CHAPTER XLI. Denouement.

At length the important morning, fraught with a series of such varied

and many-colored events, arrived. Sir Thomas Gourlay, always an early

riser, was up betimes, and paced his room to and fro in a train of

profound reflection. It was evident, however, from his elated yet turbid

eye, that although delight and exultation were prevalent in his

breast, he was by no means free from visitations of a dark and painful

character. These he endeavored to fling off, and in order to do so

more effectually, he gave a loose rein to the contemplation of his own

successful ambition. Yet he occasionally appeared anxious and uneasy,

and felt disturbed and gloomy fits that irritated him even for

entertaining them. He was more than usually nervous; his hand shook,

and his stern, strong voice had in its tones, when he spoke, the audible

evidences of agitation. These, we say, threw their deep shadows over

his mind occasionally, whereas a sense of triumph and gratified pride

constituted its general tone and temper.

“Well,” said he, “so far so well: Lucy will soon become reconciled to

this step, and all my projects for her advancement will be--nay, already

are, realized. After all, my theory of life is the correct one, no

matter what canting priests and ignorant philosophers may say to the

contrary. Every man is his own providence, and ought to be his own

priest, as I have been. As for a moral plan in the incidents and

vicissitudes of life, I could never see nor recognize such a thing. Or

if there be a Providence that foresees and directs, then we only fulfil

his purposes by whatever we do, whether the act be a crime or a virtue.

So that on either side I am safe. There, to be sure, is my brother's

son, against whom I have committed a crime; ay, but what, after all, is

a crime?--An injury to a fellow-creature. What is a virtue?--A benefit

to the same. Well, he has sustained an injury at my hands--be it

so--that is a crime; but I and my son have derived a benefit from the

act, and this turns it into a virtue; for as to who gains or who loses,

that is not a matter for the world, who have no distinct rule whereby

to determine its complexion or its character, unless by the usages and

necessities of life, which are varied by climate and education to such

an extent, that what is looked upon as a crime in one country or one

creed is frequently considered a virtue in another. As for futurity,

that is a sealed book which no man hitherto has been able to open. We

all know--and a dark and gloomy fact it is--that we must die.

Beyond that, the searches of human intellect cannot go, although the

imagination may project itself into a futurity of its own creation. Such

airy visions are not subjects sufficiently solid for belief. As for me,

if I believe nothing, the fault is not mine, for I can find nothing to

believe--nothing that can satisfy my reason. The contingencies of life,

as they cross and jostle each other, constitute by their accidental

results the only providential wisdom which I can discern, the proper

name of which is Chance. Who have I, for instance, to thank but

myself--my own energy of character, my own perseverance of purpose, my

own determined will--for accomplishing my own projects? I can perceive

no other agent, either visible or invisible. It is, however, a hard

creed--a painful creed, and one which requires great strength of mind

to entertain. Yet, on the other hand, when I reflect that it may be

only the result of a reaction in principle, proceeding from a latent

conviction that all is not right within, and that we reject the tribunal

because we are conscious that it must condemn us--abjure the authority

of the court because we have violated its jurisdiction; yes, when

I reflect upon this, it is then that these visitations of gloom and

wretchedness sometimes agonize my mind until it becomes dark and heated,

like hell, and I curse both myself and my creed. Now, however, when this

marriage shall have taken place, the great object of my life will be

gained--the great struggle will be over, and I can relax and fall back

into a life of comfort, enjoyment, and freedom from anxiety and care.

But, then, is there no risk of sacrificing my daughter's happiness

forever? I certainly would not do that. I know, however, what influence

the possession of rank, position, title, will have on her, when she

comes to know their value by seeing--ay, and by feeling, how they are

appreciated. There is not a husband-hunting dowager in the world of

fashion, nor a female projector or manoeuvrer in aristocratic life,

who will not enable her to understand and enjoy her good fortune. Every

sagacious cast for a title will be to her a homily on content. But,

above all, she will be able to see and despise their jealousy, to laugh

at their envy, and to exercise at their expense that superiority of

intellect and elevation of rank which she will possess; for this

I will teach her to do. Yes, I am satisfied. All will then go on

smoothly, and I shall trouble myself no more about creeds or covenants,

whether secular or spiritual.”

He then went to dress and shave after this complacent resolution,

but was still a good deal surprised to find that his hand shook so

disagreeably, and that his powerful system was in a state of such

general and unaccountable agitation.

After he had dressed, and was about to go down stairs, Thomas Corbet

came to ask a favor, as he said.

“Well, Corbet,” replied his master, “what is it?”

“My father, sir,” proceeded the other, “wishes to know if you would have

any objection to his being present at Miss Gourlay's marriage, and

if you would also allow him to bring a few friends, who, he says, are

anxious to see the bride.”

“No objection, Corbet--none in the world; and least of all to your

father. I have found your family faithful and attached to my interests

for many a long year, and it would be too bad to refuse him such a

paltry request as that. Tell him to bring his friends too, and they may

be present at the ceremony, if they wish. It was never my intention that

my daughter's marriage should be a private one, nor would it now, were

it not for her state of health. Let your father's friends and yours

come, then, Corbet, and see that you entertain them properly.”

Corbet then thanked him, and was about to go, when the other said,

“Corbet!” after which he paused for some time.

“Sir!” said Corbet.

“I wish to ask your opinion,” he proceeded, “as to allowing my son to be

present. He himself wishes it, and asked my consent; but as his sister

entertains such an unaccountable prejudice against him, I had doubts

as to whether he ought to appear at all. There are, also, as you know,

other reasons.”

“I don't see any reason, sir, that ought to exclude him the moment the

marriage words are pronounced. I think, sir, with humility, that it is

not only his right, but his duty, to be present, and that it is a very

proper occasion for you to acknowledge him openly.”

“It would be a devilish good hit at Dunroe, for, between you and me,

Corbet, I fear that his heart is fixed more upon the Gourlay estates and

her large fortune than upon the girl herself.”

If I might advise, sir, I think he ought to be present.”

“And the moment the ceremony is over, be introduced to his

brother-in-law. A good hit. I shall do it. Send word to him, then,

Corbet. As it must be done some time, it may as well be done now.

Dunroe will of course be too much elated, as he ought to be, to feel the

blow--or to appear to feel it, at all events--for decency's sake, you

know, he must keep up appearances; and if it were only on that account,

we will avail ourselves of the occasion which presents itself. This is

another point gained. I think I may so 'Bravo!' Corbet: I have managed

everything admirably, and accomplished all my purposes single-handed.”

Thomas Corbet himself, deep and cunning as he was, yet knew not how much

he had been kept in the dark as to the events of this fateful day. He

had seen his father the day before, as had his sister, and they both

felt surprised at the equivocal singularity of his manner, well and.

thoroughly as they imagined they had known him. It was, in fact, at his

suggestion that the baronet's son had been induced to ask permission to

be present at the wedding, and also to be then and there acknowledged;

a fact which the baronet either forgot or omitted to mention to

Corbet. Anthony also insisted that his daughter should make one of the

spectators, under pain of disclosing to Sir Thomas the imposition that

had been practised on him in the person of her son. Singular as it may

appear, this extraordinary old man, in the instance before us, moved, by

his peculiar knowledge and sagacity, as if he had them on wires,

almost every person with whom he came in contact, or whose presence he

considered necessary on the occasion.

“What can he mean?” said Thomas to his sister. “Surely he would not be

mad enough to make Sir Thomas's house the place in which to produce Lady

Gourlay's son, the very individual who is to strip him of his title, and

your son of all his prospects?”

“Oh no,” replied Ginty, “certainly not; otherwise, why have lent himself

to the carrying out of our speculation with respect to that boy. Such

a step would ruin him--ruin us all--but then it would ruin the man

he hates, and that would gratify him, I know. He is full of mystery,

certainly; but as he will disclose nothing as to his movements, we must

just let him have his own way, as that is the only chance of managing

him.”

Poor Lucy could not be said to have awoke to a morning of despair and

anguish, because she had not slept at all the night before. Having got

up and dressed herself, by the aid of Alice, she leaned on her as far as

the boudoir to which allusion has already been made. On arriving there

she sat down, and when her maid looked upon her countenance she became

so much alarmed and distressed that she burst into tears.

“What, my darling mistress, is come over you?” she exclaimed. “You have

always spoken to me until this unhappy mornin' Oh, you are fairly in

despair now; and indeed is it any wonder? I always thought, and hoped,

and prayed that something might turn up to prevent this cursed marriage.

I see, I read, despair in your face.”

Lucy raised her large, languid eyes, and looked upon her, but did not

speak. She gave a ghastly smile, but that was all.

“Speak to me, dear Miss Gourlay,” exclaimed the poor girl, with a flood

of tears. “Oh, only speak to me, and let me hear your voice!”

Lucy beckoned her to sit beside her, and said, with difficulty, that she

wished to wet her lips. The girl knew by the few words she uttered that

her voice was gone; and on looking more closely she saw that her lips

were dry and parched. In a few moments she got her a glass of water, a

portion of which Lucy drank.

“Now,” said Alice, “that will relieve and refresh you; but oh, for God's

sake, spake to me, and tell me how you feel! Miss Gourlay, darlin', you

are in despair!”

Lucy took her maid's hand in hers, and after looking upon her with a

smile resembling the first, replied, “No, Alice, I will not despair, but

I feel that I will die. No, I will not despair, Alice. Short as the time

is, God may interpose between me and misery--between me and despair.

But if I am married to this man, Alice, my faith in virtue, in a good

conscience, in truth, purity, and honor, my faith in Providence itself

will be shaken; and then I will despair and die.”

“Oh, what do you mean, my darlin' Miss Gourlay?” exclaimed her weeping

maid. “Surely you couldn't think of having a hand in your own death? Oh,

merciful Father, see what they have brought you to!”

“Alice,” said she, “I have spoken wrongly: the moment in which I uttered

the last expression was a weak one. No, I will never doubt or distrust

Providence; and I may die, Alice, but I will never despair.”

“But why talk about death, miss, so much?”

“Because I feel it lurking in my heart. My physical strength will break

down under this woful calamity. I am as weak as an infant, and all

before me is dark--in this world I mean--but not, thank God, in the

next. Now I cannot speak much more, Alice. Leave me to my silence and to

my sorrow.”

The affectionate girl, utterly overcome, laid her head upon her bosom

and wept, until Lucy was forced to soothe and comfort her as well as she

could. They then sat silent for a time, the maid, however, sobbing and

sighing bitterly, whilst Lucy only uttered one word in an undertone, and

as if altogether to herself, “Misery! misery!”

At this moment her father tapped at the door, and on being admitted,

ordered Alice to leave the room; he wished to have some private

conversation, he said, with her mistress.

“Don't make it long, if you please, sir,” said she, “for my mistress

won't be aquil to it. It's more at the point of death than the point of

marriage she is.”

One stern look from the baronet, however, silenced her in a moment, and

after a glance of most affectionate interest at her mistress she left

the room.

“Lucy,” said her father, after contemplating that aspect of misery which

could not be concealed, “I am not at all pleased with this girlish

and whining appearance. I have done all that man could do to meet your

wishes and to make you happy. I have become reconciled to your aunt for

your sake. I have allowed her and Mrs. Norton--Mainwaring I mean--to

be present at your wedding, that they might support and give you

confidence. You are about to be married to a handsome young fellow,

only a little wild, but who will soon make you a countess. Now, in God's

name, what more do you want?”

“I think,” she replied, “that I ought not to marry this man. I believe

that I stand justified in the sight of God and man in refusing to seal

my own misery. The promise I made you, sir, was given under peculiar

circumstances--under terror of your death. These circumstances are now

removed, and it is cruel to call on me to make a sacrifice that is

a thousand times worse than death. No, papa, I will not marry this

depraved man--this common seducer. I shall never unite myself to him,

let the consequences be what they may. There is a line beyond which

parental authority ought not to go--you have crossed it.”

“Be it so, madam; I shall see you again in a few minutes,” he replied,

and immediately left the room, his face almost black with rage and

disappointment. Lucy grew alarmed at the terrible abruptness and

significance of his manner, and began to tremble, although she knew not

why.

“Can I violate my promise,” said she to herself, “after having made it

so solemnly? And ought I to marry this man in obedience to my father?

Alas! I know not; but may heaven direct me for the best! If I thought it

would make papa happy--but his is a restless and ambitious spirit, and

how can I be certain of that? May heaven direct me and guide me!”

In a few minutes afterwards her father returned, and taking out of his

pockets a pair of pistols, laid them on the table.

“Now, Lucy,” said he solemnly, and with a vehemence of manner almost

frantic, “we will see if you cannot yet save your father's life, or

whether you will prefer to have his blood on your soul.”

“For heaven's sake, papa,” said his daughter, running to him, and

throwing or attempting to throw her arms about him, partly, in the

moment of excitement, to embrace, and partly to restrain him.

