The stranger, after Fenton had gone, began to feel that it was
impossible either to wheedle or extort any information whatsoever,
whether of importance or otherwise, from that extraordinary and not very
sane individual. That, however, there was a deep mystery about him,
be it what it might, he could not, for a moment, doubt; and, for this
reason, he resolved by no means to relax his exertions, or suffer
Fenton, if he could fairly prevent it, to slip through his fingers.
His unaccountable conduct and terror, during, as well as after, his own
angry altercation with the baronet, went, in his opinion, strongly to
connect him, in some manner, with that unscrupulous man. But how to
develop the nature of this connection constituted the very difficulty
which not only disappointed but mortified him.
“I will call upon Birney,” thought he; “he is acute and sensible, and
probably, from his greater experience of life, will be able to throw
out some hint that may be valuable, and enable me to proceed with more
effect.”
We have already said, that it was somewhat difficult to commonplace
observers to determine his (the stranger's) exact position in society
by a first glance at his dress. This ambiguity of appearance, if, after
all, it could properly be called so, was assumed for the express purpose
of avoiding observation as much as possible. The fact, however, of
finding that his desire to remain unnoticed had been not merely observed
and commented on, but imputed to him almost as a crime, determined
him no longer to lie _perdu_ in his inn, but to go abroad, and appear in
public like another; whilst, at the same time, his resolution remained
fixed as ever, for various reasons, to conceal his name. The moment,
therefore, he had made up his mind to this course, that assumed
restraint of manner and consciousness of not being what we appear to be
were completely thrown aside, and the transition which ensued was indeed
extraordinary. His general deportment became at once that of a perfect
gentleman, easy, elegant, if not absolutely aristocratic; but without
the slightest evidence of anything that could be considered supercilious
or offensive. His dress was tastefully within the fashion, but not
in its extreme, and his admirable figure thus displayed to the best
advantage; whilst his whole person was utterly free from every symptom
of affectation or foppery. Nor was the change in the tone of his
features less striking. Their style of beauty was at once manly and
intellectual, combining, as they did, an expression of great sweetness,
obvious good sense, and remarkable determination. He bore, in fact, the
aspect of a man who could play with a child on the green, or beard a
lion in his lair.
The sagacity of the Irish people, in the estimate they form of personal
appearance and character, is, indeed, very extraordinary. Our friend,
the stranger, when casting his eye over the town of Ballytrain, on his
way to have an interview with Birney, who, we may as well observe, was
in his confidence, perceived that it was market-day. As he went out
upon the street, a crowd of persons were standing opposite the inn door,
where an extensive yarn market, in these good old times, was always
held; and we need scarcely say that his gentlemanly and noble figure,
and the striking elegance of his manner, at once attracted their
attention.
“Well,” said one of them, “there goes a real gintleman, begad, at any
rate.”
“Divil a lie in that,” added another; “there's no mistakin' the true
blood.”
“Who is he,” asked a third--“Does nobody know him?”
“Troth,” said the other, “it doesn't signify a traneen who or what he
is; whether he's gentle or simple, I say that the whole country ought to
put their heads under his feet.”
“Why so, Jemmy Trailcudgel,” asked a fourth; “what did he do for the
counthry?”
“I'll tell you that, Micky,” replied the other--“The Black Baronet,
bad luck to him, came to the inn where he stops, and insisted, right or
wrong, on knowing who and what he was.”
“I wouldn't put it past him, the turk o' blazes! Well, an' what
happened?”
“Why, the gintleman got up, and tuck a hoult o' the black villain by
the nose, led him to the head of the stairs, then turned him down before
him, and made his feet right and left play against the barrow knight,
like the tucks of a cloth mill, until he thrundled him clane--I'm not so
sure of that, though--out o' the hall door.”
“An' for that same, God prosper him! Begad, he's a bully gentleman,”
observed a stout, frieze-coated fellow, with a large bunch of green
linen yarn on his lusty arm--“he is, and it's in him, and upon him, as
every one that has eyes to see may know.”
