--a Sederunt, with a Bright look up for Mr. Gray.
It is unnecessary to say that the priest experienced slight regret at
the mistake which had been instrumental in bringing him into collision
with a man, who, although he could not afford them any trace of
unfortunate Fenton, yet enabled them more clearly to identify the
baronet with his fate. The stranger, besides, was satisfied from the
evidence of the pound note, and Trailcudgel's robbery, that his recent
disappearance was also owing to the same influence. Still, the evidence
was far from being complete, and they knew that if Fenton even were
found, it would be necessary to establish his identity as the heir
of Sir Edward Gourlay. No doubt they had made a step in advance, and,
besides, in the right direction; but much still remained to be done; the
plot, in fact, must be gradually, but clearly, and regularly developed;
and in order to do so, they felt that they ought, if the thing could be
managed, to win over some person who had been an agent in its execution.
From what Skipton had disclosed to Father M'Mahon, both that gentleman
and the stranger had little doubt that old Corbet could render them the
assistance required, if he could only be prevailed upon to speak. It was
evident from his own conversation that he not only hated but detested
Sir Thomas Gourlay; and yet it was equally clear that some secret
influence prevented him from admitting any knowledge or participation
in the child's disappearance. Notwithstanding the sharp caution of his
manner, and his disavowal of the very knowledge they were seeking, it
was agreed upon that Father M'Mahon should see him again, and ascertain
whether or not he could be induced in any way to aid their purpose.
Nearly a week elapsed, however, before the cunning old ferret could be
come at. The truth is, he had for many a long year been of opinion
that the priest entertained a suspicion of his having been in some
way engaged, either directly or indirectly, in the dark plots of the
baronet, if not in the making away with the child. On this account then,
the old man never wished to come in the priest's way whenever he could
avoid it; and the priest himself had often remarked that whenever he
(old Corbet), who lived with the baronet for a couple of years, after
the child's disappearance, happened to see or meet him in Ballytrain,
he always made it a point to keep his distance. In fact, the priest
happened on one occasion, while making a visit to see Quin, the
monomaniac, and waiting in the doctor's room, to catch a glimpse of
Corbet passing through the hall, and on inquiring who he was from one of
the keepers, the fellow, after some hesitation, replied, that he did not
know.
By this time, however, the mysterious loss of the child had long passed
out of the public mind, and as the priest never paid another visit to
the asylum, he also had ceased to think of it. It is quite possible,
indeed, that the circumstance would never again have recurred to him
had not the stranger's inquiries upon this very point reminded him that
Corbet was the most likely person he knew to communicate information
upon the subject. The reader already knows with what success that
application had been made.
Day after day had elapsed, and the priest, notwithstanding repeated
visits, could never find him at home. The simple-hearted man had
whispered to him in the watch-house, that he wished to speak to him
upon that very subject--a communication which filled the old fellow with
alarm, and the consequence was, that he came to the resolution of not
seeing him at all, if he could possibly avoid it.
One day, however, when better than a week had passed, Father M'Mahon
entered his shop, where he found a woman standing', as if she expected
some person to come in. His wife was weighing huckstery with her back to
the counter, so that she was not aware of his presence. Without speaking
a word he passed as quietly as possible into the little back parlor, and
sat down. After about fifteen minutes he heard a foot overhead passing
stealthily across the room, and coming to the lobby, where there was a
pause, as if the person were listening. At length the foot first came
down one stair very quietly, then another, afterwards a third, and again
there was a second pause, evidently to listen as before. The priest kept
his eyes steadily on the staircase, but was placed in such a position
that he could see without being visible himself. At length Corbet's
long scraggy neck was seen projecting like that of an ostrich across the
banisters, which commanded a view of the shop through the glass door.
Seeing the coast, as he thought, clear, he ventured to speak.
“Is he gone?” he asked, “for I'll take my oath I saw him come up the
street.”
“You needn't trust your eyes much longer, I think,” replied his wife,
“you saw no such man; he wasn't here at all.”
“Bekaise I know it's about that poor boy he's coming; and sure, if
I stir in it, or betray the others, I can't keep the country; an',
besides, I will lose my pension.”
Having concluded these words he came down the stairs into the little
parlor we have mentioned, where he found Father M'Mahon sitting, his
benevolent features lit up with a good deal of mirth at the confusion of
Corbet, and the rueful aspect he exhibited on being caught in the trap
so ingeniously laid for him.
