--Dandy Dulcimer makes a Discovery--The Stranger receives Mysterious
Communications.
From Constitution Hill our friend drove directly to Merrion square, the
residence of Lady Gourlay, whom he found alone in the drawing-room. She
welcomed him with a courtesy that was expressive at once of anxiety,
sorrow, and hope. She extended her hand to him and said, after the usual
greetings were over:
“I fear to ask what the result of your journey has been--for I cannot,
alas! read any expression of success in your countenance.”
“As yet,” replied the stranger, “I have not been successful, madam; but
I do not despair. I am, and have been, acting under an impression,
that we shall ultimately succeed; and although I can hold out to your
ladyship but very slender hopes, if any, still I would say, do not
despair.”
Lady Gourlay was about forty-eight, and although sorrow, and the bitter
calamity with which the reader is already acquainted, had left their
severe traces upon her constitution and features, still she was a woman
on whom no one could look without deep I interest and sympathy. Even
at that age, her fine form and extraordinary beauty bore up in a most
surprising manner against her sufferings. Her figure was tall--its
proportions admirable; and her beauty, faded it is true, still made the
spectator feel, with a kind of wonder, what it must have been when she
was in the prime of youth and untouched by affliction. She possessed
that sober elegance of manner that was in melancholy accordance with her
fate; and evinced in every movement a natural dignity that excited more
than ordinary respect and sympathy for her character and the sorrows
she had suffered. Her face was oval, and had been always of that healthy
paleness than which, when associated with symmetry and expression--as
was the case with her--there is nothing more lovely among women. Her
eyes, which were a dark brown, had lost, it is true, much of the lustre
and sparkle of early life; but this was succeeded by a mild and mellow
light to which an abiding sorrow had imparted an expression that was
full of melancholy beauty.
For many years past, indeed, ever since the disappearance of her only
child, she had led a secluded life, and devoted herself to the Christian
virtues of charity and benevolence; but in such a way as to avoid
anything like ostentatious display. Still, such is the structure of
society, that it is impossible to carry the virtues for which she
was remarkable to any practical extent, without the world by degrees
becoming cognizant of the secret. The very recipients themselves, in the
fulness of their heart, will commit a grateful breach of confidence with
which it is impossible to quarrel.
Consoled, as far as any consolation could reach her, by the
consciousness of doing good, as well as by a strong sense of religion,
she led a life which we regret so few in her social position are
disposed to imitate. For many years before the period at which our
narrative commences, she had given up all hope of ever recovering her
child, if indeed he was alive. Whether he had perished by an accidental
death in some place where his body could not be discovered--whether he
had been murdered, or kidnapped, were dreadful contingencies that wrung
the mother's soul with agony. But as habits of endurance give to the
body stronger powers of resistance, so does time by degrees strengthen
the mind against the influence of sorrow. A blameless life, therefore,
varied only by its unobtrusive charities, together with a firm trust in
the goodness of God, took much of the sting from affliction, but could
not wholly eradicate it. Had her child died in her arms--had she closed
its innocent eyes with her own hands, and given the mother's last kiss
to those pale lips on which the smile of affection was never more to
sit--had she been able to go, and, in the fulness of her childless
heart, pour her sorrow over his grave--she would have felt that his
death, compared with the darkness and uncertainty by which she was
enveloped, would have been comparatively a mitigated dispensation, for
which the heart ought to feel almost thankful.
The death of Corbet, her steward, found her in that mournful apathy
under which she had labored for year's. Indeed she resembled a certain
class of invalids who are afflicted with some secret ailment, which is
not much felt unless when an unexpected pressure, or sudden change of
posture, causes them to feel the pang which it inflicts. From the moment
that the words of the dying man shed the serenity of hope over her
mind, and revived in her heart all those tender aspirations of maternal
affection which, as associated with the recovery of her child, had
nearly perished out of it--from that moment, we say, the extreme
bitterness of her affliction had departed.
She had already suffered too much, however, to allow herself to
be carried beyond unreasonable bounds by sanguine and imprudent
expectations. Her rule of heart and of conduct was simple, but true--she
trusted in God and in the justice of his providence.
