The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 74

"Why am I doin' this," said he, half repentant of the act, "and me can't afford it? You must give me your bill, sir, at three months, and I'll charge you interest besides."

"I'll give you my bill, certainly," replied the priest, "and you may charge interest too; but be moderate."

Corbet then went upstairs, much at that pace which characterizes the progress of a felon from the press-room to the gallows; here he remained for some time--reckoning the money--paused on the stairhead--and again the slow, heavy, lingering step was heard descending, and, as nearly as one could judge, with as much reluctance as that with which it went up. He then sat down and looked steadily, but with a good deal of abstraction, at the priest, after having first placed the money on his own side of the table.

"Have you a blank bill?" asked the priest.

"Eh?"

"Have you got a blank bill? or, sure we can send out for one."

"For what?"

"For a blank bill."

"A blank bill--yes--oh, ay--fifty guineas!--why, that's half a hundre'.

G.o.d protect me! what am I about? Well, well; there--there--there; now put it in your pocket;" and as he spoke he shoved it over hastily to the priest, as if he feared his good resolution might fail him at last.

"But about the bill, man alive?"

"Hang the bill--deuce take all the bills that ever were drawn! I'm the greatest ould fool that ever wore a head--to go to allow myself to be made a--a--. Take your money away out of this, I bid you--your money--no, but my money. I suppose I may bid farewell to it--for so long as any one tells you a story of distress, and makes a poor mouth to you, so long you'll get yourself into a sc.r.a.pe on their account."

The priest had already put the money in his pocket, but he instantly took it out, and placed it once more on Corbet's side of the table.

"There," said he, "keep it. I will receive no money that is lent in such a churlish and unchristian spirit. And I tell you now, moreover, that if I do accept it, it must be on the condition of your listening to what I feel it my duty to say to you. You, Anthony Corbet, have committed a black and deadly crime against the bereaved widow, against society, against the will of a merciful and--take care that you don't find him, too--a just G.o.d. It is quite useless for you to deny it; I have spoken the truth, and you know it. Why will you not enable that heart-broken and kind lady--whose whole life is one perpetual good action--to trace and get back her son?"

"I can't do it."

"That's a deliberate falsehood, sir. Your conscience tells you it's a he. In your last conversation with me, at the Brazen Head, you as good as promised to do something of the kind in a couple of months. That time and more has now pa.s.sed, and yet you have done nothing."

"How do you know that?"

"Don't I know that the widow has got no trace of her child? And right well I know that you could restore him to her if you wished. However, I leave you now to the comfort of your own hardened and wicked heart. The day will come soon when the black catalogue of your own guilt will rise up fearfully before you--when a death-bed, with all its horrors, will startle the very soul within you by its fiery recollections. It is then, my friend, that you will feel--when it is too late--what it is to have tampered with and despised the mercy of G.o.d, and have neglected, while you had time, to prepare yourself for His awful judgment. Oh, what would I not do to turn your heart from the dark spirit of revenge that broods in it, and changes you into a demon! Mark these words, Anthony. They are spoken, G.o.d knows, with an anxious and earnest wish for your repentance, and, if neglected, they will rise and sound the terrible sentence of your condemnation at the last awful hour. Listen to them, then--listen to them in time, I entreat, I beseech you--I would go on my bare knees to you to do so." Here his tears fell fast, as he proceeded, "I would; and, believe me, I have thought of you and prayed for you, and now you see that I cannot but weep for you, when I know that you have the knowledge--perhaps the guilt of this heinous crime locked up in your heart, and will not reveal it. Have compa.s.sion, then, on the widow--enable her friends to restore her child to her longing arms; purge yourself of this great guilt, and you may believe me, that even in a temporal point of view it will be the best rewarded action you ever performed; but this is little--the darkness that is over your heart will disappear, your conscience will become light, and all its reflections sweet and full of heavenly comfort; your death-bed will be one of peace, and hope, and joy. Restore, then, the widow's son, and forbear your deadly revenge against that wretched baronet, and G.o.d will restore you to a happiness that the world can neither give nor take away."

Corbet's cheek became pale as death itself whilst the good man spoke, but no other symptom of emotion was perceptible; unless, indeed, that his hands, as he unconsciously played with the money, were quite tremulous.

The priest, having concluded, rose to depart, having completely forgotten the princ.i.p.al object of his visit.

"Where are you going?" said Corbet, "won't you take the money with you?"

"That depends upon your reply," returned the priest; "and I entreat you to let me have a favorable one."

"One part of what you wish I will do," he replied; "the other is out of my power at present. I am not able to do it yet."

"I don't properly understand you," said the other; "or rather, I don't understand you at all. Do you mean what you have just said to be favorable or otherwise?"

"I have come to a resolution," replied Corbet, "and time will tell whether it's in your favor or not. You must be content with this, for more I will not say now; I cannot. There's your money, but I'll take no bill from you. Your promise is sufficient--only say you will pay me?"

"I will pay you, if G.o.d spares me life."

"That is enough; unless, indeed "--again pausing.

"Satisfy yourself," said the priest; "I will give you either my bill or note of hand."

"No, no; I tell you. I am satisfied. Leave everything to time."

"That may do very well, but it does not apply to eternity, Anthony. In the meantime I thank you; for I admit you have taken me out of a very distressing difficulty. Good-by--G.o.d bless you; and, above all things, don't forget the words I have spoken to you."

"Now," said Corbet, after the priest had gone, "something must be done; I can't stand this state of mind long, and if death should come on me before I've made my peace with G.o.d--but then, the black villain!--come or go what may, he must be punished, and Ginty's and Tom's schemes must be broken. That vagabone, too! I can't forget the abuse he gave me in the watch-house; however, I'll set the good act against the bad one, and who knows but the one may wipe out the other? I suppose the promisin'

youth has seen his father, and thinks himself the welcome heir of his t.i.tle and property by this; and the father too--but wait, if I don't dash that cup from his lips, and put one to it filled with gall, I'm not here; and then when it's done, I'll take to religion for the remainder of my life."

What old Corbet said was, indeed, true enough; and this brings us to the interview between Mr. Ambrose Gray, his parent, and his sister.

There is nothing which so truly and often so severely tests the state of man's heart, or so painfully disturbs the whole frame of his moral being as the occurrence of some important event that is fraught with happiness. Such an event resembles the presence of a good man among a set of profligates, causing them to feel the superiority of virtue over vice, and imposing a disagreeable restraint, not only upon their actions, but their very thoughts. When the baronet, for instance, went from his bedroom to the library, he experienced the full force of this observation. A disagreeable tumult prevailed within him. It is true, he felt, as every parent must feel, to a greater or less extent delighted at the contemplation of his son's restoration to him. But, at the same time, the tenor of his past life rose up in painful array before him, and occasioned reflections that disturbed him deeply. Should this young man prove, on examination, to resemble his sister in her views of moral life in general--should he find him as delicately virtuous, and animated by the same pure sense of honor, he felt that his recovery would disturb the future habits of his life, and take away much of the gratification which he expected from his society. These considerations, we say, rendered him so anxious and uneasy, that he actually wished to find him something not very far removed from a profligate. He hoped that he might be inspired with his own views of society and men, and that he would now have some one to countenance him in all his selfish designs and projects.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV. Young Gourlay's Affectionate Interview with His Father

--Risk of Strangulation--Movements of M'Bride.

It is not necessary here to suggest to the reader that Tom Corbet, who knew the baronet's secrets and habits of life so thoroughly, had prepared Mr. Ambrose Gray, by frequent rehearsals, for the more adroit performance of the task that was before him.

At length a knock, modest but yet indicative of something like authority, was heard at the hall-door, and the baronet immediately descended to the dining-room, where he knew he could see his son with less risk of interruption. He had already intimated to Lucy that she should not make her appearance until summoned for that purpose.

At length Mr. Gray was shown into the dining-room, and the baronet, who, as usual, was pacing it to and fro, suddenly turned round, and without any motion to approach his son, who stood with a dutiful look, as if to await his will, he fixed his eyes upon him with a long, steady, and scrutinizing gaze. There they stood, contemplating each other with earnestness, and so striking, so extraordinary was the similarity between their respective features, that, in everything but years, they appeared more like two counterparts than father and son. Each, on looking at the other, felt, in fact, the truth of this unusual resemblance, and the baronet at once acknowledged its influence.

"Yes," he exclaimed, approaching Mr. Gray, "yes, there is no mistake here; he is my son. I acknowledge him." He extended his hand, and shook that of the other, then seized both with a good deal of warmth, and welcomed him. Ambrose, however, was not satisfied with this, but, extricating his hands, he threw his arms round the baronet's neck, and exclaimed in the words of an old play, in which he had been studying a similar scene for the present occasion, "My father! my dear father! Oh, and have I a father! Oh, let me press him to my heart!" And as he spoke he contrived to execute half a dozen dry sobs (for he could not accomplish the tears), that would have done credit to the best actor of the day.

The baronet, who never relished any exhibition of emotion or tenderness, began to have misgivings as to his character, and consequently suffered these dutiful embraces instead of returning them.

"There, Tom," he exclaimed, laughing, "that will do. There, man," he repeated, for he felt that Tom was about recommencing another rather vigorous attack, whilst the sobs were deafening, "there, I say; don't throttle me; that will do, sirrah; there now. On this occasion it is natural; but in general I detest snivelling--it's unmanly."

Tom at once took the hint, wiped his eyes, a work in this instance of the purest supererogation, and replied, "So do I, father; it's decidedly the province of an old woman when she is past everything else. But on such an occasion I should be either more or less than man not to feel as I ought."

"Come, that is very well said. I hope you are not a fool like your--Corbet, go out. I shall send for you when we want you. I hope," he repeated, after Corbet had disappeared, "I hope you are not a fool, like your sister. Not that I can call her a fool, either; but she is obstinate and self-willed."

"I am sorry to hear this, sir. My sister ought to have no will but yours."

"Why, that is better," replied the baronet, rubbing his hands cheerfully. "Hang it, how like?" he exclaimed, looking at him once more.

"You resemble me confoundedly, Tom--at least in person; and if you do in mind and purpose, we'll harmonize perfectly. Well, then, I have a thousand questions to ask you, but I will have time enough for that again; in the meantime, Tom, what's your opinion of life--of the world--of man, Tom, and of woman? I wish to know what kind of stuff you're made of."

"Of life, sir--why, that we are to take the most we can out of it. Of the world--that I despise it. Of man--that every one is a rogue when he's found out, and that if he suffers himself to be found out he's a fool; so that the fools and the rogues have it between them."

"And where do you leave the honest men, Tom?"

"The what, sir?"