In company with this respectable ally, I set out for the headquarters. On my arrival I waited on the Count von Auersberg, in whose house the sick boy lay. This old man, who is Irish by birth, is more Austrian in nature than the members of the House of Hapsburg.

I found him fully convinced that the white-coated legions had reconquered Lombardy by their own unaided valor, and I left him in the same pleasant delusion. It appeared that a certain Count von Walstein was enabled to clear young Dalton's character from all taint of treason, by exhibiting, in his own correspondence, some letters and doc.u.ments that related to the events detailed in Frank's writing, and of which he could have had no possible knowledge. This avowal may be a serious thing for Walstein, but rescues the young Dalton at once, and proves that he was merely the writer of Ravitzky's sentiments; so that here, again, Michel, he escapes. Is not this more than strange?

"It was not without anxiety that I pa.s.sed the threshold of the sick-chamber; but happily it was darkened, and I soon saw that the sick youth could never recognize me, were his senses even unclouded. He lay motionless, and I thought insensible; but after I spoke to him he rallied a little, and asked after his father and his sisters. He had not yet heard that his father was dead; and it was affecting to hear the attempt he made to vindicate his honor, and show that he had never been disloyal. By degrees I brought him to talk of himself. He saw that he was dying, and had no fears of death; but there seemed as if his conscience was burdened by some heavy weight, less like guilt than the clew to some strange and dark affair. The revelation--if it deserved the name, for it was made in broken sentences--now uttered with rapid vehemence, now scarcely audible----was of the vaguest kind. You may imagine, however, the interest I felt in the narrative as the name G.o.dfrey pa.s.sed his lips. To know my anxiety to trace some tie of family to these G.o.dfreys. They were gentry of ancient blood and good name, and would amply satisfy the demands of the Sacred College; so that when the boy spoke of G.o.dfrey, I listened with intense curiosity; but--shall I own it?--all my practised skill, all my science of the sick-bed, was unable to tell me what were the utterings of an unclouded intellect, and what the wild fitful fancies of fever. I know, for I have repeatedly heard it from his sister's lips, that this youth has never been in Ireland, and yet he spoke of the peculiar scenery of a certain spot just as if he had traversed it yesterday. Mind, that I am carefully distinguishing between what might be the impression left by often hearing of a scene from others, and that which results from personal observation. His was altogether of the latter kind. As, for instance, when describing a garden, he mentioned how the wind wafted the branches of a weeping ash across a window, so as to confuse the scene that went on within; and then he shuddered terribly, and, with a low sigh, exclaimed, 'The light went out _after_ that.' These are not ravings, Michel. This boy knows something of that dark mystery I have more than once alluded to in my letters. Could it be that his own father was in some way implicated in the affair? Bear in mind how he came to live abroad, and never returned to Ireland. From all I can learn, the old Dalton was a bold and reckless character, that would scarcely have stopped at anything.

a.s.suredly, the son's conscience is heavily burdened! Now, there is an easy way to test the truth or fallacy of all this; and herein you must aid me, Michel. I have carefully noted every word the boy spoke; I have treasured every syllable that fell from him. If his description of the scene be correct, the mystery may be unravelled. This you can speedily ascertain by visiting the spot. It is not more than twenty miles from you, and about three or four, I believe, from the little village of Inistioge; it is called Corrig- O'Neal,--a place of some importance once, but now, as I hear, a ruin. Go thither, Michel, and tell me correctly all these several points. First, does the character of the river scenery suddenly change at this spot, and, from an aspect of rich and leafy beauty, exhibit only dark and barren mountains without a tree or a shrub? Is the old manor-house itself only a short distance from the stream, and backed by these same gloomy mountains? The house itself, if unaltered, should be high-peaked in roof, with tall, narrow windows, and a long terrace in front; an imitation, in fact, of an old French chateau. These, as you will see, are such facts as might have been heard from another; but now I come to some less likely to have been so learned.

