My father had walked several streets of the capital before he could collect his thoughts, or even remember where he was. He went along, lost to everything save memory of his vengeance. He tried to call to mind the names of those on whose zeal and devotedness he could reckon; but so imbued with suspicion had his mind become, so distrustful of every thing and every one, that he actually felt as if deserted by all the world, without one to succor or stand by him.
Thus rambling by chance, he found himself in Stephen's Green, where he sat down to rest under one of those great trees which in those times shaded the favorite promenade of Dublin. Directly in front of him was a large mansion, brilliantly lighted up, and crowded by a numerous company, many of whom were enjoying the balmy air of a summer's night on the balcony in front of the windows. As they moved to and fro, passing back and forwards, my father could recognize several that he was acquainted with, and some that he knew most intimately.
Filled with one consuming thought, he fancied that he heard his name at every moment; that every allusion was to him, and each burst of laughter was uttered in derision at his cost. His rage had worked him up almost to madness, and he could hardly restrain himself from calling out, and replying aloud to these fancied insults and aspersions on his character.
At such moments of doubt as these, certainty flashes on the mind with a power of concentration and resolution that seems to confer strength for anything, however difficult. So was it to my father as suddenly the tones of a well-known voice struck on his ear, and he heard the easy laugh of him that he hated most of all the world. It was Barry Rutledge himself, who now was leaning over the balcony, in the centre of a group whom, he was evidently entertaining by his remarks.
The bursts of laughter which at each moment interrupted him, showed how successfully his powers of entertaining were being exercised, while at intervals a dead silence around proved the deep attention with which they listened.
It was at the moment when, by the death of the Marquis of Rockingham, a new Ministry was formed in England, and the Duke of Portland recalled from his viceroyalty, to be succeeded by Lord Temple. The changes that were like to ensue upon this new appointment were actively discussed in society, and now formed the subject of conversation on the balcony.
“You will be at large again, Barry,” said one of the group; “these new people won't know your value.”
“Pardon me!” cried he, laughing, “I'm handed over with Cotterell and the state coach, as functionaries that cannot be easily replaced. Let them try and manage Dublin without me! I defy them! Who knows every flaw and crack of reputation, every damaged character, and every tarnished fame, as I do? Who can tell each man's price, from knowing his weak points? Who can play off the petty jealousies of rivals against each other; disgust them with their party; and buy them cheap for the Castle? Who but Barry Rutledge? I'll offer a wager of five hundred that there is not a family secret I can't have the key to within one week.”
“What the devil ever induced you to take up such a career?” asked a deep-voiced, burly-looking country gentleman.
“The turf gave me the hint,” said Rutledge, coolly. “I lost every sixpence I once possessed, when I backed this horse, or betted on that one. I regained a considerable share of my loss when I limited myself to looking out for what they style 'disqualifications,'—to discover that Wasp was n't a two-year-old, or that Muffin was clean bred; that Terry had won before, and that Ginger was substituted for another. I saw that political life was pretty much the same kind of game, and that there would be a grand opening for the first fellow that brought his racing craft to bear on the great world of state affairs. I 'm sure others will follow out the line, and doubtless eclipse all the cleverness of Barry Rutledge; but, at all events, they can't deny him the merit of the invention. They talk to you about skilful secretaries and able debaters: I tell you flatly I 've got more votes for the Government than any one of them all, and just in the way I 've mentioned. Was it Dick Talbot's convictions, or his wife's losses at lqo that made him join us last session? How did Rowley come over? Ask Harvey Bruce who horsewhipped him in the mess-room at Kells. Why did Billy Hamilton desert his party? Lady Mary may tell you; and if she won't, George Gordon, of the Highlanders, can. What's the use of going through the list, from old Hemphill, that was caught cheating at piquet, down to Watty Carew, with his wife won at a game of Barocco?”
“Slanderer—scoundrel!” cried out my father, in a voice hoarse with passion; and as the words were uttered, the balcony was suddenly deserted, and the rushing sounds of many people descending the stairs together were as quickly heard. For a few seconds my father stood uncertain and undecided; but then, with a bold precipitancy, he seemed to calculate every issue in an instant, and made up his mind how to proceed. He dashed across the street towards the dark alley which flanked the “Green,” and along which ran a deep and stagnant ditch, of some ten or twelve feet in width. Scarcely had he gained the shelter of the trees, when a number of persons rushed from the house into the street, and hurried hither and thither in pursuit. As they passed out, my father was enabled to recognize several whom he knew; but for one only had he any care; on him he fastened his eyes with the eager steadfastness of hate, and tracked him as he went, regardless of all others.
