Our time is now brief with our reader, and we would not trespass on him longer by dwelling on the mere details of those struggles to which Helen and Forester were reduced by daily association and companionship.
One hears much of Platonism, and, occasionally, of those brother and sisterly affections which are adopted to compensate for dearer and tenderer ties. Do they ever really exist? Has the world ever presented one single successful instance of the compact? We are far, very far, from doubting that friendship, the truest and closest, can subsist between individuals of opposite sex. We only hazard the conjecture that such friendships must not spring out of “Unhappy Love.” They must not be built out of the ruins of wrecked affection. No, no; when Cupid is bankrupt, there is no use in attempting to patch up his affairs by any composition with the creditors.
We are not quite so sure that this is exactly the illustration Forester would have used to convey his sense of our proposition; but that he was thoroughly of our opinion, there is no doubt. Whether Helen was one of the same mind or not, she performed her task more easily and more gracefully. We desire too sincerely to part with our fair readers on good terms, to venture on the inquiry whether there is not more frankness and candor in the character of men than women? There is certainly a greater difficulty in the exercise of this quality in the gentler sex, from the many restraints imposed by delicacy and womanly feeling; and the very habit of keeping within this artificial barrier of reserve gives an ease and tranquillity to female manner under circumstances where men would expose their troubled and warring emotions. So much, perhaps, for the reason that Miss Darcy displayed an equanimity of temper very different from the miserable Forester, and exerted powers of pleasing and fascination which, to him at least, had the singular effect of producing even more suffering than enjoyment. The intimacy hitherto subsisting between them was rather increased than otherwise. It seemed as if their relations to each other had been fixed by a treaty, and now that transgression or change was impossible. If this was slavery in its worst form to Forester, to Helen it was liberty unbounded. No longer restrained by any fear of misconception, absolved, in her own heart, of any designs upon his, she scrupled not to display her capacity for thinking and reflecting with all the openness she would have done to her brother Lionel; while, to relieve the deep melancholy that preyed upon him, she exerted herself by a thousand little stratagems of caprice or fancy, that, however successful at the time, were sure to increase his gloom when he quitted her presence. Such, then, with its varying vicissitudes of pleasure and pain, was the condition of their mutual feeling for the remainder of their stay on the northern coast Many a time had Forester resolved on leaving her forever, rather than perpetuate the lingering torture of an affection that increased with every hour; but the effort was more than his strength could compass, and he yielded, as it were, to a fate, until at last her companionship had become the whole aim and object of his existence.
As winter closed in, they removed to Dublin, and established themselves temporarily in an old-fashioned family hotel, selected by Bicknell, in a quiet, unpretending street. Neither their means nor inclination would have prompted them to select a more fashionable resting-place, while the object of strict seclusion was here secured. The ponderous gloom of the staid old house, where, from the heavy sideboard of almost black mahogany to the wrinkled visage of the grim waiter, all seemed of a bygone century, were rather made matters of mutual pleasantry among the party than sources of dissatisfaction; while the Knight assured them that this was in his younger days the noisy resort of the gay and fashionable of the capital.
“Indeed,” added he, “I am not quite sure that this is not where the 'Townsends,' as the club was then called, used to meet in Swift's time. Bicknell will tell us all about it, for he's coming to dine with us.”
Forester was the first to appear in the drawing-room before dinner. It is possible that he hurried his toilet in the hope of speaking a few words to Helen, who not un-frequently came down before her mother. If so, he was doomed to disappointment, as the room was empty when he entered; and there was nothing for it but to wait, impatiently indeed, and starting at every footstep on the stairs and every door that shut or opened.
At last he heard the sound of approaching steps, softened by the deep old carpet. They came,—he listened,—the door opened, and the waiter announced a name, what and whose Forester paid no attention to, in his annoyance that it was not hers he expected. The stranger-a very plump, joyous little personage in deep black—did not appear quite unknown to Forester; but as the recognition interested him very little, he merely returned a formal bow to the other's more cordial salute, and turned to the window where he was standing.
“The Knight, I believe, is dressing?” said the new arrival, advancing towards Forester.
“Yes; but I have no doubt he will be down in a few moments.”
“Time enough,—no hurry in life. They told me below stairs that you were here, and so I came up at once. I thought that I might introduce myself. Paul Dempsey,—Dempsey's Grove. You've heard of me before, eh?”
“I have had that pleasure,” said Forester, with more animation of manner; for now he remembered the face and figure of the worthy Paul, as he had seen both in the large mirror of his mother's drawing-room.
“Ha! I guessed as much,” rejoined Paul, with a chuckling laugh; “the ladies are here, too, ain't they?”
Forester assented, and Paul went on.
“Only heard of it from Bicknell half an hour ago. Took a car, and came off at once. And when did you come?”
Forester stared with amazement at a question whose precise meaning he could not guess at, and to which he could only reply by a half-smile, expressive of his difficulty.
“You were away, weren't you?” asked Dempsey.
“Yes; I have been out of England,” replied Forester, more than ever puzzled how this fact could or ought to have any interest for the other.
“Never be ashamed of it. Soldiering 's very well in its way, though I 'd never any taste for it myself,—none of that martial spirit that stirred the bumpkin as he sang,—
Well, well! it seems you soon got tired of glory, of which, from all I hear, a little goes very far with any man's stomach; and no wonder. Except a French bayonet, there 's nothing more indigestible than commissary bread.”
“The service is not without some hardships,” said Forester, blandly, and preferring to shelter himself under generality than invite further inquisitiveness.
“Cruelties you might call them,” rejoined Dempsey, with energy. “The frightful stories we read in the papers!—and I suppose they are all true. Were you ever touched up a bit yourself?” This Paul said in his most insinuating manner; and as Forester's stare showed a total ignorance of his meaning, he added, “A little four-and-twenty, I mean,” mimicking, as he spoke, the action of flogging.