The object of their praise, on entering the office of his friend Birney,
found him at his desk, with professional papers and documents before
him. After the ordinary greetings of the day, and an accurate account of
the baronet's interview with him, the stranger introduced the topic in
which he felt so deep an interest.
“I am unfortunate, Mr. Birney,” said he; “Fenton, notwithstanding his
eccentricity, insanity, or whatever it may be termed, seems to suspect
my design, and evades, with singular address, every attempt, on my part,
to get anything out of him. Is he absolutely deranged, think you? For,
I assure you, I have just now had a scene with him, in which his conduct
and language could proceed from nothing short of actual insanity. A
little affected with liquor he unquestionably was, when he came in
first. The appearance, however, of Sir Thomas not only reduced him to
a state of sobriety, but seemed to strike him with a degree of terror
altogether inexplicable.”
“How was that,” asked Birney.
The stranger accordingly described the scene between himself and Fenton,
with which the reader is acquainted.
“He is not a madman, certainly, in the ordinary sense of the word,”
replied Birney, after a pause; “but, I think, he may be called a kind of
lunatic, certainly. My own opinion is, that, whatever insanity he may be
occasionally afflicted with results more from an excessive indulgence in
liquor than from any other cause. Be that, however, as it may, there
is no question but that he is occasionally seized with fits of mental
aberration. From what you tell me, and his exaggerated suspicions of a
plot between you and Sir Thomas Gourlay, I think it most probable that
he is your man still.”
“I, too, think it probable,” replied the stranger; “but, alas, I think
it possible he may not. On comparing his features with the miniature,
I confess I cannot now trace the resemblance which my sanguine
imagination--and that only, I fear--first discovered.”
“But, consider, sir, that that miniature was taken when the original of
it was only five or six years of age; and you will also recollect that
growth, age, education, and peculiar habits of life, effect the most
extraordinary changes in the features of the same individual. No, sir, I
would not advise you to feel disheartened by this.”
“But, can you fall upon no hint or principle, Mr. Birney, by which I
might succeed in unlocking the secret which this young man evidently
possesses?”
“All I can recommend to you, sir, is comprised within one
word--patience. Mark him well; ingratiate yourself with him; treat
him with kindness; supply his wants; and I have no doubt but you may
ultimately win upon his confidence.”
“Is there no sagacious old person in the neighborhood, no senachie or
genealogist, to whom you could refer me, and from whose memory of past
events in this part of the country I might be able to gain something to
guide me?”
“There is one woman,” replied Birney, “who, were she tractable as to
the past as she is communicative of the future, could furnish you more
details of family history and hereditary scandal than any one else I
can think of just now. Some of her predictions--for she is a
fortune-teller--have certainly been amazing.”
“The result, I have no doubt,” replied the other, “of personal
acquaintance with private occurrences, rendered incredible under
ordinary circumstances, in consequence of her rapid transitions from
place to place. I shall certainly not put myself under the guidance of
an impostor, Mr. Birney.”
“In this case, sir, I think you are right; for it has been generally
observed that, in no instance, has she ever been known to make any
reference to the past in her character of fortune-teller. She affects to
hold intercourse with the fairies, or good people, as we term them,
and insists that it is from them that she derives the faculty of a
prophetess. She also works extraordinary cures by similar aid, as she
asserts. The common impression is, that her mind is burdened with some
secret guilt, and that it relieves her to contemplate the future, as it
regards temporal fate, but that she dares not look back into the past.
I know there is nothing more certain than that, when asked to do so,
in peculiar moods of mind, she manifests quite as much of the maniac as
poor Fenton.”
“Away with the old impostress!” exclaimed the stranger; “I will have
none of her! Can you think of no one else?”
“Of course, you have not had time to become acquainted with our parish
priest?” replied Birney. “Since 'Aroint thee, witch,' is your creed, I
think you had better try him.”
