The Daltons; Or, Three Roads In Life. Volume II

“This is a will, my Lord,” said the foreman, handing the document down to the bench. “It is dated, too, on the very-night before Mr. Godfrey’s death.”

The judge quickly scanned the contents, and then passed it over to Mr. Hipsley, who, glancing his eyes over it, exclaimed, “If we wanted any further evidence to exculpate the memory of Mr. Dalton, it is here. By this will, signed, sealed, and witnessed in all form, Mr. Godfrey bequeathed to his brother-in-law his whole estate of Corrig-O’Neal, and, with the exception of some trifling legacies, names him heir to all he is possessed of.”

“Let me out of this, – leave me free!” shouted the prisoner, whose eyeballs now glared with the red glow of madness. “What brought me into your schemes and plots? – why did I ever come here? Oh, my Lord, don’t see a poor man come to harm that has no friends. Bad luck to them here and hereafter, the same Daltons! It was ould Peter turned me out upon the world, and Godfrey was no better. Oh, my Lord! oh, gentlemen! if ye knew what druv me to it, – but I did n’t do it, – I never said I did. I’ll die innocent!”

These words were uttered with a wild volubility, and, when over, the prisoner crouched down in the dock, and buried his face in his hands. From that instant he never spoke a word. The trial was prolonged till late into the night; a commission was sworn and sent to the inn, to examine young Dalton and interrogate him on every point. All that skill and address could do were exerted by the counsel for the defence; but, as the case proceeded, the various facts only tended to strengthen and corroborate each other, and long before the jury retired their verdict was certain.

“Guilty, my Lord!” And, well known and anticipated as the words were, they were heard in all that solemn awe their terrible import conveys.

The words seemed to rouse the prisoner from his state; for, as if with a convulsive effort, he sprang to his legs, and advanced to the front of the dock. To the dreadful question of the Judge, as to what he had to say, why sentence of death should not be pronounced upon him, he made no answer; and his wild gaze and astonished features showed an almost unconsciousness of all around him. From this state of stupor he soon rallied, and, grasping the iron spikes with his hands, he protruded his head and shoulders over the dock, while he carried his eyes over the assembled crowd, till at last they lighted on the spot where Cahill and D’Esmonde were seated, – the former pale and anxious-looking, the latter with his head buried in his hands. The prisoner nodded with an insolent air of familiarity to the priest, and muttered a few broken words in Irish. Again was the terrible demand made by the Judge; and now the prisoner turned his face towards the bench, and stood as if reflecting on his reply.

“Go on,” cried he at last, in a tone of rude defiance; and the judge, in all the passionless dignity of his high station, calmly reviewed the evidence in the case, and gave his full concurrence to the verdict of the jury.

“I cannot conclude,” said he, solemnly, “without adverting to that extraordinary combination of events by which this crime, after a long lapse of years, has been brought home to its guilty author. The evidence you have heard to-day from Mr. Dalton – the singular corroboration of each particular stated by him in the very existence of the will, which so strongly refutes the motive alleged against the late Mr. Dalton – were all necessary links of the great chain of proof; and yet all these might have existed in vain were it not for another agency, too eventful to be called an accident; I allude to the circumstance by which this man became acquainted with one who was himself peculiarly interested in an fathoming the mystery of this murder; I mean the Abbé D’Esmonde. The name of this gentleman has been more than once alluded to in this trial; but he has not been brought before you, nor was there any need that he should be. Now the Abbé, so far from connecting the prisoner with the crime, believed him to be the agency by which it might have been fastened on others; and to this end he devoted himself with every zeal to the inquiry. Here, then, amidst all the remarkable coincidences of this case, we find the very strangest of all; for this same Abbé, – the accidental means of rescuing the prisoner from death at Venice, and who is the chief agent in now bringing him to punishment here, – this Abbé is himself the natural son of the late Mr. Godfrey. Sent when a mere boy to St. Omer and Louvain to be educated for the Roman Catholic priesthood, he was afterwards transferred to Salamanca, where he graduated, and took deacon’s orders. Without any other clew to his parentage than the vague lines of admission in the conventual registry, the checks for money signed and forwarded by Mr. Godfrey, this gentleman had risen by his great talents to a high and conspicuous station before he addressed himself to the search after his family. I have no right to pursue this theme further; nor had I alluded to it at all, save as illustrating in so remarkable a manner that direct and unmistakable impress of the working of Providence in this case, showing how, amidst all the strange chaos of a time of revolution and anarchy, when governments were crumbling, and nations rending asunder, this one blood-spot – the foul deed of murder – should cry aloud for retribution, and, by a succession of the least likely incidents, bring the guilty man to justice.”

