"'Ay, ay,' said he, 'that would const.i.tute a motive, of course. Your advice is, then, that we should make terms with this fellow? Is this also your friend's counsel?'

"'I scarcely can tell you,' replied I 'My friend is not in any sense a worldly man. His whole thoughts are centred in the cause he serves, and he could only see good or evil in its working on the Church. If his cousins--'

"'His cousins!'

"'Yes, the Daltons--for they are such----deem this the fitting course, he is ready to adopt it. If they counsel differently, I can almost answer for his compliance.'

"'You can give me time to communicate with Dalton? He is at Vienna.'

"'Yes, if you agree with me in this view of the case, and think that such will be Dalton's opinion also; otherwise it will be difficult to secure this fellow's secrecy much longer. He knows that he is in possession of a deeply important fact; he feels the impunity of his own position; and to-morrow or next day he may threaten this, that, or other. In fact, he believes that Lady Hester Onslow herself has no t.i.tle to the estate, if he were disposed to reveal all he knows.'

"'Can I see him?' asked Grounsell.

"' Of course you can; but it would be useless. He would affect an utter ignorance of everything, and deny all knowledge of what we have been talking.'

"'You will give me some hours to think over this?' asked he, after a pause.

"'I had rather that you could come to a quicker resolve,' said I; 'the fellow's manner is menacing and obtrusive. I have perhaps too long delayed this visit to you; and should he suspect that we are hesitating, he may go before a magistrate, and make his deposition before we are aware of it.'

"'You shall hear from me this evening, sir. Where shall I address my note?'

"'The Rev. Michel Cahill--the Inn, at Inistioge,' replied I. And so we parted."

"We must leave this at once, Michel," said D'Esmonde, after a brief interval of silence. "Grounsell may possibly come over here himself. He must not see me; still less must he meet with Meekins. We have gone too fast here,--much too fast."

"But you told me that we had not a moment to lose."

"Nor have we, Michel; but it is as great an error to overrun your game as to lag behind the scent. I distrust this doctor."

"So do I, D'Esmonde. But what can he do?"

"We must quit this place," said the other, not heeding the question.

"There is a small wayside public, called the 'Rore,' about five miles away. We can wait there for a day, at least I almost wish that we had never embarked in this, Michel," said he, thoughtfully. "I am seldom faint-hearted, but I feel I know not what of coming peril. You know well that this fellow Meekins is not to be depended on. When he drinks, he would reveal any and everything. I myself cannot determine whether to credit or reject his testimony. His insolence at one moment, his slavish, abject terror at another, puzzle and confound me."

"You have been too long an absentee from Ireland, D'Esmonde, or they would present no difficulties to your judgment. At every visit I make to our county jail I meet with the self-same natures, torn, as it were, by opposite influences,--the pa.s.sions of this world, and the terrors of that to come."

"Without the confessional, who could read them!" exclaimed D'Esmonde.

"How true that is!" cried the other. "What false interpretations, what mistaken views, are taken of them! And so is it,--we, who alone know the channel, are never to be the pilots!"

"Say not so," broke in D'Esmonde, proudly. "We are, and we shall be!

Ours will be the guidance, not alone of them, but of those who rule them. Distrust what you will, Michel, be faint-hearted how you may, but never despair of the glorious Church. Her triumph is already a.s.sured.

Look at Austria, at Spain, at all Northern Italy. Look at Protestant Prussia, trembling for the fate of her Rhine provinces. Look at England herself, vacillating between the game of conciliation and the perils of her unlimited bigotry. Where are we not victorious? Ours is the only despotism that ever smote two-handed,--crushing a monarchy here, and a people there,--proclaiming divine right, or a.s.serting the human inheritance of freedom! Whose banner but ours ever bore the double insignia of rule and obedience?--ours, the great Faith, equal to every condition of mankind and to every age and every people? Never, never despair of it!"

D'Esmonde sat down, and covered his face with his hands; and when he arose, his pale features and bloodless lips showed the strong reaction from a paroxysm of intense pa.s.sion.

"Let us leave this, Michel," said he, in a broken voice. "The little inn I speak of is not too distant for a walk, and if we start at once we shall reach it before daybreak. While you awake Meekins, and arrange all within, I will stroll slowly on before." And, thus saying, D'Esmonde moved away, leaving the others to follow.

D'Esmonde was more than commonly thoughtful, even to depression. He had been but a few days in Ireland, but every hour of that time had revealed some new disappointment to him. There was all that he could wish of religious zeal, there was devotion and faith without limit amongst the people; but there was no unity of action, no combination of purpose, amongst those who led them. Discursive and rash efforts of individuals were suffered to disturb well-laid measures and reveal long-meditated plans. Vain and frivolous controversies in newspapers, petty wars of petty localities, wasted energies, and distracted counsels. There was none of that organization, that stern discipline, which at Rome regulated every step, and ordained every movement of their mighty host.

"This," muttered he to himself, "is an army without field-officers.

Their guerilla notions must be henceforth exchanged for habits of military obedience. Little think they that their future General is now the solitary pedestrian of a lonely road at midnight." The recurrence to himself and his own fortunes was one of those spells which seemed to possess an almost magical influence over him. From long dwelling on the theme, he had grown to believe that he was destined by Heaven for the advancement, if not the actual triumph, of the great cause of the Church; and that he, whose origin was obscure and ign.o.ble, could now sit down at the council of the Princes of the Faith, and be heard, as one whose words were commands, was always sufficient evidence that he was reserved by fate for high achievements. Under the spell of this conviction he soon rallied from his late dejection, and his uplifted head and proud gait now showed the ambitious workings of his heart.

"Ay," cried he, aloud, "the first Prince of the Church who for above a century has dared them to defiance! _That_ is a proud thought, and well may nerve the spirit that conceives it to courageous action."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII. THE MANOR-HOUSE OF CORRIG-O'NEAL.

While we leave, for a brief s.p.a.ce, the Abbe D'Esmonde to pursue his road, we turn once more to the peaceful scene wherein we found him.

Mayhap there be in this dalliance something of that fond regret, that sorrowful lingering with which a traveller halts to look down upon a view he may never see again! Yes, dear reader, we already feel that the hour of our separation draws nigh, when we shall no more be fellow-journeyers, and we would fain loiter on this pleasant spot, to tarry even a few moments longer in your company.

Pa.s.sing downwards beneath that graceful bridge, which with a rare felicity seems to heighten, and not to impair, the effect of the scene, the river glides along between the rich wooded hills of a handsome demesne, and where, with the most consummate taste, every tint of foliage and every character of verdure has been cultivated to heighten the charm of the landscape. The spray-like larch, the wide-leaved sycamore, the solemn pine, the silver-trunked birch, all blending their various hues into one harmonious whole,--the very perfection of a woodland picture. As if reluctant to leave so fair a scene, the stream winds and turns in a hundred bendings--now forming little embayments among the jutting rocks, and now, listlessly loitering, it dallies with the gnarled trunks of some giant beech that bends into the flood.

Emerging from these embowering woods, the river enters a new and totally different tract of country,--the hills, bare of trees, are higher, almost mountainous in character, with outlines fantastic and rugged.

These, it is said, were once wooded too; they present, however, little remains of forest, save here and there a low oak scrub. The sudden change from the leafy groves, ringing with many a "wood note wild," to the dreary silence of the dark region, is complete as you approach the foot of a tall mountain, at whose base the river seems arrested, and is in reality obliged by a sudden bend to seek another channel. This is Corrig-O'Neal; and here, in a little amphitheatre, surrounded by mountains of lesser size, stood the ancient manor of which mention has been more than once made in these pages.

It is but a short time back and there stood there an ancient house, whose character, half quaint, half n.o.ble, might have made it seem a French chateau; the tall, high-pitched roof, pierced with many a window; the richly ornamented chimneys, the long terrace, with its grotesque statues, and the intricate traceries of the old gate itself, all evidencing a taste not native to our land. The very stiff and formal avenue of lime-trees that led direct to the door had reference to a style of landscape-gardening more consonant with foreign notions, even without the fountains, which, with various strange groups of allegorical meaning, threw their tiny jets among the drooping flowers. At the back of the house lay a large garden, or rather what const.i.tuted both garden and orchard; for although near the windows trim flower-beds and neatly gravelled walks were seen, with rare and blossoming plants, as you advanced, the turf usurped the place of the cultivated ground, and the apple, the pear, and the damson formed a dense, almost impenetrable shade.

Even on the brightest day in spring, when the light played and danced upon the shining river, with blossoming cherry-trees, and yellow crocuses in the gra.s.s, and fair soft daffodils along the water's edge, smiling like timid beauties, when the gay May-fly skimmed the rippling stream, and the strong trout splashed up to seize him,--even then, with life and light and motion all around, there was an air of sadness on this spot,--a dreary gloom, that fell upon the spirits less like sudden grief than as the memory of some old and almost forgotten sorrow. The frowning aspect of that stern mountain, which gave its name to the place, and which, in its rugged front, showed little touch of time or season, seemed to impress a mournful character on the scene. However it was, few pa.s.sed the spot without feeling its influence, nor is it likely that now, when scarcely a trace of its once inhabited home remains, its aspect is more cheering.

In a dark wainscoted room of this gloomy abode, and on a raw and dreary day, our old acquaintance, Lady Hester, sat, vainly endeavoring between the fire and the screen to keep herself warm, while shawls, m.u.f.fs, and mantles were heaped in most picturesque confusion around her. A French novel and a Blenheim spaniel lay at her feet, a scarce-begun piece of embroidery stood at one side of her, and an untasted cup of coffee on a small table at the other. Pale, and perhaps seeming still more so from the effect of her deep mourning, she lay back in her chair, and, with half-closed lids and folded arms, appeared as if courting sleep--or at least unconsciousness.

She had lain thus for above half an hour, when a slight rustling noise--a sound so slight as to be scarcely audible----caught her attention, and, without raising her head, she asked in a faint tone,----

"Is there any one there?"

"Yes, my Lady. It is Lisa," replied her maid, coming stealthily forward, till she stood close behind her chair. "Put some of that thing----peat, turf, or whatever it is----on the fire, child. Has the post arrived?"

"No, my Lady; they say that the floods have detained the mails, and that they will be fully twelve hours late."

"Of course they will," sighed she; "and if there should be anything for _me_, they will be carried away."

"I hope not, my Lady."

"What's the use of your hoping about it, child? or, if you must hope, let it be for something worth while. Hope that we may get away from this miserable place,----that we may once more visit a land where there are sunshine and flowers, and live where it repays one for the bore of life."

"I 'm sure I do hope it with all my heart, my Lady."

"Of course you do, child. Even you must feel the barbarism of this wretched country. Have those things arrived from Dublin yet?"

"Yes, my Lady; but you never could wear them. The bonnet is a great unwieldy thing, nearly as big and quite as heavy as a Life-Guardsman's helmet; and the mantle is precisely like a hearth-rug with sleeves to it. They are specially commended to your Ladyship's notice, as being all of Irish manufacture."

"What need to say so?" sighed Lady Hester. "Does not every lock on every door, every scissors that will not cut, every tongs that will not hold, every parasol that turns upside down, every carriage that jolts, and every shoe that pinches you, proclaim its nationality?"

"Dr. Grounsell says, my Lady, that all the fault lies in the wealthier cla.s.ses, who prefer everything to native industry."

"Dr. Grounsell's a fool, Lisa. Nothing shall ever persuade me that Valenciennes and Brussels are not preferable to that ornament for fireplaces and fauteuils called Limerick lace, and Genoa velvet a more becoming wear than the O'Connell frieze. But have done with this discussion; you have already put me out of temper by the mention of that odious man's name."

"I at least saved your Ladyship from seeing him this morning."