“You came in time,—in the very nick, Mr. Gray,” said Frank, with a quiet smile. “My friend here and I had said all that we had to say to each other.”
“Maybe you'd come again; maybe you'd give me five minutes another time?” whispered Meekins, submissively, in Frank's ear.
“I think not,” said Frank, with an easy significance in his look; “perhaps, on reflection, you'll find that I have come once too often!” And with these words he left the cell, and, in silent meditation, returned to his companion.
“The fellow's voice was loud and menacing when I came to the door,” said Gray, as they walked along.
“Yes, he grew excited just at that moment; he is evidently a passionate man,” was Frank's reply; and he relapsed into his former reserve.
Grounsell, who at first waited with most exemplary patience for Frank to narrate the substance of his interview, at last grew weary of his reserve, and asked him what had occurred between them.
Frank paid no attention to the question, but sat with his head resting on his hand, and evidently deep in thought. At last he said slowly,——
“Can you tell me the exact date of Mr. Godfrey's murder?”
“To the day,—almost to the hour,” replied Grounsell. Taking out his pocket-book, he read, “It was on a Friday, the 11th of November, in the year 18——.”
“Great God!” cried Frank, grasping the other's arm, while his whole frame shook with a strong convulsion. “Was it, then, on that night?”
“Yes,” said the other, “the murder took place at night. The body, when discovered the next morning, was perfectly cold.”
“Then that was it!” cried Frank, wildly. “It was then——when the light was put out——when he crossed the garden——when he opened the wicket—”
A burst of hysteric laughter broke from him, and muttering, “I saw it, ——I saw it all,” he fell back fainting into Grounsell's arms.
All the doctor's care and judicious treatment were insufficient to recall the youth to himself. His nervous system, shattered and broken by long illness, was evidently unequal to the burden of the emotions he was suffering under, and before he reached the hotel his mind was wandering away in all the incoherency of actual madness.
Next to the unhappy youth himself, Grounsell's case was the most pitiable. Unable to account for the terrible consequences of the scene whose events were a secret to himself, he felt all the responsibility of a calamity he had been instrumental in producing. From Frank it was utterly hopeless to look for any explanation; already his brain was filled with wild images of war and battle, mingled with broken memories of a scene which none around his bed could recognize. In his distraction Grounsell hurried to the jail to see and interrogate Meekins. Agitated and distracted as he was, all his prudent reserve and calm forethought were completely forgotten. He saw himself the cause of a dreadful affliction, and already cured in his heart the wiles and snares in which he was engaged. “If this boy's reason be lost forever, I, and I only, am in fault,” he went on repeating as he drove in mad haste back to the prison.
In a few and scarcely coherent words he explained to Gray his wish to see the prisoner, and although apprised that he had already gone to rest, he persisted strongly, and was at length admitted into his cell.
Meekins started at the sound of the opening door, and called out gruffly, “Who's there?”
“It's your friend,” said Grounsell, who had already determined on any sacrifice of his policy which should give him the hope of aiding Frank.
“My friend!” said Meekins, with a dry laugh. “Since when, sir?”
“Since I have begun to believe I may have wronged you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, seating himself at the bedside.
“I see, sir,” rejoined the other, slowly; “I see it all. Mr. Dalton has told you what passed between us, and you are wiser than he was.”
“He has not told me everything, Meekins,—at least, not so fully and clearly as I wish. I want you, therefore, to go over it all again for me, omitting nothing that was said on either side.”
“Ay,” said the prisoner, dryly, “I see. Now, what did Mr. Dalton say to you? I 'm curious to know; I 'd like to hear how he spoke of me.”
“As of one who was well disposed to serve him, Meekins,” said Grounsell, hesitatingly, and in some confusion.
“Yes, to be sure,” said the fellow, with a keen glance beneath his gathering brows. “And he told you, too, that we parted good friends,—at least, as much so as a poor man like myself could be to a born gentleman like him.”
“That he did,” cried Grounsell, eagerly; “and young Mr. Dalton is not the man to think the worse of your friendship because you are not his equal in rank.”
“I see,—I believe I see it all,” said Meekins, with the same sententious slowness as before. “Now look, doctor,” added he, fixing a cold and steady stare on the other's features, “it is late in the night,—not far from twelve o'clock,—and I ask you, would n't it be better for you to be asleep in your bed, and leave me to rest quietly in mine, rather than be fencing—ay, fencing here—with one another, trying who is the deepest? Just answer me that, sir.”
“You want to offend me,” said Grounsell, rising.
“No, sir; but it would be offending yourself to suppose that it was worth your while to deceive the like of me,—a poor, helpless man, without a friend in the world.”
“I own I don't understand you, Meekins,” said Grounsell, reseating himself.
“There's nothing so easy, sir, if you want to do it If Mr. Dalton told you what passed between us to-night, you know what advice you gave him; and if he did not tell you, faix! neither will I—that's all.Heknows what I have in my power. He was fool enough not to take me at my word. Maybe I would n't be in the same mind again.”
“Come, come,” said Grounsell, good-humoredly, “this is not spoken like yourself. It can be no object with you to injure a young gentleman who never harmed you; and if, in serving him, you can serve yourself, the part will be both more sensible and more honorable.”
