The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 78

All we can communicate to the reader with respect to the conference between these three redoubtable individuals is simply its results. On that evening Norton and M'Bride started for France, with what object will be seen hereafter, Birney having followed on the same route the morning but one afterwards, for the purpose of securing the doc.u.ments in question.

Dunroe now more than ever felt the necessity of urging his marriage with Lucy. He knew his father's honorable spirit too well to believe that he would for one moment yield his consent to it under the circ.u.mstances which were now pending. With the full knowledge of these circ.u.mstances he was not acquainted. M'Bride had somewhat overstated the share of confidence to which in this matter he had been admitted by his master.

His information, therefore, on the subject, was not so accurate as he wished, although, from motives of dishonesty and a desire to sell his doc.u.ments to the best advantage, he made the most of the knowledge he possessed. Be this as it may, Dunroe determined, as we said, to bring about the nuptials without delay, and in this he was seconded by Sir Thomas Gourlay himself, who also had his own motives for hastening them.

In fact, here were two men, each deliberately attempting to impose upon the other, and neither possessed of one spark of honor or truth, although the transaction between them was one of the most solemn importance that can occur in the great business of life. The world, however, is filled with similar characters; and not all the misery and calamity that ensue from such fraudulent and dishonest practices will, we fear, ever prevent the selfish and ambitious from pursuing the same courses.

"Sir Thomas," said Dunroe, in a conversation with the baronet held on the very day after Norton and M'Bride had set out on their secret expedition, "this marriage is unnecessarily delayed. I am anxious that it should take place as soon as it possibly can."

"But," replied the baronet, "I have not been able to see your father on the subject, in consequence of his illness."

"It is not necessary," replied his lordship. "You know what kind of a man he is. In fact, I fear he is very nearly _non compos_ as it is.

He has got so confoundedly crotchety of late, that I should not feel surprised if, under some whim or other, he set his face-against it altogether. In fact, it is useless, and worse than useless, to consult him at all about it. I move, therefore, that we go on without him."

"I think you are right," returned the other; "and I have not the slightest objection: name the day. The contract is drawn up, and only requires to be signed."

"I should say, on Monday next," replied his lordship; "but I fear we will have objections and protestations from Miss Gourlay; and if so, how are we to manage?"

"Leave the management of Miss Gourlay to me, my lord," replied her father. "I have managed her before and shall manage her now."

His lordship had scarcely gone, when Lucy was immediately sent for, and as usual found her father in the library.

"Lucy," said he, with as much blandness of manner as he could a.s.sume, "I have sent for you to say that you are called upon to make your father happy at last."

"And myself wretched forever, papa."

"But your word, Lucy--your promise--your honor: remember that promise so solemnly given; remember, too, your duty of obedience as a daughter."

"Alas! I remember everything, papa; too keenly, too bitterly do I remember all."

"You will be prepared to marry Dunroe on Monday next. The affair will be comparatively private. That is to say, we will ask n.o.body--no dejeuner--no nonsense. The fewer the better at these matters. Would you wish to see your brother--hem--I mean Mr. Gray?"

Lucy had been standing while he spoke; but she now staggered over to a seat, on which she fell rather than sat. Her large, lucid eyes lost their l.u.s.tre; her frame quivered; her face became of an ashy paleness; but still those eyes were bent upon her father.

"Papa," she said, at length, in a low voice that breathed of horror, "do not kill me."

"Kill you, foolish girl! Now really, Lucy, this is extremely ridiculous and vexatious too. Is not my daughter a woman of honor?"

"Papa," she said, solemnly, going down upon her two knees, and joining her lovely and snowy hands together, in an att.i.tude of the most earnest and heart-rending supplication; "papa, hear me. You have said that I saved your life; be now as generous as I was--save mine."

"Lucy," he replied, "this looks like want of principle. You would violate your promise. I should not wish Dunroe to hear this, or to know it. He might begin to reason upon it, and to say that the woman who could deliberately break a solemn promise might not hesitate at the marriage vow. I do not apply this reasoning to you, but he or others might. Of course, I expect that, as a woman of honor, you will keep your word with me, and marry Dunroe on Monday. You will have no trouble--everything shall be managed by them; a brilliant trousseau can be provided as well afterwards as before."

Lucy rose up; and as she did, the blood, which seemed to have previously gathered, to her heart, now returned to her cheek, and began to mantle upon it, whilst her figure, before submissive and imploring, dilated to its full size.

