As the two priests affected to be engaged on a kind of mission to collect subscriptions for some sacred purpose, their appearance or departure excited no feeling of astonishment, and the landlord of "The Bore" saw them prepare to set out without expressing the least surprise.

The little "low-backed car," the common conveyance of the people at fair and market, was soon at the door; and, seated in this, and well protected against the weather by rugs and blankets, they began their journey.

"This is but a sorry subst.i.tute for the scarlet-panelled coach of the Cardinal, D'Esmonde," said his companion, smiling.

A low, faint sigh was all the answer the other made, and so they went their way in silence.

The day broke drearily and sad-looking; a thin, cold rain was falling, and, from the leaden sky above to the damp earth beneath, all was gloomy and depressing. The peasantry they pa.s.sed on the road were poor-looking and meanly clad; the houses on the wayside were all miserable to a degree; and while his companion slept, D'Esmonde was deep in his contemplation of these signs of poverty.

"No," said he, at last, as if summing up the pa.s.sing reflections in his own mind, "this country is not ripe for the great changes we are preparing. The gorgeous splendor of the Church would but mock this misery. The rich robe of the Cardinal would be but an insult to the ragged coat of the peasant. England must be our field. Ireland must be content with a missionary priesthood. Italy, indeed, has poverty, but there is an intoxication in the life of that land which defies it. The sun, the sky, the blue water, the vineyards, the groves of olive, and the fig--the lightheadedness that comes of an existence where no fears invade--no gloomy to-morrow has ever threatened. These are the elements to baffle all the cares of narrow fortune, and hence the gifts which make men true believers! In climates such as this men brood and think and ponder. Uncheered from without, they turn within, and then come doubts and hesitations,--the fatal craving to know that which they may not! Of a truth these regions of the north are but ill suited to our glorious faith, and Protestantism must shun the sun as she does the light of reason itself."

"What! are you preaching, D'Esmonde?" cried his friend, waking up at the energetic tone of the Abbe's voice. "Do you fancy yourself in the pulpit? But here we are, close to the town. We had better dismount now, and proceed on foot."

Having dismissed their humble equipage, the two friends walked briskly along, and entered the city, which, even at this early hour, was filling for its weekly market.

D'Esmonde took up his quarters at once at a small inn close by the castle gate, and the priest Cahill immediately proceeded to the jail.

He found no difficulty in obtaining access to his acquaintance the under-turnkey, but, to his disappointment, all approach to Meekins was strictly interdicted. "The magistrates were here," said the turnkey, "till past midnight with him, and that English agent of the Corrig-O'Neal estate was along with them. What took place, I cannot even guess, for it was done in secret. I only overheard one of the gentlemen remark, as he pa.s.sed out, 'That fellow is too deep for us all; we 'll make nothing of him.'"

Cahill questioned the man closely as to what the arrest related, and whether he had heard of any allegation against Meekins; but he knew nothing whatever, save that he had broken his bail some years before.

The strictest watch was enjoined over the prisoner, and all intercourse from without rigidly denied. To the priest's inquiries about Meekins himself, the turnkey replied by saying that he had never seen any man with fewer signs of fear or trepidation. "Whatever they have against him," added he, "he's either innocent, or he defies them to prove him guilty."

Cahill's entreaties were all insufficient to make the turnkey disobey his orders. Indeed, he showed that the matter was one of as much difficulty as danger, the chief jailer being specially interested in the case by some observation of one of the justices.

"You can at least carry a message for me?" said the priest, at last.

"It's just as much as I dare do," replied the other.

"You incur no risk whatever so far," continued Cahill "The poor man is my sacristan, and I am deeply interested for him. I only heard of his being arrested last night, and you see I 've lost no time in coming to see after him. Tell him this. Tell him that I was here at daybreak, and that I 'll do my best to get leave to speak with him daring the day.

Tell him, moreover, that, if I shouldn't succeed in this, not to be down-hearted, for that we--a friend of mine and myself----will not desert him nor see him wronged. And, above all, tell him to say nothing whatever to the magistrates. Mind me well,--not a syllable of any kind."

"I mistake him greatly," said the turnkey, "or he 's the man to take a hint quick enough, particularly if it's for his own benefit."

"And so it is,--his own, and no other's," rejoined the priest. "If he but follow this advice, I 'll answer for his being liberated before the week ends. Say, also, that I 'd send him some money, but that it might draw suspicion on him; and for the present it is better to be cautious."

Before Cahill left the prison, he reiterated all his injunctions as to caution, and the turnkey faithfully pledged himself to enforce them on the prisoner.

"I will come again this evening," said the priest, "and you can tell me what he says; for, as he has no friend but myself, I must not forsake him."

As Cahill gained the street, a heavy travelling-carriage, whose lumbering build bespoke a foreign origin, pa.s.sed by with four posters, and, sweeping across the market-place, drew up at the chief inn of the town. The priest, in idle curiosity, mingled with the lounging crowd that immediately gathered around the strange-looking equipage, where appliances for strength and comfort seemed blended, in total disregard to all facilities for motion. A bustling courier, with all the officiousness of his craft, speedily opened the door and banged down the steps, and a very tall old man, in what appeared to be an undress military frock, descended, and then a.s.sisted a young lady to alight.

