The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain Part 75

"The honest men."

"I'm not acquainted, sir, nor have I ever met a man who was, with any animal of that cla.s.s. The world, sir, is a moral fiction; a mere term in language that represents negation."

"Well, but woman?"

"Born to administer to our pleasure, our interest, or our ambition, with no other purpose in life. Have I answered my catechism like a good boy, sir?"

"Very well, indeed, Tom. Why, in your notions of life and the world, you seem to be quite an adept."

"I am glad, sir, that you approve of them. So far we are likely to agree. I feel quite proud, sir, that my sentiments are in unison with yours. But where is my sister, sir? I am quite impatient to see her."

"I will send for her immediately. And now that I have an opportunity, let me guard you against her influence. I am anxious to bring about a marriage between her and a young n.o.bleman--Lord Dunroe--who will soon be the Earl of Cullamore, for his old father is dying, or near it, and then Lucy will be a countess. To effect this has been the great ambition of my life. Now, you must not only prevent Lucy from gaining you over to her interests, for she would nearly as soon die as marry him."

"Pshaw!"

"What do you pshaw for, Tom?"

"All nonsense, sir. She doesn't know her own mind; or, rather, she ought to have no mind on the subject."

"Perfectly right; my identical sentiments. Lucy, however, detests this lord, notwithstanding--ay, worse than she does the deuce himself. You must, therefore, not permit yourself to be changed or swayed by her influence, but support me by every argument and means in your power."

"Don't fear me, sir. Your interests, or rather the girl's own, if she only knows them, shall have my most strenuous support."

"Thank you, Tom. I see that you and I are likely to agree thoroughly.

I shall now send for her. She is a superb creature, and less than a countess I shall not have her."

Lucy, when the servant announced her father's wish to see her, was engaged in picturing to herself the subject of her brother's personal appearance. She had always heard that he resembled her mother, and on this account alone she felt how very dear he should be to her. With a flus.h.i.+ng, joyful, but palpitating heart, she descended the stairs, and with a trembling hand knocked at the door. On entering, she was about to rush into her newly-found relative's arms, but, on casting her eyes around, she perceived her father and him standing side by side, so startlingly alike in feature, expression, and personal figure, that her heart, until then bounding with rapture, sank at once, and almost became still. The quick but delicate instincts of her nature took the alarm, and a sudden weakness seized her whole frame. "In this young man,"

she said to herself, "I have found a brother, but not a friend; not a feature of my dear mother in that face."

This change, and this rush of reflection, took place almost in a moment, and ere she had time to speak she found herself in Mr. Ambrose Gray's arms. The tears at once rushed to her eyes, but they were not such tears as she expected to have shed. Joy there was, but, alas, how much mitigated was its fervency! And when her brother spoke, the strong, deep, harsh tones of his voice so completely startled her, that she almost believed she was on the breast of her father. Her tears flowed; but they were mingled with a sense of disappointment that amounted almost to bitterness.

Tom on this occasion forebore to enact the rehearsal scene, as he had done in the case of his father. His sister's beauty, at once melancholy but commanding, her wonderful grace, her dignity of manner, added to the influence of her tall, elegant figure, awed him so completely, that he felt himself incapable of aiming at anything like dramatic effect.

Nay, as her warm tears fell upon his face, he experienced a softening influence that resembled emotion, but, like his father, he annexed a.s.sociations to it that were selfish, and full of low, ungenerous caution.

"My father's right," thought he; "I must be both cool and firm here, otherwise it will be difficult not to support her."

"Well, Lucy," said her father, with unusual cheerfulness, after Tom had handed her to a seat, "I hope you like your brother. Is he not a fine, manly young fellow?"

"Is he not my brother, papa?" she replied, "restored to us after so many years; restored when hope had deserted us--when we had given him up for lost."

As she uttered the words her voice quivered; a generous reaction had taken place in her breast; she blamed herself for having withheld from him, on account of a circ.u.mstance over which he had no control, that fulness of affection, with which she had prepared herself to welcome him. A sentiment, first of compa.s.sion, then of self-reproach, and ultimately of awakened affection, arose in her mind, a.s.sociated with and made still more tender by the melancholy memory of her departed mother.

She again took his hand, on which the tears now fell in showers, and after a slight pause said,

"I hope, my dear Thomas, you have not suffered, nor been subject to the wants and privations which usually attend the path of the young and friendless in this unhappy world? Alas, there is one voice--but is now forever still--that would, oh, how rapturously! have welcomed you to a longing and a loving heart."

The n.o.ble sincerity of her present emotion was not without its effect upon her brother. His eyes, in spite of the hardness of his nature, swam in something like moisture, and he gazed upon her with wonder and pride, that he actually was the brother of so divine a creature; and a certain description of affection, such as he had never before felt, for it was pure, warm, and unselfish.

"Oh, how I do long to hear the history of your past life!" she exclaimed. "I dare say you had many an early struggle to encounter; many a privation to suffer; and in sickness, with none but the cold hand of the stranger about you; but still it seems that G.o.d has not deserted you. Is it not a consolation, papa, to think that he returns to us in a condition of life so gratifying?"

"Gratifying it unquestionably is, Lucy. He is well educated; and will soon be fit to take his proper position in society."

"Soon! I trust immediately, papa; I hope you will not allow him to remain a moment longer in obscurity; compensate him at least for his sufferings. But, my dear Thomas," she proceeded, turning to him, "let me ask, do you remember mamma? If she were now here, how her affectionate heart would rejoice! Do you remember her my dear Thomas?"

