This interview with the priest disturbed Corbet very much.  His selfishness, joined to great caution and timidity of character, rendered him a very difficult subject for any man to wield according to his purposes.  There could be no doubt that he entertained feelings of the most diabolical resentment and vengeance against the baronet, and yet it was impossible to get out of him the means by which he proposed to visit them upon him.  On leaving Father M’Mahon, therefore, he experienced a state of alternation between a resolution to make disclosures and a determination to be silent and work out his own plans.  He also feared death, it is true:  but this was only when those rare visitations of conscience occurred that were awakened by superstition, instead of an enlightened and Christian sense of religion.  This latter was a word he did not understand, or rather one for which he mistook superstition itself.  Be this as it may, he felt uneasy, anxious, and irresolute, wavering between the right and the wrong, afraid to take his stand by either, and wishing, if he could, to escape the consequences of both.  Other plans, however, were ripening as well as his, under the management of those who were deterred by none of his cowardice or irresolution.  The consideration of this brings us to a family discussion; which it becomes our duty to detail before we proceed any further in our narrative.

On the following day, then, nearly the same party of which we have given an account in an early portion of this work, met in the same eating-house we have already described; the only difference being that instead of O’Donegan, the classical teacher, old Corbet himself was present.  The man called Thomas Corbet, the eldest son Anthony, Ginty Cooper the fortune-teller, Ambrose Gray, and Anthony himself, composed this interesting sederunt.  The others had been assembled for some time before the arrival of Anthony, who consequently had not an opportunity of hearing the following brief dialogue.

“I’m afraid of my father,” observed Thomas; “he’s as deep as a draw-well, and it’s impossible to know what he’s at.  How are we to manage him at all?”

“By following his advice, I think,” said Ginty.  “It’s time, I’m sure, to get this boy into his rights.”

“I was very well disposed to help you in that,” replied her brother; “but of late he has led such a life, that I fear if he comes into the property, he’ll do either us or himself little credit; and what is still worse, will he have sense to keep his own secret?  My father says his brother, the legitimate son, is dead; that he died of scarlet-fever many years ago in the country—–­and I think myself, by the way, that he looks, whenever he says it, as if he himself had furnished the boy with the fever.  That, however, is not our business.  If I had been at Red Hall, instead of keeping the house and place in town, it’s a short time the other—­or Fenton as he calls himself—­would be at large.  He’s now undher a man that