This done, they both gave their arm to a young man, whose wasted form and uncertain step bespoke long and severe illness. Supporting him at either side, they a.s.sisted him up the steps into the hall, while the bystanders amused themselves in criticising the foreigners, for such their look and dress declared them.

"The ould fellow with a white beard over his lip is a Roosian or a Proosian," cried one, who aspired to no small skill in continental nationalities.

"Faix! the daughter takes the shine out of them all," cried another.

"She's a fine crayture!"

"The brother was a handsome man before he had that sickness," observed a third. "'Tis no use of his legs he has!"

[Ill.u.s.tration: 459]

These frank commentaries on the new arrivals were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of the old man on the steps of the hall door, where he stood gazing down the street, and totally unconscious of the notice he was attracting.

"What's that building yonder?" cried he, to the waiter at his side, and his accent, as he spoke, betrayed a foreign tongue. "The Town Hall!--ah, to be sure, I remember it now; and, if I be not much mistaken, there is----at least there was--an old rickety stair to a great loft overhead, where a strange fellow lived, who made masks for the theatre--what's this his name was?" The bystanders listened to these reminiscences in silent astonishment, but unable to supply the missing clew to memory.

"Are none of you old enough to remember Jack Ruth, the huntsman?" cried he, aloud.

"I have heard my father talk of him," said a middle-aged man, "if it was the same that galloped down the mountain of Corrig-O'Neal and swam the river at the foot of it."

"The very man," broke in the stranger. "Two of the dogs, but not a man, dared to follow! I have seen some bold feats since that day, but I scarcely think I have ever witnessed a more dashing exploit. If old Jack has left any of his name and race behind him," said he, turning to the waiter, "say that there's one here would like to see him;" and with this he re-entered the inn.

"Who is this gentleman that knows the country so well?" asked the priest..

"Count Dalton von Auersberg, sir," replied the courier. "His whole thoughts are about Ireland now, though I believe he has not been here for upwards of sixty years."

"Dalton!" muttered the priest to himself; "what can have brought them to Ireland? D'Esmonde must be told of this at once!" And he pushed through the crowd and hastened back to the little inn.

The Abbe was engaged in writing as Cahill entered the room.

"Have you seen him, Michel?" cried he, eagerly, as he raised his head'

from the table.

"No. Admission is strictly denied--"

"I thought it would be so--I suspected what the game would be. This Grounsell means to turn the tables, and practise upon _us_ the menace that was meant for _him_. I foresee all that he intends, but I'll foil him! I have written here to Wallace, the Queen's Counsel, to come down here at once. This charge against old Dalton, in hands like his, may become a most formidable accusation."

"I have not told you that these Daltons have arrived here--"

"What! Of whom do you speak?"

"The old Count von Dalton, with a niece and nephew."

D'Esmonde sprang from his seat, stood for some seconds, stood still and silent.

"This is certain, Michel? you know this to be true?"

"I saw the old General myself, and heard him talk with the waiter."

"The combat will, then, be a close one," muttered D'Esmonde. "Grounsell has done this, and it shall cost them dearly. Mark me, Michel--all that the rack and the thumb-screw were to our ancestors, the system of a modern trial realizes in our day. There never was a torture, the invention of man's cruelty, as terrible as cross-examination! I care not that this Dalton should have been as innocent as you are of this crime,--it matters little if his guiltlessness appear from the very outset. Give me but two days of searching inquiry into his life, his habits, and his ways. Let me follow him to his fireside, in his poverty, and lay bare all the little straits and contrivances by which he eked out existence, and maintained a fair exterior. Let me show them to the world, as I can show them, with penury within, and pretension without These disclosures cannot be suppressed as irrelevant,--they are the alleged motives of the crime. The family that sacrifices a child to a hateful alliance----that sells to Austrian bondage the blood of an only son--and consigns to menial labor a maimed and sickly girl, might well have gone a step further in crime."

"D'Esmonde! D'Esmonde!" cried the other, as he pressed him down into a seat, and took his hand between his own, "these are not words of calm reason, but the outpourings of pa.s.sion." The Abbe made no answer, but his chest heaved and fell, and his breath came with a rushing sound, while his eyes glared like the orbs of a wild animal.

"You are right, Michel," said he at last, with a faint sigh. "This was a paroxysm of that hate which, stronger than all my reason, has actuated me through life. Again and again have I told you that towards these Daltons I bear a kind of instinctive aversion. These antipathies are not to be combated,--there are brave men who will shudder if they see a spider. I have seen a courageous spirit quail before a worm. These are not caprices, to be laughed at,--they are indications full of pregnant meaning, could we but read them aright. How my temples throb!--my head seems splitting. Now leave me, Michel, for a while, and I will try to take some rest."

CHAPTER x.x.xV. A TALK OVER BYGONES

It was with a burst of joy that Lady Hester heard the Daltons had arrived. In the wearisome monotony of her daily life, anything to do, anywhere to go, any one to see, would have been esteemed boons of great price; what delight, then, was it to meet those with whom she could converse of "bygone times" and other lands!--"that dear Kate," whom she really liked as well as it was in her nature to love anything, from whom she now antic.i.p.ated so much of that gossip, technically called "news,"

and into whose confiding heart she longed to pour out her own private woes!