The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 70

"You remember, Sir Thomas--hem--you remember that unfortunate affair with my sister?"

Corbet's face became deadly pale as he spoke, and his voice grew, by degrees, hollow and husky; yet he was both calm and cool, as far, at least, as human observation could form a conjecture.

"Of course I do; it was a painful business; but the girl was a fool for losing her senses."

"Hear me, Sir Thomas. When her child died, you may remember my father sent me to you, as its parent, for the means of giving it decent interment. You cannot forget your words to me on that occasion. I confess I felt them myself as very offensive. What, then, must his mother have suffered--wild, unsettled, and laboring, as she was, under a desperate sense of the injury she had experienced at your hands?"

"But why have mentioned it to her?"

"I confess I was wrong there; but I did so to make her feel more severely the consequences of her own conduct. I did it more in anger to her than to you. My words, however, instead of producing violence or outrage on my sister, seemed to make her settle down into a fearful silence, which none of us could get her out of for several days. It struck us that her unfortunate malady had taken a new turn, and so it did."

"Well? Well? Well?"

"Soon after that, your son, Master Thomas, disappeared. You may understand me now: it was she who took him."

"Ah! the vindictive vagabond!" exclaimed the baronet.

"Have patience, Sir Thomas. She took your little boy with no kind intention toward him: her object was to leave you without a son; her object, in fact, was, at first, to murder him, in consequence of your want, as she thought, of all paternal affection for him she had just lost, and, in short, of your whole conduct toward her. The mother's instinct, however, proved stronger than her revenge. She could not take away the child's life for the thought of her own; but she privately placed him with an uncle of ours, a cla.s.sical hedge-school-master, in a remote part of the kingdom, with whom he lived under a feigned name, and from whom he received a good education."

"But where is he now?" asked the other. "How does he live? Why not bring him here?"

"He must first wait your pleasure, you know, Sir Thomas. He's in town, and has been in town for some time, a student in college."

"That's very good, indeed; we must have him out of college, though. Poor Lucy will go distracted with joy, to know that she has now a brother.

Bring him here, Corbet; but stop, stay--his appearance now--let me see--caution, Corbet--caution. We must look before us. Miss Gourlay, you know, is about to be married. Dunroe, I understand; he cares little or nothing personally about the girl--it is her fortune, but princ.i.p.ally her inheritance, he loves. It is true, he doesn't think that I even suspect this, much less feel certain of it. How does the young fellow look, though? Good looking--eh?"

"Exceedingly like his father, sir; as you will admit on seeing him."

"He must have changed considerably, then; for I remember he was supposed to bear a nearer resemblance to his mother and her family, the only thing which took him down a little in my affection. But hold; hang it, I am disturbed more than I have been this long time. What was I speaking of, Corbet? I forgot--by the way, I hope this is not a bad sign of my health."

"You were talking of Dunroe, sir, and Miss Gourlay's marriage."

"Oh, yes, so I was. Well--yes--here it is, Corbet--is it not possible that the appearance of this young man at this particular crisis--stepping in, as he does, between Dunroe and the very property his heart is set upon--might knock the thing to pieces? and there is all that I have had my heart set upon for years--that grand project of ambition for my daughter--gone to the winds, and she must put up with some rascally commoner, after all."

"It is certainly possible, sir; and, besides, every one knows that Lord Dunroe is needy, and wants money at present very much."

"In any event, Corbet, it is our best policy to keep this discovery a profound secret till after the marriage, when it can't affect Miss Gourlay, or Lady Dunroe as she will then be."

"Indeed, I agree with you, Sir Thomas; but, in the meantime, you had better see your son; he is impatient to come to you and his sister. It was only last night that the secret of his birth was made known to him."

"By what name does he go?"

"By the name of Ambrose Gray, sir; but I cannot tell you why my sister gave him such a name, nor where she got it. She was at the time very unsettled. Of late her reason has returned to her very much, thank G.o.d, although she has still touches of her unfortunate complaint; but they are slight, and are getting more so every time they come. I trust she will soon be quite well."

The baronet fixed his eye upon the speaker with peculiar steadiness.

"Corbet," said he, "you know you have lost a great deal of my confidence of late. The knowledge of certain transactions which reached that strange fellow who stopped in the Mitre, you were never able to account for."

"And never will, sir, I fear; I can make nothing of that."

"It must be between you and your father, then; and if I thought so--"

He paused, however, but feared to proceed with anything in the shape of a threat, feeling that, so far as the fate of poor Fenton was concerned, he still lay at their mercy.

"It may have been my father, Sir Thomas, and I am inclined to think it must, too, as there was no one else could. Our best plan, however, is to keep quiet and not provoke him. A very short time will put us out of his power. Fenton's account with this world is nearly settled."

"I wish, with all my heart, it was closed," observed the other; "it's a dreadful thing to feel that you are liable to every accident, and never beyond the reach of exposure. To me such a thing would be death."

"You need entertain no apprehension, Sir Thomas. The young man is safe, at last; he will never come to light, you may rest a.s.sured. But about your son--will you not see him?"

"Certainly; order the carriage, and fetch; him--quietly and as secretly as you can, observe--his sister must see him, too; and in order to prepare her, I must first see her. Go now, and lose no time about it."

"There is no necessity for a carriage, Sir Thomas; I can have him here in a quarter of an hour."