"From this boy's wanderings, I collect that there is a woodland path through these grounds, skirting the river in some places, and carried along the mountain-side by a track escarped in the rock itself. If this ever existed, its traces will still be visible. I am most curious to know this fact. I can see the profound impression it has made on the youth's mind, by the various ways in which he recurs to it, and the deep emotion it always evokes. At times, indeed, his revelations grow into something like actual descriptions of an event he had witnessed; as, for instance, last night he started from his sleep, his brow all covered with perspiration, and his eyes glaring wildly. 'Hush!' he cried; 'hush! He is crossing the garden, now; there he is at the door; lie still--lie still.' I tried to induce him to talk on, but he shuddered timidly, and merely said, 'It's all over, he has strewn leaves over the spot, let us go away.'

you will perhaps say that I attach undue importance to what may be the mere outpourings of a fevered intellect, but there is an intensity in the feeling which accompanies them, and, moreover, there is a persistence in the way he always comes back to them, that are not like the transient terrors that haunt distracted minds. No, Michel, there is a mystery, and a dreadful one, connected with this vision. Remember!

that the secret of G.o.dfrey's death has never been cleared up; the breach which separated him from these Daltons was then at its widest. Dalton's character you are familiar with; and, although abroad at that time, who can say what agencies may not have worked for him? Give your serious consideration to these facts, and tell me what you think.

You know me too well and too long to suppose that I am actuated by motives of mere curiosity, or simply the desire to trace the history of a crime. I own to you, that with all my horror of blood, I scarcely grieve as I witness the fruitless attempts of English justice to search out the story of a murder. I feel a sort of satisfaction at the combat between Saxon dulness and Celtic craft--between the brute force of the conqueror and the subtle intelligence of the conquered--that tells me of a time to come when these relations shall be reversed. Acquit me, therefore, of any undue zeal for the observance of laws that only remind me of our slavery. However clear and limpid the stream may look, I never forget that its source was in foulness! I am impelled here by a force that my reason cannot account for. My boyhood was, in some manner, bound up with this G.o.dfrey's fate. I was fatherless when he died! could he have been my father? This thought continually recurs to me! Such a discovery would be of great value to me just now; the question of legitimacy would be easily got over, as I seek for none of the benefits of succession. I only want what will satisfy the Sacred College. My dear Michel, I commit all this to your care and industry; give me your aid and your advice. Should it happen that Dalton was involved in the affair, the secret might have its value. This old field- marshal's pride of name and family could be turned to good account.

"I must tell you that since I have overheard this boy's ravings, I have studiously avoided introducing my Irish _protege_ into the sickroom. My friend, Paul Meekins, might be a most inconvenient confidant, and so I shall keep him under my own eye till some opportunity occurs to dispose of him. He tells me that his present tastes are all ecclesiastical. Do you want a sacristan? if so, he would be your man. There is no such trusty subordinate as the fellow with what the French call 'a dark antecedent;' and this I suspect to be his case.

"I have well wearied you, my dear friend, and yet have I not told you half of what I feel on this strange matter. I am little given to tremble at shadows, and still there are terrors over me that I cannot shake off. Write to me, then, at once; tell me all that you see, all that you can hear.

Observe well the localities; it will be curious if the boy be correct. Mark particularly if there be a spot of rising ground from which the garden is visible, and the windows that look into it, and see if there be a door out of the garden at this point. I could almost map out the scene from his description.

"I have done, and now, I scarcely know whether I should feel more relief of heart to know that all this youth has said were fever wanderings, or words of solemn meaning. It is strange how tranquilly I can move through the great events of life, and yet how much a thing like this can shake my nerve; but I suppose it is ever so, and that we are great or little as the occasion makes us.

"I have just heard that Lady Hester Onslow has gone over to Ireland. She will probably be at Corrig-O'Neal. If so, you can present yourself to her as my old and intimate friend, and this will afford you an opportunity of examining the scene at leisure. I enclose you a few lines to serve as an introduction. Adieu, my dear friend.

"You have often sighed over the obscurity of your position, and the unambitious life of a parish priest. Believe me, and from my heart I say it, I would willingly exchange all the rewards I have won, all that I could ever hope to win, for one week--one short week--of such calm quiet as breathes under the thatched roof of your little cottage.

"I leave this for Vienna to-morrow, to thank the minister; and with good reason, too, since without his a.s.sistance the Pope would have shrunk from the bold policy. Thence I go to Rome; but within a fortnight I shall be back in Florence, where I hope to hear from you. If all goes well, we shall meet soon.--Yours, in much affection,

Mathew D'Esmonde."

As the Abbe finished this letter, he turned to look at a short note, which, having opened and scanned over, he had thrown on the table beside him. It was from Albert Jekyl, who wrote to inform him that Lord Norwood had just arrived in Florence from Ireland, where he had left Lady Hester; that so far as he, Jekyl, could make out, the Viscount had made an offer of marriage, and been accepted.

