XXXVIII. An Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe…

XXXVIII. An Unpleasant Disclosure to Dunroe

--Anthony Corbet gives Important Documents to the Stranger--Norton catches a Tartar.

The next morning the stranger was agreeably surprised by seeing the round, rosy, and benevolent features of Father M'Mahon, as he presented himself at his breakfast table. Their meeting was cordial and friendly, with the exception of a slight appearance of embarrassment that was evident in the manner of the priest.

“The last time you were in town,” said the former, “I was sorry to observe thai you seemed rather careworn and depressed; but I think you look better now, and a good deal more cheerful.”

“And I think I have a good right,” replied the priest; “and I think no man ought to know the, cause of it better than yourself. I charge it, sir, with an act of benevolence to the poor of my parish, through their humble pastor; for which you stand.--I beg your pardon--sit there, a guilty man.”

“How is that?” asked the other, smiling.

“By means of an anonymous letter that contained a hundred pound note, sir.”

“Well,” said the stranger, “there is no use in telling a falsehood about it. The truth is, I was aware of the extent to which you involved yourself, in order to relieve many of the small farmers and other struggling persons of good repute in your parish, and I thought it too bad that you should suffer distress yourself, who had so frequently relieved it in others.”

“God bless you, my friend,” replied the priest; “for I will call you so. I wish every man possessed of wealth was guided by your principles. Freney the Robber has a new saddle and bridle, anyhow; and I came up to town to pay old Anthony Corbet a sum I borrowed from him the last time I was here?”

“Oh, have you seen that cautious and disagreeable old man? We could make nothing of him, although I feel quite certain that he knows everything connected with the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's son.”

“I have no doubt of it myself,” replied the priest; “and I now find, that what neither religion, nor justice, nor humanity could influence him to do, superstition is likely to effect. He has had a drame, he says, in which his son James that was in Lady Gourlay's service has appeared to him, and threatens that unless he renders her justice, he has but a poor chance in the other world.”

“That is not at all unnatural,” said the stranger; “the man, though utterly without religion, was nevertheless both hesitating and timid; precisely the character to do a just act from a wrong motive.”

“Be that as it may,” continued the priest, “I have a message from him to you.”

“To me!” replied the other. “I am much obliged to him, but it is now too late. We have ascertained where Lady Gourlay's son is, without any assistance from him; and in the course of this very day we shall furnish ourselves with proper authority for claiming and producing him.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” said the priest. “God be praised that the heart of that charitable and Christian woman will be relieved at last, and made happy; but still I say, see old Anthony. He is as deep as a draw-well, and as close as an oyster. See him, sir. Take my advice, now that the drame has frightened him, and call upon the old sinner. He may serve you in more ways than you know.”

“Well, as you advise me to do so, I shall; but I do not relish the old fellow at all.”

“Nobody does, nor ever did. He and all his family lived as if every one of them carried a little world of their own within them. Maybe they do; and God forgive me for saying it, but I don't think if its secrets were known, that it would be found a very pleasant world. May the Lord change them, and turn their hearts!”

After some further chat, the priest took his departure, but promised to see his friend from time to time, before he should leave town.

The stranger felt that the priest's advice to see old Corbet again was a good one. The interview could do no harm, and might be productive of some good, provided he could be prevailed on to speak out. He accordingly directed his steps once more to Constitution Hill, where he found the old man at his usual post behind the counter.

“Well, Corbet,” said he, “alive still?”

“Alive still, sir,” he replied; “but can't be so always; the best of us must go.”

“Very true, Corbet, if we could think of it as we ought; but, somehow, it happens that most people live in this world as if they were never to die.”

“That's too true, sir--unfortunately too true, God help us!”

“Corbet,” proceeded the stranger, “nothing can convince me that you don't know something about--”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man; “we had betther go into the next room. Here, Polly,” he shouted to his wife, who was inside, “will you come and stand the shop awhile?”

“To be sure I will,” replied the old woman, making her appearance. “How do you do, sir,” she added, addressing the stranger; “I am glad to see you looking so well.”

“Thank you, madam,” replied the stranger: “I can return the compliment, as they say.”

“Keep the shop, Polly,” said the old man sharply, “and don't make the same mistake you made awhile ago--give away a stone o' meal for half a stone. No wondher for us to be poor at sich a rate of doin' things as that. Walk in, if you plaise, sir.”

They accordingly entered the room, and the stranger, after they had taken seats, resumed,

“I was going to say, Corbet, that nothing can convince me that you don't know more about the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's heir than you are disposed to acknowledge.”

The hard, severe, disagreeable expression returned once more to his features, as he replied,

“Troth, sir, it appears you will believe so, whether or not. But now, sir, in case I did, what would you say? I'm talkin' for supposition's sake, mind. Wouldn't a man desarve something that could give you information on the subject?”

“This avaricious old man,” thought the stranger, pausing as if to consider the proposition, “was holding us out all along, in order to make the most of his information. The information, however, is already in our possession, and he comes too late. So far I am gratified that we are in a position to punish him by disappointing his avarice.”

“We would, Corbet, if the information were necessary, but at present it is not; we don't require it.”

Corbet started, and his keen old eyes gleamed with an expression between terror and incredulity.

“Why,” said he, “you don't require it! Are you sure of that?”

“Perfectly so. Some time ago we would have rewarded you liberally, had you made any available disclosure to us; but now it is too late. The information we had been seeking for so anxiously, accidentally came to us from another quarter. You see now, Corbet, how you have overshot the mark, and punished yourself. Had you been influenced by a principle of common justice, you would have been entitled to expect and receive a most ample compensation; a compensation beyond your hopes, probably beyond your very wishes, and certainly beyond your wants. As matters stand, however, I tell you now that I would not give you sixpence for any information you could communicate.”

Anthony gave him a derisive look, and pursed up his thin miser-like lips into a grin of most sinister triumph.

“Wouldn't you, indeed?” said he. “Are you quite sure of what you say?”

“Quite certain of it.”

“Well, now, how positive some people is. You have found him out, then?” he asked, with a shrewd look. “You have found him, and you don't require any information from me.”

“Whether we have found him or not,” replied the other, “is a question which I will not answer; but that we require no information from you, is fact. While it was a marketable commodity, you refused to dispose of it; but, now, we have got the supply elsewhere.”

“Well, sir,” said Anthony, “all I can say is, that I'm very glad to hear it; and it's no harm, surely, to wish you joy of it.”

The same mocking sneer which accompanied this observation was perfectly vexatious; it seemed to say, “So you think, but you may be mistaken, Take care that I haven't you in my power still.”

“Why do you look in that disagreeable way, Corbet? I never saw a man whose face can express one thing, and his words another, so effectually as yours, when you wish.”

“You mane to say, sir,” he returned, with a true sardonic smile, “that my face isn't an obedient face; but sure I can't help that. This is the face that God has given me, and I must be content with it, such as it is.”

“I was told this morning by Father M'Mahon,” replied the other, anxious to get rid of him as soon as he could, “that you had expressed a wish to see me.”

“I believe I did say something to that effect; but then it appears you know everything yourself, and don't want my assistance.”

“Any assistance we may at a future time require at your hands we shall be able to extort from you through the laws of the land and of justice; and if it appears that you have been an accomplice or agent in such a deep and diabolical crime, neither power, nor wealth, nor cunning, shall be able to protect you from the utmost rigor of the law. You had neither mercy nor compassion on the widow or her child; and the probability is, that, old as you are, you will be made to taste the deepest disgrace, and the heaviest punishment that can be annexed to the crime you have committed.”

A singular change came over the features of the old man. Paleness in age, especially when conscience bears its secret but powerful testimony against the individual thus charged home as Corbet was, sometimes gives an awful, almost an appalling expression to the countenance. The stranger, who knew that the man he addressed, though cunning, evasive, and unscrupulous, was, nevertheless, hesitating and timid, saw by his looks that he had produced an unusual impression; and he resolved to follow it up, rather to gratify the momentary amusement which he felt at his alarm, than from any other motive. In fact, the appearance of Corbet was extraordinary. A death-like color, which his advanced state of life renders it impossible to describe, took possession of him; his eyes lost the bitter expression so peculiar to them--his firm thin lips relaxed and spread, and the corners of his mouth dropped so lugubriously, that the stranger, although he felt that the example of cowering guilt then before him was a solemn one, could scarcely refrain from smiling at what he witnessed.

“How far now do you think, sir,” asked Corbet, “could punishment in such a case go? Mind, I'm putting myself out of the question; I'm safe, any how, and that's one comfort.”

“For a reply to that question,” returned the other, “you will have to go to the judge and the hangman. There was a time when you might have asked it, and answered it too, with safety to yourself; but now that time has gone by, and I fear very much that your day of grace is past.”

“That's very like what James tould me in my dhrame,” said the old man, in a soliloquy, dictated by his alarm. “Well, sir,” he replied, “maybe, afther all--but didn't you say awhile ago that you wouldn't give sixpence for any information I could furnish you with?”

“I did, and I do.”

A gleam of his former character returned to his eye, as, gathering up his lips again, 'he said, “I could soon show you to the contrary.”

“Yes; but you will not do so. I see clearly that you are infatuated. It appears to me that there is an evil fate hanging over you, like some hungry raven, following and watching the motions of a sick old horse that is reduced to skin and bone. You're doomed, I think.”

“Well, now,” replied Anthony, the corners of whose mouth dropped again at this startling and not inappropriate comparison, “to show how much you are mistaken, let me ask how your business with Lord Cullamore gets on? I believe there's a screw loose there?--eh? I mean on your side--eh?”

It wasn't in his nature to restrain the sinister expression which a consciousness of his advantage over the stranger caused him to feel in his turn. The grin, besides, which he gave him, after he had thrown out these hints, had something of reprisal in it; and, to tell the truth, the stranger's face now became as blank and lugubrious as Anthony's had been before.

“If I don't mistake,” he continued--for the other was too much astonished to reply, “if I don't mistake, there's a couple o' bits of paper that would stand your friend, if you could lay your claws upon them.”

“Whether they could, or could not, is no affair of yours, my good sir,” replied the stranger, rising and getting his hat; “and whether I have changed my mind on the subject you hint at is a matter known only to myself. I wish you good-day.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony, probably satisfied with the fact of his having turned the tables and had his revenge on the stranger; “I beg your pardon, sir. Let us part friends, at all events. Set in case now--”

“I will listen to none of those half sentences. You cannot possibly speak out, I see; in fact, you are tongue-tied by the cord of your evil fate. Upon no subject can you speak until it is too late.”

“God direct me now!” exclaimed Corbet to himself. “I think the time is come; for, unless I relieve my conscience before I'm called--James he tould me the other night--Well, sir,” he proceeded, “listen. If I befriend you, will you promise to stand my friend, if I should get into any difficulty?”

“I will enter into no compromise of the kind with you,” said the other. “If you are about to do an act of justice, you ought to do it without conditions; and if you possess any document that is of value to another, and of none to yourself, and yet will not restore it to the proper owner, you are grossly dishonest, and capable of all that will soon, I trust, be established against you and your employers. Good-by, Mr. Corbet.”