"Father," said she, "since you will not hear the voice of supplication, hear that of reason and truth. Do not entertain a doubt, no, not for a moment, that if I am urged--driven--to this marriage, hateful and utterly detestable to me as it is, I shall hesitate to marry this man. I say this, however, because I tell you that I am about to appeal to your interest in my true happiness for the last time. Is it, then, kind; is it fatherly in you, sir, to exact from me the fulfilment of a promise given under circ.u.mstances that ought to touch your heart into a generous perception of the sacrifice which in giving it I made for your sake alone? You were ill, and laboring under the apprehension of sudden death, princ.i.p.ally, you said, in consequence of my refusal to become the wife of that man. I saw this; and although the effort was infinitely worse than death to me, I did not hesitate one moment in yielding up what is at any time dearer to me than life--my happiness--that you might be spared. Alas, my dear father, if you knew how painful it is to me to be forced to plead all this in my own defence, you would, you must, pity me. A generous heart, almost under any circ.u.mstances, scorns to plead its own acts, especially when they are on the side of virtue. But I, alas, am forced to it; am forced to do that which I would otherwise scorn and blush to do."

"Lucy," replied her father, who felt in his ambitious and tyrannical soul the full force, not only of what she said, but of the fraud he had practised on her, but which she never suspected: "Lucy, my child, you will drive me mad. Perhaps I am wrong; but at the same time my heart is so completely fixed upon this marriage, that if it be not brought about I feel I shall go insane. The value of life would be lost to me, and most probably I shall die the dishonorable death of a suicide."

"And have you no fear for me, my father--no apprehension that I may escape from this my wretched destiny to the peace of the grave? But you need not. Thank G.o.d, I trust and feel that my regard for His precepts, and my perceptions of His providence, are too clear and too firm ever to suffer me to fly like a coward from the post in life which He has a.s.signed me. But why, dear father, should you make me the miserable victim of your ambition?--I am not ambitious."

"I know you are not: I never could get an honorable ambition instilled into you."

"I am not mean, however--nay, I trust that I possess all that honest and honorable pride which would prevent me from doing an unworthy act, or one unbecoming either my s.e.x or my position."

"You would not break your word, for instance, nor render your father wretched, insane, mad, or, perhaps, cause his dreadful malady to return.

No--no--but yet fine talking is a fine thing. Madam, cease to plead your virtues to me, unless you prove that you possess them by keeping your honorable engagement made to Lord Dunroe, through the sacred medium of your own father. Whatever you may do, don't attempt to involve me in your disgrace."

"I am exhausted," she said, "and cannot speak any longer; but I will not despair of you, father. No, my dear papa," she said, throwing her arms about his neck, laying her head upon his bosom, and bursting into tears, "I will not think that you could sacrifice your daughter. You will relent for Lucy as Lucy did for you--but I feel weak. You know, papa, how this fever on my spirits has worn me down; and, after all, the day might come--and come with bitterness and remorse to your heart--when you may be forced to feel that although you made your Lucy a countess she did not remain a countess long."

"What do you mean now?"

"Don't you see, papa, that my heart is breaking fast? If you will not hear my words--if they cannot successfully plead for me--let my declining health--let my pale and wasted cheek--let my want of spirits, my want of appet.i.te--and, above all, let that which you cannot see nor feel--the sickness of my unhappy heart--plead for me. Permit me to go, dear papa; and will you allow me to lean upon you to my own room?--for, alas! I am not, after this painful excitement, able to go there myself.

Thank you, papa, thank you."

He was thus compelled to give her his arm, and, in doing so, was surprised to feel the extraordinary tremor by which her frame was shaken. On reaching her room, she turned round, and laying her head, with an affectionate and supplicating confidence, once more upon his breast, she whispered with streaming eyes, "Alas! my dear papa, you forget, in urging me to marry this hateful profligate, that my heart, my affections, my love--in the fullest, and purest, and most disinterested sense--are irrevocably fixed upon another; and Dunroe, all mean and unmanly as he is, knows this."

"He knows that--there, sit down--why do you tremble so?--Yes, but he knows that what you consider an attachment is a mere girlish fancy, a whimsical predilection that your own good-sense will show you the folly of at a future time."

"Recollect, papa, that he has been extravagant, and is said to be embarra.s.sed; the truth is, sir, that the man values not your daughter, but the property to which he thinks he will become ent.i.tled, and which I have no doubt will be very welcome to his necessities. I feel that I speak truth, and as a test of his selfishness, it will be only necessary to acquaint him with the reappearance of my brother--your son and heir--and you will be no further troubled by his importunities."

"Troubled by his importunity! Why, girl, it's I that am troubled with apprehension lest he might discover the existence of your brother, and draw off."

One broad gaze of wonder and dismay she turned upon him, and her face became crimsoned with shame. She then covered it with her open hands, and, turning round, placed her head upon the end of the sofa, and moaned with a deep and bursting anguish, on hearing this acknowledgment of deliberate baseness from his own lips.

The baronet understood her feelings, and regretted the words he had uttered, but he resolved to bear the matter out.

