“Don't you undherstand, sir!” he replied, extending the digit once more
in the same direction, and with the same comic significance.

“She's safe, sir. Miss Gourlay--I have her.”

“How, you impudent scoundrel, what kind of language is this to apply to
Miss Gourlay?”

“Troth, an' I have her safe,” replied the pertinacious Dandy. “Safe as
a hare in her form; but it is for your honor I have her. Cousin! oh, the
divil a cousin has Dandy widin the four walls of Dublin town; but
well becomes me, I took a post-chaise, no less, and followed her hot
foot--never lost sight of her, even while you'd wink, till I seen her
housed.”

“Explain yourself, sirra.”

“Faith, sir, all the explanation I have to give you've got, barrin'
where she lives.”

The stranger instantly thought of Lucy's caution, and for the present
determined not to embarrass himself with a knowledge of her residence;
“lest,” as she said, “her father might demand from him whether he was
aware of it.” In that case he felt fully the truth and justness of her
injunctions. Should Sir Thomas put the question to him he could not
betray her, nor could he, on the other hand, stain his conscience by a
deliberate falsehood; for, in truth, he was the soul of honor itself.

“Harkee, Dandy,” said he, not in the slightest degree displeased with
him, although he affected to be so, “if you wish to remain in my service
keep the secret of Miss Gourlay's residence--a secret not only from
me, but from every human being that lives. You have taken a most
unwarrantable and impudent liberty in following her as you did. You know
not, sirra, how you may have implicated both her and me by such conduct,
especially the young lady. You are known to be in my service; although,
for certain reasons, I do not intend, for the present at least, to put
you into livery; and you ought to know, sir, also, that it will be taken
for granted that you acted by my orders. Now, sir, keep that secret to
yourself, and let it not pass your lips until I may think proper to ask
you for it.”

One evening, on the second day after this, he reached his hotel at six
o'clock, and was about to enter, when a young lad, dancing up to him,
asked in a whisper if that was for him, at the same time presenting a
note. The other, looking at it, saw that it was addressed to him only by
his initials.

“I think it is, my boy,” said he; “from whom did it come, do you know?”

The lad, instead of giving him any reply, took instantly to his heels,
as if he had been pursued for life and death, without even waiting to
solicit the gratuity which is usually expected on such occasions. Our
friend took it for granted that it had come from the fortune-teller,
Ginty Cooper; but on opening it he perceived at a glance that he must
have been mistaken, as the writing most certainty was not that of this
extraordinary sibyl. The hand in which she had written his name was
precisely such as one would expect from such a woman--rude and vulgar
--whereas, on the contrary, that in the note was elegant and lady-like.
The contents were as follows:

“Sir,--On receipt of this you will, if you wish to prosper in that which
you have undertaken to accomplish, hasten to Ballytrain, and secure the
person of a young man named Fenton, who lives in or about the town. You
will claim him as the lawful heir of the title and property of Red Hall,
for such in fact he is. Go then to Sir Thomas Gourlay, and ask him the
following questions:

“1st. Did he not one night, about sixteen years ago, engage a man who
was so ingeniously masked that the child neither perceived the mask, nor
knew the man's person, to lure, him from Red Hall, under the pretence of
bringing him to see a puppet show?

“2d. Did not Sir Thomas give instructions to this man to take him out of
his path, out of his sight, and out of his hearing?

“3d. Was not this man well rewarded by Sir Thomas for that act?

“There are other questions in connection with the affair that could he
put, but at present they would be unseasonable. The curtain of this dark
drama is beginning to rise; truth will, ere long, be vindicated, justice
rendered to the defrauded orphan, and guilt punished.

“A Lover of Justice.”

It is very difficult to describe the feelings with which the stranger
perused this welcome but mysterious document. To him, it was one of
great pleasure, and also of exceedingly great pain. Here was something
like a clew, to the discovery which he was so deeply interested in
making. But, then, at whose expense was this discovery to be made? He
was betrothed to Lucy Gourlay, and here he was compelled by a sense of
justice to drag her father forth to public exposure, as a criminal of
the deepest dye. What would Lucy say to this? What would she say to the
man who should entail the heavy ignominy with which a discovery of this
atrocious crime must blacken her father's name. He knew the high and
proud principles by which she was actuated, and he knew how deeply the
disgrace of a guilty parent would affect her sensitive spirit. Yet what
was he to do? Was the iniquity of this ambitious and bad man to deprive
the virtuous and benevolent woman--the friend of the poor and destitute,
the loving mother, the affectionate wife who had enshrined her departed
husband in the sorrowful recesses of her pure and virtuous heart, was
this coldblooded and cruel tyrant to work out his diabolical purposes
without any effort being made to check him in his career of guilt, or
to justify her pious trust in that God to whom she looked for protection
and justice? No, he knew Lucy too well; he knew that her extraordinary
sense of truth and honor would justify him in the steps he might be
forced to take, and that whatever might be the result, he at least was
the last man whom she could blame for rendering justice to the widow
of her father's brother. But, then again, what reliance could be placed
upon anonymous information--information which, after all, was but
limited and obscure? Yet it was evident that the writer--a female beyond
question--whoever she was, must be perfectly conversant with his motives
and his objects. And if in volunteering him directions how to proceed,
she had any purpose adversative to his, her note was without meaning.
Besides, she only reawakened the suspicion which he himself had
entertained with respect to Fenton. At all events, to act upon the hints
contained in the note, might lead to something capable of breaking the
hitherto impenetrable cloud under which this melancholy transaction lay;
and if it failed to do this, he (the stranger) could not possibly stand
worse in the estimation of Sir Thomas Gourlay than he did already. In
God's name, then, he would make the experiment; and in order to avoid
mail-coach adventures in future, he would post it back to Ballytrain as
quietly, and with as little observation as possible.

He accordingly ordered Dandy to make such slight preparations as
were necessary for their return to that town, and in the meantime he
determined to pay another visit to old Dunphy of Constitution Hill.

On arriving at the huckster's, he found him in the backroom, or parlor,
to which we have before alluded. The old man's manner was, he thought,
considerably changed for the better. He received him with more
complacency, and seemed as if he felt something like regret for the
harshness of his manner toward him during his first visit.

“Well, sir,” said he, “is it fair to ask you, how you have got on in
ferritin' out this black business?”

There are some words so completely low and offensive in their own
nature, that no matter how kind and honest the intention of the speaker
may be, they are certain to vex and annoy those to whom they are
applied.

“Ferreting out!” thought the stranger--“what does the old scoundrel
mean?” Yet, on second consideration, he could not for the soul of him
avoid admitting that, considering the nature of the task he was engaged
in, it was by no means an inappropriate illustration.

“No,” said he, “we have made no progress, but we still trust that you
will enable us to advance a step. I have already told you that we only
wish to come at the principals. Their mere instruments we overlook.
You seem to be a poor man--but listen to me--if you can give us any
assistance in this affair, you shall be an independent one during
the remainder of your life. Provided murder has not been committed I
guarantee perfect safety to any person who may have only acted under the
orders of a superior.”

“Take your time,” replied the old man, with a peculiar expression. “Did
you ever see a river?”

“Of course,” replied the other; “why do you ask?”

“Well, now, could you, or any livin' man, make the strame of that river
flow faster than its natural course?”

“Certainly not,” replied the stranger.

“Well, then--I'm an ould man and be advised by me--don't attempt to
hurry the course o' the river. Take things as they come. If there's a
man on this earth that's a livin' divil in flesh and blood, it's Sir
Thomas Gourlay, the Black Barrownight; and if there's a man livin' that
would go half way into hell to punish him, I'm that man. Now, sir, you
said, the last day you were here, that you were a gentleman and a man of
honor, and I believe you. So these words that have spoken to you about
him you will never mention them--you promise that?”

“Of course I can, and do. To what purpose should I mention them?”

“For your own sake, or, I should say, for the sake of the cause you are
engaged in, don't do it.”

The bitterness of expression which darkened the old man's features,
while he spoke of the Baronet, was perfectly diabolical, and threw him
back from the good opinion which the stranger was about to form of him,
notwithstanding his conduct on the previous day's visit.

“You don't appear to like Sir Thomas,” he said. “He is certainly no
favorite of yours.”

“Like him,” replied the old man, bitterly. “He is supposed to be the
best friend I have; but little you know the punishment he will get in
his heart, sowl, and spirit--little you know what he will be made to
suffer yet. Of course now you undherstand, that if I could help you,
as you say, to advance a single step in finding the right heir of
this property I would do it. As matthers stand now, however, I can do
nothing--but I'll tell you what I will do--I'll be on the lookout--I'll
ask, seek, and inquire from them that have been about him at the time
of the child's disappearance, and if I can get a single particle worth
mentionin' to you, you shall have it, if I could only know where a
letther would find you.”

The cunning, the sagacity, the indefinable twinkle that scintillated
from the small, piercing eyes, were too obvious to be overlooked. The
stranger instantly felt himself placed, as it were, upon his guard, and
he replied,

“It is possible that I may not be in town, and my address is uncertain;
but the moment you are in a capacity to communicate any information
that may be useful, go to the proper quarter--to Lady Gourlay herself. I
understand that a relation of yours lived and died in her service?”

“That's true,” said the man, “and a betther mistress never did God put
breath in, nor a betther masther than Sir Edward. Well, I will follow
your advice, but as for Sir Thomas--no matther, the time's comin'--the
river's flowin--and if there's a God in heaven, he will be punished
for all his misdeeds--for other things as well as takin' away the
child--that is, if he has taken him away. Now, sir, that's all I can say
to you at present--for I know nothing about this business. Who can tell,
however, but I may ferret out something? It won't be my heart, at any
rate, that will hinder me.”

There was nothing further now to detain the stranger in town. He
accordingly posted it at a rapid rate to Ballytrain, accompanied
by Dandy and his dulcimer, who, except during the evenings among
the servants in the hotel, had very little opportunity of creating a
sensation, as he thought he would have done as an amateur musician in
the metropolis.

“Musha, you're welcome back, sir,” said Pat Sharpe, on seeing the
stranger enter the Mitre; “troth, we were longin' for you, sir. And
where is herself, your honor?”

“Whom do you mean, Pat?” said the stranger, sharply.

Pat pointed with his thumb over his shoulder toward Red Hall. “Ah!” he
exclaimed, with a laugh, “by my soul I knew you'd manage it well. And
troth, I'll drink long life an' happiness an' a sweet honeymoon to yez
both, this very night, till the eyes stand in my head. Ah, thin, but she
is the darlin', God bless her!”

If a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, the stranger could
not have felt more astonishment; but that is not the
word--sorrow--agony--indignation.

“Gracious heaven!” he exclaimed, “what is this? what villanous calumny
has gone abroad?”

Here Dandy saw clearly that his master was in distress, and generously
resolved to step in to his assistance.

“Paudeen,” said he, “you know nothing about this business, my hurler.
You're a day before the fair. They're not married yet--but it's as
good--so hould your prate about it till the knot's tied--then trumpet it
through the town if you like.”

The stranger felt that to enter into an altercation with two such
persons would be perfect madness, and only make what now appeared to be
already too bad, much worse. He therefore said, very calmly,

“Pat, I assure you, that my journey to Dublin had nothing whatsoever to
do with Miss Gourlay's. The whole matter was accidental. I know nothing
about her; and if any unfortunate reports have gone abroad they are
unfounded, and do equal injustice to that lady and to me.”

“Divil a thing else, now, Paudeen,” said Dandy, with a face full of
most villanous mystery--that had runaway and elopement in every line
of it--and a tone of voice that would have shamed a couple-beggar--“bad
scran to the ha'p'orth happened. So don't be puttin' bad constructions
on things too soon. However, there's a good time comin', plaise God--so
now, Paudeen, behave yourself, can't you, and don't be vexin' the
masther.”

“Pat,” said the stranger, feeling that the best way to put an end to
this most painful conversation was to start a fresh topic, “will you
send for Fenton, and say I wish to see him?”

“Fenton, sir!--why, poor Mr. Fenton has been missed out of the town and
neighborhood ever since the night you and Miss Gour--I beg pardon--”

“Upon my soul, Paudeen,” said Dandy, “I'll knock you down if you say
that agin now, afther what the masther an' I said to you. Hang it, can't
you have discretion, and keep your tongue widin your teeth, on this
business at any rate?”

“Is not Fenton in town?” asked the stranger.

“No, sir; he has neither been seen nor heard of since that night, and
the people's beginin' to wonder what has become of him.”

Here was a disappointment; just at the moment when he had determined, by
seizing upon Fenton, with a view to claim him as the son of the late
Sir Edward Gourlay, and the legitimate heir of Red Hall, in order, if it
were legally possible, to bring about an investigation into the justice
of those claims, it turned out that, as if in anticipation of his
designs, the young man either voluntarily disappeared, or else was
spirited forcibly away. How to act now he felt himself completely at a
loss, but as two heads he knew were better than one, he resolved to see
Father M'Mahon, and ask his opinion and advice upon this strange and
mysterious occurrence. In the mean time, while he is on the way to visit
that amiable and benevolent priest, we shall so far gratify the reader
as to throw some light upon the unaccountable disappearance of the
unfortunate Fenton.

CHAPTER XVI.

Conception and Perpetration of a Diabolical Plot against Fenton.

Sir Thomas Gourlay was a man prompt and inexorable in following up
his resolutions. On the night of Lucy's flight from Red Hall, he had
concocted a plan which it was not his intention to put in execution for
a day or two, as he had by no means made up his mind in what manner to
proceed with it. On turning over the matter, however, a second time in
his thoughts, and comparing the information which he had received from
Crackenfudge respecting the stranger, and the allusion to the toothpick
manufacturer, he felt morally certain that Fenton was his brother's son,
and that by some means or other unknown to him he had escaped from the
asylum in which he had been placed, and by some unaccountable fatality
located himself in the town of Ballytrain, which, in fact, was a portion
of his inheritance.