"It will be for you, my dear Abbe," added he, "to ascertain this fact positively, as, independently of the long journey at this inclement season, it would be a very serious injury to me were it known that I advanced pretensions that were not responded to. He who has never failed must not risk a defeat. Pray lose no time in investigating this affair, for Florence is filling fast, and my future plans will depend on your reply."

The priest bestowed little attention on the small gossipry that filled up the page. His eye, however, caught the name of Midchekoff, and he read,----

"The Prince returned last Tuesday to the Moskova, but no one has seen him, nor has any one been admitted within the gates. Of course there are a hundred rumors as to the why and the wherefore,----some alleging that he has received orders of 'reclusion,' as they call it, from home, the Emperor not being quite satisfied with his political campaign; some, that he has taken up a grudge against the court here, and shows his spleen in this fashion. But what shallow reason would this be for a hermit life? and what legitimate ground of complaint have not we, who, so to say, possess a vested interest in his truffles and ortolans and dry champagne? I a.s.sure you that such conduct rouses all the democracy of my nature, and I write these lines with a red silk cap on my head. After all, the real good he effected was a kind of reflected light. He crushed little people, and ground down all their puny efforts at b.a.l.l.s, dinners, and _dejeuners_. He shamed into modest insignificance such a world of sn.o.bbery, and threw an air of ridicule over 'small early partyism' and 'family dinners.' What a world of dyspepsia has he thus averted,----what heartburns and heartburnings! Oh, little people! little people! ye are a very dreadful generation, for ye muddy the waters of society, so that no man can drink thereof.

"Politically, we are calm and reactionary; and whether it be thrashing has done it, I know not, but some of the Tuscans are 'Black and Yellow' already. Not that the dear Austrians promise to make Florence better or pleasanter. They mix badly with our population. It is as if you threw a spoonful of 'sauerkraut' into your 'potage a la reine!' Besides, the Italians are like the Chinese,----unchanged and unchangeable,--and they detest the advent of all strangers who would interfere with their own little, soft, sleepy, and enervating code of wickedness.

"Pray send me three lines, just to say----Is it to be or not to be? Rose, the tailor, is persecuting me about a mocha-brown, for a wedding garment, which certainly would harmonize well with the prevailing tints of my hair and eyebrows, but I am too prudent a diplomatist to incur 'extraordinaires' till I be sure of 'my mission.' Therefore write at once, for such is my confidence in your skill and ability that I only wait your mandate to launch into kid gloves and lacquered leather, quite regardless of expense.

"Yours, most devotedly,

"Albert JEKYL.

"I open this to say that Morlache was seen going to the Moskora last night with two caskets of jewels. Will this fact throw any light on the mysterious seclusion?"

These last two lines D'Esmonde read over several times; and then, crashing the note in his hand, he threw it into the fire. Within an hour after he was on his way to Florence.

CHAPTER XXIX. A SECRET AND A SNARE.

As we draw near to the end of our voyage, we feel all the difficulty of collecting the scattered vessels of our convoy; and while signalizing the "clippers" to shorten sail, we are calling on the heavy sailers to crowd "all their canvas."

The main interest of our story would keep us beside Frank Dalton, whose fate seemed daily to vacillate,----now threatening gloomily, now rallying into all the brightness of hope. By slow and cautious journeys the old Count proceeded to remove him to Vienna, where he expected soon to-be joined by Kate. Leaving them, then, to pursue their road by steps far too slow for our impatience, we hasten along with D'Esmonde, as, with all the speed he could accomplish, he made for Florence.

Occasionally he tried to amuse himself and divert his thoughts by conversing with Meekins, who accompanied him; but although the man's shrewdness was above the common, and his knowledge of the world very considerable, D'Esmonde quickly saw that a thick cloak of reserve covered the real man on all occasions, and that his true nature lay many a fathom deep below that smooth surface. The devout respect which he felt for the Abbe might, perhaps, have increased this reserve; for Meekins was an Irish peasant, and never forgot the deference due to a priest.

Accustomed to read men at sight, D'Esmonde would give himself no trouble in deciphering a page which promised little to reward the labor; and so, after a while, he left his companion to occupy the "box," while he himself followed his own thoughts alone and undisturbed. Now and then he would be aroused from his deep reveries by remarking the reverential piety of the peasants as they pa.s.sed some holy shrine or some consecrated altar. Then, indeed, Meekins displayed a fervor so unlike the careless indifference of the native, that D'Esmonde was led to reflect upon the difference of their natures, and speculate on how far this devotion of character was innate in the Irishman, or merely the result of circ.u.mstances.