“Dunphy,” said the priest, for by this name he went in the city,
“you are my prisoner; but don't be afraid in the mane time--better my
prisoner than that of a worse man. And now, you thief o' the world, why
did you refuse to see me for the last week? Why keep me trotting day
after day, although you know I wanted to speak with you? What have you
to say for yourself?”
Corbet, before replying, gave a sharp, short, vindictive glance at his
wife, whom he suspected strongly of having turned traitress, and played
into the hands of the enemy.
“Troth, your reverence, I was sorry to hear that you had come so often;”
and as he spoke, another glance toward the shop seemed to say, “You
deceitful old wretch, you have betrayed and played the devil with me.”
“I don't at all doubt it, Anthony,” replied the priest, “the truth being
that you were sorry I came at all. Come I am, however, and if I were to
wait for twelve months, I wouldn't go without seeing you. Call in Mrs.
Dunphy till I spake to her, and ask her how she is.”
“You had better come in, ma'am,” said the old fellow, in a tone of voice
that could not be misunderstood; “here's Father M'Mahon, who wants to
spake to you.”
“Arra, get out o' that!” she replied; “didn't I tell you that he didn't
show his round rosy face to-day yet; but I'll go bail he'll be here for
all that--sorra day he missed for the last week, and it's a scandal for
you to thrate him as you're doin'--sorra thing else.”
“Stop your goster,” said Dunphy, “and come in--isn't he inside here?”
The woman came to the door, and giving a hasty and incredulous look
in, started, exclaiming, “Why, then, may I never sin, but he is. Musha!
Father M'Mahon, how in the name o' goodness did you get inside at all?”
“Aisily enough,” he replied; “I only made myself invisible for a couple
of minutes, and passed in while you were weighing something for a woman
in the shop.”
“Troth, then, one would think you must a' done so, sure enough, for the
sorrow a stim of you I seen anyhow.”
“O, she's so attentive to her business, your reverence,” said Anthony,
with bitter irony, “that she sees nothing else. The lord mayor might
drive his coach in, and she wouldn't see him. There's an ould proverb
goin' that says there's none so blind as thim that won't see. Musha,
sir, wasn't that a disagreeable turn that happened you the other
morning?”
“But it didn't last long, that was one comfort. The Lord save me from
ever seeing such another sight. I never thought our nature was capable
of such things; it is awful, even to think of it. Yes, terrible to
reflect, that there were unfortunate wretches there who will probably
be hurried into eternity without repenting for their transgressions, and
making their peace with God;” and as he concluded, Corbet found that the
good pastor's eye was seriously and solemnly fixed upon him.
“Indeed--it's all true, your reverence--it'a all true,” he replied.
“Now, Anthony,” continued the priest, “I have something very important
to spake to you about; something that will be for your own benefit,
not only in this world, but in that awful one which is to come, and for
which we ought to prepare ourselves sincerely and earnestly. Have you
any objection that your wife should be present, or shall we go upstairs
and talk it over there?”
“I have every objection,” replied Corbet; “something she does know,
but--”
“O thank goodness,” replied the old woman, very naturally offended at
being kept out of the secret, “I'm not in all your saicrets, nor I don't
wish to know them, I'm sure. I believe you find some of them a heavy
burden; at any rate.”
“Come, then,” said the priest, “put on your hat and take a walk with me
as far as the Brazen Head inn, where I'm stopping. We can have a private
room there, where there will be no one to interrupt us.”
“Would it be the same thing to you, sir, if I'd call on you there about
this time to-morrow?”
“What objection have you to come now?” asked the priest. “Never put
off till tomorrow what can be done to-day, is a good old proverb, and
applies to things of weightier importance than belong to this world.”
“Why, then, it's a little business of a very particular nature that I
have to attend to; and yet I don't know,” he added, “maybe I'll be
a betther match for them afther seeing you. In the mane time,” he
proceeded, addressing his wife, “if they should come here to look for
me, don't say where I'm gone, nor, above all things, who I'm with. Mark
that now; and tell Charley, or Ginty, whichever o' them comes, that it
must be put off till to-morrow--do you mind, now?”
She merely nodded her head, by way of attention.
“Ay,” he replied, with a sardonic grin, “you'll be alive, as you were a
while ago, I suppose.”