“Aisy, sir, aisy,” said the tenacious and vacillating old knave. “Aisy, I say. You will be generous, at any rate; for you know their value. How much will you give me for the papers I spake of--that is, in case I could get them for you?”

“Not sixpence. A friend has just returned from France, who--no,” thought he, “I will not state a falsehood--Good-day, Mr. Corbet; I am wasting my time.”

“One minute, sir--one minute. It may be worth your while.”

“Yes; but you trifle with me by these reluctant and penurious communications.”

Anthony had laid down his head upon his hands, whose backs were supported by the table; and in this position, as' if he were working himself into an act of virtue sufficient for a last effort, he remained until the stranger began to wonder what he meant. At length he arose, went up stairs as on a former occasion, but with less--and not much less--hesitation and delay; he returned and handed him the identical documents of which M'Bride had deprived him. “Now,” said he, “listen to me. You know the value of these; but that isn't what I want to spake to you about.--Whatever you do about the widow's son, don't do it without lettin' me know, and consultin' me--ay, and bein' guided by me; for although you all think yourselves right, you may find, yourselves in the wrong box still. Think of this now, and it will be better for you. I'm not sure, but I'll open all your eyes yet, and that before long; for I believe the time has come at last. Now that I've given you these papers,” (extracted, by the way, from M'Bride's pockets during his drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) “you must promise me one thing.”

“What is that?”

“I suppose you know where this boy is? Now, when you're goin' to find him, will you bring me with you?”

“Why so?”

“It'll plaise an ould man, at any rate; but there may be other raisons. Will, you do this?”

The stranger, concluding that the wisest tiring was to give him his way, promised accordingly, and. the old man seemed somewhat satisfied.

“One man, at all events, I'll punish, if I should sacrifice every child I have in doin' so; and it is in order that he may be punished to the heart--to the marrow--to the soul within him--that I got these papers, and gave them to you.”

“Corbet,” said the stranger, “be the cause of your revenge what it may, its principle in your heart is awful. You are, in fact, a dreadful old man. May I ask how you came by these papers?”

“You may,” he replied; “but I won't answer you. At a future time it is likely I will--but not now. It's enough for you to have them.”

On his way home the stranger called at Birney's office, where he produced the documents; and it was arranged that the latter gentleman should wait upon Lord Cullamore the next day, in order to lay before him the proofs on which they were about to proceed; for, as they were now complete, they thought it more respectful to that venerable old nobleman to appeal privately to his own good sense, whether it would not be more for the honor of his family to give him an opportunity of yielding quietly, and without public scandal, than to drag the matter before the world in a court of justice. It was so arranged; and a suitable warrant having been procured to enable them to produce the body of the unfortunate Fenton, the proceedings of that day closed very much to their satisfaction.

The next day, between two and three o'clock, a visitor, on particular business, was announced to Lord Cullamore; and on being desired to walk up, our friend Birney made his bow to his lordship. Having been desired to take a seat, he sat down, and his lordship, who appeared to be very feeble, looked inquiringly at him, intimating thereby that he waited to know the object of his visit.

“My lord,” said the attorney, “in the whole course of my professional life, a duty so painful as this has never devolved upon me. I come supported with proofs sufficient to satisfy you that your title and property cannot descend to your son, Lord Dunroe.”

“I have no other son, sir,” said his lordship, reprovingly.

“I do not mean to insinuate that you have, my lord. I only assert that he who is supposed to be the present heir, is not really so at all.”

“Upon what proofs, sir, do you ground that assertion?”

“Upon proofs, my lord, the most valid and irrefragable; proofs that cannot be questioned, even for a moment; and, least of all, by your lordship, who are best acquainted with their force and authenticity.”

“Have you got them about you?”

“I have got copies of the documentary proofs, my lord, and I shall now place them before you.”

“Yes; have the goodness to let me see them.”

Birney immediately handed him the documents, and mentioned the facts of which they were the proofs. In fact, only one of them was absolutely necessary, and that was simply the record of a death duly and regularly attested.

The old man seemed struck with dismay; for, until this moment he had not been clearly in possession of the facts which were now brought against him, as they were stated, and made plain as to their results, by Mr. Birney.

“I do not know much of law,” he said, “but enough, I think, to satisfy me, that unless you have other and stronger proofs than this, you cannot succeed in disinheriting my son. I have seen the originals of those before, but I had forgotten some facts and dates connected with them at the time.”

“We have the collateral proof you speak of, my lord, and can produce personal evidence to corroborate those which I have shown you.”

“May I ask who that evidence is?”

“A Mrs. Mainwaring, my lord--formerly Norton--who had been maid to your first wife while she resided privately in Prance--was a witness to her death, and had it duly registered.”

“But even granting this, I think you will be called on to prove the intention on my part: that which a man does in ignorance cannot, and ought not to be called a violation of the law.”

“But the law in this case will deal only with facts, my lord; and your lordship must now see and feel that we are in a capacity to prove them. And before I proceed further, my lord, I beg to say, that I am instructed to appeal to your lordship's good sense, and to that consideration for the feelings of your family, by which, I trust, you will be influenced, whether, satisfied as you must be of your position, it would not be more judicious on your own part to concede our just rights, seeing, as you clearly may, that they are incontrovertible, than to force us to bring the matter before the public; a circumstance which, so far as you are yourself concerned, must be inexpressibly painful, and as regards other members of your family, perfectly deplorable and distressing. We wish, my lord, to spare the innocent as much as we can.”

“I am innocent, sir; your proofs only establish an act done by me in ignorance.”

“We grant that, my lord, at once, and without for a moment charging you with any dishonorable motive; but what we insist on--can prove--and your lordship cannot deny--is, that the act you speak of was done, and done at a certain period. I do beseech you, my lord, to think well and seriously of my proposal, for it is made in a kind and respectful spirit.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied his lordship, “and those who instructed you to regard my feelings; but this you must admit is a case of too much importance, in which interests of too much consequence are involved, for me to act in it without the advice and opinion of my lawyers.”

“You are perfectly right, my lord; I expected no less; and if your lordship will refer me to them, I shall have no hesitation in laying the grounds of our proceedings before them, and the proofs by which they will be sustained.”

This was assented to on the part of Lord Cullamore, and it is only necessary to say, that, in a few days subsequently, his lawyers, upon sifting and thoroughly examining everything that came before them, gave it as their opinion--and both were men of the very highest standing--that his lordship had no defence whatsoever, and that his wisest plan was to yield without allowing the matter to go to a public trial, the details of which must so deeply affect the honor of his children.

This communication, signed in the form of a regular opinion by both these eminent gentlemen, was received by his lordship on the fourth day after Birney's visit to him on the subject.

About a quarter of an hour after he had perused it, his lordship's bell rang, and Morty O'Flaherty, his man, entered.

“Morty,” said his lordship, “desire Lord Dunroe to come to me; I wish to speak with him. Is he within?”

“He has just come in, my lord. Yes, my lord, I'll send him up.”

His lordship tapped the arms of his easy chair with the lingers of both hands, and looked unconsciously upon his servant, with a face full of the deepest sorrow and anguish.

The look was not lost upon Morty, who said, as he went down stairs, “There's something beyond the common on my lord's mind this day. He was bad enough before; but now he looks like a man that has got the very heart within him broken.”

He met Dunroe in the hall, and delivered his message, but added,

“I think his lordship has had disagreeable tidin's of some kind to-day, my lord. I never saw him look so ill. To tell you the truth, my lord, I think he has death in his face.”

“Well, Morty,” replied his lordship, adjusting his collar, “you know we must all die. I cannot guess what unpleasant tidings he may have heard to-day; but I know that I have heard little else from him this many a day. Tell Mr. Norton to see about the bills I gave him, and have them cashed as soon as possible. If not, curse me, I'll shy a decanter at his head after dinner.”

He then went rather reluctantly up stairs, and presented himself, in no very amiable temper, to his father.

Having taken a seat, he looked at the old man, and found his eyes fixed upon him with an expression of reproof, and at the same time the most profound affliction.

“Dunroe,” said the earl, “you did not call to inquire after me for the last two or three days.”

“I did not call, my lord, certainly; but, nevertheless, I inquired. The fact is, I feel disinclined to be lectured at such a rate every time I come to see you. As for Norton, I have already told you, with every respect for your opinion and authority, that you have taken an unfounded prejudice against him, and that I neither can nor will get rid of him, as you call it. You surely would not expect me to act dishonorably, my lord.”

“I did not send for you now to speak about him, John. I have a much more serious, and a much more distressing communication to make to you.”

The son opened his eyes, and stared at him.

“It may easily be so, my lord; but what is it?”

“Unfortunate young man, it is this--You are cut off from the inheritance of my property and title.”

“Sickness, my lord, and peevishness, have impaired your intellects, I think. What kind of language is this to hold to me, your son and heir?”

“My son, John, but not my heir.”

“Don't you know, my lord, that what you say is impossible. If I am your son, I am, of course, your heir.”

“No, John, for the simplest reason in the world. At present you must rest contented with the fact which I announce to you--for fact it is. I have not now strength enough to detail it; but I shall when I feel that I am equal to it. Indeed, I knew it not myself, with perfect certainty, until to-day. Some vague suspicion I had of late, but the proofs that were laid before me, and laid before me in a generous and forbearing spirit, have now satisfied me that you have no claim, as I said, to either title or property.”

“Why, as I've life, my lord, this is mere dotage. A foul conspiracy has been got up, and you yield to it without a struggle. Do you think, whatever you may do, that I will bear this tamely? I am aware that a conspiracy has been getting up, and I also have had my suspicions.”

“It is out of my power, John, to secure you the inheritance.”

“This is stark folly, my lord--confounded nonsense--if you will pardon me. Out of your power! Made silly and weak in mind by illness, your opinion is not now worth much upon any subject. It is not your fault, I admit; but, upon my soul, I really have serious doubts whether you are in a sufficiently sane state of mind to manage your own affairs.”

“Undutiful young man,” replied his father, with bitterness, “if that were a test of insanity, you yourself ought to have been this many a day in a strait waistcoat. I know it is natural that you should feel this blow deeply; but it is neither natural nor dutiful that you should address your parent in such unpardonable language.”

“If what that parent says be true, my lord, he has himself, by his past vices, disinherited his son.”

“No, sir,” replied the old man, whilst a languid flush of indignation was visible on his face, “he has not done so by his vices; but you, sir, have morally disinherited yourself by your vices, by your general profligacy, by your indefensible extravagance, and by your egregious folly, A man placed in the position which you would have occupied, ought to be a light and an example to society, and. not what you have been, a reproach to your family, and a disgrace to your class. The virtues of a man of rank should be in proportion to his station; but you have distinguished yourself only by holding up to the world the debasing example of a dishonorable and licentious life. What virtue can you plead to establish a just claim to a position which demands a mind capable of understanding the weighty responsibilities that are annexed to it, and a heart possessed of such enlightened principles as may enable him to discharge them in a spirit that will constitute him, what he ought to be, a high example and a generous benefactor to his kind? Not one: but if selfishness, contempt for all the moral obligations of life, a licentious spirit that mocks at religion and looks upon human virtue as an unreality and a jest--if these were to give you a claim to the possession of rank and property, I know of no one more admirably qualified to enjoy them. Dunroe, I am not now far from the grave; but listen, and pay attention to my voice, for it is a warning voice.”

