and it was well known that he had
disappointed three or four girls that couldn't show guinea for guinea
with him. The sleeveen gained upon me, however, and I did get fond of
him, and tould him to speak to my father, and so he did, and they met
once or twice to make the match; but, ah, miss, every one has their
troubles. On the last meetin', when he found that my fortune wasn't what
he expected, he shogged off wid himself; and, mother o' mercy, did ever
I think it would come to that?” Here she wiped her eyes, and then with
fresh spirit proceeded, “He jilted me, Miss--the desateful villain
jilted me; but if he did, I had my revenge. In less than a year he came
sneakin' back, and tould my father that as he couldn't get me out of
his head, he would take me with whatever portion they could give me. The
fellow was rich, Miss, and so the ould couple, ready to bounce at him,
came out again. Come, Alley, here's Con Coghlan back. Well, then, says
I, he knows the road home again, and let him take it. One good turn
desarves another. When he could get me he wouldn't take me, and now when
he would take me, he won't get me; so I think we're even.

“Out once more came the cudgel, and on they laid; but now I wasn't
common stone but whitestone. Lay on, say I; I see, or rather I feel,
that the crown is before me. If I must die a marthyr to a dacent spirit,
why I must; and so God's blessing be with you all. I'll shine in heaven
for this yet.

“I think now, Miss, you'll grant that I know something about life.”

“Alice,” replied Lucy, “I have often heard it said, that the humblest
weeds which grow contain virtues that are valuable, if they were only
known. Your experience is not without a moral, and your last lover was
the worst, because he was mean; but when I think of him--the delicate,
the generous, the disinterested, the faithful, the noble-hearted--alas,
Alice!” she exclaimed, throwing herself in a fresh paroxysm of grief
upon the bosom of her maid, “you know not the incredible pain--the
hopeless agony--of the sacrifice I am about to make. My father, however,
is the author of my being, and as his very life depends upon my strength
of mind now, I shall, rather than see him die whilst I selfishly gratify
my own will--yes, Alice, I shall--I shall--and may heaven give me
strength for it!--I shall sacrifice love to duty, and save him; that is,
if it be not already too late.”

“And if he does recover,” replied Alice, whose tears flowed along with
those of her mistress, but whose pretty eye began to brighten with
indignant energy as she spoke, “if he does recover, and if ever he turns
a cold look, or uses a harsh word to you, may I die for heaven if he
oughtn't to be put in the public stocks and made an example of to the
world.”

“The scene, however, will be changed then, Alice; for the subject matter
of all our misunderstandings will have been removed. Yet, Alice,
amidst all the darkness and suffering that lie before me, there is one
consolation”--and as she uttered these words, there breathed throughout
her beautiful features a spirit of sorrow, so deep, so mournful, so
resigned, and so touching, that Alley in turn laid her head on her
bosom, exclaiming, as she looked up into her eyes, “Oh, may the God of
mercy have pity on you, my darling mistress! what wouldn't your faithful
Alley do to give you relief? and she can't;” and then the affectionate
creature wept bitterly. “But what is the consolation?” she asked, hoping
to extract from the melancholy girl some thought or view of her position
that might inspire them with hope or comfort.

“The consolation I allude to, Alice, is the well-known fact that a
broken heart cannot long be the subject of sorrow; and, besides, my
farewell of life will not be painful; for then I shall be able to
reflect with peace that, difficult as was the duty imposed upon me, I
shall have performed it. Now, dear Alice, withdraw; I wish to be alone
for some time, that I may reflect as I ought, and endeavor to gain
strength for the sacrifice that is before me.”

Her eye as she looked upon Alley was, though filled with a melancholy
lustre, expressive at the same time of a spirit so lofty, calm, and
determined, that its whole character partook of absolute sublimity.
Alley, in obedience to her words, withdrew; but not without an anxious
and earnest effort at imparting comfort.

When her maid had retired, Lucy began once more to examine her position,
in all its dark and painful aspects, and to reflect upon the destiny
which awaited her, fraught with unexampled misery as it was. Though well
aware, from former experience, of her father's hypocritical disguises,
she was too full of generosity and candor to allow her heart
to entertain suspicion. Her nature was one of great simplicity,
artlessness, and truth. Truth, above all things, was her predominant
virtue; and we need not say, that wherever it resides it is certain to
become a guarantee for the possession of all the rest. Her cruel-hearted
father, himself false and deceitful, dreaded her for this love of truth,
and was so well acquainted with her utter want of suspicion, that he
never scrupled, though frequently detected, to impose upon her, when it
suited his purpose. This, indeed, was not difficult; for such was his
daughter's natural candor and truthfulness, that if he deceived her by a
falsehood to-day, she was as ready to believe him to-morrow as ever.
His last heartless act of hypocrisy, therefore, was such a deliberate
violation of truth as amounted to a species of sacrilege; for it robbed
the pure shrine of his own daughter's heart of her whole happiness. Nay,
when we consider the relations in which they stood, it might be termed,
as is beautifully said in Scripture, “a seething of the kid in the
mother's milk.”

As it was, however, her father's illness disarmed her generous and
forgiving spirit of every argument that stood in the way of the
determination she had made. His conduct she felt might, indeed, be the
result of one of those great social errors that create so much misery
in life; that, for instance, of supposing that one must ascend through
certain orders of society, and reach a particular elevation before they
can enjoy happiness. This notion, so much at variance with the goodness
and mercy of God, who has not confined happiness to any particular
class, she herself rejected; but, at the same time, the modest estimate
which she formed of her own capacity to reason upon or analyze all
speculative opinions, led her to suppose that she might be wrong,
and her father right, in the inferences which they respectively drew.
Perhaps she thought her reluctance to see this individual case through
his medium, arose from some peculiar idiosyncrasy of intellect or
temperament not common to others, and that she was setting a particular
instance against a universal truth.

That, however, which most severely tested her fortitude and noble
sense of what we owe a parent, resulted from no moral or metaphysical
distinctions of human duty, but simply and directly from what she must
suffer by the contemplated sacrifice. She was born in a position of
life sufficiently dignified for ordinary ambition. She was surrounded
by luxury--had received an enlightened education--had a heart formed for
love--for that pure and exalted passion, which comprehends and brings
into action all the higher qualities of our being, and enlarges all our
capacities for happiness. God and nature, so to speak, had gifted her
mind with extraordinary feeling and intellect, and her person with
unusual grace and beauty; yet, here, by this act of self-devotion to her
father, she renounced all that the human heart with such strong claims
upon the legitimate enjoyments of life could expect, and voluntarily
entered into a destiny of suffering and misery. She reflected upon
and felt the bitterness of all this; but, on the other hand,
the contemplation of a father dying in consequence of her
disobedience--dying, too, probably in an unprepared state--whose heart
was now full of love and tenderness for her; who, in fact, was in grief
and sorrow in consequence of what he had caused her to suffer. We say
she contemplated all this, and her great heart felt that this was the
moment of mercy.

“It is resolved!” she exclaimed; “I will disturb him for a little. There
is no time now for meanly wrestling it out, for ungenerous hesitation
and delay. Suspense may kill him; and whilst I deliberate, he may
be lost. Father, I come, Never again shall you reproach me with
disobedience. Though your ambition may be wrong, yet who else than I
should become the victim of an error which originates in affection for
myself? I yield at last, as is my duty; now your situation makes it so;
and my heart, though crushed and broken, shall be an offering of peace
between us. Farewell, now, to love--to love legitimate, pure, and
holy!--farewell to all the divine charities and tendernesses of life
which follow it--farewell to peace of! heart--to the wife's pride of
eye, to the husband's tender glance--farewell--farewell to everything in
this wretched life but the hopes of heaven! I come, my father--I come.
But I had forgotten,” she said, “I must not see him without permission,
nor unannounced, as Gibson said. Stay, I shall ring for Gibson.”

“Gibson,” said she, when he had made his appearance, “try if your master
could see me for a moment; say I request it particularly, and that I
shall scarcely disturb him. Ask it as a favor, unless he be very ill
indeed--and even then do so.”

Whilst Gibson went with this message, Lucy, feeling that it might be
dangerous to agitate her father by the exhibition of emotion, endeavored
to compose herself as much as she could, so that by the time of Gibson's
return, her appearance was calm, noble, and majestic. In fact, the
greatness--the heroic spirit--of the coming sacrifice emanated like a
beautiful but solemn light from her countenance, and on being desired to
go in, she appeared full of unusual beauty and composure.

On entering, she found her father much in the same position: his head,
as before, upon the pillows, and the nightcap drawn over his heavy
brows.

“You wished to see me, my dear Lucy. Have you any favor to ask, my
child? If so, ask whilst I have recollection and consciousness to grant
it. I can refuse you nothing now, Lucy. I was wrong ever to struggle
with you. It was too much for me, for I am now the victim; but even that
is well, for I am glad it is not you.”

When he mentioned the word victim, Lucy felt as if a poniard had gone
through her heart; but she had already resolved that what must be done
should be done generously, consequently, without any ostentation of
feeling, and with as little appearance of self-sacrifice as possible.

It is not for us, she said to herself, to exaggerate the value of the
gift which we bestow, but rather to depreciate it, for it is never
generous to magnify an obligation.

“I have a favor to ask, papa,” said the generous and considerate girl.

“It is granted, my darling Lucy, before I hear it,” he replied. “What
is it? Oh how happy I feel that you have returned to me; I shall not
now pass away my last moments on a solitary deathbed. But what is your
request, my love?”

“You have to-day, papa, told me that the danger of your present attack
proceeds from the anxious state of your mind. Now, my request is, that I
may be permitted to make that state easier; to remove that anxiety, and,
if possible, all other anxiety and care that press upon you. You know,
papa, the topic upon which we have always differed; now, rather than any
distress of feeling connected with it should stand in the way of your
recovery, I wish to say that you may I count upon my most perfect
obedience.”

“You mean the Dunroe business, dear Lucy?”

“I mean the Dunroe business, papa.”

“And do you mean to say that you are willing and ready to marry him?”

The reply to this was indeed the coming away of the branch by which she
had hung on the precipice of life. On hearing the question,
therefore, she paused a little; but the pause did not proceed from
any indisposition to answer it, but simply from what seemed to be the
refusal of her natural powers to enable her to do so. When about to
speak, she felt as if all her physical strength had abandoned her; as
if her will, previously schooled to the task, had become recusant. She
experienced a general chill and coldness of her whole body; a cessation
for a moment or two of the action of the heart, whilst her very sight
became dim and indistinct. She thought, however, in this unutterable
moment of agony and despair, that she must act; and without feeling able
to analyze either her thoughts or sensations, in this terrible tumult of
her spirit, she heard herself repeat the reply, “I am, papa.”

For a moment her father forgot his part, and started up into a sitting
posture with as much apparent energy as ever. Another moment, however,
was sufficient to make him feel his error.

“Oh,” said he, “what have I done? Let me pause a little, my dear Lucy;
that effort to express the joy you have poured into my heart was nearly
too much for me. You make this promise, Lucy, not with a view merely to
ease my mind and contribute to my recovery; but, should I get well, with
a firm intention to carry it actually into execution?”

“Such, papa, is my intention--my fixed determination, I should say; but
I ought to add, that it is altogether for your sake, dear papa, that
I make it. Now let your mind feel tranquillity and ease; dismiss every
anxiety that distresses you, papa; for you may believe your daughter,
that there is no earthly sacrifice compatible with her duties as a
Christian which she would not make for your recovery. This interview is
now, perhaps, as much as your state of health can bear. Think, then, of
what I have said, papa; let it console and strengthen; and then it will,
I trust, help at least to bring about your recovery. Now, permit me to
withdraw.”

“Wait a moment, my child. It is right that you should know the effect
of your goodness before you go. I feel already as if a mountain were
removed from my heart--even now I am better. God bless you, my own
dearest Lucy; you have saved your father. Let this consideration comfort
you and sustain you. Now you may go, my love.”

When Lucy withdrew, which she did with a tottering step, she proceeded
to her own chamber, which, now that the energy necessary for the
struggle had abandoned her, she entered almost unconsciously, and with a
feeling of rapidly-increasing weakness. She approached the bell to ring
for her maid, which she was able to do with difficulty; and having
done so, she attempted to reach the sofa; but exhausted and overwrought
nature gave way, and she fell just sufficiently near it to have her
fall broken and her head supported by it, as she lay there apparently
lifeless. In this state Alley Mahon found her; but instead of ringing
an alarm, or attempting to collect a crowd of the servants to witness
a scene, and being besides a stout as well as a discreet and sensible
girl, she was able to raise her up, place her on a sofa, until, by the
assistance of cold water and some patience, she succeeded in restoring
her to life and consciousness.

“On opening her eyes she looked about, and Alley observed that her lips
were parched and dry.

“Here, my darling mistress,” said the affectionate girl, who now wept
bitterly, “here, swallow a little cold water; it will moisten your lips,
and do you good.”

She attempted to do so, but Ally saw that her hand trembled too much to
bring the water to her own lips. On swallowing it, it seemed to relieve
her a little; she then looked up into Alley's face, with a smile of
thanks so unutterably sweet and sorrowful, that the poor girl's tears
gushed out afresh.

“Take courage, my darling mistress,” she replied; “I know that something
painful has happened; but for Christ's blessed sake, don't look so
sorrowful and broken-hearted, or you will--”

“Alice,” said she, interrupting her, in a calm, soft voice, like low
music, “open my bosom--open my bosom, Alice; you will find a miniature
there; take it out; I wish to look upon it.”

“O thin,” said the girl, as she proceeded to obey her, “happy is he that
rests so near that pure and innocent and sorrowful heart; and great and
good must he be that is worthy of it.”

There was in the look which Lucy cast upon her when she had uttered
these words a spirit of gentle but affectionate reproof; but she spoke
it not.

“Give it to me, Alice,” she said; “but unlock it first; I feel that my
hands are too feeble to do so.”

Alice unlocked the miniature, and Lucy then taking it from her, looked
upon it for a moment, and then pressing it to her lips with a calm
emotion, in which grief and despair seemed to mingle, she exclaimed,

“Alas! mamma, how much do I now stand in need of your advice and
consolation! The shrine in which your affection and memory dwelt, and
against whose troubled pulses your sweet and serene image lay, is
now broken. There, dearest mamma, you will find nothing in future but
affliction and despair. It has been said, that I have inherited your
graces and your virtues, most beloved parent; and if so, alas! in how
remote a degree, for who could equal you? But how would it have wining
your gentle and loving heart to know that I should have inherited your
secret griefs and sufferings? Yes, mamma, both are painted on that
serene brow; for no art of the limner could conceal their mournful
traces, nor remove the veil of sorrow which an unhappy destiny threw
over your beauty. There, in that clear and gentle eye, is still
the image of your love and sympathy--there is that smile so full of
sweetness and suffering. Alas, alas! how closely do we resemble each
other in all things. Sweet and blessed saint, if it be permitted,
descend and let your spirit be with me--to guide, to soothe, and to
support me; your task will not be a long one, beloved parent. From this
day forth my only hope will be to join you. Life has nothing now but
solitude and sorrow. There is no heart with which I can hold communion;
for my grief, and the act of duty which occasions it, must be held
sacred from all.”

She kissed the miniature once more, but without tears, and after a
little, she made Alley place it where she had ever kept it--next her
heart.

“Alice,” said she, “I trust I will soon be with mamma.”

“My dear mistress,” replied Alice, “don't spake so. I hope there's many
a happy and pleasant day before you, in spite of all that has come and
gone, yet.”

She turned upon the maid a look of incredulity so hopeless, that Alley
felt both alarmed and depressed.

“You do not know what I suffer, Alice,” she replied, “but I know it.
This miniature of mamma I got painted unknown to--unknown to--” (here
we need not say that she meant her father) “--any one except mamma, the
artist, and myself. It has laid next my heart ever since; but since
her death it has been the dearest thing to me on earth--one only other
object perhaps excepted. Yes,” she added, with a deep sigh, “I hope I
shall soon be with you, mamma, and then we shall never be separated any
more!”

Alley regretted to perceive that her grief now had settled down into
the most wasting and dangerous of all; for it was of that dry and silent
kind which so soon consumes the lamp of life, and dries up the strength
of those who unhappily fall under its malignant blight.

Lucy's journey, however, from Wicklow, the two interviews with her
father, the sacrifice she had so nobly made, and the consequent
agitation, all overcame her, and after a painful struggle between the
alternations of forgetfulness and memory, she at length fell into a
troubled slumber.




CHAPTER XXIX. Lord Dunroe's Affection for his Father

--Glimpse of a new Character--Lord Gullamore's Rebuke to his Son, who
greatly refuses to give up his Friend.


A considerable period now elapsed, during which there was little done
that could contribute to the progress of our narrative. Summer had set
in, and the Cullamore family, owing to the failing health of the old
nobleman, had returned to his Dublin residence, with an intention
of removing to Glenshee, as soon he should receive the advice of his
physician. From the day on which his brother's letter reached him, his
lordship seemed to fall into a more than ordinary despondency of mind.
His health for years had been very infirm, but from whatsoever cause it
proceeded, he now appeared to labor under some secret presentiment of
calamity, against which he struggled in vain. So at least he himself
admitted. It is true that age and a constitution enfeebled by delicate
health might alone, in a disposition naturally hypochondriac, occasion
such anxiety; as we know they frequently do even in the youthful. Be
this as it may, one thing was evident, his lordship began to sink more
rapidly than he had ever done before; and like most invalids of his
class, he became wilful and obstinate in his own opinions. His doctor,
for instance, advised him to remove to the delightful air of Glenshee
Castle; but this, for some reason or other, he peremptorily refused to
do, and so long as he chose to remain in town, so long were Lady Emily
and her aunt resolved to stay with him. Dunroe, also, was pretty regular
in inquiries after his health; but whether from a principle of filial
affection, or a more flagitious motive, will appear from the following
conversation, which took place one morning after breakfast, between
himself and Norton.

“How is your father this morning, my lord?” inquired that worthy
gentleman. “I hope he is better.”

“A lie, Norton,” replied his lordship--“a lie, as usual. You hope no
such thing. The agency which is to follow on the respectable old peer's
demise bars that--eh?”

“I give you my honor, my lord, you do me injustice. I am in no hurry
with him on that account; it would be unfeeling,and selfish.”

“Now, Tom,” replied the other, in that kind of contemptuous familiarity
which slavish minions or adroit knaves like Norton must always put up
with from such men, “now, Tom, my good fellow, you know the case is
this--you get the agency to the Cullamore property the moment my right
honorable dad makes his exit. If he should delay that exit for seven
years to come, then you will be exactly seven years short of the
period in which you will fleece me and my tenants, and put the wool on
yourself.”

“Only your tenants, my lord, if you please. I may shear them, a little,
I trust; but you can't suppose me capable of shearing--”

“My lordship. No, no, you are too honest; only you will allow me to
insinuate, in the meantime, that I believe you have fleeced me to some
purpose already. I do not allude to your gambling debts, which, with my
own, I have been obliged to pay; but to other opportunities which have
come in your way. It doesn't matter, however; you are a pleasant and
a useful fellow, and I believe that although you clip me yourself a
little, you would permit no one else to do so. And, by the way, talking
of the respectable old peer, he is anything but a friend of yours, and
urged me strongly to send you to the devil, as a cheat and impostor.”

“How is that, my lord?” asked Norton, with an interest which he could
scarcely disguise.

“Why, he mentioned something of a conversation you had, in which you
told him, you impudent dog--and coolly to his face, too--that you
patronized his son while in France, and introduced him to several
distinguished French noblemen, not one of whom, he had reason to
believe, ever existed except in your own fertile and lying imagination.”

“And was that all?” asked Norton, who I began to entertain apprehensions
of Morty O'Flaherty; “did he mention nothing else?”

“No,” replied Dunroe; “and you scoundrel, was not that a d--d deal too
much?”

Norton, now feeling that he was safe from Morty, laughed very heartily,
and replied,

“It's a fact, sure enough; but then, wasn't it on your lordship's
account I bounced? The lie, in point of fact, if it can be called one,
was, therefore, more your lordship's lie than mine.”

“How do you mean by 'if it can be called one'?”

“Why, if I did not introduce you to real noblemen, I did to some
spurious specimens, gentlemen who taught you all the arts and etiquette
of the gaming-table, of which, you know very well, my lord, you were
then so shamefully ignorant, as to be quite unfit for the society of
gentlemen, especially on the continent.”

“Yes, Tom, and the state of my property now tells me at what cost you
taught me. You see these tenants say they have not money, plead hard
times, failure of crops, and depreciation of property.”

“Ay, and so they will plead, until I take them in hand.”

“And, upon my soul, I don't care how soon that may be.”

“Monster of disobedience,” said Norton, ironically, “is it thus you
speak of a beloved parent, and that parent a respectable old peer? In
other words, you wish him in kingdom come. Repent, my lord--retract
those words, or dread 'the raven of the valley'.”

“Faith, Tom, there's no use in concealing it. It's not that I wish him
gone; but that I long as much to touch the property at large, as you the
agency. It's a devilish tough affair, this illness of his.”

“Patience, my lord, and filial affection.”

“I wish he would either live or die; for, in the first case, I could
marry this brave and wealthy wench of the baronet's, which I can't do
now, and he in such a state of health. If I could once touch the Gourlay
cash, I were satisfied. The Gourlay estates will come to me, too,
because there is no heir, and they go with this wench, who is a brave
wench, for that reason.”

“So she has consented to have you at last?”

“Do you think, Tom, she ever had any serious intention of declining the
coronet? No, no; she wouldn't be her father's daughter if she had.”

“Yes; but your lordship suspected that the fellow who shot you had made
an impression in that quarter.”

“I did for a time--that is, I was fool enough to think so; she is,
however, a true woman, and only played him off against me.”

“But why does she refuse to see you?”

“She hasn't refused, man; her health, they tell me, is not good of late;
of course, she is only waiting to gain strength for the interview, that
is all. Ah, Tom, my dear fellow, I understand women a devilish deal
better than you do.”

“So you ought; you have had greater experience, and paid more for it.
What will you do with the fair blonde, though. I suppose the matrimonial
compact will send her adrift.”

“Suppose no such thing, then. I had her before matrimony, and I will
have her after it. No, Tom, I am not ungrateful; fore or aft, she shall
be retained. She shall never say that I acted unhandsomely by her,
especially as she has become a good girl and repented. I know I did
her injustice about the player-man. On that point she has thoroughly
satisfied me, and I was wrong.”

Norton gave him a peculiar look, one of those looks which an adept in
the ways of life, in its crooked paths and unprincipled impostures,
not unfrequently bestows upon the poor aristocratic dolt whom he is
plundering to his face. The look we speak of might be mistaken for
surprise--it might be mistaken for pity--but it was meant for contempt.

“Of course,” said he, “you are too well versed in the ways of the world,
my lord, and especially in those of the fair sex, to be imposed upon. If
ever I met an individual who can read a man's thoughts by looking into
his face, your lordship is the man. By the way, when did you see your
father-in-law that is to be?”

“A couple of days ago. He, too, has been ill, and looks somewhat shaken.
It is true, I don't like the man, and I believe nobody does; but I like
very well to hear him talk of deeds, settlements, and marriage articles.
He begged of me, however, not to insist on seeing his daughter until she
is fully recovered, which he expects will be very soon; and the moment
she is prepared for an interview, he is to let me know. But, harkee,
Tom, what can the old earl want with me this morning, think you?”

“I cannot even guess,” replied the other, “unless it be to prepare you
for--”

“For what?”

“Why, it is said that the fair lady with whom you are about to commit
the crime of matrimony is virtuous and religious, as well as beautiful
and so forth; and, in that case, perhaps he is about to prepare you for
the expected conference. I cannot guess anything else, unless,
perhaps, it may be the avarice of age about to rebuke the profusion and
generosity of youth. In that case, my lord, keep your temper, and don't
compromise your friends.”

“Never fear, Tom; I have already fought more battles on your account
than you could dream of. Perhaps, after all, it is nothing. Of late
he has sent for me occasionally, as if to speak upon some matter of
importance, when, after chatting upon the news of the day or lecturing
me for supporting an impostor--meaning you--he has said he would defer
the subject on which he wished to speak, until another opportunity.
Whatever it is, he seems afraid of it, or perhaps the respectable old
peer is doting.”

“I dare say, my lord, it is very natural he should at these years; but
if he,” proceeded Norton, laughing, “is doting now, what will you be at
his years? Here, however, is his confidential man, Morty O'Flaherty.”

O'Flaherty now entered, and after making a bow that still smacked
strongly of Tipperary, delivered his message.

“My masther, Lord Cullamore, wishes to see you, my lord. He has come
down stairs, and is facing the sun, the Lord be praised, in the back
drawin'-room.”

“Go, my lord,” said Norton; “perhaps he wishes you to make a third
luminary. Go and help him to face the sun.”

“Be my sowl, Mr. Norton, if I'm not much mistaken, it's the father he'll
have to face. I may as well give you the hard word, my lord--troth, I
think you had better be on your edge; he's as dark as midnight, although
the sun is in his face.”

His lordship went out, after having given two or three yawns, stretched
himself, and shrugged his shoulders, like a man who was about to enter
upon some unpleasant business with manifest reluctance.

“Ah,” exclaimed Morty, looking after him, “there goes a cute boy--at
last, God forgive him, he's of that opinion himself. What a pity
there's not more o' the family; they'd ornament the counthry.”

“Say, rather, Morty, that there's one too many.”

“Faith, and I'm sure, Barney, you oughtn't to think so. Beg pardon--Mr.
Norton.”

“Morty, curse you, will you be cautious? But why should I not think so?”

“For sound raisons, that no man knows better than yourself.”

“I'm not the only person that thinks there's one too many of the family,
Morty. In that opinion I am ably supported by his lordship, just gone
out there.”

“Where! Ay, I see whereabouts you are now. One too many--faith, so the
blessed pair of you think, no doubt.”

“Eight, Morty; if the devil had the agency of the ancient earl's soul,
I would soon get that of his ancient property; but whilst he lives it
can't be accomplished. What do you imagine the old bawble wants with the
young one?”

“Well, I don't know; I'm hammerin' upon that for some time past, and
can't come at it.”

“Come, then, let us get the materials first, and then put them on the
anvil of my imagination. _Imprimis_--which means, Morty, _in the first
place_, have you heard anything?”

“No; nothing to speak of.”

“Well, in the second place, have you seen or observed anything?”

“Why, no; not much.”

“Which means--both your answers included--that you have both heard and
seen--so I interpret 'nothing to speak of,' on the one hand, and your
'not much,' on the other. Out with it; two heads are better than one:
what you miss, I may hit.”

“The devil's no match for you, Bar--Mr. Norton, and it's hard to expect
Dunroe should. I'll tell you, then--for, in troth, I'm as anxious to
come at the meanin' of it myself as you can be for the life of you. Some
few months ago, when we were in London, there came a man to me.”

“Name him, Morty.”

“His name was M'Bride.”

“M'Bride--proceed.”

“His name was M'Bride. His face was tanned into mahogany, just as every
man's is that has lived long in a hot country. 'Your name,' says he, 'is
O'Flaherty, I understand?'”

“'Morty O'Flaherty, at your sarvice,' says I, 'and how are you, sir? I'm
happy to see you; only in the mane time you have the advantage of me.'”

“'Many thanks to you,' said he, 'for your kind inquiries; as to the
advantage, I won't keep it long; only you don't seem to know your
relations.'”

“'Maybe not,' says I, 'they say it's a wise man that does. Are you one
o' them?'”

“'I'm one o' them, did you ever hear of ould Kid Flaherty?'”

“'Well, no; but I did of Buck Flaherty, that always went in boots and
buckskin breeches, and wore two watches and a silver-mounted whip.'”

“'Well, you must know that Kid was a son'--and here he pointed his thumb
over his left shoulder wid a knowin' grin upon him--'was a son of the
ould Buck's. The ould Buck's wife was a Murtagh; now she again had a
cousin named M'Shaughran, who was married upon a man by name M'Faddle.
M'Faddle had but one sisther, and she was cousin to Frank M'Fud,
that suffered for--but no matther--the M'Swiggins and the M'Fuds
were cleaveens to the third cousins of Kid Flaherty's first wife's
sister-in-law, and she again was married in upon the M'Brides of Newton
Nowhere--so that you see you and I are thirty-second cousins at all
events.'”

“'Well, anyway he made out some relationship between us, or at least
I thought he did--and maybe that was as good--and faith may be a great
deal better, for if ever a man had the look of a schemer about him the
same customer had. At any rate we had some drink together, and went on
very well till we got befuddled, which, it seems, is his besetting sin.
It was clearly his intention, I could see, to make me tipsy, and I
dare say he might a done so, only for a slight mistake he made in first
getting tipsy himself.”

“Well, but I'm not much the wiser of this,” observed Norton. “What are
you at?”

“Neither am I,” replied Morty; “and as to what I'm at--I dunna what the
devil I'm at. That's just what I want to know.”

“Go on,” said the other, “we must have patience. Who did this fellow
turn out to be?”

“He insisted he was a relation of my own, as I tould you.”

“Who the devil cares whether he was or not! What was he, then?”

“Ay; what was he?--that's what I'm askin' you.”

“Proceed,” said Norton; “tell it your own way.”

“He said he came from the Aist Indies beyant; that he knew some members
of his lordship's family there; that he had been in Paris, and that
while he was there he larned to take French lave of his masther.”

“But who was his master?”

“That he would not tell me. However, he said he had been in Ireland for
some time before, where he saw an aunt of his, that was half mad; and
then he went on to tell me that he had been once at sarvice wid my
masther, and that if he liked he could tell him a secret; but then, he
said, it wouldn't be worth his while, for that he would soon know it.”

“Very clear, perfectly transparent, nothing can be plainer. What a
Tipperary sphinx you are; an enigma, half man, half beast, although
there is little enigma in that, it is plain enough. In the meantime, you
bog-trotting oracle, say whether you are humbugging me or not.”

“Devil a bit I'm humbuggin' you; but proud as you sit there, you have
trotted more bogs and horses than ever I did.”

“Well, never mind that, Morty. What did this end in?”

“End in!--why upon my conscience I don't think it's properly begun yet.”

“Good-by,” exclaimed Norton, rising to go, or at least pretending to do
so. “Many thanks in the meantime for your information--it is precious,
invaluable.”

“Well, now, wait a minute. A few days ago I seen the same schemer
skulkin' about the house as if he was afeared o' bein' seen; and that
beef and mutton may be my poison, wid health to use them, but I seen
him stealin' out of his lordship's own room. So, now make money o' that;
only when you do, don't be puttin' it in circulation.”

“No danger of that, Morty, in any sense. At all events, I don't deal in
base coin.”

“Don't you, faith. I wondher what do you call imposin' Barney Bryan, the
horse-jockey, on his lordship, for Tom Norton, the gentleman? However,
no matther--that's your own affair; and so long as you let the good ould
lord alone among you--keep your secret--I'm not goin' to interfere wid
you. None of your travellers' tricks upon him, though.”

“No, not on him, Morty; but concerning this forthcoming marriage, if
it takes place, I dare say I must travel; I can't depend upon Dunroe's
word.”

“Why, unlikelier things has happened, Mr. Norton. I think you'll be
forced to set out.”

“Well, I only say that if Mr. Norton can prevent it, it won't happen.
I can wind this puppy of a lord, who has no more will of his own than a
goose, nor half so much; I say I can wind him round my finger; and if I
don't get him to make himself, in any interview he may have with her,
so egregiously ridiculous, as to disgust her thoroughly, my name's not
Norton--hem--ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, your name's not Norton--very good. In the mane time more power
to you in that; for by all accounts it's a sin and a shame to throw away
such a girl upon him.”

Norton now having gained all he could from his old acquaintance, got
up, and was about to leave the room, when Morty, looking at him
significantly, asked,

“Where are you bound for now, if it's a fair question?”

“I will tell you, then, Morty--upon an affair that's anything but
pleasant to me, and withal a little dangerous: to buy a horse for
Dunroe.”

“Troth, you may well say so; in God's name keep away from horses and.
jockeys, or you'll be found out; but, above all things, don't show your
face on the Curragh.”

“Well, I don't know. I believe, after all, there's no such vast
distinction there between the jockeys and the gentlemen. Sometimes the
jockey swindles himself up into a gentleman, and sometimes the gentleman
swindles himself down to a jockey. So far there would be no great
mistake; the only thing to be dreaded is, discovery, so far as it
affects the history which I gave of myself to Dunroe and his father.
Then there is the sale of some races against me on that most elastic
sod; and I fear they are not yet forgotten. Yes, I shall avoid the
Curragh; but you know, a fit of illness will easily manage that.
However, pass that by; I wish I knew what the old peer and the young one
are discussing.”

“What now,” said Norton to himself, after Morty had gone, “can this
M'Bride be scheming about in the family? There's a secret here, I'm
certain. Something troubles the old peer of late, whatever it is. Well,
let me see; I'll throw myself in the way of this same M'Bride, and it
will go hard with me or I'll worm it out of him. The knowledge of it
may serve me. It's a good thing to know family secrets, especially for
a hanger-on like myself. One good effect it may produce, and that
is, throw worthy Lord Dunroe more into my power. Yes, I will see this
M'Bride, and then let me alone for playing my card to some purpose.”

Dunroe found his father much as Morty had described him--enjoying the
fresh breeze and blessed light of heaven, as both came in upon him
through the open window at which he sat.

The appearance of the good old man was much changed for the worse. His
face was paler and more emaciated than when we last described it. His
chin almost rested on his breast, and his aged-looking hands were worn
away to skin and bone. Still there was the same dignity about him as
ever, only that the traces of age and illness gave to it something that
was still more venerable and impressive. Like some portrait, by an old
master, time, whilst it mellowed and softened the colors, added that
depth and truthfulness of character by which the value I is at once
known. He was sitting in an arm-chair, with a pillow for his head to
rest upon when he wished it; and on his son's entrance he asked him to
wheel it round nearer the centre of the room, and let down the window.

“I hope you are better this morning, my lord?” inquired Dunroe.

“John,” said he in reply, “I cannot say that I am better, but I can that
I am worse.”

“I am sorry to hear that, my lord,” replied the other, “the season is
remarkably fine, and the air mild and cheerful.”

“I would much rather the cheerfulness were here,” replied his father,
putting his wasted hand upon his heart; “but I did not ask you here to
talk about myself on this occasion, or about my feelings. Miss Gourlay
has consented to marry you, I know.”

“She has, my lord.”

“Well, I must confess I did her father injustice for a time. I ascribed
his extraordinary anxiety for this match less to any predilection of
hers--for I thought it was otherwise--than to his ambition. I am glad,
however, that it is to be a marriage, although I feel you are utterly
unworthy of her; and if I did not hope that her influence may in
time, and in a short time, too, succeed in bringing about a wholesome
reformation in your life and morals, I would oppose it still as far as
lay in my power. It is upon this subject I wish to speak with you.”

Lord Dunroe bowed with an appearance of all due respect, but at the
same time wished in his heart that Norton could be present to hear the
lecture which he had so correctly prognosticated, and to witness the
ability with which he should bamboozle the old peer.

“I assure you, my lord,” he replied, “I am very willing and anxious
to hear and be guided by everything you shall say. I know I have been
wild--indeed, I am very sorry for it; and if it will satisfy you, my
lord, I will add, without hesitation, that it is time I should turn over
a new leaf--hem!”

“You have, John, been not merely wild--for wildness I could overlook
without much severity--but you have been profligate in morals,
profligate in expenditure, and profligate in your dealings with those
who trusted in your integrity. You have been intemperate; you have been
licentious; you have been dishonest; and as you have not yet abandoned
any one of these frightful vices, I look upon your union with Miss
Gourlay as an association between pollution and purity.”

“You are very severe, my lord.”

“I meant to be so; but am I unjust? Ah, John, let your own conscience
answer that question.”

“Well, my lord, I trust you will be gratified to hear that I am
perfectly sensible of the life I have led--ahem?”

“And what is that but admitting that you know the full extent of your
vices?--unless, indeed, you have made a firm resolution to give them
up.”

“I have made such a resolution, my lord, and it is my intention to keep
it. I know I can do little of myself, but I trust that where there is
a sincere disposition, all will go on swimmingly, as the Bible
says--ahem!”

“Where does the Bible say that all will go on swimmingly?”

“I don't remember the exact chapter and verse, my lord,” he replied,
affecting a very grave aspect, “but I know it is somewhere in the Book
of Solomon--ahem!--ahem! Either in Solomon or Exodus the Prophet, I am
not certain which. Oh, no, by the by, I believe it is in the dialogue
that occurs between Jonah and the whale.”

His father looked at him as if to ascertain whether his worthy son
were abandoned enough to tamper, in the first place, with a subject
so solemn, and, in the next, with the anxiety of his own parent,
while laboring, under age and infirmity, to wean him from a course of
dissipation and vice. Little indeed did he suspect that his virtuous
offspring was absolutely enacting his part, for the purpose of having
a good jest to regale Norton with in the course of their evening's
potations.

Let it not be supposed that we are overstepping the modesty of nature in
this scene. There is scarcely any one acquainted with life who does not
know that there are hundreds, thousands, of hardened profligates,
who would take delight, under similar circumstances, to quiz the
governor--as a parent is denominated by this class--even at the risk
of incurring his lasting displeasure, or of altogether forfeiting his
affection, rather than lose the opportunity of having a good joke to
tell their licentious companions, when they meet. The present age has as
much of this, perhaps, as any of its predecessors, if not more. But to
return.

“I know not,” observed Lord Cullamore, “whether this is an ironical
affectation of ignorance, or ignorance itself; but on whichever horn of
the dilemma I hang you, Dunroe, you are equally contemptible and guilty.
A heart must be deeply corrupted, indeed, that can tempt its owner
to profane sacred things, and cast an aged and afflicted parent into
ridicule. You are not aware, unfortunate young man, of the precipice
on which you stand, or the dismay with which I could fill your hardened
heart, by two or three words speaking. And only that I was not a
conscious party in circumstances which may operate terribly against us
both, I would mention them to you, and make you shudder at the fate that
is probably before you.”

“I really think,” replied his son, now considerably alarmed by what he
had heard, “that you are dealing too severely with me. I am not, so
far as I know, profaning anything sacred; much less would I attempt to
ridicule your lordship. But the truth is, I know little or nothing of
the Bible, and consequently any mistaken references to it that I may
sincerely make, ought not to be uncharitably misinterpreted--ahem! 'We
are going on swimmingly' as Jonah said to the whale, or the whale to
Jonah, I cannot say which, is an expression which I have frequently
heard, and I took it for granted that it was a scriptural quotation.
Your lordship is not aware, besides, that I am afflicted with a very bad
memory.”

“Perfectly aware of it, Dunroe: since I have been forced to observe that
you forget every duty of life. What is there honorable to yourself or
your position in the world, that you ever have remembered? And supposing
now, on the one hand, that you may for the present only affect a
temporary reformation, and put in practice that worst of vices, a
moral expediency, and taking it for granted, on the other, that
your resolution to amend is sincere, by what act am I to test that
sincerity?”

“I will begin and read the Bible, my lord, and engage a parson to
instruct me in virtue. Isn't that generally the first step?”

“I do not forbid you the Bible, nor the instructions of a pious
clergyman; but I beg to propose a test that will much more
satisfactorily establish that sincerity. First, give up your dissipated
and immoral habits; contract your expenditure within reasonable limits;
pay your just debts, by which I mean your debts of honesty, not
of honor--unless they have been lost to a man of honor, and not to
notorious swindlers; forbear to associate any longer with sharpers and
blacklegs, whether aristocratic or plebeian; and as a first proof of
the sincerity you claim, dismiss forever from your society that
fellow, Norton, who is, I am sorry to say, your bosom friend and boon
companion.”

“With every condition you have proposed, my lord, I am willing and ready
to comply, the last only excepted. I am sorry to find that you have
conceived so strong and unfounded a prejudice against Mr. Norton. You do
not know his value to me, my lord. He has been a Mentor to me--saved me
thousands by his ability and devotion to my interests. The fact is, he
is my friend. Now I am not prepared to give up and abandon my friend
without a just cause; and I regret that any persuasion to such an act
should proceed from you, my lord. In all your other propositions I shall
obey you implicitly; but in this your lordship must excuse me. I cannot
do it with honor, and therefore cannot do it at all.”

“Ah, I see, Dunroe, and I bitterly regret to see it--this fellow, this
Norton, has succeeded in gaining over you that iniquitous ascendancy
which the talented knave gains over the weak and unsuspicious fool.
Pardon me, for I speak plainly. He has studied your disposition and
habits; he has catered for your enjoyments; he has availed himself of
your weaknesses; he has flattered your vanity; he has mixed himself up
in the management of your affairs; and, in fine, made himself necessary
to your existence; yet you will not give him up?”

“My lord, I reply to you in one word--he IS MY FRIEND.”

A shade of bitterness passed over the old man's face as he turned a
melancholy look upon Dunroe.

“May you never live, Dunroe,” he said, “to see your only son refuse to
comply with your dying request, or to listen with an obedient I spirit
to your parting admonition. It is true, I am not, I trust, immediately
dying, and yet why should I regret it? But, at the same time, I feel
that my steps are upon the very threshold of death--a consideration
which ought to insure obedience to my wishes in any heart not made
callous by the worst experiences of life.”

“I would comply with your wishes, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “with the
sincerest pleasure, and deny myself anything to oblige you; but in
what you ask there is a principle involved, which I cannot, as a man of
honor, violate. And, besides, I really could not afford to part with him
now. My affairs are in such a state, and he is so well acquainted with
them, that to do so would ruin me.”

His father, who seemed wrapt in some painful reflection, paid no
attention to this reply, which, in point of fact, contained, so far as
Norton was concerned, a confirmation of the old man's worst suspicions.
His chin had sunk on his breast, and looking into the palms of his hands
as he held them clasped together, he could not prevent the tears from
rolling slowly down his furrowed cheeks. At length he exclaimed:

“My child, Emily, my child! how will I look upon thee! My innocent,
my affectionate angel; what, what, oh what will become of thee? But it
cannot be. My guilt was not premeditated. What I did I did in ignorance;
and why should we suffer through the arts of others? I shall oppose
them step by step should they proceed. I shall leave no earthly resource
untried to frustrate their designs; and if they are successful, the
cruel sentence may be pronounced, but it will be over my grave. I could
never live to witness the sufferings of my darling and innocent child.
My lamp of life is already all but exhausted--this would extinguish it
forever.”

He then raised his head, and after wiping away the tears, spoke to his
son as follows:

“Dunroe, be advised by me; reform your life; set your house in order,
for you know not, you see not, the cloud which is likely to burst over
our heads.”

“I don't understand you, my lord.”

“I know you do not, nor is it my intention that you should for the
present; but if you are wise, you will be guided by my instructions and
follow my advice.”

When Dunroe left him, which he did after some formal words of
encouragement and comfort, to which the old man paid little attention,
turning toward the door, which his son on going out had shut, he looked
as if his eye followed him beyond the limits of the room, and exclaimed:

“Alas! why was I not born above the ordinary range of the domestic
affections? Yet so long as I have my darling child--who is all
affection--why should I complain on this account? Alas, my Maria, it is
now that thou art avenged for the neglect you experienced at my hands,
and for the ambition that occasioned it. Cursed ambition! Did the
coronet I gained by my neglect of you, beloved object of my first and
only affection, console my heart under the cries of conscience,
or stifle the grief which returned for you, when that ambition was
gratified? Ah, that false and precipitate step! How much misery has it
not occasioned me since I awoke from my dream! Your gentle spirit seemed
to haunt me through life, but ever with that melancholy smile of tender
and affectionate reproach with which your eye always encountered mine
while living. And thou, wicked woman, what has thy act accomplished, if
it should be successful? What has thy fraudulent contrivance effected?
Sorrow to one who was ever thy friend--grief, shame, and degradation to
the innocent!”

Whilst the old man indulged in these painful and melancholy reflections,
his son, on the other hand, was not without his own speculations. On
retiring to his dressing-room, he began to ponder over the admonitory if
not prophetic words of his father.

“What the deuce can the matter be?” he exclaimed, surveying himself in
the glass; “a good style of face that, in the meantime. Gad, I knew she
would surrender in form, and I was right. Something is wrong with--that
gold button--yes, it looks better plain--the old gentleman--something's
in the wind--in the meantime I'll raise this window--or why should he
talk so lugubriously as he does? Upon my soul it was the most painful
interview I ever had. There is nothing on earth so stupid as the twaddle
of a sick old lord, especially when repenting for his sins. Repentance!
I can't at all understand that word; but I think the style of the thing
in the old fellow's hands was decidedly bad--inartistic, as they say,
and without taste; a man, at all events, should repent like a gentleman.
As far as I can guess at it, I think there ought to be considerable
elegance of manner in repentance--a kind of genteel ambiguity, that
should seem to puzzle the world as to whether you weep for or against
the sin; or perhaps repentance should say--as I suppose it often
does--'D--n me, this is no humbug; this, look you, is a grand process--I
know what I'm about; let the world look on; I have committed a great
many naughty things during my past life; I am now able to commit no
more; the power of doing so has abandoned me; and I call gods and men to
witness that I am very sorry for it.'--Now, that, in my opinion, would
be a good style of thing. Let me see, however, what the venerable earl
can mean. I am threatened, am I? Well, but nothing can affect the title;
of that I'm sure when the cue, 'exit old peer,' comes; then, as to the
property; why, he is one of the wealthiest men in the Irish peerage,
although he is an English one also. Then, what the deuce can his threats
mean? I don't know--perhaps he does not know himself; but, in any event,
and to guard against all accidents, I'll push on this marriage as fast
as possible; for, in case anything unexpected and disagreeable should
happen, it will be a good move to have something handsome--something
certain, to fall back upon.”

Having dressed, he ordered his horse, and rode out to the Phoenix Park,
accompanied by his shadow, Norton, who had returned, and heard with much
mirth a full history of the interview, with a glowing description of the
stand which Dunroe made for himself.




CHAPTER XXX. A Courtship on Novel Principles.


Having stated that Sir Thomas Gourlay requested Dunroe to postpone an
interview with Lucy until her health should become reestablished, we
feel it necessary to take a glance at the kind of life the unfortunate
girl led from the day she made the sacrifice until that at which we have
arrived in this narrative. Since that moment of unutterable anguish her
spirits completely abandoned her. Naturally healthy she had ever been,
but now she began to feel what the want of it meant; a feeling which to
her, as the gradual precursor of death, and its consequent release from
sorrow, brought something like hope and consolation. Yet this was not
much; for we know that to the young heart entering upon the world of
life and enjoyment, the prospect of early dissolution, no matter by what
hopes or by what resignation supported, is one so completely at variance
with the mysterious gift of existence and the natural tenacity with
which we cling to it, that, like the drugs which we so reluctantly take
during illness, its taste upon the spirit is little else than bitterness
itself. Lucy's appetite failed her; she could not endure society, but
courted solitude, and scarcely saw any one, unless, indeed, her
father occasionally, and her maid Alley Mahon, when her attendance
was necessary. She became pale as a shadow, began to have a wasted
appearance, and the very fountains of her heart seemed to have dried
up, for she found it impossible to shed a tear. A dry, cold, impassive
agony, silent, insidious, and exhausting, appeared to absorb the very
elements of life, and reduce her to a condition of such physical and
morbid incapacity as to feel an utter inability, or at all events
disinclination, to complain.

Her father's interviews with her were not frequent. That worthy man,
however, looked upon all her sufferings as the mere pinings of a
self-willed girl, lovesick and sentimental, such as he had sometimes
heard of, or read in books, and only worthy to be laughed at and treated
with contempt. He himself was now progressing in an opposite direction,
so far as health was concerned, to that of his daughter. In other words,
as she got ill, he gradually, and with a progress beautifully adapted
to the accomplishment of his projects, kept on recovering. This fact was
Lucy's principal, almost her sole consolation; for here, although she
had sacrificed herself, she experienced the satisfaction of seeing that
the sacrifice was not in vain.

But, after all, and notwithstanding his base and ungodly views of
life, let us ask, had the baronet no painful visitations of remorse in
contemplating the fading form and the silent but hopeless agony of his
daughter? Did conscience, which in his bosom of stone indulged in an
almost unbroken slumber, never awaken to scourge his hardened spirit
with her whip of snakes, and raise the gloomy curtain that concealed
from him the dark and tumultuous fires that await premeditated guilt and
impenitence? We answer, he was man. Sometimes, especially in the solemn
hours of night, he experienced brief periods, not of remorse, much
less of repentance, but of dark, diabolical guilt--conscious guilt,
unmitigated by either penitence or remorse, as might have taught his
daughter, could she have known them, how little she herself suffered in
comparison with him. These dreadful moments remind one of the heavings
of some mighty volcano, when occasioned by the internal stragglings of
the fire that is raging within it, the power and fury of which may
be estimated by the terrible glimpses which rise up, blazing and
smouldering from its stormy crater.

“What am I about?” he would say. “What a black prospect does life
present to me! I fear I am a bad man. Could it be possible now, that
there are thousands of persons in life who have committed great crimes
in the face of society, who, nevertheless, are not responsible for half
my guilt? Is it possible that a man may pass through the world, looking
on it with a plausible aspect, and yet become, from the natural iniquity
of his disposition and the habitual influence of present and perpetual
evil within him, a man of darker and more extended guilt than the
murderer or robber? Is it, then, the isolated crime, the crime that
springs from impulse, or passion, or provocation, or revenge?--or is it
the black unbroken iniquity of the spirit, that constitutes the greater
offence, or the greater offender against society? Am I, then, one of I
those reprobates of life in whom there is everything adverse to good and
friendly to evil, yet who pass through existence with a high head, and
look upon the public criminal and felon with abhorrence or affected
compassion? But why investigate myself? Here I am; and that fact is the
utmost limit to which my inquiries and investigations can go. I am what
I am: besides, I did not form nor create myself. I am different from my
daughter, she is different from me. I am different from most people. In
what? May I not have a destined purpose in creation to fulfil; and is it
not probable that my natural disposition has been bestowed upon me for
the purpose of fulfilling it? Yet if all were right, how account
for these dreadful and agonizing glimpses of my inner life which
occasionally visit me? But I dare say every man feels them. What are
they, after all, but the superstitious operations of conscience--of that
grim spectre which is conjured up by the ridiculous fables of the priest
and nurse? Conscience! Why, its fearful tribunal is no test of truth.
The wretched anchorite will often experience as much remorse if he
neglect to scourge his miserable carcass, as the murderer who sheds the
blood of man--or more. Away with it! I am but a fool for allowing it to
disturb me at all, or mar my projects.”

In this manner would he attempt to reason himself out of these dreadful
visitations, by the shallow sophistry of the sceptic and infidel.

The time, however, he thought, was now approaching when it was necessary
that something should be done with respect to Lucy's approaching
marriage. He accordingly sent for her, and having made very affectionate
inquiries after her health, for he had not for a moment changed the
affected tenderness of his manner, he asked if she believed herself
capable of granting an interview to Lord Dunroe. Lucy, now that escape
from the frightful penalty of her obedience was impossible, deemed it,
after much painful reflection, better to submit with as little apparent
reluctance as possible.

“I fear, papa,” she said, in tones that would have touched and softened
any heart but that to which she addressed herself, “I fear that it is
useless to wait until I am better. I feel my strength declining every
day, without any hope of improvement. I may therefore as well see him
now as at a future time.”

“My dear Lucy, I know that you enter into this engagement with
reluctance. I know that you do it for my sake; and you may rest assured
that your filial piety and obedience will be attended with a blessing.
After marriage you will find that change of scene, Dunroe's tenderness,
and the influence of enlivening society, will completely restore
your health and spirits. Dunroe's a rattling, pleasant fellow; and
notwithstanding his escapades, has an excellent heart. Tut, my dear
child, after a few months you will yourself smile at these girlish
scruples, and thank papa for forcing you into happiness.”

Lucy's large eyes had been fixed upon him while he spoke, and as he
concluded, two big tears, the first she had shed for weeks, stood within
their lids. They seemed, however, but visionary; for although they did
fall they soon disappeared, having been absorbed, as it were, into the
source from which they came, by the feverish heat of her brain.

“It is enough, papa,” she said; “I am willing to see him--willing to see
him whenever you wish. I am in your hands, and neither you nor he need
apprehend any further opposition from me.”

“You are a good girl, Lucy; and you may believe me again that this
admirable conduct of yours will have its reward in a long life of future
happiness.”

“Future happiness, papa,” she replied, with a peculiar emphasis on the
word; “I hope so. May I withdraw, sir?”

“You may, my dear child. God bless and reward you, Lucy. It is to your
duty I owe it that I am a living man--that you have a father.”

When she had gone, he sat down to his desk, and without losing a moment
sent a note to Dunroe, of which the following is a copy:

“My dear Lord Dunroe,--I am happy to tell you that Lucy is getting on
famously.

“Of course you know, I suppose, that these vaporish affections are, with
most young girls, nothing but the performance of the part which they
choose to act before marriage; the mere mists of the morning, poor
wenches, which only prognosticate for themselves and their husbands an
unclouded day. All this make-believe is very natural; and it is a good
joke, besides, to see them pout and look grave, and whine and cry, and
sometimes do the hysteric, whilst they are all the time dying in secret,
the hypocritical baggages, to get themselves transformed into matrons.
Don't, therefore, be a whit surprised or alarmed if you find Miss Lucy
in the pout--she is only a girl, after all, and has her little part
to play, as well as the best of them. Still, such a change is often in
reality a serious one to a young woman; and you need not be told that
no animal will allow itself to be caught without an effort. When you see
her, therefore, pluck up your spirits, rattle away, laugh and jest, so
as, if possible, to get her into good humor, and there is no danger of
you. Or stay--I am wrong. Had you followed this advice, it would have
played the deuce with you. Don't be merry. On the contrary, pull a long
face--be grave and serious; and if you can imitate the manner of one of
those fellows who pass for young men of decided piety, you were nothing
but a made man. Have you a Bible? If you have, commit half-a-dozen texts
to memory, and intersperse them judiciously through your conversation.
Talk of the vanity of life, the comforts of religion, and the beauty of
holiness. But don't overdo the thing either. Just assume the part of a
young person on whose mind the truth is beginning to open, because Lucy
knows now very well that these rapid transitions are suspicious. At all
events, you will do the best you can; and if you are here to-morrow--say
about three o'clock--she will see you.

“Ever, my dear Dunroe,

“Faithfully, your father-in-law that is to be,

“Thomas Gourlay.”


This precious epistle Dunroe found upon his table after returning from
his ride in the Phoenix Park; and having perused it, he immediately
rang for Norton, from whom he thought it was much too good a thing to be
concealed.

“Norton,” said he, “I am beginning to think that this black fellow, the
baronet, is not such a disgraceful old scoundrel as I had thought him.
There's not a bad thing in its way--read it.”

Norton, after throwing his eye over it, laughed heartily.

“Egad,” said he, “that fellow has a pretty knowledge of life; but it is
well he recovered himself in the instructions, for, from all that I
have heard of Miss Gourlay, his first code would have ruined you, sure
enough.”

“I am afraid I will break down, however, in the hypocrisy. I failed
cursedly with the old peer, and am not likely to be more successful with
her.”

“Indeed, I question whether hypocrisy would sit well upon one who has
been so undisguised an offender. The very assumption of it requires some
training. I think a work to be called 'Preparations for Hypocrisy' would
be a great book to the general mass of mankind. You cannot bound at one
step from the licentious to the hypocritical, unless, indeed, upon the
convenient principle of instantaneous conversion. The thing must be done
decently, and by judicious gradations, nor is the transition attended
with much difficulty, in consequence of the natural tendency which
hypocrisy and profligacy always have to meet. Still, I think you ought
to attempt the thing. Get by heart, as her father advises, half-a-dozen
serious texts of Scripture, and drop one in now and then, such as, 'All
flesh is grass.' 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' 'He that
marrieth not doth well, but he that marrieth doth better.' To be sure,
there is a slight inversion of text here, but then it is made more
appropriate.”

“None of these texts, however,” replied his lordship, “except the last,
are applicable to marriage.”

“So much the better; that will show her that you can think of other and
more serious things.”

“But there are very few things more serious, my boy.”

“At all events,” proceeded the other, “it will be original, and
originality, you know, is your _forte_. I believe it is supposed that
she has no great relish for this match, and is not overburdened with
affection for you?”

“She must have changed, though,” replied his lordship, “or she wouldn't
have consented.”

“That may be; but if she should candidly tell you that she does not like
you--why, in that case, your originality must bear you out. Start
some new and original theory on marriage; say, for instance, that your
principle is not to marry a girl who does love you, but rather one
who feels the other way. Dwell fearfully on the danger of love
before marriage: and thus strike out strongly upon the advantages of
indifference--honest indifference. By this means you will meet all her
objections, and be able to capsize her on every point.”

“Norton,” said his lordship, “I think you are right. My originality will
carry the day; but in the meantime you must give me further instructions
on the subject, so that I may be prepared at all points.”

“By the by, Dunroe, you will be a happy fellow. I am told she is a
magnificent creature; beautiful, sensible, brilliant, and mistress of
many languages.”

“Not to be compared with the blonde, though.”

“I cannot say,” replied Norton, “having not yet seen her. You will get
very fond of her, of course.”

“Fond--'gad, I hope it will never come to that with me. The moment a
man suffers himself to become fond of his wife, he had better order his
Bible and Prayer-book at once--it is all up with him.”

“I grant you it's an unfortunate condition to get into; and the worst of
it is, that once you are in, it is next to an impossibility to get out.
Of course, you will take care to avoid it, for your own sake, and, if
you have no objection, for mine. Perhaps her ladyship may take a fancy
to support the venerable peer against me in recommending the process
of John Thrustout. If so, Dunroe, whatever happiness your marriage may
bring yourself, it will bring nothing but bitterness and calamity to
me. I am now so much accustomed--so much--so much--hang it, why conceal
it?--so much attached and devoted to you--that a separation would be the
same as death to me.”

“Never fear, Norton,” replied Dunroe, “I have not yielded to my father
on this point, neither shall I to my wife. Happen what may, my friend
must never be given up for the whim of any one. But, indeed, you need
entertain no apprehensions. I am not marrying the girl for love, so that
she is not likely to gain any ascendancy whatever over me. It is her
fortune and property that have attracted my affections, just as the
title she will enjoy has inveigled those of the old father.”

Norton, in deep emotions of gratitude, ably sustained, had already
seized the hand of his patron, and was about to reply--but the effort
was too much for him; his heart was too full; he felt a choking; so,
clapping his handkerchief to his face with one hand, and the other upon
his heart, he rushed out of the room, lest Dunroe might perceive the
incredible force of his affection for him.

The next day, when Dunroe made his appearance in the drawing-room,
Lucy, before descending, felt as one may be supposed to do who stands
upon the brow of a precipice, conscious at the same time that not only
is retreat from this terrible position impossible, but that the plunge
must be made. On this occasion she experienced none of that fierce
energy which sometimes results from despair, and which one might imagine
to have been in accordance with her candid and generous character, when
driven as she was to such a step. On the contrary, she felt calm, cold,
and apathetic. Her pulse could scarcely be perceived by Alley Mahon; and
all the physical powers of life within her seemed as if about to suspend
their functions. Her reason, however, was clear, even to torture. Those
tumultuous vibrations of the spirit--those confused images and unsettled
thoughts of the brain; and all those excited emotions of the heart, that
are usually called into existence in common minds by such scenes, would
have been to her as a relief, in comparison to what she experienced.
In her case there was a tranquillity of agony--a quiet, unresisting
submission--a gentle bowing of the neck to the stake, at the sacrifice
that resulted from the clear perception of her great mind, which
thus, by its very facility of apprehension, magnified the torture she
suffered. Whilst descending the stairs, she felt such a sinking of the
soul within her, as the unhappy wretch does who ascends from those which
lead to that deadly platform from which is taken the terrible spring
into eternity.

On entering the room she saw herself in the large mirror that adorned
the mantel-piece, and felt for the first time as if all this was some
dreadful dream. The reality, however, of the misery she felt was too
strongly in her heart to suffer this consoling fiction, painful even
though it was, to remain. The next moment she found Lord Dunroe doing
her homage and obeisance,--an obeisance which she returned with a
lady-like but melancholy grace, that might have told to any other
observer the sufferings she felt, and the sacrifice she was making.

Dunroe, with as much politeness as he could assume, handed her to
the sofa, close to which he drew a chair, and opened the dialogue as
follows:

“I am sorry to hear that you have not been well, Miss Gourlay. Life,
however, is uncertain, and we should always be prepared--at least, so
says Scripture. All flesh is grass, I think is the expression--ahem.”

