Having done all that was possible for poor Fenton, the stranger lost no
time in waiting upon Lady Gourlay, that he might, with as much prudence
as the uncertain state of the young man's health would permit, make
known the long wished for communication, that they had at length got
him in their possession. His task was one of great difficulty, for he
apprehended that an excess of joy on the part of that affectionate woman
might be dangerous, when suddenly checked by the melancholy probability
that he had been restored to her only to be almost immediately removed
by death. He resolved, then, to temper his intelligence in such a way as
to cause her own admirable sense and high Christian feeling to exercise
their usual influence over her heart. As he had promised Corbet,
however, to take no future step in connection with these matters without
consulting him, he resolved, before seeing Lady Gourlay, to pay him
a visit. He was induced the more to do this in consequence of the old
man's singular conduct on the discovery of Fenton. From the very first
interview that he ever had with Corbet until that event, he could
not avoid observing that there was a mystery in everything he did and
said--something enigmatical--unfathomable, and that his looks, and the
disagreeable expression which they occasionally assumed, were frequently
so much at variance with his words, that it was an utter impossibility
to draw anything like a certain inference from them. On the discovery
of Fenton, the old man's face went through a variety of contradictory
expressions. Sometimes he seemed elated--triumphant, sometimes depressed
and anxious, and occasionally angry, or excited by a feeling that was
altogether unintelligible. He often turned his eye upon Fenton, as if
he had discovered some precious treasure, then his countenance became
overcast, and he writhed in an agony which no mortal penetration could
determine as anything but the result of remorse. Taking all this into
consideration, the stranger made up his mind to see him before he should
wait upon Lady Gourlay.
Although a day had elapsed, he found the old man still complaining of
illness, which, he said, would have been more serious had he not taken
medicine.
“My mind, however,” said he, “is what's troublin' me. There's a battle
goin' on within me. At one time I'm delighted, but the delight doesn't
give me pleasure long, for then, again, I feel a weight over me that's
worse than death. However, I can't nor won't give it up. I hope I'll
have time to repent yet; who knows but it is God that has put it into my
heart and kept it there for so many years?”
“Kept what there?” asked the stranger.
The old man's face literally blackened as he replied, almost with a
scream, “Vengeance!”
“This language,” replied the other, “is absolutely shocking. Consider
your advanced state of life--consider your present illness, which may
probably be your last, and reflect that if you yourself expect pardon
from God, you must forgive your enemies.”
“So I will,” he replied; “but not till I've punished them; then I'll
tell them how I made my puppets of them, and when I give their heart
one last crush--one grind--and the old wretch ground his teeth in the
contemplation of this diabolical vision--ay,” he repeated--“one last
grind, then I'll tell them I've done with them, and forgive them;
then--then--ay, but not till then!”
“God forgive you, Corbet, and change your heart!” replied the stranger.
“I called to say that I am about to inform Lady Gourlay that we have
her son safe at last, and I wish to know if you are in possession of
any facts that she ought to be acquainted with in connection with his
removal--in fact, to hear anything you may wish to disclose to me on the
subject.”
“I could, then, disclose to you something on the subject that would make
you wondher; but although the time's at hand, it's not come yet. Here I
am, an ould man--helpless--or, at all events, helpless-lookin'--and you
would hardly believe that I'm makin' this black villain do everything
accordin' as I wish it.”
“That dark spirit of vengeance,” replied the stranger, “is turning your
brain, I think, or you would not say so. Whatever Sir Thomas Gourlay may
be, he is not the man to act as the puppet of any person.”
“So you think; but I tell you he's acting as mine, for all that.”
“Well, well, Corbet, that is your own affair. Have you anything of
importance to communicate to me, before I see Lady Gourlay? I ask you
for the last time.”
“I have. The black villain and she have spoken at last. He yielded to
his daughter so far as to call upon her, and asked her to be present at
the weddin'.”
“The wedding!” exclaimed the stranger, looking aghast. “God of heaven,
old man, do you mean to say that they are about to be married so
soon?--about to be married at all? But I will leave you,” he added;
“there is no possibility of wringing anything out of you.”
