"Mr. Fenton," said he, "I certainly have no wish, by any proceeding incompatible with an ungentlemanly feeling of impertinent curiosity, to become acquainted with the cause of this unusual excitement, which the appearance of Miss Gourlay and her father seems to produce upon you, unless in so far as its disclosure, in honorable confidence, might enable me, as a person sincerely your friend, to allay or remove it."
"Suppose, sir, you are mistaken." replied the other--"Do you not know that there are memories arising from a.s.sociation, that are touched and kindled into great pain, by objects that are by no means the direct cause of them, or the cause of them in any sense?"
"I admit the truth of what you say, Mr. Fenton; but we can only draw our first inferences from appearances. It is not from any idle or prurient desire to become acquainted with the cause of your emotion that I speak, but simply from a wish to serve you, if you will permit me. It is distressing to witness what you suffer."
"I have experienced," said Fenton, whose excitement seemed not only to rise as he proceeded, but in a considerable degree to give that fervor and elevation to his language, which excitement often gives; "yes, sir,"
he proceeded, his eyes kindling almost into fury, "I have experienced much treacherous and malignant sympathy, under the guise of pretended friendship--sympathy! why do I say sympathy? Persecution--vengeance.
Yes, sir, till I have become mad--or--or nearly so. No," he added, "I am not mad--I never was mad--but I understand your object--avaunt, sir--begone--or I shall throw you out of the window."
"Be calm, Mr. Fenton--be calm," replied the stranger, "and collect yourself. I am, indeed, sincerely your friend."
"Who told you, sir, that I was mad?"
"I never said so, Mr. Fenton."
"It matters not, sir--you are a traitor--and as such I denounce you.
This room is mine, sir, and I shall forthwith expel you from it--" and, as he spoke, he started up, and sprung at the stranger, who, on seeing him rise for the purpose, instantly rang the bell. The waiter immediately entered, and found the latter holding poor Fenton by the two wrists, and with such a tremendous grasp as made him feel like an infant, in point of strength, in his hands.
"This is unmeaning violence, sir," exclaimed the latter, calmly but firmly, "unless you explain yourself, and give a reason for it. If you are moved by any peculiar cause of horror, or apprehension, or danger, why not enable me to understand it, in order that you may feel a.s.sured of my anxious disposition to a.s.sist you?"
"Gintlemen," exclaimed Paudeen, "what in the name of Pether White and Billy Neelins is the reason of this? But I needn"t ax--it"s one of Mr.
Fenton"s tantrams--an" the occasion of it was, lying snug and warm this mornin", in one of Andy Trimble"s whiskey barrels. For shame, Mr.
Fenton, you they say a gintleman born, and to thrate one of your own rank--a gintleman that befriended you as he did, and put a daicint shoot of clo"es on your miserable carcase; when you know that before he did it, if the wind was blowing from the thirty-two points of the compa.s.s, you had an openin" for every point, if they wor double the number.
Troth, now, you"re ongrateful, an" if G.o.d hasn"t said it, you"ll thravel from an onpenitent death-bed yet. Be quiet, will you, or my sinful sowl to glory, but I"ll bundle you downstairs?"
"He will be quiet, Pat," said the stranger. "In truth, after all, this is a mere physical malady, Mr. Fenton, and will pa.s.s away immediately, if you will only sit down and collect yourself a little."
Fenton, however, made another unavailable attempt at struggle, and found that he was only exhausting himself to no purpose. All at once, or rather following up his previous suspicions, he seemed to look upon the powerful individual who held him, as a person who had become suddenly invested with a new character that increased his terrors; and yet, if we may say so, almost forced him into an anxiety to suppress their manifestation. His limbs, however, began to tremble excessively; his eyes absolutely dilated, and became filled by a sense of terror, nearly as wild as despair itself. The transitions of his temper, however, like those of his general conduct, supervened upon each other with remarkable rapidity, and, as it were, the result of quick, warm, and inconsiderate impulses.
"Well," he exclaimed at length, "I will be quiet, I am, I a.s.sure you, perfectly harmless; but, at the same time," he added, sitting down, "I know that the whole dialogue between you and that awful-looking man, was a plot laid for me. Why else did you insist on my being present at it?
This accounts for your giving me a paltry sum of money, too--it does, sir--and for your spurious and dishonest humanity in wishing to see me well clothed. Yes, I perceive it all; but, let what may happen, I will not wear these clothes any longer. They are not the offering of a generous heart, but the fraudulent pretext for insinuating yourself into my confidence, in order to--to--yes, but I shall not say it--it is enough that I know you, sir--that I see through, and penetrate your designs."
He was about to put his threat with respect to the clothes into instant execution, when the stranger, once more seizing him, exclaimed--"You must promise, Mr. Fenton, before you leave my grasp, that you will make no further attempt to tear off your dress. I insist on this;" and as he spoke he fixed his eye sternly and commandingly on that of Fenton.
