Such was, in brief, the substance of a long mental struggle and self-examination on Fagan's part,—a process to which he addressed himself with all the shrewdness of his nature. It was a matter of deep moment to him in every way. He ardently desired that he should arrive at a right judgment upon it; and yet, with all his penetration and keen-sighted-ness, he never perceived that another agency was at work all the while, whose tendencies were exactly in the opposite direction. To believe Walter Carew still unmarried was to revive his long-extinct hope of calling him his son-in-law, and to bring back once more that gorgeous dream of Polly's elevation to rank and position, which had filled his mind for many a year. His whole heart had been set upon this object. In pursuit of it, he had made the most immense advances of money to my father, many of them on inferior security. For some he had the mere acknowledgment contained in a few lines of a common letter. The measures of severity which he had once menaced were undertaken in the very paroxysm of his first disappointment, and were as speedily relinquished when calm reflection showed him that they could avail nothing against the past. Besides this he felt that there was still an object, to the attainment of which my father's aid might contribute much, and towards which he hoped to urge him,—the emancipation of the Catholics. It had been long Fagan's cherished idea that the leadership of that party should be given to one who united to reasonable good abilities the advantages of birth, large fortune, and, above all, personal courage.
“We have orators and writers in abundance,” would he say. “There are plenty who can make speeches, and even songs, for us; but we want a few men who, with a large stake in the country, and high position in society, are willing and ready to peril both, and themselves into the bargain, in the assertion of our cause. If we ever chance to find these, our success is certain. The worst thing about our cause,” added he, “is not its disloyalty, for that admits of discussion and denial; but the real plague-spot is its vulgarity. Our enemies have been cunning enough to cast over the great struggle of a nation all the petty and miserable characteristics of a faction, and not of mere faction, but of one agitated by the lowest motives, and led on by the meanest advocates. A gentleman or two, to take service with us, will at once repulse this tactic; and until we can hit upon these, we shall make no progress.”
I have been obliged to dwell even to tediousness on these traits of the Grinder; for if they be not borne in mind, his actions and motives will seem destitute of any satisfactory explanation. And I now return to the chamber where he sat with Crowther as they compared impressions together, and bartered suspicions about my father's marriage.
“Now that I begin to consider the matter in this light,” said Crowther, “it is curious what an explanation it affords to many things that used to puzzle me formerly: all that coldness and reserve towards Carew that his neighbors showed; the way his former acquaintances fell off from him, one by one; and, lastly, those strange hints about him in the newspapers. I suppose we should see the meaning of every one of them now easily enough?”
Fagan made no reply; his mind was travelling along over the road it had entered upon, and would not be turned away by any call whatsoever.
“Yes,” muttered he to himself, “the little cottage at Fallrach, in the Killeries,—that's the place! and the only thing now is to get him down there. I must go up and see how he gets on, Crowther. I 'm half afraid that he ought to see a surgeon.” And, so saying, he arose and left the room.
My father was still sleeping as he entered, but less tranquilly than before, with a feverish flush upon his face, and his lips dry and dark-colored.
With a noiseless hand, Fagan drew back the curtain, and, seating himself close to the bed, bent down to gaze on him. The uneasy motions of the sleeper denoted pain; and more than once his hand was pressed against his side, as if it was the seat of some suffering. Fagan watched every gesture eagerly, and tried, but in vain, to collect some meaning from the low and broken utterance. Rapidly speaking at intervals, and at times moaning painfully, he appeared to labor either under some mental or bodily agony, in a paroxysm of which, at last, he burst open his vest, and clutched his embroidered shirt-frill with a violence that tore it in fragments.
As he did so, Fagan caught sight of a handkerchief stained with blood, which, with cautious gesture, he slowly removed, and, walking to the window, examined it carefully. This done, he folded it up, and, enveloping it in his own, placed it in his pocket. Once more he took his place at the bedside, and seemed to listen with intense anxiety for every sound of the sleeper's lips. The fever appeared to gain ground, for the flush now covered the face and forehead, and the limbs were twitched with short convulsive motions.
At last, as the paroxysm had reached its height, he bounded up from the bed and awoke.