Without concert among themselves, or any clew to direct their search, they separated in various directions. Still, my father held his place unchanged, doubtless revolving in that brief interval the terrible consequences of his act. Some fifteen or twenty minutes might have thus elapsed, and now he saw one return to the house, speedily followed by another, and then a third. At last Rutledge came alone; he walked along slowly, and as if deep in meditation. As though revolving the late incident in his mind, he stood for a moment looking up at the windows, and probably speculating in his mind on the precise spot occupied by him who had uttered the insult.
“Here, beneath the trees,” said my father, in a low, but clear accent; and Rutledge turned, and hastened across the street. It will, of course, never be known whether he understood these words as coming from a stranger, or from some one of his own friends, suggesting pursuit in a particular direction.
My father only waited to see that the other was following, when he turned and fled. The entrances to the park, or green, as it was called, were by small pathways across the moat, closed by low wooden wickets. Across one of these my father took his way, tearing down the gate with noise sufficient to show the course he followed.
Rutledge was close at his heels, and already summoning all his efforts to come up with him, when my father turned round and stood.
“We are alone!” cried he; “there is none to interrupt us. Now, Barry Rutledge, you or I, or both of us, mayhap, shall pass the night here!” and, as he spoke, he drew forth his sword-cane from the walking-stick that he carried.
“What! is that Carew? Are you Walter Carew?” said Rutledge, advancing towards him.
“No nearer,—not a step nearer!—or, by Heaven! I 'll not answer for my passion. Draw your sword, and defend yourself!”
“Why, this is sheer madness, Watty. What is your quarrel with me?”
“Do you ask me?—do you want to hear why I called you a scoundrel and a slanderer?—or is it that I can brand you as both, at noon-day, and in a crowd, adding coward to the epithets?”
“Come, come,” said the other, with a sarcastic coolness that only increased my father's rage. “You know, as well as any man, that these things are not done in this fashion. I am easily found when wanted.”
“Do you think that I will give you another day to propagate your slander? No, by Heaven! not an hour!” And so saying, he rushed on, probably to consummate the outrage by a blow. Rutledge, who was in full dress, now drew his rapier, and the two steels crossed.
2not_an_hour
My father was a consummate swordsman; he had fought several times with that weapon when abroad; and had he only been guided by his habitual temper, nothing would have been easier for him than to overcome his antagonist. So ungovernable, however, was his passion now, that he lost almost every advantage his superior skill might have conferred.
As if determined to kill his enemy at any cost, he never stood on his guard, nor parried a single thrust, but rushed wildly at him. Rutledge, whose courage was equal to his coolness, saw all the advantage this gave him; and, after a few passes, succeeded in running his sword through my father's chest so that the point actually projected on the opposite side. With a sudden jerk of his body, my father snapped the weapon in two, and then, shortening his own to within about a foot of the point, he ran Rutledge through the heart. One heavy groan followed, and he fell dead upon his face.
My father drew forth the fragment from his own side, and then, stooping down, examined the body of his adversary. His recollection of what passed in that terrible moment was horribly distinct ever after. He mentioned to him from whom I myself learned these details that so diabolical was the hatred that held possession of him that he sat down in the grass beside the body, and contemplated it with a kind of fiend-like exultation. A light, thin rain began to fall soon after, and my father, moved by some instinctive feeling, threw Rutledge's cloak over the lifeless body, and then withdrew. Although the pain of his own wound was considerable, he soon perceived that no vital part had been injured,—indeed, the weapon had passed through the muscles without ever having penetrated the cavity of the chest. He succeeded, by binding his handkerchief around his waist, in stanching the blood; and, although weakened, the terrible excitement of the event seemed to lend him a momentary strength for further exertion.
His first impulse, as he found himself outside the Green, was to deliver himself up to the authorities, making a full avowal of all that had occurred. To do this, however, would involve other consequences which he had not the courage to confront. Any narrative of the duel would necessarily require a history of the provocation, and thus a wider publicity to that shame which was now embittering his existence.
Without ultimately deciding what course he should adopt, my father determined to give himself further time for reflection, by at once hastening back to the country ere his presence in the capital was known. He now returned to the hotel, and, asking for his bill, informed the waiter that if any one inquired for Mr. Cuthbert, that he should mention his address at a certain number in Aungier Street. The carman who drove him from the door was directed to drive to the same place, and there dismissed. After this, taking his carpet-bag in his hand, he walked leisurely along towards Ball's Bridge, where already, as the day was breaking, a number of vehicles were assembled on the stand. Affecting a wish to catch the packet for England, he drove hastily to the Pigeon House; but the vessel had already sailed. It was strange enough that he never was able to say actually whether he meditated passing over to England, or simply to conceal the line of his flight. Thus uncertain whither to go or what to do, a considerable time was passed; and he was on the point of engaging a boat to cross over to Howth, when a sudden thought struck him that he would drive direct to Fagan's, in Mary's Abbey.
