XVII. A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's…

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.”

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.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

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.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

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.”

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

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.

Spotted a typo or a problem in this chapter? Tell us

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.”

“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.

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