The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 101

"You mistake me, sir," replied the adroit old man; "I am going to do you a service. Call forward Thomas Gourlay."

This considerably relieved the baronet, who took it for granted that it was his son whom he had called in the first instance.

"What!" exclaimed Lord Cullamore, "is it possible, Sir Thomas, that you have recovered your lost son?"

"It is, my lord," replied the other. "Thomas, come over till I present you to my dear friend Lord Cullamore."

Young Gourlay advanced, and the earl was in the act of extending his hand to him, when old Anthony interposed, by drawing it back.

"Stop, my lord," said he; "that hand is the hand of a man of honor, but you must not soil it by touchin' that of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d and impostor."

"That is my son, my lord," replied Sir Thomas, "and I acknowledge him as such."

"So you may, sir," replied Corbet, "and so you ought; but I say that if he is your son, he is also my grandson."

"Corbet," said his lordship, "you had better explain yourself. This, Sir Thomas, is a matter very disagreeable to me, and which I should not wish even to hear; but as it is possible that the interests of my dear friend here. Lady Gourlay, may be involved in it, I think it my duty not to go."

"Her ladyship's interests are involved in it, my lord," replied Corbet; "and you are right to stay, if it was only for her sake. Now, my lady,"

he added, addressing her, "I see how you are sufferin', but I ask it as a favor that you will keep yourself quiet, and let me go on."

"Proceed, then," said Lord Cullamore; "and do you, Lady Gourlay, restrain your emotion, if you can."

"Thomas Gourlay--I spake now to the father, my lord," said Corbet.

"Sir Thomas Gourlay, sir!" said the baronet, haughtily and indignantly, "Sir Thomas Gourlay!"

"Thomas Gourlay," persisted Corbet, "it is now nineteen years, or thereabouts, since you engaged me, myself--I am the man--to take away the son of your brother, and you know the ordhers you gave me. I did so: I got a mask, and took him away with me on the pretence of bringin' him to see a puppet-show. Well, he disappeared, and your mind, I suppose, was aisy. I tould you all was right, and every year from that to this you have paid me a pension of fifty pounds."

"The man is mad, my lord," said Sir Thomas; "and, under all circ.u.mstances, he makes himself out a villain."

"I can perceive no evidence of madness, so far," replied his lordship; "proceed."

"None but a villain would have served your purposes; but if I was a villain, it wasn't to bear out your wishes, but to satisfy my own revenge."

"But what cause for revenge could you have had against him?" asked, his lordship.

"What cause?" exclaimed the old man, whilst his countenance grew dark as night, "what cause against the villain that seduced my daughter--that brought disgrace and shame upon my family--that broke through the ties of nature, which are always held sacred in our country, for she was his own foster-sister, my lord, suckled at the same b.r.e.a.s.t.s, nursed in the same arms, and fed and clothed and nourished by the same hand;--yes, my lord, that brought shame and disgrace and madness, my lord--ay, madness upon my child, that he deceived and corrupted, under a solemn oath of marriage. Do you begin to undherstand me now, my lord?"

His lordship made no reply, but kept his eyes intently fixed upon him.

"Well, my lord, soon after the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's child, his own went in the same way; and no search, no hunt, no attempt to get him ever succeeded. He, any more than the other, could not be got. My lord, it was I removed him. I saw far before me, and it was I removed him; yes, Thomas Gourlay, it was I left you childless--at least of a son."

"You must yourself see, my lord," said the baronet, "that--that--when is this marriage to take place?--what is this?--I am quite confused; let me see, let me see--yes, he is such a villain, my lord, that you must perceive he is ent.i.tled to no credit--to none whatsoever."

"Well, my lord," proceeded Corbet.

"I think, my lord," said Thomas Corbet, stepping forward, "that I ought to acquaint your lordship with my father's infirmity. Of late, my lord, he has been occasionally unsettled in his senses. I can prove this on oath."

"And if what he states be true," replied his lordship, "I am not surprised at it; it is only right we should hear him, however, as I have already said, I can perceive no traces of insanity about him."