"Don't be surprised, Lucy," he added, "nor alarmed at these sentiments; for I tell you, that rather than be defeated in the object I propose for your elevation in life, I would trample a thousand times upon all the moral obligations that ever bound man. Put it down to what you like--insanity--monomania, if you will--but so it is with me: I shall work my purpose out, or either of us shall die for it; and from this you may perceive how likely your resistance and obduracy are to become available against the determination of such a man as I am. Compose yourself, girl, and don't be a fool. The only way to get properly through life is to accommodate ourselves to its necessities, or, in other words, to have shrewdness and common sense, and foil the world, if we can, at its own weapons. Give up your fine sentiment, I desire you, and go down to the drawing-room, to receive your brother; hem will be here very soon. I am going to the a.s.sizes, and shall not return till about four o'clock. Come, come, all will end better than you imagine."

The mention of her brother was anything but a comfort to Lucy. Her father at first entertained apprehensions, as we have already said, that this promising youth might support his sister in her aversion against the marriage. Two or three conversations on the subject soon undeceived him, however, in the view he had taken of his character; and Lucy herself now dreaded him, on this subject, almost as much as she did her father.

With respect to this same brother, it is scarcely necessary now to say, that Lucy's feelings had undergone a very considerable change.

On hearing that he not only was in existence, but that she would soon actually behold him, her impa.s.sioned imagination painted him as she wished and hoped he might prove to be--that is, in the first place--tall, elegant, handsome, and with a strong likeness to the mother whom he had been said so much to resemble; and, in the next--oh, how her trembling heart yearned to find him affectionate, tender, generous, and full of all those n.o.ble and manly virtues on which might rest a delightful sympathy, a pure and generous affection, and a tender and trusting confidence between them. On casting her eyes upon him for the first time, however, she felt at the moment like one disenchanted, or awakening from some delightful illusion to a reality so much at variance with the beau ideal of her imagination, as to occasion a feeling of disappointment that amounted almost to pain. There stood before her a young man, with a countenance so like her father's, that the fact startled her. Still there was a difference, for--whether from the consciousness of birth, or authority, or position in life--there was something in her father's features that redeemed them from absolute vulgarity. Here, however, although the resemblance was extraordinary, and every feature almost identical, there might be read in the countenance of her brother a low, commonplace expression, that looked as if it were composed of effrontery, cunning, and profligacy. Lucy for a moment shrank back from such a countenance, and the shock of disappointment chilled the warmth with which she had been prepared to receive him. But, then, her generous heart told her that she might probably be prejudging the innocent--that neglect, want of education, the influence of the world, and, worst of all, distress and suffering, might have caused the stronger, more vulgar, and exceedingly disagreeable expression which she saw before her; and the reader is already aware of the consequences which these struggles, at their first interview, had upon her. Subsequently to that, however, Mr. Ambrose, in supporting his father's views, advanced principles in such complete accordance with them, as to excite in his sister's breast, first a deep regret that she could not love him as she had hoped to do; then a feeling stronger than indifference itself, and ultimately one little short of aversion. Her father had been now gone about half an hour, and she hoped that her brother might not come, when a servant came to say that Mr. Gray was in the drawing-room, and requested to see her.

She felt that the interview would be a painful one to her; but still he was her brother, and she knew she could not avoid seeing him.

After the first salutations were over,

"What is the matter with you, Lucy?" he asked; "you look ill and distressed. I suppose the old subject of the marriage--eh?"

"I trust it is one which you will not renew, Thomas. I entreat you to spare me on it."

"I am too much your friend to do so, Lucy. It is really inconceivable to me why you should oppose it as you do. But the truth is, you don't know the world, or you would think and act very differently."

"Thomas," she replied, whilst her eyes filled with tears, "I am almost weary of life. There is not one living individual to whom I can turn for sympathy or comfort. Papa has forbidden me to visit Lady Gourlay or Mrs.

Mainwaring; and I am now utterly friendless, with the exception of G.o.d alone. But I will not despair--so long, at least, as reason is left to me."

"I a.s.sure you, Lucy, you astonish me. To you, whose imagination is heated with a foolish pa.s.sion for an adventurer whom no one knows, all this suffering may seem very distressing and romantic; but to me, to my father, and to the world, it looks like great folly--excuse me, Lucy--or rather like great weakness of character, grounded upon strong obstinacy of disposition. Believe me, if the world were to know this you would be laughed at; and there is scarcely a mother or daughter, from the cottage to the castle, that would not say, 'Lucy Gourlay is a poor, inexperienced fool, who thinks she can find a world of angels, and paragons, and purity to live in.'"

"But I care not for the world, Thomas; it is not my idol--I do not worship it, nor shall I ever do so. I wish to guide myself by the voice of my own conscience, by a sense of what is right and proper, and by the principles of Christian truth."

"These doctrines, Lucy, are very well for the closet; but they will neyer do in life, for which they are little short of a disqualification.