“I suppose so, Mr. Roberts; I suppose so.”

After old Sam and his son had taken their departure, Lucy once more adverted to the duty as well as the necessity of acquainting her father with her safety, and thus relieving his mind of much anxiety and trouble.  To this her friend at once consented.  The baronet, in the meantime, felt considerably the worse for those dreadful conflicts which had swept down and annihilated all that ever had any tendency to humanity or goodness in his heart.  He felt unwell—­that is to say, he experienced none of those symptoms of illness which at once determine the nature of any specific malady.  The sensation, however, was that of a strong man, who finds his frame, as it were, shaken—­who is aware that something of a nameless apprehension connected with his health hangs over him, and whose mind is filled with a sense of gloomy depression and restlessness, for which he neither can account nor refer to any particular source of anxiety, although such in reality may exist.  It appeared to be some terrible and gigantic hypochondriasis—­some waking nightmare—­coming over him like the shadow of his disappointed ambition, blighting his strength, and warning him, that when the heart is made the battle-field of the passions for too long a period, the physical powers will ultimately suffer, until the body becomes the victim of the spirit.

Yet, notwithstanding this feeling, Sir Thomas’s mind was considerably relieved.  Lucy had not eloped; but then, the rumor of her elopement had gone abroad.  This, indeed, was bitter; but, on the other hand, time—­circumstances—­the reappearance of this most mysterious stranger—­and most of all, Lucy’s high character for all that was great and good, delicate and honorable, would ere long, set her right with the world.  Nothing, he felt, however, would so quickly and decidedly effect this as her return to her father’s roof; for this necessary step would at once give the lie to calumny.

In order, therefore, to ascertain, if possible, the place of her present concealment, he resolved to remove to his metropolitan residence, having taken it for granted that she had sought shelter there with some of her friends.  Anxious, nervous, and gloomy, he ordered his carriage, and in due time arrived in Dublin.

Thither the stranger had preceded him.  The latter, finding that Ballytrain could no longer be the scene of his operations, also sought the metropolis.  Fenton had disappeared—­Lucy was no longer there.  His friend Birney was also in town, and as in town his business now lay, to town therefore he went.

In the meantime, we must turn a little to our friend Crackenfudge, who, after the rough handling he had received from the baronet, went home, if not a sadder and a wiser, at least a much sorer man.  The unfortunate wretch was sadly basted.  The furious baronet, knowing the creature he was, had pitched into him in awful style.  He felt, however, when cooled down, that he had gone too far; and that, for the sake of Lucy, and in order to tie up the miserable wretch’s babbling tongue, it was necessary that he should make some apology for such an unjustifiable outrage.  He accordingly wrote him the following letter before he went to town: