The Daltons Volume II Part 74

Kate noiselessly retired, and, beckoning the Abbe to come forward, she left the room, and closed the door.

D'Esmonde approached the sick-bed with a cautious, almost timid air, and seated himself on a chair, without speaking.

"So, then, we are cousins, I find," said Frank, stretching out his wasted hand towards him. "They tell me you are a G.o.dfrey, Abbe?"

D'Esmonde pressed his hand in token of a.s.sent, but did not utter a word.

"I have no wish--I do not know if I have the right----to stand between you and your father's inheritance. If I am destined to arise from this sick-bed, the world is open to me, and I am not afraid to encounter it.

Let us be friends, then, D'Esmonde, in all candor and frankness."

"Willingly,--most willingly. There need be but one rivalry between us,"

said D*Esmonde, with a voice of deep feeling,--"in the struggle who shall best serve the other. Had we known of this before; had I suspected how our efforts might have been combined and united; had I but imagined you as my ally, and not my--But these are too exciting themes to talk upon. You are not equal to them."

"Not so; it is in such moments that I feel a touch of health and vigor once again. Go on, I beseech you."

"I will speak of that which more immediately concerns us," said the Abbe. "This wretched man stands for execution on Sat.u.r.day. Let us try to save him. His guilt must have already had its expiation in years of remorse and suffering. Here is a pet.i.tion I have drawn up to the Secretary of State. It has been signed by several of the jury who tried the cause. We want your name also to it Such a commutation as may sentence him to exile is all that we pray for."

"Give me the pen; I 'll sign it at once."

"There,--in that s.p.a.ce," said the' Abbe, pointing with his finger. "How your hand trembles! This cannot be like your usual writing."

"Let me confirm it by my seal, then. You'll find it on the table yonder."

D'Esmonde melted the wax, and stood beside him, while the youth pressed down the seal.

"Even that," said the Abbe, "might be disputed. There 's some one pa.s.sing in the corridor; let him hear you acknowledge it as your act and hand." And, so saying, he hastened to the door, and made a sign to the waiter to come in. "Mr. Dalton desires you to witness his signature,"

said he to the man.

"I acknowledge this as mine," said Frank, already half exhausted by the unaccustomed exertion.

"Your name, there, as witnessing it," whispered D'Esmonde; and the waiter added his signature.

"Have you hope of success, Abbe?" said Frank, faintly.

"Hope never fails me," replied D'Esmonde, in a voice of bold and a.s.sured tone. "It is the only capital that humble men like myself possess; but we can draw upon it without limit. The fate of riches is often ruins, but there is no bankruptcy in hope. Time presses now," said he, as if suddenly remembering himself; "I must see to this at once.

When may I come again?"

"Whenever you like. I have much to say to you. I cannot tell you now how strangely you are mixed up in my fancy--it is but fancy, after all--with several scenes of terrible interest."

"What!--how do you mean?" said D'Esmonde, turning hastily about

"I scarcely know where to begin, or how to separate truth from its counterfeit Your image is before me, at times and in places where you could not have been. Ay, even in the very crash and tumult of battle, as I remember once at Varenna, beside the Lake of Como. I could have sworn to have seen you cheering on the peasants to the attack."

"What strange tricks imagination will play upon us!" broke in D'esmonde; but his voice faltered, and his pale cheek grew paler as he said the words.

"Then, again, in the Babli Palace at Milan, where I was brought as a prisoner, I saw you leave the council-chamber arm-in-arm with an Austrian Archduke. When I say I saw you, I mean as I now see you here,--more palpable to my eyes than when you sat beside my sick-bed at Verona."

"Dreams,----dreams," said D'Esmonde. "Such illusions bespeak a mind broken by sickness. Forget them, Dalton, if you would train your thoughts to higher uses." And, so saying, in a tone of pride, the Abbe bowed, and pa.s.sed out.

As D'Esmonde pa.s.sed out into the street, Cahill joined him.

"Well," cried the latter, "is it done?"

"Yes, Michel," was the answer; "signed, and sealed, and witnessed in all form. By this doc.u.ment I am recognized as a member of his family, inheriting that which I shall never claim. No," cried he, with exultation of voice and manner, "I want none of their possessions; I ask but to be accounted of their race and name; and yet the time may come when these conditions shall be reversed, and they who would scarcely own me to-day may plot and scheme to trace our relationship. Now for Rome.

To-night--this very night--I set out. With this evidence of my station and fortune there can be no longer any obstacle. The struggle is past; now to enjoy the victory!"

"You will see him before you go, D'Esmonde? A few minutes is all he asks."

"Why should I? What bond is there between us now? The tie is loosened forever; besides, he deceived us, Michel,----deceived us in everything."

"Be it so," said the other; "but remember that it is the last prayer of one under sentence of death,--the last wish of one who will soon have pa.s.sed away hence."

"Why should I go to hear the agonizing entreaties for a mercy that cannot be granted,--the harrowing remorse of a guilty nature?"

"Do not refuse him, D'Esmonde. He clings to this object with a fixed purpose that turns his mind from every thought that should become the hour. In vain I speak to him of the short interval between him and the grave. He neither hears nor heeds me. His only question is, 'Is he coming,----will he come tome?'"

"To lose minutes, when every one of them is priceless, to waste emotions when my heart is already racked and tortured,----why should I do this?"

cried D'Esmonde, peevishly.

"Do not refuse me, D'Esmonde," said Cahill, pa.s.sionately. "I despair of recalling the miserable man to the thought of his eternal peril till this wish be satisfied."

"Be it so, then," said the Abbe, proudly; and he walked along beside his friend in silence.

They traversed the streets without a word spoken. Already D'Esmonde had a.s.sumed an air of reserve which seemed to mark the distance between himself and his companion; the thoughtful gravity of his look savored no less of pride than reflection. In such wise did Cahill read his manner, and by a cautious deference appear to accept the new conditions of their intimacy.

"The prisoner has not uttered a word since you were here, sir," said the jailer, as they entered the gate. "He shows the greatest anxiety whenever the door opens; but, as if disappointed at not seeing whom he expected, relapses at once into his silent reserve."

"You see that he still expects you," whispered Cahill to the Abbe; and the other a.s.sented with a faint nod of the head.

"No, sir; this way," said the jailer; "he is now in the condemned cell."

And, so saying, he led the way along the corridor.

By the faint light of a small lamp, fixed high up in the wall, they could just detect the figure of a man, as he sat crouched on the low settle-bed, his head resting on his arms as they were crossed over his knees. He never moved as the grating sound of the heavy door jarred on the stillness, but sat still and motionless.

"The Abbe D'Esmonde has come to see you, Eustace," said the jailer, tapping him on the shoulder. "Wake up, man, and speak to him."

The prisoner lifted his head and made an effort to say something; but though his lips moved, there came no sounds from them. At last, with an effort that was almost convulsive, he pointed to the door, and said, "Alone--alone!"

"He wants to speak with you alone, sir," whispered the jailer, "and so we will retire."

D'Esmonde could not see them leave the cell without a sense of fear,--less the dread of any personal injury than the strange terror so inseparable to any close communion with one convicted of a dreadful crime,--and he actually shuddered as the ma.s.sive door was banged to.

"You are cold, sir!" said the prisoner, in a hollow, sepulchral voice.

"No, it was not cold!" replied D'Esmonde.

"I can guess what it was, then!" said the other, with an energy to which pa.s.sion seemed to contribute. "But I 'll not keep you long here. Sit down, sir. You must sit beside me, for there is no other seat than the settle-bed. But there is n.o.body here to see the great Abbe D'Esmonde side by side with a murderer."