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

“I scarcely know where to begin, or how to separate truth from its counterfeit Your image is before me, at times and in places where you could not have been. Ay, even in the very crash and tumult of battle, as I remember once at Varenna, beside the Lake of Como. I could have sworn to have seen you cheering on the peasants to the attack.”

“What strange tricks imagination will play upon us!” broke in D'Ësmonde; but his voice faltered, and his pale cheek grew paler as he said the words.

“Then, again, in the Babli Palace at Milan, where I was brought as a prisoner, I saw you leave the council-chamber arm-in-arm with an Austrian Archduke. When I say I saw you, I mean as I now see you here, – more palpable to my eyes than when you sat beside my sick-bed at Verona.”

“Dreams, – dreams,” said D’Esmonde. “Such illusions bespeak a mind broken by sickness. Forget them, Dalton, if you would train your thoughts to higher uses.” And, so saying, in a tone of pride, the Abbé bowed, and passed out.

As D’Esmonde passed out into the street, Cahill joined him.

“Well,” cried the latter, “is it done?”

“Yes, Michel,” was the answer; “signed, and sealed, and witnessed in all form. By this document I am recognized as a member of his family, inheriting that which I shall never claim. No,” cried he, with exultation of voice and manner, “I want none of their possessions; I ask but to be accounted of their race and name; and yet the time may come when these conditions shall be reversed, and they who would scarcely own me to-day may plot and scheme to trace our relationship. Now for Rome. To-night – this very night – I set out. With this evidence of my station and fortune there can be no longer any obstacle. The struggle is past; now to enjoy the victory!”

“You will see him before you go, D’Esmonde? A few minutes is all he asks.”

“Why should I? What bond is there between us now? The tie is loosened forever; besides, he deceived us, Michel, – deceived us in everything.”

“Be it so,” said the other; “but remember that it is the last prayer of one under sentence of death, – the last wish of one who will soon have passed away hence.”

“Why should I go to hear the agonizing entreaties for a mercy that cannot be granted, – the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature?”

“Do not refuse him, D’Esmonde. He clings to this object with a fixed purpose that turns his mind from every thought that should become the hour. In vain I speak to him of the short interval between him and the grave. He neither hears nor heeds me. His only question is, ‘Is he coming, – will he come tome?’”

“To lose minutes, when every one of them is priceless, to waste emotions when my heart is already racked and tortured, – why should I do this?” cried D’Esmonde, peevishly.

“Do not refuse me, D’Esmonde,” said Cahill, passionately. “I despair of recalling the miserable man to the thought of his eternal peril till this wish be satisfied.”

“Be it so, then,” said the Abbé, proudly; and he walked along beside his friend in silence.

They traversed the streets without a word spoken. Already D’Esmonde had assumed an air of reserve which seemed to mark the distance between himself and his companion; the thoughtful gravity of his look savored no less of pride than reflection. In such wise did Cahill read his manner, and by a cautious deference appear to accept the new conditions of their intimacy.

“The prisoner has not uttered a word since you were here, sir,” said the jailer, as they entered the gate. “He shows the greatest anxiety whenever the door opens; but, as if disappointed at not seeing whom he expected, relapses at once into his silent reserve.”

“You see that he still expects you,” whispered Cahill to the Abbé; and the other assented with a faint nod of the head.

“No, sir; this way,” said the jailer; “he is now in the condemned cell.” And, so saying, he led the way along the corridor.

By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed high up in the wall, they could just detect the figure of a man, as he sat crouched on the low settle-bed, his head resting on his arms as they were crossed over his knees. He never moved as the grating sound of the heavy door jarred on the stillness, but sat still and motionless.

“The Abbé D’Esmonde has come to see you, Eustace,” said the jailer, tapping him on the shoulder. “Wake up, man, and speak to him.”

The prisoner lifted his head and made an effort to say something; but though his lips moved, there came no sounds from them. At last, with an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed to the door, and said, “Alone – alone!”

“He wants to speak with you alone, sir,” whispered the jailer, “and so we will retire.”

D’Esmonde could not see them leave the cell without a sense of fear, – less the dread of any personal injury than the strange terror so inseparable to any close communion with one convicted of a dreadful crime, – and he actually shuddered as the massive door was banged to.

“You are cold, sir!” said the prisoner, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

“No, it was not cold!” replied D’Esmonde.