“It was always so,” replied his son, with sulky indignation; “it was never anything else; a mere passing bell that uttered nothing but advices, lectures, coffins, and cross-bones.”

“It uttered only truth then, Dunroe, as you feel now to your cost. Change your immoral habits. I will not bid you repent; because you would only sneer at the word; but do endeavor to feel regret for the kind of life you have led, and give up your evil propensities; cease to be a heartless spendthrift; remember that you are a man: remember that you have important duties to perform; believe that there are such things as religion, and virtue, and honor in the world; believe that there is a God a wise Providence, who governs that world upon principles of eternal truth and justice, and to whom you must account, in another life, for your conduct in this.”

“Well, really, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “as it appears that the lecture is all you have to bestow upon me, I am quite willing that you should disinherit me of that also. I waive every claim to it. But so do I not to my just rights. We shall see what a court of law can do.”

“You may try it, and entail disgrace upon yourself and your sister. As for my child, it will break her heart. My God! my child! my child!”

“Not, certainly, my lord, if we should succeed.”

“All hopes of success are out of the question,” replied his father.

“No such thing, my lord. Your mind, as I said, is enfeebled by illness, and you yield too easily. Such conduct on your part is really ridiculous. We shall have a tug for it, I am determined.”

“Here,” said his father, “cast your eye over these papers, and they will enable you to understand, not merely the grounds upon which our opponents proceed, but the utter hopelessness of contesting the matter with them.”

Dunroe took the papers, but before looking at them replied, with a great deal of confidence, “you are quite mistaken there, my lord, with every respect. They are not in a position to prove their allegations.”

“How so?” said his father.

“For the best reason in the world, my lord. We have had their proofs in our possession and destroyed them.”

“I don't understand you.”

“The fellow, M'Bride, of whom I think your lordship knows something, had their documents in his possession.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Well, my lord, while in a drunken fit, he either lost them, or some one took them out of his pocket. I certainly would have purchased them from him.”

“Did you know how he came by them?” asked his father, with a look of reproof and anger.

“That, my lord, was no consideration of mine. As it was, however, he certainty lost them; but we learned from him that Birney, the attorney, was about to proceed to France, in order to get fresh attested copies; upon which, as he knew the party there in whose hands the registry was kept, Norton and he started a day or two in advance of him, and on arriving there, they found, much to our advantage, that the register was dead. M'Bride, however, who is an adroit fellow, and was well acquainted with his house and premises, contrived to secure the book in which the original record was made--which book he has burned--so that, in point of fact, they have no legal proofs on which to proceed.”

“Dishonorable man!” said his father, rising up in a state of the deepest emotion. “You have made me weary of life; you have broken my heart: and so you would stoop to defend yourself, or your lights, by a crime--by a crime so low, fraudulent, and base--that here, in the privacy of my own chamber, and standing face to face with you, I am absolutely ashamed to call you my son. Know, sir, that if it were a dukedom, I should scorn to contest it, or to retain it, at the expense of my honor.”

“That's all very fine talk, my lord; but, upon my soul, wherever I can get an advantage, I'll take it. I see little of the honor or virtue you speak of going, and, I do assure you, I won't be considered at all remarkable for acting up to my own principles. On the contrary, it is by following yours that I should be so.”

“I think,” said the old man, “that I see the hand of God in this. Unfortunate, obstinate, and irreclaimable young man, it remains for me to tell you that the very documents, which you say have been lost by the villain M'Bride, with whom, in his villainy, you, the son of an earl, did not hesitate to associate yourself, are now in the possession of our opponents. Take those papers to your room,” he added, bursting into tears: “take them away, I am unable to prolong this interview, for it has been to me a source of deeper affliction than the loss of the highest title or honor that the hand of royalty could bestow.”

When Dunroe was about to leave the room, the old man, who had again sat down, said:

“Stop a moment. Of course it is unnecessary to say, I should hope, that this union between you and Miss Gourlay cannot proceed.”

Dunroe, who felt at once that if he allowed his father to suppose that he persisted in it, the latter would immediately disclose his position to the baronet, now replied:

“No, my lord, I have no great ambition for any kind of alliance with Sir Thomas Gourlay. I never liked him personally, and I am sufficiently a man of spirit, I trust, not to urge a marriage with a girl who--who--cannot appreciate--” He paused, not knowing exactly how to fill up the sentence.

“Who has no relish for it,” added his father, “and can't appreciate your virtues, you mean to say.”

“What I mean to say, my lord, is, that where there is no great share of affection on either side, there can be but little prospect of happiness.”

“Then you give up the match?”

“I give up the match, my lord, without a moment's hesitation. You may rest assured of that.”

“Because,” added his father, “if I found that you persisted in it, and attempted to enter the family, and impose yourself on this admirable girl, as that which you are not, I would consider it my duty to acquaint Sir Thomas Gourlay with the unfortunate discovery which has been made. Before you go I will thank you to read that letter for me. It comes, I think, from the Lord Chancellor. My sight is very feeble to-day, and perhaps it may require a speedy answer.”

Dunroe opened the letter, which informed Lord Cullamore, that it had afforded him, the Lord Chancellor, much satisfaction to promote Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq., to the magistracy of the county of ------, understanding, as he did, from the communication “of Sir Thomas Gourlay, enclosed in his lordship's letter, that he (Crackenfudge) was, by his many virtues, good sense, discretion, humanity, and general esteem among all classes, as well as by his popularity in the country, a person in every way fitted to discharge the important duties of such an appointment.

“I feel my mind at ease,” said the amiable old nobleman, “in aiding such an admirable country gentleman as this Crackenfudge must be, to a seat on the bench; for, after all, Dunroe, it is only by the contemplation of a good action that we can be happy. You may go.”

Some few days passed, when Dunroe, having read the papers, the contents of which he did not wish Norton to see, returned them to his father in sullen silence, and then rang his bell, and sent for his worthy associate, that he might avail himself of his better judgment.

“Norton,” said he, “it is all up with us.”

“How is that, my lord?”

“Those papers, that M'Bride says he lost, are in the hands of our enemies.”

“Don't believe it, my lord.' I saw the fellow yesterday, and he told me that he destroyed them in a drunken fit, for which he says he is ready to cut his throat.”

“But I have read the opinion of my father's counsel,” replied his lordship, “and they say we have no defence. Now you know what a lawyer is: if there were but a hair-breadth chance, they would never make an admission that might keep a good fat case from getting into their hands. No; it is all up with us. The confounded old fool above had everything laid before them, and such is the upshot. What is to be done?”

“Marriage, without loss of time--marriage, before your disaster reaches the ears of the Black Baronet.”

“Yes, but there is a difficulty. If the venerable old nobleman should hear of it, he'd let the cat out of the bag, and leave me in the lurch, in addition to the penalty of a three hours' lecture upon honor. Everything, however, is admirably arranged quoad the marriage. We have got a special license for the purpose of meeting our peculiar case, so that the marriage can be private; that is to say, can take place in the lady's own house. Do you think though, that M'Bride has actually destroyed the papers?”

“The drunken ruffian! certainly. He gave me great insolence a couple of days ago.”

“Why so?”

“Because I didn't hand him over a hundred pounds for his journey and the theft of the registry.”

“And how much did you give him, pray?”

“A fifty pound note, after having paid his expenses, which was quite enough for him. However, as I did not wish to make the scoundrel our enemy, I have promised him something more, so that I've come on good terms with him again. He is a slippery customer.”

“Did you get the bills cashed yet?”

“No, my lord; I am going about it now; but I tell you beforehand, that I will have some difficulty in doing it. I hope to manage it, however; and for that reason I must bid you good-by.”

“The first thing to do, then, is to settle that ugly business about the mare. By no means must we let it come to trial.”

“Very well, my lord, be it so.”

Norton, after leaving his dupe to meditate upon the circumstances in which he found himself, began to reflect as he went along, that he himself was necessarily involved in the ruin of his friend and patron.

“I have the cards, however, in my own hands,” thought he, “and M'Bride's advice was a good one. He having destroyed the other documents, it follows that this registry, which I have safe and snug, will be just what his lordship's enemies will leap at. Of course they are humbugging the old peer about the other papers, and, as I know, it is devilish easy to humbug the young one. My agency is gone to the winds; but I think the registry will stand me instead. It ought, in a case like this, to be well worth five thousand; at least, I shall ask this sum--not saying but I will take less. Here goes then for an interview with Birney, who has the character of being a shrewd fellow--honorable, they say--but then, is he not an attorney? Yes, Birney, have at you, my boy;” and having come to this virtuous conclusion, he directed his steps to that gentleman's office, whom he found engaged at his desk.

“Mr. Birney, I presume,” with a very fashionable bow.

“Yes, sir,” said Birney, “that is my name.”

“Haw! If I don't mistake, Mr. Birney,” with a very English accent, which no one could adopt, when he pleased, with more success than our Kerry boy--“if I don't mistake, we both made a journey to France very recently?”

“That may be, sir,” replied Birney, “but I am not aware of it.”

“But I am, though,” tipping Birney the London cockney.

“Well, sir,” said Birney, very coolly, “and what follows from that?”

“Why haw--haw--I don't exactly know at present; but I think a good dee-al may follow from it.”

“As how, sir?”

“I believe you were over there on matters connected with Lord Cullamore's family--haw?”

“Sir,” replied Birney, “you are a perfect stranger to me--I haven't the honor of knowing you. If you are coming to me on anything connected with my professional services, I will thank you to state it.”

“Haw!--My name is Norton, a friend of Lord Dunroe's.”

“Well, Mr. Norton, if you will have the goodness to mention the business which causes me the honor of your visit, I will thank you; but I beg to assure you, that I am not a man to be pumped either by Lord Dunroe or any of his friends. You compel me to speak very plainly, sir.”

“Haw! Very good--very good indeed! but the truth his, I've given Dunroe hup.”

“Well, sir, and how is that my affair? What interest can I feel in your quarrels? Personally I know very little of Lord Dunroe, and of you, sir, nothing.”

“Haw! but everything 'as a beginning, Mr. Birney.”

“At this rate of going, I fear we shall be a long time ending, Mr. Norton.”

“Well,” replied Norton, “I believe you are right; the sooner we understand each other, the better.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Birney; “I think so, if you have any business of importance with me.”

“Well, I rayther think you will find it important--that is, to your own interests. You are an attorney, Mr. Birney, and I think you will admit that every man in this world, as it goes, ought to look to 'is own interests.”

Birney looked at him, and said, very gravely, “Pray, sir, what is your business with me? My time, sir, is valuable. My time is money--a portion of my landed property, sir.”

“Haw! Very good; but you Hirish are so fiery and impatient! However, I will come to the point. You are about to joust that young scamp, by the way, out of the title and property. I say so, because I am up to the thing. Yet you want dockiments to establish your case--haw?”

“Well, sir, and suppose we do; you, I presume, as the friend of Lord Dunroe, are not coming to furnish us with them?”

