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

From hour to hour, as the trial proceeded, Frank received tidings from the court-house. The excitement, far from injuring, seemed to rally and re-invigorate him; and although the painful exposure of their domestic circumstances was cautiously slurred over to his ears, it was plain to see the indignant passion with which he heard of Nelly and Kate being dragged before the public eye. It was, indeed, a day of deep and terrible emotion, and when evening came he sank into the heavy sleep of actual exhaustion. While nothing was heard in the sick-room save the long-drawn breathings of the sleeper, the drawing-rooms of the hotel were crowded with the gentry of the neighborhood, all eager to see and welcome the Dalton’s home again. If the old were pleased to meet with the veteran Count Stephen, the younger were no less delighted with even such casual glimpses as they caught of Kate, in the few moments she could spare from her brother’s bedside. As for Lady Hester, such a torrent of sensations, such a perfect avalanche of emotion, was perfect ecstasy; perhaps not the least agreeable feeling being the assurance that she no longer possessed any right or title to Corrig-O’Neal, and was literally unprovided for in the world.

“One detests things by halves,” said she; “but to be utterly ruined is quite charming.”

The country visitors were not a little surprised at the unfeigned sincerity of her enjoyment, and still more, perhaps, at the warm cordiality of her manner towards them, – she who, till now, had declined all proffers of acquaintanceship, and seemed determined to shun them.

Consigning to her care all the duties of receiving the crowd of visitors, which old Count Stephen was but too happy to see, Kate only ventured for a few minutes at a time to enter the drawing-room. It was while hastening back from one of these brief intervals that she heard her name spoken in a low but distinct voice. She turned round, and saw a man, closely enveloped in a large cloak, beside her.

“It is I, Miss Dalton, – the Abbé D’Esmonde,” said he. “May I speak with your brother?”

Kate could hardly answer him from terror. All the scenes in which she had seen him figure rose before her view, and the man was, to her eyes, the very embodiment of peril.

“My brother is too ill, sir, to receive you,” said she. “In a few days hence – ”

“It will then be too late, Miss Dalton,” said he, mournfully. “The very seconds as they pass, now, are as days to one who stands on the brink of eternity.”

“Is there anything which I could communicate to him myself? for I am fearful of what might agitate or excite him.”

“If it most be so,” said he, sighing, and as if speaking to himself. “But could you not trust me to say a few words? I will be most cautious.”

“If, then,’ to-morrow – ”

“To-morrow! It must be now, – at this very instant!” cried he, eagerly. “The life of one who is unfit to go hence depends upon it.” Then, taking her hand, he continued: “I have drawn up a few lines, in shape of a petition for mercy to this wretched man. They must be in London by to-morrow night, to permit of a reprieve before Saturday. Your brother’s signature is all-essential. For this I wished to see him, and to know if he has any acquaintanceship with persons in power which could aid the project. You see how short the time is; all depends upon minutes. The Secretary of State can suspend the execution, and in the delay a commutation of the sentence may be obtained.”

“Oh, give it to me!” cried she, eagerly. And, snatching the paper from his hands, she hurried into the chamber.

Frank Dalton was awake, but in all the languor of great debility. He scarcely listened to his sister, till he heard her pronounce the name of the Abbé D’Esmonde.

“Is he here, Kate? – is he here?” cried he, eagerly.

“Yes, and most anxious to see and speak with you.”

“Then let him come in, Kate. Nay, nay, it will not agitate me.”

Kate noiselessly retired, and, beckoning the Abbé to come forward, she left the room, and closed the door.

D’Esmonde approached the sick-bed with a cautious, almost timid air, and seated himself on a chair, without speaking.

“So, then, we are cousins, I find,” said Frank, stretching out his wasted hand towards him. “They tell me you are a Godfrey, Abbé?”

D’Esmonde pressed his hand in token of assent, but did not utter a word.

“I have no wish – I do not know if I have the right – to stand between you and your father’s inheritance. If I am destined to arise from this sick-bed, the world is open to me, and I am not afraid to encounter it. Let us be friends, then, D’Esmonde, in all candor and frankness.”

“Willingly, – most willingly. There need be but one rivalry between us,” said D*Esmonde, with a voice of deep feeling, – “in the struggle who shall best serve the other. Had we known of this before; had I suspected how our efforts might have been combined and united; had I but imagined you as my ally, and not my – But these are too exciting themes to talk upon. You are not equal to them.”

“Not so; it is in such moments that I feel a touch of health and vigor once again. Go on, I beseech you.”

