The Black Baronet; or, The Chronicles Of Ballytrain. William Carleton

“the thing will be done in five minutes.”

      “Are you mad, Pat?” said she; “take the money with you before you go.”

      “Begad,” said Pat, “my heart was in my mouth—here, let us have it. And so the darling young lady is forced to fly from the tyrant?”

      “Oh, Pat,” said Alice, solemnly, “for the sake of the living God, don't breathe that you know anything about it; we're lost if you do.”

      “If Dandy was here, Alley,” he replied, “I'd make him swear it upon your lips; but, hand us the money, for there's little time to be lost; I hope all the seats aren't taken.”

      He was just in time, however; and in a few minutes returned, having secured for two the only inside seats that were left untaken at the moment, although there were many claimants for them in a few minutes afterwards.

      “Now, Alley,” said he, after he had returned from the coach-office, which, by the way, was connected with the inn, “what does all this mane? I think I could guess something about it. A runaway, eh?”

      “What do you mean by a runaway?” she replied; “of course she is running away from her brute of a father, and I am goin' with her.”

      “But isn't she goin' wid somebody else?” he inquired.

      “No,” replied Alley; “I know where she is goin'; but she is goin' wid nobody but myself.”

      “Ah, Alley,” replied Pat, shrewdly, “I see she has kept you in the dark; but I don't blame her. Only, if you can keep a secret, so can I.”

      “Pat,” said she, “desire the coachman to stop at the white gate, where two faymales will be waitin' for it, and let the guard come down and open the door for us; so that we won't have occasion to spake. It's aisy to know one's voice, Pat.”

      “I'll manage it all,” said Pat; “make your mind aisy—and what is more, I'll not breathe a syllable to mortual man, woman, or child about it. That would be an ungrateful return for her kindness to our family. May God bless her, and grant her happiness, and that's the worst I wish her.”

      The baronet, in the course of that evening, was sitting in his dining-room alone, a bottle of Madeira before him, for indeed it is necessary to say, that although unsocial and inhospitable, he nevertheless indulged pretty freely in wine. He appeared moody, and gulped down the Madeira as a man who wished either to sustain his mind against care, or absolutely to drown memory, and probably the force of conscience. At length, with a flushed face, and a voice made more deep and stern by his potations, and the reflections they excited, he rang the bell, and in a moment the butler appeared.

      “Is Gillespie in the house, Gibson?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Send him up.”

      In a few minutes Gillespie entered; and indeed it would be difficult to see a more ferocious-looking ruffian than this scoundrel who was groom to the baronet. Fame, or scandal, or truth, as the case may be, had settled the relations between Sir Thomas and him, not merely as those of master and servant, but as those of father and son. Be this as it may, however, the similarity of figure and feature was so extraordinary, that the inference could be considered by no means surprising.

      “Tom,” said the baronet, “I suppose there is a Bible in the house?”

      “I can't say, sir,” replied the ruffian. “I never saw any one in use. O, yes, Miss Gourlay has one.”

      “Yes,” replied the other, with a gloomy reflection, “I forgot; she is, in addition to her other accomplishments, a Bible reader. Well, stay where you are; I shall get it myself.”

      He accordingly rose and proceeded to Lucy's chamber, where, after having been admitted, he found the book he sought, and such was the absence of mind, occasioned by the apprehensions he felt, that he brought away the book, and forgot to lock the door.

      “Now, sir,” said the baronet, sternly, when he returned, “do you respect this book? It is the Bible.”

      “Why, yes, sir. I respect every book that has readin' in it—printed readin'.”

      “But this is the Bible, on which the Christian religion is founded.”

      “Well, sir, I don't doubt that,” replied the enlightened master of horse; “but I prefer the Seven Champions of Christendom, or the History of Valentine and Orson, or Fortunatus's Purse.”

      “You don't relish the Bible, then?”

      “I don't know, sir; I never read a line of it—although I heard a great deal about! it. Isn't that the book the parsons preach I from?”

      “It is,” replied the baronet, in his deep voice. “This book is the source and origin and history of the revelation of God's will to man; this is the book on which oaths are taken, and when taken falsely, the falsehood is perjury, and the individual so perjuring himself is transported, either for life or a term of years, while living and when dead, Gillespie—mark me well, sir—when dead, his soul goes to eternal perdition in the flames of hell. Would you now, knowing this—that you would be transported in this world, and damned in the next—would you, I say, take an oath upon this book and break it?”

      “No, sir, not after what you said.”

      “Well, then, I am a magistrate, and I wish to administer an oath to you.”

      “Very well, sir, I'll swear whatever you like.”

      “Then listen—take the book in your right hand—you shall swear the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God! You swear to execute whatever duty I may happen to require at your hands, and to keep the performance of that duty a secret from every living mortal, and besides to keep secret the fact that I am in any way connected with it—you swear this?”

      “I do, sir,” replied the other, kissing the book.

      The baronet paused a little.

      “Very well,” he added, “consider yourself solemnly sworn, and pray recollect that if you violate this oath—in other words, if you commit perjury, I shall have you transported as sure as your name is Gillespie.”

      “But your honor has sworn me to secrecy, and yet I don't know the secret.”

      “Neither shall you—for twenty-four hours longer. I am not and shall not be in a condition to mention it to you sooner, but I put you under the obligation now, in order that you may have time to reflect upon its importance. You may go.”

      Gillespie felt exceedingly puzzled as to the nature of the services about to be required at his hands, but as every attempt to solve this difficulty was fruitless, he resolved to await the event in patience, aware that the period between his anxiety on the subject and a knowledge of it was but short.

      We need not hesitate to assure our readers, that if Lucy Gourlay had been apprised, or even dreamt for a moment, that the stranger and she were on that night to be fellow-travellers in the same coach, she would unquestionably have deferred her journey to tha metropolis, or, in other words, her escape from the senseless tyranny of her ambitious father. Fate, however, is fate, and it is precisely the occurrence of these seemingly incidental coincidences that in fact, as well as in fiction, constitutes the principal interest of those circumstances which give romance to the events of human life and develop its character.

      The “Fly” started from Ballytrain at the usual hour, with only two inside passengers—to wit, our friend the stranger and a wealthy stock-farmer from the same parish. He was a large, big-boned, good-humored fellow, dressed in a strong frieze outside coat or jock, buckskin breeches, top-boots, and a heavy loaded whip, his inseparable companion wherever he went.

      The coach, on arriving at the white gate, pulled up, and two females, deeply and closely veiled, took their seats inside. Of course, the natural politeness of the stranger prevented him from obtruding his