The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 102

Lucy, who was all tenderness, left her brother, over whom she had been weeping, and flew to her a.s.sistance just in time to prevent her from falling off her chair. She had swooned. Water, however, and essences, and other appliances, soon restored her; and on recovering she cast her eyes about the room as if to search for some one. Lady Gourlay had her arm round her, and was chafing her temples at the time. Those lovely fawn-like eyes of hers had not far to search. Roberts, now young Sir Edward Gourlay, had been standing near, contemplating her beautiful features, and deeply alarmed by her illness, when their eyes met; and, to the surprise of Lucy Gourlay, a blush so modest, so beautiful, so exquisite, but yet so legible in its expression, took place of the paleness which had been there before. She looked up, saw the direction of her son's eyes, then looked significantly at Lucy, and smiled. The tell-tale blush, in fact, discovered the state of their hearts, and never was a history of pure and innocent love more appropriately or beautifully told.

This significant little episode did not last long; and when Lady Emily found herself recovered, Thomas Corbet advanced, and said: "I don't know what you mean, father, by saying that the young man who has just died was Sir Thomas Gourlay's son. You know in your heart that this"--pointing to his nephew--"is his true and legitimate heir. You know, too, that his illegitimate son has been dead for years, and that I myself saw him buried."

"My lord, pay attention to what I'll speak," said his father. "If the b.a.s.t.a.r.d died, and if my son was at his burial, and saw him laid in the grave, he can tell us where that grave is to be found, at least. His father, however, will remember the tattooing."

The unexpected nature of the question, and its direct bearing upon the circ.u.mstance before them, baffled Thomas Corbet, who left the room, affecting to be too indignant to reply.

"Now," proceeded his father, "he knows he has stated a falsehood. I have proof for every word I said, and for every circ.u.mstance. There's a paper," he added, "a pound note, that will prove one link in the chain, for the very person's name that is written on it by the poor young man himself, I have here. He can prove the mark on his neck, when in outlier despair, the poor creature made an attempt on his own life with a piece of gla.s.s. And what is more, I have the very clothes they both wore when I took them away. In short, I have everything full and clear; but I did not let either my son or daughter know of my exchangin' the childre', and palmin' Thomas Gourlay's own son on him as the son of his brother.

That saicret I kept to myself, knowin' that I couldn't trust them. And now, Thomas Gourlay," he said, "my revenge is complete. There you stand, a guilty and a disgraced man; and with all your wisdom, and wealth, and power, what were you but a mere tool and puppet in my hands up to this hour? There you stand, without a house that you can call your own--stripped of your false t.i.tle--of your false property--but not altogether of your false character, for the world knew pretty well what that was."

Corbet's daughter then came forward, and laying her hand on the baronet's shoulder, said, "Do you know me, Thomas Gourlay?"

"No," replied the other, looking at her with fury; "you are a spectre; I have seen you before; you appeared to me once, and your words were false. Begone, you are a spectre--a spirit of evil."

"I am the spirit of death to you," she replied; "but my prophetic announcement was true. I called you Thomas Gourlay then, and I call you Thomas Gourlay now--for such is your name; and your false t.i.tle is gone. That young man there, named after you, is my son, and you are his father--for I am Jacinta Corbet: so far my father's words are true; and if it were not for his revenge, my son would have inherited your name, t.i.tle, and property. Here now I stand the victim of your treachery and falsehood, which for years have driven me mad. But now the spirit of the future is upon me; and I tell you, that I read frenzy, madness, and death in your face. You have been guilty of great crimes, but you will be guiltier of a greater and a darker still. I read that in your coward spirit, for I know you well. I also am revenged, but I have been punished; and my own sufferings have taught me to feel that I am still a woman. I loved you once--I hated you long; but now I pity you. Yes, Thomas Gourlay, she whom you drove to madness, and imposture, and misery, for long years, can now look down upon you with pity!"

Having thus spoken, she left the room.

We may add here, in a few brief words, that the proof of the ident.i.ty of each of the two individuals in question was clearly, legally, and most satisfactorily established; in addition to which, if farther certainty had been wanting, Lady Gourlay at once knew her son by a very peculiar mole on his neck, of a three-cornered shape, resembling a triangle.

