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

“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.”

CHAPTER XXXV. A TALK OVER BYGONES

It was with a burst of joy that Lady Hester heard the Daltons had arrived. In the wearisome monotony of her daily life, anything to do, anywhere to go, any one to see, would have been esteemed boons of great price; what delight, then, was it to meet those with whom she could converse of “bygone times” and other lands! – “that dear Kate,” whom she really liked as well as it was in her nature to love anything, from whom she now anticipated so much of that gossip, technically called “news,” and into whose confiding heart she longed to pour out her own private woes!

The meeting was indeed affectionate on both sides; and, as Lady Hester was in her most gracious of moods, Frank thought her the very type of amiability, and the old Count pronounced her manners fit for the high ordeal of Vienna itself. Perhaps our reader will be grateful if we leave to his imagination all the changeful moods of grief and joy, surprise, regret, and ecstasy, with which her Ladyship questioned and listened to Kate Dalton’s stories; throwing out, from time to time, little reflections of her own, as though incidentally, to show how much wiser years had made her. There are people who ever regard the misfortunes of others as mere key-notes to elicit their own sufferings; and thus, when Kate spoke of Russia, Lady Hester quoted Ireland. Frank’s sufferings reminded her of her own “nerves;” and poor Nelly’s unknown fate was precisely “the condition of obscurity to which Sir Stafford’s cruel will had consigned herself.”

Kate’s mind was very far from being at ease, and yet it was with no mean pleasure she found herself seated beside Lady Hester, talking over the past with all that varying emotion which themes of pleasure and sadness call up. Who has not enjoyed the delight of such moments, when, living again bygone days, we laugh or sigh over incidents wherein once as actors we had moved and felt? If time has dimmed our perceptions of pleasure, it has also softened down resentments and allayed asperities. We can afford to forgive so much, and we feel, also, so confident of others’ forgiveness, and if regrets do steal over us that these things have passed away forever, there yet lurks the flattering thought that we have grown wiser than we then were. So is it the autobiographies of the fireside are pleasant histories, whose vanities are all pardonable, and whose trifling is never ungraceful! Memory throws such a softened light on the picture, that even bores become sufferable, and we extract a passing laugh from the most tiresome of our quondam “afflictives.”

Had her Ladyship been less occupied with herself and her own emotions, she could not have failed to notice the agitation under which Kate suffered at many of her chance remarks. The levity, too, with which she discussed her betrothal to Midchekoff almost offended her. The truth was, Kate had half forgotten the reckless, unthinking style of her friend’s conversation, and it required a little practice and training to grow accustomed to it again.

“Yes, my dear,” she went on, “I have had such trouble to persuade people that it was no marriage at all, but a kind of engagement; and when that horrid Emperor would n’t give his consent, of course there was an end of it you may be sure, my sweet child, I never believed one syllable of that vile creature’s story about George’s picture; but somehow it has got abroad, and that odious Heidendorf goes about repeating it everywhere. I knew well that you never cared for poor dear George! Indeed, I told him as much when he was quite full of admiration for you. It is so stupid in men! their vanity makes them always believe that, if they persist – just persevere – in their attachment, the woman will at last succumb. Now, we have a better sense of these things, and actually adore the man that shows indifference to us, – at least, I am sure that I do. Such letters as the poor boy keeps writing about you! And about five months ago, when he was so badly wounded, and did not expect to recover, he actually made his will, and left you all he had in the world. Oh dear!” said she, with a heavy sigh, “they have generous moments, these men, but they never last; and, by the way, I must ask your advice – though I already guess what it will be – about a certain friend of ours, who has had what I really must call the presumption – for, after all, Kate, I think you ‘ll agree with me it is a very great presumption, – is it not, dear?”

“Until you tell me a little more,” replied Kate, with a sigh, “I can scarcely answer.”

“Well, it’s Mr. Jekyl – you remember, that little man that used to be so useful at Florence; not but he has very pretty manners, and a great deal of tact in society. His letters, too, are inimitably droll. I’ll show you some of them.”

“Oh! then you are in correspondence with him?” said Kate, slyly.

“Yes; that is, he writes to me– and I – I sometimes send him a short note. In fact, it was the Abbé D’Esmonde induced me to think of it at all; and I was bored here, and so unhappy, and so lonely.”

“I perceive,” said Kate; “but I trust that there is nothing positive, – nothing like an engagement?”

“And why, dear? – whence these cautious scruples?” said Lady Hester, almost peevishly.