Lucy looked at him with a kind of astonishment; and, indeed, we think
our readers will scarcely feel surprised that she did so; the reflection
being anything but adapted to the opening of a love scene.

“Your observation, my lord,” she replied, “is very true--too true, for
we rarely make due preparation for death.”

“But I can conceive, readily enough,” replied his lordship, “why the
man that wrote the Scripture used the expression. Death, you know Miss
Gourlay, is always represented as a mower, bearing a horrible scythe,
and an hour-glass. Now, a mower, you know, cuts down grass; and there is
the origin of the similitude.”

“And a very appropriate one it is, I think,” observed Lucy.

“Well, I dare say it is; but somewhat vulgar though. I should be
disposed to say, now, that the man who wrote that must have been a mower
himself originally.”

Lucy made no reply to this sapient observation. His lordship, however,
who seemed to feel that he had started upon a wrong principle, if not a
disagreeable one, went on:

“It is not, however, to talk of death, Miss Gourlay, that we have met,
but of a very different and much more agreeable subject--marriage.”

“To me, my lord,” she replied, “death is the more agreeable of the two.”

“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Gourlay; but I think you are in low
spirits, and that accounts for it. Your father tells me, however, that
I have your permission to urge my humble claims. He says you have kindly
and generously consented to look upon me, all unworthy as I feel I am,
as your future husband.”

“It is true, my lord, I have consented to this projected union; but I
feel that it is due to your lordship to state that I have done so under
very painful and most distressing circumstances. It is better I should
speak now, my lord, than at a future day. My father's mind has been
seized by an unaccountable ambition to see me your wife. This preyed
upon him so severely that he became dangerously ill.” Here, however,
from delicacy to the baronet, she checked herself, but added, “Yes, my
lord, I have consented; but, understand me--you have not my affections.”

“Why, as to that, Miss Gourlay, I have myself peculiar opinions; and I
am glad that they avail me here. You will think it odd, now, that I
had made my mind up never to marry a woman who loved me. This is really
fortunate.”

“I don't understand you, my lord.”

“Well, I suppose you don't; but I shall make myself intelligible as well
as I can. Love before marriage, in my opinion, is exceedingly dangerous
to future happiness; and I will tell you why I think so. In the first
place, a great deal of that fuel which feeds the post-matrimonial flame
is burned away and wasted unnecessarily; the imagination, too, is raised
to a ridiculous and most enthusiastic expectation of perpetual bliss
and ecstasy; then comes disappointment, coolness, indifference, and
the lights go out for want of the fuel I mentioned; and altogether the
domestic life becomes rather a dull and tedious affair. The wife wonders
that the husband is no longer a, lover; and the husband cannot for the
soul of him see all the--the--the--ahem!--I scarcely know what to call
them--that enchanted him before marriage. Then, you perceive, that when
love is necessary, the fact comes out that it was most injudiciously
expended before the day of necessity. Both parties feel, in fact,
that the property has been prematurely squandered--like many another
property--and when it is wanted, there is nothing to fall back upon.
I wish to God affection could be funded, so that when a married couple
found themselves low in pocket in that commodity they could draw the
interest or sell out at once.”

“And what can you expect, my lord, from those who marry without
affection?” asked Lucy.

“Ten chances for happiness,” replied his lordship, “for one that results
from love. When such persons meet, mark you, Miss Gourlay, they are not
enveloped in an artificial veil of splendor, which the cares of life,
and occasionally a better knowledge of each other, cause to dissolve
from about them, leaving them stripped of those imaginary qualities of
mind and person which never had any existence at all, except in
their hypochondriac brains, when love-stricken; whereas, your honest,
matter-of-fact people come together--first with indifference, and,
as there is nothing angelic to be expected on either side, there is
consequently no disappointment. There has, in fact, been no sentimental
fraud committed--no swindle of the heart--for love, too, like its
relation, knavery, has its black-legs, and very frequently raises credit
upon false pretences; the consequence is, that plain honesty begins to
produce its natural effects.”

“Can this man,” thought Lucy, “have been taking lessons from papa? And
pray, my lord,” she proceeded, “what are those effects which marriage
without love--produces?”

“Why, a good honest indifference, in the first place, which keeps the
heart easy and somewhat indolent withal. There is none of that sharp
jealousy which is perpetually on the spy for offence. None of that
pulling and pouting--falling out and falling in--which are ever the
accessories of love. On the contrary, honest indifference minds the
family--honest indifference, mark, buys the beef and mutton, reckons the
household linen--eschews parties and all places of fashionable resort,
attends to the children--sees them educated, bled, blistered, et cetera,
when necessary; and, what is still better, looks to their religion,
hears them their catechism, brings them, in their clean bibs and
tuckers, to church, and rewards that one who carries home most of the
sermon with a large lump of sugar-candy.”

“These are very original views of marriage, my lord.”

“Aha!” thought his lordship, “I knew the originality would catch her.”

“Why, the fact is, Miss Gourlay, that I believe--at least I think I may
say--that originality is my forte. I have a horror against everything
common.”

“I thought so, my lord,” replied Lucy; “your sense, for instance, is
anything but common sense.”

“You are pleased to flatter me, Miss Gourlay, but you speak very truly;
and that is because I always think for myself--I do not wish to be
measured by a common standard.”

“You are very right; my lord; it would be difficult, I fear, to find a
common standard to measure you by. One would imagine, for instance,
that you have been on this principle absolutely studying the subject of
matrimony. At least, you are the first person I have ever met who has
succeeded in completely stripping it of common sense, and there I must
admit your originality.”

“Gad!” thought his lordship, “I have her with me--I am getting on
famously.”

“They would imagine right, Miss Gourlay; these principles are the result
of a deep and laborious investigation into that mysterious and
awful topic. Honest indifference has no intrigues, no elopements, no
disgraceful trials for criminal conversation, no divorces. No; your
lovers in the yoke of matrimony, when they tilt with each other, do it
sharply, with naked weapons; whereas, the worthy indifferents, in the
same circumstances, have a wholesome regard for each other, and rattle
away only with the scabbards. Upon my honor, Miss Gourlay, I am quite
delighted to hear that you are not attached to me. I can now marry upon
my own principles. It is not my intention to coax, and fondle, and tease
you after marriage; not at all. I shall interfere as little as possible
with your habits, and you, I trust, as little with mine. We shall see
each other only occasionally, say at church, for instance, for I hope
you will have no objection to accompany me there. Neither man nor woman
knows what is due to society if they pass through the world without the
comforts of religion. All flesh--ahem!--no--sufficient unto the day--as
Scripture says.”

“My lord, I think marriage a solemn subject, and--”

“Most people find it so, Miss Gourlay.”

--“And on that account that it ought to be exempted from ridicule.”

“I perfectly agree with you, Miss Gourlay: it is indeed a serious
subject, and ought not to be sported with or treated lightly.”

“My lord,” said Lucy, “I must crave your attention for a few moments. I
believe the object of this interview is to satisfy you that I have given
the consent which my father required and entreated of me. But, my lord,
you are mistaken. Our union cannot take place upon your principles, and
for this reason, there is no indifference in the case, so far, at least,
as I am concerned. It would not become me to express here, under my
father's roof, the sentiments which I feel. Your own past life, my
lord--your habits, your associates, may enable you to understand them.
It is enough to say, that in wedding you I wed misery, wretchedness,
despair; so that, in my case, at least, there is no 'sentimental fraud'
committed.”

“Not a bit of it, Miss Gourlay; your conduct, I say, is candid and
honorable; and I am quite satisfied that the woman who has strength of
mind and love of truth to practice this candor before marriage,
gives the best security for fidelity and all the other long list
of matrimonial virtues afterwards. I am perfectly charmed with your
sentiments. Indeed I was scarcely prepared for this. Our position will
be delightful. The only thing I have any apprehension of is, lest this
wholesome aversion might gradually soften into fondness, which, you
know, would be rather unpleasant to us both.”

“My lord,” replied Lucy, rising up with disdain and indignation glowing
in her face, “there is one sentiment due to every woman whose conduct
is well regulated and virtuous--that sentiment is, respect. From you on
this occasion, at least, and on this subject especially, I had thought
myself entitled to it. I find I have been mistaken, however. Such
a sentiment is utterly incompatible with the heartless tirade of
buffoonery in which you have indulged. This dialogue is very painful, my
lord. I have already intimated to you that I am prepared to fulfil the
engagement into which my father has entered with you. I know--I feel
what the result will be--you are to consider me your victim, my lord, as
well as your wife.”

“Excuse me, Miss Gourlay, I was utterly unconscious of any buffoonery.
Upon my honor, I expressed on the subject of matrimony no principles
that I do not feel; but as to your charge of disrespect, I solemnly
assure you there is not an individual of your sex in existence whom
I respect more highly; nor do I believe there is a lady living more
signally entitled to it from all who have the honor to know her.”

“Then, if you be serious, my lord, it betrays a painful equality between
your understanding and your heart. No man with such a heart should enter
into the state of matrimony at all; and no man with an understanding
level to such principles is capable either of communicating or receiving
happiness.”

“Well, then, suppose I say that I shall submit myself in everything to
your wishes?”

“Then I should reply, that the husband capable of doing so would
experience from me a sentiment little short of contempt. What, my lord!
so soon to abandon your favorite principles! That is a proof, I fear,
that, after all, you place but little value on them.”

“Well, but I know I have not been so good a boy as I ought to have been;
I have been naughty now and then; and as I intend to reform, I shall
make you my guide and adviser. I assure you, I am perfectly serious in
the reformation. It shall be on quite an original scale. I intend to
repent, Miss Gourlay; but, then, my repentance won't be commonplace
repentance. I shall do the thing with an aristocratic feeling--or, in
other words, I shall repent like a man of honor and a gentleman.”

“Like anything but a Christian, my I presume.”

“Just so; I must be original or die. I will give up everything; for,
after all. Miss Gourlay, what is there more melancholy than the vanity
of life--unless, indeed, it be the beauty of holiness--ahem! All
flesh--no--I repeated that sweet text before. He that marrieth doth
well; but he that marrieth not doth better. Sufficient unto
the day--No, hang it, I think I misquoted it. I believe it runs
correctly--He that giveth 'way, does well; but he that giveth not way,
does better: then, I believe, comes in, Sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof. What beautiful and appropriate texts are to be found in
Scripture, Miss Gourlay! By the way, the man that wrote it was a
shrewd fellow and a profound thinker. The only pity is, that the work's
anonymous.”

Lucy rose, absolutely sickened, and said, “My lord, excuse me. The
object of our interview has been accomplished, and as I am far from
well, you will permit me to withdraw. In the meantime, pray make
whatever arrangements and hold, whatever interviews may be necessary in
this miserable and wretched business; but henceforth they must be with
my father.”

“You are surely not going, Miss Gourlay?”

She replied not, but turning round, seemed to reflect for a moment,
after which she spoke as follows:

“I cannot bring myself to think, my lord, after the unusual opinions
you have expressed, that you have been for one moment serious in the
conversation which has taken place between us. Their strangeness and
eccentricity forbid me to suppose this; and if I did not think that it
is so, and that, perhaps, you are making an experiment upon my temper
and judgment, for some purpose at present inconceivable; and if I did
not think, besides, notwithstanding these opinions, that you may possess
sufficient sense and feeling to perceive the truth and object of what I
am about to say, I would not remain one moment longer in your society.
I request, therefore, that you will be serious for a little, and hear me
with attention, and, what is more, if you can, with sympathy. My lord,
the highest instance of a great and noble mind is to perform a generous
act; and when you hear from my own lips the circumstances which I am
about to state, I would hope to find you capable of such an act. I
am now appealing to your generosity--your disinterestedness--your
magnanimity (and you ought to be proud to possess these virtues)--to
all those principles that honor and dignify our nature, and render man a
great example to his kind. My lord, I am very unhappy--I am miserable--I
am wretched; so completely borne down by suffering that life is only a
burden, which I will not be able long to bear; and you, my lord, are the
cause of all this anguish and agony.”

“Upon my honor, Miss Gourlay, I am very much concerned to hear it. I
would rather the case were otherwise, I assure you. Anything that I can
do, I needn't say, I shall be most happy to do; but proceed, pray.”

“My lord, I throw myself upon your generosity; do you possess it? Upon
your feeling as a man, upon your honor as a gentleman. I implore, I
entreat you, not to press this unhappy engagement. I implore you for my
sake, for the sake of humanity, for the sake of God; and if that will
not weigh with you, then I ask it for the sake of your own honor,
which will be tarnished by pressing it on. I have already said that you
possess not my affections, and that to a man of honor and spirit ought
to be sufficient; but I will go farther, and say, that if there be one
man living against a union with whom I entertain a stronger and more
unconquerable aversion than another, you are that man.”

“But you know, Miss Gourlay, if I may interrupt you for a moment, that
that fact completely falls into my principles. There is only one other
circumstance wanting to make the thing complete; but perhaps you
will come to it; at least I hope so. Pray, proceed, madam; I am all
attention.”

“Yes,” she replied, “I shall proceed; because I would not that my
conscience should hereafter reproach me for having left anything undone
to escape this misery. My lord, I implore you to spare me; force me not
over the brow of this dreadful precipice; have compassion on me--have
generosity--act with honor.”

“I would crown you with honor, if I could, Miss Gourlay.”

“You are about to crown me with fire, my lord; to wring my spirit with
torture; to drive me into distraction--despair--madness. But you will
not do so. You know that I cannot love you. I am not to blame for this;
our affections are not always under our own control. Have pity on me,
then, Lord Dunroe. Go to my father, and tell him that you will not be
a consenting party to my misery--and accessory to my death. Say what is
true; that as I neither do nor can love you, the honor of a gentleman,
and the spirit of a man, equally forbid you to act ungenerously to me
and dishonorably to yourself. What man, not base and mean, and sunk
farther down in degradation of spirit than contempt could reach him,
would for a moment think of marrying a woman who, like me, can neither
love nor honor him? Go, my lord; see my father; tell him you are a
man--an Irish gentleman--”

“Pardon me, Miss Gourlay, I do not wish to be considered such.”

--“That justice, humanity, self-respect, and a regard for the good
opinion of the world, all combine to make you release me from this
engagement.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Gourlay, I have it not in my power, even if I
were willing, to release you from this engagement. I am pledged to your
father, and cannot, as a man of honor and a gentleman, recede from that
pledge. All these objections and difficulties only bring you exactly
up to my theory, or very near it. We shall marry upon very original
principles; so that altogether the whole affair is very gratifying to
me. I had expectations that there was a prior attachment; but that would
be too much to hope for. As it is, I am perfectly satisfied.”

“Then, my lord, allow me to add to your satisfaction by assuring you
that my heart is wholly and unalterably in possession of another; that
that other knows it; and that I have avowed my love for him with the
same truth and candor with which I now say that I both loathe and
despise you.”

“I perceive you are excited, Miss Gourlay; but, believe me, all this
sentimental affection for another will soon disappear after marriage,
as it always does; and your eyes will become open to a sense of your
enviable position. Yes, indeed, you will live to wonder at these freaks
of a heated imagination; and I have no doubt the day will come when you
will throw your arms about my neck, and exclaim, 'My dear Dunroe, or
Cullamore (you will then be my countess, I hope), what a true prophet
you have been! And what a proof it was of your good sense to overcome
my early folly! I really thought at the time that I was in love with
another; but you knew better. Shan't we spend the winter in England, my
love? I am sick of this dull, abominable country, where nobody that one
can associate with is to be met; and you mustn't forget the box at the
Opera. Yes; we shall have an odd scene or so occasionally of that sort
of thing; and no doubt be as happy as our neighbors.”

Lucy turned upon him one withering look, in which might be read hatred,
horror, contempt; after which she slightly inclined her head, and
without speaking, for she had now become incapable of it, withdrew to
her own apartment, in a state of feeling which the reader may easily
imagine.

“Alice,” said she to her maid, and her cheek, that had only a little
before been so pale, now glowed with indignation like fire as she spoke,
“Alice, I have degraded myself; I am sunk forever in my own opinion
since I saw that heartless wretch.”

“How is that, miss?” asked Alice; “such a thing can't be.”

“Because,” replied Lucy, “I was mean enough to throw myself on his very
compassion--on his honor--on his generosity--on his pride as a man and
a gentleman--but he has not a single virtue;” and she then, with cheeks
still glowing, related to her the principal part of their conversation.

“And that was the reply he gave you, miss?” observed Alley; “in truth,
it was more like the answer of a sheriff's bailiff to some poor woman
who had her cattle distrained for rent, and wanted to get time to pay
it.”

“Alice,” she exclaimed, “I hope in God I may retain my senses,
or, rather, let them depart from me, for then I shall not be
conscious of what I do. Matters are far worse than I had even
imagined--desperate--full of horror. This man is a fool; his intellect
is beneath the very exigencies of hypocrisy, which he would put on if
he could. His infamy, his profligacy, can proceed even from no perverted
energy of character, and must therefore be associated with contempt.
There is a lively fatuity about him that is uniformly a symptom of
imbecility. Among women, at least, it is so, and I have no doubt but it
is the same with men. Alice, I know what my fate will be. It is true,
you may see me married to him; but you will see me drop dead at the
altar, or worse than that may happen. I shall marry him; but to live his
wife!--oh! to live the wife of that man! the thing would be impossible;
death in any shape a thousand times sooner! Think, Alice, how you should
feel if your husband were despised and detested by the world; think of
that, Alice. Still, there might be consolation even there, for the
world might be wrong; but think, Alice, if he deserved that contempt and
detestation--think of it; and that you yourself knew he was entitled, to
nothing else but that and infamy at its hands! Oh, no!--not one spark
of honor--not one trace of feeling--of generosity--of delicacy--of
truth--not one moral point to redeem him from contempt. He may be a
lord, Alice, but he is not a gentleman. Hardened, vicious, and stupid, I
can see he is, and altogether incapable of comprehending what is due to
the feelings of a lady, of a woman, which he I outrages without even the
consciousness of the offence. But, Alice, oh Alice! when I think--when I
compare him with--and may Heaven forgive me for the comparison!--when
I compare him with the noble, the generous, the delicate, the
true-hearted, and intellectual gentleman who has won and retains,
and ever will retain, my affections, I am sick almost to death at the
contrast. Satan, Alice, is a being whom we detest and fear, but cannot
despise. This mean profligate, however, is all vice, and low vice; for
even vice sometimes has its dignity. If you could conceive Michael
the Archangel resplendent with truth, brightness, and the glory of his
divine nature, and compare him with the meanest, basest, and at the same
time wickedest spirit that ever crawled in the depths of perdition, then
indeed you might form an opinion as to the relative character of this
Dunroe and my noble lover. And yet I cannot weep, Alice; I cannot weep,
for I feel that my brain is burning, and my heart scorched. And now, for
my only melancholy consolation!”

She then pulled from her bosom the portrait of her mother, by the
contemplation of which she felt the tumult of her heart gradually
subside; but, after having gazed at it for some time, she returned it
to its place next her heart; the consolation it had transiently afforded
her passed away, and the black and deadly gloom which had already
withered her so much came back once more.




CHAPTER XXXI. The Priest goes into Corbet's House very like a Thief

--a Sederunt, with a Bright look up for Mr. Gray.


It is unnecessary to say that the priest experienced slight regret at
the mistake which had been instrumental in bringing him into collision
with a man, who, although he could not afford them any trace of
unfortunate Fenton, yet enabled them more clearly to identify the
baronet with his fate. The stranger, besides, was satisfied from the
evidence of the pound note, and Trailcudgel's robbery, that his recent
disappearance was also owing to the same influence. Still, the evidence
was far from being complete, and they knew that if Fenton even were
found, it would be necessary to establish his identity as the heir
of Sir Edward Gourlay. No doubt they had made a step in advance, and,
besides, in the right direction; but much still remained to be done; the
plot, in fact, must be gradually, but clearly, and regularly developed;
and in order to do so, they felt that they ought, if the thing could be
managed, to win over some person who had been an agent in its execution.

From what Skipton had disclosed to Father M'Mahon, both that gentleman
and the stranger had little doubt that old Corbet could render them the
assistance required, if he could only be prevailed upon to speak. It was
evident from his own conversation that he not only hated but detested
Sir Thomas Gourlay; and yet it was equally clear that some secret
influence prevented him from admitting any knowledge or participation
in the child's disappearance. Notwithstanding the sharp caution of his
manner, and his disavowal of the very knowledge they were seeking, it
was agreed upon that Father M'Mahon should see him again, and ascertain
whether or not he could be induced in any way to aid their purpose.
Nearly a week elapsed, however, before the cunning old ferret could be
come at. The truth is, he had for many a long year been of opinion
that the priest entertained a suspicion of his having been in some
way engaged, either directly or indirectly, in the dark plots of the
baronet, if not in the making away with the child. On this account then,
the old man never wished to come in the priest's way whenever he could
avoid it; and the priest himself had often remarked that whenever he
(old Corbet), who lived with the baronet for a couple of years, after
the child's disappearance, happened to see or meet him in Ballytrain,
he always made it a point to keep his distance. In fact, the priest
happened on one occasion, while making a visit to see Quin, the
monomaniac, and waiting in the doctor's room, to catch a glimpse of
Corbet passing through the hall, and on inquiring who he was from one of
the keepers, the fellow, after some hesitation, replied, that he did not
know.

By this time, however, the mysterious loss of the child had long passed
out of the public mind, and as the priest never paid another visit to
the asylum, he also had ceased to think of it. It is quite possible,
indeed, that the circumstance would never again have recurred to him
had not the stranger's inquiries upon this very point reminded him that
Corbet was the most likely person he knew to communicate information
upon the subject. The reader already knows with what success that
application had been made.

Day after day had elapsed, and the priest, notwithstanding repeated
visits, could never find him at home. The simple-hearted man had
whispered to him in the watch-house, that he wished to speak to him
upon that very subject--a communication which filled the old fellow with
alarm, and the consequence was, that he came to the resolution of not
seeing him at all, if he could possibly avoid it.

One day, however, when better than a week had passed, Father M'Mahon
entered his shop, where he found a woman standing', as if she expected
some person to come in. His wife was weighing huckstery with her back to
the counter, so that she was not aware of his presence. Without speaking
a word he passed as quietly as possible into the little back parlor, and
sat down. After about fifteen minutes he heard a foot overhead passing
stealthily across the room, and coming to the lobby, where there was a
pause, as if the person were listening. At length the foot first came
down one stair very quietly, then another, afterwards a third, and again
there was a second pause, evidently to listen as before. The priest kept
his eyes steadily on the staircase, but was placed in such a position
that he could see without being visible himself. At length Corbet's
long scraggy neck was seen projecting like that of an ostrich across the
banisters, which commanded a view of the shop through the glass door.
Seeing the coast, as he thought, clear, he ventured to speak.

“Is he gone?” he asked, “for I'll take my oath I saw him come up the
street.”

“You needn't trust your eyes much longer, I think,” replied his wife,
“you saw no such man; he wasn't here at all.”

“Bekaise I know it's about that poor boy he's coming; and sure, if
I stir in it, or betray the others, I can't keep the country; an',
besides, I will lose my pension.”

Having concluded these words he came down the stairs into the little
parlor we have mentioned, where he found Father M'Mahon sitting, his
benevolent features lit up with a good deal of mirth at the confusion of
Corbet, and the rueful aspect he exhibited on being caught in the trap
so ingeniously laid for him.

“Dunphy,” said the priest, for by this name he went in the city,
“you are my prisoner; but don't be afraid in the mane time--better my
prisoner than that of a worse man. And now, you thief o' the world, why
did you refuse to see me for the last week? Why keep me trotting day
after day, although you know I wanted to speak with you? What have you
to say for yourself?”

Corbet, before replying, gave a sharp, short, vindictive glance at his
wife, whom he suspected strongly of having turned traitress, and played
into the hands of the enemy.

“Troth, your reverence, I was sorry to hear that you had come so often;”
 and as he spoke, another glance toward the shop seemed to say, “You
deceitful old wretch, you have betrayed and played the devil with me.”

“I don't at all doubt it, Anthony,” replied the priest, “the truth being
that you were sorry I came at all. Come I am, however, and if I were to
wait for twelve months, I wouldn't go without seeing you. Call in Mrs.
Dunphy till I spake to her, and ask her how she is.”

“You had better come in, ma'am,” said the old fellow, in a tone of voice
that could not be misunderstood; “here's Father M'Mahon, who wants to
spake to you.”

“Arra, get out o' that!” she replied; “didn't I tell you that he didn't
show his round rosy face to-day yet; but I'll go bail he'll be here for
all that--sorra day he missed for the last week, and it's a scandal for
you to thrate him as you're doin'--sorra thing else.”

“Stop your goster,” said Dunphy, “and come in--isn't he inside here?”

The woman came to the door, and giving a hasty and incredulous look
in, started, exclaiming, “Why, then, may I never sin, but he is. Musha!
Father M'Mahon, how in the name o' goodness did you get inside at all?”

“Aisily enough,” he replied; “I only made myself invisible for a couple
of minutes, and passed in while you were weighing something for a woman
in the shop.”

“Troth, then, one would think you must a' done so, sure enough, for the
sorrow a stim of you I seen anyhow.”

“O, she's so attentive to her business, your reverence,” said Anthony,
with bitter irony, “that she sees nothing else. The lord mayor might
drive his coach in, and she wouldn't see him. There's an ould proverb
goin' that says there's none so blind as thim that won't see. Musha,
sir, wasn't that a disagreeable turn that happened you the other
morning?”

“But it didn't last long, that was one comfort. The Lord save me from
ever seeing such another sight. I never thought our nature was capable
of such things; it is awful, even to think of it. Yes, terrible to
reflect, that there were unfortunate wretches there who will probably
be hurried into eternity without repenting for their transgressions, and
making their peace with God;” and as he concluded, Corbet found that the
good pastor's eye was seriously and solemnly fixed upon him.

“Indeed--it's all true, your reverence--it'a all true,” he replied.

“Now, Anthony,” continued the priest, “I have something very important
to spake to you about; something that will be for your own benefit,
not only in this world, but in that awful one which is to come, and for
which we ought to prepare ourselves sincerely and earnestly. Have you
any objection that your wife should be present, or shall we go upstairs
and talk it over there?”

“I have every objection,” replied Corbet; “something she does know,
but--”

“O thank goodness,” replied the old woman, very naturally offended at
being kept out of the secret, “I'm not in all your saicrets, nor I don't
wish to know them, I'm sure. I believe you find some of them a heavy
burden; at any rate.”

“Come, then,” said the priest, “put on your hat and take a walk with me
as far as the Brazen Head inn, where I'm stopping. We can have a private
room there, where there will be no one to interrupt us.”

“Would it be the same thing to you, sir, if I'd call on you there about
this time to-morrow?”

“What objection have you to come now?” asked the priest. “Never put
off till tomorrow what can be done to-day, is a good old proverb, and
applies to things of weightier importance than belong to this world.”

“Why, then, it's a little business of a very particular nature that I
have to attend to; and yet I don't know,” he added, “maybe I'll be
a betther match for them afther seeing you. In the mane time,” he
proceeded, addressing his wife, “if they should come here to look for
me, don't say where I'm gone, nor, above all things, who I'm with. Mark
that now; and tell Charley, or Ginty, whichever o' them comes, that it
must be put off till to-morrow--do you mind, now?”

She merely nodded her head, by way of attention.

“Ay,” he replied, with a sardonic grin, “you'll be alive, as you were a
while ago, I suppose.”

They then proceeded on their way to the Brazen Head, which they reached
without any conversation worth recording.

“Now, Anthony,” began the priest, after they had seated themselves
comfortably in a private room, “will you answer me truly why you refused
seeing me? why you hid or absconded whenever I went to your house for
the last week?”

“Bekaise I did not wish to see you, then.”

“Well, that's the truth,” said the priest, “and I know it. But why did
you not wish to see me?” he inquired; “you must have had some reason for
it.”

“I had my suspicions.”

“You had, Anthony; and you've had the same suspicions this many a long
year--ever since the day I saw you pass through the hall in the private
mad-house in--.”

“Was that the time Mr. Quin was there? asked Anthony, unconsciously
committing himself from the very apprehension of doing so by giving a
direct answer to the question.

“Ah! ha! Anthony, then you knew Mr. Quin was there. That will do; but
there's not the slightest use in beating about the bush any longer. You
have within the last half-hour let your secret out, within my own
ears, and before my own eyes. And so you have a pension from the Black
Baronet; and you, an old man, and I fear a guilty one, are receiving the
wages of iniquity and corruption from that man--from the man that first
brought shame and everlasting disgrace, and guilt and madness into and
upon your family and name--a name that had been without a stain before.
Yes; you have sold yourself as a slave--a bond-slave--have become the
creature and instrument of his vices--the clay in his hands that he can
mould as he pleases, and that he will crush and trample on, and shiver
to pieces, the moment his cruel, unjust, and diabolical purposes are
served.”

Anthony's face was a study, but a fearful study, whilst the priest
spoke. As the reverend gentleman went on, it darkened into the
expression of perfect torture; he gasped and started as if every word
uttered had given him a mortal stab; his keen old eye nickered with
scintillations of unnatural and turbid fire, until the rebuke was ended.

The priest had observed this, and naturally imputed the feeling to an
impression of remorse, not, it is true, unmingled with indignation. We
may imagine his surprise, therefore, on seeing that face suddenly change
into one of the wildest and most malignant delight. A series of dry,
husky hiccoughs, or what is termed the black laugh, rapidly repeated,
proceeded from between his thin jaws, and his eyes now blazed with an
expression of such fiery and triumphant vengeance, that the other felt
as if some fiendish incarnation of malignity, and not a man, sat before
him.

“Crush me!” he exclaimed, “crush me, indeed! Wait a little. What have I
been doin' all this time? I tell you that I have been every day for this
many a long year windin' myself like a serpent about him, till I get him
fairly in my power; and when I do--then for one sharp, deadly sting
into his heart:--ay, and, like the serpent, it's in my tongue that
sting lies--from that tongue the poison must come that will give me the
revenge that I've been long waitin' for.”

“You speak,” replied the priest, “and, indeed, you look more like
an evil spirit than a man, Anthony. This language is disgraceful and
unchristian, and such as no human being should utter. How can you think
of death with such principles in your heart?”

“I'll tell you how I think on death: I'm afeared of it when I think of
that poor, heartbroken woman, Lady Gourlay; but when I think of him--of
him--I do hope and expect that my last thought in this world will be the
delightful one that I've had my revenge on him.”

“And you would risk the misery of another world for the gratification
of one evil passion in this! Oh, God help you, and forgive you, and turn
your heart!”

“God help me, and forgive me, and turn my heart! but not so far as he is
consarned. I neither wish it, nor pray for it, and what's more, if you
were fifty priests, I never will. Let us drop this subject, then, for so
long as we talk of him, I feel as if the blood in my ould veins was all
turned into fire.”

The priest saw and felt that this was true, and resolved to be guided
by the hint he had unconsciously received. To remonstrate with him upon
Christian principles, in that mood of mind, would, he knew, be to no
purpose. If there were an assailable point about him, he concluded, from
his own words, that it was in connection with the sufferings of Lady
Gourlay, and the fate of her child. On this point, therefore, he
resolved to sound him, and ascertain, without, if possible, alarming
him, how far he would go on--whether he felt disposed to advance at all,
or not.

“Well,” said the priest, “since you are resolved upon an act of
vengeance--against which, as a Christian priest and a Christian man, I
doubly protest--I think it only right that you should perform an act
of justice also. You know it is wrong to confound the innocent with the
guilty. There is Lady Gourlay, with the arrow of grief, and probably
despair, rankling in her heart for years. Now, you could restore that
woman to happiness--you could restore her lost child to happiness, and
bid the widowed mother's heart leap for joy.”

“It isn't for that I'd do it, or it would, maybe, be done long ago; but
I'm not sayin' I know where her son is. Do you think now, if I did, that
it wouldn't gratify my heart to pull down that black villain--to tumble
him down in the eyes of all the world with disgrace and shame, from the
height he's sittin' on, and make him a world's wondher of villany and
wickedness?”

“I know very well,” replied the priest, who, not wishing to use an
unchristian argument, thought it still too good to be altogether left
out, “I know very well that you cannot restore Lady Gourlay's son,
without punishing the baronet at the same time. If you be guided by
me, however, you will think only of what is due to the injured lady
herself.”

“Do you think, now,” persisted Corbet, not satisfied with the priest's
answer, and following up his interrogatory, “do you think, I say, that
I wouldn't 'a' dragged him down like a dog in the kennel, long ago, if I
knew where his brother's son was.”

“From your hatred to Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the other, “I think it
likely you would have tumbled him long since if you could.”

“Why,” exclaimed Corbet, with another sardonic and derisive grin,
“that's a proof of how little you know of a man's heart. Do you forget
what I said awhile ago about the black villain--that I have been windin'
myself about him for years, until I get him fairly into my power? When
that time comes, you'll see what I'll do.”

“But will that time soon come?” asked the other. “Recollect that you are
now an old man, and that old age is not the time to nourish projects of
vengeance. Death may seize you--may take you at a short notice--so that
it is possible you may never live to execute your devilish purpose on
the one hand, nor the act of justice toward Lady Gourlay on the other.
Will that time soon come, I ask?”

“So far I'll answer you. It'll take a month or two--not more. I have
good authority for what I'm sayin'.”

“And what will you do then?”

“I'll tell you that,” he replied; and rising up, he shut his two hands,
turning in his thumbs, and stretching his arms down along his body on
each side, he stooped down, and looking directly and fully into the
priest's eyes, he replied, “I'll give him back his son.”

“Tut!” returned the clergyman, whose honest heart, and sympathies were
all with the widow and her sorrows; “I was thinking of Lady Gourlay's
son. In the mane time, that's a queer way of punishing the baronet.
You'll give him back his son?--pooh!”

“Ay,” replied Corbet, “that's the way I'll have my revenge; and maybe
it'll be a greater one than you think. That's all.”

This was accompanied by a sneer and a chuckle, which the ambiguous old
sinner could not for the blood of him suppress. “And now,” he added, “I
must be off.”

“Sir,” said Father M'Mahon, rising up and traversing the room with
considerable heat, “you have been tampering with the confidence I was
disposed to place in you. Whatever dark game you are playing, or have
been playing, I know not; but this I can assure you, that Lady Gourlay's
friends know more of your secrets than you suspect. I believe you to
be nothing more nor less than a hardened old villain, whose heart is
sordid, and base, and cruel--corrupted, I fear, beyond all hope of
redemption. You have been playing with me, sir--sneering at me in your
sleeve, during this whole dialogue. This was a false move, however, on
your part, and you will find it so. I am not a man to be either played
with or sneered at by such a snake-like and diabolical old scoundrel as
you are. Listen, now, to me. You think your secret is safe; you think
you are beyond the reach of the law; you think we know nothing of your
former movements under the guidance and in personal company with the
Black Baronet. Pray, did you think it impossible that there was
above you a God of justice, and of vengeance, too, whose providential
disclosures are sufficient to bring your villany to light? Anthony
Corbet, be warned in time. Let your disclosures be voluntary, and they
will be received with gratitude, with deep thanks, with ample rewards;
refuse to make them, endeavor still further to veil the crimes to which
I allude, and sustain this flagitious compact, and we shall drag them up
your throat, and after forcing you to disgorge them, we shall send you,
in your wicked and impenitent old age, where the clank of the felon's
chain will be the only music in your ears, and that chain itself the
only garter that will ever keep up your Connemaras. Now begone, and lay
to heart what I've said to you. It wasn't my intention to have let you
go without a bit of something to eat, and a glass of something to wash
it down afterwards; but you may travel now; nothing stronger than pure
air will cross your lips in this house, unless at your own cost.”

The old fellow seemed to hesitate, as if struck by some observation
contained in the priest's lecture.

“When do you lave town, sir?” he asked.

“Whenever it's my convanience,” replied the other; “that's none of your
affair. I'll go immediately and see Skipton.”

The priest observed that honest Anthony looked still graver at the
mention of this name. “If you don't go,” he added, “until a couple of
days hence, I'd like to see you again, about this hour, the day afther
tomorrow.”

“Whether I'll be here, or whether I won't is more than I know. I may be
brought to judgment before then, and so may you. You may come then, or
you may stay away, just as you like. If you come, perhaps I'll see you,
and perhaps I won't. So now good-by! Thank goodness we are not depending
on you!”

Anthony then slunk out of the room with a good deal of hesitation in his
manner, and on leaving the hall-door he paused for a moment, and seemed
disposed to return. At length he decided, and after lingering awhile,
took his way toward Constitution Hill.

This interview with the priest disturbed Corbet very much. His
selfishness, joined to great caution and timidity of character, rendered
him a very difficult subject for any man to wield according to his
purposes. There could be no doubt that he entertained feelings of the
most diabolical resentment and vengeance against the baronet, and yet it
was impossible to get out of him the means by which he proposed to visit
them upon him. On leaving Father M'Mahon, therefore, he experienced
a state of alternation between a resolution to make disclosures and a
determination to be silent and work out his own plans. He also feared
death, it is true: but this was only when those rare visitations of
conscience occurred that were awakened by superstition, instead of an
enlightened and Christian sense of religion. This latter was a word
he did not understand, or rather one for which he mistook superstition
itself. Be this as it may, he felt uneasy, anxious, and irresolute,
wavering between the right and the wrong, afraid to take his stand by
either, and wishing, if he could, to escape the consequences of both.
Other plans, however, were ripening as well as his, under the management
of those who were deterred by none of his cowardice or irresolution. The
consideration of this brings us to a family discussion; which it becomes
our duty to detail before we proceed any further in our narrative.

On the following day, then, nearly the same party of which we have
given an account in an early portion of this work, met in the same
eating-house we have already described; the only difference being that
instead of O'Donegan, the classical teacher, old Corbet himself was
present. The man called Thomas Corbet, the eldest son Anthony, Ginty
Cooper the fortune-teller, Ambrose Gray, and Anthony himself, composed
this interesting sederunt. The others had been assembled for some time
before the arrival of Anthony, who consequently had not an opportunity
of hearing the following brief dialogue.

“I'm afraid of my father,” observed Thomas; “he's as deep as a
draw-well, and it's impossible to know what he's at. How are we to
manage him at all?”

“By following his advice, I think,” said Ginty. “It's time, I'm sure, to
get this boy into his rights.”

“I was very well disposed to help you in that,” replied her brother;
“but of late he has led such a life, that I fear if he comes into the
property, he'll do either us or himself little credit; and what is still
worse, will he have sense to keep his own secret? My father says his
brother, the legitimate son, is dead; that he died of scarlet-fever
many years ago in the country---and I think myself, by the way, that he
looks, whenever he says it, as if he himself had furnished the boy with
the fever. That, however, is not our business. If I had been at Red
Hall, instead of keeping the house and place in town, it's a short time
the other--or Fenton as he calls himself--would be at large. He's now
undher a man that will take care of him. But indeed it's an easy task.
He'll never see his mother's face again, as I well know. Scarman has
him, and I give the poor devil about three months to live. He doesn't
allow him half food, but, on the other hand, he supplies him with more
whiskey than he can drink; and this by the baronet's own written orders.
As for you, Mr. Gray, for we may as well call you so yet awhile, your
conduct of late has been disgraceful.”

“I grant it,” replied Mr. Gray, who was now sober; “but the truth is,
I really looked, after some consideration, upon the whole plan as quite
impracticable. As the real heir, however, is dead--”

“Not the real heir, Amby, if you please. He, poor fellow, is in custody
that he will never escape from again. Upon my soul, I often pitied him.”

“How full of compassion you are!” replied his sister.

“I have very little for the baronet, however,” he replied; “and I hope
he will never die till I scald the soul in his body. Excuse me, Amby.
You know all the circumstances of the family, and, of course, that you
are the child of guilt and shame.”

“Why, yes, I'm come on the wrong side as to birth, I admit; but if I
clutch the property and title, I'll thank heaven every day I live for my
mother's frailty.”

“It was not frailty, you unfeeling boy,” replied Ginty, “so much as my
father's credulity and ambition. I was once said to be beautiful, and
he, having taken it into his head that this man, when young, might love
me, went to the expense of having me well educated. He then threw me
perpetually into his society; but I was young and artless at the time,
and believed his solemn oaths and promises of marriage.”

“And the greater villain he,” observed her brother; “for I myself did
not think there could be danger in your intimacy, because you and he
were foster-children; and, except in his case, I never knew another
throughout the length and breadth of the country, where the obligation
of that tie was forgotten.”

“Well,” observed Ambrose, “we must only make the best of our position.
If I succeed, you shall, according to our written agreement, be all
provided for. Not that I would feel very strongly disposed to do much
for that enigmatical old grandfather of mine. The vile old ferret saw
me in the lock-up the other morning, and refused to bail me out; ay, and
threatened me besides.”

“He did right,” replied his uncle; “and if you're caught there again,
I'll not only never bail you out, but wash my hands of the whole affair.
So now be warned, and let it be for your good. Listen, then; for the
case in which you stand is this: there is Miss Gourlay and Dunroe
going to be married after all; for she has returned to her father, and
consented to marry the young lord. The baronet, too, is ill, and I don't
think will live long. He is burned out like a lime-kiln; for, indeed,
like that, his whole life has been nothing but smoke and fire. Very
well; now pay attention. If we wait until these marriage articles are
drawn up, the appearance or the discovery of this heir here will create
great confusion; and you may take my word that every opposition will be
given, and every inquiry made by Dunroe, who, as there seems to be
no heir, will get the property; for it goes, in that case, with Miss
Gourlay. Every knot is more easily tied than untied. Let us produce the
heir, then, before the property's disposed of, and then we won't have
to untie the knot--to invalidate the marriage articles. So far, so
good--that's our plan. But again, there's the baronet ill; should he die
before we establish this youth's rights, think of our difficulty. And,
thirdly, he's beginning to suspect our integrity, as he is pleased to
call it. That strange gentleman, Ginty, has mentioned circumstances to
him that he says could come only from my father or myself, or you.”

“Proceed,” replied his sister, “proceed; I may look forward to the
fulfilment of these plans; but I will never live to see it.”

“You certainly are much changed for the worse,” replied her brother,
“especially since your reason has been restored to you. In the meantime,
listen. The baronet is now ill, although Gibson says there's no danger
of him; he's easier in his mind, however, in consequence of this
marriage, that he has, for life or death, set his heart on; and
altogether this is the best time to put this vagabond's pretensions
forward.”

“Thank you, uncle,” replied Ambrose, with a clouded brow. “In six months
hence, perhaps, I'll be no vagabond.”

“Ay, in sixty years hence you will; and indeed, I fear, to tell you the
truth, that you'll never be anything else. That, however, is not the
question now. We want to know what my father may say--whether he will
agree with us, or whether he can or will give us any better advice.
There is one thing, at least, we ought to respect him for; and that is,
that he gave all his family a good education, although he had but little
of that commodity himself, poor man.”

He had scarcely concluded, when old Anthony made his appearance, with
that mystical expression on his face, half sneer, half gloom, which
would lead one to conclude that his heart was divided between remorse
and vengeance.

“Well,” said he, “you're at work, I see--honestly employed, of course.
Ginty, how long is Mr. Ambrose here dead now?”

“He died,” replied her brother, “soon after the intention of changing
the children took place. You took the hint, father, from the worthy
baronet himself.”

“Ay, I did; and I wish I had not. You died, my good young fellow, of
scarlet-fever--let me see--but divil a much matther it is when you
died; it's little good you'll come to, barrin' you change your heart.
They say, indeed, the divil's children have the divil's luck; but I say,
the divil's children have the divil's face, too; for sure he's as like
the black fiend his father as one egg is to another.”

“And that will strengthen the claim,” replied the young man, with a
grin. “I don't look too old, I hope?”

“There's only two years' difference between you and the boy, your
brother, that's dead,” said his mother. “But I wish we were well through
with this. My past life seems to me like a dream. My contemplated
revenge upon that bad man, and my ambition for this boy, are the only
two principles that now sustain me. What a degraded life has Thomas
Gourlay caused me to lead! But I really think that I saw into futurity;
nay, I am certain of it; otherwise, what put hundreds of predictions
into my lips, that were verified by the event?”

There was a momentary expression of wildness in her eye as she spoke,
which the others observed with pain.

“Come, Ginty,” said her brother, “keep yourself steady now, at all
events; be cool and firm, till we punish this man. If you want to know
why you foretold so much, I'll tell you. It was because you could put
two and two together.”

“My whole life has been a blank,” she proceeded, “an empty dream--a
dead, dull level; insanity, vengeance, ambition, all jostling and
crossing each other in my unhappy mind; not a serious or reasonable
duty of life discharged; no claim on society--no station in the work of
life--an impostor to the world, and a dupe to myself; but it was he did
it. Go on; form your plans--make them firm and sure; for, by Him who
withdrew the light of reason from my spirit--by Him from whom it came, I
will have vengeance. Father, I know you well, and I am your daughter.”

“You know me well, do you?” he replied, with his usual grin. “Maybe you
do, and maybe you don't; but let us proceed. The baronet's son's dead,
you know.”

“But what makes you look as you do, father, when you say so? Your face
seems to contradict your words. You know you have told us for years that
he's dead.”

“And I'm a liar, am I?” he replied, looking at him with a peculiar
smile.

“No, I don't say so; certainly not. But, still, you squeeze your face up
in such a way that you don't seem to believe it yourself.”

“Come, come,” continued the old man, “this is all useless. What do you
intend to do? How do you intend to proceed?”

“We sent for you to advise us in that,” replied his son. “You are the
oldest and the wisest here, and of course ought to possess the soundest
judgment.”

“Well, then, my advice to you is, to go about your business; that is, to
do any lawful business that you have to do, and not to bring yourselves
to disgrace by puttin' forrid this drunken profligate, who will pitch
us all to the devil when he gets himself safe, and tread in his black
father's steps afterwards.”

“And you must assist us, father,” said Ginty, rising up, and pacing to
and fro the room in a state of great agitation. “You, the first cause,
the original author of my shame; you, to whose iniquitous avarice and
vulgar ambition I fell a sacrifice, as much as I did to the profligacy
and villany of Thomas Gourlay. But I care not--I have my ambition; it is
a mother's, and more natural on that account. I have also my vengeance
to gratify; for, father, we are your children, and vengeance is the
family principle. Father, you must assist us--you must join us--you
must lend us your perjury--supply us with false oaths, with deceitful
accounts, with all that is necessary; for, father, it is to work out
your own principles--that I may be able to die smiling--smiling that
I have overreached and punished him at last. That, you know, will be a
receipt in full for my shame and madness. Now, I say, father, you must
do this, or I will kneel down and curse you.”

The old man, as she proceeded, kept his eyes fixed upon her, first with
a look of indifference; this, however, became agreeable and complacent;
gradually his eye kindled as he caught her spirit, and when she had
concluded, he ground his black old stumps of teeth together with a
vindictive energy that was revolting, or at least would have been so to
any others unless those that were present.

“Well, Ginty,” he replied, “I have turned it over in my mind, and as
helpin' you now will be givin' the black fellow an additional stab, I'll
do it. Yes, my lad,” he added, grinning rather maliciously, by the way,
at the object of his promised support, “I will make a present of you to
your father; and a thankful man he ought to be to have the like of you.
I was sometimes for you, and sometimes against you; but, at all events,
the old fellow must have you--for the present at least.”

This was accompanied by another grin, which was, as usual, perfectly
inexplicable to the others. But as he had expressed his assent and
promised his assistance, they were glad to accept it on his own terms
and in his own way.

“Well, then,” he proceeded, “now that we've made up our minds to go
through with it, I'll think over what's to be done--what's the best
steps to take, and the best time and place to break it to him. This will
require some time to think of it, and to put things together properly;
so let us have a drop of something to drink, and we can meet again in
few days.”

Having partaken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon
afterwards separated until another opportunity.

Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is already acquainted,
took but little part, as may have been perceived, in the discussion of
a project which so deeply affected his own interests. When it was first
discovered to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at
the bare probability of such an event. Subsequent reflection, however,
induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble, that could
not bear the touch of a finger without melting into air. It was true
he was naturally cunning, but then he was also naturally profligate and
vicious; and although not without intellect, yet was he deficient
in self-command to restrain himself when necessary. Altogether, his
character was bad, and scarcely presented to any one a favorable
aspect. When affected with liquor he was at once quarrelsome and
cowardly--always the first to provoke a fight, and the first, also, to
sneak out of it.

Soon after the disappearance of Sir Edward Gourlay's heir, the notion of
removing the baronet's own son occurred, not to his mother, nor to her
brother, but to old Corbet, who desired his son Charles, then a young
man, and the baronet's foster-brother, as a preparatory step to his
ultimate designs, to inform him that his illegitimate son was dead. Sir
Thomas at this time had not assumed the title, nor taken possession of
the immense estates.

“Mr. Gourlay,” said Charles, “that child is dead; I was desired to tell
you so by my father, who doesn't wish to speak to you himself upon the
subject.”

“Well,” replied Mr. Gourlay, “what affair is that of mine?”

“Why,” said the other, “as the unfortunate mother is insane, and
without means of providing decently for its burial, he thinks it only
reasonable that you should furnish money for that purpose--he, I know,
won't.”

“What do you mean by providing decently?” asked Mr. Gourlay. “What stuff
that is!--throw the brat into a shell, and bury it. I am cursedly glad
it's gone. There's half-a-crown, and pitch it into the nearest kennel.
Why the deuce do you come to me with such a piece of information?”

Charles Corbet, being his father's son, looked at him, and we need
not at any length describe the nature of that look nor the feeling it
conveyed. This passed, but was not forgotten; and on being detailed by
Charles Corbet to his father, the latter replied,

“Ah, the villain--that's his feelin', is it! Well, never mind, I'll
punish him one day.”

Some months after this he came into Mr. Gourlay's study, with a very
solemn and anxious face, and said,

“I have something to say to you, sir.”

“Well, Anthony, what is it you have to say to me?”

“Maybe I'm wrong, sir, and I know I oughtn't to alarm you or disturb
your mind; but still I think I ought to put you on your guard.”

“Confound your caution, sir; can't you come out with whatever you have
to say at once?”

“Would it be possible, sir, that there could be any danger of the child
bein' taken away like the other--like your brother's?”

“What do you mean--why do you ask such a question?”

“Bekaise, sir, I observed for the last few days a couple of strange men
peepin' and pimpin' about the place, and wherever the child went they
kept dodgin' afther him.”

“But why should any one think of taking him away?”

“Hem!--well, I don't know, sir; but you know that the heir was taken
away.”

“Come, Anthony, be quiet--walls have ears; go on.”

“What 'ud you think if there was sich a thing as revinge in the world?
I'm not suspectin' any one, but at the same time, a woman's revinge
is the worst and deepest of all revinges. You know very well that she
suspects you--and, indeed, so does the world.”

“But very wrongly, you know, Anthony,” replied the baronet, with a smile
dark as murder.

“Why, ay, to be sure,” replied the instrument, squirting the tobacco
spittle into the fire, and turning on him a grin that might be
considered a suitable commentary upon the smile of his employer.

“But,” added Mr. Gourlay, “what if it should be the father, instead of
the son, they want?”

“But why would they be dodgin' about the child, sir?”

“True; it is odd enough. Well, I shall give orders to have him well
watched.”

“And, with the help o' God, I'll put a mark upon him that'll make him
be known, at any rate, through all changes, barrin' they should take his
life.”

“How do you mean by a mark!” asked the other.

“I learnt it in the army, sir, when I was with Sir Edward. It's done by
gunpowder. It can do no harm, and will at any time durin' his life make
him known among millions. It can do no harm, at any rate, sir.”

“Very well, Anthony--very well,” replied Mr. Gourlay; “mark him as you
like, and when it is done, let me see it.”

In about a fortnight afterwards, old Corbet brought his son to him, and
raising his left arm, showed him the child's initials distinctly marked
on the under part of it, together with a cross and the family crest; all
so plainly and neatly executed, that the father was surprised at it.

Nothing, however, happened at that time; vigilance began to relax as
suspicion diminished, until one morning, about eight months afterwards,
it was found that the child had disappeared. It is unnecessary to add,
that every possible step was taken to discover him. Searches were made,
the hue and cry was up, immense rewards were offered; but all in vain.
From that day forth neither trace nor tidings of him could be found, and
in the course of time he was given up, like the heir of the property,
altogether for lost.




CHAPTER XXXII. Discovery of the Baronet's Son

--Who, however, is Shelved for a Time.


Lord Dunroe, as had already been agreed upon between him and her father,
went directly to that worthy gentleman, that he might make a faithful
report of the interview.

“Well, Dunroe,” said the baronet, “what's the news? How did it go off?”

“Just as we expected,” replied the other. “Vapors, entreaties, and
indignation. I give you my honor, she asked me to become her advocate
with you, in order to get released from the engagement. That was rather
cool, wasn't it?”

“And what did you say?”

“Why, the truth is, I conducted the affair altogether on a new
principle. I maintained that love should not be a necessary element in
marriage; vindicated the rights of honest indifference, and said that it
was against my system to marry any woman who was attached to me.”

“Why, I remember preaching some such doctrine, in a bantering way, to
her myself.”

“Guided by this theory, I met her at every turn; but, nevertheless,
there was a good deal of animated expostulation, tears, solicitations,
and all that.”

“I fear you have mismanaged the matter some way; if you have followed
my advice, and done it with an appearance of common sense, so much the
better. This would have required much tact, for Lucy is a girl very
difficult to be imposed upon by appearances. I am the only person who
can do so, but! that is because I approach her aided by my knowledge of
her filial affection. As it is, however, these things are quite common.
My own wife felt much the same way with myself, and yet we lived as
happily as most people. Every young baggage must have her scenes and her
sacrifices. Ah! what a knack they have got at magnifying everything! How
do you do, my Lady Dunroe? half a dozen times repeated, however, will
awaken her vanity, and banish all this girlish rodomontade.”

“'Room for the Countess of Cullamore,' will soon follow,” replied his
lordship, laughing, “and that will be still better. The old peer, as
Norton and I call him, is near the end of his journey, and will make his
parting bow to us some of these days.”

“Did she actually consent, though?” asked the father, somewhat
doubtfully.

“Positively, Sir Thomas; make your mind easy upon that point. To be
sure, there were protestations and entreaties, and God knows what; but
still the consent was given.”

“Exactly, exactly,” replied her father; “I knew it would be so. Well,
now, let us not lose much time about it. I told those lawyers to wait a
little for further instructions, because I was anxious to hear how this
interview would end, feeling some apprehension that she might relapse
into obstinacy; but now that she has consented, we shall go on. They may
meet to-morrow, and get the necessary writings drawn up; and then for
the wedding.”

“Will not my father's illness stand a little in the way?” asked Dunroe.

“Not a bit; why should it? But he really is not ill, only getting feeble
and obstinate. The man is in his dotage. I saw him yesterday, and he
refused, most perversely, to sanction the marriage until some facts
shall come to his knowledge, of which he is not quite certain at
present. I told him the young people would not wait; and he replied,
that if I give you my daughter now, I shall do so at my peril; and
that I may consider myself forewarned. I know he is thinking of your
peccadilloes, my lord, for he nearly told me as much before. I think,
indeed, he is certainly doting, otherwise there is no understanding
him.”

“You are light, Sir Thomas; the fuss he makes about morality and
religion is a proof that he is. In the meantime, I agree with you
that there is little time to be lost. The lawyers must set to work
immediately; and the sooner the better, for I am naturally impatient.”

They then shook hands very cordially, and Dunroe took his leave.

The reader may have observed that in this conversation the latter
reduced his account of the interview to mere generalities, a mode of
reporting it which was agreeable to both, as it spared each of them
some feeling. Dunroe, for instance, never mentioned a syllable of Lucy's
having frankly avowed her passion for another; neither did Sir Thomas
make the slightest allusion to the settled disinclination to marry
him which he knew she all along felt. Indifferent, however, as Dunroe
naturally was to high-minded feeling or principle, he could not
summon courage to dwell upon this attachment of Lucy to another.
A consciousness of his utter meanness and degradation of spirit in
consenting to marry any woman under such circumstances, filled him with
shame even to glance at it. He feared, besides, that if her knavish
father had heard it, he would at once have attributed his conduct to its
proper motives--that is to say, an eagerness to get into the possession
and enjoyment of the large fortune to which she was entitled. He
himself, in his conversations with the baronet, never alluded to the
subject of dowry, but placed his anxiety for the match altogether to the
account of love. So far, then, each was acting a fraudulent part toward
the other.

The next morning, about the hour of eleven o'clock, Thomas
Corbet--foster-brother to the baronet, though a much younger man--sent
word that he wished to see him on particular business. This was quite
sufficient; for, as Corbet was known to be more deeply in his confidence
than any other man living, he was instantly admitted.

“Well, Corbet,” said his master, “I hope there is nothing wrong.”

“Sir Thomas,” replied the other, “you have a right to be a happy and
a thankful man this morning; and although I cannot mention the joyful
intelligence with which I am commissioned, without grief and shame for
the conduct of a near relation of my own, yet I feel this to be the
happiest day of my life.”

“What the deuce!” exclaimed the baronet, starting to his feet--“how is
this? What is the intelligence?”

“Rejoice, Sir Thomas--rejoice and be thankful; but, in the meantime,
pray sit down, if you please, and don't be too much agitated. I know
how evil news, or anything that goes in opposition to your will, affects
you: the two escapes, for instance, of that boy.”

“Ha! I understand you now,” exclaimed the baronet, whilst the very eyes
danced in his head with a savage delight that was frightful, and, for
the sake of human nature, painful to look upon, “I understand you now,
Corbet--he is dead! eh? Is it not so? Yes, yes--it is--it is true. Well,
you shall have a present of one hundred pounds for the intelligence. You
shall, and that in the course of five minutes.”

“Sir Thomas,” replied Corbet, calmly, “have patience; the person, Fenton,
you speak about, is still alive; but to all intents and purposes,
dead to you and for you. This, however, is another and a far different
affair. Your son has been found!”

The baronet's brow fell: he looked grave, and more like a man
disappointed than anything else. In fact, the feeling associated with
the recovery of his son was not strong enough to balance or counteract
that which he experienced in connection with the hoped-for death of the
other. He recovered himself, however, and exclaimed,

“Found! Tom found!--little Tom found! My God! When--where--how?”

“Have the goodness to sit down, sir,” replied Corbet, “and I will tell
you.”

The baronet took a seat, but the feeling of disappointment, although
checked by the intelligence of his son, was not extinguished, and could
still be read in his countenance. He turned his eyes upon Corbet and
said,

“Well, Corbet, go on; he is not dead, though?”

“No, sir; thank God, he is not.”

“Who--who--are you speaking of? Oh, I forgot--proceed. Yes, Corbet, you
are right; I am very much disturbed. Well, speak about my son. Where
is he? In what condition of life? Is he a gentleman--a beggar--a
profligate--what?”

“You remember, Sir Thomas--hem--you remember that unfortunate affair
with my sister?”

Corbet's face became deadly pale as he spoke, and his voice grew, by
degrees, hollow and husky; yet he was both calm and cool, as far, at
least, as human observation could form a conjecture.

“Of course I do; it was a painful business; but the girl was a fool for
losing her senses.”

“Hear me, Sir Thomas. When her child died, you may remember my father
sent me to you, as its parent, for the means of giving it decent
interment. You cannot forget your words to me on that occasion. I
confess I felt them myself as very offensive. What, then, must his
mother have suffered--wild, unsettled, and laboring, as she was, under a
desperate sense of the injury she had experienced at your hands?”

“But why have mentioned it to her?”

“I confess I was wrong there; but I did so to make her feel more
severely the consequences of her own conduct. I did it more in anger
to her than to you. My words, however, instead of producing violence
or outrage on my sister, seemed to make her settle down into a fearful
silence, which none of us could get her out of for several days. It
struck us that her unfortunate malady had taken a new turn, and so it
did.”

“Well? Well? Well?”

“Soon after that, your son, Master Thomas, disappeared. You may
understand me now: it was she who took him.”

“Ah! the vindictive vagabond!” exclaimed the baronet.

“Have patience, Sir Thomas. She took your little boy with no kind
intention toward him: her object was to leave you without a son; her
object, in fact, was, at first, to murder him, in consequence of your
want, as she thought, of all paternal affection for him she had just
lost, and, in short, of your whole conduct toward her. The mother's
instinct, however, proved stronger than her revenge. She could not take
away the child's life for the thought of her own; but she privately
placed him with an uncle of ours, a classical hedge-school-master, in a
remote part of the kingdom, with whom he lived under a feigned name, and
from whom he received a good education.”

“But where is he now?” asked the other. “How does he live? Why not bring
him here?”

“He must first wait your pleasure, you know, Sir Thomas. He's in town,
and has been in town for some time, a student in college.”

