It was about nine o'clock of a calm summer evening as I entered Dublin,—nearly the same hour at which, some ten years before, I had approached that city, poor, houseless, friendless; and still was I the same. In that great capital of my country I had not one to welcome me; not one who would rejoice at my coming, or feel any interest in my fortunes. This indeed was loneliness,—utter solitude. Still, if there be something which weighs heavily on the heart in the isolation of one like me, there is a proportionate sense of independence of his fellow-man that sustains the courage and gives energy to the will. I felt this as I mixed with the crowds that thronged the streets, and shrank not from the inquisitive glances which my questionable appearance excited as I passed.
Though considerable changes had taken place in the outskirts of the capital since I had seen it last, the leading thoroughfares were just as I remembered them; and as I walked along Dame Street, and one by one each familiar object caught my eye, I could almost have fancied the long interval since I had been there before like a mere dream. National physiognomy, too, has a strange effect on him who has been long absent from his country. Each face you meet seems well known. The traits of features, to which the eye was once so well accustomed, awake a memory of individuals, and it is sometimes a moat difficult task to distinguish between the acquaintance and the passing stranger.
This I experienced at every moment; and at length, as I stood gazing on the space before the Bank, and calling to mind the last scene I witnessed there, a tall, strongly-built man brushed close past me, and then turning round, fixed a steady and searching look on me. As I returned his stare, a sudden thought flashed upon me that I had seen the face before; but where, how, and when, I could not call to mind. And thus we stood silently confronting each other for some minutes.
“I see you are a stranger here, sir,” said he, touching his hat courteously; “can I be of service to you with any information as to the city?”
“I was curious to know, sir,” said I, still more puzzled by the voice than I had been by the features of the stranger, “if Miley's Hotel, which was somewhere in the neighborhood, exists still?”
“It does, sir; but it has changed proprietors several times since you knew it,” replied he, significantly. “The house is yonder, where you see that large lamp. I perceive, sir, I was mistaken in supposing you a foreigner. I wish you good-evening.” And again saluting me, he resumed his way.
As I crossed the street towards the hotel, I remarked that he turned as if to watch me, and became more than ever embarrassed as to who he might be.
The doorway of the hotel was crowded with loungers and idlers of every class, from the loitering man about town to the ragged newsvendor, between whom, whatever disparity of condition existed, a tone of the most free-and-easy condition prevailed; the newsmen interpolating, amid the loud announcements of the latest intelligence, the reply to the observation beside him.
One figure was conspicuous in the group. He was a short, dwarfish creature, with an enormous head, covered with a fell of black hair, falling in masses down his back and on his shoulders. A pair of fierce, fiery black eyes glared beneath his heavy brows; and a large, thick-lipped mouth moved with all the glib eloquence of his class and calling. Fearfully distorted legs and club feet gave to his gait a rolling motion, which added to the singularity of his whole appearance.
Terry Regan was then at the head of his walk in Dublin; and to his capacious lungs and voluble tongue were committed the announcement of those great events which, from time to time, were given to the Irish public through the columns of the “Correspondent” and the “Dublin Journal.”
I soon found myself in the crowd around this celebrated character, who was, as usual, extolling the great value of that night's paper by certain brief suggestions regarding its contents.
“Here's the whole, full, and true account (bad luck to the less!) of the great and sanguinary battle between Boney and the Roosians; with all the particklars about the killed, wounded, and missing; with what Boney said when it was over.”
“What was that, Terry?”
“Hould yer peace, ye spalpeen! Is it to the likes of yez I 'd be telling cabinet sacrets? (Here, yer honor),—'Falkner,' is it, or 'The Saunders'. With the report of Mr. O'Gogorman's grand speech in Ennis on the Catholic claims. There's, yer sowl, there's fippence worth any day ay the week. More be token, the letter from Jemmy O'Brien to his wife, wid an elegant epic poem called 'The Gauger.' Bloody news, gentlemen! bloody news! Won't yez sport a tester for a sight of a real battle, and ten thousand kilt; with 'The Whole Duty of an Informer, in two easy lessons.' The price of stocks and shares—Ay, Mr. O'Hara, and what boroughs is bringing in the market.”