“That is, Mr. Birney, as we shall understand one another. You failed in your mission to France?”

“I shall hear any proposal, sir, you have to make, but will answer no questions on the subject until I understand your motive for putting them.”

“Good--very cool and cautious--but suppose, now, that I, who know you 'ave failed in procuring the dockiments in question, could supply you with them--haw!--do you understand me now?”

“Less than ever, sir, I assure you. Observe that you introduced yourself to me as the friend of Lord Dunroe.”

“Merely to connect myself with the proceedings between you. I 'ave or am about to discard him, but I shaunt go about the bush no longer. I'm a native of Lon'on, w'at is tarmed a cockney--haw, haw!--and he 'as treated me ill--very ill--and I am detarmined to retaliate.”

“How, sir, are you determined to retaliate?”

“The truth is, sir, I've got the dockiments you stand in need of in my possession, and can furnish you with them for a consideration.”

“Why, now you are intelligible. What do you want, Murray? I'm engaged.”

“To speak one word with you in the next room, sir. The gentleman wants you to say yes or no, in a single line, upon Mr. Fairfield's business, sir--besides, I've a private message.”

“Excuse me for a moment, sir,” said Birney; “there's this morning's paper, if you haven't seen it.”

“Well, Bob,” said he, “what is it?”

“Beware of that fellow,” said he: “I know him well; his name is Bryan; he was a horse jockey on the Curragh, and was obliged to fly the country for dishonesty. Be on your guard, that is all I had to say to you.”

“Why, he says he is a Londoner, and he certainly has the accent,” replied the other.

“Kerry, sir, to the backbone, and a disgrace to the country, for divil a many rogues it produces, whatever else it may do.”

“Thank you, Murray,” said Birney; “I will be doubly guarded now.”

This occurred between Birney and one of his clerks, as a small interlude in their conversation.

“Yes, sir,” resumed Birney, once more taking his place at the desk, “you can now be understood.”

“Haw!--yes, I rayther fancy I can make myself so!” replied Norton. “What, now, do you suppose the papers in question may be worth to your friends?”

“You cannot expect me to reply to that question,” said Birney; “I am acting professionally under the advice and instructions of others; but I will tell you what I think you had better do--I can enter into no negotiation on the subject without consulting those who have employed me, and getting their consent--write down, then, on a sheet of paper, what you propose to do for us, and the compensation which you expect to receive for any documents you may supply us with that we may consider of value, and I shall submit it for consideration.”

“May I not compromise myself by putting it on paper, though?”

“If you think so, then, don't do it; but, for my part, I shall have no further concern in the matter. Verbal communications are of little consequence in an affair of this kind. Reduce it to writing, and it can be understood; it will, besides, prevent misconceptions in future.”

“I trust you are a man of honor?” said Norton.

“I make no pretensions to anything so high,” replied Birney; “but I trust I am an honest man, and know how to act when I have an honest man to deal with. If you wish to serve our cause, or, to be plain with you, wish to turn the documents you speak of to the best advantage, make your proposal in writing, as you ought to do, otherwise I must decline any further negotiation on the subject.”

Norton saw and felt that there was nothing else for it. He accordingly took pen and ink and wrote down his proposal--offering to place the documents alluded to, which were mentioned by name, in the hands of Mr. Birney, for the sum of five thousand pounds.”

“Now, sir,” said Birney, after looking over this treacherous proposition, “you see yourself the advantage of putting matters down in black and white. The production of this will save me both time and trouble, and, besides, it can be understood at a glance. Thank you, sir. Have the goodness to favor me with a call in a day or two, and we shall see what can be done.”

“This,” said Norton, as he was about to go, “is a point of honor between us.”

“Why, I think, at all events, it ought,” replied Bimey; “at least, so far as I am concerned, it is not my intention to act dishonorably by any honest man.”

“Haw--haw! Very well said, indeed; I 'ave a good opinion of your discretion.

“Well, sir, I wish you good morneen; I shall call in a day or two, and expect to 'ave a satisfactory answer.”

“What a scoundrel!” exclaimed Birney.

“Here's a fellow, now, who has been fleecing that unfortunate sheep of a nobleman for the last four years, and now that he finds him at the length of his tether, he is ready to betray and sacrifice him, like a double-distilled rascal as he is. The villain thought I did not know him, but he was mistaken--quite out in his calculations. He will find, too, that he has brought his treachery to the wrong market.”

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XXXIX. Fenton Recovered--The Mad-House

Sir Thomas Gourlay, on his return with the special license, was informed by the same servant who had admitted the stranger, that a gentleman awaited him in the drawing-room.

“Who is he, M'Gregor?”

“I don't know, sir; he paid you a visit once at Red Hall, I think.”

“How could I know him by that, you blockhead?”

“He's the gentleman, sir, you had hot words with.”

“That I kicked out one day? Crackenfudge, eh?”

“No, faith, sir; not Crackenfudge. I know him well enough; and devil a kick your honor gave him but I wished was nine. This is a very different man, sir; and I believe you had warm words with him too, sir.”

“Oh!” exclaimed his master; “I remember. Is he above?”

“I believe so, sir.”

A strange and disagreeable feeling came over the baronet on hearing these words--a kind of presentiment, as it were, of something unpleasant and adverse to his plans. On entering the drawing-room, however, he was a good deal surprised to find that there was nobody there; and after a moment's reflection, a fearful suspicion took possession of him; he rang the bell furiously.

Gibson, who had been out, now entered.

“Where is Miss Gourlay, sir?” asked his master, with eyes kindled by rage and alarm.

“I was out, sir,” replied Gibson, “and cannot tell.”

“You can never tell anything, you scoundrel. For a thousand, she's off with him again, and all's ruined. Here, Matthews--M'Gregor--call the servants, sir. Where's her maid?--call her maid. What a confounded fool--ass--I was, not to have made that impudent baggage tramp about her business. It's true, Lucy's off--I feel it--I felt it. Hang her hypocrisy! It's the case, however, with all women. They have neither truth, nor honesty of purpose. A compound of treachery, deceit, and dissimulation; and yet I thought, if there was a single individual of her sex exempted from their vices, that she was that individual. Come here, M'Gregor--come here you scoundrel--do you know where Miss Gourlay is? or her maid?”

“Here's Matthews, sir; he says she's gone out.”

“Gone out!--Yes, she's gone out with a vengeance. Do you know where she's gone, sirra? And did any one go with her?” he added, addressing himself to Matthews.

“I think, sir, she's gone to take her usual airing in the carriage.”

“Who was with her?”

“No one but her maid, sir.”

“Oh, no; they would not go off together--that would be too open and barefaced. Do you know what direction she took?”

“No, sir; I didn't observe.”

“You stupid old lout,” replied the baronet, flying at him, and mauling the unfortunate man without mercy; “take that--and that--and that--for your stupidity. Why did you not observe the way she went, you! villain? You have suffered her to elope, you hound! You have all suffered her to elope with a smooth-faced impostor--a fellow whom no one knows--a blackleg--a swindler--a thief--a--a--go and saddle half a dozen horses, and seek her in all directions. Go instantly, and--hold--easy--stop--hang you all, stop!--here she is--and her maid with her--” he exclaimed, looking out of the window. “Ha! I am relieved. God bless me! God bless me!” He then looked at the servants with something of deprecation in his face, and waving his hand, said, “Go--go quietly; and, observe me--not a word of this--not a syllable--for your lives!”

His anger, however, was only checked in mid-volley. The idea of her having received a clandestine visit from her lover during his absence rankled at his heart; and although satisfied that she was still safe, and in his power, he could barely restrain his temper within moderate limits. Nay, he felt angry at her for the alarm she had occasioned him, and the passion he had felt at her absence.

“Well, Lucy,” said he, addressing her, as she entered, in a voice chafed with passion, “have you taken your drive?”

“Yes, papa,” she replied; “but it threatened rain, and we returned earlier that usual.”

“You look pale.”

“I dare say I do, sir. I want rest--repose;” and she reclined on a lounger as she spoke. “It is surprising, papa, how weak I am!”

“Not too weak, Lucy, to receive a stolen visit, eh?”

Lucy immediately sat up, and replied with surprise, “A stolen visit, sir? I don't understand you, papa.”

“Had you not a visitor here, in my absence?”

“I had, sir, but the visit was intended for you. Our interview was perfectly accidental.”

“Ah! faith, Lucy, it was too well timed to be accidental. I'm not such a fool as that comes to. Accidental, indeed! Lucy, you should not say so.”

“I am not in the habit of stating an untruth, papa. The visit, sir--I should rather say, the interview--was purely accidental; but I am glad it took place.”

“The deuce you are! That is a singular acknowledgment, Lucy, I think.”

“It is truth, sir, notwithstanding. I was anxious to see him, that I might acquaint him with the change that has taken place in my unhappy destiny. If I had not seen him, I should have asked your permission to write to him.”

“Which I would not have given.”

“I would have submitted my letter to you, sir.”

“Even so; I would not have consented.”

“Well, then, sir, as truth and honor demanded that act from me, I would haye sent it without your consent. Excuse me for saying this, papa; but you need not be told that there are some peculiar cases where duty to a parent must yield to truth and honor.”

“Some peculiar cases! On the contrary, the cases you speak of are the general rule, my girl--the general rule--and rational obedience to a parent the exception. Where is there a case--and there are millions--where a parent's wish and will are set at naught and scorned, in which the same argument is not used? I do not relish these discussions, however. What I wish to impress upon you is this--you must see this fellow no more.”

Lucy's temples were immediately in a blaze. “Are you aware, papa, that you insult and degrade your daughter, by applying such a term to him? If you will not spare him, sir, spare me; for I assure you that I feel anything said against him with ten times more emotion than if it were uttered against myself.”

“Well, well; he's a fine fellow, a gentleman, a lord; but, be he what he may, you must see him no more.”

“It is not my intention, papa, to see him again.”

“You must not write to him.”

“It will not be necessary.”

“But you must not.”

“Well, then, I shall not.”

“Nor receive kis letters.”

“Nor receive his letters, knowing them to be his.”

“You promise all this?”

“I do, sir, faithfully. I hope you are now satisfied, papa?”

“I am, Lucy--I am. You are not so bad a girl as I sus--no, you are a very good girl; and when I see you the Countess of Cullamore, I shall not have a single wish un-gratified.”

Lucy, indeed, poor girl, was well and vigilantly guarded. No communication, whether written or otherwise, was permitted to reach her; nor, if she had been lodged in the deepest dungeon in Europe, and secured by the strongest bolts that ever enclosed a prisoner, could she have been more rigidly excluded from all intercourse, her father's and her maid's only excepted.

Her lover, on receiving the documents so often alluded to from old Corbet, immediately transmitted to her a letter of hope and encouragement, in which he stated that the object he had alluded to was achieved, and that he would take care to place such documents before her father, as must cause even him to forbid the bans. This letter, however, never reached her. Neither did a similar communication from Mrs. Mainwaring, who after three successive attempts to see either her or her father, was forced at last to give up all hope of preventing the marriage. She seemed, indeed, to have been fated.

