The sudden flash of intelligence by which young Frank was enabled to
connect the almost forgotten incidents of boyhood with the date and
the other circumstances of the murder, had very nearly proved fatal to
himself. His brain was little able to resist the influence of all these
conflicting emotions; and for some days his faculties wandered away in
the wildest and most incoherent fancies. It was only on the very morning
of the trial that he became self-possessed and collected. Then it was
that he could calmly remember every detail of that fatal night, and see
their bearing on the mysterious subject of the trial. At first Grounsell
listened to his story as a mere raving; but when Frank described with
minute accuracy the appearance of the spot--the old orchard, the stone
stair that descended into the garden, and the little door which opened
into the wood,--he became eagerly excited; and, anxious to proceed with
every guarantee of caution, he summoned two other magistrates to the
bedside to hear the narrative. We have already seen the event which
followed that revelation, and by which the guilt of the murderer was
established.
From hour to hour, as the trial proceeded, Frank received tidings from
the court-house. The excitement, far from injuring, seemed to rally and
re-invigorate him; and although the painful exposure of their domestic
circumstances was cautiously slurred over to his ears, it was plain to
see the indignant passion with which he heard of Nelly and Kate being
dragged before the public eye. It was, indeed, a day of deep and
terrible emotion, and when evening came he sank into the heavy sleep
of actual exhaustion. While nothing was heard in the sick-room save the
long-drawn breathings of the sleeper, the drawing-rooms of the hotel
were crowded with the gentry of the neighborhood, all eager to see and
welcome the Dalton's home again. If the old were pleased to meet with
the veteran Count Stephen, the younger were no less delighted with even
such casual glimpses as they caught of Kate, in the few moments she
could spare from her brother's bedside. As for Lady Hester, such a
torrent of sensations, such a perfect avalanche of emotion, was perfect
ecstasy; perhaps not the least agreeable feeling being the assurance
that she no longer possessed any right or title to Corrig-O'Neal, and
was literally unprovided for in the world.
“One detests things by halves,” said she; “but to be utterly ruined is
quite charming.”
The country visitors were not a little surprised at the unfeigned
sincerity of her enjoyment, and still more, perhaps, at the warm
cordiality of her manner towards them,--she who, till now, had declined
all proffers of acquaintanceship, and seemed determined to shun them.
Consigning to her care all the duties of receiving the crowd of
visitors, which old Count Stephen was but too happy to see, Kate only
ventured for a few minutes at a time to enter the drawing-room. It was
while hastening back from one of these brief intervals that she heard
her name spoken in a low but distinct voice. She turned round, and saw a
man, closely enveloped in a large cloak, beside her.
“It is I, Miss Dalton,--the Abbé D'Esmonde,” said he. “May I speak with
your brother?”
Kate could hardly answer him from terror. All the scenes in which she
had seen him figure rose before her view, and the man was, to her eyes,
the very embodiment of peril.
“My brother is too ill, sir, to receive you,” said she. “In a few days
hence--”
“It will then be too late, Miss Dalton,” said he, mournfully. “The very
seconds as they pass, now, are as days to one who stands on the brink of
eternity.”
“Is there anything which I could communicate to him myself? for I am
fearful of what might agitate or excite him.”
“If it most be so,” said he, sighing, and as if speaking to himself.
“But could you not trust me to say a few words? I will be most
cautious.”
“If, then,' to-morrow--”
“To-morrow! It must be now,--at this very instant!” cried he, eagerly.
“The life of one who is unfit to go hence depends upon it.” Then, taking
her hand, he continued: “I have drawn up a few lines, in shape of a
petition for mercy to this wretched man. They must be in London by
to-morrow night, to permit of a reprieve before Saturday. Your brother's
signature is all-essential. For this I wished to see him, and to know
if he has any acquaintanceship with persons in power which could aid the
project. You see how short the time is; all depends upon minutes.
The Secretary of State can suspend the execution, and in the delay a
commutation of the sentence may be obtained.”
“Oh, give it to me!” cried she, eagerly. And, snatching the paper from
his hands, she hurried into the chamber.
Frank Dalton was awake, but in all the languor of great debility. He
scarcely listened to his sister, till he heard her pronounce the name of
the Abbé D'Esmonde.
“Is he here, Kate?--is he here?” cried he, eagerly.
“Yes, and most anxious to see and speak with you.”
“Then let him come in, Kate. Nay, nay, it will not agitate me.”
Kate noiselessly retired, and, beckoning the Abbé to come forward, she
left the room, and closed the door.