This last sally was directed towards a large, red-faced man, who good-humoredly joined in the laugh against himself.
“And who's this, boys?” cried the fellow, turning suddenly his piercing eyes on me, as I endeavored, step by step, to reach the door of the hotel. “Hurrool look at his beard, acushla! On my conscience, I wouldn't wonder if it was General Hoche himself. 'Tis late yer come, sir,” said he, addressing me directly; “there's no fun here now at all, barrin' what Beresford has in the riding-house.”
“Get away, you ruffian!” said a well-dressed and respectable-looking man, somewhat past the middle of life; “how dare you permit your tongue to take liberties with a stranger? Allow me to make room for you, sir,” continued he, as he politely made an opening in the crowd, and suffered me to enter the house.
“Ah, counsellor, dear, don't be cross,” whined out the newsvendor; “sure, isn't it wid the bad tongue we both make our bread. And here,” vociferated he once more,—“and here ye have the grand dinner at the Lord Mayor's, wid all the speeches and toasts; wid the glorious, pious, and immortial memory of King William, who delivered us from Popery (by pitched caps), from slavery (by whipping), from brass money (by bad ha'pence), and from wooden shoes (by bare feet). Haven't we reason to bless his—? Ay, the heavens be his bed! 'Tis like Molly Crownahon's husband he was.”
“How was that, Terry?” asked a gentleman near.
“Take a 'Saunders,' yer honor, and I 'll tell you.”
“Here, then, here's fippence; and now for the explanation.”
“Molly Crownahon, yer honor, was, like us poor craytures, always grateful and contented wid the Lord's goodness to us, even in taking away our chief comfort and blessing,—the darling up there on the horse! (Ah, 'tis an elegant sate ye have, without stirrups!) And she went one day to say a handful of prayers oyer his grave,—the husband's, ye mind,—and sure if she did, when she knelt down on the grass she sprung up again as quick as she went down, for the nettles was all over the place entirely. 'Bad scran to ye, Peter!' says she, as she rubbed her legs,—'bad scran to ye! living or dead, there was always a sting in ye.'”
As the latter part of this speech was addressed in a tone of apostrophe to the statue of King William, it was received by the assembled crowd with a roar of laughter.
By this time I had entered the house, and only bethought me how little suited was the great hotel of the city to pretensions as humble as mine. It was now, however, too late to retreat, and I entered the coffee-room, carrying my knapsack in my hand. As I passed up the room in search of a vacant table, the looks of astonishment my appearance excited on each side were most palpable evidences that the company considered me as an interloper. While some contented themselves with a stare of steady surprise, others, less guarded in their impertinence, whispered with, and even winked at their neighbors, to attract attention towards me.
Offensive as this unquestionably was, it amazed even more than it annoyed me. In France, such a display of feeling would have been impossible; and the humblest soldier of the army would not have been so received had he deemed fit to enter Beauvilliers' or Véry's.
Whether hurt at this conduct, and consequently more alive to affront from any quarter, or that the waiters participated in the sentiments of their betters, I cannot exactly say; but I certainly thought their manner even less equivocally betrayed the same desire of impertinence. This was not long a mere suspicion on my part; for on inquiring whether I could have a room for the night, the waiter, touching my knapsack, which lay on the ground beside me, with his foot, replied,—
“Is this your luggage, sir?”
Amazement so completely mastered my indignation at this insolence, that I could make no answer but by a look. This had its effect, however; and the fellow, without further delay, bustled off to make the inquiry. He returned in a few minutes with a civil message, that I could be accommodated, and having placed before me the simple meal I ordered, retired.