They then proceeded on their way to the Brazen Head, which they reached
without any conversation worth recording.
“Now, Anthony,” began the priest, after they had seated themselves
comfortably in a private room, “will you answer me truly why you refused
seeing me? why you hid or absconded whenever I went to your house for
the last week?”
“Bekaise I did not wish to see you, then.”
“Well, that's the truth,” said the priest, “and I know it. But why did
you not wish to see me?” he inquired; “you must have had some reason for
it.”
“I had my suspicions.”
“You had, Anthony; and you've had the same suspicions this many a long
year--ever since the day I saw you pass through the hall in the private
mad-house in--.”
“Was that the time Mr. Quin was there? asked Anthony, unconsciously
committing himself from the very apprehension of doing so by giving a
direct answer to the question.
“Ah! ha! Anthony, then you knew Mr. Quin was there. That will do; but
there's not the slightest use in beating about the bush any longer. You
have within the last half-hour let your secret out, within my own
ears, and before my own eyes. And so you have a pension from the Black
Baronet; and you, an old man, and I fear a guilty one, are receiving the
wages of iniquity and corruption from that man--from the man that first
brought shame and everlasting disgrace, and guilt and madness into and
upon your family and name--a name that had been without a stain before.
Yes; you have sold yourself as a slave--a bond-slave--have become the
creature and instrument of his vices--the clay in his hands that he can
mould as he pleases, and that he will crush and trample on, and shiver
to pieces, the moment his cruel, unjust, and diabolical purposes are
served.”
Anthony's face was a study, but a fearful study, whilst the priest
spoke. As the reverend gentleman went on, it darkened into the
expression of perfect torture; he gasped and started as if every word
uttered had given him a mortal stab; his keen old eye nickered with
scintillations of unnatural and turbid fire, until the rebuke was ended.
The priest had observed this, and naturally imputed the feeling to an
impression of remorse, not, it is true, unmingled with indignation. We
may imagine his surprise, therefore, on seeing that face suddenly change
into one of the wildest and most malignant delight. A series of dry,
husky hiccoughs, or what is termed the black laugh, rapidly repeated,
proceeded from between his thin jaws, and his eyes now blazed with an
expression of such fiery and triumphant vengeance, that the other felt
as if some fiendish incarnation of malignity, and not a man, sat before
him.
“Crush me!” he exclaimed, “crush me, indeed! Wait a little. What have I
been doin' all this time? I tell you that I have been every day for this
many a long year windin' myself like a serpent about him, till I get him
fairly in my power; and when I do--then for one sharp, deadly sting
into his heart:--ay, and, like the serpent, it's in my tongue that
sting lies--from that tongue the poison must come that will give me the
revenge that I've been long waitin' for.”
“You speak,” replied the priest, “and, indeed, you look more like
an evil spirit than a man, Anthony. This language is disgraceful and
unchristian, and such as no human being should utter. How can you think
of death with such principles in your heart?”
“I'll tell you how I think on death: I'm afeared of it when I think of
that poor, heartbroken woman, Lady Gourlay; but when I think of him--of
him--I do hope and expect that my last thought in this world will be the
delightful one that I've had my revenge on him.”
“And you would risk the misery of another world for the gratification
of one evil passion in this! Oh, God help you, and forgive you, and turn
your heart!”
“God help me, and forgive me, and turn my heart! but not so far as he is
consarned. I neither wish it, nor pray for it, and what's more, if you
were fifty priests, I never will. Let us drop this subject, then, for so
long as we talk of him, I feel as if the blood in my ould veins was all
turned into fire.”
The priest saw and felt that this was true, and resolved to be guided
by the hint he had unconsciously received. To remonstrate with him upon
Christian principles, in that mood of mind, would, he knew, be to no
purpose. If there were an assailable point about him, he concluded, from
his own words, that it was in connection with the sufferings of Lady
Gourlay, and the fate of her child. On this point, therefore, he
resolved to sound him, and ascertain, without, if possible, alarming
him, how far he would go on--whether he felt disposed to advance at all,
or not.
“Well,” said the priest, “since you are resolved upon an act of
vengeance--against which, as a Christian priest and a Christian man, I
doubly protest--I think it only right that you should perform an act
of justice also. You know it is wrong to confound the innocent with the
guilty. There is Lady Gourlay, with the arrow of grief, and probably
despair, rankling in her heart for years. Now, you could restore that
woman to happiness--you could restore her lost child to happiness, and
bid the widowed mother's heart leap for joy.”