“That's very good, indeed; we must have him out of college, though. Poor
Lucy will go distracted with joy, to know that she has now a brother.
Bring him here, Corbet; but stop, stay--his appearance now--let me
see--caution, Corbet--caution. We must look before us. Miss Gourlay, you
know, is about to be married. Dunroe, I understand; he cares little or
nothing personally about the girl--it is her fortune, but principally
her inheritance, he loves. It is true, he doesn't think that I even
suspect this, much less feel certain of it. How does the young fellow
look, though? Good looking--eh?”

“Exceedingly like his father, sir; as you will admit on seeing him.”

“He must have changed considerably, then; for I remember he was supposed
to bear a nearer resemblance to his mother and her family, the only
thing which took him down a little in my affection. But hold; hang it,
I am disturbed more than I have been this long time. What was I speaking
of, Corbet? I forgot--by the way, I hope this is not a bad sign of my
health.”

“You were talking of Dunroe, sir, and Miss Gourlay's marriage.”

“Oh, yes, so I was. Well--yes--here it is, Corbet--is it not
possible that the appearance of this young man at this particular
crisis--stepping in, as he does, between Dunroe and the very property
his heart is set upon--might knock the thing to pieces? and there is
all that I have had my heart set upon for years--that grand project of
ambition for my daughter--gone to the winds, and she must put up with
some rascally commoner, after all.”

“It is certainly possible, sir; and, besides, every one knows that Lord
Dunroe is needy, and wants money at present very much.”

“In any event, Corbet, it is our best policy to keep this discovery
a profound secret till after the marriage, when it can't affect Miss
Gourlay, or Lady Dunroe as she will then be.”

“Indeed, I agree with you, Sir Thomas; but, in the meantime, you had
better see your son; he is impatient to come to you and his sister. It
was only last night that the secret of his birth was made known to him.”

“By what name does he go?”

“By the name of Ambrose Gray, sir; but I cannot tell you why my sister
gave him such a name, nor where she got it. She was at the time very
unsettled. Of late her reason has returned to her very much, thank God,
although she has still touches of her unfortunate complaint; but they
are slight, and are getting more so every time they come. I trust she
will soon be quite well.”

The baronet fixed his eye upon the speaker with peculiar steadiness.

“Corbet,” said he, “you know you have lost a great deal of my confidence
of late. The knowledge of certain transactions which reached that
strange fellow who stopped in the Mitre, you were never able to account
for.”

“And never will, sir, I fear; I can make nothing of that.”

“It must be between you and your father, then; and if I thought so--”

He paused, however, but feared to proceed with anything in the shape of
a threat, feeling that, so far as the fate of poor Fenton was concerned,
he still lay at their mercy.

“It may have been my father, Sir Thomas, and I am inclined to think it
must, too, as there was no one else could. Our best plan, however, is to
keep quiet and not provoke him. A very short time will put us out of his
power. Fenton's account with this world is nearly settled.”

“I wish, with all my heart, it was closed,” observed the other; “it's a
dreadful thing to feel that you are liable to every accident, and never
beyond the reach of exposure. To me such a thing would be death.”

“You need entertain no apprehension, Sir Thomas. The young man is safe,
at last; he will never come to light, you may rest assured. But about
your son--will you not see him?”

“Certainly; order the carriage, and fetch; him--quietly and as secretly
as you can, observe--his sister must see him, too; and in order to
prepare her, I must first see her. Go now, and lose no time about it.”

“There is no necessity for a carriage, Sir Thomas; I can have him here
in a quarter of an hour.”

Sir Thomas went to the drawing-room with the expectation of finding Lucy
there--a proof that the discovery of his son affected him very much, and
deeply; for, in general his habit when he wanted to speak with her was
to have her brought to the library, which was his favorite apartment.
She was not there, however, and without ringing, or making any further
inquiries, he proceeded to an elegant little boudoir, formerly occupied
by her mother and herself, before this insane persecution had rendered
her life so wretched. The chief desire of her heart now was to look at
and examine and contemplate every object that belonged to that mother,
or in which she ever took an interest. On this account, she had of late
selected this boudoir as her favorite apartment; and here, lying asleep
upon a sofa, her cheek resting upon one arm, the baronet found her. He
approached calmly, and with a more extraordinary combination of feelings
than perhaps he had ever experienced in his life, looked upon her; and
whether it was the unprotected helplessness of sleep, or the mournful
impress of suffering and sorrow, that gave such a touching charm to her
beauty, or whether it was the united influence of both, it is difficult
to say; but the fact was, that for an instant he felt one touch of pity
at his heart.

“She is evidently unhappy,” thought he, as he contemplated her; “and
that face, lovely as it is, has become the exponent of misery and
distress. Goodness me! how wan she is! how pale! and how distinctly do
those beautiful blue veins run through her white and death-like temples!
Perhaps, after all, I am wrong in urging on this marriage. But what can
I do? I have no fixed principle from any source sufficiently authentic
to guide me; no creed which I can believe. This life is everything to
us; for what do we know, what can we know, of another? And yet, could
it be that for my indifference to what is termed revealed truth, God
Almighty is now making me the instrument of my own punishment? But
how can I receive this doctrine? for here, before my eyes, is not the
innocent suffering as much, if not more, than the guilty, even granting
that I am so? And if I am perversely incredulous, is not here my son
restored to me, as if to reward my unbelief? It is a mysterious maze,
and I shall never get out of it; a curse to know that the most we
can ever know is, that we know--nothing. Yet I will go on with this
marriage. Pale as that brow is, I must see it encircled by the coronet
of a countess; I must see her, as she ought to be, high in rank as she
is in truth, in virtue, in true dignity. I shall force the world to make
obeisance to her; and I shall teach her afterwards to despise it. She
once said to me, 'And is it to gain the applause of a world you hate
and despise, that you wish to exalt me to such a bawble?'--meaning the
coronet. I replied, 'Yes, and for that very reason.' I shall not now
disturb her.”

He was about to leave the room, when he! noticed that her bosom
began suddenly and rapidly to heave, as if by some strong and fearful
agitation; and a series of close, pain-fed sobbings proceeded from her
half-closed lips. This tumult went on for a little, when at length
it was terminated by one long, wild scream, that might be supposed to
proceed from the very agony of despair itself; and opening her eyes,
she started up, her! face, if possible, paler than before, and her eyes
filled as if with the terror of some horrible vision.

“No,” she said, “the sacrifice is complete--I am your wife; but there is
henceforth an eternal gulf between us, across which you shall never drag
me.”

On gazing about her with wild and disturbed looks, she paused for
moment, and, seeing her father, she rose up, and with a countenance
changed from its wildness to one in which was depicted an expression so
woe-begone, so deplorable, so full of sorrow, that it was scarcely in
human nature, hardened into the induration of the world's worst
spirit, not to feel its irresistible influence. She then threw her arms
imploringly and tenderly about his neck, and looking into his eyes as
if she were supplicating for immortal salvation at his hands, she said,
“Oh, papa, have compassion on me.”

“What's the matter, Lucy? what's the matter, my love?”

But she only repeated the words, “Oh, papa, have pity on me! have mercy
on me, papa! Save me from destruction--from despair--from madness!”

“You don't answer me, child. You have been dreaming, and are not
properly awake.”

Still, however, the arms--the beautiful arms--clung around his neck; and
still the mournful supplication was repeated.

“Oh, papa, have pity upon me! Look at me! Am I not your daughter? Have
mercy upon your daughter, papa!” And still she clung to him; and still
those eyes, from which the tears now flowed in torrents, were imploring
him, and gazing through his into the very soul within him; then she
kissed his lips, and hung upon him as upon her last stay; and the soft
but melting accents were again breathed mournfully and imploringly
as before. “Oh, have pity upon me, beloved papa--have pity upon your
child!”

“What do you mean, Lucy? what are you asking, my dear girl? I am willing
to do anything I can to promote your happiness. What is it you want?”

“I fear to tell you, papa; but surely you understand me. Oh, relent! as
you hope for heaven's mercy, pity me. I have, for your sake, undertaken
too much. I have not strength to fulfil the task I imposed on myself. I
will die; you will see me dead at your feet, and then your last one will
be gone. You will be alone; and I should wish to live for your sake,
papa. Look upon me! I am your only child--your only child--your
last, as I said; and do not make your last and only one
miserable--miserable--mad! Only have compassion on me, and release me
from this engagement.”

The baronet's eye brightened at the last two or three allusions, and
he looked upon her with a benignity that filled her unhappy heart with
hope.

“Oh, speak, papa,” she exclaimed, “speak. I see, I feel that you are
about to give me comfort--to fill my heart with joy.”

“I am, indeed, Lucy. Listen to me, and restrain yourself. You are not my
only child!”

“What!” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, papa? What is it?”

“Have strength and courage, Lucy; and, mark me, no noise nor rout
about what I am going to say. Your brother is found--my son Thomas is
found--and you will soon see him; he will be here presently. Get rid of
this foolish dream you've had, and prepare to receive him!”

“My brother!” she exclaimed, “my brother! and have I a brother? Then God
has not deserted me; I shall now have a friend. My brother!--my brother!
But is it possible, or am I dreaming still? Oh, where is he, papa? Bring
me to him!--is he in the house? Or where is he? Let the carriage be
ordered, and we will both go to him. Alas, what may not the poor boy
have suffered! What privations, what necessities, what distress and
destitution may he not have suffered! But that matters little; come to
him. In want, in rags, in misery, he is welcome--yes, welcome; and, oh,
how much more if he has suffered.”

“Have patience, child; he will be here by and by. You cannot long to
see him more than I do. But, Lucy, listen to me; for the present we must
keep his discovery and restoration to us a profound secret.”

“A profound secret! and why so, papa? Why should we keep it secret? Is
it not a circumstance which we should publish to the world with delight
and gratitude? Surely you will not bring him into this house like a
criminal, in secrecy and silence? Should the lawful heir of your name
and property be suffered to enter otherwise than as becomes him? Oh,
that I could see him! Will he soon be here?”

“How your tongue runs on, you foolish girl, without knowing what you
say.”

“I know what I say, papa. I know--I feel--that he will be a friend to
me--that he will share with me in my sorrows.”

“Yes, the sorrows of being made a countess.”

“And a wretched woman, papa. Yes, he will sympathize with, sustain, and
console me. Dear, dear brother, how I wish to see you, to press you to
my heart, and to give you a sister's tenderest welcome!”

“Will you hear me, madam?” said he, sternly; “I desire you to do so.”

“Yes, papa; excuse me. My head is in a tumult of joy and sorrow; but for
the present I will forget myself. Yes, papa, speak on; I hear you.”

“In the first place, then, it is absolutely necessary, for reasons which
I am not yet at liberty to disclose to you, that the discovery of this
boy should be kept strictly secret for a time.”

“For a time, papa, but not long, I hope. How proud I shall feel to go
out with him. We shall be inseparable; and if he wants instructions, I
shall teach him everything I know.”

“Arrange all that between you as you may, only observe me, I repeat.
None in this house knows of his restoration but I, yourself, and Corbet.
He must not live here; but he shall want neither the comforts nor the
elegancies of life, at all events. This is enough for the present, so
mark my words, and abide by them.”

He then left her, and retired to his private room, where he unlocked a
cabinet, from which he took out some papers, and having added to them
two or three paragraphs, he read the whole over, from beginning to end,
then locked them up again, and returned to the library.

The reader may perceive that this unexpected discovery enabled the
baronet to extricate himself from a situation of much difficulty with
respect to Lucy; nor did he omit to avail himself of it, in order to
give a new turn to her feelings. The affectionate girl's heart was now
in a tumult of delight, checked, however, so obviously by the gloomy
retrospection of the obligation she had imposed upon herself, that from
time to time she could not repress those short sobs by which recent
grief, as in the case of children who are soothed after crying, is
frequently indicated. Next to the hated marriage, however, that which
pressed most severely upon her was the recollection of the manly and
admirable qualities of him whom she had now forever lost, especially
as contrasted with those of Dunroe. The former, for some time past, has
been much engaged in attempting to trace Fenton, as well as in business
connected with his own fortunes; and yet so high was his feeling of
generosity and honor, that, if left to the freedom of his own will, he
would have postponed every exertion for the establishment of his just
rights until death should have prevented at least one honored individual
from experiencing the force of the blow which must necessarily be
inflicted on him by his proceedings.

At the moment when the baronet was giving such an adroit turn to the
distracted state of his daughter's mind, the stranger resolved to see
Birney, who was then preparing to visit France, as agent in his affairs,
he himself having preferred staying near Lucy, from an apprehension that
his absence might induce Sir Thomas Gourlay to force on her marriage. On
passing through the hall of his hotel, he met his friend Father M'Mahon,
who, much to his surprise, looked careworn and perplexed, having
lost, since he saw him last, much of his natural cheerfulness and easy
simplicity of character. He looked travel-stained, too, and altogether
had the appearance of a man on whose kind heart something unpleasant was
pressing.

“My excellent friend,” said he, “I am heartily glad to see you. But
how is this? you look as if something was wrong, and you have been
travelling. Come upstairs; and if you have any lengthened stay to make
in town, consider yourself my guest. Nay, as it is, you must stop with
me. Here, Dandy--here, you Dulcimer, bring in this gentleman's luggage,
and attend him punctually.”

Dandy, who had been coming from the kitchen at the time, was about to
comply with his orders, when he was prevented by the priest.

“Stop, Dandy, you thief. My luggage, sir! In truth, the only luggage I
have is this bundle under my arm. As to my time in town, sir, I hope
it won't be long; but, long or short, I must stop at my ould place, the
Brazen Head, for not an hour's comfort I could have in any other place,
many thanks to you. I'm now on my way to it; but I thought I'd give you
a call when passing.”

They then proceeded upstairs to the stranger's room, where breakfast was
soon provided for the priest, who expressed an anxiety to know how the
stranger's affairs proceeded, and whether any satisfactory trace of poor
Fenton had been obtained.

“Nothing satisfactory has turned up in either case,” replied the
stranger. “No additional clew to the poor young fellow has been got, and
still my own affairs are far from being complete. The loss of important
documents obtained by myself in France will render it necessary for
Birney to proceed to that country, in order to procure fresh copies. I
had intended to accompany him myself; but I have changed my mind on that
point, and prefer remaining where I am. A servant in whom I had every
confidence, but who, unfortunately, took to drink, and worse vices,
robbed me of them, and has fled to America, with a pretty Frenchwoman,
after having abandoned his wife.”

“Ay, ay,” replied the priest, “that is the old story; first drink,
and after that wickedness of every description. Ah, sir, it's a poor
wretched world; but at the same time it is as God made it; and it
becomes our duty to act an honest and a useful part in it, at all
events.”

“You seemed depressed, sir, I think,” observed the stranger; “I hope
there is nothing wrong. If there is, command my services, my friendship,
my purse; in each, in all, command me.”

“Many thanks, many thanks,” returned the other, seizing him warmly by
the hand, whilst the tears fell from his eyes. “I wish there were more
in the world like you. There is nothing wrong with me, however, but what
I will be able, I hope, to set right soon.”

“I trust you will not allow any false delicacy to stand in your way, so
far as I am concerned,” said the stranger. “I possess not only the wish
but the ability to serve you; and if--”

“Not now,” replied the priest; “nothing to signify is wrong with me.
God bless you, though, and he will, too, and prosper your honorable
endeavors. I must go now: I have to call on old Corbet, and if I can
influence him to assist you in tracing that poor young man, I will do
it. He is hard and cunning, I know; but then he is not insensible to
the fear of death, which, indeed, is the only argument likely to prevail
with him.”

“You should dine with me to-day,” said his friend, “but that I am myself
engaged to dine with Dean Palmer, where I am to meet the colonel of
the Thirty-third, and some of the officers. It is the first time I have
dined out since I came to the country. The colonel is an old friend of
mine, and can be depended on.”

“The dean is a brother-in-law of Lady Gourlay's, is he not?”

“He is.”

“Yes, and what is better still, he is an excellent man, and a good
Christian. I wish there were more like him in the country. I know the
good done by him in my own neighborhood, where he has established, by
his individual exertions, two admirable institutions for the poor--a
savings' bank and a loan fund--to the manifest, relief of every
struggling man who is known to be industrious and honest; and see the
consequences--he is loved and honored by all who know him, for he is
perpetually doing good.”

“Your own bishop is not behindhand in offices of benevolence and
charity, any more than Dean Palmer,” observed the stranger.

“In truth, you may say so,” replied, the other. “With the piety and
humility of an apostle, he possesses the most childlike simplicity of
heart; to which I may add, learning the most profound and extensive. His
private charity to the poor will always cause himself to be ranked among
their number. I wish every dean and bishop in the two churches resembled
the Christian men we speak of; it would be well for the country.”

“Mr. Birney, I know, stands well with you. I believe, and I take it for
granted, that he does also with the people.”

“You may be certain of that, my dear sir. He is one of the few attorneys
who is not a rogue, but, what is still more extraordinary, an honest man
and an excellent landlord. I will tell you, now, what he did some time
ago. He has property, you know, in my parish. On that property an arrear
of upwards of eight hundred pounds had accumulated. Now, this arrear,
in consideration of the general depression in the value of agricultural
produce, he not only wiped off, but abated the rents ten per cent.
Again, when a certain impost, which shall be nameless (tithe), became
a settled charge upon the lands, under a composition act, instead of
charging it against the tenants, he paid it himself, never calling upon
a tenant to pay one farthing of it. Now, I mention these things as an
example to be held up and imitated by those who hold landed property in
general, many of whom, the Lord knows, require such an example badly;
but I must not stop here. Our friend Birney has done more than this.

“For the last fifteen years he has purchased for and supplied his
tenants with flaxseed, and for which, at the subsequent gale time, in
October, they merely repay him the cost price, without interest or any
other charge save that of carriage.

“He also gives his tenantry, free of all charges, as much turf-bog as is
necessary for the abundant supply of their own fuel.

“He has all along paid the poor-rates, without charging one farthing to
the tenant.

“During a season of potato blight, he forgave every tenant paying under
ten pounds, half a year's rent; under twenty, a quarter's rent; and over
it, twenty per cent. Now, it is such landlords as this that are the best
benefactors to the people, to the country, and ultimately to themselves;
but, unfortunately, we cannot get them to think so; and I fear that
nothing but the iron scourge of necessity will ever teach them their
duty, and then, like most other knowledge derived from the same painful
source, it will probably come too late. One would imagine a landlord
ought to know without teaching, that, when he presses his tenantry until
they fall, he must himself fall with them. In truth, I must be off now.”

“Well, then, promise to dine with me tomorrow.”

“If I can I will, then, with pleasure; but still it may be out of my
power. I'll try, however. What's your hour?”

“Suit your own convenience: name it yourself.”

“Good honest old five o'clock, then; that is, if I can come at all, but
if I cannot, don't be disappointed. The Lord knows I'll do everything in
my power to come, at any rate; and if I fail, it won't be my heart that
will hinder me.”

When he had gone, the stranger, after a pause, rang his bell, and in a
few moments Dandy Dulcimer made his appearance.

“Dandy,” said his master, “I fear we are never likely to trace this
woman, Mrs. Norton, whom I am so anxious to find.”

“Begad, plaise your honor, and it isn't but there's enough of them to be
had. Sure it's a levy I'm houldin' every day in the week wid them, and
only that I'm engaged, as they say, I'd be apt to turn some o' them into
Mrs. Dulcimer.”

“How is that, Dandy?”

“Why, sir, I gave out that you're young and handsome, God pardon me.”

“How, sirra,” said his master, laughing, “do you mean to say that I am
not?”

“Well, sir, wait till you hear, and then you may answer yourself; as for
me, afther what I've seen, I'll not undertake to give an opinion on the
subject. I suppose I'm an ugly fellow myself, and yet I know a sartin
fair one that's not of that opinion--ahem!”

“Make yourself intelligible in the meantime,” said his master: “I don't
properly understand you.”

“That's just what the Mrs. Nortons say, your honor. 'I don't understand
you, sir;' and that is bekaise you keep me in the dark, and that I can't
explain to them properly what you want; divil a thing but an oracle
you've made of me. But as to beauty--only listen, sir. This mornin'
there came a woman to me wid a thin, sharp face, a fiery eye that looked
as if she had a drop in it, or was goin' to fight a north-wester, and a
thin, red nose that was nothing else than a stunner. She was, moreover,
a good deal of the gentleman on the upper lip--not to mention two or
three separate plantations of the same growth on different parts of the
chin. Altogether, I was very much struck with her appearance.”

“You are too descriptive, Dandy,” said his master, after enjoying the
description, however; “come to the point.”

“Ay, that's just what she said,” replied Dandy, “coaxing the point
of her nose wid her finger and thumb: 'Come to the point,' said she;
'mention the services your master requires from me.'

“'From you,' says I, lookin' astonished, as you may suppose--'from you,
ma'am?'

“'Yes, my good man, from me; I'm Mrs. Norton.'

“'Are you indeed, ma'am?' says I; 'I hope you're well, Mrs. Norton. My
master will be delighted to see you.'

“'What kind of a man is he?' she asked.

“'Young and handsome, ma'am,' says I; 'quite a janious in beauty.'

“'Well,' says my lady, 'so far so good; I'm young and handsome myself,
as you see, and I dare say we'll live happily enough together;' and as
she spoke, she pushed up an old bodice that was tied round something
that resembled a dried skeleton, which it only touched at points, like
a reel in a bottle, strivin', of course, to show off a good figure; she
then winked both eyes, as if she was meetin' a cloud o' dust, and agin
shuttin' one, as if she was coverin' me wid a rifle, whispered, 'You'll
find me generous maybe, if you desarve it. I'll increase your allowances
afther our marriage.'

“'Thanks, ma'am,' says I, 'but my masther isn't a marryin'
man--unfortunately, he is married; still,' says I, recoverin'
myself--for it struck me that she might be the right woman, afther
all--'although he's married, his wife's an invalid; so that it likely
you may be the lady still. Were you ever in France, ma'am?'

“'No,' says she, tossing up the stunner I spoke of, 'I never was in
Prance; but I was in Tipperary, if that would sarve him.'

“I shook my head, your honor, as much as to say--'It's no go this time.'

“'Ma'am,' says I, 'that's unfortunate--my masther, when he gets a loose
leg, will never marry any woman that has not been in France, and can
dance the fandango like a Frenchman.'

“'I am sorry for his taste,' says she, 'and for yours, too; but at
all events, you had better go up and tell him that I'll walk down the
opposite side of the street, and then he can see what he has lost, and
feel what France has cost him.'

“She then walked, sir, or rather sailed, down the other side of the
street, holdin' up her clothes behind, to show a pair of legs like
telescopes, with her head to it's full height, and one eye squintin' to
the hotel, like a crow lookin' into a marrow bone.”

“Well,” said his master, “but I don't see the object of all this.”

“Why, the object, sir, is to show you that it's not so aisy to know
whether a person's young and handsome or not. You, sir, think yourself
both; and so did the old skeleton I'm spakin' of.”

“I see your moral, Dandy,” replied his master, laughing; “at all events,
make every possible inquiry, but, at the same time, in a quiet way. More
depends upon it than you can imagine. Not,” he added, in a kind of
half soliloquy, “that I am acting in this affair from motives of a mere
personal nature; I am now only the representative of another's wishes,
and on that account, more than from any result affecting myself, do I
proceed in it.”

“I wish I knew, sir,” said Dandy, “what kind of a woman this Mrs. Norton
is; whether she's old or young, handsome or otherwise. At all events,
I think I may confine myself to them that's young and handsome. It's
always pleasanter, sir, and more agreeable to deal with a hands--”

“Confine yourself to truth, sir,” replied his master, sharply;
“make prudent inquiries, and in doing so act like a man of sense and
discretion, and don't attempt to indulge in your buffoonery at my
expense. No woman named Norton can be the individual I want to find, who
has not lived for some years in France. That is a sufficient test; and
if you should come in the way of the woman I am seeking, who alone
can answer this description, I shall make it worth your while to have
succeeded.”




CHAPTER XXXIII. The Priest asks for a Loan of Fifty Guineas

--and Offers “Freney the Robber” as Security.


Whilst Father M'Mahon was wending his way to Constitution Hill from the
Brazen Head, where he had deposited his little bundle, containing three
shirts, two or three cravats, and as many pairs of stockings, a dialogue
was taking place in old Corbet's with which we must make the reader
acquainted. He is already aware that Corbet's present wife was his
second, and that she had a daughter by her first marriage, who had gone
abroad to the East Indies, many years ago, with her husband. This woman
was no other than Mrs. M'Bride, wife of the man who had abandoned her
for the French girl, as had been mentioned by the stranger to Father
M'Mahon, and who had, as was supposed, eloped with her to America. Such
certainly was M'Bride's intention, and there is no doubt that the New
World would have been edified by the admirable example of these two
moralists, were it not for the fact that Mrs. M'Bride, herself as shrewd
as the Frenchwoman, and burdened with as little honesty as the husband,
had traced them to the place of rendezvous on the very first night of
their disappearance; where, whilst they lay overcome with sleep and the
influence of the rosy god, she contrived to lessen her husband of the
pocketbook which he had helped himself to from his master's escritoire,
with the exception, simply, of the papers in question, which, not being
money, possessed in her eyes but little value to her. She had read them,
however; and as she had through her husband become acquainted with their
object, she determined on leaving them in his hands, with a hope that
they might become the means of compromising matters with his master,
and probably of gaining a reward for their restoration. Unfortunately,
however, it so happened, that that gentleman did not miss them until
some time after his arrival in Ireland; but, on putting matters
together, and comparing the flight of M'Bride with the loss of his
property, he concluded, with everything short of certainty, that the
latter was the thief.

Old Corbet and this woman were seated in the little back parlor whilst
Mrs. Corbet kept the shop, so that their conversation could take a freer
range in her absence.

“And so you tell me, Kate,” said the former, “that the vagabond has come
back to the country?”

“I seen him with my own eyes,” she replied; “there can be no mistake
about it.”

“And he doesn't suspect you of takin' the money from him?”

“No more than he does you; so far from that, I wouldn't be surprised if
it's the Frenchwoman he suspects.”

“But hadn't you better call on him? that is, if you know where he lives.
Maybe he's sorry for leavin' you.”

“He, the villain! No; you don't know the life he led me. If he was my
husband--as unfortunately he is--a thousand times over, a single day
I'll never live with him. This lameness, that I'll carry to my grave, is
his work. Oh, no; death any time sooner than that.”

“Well,” said the old man, after a lung pause, “it's a strange story
you've tould me; and I'm sorry, for Lord Cullamore's sake, to hear it.
He's one o' the good ould gentlemen that's now so scarce in the country.
But, tell me, do you know where M'Bride lives?”

“No,” she replied, “I do not, neither do I care much; but I'd be glad
that his old master had back his papers. There's a woman supposed to
be livin' in this country that could prove this stranger's case, and he
came over here to find her out if he could.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No; I don't think I ever heard it, or, if I did, I can't at all
remember it. M'Bride mentioned the woman, but I don't think he named
her.”

“At all events,” replied Corbet, “it doesn't signify. I hope whatever
steps they're takin' against that good ould nobleman will fail; and if I
had the papers you speak of this minute, I'd put them into the fire. In
the mane time try and make out where your vagabone of a husband lives,
or, rather, set Ginty to work, as she and you are living together, and
no doubt she'll soon ferret him out.”

“I can't understand Ginty at all,” replied the woman. “I think, although
she has given up fortune tellin', that her head's not altogether right
yet. She talks of workin' out some prophecy that she tould Sir Thomas
Gourlay about himself and his daughter.”

“She may talk as much about that as she likes,” replied the old fellow.
“She called him plain Thomas Gourlay, didn't she, and said he'd be
stripped of his title?”

“So she told me; and that his daughter would be married to Lord Dunroe.”

“Ay, and so she tould myself; but there she's in the dark. The daughter
will be Lady Dunroe, no doubt, for they're goin' to be married; but
she's takin' a bad way to work out the prophecy against the father by
--hem--”

“By what?”

“I'm not free to mention it, Kate; but this very day it's to take place,
and. I suppose it'll soon be known to everybody.”

“Well, but sure you might mention it to me.”

“I'll make a bargain with you, then. Set Ginty to work; let her find
out your husband; get me the papers you spake of, and I'll tell you all
about it.”

“With all my heart, father. I'm sure I don't care if you had them this
minute. Let Ginty try her hand, and if she can succeed, well and good.”

“Well, Kate,” said her father, “I'm glad I seen you; but I think it was
your duty to call upon me long before this.”

“I would, but that I was afraid you wouldn't see me; and, besides, Ginty
told me it was better not for some time. She kept me back, or I would
have come months ago.”

“Ay, ay; she has some devil's scheme in view that'll end in either
nothing or something. Good-by, now; get me these papers, and I'll tell
you what'll be worth hearin'.”

Immediately after her departure Father M'Mahon entered, and found Corbet
behind his counter as usual. Each on looking at the other was much
struck by his evident appearance for the worse; a circumstance, however,
which caused no observation until after they had gone into the little
back room. Corbet's countenance, in addition to a careworn look, and a
consequent increase of emaciation, presented a very difficult study to
the physiognomist, a study not unobserved! by the priest himself. It was
indicative of the conflicting resolutions which had for some time past
been alternating in his mind; but so roguishly was each resolution
veiled by an assumed expression of an opposite I nature, that although
the general inference was true, the hypocrisy of the whole face made it
individually false. Let us suppose, by way of illustration, that a man
whose heart is full of joy successfully puts on a look of grief,
and vice versa. Of course, the physiognomist will be mistaken in the
conclusions he draws from each individual expression, although correct
in perceiving that there are before him the emotions of joy and grief;
the only difference being, that dissimulation has put wrong labels upon
each emotion.

“Anthony,” said his reverence, after having taken a seat, “I am sorry to
see such a change upon you for the worse. You are very much broken down
since I saw you last; and although I don't wish to become a messenger of
bad news, I feel, that as a clergyman, it is my duty to tell you so.”

“Troth, your reverence,” replied the other, “I'm sorry that so far as
bad looks go I must return the compliment. It grieves me: to see you
look so ill, sir.”

“I know I look ill,” replied the other; “and I know too that these
hints are sent to us in mercy, with a fatherly design on the part of our
Creator, that we may make the necessary preparations for the change, the
awful change that is before us.”

“Oh, indeed, sir, it's true enough,” replied Corbet, whose visage had
become much blanker at this serious intimation, notwithstanding his
hypocrisy; “it's true enough, sir; too true, indeed, if we could only
remember it as we ought. Have you been unwell, sir?”

“Not in my bodily health, thank God, but I've got into trouble; and what
is more, I'm coming to you, Anthony, with a firm I hope that you will
bring me out of it.”

“The trouble can't be very great then,” replied the apprehensive old
knave, “or I wouldn't be able to do it.”

“Anthony,” said the priest, “I have known you a long time, now forty
years at least, and you need not be told that I've stood by some of
your friends when they wanted it. When your daughter ran away with that
M'Bride, I got him to marry her, a thing he was very unwilling to
do; and which I believe, only for me, he would not have done. On that
occasion you know I advanced twenty guineas to enable them to begin the
world, and to keep the fellow with her; and I did this all for the best,
and not without the hope either that you would see me reimbursed for
what you ought, as her father, to have given them yourself. I spoke to
you once or twice about it, but you lent me the deaf ear, as they call
it, and from that day to this you never had either the manliness or the
honesty to repay me.”

“Ay,” replied Corbet, with one of his usual grins, “you volunteered to
be generous to a profligate, who drank it, and took to the army.”

“Do you then volunteer to be generous to an honest man; I will neither
drink It nor take to the army. If he took to the army, he didn't do
so without taking your daughter along with him. I spoke to Sir Edward
Gourlay, who threatened to write to his colonel; and through the
interference of the same humane gentleman I got permission for him to
bring his wife along with him. These are circumstances that you ought
not to forget, Anthony.”

“I don't forget them, but sure you're always in somebody's affairs;
always goin' security for some of your poor parishioners; and then, when
they're not able to pay, down comes the responsibility upon you.”

“I cannot see a poor honest man, struggling and industrious, at a loss
for a friendly act. No; I never could stand it, so long as I had it in
my power to assist him.”

“And what's wrong now, if it's a fair question?”

“Two or three things; none of them very large, but amounting in all to
about fifty guineas.”

“Whew!--fifty guineas!”

“Ay, indeed; fifty guineas, which you will lend me on my own security.”

“Fifty guineas to you? Don't I know you? Why, if you had a thousand, let
alone fifty, it's among the poor o' the parish they'd be afore a week.
Faith, I know you too well Father Peter.”

“You know me, man alive--yes, you do know me; and it is just because you
do that I expect you will lend me the money. You wouldn't wish to see my
little things pulled about and auctioned; my laughy little library gone;
nor would you wish to see me and poor Freney the Robber separated. Big
Ruly desaved me, the thief; but I found him out at last. Money I know is
a great temptation, and so is mate when trusted to a shark like him; but
any way, may the Lord pardon the blackguard! and that's the worst I wish
him.”

There are some situations in life where conscience is more awakened by
comparison, or perhaps we should say by the force of contrast, than
by all the power of reason, religion, or philosophy, put together, and
advancing against it in their proudest pomp and formality. The childlike
simplicity, for instance, of this good and benevolent man, earnest and
eccentric as it was, occasioned reflections more painful and touching
to the callous but timid heart of this old manoeuvrer than could whole
homilies, or the most serious and lengthened exhortations.

“I am near death,” thought he, as he looked upon the countenance of the
priest, from which there now beamed an emanation of regret, not for his
difficulties, for he had forgotten them, but for his knavish servant--so
simple, so natural, so affecting, so benevolent, that Corbet was deeply
struck by them. “I am near death,” he proceeded, “and what would I not
give to have within me a heart so pure and free from villany as that
man. He has made me feel more by thinkin' of what goodness and piety
can do, than I ever felt in my life; and now if he gets upon Freney the
Robber, or lugs in that giant Ruly, he'll forget debts, difficulties,
and all for the time. Heavenly Father, that I had as happy a heart this
day, and as free from sin!”

“Anthony,” said the priest, “I must tell you about Freney--”

“No, sir, if you plaise,” replied the other, “not now.”

“Well, about poor Mat Ruly; do you know that I think by taking him back
I might be able to reclaim him yet. The Lord has gifted him largely in
one way, I admit; but still--”

“But still your bacon and greens would pay for it. I know it all, and
who doesn't? But about your own affairs?”

“In truth, they are in a bad state--the same bacon and greens--he has
not left me much of either; he made clean work of them, at any rate,
before he went.”

“But about your affairs, I'm sayin'?”

“Why, they can't be worse; I'm run to the last pass; and Freney now,
the crature, when the saddle's on him, comes to the mounting-stone of
himself, and waits there till I'm ready. Then,” he added, with a deep
sigh, “to think of parting with him! And I must do it--I must;” and here
the tears rose to his eyes so copiously that he was obliged to take out
his cotton handkerchief and wipe them away.

The heart of the old miser was touched. He knew not why, it is true, but
he felt that the view he got of one immortal spirit uncorrupted by the
crimes and calculating hypocrisy of life, made the contemplation of his
own state and condition, as well as of his future hopes, fearful.

“What would I not give,” thought he, “to have a soul as free from sin
and guilt, and to be as fit to face my God as that man? And yet they say
it can be brought about. Well, wait--wait till I have my revenge on this
black villain, and I'll see what may be done. Ay, let what will happen,
the shame and ruin of my child must be revenged. And yet, God help me,
what am I sayin'? Would this good man say that? He that forgives every
one and everything. Still, I'll repent in the long run. Come, Father
Peter,” said he, “don't be cast down; I'll thry what I can for you; but
then, again, if I do, what security can you give me?”

“Poor Freney the Robber--”

“Well, now, do you hear this!”

“--Was a name I gave him on account of--”

“Troth, I'll put on my hat and lave you here, if you don't spake out
about what you came for. How much is it you say you want?”

The good man, who was startled out of his affection for Freney by the
tone of Corbet's voice more than by his words, now raised his head, and
looked about him somewhat like a person restored to consciousness.

“Yes, Anthony,” said he; “yes, man alive; there's kindness in that.”

“In what, sir?”

“In the very tones of your voice, I say. God has touched your heart,
I hope. But oh, Anthony, if it were His blessed will to soften it--to
teach it to feel true contrition and repentance, and to fill it with
love for His divine will in all things, and for your fellow-creatures,
too--how little would I think of my own miserable difficulties! Father
of all mercy! if I could be sure that I had gained even but one soul to
heaven, I would say that I had not been born and lived in vain!”

“He'll never let me do it,” thought Corbet, vexed, and still more
softened by the piety, the charity, and the complete forgetfulness of
self, which the priest's conduct manifested. Yet was this change not
brought about without difficulty, and those pitiful misgivings and
calculations which assail and re-assail a heart that has been for a long
time under the influence of the world and those base principles by which
it is actuated. In fact, this close, nervous, and penurious old man
felt, when about to perform this generous action, all that alarm and
hesitation which a virtuous man would feel when on the eve of committing
a crime. He was about to make an inroad upon his own system--going
to change the settled habits of his whole life, and, for a moment, he
entertained thoughts of altering his purpose. Then he began to
think that this visit of the priest might have been a merciful and
providential one; he next took a glimpse at futurity--reflected for a
moment on his unprepared state, and then decided to assist the priest
now, and consider the necessity for repentance as soon as he felt it
convenient to do so afterwards.

How strange and deceptive, and how full of the subtlest delusions, are
the workings of the human heart!

“And now, Anthony,” proceeded the priest, “while I think of it, let me
speak to you on another affair.”

“I see, sir,” replied Corbet, somewhat querulously, “that you're
determined to prevent me from sarvin' you. If my mind changes, I won't
do it; so stick to your own business first. I know very well what you're
goin' to spake about. How much do you want, you say?”

“Fifty guineas. I'm responsible for three bills to that amount. The
bills are not for myself, but for three honest families that have been
brought low by two of the worst enemies that ever Ireland had--bad
landlords and bad times.”

“Well, then, I'll give you the money.”

“God bless you, Anthony!” exclaimed the good man, “God bless you! and
above all things may He enable you and all of us to prepare for the life
that is before us.”

Anthony paused a moment, and looked with a face of deep perplexity at
the priest.

“Why am I doin' this,” said he, half repentant of the act, “and me can't
afford it? You must give me your bill, sir, at three months, and I'll
charge you interest besides.”

“I'll give you my bill, certainly,” replied the priest, “and you may
charge interest too; but be moderate.”

Corbet then went upstairs, much at that pace which characterizes the
progress of a felon from the press-room to the gallows; here he remained
for some time--reckoning the money--paused on the stairhead--and again
the slow, heavy, lingering step was heard descending, and, as nearly as
one could judge, with as much reluctance as that with which it went
up. He then sat down and looked steadily, but with a good deal of
abstraction, at the priest, after having first placed the money on his
own side of the table.

“Have you a blank bill?” asked the priest.

“Eh?”

“Have you got a blank bill? or, sure we can send out for one.”

“For what?”

“For a blank bill.”

“A blank bill--yes--oh, ay--fifty guineas!--why, that's half a hundre'.
God protect me! what am I about? Well, well; there--there--there; now
put it in your pocket;” and as he spoke he shoved it over hastily to the
priest, as if he feared his good resolution might fail him at last.

“But about the bill, man alive?”

“Hang the bill--deuce take all the bills that ever were drawn! I'm the
greatest ould fool that ever wore a head--to go to allow myself to
be made a--a--. Take your money away out of this, I bid you--your
money--no, but my money. I suppose I may bid farewell to it--for so long
as any one tells you a story of distress, and makes a poor mouth to you,
so long you'll get yourself into a scrape on their account.”

The priest had already put the money in his pocket, but he instantly
took it out, and placed it once more on Corbet's side of the table.

“There,” said he, “keep it. I will receive no money that is lent in such
a churlish and unchristian spirit. And I tell you now, moreover, that if
I do accept it, it must be on the condition of your listening to what
I feel it my duty to say to you. You, Anthony Corbet, have committed
a black and deadly crime against the bereaved widow, against society,
against the will of a merciful and--take care that you don't find him,
too--a just God. It is quite useless for you to deny it; I have spoken
the truth, and you know it. Why will you not enable that heart-broken
and kind lady--whose whole life is one perpetual good action--to trace
and get back her son?”

“I can't do it.”

“That's a deliberate falsehood, sir. Your conscience tells you it's a
he. In your last conversation with me, at the Brazen Head, you as good
as promised to do something of the kind in a couple of months. That time
and more has now passed, and yet you have done nothing.”

“How do you know that?”

“Don't I know that the widow has got no trace of her child? And right
well I know that you could restore him to her if you wished. However, I
leave you now to the comfort of your own hardened and wicked heart. The
day will come soon when the black catalogue of your own guilt will rise
up fearfully before you--when a death-bed, with all its horrors, will
startle the very soul within you by its fiery recollections. It is then,
my friend, that you will feel--when it is too late--what it is to have
tampered with and despised the mercy of God, and have neglected, while
you had time, to prepare yourself for His awful judgment. Oh, what would
I not do to turn your heart from the dark spirit of revenge that broods
in it, and changes you into a demon! Mark these words, Anthony. They are
spoken, God knows, with an anxious and earnest wish for your repentance,
and, if neglected, they will rise and sound the terrible sentence of
your condemnation at the last awful hour. Listen to them, then--listen
to them in time, I entreat, I beseech you--I would go on my bare knees
to you to do so.” Here his tears fell fast, as he proceeded, “I would;
and, believe me, I have thought of you and prayed for you, and now
you see that I cannot but weep for you, when I know that you have the
knowledge--perhaps the guilt of this heinous crime locked up in
your heart, and will not reveal it. Have compassion, then, on the
widow--enable her friends to restore her child to her longing arms;
purge yourself of this great guilt, and you may believe me, that even
in a temporal point of view it will be the best rewarded action you ever
performed; but this is little--the darkness that is over your heart will
disappear, your conscience will become light, and all its reflections
sweet and full of heavenly comfort; your death-bed will be one of peace,
and hope, and joy. Restore, then, the widow's son, and forbear your
deadly revenge against that wretched baronet, and God will restore you
to a happiness that the world can neither give nor take away.”

Corbet's cheek became pale as death itself whilst the good man spoke,
but no other symptom of emotion was perceptible; unless, indeed,
that his hands, as he unconsciously played with the money, were quite
tremulous.

The priest, having concluded, rose to depart, having completely
forgotten the principal object of his visit.

“Where are you going?” said Corbet, “won't you take the money with you?”

“That depends upon your reply,” returned the priest; “and I entreat you
to let me have a favorable one.”

“One part of what you wish I will do,” he replied; “the other is out of
my power at present. I am not able to do it yet.”

“I don't properly understand you,” said the other; “or rather, I
don't understand you at all. Do you mean what you have just said to be
favorable or otherwise?”

“I have come to a resolution,” replied Corbet, “and time will tell
whether it's in your favor or not. You must be content with this, for
more I will not say now; I cannot. There's your money, but I'll take no
bill from you. Your promise is sufficient--only say you will pay me?”

“I will pay you, if God spares me life.”

“That is enough; unless, indeed “--again pausing.

“Satisfy yourself,” said the priest; “I will give you either my bill or
note of hand.”

“No, no; I tell you. I am satisfied. Leave everything to time.”

“That may do very well, but it does not apply to eternity, Anthony. In
the meantime I thank you; for I admit you have taken me out of a very
distressing difficulty. Good-by--God bless you; and, above all things,
don't forget the words I have spoken to you.”

“Now,” said Corbet, after the priest had gone, “something must be done;
I can't stand this state of mind long, and if death should come on me
before I've made my peace with God--but then, the black villain!--come
or go what may, he must be punished, and Ginty's and Tom's schemes must
be broken. That vagabone, too! I can't forget the abuse he gave me in
the watch-house; however, I'll set the good act against the bad one, and
who knows but the one may wipe out the other? I suppose the promisin'
youth has seen his father, and thinks himself the welcome heir of his
title and property by this; and the father too--but wait, if I don't
dash that cup from his lips, and put one to it filled with gall, I'm not
here; and then when it's done, I'll take to religion for the remainder
of my life.”

What old Corbet said was, indeed, true enough; and this brings us to the
interview between Mr. Ambrose Gray, his parent, and his sister.

There is nothing which so truly and often so severely tests the state of
man's heart, or so painfully disturbs the whole frame of his moral
being as the occurrence of some important event that is fraught with
happiness. Such an event resembles the presence of a good man among a
set of profligates, causing them to feel the superiority of virtue
over vice, and imposing a disagreeable restraint, not only upon their
actions, but their very thoughts. When the baronet, for instance, went
from his bedroom to the library, he experienced the full force of this
observation. A disagreeable tumult prevailed within him. It is true, he
felt, as every parent must feel, to a greater or less extent delighted
at the contemplation of his son's restoration to him. But, at the same
time, the tenor of his past life rose up in painful array before him,
and occasioned reflections that disturbed him deeply. Should this young
man prove, on examination, to resemble his sister in her views of moral
life in general--should he find him as delicately virtuous, and animated
by the same pure sense of honor, he felt that his recovery would disturb
the future habits of his life, and take away much of the gratification
which he expected from his society. These considerations, we say,
rendered him so anxious and uneasy, that he actually wished to find him
something not very far removed from a profligate. He hoped that he might
be inspired with his own views of society and men, and that he would
now have some one to countenance him in all his selfish designs and
projects.




CHAPTER XXXIV. Young Gourlay's Affectionate Interview with His Father

--Risk of Strangulation--Movements of M'Bride.

It is not necessary here to suggest to the reader that Tom Corbet,
who knew the baronet's secrets and habits of life so thoroughly, had
prepared Mr. Ambrose Gray, by frequent rehearsals, for the more adroit
performance of the task that was before him.

At length a knock, modest but yet indicative of something like
authority, was heard at the hall-door, and the baronet immediately
descended to the dining-room, where he knew he could see his son with
less risk of interruption. He had already intimated to Lucy that she
should not make her appearance until summoned for that purpose.

At length Mr. Gray was shown into the dining-room, and the baronet, who,
as usual, was pacing it to and fro, suddenly turned round, and without
any motion to approach his son, who stood with a dutiful look, as if
to await his will, he fixed his eyes upon him with a long, steady,
and scrutinizing gaze. There they stood, contemplating each other
with earnestness, and so striking, so extraordinary was the similarity
between their respective features, that, in everything but years,
they appeared more like two counterparts than father and son. Each,
on looking at the other, felt, in fact, the truth of this unusual
resemblance, and the baronet at once acknowledged its influence.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, approaching Mr. Gray, “yes, there is no mistake
here; he is my son. I acknowledge him.” He extended his hand, and shook
that of the other, then seized both with a good deal of warmth, and
welcomed him. Ambrose, however, was not satisfied with this, but,
extricating his hands, he threw his arms round the baronet's neck, and
exclaimed in the words of an old play, in which he had been studying a
similar scene for the present occasion, “My father! my dear father! Oh,
and have I a father! Oh, let me press him to my heart!” And as he
spoke he contrived to execute half a dozen dry sobs (for he could not
accomplish the tears), that would have done credit to the best actor of
the day.

The baronet, who never relished any exhibition of emotion or tenderness,
began to have misgivings as to his character, and consequently suffered
these dutiful embraces instead of returning them.

“There, Tom,” he exclaimed, laughing, “that will do. There, man,” he
repeated, for he felt that Tom was about recommencing another rather
vigorous attack, whilst the sobs were deafening, “there, I say; don't
throttle me; that will do, sirrah; there now. On this occasion it is
natural; but in general I detest snivelling--it's unmanly.”

Tom at once took the hint, wiped his eyes, a work in this instance of
the purest supererogation, and replied, “So do I, father; it's decidedly
the province of an old woman when she is past everything else. But on
such an occasion I should be either more or less than man not to feel as
I ought.”

“Come, that is very well said. I hope you are not a fool like
your--Corbet, go out. I shall send for you when we want you. I hope,” he
repeated, after Corbet had disappeared, “I hope you are not a fool,
like your sister. Not that I can call her a fool, either; but she is
obstinate and self-willed.”

“I am sorry to hear this, sir. My sister ought to have no will but
yours.”

“Why, that is better,” replied the baronet, rubbing his hands
cheerfully. “Hang it, how like?” he exclaimed, looking at him once more.
“You resemble me confoundedly, Tom--at least in person; and if you do
in mind and purpose, we'll harmonize perfectly. Well, then, I have a
thousand questions to ask you, but I will have time enough for that
again; in the meantime, Tom, what's your opinion of life--of the
world--of man, Tom, and of woman? I wish to know what kind of stuff
you're made of.”

“Of life, sir--why, that we are to take the most we can out of it. Of
the world--that I despise it. Of man--that every one is a rogue when
he's found out, and that if he suffers himself to be found out he's a
fool; so that the fools and the rogues have it between them.”

“And where do you leave the honest men, Tom?”

“The what, sir?”

“The honest men.”

“I'm not acquainted, sir, nor have I ever met a man who was, with any
animal of that class. The world, sir, is a moral fiction; a mere term in
language that represents negation.”

“Well, but woman?”

“Born to administer to our pleasure, our interest, or our ambition, with
no other purpose in life. Have I answered my catechism like a good boy,
sir?”

“Very well, indeed, Tom. Why, in your notions of life and the world, you
seem to be quite an adept.”

“I am glad, sir, that you approve of them. So far we are likely to
agree. I feel quite proud, sir, that my sentiments are in unison with
yours. But where is my sister, sir? I am quite impatient to see her.”

“I will send for her immediately. And now that I have an opportunity,
let me guard you against her influence. I am anxious to bring about a
marriage between her and a young nobleman--Lord Dunroe--who will soon be
the Earl of Cullamore, for his old father is dying, or near it, and then
Lucy will be a countess. To effect this has been the great ambition of
my life. Now, you must not only prevent Lucy from gaining you over to
her interests, for she would nearly as soon die as marry him.”

“Pshaw!”

“What do you pshaw for, Tom?”

“All nonsense, sir. She doesn't know her own mind; or, rather, she ought
to have no mind on the subject.”

“Perfectly right; my identical sentiments. Lucy, however, detests this
lord, notwithstanding--ay, worse than she does the deuce himself. You
must, therefore, not permit yourself to be changed or swayed by her
influence, but support me by every argument and means in your power.”

“Don't fear me, sir. Your interests, or rather the girl's own, if she
only knows them, shall have my most strenuous support.”

“Thank you, Tom. I see that you and I are likely to agree thoroughly.
I shall now send for her. She is a superb creature, and less than a
countess I shall not have her.”

Lucy, when the servant announced her father's wish to see her, was
engaged in picturing to herself the subject of her brother's personal
appearance. She had always heard that he resembled her mother, and on
this account alone she felt how very dear he should be to her. With a
flushing, joyful, but palpitating heart, she descended the stairs, and
with a trembling hand knocked at the door. On entering, she was about
to rush into her newly-found relative's arms, but, on casting her eyes
around, she perceived her father and him standing side by side, so
startlingly alike in feature, expression, and personal figure, that her
heart, until then bounding with rapture, sank at once, and almost became
still. The quick but delicate instincts of her nature took the alarm,
and a sudden weakness seized her whole frame. “In this young man,”
 she said to herself, “I have found a brother, but not a friend; not a
feature of my dear mother in that face.”

This change, and this rush of reflection, took place almost in a moment,
and ere she had time to speak she found herself in Mr. Ambrose Gray's
arms. The tears at once rushed to her eyes, but they were not such
tears as she expected to have shed. Joy there was, but, alas, how much
mitigated was its fervency! And when her brother spoke, the strong,
deep, harsh tones of his voice so completely startled her, that she
almost believed she was on the breast of her father. Her tears flowed;
but they were mingled with a sense of disappointment that amounted
almost to bitterness.

Tom on this occasion forebore to enact the rehearsal scene, as he had
done in the case of his father. His sister's beauty, at once melancholy
but commanding, her wonderful grace, her dignity of manner, added to the
influence of her tall, elegant figure, awed him so completely, that he
felt himself incapable of aiming at anything like dramatic effect.
Nay, as her warm tears fell upon his face, he experienced a softening
influence that resembled emotion, but, like his father, he annexed
associations to it that were selfish, and full of low, ungenerous
caution.

“My father's right,” thought he; “I must be both cool and firm here,
otherwise it will be difficult not to support her.”

“Well, Lucy,” said her father, with unusual cheerfulness, after Tom had
handed her to a seat, “I hope you like your brother. Is he not a fine,
manly young fellow?”

“Is he not my brother, papa?” she replied, “restored to us after so many
years; restored when hope had deserted us--when we had given him up for
lost.”

As she uttered the words her voice quivered; a generous reaction had
taken place in her breast; she blamed herself for having withheld from
him, on account of a circumstance over which he had no control, that
fulness of affection, with which she had prepared herself to welcome
him. A sentiment, first of compassion, then of self-reproach, and
ultimately of awakened affection, arose in her mind, associated with and
made still more tender by the melancholy memory of her departed mother.
She again took his hand, on which the tears now fell in showers, and
after a slight pause said,

“I hope, my dear Thomas, you have not suffered, nor been subject to
the wants and privations which usually attend the path of the young and
friendless in this unhappy world? Alas, there is one voice--but is now
forever still--that would, oh, how rapturously! have welcomed you to a
longing and a loving heart.”

The noble sincerity of her present emotion was not without its effect
upon her brother. His eyes, in spite of the hardness of his nature, swam
in something like moisture, and he gazed upon her with wonder and pride,
that he actually was the brother of so divine a creature; and a certain
description of affection, such as he had never before felt, for it was
pure, warm, and unselfish.

“Oh, how I do long to hear the history of your past life!” she
exclaimed. “I dare say you had many an early struggle to encounter; many
a privation to suffer; and in sickness, with none but the cold hand of
the stranger about you; but still it seems that God has not deserted
you. Is it not a consolation, papa, to think that he returns to us in a
condition of life so gratifying?”

“Gratifying it unquestionably is, Lucy. He is well educated; and will
soon be fit to take his proper position in society.”

“Soon! I trust immediately, papa; I hope you will not allow him to
remain a moment longer in obscurity; compensate him at least for his
sufferings. But, my dear Thomas,” she proceeded, turning to him, “let me
ask, do you remember mamma? If she were now here, how her affectionate
heart would rejoice! Do you remember her my dear Thomas?”

“Not distinctly,” he replied; “something of a pale, handsome woman comes
occasionally like a dream of my childhood to my imagination--a graceful
woman, with auburn hair, and a melancholy look, I think.”

“You--do,” replied Lucy, as her eyes sparkled, “you do remember her;
that is exactly a sketch of her--gentle, benignant, and affectionate,
with a fixed sorrow mingled with resignation in her face. Yes, you
remember her!”

“Now, Lucy,” said her father, who never could bear any particular
allusion to his wife; “now that you have seen your brother, I think
you may withdraw, at least for the present. He and I have matters
of importance to talk of; and you know you will have enough of him
again--plenty of time to hear his past history, which, by the way, I am
as anxious to hear as you are. You may now withdraw, my love.”

“Oh, not so soon, father, if you please,” said Thomas; “allow us a
little more time together.”

“Well, then, a few minutes only, for I myself must take an airing in the
carriage, and I must also call upon old Cullamore.”

“Papa,” said Lucy, “I am about to disclose a little secret to you which
I hesitated to do before, but this certainly is a proper occasion for
doing it; the secret I speak of will disclose itself. Here is where it
lay both day and night since mamma's death,” she added, putting her hand
upon her heart; “it is a miniature portrait of her which I myself got
done.”

She immediately drew it up by a black silk ribbon, and after
contemplating it with tears, she placed it in the hands of her brother.

This act of Lucy's placed him in a position of great pain and
embarrassment. His pretended recollection of Lady Gourlay was, as the
reader already guesses, nothing more than the description of her which
he had received from Corbet, that he might be able to play his part
with an appearance of more natural effect. With the baronet, the task
of deception was by no means difficult; but with Lucy, the case was
altogether one of a different complexion. His father's principles, as
expounded by his illegitimate son's worthy uncle, were not only almost
familiar to him, but also in complete accordance with his own. With him,
therefore, the deception consisted in little else than keeping his own
secret, and satisfying his father that their moral views of life were
the same. He was not prepared, however, for the effect which Lucy's
noble qualities produced upon him so soon. To him who had never met
with or known any other female, combining in her own person such
extraordinary beauty and dignity--such obvious candor of heart--such
graceful and irresistible simplicity, or who was encompassed by an
atmosphere of such truth and purity--the effect was such as absolutely
confounded himself, and taught him to feel how far they go in purifying,
elevating, and refining those who come within the sphere of their
influence. This young man, for instance, was touched, softened, and awed
into such an involuntary respect for her character and virtues, that
he felt himself almost unable to sustain the part he had undertaken to
play, so far at least as she was concerned. In fact, he felt himself
changed for the better, and was forced, as it were, to look in upon his
own heart, and contemplate its deformity by the light that emanated from
her character. Nor was this singular but natural influence unperceived
by her father, who began to fear that if they were to be much together,
he must ultimately lose the connivance and support of his son.

Thomas took the portrait from her hand, and, after contemplating it for
some time, felt himself bound to kiss it, which he did, with a momentary
consciousness of his hypocrisy that felt like guilt.

“It is most interesting,” said he; “there is goodness, indeed, and
benignity, as you say, in every line of that placid but sorrowful face.
Here,” said he, “take it back, my dear sister; I feel that it is painful
to me to look upon it.”

“It has been my secret companion,” said Lucy, gazing at it with deep
emotion, “and my silent monitress ever since poor mamma's death. It
seemed to say to me with those sweet lips that will never more move:
Be patient, my child, and put your firm trust in the hopes of a better
life, for this world is one of trial and suffering.”

“That is all very fine, Lucy,” said her father, somewhat fretfully; “but
it would have been as well if she had preached a lesson of obedience at
the same time. However, you had better withdraw, my dear; as I told you,
Thomas and I have many important matters to talk over.”

“I am ready to go, papa,” she replied; “but, by the way, my dear Thomas,
I had always heard that you resembled her very much; instead of that,
you are papa's very image.”

“A circumstance which will take from his favor with you, Lucy, I fear,”
 observed her father; “but, indeed, I myself am surprised at the change
that has come over you, Thomas; for, unquestionably, when young you were
very like her.”

“These changes are not at all unfrequent, I believe,” replied his son.
“I have myself known instances where the individual when young resembled
one parent, and yet, in the course of time, became as it were the very
image and reflex of the other.”

“You are perfectly right, Tom,” said his father; “every family is aware
of the fact, and you yourself are a remarkable illustration of it.”

“I am not sorry for resembling my dear father, Lucy,” observed her
brother; “and I know I shall lose nothing in your good will on that
account, but rather gain by it.”

Lucy's eyes were already filled with tears at the ungenerous and
unfeeling insinuation of her father.

“You shall not, indeed, Thomas,” she replied; “and you, papa, are
scarcely just to me in saying so. I judge no person by their external
appearance, nor do I suffer myself to be prejudiced by looks, although
I grant that the face is very often, but by no means always, an index to
the character. I judge my friends by my experience of their conduct--by
their heart--their principles--their honor. Good-by, now, my dear
brother; I am quite impatient to hear your history, and I am sure you
will gratify me as soon as you can.”

She took his hand and kissed it, but, in the act of doing so, observed
under every nail a semicircular line of black drift that jarred very
painfully on her feelings. Tom then imprinted a kiss upon her forehead,
and she withdrew.

When she had gone out, the baronet bent his eyes upon her brother with a
look that seemed to enter into his very soul--a look which his son, from
his frequent teachings, very well understood.

“Now, Tom,” said he, “that you have seen your sister, what do you think
of her? Is it not a pity that she should ever move under the rank of a
countess?”

“Under the rank of a queen, sir. She would grace the throne of an
empress.”

“And yet she has all the simplicity of a child; but I can't get her
to feel ambition. Now, mark me, Tom; I have seen enough in this short
interview to convince me that if you are not as firm as a rock, she will
gain you over.”

“Impossible, sir; I love her too well to lend myself to her prejudices
against her interests. Her objections to this marriage must proceed
solely from inexperience. It is true, Lord Dunroe bears a very
indifferent character, and if you could get any other nobleman with a
better one as a husband for her, it would certainly be more agreeable.”

“It might, Tom; but I cannot. The truth is, I am an unpopular man among
even the fashionable circles, and the consequence is, that I do not
mingle much with them. The disappearance of my brother's heir has
attached suspicions to me which your discovery will not tend to remove.
Then there is Lucy's approaching marriage, which your turning up at
this particular juncture may upset. Dunroe, I am aware, is incapable of
appreciating such a girl as Lucy.”

