Editorial note This book is about the seduction of a young girl by the heir to anearldom, the resulting illegitimate pregnancy, and the young nobleman'sstruggle to decide whether to marry or to abandon the girl--certainlynot the usual content of Victorian novels. Trollope is believed to have written _An Eye for an Eye_ in 1870, buthe did not publish it until the fall of 1878, when it appeared inserial form in the _Whitehall Review_, followed by publication of theentire book in 1879. The reason for delaying publication is unknown, although Trollope might have been concerned about the book's receptionby the public, given its subject matter and the hostile reception in1853 of Elizabeth Gaskell's _Ruth_, which dealt with the same subject. AN EYE FOR AN EYE by ANTHONY TROLLOPE 1879 CONTENTS VOLUME I. INTRODUCTION I. SCROOPE MANOR II. FRED NEVILLE III. SOPHIE MELLERBY IV. JACK NEVILLE V. ARDKILL COTTAGE VI. I'LL GO BAIL SHE LIKES IT VII. FATHER MARTY'S HOSPITALITY VIII. I DIDN'T WANT YOU TO GO IX. FRED NEVILLE RETURNS TO SCROOPE X. FRED NEVILLE'S SCHEME XI. THE WISDOM OF JACK NEVILLE XII. FRED NEVILLE MAKES A PROMISE VOLUME II. I. FROM BAD TO WORSE II. IS SHE TO BE YOUR WIFE? III. FRED NEVILLE RECEIVES A VISITOR AT ENNIS IV. NEVILLE'S SUCCESS V. FRED NEVILLE IS AGAIN CALLED HOME TO SCROOPE VI. THE EARL OF SCROOPE IS IN TROUBLE VII. SANS REPROCHE VIII. LOOSE ABOUT THE WORLD IX. AT LISCANNOR X. AT ARDKILL XI. ON THE CLIFFS XII. CONCLUSION VOLUME I. INTRODUCTION. At a private asylum in the west of England there lives, and has livedfor some years past, an unfortunate lady, as to whom there has longsince ceased to be any hope that she should ever live elsewhere. Indeed, there is no one left belonging to her by whom the indulgence of such ahope on her behalf could be cherished. Friends she has none; and herown condition is such, that she recks nothing of confinement and doesnot even sigh for release. And yet her mind is ever at work, --as isdoubtless always the case with the insane. She has present to her, apparently in every waking moment of her existence, an object of intenseinterest, and at that she works with a constancy which never weariesherself, however fatiguing it may be to those who are near her. She isever justifying some past action of her life. "An eye for an eye, " shesays, "and a tooth for a tooth. Is it not the law?" And these words shewill repeat daily, almost from morn till night. It has been said that this poor lady has no friends. Friends who wouldbe anxious for her recovery, who would care to see her even in herwretched condition, who might try to soothe her harassed heart withwords of love, she has none. Such is her condition now, and hertemperament, that it may be doubted whether any words of love, howevertender, could be efficacious with her. She is always demandingjustification, and as those who are around her never thwart her she hasprobably all the solace which kindness could give her. But, though she has no friends--none who love her, --she has all thematerial comfort which friendship or even love could supply. All thatmoney can do to lessen her misery, is done. The house in which she livesis surrounded by soft lawns and secluded groves. It has been preparedaltogether for the wealthy, and is furnished with every luxury whichit may be within the power of a maniac to enjoy. This lady has her ownwoman to attend her; and the woman, though stout and masterful, isgentle in language and kind in treatment. "An eye for an eye, ma'am. Oh, certainly. That is the law. An eye for an eye, no doubt. " This formulashe will repeat a dozen times a day--ay, a dozen dozen times, till thewonder is that she also should not be mad. The reader need not fear that he is to be asked to loiter within theprecincts of an asylum for the insane. Of this abode of wretchedness noword more shall be said; but the story shall be told of the lady whodwelt there, --the story of her life till madness placed her within thosewalls. That story was known to none at the establishment but to him whowas its head. Others there, who were cognisant of the condition of thevarious patients, only knew that from quarter to quarter the charges forthis poor lady's custody were defrayed by the Earl of Scroope. CHAPTER I. SCROOPE MANOR. Some years ago, it matters not how many, the old Earl of Scroope livedat Scroope Manor in Dorsetshire. The house was an Elizabethan structureof some pretensions, but of no fame. It was not known to sight-seers, as are so many of the residences of our nobility and country gentlemen. No days in the week were appointed for visiting its glories, nor wasthe housekeeper supposed to have a good thing in perquisites fromshowing it. It was a large brick building facing on to the villagestreet, --facing the village, if the hall-door of a house be the maincharacteristic of its face; but with a front on to its own grounds fromwhich opened the windows of the chief apartments. The village of Scroopeconsisted of a straggling street a mile in length, with the church andparsonage at one end, and the Manor-house almost at the other. Butthe church stood within the park; and on that side of the street, formore than half its length, the high, gloomy wall of the Earl's domainstretched along in face of the publicans, bakers, grocers, two butchers, and retired private residents whose almost contiguous houses madeScroope itself seem to be more than a village to strangers. Close to theManor and again near to the church, some favoured few had been allowedto build houses and to cultivate small gardens taken, as it were, innotches out of the Manor grounds; but these tenements must have beenbuilt at a time in which landowners were very much less jealous thanthey are now of such encroachments from their humbler neighbours. The park itself was large, and the appendages to it such as were fitfor an Earl's establishment;--but there was little about it that wasattractive. The land lay flat, and the timber, which was very plentiful, had not been made to group itself in picturesque forms. There was theManor wood, containing some five hundred acres, lying beyond the churchand far back from the road, intersected with so-called drives, whichwere unfit for any wheels but those of timber waggons;--and round thewhole park there was a broad belt of trees. Here and there about thelarge enclosed spaces there stood solitary oaks, in which the old Earltook pride; but at Scroope Manor there was none of that finishedlandscape beauty of which the owners of "places" in England are sojustly proud. The house was large, and the rooms were grand and spacious. There was anenormous hall into one corner of which the front door opened. There wasa vast library filled with old books which no one ever touched, --hugevolumes of antiquated and now all but useless theology, and folioeditions of the least known classics, --such as men now never read. Not abook had been added to it since the commencement of the century, and itmay almost be said that no book had been drawn from its shelves for realuse during the same period. There was a suite of rooms, --a salon withtwo withdrawing rooms which now were never opened. The big dining-roomwas used occasionally, as, in accordance with the traditions of thefamily, dinner was served there whenever there were guests at the Manor. Guests, indeed, at Scroope Manor were not very frequent;--but LadyScroope did occasionally have a friend or two to stay with her; andat long intervals the country clergymen and neighbouring squires wereasked, with their wives, to dinner. When the Earl and his Countess werealone they used a small breakfast parlour, and between this and the bigdining-room there was the little chamber in which the Countess usuallylived. The Earl's own room was at the back, or if the reader pleases, front of the house, near the door leading into the street, and was, ofall rooms in the house, the gloomiest. The atmosphere of the whole place was gloomy. There were none of thosecharms of modern creation which now make the mansions of the wealthyamong us bright and joyous. There was not a billiard table in thehouse. There was no conservatory nearer than the large old-fashionedgreenhouse, which stood away by the kitchen garden and which seemed tobelong exclusively to the gardener. The papers on the walls were darkand sombre. The mirrors were small and lustreless. The carpets were oldand dingy. The windows did not open on to the terrace. The furniture washardly ancient, but yet antiquated and uncomfortable. Throughout thehouse, and indeed throughout the estate, there was sufficient evidenceof wealth; and there certainly was no evidence of parsimony; but atScroope Manor money seemed never to have produced luxury. The householdwas very large. There was a butler, and a housekeeper, and variousfootmen, and a cook with large wages, and maidens in tribes to wait uponeach other, and a colony of gardeners, and a coachman, and a head-groom, and under-grooms. All these lived well under the old Earl, and knew thevalue of their privileges. There was much to get, and almost nothingto do. A servant might live for ever at Scroope Manor, --if onlysufficiently submissive to Mrs. Bunce the housekeeper. There wascertainly no parsimony at the Manor, but the luxurious living of thehousehold was confined to the servants' department. To a stranger, and perhaps also to the inmates, the idea of gloom aboutthe place was greatly increased by the absence of any garden or lawnnear the house. Immediately in front of the mansion, and between it andthe park, there ran two broad gravel terraces, one above