“Wait a little,” continued Corbet. “What I'm goin' to tell you won't do
you any harm, at any rate.”
“Be quick, then. Gracious heaven!--married!--Curses seize you, old man,
be quick.”
“On the mornin' afther to-morrow the marriage is to take place in Sir
Thomas's own house. Lord Dunroe's sisther is to be bridesmaid, and a
young fellow named Roberts--”
“I know--I have met him.”
“Well, and did you ever see any one that he resembled, or that resembled
him? I hope in the Almighty,” he added, uttering the ejaculation
evidently in connection with some private thought or purpose of his own,
“I hope in the Almighty that this sickness will keep off o' me for a
couple o' days at any rate. Did you ever see any one that resembled
him?”
“Yes,” replied the stranger, starting, for the thought had flashed upon
him; “he is the living image of Miss Gourlay! Why do you ask?”
“Bekaise, merely for a raison I have; but if you have patience, you'll
find that the longer you live, the more you'll know; only at this time
you'll know no more from me, barrin' that this same young officer is to
be his lordship's groom's-man. Dr. Sombre, the clergyman of the parish,
is to marry them in the baronet's house. A Mrs. Mainwaring, too, is to
be there; Miss Gourlay begged that she would be allowed to come, and he
says she may. You see now how well I know everything that happens there,
don't you?” he asked, with a grin of triumph. “But I tell you there
will be more at the same weddin' than he thinks. So now--ah, this
pain!--there's another string of it--I feel it go through me like
an arrow--so now you may go and see Lady Gourlay, and break the glad
tidin's to her.”
With feelings akin to awe and of repugnance, but not at all of
contempt--for old Corbet was a man whom no one could despise--the
stranger took his departure, and proceeded to Lady Gourlay's, with a
vague impression that the remarkable likeness between Lucy and young
Roberts was not merely accidental.
He found her at home, placid as usual, but with evidences of a
resignation that was at once melancholy and distressing to witness.
The struggle of this admirable woman's heart, though sustained by high
Christian feeling, was, nevertheless, wearing her away by slow and
painful degrees. The stranger saw this, and scarcely knew in what terms
to shape the communication he had to make, full as it was of ecstasy to
the mother's loving spirit, yet dashed with such doubt and sorrow.
“Can you bear good tidings, Lady Gourlay,” said he, “though mingled with
some cause of apprehension?”
“I am in the hands of God,” she replied, “and feel that I ought to
receive every communication with obedience. Speak on.”
“Your son is found!”
“What, my child restored to me?”
She had been sitting in an arm-chair, but on hearing these words she
started up, and said again, as she placed her hands upon the table at
which he sat, that she might sustain herself, “What, Charles, my darling
restored to me! Is he safe? Can I see him? Restored! restored at last!”
“Moderate your joy, my dear madam; he is safe--he is in my hotel.”
“But why not here? Safe! oh, at last--at last! But God is a God of
mercy, especially to the patient and long-suffering. But come--oh, come!
Think of me,--pity me, and do not defraud me one moment of his sight.
Bring me to him!”
“Hear me a moment, Lady Gourlay.”
“No, no,” she replied, in a passion of joyful tears, “I can hear you
again. I must see my son--my son--my darling child--where is my son?
Here--but no, I will ring myself. Why not have brought him here at once,
sir? Am not I his mother?”
“My dear madam,” said the stranger, calmly, but with a seriousness of
manner that checked the exuberance of her delight, and placing his hand
upon her shoulder, “hear me a moment. Your son is found; but he is ill,
and I fear in some danger.”
“But to see him, then,” she replied, looking with entreaty in his face,
“only to see him. After this long and dreary absence, to let my eyes
rest on my son. He is ill, you say; and what hand should be near him
and about him but his mother's? Who can with such love and tenderness
cherish, and soothe, and comfort him, as the mother who would die for
him? Oh, I have a thousand thoughts rushing to my heart--a thousand
affectionate anxieties to gratify; but first to look upon him--to press
him to that heart--to pour a mother's raptures over her long-lost child!
