In these memoirs of my father, I have either derived my information from the verbal accounts of his friends and contemporaries, or taken it from his own letters and papers. Many things have I omitted, as irrelevant to his story, which, in themselves, might not have been devoid of interest; and of some others, the meaning and purport being somewhat obscure, I have abstained from all mention. I make this apology for the incompleteness of my narrative; and the reader will probably accept my excuses the more willingly since he is spared the infliction of my discursiveness on topics only secondary and adventitious.
I now, however, come to a period the most eventful of his story, but, by an unhappy accident, the least illustrated by any record of its acts. MacNaghten, my chief source of information hitherto, is here unable to guide or direct me. He knew nothing of my father's movements, nor did he hold any direct intercourse with him. Whatever letters may have been written by my father himself, I am unable to tell, none of them having ever reached me. My difficulty is therefore considerable, having little to guide me beyond chance paragraphs in some of Fagan's letters to his daughter, and some two or three formal communications on business matters to my mother.
There is yet enough even in these scattered notices to show that Fagan's hopes of realizing the great ambition of his life had been suddenly and unexpectedly renewed. Not alone was he inclined to believe that my father might become the political leader of his own peculiar party, and take upon him the unclaimed position of an Irish champion, but, further still, he persuaded himself that my father was not really married, and that the present conjuncture offered a favorable prospect of making him his son-in-law.
The reader has already seen from what a slight foundation this edifice sprung,—a random word spoken by my father at a moment of great excitement; a half-muttered regret, wrung from him in a paroxysm of wounded self-love.
He was not the first, nor will he be the last, who shall raise up a structure for which the will alone supplies material; mayhap, too, in his case, the fire of hope had never been totally extinguished in his heart, and from its smouldering embers now burst out this new and brilliant flame.
It was about an hour after midnight that a chaise, with four horses, drew up at Fagan's door; and, after a brief delay, a sick man was assisted carefully down the stairs and deposited within the carriage. Raper took his place beside him, and, with a speed that denoted urgency, the equipage drove away, and, passing through many a narrow lane and alley, emerged from the city at last, and took the great western road.
Fallrach, even in our own day of universal travel and research, is a wild and lonely spot; but at the time I refer to, it was as utterly removed from all intercourse with the world as some distant settlement of Central America. Situated in a little bend or bight of coast where the Killeries opens to the great ocean, backed by lofty mountains, and flanked either by the sea or the still less accessible crags of granite, this little cottage was almost concealed from view. Unpretending as it was without, its internal arrangements included every comfort; and my father found himself not only surrounded with all the appliances of ease and enjoyment, but in the very midst of objects well known and dear to him from old associations. It had been in our family for about a century; but up to this moment my father had never seen it, nor was he aware of the singular beauty of the neighboring coast scenery.
At first, he could do no more than sit at an open window that looked over the sea, enjoying, with dreamy languor, the calm influences of a solitude so thoroughly unbroken. To an overwrought and excited mind, this interval of quiet was a priceless luxury; and far from experiencing weariness in his lonely life, the days glided past unnoticed.
Raper was not of a nature to obtrude himself on any one; and as my father neither sought nor needed a companion, they continued to live beneath the same roof almost without meeting. While, therefore, there was the most scrupulous attention to all my father's wants, and a watchfulness that seemed even to anticipate a wish on his part, his privacy was never invaded nor disturbed. A few words each morning between Raper and himself provided for all the arrangements of the day, and there ended their intercourse.
Leaving him, therefore, in the indulgence of this placid existence, I must now turn to another scene, where very different actors and interests were engaged.
The death of Barry Rutledge had created the most intense excitement, not alone in Dublin, but throughout the country generally. He was almost universally known. His acquaintanceship embraced men of every shade of opinion, and of all parties; and if his character did not suggest any feelings of strong attachment or regard, there were social qualities about him which, at least, attracted admiration, and made him welcome in society.
Such men are often regretted by the world more deeply than is their due. Their amusing faculties are frequently traced back to some imaginary excellence in their natures, and there mingles with the sorrow for their loss a sort of tender compassion for the fate of abilities misapplied, and high gifts wasted. This was exactly the case here. Many who did not rank amongst his intimates while he lived, now affected to deplore his death most deeply; and there was a degree of sympathy felt, or assumed to be felt, for his fate, widely disproportioned to his claims upon real regard.
The manner of his death still remained a profound mystery. The verdict of the coroner's jury was simply to the effect that “he had died of wounds inflicted by a person or persons unknown,” but without an attempt at explanation. The witnesses examined deposed to very little more than the state in which the body was found, and the prints of footsteps discovered in its vicinity. These, indeed, and other marks about the spot seemed to indicate that a struggle had taken place; but a strange and unaccountable apathy prevailed as to all investigation, and the public was left to the very vaguest of speculations as they appeared from time to time in the columns of the newspapers.
Amongst those who accompanied Rutledge into the street there was a singular discrepancy of opinion, some averring that they heard him called on by his name, and others equally positive in asserting that the provocation was uttered only in the emphatic monosyllable, “a lie.” They were all men of standing and position in the world; they were persons of indisputable honor; and yet, strange to say, upon a simple matter of fact which had occupied but a few seconds, they could not be brought to anything like agreement. The most positive of all in maintaining his opinion was a Colonel Vereker, who persisted in alleging that he stood side by side with Rutledge the whole time he was speaking; that he could swear not only to the words used by the unknown speaker, but that he would go so far as to say, that such was the impression made upon his senses that he could detect the voice were he ever to hear it again.
This assertion, at first uttered in the small circle of intimacy, at last grew to be talked of abroad, and many were of opinion it would one day or other give the clew to this mysterious affair. As to Vereker himself, he felt that he was to a certain extent pledged to the proof of what he had maintained so persistently. His opinions had gained currency, and were discussed by the press, which, in the dearth of other topics of interest, devoted a large portion of their columns to commentary on this event.
Any one now looking back to the pages of the Dublin “Express” or “Falkner” of that date will scarcely fail to find that each day contributed some new and ingenious suggestion as to the manner of Rutledge's death. Some of these were arrayed with great details and the most minute arrangement of circumstances; others were constructed of materials the least probable and likely. Every view had, however, its peculiar advocates, and it was curious to see to what violence was carried the war of controversy upon the subject.