"Ah, my lord," replied the old man, "it would be well for him if he could prove me mad, for then his nephew, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, might have a chance of succeeding to the Gourlay t.i.tle, and the estates. But I must go on. Well, my lord, after ten years or so, I came one day to Mr.

Gourlay--he was then called Sir Thomas--and I tould him that I had relented, and couldn't do with his brother's son as I had promised, and as he wished me. 'He is living,' said I, 'and I wish you would take him undher your own care.' I won't wait to tell you the abuse I got from him for not fulfillin' his wishes; but he felt he was in my power, and was forced to continue my pension and keep himself quiet. Well, my lord, I brought him the boy one night, undher the clouds of darkness, and we conveyed him to a lunatic asylum."

Here he was interrupted by something between a groan and a scream from Lady Gourlay, who, however, endeavored immediately to restrain her feelings.

"From that day to this, my lord, the cruelty he received, sometimes in one madhouse and sometimes in another, sometimes in England and sometimes in Ireland, it would be terrible to know. Everything that could wear away life was attempted, and the instruments in that black villain's hands were well paid for their cruelty. At length, my lord, he escaped, and wandhered about till he settled down in the town of Ballytrain. Thomas Gourlay--then Sir Thomas--had been away with his family for two or three years in foreign parts, but when he went to his seat, Red Hall, near that town, he wasn't long there till he found out that the young man named Fenton--something unsettled, they said, in his mind--was his brother's son, for the baronet had been informed of his escape. Well, he got him once more into his clutches, and in the dead hour of night, himself--you there, Thomas Gourlay--one of your villain servants, by name Gillespie, and my own son--you that stand there, Thomas Corbet--afther making the poor boy dead drunk, brought him off to one of the mad-houses that he had been in before. He, Mr. Gourlay, then--or Sir Thomas, if you like--went with them a part of the way.

Providence, my lord, is never asleep, however. The keeper of the last mad-house was more of a devil than a man. The letter of the baronet was written to the man that had been there before him, but he was dead, and this villain took the boy and the money that had been sent with him, and there he suffered what I am afraid he will never get the betther of."

"But what became of Sir Thomas Gourlay's son?" asked his lordship; "and where now is Lady Gourlay's?"

"They are both in this room, my lord. Now, Thomas Gourlay, I will restore your son to you. Advance, Black Baronet," said the old man, walking over to Fenton, with a condensed tone of vengeance and triumph in his voice and features, that filled all present with awe. "Come, now, and look upon your own work--think, if it will comfort you, upon what you made your own flesh and blood suffer. There he is, Black Baronet; there is your son--dead!"

A sudden murmur and agitation took place as he pointed to Fenton; but there was now something of command, nay, absolutely of grandeur, in his revenge, as well as in his whole manner.

"Keep quiet, all of you," he exclaimed, raising his arm with a spirit of authority and power; "keep quiet, I say, and don't disturb the dead. I am not done."

"I must interrupt you a moment," said Lord Dunroe. "I thought the person--the unfortunate young man here--was the son of Sir Thomas's brother?"

"And so did he," replied Corbet; "but I will make the whole thing simple at wanst. When he was big enough to be grown out of his father's recollection, I brought back his own son to him as the son of his brother. And while the black villain was huggin' himself with delight that all the sufferings, and tortures, and h.e.l.lish scourgings, and chains, and cells, and darkness, and damp, and cruelty of all shapes, were breakin' down the son of his brother to death--the heir that stood between himself and his unlawful t.i.tle, and his unlawful property--instead of that, they were all inflicted upon his own lawfully begotten son, who now lies there--dead!"

"What is the matter with Sir Thomas Gourlay?" said his lordship; "what is wrong?"

Sir Thomas's conduct, whilst old Corbet was proceeding to detail these frightful and harrowing developments, gave once or twice strong symptoms of incoherency, more, indeed, by his action than his language. He seized, for instance, the person next him, unfortunate Dr. Sombre, and after squeezing his arm until it became too painful to bear, he ground his teeth, looked into his face, and asked, "Do you think--would you swear--that--that--ay--that there is a G.o.d?" Then, looking at Corbet, and trying to recollect himself, he exclaimed, "Villain, demon, devil;" and he then struck or rather throttled the Doctor, as he sat beside him. They succeeded, however, in composing him, but his eyes were expressive of such wildness and horror and blood-shot frenzy, that one or two of them sat close to him, for the purpose of restraining his tendency to violence.

