The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

She had lain thus for above half an hour, when a slight rustling noise – a sound so slight as to be scarcely audible – caught her attention, and, without raising her head, she asked in a faint tone, —

“Is there any one there?”

“Yes, my Lady. It is Lisa,” replied her maid, coming stealthily forward, till she stood close behind her chair. “Put some of that thing – peat, turf, or whatever it is – on the fire, child. Has the post arrived?”

“No, my Lady; they say that the floods have detained the mails, and that they will be fully twelve hours late.”

“Of course they will,” sighed she; “and if there should be anything for me, they will be carried away.”

“I hope not, my Lady.”

“What’s the use of your hoping about it, child? or, if you must hope, let it be for something worth while. Hope that we may get away from this miserable place, – that we may once more visit a land where there are sunshine and flowers, and live where it repays one for the bore of life.”

“I ‘m sure I do hope it with all my heart, my Lady.”

“Of course you do, child. Even you must feel the barbarism of this wretched country. Have those things arrived from Dublin yet?”

“Yes, my Lady; but you never could wear them. The bonnet is a great unwieldy thing, nearly as big and quite as heavy as a Life-Guardsman’s helmet; and the mantle is precisely like a hearth-rug with sleeves to it. They are specially commended to your Ladyship’s notice, as being all of Irish manufacture.”

“What need to say so?” sighed Lady Hester. “Does not every lock on every door, every scissors that will not cut, every tongs that will not hold, every parasol that turns upside down, every carriage that jolts, and every shoe that pinches you, proclaim its nationality?”

“Dr. Grounsell says, my Lady, that all the fault lies in the wealthier classes, who prefer everything to native industry.”

“Dr. Grounsell’s a fool, Lisa. Nothing shall ever persuade me that Valenciennes and Brussels are not preferable to that ornament for fireplaces and fauteuils called Limerick lace, and Genoa velvet a more becoming wear than the O’Connell frieze. But have done with this discussion; you have already put me out of temper by the mention of that odious man’s name.”

“I at least saved your Ladyship from seeing him this morning.”

“How so? Has he been here?”

“Twice already, my Lady; and threatens another visit He says that he has something very important to communicate, and his pockets were stuffed with papers.”

“Oh, dear me! how I dread him and his parchments! Those terrible details by which people discover how little is bequeathed to them, and how securely it is tied up against every possibility of enjoying it. I ‘d rather be a negro slave on a coffee plantation than a widow with what is called a ‘high-principled trustee’ over my fortune.”

“There he comes again, my Lady; see how fast he is galloping up the avenue.”

“Why will that pony never stumble? Amiable and worthy folk break their necks every day of the week, – fathers of families and unbeneficed clergymen. Assurance companies should certainly deal lightly with crusty old bachelors and disagreeable people, for they bear charmed lives.”

“Am I to admit him, my Lady?” asked the maid, moving towards the door.

“Yes – no – I really cannot – but perhaps I must. It is only putting off the evil day. Yes, Lisa, let him come in; but mind that you tell him I am very poorly – that I have had a wretched night, and am quite unfit for any unpleasant news, or, indeed, for anything like what he calls business. Oh dear! oh dear! the very thought of parchment will make me hate sheep to the last hour of my life; and I have come to detest the very sight of my own name, from signing ‘Hester Onslow’ so often.”