“It isn't for that I'd do it, or it would, maybe, be done long ago; but
I'm not sayin' I know where her son is. Do you think now, if I did, that
it wouldn't gratify my heart to pull down that black villain--to tumble
him down in the eyes of all the world with disgrace and shame, from the
height he's sittin' on, and make him a world's wondher of villany and
wickedness?”
“I know very well,” replied the priest, who, not wishing to use an
unchristian argument, thought it still too good to be altogether left
out, “I know very well that you cannot restore Lady Gourlay's son,
without punishing the baronet at the same time. If you be guided by
me, however, you will think only of what is due to the injured lady
herself.”
“Do you think, now,” persisted Corbet, not satisfied with the priest's
answer, and following up his interrogatory, “do you think, I say, that
I wouldn't 'a' dragged him down like a dog in the kennel, long ago, if I
knew where his brother's son was.”
“From your hatred to Sir Thomas Gourlay,” replied the other, “I think it
likely you would have tumbled him long since if you could.”
“Why,” exclaimed Corbet, with another sardonic and derisive grin,
“that's a proof of how little you know of a man's heart. Do you forget
what I said awhile ago about the black villain--that I have been windin'
myself about him for years, until I get him fairly into my power? When
that time comes, you'll see what I'll do.”
“But will that time soon come?” asked the other. “Recollect that you are
now an old man, and that old age is not the time to nourish projects of
vengeance. Death may seize you--may take you at a short notice--so that
it is possible you may never live to execute your devilish purpose on
the one hand, nor the act of justice toward Lady Gourlay on the other.
Will that time soon come, I ask?”
“So far I'll answer you. It'll take a month or two--not more. I have
good authority for what I'm sayin'.”
“And what will you do then?”
“I'll tell you that,” he replied; and rising up, he shut his two hands,
turning in his thumbs, and stretching his arms down along his body on
each side, he stooped down, and looking directly and fully into the
priest's eyes, he replied, “I'll give him back his son.”
“Tut!” returned the clergyman, whose honest heart, and sympathies were
all with the widow and her sorrows; “I was thinking of Lady Gourlay's
son. In the mane time, that's a queer way of punishing the baronet.
You'll give him back his son?--pooh!”
“Ay,” replied Corbet, “that's the way I'll have my revenge; and maybe
it'll be a greater one than you think. That's all.”
This was accompanied by a sneer and a chuckle, which the ambiguous old
sinner could not for the blood of him suppress. “And now,” he added, “I
must be off.”
“Sir,” said Father M'Mahon, rising up and traversing the room with
considerable heat, “you have been tampering with the confidence I was
disposed to place in you. Whatever dark game you are playing, or have
been playing, I know not; but this I can assure you, that Lady Gourlay's
friends know more of your secrets than you suspect. I believe you to
be nothing more nor less than a hardened old villain, whose heart is
sordid, and base, and cruel--corrupted, I fear, beyond all hope of
redemption. You have been playing with me, sir--sneering at me in your
sleeve, during this whole dialogue. This was a false move, however, on
your part, and you will find it so. I am not a man to be either played
with or sneered at by such a snake-like and diabolical old scoundrel as
you are. Listen, now, to me. You think your secret is safe; you think
you are beyond the reach of the law; you think we know nothing of your
former movements under the guidance and in personal company with the
Black Baronet. Pray, did you think it impossible that there was
above you a God of justice, and of vengeance, too, whose providential
disclosures are sufficient to bring your villany to light? Anthony
Corbet, be warned in time. Let your disclosures be voluntary, and they
will be received with gratitude, with deep thanks, with ample rewards;
refuse to make them, endeavor still further to veil the crimes to which
I allude, and sustain this flagitious compact, and we shall drag them up
your throat, and after forcing you to disgorge them, we shall send you,
in your wicked and impenitent old age, where the clank of the felon's
chain will be the only music in your ears, and that chain itself the
only garter that will ever keep up your Connemaras. Now begone, and lay
to heart what I've said to you. It wasn't my intention to have let you
go without a bit of something to eat, and a glass of something to wash
it down afterwards; but you may travel now; nothing stronger than pure
air will cross your lips in this house, unless at your own cost.”
