Conception and Perpetration of a Diabolical Plot against Fenton.
Sir Thomas Gourlay was a man prompt and inexorable in following up
his resolutions. On the night of Lucy's flight from Red Hall, he had
concocted a plan which it was not his intention to put in execution for
a day or two, as he had by no means made up his mind in what manner to
proceed with it. On turning over the matter, however, a second time in
his thoughts, and comparing the information which he had received from
Crackenfudge respecting the stranger, and the allusion to the toothpick
manufacturer, he felt morally certain that Fenton was his brother's son,
and that by some means or other unknown to him he had escaped from the
asylum in which he had been placed, and by some unaccountable fatality
located himself in the town of Ballytrain, which, in fact, was a portion
of his inheritance.
“I am wrong,” thought he, “in deferring this project. There is not a
moment to be lost. Some chance incident, some early recollection, even
a sight of myself--for he saw me once or twice, to his cost--may awaken
feelings which, by some unlucky association, might lead to a discovery.
Curse on the cowardly scoundrel, Corbet, that did not take my hint, and
put him at once and forever out of my path, sight, and hearing. But
he had scruples, forsooth; and here now is the serpent unconsciously
crossing my path. This is the third time he has escaped and broken out
of bounds. Upon the two former I managed him myself, without a single
witness; and, but that I had lost my own child--and there is a mystery I
cannot penetrate--I would have--”
Here he rang the bell, and a servant entered.
“Send up Gillespie.”
The servant, as usual, bowed, and Gillespie entered.
“Gillespie, there is a young fellow in Ballytrain, named--Fenton, I
think?”
“Yes, your honor; he is half-mad, or whole mad, as a good many people
think.”
“I am told he is fond of liquor.”
“He is seldom sober, Sir Thomas.”
“Will you go into Ballytrain, and try to see him? But first see the
butler, and desire him, by my orders, to give you a bottle of whiskey. I
don't mean this moment, sirra,” he said, for Gillespie was proceeding to
take him instantly at his word.
“Listen, sir. See Fenton--lure him as quietly and secretly as you can
out of town--bring him into some remote nook--”
“Sir Thomas, I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Gillespie, getting pale; “if
you mean that I should--”
“Silence, sir,” replied the baronet, in his sternest and deepest voice;
“hear me; bring him, if you can, to some quiet place, where you will
both be free from observation; then produce your bottle and glass, and
ply him with liquor until you have him drunk.”
“It's very likely that I'll find him drunk as it is, sir; he is seldom
otherwise.”
“So much the better; you will have the less trouble. Well, when you have
him sufficiently drunk, bring him to the back gate of the garden, which
you will find unlocked; lodge him in the tool-house, ply him with more
liquor, until he becomes helpless. In the meantime, lock the back gate
after you--here is the key, which you can keep in your pocket. Having
left him in the tool-house--in a sufficiently helpless state, mark--lock
him in, put that key in your pocket, also; then get my travelling
carriage ready, put to the horses, and when all this is done, come to me
here; I shall then instruct you how and where to proceed. I shall also
accompany you myself to the town of ------, after which you shall take
a post-chaise, and proceed with this person to the place of his
destination. Let none of the servants see you; and remember we are not
to start from the garden gate until about twelve o'clock, or later.”
Gillespie promised compliance, and, in fact, undertook the business
with the greater alacrity, on hearing that there was to be a bottle of
whiskey in the case. As he was leaving the room, however, Sir
Thomas called him back, and said, with a frown which nobody could
misunderstand, “Harkee, Gillespie, keep yourself strictly sober, and--oh
yes, I had nearly forgotten it--try if there is a hard scar, as if left
by a wound, under his chin, to the left side; and if you find none, have
nothing to do with him. You understand, now, all I require of you?”
“Perfectly, your honor. But I may not be able to find this Fenton.”
“That won't be your own fault, you must only try another time, when
you may have better success. Observe, however, that if there is no scar
under the left side of his chin, you are to let him pass--he is not the
person in whom I feel interested, and whom I am determined to serve,
if I can--even against his wishes. He is, I believe, the son of an old
friend, and I will endeavor to have him restored to the perfect use of
his reason, if human skill can effect it.”
