The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 83

"But what is to be done now?" asked Birney; "here we are fairly at fault."

"I have seen Miss Gourlay," replied the other, "and if it were only from motives of humanity, we must try, by every means consistent with honor, to stop or r.e.t.a.r.d her marriage with Dunroe."

"But how are we to do so?"

"I know not at present; but I shall think of it. This is most unfortunate. I declare solemnly that it was only in so far as the facts we were so anxious to establish might have enabled us to prevent this accursed union, that I myself felt an interest in our success. Miss Gourlay's happiness was my sole motive of action."

"I believe you, sir," replied Birney; "but in the meantime we are completely at a stand. Chance, it is true, may throw something in our way; but, in the present position of circ.u.mstances, chance, nay, all the chances are against us."

"It is unfortunately too true," replied the stranger; "there is not a single opening left for us; we are, on the contrary, shut out completely in every direction. I shall write, however, to a lady who possesses much influence with Miss Gourlay; but, alas, to what purpose? Miss Gourlay herself has no influence whatever; and, as to her father, he does not live who could divert him from his object. His vile ambition only in the matter of his daughter could influence him, and it will do so to her destruction, for she cannot survive this marriage long."

"You look thin, and a good deal careworn," observed Birney, "which, indeed, I am sorry to see. Constant anxiety, however, and perpetual agitation of spirits will wear any man down. Well, I must bid you good morning; but I had almost forgotten to inquire about poor Fenton. Any trace of him during my absence?"

"Not the slightest. In fact, every point is against us. Lady Gourlay has relapsed into her original hopelessness, or nearly so, and I myself am now more depressed than I have ever been. Parish register, doc.u.ments, corrupt knaves, and ungrateful traitors--perish all the machinery of justice on the one hand, and of villainy on the other; only let us succeed in securing Miss Gourlay's happiness, and I am contented. That, now and henceforth, is the absorbing object of my life. Let her be happy; let her be but happy--and this can only be done by preventing her union with this heartless young man, whose princ.i.p.al motive to it is her property."

Birney then took his departure, leaving his friend in such a state of distress, and almost of despair, on Lucy's account, as we presume our readers can very sufficiently understand, without any further a.s.sistance from us. He could not, however, help congratulating himself on his prudence in withholding from Miss Gourlay the sanguine expectations which he himself had entertained upon the result of Birney's journey to France. Had he not done so, he knew that she would have partic.i.p.ated in his hopes, and, as a natural consequence, she must now have had to bear this deadly blow of disappointment, probably the last cherished hope of her heart; and under such circ.u.mstances, it is difficult to say what its effect upon her might have been. This was now his only satisfaction, to which we may add the consciousness that he had not, by making premature disclosures, been the means of compromising the innocent.

After much thought and reflection upon the gloomy position in which both he himself and especially Lucy were placed, he resolved to write to Mrs.

Mainwaring upon the subject; although at the moment he scarcely knew in what terms to address her, or what steps he could suggest to her, as one feeling a deep interest in Miss Gourlay's happiness. At length, after much anxious rumination, he wrote the following short letter, or rather note, more with a view of alarming Mrs. Mainwaring into activity, than of dictating to her any line of action as peculiarly suited to the circ.u.mstances.