“Then why, sir, does he marry her?”

“In consequence of her property. You perceive, then, that unless you
lie by until after this marriage, my whole schemes for this girl may be
destroyed.”

“But how, sir, could my appearance or reappearance effect such a
catastrophe?”

“Simply because you come at the most unlucky moment.”

“Unlucky, sir!” exclaimed the youth, with much affected astonishment,
for he had now relapsed into his original character, and felt himself
completely in his element.

“Don't misunderstand me,” said his father; “I will explain myself. Had
you never appeared, Lucy would have inherited the family estates, which,
in right of his wife, would have passed into the possession of Dunroe.
Your appearance, however, if made known, will prevent that, and probably
cause Dunroe to get out of it; and it is for this reason that I wish to
keep your very existence a secret until the marriage is over.”

“I am willing to do anything, sir,” replied worthy Tom, with a very
dutiful face, “anything to oblige you, and to fall in with your
purposes, provided my own rights are not compromised. I trust you will
not blame me, sir, for looking to them, and for a natural anxiety to
sustain the honor and prolong the name of my family.”

“Blame you, sirrah!” said his father, laughing. “Confound me, but you're
a trump, and I am proud to hear you express such sentiments. How the
deuce did you get such a shrewd notion of the world? But, no matter,
attend to me. Your rights shall not be compromised. A clause shall be
inserted in the marriage articles to the effect that in case of your
recovery and restoration, the estates shall revert to you, as the
legitimate heir. Are you satisfied?”

“Perfectly, sir,” replied Thomas, “perfectly; on the understanding that
these provisions are duly and properly carried out.”

“Undoubtedly they shall; and besides,” replied his father with a grin of
triumph, “it will be only giving Dunroe a _quid pro quo_, for, as I told
you, he is marrying your sister merely for the property, out of which
you cut him.”

“Of course, my dear father,” replied the other, “I am in your hands;
but, in the meantime, how and where am I to dispose of myself?”

“In the first place, keep your own secret--that is the principal
point--in which case you may live wherever you wish; I will give you
a liberal allowance until you can make your appearance with safety to
Lucy's prosperity. The marriage will take place very soon; after which
you can come and claim your own, when it will be too late for Dunroe to
retract. Here, for the present, is a check for two hundred and fifty;
but, Tom, you must be frugal and cautious in its expenditure. Don't
suffer yourself to break out: always keep a firm hold of the helm. Get
a book in which you will mark down your expenses; for, mark me, you must
render a strict account of this money. On the day after to-morrow you
must dine with Lucy and me; but, if you take my advice, you will see her
as seldom as possible until after her marriage. She wishes me to release
her from her engagement, and she will attempt to seduce you to her side;
but I warn you that this would be a useless step for you to take, as my
mind is immovable on the subject.”

They then separated, each, but especially Mr. Ambrose Gray, as we must
again call him, feeling very well satisfied with the result of the
interview.

“Now,” said the baronet, as he paced the floor, after his son had gone,
“am I not right, after all, in the views which I entertain of life? I
have sometimes been induced to fear that Providence has placed in human
society a moral machinery which acts with retributive effect upon those
who, in the practice of their lives, depart from what are considered his
laws. And yet here am I, whose whole life has been at variance with and
disregarded them--here I am, I say, with an easier heart than I've had
for many a day: my son restored to me--my daughter upon the point
of being married according to my highest wishes--all my projects
prospering; and there is my brother's wife--wretched Lady Gourlay--who,
forsooth, is religious, benevolent, humane, and charitable--ay, and if
report speak true, who loves her fellow-creatures as much as I scorn and
detest them. Yes--and what is the upshot? Why, that all these virtues
have not made her one whit happier than another, nor so happy as one
in ten thousand. _Cui bono_, then I ask--where is this moral machinery
which I sometimes dreaded? I cannot perceive its operations. It has no
existence; it is a mere chimera; like many another bugbear, the foul
offspring of credulity and fear on the one side--of superstition and
hypocrisy on the other. No; life is merely a thing of chances, and its
incidents the mere combinations that result from its evolutions, just
like the bits of glass in the kaleidoscope, which, when viewed naked,
have neither order nor beauty, but when seen through our own mistaken
impressions, appear to have properties which they do not possess, and
to produce results that are deceptive, and which would mislead us if
we drew any absolute inference from them. Here the priest advances,
kaleidoscope in hand, and desires you to look at his tinsel and observe
its order. Well, you do so, and imagine that the beauty and order you
see lie in the things themselves, and not in the prism through which
you view them. But you are not satisfied--you must examine. You take the
kaleidoscope to pieces, and where then are the order and beauty to be
found? Away! I am right still. The doctrine of life is a doctrine of
chances; and there is nothing certain but death--death, the gloomy and
terrible uncreator--heigho!”

Whilst the unbelieving baronet was congratulating himself upon the truth
of his principles and the success of his plans, matters were about to
take place that were soon to subject them to a still more efficient test
than the accommodating but deceptive spirit of his own scepticism.
Lord Cullamore's mind was gradually sinking under some secret sorrow or
calamity, which he refused to disclose even to his son or Lady Emily.
M'Bride's visit had produced a most melancholy effect upon him; indeed,
so deeply was he weighed down by it, that he was almost incapable of
seeing any one, with the exception of his daughter, whom he caressed and
wept over as one would over some beloved being whom death was about to
snatch from the heart and eyes forever.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, since the discovery of his son, called every day for
a week, but the reply was, “His lordship is unable to see any one.”

One evening, about that time, Ginty Cooper had been to see her brother,
Tom Corbet, at the baronet's, and was on her way home, when she
accidentally spied M'Bride in conversation with Norton, at Lord
Cullamore's hall-door, which, on her way to Sir Thomas's, she
necessarily passed. It was just about dusk, or, as they call it in the
country, between the two lights, and as the darkness was every moment
deepening, she resolved to watch them, for the purpose of tracing
M'Bride home to his lodgings. They, in the meantime, proceeded to
a public-house in the vicinity, into which both entered, and having
ensconced themselves in a little back closet off the common tap-room,
took their seats at a small round table, Norton having previously
ordered some punch. Giuty felt rather disappointed at this caution, but
in a few minutes a red-faced girl, with a blowzy head of hair strong
as wire, and crisped into small obstinate undulations of surface which
neither comb nor coaxing could smooth away, soon followed them with the
punch and a candle. By the light of the latter, Ginty perceived that
there was nothing between them but a thin partition of boards, through
the slits of which she could, by applying her eye or ear, as the case
might be, both see and hear them. The tap-room at the time was empty,
and Ginty, lest her voice might be heard, went to the bar, from whence
she herself brought in a glass of porter, and having taken her seat
close to the partition, overheard the following conversation:

“In half an hour he's to see you, then?” said Norton, repeating the
words with a face of inquiry.

“Yes, sir; in half an hour.”

“Well, now,” he continued, “I assure you I'm neither curious nor
inquisitive; yet, unless it be a very profound secret indeed, I give my
honor I should wish to hear it.”

“There's others in your family would be glad to hear it as well as you,”
 replied M'Bride.

“The earl has seen you once or twice before on the subject, I think?”

“He has, sir?”

“And this is the third time, I believe?”

“It will be the third time, at all events.”

“Come, man,” said Norton, “take your punch; put yourself in spirits for
the interview. It requires a man to pluck up to be able to speak to a
nobleman.”

“I have spoken to as good as ever he was; not that I say anything to his
lordship's disparagement,” replied M'Bride; “but I'll take the punch for
a better reason--because I I have a fellow feeling for it. And yet it
was my destruction, too; however, it can't be helped. Yes, faith, it
made me an ungrateful scoundrel; but, no matter!--sir, here's your
health! I must only, as they say, make the best of a bad bargain--must
bring my cattle to the best market.”

“Ay,” said Norton, dryly and significantly; “and so you think the old
earl, the respectable old nobleman, is your best chapman? Am I right?”

“I may go that far, any way,” replied the fellow, with a knowing grin;
“but I don't lave you much the wiser.”

“No, faith, you don't,” replied Norton, grinning in his turn. “However,
listen to me. Do you not think, now, that if you placed your case in the
hands of some one that stands well with his lordship, and who could use
his influence in your behalf, you might have better success?”

“I'm the best judge of that myself,” replied M'Bride. “As it is, I
have, or can have, two strings to my bow. I have only to go to a certain
person, and say I'm sorry for what I've done, and I've no doubt but I'd
come well off.”

“Well, and why don't you? If I were in your case, I'd consider myself
first, though.”

“I don't know,” replied the other, as if undecided. “I think, afther
all, I'm in better hands. Unless Lord Cullamore is doting, I'm sure of
that fact. I don't intend to remain in this counthry. I'll go back to
France or to America; I can't yet say which.”

“Take your punch in the meantime; take off your liquor, I say, and it'll
clear your head. Come, off with it. I don't know why, but I have taken
a fancy to you. Your face is an honest one, and if I knew what your
business with his lordship is, I'd give you a lift.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied the other; “but the truth is, I'm afeard to
take much till after I see him. I must have all my wits about me, and
keep myself steady.”

“Do put it in my power to serve you. Tell me what your business is, and,
by the honor of my name, I'll assist you.”

“At present,” replied M'Bride, “I can't; but if I could meet you after I
see his lordship, I don't say but we might talk more about it.”

“Very well,” replied Norton; “you won't regret it. In the course of a
short time I shall have the complete management of the whole Cullamore
property; and who can say that, if you put confidence in me now, I may
not have it in my power to employ you beneficially for yourself?”

“Come then, sir,” replied M'Bride, “let me have another tumbler, on the
head of it. I think one more will do me no harm; as you say, sir, it'll
clear my head.”

This was accordingly produced, and M'Bride began to become, if not more
communicative, at least more loquacious, and seemed disposed to place
confidence in Norton, to whom, however, he communicated nothing of
substantial importance.

“I think,” said the latter, “if I don't mistake, that I am acquainted
with some of your relations.”

“That may easily be,” replied the other; “and it has struck me two or
three times that I have seen your face before, but I can't tell where.”

“Very likely,” replied Norton; “but 111 tell you what, we must get
better acquainted. Are you in any employment at present?”

“I'm doing nothing,” said the other; “and the few pounds I had are
now gone to a few shillings; so that by to-morrow or next day, I'll be
forced to give my teeth a holiday.”

“Poor fellow,” replied Norton, “that's too bad. Here's a pound note for
you, at all events. Not a word now; if we can understand each other
you sha'n't want; and I'll tell you what you'll do. After leaving his
lordship you must come to my room, where you can have punch to the eyes,
and there will be no interruption to our chat. You can then tell me
anything you like; but it must come willingly, for I'd scorn to force a
secret from any man--that is, if it is a secret. Do you agree to this?”

“I agree to it, and many thanks, worthy sir,” replied M'Bride, putting
the pound note in his pocket; after which they chatted upon indifferent
matters until the period for his interview with Lord Cullamore had
arrived.

Ginty, who had not lost a syllable of this dialogue, to whom, as the
reader perhaps may suspect, it was no novelty, followed them at a safe
distance, until she saw them enter the house. The interest, however,
which she felt in M'Bride's movements, prevented her from going home, or
allowing him to slip through her finger without accomplishing a project
that she had for some time before meditated, but had hitherto found no
opportunity to execute.

Lord Cullamore, on M'Bride's entrance, was in much the same state which
we have already described, except that in bodily appearance he was
somewhat more emaciated and feeble. There was, however, visible in his
features a tone of solemn feeling, elevated but sorrowful, that seemed
to bespeak a heart at once resigned and suffering, and disposed to
receive the dispensations of life as a man would whose philosophy was
softened by a Christian spirit. In the general plan of life he clearly
recognized the wisdom which, for the example and the benefit of all,
runs with singular beauty through the infinite combinations of human
action, verifying the very theory which the baronet saw dimly, but
doubted; we mean that harmonious adaptation of moral justice to those
actions by which the original principles that diffuse happiness
through social life are disregarded and violated. The very order that
characterizes all creation, taught him that we are not here without a
purpose, and when human nature failed to satisfy him upon the mystery
of life, he went to revelation, and found the problem solved. The
consequence was, that whilst he felt as a man, he endured as a
Christian--aware that this life is, for purposes which we cannot
question, chequered with evils that teach us the absolute necessity of
another, and make us, in the meantime, docile and submissive to the will
of him who called us into being.

His lordship had been reading the Bible as M'Bride entered, and, after
having closed it, and placed his spectacles between the leaves as a
mark, he motioned the man to come forward.

“Well,” said he, “have you brought those documents with you?”

“I have, my lord.”

“Pray,” said he, “allow me to see them.”

M'Bride hesitated; being a knave himself, he naturally suspected every
other man of trick and dishonesty; and yet, when he looked upon the
mild but dignified countenance of the old man, made reverend by age and
suffering, he had not the courage to give any intimation of the base
suspicions he entertained.

“Place the papers before me, sir,” said his lordship, somewhat sharply.
“What opinion can I form of their value without having first inspected
and examined them?”

As he spoke he took the spectacles from out the Bible, and settled them
on his face.

“I know, my lord,” replied M'Bride, taking them out of a pocket-book
rather the worse for wear, “that I am placing them in the hands of an
honorable man.”

His lordship took them without seeming to have heard this observation;
and as he held them up, M'Bride could perceive that a painful change
came over him. He became ghastly pale, and his hands trembled so
violently, that he was unable to read their contents until he placed
them flat upon the table before him. At length, after having read and
examined them closely, and evidently so as to satisfy himself of their
authenticity, he turned round to M'Bride, and said, “Is any person aware
that you are in possession of these documents?”

“Aha,” thought the fellow, “there's an old knave for you. He would give
a round sum that they were in ashes, I'll engage; but I'll make him
shell out for all that.--I don't think there is, my lord, unless the
gentleman--your lordship knows who I mean--that I took them from.”

“Did you take them deliberately from him?”

The man stood uncertain for a moment, and thought that the best thing
he could do was to make a merit of the affair, by affecting a strong
disposition to serve his lordship.

“The truth is, my lord, I was in his confidence, and as I heard how
matters stood, I thought it a pity that your lordship should be annoyed
at your time of life, and I took it into my head to place them in your
lordship's hands.”

“These are genuine documents,” observed his lordship, looking at them
again. “I remember the handwriting distinctly, and have in my possession
some letters written by the same individual. Was your master a kind
one?”

“Both kind and generous, my lord; and I have no doubt at all but he'd
forgive me everything, and advance a large sum besides, in order to
get these two little papers back. Your lordship knows he can do nothing
against you without them; and I hope you'll consider that, my lord.”

“Did he voluntarily, that is, willingly, and of his own accord, admit
you to his confidence? and, if so, upon what grounds?”

“Why, my lord, my wife and I were servants to his father for years, and
he, when a slip of a boy, was very fond of me. When he came over here,
my lord, it was rather against his will, and not at all for his own
sake. So, as he knew that he'd require some one in this country that
could act prudently for him, he made up his mind to take me with him,
especially as my wife and myself were both anxious to come back to our
own country. 'I must trust some one, M'Bride,' said he, 'and I will
trust you'; and then he tould me the raison of his journey here.”

“Well,” replied his lordship, “proceed; have you anything more to add!”

“Nothing, my lord, but what I've tould you. I thought it a pitiful case
to see a nobleman at your time of life afflicted by the steps he was
about to take, and I brought these papers accordingly to your lordship.
I hope you'll not forget that, my lord.”

“What value do you place on these two documents?”

“Why, I think a thousand pounds, my lord.”

“Well, sir, your estimate is a very low one--ten thousand would come
somewhat nearer the thing.”

“My lord, I can only say,” said M'Bride, “that I'm willin' to take a
thousand; but, if your lordship, knowin' the value of the papers as you
do, chooses to add anything more, I'll be very happy to accept it.”

“I have another question to ask you, sir,” said his lordship, “which
I do with great pain, as I do assure you that this is as painful a
dialogue as I ever held in my life. Do you think now, that, provided you
had not taken--that is, stolen-these papers from your master, he would,
upon the success of the steps he is taking, have given you a thousand
pounds?”

The man hesitated, as if he had caught a glimpse of the old man's object
in putting the question. “Why--hem--no; I don't think I could expect
that, my lord; but a handsome present, I dare say, I might come in for.”

Lord Cullamore raised himself in his chair, and after looking at the
treacherous villain with a calm feeling of scorn and indignation,
to which his illness imparted a solemn and lofty severity, that made
M'Bride feel as if he wished to sink through the floor,

“Go,” said he, looking at him with an eye that was kindled into
something of its former fire. “Begone, sir: take away your papers;
I will not--I cannot enter into any compact with an ungrateful and
perfidious villain like you. These papers have come into your hands by
robbery or theft--that is sufficient; there they are, sir--take them
away. I shall defend myself and my rights upon principles of justice,
but never shall stoop to support them by dishonor.”

On concluding, he flung them across the table with a degree of
energy that surprised M'Bride, whilst his color,hitherto so pale, was
heightened by a flash of that high feeling and untarnished integrity
which are seldom so beautifully impressive as when exhibited in the
honorable indignation of old age. It might have been compared to that
pale but angry red of the winter sky which flashes so transiently over
the snow-clad earth, when the sun, after the fatigues of his short but
chilly journey, is about to sink from our sight at the close of day.

M'Bride slunk out of the room crestfallen, disappointed, and abashed;
but on reaching the outside of the door he found Norton awaiting him.
This worthy gentleman, after beckoning to him to follow, having been
striving, with his whole soul centred in the key-hole, to hear the
purport of their conference, now proceeded to his own room, accompanied
by M'Bride, where we shall leave them without interruption to their
conversation and enjoyment, and return once more to Ginty Cooper.

Until the hour of half-past twelve that night Ginty most religiously
kept her watch convenient to the door. Just then it opened very quietly,
and a man staggered down the hall steps, and bent his course toward the
northern part of the city suburbs. A female might be observed to
follow him at a distance, and ever as he began to mutter his drunken
meditations to himself, she approached him more closely behind, in
order, if possible, to lose nothing of what he said.

“An ould fool,” he hiccupped, “to throw them back to me--hie--an' the
other a kna-a-ve to want to--to look at them; but I was up--up; if the
young-oung L-lor-ord will buy them, he mu-must-ust pay for them, for
I hav-ave them safe. Hang it, my head's turn-turn-turnin' about like
the--”

At this portion of his reflections he turned into a low, dark line of
cabins, some inhabited, and others ruined and waste, followed by the
female in question; and if the reader cannot ascertain her object in
dogging him, he must expect no assistance in guessing it from us.




CHAPTER XXXV. Lucy's Vain but Affecting Expostulation with her Father

--Her Terrible Denunciation of Ambrose Gray.


The next morning, after breakfast, Lord Dunroe found Norton and M'Bride
in the stable yard, when the following conversation took place.

“Norton,” said his lordship, “I can't understand what they mean by the
postponement of this trial about the mare. I fear they will beat us, and
in that case it is better, perhaps, to compromise it. You know that that
attorney fellow Birney is engaged against us, and by all accounts he has
his wits about him.”

“Yes, my lord; but Birney is leaving home, going to France, and they
have succeeded in getting it postponed until the next term. My lord,
this is the man, M'Bride, that I told you of this morning. M'Bride,
have you brought those documents with you? I wish to show them to his
lordship, who, I think, you will find a more liberal purchaser than his
father.”

“What's that you said, sir,” asked M'Bride, with an appearance of deep
interest, “about Mr. Birney going to France?”

“This is no place to talk about these matters,” said his lordship;
“bring the man up to your own room, Norton, and I will join you there.
The thing, however, is a mere farce, and my father a fool, or he would
not give himself any concern about it. Bring him to your room, where I
will join you presently. But, observe me, Norton, none of these tricks
upon me in future. You said you got only twenty-five for the mare, and
now it appears you got exactly double the sum. Now, upon my honor, I
won't stand any more of this.”

“But, my lord,” replied Norton, laughing, “don't you see how badly
you reason? I got fifty for the mare; of this I gave your lordship
twenty-five--the balance I kept myself. Of course, then, you can fairly
say, or swear, if you like, that she brought you in nothing but the fair
value. In fact, I kept you completely out of the transaction; but, after
all, I only paid myself for the twenty-five I won off you.”

Dunroe was by no means in anything like good-humor this morning. The
hints which Norton had communicated to him at breakfast, respecting the
subject of M'Bride's private interviews with his father, had filled him
with more alarm than he wished to acknowledge. Neither, on the other
hand, had he any serious apprehensions, for, unhappily for himself, he
was one of those easy and unreflecting men who seldom look beyond the
present moment, and can never be brought to a reasonable consideration
of their own interests, until, perhaps, it is too late to secure them.

All we can communicate to the reader with respect to the conference
between these three redoubtable individuals is simply its results. On
that evening Norton and M'Bride started for France, with what object
will be seen hereafter, Birney having followed on the same route the
morning but one afterwards, for the purpose of securing the documents in
question.

Dunroe now more than ever felt the necessity of urging his marriage with
Lucy. He knew his father's honorable spirit too well to believe that
he would for one moment yield his consent to it under the circumstances
which were now pending. With the full knowledge of these circumstances
he was not acquainted. M'Bride had somewhat overstated the share of
confidence to which in this matter he had been admitted by his master.
His information, therefore, on the subject, was not so accurate as he
wished, although, from motives of dishonesty and a desire to sell his
documents to the best advantage, he made the most of the knowledge he
possessed. Be this as it may, Dunroe determined, as we said, to bring
about the nuptials without delay, and in this he was seconded by Sir
Thomas Gourlay himself, who also had his own motives for hastening them.
In fact, here were two men, each deliberately attempting to impose
upon the other, and neither possessed of one spark of honor or truth,
although the transaction between them was one of the most solemn
importance that can occur in the great business of life. The world,
however, is filled with similar characters; and not all the misery and
calamity that ensue from such fraudulent and dishonest practices will,
we fear, ever prevent the selfish and ambitious from pursuing the same
courses.

“Sir Thomas,” said Dunroe, in a conversation with the baronet held
on the very day after Norton and M'Bride had set out on their secret
expedition, “this marriage is unnecessarily delayed. I am anxious that
it should take place as soon as it possibly can.”

“But,” replied the baronet, “I have not been able to see your father on
the subject, in consequence of his illness.”

“It is not necessary,” replied his lordship. “You know what kind of a
man he is. In fact, I fear he is very nearly _non compos_ as it is.
He has got so confoundedly crotchety of late, that I should not feel
surprised if, under some whim or other, he set his face-against it
altogether. In fact, it is useless, and worse than useless, to consult
him at all about it. I move, therefore, that we go on without him.”

“I think you are right,” returned the other; “and I have not the
slightest objection: name the day. The contract is drawn up, and only
requires to be signed.”

“I should say, on Monday next,” replied his lordship; “but I fear we
will have objections and protestations from Miss Gourlay; and if so, how
are we to manage?”

“Leave the management of Miss Gourlay to me, my lord,” replied her
father. “I have managed her before and shall manage her now.”

His lordship had scarcely gone, when Lucy was immediately sent for, and
as usual found her father in the library.

“Lucy,” said he, with as much blandness of manner as he could assume,
“I have sent for you to say that you are called upon to make your father
happy at last.”

“And myself wretched forever, papa.”

“But your word, Lucy--your promise--your honor: remember that promise so
solemnly given; remember, too, your duty of obedience as a daughter.”

“Alas! I remember everything, papa; too keenly, too bitterly do I
remember all.”

“You will be prepared to marry Dunroe on Monday next. The affair will
be comparatively private. That is to say, we will ask nobody--no
dejeuner--no nonsense. The fewer the better at these matters. Would you
wish to see your brother--hem--I mean Mr. Gray?”

Lucy had been standing while he spoke; but she now staggered over to
a seat, on which she fell rather than sat. Her large, lucid eyes lost
their lustre; her frame quivered; her face became of an ashy paleness;
but still those eyes were bent upon her father.

“Papa,” she said, at length, in a low voice that breathed of horror, “do
not kill me.”

“Kill you, foolish girl! Now really, Lucy, this is extremely ridiculous
and vexatious too. Is not my daughter a woman of honor?”

“Papa,” she said, solemnly, going down upon her two knees, and joining
her lovely and snowy hands together, in an attitude of the most earnest
and heart-rending supplication; “papa, hear me. You have said that I
saved your life; be now as generous as I was--save mine.”

“Lucy,” he replied, “this looks like want of principle. You would
violate your promise. I should not wish Dunroe to hear this, or to know
it. He might begin to reason upon it, and to say that the woman who
could deliberately break a solemn promise might not hesitate at the
marriage vow. I do not apply this reasoning to you, but he or others
might. Of course, I expect that, as a woman of honor, you will keep
your word with me, and marry Dunroe on Monday. You will have no
trouble--everything shall be managed by them; a brilliant trousseau can
be provided as well afterwards as before.”

Lucy rose up; and as she did, the blood, which seemed to have previously
gathered, to her heart, now returned to her cheek, and began to mantle
upon it, whilst her figure, before submissive and imploring, dilated to
its full size.

“Father,” said she, “since you will not hear the voice of supplication,
hear that of reason and truth. Do not entertain a doubt, no, not for
a moment, that if I am urged--driven--to this marriage, hateful and
utterly detestable to me as it is, I shall hesitate to marry this man. I
say this, however, because I tell you that I am about to appeal to your
interest in my true happiness for the last time. Is it, then, kind; is
it fatherly in you, sir, to exact from me the fulfilment of a promise
given under circumstances that ought to touch your heart into a generous
perception of the sacrifice which in giving it I made for your sake
alone? You were ill, and laboring under the apprehension of sudden
death, principally, you said, in consequence of my refusal to become
the wife of that man. I saw this; and although the effort was infinitely
worse than death to me, I did not hesitate one moment in yielding up
what is at any time dearer to me than life--my happiness--that you might
be spared. Alas, my dear father, if you knew how painful it is to me to
be forced to plead all this in my own defence, you would, you must, pity
me. A generous heart, almost under any circumstances, scorns to plead
its own acts, especially when they are on the side of virtue. But I,
alas, am forced to it; am forced to do that which I would otherwise
scorn and blush to do.”

“Lucy,” replied her father, who felt in his ambitious and tyrannical
soul the full force, not only of what she said, but of the fraud he had
practised on her, but which she never suspected: “Lucy, my child, you
will drive me mad. Perhaps I am wrong; but at the same time my heart is
so completely fixed upon this marriage, that if it be not brought about
I feel I shall go insane. The value of life would be lost to me, and
most probably I shall die the dishonorable death of a suicide.”

“And have you no fear for me, my father--no apprehension that I may
escape from this my wretched destiny to the peace of the grave? But you
need not. Thank God, I trust and feel that my regard for His precepts,
and my perceptions of His providence, are too clear and too firm ever
to suffer me to fly like a coward from the post in life which He has
assigned me. But why, dear father, should you make me the miserable
victim of your ambition?--I am not ambitious.”

“I know you are not: I never could get an honorable ambition instilled
into you.”

“I am not mean, however--nay, I trust that I possess all that honest and
honorable pride which would prevent me from doing an unworthy act, or
one unbecoming either my sex or my position.”

“You would not break your word, for instance, nor render your father
wretched, insane, mad, or, perhaps, cause his dreadful malady to return.
No--no--but yet fine talking is a fine thing. Madam, cease to plead your
virtues to me, unless you prove that you possess them by keeping your
honorable engagement made to Lord Dunroe, through the sacred medium of
your own father. Whatever you may do, don't attempt to involve me in
your disgrace.”

“I am exhausted,” she said, “and cannot speak any longer; but I will not
despair of you, father. No, my dear papa,” she said, throwing her arms
about his neck, laying her head upon his bosom, and bursting into tears,
“I will not think that you could sacrifice your daughter. You will
relent for Lucy as Lucy did for you--but I feel weak. You know, papa,
how this fever on my spirits has worn me down; and, after all, the day
might come--and come with bitterness and remorse to your heart--when you
may be forced to feel that although you made your Lucy a countess she
did not remain a countess long.”

“What do you mean now?”

“Don't you see, papa, that my heart is breaking fast? If you will
not hear my words--if they cannot successfully plead for me--let my
declining health--let my pale and wasted cheek--let my want of spirits,
my want of appetite--and, above all, let that which you cannot see nor
feel--the sickness of my unhappy heart--plead for me. Permit me to go,
dear papa; and will you allow me to lean upon you to my own room?--for,
alas! I am not, after this painful excitement, able to go there myself.
Thank you, papa, thank you.”

He was thus compelled to give her his arm, and, in doing so, was
surprised to feel the extraordinary tremor by which her frame was
shaken. On reaching her room, she turned round, and laying her head,
with an affectionate and supplicating confidence, once more upon his
breast, she whispered with streaming eyes, “Alas! my dear papa, you
forget, in urging me to marry this hateful profligate, that my heart, my
affections, my love--in the fullest, and purest, and most disinterested
sense--are irrevocably fixed upon another; and Dunroe, all mean and
unmanly as he is, knows this.”

“He knows that--there, sit down--why do you tremble so?--Yes, but he
knows that what you consider an attachment is a mere girlish fancy, a
whimsical predilection that your own good-sense will show you the folly
of at a future time.”

“Recollect, papa, that he has been extravagant, and is said to be
embarrassed; the truth is, sir, that the man values not your daughter,
but the property to which he thinks he will become entitled, and which
I have no doubt will be very welcome to his necessities. I feel that I
speak truth, and as a test of his selfishness, it will be only necessary
to acquaint him with the reappearance of my brother--your son and
heir--and you will be no further troubled by his importunities.”

“Troubled by his importunity! Why, girl, it's I that am troubled with
apprehension lest he might discover the existence of your brother, and
draw off.”

One broad gaze of wonder and dismay she turned upon him, and her face
became crimsoned with shame. She then covered it with her open hands,
and, turning round, placed her head upon the end of the sofa, and moaned
with a deep and bursting anguish, on hearing this acknowledgment of
deliberate baseness from his own lips.

The baronet understood her feelings, and regretted the words he had
uttered, but he resolved to bear the matter out.

“Don't be surprised, Lucy,” he added, “nor alarmed at these sentiments;
for I tell you, that rather than be defeated in the object I propose for
your elevation in life, I would trample a thousand times upon all
the moral obligations that ever bound man. Put it down to what you
like--insanity--monomania, if you will--but so it is with me: I shall
work my purpose out, or either of us shall die for it; and from this
you may perceive how likely your resistance and obduracy are to become
available against the determination of such a man as I am. Compose
yourself, girl, and don't be a fool. The only way to get properly
through life is to accommodate ourselves to its necessities, or, in
other words, to have shrewdness and common sense, and foil the world, if
we can, at its own weapons. Give up your fine sentiment, I desire you,
and go down to the drawing-room, to receive your brother; hem will be
here very soon. I am going to the assizes, and shall not return till
about four o'clock. Come, come, all will end better than you imagine.”

The mention of her brother was anything but a comfort to Lucy. Her
father at first entertained apprehensions, as we have already said, that
this promising youth might support his sister in her aversion against
the marriage. Two or three conversations on the subject soon undeceived
him, however, in the view he had taken of his character; and Lucy
herself now dreaded him, on this subject, almost as much as she did her
father.

With respect to this same brother, it is scarcely necessary now to
say, that Lucy's feelings had undergone a very considerable change.
On hearing that he not only was in existence, but that she would soon
actually behold him, her impassioned imagination painted him as
she wished and hoped he might prove to be--that is, in the first
place--tall, elegant, handsome, and with a strong likeness to the mother
whom he had been said so much to resemble; and, in the next--oh, how her
trembling heart yearned to find him affectionate, tender, generous,
and full of all those noble and manly virtues on which might rest a
delightful sympathy, a pure and generous affection, and a tender and
trusting confidence between them. On casting her eyes upon him for the
first time, however, she felt at the moment like one disenchanted, or
awakening from some delightful illusion to a reality so much at variance
with the beau ideal of her imagination, as to occasion a feeling of
disappointment that amounted almost to pain. There stood before her
a young man, with a countenance so like her father's, that the fact
startled her. Still there was a difference, for--whether from the
consciousness of birth, or authority, or position in life--there was
something in her father's features that redeemed them from absolute
vulgarity. Here, however, although the resemblance was extraordinary,
and every feature almost identical, there might be read in the
countenance of her brother a low, commonplace expression, that looked as
if it were composed of effrontery, cunning, and profligacy. Lucy for
a moment shrank back from such a countenance, and the shock of
disappointment chilled the warmth with which she had been prepared
to receive him. But, then, her generous heart told her that she might
probably be prejudging the innocent--that neglect, want of education,
the influence of the world, and, worst of all, distress and suffering,
might have caused the stronger, more vulgar, and exceedingly
disagreeable expression which she saw before her; and the reader is
already aware of the consequences which these struggles, at their first
interview, had upon her. Subsequently to that, however, Mr. Ambrose,
in supporting his father's views, advanced principles in such complete
accordance with them, as to excite in his sister's breast, first a
deep regret that she could not love him as she had hoped to do; then
a feeling stronger than indifference itself, and ultimately one little
short of aversion. Her father had been now gone about half an hour, and
she hoped that her brother might not come, when a servant came to say
that Mr. Gray was in the drawing-room, and requested to see her.

She felt that the interview would be a painful one to her; but still he
was her brother, and she knew she could not avoid seeing him.

After the first salutations were over,

“What is the matter with you, Lucy?” he asked; “you look ill and
distressed. I suppose the old subject of the marriage--eh?”

“I trust it is one which you will not renew, Thomas. I entreat you to
spare me on it.”

“I am too much your friend to do so, Lucy. It is really inconceivable to
me why you should oppose it as you do. But the truth is, you don't know
the world, or you would think and act very differently.”

“Thomas,” she replied, whilst her eyes filled with tears, “I am almost
weary of life. There is not one living individual to whom I can turn for
sympathy or comfort. Papa has forbidden me to visit Lady Gourlay or Mrs.
Mainwaring; and I am now utterly friendless, with the exception of God
alone. But I will not despair--so long, at least, as reason is left to
me.”

“I assure you, Lucy, you astonish me. To you, whose imagination is
heated with a foolish passion for an adventurer whom no one knows, all
this suffering may seem very distressing and romantic; but to me, to my
father, and to the world, it looks like great folly--excuse me, Lucy--or
rather like great weakness of character, grounded upon strong obstinacy
of disposition. Believe me, if the world were to know this you would be
laughed at; and there is scarcely a mother or daughter, from the
cottage to the castle, that would not say, 'Lucy Gourlay is a poor,
inexperienced fool, who thinks she can find a world of angels, and
paragons, and purity to live in.'”

“But I care not for the world, Thomas; it is not my idol--I do not
worship it, nor shall I ever do so. I wish to guide myself by the voice
of my own conscience, by a sense of what is right and proper, and by the
principles of Christian truth.”

“These doctrines, Lucy, are very well for the closet; but they will
neyer do in life, for which they are little short of a disqualification.
Where, for instance, will you find them acted on? Not by people of
sense, I assure you. Now listen to me.”

“Spare me, if you please, Thomas, the advocacy of such principles. You
occasion me great pain--not so much on my own account as on yours--you
alarm me.”

“Don't be alarmed, I tell you; but listen to me, as I said. Here, now,
is this marriage: you don't love this Dunroe--you dislike, you detest
him. Very well. What the deuce has that to do with the prospects of your
own elevation in life? Think for yourself--become the centre of your own
world; make this Dunroe your footstool--put him under your foot, I say,
and mount by him; get a position in the world--play your game in it as
you see others do; and--”

“Pray, sir,” said Lucy, scarcely restraining her indignation, “where, or
when, or how did you come by these odious and detestable doctrines?”

“Faith, Lucy, from honest nature--from experience and observation. Is
there any man with a third idea, or that has the use of his eyes, who
does not know and see that this is the game of life? Dunroe, I dare say,
deserves your contempt; report goes, certainly, that he is a profligate;
but what ought especially to reconcile him to you is this simple
fact--that the man's a fool. Egad, I think that ought to satisfy you.”

Lucy rose up and went to the window, where she stood for some moments,
her eyes sparkling and scintillating, and her bosom heaving with a tide
of feelings which were repressed by a strong and exceedingly difficult
effort. She then returned to the sofa, her cheeks and temples in a
blaze, whilst ever and anon she eyed her brother as if from a new point
of view, or as if something sudden and exceedingly disagreeable had
struck her.

“You look at me very closely, Lucy,” said he, with a confident grin.

“I do,” she replied. “Proceed, sir.”

“I will. Well, as I was saying, you will find it remarkably comfortable
and convenient in many ways to be married to a fool: he will give you
very little trouble; fools are never suspicious, but, on the contrary,
distinguished for an almost sublime credulity. Then, again, you love
this other gentleman; and, with a fool for your husband, and the example
of the world before you, what the deuce difficulty can you see in the
match?”

Lucy rose up, and for a few moments the very force of her indignation
kept her silent; at length she spoke.

“Villain--impostor--cheat! you stand there convicted of an infamous
attempt to impose yourself on me as my legitimate brother--on my father
as his legitimate son; but know that I disclaim you, sir. What! the
fine and gentle blood of my blessed mother to flow in the veins of the
profligate monster who could give utterance to principles worthy of
hell itself, and attempt to pour them into the ears and heart of his own
sister! Sir, I feel, and I thank God for it, that you are not the son of
my blessed mother--no; but you stand there a false and spurious knave,
the dishonest instrument of some fraudulent conspiracy, concocted for
the purpose of putting you into a position of inheriting a name and
property to which you have no claim. I ought, on the moment I first
saw you, to have been guided by the instincts of my own heart, which
prompted me to recoil from and disclaim you. I know not, nor do I wish
to know, in what low haunts of vice and infamy you have been bred; but
one thing is certain, that, if it be within the limits of my power,
you shall be traced and unmasked. I now remember me that--that--there
existed an early scandal--yes, sir, I remember it, but I cannot even
repeat it; be assured, however, that this inhuman and devilish attempt
to poison my principles will prove the source of a retributive judgment
on your head. Begone, sir, and leave the house!”

The pallor of detected guilt, the consciousness that in this iniquitous
lecture he had overshot the mark, and made a grievous miscalculation in
pushing his detestable argument too far--but, above all, the startling
suspicions so boldly and energetically expressed by Lucy, the truth of
which, as well as the apprehensions that filled him of their discovery,
all united, made him feel as if he stood on the brink of a mine to which
the train had been already applied. And yet, notwithstanding all this,
such was the natural force of his effrontery--such the vulgar insolence
and bitter disposition of his nature, that, instead of soothing her
insulted feelings, or offering either explanation or apology, he could
not restrain an impudent exhibition of ill-temper.

“You forget yourself, Lucy,” he replied; “you have no authority to
order me out of this house, in which I stand much firmer than yourself.
Neither do I comprehend your allusions, nor regard your threats. The
proofs of my identity and legitimacy are abundant and irresistible. As
to the advice I gave you, I gave it like one who knows the world--”

“No, sir,” she replied, indignantly; “you gave it like a man who knows
only its vices. It is sickening to hear every profligate quote his own
experience of life, as if it were composed of nothing but crimes and
vices, simply because they constitute the guilty phase of it with
which he is acquainted. But the world, sir, is not the scene of general
depravity which these persons would present it. No: it is full of great
virtues, noble actions, high principles; and, what is better still, of
true religion and elevated humanity. What right, then, sir, have you to
libel a world which you do not understand? You are merely a portion of
its dregs, and I would as soon receive lessons in honesty from a
thief as principles for my guidance in it from you. As for me, I shall
disregard the proofs of your identity and legitimacy, which, however,
must be produced and investigated; for, from this moment, establish
them as you may, I shall never recognize you as a brother, as an
acquaintance, as a man, nor as anything but a selfish and abandoned
villain, who would have corrupted the principles of his sister.”

Without another word, or the slightest token of respect or courtesy,
she deliberately, and with an air of indignant scorn, walked out of the
drawing-room, leaving Mr. Ambrose Gray in a position which we dare say
nobody will envy him.




CHAPTER XXXVI.  Contains a Variety of Matters

--Some to Laugh and some to Weep at.

Our readers may have observed that Sir Thomas Gourlay led a secluded
life ever since the commencement of our narrative. The fact was, and he
felt it deeply, that he had long been an unpopular man. That he was a
bad, overbearing husband, too, had been well known, for such was the
violence of his temper, and the unvaried harshness of his disposition
toward his wife, that the general tenor of his conduct, so far even as
she was concerned, could not be concealed. His observations on life and
personal character were also so cynical and severe, not to say unjust,
that his society was absolutely avoided, unless by some few of his own
disposition. And yet nothing could be more remarkable than the contrast
that existed between his principles and conduct in many points, thus
affording, as they did, an involuntary acknowledgment of his moral
errors.

He would not, for instance, admit his sceptical friends, who laughed at
the existence of virtue and religion, to the society of his daughter,
with the exception of Lord Dunroe, to whose vices his unaccountable
ambition for her elevation completely blinded him. Neither did he wish
her to mingle much with the world, from a latent apprehension that she
might tind it a different thing from what he himself represented it to
be; and perhaps might learn there the low estimate which it had formed
of her future husband. Like most misanthropical men, therefore, whose
hatred of life is derived principally from that uneasiness of conscience
which proceeds from their own vices, he kept aloof from society as far
as the necessities of his position allowed him.

Mrs. Mainwaring had called upon him several times with an intention of
making some communication which she trusted would have had the effect
of opening his eyes to the danger into which he was about to precipitate
his daughter by her contemplated! marriage with Dunroe. He uniformly
refused, however, to see her, or to allow her any opportunity of
introducing the subject. Finding herself deliberately and studiously
repulsed, this good lady, who still occasionally corresponded with
Lucy, came to the resolution of writing to him on the subject, and,
accordingly, Gibson, one morning, with his usual cool and deferential
manner, presented him with the following letter:

“SUMMERFIELD COTTAGE.

“Sir,--I should feel myself utterly unworthy of the good opinion which I
trust I am honored with by your admirable daughter, were I any longer
to remain silent upon a subject of the deepest importance to her future
happiness. I understand that she is almost immediately about to
become the wife of Lord Dunroe. Now, sir, I entreat your most serious
attention; and I am certain, if you will only bestow it upon the few
words I am about to write, that you, and especially Miss Gourlay, will
live to thank God that I interposed to prevent this unhallowed union.
I say then, emphatically, as I shall be able to prove most distinctly,
that if you permit Miss Gourlay to become the wife of this young
nobleman you will seal her ruin--defeat the chief object which you
cherish, for her in life, and live to curse the day on which you
urged it on. The communications which I have to make are of too much
importance to be committed to paper; but if you will only allow me, and
I once more implore it for the sake of your child, as well as for your
own future ease of mind, the privilege of a short interview, I shall
completely satisfy you as to the truth of what I state.

“I have the honor to be, sir,

“Your obliged and obedient servant,

“Martha Mainwaring.”


Having perused the first sentence of this earnest and friendly
letter, Sir Thomas indignantly flung it into a drawer where he kept
all communications to which it did not please him at the moment to pay
particular attention.

Lucy's health in the meantime was fast breaking: but so delicate and
true was her sense of honor and duty that she would have looked upon any
clandestine communication with her lover as an infraction of the solemn
engagement into which she had entered for her father's sake,--and by
which, even at the expense of her own happiness, she considered herself
bound. Still, she felt that a communication on the subject was due to
him, and her principal hope now was that her father would allow her
to make it. If he, however, refused this sanction to an act of common
justice, then she resolved to write to him openly, and make the wretched
circumstances in which she was involved, and the eternal barrier that
had been placed between them, known to him at once.

Her father, however, now found, to his utter mortification, that he was
driving matters somewhat too fast, and that his daughter's health must
unquestionably be restored before he could think of outraging humanity
and public decency by forcing her from the sick bed to the altar.

After leaving her brother on the occasion of their last remarkable
interview, she retired to her room so full of wretchedness, indignation,
and despair of all human aid or sympathy, that she scarcely knew whether
their conversation was a dream or a reality. Above all things, the
shock she received through her whole moral system, delicately and finely
tempered as it was, so completely prostrated her physical strength, and
estranged all the virtuous instincts of her noble nature, that it was
with difficulty she reached her own room. When there, she immediately
rang for her maid, who at once perceived by the indignant sparkle of her
eye, the heightened color of her cheek, and the energetic agitation of
her voice, that something exceedingly unpleasant had occurred.

“My gracious, miss,” she exclaimed, “what has happened? You look so
disturbed! Something, or somebody, has offended you.”

“I am disturbed, Alice,” she replied, “I am disturbed; come and lend
me your arm; my knees are trembling so that I cannot walk without
assistance; but must sit down for a moment. Indeed, I feel that my
strength is fast departing from me. I scarcely know what I am thinking.
I am all confused, agitated, shocked. Gracious heaven! Come, my dear
Alice, help your mistress; you, Alice, are the only friend I have left
now. Are you not my friend, Alice?”

She was sitting on a lounger as she spoke, and the poor affectionate
girl, who loved her as she did her life, threw herself over, and leaning
her head upon her mistress's knees wept bitterly.

“Sit beside me, Alice,” said she; “whatever distance social distinctions
may have placed between us, I feel that the truth and sincerity of
those tears justify me in placing you near my heart. Sit beside me, but
compose yourself; and then you must assist me to bed.”

“They are killing you,” said Alley, still weeping. “What devil can tempt
them to act as they do? As for me, miss, it's breaking my heart, that I
see what you are suffering, and can't assist you.”

“But I have your love and sympathy, your fidelity, too, my dear Alice;
and that now is all I believe the world has left me.”

“No, miss,” replied her maid, wiping her eyes, and striving to compose
herself, “no, indeed; there is another--another gentleman, I mean--as
well as myself, that feels deeply for your situation.”

Had Lucy's spirit been such as they were wont to be, she could have
enjoyed this little blunder of Alice's; but now her heart, like some
precious jewel that lies too deep in the bosom of the ocean for the
sun's strongest beams to reach, had sunk beneath the influence of either
cheerfulness or mirth.

“There is indeed, miss,” continued Alice,

“And pray, Alice,” asked her mistress, “how do you know that?”

“Why, miss,” replied the girl, “I am told that of late he is looking
very ill, too. They say he has lost his spirits all to pieces, and
seldom laughs--the Lord save us!”

“They say!--who say, Alice?”

“Why,” replied Alice, with a perceptible heightening of her color,
“ahem! ahem! why, Dandy Dulcimer, miss.”

“And where have you seen him? Dulcimer, I mean. He, I suppose, who used
occasionally to play upon the instrument of that name in the Hall?”

“Yes, ma'am, the same. Don't you remember how beautiful he played it the
night we came in the coach to town?”

“I remember there was something very-unpleasant between him and a
farmer, I believe; but I did not pay much attention to it at the time.”

“I am sorry for that, miss, for I declare to goodness, Dandy's dulcimer
isn't such an unpleasant instrument as you think; and, besides, he has
got a new one the other day that plays lovely.”

Lucy felt a good deal anxious to hear some further information from
Alley upon the subject she had introduced, but saw that Dandy and his
dulcimer were likely to be substituted for it, all unconscious as the
poor girl was of the preference of the man to the master.

“He looks ill, you say, Alice?”

“Never seen him look so rosy in my life, miss, nor in such spirits.”

Lucy looked into her face, and for a moment's space one slight and
feeble gleam, which no suffering could prevent, passed over it, at this
intimation of the object which Alley's fancy then dwelt upon.

“He danced a hornpipe, miss, to the tune of the Swaggerin' Jig, upon the
kitchen table,” she proceeded; “and, sorra be off me, but it would do
your heart good to see the springs he would give--every one o' them a
yard high--and to hear how he'd crack his fingers as loud as the shot of
a pistol.”

A slight gloom overclouded Lucy's face; but, on looking at the artless
transition from the honest sympathy which Alley had just felt for her to
a sense of happiness which it was almost a crime to disturb, it almost
instantly disappeared.

“I must not be angry with her,” she said to herself; “this feeling,
after all, is only natural, and such as God. in his goodness bestows
upon every heart as the greatest gift of life, when not abused. I cannot
be displeased at the naivete with which she has forgotten my lover for
her own; for such I perceive this person she speaks of evidently is.”

She looked once more at her maid, whose eyes, with true Celtic feeling,
were now dancing with delight, whilst yet red with tears. “Alice,” said
she, in a voice of indulgent reproof, “who are you thinking of?”

“Why, of Dandy, miss,” replied Alley; but in an instant the force of the
reproof as well as of the indulgence was felt, and sho acknowledged her
error by a blush.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” she said; “I'm a thoughtless creature. What
can you care about what I was sayin'? But--hem--well, about him--sure
enough, poor Dandy told me that everything is going wrong with him. He
doesn't, as I said, speak or smile as he used to do.”

“Do you know,” asked her mistress, “whether he goes out much?”

“Not much, miss, I think; he goes sometimes to Lady Gourlay's and to
Dean Palmer's. But do you know what I heard, miss I hope you won't grow
jealous, though?”

Lucy gave a faint smile. “I hope not, Alice. What is it?” But here,
on recollecting again the scene she had just closed below stairs, she
shuddered, and could not help exclaiming, “Oh, gracious heaven!” Then
suddenly throwing off, as it were, all thought and reflection connected
with it, she looked again at her maid, and repeated the question, “What
is it, Alice?”

“Why, miss, have you ever seen Lord Dunroe's sister?”

“Yes, in London; but she was only a girl, though a lovely girl.”

“Well, miss, do you know what? She's in love with some one.”

“Poor girl!” exclaimed, Lucy, “I trust the course of her love may run
smoother than mine; but who is she supposed to be in love with?” she
asked, not, however, without a blush, which, with all her virtues, was,
as woman, out of her power to suppress.

“Oh,” replied Alley, “not with him--and dear knows it would be
no disgrace to her, but the contrary, to fall in love with such a
gentleman--no; but with a young officer of the Thirty-third, who they
say is lovely.”

“What is his name, do you not know, Alice?”

“Roberts, I think. They met at Dean Palmer's and Lady Gourlay's; for it
seems that Colonel Dundas was an old brother officer of Sir Edward's,
when he was young and in the army.”

“I have met that young officer, Alice,” replied Lucy, “and I know not
how it was, but I felt an--a--a--in fact, I cannot describe it. Those
who were present observed that he and I resembled each other very much,
and indeed the resemblance struck myself very forcibly.”

“Troth, and if he resembled you, miss, I'm not surprised that Lady Emily
fell in love with him.”

“But how did you come to hear all this, Alice?” asked Lucy with a good
deal of anxiety.

“Why, miss, there's a cousin of my own maid to Mrs. Palmer, and you
may remember the evenin' you gave me lave to spend with her. She gave
a party on the same evenin' and Dandy was there. I think I never looked
better; I had on my new stays, and my hair was done up Grecian. Any way,
I wasn't the worst of them.”

“I am fatigued, Alice,” said Lucy; “make your narrative as short as you
can.”

“I haven't much to add to it now, miss,” she replied. “It was observed
that Lady Emily's eyes and his were never off one another. She refused,
it seems, to dance with some major that's a great lord in the regiment,
and danced with Mr. Roberts afterwards. He brought her down to supper,
too, and sat beside her, and you know what that looks like.”

Lucy paused, and seemed as if anxious about something, but at length
asked,

“Do you know, Alice, was he there?”

“No, miss,” replied the maid; “Dandy tells me he goes to no great
parties at all, he only dines where there's a few. But, indeed, by all
accounts he's very unhappy.”

“What do you mean by all accounts,” asked Lucy, a little startled.

“Why, Dandy, miss; so he tells me.”

“Poor Alice!” exclaimed Lucy, looking benignantly upon her. “I did not
think, Alice, that any conversation could have for a moment won me from
the painful state of mind in which I entered the room. Aid me me now
to my bedchamber. I must lie down, for I feel that I should endeavor to
recruit my strength some way. If I could sleep, I should be probably the
better for it; but, alas, Alice, you need not be told that misery and
despair are wretched bedfellows.”

“Don't say despair,” replied Alice; “remember there's a good God above
us, who can do better for us than ever we can for ourselves. Trust in
him. Who knows but he's only trying you; and severely tried you are, my
darlin' mistress.”

Whilst uttering the last words, the affectionate creature's eyes
filled with tears. She rose, however, and having assisted Lucy to
her sleeping-room, helped to undress her, then fixed her with tender
assiduity in her bed, where, in a few minutes, exhaustion and anxiety of
mind were for the time forgotten, and she fell asleep.

The penetration of servants, in tracing, at fashionable parties,
the emotions of love through all its various garbs and disguises,
constitutes a principal and not the least disagreeable portion of their
duty. The history of Lady Emily's attachment to Ensign Roberts, though a
profound secret to the world, in the opinion of the parties themselves,
and only hoped for and suspected by each, was nevertheless perfectly
well known by a good number of the quality below stairs. The
circumstance, at all events, as detailed by Alley, was one which in this
instance justified their sagacity. Roberts and she had met, precisely as
Alley said, three or four times at Lady Gourlay's and the Dean's, where
their several attractions were, in fact, the theme of some observation.
Those long, conscious glances, however, which, on the subject of
love are such traitors to the heart, by disclosing its most secret
operations, had sufficiently well told them the state of everything
within that mysterious little garrison, and the natural result was that
Lady Emily seldom thought of any one or anything but Ensign Roberts and
the aforesaid glances, nor Mr. Roberts of anything but hers; for it so
happened, that, with the peculiar oversight in so many things by which
the passion is characterized, Lady Emily forgot that she had herself
been glancing at the ensign, or she could never have observed and
interpreted his looks. With a similar neglect of his own offences, in
the same way must we charge Mr. Roberts, who in his imagination saw
nothing but the blushing glances of this fair patrician.

Time went on, however, and Lucy, so far from recovering, was nearly
one-half of the week confined to her bed, or her apartment. Sometimes,
by way of varying the scene, and, if possible, enlivening her spirits,
she had forced herself to go down to the drawing-room, and occasionally
to take an airing in the carriage. A fortnight had elapsed, and yet
neither Norton nor his fellow-traveler had returned from France. Neither
had Mr. Birney; and our friend the stranger had failed to get any
possible intelligence of unfortunate Fenton, whom he now believed
to have perished, either by foul practices or the influence of some
intoxicating debauch. Thanks to Dandy Dulcimer, however, as well as to
Alley Mahon, he was not without information concerning Lucy's state of
health; and, unfortunately, all that he could hear about it was only
calculated to depress and distract him.

Dandy came to him one morning, about this period, and after rubbing his
head slightly with the tips of his fingers, said,

“Bedad, sir, I was very near havin' cotch the right Mrs. Norton
yestherday--I mane, I thought I was.”

“How was that?” asked his master. “Why, sir, I heard there was a fine,
good-looking widow of that name, livin' in Meeklenburgh street,
where she keeps a dairy; and sure enough there I found her. Do you
undherstand, sir?”

“Why should I not, sirra? What mystery is there in it that I should
not?”

“Deuce a sich a blazer of a widow I seen this seven years. I went early
to her place, and the first thing I saw was a lump of a six-year-ould--a
son of hers--playin' the Pandean pipes upon a whack o' bread and butther
that he had aiten at the top into canes. Somehow, although I can't tell
exactly why, I tuck a fancy to become acquainted with her, and proposed,
if she had no objection, to take a cup o' tay with her yestherday
evenin', statin' at the time that I had something to say that might turn
out to her advantage.”

“But what mystery is there in all this?” said his master.

“Mysthery, sir--why, where was there ever a widow since the creation of
Peter White, that hadn't more or less of mysthery about her?”

“Well, but what was the mystery here?” asked the other. “I do not
perceive any, so far.”

“Take your time, sir,” replied Dandy; “it's comin'. The young performer
on the Pandeans that I tould you of wasn't more than five or six at the
most, but a woman over the way, that I made inquiries of, tould me the
length o' time the husband was dead. Do you undherstand the mysthery
now, sir?”

“Go on,” replied the other; “I am amused by you; but I don't see the
mystery, notwithstanding. What was the result?”

“I tell you the truth--she was a fine, comely, fiaghoola woman; and as I
heard she had the shiners, I began to think I might do worse.”

“I thought the girl called Alley Mahon was your favorite?”

“So she is, sir--that is, she's one o' them: but, talkin' o' favorites,
I am seldom without half-a-dozen.”

“Very liberal, indeed, Dandy; but I wish to hear the upshot.”

“Why, sir, we had a cup o' tay together yestherday evenin', and, between
you and me, I began, as it might be, to get fond of her. She's very
pretty, sir; but I must say, that the man who marries her will get a
mouth, plaise goodness, that he must kiss by instalments. Faith, if
it could be called property, he might boast that his is extensive; and
divil a mistake in it.”

“She has a large mouth, then?”

“Upon my soul, sir, if you stood at the one side of it you'd require a
smart telescope to see to the other. No man at one attempt could ever
kiss her. I began, sir, at the left side--that's always the right side
to kiss at and went on successfully enough till I got half way through;
but you see, sir, the evenin's is but short yet, and as I had no time to
finish, I'm to go back this evenin' to get to the other side.

“Still I'm at a loss, Dandy,” replied his master, not knowing whether to
smile or get angry; “finish it without going about in this manner.”

“Faith, sir, and that's more than I could do in kissing the widow. Divil
such a circumbendibus ever a man had as I had in gettin' as far as the
nose, where I had to give up until this evenin' as I said. Now, sir,
whether to consider that an advantage or disadvantage is another
mysthery to me. There's some women, and they have such a small, rosy,
little mouth, that a man must gather up his lips into a bird's bill to
kiss them. Now, there's Miss Gour--”

A look of fury from his master divided the word in his mouth, and he
paused from terror. His master became more composed, however, and said,
“To what purpose have you told me all this?”

“Gad, sir to tell you the truth, I saw you were low-spirited, and wanted
something to rouse you. It's truth for all that.”

“Is this Mrs. Norton, however, the woman whom we are seeking?”

“Well, well,” exclaimed Dandy, casting down his hand, with vexatious,
vehemence, against the open air; “by the piper o' Moses, I'm the
stupidest man that ever peeled a phatie. Troth, I was so engaged, sir,
that I forgot it; but I'll remember it to-night, plaise goodness.”

“Ah, Dandy,” exclaimed his master, smiling, “I fear you are a faithless
swain. I thought Alley Mahon was at least the first on the list.”

“Troth, sir,” replied Dandy, “I believe she is, too. Poor Alley! By the
way, sir, I beg your pardon, but I have news for you that I fear will
give you a heavy heart.”

“How,” exclaimed his master, “how--what is it? Tell me instantly.”

“Miss Gourlay is ill, sir. She was goin' to be married to this lord;
her father, I believe, had the day appointed, and she had given her
consent.”

His master seized him by the collar with both hands, and peering into
his eyes, whilst his own blazed with actual fire, he held him for a
moment as if in a vise, exclaiming, “Her consent, you villain!” But, as
if recollecting himself, he suddenly let him go, and said, calmly, “Go
on with what you were about to say.”

“I have very little more to say, sir,” replied Dandy; “herself and
Lord Dunroe is only waitin' till she gets well and then they're to be
married?”

“You said she gave her consent, did you not!”

“No doubt of it, sir, and that, I believe, is what's breakin' her
heart. However, it's not my affair to direct any one; still, if I was in
somebody's shoes, I know the tune I'd sing.”

“And what tune would you sing?” asked his master.

Dandy sung the following stave, and, as he did it, he threw his comic
eye upon his master with such humorous significance that the latter,
although wrapped in deep reflection at the moment, on suddenly observing!
it, could not avoid smiling:

     “Will you list, and come with me, fair maid?
     Will you list, and come with me, fair maid?
     Will you list, and come with me, fair maid?
     And folly the lad with the white cockade?”

“If you haven't a good voice, sir, you could whisper the words into
her ear, and as you're so near the mouth--hem--a word to the wise--then
point to the chaise that you'll have standin' outside, and my life for
you, there's an end to the fees o' the docther.”

His master, who had relapsed into thought before he concluded his
advice, looked at him without seeming to have heard it. He then
traversed the room several times, his chin supported by his finger and
thumb, after which he seemed to have formed a resolution.

“Go, sir,” said he, “and put that letter to Father M'Mahon in the
post-office. I shall not want you for some time.”

“Will I ordher a chaise, sir?” replied Dandy, with a serio-comic face.

One look from his master, however, sent him about his business; but
the latter could hear him lilting the “White Cockade,” as he went down
stairs.