The important events of the day, so deeply affecting Sir Thomas Gourlay and his family, had been now brought to a close; all the strangers withdrew, and Fenton's body was brought up stairs and laid out. Lady Emily and her father went home together; so did Roberts, now Sir Edward Gourlay, and his delighted and thankful mother. Her confidence in the providence of G.o.d was at length amply rewarded, and the widow's heart at last was indeed made to sing for joy.

"Well, Ned, my boy," said old Sam, turning to Sir Edward, after having been introduced to his mother, "I hope I haven't lost a son to-day, although your mother gained one?"

"I would be unworthy of my good fortune, if you did," replied Sir Edward. "Whilst I have life and sense and memory I shall ever look upon you as my father, and my best friend."

"Eight," replied the old soldier; "but I knew it was before you. He was no everyday plant, my lady, and so I told my Beck. Your ladyship must see my Beck," he added; "she's the queen of wives, and I knew it from the first day I married her; my heart told me so, and it was all right--all the heart of man."

The unfortunate old Doctor was to be pitied. He walked about with his finger in his book, scarcely knowing whether what he had seen and heard was a dream, or a reality. Seeing Lord Dunroe about to take his departure, he approached him, and said, "Pray, sir, are we to have no dejeuner after all? Are not you the young gentleman who was this day found out--discovered?"

Dunroe was either so completely absorbed in the contemplation of his ill fortune, that he did not hear him, or he would not deign him an answer.

"This is really too bad," continued the Doctor; "neither a marriage fee nor a dejeuner! Too bad, indeed! Here are the tribulations, but not the marriage; under which melancholy circ.u.mstances I may as well go on my way, although I cannot do it as I expected to have done--rejoicing. Good morning, Mr. Stoker."

Our readers ought to be sufficiently acquainted, we presume, with the state of Lucy's feelings after the events of the day and the disclosures that had been made. Sir Thomas Gourlay--we may as well call him so for the short time he will be on the stage--stunned--crushed--wrecked-- ruined, was instantly obliged to go to bed. The shock sustained by his system, both physically and mentally, was terrific in its character, and fearful in its results. His incoherency almost amounted to frenzy. He raved--he stormed--he cursed--he blasphemed; but amidst this dark tumult of thought and pa.s.sion, there might ever be observed the prevalence of the monster evil--the failure of his ambition for his daughter's elevation to the rank of a countess. Never, indeed, was there such a tempest of human pa.s.sion at work in a brain as raged in his.

"It's a falsehood, I didn't murder my son," he raved; "or if I did, what care I about that? I am a man of steel. My daughter--my daughter was my thought. Well, Dunroe, all is right at last--eh? ha--ha--ha! I managed it; but I knew my system was the right one. Lady Dunroe!--very good, very good to begin with; but not what I wish to see, to hear, to feel before I die. Nurse me, now, if I died without seeing her Countess of Cullamore, but I'd break my heart. 'Make way, there--way for the Countess of Cullamore!'--ha! does not that sound well? But then, the old Earl! Curse him, what keeps him on the stage so long? Away with the old carrion!--away with him! But what was that that happened to-day, or yesterday? Misery, torture, perdition!--disgraced, undone, ruined! Is it true, though? Is this joy? I expected--I feared something like this. Will no one tell me what has happened? Here, Lucy--Countess of Cullamore!--where are you? Now, Lucy, now--put your heel on them--grind them, my girl--remember the cold and distrustful looks your father got from the world--especially from those of your own s.e.x--remember it all, now, Lucy--Countess of Cullamore, I mean--remember it, I say, my lady, for your father's sake. Now, my girl, for pride; now for the haughty sneer; now for the aristocratic air of disdain; now for the day of triumph over the mob of the great vulgar. And that fellow--that reverend old shark who would eat any one of his Christian brethren, if they were only sent up to him disguised as a turbot--the divine old lobster, for his thin red nose is a perfect claw--the divine old lobster couldn't tell me whether there was a G.o.d or not. Curse him, not he; but hold, I must not be too severe upon him: his G.o.d is his belly, and mine was my ambition. Oh, oh! what is this--what does it all mean? What has happened to me? Oh, I am ill, I fear: perhaps I am mad. Is the Countess there--the Countess of Cullamore, I mean?"

Many of his subsequent incoherencies were still more violent and appalling, and sometimes he would have got up and committed acts of outrage, if he had not been closely watched and restrained by force.

Whether his complaint was insanity or brain fever, or the one as symptomatic of the other, even his medical attendants could scarcely determine. At all events, whatever medical skill and domestic attention could do for him was done, but with very little hopes of success.