As I sat over my supper, I could not help feeling that unless memory played me false, the company were little like the former frequenters of this house. I remembered it of old, when Bubbleton and his brother officers came there; and when the rooms were thronged with members of both Houses of Parliament,—when peers and gentlemen of the first families were grouped about the windows and fireplaces, and the highest names of the land were heard in the din of recognition; handsome equipages and led horses stood before the doors. But now the ragged mob without was scarce a less worthy successor to the brilliant display than were the company within to the former visitants. A tone of pretentious impertinence, an air of swagger and mock defiance,—the most opposite to the polished urbanity which once prevailed,—was now conspicuous; and in their loud speech and violent gesticulation, it was easy to mark how they had degenerated from that high standard which made the Irish gentleman of his day the most polished man of Europe.
If in appearance and manner they fell far short of those my memory recalled, their conversation more markedly still displayed the long interval between them. Here, of old, were retailed the latest news of the debate,—the last brilliant thing of Grattan, or the last biting retort of Flood; here came, hot from debate, the great champions of either party to relax and recruit for fresh efforts; and in the groups that gathered around them you might learn how great genius can diffuse its influence and scatter intelligence around it,—as the Nile waters spread plenty and abundance wherever they flow: high and noble sentiments, holy aspirations and eloquent thoughts, made an atmosphere, to breathe which was to feel an altered nature. But now a vapid mixture of conceit and slang had usurped the place of these, and a tone of vulgar self-sufficiency unhappily too much in keeping with the externals of those who displayed it: the miserable contentions of different factions had replaced the bolder strife of opposite parties, and provincialism had put its stamp on everything. The nation, too, if I might trust my ears with what fell around me, had lost all memory of its once great names, and new candidates for popular favor figured in their places.
Such were some of the changes I could mark, even as I sat. But my attention was speedily drawn from them by a circumstance more nearly concerning myself. This was the appearance in the coffee-room of the gentleman who first addressed me in the street.
As he passed round the room, followed by a person whose inferiority was evident, he was recognized by most of those present, many of whom shook him warmly by the hand, and pressed him to join their parties. But this he declined, as he continued to walk slowly on, scrutinizing each face as he went. At last I saw his eyes turn towards me. It was scarcely a glance, so rapid was it, and so quickly were his looks directed to a different quarter; but I could mark that he whispered something to a person who followed, and then, after carelessly turning over a newspaper on the table, sauntered from the room. As he did so, the shaggy head of the dwarf newsvendor peeped in, and the great black eyes took a survey of the coffee-room, till finally they settled on me.
“Ah!” cried the fellow, with a strange blending of irony and compassion in his voice; “be gorra, I knew how it would be,—the major has ye!” At this a general laugh broke out from all present, and every eye was fixed on me.
Meanwhile the follower had taken his place nearly opposite me at the table, and was busily engaged examining a paper which he had taken from his pocket.
“May I ask, sir, if your name be Burke?” said he, in a low voice, across the table.
I started with amazement to hear my name pronounced where I believed myself so completely a stranger, and in my astonishment, forgot to answer.
“I was asking, sir—” repeated he.
“Yes, you are quite correct,” interrupted I; “that is my name. May I beg to know, in return, for what purpose you make the inquiry?”
“Thomas Burke, sir?” continued he, inattentive to my observation, and apparently about to write the name on the paper before him.
I nodded, and he wrote down the words.
“That saves a deal of trouble to all of us, sir,” said he, as he finished writing. “This is a warrant for your arrest; but the major is quite satisfied if you can give bail for your appearance.”
“Arrest!” repeated I; “on what charge am I arrested?”
“You'll hear in the morning, I suppose,” said he, quietly. “What shall we say about the bail? Have you any acquaintance or friend in town?”
“Neither; I am a perfect stranger here. But if you are authorized to arrest me, I here surrender myself at once.”
By this time, several persons of the coffee-room had approached the table, and among the rest the gentleman who so politely made way for me in the crowd to reach the door.
“What is it, Roche?” said he, addressing the man at the table; “a warrant?”
“Yes, sir; for this gentleman here. But we can take bail, if he has it.”
“I have told you already that I am a stranger, and know no one here.”
The gentleman threw his eyes over the warrant, and then looking me steadily in the face, muttered in a whisper to the officer, “Why, he must have been a boy, a mere child, at the time.”
“Very true, sir; but the major says it must be done. Maybe you'd bail him yourself.”
