The Daltons Volume II Part 70

"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 pa.s.sed to say on which side the obstacle stood,--whether _he_ was indisposed to concede enough, or that _you_ demanded 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 Abbe recalled him to caution.

"And you were about to allude to that more delicate part of the affair which relates to Mr. G.o.dfrey'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 compa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX. THE COURT-HOUSE OF KILKENNY.

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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sions than of that nature whose sordid incentives to crime const.i.tute the bad of other countries. We are not, in this, the apologist for murder. G.o.d forbid that we should ever be supposed to palliate, by even a word, those brutal a.s.sa.s.sinations 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 debas.e.m.e.nt of our population as the less organized guilt of other countries; and inasmuch as the vengeance even of the savage is a n.o.bler instinct than the highwayman's pa.s.sion for gain, so we cherish a hope that the time is not distant when the peasant shall tear out of his heart the d.a.m.nable delusion of vindication by blood, when he will learn a manly fort.i.tude 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.sociated in our minds with but one cla.s.s, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.semblage 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 a.s.sembly, 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 Abbe, 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 a.s.semblage 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 mult.i.tude. 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 embarra.s.sment 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 a.s.sertion 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 G.o.dfreys. He described most minutely the traits of character which separated the two men and rendered them uncompanionable one to the other. Of G.o.dfrey he spoke calmly and without exaggeration; but when his task concerned Peter Dalton, he drew the picture of a reckless, pa.s.sionate, 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 n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 acc.u.mulated 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 Abbe 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 a.s.semblage, 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 pa.s.sive 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 ma.s.sive 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 circ.u.mstance of meeting with the Abbe 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 sc.r.a.ps 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 pa.s.sage of a letter, and ran thus: "So that if I 'm driven to it at last, G.o.dfrey himself is more to blame than _me_." 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 G.o.dfrey had refused him all a.s.sistance, 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 acc.u.mulated 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 a.s.sembly 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 appet.i.te 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,----but _he_ is 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.

G.o.dfrey 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 or _me?_"

"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?"