In the meantime, the stranger, having, as he imagined, relieved Lucy's mind from her dreaded union with Dunroe, and left the further and more complete disclosure of that young nobleman's position to Mrs. Mainwaring, provided himself with competent legal authority to claim the person of unfortunate Fenton. It is unnecessary to describe his journey to the asylum in which the wretched young man was placed; it is enough to say that he arrived there at nine o'clock in the morning, accompanied by old Corbet and three officers of justice, who remained in the carriage; and on asking to see the proprietor, was shown into a parlor, where he found that worthy gentleman reading a newspaper.

This fellow was one of those men who are remarkable for thick, massive, and saturnine features. At a first glance he was not at all ill-looking; but, on examining his beetle brows, which met in a mass of black thick hair across his face, and on watching the dull, selfish, cruel eyes that they hung over--dead as they were to every generous emotion, and incapable of kindling even at cruelty itself--it was impossible for any man in the habit of observing nature closely not to feel that a brutal ruffian, obstinate, indurated, and unscrupulous, was before him. His forehead was low but broad, and the whole shape of his head such as would induce an intelligent phrenologist to pronounce him at once a thief and a murderer.

The stranger, after a survey or two, felt his blood boil at the contemplation of his very visage, which was at once plausible and diabolical in expression. After some preliminary chat the latter said:

“Your establishment, sir, is admirably situated here. It is remote and isolated; and these, I suppose, are advantages?”

“Why, yes, sir,” replied the doctor, “the further we remove our patients from human society, the better. The exhibition of reason has, in general, a bad effect upon the insane.”

“Upon what principle do you account for that?” asked the stranger. “To me it would appear that the reverse of the proposition ought to hold true.”

“That may be,” replied the other; “but no man can form a correct opinion of insane persons who has not mingled with them, or had them under his care. The contiguity of reason--I mean in the persons of those who approach them--always exercises a dangerous influence upon lunatics; and on this account, I sometimes place those who are less insane as keepers upon such as are decidedly so.”

“Does not that, sir, seem very like setting the blind to lead the blind?”

“No,” replied the other, with a heavy, I heartless laugh, “your analogy fails; it is rather like setting a man with one eye to guide another who has none.”

“But why should not a man who has two guide him better?”

“Because the consciousness that there is but the one eye between both of them, will make him proceed more cautiously.”

“But that in the blind is an act of reason,” replied the stranger, “which cannot be applied to the insane, in whom reason is deficient.”

“But where reason does not exist,” said the doctor, “we must regulate them by the passions.”

“By the exercise of which passion do you gain the greatest ascendency over them?” asked the stranger.

“By fear, of course. We can do nothing, at least very little, without inspiring terror.”

“Ah,” thought the stranger, “I have now got the key to his conduct!--But, sir,” he added, “we never fear and love the same object at the same time.”

“True enough, sir,” replied the ruffian; “but who could or ought to calculate upon the attachment of a madman? Boys are corrected more frequently than men, because their reason is not developed: and those in whom it does not exist, or in whom it has been impaired, must be subjected to the same discipline. Terror, besides, is the principle upon which reason itself, and all society, are governed.”

“But suppose I had a brother, now, or a relative, might I not hesitate to place him in an establishment conducted on principles which I condemn?”

“As to that, sir,” replied the fellow, who, expecting a patient, feared that he had gone too far, “our system is an adaptable one; at least, our application of it varies according to circumstances. As our first object is cure, we must necessarily allow ourselves considerable latitude of experiment until we hit upon the right key. This being found, the process of recovery, when it is possible, may be conducted with as much mildness as the absence of reason will admit. We are mild, when we can, and severe only where we must.”

“Shuffling scoundrel!” thought the stranger. “I perceive in this language the double dealing of an unprincipled villain.--Would you have any objection, sir,” he said, “that I should look through your establishment?”

“I can conduct you through the convalescent wards,” replied the doctor; “but, as I said, we find that the appearance of strangers--which is what I meant by the contiguity of reason--is attended with very bad, and sometimes deplorable consequences. Under all circumstances it retards a cure, under others occasions a relapse, and in some accelerates the malady so rapidly that it becomes hopeless. You may see the convalescent ward, however--that is, if you wish.”

“You will oblige me,” said the stranger.

“Well, then,” said he, “if you will remain here a moment, I will send a gentleman who will accompany you, and explain the characters of some of the patients, should you desire it, and also the cause of their respective maladies.”

He then disappeared, and in a few minutes a mild, intelligent, gentlemanly man, of modest and unassuming manners, presented himself, and said he would feel much pleasure in showing him the convalescent side of the house. The stranger, however, went out and brought old Corbet in from the carriage, where he and the officers had been sitting; and this he did at Corbet's own request.

It is not our intention to place before our readers any lengthened description of this gloomy temple of departed reason. Every one who enters a lunatic asylum for the first time, must feel a wild and indescribable emotion, such as he has never before experienced, and which amounts to an extraordinary sense of solemnity and fear. Nor do the sensations of the stranger rest here. He feels as if he were surrounded by something sacred as well as melancholy, something that creates at once pity, reverence, and awe. Indeed, so strongly antithetical to each other are his first impressions, that a kind of confusion arises in his mind, and he begins to fear that his senses have been affected by the atmosphere of the place. That a shock takes place which slightly disarranges the faculty of thought, and generates strong but erroneous impressions, is still more clearly established by the fact that the visitor, for a considerable time after leaving an asylum, can scarcely rid himself of the belief that every person he meets is insane.

The stranger, on entering the long room in which the convalescents were assembled, felt, in the silence of the patients, and in their vague and fantastic movements, that he was in a position where novelty, in general the source of pleasure, was here associated only with pain. Their startling looks, the absence of interest in some instances, and its intensity in others, at the appearance of strangers, without any intelligent motive in either case, produced a feeling that seemed to bear the character of a disagreeable dream.

“All the patients here,” said his conductor, “are not absolutely in a state of convalescence. A great number of them are; but we also allow such confirmed lunatics as are harmless to mingle with them. There is scarcely a profession, or a passion, or a vanity in life, which has not here its representative. Law, religion, physic, the arts, the sciences, all contribute their share to this melancholy picture gallery. Avarice, love, ambition, pride, jealousy, having overgrown the force of reason, are here, as its ideal skeletons, wild and gigantic--fretting, gambolling, moping, grinning, raving, and vaporing--each wrapped in its own Vision, and indifferent to all the influence of the collateral faculties. There, now, is a man, moping about, the very picture of stolidity; observe how his heavy head hangs down until his chin rests upon his breastbone, his mouth open and almost dribbling. That man, sir, so unpoetical and idiotic in appearance, imagines himself the author of Beattie's 'Minstrel' He is a Scotchman, and I shall call him over.”

“Come here, Sandy, speak to this gentleman.”

Sandy, without raising his lack-lustre eye, came over and replied, “Aw--ay--'Am the author o' Betty's Menstrel;” and having uttered this piece of intelligence, he shuffled across the room, dragging one foot after the other, at about a quarter of a minute per step. Never was poor Beattie so libellously represented.

“Do you see that round-faced, good-humored looking man, with a decent frieze coat on?” said their conductor. “He's a wealthy and respectable farmer from the county of Kilkenny, who imagines that he is Christ. His name is Rody Rafferty.”

“Come here, Rody.”

Rody came over, and looking at the stranger, said, “Arra, now, do you know who I am? Troth, I go bail you don't.”

“No,” replied the stranger, “I do not; but I hope you will tell me.”

“I'm Christ,” replied Rody; “and, upon my word, if you don't get out o' this, I'll work a miracle on you.”

“Why,” asked the stranger, “what will you do?”

“Troth, I'll turn you into a blackin' brush, and polish my shoes wid you. You were at Barney's death, too.”

The poor man had gone deranged, it seemed, by the violent death of his only child--a son.

“There's another man,” said the conductor; “that little fellow with the angry face. He is a shoemaker, who went mad on the score of humanity. He took a strong feeling of resentment against all who had flat feet, and refused to make shoes for them.”

“How was that?” inquired the stranger.

“Why, sir,” said the other, smiling, “he said that they murdered the clocks (beetles), and he looked upon every man with flat feet as an inhuman villain, who deserves, he says, to have his feet chopped off, and to be compelled to dance a hornpipe three times a day on his stumps.”

“Who is that broad-shouldered man,” asked the stranger, “dressed in rusty black, with the red head?”

“He went mad,” replied the conductor, “on a principle of religious charity. He is a priest from the county of Wexford, who had been called in to baptize the child of a Protestant mother, which, having done, he seized a tub, and placing it on the child's neck, killed it; exclaiming, 'I am now sure of having sent one soul to heaven.'”

“You are not without poets here, of course?” said the stranger.

“We have, unfortunately,” replied the other, “more individuals of that class than we can well manage. They ought to have an asylum for themselves. There's a fellow, now, he in the tattered jacket and nightcap, who has written a heroic poem, of eighty-six thousand verses, which he entitles 'Balaam's Ass, or the Great Unsaddled.' Shall I call him over?”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, no,” replied the stranger; “keep me from the poets.”

“There is one of the other species,” replied the gentleman, “the thin, red-eyed fellow, who grinds his teeth. He fancies himself a wit and a satirist, and is the author of an unpublished poem, called 'The Smoking Dunghill, or Parnassus in a Fume.' He published several things, which were justly attacked on account of their dulness, and he is now in an awful fury against all the poets of the day, to every one of whom he has given an appropriate position on the sublime pedestal, which he has, as it were, with his own hands, erected for them. He certainly ought to be the best constructor of a dunghill in the world, for he deals in nothing but dirt. He refuses to wash his hands, because, he says, it would disqualify him from giving the last touch to his poem and his characters.”

“Have you philosophers as well as poets here?” asked the stranger.

“Oh dear, yes, sir. We have poetical philosophers, and philosophical poets; but, I protest to heaven, the wisdom of Solomon, or of an archangel, could not decide the difference between their folly. There's a man now, with the old stocking in his hand--it is one of his own, for you may observe that he has one leg bare--who is pacing up and down in a deep thinking mood. That man, sir, was set mad by a definition of his own making.”

“Well, let us hear it,” said the stranger.

“Why, sir, he imagines that he has discovered a definition for 'nothing.' The definition, however, will make you smile.”

“And what, pray, is it?”

“Nothing,” he says, “is--a footless stocking without a leg; and maintains that he ought to hold the first rank as a philosopher for having invented the definition, and deserves a pension from the crown.”

“Who are these two men dressed in black, walking arm in arm?” asked the stranger. “They appear to be clergymen.”

“Yes, sir,” replied his conductor, “so they are; two celebrated polemical controversialists, who, when they were at large, created by their attacks, each upon the religion of the other, more ill-will, rancor and religious animosity, than either of their religions, with all their virtues, could remove. It is impossible to describe the evil they did. Ever since they came here, however, they are like brothers. They were placed in the same room, each in a strong strait-waistcoat, for the space of three months; but on being allowed to walk about, they became sworn friends, and now amuse themselves more than any other two in the establishment. They indulge in immoderate fits of laughter, look each other knowingly in the face, wink, and run the forefinger up the nose, after which their mirth bursts out afresh, and they laugh until the tears come down their cheeks.”