"Not distinctly," he replied; "something of a pale, handsome woman comes occasionally like a dream of my childhood to my imagination--a graceful woman, with auburn hair, and a melancholy look, I think."

"You--do," replied Lucy, as her eyes sparkled, "you do remember her; that is exactly a sketch of her--gentle, benignant, and affectionate, with a fixed sorrow mingled with resignation in her face. Yes, you remember her!"

"Now, Lucy," said her father, who never could bear any particular allusion to his wife; "now that you have seen your brother, I think you may withdraw, at least for the present. He and I have matters of importance to talk of; and you know you will have enough of him again--plenty of time to hear his past history, which, by the way, I am as anxious to hear as you are. You may now withdraw, my love."

"Oh, not so soon, father, if you please," said Thomas; "allow us a little more time together."

"Well, then, a few minutes only, for I myself must take an airing in the carriage, and I must also call upon old Cullamore."

"Papa," said Lucy, "I am about to disclose a little secret to you which I hesitated to do before, but this certainly is a proper occasion for doing it; the secret I speak of will disclose itself. Here is where it lay both day and night since mamma's death," she added, putting her hand upon her heart; "it is a miniature portrait of her which I myself got done."

She immediately drew it up by a black silk ribbon, and after contemplating it with tears, she placed it in the hands of her brother.

This act of Lucy's placed him in a position of great pain and embarra.s.sment. His pretended recollection of Lady Gourlay was, as the reader already guesses, nothing more than the description of her which he had received from Corbet, that he might be able to play his part with an appearance of more natural effect. With the baronet, the task of deception was by no means difficult; but with Lucy, the case was altogether one of a different complexion. His father's principles, as expounded by his illegitimate son's worthy uncle, were not only almost familiar to him, but also in complete accordance with his own. With him, therefore, the deception consisted in little else than keeping his own secret, and satisfying his father that their moral views of life were the same. He was not prepared, however, for the effect which Lucy's n.o.ble qualities produced upon him so soon. To him who had never met with or known any other female, combining in her own person such extraordinary beauty and dignity--such obvious candor of heart--such graceful and irresistible simplicity, or who was encompa.s.sed by an atmosphere of such truth and purity--the effect was such as absolutely confounded himself, and taught him to feel how far they go in purifying, elevating, and refining those who come within the sphere of their influence. This young man, for instance, was touched, softened, and awed into such an involuntary respect for her character and virtues, that he felt himself almost unable to sustain the part he had undertaken to play, so far at least as she was concerned. In fact, he felt himself changed for the better, and was forced, as it were, to look in upon his own heart, and contemplate its deformity by the light that emanated from her character. Nor was this singular but natural influence unperceived by her father, who began to fear that if they were to be much together, he must ultimately lose the connivance and support of his son.

Thomas took the portrait from her hand, and, after contemplating it for some time, felt himself bound to kiss it, which he did, with a momentary consciousness of his hypocrisy that felt like guilt.

"It is most interesting," said he; "there is goodness, indeed, and benignity, as you say, in every line of that placid but sorrowful face.

Here," said he, "take it back, my dear sister; I feel that it is painful to me to look upon it."

"It has been my secret companion," said Lucy, gazing at it with deep emotion, "and my silent monitress ever since poor mamma's death. It seemed to say to me with those sweet lips that will never more move: Be patient, my child, and put your firm trust in the hopes of a better life, for this world is one of trial and suffering."

"That is all very fine, Lucy," said her father, somewhat fretfully; "but it would have been as well if she had preached a lesson of obedience at the same time. However, you had better withdraw, my dear; as I told you, Thomas and I have many important matters to talk over."

"I am ready to go, papa," she replied; "but, by the way, my dear Thomas, I had always heard that you resembled her very much; instead of that, you are papa's very image."

"A circ.u.mstance which will take from his favor with you, Lucy, I fear,"

observed her father; "but, indeed, I myself am surprised at the change that has come over you, Thomas; for, unquestionably, when young you were very like her."

"These changes are not at all unfrequent, I believe," replied his son.

"I have myself known instances where the individual when young resembled one parent, and yet, in the course of time, became as it were the very image and reflex of the other."

"You are perfectly right, Tom," said his father; "every family is aware of the fact, and you yourself are a remarkable ill.u.s.tration of it."

"I am not sorry for resembling my dear father, Lucy," observed her brother; "and I know I shall lose nothing in your good will on that account, but rather gain by it."

Lucy's eyes were already filled with tears at the ungenerous and unfeeling insinuation of her father.

"You shall not, indeed, Thomas," she replied; "and you, papa, are scarcely just to me in saying so. I judge no person by their external appearance, nor do I suffer myself to be prejudiced by looks, although I grant that the face is very often, but by no means always, an index to the character. I judge my friends by my experience of their conduct--by their heart--their principles--their honor. Good-by, now, my dear brother; I am quite impatient to hear your history, and I am sure you will gratify me as soon as you can."

She took his hand and kissed it, but, in the act of doing so, observed under every nail a semicircular line of black drift that jarred very painfully on her feelings. Tom then imprinted a kiss upon her forehead, and she withdrew.

When she had gone out, the baronet bent his eyes upon her brother with a look that seemed to enter into his very soul--a look which his son, from his frequent teachings, very well understood.

"Now, Tom," said he, "that you have seen your sister, what do you think of her? Is it not a pity that she should ever move under the rank of a countess?"