“That's very kind of you, Sir Thomas, and very few would do it,” replied
Gillespie, as he left the apartment, to fulfil his execrable mission.
Gillespie having put the bottle of strong spirits into his pocket,
wrapped a great coat about him, and, by a subsequent hint from Sir
Thomas, tied a large handkerchief across his face, in order the better
to conceal his features, and set out on his way to Ballytrain.
It may be remarked with truth, that the projects of crime are frequently
aided by those melancholy but felicitous contingencies, which, though
unexpected and unlooked for, are calculated to enable the criminal to
effect his wicked purposes with more facility and less risk. Gillespie,
on the occasion in question, not only met Fenton within a short distance
of the town, and in a lonely place, but also found him far advanced in a
state of intoxication.
“Is this Mr. Fenton?” said he. “How do you do, Mr. Fenton? A beautiful
night, sir.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the unfortunate young man; “it is Mr. Fenton, and
you are a gentleman. Some folks now take the liberty of calling me
Fenton, which is not only impudently familiar and ridiculous, but a
proof that they do not know how to address a gentleman.”
“You are leaving the town, it seems, Mr. Fenton?”
“Yes, there's a wake down in Killyfaddy, where there will be a
superfluity, sir, of fun; and I like to see fun and sorrow associated.
They harmonize, my friend--they concatenate.”
“Mr. Fenton,” proceeded Gillespie, “you are a young gentleman--”
“Yes, sir, that's the term. I am a gentleman. What can I do for you? I
have rare interest among the great and powerful.”
“I don't at all doubt it,” replied Gillespie; “but I was go in' to say,
sir, that you are a young gentleman that I have always respected very
highly.”
“Thanks, my friend, thanks.”
“If it wouldn't be takin' a liberty, I'd ask a favor of you.”
“Sir, you are a gentleman, and it should be granted. Name it.”
“The night, sir, although a fine enough night, is a little sharp, for
all that. Now, I happen to have a sup of as good liquor in my pocket as
ever went down the red lane, and if we could only get a quiet sheltering
spot, behind one of these ditches, we could try its pulse between us.”
“The project is good and hospitable,” replied poor Fenton, “and has my
full concurrence.”
“Well, then, sir,” said the other, “will you be so good as to come along
with me, and we'll make out some snug spot where I'll have the pleasure
of drinkin' your honor's health.”
“Good again,” replied the unlucky dupe; “upon my soul you're an
excellent fellow; Proceed, I attend you. The liquor's good, you say?”
“Betther was never drank, your honor.”
“Very well, sir, I believe you. We shall soon, however, put the truth of
that magnificent assertion to the test; and besides, sir, it will be an
honor for you to share your bottle with a gentleman.”
In a few minutes they reached a quiet little dell, by which there led a
private pathway, open only to the inmates of Red Hall when passing to or
from the town, and which formed an agreeable and easy shortcut when any
hurried message was necessary. This path came out upon an old road
which ran behind the garden, and joined the larger thoroughfare, about a
quarter of a mile beyond it.
In a sheltered little cul de sac, between two white-thorn hedges, they
took their seats; and Gillespie having pulled out his bottle and glass,
began to ply the luckless young man with the strong liquor. And an easy
task he found it; for Fenton resembled thousands, who, when the bounds
of moderation are once passed, know not when to restrain themselves.
It would be both painful and disagreeable to dwell upon the hellish
iniquity of this merciless and moral murder; it is enough to say
that, having reduced the young man to the precise condition which was
necessary for his purpose, this slavish and unprincipled ruffian, as
Delahunt did with his innocent victim, deliberately put his hand to his
throat, or, rather, to the left side of his neck, and there found beyond
all doubt a large welt, or cicatrice, precisely as had been described
by Sir Thomas. After the space of about two hours--for Gillespie was
anxious to prolong the time as much as possible--he assisted Fenton, now
unable to walk without support, and completely paralyzed in his organs
of speech, along the short and solitary path to the back gate of the
garden.. He opened it, dragged Fenton in like a dog whom he was about to
hang, but still the latter seemed disposed to make some unconscious and
instinctive resistance. It was to no purpose, however. The poor young
man was incapable of resistance, either by word or deed. In a short time
they reached the tool-house, where he threw Fenton on a heap of apples,
like a bag, and left him to lie in cold and darkness, as if he were
some noxious animal, whom it would be dangerous to set at large. He then
locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went to acquaint the
baronet with the success of his mission.