“Now,” said he, when Dandy was gone, “can it be possible that she has
at length given her consent to this marriage? Never voluntarily. It
has been extorted by foul deceit and threatening, by some base fraud
practised upon her generous and unsuspecting nature. I am culpable
to stand tamely by and allow this great and glorious creature to be
sacrificed to a bad ambition, and a worse man, without coming to the
rescue. But, in the meantime, is this information true? Alas, I fear
it is; for I know the unscrupulous spirit the dear girl has, alone and
unassisted, to contend with. Yet if it be true, oh, why should she not
have written to me? Why not have enabled me to come to her defence? I
know not what to think. At all events, I shall, as a last resource, call
upon her father. I shall explain to him the risk he runs in marrying his
daughter to this man who is at once a fool and a scoundrel. But how can
I do so? Birney has not yet returned from France, and I have no proofs
on which to rest such serious allegations; nothing at present but bare
assertions, which her father, in the heat and fury of his ambition,
might not only disbelieve, but misinterpret. Be it so; I shall at
least warn him, take it as he will; and if all else should fail, I will
disclose to him my name and family, in order that he may know, at all
events, that I am no impostor. My present remonstrance may so far alarm
him as to cause the persecution against Lucy to be suspended for a
time, and on' Birney's return, we shall, I trust, be able to speak more
emphatically.”

He accordingly sent for a chaise, into which he stepped and ordered the
driver to leave him at Sir Thomas Gourlay's and to wait there for him.

Lord Dunroe was at this period perfectly well aware that Birney's visit
to France was occasioned by purposes that boded nothing favorable to
his interests; and were it not for Lucy's illness, there is little doubt
that the marriage would, ere now, have taken place. A fortnight had
elapsed, and every day so completely filled him with alarm, that he
proposed to Sir Thomas Gourlay the expediency of getting the license at
once, and having the ceremony performed privately in her father's house.
To this the father would have assented, were it not that he had taken it
into his head that Lucy was rallying, and would soon be in a condition
to go through it, in the parish church, at least. A few days, he hoped,
would enable her to bear it; but if not, he was willing to make every
concession to his lordship's wishes. Her delicate health, he said, would
be a sufficient justification. At all events, both agreed that there
could be no harm in having the license provided: and, accordingly, upon
the morning of the stranger's visit, Sir Thomas and Lord Dunroe had just
left the house of the former for the Ecclesiastical Court, in Henrietta
street, a few minutes before his arrival. Sir Thomas was mistaken,
however, in imagining that his daughter's health was improving, The
doctor, indeed, had ordered carriage exercise essentially necessary; and
Lucy being none of those weak and foolish girls, who sink under illness
and calamity by an apathetic neglect of their health, or a criminal
indifference to the means of guarding and prolonging the existence into
which God has called them, left nothing undone on her part to second the
efforts of the physician. Accordingly, whenever she was able to be up,
or the weather permitted it, she sat in the carriage for an hour or two
as it drove through some of the beautiful suburban scenery by which our
city is surrounded.

The stranger, on the door being opened, was told by a servant, through
mistake, that Sir Thomas Gourlay was within. The man then showed him
to the drawing-room, where he said there was none but Miss Gourlay, he
believed, who was waiting for the carriage to take her airing.

On hearing this piece of intelligence the stranger's heart began to
palpitate, and his whole system, physical and spiritual, was disturbed
by a general commotion that mounted to pain, and almost banished his
presence of mind for the moment. He tapped at the drawing-room door, and
a low, melancholy voice, that penetrated his heart, said, “Come in.” He
entered, and there on a sofa sat Lucy before him. He did not bow--his
heart was too deeply interested in her fate to remember the formalities
of ceremony--but he stood, and fixed his eyes upon her with a long and
anxious gaze. There she sat; but, oh! how much changed in appearance
from what he had known her on every previous interview. Not that
the change, whilst it spoke of sorrow and suffering, was one which
diminished her beauty; on the contrary, it had only changed its
character to something far more touching and impressive than health
itself with all its blooming hues could have bestowed. Her features were
certainly thinner, but there was visible in them a serene but mournful
spirit--a voluptuous languor, heightened and spiritualized by purity and
intellect into an expression that realized our notions rather of angelic
beauty than of the loveliness of mere woman. To all this, sorrow
had added a dignity so full of melancholy and commanding grace--a
seriousness indicative of such truth and honor--as to make the heart
of the spectator wonder, and the eye almost to weep on witnessing an
association so strange and incomprehensible, as that of such beauty and
evident goodness with sufferings that seem rather like crimes against
purity and innocence, and almost tempt the weak heart to revolt against
the dispensations of Providence.

When their eyes rested on each other, is it necessary to say that the
melancholy position of Lucy was soon read in those large orbs that
seemed about to dissolve into tears? The shock of the stranger's sudden
and unexpected appearance, when taken in connection with the loss of him
forever, and the sacrifice of her love and happiness, which, to save her
father's life, she had so heroically and nobly made, was so strong, she
felt unable to rise. He approached her, struck deeply by the dignified
entreaty for sympathy and pardon that was in her looks.

“I am not well able to rise, dear Charles,” she said, breaking the short
silence which had occurred, and extending her hand; “and I suppose
you have come to reproach me. As for me, I have nothing to ask you
for now--nothing to hope for but pardon, and that you will forget me
henceforth. Will you be noble enough to forgive her who was once your
Lucy, but who can never be so more?”

The dreadful solemnity, together with the pathetic spirit of tenderness
and despair that breathed in these words, caused a pulsation in his
heart and a sense of suffocation about his throat that for the moment
prevented him from speaking. He seized her hand, which was placed
passively in his, and as he put it to his lips, Lucy felt a warm tear or
two fall upon it. At length he spoke:

“Oh, why is this, Lucy?” he said; “your appearance has unmanned me;
but I see it and feel it all. I have been sacrificed to ambition, yet I
blame you not.”

“No, dear Charles,” she replied; look upon me and then ask yourself who
is the victim.”

“But what has happened?” he asked;

“What machinery of hell has been at work to reduce you to this? Fraud,
deceit, treachery have done it. But, for the sake of God, let me know,
as I said, what has occurred since our last interview to occasion this
deplorable change--this rooted sorrow--this awful spirit of despair that
I read in your face?

“Not despair, Charles, for I will never yield to that; but it is enough
to say, that a barrier deep as the grave, and which only that can
remove, is between us forever in this life.”

“You mean to say, then, that you never can be mine?”

“That, alas, is what I mean to say--what I must say.”

“But why, Lucy--why, dearest Lucy--for still I must call you so; what
has occasioned this? I cannot understand it.”

She then related to him, briefly, but feelingly, the solemn promise,
which, as our readers are aware of, she had given her father, and under
what circumstances she had given it, together with his determination,
unchanged and irrevocable, to force her to its fulfilment. Having heard
it he paused for some time, whilst Lucy's eyes were fixed upon him, as
if she expected a verdict of life or death from his lips.

“Alas, my dear Lucy,” he said; “noble girl! how can I quarrel with your
virtues? You did it to save a father's life, and have left me nothing to
reproach you with; but in increasing my admiration of you, my heart is
doubly struck with anguish at the thought that I must lose you.”

“All, yes,” she replied; “but you must take comfort from the difference
in our fates. You merely have to endure the pain of loss; but I--oh,
dear Charles--what have I to encounter? You are not forced into a
marriage with one who possesses not a single sentiment or principle of
virtue or honor in common with yourself. No; you are merely--I deprived
of a woman whom you love; but you are not forced into marriage with a
woman, abandoned and unprincipled, whom you hate. Yes, Charles, you must
take comfort, as I said, from the difference of our fates.”

“What, Lucy! do you mean to say I can take comfort from your misery? Am
I so selfish or ungenerous as to thank God that you, whose happiness
I prefer a thousand times to my own, are more miserable than I am? I
thought you knew me better.”

“Alas, Charles,” she replied, “have compassion on me. The expression of
these generous sentiments almost kills me. Assume some moral error--some
semblance of the least odious vice--some startling blemish of
character--some weakness that may enable me to feel that in losing you
I have not so much to lose as I thought; something that may make the
contrast between the wretch to whom I am devoted and yourself less
repulsive.”

“Oh, I assure you, my dear Lucy,” he replied, with a melancholy smile,
“that I have my errors, my weaknesses, my frailties, if that will
comfort you; so many, indeed, that my greatest virtue, and that of which
I am most proud, is my love for you.”

“Ah, Charles, you reason badly,” she replied, “for you prove yourself to
be capable of that noble affection which never yet existed in a vicious
heart. As for me, I know not on what hand to turn. It is said that when
a person hanging by some weak branch from the brow of a precipice finds
it beginning to give way, and that the plunge below is unavoidable, a
certain courage, gained from despair, not only diminishes the terror of
the fall, but relieves the heart by a bold and terrible feeling that for
the moment banishes fear, and reconciles him to his fate.”

“It is a dreadful analogy, my dear Lucy; but you must take comfort.
Who knows what a day may bring forth? You are not yet hanging upon the
precipice of life.”

“I feel that I am,--Charles; and what is more, I see the depth to
which I must be precipitated; but, alas, I possess none of that fearful
courage that is said to reconcile one to the fall.”

“Lucy,” he replied, “into this gulf of destruction you shall never fall.
Believe me, there is an invisible hand that will support you when you
least expect it; a power that shapes our purposes, roughhew them as we
will. I came to request an interview with your father upon this very
subject. Have courage, dearest girl; friends are at work who I trust
will ere long be enabled to place documents in his hands that will soon
change his purposes. I grant that it is possible these documents may
fail, or may not be procured; and in that case I know not how we are to
act. I mention the probability of failure lest a future disappointment
occasion such a shock as in your present state you may be incapable of
sustaining; but still have hope, for the probability is in our favor.”

She shook her head incredulously, and replied, “You do not know the
inflexible determination of my father on this point; neither can I
conceive what documents you could place before him that would change his
purpose.”

“I do not conceive that I am at liberty even to you, Lucy, to mention
circumstances that may cast a stain upon high integrity and spotless
innocence, so long as it is possible the proofs I speak of may fail.
In the latter case, so far at least as the world is concerned, justice
would degenerate into scandal, whilst great evil and little good must
be the consequence. I think I am bound in honor not to place old age,
venerable and virtuous, on the one hand, and unsuspecting innocence on
the other, in a contingency that may cause them irreparable injury. I
will now say, that if your happiness were not involved in the success
or failure of our proceedings, I should have ceased to be a party in the
steps we are taking until the grave had closed upon one individual at
least, while unconscious of the shame that was to fall upon his family.”

Lucy looked upon him with a feeling of admiration which could not be
misunderstood. “Dear Charles,” she exclaimed; “ever honorable--ever
generous--ever considerate and unselfish; I do not of course understand
your allusions; but I am confident that whatever you do will be done in
a spirit worthy of yourself.”

The look of admiration, and why should we not add love, which Lucy had
bestowed upon him was observed and felt deeply. Their eyes met, and,
seizing her hand again, he whispered, in that low and tender voice which
breathes the softest and most contagious emotion of the heart, “Alas,
Lucy, you could not even dream how inexpressibly dear you are to me.
Without you, life to me will possess no blessing. All that I ever
conceived of its purest and most exalted enjoyments were centred in you,
and in that sweet communion which I thought we were destined to hold
together; but now, now--oh, my God, what a blank will my whole future
existence be without you!”

“Charles--Charles,” she replied, but at the same time her eyes were
swimming in tears, “spare me this; do not overload my heart with such an
excess of sorrow; have compassion on me, for I am already too sensible
of my own misery--too sensible of the happiness I have lost. I am
here isolated and alone, with no kind voice to whisper one word of
consolation to my unhappy heart, my poor maid only excepted; and I am
often forced, in order to escape the pain of present reflections, to
make a melancholy struggle once more to entrance myself in the innocent
dreams of my early life. Yes, and I will confess it, to call back if I
can those visions that gave the delicious hues of hope and happiness
to the love which bound your heart and mine together. The illusion,
however, is too feeble to struggle successfully with the abiding
consciousness of my wretchedness, and I awake to a bitterness of anguish
that is drinking up the fountains of my life, out of which life I feel,
if this state continues, I shall soon pass away.”

On concluding, she wiped away the tears that were fast falling; and her
lover was so deeply moved that he could scarcely restrain his own.

“There is one word, dearest Lucy,” he replied, “but though short it is
full of comfort--hope.”

“Alas! Charles, I feel that it has been blotted out of the destiny of my
life. I look for it; I search for it, but in vain. In this life I
cannot find it; I say in this, because it is now, when all about me is
darkness, and pain, and suffering, that I feel the consolation which
arises from our trust in another. This consolation, however, though
true, is sad, and the very joy it gives is melancholy, because it arises
from that mysterious change which withdraws us from existence; and when
it leads us to happiness we cannot forget that it is through the gate of
the grave. But still it is a consolation, and a great one--to a sufferer
like me, the only one--we must all die.”

Like a strain of soft but solemn music, these mournful words proceeded
from her lips, from which they seemed to catch the touching sweetness
which characterized them.

“I ought not to shed these tears,” she added; “nor ought you, dear
Charles, to feel so deeply what I say as I perceive you do; but I know
not how it is, I am impressed with a presentiment that this is probably
our last meeting; and I confess that I am filled with a mournful
satisfaction in speaking to you--in looking upon you--yes, I confess
it; and I feel all the springs of tenderness opened, as it were, in my
unhappy heart. In a short time,”--she added, and here she almost sobbed,
“it will be a crime to think of you--to allow my very imagination to
turn to your image; and I shall be called upon to banish that image
forever from my heart, which I must strive to do, for to cherish it
there will be wrong; but I shall struggle, for”--she added, proudly
--“whatever my duty may be, I shall leave nothing undone to preserve my
conscience free from its own reproaches.”

“Take comfort, Lucy,” he replied; “this will not--shall not be our last
meeting. It is utterly impossible that such a creature as you are should
be doomed to a fate so wretched. Do not allow them to hurry you into
this odious marriage. Gain time, and we shall yet triumph.”

“Yes, Charles,” she replied; “but, then, misery often grows apathetic,
and the will, wearied down and weakened, loses the power of resistance.
I have more than once felt attacks of this kind, and I know that if
they should observe it, I am lost. Oh, how little is the love of woman
understood! And how little of life is known except through those false
appearances that are certain to deceive all who look upon them as
realities! Here am I, surrounded by every luxury that this world, can
present, and how many thousands imagine me happy! What is there within
the range of fashion and the compass of wealth that I cannot command?
and yet amidst all this dazzle of grandeur I am more wretched than the
beggar whom a morsel of food will make contented.”

“Resist this marriage, Lucy, for a time, that is all I ask,” replied
her lover; “be firm, and, above all things, hope. You may ere long
understand the force and meaning of my words. At present you cannot, nor
is it in my power, with honor, to speak more plainly.”

“My father,” replied this high-minded and sensitive creature, “said some
time ago, 'Is not my daughter a woman of honor?' Yes, Charles, I must be
a woman of honor. But it is time you should go; only before you do, hear
me. Henceforth we have each of us one great mutual task imposed upon
us--a task the fulfilment of which is dictated alike by honor, virtue,
and religion.”

“Alas, Lucy, what is that?”

“To forget each other. From the moment I become,” she sobbed aloud--“you
know,” she added, “what I would say, but what I cannot--from that moment
memory becomes a crime.”

“But an involuntary crime, my ever dear Lucy. As for my part,” he
replied, vehemently, and with something akin to distraction, “I feel
that is impossible, and that even were it possible, I would no more
attempt to banish your image from my heart than I would to deliberately
still its pulses. Never, never--such an attempt, such an act, if
successful, would be a murder of the affections. No. Lucy, whilst one
spark of mortal life is alive in my body, whilst memory can remember the
dreams of only the preceding moment, whilst a single faculty of heart or
intellect remains by which your image can be preserved, I shall cling to
that image as the shipwrecked sailor would to the plank that bears him
through the midnight storm--as a despairing soul would to the only good
act of a wicked life that he could plead for his salvation.”

Whilst he spoke, Lucy kept her eyes fixed upon his noble features, now
wrought up into an earnest but melancholy animation, and when he had
concluded, she exclaimed, “And this is the man of whose love they would
deprive me, whose very acknowledgment of it comes upon my spirit like
an anthem of the heart; and I know not what I have done to be so tried;
yet, as it is the will of God, I receive it for the best. Dear Charles,
you must go; but you spoke of remonstrating with my father. Do not so;
an interview would only aggravate him. And as you admit that certain
documents are wanted to produce a change in his opinions, you may see
clearly that until you produce them an expostulation would be worse than
useless. On the contrary, it might precipitate matters and ruin all. Now
go.”

“Perhaps you are right,” he replied, “as you always are; how can I go?
How can I tear myself from you? Dearest, dearest Lucy, what a love is
mine! But that is not surprising--who could love you with an ordinary
passion?”

Apprehensive that her father might return, she rose up, but so
completely had she been exhausted by the excitement of this interview
that he was obliged to assist her.

“I hear the carriage,” said she; “it is at the door: will you ring for
my maid? And now, Charles, as it is possible that we must meet no more,
say, before you go, that you forgive me.”

“There is everything in your conduct to be admired and loyed, my dearest
Lucy; but nothing to be forgiven.”

“Is it possible,” she said, as if in communion with herself, “that we
shall never meet, never speak, never, probably, look upon each other
more?”

Her lover observed that her face became suddenly pale, and she staggered
a little, after which she sank and would have fallen had he not
supported her in his arms. He had already rung for Alley Mahon, and
there was nothing for it but to place Lucy once more upon the sofa,
whither he was obliged to carry her, for she had fainted. Having placed
her there, it became necessary to support her head upon his bosom,
and in doing so--is it in human nature to be severe upon him?--he
rapturously kissed her lips, and pressed her to his heart in a long,
tender, and melancholy embrace. The appearance of her maid, however,
who always accompanied her in the carriage, terminated this pardonable
theft, and after a few words of ordinary conversation they separated.




CHAPTER XXXVII. Dandy's Visit to Summerfield Cottage

--Where he Makes a most Ungallant Mistake--Returns with Tidings of both
Mrs. Norton and Fenton--and Generously Patronizes his Master


On the morning after this interview the stranger was waited on by
Birney, who had returned from France late on the preceding night.

“Well, my friend,” said he, after they had shaken hands, “I hope you are
the bearer of welcome intelligence!”

The gloom and disappointment that were legible in this man's round,
rosy, and generally good-humored countenance were observed, however, by
the stranger at a second glance.

“But how is this?” he added; “you are silent, and I fear, now that I
look at you a second time, that matters have not gone well with you.
For God's sake, however, let me know; for I am impatient to hear the
result.”

“All is lost,” replied Birney; “and I fear we have been outgeneralled.
The clergyman is dead, and the book in which the record of her death
was registered has disappeared, no one knows how. I strongly suspect,
however, that your opponent is at the bottom of it.”

“You mean Dunroe?”

“I do; that scoundrel Norton, at once his master and his slave,
accompanied by a suspicious-looking fellow, whose name I discovered to
be Mulholland, were there before us, and I fear, carried their point
by securing the register, which I have no doubt has been by this time
reduced to ashes.”

“In that case, then,” replied the stranger, despondingly, “it's all up
with us.”

“Unless,” observed Birney, “you have been more successful at home than I
have been abroad. Any trace of Mrs. Norton?”

“None whatsoever. But, my dear Birney, what you tell me is surprisingly
mysterious. How could Dunroe become aware of the existence of these
documents? or, indeed, of our proceedings at all? And who is this
Mulholland you speak of that accompanied him?”

“I know nothing whatever about him,” replied Birney, “except that he
is a fellow of dissolute appearance, with sandy hair, not ill-looking,
setting aside what is called a battered look, and a face of the most
consummate effrontery.”

“I see it all,” replied the other. “That drunken scoundrel M'Bride
has betrayed us, as far, at least, as he could. The fellow, while his
conduct continued good, was in my confidence, as far as a servant ought
to be. In this matter, however, he did not know all, unless, indeed, by
inference from the nature of the document itself, and from knowing
the name of the family whose position it affected. How it might have
affected them, however, I don't think he knew.”

“But how do you know that this Mulholland is that man?”

“From your description of him I am confident there can be no mistake
about it--not the slightest; he must have changed his name purposely on
this occasion; and, I dare say, Dunroe has liberally paid him for his
treachery.”

“But what is to be done now?” asked Birney; “here we are fairly at
fault.”

“I have seen Miss Gourlay,” replied the other, “and if it were only from
motives of humanity, we must try, by every means consistent with honor,
to stop or retard her marriage with Dunroe.”

“But how are we to do so?”

“I know not at present; but I shall think of it. This is most
unfortunate. I declare solemnly that it was only in so far as the facts
we were so anxious to establish might have enabled us to prevent this
accursed union, that I myself felt an interest in our success. Miss
Gourlay's happiness was my sole motive of action.”

“I believe you, sir,” replied Birney; “but in the meantime we are
completely at a stand. Chance, it is true, may throw something in our
way; but, in the present position of circumstances, chance, nay, all the
chances are against us.”

“It is unfortunately too true,” replied the stranger; “there is not a
single opening left for us; we are, on the contrary, shut out completely
in every direction. I shall write, however, to a lady who possesses much
influence with Miss Gourlay; but, alas, to what purpose? Miss Gourlay
herself has no influence whatever; and, as to her father, he does not
live who could divert him from his object. His vile ambition only in
the matter of his daughter could influence him, and it will do so to her
destruction, for she cannot survive this marriage long.”

“You look thin, and a good deal careworn,” observed Birney, “which,
indeed, I am sorry to see. Constant anxiety, however, and perpetual
agitation of spirits will wear any man down. Well, I must bid you good
morning; but I had almost forgotten to inquire about poor Fenton. Any
trace of him during my absence?”

“Not the slightest. In fact, every point is against us. Lady Gourlay has
relapsed into her original hopelessness, or nearly so, and I myself am
now more depressed than I have ever been. Parish register, documents,
corrupt knaves, and ungrateful traitors--perish all the machinery of
justice on the one hand, and of villainy on the other; only let us
succeed in securing Miss Gourlay's happiness, and I am contented. That,
now and henceforth, is the absorbing object of my life. Let her be
happy; let her be but happy--and this can only be done by preventing her
union with this heartless young man, whose principal motive to it is her
property.”

Birney then took his departure, leaving his friend in such a state of
distress, and almost of despair, on Lucy's account, as we presume our
readers can very sufficiently understand, without any further assistance
from us. He could not, however, help congratulating himself on his
prudence in withholding from Miss Gourlay the sanguine expectations
which he himself had entertained upon the result of Birney's journey to
France. Had he not done so, he knew that she would have participated in
his hopes, and, as a natural consequence, she must now have had to bear
this deadly blow of disappointment, probably the last cherished hope of
her heart; and under such circumstances, it is difficult to say what its
effect upon her might have been. This was now his only satisfaction, to
which we may add the consciousness that he had not, by making premature
disclosures, been the means of compromising the innocent.

After much thought and reflection upon the gloomy position in which both
he himself and especially Lucy were placed, he resolved to write to Mrs.
Mainwaring upon the subject; although at the moment he scarcely knew in
what terms to address her, or what steps he could suggest to her, as one
feeling a deep interest in Miss Gourlay's happiness. At length, after
much anxious rumination, he wrote the following short letter, or rather
note, more with a view of alarming Mrs. Mainwaring into activity, than
of dictating to her any line of action as peculiarly suited to the
circumstances.

“Madam,--The fact of Miss Gourlay having taken refuge with you as her
friend, upon a certain occasion that was, I believe, very painful to
that young lady, I think sufficiently justifies me in supposing that
you feel a warm interest in her fate. For this reason, therefore, I
have taken the liberty of addressing you with reference to her present
situation. If ever a human being required the aid and consolation of
friendship, Miss Gourlay now does; and I will not suppose that a lady
whom she honored with her esteem and affection, could be capable of
withholding from her such aid and such consolation, in a crisis so
deplorable. You are probably aware, madam, that she is on the point of
being sacrificed, by a forced and hated union, to the ambitious views
of her father; but you could form a very slight conception indeed of
the horror with which she approaches the gulf that is before her. Could
there be no means devised by which this unhappy young lady might be
enabled with honor to extricate herself from the wretchedness with which
she is encompassed? I beg of you, madam, to think of this; there is
little time to be lost. A few days may seal her misery forever. Her
health and spirits are fast sinking, and she is beginning to entertain
apprehensions that that apathy which proceeds from the united influence
of exhaustion and misery, may, in some unhappy moment, deprive her of
the power of resistance, even for a time. Madam, I entreat that you will
either write to her or see her; that you will sustain and console her as
far as in you lies, and endeavor, if possible, to throw some obstruction
in the way of this accursed marriage; whether through your influence
with herself, or her father, matters not. I beg, madam, to apologize for
the liberty I have taken in addressing you upon this painful but deeply
important subject, and I appeal to yourself whether it is possible to
know Miss Gourlay, and not to feel the deepest interest in everything
that involves her happiness or misery.

“I have the honor to be, madam,

“Your obedient, faithful servant, and Her Sincere Friend.

“P. S.--I send this letter by my servant, as I am anxious that it should
reach no hands, and be subjected to no eyes, but your own; and I refer
you to Miss Gourlay herself, who will satisfy you as to the honor and
purity of my motives in writing it.”


Having sealed this communication, the stranger rang for Dulcimer, who
made his appearance accordingly, and received his instructions for its
safe delivery.

“You must deliver this note, Dandy,” said he, “to the lady to whom
Miss Gourlay and her maid drove, the morning you took the unwarrantable
liberty of following them there.”

“And for all that,” replied Dandy, “it happens very luckily that I
chance, for that very raison, to know now where to find her.”

“It does so, certainly,” replied his master. “Here is money for
you--take a car, or whatever kind of vehicle you prefer. Give this note
into her own hand, and make as little delay as you can.”

“Do you expect an answer, sir?” replied Dandy; “and am I to wait for
one, or ask for one?”

“I am not quite certain of that,” said the other; “it is altogether
discretionary with her. But there can be no harm in asking the question,
at all events. Any other Mrs. Norton in the way, Dandy?”

“Deuce a once, sir. I have sifted the whole city, and, barrin' the three
dozen I made out already, I can't find hilt or hair of another. Faith,
sir, she ought to be worth something when she's got, for I may fairly
say she has cost me trouble enough at any rate, the skulkin' thief,
whoever she is; and me to lose my hundre' pounds into the bargain--bad
scran to her!”

“Only find me the true Mrs. Norton,” said his master, “and the hundred
pounds are yours, and for Fenton fifty. Be off, now, lose no time, and
bring me her answer if she sends any.”

Dandy's motions were all remarkably rapid, and we need not say that he
allowed no grass to grow under his feet while getting over his journey.
On arriving at Summerfield Cottage, he learned that Mrs. Mainwaring was
in the garden; and on stating that he had a letter to deliver into her
own hands, that lady desired him to be brought in, as she was then in
conversation with her daughter, who had been compelled at length to
fly from the brutality of her husband, and return once more to the
protection of her mother's roof. On opening the letter and looking at
it, she started, and turning to her daughter said,

“You must excuse me, my dear Maria, for a few moments, but don't forget
to finish what you were telling me about this unfortunate young man,
Fenton, as he, you say, calls himself, from Ballytrain.”

“Hello!” thought Dandy, “here's a discovery. By the elevens, I'll hould
goold to silver that this is poor Fenton that disappeared so suddenly.”

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said he, addressing Mrs. Scarman as an
unmarried lady, as he perceived that she was the person from whom he
could receive the best intelligence on the subject; “I hope it's no
offence, miss, to ax a question?”

“None, certainly, my good man,” replied her mother, “provided it be a
proper one.”

“I think, miss,” he continued, “that you were mentioning something to
this lady about a young man named Fenton, from Ballytrain?”

“I was,” replied Mrs. Scarman, “certainly; but what interest can you
have in him?”

“If he's the young man I mane,” continued Dandy, “he's not quite steady
in the head sometimes.”

“If he were, he would not be in his present abode,” replied the lady.

“And pray, miss--beg pardon again,” said Dandy, with the best bow and
scrape he could manage; “pray, miss, might I be so bould as to ask where
that is?”

Mrs. Scarman looked at her mother. “Mamma,” said she, “but, bless me!
what is the matter? you are in tears.”

“I will tell you by and by, my dear Maria,” replied her mother; “but you
were going to ask me something--what was it?”

“This man,” replied her daughter, “wishes to know the abode of the
person I was speaking about.”

“Pray, what is his motive? What is your motive, my good man, for asking
such a question?”

“Bekaise, ma'am,” replied Dandy, “I happen to know a gentleman who has
been for some time on the lookout for him, and wishes very much to find
where he is. If it be the young man I spake of, he disappeared some
three or four months ago from the town of Ballytrain.”

“Well,” replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with her usual good-sense and sagacity,
“as I know not what your motive for asking such a question is, I do
not think this lady ought to answer it; but if the gentleman himself is
anxious to know, let him see her; and upon giving satisfactory reasons
for the interest he takes in him, he shall be informed of his present
abode. You must rest satisfied with this. Go to the kitchen and say to
the servant that I desired her to give you refreshment.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” replied Dandy; “faith, that's a lively message,
anyhow, and one that I feel great pleasure in deliverin'. This Wicklow
air's a regular cutler; it has sharpened my teeth all to pieces; and
if the cook 'ithin shows me good feedin' I'll show her something in the
shape of good atin'. I'm a regular man of talent at my victuals, ma'am,
an' was often tould I might live to die an alderman yet, plaise God;
many thanks agin, ma'am.” So saying, Dandy proceeded at a brisk pace to
the kitchen.

“That communication, mamma,” said Mrs. Scarman, after Dandy had left
them, “has distressed you.”

“It has, my child. Poor Miss Gourlay is in a most wretched state. This I
know is, from her lover. In fact, they will be the death--absolutely and
beyond a doubt--the death of this admirable and most lovely creature.
But what can I do? Her father will not permit me to visit her, neither
will he permit her to correspond with me, I have already written to him
on the risk to which he submits his daughter in this ominous marriage,
but I received neither notice of, nor reply to my letter. Oh, no; the
dear girl is unquestionably doomed. I thinks however, I shall write a
few lines in reply to this,” she added, “but, alas the day! they cannot
speak of comfort.”

Whilst she is thus engaged, we will take, a peep at the on-goings of
Dandy and Nancy Gallaher, in the kitchen, where, in pursuance of his
message our bashful valet was corroborating, by very able practice, the
account which he had given of the talents he had eulogized so justly.

“Well, in troth,” said he, “but, first and foremost, I haven't the
pleasure of knowin' yer name.”

“Nancy Gallaher's my name, then,” she replied.

“Ah,” said Dandy, suspending the fork and an immense piece of ham on the
top of it at the Charybdis which he had opened to an unusual extent
to receive it; “ah, ma'am, it wasn't always that, I'll go bail. My
counthrymen knows the value of such a purty woman not to stamp some of
their names upon her. Not that you have a married look, either, any more
than myself; you're too fresh for that, now that I look at you again.”

A certain cloud, which, as Dandy could perceive, was beginning to darken
her countenance, suggested the quick turn of his last observation. The
countenance, however, cleared again, and she replied, “It is my name,
and what is more, I never changed it. I was hard to plaise--and I am
hard to plaise, and ever an' always had a dread of gettin' into bad
company, especially when I knew that the same bad company was to last
for life.”

“An ould maid, by the Rock of Cashel,” said Dandy, to himself.

“Blood alive, I wondher has she money; but here goes to thry. Ah,
Nancy,” he proceeded, “you wor too hard to plaise; and now, that you
have got money like myself, nothing but a steady man, and a full purse,
will shoot your convanience--isn't that pure gospel, now, you good
lookin' thief?”

Nancy's face was now like a cloudless sky. “Well,” she replied, “maybe
there's truth in that, and maybe there's not; but I hope you are takin'
care of yourself? That's what I always did and ever will, plaise God.
How do you like the ham?”

“Divil a so well dressed a bit o' ham ever I ett--it melts into one's
mouth like a kiss from a purty woman. Troth, Nancy, I think I'm kissing
you ever since I began to ait it.”

“Get out,” said Nancy, laughing; “troth, you're a quare one; but you
know our Wickla' hams is famous.”

“And so is your Wicklow girls,” replied Dandy; “but for my part, I'd
sooner taste their lips than the best hams that ever were ett any day.”

“Well, but,” said Nancy, “did you ever taste our bacon? bekaise, if
you didn't, lave off what you're at, and in three skips I'll get you
a rasher and eggs that'll make you look nine ways at once. Here, throw
that by, it's could, and I'll get you something hot and comfortable.”

“Go on,” replied Dandy; “I hate idleness. Get the eggs and rasher you
spake of, and while you're doin' it I'll thry and amuse myself wid
what's before me. Industhry's the first of virtues, Nancy, and next to
that comes perseverance; I defy you in the mane time to do a rasher as
well as you did this ham--hoeh--och--och. God bless me, a bit was near
stickin' in my throat. Is your wather good here? and the raison why I
ax you is, that I'm the devil to plaise in wather; and on that account
I seldom take it without a sup o' spirits to dilute it, as the docthors
say, for, indeed, that's the way it agrees with me best. It's a kind of
family failin' with us--devil a one o' my blood ever could look a glass
of mere wather in the face without blushin'.”

Dandy was now upon what they call the simplicity dodge; that is to say,
he affected that character of wisdom for which certain individuals,
whose knowledge of life no earthly experience ever can improve, are so
extremely anxious to get credit. Every word he uttered was accompanied
by an oafish grin, so ludicrously balanced between simplicity and
cunning, that Nancy, who had been half her life on the lookout for
such a man, and who knew that this indecision of expression was the
characteristic of the tribe with which she classed him, now saw before
her the great dream of her heart realized.

“Well, in troth,” she replied, “you are a quare man; but still it would
be too bad to make you blush for no stronger raison than mere wather.
So, in the name o' goodness, here's a tumbler of grog,” she added,
filling him out one on the instant, “and as you're so modest, you must
only drink it and keep your countenance; it'll prepare you, besides, for
the rasher and eggs; and, by the same token, here's an ould candle-box
that's here the Lord knows how long; but, faix, now it must help to
do the rasher. Come then; if you are stronger than I am, show your
strength, and pull it to pieces, for you see I can't.”

It was one of those flat little candle-boxes made of deal, with which
every one in the habit of burning moulds is acquainted. Dandy took it
up, and whilst about to pull it to pieces, observed written on a paper
label, in a large hand, something between writing and print, “Mrs.
Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow.”

“What is this?” said he; “what name is this upon it? Let us see, 'Mrs.
Norton, Summerfield Cottage, Wicklow!' Who the dickens is Mrs. Norton?”

“Why, my present mistress,” replied Nancy; “Mr. Mainwaring is her second
husband, and her name was Mrs. Norton before she married him.”

“Norton,” said Dandy, whose heart was going at full speed, with a hope
that he had at length got into the right track, “it's a purty name in
troth. Arra, Nancy, do you know was your misthress ever in France?”

“Ay, was she,” replied Nancy. “Many a year maid to--let me see--what's
this the name is? Ay! Cullamore. Maid to the wife of Lord Cullamore. So
I was tould by Alley Mahon, a young woman that was here on a visit to
me.”

Dandy put the glass of grog to his mouth, and having emptied it, sprung
to his feet, commenced an Irish jig through the kitchen, in a spirit so
outrageously whimsical--buoyant, mad, hugging the box all the time in
his arms, that poor Nancy looked at him with a degree of alarm and then
of jealousy which she could not conceal.

“In the name of all that's wonderful,” she exclaimed, “what's
wrong--what's the matter? What's the value of that blackguard box that
you make the mistake about in huggin' it that way? Upon my conscience,
one would think you're in a desolate island. Remember, man alive, that
you're among flesh and blood like your own, and that you have friends,
although the acquaintance isn't very long, I grant, that wishes you
betther than to see you makin' a sweetheart of a tallow-box. What the
sorra is that worth?”

“A hundred pounds, my darlin'--a hundred pounds--bravo, Dandy--well
done, brave Dulcimer--wealthy Nancy. Faith, you may swear upon the
frying-pan there that I've the cash, and sure 'tis yourself I was
lookin' out for.”

“I don't think, then, that ever I resembled a candle-box in my life,”
 she replied, rather annoyed that the article in question came in for
such a prodigality of his hugs, kisses, and embraces, of all shapes and
characters.

“Well, Nancy,” said he, “charming Nancy, you're my fancy, but in the
meantime I have the honor and pleasure to bid you a good day.”

“Why, where are you goin'?” asked the woman. “Won't you wait for the
rasher?”

“Keep it hot, charming Nancy, till I come back; I'm just goin' to take
a constitutional walk.” So saying, Dandy, with the candle-box under
his arm, darted out of the kitchen, and without waiting to know whether
there was an answer to be brought back or not, mounted his jarvey, and
desiring the man to drive as if the devil and all his imps were at their
heels, set off at full speed for the city.

“Bad luck to you for a scamp,” exclaimed the indignant cook, shouting
after him; “is that the way you trate a decent woman after gettin' your
skinful of the best? Wait till you put your nose in this kitchen again,
an' it'a different fare you'll get.”

On reaching his master's hotel, Dandy went upstairs, where he found him
preparing to go out. He had just sealed a note, and leaning himself back
on the chair, looked at his servant with a good deal of surprise, in
consequence of the singularity of Ms manner. Dandy, on the other hand,
took the candle-box from under his arm, and putting it flat on the
table, with the label downwards, placed his two hands upon it, and
looked the other right in the face; after which he closed one eye, and
gave him a very knowing wink.

“What do you mean, you scoundrel, by this impudence?” exclaimed his
master, although at the same time he could not avoid laughing; for,
in truth, he felt a kind of presentiment, grounded upon Dandy's very
assurance, that he was the bearer of some agreeable intelligence. “What
do you mean, sirra? You're drunk, I think.”

“Hi tell you what, sir,” replied Dandy, “from this day out, upon my
soul, I'll patronize you like a man as I am; that is to say, provided
you continue to deserve it.”

“Come, sirra, you're at your buffoonery again, or else you're drunk, as
I said. Did the lady send any reply?”

“Have you any cash to spare?” replied Dandy. “I want to invest a thrifle
in the funds.”

“What can this impudence mean, sirra?” asked the other, sadly puzzled to
understand his conduct. “Why do you not reply to me? Did the lady send
an answer?”

“Most fortunate of all masthers,” replied Dandy, “in havin' such a
servant; the lady did send an answer.”

“And where is it, sirra?”

“There it is!” replied the other, shoving the candle-box triumphantly
over to him, The stranger looked steadily at him, and was beginning to
lose his temper, for he took it now for granted that his servant was
drunk.

“I shall dismiss you instantly, sirra,” he said, “if you don't come to
your senses.”

“I suppose so,” replied the other, still maintaining his cool, unabashed
effrontery. “I dare say you will, just after I've made a man of
you--changed you from nothing to something, or, rather, from nobody--for
devil a much more you were up to the present time yet--to somebody. In
the meantime, read the lady's answer, if you plaise.”

“Where is it, you impudent knave? I see no note--no answer.”

“Troth, sir, I am afeared many a time you were ornamented with the
dunce's cap in your school-days, and well, I'll be bound, you became it.
Don't I say the answer's before you, there?”

“There is nothing here, you scoundrel, but a deal box.”

“Eight, sir; and a deal of intelligence can it give you, if you have the
sense to find it out. Now, listen, sir. So long as you live, ever and
always examine both sides of every subject that comes before you, even
if it was an ould deal box.”

His master took the hint, and instantly turning the box, read to his
astonishment, Mrs. Norton, Summerfield pottage, Wicklow, and then looked
at Dandy for an explanation. The latter nodded with his usual easy
confidence, and proceeded, “It's all right, sir--she was in France--own
maid to Lady Cullamore--came home and got married--first to a Mr.
Norton, and next to a person named Mainwarin': and there she is, the
true Mrs. Norton, safe and sound for you, in Summerfield Cottage, under
the name of Mrs. Mainwarin'.”

“Dandy,” said his master, starting to his feet, “I forgive you a
thousand times. Throw that letter in the post-office. You shall have the
money, Dandy, more, perhaps, than I promised, provided this is the lady;
but I cannot doubt it. I am now going to Mr. Birney; but, stay, let us
be certain. How did you become acquainted with these circumstances?”

Dandy gave him his authority; after which his master put on his hat, and
was about proceeding out, when the former exclaimed, “Hello-sir, where
are you goin'?”

“To see Birney, I have already told you.”

“Come, come,” replied his man, “take your time--be steady, now--be
cool--and listen to what your friend has to say to you.”

“Don't trifle with me now, Dandy; I really can't bear it.”

“Faith, but you must, though. There's one act I patronized you in; now,
how do you know, as I'm actin' the great man, but I can pathronize you
in another?”

“How is that? For heaven's sake, don't trifle with me; every day, every
hour, every moment, is precious, and may involve the happiness of--”

“I see, sir,” replied this extraordinary valet, with an intelligent nod,
“but, still, fair and aisy goes far in a day. There's no danger of her,
you know--don't be unaisy. Fenton, sir--ehem--Fenton, I say--Fenton and
fifty I say.”

“Fenton and a hundred, Dandy, if there's an available trace of him.”

“I don't know what you call an available trace,” replied Dandy, “but
I can send you to a lady who knows where he is, and where you can find
him.”

The stranger returned from the door, and sitting down again covered his
face with his hands, as if to collect himself; at length he said, “This
is most extraordinary; tell me all about it.”

Dandy related that with which the reader is already acquainted, and did
so with such an air of comic gravity and pompous superiority, that his
master, now in the best possible spirits, was exceedingly amused.

“Well, Dandy,” said he, “if your information respecting Fenton prove
correct, reckon upon another hundred, instead of the fifty I mentioned.
I suppose I may go now?” he added, smiling.

Dandy, still maintaining his gravity, waved his hand with an air of
suitable authority, intimating that the other had permission to depart.
On going out, however, he said, “I beg your pardon, sir, but while
you're abroad, I'd take it as a favor if you'd find out the state o'
the funds. Of course, I'll be investin'; and a man may as well do things
with his eyes open--may as well examine both sides o' the candle-box,
you know. You may go, sir.”

“Well,” thought the stranger to himself, as he literally went on his way
rejoicing toward Birney's office, “no man in this life should ever yield
to despair. Here was I this morning encompassed by doubt and darkness,
and I may almost say by despair itself. Yet see how easily and naturally
the hand of Providence, for it is nothing less, has changed the whole
tenor of my existence. Everything is beginning not only to brighten,
but to present an appearance of order, by which we shall, I trust, be
enabled to guide ourselves through the maze of difficulty that lies, or
that did lie, at all events, before us. Alas, if the wretched suicide,
who can see nothing but cause of despondency about him and before him,
were to reflect upon the possibility of what only one day might evolve
from the ongoing circumstances of life, how many would that wholesome
reflection prevent from the awful crime of impatience at the wisdom of
God, and a want of confidence in his government! I remember the case of
an unhappy young man who plunged into a future life, as it were, to-day,
who, had he maintained his part until the next, would have found himself
master of thousands. No; I shall never despair. I will in this, as in
every other virtue, imitate my beloved Lucy, who said, that to whatever
depths of wretchedness life might bring her, she would never yield to
that.”

“Good news, Birney!” he exclaimed, on entering that gentleman's office;
“charming intelligence! Both are found at last.”

“Explain yourself, my dear sir,” replied the other; “how is it? What has
happened? Both of whom?”

“Mrs. Norton and Fenton.”

He then explained the circumstances as they had been explained to
himself by Dandy; and Birney seemed gratified certainly, but not so much
as the stranger thought he ought to have been.

“How is this?” he asked; “this discovery, this double discovery, does
not seem to give you the satisfaction which I had expected, it would?”

“Perhaps not,” replied the steady man of law, “but I am highly
gratified, notwithstanding, provided everything you tell me turns out to
be correct. But even then, I apprehend that the testimony of this Mrs.
Norton, unsupported as it is by documentary evidence, will not be:
sufficient for our purpose. It will require corroboration, and how are
we to corroborate it?”

“If it will enable us to prevent the marriage,” replied the other, “I am
satisfied.”

“That is very generous and disinterested, I grant,” said Birney, “and
what few are capable of; but still there are forms of law and principles
of common justice to be observed and complied with; and these, at
present, stand in our way for want of the documentary evidence I speak
of.”

“What then ought our next step to be?--but I suppose I can anticipate
you--to see Mrs. Norton.”

“Of course, to see Mrs. Norton; and I propose that we start immediately.
There is no time to be lost about it. I shall get on my boots, and
change my dress a little, and, with this man of yours to guide us, we
shall be on the way to Summerfield Cottage in half-an-hour.”

“Should I not communicate this intelligence to Lady Gourlay?” said the
stranger. “It will restore her to life; and surely the removal of only
one day's sorrow such as lies at her heart becomes a duty.”

“But suppose our information should prove incorrect, into what a
dreadful relapse would you plunge her then!”

“On, very true--very true, indeed: that is well thought of; let us
first see that there is no mistake, and afterwards we can proceed with
confidence.”

Poor Lucy, unconscious that the events we have related had taken place,
was passing an existence of which every day brought round to her nothing
but anguish and misery. She now not only refused to see her brother on
any occasion, or under any circumstances, but requested an interview
with her father, in order to make him acquainted with the abominable
principles, by the inculcation of which, as a rule of life and conduct,
he had attempted to corrupt her. Her father having heard this portion
of her complaint, diminished in its heinousness as it necessarily was by
her natural modesty, appeared very angry, and swore roundly at the young
scapegrace, as he called him.

“But the truth is, Lucy,” he added, “that however wrong and wicked he
may have been, and was, yet we cannot be over severe on him. He has had
no opportunities of knowing better, and of course he will mend. I intend
to lecture him severely for uttering such principles to you; but, on the
other hand, I know him to be a shrewd, keen young fellow, who promises
well, notwithstanding. In truth, I like him, scamp as he is; and I
believe that whatever is bad in him--”

“Whatever is bad in him! Why, papa, there is nothing good in him.”

“Tut, Lucy; I believe, I say, that whatever is bad in him he has picked
up from the kind of society he mixed with.”

“Papa,” she replied, “it grieves me to hear you, sir, palliate the
conduct of such a person--to become almost the apologist of principles
so utterly fiendish. You know that I am not and never have been in the
habit of using ungenerous language against the absent. So far as I am
concerned, he has violated all the claims of a brother--has foregone all
title to a sister's love; but that is not all--I believe him to be so
essentially corrupt and vicious in heart and soul, so thoroughly and
blackly diabolical in his principles--moral I cannot call them--that I
would stake my existence he is some base and plotting impostor, in whose
veins there flows not one single drop of my pure-hearted mother's blood.
I therefore warn you, sir, that he is an impostor, with, perhaps, a
dishonorable title to your name, but none at all to your property.”

“Nonsense, you foolish girl. Is he not my image?”

“I admit he resembles you, sir, very much, and I do not deny that he may
be”--she paused, and alternately became pale and red by turns--“what
I mean to say, sir, is what I have already said, that he is not my
mother's son, and that although he may be privileged to bear your name,
he has no claim on either your property or title. Does it not strike
you, sir, that it might be to make way for this person that my
legitimate brother was removed long ago? And I have also heard yourself
say frequently, while talking of my brother, how extremely like mamma
and me he was.”

“There is no doubt he was,” replied her father, somewhat struck by the
force of her observations; “and I was myself a good deal surprised
at the change which must have taken place in him since his childhood.
However, you know he accounted for this himself very fairly and very
naturally.”

“Very ingeniously, at least,” she replied; “with more of ingenuity, I
fear, than truth. Now, sir, hear me further. You are aware that I never
liked those Corbets, who have been always so deeply, and, excuse me,
sir, so mysteriously in your confidence.”

“Yes, Lucy, I know you never did; but that is a prejudice you inherited
from your mother.”

“I appeal to your own conscience, sir, whether mamma's prejudice against
them was not just and well founded. Yet it was not so much prejudice as
the antipathy which good bears to evil, honesty to fraud, and truth
to darkness, dissimulation, and falsehood. I entreat you, then, to
investigate this matter, papa; for as sure as I have life, so certainly
was my dear brother removed, in order, at the proper time, to make
way for this impostor. You know not, sir, but there may be a base and
inhuman murder involved in this matter--nay, a double murder--that of
my cousin, too; yes, and the worst of all murders, the murder of the
innocent and defenceless. As a man, as a magistrate, but, above all,
a thousand times, as a father--as the father and uncle of the very two
children that have disappeared, it becomes your duty to examine into
this dark business thoroughly.”

“I have no reason to suspect the Corbets, Lucy. I have ever found them
faithful to me and to my interests.”

“I know, sir, you have ever found them obsequious and slavish and ready
to abet you in many acts which I regret that you ever committed. There
is the case of that unfortunate man, Trailcudgel, and many similar ones;
were they not as active and cheerful! in bearing out your very harsh
orders against him and others of your tenantry, as if they I had been
advancing the cause of humanity?”

“Say the cause of justice, if you please, Lucy--the rights of a
landlord.”

“But, papa, if the unfortunate tenantry by whose toil and labor we live
in affluence and; luxury do not find a friend in their landlord, who is,
by his relation to them, their natural protector, to whom else in the
wide world can they turn? This, however, is not the subject on which I
wish to speak. I do believe that Thomas Corbet is deep, designing, and
vindictive. He was always a close, dark man, without either cheerfulness
or candor. Beware, therefore, of him and of his family. Nay, he has a
capacity for being dangerous; for it strikes me, sir, that his intellect
is as far above his position in life as his principles are beneath it.”

There was much in what Lucy said that forced itself upon her father's
reflection, much that startled him, and a good deal that gave him pain.
He paused for a considerable time after she had ceased to speak, and
said,

“I will think of these matters, Lucy. I will probably do more; and if
I find that they have played me foul by imposing upon me--” He paused
abruptly, and seemed embarrassed, the truth being that he knew and felt
how completely he was in their power.

“Now, papa,” said Lucy, “after having heard my opinion of this young
man--after the wanton outrage upon all female delicacy and virtue of
which he has been guilty, I trust you will not in future attempt to
obtrude him upon me. I will not see him, speak to him, nor acknowledge
him; and such, let what may happen, is my final determination.”

“So far, Lucy, I will accede to your wishes. I shall take care that he
troubles you with no more wicked exhortations.”

“Thank you, dear papa; this is kind, and I feel it so.”

“Now,” said her father, after she had withdrawn, “how am I to act? It is
not impossible but there may be much truth in what she says. I remember,
however, the death of the only son that could possibly be imposed on me
in the sense alluded to her. He surely does not live; or if he does,
the far-sighted sagacity which made the account of his death a fraud
upon my credulity, for such selfish and treacherous purposes, is worthy
of being concocted in the deepest pit of hell. Yet that some one of them
has betrayed me, is evident from the charges brought against me by this
stranger to whom Lucy is so devotedly attached, and which charges Thomas
Corbet could not clear up. If one of these base but dexterous villains,
or if the whole gang were to outwit me, positively I could almost blow
my very brains out, for allowing myself, after all, to become their
dupe and plaything. I will think of it, however. And again, there is the
likeness; there does seem to be a difficulty in that; for, beyond all
doubt, my legitimate child, up until his disappearance, did not bear in
his countenance a single feature of mine but bore a strong resemblance
to his mother; whereas this Tom is my born image! Yet I like him. He has
all my points; knows the world, and despises it as much as I do. He did
not know Lucy, however, or he would have kept his worldly opinions to
himself. It is true he said very little but what we see about us as the
regulating principles of life every day; but Lucy, on the other hand, is
no every-day girl, and will not receive such doctrines, and I am glad
of it They may do very well in a son; but somehow one shudders at
the contemplation of their existence in the heart and principles of a
daughter. Unfortunately, however I am in the power of these Corbets,
and I feel that exposure at this period, the crisis of my daughter's
marriage, would not only frustrate my ambition for her, but occasion my
very death, I fear. I know not how it is, but I think if I were to live
my life over again, I would try a different course.”





CHAPTER XXXVIII. An Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe

--Anthony Corbet gives Important Documents to the Stranger--Norton
catches a Tartar.


The next morning the stranger was agreeably surprised by seeing the
round, rosy, and benevolent features of Father M'Mahon, as he presented
himself at his breakfast table. Their meeting was cordial and friendly,
with the exception of a slight appearance of embarrassment that was
evident in the manner of the priest.

“The last time you were in town,” said the former, “I was sorry to
observe thai you seemed rather careworn and depressed; but I think you
look better now, and a good deal more cheerful.”

“And I think I have a good right,” replied the priest; “and I think no
man ought to know the, cause of it better than yourself. I charge it,
sir, with an act of benevolence to the poor of my parish, through their
humble pastor; for which you stand.--I beg your pardon--sit there, a
guilty man.”

“How is that?” asked the other, smiling.

“By means of an anonymous letter that contained a hundred pound note,
sir.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “there is no use in telling a falsehood
about it. The truth is, I was aware of the extent to which you involved
yourself, in order to relieve many of the small farmers and other
struggling persons of good repute in your parish, and I thought it too
bad that you should suffer distress yourself, who had so frequently
relieved it in others.”

“God bless you, my friend,” replied the priest; “for I will call you
so. I wish every man possessed of wealth was guided by your principles.
Freney the Robber has a new saddle and bridle, anyhow; and I came up to
town to pay old Anthony Corbet a sum I borrowed from him the last time I
was here?”

“Oh, have you seen that cautious and disagreeable old man? We could make
nothing of him, although I feel quite certain that he knows everything
connected with the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's son.”

“I have no doubt of it myself,” replied the priest; “and I now find,
that what neither religion, nor justice, nor humanity could influence
him to do, superstition is likely to effect. He has had a drame, he
says, in which his son James that was in Lady Gourlay's service has
appeared to him, and threatens that unless he renders her justice, he
has but a poor chance in the other world.”

“That is not at all unnatural,” said the stranger; “the man, though
utterly without religion, was nevertheless both hesitating and timid;
precisely the character to do a just act from a wrong motive.”

“Be that as it may,” continued the priest, “I have a message from him to
you.”

“To me!” replied the other. “I am much obliged to him, but it is now
too late. We have ascertained where Lady Gourlay's son is, without any
assistance from him; and in the course of this very day we shall furnish
ourselves with proper authority for claiming and producing him.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said the priest. “God be praised that the
heart of that charitable and Christian woman will be relieved at last,
and made happy; but still I say, see old Anthony. He is as deep as a
draw-well, and as close as an oyster. See him, sir. Take my advice, now
that the drame has frightened him, and call upon the old sinner. He may
serve you in more ways than you know.”

“Well, as you advise me to do so, I shall; but I do not relish the old
fellow at all.”

“Nobody does, nor ever did. He and all his family lived as if every one
of them carried a little world of their own within them. Maybe they do;
and God forgive me for saying it, but I don't think if its secrets were
known, that it would be found a very pleasant world. May the Lord change
them, and turn their hearts!”

After some further chat, the priest took his departure, but promised to
see his friend from time to time, before he should leave town.

The stranger felt that the priest's advice to see old Corbet again was
a good one. The interview could do no harm, and might be productive
of some good, provided he could be prevailed on to speak out. He
accordingly directed his steps once more to Constitution Hill, where he
found the old man at his usual post behind the counter.

“Well, Corbet,” said he, “alive still?”

“Alive still, sir,” he replied; “but can't be so always; the best of us
must go.”

“Very true, Corbet, if we could think of it as we ought; but, somehow,
it happens that most people live in this world as if they were never to
die.”

“That's too true, sir--unfortunately too true, God help us!”

“Corbet,” proceeded the stranger, “nothing can convince me that you
don't know something about--”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man; “we had betther go into the
next room. Here, Polly,” he shouted to his wife, who was inside, “will
you come and stand the shop awhile?”

“To be sure I will,” replied the old woman, making her appearance. “How
do you do, sir,” she added, addressing the stranger; “I am glad to see
you looking so well.”

“Thank you, madam,” replied the stranger: “I can return the compliment,
as they say.”

“Keep the shop, Polly,” said the old man sharply, “and don't make the
same mistake you made awhile ago--give away a stone o' meal for half a
stone. No wondher for us to be poor at sich a rate of doin' things as
that. Walk in, if you plaise, sir.”

They accordingly entered the room, and the stranger, after they had
taken seats, resumed,

“I was going to say, Corbet, that nothing can convince me that you don't
know more about the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's heir than you are
disposed to acknowledge.”

The hard, severe, disagreeable expression returned once more to his
features, as he replied,

“Troth, sir, it appears you will believe so, whether or not. But now,
sir, in case I did, what would you say? I'm talkin' for supposition's
sake, mind. Wouldn't a man desarve something that could give you
information on the subject?”

“This avaricious old man,” thought the stranger, pausing as if to
consider the proposition, “was holding us out all along, in order to
make the most of his information. The information, however, is already
in our possession, and he comes too late. So far I am gratified that we
are in a position to punish him by disappointing his avarice.”

“We would, Corbet, if the information were necessary, but at present it
is not; we don't require it.”

Corbet started, and his keen old eyes gleamed with an expression between
terror and incredulity.

“Why,” said he, “you don't require it! Are you sure of that?”

“Perfectly so. Some time ago we would have rewarded you liberally, had
you made any available disclosure to us; but now it is too late. The
information we had been seeking for so anxiously, accidentally came to
us from another quarter. You see now, Corbet, how you have overshot the
mark, and punished yourself. Had you been influenced by a principle of
common justice, you would have been entitled to expect and receive a
most ample compensation; a compensation beyond your hopes, probably
beyond your very wishes, and certainly beyond your wants. As matters
stand, however, I tell you now that I would not give you sixpence for
any information you could communicate.”

Anthony gave him a derisive look, and pursed up his thin miser-like lips
into a grin of most sinister triumph.

“Wouldn't you, indeed?” said he. “Are you quite sure of what you say?”

“Quite certain of it.”

“Well, now, how positive some people is. You have found him out, then?”
 he asked, with a shrewd look. “You have found him, and you don't require
any information from me.”

“Whether we have found him or not,” replied the other, “is a question
which I will not answer; but that we require no information from you, is
fact. While it was a marketable commodity, you refused to dispose of it;
but, now, we have got the supply elsewhere.”

“Well, sir,” said Anthony, “all I can say is, that I'm very glad to hear
it; and it's no harm, surely, to wish you joy of it.”

The same mocking sneer which accompanied this observation was perfectly
vexatious; it seemed to say, “So you think, but you may be mistaken,
Take care that I haven't you in my power still.”

“Why do you look in that disagreeable way, Corbet? I never saw a man
whose face can express one thing, and his words another, so effectually
as yours, when you wish.”

“You mane to say, sir,” he returned, with a true sardonic smile, “that
my face isn't an obedient face; but sure I can't help that. This is the
face that God has given me, and I must be content with it, such as it
is.”

“I was told this morning by Father M'Mahon,” replied the other, anxious
to get rid of him as soon as he could, “that you had expressed a wish to
see me.”

“I believe I did say something to that effect; but then it appears you
know everything yourself, and don't want my assistance.”

“Any assistance we may at a future time require at your hands we shall
be able to extort from you through the laws of the land and of justice;
and if it appears that you have been an accomplice or agent in such a
deep and diabolical crime, neither power, nor wealth, nor cunning, shall
be able to protect you from the utmost rigor of the law. You had neither
mercy nor compassion on the widow or her child; and the probability is,
that, old as you are, you will be made to taste the deepest disgrace,
and the heaviest punishment that can be annexed to the crime you have
committed.”

A singular change came over the features of the old man. Paleness in
age, especially when conscience bears its secret but powerful testimony
against the individual thus charged home as Corbet was, sometimes
gives an awful, almost an appalling expression to the countenance. The
stranger, who knew that the man he addressed, though cunning, evasive,
and unscrupulous, was, nevertheless, hesitating and timid, saw by his
looks that he had produced an unusual impression; and he resolved to
follow it up, rather to gratify the momentary amusement which he felt at
his alarm, than from any other motive. In fact, the appearance of Corbet
was extraordinary. A death-like color, which his advanced state of life
renders it impossible to describe, took possession of him; his eyes lost
the bitter expression so peculiar to them--his firm thin lips relaxed
and spread, and the corners of his mouth dropped so lugubriously, that
the stranger, although he felt that the example of cowering guilt then
before him was a solemn one, could scarcely refrain from smiling at what
he witnessed.

“How far now do you think, sir,” asked Corbet, “could punishment in such
a case go? Mind, I'm putting myself out of the question; I'm safe, any
how, and that's one comfort.”

“For a reply to that question,” returned the other, “you will have to go
to the judge and the hangman. There was a time when you might have asked
it, and answered it too, with safety to yourself; but now that time has
gone by, and I fear very much that your day of grace is past.”

“That's very like what James tould me in my dhrame,” said the old man,
in a soliloquy, dictated by his alarm. “Well, sir,” he replied, “maybe,
afther all--but didn't you say awhile ago that you wouldn't give
sixpence for any information I could furnish you with?”