"Madam,--The fact of Miss Gourlay having taken refuge with you as her friend, upon a certain occasion that was, I believe, very painful to that young lady, I think sufficiently justifies me in supposing that you feel a warm interest in her fate. For this reason, therefore, I have taken the liberty of addressing you with reference to her present situation. If ever a human being required the aid and consolation of friendship, Miss Gourlay now does; and I will not suppose that a lady whom she honored with her esteem and affection, could be capable of withholding from her such aid and such consolation, in a crisis so deplorable. You are probably aware, madam, that she is on the point of being sacrificed, by a forced and hated union, to the ambitious views of her father; but you could form a very slight conception indeed of the horror with which she approaches the gulf that is before her. Could there be no means devised by which this unhappy young lady might be enabled with honor to extricate herself from the wretchedness with which she is encompa.s.sed? I beg of you, madam, to think of this; there is little time to be lost. A few days may seal her misery forever. Her health and spirits are fast sinking, and she is beginning to entertain apprehensions that that apathy which proceeds from the united influence of exhaustion and misery, may, in some unhappy moment, deprive her of the power of resistance, even for a time. Madam, I entreat that you will either write to her or see her; that you will sustain and console her as far as in you lies, and endeavor, if possible, to throw some obstruction in the way of this accursed marriage; whether through your influence with herself, or her father, matters not. I beg, madam, to apologize for the liberty I have taken in addressing you upon this painful but deeply important subject, and I appeal to yourself whether it is possible to know Miss Gourlay, and not to feel the deepest interest in everything that involves her happiness or misery.

"I have the honor to be, madam,

"Your obedient, faithful servant, and Her Sincere Friend.

"P. S.--I send this letter by my servant, as I am anxious that it should reach no hands, and be subjected to no eyes, but your own; and I refer you to Miss Gourlay herself, who will satisfy you as to the honor and purity of my motives in writing it."

Having sealed this communication, the stranger rang for Dulcimer, who made his appearance accordingly, and received his instructions for its safe delivery.

"You must deliver this note, Dandy," said he, "to the lady to whom Miss Gourlay and her maid drove, the morning you took the unwarrantable liberty of following them there."

"And for all that," replied Dandy, "it happens very luckily that I chance, for that very raison, to know now where to find her."

"It does so, certainly," replied his master. "Here is money for you--take a car, or whatever kind of vehicle you prefer. Give this note into her own hand, and make as little delay as you can."

"Do you expect an answer, sir?" replied Dandy; "and am I to wait for one, or ask for one?"

"I am not quite certain of that," said the other; "it is altogether discretionary with her. But there can be no harm in asking the question, at all events. Any other Mrs. Norton in the way, Dandy?"

"Deuce a once, sir. I have sifted the whole city, and, barrin' the three dozen I made out already, I can't find hilt or hair of another. Faith, sir, she ought to be worth something when she's got, for I may fairly say she has cost me trouble enough at any rate, the skulkin' thief, whoever she is; and me to lose my hundre' pounds into the bargain--bad scran to her!"

"Only find me the true Mrs. Norton," said his master, "and the hundred pounds are yours, and for Fenton fifty. Be off, now, lose no time, and bring me her answer if she sends any."

Dandy's motions were all remarkably rapid, and we need not say that he allowed no gra.s.s to grow under his feet while getting over his journey.

On arriving at Summerfield Cottage, he learned that Mrs. Mainwaring was in the garden; and on stating that he had a letter to deliver into her own hands, that lady desired him to be brought in, as she was then in conversation with her daughter, who had been compelled at length to fly from the brutality of her husband, and return once more to the protection of her mother's roof. On opening the letter and looking at it, she started, and turning to her daughter said,

"You must excuse me, my dear Maria, for a few moments, but don't forget to finish what you were telling me about this unfortunate young man, Fenton, as he, you say, calls himself, from Ballytrain."

"h.e.l.lo!" thought Dandy, "here's a discovery. By the elevens, I'll hould goold to silver that this is poor Fenton that disappeared so suddenly."

"I beg your pardon, miss," said he, addressing Mrs. Scarman as an unmarried lady, as he perceived that she was the person from whom he could receive the best intelligence on the subject; "I hope it's no offence, miss, to ax a question?"

"None, certainly, my good man," replied her mother, "provided it be a proper one."

"I think, miss," he continued, "that you were mentioning something to this lady about a young man named Fenton, from Ballytrain?"

"I was," replied Mrs. Scarman, "certainly; but what interest can you have in him?"