The latter, on understanding from Gillespie that Fenton was not only
secured, but that his suspicions as to his identity were correct,
desired him to have the carriage ready in the course of about an hour.
He had already written a letter, containing a liberal enclosure, to the
person into whose merciless hands he was about to commit him. In the
meantime, it is impossible to describe the confused character of his
feelings--the tempest, the tornado of passions, that swept through his
dark and ambitious spirit.
“This is the third time,” he thought to himself, as he paced the room in
such a state of stormy agitation as reacted upon himself, and tilled
him with temporary alarm. His heart beat powerfully, his pulsations were
strong and rapid, and his brain felt burning and tumultuous.
Occasional giddiness also seized him, accompanied by weakness about the
knee-joints, and hoarseness in the throat. In fact, once or twice he
felt as if he were about to fall. In this state he hastily gulped down
two or three large glasses of Madeira, which was his favorite wine, and
he felt his system more intensely strung.
“That woman,” said he, alluding to Lady Gourlay, “has taken her revenge
by destroying my son. There can be no doubt of that. And what now
prevents me from crushing this viper forever? If my daughter were not
with me, it should be done; yes, I would do it silently and secretly,
ay, and surely, with my own hand. I would have blood for blood. What,
however, if the mur--if the act came to light! Then I must suffer;
my daughter is involved in my infamy, and all my dreams for her
aggrandizement come to worse than nothing. But I know not how it is, I
fear that girl. Her moral ascendency, as they call it, is so dreadful to
me, that I often feel as if I hated her. What right has she to subjugate
a spirit like mine, by the influence of her sense of honor and her
virtuous principles? or to school me to my face by her example? I am not
a man disposed to brook inferiority, yet she sometimes makes me feel as
if I were a monster. However, she is a fool, and talks of happiness as
if it were anything but a chimera or a dream. Is she herself happy? I
would be glad to see the mortal that is. Do her virtues make her happy?
No. Then where is the use of this boasted virtue, if it will not procure
that happiness after which all are so eager in pursuit, but which none
has ever yet attained? Was Christ, who is said to have been spotless,
happy? No; he was a man of sorrows. Away, then, with this cant of
virtue. It is a shadow, a deception; a thing, like religion, that has
no existence, but takes our senses, our interests, and our passions, and
works with them under its own mask. Yet why am I afraid of my daughter?
and why do I, in my heart, reverence her as a being so far superior to
myself? Why is it that I could murder--ay, murder--this worthless object
that thrust himself, or would thrust himself, or might thrust himself,
between me and the hereditary honors of my name, were it not that her
very presence, if I did it, would, I feel, overpower and paralyze me
with a sense of my guilt? Yet I struck her--I struck her; but her spirit
trampled mine in the dust--she humiliated me. Away! I am not like other
men. Yet for her sake this miserable wretch shall live. I will not
imbrue my hands in his blood, but shall place him where he will never
cross me more. It is one satisfaction to me, and security besides, that
he knows neither his real name nor lineage; and now he shall enter this
establishment under a new one. As for Lucy, she shall be Countess of
Cullamore, if she or I should die for it.”
He then swallowed another glass of wine, and was about to proceed to
the stables, when a gentle tap came to the door, and Gillespie presented
himself.
“All's ready, your honor.”
“Very well, Gillespie. I shall go with you to see that all is right,
In the course of a few minutes will you bring the carriage round to the
back gate? The horses are steady, and will remain there while we conduct
him down to it. Have you a dark lantern?”
“I have, your honor.”
Both then proceeded toward the stables. The baronet perceived that
everything was correct; and having seen Gillespie, who was his coachman,
mount the seat, he got into the carriage, and got out again at the door
of the tool-house, where poor Fenton lay. After unlocking the door, for
he had got the key from Gillespie, he entered, and cautiously turning
the light of the lantern in the proper direction, discovered his unhappy
victim, stretched cold and apparently lifeless.