It was about six o'clock of a bright summer's morning as my father alighted at Fagan's door. “The Grinder” was already up, and busily engaged inspecting the details of his shop; for, however insignificant as a source of gain, some strange instinct seemed to connect his prosperity with the humble occupation of his father and his grandfather, and he appeared to think that the obscure fruit-stall formed a secret link between their worldly successes and his own.
It was with surprise not altogether devoid of shame that he saw my father descend from the jaunting-car to salute him.
“I've come to take my breakfast with you, Tony,” said he, gayly; “and, determining to be a man of business for once, I 'm resolved to catch these calm hours of the morning that you prudent fellows make such good use of!”
Fagan stared with astonishment at this sudden apparition of one from whom he neither expected a visit at such an hour, much less a speech of such meaning. He, however, mumbled out some words of welcome, with a half-intelligible compliment about my father's capacity being fully equal to any exigencies or any demands that might be made upon it.
“So they told me at school, Tony, and so they said in college. They repeated the same thing when I entered Parliament; but, somehow, I have been always a fellow of great promise and no performance, and I am beginning at last to suspect that I shall scarcely live to see this wonderful future that is to reveal me to the world in the plenitude of my powers!”
“It will, then, be entirely your own fault, sir,” said Fagan, with an earnestness that showed the interest he felt in the subject. “Let me speak to you seriously, sir,” said he; and he led the way into a room, where, having seated themselves, he went on: “With your name, and your position, and your abilities, Mr. Carew,—no sir, I am too deeply concerned in what I say to be a flatterer,—there was a great and glorious career open before you; nor is the time to follow it gone by. Think what you might be amongst your countrymen, by standing forward as their champion! Picture to yourself the place you might hold, and the power you might wield,—not a power to depend upon the will of a minister, or the caprice of a cabinet, but a power based upon the affections of an entire people; for, I say it advisedly, the leadership of the national party is yet to be claimed. Lord Charlemont is too weak and too ductile for it. Besides that, his aristocratic leanings unfit him for close contact with the masses. Henry Grattan has great requisites, but he has great deficiencies too. The favor that he wins in the senate, he loses in society. We want a man who shall speak for us in public the sentiments that fall from us at our tables; who shall assure the English Government, and the English nation too, that the Irish Catholic is equal in loyalty as in courage,—that his fealty is not less because his faith is that of his fathers. It is not eloquence we need, Mr. Carew. Our cause does not want embellishment. Orators may be required to prop up a weak or falling case. Ours can stand alone, without such aid! An honest, a resolute, and an independent advocate,—one whose ancient name on one side, and whose genial nature on the other, shall be a link betwixt the people and the gentry,—such a man, whenever found, may take the lead in Ireland; and, however English ministers may dictate laws, he, and he alone, will govern this country.”
My father listened with intense eagerness to every word of this appeal. Not even the flattery to himself was more pleasing than the glimpses he caught of a great national struggle, in which Ireland should come out triumphant. Such visions were amongst the memories of his boyish enthusiasm, begotten in the wild orgies of a college life, and nurtured amidst the excesses of many a debauch; and although foreign travel and society had obliterated most of these impressions, now they came back with tenfold force, in a moment when his mind was deeply agitated and excited. For an instant he had been carried away by this enticing theme; he had actually forgotten, in his ardor the terrible incident which so lately he had passed through, when Raper rushed hurriedly into the room where they sat, exclaiming,—
“A dreadful murder has taken place in the city. Mr. Rutledge, of the Viceroy's household, was found dead this morning in Stephen's Green.”
“Within the Green?” asked Fagan. “What could have brought him there after nightfall? There must have been some assignation in the case.”
“Do you know, have you heard any of the circumstances, sir?” asked my father.
“No further than that he was killed by a sword-thrust which passed completely through his chest. Some suspect that he was lured to the spot by one pretence or other; others are of opinion that it was a duel. Robbery had certainly nothing to say to it, for his watch and purse were found on the body.”
“Have they taken the body away?”
“No, sir. It remains for the coroners inquest, which is to assemble immediately.”
“Had Rutledge any political enemies? Is it supposed that the event was in any way connected with party?”
“That could scarcely be,” said Fagan. “He was one who gave himself little concern about state affairs,—an easy fop that fluttered about the Court, caring for little above the pleasures of his valueless existence!”
“For such men you have few sympathies, Fagan!”
“None, sir, not one. Their history is ever the same,—a life of debauch, a death of violence!”
“This is to speak hardly, Fagan,” said my father, mildly. “Men like poor Rutledge have their good qualities, though they be not such as you and I set store by. I never thought so myself, but others, indeed, deemed him a most amusing companion, and with more than an ordinary share of wit and pleasantry.”
“The wit and pleasantry were both exerted to make his friends ridiculous, sir,” said Fagan, severely. “He was a man that lived upon a reputation for smartness, gained at the expense of every good feeling.”
“I'll wager a trifle, Tony,” said my father, laughing, “that he died deep in your books. Come, be frank, and say how much this unhappy affair will cost you.”
“Not so dearly as it may you, sir,” whispered Fagan in my father's ear; and the words nearly overcame him.
“How so?—what do you mean?” muttered my father, in a broken, faltering voice.
“Come this way for a moment, Mr. Carew,” said the other, aloud, “and I'll show you my snuggery, where I live, apart from all the world.”
My father followed him into a small chamber, where Fagan at once closed the door and locked it, and then, approaching him, pulled forth from beneath his loose cuff a lace ruffle stained and clotted with blood.
“It is fortunate for you, Mr. Carew,” said he, “that Raper is so unobservant; any other than he would have seen this, and this;” and as he spoke the last words, he pointed to a small portion of a bloody handkerchief which projected outside the shirt-frill.
So overwhelmed was my father by these evidences that he sank powerless into a chair, without strength to speak.
“How was it?—how did it occur?” asked Fagan, sitting down in front of him, and placing one hand familiarly on my father's knee. Simple as the action was, it was a liberty that he had never dared before to take with my father, who actually shuddered at the touch, as though it had been a pollution.
“Unpremeditated, of course, I conclude,” said Fagan, still endeavoring to lead him on to some explanation. My father nodded.
“Unwitnessed also,” said Fagan, slowly. Another nod implied assent.
“Who knows of your presence in Dublin?—Who has seen you since your arrival in Dublin?” asked he.
“None of my acquaintances, so far, at least, as I know. I went, by a mere accident, to an hotel where I am not known. By another accident, if I dare so call it, I fell upon this rencontre. I will endeavor to tell you the whole, as it occurred,—that is, if I can sufficiently collect myself; but first let me have some wine, Fagan, for I am growing weak.”
As Fagan left the room, he passed the desk where Raper was already seated, hard at work, and, laying his hand on the clerk's shoulder, he whispered,—
“Be cautious that you do not mention Mr. Carew's arrival here. There is a writ out against him for debt, and he has come up here to be out of the way.”
Raper heard the words without even discontinuing to write, and merely muttered a brief “Very well,” in reply.
When Fagan re-entered the chamber, he found my father just rallying from a fainting-fit, which loss of blood and agitation together had brought on. Two or three glasses of wine, hastily swallowed, restored him, and he was again able to converse.
“Can you be traced to this house? Is there any clew to you here?” asked Fagan, resuming his former seat.
“None, so far as I know. The affair occurred thus—”
“Pardon my interrupting you,” broke in Fagan; “but the most important thing at this moment is, to provide for your safety, in the event of any search after you. Have you any ground to apprehend this?”
“None whatever. You shall hear the story.”
“They are talking of it outside!” whispered Fagan, with a gesture of his hand to enforce caution; “let us listen to them.” And he slowly unlocked the door, and left it to stand ajar.
The outer shop was by this time filling with the small fruit-vendors of the capital,—a class peculiarly disposed to collect and propagate the gossip of the day; and Fagan well knew how much the popular impression would depend upon the coloring of their recital.
“'T is lucky,” said one, “that his watch and money was on him, or they 'd say at once it was the boys done it.”
“Faix! they could n't do that,” broke in another; “there's marks about the place would soon contradict them.”
“What marks?”
“The print of an elegant boot. I saw it myself; it is small in the heel, and sharp in the toe,—very unlike yours or mine, Tim.”
“Begad! so much the better,” said the other, laughing.
“And I 'll tell you more,” resumed the former speaker: “it was a dress-sword—what they wear at the Castle—killed him. You could scarce see the hole. It 's only a little blue spot between the ribs.”
“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” exclaimed a woman's voice; “and they say he was an elegant, fine man!”
“As fine a figure of a man as ever ye looked at!”
“And nobody knows the reason of it at all?” asked she again.
“I'll engage it was about a woman!” muttered a husky, old, cracked voice, that was constantly heard, up to this moment, bargaining for oranges.
And Fagan quickly made a sign to my father to listen attentively.
“That's Denny Cassin,” whispered he, “the greatest newsmonger in Dublin.”
