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

“There is not a moment to be lost,” said he. “This fellow, from all that I can learn, is but the tool of others, who are bent on bringing before the world the whole story of this terrible crime. A priest, named Cahill, and who for some time back has been loitering about the neighborhood, was at the jail this morning before daybreak. Later on, he posted a letter for Dublin, the address of which I was enabled to see. It was to the eminent lawyer in criminal cases, Mr. Wallace.

“That some great attack is in preparation, I have, then, no doubt; the only question is, whether the object be to extort money by threats of publicity, or is there some deep feeling of revenge against your name and family?

“The jailer, who is in my interest, gives me the most accurate detail of the prisoner’s conduct, and, although I am fully prepared to expect every species of duplicity and deceit from a fellow of this stamp, yet it is not impossible that, seeing himself to a certain extent in our power, he may be disposed to desert to our ranks.

“He asks you to come alone, and of course you must comply. Whatever be the subject of his revelations, be most guarded in the way you receive them. Avow utter ignorance of everything, and give him reasons to suppose that your great object here is to prevent the exposure and disgrace of a public trial. This may make him demand higher terms; but at the same time he will be thrown upon fuller explanations to warrant them. In fact, you must temper your manner between a conscious power over the fellow, and an amicable desire to treat with him.

“He has heard, within the last half-hour, that he has been recognized here by a former acquaintance, whose account of him includes many circumstances of deep suspicion. It may have been this fact has induced him to write to you. This you will easily discover in his manner. But here we are at the gates, and once more, I say, be cautions and guarded in everything.

“Well, Mr. Gray,” said Grounsell to the jailer, “You see we have not delayed very long. Ill as he is, Mr. Dalton has accepted this invitation.”

“And he has done well, sir,” replied the Jailer. “The man’s bearing is greatly changed since morning; some panic has evidently seized him. There’s no saying how long this temper may last; but you are quite right to profit by it while there is yet time.”

“Is he low and depressed, then?”

“Terribly so, sir. He asked a while ago if any one had called to see him. Of course we guessed whom he meant, and said that a priest had been at the jail that morning, but only to learn the charge under which he was apprehended. He was much mortified on being told that the priest neither expressed a wish to see nor speak with him.”

Grounsell gave a significant glance towards Frank, who now followed the jailer to the prisoner’s cell.

“He’s crying, sir; don’t you hear him?” whispered the jailer to Frank, as they stood outside the door. “You could n’t have a more favorable moment.” And, thus saying, he rattled the heavy bunch of keys, in order to give the prisoner token of his approach; and then, throwing open the door, called out, “Here’s the gentleman you asked for, Meekins; see that you don’t keep him long in this cold place, for he is not very well.”

Frank had but time to reach the little settle on which he sat down, when the door was closed, and he was alone with the prisoner.

CHAPTER XXXVI. THE JAIL

Frank Dalton was in no wise prepared for the quiet and easy self-possession with which Meekins, after asking pardon for the liberty of his note, took a seat in front of him. Smoothing down his short and glossy black hair with his hand, he seemed to wait for Frank to open the conversation; and while there was nothing of insolence in his manner, there was an assured calmness, far more distressing to a young and nervous invalid.

“You wished to see me, Meekins,” said Frank, at last. “What can I do for you?”

The man bent slightly forward on his chair, and, fixing his keen and penetrating eyes, continued steadily to stare at him for several seconds.

“You ‘re too young and too generous to have a double in you,” said he, after a long pause, in which it seemed as if he were scanning the other’s nature; “and before we say any more, just tell me one thing. Did any one advise you to come here to-night?”

“Yes,” said Frank, boldly.

“It was that doctor; the man they call the agent, – wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied the youth, in the same tone.

“Now, what has he against me?– what charge does he lay to me?”

“I know nothing about it,” said Frank; “but if our interview is only to consist in an examination of myself, the sooner it ends the better.”

“Don’t you see what I’m at, sir? – don’t you perceive that I only want to know your honor’s feeling towards me, and whether what I ‘m to say is to be laid up in your heart, or taken down in writing and made into an indictment.”

“My feeling towards you is easily told. If you be an honest man, and have any need of me, I ‘ll stand by you; if you be not an honest man, but the dishonesty only affects myself and my interests, show me anything that can warrant it, and I ‘m ready to forgive you.”

