The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 98

"Deuce a bit o' danger, miss," replied the indignant heroine. "I know more about fire-arms than you think; my brothers used to have them to protect the house. I'll soon see, at any rate, whether it's loaded or not."

While speaking she whipped out the ramrod, and, making the experiment found, that it was empty.

"Ah," she exclaimed, "you desateful old tyrant: and so you came down bl.u.s.terin' and bullyin', and frightenin' your child into compliance, with a pair of empty pistols! By the life in my body, if I had you in Ballytrain, I'd post you."

"Papa," said Lucy, "you must excuse this--it is the excess of her affection for me. Dear Alice," she said, addressing her, and for a moment forgetting her weakness, "come with me; I cannot, and will not bear this; come with me out of the room."

"Very well; I'll go to plaise you, miss, but I've made up my mind that this marriage mustn't take place. Just think of it," she added, turning to her master; "if you force her to marry this scamp of a lord, the girl has sense, and spirit, and common decency, and of course she'll run away from him; after that, it won't be hard to guess who she'll run to--then there'll be a con. crim. about it, and it'll go to the lawyers, and from the lawyers it'll go to the deuce, and that will be the end of it; and all because you're a coa.r.s.e-minded tyrant, unworthy of having such a daughter. Oh, you needn't shake your hand at me. You refused to give me satisfaction, and I'd now scorn to notice you. Remember I cowed you, and for that reason never pretend to be a gentleman afther this."

Lucy then led her out of the room, which she left, after turning upon her master a look of the proudest and fiercest defiance, and at the same time the most sovereign contempt.

"Lucy," said her father, "is not this a fine specimen of a maid to have in personal attendance upon you?"

"I do not defend her conduct now, sir," she replied; "but I cannot overlook her affection, her truth, her attachment to me, nor the many other virtues which I know she possesses. She is somewhat singular, I grant, and a bit of a character, and I could wish that her manners were somewhat less plain; but, on the other hand, she does not pretend to be a fine lady with her mistress, although she is not without some harmless vanity; neither is she frivolous, giddy, nor deceitful; and whatever faults there may be, papa, in her head, there are none in her heart. It is affectionate, faithful, and disinterested. Indeed, whilst I live I shall look upon her as my friend."

"I am determined, however, she shall not be long under my roof, nor in your service; her conduct just now has settled that point; but, putting her out of the question, I trust we understand each other, and that you are prepared to make your father's heart happy. No more objections."

"No, sir; I have said so."

"You will go through the ceremony with a good grace?'

"I cannot promise that, sir; but I shall go through the ceremony."

"Yes, but you must do it without offence to Dunroe, and with as little appearance of reluctance as possible."

"I have no desire to draw a painful attention to myself, papa; but you will please to recollect that I have all my horror, all my detestation of this match to contend with; and, I may add, my physical weakness, and the natural timidity of woman. I shall, however, go through the ceremony, provided nature and reason do not fail me."

"Well, Lucy, of course you will do the best you can. I must go now, for I've many things to think of. Your dresses are admirable, and your trousseau, considering the short time Dunroe had, is really superb.

Shake hands, my dear Lucy; you know I will soon lose you."

Lucy, whose heart was affection itself, threw herself into his arms, and exclaimed, in a burst of grief:

"Yes, papa, I feel that you will; and, perhaps, when I am gone, you will say, with sorrow, that it would have been better to have allowed Lucy to be happy her own way."

"Come, now, you foolish, naughty girl," he exclaimed affectionately, "be good--be good." And as he spoke, he kissed her, pressed her hand tenderly, and then left the room.

"Alas!" exclaimed Lucy, still in tears, "how happy might we have been, had this ambition for my exaltation not existed in my father's heart!"

