Rich as Ireland is in picturesque river scenery, we know nothing
more beautiful than the valley through which the Nore flows between
Thomastown and New Ross. The gently sloping meadows, backed by deep
woods, and dotted with cheerful farm-houses, gradually give way to a
bolder landscape as you descend the stream and enter a dark gorge, whose
high beetling sides throw their solemn shade over the river, receding at
last to form a kind of amphitheatre wherein stands the little village of
Inistioge.
More like a continental than an Irish hamlet, the cottages are built
around a wide open space planted with tall elms and traversed by many
a footpath; and here, of a summer night, are to be seen the villagers
seated or strolling about in pleasant converse,--a scene of rural peace
and happiness such as rarely is to be met with in our land of trial and
struggle. Did our time or space admit of it, we would gladly loiter in
that pleasant spot, gazing from that graceful bridge on the ivy-clad
towers, the tall and stately abbey, or the rich woods of that proud
demesne, which in every tint of foliage encircles the picture.
That “vale and winding river” were scenes of some of our boyhood's
happiest hours, and even years--those stern teachers--have not
obliterated the memory! Our task is not, however, with these
recollections, and we would now ask our reader to stand with us beneath
the shadow of the tall elms, while the little village is locked in
slumber.
It is past midnight,----all is still and tranquil; a faint moonlight
flickers through the leaves, and plays a fitful gleam upon the river.
One man alone is abroad, and he is seen to traverse the bridge with
uncertain steps, stopping at moments as if to listen, and then resuming
his solitary watch. A light, the only one in the village, twinkles
from a window of the little inn, and the door lies open, for in his
impatience he has quitted his chamber to walk abroad in the night air.
As the hours wear on, his anxiety seems to increase, and he starts and
pauses at every sound of the wind through the trees, and every cadence
of the rushing river. At last he hears the tramp of a horse,--he
bends down to listen,--it comes nearer and nearer, and in his feverish
impatience he hastens in the direction of the coming noise.
“Is that you, Michel?” he cries, in an eager accent.
“Yes, D'Esmonde, it is!” replies a voice; and the next moment the
horseman has dismounted at his side.
“What have I not suffered since you left this, Michel!” said D'Esmonde,
as he rested his forehead on the other's shoulder. “There is not an
image of terror my mind has not conjured up. Shame, ignominy, ruin, were
all before me; and had you stayed much longer away, my brain could not
have borne it.”
“But, D'Esmonde, my friend--”
“Nay, nay, do not reason with me; what I feel--what I suffer--has no
relation to the calm influences of reason. I alone can pilot myself
through the rocks and quicksands of this channel. Tell me of your
mission--how has it fared?”
“Less well than I hoped for,” said the other, slowly.
“I thought as much,” replied D'Esmonde, in a tone of deep dejection.
“You saw him?”
“Yes, our interview lasted nigh an hour. He received me coldly,
but courteously, and entered into the question with a kind of calm
acquiescence that at first gave me good encouragement.”
“To end in disappointment!” cried D'Esmonde, bitterly; and the other
made no reply. “Go on, Michel,” said the Abbé, after a pause; “tell me
all.”
“I began,” resumed the other, “by a brief reference to Godfrey's murder,
and the impenetrable mystery in which, up to this hour, it would appear
to be veiled. I related all that you had told me of the relationship
between him and the Daltons, and the causes which had broken off their
friendship. With these he seemed conversant, though I am unable to say
whether he knew more or less than what I was communicating. I dwelt as
long and as forcibly as I deemed safe on the character and habits of old
Dalton, hinting at his reckless, unprincipled career, and the wild and
lawless notions he entertained on every subject. To my great surprise,
and I confess to my discomfiture, he stopped me short by saying,----
“'You would imply, then, that he was the guilty man.'
“'You go too fast, Mr. Grounsell,' said I, calmly; 'I have come to
confer and take counsel with you, not to form rash or hasty notions on a
matter of such deep gravity. If the circumstances I shall lay before you
possess the same importance in your eyes that they do in mine, it may
be that your own conclusions will be even more than suspicious.' I
then entered upon the story of Meekins, and how a comrade of his, an
Irishman, called Noonan, confessed to him that he was the murderer of
Mr. Godfrey; that he had never known him, nor had any intercourse with
him; but was employed for the act by old Dalton, who was then residing
at Bruges. This Noonan, who was possessed of several letters of
Dalton's, had joined a Genoese vessel, fitted out for the slave-trade,
and was killed in action. Meekins had frequent conversations with him
on the subject of the murder, and, although a stranger from another
country, knew every detail of the scene and locality perfectly from
description.
“'Meekins is still living?' asked Dr. Grounsell.
“'Living, and now here,' replied I; at which he gave a start of
surprise, and, I think, of alarm.
“'Is he ready to substantiate his statement on oath?' said he.