“I am wrong,” thought he, “in deferring this project. There is not a
moment to be lost. Some chance incident, some early recollection, even
a sight of myself--for he saw me once or twice, to his cost--may awaken
feelings which, by some unlucky association, might lead to a discovery.
Curse on the cowardly scoundrel, Corbet, that did not take my hint, and
put him at once and forever out of my path, sight, and hearing. But
he had scruples, forsooth; and here now is the serpent unconsciously
crossing my path. This is the third time he has escaped and broken out
of bounds. Upon the two former I managed him myself, without a single
witness; and, but that I had lost my own child--and there is a mystery I
cannot penetrate--I would have--”

Here he rang the bell, and a servant entered.

“Send up Gillespie.”

The servant, as usual, bowed, and Gillespie entered.

“Gillespie, there is a young fellow in Ballytrain, named--Fenton, I
think?”

“Yes, your honor; he is half-mad, or whole mad, as a good many people
think.”

“I am told he is fond of liquor.”

“He is seldom sober, Sir Thomas.”

“Will you go into Ballytrain, and try to see him? But first see the
butler, and desire him, by my orders, to give you a bottle of whiskey. I
don't mean this moment, sirra,” he said, for Gillespie was proceeding to
take him instantly at his word.

“Listen, sir. See Fenton--lure him as quietly and secretly as you can
out of town--bring him into some remote nook--”

“Sir Thomas, I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Gillespie, getting pale; “if
you mean that I should--”

“Silence, sir,” replied the baronet, in his sternest and deepest voice;
“hear me; bring him, if you can, to some quiet place, where you will
both be free from observation; then produce your bottle and glass, and
ply him with liquor until you have him drunk.”

“It's very likely that I'll find him drunk as it is, sir; he is seldom
otherwise.”

“So much the better; you will have the less trouble. Well, when you have
him sufficiently drunk, bring him to the back gate of the garden, which
you will find unlocked; lodge him in the tool-house, ply him with more
liquor, until he becomes helpless. In the meantime, lock the back gate
after you--here is the key, which you can keep in your pocket. Having
left him in the tool-house--in a sufficiently helpless state, mark--lock
him in, put that key in your pocket, also; then get my travelling
carriage ready, put to the horses, and when all this is done, come to me
here; I shall then instruct you how and where to proceed. I shall also
accompany you myself to the town of ------, after which you shall take
a post-chaise, and proceed with this person to the place of his
destination. Let none of the servants see you; and remember we are not
to start from the garden gate until about twelve o'clock, or later.”

Gillespie promised compliance, and, in fact, undertook the business
with the greater alacrity, on hearing that there was to be a bottle of
whiskey in the case. As he was leaving the room, however, Sir
Thomas called him back, and said, with a frown which nobody could
misunderstand, “Harkee, Gillespie, keep yourself strictly sober, and--oh
yes, I had nearly forgotten it--try if there is a hard scar, as if left
by a wound, under his chin, to the left side; and if you find none, have
nothing to do with him. You understand, now, all I require of you?”

“Perfectly, your honor. But I may not be able to find this Fenton.”

“That won't be your own fault, you must only try another time, when
you may have better success. Observe, however, that if there is no scar
under the left side of his chin, you are to let him pass--he is not the
person in whom I feel interested, and whom I am determined to serve,
if I can--even against his wishes. He is, I believe, the son of an old
friend, and I will endeavor to have him restored to the perfect use of
his reason, if human skill can effect it.”

“That's very kind of you, Sir Thomas, and very few would do it,” replied
Gillespie, as he left the apartment, to fulfil his execrable mission.

Gillespie having put the bottle of strong spirits into his pocket,
wrapped a great coat about him, and, by a subsequent hint from Sir
Thomas, tied a large handkerchief across his face, in order the better
to conceal his features, and set out on his way to Ballytrain.

It may be remarked with truth, that the projects of crime are frequently
aided by those melancholy but felicitous contingencies, which, though
unexpected and unlooked for, are calculated to enable the criminal to
effect his wicked purposes with more facility and less risk. Gillespie,
on the occasion in question, not only met Fenton within a short distance
of the town, and in a lonely place, but also found him far advanced in a
state of intoxication.

“Is this Mr. Fenton?” said he. “How do you do, Mr. Fenton? A beautiful
night, sir.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the unfortunate young man; “it is Mr. Fenton, and
you are a gentleman. Some folks now take the liberty of calling me
Fenton, which is not only impudently familiar and ridiculous, but a
proof that they do not know how to address a gentleman.”

“You are leaving the town, it seems, Mr. Fenton?”

“Yes, there's a wake down in Killyfaddy, where there will be a
superfluity, sir, of fun; and I like to see fun and sorrow associated.
They harmonize, my friend--they concatenate.”

“Mr. Fenton,” proceeded Gillespie, “you are a young gentleman--”

“Yes, sir, that's the term. I am a gentleman. What can I do for you? I
have rare interest among the great and powerful.”

“I don't at all doubt it,” replied Gillespie; “but I was go in' to say,
sir, that you are a young gentleman that I have always respected very
highly.”

“Thanks, my friend, thanks.”

“If it wouldn't be takin' a liberty, I'd ask a favor of you.”

“Sir, you are a gentleman, and it should be granted. Name it.”

“The night, sir, although a fine enough night, is a little sharp, for
all that. Now, I happen to have a sup of as good liquor in my pocket as
ever went down the red lane, and if we could only get a quiet sheltering
spot, behind one of these ditches, we could try its pulse between us.”

“The project is good and hospitable,” replied poor Fenton, “and has my
full concurrence.”

“Well, then, sir,” said the other, “will you be so good as to come along
with me, and we'll make out some snug spot where I'll have the pleasure
of drinkin' your honor's health.”

“Good again,” replied the unlucky dupe; “upon my soul you're an
excellent fellow; Proceed, I attend you. The liquor's good, you say?”

“Betther was never drank, your honor.”

“Very well, sir, I believe you. We shall soon, however, put the truth of
that magnificent assertion to the test; and besides, sir, it will be an
honor for you to share your bottle with a gentleman.”

In a few minutes they reached a quiet little dell, by which there led a
private pathway, open only to the inmates of Red Hall when passing to or
from the town, and which formed an agreeable and easy shortcut when any
hurried message was necessary. This path came out upon an old road
which ran behind the garden, and joined the larger thoroughfare, about a
quarter of a mile beyond it.

In a sheltered little cul de sac, between two white-thorn hedges, they
took their seats; and Gillespie having pulled out his bottle and glass,
began to ply the luckless young man with the strong liquor. And an easy
task he found it; for Fenton resembled thousands, who, when the bounds
of moderation are once passed, know not when to restrain themselves.
It would be both painful and disagreeable to dwell upon the hellish
iniquity of this merciless and moral murder; it is enough to say
that, having reduced the young man to the precise condition which was
necessary for his purpose, this slavish and unprincipled ruffian, as
Delahunt did with his innocent victim, deliberately put his hand to his
throat, or, rather, to the left side of his neck, and there found beyond
all doubt a large welt, or cicatrice, precisely as had been described
by Sir Thomas. After the space of about two hours--for Gillespie was
anxious to prolong the time as much as possible--he assisted Fenton, now
unable to walk without support, and completely paralyzed in his organs
of speech, along the short and solitary path to the back gate of the
garden.. He opened it, dragged Fenton in like a dog whom he was about to
hang, but still the latter seemed disposed to make some unconscious and
instinctive resistance. It was to no purpose, however. The poor young
man was incapable of resistance, either by word or deed. In a short time
they reached the tool-house, where he threw Fenton on a heap of apples,
like a bag, and left him to lie in cold and darkness, as if he were
some noxious animal, whom it would be dangerous to set at large. He then
locked the door, put the key in his pocket, and went to acquaint the
baronet with the success of his mission.

The latter, on understanding from Gillespie that Fenton was not only
secured, but that his suspicions as to his identity were correct,
desired him to have the carriage ready in the course of about an hour.
He had already written a letter, containing a liberal enclosure, to the
person into whose merciless hands he was about to commit him. In the
meantime, it is impossible to describe the confused character of his
feelings--the tempest, the tornado of passions, that swept through his
dark and ambitious spirit.

“This is the third time,” he thought to himself, as he paced the room in
such a state of stormy agitation as reacted upon himself, and tilled
him with temporary alarm. His heart beat powerfully, his pulsations were
strong and rapid, and his brain felt burning and tumultuous.
Occasional giddiness also seized him, accompanied by weakness about the
knee-joints, and hoarseness in the throat. In fact, once or twice he
felt as if he were about to fall. In this state he hastily gulped down
two or three large glasses of Madeira, which was his favorite wine, and
he felt his system more intensely strung.

“That woman,” said he, alluding to Lady Gourlay, “has taken her revenge
by destroying my son. There can be no doubt of that. And what now
prevents me from crushing this viper forever? If my daughter were not
with me, it should be done; yes, I would do it silently and secretly,
ay, and surely, with my own hand. I would have blood for blood. What,
however, if the mur--if the act came to light! Then I must suffer;
my daughter is involved in my infamy, and all my dreams for her
aggrandizement come to worse than nothing. But I know not how it is, I
fear that girl. Her moral ascendency, as they call it, is so dreadful to
me, that I often feel as if I hated her. What right has she to subjugate
a spirit like mine, by the influence of her sense of honor and her
virtuous principles? or to school me to my face by her example? I am not
a man disposed to brook inferiority, yet she sometimes makes me feel as
if I were a monster. However, she is a fool, and talks of happiness as
if it were anything but a chimera or a dream. Is she herself happy? I
would be glad to see the mortal that is. Do her virtues make her happy?
No. Then where is the use of this boasted virtue, if it will not procure
that happiness after which all are so eager in pursuit, but which none
has ever yet attained? Was Christ, who is said to have been spotless,
happy? No; he was a man of sorrows. Away, then, with this cant of
virtue. It is a shadow, a deception; a thing, like religion, that has
no existence, but takes our senses, our interests, and our passions, and
works with them under its own mask. Yet why am I afraid of my daughter?
and why do I, in my heart, reverence her as a being so far superior to
myself? Why is it that I could murder--ay, murder--this worthless object
that thrust himself, or would thrust himself, or might thrust himself,
between me and the hereditary honors of my name, were it not that her
very presence, if I did it, would, I feel, overpower and paralyze me
with a sense of my guilt? Yet I struck her--I struck her; but her spirit
trampled mine in the dust--she humiliated me. Away! I am not like other
men. Yet for her sake this miserable wretch shall live. I will not
imbrue my hands in his blood, but shall place him where he will never
cross me more. It is one satisfaction to me, and security besides, that
he knows neither his real name nor lineage; and now he shall enter this
establishment under a new one. As for Lucy, she shall be Countess of
Cullamore, if she or I should die for it.”

He then swallowed another glass of wine, and was about to proceed to
the stables, when a gentle tap came to the door, and Gillespie presented
himself.

“All's ready, your honor.”

“Very well, Gillespie. I shall go with you to see that all is right,
In the course of a few minutes will you bring the carriage round to the
back gate? The horses are steady, and will remain there while we conduct
him down to it. Have you a dark lantern?”

“I have, your honor.”

Both then proceeded toward the stables. The baronet perceived that
everything was correct; and having seen Gillespie, who was his coachman,
mount the seat, he got into the carriage, and got out again at the door
of the tool-house, where poor Fenton lay. After unlocking the door, for
he had got the key from Gillespie, he entered, and cautiously turning
the light of the lantern in the proper direction, discovered his unhappy
victim, stretched cold and apparently lifeless.

Alas, what a melancholy picture lay before him! Stretched upon some
apples that were scattered over the floor, he found the unhappy young
man in a sleep that for the moment resembled the slumber of the dead.
His hat had fallen off, and on his pale and emaciated temples seemed
indeed to dwell the sharp impress of approaching death. It appeared,
nevertheless, that his rest had not been by any means unbroken, nor so
placid as it then appeared to be; for the baronet could observe that he
must have been weeping in his sleep, as his eyelids were surcharged with
tears that had not yet had time to dry. The veins in his temples were
blue, and as fine as silk; and over his whole countenance was spread
an expression of such hopeless sorrow and misery as was sufficient to
soften the hardest heart that ever beat in human bosom. One touch of
nature came over even that of the baronet. “No,” said he, “I could not
take his life. The family likeness is obvious, and the resemblance to
his cousin Lucy is too strong to permit me to shed his blood; but I
will secure him so that he shall never cross my path again. He will not,
however, cross it long,” he added to himself, after another pause, “for
the stamp of death is upon his face.”

Gillespie now entered, and seizing Fenton, dragged him up upon his legs,
the baronet in the meantime turning the light of |the lantern aside.
The poor fellow, being properly neither asleep nor awake, made no
resistance, and without any trouble they brought him down to the back
gate, putting him into the coach, Sir Thomas entering with him, and
immediately drove off, about half-past twelve at night, their victim
having fallen asleep again almost as soon as he entered the carriage.

