D'Esmonde and his friend Michel sat beside the fire in a small parlor
of the wayside public-house called “The Rore.” They were both thoughtful
and silent, and in their moody looks might be read the signs of brooding
care. As for the Abbé, anxiety seemed to have worn him like sickness;
for his jaws were sunk and hollow, while around his eyes deep circles of
a dusky purple were strongly marked.
It was not without reason that they were thus moved; since Meekins, who
hitherto rarely or never ventured abroad, had, on that morning, gone
to the fair of Graigue, a village some few miles away, where he was
recognized by a farmer----an old man named Lenahan--as the steward of
the late Mr. Godfrey. It was to no purpose that he assumed all the airs
of a stranger to the country, and asked various questions about the
gentry and the people. The old farmer watched him long and closely, and
went home fully satisfied that he had seen Black Sam,--the popular name
by which he was known on the estate. In his capacity of bailiff, Black
Sam had been most unpopular in the country. Many hardships were traced
to his counsels; and it was currently believed that Mr. Godfrey would
never have proceeded harshly against a tenant except under his advice.
This character, together with his mysterious disappearance after the
murder, were quite sufficient, in peasant estimation, to connect him
with the crime; and no sooner had Lenahan communicated his discovery
to his friends, than they, one and all, counselled him to go up to the
doctor--as Grounsell was called on the property--and ask his advice.
The moment Grounsell heard that the suspected man called himself
Meekins, he issued a warrant for his arrest; and so promptly was it
executed that he was taken on that very evening as he was returning to
“The Rore.” The tidings only reached the little inn after nightfall, and
it was in gloomy confabulation over them that the two priests were now
seated. The countryman who had brought the news was present when the
police arrested Sam, and was twice called back into the parlor as
D'Esmonde questioned him on the circumstance.
It was after a long interval of silence that the Abbé for the third time
summoned the peasant before him.
“You have not told me under what name they arrested him. Was it
Meekins?”
“The Sergeant said, 'you call yourself Meekins, my good man?' and the
other said, 'Why not?' 'Oh, no reason in life,' says the Sergeant; 'but
you must come with us,--that 's all.' 'Have you a warrant for what you
're doing?' says he. 'Ay,' says the polis; 'you broke yer bail----'”
“Yes, yes,” broke in D'Esmonde, “You mentioned all that already. And
Meekins showed no fear on being taken?”
“No more than your Reverence does this minute. Indeed, I never see a man
take it so easy. 'Mind what you 're doing,' says he; 'for, though I 'm a
poor man, I have strong friends that won't see me wronged.' And then he
said something about one 'Father Matthew;' but whether it was you, or
that other clergyman there, I don't know.”
“They took him to Thomastown?”
“No, your Reverence,--to Kilkenny.”
“That will do, my good man,” said D'Esmonde, with a nod of his head;
and then, as the door closed behind him, added, “You see, Michel, I was
right in my fears of this doctor. The evasive terms of his note, too,
confirmed my suspicions,--that 'desire for further time in a matter of
such great difficulty.' We have thrown him on the scent, and he is now
in full cry after the game. Shame upon us!--shame! that such as he can
foil us at our own weapons. I see his plan clearly enough. He is either
in possession of some secret fact of this man's early life, which can be
employed as a menace to extort a confession from him, or he is about to
work on him by bribery. Now, as to the former, I am perfectly at ease.
What I, with every agency of the Church, have failed to elicit, I can
safely defy the layman's craft to detect. As to the effect of a bribe, I
am far from being so certain.”
“And in either case the result concerns you but little,” said Cahill.
“The fellow has nothing in his power against _you_.”
“Nothing,” said D'Esmonde. “I never left myself in the hands of such
as he! It will, of course, be disagreeable to me that our intercourse
should be made public. The Orange press will know how to connect our
intimacy with a thousand schemes and subtleties that I never dreamed of;
and, more offensive still, the assumed relationship to Mr. Godfrey will
afford a fruitful theme for sneer and sarcasm. I foresee it all, my good
Michel; and, worst of all, I perceive how this publicity will mar higher
and nobler objects. The Sacred College will never make a prince of the
Church of one whose name has been sullied by the slang of journalism.