These words were added in a tone of half irony, as the fellow gave a sly look beneath his eyelashes.
“I tell you, again,” said I, impatient at the whole scene, “I am quite ready to accompany you.”
“Is this your name, sir?” said the strange gentleman, addressing me, as he pointed to the warrant.
“Yes,” interposed the officer, “there's no doubt about that; he gave it himself.”
“Come, come, then, Roche,” said he, cajolingly; “these are not times for undue strictness. Let the gentleman remain where he is to-night, and to-morrow he will attend you. You can remain here, if you like, with him.”
“If you say so, I suppose we may do it,” replied the officer, as he folded up the paper, and arose from the table.
“Yes, yes; that's the proper course. And now,” said he, addressing me, “will you permit me to join you while I finish this bottle of claret?”
I could have no objection to so pleasant a proposal; and thus, for the time at least, ended this disagreeable affair.
“I perceive, sir,” said the stranger, seating himself at my table, “they are desirous to restore an antiquated custom in regard to you. I thought the day of indemnities was past and gone forever.”
“I am ignorant to what you allude.”
“The authorities would make you out an emissary of France, sir,—as if France had not enough on her hands already, without embroiling herself in a quarrel from which no benefit could accrue; not to speak of the little likelihood that any one on such an errand would take up his abode, as you have, in the most public hotel of Dublin.”
“I have no apprehensions as to any charges they may bring against me. I am conscious of no crime, saving having left my country a boy, and returning to it a man.”
“You were in the service of France, then?”
“Yes; since 1801 I have been a soldier.”
“So long? You must have been but a mere boy when you quitted Ireland. How have they connected you with the troubles of that period?”
I hesitated for a second or two, uncertain what answer, if any, I should return to this abrupt question. A glance at the manly and frank expression of the stranger's face soon satisfied me that no unworthy curiosity had prompted the inquiry; and I told him in a few words, how, as a child, the opinions of the patriotic party had won me over to embark in a cause I could neither fathom nor understand. I traced out rapidly the few leading events of my early career down to the last evening I spent in Ireland. When I came to this part of my story, the stranger became unusually attentive, and more than once questioned me respecting the origin of my quarrel with Crofts, and the timely appearance of Darby; of whose name and character, however, I gave him no information, merely speaking of him as an old and attached follower of my family.
“Since that period, then, you have not been in Ireland?” said he, as I concluded.
“Never: nor had I any intention of returning until lately, when circumstances induced me to leave the Emperor's service; and from very uncertainty I came back here, without well knowing why.”
“Of course, then, you have never heard the catastrophe of your adventure with Crofts. It was a lucky hit for him.”
“How so? I don't understand you.”
“Simply this: Crofts was discovered in the morning, severely wounded, where you left him; his account being, that he had been waylaid by a party of rebels, who had obtained the countersign of the night, and passed the sentry in various disguises. You yourself—for so, at least, I surmise it must have been—were designated the prime mover of the scheme, and a Government reward was offered for your apprehension. Crofts was knighted, and appointed to the staff,—the reward of his loyalty and courage; of the exact details of which my memory is unfortunately little tenacious.”
“And the truth of the occurrence was never known?”
“What I have told you is the only version current. I have reason to remember so much of it, for I was then, and am still, one of the legal advisers of the Crown, and was consulted on the case; of which, I confess, I always had my misgivings. There was a rage, however, for rewarding loyalty, as it was termed at the period, and the story went the round of the papers. Now, I fancy Crofts would just as soon not see you back again; he has made all he can of the adventure, and would as lief have it quietly forgotten.”
“But can I suffer it to rest here? Is such an imputation to lie on my character as he would cast on me?”
“Take no steps in the matter on that score: vindication is time enough when the attack is made directly; besides, where should you find your witness? where is the third party who could prove your innocence, and that all you did was in self-defence? Without his testimony, your story would go for nothing. No, no; be well satisfied if the charge is suffered to sleep, which is not unlikely. Crofts would scarcely like to confess that his antagonist was little more than a child; his prowess would gain nothing by the avowal. Besides, the world goes well with him latterly; it is but a month ago, I think, he succeeded unexpectedly to a large landed property.”
