In the meantime Dr. Sombre advanced with his book, and Lord Dunroe was led over by Roberts to take his position opposite the bride, when a noise of carriage-wheels was heard coming rapidly along, and stopping as rapidly at the hall door. In an instant a knock that almost shook the house, and certainly startled some of the females, among whom was the unhappy bride herself, was heard at the hall door, and the next moment Thomas Corbet hurried out of the room, as if to see who had arrived, instantly followed by Gibson.
Dr. Sombre, who now stood with his finger between the leaves of his book, where its frequent pressure had nearly obliterated the word "obedience" in the marriage ceremony, said,
"My dear children, it is a custom of mine--and it is so because I conceive it a duty--to give you a few preliminary words of advice, a little homily, as it were, upon the nature of the duties into which you are about to enter."
This intimation was received with solemn silence, if we except the word "Attention!" which proceeded in a respectful and earnest, but subdued tone from old Sam. The Doctor looked about him a little startled, but again proceeded,
"Marriage, my children, may be divided into three heads: first, its duties; next, its rights; and lastly, its tribulations. I place tribulations last, my children, because, if it were not for its tribulations--"
"My good friend," said Sir Thomas, with impatience, "we will spare you the little homily you speak of, until after the ceremony. I dare say it is designed for married life and married people; but as those for whose especial advantage you are now about to give it are not man and wife yet, I think you had better reserve it until you make them so. Proceed, Doctor, if you please, with the ceremony."
"I have not the pleasure of knowing you, sir," replied the Doctor; "I shall be guided here only by Sir Thomas Gourlay himself, as father of the bride."
"Why, Doctor, what the deuce is the matter with you? Am not I Sir Thomas Gourlay?"
The Doctor put up his spectacles on his forehead, and looking at him more closely, exclaimed,
"Upon my word, and so you are. I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, but with respect to this dejeuner--homily, I would say--its enunciation here is exceedingly appropriate, and it is but short, and will not occupy more than about half-an-hour, or three-quarters, which is only a brief s.p.a.ce when the happiness of a whole life is concerned. Well, my children, I was speaking about this _dejuner_," he proceeded; "the time, as I said, will not occupy more than half-an-hour, or probably three-quarters; and, indeed, if our whole life were as agreeably spent--I refer now especially to married life--its tribulations would not--"
Here he was left once more in his tribulations, for as he uttered the last word, Gibson returned, p.r.o.nouncing in a distinct but respectful voice, "The Earl of Cullamore;" and that n.o.bleman, leaning upon the arm of his confidential servant, Morty O"Flaherty, immediately entered the room.
His venerable look, his feeble state of health, but, above all his amiable character, well known as it was for everything that was honorable and benevolent, produced the effect which might be expected.
All who were not standing, immediately rose up to do him reverence and honor. He inclined his head in token of acknowledgment, but even before the baronet had time to address him, he said,
"Sir Thomas Gourlay, has this marriage yet taken place?"
"No, my lord," replied Sir Thomas, "and I am glad it has not. Your lordship"s presence is a sanction and an honor which, considering your state of ill-health, is such as we must all duly appreciate. I am delighted to see you here, my lord; allow me to help your lordship to a seat."
"I thank you, Sir Thomas," replied his lordship; "but before I take a seat, or before you proceed further in this business, I beg to have some private conversation with you."
"With infinite pleasure, my lord," replied the baronet. "Dr. Sombre, whilst his lordship and I are speaking, you may as well go on with the ceremony. When it is necessary, call me, and I shall give the bride away."
"Dr. Sombre," said his lordship, "do not proceed with the ceremony, until I shall have spoken to Miss Gourlay"s father. If it be necessary that I should speak more plainly, I say, I forbid the banns. You will not have to wait long, Doctor; but by no means proceed with the ceremony until you shall have permission from Sir Thomas Gourlay."
In general, any circ.u.mstance that tends to prevent a marriage, where all the parties are a.s.sembled to witness it, and to enjoy the festivities that attend it, is looked upon with a strong feeling of dissatisfaction.
Here, however, the case was different. Scarcely an individual among them, with the exception of those who were interested in the event, that did not feel a sense of relief at what had occurred in consequence of the appearance of Lord Cullamore. Dunroe"s face from that moment was literally a sentence of guilt against himself. It became blank, haggard, and of a ghastly white; while his hope of securing the rich and lovely heiress died away within him. He resolved, however, to make a last effort.
"Roberts," said he, "go to Sombre, and whisper to him to proceed with the ceremony. Get him to perform it, and you are sure of a certain sister of mine, who I rather suspect is not indifferent to you."
"I must decline to do so, my lord," replied Roberts. "After what has just occurred, I feel that it would not be honorable in me, neither would it be respectful to your father. However I may esteem your sister, my lord, and appreciate her virtues, yet I am but a poor ensign, as you know, and not in a capacity to entertain any pretensions--"
"Well, then," replied Dunroe, interrupting him, "bring that old dog Sombre here, will you? I trust you will so far oblige me."
Roberts complied with this; but the Doctor was equally firm.
"Doctor," said his lordship, after urging several arguments, "you will oblige Sir Thomas Gourlay very much, by having us married when they come in. It"s only a paltry matter of property, that Sir Thomas acceded to this morning. Pray, proceed with the ceremony, Doctor, and make two lovers happy."
"The word of your honorable father," replied the Doctor, "shall ever be a law to me. He was always a most hospitable man; and, unless my bishop, or the chief secretary, or, what is better still, the viceroy himself, I do not know a n.o.bleman more worthy of respect. No, my lord, there is not in the peerage a n.o.bleman who--gave better dinners."