“Sir!” exclaimed Forester, with an energy almost ferocious; and Dempsey made a spring backwards, and intrenched himself behind a sofa-table.
“Blood alive!” he exclaimed, “don't be angry. I wouldn't offend you for the world; but I thought—”
“Never mind, sir,-your apology is quite sufficient,” said Forester, who had no small difficulty to repress laughing at the terrified face before him. “I am quite convinced there was no intention to give offence.”
“Spoke like a man,” said Dempsey, coming out from his ambush with an outstretched hand; and Forester, not usually very unbending in such cases, could not help accepting the salutation so heartily proffered.
“Ah, my excellent friend, Mr. Dempsey!” said the Knight, entering at the same moment, and gayly tapping him on the shoulder. “A man I have long wished to see, and thank for many kind offices in my absence.—I 'm glad to see you are acquainted with Mr. Dempsey.—Well, and how fares the world with you?”
“Better, rather better, Knight,” said Paul, who had scarcely recovered the fright Forester had given him. “You've heard that old Bob's off? Didn't go till he could n't help it, though; and now your humble servant is the head of the house.”
While the Knight expressed his warm congratulations, Lady Eleanor and Helen came in; and by their united invitation Paul was persuaded to remain for dinner,—an event which, it must be owned, Forester could not possibly comprehend.
Bicknell's arrival soon after completed the party, which, however discordant in some respects, soon exhibited signs of perfect accordance and mutual satisfaction. Mr. Dempsey's presence having banished all business topics for discussion, he was permitted to launch out into his own favorite themes, not the least amusing feature of which was the perfect amazement of Forester at the man and his intimacy.
As the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, Paul became more moody and thoughtful, now and then interchanging glances with Bicknell, and seeming as if on the verge of something, and yet half doubting how to approach it. Two or three hastily swallowed bumpers, and a look, which he believed of encouragement, from Bicknell, at length rallied Mr. Dempsey, and after a slight hesitation, he said,—
“I believe, Knight, we are all friends here; it is, strictly speaking, a cabinet council?”
If Darcy did not fathom the meaning of the speech, he had that knowledge of the speaker which made his assent to it almost a matter of course.
“That's what I thought,” resumed Paul; “and it is a moment I have been anxiously looking for. Has our friend here said anything?” added he, with a gesture towards Bicknell.
“I, sir? I said nothing, I protest!” exclaimed the man of law, with an air of deprecation. “I told you, Mr. Dempsey, that I would inform the Knight of the generous proposition you made about the loan; but, till the present moment, I have not had the opportunity.”
“Pooh, pooh! a mere trifle,” interrupted Paul. “It is not of that I was thinking: it is of a very different subject I would speak. Has Lady Eleanor or Miss Darcy—has she told you nothing of me?” said he, addressing the Knight.
“Indeed they have, Mr. Dempsey, both spoken of you repeatedly, and always in the same terms of grateful remembrance.”
“It isn't that, either,” said Paul, with a half-sigh of disappointment.
“You are unjust to yourself, Mr. Dempsey,” said Darcy, good-humoredly, “to rest a claim to our gratitude on any single instance of kindness; trust me that we recognize the whole debt.”
“But it's not that,” rejoined Paul, with a shake of the head. “Lord bless us! how close women are about these things,” muttered he to himself. “There is nothing for it but candor, I suppose, eh?”
This being put in the form of a direct question, and the Knight having as freely assented, Paul resumed,—“Well, here it is. Being now at the head of an ancient name, and very pretty independence,—Bicknell has seen the papers,—I have been thinking of that next step a man takes who would wish to—wish to-hand down a little race of Dempseys. You understand?” Darcy smiled approvingly, and Paul continued: “And as conformity of temper, taste, and habits are the surest pledges of such felicity, I have set the eyes of my affections upon—Miss Darcy.”
So little prepared was the Knight for what was coming, that up to that moment he had been listening with a smile of easy enjoyment; but when the last word was spoken, he started as if he had been stung by a reptile, nor could all his habitual self-control master the momentary flush of irritation that covered his face.
“I know,” said Paul, with a dim consciousness that his proposition was but half acceptable, “that we are not exactly, so to say, the same rank and class; but the Dempseys are looking up, and—”
“'The Darcys looking down,' you would add,” said the Knight, with a gleam of his habitual humor in his eye.
“And, like the buckets in a well, the full and empty ones meet half-way,” added Dempsey, laughing. “I know well, as I said before, we are not the same kind of people, and perhaps this would have deterred me from indulging any thoughts on the subject, but for a chance, a bit of an accident, as a body may call it, that gave me courage.”
“This is the very temple of candor, Mr. Dempsey,” said the Knight, smiling. “Pray proceed, and let us hear the source of your encouragement; what was it?”
“Say, who was it, rather,” interposed Paul.
“Be it so, then. Who was it? You have only made my curiosity stronger.”
“Lady Eleanor,—ay, and Miss Helen herself.”
A start of anger and a half-spoken exclamation were as quickly interrupted by a fit of laughing; and the Knight leaned back in his chair, and shook with the emotion.
“You doubt it; you think it absurd,” said Dempsey, himself laughing, and not exhibiting the slightest irritation. “What if they say it's true,—will that content you?”
“I'm afraid it would not,” said Darcy, equivocally; “there's nothing less likely to do so. Still, I assure you, Mr. Dempsey, if the ladies are of the mind you attribute to them, I shall find it very difficult to disbelieve anything I ever hear hereafter.”
“I'm satisfied to stand or fall by their verdict,” said Paul, resolutely. “I'm not a fool, exactly; and do you think if I had not something stronger than mere suspicion to guide me, that I'd have gone that same journey to London? Oh, I forgot—I did not tell you about my going to Lord Netherby.”