The prisoner hung down his head, and for some minutes seemed deeply immersed in reflection.

“Mr. Dalton,” said he, drawing his chair closer to the bed, “I ‘ll make this business very short, and we need n’t be wasting our time talking over what is honesty and what is roguery, – things every man has his own notions about, and that depend far more upon what he has in his pocket than what he feels in his heart I can do you a good turn; you can do me another. The service I can render you will make you a rich man, and put you at the head of your family, where you ought to be. All I ask in return is a free discharge from this jail, and money enough to go to America. There never was a better bargain for you! As for myself, I could make more of my secret if I liked; more, both in money – and – and in other ways.”

As he said these last few words, his cheek grew scarlet and his eyes seemed to glisten.

“I scarcely understand you,” said Frank. “Do you mean – ”

“I ‘ll tell you what I mean, and so plainly that you can’t mistake me. I ‘ll make you what you have good right to be, – the ‘Dalton of Corrig-O’Neal,’ the ould place, that was in your mother’s family for hundreds of years back. It is n’t taking service in a foreign land you need be, but an Irish gentleman, living on his own lawful estate.”

“And for this you ask – ”

“Just what I told you, – an open door and two hundred pounds down,” said the fellow, with a rough boldness that was close on insolence. “I’ve told you already that if I only wanted a good bargain there ‘s others would give more; but that’s not what I ‘m looking for. I ‘m an old man,” added he, in a softened voice, “and who knows when I may be called away to the long account!” Then suddenly, as it were correcting himself for a weak admission, he went on, more firmly, “That’s neither here nor there; the matter is just this: Will you pay the trifle I ask, for three thousand a year, if it is n’t more?”

“I must first of all consult with some friend – ”

“There! that’s enough. You ‘ve said it now! Mr. Dalton, I ‘ve done with you forever,” said the fellow, rising and walking to the window.

“You have not heard me out,” said Frank, calmly. “It may be that I have no right to make such a compact; it may be that by such a bargain I should be compromising the just claims of the law, not to vindicate my own rights alone, but to seek an expiation for a dreadful murder!”

“I tell you again, sir,” said the fellow, with the same sternness as before, – “I tell you again, sir, that I’ve done with you forever. The devil a day you ‘ll ever pass under that same roof of Corrig-O’Neal as the master of it; and if you wish me to swear it, by the great – ”

“Stop!” cried Frank, authoritatively. “You have either told me too much or too little, my good man; do not let your passion hurry you into greater peril.”

“What do you mean by that?” cried the other, turning fiercely round, and bending over the back of the chair, with a look of menace. “What do you mean by too much or too little?”

“This has lasted quite long enough,” said Frank, rising slowly from the bed. “I foresee little benefit to either of us from protracting it further.”

“You think you have me now, Mr. Dalton,” said Meekins, with a sardonic grin, as he placed his back against the door of the cell. “You think you know enough, now, as if I wasn’t joking all the while. Sure what do I know of your family or your estate except what another man told me? Sure I’ve no power to get back your property for you. I ‘m a poor man, without a friend in the world,” – here his voice trembled and his cheek grew paler; “it is n’t thinking of this life I am at all, but what’s before me in the next!”

“Let me pass out,” said Frank, calmly.

“Of course I will, sir; I won’t hinder you,” said the other, but still not moving from the spot. “You said awhile ago that I told you too much or too little. Just tell me what that means before you go.”

“Move aside, sir,” said Frank, sternly.

“Not till you answer my question. Don’t think you’re back with your white-coated slaves again, where a man can be flogged to death for a look! I ‘m your equal here, though I am in prison. Maybe, if you provoke me to it, I ‘d show myself more than your equal!” There was a menace in the tone of these last words that could not be mistaken, and Frank quickly lifted his hand to his breast; but, quick as was the gesture, the other was too speedy for him, and caught his arm before he could seize the pistol. Just at this critical moment the key was heard to turn in the lock, and the heavy door was slowly opened. “There, take my arm, sir,” said Meekins, slipping his hand beneath Frank’s; “You ‘re far too weak to walk alone.”

