--Anthony Corbet gives Important Documents to the Stranger--Norton
catches a Tartar.
The next morning the stranger was agreeably surprised by seeing the
round, rosy, and benevolent features of Father M'Mahon, as he presented
himself at his breakfast table. Their meeting was cordial and friendly,
with the exception of a slight appearance of embarrassment that was
evident in the manner of the priest.
“The last time you were in town,” said the former, “I was sorry to
observe thai you seemed rather careworn and depressed; but I think you
look better now, and a good deal more cheerful.”
“And I think I have a good right,” replied the priest; “and I think no
man ought to know the, cause of it better than yourself. I charge it,
sir, with an act of benevolence to the poor of my parish, through their
humble pastor; for which you stand.--I beg your pardon--sit there, a
guilty man.”
“How is that?” asked the other, smiling.
“By means of an anonymous letter that contained a hundred pound note,
sir.”
“Well,” said the stranger, “there is no use in telling a falsehood
about it. The truth is, I was aware of the extent to which you involved
yourself, in order to relieve many of the small farmers and other
struggling persons of good repute in your parish, and I thought it too
bad that you should suffer distress yourself, who had so frequently
relieved it in others.”
“God bless you, my friend,” replied the priest; “for I will call you
so. I wish every man possessed of wealth was guided by your principles.
Freney the Robber has a new saddle and bridle, anyhow; and I came up to
town to pay old Anthony Corbet a sum I borrowed from him the last time I
was here?”
“Oh, have you seen that cautious and disagreeable old man? We could make
nothing of him, although I feel quite certain that he knows everything
connected with the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's son.”
“I have no doubt of it myself,” replied the priest; “and I now find,
that what neither religion, nor justice, nor humanity could influence
him to do, superstition is likely to effect. He has had a drame, he
says, in which his son James that was in Lady Gourlay's service has
appeared to him, and threatens that unless he renders her justice, he
has but a poor chance in the other world.”
“That is not at all unnatural,” said the stranger; “the man, though
utterly without religion, was nevertheless both hesitating and timid;
precisely the character to do a just act from a wrong motive.”
“Be that as it may,” continued the priest, “I have a message from him to
you.”
“To me!” replied the other. “I am much obliged to him, but it is now
too late. We have ascertained where Lady Gourlay's son is, without any
assistance from him; and in the course of this very day we shall furnish
ourselves with proper authority for claiming and producing him.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” said the priest. “God be praised that the
heart of that charitable and Christian woman will be relieved at last,
and made happy; but still I say, see old Anthony. He is as deep as a
draw-well, and as close as an oyster. See him, sir. Take my advice, now
that the drame has frightened him, and call upon the old sinner. He may
serve you in more ways than you know.”
“Well, as you advise me to do so, I shall; but I do not relish the old
fellow at all.”
“Nobody does, nor ever did. He and all his family lived as if every one
of them carried a little world of their own within them. Maybe they do;
and God forgive me for saying it, but I don't think if its secrets were
known, that it would be found a very pleasant world. May the Lord change
them, and turn their hearts!”
After some further chat, the priest took his departure, but promised to
see his friend from time to time, before he should leave town.
The stranger felt that the priest's advice to see old Corbet again was
a good one. The interview could do no harm, and might be productive
of some good, provided he could be prevailed on to speak out. He
accordingly directed his steps once more to Constitution Hill, where he
found the old man at his usual post behind the counter.
“Well, Corbet,” said he, “alive still?”
“Alive still, sir,” he replied; “but can't be so always; the best of us
must go.”
“Very true, Corbet, if we could think of it as we ought; but, somehow,
it happens that most people live in this world as if they were never to
die.”
“That's too true, sir--unfortunately too true, God help us!”
“Corbet,” proceeded the stranger, “nothing can convince me that you
don't know something about--”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the old man; “we had betther go into the
next room. Here, Polly,” he shouted to his wife, who was inside, “will
you come and stand the shop awhile?”
“To be sure I will,” replied the old woman, making her appearance. “How
do you do, sir,” she added, addressing the stranger; “I am glad to see
you looking so well.”
“Thank you, madam,” replied the stranger: “I can return the compliment,
as they say.”
“Keep the shop, Polly,” said the old man sharply, “and don't make the
same mistake you made awhile ago--give away a stone o' meal for half a
stone. No wondher for us to be poor at sich a rate of doin' things as
that. Walk in, if you plaise, sir.”
They accordingly entered the room, and the stranger, after they had
taken seats, resumed,
“I was going to say, Corbet, that nothing can convince me that you don't
know more about the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's heir than you are
disposed to acknowledge.”
The hard, severe, disagreeable expression returned once more to his
features, as he replied,
“Troth, sir, it appears you will believe so, whether or not. But now,
sir, in case I did, what would you say? I'm talkin' for supposition's
sake, mind. Wouldn't a man desarve something that could give you
information on the subject?”