“You went to Lord Netherby, and on this subject?” said Darcy, whose face became suffused with shame, an emotion doubly painful from Forester's presence.
“That I did,” rejoined the unabashed Paul, “and a long conversation we had over the matter. He introduced me to his wife too. Lord bless us, but that is a bit of pride!”
“You are aware that the lady is Lord Wallincourt's mother,” interposed Darcy, sternly.
“Faith, so that she is n't mine,” said the inexorable Paul, “I don't care! There she was, lying in state, with a greyhound with silver bells on his neck at her feet; and when I came into the room, she lifts up her head and gives me a look, as much as to say, 'Oh, that's him.'—'Mr. Dempsey, of Dempsey's Hole,'—for hole he would call it, in spite of me,—'Mr. Dempsey, my love,' said my Lord, bowing as ceremoniously as if he never saw her before; and so, taking the hint, I began a little course of salutations, when she called out, 'Tell him not to do that, Netherby,—tell him not to do that-'”
This was too much for Mr. Dempsey's hearers, who, however differently minded as to the narrative, now concurred in one outbreak of hearty laughter.
“Well, my Lord,” said Darcy, turning to Forester, “you certainly have shown evidence of a most enviable good temper. Had your Lordship—”
“His Lordship!” exclaimed Paul, in amazement. “Is n't that your son,—Captain Darcy?”
“No, indeed, Mr. Dempsey,” said the Knight; “I thought, as I came into the drawing-room, that you were acquainted, or I should have presented you to the Earl of Wallincourt.”
“Oh, ain't I in for it now!” cried Paul, in an accent of grief most ludicrously natural. “Oh! by the powers, I 'm up to the knees in trouble! And that was your mother! oh dear! oh dear!”
“You see, my worthy friend,” said Darcy, smiling, “how easy a thing deception is. Is it not possible that your misconceptions do not end here?”
“I 'll never get over it, I know I'll not!” exclaimed Paul, wringing his hands as he arose from the table. “Bad luck to it for grandeur!” muttered he between his teeth; “I never had a minute's happiness since I got the taste for it.” And with this honest avowal he rushed out of the room.
It was some time before the party in the dining-room adjourned upstairs; but when they did, they found Mr. Dempsey seated at the fire, recounting to the ladies his late unhappy discomfiture,—a narrative which even Lady Eleanor's gravity was not enabled to withstand. A kind audience was always a boon of the first water to honest Paul; and very little pressing was needed to induce him to continue his revelations, for the Knight wisely felt that such pretensions as his could not be buried so satisfactorily as beneath the load of ridicule.
Mr. Dempsey's scruples soon vanished and thawed under the warmth of encouraging voices and smiles, and he began the narrative of his night at “The Corvy,” his painful durance in the canoe, his escape, the burning of the law papers, and each step of his progress to the very moment that he stood a listener at Lady Eleanor's door. Then he halted abruptly and said, “Now I'm dumb! racks and thumbscrews wouldn't get more out of me.”
“You cannot mean, sir,” said Lady Eleanor, calmly but haughtily, “that you overheard the conversation that passed between my daughter and myself?”
“Every word of it!” replied Paul, bluntly.
“Oh, really, sir, I can scarcely compliment you on the spirit of your curiosity; for although the theme we talked on, if I remember aright, was the speedy necessity of removing,—the urgency of seeking some place of refuge—”
“If I had n't heard which, I could not have assisted you in your departure,” rejoined the unabashed Paul: “the old Loyola maxim, 'Evil, that Good may come of it.'”
Helen sat pale and terrified all this time; for although Lady Eleanor had forgotten the discussion of any other topic on that night save that of their legal difficulties, she well remembered a theme nearer and dearer to her heart. Whether from the distress of these thoughts, or in the hope of propitiating Mr. Dempsey to silence, so it was, she fixed her eyes upon him with an expression Paul thought he could read, and he gave a look of such conscious intelligence in return as brought the blush to her cheek. “I 'm not going to say one word about it,” said he, in a stage whisper that even the Knight himself overheard.
“Then I must myself insist upon Mr. Dempsey's revelations,” said Darcy, not at all satisfied with the air of mystery Dempsey threw around his intercourse.
Another look from Helen here met Paul's, and he stood uncertain how to act.
“Really, sir,” said Lady Eleanor, “however little the subject we discussed was intended for other ears than our own, I must beg of you now to repeat what you remember of it.”
“Well, what can I do?” exclaimed Paul, looking at Helen with an expression of the most helpless misery; “I know you are angry, and I know that when you like it, you can blaze up like a Congreve rocket. Oh, faith! I don't forget the day I showed you the newspaper about the English officer thrashing O'Halloran!”
Helen grew scarlet, and turned away, but not before Forester had caught her eyes, and read in them more of hope than his heart had known for many a day before.
“These are more mysteries, Mr. Dempsey; and if you continue to scatter riddles as you go, we shall never get to the end of this affair.”
“Perhaps,” interposed Bicknell, hoping to close the unpleasant discussion,—“perhaps Mr. Dempsey, feeling that he had personally no interest in the conversation between Lady Eleanor and Miss Darcy—”
“Had n't he, then?” exclaimed Paul,—“maybe not. If I hadn't, then, who had?—tell me that. Wasn't it then and there I first heard of the kind intentions towards me?”
“Towards you, sir! Of what are you speaking?”