Come with me--oh, come. If he is ill, ought I not, as I said, to see
him the sooner on that account? Come, dear Charles, let the carriage
be ordered; but that will take some time. A hackney-coach will do--a
car--anything that will bring us there with least delay.”
“But, an interview, my lady, may be at this moment as much as his life
is worth; he is not out of danger.”
“Well, then, I will not ask an interview. Only let me see him--let his
mother's eyes rest upon him. Let me steal a look--a look; let me steal
but one look, and I am sure, dear Charles, you will not gainsay this
little theft of the mother's heart. But, ah,” she suddenly exclaimed,
“what am I doing? Ungrateful and selfish that I am, to forget my first
duty! Pardon me a few moments; I will return soon.”
She passed into the back drawing-room, where, although the doors were
folded, he could hear this truly pious woman pouring forth with tears
her gratitude to God. In a few minutes she reappeared; and such were
the arguments she used, that he felt it impossible to prevent her from
gratifying this natural and absorbing impulse of the heart.
On reaching the hotel, they found, after inquiring, that he was asleep,
a circumstance which greatly pleased the stranger, as he doubted very
much whether Fenton would have been strong enough, either in mind or
body, to bear such an interview as must have taken place between them.
The unhappy young man was, as we have said, sound asleep. His face was
pale and wan, but a febrile hue had tinged his countenance with a color
which, although it concealed his danger, was not sufficient to remove
from it the mournful expression of all he had suffered. Yet the stranger
thought that he never had seen him look so well. His face was indeed a
fair but melancholy page of human life. The brows were slightly knit,
as if indicative of suffering; and there passed over his features, as he
lay, such varying expressions as we may presume corresponded with some
painful dream, by which, as far as one could judge, he seemed to be
influenced. Sometimes he looked like one that endured pain, sometimes
as if he felt terror; and occasionally a gleam of pleasure or joy would
faintly light up his handsome but wasted countenance.
Lady Gourlay, whilst she looked upon him, was obliged to be supported
by the stranger, who had much difficulty in restraining her grief within
due bounds. As for the tears, they fell from her eyes in showers.
“I must really remove you, my lady,” he said, in a whisper; “his
recovery, his very life, may depend upon the soundness of this sleep.
You see yourself, now, the state he is in; and who living has such an
interest in his restoration to health as you have?”
“I know it,” she whispered in reply. “I will be quiet.”
As they spoke, a faint smile seemed to light up his face, which,
however, was soon changed to an expression of terror.
“Don't scourge me,” said he, “don't and I will tell you. It was my
mother. I thought she kissed me, as she used to do long ago, when I was
a boy, and never thought I'd be here.” He then uttered a few faint sobs,
but relapsed into a calm expression almost immediately.
The violent beatings of Lady Gourlay's heart were distinctly felt by the
stranger, as he supported her; and in order to prevent the sobs which
he knew, by the heavings of her breast, were about to burst forth, from
awakening the sleeper, he felt it best to lead her out of the room;
which he had no sooner done, than she gave way to a long fit of
uncontrollable weeping.
“Oh, my child!--my child!” she exclaimed, “I fear they have murdered him!
Alas! is he only to be restored to me for a moment, and am I then to be
childless indeed? But I will strive to become calm. Why should I
not? For even this is a blessing--to have seen him, and to have the
melancholy consolation of knowing that if he is to die, he will die in
my own arms.”
“Well, but I trust, madam, he won't die. The workings of Providence are
never ineffectual, or without a purpose. Have courage, have patience,
and all will, I trust, end happily.”
“Well, but I have a request to make. Allow me to kiss him; I shall not
disturb him; and if he should recover, as I trust in the Almighty's
mercy he will--oh, how I should like to tell him that the dream about
his mother was not altogether a dream--that I did kiss him. Trust me,
I will not awaken him--the fall of the thistledown will will not be
lighter than the kiss I shall give my child.”
“Well, be it so, my lady; and get yourself calm, for you know not his
danger, if he should awaken and become agitated.”