“This avaricious old man,” thought the stranger, pausing as if to
consider the proposition, “was holding us out all along, in order to
make the most of his information. The information, however, is already
in our possession, and he comes too late. So far I am gratified that we
are in a position to punish him by disappointing his avarice.”
“We would, Corbet, if the information were necessary, but at present it
is not; we don't require it.”
Corbet started, and his keen old eyes gleamed with an expression between
terror and incredulity.
“Why,” said he, “you don't require it! Are you sure of that?”
“Perfectly so. Some time ago we would have rewarded you liberally, had
you made any available disclosure to us; but now it is too late. The
information we had been seeking for so anxiously, accidentally came to
us from another quarter. You see now, Corbet, how you have overshot the
mark, and punished yourself. Had you been influenced by a principle of
common justice, you would have been entitled to expect and receive a
most ample compensation; a compensation beyond your hopes, probably
beyond your very wishes, and certainly beyond your wants. As matters
stand, however, I tell you now that I would not give you sixpence for
any information you could communicate.”
Anthony gave him a derisive look, and pursed up his thin miser-like lips
into a grin of most sinister triumph.
“Wouldn't you, indeed?” said he. “Are you quite sure of what you say?”
“Quite certain of it.”
“Well, now, how positive some people is. You have found him out, then?”
he asked, with a shrewd look. “You have found him, and you don't require
any information from me.”
“Whether we have found him or not,” replied the other, “is a question
which I will not answer; but that we require no information from you, is
fact. While it was a marketable commodity, you refused to dispose of it;
but, now, we have got the supply elsewhere.”
“Well, sir,” said Anthony, “all I can say is, that I'm very glad to hear
it; and it's no harm, surely, to wish you joy of it.”
The same mocking sneer which accompanied this observation was perfectly
vexatious; it seemed to say, “So you think, but you may be mistaken,
Take care that I haven't you in my power still.”
“Why do you look in that disagreeable way, Corbet? I never saw a man
whose face can express one thing, and his words another, so effectually
as yours, when you wish.”
“You mane to say, sir,” he returned, with a true sardonic smile, “that
my face isn't an obedient face; but sure I can't help that. This is the
face that God has given me, and I must be content with it, such as it
is.”
“I was told this morning by Father M'Mahon,” replied the other, anxious
to get rid of him as soon as he could, “that you had expressed a wish to
see me.”
“I believe I did say something to that effect; but then it appears you
know everything yourself, and don't want my assistance.”
“Any assistance we may at a future time require at your hands we shall
be able to extort from you through the laws of the land and of justice;
and if it appears that you have been an accomplice or agent in such a
deep and diabolical crime, neither power, nor wealth, nor cunning, shall
be able to protect you from the utmost rigor of the law. You had neither
mercy nor compassion on the widow or her child; and the probability is,
that, old as you are, you will be made to taste the deepest disgrace,
and the heaviest punishment that can be annexed to the crime you have
committed.”
A singular change came over the features of the old man. Paleness in
age, especially when conscience bears its secret but powerful testimony
against the individual thus charged home as Corbet was, sometimes
gives an awful, almost an appalling expression to the countenance. The
stranger, who knew that the man he addressed, though cunning, evasive,
and unscrupulous, was, nevertheless, hesitating and timid, saw by his
looks that he had produced an unusual impression; and he resolved to
follow it up, rather to gratify the momentary amusement which he felt at
his alarm, than from any other motive. In fact, the appearance of Corbet
was extraordinary. A death-like color, which his advanced state of life
renders it impossible to describe, took possession of him; his eyes lost
the bitter expression so peculiar to them--his firm thin lips relaxed
and spread, and the corners of his mouth dropped so lugubriously, that
the stranger, although he felt that the example of cowering guilt then
before him was a solemn one, could scarcely refrain from smiling at what
he witnessed.
“How far now do you think, sir,” asked Corbet, “could punishment in such
a case go? Mind, I'm putting myself out of the question; I'm safe, any
how, and that's one comfort.”
“For a reply to that question,” returned the other, “you will have to go
to the judge and the hangman. There was a time when you might have asked
it, and answered it too, with safety to yourself; but now that time has
gone by, and I fear very much that your day of grace is past.”
“That's very like what James tould me in my dhrame,” said the old man,
in a soliloquy, dictated by his alarm. “Well, sir,” he replied, “maybe,
afther all--but didn't you say awhile ago that you wouldn't give
sixpence for any information I could furnish you with?”
“I did, and I do.”
A gleam of his former character returned to his eye, as, gathering up
his lips again, 'he said, “I could soon show you to the contrary.”
“Yes; but you will not do so. I see clearly that you are infatuated.
It appears to me that there is an evil fate hanging over you, like some
hungry raven, following and watching the motions of a sick old horse
that is reduced to skin and bone. You're doomed, I think.”
“Well, now,” replied Anthony, the corners of whose mouth dropped again
at this startling and not inappropriate comparison, “to show how much
you are mistaken, let me ask how your business with Lord Cullamore
gets on? I believe there's a screw loose there?--eh? I mean on your
side--eh?”
