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.”