“I did, and I do.”

A gleam of his former character returned to his eye, as, gathering up
his lips again, 'he said, “I could soon show you to the contrary.”

“Yes; but you will not do so. I see clearly that you are infatuated.
It appears to me that there is an evil fate hanging over you, like some
hungry raven, following and watching the motions of a sick old horse
that is reduced to skin and bone. You're doomed, I think.”

“Well, now,” replied Anthony, the corners of whose mouth dropped again
at this startling and not inappropriate comparison, “to show how much
you are mistaken, let me ask how your business with Lord Cullamore
gets on? I believe there's a screw loose there?--eh? I mean on your
side--eh?”

It wasn't in his nature to restrain the sinister expression which a
consciousness of his advantage over the stranger caused him to feel in
his turn. The grin, besides, which he gave him, after he had thrown out
these hints, had something of reprisal in it; and, to tell the truth,
the stranger's face now became as blank and lugubrious as Anthony's had
been before.

“If I don't mistake,” he continued--for the other was too much
astonished to reply, “if I don't mistake, there's a couple o' bits of
paper that would stand your friend, if you could lay your claws upon
them.”

“Whether they could, or could not, is no affair of yours, my good sir,”
 replied the stranger, rising and getting his hat; “and whether I have
changed my mind on the subject you hint at is a matter known only to
myself. I wish you good-day.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony, probably satisfied with the fact of
his having turned the tables and had his revenge on the stranger; “I beg
your pardon, sir. Let us part friends, at all events. Set in case now--”

“I will listen to none of those half sentences. You cannot possibly
speak out, I see; in fact, you are tongue-tied by the cord of your evil
fate. Upon no subject can you speak until it is too late.”

“God direct me now!” exclaimed Corbet to himself. “I think the time is
come; for, unless I relieve my conscience before I'm called--James
he tould me the other night--Well, sir,” he proceeded, “listen. If I
befriend you, will you promise to stand my friend, if I should get into
any difficulty?”

“I will enter into no compromise of the kind with you,” said the other.
“If you are about to do an act of justice, you ought to do it without
conditions; and if you possess any document that is of value to another,
and of none to yourself, and yet will not restore it to the proper
owner, you are grossly dishonest, and capable of all that will soon,
I trust, be established against you and your employers. Good-by, Mr.
Corbet.”

“Aisy, sir, aisy,” said the tenacious and vacillating old knave. “Aisy,
I say. You will be generous, at any rate; for you know their value.
How much will you give me for the papers I spake of--that is, in case I
could get them for you?”

“Not sixpence. A friend has just returned from France, who--no,” thought
he, “I will not state a falsehood--Good-day, Mr. Corbet; I am wasting my
time.”

“One minute, sir--one minute. It may be worth your while.”

“Yes; but you trifle with me by these reluctant and penurious
communications.”

Anthony had laid down his head upon his hands, whose backs were
supported by the table; and in this position, as' if he were working
himself into an act of virtue sufficient for a last effort, he remained
until the stranger began to wonder what he meant. At length he arose,
went up stairs as on a former occasion, but with less--and not much
less--hesitation and delay; he returned and handed him the identical
documents of which M'Bride had deprived him. “Now,” said he, “listen to
me. You know the value of these; but that isn't what I want to spake to
you about.--Whatever you do about the widow's son, don't do it without
lettin' me know, and consultin' me--ay, and bein' guided by me; for
although you all think yourselves right, you may find, yourselves in the
wrong box still. Think of this now, and it will be better for you. I'm
not sure, but I'll open all your eyes yet, and that before long; for
I believe the time has come at last. Now that I've given you these
papers,” (extracted, by the way, from M'Bride's pockets during his
drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) “you must
promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“I suppose you know where this boy is? Now, when you're goin' to find
him, will you bring me with you?”

“Why so?”

“It'll plaise an ould man, at any rate; but there may be other raisons.
Will, you do this?”

The stranger, concluding that the wisest tiring was to give him his way,
promised accordingly, and. the old man seemed somewhat satisfied.

“One man, at all events, I'll punish, if I should sacrifice every child
I have in doin' so; and it is in order that he may be punished to the
heart--to the marrow--to the soul within him--that I got these papers,
and gave them to you.”

“Corbet,” said the stranger, “be the cause of your revenge what it may,
its principle in your heart is awful. You are, in fact, a dreadful old
man. May I ask how you came by these papers?”

“You may,” he replied; “but I won't answer you. At a future time it is
likely I will--but not now. It's enough for you to have them.”

On his way home the stranger called at Birney's office, where he
produced the documents; and it was arranged that the latter gentleman
should wait upon Lord Cullamore the next day, in order to lay before him
the proofs on which they were about to proceed; for, as they were now
complete, they thought it more respectful to that venerable old nobleman
to appeal privately to his own good sense, whether it would not be
more for the honor of his family to give him an opportunity of yielding
quietly, and without public scandal, than to drag the matter before the
world in a court of justice. It was so arranged; and a suitable
warrant having been procured to enable them to produce the body of the
unfortunate Fenton, the proceedings of that day closed very much to
their satisfaction.

The next day, between two and three o'clock, a visitor, on particular
business, was announced to Lord Cullamore; and on being desired to walk
up, our friend Birney made his bow to his lordship. Having been desired
to take a seat, he sat down, and his lordship, who appeared to be very
feeble, looked inquiringly at him, intimating thereby that he waited to
know the object of his visit.

“My lord,” said the attorney, “in the whole course of my professional
life, a duty so painful as this has never devolved upon me. I come
supported with proofs sufficient to satisfy you that your title and
property cannot descend to your son, Lord Dunroe.”

“I have no other son, sir,” said his lordship, reprovingly.

“I do not mean to insinuate that you have, my lord. I only assert that
he who is supposed to be the present heir, is not really so at all.”

“Upon what proofs, sir, do you ground that assertion?”

“Upon proofs, my lord, the most valid and irrefragable; proofs that
cannot be questioned, even for a moment; and, least of all, by your
lordship, who are best acquainted with their force and authenticity.”

“Have you got them about you?”

“I have got copies of the documentary proofs, my lord, and I shall now
place them before you.”

“Yes; have the goodness to let me see them.”

Birney immediately handed him the documents, and mentioned the facts
of which they were the proofs. In fact, only one of them was absolutely
necessary, and that was simply the record of a death duly and regularly
attested.

The old man seemed struck with dismay; for, until this moment he had not
been clearly in possession of the facts which were now brought against
him, as they were stated, and made plain as to their results, by Mr.
Birney.

“I do not know much of law,” he said, “but enough, I think, to satisfy
me, that unless you have other and stronger proofs than this, you cannot
succeed in disinheriting my son. I have seen the originals of those
before, but I had forgotten some facts and dates connected with them at
the time.”

“We have the collateral proof you speak of, my lord, and can produce
personal evidence to corroborate those which I have shown you.”

“May I ask who that evidence is?”

“A Mrs. Mainwaring, my lord--formerly Norton--who had been maid to your
first wife while she resided privately in Prance--was a witness to her
death, and had it duly registered.”

“But even granting this, I think you will be called on to prove the
intention on my part: that which a man does in ignorance cannot, and
ought not to be called a violation of the law.”

“But the law in this case will deal only with facts, my lord; and your
lordship must now see and feel that we are in a capacity to prove
them. And before I proceed further, my lord, I beg to say, that I
am instructed to appeal to your lordship's good sense, and to that
consideration for the feelings of your family, by which, I trust, you
will be influenced, whether, satisfied as you must be of your position,
it would not be more judicious on your own part to concede our just
rights, seeing, as you clearly may, that they are incontrovertible, than
to force us to bring the matter before the public; a circumstance which,
so far as you are yourself concerned, must be inexpressibly painful,
and as regards other members of your family, perfectly deplorable and
distressing. We wish, my lord, to spare the innocent as much as we can.”

“I am innocent, sir; your proofs only establish an act done by me in
ignorance.”

“We grant that, my lord, at once, and without for a moment charging you
with any dishonorable motive; but what we insist on--can prove--and your
lordship cannot deny--is, that the act you speak of was done, and
done at a certain period. I do beseech you, my lord, to think well
and seriously of my proposal, for it is made in a kind and respectful
spirit.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied his lordship, “and those who instructed you
to regard my feelings; but this you must admit is a case of too much
importance, in which interests of too much consequence are involved, for
me to act in it without the advice and opinion of my lawyers.”

“You are perfectly right, my lord; I expected no less; and if your
lordship will refer me to them, I shall have no hesitation in laying
the grounds of our proceedings before them, and the proofs by which they
will be sustained.”

This was assented to on the part of Lord Cullamore, and it is only
necessary to say, that, in a few days subsequently, his lawyers, upon
sifting and thoroughly examining everything that came before them,
gave it as their opinion--and both were men of the very highest
standing--that his lordship had no defence whatsoever, and that his
wisest plan was to yield without allowing the matter to go to a public
trial, the details of which must so deeply affect the honor of his
children.

This communication, signed in the form of a regular opinion by both
these eminent gentlemen, was received by his lordship on the fourth day
after Birney's visit to him on the subject.

About a quarter of an hour after he had perused it, his lordship's bell
rang, and Morty O'Flaherty, his man, entered.

“Morty,” said his lordship, “desire Lord Dunroe to come to me; I wish to
speak with him. Is he within?”

“He has just come in, my lord. Yes, my lord, I'll send him up.”

His lordship tapped the arms of his easy chair with the lingers of both
hands, and looked unconsciously upon his servant, with a face full of
the deepest sorrow and anguish.

The look was not lost upon Morty, who said, as he went down stairs,
“There's something beyond the common on my lord's mind this day. He was
bad enough before; but now he looks like a man that has got the very
heart within him broken.”

He met Dunroe in the hall, and delivered his message, but added,

“I think his lordship has had disagreeable tidin's of some kind to-day,
my lord. I never saw him look so ill. To tell you the truth, my lord, I
think he has death in his face.”

“Well, Morty,” replied his lordship, adjusting his collar, “you know we
must all die. I cannot guess what unpleasant tidings he may have heard
to-day; but I know that I have heard little else from him this many a
day. Tell Mr. Norton to see about the bills I gave him, and have them
cashed as soon as possible. If not, curse me, I'll shy a decanter at his
head after dinner.”

He then went rather reluctantly up stairs, and presented himself, in no
very amiable temper, to his father.

Having taken a seat, he looked at the old man, and found his eyes fixed
upon him with an expression of reproof, and at the same time the most
profound affliction.

“Dunroe,” said the earl, “you did not call to inquire after me for the
last two or three days.”

“I did not call, my lord, certainly; but, nevertheless, I inquired. The
fact is, I feel disinclined to be lectured at such a rate every time
I come to see you. As for Norton, I have already told you, with
every respect for your opinion and authority, that you have taken an
unfounded prejudice against him, and that I neither can nor will get
rid of him, as you call it. You surely would not expect me to act
dishonorably, my lord.”

“I did not send for you now to speak about him, John. I have a much more
serious, and a much more distressing communication to make to you.”

The son opened his eyes, and stared at him.

“It may easily be so, my lord; but what is it?”

“Unfortunate young man, it is this--You are cut off from the inheritance
of my property and title.”

“Sickness, my lord, and peevishness, have impaired your intellects, I
think. What kind of language is this to hold to me, your son and heir?”

“My son, John, but not my heir.”

“Don't you know, my lord, that what you say is impossible. If I am your
son, I am, of course, your heir.”

“No, John, for the simplest reason in the world. At present you must
rest contented with the fact which I announce to you--for fact it is. I
have not now strength enough to detail it; but I shall when I feel that
I am equal to it. Indeed, I knew it not myself, with perfect certainty,
until to-day. Some vague suspicion I had of late, but the proofs that
were laid before me, and laid before me in a generous and forbearing
spirit, have now satisfied me that you have no claim, as I said, to
either title or property.”

“Why, as I've life, my lord, this is mere dotage. A foul conspiracy
has been got up, and you yield to it without a struggle. Do you think,
whatever you may do, that I will bear this tamely? I am aware that a
conspiracy has been getting up, and I also have had my suspicions.”

“It is out of my power, John, to secure you the inheritance.”

“This is stark folly, my lord--confounded nonsense--if you will pardon
me. Out of your power! Made silly and weak in mind by illness, your
opinion is not now worth much upon any subject. It is not your fault, I
admit; but, upon my soul, I really have serious doubts whether you are
in a sufficiently sane state of mind to manage your own affairs.”

“Undutiful young man,” replied his father, with bitterness, “if that
were a test of insanity, you yourself ought to have been this many a day
in a strait waistcoat. I know it is natural that you should feel this
blow deeply; but it is neither natural nor dutiful that you should
address your parent in such unpardonable language.”

“If what that parent says be true, my lord, he has himself, by his past
vices, disinherited his son.”

“No, sir,” replied the old man, whilst a languid flush of indignation
was visible on his face, “he has not done so by his vices; but you,
sir, have morally disinherited yourself by your vices, by your general
profligacy, by your indefensible extravagance, and by your egregious
folly, A man placed in the position which you would have occupied, ought
to be a light and an example to society, and. not what you have been, a
reproach to your family, and a disgrace to your class. The virtues of
a man of rank should be in proportion to his station; but you have
distinguished yourself only by holding up to the world the debasing
example of a dishonorable and licentious life. What virtue can you plead
to establish a just claim to a position which demands a mind capable of
understanding the weighty responsibilities that are annexed to it, and
a heart possessed of such enlightened principles as may enable him to
discharge them in a spirit that will constitute him, what he ought to
be, a high example and a generous benefactor to his kind? Not one:
but if selfishness, contempt for all the moral obligations of life, a
licentious spirit that mocks at religion and looks upon human virtue
as an unreality and a jest--if these were to give you a claim to
the possession of rank and property, I know of no one more admirably
qualified to enjoy them. Dunroe, I am not now far from the grave; but
listen, and pay attention to my voice, for it is a warning voice.”

“It was always so,” replied his son, with sulky indignation; “it was
never anything else; a mere passing bell that uttered nothing but
advices, lectures, coffins, and cross-bones.”

“It uttered only truth then, Dunroe, as you feel now to your cost.
Change your immoral habits. I will not bid you repent; because you would
only sneer at the word; but do endeavor to feel regret for the kind of
life you have led, and give up your evil propensities; cease to be a
heartless spendthrift; remember that you are a man: remember that you
have important duties to perform; believe that there are such things as
religion, and virtue, and honor in the world; believe that there is a
God a wise Providence, who governs that world upon principles of eternal
truth and justice, and to whom you must account, in another life, for
your conduct in this.”

“Well, really, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “as it appears that the lecture
is all you have to bestow upon me, I am quite willing that you should
disinherit me of that also. I waive every claim to it. But so do I not
to my just rights. We shall see what a court of law can do.”

“You may try it, and entail disgrace upon yourself and your sister. As
for my child, it will break her heart. My God! my child! my child!”

“Not, certainly, my lord, if we should succeed.”

“All hopes of success are out of the question,” replied his father.

“No such thing, my lord. Your mind, as I said, is enfeebled by
illness, and you yield too easily. Such conduct on your part is really
ridiculous. We shall have a tug for it, I am determined.”

“Here,” said his father, “cast your eye over these papers, and they
will enable you to understand, not merely the grounds upon which our
opponents proceed, but the utter hopelessness of contesting the matter
with them.”

Dunroe took the papers, but before looking at them replied, with a great
deal of confidence, “you are quite mistaken there, my lord, with every
respect. They are not in a position to prove their allegations.”

“How so?” said his father.

“For the best reason in the world, my lord. We have had their proofs in
our possession and destroyed them.”

“I don't understand you.”

“The fellow, M'Bride, of whom I think your lordship knows something,
had their documents in his possession.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Well, my lord, while in a drunken fit, he either lost them, or some one
took them out of his pocket. I certainly would have purchased them from
him.”

“Did you know how he came by them?” asked his father, with a look of
reproof and anger.

“That, my lord, was no consideration of mine. As it was, however, he
certainty lost them; but we learned from him that Birney, the attorney,
was about to proceed to France, in order to get fresh attested copies;
upon which, as he knew the party there in whose hands the registry
was kept, Norton and he started a day or two in advance of him, and on
arriving there, they found, much to our advantage, that the register was
dead. M'Bride, however, who is an adroit fellow, and was well acquainted
with his house and premises, contrived to secure the book in which the
original record was made--which book he has burned--so that, in point of
fact, they have no legal proofs on which to proceed.”

“Dishonorable man!” said his father, rising up in a state of the deepest
emotion. “You have made me weary of life; you have broken my heart: and
so you would stoop to defend yourself, or your lights, by a crime--by a
crime so low, fraudulent, and base--that here, in the privacy of my own
chamber, and standing face to face with you, I am absolutely ashamed to
call you my son. Know, sir, that if it were a dukedom, I should scorn to
contest it, or to retain it, at the expense of my honor.”

“That's all very fine talk, my lord; but, upon my soul, wherever I can
get an advantage, I'll take it. I see little of the honor or virtue
you speak of going, and, I do assure you, I won't be considered at all
remarkable for acting up to my own principles. On the contrary, it is by
following yours that I should be so.”

“I think,” said the old man, “that I see the hand of God in this.
Unfortunate, obstinate, and irreclaimable young man, it remains for me
to tell you that the very documents, which you say have been lost by the
villain M'Bride, with whom, in his villainy, you, the son of an earl,
did not hesitate to associate yourself, are now in the possession of
our opponents. Take those papers to your room,” he added, bursting into
tears: “take them away, I am unable to prolong this interview, for
it has been to me a source of deeper affliction than the loss of the
highest title or honor that the hand of royalty could bestow.”

When Dunroe was about to leave the room, the old man, who had again sat
down, said:

“Stop a moment. Of course it is unnecessary to say, I should hope, that
this union between you and Miss Gourlay cannot proceed.”

Dunroe, who felt at once that if he allowed his father to suppose that
he persisted in it, the latter would immediately disclose his position
to the baronet, now replied:

“No, my lord, I have no great ambition for any kind of alliance with Sir
Thomas Gourlay. I never liked him personally, and I am sufficiently
a man of spirit, I trust, not to urge a marriage with a girl
who--who--cannot appreciate--” He paused, not knowing exactly how to
fill up the sentence.

“Who has no relish for it,” added his father, “and can't appreciate your
virtues, you mean to say.”

“What I mean to say, my lord, is, that where there is no great share
of affection on either side, there can be but little prospect of
happiness.”

“Then you give up the match?”

“I give up the match, my lord, without a moment's hesitation. You may
rest assured of that.”

“Because,” added his father, “if I found that you persisted in it, and
attempted to enter the family, and impose yourself on this admirable
girl, as that which you are not, I would consider it my duty to acquaint
Sir Thomas Gourlay with the unfortunate discovery which has been made.
Before you go I will thank you to read that letter for me. It comes,
I think, from the Lord Chancellor. My sight is very feeble to-day, and
perhaps it may require a speedy answer.”

Dunroe opened the letter, which informed Lord Cullamore, that it
had afforded him, the Lord Chancellor, much satisfaction to promote
Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq., to the magistracy of the county of
------, understanding, as he did, from the communication “of Sir Thomas
Gourlay, enclosed in his lordship's letter, that he (Crackenfudge)
was, by his many virtues, good sense, discretion, humanity, and general
esteem among all classes, as well as by his popularity in the country, a
person in every way fitted to discharge the important duties of such an
appointment.

“I feel my mind at ease,” said the amiable old nobleman, “in aiding such
an admirable country gentleman as this Crackenfudge must be, to a seat
on the bench; for, after all, Dunroe, it is only by the contemplation of
a good action that we can be happy. You may go.”

Some few days passed, when Dunroe, having read the papers, the contents
of which he did not wish Norton to see, returned them to his father
in sullen silence, and then rang his bell, and sent for his worthy
associate, that he might avail himself of his better judgment.

“Norton,” said he, “it is all up with us.”

“How is that, my lord?”

“Those papers, that M'Bride says he lost, are in the hands of our
enemies.”

“Don't believe it, my lord.' I saw the fellow yesterday, and he told me
that he destroyed them in a drunken fit, for which he says he is ready
to cut his throat.”

“But I have read the opinion of my father's counsel,” replied his
lordship, “and they say we have no defence. Now you know what a lawyer
is: if there were but a hair-breadth chance, they would never make an
admission that might keep a good fat case from getting into their hands.
No; it is all up with us. The confounded old fool above had everything
laid before them, and such is the upshot. What is to be done?”

“Marriage, without loss of time--marriage, before your disaster reaches
the ears of the Black Baronet.”

“Yes, but there is a difficulty. If the venerable old nobleman should
hear of it, he'd let the cat out of the bag, and leave me in the
lurch, in addition to the penalty of a three hours' lecture upon honor.
Everything, however, is admirably arranged _quoad_ the marriage. We have
got a special license for the purpose of meeting our peculiar case, so
that the marriage can be private; that is to say, can take place in
the lady's own house. Do you think though, that M'Bride has actually
destroyed the papers?”

“The drunken ruffian! certainly. He gave me great insolence a couple of
days ago.”

“Why so?”

“Because I didn't hand him over a hundred pounds for his journey and the
theft of the registry.”

“And how much did you give him, pray?”

“A fifty pound note, after having paid his expenses, which was quite
enough for him. However, as I did not wish to make the scoundrel our
enemy, I have promised him something more, so that I've come on good
terms with him again. He is a slippery customer.”

“Did you get the bills cashed yet?”

“No, my lord; I am going about it now; but I tell you beforehand, that I
will have some difficulty in doing it. I hope to manage it, however; and
for that reason I must bid you good-by.”

“The first thing to do, then, is to settle that ugly business about the
mare. By no means must we let it come to trial.”

“Very well, my lord, be it so.”

Norton, after leaving his dupe to meditate upon the circumstances in
which he found himself, began to reflect as he went along, that he
himself was necessarily involved in the ruin of his friend and patron.

“I have the cards, however, in my own hands,” thought he, “and M'Bride's
advice was a good one. He having destroyed the other documents, it
follows that this registry, which I have safe and snug, will be just
what his lordship's enemies will leap at. Of course they are humbugging
the old peer about the other papers, and, as I know, it is devilish easy
to humbug the young one. My agency is gone to the winds; but I think
the registry will stand me instead. It ought, in a case like this, to be
well worth five thousand; at least, I shall ask this sum--not saying but
I will take less. Here goes then for an interview with Birney, who has
the character of being a shrewd fellow--honorable, they say--but then,
is he not an attorney? Yes, Birney, have at you, my boy;” and having come
to this virtuous conclusion, he directed his steps to that gentleman's
office, whom he found engaged at his desk.

“Mr. Birney, I presume,” with a very fashionable bow.

“Yes, sir,” said Birney, “that is my name.”

“Haw! If I don't mistake, Mr. Birney,” with a very English accent, which
no one could adopt, when he pleased, with more success than our
Kerry boy--“if I don't mistake, we both made a journey to France very
recently?”

“That may be, sir,” replied Birney, “but I am not aware of it.”

“But I am, though,” tipping Birney the London cockney.

“Well, sir,” said Birney, very coolly, “and what follows from that?”

“Why haw--haw--I don't exactly know at present; but I think a good
dee-al may follow from it.”

“As how, sir?”

“I believe you were over there on matters connected with Lord
Cullamore's family--haw?”

“Sir,” replied Birney, “you are a perfect stranger to me--I haven't the
honor of knowing you. If you are coming to me on anything connected with
my professional services, I will thank you to state it.”

“Haw!--My name is Norton, a friend of Lord Dunroe's.”

“Well, Mr. Norton, if you will have the goodness to mention the business
which causes me the honor of your visit, I will thank you; but I beg to
assure you, that I am not a man to be pumped either by Lord Dunroe or
any of his friends. You compel me to speak very plainly, sir.”

“Haw! Very good--very good indeed! but the truth his, I've given
Dunroe hup.”

“Well, sir, and how is that my affair? What interest can I feel in your
quarrels? Personally I know very little of Lord Dunroe, and of you, sir,
nothing.”

“Haw! but everything 'as a beginning, Mr. Birney.”

“At this rate of going, I fear we shall be a long time ending, Mr.
Norton.”

“Well,” replied Norton, “I believe you are right; the sooner we
understand each other, the better.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Birney; “I think so, if you have any business
of importance with me.”

“Well, I rayther think you will find it important--that is, to your own
interests. You are an attorney, Mr. Birney, and I think you will admit
that every man in this world, as it goes, ought to look to 'is own
interests.”

Birney looked at him, and said, very gravely, “Pray, sir, what is your
business with me? My time, sir, is valuable. My time is money--a portion
of my landed property, sir.”

“Haw! Very good; but you Hirish are so fiery and impatient! However, I
will come to the point. You are about to joust that young scamp, by the
way, out of the title and property. I say so, because I am up to the
thing. Yet you want dockiments to establish your case--haw?”

“Well, sir, and suppose we do; you, I presume, as the friend of Lord
Dunroe, are not coming to furnish us with them?”

“That is, Mr. Birney, as we shall understand one another. You failed in
your mission to France?”

“I shall hear any proposal, sir, you have to make, but will answer no
questions on the subject until I understand your motive for putting
them.”

“Good--very cool and cautious--but suppose, now, that I, who know you
'ave failed in procuring the dockiments in question, could supply you
with them--haw!--do you understand me now?”

“Less than ever, sir, I assure you. Observe that you introduced yourself
to me as the friend of Lord Dunroe.”

“Merely to connect myself with the proceedings between you. I 'ave or
am about to discard him, but I shaunt go about the bush no longer. I'm
a native of Lon'on, w'at is tarmed a cockney--haw, haw!--and he 'as
treated me ill--very ill--and I am detarmined to retaliate.”

“How, sir, are you determined to retaliate?”

“The truth is, sir, I've got the dockiments you stand in need of in my
possession, and can furnish you with them for a consideration.”

“Why, now you are intelligible. What do you want, Murray? I'm engaged.”

“To speak one word with you in the next room, sir. The gentleman wants
you to say yes or no, in a single line, upon Mr. Fairfield's business,
sir--besides, I've a private message.”

“Excuse me for a moment, sir,” said Birney; “there's this morning's
paper, if you haven't seen it.”

“Well, Bob,” said he, “what is it?”

“Beware of that fellow,” said he: “I know him well; his name is Bryan;
he was a horse jockey on the Curragh, and was obliged to fly the country
for dishonesty. Be on your guard, that is all I had to say to you.”

“Why, he says he is a Londoner, and he certainly has the accent,”
 replied the other.

“Kerry, sir, to the backbone, and a disgrace to the country, for divil a
many rogues it produces, whatever else it may do.”

“Thank you, Murray,” said Birney; “I will be doubly guarded now.”

This occurred between Birney and one of his clerks, as a small interlude
in their conversation.

“Yes, sir,” resumed Birney, once more taking his place at the desk, “you
can now be understood.”

“Haw!--yes, I rayther fancy I can make myself so!” replied Norton.
“What, now, do you suppose the papers in question may be worth to your
friends?”

“You cannot expect me to reply to that question,” said Birney; “I am
acting professionally under the advice and instructions of others; but
I will tell you what I think you had better do--I can enter into no
negotiation on the subject without consulting those who have employed
me, and getting their consent--write down, then, on a sheet of paper,
what you propose to do for us, and the compensation which you expect to
receive for any documents you may supply us with that we may consider of
value, and I shall submit it for consideration.”

“May I not compromise myself by putting it on paper, though?”

“If you think so, then, don't do it; but, for my part, I shall have
no further concern in the matter. Verbal communications are of little
consequence in an affair of this kind. Reduce it to writing, and it can
be understood; it will, besides, prevent misconceptions in future.”

“I trust you are a man of honor?” said Norton.

“I make no pretensions to anything so high,” replied Birney; “but I
trust I am an honest man, and know how to act when I have an honest man
to deal with. If you wish to serve our cause, or, to be plain with you,
wish to turn the documents you speak of to the best advantage, make your
proposal in writing, as you ought to do, otherwise I must decline any
further negotiation on the subject.”

Norton saw and felt that there was nothing else for it. He accordingly
took pen and ink and wrote down his proposal--offering to place the
documents alluded to, which were mentioned by name, in the hands of Mr.
Birney, for the sum of five thousand pounds.”

“Now, sir,” said Birney, after looking over this treacherous
proposition, “you see yourself the advantage of putting matters down
in black and white. The production of this will save me both time and
trouble, and, besides, it can be understood at a glance. Thank you, sir.
Have the goodness to favor me with a call in a day or two, and we shall
see what can be done.”

“This,” said Norton, as he was about to go, “is a point of honor between
us.”

“Why, I think, at all events, it ought,” replied Bimey; “at least, so
far as I am concerned, it is not my intention to act dishonorably by any
honest man.”

“Haw--haw! Very well said, indeed; I 'ave a good opinion of your
discretion.

“Well, sir, I wish you good morneen; I shall call in a day or two, and
expect to 'ave a satisfactory answer.”

“What a scoundrel!” exclaimed Birney.

“Here's a fellow, now, who has been fleecing that unfortunate sheep of
a nobleman for the last four years, and now that he finds him at the
length of his tether, he is ready to betray and sacrifice him, like a
double-distilled rascal as he is. The villain thought I did not know
him, but he was mistaken--quite out in his calculations. He will find,
too, that he has brought his treachery to the wrong market.”




CHAPTER XXXIX. Fenton Recovered--The Mad-House

Sir Thomas Gourlay, on his return with the special license, was informed
by the same servant who had admitted the stranger, that a gentleman
awaited him in the drawing-room.

“Who is he, M'Gregor?”

“I don't know, sir; he paid you a visit once at Red Hall, I think.”

“How could I know him by that, you blockhead?”

“He's the gentleman, sir, you had hot words with.”

“That I kicked out one day? Crackenfudge, eh?”

“No, faith, sir; not Crackenfudge. I know him well enough; and devil a
kick your honor gave him but I wished was nine. This is a very different
man, sir; and I believe you had warm words with him too, sir.”

“Oh!” exclaimed his master; “I remember. Is he above?”

“I believe so, sir.”

A strange and disagreeable feeling came over the baronet on hearing
these words--a kind of presentiment, as it were, of something
unpleasant and adverse to his plans. On entering the drawing-room,
however, he was a good deal surprised to find that there was nobody
there; and after a moment's reflection, a fearful suspicion took
possession of him; he rang the bell furiously.

Gibson, who had been out, now entered.

“Where is Miss Gourlay, sir?” asked his master, with eyes kindled by
rage and alarm.

“I was out, sir,” replied Gibson, “and cannot tell.”

“You can never tell anything, you scoundrel. For a thousand, she's off
with him again, and all's ruined. Here, Matthews--M'Gregor--call the
servants, sir. Where's her maid?--call her maid. What a confounded
fool--ass--I was, not to have made that impudent baggage tramp about
her business. It's true, Lucy's off--I feel it--I felt it. Hang her
hypocrisy! It's the case, however, with all women. They have neither
truth, nor honesty of purpose. A compound of treachery, deceit, and
dissimulation; and yet I thought, if there was a single individual of
her sex exempted from their vices, that she was that individual. Come
here, M'Gregor--come here you scoundrel--do you know where Miss Gourlay
is? or her maid?”

“Here's Matthews, sir; he says she's gone out.”

“Gone out!--Yes, she's gone out with a vengeance. Do you know where
she's gone, sirra? And did any one go with her?” he added, addressing
himself to Matthews.

“I think, sir, she's gone to take her usual airing in the carriage.”

“Who was with her?”

“No one but her maid, sir.”

“Oh, no; they would not go off together--that would be too open and
barefaced. Do you know what direction she took?”

“No, sir; I didn't observe.”

“You stupid old lout,” replied the baronet, flying at him, and mauling
the unfortunate man without mercy; “take that--and that--and that--for
your stupidity. Why did you not observe the way she went, you! villain?
You have suffered her to elope, you hound! You have all suffered her
to elope with a smooth-faced impostor--a fellow whom no one knows--a
blackleg--a swindler--a thief--a--a--go and saddle half a
dozen horses, and seek her in all directions. Go instantly,
and--hold--easy--stop--hang you all, stop!--here she is--and her maid
with her--” he exclaimed, looking out of the window. “Ha! I am relieved.
God bless me! God bless me!” He then looked at the servants with
something of deprecation in his face, and waving his hand, said, “Go--go
quietly; and, observe me--not a word of this--not a syllable--for your
lives!”

His anger, however, was only checked in mid-volley. The idea of her
having received a clandestine visit from her lover during his absence
rankled at his heart; and although satisfied that she was still safe,
and in his power, he could barely restrain his temper within moderate
limits. Nay, he felt angry at her for the alarm she had occasioned him,
and the passion he had felt at her absence.

“Well, Lucy,” said he, addressing her, as she entered, in a voice chafed
with passion, “have you taken your drive?”

“Yes, papa,” she replied; “but it threatened rain, and we returned
earlier that usual.”

“You look pale.”

“I dare say I do, sir. I want rest--repose;” and she reclined on a
lounger as she spoke. “It is surprising, papa, how weak I am!”

“Not too weak, Lucy, to receive a stolen visit, eh?”

Lucy immediately sat up, and replied with surprise, “A stolen visit,
sir? I don't understand you, papa.”

“Had you not a visitor here, in my absence?”

“I had, sir, but the visit was intended for you. Our interview was
perfectly accidental.”

“Ah! faith, Lucy, it was too well timed to be accidental. I'm not such a
fool as that comes to. Accidental, indeed! Lucy, you should not say so.”

“I am not in the habit of stating an untruth, papa. The visit, sir--I
should rather say, the interview--was purely accidental; but I am glad
it took place.”

“The deuce you are! That is a singular acknowledgment, Lucy, I think.”

“It is truth, sir, notwithstanding. I was anxious to see him, that I
might acquaint him with the change that has taken place in my unhappy
destiny. If I had not seen him, I should have asked your permission to
write to him.”

“Which I would not have given.”

“I would have submitted my letter to you, sir.”

“Even so; I would not have consented.”

“Well, then, sir, as truth and honor demanded that act from me, I would
haye sent it without your consent. Excuse me for saying this, papa; but
you need not be told that there are some peculiar cases where duty to a
parent must yield to truth and honor.”

“Some peculiar cases! On the contrary, the cases you speak of are the
general rule, my girl--the general rule--and rational obedience to
a parent the exception. Where is there a case--and there are
millions--where a parent's wish and will are set at naught and
scorned, in which the same argument is not used? I do not relish these
discussions, however. What I wish to impress upon you is this--you must
see this fellow no more.”

Lucy's temples were immediately in a blaze. “Are you aware, papa, that
you insult and degrade your daughter, by applying such a term to him?
If you will not spare him, sir, spare me; for I assure you that I feel
anything said against him with ten times more emotion than if it were
uttered against myself.”

“Well, well; he's a fine fellow, a gentleman, a lord; but, be he what he
may, you must see him no more.”

“It is not my intention, papa, to see him again.”

“You must not write to him.”

“It will not be necessary.”

“But you must not.”

“Well, then, I shall not.”

“Nor receive kis letters.”

“Nor receive his letters, knowing them to be his.”

“You promise all this?”

“I do, sir, faithfully. I hope you are now satisfied, papa?”

“I am, Lucy--I am. You are not so bad a girl as I sus--no, you are a
very good girl; and when I see you the Countess of Cullamore, I shall
not have a single wish un-gratified.”

Lucy, indeed, poor girl, was well and vigilantly guarded. No
communication, whether written or otherwise, was permitted to reach
her; nor, if she had been lodged in the deepest dungeon in Europe, and
secured by the strongest bolts that ever enclosed a prisoner, could she
have been more rigidly excluded from all intercourse, her father's and
her maid's only excepted.

Her lover, on receiving the documents so often alluded to from
old Corbet, immediately transmitted to her a letter of hope and
encouragement, in which he stated that the object he had alluded to was
achieved, and that he would take care to place such documents before her
father, as must cause even him to forbid the bans. This letter, however,
never reached her. Neither did a similar communication from Mrs.
Mainwaring, who after three successive attempts to see either her or
her father, was forced at last to give up all hope of preventing the
marriage. She seemed, indeed, to have been fated.

In the meantime, the stranger, having, as he imagined, relieved Lucy's
mind from her dreaded union with Dunroe, and left the further and
more complete disclosure of that young nobleman's position to Mrs.
Mainwaring, provided himself with competent legal authority to claim the
person of unfortunate Fenton. It is unnecessary to describe his journey
to the asylum in which the wretched young man was placed; it is enough
to say that he arrived there at nine o'clock in the morning, accompanied
by old Corbet and three officers of justice, who remained in the
carriage; and on asking to see the proprietor, was shown into a parlor,
where he found that worthy gentleman reading a newspaper.

This fellow was one of those men who are remarkable for thick, massive,
and saturnine features. At a first glance he was not at all ill-looking;
but, on examining his beetle brows, which met in a mass of black thick
hair across his face, and on watching the dull, selfish, cruel eyes
that they hung over--dead as they were to every generous emotion, and
incapable of kindling even at cruelty itself--it was impossible for any
man in the habit of observing nature closely not to feel that a brutal
ruffian, obstinate, indurated, and unscrupulous, was before him. His
forehead was low but broad, and the whole shape of his head such as
would induce an intelligent phrenologist to pronounce him at once a
thief and a murderer.

The stranger, after a survey or two, felt his blood boil at the
contemplation of his very visage, which was at once plausible and
diabolical in expression. After some preliminary chat the latter said:

“Your establishment, sir, is admirably situated here. It is remote and
isolated; and these, I suppose, are advantages?”

“Why, yes, sir,” replied the doctor, “the further we remove our patients
from human society, the better. The exhibition of reason has, in
general, a bad effect upon the insane.”

“Upon what principle do you account for that?” asked the stranger. “To
me it would appear that the reverse of the proposition ought to hold
true.”

“That may be,” replied the other; “but no man can form a correct opinion
of insane persons who has not mingled with them, or had them under
his care. The contiguity of reason--I mean in the persons of those who
approach them--always exercises a dangerous influence upon lunatics; and
on this account, I sometimes place those who are less insane as keepers
upon such as are decidedly so.”

“Does not that, sir, seem very like setting the blind to lead the
blind?”

“No,” replied the other, with a heavy, I heartless laugh, “your analogy
fails; it is rather like setting a man with one eye to guide another who
has none.”

“But why should not a man who has two guide him better?”

“Because the consciousness that there is but the one eye between both of
them, will make him proceed more cautiously.”

“But that in the blind is an act of reason,” replied the stranger,
“which cannot be applied to the insane, in whom reason is deficient.”

“But where reason does not exist,” said the doctor, “we must regulate
them by the passions.”

“By the exercise of which passion do you gain the greatest ascendency
over them?” asked the stranger.

“By fear, of course. We can do nothing, at least very little, without
inspiring terror.”

“Ah,” thought the stranger, “I have now got the key to his
conduct!--But, sir,” he added, “we never fear and love the same object
at the same time.”

“True enough, sir,” replied the ruffian; “but who could or ought to
calculate upon the attachment of a madman? Boys are corrected more
frequently than men, because their reason is not developed: and those
in whom it does not exist, or in whom it has been impaired, must be
subjected to the same discipline. Terror, besides, is the principle upon
which reason itself, and all society, are governed.”

“But suppose I had a brother, now, or a relative, might I not hesitate
to place him in an establishment conducted on principles which I
condemn?”

“As to that, sir,” replied the fellow, who, expecting a patient, feared
that he had gone too far, “our system is an adaptable one; at least, our
application of it varies according to circumstances. As our first object
is cure, we must necessarily allow ourselves considerable latitude
of experiment until we hit upon the right key. This being found, the
process of recovery, when it is possible, may be conducted with as much
mildness as the absence of reason will admit. We are mild, when we can,
and severe only where we must.”

“Shuffling scoundrel!” thought the stranger. “I perceive in this
language the double dealing of an unprincipled villain.--Would you
have any objection, sir,” he said, “that I should look through your
establishment?”

“I can conduct you through the convalescent wards,” replied the doctor;
“but, as I said, we find that the appearance of strangers--which is
what I meant by the contiguity of reason--is attended with very bad, and
sometimes deplorable consequences. Under all circumstances it retards
a cure, under others occasions a relapse, and in some accelerates the
malady so rapidly that it becomes hopeless. You may see the convalescent
ward, however--that is, if you wish.”

“You will oblige me,” said the stranger.

“Well, then,” said he, “if you will remain here a moment, I will send a
gentleman who will accompany you, and explain the characters of some
of the patients, should you desire it, and also the cause of their
respective maladies.”

He then disappeared, and in a few minutes a mild, intelligent,
gentlemanly man, of modest and unassuming manners, presented himself,
and said he would feel much pleasure in showing him the convalescent
side of the house. The stranger, however, went out and brought old
Corbet in from the carriage, where he and the officers had been sitting;
and this he did at Corbet's own request.

It is not our intention to place before our readers any lengthened
description of this gloomy temple of departed reason. Every one who
enters a lunatic asylum for the first time, must feel a wild and
indescribable emotion, such as he has never before experienced, and
which amounts to an extraordinary sense of solemnity and fear. Nor
do the sensations of the stranger rest here. He feels as if he were
surrounded by something sacred as well as melancholy, something
that creates at once pity, reverence, and awe. Indeed, so strongly
antithetical to each other are his first impressions, that a kind of
confusion arises in his mind, and he begins to fear that his senses have
been affected by the atmosphere of the place. That a shock takes place
which slightly disarranges the faculty of thought, and generates strong
but erroneous impressions, is still more clearly established by the fact
that the visitor, for a considerable time after leaving an asylum, can
scarcely rid himself of the belief that every person he meets is insane.

The stranger, on entering the long room in which the convalescents were
assembled, felt, in the silence of the patients, and in their vague and
fantastic movements, that he was in a position where novelty, in general
the source of pleasure, was here associated only with pain. Their
startling looks, the absence of interest in some instances, and its
intensity in others, at the appearance of strangers, without any
intelligent motive in either case, produced a feeling that seemed to
bear the character of a disagreeable dream.

“All the patients here,” said his conductor, “are not absolutely in a
state of convalescence. A great number of them are; but we also allow
such confirmed lunatics as are harmless to mingle with them. There is
scarcely a profession, or a passion, or a vanity in life, which has not
here its representative. Law, religion, physic, the arts, the sciences,
all contribute their share to this melancholy picture gallery. Avarice,
love, ambition, pride, jealousy, having overgrown the force of
reason, are here, as its ideal skeletons, wild and gigantic--fretting,
gambolling, moping, grinning, raving, and vaporing--each wrapped in
its own Vision, and indifferent to all the influence of the collateral
faculties. There, now, is a man, moping about, the very picture of
stolidity; observe how his heavy head hangs down until his chin rests
upon his breastbone, his mouth open and almost dribbling. That man, sir,
so unpoetical and idiotic in appearance, imagines himself the author of
Beattie's 'Minstrel' He is a Scotchman, and I shall call him over.”

“Come here, Sandy, speak to this gentleman.”

Sandy, without raising his lack-lustre eye, came over and replied,
“Aw--ay--'Am the author o' Betty's Menstrel;” and having uttered this
piece of intelligence, he shuffled across the room, dragging one foot
after the other, at about a quarter of a minute per step. Never was poor
Beattie so libellously represented.

“Do you see that round-faced, good-humored looking man, with a decent
frieze coat on?” said their conductor. “He's a wealthy and respectable
farmer from the county of Kilkenny, who imagines that he is Christ. His
name is Rody Rafferty.”

“Come here, Rody.”

Rody came over, and looking at the stranger, said, “Arra, now, do you
know who I am? Troth, I go bail you don't.”

“No,” replied the stranger, “I do not; but I hope you will tell me.”

“I'm Christ,” replied Rody; “and, upon my word, if you don't get out o'
this, I'll work a miracle on you.”

“Why,” asked the stranger, “what will you do?”

“Troth, I'll turn you into a blackin' brush, and polish my shoes wid
you. You were at Barney's death, too.”

The poor man had gone deranged, it seemed, by the violent death of his
only child--a son.

“There's another man,” said the conductor; “that little fellow with the
angry face. He is a shoemaker, who went mad on the score of humanity. He
took a strong feeling of resentment against all who had flat feet, and
refused to make shoes for them.”

“How was that?” inquired the stranger.

“Why, sir,” said the other, smiling, “he said that they murdered the
clocks (beetles), and he looked upon every man with flat feet as an
inhuman villain, who deserves, he says, to have his feet chopped
off, and to be compelled to dance a hornpipe three times a day on his
stumps.”

“Who is that broad-shouldered man,” asked the stranger, “dressed in
rusty black, with the red head?”

“He went mad,” replied the conductor, “on a principle of religious
charity. He is a priest from the county of Wexford, who had been called
in to baptize the child of a Protestant mother, which, having done, he
seized a tub, and placing it on the child's neck, killed it; exclaiming,
'I am now sure of having sent one soul to heaven.'”

“You are not without poets here, of course?” said the stranger.

“We have, unfortunately,” replied the other, “more individuals of
that class than we can well manage. They ought to have an asylum
for themselves. There's a fellow, now, he in the tattered jacket and
nightcap, who has written a heroic poem, of eighty-six thousand verses,
which he entitles 'Balaam's Ass, or the Great Unsaddled.' Shall I call
him over?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, no,” replied the stranger; “keep me from the
poets.”

“There is one of the other species,” replied the gentleman, “the thin,
red-eyed fellow, who grinds his teeth. He fancies himself a wit and a
satirist, and is the author of an unpublished poem, called 'The Smoking
Dunghill, or Parnassus in a Fume.' He published several things, which
were justly attacked on account of their dulness, and he is now in an
awful fury against all the poets of the day, to every one of whom he has
given an appropriate position on the sublime pedestal, which he has, as
it were, with his own hands, erected for them. He certainly ought to be
the best constructor of a dunghill in the world, for he deals in nothing
but dirt. He refuses to wash his hands, because, he says, it would
disqualify him from giving the last touch to his poem and his
characters.”

“Have you philosophers as well as poets here?” asked the stranger.

“Oh dear, yes, sir. We have poetical philosophers, and philosophical
poets; but, I protest to heaven, the wisdom of Solomon, or of an
archangel, could not decide the difference between their folly. There's
a man now, with the old stocking in his hand--it is one of his own, for
you may observe that he has one leg bare--who is pacing up and down in
a deep thinking mood. That man, sir, was set mad by a definition of his
own making.”

“Well, let us hear it,” said the stranger.

“Why, sir, he imagines that he has discovered a definition for
'nothing.' The definition, however, will make you smile.”

“And what, pray, is it?”

“Nothing,” he says, “is--a footless stocking without a leg; and
maintains that he ought to hold the first rank as a philosopher for
having invented the definition, and deserves a pension from the crown.”

“Who are these two men dressed in black, walking arm in arm?” asked the
stranger. “They appear to be clergymen.”

“Yes, sir,” replied his conductor, “so they are; two celebrated
polemical controversialists, who, when they were at large, created
by their attacks, each upon the religion of the other, more ill-will,
rancor and religious animosity, than either of their religions, with all
their virtues, could remove. It is impossible to describe the evil they
did. Ever since they came here, however, they are like brothers. They
were placed in the same room, each in a strong strait-waistcoat, for the
space of three months; but on being allowed to walk about, they became
sworn friends, and now amuse themselves more than any other two in the
establishment. They indulge in immoderate fits of laughter, look each
other knowingly in the face, wink, and run the forefinger up the nose,
after which their mirth bursts out afresh, and they laugh until the
tears come down their cheeks.”

The stranger, who during all this time was on the lookout for poor
Fenton, as was old Corbet, could observe nobody who resembled him in the
least.

“Have you females in your establishment?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the gentleman; “but we are about to open an asylum
for them in a detached building, which is in the course of being
erected. Would you wish to hear any further details of these unhappy
beings,” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the stranger. “You are very kind and obliging, but
I have heard enough for the present. Have you a person named Fenton in
your establishment?”

“Not, sir, that I know of; he may be here, though; but you had
better inquire from the proprietor himself, who--mark me, sir--I
say--harkee--you have humanity in your face--will probably refuse to
tell you whether he is here or not, or deny him altogether. Harkee,
again, sir--the fellow is a villain--that is, _entre nous_, but mum's
the word between us.”

“I am sorry,” replied the stranger, “to hear such a character of him
from you, who should know him.”

“Well, sir,” replied the other, “let that pass--_verbum sap_. And now
tell me, when have you been at the theater?”

“Not for some months,” returned the other.

“Have you ever heard Catalani shake?”

“Yes,” replied the stranger. “I have had that pleasure.”

“Well, sir, I'm delighted that you have heard her, for there is but one
man living who can rival her in the shake; and, sir, you have the honor
of addressing that man.”

This was said so mildly, calmly, rationally, and with that gentlemanlike
air of undoubted respectability, which gives to an assertion such an
impress of truth, that the stranger, confused as he was by what he
had seen, felt it rather difficult to draw the line at the moment,
especially in such society, between a sane man and an insane one.

“Would you wish, sir,” said the guide, “to hear a specimen of my
powers?”

“If you please,” replied the stranger, “provided you will confine
yourself to the shake.”

The other then commenced a squall, so tuneless, wild, jarring, and
unmusical, that the stranger could not avoid smiling at the monomaniac,
for such he at once perceived him to be.

“You seem to like that,” observed the other, apparently much gratified;
“but I thought as much, sir--you are a man of taste.”

“I am decidedly of opinion,” said the stranger, “that Catalani, in her
best days, could not give such a specimen of the shake as that.”

“Thank you sir,” replied the singer, taking off his hat and bowing. “We
shall have another shake in honor of your excellent judgment, but
it will be a shake of the hand. Sir, you are a polished and most
accomplished gentleman.”

As they sauntered up and down the room, other symptoms reached them
besides those that were then subjected to their sight. As a door
opened, a peal of wild laughter might be heard--sometimes groaning--and
occasionally the most awful blasphemies. Ambition contributed a large
number to its dreary cells. In fact, one would imagine that the house
had been converted into a temple of justice, and contained within its
walls most of the crowned heads and generals of Europe, both living and
dead, together with a fair sample of the saints. The Emperor of Russia
was strapped down to a chair that had been screwed into the floor, with
the additional security of a strait-waistcoat to keep his majesty quiet.
The Pope challenged Henry the Eighth to box, and St. Peter, as the
cell door opened, asked Anthony Corbet for a glass of whiskey. Napoleon
Bonaparte, in the person of a heroic tailor, was singing “Bob and
Joan;” and the Archbishop of Dublin said he would pledge his mitre for a
good cigar and a pot of porter. Sometimes a frightful yell would-reach
their ears; then a furious set of howlings, followed again by peals
of maniac laughter, as before. Altogether, the stranger was glad to
withdraw, which he did, in order to prosecute his searches for Fenton.

“Well, sir,” said the doctor, whom he found again in the parlor, “you
have seen that melancholy sight?”

“I have, sir, and a melancholy one indeed it is; but as I came on a
matter of business, doctor, I think we had better come to the point at
once. You have a young man named Fenton in your establishment?”

“No, sir, we have no person of that name here.”

“A wrong name may have been purposely given you, sir; but the person
I speak of is here. And you had better understand me at once,” he
continued. “I am furnished with such authority as will force you to
produce him.”

“If he is not here, sir, no authority on earth can force me to produce
him.”

“We shall see that presently. Corbet, bring in the officers. Here, sir,
is a warrant, by which I am empowered to search for his body; and,
when found, to secure him, in order that he may be restored to his just
rights, from which he has been debarred by a course of villany worthy of
being concocted in hell itself.”

“Family reasons, sir, frequently render it necessary that patients
should enter this establishment under fictitious names. But these are
matters with which I have nothing to do. My object is to comply with the
wishes of their relatives.”

“Your object, sir, should be to cure, rather than to keep them; to
conduct your establishment as a house of recovery, not as a prison--of
course, I mean where the patient is curable. I demand, sir, that you
will find this young man, and produce him to me.”

“But provided I cannot do so,” replied the doctor, doggedly, “what
then?”

“Why, in that case, we are in possession of a warrant for your own
arrest, under the proclamation which was originally published in
the 'Hue and Cry,' for his detention. Sir, you are now aware of the
alternative. You produce the person we require, or you accompany us
yourself. It has been sworn that he is in your keeping.”

“I cannot do what is impossible. I will, however, conduct you through
all the private rooms of the establishment, and if you can find or
identify the person you want, I am satisfied. It is quite possible he
may be with me; but I don't know, nor have I ever known him by the name
of Fenton. It's a name I've never heard in my establishment. Come, sir,
I am ready to show you every room in my house.”

By this time the officers, accompanied by Corbet, entered, and all
followed the doctor in a body to aid in the search. The search, however,
was fruitless. Every room, cell, and cranny that was visible in the
establishment underwent a strict examination, as did their unhappy
occupants. All, however, in vain; and the doctor now was about to assume
a tone of insolence and triumph, when Corbet said:

“Doctor, all seems plain here. You have done your duty.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I always do so. No man in the kingdom has given
greater satisfaction, nor stands higher in that painful department of
our profession to which I have devoted myself.”

“Yes, doctor,” repeated Corbet, with one of his bitterest grins; “you
have done your duty; and for that reason I ask you to folly me.”

“Where to, my good fellow?” asked the other, somewhat crestfallen. “What
do you mean?”

“I think I spake plainly enough. I say, folly me. I think, too, I know
something about the outs and ins, the ups and downs of this house still.
Come, sir, we'll show you how you've done your duty; but listen to me,
before we go one foot further--if he's dead before my time has come,
I'll have your life, if I was to swing on a thousand gallowses.”

One of the officers here tapped the doctor authoritatively on the
shoulder, and said, “Proceed, sir, we are losing time.”

The doctor saw at once that further resistance was useless.

“By the by,” said he, “there is one patient in the house that I
completely forgot. He is so desperate and outrageous, however, that
we were compelled, within the last week or so, to try the severest
discipline with him. He, however, cannot be the person you want, for his
name is Moore; at least, that is the name under which he was sent here.”

Down in a narrow, dark dungeon, where the damp and stench were
intolerable, and nothing could be seen until a light was procured, they
found something lying on filthy straw that had human shape. The hair and
beard were long and overgrown; the features, begrimed with filth, were
such as the sharpest eye could not recognize; and the whole body was so
worn and emaciated, so ragged and tattered in appearance, that it was
evident at a glance that foul practices must have been resorted to in
order to tamper with life.”

“Now, sir,” said the doctor, addressing the stranger, “I will leave you
and your friends to examine the patient, as perhaps you might feel my
presence a restraint upon you.”

The stranger, after a glance or two at Fenton, turned around, and said,
sternly, “Peace-officer, arrest that man, and remove him to the parlor
as your prisoner. But hold,” he added, “let us first ascertain whether
this is Mr. Fenton or not.”

“I will soon tell you, sir,” said Corbet, approaching the object before
them, and feeling the left side of his neck.

“It is him, sir,” he said; “here he is, sure enough, at last.”

“Well, then,” repeated the stranger, “arrest that man, as I said, and
let two of you accompany him to the parlor, and detain him there until
we join you.”

On raising the wretched young man, they found that life was barely in
him; he had been asleep, and being roused up, he screamed aloud.

“Oh,” said he, “I am not able to bear it--don't scourge me, I am dying;
I am doing all I can to die. Why did you disturb me? I dreamt that I
was on my mother's knee, and that she was kissing me. What is this? What
brings so many of you now? I wish I had told the strange gentleman in
the inn everything; but I feared he was my enemy, and perhaps he was. I
am very hungry.”

“Merciful God!” exclaimed the stranger; “are such things done in a free
and Christian country? Bring him up to the parlor,” he added, “and let
him be shaved and cleansed; but be careful of him, for his lamp of life
is nearly exhausted. I thank you, Corbet, for the suggestion of the
linen and clothes. What could we have done without them? It would have
been impossible to fetch him in this trim.”

We must pass over these disagreeable details. It is enough to say that
poor Fenton was put into clean linen and decent clothes, and that in
a couple of hours they were once more on their way with him, to the
metropolis, the doctor accompanying them, as their prisoner.

The conduct of Corbet was on this occasion very singular. He complained
that the stench of the dungeon in which they found Fenton had sickened
him; but, notwithstanding this, something like ease of mind might be
read in his countenance whenever he looked upon Fenton; something that,
to the stranger at least, who observed him closely, seemed to say, “I am
at last satisfied: the widow's heart will be set at rest, and the plans
of this black villain broken to pieces.” His eye occasionally gleamed
wildly, and again his countenance grew pale and haggard, and he
complained of headache and pains about his loins, and in the small of
his back.

On arriving in Dublin, the stranger brought Fenton to his hotel, where
he was desirous to keep him for a day or two, until he should regain
a little strength, that he might, without risk, be able to sustain the
interview that was before him. Aware of the capricious nature of the
young man's feelings, and his feeble state of health, he himself kept
aloof from him, lest his presence might occasion such a shock as would
induce anything like a fit of insanity--a circumstance which must mar
the pleasure and gratification of his unexpected reappearance. That
medical advice ought instantly to be procured was evident from his
extreme weakness, and the state of apathy into which he had sunk
immediately after, his removal from the cell. This was at once provided;
but unfortunately it seemed that all human skill was likely to prove
unavailable, as the physician, on seeing and examining him, expressed
himself with strong doubts as to the possibility of his recovery. In
fact, he feared that his unhappy patient had not many days to live.
He ordered him wine, tonics, and light but nutritious food to be taken
sparingly, and desired that he should be brought into the open air as
often as the debility of his constitution could bear it. His complaint,
he said, was altogether a nervous one, and resulted from the effects
of cruelty, terror, want of sufficient nourishment, bad air, and close
confinement.

In the meantime, the doctor was committed to prison, and had the
pleasure of being sent, under a safe escort, to the jail of the county
that had been so largely benefited by his humane establishment.

As we are upon this painful subject, we may as well state here that he
was prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment,
with hard labor.




CHAPTER XL. Lady Gourlay sees her Son.

Having done all that was possible for poor Fenton, the stranger lost no
time in waiting upon Lady Gourlay, that he might, with as much prudence
as the uncertain state of the young man's health would permit, make
known the long wished for communication, that they had at length got
him in their possession. His task was one of great difficulty, for he
apprehended that an excess of joy on the part of that affectionate woman
might be dangerous, when suddenly checked by the melancholy probability
that he had been restored to her only to be almost immediately removed
by death. He resolved, then, to temper his intelligence in such a way as
to cause her own admirable sense and high Christian feeling to exercise
their usual influence over her heart. As he had promised Corbet,
however, to take no future step in connection with these matters without
consulting him, he resolved, before seeing Lady Gourlay, to pay him
a visit. He was induced the more to do this in consequence of the old
man's singular conduct on the discovery of Fenton. From the very first
interview that he ever had with Corbet until that event, he could
not avoid observing that there was a mystery in everything he did and
said--something enigmatical--unfathomable, and that his looks, and the
disagreeable expression which they occasionally assumed, were frequently
so much at variance with his words, that it was an utter impossibility
to draw anything like a certain inference from them. On the discovery
of Fenton, the old man's face went through a variety of contradictory
expressions. Sometimes he seemed elated--triumphant, sometimes depressed
and anxious, and occasionally angry, or excited by a feeling that was
altogether unintelligible. He often turned his eye upon Fenton, as if
he had discovered some precious treasure, then his countenance became
overcast, and he writhed in an agony which no mortal penetration could
determine as anything but the result of remorse. Taking all this into
consideration, the stranger made up his mind to see him before he should
wait upon Lady Gourlay.

Although a day had elapsed, he found the old man still complaining of
illness, which, he said, would have been more serious had he not taken
medicine.

“My mind, however,” said he, “is what's troublin' me. There's a battle
goin' on within me. At one time I'm delighted, but the delight doesn't
give me pleasure long, for then, again, I feel a weight over me that's
worse than death. However, I can't nor won't give it up. I hope I'll
have time to repent yet; who knows but it is God that has put it into my
heart and kept it there for so many years?”

“Kept what there?” asked the stranger.

The old man's face literally blackened as he replied, almost with a
scream, “Vengeance!”

“This language,” replied the other, “is absolutely shocking. Consider
your advanced state of life--consider your present illness, which may
probably be your last, and reflect that if you yourself expect pardon
from God, you must forgive your enemies.”

“So I will,” he replied; “but not till I've punished them; then I'll
tell them how I made my puppets of them, and when I give their heart
one last crush--one grind--and the old wretch ground his teeth in the
contemplation of this diabolical vision--ay,” he repeated--“one last
grind, then I'll tell them I've done with them, and forgive them;
then--then--ay, but not till then!”