“Hold off, madam,” he replied; “hold off; you have made me

desperate--you have driven me mad. Now, mark me. I will not ask you to

marry this man; but I swear by all that is sacred, that if you disgrace

me--if you insult Lord Dunroe by refusing to be united to him this

day--I shall put the contents of one or both of these pistols through

my brains; and you may comfort yourself over the corpse of a suicide

father, and turn to your brother for protection.”

Either alternative was sufficiently dreadful for the poor worn and

wearied out girl.

“Oh, papa,” she exclaimed, again attempting to throw her arms around

him; “put these fearful weapons aside. I will obey you--I will marry

him.”

“This day?”

“This day, papa, as soon as my aunt and Mrs. Mainwaring come, and I can

get myself dressed.”

“Do so, then; or, if not I shall not survive your refusal five minutes.”

“I will, papa,” she replied, laying her head upon his breast and

sobbing; “I will marry him; but put those vile and dangerous weapons

away, and never talk so again.”

At this moment the door opened, and Alice, who had been listening,

entered the room in a high and towering passion. Her eyes sparkled: her

complexion was scarlet with rage; her little hands were most heroically

clenched; and, altogether, the very excitement in which she presented

herself, joined to a good face and fine figure, made her look

exceedingly interesting and handsome.

“How, madam,” exclaimed the baronet, “what brings you here? Withdraw

instantly!”

“How, yourself, sir,” she replied, walking up and looking him fearlessly

in the face; “none of your 'how, madams,' to me any more; as there's

neither man nor woman to interfere here, I must only do it myself.”

“Leave the room, you brazen jade!” shouted the baronet; “leave the room,

or it'll be worse for you.”

“Deuce a one toe I'll lave it. It wasn't for that I came here, but to

tell you that you are a tyrant and a murdherer, a mane old schemer, that

would marry your daughter to a common swindler and reprobate, because

he's a lord. But here I stand, the woman that will prevent this

marriage, if there wasn't another faymale from here to Bally-shanny.”

“Alice!” exclaimed Lucy, “for heaven's sake, what do you mean?--what

awful language is this? You forget yourself.”

“That may be, miss, but, by the life in my body, I won't forget you. A

ring won't go on you to that titled scamp so long as I have a drop of

manly blood in my veins--deuce a ring!”

Amazement almost superseded indignation on the part of the baronet, who

unconsciously exclaimed, “A ring!”

“No--pursuin' to the ring!” she replied, accompanying the words with

what was intended to be a fearful blow of her little clenched hand upon

the table.

“Let me go, Lucy,” said her father, “till I put the termagant out of the

room.”

“Yes, let him go, miss,” replied Alley; “let us see what he'll do. Here

I stand now,” she proceeded, approaching him; “and if you offer to lift

a hand to me, I'll lave ten of as good marks in your face as ever a

woman left since the creation. Come, now--am I afeard of you?” and as

she spoke she approached him still more nearly, with both her hands

close to his face, her fingers spread out and half-clenched, reminding

one of a hawk's talons.

“Alice,” said Lucy, “this is shocking; if you love me, leave the room.”

“Love you! miss,” replied the indignant but faithful girl, bursting into

bitter tears; “love you!--merciful heaven, wouldn't I give my life for

you?--who that knows you doesn't love you? and it's for that reason that

I don't wish to see you murdhered--nor won't. Come, sir, you must let

her out of this marriage. It'll be no go, I tell you. I won't suffer it,

so long as I've strength and life. I'll dash myself between them. I'll

make the ole clergyman skip if he attempts it; ay, and what's more, I'll

see Dandy Dulcimer, and we'll collect a faction.”

“Do not hold me, Lucy,” said her father; “I must certainly put her out

of the room.”

“Don't, papa,” replied Lucy, restraining him from laying hands upon her,

“don't, for the sake of honor and manhood. Alice, for heaven's sake!

if you love me, as I said, and I now add, if you respect me, leave the

room. You will provoke papa past endurance.”

“Not a single toe, miss, till he promises to let you cut o' this match.

Oh, my good man,” she said, addressing the struggling baronet, “if

you're for fighting, here I am I for you; or wait,” she added, whipping

up one of the pistols, “Come, now, if you're a man; take your ground

there. Now I can meet you on equal terms; get to the corner there, the

distance is short enough; but no matther, you're a good mark. Come, now,

don't think I'm the bit of goods to be afeard o' you--it's not the first

jewel I've seen in my time, and remember that my name is Mahon”--and she

posted herself in the corner, as if to take her ground. “Come, now,”

she repeated, “you called me a 'brazen jade' awhile ago, and I demand

satisfaction.”

“Alice,” said Lucy, “you will injure yourself or others, if you do not

lay that dangerous weapon down. For God's sake, Alice, lay it aside--it

is loaded.”

“Deuce a bit o' danger, miss,” replied the indignant heroine. “I know

more about fire-arms than you think; my brothers used to have them to

protect the house. I'll soon see, at any rate, whether it's loaded or

not.”

While speaking she whipped out the ramrod, and, making the experiment

found, that it was empty.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “you desateful old tyrant: and so you came down

blusterin' and bullyin', and frightenin' your child into compliance,

with a pair of empty pistols! By the life in my body, if I had you in

Ballytrain, I'd post you.”

“Papa,” said Lucy, “you must excuse this--it is the excess of her

affection for me. Dear Alice,” she said, addressing her, and for a

moment forgetting her weakness, “come with me; I cannot, and will not

bear this; come with me out of the room.”

“Very well; I'll go to plaise you, miss, but I've made up my mind that

this marriage mustn't take place. Just think of it,” she added, turning

to her master; “if you force her to marry this scamp of a lord, the girl

has sense, and spirit, and common decency, and of course she'll run away

from him; after that, it won't be hard to guess who she'll run to--then

there'll be a con. crim. about it, and it'll go to the lawyers, and from

the lawyers it'll go to the deuce, and that will be the end of it; and

all because you're a coarse-minded tyrant, unworthy of having such a

daughter. Oh, you needn't shake your hand at me. You refused to give me

satisfaction, and I'd now scorn to notice you. Remember I cowed you, and

for that reason never pretend to be a gentleman afther this.”

Lucy then led her out of the room, which she left, after turning upon

her master a look of the proudest and fiercest defiance, and at the same

time the most sovereign contempt.

“Lucy,” said her father, “is not this a fine specimen of a maid to have

in personal attendance upon you?”

“I do not defend her conduct now, sir,” she replied; “but I cannot

overlook her affection, her truth, her attachment to me, nor the many

other virtues which I know she possesses. She is somewhat singular, I

grant, and a bit of a character, and I could wish that her manners were

somewhat less plain; but, on the other hand, she does not pretend to be

a fine lady with her mistress, although she is not without some harmless

vanity; neither is she frivolous, giddy, nor deceitful; and whatever

faults there may be, papa, in her head, there are none in her heart. It

is affectionate, faithful, and disinterested. Indeed, whilst I live I

shall look upon her as my friend.”

“I am determined, however, she shall not be long under my roof, nor in

your service; her conduct just now has settled that point; but, putting

her out of the question, I trust we understand each other, and that you

are prepared to make your father's heart happy. No more objections.”

“No, sir; I have said so.”

“You will go through the ceremony with a good grace?'

“I cannot promise that, sir; but I shall go through the ceremony.”

“Yes, but you must do it without offence to Dunroe, and with as little

appearance of reluctance as possible.”

“I have no desire to draw a painful attention to myself, papa; but you

will please to recollect that I have all my horror, all my detestation

of this match to contend with; and, I may add, my physical weakness,

and the natural timidity of woman. I shall, however, go through the

ceremony, provided nature and reason do not fail me.”

“Well, Lucy, of course you will do the best you can. I must go now,

for I've many things to think of. Your dresses are admirable, and your

trousseau, considering the short time Dunroe had, is really superb.

Shake hands, my dear Lucy; you know I will soon lose you.”

Lucy, whose heart was affection itself, threw herself into his arms, and

exclaimed, in a burst of grief:

“Yes, papa, I feel that you will; and, perhaps, when I am gone, you will

say, with sorrow, that it would have been better to have allowed Lucy to

be happy her own way.”

“Come, now, you foolish, naughty girl,” he exclaimed affectionately,

“be good--be good.” And as he spoke, he kissed her, pressed her hand

tenderly, and then left the room.

“Alas!” exclaimed Lucy, still in tears, “how happy might we have been,

had this ambition for my exaltation not existed in my father's heart!”

If Lucy rose with a depressed spirit on that morning of sorrow, so did

not Lord Dunroe. This young nobleman, false and insincere in everything,

had succeeded in inducing his sister to act as brides-maid, Sir Thomas

having asked her consent as a personal compliment to himself and his

daughter. She was told by her brother that young Roberts would act in an

analogous capacity to him; and this he held out as an inducement to her,

having observed something like an attachment between her and the young

ensign. Not that he at all approved of this growing predilection, for

though strongly imbued with all the senseless and absurd prejudices

against humble birth which disgrace aristocratic life and feeling,

he was base enough to overrule his own opinions on the subject, and

endeavor, by this unworthy play upon his sister's feelings, to prevail

upon her to do an act that would throw her into his society, and which,

under any other circumstances, he would have opposed. He desired her,

at the same time, not to mention the fact to their father, who, he

said, entertained a strong prejudice against upstarts, and was besides,

indisposed to the marriage, in consequence of Sir Thomas Goulray's

doubtful reputation, as regarding the disappearance of his brother's

heir. In consequence of these representations, Lady Emily not only

consented to act as bride's-maid; but also to keep her knowledge of the

forthcoming marriage a secret from her father.

At breakfast that morning Dunroe was uncommonly cheerful. Norton, on

the other hand, was rather depressed, and could not be prevailed upon

to partake of the gay and exuberant spirit of mirth and buoyancy which

animated Dunroe.

“What the deuce is the matter with you, Norton?” said his lordship. “You

seem rather annoyed that I am going to marry a very lovely girl with an

immense fortune? With both, you know very well that I can manage without

either the Cullamore title or property. The Gourlay property is as good

if not better. Come, then, cheer up; if the agency of the Cullamore

property is gone, we shall have that on the Gourlay side to look to.”

“Dunroe, my dear fellow,” replied Norton, “I am thinking of nothing so

selfish. That which distresses me is, that I will lose my friend. This

Miss Gourlay is, they say, so confoundedly virtuous that I dare say she

will allow no honest fellow, who doesn't carry a Bible and a Prayer-book

in his pocket, and quote Scripture in conversation, to associate with

you.”

“Nonsense, man,” replied Dunroe, “I have satisfied you on that point

before. But I say, Norton, is not this a great bite on the baronet,

especially as he considers himself a knowing one?”

“Yes, I grant you, a great bite, no doubt; but, at the same time, I

rather guess you may thank me for the possession of Miss Gourlay, and

the property which will go along with her.”

“As how, Norton?”

“Why, don't you remember the anonymous note which I wrote to the

baronet, when I was over in Dublin to get the horse changed? He was then

at Red Hall. I am certain that were it not for that hint, there would

have been an elopement. You know it was the fellow who shot you, that

was then in her neighborhood, and he is at present in town. I opened the

baronet's eyes at all events.”

“Faith, to tell you the truth, Norton, although I know you do me in

money matters now and then, still I believe you to be a faithful fellow.

In fact, you owe me more than you are aware of. You know not how I have

resisted the respectable old nobleman's wishes to send you adrift as

an impostor and cheat. I held firm, however, and told him I could never

with honor abandon my friend.”

“Many thanks, Dunroe; but I really must say that I am neither an

impostor nor a cheat; and that if ever a man was true friend and

faithful to man, I am that friend to your lordship; not, God knows,

because you are a lord, but because you are a far better thing--a

regular trump. A cheat! curse it,” clapping his hands over his eyes, to

conceal his emotion, “isn't my name Norton? and am I not your friend?”

At this moment a servant came in, and handed Lord Dunroe a note, which

he was about to throw to Norton, who generally acted as a kind of

secretary to him; but observing the depth and sincerity and also the

modesty of his feelings, he thought it indelicate to trouble him with it

just then. Breakfast was now over, and Dunroe, throwing himself back

in an arm-chair, opened the letter--read it--then another that was

contained in it; after which he rose up, and travelled the room with a

good deal of excitement. He then approached Norton, and said, in a voice

that might be said to have been made up of heat and cold, “What disturbs

you?”

Norton winked both eyes, did the pathetic a bit, then pulled out his

pocket handkerchief, and blew his nose up to a point little short of

distress itself. In the meantime, Dunroe suddenly left the room without

Norton's knowledge, who replied, however, to the last question, under

the impression that his lordship was present,

“Ah, my dear Dunroe, the loss of a true friend is a serious thing in a

world like this, where so many cheats and impostors are going.”