“Not an unnatural transition,” replied the stranger, smiling; “but what
is he like? Give me an outline.”
“He is named the Rev. Peter M'Mahon,and I forewarn you, that you are as
likely, if he be not in the mood, to get such a reception as you may not
relish. He is somewhat eccentric and original, but, at the same time,
his secret piety and stolen benevolence are beyond all question. With
his limited means, the good he does is incalculable. He is, in fact,
simple, kind-hearted, and truly religious. In addition to all, he is a
considerable bit of a humorist; when the good man's mind is easy, his
humor is kindly, rich, and mellow; but, when any way in dudgeon, it is
comically sarcastic.”
“I must see this man,” said the stranger; “you have excited my
curiosity. By all accounts he is worth a visit.”
“He is more likely to serve you in this matter than any one I know,”
said the attorney; “or, if he can't himself, perhaps he may find out
those that can. Very little has happened in the parish within the last
thirty-five years with which he is not acquainted.”
“I like the man,” replied the other, “from your description of him.”
“At all events, you would if you knew him,” replied Birney. “He is both
a good priest and a good man.”
He then directed him to the worthy clergy-man's residence, which was not
more than a mile and a half from the town, and the stranger lost little
time in reaching it.
On approaching the house, he was much struck with the extraordinary air
of neatness, cleanliness, and comfort, which characterized not only the
house itself, but everything about it. A beautiful garden facing the
south, stretched down to the left, as you approached the elegant little
whitewashed dwelling, which, placed on a green knoll, literally
shone for miles over the beautiful and serene country by which it
was surrounded. Below it, to the south, between firm green banks and
meadows, wound a beautiful river, and to the north rose one of the most
picturesque hills, probably, in the kingdom; at the hip of which was a
gloomy, precipitous glen, which, for wildness and solitary grandeur, is
unrivalled by anything of the kind we have seen. On the top of the hill
is a cave, supposed to be Druidical, over which an antiquarian would
dream half a life; and, indeed, this is not to be wondered at, inasmuch
as he would find there some of the most distinctly traced Ogham
characters to be met with in any part of the kingdom.
On entering the house, our nameless friend found the good priest in what
a stranger might be apt to consider a towering passion.
“You lazy bosthoon,” said he, to a large, in fact to a huge young
fellow, a servant, “was it to allow the pigs, the destructive vagabonds,
to turn up my beautiful bit of lawn that I undertook to give you
house-room, wages, and feeding--eh? and a bitther business to me the
same feeding is. If you were a fellow that knew when he had enough, I
could bear the calamity of keeping you at all. But that's a subject, God
help you, and God help me too that has to suffer for it, on which your
ignorance is wonderful. To know when to stop so long as the blessed
victuals is before you is a point of polite knowledge you will never
reach, you immaculate savage. Not a limb about you but you'd give six
holidays to out of the seven, barrin' your walrus teeth, and, if God
or man would allow you the fodder, you'd give us an elucidation of the
perpetual motion. Be off, and get the strongest set of rings that Jemmy
M'Quade can make for those dirty, grubbing bastes of pigs. The Lord
knows I don't wondher that the Jews hated the thieves, for sure they
are the only blackguard animals that ever committed suicide, and set the
other bastes of the earth such an unchristian example. Not that a slice
of ham is so bad a thing in itself, especially when it is followed by a
single tumbler of poteen punch.”
“Troth, masther, I didn't see the pigs, or they'd not have my sanction
to go into the lawn.”
“Not a thing ever you see, or wish to see, barring your dirty victuals.”
“I hope, sir,” said the stranger, much amused in the meantime, but with
every courtesy of manner, “that my request for a short interview does
not come at an unseasonable hour?”