“Well, then,” said Meekins, calmly, “Icanserve him; and now comes the other question, 'What will he do forme?'”
“What do you require from him?”
“To leave this place at once,—before morning,” said the other, earnestly. “I don't want to see them that might make me change my mind; to be on board of a ship at Waterford, and away out of Ireland forever, with three hundred pounds,—I said two, but I 'll want three,—and for that—for that “—here he hesitated some seconds,—“for that I 'll do what I promised.”
“And this business will never be spoken of more.”
“Eh! what?” cried Meekins, starting.
“I mean that when your terms are complied with, what security have we that you 'll not disclose this secret hereafter?”
Meekins slowly repeated the other's words twice over to himself, as if to weigh every syllable of them, and then a sudden flashing of his dark eyes showed that he had caught what he suspected was their meaning.
“Exactly so; I was coming to that,” cried he. “We 'll take an oath on the Gospel,—Mr. Frank Dalton and myself,—that never, while there's breath in our bodies, will we ever speak to man or mortal about this matter. I know a born gentleman would n't perjure himself, and, as for me, I 'll swear in any way, and before any one, that your two selves appoint.”
“Then there's this priest,” said Grounsell, doubtingly. “You have already told him a great deal about this business.”
“If he has n't me to the fore to prove what I said,hecan do nothing; and as to the will, he never heard of it.”
“The will!” exclaimed Grounsell, with an involuntary burst of surprise; and, brief as it was, it yet revealed a whole world of dissimulation to the acute mind of the prisoner.
“So, doctor,” said the fellow, slowly, “I was right after all. Youwereonly fencing with me.”
“What do you mean?” cried Grounsell.
“I mean just this: that young Dalton never told you one word that passed between us; that you came here to pump me, and find out all I knew; that, cute as you are, there 's them that's equal to you, and that you 'll go back as wise as you came.”
“What's the meaning of this change, Meekins?”
“It well becomes you, a gentleman, and a justice of the peace, to come to the cell of a prisoner, in the dead of the night, and try to worm out of him what you want for evidence. Won't it be a fine thing to tell before a jury the offers you made me this night! Now, mind me, doctor, and pay attention to my words. This is twice you tried to trick me, for it was you sent that young man here. We 've done with each other now; and may the flesh rot off my bones, like a bit of burned leather, if I ever trust you again!”
There was an insolent defiance in the way these words were uttered, that told Grounsell all hope of negotiation was gone; and the unhappy doctor sat overwhelmed by the weight of his own incapacity and unskilfulness.
“There, now, sir, leave me alone. To-morrow I 'll find out if a man is to be treated in this way. If I 'm not discharged out of this jail before nine o'clock,I'll know why, andyou 'llnever forget it, the longest day you live.”
Crestfallen and dispirited, Grounsell retired from the cell and returned to the inn.
Grounsell lost no time in summoning to his aid Mr. Hipsley, one of the leading members of the Irish bar; but while he awaited his coming, difficulties gathered around him from every side. Lenahan, the old farmer, who was at first so positive about the identity of the prisoner, began to express some doubts and hesitations on the subject “It was so many years back since he had seen him, that it was possible he might be mistaken;” and, in fact, he laid far more stress on the fashion of a certain fustian jacket that the man used to wear than on any marks and signs of personal resemblance.
The bold defiance of Meekins, and his insolent threats to expose the Daltons to the world, assailed the poor doctor in various ways; and although far from feeling insensible to the shame of figuring on a trial, as having terrorized over a prisoner, the greater ruin that impended on his friends absorbed all his sorrows.
Had he been the evil genius of the family, he could scarcely have attained a greater degree of unpopularity. Frank's illness—for since the night at the jail his mind had not ceased to wander—was, in Kate's estimation, solely attributable to Grounsell's interference, all the more unpardonable because inexplicable. Lady Hester regarded him as the disturber of all social relations, who, for some private ends, was involving everybody in lawsuits; and the old Count had most natural misgivings about a man who, having assumed the sole direction of a delicate affair, now confessed himself utterly unable to see the way before him.
To such an extent had mortification and defeat reduced the unhappy doctor, that when Hipsley arrived he was quite unable to give anything like a coherent statement of the case, or lay before the astute lawyer the points whereon he desired guidance and direction. Meanwhile the enemy were in a state of active and most menacing preparation. Meekins, discharged from jail, was living at an inn in the town, surrounded by a strong staff of barristers, whose rank and standing plainly showed that abundant pecuniary resources supplied every agency of battle.
Numerous witnesses were said to have been summoned to give their evidence, and the rumor ran that the most ardent votary of private scandal would be satiated with the tales and traits of domestic life the investigation would expose to the world.
Hipsley, who with practised tact soon saw the game about to be played, in vain asked Grounsell for some explanation of its meaning. There was a degree of malignity in all the proceedings which could only be accounted for on the supposition of a long-nourished revenge. How was he to understand this? Alas! poor Grounsell knew nothing, and remembered nothing. Stray fragments of conversation and scattered passages of bygone scenes were jumbled up incoherently in his brain, and it was easy to perceive that a very little was wanting to reduce his mind to the helpless condition of Frank Dalton's.