By the publicity which accompanies such events as these, the ends of justice are mainly sustained and aided. Discussion suggests inquiry, and by degrees the general mind is turned with zeal to an investigation which, under ordinary circumstances, had only occupied the attention of the authorities.
To any one who has not witnessed a similar movement of popular anxiety, it would be difficult to believe how completely this topic engrossed the thoughts of the capital; and through every grade of society the same intense desire prevailed to unravel this mystery. Amongst the many facts adduced, was one which attracted a large share of speculation, and this was the track of footsteps from the very opposite corner of the “Green” to the fatal spot, and their issue at the little wicket gate of which we have already spoken. These traces were made by a large foot, and were unmistakably those of a heavy man, wearing boots such as were usually worn by gentlemen. One peculiarity of them, too, was, that the heels were studded with large nails, rarely worn save by the peasantry. A shoemaker who served on the inquest was heard to remark that a very few country gentlemen still persisted in having their boots thus provided, and that he himself had only one such customer, for whom he had just finished a new pair that were then ready to be sent home.
The remark attracted attention, and led to an examination of the boots, which, strange to say, were found exactly to correspond with the tracks in the clay. This fact, coupled with another, that the person for whom they were made, and who had been impatient to obtain them, had not even called at the shop or made any inquiry since the night of Rutledge's death, was of so suspicious a nature, that the boots were taken possession of by the authorities, and the maker strictly enjoined to the most guarded secrecy as to the name of him by whom they were ordered.
With every precaution to secure secrecy, the story of the boots got noised about, and letters poured forth in print to show that the custom of wearing such heels as were described was by no means so limited as was at first assumed. In the very thick of discussion on this subject, there came a post letter one evening to the bootmaker's house, requesting him to send the boots lately ordered by an old customer, J. C, to the “Blue Balls,” at Clontarf, addressed, “George J. Grogan, Esq.”
The shopkeeper, on receiving this epistle, immediately communicated it to the authorities, who could not fail to see in it another circumstance of deep suspicion. From the first moment of having learned his name, they had prosecuted the most active inquiries, and learned that he had actually been in town the evening of Rutledge's death, and suddenly taken his departure on the morning after. The entire of the preceding evening, too, he had been absent from his hotel, to which he returned late at night, and instead of retiring to bed, immediately occupied himself with preparations for his departure.
As the individual was one well known, and occupying a prominent position in society, it was deemed to be a step requiring the very gravest deliberation in what manner to proceed. His political opinions, and even his personal conduct, being strongly opposed to the Government, rather increased than diminished this difficulty, since the Liberal papers would be sure to lay hold of any proceedings as a gross insult to the national party.
The advice of the law officers, however, overruled all these objections; a number of circumstances appeared to concur to inculpate him, and it was decided on issuing a warrant for his arrest at the place which he had named as his address.
Secrecy was now no longer practicable; and to the astonishment of all Dublin was it announced in the morning papers that Mr. Curtis was arrested the preceding night, on a judge's warrant, charged with the murder of Barry Rutledge.
Terrible as such an accusation must always sound, there is something doubly appalling when uttered against one whose rank in society would seem to exempt him from the temptations of such guilt. The natural revulsion to credit a like imputation is, of course, considerable; but, notwithstanding this, there were circumstances in Curtis's character and habits that went far to render the allegation not devoid of probability. He was a rash, impetuous, and revengeful man, always involved in pecuniary difficulties, and rarely exempt from some personal altercation. Harassed by law, disappointed, and, as he himself thought, persecuted by the Government, his life was a continual conflict. Though not without those who recognized in him traits of warm-hearted and generous devotion, the number of these diminished as he grew older, and, by the casualties of the world, he lived to fancy himself the last of a bygone generation far superior in every gift and attribute to that which succeeded it.
When arrested, and charged with the crime of wilful murder, so far from experiencing the indignant astonishment such an allegation might naturally lead to, he only accepted it as another instance of the unrelenting hate with which the Government, or, as he styled it, “the Castle,” had, through his life long, pursued him.
“Who is it,” cried he, with sarcastic bitterness, “that I have murdered?”
“You are charged with being accessory to the death of Mr. Barry Rutledge, sir,” said the other.
“Barry Rutledge!—the Court-jester, the Castle-mimic, the tale-bearer of the Viceroy's household, the hireling scoffer at honest men, and the cringing supplicant of bad ones. The man who crushed such a reptile would have deserved well of his country, if it were not that the breed is too large to be extirpated.”
“Take care what you say, Mr. Curtis,” said the other, respectfully; “your words may be used to your disadvantage.”
“Take care what I say! Who are you speaking to, sirrah? Is the caution given to Joe Curtis? Is it to the man that has braved your power and laughed at your Acts of Parliament these fifty years? Are you going to teach me discretion now? Hark ye, my man, tell your employers not to puzzle their heads with plots and schemes about a conviction; they need neither bribe a witness, corrupt a judge, nor pack a jury. Familiar as such good actions are to them, their task will still be easier here. Tell them this; and tell them also that the score they must one day be prepared to settle would be lighter if Joe Curtis was the last man they had sent innocently to the scaffold.”
As though he had disburdened his mind by this bitter speech, Curtis never again adverted to the dreadful accusation against him. He was committed to Newgate; and while treated with a certain deference to his position in life, he never relaxed in the stern and unbending resolve neither to accept any favor, nor even avail himself of the ordinary means of legal defence.
“Prison diet and a straw mattress!” cried he; “such you cannot deny me; and they will be the extent of the favors I'll receive at your hands.”
As the day fixed for the trial approached, the popular excitement rose to a high degree. Curtis was not a favorite even with his own party; his temper was sour, and his disposition unconciliatory; so that even by the Liberal press, his name was mentioned with little sympathy or regard. Besides this feeling, there was another, and a far more dangerous one, then abroad. The lower classes had been of late reflected on severely for the crimes which disgraced the county calendars, and the opportunity of retaliating against the gentry, by a case which involved one of their order, was not to be neglected. While, therefore, the daily papers accumulated a variety of strange and seemingly convincing circumstances, the street literature did not scruple to go further, and Curtis was the theme of many a ballad, wherein his guilt was depicted in all the glowing colors of verse.
