Читать книгу: «The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II», страница 30

“I must say that if you have been to see people with typhus, and perhaps small-pox, it shows very little consideration to come and visit me immediately after, sir.”

Grounsell’s face grew purple, but with a great effort he repressed the reply that was on his lips, and was silent.

“Of course, then, these poor creatures can pay nothing, sir?”

“Nothing, madam.”

“Che bella cosa! an Irish property!” cried she, with a scornful laugh; “and if I mistake not, sir, it was to your kind intervention and influence that I am indebted for this singular mark of my husband’s affection?”

“Quite true, madam. I had supposed it to be possible – Just possible – that, by connecting your personal interest with duties, you might be reclaimed from a life of frivolity and idleness to an existence of active and happy utility, and this without any flattering estimate of your qualities, madam.”

“Oh, sir, this is a very needless protest,” said she, bowing and smiling.

“I repeat, madam, that, without any flattering estimate of your qualities, I saw quite enough to convince me that kindness and benevolence were just as easy to you as their opposites.”

“Why, you have become a courtier, sir,” said she, with a smile of sly malice.

“I ‘m sorry for it, madam; I ‘d as soon be mistaken for a hairdresser or a dancing-master. But to return. Whether I was correct or not in my theory would appear to be of little moment; another, and more pressing view of the case, usurping all our interests, which is no less, madam, than your actual right and title to this estate at all.”

Lady Hester leaned forward in her chair as he said this, and in a low but unshaken voice replied, “Do I understand you aright, sir, that the title to this property is contested?”

“Not yet, madam; there is no claim set up as yet; but there is every likelihood that there will be such. Rumors have gradually grown into open discussions; threatening notices have been sent to me by post, and stories which at first I had deemed vague and valueless have assumed a degree of importance from the details by which they were accompanied. In fact, madam, without any clew to the nature or direct drift of the plot, I can yet see that a formidable scheme is being contrived, the great agent of which is to be menace.”

“Oh dear, what a relief it would be to me were I quite certain of all this!” exclaimed Lady Hester, with a deep sigh.

“What a relief? Did you say what a relief, madam?” cried Grounsell, in amazement.

“Yes, sir, that was precisely the word I used.”

“Then I must have blundered most confoundedly, madam, in my effort to explain myself. I was endeavoring to show you that your claim to the estate might be disputed!”

“Very well, sir, I perfectly understood you.”

“You did, eh? you perceive that you might possibly lose the property, and you acquiesce calmly – ”

“Nay, more, sir; I rejoice sincerely at the very thought of it.”

“Well, then, upon my – eh? May the devil – I beg pardon, madam, but this is really such a riddle to me that I must confess my inability to unravel it.”

“Shall I aid you, sir?” said Lady Hester, with an easy smile on her features. “When bequeathing this estate to me, Sir Stafford expressly provided, that if from any political convulsion Ireland should be separated from her union with Great Britain, or if by course of law a substantial claim was established to the property by another, that I should be recompensed for the loss by an income of equal amount derived from the estate of his son, George Onslow, at whose discretion it lay to allocate any portion of his inheritance he deemed suitable for the purpose.”

“All true, madam, quite true,” broke in Grounsell; “and the Solicitor-General’s opinion is that the provision is perfectly nugatory, – not worth sixpence. It has not one single tie of obligation, and, from its vagueness, is totally inoperative.”

“In law, sir, it may be all that you say,” replied Lady Hester, calmly; “but I have yet to learn that this is the appeal to which Captain Onslow would submit it.”

Grounsell stared at her; and for the first time in all his life he thought her handsome. That his own features revealed the admiration he felt was also plain enough, and Lady Hester was very far from being insensible to the tribute.

“So that, madam,” cried he, at length, “You prefer insecurity to certainty.”

“Say rather, sir, that I have more confidence in the honorable sentiments of an English gentleman than I have in the solvency of a poor and wretched peasantry. Up to this very hour I have known nothing except the claims upon myself. I don’t like the climate; and I am certain the neighbors do not like me, – in fact, I have neither the youth nor the enterprise suited to a new country.”

“Why, good heavens, madam, it isn’t New Zealand we’re in!” cried Grounsell, angrily.

“Perhaps not,” sighed she, languidly; “but it is just as strange to me.”

“I see, madam,” said Grounsell, rising, “my plan was a bad one. A wing in the Borghese Palace, a spacious apartment of the Corsini, on the Arno, or even the first floor of the Moncenigo, at Venice, would have been a happier choice than a gloomy old mansion on the banks of an Irish river.”