D'Esmonde approached the sick-bed with a cautious, almost timid air, and
seated himself on a chair, without speaking.
“So, then, we are cousins, I find,” said Frank, stretching out his
wasted hand towards him. “They tell me you are a Godfrey, Abbé?”
D'Esmonde pressed his hand in token of assent, but did not utter a word.
“I have no wish--I do not know if I have the right----to stand between
you and your father's inheritance. If I am destined to arise from this
sick-bed, the world is open to me, and I am not afraid to encounter it.
Let us be friends, then, D'Esmonde, in all candor and frankness.”
“Willingly,--most willingly. There need be but one rivalry between us,”
said D*Esmonde, with a voice of deep feeling,--“in the struggle who
shall best serve the other. Had we known of this before; had I suspected
how our efforts might have been combined and united; had I but imagined
you as my ally, and not my--But these are too exciting themes to talk
upon. You are not equal to them.”
“Not so; it is in such moments that I feel a touch of health and vigor
once again. Go on, I beseech you.”
“I will speak of that which more immediately concerns us,” said the
Abbé. “This wretched man stands for execution on Saturday. Let us try
to save him. His guilt must have already had its expiation in years
of remorse and suffering. Here is a petition I have drawn up to the
Secretary of State. It has been signed by several of the jury who
tried the cause. We want your name also to it Such a commutation as may
sentence him to exile is all that we pray for.”
“Give me the pen; I 'll sign it at once.”
“There,--in that space,” said the' Abbé, pointing with his finger. “How
your hand trembles! This cannot be like your usual writing.”
“Let me confirm it by my seal, then. You'll find it on the table
yonder.”
D'Esmonde melted the wax, and stood beside him, while the youth pressed
down the seal.
“Even that,” said the Abbé, “might be disputed. There 's some one
passing in the corridor; let him hear you acknowledge it as your act and
hand.” And, so saying, he hastened to the door, and made a sign to the
waiter to come in. “Mr. Dalton desires you to witness his signature,”
said he to the man.
“I acknowledge this as mine,” said Frank, already half exhausted by the
unaccustomed exertion.
“Your name, there, as witnessing it,” whispered D'Esmonde; and the
waiter added his signature.
“Have you hope of success, Abbé?” said Frank, faintly.
“Hope never fails me,” replied D'Esmonde, in a voice of bold and
assured tone. “It is the only capital that humble men like myself
possess; but we can draw upon it without limit. The fate of riches is
often ruins, but there is no bankruptcy in hope. Time presses now,” said
he, as if suddenly remembering himself; “I must see to this at once.
When may I come again?”
“Whenever you like. I have much to say to you. I cannot tell you now how
strangely you are mixed up in my fancy--it is but fancy, after all--with
several scenes of terrible interest.”
“What!--how do you mean?” said D'Esmonde, turning hastily about
“I scarcely know where to begin, or how to separate truth from its
counterfeit Your image is before me, at times and in places where you
could not have been. Ay, even in the very crash and tumult of battle, as
I remember once at Varenna, beside the Lake of Como. I could have sworn
to have seen you cheering on the peasants to the attack.”
“What strange tricks imagination will play upon us!” broke in D'Ësmonde;
but his voice faltered, and his pale cheek grew paler as he said the
words.
“Then, again, in the Babli Palace at Milan, where I was brought as
a prisoner, I saw you leave the council-chamber arm-in-arm with an
Austrian Archduke. When I say I saw you, I mean as I now see you
here,--more palpable to my eyes than when you sat beside my sick-bed at
Verona.”
“Dreams,----dreams,” said D'Esmonde. “Such illusions bespeak a mind
broken by sickness. Forget them, Dalton, if you would train your
thoughts to higher uses.” And, so saying, in a tone of pride, the Abbé
bowed, and passed out.
As D'Esmonde passed out into the street, Cahill joined him.
“Well,” cried the latter, “is it done?”
“Yes, Michel,” was the answer; “signed, and sealed, and witnessed in
all form. By this document I am recognized as a member of his family,
inheriting that which I shall never claim. No,” cried he, with
exultation of voice and manner, “I want none of their possessions; I ask
but to be accounted of their race and name; and yet the time may come
when these conditions shall be reversed, and they who would scarcely own
me to-day may plot and scheme to trace our relationship. Now for Rome.
To-night--this very night--I set out. With this evidence of my station
and fortune there can be no longer any obstacle. The struggle is past;
now to enjoy the victory!”