The charge of a conspiracy to murder his relative, brought against a gentleman of fortune and position, was an accusation well calculated to excite the most painful feelings of public curiosity, and such was now openly avowed to be the allegation about to be brought to issue; and, however repugnant to credulity the bare assertion might appear at first, the rumor was artfully associated with a strong array of threatening circumstances. Every trivial coldness or misunderstanding between Dalton and his brother-in-law, Godfrey, were now remembered and revived. All the harsh phrases by which old Peter used to speak of the other's character and conduct—Dalton's constant use of the expression, “What's the use of his money; will he ever enjoy it?”—was now cited as but too significant of a dreadful purpose; and, in a word, the public, with a casuistry which we often see, was rather pleased to credit what it flattered its own ingenuity to combine and arrange. Dalton was well known to have been a passionate, headstrong man, violent in his resentments, although ready to forgive and forget injuries the moment after. This temper, and his departure for the Continent, from which he never returned, were all the substantial facts on which the whole superstructure was raised.
If Hipsley saw that the array of evidence was far from bringing guilt home to Dalton, he also perceived that the exposure alone would be a terrible blow to the suffering family. The very nature of the attack evinced a deep and hidden vengeance. To avert this dreadful infliction seemed, then, his first duty, and he endeavored by every means in his power to ascertain who was the great instigator of the proceeding, in which it was easy to see Meekins was but a subordinate. The name of Father Cahill had twice or thrice been mentioned by Grounsell, but with a vagueness of which little advantage could be taken. Still, even with so faint a clew, Hipsley was fain to be content, and after several days' ineffectual search, he at last discovered that this priest, in company with another, was residing at the little inn of “The Rore.”
Having communicated his plan to the old General, who but half assented to the idea of negotiating with the enemy, Hipsley set out for “The Rore,” after a long day of fatiguing labor. “An inaccurate and insufficient indictment,” repeated the lawyer to himself; “the old and hackneyed resource to balk the prurient curiosity of the public, and cut off the scent when the gossiping pack are in full cry,—this is all that we have now left to us. We must go into court; the only thing is to leave it as soon as we are able.”
It was not till he was within half a mile of the little inn that Hipsley saw all the difficulty of what he was engaged in; for in what way or on what pretext was he to address Cahill in the matter, or by what right connect him with the proceedings? The hardihood by which he had often suggested to a witness what he wanted to elicit, stood his part now, and he boldly passed the threshold, and asked for Father Cahill. Mistaking him for the chief counsel on the other side, the landlord bowed obsequiously, and, without further parley, introduced him into the room where D'Esmonde and Cahill were then sitting.
“I see, gentlemen,” said Hipsley, bowing politely to each, “that I am not the person you expected; but may I be permitted to enjoy an advantage which good fortune has given me, and ask of you a few moments' conversation? I am the counsel engaged by Mr. Dalton, in the case which on Tuesday next is to be brought to trial; and having learned from Mr. Grounsell that I might communicate with you in all freedom and candor, I have come to see if something cannot be done to rescue the honor of a family from the shame of publicity, and the obloquy that attends the exposure of a criminal court.”
D'Esmonde took up a book as Hipsley began this address, and affected to be too deeply engaged in his reading to pay the least attention to what went forward; while Cahill remained standing, as if to intimate to the stranger the propriety of a very brief interruption.
“You must have mistaken the person you are addressing, sir,” said the priest, calmly. “My name is Cahill.”
“Precisely, sir; and to the Reverend Mr. Cahill I desire to speak. It is about ten days or a fortnight since you called on Dr. Grounsell with a proposition for the settlement of this affair. I am not sufficiently conversant with the details of what passed to say on which side the obstacle stood,—whetherhewas indisposed to concede enough, or thatyoudemanded too much. I only know that the negotiation was abortive, and it is now with the hope of resuming the discussion—”
“Too late, sir,—too late,” said the priest, peremptorily, while a very slight but decisive motion of D'Esmonde's brows gave him encouragement to be bold. “I did, it is true, take the step you allude to; a variety of considerations had their influence over me. I felt interested about the poor man Meekins, and was naturally anxious to screen from the consequences of shame a very old and honored family of the country—” Here he hesitated, for a warning glance from the Abbé recalled him to caution.
“And you were about to allude to that more delicate part of the affair which relates to Mr. Godfrey's son, sir?” interposed Hipsley, while by an unmistakable gesture he showed his consciousness of D'Esmonde's presence.
“I find, sir,” said Cahill, coldly, “that we are gradually involving ourselves in the very discussion I have already declined to engage in. It is not here, nor by us, this cause must be determined. It would be hard to persuade me that you should even counsel an interference with the course of public justice.”
“You are quite right, sir, in your estimate of me,” said Hipsley, bowing; “nor should I do so if I saw anything in this case but needless exposure and great cruelty towards those who must necessarily be guiltless, without one single good end obtained, except you could so deem the gratification of public scandal by the harrowing tale of family misfortune. Bear with me one moment more,” said he, as a gesture of impatience from Cahill showed that he wished an end of the interview. “I will concede what I have no right to concede, and what I am in a position to refute thoroughly,——the guilt of the party implicated; upon whom will the punishment fall? on the aged uncle, a brave and honored soldier, without the shadow of stain on his fair fame; on a young and beautiful girl, whose life has already compassed more real sorrow than old men like myself have ever known in all their career; and on a youth, now stretched upon his sick-bed, and for whom humanity would rather wish death itself than to come back into a world he must shrink from with shame.”
