The character of Fenton was one that presented an extraordinary variety
of phases. With the exception of the firmness and pertinacity with which
he kept the mysterious secret of his origin and identity--that is, if
he himself knew them, he was never known to maintain the same moral
temperament for a week together. Never did there exist a being so
capricious and unstable. At one time, you found him all ingenuousness
and candor; at another, no earthly power could extort a syllable of
truth from his lips. For whole days, if not for weeks together, he
dealt in nothing but the wildest fiction, and the most extraordinary and
grotesque rodomontade. The consequence was, that no reliance could be
placed on anything he said or asserted. And yet--which appeared to
be rather unaccountable in such a character--it could be frequently
observed that he was subject to occasional periods of the deepest
dejection. During those painful and gloomy visitations, he avoided
all intercourse with his fellow-men, took to wandering through the
country--rarely spoke to anybody, whether stranger or acquaintance, but
maintained the strictest and most extraordinary silence. If he passed a
house at meal-time he entered, and, without either preface or apology,
quietly sat down and joined them. To this freedom on his part, in a
country so hospitable as Ireland in the days of her prosperity was, and
could afford to be, no one ever thought of objecting.
“It was,” observed the people, “only the poor young gentleman who is not
right in the head.”
So that the very malady which they imputed to him was only a passport
to their kindness and compassion. Fenton had no fixed residence, nor any
available means of support, save the compassionate and generous interest
which the inhabitants of Ballytrain took in him, in consequence of those
gentlemanly manners which he could assume whenever he wished, and the
desolate position in which some unknown train of circumstances had
unfortunately placed him.
When laboring under these depressing moods to which we have alluded,
his memory seemed filled with recollections that, so far as appearances
went, absolutely stupefied his heart by the heaviness of the suffering
they occasioned it; and, when that heart, therefore, sank as far as its
powers of endurance could withstand this depression, he uniformly had
recourse to the dangerous relief afforded by indulgence in the fiery
stimulant of liquor, to which he was at all times addicted.
Such is a slightly detailed sketch of an individual whose fate is deeply
involved in the incidents and progress of our narrative.
The horror which we have described as having fallen upon this
unfortunate young man, during Sir Thomas Gourlay's stormy interview with
the stranger, so far from subsiding, as might be supposed, after his
departure, assumed the shape of something bordering on insanity. On
looking at his companion, the wild but deep expression of his eyes began
to change into one of absolute frenzy, a circumstance which could not
escape the stranger's observation, and which, placed as he was in the
pursuit of an important secret, awoke a still deeper interest, whilst at
the same time it occasioned him much pain.
“Mr. Fenton,” said he, “I certainly have no wish, by any proceeding
incompatible with an ungentlemanly feeling of impertinent curiosity, to
become acquainted with the cause of this unusual excitement, which the
appearance of Miss Gourlay and her father seems to produce upon you,
unless in so far as its disclosure, in honorable confidence, might
enable me, as a person sincerely your friend, to allay or remove it.”
“Suppose, sir, you are mistaken.” replied the other--“Do you not know
that there are memories arising from association, that are touched and
kindled into great pain, by objects that are by no means the direct
cause of them, or the cause of them in any sense?”
“I admit the truth of what you say, Mr. Fenton; but we can only draw our
first inferences from appearances. It is not from any idle or prurient
desire to become acquainted with the cause of your emotion that I
speak, but simply from a wish to serve you, if you will permit me. It is
distressing to witness what you suffer.”
“I have experienced,” said Fenton, whose excitement seemed not only to
rise as he proceeded, but in a considerable degree to give that fervor
and elevation to his language, which excitement often gives; “yes, sir,”
he proceeded, his eyes kindling almost into fury, “I have experienced
much treacherous and malignant sympathy, under the guise of pretended
friendship--sympathy! why do I say sympathy? Persecution--vengeance.
Yes, sir, till I have become mad--or--or nearly so. No,” he added, “I
am not mad--I never was mad--but I understand your object--avaunt,
sir--begone--or I shall throw you out of the window.”
“Be calm, Mr. Fenton--be calm,” replied the stranger, “and collect
yourself. I am, indeed, sincerely your friend.”
“Who told you, sir, that I was mad?”
“I never said so, Mr. Fenton.”
“It matters not, sir--you are a traitor--and as such I denounce you.
This room is mine, sir, and I shall forthwith expel you from it--” and,
as he spoke, he started up, and sprung at the stranger, who, on
seeing him rise for the purpose, instantly rang the bell. The waiter
immediately entered, and found the latter holding poor Fenton by the
two wrists, and with such a tremendous grasp as made him feel like an
infant, in point of strength, in his hands.
“This is unmeaning violence, sir,” exclaimed the latter, calmly but
firmly, “unless you explain yourself, and give a reason for it. If you
are moved by any peculiar cause of horror, or apprehension, or danger,
why not enable me to understand it, in order that you may feel assured
of my anxious disposition to assist you?”
“Gintlemen,” exclaimed Paudeen, “what in the name of Pether White and
Billy Neelins is the reason of this? But I needn't ax--it's one of Mr.