“God forgive you, Corbet, and change your heart!” replied the stranger.
“I called to say that I am about to inform Lady Gourlay that we have
her son safe at last, and I wish to know if you are in possession of
any facts that she ought to be acquainted with in connection with his
removal--in fact, to hear anything you may wish to disclose to me on the
subject.”

“I could, then, disclose to you something on the subject that would make
you wondher; but although the time's at hand, it's not come yet. Here I
am, an ould man--helpless--or, at all events, helpless-lookin'--and you
would hardly believe that I'm makin' this black villain do everything
accordin' as I wish it.”

“That dark spirit of vengeance,” replied the stranger, “is turning your
brain, I think, or you would not say so. Whatever Sir Thomas Gourlay may
be, he is not the man to act as the puppet of any person.”

“So you think; but I tell you he's acting as mine, for all that.”

“Well, well, Corbet, that is your own affair. Have you anything of
importance to communicate to me, before I see Lady Gourlay? I ask you
for the last time.”

“I have. The black villain and she have spoken at last. He yielded to
his daughter so far as to call upon her, and asked her to be present at
the weddin'.”

“The wedding!” exclaimed the stranger, looking aghast. “God of heaven,
old man, do you mean to say that they are about to be married so
soon?--about to be married at all? But I will leave you,” he added;
“there is no possibility of wringing anything out of you.”

“Wait a little,” continued Corbet. “What I'm goin' to tell you won't do
you any harm, at any rate.”

“Be quick, then. Gracious heaven!--married!--Curses seize you, old man,
be quick.”

“On the mornin' afther to-morrow the marriage is to take place in Sir
Thomas's own house. Lord Dunroe's sisther is to be bridesmaid, and a
young fellow named Roberts--”

“I know--I have met him.”

“Well, and did you ever see any one that he resembled, or that resembled
him? I hope in the Almighty,” he added, uttering the ejaculation
evidently in connection with some private thought or purpose of his own,
“I hope in the Almighty that this sickness will keep off o' me for a
couple o' days at any rate. Did you ever see any one that resembled
him?”

“Yes,” replied the stranger, starting, for the thought had flashed upon
him; “he is the living image of Miss Gourlay! Why do you ask?”

“Bekaise, merely for a raison I have; but if you have patience, you'll
find that the longer you live, the more you'll know; only at this time
you'll know no more from me, barrin' that this same young officer is to
be his lordship's groom's-man. Dr. Sombre, the clergyman of the parish,
is to marry them in the baronet's house. A Mrs. Mainwaring, too, is to
be there; Miss Gourlay begged that she would be allowed to come, and he
says she may. You see now how well I know everything that happens there,
don't you?” he asked, with a grin of triumph. “But I tell you there
will be more at the same weddin' than he thinks. So now--ah, this
pain!--there's another string of it--I feel it go through me like
an arrow--so now you may go and see Lady Gourlay, and break the glad
tidin's to her.”

With feelings akin to awe and of repugnance, but not at all of
contempt--for old Corbet was a man whom no one could despise--the
stranger took his departure, and proceeded to Lady Gourlay's, with a
vague impression that the remarkable likeness between Lucy and young
Roberts was not merely accidental.

He found her at home, placid as usual, but with evidences of a
resignation that was at once melancholy and distressing to witness.
The struggle of this admirable woman's heart, though sustained by high
Christian feeling, was, nevertheless, wearing her away by slow and
painful degrees. The stranger saw this, and scarcely knew in what terms
to shape the communication he had to make, full as it was of ecstasy to
the mother's loving spirit, yet dashed with such doubt and sorrow.

“Can you bear good tidings, Lady Gourlay,” said he, “though mingled with
some cause of apprehension?”

“I am in the hands of God,” she replied, “and feel that I ought to
receive every communication with obedience. Speak on.”

“Your son is found!”

“What, my child restored to me?”

She had been sitting in an arm-chair, but on hearing these words she
started up, and said again, as she placed her hands upon the table at
which he sat, that she might sustain herself, “What, Charles, my darling
restored to me! Is he safe? Can I see him? Restored! restored at last!”

“Moderate your joy, my dear madam; he is safe--he is in my hotel.”

“But why not here? Safe! oh, at last--at last! But God is a God of
mercy, especially to the patient and long-suffering. But come--oh, come!
Think of me,--pity me, and do not defraud me one moment of his sight.
Bring me to him!”

“Hear me a moment, Lady Gourlay.”

“No, no,” she replied, in a passion of joyful tears, “I can hear you
again. I must see my son--my son--my darling child--where is my son?
Here--but no, I will ring myself. Why not have brought him here at once,
sir? Am not I his mother?”

“My dear madam,” said the stranger, calmly, but with a seriousness of
manner that checked the exuberance of her delight, and placing his hand
upon her shoulder, “hear me a moment. Your son is found; but he is ill,
and I fear in some danger.”

“But to see him, then,” she replied, looking with entreaty in his face,
“only to see him. After this long and dreary absence, to let my eyes
rest on my son. He is ill, you say; and what hand should be near him
and about him but his mother's? Who can with such love and tenderness
cherish, and soothe, and comfort him, as the mother who would die for
him? Oh, I have a thousand thoughts rushing to my heart--a thousand
affectionate anxieties to gratify; but first to look upon him--to press
him to that heart--to pour a mother's raptures over her long-lost child!
Come with me--oh, come. If he is ill, ought I not, as I said, to see
him the sooner on that account? Come, dear Charles, let the carriage
be ordered; but that will take some time. A hackney-coach will do--a
car--anything that will bring us there with least delay.”

“But, an interview, my lady, may be at this moment as much as his life
is worth; he is not out of danger.”

“Well, then, I will not ask an interview. Only let me see him--let his
mother's eyes rest upon him. Let me steal a look--a look; let me steal
but one look, and I am sure, dear Charles, you will not gainsay this
little theft of the mother's heart. But, ah,” she suddenly exclaimed,
“what am I doing? Ungrateful and selfish that I am, to forget my first
duty! Pardon me a few moments; I will return soon.”

She passed into the back drawing-room, where, although the doors were
folded, he could hear this truly pious woman pouring forth with tears
her gratitude to God. In a few minutes she reappeared; and such were
the arguments she used, that he felt it impossible to prevent her from
gratifying this natural and absorbing impulse of the heart.

On reaching the hotel, they found, after inquiring, that he was asleep,
a circumstance which greatly pleased the stranger, as he doubted very
much whether Fenton would have been strong enough, either in mind or
body, to bear such an interview as must have taken place between them.

The unhappy young man was, as we have said, sound asleep. His face was
pale and wan, but a febrile hue had tinged his countenance with a color
which, although it concealed his danger, was not sufficient to remove
from it the mournful expression of all he had suffered. Yet the stranger
thought that he never had seen him look so well. His face was indeed a
fair but melancholy page of human life. The brows were slightly knit,
as if indicative of suffering; and there passed over his features, as he
lay, such varying expressions as we may presume corresponded with some
painful dream, by which, as far as one could judge, he seemed to be
influenced. Sometimes he looked like one that endured pain, sometimes
as if he felt terror; and occasionally a gleam of pleasure or joy would
faintly light up his handsome but wasted countenance.

Lady Gourlay, whilst she looked upon him, was obliged to be supported
by the stranger, who had much difficulty in restraining her grief within
due bounds. As for the tears, they fell from her eyes in showers.

“I must really remove you, my lady,” he said, in a whisper; “his
recovery, his very life, may depend upon the soundness of this sleep.
You see yourself, now, the state he is in; and who living has such an
interest in his restoration to health as you have?”

“I know it,” she whispered in reply. “I will be quiet.”

As they spoke, a faint smile seemed to light up his face, which,
however, was soon changed to an expression of terror.

“Don't scourge me,” said he, “don't and I will tell you. It was my
mother. I thought she kissed me, as she used to do long ago, when I was
a boy, and never thought I'd be here.” He then uttered a few faint sobs,
but relapsed into a calm expression almost immediately.

The violent beatings of Lady Gourlay's heart were distinctly felt by the
stranger, as he supported her; and in order to prevent the sobs which
he knew, by the heavings of her breast, were about to burst forth, from
awakening the sleeper, he felt it best to lead her out of the room;
which he had no sooner done, than she gave way to a long fit of
uncontrollable weeping.

“Oh, my child!--my child!” she exclaimed, “I fear they have murdered him!
Alas! is he only to be restored to me for a moment, and am I then to be
childless indeed? But I will strive to become calm. Why should I
not? For even this is a blessing--to have seen him, and to have the
melancholy consolation of knowing that if he is to die, he will die in
my own arms.”

“Well, but I trust, madam, he won't die. The workings of Providence are
never ineffectual, or without a purpose. Have courage, have patience,
and all will, I trust, end happily.”

“Well, but I have a request to make. Allow me to kiss him; I shall not
disturb him; and if he should recover, as I trust in the Almighty's
mercy he will--oh, how I should like to tell him that the dream about
his mother was not altogether a dream--that I did kiss him. Trust me,
I will not awaken him--the fall of the thistledown will will not be
lighter than the kiss I shall give my child.”

“Well, be it so, my lady; and get yourself calm, for you know not his
danger, if he should awaken and become agitated.”

They then reentered the apartment, and Lady Gourlay, after contemplating
him for a moment or two, stooped down and gently kissed his
lips--once--twice--and a third time--and a single tear fell upon his
cheek. At this moment, and the coincidence was beautiful and affecting,
his face became once more irradiated by a smile that was singularly
serene and sweet, as if his very spirit within him had recognized and
felt the affection and tenderness of this timid but loving embrace.

The stranger then led her out again, and a burden seemed to have been
taken off her heart. She dried her tears, and in grateful and fervid
terms expressed the deep obligations she owed him for his generous and!
persevering exertions in seeking out and restoring her son.

This sleep was a long one; and proved very beneficial, by somewhat
recruiting the little strength that had been left him. The stranger had
every measure taken that could contribute to his comfort and recovery.
Two nurse tenders were procured, to whose care he was committed,
under the general superintendence of Dandy Dulcimer, whom he at once
recognized, and by whose performance upon that instrument the poor young
man seemed not only much-pleased, but improved in confidence and the
general powers of his intellect. The physician saw him twice a day, so
that at the period of Lady Gourlay's visit, she found that every care
and attention, which consideration and kindness, and anxiety for his
recovery could bestow upon him, had been paid; a fact that eased and
satisfied her mind very much.

One rather gratifying symptom appeared in him after he awoke on that
occasion. He looked about the room, and inquired for Dulcimer, who soon
made his appearance.

“Dandy,” said he, for he had known him very well in Ballytrain, “will
you be angry with me if I ask you a question? Dandy, I am a gentleman,
and you will not treat me ill.”

“I would be glad to see the villain that 'ud dare to do it, Mr. Fenton,”
 replied Dandy, a good deal moved, “much less to do it myself.”

“Ah,” he replied in a tone of voice that was enough to draw tears from
any eye, “but, then, I can depend on no one; and if they should bring me
back there--” His eyes became wild and full of horror, as he spoke,
and he was about to betray symptoms of strong agitation, when Dandy
judiciously brought him back to the point.

“They won't, Mr. Fenton; don't be afeared of that; you are among friends
now; but what was the question you were goin' to ask me?”

“A question!--was I?” said he, pausing, as if striving to recover the
train of thought he had lost. “Oh, yes,” he proceeded, “yes; there was
a pound note taken from me. I got it from the strange gentleman in the
inn, and I wish I had it.”

“Well, sir,” replied Dandy, “if it can be got at all, you must have it.
I'll inquire for it.”

“Do,” he said; “I wish to have it.” Dandy, in reply to the stranger's
frequent and anxious inquiries about him, mentioned this little
dialogue, and the latter at once recollected that he had the note in his
possession.

“It may be good to gratify him,” he replied; “and as the note can be of
little use now, we had better let him have it.”

He accordingly sent it to him by Dandy, who could observe that the
possession of it seemed to give him peculiar satisfaction.

Had not the stranger been a man capable of maintaining great restraint
over the exercise of very strong feelings, he could never have conducted
himself with so much calmness and self-control in his interview with
Lady Gourlay and poor Fenton. His own heart during all the time was in
a tumult of perfect distraction, but this was occasioned by causes that
bore no analogy to those that passed before him. From the moment he
heard that Lucy's marriage had been fixed for the next day but one, he
felt as if his hold upon hope and life, and all that they promised him,
was lost, and his happiness annihilated forever; he felt as if reason
were about to abandon him, as if all existence had become dark, and the
sun himself had been struck out of the system of the universe. He could
not rest, and only with difficulty think at all as a sane man ought. At
length he resolved to see the baronet, at the risk of life or death--in
spite of every obstacle--in despite of all opposition;--perish social
forms and usages--perish the insolence of wealth, and the jealous
restrictions of parental tyranny. Yes, perish one and all, sooner than
he, a man, with an unshrinking heart, and a strong arm, should tamely
suitor that noble girl to be sacrificed, ay, murdered, at the shrine
of a black and guilty ambition. Agitated, urged, maddened, by these
considerations, he went to the baronet's house with a hope of seeing
him, but that hope was frustrated. Sir Thomas was out.

“Was Miss Gourlay at home?”

“No; she too had gone out with her father,” replied Gibson, who happened
to open the door.

“Would you be kind enough, sir, to deliver a note to Miss Gourlay?”

“I could not, sir; I dare not.”

“I will give you five pounds, if you do.”

“It is impossible, sir; I should lose my situation instantly if I
attempted to deliver it. Miss Gourlay, sir, will receive no letters
unless through her father's hands, and besides, sir, we have repeatedly
had the most positive orders not to receive any from you, above all men
living.”

“I will give you ten pounds.”

Gibson shook his head, but at the same time the expression of his
countenance began manifestly to relax, and he licked his lips as he
replied, “I--really--could--not--sir.”

“Twenty.”

The fellow paused and looked stealthily in every direction, when, just
at the moment he was about to entertain the subject, Thomas Corbet, the
house-steward, came forward from the front parlor where he evidently had
been listening, and asked Gibson what was the matter.

“This gentleman,” said Gibson, “ahem--is anxious to have a--ahem--he was
inquiring for Sir Thomas.”

“Gibson, go down stairs,” said Corbet. “You had better do so. I have
ears, Gibson. Go down at once, and leave the gentleman to me.”

Gibson again licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and with a visage
rather blank and disappointed, slunk away as he had been desired. When
he had gone,

“You wish, sir,” said Corbet, “to have a note delivered to Miss
Gourlay?”

“I do, and will give you twenty pounds if you deliver it.”

“Hand me the money quietly,” replied Corbet, “and the note also. I shall
then give you a friend's advice.”

The stranger immediately placed both the money and the note in his
hands; when Corbet, having put them in his pocket, said, “I will
deliver the note, sir; but go to my father, and ask him to prevent this
marriage; and, above all things, to direct you how to act. If any man
can serve you in the business, he can.”

“Could you not let me see Miss Gourlay herself?” said the stranger.

“No, sir; she has promised her father neither to see you, nor to write
to you, nor to receive any letters from you.”

“But I must see Sir Thomas himself,” said the stranger determinedly.

“You seem a good deal excited, sir,” replied Corbet; “pray, be calm, and
listen to me. I shall be obliged to put this letter under a blank cover,
which I will address in a feigned hand, in order that she may even
receive it. As for her father, he would not see you, nor enter into any
explanation whatsoever with you. In fact, he is almost out of his mind
with delight and terror; with delight, that the marriage is at length
about to take place, and with terror, lest something might occur to
prevent it. One word, sir. I see Gibson peeping up. Go and see my
father; you have seen him more than once before.”

On the part of Corbet, the stranger remarked that there was something
sneaking, slightly derisive, and intimating, moreover, a want of
sincerity in this short dialogue, an impression that was strengthened
on hearing the relation which he bore to the obstinate old sphinx on
Constitution Hill.

“But pardon me, my friend,” said he, as Corbet was about to go away; “if
Miss Gourlay will not receive or open my letter, why did you accept such
a sum of money for it?” He paused, not knowing exactly how to proceed,
yet with a tolerably strong suspicion that Corbet was cheating him.

“Observe, sir,” replied the other, “that I said I would deliver the
letter only--I didn't undertake to make her read it. But I dare say you
are right--I don't think she will even open it at all, much less read
it. Here, sir, I return both money and letter; and I wish you to know,
besides, that I am not a man in the habit of being suspected of improper
motives. My advice that you should see my father is a proof that I am
your friend.”

The other, who was completely outmanoeuvred by Corbet, at once declined
to receive back either the letter or notes, and after again pressing the
worthy steward to befriend him in the matter of the note as far as he
could, he once more paid a visit to old Anthony. This occurred on the
day before that appointed for the marriage.

“Corbet,” said he, addressing him as he lay upon an old crazy sofa, the
tarnished cover of which shone with dirt, “I am distracted, and have
come to ask your advice and assistance.”

“Is it a helpless ould creature like me you'd come to?” replied Corbet,
hitching himself upon the sofa, as if to get ease. “But what is wrong
now?”

“If this marriage between Miss Gourlay and Lord Dunroe takes place, I
shall lose my senses.”

“Well, in troth,” replied Anthony, in his own peculiar manner, “if you
don't get more than you appear to be gifted with at present, you won't
have much to lose, and that will be one comfort. But how can you expect
me to assist you?”

“Did you not tell me that the baronet is your puppet?”

“I did; but that was for my ends, not for yours.”

“Well, but could you not prevent this accursed, sacrilegious,
blasphemous union?”

“For God's sake, spake aisy, and keep yourself quiet,” said Anthony; “I
am ill, and not able to bear noise and capering like this. I'm a weak,
feeble ould man.”

“Listen to me, Corbet,” continued the other, with vehemence, “command my
purse, my means to any extent, if you do what I wish.”

“I did like money,” implied Corbet, “but of late my whole heart is
filled with but one thought; and rather than not carry that out, I would
sacrifice every child I have. I love Miss Gourlay, for I know she is a
livin' angel, but--”

“What? You do not mean to say that you would sacrifice her?”

“If I would sacrifice my own, do you think I'd be apt to spare her?” he
asked with a groan, for in fact his illness had rather increased.

“Are you not better?” inquired the stranger, moved by a feeling of
humanity which nothing could eradicate out of his noble and generous
nature. “Allow me to send a doctor to you? I shall do so at my own
expense.”

Anthony looked upon him with more complacency, but replied,

“The blackguard knaves, no; they only rob you first and kill you
afterwards. A highway-robber's before them; for he kills you first, and
afther that you can't feel the pain of being robbed. Well, I can't talk
much to you now. My head's beginnin' to get troublesome; but I'll tell
you what you'll do. I'll call for that young man, Fenton, and you
must let him come with me to the wedding to-morrow mornin'. Indeed, I
intended to take a car, and drive over to ask it as a favor from you.”

“To what purpose should he go, even if he were able? but he is too ill.”

“Hasn't he been out in a chaise?”

“He has; but as he is incapable of bearing any agitation or excitement,
his presence there might cause his death.”

“No, sir, it will not; I knew him to be worse, and he recovered; he will
be better, I tell you: besides, if you wish me to sarve you in one way,
you must sarve me in this.”

“But can you prevent the marriage?”

“What I can do, or what I cannot do, a team of horses won't drag out o'
me, until the time--the hour--comes--then! Will you allow the young man
to come, sir?”

“But his mother, you say, will be there, and a scene between them would
be not only distressing to all parties, and out of place, but might be
dangerous to him.”

“It's because his mother's to be there, maybe, that I want him to be
there. Don't I tell you that I want to--but no, I'll keep my own mind to
myself--only sink or swim without me, unless you allow him to come.”

“Well, then, if he be sufficiently strong to go, I shall not prevent
him, upon the condition that you will exercise the mysterious influence
which you seem in possession of for the purpose of breaking up the
marriage.”

“I won't promise to do any such thing,” replied Anthony. “You must only
make the best of a bad bargain, by lavin' everything to myself. Go away
now, sir, if you plaise; my head's not right, and I want to keep it
clear for to-morrow.”

The stranger saw that he was as inscrutable as ever, and consequently
left him, half in indignation, and half impressed by a lurking hope
that, notwithstanding the curtness of his manner, he was determined to
befriend him.

This, however, was far from the heart of old Corbet, whose pertinacity
of purpose nothing short of death itself could either moderate or
change.

“Prevent the marriage, indeed! Oh, ay! Catch me at it. No, no; that must
take place, or I'm balked of half my revenge. It's when he finds that
he has, by his own bad and blind passions, married her to the
profligate without the title that he'll shiver. And that scamp, too, the
bastard--but, no matther--I must try and keep my head clear, as I said,
for to-morrow will be a great day, either for good or evil, to some
of them. Yes, and when all is over, then my mind will be at aise; this
black thing that's inside o' me for years--drivin' me on, on, on--will
go about his business; and then, plaise goodness, I can repent
comfortably and like a Christian. Oh, dear me!--my head!”




CHAPTER XLI. Denouement.

At length the important morning, fraught with a series of such varied
and many-colored events, arrived. Sir Thomas Gourlay, always an early
riser, was up betimes, and paced his room to and fro in a train of
profound reflection. It was evident, however, from his elated yet turbid
eye, that although delight and exultation were prevalent in his
breast, he was by no means free from visitations of a dark and painful
character. These he endeavored to fling off, and in order to do so
more effectually, he gave a loose rein to the contemplation of his own
successful ambition. Yet he occasionally appeared anxious and uneasy,
and felt disturbed and gloomy fits that irritated him even for
entertaining them. He was more than usually nervous; his hand shook,
and his stern, strong voice had in its tones, when he spoke, the audible
evidences of agitation. These, we say, threw their deep shadows over
his mind occasionally, whereas a sense of triumph and gratified pride
constituted its general tone and temper.

“Well,” said he, “so far so well: Lucy will soon become reconciled to
this step, and all my projects for her advancement will be--nay, already
are, realized. After all, my theory of life is the correct one, no
matter what canting priests and ignorant philosophers may say to the
contrary. Every man is his own providence, and ought to be his own
priest, as I have been. As for a moral plan in the incidents and
vicissitudes of life, I could never see nor recognize such a thing. Or
if there be a Providence that foresees and directs, then we only fulfil
his purposes by whatever we do, whether the act be a crime or a virtue.
So that on either side I am safe. There, to be sure, is my brother's
son, against whom I have committed a crime; ay, but what, after all, is
a crime?--An injury to a fellow-creature. What is a virtue?--A benefit
to the same. Well, he has sustained an injury at my hands--be it
so--that is a crime; but I and my son have derived a benefit from the
act, and this turns it into a virtue; for as to who gains or who loses,
that is not a matter for the world, who have no distinct rule whereby
to determine its complexion or its character, unless by the usages and
necessities of life, which are varied by climate and education to such
an extent, that what is looked upon as a crime in one country or one
creed is frequently considered a virtue in another. As for futurity,
that is a sealed book which no man hitherto has been able to open. We
all know--and a dark and gloomy fact it is--that we must die.
Beyond that, the searches of human intellect cannot go, although the
imagination may project itself into a futurity of its own creation. Such
airy visions are not subjects sufficiently solid for belief. As for me,
if I believe nothing, the fault is not mine, for I can find nothing to
believe--nothing that can satisfy my reason. The contingencies of life,
as they cross and jostle each other, constitute by their accidental
results the only providential wisdom which I can discern, the proper
name of which is Chance. Who have I, for instance, to thank but
myself--my own energy of character, my own perseverance of purpose, my
own determined will--for accomplishing my own projects? I can perceive
no other agent, either visible or invisible. It is, however, a hard
creed--a painful creed, and one which requires great strength of mind
to entertain. Yet, on the other hand, when I reflect that it may be
only the result of a reaction in principle, proceeding from a latent
conviction that all is not right within, and that we reject the tribunal
because we are conscious that it must condemn us--abjure the authority
of the court because we have violated its jurisdiction; yes, when
I reflect upon this, it is then that these visitations of gloom and
wretchedness sometimes agonize my mind until it becomes dark and heated,
like hell, and I curse both myself and my creed. Now, however, when this
marriage shall have taken place, the great object of my life will be
gained--the great struggle will be over, and I can relax and fall back
into a life of comfort, enjoyment, and freedom from anxiety and care.
But, then, is there no risk of sacrificing my daughter's happiness
forever? I certainly would not do that. I know, however, what influence
the possession of rank, position, title, will have on her, when she
comes to know their value by seeing--ay, and by feeling, how they are
appreciated. There is not a husband-hunting dowager in the world of
fashion, nor a female projector or manoeuvrer in aristocratic life,
who will not enable her to understand and enjoy her good fortune. Every
sagacious cast for a title will be to her a homily on content. But,
above all, she will be able to see and despise their jealousy, to laugh
at their envy, and to exercise at their expense that superiority of
intellect and elevation of rank which she will possess; for this
I will teach her to do. Yes, I am satisfied. All will then go on
smoothly, and I shall trouble myself no more about creeds or covenants,
whether secular or spiritual.”

He then went to dress and shave after this complacent resolution,
but was still a good deal surprised to find that his hand shook so
disagreeably, and that his powerful system was in a state of such
general and unaccountable agitation.

After he had dressed, and was about to go down stairs, Thomas Corbet
came to ask a favor, as he said.

“Well, Corbet,” replied his master, “what is it?”

“My father, sir,” proceeded the other, “wishes to know if you would have
any objection to his being present at Miss Gourlay's marriage, and
if you would also allow him to bring a few friends, who, he says, are
anxious to see the bride.”

“No objection, Corbet--none in the world; and least of all to your
father. I have found your family faithful and attached to my interests
for many a long year, and it would be too bad to refuse him such a
paltry request as that. Tell him to bring his friends too, and they may
be present at the ceremony, if they wish. It was never my intention that
my daughter's marriage should be a private one, nor would it now, were
it not for her state of health. Let your father's friends and yours
come, then, Corbet, and see that you entertain them properly.”

Corbet then thanked him, and was about to go, when the other said,
“Corbet!” after which he paused for some time.

“Sir!” said Corbet.

“I wish to ask your opinion,” he proceeded, “as to allowing my son to be
present. He himself wishes it, and asked my consent; but as his sister
entertains such an unaccountable prejudice against him, I had doubts
as to whether he ought to appear at all. There are, also, as you know,
other reasons.”

“I don't see any reason, sir, that ought to exclude him the moment the
marriage words are pronounced. I think, sir, with humility, that it is
not only his right, but his duty, to be present, and that it is a very
proper occasion for you to acknowledge him openly.”

“It would be a devilish good hit at Dunroe, for, between you and me,
Corbet, I fear that his heart is fixed more upon the Gourlay estates and
her large fortune than upon the girl herself.”

If I might advise, sir, I think he ought to be present.”

“And the moment the ceremony is over, be introduced to his
brother-in-law. A good hit. I shall do it. Send word to him, then,
Corbet. As it must be done some time, it may as well be done now.
Dunroe will of course be too much elated, as he ought to be, to feel the
blow--or to appear to feel it, at all events--for decency's sake, you
know, he must keep up appearances; and if it were only on that account,
we will avail ourselves of the occasion which presents itself. This is
another point gained. I think I may so 'Bravo!' Corbet: I have managed
everything admirably, and accomplished all my purposes single-handed.”

Thomas Corbet himself, deep and cunning as he was, yet knew not how much
he had been kept in the dark as to the events of this fateful day. He
had seen his father the day before, as had his sister, and they both
felt surprised at the equivocal singularity of his manner, well and.
thoroughly as they imagined they had known him. It was, in fact, at his
suggestion that the baronet's son had been induced to ask permission to
be present at the wedding, and also to be then and there acknowledged;
a fact which the baronet either forgot or omitted to mention to
Corbet. Anthony also insisted that his daughter should make one of the
spectators, under pain of disclosing to Sir Thomas the imposition that
had been practised on him in the person of her son. Singular as it may
appear, this extraordinary old man, in the instance before us, moved, by
his peculiar knowledge and sagacity, as if he had them on wires,
almost every person with whom he came in contact, or whose presence he
considered necessary on the occasion.

“What can he mean?” said Thomas to his sister. “Surely he would not be
mad enough to make Sir Thomas's house the place in which to produce Lady
Gourlay's son, the very individual who is to strip him of his title, and
your son of all his prospects?”

“Oh no,” replied Ginty, “certainly not; otherwise, why have lent himself
to the carrying out of our speculation with respect to that boy. Such
a step would ruin him--ruin us all--but then it would ruin the man
he hates, and that would gratify him, I know. He is full of mystery,
certainly; but as he will disclose nothing as to his movements, we must
just let him have his own way, as that is the only chance of managing
him.”

Poor Lucy could not be said to have awoke to a morning of despair and
anguish, because she had not slept at all the night before. Having got
up and dressed herself, by the aid of Alice, she leaned on her as far as
the boudoir to which allusion has already been made. On arriving there
she sat down, and when her maid looked upon her countenance she became
so much alarmed and distressed that she burst into tears.

“What, my darling mistress, is come over you?” she exclaimed. “You have
always spoken to me until this unhappy mornin' Oh, you are fairly in
despair now; and indeed is it any wonder? I always thought, and hoped,
and prayed that something might turn up to prevent this cursed marriage.
I see, I read, despair in your face.”

Lucy raised her large, languid eyes, and looked upon her, but did not
speak. She gave a ghastly smile, but that was all.

“Speak to me, dear Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed the poor girl, with a flood
of tears. “Oh, only speak to me, and let me hear your voice!”

Lucy beckoned her to sit beside her, and said, with difficulty, that she
wished to wet her lips. The girl knew by the few words she uttered that
her voice was gone; and on looking more closely she saw that her lips
were dry and parched. In a few moments she got her a glass of water, a
portion of which Lucy drank.

“Now,” said Alice, “that will relieve and refresh you; but oh, for God's
sake, spake to me, and tell me how you feel! Miss Gourlay, darlin', you
are in despair!”

Lucy took her maid's hand in hers, and after looking upon her with a
smile resembling the first, replied, “No, Alice, I will not despair, but
I feel that I will die. No, I will not despair, Alice. Short as the time
is, God may interpose between me and misery--between me and despair.
But if I am married to this man, Alice, my faith in virtue, in a good
conscience, in truth, purity, and honor, my faith in Providence itself
will be shaken; and then I will despair and die.”

“Oh, what do you mean, my darlin' Miss Gourlay?” exclaimed her weeping
maid. “Surely you couldn't think of having a hand in your own death? Oh,
merciful Father, see what they have brought you to!”

“Alice,” said she, “I have spoken wrongly: the moment in which I uttered
the last expression was a weak one. No, I will never doubt or distrust
Providence; and I may die, Alice, but I will never despair.”

“But why talk about death, miss, so much?”

“Because I feel it lurking in my heart. My physical strength will break
down under this woful calamity. I am as weak as an infant, and all
before me is dark--in this world I mean--but not, thank God, in the
next. Now I cannot speak much more, Alice. Leave me to my silence and to
my sorrow.”

The affectionate girl, utterly overcome, laid her head upon her bosom
and wept, until Lucy was forced to soothe and comfort her as well as she
could. They then sat silent for a time, the maid, however, sobbing and
sighing bitterly, whilst Lucy only uttered one word in an undertone, and
as if altogether to herself, “Misery! misery!”

At this moment her father tapped at the door, and on being admitted,
ordered Alice to leave the room; he wished to have some private
conversation, he said, with her mistress.

“Don't make it long, if you please, sir,” said she, “for my mistress
won't be aquil to it. It's more at the point of death than the point of
marriage she is.”

One stern look from the baronet, however, silenced her in a moment, and
after a glance of most affectionate interest at her mistress she left
the room.

“Lucy,” said her father, after contemplating that aspect of misery which
could not be concealed, “I am not at all pleased with this girlish
and whining appearance. I have done all that man could do to meet your
wishes and to make you happy. I have become reconciled to your aunt for
your sake. I have allowed her and Mrs. Norton--Mainwaring I mean--to
be present at your wedding, that they might support and give you
confidence. You are about to be married to a handsome young fellow,
only a little wild, but who will soon make you a countess. Now, in God's
name, what more do you want?”

“I think,” she replied, “that I ought not to marry this man. I believe
that I stand justified in the sight of God and man in refusing to seal
my own misery. The promise I made you, sir, was given under peculiar
circumstances--under terror of your death. These circumstances are now
removed, and it is cruel to call on me to make a sacrifice that is
a thousand times worse than death. No, papa, I will not marry this
depraved man--this common seducer. I shall never unite myself to him,
let the consequences be what they may. There is a line beyond which
parental authority ought not to go--you have crossed it.”

“Be it so, madam; I shall see you again in a few minutes,” he replied,
and immediately left the room, his face almost black with rage and
disappointment. Lucy grew alarmed at the terrible abruptness and
significance of his manner, and began to tremble, although she knew not
why.

“Can I violate my promise,” said she to herself, “after having made it
so solemnly? And ought I to marry this man in obedience to my father?
Alas! I know not; but may heaven direct me for the best! If I thought it
would make papa happy--but his is a restless and ambitious spirit, and
how can I be certain of that? May heaven direct me and guide me!”

In a few minutes afterwards her father returned, and taking out of his
pockets a pair of pistols, laid them on the table.

“Now, Lucy,” said he solemnly, and with a vehemence of manner almost
frantic, “we will see if you cannot yet save your father's life, or
whether you will prefer to have his blood on your soul.”

“For heaven's sake, papa,” said his daughter, running to him, and
throwing or attempting to throw her arms about him, partly, in the
moment of excitement, to embrace, and partly to restrain him.

“Hold off, madam,” he replied; “hold off; you have made me
desperate--you have driven me mad. Now, mark me. I will not ask you to
marry this man; but I swear by all that is sacred, that if you disgrace
me--if you insult Lord Dunroe by refusing to be united to him this
day--I shall put the contents of one or both of these pistols through
my brains; and you may comfort yourself over the corpse of a suicide
father, and turn to your brother for protection.”

Either alternative was sufficiently dreadful for the poor worn and
wearied out girl.

“Oh, papa,” she exclaimed, again attempting to throw her arms around
him; “put these fearful weapons aside. I will obey you--I will marry
him.”

“This day?”

“This day, papa, as soon as my aunt and Mrs. Mainwaring come, and I can
get myself dressed.”

“Do so, then; or, if not I shall not survive your refusal five minutes.”

“I will, papa,” she replied, laying her head upon his breast and
sobbing; “I will marry him; but put those vile and dangerous weapons
away, and never talk so again.”

At this moment the door opened, and Alice, who had been listening,
entered the room in a high and towering passion. Her eyes sparkled: her
complexion was scarlet with rage; her little hands were most heroically
clenched; and, altogether, the very excitement in which she presented
herself, joined to a good face and fine figure, made her look
exceedingly interesting and handsome.

“How, madam,” exclaimed the baronet, “what brings you here? Withdraw
instantly!”

“How, yourself, sir,” she replied, walking up and looking him fearlessly
in the face; “none of your 'how, madams,' to me any more; as there's
neither man nor woman to interfere here, I must only do it myself.”

“Leave the room, you brazen jade!” shouted the baronet; “leave the room,
or it'll be worse for you.”

“Deuce a one toe I'll lave it. It wasn't for that I came here, but to
tell you that you are a tyrant and a murdherer, a mane old schemer, that
would marry your daughter to a common swindler and reprobate, because
he's a lord. But here I stand, the woman that will prevent this
marriage, if there wasn't another faymale from here to Bally-shanny.”

“Alice!” exclaimed Lucy, “for heaven's sake, what do you mean?--what
awful language is this? You forget yourself.”

“That may be, miss, but, by the life in my body, I won't forget you. A
ring won't go on you to that titled scamp so long as I have a drop of
manly blood in my veins--deuce a ring!”

Amazement almost superseded indignation on the part of the baronet, who
unconsciously exclaimed, “A ring!”

“No--pursuin' to the ring!” she replied, accompanying the words with
what was intended to be a fearful blow of her little clenched hand upon
the table.

“Let me go, Lucy,” said her father, “till I put the termagant out of the
room.”

“Yes, let him go, miss,” replied Alley; “let us see what he'll do. Here
I stand now,” she proceeded, approaching him; “and if you offer to lift
a hand to me, I'll lave ten of as good marks in your face as ever a
woman left since the creation. Come, now--am I afeard of you?” and as
she spoke she approached him still more nearly, with both her hands
close to his face, her fingers spread out and half-clenched, reminding
one of a hawk's talons.

“Alice,” said Lucy, “this is shocking; if you love me, leave the room.”

“Love you! miss,” replied the indignant but faithful girl, bursting into
bitter tears; “love you!--merciful heaven, wouldn't I give my life for
you?--who that knows you doesn't love you? and it's for that reason that
I don't wish to see you murdhered--nor won't. Come, sir, you must let
her out of this marriage. It'll be no go, I tell you. I won't suffer it,
so long as I've strength and life. I'll dash myself between them. I'll
make the ole clergyman skip if he attempts it; ay, and what's more, I'll
see Dandy Dulcimer, and we'll collect a faction.”

“Do not hold me, Lucy,” said her father; “I must certainly put her out
of the room.”

“Don't, papa,” replied Lucy, restraining him from laying hands upon her,
“don't, for the sake of honor and manhood. Alice, for heaven's sake!
if you love me, as I said, and I now add, if you respect me, leave the
room. You will provoke papa past endurance.”

“Not a single toe, miss, till he promises to let you cut o' this match.
Oh, my good man,” she said, addressing the struggling baronet, “if
you're for fighting, here I am I for you; or wait,” she added, whipping
up one of the pistols, “Come, now, if you're a man; take your ground
there. Now I can meet you on equal terms; get to the corner there, the
distance is short enough; but no matther, you're a good mark. Come, now,
don't think I'm the bit of goods to be afeard o' you--it's not the first
jewel I've seen in my time, and remember that my name is Mahon”--and she
posted herself in the corner, as if to take her ground. “Come, now,”
 she repeated, “you called me a 'brazen jade' awhile ago, and I demand
satisfaction.”

“Alice,” said Lucy, “you will injure yourself or others, if you do not
lay that dangerous weapon down. For God's sake, Alice, lay it aside--it
is loaded.”

“Deuce a bit o' danger, miss,” replied the indignant heroine. “I know
more about fire-arms than you think; my brothers used to have them to
protect the house. I'll soon see, at any rate, whether it's loaded or
not.”

While speaking she whipped out the ramrod, and, making the experiment
found, that it was empty.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “you desateful old tyrant: and so you came down
blusterin' and bullyin', and frightenin' your child into compliance,
with a pair of empty pistols! By the life in my body, if I had you in
Ballytrain, I'd post you.”

“Papa,” said Lucy, “you must excuse this--it is the excess of her
affection for me. Dear Alice,” she said, addressing her, and for a
moment forgetting her weakness, “come with me; I cannot, and will not
bear this; come with me out of the room.”

“Very well; I'll go to plaise you, miss, but I've made up my mind that
this marriage mustn't take place. Just think of it,” she added, turning
to her master; “if you force her to marry this scamp of a lord, the girl
has sense, and spirit, and common decency, and of course she'll run away
from him; after that, it won't be hard to guess who she'll run to--then
there'll be a con. crim. about it, and it'll go to the lawyers, and from
the lawyers it'll go to the deuce, and that will be the end of it; and
all because you're a coarse-minded tyrant, unworthy of having such a
daughter. Oh, you needn't shake your hand at me. You refused to give me
satisfaction, and I'd now scorn to notice you. Remember I cowed you, and
for that reason never pretend to be a gentleman afther this.”

Lucy then led her out of the room, which she left, after turning upon
her master a look of the proudest and fiercest defiance, and at the same
time the most sovereign contempt.

“Lucy,” said her father, “is not this a fine specimen of a maid to have
in personal attendance upon you?”

“I do not defend her conduct now, sir,” she replied; “but I cannot
overlook her affection, her truth, her attachment to me, nor the many
other virtues which I know she possesses. She is somewhat singular, I
grant, and a bit of a character, and I could wish that her manners were
somewhat less plain; but, on the other hand, she does not pretend to be
a fine lady with her mistress, although she is not without some harmless
vanity; neither is she frivolous, giddy, nor deceitful; and whatever
faults there may be, papa, in her head, there are none in her heart. It
is affectionate, faithful, and disinterested. Indeed, whilst I live I
shall look upon her as my friend.”

“I am determined, however, she shall not be long under my roof, nor in
your service; her conduct just now has settled that point; but, putting
her out of the question, I trust we understand each other, and that you
are prepared to make your father's heart happy. No more objections.”

“No, sir; I have said so.”

“You will go through the ceremony with a good grace?'

“I cannot promise that, sir; but I shall go through the ceremony.”

“Yes, but you must do it without offence to Dunroe, and with as little
appearance of reluctance as possible.”

“I have no desire to draw a painful attention to myself, papa; but you
will please to recollect that I have all my horror, all my detestation
of this match to contend with; and, I may add, my physical weakness,
and the natural timidity of woman. I shall, however, go through the
ceremony, provided nature and reason do not fail me.”

“Well, Lucy, of course you will do the best you can. I must go now,
for I've many things to think of. Your dresses are admirable, and your
trousseau, considering the short time Dunroe had, is really superb.
Shake hands, my dear Lucy; you know I will soon lose you.”

Lucy, whose heart was affection itself, threw herself into his arms, and
exclaimed, in a burst of grief:

“Yes, papa, I feel that you will; and, perhaps, when I am gone, you will
say, with sorrow, that it would have been better to have allowed Lucy to
be happy her own way.”

“Come, now, you foolish, naughty girl,” he exclaimed affectionately,
“be good--be good.” And as he spoke, he kissed her, pressed her hand
tenderly, and then left the room.

“Alas!” exclaimed Lucy, still in tears, “how happy might we have been,
had this ambition for my exaltation not existed in my father's heart!”

If Lucy rose with a depressed spirit on that morning of sorrow, so did
not Lord Dunroe. This young nobleman, false and insincere in everything,
had succeeded in inducing his sister to act as brides-maid, Sir Thomas
having asked her consent as a personal compliment to himself and his
daughter. She was told by her brother that young Roberts would act in an
analogous capacity to him; and this he held out as an inducement to her,
having observed something like an attachment between her and the young
ensign. Not that he at all approved of this growing predilection, for
though strongly imbued with all the senseless and absurd prejudices
against humble birth which disgrace aristocratic life and feeling,
he was base enough to overrule his own opinions on the subject, and
endeavor, by this unworthy play upon his sister's feelings, to prevail
upon her to do an act that would throw her into his society, and which,
under any other circumstances, he would have opposed. He desired her,
at the same time, not to mention the fact to their father, who, he
said, entertained a strong prejudice against upstarts, and was besides,
indisposed to the marriage, in consequence of Sir Thomas Goulray's
doubtful reputation, as regarding the disappearance of his brother's
heir. In consequence of these representations, Lady Emily not only
consented to act as bride's-maid; but also to keep her knowledge of the
forthcoming marriage a secret from her father.

At breakfast that morning Dunroe was uncommonly cheerful. Norton, on
the other hand, was rather depressed, and could not be prevailed upon
to partake of the gay and exuberant spirit of mirth and buoyancy which
animated Dunroe.

“What the deuce is the matter with you, Norton?” said his lordship. “You
seem rather annoyed that I am going to marry a very lovely girl with an
immense fortune? With both, you know very well that I can manage without
either the Cullamore title or property. The Gourlay property is as good
if not better. Come, then, cheer up; if the agency of the Cullamore
property is gone, we shall have that on the Gourlay side to look to.”

“Dunroe, my dear fellow,” replied Norton, “I am thinking of nothing so
selfish. That which distresses me is, that I will lose my friend. This
Miss Gourlay is, they say, so confoundedly virtuous that I dare say she
will allow no honest fellow, who doesn't carry a Bible and a Prayer-book
in his pocket, and quote Scripture in conversation, to associate with
you.”

“Nonsense, man,” replied Dunroe, “I have satisfied you on that point
before. But I say, Norton, is not this a great bite on the baronet,
especially as he considers himself a knowing one?”

“Yes, I grant you, a great bite, no doubt; but, at the same time, I
rather guess you may thank me for the possession of Miss Gourlay, and
the property which will go along with her.”

“As how, Norton?”

“Why, don't you remember the anonymous note which I wrote to the
baronet, when I was over in Dublin to get the horse changed? He was then
at Red Hall. I am certain that were it not for that hint, there would
have been an elopement. You know it was the fellow who shot you, that
was then in her neighborhood, and he is at present in town. I opened the
baronet's eyes at all events.”

“Faith, to tell you the truth, Norton, although I know you do me in
money matters now and then, still I believe you to be a faithful fellow.
In fact, you owe me more than you are aware of. You know not how I have
resisted the respectable old nobleman's wishes to send you adrift as
an impostor and cheat. I held firm, however, and told him I could never
with honor abandon my friend.”

“Many thanks, Dunroe; but I really must say that I am neither an
impostor nor a cheat; and that if ever a man was true friend and
faithful to man, I am that friend to your lordship; not, God knows,
because you are a lord, but because you are a far better thing--a
regular trump. A cheat! curse it,” clapping his hands over his eyes, to
conceal his emotion, “isn't my name Norton? and am I not your friend?”

At this moment a servant came in, and handed Lord Dunroe a note, which
he was about to throw to Norton, who generally acted as a kind of
secretary to him; but observing the depth and sincerity and also the
modesty of his feelings, he thought it indelicate to trouble him with it
just then. Breakfast was now over, and Dunroe, throwing himself back
in an arm-chair, opened the letter--read it--then another that was
contained in it; after which he rose up, and travelled the room with a
good deal of excitement. He then approached Norton, and said, in a voice
that might be said to have been made up of heat and cold, “What disturbs
you?”

Norton winked both eyes, did the pathetic a bit, then pulled out his
pocket handkerchief, and blew his nose up to a point little short of
distress itself. In the meantime, Dunroe suddenly left the room without
Norton's knowledge, who replied, however, to the last question, under
the impression that his lordship was present,

“Ah, my dear Dunroe, the loss of a true friend is a serious thing in a
world like this, where so many cheats and impostors are going.”

To this, however, he received no reply; and on looking round and finding
that his dupe had gone out, he said:

“Curse the fellow--he has cut me short. I was acting friendship to the
life, and now he has disappeared. However, I will resume it when I hear
his foot on the return. His hat is there, and I know he will come back
for it.”

Nearly ten minutes had elapsed, during which he was making the ham and
chicken disappear, when, on hearing a foot which he took for granted
must be that of his lordship, he once more threw himself into his former
attitude, and putting the handkerchief again to his eyes, exclaimed:

“No, my lord. A cheat! Curse it, isn't my name Norton? and am I not your
friend?”

“Why, upon my soul, Barney, you used of ould to bring out only one lie
at a time but now you give them in pairs. 'Isn't my name Norton?' says
you. I kept the saicret bekaise you never meddled with Lord Cullamore
or Lady Emily, or attempted your tricks on them, and for that raison you
ought to thank me. Here's a note from Lord Dunroe, who looks as black as
midnight.”

“What! a note from Dunroe!” exclaimed Norton. “Why he only left me this
minute! What the deuce can this mean?”

He opened the note, and read, to his dismay and astonishment as follows:

“Infamous and treacherous scoundrel,--I have this moment received your
letter to Mr. Birney, enclosed by that gentleman to me, in which you
offer, for a certain sum, to betray me, by placing in the hands of my
enemies the very documents you pretended to have destroyed. I now know
the viper I have cherished--begone. You are a cheat, an impostor, and a
villain, whose name is not Norton, but Bryan, once a horse-jockey on the
Curragh, and obliged to fly the country for swindling and dishonesty.
Remove your things instantly; but that shall not prevent me from tracing
you and handing you over to justice for your knavery and fraud.

“DUNROE.”


“All right! Morty---all right!” exclaimed Norton; “upon my soul, Dunroe
is too generous. You know he is going to be married to-day. Was that
Roberts who went up stairs?”

“It was the young officer, if that's his name,” replied Morty.

“All right! Morty; he's to be groom's-man--that will do; this requires
no answer. The generous fellow has made me a present on his wedding-day.
That will do, Morty; you may go.”

“All's discovered,” he exclaimed, when Morty was gone; “however, it's
not too late: I shall give him a Roland for his Oliver before we part.
It will be no harm to give the the respectable old nobleman a hint of
what's going on, at any rate. This discovery, however, won't signify,
for I know Dunroe. The poor fool has no self-reliance; but if left to
himself would die. He possesses no manly spirit of independent will,
no firmness, no fixed principle--he is, in fact, a noun adjective, and
cannot stand alone. Depraved in his appetites and habits of life, he
cannot live without some hanger-on to enjoy his freaks of silly and
senseless profligacy, who can praise and laugh at him, and who will
act at once as his butt, his bully, his pander, and his friend; four
capacities in which I have served him--at his own expense, be it said.
No; my ascendancy over him has been too long established, and I know
that, like a prime minister who has been hastily dismissed, I shall
be ultimately recalled. And yet he is not without gleams of sense, is
occasionally sprightly, and has perceptions of principle that might have
made him a man--an individual being: but now, having neither firmness,
resolution to carry out a good purpose, nor self-respect, he is a
miserable and wretched cipher, whose whole value depends on the
figure that is next him. Yes, I know--I feel--he will recall me to his
councils.”

At length the hour of half-past eleven arrived, and in Sir Thomas
Gourlay's drawing-room were assembled all those who had been asked to be
present, or to take the usual part in the marriage ceremony. Dr. Sombre,
the clergyman of the parish, had just arrived, and, having entered the
drawing-room, made a bow that would not have disgraced a bishop. He was
pretty well advanced in years, excessively stupid, and possessed so vile
a memory for faces, that he was seldom able to recognize his own guests,
if he happened to meet them in the streets on the following day. He was
an expectant for preferment in the church, and if the gift of a good
appetite were a successful recommendation for a mitre, as that of a
strong head has been before now, no man was better entitled to wear it.
Be this as it may, the good man, who expected to partake of an excellent
_dejuner_, felt that it was a portion of his duty to give a word or two
of advice to the young couple upon the solemn and important duties into
the discharge of which they were about to enter. Accordingly, looking
round the room, he saw Mr. Roberts and Lady Emily engaged, at a window,
in what appeared to him to be such a conversation as might naturally
take place between parties about to be united. Lucy had not yet made her
appearance, but Dunroe was present, and on seeing the Rev. Doctor join
them, was not at all sorry at the interruption. This word of advice,
by the way, was a stereotyped commodity with the Doctor, who had not
married a couple for the last thirty years, without palming it on
them as an extempore piece of admonition arising from that particular
occasion. The worthy man was, indeed, the better qualified to give it,
having never been married himself, and might, therefore, be considered
as perfectly free from prejudices affecting either party upon the
subject.

“You, my dear children, are the parties about to be united?” said he,
addressing Roberts and Lady Emily, with a bow that had in it a strong
professional innuendo, but of what nature was yet to be learned.

“Yes, sir,” replied Roberts, who at once perceived the good man's
mistake, and was determined to carry out whatever jest might arise from
it.

“Oh no, sir,” replied Lady Emily, blushing deeply; “we are not the
parties.”

“Because,” proceeded the Doctor, “I think I could not do better than
give you, while together, a few words--just a little homily, as it
were--upon the nature of the duties into which you are about to enter.”

“Oh, but I have told you,” replied Lady Emily, again, “that we are not
the parties, Dr. Sombre.”

“Never mind her, Doctor,” said Roberts--assuming, with becoming gravity,
the character of the intended husband: “the Doctor, my dear, knows human
nature too well not to make allowances for the timidity peculiar to your
situation. Come, my, love be firm, and let us hear what he has to say.”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “I can understand that; I knew I was right:
and all you want now is the ceremony to make you man and wife.”

“Indisputable, Doctor; nothing can be more true. These words might
almost appear as an appendix to the Gospel.”

“Well, my children,” proceeded the Doctor, “listen--marriage may be
divided--”

“I thought it was rather a union, Doctor.”

“So it is, child,” replied the Doctor, in the most matter-of-fact
spirit; “but you know that even Unions can be divided. When I was
induced to the Union of Ballycomeasy and Ballycomsharp I--”

“But, Doctor,” said Roberts, “I beg your pardon, I have interrupted you.
Will you have the kindness to proceed? my fair partner, here, is very
anxious to hear your little homily--are you not, my love?”

Lady Emily was certainly pressed rather severely to maintain her
gravity--in fact, so much so, that she was unable to reply, Robert's
composure being admirable.

“Well,” resumed the Doctor, “as I was saying--Marriage may be divided
into three heads--”

“For heaven's sake, make it only two, if possible, my dear Doctor,”
 said Roberts: “the appearance of a third head is rather uncomfortable, I
think.”

--“Into three heads--first, its duties; next, its rights; and lastly,
its tribulations.”

The Doctor, we may observe, was in general very unlucky, in the
reception which fell to the share of his little homily--the fact being
with it as with its subject in actual life, that his audience, however
they might feel upon its rights and duties, were very anxious to avoid
its tribulations in any sense, and the consequence was, that in nineteen
cases out of twenty the reverend bachelor himself was left in the midst
of them. Such was his fate here; for at this moment Sir Thomas Gourlay
entered the drawing-room, and approaching Lady Emily, said, “I have to
apologize to you, Lady Emily, inasmuch as it is I who am to blame
for Miss Gourlay's not having seen you sooner. On a subject of such
importance, it is natural that a father should have some private
conversation with her, and indeed this was the case; allow me now to
conduct you to her.”

“There is no apology whatsoever necessary, Sir Thomas,” replied her
ladyship, taking his arm, and casting a rapid but precious glance at
Roberts. As they went up stairs, the baronet said, in a voice of great
anxiety,

“You will oblige me, Lady Emily, by keeping her from the looking-glass
as much as possible. I have got her maid--who, although rather plain
in her manners, has excellent taste in all matters connected with the
toilette--I have got her to say, while dressing her, that it is not
considered lucky for a bride to see herself in a looking-glass on the
day of her marriage.”

“But why should she not, Sir Thomas?” asked the innocent and lovely
girl: “if ever a lady should consult her glass, it is surely upon such
an occasion as this.”

“I grant it,” he replied; “but then her paleness--is--is--her looks
altogether are so--in fact, you may understand me, Lady Emily--she is,
in consequence of her very delicate health--in consequence of that,
I say, she is more like a corpse than a living being--in complexion
I mean. And now, my dear Lady Emily, will you hurry her? I am
anxious--that is to say, we all are--to have the ceremony over as soon
as it possibly can. She will then feel better, of course.”

Dr. Sombre, seeing that one of the necessary audience to his little
homily had disappeared, seemed rather disappointed, but addressed
himself to Roberts upon a very different subject.

“I dare say,” said he, “we shall have a very capital dejeuner to-day.”

Roberts was startled at the rapid and carnal nature of the transition
in such a reverend-looking old gentleman; but as the! poor Doctor
had sustained a disappointment on the subject of the homily, he was
determined to afford him some comfort on this.

“I understand,” said he, “from the best authority, that nothing like it
has been seen for years in the city. Several of the nobility and gentry
have privately solicited Sir Thomas for copies of the bill of fare.”

“That is all right,” replied the Doctor, “that is all excellent, my good
young friend. Who is that large gentleman who has just come in?”

“Why, sir,” replied Roberts, astonished, “that is Sir Thomas Gourlay
himself.”

“Bless me, and so it is,” replied the Doctor; “he is getting very
fat--eh? Ay, all right, and will make excellent eating if the cooking be
good.”

Roberts saw at once what the worthy Doctor was thinking of, and resolved
Lo suggest some other topic, if it were only to punish him for bestowing
such attention upon a subject so much at variance with thoughts that
ought to occupy the mind of a minister of God.

“I have heard, Doctor, that you are a bachelor,” said he. “How did it
happen, pray, that you kept aloof from marriage?”

The Doctor, who had been contemplating his own exploits at the dejuner,
now that Roberts had mentioned marriage, took it for granted that he
wanted him to proceed with his homily, and tried to remember where he
had left off.

“Oh, yes,” said he, “about marriage; I stopped at its tribulations.
I think I had got over its rights and duties, but I stopped at its
tribulations--yes, its tribulations. Very well my dear friend,” he
proceeded, taking him by the hand, and leading him over to a corner,
“accompany me, and you shall enter them now. Where is the young lady?”

“She will be here by and by,” replied Roberts; “I think you had better
wait till she comes.”

The Doctor paused for some time, and following up the idea of the
dejuner, said, “I am fond of wild fowl now.”

“Oh, fie, Doctor,” replied the Ensign; “I did not imagine that so grave
a personage as you are could be fond of anything wild.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Doctor, “ever while you live prefer the wild to
the tame; every one, sir,” he added, taking the other by the button,
“that knows what's what, in that respect, does it. Well, but about the
tribulations.”

As usual the Doctor was doomed to be left in them, for just as he spoke
the doors were thrown more widely open, and Lucy, leaning upon, or
rather supported by, her aunt and Lady Emily, accompanied by Mrs.
Mainwaring, entered the room. Her father had been in close conversation
with Dunroe; but not all his efforts at self-possession and calmness
could prevent his agitation and anxiety from being visible. His eye
was unsettled and blood-shot; his manner uneasy, and the whole bearing
indicative of hope, ecstasy, apprehension, and doubt, all flitting
across each other like clouds in a sky troubled by adverse currents, but
each and all telling a tale of the tumult which was going on within him.

Yes, Lucy was there, but, alas the day! what a woful sight did she
present to the spectators. The moment she had come down, the servants,
and all those who had obtained permission to be present at the ceremony,
now entered the large drawing-room to witness it. Tom Gourlay entered
a little after his sister, followed in a few minutes by old Anthony,
accompanied by Fenton, who leant upon him, and was provided with an
arm-chair in a remote corner of the room. After them came Thomas Corbet
and his sister, Ginty Cooper, together with old Sam Roberts, and the man
named Skipton, with whom the reader has already been made acquainted.

But how shall we describe the bride--the wretched, heart-broken
victim of an ambition that was as senseless as it was inhuman? It was
impossible for one moment to glance at her without perceiving that the
stamp of death, misery, and despair, was upon her; and yet, despite
of all this, she carried with her and around her a strange charm, an
atmosphere of grace, elegance, and beauty, of majestic virtue, of innate
greatness of mind, of wonderful truth, and such transparent purity of
heart and thought, that when she entered the room all the noise and chat
and laughter were instantly hushed, and a sense of solemn awe, as if
there were more than a marriage here, came over all present. Nay, more.
We shall not pretend to trace the cause and origin of this extraordinary
sensation. Originate as it may, it told a powerful and startling tale to
her father's heart; but in truth she had not been half a minute in the
room when, such was the dignified but silent majesty of her sorrow, that
there were few eyes there that were not moist with tears. The
melancholy impressiveness of her character, her gentleness, her mournful
resignation, the patience with which she suffered, could not for one
moment be misunderstood, and the contagion of sympathy, and of common
humanity, in the fate of a creature apparently more divine than human,
whose sorrow was read as if by intuition, spread through them with a
feeling of strong compassion that melted almost every I heart, and sent
the tears to every eye.

Her father approached her, and whispered to her, and caressed her, and
seemed playful and even light-hearted, as if the day were a day of
joy; but out strongly against his mirth stood the solemn spirit of her
sorrow; and when he went to bring over Dunroe, and when he took her
passive hand, in order to place it in his--the agony, the horror, with
which she submitted to the act, were expressed in a manner that made her
appear, as that which she actually was, the lovely but pitiable
victim of ambition. Alley Mahon's grief was loud; Lady Gourlay, Mrs.
Mainwaring, Lady Emily, all were in tears.

“I am proud to see this,” said Sir Thomas, bowing, as if he were bound
to thank them, and attempting, with his usual tact, to turn their very
sympathy into a hollow and untruthful compliment; “I am proud to see
this manifestation of strong attachment to my daughter; it is a proof of
how she is loved.”

Lucy had not once opened her lips. She had not strength to do so; her
very voice had abandoned her.

Two or three persons besides the baronet and the bridegroom felt a
deep interest in what was going forward, or about to go forward. Thomas
Gourlay now absolutely hated her; so did his mother; so did his uncle,
Thomas Corbet. Each and all of them felt anxious to have her married,
in order that she might be out of Tom's way, and that he might enjoy a
wider sphere of action. Old Anthony Corbet stood looking on, with his
thin lips compressed closely together, his keen eyes riveted on the
baronet, and an expression legible on every trace of his countenance,
such as might well have constituted him some fearful incarnation of
hatred and vengeance. Lady Gourlay was so completely engrossed by Lucy
that she did not notice Fenton, and the latter, from his position, could
see nothing of either the bride or the baronet, but their backs.