“'Filius peccatoris exardebit in crimine patris,'——the son of the sinful man shall burn out in his father's shame! “—said D'Esmonde, reading aloud from the volume in his hand.
Hipsley almost started at the solemnity with which these awful words were uttered, and stood for a few seconds gazing on the pale and thoughtful face which was still bent over the book.
“My mission has then failed!” said the lawyer, regretfully. “I am sorry it should be so.”
A cold bow was the only reply Cahill returned to this speech, and the other slowly withdrew, and took his way back to Kilkenny, the solemn and terrible denunciation still ringing in his ears as he went.
The character of crime in Ireland has preserved for some years back a most terrible consistency. The story of every murder is the same. The same secret vengeance; the same imputed wrong; the same dreadful sentence issued from a dark and bloody tribunal; the victim alone is changed, but all the rest is unaltered; and we read, over and over again, of the last agonies on the high-road and in the noonday, till, sated and wearied, we grow into a terrible indifference as to guilt, and talk of the “wild justice of the people” as though amongst the natural causes which shorten human life. If this be so, and to its truth we call to witness those who in every neighborhood have seen some fearful event—happening, as it were, at their very doors—deplored today, almost forgotten to-morrow; and while such is the case, the public mind is painfully sensitive as to the details of any guilt attended with new and unaccustomed agencies. In fact, with all the terrible catalogue before us,' we should be far from inferring a great degree of guiltiness to a people in whom we see infinitely more of misguided energies and depraved passions than of that nature whose sordid incentives to crime constitute the bad of other countries. We are not, in this, the apologist for murder. God forbid that we should ever be supposed to palliate, by even a word, those brutal assassinations which make every man blush to call himself an Irishman! We would only be understood as saying that these crimes, dark, fearful, and frequent as they are, do not argue the same hopeless debasement of our population as the less organized guilt of other countries; and inasmuch as the vengeance even of the savage is a nobler instinct than the highwayman's passion for gain, so we cherish a hope that the time is not distant when the peasant shall tear out of his heart the damnable delusion of vindication by blood, when he will learn a manly fortitude under calamity, a generous trust in those above him, and, better again, a freeman's consciousness that the law will vindicate him against injury, and that we live in an age when the great are powerless to do wrong, unless when their inhumanity be screened behind the darker shadow of the murder that avenges it! Then, indeed, we have no sympathy for all the sufferings of want, or all the miseries of fever; then, we forget the dreary hovel, the famished children, the palsy of age, and the hopeless cry of starving infancy,—we have neither eyes nor ears but for the sights and sounds of murder!
We have said that amidst all the frequency of crime there is no country of Europe where any case of guilt accompanied by new agencies or attended by any unusual circumstances is sure to excite so great and widespread interest. The very fact of an accusation involving any one in rank above the starving cottier is looked upon as almost incredible, and far from feeling sensibility dulled by the ordinary recurrence of bloodshed, the crime becomes associated in our minds with but one class, and as originating in one theme.
We have gradually been led away by these thoughts from the remark which first suggested them, and now we turn again to the fact, that the city of Kilkenny became a scene of the most intense anxiety as the morning of that eventful trial dawned. Visitors poured in from the neighboring counties, and even from Dublin. The case had been widely commented on by the press; and although with every reserve as regarded the accused, a most painful impression against old Mr. Dalton had spread on all sides. Most of his own contemporaries had died; of the few who remained, they were very old men, fast sinking into imbecility, and only vaguely recollecting “Wild Peter” as one who would have stopped at nothing. The new generation, then, received the impressions of the man thus unjustly; nor were their opinions more lenient that they lived in an age which no longer tolerated the excesses of the one that preceded it. Gossip, too, had circulated its innumerable incidents on all the personages of this strange drama; and from the venerable Count Stephen down to the informer Meekins, every character was now before the world.
That the Daltons had come hundreds of miles, and had offered immense sums of money to suppress the exposure, was among the commonest rumors of the time, and that the failure of this attempt was now the cause of the young man's illness and probable death. Meekins's character received many commentaries and explanations. Some alleged that he was animated by an old grudge against the family, never to be forgiven. Others said that it was to some incident of the war abroad that he owed his hatred to young Dalton; and, lastly, it was rumored that, having some connection with the conspiracy, he was anxious to wipe his conscience of the guilt before he took on him the orders of some lay society, whose vows he professed. All these mysterious and shadowy circumstances tended to heighten the interest of the coming event, and the city was crowded in every part by strangers, who not only filled the Court-house, but thronged the street in front, and even occupied the windows and roofs of the opposite houses.
From daylight the seats were taken in the galleries of the Court; the most distinguished of the neighboring gentry were all gathered there, while in the seats behind the bench were ranged several members of the peerage, who had travelled long distances to be present. To the left of the presiding judge sat Count Stephen, calm, stern, and motionless, as if on parade. If many of the ceremonials of the court and the general aspect of the assemblage were new and strange to his eyes, nothing in his bearing or manner bespoke surprise or astonishment. As little, too, did he seem aware of the gaze of that crowded assembly, who, until the interest of the trial called their attention away, never ceased to stare steadfastly at him.