“I can guess what it was, then!” said the other, with an energy to which passion seemed to contribute. “But I ‘ll not keep you long here. Sit down, sir. You must sit beside me, for there is no other seat than the settle-bed. But there is nobody here to see the great Abbé D’Esmonde side by side with a murderer.”

“Wretched man,” said D’Esmonde, passionately, “by what fatality did you rush upon your fate? Why did you ever return to this country?”

“It is to tell you that – ay, that very thing – I asked you to come here to-night,” said the prisoner, with a firm, full voice. “I came here for you– just so – for you yourself, There, there,” continued he, naughtily, “don’t look as if I wanted to trick you. Is it here. Is it now, that a lie would sarve me? Listen to me, and don’t stop me, for I want to turn my thoughts to something else when this is off my heart. Listen to me. Very soon after you saved me at Venice, I knew all about you; who you were, and what you were planning, – ay, deep as you thought yourself, I read every scheme in you, and opened every letter you wrote or received. You don’t believe me. Shall I give you a proof? Did you accept eight bills for money Morlache the Jew sent you, from Florence, in March last? Did Cardinal Antinori write to say that the Bull that named you cardinal must have your birth set forth as noble? Did the Austrian Field-Marshal send you the cross of St. Joseph, and did you not return it, as to wear it would unmask you to the Italians?”

“What if all this were true?” said D’Esmonde, proudly. “Is it to one like you I am to render account for my actions? What is it to you if – ”

“What is it to me?” cried the other, fiercely, – “what is it to me? Isn’t it everything? Isn’t it what brought me here, and what in three days more will bring me to the gallows? I tell you again, I saw what you were bent on, and I knew you ‘d succeed, – ay, that I did. If it was good blood you wanted to be a cardinal, I was the only one could help you.”

“You knew the secret of my birth, then?” cried D’Esmonde, in deep earnestness. “You could prove my descent from the Godfreys?”

“No! but I could destroy the only evidence against it,” said the other, in a deep, guttural voice. “I could tear out of the parish registry the only leaf that could betray you; and it was for that I came back here; and it was for that I ‘m now here. And I did do it. I broke into the vestry of the chapel at midnight, and I tore out the page, and I have it here, in my hand, this minute. There was a copy of this same paper at the college at Louvain, but I stole that, too; for I went as porter there, just to get an opportunity to take it, – that one I destroyed.”

“But whence this interest in my fortunes?” said D’Esmonde, half proudly, for he was still slow to believe all that he heard.

“The paper will tell you that,” said the other, slowly unfolding it, and flattening it out on his knee. “This is the certificate of your baptism! Wait – stop a minute,” cried he, catching D’Esmonde’s arm, as, in his impatience, he tried to seize the paper. “This piece of paper is the proof of who you are, and, moreover, the only proof that will soon exist to show it.”

“Give it to me – let me see it!” cried D’Esmonde, eagerly. “Why have you withheld till this time what might have spared me anxious days and weary nights; and by what right have you mixed yourself up with my fortunes?”

“By what right is it – by what right?” cried the other, in a voice which passion rendered harsh and discordant. “Is that what you want to know?” And, as he spoke, he bent down and fixed his eyes on the Abbé with a stern stare. “You want to know what right I have,” said he, and his face became almost convulsed with passion. “There’s my right – read that!” cried he, holding out the paper before D’Esmonde’s eyes. “There’s your birth proved and certified: ‘Matthew, son of Samuel and Mary Eustace, of Ballykinnon, baptized by me this 10th day of April, 18 – . Joseph Barry, P.P.’ There’s the copy of your admission into the convent, and here’s the superior’s receipt for the first quarter’s payment as a probationer. Do you know who you are now? or do you still ask me what right I have to meddle in your affairs?”

“And you – and you – you – ” cried D’Esmonde, gasping.

“I am your father. Ay, you can hear the words here, and needn’t start at the sound of them. We’re in the condemned cell of a jail, and nobody near us. You are my son. Mr. Godfrey paid for you as a student till – till – But it’s all over now. I never meant you to know the truth; but a lie would n’t serve you any longer. Oh, Matthew, Matthew!” cried he – and of a sudden his voice changed, and softened to accents of almost choking sorrow – “haven’t you one word for me? – one word of affection for him that you brought to this, and who forgives you for it? – one word, even to call me your own father?” He fell at the other’s feet, and clasped his arms around his knees as he spoke, but the appeal was unheard.