The stranger, whose name was M'Dougall, continued to talk for some time longer; most kindly volunteered to advise me in the difficult position I found myself; and having given me his address in town, wished me a goodnight and departed.
It was to no purpose I laid my head on my pillow. Tired and fatigued as I was, I could not sleep; the prospect of fresh troubles awaiting me made me restless and feverish, and I longed for day to break, that I might manfully confront whatever danger was before me, and oppose a stout heart to the arrows of adverse fortune. My accidental meeting with the stranger also reassured my courage; and I felt gratified to think that such rencontres in life are the sunny spots which illumine our career in the world, the harbingers of bright days to come.
This feeling was still more strongly impressed on me as I entered the small room on the ground-floor at the Castle, where was the secretary's office, and beheld M'Dougall seated in an armchair, reading the newspaper of the day. I could not help connecting his presence there with some kindly intention towards me, and already regarded him as my friend. Major Barton stood at the secretary's side, and whispered from time to time in his ear.
“I have before me certain information, sir,” said the secretary, addressing me, “that you were connected with parties who took an active part in the late rebellion in this country, and by them sent over to France to negotiate co-operation and assistance from that quarter,” (Barton here whispered something, and the secretary resumed), “and in continuance of this scheme are at present here.”
“I have only to observe, sir, that I left Ireland a mere boy, when, whatever my opinions might have been, they were, I suspect, of small moment to his Majesty's Government; that I have served some years in the French army, during which period I neither corresponded with any one here, nor had intercourse with any from Ireland; and lastly, that I have come back unaccredited by any party, not having, as I believe, a single acquaintance in the island.”
“Do you still hold a commission in the French service?”
“No, sir; I resigned my grade as captain some time since.”
“What were your reasons for that step?”
“They were of a purely personal nature, having no concern with politics of any sort; I should, therefore, ask of you not to demand them. I can only say, they reflect neither on my honor nor my loyalty.”
“His loyalty! Would you ask him, sir, how he applies the term, and to what sovereign and what government the obedience is rendered?” said Barton, with a half smile of malicious meaning.
“Very true, Barton; the question is most pertinent.”
“When I said loyalty, sir,” said I, in answer, “I confess I did not express myself as clearly as I intended. I meant, however, that as an Irishman, and a subject of his Majesty George the Third, as I now am, no act of mine in the French service ever compromised me.”
“Why, surely you fought against the allies of your own country?”.
“True, sir. I speak only with reference to the direct interests of England. I was the soldier of the Emperor, but never a spy under his Government.”
“Your name is amongst those who never claimed the indemnity? How is this?”
“I never heard of it; I never knew such an act was necessary. I am not guilty of any crime, nor do I see any reason to seek a favor.”
“Well, well; the gracious intentions of the Crown lead us to look leniently on the past. A moderate bail for your appearance when called on, and your own recognizances for the same object, will suffice.”
“I am quite willing to do the latter; but as to bail, I repeat it, I have not one I could ask for such a service.”
“No relative? no friend?”
“Come, come, young gentleman,” said M'Dougall, speaking for the first time; “recollect yourself. Try if you can't remember some one who would assist you at this conjuncture.”
Basset was the only name I could think of; and however absurd the idea of a service from such a quarter, I deemed that, as my brother's agent, he would scarce refuse me. I thought that Barton gave a very peculiar grin as I mentioned the name; but my own securities being entered into, and a few formal questions answered, I was told I was at liberty to seek out the bail required.
Once more in the streets, I turned my steps towards Basset's house, where I hoped, at all events, to learn some tidings of my brother. I was not long in arriving at the street, and speedily recognized the old house, whose cobwebbed windows and unwashed look reminded me of former times. The very sound of the heavy iron knocker awoke its train of recollections; and when the door was opened, and I saw the narrow hall, with its cracked lamp and damp, discolored walls, the whole heart-sinking with which they once inspired me came back again, and I thought of Tony Basset when his very name was a thing of terror to me.