“I will speak of that which more immediately concerns us,” said the Abbé. “This wretched man stands for execution on Saturday. Let us try to save him. His guilt must have already had its expiation in years of remorse and suffering. Here is a petition I have drawn up to the Secretary of State. It has been signed by several of the jury who tried the cause. We want your name also to it Such a commutation as may sentence him to exile is all that we pray for.”

“Give me the pen; I ‘ll sign it at once.”

“There, – in that space,” said the’ Abbé, pointing with his finger. “How your hand trembles! This cannot be like your usual writing.”

“Let me confirm it by my seal, then. You’ll find it on the table yonder.”

D’Esmonde melted the wax, and stood beside him, while the youth pressed down the seal.

“Even that,” said the Abbé, “might be disputed. There ‘s some one passing in the corridor; let him hear you acknowledge it as your act and hand.” And, so saying, he hastened to the door, and made a sign to the waiter to come in. “Mr. Dalton desires you to witness his signature,” said he to the man.

“I acknowledge this as mine,” said Frank, already half exhausted by the unaccustomed exertion.

“Your name, there, as witnessing it,” whispered D’Esmonde; and the waiter added his signature.

“Have you hope of success, Abbé?” said Frank, faintly.

“Hope never fails me,” replied D’Esmonde, in a voice of bold and assured tone. “It is the only capital that humble men like myself possess; but we can draw upon it without limit. The fate of riches is often ruins, but there is no bankruptcy in hope. Time presses now,” said he, as if suddenly remembering himself; “I must see to this at once. When may I come again?”

“Whenever you like. I have much to say to you. I cannot tell you now how strangely you are mixed up in my fancy – it is but fancy, after all – with several scenes of terrible interest.”

“What! – how do you mean?” said D’Esmonde, turning hastily about

“I scarcely know where to begin, or how to separate truth from its counterfeit Your image is before me, at times and in places where you could not have been. Ay, even in the very crash and tumult of battle, as I remember once at Varenna, beside the Lake of Como. I could have sworn to have seen you cheering on the peasants to the attack.”

“What strange tricks imagination will play upon us!” broke in D'Ësmonde; but his voice faltered, and his pale cheek grew paler as he said the words.

“Then, again, in the Babli Palace at Milan, where I was brought as a prisoner, I saw you leave the council-chamber arm-in-arm with an Austrian Archduke. When I say I saw you, I mean as I now see you here, – more palpable to my eyes than when you sat beside my sick-bed at Verona.”

“Dreams, – dreams,” said D’Esmonde. “Such illusions bespeak a mind broken by sickness. Forget them, Dalton, if you would train your thoughts to higher uses.” And, so saying, in a tone of pride, the Abbé bowed, and passed out.

As D’Esmonde passed out into the street, Cahill joined him.

“Well,” cried the latter, “is it done?”

“Yes, Michel,” was the answer; “signed, and sealed, and witnessed in all form. By this document I am recognized as a member of his family, inheriting that which I shall never claim. No,” cried he, with exultation of voice and manner, “I want none of their possessions; I ask but to be accounted of their race and name; and yet the time may come when these conditions shall be reversed, and they who would scarcely own me to-day may plot and scheme to trace our relationship. Now for Rome. To-night – this very night – I set out. With this evidence of my station and fortune there can be no longer any obstacle. The struggle is past; now to enjoy the victory!”

“You will see him before you go, D’Esmonde? A few minutes is all he asks.”

“Why should I? What bond is there between us now? The tie is loosened forever; besides, he deceived us, Michel, – deceived us in everything.”

“Be it so,” said the other; “but remember that it is the last prayer of one under sentence of death, – the last wish of one who will soon have passed away hence.”

“Why should I go to hear the agonizing entreaties for a mercy that cannot be granted, – the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature?”

“Do not refuse him, D’Esmonde. He clings to this object with a fixed purpose that turns his mind from every thought that should become the hour. In vain I speak to him of the short interval between him and the grave. He neither hears nor heeds me. His only question is, ‘Is he coming, – will he come tome?’”

“To lose minutes, when every one of them is priceless, to waste emotions when my heart is already racked and tortured, – why should I do this?” cried D’Esmonde, peevishly.

“Do not refuse me, D’Esmonde,” said Cahill, passionately. “I despair of recalling the miserable man to the thought of his eternal peril till this wish be satisfied.”

“Be it so, then,” said the Abbé, proudly; and he walked along beside his friend in silence.