On hearing the stranger's want of success, she felt more affected by
that than by the faint consolation which he endeavored to hold out to
her, and a few bitter tears ran slowly down her cheeks.
“Hope had altogether gone,” said she, “and with hope that power in the
heart to cherish the sorrow which it sustains; and the certainty of his
death had thrown me into that apathy, which qualifies but cannot destroy
the painful consequences of reflection. That which presses upon me now,
is the fear that although he may still live, as unquestionably Corbet
on his death-bed had assured me, yet it is possible we may never recover
him. In that case he is dead to me--lost forever.”
“I will not attempt to offer your ladyship consolation,” replied the
stranger; “but I would suggest simply, that the dying words of your
steward, perhaps, may be looked upon as the first opening--the dawn of a
hopeful issue. I think we may fairly and reasonably calculate that your
son lives. Take courage, madam. In our efforts to trace him, remember
that we have only commenced operations. Every day and every successive
attempt to penetrate this painful mystery will, I trust, furnish us with
additional materials for success.”
“May God grant it!” replied her ladyship; “for if we fail, my wounds
will have been again torn open in vain. Better a thousand times that
that hope had never reached me.”
“True, indeed, madam,” replied the stranger; “but still take what
comfort you can. Think of your brother-in-law; he also has lost his
child, and bears it well.”
“Ah, yes,” she replied, “but you forget that he has one still left,
and that I am childless. If there be a solitary being on earth, it is a
childless and a widowed mother--a widow who has known a mother's love--a
wife who has experienced the tender and manly affection of a devoted
husband.”
“I grant,” he replied, “that it is, indeed, a bitter fate.”
“As for my brother-in-law,” she proceeded, “the child which God, in his
love, has spared to him is a compensation almost for any loss. I trust
he loves and cherishes her as he ought, and as I am told she deserves.
There has been no communication between us ever since my marriage.
Edward and he, though brothers, were as different as day and night.
Unless once or twice, I never even saw my niece, and only then at a
distance; nor has a word ever passed between us. They tell me she is an
angel in goodness, as well as in beauty, and that her accomplishments
are extraordinary--but--I, alas!--am alone and childless.”
The stranger's heart palpitated; and had Lady Gourlay entertained any
suspicion of his attachment, she might have perceived his agitation. He
also felt deep sympathy with Lady Gourlay.
“Do not say childless, madam,” he replied. “Your ladyship must hope for
the best.”
“But what have you done?” she asked. “Did you see the young man?”
“I saw him, madam; but it is impossible to get anything out of him. That
he is wrapped in some deep mystery is unquestionable. I got a letter,
however, from an amiable Roman Catholic clergyman, the parish priest
of Ballytrain, to a man named Dunphy, who lives in a street called
Constitution Hill, on the north side of the city.”
“He is a relation, I understand, of Edward Corbet, who died in my
service,” replied her ladyship, with an interest that seemed instantly
to awaken her. “Well,” said she, eagerly, “what was the result? Did you
present the letter?”
“I presented the letter, my lady; and had at first strong hopes--no, not
at first--but in the course of our conversation. He dropped unconscious
hints that induce me to suspect he knows more about the fate of your son
than he wishes to acknowledge. It struck me that he might have been an
agent in this black business, and, on that account, that he is afraid
to criminate himself. I have, besides,” he added, smilingly, “had the
gratification to have heard a prophecy uttered, by which I was assured
of ultimate success in my efforts to trace out your son;--a prophecy
uttered under and accompanied by circumstances so extraordinary and
incomprehensible as to confound and amaze me.”
He then detailed to her the conversation he had had with old Dunphy and
the fortune-teller, suppressing all allusion to what tha latter had said
concerning Lucy and himself. After which, Lady Gourlay paused for some
time, and seemed at a loss what construction to put upon it.
“It is very strange,” she at length observed; “that woman has been here,
I think, several times, visiting her late brother, who left her some
money at his death. Is she not extremely pale and wild-looking?”