"If he's the young man I mane," continued Dandy, "he's not quite steady in the head sometimes."

"If he were, he would not be in his present abode," replied the lady.

"And pray, miss--beg pardon again," said Dandy, with the best bow and sc.r.a.pe he could manage; "pray, miss, might I be so bould as to ask where that is?"

Mrs. Scarman looked at her mother. "Mamma," said she, "but, bless me!

what is the matter? you are in tears."

"I will tell you by and by, my dear Maria," replied her mother; "but you were going to ask me something--what was it?"

"This man," replied her daughter, "wishes to know the abode of the person I was speaking about."

"Pray, what is his motive? What is your motive, my good man, for asking such a question?"

"Bekaise, ma'am," replied Dandy, "I happen to know a gentleman who has been for some time on the lookout for him, and wishes very much to find where he is. If it be the young man I spake of, he disappeared some three or four months ago from the town of Ballytrain."

"Well," replied Mrs. Mainwaring, with her usual good-sense and sagacity, "as I know not what your motive for asking such a question is, I do not think this lady ought to answer it; but if the gentleman himself is anxious to know, let him see her; and upon giving satisfactory reasons for the interest he takes in him, he shall be informed of his present abode. You must rest satisfied with this. Go to the kitchen and say to the servant that I desired her to give you refreshment."

"Thank you, ma'am," replied Dandy; "faith, that's a lively message, anyhow, and one that I feel great pleasure in deliverin'. This Wicklow air's a regular cutler; it has sharpened my teeth all to pieces; and if the cook 'ithin shows me good feedin' I'll show her something in the shape of good atin'. I'm a regular man of talent at my victuals, ma'am, an' was often tould I might live to die an alderman yet, plaise G.o.d; many thanks agin, ma'am." So saying, Dandy proceeded at a brisk pace to the kitchen.

"That communication, mamma," said Mrs. Scarman, after Dandy had left them, "has distressed you."

"It has, my child. Poor Miss Gourlay is in a most wretched state. This I know is, from her lover. In fact, they will be the death--absolutely and beyond a doubt--the death of this admirable and most lovely creature.

But what can I do? Her father will not permit me to visit her, neither will he permit her to correspond with me, I have already written to him on the risk to which he submits his daughter in this ominous marriage, but I received neither notice of, nor reply to my letter. Oh, no; the dear girl is unquestionably doomed. I thinks however, I shall write a few lines in reply to this," she added, "but, alas the day! they cannot speak of comfort."

Whilst she is thus engaged, we will take, a peep at the on-goings of Dandy and Nancy Gallaher, in the kitchen, where, in pursuance of his message our bashful valet was corroborating, by very able practice, the account which he had given of the talents he had eulogized so justly.

"Well, in troth," said he, "but, first and foremost, I haven't the pleasure of knowin' yer name."

"Nancy Gallaher's my name, then," she replied.

"Ah," said Dandy, suspending the fork and an immense piece of ham on the top of it at the Charybdis which he had opened to an unusual extent to receive it; "ah, ma'am, it wasn't always that, I'll go bail. My counthrymen knows the value of such a purty woman not to stamp some of their names upon her. Not that you have a married look, either, any more than myself; you're too fresh for that, now that I look at you again."

A certain cloud, which, as Dandy could perceive, was beginning to darken her countenance, suggested the quick turn of his last observation. The countenance, however, cleared again, and she replied, "It is my name, and what is more, I never changed it. I was hard to plaise--and I am hard to plaise, and ever an' always had a dread of gettin' into bad company, especially when I knew that the same bad company was to last for life."

"An ould maid, by the Rock of Cashel," said Dandy, to himself.

"Blood alive, I wondher has she money; but here goes to thry. Ah, Nancy," he proceeded, "you wor too hard to plaise; and now, that you have got money like myself, nothing but a steady man, and a full purse, will shoot your convanience--isn't that pure gospel, now, you good lookin' thief?"