“Blood alive! will you tell me that I 'm not Paul Dempsey, of Dempsey's Grove?” exclaimed he, driven beyond all patience by what he deemed equivocation. “Will you tell me that your Ladyship didn't allude to the day I brought the letter from Coleraine, and say that you actually began to like me from that hour? Did n't you tell Miss Helen not to lie down-hearted, because there were better days in store for us? Miss Darcy remembers it, I see,—ay, and your Ladyship does now. Did n't you call me rash and headstrong and ambitious? I forgive it all; I believe it is true. And was n't I your bond-slave from that hour? Oh, mercy on me! the pleasant time I had of it at Mother Fum's! Then came the days and nights I was watching over you at Ballintray. Ay, faith, and money was very scarce with me when I gave old Denny Nolan five shillings for the loan of his nankeen jacket to perform the part of waiter at the little inn. Do you remember a little note, in the shape of a friendly warning? Eh, now, my Lady, I think your memory is something fresher.”
If the confusion of Lady Eleanor and her daughter was extreme at this outpouring of Mr. Dempsey's confessions, the amazement of Darcy and the utter stupefaction of Forester were even greater; to throw discredit upon him would be to acknowledge the real bearing of the circumstances, which would be far worse than all his imputations; so there was no alternative but to lie under every suspicion his narrative might suggest.
Forester felt annoyed as much that such a person should have obtained this assumed intimacy as by the pretensions he well knew were only absurd, and took an early leave under the pretence of fatigue. Bicknell soon followed; and now the Knight, arresting Dempsey's preparations for departure, led him back towards the fire, and placing a chair for him between Lady Eleanor and himself, obliged him to recount his scattered reminiscences once more, and, what was a far less pleasing duty to him, to listen to Lady Eleanor while she circumstantially unravelled the web of his delusion, and, in order, explained on what unsubstantial grounds he had built the edifice of his hope. Perhaps honest Paul was not more afflicted at any portion of the disentanglement than that which, in disavowing his pretensions, yet confessed that some other held the favorable place, while that other's name was guarded as a secret. This was, indeed, a sore blow, and he could n't rally from it; and willingly would he have bartered all the gratitude they expressed for his many friendly offices to know his rival's name.
“Well,” exclaimed he, as Lady Eleanor concluded, “it's clear I was n't the man. Only think of my precious journey to London, and the interview with that terrible old Countess,—all for nothing! No matter,—it's all past and over. As for the loan, I 've arranged it all; you shall have the money when you like.”
“I must decline your generous offer, not without feeling your debtor for it; but I have determined to abandon these proceedings. The Government have promised me some staff appointment, quite sufficient for my wishes and wants; and I will neither burden my friends nor wear out myself by tiresome litigation.”
“That's the worst of all,” exclaimed Dempsey; “I thought you would not refuse me this.”
“Nor would I, my dear Dempsey, but that I have no occasion for the sum. To-morrow I set out to witness the last suit I shall ever engage in; and as I believe there is little doubt of the issue, I have nothing of sanguine feeling to suffer by disappointment.”
“Well, then, to-morrow I 'll start for Dempsey's Grove,” said Paul, sorrowfully. “With very different expectations I quitted it a few days ago. Good-bye, Lady Eleanor; good-bye, Miss Helen. I suppose there 's no use in guessing?”
Mr. Dempsey's leave-taking was far more rueful than his wont, and woe seemed to have absorbed all other feeling; but when he reached the door, he turned round and said,—
“Now I am going,—never like to see him again; do tell me the name.”
A shake of the head, and a merry burst of laughter, was all the answer; and Paul departed.
That the age of chivalry is gone, we are reminded some twenty times in each day of our commonplace existence, Perhaps the changed tone of society exhibits nowhere a more practical but less picturesque advantage than in the fact that the “joust” of ancient times is now replaced by the combat of the law court. Some may regret—we will not say if we are not of the number—that the wigged Baron of the Exchequer is scarcely so pleasing an arbiter as the Queen of Love and Beauty. Others may deem the knotted subtleties of black-letter a sorry recompense for the “wild crash and tumult of the fray.” The crier of the Common Pleas would figure to little advantage beside the gorgeously clad Herald of the Lists; nor are the artificial distinctions of service so imposing that a patent of precedency could vie with the white cross on the shield of a Crusader. Still, there are certain counterbalancing interests to be considered; and it is possible that the veriest décrier of the law's uncertainty “would rather stake life and fortune on the issue of a 'trial of law,' than on the thews and sinews of the doughtiest champion that ever figured in an 'ordeal of battle.'”
In one respect there is a strong similarity between the two institutions. Each, in its separate age, possessed the same sway and influence over men's minds, investing with the deepest interest events of which they were hitherto ignorant, and enlisting partisans of opinion in cases where, individually, there was nothing at stake.
An important trial has all the high interest of a most exciting narrative, whose catastrophe is yet to come, and where so many influential agencies are in operation to mould it. The proofs themselves, the veracity of witnesses, their self-possession and courage under the racking torture of cross-examination, the ability and skill of the advocate, the temper of the judge, his character of rashness or patience, of doubt or decisiveness; and then, more vague than all besides, the verdict of twelve perhaps rightly minded but as certainly very ordinarily endowed men, on questions sometimes of the greatest subtlety and obscurity. The sum of such conflicting currents makes up a “cross sea,” where everything is possible, from the favoring tide that leads to safety, to the swell and storm of utter shipwreck.
At the winter assizes of Galway, in the year 1802, all the deep sympathies of a law-loving population were destined to be most heartily engaged by the record of Darcy versus Hickman, now removed by a change of venue for trial to that city. It needed not the unusual compliment of Galway being selected as a likely spot for the due administration of justice, to make the plaintiff somewhat popular on this occasion. The reaction which for some time back had taken place in favor of the “real gentry” had gone on gaining in strength, so that public opinion was already inclining to the side of those who had earned a sort of prescriptive right to public confidence. The claptraps of patriotism, associated as they were often found to be with cruel treatment of tenants and dependants, were contrasted with the independent bearing of men who, rejecting dictation and spurning mob popularity, devoted the best energies of mind and fortune to the interests of all belonging to them. All the vindictiveness and rancor of a party press could not obliterate these traits, and character sufficed to put down calumny.