Alas, what a melancholy picture lay before him! Stretched upon some
apples that were scattered over the floor, he found the unhappy young
man in a sleep that for the moment resembled the slumber of the dead.
His hat had fallen off, and on his pale and emaciated temples seemed
indeed to dwell the sharp impress of approaching death. It appeared,
nevertheless, that his rest had not been by any means unbroken, nor so
placid as it then appeared to be; for the baronet could observe that he
must have been weeping in his sleep, as his eyelids were surcharged with
tears that had not yet had time to dry. The veins in his temples were
blue, and as fine as silk; and over his whole countenance was spread
an expression of such hopeless sorrow and misery as was sufficient to
soften the hardest heart that ever beat in human bosom. One touch of
nature came over even that of the baronet. “No,” said he, “I could not
take his life. The family likeness is obvious, and the resemblance to
his cousin Lucy is too strong to permit me to shed his blood; but I
will secure him so that he shall never cross my path again. He will not,
however, cross it long,” he added to himself, after another pause, “for
the stamp of death is upon his face.”
Gillespie now entered, and seizing Fenton, dragged him up upon his legs,
the baronet in the meantime turning the light of |the lantern aside.
The poor fellow, being properly neither asleep nor awake, made no
resistance, and without any trouble they brought him down to the back
gate, putting him into the coach, Sir Thomas entering with him, and
immediately drove off, about half-past twelve at night, their victim
having fallen asleep again almost as soon as he entered the carriage.
The warmth of the carriage, and the comfort of its cushioned sides and
seat occasioned his sleep to become more natural and refreshing. The
consequence was, that he soon began to exhibit symptoms of awakening. At
first he groaned deeply, as if under the influence of physical pain, or
probably from the consciousness of some apprehension arising from the
experience of what he had already suffered. By and by the groan subsided
to a sigh, whose expression was so replete with misery and dread, that
it might well have touched and softened any heart. As yet, however, the
fumes of intoxication had not departed, and his language was so mingled
with the feeble delirium resulting from it, and the terrors arising from
the situation in which he felt himself placed, that it was not only wild
and melancholy by turns, but often scarcely intelligible. Still it was
evident that one great apprehension absorbed all his other thoughts and
sensations, and seemed, whilst it lasted, to bury him in the darkness of
despair.
“Hold!” he exclaimed; “where am I?--what is this? Let me see, or,
rather, let me feel where I am, for that is the more appropriate
expression, considering that I am in utter obscurity. What is this, I
ask again? Is my hospitable friend with me? he with whom I partook of
that delicious liquor under 'the greenwood-tree'?”
He then searched about, and in doing so his hands came necessarily in
contact with the bulky person of the baronet. “What!” he proceeded,
supposing still that it was Gillespie, “is this you, my friend?--but I
take that fact for granted. Sir, you are a gentleman, and know how to
address a gentleman with proper respect; but how is this, you have on
your hat? Sir, you forget yourself--uncover, and remember you are in my
presence.”
As he uttered the words, he seized the baronet's hat, tore it forcibly
off, and, in doing so, accidentally removed a mask which that worthy
gentleman had taken the precaution to assume, in order to prevent
himself from being recognized.
“Ha!” exclaimed Fenton, with something like a shriek--“a mask! Oh,
my God! This mysterious enemy is upon me! I am once more caught in his
toils! What have I done to deserve this persecution? I am innocent of
all offence--all guilt. My life has been one of horror and of suffering
indescribable, but not of crime; and although they say I am insane, I
know there is a God above who will render me justice, and my oppressor
justice, and who knows that I have given offence to none.
There is a bird that sings alone--heigh ho!
And every note is but a tone of woe.
Heigh ho!”