They then reentered the apartment, and Lady Gourlay, after contemplating
him for a moment or two, stooped down and gently kissed his
lips--once--twice--and a third time--and a single tear fell upon his
cheek. At this moment, and the coincidence was beautiful and affecting,
his face became once more irradiated by a smile that was singularly
serene and sweet, as if his very spirit within him had recognized and
felt the affection and tenderness of this timid but loving embrace.
The stranger then led her out again, and a burden seemed to have been
taken off her heart. She dried her tears, and in grateful and fervid
terms expressed the deep obligations she owed him for his generous and!
persevering exertions in seeking out and restoring her son.
This sleep was a long one; and proved very beneficial, by somewhat
recruiting the little strength that had been left him. The stranger had
every measure taken that could contribute to his comfort and recovery.
Two nurse tenders were procured, to whose care he was committed,
under the general superintendence of Dandy Dulcimer, whom he at once
recognized, and by whose performance upon that instrument the poor young
man seemed not only much-pleased, but improved in confidence and the
general powers of his intellect. The physician saw him twice a day, so
that at the period of Lady Gourlay's visit, she found that every care
and attention, which consideration and kindness, and anxiety for his
recovery could bestow upon him, had been paid; a fact that eased and
satisfied her mind very much.
One rather gratifying symptom appeared in him after he awoke on that
occasion. He looked about the room, and inquired for Dulcimer, who soon
made his appearance.
“Dandy,” said he, for he had known him very well in Ballytrain, “will
you be angry with me if I ask you a question? Dandy, I am a gentleman,
and you will not treat me ill.”
“I would be glad to see the villain that 'ud dare to do it, Mr. Fenton,”
replied Dandy, a good deal moved, “much less to do it myself.”
“Ah,” he replied in a tone of voice that was enough to draw tears from
any eye, “but, then, I can depend on no one; and if they should bring me
back there--” His eyes became wild and full of horror, as he spoke,
and he was about to betray symptoms of strong agitation, when Dandy
judiciously brought him back to the point.
“They won't, Mr. Fenton; don't be afeared of that; you are among friends
now; but what was the question you were goin' to ask me?”
“A question!--was I?” said he, pausing, as if striving to recover the
train of thought he had lost. “Oh, yes,” he proceeded, “yes; there was
a pound note taken from me. I got it from the strange gentleman in the
inn, and I wish I had it.”
“Well, sir,” replied Dandy, “if it can be got at all, you must have it.
I'll inquire for it.”
“Do,” he said; “I wish to have it.” Dandy, in reply to the stranger's
frequent and anxious inquiries about him, mentioned this little
dialogue, and the latter at once recollected that he had the note in his
possession.
“It may be good to gratify him,” he replied; “and as the note can be of
little use now, we had better let him have it.”
He accordingly sent it to him by Dandy, who could observe that the
possession of it seemed to give him peculiar satisfaction.
Had not the stranger been a man capable of maintaining great restraint
over the exercise of very strong feelings, he could never have conducted
himself with so much calmness and self-control in his interview with
Lady Gourlay and poor Fenton. His own heart during all the time was in
a tumult of perfect distraction, but this was occasioned by causes that
bore no analogy to those that passed before him. From the moment he
heard that Lucy's marriage had been fixed for the next day but one, he
felt as if his hold upon hope and life, and all that they promised him,
was lost, and his happiness annihilated forever; he felt as if reason
were about to abandon him, as if all existence had become dark, and the
sun himself had been struck out of the system of the universe. He could
not rest, and only with difficulty think at all as a sane man ought. At
length he resolved to see the baronet, at the risk of life or death--in
spite of every obstacle--in despite of all opposition;--perish social
forms and usages--perish the insolence of wealth, and the jealous
restrictions of parental tyranny. Yes, perish one and all, sooner than
he, a man, with an unshrinking heart, and a strong arm, should tamely
suitor that noble girl to be sacrificed, ay, murdered, at the shrine
of a black and guilty ambition. Agitated, urged, maddened, by these
considerations, he went to the baronet's house with a hope of seeing
him, but that hope was frustrated. Sir Thomas was out.