The warmth of the carriage, and the comfort of its cushioned sides and
seat occasioned his sleep to become more natural and refreshing. The
consequence was, that he soon began to exhibit symptoms of awakening. At
first he groaned deeply, as if under the influence of physical pain, or
probably from the consciousness of some apprehension arising from the
experience of what he had already suffered. By and by the groan subsided
to a sigh, whose expression was so replete with misery and dread, that
it might well have touched and softened any heart. As yet, however, the
fumes of intoxication had not departed, and his language was so mingled
with the feeble delirium resulting from it, and the terrors arising from
the situation in which he felt himself placed, that it was not only wild
and melancholy by turns, but often scarcely intelligible. Still it was
evident that one great apprehension absorbed all his other thoughts and
sensations, and seemed, whilst it lasted, to bury him in the darkness of
despair.

“Hold!” he exclaimed; “where am I?--what is this? Let me see, or,
rather, let me feel where I am, for that is the more appropriate
expression, considering that I am in utter obscurity. What is this, I
ask again? Is my hospitable friend with me? he with whom I partook of
that delicious liquor under 'the greenwood-tree'?”

He then searched about, and in doing so his hands came necessarily in
contact with the bulky person of the baronet. “What!” he proceeded,
supposing still that it was Gillespie, “is this you, my friend?--but I
take that fact for granted. Sir, you are a gentleman, and know how to
address a gentleman with proper respect; but how is this, you have on
your hat? Sir, you forget yourself--uncover, and remember you are in my
presence.”

As he uttered the words, he seized the baronet's hat, tore it forcibly
off, and, in doing so, accidentally removed a mask which that worthy
gentleman had taken the precaution to assume, in order to prevent
himself from being recognized.

“Ha!” exclaimed Fenton, with something like a shriek--“a mask! Oh,
my God! This mysterious enemy is upon me! I am once more caught in his
toils! What have I done to deserve this persecution? I am innocent of
all offence--all guilt. My life has been one of horror and of suffering
indescribable, but not of crime; and although they say I am insane, I
know there is a God above who will render me justice, and my oppressor
justice, and who knows that I have given offence to none.

     There is a bird that sings alone--heigh ho!
     And every note is but a tone of woe.
     Heigh ho!”

The baronet grasped his wrist tightly with one hand--and both feeble and
attenuated was that poor wrist--the baronet, we say, grasped it, and in
an instant had regained possession of the mask, which he deliberately
replaced on his face, after which he seized the unfortunate young man
by the neck, and pressed it with such force as almost to occasion
suffocation. Still he (Sir Thomas) uttered not a syllable, a
circumstance which in the terrified mind of his unhappy victim caused
his position as well as that of his companion to assume a darker, and
consequently a more terrible mystery.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a low and trembling voice, “I know you now. You
are the stranger who came to stop in the 'Mitre.' Yes, you came down
to stop in the 'Mitre.' I know you by your strong grasp. I care not,
however, for your attempt to strangle me. I forgive you--I pardon you;
and I will tell you why--treat me as violently as you may--I feel that
there is goodness in your face, and mercy in your heart. But I did see
a face, one day, in the inn,” he added, in a voice that gradually became
quite frantic--“a face that was dark, damnable, and demoniac--oh, oh!
may God of heaven ever preserve me from seeing that face again!” he
exclaimed, shuddering wildly. “Open me up the shrouded graves, my
friend; I will call you so notwithstanding what has happened, for
I still think you are a gentleman; open me up, I say, the shrouded
graves--set me among the hideous dead, in all their ghastly and
loathsome putrefaction--lay me side by side with the sweltering carcass
of the gibbeted murderer--give me such a vision, and expose me to the
anger of the Almighty when raging in his vengeance; or, if there be a
pitch of horror still beyond this, then I say--mark me, my friend--then
I say, open me up all hell at full work--hissing, boiling, bubbling,
scalding, roasting, frying, scorching, blazing, burning, but
ever-consuming hell, sir, I say, in full operation--the whole dark and
penal machinery in full play--open it up--there they are--the yell,
the scream, the blasphemy, the shout, the torture, the laughter of
despair--with the pleasing consciousness that all this is to be eternal;
hark ye, sir, open me up a view of this aforesaid spectacle upon the
very brow of perdition, and having allowed me time to console myself
by a contemplation of it, fling me, soul and body, into the uttermost
depths of its howling tortures; do any or all of these things, sooner
than let me have a sight of that face again--it bears such a terrible
resemblance to that which blighted me.”

He then paused for a little, and seemed as if about to sink into a
calmer and more thoughtful mood--at least the baronet inferred as
much from his silence. The latter still declined to speak, for he felt
perfectly aware, from this incoherent outburst, that although Fenton had
seen him only two or three times, many years ago, when the unfortunate
young man was scarcely a boy, yet he had often heard his voice, and he
consequently avoided every possibility of giving the former a clew to
his identity. At length Fenton broke silence.

“What was I saying?” he asked. “Did I talk of that multitudinous limbo
called hell? Well, who knows, perhaps there may be a general jail
delivery there yet; but talking of the thing, I assure you, sir, I
feel a portion of its tortures. Like Dives--no, not like the rich and
hardened glutton--I resemble him in nothing but my sufferings. Oh! a
drink, a drink--water, water--my tongue, my mouth, my throat, my blood,
my brain, are all on fire?”

Oh, false ambition, to what mean and despicable resources, to what low
and unscrupulous precautions dost thou stoop in order to accomplish thy
selfish, dishonest, and heartless designs! The very gratification of
this expected thirst had been provided for and anticipated. As Fenton
spoke, the baronet took from one of the coach pockets a large flask of
spirits and water, which he instantly, but without speaking, placed in
the scorching wretch's hands, who without a moment's hesitation, put it
to his lips and emptied it at one long, luxurious draught.

“Thanks, friend,” he then exclaimed; “I have been agreeably mistaken in
you, I find. You are--you must be--no other than my worthy host of the
'Hedge.' Poor Dives! D--n the glutton; after all, I pity him, and would
fain hope that he has got relief by this time. As for Lazarus, I fear
that his condition in life was no better than it deserved. If he had
been a trump, now, and anxious to render good for evil, he would have
dropped a bottle of aquapura to the suffering glutton, for if worthy
Dives did nothing else, he fed the dogs that licked the old fellow's
sores. Fie, for shame, old Lazarus, d--n me, if I had you back again,
but we'd teach you sympathy for Dives; and how so, my friend of the
hawthorn--why, we'd send him to the poor-house,* or if that wouldn't do,
to the mad-house--to the mad-house. Oh, my God--my God! what is this?
Where are you bringing me, sir? but I know--I feel it--this destiny
that's over me!”

     * It is to be presumed, that Fenton speaks here from his
     English experience. We find no poor-houses at the time.

He again became silent for a time, but during the pause, we need
scarcely say, that the pernicious draught began to operate with the
desired effect.

“That mask,” he then added, as if speaking to himself, “bodes me nothing
but terror and persecution, and all this in a Christian country, where
there are religion and laws--at least, they say so--as for raypart, I
could never discover them. However, it matters not, let us clap a stout
heart to a steep brae, and we may jink them and blink them yet; that's
all.

     There was a little bird, a very little bird,
     And a very little bird was he;
     And he sang his little song all the summer day long,
     On a branch of the fair green-wood tree.
     Heigh ho!”

This little touch of melody, which he sang to a sweet and plaintive air,
seemed to produce a feeling of mournfulness and sorrow in his spirit,
for although the draught he had taken was progressing fast in its
operations upon his intellect, still it only assumed a new and
more affecting shape, and occasioned that singular form and ease of
expression which may be observed in many under the influence of similar
stimulants.

“Well,” he proceeded, “I will soon go home; that is one consolation!
There is a sickness, my friend, whoever you are, at my heart here, and
in what does that sickness consist? I will tell you--in the memory of
some beautiful dreams that I had when a child or little-boy: I remember
something about green fields, groves, dark mountains, and summer rivers
flowing sweetly by. This now, to be sure, is a feeling which but few can
understand. It is called homesickness, and assumes different aspects,
my worthy friend. Sometimes it is a yearning after immortality, which
absorbs and consumes the spirit, and then we die and go to enjoy that
which we have pined for. Now, my worthy mute friend, mark me, in my
case the malady is not so exalted. I only want my green fields, my
dark mountains, my early rivers, with liberty to tread them for a brief
space. There lies over them in my imagination--there does, my worthy and
most taciturn friend, upon my soul there does--a golden light so clear,
so pure, so full of happiness, that I question whether that of heaven
itself will surpass it in radiance. But now I am caged once more, and
will never see anything even like them again.”

The poor young man then wept for a couple of minutes, after which he
added, “Yes, sir, this is at once my malady and my hope. You see, then,
I am not worth a plot, nor would it be a high-minded or honorable act
for any gentleman to conspire against one who is nobody's enemy, but
appears to have all the world against him. Yes, and they thought when
I used to get into my silent moods that I was mad. No, but I was in
heaven, enjoying, as I said, my mountains, my rivers, and my green
fields. I was in heaven, I say, and walked in the light of heaven, for I
was a little boy once more, and saw its radiance upon them, as I used
to do long ago. But do you know what occurs to me this moment, most
taciturn?” He added, after a short pause, being moved, probably, by one
of those quick and capricious changes to which both the intoxicated and
insane are proverbially liable: “It strikes me, that you probably are
descended from the man in the iron mask--ha--ha--ha! Or stay, was there
ever such a thing in this benevolent and humane world of ours as a
man with an iron heart? If so, who knows, then, but you may date your
ancestry from him? Ay, right enough; we are in a coach, I think, and
going--going--going to--to--to--ah, where to? I know--oh, my God--we are
going to--to--to----” and here poor Fenton once more fell asleep, as was
evident by his deep but oppressive breathing.

Now the baronet, although he maintained a strict silence during their
journey, a silence which it was not his intention to break, made up
for this cautious taciturnity by thought and those reflections which
originated from his designs upon Fenton. He felt astonished, in the
first place, at the measures, whatever they might have been, by which
the other must have obtained means of escaping from the asylum to which
he had been committed with such strict injunctions as to his secure
custody. It occurred to him, therefore, that by an examination of his
pockets he might possibly ascertain some clew to this circumstance, and
as the man was not overburdened with much conscience or delicacy, he
came to the determination, as Fenton was once more dead asleep, to
search for and examine whatever papers he should find about him, if any.
For this purpose he ignited a match--such as they had in those days--and
with this match lit up a small dark lantern, the same to which we have
already alluded. Aided by its light, he examined the sleeping young
man's pockets, in which he felt very little, in the shape of either
money or papers, that could compensate him for this act of larceny. In
a breast-pocket, however, inside his waistcoat, he found pinned to the
lining a note--a pound note--on the back of which was jotted a brief
memorandum of the day on which it was written, and the person from
whom he had received it. To this was added a second memorandum, in the
following words: “Mem. This note may yet be useful to myself if I could
get a sincere friend that would find out the man whose name--Thomas
Skipton--is written here upon it. He is the man I want, for I know his
signature.”

No sooner had the baronet read these lines, than he examined the several
names on the note, and on coming to one which was underlined evidently
by the same ink that was used by Fenton in the memoranda, his eyes
gleamed with delight, and he waved it to and fro with a grim and hideous
triumph, such as the lurid light of his foul principles flashing through
such eyes, and animating such features as his, could only express.

“Unhappy wretch,” thought he, looking upon his unconscious victim, “it
is evident that you are doomed; this man is the only individual living
over whom I have no control, that could give any trace of you; neither
of the other two, for their own sakes, dare speak. Even fate is against
you; that fate which has consigned this beggarly representative of
wealth to my hands, through your own instrumentality. I now feel
confident; nay, I am certain that my projects will and must succeed.
The affairs of this world are regulated unquestionably by the immutable
decrees of destiny. What is to be will be; and I, in putting this
wretched, drunken, mad, and besotted being out of my way, am only an
instrument in the hands of that destiny myself. The blame then is not
mine, but that of the law which constrains--forces me to act the part I
am acting, a part which was allotted to me from the beginning; and this
reflection fills me with consolation.”

He then re-examined the note, put it into a particular fold of his
pocket-book which had before been empty, in order to keep it distinct,
and once more thrusting it into his pocket, buttoned it carefully up,
extinguished the lantern, and laid himself back in the corner of the
carriage, in which position he reclined, meditating upon the kind
partiality of destiny in his favor, the virtuous tendencies of his own
ambition, and the admirable, because successful, means by which he was
bringing them about.

In this manner they proceeded until they reached the entrance of the
next town, when the baronet desired Gillespie to stop. “Go forward,”
 said he, “and order a chaise and pair without delay. I think, however,
you will find them ready for you; and if Corbet is there, desire him to
return with you. He has already had his instructions. I am sick of this
work, Gillespie; and I assure you it is not for the son of a common
friend that I would forego my necessary rest, to sit at such an hour
with a person who is both mad and drunk. What is friendship, however,
if we neglect its duties? Care and medical skill may enable this
unfortunate young man to recover his reason, and take a respectable
position in the world yet. Go now and make no delay. I shall take charge
of this poor fellow and the horses until you return. But, mark me, my
name is not to be breathed to mortal, under a penalty that you will find
a dreadful one, should you incur it.”

“Never fear, your honor,” replied Gillespie; “I am not the man to betray
trust; and indeed, few gentlemen of your rank, as I said, would go so
far for the son of an auld friend. I'll lose no time, Sir Thomas.”
 Sir Thomas, we have had occasion to say more than once, was quick
and energetic in all his resolutions, and beyond doubt, the fact that
Gillespie found Corbet ready and expecting him on this occasion, fully
corroborates our opinion.

