CHAPTER XXXVIII. A STEP IN VAIN.
Grounsell lost no time in summoning to his aid Mr. Hipsley, one of the leading members of the Irish bar; but while he awaited his coming, difficulties gathered around him from every side. Lenahan, the old farmer, who was at first so positive about the identity of the prisoner, began to express some doubts and hesitations on the subject “It was so many years back since he had seen him, that it was possible he might be mistaken;” and, in fact, he laid far more stress on the fashion of a certain fustian jacket that the man used to wear than on any marks and signs of personal resemblance.
The bold defiance of Meekins, and his insolent threats to expose the Daltons to the world, assailed the poor doctor in various ways; and although far from feeling insensible to the shame of figuring on a trial, as having terrorized over a prisoner, the greater ruin that impended on his friends absorbed all his sorrows.
Had he been the evil genius of the family, he could scarcely have attained a greater degree of unpopularity. Frank's illness—for since the night at the jail his mind had not ceased to wander—was, in Kate's estimation, solely attributable to Grounsell's interference, all the more unpardonable because inexplicable. Lady Hester regarded him as the disturber of all social relations, who, for some private ends, was involving everybody in lawsuits; and the old Count had most natural misgivings about a man who, having assumed the sole direction of a delicate affair, now confessed himself utterly unable to see the way before him.
To such an extent had mortification and defeat reduced the unhappy doctor, that when Hipsley arrived he was quite unable to give anything like a coherent statement of the case, or lay before the astute lawyer the points whereon he desired guidance and direction. Meanwhile the enemy were in a state of active and most menacing preparation. Meekins, discharged from jail, was living at an inn in the town, surrounded by a strong staff of barristers, whose rank and standing plainly showed that abundant pecuniary resources supplied every agency of battle.
Numerous witnesses were said to have been summoned to give their evidence, and the rumor ran that the most ardent votary of private scandal would be satiated with the tales and traits of domestic life the investigation would expose to the world.
Hipsley, who with practised tact soon saw the game about to be played, in vain asked Grounsell for some explanation of its meaning. There was a degree of malignity in all the proceedings which could only be accounted for on the supposition of a long-nourished revenge. How was he to understand this? Alas! poor Grounsell knew nothing, and remembered nothing. Stray fragments of conversation and scattered passages of bygone scenes were jumbled up incoherently in his brain, and it was easy to perceive that a very little was wanting to reduce his mind to the helpless condition of Frank Dalton's.
The charge of a conspiracy to murder his relative, brought against a gentleman of fortune and position, was an accusation well calculated to excite the most painful feelings of public curiosity, and such was now openly avowed to be the allegation about to be brought to issue; and, however repugnant to credulity the bare assertion might appear at first, the rumor was artfully associated with a strong array of threatening circumstances. Every trivial coldness or misunderstanding between Dalton and his brother-in-law, Godfrey, were now remembered and revived. All the harsh phrases by which old Peter used to speak of the other's character and conduct—Dalton's constant use of the expression, “What's the use of his money; will he ever enjoy it?”—was now cited as but too significant of a dreadful purpose; and, in a word, the public, with a casuistry which we often see, was rather pleased to credit what it flattered its own ingenuity to combine and arrange. Dalton was well known to have been a passionate, headstrong man, violent in his resentments, although ready to forgive and forget injuries the moment after. This temper, and his departure for the Continent, from which he never returned, were all the substantial facts on which the whole superstructure was raised.
If Hipsley saw that the array of evidence was far from bringing guilt home to Dalton, he also perceived that the exposure alone would be a terrible blow to the suffering family. The very nature of the attack evinced a deep and hidden vengeance. To avert this dreadful infliction seemed, then, his first duty, and he endeavored by every means in his power to ascertain who was the great instigator of the proceeding, in which it was easy to see Meekins was but a subordinate. The name of Father Cahill had twice or thrice been mentioned by Grounsell, but with a vagueness of which little advantage could be taken. Still, even with so faint a clew, Hipsley was fain to be content, and after several days' ineffectual search, he at last discovered that this priest, in company with another, was residing at the little inn of “The Rore.”