If Lucy rose with a depressed spirit on that morning of sorrow, so did not Lord Dunroe. This young n.o.bleman, false and insincere in everything, had succeeded in inducing his sister to act as brides-maid, Sir Thomas having asked her consent as a personal compliment to himself and his daughter. She was told by her brother that young Roberts would act in an a.n.a.logous capacity to him; and this he held out as an inducement to her, having observed something like an attachment between her and the young ensign. Not that he at all approved of this growing predilection, for though strongly imbued with all the senseless and absurd prejudices against humble birth which disgrace aristocratic life and feeling, he was base enough to overrule his own opinions on the subject, and endeavor, by this unworthy play upon his sister's feelings, to prevail upon her to do an act that would throw her into his society, and which, under any other circ.u.mstances, he would have opposed. He desired her, at the same time, not to mention the fact to their father, who, he said, entertained a strong prejudice against upstarts, and was besides, indisposed to the marriage, in consequence of Sir Thomas Goulray's doubtful reputation, as regarding the disappearance of his brother's heir. In consequence of these representations, Lady Emily not only consented to act as bride's-maid; but also to keep her knowledge of the forthcoming marriage a secret from her father.

At breakfast that morning Dunroe was uncommonly cheerful. Norton, on the other hand, was rather depressed, and could not be prevailed upon to partake of the gay and exuberant spirit of mirth and buoyancy which animated Dunroe.

"What the deuce is the matter with you, Norton?" said his lordship. "You seem rather annoyed that I am going to marry a very lovely girl with an immense fortune? With both, you know very well that I can manage without either the Cullamore t.i.tle or property. The Gourlay property is as good if not better. Come, then, cheer up; if the agency of the Cullamore property is gone, we shall have that on the Gourlay side to look to."

"Dunroe, my dear fellow," replied Norton, "I am thinking of nothing so selfish. That which distresses me is, that I will lose my friend. This Miss Gourlay is, they say, so confoundedly virtuous that I dare say she will allow no honest fellow, who doesn't carry a Bible and a Prayer-book in his pocket, and quote Scripture in conversation, to a.s.sociate with you."

"Nonsense, man," replied Dunroe, "I have satisfied you on that point before. But I say, Norton, is not this a great bite on the baronet, especially as he considers himself a knowing one?"

"Yes, I grant you, a great bite, no doubt; but, at the same time, I rather guess you may thank me for the possession of Miss Gourlay, and the property which will go along with her."

"As how, Norton?"

"Why, don't you remember the anonymous note which I wrote to the baronet, when I was over in Dublin to get the horse changed? He was then at Red Hall. I am certain that were it not for that hint, there would have been an elopement. You know it was the fellow who shot you, that was then in her neighborhood, and he is at present in town. I opened the baronet's eyes at all events."

"Faith, to tell you the truth, Norton, although I know you do me in money matters now and then, still I believe you to be a faithful fellow.

In fact, you owe me more than you are aware of. You know not how I have resisted the respectable old n.o.bleman's wishes to send you adrift as an impostor and cheat. I held firm, however, and told him I could never with honor abandon my friend."

"Many thanks, Dunroe; but I really must say that I am neither an impostor nor a cheat; and that if ever a man was true friend and faithful to man, I am that friend to your lordship; not, G.o.d knows, because you are a lord, but because you are a far better thing--a regular trump. A cheat! curse it," clapping his hands over his eyes, to conceal his emotion, "isn't my name Norton? and am I not your friend?"

At this moment a servant came in, and handed Lord Dunroe a note, which he was about to throw to Norton, who generally acted as a kind of secretary to him; but observing the depth and sincerity and also the modesty of his feelings, he thought it indelicate to trouble him with it just then. Breakfast was now over, and Dunroe, throwing himself back in an arm-chair, opened the letter--read it--then another that was contained in it; after which he rose up, and travelled the room with a good deal of excitement. He then approached Norton, and said, in a voice that might be said to have been made up of heat and cold, "What disturbs you?"

Norton winked both eyes, did the pathetic a bit, then pulled out his pocket handkerchief, and blew his nose up to a point little short of distress itself. In the meantime, Dunroe suddenly left the room without Norton's knowledge, who replied, however, to the last question, under the impression that his lordship was present,

"Ah, my dear Dunroe, the loss of a true friend is a serious thing in a world like this, where so many cheats and impostors are going."

To this, however, he received no reply; and on looking round and finding that his dupe had gone out, he said:

"Curse the fellow--he has cut me short. I was acting friendship to the life, and now he has disappeared. However, I will resume it when I hear his foot on the return. His hat is there, and I know he will come back for it."

Nearly ten minutes had elapsed, during which he was making the ham and chicken disappear, when, on hearing a foot which he took for granted must be that of his lordship, he once more threw himself into his former att.i.tude, and putting the handkerchief again to his eyes, exclaimed:

"No, my lord. A cheat! Curse it, isn't my name Norton? and am I not your friend?"

