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“No! consumin' to the farden, till I know whether you're able to afford it or not. It's always them that has least of it, unfortunately, that's readiest to give it. I have known many a foolish creature to do what you are doing, when, if the truth was known, they could badly spare it; but, at any rate, wait till I deserve it; for, upon my reputaytion, I won't finger a testher of it sooner.”
He then withdrew, and left the other to finish his dinner as best he might.
For the next three or four days the stranger confined himself mostly to his room, unless about dusk, when he glided out very quietly, and disappeared rather like a spirit than anything else; for, in point of fact, no one could tell what had become of him, or where he could have concealed himself, during these brief but mysterious absences. Paudeen Gair and Peggy observed that he wrote at least three or four letters every day, and knew that he must have put them into the post-office with his own hands, inasmuch as no person connected with the inn had been employed for that purpose.
On the fourth day, after breakfast, and as Pat Sharpe—by which version of his name he was sometimes addressed—was about to take away the things, his guest entered into conversation with him as follows:
“Paudeen, my good friend, can you tell me where the wild, ragged fellow, called Fenton, could be found?”
“I can, sir. Fenton? Begorra, you'd hardly know him if you seen him; he's as smooth as a new pin—has a plain, daicent suit o' clothes on him. It's whispered about among us this long time, that, if he had his rights, he'd be entitled to a great property; and some people say now that he has come into a part of it.”
“And pray, what else do they say of him?”
“Wiry, then, I heard Father M'Mahon himself say that he had great learnin', an' must a' had fine broughten-up, an' could, act the real gintleman whenever he wished.”
“Is it known who he is, or whether he is a native of this neighborhood?”
“No, sir; he doesn't belong to this neighborhood; an' the truth is, that nobody here that ever I heard of knows anything at all, barrin' guesswork, about the unfortunate poor creature. If ever he was a gintleman,” exclaimed the kind-hearted waiter, “he's surely to be pitied, when one sees the state he's brought to.”
“Well, Paudeen, will you fetch him to me, if you know where he is? Say I wish to see him.”
“What name, if you plaise,” asked the waiter, with assumed indifference; for the truth was, that the whole establishment felt a very natural curiosity to know who the stranger was.
“Never mind the name, Paudeen, but say as I desire you.”
Paudeen had no sooner disappeared than the anonymous gentleman went to one of his trunks, and, pulling out a very small miniature, surveyed it for nearly half a minute; he then looked into the fire, and seemed absorbed in long and deep reflection. At length, after once more gazing closely and earnestly at it, he broke involuntarily into the following soliloquy:
“I know,” he exclaimed, “that resemblances are often deceitful, and not to be depended upon. In this case, however, there is scarcely a trace that could constitute any particular peculiarity—a peculiarity which, if it existed, would strengthen—I know not whether to say—my suspicions or my hopes. The early disappearance of that poor boy, without the existence of a single vestige by which he could be traced, resembles one of those mysteries that are found only in romances. The general opinion is, that he has been made away with, and is long dead; yet of late, a different impression has gone abroad, although we know not exactly how it has originated.”
He then paced, with a countenance of gloom, uncertainty, and deep anxiety, through the room, and after a little time, proceeded:
“I shall, at all events, enter into conversation with this person, after which I will make inquiries concerning the gentry and nobility of the neighborhood when I think I shall be able to observe whether he will pass the Gourlay family over, or betray any consciousness of a particular knowledge of their past or present circumstances. 'Tis true, he may overreach me; but if he does, I cannot help it. Yet, after all,” he proceeded, “if he should prove to be the person I seek, everything may go well; I certainly observed faint traces of an honorable feeling about him when I gave him the money, which, notwithstanding his indigence and dissipation, he for a time refused to take.”
He then resumed his seat, and seemed once more buried in thought and abstraction.
Our friend Paudeen was not long in finding the unfortunate object of the stranger's contemplation and interest. On meeting him, he perceived that he was slightly affected with liquor, as indeed was the case generally whenever he could procure it.
“Misther Fenton,” said Paudeen, “there's a daicent person in our house that wishes to see you.”
“Who do you call a decent person, you bog-trotting Ganymede.” replied the other.
“Why, a daicent tradesman, I think, from—thin sorra one of me knows whether I ought to say from Dublin or London.”
“What trade, Ganymede?”
“Troth, that's more than I can tell; but I know that he wants you, for he sent me to bring you to him.”
“Well, Ganymede, I shall see your tradesman,” he replied. “Come, I shall go to him.”
On reaching the inn, Paudeen, in order to discharge the commission intrusted to him fully, ushered Fenton upstairs, and into the stranger's sitting-room. “What's this,” exclaimed Fenton. “Why, you have brought me to the wrong room, you blundering villain. I thought you were conducting me to some worthy tradesman. You have mistaken the room, you blockhead; this is a gentleman. How do you do, sir? I hope you will excuse this intrusion; it is quite unintentional on my part; yet I am glad to see you.”
“There is no mistake at all in it,” replied the other, laughing. “That will do, Paudeen,” he added, “thank you.”
“Faix,” said Paudeen to himself, when descending the stairs, “I'm afeard that's no tradesman—whatever he is. He took on him a look like a lord when that unfortunate Fenton went into the room. Troth, I'm fairly puzzled, at any rate!”
“Take a seat, Mr. Fenton,” said the stranger, handing him a chair, and addressing him in terms of respect.
“Thank, you, sir,” replied the other, putting, at the same time, a certain degree of restraint upon his maimer, for he felt conscious of being slightly influenced by liquor.
“Well,” continued the stranger, “I am glad to see that you have improved your appearance.”
“Ay, certainly, sir, as far as four pounds—or, I should rather say, three pounds went, I did something for the outer man.”
“Why not the five?” asked the other. “I wished you to make yourself as comfortable as possible, and did not imagine you could have done it for less.”
“No, sir, not properly, according to the standard of a gentleman; but I assure you, that, if I were in a state of utter and absolute starvation, I would not part with one of the notes you so generously gave me, scarcely to save my life.”
“No!” exclaimed the stranger, with a good deal of surprise. “And pray, why not, may I ask?”
“Simply,” said Fenton, “because I have taken a fancy for it beyond its value. I shall retain it as pocket-money. Like the Vicar of Wakefield's daughters, I shall always keep it about me; and then, like them also, I will never want money.”
“That is a strange whim,” observed the other, “and rather an unaccountable one, besides.”
“Not in the slightest degree,” replied Fenton, “if you knew as much as I do; but, at all events, just imagine that I am both capricious and eccentric; so don't be surprised at anything I say or do.”
“Neither shall I,” replied “the anonymous”