Lady Gourlay, on hearing that Fenton was not her son, wept bitterly, exclaiming, "Alas! I am twice made childless." But Lucy, who had awakened out of the deathlike stupor of misery which had oppressed her all the morning, now became conscious of the terrible disclosures which old Corbet was making; and on hearing that Fenton was, or rather had been, her brother, she flew to him, and on looking at his pale, handsome, but lifeless features, she threw her arms around him, kissed his lips in an agony of sorrow, and exclaimed, "And is it thus we meet, my brother! No word to recognize your sister? No glance of that eye, that is closed forever, to welcome me to your heart? Oh! miserable fate, my brother! We meet in death. You are now with our mother; and Lucy, your sister, whom you never saw, will soon join you. You are gone! Your wearied and broken spirit fled from disgrace and sorrow. Yes; I shall soon meet you, where your lips will not be pa.s.sive to the embraces of a sister, and where your eyes will not be closed against those looks of affection and tenderness which she was prepared to give you, but which you could not receive. Ah, here there is no repugnance of the heart, as there was in the other instance. Here are my blessed mother's features; and nature tells me that you are--oh, distressing sight!--that you were my brother."

"Keep silence," exclaimed Corbet, "you must hear me out. Thomas Gourlay, there lies your son; I don't know what you may feel now that you know he's your own--and well you know it;--but I know his sufferings gave you very little trouble so long as you thought that he was the child of the widow of your brother that was dead. Well now, my lord," he proceeded, "you might think I've had very good revenge upon Thomas Gourlay; but there's more to come."

"Attention!" from old Sam, in a voice that startled almost every one present.

"Yes, my lord, I must fulfil my work. Stand forward, Sir Edward Gourlay.

Stand forward, and go to your affectionate mother's arms."

"I fear the old man is unsettled, certainly," said his lordship. "Sir Edward Gourlay!--there is no Sir Edward Gourlay here."

"Attention, Ned!" exclaimed old Sam, again taking the head of his cane out of his mouth, where it had got a merciless mumbling for some time past. "Attention, Ned! you're called, my boy."

Old Corbet went over to Ensign Roberts, and taking him by the hand, led him to Lady Gourlay, exclaiming, "There, my lady, is your son, and proud you may be out of him. There is the real heir of the Gourlay name and the Gourlay property. Look at him and his cousin, your niece, and see how they resemble one another. Look at his father's features in his face; but I have plenty of proof, full satisfaction to give you besides."

Lady Gourlay became pale as death. "Mysterious and just Providence," she exclaimed, "can this be true? But it is--it must--there are the features of his departed father--his figure--his every look. He is mine!--he is mine! My heart recognizes him. Oh, my son!--my child!--are you at length restored to me?"

Young Roberts was all amazement. Whilst Lady Gourlay spoke, he looked over at old Sam, whose son he actually believed himself to be (for the fine old fellow had benevolently imposed on him), and seemed anxious to know what this new parentage, now ascribed to him, could mean.

"All right, Ned! Corbet is good authority: but although I knew you were not mine, I could never squeeze the truth out of him as to who your father was. It's true, in spite of all he said, I had suspicions; but what could I do?---I could prove nothing."

We will not describe this restoration of the widow's son. Our readers can easily conceive it, and, accordingly, to their imagination we will leave it.

It was attended, however, by an incident which we cannot pa.s.s over without some notice. Lady Emily, on witnessing the extraordinary turn which had so providentially taken place in the fate and fortune of her lover, was observed by Mrs. Mainwaring to grow very pale. A consciousness of injury, which our readers will presently understand, prevented her from offering a.s.sistance, but running over to Lucy, she said, "I fear, Miss Gourlay, that Lady Emily is ill."