Hickman O'Reilly, accompanied by the old doctor, had arrived in Galway the evening before the trial, in all the pomp of a splendid travelling-carriage, drawn by four posters. The whole of “Nolan's” Head Inn had been already engaged for them and their party, who formed a tolerably numerous suite of lawyers, solicitors, and clerks, together with some private friends, curious to witness the proceedings.
In a very quiet but comfortable old inn called the “Devil and the Bag of Nails,”—a corruption of the ancient Satyr and the Bacchanals,—Mr. Bicknell had pitched his camp, having taken rooms for the Knight and Forester, who were to arrive soon after him, but whose presence in Ireland was not even suspected by the enemy.
There was a third individual who repaired to the West on this occasion, but who studiously screened himself from observation, waiting patiently for the issue of the combat to see on which side he should carry his congratulation: need we say his name was Con Heffernan?
Bicknell had heard of certain threats of the opposite party, which, while he did not communicate them to Darcy, were sufficient to give him deep uneasiness, as they went so far as to menace a very severe reprisal for these continued proceedings by a criminal action against Lionel Darcy. Of what nature, and on what grounds sustained, he knew not; but he was given to understand that if his principal would even now submit to some final adjustment out of court, the Hickmans would treat liberally with him, and, while abandoning these threatened proceedings against young Darcy, show Bicknell all the grounds for such a procedure.
It was past midnight when Darcy and Forester arrived; but before the Knight retired to rest he had learned all Bicknell's doubts and scruples, and unhesitatingly decided on proceeding with his suit. He felt that a compromise would now involve the honor of his son, of which he had not the slightest dread of any investigation; and, however small the prospect of success, the trial must take place to evidence his utter disregard, his open defiance of this menace.
Morning came; and long before the judges took their seat, the court was crowded in every part. The town was thronged with the equipages of the neighboring gentry, all eager to witness the trial; while the country people, always desirous of an exciting scene, thronged every avenue and passage of the building, and even the wide area in front of it. Nothing short of that passion for law and its interests, so inherent in an Irish heart, could have held that vast multitude thus enchained; for the day was one of terrific storm, the rain beating, the wind howling, and the sea roaring as it swept into the bay and broke in showers of foam upon the rocky shore. Each moment ran the rumor of some new disaster in the town,—now it was a chimney fallen, now a roof blown in, now an entire house, with all its inmates destroyed; fires, too, the invariable accompaniment of hurricane, had broken out in various quarters, and cries for help and screams of wretchedness were mingled with the wilder uproar of the elements. Yet of that dense mob, few if any quitted their places for these sights and sounds of woe. The whole interest lay within that sombre building, and on the issue of an event of whose particulars they knew absolutely nothing, and the details of which it was impossible they could follow did they even hear them.
The ordinary precursors to the interest of these scenes are the chance appearances of those who are to figure prominently in them; and such, indeed, attracted far more of attention on this occasion than all the startling accidents by fire and storm then happening on every side. Each lawyer of celebrity on the circuit was speedily recognized, and greeted by tokens of welcome or expressions of disfavor, as politics or party inclined. The attorneys were treated with even greater familiarity, themselves not disdaining to exchange a repartee as they passed, in which combats, be it said, they were not always the victors. At last came old Dr. Hickman, feebly crawling along, leaning one arm on his son's, and the other on the stalwart support of Counsellor O'Halloran. The already begun cheer for the popular “Counsellor” was checked by the arrival of the sheriff, preceding and making way for the judges, whose presence ever imposed a respectful demeanor. The buzz and hum of voices, subdued for a moment, had again resumed its sway, when once more the police exerted themselves to make a passage through the throng, calling out, “Make way for the Attorney-General!” and a jovial, burly personage, with a face redolent of convivial humor and rough merriment, came up, rather dragging than linked with the thin, slight figure of Bicknell, who with unwonted eagerness was whispering something in his ear.
“I'll do it with pleasure, Bicknell,” rejoined the full, mellow voice, loud enough to be heard by those on either side; “I know the sheriff very well, and he will take care to let him have a seat on the bench. What's the name?”
“The Earl of Wallincourt,” whispered Bicknell, a little louder.
“That's enough; I'll not forget it” So saying, he released his grasp of the little man, and pursued his vigorous course. In a few moments after, Bicknell was seen accompanied by Forester alone; “the Knight” having determined not to present himself till towards the close of the proceedings, if even then.
The buzz and din incident to a tumultuous assembly had just subsided to the decorous quietude of a Court of Justice, by the judges entering and taking their seats, when, after a few words interchanged between the Attorney-General and the sheriff, the latter courteously addressed Lord Wallincourt, and made way for him to ascend the steps leading to the bench. The incident was in itself too slight and unimportant for mention, save that it speedily attracted the attention of O'Halloran, whose quick glance at once recognized his ancient enemy. So sudden was the shock, and so poignant did it seem, that he actually desisted from the occupation he was engaged in of turning over his brief, and sat down pale and trembling with passion.
“You are not ill?” asked O'Reilly, eagerly, for he had not remarked the incident.
“Not ill,” rejoined O'Halloran, in a low, deep whisper; “but do you see who is sitting next Judge Wallace, on the left of the bench?”
“Forester, I really believe,” exclaimed O'Reilly; for so separated were the two “United” countries at that period that his accession to rank and title was a circumstance of which neither O'Reilly nor his lawyer had ever heard.
“We 'll change the venue for him, too, before the day is over,” said O'Halloran, with a savage leer. “Do not let him see that we notice him.”