Indeed, it was his invariable habit, whenever he found that more than
one agent or instrument was necessary, to employ them, as far as was
possible, independently of each other. For instance, he had not at all
communicated to Gillespie the fact of his having engaged Corbet in the
matter, nor had the former any suspicion of it until he now received the
first hint from Sir Thomas himself. A chaise and pair in less than five
minutes drove gently, but with steady pace, back to the spot where
the baronet stood at the head of his horses, watching the doors of the
carriage on each side every quarter of a minute, lest by any possible
chance his victim might escape him. Of this, however, there was not the
slightest danger; poor Fenton's sleep, like that of almost all drunken
men, having had in it more of stupor than of ordinary and healthful
repose.

We have informed our readers that the baronet was not without a strong
tinge of superstition, notwithstanding his religious infidelity, and his
belief in the doctrine of fate and necessity. On finding himself alone
at that dead and dreary hour of the night--half-past two--standing
under a shady range of tall trees that met across the road, and gave a
character of extraordinary gloom and solitude to the place, he began to
experience that vague and undefined terror which steals over the mind
from an involuntary apprehension of the supernatural. A singular degree
of uneasiness came over him: he coughed, he hemmed, in order to break
the death-like stillness in which he stood. He patted the horses, he
rubbed his hand down their backs, but felt considerable surprise and
terror on finding that they both trembled, and seemed by their snorting
and tremors to partake of his own sensations. Under such terrors there
is nothing that extinguishes a man's courage so much as the review of
an ill-spent life, or the reproaches of an evil conscience. Sir Thomas
Gourlay could not see and feel, for the moment, the criminal iniquity
of his black and ungodly ambition, and the crimes into which it involved
him. Still, the consciousness of the flagitious project in which he was
engaged against the unoffending son of his brother, the influence of the
hour, and the solitude in which he stood, together with the operation
upon his mind of some unaccountable fear apart from that of personal
violence--all, when united, threw him into a commotion that resulted
from such a dread as intimated that something supernatural must be near
him. He was seized by a violent shaking of the limbs, the perspiration
burst from every pore; and as he patted the horses a second time for
relief, he again perceived that their terrors were increasing and
keeping pace with his own. At length, his hair fairly stood, and his
excitement was nearly as high as excitement of such a merely ideal
character could go, when he thought he heard a step--a heavy, solemn,
unearthly step--that sounded as if there was something denouncing and
judicial in the terrible emphasis with which it went to his heart, or
rather to his conscience. Without having the power to restrain himself,
he followed with his eyes this symbolical tread as it seemed to
approach the coach door on the side at which he stood. This was the more
surprising and frightful, as, although he heard the tramp, yet he could
for the moment see nothing in the shape of either figure or form,
from which he could resolve what he had heard into a natural sound.
At length, as he stood almost dissolved in terror, he thought that
an indistinct, or rather an unsubstantial figure stood at the
carriage-door, looked in for a moment, and then bent his glance at him,
with a severe and stem expression; after which, it began to rub out or
efface a certain portion of the armorial bearings, which he had added
to his heraldic coat in right of his wife. The noise of the chaise
approaching now reached his ears, and he turned as a relief to ascertain
if Gillespie and Corbet were near him. As far as he could judge, they
were about a couple of hundred yards off, and this discovery recalled
his departed courage; he turned his eyes once more to the carriage-door,
but to his infinite relief could perceive nothing. A soft, solemn,
mournful blast, however, somewhat like a low moan, amounting almost to
a wail, crept through the trees under which he stood; and after it had
subsided--whether it was fact or fancy cannot now be known--he thought
he heard the same step slowly, and, as it were with a kind of sorrowful
anger, retreating in the distance.

“If mortal spirit,” he exclaimed as they approached, “ever was permitted
to return to this earth, that form was the spirit of my mortal brother.
This, however,” he added, but only in thought, when they came up to him,
and after he had regained his confidence by their presence, “this is all
stuff--nothing but solitude and its associations acting upon the nerves;
thus enabling us, as we think, to see the very forms created only by our
fears, and which, apart from them, have no existence.”

The men and the chaise were now with him--Gillespie on horseback, that
is to say, he was to bring back the same animal on which Sir Thomas had
secretly despatched Corbet from Red Hall to the town of ------, for
the purpose of having the chaise ready, and conducting Fenton to his
ultimate destination. The poor young man's transfer from the carriage
to the chaise was quickly and easily effected. Several large flasks of
strong spirits and water were also transferred along with him.

“Now, Corbet,” observed Sir Thomas apart to him, “you have full
instructions how to act; and see that you carry them out to the letter.
You will find no difficulty in keeping this person in a state of
intoxication all the way. Go back to ------, engage old Bradbury to
drive the chaise, for, although deaf and stupid, he is an excellent
driver. Change the chaise and horses, however, as often as you can, so
as that it may be difficult, if not impossible, to trace the route you
take. Give Benson, who, after all, is the prince of mad doctors, the
enclosure which you have in the blank cover; and tell him, he shall have
an annuity to the same amount, whether this fellow lives or dies. Mark
me, Corbet--whether his charge lives or dies. Repeat these words to
him twice, as I have done to you. Above all things, let him keep him
safe--safe--safe. Remember, Corbet, that our family have been kind
friends to yours. I, therefore, have trusted you all along in this
matter, and calculate upon your confidence as a grateful and honest man,
as well as upon your implicit obedience to every order I have given you.
I myself shall drive home the carriage; and when we get near Red Hall,
Gillespie can ride forward, have his horse put up, and the stable and
coachhouse doors open, so that everything tomorrow morning may look as
if no such expedition had taken place.”

They then separated; Corbet to conduct poor Fenton to his dreary cell
in a mad-house, and Sir Thomas to seek that upon which, despite his most
ambitious projects, he had been doomed all his life to seek after in
vain--rest on an uneasy pillow.

CHAPTER XVII. A Scene in Jemmy Trailcudgel's

--Retributive Justice, or the Robber robbed.

In the days of which we write, travelling was a very different process
from what it is at present. Mail-coaches and chaises were the only
vehicles then in requisition, with the exception of the awkward gingles,
buggies, and other gear of that nondescript class which were peculiar
to the times, and principally confined to the metropolis. The result of
this was, that travellers, in consequence of the slow jog-trot motion
of those curious and inconvenient machines, were obliged, in order to
transact their business with something like due dispatch, to travel both
by night and day. In this case, as in others, the cause produced the
effect; or rather, we should say, the temptation occasioned the crime.
Highway-robbery was frequent; and many a worthy man--fat farmer and
wealthy commoner--was eased of his purse in despite of all his armed
precautions and the most sturdy resistance. The poorer classes, in every
part of the country, were, with scarcely an exception, the friends
of those depredators; by whom, it is true, they were aided against
oppression, and assisted in their destitution, as a compensation for
connivance and shelter whenever the executive authorities were in
pursuit of them. Most of these robberies, it is true, were the result of
a loose and disorganized state of society, and had their direct origin
from oppressive and unequal laws, badly or partially administered.
Robbery, therefore, in its general character, was caused, not so much
by poverty, as from a desperate hatred of those penal statutes which
operated for punishment but not for protection. Our readers may not feel
surprised, then, when we assure them that the burgler and highway-robber
looked upon this infamous habit as a kind of patriotic and political
profession, rather than a crime; and it is well known that within the
last century the sons of even decent farmers were bound apprentices to
this flagitious craft, especially to that of horse stealing, which was
then reduced to a system of most extraordinary ingenuity and address.
Still, there were many poor wretches who, sunk in the deepest
destitution, and contaminated by a habit which familiarity had deprived
in their eyes of much of its inherent enormity, scrupled not to relieve
their distresses by having recourse to the prevalent usage of the
country.

Having thrown out these few preparatory observations, we request our
readers to follow us to the wretched cabin of a man whose _nom de
guerre_ was that of Jemmy Trailcudgel--a name that was applied to him,
as the reader may see, in consequence of the peculiar manner in which he
carried the weapon aforesaid. Trailcudgel was a man of enormous personal
strength and surprising courage, and had distinguished himself as the
leader of many a party and faction fight in the neighboring fairs
and markets. He had been, not many years before, in tolerably good
circumstances, as a tenant under Sir Thomas Gourlay; and as that
gentleman had taken it into his head that his tenantry were bound, as
firmly as if there had been a clause to that effect in their leases,
to bear patiently and in respectful silence, the imperious and ribald
scurrility which in a state of resentment, he was in the habit of
pouring upon them, so did he lose few opportunities of making them feel,
for the most-trivial causes, all the irresponsible insolence of the
strong and vindictive tyrant. Now, Jemmy Trailcudgel was an honest man,
whom every one liked; but he was also a man of spirit, whom, in another
sense, most people feared. Among his family he was a perfect child
in affection and tenderness--loving, playful, and simple as one of
themselves. Yet this man, affectionate, brave, and honest, because he
could not submit in silence and without vindication, to the wanton
and overbearing violence of his landlord, was harassed by a series of
persecutions, under the pretended authority of law, until he and his
unhappy family were driven to beggary--almost to despair.

“Trailcudgel,” said Sir Thomas to him one day that he had sent for him
in a fury, “by what right and authority, sirra, did you dare to cut turf
on that part of the bog called Berwick's Bank?”

“Upon the right and authority of my lease, Sir Thomas,” replied
Trailcudgel; “and with great respect, sir, you had neither right nor
authority for settin' my bog, that I'm payin' you rent for, to another
tenant.”

The baronet grew black in the face, as he always did when in a passion,
and especially when replied to.

“You are a lying scoundrel, sirra,” continued the other; “the bog does
not belong to you, and I will set it to the devil if I like.”

“I know nobody so fit to be your tenant,” replied Trailcudgel. “But I
am no scoundrel, Sir Thomas,” added the independent fellow, “and there's
very few dare tell me so but yourself.”

“What, you villain! do you contradict me? do you bandy words and
looks with me?” asked the baronet, his rage deepening at Trailcudgel's
audacity in having replied at all.

“Villain!” returned his gigantic tenant, in a voice of thunder. “You
called me a scoundrel, sirra, and you have called me a villain, sirra,
now I tell you to your teeth, you're a liar--I am neither villain nor
scoundrel; but you're both; and if I hear another word of insolence
out of your foul and lying mouth, I'll thrash you as I would a shafe of
whate or oats.”

The black hue of the baronet's rage changed to a much modester tint;
he looked upon the face of the sturdy yeoman, now flushed with honest
resentment; he looked upon the eye that was kindled at once into an
expression of resolution and disdain; and turning on his toe, proceeded
at a pace by no means funereal to the steps of the hall-door, and having
ascended them, he turned round and said, in a very mild and quite a
gentlemanly tone,

“Oh, very well, Mr. Trailcudgel; very well, indeed. I have a memory, Mr.
Trailcudgel--I have a memory. Good morning!”

“Betther for you to have a heart,” replied Trailcudgel; “what you never
had.”

Having uttered these words he departed, conscious at the same time, from
his knowledge of his landlord's unrelenting malignity, that his own fate
was sealed, and his ruin accomplished. And he was right. In the course
of four years after their quarrel, Trailcudgel found himself, and his
numerous family, in the scene of destitution to which we are about to
conduct the indulgent reader.

We pray you, therefore, gentle reader, to imagine yourself in a small
cabin, where there are two beds--that is to say, two scanty portions of
damp straw, spread out thinly upon a still damper foot of earth, in a
portion of which the foot sinks when walking over it. The two beds--each
what is termed a shake down--have barely covering enough to preserve
the purposes of decency, but not to communicate the usual and necessary
warmth. In consequence of the limited area of the cabin floor they
are not far removed from each other. Upon a little three-legged stool,
between them, burns a dim rush candle, whose light is so exceedingly
feeble that it casts ghastly and death-like shadows over the whole
inside of the cabin. That family consists of nine persons, of whom five
are lying ill of fever, as the reader, from the nature of their bedding,
may have already anticipated--for we must observe here, that the
epidemic was rife at the time. Food of any description has not been
under that roof for more than twenty-four hours. They are all in bed
but one. A low murmur, that went to the heart of that one, with a noise
which seemed to it louder and more terrible than the deepest peal that
ever thundered through the firmament of heaven--a low murmur, we say, of
this description, arose from the beds, composed of those wailing sounds
that mingle together as they proceed from the lips of weakness, pain,
and famine, until they form that many-toned, incessant, and horrible
voice of multiplied misery, which falls upon the ear with the echoes of
the grave, and upon the heart as something wonderful in the accents of
God, or, as we may suppose the voice of the accusing angel to be, whilst
recording before His throne the official inhumanity of councils and
senates, who harden their hearts and shut their ears to “the cry of the
poor.”

Seated upon a second little stool was a man of huge stature, clothed,
if we can say I so, with rags, contemplating the misery around him, and
having no sounds to listen to but the low, ceaseless wail of pain
and suffering which we have described. His features, once manly and
handsome, are now sharp and hollow; his beard is grown; his lips are
white; and his eyes without I speculation, unless when lit up into
an occasional blaze of fire, that seemed to proceed as much from the
paroxysms of approaching insanity as from the terrible scene which
surrounds him, as well as from his own I wolfish desire for food.
His cheek bones project fearfully, and his large temples seem, by the
ghastly skin which is drawn tight about them, to remind one of those of
a skeleton, were it not that the image is made still more appalling by
the existence of life. Whilst in this position, motionless as a statue,
a voice from one of the beds called out “Jemmy,” with a tone so low and
feeble that to other ears it would probably not have been distinctly
audible. He went to the bedside, and taking the candle in his hand,
said, in a voice that had lost its strength but not its tenderness:

“Well, Mary dear?”

“Jemmy,” said she, for it was his wife who had called him, “my time has
come. I must lave you and them at last.”