It wasn't in his nature to restrain the sinister expression which a
consciousness of his advantage over the stranger caused him to feel in
his turn. The grin, besides, which he gave him, after he had thrown out
these hints, had something of reprisal in it; and, to tell the truth,
the stranger's face now became as blank and lugubrious as Anthony's had
been before.
“If I don't mistake,” he continued--for the other was too much
astonished to reply, “if I don't mistake, there's a couple o' bits of
paper that would stand your friend, if you could lay your claws upon
them.”
“Whether they could, or could not, is no affair of yours, my good sir,”
replied the stranger, rising and getting his hat; “and whether I have
changed my mind on the subject you hint at is a matter known only to
myself. I wish you good-day.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Anthony, probably satisfied with the fact of
his having turned the tables and had his revenge on the stranger; “I beg
your pardon, sir. Let us part friends, at all events. Set in case now--”
“I will listen to none of those half sentences. You cannot possibly
speak out, I see; in fact, you are tongue-tied by the cord of your evil
fate. Upon no subject can you speak until it is too late.”
“God direct me now!” exclaimed Corbet to himself. “I think the time is
come; for, unless I relieve my conscience before I'm called--James
he tould me the other night--Well, sir,” he proceeded, “listen. If I
befriend you, will you promise to stand my friend, if I should get into
any difficulty?”
“I will enter into no compromise of the kind with you,” said the other.
“If you are about to do an act of justice, you ought to do it without
conditions; and if you possess any document that is of value to another,
and of none to yourself, and yet will not restore it to the proper
owner, you are grossly dishonest, and capable of all that will soon,
I trust, be established against you and your employers. Good-by, Mr.
Corbet.”
“Aisy, sir, aisy,” said the tenacious and vacillating old knave. “Aisy,
I say. You will be generous, at any rate; for you know their value.
How much will you give me for the papers I spake of--that is, in case I
could get them for you?”
“Not sixpence. A friend has just returned from France, who--no,” thought
he, “I will not state a falsehood--Good-day, Mr. Corbet; I am wasting my
time.”
“One minute, sir--one minute. It may be worth your while.”
“Yes; but you trifle with me by these reluctant and penurious
communications.”
Anthony had laid down his head upon his hands, whose backs were
supported by the table; and in this position, as' if he were working
himself into an act of virtue sufficient for a last effort, he remained
until the stranger began to wonder what he meant. At length he arose,
went up stairs as on a former occasion, but with less--and not much
less--hesitation and delay; he returned and handed him the identical
documents of which M'Bride had deprived him. “Now,” said he, “listen to
me. You know the value of these; but that isn't what I want to spake to
you about.--Whatever you do about the widow's son, don't do it without
lettin' me know, and consultin' me--ay, and bein' guided by me; for
although you all think yourselves right, you may find, yourselves in the
wrong box still. Think of this now, and it will be better for you. I'm
not sure, but I'll open all your eyes yet, and that before long; for
I believe the time has come at last. Now that I've given you these
papers,” (extracted, by the way, from M'Bride's pockets during his
drunkenness, by Ginty Cooper, on the night she dogged him,) “you must
promise me one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I suppose you know where this boy is? Now, when you're goin' to find
him, will you bring me with you?”
“Why so?”
“It'll plaise an ould man, at any rate; but there may be other raisons.
Will, you do this?”
The stranger, concluding that the wisest tiring was to give him his way,
promised accordingly, and. the old man seemed somewhat satisfied.
“One man, at all events, I'll punish, if I should sacrifice every child
I have in doin' so; and it is in order that he may be punished to the
heart--to the marrow--to the soul within him--that I got these papers,
and gave them to you.”
“Corbet,” said the stranger, “be the cause of your revenge what it may,
its principle in your heart is awful. You are, in fact, a dreadful old
man. May I ask how you came by these papers?”
“You may,” he replied; “but I won't answer you. At a future time it is
likely I will--but not now. It's enough for you to have them.”
On his way home the stranger called at Birney's office, where he
produced the documents; and it was arranged that the latter gentleman
should wait upon Lord Cullamore the next day, in order to lay before him
the proofs on which they were about to proceed; for, as they were now
complete, they thought it more respectful to that venerable old nobleman
to appeal privately to his own good sense, whether it would not be
more for the honor of his family to give him an opportunity of yielding
quietly, and without public scandal, than to drag the matter before the
world in a court of justice. It was so arranged; and a suitable
warrant having been procured to enable them to produce the body of the
unfortunate Fenton, the proceedings of that day closed very much to
their satisfaction.
The next day, between two and three o'clock, a visitor, on particular
business, was announced to Lord Cullamore; and on being desired to walk
up, our friend Birney made his bow to his lordship. Having been desired
to take a seat, he sat down, and his lordship, who appeared to be very
feeble, looked inquiringly at him, intimating thereby that he waited to
know the object of his visit.