“You will see him before you go, D'Esmonde? A few minutes is all he
asks.”
“Why should I? What bond is there between us now? The tie is loosened
forever; besides, he deceived us, Michel,----deceived us in everything.”
“Be it so,” said the other; “but remember that it is the last prayer of
one under sentence of death,--the last wish of one who will soon have
passed away hence.”
“Why should I go to hear the agonizing entreaties for a mercy that
cannot be granted,--the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature?”
“Do not refuse him, D'Esmonde. He clings to this object with a fixed
purpose that turns his mind from every thought that should become the
hour. In vain I speak to him of the short interval between him and
the grave. He neither hears nor heeds me. His only question is, 'Is he
coming,----will he come tome?'”
“To lose minutes, when every one of them is priceless, to waste emotions
when my heart is already racked and tortured,----why should I do this?”
cried D'Esmonde, peevishly.
“Do not refuse me, D'Esmonde,” said Cahill, passionately. “I despair
of recalling the miserable man to the thought of his eternal peril till
this wish be satisfied.”
“Be it so, then,” said the Abbé, proudly; and he walked along beside his
friend in silence.
They traversed the streets without a word spoken. Already D'Esmonde
had assumed an air of reserve which seemed to mark the distance between
himself and his companion; the thoughtful gravity of his look savored no
less of pride than reflection. In such wise did Cahill read his manner,
and by a cautious deference appear to accept the new conditions of their
intimacy.
“The prisoner has not uttered a word since you were here, sir,” said
the jailer, as they entered the gate. “He shows the greatest anxiety
whenever the door opens; but, as if disappointed at not seeing whom he
expected, relapses at once into his silent reserve.”
“You see that he still expects you,” whispered Cahill to the Abbé; and
the other assented with a faint nod of the head.
“No, sir; this way,” said the jailer; “he is now in the condemned cell.”
And, so saying, he led the way along the corridor.
By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed high up in the wall, they
could just detect the figure of a man, as he sat crouched on the low
settle-bed, his head resting on his arms as they were crossed over his
knees. He never moved as the grating sound of the heavy door jarred on
the stillness, but sat still and motionless.
“The Abbé D'Esmonde has come to see you, Eustace,” said the jailer,
tapping him on the shoulder. “Wake up, man, and speak to him.”
The prisoner lifted his head and made an effort to say something; but
though his lips moved, there came no sounds from them. At last, with
an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed to the door, and said,
“Alone--alone!”
“He wants to speak with you alone, sir,” whispered the jailer, “and so
we will retire.”
D'Esmonde could not see them leave the cell without a sense of
fear,--less the dread of any personal injury than the strange terror
so inseparable to any close communion with one convicted of a dreadful
crime,--and he actually shuddered as the massive door was banged to.
“You are cold, sir!” said the prisoner, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.
“No, it was not cold!” replied D'Esmonde.
“I can guess what it was, then!” said the other, with an energy to which
passion seemed to contribute. “But I 'll not keep you long here. Sit
down, sir. You must sit beside me, for there is no other seat than the
settle-bed. But there is nobody here to see the great Abbé D'Esmonde
side by side with a murderer.”
“Wretched man,” said D'Esmonde, passionately, “by what fatality did you
rush upon your fate? Why did you ever return to this country?”
“It is to tell you that--ay, that very thing--I asked you to come here
to-night,” said the prisoner, with a firm, full voice. “I came here
for _you_--just so--for _you yourself_, There, there,” continued he,
naughtily, “don't look as if I wanted to trick you. Is it here. Is it
now, that a lie would sarve me? Listen to me, and don't stop me, for I
want to turn my thoughts to something else when this is off my heart.
Listen to me. Very soon after you saved me at Venice, I knew all about
you; who you were, and what you were planning,--ay, deep as you thought
yourself, I read every scheme in you, and opened every letter you wrote
or received. You don't believe me. Shall I give you a proof? Did you
accept eight bills for money Morlache the Jew sent you, from Florence,
in March last? Did Cardinal Antinori write to say that the Bull that
named you cardinal must have your birth set forth as noble? Did the
Austrian Field-Marshal send you the cross of St. Joseph, and did you not
return it, as to wear it would unmask you to the Italians?”
“What if all this were true?” said D'Esmonde, proudly. “Is it to one
like you I am to render account for my actions? What is it to you if--”
“What is it to _me?_” cried the other, fiercely,----“what is it to me?