another; andbelow these the deer would come and browse. To the left of the house, at nearly a quarter of a mile distant from it, there was a very largegarden indeed, --flower-gardens, and kitchen-gardens, and orchards; allugly, and old-fashioned, but producing excellent crops in their kind. But they were away, and were not seen. Oat flowers were occasionallybrought into the house, --but the place was never filled with flowersas country houses are filled with them now-a-days. No doubt had LadyScroope wished for more she might have had more. Scroope itself, though a large village, stood a good deal out of theworld. Within the last year or two a railway has been opened, with aScroope Road Station, not above three miles from the place; but inthe old lord's time it was eleven miles from its nearest station, atDorchester, with which it had communication once a day by an omnibus. Unless a man had business with Scroope nothing would take him there; andvery few people had business with Scroope. Now and then a commercialtraveller would visit the place with but faint hopes as to trade. Apost-office inspector once in twelve months would call upon plethoricold Mrs. Applejohn, who kept the small shop for stationery, and wasknown as the postmistress. The two sons of the vicar, Mr. Greenmarsh, would pass backwards and forwards between their father's vicarage andMarlbro' school. And occasionally the men and women of Scroope wouldmake a journey to their county town. But the Earl was told that old Mrs. Brock of the Scroope Arms could not keep the omnibus on the road unlesshe would subscribe to aid it. Of course he subscribed. If he had beentold by his steward to subscribe to keep the cap on Mrs. Brock's head, he would have done so. Twelve pounds a year his Lordship paid towardsthe omnibus, and Scroope was not absolutely dissevered from the world. The Earl himself was never seen out of his own domain, except whenhe attended church. This he did twice every Sunday in the year, thecoachman driving him there in the morning and the head-groom in theafternoon. Throughout the household it was known to be the Earl'srequest to his servants that they would attend divine service at leastonce every Sunday. None were taken into service but they who were orwho called themselves members of the Church Establishment. It is hardlyprobable that many dissenters threw away the chance of such promotion onany frivolous pretext of religion. Beyond this request, which, comingfrom the mouth of Mrs. Bunce, became very imperative, the Earl hardlyever interfered with his domestics. His own valet had attended him forthe last thirty years; but, beyond his valet and the butler, he hardlyknew the face of one of them. There was a gamekeeper at Scroope Manor, with two under-gamekeepers; and yet, for, some years, no one, except thegamekeepers, had ever shot over the lands. Some partridges and a fewpheasants were, however, sent into the house when Mrs. Bunce, moved towrath, would speak her mind on that subject. The Earl of Scroope himself was a tall, thin man, something over seventyat the time of which I will now begin to speak. His shoulders were muchbent, but otherwise he appeared to be younger than his age. His hair wasnearly white, but his eyes were still bright, and the handsome well-cutfeatures of his fine face were not reduced to shapelessness by any ofthe ravages of time, as is so often the case with men who are infirm aswell as old. Were it not for the long and heavy eyebrows, which gavesomething of severity to his face, and for that painful stoop in hisshoulders, he might still have been accounted a handsome man. In youthhe had been a very handsome man, and had shone forth in the world, popular, beloved, respected, with all the good things the world couldgive. The first blow upon him was the death of his wife. That hurt himsorely, but it did not quite crush him. Then his only daughter diedalso, just as she became a bride. High as the Lady Blanche Nevillehad stood herself, she had married almost above her rank, and herfather's heart had been full of joy and pride. But she had perishedchildless, --in child-birth, and again he was hurt almost to death. Therewas still left to him a son, --a youth indeed thoughtless, lavish, andprone to evil pleasures. But thought would come with years; for almostany lavishness there were means sufficient; and evil pleasures mightcease to entice. The young Lord Neville was all that was left to theEarl, and for his heir he paid debts and forgave injuries. The youngman would marry and all might be well. Then he found a bride for hisboy, --with no wealth, but owning the best blood in the kingdom, beautiful, good, one who might be to him as another daughter. His boy's answer wasthat he was already married! He had chosen his wife from out of thestreets, and offered to the Earl of Scroope as a child to replace thedaughter who had gone, a wretched painted prostitute from France. Afterthat Lord Scroope never again held up his head. The father would not see his heir, --and never saw him again. As to whatmoney might be needed, the lawyers in London were told to manage that. The Earl himself would give nothing and refuse nothing. When there weredebts, --debts for the second time, debts for the third time, the lawyerswere instructed to do what in their own eyes seemed good to them. Theymight pay as long as they deemed it right to pay, but they might notname Lord Neville to his father. While things were thus the Earl married again, --the penniless daughterof a noble house, --a woman not young, for she was forty when he marriedher, but more than twenty years his junior. It sufficed for him that shewas noble, and as he believed good. Good to him she was, --with a dutythat was almost excessive. Religious she was, and self-denying; givingmuch and demanding little; keeping herself in the background, butpossessing wonderful energy in the service of others. Whether she couldin truth be called good the reader may say when he has finished thisstory. Then, when the Earl had been married some three years to his secondwife, the heir died. He died, and as far as Scroope Manor was concernedthere was an end of him and of the creature he had called his wife. An annuity was purchased for her. That she should be entitled to callherself Lady Neville while she lived, was the sad necessity of thecondition. It was understood by all who came near the Earl that no onewas to mention her within his hearing. He was thankful that no heir hadcome from that most horrid union. The woman was never mentioned to himagain, nor need she trouble us further in the telling of our chronicle. But when Lord Neville died, it was necessary that the old man shouldthink of his new heir. Alas; in that family, though there was much thatwas good and noble, there had ever been intestine feuds, --causes ofquarrel in which each party would be sure that he was right. They werea people who thought much of the church, who were good to the poor, whostrove to be noble;--but they could not forgive injuries. They couldnot forgive even when there were no injuries. The present Earl hadquarrelled with his brother in early life;--and had therefore quarrelledwith all that had belonged to the brother. The brother was now gone, leaving two sons behind him, --two young Nevilles, Fred and Jack, of whomFred, the eldest, was now the heir. It was at last settled that Fredshould be sent for to Scroope Manor. Fred came, being at that time alieutenant in a cavalry regiment, --a fine handsome youth of five andtwenty, with the Neville eyes and Neville finely cut features. Kindlyletters passed between the widowed mother and the present Lady Scroope;and it was decided at last, at his own request, that he should remainone year longer in the army, and then be installed as the eldest son atScroope Manor. Again the lawyer was told to do what was proper in regardto money. A few words more must be said of Lady Scroope, and then the preface toour story will be over. She too was an Earl's daughter, and had beenmuch loved by our Earl's first wife. Lady Scroope had been the elder byten years; but yet they had been dear friends, and Lady Mary Wycombe hadpassed many months of her early life amidst the gloom of the great roomsat Scroope Manor. She had thus known the Earl well before she consentedto marry him. She had never possessed beauty, --and hardly grace. She wasstrong featured, tall, with pride clearly written in her face. A readerof faces would have declared at once that she was proud of the bloodwhich ran in her veins. She was very proud of her blood, and did intruth believe that noble birth was a greater gift than any wealth. Shewas thoroughly able to look down upon a parvenu millionaire, --to lookdown upon such a one and not to pretend to despise him. When the Earl'sletter came to her asking her to share his gloom, she was as poor asCharity, --dependent on a poor brother who hated the burden of suchclaim. But she would have wedded no commoner, let his wealth and agehave been as they might. She knew Lord Scroope's age, and she knew thegloom of Scroope Manor;--and she became his wife. To her of course wastold the story of the heir's marriage, and she knew that she couldexpect no light, no joy in the old house from the scions of the risingfamily. But now all this was changed, and it might be that she couldtake the new heir to her heart. CHAPTER II. FRED NEVILLE. When Fred Neville first came to the Manor, the old Earl trembled whencalled upon to receive him. Of the lad he had heard almost nothing, --ofhis appearance literally nothing. It might be that his heir would