“Was Miss Gourlay at home?”
“No; she too had gone out with her father,” replied Gibson, who happened
to open the door.
“Would you be kind enough, sir, to deliver a note to Miss Gourlay?”
“I could not, sir; I dare not.”
“I will give you five pounds, if you do.”
“It is impossible, sir; I should lose my situation instantly if I
attempted to deliver it. Miss Gourlay, sir, will receive no letters
unless through her father's hands, and besides, sir, we have repeatedly
had the most positive orders not to receive any from you, above all men
living.”
“I will give you ten pounds.”
Gibson shook his head, but at the same time the expression of his
countenance began manifestly to relax, and he licked his lips as he
replied, “I--really--could--not--sir.”
“Twenty.”
The fellow paused and looked stealthily in every direction, when, just
at the moment he was about to entertain the subject, Thomas Corbet, the
house-steward, came forward from the front parlor where he evidently had
been listening, and asked Gibson what was the matter.
“This gentleman,” said Gibson, “ahem--is anxious to have a--ahem--he was
inquiring for Sir Thomas.”
“Gibson, go down stairs,” said Corbet. “You had better do so. I have
ears, Gibson. Go down at once, and leave the gentleman to me.”
Gibson again licked his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and with a visage
rather blank and disappointed, slunk away as he had been desired. When
he had gone,
“You wish, sir,” said Corbet, “to have a note delivered to Miss
Gourlay?”
“I do, and will give you twenty pounds if you deliver it.”
“Hand me the money quietly,” replied Corbet, “and the note also. I shall
then give you a friend's advice.”
The stranger immediately placed both the money and the note in his
hands; when Corbet, having put them in his pocket, said, “I will
deliver the note, sir; but go to my father, and ask him to prevent this
marriage; and, above all things, to direct you how to act. If any man
can serve you in the business, he can.”
“Could you not let me see Miss Gourlay herself?” said the stranger.
“No, sir; she has promised her father neither to see you, nor to write
to you, nor to receive any letters from you.”
“But I must see Sir Thomas himself,” said the stranger determinedly.
“You seem a good deal excited, sir,” replied Corbet; “pray, be calm, and
listen to me. I shall be obliged to put this letter under a blank cover,
which I will address in a feigned hand, in order that she may even
receive it. As for her father, he would not see you, nor enter into any
explanation whatsoever with you. In fact, he is almost out of his mind
with delight and terror; with delight, that the marriage is at length
about to take place, and with terror, lest something might occur to
prevent it. One word, sir. I see Gibson peeping up. Go and see my
father; you have seen him more than once before.”
On the part of Corbet, the stranger remarked that there was something
sneaking, slightly derisive, and intimating, moreover, a want of
sincerity in this short dialogue, an impression that was strengthened
on hearing the relation which he bore to the obstinate old sphinx on
Constitution Hill.
“But pardon me, my friend,” said he, as Corbet was about to go away; “if
Miss Gourlay will not receive or open my letter, why did you accept such
a sum of money for it?” He paused, not knowing exactly how to proceed,
yet with a tolerably strong suspicion that Corbet was cheating him.
“Observe, sir,” replied the other, “that I said I would deliver the
letter only--I didn't undertake to make her read it. But I dare say you
are right--I don't think she will even open it at all, much less read
it. Here, sir, I return both money and letter; and I wish you to know,
besides, that I am not a man in the habit of being suspected of improper
motives. My advice that you should see my father is a proof that I am
your friend.”
The other, who was completely outmanoeuvred by Corbet, at once declined
to receive back either the letter or notes, and after again pressing the
worthy steward to befriend him in the matter of the note as far as he
could, he once more paid a visit to old Anthony. This occurred on the
day before that appointed for the marriage.
“Corbet,” said he, addressing him as he lay upon an old crazy sofa, the
tarnished cover of which shone with dirt, “I am distracted, and have
come to ask your advice and assistance.”
“Is it a helpless ould creature like me you'd come to?” replied Corbet,
hitching himself upon the sofa, as if to get ease. “But what is wrong
now?”