“My lord,” said the attorney, “in the whole course of my professional
life, a duty so painful as this has never devolved upon me. I come
supported with proofs sufficient to satisfy you that your title and
property cannot descend to your son, Lord Dunroe.”
“I have no other son, sir,” said his lordship, reprovingly.
“I do not mean to insinuate that you have, my lord. I only assert that
he who is supposed to be the present heir, is not really so at all.”
“Upon what proofs, sir, do you ground that assertion?”
“Upon proofs, my lord, the most valid and irrefragable; proofs that
cannot be questioned, even for a moment; and, least of all, by your
lordship, who are best acquainted with their force and authenticity.”
“Have you got them about you?”
“I have got copies of the documentary proofs, my lord, and I shall now
place them before you.”
“Yes; have the goodness to let me see them.”
Birney immediately handed him the documents, and mentioned the facts
of which they were the proofs. In fact, only one of them was absolutely
necessary, and that was simply the record of a death duly and regularly
attested.
The old man seemed struck with dismay; for, until this moment he had not
been clearly in possession of the facts which were now brought against
him, as they were stated, and made plain as to their results, by Mr.
Birney.
“I do not know much of law,” he said, “but enough, I think, to satisfy
me, that unless you have other and stronger proofs than this, you cannot
succeed in disinheriting my son. I have seen the originals of those
before, but I had forgotten some facts and dates connected with them at
the time.”
“We have the collateral proof you speak of, my lord, and can produce
personal evidence to corroborate those which I have shown you.”
“May I ask who that evidence is?”
“A Mrs. Mainwaring, my lord--formerly Norton--who had been maid to your
first wife while she resided privately in Prance--was a witness to her
death, and had it duly registered.”
“But even granting this, I think you will be called on to prove the
intention on my part: that which a man does in ignorance cannot, and
ought not to be called a violation of the law.”
“But the law in this case will deal only with facts, my lord; and your
lordship must now see and feel that we are in a capacity to prove
them. And before I proceed further, my lord, I beg to say, that I
am instructed to appeal to your lordship's good sense, and to that
consideration for the feelings of your family, by which, I trust, you
will be influenced, whether, satisfied as you must be of your position,
it would not be more judicious on your own part to concede our just
rights, seeing, as you clearly may, that they are incontrovertible, than
to force us to bring the matter before the public; a circumstance which,
so far as you are yourself concerned, must be inexpressibly painful,
and as regards other members of your family, perfectly deplorable and
distressing. We wish, my lord, to spare the innocent as much as we can.”
“I am innocent, sir; your proofs only establish an act done by me in
ignorance.”
“We grant that, my lord, at once, and without for a moment charging you
with any dishonorable motive; but what we insist on--can prove--and your
lordship cannot deny--is, that the act you speak of was done, and
done at a certain period. I do beseech you, my lord, to think well
and seriously of my proposal, for it is made in a kind and respectful
spirit.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied his lordship, “and those who instructed you
to regard my feelings; but this you must admit is a case of too much
importance, in which interests of too much consequence are involved, for
me to act in it without the advice and opinion of my lawyers.”
“You are perfectly right, my lord; I expected no less; and if your
lordship will refer me to them, I shall have no hesitation in laying
the grounds of our proceedings before them, and the proofs by which they
will be sustained.”
This was assented to on the part of Lord Cullamore, and it is only
necessary to say, that, in a few days subsequently, his lawyers, upon
sifting and thoroughly examining everything that came before them,
gave it as their opinion--and both were men of the very highest
standing--that his lordship had no defence whatsoever, and that his
wisest plan was to yield without allowing the matter to go to a public
trial, the details of which must so deeply affect the honor of his
children.
This communication, signed in the form of a regular opinion by both
these eminent gentlemen, was received by his lordship on the fourth day
after Birney's visit to him on the subject.
About a quarter of an hour after he had perused it, his lordship's bell
rang, and Morty O'Flaherty, his man, entered.
“Morty,” said his lordship, “desire Lord Dunroe to come to me; I wish to
speak with him. Is he within?”
“He has just come in, my lord. Yes, my lord, I'll send him up.”
His lordship tapped the arms of his easy chair with the lingers of both
hands, and looked unconsciously upon his servant, with a face full of
the deepest sorrow and anguish.
The look was not lost upon Morty, who said, as he went down stairs,
“There's something beyond the common on my lord's mind this day. He was
bad enough before; but now he looks like a man that has got the very
heart within him broken.”
He met Dunroe in the hall, and delivered his message, but added,
“I think his lordship has had disagreeable tidin's of some kind to-day,
my lord. I never saw him look so ill. To tell you the truth, my lord, I
think he has death in his face.”
“Well, Morty,” replied his lordship, adjusting his collar, “you know we
must all die. I cannot guess what unpleasant tidings he may have heard
to-day; but I know that I have heard little else from him this many a
day. Tell Mr. Norton to see about the bills I gave him, and have them
cashed as soon as possible. If not, curse me, I'll shy a decanter at his
head after dinner.”