CHAPTER XXXVII. A FENCING-MATCH

“You came in time, – in the very nick, Mr. Gray,” said Frank, with a quiet smile. “My friend here and I had said all that we had to say to each other.”

“Maybe you’d come again; maybe you’d give me five minutes another time?” whispered Meekins, submissively, in Frank’s ear.

“I think not,” said Frank, with an easy significance in his look; “perhaps, on reflection, you’ll find that I have come once too often!” And with these words he left the cell, and, in silent meditation, returned to his companion.

“The fellow’s voice was loud and menacing when I came to the door,” said Gray, as they walked along.

“Yes, he grew excited just at that moment; he is evidently a passionate man,” was Frank’s reply; and he relapsed into his former reserve.

Grounsell, who at first waited with most exemplary patience for Frank to narrate the substance of his interview, at last grew weary of his reserve, and asked him what had occurred between them.

Frank paid no attention to the question, but sat with his head resting on his hand, and evidently deep in thought. At last he said slowly, —

“Can you tell me the exact date of Mr. Godfrey’s murder?”

“To the day, – almost to the hour,” replied Grounsell. Taking out his pocket-book, he read, “It was on a Friday, the 11th of November, in the year 18 – .”

“Great God!” cried Frank, grasping the other’s arm, while his whole frame shook with a strong convulsion. “Was it, then, on that night?”

“Yes,” said the other, “the murder took place at night. The body, when discovered the next morning, was perfectly cold.”

“Then that was it!” cried Frank, wildly. “It was then – when the light was put out – when he crossed the garden – when he opened the wicket – ”

A burst of hysteric laughter broke from him, and muttering, “I saw it, – I saw it all,” he fell back fainting into Grounsell’s arms.

All the doctor’s care and judicious treatment were insufficient to recall the youth to himself. His nervous system, shattered and broken by long illness, was evidently unequal to the burden of the emotions he was suffering under, and before he reached the hotel his mind was wandering away in all the incoherency of actual madness.

Next to the unhappy youth himself, Grounsell’s case was the most pitiable. Unable to account for the terrible consequences of the scene whose events were a secret to himself, he felt all the responsibility of a calamity he had been instrumental in producing. From Frank it was utterly hopeless to look for any explanation; already his brain was filled with wild images of war and battle, mingled with broken memories of a scene which none around his bed could recognize. In his distraction Grounsell hurried to the jail to see and interrogate Meekins. Agitated and distracted as he was, all his prudent reserve and calm forethought were completely forgotten. He saw himself the cause of a dreadful affliction, and already cured in his heart the wiles and snares in which he was engaged. “If this boy’s reason be lost forever, I, and I only, am in fault,” he went on repeating as he drove in mad haste back to the prison.

In a few and scarcely coherent words he explained to Gray his wish to see the prisoner, and although apprised that he had already gone to rest, he persisted strongly, and was at length admitted into his cell.

Meekins started at the sound of the opening door, and called out gruffly, “Who’s there?”

“It’s your friend,” said Grounsell, who had already determined on any sacrifice of his policy which should give him the hope of aiding Frank.

“My friend!” said Meekins, with a dry laugh. “Since when, sir?”

“Since I have begun to believe I may have wronged you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, seating himself at the bedside.

“I see, sir,” rejoined the other, slowly; “I see it all. Mr. Dalton has told you what passed between us, and you are wiser than he was.”

“He has not told me everything, Meekins, – at least, not so fully and clearly as I wish. I want you, therefore, to go over it all again for me, omitting nothing that was said on either side.”

“Ay,” said the prisoner, dryly, “I see. Now, what did Mr. Dalton say to you? I ‘m curious to know; I ‘d like to hear how he spoke of me.”

“As of one who was well disposed to serve him, Meekins,” said Grounsell, hesitatingly, and in some confusion.

“Yes, to be sure,” said the fellow, with a keen glance beneath his gathering brows. “And he told you, too, that we parted good friends, – at least, as much so as a poor man like myself could be to a born gentleman like him.”

“That he did,” cried Grounsell, eagerly; “and young Mr. Dalton is not the man to think the worse of your friendship because you are not his equal in rank.”