“Thanks be to the Almighty,” he exclaimed, fervently; “and don't be
surprised, darlin' of my life, that I spake as I do. Ah, Mary dear,” he
proceeded, with, a wild and bitter manner, “I never thought that my love
for you would make me say such words, or wish to feel you torn out of my
breakin' heart; but I know how happy the change will be for you, as
well as the sufferers you are lavin' behind you. Death now is our only
consolation.”

“It cannot be that God, who knows the kind and affectionate heart you
have, an' ever had,” replied his dying wife, “will neglect you and them
long,”--but she answered with difficulty. “We were very happy,” she
proceeded, slowly, however, and with pain; “for, hard as the world was
of late upon us, still we had love and affection among ourselves; and
that, Jemmy, God in his goodness left us, blessed be his--his--holy
name--an' sure it was betther than all he took from us. I hope poor
Alley will recover; she's now nearly a girl, an' will be able to take
care of you and be a mother to the rest. I feel that my tongue's gettin'
wake; God bless you and them, an', above all, her--for she was our
darlin' an' our life, especially yours. Raise me up a little,” she
added, “till I take a last look at them before I go.” He did so, and
after casting her languid eyes mournfully over the wretched sleepers,
she added: “Well, God is good, but this is a bitther sight for a
mother's heart. Jemmy,” she proceeded, “I won't be long by myself in
heaven; some of them will be with me soon--an' oh, what a joyful meeting
will that be. But it's you I feel for most--it's you I'm loath to lave,
light of my heart. Howsomever, God's will be done still. He sees we
can't live here, an' He's takin' us to himself. Don't, darlin', don't
kiss me, for fraid you might catch this fav----”

She held his hand in hers during this brief and tender dialogue, but
on attempting to utter the last word he felt a gentle pressure, then
a slight relaxation, and on holding the candle closer to her emaciated
face--which still bore those dim traces of former beauty, that, in many
instances, neither sickness nor death can altogether obliterate--he
stooped and wildly kissed her now passive lips, exclaiming, in words
purposely low, that the other inmates of the cabin might not hear them:

“A million favers, my darlin' Mary, would not prevent me from kissin'
your lips, that will never more be opened with words of love and
kindness to my heart. Oh, Mary, Mary! little did I drame that it would
be in such a place, and in such a way, that you'd lave me and them.”

[Illustration: PAGE 409-- He stooped and wildly kissed her now passive
lips]

He had hardly spoken, when one of the little ones, awaking, said:

“Daddy, come here, an' see what ails Alley; she won't spake to me.”

“She's asleep, darlin', I suppose,” he replied; “don't spake so loud, or
you'll waken her.”

“Ay, but she's as could as any tiling,” continued the little one; “an'I
can't rise her arm to put it about me the way it used to be.”

Her father went over, and placing' the dim light close to her face, as
he had done to that of her mother, perceived at a glance, that when
the spirit of that affectionate mother--of that faithful wife--went to
happiness, she had one kindred soul there to welcome her.

The man, whom we need not name to the reader, now stood in the centre of
his “desolate hearth,” and it was indeed a fearful thing to contemplate
the change which the last few minutes had produced on his appearance.
His countenance ceased to manifest any expression of either grief or
sorrow; his brows became knit, and fell with savage and determined
gloom, not unmingled with fury, over his eyes, that now blazed like
coals of lire. His lips, too, became tight and firm, and were pressed
closely together, unconsciously and without effort. In this mood, we
say, he gazed about him, his heart smote with sorrow and affliction,
whilst it boiled with indignation and fury. “Thomas Gourlay,” he
exclaimed--“villain--oppressor--murdherer--devil--this is your work!
but I here entreat the Almighty God “--he droppe'd on his knees as he
spoke--“never to suffer you to lave this world till he taches you that
he can take vengeance for the poor.” Looking around him once more, he
lit a longer rushlight, and placed it in the little wooden candlestick,
which had a slit at the top, into which the rush was pressed. Proceeding
then to the lower corner of the cabin, he put up his hand to the top of
the side wall, from which he took down a large stick, or cudgel, having
a strong leathern thong in the upper part, within about six inches of
the top. Into this thong he thrust his hand, and twisting it round his
wrist, in order that no accident or chance blow might cause him to
lose his grip of it, he once more looked upon this scene of unexampled
wretchedness and sorrow, and pulling his old caubeen over his brow, left
the cabin.

It is altogether impossible to describe the storm of conflicting
passions and emotions that raged and jostled against each other within
him. Sorrow--a sense of relief--on behalf of those so dear to him,
who had been rescued from such misery; the love which he bore them
now awakened into tenfold affection and tenderness by their loss;
the uncertain fate of his other little brood, who were ill, but still
living; then the destitution--the want of all that could nourish
or sustain them--the furious ravenings of famine, which he himself
felt--and the black, hopeless, impenetrable future--all crowded, upon
his heart, swept through his frantic imagination, and produced those
maddening but unconscious impulses, under the influence of which great
crimes are frequently committed, almost before their perpetrator is
aware of his having committed them.

Trailcudgel, on leaving his cabin, cared not whither he went; but, by
one of those instincts which direct the savage to the peculiar haunts
where its prey may be expected, and guides the stupid drunkard to his
own particular dwelling, though unconscious even of his very existence
at the time--like either, or both, of these, he went on at as rapid
a pace as his weakness would permit, being quite ignorant of his
whereabouts until he felt himself on the great highway. He looked at
the sky now with an interest he had never felt before. The night
was exceedingly dark, but calm and warm. An odd star here and there
presented itself, and he felt glad at this, for it removed the monotony
of the darkness.

“There,” said he to himself, “is the place where Mary and Alley live
now. Up there, in heaven. I am glad of it; but still, how will I enther
the cabin, and not hear their voices? But the other poor creatures!
musn't I do something for them, or they will go too? Yes, yes,--but
whisht! what noise is that? Ha! a coach. Now for it. May God support me!
Here comes the battle for the little ones--for the poor weak hand that's
not able to carry the drink to its lips. Poor darlins! Yes, darlins,
your father is now goin' to fight your battle--to put himself, for your
sakes, against the laws of man, but not against the laws of nature that
God has put into my heart for my dying childre. Either the one funeral
will carry three corpses to the grave, or I will bring yez relief. It's
comin' near, and I'll stand undher this tree.”

In accordance with this resolution, he planted himself under a large
clump of trees where, like the famished tiger, he awaited the arrival of
the carriage. And, indeed, it is obvious that despair, and hunger, and
sorrow, had brought him down to the first elements of mere animal life;
and finding not by any process of reasoning or inference, but by the
agonizing pressure of stern reality, that the institutions of social
civilization were closed against him and his, he acted precisely as
a man would act in a natural and savage state, and who had never been
admitted to a participation in the common rights of humanity--we mean,
the right to live honestly, when willing and able to contribute his
share of labor and industry to the common stock.

Let not our readers mistake us. We are not defending the crime of
robbery, neither would we rashly palliate it, although there are
instances of it which deserve not only palliation, but pardon. We
are only describing the principles upon which this man acted, and,
considering his motives, we question whether this peculiar act,
originating as it did in the noblest virtues and affections of our
nature, was not rather an act of heroism than of robbery. This point,
however, we leave to metaphysicians, and return to our narrative.

The night, as we said, was dark, and the carriage in question was
proceeding at that slow and steady pace which was necessary to insure
safety. Sir Thomas, for it was he, sat on the dickey; Gillespie having
proceeded in advance of him, in order to get horses, carriage, and
everything safely put to rights without the possibility of observation.

We may as well mention here that his anxiety to keep the events of the
night secret had overcome his apprehensions of the supernatural, and
indeed, it may not be impossible that he made acquaintance with one of
the flasks that had been destined for poor Fenton. Of this, however,
we are by no means certain; we only throw it out, therefore, as a
probability.

It is well known that the stronger and more insupportable passions
sharpen not only the physical but the mental faculties in an
extraordinary degree. The eye of the bird of prey, which is mostly
directed by the savage instincts of hunger, can view its quarry at an
incredible distance; and, instigated by vengeance, the American Indian
will trace his enemy by marks which the utmost ingenuity of civilized
man would never enable him to discover. Quickened by something of the
kind, Trailcudgel instantly recognized his bitter and implacable foe,
and in a moment an unusual portion of his former strength returned,
with the impetuous and energetic resentment which the appearance of the
baronet, at that peculiar crisis, had awakened. When the carriage came
nearly opposite where he stood, the frantic and unhappy man was in an
instant at the heads of the horses, and, seizing the reins, brought them
to a stand-still.

“What's the matter there?” exclaimed the baronet, who, however, began to
feel very serious alarm. “Why do you stop the horses, my friend? All's
right, and I'm much obliged--pray let them go.”

“All's wrong,” shouted the other in a voice so deep, hoarse, and
terrible in the wildness of its intonations, that no human being could
recognize it as that of Trailcudgel; “all's wrong,” he shouted; “I
demand your money! your life or your money--quick!”

“This is highway-robbery,” replied Sir Thomas, in a voice of
expostulation, “think of what you are about, my friend.”

But, as he spoke, Trailcudgel could observe that he put his hand behind
him as if with the intent of taking fire-arms out of his pocket. Like
lightning was the blow which tumbled him from his seat upon the two
horses, and a fortunate circumstance it proved, for there is little
doubt that his neck would have been broken, or the fall proved otherwise
fatal to so heavy a man, had he been precipitated directly, and from
such a height, upon the hard road. As it was, he found himself instantly
in the ferocious clutches of Trailcudgel, who dragged him from the
horses, as a tiger would a bull, and ere he could use hand or word in
his own defence, he felt the muzzle of one of his own pistols pressed
against his head.

“Easy, mfriend!” he exclaimed, in a voice that was rendered infirm by
terror; “do not take my life--don't murder me--you shall have my money.”

“Murdher!” shouted the other. “Ah, you black dog of hell, it is on your
red sowl that many a murdher lies. Murdher!” he exclaimed, in words that
were thick, vehement, and almost unintelligible with rage. “Ay, murdher
is it? It was a just God that put the words into your guilty heart--and
wicked lips--prepare, your last moment's come--your doom is sealed--are
you ready to die, villain?”

The whole black and fearful tenor of the baronet's life came like a
vision of hell itself over his conscience, now fearfully awakened to the
terrible position in which he felt himself placed.

“Oh, no!” he replied, in a voice whose tremulous tones betrayed the
full extent of his agony and terrors. “Oh, no!” he exclaimed. “Spare me,
whoever you are--spare my life, and if you will come to mo to-morrow, I
promise, in the presence of God, to make you independent as long as you
live. Oh, spare me, for the sake of the living God--for I am not fit
to die. If you kill me now, you will have the perdition of my soul to
answer for at the bar of judgment. If you spare me, I will reform my
life--I will become a virtuous man.”

“Well,” replied the other, relaxing--“for the sake of the name you have
used, and in the hope that this may be a warnin' to you for your good, I
will leave your wicked and worthless life with you. No, I'll not be the
man that will hurl you into perdition--but it is on one condition--you
must hand me out your money before I have time to count ten. Listen
now--if I haven't every farthing that's about you before that reckonin's
made, the bullet that's in this pistol will be through your brain.”

The expedition of the baronet was amazing, for as Jemmy went on with
this disastrous enumeration, steadily and distinctly, but not quickly,
he had only time to get as far as eight when he found himself in
possession of the baronet's purse.

“Is it all here?” he asked. “No tricks--no lyin'--the truth? for I'll
search you.”

“You may,” replied the other, with confidence; “and you may shoot me,
too, if you find another farthing in my possession.”

“Now, then,” said Trailcudgel, “get home as well as you can, and reform
your life as you promised--as for me, I'll keep the pistols; indeed,
for my own sake, for I have no notion of putting them into your hands at
present.”

He then disappeared, and the baronet, having with considerable
difficulty gained the box-seat, reached home somewhat lighter in pocket
than he had left it, convinced besides that an unexpected visit from a
natural apparition is frequently much more to be dreaded than one from
the supernatural.

The baronet was in the general affairs of life, penurious in money
matters, but on those occasions where money was necessary to enable him
to advance or mature his plans, conceal his proceedings, or reward
his instruments, he was by no means illiberal. This, however, was mere
selfishness, or rather, we should say, self-preservation, inasmuch
as his success and reputation depended in a great degree upon the
liberality of his corruption. On the present occasion he regretted, no
doubt, the loss of the money, but we are bound to say, that he would
have given its amount fifteen times repeated, to get once more into his
hands the single pound-note of which he had treacherously and like
a coward robbed Fenton while asleep in the carriage. This loss, in
connection With the robbery which occasioned it, forced him to retrace
to a considerable extent the process of ratiocination on the subject
of fate and destiny, in which he had so complacently indulged not long
before.

No matter how deep and hardened any villain may be, the most reckless
and unscrupulous of the class possess some conscious principle within,
that tells them of their misdeeds, and acquaints them with the fact that
a point in the moral government of life has most certainly been made
against them. So was it now with the baronet. He laid himself upon his
gorgeous bed a desponding, and, for the present, a discomfited man;
nor could he for the life of him, much as he pretended to disregard the
operations of a Divine Providence, avoid coming to the conclusion that
the highway robbery committed on him looked surprisingly like an act
of retributive justice. He consoled himself, it is true, with the
reflection, that it was not for the value of the note that he had
committed the crime upon Fenton, for to him the note, except for its
mere amount, was in other respects valueless. But what galled him to
the soul, was the bitter reflection that he did not, on perceiving its
advantage to Fenton, at once destroy it--tear it up--eat it--swallow
it--and thus render it utterly impossible to ever contravene his
ambition or his crimes. In the meantime slumber stole upon him, but it
was neither deep nor refreshing. His mind was a chaos of dark projects
and frightful images. Fenton--the ragged and gigantic robber, who was
so much changed by famine and misery that he did not know him--the
stranger--his daughter--Ginty Cooper, the fortune-teller--Lord
Cullamore--the terrible pistol at his brain--Dunroe--and all those
who were more or less concerned in or affected by his schemes, flitted
through his disturbed fancy like the figures in a magic lantern,
rendering his sleep feverish, disturbed, and by many degrees more
painful than his waking reflections.

