The search for any document that could authenticate my father's marriage proved totally unsuccessful, and although poor MacNaghten's zeal was untiring and unwearied, all his efforts were fruitless.

Guided by the clew afforded in some of my father's letters, Dan proceeded to Wales, ascertained the cottage where they had passed their first month of married life, and found out many who had known them by sight; but could chance upon nothing which should lead him to the important fact where, and by whom, the marriage ceremony was solemnized.

The state of my mother's health was so precarious for a long time as to render all inquiry from her impracticable; while there was also a very natural fear of the consequences that might ensue, were she to suspect the object of any investigation, and learn the perilous position in which she stood. Her condition was, indeed, a pitiable one,—a young and widowed mother; a stranger in a foreign land, of whose language she knew scarcely anything; without one friend of her own sex, separated by what, in those days, seemed an immense distance from all belonging to her. It was a weary load of misfortune to be borne by one who till that moment had never known a sorrow.

Nor was MacNaghten's lot more enviable as, day by day, he received packets of letters detailing the slow but steady march of those legal proceedings which were to end in the ruin of those whom he felt to have been bequeathed to his friendship. Already two claimants for the estate had appeared in the field,—one, a distant relation of my father, a very rich southern baronet, a certain Carew O'Moore; the other, an unknown, obscure person, whose pretensions, it was said, were favored by Fagan, and at whose cost the suit was said to be maintained. With the former, MacNaghten at once proceeded to open relations personally, by a letter describing in simple but touching terms the sad state in which my poor mother yet lay, and appealing to his feelings as a gentleman and a man of humanity to stay the course of proceedings for a while, at least, and give time to enable her to meet them by such information as she might possess.

A very polite reply was at once returned to this, assuring MacNaghten that whatever delays could be accorded to the law proceedings—short of defeating the object altogether—should certainly be accorded; that nothing was further from Sir Carew's desire than to increase, in the slightest, the sorrows of one so heavily visited; and expressing, in conclusion, a regret that his precarious health should preclude him paying his personal visit of condolence at the Castle, where, he trusted, the lady would continue to reside so long as her health or convenience made it desirable. If the expressions of the letter were not as hearty and generous as honest Dan might have wished them, they were more gratifying than the note he received from Fagan, written with all the caution and reserve of the Grinder's manner; for, while not going so far as to admit that he was personally interested and concerned for the new claimant, he guardedly avoided giving any denial to the fact.

For three weeks did MacNaghten continue to search through immense masses of papers and documents; he ransacked musty drawers of mustier cabinets; he waded through piles of correspondence, in the hope of some faint flickering of light, some chance phrase that might lead him to the right track; but without success! He employed trusty and sharp-witted agents to trace back, through England, the journey my father and mother had come by, but so secretly had every step of that wedding-tour been conducted, that no clew remained.

Amidst the disappointments of this ineffectual pursuit, there came, besides, the disheartening reflection that from those who were most intimately acquainted with my father's affairs he met neither counsel nor co-operation. On the contrary, Crowther's manner was close and secret on every matter of detail, and as to the chances of a suit, avowed how little ground they had for resistance. Fagan even went further, and spoke with an assumed regret that my father should have made no provision for those belonging to him.

All these were, however, as nothing to the misery of that day in which McNaughten was obliged to break the disclosure to my mother, and explain to her the position of ruin and humiliation in which she was placed! She was still weak and debilitated from her illness, her bodily strength impaired, and her mind broken by suffering, when this new shock came upon her; nor could she at first be made to understand the full measure of her misfortune, nor to what it exactly tended. That the home of her husband was no longer to be hers was a severe blow; it was endeared to her by so many of the tenderest recollections. It was all that really remained associated with him she had lost. “But perhaps,” thought she, “this is the law of the country: such are the inevitable necessities of the land.” Her boy would, if he lived, one day possess it for his own, and upon this thought she fell back for consolation.