The effect of the scene which the worn and invalid Earl had witnessed at Sir Thomas Gourlay's were so exhausting to his weak frame that they left very little strength behind them. Yet he complained of no particular illness; all he felt was, an easy but general and certain decay of his physical powers, leaving the mind and intellect strong and clear. On the day following the scene in the baronet's house, we must present him to the reader seated, as usual--for he could not be prevailed upon to keep his bed--in his arm-chair, with the papers of the day before him. Near him, on another seat, was Sir Edward Gourlay.

"Well, Sir Edward, the proofs, you say, have been all satisfactory."

"Perfectly so, my lord," replied the young baronet; "we did not allow yesterday to close without making everything clear. We have this morning had counsel's opinion upon it, and the proof is considered decisive."

"But is Lady Emily herself aware of your attachment?"

"Why, my lord," replied Sir Edward, blushing a little, "I may say I think that--ahem!--she has, in some sort, given--a--ahem!--a kind of consent that I should speak to your lordship on the subject.'

"My dear young friend," said his lordship, whose voice became tremulous, and whose face grew like the whitest ashes.

"Have you got ill, my lord?" asked Sir Edward, a good deal alarmed: "shall I ring for a.s.sistance?"

"No," replied his lordship; "no; I only wish to say that you know not the extent of your own generosity in making this proposal."

"Generosity, my lord! Your lordship will pardon me. In this case I have all the honor to receive, and nothing to confer in exchange."

"Hear me for a few minutes," replied his lordship, "and after you shall have heard me, you will then be able at least to understand whether the proposal you make for my daughter's hand is a generous one or not. My daughter, Sir Edward, is illegitimate."

"Illegitimate, my lord!" replied the other, with an evident shock which he could not conceal. "Great G.o.d! my lord, your words are impossible."

"My young friend, they are both possible and true. Listen to me:

"In early life I loved a young lady of a decayed but respectable family.

I communicated our attachment to my friends, who p.r.o.nounced me a fool, and did not hesitate to attribute my affection for her to art on the part of the lady, and intrigue on that of her relatives. I was at the time deeply, almost irretrievably, embarra.s.sed. Be this as it may, I knew that the imputations against Maria, for such was her name, as well as against her relatives, were utterly false; and as a proof I did so, I followed her to France, where, indeed, I had first met her. Well, we were privately married there; for, although young at the time, I was not without a spirit of false pride and ambition, that tended to prevent me from acknowledging my marriage, and encountering boldly, as I ought to have done, the resentment of my relations and the sneers of the world.

Owing to this unmanly spirit on my part, our marriage, though strictly correct and legal in every respect, was nevertheless a private one, as I have said. In the meantime I had entered parliament, and it is not for me to dwell upon the popularity with which my efforts there were attended. I consequently lived a good deal apart from my wife, whom I had not courage to present as such to the world. Every day now established my success in the House of Commons, and increased my ambition. The const.i.tution of my wife had been naturally a delicate one, and I understood, subsequently to our union, that there had been decline in her family to such an extent, that nearly one-half of them had died of it. In this way we lived for four years, having no issue. About the commencement of the fifth my wife's health began to decline, and as that session of parliament was a very busy and a very important one, I was but little with her. Ever since the period of our marriage, she had been attended by a faithful maid, indeed, rather a companion, well educated and accomplished, named Norton, subsequently married to a cousin of her own name. After a short visit to my wife, in whose const.i.tution decline had now set in, and whom I ought not to have left, I returned to parliament, more than ever ambitious for distinction. I must do myself the justice to say that I loved her tenderly; but at the same time I felt disappointed at not having a family. On returning to London I found that my brother, who had opposed all notion of my marriage with peculiar bitterness, and never spoke of my wife with respect, was himself about to be married to one of the most fascinating creatures on whom my eyes ever rested; and, what was equally agreeable, she had an immense fortune in her own right, and was, besides, of a high and distinguished family.