It is one of the gravest inconveniences which accompany the liberty of free discussion that an accused man is put upon his trial before the bar of public opinion, and his guilt or innocence pronounced upon, long before he takes his place in presence of his real judges; and although, in the main, popular opinion is rarely wrong, still there are moments of rash enthusiasm, periods of misguided zeal or unbridled bigotry, in which such decisions are highly perilous. Too frequently, also, will circumstances quite foreign to the matter at issue be found to influence the opinions expressed upon it.
So far had the popular verdict gone against the accused in the present case that there was a considerable time spent on the morning of the trial, before a jury could be empanelled which should not include any one who had already pronounced strongly on the case.
Curtis, as I have mentioned, declined all means of defence; he thought, or affected to think, that every member of the bar was open to Government corruption, and that as the whole was an organized plot for his destruction, resistance was perfectly vain and useless. When asked, therefore, to whom he had intrusted his case, he advanced to the front of the dock, and said: “Gentlemen of the jury, the disagreeable duties you are sworn to discharge shall not be protracted by anything on my part. Whatever falsehoods the counsel for the Crown may advance, and the witnesses swear to, shall meet neither denial nor refutation from me. The Castle scoundrels shall play the whole game themselves, and whenever you agree 'what 's to pay,' I 'll settle the score without flinching.”
This extraordinary address, uttered in a tone of half-savage jocularity, excited a strange mixture of emotion in those who heard it, which ultimately ended in half-subdued laughter throughout the court, repressing which at once, the judge gravely reprimanded the prisoner for the aspersions he had thrown on the administration of justice, and appointed one of the most distinguished members of the bar to conduct his defence.
It was late in the day when the Crown counsel rose to open his case. His address was calm and dispassionate. It was divested of what might seem to be any ungenerous allusion to the peculiar character or temperament of the accused, but it promised an amount of circumstantial evidence which, were the credit of the witnesses to stand unimpeached, would be almost impossible to reconcile with anything short of the guilt of the prisoner in the dock.
“We shall show you, gentlemen of the jury,” said he, “first of all that there was a manifest motive for this crime,—at least, what to a man of the prisoner's temper and passions might adequately represent a motive. We shall produce evidence before you to prove his arrival secretly in Dublin, where he lodged in an obscure and little-frequented locality, avoiding all occasion of recognition, and passing under an assumed name. We shall show you that on each evening he was accustomed to visit an acquaintance—a solicitor, whom we shall produce on the table—whose house is situated at the very opposite end of the city; returning from which, it was his habit to pass through Stephen's Green, and that he took this path on the night of the murder, having parted from his friend a little before midnight. We shall next show you that the traces of the footsteps correspond exactly with his boots, even to certain peculiarities in their make. And, lastly, we shall prove his immediate and secret departure from the capital on this very night in question; his retirement to a distant part of the country, where he remained till within a few days previous to his arrest.
“Such are the brief outlines of a case, the details of which will comprise a vast number of circumstances,—slight, perhaps, and trivial individually, but which, taken collectively, and considered in regard to their bearing on the matter before us, will make up a mass of evidence that the most sceptical cannot reject.
“Although it may not be usual to advert to the line of conduct which the prisoner has adopted, in refusing to name a counsel for his defence, I cannot avoid warning the jury that such a course may bear an interpretation very remote from that which at first sight it seems to convey. He would wish you to accept this position as the strongest evidence of innocence; as if, relying on the justice of his cause, he requires neither guidance nor counsel!
“It will be for you, gentlemen, to determine if the evidence placed before you admit of such a construction; or whether, on the contrary, it be not of such a nature that would foil the skill of the craftiest advocate to shake, and be more effectually rebutted by a general and vague denial, than by any systematic endeavors to impeach.
“You are not, therefore, to accept this rejection of aid as by any means a proof of conscious innocence. Far from it. The more correct reading might show it to be the crafty policy of a man who throughout his whole life has been as remarkable for self-reliance as for secrecy; who, confiding in his own skill to direct him in the most difficult circumstances, places far more reliance on his personal adroitness than upon the most practised advocacy; and whose depreciatory estimate of mankind is but the gloomy reflection of a burdened conscience.”
It was so late when the counsel had concluded that the court adjourned its proceedings till the following morning; and the vast assembly which thronged the building dispersed, deeply impressed with the weighty charge against the prisoner, and with far less of sympathy than is usually accorded to those who stand in like predicament.
On the second day of the trial, the court-house was even more densely crowded than on the first. The rank and station which the accused had held in society, as well as the mysterious character of the case itself, had invested the event with an uncommon interest; and long before the doors were opened, a vast concourse filled the streets, amidst which were to be seen the equipages of many of the first people of the country.
Scarcely had the judges taken their places, when every seat in the court was occupied,—the larger proportion of which displayed the rank and beauty of the capital, who now thronged to the spot, all animated with the most eager curiosity, and speculating on the result in a spirit which, whatever anxiety it involved, as certainly evinced little real sympathy for the fate of the prisoner. The bold, defiant tone which Curtis had always assumed in the world had made him but few friends, even with his own party; his sneering, caustic manner had rendered him unpopular; few could escape his censures,—none his sarcasms. It would, indeed, have been difficult to discover one for whom less personal interest was felt than for the individual who that morning stood erect in the dock, and with a calm but stern expression regarded the bench and the jury-box.
As the court continued to fill, Curtis threw his eyes here and there over the crowded assemblage, but in no wise disconcerted by the universal gaze of which he was the object. On the contrary, he nodded familiarly to some acquaintances at a distance; and, recognizing one whom he knew well in the gallery over his head, he called out,—
“How are you, Ruxton? Let me advise you to change your bootmaker, or I would n't say that the Crown lawyers won't put you, one day, where I stand now!”