bemeanly visaged, a youth of whom he would have cause to be ashamed, one from whose countenance no sign of high blood would shine out; or, almost worse, he also might have that look, half of vanity, and halfof vice, of which the father had gradually become aware in his ownson, and which in him had degraded the Neville beauty. But Fred, tolook at, was a gallant fellow, --such a youth as women love to seeabout a house, --well-made, active, quick, self-asserting, fair-haired, blue-eyed, short-lipped, with small whiskers, thinking but little of hisown personal advantages, but thinking much of his own way. As far as theappearance of the young man went the Earl could not but be satisfied. And to him, at any rate in this, the beginning of their connexion, FredNeville was modest and submissive. "You are welcome to Scroope, " saidthe old man, receiving him with stately urbanity in the middle of thehall. "I am so much obliged to you, uncle, " he said. "You are come tome as a son, my boy, --as a son. It will be your own fault if you arenot a son to us in everything. " Then in lieu of further words thereshone a tear in each of the young man's eyes, much more eloquent to theEarl than could have been any words. He put his arm over his nephew'sshoulders, and in this guise walked with him into the room in which LadyScroope was awaiting them. "Mary, " he said to his wife, "here is ourheir. Let him be a son to us. " Then Lady Scroope took the young manin her arms and kissed him. Thus auspiciously was commenced this newconnexion. The arrival was in September, and the game-keeper, with the undergamekeeper, had for the last month been told to be on his mettle. YoungMr. Neville was no doubt a sportsman. And the old groom had been warnedthat hunters might be wanted in the stables next winter. Mrs. Buncewas made to understand that liberties would probably be taken with thehouse, such as had not yet been perpetrated in her time;--for the lateheir had never made the Manor his home from the time of his leavingschool. It was felt by all that great changes were to be effected, --andit was felt also that the young man on whose behalf all this was to bepermitted, could not but be elated by his position. Of such elation, however, there were not many signs. To his uncle, Fred Neville was, ashas been said, modest and submissive; to his aunt he was gentle but notsubmissive. The rest of the household he treated civilly, but with noneof that awe which was perhaps expected from him. As for shooting, hehad come direct from his friend Carnaby's moor. Carnaby had forestas well as moor, and Fred thought but little of partridges, --littleof such old-fashioned partridge-shooting as was prepared for him atScroope, --after grouse and deer. As for hunting in Dorsetshire, if hisuncle wished it, --why in that case he would think of it. According tohis ideas, Dorsetshire was not the best county in England for hunting. Last year his regiment had been at Bristol and he had ridden with theDuke's hounds. This winter he was to be stationed in Ireland, and he hadan idea that Irish hunting was good. If he found that his uncle madea point of it, he would bring his horses to Scroope for a month atChristmas. Thus he spoke to the head groom, --and thus he spoke also tohis aunt, who felt some surprise when he talked of Scotland and hishorses. She had thought that only men of large fortunes shot deer andkept studs, --and perhaps conceived that the officers of the 20th Hussarswere generally engaged in looking after the affairs of their regiment, and in preparation for meeting the enemy. Fred now remained a month at Scroope, and during that time there was butlittle personal intercourse between him and his uncle in spite of theaffectionate greeting with which their acquaintance had been commenced. The old man's habits of life were so confirmed that he could not bringhimself to alter them. Throughout the entire morning he would sit inhis own room alone. He would then be visited by his steward, his groom, and his butler;--and would think that he gave his orders, submitting, however, in almost every thing to them. His wife would sometimes sitwith him for half an hour, holding his hand, in moments of tendernessunseen and unsuspected by all the world around them. Sometimes theclergyman of the parish would come to him, so that he might know thewants of the people. He would have the newspaper in his hands fora while, and would daily read the Bible for an hour. Then he wouldslowly write some letter, almost measuring every point which his penmade, --thinking that thus he was performing his duty as a man ofbusiness. Few men perhaps did less, --but what he did do was good; andof self-indulgence there was surely none. Between such a one and theyoung man who had now come to his house there could be but little realconnexion. Between Fred Neville and Lady Scroope there arose a much closerintimacy. A woman can get nearer to a young man than can any oldman;--can learn more of his ways, and better understand his wishes. Fromthe very first there arose between them a matter of difference, as towhich there was no quarrel, but very much of argument. In that argumentLady Scroope was unable to prevail. She was very anxious that the heirshould at once abandon his profession and sell out of the army. Of whatuse could it be to him now to run after his regiment to Ireland, seeingthat undoubtedly the great duties of his life all centred at Scroope?There were many discussions on the subject, but Fred would not giveway in regard to the next year. He would have this year, he said, tohimself;--and after that he would come and settle himself at Scroope. Yes; no doubt he would marry as soon as he could find a fitting wife. Ofcourse it would be right that he should marry. He fully understood theresponsibilities of his position;--so he said, in answer to his aunt'seager, scrutinising, beseeching questions. But as he had joined hisregiment, he thought it would be good for him to remain with it one yearlonger. He particularly desired to see something of Ireland, and if hedid not do so now, he would never have the opportunity. Lady Scroope, understanding well that he was pleading for a year of grace from thedulness of the Manor, explained to him that his uncle would by no meansexpect that he should remain always at Scroope. If he would marry, the old London house should be prepared for him and his bride. Hemight travel, --not, however, going very far afield. He might get intoParliament; as to which, if such were his ambition, his uncle would givehim every aid. He might have his friends at Scroope Manor, --Carnaby andall the rest of them. Every allurement was offered to him. But he hadcommenced by claiming a year of grace, and to that claim he adhered. Could his uncle have brought himself to make the request in person, atfirst, he might probably have succeeded;--and had he succeeded, therewould have been no story for us as to the fortunes of Scroope Manor. Butthe Earl was too proud and perhaps too diffident to make the attempt. From his wife he heard all that took place; and though he was grieved, he expressed no anger. He could not feel himself justified in expressinganger because his nephew chose to remain for yet a year attached to hisprofession. "Who knows what may happen to him?" said the Countess. "Ah, indeed! But we are all in the hands of the Almighty. " And theEarl bowed his head. Lady Scroope, fully recognizing the truth of herhusband's pious ejaculation, nevertheless thought that human care mightadvantageously be added to the divine interposition for which, as shewell knew, her lord prayed fervently as soon as the words were out ofhis mouth. "But it would be so great a thing if he could be settled. SophiaMellerby has promised to come here for a couple of months in the winter. He could not possibly do better than that. " "The Mellerbys are very good people, " said the Earl. "Her grandmother, the duchess, is one of the very best women in England. Her mother, LadySophia, is an excellent creature, --religious, and with the soundestprinciples. Mr. Mellerby, as a commoner, stands as high as any man inEngland. " "They have held the same property since the wars of the roses. And thenI suppose the money should count for something, " added the lady. Lord Scroope would not admit the importance of the money, but was quitewilling to acknowledge that were his heir to make Sophia Mellerby thefuture Lady Scroope he would be content. But he could not interfere. He did not think it wise to speak to young men on such a subject. Hethought that by doing so a young man might be rather diverted from thanattracted to the object in view. Nor would he press his wishes upon hisnephew as to next year. "Were I to ask it, " he said, "and were he torefuse me, I should be hurt. I am bound therefore to ask nothing thatis unreasonable. " Lady Scroope did not quite agree with her husbandin this. She thought that as every thing was to be done for the youngman; as money almost without stint was to be placed at his command; ashunting, parliament, and a house in London were offered to him;--asthe treatment due to a dear and only son was shown to him, he ought togive something in return; but she herself, could say no more than shehad said, and she knew already that in those few matters in which herhusband had a decided will, he was not to be turned from it. It was arranged, therefore, that Fred Neville should join his regimentat Limerick in October, and that he should come home to Scroope for afortnight or three weeks at Christmas. Sophia Mellerby was to be LadyScroope's guest at that