The baronet grasped his wrist tightly with one hand--and both feeble and
attenuated was that poor wrist--the baronet, we say, grasped it, and in
an instant had regained possession of the mask, which he deliberately
replaced on his face, after which he seized the unfortunate young man
by the neck, and pressed it with such force as almost to occasion
suffocation. Still he (Sir Thomas) uttered not a syllable, a
circumstance which in the terrified mind of his unhappy victim caused
his position as well as that of his companion to assume a darker, and
consequently a more terrible mystery.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a low and trembling voice, “I know you now. You
are the stranger who came to stop in the 'Mitre.' Yes, you came down
to stop in the 'Mitre.' I know you by your strong grasp. I care not,
however, for your attempt to strangle me. I forgive you--I pardon you;
and I will tell you why--treat me as violently as you may--I feel that
there is goodness in your face, and mercy in your heart. But I did see
a face, one day, in the inn,” he added, in a voice that gradually became
quite frantic--“a face that was dark, damnable, and demoniac--oh, oh!
may God of heaven ever preserve me from seeing that face again!” he
exclaimed, shuddering wildly. “Open me up the shrouded graves, my
friend; I will call you so notwithstanding what has happened, for
I still think you are a gentleman; open me up, I say, the shrouded
graves--set me among the hideous dead, in all their ghastly and
loathsome putrefaction--lay me side by side with the sweltering carcass
of the gibbeted murderer--give me such a vision, and expose me to the
anger of the Almighty when raging in his vengeance; or, if there be a
pitch of horror still beyond this, then I say--mark me, my friend--then
I say, open me up all hell at full work--hissing, boiling, bubbling,
scalding, roasting, frying, scorching, blazing, burning, but
ever-consuming hell, sir, I say, in full operation--the whole dark and
penal machinery in full play--open it up--there they are--the yell,
the scream, the blasphemy, the shout, the torture, the laughter of
despair--with the pleasing consciousness that all this is to be eternal;
hark ye, sir, open me up a view of this aforesaid spectacle upon the
very brow of perdition, and having allowed me time to console myself
by a contemplation of it, fling me, soul and body, into the uttermost
depths of its howling tortures; do any or all of these things, sooner
than let me have a sight of that face again--it bears such a terrible
resemblance to that which blighted me.”
He then paused for a little, and seemed as if about to sink into a
calmer and more thoughtful mood--at least the baronet inferred as
much from his silence. The latter still declined to speak, for he felt
perfectly aware, from this incoherent outburst, that although Fenton had
seen him only two or three times, many years ago, when the unfortunate
young man was scarcely a boy, yet he had often heard his voice, and he
consequently avoided every possibility of giving the former a clew to
his identity. At length Fenton broke silence.
“What was I saying?” he asked. “Did I talk of that multitudinous limbo
called hell? Well, who knows, perhaps there may be a general jail
delivery there yet; but talking of the thing, I assure you, sir, I
feel a portion of its tortures. Like Dives--no, not like the rich and
hardened glutton--I resemble him in nothing but my sufferings. Oh! a
drink, a drink--water, water--my tongue, my mouth, my throat, my blood,
my brain, are all on fire?”
Oh, false ambition, to what mean and despicable resources, to what low
and unscrupulous precautions dost thou stoop in order to accomplish thy
selfish, dishonest, and heartless designs! The very gratification of
this expected thirst had been provided for and anticipated. As Fenton
spoke, the baronet took from one of the coach pockets a large flask of
spirits and water, which he instantly, but without speaking, placed in
the scorching wretch's hands, who without a moment's hesitation, put it
to his lips and emptied it at one long, luxurious draught.
“Thanks, friend,” he then exclaimed; “I have been agreeably mistaken in
you, I find. You are--you must be--no other than my worthy host of the
'Hedge.' Poor Dives! D--n the glutton; after all, I pity him, and would
fain hope that he has got relief by this time. As for Lazarus, I fear
that his condition in life was no better than it deserved. If he had
been a trump, now, and anxious to render good for evil, he would have
dropped a bottle of aquapura to the suffering glutton, for if worthy
Dives did nothing else, he fed the dogs that licked the old fellow's
sores. Fie, for shame, old Lazarus, d--n me, if I had you back again,
but we'd teach you sympathy for Dives; and how so, my friend of the
hawthorn--why, we'd send him to the poor-house,* or if that wouldn't do,
to the mad-house--to the mad-house. Oh, my God--my God! what is this?
Where are you bringing me, sir? but I know--I feel it--this destiny
that's over me!”
* It is to be presumed, that Fenton speaks here from his
English experience. We find no poor-houses at the time.
He again became silent for a time, but during the pause, we need
scarcely say, that the pernicious draught began to operate with the
desired effect.