He then went rather reluctantly up stairs, and presented himself, in no
very amiable temper, to his father.
Having taken a seat, he looked at the old man, and found his eyes fixed
upon him with an expression of reproof, and at the same time the most
profound affliction.
“Dunroe,” said the earl, “you did not call to inquire after me for the
last two or three days.”
“I did not call, my lord, certainly; but, nevertheless, I inquired. The
fact is, I feel disinclined to be lectured at such a rate every time
I come to see you. As for Norton, I have already told you, with
every respect for your opinion and authority, that you have taken an
unfounded prejudice against him, and that I neither can nor will get
rid of him, as you call it. You surely would not expect me to act
dishonorably, my lord.”
“I did not send for you now to speak about him, John. I have a much more
serious, and a much more distressing communication to make to you.”
The son opened his eyes, and stared at him.
“It may easily be so, my lord; but what is it?”
“Unfortunate young man, it is this--You are cut off from the inheritance
of my property and title.”
“Sickness, my lord, and peevishness, have impaired your intellects, I
think. What kind of language is this to hold to me, your son and heir?”
“My son, John, but not my heir.”
“Don't you know, my lord, that what you say is impossible. If I am your
son, I am, of course, your heir.”
“No, John, for the simplest reason in the world. At present you must
rest contented with the fact which I announce to you--for fact it is. I
have not now strength enough to detail it; but I shall when I feel that
I am equal to it. Indeed, I knew it not myself, with perfect certainty,
until to-day. Some vague suspicion I had of late, but the proofs that
were laid before me, and laid before me in a generous and forbearing
spirit, have now satisfied me that you have no claim, as I said, to
either title or property.”
“Why, as I've life, my lord, this is mere dotage. A foul conspiracy
has been got up, and you yield to it without a struggle. Do you think,
whatever you may do, that I will bear this tamely? I am aware that a
conspiracy has been getting up, and I also have had my suspicions.”
“It is out of my power, John, to secure you the inheritance.”
“This is stark folly, my lord--confounded nonsense--if you will pardon
me. Out of your power! Made silly and weak in mind by illness, your
opinion is not now worth much upon any subject. It is not your fault, I
admit; but, upon my soul, I really have serious doubts whether you are
in a sufficiently sane state of mind to manage your own affairs.”
“Undutiful young man,” replied his father, with bitterness, “if that
were a test of insanity, you yourself ought to have been this many a day
in a strait waistcoat. I know it is natural that you should feel this
blow deeply; but it is neither natural nor dutiful that you should
address your parent in such unpardonable language.”
“If what that parent says be true, my lord, he has himself, by his past
vices, disinherited his son.”
“No, sir,” replied the old man, whilst a languid flush of indignation
was visible on his face, “he has not done so by his vices; but you,
sir, have morally disinherited yourself by your vices, by your general
profligacy, by your indefensible extravagance, and by your egregious
folly, A man placed in the position which you would have occupied, ought
to be a light and an example to society, and. not what you have been, a
reproach to your family, and a disgrace to your class. The virtues of
a man of rank should be in proportion to his station; but you have
distinguished yourself only by holding up to the world the debasing
example of a dishonorable and licentious life. What virtue can you plead
to establish a just claim to a position which demands a mind capable of
understanding the weighty responsibilities that are annexed to it, and
a heart possessed of such enlightened principles as may enable him to
discharge them in a spirit that will constitute him, what he ought to
be, a high example and a generous benefactor to his kind? Not one:
but if selfishness, contempt for all the moral obligations of life, a
licentious spirit that mocks at religion and looks upon human virtue
as an unreality and a jest--if these were to give you a claim to
the possession of rank and property, I know of no one more admirably
qualified to enjoy them. Dunroe, I am not now far from the grave; but
listen, and pay attention to my voice, for it is a warning voice.”
“It was always so,” replied his son, with sulky indignation; “it was
never anything else; a mere passing bell that uttered nothing but
advices, lectures, coffins, and cross-bones.”
“It uttered only truth then, Dunroe, as you feel now to your cost.
Change your immoral habits. I will not bid you repent; because you would
only sneer at the word; but do endeavor to feel regret for the kind of
life you have led, and give up your evil propensities; cease to be a
heartless spendthrift; remember that you are a man: remember that you
have important duties to perform; believe that there are such things as
religion, and virtue, and honor in the world; believe that there is a
God a wise Providence, who governs that world upon principles of eternal
truth and justice, and to whom you must account, in another life, for
your conduct in this.”
“Well, really, my lord,” replied Dunroe, “as it appears that the lecture
is all you have to bestow upon me, I am quite willing that you should
disinherit me of that also. I waive every claim to it. But so do I not
to my just rights. We shall see what a court of law can do.”
“You may try it, and entail disgrace upon yourself and your sister. As
for my child, it will break her heart. My God! my child! my child!”
“Not, certainly, my lord, if we should succeed.”
“All hopes of success are out of the question,” replied his father.