“Simply because he is very unworthy of you,” said Kate, bluntly, and blushing deep at her own hardihood.

“Oh, I’m quite sure of that,” said Lady Hester, casting down her eyes. “I know – I feel that I am mistaken and misunderstood. The world has always judged me unfairly! you alone, dearest, ever comprehended me; and even you could not guess of what I am capable! If you were to read my journal – if you were just to see what sufferings I have gone through! And then that terrible shock! though, I must say, D’Esmonde’s mode of communicating it was delicacy itself. A very strange man that Abbé is, Kate. He now and then talks in a way that makes one suspect his affections are or have been engaged.”

“I always believed him too deeply immersed in other cares.”

“Oh, what a short-sighted judgment, child! These are the minds that always feel most! I know this by myself – daring the last two years especially! When I think what I have gone through! The fate, not alone of Italy, but of Europe, of the world, I may say, discussed and determined at our fireside! Yes, Kate, I assure you, so it was. D’Esmonde referred many points to me, saying ‘that the keener perception of a female mind must be our pilot here.’ Of course, I felt all the responsibility, but never, never was I agitated. How often have I held the destiny of the Imperial House in my hands! How little do they suspect what they owe to my forbearance! But these are not themes to interest you, dearest, and, of course, your prejudices are all Austrian. I must say, Kate, ‘the uncle’ is charming! Just that kind of dear old creature so graceful for a young woman to lean upon; and I love his long white moustache! His French, too, is admirable, – that Madame de Sévigné turn of expression, so unlike modern flippancy, and so respectful to women!”

“I hope you like Frank!” said Kate, with artless eagerness in her look.

“He ‘s wonderfully good-looking without seeming to know it; but, of course, one cannot expect that to last, Kate.”

“Oh! you cannot think how handsome he was before this illness; and then he is so gentle and affectionate.”

“There – there, child, you must not make me fall in love with him, for you know all my sympathies are Italian; and, having embroidered that beautiful banner for the ‘Legion of Hope’ – pretty name, is it not? – I never could tolerate the ‘Barbari.’”

“Pray do not call them such to my uncle,” said Kate, smiling.

“Never fear, dearest. I ‘m in the habit of meeting all kinds of horrid people without ever offending a prejudice; and, besides, I am bent on making a conquest of ‘Mon Oncle;’ he is precisely the species of adorer I like best. I hope he does not take snuff.”

Kate laughed, as she shook her head in sign of negative.

From this Lady Hester diverged to all manner of reflections about the future, – as to whether she ought or ought not to know Midchekoff when she met him; if the villa of La Rocca were really Kate’s, or hers, or the property of somebody else; who was Jekyl’s father, or if he ever had such an appendage; in what part of the Tyrol Nelly was then sojourning; was it possible she was married to the dwarf, and ashamed to confess it? – and a vast variety of similar speculations, equally marked by a bold indifference as to probability, and a total disregard to the feelings of her companion. Kate was, then, far from displeased when a messenger came to say that the General was alone in the drawing-room, and would esteem it a favor if the ladies would join him.

“How do you mean, alone?” asked Lady Hester. “Where is Mr. Dalton?”

“Dr. Grounsell came for him, my Lady, and took him away in a carriage.”

“Poor Frank, he is quite unequal to such fatigue,” exclaimed Kate.

“It is like that horrid doctor. His cruelties to me have been something incredible; at the same time, there’s not a creature on my estate he does not sympathize with! you ‘ll see how it will be, dearest; he’ll take your dear brother somewhere where there’s a fever, or perhaps the plague – for I believe they have it here; and in his delicate state he’s sure to catch it and die! Mark my words, dearest Kate, and see if they’ll not come true.” And with this reassuring speech she slipped her arm within her companion’s and moved out of the room.

It may be conjectured that it was not without weighty reasons Grounsell induced Frank, weary and exhausted as he was, to leave his home and accompany him on a cold and dreary night to the city jail. Although declining to enter upon the question before a third party, no sooner were they alone together than the doctor proceeded to an explanation. Meekins, who it appeared showed the greatest indifference at first, had, as the day wore on, grown restless and impatient. This irritability was increased by the want of his accustomed stimulant of drink, in which, latterly, he had indulged freely, and it was in such a mood he asked for pen and paper, and wrote a few lines to request that young Mr. Dalton would visit him. Grounsell, who made a point to watch the prisoner from hour to hour, no sooner heard this, than he hastened off to the inn with the intelligence.