At the corner of the gallery facing the jury-box D'Esmonde and Cahill were seated. The Abbé, dressed with peculiar care, and wearing the blue silk collar of an order over his white cravat, was recognized by the crowd beneath as a personage of rank and consideration, which, indeed, his exalted and handsome features appeared well to corroborate. He sustained the strong stare of the assemblage with a calm but haughty self-possession, like one well accustomed to the public eye, and who felt no shrinking from the gaze of a multitude. Already the rumor ran that he was an official high in the household of the Pope, and many strange conjectures were hazarded on the meaning of his presence at the trial.
To all the buzz of voices, and the swaying, surging motion of a vast crowd, there succeeded a dead silence and tranquillity, when the judges took their seats on the bench. The ordinary details were all gone through with accustomed formality, the jury sworn, and the indictment read aloud by the clerk of the crown, whose rapid enunciation and monotonous voice took nothing from the novelty of the statement that was yet to be made by counsel. At length Mr. Wallace rose, and now curiosity was excited to the utmost. In slow and measured phrase he began by bespeaking the patient and careful attention of the jury to the case before them. He told them that it was a rare event in the annals of criminal law to arraign one who was already gone before the greatest of all tribunals; but that such cases had occurred, and it was deemed of great importance, not alone to the cause of truth and justice, that these investigations should be made, but that a strong moral might be read, in the remarkable train of incidents by which these discoveries were elicited, and men were taught to see the hand of Providence in events which, to unthinking minds, had seemed purely accidental and fortuitous. After dwelling for some time on this theme, he went on to state the great difficulty and embarrassment of his own position, called upon as he was to arraign less the guilty man than his blameless and innocent descendants, and to ask for the penalties of the law on those who had not themselves transgressed it.
“I do not merely speak here,” said he, “of the open shame and disgrace the course of this trial will proclaim—I do not simply allude to the painful exposure you will be obliged to witness—I speak of the heavy condemnation with which the law of public opinion visits the family of a felon, making all contact with them a reproach, and denying them even its sympathy. These would be weighty considerations if the course of justice had not far higher and more important claims, not the least among which is the assertion to the world at large that guilt is never expiated without punishment, and that the law is inflexible in its denunciation of crime.”
He then entered upon a narrative of the case, beginning with an account of the Dalton family, and the marriage which connected them with the Godfreys. He described most minutely the traits of character which separated the two men and rendered them uncompanionable one to the other. Of Godfrey he spoke calmly and without exaggeration; but when his task concerned Peter Dalton, he drew the picture of a reckless, passionate, and unprincipled man, in the strongest colors, reminding the jury that it was all-important to carry with them through the case this view of his character, as explaining and even justifying many of the acts he was charged with. “You will,” said he, “perceive much to blame in him, but also much to pity, and even where you condemn deeply, you will deplore the unhappy combination of events which perverted what may have been a noble nature, and degraded by crime what was meant to have adorned virtue! From the evidence I shall produce before you will be seen the nature of the intimacy between these two men, so strikingly unlike in every trait of character, and although this be but the testimony of one who heard it himself from another, we shall find a strong corroboration of all in the consistency of the narrative and the occasional allusion to facts provable from other sources. We shall then show you how the inordinate demands of Dalton, stimulated by the necessity of his circumstances, led to a breach with his brother-in-law, and subsequently to his departure for the Continent; and, lastly, we mean to place before you the extraordinary revelation made to the witness Meekins, by his comrade William Noonan, who, while incriminating himself, exhibited Dalton as the contriver of the scheme by which the murder was effected.
“It would be manifestly impossible, in a case like this, when from the very outset the greatest secrecy was observed and over whose mystery years have accumulated clouds of difficulty, to afford that clear and precise line of evidence which in a recent event might naturally be looked for. But you will learn enough, and more than enough, to satisfy your minds on every point Meekins shall be subjected to any cross-examination my learned brother may desire, and I only ask for him so much of your confidence as a plain unvarying statement warrants. He is a stranger in this country; and although it has been rumored, from his resemblance to a man formerly known here, that he has been recognized, we shall show you that for upwards of thirty years he has been in foreign countries, and while he understands that his parents were originally from the south of Ireland, he believes himself to have been born in America. These facts will at once disabuse your minds of the suspicion that he can have been actuated by any malicious or revengeful feelings towards the Daltons. We shall, also, show that the most strenuous efforts have been made to suppress his testimony; and while it may be painful to exhibit one charged with the administration of justice as having plotted to subvert or distort it, we shall produce on the witness-table the individual who himself made these very overtures of corruption.”
A long and minute narrative followed—every step of the conspiracy was detailed—from the first communication of Dalton with Noonan, to the fatal moment of the murder. Noonan's own subsequent confession to Meekins was then related, and lastly the singular accident by which Meekins came in contact with the Abbé d'Esmonde, and was led to a revelation of the whole occurrence. The lawyer at last sat down, and as he did so, a low murmuring sound ran through the crowded assemblage, whose mournful cadence bespoke the painful acquiescence in the statement they had heard. More than one eager and sympathizing look was turned to where the old Count sat; but his calm, stern features were passive and immovable as ever; and although he listened with attention to the address of the advocate, not a semblance of emotion could be detected in his manner.