“The devil recave the fight ever I heerd of hadn't a woman in it, somehow or other; an' if she did n't begin it, she was sure to come in at the end, and make it worse. Was n't it a woman that got Hemphill Daly shot? Was n't it a woman was the death of Major Brown, of Coolmiues? Was n't it a woman—”
“Arrah! bother ye, Denny!” broke in the representative of the sex, who stood an impatient listener to this long indictment; “what's worth fightin' for in the world barrin' ourselves?”
A scornful laugh was all the reply he deigned to this appeal; and he went on,—
“I often said what Barry Rutledge 'ud come to,—ay, and I told himself so. 'You 've a bad tongue,' says I, 'and you 've a bad heart. Some day or other you 'll be found out;' and ye see, so he was.”
“I wonder who did it!” exclaimed another.
“My wonder is,” resumed Denny, “that it was n't done long ago; or instead of one wound in his skin, that he had n't fifty. Do you know that when I used to go up to the officers' room with oranges, I'd hear more wickedness out of his mouth in one mornin' than I 'd hear in Pill Lane, here, in a month of Sundays. There was n't a man dined at the Castle, there was n't a lady danced at the Coort, that he had n't a bad story about; and he always began by saying: 'He and I were old schoolfellows,' or 'She 's a great friend of mine.' I was up there the morning after the Coort came home from Carew Castle; and if ye heard the way he went on about the company. He began with Curtis, and finished with Carew himself.”
Fagan closed the door here, and, walking over, sat down beside my father's chair.
“We 've heard enough now, sir,” said he, “to know what popular opinion will pronounce upon this man. Denny speaks with the voice of a large mass of this city; and if they be not either very intelligent or exalted, they are at least fellows who back words by deeds, and are quite ready to risk their heads for their convictions,—a test of honesty that their betters, perhaps, would shrink from. From what he says, there will be little sympathy for Rutledge. The law, of course, will follow its due path; but the law against popular feeling is like the effort of the wind to resist the current of a fast river: it may ruffle the surface, but never will arrest the stream. Now, sir, just tell me, in a few words, what took place between you?”
My father detailed everything, from the hour of his arrival in Dublin, down to the very moment of his descending at Fagan's door. He faltered, indeed, and hesitated about the conversation of the coffee-room, for even in all the confidence of a confession, he shrunk from revealing the story of his marriage. And in doing so, he stammered and blundered so much that Fagan could collect little above the bare facts, that my mother had been wagered at a card-table, and won by my father.
Had my father been in a cooler mood, he could not have failed to remark how much deeper was the interest Fagan took in the story of his first meeting with my mother than in all the circumstances of the duel. So far as it was safe,—further than it would have been so at any other moment,—the Grinder cross-questioned my father as to her birth, the manner of her education, and the position she held before her marriage.
“This is all beside the matter,” cried my father, at last, impatiently. “I am now to think what is best to be done here. Shall I give myself up at once?—And why not, Fagan?” added he, abruptly, interrogating the look of the other.
“For two sufficient reasons, sir: first, that you would be needlessly exposing yourself to great peril; and, secondly, you would certainly be exposing another to great—” He stopped and faltered, for there was that in my father's face that made the utterance of a wrong word dangerous.
“Take care what you say, Master Tony; for, however selfish you may deem me, I have still enough of heart left to consider those far worthier of thought than myself.”
“And yet, sir, the fact is so, whether I speak it or not,” said Fagan. “Once let this affair come before a public tribunal, and what is there that can be held back from the prying impertinence of the world? And I see no more reason why you should peril life than risk all that makes life desirable.”
“But what or where is all this peril, Fagan? You talk as if I had been committing a murder.”
“It is precisely the name they would give it in the indictment, sir,” said the other, boldly. “Nay, hear me out, Mr. Carew. Were I to tell the adventure of last night as the bare facts reveal it, who would suggest the possibility of its being a duel? Think of the place—the hour—the solitude—the mere accident of the meeting! Oh, no, sir; duels are not fought in this fashion.”
“You are arguing against yourself, Tony. You have convinced me that there is but one course open. I must surrender myself!”
“Think well of it first, Mr. Carew,” said Fagan, drawing his chair closer, and speaking in a lower tone. “We must not let any false delicacy deceive us. There never was a case of this kind yet that did not less depend upon its own merits than on fifty things over which one has no control. The temper of the judge—the rank in life of the jury—the accidental tone of public opinion at the moment—the bias of the press: these are the agencies to be thought of. When Grogan Hamilton was tried for shooting John Adair in the mess-room at Carlow, his verdict was pronounced before the jury was empanelled!”
“I never heard of that case,” said my father, anxiously.
“It occurred when you were a boy at school, sir; and although the facts would not read so condemnatory now, at that time there was not one voice to be heard on the side of mercy. The duel, if duel it could be called, took place after every one, save themselves, had left the table. The quarrel was an old grudge revived over the bottle. They fought without witnesses and with Heaven knows what inequality of weapons; and although Hamilton gave himself up——”
“He gave himself up?” interrupted my father.