“If this marriage between Miss Gourlay and Lord Dunroe takes place, I
shall lose my senses.”
“Well, in troth,” replied Anthony, in his own peculiar manner, “if you
don't get more than you appear to be gifted with at present, you won't
have much to lose, and that will be one comfort. But how can you expect
me to assist you?”
“Did you not tell me that the baronet is your puppet?”
“I did; but that was for my ends, not for yours.”
“Well, but could you not prevent this accursed, sacrilegious,
blasphemous union?”
“For God's sake, spake aisy, and keep yourself quiet,” said Anthony; “I
am ill, and not able to bear noise and capering like this. I'm a weak,
feeble ould man.”
“Listen to me, Corbet,” continued the other, with vehemence, “command my
purse, my means to any extent, if you do what I wish.”
“I did like money,” implied Corbet, “but of late my whole heart is
filled with but one thought; and rather than not carry that out, I would
sacrifice every child I have. I love Miss Gourlay, for I know she is a
livin' angel, but--”
“What? You do not mean to say that you would sacrifice her?”
“If I would sacrifice my own, do you think I'd be apt to spare her?” he
asked with a groan, for in fact his illness had rather increased.
“Are you not better?” inquired the stranger, moved by a feeling of
humanity which nothing could eradicate out of his noble and generous
nature. “Allow me to send a doctor to you? I shall do so at my own
expense.”
Anthony looked upon him with more complacency, but replied,
“The blackguard knaves, no; they only rob you first and kill you
afterwards. A highway-robber's before them; for he kills you first, and
afther that you can't feel the pain of being robbed. Well, I can't talk
much to you now. My head's beginnin' to get troublesome; but I'll tell
you what you'll do. I'll call for that young man, Fenton, and you
must let him come with me to the wedding to-morrow mornin'. Indeed, I
intended to take a car, and drive over to ask it as a favor from you.”
“To what purpose should he go, even if he were able? but he is too ill.”
“Hasn't he been out in a chaise?”
“He has; but as he is incapable of bearing any agitation or excitement,
his presence there might cause his death.”
“No, sir, it will not; I knew him to be worse, and he recovered; he will
be better, I tell you: besides, if you wish me to sarve you in one way,
you must sarve me in this.”
“But can you prevent the marriage?”
“What I can do, or what I cannot do, a team of horses won't drag out o'
me, until the time--the hour--comes--then! Will you allow the young man
to come, sir?”
“But his mother, you say, will be there, and a scene between them would
be not only distressing to all parties, and out of place, but might be
dangerous to him.”
“It's because his mother's to be there, maybe, that I want him to be
there. Don't I tell you that I want to--but no, I'll keep my own mind to
myself--only sink or swim without me, unless you allow him to come.”
“Well, then, if he be sufficiently strong to go, I shall not prevent
him, upon the condition that you will exercise the mysterious influence
which you seem in possession of for the purpose of breaking up the
marriage.”
“I won't promise to do any such thing,” replied Anthony. “You must only
make the best of a bad bargain, by lavin' everything to myself. Go away
now, sir, if you plaise; my head's not right, and I want to keep it
clear for to-morrow.”
The stranger saw that he was as inscrutable as ever, and consequently
left him, half in indignation, and half impressed by a lurking hope
that, notwithstanding the curtness of his manner, he was determined to
befriend him.
This, however, was far from the heart of old Corbet, whose pertinacity
of purpose nothing short of death itself could either moderate or
change.
“Prevent the marriage, indeed! Oh, ay! Catch me at it. No, no; that must
take place, or I'm balked of half my revenge. It's when he finds that
he has, by his own bad and blind passions, married her to the
profligate without the title that he'll shiver. And that scamp, too, the
bastard--but, no matther--I must try and keep my head clear, as I said,
for to-morrow will be a great day, either for good or evil, to some
of them. Yes, and when all is over, then my mind will be at aise; this
black thing that's inside o' me for years--drivin' me on, on, on--will
go about his business; and then, plaise goodness, I can repent
comfortably and like a Christian. Oh, dear me!--my head!”