The laugh which followed this sally was scarcely repressed, when the trial began. The first witness produced was a certain Joseph Martin, the solicitor at whose house Curtis had passed the evening on which the murder was committed. His evidence, of course, could throw little or no light upon the event, and merely went to establish the fact that Curtis had stayed with him till nigh midnight, and left him about that hour to proceed to his home. When questioned as to the prisoner's manner and general bearing during that evening, he replied that he could detect nothing strange or unusual in it; that he talked pretty much as he always did, and upon the same topics.
“Did he allude to the Government, or to any of its officials?” was then asked; and, before a reply could be given, Curtis cried out,—
“Yes. I told Martin that if the scoundrels who rule us should only continue their present game, nobody could regret the ruin of a country that was a disgrace to live in. Did n't I say that?”
“I must remind you, sir,” interposed the judge, gravely, “how seriously such conduct as this is calculated to prejudice the character of your defence.”
“Defence! my Lord,” broke in Curtis, “when did I ever think of a defence? The gentlemen of the jury have heard me more plainly than your Lordship. I told them, as I now tell you, that innocence is no protection to a man when hunted down by legal bloodhounds; that—”
“I must enforce silence upon you, sir, if I cannot induce caution,” said the judge, solemnly; “you may despise your own safety, but you must respect this court.”
“You 'll find that even a more difficult lesson to teach me, my Lord. I can remember some eight-and-forty years of what is called the administration of justice in Ireland. I am old enough to remember when you hanged a priest who married a Protestant, and disbarred the lawyer that defended him.”
“Be silent, sir,” said the judge, in a voice of command; and with difficulty was Curtis induced to obey the admonition.
As the trial proceeded, it was remarked that Colonel Vereker was seen in close communication with one of the Crown lawyers, who soon afterwards begged to tender him as a witness for the prosecution. The proposal itself and the object it contained were made the subject of a very animated discussion; and although the testimony offered seemed of the greatest importance, the court decided that it was of a kind which, according to the strict rules of evidence, could not be received.
“Then you may rely upon it, gentlemen of the jury,” cried Curtis, “it is favorable to me.”
“Let me assure you, sir, to the contrary,” said the judge, mildly, “and that it is with a jealous regard for your interest we have agreed not to accept this evidence.”
“And have you had no respect for poor Vereker, my Lord? He looks as if he really would like to tell the truth for once in his life.”
“If Colonel Vereker's evidence cannot be admitted upon this point, my Lord,” said the Crown lawyer, “there is yet another, in which it is all-essential. He was one of those who stood beside Rutledge on the balcony when the words were uttered which attracted his notice. The tone of voice, and the manner in which they were uttered, made a deep impression upon him, and he is fully persuaded that they were spoken by the prisoner in the dock.”
“Let us listen to him about that,” said Curtis, who now bestowed a more marked attention to the course of the proceeding. Vereker was immediately sworn, and his examination began. He detailed with great clearness the circumstances which preceded the fatal event, and the nature of the conversation on the balcony, till he came to that part where the interruption from the street took place. “There,” he said, “I cannot trust my memory as to the words employed by Rutledge, although I am confident as to the phrase used in rejoinder, and equally certain as to the voice of him who uttered it.”
“You mean to say,” said the judge, “that you have recognized that voice as belonging to the prisoner.”
“I mean to say, my Lord, that were I to hear him utter the same words in an excited tone, I should be able to swear to them.”
“That's a lie!” cried Curtis.
“These were the words, and that the voice, my Lord,” said Vereker; and as he spoke, a deep murmur of agitated feeling rang through the crowded court.
“By Heaven!” cried Curtis, in a tone of passionate excitement, “I hold my life as cheaply as any man; but I cannot see it taken away by the breath of a false witness: let me interrogate this man.” In vain was it that the practised counsel appointed to conduct his case interposed, and entreated of him to be silent. To no purpose did they beg of him to leave in their hands the difficult game of cross-examination. He rejected their advice as haughtily as he had refused their services, and at once addressed himself to the critical task.
“With whom had you dined, sir, on the day in question,—the 7th of June?” asked he of Vereker.
“I dined with Sir Marcus Hutchinson.”
“There was a large party?”
“There was.”
“Tell us, so far as you remember, the names of the guests.”
“Some were strangers to me,—from England, I believe; but of those I knew before, I can call to mind Leonard Fox, Hamilton Gore, John Fortescue, and his brother Edward, Tom Beresford, and poor Rutledge.”
“It was a convivial party, and you drank freely?”
“Freely, but not to excess.”
“You dined at five o'clock?”
“At half-after five.”
“And rose from table about eleven?”
“About that hour.”
“There were speeches made and toasts drunk, I believe?”
“There were,—a few.”
“The toasts and the speeches were of an eminently loyal character; they all redounded to the honor and credit of the Government?”
“Highly so.”
“And as strikingly did they reflect upon the character of all Irishmen who opposed the ministry, and assumed for themselves the position of patriots. Come, sir, no hesitation; answer my question boldly. Is this not true?”
“We certainly did not regard the party you speak of as being true and faithful subjects of the king.”
“You thought them rebels?”
“Perhaps not exactly rebels.”
“You called them rebels; and you yourself prayed that the time was coming when the lamp-iron and the lash should reward their loyalty. Can you deny this?”
“We had a great deal of conversation about politics. We talked in all the freedom of friendly intercourse, and, doubtless, with some of that warmth which accompanies after-dinner discussions. But as to the exact words—”
“It is the exact words I want; it is the exact words I insist upon, sir. They were used by yourself, and drew down rounds of applause. You were eloquent and successful.”
“I am really unable, at this distance of time, to recollect a word or a phrase that might have fallen from me in the heat of the moment.”
“This speech of yours was made about the middle of the evening?”
“I believe it was.”
“And you afterwards sat a considerable time and drank freely?”
“Yes.”
“And although your recollection of what passed before that is so obscure and inaccurate, you perfectly remember everything that took place when standing on the balcony two hours later, and can swear to the very tone of a voice that uttered but three words: 'That is a lie, sir!'”
“Prisoner at the bar, conduct yourself with the respect due to the court and to the witness under its protection,” interposed the judge, with severity.