It has been frequently observed, that violence and tyranny overshoot
their mark; and we may add, that no craft, however secret its
operations, or rather however secret they are designed to be, can cope
with the consequences of even the simplest accident. A short, feverish
attack of illness having seized Mrs. Morgan, the housekeeper, on the
night of Fenton's removal, she persuaded one of the maids to sit up with
her, in order to provide her with whey and nitre, which she took from
time to time, for the purpose of relieving her by cooling the system.
The attack though short was a sharp one, and the poor woman was really
very ill. In the course of the night, this girl was somewhat surprised
by hearing noises in and about the stables, and as she began to
entertain apprehension from robbers, she considered it her duty to
consult the sick woman as to the steps she ought to take.

“Take no steps,” replied the prudent housekeeper, “till we know, if we
can, what the noise proceeds from. Go into that closet, but don't take
the candle, lest the light of it might alarm them--it overlooks the
stable-yard--open the window gently; you know it turns upon hinges--and
look out cautiously. If Sir Thomas is disturbed by a false alarm, you
might fly at once; for somehow of late he has lost all command of his
temper.”

“But we know the reason of that, Mrs. Morgan,” replied the girl. “It's
because Miss Gourlay refuses to marry Lord Dunroe, and because he's
afraid that she'll run away with a very handsome gentleman that stops in
the Mitre. That's what made him lock her up.”

“Don't you breathe a syllable of that,” said the cautious Mrs. Morgan,
“for fear you might get locked up yourself. You know, nothing that
happens in this family is ever to be spoken of to any one, on pain of
Sir Thomas's severest displeasure; and you have not come to this time
of day without understanding what what means. But don't talk to me,
or rather, don't expect me to talk to you. My head is very ill, and my
pulse going at a rapid rate. Another drink of that whey, Nancy; then
see, if you can, what that noise means.”

Nancy, having handed her the whey, went to the closet window to
reconnoitre; but the reader may judge of her surprise on seeing Sir
Thomas himself moving about with a dark lantern, and giving directions
to Gillespie, who was putting the horses to the carriage. She returned
to the housekeeper on tip-toe, her face brimful of mystery and delight.

“What do you think, Mrs. Morgan? If there isn't Sir Thomas himself
walking about with a little lantern, and giving orders to Gillespie, who
is yoking the coach.”

Mrs. Morgan could not refrain from smiling at this comical expression of
yoking the coach; but her face soon became serious, and she said, with
a sigh, “I hope in God this is no further act of violence against his
angel of a daughter. What else could he mean by getting out a carriage
at this hour of the night? Go and look again, Nancy, and see whether you
may not also get a glimpse of Miss Gourlay.”

Nancy, however, arrived at the window only in time to see her master
enter the carriage, and the carriage disappear out of the yard; but
whether Miss Gourlay was in it along with him, the darkness of the night
prevented her from ascertaining. After some time, however, she threw out
a suggestion, on which, with the consent of the patient, she immediately
acted. This was to discover, if possible, whether Miss Gourlay with her
maid was in her own room or not. She accordingly went with a light and
stealthy pace to the door; and as she knew that its fair occupant always
slept with a night-light in her chamber, she put her pretty eye to the
keyhole, in order to satisfy herself on this point. All, however, so far
as both sight and hearing could inform her, was both dark and silent.
This was odd; nay, not only odd, but unusual. She now felt her heart
palpitate; she was excited, alarmed. What was to be done? She would take
a bold step--she would knock--she would whisper through the key-hole,
and set down the interruption to anxiety to mention Mrs. Morgan's sudden
and violent illness. Well, all these remedies for curiosity were tried,
all these, steps taken, and, to a certain extent, they were successful;
for there could indeed be little doubt that Miss Gourlay and her maid
were not in the apartment. Everything now pertaining to the mysterious
motions of Sir Thomas and his coachman was as clear as crystal. He had
spirited her away somewhere--“placed her, the old brute, under some
she-dragon or other, who would make her feed on raw flesh and cobwebs,
with a view of reducing her strength and breaking her spirit.”

Mrs. Morgan, however, with her usual good sense and prudence,
recommended the lively girl to preserve the strictest silence on what
she had seen, and to allow the other servants to find the secret out
for themselves if they could. To-morrow might disclose more, but as at
present they had nothing stronger than suspicion, it would be wrong
to speak of it, and might, besides, be prejudicial to Miss Gourlay's
reputation. Such was the love and respect which all the family felt for
the kind-hearted and amiable Lucy, who was the general advocate with
her father when any of them had incurred his displeasure, that on her
account alone, even if dread of Sir Thomas did not loom like a gathering
storm in the background, not one of them ever seemed to notice her
absence, nor did the baronet himself until days had elapsed. On the
morning of the third day he began to think, that perhaps confinement
might have tamed her down into somewhat of a more amenable spirit; and
as he had in the interval taken all necessary steps to secure the
person of the man who robbed him, and offered a large reward for his
apprehension, he felt somewhat satisfied that he had done all that could
be done, and was consequently more at leisure, and also more anxious to
ascertain the temper of mind in which he should find her.

In the meantime, the delicious scandal of the supposed elopement was
beginning to creep abroad, and, in fact, was pretty generally rumored
throughout the redoubtable town of Ballytrain on the morning of the
third or fourth day. Of course, we need scarcely assure our intelligent
readers, that the friends of the parties are the very last to whom such
a scandal would be mentioned, not only because such an office is always
painful, but because every one takes it for granted that they are
already aware of it themselves. In the case before us, such was the
general opinion, and Sir Thomas's silence on the subject was imputed
by some to the natural delicacy of a father in alluding to a subject so
distressing, and by others to a calm, quiet spirit of vengeance, which
he only restrained until circumstances should place him in a condition
to crush the man who had entailed shame and disgrace upon his name and
family.

Such was the state of circumstances upon the third or fourth morning
after Lucy's disappearance, when Sir Thomas called the footman, and
desired him to send Miss Gourlay's maid to him; he wished to speak with
her.

By this, time it was known through the whole establishment that Lucy and
she had both disappeared, and, thanks to Nancy--to pretty Nancy--“that
her own father, the hard-hearted old wretch, had forced her off--God
knows where--in the dead of night.”

The footman, who had taken Nancy's secret for granted; and, to tell the
truth, he had it in the most agreeable and authentic shape--to wit,
from her own sweet lips--and who could be base enough to doubt any
communication so delightfully conveyed?--the footman, we say, on
hearing this command from his master, started a little, and in the
confusion or forgetfulness of the moment, almost stared at him.

“What, sirrah,” exclaimed the latter; “did you hear what I said?”

“I did, sir,” replied the man, still more confused; “but, I thought,
your honor, that--”

“You despicable scoundrel!” said his master, stamping, “what means this?
You thought! What right, sir, have you to think, or to do anything but
obey your orders from me. It was not to think, sir, I brought you
here, but to do your duty as footman. Fetch Miss Gourlay's maid, sir,
immediately. Say I desire to speak with her.”

“She is not within, sir,” replied the man trembling.

“Then where is she, sir? Why is she absent from her charge?”

“I cannot tell, sir. We thought, sir--”

“Thinking again, you scoundrel!--speak out, however.”

“Why, the truth is, your honor, that neither Miss Gourlay nor she has
been here since Tuesday night last.”

The baronet had been walking to and fro, as was his wont, but this
information paralyzed him, as if by a physical blow on the brain. He now
went, or rather tottered over, to his arm-chair, into which he dropped
rather than sat, and stared at Gibson the footman as if he had forgotten
the intelligence just conveyed to him. In fact, his confusion was
such--so stunning was the blow--that it is possible he did forget it.

“What is that, Gibson?” said he; “tell me; repeat what you said.”

“Why, your honor,” replied Gibson, “since last Tuesday night neither
Miss Gourlay nor her maid has been in this house.”

“Was there no letter left, nor any verbal information that might satisfy
us as to where they have gone?”

“Not any, sir, that I am aware of.”

“Was her room examined?”

“I cannot say, sir. You know, sir, I never enter it unless when I am
rung for by Miss Gourlay; and that is very rarely.”

“Do you think, Gibson, that there is any one in the house that knows
more of this matter than you do?”

Gibson shook his head, and replied, “As to that, Sir Thomas, I cannot
say.”

The baronet was not now in a rage. The thing was impossible; not within
the energies of nature. He was stunned, stupefied, rendered helpless.

“I think,” he proceeded, “I observed a girl named Nancy--I forget what
else, Nancy something--that Miss Gourlay seemed to like a good deal.
Send her here. But before you do so, may I beg to know why her father,
her natural guardian and protector, was kept so long in ignorance of her
extraordinary disappearance? Pray, Mr. Gibson, satisfy me on that head?”

“I think, sir,” replied Gibson, most un-gallantly shifting the danger
of the explanation from his own shoulders to the pretty ones of Nancy
Forbes--“I think, sir, Nancy Forbes, the girl you speak of, may know
more about the last matter than I do.”

“What do you mean by the last matter?”

“Why, sir, the reason why we did not tell your honor of it sooner--”

Sir Thomas waved his hand. “Go,” he added, “send her here.”

“D--n the old scoundrel,” thought Gibson to himself; “but that's a fine
piece of acting. Why, if he hadn't been aware of it all along he would
have thrown me clean out of the window, even as the messenger of such
tidings. However, he is not so deep as he thinks himself. We know
him--see through him--on this subject at least.”

When Nancy entered, her master gave her one of those stern, searching
looks which often made his unfortunate menials tremble before him.

“What's your name, my good girl?”

“Nancy Forbes, sir.”

“How long have you been in this family?”

“I'm in the first month of my second quarter, your honor,” with a
courtesy.

“You are a pretty girl.”

Nancy, with another courtesy, and a simper, which vanity, for the life
of her, could not suppress, “Oh la, sir, how could your honor say such
a thing of a humble girl like me? You that sees so many handsome great
ladies.”

“Have you a sweetheart?”

Nancy fairly tittered. “Is it me, sir--why, who would think of the like
of me? Not one, sir, ever I had.”

“Because, if you have,” he proceeded, “and that I approve of him, I
wouldn't scruple much to give you something that might enable you and
your husband to begin the world with comfort.”

“I'm sure it's very kind, your honor, but I never did anything to
desarve so much goodness at your honor's hands.”

“The old villain wants to bribe me for something,” thought Nancy.

“Well, but you may, my good girl. I think you are a favorite with Miss
Gourlay?”

“Ha, ha!” thought Nancy, “I am sure of it now.”

“That's more than I know, sir,” she replied. “Miss Gourlay--God bless
and protect her--was kind to every one; and not more so to me than to
the other servants.”

“I have just been informed by Gibson, that she and her maid left the
Hall on Tuesday night last. Now, answer me truly, and you shall be the
better for it. Have you any conception, any suspicion, let us say, where
they have gone to?”

“La, sir, sure your honor ought to know that better than me.”

“How so, my pretty girl? How should I know it? She told me nothing about
it.”

“Why, wasn't it your honor and Tom Gillespie that took her away in the
carriage on that very night?”

Here now was wit against wit, or at least cunning against cunning.
Nancy, the adroit, hazarded an assertion of which she was not certain,
in order to probe the baronet, and place him in a position by which she
might be able by his conduct and manner to satisfy herself whether her
suspicions were well-founded or not.

“But how do you know, my good girl, that I and Gillespie were out that
night?”

It is unnecessary to repeat here circumstances with which the reader is
already acquainted. Nancy gave him the history of Mrs. Morgan's sudden
illness, and all the other facts already mentioned.

“But there is one thing that I still cannot understand,” replied the
baronet, “which is, that the disappearance of Miss Gourlay was never
mentioned to me until I inquired for her maid, whom I wished to speak
with.”

“But sure that's very natural, sir,” replied Nancy; “the reason we
didn't speak to you upon the subject was because we thought that it was
your honor who brought her away; and that as you took such a late hour
in the night for it, you didn't wish that we should know anything about
it.”

The baronet's eye fell upon her severely, as if he doubted the truth
of what she said. Nancy's eye, however, neither avoided his nor quailed
before it. She now spoke the truth, and she did so, in order to prevent
herself and the other servants from incurring his resentment by their
silence.

“Very well,” observed Sir Thomas, calmly, but sternly. “I think you have
spoken what you believe to be the truth, and what, for all you know, may
be the truth. But observe my words: let this subject be never
breathed nor uttered by any domestic in my establishment. Tell your
fellow-servants that such are my orders; for I swear, if I find that any
one of you shall speak of it, my utmost vengeance shall pursue him or
her to death itself. That will do.” And he signed to her to retire.

CHAPTER XVIII. Dunphy visits the County Wicklow

--Old Sam and his Wife.

It was about a week subsequent to the interview which the stranger had
with old Dunphy, unsuccessful as our readers know it to have been, that
the latter and his wife were sitting in the back parlor one night after
their little shop had been closed, when the following dialogue took
place between them:

“Well, at all events,” observed the old man, “he was the best of them,
and to my own knowledge that same saicret lay hot and heavy on his
conscience, especially to so good a master and mistress as they were to
him. The truth is, Polly, I'll do it.”

“But why didn't he do it himself?” asked his wife.