time, and at last it was decided that Mrs. Neville, who had never been seen by the Earl, should be asked tocome and bring with her her younger son, John Neville, who had beensuccessful in obtaining a commission in the Engineers. Other guestsshould be invited, and an attempt should be made to remove the mantleof gloom from Scroope Manor, --with the sole object of ingratiating theheir. Early in October Fred went to Limerick, and from thence with a detachedtroop of his regiment he was sent to the cavalry barracks at Ennis, theassize town of the neighbouring County Clare. This was at first held tobe a misfortune by him, as Limerick is in all respects a better townthan Ennis, and in County Limerick the hunting is far from being bad, whereas Clare is hardly a country for a Nimrod. But a young man, withmoney at command, need not regard distances; and the Limerick balls andthe Limerick coverts were found to be equally within reach. From Ennisalso he could attend some of the Galway meets, --and then with no othersuperior than a captain hardly older than himself to interfere withhis movements, he could indulge in that wild district the spirit ofadventure which was strong within him. When young men are anxious toindulge the spirit of adventure, they generally do so by falling in lovewith young women of whom their fathers and mothers would not approve. Inthese days a spirit of adventure hardly goes further than this, unlessit take a young man to a German gambling table. When Fred left Scroope it was understood that he was to correspondwith his aunt. The Earl would have been utterly lost had he attemptedto write a letter to his nephew without having something special tocommunicate to him. But Lady Scroope was more facile with her pen, and it was rightly thought that the heir would hardly bring himselfto look upon Scroope as his home, unless some link were maintainedbetween himself and the place. Lady Scroope therefore wrote once aweek, --telling everything that there was to be told of the horses, thegame, and even of the tenants. She studied her letters, endeavouring tomake them light and agreeable, --such as a young man of large prospectswould like to receive from his own mother. He was "Dearest Fred, " andin one of those earliest written she expressed a hope that should anytrouble ever fall upon him he would come to her as to his dearestfriend. Fred was not a bad correspondent, and answered about every otherletter. His replies were short, but that was a matter of course. He was"as jolly as a sandboy, " "right as a trivet;" had had "one or two verygood things, " and thought that upon the whole he liked Ennis better thanLimerick. "Johnstone is such a deuced good fellow!" Johnstone was thecaptain of the 20th Hussars who happened to be stationed with him atLimerick. Lady Scroope did not quite like the epithet, but she knewthat she had to learn to hear things to which she had hitherto not beenaccustomed. This was all very well;--but Lady Scroope, having a friend in Co. Clare, thought that she might receive tidings of the adopted one which would beuseful, and with this object she opened a correspondence with Lady MaryQuin. Lady Mary Quin was a daughter of the Earl of Kilfenora, and waswell acquainted with all County Clare. She was almost sure to hear ofthe doings of any officers stationed at Ennis, and would do so certainlyin regard to an officer that was specially introduced to her. FredNeville was invited to stay at Castle Quin as long as he pleased, andactually did pass one night under its roof. But, unfortunately for him, that spirit of adventure which he was determined to indulge led him intothe neighbourhood of Castle Quin when it was far from his intention tointerfere with the Earl or with Lady Mary, and thus led to the followingletter which Lady Scroope received about the middle of December, --just aweek before Fred's return to the Manor. QUIN CASTLE, ENNISTIMON, 14 December, 18--. MY DEAR LADY SCROOPE, Since I wrote to you before, Mr. Neville has been here once, and we all liked him very much. My father was quite taken with him. He is always fond of the young officers, and is not the less inclined to be so of one who is so dear and near to you. I wish he would have stayed longer, and hope that he shall come again. We have not much to offer in the way of amusement, but in January and February there is good snipe shooting. I find that Mr. Neville is very fond of shooting, --so much so that before we knew anything of him except his name we had heard that he had been on our coast after seals and sea birds. We have very high cliffs near here, --some people say the highest in the world, and there is one called the Hag's Head from which men get down and shoot sea-gulls. He has been different times in our village of Liscannor, and I think he has a boat there or at Lahinch. I believe he has already killed ever so many seals. I tell you all this for a reason. I hope that it may come to nothing, but I think that you ought to know. There is a widow lady living not very far from Liscannor, but nearer up to the cliffs. Her cottage is on papa's property, but I think she holds it from somebody else. I don't like to say anything to papa about it. Her name is Mrs. O'Hara, and she has a daughter. When Lady Scroope had read so far, she almost let the paper drop fromher hand. Of course she knew what it all meant. An Irish Miss O'Hara!And Fred Neville was spending his time in pursuit of this girl! LadyScroope had known what it would be when the young man was allowed toreturn to his regiment in spite of the manifold duties which should havebound him to Scroope Manor. I have seen this young lady, continued Lady Mary, and she is certainly very pretty. But nobody knows anything about them; and I cannot even learn whether they belong to the real O'Haras. I should think not, as they are Roman Catholics. At any rate Miss O'Hara can hardly be a fitting companion for Lord Scroope's heir. I believe they are ladies, but I don't think that any one knows them here, except the priest of Kilmacrenny. We never could make out quite why they came here, --only that Father Marty knows something about them. He is the priest of Kilmacrenny. She is a very pretty girl, and I never heard a word against her;--but I don't know whether that does not make it worse, because a young man is so likely to get entangled. I daresay nothing shall come of it, and I'm sure I hope that nothing may. But I thought it best to tell you. Pray do not let him know that you have heard from me. Young men are so very particular about things, and I don't know what he might say of me if he knew that I had written home to you about his private affairs. All the same if I can be of any service to you, pray let me know. Excuse haste. And believe me to be, Yours most sincerely, MARY QUIN. A Roman Catholic;--one whom no one knew but the priest;--a girl whoperhaps never had a father! All this was terrible to Lady Scroope. RomanCatholics, --and especially Irish Roman Catholics, --were people whom, as she thought, every one should fear in this world, and for whomeverything was to be feared in the next. How would it be with the Earlif this heir also were to tell him some day that he was married? Wouldnot his grey hairs be brought to the grave with a double load of sorrow?However, for the present she thought it better to say not a word to theEarl. CHAPTER III. SOPHIE MELLERBY. Lady Scroope thought a great deal about her friend's communication, butat last made up her mind that she could do nothing till Fred should havereturned. Indeed she hardly knew what she could do when he did comeback. The more she considered it the greater seemed to her to be thedifficulty of doing anything. How is a woman, how is even a mother, tocaution a young man against the danger of becoming acquainted with apretty girl? She could not mention Miss O'Hara's name without mentioningthat of Lady Mary Quin in connexion with it. And when asked, as ofcourse she would be asked, as to her own information, what could shesay? She had been told that he had made himself acquainted with a widowlady who had a pretty daughter, and that was all! When young men willrun into such difficulties, it is, alas, so very difficult to interferewith them! And yet the matter was of such importance as to justify almost anyinterference. A Roman Catholic Irish girl of whom nothing was known butthat her mother was said to be a widow, was, in Lady Scroope's eyes, asformidable a danger as could come in the way of her husband's heir. FredNeville was, she thought, with all his good qualities, exactly the manto fall in love with a wild Irish girl. If Fred were to write home someday and say that he was about to marry such a bride, --or, worse again, that he had married her, the tidings would nearly kill the Earl. Afterall that had been endured, such a termination to the hopes of the familywould be too cruel! And Lady Scroope could not but feel the injustice ofit. Every thing was being done for this heir, for whom nothing need havebeen done. He was treated as a son, but he was not a son. He was treatedwith exceptional favour as a son. Everything was at his disposal. Hemight marry and begin life at once with every want amply supplied, ifhe would only marry such a woman as was fit to be a future Countess ofScroope. Very little was required from him. He was not expected to marryan heiress. An heiress indeed was prepared for him, and would be there, ready for him at Christmas, --an heiress, beautiful, well-born, fit inevery respect, --religious too. But he was not to be asked to marrySophie Mellerby. He