Fenton's tantrams--an' the occasion of it was, lying snug and warm
this mornin', in one of Andy Trimble's whiskey barrels. For shame, Mr.
Fenton, you they say a gintleman born, and to thrate one of your own
rank--a gintleman that befriended you as he did, and put a daicint shoot
of clo'es on your miserable carcase; when you know that before he did
it, if the wind was blowing from the thirty-two points of the compass,
you had an openin' for every point, if they wor double the number.
Troth, now, you're ongrateful, an' if God hasn't said it, you'll thravel
from an onpenitent death-bed yet. Be quiet, will you, or my sinful sowl
to glory, but I'll bundle you downstairs?”
“He will be quiet, Pat,” said the stranger. “In truth, after all, this
is a mere physical malady, Mr. Fenton, and will pass away immediately,
if you will only sit down and collect yourself a little.”
Fenton, however, made another unavailable attempt at struggle, and
found that he was only exhausting himself to no purpose. All at once, or
rather following up his previous suspicions, he seemed to look upon the
powerful individual who held him, as a person who had become suddenly
invested with a new character that increased his terrors; and yet, if
we may say so, almost forced him into an anxiety to suppress their
manifestation. His limbs, however, began to tremble excessively; his
eyes absolutely dilated, and became filled by a sense of terror, nearly
as wild as despair itself. The transitions of his temper, however, like
those of his general conduct, supervened upon each other with remarkable
rapidity, and, as it were, the result of quick, warm, and inconsiderate
impulses.
“Well,” he exclaimed at length, “I will be quiet, I am, I assure you,
perfectly harmless; but, at the same time,” he added, sitting down, “I
know that the whole dialogue between you and that awful-looking man, was
a plot laid for me. Why else did you insist on my being present at it?
This accounts for your giving me a paltry sum of money, too--it does,
sir--and for your spurious and dishonest humanity in wishing to see me
well clothed. Yes, I perceive it all; but, let what may happen, I
will not wear these clothes any longer. They are not the offering of a
generous heart, but the fraudulent pretext for insinuating yourself
into my confidence, in order to--to--yes, but I shall not say it--it
is enough that I know you, sir--that I see through, and penetrate your
designs.”
He was about to put his threat with respect to the clothes into instant
execution, when the stranger, once more seizing him, exclaimed--“You
must promise, Mr. Fenton, before you leave my grasp, that you will make
no further attempt to tear off your dress. I insist on this;” and as he
spoke he fixed his eye sternly and commandingly on that of Fenton.
“I will not attempt it,” replied the latter; “I promise it, on the word
of a gentleman.”
“There, then,” said the stranger--“Keep yourself quiet, and, mark me,
I shall expect that you will not violate that word, nor yield to these
weak and silly paroxysms.”
Fenton merely nodded submissively, and the other proceeded, still with a
view of sounding him: “You say you know me; if so, who and what am I?”
“Do not ask me to speak at further length,” replied Fenton; “I am quite
exhausted, and I know not what I said.”
He appeared now somewhat calmer, or, at least, affected to be so. By
his manner, however, it would appear that some peculiar opinion or
apprehension, with reference either to the baronet or the stranger,
seemed as if confirmed, whilst, at the same time, acting under one of
his rapid transitions, he spoke and looked like a man who was influenced
by new motives. He then withdrew in a mood somewhat between sullenness
and regret.
When the stranger was left to himself, he paced the room some time in
a state of much anxiety, if not distress. At length he sat down, and,
leaning his head upon his hand, exclaimed unconsciously aloud:
“Alas! I fear this search is vain. The faint traces of imaginary
resemblance, which I thought I had discovered in this young man's
features, are visible no longer. It is; true, this portrait,” looking
once more at the miniature, “was taken when the original was only
a child of five years; but still it was remarked that the family
resemblances were, from childhood up, both strong and striking. Then,
this unfortunate person is perfectly inscrutable, and not to be managed
by any ordinary procedure at present intelligible to me. Yet,--after
all, as far as I have been able to conjecture, there is a strong
similarity in the cases. The feeling among the people here is, that he
is a gentleman by birth: but this may proceed from the air and manners
which he can assume when he pleases. I would mention my whole design
and object at hazard, but this would be running an unnecessary risk by
intrusting my secret to him; and, although it is evident that he can
preserve his own, it does not necessarily follow that he would keep
mine. However, I must only persevere and bide my time, as the Scotch
say.”
He again rose, and, pacing the apartment once more, his features assumed
a still deeper expression of inward agitation.
“And, again,” he exclaimed, “that unfortunate rencounter! Great Heavens,
what if I stand here a murderer, with the blood of a fellow-creature,
hurried, I fear, in the very midst of his profligacy, into eternity! The
thought is insupportable; and I know not, unless I can strictly preserve
my incognito, whether I am at this moment liable, if apprehended, to pay
the penalty which the law exacts. The only consolation that remains
for me is, that the act was not of my seeking, but arrogantly and
imperiously forced upon me.”