The old fellow seemed to hesitate, as if struck by some observation
contained in the priest's lecture.
“When do you lave town, sir?” he asked.
“Whenever it's my convanience,” replied the other; “that's none of your
affair. I'll go immediately and see Skipton.”
The priest observed that honest Anthony looked still graver at the
mention of this name. “If you don't go,” he added, “until a couple of
days hence, I'd like to see you again, about this hour, the day afther
tomorrow.”
“Whether I'll be here, or whether I won't is more than I know. I may be
brought to judgment before then, and so may you. You may come then, or
you may stay away, just as you like. If you come, perhaps I'll see you,
and perhaps I won't. So now good-by! Thank goodness we are not depending
on you!”
Anthony then slunk out of the room with a good deal of hesitation in his
manner, and on leaving the hall-door he paused for a moment, and seemed
disposed to return. At length he decided, and after lingering awhile,
took his way toward Constitution Hill.
This interview with the priest disturbed Corbet very much. His
selfishness, joined to great caution and timidity of character, rendered
him a very difficult subject for any man to wield according to his
purposes. There could be no doubt that he entertained feelings of the
most diabolical resentment and vengeance against the baronet, and yet it
was impossible to get out of him the means by which he proposed to visit
them upon him. On leaving Father M'Mahon, therefore, he experienced
a state of alternation between a resolution to make disclosures and a
determination to be silent and work out his own plans. He also feared
death, it is true: but this was only when those rare visitations of
conscience occurred that were awakened by superstition, instead of an
enlightened and Christian sense of religion. This latter was a word
he did not understand, or rather one for which he mistook superstition
itself. Be this as it may, he felt uneasy, anxious, and irresolute,
wavering between the right and the wrong, afraid to take his stand by
either, and wishing, if he could, to escape the consequences of both.
Other plans, however, were ripening as well as his, under the management
of those who were deterred by none of his cowardice or irresolution. The
consideration of this brings us to a family discussion; which it becomes
our duty to detail before we proceed any further in our narrative.
On the following day, then, nearly the same party of which we have
given an account in an early portion of this work, met in the same
eating-house we have already described; the only difference being that
instead of O'Donegan, the classical teacher, old Corbet himself was
present. The man called Thomas Corbet, the eldest son Anthony, Ginty
Cooper the fortune-teller, Ambrose Gray, and Anthony himself, composed
this interesting sederunt. The others had been assembled for some time
before the arrival of Anthony, who consequently had not an opportunity
of hearing the following brief dialogue.
“I'm afraid of my father,” observed Thomas; “he's as deep as a
draw-well, and it's impossible to know what he's at. How are we to
manage him at all?”
“By following his advice, I think,” said Ginty. “It's time, I'm sure, to
get this boy into his rights.”
“I was very well disposed to help you in that,” replied her brother;
“but of late he has led such a life, that I fear if he comes into the
property, he'll do either us or himself little credit; and what is still
worse, will he have sense to keep his own secret? My father says his
brother, the legitimate son, is dead; that he died of scarlet-fever
many years ago in the country---and I think myself, by the way, that he
looks, whenever he says it, as if he himself had furnished the boy with
the fever. That, however, is not our business. If I had been at Red
Hall, instead of keeping the house and place in town, it's a short time
the other--or Fenton as he calls himself--would be at large. He's now
undher a man that will take care of him. But indeed it's an easy task.
He'll never see his mother's face again, as I well know. Scarman has
him, and I give the poor devil about three months to live. He doesn't
allow him half food, but, on the other hand, he supplies him with more
whiskey than he can drink; and this by the baronet's own written orders.
As for you, Mr. Gray, for we may as well call you so yet awhile, your
conduct of late has been disgraceful.”
“I grant it,” replied Mr. Gray, who was now sober; “but the truth is,
I really looked, after some consideration, upon the whole plan as quite
impracticable. As the real heir, however, is dead--”
“Not the real heir, Amby, if you please. He, poor fellow, is in custody
that he will never escape from again. Upon my soul, I often pitied him.”
“How full of compassion you are!” replied his sister.
“I have very little for the baronet, however,” he replied; “and I hope
he will never die till I scald the soul in his body. Excuse me, Amby.
You know all the circumstances of the family, and, of course, that you
are the child of guilt and shame.”
“Why, yes, I'm come on the wrong side as to birth, I admit; but if I
clutch the property and title, I'll thank heaven every day I live for my
mother's frailty.”
