Scarcely had my father laid himself down on the bed, when he fell off into a heavy sleep. Fatigue, exhaustion, and loss of blood all combined to overcome him, and he lay motionless in the same attitude he at first assumed.

Fagan came repeatedly to the bedside, and, opening the curtains slightly, gazed on the cold, impassive features with a strange intensity. One might have supposed that the almost deathlike calm of the sleeper's face would have defied every thought or effort of speculation; but there he sat, watching it as though, by dint of patience and study, he might at length attain to reading what was passing within that brain.

At the slightest sound that issued from the lips, too, he would bend down to try and catch its meaning. Perhaps, at moments like these, a trace of impatience might be detected in his manner; but, for the most part, his hard, stern features showed no sign of emotion, and it was in all his accustomed self-possession that he descended to the small and secluded chamber where Crowther sat awaiting him.

“Still asleep, Fagan?” asked the lawyer, looking hastily up from the papers and documents he had been perusing.

“He is asleep, and like enough to continue so,” replied the other, slowly, while he sank down into an arm-chair, and gave himself up to deep reflection.

“I have been thinking a good deal over what you have told me,” said Crowther, “and I own I see the very gravest objections to his surrendering himself.”

“My own opinion!” rejoined Fagan, curtly.

“Even if it were an ordinary duel, with all the accustomed formalities of time, place, and witnesses, the temper of the public mind is just now in a critical state on these topics; MacNamara's death and that unfortunate affair at Kells have made a deep impression. I'd not trust too much to such dispositions. Besides, the chances are they would not admit him to bail, so that he 'd have to pass three, nearly four, months in Newgate before he could be brought to trial.”

“He'd not live through the imprisonment. It would break his heart, if it did not kill him otherwise.”

“By no means unlikely.”

“I know him well, and I am convinced he 'd not survive it. Why, the very thought of the accusation, the bare idea that he could be arraigned as a criminal, so overcame him here this morning that he staggered back and sunk into that chair, half fainting.”

“He thinks that he was not known at that hotel where he stopped?”

“He is quite confident of that; the manner of the waiters towards him convinces him that he was not recognized.”

“Nor has he spoken with any one since his arrival, except yourself?”

“Not one, save the hackney carman, who evidently did not know him.”

“He left home, you say, without a servant?”

“Yes! he merely said that he was going over for a day or two, to the mines, and would be back by the end of the week. But, latterly, he has often absented himself in this fashion; and, having spoken of visiting one place, has changed his mind and gone to another, in an opposite direction.”

“Who has seen him since he arrived here?”

“No one but myself and Raper.”

“Ah! Raper has seen him?”

“That matters but little. Joe has forgotten all about it already, or, if he has not, I have but to say that it was a mistake, for him to fancy that it was so. You shall see, if you like, that he will not even hesitate the moment I tell him the thing is so.”

“It only remains, then, to determine where he should go,—I mean Carew; for although any locality would serve in one respect, we must bethink ourselves of every issue to this affair: and, should there be any suspicion attaching to him, he ought to be out of danger,—the danger of arrest. Where do his principal estates lie?”

“In Wicklow,—immediately around Castle Carew.”

“But he has other property?”

“Yes, he has some northern estates; and there is a mine, also, on Lough Allen belonging to him.”

“Well, why not go there?”

“There is no residence; there is nothing beyond the cabins of the peasantry, or the scarcely more comfortable dwelling of the overseer. I have it, Crowther,” cried he, suddenly, as though, a happy notion had just struck him; “I have it. You have heard of that shooting-lodge of mine at the Killeries? It was Carew's property, but has fallen into my hands; he shall go there. So far as seclusion goes, I defy Ireland to find its equal. They who have seen it, tell me it is a perfect picture of landscape beauty. He can shoot and fish and sketch for a week or so, till we see what turn this affair is like to take. Nothing could be better; the only difficulty is the distance.”

“You tell me that he is ill.”

“It is more agitation than actual illness; he was weak and feeble before this happened, and of course his nerves are terribly shaken by it.”

“The next consideration is, how to apprise his wife; at least, what we ought to tell her if he be incapable of writing.”