“That mask,” he then added, as if speaking to himself, “bodes me nothing
but terror and persecution, and all this in a Christian country, where
there are religion and laws--at least, they say so--as for raypart, I
could never discover them. However, it matters not, let us clap a stout
heart to a steep brae, and we may jink them and blink them yet; that's
all.
There was a little bird, a very little bird,
And a very little bird was he;
And he sang his little song all the summer day long,
On a branch of the fair green-wood tree.
Heigh ho!”
This little touch of melody, which he sang to a sweet and plaintive air,
seemed to produce a feeling of mournfulness and sorrow in his spirit,
for although the draught he had taken was progressing fast in its
operations upon his intellect, still it only assumed a new and
more affecting shape, and occasioned that singular form and ease of
expression which may be observed in many under the influence of similar
stimulants.
“Well,” he proceeded, “I will soon go home; that is one consolation!
There is a sickness, my friend, whoever you are, at my heart here, and
in what does that sickness consist? I will tell you--in the memory of
some beautiful dreams that I had when a child or little-boy: I remember
something about green fields, groves, dark mountains, and summer rivers
flowing sweetly by. This now, to be sure, is a feeling which but few can
understand. It is called homesickness, and assumes different aspects,
my worthy friend. Sometimes it is a yearning after immortality, which
absorbs and consumes the spirit, and then we die and go to enjoy that
which we have pined for. Now, my worthy mute friend, mark me, in my
case the malady is not so exalted. I only want my green fields, my
dark mountains, my early rivers, with liberty to tread them for a brief
space. There lies over them in my imagination--there does, my worthy and
most taciturn friend, upon my soul there does--a golden light so clear,
so pure, so full of happiness, that I question whether that of heaven
itself will surpass it in radiance. But now I am caged once more, and
will never see anything even like them again.”
The poor young man then wept for a couple of minutes, after which he
added, “Yes, sir, this is at once my malady and my hope. You see, then,
I am not worth a plot, nor would it be a high-minded or honorable act
for any gentleman to conspire against one who is nobody's enemy, but
appears to have all the world against him. Yes, and they thought when
I used to get into my silent moods that I was mad. No, but I was in
heaven, enjoying, as I said, my mountains, my rivers, and my green
fields. I was in heaven, I say, and walked in the light of heaven, for I
was a little boy once more, and saw its radiance upon them, as I used
to do long ago. But do you know what occurs to me this moment, most
taciturn?” He added, after a short pause, being moved, probably, by one
of those quick and capricious changes to which both the intoxicated and
insane are proverbially liable: “It strikes me, that you probably are
descended from the man in the iron mask--ha--ha--ha! Or stay, was there
ever such a thing in this benevolent and humane world of ours as a
man with an iron heart? If so, who knows, then, but you may date your
ancestry from him? Ay, right enough; we are in a coach, I think, and
going--going--going to--to--to--ah, where to? I know--oh, my God--we are
going to--to--to----” and here poor Fenton once more fell asleep, as was
evident by his deep but oppressive breathing.
Now the baronet, although he maintained a strict silence during their
journey, a silence which it was not his intention to break, made up
for this cautious taciturnity by thought and those reflections which
originated from his designs upon Fenton. He felt astonished, in the
first place, at the measures, whatever they might have been, by which
the other must have obtained means of escaping from the asylum to which
he had been committed with such strict injunctions as to his secure
custody. It occurred to him, therefore, that by an examination of his
pockets he might possibly ascertain some clew to this circumstance, and
as the man was not overburdened with much conscience or delicacy, he
came to the determination, as Fenton was once more dead asleep, to
search for and examine whatever papers he should find about him, if any.
For this purpose he ignited a match--such as they had in those days--and
with this match lit up a small dark lantern, the same to which we have
already alluded. Aided by its light, he examined the sleeping young
man's pockets, in which he felt very little, in the shape of either
money or papers, that could compensate him for this act of larceny. In
a breast-pocket, however, inside his waistcoat, he found pinned to the
lining a note--a pound note--on the back of which was jotted a brief
memorandum of the day on which it was written, and the person from
whom he had received it. To this was added a second memorandum, in the
following words: “Mem. This note may yet be useful to myself if I could
get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name--Thomas
Skipton--is written here upon it. He is the man I want, for I know his
signature.”