There was an expression of eager, almost painful meaning, too, in the man's face as he muttered his prayers, that struck the keen eyes of the Abbe; and he could not avoid saying to himself, "That fellow has a load upon his heart. Fear, and not hope, is the mainspring of his devotions."

At another moment D'Esmonde might have studied the case as a philosopher studies a problem,--merely for the exercise it may give his faculties,--but his own cares were too pressing and too numerous for more than a pa.s.sing notice.

The night was falling as they gained the crest of the mountain over Florence; D'Esmonde stopped the carriage on the hill above the "Moskova," and gazed steadily for some moments on the spot. The villa, partly shrouded in trees, was brilliantly illuminated; the lights gleamed and sparkled through the foliage, and, as he listened, the sound of rich music came floating on the air.

"This looks little like seclusion," thought he. "These are signs of some great festivity." As he drew up to the gate, however, he found it closed and locked. Not a carriage was to be seen. Even the usual lamps were unlighted, and all appeared deserted and unoccupied. D'Esmonde stood for a few seconds buried in thought; his emotion was deep and heartfelt; for, as he grasped the iron bars of the gate, his strong frame shook and trembled. "True--true!" muttered he to himself in an accent of almost bursting agony,--"I could not have given thee this, Lola, and for this alone hadst thou any heart!" He leaned his face against the gate, and sobbed heavily. "What poison," cried he, in a voice of bitterness,--"what poison there must be in unholy pa.s.sion, when it can move a heart like mine, after years and years of time! To think that not all the glory of a great cause, all the pride of successful ambition, striving for rewards the very highest,--all that I possess of power and influence,--all, all should give way to the grief for a half-forgotten, unreturned love! How poor a thing the heart is, when we fancy its desires to be n.o.blest and highest!"

This burst of pa.s.sionate grief over, he slowly returned to the carriage and pursued his way to Florence; and, entering the city, he drove for the house of Racca Morlache. The Jew was not at home, but was to return by eleven o'clock, at which hour he had ordered supper for a guest and himself. D'Esmonde lay down on a sofa, and fell asleep. Wearied as he was, his watchfulness soon detected the approach of footsteps; and, as he listened, he heard the voice of a stranger in colloquy with the servant. The door opened at the same time, and Lord Norwood entered.

D'Esmonde only waited for the servant to retire, when he sprang forward to salute him.

"Oh! I thought you were at the camp, or at Vienna, or somewhere to the north'ard," said the Viscount, coolly.

"I was so, my Lord; and there I should have remained, if a pressing duty had not recalled me to Florence."

"You have always so many irons in the fire, Abbe, that it requires some skill to keep them all hot."

"You are right, my Lord; some skill, and some practice too."

"And do you never burn your fingers?" said the other, sarcastically.

"Very rarely, my Lord; for when I meddle with fire, I generally make use of my friends' hands."

"By Jove, it's not a bad plan!" cried the Viscount, laughing; for, as the priest well knew, he had a most lively appreciation for every species of knavery, and entertained real respect for all who practised it. "You _are_ a very downy cove, Master D'Esmonde," said he, gazing at him; "and you 'd have made a very shining figure on the Turf, had your fortune thrown you in that direction."

"Perhaps so, my Lord," said the Abbe, carelessly. "My own notion is, that fair natural gifts are equal to any exigencies ever demanded of us; and that the man of average talent, if he have only energy and a strong will, has no superior to dread."

"That may do well enough," said Norwood, rising and pacing the room,--"that may do well enough in the common occurrences of life, but it won't do on the Turf, Abbe. The fellows are too artful for you there.

There are too many dodges and tricks and windings. No, no, believe me; nothing has a chance in racing matters, without perfect and safe 'information;' you know what that means."

"It is precisely the same thing in the world at large," said D'Esmonde.

"The very cleverest men rush into embarra.s.sments and involve themselves in difficulties for which there is no issue, simply for want of what you call 'information.' Even yourself, my Lord," said he, dropping his voice to a low and distinct whisper,--"even yourself may discover that you owe safety to a Popish priest."

"How do you mean? What do you allude to?" cried Norwood, eagerly.

"Sit down here, my Lord. Give me a patient hearing for a few minutes. We have fortunately a moment of unbroken confidence now; let us profit by it."

Norwood seated himself beside the priest, without speaking, and, folding his arms, prepared to hear him calmly.