MacNaghten did not venture in his first interview to undeceive her; a second and even a third passed over without his being equal to the task: but the inexorable course of law gave, at last, no time for further delay. The tenants of the estate had received formal notice to pay the amount of their several holdings into court, pending the litigation of the property. A peremptory order to surrender the house and demesne was also issued. The servants talked openly of the approaching break-up of the household, and already vague and shadowy rumors ran that my father had died intestate, and that my mother was left without a shilling.

From early morning till late at night, MacNaghten had toiled without ceasing. He had visited lawyers, attended consultations, instituted fresh searches through Crowther's papers, but all with the same result. The most hopeful counsels only promised a barren resistance, the less sanguine advisers recommended any compromise that might secure to my mother some moderate competence to live on. So much had the course of events preyed upon his mind, and so dispirited had he grown that, as he afterwards owned, he found himself listening to arguments, and willing to entertain projects, which, had they been presented but a few weeks before, he had rejected with scorn and indignation. It was then, too, and for the first time, that the possibility struck him that my father's marriage might have been solemnized without that formality which should make it good in law. He remembered the reserve with which, in all their frank friendship, the subject was ever treated. He bethought him of the reluctance with which my father suffered himself to be drawn into any allusion to that event; and that, in fact, it was the only theme on which they never conversed in perfect frankness and sincerity.

“After all,” thought he, “the matter may be difficult of proof. There may have been reasons, real or imaginary, for secrecy; there may have been certain peculiar circumstances requiring unusual caution or mystery; but Watty was quite incapable of presenting to his friends and to the world as his wife one who had not every title to the name, while she who held that place gave the best guarantee, by her manner and conduct, that it was hers by right.” To this consolation he was obliged to fall back at each new moment of discomfiture; but although it served to supply him with fresh energy and courage, it also oppressed him with the sad reflection that conviction and belief in his friend's honor would have no weight in the legal discussion of the case, and that one scrawled fragment of paper would be better in evidence than all the trustfulness that was ever inspired by friendship.

If gifted with a far more than common amount of resolution and energy, MacNaghten was by nature impulsive to rashness, and consequently not well suited to deal with those who, more cautious by temperament, and less given to exhibit their feelings, find their profit in trading upon the warmer and less suspectful natures of others. In proportion as his daily disappointment preyed upon him, he displayed the effect in his manner and appearance, and at length, between mental agitation and bodily fatigue, became the mere wreck of what he had been. It was thus that, after a long day passed in toil and excitement, he strolled into one of the squares after nightfall, to seek in the solitude of the spot some calm and tranquillity for his harassed spirit.

It was the autumn,—that season when Dublin is almost deserted by its residents, and scarcely any of those who constitute what is called society were in the capital. Mac-Naghten, therefore, was not likely to find any to interfere with the loneliness he sought for, and loitered unmolested for hours through the lanes and alleys of the silent square. There was a certain freshness in the night air that served to rally his jaded frame; and he felt, in the clear and half* frosty atmosphere, a sense of invigoration that made him unwilling to leave the spot. While thus gathering strength for the coming day, he thought he heard footsteps in the walk behind him; he listened, and now distinctly heard the sound of a voice talking in loud tones, and the shuffling sounds of feet on the gravel. Stepping aside into the copse, he waited to see who and for what purpose might they be who came there at this unfrequented hour.

To his astonishment, a solitary figure moved past, walking with short, hasty steps, while he talked and gesticulated to himself with every appearance of intense excitement. Mac-Naghten had but to hear a word or two, at once to recognize the speaker as Curtis—that strange, half-misanthropic creature, who, partly from fault, and in part from misfortune, now lived in a state of friendless isolation.

It was rumored that, although his bearing and manner before the Court displayed consummate coolness and self-possession, that the effect of the recent trial had been to shake his intellect seriously, and, while impressing upon him more strongly the notion of his being selected and marked out for persecution by the Government, to impart to him a kind of martyr's determination to perish in the cause. At no time were he and Dan congenial spirits. Their natures and their temperaments were widely different; and, from the great disparity in their ages, as well as in all their associations, there was scarcely one point of friendly contact in common to them.