"I will not attempt it," replied the latter; "I promise it, on the word of a gentleman."
"There, then," said the stranger--"Keep yourself quiet, and, mark me, I shall expect that you will not violate that word, nor yield to these weak and silly paroxysms."
Fenton merely nodded submissively, and the other proceeded, still with a view of sounding him: "You say you know me; if so, who and what am I?"
"Do not ask me to speak at further length," replied Fenton; "I am quite exhausted, and I know not what I said."
He appeared now somewhat calmer, or, at least, affected to be so. By his manner, however, it would appear that some peculiar opinion or apprehension, with reference either to the baronet or the stranger, seemed as if confirmed, whilst, at the same time, acting under one of his rapid transitions, he spoke and looked like a man who was influenced by new motives. He then withdrew in a mood somewhat between sullenness and regret.
When the stranger was left to himself, he paced the room some time in a state of much anxiety, if not distress. At length he sat down, and, leaning his head upon his hand, exclaimed unconsciously aloud:
"Alas! I fear this search is vain. The faint traces of imaginary resemblance, which I thought I had discovered in this young man"s features, are visible no longer. It is; true, this portrait," looking once more at the miniature, "was taken when the original was only a child of five years; but still it was remarked that the family resemblances were, from childhood up, both strong and striking. Then, this unfortunate person is perfectly inscrutable, and not to be managed by any ordinary procedure at present intelligible to me. Yet,--after all, as far as I have been able to conjecture, there is a strong similarity in the cases. The feeling among the people here is, that he is a gentleman by birth: but this may proceed from the air and manners which he can a.s.sume when he pleases. I would mention my whole design and object at hazard, but this would be running an unnecessary risk by intrusting my secret to him; and, although it is evident that he can preserve his own, it does not necessarily follow that he would keep mine. However, I must only persevere and bide my time, as the Scotch say."
He again rose, and, pacing the apartment once more, his features a.s.sumed a still deeper expression of inward agitation.
"And, again," he exclaimed, "that unfortunate rencounter! Great Heavens, what if I stand here a murderer, with the blood of a fellow-creature, hurried, I fear, in the very midst of his profligacy, into eternity! The thought is insupportable; and I know not, unless I can strictly preserve my incognito, whether I am at this moment liable, if apprehended, to pay the penalty which the law exacts. The only consolation that remains for me is, that the act was not of my seeking, but arrogantly and imperiously forced upon me."
CHAPTER VII. The Baronet attempts by Falsehood
The Baronet attempts by Falsehood to urge his Daughter into an Avowal of her Lover"s Name.
Sir Thomas Gourlay, after his unpleasant interview with the stranger, rode easily home, meditating upon some feasible plan by which he hoped to succeed in entrapping his daughter into the avowal of her lover"s name, for he had no doubt whatsoever that the gentleman at the inn and he were one and the same individual. For this purpose, he determined to put on a cheerful face, and a.s.sume, as far as in him lay, an air of uncommon satisfaction. Now this was a task of no ordinary difficulty for Sir Thomas to encounter. The expression of all the fiercer and darker pa.s.sions was natural to such a countenance as his; but even to imagine such a one lit up with mirth, was to conceive an image so grotesque and ridiculous, that the firmest gravity must give way before it. His frown was a thing perfectly intelligible, but to witness his smile, or rather his effort at one, was to witness an unnatural phenomenon of the most awful kind, and little short of a prodigy. If one could suppose the sun giving a melancholy and lugubrious grin through the darkness of a total eclipse, they might form some conception of the jocular solemnity which threw its deep but comic shadow over his visage. One might expect the whole machinery of the face, with as much probability as that of a mill, to change its habitual motions, and turn in an opposite direction. It seemed, in fact, as if a general breaking up of the countenance was about to take place, and that the several features, like a crew of thieves and vagabonds flying from the officers of justice, were all determined to provide for themselves.
Lucy saw at a glance that her father was about to get into one of those tender and complacent moods which were few and far between, and, made wise by experience, she very properly conjectured, from his appearance, that some deep design was concealed under it. Anxious, therefore, to avoid a prolonged dialogue, and feeling, besides, her natural candor and invincible love of truth to a certain extent outraged by this treacherous a.s.sumption of cordiality, she resolved to commence the conversation.
"Has anything agreeable happened; papa?"
"Agreeable, Lucy, ahem!--why, yes--something agreeable has happened.
Now, Lucy, poor foolish girl, would it not have been better to have placed confidence in me with respect to this lover of yours? Who can feel the same interest in your happiness that I do?"
"None, certainly, sir; unless some one whose happiness may probably depend on mine."
"Yes, your lover--well, that now is a natural enough distinction; but still, you foolish, naughty girl, don"t you know that you are to inherit my wealth and property, and that they will make you happy? You silly thing, there"s a truth for you."