Isn't it everything? Isn't it what brought me here, and what in three
days more will bring me to the gallows? I tell you again, I saw what you
were bent on, and I knew you 'd succeed,--ay, that I did. If it was good
blood you wanted to be a cardinal, I was the only one could help you.”
“You knew the secret of my birth, then?” cried D'Esmonde, in deep
earnestness. “You could prove my descent from the Godfreys?”
“No! but I could destroy the only evidence against it,” said the other,
in a deep, guttural voice. “I could tear out of the parish registry the
only leaf that could betray you; and it was for that I came back here;
and it was for that I 'm now here. And I did do it. I broke into the
vestry of the chapel at midnight, and I tore out the page, and I have
it here, in my hand, this minute. There was a copy of this same paper
at the college at Louvain, but I stole that, too; for I went as porter
there, just to get an opportunity to take it,--that one I destroyed.”
“But whence this interest in my fortunes?” said D'Esmonde, half proudly,
for he was still slow to believe all that he heard.
“The paper will tell you that,” said the other, slowly unfolding it, and
flattening it out on his knee. “This is the certificate of your baptism!
Wait--stop a minute,” cried he, catching D'Esmonde's arm, as, in his
impatience, he tried to seize the paper. “This piece of paper is the
proof of who you are, and, moreover, the only proof that will soon exist
to show it.”
“Give it to me--let me see it!” cried D'Esmonde, eagerly. “Why have you
withheld till this time what might have spared me anxious days and weary
nights; and by what right have you mixed yourself up with my fortunes?”
“By what right is it--by what right?” cried the other, in a voice which
passion rendered harsh and discordant. “Is that what you want to know?”
And, as he spoke, he bent down and fixed his eyes on the Abbé with a
stern stare. “You want to know what right I have,” said he, and his face
became almost convulsed with passion. “There's my right--read that!”
cried he, holding out the paper before D'Esmonde's eyes. “There's your
birth proved and certified: 'Matthew, son of Samuel and Mary Eustace,
of Ballykinnon, baptized by me this 10th day of April, 18----. Joseph
Barry, P.P.' There's the copy of your admission into the convent, and
here's the superior's receipt for the first quarter's payment as a
probationer. Do you know who you are now? or do you still ask me what
right I have to meddle in your affairs?”
“And you--and you--you--” cried D'Esmonde, gasping.
“I am your father. Ay, you can hear the words here, and needn't start
at the sound of them. We're in the condemned cell of a jail, and
nobody near us. You are my son. Mr. Godfrey paid for you as a student
till--till--But it's all over now. I never meant you to know the truth;
but a lie would n't serve you any longer. Oh, Matthew, Matthew!” cried
he--and of a sudden his voice changed, and softened to accents of almost
choking sorrow--“haven't you one word for me?--one word of affection for
him that you brought to this, and who forgives you for it?--one word,
even to call me your own father?” He fell at the other's feet, and
clasped his arms around his knees as he spoke, but the appeal was
unheard.
[Illustration: 514]
Pale as a corpse, with his head slightly thrown forward, and his eyes
wildly staring before him, D'Esmonde sat, perfectly motionless. At last
the muscles of his mouth fashioned themselves into a ghastly smile,
a look of mockery so dreadful to gaze upon that the prisoner,
terror-stricken at the sight, rushed to the door, and beat loudly
against it, as he screamed for help. It was opened on the instant, and
the Jailer, followed by two others, entered.
“He's ill; his reverence is taken bad,” said the old man, while he
trembled from head to foot with agitation.
“What's this paper? What is he clutching in his hands?” cried the
jailer.
D'Esmonde started at the words. For the first time a gleam of
intelligence shot over his features, and as suddenly he bent a look of
withering hate on the speaker; and then, with a passionate vehemence
that told of a frantic brain, he tore the paper into fragments, and,
with a wild yell, as if of triumph, he fell senseless on the ground.
When they lifted him up, his features were calm, but passionless, his
eye was vacant, and his lips slightly parted. An expression of weariness
and exhaustion, rather than of actual pain, pervaded the face. He never
spoke again. The lamp of intellect was extinguished forever, and not
even a flicker or a spark remained to cheer the darkness within him.
Hopeless and helpless idiotcy was ever after the lot of one whose mind,
once stored with the most lofty ambitions, never scrupled, at any cost,
to attain its object. And he whose proud aspirings soared to the very
grandest of earthly prizes, who gave his counsel among princes, now
lives on, bereft of mind and intelligence, without consciousness of the
past, or a hope for the future.