Lord Dunroe felt that his best course was to follow the advice of Sir
Thomas, which was, not to avail himself of his position with Lucy,
but to observe a respectful manner, and to avoid entering into any
conversation whatsoever with her, at least until after the ceremony
should be performed. He consequently kept his distance, with the
exception of receiving her passive hand, as we have shown, and
maintained a low and subdued conversation with Mr. Roberts. The only
person likely to interrupt the solemn feeling which prevailed was old
Sam, who had his handkerchief several times alternately to his nose and
eyes, and who looked about him with an indignant expression, that seemed
to say, “There's something wrong here--some one ought to speak; I wish
my boy would step forward. This, surely, is not the heart of man.”

At length the baronet approached Lucy, and seemed, by his action, as
well as his words, to ask her consent to something. Lucy looked at him,
but neither by her word nor gesture appeared to accede to or refuse his
request; and her father, after complacently bowing, as if to thank her
for her acquiescence, said,

“I think, Dr. Sombre, we require your services; the parties are
assembled and willing, and the ceremony had better take place.”

Thomas Corbet had been standing at a front window, and Alley Mahon, on
hearing the baronet's words, instantly changed her position to the front
of Lucy, as if she intended to make a spring between her and Dunroe, as
soon as the matter should come to a crisis.

In the meantime Dr. Sombre advanced with his book, and Lord Dunroe was
led over by Roberts to take his position opposite the bride, when a
noise of carriage-wheels was heard coming rapidly along, and stopping
as rapidly at the hall door. In an instant a knock that almost shook the
house, and certainly startled some of the females, among whom was the
unhappy bride herself, was heard at the hall door, and the next moment
Thomas Corbet hurried out of the room, as if to see who had arrived,
instantly followed by Gibson.

Dr. Sombre, who now stood with his finger between the leaves of his
book, where its frequent pressure had nearly obliterated the word
“obedience” in the marriage ceremony, said,

“My dear children, it is a custom of mine--and it is so because I
conceive it a duty--to give you a few preliminary words of advice, a
little homily, as it were, upon the nature of the duties into which you
are about to enter.”

This intimation was received with solemn silence, if we except the word
“Attention!” which proceeded in a respectful and earnest, but subdued
tone from old Sam. The Doctor looked about him a little startled, but
again proceeded,

“Marriage, my children, may be divided into three heads: first,
its duties; next, its rights; and lastly, its tribulations. I place
tribulations last, my children, because, if it were not for its
tribulations--”

“My good friend,” said Sir Thomas, with impatience, “we will spare you
the little homily you speak of, until after the ceremony. I dare say it
is designed for married life and married people; but as those for whose
especial advantage you are now about to give it are not man and wife
yet, I think you had better reserve it until you make them so. Proceed,
Doctor, if you please, with the ceremony.”

“I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir,” replied the Doctor; “I
shall be guided here only by Sir Thomas Gourlay himself, as father of
the bride.”

“Why, Doctor, what the deuce is the matter with you? Am not I Sir Thomas
Gourlay?”

The Doctor put up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking at him
more closely, exclaimed,

“Upon my word, and so you are. I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, but with
respect to this dejeuner--homily, I would say--its enunciation here is
exceedingly appropriate, and it is but short, and will not occupy more
than about half-an-hour, or three-quarters, which is only a brief space
when the happiness of a whole life is concerned. Well, my children, I
was speaking about this _dejuner_,” he proceeded; “the time, as I said,
will not occupy more than half-an-hour, or probably three-quarters;
and, indeed, if our whole life were as agreeably spent--I refer now
especially to married life--its tribulations would not--”

Here he was left once more in his tribulations, for as he uttered the
last word, Gibson returned, pronouncing in a distinct but respectful
voice, “The Earl of Cullamore;” and that nobleman, leaning upon the arm
of his confidential servant, Morty O'Flaherty, immediately entered the
room.

His venerable look, his feeble state of health, but, above all his
amiable character, well known as it was for everything that was
honorable and benevolent, produced the effect which might be expected.
All who were not standing, immediately rose up to do him reverence and
honor. He inclined his head in token of acknowledgment, but even before
the baronet had time to address him, he said,

“Sir Thomas Gourlay, has this marriage yet taken place?”

“No, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “and I am glad it has not. Your
lordship's presence is a sanction and an honor which, considering your
state of ill-health, is such as we must all duly appreciate. I am
delighted to see you here, my lord; allow me to help your lordship to a
seat.”

“I thank you, Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship; “but before I take a
seat, or before you proceed further in this business, I beg to have some
private conversation with you.”

“With infinite pleasure, my lord,” replied the baronet. “Dr. Sombre,
whilst his lordship and I are speaking, you may as well go on with the
ceremony. When it is necessary, call me, and I shall give the bride
away.”

“Dr. Sombre,” said his lordship, “do not proceed with the ceremony,
until I shall have spoken to Miss Gourlay's father. If it be necessary
that I should speak more plainly, I say, I forbid the banns. You will
not have to wait long, Doctor; but by no means proceed with the ceremony
until you shall have permission from Sir Thomas Gourlay.”

In general, any circumstance that tends to prevent a marriage, where all
the parties are assembled to witness it, and to enjoy the festivities
that attend it, is looked upon with a strong feeling of dissatisfaction.
Here, however, the case was different. Scarcely an individual among
them, with the exception of those who were interested in the event,
that did not feel a sense of relief at what had occurred in consequence
of the appearance of Lord Cullamore. Dunroe's face from that moment was
literally a sentence of guilt against himself. It became blank, haggard,
and of a ghastly white; while his hope of securing the rich and lovely
heiress died away within him. He resolved, however, to make a last
effort.

“Roberts,” said he, “go to Sombre, and whisper to him to proceed with
the ceremony. Get him to perform it, and you are sure of a certain
sister of mine, who I rather suspect is not indifferent to you.”

“I must decline to do so, my lord,” replied Roberts. “After what has
just occurred, I feel that it would not be honorable in me, neither
would it be respectful to your father. However I may esteem your sister,
my lord, and appreciate her virtues, yet I am but a poor ensign, as you
know, and not in a capacity to entertain any pretensions--”

“Well, then,” replied Dunroe, interrupting him, “bring that old dog
Sombre here, will you? I trust you will so far oblige me.”

Roberts complied with this; but the Doctor was equally firm.

“Doctor,” said his lordship, after urging several arguments, “you will
oblige Sir Thomas Gourlay very much, by having us married when they come
in. It's only a paltry matter of property, that Sir Thomas acceded to
this morning. Pray, proceed with the ceremony, Doctor, and make two
lovers happy.”

“The word of your honorable father,” replied the Doctor, “shall ever be
a law to me. He was always a most hospitable man; and, unless my bishop,
or the chief secretary, or, what is better still, the viceroy himself, I
do not know a nobleman more worthy of respect. No, my lord, there is not
in the peerage a nobleman who--gave better dinners.”

What with this effort on the part of Dunroe, and a variety of chat
that took place upon the subject of the interruption, at least
five-and-twenty minutes had elapsed, and the company began to feel
somewhat anxious and impatient, when Sir Thomas Gourlay entered; and,
gracious heaven, what a frightful change had taken place in him! Dismay,
despair, wretchedness, misery, distraction, frenzy, were all struggling
for expression in his countenance. He was followed by Lord Cullamore,
who, when about to proceed home, had changed his mind, and returned for
Lady Emily. He advanced, still supported by Morty, and approaching Lucy,
took her hand, and said,

“Miss Gourlay, you are saved; and I thank God that I was made the
instrument of rescuing you from wretchedness and despair, for I read
both in your face. And now,” he proceeded, addressing the spectators,
“I beg it to be understood, that in the breaking off of this marriage,
there is no earthly blame, not a shadow of imputation to be attributed
to Miss Gourlay, who is all honor, and delicacy, and truth. Her father,
if left to himself, would not now permit her to become the wife of my
son; who, I am sorry to say, is utterly unworthy of her.”

“Attention!” once more was heard from the quarter in which old Sam
stood, as if bearing testimony to the truth of his lordship's assertion.
“John,” said the latter, “you may thank your friend, Mr. Norton, for
enabling me, within the last hour, to save this admirable girl from the
ruin which her union with you would have entailed upon her. You will now
know how to appreciate so faithful and honorable a friend.”

All that Dunroe must have felt, may be easily conceived by the reader.
The baronet, however, becomes the foremost figure in the group. The
strong, the cunning, the vehement, the overbearing, the plausible, the
unbelieving, the philosophical, and the cruel--these were the divided
streams, as it were, of his character, which all, however, united to
make up the dark and terrible current of his great ambition; great,
however, only as a passion and a moral impulse of action, but puny,
vile, and base in its true character and elements. Here, then, stood the
victim of his own creed, the baffled antagonist of God's providence, who
despised religion, and trampled upon its obligations; the man who strove
to make himself his own deity, his own priest, and who administered to
his guilty passions on the altar of a hardened and corrupted heart--here
he stood; now, struck, stunned, prostrated; whilst the veil which had
hitherto concealed the hideousness of his principles, was raised up,
as if by an awful hand, that he might know what it is for man to dash
himself against the bosses of the Almighty's buckler. His heart beat,
and his brain throbbed; all presence of mind, almost all consciousness,
abandoned him, and he only felt that the great object of his life was
lost--the great plan, to the completion of which he had devoted all his
energies, was annihilated. He imagined that the apartment was filled
with gloom and fire, and that the faces he saw about him were mocking at
him, and disclosing to each other in whispers the dreadful extent, the
unutterable depth of his despair and misery. He also felt a sickness
of heart, that was in itself difficult to contend with, and a weakness
about the knees that rendered it nearly impossible for him to stand. His
head, too, became light and giddy, and his brain reeled so much that
he tottered, and was obliged to sit, in order to prevent himself from
falling. All, however, was not to end here. This was but the first blow.

Lord Cullamore was now about to depart; for he, too, had become
exceedingly weak and exhausted, by the unusual exercise and agitation to
which he had exposed himself.

Old Anthony Corbet then stepped forward, and said,

“Don't go, my lord. There's strange things to come to light this day and
this hour, for this is the day and this is the hour of my vengeance.”

“I do not understand you,” replied his lordship; “I was scarcely equal
to the effort of coming here, and I feel myself very feeble.”

“Get his lordship some wine,” said the old man, addressing his son. “You
will be good enough to stop, my lord,” he proceeded, “for a short time.
You are a magistrate, and your presence here may be necessary.”

“Ha!” exclaimed his lordship, surprised at such language: “this may be
serious. Proceed, my friend: what disclosures have you to make?”

Old Corbet did not answer him, but turning round to the baronet, who
was not then in a capacity to hear or observe anything apart from the
terrible convulsions of agony he was suffering, he looked upon him, his
keen old eyes in a blaze, his lips open and their expression sharpened
by the derisive and satanic triumph that was legible in the demon sneer
which kept them apart.

“Thomas Gourlay!” he exclaimed in a sharp, piercing voice of authority
and conscious power, “Thomas Gourlay, rise up and stand forward, your
day of doom is come.”

“Who is it that has the insolence to call my father Thomas Gourlay under
this roof?” asked his son Thomas, alias Mr. Ambrose Gray. “Begone, old
man, you are mad.”

“Bastard and impostor!” readied Anthony, “you appear before your time.
Thomas Gourlay, did you hear me?”

By an effort--almost a superhuman effort--the baronet succeeded in
turning his attention to what was going forward.

“What is this?” he exclaimed; “is this a tumult? Who dares to stir up
a tumult in such a scene as this? Begone!” said he, addressing several
strangers, who appeared to take a deep interest in what was likely to
ensue. The house was his own, and, as a matter of course, every one left
the room with the exception of those immediately connected with both
families, and with the incidents of our story.

“Let no one go,” said Anthony, “that I appointed to come here.”

“What!” said Dunroe, after the strangers had gone, and with a look that
indicated his sense of the baronet's duplicity, “is this gentleman your
son?”

“My acknowledged son, sir,” replied the other.

“And, pray, were you aware of that this morning?”

“As clearly and distinctly as you were that you had no earthly claim to
the title which you bear, nor to the property of your father,” replied
the baronet, with a look that matched that of the other. There they
stood, face to face, each detected in his dishonor and iniquity, and
on that account disqualified to recriminate upon each other, for their
mutual perfidy.

“Corbet,” said the baronet, now recovering himself, “what is this?
Respect my house and family--respect my guests. Go home; I pardon
you this folly, because I see that you have been too liberal in your
potations this morning.”

“You mistake me, sir,” replied the adroit old man; “I am going to do you
a service. Call forward Thomas Gourlay.”

This considerably relieved the baronet, who took it for granted that it
was his son whom he had called in the first instance.

“What!” exclaimed Lord Cullamore, “is it possible, Sir Thomas, that you
have recovered your lost son?”

“It is, my lord,” replied the other. “Thomas, come over till I present
you to my dear friend Lord Cullamore.”

Young Gourlay advanced, and the earl was in the act of extending his
hand to him, when old Anthony interposed, by drawing it back.

“Stop, my lord,” said he; “that hand is the hand of a man of honor, but
you must not soil it by touchin' that of a bastard and impostor.”

“That is my son, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “and I acknowledge him as
such.”

“So you may, sir,” replied Corbet, “and so you ought; but I say that if
he is your son, he is also my grandson.”

“Corbet,” said his lordship, “you had better explain yourself. This, Sir
Thomas, is a matter very disagreeable to me, and which I should not wish
even to hear; but as it is possible that the interests of my dear friend
here. Lady Gourlay, may be involved in it, I think it my duty not to
go.”

“Her ladyship's interests are involved in it, my lord,” replied Corbet;
“and you are right to stay, if it was only for her sake. Now, my lady,”
 he added, addressing her, “I see how you are sufferin', but I ask it as
a favor that you will keep yourself quiet, and let me go on.”

“Proceed, then,” said Lord Cullamore; “and do you, Lady Gourlay,
restrain your emotion, if you can.”

“Thomas Gourlay--I spake now to the father, my lord,” said Corbet.

“Sir Thomas Gourlay, sir!” said the baronet, haughtily and indignantly,
“Sir Thomas Gourlay!”

“Thomas Gourlay,” persisted Corbet, “it is now nineteen years, or
thereabouts, since you engaged me, myself--I am the man--to take away
the son of your brother, and you know the ordhers you gave me. I did so:
I got a mask, and took him away with me on the pretence of bringin' him
to see a puppet-show. Well, he disappeared, and your mind, I suppose,
was aisy. I tould you all was right, and every year from that to this
you have paid me a pension of fifty pounds.”

“The man is mad, my lord,” said Sir Thomas; “and, under all
circumstances, he makes himself out a villain.”

“I can perceive no evidence of madness, so far,” replied his lordship;
“proceed.”

“None but a villain would have served your purposes; but if I was
a villain, it wasn't to bear out your wishes, but to satisfy my own
revenge.”

“But what cause for revenge could you have had against him?” asked, his
lordship.

“What cause?” exclaimed the old man, whilst his countenance grew dark
as night, “what cause against the villain that seduced my daughter--that
brought disgrace and shame upon my family--that broke through the ties
of nature, which are always held sacred in our country, for she was his
own foster-sister, my lord, suckled at the same breasts, nursed in the
same arms, and fed and clothed and nourished by the same hand;--yes, my
lord, that brought shame and disgrace and madness, my lord--ay, madness
upon my child, that he deceived and corrupted, under a solemn oath of
marriage. Do you begin to undherstand me now, my lord?”

His lordship made no reply, but kept his eyes intently fixed upon him.

“Well, my lord, soon after the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's child,
his own went in the same way; and no search, no hunt, no attempt to get
him ever succeeded. He, any more than the other, could not be got. My
lord, it was I removed him. I saw far before me, and it was I removed
him; yes, Thomas Gourlay, it was I left you childless--at least of a
son.”

“You must yourself see, my lord,” said the baronet, “that--that--when is
this marriage to take place?--what is this?--I am quite confused; let
me see, let me see--yes, he is such a villain, my lord, that you must
perceive he is entitled to no credit--to none whatsoever.”

“Well, my lord,” proceeded Corbet.

“I think, my lord,” said Thomas Corbet, stepping forward, “that I ought
to acquaint your lordship with my father's infirmity. Of late, my lord,
he has been occasionally unsettled in his senses. I can prove this on
oath.”

“And if what he states be true,” replied his lordship, “I am not
surprised at it; it is only right we should hear him, however, as I
have already said, I can perceive no traces of insanity about him.”

“Ah, my lord,” replied the old man, “it would be well for him if he
could prove me mad, for then his nephew, the bastard, might have a
chance of succeeding to the Gourlay title, and the estates. But I must
go on. Well, my lord, after ten years or so, I came one day to Mr.
Gourlay--he was then called Sir Thomas--and I tould him that I had
relented, and couldn't do with his brother's son as I had promised, and
as he wished me. 'He is living,' said I, 'and I wish you would take him
undher your own care.' I won't wait to tell you the abuse I got from him
for not fulfillin' his wishes; but he felt he was in my power, and was
forced to continue my pension and keep himself quiet. Well, my lord,
I brought him the boy one night, undher the clouds of darkness, and we
conveyed him to a lunatic asylum.”

Here he was interrupted by something between a groan and a scream from
Lady Gourlay, who, however, endeavored immediately to restrain her
feelings.

“From that day to this, my lord, the cruelty he received, sometimes
in one madhouse and sometimes in another, sometimes in England and
sometimes in Ireland, it would be terrible to know. Everything that
could wear away life was attempted, and the instruments in that black
villain's hands were well paid for their cruelty. At length, my lord,
he escaped, and wandhered about till he settled down in the town of
Ballytrain. Thomas Gourlay--then Sir Thomas--had been away with his
family for two or three years in foreign parts, but when he went to his
seat, Red Hall, near that town, he wasn't long there till he found out
that the young man named Fenton--something unsettled, they said, in his
mind--was his brother's son, for the baronet had been informed of his
escape. Well, he got him once more into his clutches, and in the dead
hour of night, himself--you there, Thomas Gourlay--one of your villain
servants, by name Gillespie, and my own son--you that stand there,
Thomas Corbet--afther making the poor boy dead drunk, brought him off
to one of the mad-houses that he had been in before. He, Mr. Gourlay,
then--or Sir Thomas, if you like--went with them a part of the way.
Providence, my lord, is never asleep, however. The keeper of the last
mad-house was more of a devil than a man. The letter of the baronet was
written to the man that had been there before him, but he was dead, and
this villain took the boy and the money that had been sent with him, and
there he suffered what I am afraid he will never get the betther of.”

“But what became of Sir Thomas Gourlay's son?” asked his lordship; “and
where now is Lady Gourlay's?”

“They are both in this room, my lord. Now, Thomas Gourlay, I will
restore your son to you. Advance, Black Baronet,” said the old man,
walking over to Fenton, with a condensed tone of vengeance and triumph
in his voice and features, that filled all present with awe. “Come, now,
and look upon your own work--think, if it will comfort you, upon what
you made your own flesh and blood suffer. There he is, Black Baronet;
there is your son--dead!”

A sudden murmur and agitation took place as he pointed to Fenton; but
there was now something of command, nay, absolutely of grandeur, in his
revenge, as well as in his whole manner.

“Keep quiet, all of you,” he exclaimed, raising his arm with a spirit of
authority and power; “keep quiet, I say, and don't disturb the dead. I
am not done.”

“I must interrupt you a moment,” said Lord Dunroe. “I thought the
person--the unfortunate young man here--was the son of Sir Thomas's
brother?”

“And so did he,” replied Corbet; “but I will make the whole thing
simple at wanst. When he was big enough to be grown out of his father's
recollection, I brought back his own son to him as the son of his
brother. And while the black villain was huggin' himself with delight
that all the sufferings, and tortures, and hellish scourgings, and
chains, and cells, and darkness, and damp, and cruelty of all shapes,
were breakin' down the son of his brother to death--the heir that
stood between himself and his unlawful title, and his unlawful
property--instead of that, they were all inflicted upon his own lawfully
begotten son, who now lies there--dead!”

“What is the matter with Sir Thomas Gourlay?” said his lordship; “what
is wrong?”

Sir Thomas's conduct, whilst old Corbet was proceeding to detail these
frightful and harrowing developments, gave once or twice strong symptoms
of incoherency, more, indeed, by his action than his language. He
seized, for instance, the person next him, unfortunate Dr. Sombre, and
after squeezing his arm until it became too painful to bear, he ground
his teeth, looked into his face, and asked, “Do you think--would you
swear--that--that--ay--that there is a God?” Then, looking at Corbet,
and trying to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “Villain, demon,
devil;” and he then struck or rather throttled the Doctor, as he sat
beside him. They succeeded, however, in composing him, but his eyes were
expressive of such wildness and horror and blood-shot frenzy, that one
or two of them sat close to him, for the purpose of restraining his
tendency to violence.

Lady Gourlay, on hearing that Fenton was not her son, wept bitterly,
exclaiming, “Alas! I am twice made childless.” But Lucy, who had
awakened out of the deathlike stupor of misery which had oppressed her
all the morning, now became conscious of the terrible disclosures which
old Corbet was making; and on hearing that Fenton was, or rather
had been, her brother, she flew to him, and on looking at his pale,
handsome, but lifeless features, she threw her arms around him, kissed
his lips in an agony of sorrow, and exclaimed, “And is it thus we meet,
my brother! No word to recognize your sister? No glance of that eye,
that is closed forever, to welcome me to your heart? Oh! miserable fate,
my brother! We meet in death. You are now with our mother; and Lucy,
your sister, whom you never saw, will soon join you. You are gone! Your
wearied and broken spirit fled from disgrace and sorrow. Yes; I shall
soon meet you, where your lips will not be passive to the embraces of
a sister, and where your eyes will not be closed against those looks of
affection and tenderness which she was prepared to give you, but which
you could not receive. Ah, here there is no repugnance of the heart, as
there was in the other instance. Here are my blessed mother's features;
and nature tells me that you are--oh, distressing sight!--that you were
my brother.”

“Keep silence,” exclaimed Corbet, “you must hear me out. Thomas Gourlay,
there lies your son; I don't know what you may feel now that you know
he's your own--and well you know it;--but I know his sufferings gave you
very little trouble so long as you thought that he was the child of the
widow of your brother that was dead. Well now, my lord,” he proceeded,
“you might think I've had very good revenge upon Thomas Gourlay; but
there's more to come.”

“Attention!” from old Sam, in a voice that startled almost every one
present.

“Yes, my lord, I must fulfil my work. Stand forward, Sir Edward Gourlay.
Stand forward, and go to your affectionate mother's arms.”

“I fear the old man is unsettled, certainly,” said his lordship. “Sir
Edward Gourlay!--there is no Sir Edward Gourlay here.”

“Attention, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, again taking the head of his cane
out of his mouth, where it had got a merciless mumbling for some time
past. “Attention, Ned! you're called, my boy.”

Old Corbet went over to Ensign Roberts, and taking him by the hand, led
him to Lady Gourlay, exclaiming, “There, my lady, is your son, and proud
you may be out of him. There is the real heir of the Gourlay name and
the Gourlay property. Look at him and his cousin, your niece, and see
how they resemble one another. Look at his father's features in
his face; but I have plenty of proof, full satisfaction to give you
besides.”

Lady Gourlay became pale as death. “Mysterious and just Providence,” she
exclaimed, “can this be true? But it is--it must--there are the features
of his departed father--his figure--his every look. He is mine!--he is
mine! My heart recognizes him. Oh, my son!--my child!--are you at length
restored to me?”

Young Roberts was all amazement. Whilst Lady Gourlay spoke, he looked
over at old Sam, whose son he actually believed himself to be (for the
fine old fellow had benevolently imposed on him), and seemed anxious to
know what this new parentage, now ascribed to him, could mean.

“All right, Ned! Corbet is good authority: but although I knew you were
not mine, I could never squeeze the truth out of him as to who your
father was. It's true, in spite of all he said, I had suspicions; but
what could I do?---I could prove nothing.”

We will not describe this restoration of the widow's son. Our readers
can easily conceive it, and, accordingly, to their imagination we will
leave it.

It was attended, however, by an incident which we cannot pass over
without some notice. Lady Emily, on witnessing the extraordinary turn
which had so providentially taken place in the fate and fortune of
her lover, was observed by Mrs. Mainwaring to grow very pale. A
consciousness of injury, which our readers will presently understand,
prevented her from offering assistance, but running over to Lucy, she
said, “I fear, Miss Gourlay, that Lady Emily is ill.”

Lucy, who was all tenderness, left her brother, over whom she had been
weeping, and flew to her assistance just in time to prevent her from
falling off her chair. She had swooned. Water, however, and essences,
and other appliances, soon restored her; and on recovering she cast her
eyes about the room as if to search for some one. Lady Gourlay had her
arm round her, and was chafing her temples at the time. Those lovely
fawn-like eyes of hers had not far to search. Roberts, now young Sir
Edward Gourlay, had been standing near, contemplating her beautiful
features, and deeply alarmed by her illness, when their eyes met; and,
to the surprise of Lucy Gourlay, a blush so modest, so beautiful, so
exquisite, but yet so legible in its expression, took place of the
paleness which had been there before. She looked up, saw the direction
of her son's eyes, then looked significantly at Lucy, and smiled. The
tell-tale blush, in fact, discovered the state of their hearts, and
never was a history of pure and innocent love more appropriately or
beautifully told.

This significant little episode did not last long; and when Lady Emily
found herself recovered, Thomas Corbet advanced, and said: “I don't know
what you mean, father, by saying that the young man who has just
died was Sir Thomas Gourlay's son. You know in your heart that
this”--pointing to his nephew--“is his true and legitimate heir. You
know, too, that his illegitimate son has been dead for years, and that I
myself saw him buried.”

“My lord, pay attention to what I'll speak,” said his father. “If the
bastard died, and if my son was at his burial, and saw him laid in the
grave, he can tell us where that grave is to be found, at least. His
father, however, will remember the tattooing.”

The unexpected nature of the question, and its direct bearing upon the
circumstance before them, baffled Thomas Corbet, who left the room,
affecting to be too indignant to reply.

“Now,” proceeded his father, “he knows he has stated a falsehood. I
have proof for every word I said, and for every circumstance. There's a
paper,” he added, “a pound note, that will prove one link in the chain,
for the very person's name that is written on it by the poor young man
himself, I have here. He can prove the mark on his neck, when in outlier
despair, the poor creature made an attempt on his own life with a piece
of glass. And what is more, I have the very clothes they both wore when
I took them away. In short, I have everything full and clear; but I did
not let either my son or daughter know of my exchangin' the childre',
and palmin' Thomas Gourlay's own son on him as the son of his brother.
That saicret I kept to myself, knowin' that I couldn't trust them. And
now, Thomas Gourlay,” he said, “my revenge is complete. There you stand,
a guilty and a disgraced man; and with all your wisdom, and wealth, and
power, what were you but a mere tool and puppet in my hands up to
this hour? There you stand, without a house that you can call your
own--stripped of your false title--of your false property--but not
altogether of your false character, for the world knew pretty well what
that was.”

Corbet's daughter then came forward, and laying her hand on the
baronet's shoulder, said, “Do you know me, Thomas Gourlay?”

“No,” replied the other, looking at her with fury; “you are a spectre;
I have seen you before; you appeared to me once, and your words were
false. Begone, you are a spectre--a spirit of evil.”

“I am the spirit of death to you,” she replied; “but my prophetic
announcement was true. I called you Thomas Gourlay then, and I call you
Thomas Gourlay now--for such is your name; and your false title is
gone. That young man there, named after you, is my son, and you are his
father--for I am Jacinta Corbet: so far my father's words are true; and
if it were not for his revenge, my son would have inherited your name,
title, and property. Here now I stand the victim of your treachery and
falsehood, which for years have driven me mad. But now the spirit of
the future is upon me; and I tell you, that I read frenzy, madness, and
death in your face. You have been guilty of great crimes, but you will
be guiltier of a greater and a darker still. I read that in your
coward spirit, for I know you well. I also am revenged, but I have been
punished; and my own sufferings have taught me to feel that I am still
a woman. I loved you once--I hated you long; but now I pity you. Yes,
Thomas Gourlay, she whom you drove to madness, and imposture, and
misery, for long years, can now look down upon you with pity!”

Having thus spoken, she left the room.

We may add here, in a few brief words, that the proof of the identity of
each of the two individuals in question was clearly, legally, and most
satisfactorily established; in addition to which, if farther certainty
had been wanting, Lady Gourlay at once knew her son by a very peculiar
mole on his neck, of a three-cornered shape, resembling a triangle.

The important events of the day, so deeply affecting Sir Thomas Gourlay
and his family, had been now brought to a close; all the strangers
withdrew, and Fenton's body was brought up stairs and laid out. Lady
Emily and her father went home together; so did Roberts, now Sir Edward
Gourlay, and his delighted and thankful mother. Her confidence in the
providence of God was at length amply rewarded, and the widow's heart at
last was indeed made to sing for joy.

“Well, Ned, my boy,” said old Sam, turning to Sir Edward, after having
been introduced to his mother, “I hope I haven't lost a son to-day,
although your mother gained one?”

“I would be unworthy of my good fortune, if you did,” replied Sir
Edward. “Whilst I have life and sense and memory I shall ever look upon
you as my father, and my best friend.”

“Eight,” replied the old soldier; “but I knew it was before you. He was
no everyday plant, my lady, and so I told my Beck. Your ladyship must
see my Beck,” he added; “she's the queen of wives, and I knew it
from the first day I married her; my heart told me so, and it was all
right--all the heart of man.”

The unfortunate old Doctor was to be pitied. He walked about with his
finger in his book, scarcely knowing whether what he had seen and
heard was a dream, or a reality. Seeing Lord Dunroe about to take his
departure, he approached him, and said, “Pray, sir, are we to have no
dejeuner after all? Are not you the young gentleman who was this day
found out--discovered?”

Dunroe was either so completely absorbed in the contemplation of his ill
fortune, that he did not hear him, or he would not deign him an answer.

“This is really too bad,” continued the Doctor; “neither a marriage fee
nor a dejeuner! Too bad, indeed! Here are the tribulations, but not the
marriage; under which melancholy circumstances I may as well go on my
way, although I cannot do it as I expected to have done--rejoicing. Good
morning, Mr. Stoker.”

Our readers ought to be sufficiently acquainted, we presume, with the
state of Lucy's feelings after the events of the day and the disclosures
that had been made. Sir Thomas Gourlay--we may as well call him so for
the short time he will be on the stage--stunned--crushed--wrecked--
ruined, was instantly obliged to go to bed. The shock sustained by his
system, both physically and mentally, was terrific in its character, and
fearful in its results. His incoherency almost amounted to frenzy. He
raved--he stormed--he cursed--he blasphemed; but amidst this dark tumult
of thought and passion, there might ever be observed the prevalence
of the monster evil--the failure of his ambition for his daughter's
elevation to the rank of a countess. Never, indeed, was there such a
tempest of human passion at work in a brain as raged in his.

“It's a falsehood, I didn't murder my son,” he raved; “or if I did, what
care I about that? I am a man of steel. My daughter--my daughter was my
thought. Well, Dunroe, all is right at last--eh? ha--ha--ha! I managed
it; but I knew my system was the right one. Lady Dunroe!--very good,
very good to begin with; but not what I wish to see, to hear, to feel
before I die. Nurse me, now, if I died without seeing her Countess
of Cullamore, but I'd break my heart. 'Make way, there--way for the
Countess of Cullamore!'--ha! does not that sound well? But then, the old
Earl! Curse him, what keeps him on the stage so long? Away with the
old carrion!--away with him! But what was that that happened to-day, or
yesterday? Misery, torture, perdition!--disgraced, undone, ruined! Is
it true, though? Is this joy? I expected--I feared something like
this. Will no one tell me what has happened? Here, Lucy--Countess of
Cullamore!--where are you? Now, Lucy, now--put your heel on them--grind
them, my girl--remember the cold and distrustful looks your father got
from the world--especially from those of your own sex--remember it all,
now, Lucy--Countess of Cullamore, I mean--remember it, I say, my lady,
for your father's sake. Now, my girl, for pride; now for the haughty
sneer; now for the aristocratic air of disdain; now for the day of
triumph over the mob of the great vulgar. And that fellow--that reverend
old shark who would eat any one of his Christian brethren, if they were
only sent up to him disguised as a turbot--the divine old lobster, for
his thin red nose is a perfect claw--the divine old lobster couldn't
tell me whether there was a God or not. Curse him, not he; but hold, I
must not be too severe upon him: his god is his belly, and mine was my
ambition. Oh, oh! what is this--what does it all mean? What has
happened to me? Oh, I am ill, I fear: perhaps I am mad. Is the Countess
there--the Countess of Cullamore, I mean?”

Many of his subsequent incoherencies were still more violent and
appalling, and sometimes he would have got up and committed acts of
outrage, if he had not been closely watched and restrained by force.
Whether his complaint was insanity or brain fever, or the one as
symptomatic of the other, even his medical attendants could scarcely
determine. At all events, whatever medical skill and domestic attention
could do for him was done, but with very little hopes of success.

The effect of the scene which the worn and invalid Earl had witnessed at
Sir Thomas Gourlay's were so exhausting to his weak frame that they left
very little strength behind them. Yet he complained of no particular
illness; all he felt was, an easy but general and certain decay of his
physical powers, leaving the mind and intellect strong and clear. On the
day following the scene in the baronet's house, we must present him to
the reader seated, as usual--for he could not be prevailed upon to keep
his bed--in his arm-chair, with the papers of the day before him. Near
him, on another seat, was Sir Edward Gourlay.

“Well, Sir Edward, the proofs, you say, have been all satisfactory.”

“Perfectly so, my lord,” replied the young baronet; “we did not allow
yesterday to close without making everything clear. We have this morning
had counsel's opinion upon it, and the proof is considered decisive.”

“But is Lady Emily herself aware of your attachment?”

“Why, my lord,” replied Sir Edward, blushing a little, “I may say I
think that--ahem!--she has, in some sort, given--a--ahem!--a kind of
consent that I should speak to your lordship on the subject.'

“My dear young friend,” said his lordship, whose voice became tremulous,
and whose face grew like the whitest ashes.

“Have you got ill, my lord?” asked Sir Edward, a good deal alarmed:
“shall I ring for assistance?”

“No,” replied his lordship; “no; I only wish to say that you know not
the extent of your own generosity in making this proposal.”

“Generosity, my lord! Your lordship will pardon me. In this case I have
all the honor to receive, and nothing to confer in exchange.”

“Hear me for a few minutes,” replied his lordship, “and after you shall
have heard me, you will then be able at least to understand whether the
proposal you make for my daughter's hand is a generous one or not. My
daughter, Sir Edward, is illegitimate.”

“Illegitimate, my lord!” replied the other, with an evident shock which
he could not conceal. “Great God! my lord, your words are impossible.”

“My young friend, they are both possible and true. Listen to me:

“In early life I loved a young lady of a decayed but respectable family.
I communicated our attachment to my friends, who pronounced me a fool,
and did not hesitate to attribute my affection for her to art on the
part of the lady, and intrigue on that of her relatives. I was at the
time deeply, almost irretrievably, embarrassed. Be this as it may, I
knew that the imputations against Maria, for such was her name, as well
as against her relatives, were utterly false; and as a proof I did so,
I followed her to France, where, indeed, I had first met her. Well, we
were privately married there; for, although young at the time, I was not
without a spirit of false pride and ambition, that tended to prevent me
from acknowledging my marriage, and encountering boldly, as I ought to
have done, the resentment of my relations and the sneers of the world.
Owing to this unmanly spirit on my part, our marriage, though strictly
correct and legal in every respect, was nevertheless a private one, as
I have said. In the meantime I had entered parliament, and it is not
for me to dwell upon the popularity with which my efforts there were
attended. I consequently lived a good deal apart from my wife, whom
I had not courage to present as such to the world. Every day now
established my success in the House of Commons, and increased my
ambition. The constitution of my wife had been naturally a delicate one,
and I understood, subsequently to our union, that there had been decline
in her family to such an extent, that nearly one-half of them had died
of it. In this way we lived for four years, having no issue. About the
commencement of the fifth my wife's health began to decline, and as that
session of parliament was a very busy and a very important one, I was
but little with her. Ever since the period of our marriage, she had been
attended by a faithful maid, indeed, rather a companion, well educated
and accomplished, named Norton, subsequently married to a cousin of her
own name. After a short visit to my wife, in whose constitution decline
had now set in, and whom I ought not to have left, I returned to
parliament, more than ever ambitious for distinction. I must do myself
the justice to say that I loved her tenderly; but at the same time I
felt disappointed at not having a family. On returning to London I found
that my brother, who had opposed all notion of my marriage with peculiar
bitterness, and never spoke of my wife with respect, was himself about
to be married to one of the most fascinating creatures on whom my eyes
ever rested; and, what was equally agreeable, she had an immense fortune
in her own right, and was, besides, of a high and distinguished family.
She was beautiful, she was rich--she was, alas! ambitious. Well, we
met, we conversed, we compared minds with each other; we sang together,
we danced together, until at length we began to feel that the absence of
the one caused an unusual depression in the other. I was said to be one
of the most eloquent commoners of the day--her family were powerful--my
wife was in a decline, and recovery hopeless. Here, then, was a career
for ambition; but that was not all. I was poor--embarrassed almost
beyond hope--on the very verge of ruin. Indeed, so poor, that it was as
much owing to the inability of maintaining my wife in her proper
rank, as to fear of my friends and the world, that I did not publicly
acknowledge her. But why dwell on this? I loved the woman whose heart
and thought had belonged to my brother--loved her to madness; and soon
perceived that the passion was mutual. I had not, however, breathed a
syllable of love, nor was it ever my intention to do so. My brother,
however, was gradually thrown off, treated with coldness, and ultimately
with disdain, while no one suspected the cause. It is painful to dwell
upon subsequent occurrences. My brother grew jealous, and, being a
high-spirited young man, released Lady Emily from her engagement. I was
mad with love; and this conduct, honorable and manly as it was in him,
occasioned an explanation between me and Lady Emily, in which, weak and
vacillating as I was, in the frenzy of the moment I disclosed, avowed my
passion, and--but why proceed? We loved each other, not 'wisely, but too
well.' My brother sought and obtained a foreign lucrative appointment,
and left the country in a state of mind which it is very difficult to
describe. He refused to see me on his departure, and I have never seen
him since.

“The human heart, my young friend, is a great mystery. I now attached
myself to Lady Emily, and was about to disclose my marriage to her; but
as the state of my wife's health was hopeless, I declined to do so, in
the expectation that a little time might set me free. My wife was then
living in a remote little village in the south of France; most of her
relatives were dead, and those who survived were at the time living in a
part of Connaught, Galway, to which any kind of intelligence, much less
foreign, seldom ever made its way. Now, I do not want to justify myself,
because I cannot do so. I said this moment that the human heart is a
great mystery. So it is. Whilst my passion for Lady Emily was literally
beyond all restraint, I nevertheless felt visitations of remorse
that were terrible. The image of my gentle Maria, sweet, contented,
affectionate, and uncomplaining, would sometimes come before me,
and--pardon me, my friend; I am very weak, but I will resume in a few
moments. Well, the struggle within me was great. I had a young duke as a
rival; but I was not only a rising man, but actually had a party in
the House of Commons. Her family, high and ambitious, were anxious to
procure my political support, and held out the prospect of a peerage. My
wife was dying; I loved Lady Emily; I was without offspring; I was
poor; I was ambitious. She was beautiful, of high family and powerful
connections; she was immensely rich, too, highly accomplished, and
enthusiastically attached to me. These were temptations.

“At this period it so fell out that a sister of my wife's became
governess in Lady Emily's family; but the latter were ignorant of the
connection. This alarmed me, frightened me; for I feared she would
disclose my marriage. I lost no time in bringing about a private
interview with her, in which I entreated her to keep the matter secret,
stating that a short time would enable me to bring her sister with eclat
into public life. I also prevailed upon her to give up her situation,
and furnished her with money for Maria, to whom I sent her, with
an assurance that my house should ever be her home, and that it
was contrary to my wishes ever to hear my wife's sister becoming a
governess; and this indeed was true. I also wrote to my wife, to the
effect that the pressure of my parliamentary duties would prevent me
from seeing her for a couple of months.

“In this position matters were for about a fortnight or three weeks,
when, at last, a letter reached me from my sister-in-law, giving a
detailed account of my wife's death, and stating that she and Miss
Norton were about to make a tour to Italy, for the purpose of acquiring
the language. This letter was a diabolical falsehood, Sir Edward; but it
accomplished its purpose. She had gleaned enough of intelligence in the
family, by observation and otherwise, to believe that my wife's death
alone would enable me, in a short time, to become united to Lady Emily;
and that if my marriage with her took place whilst her sister lived, I
believing her to be dead, she would punish me for what she considered my
neglect of her, and my unjustifiable attachment to another woman during
Maria's life. All communication ceased between us. My wife was unable
to write; but from what her sister stated to her, probably with
exaggerations, her pride prevented her from holding any correspondence
with a husband who refused to acknowledge his marriage with her, and
whose affections had been transferred to another. At all events, the
blow took effect. Believing her dead, and deeming myself at liberty, I
married Lady Emily, after a lapse of six months, exactly as many weeks
before the death of my first wife. Of course you perceive now, my
friend, that my last marriage was null and void; and that, hurried on by
the eager impulses of love and ambition, I did, without knowing it, an
act which has made my children illegitimate. It is true, my union with
Lady Emily was productive to me of great results. I was created an Irish
peer, in consequence of the support I gave to my wife's connections. The
next step was an earldom, with an English peerage, together with such
an accession of property in right of my wife, as made me rich beyond
my wishes. So far, you may say, I was a successful man; but the world
cannot judge of the heart, and its recollections. My second wife was
a virtuous woman, high, haughty, and correct; but notwithstanding our
early enthusiastic affection, the experiences of domestic life soon
taught us to feel, that, after all, our dispositions and tastes
were unsuitable. She was fond of show, of equipage, of fashionable
amusements, and that empty dissipation which constitutes, the substance
of aristocratic existence. I, on the contrary, when not engaged in
public life, with which I soon grew fatigued, was devoted to retirement,
to domestic enjoyment, and to the duties which devolved upon me as a
parent. I loved my children with the greatest tenderness, and applied
myself to the cultivation of their principles, and the progress of their
education. All, however, would not do. I was unhappy; unhappy, not
only in my present wife, but in the recollection of the gentle and
affectionate Maria. I now felt the full enormity of my crime against
that patient and angelic being. Her memory began to haunt me--her
virtues were ever in my thoughts; her quiet, uncomplaining submission,
her love, devotion, tenderness, all rose up in fearful array against
me, until I felt that the abiding principle of my existence was a deep
remorse, that ate its way into my happiness day by day, and has never
left me through my whole subsequent life. This, however, was attended
with some good, as it recalled me, in an especial manner, to the nobler
duties of humanity. I felt now that truth, and a high sense of honor,
could alone enable me to redeem the past, and atone for my conduct with
respect to Maria. But, above all, I felt that independence of mind,
self-restraint, and firmness of character, were virtues, principles,
what you will, without which man is but a cipher, a tool of others, or
the sport of circumstances.

“My second wife died of a cold, caught by going rather thinly dressed
to a fashionable party too soon after the birth of Emily; and my son,
having become the pet and spoiled child of his mother and her relatives,
soon became imbued with fashionable follies, which, despite of all my
care and vigilance, I am grieved to say, have degenerated into worse and
more indefensible principles. He had not reached the period of manhood
when he altogether threw off all regard for my control over him as a
father, and led a life since of which the less that is said the better.

“The facts connected with my second marriage have been so clearly
established that defence is hopeless. The registry of our marriage, and
of my first wife's death, have been laid before me, and Mrs. Mainwaring,
herself, was ready to substantiate and prove them by her personal
testimony. My own counsel, able and eminent men as they are, have
dissuaded me from bringing the matter to a trial, and thus making public
the disgrace which must attach to my children. You now understand,
Sir Edward, the full extent of your generosity in proposing for my
daughter's hand, and you also understand the nature of my private
communication yesterday with your uncle.”

“But, my lord, how did your brother become aware of the circumstances
you have just mentioned?”

“Through Mrs. Mainwaring, who thought it unjust that a profligate should
inherit so much property, with so bad a title to it, whilst there were
virtuous and honorable men to claim it justly; such are the words of a
note on the subject which I have received from her this very morning.
Thus it is that vice often punishes itself. Now, Sir Edward, I am ready
to hear you.”

“My lord,” replied Sir Edward, “the case is so peculiar, so completely
out of the common course, that, morally speaking, I cannot look upon
your children as illegitimate. I have besides great doubts whether the
prejudice of the world, or its pride, which visits upon the head of the
innocent child the error, or crime if you will, of the guilty parent,
ought to be admitted as a principle of action in life.”

“Yes,” replied the earl; “but on the other hand, to forbid it altogether
might tend to relax some of the best principles in man and woman. Vice
must frequently be followed up for punishment even to its consequences
as well as its immediate acts, otherwise virtue were little better than
a name. For this, however, there is a remedy--an act of parliament must
be procured to legitimatize my children. I shall take care of that,
although I may not live to see it,” *

     * This was done, and the circumstance is still remembered by
     many persons in the north of Ireland.

“Be that as it may, my lord, I cannot but think that in the eye of
religion and morality your children are certainly legitimate; all that
is against them being a point of law. For my part, I earnestly beg to
renew my proposal for the hand of Lady Emily.”

“Then, Sir Edward, you do not feel yourself deterred by anything I have
stated?”

“My lord, I love Lady Emily for her own sake--and for her own sake
only.”

“Then,” replied her father, “bring her here. I feel very weak--I am
getting heavy. Yesterday's disclosures gave me a shock which I fear
will--but I trust I am prepared--go--remember, however, that my darling
child knows nothing of what I have mentioned to you--Dunroe does. I had
not courage to tell her that she has been placed by her father's pride,
by his ambition, and by his want of moral restraint, out of the pale of
life. Go, and fetch her here.”

That they approached him with exulting hearts--that he joined their
hands, and blessed them--is all that is necessary to be mentioned now.

In the course of that evening, a reverend dignitary of the church, Dean
Palmer, whom we have mentioned occasionally in this narrative, and a
very different man indeed from our friend Dr. Sombre, called at Sir
Thomas Goulray's to inquire after his health, and to see Miss Gourlay.
He was shown up to the drawing room, where Lucy, very weak, but still
relieved from the great evil which she had dreaded so much, soon joined
him.

“Miss Gourlay,” said he, “I trust your father is better?”

“He is better, sir, in mere bodily health. The cupping, and blistering,
and loss of blood from the arms, have relieved him, and his delirium has
nearly passed away; but, then, he is silent and gloomy, and depressed,
it would seem, beyond the reach of hope or consolation.”

“Do you think he would see me?”

“No, sir, he would not,” she replied. “Two or three clergymen have
called for that purpose; but the very mention of them threw him into a
state almost bordering on frenzy.”

“Under these circumstances,” replied the good Dean, “it would be wrong
to press him. When he has somewhat recovered, I hope he may be prevailed
on to raise his thoughts to a better life than this. And now, my dear
young lady, I have a favor to request at your hands.”

“At mine, sir! If there is any thing within my power--”

“This is, I assure you.”

“Pray, what is it, sir?”

“Would you so far oblige me as to receive a visit from Lord Dunroe?”

“In any other thing within the limits of my power, sir--in anything that
ought to be asked of me--I would feel great pleasure in obliging you;
but in this you must excuse me.”

“I saw Lord Cullamore in the early part of the day,” replied Dean
Palmer, “and he told me to say, that it was his wish you should see him;
he added, that he felt it was a last request.”

“I shall see him,” replied the generous girl, “instantly; for his
lordship's sake I shall see him, although I cannot conceive for what
purpose Lord Dunroe can wish it.”

“It is sufficient, Miss Gourlay, that you consent to see him. He is
below in my carriage; shall I bring him up?”

“Do so, sir. I am going to prevail, if I can, on papa, to take a
composing draught, which the doctors have ordered him. I shall return
again in a few minutes.”

Sir Thomas Gourlay had got up some hours before, and was seated in an
armchair as she entered.

“How do you feel now, papa?” she asked, with the utmost affection and
tenderness; “oh, do not be depressed; through all changes of life your
Lucy's affections will be with you.”

“Lucy,” said he, “come and kiss me.”

In a moment her arms were about his neck, and she whispered
encouragingly, whilst caressing him, “Papa, now that I have not been
thrust down that fearful abyss, believe me, we shall be very happy yet.”

He gave her a long look; then shook his head, but did not speak.

“Endeavor to keep up your spirits, dearest papa; you seem depressed,
but that is natural after what you have suffered. Will you take the
composing draught? It will relieve you.”

“I believe it will, but I cannot take it from your hand; and he kept his
eyes fixed upon her with a melancholy gaze as he spoke.

“And why not from mine, papa? Surely you would not change your mind now.
You have taken all your medicine from me, up to this moment.”

“I will take it myself, presently, Lucy.”

“Will you promise me, papa?” she said, endeavoring to smile.

“Yes, Lucy, I promise you.”

“But, papa, I had forgotten to say that Lord Dunroe has called to ask an
interview with me. He and Dean Palmer are now in the drawing-room.”

“Have you seen him?” asked her father.

“Not yet, papa.”

“Will you see him?”

“Lord Cullamore sent the Dean to me to say, that it was his earnest
request I should--his last.”

“His last! Lucy. Well, then, see him--there is a great deal due to a
last request.”

“Oh, yes, I shall see him. Well, good-by, papa. Remember now that you
take the composing draught; I shall return to you after I have seen Lord
Dunroe.”

She was closing the door, when he recalled her. “Lucy,” said he, “come
here.”

“Well, papa; well, dearest papa?”

“Kiss me again,” said he.

She stooped as before, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him
like a child. He took her hand in his, and looked on her with the same
long earnest look, and putting it to his lips, kissed it; and as he did,
Lucy felt a tear fall upon it. “Lucy,” said he, “I have one word to say
to you.”

Lucy was already in tears; that one little drop--the symptom of an
emotion she had never witnessed before--and she trusted the forerunner
of a softened and repentant heart, had already melted hers.

“Lucy,” he said, “forgive me.”

The floodgates of her heart and of her eyes were opened at once. She
threw herself on his bosom; she kissed him, and wept long and loudly.

He, in the meantime, had regained the dread composure, that death-like
calmness, into which he had passed from his frenzy.

“Forgive you, papa? I do--I do, a thousand times; but I have nothing
to forgive. Do I not know that all your plans and purposes were for my
advancement, and, as you hoped, for my happiness?”

“Lucy,” said he, “disgrace is hard to bear; but still I would have borne
it had my great object in that advancement been accomplished; but now,
here is the disgrace, yet the object lost forever. Then, my son, Lucy--I
am his murderer; but I knew it not; and even that I could get over; but
you, that is what prostrates me. And, again, to have been the puppet of
that old villain! Even that, however, I could bear; yes, everything but
you!--that was the great cast on which my whole heart was set; but now,
mocked, despised, detested, baffled, detected, defeated. However, it is
all over, like a troubled dream. Dry your eyes now,” he added, “and see
Dunroe.”

“Would you wish to see Dean Palmer, papa?”

“No, no, Lucy; not at all; he could do me no good. Go, now, and see
Dunroe, and do not let me be disturbed for an hour or two. You know I
have seen the body of my son to-day, and I wish I had not.”

“I am sorry you did, papa; it has depressed you very much.”

“Go, Lucy, go. In a couple of hours I--Go, dear; don't keep his lordship
waiting.”

Poor Lucy's heart was in a tumult of delight as she went down stairs.
In the whole course of her life she had never witnessed in her father
anything of tender emotion until then, and the tear that fell upon her
hand she knew was the only one she ever saw him shed.

“I have hope for papa yet,” she said to herself, as she was about to
enter the drawing-room; “I never thought I loved him so much as I find I
do now.”

On advancing into the room, for an instant's time she seemed confused;
her confusion, however, soon became surprise--amazement, when Dean
Palmer, taking our friend the stranger by the hand, led him toward her,
exclaiming, “Allow me, Miss Gourlay, to have the honor of presenting to
you Lord Dunroe.”

“Lord Dunroe!” exclaimed Lucy, in her turn, looking aghast with
astonishment. “What is this, sir--what means this, gentlemen? This
house, pray recollect, is a house of death and of suffering.”

“It is the truth, Miss Gourlay,” replied the Dean. “Here stands the
veritable Lord Dunroe, whose father is now the earl of Cullamore.”

“But, sir, I don't understand this.”

“It is very easily understood, however, Miss Gourlay. This gentleman's
father was the late Earl's brother; and he being now dead, his son here
inherits the title of Lord Dunroe.”

“But the late Earl's son?”

“Has no claim to the title, Miss Gourlay. His lordship here will give
you the particulars at leisure, and on a more befitting occasion. I saw
the late Earl to-day, not long before his death. He was calm, resigned,
and full of that Christian hope which makes the death of the righteous
so beautiful. He was not, indeed, without sorrow; but it was soothed by
his confidence in the mercy of God, and his belief in the necessity and
wisdom of sorrow and affliction to purify and exalt the heart.”

“And now, Lucy,” said the stranger--for so we shall call him
still--taking her hand in his, “I trust that all obstacles between our
union are removed at last. Our love has been strongly tested, and you
especially have suffered much. Your trust in Providence, however, like
that of Lady Gourlay, has not been in vain; and as for me, I learned
much, and I hope to learn more, from your great and noble example. I
concealed my name for many reasons: partly from delicacy to my uncle,
the late Earl, and his family; and I was partly forced to do it, in
consequence of an apprehension that I had killed a nobleman in a hasty
duel. He was not killed, however, thank God; nor was his wound so
dangerous as it looked at first; neither was I aware until afterwards
that the individual who forced me into it was my own cousin Dunroe. It
would have been very inconvenient to me to have been apprehended and
probably cast into prison at a time when I had so many interests to
look after; and, indeed, not the least of my motives was the fear
of precipitating your father's enmity against Lady Gourlay's son, by
discovering that I, who am her nephew, should have been seen about the
town of Ballytrain, where, when a boy, I had spent a good deal of my
early life. Had he known my name, he would have easily suspected my
object. Your mother was aware of my design in coming to Ireland; but as
I knew the risk of involving my uncle's children, and the good old man's
reputation besides, in a mesh of public scandal at a time when I did
not feel certain of being able to establish my claims, or rather my
father's, for I myself was indifferent to them, I resolved to keep
as quiet as possible, and not to disclose myself even to you until
necessity should compel me.”

Much more conversation ensued in connection with matters in which our
lovers felt more or less interest. At length the gentlemen rose to
go away, when Gillespie thrust a face of horror into the door, and
exclaimed, bolting, as he spoke, behind the Dean, “O, gentlemen, for
God's sake, save me! I'll confess and acknowledge everything.”

“What's the matter, Sir?” asked the Dean.

“The dead man, sir; he's sitting up in the bed; and I know what he's
come back for. You're a parson, sir, and, for heaven's sake, stand
between him and me.”

On proceeding to the room where the baronet's son had been laid out,
they found him sitting, certainly, on the bedside, wondering at the
habiliments of death which were about him. That which all had supposed
to have been death, was only a fit of catalepsy, brought on him by the
appearance of his father, who had, on more than one occasion, left a
terrible impress of himself upon his mind, and who, he had been informed
some years before, was the cause of all his sufferings. Even at the
sight of Lucy herself, he had been deeply agitated, although he could
not tell why. He was immediately attended to, a physician sent for,
and poor Lucy felt an elevation of heart and spirits which she had not
experienced for many a long day.

“Oh, do not go,” she said to her lover and the Dean, “until I
communicate to papa this twofold intelligence of delight; your strange
good fortune, and the resurrection, I may term it, of my brother. The
very object--the great engrossing object of papa's life and ambition
gained in so wonderful a way! Do, pray, gentlemen, remain for a few
minutes until I see him. O, what delight, what ecstasy will it not give
him!”

She accordingly went up stairs, slowly it is true, for she was weak;
and nothing further was heard except one wild and fearful scream, whose
sharp tones penetrated through the whole house.

“Ha!” exclaimed Lord Dunroe, “here is evil. Goodness me!--it is Miss
Gourlay's voice; I know it. Let us go up; I fear something is wrong with
her father.”

They accordingly sought the baronet's apartment, attended by the
servants, whom Lucy's wild scream had alarmed, and brought also toward
the same direction. On entering the room, the body of Lucy was found
lying beside, or rather across that of her father, whom, on removing
her, they found to be dead. Beside him lay a little phial, on which
there was no label, but the small portion of liquid that was found in
it was clear and colorless as water. It was prussic acid. Lucy was
immediately removed, and committed to the care of Alley Mahon and some
of the other females, and the body of the baronet was raised and placed
upon his own bed. The Dean and Lord Dunroe looked upon his lifeless but
stern features with a feeling of awe.

“Alas!” exclaimed the good Dean, “and is it thus he has gone to his
great account? We shall not follow his spirit into another life; but it
is miserable to reflect that one hour's patience might have saved him to
the world and to God, and showed him, after all, that the great object
of his life had been accomplished. Blind and impatient reasoner!--what
has he done?”

“Yes,” replied Dunroe, looking on him with a feeling of profound
melancholy; “there he lies--quiet enough now--the tumults of his strong
spirit are over forever. That terrible heart is still at last--that
fiery pulse will beat no more!”

We have now very little to state which our readers may not anticipate.
Lucy and Lady Emily, each made happy in the great object of woman's
heart--love, only exchanged residences.

Lucy's life was a long and bountiful blessing to her fellow-creatures.
Her feelings were never contracted within the narrow circle of her own
class, but embraced the great one of general humanity. She acted upon
the noble principle of receiving from God the ample gifts of wealth and
position, not for the purpose of wasting them in expensive and
selfish enjoyments, but for that of causing them to diffuse among her
fellow-creatures the greatest possible portion of happiness. This she
considered her high destination, and well and nobly she fulfilled it
in this, the great and true purpose of life, her husband and she went
heart-in-heart, hand-in-hand; nor were Sir Edward Gourlay, and his kind
and gentle Emily, far behind them in all their good-will and good works.

Lord Dunroe, having no strength of character to check his profligate
impulses, was, in the course of some years, thrown off by all his high
connections, and reduced to great indigence. Norton's notion of his
character was correct. The society of that treacherous sharper was
necessary to him, and in some time after they were reconciled. Norton
ultimately became driver of a celebrated mail-coach on the great York
road, and the other, its guard; thus resolving, as it would seem, to
keep the whip-hand of the weak and foolish nobleman in every position
of life. Several of our English readers may remember them, for they were
both remarkable characters, and great favorites with the public.

Dandy Dulcimer and Alley followed the example of their master and
mistress, and were amply provided for by their friends, with whom they
lived in confidential intimacy for the greater portion of their lives.

Thomas Corbet, his sister, and her son, disappeared; and it was supposed
that they went to America.

M'Bride, in a short time after the close of our narrative, took a relish
for foreign travel, and resolved to visit a certain bay of botanical
celebrity not far from the antipodes. That he might accomplish this
point with as little difficulty as possible, he asked a gentleman one
evening for the loan of his watch and purse; a circumstance which so
much tickled the fancy of a certain facetious judge of witty memory,
that, on hearing a full account of the transaction, he so far and
successfully interfered with the government as to get his expenses
during the journey defrayed by his Majesty himself. His last place of
residence in this country was a very magnificent one near Kilmainham,
where he led a private and secluded life, occasionally devoting' himself
to the progress of machinery in his hours of recreation, but uniformly
declining to take country exercise.

Poor Trailcudgel was restored to his farm; and Lucy's brother lived
with her for many years, won back by her affection and kindness to the
perfect use of his reason; and it was well known that her children, boys
and girls, were all very fond of Uncle Thomas.

Old Corbet took to devotion, became very religious, and lost in temper,
which was never good, as much as he seemed to gain by penitence. He died
suddenly from a fit of paralysis, brought on by the loss of a thirty
shilling note, which was stolen from his till by Mrs. M'Bride.

On the occasion of Lucy's marriage with her lover, Father M'Mahon,
who was invited to a double wedding--both Sir Edward and Dunroe being
married on the same day--rode all the way to Dublin upon Freney the
Robber, in order that his friend might see the new saddle upon Freney,
and the priest himself upon the new saddle. Mr. Briney was also of the
party, and never was his round rosy face and comic rolling eye more
replete with humor and enjoyment; and as a reward for his integrity, as
well as for the ability with which he assisted the stranger, we may as
well mention that he was made Law Agent to both properties--a recompense
which he well deserved. We need scarcely say that old Sam and Beck were
also there; that their healths were drunk, and that old Sam told them
how there was nothing more plain than that there never was such a wife
in existence as his Beck, and that Providence all through intended Ned
to be restored to his own--he, old Sam, always acting in this
instance as Adjutant under Providence. It was clear, he said--quite
evident--everything the work of Providence on the one hand, and on the
other, _“all the heart of man!”_