“I see, – I believe I see it all,” said Meekins, with the same sententious slowness as before. “Now look, doctor,” added he, fixing a cold and steady stare on the other’s features, “it is late in the night, – not far from twelve o’clock, – and I ask you, would n’t it be better for you to be asleep in your bed, and leave me to rest quietly in mine, rather than be fencing – ay, fencing here – with one another, trying who is the deepest? Just answer me that, sir.”

“You want to offend me,” said Grounsell, rising.

“No, sir; but it would be offending yourself to suppose that it was worth your while to deceive the like of me, – a poor, helpless man, without a friend in the world.”

“I own I don’t understand you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, reseating himself.

“There’s nothing so easy, sir, if you want to do it If Mr. Dalton told you what passed between us to-night, you know what advice you gave him; and if he did not tell you, faix! neither will I – that’s all. He knows what I have in my power. He was fool enough not to take me at my word. Maybe I would n’t be in the same mind again.”

“Come, come,” said Grounsell, good-humoredly, “this is not spoken like yourself. It can be no object with you to injure a young gentleman who never harmed you; and if, in serving him, you can serve yourself, the part will be both more sensible and more honorable.”

“Well, then,” said Meekins, calmly, “I can serve him; and now comes the other question, ‘What will he do for me?’”

“What do you require from him?”

“To leave this place at once, – before morning,” said the other, earnestly. “I don’t want to see them that might make me change my mind; to be on board of a ship at Waterford, and away out of Ireland forever, with three hundred pounds, – I said two, but I ‘ll want three, – and for that – for that “ – here he hesitated some seconds, – “for that I ‘ll do what I promised.”

“And this business will never be spoken of more.”

“Eh! what?” cried Meekins, starting.

“I mean that when your terms are complied with, what security have we that you ‘ll not disclose this secret hereafter?”

Meekins slowly repeated the other’s words twice over to himself, as if to weigh every syllable of them, and then a sudden flashing of his dark eyes showed that he had caught what he suspected was their meaning.

“Exactly so; I was coming to that,” cried he. “We ‘ll take an oath on the Gospel, – Mr. Frank Dalton and myself, – that never, while there’s breath in our bodies, will we ever speak to man or mortal about this matter. I know a born gentleman would n’t perjure himself, and, as for me, I ‘ll swear in any way, and before any one, that your two selves appoint.”

“Then there’s this priest,” said Grounsell, doubtingly. “You have already told him a great deal about this business.”

“If he has n’t me to the fore to prove what I said, he can do nothing; and as to the will, he never heard of it.”

“The will!” exclaimed Grounsell, with an involuntary burst of surprise; and, brief as it was, it yet revealed a whole world of dissimulation to the acute mind of the prisoner.

“So, doctor,” said the fellow, slowly, “I was right after all. You were only fencing with me.”

“What do you mean?” cried Grounsell.

“I mean just this: that young Dalton never told you one word that passed between us; that you came here to pump me, and find out all I knew; that, cute as you are, there ‘s them that’s equal to you, and that you ‘ll go back as wise as you came.”

“What’s the meaning of this change, Meekins?”

“It well becomes you, a gentleman, and a justice of the peace, to come to the cell of a prisoner, in the dead of the night, and try to worm out of him what you want for evidence. Won’t it be a fine thing to tell before a jury the offers you made me this night! Now, mind me, doctor, and pay attention to my words. This is twice you tried to trick me, for it was you sent that young man here. We ‘ve done with each other now; and may the flesh rot off my bones, like a bit of burned leather, if I ever trust you again!”

There was an insolent defiance in the way these words were uttered, that told Grounsell all hope of negotiation was gone; and the unhappy doctor sat overwhelmed by the weight of his own incapacity and unskilfulness.

“There, now, sir, leave me alone. To-morrow I ‘ll find out if a man is to be treated in this way. If I ‘m not discharged out of this jail before nine o’clock, I ‘ll know why, and you ‘ll never forget it, the longest day you live.”

Crestfallen and dispirited, Grounsell retired from the cell and returned to the inn.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. A STEP IN VAIN

Grounsell lost no time in summoning to his aid Mr. Hipsley, one of the leading members of the Irish bar; but while he awaited his coming, difficulties gathered around him from every side. Lenahan, the old farmer, who was at first so positive about the identity of the prisoner, began to express some doubts and hesitations on the subject “It was so many years back since he had seen him, that it was possible he might be mistaken;” and, in fact, he laid far more stress on the fashion of a certain fustian jacket that the man used to wear than on any marks and signs of personal resemblance.