“So much so, madam, that there is something awful and almost
supernatural-looking in the expression of her eyes and features. I have
certainly never seen such a face before on a denizen of this life.”
“It is strange,” replied her ladyship, “that she should have taken upon
her the odious character of a fortune-teller. I was not aware of that.
Corbet, I know, had a sister, who was deranged for some time; perhaps
this is she, and that the gift of fortune-telling to which she pretends
may be a monomania or some other delusion that her unhappy malady has
left behind it.”
“Very likely, my lady,” replied the other; “nothing more probable. The
fact you mention accounts both for her strange appearance and conduct.
Still I must say, that so far as I had an opportunity of observing,
there did not appear to be any obvious trace of insanity about her.”
“Well,” she exclaimed, “we know to foretell future events is not now one
of the privileges accorded to mortals. I will place my assurance in the
justice of God's goodness and providence, and not in the delusions of
a poor maniac, or, perhaps, of an impostor. What course do you propose
taking now?”
“I have not yet determined, madam. I think I will see this old Dunphy
again. He told me that he certainly suspected your brother-in-law, but
assured me that he had no specific grounds for his suspicions--beyond
the simple fact, that Sir Thomas would be the principal gainer by the
child's removal. At all events, I shall see him once more to-morrow.”
“What stay will you make in town?”
“I cannot at the present moment say, my lady. I have other matters,
of which your ladyship is aware, to look after. My own rights must be
vindicated; and I dare say you will not regret to hear that everything
is in a proper train. We want only one link of the chain. An important
document is wanting; but I think it will soon be in our hands. Who
knows,” he added, smiling, “but your ladyship and I may ere long be
able to congratulate each other upon our mutual success? And now, madam,
permit me to take my leave. I am not without hope on your account; but
of this you may rest assured, that my most strenuous exertions shall be
devoted to the object nearest your heart.”
“Alas,” she replied, as she stood up, “it is neither title nor wealth
that I covet. Give me my child--restore me my child--and I shall be
happy. That is the simple ambition of his mother's heart. I wish Sir
Thomas to understand that I shall allow him to enjoy both title and
estates during his life, if, knowing where my child is, he will restore
him to my heart. I will bind, myself by the most solemn forms and
engagements to this. Perhaps that might satisfy him.”
They then shook hands and separated, the stranger involuntarily
influenced by the confident predictions of Ginty Cooper, although he was
really afraid to say so; whilst Lady Gourlay felt her heart at one time
elevated by the dawn of hope that had arisen, and again depressed by the
darkness which hung over the fate of her son.
His next visit was to his attorney, Birney, who had been a day or two in
town, and whom he found in his office in Gloucester street.
“Well, Mr. Birney,” he inquired, “what advance are you making?”
“Why,” replied Birney, “the state of our case is this: if Mrs. Norton
could be traced we might manage without the documents you have lost;--by
the way, have you any notion where the scoundrel might be whom you
suspect of having taken them?”
“What! M'Bride? I was told, as I mentioned before, that he and the
Frenchwoman went to America, leaving his unfortunate wife behind him.
I could easily forgive the rascal for the money he took; but the
misfortune was, that the documents and the money were both in the same
pocket-book. He knew their value, however, for unfortunately he was
fully in my confidence. The fellow was insane about the girl, and I
think it was love more than dishonesty that tempted him to the act. I
have little doubt that he would return me the papers if he knew where to
send them.”
“Have you any notion where the wife is?”
“None in the world, unless that she is somewhere in this country, having
set out for it a fortnight before I left Paris.”
“As the matter stands, then,” replied Birney, “we shall be obliged, to
go to France in order to get a fresh copy of the death and the marriage
properly attested--or, I should rather say, of the marriage and the
death. This will complete our documentary evidence; but, unfortunately,
Mrs. Norton, who was her maid at the time, and a witness of both the
death and marriage, cannot be found, although she was seen in Dublin
about three months ago. I have advertised several times for her in the
papers, but to no purpose. I cannot find her whereabouts at all. I fear,
however, and so does the Attorney-General, that we shall not be able to
accomplish our purpose without her.”