“And, do you hear me, you bosthoon,” proceeded his reverence--this,
however, he uttered sotto voce, from an apprehension lest the stranger
should hear his benevolent purposes--“did you give the half crown to
Widow Magowran, whose children, poor creatures, are lying ill of fever?”
Not a word to the stranger, who, however, overheard him.
“I did, plaise your reverence,” replied the huge servant.
“What did she say,” asked the other, “when you slipped it to her?”
“She said nothing, sir, for a minute or so, but dropped on her knees,
and the tears came from her eyes in such a way that I couldn't help
letting down one or two myself. 'God spare him,' she then said, 'for
his piety and charity makes him a blessin' to the parish.' Throth, I
couldn't help lettin' down a tear or two myself.”
“You couldn't now.” exclaimed the simple-hearted priest; “why, then, I
forgive you the pigs, you great, good-natured bosthoon.”
The stranger now thought that he might claim some notice from his
reverence.
“I fear, sir,” said he--
“And whisper, Mat,” proceeded the priest--paying not the slightest
attention to him, “did you bring the creel of turf to poor Barney
Farrell and his family, as I desired you?”
“I did, your reverence, and put a good heap on it for the creatures.”
“Well, I forgive you the pigs!” exclaimed the benevolent priest,
satisfied that his pious injunctions had been duly observed, and
extending a portion of his good feeling to the instrument; “and as for
the appetite I spoke of, sure, you good-natured giant you, haven't you
health, exercise, and a most destructive set of grinders? and, indeed,
the wonder would be if you didn't make the sorrow's havoc at a square of
bacon; so for heaping the creel I forgive you the digestion and the pigs
both.”
“Will you permit me.” interposed the stranger, a third time.
“But listen again,” proceeded his reverence, “did you bring the bread
and broth to the poor Caseys, the creatures?”
“No, sir,” replied Mat, licking his lips, as the stranger thought, “it
was Kitty Kavanagh brought that; you know you never trust me wid the
vittles--ever since--”
“Yes, I ought to have remembered that notorious fact. There's where your
weakness is strongest, but, indeed, it is only one of them; for he that
would trust you with the carriage of a bottle of whiskey might be said
to commit a great oversight of judgment. With regard to the victuals,
I once put my trust in God, and dispatched you, after a full meal, with
some small relief to a poor family, in the shape of corned beef and
greens, and you know the sequel, that's enough. Be off now, and get the
rings made as I desired you.”
He then turned to the stranger, whom he scanned closely; and we need
hardly assure our reader that the other, in his turn, marked the
worthy priest's bearing, manner, and conversation with more than usual
curiosity. The harmless passion in which he found him--his simple but
touching benevolence, added to the genuine benignity with which he
relaxed his anger against Mat Euly, the gigantic servant, because he
told him that he had put a heap upon the creel of turf which he brought
to poor Barney Farrell and his family, not omitting the tears he
represented himself to have shed from Christian sympathy with Widow
Magowran, both of which acts were inventions of the purest water,
resorted to in order to soften the kind-hearted priest; all this, we
say, added to what he had heard from Birney, deeply interested the
stranger in the character of Father Peter. Nor was he less struck by his
appearance. Father MacMahon was a round, tight, rosy-faced little
man, with laughing eyes, full of good nature, and a countenance which
altogether might be termed a title-page to benevolence. His lips were
finely cut, and his well-formed mouth, though full of sweetness, was
utterly free from every indication of sensuality or passion. Indeed, it
was at all times highly expressive of a disposition the most kind and
placable, and not unfrequently of a comical spirit, that blended
with his benevolence to a degree that rendered the whole cast of his
features, as they varied with and responded to the kindly and natural
impulses of his heart, a perfect treat to look upon. That his heart and
soul were genuinely Irish, might easily be perceived by the light of
humor which beamed with such significant contagion from every feature of
his face, as well as by the tear which misery and destitution and sorrow
never failed to bring to his cheek, thus overshadowing for a time, if we
may say so, the whole sunny horizon of his countenance. But this was
not all; you might read there a spirit of kindly sarcasm that was in
complete keeping with a disposition always generous and affectionate,
mostly blunt and occasionally caustic. Nothing could exceed the extreme
neatness with which he attended to his dress and person. In this point
he was scrupulously exact and careful; but this attention to the minor
morals was the result of anything but personal pride, for we are bound
to say, that, with all his amiable eccentricities, more unaffected
humility never dwelt in the heart of a Christian minister.