After a careful review of all the testimony against the prisoner, the conclusiveness of which left no room for a doubt, he told him to abandon all hope of a pardon in this world, concluding, in the terrible words of the law, by the sentence of death, —

“You, Samuel Eustace, will be taken from the bar of this court to the place from whence you came, the jail, and thence to the place of execution, there to be hung by the neck till you are dead – ”

“Can I see my priest, – may the priest come to me?” cried the prisoner, fiercely; for not even the appalling solemnity of the moment could repress the savage energy of his nature.

“Miserable man,” said the judge, in a faltering accent, “I beseech you to employ well the few minutes that remain to you in this world, and carry not into the next that spirit of defiance by which you would brave an earthly judgment-seat. And may God have mercy on your soul!”

CHAPTER XL. THE RETRIBUTION

The sudden flash of intelligence by which young Frank was enabled to connect the almost forgotten incidents of boyhood with the date and the other circumstances of the murder, had very nearly proved fatal to himself. His brain was little able to resist the influence of all these conflicting emotions; and for some days his faculties wandered away in the wildest and most incoherent fancies. It was only on the very morning of the trial that he became self-possessed and collected. Then it was that he could calmly remember every detail of that fatal night, and see their bearing on the mysterious subject of the trial. At first Grounsell listened to his story as a mere raving; but when Frank described with minute accuracy the appearance of the spot – the old orchard, the stone stair that descended into the garden, and the little door which opened into the wood, – he became eagerly excited; and, anxious to proceed with every guarantee of caution, he summoned two other magistrates to the bedside to hear the narrative. We have already seen the event which followed that revelation, and by which the guilt of the murderer was established.

From hour to hour, as the trial proceeded, Frank received tidings from the court-house. The excitement, far from injuring, seemed to rally and re-invigorate him; and although the painful exposure of their domestic circumstances was cautiously slurred over to his ears, it was plain to see the indignant passion with which he heard of Nelly and Kate being dragged before the public eye. It was, indeed, a day of deep and terrible emotion, and when evening came he sank into the heavy sleep of actual exhaustion. While nothing was heard in the sick-room save the long-drawn breathings of the sleeper, the drawing-rooms of the hotel were crowded with the gentry of the neighborhood, all eager to see and welcome the Dalton’s home again. If the old were pleased to meet with the veteran Count Stephen, the younger were no less delighted with even such casual glimpses as they caught of Kate, in the few moments she could spare from her brother’s bedside. As for Lady Hester, such a torrent of sensations, such a perfect avalanche of emotion, was perfect ecstasy; perhaps not the least agreeable feeling being the assurance that she no longer possessed any right or title to Corrig-O’Neal, and was literally unprovided for in the world.

“One detests things by halves,” said she; “but to be utterly ruined is quite charming.”

The country visitors were not a little surprised at the unfeigned sincerity of her enjoyment, and still more, perhaps, at the warm cordiality of her manner towards them, – she who, till now, had declined all proffers of acquaintanceship, and seemed determined to shun them.

Consigning to her care all the duties of receiving the crowd of visitors, which old Count Stephen was but too happy to see, Kate only ventured for a few minutes at a time to enter the drawing-room. It was while hastening back from one of these brief intervals that she heard her name spoken in a low but distinct voice. She turned round, and saw a man, closely enveloped in a large cloak, beside her.

“It is I, Miss Dalton, – the Abbé D’Esmonde,” said he. “May I speak with your brother?”

Kate could hardly answer him from terror. All the scenes in which she had seen him figure rose before her view, and the man was, to her eyes, the very embodiment of peril.

“My brother is too ill, sir, to receive you,” said she. “In a few days hence – ”

“It will then be too late, Miss Dalton,” said he, mournfully. “The very seconds as they pass, now, are as days to one who stands on the brink of eternity.”