Meekins was now called to the witness-box, and as he made his way through the crowd, and ascended the table, the most intense curiosity to see him was displayed. Well dressed, and with a manner of decent and respectful quietude, he slowly mounted the stairs, and saluted the bench and jury. Although an old man, he was hale and stout-looking, his massive broad forehead and clear gray eye showing a character of temperament well able to offer resistance to time.
There was an apparent frankness and simplicity about him that favorably impressed the court, and he gave his evidence with that blended confidence and caution which never fails to have its effect on a jury. He owned, too, that he once speculated on using the secret for his own advantage, and extorting a considerable sum from old Dalton's fears, but that on second thoughts he had decided on abandoning this notion, and resolved to let the mystery die with him. The accidental circumstance of meeting with the Abbé D'Esmonde, at Venice, changed this determination, and it was while under the religious teachings of this good priest that he came to the conviction of his sad duty. His evidence occupied several hours, and it was late in the afternoon when the cross-examination began.
Nothing within the reach of a crafty lawyer was left undone. All that practised skill and penetration could accomplish was exhibited, but the testimony was unshaken in every important point; and save when pushing the witness as to his own early life and habits, not a single admission could be extorted to his discredit. But even here his careless easy manner rescued him; and when he alleged that he never very well knew where he was born, or who were his parents, nor had he any very great misgivings about having served on board a slaver, and “even worse,” the jury only smiled at what seemed the frank indifference of an old sailor. Noonan had given him a few scraps of Mr. Dalton's writing. He had lost most of them, he said; but of those which remained, although unsigned, the authenticity was easily established. Old Peter's handwriting was familiar to many, and several witnesses swore to their being genuine. In other respects, they were of little importance. One alone bore any real significance, and it was the concluding passage of a letter, and ran thus: “So that if I 'm driven to it at last, Godfrey himself is more to blame thanme.” Vague as this menacing sentence was, it bore too home upon the allegations of the witness not to produce a strong effect, nor could any dexterity of the counsel succeed in obliterating its impression.
Seeing that the counsel for the prosecution had not elicited the testimony he promised, respecting the attempted subornation of Meekins, the defence rashly adventured upon that dangerous ground, and too late discovered his error, for the witness detailed various conversations between Grounsell and himself, and gave with terrible effect a scene that he swore had occurred between young Dalton and him in the jail. It was in vain to remind the jury that he who alone could refute this evidence was stretched on a bed of sickness. The effect was already made.
When questioned as to the reasons Dalton might have had for conspiring against his brother-in-law, he confessed that Noonan only knew that Godfrey had refused him all assistance, and that he believed that after his death he, Dalton, would inherit the property. His own impression was, however, that it was more vengeance than anything else. The Daltons were living in great poverty abroad; there was scarcely a privation which they had not experienced; and the embittering stings of their misery were adduced as the mainspring of old Peter's guilt. This allusion to the private life of the Dalton family was eagerly seized on by Mr. Wallace, who now “begged to ascertain certain facts on a subject which, but for his learned brother's initiative, he would have shrunk from exhibiting in open court.” Meekins could, of course, but give such details as he had learned from Noonan, but they all described a life of suffering and meanness,—their contrivances and their straits; their frequent change of place, as debt accumulated over them; their borrowings and their bills; and, lastly, the boastful pretexts they constantly brought forward on the rank of their uncle, Count Dalton, as a guarantee of their solvency and respectability. So unexpected was the transition to the mention of this name, that the whole assembly suddenly turned their eyes to where the old General sat, mute and stern; but the look he returned might well have abashed them, so haughty and daring was its insolence.
Apparently to show the knowledge possessed by the witness on matters of private detail,—but, in reality, to afford an occasion for dilating on a painful subject,—the whole history of the family was raked up, and all the sad story of Nelly's toil and Kate's menial duties paraded in open court, wound up, at last, with what was called young Frank's enlistment “as a common soldier of the Austrian army.”
The greater interests of the trial were all forgotten in these materials for gossip, and the curiosity of the listeners was excited to its highest pitch when he came to tell of that mingled misery and ambition, that pride of name, and shameless disregard of duty, which he described as characterizing them; nor was the craving appetite for scandal half appeased when the court interrupted the examination, and declared that it was irrelevant and purposeless.
Meekins at last descended from the table, and Michel Lenahan was called up. The important fact he had so resolutely sworn to some weeks before he had already shown a disinclination to confirm, and all that he could now be brought to admit was, that he had believed Meekins was his old acquaintance, Black Sam; but the years that had elapsed since he saw him before, change of dress, and the effect of time on each of them, might well shake a better memory than his own.
“Jimmy Morris might know him again, my Lord,” said he, “for he never forgot anybody,——butheis n't to the fore.”
“I have the happiness to say that he is,” said Hipeley. “He has arrived from Cove, here, this morning. Call James Morris, crier;” and soon after, a very diminutive old man, with a contracted leg, mounted the table. He was speedily sworn, and his examination commenced. After a few questions as to his trade,—he was a tailor,—and where he had lived latterly, he was asked whether he remembered, amongst his former acquaintance, a certain bailiff on the Corrig-O'Neal estate, commonly called Black Sam?