To this, however, he received no reply; and on looking round and finding

that his dupe had gone out, he said:

“Curse the fellow--he has cut me short. I was acting friendship to the

life, and now he has disappeared. However, I will resume it when I hear

his foot on the return. His hat is there, and I know he will come back

for it.”

Nearly ten minutes had elapsed, during which he was making the ham and

chicken disappear, when, on hearing a foot which he took for granted

must be that of his lordship, he once more threw himself into his former

attitude, and putting the handkerchief again to his eyes, exclaimed:

“No, my lord. A cheat! Curse it, isn't my name Norton? and am I not your

friend?”

“Why, upon my soul, Barney, you used of ould to bring out only one lie

at a time but now you give them in pairs. 'Isn't my name Norton?' says

you. I kept the saicret bekaise you never meddled with Lord Cullamore

or Lady Emily, or attempted your tricks on them, and for that raison you

ought to thank me. Here's a note from Lord Dunroe, who looks as black as

midnight.”

“What! a note from Dunroe!” exclaimed Norton. “Why he only left me this

minute! What the deuce can this mean?”

He opened the note, and read, to his dismay and astonishment as follows:

“Infamous and treacherous scoundrel,--I have this moment received your

letter to Mr. Birney, enclosed by that gentleman to me, in which you

offer, for a certain sum, to betray me, by placing in the hands of my

enemies the very documents you pretended to have destroyed. I now know

the viper I have cherished--begone. You are a cheat, an impostor, and a

villain, whose name is not Norton, but Bryan, once a horse-jockey on the

Curragh, and obliged to fly the country for swindling and dishonesty.

Remove your things instantly; but that shall not prevent me from tracing

you and handing you over to justice for your knavery and fraud.

“DUNROE.”

“All right! Morty---all right!” exclaimed Norton; “upon my soul, Dunroe

is too generous. You know he is going to be married to-day. Was that

Roberts who went up stairs?”

“It was the young officer, if that's his name,” replied Morty.

“All right! Morty; he's to be groom's-man--that will do; this requires

no answer. The generous fellow has made me a present on his wedding-day.

That will do, Morty; you may go.”

“All's discovered,” he exclaimed, when Morty was gone; “however, it's

not too late: I shall give him a Roland for his Oliver before we part.

It will be no harm to give the the respectable old nobleman a hint of

what's going on, at any rate. This discovery, however, won't signify,

for I know Dunroe. The poor fool has no self-reliance; but if left to

himself would die. He possesses no manly spirit of independent will,

no firmness, no fixed principle--he is, in fact, a noun adjective, and

cannot stand alone. Depraved in his appetites and habits of life, he

cannot live without some hanger-on to enjoy his freaks of silly and

senseless profligacy, who can praise and laugh at him, and who will

act at once as his butt, his bully, his pander, and his friend; four

capacities in which I have served him--at his own expense, be it said.

No; my ascendancy over him has been too long established, and I know

that, like a prime minister who has been hastily dismissed, I shall

be ultimately recalled. And yet he is not without gleams of sense, is

occasionally sprightly, and has perceptions of principle that might have

made him a man--an individual being: but now, having neither firmness,

resolution to carry out a good purpose, nor self-respect, he is a

miserable and wretched cipher, whose whole value depends on the

figure that is next him. Yes, I know--I feel--he will recall me to his

councils.”

At length the hour of half-past eleven arrived, and in Sir Thomas

Gourlay's drawing-room were assembled all those who had been asked to be

present, or to take the usual part in the marriage ceremony. Dr. Sombre,

the clergyman of the parish, had just arrived, and, having entered the

drawing-room, made a bow that would not have disgraced a bishop. He was

pretty well advanced in years, excessively stupid, and possessed so vile

a memory for faces, that he was seldom able to recognize his own guests,

if he happened to meet them in the streets on the following day. He was

an expectant for preferment in the church, and if the gift of a good

appetite were a successful recommendation for a mitre, as that of a

strong head has been before now, no man was better entitled to wear it.

Be this as it may, the good man, who expected to partake of an excellent

_dejuner_, felt that it was a portion of his duty to give a word or two

of advice to the young couple upon the solemn and important duties into

the discharge of which they were about to enter. Accordingly, looking

round the room, he saw Mr. Roberts and Lady Emily engaged, at a window,

in what appeared to him to be such a conversation as might naturally

take place between parties about to be united. Lucy had not yet made her

appearance, but Dunroe was present, and on seeing the Rev. Doctor join

them, was not at all sorry at the interruption. This word of advice,

by the way, was a stereotyped commodity with the Doctor, who had not

married a couple for the last thirty years, without palming it on

them as an extempore piece of admonition arising from that particular

occasion. The worthy man was, indeed, the better qualified to give it,

having never been married himself, and might, therefore, be considered

as perfectly free from prejudices affecting either party upon the

subject.

“You, my dear children, are the parties about to be united?” said he,

addressing Roberts and Lady Emily, with a bow that had in it a strong

professional innuendo, but of what nature was yet to be learned.

“Yes, sir,” replied Roberts, who at once perceived the good man's

mistake, and was determined to carry out whatever jest might arise from

it.

“Oh no, sir,” replied Lady Emily, blushing deeply; “we are not the

parties.”

“Because,” proceeded the Doctor, “I think I could not do better than

give you, while together, a few words--just a little homily, as it

were--upon the nature of the duties into which you are about to enter.”

“Oh, but I have told you,” replied Lady Emily, again, “that we are not

the parties, Dr. Sombre.”

“Never mind her, Doctor,” said Roberts--assuming, with becoming gravity,

the character of the intended husband: “the Doctor, my dear, knows human

nature too well not to make allowances for the timidity peculiar to your

situation. Come, my, love be firm, and let us hear what he has to say.”

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “I can understand that; I knew I was right:

and all you want now is the ceremony to make you man and wife.”

“Indisputable, Doctor; nothing can be more true. These words might

almost appear as an appendix to the Gospel.”

“Well, my children,” proceeded the Doctor, “listen--marriage may be

divided--”

“I thought it was rather a union, Doctor.”

“So it is, child,” replied the Doctor, in the most matter-of-fact

spirit; “but you know that even Unions can be divided. When I was

induced to the Union of Ballycomeasy and Ballycomsharp I--”

“But, Doctor,” said Roberts, “I beg your pardon, I have interrupted you.

Will you have the kindness to proceed? my fair partner, here, is very

anxious to hear your little homily--are you not, my love?”

Lady Emily was certainly pressed rather severely to maintain her

gravity--in fact, so much so, that she was unable to reply, Robert's

composure being admirable.

“Well,” resumed the Doctor, “as I was saying--Marriage may be divided

into three heads--”

“For heaven's sake, make it only two, if possible, my dear Doctor,”

said Roberts: “the appearance of a third head is rather uncomfortable, I

think.”

--“Into three heads--first, its duties; next, its rights; and lastly,

its tribulations.”

The Doctor, we may observe, was in general very unlucky, in the

reception which fell to the share of his little homily--the fact being

with it as with its subject in actual life, that his audience, however

they might feel upon its rights and duties, were very anxious to avoid

its tribulations in any sense, and the consequence was, that in nineteen

cases out of twenty the reverend bachelor himself was left in the midst

of them. Such was his fate here; for at this moment Sir Thomas Gourlay

entered the drawing-room, and approaching Lady Emily, said, “I have to

apologize to you, Lady Emily, inasmuch as it is I who am to blame

for Miss Gourlay's not having seen you sooner. On a subject of such

importance, it is natural that a father should have some private

conversation with her, and indeed this was the case; allow me now to

conduct you to her.”

“There is no apology whatsoever necessary, Sir Thomas,” replied her

ladyship, taking his arm, and casting a rapid but precious glance at

Roberts. As they went up stairs, the baronet said, in a voice of great

anxiety,

“You will oblige me, Lady Emily, by keeping her from the looking-glass

as much as possible. I have got her maid--who, although rather plain

in her manners, has excellent taste in all matters connected with the

toilette--I have got her to say, while dressing her, that it is not

considered lucky for a bride to see herself in a looking-glass on the

day of her marriage.”

“But why should she not, Sir Thomas?” asked the innocent and lovely

girl: “if ever a lady should consult her glass, it is surely upon such

an occasion as this.”

“I grant it,” he replied; “but then her paleness--is--is--her looks

altogether are so--in fact, you may understand me, Lady Emily--she is,

in consequence of her very delicate health--in consequence of that,

I say, she is more like a corpse than a living being--in complexion

I mean. And now, my dear Lady Emily, will you hurry her? I am

anxious--that is to say, we all are--to have the ceremony over as soon

as it possibly can. She will then feel better, of course.”

Dr. Sombre, seeing that one of the necessary audience to his little

homily had disappeared, seemed rather disappointed, but addressed

himself to Roberts upon a very different subject.

“I dare say,” said he, “we shall have a very capital dejeuner to-day.”

Roberts was startled at the rapid and carnal nature of the transition

in such a reverend-looking old gentleman; but as the! poor Doctor

had sustained a disappointment on the subject of the homily, he was

determined to afford him some comfort on this.

“I understand,” said he, “from the best authority, that nothing like it

has been seen for years in the city. Several of the nobility and gentry

have privately solicited Sir Thomas for copies of the bill of fare.”

“That is all right,” replied the Doctor, “that is all excellent, my good

young friend. Who is that large gentleman who has just come in?”

“Why, sir,” replied Roberts, astonished, “that is Sir Thomas Gourlay

himself.”

“Bless me, and so it is,” replied the Doctor; “he is getting very

fat--eh? Ay, all right, and will make excellent eating if the cooking be

good.”

Roberts saw at once what the worthy Doctor was thinking of, and resolved

Lo suggest some other topic, if it were only to punish him for bestowing

such attention upon a subject so much at variance with thoughts that

ought to occupy the mind of a minister of God.

“I have heard, Doctor, that you are a bachelor,” said he. “How did it

happen, pray, that you kept aloof from marriage?”

The Doctor, who had been contemplating his own exploits at the dejuner,

now that Roberts had mentioned marriage, took it for granted that he

wanted him to proceed with his homily, and tried to remember where he

had left off.

“Oh, yes,” said he, “about marriage; I stopped at its tribulations.

I think I had got over its rights and duties, but I stopped at its

tribulations--yes, its tribulations. Very well my dear friend,” he

proceeded, taking him by the hand, and leading him over to a corner,

“accompany me, and you shall enter them now. Where is the young lady?”

“She will be here by and by,” replied Roberts; “I think you had better

wait till she comes.”

The Doctor paused for some time, and following up the idea of the

dejuner, said, “I am fond of wild fowl now.”

“Oh, fie, Doctor,” replied the Ensign; “I did not imagine that so grave

a personage as you are could be fond of anything wild.”

“Oh, yes,” replied the Doctor, “ever while you live prefer the wild to

the tame; every one, sir,” he added, taking the other by the button,

“that knows what's what, in that respect, does it. Well, but about the

tribulations.”

As usual the Doctor was doomed to be left in them, for just as he spoke

the doors were thrown more widely open, and Lucy, leaning upon, or

rather supported by, her aunt and Lady Emily, accompanied by Mrs.

Mainwaring, entered the room. Her father had been in close conversation

with Dunroe; but not all his efforts at self-possession and calmness

could prevent his agitation and anxiety from being visible. His eye

was unsettled and blood-shot; his manner uneasy, and the whole bearing

indicative of hope, ecstasy, apprehension, and doubt, all flitting

across each other like clouds in a sky troubled by adverse currents, but

each and all telling a tale of the tumult which was going on within him.

Yes, Lucy was there, but, alas the day! what a woful sight did she

present to the spectators. The moment she had come down, the servants,

and all those who had obtained permission to be present at the ceremony,

now entered the large drawing-room to witness it. Tom Gourlay entered

a little after his sister, followed in a few minutes by old Anthony,

accompanied by Fenton, who leant upon him, and was provided with an

arm-chair in a remote corner of the room. After them came Thomas Corbet

and his sister, Ginty Cooper, together with old Sam Roberts, and the man

named Skipton, with whom the reader has already been made acquainted.

But how shall we describe the bride--the wretched, heart-broken

victim of an ambition that was as senseless as it was inhuman? It was

impossible for one moment to glance at her without perceiving that the

stamp of death, misery, and despair, was upon her; and yet, despite

of all this, she carried with her and around her a strange charm, an

atmosphere of grace, elegance, and beauty, of majestic virtue, of innate

greatness of mind, of wonderful truth, and such transparent purity of

heart and thought, that when she entered the room all the noise and chat

and laughter were instantly hushed, and a sense of solemn awe, as if

there were more than a marriage here, came over all present. Nay, more.

