“You came in time,--in the very nick, Mr. Gray,” said Frank, with a
quiet smile. “My friend here and I had said all that we had to say to
each other.”
“Maybe you'd come again; maybe you'd give me five minutes another time?”
whispered Meekins, submissively, in Frank's ear.
“I think not,” said Frank, with an easy significance in his look;
“perhaps, on reflection, you'll find that I have come once too often!”
And with these words he left the cell, and, in silent meditation,
returned to his companion.
“The fellow's voice was loud and menacing when I came to the door,” said
Gray, as they walked along.
“Yes, he grew excited just at that moment; he is evidently a passionate
man,” was Frank's reply; and he relapsed into his former reserve.
Grounsell, who at first waited with most exemplary patience for Frank
to narrate the substance of his interview, at last grew weary of his
reserve, and asked him what had occurred between them.
Frank paid no attention to the question, but sat with his head resting
on his hand, and evidently deep in thought. At last he said slowly,----
“Can you tell me the exact date of Mr. Godfrey's murder?”
“To the day,--almost to the hour,” replied Grounsell. Taking out his
pocket-book, he read, “It was on a Friday, the 11th of November, in the
year 18----.”
“Great God!” cried Frank, grasping the other's arm, while his whole
frame shook with a strong convulsion. “Was it, then, on that night?”
“Yes,” said the other, “the murder took place at night. The body, when
discovered the next morning, was perfectly cold.”
“Then that was it!” cried Frank, wildly. “It was then----when the
light was put out----when he crossed the garden----when he opened the
wicket--”
A burst of hysteric laughter broke from him, and muttering, “I saw it,
----I saw it all,” he fell back fainting into Grounsell's arms.
All the doctor's care and judicious treatment were insufficient to
recall the youth to himself. His nervous system, shattered and broken by
long illness, was evidently unequal to the burden of the emotions he was
suffering under, and before he reached the hotel his mind was wandering
away in all the incoherency of actual madness.
Next to the unhappy youth himself, Grounsell's case was the most
pitiable. Unable to account for the terrible consequences of the scene
whose events were a secret to himself, he felt all the responsibility
of a calamity he had been instrumental in producing. From Frank it was
utterly hopeless to look for any explanation; already his brain was
filled with wild images of war and battle, mingled with broken memories
of a scene which none around his bed could recognize. In his distraction
Grounsell hurried to the jail to see and interrogate Meekins. Agitated
and distracted as he was, all his prudent reserve and calm forethought
were completely forgotten. He saw himself the cause of a dreadful
affliction, and already cured in his heart the wiles and snares in
which he was engaged. “If this boy's reason be lost forever, I, and I
only, am in fault,” he went on repeating as he drove in mad haste back
to the prison.
In a few and scarcely coherent words he explained to Gray his wish to
see the prisoner, and although apprised that he had already gone to
rest, he persisted strongly, and was at length admitted into his cell.
Meekins started at the sound of the opening door, and called out
gruffly, “Who's there?”
“It's your friend,” said Grounsell, who had already determined on any
sacrifice of his policy which should give him the hope of aiding Frank.
“My friend!” said Meekins, with a dry laugh. “Since when, sir?”
“Since I have begun to believe I may have wronged you, Meekins,” said
Grounsell, seating himself at the bedside.
“I see, sir,” rejoined the other, slowly; “I see it all. Mr. Dalton has
told you what passed between us, and you are wiser than he was.”
“He has not told me everything, Meekins,--at least, not so fully and
clearly as I wish. I want you, therefore, to go over it all again for
me, omitting nothing that was said on either side.”
“Ay,” said the prisoner, dryly, “I see. Now, what did Mr. Dalton say to
you? I 'm curious to know; I 'd like to hear how he spoke of me.”
“As of one who was well disposed to serve him, Meekins,” said Grounsell,
hesitatingly, and in some confusion.
“Yes, to be sure,” said the fellow, with a keen glance beneath his
gathering brows. “And he told you, too, that we parted good friends,--at
least, as much so as a poor man like myself could be to a born gentleman
like him.”
“That he did,” cried Grounsell, eagerly; “and young Mr. Dalton is not
the man to think the worse of your friendship because you are not his
equal in rank.”