might choose for himself. There were other well-bornyoung women about the world, --duchesses' granddaughters in abundance!But it was imperative that he should marry at least a lady, and at leasta Protestant. Lady Scroope felt very strongly that he should never have been allowedto rejoin his regiment, when a home at Scroope was offered to him. Hewas a free agent of course, and equally of course the title and theproperty must ultimately be his. But something of a bargain might havebeen made with him when all the privileges of a son were offered to him. When he was told that he might have all Scroope to himself, --for itamounted nearly to that; that he might hunt there and shoot there andentertain his friends; that the family house in London should be givenup to him if he would marry properly; that an income almost withoutlimit should be provided for him, surely it would not have been too muchto demand that as a matter of course he should leave the army! But thishad not been done; and now there was an Irish Roman Catholic widow witha daughter, with seal-shooting and a boat and high cliffs right in theyoung man's way! Lady Scroope could not analyse it, but felt all thedanger as though it were by instinct. Partridge and pheasant shootingon a gentleman's own grounds, and an occasional day's hunting with thehounds in his own county, were, in Lady Scroope's estimation, becomingamusements for an English gentleman. They did not interfere with theexercise of his duties. She had by no means brought herself to like theyearly raids into Scotland made latterly by sportsmen. But if Scotchmoors and forests were dangerous, what were Irish cliffs! Deer-stalkingwas bad in her imagination. She was almost sure that when men went upto Scotch forests they did not go to church on Sundays. But the idea ofseal-shooting was much more horrible. And then there was that priest whowas the only friend of the widow who had the daughter! On the morning of the day in which Fred was to reach the Manor, LadyScroope did speak to her husband. "Don't you think, my dear, thatsomething might be done to prevent Fred's returning to that horridcountry?" "What can we do?" "I suppose he would wish to oblige you. You are being very good to him. " "It is for the old to give, Mary, and for the young to accept. I do allfor him because he is all to me; but what am I to him, that he shouldsacrifice any pleasure for me? He can break my heart. Were I even toquarrel with him, the worst I could do would be to send him to themoney-lenders for a year or two. " "But why should he care about his regiment now?" "Because his regiment means liberty. " "And you won't ask him to give it up?" "I think not. If I were to ask him I should expect him to yield, andthen I should be disappointed were he to refuse. I do not wish him tothink me a tyrant. " This was the end of the conversation, for LadyScroope did not as yet dare to speak to the Earl about the widow and herdaughter. She must now try her skill and eloquence with the young manhimself. The young man arrived and was received with kindest greetings. Twohorses had preceded him, so that he might find himself mounted as soonas he chose after his arrival, and two others were coming. This was allvery well, but his aunt was a little hurt when he declared his purposeof going down to the stables just as she told him that Sophia Mellerbywas in the house. He arrived on the 23rd at 4 P. M. , and it had beendeclared that he was to hunt on the morrow. It was already dark, andsurely he might have been content on the first evening of his arrival toabstain from the stables! Not a word had been said to Sophie Mellerbyof Lady Scroope's future hopes. Lady Scroope and Lady Sophia would eachhave thought that it was wicked to do so. But the two women had beenfussy, and Miss Mellerby must have been less discerning than are youngladies generally, had she not understood what was expected of her. Girlsare undoubtedly better prepared to fall in love with men whom they havenever seen, than are men with girls. It is a girl's great business inlife to love and to be loved. Of some young men it may almost be saidthat it is their great business to avoid such a catastrophe. Such oughtnot to have been the case with Fred Neville now;--but in such light heregarded it. He had already said to himself that Sophie Mellerby was tobe pitched at his head. He knew no reason, --none as yet, --why he shouldnot like Miss Mellerby well enough. But he was a little on his guardagainst her, and preferred seeing his horses first. Sophie, whenaccording to custom, and indeed in this instance in accordance withspecial arrangement, she went into Lady Scroope's sitting-room for tea, was rather disappointed at not finding Mr. Neville there. She knew thathe had visited his uncle immediately on his arrival, and having justcome in from the park she had gone to her room to make some littlepreparation for the meeting. If it was written in Fate's book that shewas to be the next Lady Scroope, the meeting was important. Perhaps thatwriting in Fate's book might depend on the very adjustment which she wasnow making of her hair. "He has gone to look at his horses, " said Lady Scroope, unable not toshew her disappointment by the tone of her voice. "That is so natural, " said Sophie, who was more cunning. "Young menalmost idolize their horses. I should like to go and see Dandy wheneverhe arrives anywhere, only I don't dare!" Dandy was Miss Mellerby's ownhorse, and was accustomed to make journeys up and down between Mellerbyand London. "I don't think horses and guns and dogs should be too much thought of, "said Lady Scroope gravely. "There is a tendency I think at present togive them an undue importance. When our amusements become more seriousto us than our business, we must be going astray. " "I suppose we always are going astray, " said Miss Mellerby. Lady Scroopesighed and shook her head; but in shaking it she shewed that shecompletely agreed with the opinion expressed by her guest. As there were only two horses to be inspected, and as Fred Nevilleabsolutely refused the groom's invitation to look at the old carriagehorses belonging to the family, he was back in his aunt's room beforeMiss Mellerby had gone upstairs to dress for dinner. The introductionwas made, and Fred did his best to make himself agreeable. He was sucha man that no girl could, at the first sight of him, think herselfinjured by being asked to love him. She was a good girl, and would haveconsented to marry no man without feeling sure of his affections; butFred Neville was bold and frank as well as handsome, and had plenty tosay for himself. It might be that he was vicious, or ill-tempered, orselfish, and it would be necessary that she should know much of himbefore she would give herself into his keeping; but as far as the firstsight went, and the first hearing, Sophie Mellerby's impressions wereall in Fred's favour. It is no doubt a fact that with the very best ofgirls a man is placed in a very good light by being heir to a peerageand a large property. "Do you hunt, Miss Mellerby?" he asked. She shook her head and lookedgrave, and then laughed. Among her people hunting was not thought to bea desirable accomplishment for young ladies. "Almost all girls do huntnow, " said Fred. "Do you think it is a nice amusement for young ladies?" asked the auntin a severe tone. "I don't see why not;--that is if they know how to ride. " "I know how to ride, " said Sophie Mellerby. "Riding is all very well, " said Lady Scroope. "I quite approve of itfor girls. When I was young, everybody did not ride as they do now. Nevertheless it is very well, and is thought to be healthy. But as forhunting, Sophie, I'm sure your mamma would be very much distressed ifyou were to think of such a thing. " "But, dear Lady Scroope, I haven't thought of it, and I am not going tothink of it;--and if I thought of it ever so much, I shouldn't do it. Poor mamma would be frightened into fits, --only that nobody at Mellerbycould possibly be made to believe it, unless they saw me doing it. " "Then there can be no reason why you shouldn't make the attempt, " saidFred. Upon which Lady Scroope pretended to look grave, and told him thathe was very wicked. But let an old lady be ever so strict towards herown sex, she likes a little wickedness in a young man, --if only he doesnot carry it to the extent of marrying the wrong sort of young woman. Sophia Mellerby was a tall, graceful, well-formed girl, showing her highblood in every line of her face. On her mother's side she had come fromthe Ancrums, whose family, as everybody knows, is one of the oldest inEngland; and, as the Earl had said, the Mellerbys had been Mellerbysfrom the time of King John, and had been living on the same spot forat least four centuries. They were and always had been Mellerbys ofMellerby, --the very name of the parish being the same as that of thefamily. If Sophia Mellerby did not shew breeding, what girl could shewit? She was fair, with a somewhat thin oval face, with dark eyes, andan almost perfect Grecian nose. Her mouth was small, and her chindelicately formed. And yet it can hardly be said that she was beautiful. Or, if beautiful, she was so in women's eyes rather than in those ofmen. She lacked colour and perhaps animation in her countenance. She hadmore character, indeed, than was told by her face, which is generallyso true an index of the mind. Her education had been as good as Englandcould afford, and her intellect had been sufficient to enable her tomake use of it. But her chief charm in the eyes of many consisted in thefact, doubted