We shall not pretend to trace the cause and origin of this extraordinary

sensation. Originate as it may, it told a powerful and startling tale to

her father's heart; but in truth she had not been half a minute in the

room when, such was the dignified but silent majesty of her sorrow, that

there were few eyes there that were not moist with tears. The

melancholy impressiveness of her character, her gentleness, her mournful

resignation, the patience with which she suffered, could not for one

moment be misunderstood, and the contagion of sympathy, and of common

humanity, in the fate of a creature apparently more divine than human,

whose sorrow was read as if by intuition, spread through them with a

feeling of strong compassion that melted almost every I heart, and sent

the tears to every eye.

Her father approached her, and whispered to her, and caressed her, and

seemed playful and even light-hearted, as if the day were a day of

joy; but out strongly against his mirth stood the solemn spirit of her

sorrow; and when he went to bring over Dunroe, and when he took her

passive hand, in order to place it in his--the agony, the horror, with

which she submitted to the act, were expressed in a manner that made her

appear, as that which she actually was, the lovely but pitiable

victim of ambition. Alley Mahon's grief was loud; Lady Gourlay, Mrs.

Mainwaring, Lady Emily, all were in tears.

“I am proud to see this,” said Sir Thomas, bowing, as if he were bound

to thank them, and attempting, with his usual tact, to turn their very

sympathy into a hollow and untruthful compliment; “I am proud to see

this manifestation of strong attachment to my daughter; it is a proof of

how she is loved.”

Lucy had not once opened her lips. She had not strength to do so; her

very voice had abandoned her.

Two or three persons besides the baronet and the bridegroom felt a

deep interest in what was going forward, or about to go forward. Thomas

Gourlay now absolutely hated her; so did his mother; so did his uncle,

Thomas Corbet. Each and all of them felt anxious to have her married,

in order that she might be out of Tom's way, and that he might enjoy a

wider sphere of action. Old Anthony Corbet stood looking on, with his

thin lips compressed closely together, his keen eyes riveted on the

baronet, and an expression legible on every trace of his countenance,

such as might well have constituted him some fearful incarnation of

hatred and vengeance. Lady Gourlay was so completely engrossed by Lucy

that she did not notice Fenton, and the latter, from his position, could

see nothing of either the bride or the baronet, but their backs.

Lord Dunroe felt that his best course was to follow the advice of Sir

Thomas, which was, not to avail himself of his position with Lucy,

but to observe a respectful manner, and to avoid entering into any

conversation whatsoever with her, at least until after the ceremony

should be performed. He consequently kept his distance, with the

exception of receiving her passive hand, as we have shown, and

maintained a low and subdued conversation with Mr. Roberts. The only

person likely to interrupt the solemn feeling which prevailed was old

Sam, who had his handkerchief several times alternately to his nose and

eyes, and who looked about him with an indignant expression, that seemed

to say, “There's something wrong here--some one ought to speak; I wish

my boy would step forward. This, surely, is not the heart of man.”

At length the baronet approached Lucy, and seemed, by his action, as

well as his words, to ask her consent to something. Lucy looked at him,

but neither by her word nor gesture appeared to accede to or refuse his

request; and her father, after complacently bowing, as if to thank her

for her acquiescence, said,

“I think, Dr. Sombre, we require your services; the parties are

assembled and willing, and the ceremony had better take place.”

Thomas Corbet had been standing at a front window, and Alley Mahon, on

hearing the baronet's words, instantly changed her position to the front

of Lucy, as if she intended to make a spring between her and Dunroe, as

soon as the matter should come to a crisis.

In the meantime Dr. Sombre advanced with his book, and Lord Dunroe was

led over by Roberts to take his position opposite the bride, when a

noise of carriage-wheels was heard coming rapidly along, and stopping

as rapidly at the hall door. In an instant a knock that almost shook the

house, and certainly startled some of the females, among whom was the

unhappy bride herself, was heard at the hall door, and the next moment

Thomas Corbet hurried out of the room, as if to see who had arrived,

instantly followed by Gibson.

Dr. Sombre, who now stood with his finger between the leaves of his

book, where its frequent pressure had nearly obliterated the word

“obedience” in the marriage ceremony, said,

“My dear children, it is a custom of mine--and it is so because I

conceive it a duty--to give you a few preliminary words of advice, a

little homily, as it were, upon the nature of the duties into which you

are about to enter.”

This intimation was received with solemn silence, if we except the word

“Attention!” which proceeded in a respectful and earnest, but subdued

tone from old Sam. The Doctor looked about him a little startled, but

again proceeded,

“Marriage, my children, may be divided into three heads: first,

its duties; next, its rights; and lastly, its tribulations. I place

tribulations last, my children, because, if it were not for its

tribulations--”

“My good friend,” said Sir Thomas, with impatience, “we will spare you

the little homily you speak of, until after the ceremony. I dare say it

is designed for married life and married people; but as those for whose

especial advantage you are now about to give it are not man and wife

yet, I think you had better reserve it until you make them so. Proceed,

Doctor, if you please, with the ceremony.”

“I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir,” replied the Doctor; “I

shall be guided here only by Sir Thomas Gourlay himself, as father of

the bride.”

“Why, Doctor, what the deuce is the matter with you? Am not I Sir Thomas

Gourlay?”

The Doctor put up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking at him

more closely, exclaimed,

“Upon my word, and so you are. I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, but with

respect to this dejeuner--homily, I would say--its enunciation here is

exceedingly appropriate, and it is but short, and will not occupy more

than about half-an-hour, or three-quarters, which is only a brief space

when the happiness of a whole life is concerned. Well, my children, I

was speaking about this _dejuner_,” he proceeded; “the time, as I said,

will not occupy more than half-an-hour, or probably three-quarters;

and, indeed, if our whole life were as agreeably spent--I refer now

especially to married life--its tribulations would not--”

Here he was left once more in his tribulations, for as he uttered the

last word, Gibson returned, pronouncing in a distinct but respectful

voice, “The Earl of Cullamore;” and that nobleman, leaning upon the arm

of his confidential servant, Morty O'Flaherty, immediately entered the

room.

His venerable look, his feeble state of health, but, above all his

amiable character, well known as it was for everything that was

honorable and benevolent, produced the effect which might be expected.

All who were not standing, immediately rose up to do him reverence and

honor. He inclined his head in token of acknowledgment, but even before

the baronet had time to address him, he said,

“Sir Thomas Gourlay, has this marriage yet taken place?”

“No, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “and I am glad it has not. Your

lordship's presence is a sanction and an honor which, considering your

state of ill-health, is such as we must all duly appreciate. I am

delighted to see you here, my lord; allow me to help your lordship to a

seat.”

“I thank you, Sir Thomas,” replied his lordship; “but before I take a

seat, or before you proceed further in this business, I beg to have some

private conversation with you.”

“With infinite pleasure, my lord,” replied the baronet. “Dr. Sombre,

whilst his lordship and I are speaking, you may as well go on with the

ceremony. When it is necessary, call me, and I shall give the bride

away.”

“Dr. Sombre,” said his lordship, “do not proceed with the ceremony,

until I shall have spoken to Miss Gourlay's father. If it be necessary

that I should speak more plainly, I say, I forbid the banns. You will

not have to wait long, Doctor; but by no means proceed with the ceremony

until you shall have permission from Sir Thomas Gourlay.”

In general, any circumstance that tends to prevent a marriage, where all

the parties are assembled to witness it, and to enjoy the festivities

that attend it, is looked upon with a strong feeling of dissatisfaction.

Here, however, the case was different. Scarcely an individual among

them, with the exception of those who were interested in the event,

that did not feel a sense of relief at what had occurred in consequence

of the appearance of Lord Cullamore. Dunroe's face from that moment was

literally a sentence of guilt against himself. It became blank, haggard,

and of a ghastly white; while his hope of securing the rich and lovely

heiress died away within him. He resolved, however, to make a last

effort.

“Roberts,” said he, “go to Sombre, and whisper to him to proceed with

the ceremony. Get him to perform it, and you are sure of a certain

sister of mine, who I rather suspect is not indifferent to you.”

“I must decline to do so, my lord,” replied Roberts. “After what has

just occurred, I feel that it would not be honorable in me, neither

would it be respectful to your father. However I may esteem your sister,

my lord, and appreciate her virtues, yet I am but a poor ensign, as you

know, and not in a capacity to entertain any pretensions--”

“Well, then,” replied Dunroe, interrupting him, “bring that old dog

Sombre here, will you? I trust you will so far oblige me.”

Roberts complied with this; but the Doctor was equally firm.

“Doctor,” said his lordship, after urging several arguments, “you will

oblige Sir Thomas Gourlay very much, by having us married when they come

in. It's only a paltry matter of property, that Sir Thomas acceded to

this morning. Pray, proceed with the ceremony, Doctor, and make two

lovers happy.”

“The word of your honorable father,” replied the Doctor, “shall ever be

a law to me. He was always a most hospitable man; and, unless my bishop,

or the chief secretary, or, what is better still, the viceroy himself, I

do not know a nobleman more worthy of respect. No, my lord, there is not

in the peerage a nobleman who--gave better dinners.”

What with this effort on the part of Dunroe, and a variety of chat

that took place upon the subject of the interruption, at least

five-and-twenty minutes had elapsed, and the company began to feel

somewhat anxious and impatient, when Sir Thomas Gourlay entered; and,

gracious heaven, what a frightful change had taken place in him! Dismay,

despair, wretchedness, misery, distraction, frenzy, were all struggling

for expression in his countenance. He was followed by Lord Cullamore,

who, when about to proceed home, had changed his mind, and returned for

Lady Emily. He advanced, still supported by Morty, and approaching Lucy,

took her hand, and said,

“Miss Gourlay, you are saved; and I thank God that I was made the

instrument of rescuing you from wretchedness and despair, for I read

both in your face. And now,” he proceeded, addressing the spectators,

“I beg it to be understood, that in the breaking off of this marriage,

there is no earthly blame, not a shadow of imputation to be attributed

to Miss Gourlay, who is all honor, and delicacy, and truth. Her father,

if left to himself, would not now permit her to become the wife of my

son; who, I am sorry to say, is utterly unworthy of her.”

“Attention!” once more was heard from the quarter in which old Sam

stood, as if bearing testimony to the truth of his lordship's assertion.

“John,” said the latter, “you may thank your friend, Mr. Norton, for

enabling me, within the last hour, to save this admirable girl from the

ruin which her union with you would have entailed upon her. You will now

know how to appreciate so faithful and honorable a friend.”

All that Dunroe must have felt, may be easily conceived by the reader.

The baronet, however, becomes the foremost figure in the group. The

strong, the cunning, the vehement, the overbearing, the plausible, the

unbelieving, the philosophical, and the cruel--these were the divided

streams, as it were, of his character, which all, however, united to

make up the dark and terrible current of his great ambition; great,

however, only as a passion and a moral impulse of action, but puny,

vile, and base in its true character and elements. Here, then, stood the

victim of his own creed, the baffled antagonist of God's providence, who

despised religion, and trampled upon its obligations; the man who strove

to make himself his own deity, his own priest, and who administered to

his guilty passions on the altar of a hardened and corrupted heart--here

he stood; now, struck, stunned, prostrated; whilst the veil which had

hitherto concealed the hideousness of his principles, was raised up,

as if by an awful hand, that he might know what it is for man to dash

himself against the bosses of the Almighty's buckler. His heart beat,

and his brain throbbed; all presence of mind, almost all consciousness,

abandoned him, and he only felt that the great object of his life was

lost--the great plan, to the completion of which he had devoted all his

energies, was annihilated. He imagined that the apartment was filled

with gloom and fire, and that the faces he saw about him were mocking at

him, and disclosing to each other in whispers the dreadful extent, the

unutterable depth of his despair and misery. He also felt a sickness

of heart, that was in itself difficult to contend with, and a weakness

about the knees that rendered it nearly impossible for him to stand. His

head, too, became light and giddy, and his brain reeled so much that

he tottered, and was obliged to sit, in order to prevent himself from

falling. All, however, was not to end here. This was but the first blow.

Lord Cullamore was now about to depart; for he, too, had become

exceedingly weak and exhausted, by the unusual exercise and agitation to

which he had exposed himself.

Old Anthony Corbet then stepped forward, and said,

“Don't go, my lord. There's strange things to come to light this day and

this hour, for this is the day and this is the hour of my vengeance.”

“I do not understand you,” replied his lordship; “I was scarcely equal

to the effort of coming here, and I feel myself very feeble.”

“Get his lordship some wine,” said the old man, addressing his son. “You

will be good enough to stop, my lord,” he proceeded, “for a short time.

You are a magistrate, and your presence here may be necessary.”

“Ha!” exclaimed his lordship, surprised at such language: “this may be

serious. Proceed, my friend: what disclosures have you to make?”

Old Corbet did not answer him, but turning round to the baronet, who

was not then in a capacity to hear or observe anything apart from the

terrible convulsions of agony he was suffering, he looked upon him, his

keen old eyes in a blaze, his lips open and their expression sharpened

by the derisive and satanic triumph that was legible in the demon sneer

which kept them apart.