The bold defiance of Meekins, and his insolent threats to expose the Daltons to the world, assailed the poor doctor in various ways; and although far from feeling insensible to the shame of figuring on a trial, as having terrorized over a prisoner, the greater ruin that impended on his friends absorbed all his sorrows.

Had he been the evil genius of the family, he could scarcely have attained a greater degree of unpopularity. Frank’s illness – for since the night at the jail his mind had not ceased to wander – was, in Kate’s estimation, solely attributable to Grounsell’s interference, all the more unpardonable because inexplicable. Lady Hester regarded him as the disturber of all social relations, who, for some private ends, was involving everybody in lawsuits; and the old Count had most natural misgivings about a man who, having assumed the sole direction of a delicate affair, now confessed himself utterly unable to see the way before him.

To such an extent had mortification and defeat reduced the unhappy doctor, that when Hipsley arrived he was quite unable to give anything like a coherent statement of the case, or lay before the astute lawyer the points whereon he desired guidance and direction. Meanwhile the enemy were in a state of active and most menacing preparation. Meekins, discharged from jail, was living at an inn in the town, surrounded by a strong staff of barristers, whose rank and standing plainly showed that abundant pecuniary resources supplied every agency of battle.

Numerous witnesses were said to have been summoned to give their evidence, and the rumor ran that the most ardent votary of private scandal would be satiated with the tales and traits of domestic life the investigation would expose to the world.

Hipsley, who with practised tact soon saw the game about to be played, in vain asked Grounsell for some explanation of its meaning. There was a degree of malignity in all the proceedings which could only be accounted for on the supposition of a long-nourished revenge. How was he to understand this? Alas! poor Grounsell knew nothing, and remembered nothing. Stray fragments of conversation and scattered passages of bygone scenes were jumbled up incoherently in his brain, and it was easy to perceive that a very little was wanting to reduce his mind to the helpless condition of Frank Dalton’s.

The charge of a conspiracy to murder his relative, brought against a gentleman of fortune and position, was an accusation well calculated to excite the most painful feelings of public curiosity, and such was now openly avowed to be the allegation about to be brought to issue; and, however repugnant to credulity the bare assertion might appear at first, the rumor was artfully associated with a strong array of threatening circumstances. Every trivial coldness or misunderstanding between Dalton and his brother-in-law, Godfrey, were now remembered and revived. All the harsh phrases by which old Peter used to speak of the other’s character and conduct – Dalton’s constant use of the expression, “What’s the use of his money; will he ever enjoy it?” – was now cited as but too significant of a dreadful purpose; and, in a word, the public, with a casuistry which we often see, was rather pleased to credit what it flattered its own ingenuity to combine and arrange. Dalton was well known to have been a passionate, headstrong man, violent in his resentments, although ready to forgive and forget injuries the moment after. This temper, and his departure for the Continent, from which he never returned, were all the substantial facts on which the whole superstructure was raised.

If Hipsley saw that the array of evidence was far from bringing guilt home to Dalton, he also perceived that the exposure alone would be a terrible blow to the suffering family. The very nature of the attack evinced a deep and hidden vengeance. To avert this dreadful infliction seemed, then, his first duty, and he endeavored by every means in his power to ascertain who was the great instigator of the proceeding, in which it was easy to see Meekins was but a subordinate. The name of Father Cahill had twice or thrice been mentioned by Grounsell, but with a vagueness of which little advantage could be taken. Still, even with so faint a clew, Hipsley was fain to be content, and after several days’ ineffectual search, he at last discovered that this priest, in company with another, was residing at the little inn of “The Rore.”

Having communicated his plan to the old General, who but half assented to the idea of negotiating with the enemy, Hipsley set out for “The Rore,” after a long day of fatiguing labor. “An inaccurate and insufficient indictment,” repeated the lawyer to himself; “the old and hackneyed resource to balk the prurient curiosity of the public, and cut off the scent when the gossiping pack are in full cry, – this is all that we have now left to us. We must go into court; the only thing is to leave it as soon as we are able.”