“That is unfortunate,” replied the stranger. “Let us continue the
advertisements; perhaps she may turn up yet. As to the other pursuit,
touching the lost child, I know not what to say. There are but slight
grounds for hope, and yet I am not at all disposed to despair, although
I cannot tell why.”
“It cannot be possible,” observed Bimey, “that that wicked old baronet
could ultimately prosper in his villainy. I speak, of course, upon the
supposition that he is, or was, the bottom of the business. Your, safest
and best plan is to find out his agents in the business, if it can be
done.”
“I shall leave nothing unattempted,” replied the other; “and if we fail,
we shall at least have the satisfaction of having done our duty. The
lapse of time, however, is against us;--perhaps the agents are dead.”
“If this man is guilty,” said the attorney, “he is nothing more nor
less than a modern Macbeth. However, go on, and keep up your resolution;
effort will do much. I hope in this case--in both cases--it will do
all.”
After some further conversation upon the matter in question, which it is
not our intention to detail here, the stranger made an excursion to
the country, and returned about six o'clock to his hotel. Here he
found Dandy Dulcimer before him, evidently brimful of some important
information on which he (Dandy) seemed to place a high value, and which
gave to his naturally droll countenance such an expression of mock
gravity as was ludicrous in the extreme.
“What is the matter, sir?” asked his master; “you look very big and
important just now. I hope you have not been drinking.”
Dandy compressed his lips as if his master's fate depended upon his
words, and pointing with his forefinger in the direction of Wicklow,
replied:
“The deed is done, sir--the deed is done.”
“What deed, sirra?”
“Weren't you tould the stuff that was in me?” he replied. “But God has
gifted me, and sure that's one comfort, glory be to his name. Weren't--”
“Explain yourself, sir!” said his master, authoritatively. “What do you
mean by the deed is done?' You haven't got married, I hope. Perhaps the
cousin you went to see was your sweetheart?”
“No, sir, I haven't got married. God keep me a little while longer from
sich a calamity? But I have put you in the way of being so.”
“How, sirra--put me into a state of calamity? Do you call that a
service?”
“A state of repentance, sir, they say, is a state of grace; an' when
one's in a state of grace they can make their soul; and anything, you
know, that enables one to make his soul, is surely for his good.”
“Why, then, say 'God forbid,' when I suppose you had yourself got
married?”
“Bekaise I'm a sinner, sir,--a good deal hardened or so,--and haven't
the grace even to wish for such a state of grace.”
“Well, but what deed is this you have done? and no more of your
gesticulations.”
“Don't you undherstand, sir!” he replied, extending the digit once more
in the same direction, and with the same comic significance.
“She's safe, sir. Miss Gourlay--I have her.”
“How, you impudent scoundrel, what kind of language is this to apply to
Miss Gourlay?”
“Troth, an' I have her safe,” replied the pertinacious Dandy. “Safe as
a hare in her form; but it is for your honor I have her. Cousin! oh, the
divil a cousin has Dandy widin the four walls of Dublin town; but
well becomes me, I took a post-chaise, no less, and followed her hot
foot--never lost sight of her, even while you'd wink, till I seen her
housed.”
“Explain yourself, sirra.”
“Faith, sir, all the explanation I have to give you've got, barrin'
where she lives.”
The stranger instantly thought of Lucy's caution, and for the present
determined not to embarrass himself with a knowledge of her residence;
“lest,” as she said, “her father might demand from him whether he was
aware of it.” In that case he felt fully the truth and justness of her
injunctions. Should Sir Thomas put the question to him he could not
betray her, nor could he, on the other hand, stain his conscience by a
deliberate falsehood; for, in truth, he was the soul of honor itself.