“Yes, sir; in direct opposition to his friends' advice, he did so: but had he followed a different course,—had he even waited till the excitement had calmed down a little, till men began to talk more dispassionately on the subject, the result might have been different.”
“And what was the result?”
“I have already told you, sir,—a conviction.”
“And what followed?”
“He was hanged,—hanged in front of the old jail at Naas, where the regiment he once had served in was quartered. I don't know how or why this was done. Some said it was to show the people that there was no favoritism towards a man of rank and fortune. Some alleged it was to spare the feelings of his relatives, who were Carlow people.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed my father, passionately; “was there ever such an infamy!”
“The event happened as I tell you, sir. I believe I have the trial in the house; if I have not, Crowther will have it, for he was engaged in the defence, and one of those who endeavored to dissuade Hamilton from his resolution of surrender.”
“And who is Crowther?”
“A solicitor, sir, of great practice and experience.”
“In whom you have confidence, Fagan?”
“The most implicit confidence.”
“And who could be useful to us in this affair?”
“Of the very greatest utility, sir,—not alone from his legal knowledge, but from his consummate acquaintance with the world and its modes of thinking.”
“Can you send for him? Can you get him here without exciting suspicion?” said my father; for already had terror seized hold on him, and even before he knew it was he entangled in the toils.
“I can have him here within an hour, sir, and without any risk whatever; for he is my own law adviser, and in constant intercourse with me.”
Fagan now persuaded my father to lie down and try to obtain some sleep, promising to awake him the moment that Crowther arrived.
Scarcely had my father laid himself down on the bed, when he fell off into a heavy sleep. Fatigue, exhaustion, and loss of blood all combined to overcome him, and he lay motionless in the same attitude he at first assumed.
Fagan came repeatedly to the bedside, and, opening the curtains slightly, gazed on the cold, impassive features with a strange intensity. One might have supposed that the almost deathlike calm of the sleeper's face would have defied every thought or effort of speculation; but there he sat, watching it as though, by dint of patience and study, he might at length attain to reading what was passing within that brain.
At the slightest sound that issued from the lips, too, he would bend down to try and catch its meaning. Perhaps, at moments like these, a trace of impatience might be detected in his manner; but, for the most part, his hard, stern features showed no sign of emotion, and it was in all his accustomed self-possession that he descended to the small and secluded chamber where Crowther sat awaiting him.
“Still asleep, Fagan?” asked the lawyer, looking hastily up from the papers and documents he had been perusing.
“He is asleep, and like enough to continue so,” replied the other, slowly, while he sank down into an arm-chair, and gave himself up to deep reflection.
“I have been thinking a good deal over what you have told me,” said Crowther, “and I own I see the very gravest objections to his surrendering himself.”
“My own opinion!” rejoined Fagan, curtly.
“Even if it were an ordinary duel, with all the accustomed formalities of time, place, and witnesses, the temper of the public mind is just now in a critical state on these topics; MacNamara's death and that unfortunate affair at Kells have made a deep impression. I'd not trust too much to such dispositions. Besides, the chances are they would not admit him to bail, so that he 'd have to pass three, nearly four, months in Newgate before he could be brought to trial.”
“He'd not live through the imprisonment. It would break his heart, if it did not kill him otherwise.”
“By no means unlikely.”
“I know him well, and I am convinced he 'd not survive it. Why, the very thought of the accusation, the bare idea that he could be arraigned as a criminal, so overcame him here this morning that he staggered back and sunk into that chair, half fainting.”
“He thinks that he was not known at that hotel where he stopped?”
“He is quite confident of that; the manner of the waiters towards him convinces him that he was not recognized.”
“Nor has he spoken with any one since his arrival, except yourself?”
“Not one, save the hackney carman, who evidently did not know him.”
“He left home, you say, without a servant?”
“Yes! he merely said that he was going over for a day or two, to the mines, and would be back by the end of the week. But, latterly, he has often absented himself in this fashion; and, having spoken of visiting one place, has changed his mind and gone to another, in an opposite direction.”
“Who has seen him since he arrived here?”
“No one but myself and Raper.”
“Ah! Raper has seen him?”
“That matters but little. Joe has forgotten all about it already, or, if he has not, I have but to say that it was a mistake, for him to fancy that it was so. You shall see, if you like, that he will not even hesitate the moment I tell him the thing is so.”
“It only remains, then, to determine where he should go,—I mean Carew; for although any locality would serve in one respect, we must bethink ourselves of every issue to this affair: and, should there be any suspicion attaching to him, he ought to be out of danger,—the danger of arrest. Where do his principal estates lie?”