“By coorse I do,” said he; “he was always making mischief between Mr. Godfrey and ould Peter.”
“You have not been asked that question, sir.” interposed Wallace.
“No, but he shall be by-and-by,” cried Hipsley. “Tell me, now, what kind of a man was this same Black Sam?”
“As cruel a man as ever you seen.”
“That is not exactly what I am asking. I want to hear what he was like.”
“He was like the greatest villain—”
“I mean, was he short or tall; was he a big man and a strong man, or was he a little fellow like you orme?”
“Devil a bit like either of us. He 'd bate us both with one hand,—ay, and that fellow there with the wig that's laughing at us, into the bargain.”
“So, then, he was large and powerful?”
“Yes, that he was.”
“Had he anything remarkable about his appearance,——anything that might easily distinguish him from other men?”
“Tis, maybe, his eyes you mane?”
“What about his eyes, then?”
“They could be lookin' at ye when ye 'd aware they were only lookin' at the ground; and he 'd a thrick of stopping himself when he was laughing hearty by drawing the back of his hand over his mouth, this way.”
As the witness accompanied these words by a gesture, a low murmur of astonishment ran through the court, for more than once during the morning Meekins had been seen to perform the very act described.
“You would probably be able to know him again if you saw him.”
“That I would.”
“Look around you, now, and tell me if you see him here. No, no, he's not in the jury-box; still less likely it is that you 'd find him on the bench.”
The witness, neither heeding the remark nor the laughter which followed it, slowly rose and looked around him.
“Move a little to one side, if ye plase,” said he to a member of the inner bar. “Yes, that's him.” And he pointed to Meekins, who, with crossed arms and lowering frown, stood still and immovable.
The bystanders all fell back at the same instant, and now he remained isolated in the midst of that crowded scene, every eye bent upon him.
“You 're wearing well, Sam,” said the witness, addressing him familiarly. “Maybe it's the black wig you 'ye on; but you don't look a day oulder than when I seen you last.”
This speech excited the most intense astonishment in the court, and many now perceived, for the first time, that Meekins did not wear his own hair.
“Are you positive, then, that this man is Black Sam?”
“I am.”
“Are you prepared to swear to it on your solemn oath, taking all the consequences false evidence will bring down upon you?”
“I am.”
“You are quite certain that it's no accidental resemblance, but that this is the very identical man you knew long ago?”
“I'm certain sure. I'd know him among a thousand; and, be the same token, he has a mark of a cut on the crown of his head, three inches long. See, now, if I 'm not right.”
Meekins was now ordered to mount the witness-table, and remove his wig. He was about to say something, but Wallace stopped him and whispered a few words in his ear.
“I would beg to observe,” said the lawyer, “that if an old cicatrix is to be the essential token of recognition, few men who have lived the adventurous life of Meekins will escape calumny.”
“'T is a mark like the letter V,” said Jimmy; “for it was ould Peter himself gave it him, one night, with a brass candlestick. There it is!” cried he, triumphantly; “did n't I tell true?”
The crowded galleries creaked under the pressure of the eager spectators, who now bent forward and gazed on this strong proof of identification.
“Is there any other mark by which you could remember him?”
“Sure, I know every fayture in his face,—what more d'ye want?”
“Now, when did you see him last,—I mean before this day?”
“The last time I seen him was the mornin' he was taken up.”
“How do you mean' taken up'?”
“Taken up by the polis.”
“Taken by the police,——for what?”
“About the murder, to be sure.”
A thrill of horror pervaded the court as these words were spoken, and Meekins, whose impassive face had never changed before, became now pale as death.
“Tell the jury what you saw on the morning you speak of.”
“I was at home, work in', when the polis passed by. They asked me where Black Sam lived; 'Up the road,' says I.”
“How far is your house from his?”
“About fifty perches, your honor, in the same boreen, but higher up.”
“So that, in going from Mr. Godfrey's to his own home, Sam must have passed your door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This he did every day,—two or three times,—did n't he?”
“He did, sir.”
“Did you usually speak to each other as he went by?”
“Yes, sir; we always would say, 'God save you,' or the like.”
“How was he dressed on these occasions?”
“The way he was always dressed,——how would he be?”
“That's exactly what I 'm asking you.”
“Faix! he had his coat and breeches, like any other man.”
“I see. He had his coat and breeches, like any other man; now, what color was his coat?”
“It was gray, sir,——blue-gray. I know it well.”
“How do you come to know it well?”
“Bekase my own boy, Ned, sir, bought one off the same piece before he 'listed, and I couldn't forget it.”
“Where were you the day after the murder, when the policemen came to take Sam Eustace?”
“I was sitting at my own door, smoking a pipe, and I see the polis comin', and so I went in and shut the door.”
“What was that for? You had no reason to fear them.”
“Ayeh!—who knows?—the polis is terrible!”
“Well, after that?”
“Well, when I heard them pass, I opened the door, and then I saw enough. They were standing at Sam's house; one of them talking to Sam, and the other two rummaging about, sticking poles into the thatch, and tumbling oyer the turf in the stack.