Sir Thomas went to the drawing-room with the expectation of finding Lucy there--a proof that the discovery of his son affected him very much, and deeply; for, in general his habit when he wanted to speak with her was to have her brought to the library, which was his favorite apartment.

She was not there, however, and without ringing, or making any further inquiries, he proceeded to an elegant little boudoir, formerly occupied by her mother and herself, before this insane persecution had rendered her life so wretched. The chief desire of her heart now was to look at and examine and contemplate every object that belonged to that mother, or in which she ever took an interest. On this account, she had of late selected this boudoir as her favorite apartment; and here, lying asleep upon a sofa, her cheek resting upon one arm, the baronet found her. He approached calmly, and with a more extraordinary combination of feelings than perhaps he had ever experienced in his life, looked upon her; and whether it was the unprotected helplessness of sleep, or the mournful impress of suffering and sorrow, that gave such a touching charm to her beauty, or whether it was the united influence of both, it is difficult to say; but the fact was, that for an instant he felt one touch of pity at his heart.

"She is evidently unhappy," thought he, as he contemplated her; "and that face, lovely as it is, has become the exponent of misery and distress. Goodness me! how wan she is! how pale! and how distinctly do those beautiful blue veins run through her white and death-like temples!

Perhaps, after all, I am wrong in urging on this marriage. But what can I do? I have no fixed principle from any source sufficiently authentic to guide me; no creed which I can believe. This life is everything to us; for what do we know, what can we know, of another? And yet, could it be that for my indifference to what is termed revealed truth, G.o.d Almighty is now making me the instrument of my own punishment? But how can I receive this doctrine? for here, before my eyes, is not the innocent suffering as much, if not more, than the guilty, even granting that I am so? And if I am perversely incredulous, is not here my son restored to me, as if to reward my unbelief? It is a mysterious maze, and I shall never get out of it; a curse to know that the most we can ever know is, that we know--nothing. Yet I will go on with this marriage. Pale as that brow is, I must see it encircled by the coronet of a countess; I must see her, as she ought to be, high in rank as she is in truth, in virtue, in true dignity. I shall force the world to make obeisance to her; and I shall teach her afterwards to despise it. She once said to me, 'And is it to gain the applause of a world you hate and despise, that you wish to exalt me to such a bawble?'--meaning the coronet. I replied, 'Yes, and for that very reason.' I shall not now disturb her."

He was about to leave the room, when he! noticed that her bosom began suddenly and rapidly to heave, as if by some strong and fearful agitation; and a series of close, pain-fed sobbings proceeded from her half-closed lips. This tumult went on for a little, when at length it was terminated by one long, wild scream, that might be supposed to proceed from the very agony of despair itself; and opening her eyes, she started up, her! face, if possible, paler than before, and her eyes filled as if with the terror of some horrible vision.

"No," she said, "the sacrifice is complete--I am your wife; but there is henceforth an eternal gulf between us, across which you shall never drag me."

On gazing about her with wild and disturbed looks, she paused for moment, and, seeing her father, she rose up, and with a countenance changed from its wildness to one in which was depicted an expression so woe-begone, so deplorable, so full of sorrow, that it was scarcely in human nature, hardened into the induration of the world's worst spirit, not to feel its irresistible influence. She then threw her arms imploringly and tenderly about his neck, and looking into his eyes as if she were supplicating for immortal salvation at his hands, she said, "Oh, papa, have compa.s.sion on me."

"What's the matter, Lucy? what's the matter, my love?"

But she only repeated the words, "Oh, papa, have pity on me! have mercy on me, papa! Save me from destruction--from despair--from madness!"

"You don't answer me, child. You have been dreaming, and are not properly awake."

Still, however, the arms--the beautiful arms--clung around his neck; and still the mournful supplication was repeated.

"Oh, papa, have pity upon me! Look at me! Am I not your daughter? Have mercy upon your daughter, papa!" And still she clung to him; and still those eyes, from which the tears now flowed in torrents, were imploring him, and gazing through his into the very soul within him; then she kissed his lips, and hung upon him as upon her last stay; and the soft but melting accents were again breathed mournfully and imploringly as before. "Oh, have pity upon me, beloved papa--have pity upon your child!"

"What do you mean, Lucy? what are you asking, my dear girl? I am willing to do anything I can to promote your happiness. What is it you want?"

"I fear to tell you, papa; but surely you understand me. Oh, relent! as you hope for heaven's mercy, pity me. I have, for your sake, undertaken too much. I have not strength to fulfil the task I imposed on myself. I will die; you will see me dead at your feet, and then your last one will be gone. You will be alone; and I should wish to live for your sake, papa. Look upon me! I am your only child--your only child--your last, as I said; and do not make your last and only one miserable--miserable--mad! Only have compa.s.sion on me, and release me from this engagement."

The baronet's eye brightened at the last two or three allusions, and he looked upon her with a benignity that filled her unhappy heart with hope.

"Oh, speak, papa," she exclaimed, "speak. I see, I feel that you are about to give me comfort--to fill my heart with joy."

"I am, indeed, Lucy. Listen to me, and restrain yourself. You are not my only child!"

"What!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean, papa? What is it?"

"Have strength and courage, Lucy; and, mark me, no noise nor rout about what I am going to say. Your brother is found--my son Thomas is found--and you will soon see him; he will be here presently. Get rid of this foolish dream you've had, and prepare to receive him!"