“No such thing, my lord. Your mind, as I said, is enfeebled by
illness, and you yield too easily. Such conduct on your part is really
ridiculous. We shall have a tug for it, I am determined.”
“Here,” said his father, “cast your eye over these papers, and they
will enable you to understand, not merely the grounds upon which our
opponents proceed, but the utter hopelessness of contesting the matter
with them.”
Dunroe took the papers, but before looking at them replied, with a great
deal of confidence, “you are quite mistaken there, my lord, with every
respect. They are not in a position to prove their allegations.”
“How so?” said his father.
“For the best reason in the world, my lord. We have had their proofs in
our possession and destroyed them.”
“I don't understand you.”
“The fellow, M'Bride, of whom I think your lordship knows something,
had their documents in his possession.”
“I am aware of that.”
“Well, my lord, while in a drunken fit, he either lost them, or some one
took them out of his pocket. I certainly would have purchased them from
him.”
“Did you know how he came by them?” asked his father, with a look of
reproof and anger.
“That, my lord, was no consideration of mine. As it was, however, he
certainty lost them; but we learned from him that Birney, the attorney,
was about to proceed to France, in order to get fresh attested copies;
upon which, as he knew the party there in whose hands the registry
was kept, Norton and he started a day or two in advance of him, and on
arriving there, they found, much to our advantage, that the register was
dead. M'Bride, however, who is an adroit fellow, and was well acquainted
with his house and premises, contrived to secure the book in which the
original record was made--which book he has burned--so that, in point of
fact, they have no legal proofs on which to proceed.”
“Dishonorable man!” said his father, rising up in a state of the deepest
emotion. “You have made me weary of life; you have broken my heart: and
so you would stoop to defend yourself, or your lights, by a crime--by a
crime so low, fraudulent, and base--that here, in the privacy of my own
chamber, and standing face to face with you, I am absolutely ashamed to
call you my son. Know, sir, that if it were a dukedom, I should scorn to
contest it, or to retain it, at the expense of my honor.”
“That's all very fine talk, my lord; but, upon my soul, wherever I can
get an advantage, I'll take it. I see little of the honor or virtue
you speak of going, and, I do assure you, I won't be considered at all
remarkable for acting up to my own principles. On the contrary, it is by
following yours that I should be so.”
“I think,” said the old man, “that I see the hand of God in this.
Unfortunate, obstinate, and irreclaimable young man, it remains for me
to tell you that the very documents, which you say have been lost by the
villain M'Bride, with whom, in his villainy, you, the son of an earl,
did not hesitate to associate yourself, are now in the possession of
our opponents. Take those papers to your room,” he added, bursting into
tears: “take them away, I am unable to prolong this interview, for
it has been to me a source of deeper affliction than the loss of the
highest title or honor that the hand of royalty could bestow.”
When Dunroe was about to leave the room, the old man, who had again sat
down, said:
“Stop a moment. Of course it is unnecessary to say, I should hope, that
this union between you and Miss Gourlay cannot proceed.”
Dunroe, who felt at once that if he allowed his father to suppose that
he persisted in it, the latter would immediately disclose his position
to the baronet, now replied:
“No, my lord, I have no great ambition for any kind of alliance with Sir
Thomas Gourlay. I never liked him personally, and I am sufficiently
a man of spirit, I trust, not to urge a marriage with a girl
who--who--cannot appreciate--” He paused, not knowing exactly how to
fill up the sentence.
“Who has no relish for it,” added his father, “and can't appreciate your
virtues, you mean to say.”
“What I mean to say, my lord, is, that where there is no great share
of affection on either side, there can be but little prospect of
happiness.”
“Then you give up the match?”
“I give up the match, my lord, without a moment's hesitation. You may
rest assured of that.”
“Because,” added his father, “if I found that you persisted in it, and
attempted to enter the family, and impose yourself on this admirable
girl, as that which you are not, I would consider it my duty to acquaint
Sir Thomas Gourlay with the unfortunate discovery which has been made.
Before you go I will thank you to read that letter for me. It comes,
I think, from the Lord Chancellor. My sight is very feeble to-day, and
perhaps it may require a speedy answer.”
Dunroe opened the letter, which informed Lord Cullamore, that it
had afforded him, the Lord Chancellor, much satisfaction to promote
Periwinkle Crackenfudge, Esq., to the magistracy of the county of
------, understanding, as he did, from the communication “of Sir Thomas
Gourlay, enclosed in his lordship's letter, that he (Crackenfudge)
was, by his many virtues, good sense, discretion, humanity, and general
esteem among all classes, as well as by his popularity in the country, a
person in every way fitted to discharge the important duties of such an
appointment.
“I feel my mind at ease,” said the amiable old nobleman, “in aiding such
an admirable country gentleman as this Crackenfudge must be, to a seat
on the bench; for, after all, Dunroe, it is only by the contemplation of
a good action that we can be happy. You may go.”
Some few days passed, when Dunroe, having read the papers, the contents
of which he did not wish Norton to see, returned them to his father
in sullen silence, and then rang his bell, and sent for his worthy
associate, that he might avail himself of his better judgment.