He had, in fact, paid little or no attention to the stranger until
Mat Ruly went out; when, on glancing at him with more attention,
he perceived at once that he was evidently a person of no ordinary
condition in life.
“I have to ask your pardon, sir,” said he, “for seeming to neglect you
as I did, but the truth is, I was in a white heat of passion with
that great good-natured colossus of mine, Mat Ruly, for, indeed, he is
good-natured, and that I can tell you makes me overlook many a thing in
him that I would not otherwise pass by. Ah, then, sir, did you observe,”
he added, “how he confessed to heaping the creel of turf for the
Farrells, and crying with poor Widow Magowran?”
The stranger could have told him that, if he had seen the comical wink
which the aforesaid Mat had given to one of the servant-maids, as
he reported his own sympathy and benevolence to his master, he might
probably have somewhat restricted his encomium upon him.
“I can't say, sir,” he replied, “that I paid particular attention to the
dialogue between you.”
“Bless me,” exclaimed Father Peter, “what am I about? Walk into the
parlor, sir. Why should I have kept you standing here so long? Pray,
take a seat, sir. You must think me very rude and forgetful of the
attention due to a gentleman of your appearance.”
“Not at all, sir,” replied the other, seating himself--“I rather think
you were better engaged and in higher duties than any that are likely to
arise from my communication with you.”
“Well, sir,” replied the priest, smiling, “that you know is yet to be
determined on; but in the mane time I'll be happy to hear your business,
whatever it is; and, indeed, from your looks, although the Lord knows
they're often treacherous, I tell you that if I can stretch a point
to sarve you I will; provided always that I can do so with a good
conscience, and provided also that I find your character and conduct
entitle you to it. So, then, I say, let us have at the business you
spake of, and to follow up this proposition with suitable energy, what's
your name and occupation? for there's nothing like knowing the ground
a man stands on. I know you're a stranger in this neighborhood, for I
assure you there is not a face in the parish but I am as well acquainted
with as my own, and indeed a great deal betther, in regard that I
never shave with a looking-glass. I tried it once or twice and was near
committing suicide in the attempt.”
There was something so kind, frank, yet withal so eccentric, and, as
it would seem, so unconsciously humorous in the worthy father's manner,
that the stranger, whilst he felt embarrassed by the good-natured
bluntness of his interrogations, could not help experiencing a sensation
that was equally novel and delightful, arising as it did from the candor
and honesty of purpose that were so evident in all the worthy man did
and said.
“I should never have supposed, from the remarkable taste of your dress
and your general appearance,” he replied, “that you make your toilet
without a looking-glass.”
“It's a fact, though; neither I nor my worthy father before me ever
troubled one; we left them to the girshas and the women; habit is
everything, and for that reason I could shave as well at midnight as at
the hour of noon. However, let us pass that by, thank God I can go out
with as clane a face, and I trust with as clear a conscience, always
barring the passions that Mat Euly puts me into, as some of my
neighbors; yet, God forgive me, why should I boast? for I know and
feel that I fall far short of my duty in every sense, especially when I
reflect how much of poverty and destitution are scattered through this
apparently wealthy parish. God forgive me, then, for the boast I made,
for it was both wrong and sinful!”
A touch of feeling which it would be difficult to describe, but which
raised him still more highly in the estimation of the stranger, here
passed over his handsome and benevolent features, but after it had
passed away he returned at once to the object of the stranger's visit.
