--Lucy Gourlay avows a previous Attachment.
Whilst Fenton was thus sketching for the stranger a few of the public
characters of Ballytrain, a scene, which we must interrupt them to
describe, was taking place in the coffee-room of the “Mitre.” As
everything, however, has an origin, it is necessary, before we raise the
curtain, which, for the present, excludes us from that scene, to enable
the reader to become acquainted with the cause of it. That morning,
after breakfast, Sir Thomas Gourlay went to his study, where, as usual,
he began to read his letters and endorse them--for he happened to be one
of those orderly and exact men who cannot bear to see even a trifle
out of its place. Having despatched three or four, he took up one--the
last--and on opening it read, much to his astonishment and dismay, as
follows;
“Sir Thomas Gourlay,--There is an adventurer in disguise near you.
Beware of your daughter, and watch her well, otherwise she may give you
the slip. I write this, that you may prevent her from throwing herself
away upon an impostor and profligate. I am a friend to her, but none to
you; and it is on her account, as well as for the sake of another, that
you are now warned.”
On perusing this uncomfortable document, his whole frame became moved
with a most vehement fit of indignation. He rose from his seat, and
began to traverse the floor with lengthy and solemn strides, as a man
usually does who knows not exactly on whom to vent his rage. There hung
a large mirror before him, and, as he approached it from time to time,
he could not help being struck by the repulsive expression of his own
features. He was a tall, weighty man, of large bones and muscles; his
complexion was sallow, on a black ground; his face firm, but angular;
and his forehead, which was low, projected a good deal over a pair of
black eyes, in one of which there was a fearful squint. His eyebrows,
which met, were black, fierce-looking, and bushy, and, when agitated,
as now, with passion, they presented, taken in connection with his
hard, irascible lips, short irregular teeth and whole complexion, an
expression singularly stern and malignant.
On looking at his own image, he could not help feeling the conviction,
that the visage which presented itself to him was not such a one as was
calculated to diminish the unpopularity which accompanied him wherever
he went, and the obloquy which hung over his name.
Sir Thomas Gourlay, however, although an exceedingly forbidding and
ugly man, was neither a fool nor novice in the ways of the world. No man
could look upon his plotting forehead, and sunken eyes closely placed,
without feeling at once that he was naturally cunning and circumventive.
Nor was this all; along with being deep and designing, he was also
subject to sudden bursts of passion, which, although usual in such a
temperament, did not suddenly pass away. On the contrary, they were
sometimes at once so tempestuous and abiding, that he had been rendered
ill by their fury, and forced to take to his bed for days together.
On the present occasion, a considerable portion of his indignation was
caused by the fact, that he knew not the individual against whom to
direct it. His daughter, as a daughter, had been to him an object of
perfect indifference, from the day of her birth up to that moment; that
is to say, he was utterly devoid of all personal love and tenderness
for her, whilst, at the same time, he experienced, in its full force, a
cold, conventional ambition, which, although without honor, principle,
or affection, yet occasioned him to devote all his efforts and energies
to her proper establishment in the world. In her early youth, for
instance, she had suffered much from delicate health, so much, indeed,
that she was more than once on the very verge of death; yet, on no
occasion, was he ever known to manifest the slightest parental sorrow
for her illness. Society, however, is filled with such fathers, and with
too many mothers of a like stamp. So far, however, as Lucy Gourlay was
concerned, this proud, unprincipled spirit of the world supplied to her,
to a certain extent at least, the possession of that which affection
ought to have given. Her education was attended to with the most
solicitous anxiety--not in order to furnish her mind with that healthy
description of knowledge which strengthens principle and elevates the
heart, but that she might become a perfect mistress of all the necessary
and fashionable accomplishments, and shine, at a future day, an object
of attraction on that account. A long and expensive array of masters,
mistresses, and finishers, from almost every climate and country of
Europe, were engaged in her education, and the consequence was, that few
young persons of her age and sex were more highly accomplished. If his
daughter's head ached, her father never suffered that circumstance to
disturb the cold, stern tenor of his ambitious way; but, at the same
time, two or three of the most eminent physicians were sent for, as a
matter of course, and then there were nothing but consultations until
she recovered. Had she died, Sir Thomas Gourlay would not have shed one
tear, but he would have had all the pomp and ceremony due to her station
in life solemnly paraded at her funeral, and it is very likely that one
or other of our eminent countrymen, Hogan or M'Dowall, had they then
existed, would have been engaged to erect her a monument.