“Thomas Gourlay!” he exclaimed in a sharp, piercing voice of authority

and conscious power, “Thomas Gourlay, rise up and stand forward, your

day of doom is come.”

“Who is it that has the insolence to call my father Thomas Gourlay under

this roof?” asked his son Thomas, alias Mr. Ambrose Gray. “Begone, old

man, you are mad.”

“Bastard and impostor!” readied Anthony, “you appear before your time.

Thomas Gourlay, did you hear me?”

By an effort--almost a superhuman effort--the baronet succeeded in

turning his attention to what was going forward.

“What is this?” he exclaimed; “is this a tumult? Who dares to stir up

a tumult in such a scene as this? Begone!” said he, addressing several

strangers, who appeared to take a deep interest in what was likely to

ensue. The house was his own, and, as a matter of course, every one left

the room with the exception of those immediately connected with both

families, and with the incidents of our story.

“Let no one go,” said Anthony, “that I appointed to come here.”

“What!” said Dunroe, after the strangers had gone, and with a look that

indicated his sense of the baronet's duplicity, “is this gentleman your

son?”

“My acknowledged son, sir,” replied the other.

“And, pray, were you aware of that this morning?”

“As clearly and distinctly as you were that you had no earthly claim to

the title which you bear, nor to the property of your father,” replied

the baronet, with a look that matched that of the other. There they

stood, face to face, each detected in his dishonor and iniquity, and

on that account disqualified to recriminate upon each other, for their

mutual perfidy.

“Corbet,” said the baronet, now recovering himself, “what is this?

Respect my house and family--respect my guests. Go home; I pardon

you this folly, because I see that you have been too liberal in your

potations this morning.”

“You mistake me, sir,” replied the adroit old man; “I am going to do you

a service. Call forward Thomas Gourlay.”

This considerably relieved the baronet, who took it for granted that it

was his son whom he had called in the first instance.

“What!” exclaimed Lord Cullamore, “is it possible, Sir Thomas, that you

have recovered your lost son?”

“It is, my lord,” replied the other. “Thomas, come over till I present

you to my dear friend Lord Cullamore.”

Young Gourlay advanced, and the earl was in the act of extending his

hand to him, when old Anthony interposed, by drawing it back.

“Stop, my lord,” said he; “that hand is the hand of a man of honor, but

you must not soil it by touchin' that of a bastard and impostor.”

“That is my son, my lord,” replied Sir Thomas, “and I acknowledge him as

such.”

“So you may, sir,” replied Corbet, “and so you ought; but I say that if

he is your son, he is also my grandson.”

“Corbet,” said his lordship, “you had better explain yourself. This, Sir

Thomas, is a matter very disagreeable to me, and which I should not wish

even to hear; but as it is possible that the interests of my dear friend

here. Lady Gourlay, may be involved in it, I think it my duty not to

go.”

“Her ladyship's interests are involved in it, my lord,” replied Corbet;

“and you are right to stay, if it was only for her sake. Now, my lady,”

he added, addressing her, “I see how you are sufferin', but I ask it as

a favor that you will keep yourself quiet, and let me go on.”

“Proceed, then,” said Lord Cullamore; “and do you, Lady Gourlay,

restrain your emotion, if you can.”

“Thomas Gourlay--I spake now to the father, my lord,” said Corbet.

“Sir Thomas Gourlay, sir!” said the baronet, haughtily and indignantly,

“Sir Thomas Gourlay!”

“Thomas Gourlay,” persisted Corbet, “it is now nineteen years, or

thereabouts, since you engaged me, myself--I am the man--to take away

the son of your brother, and you know the ordhers you gave me. I did so:

I got a mask, and took him away with me on the pretence of bringin' him

to see a puppet-show. Well, he disappeared, and your mind, I suppose,

was aisy. I tould you all was right, and every year from that to this

you have paid me a pension of fifty pounds.”

“The man is mad, my lord,” said Sir Thomas; “and, under all

circumstances, he makes himself out a villain.”

“I can perceive no evidence of madness, so far,” replied his lordship;

“proceed.”

“None but a villain would have served your purposes; but if I was

a villain, it wasn't to bear out your wishes, but to satisfy my own

revenge.”

“But what cause for revenge could you have had against him?” asked, his

lordship.

“What cause?” exclaimed the old man, whilst his countenance grew dark

as night, “what cause against the villain that seduced my daughter--that

brought disgrace and shame upon my family--that broke through the ties

of nature, which are always held sacred in our country, for she was his

own foster-sister, my lord, suckled at the same breasts, nursed in the

same arms, and fed and clothed and nourished by the same hand;--yes, my

lord, that brought shame and disgrace and madness, my lord--ay, madness

upon my child, that he deceived and corrupted, under a solemn oath of

marriage. Do you begin to undherstand me now, my lord?”

His lordship made no reply, but kept his eyes intently fixed upon him.

“Well, my lord, soon after the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's child,

his own went in the same way; and no search, no hunt, no attempt to get

him ever succeeded. He, any more than the other, could not be got. My

lord, it was I removed him. I saw far before me, and it was I removed

him; yes, Thomas Gourlay, it was I left you childless--at least of a

son.”

“You must yourself see, my lord,” said the baronet, “that--that--when is

this marriage to take place?--what is this?--I am quite confused; let

me see, let me see--yes, he is such a villain, my lord, that you must

perceive he is entitled to no credit--to none whatsoever.”

“Well, my lord,” proceeded Corbet.

“I think, my lord,” said Thomas Corbet, stepping forward, “that I ought

to acquaint your lordship with my father's infirmity. Of late, my lord,

he has been occasionally unsettled in his senses. I can prove this on

oath.”

“And if what he states be true,” replied his lordship, “I am not

surprised at it; it is only right we should hear him, however, as I

have already said, I can perceive no traces of insanity about him.”

“Ah, my lord,” replied the old man, “it would be well for him if he

could prove me mad, for then his nephew, the bastard, might have a

chance of succeeding to the Gourlay title, and the estates. But I must

go on. Well, my lord, after ten years or so, I came one day to Mr.

Gourlay--he was then called Sir Thomas--and I tould him that I had

relented, and couldn't do with his brother's son as I had promised, and

as he wished me. 'He is living,' said I, 'and I wish you would take him

undher your own care.' I won't wait to tell you the abuse I got from him

for not fulfillin' his wishes; but he felt he was in my power, and was

forced to continue my pension and keep himself quiet. Well, my lord,

I brought him the boy one night, undher the clouds of darkness, and we

conveyed him to a lunatic asylum.”

Here he was interrupted by something between a groan and a scream from

Lady Gourlay, who, however, endeavored immediately to restrain her

feelings.

“From that day to this, my lord, the cruelty he received, sometimes

in one madhouse and sometimes in another, sometimes in England and

sometimes in Ireland, it would be terrible to know. Everything that

could wear away life was attempted, and the instruments in that black

villain's hands were well paid for their cruelty. At length, my lord,

he escaped, and wandhered about till he settled down in the town of

Ballytrain. Thomas Gourlay--then Sir Thomas--had been away with his

family for two or three years in foreign parts, but when he went to his

seat, Red Hall, near that town, he wasn't long there till he found out

that the young man named Fenton--something unsettled, they said, in his

mind--was his brother's son, for the baronet had been informed of his

escape. Well, he got him once more into his clutches, and in the dead

hour of night, himself--you there, Thomas Gourlay--one of your villain

servants, by name Gillespie, and my own son--you that stand there,

Thomas Corbet--afther making the poor boy dead drunk, brought him off

to one of the mad-houses that he had been in before. He, Mr. Gourlay,

then--or Sir Thomas, if you like--went with them a part of the way.

Providence, my lord, is never asleep, however. The keeper of the last

mad-house was more of a devil than a man. The letter of the baronet was

written to the man that had been there before him, but he was dead, and

this villain took the boy and the money that had been sent with him, and

there he suffered what I am afraid he will never get the betther of.”

“But what became of Sir Thomas Gourlay's son?” asked his lordship; “and

where now is Lady Gourlay's?”

“They are both in this room, my lord. Now, Thomas Gourlay, I will

restore your son to you. Advance, Black Baronet,” said the old man,

walking over to Fenton, with a condensed tone of vengeance and triumph

in his voice and features, that filled all present with awe. “Come, now,

and look upon your own work--think, if it will comfort you, upon what

you made your own flesh and blood suffer. There he is, Black Baronet;

there is your son--dead!”

A sudden murmur and agitation took place as he pointed to Fenton; but

there was now something of command, nay, absolutely of grandeur, in his

revenge, as well as in his whole manner.

“Keep quiet, all of you,” he exclaimed, raising his arm with a spirit of

authority and power; “keep quiet, I say, and don't disturb the dead. I

am not done.”

“I must interrupt you a moment,” said Lord Dunroe. “I thought the

person--the unfortunate young man here--was the son of Sir Thomas's

brother?”

“And so did he,” replied Corbet; “but I will make the whole thing

simple at wanst. When he was big enough to be grown out of his father's

recollection, I brought back his own son to him as the son of his

brother. And while the black villain was huggin' himself with delight

that all the sufferings, and tortures, and hellish scourgings, and

chains, and cells, and darkness, and damp, and cruelty of all shapes,

were breakin' down the son of his brother to death--the heir that

stood between himself and his unlawful title, and his unlawful

property--instead of that, they were all inflicted upon his own lawfully

begotten son, who now lies there--dead!”

“What is the matter with Sir Thomas Gourlay?” said his lordship; “what

is wrong?”

Sir Thomas's conduct, whilst old Corbet was proceeding to detail these

frightful and harrowing developments, gave once or twice strong symptoms

of incoherency, more, indeed, by his action than his language. He

seized, for instance, the person next him, unfortunate Dr. Sombre, and

after squeezing his arm until it became too painful to bear, he ground

his teeth, looked into his face, and asked, “Do you think--would you

swear--that--that--ay--that there is a God?” Then, looking at Corbet,

and trying to recollect himself, he exclaimed, “Villain, demon,

devil;” and he then struck or rather throttled the Doctor, as he sat

beside him. They succeeded, however, in composing him, but his eyes were

expressive of such wildness and horror and blood-shot frenzy, that one

or two of them sat close to him, for the purpose of restraining his

tendency to violence.

Lady Gourlay, on hearing that Fenton was not her son, wept bitterly,

exclaiming, “Alas! I am twice made childless.” But Lucy, who had

awakened out of the deathlike stupor of misery which had oppressed her

all the morning, now became conscious of the terrible disclosures which

old Corbet was making; and on hearing that Fenton was, or rather

had been, her brother, she flew to him, and on looking at his pale,

handsome, but lifeless features, she threw her arms around him, kissed

his lips in an agony of sorrow, and exclaimed, “And is it thus we meet,

my brother! No word to recognize your sister? No glance of that eye,

that is closed forever, to welcome me to your heart? Oh! miserable fate,

my brother! We meet in death. You are now with our mother; and Lucy,

your sister, whom you never saw, will soon join you. You are gone! Your

wearied and broken spirit fled from disgrace and sorrow. Yes; I shall

soon meet you, where your lips will not be passive to the embraces of

a sister, and where your eyes will not be closed against those looks of

affection and tenderness which she was prepared to give you, but which

you could not receive. Ah, here there is no repugnance of the heart, as

there was in the other instance. Here are my blessed mother's features;

and nature tells me that you are--oh, distressing sight!--that you were

my brother.”

“Keep silence,” exclaimed Corbet, “you must hear me out. Thomas Gourlay,

there lies your son; I don't know what you may feel now that you know

he's your own--and well you know it;--but I know his sufferings gave you

very little trouble so long as you thought that he was the child of the

widow of your brother that was dead. Well now, my lord,” he proceeded,

“you might think I've had very good revenge upon Thomas Gourlay; but

there's more to come.”

“Attention!” from old Sam, in a voice that startled almost every one

present.

“Yes, my lord, I must fulfil my work. Stand forward, Sir Edward Gourlay.

Stand forward, and go to your affectionate mother's arms.”

“I fear the old man is unsettled, certainly,” said his lordship. “Sir

Edward Gourlay!--there is no Sir Edward Gourlay here.”

“Attention, Ned!” exclaimed old Sam, again taking the head of his cane

out of his mouth, where it had got a merciless mumbling for some time

past. “Attention, Ned! you're called, my boy.”

Old Corbet went over to Ensign Roberts, and taking him by the hand, led

him to Lady Gourlay, exclaiming, “There, my lady, is your son, and proud

you may be out of him. There is the real heir of the Gourlay name and

the Gourlay property. Look at him and his cousin, your niece, and see

how they resemble one another. Look at his father's features in

his face; but I have plenty of proof, full satisfaction to give you

besides.”