She was beautiful, she was rich--she was, alas! ambitious. Well, we met, we conversed, we compared minds with each other; we sang together, we danced together, until at length we began to feel that the absence of the one caused an unusual depression in the other. I was said to be one of the most eloquent commoners of the day--her family were powerful--my wife was in a decline, and recovery hopeless. Here, then, was a career for ambition; but that was not all. I was poor--embarra.s.sed almost beyond hope--on the very verge of ruin. Indeed, so poor, that it was as much owing to the inability of maintaining my wife in her proper rank, as to fear of my friends and the world, that I did not publicly acknowledge her. But why dwell on this? I loved the woman whose heart and thought had belonged to my brother--loved her to madness; and soon perceived that the pa.s.sion was mutual. I had not, however, breathed a syllable of love, nor was it ever my intention to do so. My brother, however, was gradually thrown off, treated with coldness, and ultimately with disdain, while no one suspected the cause. It is painful to dwell upon subsequent occurrences. My brother grew jealous, and, being a high-spirited young man, released Lady Emily from her engagement. I was mad with love; and this conduct, honorable and manly as it was in him, occasioned an explanation between me and Lady Emily, in which, weak and vacillating as I was, in the frenzy of the moment I disclosed, avowed my pa.s.sion, and--but why proceed? We loved each other, not 'wisely, but too well.' My brother sought and obtained a foreign lucrative appointment, and left the country in a state of mind which it is very difficult to describe. He refused to see me on his departure, and I have never seen him since.

"The human heart, my young friend, is a great mystery. I now attached myself to Lady Emily, and was about to disclose my marriage to her; but as the state of my wife's health was hopeless, I declined to do so, in the expectation that a little time might set me free. My wife was then living in a remote little village in the south of France; most of her relatives were dead, and those who survived were at the time living in a part of Connaught, Galway, to which any kind of intelligence, much less foreign, seldom ever made its way. Now, I do not want to justify myself, because I cannot do so. I said this moment that the human heart is a great mystery. So it is. Whilst my pa.s.sion for Lady Emily was literally beyond all restraint, I nevertheless felt visitations of remorse that were terrible. The image of my gentle Maria, sweet, contented, affectionate, and uncomplaining, would sometimes come before me, and--pardon me, my friend; I am very weak, but I will resume in a few moments. Well, the struggle within me was great. I had a young duke as a rival; but I was not only a rising man, but actually had a party in the House of Commons. Her family, high and ambitious, were anxious to procure my political support, and held out the prospect of a peerage. My wife was dying; I loved Lady Emily; I was without offspring; I was poor; I was ambitious. She was beautiful, of high family and powerful connections; she was immensely rich, too, highly accomplished, and enthusiastically attached to me. These were temptations.

"At this period it so fell out that a sister of my wife's became governess in Lady Emily's family; but the latter were ignorant of the connection. This alarmed me, frightened me; for I feared she would disclose my marriage. I lost no time in bringing about a private interview with her, in which I entreated her to keep the matter secret, stating that a short time would enable me to bring her sister with eclat into public life. I also prevailed upon her to give up her situation, and furnished her with money for Maria, to whom I sent her, with an a.s.surance that my house should ever be her home, and that it was contrary to my wishes ever to hear my wife's sister becoming a governess; and this indeed was true. I also wrote to my wife, to the effect that the pressure of my parliamentary duties would prevent me from seeing her for a couple of months.