Mr. Basset, I was told, was at court, and I was shown into the office to await his return. The gloomy little den,—I knew it well, with its dirty shelves of dirtier papers, its old tin boxes, and its rickety desk, at which two meanly-dressed starveling youths were busy writing. They turned a rapid glance towards me as I entered; and as they resumed their occupation, I could hear a muttered remark upon my dress and appearance, the purport of which I did not catch.
I sat for some time patiently, expecting Basset's arrival, but as the time stole by, I grew wearied with waiting, and determined on ascertaining, if I might, from the clerks, some intelligence concerning my brother.
“Have you any business with Mr. Burke?” said the youth I addressed, while his features assumed an expression of vulgar jocularity.
“Yes,” was my brief reply.
“Wouldn't a letter do as well as a personal interview?” said the other, with an air of affected courtesy.
“Perhaps so,” I replied, too deeply engaged in my own thoughts to mind their flippant impertinence.
“Then mind you direct your letter 'Churchyard, Loughrea;' or, if you want to be particular, say 'Family vault.'”
“Is he dead? Is George dead?”
“That's hard to say,” interposed the other; “but they've buried him, that's certain.”
Like a stunning blow, the shock of this news left me unable to speak or hear. A maze of confused thoughts crossed and jostled each other in my brain, and I could neither collect myself nor listen to what was said around me. My first clear memory was of a thousand little childish traits of love which had passed between us. Tokens of affection long forgotten now rushed freshly to my mind; and he whom a moment before I had condemned as wanting in all brotherly feeling, I now sorrowed for with true grief. The low and vulgar insolence of the speakers made no impression on me; and when, in answer to my questions, they narrated the manner of his death,—a fever contracted after some debauch at Oxford,—I only heard the tidings, but did not notice the unfeeling tone it was conveyed in.
My brother dead! the only one of kith or kindred belonging to me. How slight the tie seemed but a few moments back! what would I not give for it now? Then, for the first time, did I know how the heart can heap up its stores of consolation in secrecy, and how unconsciously the mind can dwell on hopes it has never confessed even to itself. How I fancied to myself our meeting, and thought over the long pent-up affection years of absence had accumulated, now flowing in a gushing stream from heart to heart I The grave is indeed hallowed when the grass of the churchyard can cover all memory save that of love. We dwell on every good gift of the lost one, as though no unworthy thought could cross that little mound of earth, the barrier between two worlds. Sad and sorrow-struck, I covered my face with my hands, and did not notice that Mr. Basset had entered, and taken his place at the desk.
His voice, every harsh tone of which I well remembered, first made me aware of his presence. I lifted my eyes, and there he stood, little changed indeed since I had seen him last. The hard lines about the mouth had grown deeper, the brow more furrowed, and the hair more mixed with gray, but in other respects he was the same. As I gazed at him I could not help fancying that time makes less impression on men of coarse, unfeeling mould, than on natures of a finer temper. The world's changes leave no trace on the stern surface of the one, while they are wearing deep tracks of sorrow in the other.
“Insert the advertisement again, Simms,” said he, addressing one of the clerks, “and let it appear in some paper of the seaport towns. Among the Flemish or French smugglers who frequent them, there might be some one to give the information. They must be able to show that though Thomas Burke—”
I started at the sound of my name. The motion surprised him; he looked round and perceived me. Quick and piercing as his glance was, I could not trace any sign of recognition; although, as he scanned my features, and suffered his eyes to wander over my dress, I perceived that his was no mere chance or cursory observation.
“Well, sir,” said he, at length, “is your business here with me?”
“Yes; but I would speak with you in private.”
“Come in here, then. Meanwhile, Sam, make out that deed; for we may go on without the proof of demise.”
Few and vague as the words were, their real meaning flashed on me, and I perceived that Mr. Basset was engaged in the search of some evidence of my death, doubtless to enable the heir-at-law to succeed to the estates of my brother. The moment the idea struck me, I felt assured of its certainty, and at once determined on the plan I should adopt.
“You have inserted an advertisement regarding a Mr. Burke,” said I, as soon as the door was closed, and we were alone together. “What are the particular circumstances of which you desire proof?”