These are the dangers to be averted here. You must contrive to see this
man at once,--to assure him of our interest and protection, if he be
but discreet and careful. He may safely deny all knowledge of the
circumstances to which we alluded. We are the only persons to whom
he made these revelations. He has only to assume an ignorance of
everything. Impress this upon him, Michel; for if they can involve him
in a narrative, be it ever so slight or vague, these lawyers exercise a
kind of magic power in what is called cross-examination, and can detect
a secret fact by tests as fine as those by which the chemist discovers
a grain of poison. Would that I could see him myself! but this might be
imprudent.”
[Illustration: 452]
“Trust all to me, D'Esmonde; and believe me, that with men like him
habit has taught me better how to deal than you, with all your higher
skill, could accomplish. I will contrive to see him to-night, or early
to-morrow. The under-turnkey was from my own parish, and I can make my
visit as if to _him._”
“How humiliating is it,” cried D'Esmonde, rising and pacing the
room,--“how humiliating to think that incidents like these are to sway
and influence us in our road through life; but so it is, the great
faults that men commit are less dangerous than are imprudent intimacies
and ill-judged associations. It is not on the high bluff or the bold
headland that the craft is shipwrecked, but on some small sunken
rock,--some miserable reef beneath the waves! Could we but be 'penny
wise' in morals, Michel, how rich we should be in knowledge of life! I
never needed this fellow,--never wanted his aid in any way! The unhappy
mention of Godfrey's name--the spell that in some shape or other has
worked on my heart through life--first gave him an interest in my eyes;
and so, bit by bit, I have come to be associated with him, till--would
you believe it?--I cannot separate myself from him. Has it ever occurred
to you, Michel, that the Evil One sometimes works his ends by infusing
into the nature of some chance intimate that species of temptation by
which courageous men are so easily seduced,--I mean that love of
hazard, that playing with fire, so intoxicating in its excitement? I am
convinced that to _me_ no bait could be so irresistible. Tell me that
the earth is mined, and you invest it with a charm that all the verdure
of 'Araby the Blest' could never give it! I love to handle steel when
the lightning is playing; not, mark me, from any contempt of life, far
less in any spirit of blasphemous defiance, but simply for the glorious
sentiment of peril. Be assured that when all other excitements pall upon
the mind, this one survives in all its plenitude, and, as the poet says
of avarice, becomes a good 'old gentlemanly vice.'”
“You will come along with me, D'Esmonde?” said the other, whose thoughts
were concentrated on the business before him.
“Yes, Michel, I am as yet unknown here; and it may be, too, that this
Meekins might wish to see me. We must take good care, while we avoid
any public notice, that this fellow should not think himself deserted by
us.”
“The very point on which I was reflecting, D'Esmonde. We can talk over
this as we go along.”
As the two priests affected to be engaged on a kind of mission to
collect subscriptions for some sacred purpose, their appearance or
departure excited no feeling of astonishment, and the landlord of “The
Bore” saw them prepare to set out without expressing the least surprise.
The little “low-backed car,” the common conveyance of the people at
fair and market, was soon at the door; and, seated in this, and well
protected against the weather by rugs and blankets, they began their
journey.
“This is but a sorry substitute for the scarlet-panelled coach of the
Cardinal, D'Esmonde,” said his companion, smiling.
A low, faint sigh was all the answer the other made, and so they went
their way in silence.
The day broke drearily and sad-looking; a thin, cold rain was falling,
and, from the leaden sky above to the damp earth beneath, all was gloomy
and depressing. The peasantry they passed on the road were poor-looking
and meanly clad; the houses on the wayside were all miserable to
a degree; and while his companion slept, D'Esmonde was deep in his
contemplation of these signs of poverty.
“No,” said he, at last, as if summing up the passing reflections in
his own mind, “this country is not ripe for the great changes we are
preparing. The gorgeous splendor of the Church would but mock this
misery. The rich robe of the Cardinal would be but an insult to the
ragged coat of the peasant. England must be our field. Ireland must be
content with a missionary priesthood. Italy, indeed, has poverty, but
there is an intoxication in the life of that land which defies it. The
sun, the sky, the blue water, the vineyards, the groves of olive, and
the fig--the lightheadedness that comes of an existence where no fears
invade--no gloomy to-morrow has ever threatened. These are the elements
to baffle all the cares of narrow fortune, and hence the gifts which
make men true believers! In climates such as this men brood and think
and ponder. Uncheered from without, they turn within, and then come
doubts and hesitations,--the fatal craving to know that which they may
not! Of a truth these regions of the north are but ill suited to our
glorious faith, and Protestantism must shun the sun as she does the
light of reason itself.”