"In this position matters were for about a fortnight or three weeks, when, at last, a letter reached me from my sister-in-law, giving a detailed account of my wife's death, and stating that she and Miss Norton were about to make a tour to Italy, for the purpose of acquiring the language. This letter was a diabolical falsehood, Sir Edward; but it accomplished its purpose. She had gleaned enough of intelligence in the family, by observation and otherwise, to believe that my wife's death alone would enable me, in a short time, to become united to Lady Emily; and that if my marriage with her took place whilst her sister lived, I believing her to be dead, she would punish me for what she considered my neglect of her, and my unjustifiable attachment to another woman during Maria's life. All communication ceased between us. My wife was unable to write; but from what her sister stated to her, probably with exaggerations, her pride prevented her from holding any correspondence with a husband who refused to acknowledge his marriage with her, and whose affections had been transferred to another. At all events, the blow took effect. Believing her dead, and deeming myself at liberty, I married Lady Emily, after a lapse of six months, exactly as many weeks before the death of my first wife. Of course you perceive now, my friend, that my last marriage was null and void; and that, hurried on by the eager impulses of love and ambition, I did, without knowing it, an act which has made my children illegitimate. It is true, my union with Lady Emily was productive to me of great results. I was created an Irish peer, in consequence of the support I gave to my wife's connections. The next step was an earldom, with an English peerage, together with such an accession of property in right of my wife, as made me rich beyond my wishes. So far, you may say, I was a successful man; but the world cannot judge of the heart, and its recollections. My second wife was a virtuous woman, high, haughty, and correct; but notwithstanding our early enthusiastic affection, the experiences of domestic life soon taught us to feel, that, after all, our dispositions and tastes were unsuitable. She was fond of show, of equipage, of fashionable amus.e.m.e.nts, and that empty dissipation which const.i.tutes, the substance of aristocratic existence. I, on the contrary, when not engaged in public life, with which I soon grew fatigued, was devoted to retirement, to domestic enjoyment, and to the duties which devolved upon me as a parent. I loved my children with the greatest tenderness, and applied myself to the cultivation of their principles, and the progress of their education. All, however, would not do. I was unhappy; unhappy, not only in my present wife, but in the recollection of the gentle and affectionate Maria. I now felt the full enormity of my crime against that patient and angelic being. Her memory began to haunt me--her virtues were ever in my thoughts; her quiet, uncomplaining submission, her love, devotion, tenderness, all rose up in fearful array against me, until I felt that the abiding principle of my existence was a deep remorse, that ate its way into my happiness day by day, and has never left me through my whole subsequent life. This, however, was attended with some good, as it recalled me, in an especial manner, to the n.o.bler duties of humanity. I felt now that truth, and a high sense of honor, could alone enable me to redeem the past, and atone for my conduct with respect to Maria. But, above all, I felt that independence of mind, self-restraint, and firmness of character, were virtues, principles, what you will, without which man is but a cipher, a tool of others, or the sport of circ.u.mstances.

"My second wife died of a cold, caught by going rather thinly dressed to a fashionable party too soon after the birth of Emily; and my son, having become the pet and spoiled child of his mother and her relatives, soon became imbued with fashionable follies, which, despite of all my care and vigilance, I am grieved to say, have degenerated into worse and more indefensible principles. He had not reached the period of manhood when he altogether threw off all regard for my control over him as a father, and led a life since of which the less that is said the better.

"The facts connected with my second marriage have been so clearly established that defence is hopeless. The registry of our marriage, and of my first wife's death, have been laid before me, and Mrs. Mainwaring, herself, was ready to substantiate and prove them by her personal testimony. My own counsel, able and eminent men as they are, have dissuaded me from bringing the matter to a trial, and thus making public the disgrace which must attach to my children. You now understand, Sir Edward, the full extent of your generosity in proposing for my daughter's hand, and you also understand the nature of my private communication yesterday with your uncle."

"But, my lord, how did your brother become aware of the circ.u.mstances you have just mentioned?"

"Through Mrs. Mainwaring, who thought it unjust that a profligate should inherit so much property, with so bad a t.i.tle to it, whilst there were virtuous and honorable men to claim it justly; such are the words of a note on the subject which I have received from her this very morning.

Thus it is that vice often punishes itself. Now, Sir Edward, I am ready to hear you."

"My lord," replied Sir Edward, "the case is so peculiar, so completely out of the common course, that, morally speaking, I cannot look upon your children as illegitimate. I have besides great doubts whether the prejudice of the world, or its pride, which visits upon the head of the innocent child the error, or crime if you will, of the guilty parent, ought to be admitted as a principle of action in life."

"Yes," replied the earl; "but on the other hand, to forbid it altogether might tend to relax some of the best principles in man and woman. Vice must frequently be followed up for punishment even to its consequences as well as its immediate acts, otherwise virtue were little better than a name. For this, however, there is a remedy--an act of parliament must be procured to legitimatize my children. I shall take care of that, although I may not live to see it," *

* This was done, and the circ.u.mstance is still remembered by many persons in the north of Ireland.

"Be that as it may, my lord, I cannot but think that in the eye of religion and morality your children are certainly legitimate; all that is against them being a point of law. For my part, I earnestly beg to renew my proposal for the hand of Lady Emily."

"Then, Sir Edward, you do not feel yourself deterred by anything I have stated?"

"My lord, I love Lady Emily for her own sake--and for her own sake only."

"Then," replied her father, "bring her here. I feel very weak--I am getting heavy. Yesterday's disclosures gave me a shock which I fear will--but I trust I am prepared--go--remember, however, that my darling child knows nothing of what I have mentioned to you--Dunroe does. I had not courage to tell her that she has been placed by her father's pride, by his ambition, and by his want of moral restraint, out of the pale of life. Go, and fetch her here."