“Well,” said he, “to pass now from my omissions and deficiencies, let us
return to the point we were talking of; you haven't told me your name,
or occupation, or profession, or business of any kind--that is, if you
have any?”
“I assure you, reverend sir,” replied the other, “that I am at the
present moment placed in such a position, that I fear it is out of my
power to satisfy you in any of these points. Whilst, at the same time,
I confess that, nameless and stranger as I am, I feel anxious to receive
your advice and assistance upon a matter of considerable--indeed of the
deepest--importance to an unfortunate and heart-broken lady, whose
only son, when but six years of age, and then heir to a large property,
disappeared many years ago in a manner so mysterious, that no trace,
until very recently, has ever been found of him. Nor, indeed, has she
found any clew to him yet, beyond a single intimation given to her by
her house-steward--a man named Corbet--who, on his death-bed, had merely
breath to say that 'your son lives, and that Sir Thomas--' These, sir,
were the man's last words; for, alas! unhappy for the peace of mind of
this excellent lady, he expired before he could complete the sentence,
or give her the information for which her heart yearned. Now, reverend
sir,” he added, “I told you that it is out of my power, for more than
one reason, to disclose my name; but, I assure you, that the fact of
making this communication to you, which you perceive I do frankly and
without hesitation, is placing a confidence in you, though a personal
stranger to me, which I am certain you will respect.”
“Me a stranger!” exclaimed the priest, “in my own parish where I have
lived curate and parish priest for close upon forty years; hut hut! this
is a good joke. Why, I tell you, sir, that there is not a dog in the
parish but knows me, with the exception of a vile cur belonging to Jemmy
M'Gurth, that I have striven to coax and conciliate a hundred ways,
and yet I never pass but he's out at me. Indeed, he's an ungrateful
creature, and a mane sconce besides; for I tell you, that when leaving
home, I have often put bread in my pocket, and on going past his owner's
house, I would throw it to him--now not a lie in this--and what do you
think the nasty vermin would do? He'd ait the bread, and after he had
made short work of it--for he's aquil to Mat Kuly in appetite--he'd
attack me as fresh, and indeed a great dale fresher in regard of what he
had got; ay, and with more bitterness, if possible, than ever. Now, sir,
I remember that greedy and ungrateful scrub of an animal about three
years ago; for indeed the ill feeling is going on between us for nearly
seven--I say I remember him in the dear year, when he wasn't able to
bark at me until he staggered over and put himself against the ditch on
the roadside, and then, heaven knows, worse execution of the kind was
never heard. However, there's little else than ingratitude in this
world, and eaten bread, like hunger, is soon forgotten, though far
seldomer by dogs, I am sorry to say, than by man--a circumstance which
makes the case I am repeating to you of this cur still worse. But,
indeed, he served me right; for bribery, even to a dog, does not deserve
to prosper. But I beg your pardon, sir, for obtruding my own little
grievances upon a stranger. What is it you expect me to do for you in
this business? You allude, I think, to Lady Gourlay; and, in truth, if
it was in my power to restore her son to her, that good and charitable
lady would not be long without him.”
“I do,” replied the other--“She is under a strong impression, in
consequence of the dying man's allusion to the boy's uncle, Sir Thomas,
'who,' he said, 'knows,' that he is cognizant of the position--whatever
it may be--in which her unfortunate son is placed.”
“Not unlikely, but still what can I do in this?”
“I am scarcely aware of that myself,” replied the other; “but I may
say that it was Mr. Birney, who, under the circumstances of peculiar
difficulty in which I am placed, suggested to me to see you, and who
justified me besides in reposing this important confidence in you.”
“I thank Mr. Birney,” said Father Peter, “and you may rest assured, that
your confidence will not be abused, and that upon a higher principle,
I trust, than my friendship for that worthy and estimable gentleman. I
wish all in his dirty roguish profession were like him. By the way,”
he added, as if struck by a sudden thought, “perhaps you are the worthy
gentleman who kicked the Black Baronet downstairs in the Mitre inn?”