by none, that she was every inch a lady. She was an onlydaughter, too, --with an only brother; and as the Ancrums were all rich, she would have a very pretty fortune of her own. Fred Neville, who hadliterally been nobody before his cousin had died, might certainly domuch worse than marry her. And after a day or two they did seem to get on very well together. Hehad reached Scroope on the 21st, and on the 23rd Mrs. Neville arrivedwith her youngest son Jack Neville. This was rather a trial to the Earl, as he had never yet seen his brother's widow. He had heard when hisbrother married that she was fast, fond of riding, and loud. She hadbeen the daughter of a Colonel Smith, with whom his brother, at thattime a Captain Neville, had formed acquaintance;--and had been a beautyvery well known as such at Dublin and other garrison towns. No real harmhad ever been known of her, but the old Earl had always felt that hisbrother had made an unfortunate marriage. As at that time they had notbeen on speaking terms, it had not signified much;--but there had been aprejudice at Scroope against the Captain's wife, which by no means diedout when the late Julia Smith became the Captain's widow with two sons. Old reminiscences remain very firm with old people, --and Lord Scroopewas still much afraid of the fast, loud beauty. His principles told himthat he should not sever the mother from the son, and that as it suitedhim to take the son for his own purposes, he should also, to someextent, accept the mother also. But he dreaded the affair. He dreadedMrs. Neville; and he dreaded Jack, who had been so named after hisgallant grandfather, Colonel Smith. When Mrs. Neville arrived, she wasfound to be so subdued and tame that she could hardly open her mouthbefore the old Earl. Her loudness, if she ever had been loud, wascertainly all gone, --and her fastness, if ever she had been fast, hadbeen worn out of her. She was an old woman, with the relics of greatbeauty, idolizing her two sons for whom all her life had been asacrifice, in weak health, and prepared, if necessary, to sit in silentawe at the feet of the Earl who had been so good to her boy. "I don't know how to thank you for what you have done, " she said, in alow voice. "No thanks are required, " said the Earl. "He is the same to us as if hewere our own. " Then she raised the old man's hand and kissed it, --andthe old man owned to himself that he had made a mistake. As to Jack Neville--. But Jack Neville shall have another chapter openedon his behalf. CHAPTER IV. JACK NEVILLE. John is a very respectable name;--perhaps there is no name morerespectable in the English language. Sir John, as the head of a family, is certainly as respectable as any name can be. For an old familycoachman it beats all names. Mr. John Smith would be sure to have alarger balance at his banker's than Charles Smith or Orlando Smith, --orperhaps than any other Smith whatever. The Rev. Frederic Walkermight be a wet parson, but the Rev. John Walker would assuredly bea good clergyman at all points, though perhaps a little dull in hissermons. Yet almost all Johns have been Jacks, and Jack, in point ofrespectability, is the very reverse of John. How it is, or when itis, that the Jacks become re-Johned, and go back to the original andexcellent name given to them by their godfathers and godmothers, nobodyever knows. Jack Neville, probably through some foolish fondness on hismother's part, had never been re-Johned, --and consequently the Earl, when he made up his mind to receive his sister-in-law, was at firstunwilling to invite his younger nephew. "But he is in the Engineers, "said Lady Scroope. The argument had its weight, and Jack Neville wasinvited. But even that argument failed to obliterate the idea which hadtaken hold of the Earl's mind. There had never yet been a Jack among theScroopes. When Jack came he was found to be very unlike the Nevilles inappearance. In the first place he was dark, and in the next place hewas ugly. He was a tall, well-made fellow, taller than his brother, and probably stronger; and he had very different eyes, --very darkbrown eyes, deeply set in his head, with large dark eyebrows. He worehis black hair very short, and had no beard whatever. His featureswere hard, and on one cheek he had a cicatrice, the remains of somemisfortune that had happened to him in his boyhood. But in spite of hisugliness, --for he was ugly, there was much about him in his gait andmanner that claimed attention. Lord Scroope, the moment that he saw him, felt that he ought not to be called Jack. Indeed the Earl was almostafraid of him, and so after a time was the Countess. "Jack ought to havebeen the eldest, " Fred had said to his aunt. "Why should he have been the eldest?" "Because he is so much the cleverest. I could never have got into theEngineers. " "That seems to be a reason why he should be the youngest, " said LadyScroope. Two or three other people arrived, and the house became much lessdull than was its wont. Jack Neville occasionally rode his brother'shorses, and the Earl was forced to acknowledge another mistake. Themother was very silent, but she was a lady. The young Engineer was notonly a gentleman, --but for his age a very well educated gentleman, andLord Scroope was almost proud of his relatives. For the first week theaffair between Fred Neville and Miss Mellerby really seemed to makeprogress. She was not a girl given to flirting, --not prone to outwarddemonstrations of partiality for a young man; but she never withdrewherself from her intended husband, and Fred seemed quite willing tobe attentive. Not a word was said to hurry the young people, and LadyScroope's hopes were high. Of course no allusion had been made to thosehorrid Irish people, but it did not seem to Lady Scroope that the heirhad left his heart behind him in Co. Clare. Fred had told his aunt in one of his letters that he would stay threeweeks at Scroope, but she had not supposed that he would limit himselfexactly to that period. No absolute limit had been fixed for the visitof Mrs. Neville and her younger son, but it was taken for granted thatthey would not remain should Fred depart. As to Sophie Mellerby, hervisit was elastic. She was there for a purpose, and might remain all thewinter if the purpose could be so served. For the first fortnight LadyScroope thought that the affair was progressing well. Fred hunted threedays a week, and was occasionally away from home, --going to dine witha regiment at Dorchester, and once making a dash up to London; but hismanner to Miss Mellerby was very nice, and there could be no doubt butthat Sophie liked him. When, on a sudden, the heir said a word to hisaunt which was almost equal to firing a pistol at her head. "I thinkMaster Jack is making it all square with Sophie Mellerby. " If there was anything that Lady Scroope hated almost as much as impropermarriages it was slang. She professed that she did not understand it;and in carrying out her profession always stopped the conversation tohave any word explained to her which she thought had been used in animproper sense. The idea of a young man making it "all square" with ayoung woman was repulsive, but the idea of this young man making it "allsquare" with this young woman was so much more repulsive, and the miseryto her was so intensely heightened by the unconcern displayed by theheir in so speaking of the girl with whom he ought to have been makingit "all square" himself, that she could hardly allow herself to bearrested by that stumbling block. "Impossible!" she exclaimed, --"that isif you mean, --if you mean, --if you mean anything at all. " "I do mean a good deal. " "Then I don't believe a word of it. It's quite out of the question. It'simpossible. I'm quite sure your brother understands his position as agentleman too thoroughly to dream of such a thing. " This was Greek to Fred Neville. Why his brother should not fall in lovewith a pretty girl, and why a pretty girl should not return the feeling, without any disgrace to his brother, Fred could not understand. Hisbrother was a Neville, and was moreover an uncommonly clever fellow. "Why shouldn't he dream of it?" "In the first place--. Well! I did think, Fred, that you yourself seemedto be, --seemed to be taken with Miss Mellerby. " "Who? I? Oh, dear no. She's a very nice girl and all that, and I likeher amazingly. If she were Jack's wife, I never saw a girl I should somuch like for a sister. " "It is quite out of the question. I wonder that you can speak in such away. What right can your brother have to think of such a girl as MissMellerby? He has no position;--no means. " "He is my brother, " said Fred, with a little touch of anger, --alreadydiscounting his future earldom on his brother's behalf. "Yes;--he is your brother; but you don't suppose that Mr. Mellerby wouldgive his daughter to an officer in the Engineers who has, as far as Iknow, no private means whatever. " "He will have, --when my mother dies. Of course I can't speak of doinganything for anybody at present. I may die before my uncle. Nothing ismore likely. But then, if I do, Jack would be my uncle's heir. " "I don't believe there's anything in it at all, " said Lady Scroope ingreat dudgeon. "I dare say not. If there is, they haven't told me. It's not likely theywould. But I thought I saw something coming up, and as it seemed to bethe most natural thing in the world, I mentioned it. As for me, --MissMellerby doesn't care a straw for me. You may be sure of that. " "She would--if you'd ask her. " "But I never shall ask her. What's the use of beating about the bush, aunt? I