The stranger, who during all this time was on the lookout for poor Fenton, as was old Corbet, could observe nobody who resembled him in the least.

“Have you females in your establishment?” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the gentleman; “but we are about to open an asylum for them in a detached building, which is in the course of being erected. Would you wish to hear any further details of these unhappy beings,” he asked.

“No, sir,” replied the stranger. “You are very kind and obliging, but I have heard enough for the present. Have you a person named Fenton in your establishment?”

“Not, sir, that I know of; he may be here, though; but you had better inquire from the proprietor himself, who--mark me, sir--I say--harkee--you have humanity in your face--will probably refuse to tell you whether he is here or not, or deny him altogether. Harkee, again, sir--the fellow is a villain--that is, entre nous, but mum's the word between us.”

“I am sorry,” replied the stranger, “to hear such a character of him from you, who should know him.”

“Well, sir,” replied the other, “let that pass--verbum sap. And now tell me, when have you been at the theater?”

“Not for some months,” returned the other.

“Have you ever heard Catalani shake?”

“Yes,” replied the stranger. “I have had that pleasure.”

“Well, sir, I'm delighted that you have heard her, for there is but one man living who can rival her in the shake; and, sir, you have the honor of addressing that man.”

This was said so mildly, calmly, rationally, and with that gentlemanlike air of undoubted respectability, which gives to an assertion such an impress of truth, that the stranger, confused as he was by what he had seen, felt it rather difficult to draw the line at the moment, especially in such society, between a sane man and an insane one.

“Would you wish, sir,” said the guide, “to hear a specimen of my powers?”

“If you please,” replied the stranger, “provided you will confine yourself to the shake.”

The other then commenced a squall, so tuneless, wild, jarring, and unmusical, that the stranger could not avoid smiling at the monomaniac, for such he at once perceived him to be.

“You seem to like that,” observed the other, apparently much gratified; “but I thought as much, sir--you are a man of taste.”

“I am decidedly of opinion,” said the stranger, “that Catalani, in her best days, could not give such a specimen of the shake as that.”

“Thank you sir,” replied the singer, taking off his hat and bowing. “We shall have another shake in honor of your excellent judgment, but it will be a shake of the hand. Sir, you are a polished and most accomplished gentleman.”

As they sauntered up and down the room, other symptoms reached them besides those that were then subjected to their sight. As a door opened, a peal of wild laughter might be heard--sometimes groaning--and occasionally the most awful blasphemies. Ambition contributed a large number to its dreary cells. In fact, one would imagine that the house had been converted into a temple of justice, and contained within its walls most of the crowned heads and generals of Europe, both living and dead, together with a fair sample of the saints. The Emperor of Russia was strapped down to a chair that had been screwed into the floor, with the additional security of a strait-waistcoat to keep his majesty quiet. The Pope challenged Henry the Eighth to box, and St. Peter, as the cell door opened, asked Anthony Corbet for a glass of whiskey. Napoleon Bonaparte, in the person of a heroic tailor, was singing “Bob and Joan;” and the Archbishop of Dublin said he would pledge his mitre for a good cigar and a pot of porter. Sometimes a frightful yell would-reach their ears; then a furious set of howlings, followed again by peals of maniac laughter, as before. Altogether, the stranger was glad to withdraw, which he did, in order to prosecute his searches for Fenton.

“Well, sir,” said the doctor, whom he found again in the parlor, “you have seen that melancholy sight?”

“I have, sir, and a melancholy one indeed it is; but as I came on a matter of business, doctor, I think we had better come to the point at once. You have a young man named Fenton in your establishment?”

“No, sir, we have no person of that name here.”

“A wrong name may have been purposely given you, sir; but the person I speak of is here. And you had better understand me at once,” he continued. “I am furnished with such authority as will force you to produce him.”

“If he is not here, sir, no authority on earth can force me to produce him.”

“We shall see that presently. Corbet, bring in the officers. Here, sir, is a warrant, by which I am empowered to search for his body; and, when found, to secure him, in order that he may be restored to his just rights, from which he has been debarred by a course of villany worthy of being concocted in hell itself.”

“Family reasons, sir, frequently render it necessary that patients should enter this establishment under fictitious names. But these are matters with which I have nothing to do. My object is to comply with the wishes of their relatives.”

“Your object, sir, should be to cure, rather than to keep them; to conduct your establishment as a house of recovery, not as a prison--of course, I mean where the patient is curable. I demand, sir, that you will find this young man, and produce him to me.”

“But provided I cannot do so,” replied the doctor, doggedly, “what then?”

“Why, in that case, we are in possession of a warrant for your own arrest, under the proclamation which was originally published in the 'Hue and Cry,' for his detention. Sir, you are now aware of the alternative. You produce the person we require, or you accompany us yourself. It has been sworn that he is in your keeping.”

“I cannot do what is impossible. I will, however, conduct you through all the private rooms of the establishment, and if you can find or identify the person you want, I am satisfied. It is quite possible he may be with me; but I don't know, nor have I ever known him by the name of Fenton. It's a name I've never heard in my establishment. Come, sir, I am ready to show you every room in my house.”

By this time the officers, accompanied by Corbet, entered, and all followed the doctor in a body to aid in the search. The search, however, was fruitless. Every room, cell, and cranny that was visible in the establishment underwent a strict examination, as did their unhappy occupants. All, however, in vain; and the doctor now was about to assume a tone of insolence and triumph, when Corbet said:

“Doctor, all seems plain here. You have done your duty.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I always do so. No man in the kingdom has given greater satisfaction, nor stands higher in that painful department of our profession to which I have devoted myself.”

“Yes, doctor,” repeated Corbet, with one of his bitterest grins; “you have done your duty; and for that reason I ask you to folly me.”

“Where to, my good fellow?” asked the other, somewhat crestfallen. “What do you mean?”

“I think I spake plainly enough. I say, folly me. I think, too, I know something about the outs and ins, the ups and downs of this house still. Come, sir, we'll show you how you've done your duty; but listen to me, before we go one foot further--if he's dead before my time has come, I'll have your life, if I was to swing on a thousand gallowses.”

One of the officers here tapped the doctor authoritatively on the shoulder, and said, “Proceed, sir, we are losing time.”

The doctor saw at once that further resistance was useless.

“By the by,” said he, “there is one patient in the house that I completely forgot. He is so desperate and outrageous, however, that we were compelled, within the last week or so, to try the severest discipline with him. He, however, cannot be the person you want, for his name is Moore; at least, that is the name under which he was sent here.”

Down in a narrow, dark dungeon, where the damp and stench were intolerable, and nothing could be seen until a light was procured, they found something lying on filthy straw that had human shape. The hair and beard were long and overgrown; the features, begrimed with filth, were such as the sharpest eye could not recognize; and the whole body was so worn and emaciated, so ragged and tattered in appearance, that it was evident at a glance that foul practices must have been resorted to in order to tamper with life.”

“Now, sir,” said the doctor, addressing the stranger, “I will leave you and your friends to examine the patient, as perhaps you might feel my presence a restraint upon you.”

The stranger, after a glance or two at Fenton, turned around, and said, sternly, “Peace-officer, arrest that man, and remove him to the parlor as your prisoner. But hold,” he added, “let us first ascertain whether this is Mr. Fenton or not.”

“I will soon tell you, sir,” said Corbet, approaching the object before them, and feeling the left side of his neck.

“It is him, sir,” he said; “here he is, sure enough, at last.”

“Well, then,” repeated the stranger, “arrest that man, as I said, and let two of you accompany him to the parlor, and detain him there until we join you.”

On raising the wretched young man, they found that life was barely in him; he had been asleep, and being roused up, he screamed aloud.

“Oh,” said he, “I am not able to bear it--don't scourge me, I am dying; I am doing all I can to die. Why did you disturb me? I dreamt that I was on my mother's knee, and that she was kissing me. What is this? What brings so many of you now? I wish I had told the strange gentleman in the inn everything; but I feared he was my enemy, and perhaps he was. I am very hungry.”

“Merciful God!” exclaimed the stranger; “are such things done in a free and Christian country? Bring him up to the parlor,” he added, “and let him be shaved and cleansed; but be careful of him, for his lamp of life is nearly exhausted. I thank you, Corbet, for the suggestion of the linen and clothes. What could we have done without them? It would have been impossible to fetch him in this trim.”

We must pass over these disagreeable details. It is enough to say that poor Fenton was put into clean linen and decent clothes, and that in a couple of hours they were once more on their way with him, to the metropolis, the doctor accompanying them, as their prisoner.

The conduct of Corbet was on this occasion very singular. He complained that the stench of the dungeon in which they found Fenton had sickened him; but, notwithstanding this, something like ease of mind might be read in his countenance whenever he looked upon Fenton; something that, to the stranger at least, who observed him closely, seemed to say, “I am at last satisfied: the widow's heart will be set at rest, and the plans of this black villain broken to pieces.” His eye occasionally gleamed wildly, and again his countenance grew pale and haggard, and he complained of headache and pains about his loins, and in the small of his back.

On arriving in Dublin, the stranger brought Fenton to his hotel, where he was desirous to keep him for a day or two, until he should regain a little strength, that he might, without risk, be able to sustain the interview that was before him. Aware of the capricious nature of the young man's feelings, and his feeble state of health, he himself kept aloof from him, lest his presence might occasion such a shock as would induce anything like a fit of insanity--a circumstance which must mar the pleasure and gratification of his unexpected reappearance. That medical advice ought instantly to be procured was evident from his extreme weakness, and the state of apathy into which he had sunk immediately after, his removal from the cell. This was at once provided; but unfortunately it seemed that all human skill was likely to prove unavailable, as the physician, on seeing and examining him, expressed himself with strong doubts as to the possibility of his recovery. In fact, he feared that his unhappy patient had not many days to live. He ordered him wine, tonics, and light but nutritious food to be taken sparingly, and desired that he should be brought into the open air as often as the debility of his constitution could bear it. His complaint, he said, was altogether a nervous one, and resulted from the effects of cruelty, terror, want of sufficient nourishment, bad air, and close confinement.

In the meantime, the doctor was committed to prison, and had the pleasure of being sent, under a safe escort, to the jail of the county that had been so largely benefited by his humane establishment.

As we are upon this painful subject, we may as well state here that he was prosecuted, convicted, and sentenced to two years' imprisonment, with hard labor.

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XL. Lady Gourlay sees her Son

Having done all that was possible for poor Fenton, the stranger lost no time in waiting upon Lady Gourlay, that he might, with as much prudence as the uncertain state of the young man's health would permit, make known the long wished for communication, that they had at length got him in their possession. His task was one of great difficulty, for he apprehended that an excess of joy on the part of that affectionate woman might be dangerous, when suddenly checked by the melancholy probability that he had been restored to her only to be almost immediately removed by death. He resolved, then, to temper his intelligence in such a way as to cause her own admirable sense and high Christian feeling to exercise their usual influence over her heart. As he had promised Corbet, however, to take no future step in connection with these matters without consulting him, he resolved, before seeing Lady Gourlay, to pay him a visit. He was induced the more to do this in consequence of the old man's singular conduct on the discovery of Fenton. From the very first interview that he ever had with Corbet until that event, he could not avoid observing that there was a mystery in everything he did and said--something enigmatical--unfathomable, and that his looks, and the disagreeable expression which they occasionally assumed, were frequently so much at variance with his words, that it was an utter impossibility to draw anything like a certain inference from them. On the discovery of Fenton, the old man's face went through a variety of contradictory expressions. Sometimes he seemed elated--triumphant, sometimes depressed and anxious, and occasionally angry, or excited by a feeling that was altogether unintelligible. He often turned his eye upon Fenton, as if he had discovered some precious treasure, then his countenance became overcast, and he writhed in an agony which no mortal penetration could determine as anything but the result of remorse. Taking all this into consideration, the stranger made up his mind to see him before he should wait upon Lady Gourlay.