“Is there anything which I could communicate to him myself? for I am fearful of what might agitate or excite him.”

“If it most be so,” said he, sighing, and as if speaking to himself. “But could you not trust me to say a few words? I will be most cautious.”

“If, then,’ to-morrow – ”

“To-morrow! It must be now, – at this very instant!” cried he, eagerly. “The life of one who is unfit to go hence depends upon it.” Then, taking her hand, he continued: “I have drawn up a few lines, in shape of a petition for mercy to this wretched man. They must be in London by to-morrow night, to permit of a reprieve before Saturday. Your brother’s signature is all-essential. For this I wished to see him, and to know if he has any acquaintanceship with persons in power which could aid the project. You see how short the time is; all depends upon minutes. The Secretary of State can suspend the execution, and in the delay a commutation of the sentence may be obtained.”

“Oh, give it to me!” cried she, eagerly. And, snatching the paper from his hands, she hurried into the chamber.

Frank Dalton was awake, but in all the languor of great debility. He scarcely listened to his sister, till he heard her pronounce the name of the Abbé D’Esmonde.

“Is he here, Kate? – is he here?” cried he, eagerly.

“Yes, and most anxious to see and speak with you.”

“Then let him come in, Kate. Nay, nay, it will not agitate me.”

Kate noiselessly retired, and, beckoning the Abbé to come forward, she left the room, and closed the door.

D’Esmonde approached the sick-bed with a cautious, almost timid air, and seated himself on a chair, without speaking.

“So, then, we are cousins, I find,” said Frank, stretching out his wasted hand towards him. “They tell me you are a Godfrey, Abbé?”

D’Esmonde pressed his hand in token of assent, but did not utter a word.

“I have no wish – I do not know if I have the right – to stand between you and your father’s inheritance. If I am destined to arise from this sick-bed, the world is open to me, and I am not afraid to encounter it. Let us be friends, then, D’Esmonde, in all candor and frankness.”

“Willingly, – most willingly. There need be but one rivalry between us,” said D*Esmonde, with a voice of deep feeling, – “in the struggle who shall best serve the other. Had we known of this before; had I suspected how our efforts might have been combined and united; had I but imagined you as my ally, and not my – But these are too exciting themes to talk upon. You are not equal to them.”

“Not so; it is in such moments that I feel a touch of health and vigor once again. Go on, I beseech you.”

“I will speak of that which more immediately concerns us,” said the Abbé. “This wretched man stands for execution on Saturday. Let us try to save him. His guilt must have already had its expiation in years of remorse and suffering. Here is a petition I have drawn up to the Secretary of State. It has been signed by several of the jury who tried the cause. We want your name also to it Such a commutation as may sentence him to exile is all that we pray for.”

“Give me the pen; I ‘ll sign it at once.”

“There, – in that space,” said the’ Abbé, pointing with his finger. “How your hand trembles! This cannot be like your usual writing.”

“Let me confirm it by my seal, then. You’ll find it on the table yonder.”

D’Esmonde melted the wax, and stood beside him, while the youth pressed down the seal.

“Even that,” said the Abbé, “might be disputed. There ‘s some one passing in the corridor; let him hear you acknowledge it as your act and hand.” And, so saying, he hastened to the door, and made a sign to the waiter to come in. “Mr. Dalton desires you to witness his signature,” said he to the man.

“I acknowledge this as mine,” said Frank, already half exhausted by the unaccustomed exertion.

“Your name, there, as witnessing it,” whispered D’Esmonde; and the waiter added his signature.

“Have you hope of success, Abbé?” said Frank, faintly.

“Hope never fails me,” replied D’Esmonde, in a voice of bold and assured tone. “It is the only capital that humble men like myself possess; but we can draw upon it without limit. The fate of riches is often ruins, but there is no bankruptcy in hope. Time presses now,” said he, as if suddenly remembering himself; “I must see to this at once. When may I come again?”

“Whenever you like. I have much to say to you. I cannot tell you now how strangely you are mixed up in my fancy – it is but fancy, after all – with several scenes of terrible interest.”

“What! – how do you mean?” said D’Esmonde, turning hastily about