“Oh, do not speak of it, sir!” cried she, enthusiastically. “Do not remind me of starry skies and the deep blue Adriatic in this land of cloud and fog, where even the rain is ‘dirty water.’ Pray make the very weakest defence of my claim to this inheritance. I only ask to march out with my baggage, and do not even stipulate for the honors of war. Let me have George’s address.”

“You ‘ll not need it, madam; he will be here within a few days. He has been promoted to a majority for his conduct in the field, and returns to England covered with praise and honors.”

“What delightful news, Dr. Grounsell; you are actually charming this morning!” The doctor bowed stiffly at the compliment, and she went on: “I often thought that you could be amiable if you would only let yourself; but, like the Cardinal Gualterino, you took up the character of Bear, and ‘Bear’ you would be at all times and seasons; and then those horrid coats, that you would persist in wearing, – how you ever got them of that odious brown, I can’t think; they must have dyed the wool to order, – not but that I think your shoes were worst of all.”

Grounsell understood too well the wordy absurdity with which her Ladyship, on the least excitement, was accustomed to launch forth, quite forgetful of all the impertinence into which it betrayed her. He therefore neither interposed a remark, nor seemed in any way conscious of her observation; but coldly waiting till she had concluded, he said, —

“Some other of your Ladyship’s friends are also expected in this neighborhood, – the Daltons!”

“What – my dear Kate?”

“Yes; Miss Kate Dalton, accompanied by her brother and uncle. I have just been to order apartments for them in the hotel at Kilkenny.”

“But they must come here. I shall insist upon it, doctor. This is a point on which I will accept no refusal.”

“The occasion which calls them to Ireland, madam, and of which you shall hear all, hereafter, would totally preclude such an arrangement.”

“More mystery, sir?” exclaimed she.

“Another side of the same one, madam,” rejoined he, dryly.

“What delightful news, to think I shall see my dearest Kate again! I am dying to know all about Russia, and if the ladies do wear pearls in morning toilette, and whether turquoises are only seen in fans and parasol handles. What splendor she must have seen!”

“Humph!” said Grounsell, with a short shrug of the shoulders.

“Oh, I know you despise all these things, and you hate caviare. Then I want to know about the Prince; why the match was broken off; and from what cause she refused that great settlement, – some thousand roubles. How much is a rouble, by the way, doctor?”

“I really cannot tell you, madam,” said he, bluntly, who saw that she was once more “wide a-field.”

“She’ll tell me all herself, and everything about Russia. I want to hear about the knout, and the malachite, and that queer habit of gambling before dinner is announced. I ‘m sure I should like St Petersburg. And the brother, what is he like?”

“I only know, madam, that he is a great invalid, not yet recovered from his wounds!”

“How interesting! He was in the patriot army, was he not?”

“He fought for the Emperor, madam; pray make no mistake in that sense.”

“Oh dear! how difficult it is to remember all these things; and yet I knew it perfectly when I was at Florence, – all about the Kaiser-Jagers, and the Crociati, and the Croats, and the rest of them. It was the Crociati, or the Croats – I forget which – eat little children. It ‘s perfectly true; Guardarelli, when he was a prisoner, saw an infant roasting for Radetzky’s own table.”

“I would beg of you, madam, not to mention this fact to the Field-Marshal, Miss Kate Dalton’s uncle.”

“Oh, of course not; and I trust he will not expect that we could provide him with such delicacies here. Now, doctor, how shall we amuse these people? what can we do?”

“Remember, first of all, madam, that their visit to Ireland is not an excursion of pleasure – ”

“Oh, I can perfectly conceive that!” interrupted she, with a look of irony.

“I was about to remark that an affair of deep importance was the cause of their journey – ”

“More business!” broke she in again. “After all, then, I suppose I am not much more miserable than the rest of the world. Everybody would seem to have what you call ‘affairs of importance.’”

“Upon my word, madam, you have made me totally forget mine, then,” said Grounsell, jumping up from his seat, and looking at his watch. “I came here prepared to make certain explanations, and ask your opinion on certain points. It is now two o’clock, and I have not even opened the matter in hand.”

Lady Hester laughed heartily at his distress, and continued to enjoy her mirth as he packed up his scattered papers, buttoned his greatcoat, and hurried away, without even the ceremony of a leave-taking.

CHAPTER XXXIV. “THE RORE.”

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.”