“I hinted that already as I accompanied him upstairs, and by his manner it struck me that he did not lay much stress on the matter; he merely said, 'Oh! she has no curiosity; she never worries herself about what does not concern her.'”

“A rare quality in a wife, Fagan,” said the other, with a smile.

Whether it was the prompting of his own thoughts, or that some real or fancied emphasis on the word “wife” caught him, but Fagan asked suddenly, “What did you say?”

“I remarked that it was a rare quality for a wife to possess. You thought, perhaps, it was rather the gift of those who enjoy the privilege, and not the name of such.”

“Maybe you're right, then, Crowther. Shall I own to you, it was the very thought that was passing through my own brain!”

“How strange that Rutledge should have hinted the very same suspicion to myself, the last time we ever spoke together,” said Crowther, in a low, confidential whisper. “We were sitting in my back office; he had come to show me some bills of money won at play, and ask my advice about them. Carew was the indorser of two or three amongst them, and Rutledge remarked at the tremendous pace the other was going, and how impossible it was that any fortune could long maintain it. There was some difficulty in catching exactly his meaning, for he spoke rapidly, and with more than his accustomed warmth. It was something, however, to this effect: 'All this extravagant display is madame's doing, and the natural consequence of his folly in France. If, instead of this absurd mistake, he had married and settled in Ireland, his whole career would have taken a different turn.' Now, when I reflected on the words after he left me, I could not satisfy myself whether he had said that Carew ought to have married, in contradistinction to have formed this French attachment, or simply that he deemed an Irish wife would have been a wiser choice than a French one.”

“The former strikes me as the true interpretation,” said Fagan; “and the more I think on every circumstance of this affair, the more do I incline to this opinion. The secrecy so unnecessary, the mystery as to her family, even as to her name, all so needless. That interval of seclusion, in which, probably, he had not yet resolved finally on the course he should adopt. And, lastly, a point more peculiarly referring to ourselves, and over which I have often pondered,—I mean the selection of my daughter Polly to be her friend and companion. It is not at my time of life,” added Fagan, with an almost fierce energy of voice, “that I have to learn how the aristocracy regard me and such as me. No one needs to tell me that any intercourse between us must depend on something else than similarity of taste and pursuit; that if we ever sit down to the same table together, it is on the ground of a compromise. There is a shame to be concealed or consoled, or there is a debt to be deferred, or left unclaimed forever. Walter Carew's wife would scarcely have sought out the Grinder's daughter for her friend and bosom companion. His mistress might have thought such an alliance most suitable. Polly has herself told me the terms of perfect equality on which they lived; that never by a chance word, look, or gesture was there aught which could imply a position of superiority above her own. They called each other by their Christian names, they assumed all the intimacy of sisters, and that almost at once. When she related these things to me,” cried Fagan, sternly, “my passion nearly overcame me, to think how we had been outraged and insulted; but I remembered, suddenly, that there were others, far higher than us, exposed to the same indignity. The Castle was crowded by the rank, the wealth, and the influence of the whole country; and if there be a disgrace to be endured, we have at least partners in our shame.”

“Yes, yes,” said Crowther, nodding his head slowly in assent; “the whole assumes a strange and most remarkable consistency. I remember well, hearing how many of those invited on that occasion had sent letters of apology; and stranger again, the way in which the party broke up and separated has been made public enough in the newspapers. Rutledge's own words were: 'It was a rout, not a retreat.' That was a curious expression.”

Who has not, at some time or other of his life, experienced the force of that casuistry which is begotten of suspicion? Who has not felt how completely reason is mastered by the subtle assaults of a wily ingenuity which, whilst combining the false and the true, the possible and impossible together, makes out a mock array of evidence almost too strong for a doubt? The least creative of minds are endowed with this faculty, and even the most commonplace and matter-of-fact temperaments are sometimes the slaves of this delusion! To render its influence all powerful, however, it should be exercised by two who, in the interchange of suspicions, and by bartering their inferences, arrive at a degree of certainty in their conclusions rarely accorded to the most convincing testimony. As a river is swollen by the aid of every tiny rill that trickles down the mountain side, so does the current of conviction receive as tributary, incidents the most trivial, and events of the slightest meaning.