It must be said, there was at least no hypocrisy in her Ladyship’s lamentations; if the cause of them was not all-sufficient, the effects were to the full what she averred, and she was, or believed herself to be, the most miserable of women. Sir Stafford’s will had bequeathed to her his Irish property, on the condition of her residing upon it at least six months every two years, a clause whose cruelty she – with or without reason we know not – attributed to the suggestion of Dr. Grounsell. To secure eighteen months of unlimited liberty, she was undergoing her captivity in what, it must be acknowledged, was a spirit the reverse of that the testator intended. So far from taking any interest in the country, its people, or its prospects, she only saw in it a dreary imprisonment, saddened by bad weather, bad spirits, and solitude. Nor were her griefs all causeless. Her position was greatly fallen from the possession of a fortune almost without bounds to the changeful vicissitudes of an Irish property. Norwood’s dreadful death, wrapped in all the mystery which involved it, shocked her deeply, although, in reality, the event relieved her from a bondage she had long felt to be insupportable; and lastly, the Romanism in which she had, so to say, invested all her “loose capital” of zeal and enthusiasm, had become a terrible disappointment. The gorgeous splendor of Italian Popery found a miserable representative in Irish Catholicism. The meanly built Irish chapel, with its humble congregation, was a sorry exchange for the architectural grandeur and costly assemblage gathered within the Duomo of Florence, or beneath the fretted roof of “St. John of Lateran.”

In all the sublimity of pealing music, of full-toned choirs, of incense floating up into realms of dim distance, there were but the nasal sing-song of a parish priest, and the discordant twang of a dirty acolyte! And what an interval separated their vulgar manners of the village curate from the polished addresses of the Roman cardinal! How unlike the blended pretension and cringing slavery of the one was to the high-bred bearing and courtly urbanity of the other. A visit from “Father John” was an actual infliction. To receive his Eminence was not only an honor but a sincere pleasure. Who, like him, to discuss every topic of the world and its fashionable inhabitants, touching every incident with a suave mellowness of remark that, like the light through a stained-glass window, warmed, while it softened, that which it fell upon? Who could throw over the frailties of fashion such a graceful cloak of meek forgiveness, that it seemed actually worth while to sin to be pardoned with such affection? All the pomp and circumstance of Romanism, as seen in its own capital, associated with rank, splendor, high dignity, and names illustrious in story, form a strong contrast to its vulgar pretensions in Ireland. It is so essentially allied to ceremonial and display, that when these degenerate into poverty and meanness, the effect produced is always bordering on the ludicrous. Such, at least, became the feeling of Lady Hester as she witnessed those travesties of grandeur, the originals of which had left her awe-stricken and amazed.

Shorn of fortune, deprived of all the illusions which her newly adopted creed had thrown around her, uncheered by that crowd of flatterers which used to form her circle, is it any wonder if her spirits and her temper gave way, and that she fancied herself the very type of misery and desertion? The last solace of such minds is in the pity they bestow upon themselves; and here she certainly excelled, and upon no occasion more forcibly than when receiving a visit from Dr. Grounsell.

“Dr. Grounsell, my Lady,” said a servant; and, at the words, that gentleman entered.

A heavy greatcoat, with numerous capes, a low-crowned glazed hat, and a pair of old-fashioned “Hessians,” into which his trousers were tucked, showed that he had not stooped to any artifices of toilet to win favor with her Ladyship. As she bowed slightly to him, she lifted her glass to her eye, and then dropped it suddenly with a gentle simper, as though to say that another glance would have perilled her gravity.

“Winter has set in early, madam,” said he, approaching the fire, “and with unusual severity. The poor are great sufferers this year.”

“I ‘m sure I agree with you,” sighed Lady Hester. “I never endured such cold before!”

“I spoke of the ‘poor,’ madam,” retorted he, abruptly.

“Well, sir, has any one a better right to respond in their name than I have? Look around you, see where I am living, and how, and then answer me!”

“Madam,” said Grounsell, sternly, and fixing his eyes steadily on her as he spoke, “I have ridden for two hours of this morning over part of that tract which is your estate. I have visited more than a dozen – I will not call them houses, but hovels. There was fever in some, ague in others, and want, utter want, in all; and yet I never heard one of the sufferers select himself as the special mark of misfortune, but rather allude to his misery as part of that common calamity to which flesh is heir. ‘God help the poor!’ was the prayer, and they would have felt ashamed to have invoked the blessing on themselves alone.”

“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.”