Lady Gourlay became pale as death. “Mysterious and just Providence,” she

exclaimed, “can this be true? But it is--it must--there are the features

of his departed father--his figure--his every look. He is mine!--he is

mine! My heart recognizes him. Oh, my son!--my child!--are you at length

restored to me?”

Young Roberts was all amazement. Whilst Lady Gourlay spoke, he looked

over at old Sam, whose son he actually believed himself to be (for the

fine old fellow had benevolently imposed on him), and seemed anxious to

know what this new parentage, now ascribed to him, could mean.

“All right, Ned! Corbet is good authority: but although I knew you were

not mine, I could never squeeze the truth out of him as to who your

father was. It's true, in spite of all he said, I had suspicions; but

what could I do?---I could prove nothing.”

We will not describe this restoration of the widow's son. Our readers

can easily conceive it, and, accordingly, to their imagination we will

leave it.

It was attended, however, by an incident which we cannot pass over

without some notice. Lady Emily, on witnessing the extraordinary turn

which had so providentially taken place in the fate and fortune of

her lover, was observed by Mrs. Mainwaring to grow very pale. A

consciousness of injury, which our readers will presently understand,

prevented her from offering assistance, but running over to Lucy, she

said, “I fear, Miss Gourlay, that Lady Emily is ill.”

Lucy, who was all tenderness, left her brother, over whom she had been

weeping, and flew to her assistance just in time to prevent her from

falling off her chair. She had swooned. Water, however, and essences,

and other appliances, soon restored her; and on recovering she cast her

eyes about the room as if to search for some one. Lady Gourlay had her

arm round her, and was chafing her temples at the time. Those lovely

fawn-like eyes of hers had not far to search. Roberts, now young Sir

Edward Gourlay, had been standing near, contemplating her beautiful

features, and deeply alarmed by her illness, when their eyes met; and,

to the surprise of Lucy Gourlay, a blush so modest, so beautiful, so

exquisite, but yet so legible in its expression, took place of the

paleness which had been there before. She looked up, saw the direction

of her son's eyes, then looked significantly at Lucy, and smiled. The

tell-tale blush, in fact, discovered the state of their hearts, and

never was a history of pure and innocent love more appropriately or

beautifully told.

This significant little episode did not last long; and when Lady Emily

found herself recovered, Thomas Corbet advanced, and said: “I don't know

what you mean, father, by saying that the young man who has just

died was Sir Thomas Gourlay's son. You know in your heart that

this”--pointing to his nephew--“is his true and legitimate heir. You

know, too, that his illegitimate son has been dead for years, and that I

myself saw him buried.”

“My lord, pay attention to what I'll speak,” said his father. “If the

bastard died, and if my son was at his burial, and saw him laid in the

grave, he can tell us where that grave is to be found, at least. His

father, however, will remember the tattooing.”

The unexpected nature of the question, and its direct bearing upon the

circumstance before them, baffled Thomas Corbet, who left the room,

affecting to be too indignant to reply.

“Now,” proceeded his father, “he knows he has stated a falsehood. I

have proof for every word I said, and for every circumstance. There's a

paper,” he added, “a pound note, that will prove one link in the chain,

for the very person's name that is written on it by the poor young man

himself, I have here. He can prove the mark on his neck, when in outlier

despair, the poor creature made an attempt on his own life with a piece

of glass. And what is more, I have the very clothes they both wore when

I took them away. In short, I have everything full and clear; but I did

not let either my son or daughter know of my exchangin' the childre',

and palmin' Thomas Gourlay's own son on him as the son of his brother.

That saicret I kept to myself, knowin' that I couldn't trust them. And

now, Thomas Gourlay,” he said, “my revenge is complete. There you stand,

a guilty and a disgraced man; and with all your wisdom, and wealth, and

power, what were you but a mere tool and puppet in my hands up to

this hour? There you stand, without a house that you can call your

own--stripped of your false title--of your false property--but not

altogether of your false character, for the world knew pretty well what

that was.”

Corbet's daughter then came forward, and laying her hand on the

baronet's shoulder, said, “Do you know me, Thomas Gourlay?”

“No,” replied the other, looking at her with fury; “you are a spectre;

I have seen you before; you appeared to me once, and your words were

false. Begone, you are a spectre--a spirit of evil.”

“I am the spirit of death to you,” she replied; “but my prophetic

announcement was true. I called you Thomas Gourlay then, and I call you

Thomas Gourlay now--for such is your name; and your false title is

gone. That young man there, named after you, is my son, and you are his

father--for I am Jacinta Corbet: so far my father's words are true; and

if it were not for his revenge, my son would have inherited your name,

title, and property. Here now I stand the victim of your treachery and

falsehood, which for years have driven me mad. But now the spirit of

the future is upon me; and I tell you, that I read frenzy, madness, and

death in your face. You have been guilty of great crimes, but you will

be guiltier of a greater and a darker still. I read that in your

coward spirit, for I know you well. I also am revenged, but I have been

punished; and my own sufferings have taught me to feel that I am still

a woman. I loved you once--I hated you long; but now I pity you. Yes,

Thomas Gourlay, she whom you drove to madness, and imposture, and

misery, for long years, can now look down upon you with pity!”

Having thus spoken, she left the room.

We may add here, in a few brief words, that the proof of the identity of

each of the two individuals in question was clearly, legally, and most

satisfactorily established; in addition to which, if farther certainty

had been wanting, Lady Gourlay at once knew her son by a very peculiar

mole on his neck, of a three-cornered shape, resembling a triangle.

The important events of the day, so deeply affecting Sir Thomas Gourlay

and his family, had been now brought to a close; all the strangers

withdrew, and Fenton's body was brought up stairs and laid out. Lady

Emily and her father went home together; so did Roberts, now Sir Edward

Gourlay, and his delighted and thankful mother. Her confidence in the

providence of God was at length amply rewarded, and the widow's heart at

last was indeed made to sing for joy.

“Well, Ned, my boy,” said old Sam, turning to Sir Edward, after having

been introduced to his mother, “I hope I haven't lost a son to-day,

although your mother gained one?”

“I would be unworthy of my good fortune, if you did,” replied Sir

Edward. “Whilst I have life and sense and memory I shall ever look upon

you as my father, and my best friend.”

“Eight,” replied the old soldier; “but I knew it was before you. He was

no everyday plant, my lady, and so I told my Beck. Your ladyship must

see my Beck,” he added; “she's the queen of wives, and I knew it

from the first day I married her; my heart told me so, and it was all

right--all the heart of man.”

The unfortunate old Doctor was to be pitied. He walked about with his

finger in his book, scarcely knowing whether what he had seen and

heard was a dream, or a reality. Seeing Lord Dunroe about to take his

departure, he approached him, and said, “Pray, sir, are we to have no

dejeuner after all? Are not you the young gentleman who was this day

found out--discovered?”

Dunroe was either so completely absorbed in the contemplation of his ill

fortune, that he did not hear him, or he would not deign him an answer.

“This is really too bad,” continued the Doctor; “neither a marriage fee

nor a dejeuner! Too bad, indeed! Here are the tribulations, but not the

marriage; under which melancholy circumstances I may as well go on my

way, although I cannot do it as I expected to have done--rejoicing. Good

morning, Mr. Stoker.”

Our readers ought to be sufficiently acquainted, we presume, with the

state of Lucy's feelings after the events of the day and the disclosures

that had been made. Sir Thomas Gourlay--we may as well call him so for

the short time he will be on the stage--stunned--crushed--wrecked--

ruined, was instantly obliged to go to bed. The shock sustained by his

system, both physically and mentally, was terrific in its character, and

fearful in its results. His incoherency almost amounted to frenzy. He

raved--he stormed--he cursed--he blasphemed; but amidst this dark tumult

of thought and passion, there might ever be observed the prevalence

of the monster evil--the failure of his ambition for his daughter's

elevation to the rank of a countess. Never, indeed, was there such a

tempest of human passion at work in a brain as raged in his.

“It's a falsehood, I didn't murder my son,” he raved; “or if I did, what

care I about that? I am a man of steel. My daughter--my daughter was my

thought. Well, Dunroe, all is right at last--eh? ha--ha--ha! I managed

it; but I knew my system was the right one. Lady Dunroe!--very good,

very good to begin with; but not what I wish to see, to hear, to feel

before I die. Nurse me, now, if I died without seeing her Countess

of Cullamore, but I'd break my heart. 'Make way, there--way for the

Countess of Cullamore!'--ha! does not that sound well? But then, the old

Earl! Curse him, what keeps him on the stage so long? Away with the

old carrion!--away with him! But what was that that happened to-day, or

yesterday? Misery, torture, perdition!--disgraced, undone, ruined! Is

it true, though? Is this joy? I expected--I feared something like

this. Will no one tell me what has happened? Here, Lucy--Countess of

Cullamore!--where are you? Now, Lucy, now--put your heel on them--grind

them, my girl--remember the cold and distrustful looks your father got

from the world--especially from those of your own sex--remember it all,

now, Lucy--Countess of Cullamore, I mean--remember it, I say, my lady,

for your father's sake. Now, my girl, for pride; now for the haughty

sneer; now for the aristocratic air of disdain; now for the day of

triumph over the mob of the great vulgar. And that fellow--that reverend

old shark who would eat any one of his Christian brethren, if they were

only sent up to him disguised as a turbot--the divine old lobster, for

his thin red nose is a perfect claw--the divine old lobster couldn't

tell me whether there was a God or not. Curse him, not he; but hold, I

must not be too severe upon him: his god is his belly, and mine was my

ambition. Oh, oh! what is this--what does it all mean? What has

happened to me? Oh, I am ill, I fear: perhaps I am mad. Is the Countess

there--the Countess of Cullamore, I mean?”

Many of his subsequent incoherencies were still more violent and

appalling, and sometimes he would have got up and committed acts of

outrage, if he had not been closely watched and restrained by force.

Whether his complaint was insanity or brain fever, or the one as

symptomatic of the other, even his medical attendants could scarcely

determine. At all events, whatever medical skill and domestic attention

could do for him was done, but with very little hopes of success.

The effect of the scene which the worn and invalid Earl had witnessed at

Sir Thomas Gourlay's were so exhausting to his weak frame that they left

very little strength behind them. Yet he complained of no particular

illness; all he felt was, an easy but general and certain decay of his

physical powers, leaving the mind and intellect strong and clear. On the

day following the scene in the baronet's house, we must present him to

the reader seated, as usual--for he could not be prevailed upon to keep

his bed--in his arm-chair, with the papers of the day before him. Near

him, on another seat, was Sir Edward Gourlay.

“Well, Sir Edward, the proofs, you say, have been all satisfactory.”

“Perfectly so, my lord,” replied the young baronet; “we did not allow

yesterday to close without making everything clear. We have this morning

had counsel's opinion upon it, and the proof is considered decisive.”

“But is Lady Emily herself aware of your attachment?”

“Why, my lord,” replied Sir Edward, blushing a little, “I may say I

think that--ahem!--she has, in some sort, given--a--ahem!--a kind of

consent that I should speak to your lordship on the subject.'

“My dear young friend,” said his lordship, whose voice became tremulous,

and whose face grew like the whitest ashes.

“Have you got ill, my lord?” asked Sir Edward, a good deal alarmed:

“shall I ring for assistance?”

“No,” replied his lordship; “no; I only wish to say that you know not

the extent of your own generosity in making this proposal.”

“Generosity, my lord! Your lordship will pardon me. In this case I have

all the honor to receive, and nothing to confer in exchange.”

“Hear me for a few minutes,” replied his lordship, “and after you shall

have heard me, you will then be able at least to understand whether the

proposal you make for my daughter's hand is a generous one or not. My

daughter, Sir Edward, is illegitimate.”

“Illegitimate, my lord!” replied the other, with an evident shock which

he could not conceal. “Great God! my lord, your words are impossible.”

“My young friend, they are both possible and true. Listen to me:

“In early life I loved a young lady of a decayed but respectable family.

I communicated our attachment to my friends, who pronounced me a fool,

and did not hesitate to attribute my affection for her to art on the

part of the lady, and intrigue on that of her relatives. I was at the

time deeply, almost irretrievably, embarrassed. Be this as it may, I

knew that the imputations against Maria, for such was her name, as well

as against her relatives, were utterly false; and as a proof I did so,

I followed her to France, where, indeed, I had first met her. Well, we

were privately married there; for, although young at the time, I was not

without a spirit of false pride and ambition, that tended to prevent me

from acknowledging my marriage, and encountering boldly, as I ought to

have done, the resentment of my relations and the sneers of the world.