“In Wicklow,—immediately around Castle Carew.”
“But he has other property?”
“Yes, he has some northern estates; and there is a mine, also, on Lough Allen belonging to him.”
“Well, why not go there?”
“There is no residence; there is nothing beyond the cabins of the peasantry, or the scarcely more comfortable dwelling of the overseer. I have it, Crowther,” cried he, suddenly, as though, a happy notion had just struck him; “I have it. You have heard of that shooting-lodge of mine at the Killeries? It was Carew's property, but has fallen into my hands; he shall go there. So far as seclusion goes, I defy Ireland to find its equal. They who have seen it, tell me it is a perfect picture of landscape beauty. He can shoot and fish and sketch for a week or so, till we see what turn this affair is like to take. Nothing could be better; the only difficulty is the distance.”
“You tell me that he is ill.”
“It is more agitation than actual illness; he was weak and feeble before this happened, and of course his nerves are terribly shaken by it.”
“The next consideration is, how to apprise his wife; at least, what we ought to tell her if he be incapable of writing.”
“I hinted that already as I accompanied him upstairs, and by his manner it struck me that he did not lay much stress on the matter; he merely said, 'Oh! she has no curiosity; she never worries herself about what does not concern her.'”
“A rare quality in a wife, Fagan,” said the other, with a smile.
Whether it was the prompting of his own thoughts, or that some real or fancied emphasis on the word “wife” caught him, but Fagan asked suddenly, “What did you say?”
“I remarked that it was a rare quality for a wife to possess. You thought, perhaps, it was rather the gift of those who enjoy the privilege, and not the name of such.”
“Maybe you're right, then, Crowther. Shall I own to you, it was the very thought that was passing through my own brain!”
“How strange that Rutledge should have hinted the very same suspicion to myself, the last time we ever spoke together,” said Crowther, in a low, confidential whisper. “We were sitting in my back office; he had come to show me some bills of money won at play, and ask my advice about them. Carew was the indorser of two or three amongst them, and Rutledge remarked at the tremendous pace the other was going, and how impossible it was that any fortune could long maintain it. There was some difficulty in catching exactly his meaning, for he spoke rapidly, and with more than his accustomed warmth. It was something, however, to this effect: 'All this extravagant display is madame's doing, and the natural consequence of his folly in France. If, instead of this absurd mistake, he had married and settled in Ireland, his whole career would have taken a different turn.' Now, when I reflected on the words after he left me, I could not satisfy myself whether he had said that Carew ought to have married, in contradistinction to have formed this French attachment, or simply that he deemed an Irish wife would have been a wiser choice than a French one.”
“The former strikes me as the true interpretation,” said Fagan; “and the more I think on every circumstance of this affair, the more do I incline to this opinion. The secrecy so unnecessary, the mystery as to her family, even as to her name, all so needless. That interval of seclusion, in which, probably, he had not yet resolved finally on the course he should adopt. And, lastly, a point more peculiarly referring to ourselves, and over which I have often pondered,—I mean the selection of my daughter Polly to be her friend and companion. It is not at my time of life,” added Fagan, with an almost fierce energy of voice, “that I have to learn how the aristocracy regard me and such as me. No one needs to tell me that any intercourse between us must depend on something else than similarity of taste and pursuit; that if we ever sit down to the same table together, it is on the ground of a compromise. There is a shame to be concealed or consoled, or there is a debt to be deferred, or left unclaimed forever. Walter Carew's wife would scarcely have sought out the Grinder's daughter for her friend and bosom companion. His mistress might have thought such an alliance most suitable. Polly has herself told me the terms of perfect equality on which they lived; that never by a chance word, look, or gesture was there aught which could imply a position of superiority above her own. They called each other by their Christian names, they assumed all the intimacy of sisters, and that almost at once. When she related these things to me,” cried Fagan, sternly, “my passion nearly overcame me, to think how we had been outraged and insulted; but I remembered, suddenly, that there were others, far higher than us, exposed to the same indignity. The Castle was crowded by the rank, the wealth, and the influence of the whole country; and if there be a disgrace to be endured, we have at least partners in our shame.”
“Yes, yes,” said Crowther, nodding his head slowly in assent; “the whole assumes a strange and most remarkable consistency. I remember well, hearing how many of those invited on that occasion had sent letters of apology; and stranger again, the way in which the party broke up and separated has been made public enough in the newspapers. Rutledge's own words were: 'It was a rout, not a retreat.' That was a curious expression.”