never shall ask her; and if I did, she wouldn't have me. If youwant to make Sophie Mellerby your niece, Jack's your game. " Lady Scroope was ineffably disgusted. To be told that "Jack was hergame" was in itself a terrible annoyance to her. But to be so told inreference to such a subject was painful in the extreme. Of course shecould not make this young man marry as she wished. She had acknowledgedto herself from the first that there could be no cause of anger againsthim should he not fall into the silken net which was spread for him. Lady Scroope was not an unreasonable woman, and understood well thepower which young people have over old people. She knew that shecouldn't quarrel with Fred Neville, even if she would. He was the heir, and in a very few years would be the owner of everything. In orderto keep him straight, to save him from debts, to protect him frommoney-lenders, and to secure the family standing and property till heshould have made things stable by having a wife and heir of his own, allmanner of indulgence must be shown him. She quite understood that such ahorse must be ridden with a very light hand. She must put up with slangfrom him, though she would resent it from any other human being. He mustbe allowed to smoke in his bed-room, to be late at dinner, to shirkmorning prayers, --making her only too happy if he would not shirk Sundaychurch also. Of course he must choose a bride for himself, --only not aRoman Catholic wild Irish bride of whom nobody knew anything! As to that other matter concerning Jack and Sophie Mellerby, she couldnot bring herself to believe it. She had certainly seen that they weregood friends, --as would have been quite fit had Fred been engaged toher; but she had not conceived the possibility of any mistake on such asubject. Surely Sophie herself knew better what she was about! How wouldshe, --she, Lady Scroope, --answer it to Lady Sophia, if Sophie should goback to Mellerby from her house, engaged to a younger brother who hadnothing but a commission in the Engineers? Sophie had been sent toScroope on purpose to be fallen in love with by the heir; and howwould it be with Lady Scroope if, in lieu of this, she should not onlyhave been fallen in love with by the heir's younger brother, but haveresponded favourably to so base an affection? That same afternoon Fred told his uncle that he was going back toIreland on the day but one following, thus curtailing his promised threeweeks by two days. "I am sorry that you are so much hurried, Fred, " saidthe old man. "So am I, my lord, --but Johnstone has to go to London on business, and Ipromised when I got leave that I wouldn't throw him over. You see, --whenone has a profession one must attend to it, --more or less. " "But you hardly need the profession. " "Thank you, uncle;--it is very kind of you to say so. And as you wish meto leave it, I will when the year is over. I have told the fellows thatI shall stay till next October, and I shouldn't like to change now. " TheEarl hadn't another word to say. But on the day before Fred's departure there came a short note from LadyMary Quin which made poor Lady Scroope more unhappy than ever. Tidingshad reached her in a mysterious way that the O'Haras were eagerlyexpecting the return of Mr. Neville. Lady Mary thought that if Mr. Neville's quarters could be moved from Ennis, it would be very expedientfor many reasons. She knew that enquiries had been made for him and thathe was engaged to dine on a certain day with Father Marty the priest. Father Marty would no doubt go any lengths to serve his friends theO'Haras. Then Lady Mary was very anxious that not a word should be saidto Mr. Neville which might lead him to suppose that reports respectinghim were being sent from Quin Castle to Scroope. The Countess in her agony thought it best to tell the whole story to theEarl. "But what can I do?" said the old man. "Young men will form theseacquaintances. " His fears were evidently as yet less dark than those ofhis wife. "It would be very bad if we were to hear that he was married to a girlof whom we only know that she is a Roman Catholic and friendless. " The Earl's brow became very black. "I don't think that he would treat mein that way. " "Not meaning it, perhaps;--but if he should become entangled and make apromise!" Then the Earl did speak to his nephew. "Fred, " he said, "I have beenthinking a great deal about you. I have little else to think of now. Ishould take it as a mark of affection from you if you would give up thearmy--at once. " "And not join my regiment again at all?" "It is absurd that you should do so in your present position. You shouldbe here, and learn the circumstances of the property before it becomesyour own. There can hardly be more than a year or two left for thelesson. " The Earl's manner was very impressive. He looked into his nephew's faceas he spoke, and stood with his hand upon the young man's shoulder. But Fred Neville was a Neville all over, --and the Nevilles had alwayschosen to have their own way. He had not the power of intellect northe finished manliness which his brother possessed; but he could be asobstinate as any Neville, --as obstinate as his father had been, or hisuncle. And in this matter he had arguments which his uncle could hardlyanswer on the spur of the moment. No doubt he could sell out in propercourse, but at the present moment he was as much bound by militarylaw to return as would be any common soldier at the expiration of hisfurlough. He must go back. That at any rate was certain. And if hisuncle did not much mind it, he would prefer to remain with his regimenttill October. Lord Scroope could not condescend to repeat his request, or even againto allude to it. His whole manner altered as he took his hand away fromhis nephew's shoulder. But still he was determined that there shouldbe no quarrel. As yet there was no ground for quarrelling, --and by anyquarrel the injury to him would be much greater than any that couldbefall the heir. He stood for a moment and then he spoke again in a tonevery different from that he had used before. "I hope, " he said, --andthen he paused again; "I hope you know how very much depends on yourmarrying in a manner suitable to your position. " "Quite so;--I think. " "It is the one hope left to me to see you properly settled in life. " "Marriage is a very serious thing, uncle. Suppose I were not to marry atall! Sometimes I think my brother is much more like marrying than I am. " "You are bound to marry, " said the Earl solemnly. "And you are speciallybound by every duty to God and man to make no marriage that will bedisgraceful to the position which you are called upon to fill. " "At any rate I will not do that, " said Fred Neville proudly. From thisthe Earl took some comfort, and then the interview was over. On the day appointed by himself Fred left the Manor, and his motherand brother went on the following day. But after he was gone, on thatsame afternoon, Jack Neville asked Sophie Mellerby to be his wife. Sherefused him, --with all the courtesy she knew how to use, but also withall the certainty. And as soon as he had left the house she told LadyScroope what had happened. CHAPTER V. ARDKILL COTTAGE. The cliffs of Moher in Co. Clare, on the western coast of Ireland, arenot as well known to tourists as they should be. It may be doubtedwhether Lady Mary Quin was right when she called them the highest cliffsin the world, but they are undoubtedly very respectable cliffs, and runup some six hundred feet from the sea as nearly perpendicular as cliffsshould be. They are beautifully coloured, streaked with yellow veins, and with great masses of dark red rock; and beneath them lies the broadand blue Atlantic. Lady Mary's exaggeration as to the comparativeheight is here acknowledged, but had she said that below them rollsthe brightest bluest clearest water in the world she would not havebeen far wrong. To the south of these cliffs there runs inland a broadbay, --Liscannor bay, on the sides of which are two little villages, Liscannor and Lahinch. At the latter, Fred Neville, since he had beenquartered at Ennis, had kept a boat for the sake of shooting sealsand exploring the coast, --and generally carrying out his spirit ofadventure. Not far from Liscannor was Castle Quin, the seat of the Earlof Kilfenora; and some way up from Liscannor towards the cliffs, abouttwo miles from the village, there is a cottage called Ardkill. Herelived Mrs. And Miss O'Hara. It was the nearest house to the rocks, from which it was distant lessthan half a mile. The cottage, so called, was a low rambling long house, but one storey high, --very unlike an English cottage. It stood in twonarrow lengths, the one running at right angles to the other; andcontained a large kitchen, two sitting rooms, --of which one was neverused, --and four or five bed-rooms of which only three were furnished. The servant girl occupied one, and the two ladies the others. It was ablank place enough, --and most unlike that sort of cottage which Englishladies are supposed to inhabit, when they take to cottage life. Therewas no garden to it, beyond a small patch in which a few potatoes wereplanted. It was so near to the ocean, so exposed to winds from theAtlantic, that no shrubs would live there. Everything round it, even theherbage, was impregnated with salt, and told tales of the neighbouringwaves. When the wind was from the west the air would be so laden withspray that one could not walk there without being wet. And yet the placewas very healthy, and noted for the fineness of its air. Rising from thecottage, which