No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several
names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently
by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes
gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous
triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through
such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express.
“Unhappy wretch,” thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, “it
is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living
over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither
of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak. Even fate is against
you; that fate which has consigned this beggarly representative of
wealth to my hands, through your own instrumentality. I now feel
confident; nay, I am certain that my projects will and must succeed.
The affairs of this world are regulated unquestionably by the immutable
decrees of destiny. What is to be will be; and I, in putting this
wretched, drunken, mad, and besotted being out of my way, am only an
instrument in the hands of that destiny myself. The blame then is not
mine, but that of the law which constrains--forces me to act the part I
am acting, a part which was allotted to me from the beginning; and this
reflection fills me with consolation.”
He then re-examined the note, put it into a particular fold of his
pocket-book which had before been empty, in order to keep it distinct,
and once more thrusting it into his pocket, buttoned it carefully up,
extinguished the lantern, and laid himself back in the corner of the
carriage, in which position he reclined, meditating upon the kind
partiality of destiny in his favor, the virtuous tendencies of his own
ambition, and the admirable, because successful, means by which he was
bringing them about.
In this manner they proceeded until they reached the entrance of the
next town, when the baronet desired Gillespie to stop. “Go forward,”
said he, “and order a chaise and pair without delay. I think, however,
you will find them ready for you; and if Corbet is there, desire him to
return with you. He has already had his instructions. I am sick of this
work, Gillespie; and I assure you it is not for the son of a common
friend that I would forego my necessary rest, to sit at such an hour
with a person who is both mad and drunk. What is friendship, however,
if we neglect its duties? Care and medical skill may enable this
unfortunate young man to recover his reason, and take a respectable
position in the world yet. Go now and make no delay. I shall take charge
of this poor fellow and the horses until you return. But, mark me, my
name is not to be breathed to mortal, under a penalty that you will find
a dreadful one, should you incur it.”
“Never fear, your honor,” replied Gillespie; “I am not the man to betray
trust; and indeed, few gentlemen of your rank, as I said, would go so
far for the son of an auld friend. I'll lose no time, Sir Thomas.”
Sir Thomas, we have had occasion to say more than once, was quick
and energetic in all his resolutions, and beyond doubt, the fact that
Gillespie found Corbet ready and expecting him on this occasion, fully
corroborates our opinion.
Indeed, it was his invariable habit, whenever he found that more than
one agent or instrument was necessary, to employ them, as far as was
possible, independently of each other. For instance, he had not at all
communicated to Gillespie the fact of his having engaged Corbet in the
matter, nor had the former any suspicion of it until he now received the
first hint from Sir Thomas himself. A chaise and pair in less than five
minutes drove gently, but with steady pace, back to the spot where
the baronet stood at the head of his horses, watching the doors of the
carriage on each side every quarter of a minute, lest by any possible
chance his victim might escape him. Of this, however, there was not the
slightest danger; poor Fenton's sleep, like that of almost all drunken
men, having had in it more of stupor than of ordinary and healthful
repose.