They traversed the streets without a word spoken. Already D’Esmonde had assumed an air of reserve which seemed to mark the distance between himself and his companion; the thoughtful gravity of his look savored no less of pride than reflection. In such wise did Cahill read his manner, and by a cautious deference appear to accept the new conditions of their intimacy.

“The prisoner has not uttered a word since you were here, sir,” said the jailer, as they entered the gate. “He shows the greatest anxiety whenever the door opens; but, as if disappointed at not seeing whom he expected, relapses at once into his silent reserve.”

“You see that he still expects you,” whispered Cahill to the Abbé; and the other assented with a faint nod of the head.

“No, sir; this way,” said the jailer; “he is now in the condemned cell.” And, so saying, he led the way along the corridor.

By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed high up in the wall, they could just detect the figure of a man, as he sat crouched on the low settle-bed, his head resting on his arms as they were crossed over his knees. He never moved as the grating sound of the heavy door jarred on the stillness, but sat still and motionless.

“The Abbé D’Esmonde has come to see you, Eustace,” said the jailer, tapping him on the shoulder. “Wake up, man, and speak to him.”

The prisoner lifted his head and made an effort to say something; but though his lips moved, there came no sounds from them. At last, with an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed to the door, and said, “Alone – alone!”

“He wants to speak with you alone, sir,” whispered the jailer, “and so we will retire.”

D’Esmonde could not see them leave the cell without a sense of fear, – less the dread of any personal injury than the strange terror so inseparable to any close communion with one convicted of a dreadful crime, – and he actually shuddered as the massive door was banged to.

“You are cold, sir!” said the prisoner, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

“No, it was not cold!” replied D’Esmonde.

“I can guess what it was, then!” said the other, with an energy to which passion seemed to contribute. “But I ‘ll not keep you long here. Sit down, sir. You must sit beside me, for there is no other seat than the settle-bed. But there is nobody here to see the great Abbé D’Esmonde side by side with a murderer.”

“Wretched man,” said D’Esmonde, passionately, “by what fatality did you rush upon your fate? Why did you ever return to this country?”

“It is to tell you that – ay, that very thing – I asked you to come here to-night,” said the prisoner, with a firm, full voice. “I came here for you– just so – for you yourself, There, there,” continued he, naughtily, “don’t look as if I wanted to trick you. Is it here. Is it now, that a lie would sarve me? Listen to me, and don’t stop me, for I want to turn my thoughts to something else when this is off my heart. Listen to me. Very soon after you saved me at Venice, I knew all about you; who you were, and what you were planning, – ay, deep as you thought yourself, I read every scheme in you, and opened every letter you wrote or received. You don’t believe me. Shall I give you a proof? Did you accept eight bills for money Morlache the Jew sent you, from Florence, in March last? Did Cardinal Antinori write to say that the Bull that named you cardinal must have your birth set forth as noble? Did the Austrian Field-Marshal send you the cross of St. Joseph, and did you not return it, as to wear it would unmask you to the Italians?”

“What if all this were true?” said D’Esmonde, proudly. “Is it to one like you I am to render account for my actions? What is it to you if – ”

“What is it to me?” cried the other, fiercely, – “what is it to me? Isn’t it everything? Isn’t it what brought me here, and what in three days more will bring me to the gallows? I tell you again, I saw what you were bent on, and I knew you ‘d succeed, – ay, that I did. If it was good blood you wanted to be a cardinal, I was the only one could help you.”

“You knew the secret of my birth, then?” cried D’Esmonde, in deep earnestness. “You could prove my descent from the Godfreys?”

“No! but I could destroy the only evidence against it,” said the other, in a deep, guttural voice. “I could tear out of the parish registry the only leaf that could betray you; and it was for that I came back here; and it was for that I ‘m now here. And I did do it. I broke into the vestry of the chapel at midnight, and I tore out the page, and I have it here, in my hand, this minute. There was a copy of this same paper at the college at Louvain, but I stole that, too; for I went as porter there, just to get an opportunity to take it, – that one I destroyed.”

“But whence this interest in my fortunes?” said D’Esmonde, half proudly, for he was still slow to believe all that he heard.

“The paper will tell you that,” said the other, slowly unfolding it, and flattening it out on his knee. “This is the certificate of your baptism! Wait – stop a minute,” cried he, catching D’Esmonde’s arm, as, in his impatience, he tried to seize the paper. “This piece of paper is the proof of who you are, and, moreover, the only proof that will soon exist to show it.”

“Give it to me – let me see it!” cried D’Esmonde, eagerly. “Why have you withheld till this time what might have spared me anxious days and weary nights; and by what right have you mixed yourself up with my fortunes?”