What with this effort on the part of Dunroe, and a variety of chat that took place upon the subject of the interruption, at least five-and-twenty minutes had elapsed, and the company began to feel somewhat anxious and impatient, when Sir Thomas Gourlay entered; and, gracious heaven, what a frightful change had taken place in him! Dismay, despair, wretchedness, misery, distraction, frenzy, were all struggling for expression in his countenance. He was followed by Lord Cullamore, who, when about to proceed home, had changed his mind, and returned for Lady Emily. He advanced, still supported by Morty, and approaching Lucy, took her hand, and said,
"Miss Gourlay, you are saved; and I thank G.o.d that I was made the instrument of rescuing you from wretchedness and despair, for I read both in your face. And now," he proceeded, addressing the spectators, "I beg it to be understood, that in the breaking off of this marriage, there is no earthly blame, not a shadow of imputation to be attributed to Miss Gourlay, who is all honor, and delicacy, and truth. Her father, if left to himself, would not now permit her to become the wife of my son; who, I am sorry to say, is utterly unworthy of her."
"Attention!" once more was heard from the quarter in which old Sam stood, as if bearing testimony to the truth of his lordship"s a.s.sertion.
"John," said the latter, "you may thank your friend, Mr. Norton, for enabling me, within the last hour, to save this admirable girl from the ruin which her union with you would have entailed upon her. You will now know how to appreciate so faithful and honorable a friend."
All that Dunroe must have felt, may be easily conceived by the reader.
The baronet, however, becomes the foremost figure in the group. The strong, the cunning, the vehement, the overbearing, the plausible, the unbelieving, the philosophical, and the cruel--these were the divided streams, as it were, of his character, which all, however, united to make up the dark and terrible current of his great ambition; great, however, only as a pa.s.sion and a moral impulse of action, but puny, vile, and base in its true character and elements. Here, then, stood the victim of his own creed, the baffled antagonist of G.o.d"s providence, who despised religion, and trampled upon its obligations; the man who strove to make himself his own deity, his own priest, and who administered to his guilty pa.s.sions on the altar of a hardened and corrupted heart--here he stood; now, struck, stunned, prostrated; whilst the veil which had hitherto concealed the hideousness of his principles, was raised up, as if by an awful hand, that he might know what it is for man to dash himself against the bosses of the Almighty"s buckler. His heart beat, and his brain throbbed; all presence of mind, almost all consciousness, abandoned him, and he only felt that the great object of his life was lost--the great plan, to the completion of which he had devoted all his energies, was annihilated. He imagined that the apartment was filled with gloom and fire, and that the faces he saw about him were mocking at him, and disclosing to each other in whispers the dreadful extent, the unutterable depth of his despair and misery. He also felt a sickness of heart, that was in itself difficult to contend with, and a weakness about the knees that rendered it nearly impossible for him to stand. His head, too, became light and giddy, and his brain reeled so much that he tottered, and was obliged to sit, in order to prevent himself from falling. All, however, was not to end here. This was but the first blow.
Lord Cullamore was now about to depart; for he, too, had become exceedingly weak and exhausted, by the unusual exercise and agitation to which he had exposed himself.
Old Anthony Corbet then stepped forward, and said,
"Don"t go, my lord. There"s strange things to come to light this day and this hour, for this is the day and this is the hour of my vengeance."
"I do not understand you," replied his lordship; "I was scarcely equal to the effort of coming here, and I feel myself very feeble."
"Get his lordship some wine," said the old man, addressing his son. "You will be good enough to stop, my lord," he proceeded, "for a short time.
You are a magistrate, and your presence here may be necessary."
"Ha!" exclaimed his lordship, surprised at such language: "this may be serious. Proceed, my friend: what disclosures have you to make?"
Old Corbet did not answer him, but turning round to the baronet, who was not then in a capacity to hear or observe anything apart from the terrible convulsions of agony he was suffering, he looked upon him, his keen old eyes in a blaze, his lips open and their expression sharpened by the derisive and satanic triumph that was legible in the demon sneer which kept them apart.
"Thomas Gourlay!" he exclaimed in a sharp, piercing voice of authority and conscious power, "Thomas Gourlay, rise up and stand forward, your day of doom is come."
"Who is it that has the insolence to call my father Thomas Gourlay under this roof?" asked his son Thomas, alias Mr. Ambrose Gray. "Begone, old man, you are mad."
"b.a.s.t.a.r.d and impostor!" readied Anthony, "you appear before your time.
Thomas Gourlay, did you hear me?"
By an effort--almost a superhuman effort--the baronet succeeded in turning his attention to what was going forward.
"What is this?" he exclaimed; "is this a tumult? Who dares to stir up a tumult in such a scene as this? Begone!" said he, addressing several strangers, who appeared to take a deep interest in what was likely to ensue. The house was his own, and, as a matter of course, every one left the room with the exception of those immediately connected with both families, and with the incidents of our story.
"Let no one go," said Anthony, "that I appointed to come here."
"What!" said Dunroe, after the strangers had gone, and with a look that indicated his sense of the baronet"s duplicity, "is this gentleman your son?"
"My acknowledged son, sir," replied the other.
"And, pray, were you aware of that this morning?"
"As clearly and distinctly as you were that you had no earthly claim to the t.i.tle which you bear, nor to the property of your father," replied the baronet, with a look that matched that of the other. There they stood, face to face, each detected in his dishonor and iniquity, and on that account disqualified to recriminate upon each other, for their mutual perfidy.
"Corbet," said the baronet, now recovering himself, "what is this?
Respect my house and family--respect my guests. Go home; I pardon you this folly, because I see that you have been too liberal in your potations this morning."