We have informed our readers that the baronet was not without a strong
tinge of superstition, notwithstanding his religious infidelity, and his
belief in the doctrine of fate and necessity. On finding himself alone
at that dead and dreary hour of the night--half-past two--standing
under a shady range of tall trees that met across the road, and gave a
character of extraordinary gloom and solitude to the place, he began to
experience that vague and undefined terror which steals over the mind
from an involuntary apprehension of the supernatural. A singular degree
of uneasiness came over him: he coughed, he hemmed, in order to break
the death-like stillness in which he stood. He patted the horses, he
rubbed his hand down their backs, but felt considerable surprise and
terror on finding that they both trembled, and seemed by their snorting
and tremors to partake of his own sensations. Under such terrors there
is nothing that extinguishes a man's courage so much as the review of
an ill-spent life, or the reproaches of an evil conscience. Sir Thomas
Gourlay could not see and feel, for the moment, the criminal iniquity
of his black and ungodly ambition, and the crimes into which it involved
him. Still, the consciousness of the flagitious project in which he was
engaged against the unoffending son of his brother, the influence of the
hour, and the solitude in which he stood, together with the operation
upon his mind of some unaccountable fear apart from that of personal
violence--all, when united, threw him into a commotion that resulted
from such a dread as intimated that something supernatural must be near
him. He was seized by a violent shaking of the limbs, the perspiration
burst from every pore; and as he patted the horses a second time for
relief, he again perceived that their terrors were increasing and
keeping pace with his own. At length, his hair fairly stood, and his
excitement was nearly as high as excitement of such a merely ideal
character could go, when he thought he heard a step--a heavy, solemn,
unearthly step--that sounded as if there was something denouncing and
judicial in the terrible emphasis with which it went to his heart, or
rather to his conscience. Without having the power to restrain himself,
he followed with his eyes this symbolical tread as it seemed to
approach the coach door on the side at which he stood. This was the more
surprising and frightful, as, although he heard the tramp, yet he could
for the moment see nothing in the shape of either figure or form,
from which he could resolve what he had heard into a natural sound.
At length, as he stood almost dissolved in terror, he thought that
an indistinct, or rather an unsubstantial figure stood at the
carriage-door, looked in for a moment, and then bent his glance at him,
with a severe and stem expression; after which, it began to rub out or
efface a certain portion of the armorial bearings, which he had added
to his heraldic coat in right of his wife. The noise of the chaise
approaching now reached his ears, and he turned as a relief to ascertain
if Gillespie and Corbet were near him. As far as he could judge, they
were about a couple of hundred yards off, and this discovery recalled
his departed courage; he turned his eyes once more to the carriage-door,
but to his infinite relief could perceive nothing. A soft, solemn,
mournful blast, however, somewhat like a low moan, amounting almost to
a wail, crept through the trees under which he stood; and after it had
subsided--whether it was fact or fancy cannot now be known--he thought
he heard the same step slowly, and, as it were with a kind of sorrowful
anger, retreating in the distance.
“If mortal spirit,” he exclaimed as they approached, “ever was permitted
to return to this earth, that form was the spirit of my mortal brother.
This, however,” he added, but only in thought, when they came up to him,
and after he had regained his confidence by their presence, “this is all
stuff--nothing but solitude and its associations acting upon the nerves;
thus enabling us, as we think, to see the very forms created only by our
fears, and which, apart from them, have no existence.”
The men and the chaise were now with him--Gillespie on horseback, that
is to say, he was to bring back the same animal on which Sir Thomas had
secretly despatched Corbet from Red Hall to the town of ------, for
the purpose of having the chaise ready, and conducting Fenton to his
ultimate destination. The poor young man's transfer from the carriage
to the chaise was quickly and easily effected. Several large flasks of
strong spirits and water were also transferred along with him.
“Now, Corbet,” observed Sir Thomas apart to him, “you have full
instructions how to act; and see that you carry them out to the letter.
You will find no difficulty in keeping this person in a state of
intoxication all the way. Go back to ------, engage old Bradbury to
drive the chaise, for, although deaf and stupid, he is an excellent
driver. Change the chaise and horses, however, as often as you can, so
as that it may be difficult, if not impossible, to trace the route you
take. Give Benson, who, after all, is the prince of mad doctors, the
enclosure which you have in the blank cover; and tell him, he shall have
an annuity to the same amount, whether this fellow lives or dies. Mark
me, Corbet--whether his charge lives or dies. Repeat these words to
him twice, as I have done to you. Above all things, let him keep him
safe--safe--safe. Remember, Corbet, that our family have been kind
friends to yours. I, therefore, have trusted you all along in this
matter, and calculate upon your confidence as a grateful and honest man,
as well as upon your implicit obedience to every order I have given you.
I myself shall drive home the carriage; and when we get near Red Hall,
Gillespie can ride forward, have his horse put up, and the stable and
coachhouse doors open, so that everything tomorrow morning may look as
if no such expedition had taken place.”
They then separated; Corbet to conduct poor Fenton to his dreary cell
in a mad-house, and Sir Thomas to seek that upon which, despite his most
ambitious projects, he had been doomed all his life to seek after in
vain--rest on an uneasy pillow.