“No,” he replied; “some warm words we had, which indeed for one reason I
regret; but that was all. Sir Thomas, sir, I believe, is not popular in
the neighborhood?”
“I make it a point, my friend,” replied the priest, “never to spake ill
of the absent; but perhaps you are aware that his only son disappeared
as mysteriously as the other, and that he charges his sister-in-law
as the cause of it; so that, in point of fact, their suspicions are
mutual.”
“I believe so,” said the other; “but I wish to direct your attention to
another fact, or, rather, to another individual, who seems to me to be
involved in considerable mystery.”
“And pray, who is that.” replied the priest--“Not yourself, I hope; for
in truth, by all accounts, you're as mysterious as e'er a one of them.”
“My mystery will soon disappear, I trust,” said the stranger,
smiling--“The young man's name to whom I allude is Fenton; but I appeal
to yourself, reverend sir, whether, if Sir Thomas Gourlay were to
become aware of the dying man's words, with which I have just made you
acquainted, he might not be apt, if it be a fact that he has in safe and
secret durance his brother's son, and the heir to the property which
he himself now enjoys, whether, I say, he might not take such steps
as Would probably render fruitless every search that could be made for
him?”
“You needn't fear me, sir,” replied his reverence; “if you can keep your
own secret as well as I will, it won't travel far, I can tell you. But
what about this unfortunate young man, Fenton? I think I certainly heard
the people say from time to time that nobody knows anything about him,
either as to where he came from or who he is. How is he involved in this
affair, though?”
“I cannot speak with any certainty,” replied the other; “but, to tell
you the truth, I often feel myself impressed with strong suspicions,
that he is the very individual we are seeking.”
“But upon what reasons do you ground those suspicions.” asked his
reverence.
The stranger then related to him the circumstances in connection with
Fenton's mysterious terror of Sir Thomas Gourlay, precisely as the
reader is already acquainted with them.
“But,” said the priest, “can you believe now, if Sir Thomas was the
kidnapper in this instance, that he would allow unfortunate Fenton,
supposing he is his brother's heir, and who, they say, is often _non
compos_, to remain twenty-four hours at large?”
“Probably not; but you know he may be unaware of his residence so near
him. Sir Thomas, like too many of his countrymen, has been an absentee
for years, and is only a short time in this country, and still a shorter
at Red Hall. The young man probably is at large, because he may have
escaped. There is evidently some mysterious relation between Fenton
and the baronet, but what it is or can be I am utterly unable to trace.
Fenton, with all his wild eccentricity or insanity, is cautious, and on
his guard against me; and I find it impossible to get anything out of
him.”
The worthy priest fell into a mood of apparently deep but agreeable
reflection, and the stranger felt a hope that he had fallen upon some
plan, or, at all events, that he had thought of or recalled to memory
some old recollection that might probably be of service to him.
“The poor fellow, sir,” said he, addressing the other with singular
benignity, “is an orphan; his mother is dead more than twelve years,
and his father, the idle and unfortunate man, never has been of the
slightest use to him, poor creature.”
“What,” exclaimed the stranger, with animation, “you, then, know his
father!”
“Know him! to be sure I do. He is, or rather he was, a horse-jockey,
and I took the poor neglected young lad in because he had no one to look
after him. But wasn't it kind-hearted of the creature to heap the creel
of turf though, and shed tears for poor Widow Magowran? In truth, I
won't forget either of these two acts to him.”
“You speak, sir, of your servant, I believe.” observed the other, with
something like chagrin.
“In truth, there's not a kind-hearted young giant alive this day. Many
a little bounty that I, through the piety and liberality of the
charitable, am enabled to distribute among my poor, and often send to
them with Mat; and I believe there's scarcely an instance of the kind in
which he is the bearer of it, that he doesn't shed tears just as he did
with Widow Magowran. Sure I have it from his own lips.”