“'That he could do so, I have no doubt,' replied I; 'that he will, or
that he ought, is perhaps a matter for calm reflection.'
“'How do you mean?' said he, hastily. 'If what he alleges be true, can
there be any hesitation as to its publicity?'
“'On that there may be grave doubts, sir,' said I. 'They whom the law
could have held responsible are already gone before another judgment
seat. Their guilt or innocence has been proven where deception or error
exist not! It is only their blameless descendants that could now pay
the penalty of their crime; and it may well be matter for consideration
whether they should be exposed to the world's shame, to expiate that
wherein they had no share----'
“'Do you yourself believe this man's story?' asked he, abruptly.
“'I see no reason to discredit it,' was my answer. 'There are moments
when doubt is more difficult than belief, and this is one of them. He
has never varied in his narrative,--he tells it to-day as he told it
yesterday,--he details family circumstances that defy invention, and
mentions events and incidents that all tally with facts.'
“'Where was he himself at the time of the murder?'
“'In South America,' he says. 'He had joined one of those patriot
expeditions which sailed from Ireland to join Bolivar.'
“'This he can prove, of course?' observed he, shrewdly.
“'I conclude he can,' replied I; 'it never occurred to me to question
it.'
“There was an interval after this, in which neither of us spoke; at last
he said, 'May I ask how you became acquainted with this man--Meekins?'
“'Through a brother clergyman, who was the means of saving his life
abroad.'
“'And the intention is,' rejoined he, in a slow and deliberate voice,
'that we should, while believing this man's statement, keep it secret?
Would not that amount to a very grave offence,--the compromise of a
felony?'
“I hesitated as he said this, not knowing well which way the discussion
might turn; at last I replied, 'Meekins might refuse his evidence,--he
might deny that he had ever made these revelations.'
“'In other words,' said he, 'he prefers to sell his testimony for a
better price than a court of justice would pay for it.'
“'You do not suppose that I could be a party to----'
“'Nay, nay,' cried he, interrupting me, 'not on such grounds as these;
but I can well conceive your feeling strongly interested for the
blameless and unhappy children. The only question is, how far such
sympathies can be indulged against the direct claims of justice.'
“There was a dispassionate calmness in the tone he spoke this, that
disarmed my suspicions, D'Esmonde; and it was only when I had left him
and was on my way back here, that I perceived what may, perhaps, have
been a very great error; for I at once proceeded to lay before him the
course I would counsel, and how, by the employment of a very moderate
sum, this fellow could be induced to emigrate to America, never to
return. After pushing this view with all the force I could, I at last
avowed, as if driven to the confession, that another motive had also its
weight with me, which was, that my friend and brother priest--the same
who rescued Meekins from his fate--was the natural son of Mr. Godfrey,
educated and brought up at his cost, and maintained till the period of
his death with every requisite of rank and station; that Meekins knew
this fact, and would publish it to the world, if provoked to it, and
that thus my friend's position at the court of Rome would be utterly
ruined.
“'He is a Monsignore, then?” asked Grounsell.
'“He is,' replied I, 'and may even yet be more than that.'”
“This was rash, Michel,--this was all imprudence,” said D'Esmonde, with
a heavy sigh. “Go on; what said he then?”
“He waited while I told him that we sought for no advantages on the
score of this relationship; that we preferred no claims whatever against
the estate of Mr. Godfrey; that we only sought to bury in oblivion a
great crime, and to prevent the publicity of a great shame.
“'It is your belief, then,' said he, staring me fully in the face, 'that
Dalton was guilty?'
“'From what is before me,' replied I, 'it is hard to reject that
conclusion.'
“'And that this was an act of pure revenge?'
“'Less that, perhaps, than the hope of succeeding to the property
by some will of early date; at least, such is the version Meekins's
informant gave him.'
“'Ay, ay,' said he, 'that would constitute a motive, of course. Your
advice is, then, that we should make terms with this fellow? Is this
also your friend's counsel?'
“'I scarcely can tell you,' replied I 'My friend is not in any sense a
worldly man. His whole thoughts are centred in the cause he serves,
and he could only see good or evil in its working on the Church. If his
cousins--'
“'His cousins!'
“'Yes, the Daltons--for they are such----deem this the fitting course,
he is ready to adopt it. If they counsel differently, I can almost
answer for his compliance.'
“'You can give me time to communicate with Dalton? He is at Vienna.'
“'Yes, if you agree with me in this view of the case, and think that
such will be Dalton's opinion also; otherwise it will be difficult
to secure this fellow's secrecy much longer. He knows that he is in
possession of a deeply important fact; he feels the impunity of his
own position; and to-morrow or next day he may threaten this, that, or
other. In fact, he believes that Lady Hester Onslow herself has no title
to the estate, if he were disposed to reveal all he knows.'
“'Can I see him?' asked Grounsell.
“' Of course you can; but it would be useless. He would affect an utter
ignorance of everything, and deny all knowledge of what we have been
talking.'
