"Never to leave you, Frank," cried she; and fell sobbing into his arms.

CHAPTER x.x.xII. INISTIOGE.

Rich as Ireland is in picturesque river scenery, we know nothing more beautiful than the valley through which the Nore flows between Thomastown and New Ross. The gently sloping meadows, backed by deep woods, and dotted with cheerful farm-houses, gradually give way to a bolder landscape as you descend the stream and enter a dark gorge, whose high beetling sides throw their solemn shade over the river, receding at last to form a kind of amphitheatre wherein stands the little village of Inistioge.

More like a continental than an Irish hamlet, the cottages are built around a wide open s.p.a.ce planted with tall elms and traversed by many a footpath; and here, of a summer night, are to be seen the villagers seated or strolling about in pleasant converse,--a scene of rural peace and happiness such as rarely is to be met with in our land of trial and struggle. Did our time or s.p.a.ce admit of it, we would gladly loiter in that pleasant spot, gazing from that graceful bridge on the ivy-clad towers, the tall and stately abbey, or the rich woods of that proud demesne, which in every tint of foliage encircles the picture.

That "vale and winding river" were scenes of some of our boyhood's happiest hours, and even years--those stern teachers--have not obliterated the memory! Our task is not, however, with these recollections, and we would now ask our reader to stand with us beneath the shadow of the tall elms, while the little village is locked in slumber.

It is past midnight,----all is still and tranquil; a faint moonlight flickers through the leaves, and plays a fitful gleam upon the river.

One man alone is abroad, and he is seen to traverse the bridge with uncertain steps, stopping at moments as if to listen, and then resuming his solitary watch. A light, the only one in the village, twinkles from a window of the little inn, and the door lies open, for in his impatience he has quitted his chamber to walk abroad in the night air.

As the hours wear on, his anxiety seems to increase, and he starts and pauses at every sound of the wind through the trees, and every cadence of the rushing river. At last he hears the tramp of a horse,--he bends down to listen,--it comes nearer and nearer, and in his feverish impatience he hastens in the direction of the coming noise.

"Is that you, Michel?" he cries, in an eager accent.

"Yes, D'Esmonde, it is!" replies a voice; and the next moment the horseman has dismounted at his side.

"What have I not suffered since you left this, Michel!" said D'Esmonde, as he rested his forehead on the other's shoulder. "There is not an image of terror my mind has not conjured up. Shame, ignominy, ruin, were all before me; and had you stayed much longer away, my brain could not have borne it."

"But, D'Esmonde, my friend--"

"Nay, nay, do not reason with me; what I feel--what I suffer--has no relation to the calm influences of reason. I alone can pilot myself through the rocks and quicksands of this channel. Tell me of your mission--how has it fared?"

"Less well than I hoped for," said the other, slowly.

"I thought as much," replied D'Esmonde, in a tone of deep dejection.

"You saw him?"

"Yes, our interview lasted nigh an hour. He received me coldly, but courteously, and entered into the question with a kind of calm acquiescence that at first gave me good encouragement."

"To end in disappointment!" cried D'Esmonde, bitterly; and the other made no reply. "Go on, Michel," said the Abbe, after a pause; "tell me all."

"I began," resumed the other, "by a brief reference to G.o.dfrey's murder, and the impenetrable mystery in which, up to this hour, it would appear to be veiled. I related all that you had told me of the relationship between him and the Daltons, and the causes which had broken off their friendship. With these he seemed conversant, though I am unable to say whether he knew more or less than what I was communicating. I dwelt as long and as forcibly as I deemed safe on the character and habits of old Dalton, hinting at his reckless, unprincipled career, and the wild and lawless notions he entertained on every subject. To my great surprise, and I confess to my discomfiture, he stopped me short by saying,----

"'You would imply, then, that he was the guilty man.'

"'You go too fast, Mr. Grounsell,' said I, calmly; 'I have come to confer and take counsel with you, not to form rash or hasty notions on a matter of such deep gravity. If the circ.u.mstances I shall lay before you possess the same importance in your eyes that they do in mine, it may be that your own conclusions will be even more than suspicious.' I then entered upon the story of Meekins, and how a comrade of his, an Irishman, called Noonan, confessed to him that he was the murderer of Mr. G.o.dfrey; that he had never known him, nor had any intercourse with him; but was employed for the act by old Dalton, who was then residing at Bruges. This Noonan, who was possessed of several letters of Dalton's, had joined a Genoese vessel, fitted out for the slave-trade, and was killed in action. Meekins had frequent conversations with him on the subject of the murder, and, although a stranger from another country, knew every detail of the scene and locality perfectly from description.