“Norton,” said he, “it is all up with us.”
“How is that, my lord?”
“Those papers, that M'Bride says he lost, are in the hands of our
enemies.”
“Don't believe it, my lord.' I saw the fellow yesterday, and he told me
that he destroyed them in a drunken fit, for which he says he is ready
to cut his throat.”
“But I have read the opinion of my father's counsel,” replied his
lordship, “and they say we have no defence. Now you know what a lawyer
is: if there were but a hair-breadth chance, they would never make an
admission that might keep a good fat case from getting into their hands.
No; it is all up with us. The confounded old fool above had everything
laid before them, and such is the upshot. What is to be done?”
“Marriage, without loss of time--marriage, before your disaster reaches
the ears of the Black Baronet.”
“Yes, but there is a difficulty. If the venerable old nobleman should
hear of it, he'd let the cat out of the bag, and leave me in the
lurch, in addition to the penalty of a three hours' lecture upon honor.
Everything, however, is admirably arranged _quoad_ the marriage. We have
got a special license for the purpose of meeting our peculiar case, so
that the marriage can be private; that is to say, can take place in
the lady's own house. Do you think though, that M'Bride has actually
destroyed the papers?”
“The drunken ruffian! certainly. He gave me great insolence a couple of
days ago.”
“Why so?”
“Because I didn't hand him over a hundred pounds for his journey and the
theft of the registry.”
“And how much did you give him, pray?”
“A fifty pound note, after having paid his expenses, which was quite
enough for him. However, as I did not wish to make the scoundrel our
enemy, I have promised him something more, so that I've come on good
terms with him again. He is a slippery customer.”
“Did you get the bills cashed yet?”
“No, my lord; I am going about it now; but I tell you beforehand, that I
will have some difficulty in doing it. I hope to manage it, however; and
for that reason I must bid you good-by.”
“The first thing to do, then, is to settle that ugly business about the
mare. By no means must we let it come to trial.”
“Very well, my lord, be it so.”
Norton, after leaving his dupe to meditate upon the circumstances in
which he found himself, began to reflect as he went along, that he
himself was necessarily involved in the ruin of his friend and patron.
“I have the cards, however, in my own hands,” thought he, “and M'Bride's
advice was a good one. He having destroyed the other documents, it
follows that this registry, which I have safe and snug, will be just
what his lordship's enemies will leap at. Of course they are humbugging
the old peer about the other papers, and, as I know, it is devilish easy
to humbug the young one. My agency is gone to the winds; but I think
the registry will stand me instead. It ought, in a case like this, to be
well worth five thousand; at least, I shall ask this sum--not saying but
I will take less. Here goes then for an interview with Birney, who has
the character of being a shrewd fellow--honorable, they say--but then,
is he not an attorney? Yes, Birney, have at you, my boy;” and having come
to this virtuous conclusion, he directed his steps to that gentleman's
office, whom he found engaged at his desk.
“Mr. Birney, I presume,” with a very fashionable bow.
“Yes, sir,” said Birney, “that is my name.”
“Haw! If I don't mistake, Mr. Birney,” with a very English accent, which
no one could adopt, when he pleased, with more success than our
Kerry boy--“if I don't mistake, we both made a journey to France very
recently?”
“That may be, sir,” replied Birney, “but I am not aware of it.”
“But I am, though,” tipping Birney the London cockney.
“Well, sir,” said Birney, very coolly, “and what follows from that?”
“Why haw--haw--I don't exactly know at present; but I think a good
dee-al may follow from it.”
“As how, sir?”
“I believe you were over there on matters connected with Lord
Cullamore's family--haw?”
“Sir,” replied Birney, “you are a perfect stranger to me--I haven't the
honor of knowing you. If you are coming to me on anything connected with
my professional services, I will thank you to state it.”
“Haw!--My name is Norton, a friend of Lord Dunroe's.”
“Well, Mr. Norton, if you will have the goodness to mention the business
which causes me the honor of your visit, I will thank you; but I beg to
assure you, that I am not a man to be pumped either by Lord Dunroe or
any of his friends. You compel me to speak very plainly, sir.”
“Haw! Very good--very good indeed! but the truth his, I've given
Dunroe hup.”
“Well, sir, and how is that my affair? What interest can I feel in your
quarrels? Personally I know very little of Lord Dunroe, and of you, sir,
nothing.”
“Haw! but everything 'as a beginning, Mr. Birney.”
“At this rate of going, I fear we shall be a long time ending, Mr.
Norton.”
“Well,” replied Norton, “I believe you are right; the sooner we
understand each other, the better.”
“Certainly, sir,” replied Birney; “I think so, if you have any business
of importance with me.”
“Well, I rayther think you will find it important--that is, to your own
interests. You are an attorney, Mr. Birney, and I think you will admit
that every man in this world, as it goes, ought to look to 'is own
interests.”