“It was not frailty, you unfeeling boy,” replied Ginty, “so much as my
father's credulity and ambition. I was once said to be beautiful, and
he, having taken it into his head that this man, when young, might love
me, went to the expense of having me well educated. He then threw me
perpetually into his society; but I was young and artless at the time,
and believed his solemn oaths and promises of marriage.”
“And the greater villain he,” observed her brother; “for I myself did
not think there could be danger in your intimacy, because you and he
were foster-children; and, except in his case, I never knew another
throughout the length and breadth of the country, where the obligation
of that tie was forgotten.”
“Well,” observed Ambrose, “we must only make the best of our position.
If I succeed, you shall, according to our written agreement, be all
provided for. Not that I would feel very strongly disposed to do much
for that enigmatical old grandfather of mine. The vile old ferret saw
me in the lock-up the other morning, and refused to bail me out; ay, and
threatened me besides.”
“He did right,” replied his uncle; “and if you're caught there again,
I'll not only never bail you out, but wash my hands of the whole affair.
So now be warned, and let it be for your good. Listen, then; for the
case in which you stand is this: there is Miss Gourlay and Dunroe
going to be married after all; for she has returned to her father, and
consented to marry the young lord. The baronet, too, is ill, and I don't
think will live long. He is burned out like a lime-kiln; for, indeed,
like that, his whole life has been nothing but smoke and fire. Very
well; now pay attention. If we wait until these marriage articles are
drawn up, the appearance or the discovery of this heir here will create
great confusion; and you may take my word that every opposition will be
given, and every inquiry made by Dunroe, who, as there seems to be
no heir, will get the property; for it goes, in that case, with Miss
Gourlay. Every knot is more easily tied than untied. Let us produce the
heir, then, before the property's disposed of, and then we won't have
to untie the knot--to invalidate the marriage articles. So far, so
good--that's our plan. But again, there's the baronet ill; should he die
before we establish this youth's rights, think of our difficulty. And,
thirdly, he's beginning to suspect our integrity, as he is pleased to
call it. That strange gentleman, Ginty, has mentioned circumstances to
him that he says could come only from my father or myself, or you.”
“Proceed,” replied his sister, “proceed; I may look forward to the
fulfilment of these plans; but I will never live to see it.”
“You certainly are much changed for the worse,” replied her brother,
“especially since your reason has been restored to you. In the meantime,
listen. The baronet is now ill, although Gibson says there's no danger
of him; he's easier in his mind, however, in consequence of this
marriage, that he has, for life or death, set his heart on; and
altogether this is the best time to put this vagabond's pretensions
forward.”
“Thank you, uncle,” replied Ambrose, with a clouded brow. “In six months
hence, perhaps, I'll be no vagabond.”
“Ay, in sixty years hence you will; and indeed, I fear, to tell you the
truth, that you'll never be anything else. That, however, is not the
question now. We want to know what my father may say--whether he will
agree with us, or whether he can or will give us any better advice.
There is one thing, at least, we ought to respect him for; and that is,
that he gave all his family a good education, although he had but little
of that commodity himself, poor man.”
He had scarcely concluded, when old Anthony made his appearance, with
that mystical expression on his face, half sneer, half gloom, which
would lead one to conclude that his heart was divided between remorse
and vengeance.
“Well,” said he, “you're at work, I see--honestly employed, of course.
Ginty, how long is Mr. Ambrose here dead now?”
“He died,” replied her brother, “soon after the intention of changing
the children took place. You took the hint, father, from the worthy
baronet himself.”
“Ay, I did; and I wish I had not. You died, my good young fellow, of
scarlet-fever--let me see--but divil a much matther it is when you
died; it's little good you'll come to, barrin' you change your heart.
They say, indeed, the divil's children have the divil's luck; but I say,
the divil's children have the divil's face, too; for sure he's as like
the black fiend his father as one egg is to another.”
“And that will strengthen the claim,” replied the young man, with a
grin. “I don't look too old, I hope?”
“There's only two years' difference between you and the boy, your
brother, that's dead,” said his mother. “But I wish we were well through
with this. My past life seems to me like a dream. My contemplated
revenge upon that bad man, and my ambition for this boy, are the only
two principles that now sustain me. What a degraded life has Thomas
Gourlay caused me to lead! But I really think that I saw into futurity;
nay, I am certain of it; otherwise, what put hundreds of predictions
into my lips, that were verified by the event?”