And yet the feeling which he experienced, and which regulated his life,
was, after all, but a poor pitiful parody upon true ambition. The latter
is a great and glorious principle, because, where it exists, it never
fails to expand the heart, and to prompt it to the performance of all
those actions that elevate our condition and dignify our nature. Had he
experienced anything like such a feeling as this, or even the beautiful
instincts of parental affection, he would not have neglected, as he
did, the inculcation of all those virtues and principles which render
education valuable, and prevent it from degenerating into an empty
parade of mere accomplishments.
It is true, Sir Thomas Gourlay enjoyed the reputation of being an
admirable father, and, indeed, from mere worldly principle he was so,
and we presume gave himself credit for being so. In the mean time, our
readers are to learn that earth scarcely contained a man who possessed
a greedier or more rapacious spirit; and, if ever the demon of envy,
especially with respect to the possession of wealth and property,
tortured the soul of a human being, it did that of our baronet. His
whole spirit, in fact, was dark, mean, and intensely selfish; and for
this reason, it was a fearful thing for any one to stand in his way when
in the execution of his sordid projects, much less to attempt his
defeat in their attainment. Reckless and unscrupulous, he left no means
unattempted, however odious and wicked, to crush those who offended him,
or such as stood in the way of his love of wealth and ambition.
For some minutes after the perusal of the anonymous letter, one would
have imagined that the image which met his gaze, from time to time, in
the looking-glass, was that of his worst and deadliest enemy, so fierce
and menacing were the glances which he cast on it as he paced the floor.
At length he took up the document, and, having read it again, exclaimed:
“Perhaps, after all, I'm angry to no purpose; certainly to no purpose,
in one sense, I am, inasmuch as I know not who this anonymous person
is. But stay, let me be cautious--is there such a person? May this
communication not be a false one--written to mislead or provoke me? Lucy
knows that I am determined she shall marry Lord Dunroe, and I am not
aware that she entertains any peculiar objection to him. In the mean
time, I will have some conversation with her, in order to ascertain what
her present and immediate feeling on the subject is. It is right that I
should see my way in this.”
He accordingly rang the bell, when a well-powdered footman, in rich
livery, entered.
“Let Miss Gourlay understand that I wish to see her.”
This he uttered in a loud, sharp tone of voice, for it was in such he
uniformly addressed his dependents.
The lackey bowed and withdrew, and, in the course of a few minutes, his
daughter entered the study, and stood before him. At the first
glance, she saw that something had discomposed him, and felt a kind of
instinctive impression that it was more or less connected with herself.
Seldom, indeed, was such a contrast between man and woman ever
witnessed, as that which presented itself on this occasion. There
stood the large, ungainly, almost misshapen father, with a countenance
distorted, by the consequences of ill-suppressed passion, into a deeper
deformity--a deformity that was rendered ludicrously hideous, by a
squint that gave, as we have said, to one of his eyes, as he looked at
her, the almost literal expression of a dagger. Before him, on the other
hand, stood a girl, whose stature was above the middle height, with a
form that breathed of elegance, ease, and that exquisite grace
which marks every look, and word, and motion of the high-minded and
accomplished lady. Indeed, one would imagine that her appearance would
have soothed and tranquillized the anger of any parent capable of
feeling that glowing and prideful tenderness, with which such an
exquisitely beautiful creature was calculated to fill a parent's heart.