“The place, date, and manner of his death,” replied he, slowly; “for though informed that such occurred abroad, an authentic evidence of the fact will save some trouble. Circumstances to identify the individual with the person we mean, of course, must be offered; showing whence he came, his probable age, and so on. For this intelligence I am prepared to pay liberally; at least a hundred pounds may be thought so.”
“It is a question of succession to some property, I have heard.”
“Yes; but the information is not of such moment as you may suppose,” replied he, quickly, and with the wariness of his calling anticipating the value I might be disposed to place on my intelligence. “We are satisfied with the fact of the death; and even were it otherwise, the individual most concerned is little likely to disprove the belief, his own reasons will probably keep him from visiting Ireland.”
“Indeed!” I exclaimed, the word escaping my lips ere I could check its utterance.
“Even so,” resumed he. “But this, of course, has no interest for you. Your accent bespeaks you a foreigner. Have you any information to offer on this matter?”
“Yes; if we speak of the same individual, who may have left this country about 1800 as a boy of some fourteen years of age, and entered the 'École Polytechnique' of Paris.”
“Like enough. Continue, if you please; what became of him afterwards?”
“He joined the French service, attained the rank of captain, and then left the army; came back to Ireland, and now, sir, stands before you.”
Mr. Basset never changed a muscle of his face as I made this declaration. So unmoved, so stolid was his look, that for a moment or two I believed him incredulous of my story. But this impression soon gave way, as with his eyes bent on me he said,—
“I knew you, sir, I knew you the moment I passed you in the office without; but it might have fared ill with you to have let my recognition appear.”
“As how? I do not understand you.”
“My clerks there might have given information for the sake of the reward; and once in Newgate, there was an end to all negotiation.”
“You must speak more intelligibly, sir, if you wish me to comprehend you. I am unaware of any circumstance which should threaten me with such a fate.”
“Have you forgotten Captain Crofts,—Montague Crofts?” said Basset, in a low whisper, while a smile of insulting malice crossed his features.
“No; I remember him well. What of him?”
“What of him! He charges you with a capital felony,—a crime for which the laws have little pity here, whatever your French habits may have taught you to regard it. Yes; the attempt to assassinate an officer in his Majesty's service, when foiled by him in an effort to seduce the soldiery, is an offence which might have a place in your memory.”
“Can the man be base enough to make such a charge as this against me,—a boy, as I then was?”
“You were not alone; remember that fact.”
“True; and most thankful am I for it. There is one, at least, can prove my innocence, if I can but discover him.”
“You will find that a matter of some difficulty. Your worthy friend and early preceptor was transported five years since.”
“Poor fellow! I could better bear to hear that he was dead.”
“There are many of your opinion on that head,” said Basset, with a savage grin. “But the fellow was too cunning for all the lawyers, and his conviction at last was only effected by a stratagem.”
“A stratagem!” exclaimed I, in amazement.
“It was neither more nor less. Darby was arraigned four several times, but always acquitted. Now it was defective evidence; now a lenient jury; now an informal indictment: but so was it, he escaped the meshes of the law, though every one knew him guilty of a hundred offences. At last Major Barton resolved on another expedient. Darby was arrested in Ennis; thrown into jail; kept four weeks in a dark cell, on prison fare; and at the end, one morning the hangman appeared to say his hour was come, and that the warrant for his execution had arrived. It was to take place, without judge or jury, within the four walls of the jail. The scheme succeeded; his courage fell, and he offered, if his life was spared, to plead guilty to any transportable felony for which the grand Jury would send up true bills. He did so, and was then undergoing the sentence.”
“Great heavens! and can such iniquity be tolerated in a land where men call themselves Christians?” exclaimed I, as I heard this to the end.
“Iniquity!” repeated he, in mockery; “to rid the country of a ruffian, stained with every crime,—a fellow mixed up in every outrage in the land? Is this your notion of iniquity? Not so do I reckon it. And if I have told you of it now, it is that you may learn that when loyal and well-affected men are trusted with the execution of the laws, the principle of justice is of more moment than the nice distinction of legal subtleties. You may learn a lesson from it worth acquiring.”