“You mistake me, my Lord,” said Curtis, in a voice of affected deprecation. “The words I spoke were not used as commenting on the witness or his veracity. They were simply those to which he swore, those which he heard once, and, although after a five hours' debauch, remained fast graven on his memory, along with the very manner of him who uttered them. I have nothing more to ask him. He may go down—down!” repeated he, solemnly; “if there be yet anything lower that he can descend to!”
Once more did the judge admonish the prisoner as to his conduct, and feelingly pointed out to him the serious injury he was inflicting upon his own case by this rash and intemperate course of proceeding; but Curtis smiled half contemptuously at the correction, and folded his arms with an air of dogged resignation.
It is rarely possible, from merely reading the published proceedings of a trial, to apportion the due degree of weight which the testimony of the several witnesses imposes, or to estimate that force which manner and conduct supply to the evidence when orally delivered. In the present case, the guilt of the accused man rested on the very vaguest circumstances, not one of which but could be easily and satisfactorily accounted for on other grounds. He admitted that he had passed through Stephen's Green on the night in question, and that possibly the tracks imputed to him were actually his own; but as to the reasons for his abrupt departure from town, or the secrecy which he observed when writing to the bootmaker,—these, he said, were personal matters which he would not condescend to enter upon, adding, sarcastically,—
“That though they might not prove very damning omissions in defence of a hackney-coach summons, he was quite aware that they might prove fatal to a man who stood charged with murder.”
After a number of witnesses were examined, whose testimony went to prove slight and unimportant facts, Anthony Fagan was called to show that a variety of bill transactions had passed between the prisoner and Rutledge, and that on more than one occasion very angry discussions had occurred between them in reference to these.
There were many points in which Fagan sympathized with the prisoner. Curtis was violently national in his politics; he bore an unmeasured hatred to all that was English; he was an extravagant asserter of popular rights: and yet, with all these, and, stranger still, with a coarse manner, and an address totally destitute of polish, he was in heart a haughty aristocrat, who despised the people most thoroughly. He was one of that singular class who seemed to retain to the very last years of the past century the feudal barbarism of a bygone age.
Thus was it that the party who accepted his advocacy had to pay the price of his services in deep humiliation; and many there were who felt that the work was more than requited by the wages.
To men like Fagan, whose wealth suggested various ambitions, Curtis was peculiarly offensive, since he never omitted an occasion to remind them of their origin, and to show them that they were as utterly debarred from all social acceptance as in the earliest struggles of their poverty.
The majority of those in court, who only knew generally the agreement between Curtis and Fagan in political matters, were greatly struck by the decisive tone in which the witness spoke; and the damaging character of the evidence was increased by this circumstance.
Among the scenes of angry altercation between the prisoner and Rutledge, Fagan spoke to one wherein Curtis had actually called the other a “swindler.” Rutledge, however, merely remarked upon the liberties which his advanced age entitled him to assume; whereupon Curtis replied, “Don't talk to me, sir, of age! I am young enough and able enough to chastise such as you!”
“Did the discussion end here?” asked the court.
“So far as I know, my Lord, it did; for Mr. Rutledge left my office soon after, and apparently thinking little of what had occurred.”
“If honest Tony had not been too much engrossed with the cares of usury,” cried out Curtis from the dock, “he might have remembered that I said to Rutledge, as he went out, 'The man that injures Joe Curtis owes a debt that he must pay sooner or latter.'”
“I remember the words now,” said Fagan.
“Ay, and so have I ever found it,” said Curtis, solemnly. “There are few who have gone through life with less good fortune than myself, and yet I have lived to see the ruin of almost every man that has injured me!”
The savage vehemence with which he uttered these words caused a shudder throughout the crowded court, and went even further to criminate him in popular opinion than all that had been alleged in evidence.
When asked by the court if he desired to cross-examine the witness, Curtis, in a calm and collected voice, replied:
“No, my Lord; Tony Fagan will lose a hundred and eighty pounds if you hang me; and if he had anything to allege in my favor, we should have heard it before this.” Then, turning towards the jury-box, he went on: “Now, gentlemen of the jury, there's little reason for detaining you any longer. You have as complete a case of circumstantial evidence before you as ever sent an innocent man to the scaffold. You have had the traits of my temper and the tracks of my boots, and, if you believe Colonel Vereker, the very tones of my voice, all sworn to; but, better than all these, you have at your disposal the life of a man who is too sick of the world to stretch out a hand to save himself, and who would even accept the disgrace of an ignominious death for the sake of the greater ignominy that is sure to fall later upon the unjust laws and the corrupt court that condemned him. Ay!” cried he, with an impressive solemnity of voice that thrilled through every heart, “you 'll array yourselves in all the solemn mockery of your station; you 'll bewail my guilt, and pronounce my sentence; but it is I, from this dock, say unto you upon that bench, the Lord have mercy upon your souls!”
There was in the energy of his manner, despite all its eccentricity and quaintness, a degree of power that awed the entire assembly; and more than one trembled to think, “What if he really were to be innocent!”
While this singular address was being delivered, Fagan was engaged in deep and earnest conversation with the Crown prosecutor; and from his excited manner might be seen the intense anxiety under which he labored. He was evidently urging some proposition with all his might, to which the other listened with deep attention.
At this instant Fagan's arm was tapped by a hand from the crowd. He turned, and as suddenly grew deadly pale; for it was Raper stood before him!—Raper, whom he believed at that moment to be far away in a remote part of the country.
“What brings you here? How came you to Dublin?” said Fagan, in a voice tremulous with passion.
“We have just arrived; we heard that you were here, and he insisted upon seeing you before he left town.”
“Where is he, then?” asked Fagan.
“In his carriage at the door of the court-house.”
“Does he know—has he heard of the case before the court? Speak, man! Is he aware of what is going on here?”
The terrified eagerness of his whisper so overcame poor Raper that he was utterly unable to reply, and Fagan was obliged to clutch him by the arm to recall him to consciousness. Even, then, however, his vague and broken answer showed how completely his faculties were terrorized over by the despotic influence of his master. An indistinct sense of having erred somehow overcame him, and he shrank back from the piercing glance of the other, to hide himself in the crowd. Terrible as that moment of suspense must have been to Fagan, it was nothing to the agony which succeeded It, as he saw the crowd separating on either side to leave a free passage for the approach of an invalid who slowly came forward to the side-bar, casting his eyes around him, in half-bewildered astonishment at the scene.