"Why, upon my soul, Barney, you used of ould to bring out only one lie at a time but now you give them in pairs. 'Isn't my name Norton?' says you. I kept the saicret bekaise you never meddled with Lord Cullamore or Lady Emily, or attempted your tricks on them, and for that raison you ought to thank me. Here's a note from Lord Dunroe, who looks as black as midnight."

"What! a note from Dunroe!" exclaimed Norton. "Why he only left me this minute! What the deuce can this mean?"

He opened the note, and read, to his dismay and astonishment as follows:

"Infamous and treacherous scoundrel,--I have this moment received your letter to Mr. Birney, enclosed by that gentleman to me, in which you offer, for a certain sum, to betray me, by placing in the hands of my enemies the very doc.u.ments you pretended to have destroyed. I now know the viper I have cherished--begone. You are a cheat, an impostor, and a villain, whose name is not Norton, but Bryan, once a horse-jockey on the Curragh, and obliged to fly the country for swindling and dishonesty.

Remove your things instantly; but that shall not prevent me from tracing you and handing you over to justice for your knavery and fraud.

"DUNROE."

"All right! Morty---all right!" exclaimed Norton; "upon my soul, Dunroe is too generous. You know he is going to be married to-day. Was that Roberts who went up stairs?"

"It was the young officer, if that's his name," replied Morty.

"All right! Morty; he's to be groom's-man--that will do; this requires no answer. The generous fellow has made me a present on his wedding-day.

That will do, Morty; you may go."

"All's discovered," he exclaimed, when Morty was gone; "however, it's not too late: I shall give him a Roland for his Oliver before we part.

It will be no harm to give the the respectable old n.o.bleman a hint of what's going on, at any rate. This discovery, however, won't signify, for I know Dunroe. The poor fool has no self-reliance; but if left to himself would die. He possesses no manly spirit of independent will, no firmness, no fixed principle--he is, in fact, a noun adjective, and cannot stand alone. Depraved in his appet.i.tes and habits of life, he cannot live without some hanger-on to enjoy his freaks of silly and senseless profligacy, who can praise and laugh at him, and who will act at once as his b.u.t.t, his bully, his pander, and his friend; four capacities in which I have served him--at his own expense, be it said.

No; my ascendancy over him has been too long established, and I know that, like a prime minister who has been hastily dismissed, I shall be ultimately recalled. And yet he is not without gleams of sense, is occasionally sprightly, and has perceptions of principle that might have made him a man--an individual being: but now, having neither firmness, resolution to carry out a good purpose, nor self-respect, he is a miserable and wretched cipher, whose whole value depends on the figure that is next him. Yes, I know--I feel--he will recall me to his councils."

At length the hour of half-past eleven arrived, and in Sir Thomas Gourlay's drawing-room were a.s.sembled all those who had been asked to be present, or to take the usual part in the marriage ceremony. Dr. Sombre, the clergyman of the parish, had just arrived, and, having entered the drawing-room, made a bow that would not have disgraced a bishop. He was pretty well advanced in years, excessively stupid, and possessed so vile a memory for faces, that he was seldom able to recognize his own guests, if he happened to meet them in the streets on the following day. He was an expectant for preferment in the church, and if the gift of a good appet.i.te were a successful recommendation for a mitre, as that of a strong head has been before now, no man was better ent.i.tled to wear it.

Be this as it may, the good man, who expected to partake of an excellent _dejuner_, felt that it was a portion of his duty to give a word or two of advice to the young couple upon the solemn and important duties into the discharge of which they were about to enter. Accordingly, looking round the room, he saw Mr. Roberts and Lady Emily engaged, at a window, in what appeared to him to be such a conversation as might naturally take place between parties about to be united. Lucy had not yet made her appearance, but Dunroe was present, and on seeing the Rev. Doctor join them, was not at all sorry at the interruption. This word of advice, by the way, was a stereotyped commodity with the Doctor, who had not married a couple for the last thirty years, without palming it on them as an extempore piece of admonition arising from that particular occasion. The worthy man was, indeed, the better qualified to give it, having never been married himself, and might, therefore, be considered as perfectly free from prejudices affecting either party upon the subject.