“I could tell you that, too, maybe,” replied Skipton; “but I think, sir, I have told you enough for the present. If that young man is living, I would swear that he ought to stand in Sir Thomas Gourlay's shoes. And now do you think, sir,” he inquired, coming at last to the real object of his communication, “that if his right could be made clear, any one who'd help him to his own mightn't expect to be made comfortable for life?”
“I don't think there's a doubt about it,” replied the priest. “The property is large, and he could well afford to be both generous and grateful.”
“I know,” returned the man, “that he is both one and the other, if he had it in his power.”
“Well,” said the priest, seriously; “mark my words—this may be the most fortunate day you ever saw. In the mane time, keep a close mouth. The friends of that identical boy are on the search for him this moment. They had given him up for dead; but it is not long since they discovered that he was living. I will see you again on this subject.”
“I am now a constable,” said the man, “attached to the office you were in to-day, and I can be heard of any time.”
“Very well,” replied the priest, “you shall hear either from me or from some person interested in the recovery of the boy that's lost.”
CHAPTER XXVII. Lucy calls upon Lady Gourlay, where she meets her Lover
Sir Thomas, who shams Illness, is too sharp for Mrs. Mainwaring, who visits Him—Affecting interview between Lucy and Lady Gourlay
Lucy Gourlay, anxious to relieve her father's mind as much as it was in her power to do, wrote to him the day after the visit of Ensign Roberts and old Sam to Summerfield Cottage. Her letter was affectionate, and even tender, and not written without many tears, as was evident by the blots and blisters which they produced upon the paper. She fully corroborated the stranger's explanation to her father; for although ignorant at the time that an interview had taken place between them, she felt it to be her duty toward all parties to prevent, as far as her testimony could go, the possibility of any misunderstanding upon the subject. This letter was posted in Dublin, from an apprehension lest the local post-office might furnish a clew to her present abode. The truth was, she feared that if her father could trace her out, he would claim her at once, and force her home by outrage and violence. In this, however, she was mistaken; he had fallen upon quite a different and far more successful plan for that purpose. He knew his daughter well, and felt that if ever she might be forced to depart from those strong convictions of the unhappiness that must result from a union between baseness and honor, it must be by an assumption of tenderness and affection toward her, as well as by a show of submission, and a concession of his own will to hers. This was calculating at once upon her affection and generosity. He had formed this plan before her letter reached him, and on perusing it, he felt still more determined to make this treacherous experiment upon her very virtues—thus most unscrupulously causing them to lay the groundwork of her own permanent misery.