“Why?--why?” he replied, looking at her with his keen ferret eyes--“why,
don't you know what a weak-minded, timorsome creature he was, ever since
the height o' my knee?”

“Oh, ay,” she returned; “and I hard something about an oath, I think,
that they made him take.”

“You did,” said her husband; “and it was true, too. They swore him never
to breathe a syllable of it until his dying day--an' although they meant
by that that he should never reveal it at all, yet he always was of
opinion that he might tell it on that day, but on no other one. And it
was his intention to do so.”

“Wasn't it an unlucky thing that she happened to be out when he could
do it with a safe conscience?” observed his wife.

“They almost threatened the life out of the poor creature,” pursued
her husband, “for Tom threatened to murder him if he betrayed them; and
Ginty to poison him, if Tom didn't keep his word--and I believe in my
sowl that the same devil's pair would a' done either the one or the
other, if he had broken his oath. Of the two, however, Ginty's the
worst, I think; and I often believe, myself, that she deals with the
devil; but that, I suppose, is bekaise she's sometimes not right in her
head still.”

“If she doesn't dale with the devil, the devil dales with her at any
rate,” replied the other. “They'll be apt to gain their point, Tom and
she.”

“Tom, I know, is just as bitther as she is,” observed the old man, “and
Ginty, by her promises as to what she'll do for him, has turned his
heart altogether to stone; and yet I know a man that's bittherer against
the black fellow than either o' them. She only thinks of the luck that's
before her; but, afther all, Tom acts more from hatred to him than from
Ginty's promises. He has no bad feelin' against the young man himself;
but it's the others he's bent on punishing. God direct myself, I wish
at any rate that I never had act or hand in it. As for your time o' life
and mine, Polly, you know that age puts it out of our power ever to be
much the betther one way or the other, even if Ginty does succeed in her
devilry. Very few years now will see us both in our graves, and I don't
know but it's safer to lave this world with an aisy conscience, than to
face God with the guilt of sich a black saicret as that upon us.”

“Well, but haven't you promised them not to tell?”

“I have--an' only that I take sich delight in waitin' to see the black
scoundrel punished till his heart 'll burst--I think I'd come out
with it. That's one raison; and the other is, that I'm afraid of the
consequences. The law's a dangerous customer to get one in its crushes,
an' who can tell how we'd be dealt with?”

“Troth, an' that's true enough,” she replied.

“And when I promised poor Edward on his death-bed,” proceeded the old
man, “I made him give me a sartin time; an' I did this in ordher to
allow Ginty an opportunity of tryin' her luck. If she does not manage
her point within that time, I'll fulfil my promise to the dyin' man.”

“But, why,” she asked, “did he make you promise to do it when he
could--ay, but I forgot. It was jist, I suppose, in case he might be
taken short as he was, and that you wor to do it for him if he hadn't
an opportunity? But, sure, if Ginty succeeds, there's an end to your
promise.”

“Well, I believe so,” said the old man; “but if she does succeed, why,
all I'll wondher at will be that God would allow it. At any rate she's
the first of the family that ever brought shame an' disgrace upon the
name. Not but she felt her misfortune keen enough at the time, since
it turned her brain almost ever since. And him, the villain--but no
matter--he, must be punished.”

“But,” replied the wife, “wont Ginty be punishin' him?”

“Ah, Polly, you know little of the plans--the deep plans an' plots that
he's surrounded by. We know ourselves that there's not such a plotter in
existence as he is, barin' them that's plottin' aginst him. Lord bless
us! but it's a quare world--here is both parties schamin' an'
plottin' away--all bent on risin' themselves higher in it by pride and
dishonesty. There's the high rogue and the low rogue--the great villain
and the little villain--musha! Polly, which do you think is worst, eh?”

“Faith, I think it's six o' one and half-a-dozen of the other with them.
Still, a body would suppose that the high rogue ought to rest contented;
but it's a hard thing they say to satisfy the cravin's of man's heart
when pride, an' love of wealth an' power, get into it.”

“I'm not at all happy in my mind, Polly,” observed her husband,
meditatively; “I'm not at aise--and I won't bear this state of mind much
longer. But, then, again, there's my pension; and that I'll lose if I
spake out. I sometimes think I'll go to the country some o' these days,
and see an ould friend.”

“An where to, if it's a fair question?”

“Why,” he replied, “maybe it's a fair-question to ask, but not so fair
to answer. Ay! I'll go to the country--I'll start in a few days--in a
few days! No, savin' to me, but I'll start to-morrow. Polly, I could
tell you something if I wished--I say I have a secret that none o' them
knows--ay, have I. Oh, God pardon me! The d----d thieves, to make me, me
above all men, do the blackest part of the business--an' to think o' the
way they misled Edward, too--who, after all, would be desavin' poor Lady
Gourlay, if he had tould her all as he thought, although he did not know
that he would be misleadin' her. Yes, faith, I'll start for the country
tomorrow, plaise God; but listen, Polly, do you know who's in town?”

“Arra, no!--how could I?”

“Kate M'Bride, so Ginty tells me; she's livin' with her.”

“And why didn't she call to see you?” asked his wife. “And yet God knows
it's no great loss; but if ever woman was cursed wid a step-daughter, I
was wid her.”

“Don't you know very well that we never spoke since her runaway match
with M'Bride. If she had married Cummins, I'd a' given her a purty penny
to help him on; but instead o' that she cuts off with a sojer, bekaise
he was well faced, and starts with him to the Aist Indies. No; I
wouldn't spake to her then, and I'm not sure I'll spake to her now
either; and yet I'd like to see her--the unfortunate woman. However,
I'll think of it; but in the mane time, as I said, I'll start for the
country in the mornin'.”

And to the country he did start the next morning; and if, kind reader,
it so happen that you feel your curiosity in any degree excited, all you
have to do is to take a seat in your own imagination, whether outside
or in, matters not, the fare is the same, and thus you will, at no great
cost, be able to accompany him. But before we proceed further we shall,
in the first place, convey you in ours to the ultimate point of his
journey.

There was, in one of the mountain districts of the county Wicklow, that
paradise of our country, a small white cottage, with a neat flower plot
before, and a small orchard and garden behind. It stood on a little
eminence, at the foot of one of those mountains, which, in some
instances, abut from higher ranges. It was then bare and barren; but at
present presents a very different aspect, a considerable portion of it
having been since reclaimed and planted. Scattered around this rough
district were a number of houses that could be classed with neither
farm-house nor cabin, but as humble little buildings that possessed a
feature of each. Those who; dwelt in them held in general four or five
acres of rough land, some more, but very few less; and we allude to
these small tenements, because, as our readers are aware, the wives
of their proprietors were in the habit of eking out the means of
subsistence, and paying their rents, by nursing illegitimate children
or foundlings, which upon a proper understanding, and in accordance
with the usual arrangements, were either transmitted to them from the
hospital of that name in Dublin, or taken charge of by these women, and
conveyed home from that establishment itself. The children thus nurtured
were universally termed parisheens, because it was found more convenient
and less expensive to send a country foundling to the hospital
in Dublin, than to burden the inhabitants of the parish with its
maintenance. A small sum, entitling it to be received in the hospital,
was remitted, and as this sum, in most instances, was levied off the
parish, these wretched creatures were therefore called parisheens, that
is, creatures! aided by parish allowance.

The very handsome little cottage into which we are about to give the
reader admittance, commanded a singularly beautiful and picturesque
view. From the little elevation on which it stood could be seen the
entrancing vale of Ovoca, winding in its inexpressible loveliness toward
Arklow, and diversified with green meadows, orchard gardens, elegant
villas, and what was sweeter! than all, warm and comfortable homesteads,
more than realizing our conceptions of Arcadian happiness and beauty.
Its precipitous sides were clothed with the most enchanting variety
of plantation; whilst, like a stream of liquid light, the silver Ovoca
shone sparkling to the sun, as it followed, by the harmonious law of
nature, that graceful line of beauty which characterizes the windings of
this unrivalled valley. The cottage which commanded this rich prospect
we have partially described. It was white as snow, and had about it all
those traits of neatness and good taste which are, we regret! to say,
so rare among, and so badly understood by, our humbler countrymen. The
front walls were covered by honeysuckles, rose trees, and wild brier,
and the flower plot in front was so well stocked, that its summer bloom
would have done credit to the skill of an ordinary florist. The inside
of this cottage was equally neat, clean, and cheerful. The floor, an
unusual thing then, was tiled, which gave it a look of agreeable warmth;
the wooden vessels in the kitchen were white with incessant scouring,
whilst the pewter, brass, and tin, shone in becoming rivalry. The room
you entered was the kitchen, off which was a parlor and two bedrooms,
besides one for the servant.

As may be inferred from what we have said, the dresser was a perfect
treat to look at, and as the owners kept a cow, we need hardly add that
the delightful fragrance of milk which characterizes every well-kept
dairy, was perfectly ambrosial here. The chairs were of oak, so were the
tables; and a large arm-chair, with a semicircular back, stood at one
side of the clean hearth, whilst over the chimney-piece hung a portrait
of General Wolfe, with an engraving of the siege of Quebec. A series of
four silver medals, enclosed in red morocco cases, having the surface
of each protected by a glass cover, hung from a liliputian rack made of
mahogany, at once bearing testimony to the enterprise and gallantry
of the owner, as well as to the manly pride with which he took such
especial pains to preserve these proud rewards of his courage, and the
ability with which he must have discharged his duty as a soldier. On the
table lay a large Bible, a Prayer-book, and the “Whole Duty of Man,”
 all neatly and firmly, but not ostentatiously bound. Some works of a
military character lay upon a little hanging shelf beside the dresser.
Over this shelf hung a fishing-rod, unscrewed and neatly tied up; and
upon the top of the other books lay one bound with red cloth, in which
he kept his flies. On one side of the window sills lay a backgammon box,
with which his wife and himself amused themselves for an hour or two
every evening; and fixed in recesses intended for the purpose, Sam
Roberts, for such was his name, having built the house himself, were
comfortable cupboards filled with a variety of delft, several curious
and foreign ornaments, an ostrich's egg, a drinking cup made of the
polished shell of a cocoanut, whilst crossed saltier-wise over a
portrait of himself and of his wife, were placed two feathers of the
bird of paradise, constituting, one might imagine, emblems significant
of the happy life they led. But we cannot close our description here.
Upon the good woman's bosom, fastened to her kerchief, was a locket
which contained a portion of beautiful brown hair, taken from the
youthful head of a deceased son, a manly and promising boy, who died at
the age of seventeen, and whose death, although it did not and could
not throw a permanent gloom over two lives so innocent and happy,
occasioned, nevertheless, periodical recollections of profound and
bitter sorrow. Old Sam had his locket also, but it was invisible;
its position being on that heart whose affections more resembled the
enthusiasm of idolatry than the love of a parent. His wife was a placid,
contented looking old woman, with a complexion exceedingly hale and
fresh for her years; a shrewd, clear, benevolent eye, and a general
air which never fails to mark that ease and superiority of manner to
be found only in those who have had an enlarged experience in life,
and seen much of the world. There she sits by the clear fire and clean,
comfortable hearth, knitting a pair of stockings for her husband, who
has gone to Dublin. She is tidily and even, for a woman of her age,
tastefully dressed, but still with a sober decency that showed her good
sense. Her cap is as white as snow, with which a well-fitting brown
stuff gown, that gave her a highly respectable appearance, admirably
contrasted. She wore an apron of somewhat coarse muslin, that seemed,
as it always did, fresh from the iron, and her hands were covered with a
pair of thread mittens that only came half-way down the fingers. Hanging
at one side was a three-cornered pincushion of green silk, a proof
at once of a character remarkable for thrift, neatness, and industry.
Whilst thus employed, she looks from time to time through a window that
commanded a prospect of the road, and seems affected by that complacent
expression of uneasiness which, whilst it overshadows the features,
never disturbs their benignity. At length, a good-looking, neat girl,
their servant, enters the cottage with a can of new milk, for she had
been to the fields a-milking; her name is Molly Byrne.

“Molly,” said her mistress, “I wonder the master has not come yet. I
am getting uneasy. The coach has gone past, and I see no appearance of
him.”

“I suppose, then, he didn't come by the coach, ma'am.”

“Yes, but he said he would.”

“Well, ma'am, something must 'a prevented him.”

“Molly,” said her mistress, smiling, “you are a good hand at telling us
John Thompson's news; that is, any thing we know ourselves.”

“Well, ma'am, but you know many a time he goes to Dublin, an' doesn't
come home by the coach.”

“Yes, whenever he visits Rilmainham Hospital, and gets into conversation
with some of his old comrades; however, that's natural, and I hope he's
safe.”

“Well, ma'am,” replied Molly, looking out, “I have betther news for you
than Jenny Thompson's now.”

“Attention, Molly; John Thompson's the word,” said her mistress, with
the slightest conceivable air of professional form; for if she had
a foible at all, it was that she gave all her orders and exacted all
obedience from her servant in a spirit of military discipline, which
she, had unconsciously borrowed from her husband, whom she imitated as
far as she could. “Where, Molly? Fall back, I say, till I get a peep at
dear old Sam.”

“There he is, ma'am,” continued Molly, at the same time obeying her
orders, “and some other person along with him.”

“Yes, sure enough; thank God, thank God!” she exclaimed. “But who can
the other person be, do you think?”

“I don't know, ma'am,” replied Molly. “I only got a glimpse of them, but
I knew the master at once. I would know him round a corner.”

“Advance, then, girl; take another look; reconnoitre, Molly, as Sam
says, and see if you can make out who it is.”

