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 substitute 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 passed 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 passing 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 passed 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.