“What! are you preaching, D'Esmonde?” cried his friend, waking up at
the energetic tone of the Abbe's voice. “Do you fancy yourself in the
pulpit? But here we are, close to the town. We had better dismount now,
and proceed on foot.”
Having dismissed their humble equipage, the two friends walked briskly
along, and entered the city, which, even at this early hour, was filling
for its weekly market.
D'Esmonde took up his quarters at once at a small inn close by the
castle gate, and the priest Cahill immediately proceeded to the jail.
He found no difficulty in obtaining access to his acquaintance the
under-turnkey, but, to his disappointment, all approach to Meekins was
strictly interdicted. “The magistrates were here,” said the
turnkey, “till past midnight with him, and that English agent of the
Corrig-O'Neal estate was along with them. What took place, I cannot even
guess, for it was done in secret. I only overheard one of the gentlemen
remark, as he passed out, 'That fellow is too deep for us all; we 'll
make nothing of him.'”
Cahill questioned the man closely as to what the arrest related, and
whether he had heard of any allegation against Meekins; but he knew
nothing whatever, save that he had broken his bail some years before.
The strictest watch was enjoined over the prisoner, and all intercourse
from without rigidly denied. To the priest's inquiries about Meekins
himself, the turnkey replied by saying that he had never seen any man
with fewer signs of fear or trepidation. “Whatever they have against
him,” added he, “he's either innocent, or he defies them to prove him
guilty.”
Cahill's entreaties were all insufficient to make the turnkey disobey
his orders. Indeed, he showed that the matter was one of as much
difficulty as danger, the chief jailer being specially interested in the
case by some observation of one of the justices.
“You can at least carry a message for me?” said the priest, at last.
“It's just as much as I dare do,” replied the other.
“You incur no risk whatever so far,” continued Cahill “The poor man is
my sacristan, and I am deeply interested for him. I only heard of his
being arrested last night, and you see I 've lost no time in coming to
see after him. Tell him this. Tell him that I was here at daybreak, and
that I 'll do my best to get leave to speak with him daring the day.
Tell him, moreover, that, if I shouldn't succeed in this, not to be
down-hearted, for that we--a friend of mine and myself----will not
desert him nor see him wronged. And, above all, tell him to say nothing
whatever to the magistrates. Mind me well,--not a syllable of any kind.”
“I mistake him greatly,” said the turnkey, “or he 's the man to take a
hint quick enough, particularly if it's for his own benefit.”
“And so it is,--his own, and no other's,” rejoined the priest. “If he
but follow this advice, I 'll answer for his being liberated before the
week ends. Say, also, that I 'd send him some money, but that it might
draw suspicion on him; and for the present it is better to be cautious.”
Before Cahill left the prison, he reiterated all his injunctions as to
caution, and the turnkey faithfully pledged himself to enforce them on
the prisoner.
“I will come again this evening,” said the priest, “and you can tell me
what he says; for, as he has no friend but myself, I must not forsake
him.”
As Cahill gained the street, a heavy travelling-carriage, whose
lumbering build bespoke a foreign origin, passed by with four posters,
and, sweeping across the market-place, drew up at the chief inn of the
town. The priest, in idle curiosity, mingled with the lounging crowd
that immediately gathered around the strange-looking equipage, where
appliances for strength and comfort seemed blended, in total disregard
to all facilities for motion. A bustling courier, with all the
officiousness of his craft, speedily opened the door and banged down
the steps, and a very tall old man, in what appeared to be an undress
military frock, descended, and then assisted a young lady to alight.
This done, they both gave their arm to a young man, whose wasted form
and uncertain step bespoke long and severe illness. Supporting him at
either side, they assisted him up the steps into the hall, while the
bystanders amused themselves in criticising the foreigners, for such
their look and dress declared them.
“The ould fellow with a white beard over his lip is a Roosian or a
Proosian,” cried one, who aspired to no small skill in continental
nationalities.
“Faix! the daughter takes the shine out of them all,” cried another.
“She's a fine crayture!”
“The brother was a handsome man before he had that sickness,” observed a
third. “'Tis no use of his legs he has!”