There was a momentary expression of wildness in her eye as she spoke,
which the others observed with pain.
“Come, Ginty,” said her brother, “keep yourself steady now, at all
events; be cool and firm, till we punish this man. If you want to know
why you foretold so much, I'll tell you. It was because you could put
two and two together.”
“My whole life has been a blank,” she proceeded, “an empty dream--a
dead, dull level; insanity, vengeance, ambition, all jostling and
crossing each other in my unhappy mind; not a serious or reasonable
duty of life discharged; no claim on society--no station in the work of
life--an impostor to the world, and a dupe to myself; but it was he did
it. Go on; form your plans--make them firm and sure; for, by Him who
withdrew the light of reason from my spirit--by Him from whom it came, I
will have vengeance. Father, I know you well, and I am your daughter.”
“You know me well, do you?” he replied, with his usual grin. “Maybe you
do, and maybe you don't; but let us proceed. The baronet's son's dead,
you know.”
“But what makes you look as you do, father, when you say so? Your face
seems to contradict your words. You know you have told us for years that
he's dead.”
“And I'm a liar, am I?” he replied, looking at him with a peculiar
smile.
“No, I don't say so; certainly not. But, still, you squeeze your face up
in such a way that you don't seem to believe it yourself.”
“Come, come,” continued the old man, “this is all useless. What do you
intend to do? How do you intend to proceed?”
“We sent for you to advise us in that,” replied his son. “You are the
oldest and the wisest here, and of course ought to possess the soundest
judgment.”
“Well, then, my advice to you is, to go about your business; that is, to
do any lawful business that you have to do, and not to bring yourselves
to disgrace by puttin' forrid this drunken profligate, who will pitch
us all to the devil when he gets himself safe, and tread in his black
father's steps afterwards.”
“And you must assist us, father,” said Ginty, rising up, and pacing to
and fro the room in a state of great agitation. “You, the first cause,
the original author of my shame; you, to whose iniquitous avarice and
vulgar ambition I fell a sacrifice, as much as I did to the profligacy
and villany of Thomas Gourlay. But I care not--I have my ambition; it is
a mother's, and more natural on that account. I have also my vengeance
to gratify; for, father, we are your children, and vengeance is the
family principle. Father, you must assist us--you must join us--you
must lend us your perjury--supply us with false oaths, with deceitful
accounts, with all that is necessary; for, father, it is to work out
your own principles--that I may be able to die smiling--smiling that
I have overreached and punished him at last. That, you know, will be a
receipt in full for my shame and madness. Now, I say, father, you must
do this, or I will kneel down and curse you.”
The old man, as she proceeded, kept his eyes fixed upon her, first with
a look of indifference; this, however, became agreeable and complacent;
gradually his eye kindled as he caught her spirit, and when she had
concluded, he ground his black old stumps of teeth together with a
vindictive energy that was revolting, or at least would have been so to
any others unless those that were present.
“Well, Ginty,” he replied, “I have turned it over in my mind, and as
helpin' you now will be givin' the black fellow an additional stab, I'll
do it. Yes, my lad,” he added, grinning rather maliciously, by the way,
at the object of his promised support, “I will make a present of you to
your father; and a thankful man he ought to be to have the like of you.
I was sometimes for you, and sometimes against you; but, at all events,
the old fellow must have you--for the present at least.”
This was accompanied by another grin, which was, as usual, perfectly
inexplicable to the others. But as he had expressed his assent and
promised his assistance, they were glad to accept it on his own terms
and in his own way.
“Well, then,” he proceeded, “now that we've made up our minds to go
through with it, I'll think over what's to be done--what's the best
steps to take, and the best time and place to break it to him. This will
require some time to think of it, and to put things together properly;
so let us have a drop of something to drink, and we can meet again in
few days.”
Having partaken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon
afterwards separated until another opportunity.
Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is already acquainted,
took but little part, as may have been perceived, in the discussion of
a project which so deeply affected his own interests. When it was first
discovered to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at
the bare probability of such an event. Subsequent reflection, however,
induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble, that could
not bear the touch of a finger without melting into air. It was true
he was naturally cunning, but then he was also naturally profligate and
vicious; and although not without intellect, yet was he deficient
in self-command to restrain himself when necessary. Altogether, his
character was bad, and scarcely presented to any one a favorable
aspect. When affected with liquor he was at once quarrelsome and
cowardly--always the first to provoke a fight, and the first, also, to
sneak out of it.