“'You will give me some hours to think over this?' asked he, after a
pause.
“'I had rather that you could come to a quicker resolve,' said I; 'the
fellow's manner is menacing and obtrusive. I have perhaps too long
delayed this visit to you; and should he suspect that we are hesitating,
he may go before a magistrate, and make his deposition before we are
aware of it.'
“'You shall hear from me this evening, sir. Where shall I address my
note?'
“'The Rev. Michel Cahill--the Inn, at Inistioge,' replied I. And so we
parted.”
“We must leave this at once, Michel,” said D'Esmonde, after a brief
interval of silence. “Grounsell may possibly come over here himself. He
must not see me; still less must he meet with Meekins. We have gone too
fast here,--much too fast.”
“But you told me that we had not a moment to lose.”
“Nor have we, Michel; but it is as great an error to overrun your game
as to lag behind the scent. I distrust this doctor.”
“So do I, D'Esmonde. But what can he do?”
“We must quit this place,” said the other, not heeding the question.
“There is a small wayside public, called the 'Rore,' about five miles
away. We can wait there for a day, at least I almost wish that we had
never embarked in this, Michel,” said he, thoughtfully. “I am seldom
faint-hearted, but I feel I know not what of coming peril. You know well
that this fellow Meekins is not to be depended on. When he drinks, he
would reveal any and everything. I myself cannot determine whether to
credit or reject his testimony. His insolence at one moment, his
slavish, abject terror at another, puzzle and confound me.”
“You have been too long an absentee from Ireland, D'Esmonde, or they
would present no difficulties to your judgment. At every visit I make to
our county jail I meet with the self-same natures, torn, as it were,
by opposite influences,--the passions of this world, and the terrors of
that to come.”
“Without the confessional, who could read them!” exclaimed D'Esmonde.
“How true that is!” cried the other. “What false interpretations, what
mistaken views, are taken of them! And so is it,--we, who alone know the
channel, are never to be the pilots!”
“Say not so,” broke in D'Esmonde, proudly. “We are, and we shall be!
Ours will be the guidance, not alone of them, but of those who rule
them. Distrust what you will, Michel, be faint-hearted how you may, but
never despair of the glorious Church. Her triumph is already assured.
Look at Austria, at Spain, at all Northern Italy. Look at Protestant
Prussia, trembling for the fate of her Rhine provinces. Look at England
herself, vacillating between the game of conciliation and the perils
of her unlimited bigotry. Where are we not victorious? Ours is the only
despotism that ever smote two-handed,--crushing a monarchy here, and
a people there,--proclaiming divine right, or asserting the human
inheritance of freedom! Whose banner but ours ever bore the double
insignia of rule and obedience?--ours, the great Faith, equal to every
condition of mankind and to every age and every people? Never, never
despair of it!”
D'Esmonde sat down, and covered his face with his hands; and when he
arose, his pale features and bloodless lips showed the strong reaction
from a paroxysm of intense passion.
“Let us leave this, Michel,” said he, in a broken voice. “The little
inn I speak of is not too distant for a walk, and if we start at once we
shall reach it before daybreak. While you awake Meekins, and arrange
all within, I will stroll slowly on before.” And, thus saying, D'Esmonde
moved away, leaving the others to follow.
D'Esmonde was more than commonly thoughtful, even to depression. He had
been but a few days in Ireland, but every hour of that time had revealed
some new disappointment to him. There was all that he could wish of
religious zeal, there was devotion and faith without limit amongst the
people; but there was no unity of action, no combination of purpose,
amongst those who led them. Discursive and rash efforts of individuals
were suffered to disturb well-laid measures and reveal long-meditated
plans. Vain and frivolous controversies in newspapers, petty wars of
petty localities, wasted energies, and distracted counsels. There
was none of that organization, that stern discipline, which at Rome
regulated every step, and ordained every movement of their mighty host.
“This,” muttered he to himself, “is an army without field-officers.
Their guerilla notions must be henceforth exchanged for habits of
military obedience. Little think they that their future General is now
the solitary pedestrian of a lonely road at midnight.” The recurrence
to himself and his own fortunes was one of those spells which seemed to
possess an almost magical influence over him. From long dwelling on the
theme, he had grown to believe that he was destined by Heaven for
the advancement, if not the actual triumph, of the great cause of the
Church; and that he, whose origin was obscure and ignoble, could now sit
down at the council of the Princes of the Faith, and be heard, as one
whose words were commands, was always sufficient evidence that he
was reserved by fate for high achievements. Under the spell of this
conviction he soon rallied from his late dejection, and his uplifted
head and proud gait now showed the ambitious workings of his heart.
“Ay,” cried he, aloud, “the first Prince of the Church who for above a
century has dared them to defiance! _That_ is a proud thought, and well
may nerve the spirit that conceives it to courageous action.”