“'Isn't this a pretty business?' says Sam, calling out to me. 'The polis is come to take me off to prison because some one murdered the master.' 'Well, his soul's in glory, anyhow,' says I, and I shut the doore.”
“And saw nothing more?”
“Only the polis lading Sam down the boreen betune them.”
“He made no resistance, then?”
“Not a bit; he went as quiet as a child. When he was going by the doore, I remember he said to one of the polis, 'Would it be plazing to ye to help me wid my coat; for I cut my finger yesterday?'”
“Did n't I say it was with a reaping-hook?” cried Meekins, who, in all the earnestness of anxiety, followed every word that fell from the witness.
His counsel sprang to his feet, and pulled him back by the arm; but not before the unguarded syllables had been heard by every one around. Such was the sensation now produced, that for several minutes the proceedings were interrupted, while the counsel conferred in low whispers together, and all seemed thunderstruck and amazed. Twice Meekins stood forward to address the court, but on each occasion he was restrained by the counsel beside him; and it was only by the use of menaces that Wallace succeeded in enforcing silence on him. “When the moment of cross-examination arrives,” said he to the jury, “I hope to explain every portion of this seeming difficulty. Have you any further questions to ask the witness?”
“A great many more,” said Hipsley. “Now, Morris, attend to me. Sam asked the police to assist him, as he had cut his hand with a reaping-hook?”
“He did, indeed, sir,” said the witness; “and a dreadful cut it was. It was hard for him to get his hand into the sleeve of the jacket.”
“I perceive; he had difficulty in putting on the jacket, but the policemen helped him?”
“They did, sir; and one of them was hurting him, and Sam called out, 'Take care, take care. It's better to cut the ould sleeve; it's not worth much, now.'”
“And did they cut it?”
“They did, sir; they ripped it up all the way to the elbow.”
“That was a pity, was n't it, to rip up a fine frieze coat like that?”
“Oh, it was n't his coat at all, sir. It was only a flannel jacket he had for working in.”
“So, then, he did not wear the blue-gray frieze like your son's when he went to jail?”
“No, sir. He wore a jacket.”
“Now, why was that?”
“Sorry one o' me knows; but I remember he didn't wear it.”
“Did n't I say that I left my coat at the bog, and that I was ashamed to go in the ould jacket?” screamed out Meekins, whose earnestness was above all control.
“If this go on, it is impossible that I can continue to conduct this case, my Lord,” said Wallace. “While no attempt has been made to refute one tittle of the great facts I have mentioned, a system of trick has been resorted to, by which my client's credit is sought to be impugned. What care I if he was known by a hundred nicknames? He has told the court already that he has lived a life of reckless adventure; that he has sailed under every flag and in every kind of enterprise. Mayhap, amid his varied characters, he has played that of a land bailiff; nor is it very strange that he should not wish to parade before the world the fact of his being arrested, even under a false accusation; for he was discharged, as he has just told you, two days after.”
A large bundle, carefully sealed, was now carried into the court, and deposited before Mr. Hipsley, who, after a few seconds' consultation with Grounsell, rose, and addressed the court,——
“My learned friend complains of being surprised; he will, perhaps, have a better right to be so in a few moments hence. I now demand that this man be consigned to the dock. These affidavits are all regular, my Lord, and the evidence I purpose to lay before you will very soon confirm them.”
The judge briefly scanned the papers before him; and, by a gesture, the command was issued, and Meekins, who never uttered a word, was conducted within the dock.
“I will merely ask the witness two or three questions more,” added Hipsley, turning towards the jailer, who alone, of all the assembly, looked on without any wonderment.
“Now, witness, when did you see the prisoner wear the blue-gray coat? After the death of Mr. Godfrey, I mean.”
“I never seen him wear it again,” was the answer.
“How could ye?” cried Meekins, in a hoarse voice. “How could ye? I sailed for America the day after I was set at liberty.”
“Be silent, sir,” said the prisoner's counsel, who, suffering greatly from the injury of these interruptions, now assumed a look of angry impatience; while, with the craft of his calling, he began already to suspect that a mine was about to be sprung beneath him.
“You have told us,” said Hipsley,—and, as he spoke, his words came with an impressive slowness that made them fall deep into every heart around,—“You have told us that the coat worn habitually by the prisoner, up to the day of Mr. Godfrey's murder, you never saw on him after that day. Is that true?”
“It is, sir.”
“You have also said that this coat——part of a piece from which your son had a coat——was of a peculiar color?”
“It was, sir; and more than that, they had both the same cut, only Sam's had horn buttons, and my son's was metal.”
“Do you think, then, from the circumstances you have just mentioned, that you could know that coat if you were to see it again?”
A pause followed, and the witness, instead of answering, sat with his eyes fixed upon the dock, where the prisoner, with both hands grasping the iron spikes, stood, his glaring eyeballs riveted upon the old man's face, with an expression of earnestness and terror actually horrible to witness.
“Look at me, Morris,” said Hipsley, “and answer my question. Would you know this coat again?”
“That is, would you swear to it?” interposed the opposite counsel.
“I believe I would, sir,” was the answer.
“You must be sure, my good man. Belief is too vague for us here,” said the prisoner's lawyer.