“I! how can it affect me or my fortunes?”
“More nearly than you think. I have told you of the accusation which hangs over your head; weigh it well, and deliberate what are your chances of escape. We must not waste time in discussing your innocence. The jury who will try the cause will be more difficult of belief than you suspect; neither the opinions you are charged with, your subsequent escape, nor your career in France, will contribute to your exculpation, even had you evidence to adduce in your favor. But you have not; your only witness is equally removed as by death itself. On what do you depend, then? Conscious innocence! Nine out of every ten who mount the scaffold proclaim the same; but I never heard that the voice that cried it stifled the word 'guilty.' No, sir; I tell you solemnly, you will be condemned!”
The tone of his voice as he spoke the last few words made my very blood run cold. The death of a soldier on the field of battle had no terrors for me; but the execrated fate of a felon I could not confront. The pallor of my cheek, the trembling of my limbs, must have betrayed my emotion; for even Basset seemed to pity me, and pressed me down into a chair.
“There is one way, however, to avoid all the danger,” said he, after a pause; “an easy and a certain way both. You have heard of the advertisements for information respecting your death, which it was surmised had occurred abroad. Now you are unknown here,—without a single acquaintance to recognize or remember you; why should not you, under another name, come forward with these proofs? By so doing, you secure your own escape and can claim the reward.”
“What! perjure myself that I may forfeit my inheritance!”
“As to the inheritance,” said he, sneeringly, “your tenure does not promise a very long enjoyment of it.”
“Were it but a day,—an hour!” exclaimed I, passionately; “I will make no compromise with my honor. On their own heads be it who sentence an innocent man to death; better such, even on a scaffold, than a life of ignominy and vain regret.”
“The dark hours of a jail change men's sentiments wonderfully,” said he, slowly. “I have known some who faced death in its wildest and most appalling shape, shrink from it like cowards when it came in the guise of a common executioner. Come, sir, be advised by me; reflect at least on what I have said, and if there be any path in life where a moderate sum may assist you—”
“Peace, sir! I beg of you to be silent. It may be that your counsel is prompted by kindly feeling towards me; but if you would have me think so, say no more of this,—my mind is made up.”
“Wait until to-morrow, in any case; perhaps some other plan may suggest itself. What say you to America? Have you any objection to go there?”
“Had you asked me the question an hour since, I had replied, 'None whatever.' Now it is different; my departure would be like the flight of a guilty man. I cannot do it.”
“Better the flight than the fate of one,” muttered Basset between his teeth, while at the same instant the sound of voices talking loudly together was heard in the hall without.
“Think again, before it is too late. Remember what I have told you. Your opinions, your career, your associates, are not such as to recommend you to the favorable consideration of a jury. Is your case strong enough to oppose all these? Sir Montague will make liberal terms; he has no desire to expose the calamities of a family.”
“Sir Montague!—of whom do you speak?”
“Sir Montague Crofts,” said Basset, reddening, for he had unwittingly suffered the name to escape his lips. “Are you ignorant that he is your relative? a distant one, it is true, but your nearest of kin notwithstanding.”
“And the heir to the estate?” said I, suddenly, as anew light flashed on my mind; “the heir, in the event of my life lapsing?”
Basset nodded an assent.
“You played a deep game, sir,” said I, drawing a long breath; “but you never were near winning it.”
“Nor you either,” said he, throwing wide the door between the two rooms; “I hear a voice without there, that settles the question forever.”
At the same instant, Major Barton entered, followed by two men.
“I suspected I should find you here, sir,” said he, addressing me. “You need scarcely trouble my worthy friend for his bail; I arrest you now under a warrant of felony.”
“A felony!” exclaimed Basset, with a counterfeited astonishment in his look. “Mr. Burke accused of such a crime!”
I could not utter a word; indignation and shame overpowered me, and merely motioning with my hand that I was ready to accompany him, I followed to the door, at which a carriage was standing, getting into which we drove towards Newgate.