Owing to this unmanly spirit on my part, our marriage, though strictly

correct and legal in every respect, was nevertheless a private one, as

I have said. In the meantime I had entered parliament, and it is not

for me to dwell upon the popularity with which my efforts there were

attended. I consequently lived a good deal apart from my wife, whom

I had not courage to present as such to the world. Every day now

established my success in the House of Commons, and increased my

ambition. The constitution of my wife had been naturally a delicate one,

and I understood, subsequently to our union, that there had been decline

in her family to such an extent, that nearly one-half of them had died

of it. In this way we lived for four years, having no issue. About the

commencement of the fifth my wife's health began to decline, and as that

session of parliament was a very busy and a very important one, I was

but little with her. Ever since the period of our marriage, she had been

attended by a faithful maid, indeed, rather a companion, well educated

and accomplished, named Norton, subsequently married to a cousin of her

own name. After a short visit to my wife, in whose constitution decline

had now set in, and whom I ought not to have left, I returned to

parliament, more than ever ambitious for distinction. I must do myself

the justice to say that I loved her tenderly; but at the same time I

felt disappointed at not having a family. On returning to London I found

that my brother, who had opposed all notion of my marriage with peculiar

bitterness, and never spoke of my wife with respect, was himself about

to be married to one of the most fascinating creatures on whom my eyes

ever rested; and, what was equally agreeable, she had an immense fortune

in her own right, and was, besides, of a high and distinguished family.

She was beautiful, she was rich--she was, alas! ambitious. Well, we

met, we conversed, we compared minds with each other; we sang together,

we danced together, until at length we began to feel that the absence of

the one caused an unusual depression in the other. I was said to be one

of the most eloquent commoners of the day--her family were powerful--my

wife was in a decline, and recovery hopeless. Here, then, was a career

for ambition; but that was not all. I was poor--embarrassed almost

beyond hope--on the very verge of ruin. Indeed, so poor, that it was as

much owing to the inability of maintaining my wife in her proper

rank, as to fear of my friends and the world, that I did not publicly

acknowledge her. But why dwell on this? I loved the woman whose heart

and thought had belonged to my brother--loved her to madness; and soon

perceived that the passion was mutual. I had not, however, breathed a

syllable of love, nor was it ever my intention to do so. My brother,

however, was gradually thrown off, treated with coldness, and ultimately

with disdain, while no one suspected the cause. It is painful to dwell

upon subsequent occurrences. My brother grew jealous, and, being a

high-spirited young man, released Lady Emily from her engagement. I was

mad with love; and this conduct, honorable and manly as it was in him,

occasioned an explanation between me and Lady Emily, in which, weak and

vacillating as I was, in the frenzy of the moment I disclosed, avowed my

passion, and--but why proceed? We loved each other, not 'wisely, but too

well.' My brother sought and obtained a foreign lucrative appointment,

and left the country in a state of mind which it is very difficult to

describe. He refused to see me on his departure, and I have never seen

him since.

“The human heart, my young friend, is a great mystery. I now attached

myself to Lady Emily, and was about to disclose my marriage to her; but

as the state of my wife's health was hopeless, I declined to do so, in

the expectation that a little time might set me free. My wife was then

living in a remote little village in the south of France; most of her

relatives were dead, and those who survived were at the time living in a

part of Connaught, Galway, to which any kind of intelligence, much less

foreign, seldom ever made its way. Now, I do not want to justify myself,

because I cannot do so. I said this moment that the human heart is a

great mystery. So it is. Whilst my passion for Lady Emily was literally

beyond all restraint, I nevertheless felt visitations of remorse

that were terrible. The image of my gentle Maria, sweet, contented,

affectionate, and uncomplaining, would sometimes come before me,

and--pardon me, my friend; I am very weak, but I will resume in a few

moments. Well, the struggle within me was great. I had a young duke as a

rival; but I was not only a rising man, but actually had a party in

the House of Commons. Her family, high and ambitious, were anxious to

procure my political support, and held out the prospect of a peerage. My

wife was dying; I loved Lady Emily; I was without offspring; I was

poor; I was ambitious. She was beautiful, of high family and powerful

connections; she was immensely rich, too, highly accomplished, and

enthusiastically attached to me. These were temptations.

“At this period it so fell out that a sister of my wife's became

governess in Lady Emily's family; but the latter were ignorant of the

connection. This alarmed me, frightened me; for I feared she would

disclose my marriage. I lost no time in bringing about a private

interview with her, in which I entreated her to keep the matter secret,

stating that a short time would enable me to bring her sister with eclat

into public life. I also prevailed upon her to give up her situation,

and furnished her with money for Maria, to whom I sent her, with

an assurance that my house should ever be her home, and that it

was contrary to my wishes ever to hear my wife's sister becoming a

governess; and this indeed was true. I also wrote to my wife, to the

effect that the pressure of my parliamentary duties would prevent me

from seeing her for a couple of months.

“In this position matters were for about a fortnight or three weeks,

when, at last, a letter reached me from my sister-in-law, giving a

detailed account of my wife's death, and stating that she and Miss

Norton were about to make a tour to Italy, for the purpose of acquiring

the language. This letter was a diabolical falsehood, Sir Edward; but it

accomplished its purpose. She had gleaned enough of intelligence in the

family, by observation and otherwise, to believe that my wife's death

alone would enable me, in a short time, to become united to Lady Emily;

and that if my marriage with her took place whilst her sister lived, I

believing her to be dead, she would punish me for what she considered my

neglect of her, and my unjustifiable attachment to another woman during

Maria's life. All communication ceased between us. My wife was unable

to write; but from what her sister stated to her, probably with

exaggerations, her pride prevented her from holding any correspondence

with a husband who refused to acknowledge his marriage with her, and

whose affections had been transferred to another. At all events, the

blow took effect. Believing her dead, and deeming myself at liberty, I

married Lady Emily, after a lapse of six months, exactly as many weeks

before the death of my first wife. Of course you perceive now, my

friend, that my last marriage was null and void; and that, hurried on by

the eager impulses of love and ambition, I did, without knowing it, an

act which has made my children illegitimate. It is true, my union with

Lady Emily was productive to me of great results. I was created an Irish

peer, in consequence of the support I gave to my wife's connections. The

next step was an earldom, with an English peerage, together with such

an accession of property in right of my wife, as made me rich beyond

my wishes. So far, you may say, I was a successful man; but the world

cannot judge of the heart, and its recollections. My second wife was

a virtuous woman, high, haughty, and correct; but notwithstanding our

early enthusiastic affection, the experiences of domestic life soon

taught us to feel, that, after all, our dispositions and tastes

were unsuitable. She was fond of show, of equipage, of fashionable

amusements, and that empty dissipation which constitutes, the substance

of aristocratic existence. I, on the contrary, when not engaged in

public life, with which I soon grew fatigued, was devoted to retirement,

to domestic enjoyment, and to the duties which devolved upon me as a

parent. I loved my children with the greatest tenderness, and applied

myself to the cultivation of their principles, and the progress of their

education. All, however, would not do. I was unhappy; unhappy, not

only in my present wife, but in the recollection of the gentle and

affectionate Maria. I now felt the full enormity of my crime against

that patient and angelic being. Her memory began to haunt me--her

virtues were ever in my thoughts; her quiet, uncomplaining submission,

her love, devotion, tenderness, all rose up in fearful array against

me, until I felt that the abiding principle of my existence was a deep

remorse, that ate its way into my happiness day by day, and has never

left me through my whole subsequent life. This, however, was attended

with some good, as it recalled me, in an especial manner, to the nobler

duties of humanity. I felt now that truth, and a high sense of honor,

could alone enable me to redeem the past, and atone for my conduct with

respect to Maria. But, above all, I felt that independence of mind,

self-restraint, and firmness of character, were virtues, principles,

what you will, without which man is but a cipher, a tool of others, or

the sport of circumstances.

“My second wife died of a cold, caught by going rather thinly dressed

to a fashionable party too soon after the birth of Emily; and my son,

having become the pet and spoiled child of his mother and her relatives,

soon became imbued with fashionable follies, which, despite of all my

care and vigilance, I am grieved to say, have degenerated into worse and

more indefensible principles. He had not reached the period of manhood

when he altogether threw off all regard for my control over him as a

father, and led a life since of which the less that is said the better.

“The facts connected with my second marriage have been so clearly

established that defence is hopeless. The registry of our marriage, and

of my first wife's death, have been laid before me, and Mrs. Mainwaring,

herself, was ready to substantiate and prove them by her personal

testimony. My own counsel, able and eminent men as they are, have

dissuaded me from bringing the matter to a trial, and thus making public

the disgrace which must attach to my children. You now understand,

Sir Edward, the full extent of your generosity in proposing for my

daughter's hand, and you also understand the nature of my private

communication yesterday with your uncle.”

“But, my lord, how did your brother become aware of the circumstances

you have just mentioned?”

“Through Mrs. Mainwaring, who thought it unjust that a profligate should

inherit so much property, with so bad a title to it, whilst there were

virtuous and honorable men to claim it justly; such are the words of a

note on the subject which I have received from her this very morning.

Thus it is that vice often punishes itself. Now, Sir Edward, I am ready

to hear you.”

“My lord,” replied Sir Edward, “the case is so peculiar, so completely

out of the common course, that, morally speaking, I cannot look upon

your children as illegitimate. I have besides great doubts whether the

prejudice of the world, or its pride, which visits upon the head of the

innocent child the error, or crime if you will, of the guilty parent,

ought to be admitted as a principle of action in life.”

“Yes,” replied the earl; “but on the other hand, to forbid it altogether

might tend to relax some of the best principles in man and woman. Vice

must frequently be followed up for punishment even to its consequences

as well as its immediate acts, otherwise virtue were little better than

a name. For this, however, there is a remedy--an act of parliament must

be procured to legitimatize my children. I shall take care of that,

although I may not live to see it,” *

* This was done, and the circumstance is still remembered by

many persons in the north of Ireland.

“Be that as it may, my lord, I cannot but think that in the eye of

religion and morality your children are certainly legitimate; all that

is against them being a point of law. For my part, I earnestly beg to

renew my proposal for the hand of Lady Emily.”

“Then, Sir Edward, you do not feel yourself deterred by anything I have

stated?”

“My lord, I love Lady Emily for her own sake--and for her own sake

only.”

“Then,” replied her father, “bring her here. I feel very weak--I am

getting heavy. Yesterday's disclosures gave me a shock which I fear

will--but I trust I am prepared--go--remember, however, that my darling

child knows nothing of what I have mentioned to you--Dunroe does. I had

not courage to tell her that she has been placed by her father's pride,

by his ambition, and by his want of moral restraint, out of the pale of

life. Go, and fetch her here.”

That they approached him with exulting hearts--that he joined their

hands, and blessed them--is all that is necessary to be mentioned now.

In the course of that evening, a reverend dignitary of the church, Dean

Palmer, whom we have mentioned occasionally in this narrative, and a

very different man indeed from our friend Dr. Sombre, called at Sir

Thomas Goulray's to inquire after his health, and to see Miss Gourlay.

He was shown up to the drawing room, where Lucy, very weak, but still

relieved from the great evil which she had dreaded so much, soon joined

him.

“Miss Gourlay,” said he, “I trust your father is better?”

“He is better, sir, in mere bodily health. The cupping, and blistering,

and loss of blood from the arms, have relieved him, and his delirium has

nearly passed away; but, then, he is silent and gloomy, and depressed,

it would seem, beyond the reach of hope or consolation.”

“Do you think he would see me?”

“No, sir, he would not,” she replied. “Two or three clergymen have

called for that purpose; but the very mention of them threw him into a

state almost bordering on frenzy.”

“Under these circumstances,” replied the good Dean, “it would be wrong

to press him. When he has somewhat recovered, I hope he may be prevailed

on to raise his thoughts to a better life than this. And now, my dear

young lady, I have a favor to request at your hands.”

“At mine, sir! If there is any thing within my power--”

“This is, I assure you.”

“Pray, what is it, sir?”

“Would you so far oblige me as to receive a visit from Lord Dunroe?”

“In any other thing within the limits of my power, sir--in anything that

ought to be asked of me--I would feel great pleasure in obliging you;

but in this you must excuse me.”

“I saw Lord Cullamore in the early part of the day,” replied Dean

Palmer, “and he told me to say, that it was his wish you should see him;

he added, that he felt it was a last request.”

“I shall see him,” replied the generous girl, “instantly; for his

lordship's sake I shall see him, although I cannot conceive for what

purpose Lord Dunroe can wish it.”

“It is sufficient, Miss Gourlay, that you consent to see him. He is

below in my carriage; shall I bring him up?”

“Do so, sir. I am going to prevail, if I can, on papa, to take a

composing draught, which the doctors have ordered him. I shall return

again in a few minutes.”

Sir Thomas Gourlay had got up some hours before, and was seated in an

armchair as she entered.

“How do you feel now, papa?” she asked, with the utmost affection and

tenderness; “oh, do not be depressed; through all changes of life your

Lucy's affections will be with you.”

“Lucy,” said he, “come and kiss me.”