Although a day had elapsed, he found the old man still complaining of illness, which, he said, would have been more serious had he not taken medicine.

“My mind, however,” said he, “is what's troublin' me. There's a battle goin' on within me. At one time I'm delighted, but the delight doesn't give me pleasure long, for then, again, I feel a weight over me that's worse than death. However, I can't nor won't give it up. I hope I'll have time to repent yet; who knows but it is God that has put it into my heart and kept it there for so many years?”

“Kept what there?” asked the stranger.

The old man's face literally blackened as he replied, almost with a scream, “Vengeance!”

“This language,” replied the other, “is absolutely shocking. Consider your advanced state of life--consider your present illness, which may probably be your last, and reflect that if you yourself expect pardon from God, you must forgive your enemies.”

“So I will,” he replied; “but not till I've punished them; then I'll tell them how I made my puppets of them, and when I give their heart one last crush--one grind--and the old wretch ground his teeth in the contemplation of this diabolical vision--ay,” he repeated--“one last grind, then I'll tell them I've done with them, and forgive them; then--then--ay, but not till then!”

“God forgive you, Corbet, and change your heart!” replied the stranger. “I called to say that I am about to inform Lady Gourlay that we have her son safe at last, and I wish to know if you are in possession of any facts that she ought to be acquainted with in connection with his removal--in fact, to hear anything you may wish to disclose to me on the subject.”

“I could, then, disclose to you something on the subject that would make you wondher; but although the time's at hand, it's not come yet. Here I am, an ould man--helpless--or, at all events, helpless-lookin'--and you would hardly believe that I'm makin' this black villain do everything accordin' as I wish it.”

“That dark spirit of vengeance,” replied the stranger, “is turning your brain, I think, or you would not say so. Whatever Sir Thomas Gourlay may be, he is not the man to act as the puppet of any person.”

“So you think; but I tell you he's acting as mine, for all that.”

“Well, well, Corbet, that is your own affair. Have you anything of importance to communicate to me, before I see Lady Gourlay? I ask you for the last time.”

“I have. The black villain and she have spoken at last. He yielded to his daughter so far as to call upon her, and asked her to be present at the weddin'.”

“The wedding!” exclaimed the stranger, looking aghast. “God of heaven, old man, do you mean to say that they are about to be married so soon?--about to be married at all? But I will leave you,” he added; “there is no possibility of wringing anything out of you.”

“Wait a little,” continued Corbet. “What I'm goin' to tell you won't do you any harm, at any rate.”

“Be quick, then. Gracious heaven!--married!--Curses seize you, old man, be quick.”

“On the mornin' afther to-morrow the marriage is to take place in Sir Thomas's own house. Lord Dunroe's sisther is to be bridesmaid, and a young fellow named Roberts--”

“I know--I have met him.”

“Well, and did you ever see any one that he resembled, or that resembled him? I hope in the Almighty,” he added, uttering the ejaculation evidently in connection with some private thought or purpose of his own, “I hope in the Almighty that this sickness will keep off o' me for a couple o' days at any rate. Did you ever see any one that resembled him?”

“Yes,” replied the stranger, starting, for the thought had flashed upon him; “he is the living image of Miss Gourlay! Why do you ask?”

“Bekaise, merely for a raison I have; but if you have patience, you'll find that the longer you live, the more you'll know; only at this time you'll know no more from me, barrin' that this same young officer is to be his lordship's groom's-man. Dr. Sombre, the clergyman of the parish, is to marry them in the baronet's house. A Mrs. Mainwaring, too, is to be there; Miss Gourlay begged that she would be allowed to come, and he says she may. You see now how well I know everything that happens there, don't you?” he asked, with a grin of triumph. “But I tell you there will be more at the same weddin' than he thinks. So now--ah, this pain!--there's another string of it--I feel it go through me like an arrow--so now you may go and see Lady Gourlay, and break the glad tidin's to her.”

With feelings akin to awe and of repugnance, but not at all of contempt--for old Corbet was a man whom no one could despise--the stranger took his departure, and proceeded to Lady Gourlay's, with a vague impression that the remarkable likeness between Lucy and young Roberts was not merely accidental.

He found her at home, placid as usual, but with evidences of a resignation that was at once melancholy and distressing to witness. The struggle of this admirable woman's heart, though sustained by high Christian feeling, was, nevertheless, wearing her away by slow and painful degrees. The stranger saw this, and scarcely knew in what terms to shape the communication he had to make, full as it was of ecstasy to the mother's loving spirit, yet dashed with such doubt and sorrow.

“Can you bear good tidings, Lady Gourlay,” said he, “though mingled with some cause of apprehension?”

“I am in the hands of God,” she replied, “and feel that I ought to receive every communication with obedience. Speak on.”

“Your son is found!”

“What, my child restored to me?”

She had been sitting in an arm-chair, but on hearing these words she started up, and said again, as she placed her hands upon the table at which he sat, that she might sustain herself, “What, Charles, my darling restored to me! Is he safe? Can I see him? Restored! restored at last!”

“Moderate your joy, my dear madam; he is safe--he is in my hotel.”

“But why not here? Safe! oh, at last--at last! But God is a God of mercy, especially to the patient and long-suffering. But come--oh, come! Think of me,--pity me, and do not defraud me one moment of his sight. Bring me to him!”

“Hear me a moment, Lady Gourlay.”

“No, no,” she replied, in a passion of joyful tears, “I can hear you again. I must see my son--my son--my darling child--where is my son? Here--but no, I will ring myself. Why not have brought him here at once, sir? Am not I his mother?”

“My dear madam,” said the stranger, calmly, but with a seriousness of manner that checked the exuberance of her delight, and placing his hand upon her shoulder, “hear me a moment. Your son is found; but he is ill, and I fear in some danger.”

“But to see him, then,” she replied, looking with entreaty in his face, “only to see him. After this long and dreary absence, to let my eyes rest on my son. He is ill, you say; and what hand should be near him and about him but his mother's? Who can with such love and tenderness cherish, and soothe, and comfort him, as the mother who would die for him? Oh, I have a thousand thoughts rushing to my heart--a thousand affectionate anxieties to gratify; but first to look upon him--to press him to that heart--to pour a mother's raptures over her long-lost child! Come with me--oh, come. If he is ill, ought I not, as I said, to see him the sooner on that account? Come, dear Charles, let the carriage be ordered; but that will take some time. A hackney-coach will do--a car--anything that will bring us there with least delay.”

“But, an interview, my lady, may be at this moment as much as his life is worth; he is not out of danger.”

“Well, then, I will not ask an interview. Only let me see him--let his mother's eyes rest upon him. Let me steal a look--a look; let me steal but one look, and I am sure, dear Charles, you will not gainsay this little theft of the mother's heart. But, ah,” she suddenly exclaimed, “what am I doing? Ungrateful and selfish that I am, to forget my first duty! Pardon me a few moments; I will return soon.”

She passed into the back drawing-room, where, although the doors were folded, he could hear this truly pious woman pouring forth with tears her gratitude to God. In a few minutes she reappeared; and such were the arguments she used, that he felt it impossible to prevent her from gratifying this natural and absorbing impulse of the heart.

On reaching the hotel, they found, after inquiring, that he was asleep, a circumstance which greatly pleased the stranger, as he doubted very much whether Fenton would have been strong enough, either in mind or body, to bear such an interview as must have taken place between them.

The unhappy young man was, as we have said, sound asleep. His face was pale and wan, but a febrile hue had tinged his countenance with a color which, although it concealed his danger, was not sufficient to remove from it the mournful expression of all he had suffered. Yet the stranger thought that he never had seen him look so well. His face was indeed a fair but melancholy page of human life. The brows were slightly knit, as if indicative of suffering; and there passed over his features, as he lay, such varying expressions as we may presume corresponded with some painful dream, by which, as far as one could judge, he seemed to be influenced. Sometimes he looked like one that endured pain, sometimes as if he felt terror; and occasionally a gleam of pleasure or joy would faintly light up his handsome but wasted countenance.

Lady Gourlay, whilst she looked upon him, was obliged to be supported by the stranger, who had much difficulty in restraining her grief within due bounds. As for the tears, they fell from her eyes in showers.

“I must really remove you, my lady,” he said, in a whisper; “his recovery, his very life, may depend upon the soundness of this sleep. You see yourself, now, the state he is in; and who living has such an interest in his restoration to health as you have?”

“I know it,” she whispered in reply. “I will be quiet.”

As they spoke, a faint smile seemed to light up his face, which, however, was soon changed to an expression of terror.

“Don't scourge me,” said he, “don't and I will tell you. It was my mother. I thought she kissed me, as she used to do long ago, when I was a boy, and never thought I'd be here.” He then uttered a few faint sobs, but relapsed into a calm expression almost immediately.

The violent beatings of Lady Gourlay's heart were distinctly felt by the stranger, as he supported her; and in order to prevent the sobs which he knew, by the heavings of her breast, were about to burst forth, from awakening the sleeper, he felt it best to lead her out of the room; which he had no sooner done, than she gave way to a long fit of uncontrollable weeping.

“Oh, my child!--my child!” she exclaimed, “I fear they have murdered him! Alas! is he only to be restored to me for a moment, and am I then to be childless indeed? But I will strive to become calm. Why should I not? For even this is a blessing--to have seen him, and to have the melancholy consolation of knowing that if he is to die, he will die in my own arms.”

“Well, but I trust, madam, he won't die. The workings of Providence are never ineffectual, or without a purpose. Have courage, have patience, and all will, I trust, end happily.”

“Well, but I have a request to make. Allow me to kiss him; I shall not disturb him; and if he should recover, as I trust in the Almighty's mercy he will--oh, how I should like to tell him that the dream about his mother was not altogether a dream--that I did kiss him. Trust me, I will not awaken him--the fall of the thistledown will will not be lighter than the kiss I shall give my child.”

“Well, be it so, my lady; and get yourself calm, for you know not his danger, if he should awaken and become agitated.”

They then reentered the apartment, and Lady Gourlay, after contemplating him for a moment or two, stooped down and gently kissed his lips--once--twice--and a third time--and a single tear fell upon his cheek. At this moment, and the coincidence was beautiful and affecting, his face became once more irradiated by a smile that was singularly serene and sweet, as if his very spirit within him had recognized and felt the affection and tenderness of this timid but loving embrace.