“I see,--I believe I see it all,” said Meekins, with the same
sententious slowness as before. “Now look, doctor,” added he, fixing
a cold and steady stare on the other's features, “it is late in the
night,--not far from twelve o'clock,--and I ask you, would n't it be
better for you to be asleep in your bed, and leave me to rest quietly in
mine, rather than be fencing--ay, fencing here--with one another, trying
who is the deepest? Just answer me that, sir.”
“You want to offend me,” said Grounsell, rising.
“No, sir; but it would be offending yourself to suppose that it was
worth your while to deceive the like of me,--a poor, helpless man,
without a friend in the world.”
“I own I don't understand you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, reseating
himself.
“There's nothing so easy, sir, if you want to do it If Mr. Dalton told
you what passed between us to-night, you know what advice you gave him;
and if he did not tell you, faix! neither will I--that's all. _He_ knows
what I have in my power. He was fool enough not to take me at my word.
Maybe I would n't be in the same mind again.”
“Come, come,” said Grounsell, good-humoredly, “this is not spoken like
yourself. It can be no object with you to injure a young gentleman who
never harmed you; and if, in serving him, you can serve yourself, the
part will be both more sensible and more honorable.”
“Well, then,” said Meekins, calmly, “I _can_ serve him; and now comes
the other question, 'What will he do for _me?_'”
“What do you require from him?”
“To leave this place at once,--before morning,” said the other,
earnestly. “I don't want to see them that might make me change my mind;
to be on board of a ship at Waterford, and away out of Ireland forever,
with three hundred pounds,--I said two, but I 'll want three,--and for
that--for that “--here he hesitated some seconds,--“for that I 'll do
what I promised.”
“And this business will never be spoken of more.”
“Eh! what?” cried Meekins, starting.
“I mean that when your terms are complied with, what security have we
that you 'll not disclose this secret hereafter?”
Meekins slowly repeated the other's words twice over to himself, as if
to weigh every syllable of them, and then a sudden flashing of his dark
eyes showed that he had caught what he suspected was their meaning.
“Exactly so; I was coming to that,” cried he. “We 'll take an oath on
the Gospel,--Mr. Frank Dalton and myself,--that never, while there's
breath in our bodies, will we ever speak to man or mortal about this
matter. I know a born gentleman would n't perjure himself, and, as for
me, I 'll swear in any way, and before any one, that your two selves
appoint.”
“Then there's this priest,” said Grounsell, doubtingly. “You have
already told him a great deal about this business.”
“If he has n't me to the fore to prove what I said, _he_ can do nothing;
and as to the will, he never heard of it.”
“The will!” exclaimed Grounsell, with an involuntary burst of surprise;
and, brief as it was, it yet revealed a whole world of dissimulation to
the acute mind of the prisoner.
“So, doctor,” said the fellow, slowly, “I was right after all. You
_were_ only fencing with me.”
“What do you mean?” cried Grounsell.
“I mean just this: that young Dalton never told you one word that passed
between us; that you came here to pump me, and find out all I knew;
that, cute as you are, there 's them that's equal to you, and that you
'll go back as wise as you came.”
“What's the meaning of this change, Meekins?”
“It well becomes you, a gentleman, and a justice of the peace, to come
to the cell of a prisoner, in the dead of the night, and try to worm
out of him what you want for evidence. Won't it be a fine thing to tell
before a jury the offers you made me this night! Now, mind me, doctor,
and pay attention to my words. This is twice you tried to trick me, for
it was you sent that young man here. We 've done with each other now;
and may the flesh rot off my bones, like a bit of burned leather, if I
ever trust you again!”
There was an insolent defiance in the way these words were uttered, that
told Grounsell all hope of negotiation was gone; and the unhappy doctor
sat overwhelmed by the weight of his own incapacity and unskilfulness.
“There, now, sir, leave me alone. To-morrow I 'll find out if a man
is to be treated in this way. If I 'm not discharged out of this jail
before nine o'clock, _I_ 'll know why, and _you 'll_ never forget it,
the longest day you live.”
Crestfallen and dispirited, Grounsell retired from the cell and returned
to the inn.