“I have little doubt of it,” replied the stranger.
“And one day,” proceeded the credulous, easy man, “that I was going
along the Race-road, I overtook him with a creel of turf, the same way,
on his back, and when I looked down from my horse into the creel, I saw
with astonishment that it wasn't more than half full. 'Mat,' said I,
'what's the raison of this? Didn't I desire you to fill the creel to the
top, and above it?'
“'Troth,' said poor Mat, 'I never carried such a creelful in my life as
it was when I left home.'
“'But what has become of the turf, then?' I asked.
“He gave me a look and almost began to cry--'Arra now, your reverence,'
he replied, 'how could you expict me to have the heart to refuse a few
sods to the great number of poor creatures that axed me for them, to
boil their pratees, as I came along? I hope, your reverence, I am not so
hard-hearted as all that comes to.'”
“I know,” proceeded the priest, “that it was wrong not to bring the
turf to its destination; but, you see, sir, it was only an error of
judgment--although the head was wrong, the heart was right--and that's a
great point.”
It was not in human nature, however, to feel annoyed at this
characteristic ebullition. The stranger's chagrin at once disappeared,
and as he was in no particular hurry, and wished to see as much of the
priest as possible, he resolved to give him his own way.
He had not long to wait, however. After about a minute's deep thought,
he expressed himself as follows--and it may be observed here, once for
all, that on appropriate occasions his conversation could rise and adapt
itself to the dignity of the subject, with a great deal of easy power,
if not of eloquence--“Now, sir,” said he, “you will plaise to pay
attention to what I am about to say: Beware of Sir Thomas Gourlay--as a
Christian man, it is my duty to put you on your guard; but consider that
you ask me to involve myself in a matter of deep family interest and
importance, and yet, as I said, you keep yourself wrapped, up in a veil
of impenetrable mystery. Pray, allow me to ask, is Mr. Birney acquainted
with your name and secret?”
“He is,” replied the other, “with both”
“Then, in that case,” said the worthy priest, with very commendable
prudence, “I will walk over with you to his house, and if he assures me
personally that you are a gentleman in whose objects I may and ought
to feel an interest, I then say, that I shall do what I can for you,
although that may not be much. Perhaps I may put you in a proper train
to succeed. I will, with these conditions, give you a letter to an old
man in Dublin, who may give you, on this very subject, more information
than any other person I know, with one exception.”
“My dear sir,” replied the stranger, getting on his legs--“I am quite
satisfied with that proposal, and I feel that it is very kind of you to
make it.”
“Yes, but you won't go,” said the priest, “till you take some
refreshment. It's now past two o'clock.”
“I am much obliged to you,” replied the other, “but I never lunch.”
“Not a foot you'll stir then till you take something--I don't want you
to lunch--a bit and a sup just--come, don't refuse now, for I say you
must.”
The other smiled, and replied--“But, I assure you, my dear sir, I
couldn't--I breakfasted late.”
“Not a matter for that, you must have something, I say--a drop of dram
then--pure poteen--or maybe you'd prefer a glass of wine? say which;
for you must taste either the one or the other”--and as he spoke, with a
good-humored laugh, he deliberately locked the door, and put the key in
his pocket--“It's an old proverb,” he added, “that those who won't take
are never ready to give, and I'll think you after all but a poor-hearted
creature if you refuse it. At any rate, consider yourself a prisoner
until you comply.”
“Well, then,” replied our strange friend, still smiling, “since your
hospitality will force me, at the expense of my liberty, I think I
must--a glass of sherry then, since you are so kind.”
“Ah,” replied his reverence, “I see you don't know what's good--that's
the stuff,” he added, pointing to the poteen, “that would send the
radical heat to the very ends of your nails--I never take more than a
single tumbler after my dinner, but that's my choice.”
The stranger then joined him in a glass of sherry, and they proceeded to
Mr. Birney's.