“By what right is it – by what right?” cried the other, in a voice which passion rendered harsh and discordant. “Is that what you want to know?” And, as he spoke, he bent down and fixed his eyes on the Abbé with a stern stare. “You want to know what right I have,” said he, and his face became almost convulsed with passion. “There’s my right – read that!” cried he, holding out the paper before D’Esmonde’s eyes. “There’s your birth proved and certified: ‘Matthew, son of Samuel and Mary Eustace, of Ballykinnon, baptized by me this 10th day of April, 18 – . Joseph Barry, P.P.’ There’s the copy of your admission into the convent, and here’s the superior’s receipt for the first quarter’s payment as a probationer. Do you know who you are now? or do you still ask me what right I have to meddle in your affairs?”

“And you – and you – you – ” cried D’Esmonde, gasping.

“I am your father. Ay, you can hear the words here, and needn’t start at the sound of them. We’re in the condemned cell of a jail, and nobody near us. You are my son. Mr. Godfrey paid for you as a student till – till – But it’s all over now. I never meant you to know the truth; but a lie would n’t serve you any longer. Oh, Matthew, Matthew!” cried he – and of a sudden his voice changed, and softened to accents of almost choking sorrow – “haven’t you one word for me? – one word of affection for him that you brought to this, and who forgives you for it? – one word, even to call me your own father?” He fell at the other’s feet, and clasped his arms around his knees as he spoke, but the appeal was unheard.

Pale as a corpse, with his head slightly thrown forward, and his eyes wildly staring before him, D’Esmonde sat, perfectly motionless. At last the muscles of his mouth fashioned themselves into a ghastly smile, a look of mockery so dreadful to gaze upon that the prisoner, terror-stricken at the sight, rushed to the door, and beat loudly against it, as he screamed for help. It was opened on the instant, and the Jailer, followed by two others, entered.

“He’s ill; his reverence is taken bad,” said the old man, while he trembled from head to foot with agitation.

“What’s this paper? What is he clutching in his hands?” cried the jailer.

D’Esmonde started at the words. For the first time a gleam of intelligence shot over his features, and as suddenly he bent a look of withering hate on the speaker; and then, with a passionate vehemence that told of a frantic brain, he tore the paper into fragments, and, with a wild yell, as if of triumph, he fell senseless on the ground. When they lifted him up, his features were calm, but passionless, his eye was vacant, and his lips slightly parted. An expression of weariness and exhaustion, rather than of actual pain, pervaded the face. He never spoke again. The lamp of intellect was extinguished forever, and not even a flicker or a spark remained to cheer the darkness within him. Hopeless and helpless idiotcy was ever after the lot of one whose mind, once stored with the most lofty ambitions, never scrupled, at any cost, to attain its object. And he whose proud aspirings soared to the very grandest of earthly prizes, who gave his counsel among princes, now lives on, bereft of mind and intelligence, without consciousness of the past, or a hope for the future.

CHAPTER XLI. THE END

With the sad episode which closes our last chapter we would fain let fall the curtain on this history. Very few words will now suffice to complete the narrative of those with whom we have so long sojourned. The discovery which revealed the murder of Mr. Godfrey restored Frank Dalton to the home and fortune of his family; and although the trying scenes through which he had passed made deep and dangerous inroads on his health, youth and hope, and the watchful care of Kate, restored him; and, after the lapse of some weeks, he was enabled to be about once more, recalling to the recollection of many the handsome figure and manly bearing of his father.

For many a year before, Corrig-O’Neal had not seen such a party beneath its roof, nor had those gloomy old walls echoed to such sounds as now were heard within them. In addition to Lady Hester, George Onslow, now a colonel, was the guest of the Daltons. Scarcely arrived in England, he quitted London at the moment when the tidings of his gallant achievements had made him the hero of the day, and hurried to see her who, through every change of his fortunes, had been the dearest object of his heart.

What tender reproaches, what heart-warm confessions, did those old woods hear, as, side by side, the lovers walked along, revealing the secret sorrows of the past, and recalling each incident which once had cheered with hope or shadowed with despair. But it is not in such company we would play the “eavesdropper,” nor watch for the changeful blushes of that soft cheek where tears of joy and grief are mingled. Neither would we care to accompany Grounsell, as with deeds and bonds, codicils and conveyances, he actually hunted poor Frank from place to place, urgently impressing on him the necessity for those “business habits,” the sad neglect of which had been the ruin of all the Daltons. As little inducement is there to follow Lady Hester, whose restless activity was interfering with every one and everything, taking the most lively Interest in the property the very moment it ceased to be her own, and devoted to all the charities which no longer could lay claim to being duties.

