CHAPTER XXXII. 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 space 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 space 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 Abbé, after a pause; “tell me all.”
“I began,” resumed the other, “by a brief reference to Godfrey'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 circumstances 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. Godfrey; 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 circumstances 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 dispassionate 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. Godfrey, 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. Godfrey; 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.'
“'Ay, ay,' said he, 'that would constitute 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 title 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 passions 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 assured. 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 asserting 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 passion.
“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 ignoble, 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.”