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.”
“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!”
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.”
It was with a burst of joy that Lady Hester heard the Daltons had arrived. In the wearisome monotony of her daily life, anything to do, anywhere to go, any one to see, would have been esteemed boons of great price; what delight, then, was it to meet those with whom she could converse of “bygone times” and other lands!—“that dear Kate,” whom she really liked as well as it was in her nature to love anything, from whom she now anticipated so much of that gossip, technically called “news,” and into whose confiding heart she longed to pour out her own private woes!
The meeting was indeed affectionate on both sides; and, as Lady Hester was in her most gracious of moods, Frank thought her the very type of amiability, and the old Count pronounced her manners fit for the high ordeal of Vienna itself. Perhaps our reader will be grateful if we leave to his imagination all the changeful moods of grief and joy, surprise, regret, and ecstasy, with which her Ladyship questioned and listened to Kate Dalton's stories; throwing out, from time to time, little reflections of her own, as though incidentally, to show how much wiser years had made her. There are people who ever regard the misfortunes of others as mere key-notes to elicit their own sufferings; and thus, when Kate spoke of Russia, Lady Hester quoted Ireland. Frank's sufferings reminded her of her own “nerves;” and poor Nelly's unknown fate was precisely “the condition of obscurity to which Sir Stafford's cruel will had consigned herself.”
Kate's mind was very far from being at ease, and yet it was with no mean pleasure she found herself seated beside Lady Hester, talking over the past with all that varying emotion which themes of pleasure and sadness call up. Who has not enjoyed the delight of such moments, when, living again bygone days, we laugh or sigh over incidents wherein once as actors we had moved and felt? If time has dimmed our perceptions of pleasure, it has also softened down resentments and allayed asperities. We can afford to forgive so much, and we feel, also, so confident of others' forgiveness, and if regrets do steal over us that these things have passed away forever, there yet lurks the flattering thought that we have grown wiser than we then were. So is it the autobiographies of the fireside are pleasant histories, whose vanities are all pardonable, and whose trifling is never ungraceful! Memory throws such a softened light on the picture, that even bores become sufferable, and we extract a passing laugh from the most tiresome of our quondam “afflictives.”
Had her Ladyship been less occupied with herself and her own emotions, she could not have failed to notice the agitation under which Kate suffered at many of her chance remarks. The levity, too, with which she discussed her betrothal to Midchekoff almost offended her. The truth was, Kate had half forgotten the reckless, unthinking style of her friend's conversation, and it required a little practice and training to grow accustomed to it again.
“Yes, my dear,” she went on, “I have had such trouble to persuade people that it was no marriage at all, but a kind of engagement; and when that horrid Emperor would n't give his consent, of course there was an end of it you may be sure, my sweet child, I never believed one syllable of that vile creature's story about George's picture; but somehow it has got abroad, and that odious Heidendorf goes about repeating it everywhere. I knew well that you never cared for poor dear George! Indeed, I told him as much when he was quite full of admiration for you. It is so stupid in men! their vanity makes them always believe that, if they persist—just persevere—in their attachment, the woman will at last succumb. Now, we have a better sense of these things, and actually adore the man that shows indifference to us,—at least, I am sure that I do. Such letters as the poor boy keeps writing about you! And about five months ago, when he was so badly wounded, and did not expect to recover, he actually made his will, and left you all he had in the world. Oh dear!” said she, with a heavy sigh, “they have generous moments, these men, but they never last; and, by the way, I must ask your advice—though I already guess what it will be—about a certain friend of ours, who has had what I really must call the presumption—for, after all, Kate, I think you 'll agree with me it is a very great presumption,——is it not, dear?”
“Until you tell me a little more,” replied Kate, with a sigh, “I can scarcely answer.”
“Well, it's Mr. Jekyl—you remember, that little man that used to be so useful at Florence; not but he has very pretty manners, and a great deal of tact in society. His letters, too, are inimitably droll. I'll show you some of them.”
“Oh! then you are in correspondence with him?” said Kate, slyly.
“Yes; that is, he writes to me—and I—I sometimes send him a short note. In fact, it was the Abbé D'Esmonde induced me to think of it at all; and I was bored here, and so unhappy, and so lonely.”
“I perceive,” said Kate; “but I trust that there is nothing positive,——nothing like an engagement?”
“And why, dear?—whence these cautious scruples?” said Lady Hester, almost peevishly.
“Simply because he is very unworthy of you,” said Kate, bluntly, and blushing deep at her own hardihood.
“Oh, I'm quite sure of that,” said Lady Hester, casting down her eyes. “I know—I feel that I am mistaken and misunderstood. The world has always judged me unfairly! you alone, dearest, ever comprehended me; and even you could not guess of what I am capable! If you were to read my journal—if you were just to see what sufferings I have gone through! And then that terrible shock! though, I must say, D'Esmonde's mode of communicating it was delicacy itself. A very strange man that Abbé is, Kate. He now and then talks in a way that makes one suspect his affections are or have been engaged.”
“I always believed him too deeply immersed in other cares.”
“Oh, what a short-sighted judgment, child! These are the minds that always feel most! I know this by myself—daring the last two years especially! When I think what I have gone through! The fate, not alone of Italy, but of Europe, of the world, I may say, discussed and determined at our fireside! Yes, Kate, I assure you, so it was. D'Esmonde referred many points to me, saying 'that the keener perception of a female mind must be our pilot here.' Of course, I felt all the responsibility, but never, never was I agitated. How often have I held the destiny of the Imperial House in my hands! How little do they suspect what they owe to my forbearance! But these are not themes to interest you, dearest, and, of course, your prejudices are all Austrian. I must say, Kate, 'the uncle' is charming! Just that kind of dear old creature so graceful for a young woman to lean upon; and I love his long white moustache! His French, too, is admirable,——that Madame de Sévigné turn of expression, so unlike modern flippancy, and so respectful to women!”