Lucy Gourlay was a dark beauty--a brunette so richly tinted, that the
glow of her cheek was only surpassed by the flashing brilliancy of her
large, dark eyes, that seemed, in those glorious manifestations, to
kindle with inspiration. Her forehead was eminently intellectual, and
her general temperament--Celtic by the mother's side--was remarkable
for those fascinating transitions of spirit which passed over her
countenance like the gloom and sunshine of the early summer. Nothing
could be more delightful, nor, at the same time, more dangerous, than to
watch that countenance whilst moving under the influence of melancholy,
and to observe how quickly the depths of feeling, or the impulses of
tenderness, threw their delicious shadows into its expression--unless,
indeed, to watch the same face when lit up by humor, and animated into
radiance by mirth. Such is a faint outline of Lucy Gourlay, who, whether
in shadow or whether in light, was equally captivating and irresistible.
On entering the room, her father, incapable of appreciating even the
natural graced and beauty of her person, looked at her with a gaze of
sternness and inquiry for some moments, but seemed at a loss in what
terms to address her. She, however, spoke first, simply saying:
“Has anything discomposed you, papa?”
“I have been discomposed, Miss Gourlay”--for he seldom addressed her as
Lucy--“and I wish to have some serious conversation with you. Pray be
seated.”
Lucy sat.
“I trust, Miss Gourlay,” he proceeded, in a style partly interrogatory
and partly didactic--“I trust you are perfectly sensible that a child
like you owes full and unlimited obedience to her parents.”
“So long, at least, sir, as her parents exact no duties from her that
are either unreasonable or unjust, or calculated to destroy her own
happiness. With these limitations, I reply in the affirmative.”
“A girl like you, Miss Gourlay, has no right to make exceptions. Your
want of experience, which is only another name for your ignorance of
life, renders you incompetent to form an estimate of what constitutes,
or may constitute, your happiness.”
“Happiness!--in what sense, sir?”
“In any sense, madam.”
“Madam!” she replied, with much feeling. “Dear papa--if you will allow
me to call you so--why address me in a tone of such coldness, if not
of severity? All I ask of you is, that, when you do honor me by an
interview, you will remember that I am your daughter, and not speak to
me as you would to an utter stranger.”
“The tone which I may assume toward you, Miss Gourlay, must be regulated
by your own obedience.”
“But in what have I ever failed in obedience to you, my dear papa?”
“Perhaps you compliment your obedience prematurely, Lucy--it has never
yet been seriously tested.”
Her beautiful face crimsoned at this assertion; for she well knew that
many a severe imposition had been placed upon her during girlhood, and
that, had she been any other girl than she was, her very youth would
have been forced into opposition to commands that originated in whim,
caprice, and selfishness. Even when countenanced, however, by the
authority of her other parent, and absolutely urged against compliance
with injunctions that were often cruel and oppressive, she preferred, at
any risk, to accommodate herself to them rather than become the cause of
estrangement or ill-feeling between him and her mother, or her mother's
friends. Such a charge as this, then, was not only ungenerous, but, as
he must have well known, utterly unfounded.
“I do not wish, sir,” she replied, “to make any allusion to the past,
unless simply to say, that, if severe and trying instances of obedience
have been exacted from me, under very peculiar circumstances, I trust I
have not been found wanting in my duty to you.”
“That obedience, Miss Gourlay, which is reluctantly given, had better
been forgotten.”
“You have forced me to remember it in my own defence, papa; but I am not
conscious that it was reluctant.”
“You contradict me, madam.”
“No, sir; I only take the liberty of setting you right. My obedience,
if you recollect, was cheerful; for I did not wish to occasion ill-will
between you and mamma--my dear mamma.”
“I believe you considered that you had only one parent, Miss Gourlay?”
“That loved me, sir, you would add. But, papa, why should there be such
a dialogue as this between you and your daughter--your orphan
daughter, and your only child? It is not natural, Something, I see, has
discomposed your temper; I am ignorant of it.”
“I made you aware, some time ago, that the Earl of Cullamore and I had
entered into a matrimonial arrangement between you and his son, Lord
Dunroe.”
A deadly paleness settled upon her countenance at these words--a
paleness the more obvious, as it contrasted so strongly with the
previous rich hue of her complexion, which had been already heightened
by the wanton harshness of her father's manner. The baronet's eyes, or
rather his eye, was fixed upon her with a severity which this incident
rapidly increased.