Pleasanter, perhaps, would it be to follow the old Count, as he sauntered alone for hours, trying to trace out in the long-forgotten scenes the stories of his boyhood. What pleasant reveries they were! – what glorious compensations for all the tumultuous passages of an eventful life! And so he felt them! And so he recognized with grateful heart the happy destiny which had befallen him, to close his days where he had begun them – in the midst of his own – loving and beloved.

And yet with such scenes and emotions we must not dally. Story-tellers, like Mother Carey’s chickens, have no sympathies with sunny skies and soft airs, – their province is amidst the hurricane and the storm. In truth, too, it is the very essence of tranquil enjoyment that it must be left to the imagination of each to conceive.

But one care weighed on all, and that was the absence of poor Nelly. Why was she not amongst them, to see their happiness, and heighten its enjoyment by all the benevolence of her kindly nature? It was true they were relieved of all anxiety regarding her by a letter which had followed them from Vienna, and which told how she had arrived in that city a few days after they had left it.

“I stood,” she said, “looking at the great palace where they told me Count Stephen lived, and could not bring myself to think it was not a dream that such as I should have business there! “I sat down on the steps of a church in front of it, and gazed for hours long at the great door through which you must have passed so often, and the windows which doubtless you stood at – perhaps thinking of poor Nelly! At last came Hanserl to say that he had obtained leave to see the palace; and oh, how my heart beat at the words, – for there was pride as well as humiliation in the thought, – and so we went in, and, crossing the great court, ascended the wide staircase. How beautiful it all was, those marble statues, – the rich frescos of the ceilings, – the gorgeous lamps, all emblazoned with armorial emblems; and yet I thought less of these than the polished steps which your feet had trodden, and which I could have kissed for your sake. “I had not imagined so much magnificence. You will smile, perhaps, at my simplicity, but so did not that kind old soldier with the wooden leg, who took such pains to show us everything. He was evidently pleased to witness our admiring wonder, and actually laughed at Hanserl’s enthusiasm for all those bright scimitars and shields of Turkish make, the horse-tailed banners, and other emblems of Austrian victory; while I stole away silently into a little chamber all hung with blue damask, over the mantelpiece of which was a portrait of our own dear Frank. How I felt that the room was yours, Kate, – how my heart told me each object you had touched, – and how they all became to my delighted senses like precious relics, revealing stores of affection laid up in your bosom, and showing a wealth of love I was not conscious of till then. Oh, no, dearest sister, I never knew, till then, how things without life themselves can be the links between beating hearts! I looked everywhere for a portrait of yourself, and it was only by asking the old corporal that I succeeded in finding it. ‘The Gräfin’s picture is in the Field-Marshal’s own room,’ said he, with pride, and led the way towards it. Oh, Kate, how beautiful – nay, it is Nelly, your own stern Nelly, who never flattered you herself nor could bear others to do so – it is Nelly, the same Nelly, unchanged, save in being less trustful, less impulsive, less forgiving than you knew her, and she tells you that at sight of such loveliness she stood wonderstruck and fascinated. Had you been really then before me, such as the picture represented, I had not dared to approach you; there was that of nobility and grandeur that had appalled my poor peasant heart, unused to the glitter of diamonds and the queenly air of high-born beauty; but, as I gazed on the likeness, long and steadily, this expression faded away, and, as though the lineaments were changing, I thought the eyes grew softer; they seemed to moisten, the lips trembled, the bosom heaved and fell, and it was you – you! as I had pressed you to my heart a thousand times – my own! my own! I know not what foolish words I may have uttered, nor to what excess my rapture carried me, but I was weeping bitterly as they led me away, – ay, bitterly, Kate; for such ecstasy as I felt finds its true vent in sorrow! But now I am happy once more, – happy that I have seen you and dear Frank, – happy that each of us in life has trodden the path that best became him! and so I came away, with many a lingering look, and many a backward glance, at what I was never to see again. “Here, in my mountain home, once more I can sit, alone, and think of you for days. You wander through all my thoughts, the characters of endless stories, in every imaginable vicissitude, and with every change of fortune; but throughout all, Kate – good and beautiful – truthful too, as you ever were. There, my tears have blotted out what I tried to say, nor dare I trust myself with more. My school children are already coming through the vineyard; I hear their song, – it was your own long ago: – ‘Da sind die Täge lang gennch, Da sind die Nachte milde.’ “Good-bye, good-bye, my sister – my dear sister.