Birney looked at him, and said, very gravely, “Pray, sir, what is your
business with me? My time, sir, is valuable. My time is money--a portion
of my landed property, sir.”
“Haw! Very good; but you Hirish are so fiery and impatient! However, I
will come to the point. You are about to joust that young scamp, by the
way, out of the title and property. I say so, because I am up to the
thing. Yet you want dockiments to establish your case--haw?”
“Well, sir, and suppose we do; you, I presume, as the friend of Lord
Dunroe, are not coming to furnish us with them?”
“That is, Mr. Birney, as we shall understand one another. You failed in
your mission to France?”
“I shall hear any proposal, sir, you have to make, but will answer no
questions on the subject until I understand your motive for putting
them.”
“Good--very cool and cautious--but suppose, now, that I, who know you
'ave failed in procuring the dockiments in question, could supply you
with them--haw!--do you understand me now?”
“Less than ever, sir, I assure you. Observe that you introduced yourself
to me as the friend of Lord Dunroe.”
“Merely to connect myself with the proceedings between you. I 'ave or
am about to discard him, but I shaunt go about the bush no longer. I'm
a native of Lon'on, w'at is tarmed a cockney--haw, haw!--and he 'as
treated me ill--very ill--and I am detarmined to retaliate.”
“How, sir, are you determined to retaliate?”
“The truth is, sir, I've got the dockiments you stand in need of in my
possession, and can furnish you with them for a consideration.”
“Why, now you are intelligible. What do you want, Murray? I'm engaged.”
“To speak one word with you in the next room, sir. The gentleman wants
you to say yes or no, in a single line, upon Mr. Fairfield's business,
sir--besides, I've a private message.”
“Excuse me for a moment, sir,” said Birney; “there's this morning's
paper, if you haven't seen it.”
“Well, Bob,” said he, “what is it?”
“Beware of that fellow,” said he: “I know him well; his name is Bryan;
he was a horse jockey on the Curragh, and was obliged to fly the country
for dishonesty. Be on your guard, that is all I had to say to you.”
“Why, he says he is a Londoner, and he certainly has the accent,”
replied the other.
“Kerry, sir, to the backbone, and a disgrace to the country, for divil a
many rogues it produces, whatever else it may do.”
“Thank you, Murray,” said Birney; “I will be doubly guarded now.”
This occurred between Birney and one of his clerks, as a small interlude
in their conversation.
“Yes, sir,” resumed Birney, once more taking his place at the desk, “you
can now be understood.”
“Haw!--yes, I rayther fancy I can make myself so!” replied Norton.
“What, now, do you suppose the papers in question may be worth to your
friends?”
“You cannot expect me to reply to that question,” said Birney; “I am
acting professionally under the advice and instructions of others; but
I will tell you what I think you had better do--I can enter into no
negotiation on the subject without consulting those who have employed
me, and getting their consent--write down, then, on a sheet of paper,
what you propose to do for us, and the compensation which you expect to
receive for any documents you may supply us with that we may consider of
value, and I shall submit it for consideration.”
“May I not compromise myself by putting it on paper, though?”
“If you think so, then, don't do it; but, for my part, I shall have
no further concern in the matter. Verbal communications are of little
consequence in an affair of this kind. Reduce it to writing, and it can
be understood; it will, besides, prevent misconceptions in future.”
“I trust you are a man of honor?” said Norton.
“I make no pretensions to anything so high,” replied Birney; “but I
trust I am an honest man, and know how to act when I have an honest man
to deal with. If you wish to serve our cause, or, to be plain with you,
wish to turn the documents you speak of to the best advantage, make your
proposal in writing, as you ought to do, otherwise I must decline any
further negotiation on the subject.”
Norton saw and felt that there was nothing else for it. He accordingly
took pen and ink and wrote down his proposal--offering to place the
documents alluded to, which were mentioned by name, in the hands of Mr.
Birney, for the sum of five thousand pounds.”
“Now, sir,” said Birney, after looking over this treacherous
proposition, “you see yourself the advantage of putting matters down
in black and white. The production of this will save me both time and
trouble, and, besides, it can be understood at a glance. Thank you, sir.
Have the goodness to favor me with a call in a day or two, and we shall
see what can be done.”
“This,” said Norton, as he was about to go, “is a point of honor between
us.”
“Why, I think, at all events, it ought,” replied Bimey; “at least, so
far as I am concerned, it is not my intention to act dishonorably by any
honest man.”
“Haw--haw! Very well said, indeed; I 'ave a good opinion of your
discretion.
“Well, sir, I wish you good morneen; I shall call in a day or two, and
expect to 'ave a satisfactory answer.”
“What a scoundrel!” exclaimed Birney.
“Here's a fellow, now, who has been fleecing that unfortunate sheep of
a nobleman for the last four years, and now that he finds him at the
length of his tether, he is ready to betray and sacrifice him, like a
double-distilled rascal as he is. The villain thought I did not know
him, but he was mistaken--quite out in his calculations. He will find,
too, that he has brought his treachery to the wrong market.”