While these brief words were interchanged, the business of the court was opened, and, some routine matters over, the record of Darcy versus Hickman called on. After this, the names of the special jury list were recited, and the invariable scene of dispute and wrangling incident to their choice followed. In law, as in war, the combat opens by a skirmish; a single cannon-shot, or a leading question, if thrown out, is meant rather to ascertain “the range” than with any positive intention of damage; but gradually the light troops fall back, forces concentrate, and a mighty movement is made. In the present instance the preliminaries were unusually long, the plaintiff's counsel not only stating all the grounds of the present suit, but recapitulating, with painful accuracy, the reasons for the change of venue, and reviewing and of course rebutting by anticipation every possible or impossible objection that might be made by his learned friend on “the other side.” For our purpose, it is enough if we condense the matter into a single statement, that the action was to show that Hickman, in purchasing portions of the Darcy estate, was and must have been aware that the Knight of Gwynne's signature appended to the deed of sale was a forgery, and that he never had concurred in, nor was even cognizant of, this disposal of his property. A single case was selected to establish this fact, on which, if proved, further proceedings in Equity would be founded.
The plaintiff's case opened by an examination of a number of witnesses, old tenants of the Darcy property. These were not only called to prove the value of their holdings, as being very far above the price alleged to have been paid by Hickman, but also that they themselves were in total ignorance that the estate had been conveyed away to another proprietor, and never knew till the flight and death of Gleeson took place, that for many years previous they had ceased to be tenants of Maurice Darcy, to become those of Dr. Hickman.
The examination and cross-examination of these witnesses presented all the varying and changeful fortunes ever observable in such scenes. At one moment some obdurate old farmer resisting, with ludicrous pertinacity, all the efforts of the examining counsel to elicit the very testimony he himself wished to give; at another, the native humor of the peasant was seen baffling and foiling all the trained skill and practised dexterity of the pleader. Many a merry burst of laughter, many a jest that set the court in a roar, were exchanged. It was in Ireland, remember; but still the business of the day advanced, and a great weight of evidence was adduced, which, however suggestive to common intelligence, went legally only so far as to show that the tenantry were, almost to a man, of an opinion which, whether well founded or not in reason, turned out to be incorrect.
Darcy's counsel, a man of quickness and intelligence, made a very able speech, summing up the evidence, and commenting on every leading portion of it. He dwelt powerfully on the fact that at the time of this alleged sale the Knight, so far from being a distressed and embarrassed man, and consequently likely to effect a sale at a great loss, was, in reality, in possession of a princely fortune, his debts few and insignificant, and his income far above any possible expenditure. If he studiously avoided adverting to Gleeson's perfidy, as solely in fault, he assumed to himself credit for the forbearance, alleging that less scrupulous advisers might have gone perhaps further, and inferred connivance in a case so dubious and dark. “My client, however,” said he, “gave me but one instruction in this cause, and it was this: 'If the law of the land, justly administered, as I believe it will be, restores to me my own, I shall be grateful; but if the pursuit of what I feel my right involve the risk of reflecting on one honest man's fame, or imputing falsely aught of dishonor to an unblemished reputation, I tell you frankly, I don't think a verdict so obtained can carry with it anything but shame and disgrace.”
With these words he sat down, amid a murmur of approving voices; for there were many there who knew the Knight by reputation, if not personally, and were aware how well such a speech accorded with every feature of his character.
There was a brief delay as he resumed his seat. It was already late, the court had been obliged to be lighted up a considerable time previous, and the question of an adjournmeut was now discussed. The probable length of O'Halloran's reply would best guide the decision, and the Chief Baron asked if the learned counsel's statement were likely to be long.
“Yes, my Lord,” replied he; “it is not a case to be dismissed briefly, and I have many witnesses to call.”
Another brief discussion took place on the bench, and the Chief Baron announced that as there were many important causes still standing over for trial, they should best consult public convenience by proceeding, and that, after a few moments devoted to refreshment, the case should go on.
The judges retired, and many of the leading counsel took the same opportunity to recruit strength exhausted by several hours of severe toil. The Hickmans and O'Halloran never quitted their places; a decanter of sherry and a sandwich from the hotel were served where they sat, but the old man took nothing. The interest of the scene appeared too absorbing to admit of even a sense of hunger or weariness, and he sat with his hands folded, and his eyes mechanically fixed upon the now empty jury-box; for there, the whole day, were his looks riveted, to read, if he might, the varying emotions in the faces of those who held so much of his fortune in their keeping.
While the noise and hubbub which characterize a court at such intervals was at its highest, a report was circulated that increased in no small degree the excitement of the scene, and gave a character of intense anxiety to an assemblage so lately broken up by varied and dissimilar passions. It was this: a large vessel had struck on a reef in the bay, and the sea was now breaking over her. She had been seen from an early hour endeavoring to beat to the southward; but the wind had drawn more to the westward as the storm increased, and a strong shore current had also drawn her on land. In a last endeavor to clear the headlands of Clare, she missed stays, and being struck by a heavy sea, her rudder was carried away. Totally unmanageable now, she was drifted along, till she struck on a most dangerous reef about a mile from shore. Signals of distress were seen at her masthead, but no boat could venture out. The storm was already a hurricane, and even in the very harbor two fishing-boats had sunk.
As the dreadful tidings flew from mouth to mouth, a terrible confirmation was heard in the booming of guns of distress, which at brief intervals sounded amid the crashing of the storm.
It was at this moment of intense excitement that the crier proclaimed silence for the approaching entry of the judges. If the din of human voices became hushed and low, the deafening thunder of the elements seemed to increase, and the roaring of the enraged sea appeared to fill the very atmosphere.
As the judges resumed their seats, and the vast crowd ceased to stir or speak, O'Halloran arose. His voice was singularly low and quiet; but yet every word he uttered was distinctly heard through all the clamor of the storm.