"Were you yourself happy, papa, when we separated this morning? Are you happy this moment? Are you generally happy? Is there no rankling anxiety--no project of ambition--no bitter recollection corroding your heart? Does the untimely loss of my young brother, who would have represented and sustained your name, never press heavily upon it? I ask again, Papa, are you generally happy? Yet you are in possession of all the wealth and property you speak of."
"Tut, nonsense, silly child! Nothing is more ridiculous than to hear a girl like you, that ought to have no will but mine, reasoning like a philosopher."
"But, dear papa," proceeded Lucy, "if you should persist in marrying me to a profligate, merely because he is a n.o.bleman--oh, how often is that honorable name prost.i.tuted!--and could give me a t.i.tle, don"t you see how wretched I should be, and how completely your wealth and property would fail to secure my happiness?"
"Very well argued, Lucy, only that you go upon wrong principles. To be sure, I know that young ladies--that is, very young and inexperienced ladies, somewhat like yourself, Lucy--have, or pretend to have--poor fools--a horror of marrying those they don"t love; and I am aware, besides, that a man might as well attempt to make a stream run up hill as combat them upon this topic. As for me, in spite of all my wealth and property--I say this in deference to you--I am really very happy this moment."
"I am delighted to hear it, papa. May I ask, what has contributed to make you so?"
"I shall mention that presently; but, in the mean time, my theory on this subject is, that, instead of marrying for love, I would recommend only such persons to contract matrimony as entertain a kind of lurking aversion for each other. Let the parties commence with, say, a tolerably strong stock of honest hatred on both sides. Very well; they, are united. At first, there is a great deal of heroic grief, and much exquisite martyrdom on the part of the lady, whilst the gentleman is at once, if I may say so, indifferent and indignant. By and by, however, they become tired of this. The husband, who, as well as the wife, we shall suppose, has a strong spice of the devil in him, begins to entertain a kind of diabolical sympathy for the fire and temper she displays; while she, on the other hand, comes by degrees to admire in him that which she is conscious of possessing herself, that is to say, a sharp tongue and an energetic temperament. In this way, Lucy, they go on, until habit has become a second nature to them. The appet.i.te for strife has been happily created. At length, they find themselves so completely captivated by it that it becomes the charm of their existence. Thenceforth a bewitching and discordant harmony prevails between them, and they entertain a kind of hostile affection for each other that is desperately delightful."
"Why, you are quite a painter, papa; your picture is admirable; all it wants is truth and nature."
"Thank you, Lucy; you are quite complimentary, and have made an artist of me, as artists now go. But is not this much more agreeable and animated than the sweet dalliance of a sugar-plum life, or the dull, monotonous existence resembling a Dutch ca.n.a.l, which we term connubial happiness?"
"Well, now, papa, suppose you were to hear me through?"
"Very well," he replied; "I will."
"I do not believe, sir, that life can present us with anything more beautiful and delightful than the union of two hearts, two minds, two souls, in pure and mutual affection, when that affection is founded upon something more durable than mere beauty or personal attraction--that is, when it is based upon esteem, and a thorough knowledge of the object we love."
"Yes, Lucy; but remember there are such things as deceit, dissimulation, and hypocrisy in the world."
"Yes, and goodness, and candor, and honor, and truth, and fidelity, papa; do you remember that? When two beings, conscious, I say, of each other"s virtues--each other"s failings, if you will--are united in the bonds of true and pure affection, how could it happen that marriage, which is only the baptism of love upon the altar of the heart, should take away any of the tenderness of this attachment, especially when we reflect that its very emotions are happiness? Granting that love, in its romantic and ideal sense, may disappear after marriage, I have heard, and I believe, that it a.s.sumes a holier and still more tender spirit, and reappears under the sweeter and more beautiful form of domestic affection. The very consciousness, I should suppose, that our destinies, our hopes, our objects, our cares--in short, our joys and sorrows, are identical and mutual, to be shared with and by each other, and that all those delightful interchanges of a thousand nameless offices of tenderness that spring up from the on-going business of our own peculiar life--these alone, I can very well imagine, would const.i.tute an enjoyment far higher, purer, holier, than mere romantic love. Then, papa, surely we are not to live solely for ourselves. There are the miseries and wants of others to be lessened or relieved, calamity to be mitigated, the pale and throbbing brow of sickness to be cooled, the heart of the poor and neglected to be sustained and cheered, and the limbs of the weary to be clothed and rested. Why, papa," she proceeded, her, dark eye kindling at the n.o.ble picture of human duty she had drawn, "when we take into contemplation the delightful impression of two persons going thus, hand in hand, through life, joining in the discharge of their necessary duties, a.s.sisting their fellow-creatures, and diffusing good wherever they go--each strengthening and reflecting the virtues of the other, may we not well ask how they could look upon each other without feeling the highest and n.o.blest spirit of tenderness, affection, and esteem?"