Fagan's spirit revolted at what he felt to be a gross insult passed upon his daughter; but this very indignation served to rivet more firmly his suspicions, for he reasoned thus: Men are ever ready to credit what they desire to be credible, and to disbelieve that which it is unpleasant to accept as true. Now, here have I every temptation to incredulity! If this be the fact, as my suspicions indicate, I have been deeply outraged. An affront has been offered to me which dared not have been put upon one of higher rank and better blood. It is, therefore, my interest and my wish to suppose this impossible; and yet I cannot do so. Not all the self-respect I can call to aid, not all the desire to shelter myself behind a doubt, will suffice. My reason accepts what my feelings would reject, and I believe what it is a humiliation for me to credit.

Such was, in brief, the substance of a long mental struggle and self-examination on Fagan's part,—a process to which he addressed himself with all the shrewdness of his nature. It was a matter of deep moment to him in every way. He ardently desired that he should arrive at a right judgment upon it; and yet, with all his penetration and keen-sighted-ness, he never perceived that another agency was at work all the while, whose tendencies were exactly in the opposite direction. To believe Walter Carew still unmarried was to revive his long-extinct hope of calling him his son-in-law, and to bring back once more that gorgeous dream of Polly's elevation to rank and position, which had filled his mind for many a year. His whole heart had been set upon this object. In pursuit of it, he had made the most immense advances of money to my father, many of them on inferior security. For some he had the mere acknowledgment contained in a few lines of a common letter. The measures of severity which he had once menaced were undertaken in the very paroxysm of his first disappointment, and were as speedily relinquished when calm reflection showed him that they could avail nothing against the past. Besides this he felt that there was still an object, to the attainment of which my father's aid might contribute much, and towards which he hoped to urge him,—the emancipation of the Catholics. It had been long Fagan's cherished idea that the leadership of that party should be given to one who united to reasonable good abilities the advantages of birth, large fortune, and, above all, personal courage.

“We have orators and writers in abundance,” would he say. “There are plenty who can make speeches, and even songs, for us; but we want a few men who, with a large stake in the country, and high position in society, are willing and ready to peril both, and themselves into the bargain, in the assertion of our cause. If we ever chance to find these, our success is certain. The worst thing about our cause,” added he, “is not its disloyalty, for that admits of discussion and denial; but the real plague-spot is its vulgarity. Our enemies have been cunning enough to cast over the great struggle of a nation all the petty and miserable characteristics of a faction, and not of mere faction, but of one agitated by the lowest motives, and led on by the meanest advocates. A gentleman or two, to take service with us, will at once repulse this tactic; and until we can hit upon these, we shall make no progress.”

I have been obliged to dwell even to tediousness on these traits of the Grinder; for if they be not borne in mind, his actions and motives will seem destitute of any satisfactory explanation. And I now return to the chamber where he sat with Crowther as they compared impressions together, and bartered suspicions about my father's marriage.

“Now that I begin to consider the matter in this light,” said Crowther, “it is curious what an explanation it affords to many things that used to puzzle me formerly: all that coldness and reserve towards Carew that his neighbors showed; the way his former acquaintances fell off from him, one by one; and, lastly, those strange hints about him in the newspapers. I suppose we should see the meaning of every one of them now easily enough?”

Fagan made no reply; his mind was travelling along over the road it had entered upon, and would not be turned away by any call whatsoever.

“Yes,” muttered he to himself, “the little cottage at Fallrach, in the Killeries,—that's the place! and the only thing now is to get him down there. I must go up and see how he gets on, Crowther. I 'm half afraid that he ought to see a surgeon.” And, so saying, he arose and left the room.

My father was still sleeping as he entered, but less tranquilly than before, with a feverish flush upon his face, and his lips dry and dark-colored.

With a noiseless hand, Fagan drew back the curtain, and, seating himself close to the bed, bent down to gaze on him. The uneasy motions of the sleeper denoted pain; and more than once his hand was pressed against his side, as if it was the seat of some suffering. Fagan watched every gesture eagerly, and tried, but in vain, to collect some meaning from the low and broken utterance. Rapidly speaking at intervals, and at times moaning painfully, he appeared to labor either under some mental or bodily agony, in a paroxysm of which, at last, he burst open his vest, and clutched his embroidered shirt-frill with a violence that tore it in fragments.