Who has not, at some time or other of his life, experienced the force of that casuistry which is begotten of suspicion? Who has not felt how completely reason is mastered by the subtle assaults of a wily ingenuity which, whilst combining the false and the true, the possible and impossible together, makes out a mock array of evidence almost too strong for a doubt? The least creative of minds are endowed with this faculty, and even the most commonplace and matter-of-fact temperaments are sometimes the slaves of this delusion! To render its influence all powerful, however, it should be exercised by two who, in the interchange of suspicions, and by bartering their inferences, arrive at a degree of certainty in their conclusions rarely accorded to the most convincing testimony. As a river is swollen by the aid of every tiny rill that trickles down the mountain side, so does the current of conviction receive as tributary, incidents the most trivial, and events of the slightest meaning.
Fagan's spirit revolted at what he felt to be a gross insult passed upon his daughter; but this very indignation served to rivet more firmly his suspicions, for he reasoned thus: Men are ever ready to credit what they desire to be credible, and to disbelieve that which it is unpleasant to accept as true. Now, here have I every temptation to incredulity! If this be the fact, as my suspicions indicate, I have been deeply outraged. An affront has been offered to me which dared not have been put upon one of higher rank and better blood. It is, therefore, my interest and my wish to suppose this impossible; and yet I cannot do so. Not all the self-respect I can call to aid, not all the desire to shelter myself behind a doubt, will suffice. My reason accepts what my feelings would reject, and I believe what it is a humiliation for me to credit.
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.
“Where am I?” cried he, wildly. “Who are all these? What do they allege against me?”
“Lie down; compose yourself, Mr. Carew. You are amongst friends, who wish you well, and will treat you kindly,” said Fagan, mildly.
“But it was not of my seeking,—no one can dare to say so. Fagan will be my back to any amount,—ten thousand, if they ask it.”
“That will I,—to the last penny I possess.”
“There, I told you so. I often said I knew the Grinder better than any of you. You laughed at me for it; but I was right, for all that.”
“I trust you were right, sir,” said Fagan, calmly.
“What I said was this,” continued he, eagerly: “the father of such a girl as Polly must be a gentleman at heart. He may trip and stumble, in his imitations of your modish paces; but the soul of a gentleman must be in him. Was I right there, or not?”
“Pray, calm yourself; lie down, and take your rest,” said Fagan, gently pushing him back upon the pillow.
“You are quite right,” said he; “there is nothing for it now but submission. MacNaghten, Harvey, Burton,—all who have known me from boyhood,—can testify if I were one to do a dishonorable action. I tell you again and again, I will explain nothing; life is not worth such a price,—such ignominy is too great!”
He paused, as if the thought was too painful to pursue; and then, fixing his eyes on Fagan, he laughed aloud, and added,—
“Eh, Fagan! that would be like one of your own contracts,—a hundred per cent!”
“I have not treated you in this wise, Mr. Carew,” said he, calmly..
“No, my boy! that you have not. To the last hour of my life—no great stretch of time, perhaps—I 'll say the same. You have been a generous fellow with me—the devil and yourself may perhaps know why,—I do not; nay, more, Fagan—I never cared to know. Perhaps you thought I 'd marry Polly. By George! I might have done worse; and who knows what may be yet on the cards? Ay, just so—the cards—the cards!”
He did not speak again for several minutes; but when he did, his voice assumed a tone of greater distinctness and accuracy, as if he would not that a single word were lost.
“I knew your scheme about the Papists, Tony; I guessed what you were at then. I was to have emancipated you!”
A wild laugh broke from him, and he went on,—
“Just fancy the old trumpeter's face, that hangs up in the dinner-room at Castle Carew! Imagine the look he would bestow on his descendant as I sat down to table. Faith! Old Noll himself would have jumped out of the canvas at the tidings. If you cannot strain your fancy that far, Tony, think what your own father would have said were his degenerate son to be satisfied with lawful interest!—imagine him sorrowing over the lost precepts of his house!”
“There; I'll close the curtains, and leave you to take a sleep,” said Fagan.
“But I have no time for this, man,” cried the other, again starting up; “I must be up and away. You must find some place of concealment for me till I can reach the Continent. Understand me well, Fagan, I cannot, I will not, make a defence; as little am I disposed to die like a felon! There's the whole of it! Happily, if the worst should come, Tony, the disgrace dies with me; that's something,—eh?”
“You will make yourself far worse by giving way to this excitement, Mr. Carew; you must try and compose yourself.”
“So I will, Fagan; I'll be as obedient as you wish. Only tell me that you will watch for my safety, assure me of that, and I 'm content.”
As though the very words he had just uttered had brought a soothing influence to his mind, he had scarcely finished speaking when he fell off into a deep sleep, unbroken by even a dream. Fagan stood long enough at the bedside to assure himself that all was quiet, and then left the room, locking the door as he passed out, and taking the key with him.