Pale as a corpse, with his head slightly thrown forward, and his eyes wildly staring before him, D’Esmonde sat, perfectly motionless. At last the muscles of his mouth fashioned themselves into a ghastly smile, a look of mockery so dreadful to gaze upon that the prisoner, terror-stricken at the sight, rushed to the door, and beat loudly against it, as he screamed for help. It was opened on the instant, and the Jailer, followed by two others, entered.

“He’s ill; his reverence is taken bad,” said the old man, while he trembled from head to foot with agitation.

“What’s this paper? What is he clutching in his hands?” cried the jailer.

D’Esmonde started at the words. For the first time a gleam of intelligence shot over his features, and as suddenly he bent a look of withering hate on the speaker; and then, with a passionate vehemence that told of a frantic brain, he tore the paper into fragments, and, with a wild yell, as if of triumph, he fell senseless on the ground. When they lifted him up, his features were calm, but passionless, his eye was vacant, and his lips slightly parted. An expression of weariness and exhaustion, rather than of actual pain, pervaded the face. He never spoke again. The lamp of intellect was extinguished forever, and not even a flicker or a spark remained to cheer the darkness within him. Hopeless and helpless idiotcy was ever after the lot of one whose mind, once stored with the most lofty ambitions, never scrupled, at any cost, to attain its object. And he whose proud aspirings soared to the very grandest of earthly prizes, who gave his counsel among princes, now lives on, bereft of mind and intelligence, without consciousness of the past, or a hope for the future.

CHAPTER XLI. THE END

With the sad episode which closes our last chapter we would fain let fall the curtain on this history. Very few words will now suffice to complete the narrative of those with whom we have so long sojourned. The discovery which revealed the murder of Mr. Godfrey restored Frank Dalton to the home and fortune of his family; and although the trying scenes through which he had passed made deep and dangerous inroads on his health, youth and hope, and the watchful care of Kate, restored him; and, after the lapse of some weeks, he was enabled to be about once more, recalling to the recollection of many the handsome figure and manly bearing of his father.

For many a year before, Corrig-O’Neal had not seen such a party beneath its roof, nor had those gloomy old walls echoed to such sounds as now were heard within them. In addition to Lady Hester, George Onslow, now a colonel, was the guest of the Daltons. Scarcely arrived in England, he quitted London at the moment when the tidings of his gallant achievements had made him the hero of the day, and hurried to see her who, through every change of his fortunes, had been the dearest object of his heart.

What tender reproaches, what heart-warm confessions, did those old woods hear, as, side by side, the lovers walked along, revealing the secret sorrows of the past, and recalling each incident which once had cheered with hope or shadowed with despair. But it is not in such company we would play the “eavesdropper,” nor watch for the changeful blushes of that soft cheek where tears of joy and grief are mingled. Neither would we care to accompany Grounsell, as with deeds and bonds, codicils and conveyances, he actually hunted poor Frank from place to place, urgently impressing on him the necessity for those “business habits,” the sad neglect of which had been the ruin of all the Daltons. As little inducement is there to follow Lady Hester, whose restless activity was interfering with every one and everything, taking the most lively Interest in the property the very moment it ceased to be her own, and devoted to all the charities which no longer could lay claim to being duties.

Pleasanter, perhaps, would it be to follow the old Count, as he sauntered alone for hours, trying to trace out in the long-forgotten scenes the stories of his boyhood. What pleasant reveries they were! – what glorious compensations for all the tumultuous passages of an eventful life! And so he felt them! And so he recognized with grateful heart the happy destiny which had befallen him, to close his days where he had begun them – in the midst of his own – loving and beloved.

And yet with such scenes and emotions we must not dally. Story-tellers, like Mother Carey’s chickens, have no sympathies with sunny skies and soft airs, – their province is amidst the hurricane and the storm. In truth, too, it is the very essence of tranquil enjoyment that it must be left to the imagination of each to conceive.

But one care weighed on all, and that was the absence of poor Nelly. Why was she not amongst them, to see their happiness, and heighten its enjoyment by all the benevolence of her kindly nature? It was true they were relieved of all anxiety regarding her by a letter which had followed them from Vienna, and which told how she had arrived in that city a few days after they had left it.