There is a companionable element in misfortune, however, stronger than what we discover in prosperity; and partly from this cause, and partly from a sense of compassion, MacNaghten followed him quickly, and hailed him by his name.

“Joe Curtis!” repeated the old man, stopping suddenly. “I submit, my Lord, that this is an insufficient designation. I am Joseph Curtis, Esquire, of Meagh-valley House.”

“With all my heart,” said MacNaghten, cordially taking his hand and shaking it warmly, “though I think you'll suffer an old friend to be less ceremonious with you.”

“Ah! you here, Dan MacNaghten,—why, what in the name of all mischief has led you to this place? I thought I was the only maniac in this ward;” and he gave a harsh, grating laugh of irony at his own jesting allusion.

“I came here partly by accident, and have loitered from choice.”

“We must take care that no gentlemen have fixed this evening for a meeting here,” said Curtis, in a low, guarded whisper. “You and I, MacNaghten, would fare badly, depend upon it. What! with our known reputations, and the nails in our boots,—eh! the nails in our boots,—they 'll make what's called a strong case against us! You'd get off,—they 've nothing against you; but they 'll not let me slip through, like last time. Did you ever know such a close thing? The foreman, old Andrews, told me since, 'We had quite made up our minds, sir. We 'd have said guilty without leaving the box.' Just think of their dilemma if they had hanged me! My papers, for I took care to leave all in writing, would have shown up the whole conspiracy. I 've set forth the game they have been playing since the year '42. I detailed all their machinations, and showed the secret orders they had given to each successive Viceroy. There were three men—only three men—in all Ireland that they dreaded! And that blundering fool Carew must rush in with his rashness and absurdity! Who ever heard or saw the like?”

“Poor fellow!” muttered MacNaghten.

“'Poor fellow,' as much as you wish, sir; but remember that some degree of consideration is due to me also! I was a prisoner seven weeks in Newgate; I stood in the dock, arraigned for a murder; I was on the eve of a false conviction and a false sentence; and there is no man living can say what results might not have followed on my being falsely executed! Your friend's stupid interference has spoiled everything, and you need n't ask me, at least, to feel grateful to him.”

“There are men who, in your situation that day, would not hesitate to acknowledge their gratitude, notwithstanding,” said MacNaghten.

“There are poor-spirited, contemptible curs in every country, sir, if you mean that!” said Curtis. “As for Carew, he was a gentleman by birth. He had the fortune and the education of one. He might, if he had wished it, have been one of the first, if not the very first, men in this country. He thought it a finer thing to be a horse-racer and a gambler. He saw greater distinction in being the dangler at the court of a foreign debauchee to being the leading character in his own land. Don't interrupt me, sir,” cried he, haughtily, waving his hand, while he went on, with increased vehemence. “I tell you again that Walter Carew might now have been a great living patriot—instead of—”

“If you utter one syllable of insult to his memory,” broke in MacNaghten, boldly, “neither your age nor your folly shall save you; for, by Heaven—”

He stopped, for the aspect of the broken-down, white-' haired figure in front of him suddenly overcame him with shame for his own violence.

“Well, and what then?” said Curtis, calmly. “Shall I finish your threat for you? for, in truth, you seem quite unable to do so yourself. No, I 'll not—Dan MacNaghten—never fear me. I 'm just as incapable of defaming him who has left us as you are of offering insult to an old, decrepit, half-crazed man, whose only use in life is to cast obloquy upon those that have made him the thing he is.”

“Forgive me, Curtis; I am heartily sorry for my rude speech,” cried MacNaghten.

“Forgive you, sir!” said he, already following out another and a very different train of thought. “I have nothing to forgive. You were only doing what all the world does; what your Government and its authorities give the example of,—insulting one whom it is safe to outrage! You treat me as you treat Ireland, that's all! Give me your hand, MacNaghten; I think, indeed I always said, you were the best of those fellows about Carew. If he had n't been away from you, probably he 'd not have fallen into that stupid mistake,—that French connection.”