“Harkee, Dandy,” said he, not in the slightest degree displeased with
him, although he affected to be so, “if you wish to remain in my service
keep the secret of Miss Gourlay's residence--a secret not only from
me, but from every human being that lives. You have taken a most
unwarrantable and impudent liberty in following her as you did. You know
not, sirra, how you may have implicated both her and me by such conduct,
especially the young lady. You are known to be in my service; although,
for certain reasons, I do not intend, for the present at least, to put
you into livery; and you ought to know, sir, also, that it will be taken
for granted that you acted by my orders. Now, sir, keep that secret to
yourself, and let it not pass your lips until I may think proper to ask
you for it.”
One evening, on the second day after this, he reached his hotel at six
o'clock, and was about to enter, when a young lad, dancing up to him,
asked in a whisper if that was for him, at the same time presenting a
note. The other, looking at it, saw that it was addressed to him only by
his initials.
“I think it is, my boy,” said he; “from whom did it come, do you know?”
The lad, instead of giving him any reply, took instantly to his heels,
as if he had been pursued for life and death, without even waiting to
solicit the gratuity which is usually expected on such occasions. Our
friend took it for granted that it had come from the fortune-teller,
Ginty Cooper; but on opening it he perceived at a glance that he must
have been mistaken, as the writing most certainty was not that of this
extraordinary sibyl. The hand in which she had written his name was
precisely such as one would expect from such a woman--rude and vulgar
--whereas, on the contrary, that in the note was elegant and lady-like.
The contents were as follows:
“Sir,--On receipt of this you will, if you wish to prosper in that which
you have undertaken to accomplish, hasten to Ballytrain, and secure the
person of a young man named Fenton, who lives in or about the town. You
will claim him as the lawful heir of the title and property of Red Hall,
for such in fact he is. Go then to Sir Thomas Gourlay, and ask him the
following questions:
“1st. Did he not one night, about sixteen years ago, engage a man who
was so ingeniously masked that the child neither perceived the mask, nor
knew the man's person, to lure, him from Red Hall, under the pretence of
bringing him to see a puppet show?
“2d. Did not Sir Thomas give instructions to this man to take him out of
his path, out of his sight, and out of his hearing?
“3d. Was not this man well rewarded by Sir Thomas for that act?
“There are other questions in connection with the affair that could he
put, but at present they would be unseasonable. The curtain of this dark
drama is beginning to rise; truth will, ere long, be vindicated, justice
rendered to the defrauded orphan, and guilt punished.
“A Lover of Justice.”
It is very difficult to describe the feelings with which the stranger
perused this welcome but mysterious document. To him, it was one of
great pleasure, and also of exceedingly great pain. Here was something
like a clew, to the discovery which he was so deeply interested in
making. But, then, at whose expense was this discovery to be made? He
was betrothed to Lucy Gourlay, and here he was compelled by a sense of
justice to drag her father forth to public exposure, as a criminal of
the deepest dye. What would Lucy say to this? What would she say to the
man who should entail the heavy ignominy with which a discovery of this
atrocious crime must blacken her father's name. He knew the high and
proud principles by which she was actuated, and he knew how deeply the
disgrace of a guilty parent would affect her sensitive spirit. Yet what
was he to do? Was the iniquity of this ambitious and bad man to deprive
the virtuous and benevolent woman--the friend of the poor and destitute,
the loving mother, the affectionate wife who had enshrined her departed
husband in the sorrowful recesses of her pure and virtuous heart, was
this coldblooded and cruel tyrant to work out his diabolical purposes
without any effort being made to check him in his career of guilt, or
to justify her pious trust in that God to whom she looked for protection
and justice? No, he knew Lucy too well; he knew that her extraordinary
sense of truth and honor would justify him in the steps he might be
forced to take, and that whatever might be the result, he at least was
the last man whom she could blame for rendering justice to the widow
of her father's brother. But, then again, what reliance could be placed
upon anonymous information--information which, after all, was but
limited and obscure? Yet it was evident that the writer--a female beyond
question--whoever she was, must be perfectly conversant with his motives
and his objects. And if in volunteering him directions how to proceed,
she had any purpose adversative to his, her note was without meaning.