“I see him now well enough, ma'am,” replied the girl, “but I don't know
him; he's a stranger. What can bring a stranger here, ma'am, do you
think?” she inquired.

“Why your kind master, of course, girl; isn't that sufficient? Whoever
comes with my dear old Sam is welcome, to be sure.”

Her clear, cloudless face was now lit up with a multiplicity of kind and
hospitable thoughts, for dear old Sam and his friend were not more than
three or four perches from the house, and she could perceive that her
husband was in an extraordinary state of good humor.

“I know, Molly, who the strange man is now,” she said. “He's an old
friend of my husband's, named Dunphy; he was once in the same regiment
with him; and I know, besides, our own good man has heard some news that
has delighted him very much.”

She had scarcely uttered the words when Sam and old Dunphy entered.

“Beck, my girl, here I am, safe and sound, and here's an old friend come
to see us, and you know how much we are both indebted to him; I felt,
Beck, and so did you, old girl, that we must have something to love
and provide for, and to keep the heart moving, but that's natural, you
know--quite natural--it's all the heart of man.”

“Mr. Dunphy,” said Beck--a curtailment of Rebecca--“I am glad to see
you; take a seat; how is the old woman?”

“As tough as ever, Mrs. Roberts. 'Deed I had thought last winter that
she might lave me a loose leg once more; but I don't know how it is,
she's gatherin' strength on my hands, an' a young wife, I'm afraid,
isn't on the cards--ha--ha--ha! And how are you yourself, Mrs.
Roberts?--but, indeed, one may tell with half an eye--fresh and well you
look, thank God!”

“Doesn't she, man?” exclaimed Sam, slapping him with delight on the
shoulder; “a woman that travelled half the world, and improved in every
climate. Molly, attention!--let us turn in to mess as soon as possible.
Good news, Beck--good news, but not till after mess; double-quick,
Molly.”

“Come, Molly, double-quick,” added her mistress; “the master and his
friend must be hungry by this time.”

Owing to the expeditious habits to which Mrs. Roberts had disciplined
Molly, a smoking Irish stew, hot and savory, was before them in a few
minutes, which the two old fellows attacked with powers of demolition
that would have shamed younger men. There was for some time a very
significant lull in the conversation, during which Molly, by a hint from
her mistress, put down the kettle, an act which, on being observed by
Dunphy, made his keen old eye sparkle with the expectation of what it
suggested. Shovelful after shovelful passed from dish to plate, until a
very relaxed action on the part of each was evident.

“Dunphy,” said Sam, “I, believe our fire is beginning to slacken; but
come, let us give the enemy another round, the citadel is nearly won--is
on the point of surrender.”

“Begad,” replied Dunphy, who was well acquainted with his friend's
phraseology, and had seen some service, as already intimated, in the
same regiment, some fifty years before. “I must lay down my arms for the
present.”

“No matter, friend Dunphy, we'll renew the attack at supper; an easy
mind brings a good appetite, which is but natural; it's all the heart of
man.”

“Well, I don't know that,” said Dunphy, replying to, the first of the
axioms; “I have often aiten a hearty dinner enough when my mind was, God
knows, anything but aisy.”

“Well, then,” rejoined Sam, “when the heart's down, a glass of old
stingo, mixed stiff, will give it a lift; so, my old fellow, if there's
anything wrong with you, we'll soon set it to rights.”

The table was now cleared, and the word “Hot wate-r-r,” was given, as if
Molly had been on drill, as in fact, she may be considered to have been
every day in the week; then the sugar and whiskey in the same tone. But
whilst she is preparing and producing the materials, as they have been
since termed, we shall endeavor to give an outline of old Sam.

Old Sam, then, was an erect, square-built, fine-looking old fellow, with
firm, massive, but benevolent features; not, however, without a dash of
determination in them that added very considerably to their interest.
His eyes were gray, kind, and lively; his eyebrows rather large, but
their expression was either stern or complacent, according to the
mood of the moment. That of complacency, however, was their general
character. Upon the front part of his head he had received a severe
wound, which extended an inch or so down the side of his forehead,
he had also lost the two last fingers of his left hand, and received
several other wounds that were severe and dangerous when inflicted,
but as their scars were covered by his dress, they were consequently
invisible. Sam was at this time close upon seventy, but so regular had
been his habits of life, so cheerful and kind his disposition, and so
excellent his constitution, that he did not look more than fifty-five.
It was utterly impossible not to read the fine old soldier in every one
of his free, but well-disciplined, movements. The black stock, the bold,
erect head, the firm but measured step, and the existence of something
like military ardor in the eye and whole bearing; or it might be the
proud consciousness of having bravely and faithfully discharged his duty
to his king and his country; all this, we say, marked the man with an
impress of such honest pride and frank military spirit, as, taken into
consideration with his fine figure, gave the very _beau ideal_ of an old
soldier.

When each had mixed his tumbler, Sam, brimful of the good news to which
he had alluded, filled a small glass, as was his wont, and placing it
before Beck, said:

“Come, Beck, attention!--'The king, God bless him!' Attention,
Dunphy!--off with it.”

“The king, God bless him!” having been duly honored, Sam proceeded:

“Beck, my old partner, I said I had good news for you. Our son and
his regiment--three times eleven, eleven times three--the gallant
thirty-third, are in Dublin.”

Beck laid down her stocking, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

“But that's not all, old girl, he has risen from the ranks--his
commission has been just made out, and he is now a commissioned officer
in his majesty's service. But I knew it would come to that. Didn't I say
so, old comrade, eh?”

“Indeed you did, Sam,” replied his wife; “and I thought as much myself.
There was something about that boy beyond the common.”

“Ay, you may say that, girl; but who found it out first? Why, I did;
but the thing was natural; it's all the heart of man--when that's in the
right place nothing will go wrong. What do you say, friend Dunphy? Did
you think it would ever come to this?”

“Troth, I did not, Mr. Roberts; but it's you he may thank for it.”

“God Almighty first, Dunphy, and me afterwards. Well, he shan't want a
father, at all events; and so long as I have a few shiners to spare, he
shan't want the means of supporting his rank as a British officer and
gentleman should. There's news for you, Dunphy. Do you hear that, you
old dog--eh?”

“It's all the heart of man, Sam,” observed his wife, eying him with
affectionate admiration. “When the heart's in the right place, nothing
will go wrong.”

Now, nothing gratified Sam so much as to hear his own apothegms honored
by repetition.

“Eight, girl,” he replied; “shake hands for that. Dunphy, mark the truth
of that. Isn't she worth gold, you sinner?”

“Troth she is, Mr. Roberts, and silver to the back o' that.”

“What?” said Sam, looking at him with comic surprise. “What do you mean
by that, you ferret? Why don't you add, and 'brass to the back of that?'
By fife and drum, I won't stand this to Beck. Apologize instantly,
sir.” Then breaking into a hearty laugh--“he meant no offence, Beck,” he
added; “he respects and loves you--I know he does--as who doesn't that
knows you, my girl?”

“What I meant to say, Mr. Roberts--”

“Mrs. Roberts, sir; direct the apology to herself.”

“Well, then, what I wanted to say, Mrs. Roberts, was, that all the
gold, silver, and brass in his majesty's dominions--(God bless him!
parenthetice, from Sam)--couldn't purchase you, an' would fall far short
of your value.”

“Well done--thank you, Dunphy--thank you, honest old Dunphy; shake
hands. He's a fine old fellow, Beck, isn't he, eh?”

“I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Dunphy; but you overrate me a great
deal too much,” replied Mrs. Roberts.

“No such thing, Beck; you're wrong there, for once; the thing couldn't
be done--by fife and drum! it couldn't; and no man has a better right to
know that than myself--and I say it.”

Sam, like all truly brave men, never boasted of his military exploits,
although he might well have done so. On the contrary, it was a subject
which he studiously avoided, and on which those who knew his modesty as
well as his pride never ventured. He usually cut short such as referred
to it, with:

“Never mind that, my friend; I did my duty, and that was all; and so did
every man in the British army, or I wouldn't be here to say so. Pass the
subject.”

Sam and Dunphy, at all events, spent a pleasant evening; at least,
beyond question, Sam did. As for Dunphy, he seemed occasionally relieved
by hearing Sam's warm and affectionate allusions to his son; and, on
the other hand, he appeared, from time to time, to fall into a mood that
indicated a state of feeling between gloom and reflection.

“It's extraordinary, Mr. Roberts,” he observed, after awakening from one
of these reveries; “it looks as if Providence was in it.”

“God Almighty's in it, sir,--didn't I say so? and under him, Sam
Roberts. Sir, I observed that boy closely from the beginning. He
reminded me, and you too, Beck, didn't he, of him that--that--we
lost”--here he paused a moment, and placed his hand upon his heart,
as if to feel for something there that awoke touching and melancholy
remembrances; whilst his wife, on the other hand, unpinned the locket,
and having kissed it, quietly let fall a few tears; after which she
restored it to its former position. Sam cleared his voice a little, and
then proceeded:

“Yes; I could never look at the one without thinking of the other; but
'twas all the heart of man. In a week's time he could fish as well as
myself, and in a short time began to teach me. 'Gad! he used to take
the rod out of my hand with so much kindness, so gently and
respectfully--for, I mark me, Dunphy, he respected me from the
beginning--didn't lie, Beck?”

“He did, indeed, Sam.”

“Thank you, Beck; you're a good creature. So gently and respectfully,
as I was saying, and showed me in his sweet words, and with his smiling
eyes--yes, and his hair, too, was the very color of his brother's--I was
afraid I might forget that. Well--yes, with such smiling eyes that it
was impossible not to love him--I couldn't but love him--but, sure, it
was only natural--all the heart of man, Dunphy. 'Ned,' said I to him one
day, 'would you like to become a soldier--a soldier, Ned?'” And as
the old man repeated the word “soldier” his voice became full and
impressive, his eyes sparkled with pride, and his very form seemed to
dilate at the exulting reminiscences and heroic associations connected
with it.

“Above all things in this life,” replied the boy; “but you know I'm too
young.”

“'Never mind, my boy,' said I, 'that's a fault that every day will mend;
you'll never grow less;' so I consulted with Beck there, and with you,
Dunphy, didn't I?”

“You did, indeed, Mr. Roberts, and wouldn't do anything till you had
spoken to me on the subject.”

“Eight, Dunphy, right--well, you know the rest. 'Education's the point,'
said I to Beck--ignorance is a bad inheritance. What would I be to-day
if I didn't write a good hand, and was a keen accountant! But no matter,
off he went with a decent outfit to honest Mainwairing--thirty pounds
a-year--five years--lost no time--was steady, but always showed a
spirit. Couldn't get him a commission then, for I hadn't come in for my
Uncle's legacy, which I got the other day.--dashed him into the ranks
though--and here he is--a commissioned officer--eh, old Dunphy! Well,
isn't that natural? but it's all the heart of man.”

“It's wonderful,” observed Dunphy, ruminating, “it's wonderful indeed.
Well, now, Mr. Roberts, it really is wonderful. I came down here to
spake to you about that very boy, and see the news I have before me.
Indeed, it is wonderful, and the hand o' God is surely in it.”

“Right, Dunphy, that's the word; and under him, in the capacity of agent
in the business, book down Sam Roberts, who's deeply thankful to God
for making him, if I may say so, his adjutant in advancing the boy's
fortunes.”

“Did you see him to-day, Sam?” asked Mrs. Roberts.

“No,” replied Sam, “he wasn't in the barracks, but I'll engage we'll
both see him tomorrow, if he has life, that is, unless he should happen
to be on duty. If he doesn't come to-morrow, however, I'll start the day
after for Dublin.”

“Well, now, Mr. Roberts,” said Dunphy, “if you have no objection, I
didn't care if I turned into bed; I'm not accustomed to travelin',
and I'm a thrifle fatigued; only tomorrow morning, plaise God, I have
something to say to you about that boy that may surprise you.”

“Not a syllable, Dunphy, nothing about him that could surprise me.”

“Well,” replied the hesitating and cautious old man, “maybe I will
surprise you for all that.”

This he said whilst Mrs. Roberts and Molly Byrne were preparing his bed
in one of the neat sleeping rooms which stood off the pleasant kitchen
where they sat; “and listen, Mr. Roberts, before I tell it, you must
pledge your honor as a soldier, that until I give you lave, you'll never
breathe a syllable of what I have to mention to any one, not even to
Mrs. Roberts.”

“What's that? Keep a secret from Beck? Come, Dunphy, that's what I never
did, unless the word and countersign when on duty, and, by fife and
drum, I never will keep your secret then; I don't want it, for as sure
as I hear it, so shall she. And is it afraid of old Beck you are? By
fife and drum, sir, old Beck has more honor than either of us, and would
as soon take a fancy to a coward as betray a secret. You don't know her,
old Dunphy, you don't know her, or you wouldn't spake as if you feared
that she's not truth and honesty to the backbone.”

“I believe it, Mr. Roberts, but they say, afther all, that once a woman
gets a secret, she thinks herself in a sartin way, until she's delivered
of it'.”

Sam, who liked a joke very well, laughed heartily at this, bad as it
was, or rather he laughed at the shrewd, ludicrous, but satirical grin
with which old Dunphy's face was puckered whilst he uttered it.

“But, sir,” said he, resuming his gravity, “Beck, I'd have you to know,
is not like other women, by which I mean that no other woman could be
compared to her. Beck's the queen of women, upon my soul she is; and all
I have to say is, that if you tell me the secret, in half an hour's time
she'll be as well acquainted with it as either of us. I have no notion,
Dunphy, at this time of life, to separate my mind from Beck's; my
conscience, sir, is my store-room; she has a key for it, and, by fife