“My Lords,” said he, “before entering upon my client's case, I would bespeak the kind indulgence of the court in respect to a matter purely personal to myself. Your Lordships are too well aware that I should insist upon it, that in a cause where the weightiest interests of property are engaged, the mind of the advocate should be disembarrassed and free,—not only free as regards the exercise of whatever knowledge and skill he may possess, not merely free from the supposition of any individual hazard the honest discharge of his duty might incur, but free from the greater thraldom of disturbed and irritated emotions, originating in the deepest sense of wounded honor.
“Far be it from me, my Lords, long used in the practice of these courts, and long intimate with the righteous principle on which the laws are administered in them, to utter a syllable that in the remotest degree might seem to impugn the justice of the bench; but, a mere frail and erring creature, with feelings common to all around me, I wish to protest against continuing my client's case while your Lordships' bench is occupied by one who, in my person, has grossly outraged the sanctity of the law. Yes, my Lords,” said he, raising his voice, till the deep tones swelled and floated through the vast space, “as the humble advocate of a cause, I now proclaim that in addressing that bench, I am incapable to render justice to the case before me, so long as I see associated with your Lordships a man more worthy to figure in the dock than to take his seat among the ermined judges of the land. A moment more, my Lords. I am ready to make oath that the individual on your Lordships' left is Richard Forester, commonly called the Honorable Richard Forester;—how suitable the designation, your Lordships shall soon hear—”
“I beg to interrupt my learned friend,” interposed the Attorney-General, rising. “He is totally in error; and I would wish to save him from the embarrassment of misdescription. The gentleman he alludes to is the Earl of Wallincourt, a peer of the realm.”
“Proceed with your client's case, Mr. O'Halloran,” said the Chief Baron, who saw that to discuss the question further was now irrelevant. O'Halloran sat down, overwhelmed with rage; a whispered communication from behind told him that the Attorney-General was correct, and that Forester was removed beyond the reach of his vengeance. After a few moments he rallied, and again rose. Turning slowly over the pages of a voluminous brief, he stood waiting, with practised art, till expectancy had hushed each murmur around, when suddenly the crier called, “Way, there,—make way for the High Sheriff!” and that functionary, with a manner of excessive agitation, leaned over the bar, and addressed the bench. “My Lords, I most humbly entreat your Lordships' forgiveness for thus interrupting the business of the court; but the extreme emergency will, I hope, pardon the indecorum. A large vessel has struck on the rocks in the bay: each moment it is expected she must go to pieces. A panic seems to prevail among even our hardy fishermen; and my humble request is, that if there be any individual in this crowded assembly possessing naval knowledge, or any experience in calamities of this nature, he will aid us by his advice and co-operation.”
The senior judge warmly approved the humane suggestion of the sheriff; and several persons were seen now forcing their way through the dense mass,—the far greater part, be it owned, more excited by curiosity than stimulated by any hope of rendering efficient service. Notwithstanding Bicknell's repeated entreaties, and remembrances of his late severe illness, Forester also quitted the court, and accompanied the sheriff to the beach. And now O'Halloran, whose impatience during this interval displayed little sympathy with the sad occasion of the interruption, asked, in a manner almost querulous, if their Lordships were ready to hear him? The court assented, and he began. Without once adverting to the subject on which he so lately addressed them, he opened his case by a species of narrative of the whole legal contest which for some time back had been maintained between the opposite parties in the present suit. Nothing could be more calm or more dispassionate than the estimate he formed of such struggles; neither inclining the balance to one party nor the other, but weighing with impartiality all the reasons that might prompt men on one side to continue a course of legal investigations, and the painful necessity on the other to provide a series of defences, costly, onerous, and harassing. “I have only to point out to the court the defendant in this action, to show how severe such a duty may become. Here, my Lords, beside me, site the gentleman, bowed down with more years than are allotted to humanity generally. Look upon him, and say if it be not difficult to determine what course to follow,—the abandonment of a just right, or its maintenance, at the cost of rendering the few last years—why do I say years?—days, hours, of a life careworn, distracted, and miserable!”
Dwelling long enough on this theme to interest without wearying the jury, he adroitly addressed himself to the case of those who, by a system of litigious persecution, would seek to obtain by menace what they must despair of by law. Beginning by vague and wide generalities, he gradually accumulated a mass of allegations and inferences, which concentrating to a point, he suddenly checked himself, and said: “Now, my Lords, it may be supposed that I will imitate the delicate reserve of my learned friend opposite, and while filling your minds with dark and mysterious suspicions, profess a perfect ignorance of all intention to apply them. But I will not do this: I will be candid and free-spoken; nay, more, my Lords, I will finish what my learned friend has left incomplete; and I will proclaim to the court, and this jury, what he wished, but did not dare, to say,—that we, the defendants in this action, were not only cognizant of a forgery, but were associated in the act! There it is, my Lords; and I accept my learned friend's bland smile as the warm acknowledgment of the truth of my assertion. My learned friend is obliged to me. I see that he cannot conceal his joy at the inaptitude of my avowal. But we have a case, my Lords, that can happily dispense with the dexterity of an advocate, and make its truth felt, even through means as unskilful as mine. They disclaimed, it is true,—they disclaimed in words the wish to make this inference; but even take their disclaimer as such, and what is it? An avowal of their weakness, an open expression of the poverty of their proofs. Yes, my Lords, their disclaimers were like the ominous sounds which break from time to time upon our ear,—but signal-guns of distress. Like that fated vessel, whose sad destiny is perhaps this moment accomplishing, they have been storm-tossed and cast away,—their proud ensign torn, and their rudder gone, but, unlike her, they cannot brave their fate without seeking to involve others in the calamity.”