“You grow pale, Miss Gourlay; and there seems to be something in this
allusion to Lord Dunroe that is painful to you. How is this, madam? I do
not understand it.”
“I am, indeed, pale, and I feel that I am; for what is there that could
drive the hue of modesty from the cheek of a daughter, sooner than
the fact of her own father purposing to unite her to a profligate? You
seldom jest, papa; but I hope you do so now.”
“I am not disposed to make a jest of your happiness, Miss Gourlay.”
“Nor of my misery, papa. You surely cannot but know--nay, you cannot
but feel--that a marriage between me and Lord Dunroe is impossible. His
profligacy is so gross, that his very name is indelicate in the mouth
of a modest woman. And is this the man to whom you would unite your only
child and daughter? But I trust you still jest, sir. As a man, and
a gentleman, much less as a parent, you would not think seriously of
making such a proposal to me?”
“All very fine sentiment--very fine stuff and nonsense, madam; the
young man is a little wild--somewhat lavish in expenditure--and for the
present not very select in the company he keeps; but he is no fool, as
they say, and we all know how marriage reforms a man, and thoroughly
sobers him down.”
“Often at the expense, papa,” she replied with tears, “of many a broken
heart. That surely, is not a happy argument; for, perhaps, after all,
I should, like others, become but a victim to my ineffectual efforts at
his reformation.”
“There is one thing, Miss Gourlay, you are certain to become, and that
is, Countess of Cullamore, at his father's death. Remember this; and.
remember also, that, victim or no victim, I am determined you shall
marry him. Yes, you shall marry him,” he added, stamping with vehemence,
“or be turned a beggar upon the world. Become a victim, indeed! Begone,
madam, to your room, and prepare for that obedience which your mother
never taught you.”
She rose as he spoke, and with a graceful inclination of her head,
silently withdrew.
This dialogue caused both father and daughter much pain. Certain
portions of it, especially near the close, were calculated to force
upon the memory of each, analogies that were as distressing to the
warm-hearted girl, as they were embarrassing to her parent. The truth
was, that her mother, then a year dead, had indeed become a victim to
the moral profligacy of a man in whose character there existed nothing
whatsoever to compensate her for the utter absence of domestic affection
in all its phases. His principal vices, so far as they affected the
peace of his family, were a brutal temper, and a most scandalous
dishonesty in pecuniary transactions, especially in his intercourse with
his own tenantry and tradesmen. Of moral obligation he seemed to possess
no sense or impression whatever. A single day never occurred in which
he was not guilty of some most dishonorable violation of his word to the
poor, and those who were dependent on him. Ill-temper therefore toward
herself, and the necessity of constantly witnessing a series of vile
and unmanly frauds upon a miserable scale, together with her incessant
efforts to instil into his mind some slight principle of common
integrity, had, during an unhappy life, so completely harassed a mind
naturally pure and gentle, and a constitution never strong, that, as
her daughter hinted, and as every one intimate with the family knew, she
literally fell a victim to the vices we have named, and the incessant
anxiety they occasioned her. These analogies, then, when unconsciously
alluded to by his daughter, brought tears to her eyes, and he felt that
the very grief she evinced was an indirect reproach to himself.
“Now,” he exclaimed, after she had gone, “it is clear, I think, that
the girl entertains something more than a mere moral objection to this
match. I would have taxed her with some previous engagement, but that I
fear it would be premature to do so at present. Dunroe is wild, no doubt
of it; but I cannot believe that women, who are naturally vain and fond
of display, feel so much alarm at this as they pretend. I never did
myself care much about the sex, and seldom had an opportunity of
studying their general character, or testing their principles; but
still I incline to the opinion, that, where there is not a previous
engagement, rank and wealth will, for the most part, outweigh every
other consideration. In the meantime I will ride into Ballytrain, and
reconnoitre a little. Perhaps the contents, of this communication are
true--perhaps not; but, at all events, it can be no harm to look about
me in a quiet way.”
