Frank Dalton was in no wise prepared for the quiet and easy
self-possession with which Meekins, after asking pardon for the liberty
of his note, took a seat in front of him. Smoothing down his short and
glossy black hair with his hand, he seemed to wait for Frank to open the
conversation; and while there was nothing of insolence in his manner,
there was an assured calmness, far more distressing to a young and
nervous invalid.
“You wished to see me, Meekins,” said Frank, at last. “What can I do for
you?”
The man bent slightly forward on his chair, and, fixing his keen
and penetrating eyes, continued steadily to stare at him for several
seconds.
“You 're too young and too generous to have a double in you,” said
he, after a long pause, in which it seemed as if he were scanning the
other's nature; “and before we say any more, just tell me one thing. Did
any one advise you to come here to-night?”
“Yes,” said Frank, boldly.
“It was that doctor; the man they call the agent,--wasn't it?”
“Yes,” replied the youth, in the same tone.
“Now, what has he against _me?_--what charge does he lay to me?”
“I know nothing about it,” said Frank; “but if our interview is only to
consist in an examination of myself, the sooner it ends the better.”
“Don't you see what I'm at, sir?--don't you perceive that I only want to
know your honor's feeling towards me, and whether what I 'm to say is
to be laid up in your heart, or taken down in writing and made into an
indictment.”
“My feeling towards you is easily told. If you be an honest man, and
have any need of me, I 'll stand by you; if you be not an honest
man, but the dishonesty only affects myself and my interests, show me
anything that can warrant it, and I 'm ready to forgive you.”
The prisoner hung down his head, and for some minutes seemed deeply
immersed in reflection.
“Mr. Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair closer to the bed, “I 'll make
this business very short, and we need n't be wasting our time talking
over what is honesty and what is roguery,--things every man has his own
notions about, and that depend far more upon what he has in his pocket
than what he feels in his heart I can do _you_ a good turn; _you_ can do
_me_ another. The service I can render you will make you a rich man, and
put you at the head of your family, where you ought to be. All I ask
in return is a free discharge from this jail, and money enough to go
to America. There never was a better bargain for you! As for myself, I
could make more of my secret if I liked; more, both in money--and--and
in other ways.”
As he said these last few words, his cheek grew scarlet and his eyes
seemed to glisten.
“I scarcely understand you,” said Frank. “Do you mean--”
“I 'll tell you what I mean, and so plainly that you can't mistake me.
I 'll make you what you have good right to be,----the 'Dalton of
Corrig-O'Neal,' the ould place, that was in your mother's family for
hundreds of years back. It is n't taking service in a foreign land you
need be, but an Irish gentleman, living on his own lawful estate.”
“And for this you ask--”
“Just what I told you,--an open door and two hundred pounds down,” said
the fellow, with a rough boldness that was close on insolence. “I've
told you already that if I only wanted a good bargain there 's others
would give more; but that's not what I 'm looking for. I 'm an old man,”
added he, in a softened voice, “and who knows when I may be called away
to the long account!” Then suddenly, as it were correcting himself for a
weak admission, he went on, more firmly, “That's neither here nor
there; the matter is just this: Will you pay the trifle I ask, for three
thousand a year, if it is n't more?”
“I must first of all consult with some friend--”
“There! that's enough. You 've said it now! Mr. Dalton, I 've done with
you forever,” said the fellow, rising and walking to the window.
“You have not heard me out,” said Frank, calmly. “It may be that I have
no right to make such a compact; it may be that by such a bargain I
should be compromising the just claims of the law, not to vindicate my
own rights alone, but to seek an expiation for a dreadful murder!”
“I tell you again, sir,” said the fellow, with the same sternness as
before,----“I tell you again, sir, that I've done with you forever. The
devil a day you 'll ever pass under that same roof of Corrig-O'Neal as
the master of it; and if you wish me to swear it, by the great----”
“Stop!” cried Frank, authoritatively. “You have either told me too
much or too little, my good man; do not let your passion hurry you into
greater peril.”
“What do you mean by that?” cried the other, turning fiercely round, and
bending over the back of the chair, with a look of menace. “What do you
mean by too much or too little?”
“This has lasted quite long enough,” said Frank, rising slowly from
the bed. “I foresee little benefit to either of us from protracting it
further.”
“You think you have me now, Mr. Dalton,” said Meekins, with a sardonic
grin, as he placed his back against the door of the cell. “You think you
know enough, now, as if I wasn't joking all the while. Sure what do I
know of your family or your estate except what another man told me?
Sure I've no power to get back your property for you. I 'm a poor man,
without a friend in the world,”--here his voice trembled and his cheek
grew paler; “it is n't thinking of this life I am at all, but what's
before me in the next!”
“Let me pass out,” said Frank, calmly.
“Of course I will, sir; I won't hinder you,” said the other, but still
not moving from the spot. “You said awhile ago that I told you too much
or too little. Just tell me what that means before you go.”
“Move aside, sir,” said Frank, sternly.
“Not till you answer my question. Don't think you're back with your
white-coated slaves again, where a man can be flogged to death for a
look! I 'm your equal here, though I am in prison. Maybe, if you provoke
me to it, I 'd show myself more than your equal!” There was a menace
in the tone of these last words that could not be mistaken, and Frank
quickly lifted his hand to his breast; but, quick as was the gesture,
the other was too speedy for him, and caught his arm before he could
seize the pistol. Just at this critical moment the key was heard to turn
in the lock, and the heavy door was slowly opened. “There, take my arm,
sir,” said Meekins, slipping his hand beneath Frank's; “You 're far too
weak to walk alone.”