Having communicated his plan to the old General, who but half assented to the idea of negotiating with the enemy, Hipsley set out for “The Rore,” after a long day of fatiguing labor. “An inaccurate and insufficient indictment,” repeated the lawyer to himself; “the old and hackneyed resource to balk the prurient curiosity of the public, and cut off the scent when the gossiping pack are in full cry,—this is all that we have now left to us. We must go into court; the only thing is to leave it as soon as we are able.”
It was not till he was within half a mile of the little inn that Hipsley saw all the difficulty of what he was engaged in; for in what way or on what pretext was he to address Cahill in the matter, or by what right connect him with the proceedings? The hardihood by which he had often suggested to a witness what he wanted to elicit, stood his part now, and he boldly passed the threshold, and asked for Father Cahill. Mistaking him for the chief counsel on the other side, the landlord bowed obsequiously, and, without further parley, introduced him into the room where D'Esmonde and Cahill were then sitting.
“I see, gentlemen,” said Hipsley, bowing politely to each, “that I am not the person you expected; but may I be permitted to enjoy an advantage which good fortune has given me, and ask of you a few moments' conversation? I am the counsel engaged by Mr. Dalton, in the case which on Tuesday next is to be brought to trial; and having learned from Mr. Grounsell that I might communicate with you in all freedom and candor, I have come to see if something cannot be done to rescue the honor of a family from the shame of publicity, and the obloquy that attends the exposure of a criminal court.”
D'Esmonde took up a book as Hipsley began this address, and affected to be too deeply engaged in his reading to pay the least attention to what went forward; while Cahill remained standing, as if to intimate to the stranger the propriety of a very brief interruption.
“You must have mistaken the person you are addressing, sir,” said the priest, calmly. “My name is Cahill.”
“Precisely, sir; and to the Reverend Mr. Cahill I desire to speak. It is about ten days or a fortnight since you called on Dr. Grounsell with a proposition for the settlement of this affair. I am not sufficiently conversant with the details of what passed to say on which side the obstacle stood,—whether he was indisposed to concede enough, or that you demanded too much. I only know that the negotiation was abortive, and it is now with the hope of resuming the discussion—”
“Too late, sir,—too late,” said the priest, peremptorily, while a very slight but decisive motion of D'Esmonde's brows gave him encouragement to be bold. “I did, it is true, take the step you allude to; a variety of considerations had their influence over me. I felt interested about the poor man Meekins, and was naturally anxious to screen from the consequences of shame a very old and honored family of the country—” Here he hesitated, for a warning glance from the Abbé recalled him to caution.
“And you were about to allude to that more delicate part of the affair which relates to Mr. Godfrey's son, sir?” interposed Hipsley, while by an unmistakable gesture he showed his consciousness of D'Esmonde's presence.
“I find, sir,” said Cahill, coldly, “that we are gradually involving ourselves in the very discussion I have already declined to engage in. It is not here, nor by us, this cause must be determined. It would be hard to persuade me that you should even counsel an interference with the course of public justice.”
“You are quite right, sir, in your estimate of me,” said Hipsley, bowing; “nor should I do so if I saw anything in this case but needless exposure and great cruelty towards those who must necessarily be guiltless, without one single good end obtained, except you could so deem the gratification of public scandal by the harrowing tale of family misfortune. Bear with me one moment more,” said he, as a gesture of impatience from Cahill showed that he wished an end of the interview. “I will concede what I have no right to concede, and what I am in a position to refute thoroughly,——the guilt of the party implicated; upon whom will the punishment fall? on the aged uncle, a brave and honored soldier, without the shadow of stain on his fair fame; on a young and beautiful girl, whose life has already compassed more real sorrow than old men like myself have ever known in all their career; and on a youth, now stretched upon his sick-bed, and for whom humanity would rather wish death itself than to come back into a world he must shrink from with shame.”
“'Filius peccatoris exardebit in crimine patris,'——the son of the sinful man shall burn out in his father's shame! “—said D'Esmonde, reading aloud from the volume in his hand.
Hipsley almost started at the solemnity with which these awful words were uttered, and stood for a few seconds gazing on the pale and thoughtful face which was still bent over the book.
“My mission has then failed!” said the lawyer, regretfully. “I am sorry it should be so.”
A cold bow was the only reply Cahill returned to this speech, and the other slowly withdrew, and took his way back to Kilkenny, the solemn and terrible denunciation still ringing in his ears as he went.