A terrible gust of wind, so sudden and violent as to be like a thunderclap, now struck the building; and with one tremendous crash the great window of the court-house was driven in, and scattered in fragments of glass and timber throughout the court. A scene of the wildest confusion ensued, for almost immediately the lights became extinguished, and from the dark abyss arose a terrible chaos of voices in every agony of fear and suffering. Some announced that the roof was giving way and was about to crush them; others, in all the bodily torture of severe wounds, cried for help.
It was nearly an hour before the court could resume its sitting, which at length was done in one of the adjoining courts, the usual scene of the criminal trials. Here, now, lights were procured, and after a considerable delay the cause proceeded. If the various events of the night, added to the fatigue of the day, had impressed both the bench and the jury with signs of greatest exhaustion, O'Halloran showed no evidence of abated vigor. On the contrary, like one whose vengeance had been thwarted by opposing accident, he exhibited a species of impatient ardor to resume his work of defamation. With a brief apology for any want of due coherence in an argument so frequently interrupted, he launched out into the most ferocious attack upon the plaintiff in the suit; and while repudiating the affected reserve of the opposite counsel, boldly proclaimed that they would not imitate it; nay, further, that they were only awaiting the sure verdict in their favor, to commence a criminal action against the parties for the very crime they dared to insinuate against them.
“I shall now call my witnesses, my Lord; and if the Grand Cross of the Bath, which this day's paper tells me is to be conferred upon the plaintiff, be not meant, like the brand which foreign justice impresses on its felons, as a mark of ignominy, I am at a loss to understand how it has descended on this man. Call Nathaniel Leery.”
The examination of the witnesses was in perfect keeping with the infamous scurrility of the speech, and the testimony elicited went to prove everything the advocate desired. Though exposed by cross-examination, and their perjury proved, O'Halloran kept a perpetual recapitulation of their assertions before the jury, and so artfully that few, save the practised minds of a legal auditory, could have distinguished in that confused web of truth and falsehood.
The business proceeded with difficulty; for, added to the uproar of the storm, was a continued tumult of voices in the outer hall of the court, and where now several sailors, saved from the wreck, had been brought for shelter. By frequent loud cries from this quarter the court was interrupted, and more than once its proceedings completely arrested,—inconveniences which the judges submitted to with the most tolerant patience,—when at length a loud murmur arose, which gradually swelling louder and louder, all respect for the sacred precincts of the judgment-seat seemed lost in the wild tumult. In a tone of sharp reproof the Chief Baron called on the sheriff to allay the uproar, and if necessary, to clear the hall. The order was scarcely given, when one deafening shout was raised from the street, and, soon caught up, echoed by a thousand voices, while shrill cries of “He has saved them! he has saved them!” rent the air.
“What means this, Mr. Sheriff?”
“It is my Lord Wallincourt, my Lord, who has just rescued from the wreck three men who persisted in being lost together rather than separate. Hitherto only one man was taken at each trip of the boat; but this young nobleman offered a thousand pounds to the crew who would accompany him, and it appears they have succeeded.”
“Really, my Lords,” said O'Halloran, who had heard the honorable mention of a hated name, “I must abandon my client's cause. These interruptions, which I conclude your influence is powerless to remove, have so interfered with the line of defence I had laid down for adoption, and have so confused the order of the proofs I had prepared, that I should but injure, and not serve, my respected client by continuing to represent his interests.”
A bland assurance from the court that order should be rigidly enforced, and a pressing remonstrance from O'Reilly, overcame a resolve scarcely maturely taken, and he consented to go on.
“We will now, my Lords,” said he, “call a very material witness,—a respectable tenant on the property,—who will prove that on a day in November, antecedent to Gleeson's death, he had a conversation with the Knight of Gwynne—Really, my Lords, I cannot proceed; this is no longer a court of justice.”
The remainder of his words were lost in an uproar like that of the sea itself; and, like that element, the great mass swelled forward, and a rush of people from the outer hall bore into the court, till seats and barriers gave way before that overwhelming throng.
For some minutes the scene was one of almost personal conflict. The mob, driven forward by those behind, were obliged to endure a buffeting by the more recognized possessors of the place; nor was it till police and military had lent their aid that the court was again restored to quiet, while several of the rioters were led off in custody.
“Who are these men, and to what purpose are they here?” said the Chief Baron, as Bicknell officiously exerted himself to make way for some persons behind.
“I come to tender my evidence in this cause,” said a deep, solemn voice, as a man advanced to the witness-table, displaying to the amazed assembly a bold, intrepid countenance, on which streaks of blue and yellow color were fantastically mingled, like the war-paint of a savage.
“Who are you, sir?” rejoined O'Halloran, with his habitual scowl.
“My name is Bagenal Daly. I believe their Lordships are not ignorant of my rank and station; and this gentleman at my side is also here to afford his testimony. This, my Lords, is Thomas Gleeson!”
One cry of amazement rang through the assembly, through which a wild shriek pierced with a clear and terrible distinctness; and now the attention was suddenly turned towards old Hickman, who had fallen forward senseless on the table.
“My client is very ill,—he is dangerously ill. My Lord, I beg to suggest an adjournment of the cause,” said O'Halloran; while O'Reilly, with a face like death, continued to whisper eagerly in his ear. “I appeal to the plaintiff himself, if he be here, and is not devoid of the feelings attributed to him, and I ask that the cause may be adjourned.”
“It is not a case in which the defendant's illness can be made use of to press such a demand,” said one of the judges, mildly; “but if the opposite party consent—”
“He is worse, my Lord.”
“I say, if the opposite party—”
“He is dead!” said O'Halloran, solemnly; and letting go the lifeless hand, it fell with a heavy bang upon the table.
“Take your verdict,” said O'Halloran, with the look of a demon; and, bursting his way through the crowd, disappeared.