"'Meekins is still living?' asked Dr. Grounsell.

"'Living, and now here,' replied I; at which he gave a start of surprise, and, I think, of alarm.

"'Is he ready to substantiate his statement on oath?' said he.

"'That he could do so, I have no doubt,' replied I; 'that he will, or that he ought, is perhaps a matter for calm reflection.'

"'How do you mean?' said he, hastily. 'If what he alleges be true, can there be any hesitation as to its publicity?'

"'On that there may be grave doubts, sir,' said I. 'They whom the law could have held responsible are already gone before another judgment seat. Their guilt or innocence has been proven where deception or error exist not! It is only their blameless descendants that could now pay the penalty of their crime; and it may well be matter for consideration whether they should be exposed to the world's shame, to expiate that wherein they had no share----'

"'Do you yourself believe this man's story?' asked he, abruptly.

"'I see no reason to discredit it,' was my answer. 'There are moments when doubt is more difficult than belief, and this is one of them. He has never varied in his narrative,--he tells it to-day as he told it yesterday,--he details family circ.u.mstances that defy invention, and mentions events and incidents that all tally with facts.'

"'Where was he himself at the time of the murder?'

"'In South America,' he says. 'He had joined one of those patriot expeditions which sailed from Ireland to join Bolivar.'

"'This he can prove, of course?' observed he, shrewdly.

"'I conclude he can,' replied I; 'it never occurred to me to question it.'

"There was an interval after this, in which neither of us spoke; at last he said, 'May I ask how you became acquainted with this man--Meekins?'

"'Through a brother clergyman, who was the means of saving his life abroad.'

"'And the intention is,' rejoined he, in a slow and deliberate voice, 'that we should, while believing this man's statement, keep it secret?

Would not that amount to a very grave offence,--the compromise of a felony?'

"I hesitated as he said this, not knowing well which way the discussion might turn; at last I replied, 'Meekins might refuse his evidence,--he might deny that he had ever made these revelations.'

"'In other words,' said he, 'he prefers to sell his testimony for a better price than a court of justice would pay for it.'

"'You do not suppose that I could be a party to----'

"'Nay, nay,' cried he, interrupting me, 'not on such grounds as these; but I can well conceive your feeling strongly interested for the blameless and unhappy children. The only question is, how far such sympathies can be indulged against the direct claims of justice.'

"There was a dispa.s.sionate calmness in the tone he spoke this, that disarmed my suspicions, D'Esmonde; and it was only when I had left him and was on my way back here, that I perceived what may, perhaps, have been a very great error; for I at once proceeded to lay before him the course I would counsel, and how, by the employment of a very moderate sum, this fellow could be induced to emigrate to America, never to return. After pushing this view with all the force I could, I at last avowed, as if driven to the confession, that another motive had also its weight with me, which was, that my friend and brother priest--the same who rescued Meekins from his fate--was the natural son of Mr. G.o.dfrey, educated and brought up at his cost, and maintained till the period of his death with every requisite of rank and station; that Meekins knew this fact, and would publish it to the world, if provoked to it, and that thus my friend's position at the court of Rome would be utterly ruined.

"'He is a Monsignore, then?" asked Grounsell.

'"He is,' replied I, 'and may even yet be more than that.'"

"This was rash, Michel,--this was all imprudence," said D'Esmonde, with a heavy sigh. "Go on; what said he then?"

"He waited while I told him that we sought for no advantages on the score of this relationship; that we preferred no claims whatever against the estate of Mr. G.o.dfrey; that we only sought to bury in oblivion a great crime, and to prevent the publicity of a great shame.

"'It is your belief, then,' said he, staring me fully in the face, 'that Dalton was guilty?'

"'From what is before me,' replied I, 'it is hard to reject that conclusion.'

"'And that this was an act of pure revenge?'

"'Less that, perhaps, than the hope of succeeding to the property by some will of early date; at least, such is the version Meekins's informant gave him.'