The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 86

"The last time you were in town," said the former, "I was sorry to observe thai you seemed rather careworn and depressed; but I think you look better now, and a good deal more cheerful."

"And I think I have a good right," replied the priest; "and I think no man ought to know the, cause of it better than yourself. I charge it, sir, with an act of benevolence to the poor of my parish, through their humble pastor; for which you stand.--I beg your pardon--sit there, a guilty man."

"How is that?" asked the other, smiling.

"By means of an anonymous letter that contained a hundred pound note, sir."

"Well," said the stranger, "there is no use in telling a falsehood about it. The truth is, I was aware of the extent to which you involved yourself, in order to relieve many of the small farmers and other struggling persons of good repute in your parish, and I thought it too bad that you should suffer distress yourself, who had so frequently relieved it in others."

"G.o.d bless you, my friend," replied the priest; "for I will call you so. I wish every man possessed of wealth was guided by your principles.

Freney the Robber has a new saddle and bridle, anyhow; and I came up to town to pay old Anthony Corbet a sum I borrowed from him the last time I was here?"

"Oh, have you seen that cautious and disagreeable old man? We could make nothing of him, although I feel quite certain that he knows everything connected with the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's son."

"I have no doubt of it myself," replied the priest; "and I now find, that what neither religion, nor justice, nor humanity could influence him to do, superst.i.tion is likely to effect. He has had a drame, he says, in which his son James that was in Lady Gourlay's service has appeared to him, and threatens that unless he renders her justice, he has but a poor chance in the other world."

"That is not at all unnatural," said the stranger; "the man, though utterly without religion, was nevertheless both hesitating and timid; precisely the character to do a just act from a wrong motive."

"Be that as it may," continued the priest, "I have a message from him to you."

"To me!" replied the other. "I am much obliged to him, but it is now too late. We have ascertained where Lady Gourlay's son is, without any a.s.sistance from him; and in the course of this very day we shall furnish ourselves with proper authority for claiming and producing him."

"I am delighted to hear it," said the priest. "G.o.d be praised that the heart of that charitable and Christian woman will be relieved at last, and made happy; but still I say, see old Anthony. He is as deep as a draw-well, and as close as an oyster. See him, sir. Take my advice, now that the drame has frightened him, and call upon the old sinner. He may serve you in more ways than you know."

"Well, as you advise me to do so, I shall; but I do not relish the old fellow at all."

"n.o.body does, nor ever did. He and all his family lived as if every one of them carried a little world of their own within them. Maybe they do; and G.o.d forgive me for saying it, but I don't think if its secrets were known, that it would be found a very pleasant world. May the Lord change them, and turn their hearts!"

After some further chat, the priest took his departure, but promised to see his friend from time to time, before he should leave town.

The stranger felt that the priest's advice to see old Corbet again was a good one. The interview could do no harm, and might be productive of some good, provided he could be prevailed on to speak out. He accordingly directed his steps once more to Const.i.tution Hill, where he found the old man at his usual post behind the counter.

"Well, Corbet," said he, "alive still?"

"Alive still, sir," he replied; "but can't be so always; the best of us must go."

"Very true, Corbet, if we could think of it as we ought; but, somehow, it happens that most people live in this world as if they were never to die."

"That's too true, sir--unfortunately too true, G.o.d help us!"

"Corbet," proceeded the stranger, "nothing can convince me that you don't know something about--"

"I beg your pardon, sir," said the old man; "we had betther go into the next room. Here, Polly," he shouted to his wife, who was inside, "will you come and stand the shop awhile?"

"To be sure I will," replied the old woman, making her appearance. "How do you do, sir," she added, addressing the stranger; "I am glad to see you looking so well."

"Thank you, madam," replied the stranger: "I can return the compliment, as they say."

"Keep the shop, Polly," said the old man sharply, "and don't make the same mistake you made awhile ago--give away a stone o' meal for half a stone. No wondher for us to be poor at sich a rate of doin' things as that. Walk in, if you plaise, sir."

They accordingly entered the room, and the stranger, after they had taken seats, resumed,

"I was going to say, Corbet, that nothing can convince me that you don't know more about the disappearance of Lady Gourlay's heir than you are disposed to acknowledge."