Being recognized by the Bench, an usher of the court was sent round to say that their Lordships would make room for him beside them; and my father—for it was he—with difficulty mounted the steps and took his seat beside the Chief Justice, faintly answering the kind inquiries for his health in a voice weak and feeble as a girl's.
“You little expected to see me in such a place as this, Walter!” cried out Curtis from the dock; “and I just as little looked to see your father's son seated upon the bench at such a moment!”
“What is it? What does it all mean? How is Curtis there? What has happened?” asked my father, vaguely.
The Chief Justice whispered a few words in reply, when, with a shriek that made every heart cold, my father sprang to his feet, and, leaning his body over the front of the bench, cried out,—
“It was I killed Barry Rutledge! There was no murder in the case! We fought with swords; and there,” said he, drawing the weapon, “there's the blade that pierced his heart! and here” (tearing open his vest and shirt)—“and here the wound he gave me in return. The outrage for which he died well merited the penalty; but if there be guilt, it is mine, and mine only!”
A fit of choking stopped his utterance. He tried to overcome it; he gasped convulsively twice or thrice; and then, as a cataract of bright blood gushed from nostrils and mouth together, he fell back and rolled heavily to the ground—dead.
So exhausted was nature by this last effort that the body was cold within an hour after.
car0208
The day of my beloved father's funeral was that of my birth! It is not improbable that he had often looked forward to that day as the crowning event of his whole life, destining great rejoicings, and planning every species of festivity; and now the summer clouds were floating over the churchyard, and the gay birds were carolling over the cold grave where he lay.
What an emblem of human anticipation, and what an illustration of his own peculiar destiny! Few men ever entered upon life with more brilliant prospects. With nearly every gift of fortune, and not one single adverse circumstance to struggle against, he was scarcely launched upon the ocean of life ere he was shipwrecked! Is it not ever thus? Is it not that the storms and seas of adverse fortune are our best preservatives in this world, by calling into activity our powers of energy and of endurance? Are we not better when our lot demands effort, and exacts sacrifice, than when prosperity neither evokes an ungratified wish, nor suggests a difficult ambition?
The real circumstances of his death were, I believe, never known to my mother, but the shock of the event almost killed her. Her cousin, Emile de Gabriac, had just arrived at Castle Carew, and they were sitting talking over France and all its pleasant associations, when a servant entered hastily with a letter for MacNaghten. It was in Fagan's handwriting, and marked “Most private, and with haste.”
“See,” cried Dan, laughing,—“look what devices a dun is reduced to, to obtain an audience! Tony Fagan, so secret and so urgent on the outside, will be candid enough within, and beg respectfully to remind Mr. MacNaghten that his indorsement for two hundred and something pounds will fall due on Wednesday next, when he hopes—”
“Let us see what he hopes,” cried my mother, snatching the letter from him, “for it surely cannot be that he hopes you will pay it.”
The terrific cry she uttered, as her eyes read the dreadful lines, rang through that vast building. Shriek followed shriek in quick succession for some seconds; and then, as if exhausted nature could no more, she sank into a death-like trance, cold, motionless, and unconscious.
Poor MacNaghten! I have heard him more than once say that if he were to live five hundred years, he never could forget the misery of that day, so graven upon his memory was every frightful and harrowing incident of it. He left Castle Carew for Dublin, and hastened to the courthouse, where, in one of the judge's robing-rooms, the corpse of his poor friend now lay. A hurried inquest had been held upon the body, and pronounced that “Death had ensued from natural causes;” and now the room was crowded with curious and idle loungers, talking over the strange event, and commenting upon the fate of him who, but a few hours back, so many would have envied.
Having excluded the throng, he sat down alone beside the body, and, with the cold hand clasped between his own, wept heartily.
“I never remember to have shed tears before in my life,” said he, “nor could I have done so then, if I were not looking on that pale, cold face, which I had seen so often lighted up with smiles; on those compressed lips, from which came so many words of kindness and affection; and felt within my own that hand that never till now had met mine without the warm grasp of friendship.”
Poor Dan! he was my father's chief mourner,—I had almost said his only one. Several came and asked leave to see the body. Many were visibly affected at the sight. There was decent sorrow on every countenance; but of deep and true affliction MacNaghten was the solitary instance.
It was late on the following evening as MacNaghten, who had only quitted the rooms for a few minutes, found on his return that a stranger was standing beside the body.
“Ay,” muttered he, solemnly, “the green and the healthy tree cut down, and the old sapless, rotten trunk left to linger on in slow decay!”
“What! Curtis, is this you?” cried MacNaghten.
“Yes, sir, and not mine the fault that I have not changed places with him who lies there. He had plenty to live for; I nothing, nor any one. And it was not that alone, MacNaghten!” added he, fiercely, “but think, reflect for one moment on what might have happened had they condemned and executed me! Is there a man in all Ireland, with heart and soul in him, who would not have read that sentence as an act of Government tyranny and vengeance? Do you believe the gentry of the country would have accepted the act as an accident, or do you think that the people would recognize it as anything else than a murder solemnized by the law? And if love of country could not stimulate and awake them, is it not possible that fears for personal safety might?”
“I have no mind for such thoughts as these,” said MacNaghten, sternly; “nor is it beside the cold corpse of him who lies there I would encourage them. If you come to sorrow over him, take your place beside me; if to speculate on party feuds or factious dissensions, then I beg you will leave me to myself.”
Curtis made him no reply, but left the room in silence.
There were some legal difficulties raised before the funeral could be performed. The circumstances of Rutledge's death required to be cleared up; and Fagan—to whom my father had made a full statement of the whole event—underwent a long and close examination by the law authorities of the Castle. The question was a grave one as regarded property, since if a charge of murder could have been substantiated, the whole of my father's fortune would have been confiscated to the Crown. Fagan's testimony, too, was not without a certain disqualification, because he held large liens over the property, and must, if the estate were estreated, have been a considerable loser. These questions all required time for investigation; but, by dint of great energy and perseverance, MacNaghten obtained permission for the burial, which took place with strict privacy at the small churchyard of Killester,—a spot which, for what reason I am unaware, my father had himself selected, and mention of which desire was found amongst his papers.