Besides, she only reawakened the suspicion which he himself had
entertained with respect to Fenton. At all events, to act upon the hints
contained in the note, might lead to something capable of breaking the
hitherto impenetrable cloud under which this melancholy transaction lay;
and if it failed to do this, he (the stranger) could not possibly stand
worse in the estimation of Sir Thomas Gourlay than he did already. In
God's name, then, he would make the experiment; and in order to avoid
mail-coach adventures in future, he would post it back to Ballytrain as
quietly, and with as little observation as possible.
He accordingly ordered Dandy to make such slight preparations as
were necessary for their return to that town, and in the meantime he
determined to pay another visit to old Dunphy of Constitution Hill.
On arriving at the huckster's, he found him in the backroom, or parlor,
to which we have before alluded. The old man's manner was, he thought,
considerably changed for the better. He received him with more
complacency, and seemed as if he felt something like regret for the
harshness of his manner toward him during his first visit.
“Well, sir,” said he, “is it fair to ask you, how you have got on in
ferritin' out this black business?”
There are some words so completely low and offensive in their own
nature, that no matter how kind and honest the intention of the speaker
may be, they are certain to vex and annoy those to whom they are
applied.
“Ferreting out!” thought the stranger--“what does the old scoundrel
mean?” Yet, on second consideration, he could not for the soul of him
avoid admitting that, considering the nature of the task he was engaged
in, it was by no means an inappropriate illustration.
“No,” said he, “we have made no progress, but we still trust that you
will enable us to advance a step. I have already told you that we only
wish to come at the principals. Their mere instruments we overlook.
You seem to be a poor man--but listen to me--if you can give us any
assistance in this affair, you shall be an independent one during
the remainder of your life. Provided murder has not been committed I
guarantee perfect safety to any person who may have only acted under the
orders of a superior.”
“Take your time,” replied the old man, with a peculiar expression. “Did
you ever see a river?”
“Of course,” replied the other; “why do you ask?”
“Well, now, could you, or any livin' man, make the strame of that river
flow faster than its natural course?”
“Certainly not,” replied the stranger.
“Well, then--I'm an ould man and be advised by me--don't attempt to
hurry the course o' the river. Take things as they come. If there's a
man on this earth that's a livin' divil in flesh and blood, it's Sir
Thomas Gourlay, the Black Barrownight; and if there's a man livin' that
would go half way into hell to punish him, I'm that man. Now, sir, you
said, the last day you were here, that you were a gentleman and a man of
honor, and I believe you. So these words that have spoken to you about
him you will never mention them--you promise that?”
“Of course I can, and do. To what purpose should I mention them?”
“For your own sake, or, I should say, for the sake of the cause you are
engaged in, don't do it.”
The bitterness of expression which darkened the old man's features,
while he spoke of the Baronet, was perfectly diabolical, and threw him
back from the good opinion which the stranger was about to form of him,
notwithstanding his conduct on the previous day's visit.
“You don't appear to like Sir Thomas,” he said. “He is certainly no
favorite of yours.”
“Like him,” replied the old man, bitterly. “He is supposed to be the
best friend I have; but little you know the punishment he will get in
his heart, sowl, and spirit--little you know what he will be made to
suffer yet. Of course now you undherstand, that if I could help you,
as you say, to advance a single step in finding the right heir of
this property I would do it. As matthers stand now, however, I can do
nothing--but I'll tell you what I will do--I'll be on the lookout--I'll
ask, seek, and inquire from them that have been about him at the time
of the child's disappearance, and if I can get a single particle worth
mentionin' to you, you shall have it, if I could only know where a
letther would find you.”
The cunning, the sagacity, the indefinable twinkle that scintillated
from the small, piercing eyes, were too obvious to be overlooked. The
stranger instantly felt himself placed, as it were, upon his guard, and
he replied,
“It is possible that I may not be in town, and my address is uncertain;
but the moment you are in a capacity to communicate any information
that may be useful, go to the proper quarter--to Lady Gourlay herself. I
understand that a relation of yours lived and died in her service?”