He then read the letter a third time--examined the handwriting
closely--locked it in a private drawer--rang the bell--ordered his
horse--and in a few minutes was about to proceed to the “Mitre” inn,
in order to make secret inquiries after such persons as he might find
located in that or the other establishments of the town. At this moment,
his daughter once more entered the apartment, her face glowing with deep
agitation, and her large, mellow eyes lit up with a fixed, and, if one
could judge, a lofty purpose. Her reception, we need hardly say, was
severe and harsh.
“How, madam,” he exclaimed, “did I not order you to your room? Do you
return to bandy undutiful hints and arguments with me?”
“Father,” said she, “I am not ignorant, alas! of your stern and
indomitable character; but, upon the subject of forced and unsuitable
matches, I may and I do appeal directly to the experience of your own
married life, and of that of my beloved mother. She was, unhappily for
herself--”
“And for me, Miss Gourlay--”
“Well, perhaps so; but if ever woman was qualified to make a man happy,
she was. At all events, sir, unhappily she was forced into marriage
with you, and you deliberately took to your bosom a reluctant bride. She
possessed extraordinary beauty, and a large fortune. I, however, am not
about to enter into your heart, or analyze its motives; it is enough to
say that, although she had no previous engagement or affection for any
other, she was literally dragged by the force of parental authority
into a union with you. The consequence was, that her whole life, owing
to--to--the unsuitableness of your tempers, and the strongly-contrasted
materials which formed your characters, was one of almost unexampled
suffering and sorrow. With this example before my eyes, and with the
memory of it brooding over and darkening your own heart--yes,
papa--my dear papa, let me call you with the full and most distressing
recollections connected with it strong upon both of us, let me entreat
and implore that you will not urge nor force me into a union with
this hateful and repulsive profligate. I go upon my knees to you, and
entreat, as you regard my happiness, my honor, and my future peace of
mind, that you will not attempt to unite me to this most unprincipled
and dishonorable young man.”
Her father's brow grew black as a thunder-cloud; the veins of his
temples swelled up, as if they had been filled with ink, and, after a
few hasty strides through the study, he turned upon her such a look of
fury as we need not attempt to describe.
“Miss Gourlay,” said he, in a voice dreadfully deep and stern, “there
is not an allusion made in that undutiful harangue--for so I must call
it--that does not determine me to accomplish my purpose in effecting
this union. If your mother was unhappy, the fault lay in her own weak
and morbid temper. As for me, I now tell you, once for all, that your
destiny is either beggary or a coronet; on that I am resolved!”
She stood before him like one who had drawn strength from the full
knowledge of her fate. Her face, it is true, had become pale, but it was
the paleness of a calm but lofty spirit, and she replied, with a full
and clear voice:
“I said, sir--for I had her own sacred assurance for it--that my mother,
when she married you, had no previous engagement; it is not so with your
daughter--my affections are fixed upon another.”
There are some natures so essentially tyrannical, and to whom resistance
is a matter of such extraordinary novelty, that its manifestation
absolutely surprises them out of their natural character. In this
manner Sir Thomas Gourlay was affected. Instead of flying into a fresh
hurricane of rage, he felt so completely astounded, that he was only
capable of turning round to her, and asking, in a voice unusually calm:
“Pray name him, Miss Gourlay.”
“In that, sir, you will excuse me--for the present. The day may come,
and I trust soon will, when I can do so with honor. And now, sir, having
considered it my duty not to conceal this fact from your knowledge, I
will, with your permission, withdraw to my own apartment.”
She paid him, with her own peculiar grace, the usual obeisance, and left
the room. The stem and overbearing Sir Thomas Gourlay now felt himself
so completely taken aback by her extraordinary candor and firmness, that
he was only able to stand and look after her in silent amazement.
“Well!” he exclaimed, “I have reason to thank her for this important
piece of information. She has herself admitted a previous attachment.
So far my doubts are cleared up, and I feel perfectly certain that the
anonymous information is correct. It now remains for me to find out
who the object of this attachment is. I have no doubt that he is in the
neighborhood; and, if so, I shall know how to manage him.”
He then mounted his horse, and rode into Ballytrain, with what purpose
it is now unnecessary, we trust, to trouble the reader at farther
length.