“I hope you like Frank!” said Kate, with artless eagerness in her look.
“He 's wonderfully good-looking without seeming to know it; but, of course, one cannot expect that to last, Kate.”
“Oh! you cannot think how handsome he was before this illness; and then he is so gentle and affectionate.”
“There—there, child, you must not make me fall in love with him, for you know all my sympathies are Italian; and, having embroidered that beautiful banner for the 'Legion of Hope'—pretty name, is it not?—I never could tolerate the 'Barbari.'”
“Pray do not call them such to my uncle,” said Kate, smiling.
“Never fear, dearest. I 'm in the habit of meeting all kinds of horrid people without ever offending a prejudice; and, besides, I am bent on making a conquest of 'Mon Oncle;' he is precisely the species of adorer I like best. I hope he does not take snuff.”
Kate laughed, as she shook her head in sign of negative.
From this Lady Hester diverged to all manner of reflections about the future,—as to whether she ought or ought not to know Midchekoff when she met him; if the villa of La Rocca were really Kate's, or hers, or the property of somebody else; who was Jekyl's father, or if he ever had such an appendage; in what part of the Tyrol Nelly was then sojourning; was it possible she was married to the dwarf, and ashamed to confess it?—and a vast variety of similar speculations, equally marked by a bold indifference as to probability, and a total disregard to the feelings of her companion. Kate was, then, far from displeased when a messenger came to say that the General was alone in the drawing-room, and would esteem it a favor if the ladies would join him.
“How do you mean, alone?” asked Lady Hester. “Where is Mr. Dalton?”
“Dr. Grounsell came for him, my Lady, and took him away in a carriage.”
“Poor Frank, he is quite unequal to such fatigue,” exclaimed Kate.
“It is like that horrid doctor. His cruelties to me have been something incredible; at the same time, there's not a creature on my estate he does not sympathize with! you 'll see how it will be, dearest; he'll take your dear brother somewhere where there's a fever, or perhaps the plague—for I believe they have it here; and in his delicate state he's sure to catch it and die! Mark my words, dearest Kate, and see if they'll not come true.” And with this reassuring speech she slipped her arm within her companion's and moved out of the room.
It may be conjectured that it was not without weighty reasons Grounsell induced Frank, weary and exhausted as he was, to leave his home and accompany him on a cold and dreary night to the city jail. Although declining to enter upon the question before a third party, no sooner were they alone together than the doctor proceeded to an explanation. Meekins, who it appeared showed the greatest indifference at first, had, as the day wore on, grown restless and impatient. This irritability was increased by the want of his accustomed stimulant of drink, in which, latterly, he had indulged freely, and it was in such a mood he asked for pen and paper, and wrote a few lines to request that young Mr. Dalton would visit him. Grounsell, who made a point to watch the prisoner from hour to hour, no sooner heard this, than he hastened off to the inn with the intelligence.
“There is not a moment to be lost,” said he. “This fellow, from all that I can learn, is but the tool of others, who are bent on bringing before the world the whole story of this terrible crime. A priest, named Cahill, and who for some time back has been loitering about the neighborhood, was at the jail this morning before daybreak. Later on, he posted a letter for Dublin, the address of which I was enabled to see. It was to the eminent lawyer in criminal cases, Mr. Wallace.
“That some great attack is in preparation, I have, then, no doubt; the only question is, whether the object be to extort money by threats of publicity, or is there some deep feeling of revenge against your name and family?
“The jailer, who is in my interest, gives me the most accurate detail of the prisoner's conduct, and, although I am fully prepared to expect every species of duplicity and deceit from a fellow of this stamp, yet it is not impossible that, seeing himself to a certain extent in our power, he may be disposed to desert to our ranks.
“He asks you to come alone, and of course you must comply. Whatever be the subject of his revelations, be most guarded in the way you receive them. Avow utter ignorance of everything, and give him reasons to suppose that your great object here is to prevent the exposure and disgrace of a public trial. This may make him demand higher terms; but at the same time he will be thrown upon fuller explanations to warrant them. In fact, you must temper your manner between a conscious power over the fellow, and an amicable desire to treat with him.
“He has heard, within the last half-hour, that he has been recognized here by a former acquaintance, whose account of him includes many circumstances of deep suspicion. It may have been this fact has induced him to write to you. This you will easily discover in his manner. But here we are at the gates, and once more, I say, be cautions and guarded in everything.
“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Grounsell to the jailer, “You see we have not delayed very long. Ill as he is, Mr. Dalton has accepted this invitation.”
“And he has done well, sir,” replied the Jailer. “The man's bearing is greatly changed since morning; some panic has evidently seized him. There's no saying how long this temper may last; but you are quite right to profit by it while there is yet time.”
“Is he low and depressed, then?”
“Terribly so, sir. He asked a while ago if any one had called to see him. Of course we guessed whom he meant, and said that a priest had been at the jail that morning, but only to learn the charge under which he was apprehended. He was much mortified on being told that the priest neither expressed a wish to see nor speak with him.”
Grounsell gave a significant glance towards Frank, who now followed the jailer to the prisoner's cell.
“He's crying, sir; don't you hear him?” whispered the jailer to Frank, as they stood outside the door. “You could n't have a more favorable moment.” And, thus saying, he rattled the heavy bunch of keys, in order to give the prisoner token of his approach; and then, throwing open the door, called out, “Here's the gentleman you asked for, Meekins; see that you don't keep him long in this cold place, for he is not very well.”
Frank had but time to reach the little settle on which he sat down, when the door was closed, and he was alone with the prisoner.
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.”