As he did so, Fagan caught sight of a handkerchief stained with blood, which, with cautious gesture, he slowly removed, and, walking to the window, examined it carefully. This done, he folded it up, and, enveloping it in his own, placed it in his pocket. Once more he took his place at the bedside, and seemed to listen with intense anxiety for every sound of the sleeper's lips. The fever appeared to gain ground, for the flush now covered the face and forehead, and the limbs were twitched with short convulsive motions.

At last, as the paroxysm had reached its height, he bounded up from the bed and awoke.

“Where am I?” cried he, wildly. “Who are all these? What do they allege against me?”

“Lie down; compose yourself, Mr. Carew. You are amongst friends, who wish you well, and will treat you kindly,” said Fagan, mildly.

“But it was not of my seeking,—no one can dare to say so. Fagan will be my back to any amount,—ten thousand, if they ask it.”

“That will I,—to the last penny I possess.”

“There, I told you so. I often said I knew the Grinder better than any of you. You laughed at me for it; but I was right, for all that.”

“I trust you were right, sir,” said Fagan, calmly.

“What I said was this,” continued he, eagerly: “the father of such a girl as Polly must be a gentleman at heart. He may trip and stumble, in his imitations of your modish paces; but the soul of a gentleman must be in him. Was I right there, or not?”

“Pray, calm yourself; lie down, and take your rest,” said Fagan, gently pushing him back upon the pillow.

“You are quite right,” said he; “there is nothing for it now but submission. MacNaghten, Harvey, Burton,—all who have known me from boyhood,—can testify if I were one to do a dishonorable action. I tell you again and again, I will explain nothing; life is not worth such a price,—such ignominy is too great!”

He paused, as if the thought was too painful to pursue; and then, fixing his eyes on Fagan, he laughed aloud, and added,—

“Eh, Fagan! that would be like one of your own contracts,—a hundred per cent!”

“I have not treated you in this wise, Mr. Carew,” said he, calmly..

“No, my boy! that you have not. To the last hour of my life—no great stretch of time, perhaps—I 'll say the same. You have been a generous fellow with me—the devil and yourself may perhaps know why,—I do not; nay, more, Fagan—I never cared to know. Perhaps you thought I 'd marry Polly. By George! I might have done worse; and who knows what may be yet on the cards? Ay, just so—the cards—the cards!”

He did not speak again for several minutes; but when he did, his voice assumed a tone of greater distinctness and accuracy, as if he would not that a single word were lost.

“I knew your scheme about the Papists, Tony; I guessed what you were at then. I was to have emancipated you!”

A wild laugh broke from him, and he went on,—

“Just fancy the old trumpeter's face, that hangs up in the dinner-room at Castle Carew! Imagine the look he would bestow on his descendant as I sat down to table. Faith! Old Noll himself would have jumped out of the canvas at the tidings. If you cannot strain your fancy that far, Tony, think what your own father would have said were his degenerate son to be satisfied with lawful interest!—imagine him sorrowing over the lost precepts of his house!”

“There; I'll close the curtains, and leave you to take a sleep,” said Fagan.

“But I have no time for this, man,” cried the other, again starting up; “I must be up and away. You must find some place of concealment for me till I can reach the Continent. Understand me well, Fagan, I cannot, I will not, make a defence; as little am I disposed to die like a felon! There's the whole of it! Happily, if the worst should come, Tony, the disgrace dies with me; that's something,—eh?”

“You will make yourself far worse by giving way to this excitement, Mr. Carew; you must try and compose yourself.”

“So I will, Fagan; I'll be as obedient as you wish. Only tell me that you will watch for my safety, assure me of that, and I 'm content.”

As though the very words he had just uttered had brought a soothing influence to his mind, he had scarcely finished speaking when he fell off into a deep sleep, unbroken by even a dream. Fagan stood long enough at the bedside to assure himself that all was quiet, and then left the room, locking the door as he passed out, and taking the key with him.