Fagan accompanied MacNaghten to the funeral, and Dan returned to his house afterwards to breakfast. Without any sentiment bordering on esteem for the “Grinder,” MacNaghten respected him generally for his probity, and believed him to be as honorable in his dealings as usury and money-lending would permit any man to be. He was well aware that for years back the most complicated transactions with regard to loans had taken place between him and my father, and that to a right understanding of these difficult matters, and a satisfactory adjustment of them, nothing could conduce so much as a frank intercourse and a friendly bearing. These were at all times no very difficult requirements from honest Dan, and he did not assume them now with less sincerity or willingness that they were to be practised for the benefit of his poor friend's widow and orphan.
MacNaghten could not help remarking that Fagan's manner, when speaking of my father's affairs, was characterized by a more than common caution and reserve, and that he strenuously avoided entering upon anything which bore, however remotely, upon the provision my mother was to enjoy, or what arrangements were to be made respecting myself. There was a will, he thought, in Crowther's possession; but it was of the less consequence, since the greater part, nearly all, of the Carew property was under the strictest entail.
“The boy will be rich, one of the richest men in Ireland, if he lives,” said MacNaghten; but Fagan made no reply for some time, and at last said,—
“If there be not good sense and moderation exercised on all sides, the Carews may gain less than will the Court of Chancery.”
MacNaghten felt far from reassured by the cautious and guarded reserve of Fagan's manner; he saw that in the dry, sententious tone of his remarks there lurked difficulties, and perhaps troubles; but he resolved to devote himself to the task before him in a spirit of patience and calm industry which, unhappily for him, he had never brought to bear upon his own worldly fortunes.
“There is nothing either obtrusive or impertinent,” said he, at last, to Fagan, “in my making these inquiries, for, independently of poor Walter's affection for me, I know that he always expected me to take the management of his affairs, should I survive him; and if there be a will, it is almost certain that I am named his executor in it.”
Fagan nodded affirmatively, and merely said,—
“Crowther will be able to clear up this point.”
“And when shall we see him?”
“He is in the country, down south, I think, at this moment; but he will be up by the end of the week. However, there are so many things to be done that his absence involves no loss of time. Where shall I address you, if I write?”
“I shall return to Castle Carew this evening, and in all probability remain there till I hear from you.”
“That will do,” was the dry answer; and MacNaghten took his leave, more than ever puzzled by the Grinder's manner, and wondering within himself in what shape and from what quarter might come the storm, which he convinced himself could not be distant.
Grief for my father's death, and anxiety for my poor mother's fate, were, however, the uppermost thoughts in his mind; and as he drew nigh Castle Carew, his heart was so much overpowered by the change which had fallen upon that once happy home that he totally forgot all the dark hints and menacing intimations of his late interview.
It was truly a gloom-stricken mansion. The servants moved about sadly, conversing in low whispers; save in one quarter, all the windows were closed, and the rooms locked up,—not a voice nor a footstep was to be heard. Mourning and woe were imprinted on every face and in every gesture. MacNaghten knew not where to go, nor where to stay. Every chamber he entered was full of its memories of the past, and he wandered on from room to room, seeking some spot which should not remind him of days whose happiness could never return. In this random search he suddenly entered the chamber where M. de Gabriac lay at full length upon a sofa, enjoying, in all the ease of a loose dressing-gown, the united pleasures of a French novel and a bottle of Bordeaux. MacNaghten would willingly have returned at once. Such a scene and such companionship were not to his taste; but the other quickly detected him, and called out,—
“Ah! M. MacNaghten, how delighted am I to see you again! What days of misery and gloom have I been passing here,—no one to speak to, none to sit with.”
“It is, indeed, a sad mansion,” sighed MacNaghten, heavily.
“So, then, it is all true?” asked the other. “Poor fellow, what a sensitive nature,—how impressible. To die just for a matter of sentiment; for, after all, you know it was a sentiment, nothing else. Every man has had his affairs of this kind,—few go through life without something unpleasant; but one does not die broken-hearted for all that. No,parbleu, that is a very poor philosophy. Tell me about the duel; I am greatly interested to hear the details.”
To escape as far as possible any further moralizings of his companion, Dan related all that he knew of the fatal rencontre, answering, so well as he might, all the Frenchman's questions, and, at the same time, avoiding all reference to the provocation which led to the meeting.
“It was a mistake, a great mistake, to fight in this fashion,” said Gabriac, coldly. “There is an etiquette to be observed in a duel, as in a dinner; and you can no more hurry over one than the other, without suffering for it afterwards. Maybe these are, however, the habits of the country.”
MacNaghten calmly assured him that they were not.
“Then the offence must have been an outrage,—what was it?”
“Some expression of gross insult; I forget the exact nature of it.”
“Poor fellow!” said the other, sipping his wine, “with so much to live for,—a magnificent château, a pretty wife, and a good fortune. What folly, was it not?”
MacNaghten afterwards acknowledged that even the Grinder's sententious dryness was preferable to the heartless indifference of the Frenchman's manner; but a deferential regard for her whose relative he was, restrained him from all angry expression of feeling on the subject, and he suffered him to discuss the duel and all its consequences, without the slightest evidence of the suffering it cost him.
“Josephine will not be sorry to leave it,” said Gabriac, after a short silence. “She told me that they never understood her, nor she them; and, after all, you know,” said he, smiling, “there is but one France!”
“And but one Ireland!” said MacNaghten, heartily.
“Heureusement!” muttered the Frenchman, but employing a word which, happily, the other did not understand.
“Her state is one of great danger still,” said Dan, alluding to my mother.
“They say so; but that is always the way with doctors. One may die of violent anger, rage, ungratified vengeance, jealousy, but not of mere grief. Sorrow is rather a soothing passion,—don't you think so?”