Soon after the disappearance of Sir Edward Gourlay's heir, the notion of
removing the baronet's own son occurred, not to his mother, nor to her
brother, but to old Corbet, who desired his son Charles, then a young
man, and the baronet's foster-brother, as a preparatory step to his
ultimate designs, to inform him that his illegitimate son was dead. Sir
Thomas at this time had not assumed the title, nor taken possession of
the immense estates.
“Mr. Gourlay,” said Charles, “that child is dead; I was desired to tell
you so by my father, who doesn't wish to speak to you himself upon the
subject.”
“Well,” replied Mr. Gourlay, “what affair is that of mine?”
“Why,” said the other, “as the unfortunate mother is insane, and
without means of providing decently for its burial, he thinks it only
reasonable that you should furnish money for that purpose--he, I know,
won't.”
“What do you mean by providing decently?” asked Mr. Gourlay. “What stuff
that is!--throw the brat into a shell, and bury it. I am cursedly glad
it's gone. There's half-a-crown, and pitch it into the nearest kennel.
Why the deuce do you come to me with such a piece of information?”
Charles Corbet, being his father's son, looked at him, and we need
not at any length describe the nature of that look nor the feeling it
conveyed. This passed, but was not forgotten; and on being detailed by
Charles Corbet to his father, the latter replied,
“Ah, the villain--that's his feelin', is it! Well, never mind, I'll
punish him one day.”
Some months after this he came into Mr. Gourlay's study, with a very
solemn and anxious face, and said,
“I have something to say to you, sir.”
“Well, Anthony, what is it you have to say to me?”
“Maybe I'm wrong, sir, and I know I oughtn't to alarm you or disturb
your mind; but still I think I ought to put you on your guard.”
“Confound your caution, sir; can't you come out with whatever you have
to say at once?”
“Would it be possible, sir, that there could be any danger of the child
bein' taken away like the other--like your brother's?”
“What do you mean--why do you ask such a question?”
“Bekaise, sir, I observed for the last few days a couple of strange men
peepin' and pimpin' about the place, and wherever the child went they
kept dodgin' afther him.”
“But why should any one think of taking him away?”
“Hem!--well, I don't know, sir; but you know that the heir was taken
away.”
“Come, Anthony, be quiet--walls have ears; go on.”
“What 'ud you think if there was sich a thing as revinge in the world?
I'm not suspectin' any one, but at the same time, a woman's revinge
is the worst and deepest of all revinges. You know very well that she
suspects you--and, indeed, so does the world.”
“But very wrongly, you know, Anthony,” replied the baronet, with a smile
dark as murder.
“Why, ay, to be sure,” replied the instrument, squirting the tobacco
spittle into the fire, and turning on him a grin that might be
considered a suitable commentary upon the smile of his employer.
“But,” added Mr. Gourlay, “what if it should be the father, instead of
the son, they want?”
“But why would they be dodgin' about the child, sir?”
“True; it is odd enough. Well, I shall give orders to have him well
watched.”
“And, with the help o' God, I'll put a mark upon him that'll make him
be known, at any rate, through all changes, barrin' they should take his
life.”
“How do you mean by a mark!” asked the other.
“I learnt it in the army, sir, when I was with Sir Edward. It's done by
gunpowder. It can do no harm, and will at any time durin' his life make
him known among millions. It can do no harm, at any rate, sir.”
“Very well, Anthony--very well,” replied Mr. Gourlay; “mark him as you
like, and when it is done, let me see it.”
In about a fortnight afterwards, old Corbet brought his son to him, and
raising his left arm, showed him the child's initials distinctly marked
on the under part of it, together with a cross and the family crest; all
so plainly and neatly executed, that the father was surprised at it.
Nothing, however, happened at that time; vigilance began to relax as
suspicion diminished, until one morning, about eight months afterwards,
it was found that the child had disappeared. It is unnecessary to add,
that every possible step was taken to discover him. Searches were made,
the hue and cry was up, immense rewards were offered; but all in vain.
From that day forth neither trace nor tidings of him could be found, and
in the course of time he was given up, like the heir of the property,
altogether for lost.