“That's true,” said the man, “and a betther mistress never did God put
breath in, nor a betther masther than Sir Edward. Well, I will follow
your advice, but as for Sir Thomas--no matther, the time's comin'--the
river's flowin--and if there's a God in heaven, he will be punished
for all his misdeeds--for other things as well as takin' away the
child--that is, if he has taken him away. Now, sir, that's all I can say
to you at present--for I know nothing about this business. Who can tell,
however, but I may ferret out something? It won't be my heart, at any
rate, that will hinder me.”
There was nothing further now to detain the stranger in town. He
accordingly posted it at a rapid rate to Ballytrain, accompanied
by Dandy and his dulcimer, who, except during the evenings among
the servants in the hotel, had very little opportunity of creating a
sensation, as he thought he would have done as an amateur musician in
the metropolis.
“Musha, you're welcome back, sir,” said Pat Sharpe, on seeing the
stranger enter the Mitre; “troth, we were longin' for you, sir. And
where is herself, your honor?”
“Whom do you mean, Pat?” said the stranger, sharply.
Pat pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward Red Hall. “Ah!” he
exclaimed, with a laugh, “by my soul I knew you'd manage it well. And
troth, I'll drink long life an' happiness an' a sweet honeymoon to yez
both, this very night, till the eyes stand in my head. Ah, thin, but she
is the darlin', God bless her!”
If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, the stranger could
not have felt more astonishment; but that is not the
word--sorrow--agony--indignation.
“Gracious heaven!” he exclaimed, “what is this? what villanous calumny
has gone abroad?”
Here Dandy saw clearly that his master was in distress, and generously
resolved to step in to his assistance.
“Paudeen,” said he, “you know nothing about this business, my hurler.
You're a day before the fair. They're not married yet--but it's as
good--so hould your prate about it till the knot's tied--then trumpet it
through the town if you like.”
The stranger felt that to enter into an altercation with two such
persons would be perfect madness, and only make what now appeared to be
already too bad, much worse. He therefore said, very calmly,
“Pat, I assure you, that my journey to Dublin had nothing whatsoever to
do with Miss Gourlay's. The whole matter was accidental. I know nothing
about her; and if any unfortunate reports have gone abroad they are
unfounded, and do equal injustice to that lady and to me.”
“Divil a thing else, now, Paudeen,” said Dandy, with a face full of
most villanous mystery--that had runaway and elopement in every line
of it--and a tone of voice that would have shamed a couple-beggar--“bad
scran to the ha'p'orth happened. So don't be puttin' bad constructions
on things too soon. However, there's a good time comin', plaise God--so
now, Paudeen, behave yourself, can't you, and don't be vexin' the
masther.”
“Pat,” said the stranger, feeling that the best way to put an end to
this most painful conversation was to start a fresh topic, “will you
send for Fenton, and say I wish to see him?”
“Fenton, sir!--why, poor Mr. Fenton has been missed out of the town and
neighborhood ever since the night you and Miss Gour--I beg pardon--”
“Upon my soul, Paudeen,” said Dandy, “I'll knock you down if you say
that agin now, afther what the masther an' I said to you. Hang it, can't
you have discretion, and keep your tongue widin your teeth, on this
business at any rate?”
“Is not Fenton in town?” asked the stranger.
“No, sir; he has neither been seen nor heard of since that night, and
the people's beginin' to wonder what has become of him.”
Here was a disappointment; just at the moment when he had determined, by
seizing upon Fenton, with a view to claim him as the son of the late
Sir Edward Gourlay, and the legitimate heir of Red Hall, in order, if it
were legally possible, to bring about an investigation into the justice
of those claims, it turned out that, as if in anticipation of his
designs, the young man either voluntarily disappeared, or else was
spirited forcibly away. How to act now he felt himself completely at a
loss, but as two heads he knew were better than one, he resolved to see
Father M'Mahon, and ask his opinion and advice upon this strange and
mysterious occurrence. In the mean time, while he is on the way to visit
that amiable and benevolent priest, we shall so far gratify the reader
as to throw some light upon the unaccountable disappearance of the
unfortunate Fenton.