In a moment her arms were about his neck, and she whispered

encouragingly, whilst caressing him, “Papa, now that I have not been

thrust down that fearful abyss, believe me, we shall be very happy yet.”

He gave her a long look; then shook his head, but did not speak.

“Endeavor to keep up your spirits, dearest papa; you seem depressed,

but that is natural after what you have suffered. Will you take the

composing draught? It will relieve you.”

“I believe it will, but I cannot take it from your hand; and he kept his

eyes fixed upon her with a melancholy gaze as he spoke.

“And why not from mine, papa? Surely you would not change your mind now.

You have taken all your medicine from me, up to this moment.”

“I will take it myself, presently, Lucy.”

“Will you promise me, papa?” she said, endeavoring to smile.

“Yes, Lucy, I promise you.”

“But, papa, I had forgotten to say that Lord Dunroe has called to ask an

interview with me. He and Dean Palmer are now in the drawing-room.”

“Have you seen him?” asked her father.

“Not yet, papa.”

“Will you see him?”

“Lord Cullamore sent the Dean to me to say, that it was his earnest

request I should--his last.”

“His last! Lucy. Well, then, see him--there is a great deal due to a

last request.”

“Oh, yes, I shall see him. Well, good-by, papa. Remember now that you

take the composing draught; I shall return to you after I have seen Lord

Dunroe.”

She was closing the door, when he recalled her. “Lucy,” said he, “come

here.”

“Well, papa; well, dearest papa?”

“Kiss me again,” said he.

She stooped as before, and putting her arms about his neck, kissed him

like a child. He took her hand in his, and looked on her with the same

long earnest look, and putting it to his lips, kissed it; and as he did,

Lucy felt a tear fall upon it. “Lucy,” said he, “I have one word to say

to you.”

Lucy was already in tears; that one little drop--the symptom of an

emotion she had never witnessed before--and she trusted the forerunner

of a softened and repentant heart, had already melted hers.

“Lucy,” he said, “forgive me.”

The floodgates of her heart and of her eyes were opened at once. She

threw herself on his bosom; she kissed him, and wept long and loudly.

He, in the meantime, had regained the dread composure, that death-like

calmness, into which he had passed from his frenzy.

“Forgive you, papa? I do--I do, a thousand times; but I have nothing

to forgive. Do I not know that all your plans and purposes were for my

advancement, and, as you hoped, for my happiness?”

“Lucy,” said he, “disgrace is hard to bear; but still I would have borne

it had my great object in that advancement been accomplished; but now,

here is the disgrace, yet the object lost forever. Then, my son, Lucy--I

am his murderer; but I knew it not; and even that I could get over; but

you, that is what prostrates me. And, again, to have been the puppet of

that old villain! Even that, however, I could bear; yes, everything but

you!--that was the great cast on which my whole heart was set; but now,

mocked, despised, detested, baffled, detected, defeated. However, it is

all over, like a troubled dream. Dry your eyes now,” he added, “and see

Dunroe.”

“Would you wish to see Dean Palmer, papa?”

“No, no, Lucy; not at all; he could do me no good. Go, now, and see

Dunroe, and do not let me be disturbed for an hour or two. You know I

have seen the body of my son to-day, and I wish I had not.”

“I am sorry you did, papa; it has depressed you very much.”

“Go, Lucy, go. In a couple of hours I--Go, dear; don't keep his lordship

waiting.”

Poor Lucy's heart was in a tumult of delight as she went down stairs.

In the whole course of her life she had never witnessed in her father

anything of tender emotion until then, and the tear that fell upon her

hand she knew was the only one she ever saw him shed.

“I have hope for papa yet,” she said to herself, as she was about to

enter the drawing-room; “I never thought I loved him so much as I find I

do now.”

On advancing into the room, for an instant's time she seemed confused;

her confusion, however, soon became surprise--amazement, when Dean

Palmer, taking our friend the stranger by the hand, led him toward her,

exclaiming, “Allow me, Miss Gourlay, to have the honor of presenting to

you Lord Dunroe.”

“Lord Dunroe!” exclaimed Lucy, in her turn, looking aghast with

astonishment. “What is this, sir--what means this, gentlemen? This

house, pray recollect, is a house of death and of suffering.”

“It is the truth, Miss Gourlay,” replied the Dean. “Here stands the

veritable Lord Dunroe, whose father is now the earl of Cullamore.”

“But, sir, I don't understand this.”

“It is very easily understood, however, Miss Gourlay. This gentleman's

father was the late Earl's brother; and he being now dead, his son here

inherits the title of Lord Dunroe.”

“But the late Earl's son?”

“Has no claim to the title, Miss Gourlay. His lordship here will give

you the particulars at leisure, and on a more befitting occasion. I saw

the late Earl to-day, not long before his death. He was calm, resigned,

and full of that Christian hope which makes the death of the righteous

so beautiful. He was not, indeed, without sorrow; but it was soothed by

his confidence in the mercy of God, and his belief in the necessity and

wisdom of sorrow and affliction to purify and exalt the heart.”

“And now, Lucy,” said the stranger--for so we shall call him

still--taking her hand in his, “I trust that all obstacles between our

union are removed at last. Our love has been strongly tested, and you

especially have suffered much. Your trust in Providence, however, like

that of Lady Gourlay, has not been in vain; and as for me, I learned

much, and I hope to learn more, from your great and noble example. I

concealed my name for many reasons: partly from delicacy to my uncle,

the late Earl, and his family; and I was partly forced to do it, in

consequence of an apprehension that I had killed a nobleman in a hasty

duel. He was not killed, however, thank God; nor was his wound so

dangerous as it looked at first; neither was I aware until afterwards

that the individual who forced me into it was my own cousin Dunroe. It

would have been very inconvenient to me to have been apprehended and

probably cast into prison at a time when I had so many interests to

look after; and, indeed, not the least of my motives was the fear

of precipitating your father's enmity against Lady Gourlay's son, by

discovering that I, who am her nephew, should have been seen about the

town of Ballytrain, where, when a boy, I had spent a good deal of my

early life. Had he known my name, he would have easily suspected my

object. Your mother was aware of my design in coming to Ireland; but as

I knew the risk of involving my uncle's children, and the good old man's

reputation besides, in a mesh of public scandal at a time when I did

not feel certain of being able to establish my claims, or rather my

father's, for I myself was indifferent to them, I resolved to keep

as quiet as possible, and not to disclose myself even to you until

necessity should compel me.”

Much more conversation ensued in connection with matters in which our

lovers felt more or less interest. At length the gentlemen rose to

go away, when Gillespie thrust a face of horror into the door, and

exclaimed, bolting, as he spoke, behind the Dean, “O, gentlemen, for

God's sake, save me! I'll confess and acknowledge everything.”

“What's the matter, Sir?” asked the Dean.

“The dead man, sir; he's sitting up in the bed; and I know what he's

come back for. You're a parson, sir, and, for heaven's sake, stand

between him and me.”

On proceeding to the room where the baronet's son had been laid out,

they found him sitting, certainly, on the bedside, wondering at the

habiliments of death which were about him. That which all had supposed

to have been death, was only a fit of catalepsy, brought on him by the

appearance of his father, who had, on more than one occasion, left a

terrible impress of himself upon his mind, and who, he had been informed

some years before, was the cause of all his sufferings. Even at the

sight of Lucy herself, he had been deeply agitated, although he could

not tell why. He was immediately attended to, a physician sent for,

and poor Lucy felt an elevation of heart and spirits which she had not

experienced for many a long day.

“Oh, do not go,” she said to her lover and the Dean, “until I

communicate to papa this twofold intelligence of delight; your strange

good fortune, and the resurrection, I may term it, of my brother. The

very object--the great engrossing object of papa's life and ambition

gained in so wonderful a way! Do, pray, gentlemen, remain for a few

minutes until I see him. O, what delight, what ecstasy will it not give

him!”

She accordingly went up stairs, slowly it is true, for she was weak;

and nothing further was heard except one wild and fearful scream, whose

sharp tones penetrated through the whole house.

“Ha!” exclaimed Lord Dunroe, “here is evil. Goodness me!--it is Miss

Gourlay's voice; I know it. Let us go up; I fear something is wrong with

her father.”

They accordingly sought the baronet's apartment, attended by the

servants, whom Lucy's wild scream had alarmed, and brought also toward

the same direction. On entering the room, the body of Lucy was found

lying beside, or rather across that of her father, whom, on removing

her, they found to be dead. Beside him lay a little phial, on which

there was no label, but the small portion of liquid that was found in

it was clear and colorless as water. It was prussic acid. Lucy was

immediately removed, and committed to the care of Alley Mahon and some

of the other females, and the body of the baronet was raised and placed

upon his own bed. The Dean and Lord Dunroe looked upon his lifeless but

stern features with a feeling of awe.

“Alas!” exclaimed the good Dean, “and is it thus he has gone to his

great account? We shall not follow his spirit into another life; but it

is miserable to reflect that one hour's patience might have saved him to

the world and to God, and showed him, after all, that the great object

of his life had been accomplished. Blind and impatient reasoner!--what

has he done?”

“Yes,” replied Dunroe, looking on him with a feeling of profound

melancholy; “there he lies--quiet enough now--the tumults of his strong

spirit are over forever. That terrible heart is still at last--that

fiery pulse will beat no more!”

We have now very little to state which our readers may not anticipate.

Lucy and Lady Emily, each made happy in the great object of woman's

heart--love, only exchanged residences.

Lucy's life was a long and bountiful blessing to her fellow-creatures.

Her feelings were never contracted within the narrow circle of her own

class, but embraced the great one of general humanity. She acted upon

the noble principle of receiving from God the ample gifts of wealth and

position, not for the purpose of wasting them in expensive and

selfish enjoyments, but for that of causing them to diffuse among her

fellow-creatures the greatest possible portion of happiness. This she

considered her high destination, and well and nobly she fulfilled it

in this, the great and true purpose of life, her husband and she went

heart-in-heart, hand-in-hand; nor were Sir Edward Gourlay, and his kind

and gentle Emily, far behind them in all their good-will and good works.

Lord Dunroe, having no strength of character to check his profligate

impulses, was, in the course of some years, thrown off by all his high

connections, and reduced to great indigence. Norton's notion of his

character was correct. The society of that treacherous sharper was

necessary to him, and in some time after they were reconciled. Norton

ultimately became driver of a celebrated mail-coach on the great York

road, and the other, its guard; thus resolving, as it would seem, to

keep the whip-hand of the weak and foolish nobleman in every position

of life. Several of our English readers may remember them, for they were

both remarkable characters, and great favorites with the public.

Dandy Dulcimer and Alley followed the example of their master and

mistress, and were amply provided for by their friends, with whom they

lived in confidential intimacy for the greater portion of their lives.

Thomas Corbet, his sister, and her son, disappeared; and it was supposed

that they went to America.

M'Bride, in a short time after the close of our narrative, took a relish

for foreign travel, and resolved to visit a certain bay of botanical

celebrity not far from the antipodes. That he might accomplish this

point with as little difficulty as possible, he asked a gentleman one

evening for the loan of his watch and purse; a circumstance which so

much tickled the fancy of a certain facetious judge of witty memory,

that, on hearing a full account of the transaction, he so far and

successfully interfered with the government as to get his expenses

during the journey defrayed by his Majesty himself. His last place of

residence in this country was a very magnificent one near Kilmainham,

where he led a private and secluded life, occasionally devoting' himself

to the progress of machinery in his hours of recreation, but uniformly

declining to take country exercise.

Poor Trailcudgel was restored to his farm; and Lucy's brother lived

with her for many years, won back by her affection and kindness to the

perfect use of his reason; and it was well known that her children, boys

and girls, were all very fond of Uncle Thomas.

Old Corbet took to devotion, became very religious, and lost in temper,

which was never good, as much as he seemed to gain by penitence. He died

suddenly from a fit of paralysis, brought on by the loss of a thirty

shilling note, which was stolen from his till by Mrs. M'Bride.

On the occasion of Lucy's marriage with her lover, Father M'Mahon,

who was invited to a double wedding--both Sir Edward and Dunroe being

married on the same day--rode all the way to Dublin upon Freney the

Robber, in order that his friend might see the new saddle upon Freney,

and the priest himself upon the new saddle. Mr. Briney was also of the

party, and never was his round rosy face and comic rolling eye more

replete with humor and enjoyment; and as a reward for his integrity, as

well as for the ability with which he assisted the stranger, we may as

well mention that he was made Law Agent to both properties--a recompense

which he well deserved. We need scarcely say that old Sam and Beck were

also there; that their healths were drunk, and that old Sam told them

how there was nothing more plain than that there never was such a wife

in existence as his Beck, and that Providence all through intended Ned

to be restored to his own--he, old Sam, always acting in this

instance as Adjutant under Providence. It was clear, he said--quite

evident--everything the work of Providence on the one hand, and on the

other, _“all the heart of man!”_