The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 68

"Well," observed Ambrose, "we must only make the best of our position.

If I succeed, you shall, according to our written agreement, be all provided for. Not that I would feel very strongly disposed to do much for that enigmatical old grandfather of mine. The vile old ferret saw me in the lock-up the other morning, and refused to bail me out; ay, and threatened me besides."

"He did right," replied his uncle; "and if you're caught there again, I'll not only never bail you out, but wash my hands of the whole affair.

So now be warned, and let it be for your good. Listen, then; for the case in which you stand is this: there is Miss Gourlay and Dunroe going to be married after all; for she has returned to her father, and consented to marry the young lord. The baronet, too, is ill, and I don't think will live long. He is burned out like a lime-kiln; for, indeed, like that, his whole life has been nothing but smoke and fire. Very well; now pay attention. If we wait until these marriage articles are drawn up, the appearance or the discovery of this heir here will create great confusion; and you may take my word that every opposition will be given, and every inquiry made by Dunroe, who, as there seems to be no heir, will get the property; for it goes, in that case, with Miss Gourlay. Every knot is more easily tied than untied. Let us produce the heir, then, before the property's disposed of, and then we won't have to untie the knot--to invalidate the marriage articles. So far, so good--that's our plan. But again, there's the baronet ill; should he die before we establish this youth's rights, think of our difficulty. And, thirdly, he's beginning to suspect our integrity, as he is pleased to call it. That strange gentleman, Ginty, has mentioned circ.u.mstances to him that he says could come only from my father or myself, or you."

"Proceed," replied his sister, "proceed; I may look forward to the fulfilment of these plans; but I will never live to see it."

"You certainly are much changed for the worse," replied her brother, "especially since your reason has been restored to you. In the meantime, listen. The baronet is now ill, although Gibson says there's no danger of him; he's easier in his mind, however, in consequence of this marriage, that he has, for life or death, set his heart on; and altogether this is the best time to put this vagabond's pretensions forward."

"Thank you, uncle," replied Ambrose, with a clouded brow. "In six months hence, perhaps, I'll be no vagabond."

"Ay, in sixty years hence you will; and indeed, I fear, to tell you the truth, that you'll never be anything else. That, however, is not the question now. We want to know what my father may say--whether he will agree with us, or whether he can or will give us any better advice.

There is one thing, at least, we ought to respect him for; and that is, that he gave all his family a good education, although he had but little of that commodity himself, poor man."

He had scarcely concluded, when old Anthony made his appearance, with that mystical expression on his face, half sneer, half gloom, which would lead one to conclude that his heart was divided between remorse and vengeance.

"Well," said he, "you're at work, I see--honestly employed, of course.

Ginty, how long is Mr. Ambrose here dead now?"

"He died," replied her brother, "soon after the intention of changing the children took place. You took the hint, father, from the worthy baronet himself."

"Ay, I did; and I wish I had not. You died, my good young fellow, of scarlet-fever--let me see--but divil a much matther it is when you died; it's little good you'll come to, barrin' you change your heart.

They say, indeed, the divil's children have the divil's luck; but I say, the divil's children have the divil's face, too; for sure he's as like the black fiend his father as one egg is to another."

"And that will strengthen the claim," replied the young man, with a grin. "I don't look too old, I hope?"

"There's only two years' difference between you and the boy, your brother, that's dead," said his mother. "But I wish we were well through with this. My past life seems to me like a dream. My contemplated revenge upon that bad man, and my ambition for this boy, are the only two principles that now sustain me. What a degraded life has Thomas Gourlay caused me to lead! But I really think that I saw into futurity; nay, I am certain of it; otherwise, what put hundreds of predictions into my lips, that were verified by the event?"

There was a momentary expression of wildness in her eye as she spoke, which the others observed with pain.

"Come, Ginty," said her brother, "keep yourself steady now, at all events; be cool and firm, till we punish this man. If you want to know why you foretold so much, I'll tell you. It was because you could put two and two together."

"My whole life has been a blank," she proceeded, "an empty dream--a dead, dull level; insanity, vengeance, ambition, all jostling and crossing each other in my unhappy mind; not a serious or reasonable duty of life discharged; no claim on society--no station in the work of life--an impostor to the world, and a dupe to myself; but it was he did it. Go on; form your plans--make them firm and sure; for, by Him who withdrew the light of reason from my spirit--by Him from whom it came, I will have vengeance. Father, I know you well, and I am your daughter."

"You know me well, do you?" he replied, with his usual grin. "Maybe you do, and maybe you don't; but let us proceed. The baronet's son's dead, you know."

"But what makes you look as you do, father, when you say so? Your face seems to contradict your words. You know you have told us for years that he's dead."

"And I'm a liar, am I?" he replied, looking at him with a peculiar smile.

"No, I don't say so; certainly not. But, still, you squeeze your face up in such a way that you don't seem to believe it yourself."

"Come, come," continued the old man, "this is all useless. What do you intend to do? How do you intend to proceed?"

"We sent for you to advise us in that," replied his son. "You are the oldest and the wisest here, and of course ought to possess the soundest judgment."