The hard, severe, disagreeable expression returned once more to his features, as he replied,

"Troth, sir, it appears you will believe so, whether or not. But now, sir, in case I did, what would you say? I'm talkin' for supposition's sake, mind. Wouldn't a man desarve something that could give you information on the subject?"

"This avaricious old man," thought the stranger, pausing as if to consider the proposition, "was holding us out all along, in order to make the most of his information. The information, however, is already in our possession, and he comes too late. So far I am gratified that we are in a position to punish him by disappointing his avarice."

"We would, Corbet, if the information were necessary, but at present it is not; we don't require it."

Corbet started, and his keen old eyes gleamed with an expression between terror and incredulity.

"Why," said he, "you don't require it! Are you sure of that?"

"Perfectly so. Some time ago we would have rewarded you liberally, had you made any available disclosure to us; but now it is too late. The information we had been seeking for so anxiously, accidentally came to us from another quarter. You see now, Corbet, how you have overshot the mark, and punished yourself. Had you been influenced by a principle of common justice, you would have been ent.i.tled to expect and receive a most ample compensation; a compensation beyond your hopes, probably beyond your very wishes, and certainly beyond your wants. As matters stand, however, I tell you now that I would not give you sixpence for any information you could communicate."

Anthony gave him a derisive look, and pursed up his thin miser-like lips into a grin of most sinister triumph.

"Wouldn't you, indeed?" said he. "Are you quite sure of what you say?"

"Quite certain of it."

"Well, now, how positive some people is. You have found him out, then?"

he asked, with a shrewd look. "You have found him, and you don't require any information from me."

"Whether we have found him or not," replied the other, "is a question which I will not answer; but that we require no information from you, is fact. While it was a marketable commodity, you refused to dispose of it; but, now, we have got the supply elsewhere."

"Well, sir," said Anthony, "all I can say is, that I'm very glad to hear it; and it's no harm, surely, to wish you joy of it."

The same mocking sneer which accompanied this observation was perfectly vexatious; it seemed to say, "So you think, but you may be mistaken, Take care that I haven't you in my power still."

"Why do you look in that disagreeable way, Corbet? I never saw a man whose face can express one thing, and his words another, so effectually as yours, when you wish."

"You mane to say, sir," he returned, with a true sardonic smile, "that my face isn't an obedient face; but sure I can't help that. This is the face that G.o.d has given me, and I must be content with it, such as it is."

"I was told this morning by Father M'Mahon," replied the other, anxious to get rid of him as soon as he could, "that you had expressed a wish to see me."

"I believe I did say something to that effect; but then it appears you know everything yourself, and don't want my a.s.sistance."

"Any a.s.sistance we may at a future time require at your hands we shall be able to extort from you through the laws of the land and of justice; and if it appears that you have been an accomplice or agent in such a deep and diabolical crime, neither power, nor wealth, nor cunning, shall be able to protect you from the utmost rigor of the law. You had neither mercy nor compa.s.sion on the widow or her child; and the probability is, that, old as you are, you will be made to taste the deepest disgrace, and the heaviest punishment that can be annexed to the crime you have committed."

A singular change came over the features of the old man. Paleness in age, especially when conscience bears its secret but powerful testimony against the individual thus charged home as Corbet was, sometimes gives an awful, almost an appalling expression to the countenance. The stranger, who knew that the man he addressed, though cunning, evasive, and unscrupulous, was, nevertheless, hesitating and timid, saw by his looks that he had produced an unusual impression; and he resolved to follow it up, rather to gratify the momentary amus.e.m.e.nt which he felt at his alarm, than from any other motive. In fact, the appearance of Corbet was extraordinary. A death-like color, which his advanced state of life renders it impossible to describe, took possession of him; his eyes lost the bitter expression so peculiar to them--his firm thin lips relaxed and spread, and the corners of his mouth dropped so lugubriously, that the stranger, although he felt that the example of cowering guilt then before him was a solemn one, could scarcely refrain from smiling at what he witnessed.

"How far now do you think, sir," asked Corbet, "could punishment in such a case go? Mind, I'm putting myself out of the question; I'm safe, any how, and that's one comfort."

"For a reply to that question," returned the other, "you will have to go to the judge and the hangman. There was a time when you might have asked it, and answered it too, with safety to yourself; but now that time has gone by, and I fear very much that your day of grace is past."