“His marriage, do you mean?” cried Dan, eagerly.

“Marriage, if you like to call it so!” rejoined the other.

“Have you a single doubt that it was such?”

“Have I a single reason to believe it?” said Curtis, doggedly. “If a man of fifteen thousand a-year takes a wife, he selects a woman whose rank and station are at least equal to his own, and he takes care besides that the world knows it. If she brings him no fortune, he makes the more fuss about her family, and parades her high relations. He does n't wed in secret, and keep the day, the place, the witnesses, a mystery; he doesn't avoid even a chance mention of the event to his dearest friends; he does n't settle down to live in an obscure retreat, when he owns a princely residence in the midst of his friends. When he does come back amongst them, he does not shrink from presenting her to the world; to be driven at last by necessity to the bold course,—to fill his house with company, and see them drop off,—fritter away one by one, distrustful, dissatisfied, and suspecting. Don't tell me, sir, that if he had a good cause and a safe cause behind him, that Walter Carew would n't have asked explanations, ay, and enforced them, too, from some of those guests who rewarded his hospitality so scurvily. You knew him well; and I ask you, was he the man to suffer the insolent attacks of the public journals, if it were not that he dreaded even worse exposures by provocation? You are a shrewd and a clever fellow, MacNaghten; and if you don't see this matter as all the world sees it—”

“And is this the common belief? Do you tell me that such is the impression abroad in society?”

“Consult Matt Fosbroke. Ask Harvey Hempton what his wife says. Go to George Tisdall and get his account of their departure from Castle Carew, and the answer they sent when invited there a second time.”

“Why, all this is new to me!” cried MacNaghten, in amazement.

“To be sure, it's only circumstantial evidence,” broke in Curtis, with a bitter laugh; “but that is precisely what the courts of law tell you is the most unimpeachable of all testimony. It may fail to convince you, but it would be quite sufficient to hang me!”

The bare recurrence, for a second, to this theme at once brought back the old man to his own case, into which he launched with all the fervor of a full mind; now sneering at the capacity of those before whom he was arraigned, now detailing with delight the insolent remarks he had taken occasion to make on the administration of justice generally. It was in vain that MacNaghten tried to lead him away from the subject. It constituted his world to him, and he would not quit it. A chance mention of Fagan's name in the proceedings of the trial gave occasion at last for interruption, and MacNaghten said,—

“By the way, Fagan is a difficult fellow to deal with. You know him well, I believe?”

“Know him. Ay, that I do, sir. I have known that den of his since it was an apple-stall. My first post-obit was cashed by his worthy father. My last bill”—here he laughed heartily—“my last bill was protested by the son! And yet the fellow is afraid of me. Ay, there is no man that walks this city he dreads so much as me!”

Curtis was so much in the habit of exaggerating his own importance, and particularly as it affected others, that MacNaghten paid but little attention to this remark, when the other quickly rejoined,—

“If you want to manage Fagan, take me with you. He 'll not give you money on my bond, nor will he discount a bill for my name's sake; but he 'll do what costs him to the full as much,—he 'll tell you the truth, sir. Mark that,—he 'll tell you the truth.”

“Will you accompany me to his house to-morrow?” asked Dan, eagerly.

“Ay, whenever you will.”

“I 'll call upon you at ten o'clock, then, if not too early, and talk over the business for which I want your assistance. Where are you stopping?”

“My town residence is let to Lord Belview, and to avoid the noise and turmoil of a hotel, I live in lodgings,” said Curtis, slowly, and with a certain pomposity of air and manner; suddenly changing which to his ordinary jocular tone, he said: “You have, maybe, heard of a place called Fum's Alley. It lies in the Liberty, and opens upon that classic precinct called 'The Poddle.' There, sir, at a door over which a straw chair is suspended,—it's the manufacture of the house,—there, sir, lives Joe Curtis.”

“I 'll be with you at ten,” said Dan; and, with some pass-ing allusion to the lateness of the hour, he led the way back into the town, where they parted.