"Well, then, my advice to you is, to go about your business; that is, to do any lawful business that you have to do, and not to bring yourselves to disgrace by puttin' forrid this drunken profligate, who will pitch us all to the devil when he gets himself safe, and tread in his black father's steps afterwards."

"And you must a.s.sist us, father," said Ginty, rising up, and pacing to and fro the room in a state of great agitation. "You, the first cause, the original author of my shame; you, to whose iniquitous avarice and vulgar ambition I fell a sacrifice, as much as I did to the profligacy and villany of Thomas Gourlay. But I care not--I have my ambition; it is a mother's, and more natural on that account. I have also my vengeance to gratify; for, father, we are your children, and vengeance is the family principle. Father, you must a.s.sist us--you must join us--you must lend us your perjury--supply us with false oaths, with deceitful accounts, with all that is necessary; for, father, it is to work out your own principles--that I may be able to die smiling--smiling that I have overreached and punished him at last. That, you know, will be a receipt in full for my shame and madness. Now, I say, father, you must do this, or I will kneel down and curse you."

The old man, as she proceeded, kept his eyes fixed upon her, first with a look of indifference; this, however, became agreeable and complacent; gradually his eye kindled as he caught her spirit, and when she had concluded, he ground his black old stumps of teeth together with a vindictive energy that was revolting, or at least would have been so to any others unless those that were present.

"Well, Ginty," he replied, "I have turned it over in my mind, and as helpin' you now will be givin' the black fellow an additional stab, I'll do it. Yes, my lad," he added, grinning rather maliciously, by the way, at the object of his promised support, "I will make a present of you to your father; and a thankful man he ought to be to have the like of you.

I was sometimes for you, and sometimes against you; but, at all events, the old fellow must have you--for the present at least."

This was accompanied by another grin, which was, as usual, perfectly inexplicable to the others. But as he had expressed his a.s.sent and promised his a.s.sistance, they were glad to accept it on his own terms and in his own way.

"Well, then," he proceeded, "now that we've made up our minds to go through with it, I'll think over what's to be done--what's the best steps to take, and the best time and place to break it to him. This will require some time to think of it, and to put things together properly; so let us have a drop of something to drink, and we can meet again in few days."

Having partaken of the refreshment which was ordered in, they soon afterwards separated until another opportunity.

Ambrose Gray, with whose real name the reader is already acquainted, took but little part, as may have been perceived, in the discussion of a project which so deeply affected his own interests. When it was first discovered to him by his mother and uncle, he was much struck even at the bare probability of such an event. Subsequent reflection, however, induced him to look upon the whole scheme as an empty bubble, that could not bear the touch of a finger without melting into air. It was true he was naturally cunning, but then he was also naturally profligate and vicious; and although not without intellect, yet was he deficient in self-command to restrain himself when necessary. Altogether, his character was bad, and scarcely presented to any one a favorable aspect. When affected with liquor he was at once quarrelsome and cowardly--always the first to provoke a fight, and the first, also, to sneak out of it.

Soon after the disappearance of Sir Edward Gourlay's heir, the notion of removing the baronet's own son occurred, not to his mother, nor to her brother, but to old Corbet, who desired his son Charles, then a young man, and the baronet's foster-brother, as a preparatory step to his ultimate designs, to inform him that his illegitimate son was dead. Sir Thomas at this time had not a.s.sumed the t.i.tle, nor taken possession of the immense estates.

"Mr. Gourlay," said Charles, "that child is dead; I was desired to tell you so by my father, who doesn't wish to speak to you himself upon the subject."

"Well," replied Mr. Gourlay, "what affair is that of mine?"

"Why," said the other, "as the unfortunate mother is insane, and without means of providing decently for its burial, he thinks it only reasonable that you should furnish money for that purpose--he, I know, won't."

"What do you mean by providing decently?" asked Mr. Gourlay. "What stuff that is!--throw the brat into a sh.e.l.l, and bury it. I am cursedly glad it's gone. There's half-a-crown, and pitch it into the nearest kennel.

Why the deuce do you come to me with such a piece of information?"

Charles Corbet, being his father's son, looked at him, and we need not at any length describe the nature of that look nor the feeling it conveyed. This pa.s.sed, but was not forgotten; and on being detailed by Charles Corbet to his father, the latter replied,

"Ah, the villain--that's his feelin', is it! Well, never mind, I'll punish him one day."

Some months after this he came into Mr. Gourlay's study, with a very solemn and anxious face, and said,

"I have something to say to you, sir."

"Well, Anthony, what is it you have to say to me?"

"Maybe I'm wrong, sir, and I know I oughtn't to alarm you or disturb your mind; but still I think I ought to put you on your guard."

"Confound your caution, sir; can't you come out with whatever you have to say at once?"

"Would it be possible, sir, that there could be any danger of the child bein' taken away like the other--like your brother's?"

"What do you mean--why do you ask such a question?"

"Bekaise, sir, I observed for the last few days a couple of strange men peepin' and pimpin' about the place, and wherever the child went they kept dodgin' afther him."

"But why should any one think of taking him away?"

"Hem!--well, I don't know, sir; but you know that the heir was taken away."