The stranger then led her out again, and a burden seemed to have been taken off her heart. She dried her tears, and in grateful and fervid terms expressed the deep obligations she owed him for his generous and! persevering exertions in seeking out and restoring her son.

This sleep was a long one; and proved very beneficial, by somewhat recruiting the little strength that had been left him. The stranger had every measure taken that could contribute to his comfort and recovery. Two nurse tenders were procured, to whose care he was committed, under the general superintendence of Dandy Dulcimer, whom he at once recognized, and by whose performance upon that instrument the poor young man seemed not only much-pleased, but improved in confidence and the general powers of his intellect. The physician saw him twice a day, so that at the period of Lady Gourlay's visit, she found that every care and attention, which consideration and kindness, and anxiety for his recovery could bestow upon him, had been paid; a fact that eased and satisfied her mind very much.

One rather gratifying symptom appeared in him after he awoke on that occasion. He looked about the room, and inquired for Dulcimer, who soon made his appearance.

“Dandy,” said he, for he had known him very well in Ballytrain, “will you be angry with me if I ask you a question? Dandy, I am a gentleman, and you will not treat me ill.”

“I would be glad to see the villain that 'ud dare to do it, Mr. Fenton,” replied Dandy, a good deal moved, “much less to do it myself.”

“Ah,” he replied in a tone of voice that was enough to draw tears from any eye, “but, then, I can depend on no one; and if they should bring me back there--” His eyes became wild and full of horror, as he spoke, and he was about to betray symptoms of strong agitation, when Dandy judiciously brought him back to the point.

“They won't, Mr. Fenton; don't be afeared of that; you are among friends now; but what was the question you were goin' to ask me?”

“A question!--was I?” said he, pausing, as if striving to recover the train of thought he had lost. “Oh, yes,” he proceeded, “yes; there was a pound note taken from me. I got it from the strange gentleman in the inn, and I wish I had it.”

“Well, sir,” replied Dandy, “if it can be got at all, you must have it. I'll inquire for it.”

“Do,” he said; “I wish to have it.” Dandy, in reply to the stranger's frequent and anxious inquiries about him, mentioned this little dialogue, and the latter at once recollected that he had the note in his possession.

“It may be good to gratify him,” he replied; “and as the note can be of little use now, we had better let him have it.”

He accordingly sent it to him by Dandy, who could observe that the possession of it seemed to give him peculiar satisfaction.

Had not the stranger been a man capable of maintaining great restraint over the exercise of very strong feelings, he could never have conducted himself with so much calmness and self-control in his interview with Lady Gourlay and poor Fenton. His own heart during all the time was in a tumult of perfect distraction, but this was occasioned by causes that bore no analogy to those that passed before him. From the moment he heard that Lucy's marriage had been fixed for the next day but one, he felt as if his hold upon hope and life, and all that they promised him, was lost, and his happiness annihilated forever; he felt as if reason were about to abandon him, as if all existence had become dark, and the sun himself had been struck out of the system of the universe. He could not rest, and only with difficulty think at all as a sane man ought. At length he resolved to see the baronet, at the risk of life or death--in spite of every obstacle--in despite of all opposition;--perish social forms and usages--perish the insolence of wealth, and the jealous restrictions of parental tyranny. Yes, perish one and all, sooner than he, a man, with an unshrinking heart, and a strong arm, should tamely suitor that noble girl to be sacrificed, ay, murdered, at the shrine of a black and guilty ambition. Agitated, urged, maddened, by these considerations, he went to the baronet's house with a hope of seeing him, but that hope was frustrated. Sir Thomas was out.

“Was Miss Gourlay at home?”

“No; she too had gone out with her father,” replied Gibson, who happened to open the door.

“Would you be kind enough, sir, to deliver a note to Miss Gourlay?”

“I could not, sir; I dare not.”

“I will give you five pounds, if you do.”

“It is impossible, sir; I should lose my situation instantly if I attempted to deliver it. Miss Gourlay, sir, will receive no letters unless through her father's hands, and besides, sir, we have repeatedly had the most positive orders not to receive any from you, above all men living.”

“I will give you ten pounds.”

Gibson shook his head, but at the same time the expression of his countenance began manifestly to relax, and he licked his lips as he replied, “I--really--could--not--sir.”

“Twenty.”

The fellow paused and looked stealthily in every direction, when, just at the moment he was about to entertain the subject, Thomas Corbet, the house-steward, came forward from the front parlor where he evidently had been listening, and asked Gibson what was the matter.

“This gentleman,” said Gibson, “ahem--is anxious to have a--ahem--he was inquiring for Sir Thomas.”

“Gibson, go down stairs,” said Corbet. “You had better do so. I have ears, Gibson. Go down at once, and leave the gentleman to me.”

Gibson again licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and with a visage rather blank and disappointed, slunk away as he had been desired. When he had gone,

“You wish, sir,” said Corbet, “to have a note delivered to Miss Gourlay?”

“I do, and will give you twenty pounds if you deliver it.”

“Hand me the money quietly,” replied Corbet, “and the note also. I shall then give you a friend's advice.”

The stranger immediately placed both the money and the note in his hands; when Corbet, having put them in his pocket, said, “I will deliver the note, sir; but go to my father, and ask him to prevent this marriage; and, above all things, to direct you how to act. If any man can serve you in the business, he can.”

“Could you not let me see Miss Gourlay herself?” said the stranger.

“No, sir; she has promised her father neither to see you, nor to write to you, nor to receive any letters from you.”

“But I must see Sir Thomas himself,” said the stranger determinedly.

“You seem a good deal excited, sir,” replied Corbet; “pray, be calm, and listen to me. I shall be obliged to put this letter under a blank cover, which I will address in a feigned hand, in order that she may even receive it. As for her father, he would not see you, nor enter into any explanation whatsoever with you. In fact, he is almost out of his mind with delight and terror; with delight, that the marriage is at length about to take place, and with terror, lest something might occur to prevent it. One word, sir. I see Gibson peeping up. Go and see my father; you have seen him more than once before.”

On the part of Corbet, the stranger remarked that there was something sneaking, slightly derisive, and intimating, moreover, a want of sincerity in this short dialogue, an impression that was strengthened on hearing the relation which he bore to the obstinate old sphinx on Constitution Hill.

“But pardon me, my friend,” said he, as Corbet was about to go away; “if Miss Gourlay will not receive or open my letter, why did you accept such a sum of money for it?” He paused, not knowing exactly how to proceed, yet with a tolerably strong suspicion that Corbet was cheating him.

“Observe, sir,” replied the other, “that I said I would deliver the letter only--I didn't undertake to make her read it. But I dare say you are right--I don't think she will even open it at all, much less read it. Here, sir, I return both money and letter; and I wish you to know, besides, that I am not a man in the habit of being suspected of improper motives. My advice that you should see my father is a proof that I am your friend.”

The other, who was completely outmanoeuvred by Corbet, at once declined to receive back either the letter or notes, and after again pressing the worthy steward to befriend him in the matter of the note as far as he could, he once more paid a visit to old Anthony. This occurred on the day before that appointed for the marriage.

“Corbet,” said he, addressing him as he lay upon an old crazy sofa, the tarnished cover of which shone with dirt, “I am distracted, and have come to ask your advice and assistance.”

“Is it a helpless ould creature like me you'd come to?” replied Corbet, hitching himself upon the sofa, as if to get ease. “But what is wrong now?”

“If this marriage between Miss Gourlay and Lord Dunroe takes place, I shall lose my senses.”

“Well, in troth,” replied Anthony, in his own peculiar manner, “if you don't get more than you appear to be gifted with at present, you won't have much to lose, and that will be one comfort. But how can you expect me to assist you?”

“Did you not tell me that the baronet is your puppet?”

“I did; but that was for my ends, not for yours.”

“Well, but could you not prevent this accursed, sacrilegious, blasphemous union?”

“For God's sake, spake aisy, and keep yourself quiet,” said Anthony; “I am ill, and not able to bear noise and capering like this. I'm a weak, feeble ould man.”

“Listen to me, Corbet,” continued the other, with vehemence, “command my purse, my means to any extent, if you do what I wish.”

“I did like money,” implied Corbet, “but of late my whole heart is filled with but one thought; and rather than not carry that out, I would sacrifice every child I have. I love Miss Gourlay, for I know she is a livin' angel, but--”

“What? You do not mean to say that you would sacrifice her?”

“If I would sacrifice my own, do you think I'd be apt to spare her?” he asked with a groan, for in fact his illness had rather increased.

“Are you not better?” inquired the stranger, moved by a feeling of humanity which nothing could eradicate out of his noble and generous nature. “Allow me to send a doctor to you? I shall do so at my own expense.”

Anthony looked upon him with more complacency, but replied,

“The blackguard knaves, no; they only rob you first and kill you afterwards. A highway-robber's before them; for he kills you first, and afther that you can't feel the pain of being robbed. Well, I can't talk much to you now. My head's beginnin' to get troublesome; but I'll tell you what you'll do. I'll call for that young man, Fenton, and you must let him come with me to the wedding to-morrow mornin'. Indeed, I intended to take a car, and drive over to ask it as a favor from you.”

“To what purpose should he go, even if he were able? but he is too ill.”

“Hasn't he been out in a chaise?”

“He has; but as he is incapable of bearing any agitation or excitement, his presence there might cause his death.”

“No, sir, it will not; I knew him to be worse, and he recovered; he will be better, I tell you: besides, if you wish me to sarve you in one way, you must sarve me in this.”

“But can you prevent the marriage?”

“What I can do, or what I cannot do, a team of horses won't drag out o' me, until the time--the hour--comes--then! Will you allow the young man to come, sir?”

“But his mother, you say, will be there, and a scene between them would be not only distressing to all parties, and out of place, but might be dangerous to him.”

“It's because his mother's to be there, maybe, that I want him to be there. Don't I tell you that I want to--but no, I'll keep my own mind to myself--only sink or swim without me, unless you allow him to come.”

“Well, then, if he be sufficiently strong to go, I shall not prevent him, upon the condition that you will exercise the mysterious influence which you seem in possession of for the purpose of breaking up the marriage.”

“I won't promise to do any such thing,” replied Anthony. “You must only make the best of a bad bargain, by lavin' everything to myself. Go away now, sir, if you plaise; my head's not right, and I want to keep it clear for to-morrow.”

The stranger saw that he was as inscrutable as ever, and consequently left him, half in indignation, and half impressed by a lurking hope that, notwithstanding the curtness of his manner, he was determined to befriend him.

This, however, was far from the heart of old Corbet, whose pertinacity of purpose nothing short of death itself could either moderate or change.

“Prevent the marriage, indeed! Oh, ay! Catch me at it. No, no; that must take place, or I'm balked of half my revenge. It's when he finds that he has, by his own bad and blind passions, married her to the profligate without the title that he'll shiver. And that scamp, too, the bastard--but, no matther--I must try and keep my head clear, as I said, for to-morrow will be a great day, either for good or evil, to some of them. Yes, and when all is over, then my mind will be at aise; this black thing that's inside o' me for years--drivin' me on, on, on--will go about his business; and then, plaise goodness, I can repent comfortably and like a Christian. Oh, dear me!--my head!”

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