"My poor old mother!" thought Robin Hays, "she does excellently well as
a mother for me; but think of such as Barbara calling her by such a
title!" And he whistled on his way, though not "for want of thought;"
his feelings and affections were divided between Barbara Iverk and
Walter De Guerre.
We must now proceed with Hugh Dalton a second time to Cecil Place. His
interview with the baronet was of a nature very different from that
with which our narrative commenced. Sir Robert seemed as if the weight
of a hundred years had been pressed upon his brow; indeed, Time could
not have so altered any man. It was not the deed of Time that made the
eye vigilant, even in its dimness--the hand, though trembling almost to
palsy, fumble with the sword-handle--that racked the poor, withering,
and shrinking brain, within its multiplied cabinets, by a thousand
terrors--such was not the work of Time. How different was his, from the
hoary, but holy age, that ushers an aged, and it may be a worn, but
godly and grateful spirit, to an eternity of happiness!--when the
records of a good man's life may be traced by the gentle furrows that
nature, and not crime, has ploughed upon the brow--the voice, sweet,
though feeble, giving a benison to all the living things of this fair
earth--the eye, gentle and subdued, sleeping calmly within its
socket--the heart, trusting in the present, and hoping in the future;
judging by itself of others, and so judging kindly (despite experience)
of all mankind, until time may have chimed out his warning notes!
A thousand and a thousand times had Sir Robert cursed the evil destiny
that prompted him to confess his crime to his daughter; and his curses
were more bitter, and more deep, when he found that Sir Willmott Burrell
had played so treacherous a part, and inveigled him under total
subjection.
"And is it Sir Willmott Burrell who is to procure me a free pardon and
an acknowledged ship? Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" growled
Dalton, as he sat opposite the enfeebled baronet: his hands clenched,
his brows knit, and his heart swelling in his bosom with contending
feelings. "Trust my case to Sir Willmott Burrell!" he repeated. "And so,
Sir Robert Cecil, you have sold your soul to the devil for a mess of
pottage, a mess of poisoned pottage! You have not, you say, the poor
power of obtaining the most trifling favour for yourself. But I say
again, Look to it; for, by the God in heaven, I will have my suit or my
revenge."