Had MacNaghten been in the mood, he might have laughed at the remark, but now it only irritated and incensed him; and to such an extent did the heartless manner of the Frenchman grate upon his feelings that he was in momentary danger of including my poor mother in the depreciatory estimate he conceived of France and all that belonged to it. Nor was his temper improved by the inquiries of Gabriac concerning the property and estates of my father; in fact, unable any longer to continue a conversation, every portion of which, was an outrage, he arose abruptly, and, wishing him a good night, left the room.
“Poor Walter,” said he, as he slowly sauntered along towards his chamber, “is it to such as these your memory is to be intrusted, and your name and fortune bequeathed?” And with this gloomy reflection he threw himself upon his bed, to pass a sad and a sleepless night.
It was in a curious reverie—a kind of inquiring within himself, “How came it that qualities so calculated to make social intercourse delightful in days of happiness, should prove positively offensive in moments of trial and affliction?” for such he felt to be the case as regarded Gabriac—that MacNaghten lay, when a servant came to inform him that Mr. Crowther had just arrived at the Castle, and earnestly requested to see him.
“At once,” replied he, “show him up to me here;” and in a few moments that most bland and imperturbable of solicitors entered, and, drawing a chair to the bedside, sat down.
“This is a sad occasion, Mr. MacNaghten. I little thought when I last saw you here that my next visit would have been on such an errand.”
MacNaghten nodded sorrowfully, and Crowther went on:
“Sad in every sense, sir,” sighed he, heavily. “The last of his name—one of our oldest gentry—the head of a princely fortune—with abilities, I am assured, of a very high order, and, certainly, most popular manners.”
“You may spare me the eulogy,” said MacNaghten, bluntly. “He was a better fellow than either you or I should be able to describe, if we spent an hour over it.”
Crowther took the rebuke in good part, and assented to the remark with the best possible grace. Still, he seemed as if he would like to dwell a little longer on the theme before he proceeded to other matters. Perhaps he thought by this to secure a more favorable acceptance for what he had to say; perhaps he was not fully made up in mind how to approach the subject before him. MacNaghten, who always acted through life as he would ride in a steeplechase, straight onward, regardless of all in his way, stopped him short, by saying,—
“Carew has left a will in your hands, I believe?”
“You can scarcely call it a will, sir. The document is very irregular, very informal.”
“It was his act, however; he wrote or dictated it himself?”
“Not even that, sir. He suggested parts of it, made trifling corrections with his own pen, approved some portions, and left others for after-consideration.”
“It is, at all events, the only document of the kind in existence?”
“That would be too much to affirm, sir.”
“I mean that you, at least, know of no other; in fact, I want to hear whether you conceive it to be sufficient for its object, as explaining Carew's wishes and intentions.”
A dubious half-smile, and a still more dubious shake of the head, seemed to infer that this view of the subject was far too sweeping and comprehensive.
“Come, come,” said Dan, good-humoredly, “I'm not the Chancellor, nor even Master of the Rolls. Even a little indiscretion will never injure your reputation in talking with me. Just tell me frankly what you know and think about my poor friend's affairs. His widow, if she ever recover, which is very doubtful, is but little suited to matters of business; and as it is not a case where any adverse litigation is to be apprehended—What do you mean by that shake of the head? You surely would not imply that the estate, or any part of it, could be contested at law?”
“Who could say as much for any property, sir?” said Crowther, sententiously.
“I know that; I am well aware that there are fellows in your tribe who are always on the lookout for a shipwrecked fortune, that they may earn the salvage for saving it; but here, if I mistake not very much, is an estate that stands in need of no such aids. Carew may have debts.”
“Very large debts,—debts of great amount indeed!”
“Well, be it so; there ends the complication.”
“You have a very concise and, I must say, a most straightforward mode of regarding a subject, sir,” said Crowther, blandly. “There is an admirable clearness in your views, and a most business-like promptitude in your deductions; but we, poor moles of the law, are condemned to work in a very different fashion; and, to be brief, here is a case that requires the very nicest management. To enable Madame Carew to take out letters of administration to her late husband's property, we must prove her marriage. Now, so far as I can see, sir, this is a matter of considerable difficulty.”
“Why, you would not dare to assert—to insinuate even—”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. Pray be calm, Mr. Mac-Naghten. I am as incapable of such a thought as yourself. Of the fact, I entertain no more doubt than you do. The proof of it,—the legal proof,—however, I am most anxious to obtain.”
“But, with search amongst his papers—”
“Very true, sir; it may be discovered. I have no doubt it will be discovered. I only mean to say that such a document is not to be met with amongst those in my hands, and I have very carefully gone over a large packet, labelled 'Papers and letters relating to France during my last residence there in '80-81,' which, you may remember, was the period of his marriage.”
“But he alludes to that event?”
“Not once, sir; there is not a single passage that even bears upon it. There are adventures of various kinds, curious incidents, many of them in love, play, and gallantry; but of marriage, or even of any speculation on the subject, not the remotest mention.”
“This is most singular!”
“Is it not so, sir? But I have thought, perhaps, that you, who were always his most attached friend,—you, at least, possessed some letters which should throw light upon this matter, even to indicate the exact date of it, where it occurred, who the witnesses.”
“Not a line, not a syllable,” said MacNaghten, with a sigh.
“This is more unfortunate than I expected,” said Crowther. “I always said to myself, 'Well, in his private correspondence, in the close relations of friendship, we shall come upon some clew to the mystery.' I always understood that with you he was frankness itself, sir?”
“So he was,” rejoined MacNaghten.
“This reserve is therefore the more remarkable still. Can you account for it in any way, sir?”
“Why should I account for it?” cried Dan, passionately. “My friend had his own reasons for whatever he did,—good and sufficient ones, I 'll be sworn.”
“I feel assured of that, sir; don't mistake me for a moment, or suppose I am impugning them. I merely desired to learn if you could, from your intimate knowledge of your friend's character, trace this reserve on his part to any distinct cause.”
“My knowledge of him goes this far,” said MacNaghten, haughtily, “that he had an honorable motive for every aet of his life.”
It required some address on Crowther's part to bring back MacNaghten to that calm and deliberate tone of mind which the subject demanded. After a while, however, he perfectly succeeded; and Dan arose, and accompanied him to the library, where they both proceeded to search among my father's papers, with which several boxes were filled.