[Illustration: 459]
These frank commentaries on the new arrivals were suddenly interrupted
by the appearance of the old man on the steps of the hall door, where he
stood gazing down the street, and totally unconscious of the notice he
was attracting.
“What's that building yonder?” cried he, to the waiter at his side, and
his accent, as he spoke, betrayed a foreign tongue. “The Town Hall!--ah,
to be sure, I remember it now; and, if I be not much mistaken, there
is----at least there was--an old rickety stair to a great loft overhead,
where a strange fellow lived, who made masks for the theatre--what's
this his name was?” The bystanders listened to these reminiscences in
silent astonishment, but unable to supply the missing clew to memory.
“Are none of you old enough to remember Jack Ruth, the huntsman?” cried
he, aloud.
“I have heard my father talk of him,” said a middle-aged man, “if it was
the same that galloped down the mountain of Corrig-O'Neal and swam the
river at the foot of it.”
“The very man,” broke in the stranger. “Two of the dogs, but not a
man, dared to follow! I have seen some bold feats since that day, but I
scarcely think I have ever witnessed a more dashing exploit. If old Jack
has left any of his name and race behind him,” said he, turning to the
waiter, “say that there's one here would like to see him;” and with this
he re-entered the inn.
“Who is this gentleman that knows the country so well?” asked the
priest..
“Count Dalton von Auersberg, sir,” replied the courier. “His whole
thoughts are about Ireland now, though I believe he has not been here
for upwards of sixty years.”
“Dalton!” muttered the priest to himself; “what can have brought them to
Ireland? D'Esmonde must be told of this at once!” And he pushed through
the crowd and hastened back to the little inn.
The Abbé was engaged in writing as Cahill entered the room.
“Have you seen him, Michel?” cried he, eagerly, as he raised his head'
from the table.
“No. Admission is strictly denied--”
“I thought it would be so--I suspected what the game would be. This
Grounsell means to turn the tables, and practise upon _us_ the menace
that was meant for _him_. I foresee all that he intends, but I'll foil
him! I have written here to Wallace, the Queen's Counsel, to come down
here at once. This charge against old Dalton, in hands like his, may
become a most formidable accusation.”
“I have not told you that these Daltons have arrived here--”
“What! Of whom do you speak?”
“The old Count von Dalton, with a niece and nephew.”
D'Esmonde sprang from his seat, stood for some seconds, stood still and
silent.
“This is certain, Michel? you know this to be true?”
“I saw the old General myself, and heard him talk with the waiter.”
“The combat will, then, be a close one,” muttered D'Esmonde. “Grounsell
has done this, and it shall cost them dearly. Mark me, Michel--all that
the rack and the thumb-screw were to our ancestors, the system of
a modern trial realizes in our day. There never was a torture, the
invention of man's cruelty, as terrible as cross-examination! I care
not that this Dalton should have been as innocent as you are of this
crime,--it matters little if his guiltlessness appear from the very
outset. Give me but two days of searching inquiry into his life, his
habits, and his ways. Let me follow him to his fireside, in his poverty,
and lay bare all the little straits and contrivances by which he eked
out existence, and maintained a fair exterior. Let me show them to the
world, as I can show them, with penury within, and pretension without
These disclosures cannot be suppressed as irrelevant,--they are the
alleged motives of the crime. The family that sacrifices a child to a
hateful alliance----that sells to Austrian bondage the blood of an only
son--and consigns to menial labor a maimed and sickly girl, might well
have gone a step further in crime.”
“D'Esmonde! D'Esmonde!” cried the other, as he pressed him down into a
seat, and took his hand between his own, “these are not words of calm
reason, but the outpourings of passion.” The Abbé made no answer, but
his chest heaved and fell, and his breath came with a rushing sound,
while his eyes glared like the orbs of a wild animal.
“You are right, Michel,” said he at last, with a faint sigh. “This was
a paroxysm of that hate which, stronger than all my reason, has actuated
me through life. Again and again have I told you that towards these
Daltons I bear a kind of instinctive aversion. These antipathies are
not to be combated,--there are brave men who will shudder if they see a
spider. I have seen a courageous spirit quail before a worm. These are
not caprices, to be laughed at,--they are indications full of pregnant
meaning, could we but read them aright. How my temples throb!--my head
seems splitting. Now leave me, Michel, for a while, and I will try to
take some rest.”