itself stood high, was a steep hill running up to the topof the cliff, covered with that peculiar moss which the salt spray ofthe ocean produces. On this side the land was altogether open, but afew sheep were always grazing there when the wind was not so high as todrive them to some shelter. Behind the cottage there was an enclosedpaddock which belonged to it, and in which Mrs. O'Hara kept her cow. Roaming free around the house, and sometimes in it, were a dozen hensand a noisy old cock which, with the cow, made up the total of thewidow's live stock. About a half a mile from the cottage on the wayto Liscannor there were half a dozen mud cabins which contained Mrs. O'Hara's nearest neighbours, --and an old burying ground. Half a milefurther on again was the priest's house, and then on to Liscannor therewere a few other straggling cabins here and there along the road. Up to the cottage indeed there could hardly be said to be more than atrack, and beyond the cottage no more than a sheep path. The road comingout from Liscannor was a real road as far as the burying ground, butfrom thence onward it had degenerated. A car, or carriage if needed, might be brought up to the cottage door, for the ground was hard and theway was open. But no wheels ever travelled there now. The priest, whenhe would come, came on horseback, and there was a shed in which he couldtie up his nag. He himself from time to time would send up a truss ofhay for his nag's use, and would think himself cruelly used because thecow would find her way in and eat it. No other horse ever called at thewidow's door. What slender stores were needed for her use, were allbrought on the girls' backs from Liscannor. To the north of the cottage, along the cliff, there was no road for miles, nor was there house orhabitation. Castle Quin, in which the noble but somewhat impoverishedQuin family lived nearly throughout the year, was distant, inland, aboutthree miles from the cottage. Lady Mary had said in her letter to herfriend that Mrs. O'Hara was a lady;--and as Mrs. O'Hara had no otherneighbour, ranking with herself in that respect, so near her, and noneother but the Protestant clergyman's wife within six miles of her, charity, one would have thought, might have induced some of the Quinfamily to notice her. But the Quins were Protestant, and Mrs. O'Hara wasnot only a Roman Catholic, but a Roman Catholic who had been broughtinto the parish by the priest. No evil certainly was known of her, butthen nothing was known of her; and the Quins were a very cautious peoplewhere religion was called in question. In the days of the famine FatherMarty and the Earl and the Protestant vicar had worked together in thegood cause;--but those days were now gone by, and the strange intimacyhad soon died away. The Earl when he met the priest would bow to him, and the two clergymen would bow to each other;--but beyond such dumbsalutation there was no intercourse between them. It had been heldtherefore to be impossible to take any notice of the priest's friends. And what notice could have been taken of two ladies who came from nobodyknew where, to live in that wild out-of-the-way place, nobody knew why?They called themselves mother and daughter, and they called themselvesO'Haras;--but there was no evidence of the truth even of theseassertions. They were left therefore in their solitude, and never sawthe face of a friend across their door step except that of Father Marty. In truth Mrs. O'Hara's life had been of a nature almost to necessitatesuch solitude. With her story we have nothing to do here. For ourpurpose there is no need that her tale should be told. Suffice it to saythat she had been deserted by her husband, and did not now know whethershe was or was not a widow. This was in truth the only mystery attachedto her. She herself was an Englishwoman, though a Catholic; but she hadbeen left early an orphan, and had been brought up in a provincial townof France by her grandmother. There she had married a certain CaptainO'Hara, she having some small means of her own sufficient to make hervaluable in the eyes of an adventurer. At that time she was no morethan eighteen, and had given her hand to the Captain in opposition tothe wishes of her only guardian. What had been her life from that timeto the period at which, under Father Marty's auspices, she became theinhabitant of Ardkill Cottage, no one knew but herself. She was thenutterly dissevered from all friends and relatives, and appeared on thewestern coast of County Clare with her daughter, a perfect stranger toevery one. Father Marty was an old man, now nearly seventy, and had beeneducated in France. There he had known Mrs. O'Hara's grandmother, andhence had arisen the friendship which had induced him to bring the ladyinto his parish. She came there with a daughter, then hardly more than achild. Between two and three years had passed since her coming, and thechild was now a grown-up girl, nearly nineteen years old. Of her meanslittle or nothing was known accurately, even to the priest. She had toldhim that she had saved enough out of the wreck on which to live with hergirl after some very humble fashion, and she paid her way. There musthave come some sudden crash, or she would hardly have taken her childfrom an expensive Parisian school to vegetate in such solitude as thatshe had chosen. And it was a solitude from which there seemed to be nochance of future escape. They had brought with them a piano and a fewbooks, mostly French;--and with these it seemed to have been intendedthat the two ladies should make their future lives endurable. Otherresources except such as the scenery of the cliffs afforded them, theyhad none. The author would wish to impress upon his readers, if it may bepossible, some idea of the outward appearance and personal character ofeach of these two ladies, as his story can hardly be told successfullyunless he do so. The elder, who was at this time still under fortyyears of age, would have been a very handsome woman had not troubles, suffering, and the contests of a rugged life, in which she had bothendured and dared much, given to her face a look of hard combativeresolution which was not feminine. She was rather below than above theaverage height, --or at any rate looked to be so, as she was stronglymade, with broad shoulders, and a waist that was perhaps not now asslender as when she first met Captain O'Hara. But her hair was stillblack, --as dark at least as hair can be which is not in truth black atall but only darkly brown. Whatever might be its colour there was notinge of grey upon it. It was glossy, silken, and long as when she was agirl. I do not think that she took pride in it. How could she take pridein personal beauty, when she was never seen by any man younger thanFather Marty or the old peasant who brought turf to her door in creelson a donkey's back? But she wore it always without any cap, tied in asimple knot behind her head. Whether chignons had been invented then theauthor does not remember, --but they certainly had not become common onthe coast of County Clare, and the peasants about Liscannor thought Mrs. O'Hara's head of hair the finest they had ever seen. Had the ladies Quinof the Castle possessed such hair as that, they would not have beenthe ladies Quin to this day. Her eyes were lustrous, dark, and verylarge, --beautiful eyes certainly; but they were eyes that you mightfear. They had been softer perhaps in youth, before the spirit of thetiger had been roused in the woman's bosom by neglect and ill-usage. Herface was now bronzed by years and weather. Of her complexion she took nomore care than did the neighbouring fishermen of theirs, and the windsand the salt water, and perhaps the working of her own mind, had toldupon it, to make it rough and dark. But yet there was a colour in hercheeks, as we often see in those of wandering gipsies, which would makea man stop to regard her who had eyes appreciative of beauty. Her nosewas well formed, --a heaven-made nose, and not a lump of flesh stuck onto the middle of her face as women's noses sometimes are;--but it wassomewhat short and broad at the nostrils, a nose that could imply muchanger, and perhaps tenderness also. Her face below her nose was veryshort. Her mouth was large, but laden with expression. Her lips werefull and her teeth perfect as pearls. Her chin was short and perhaps nowverging to that size which we call a double chin, and marked by as broada dimple as ever Venus made with her finger on the face of a woman. She had ever been strong and active, and years in that retreat had toldupon her not at all. She would still walk to Liscannor, and thenceround, when the tide was low, beneath the cliffs, and up by a path whichthe boys had made from the foot through the rocks to the summit, thoughthe distance was over ten miles, and the ascent was very steep. Shewould remain for hours on the rocks, looking down upon the sea, whenthe weather was almost at its roughest. When the winds were still, andthe sun was setting across the ocean, and the tame waves were only justaudible as they rippled on the stones below, she would sit there withher child, holding the girl's hand or just touching her arm, and wouldbe content so to stay almost without a word; but when the winds blew, and the heavy spray came up in blinding volumes, and the white-headedsea-monsters were roaring in their fury against the rocks, she would bethere alone with her hat in her hand, and her hair drenched. She wouldwatch the gulls wheeling and floating beneath her, and would listen totheir screams and try to read their voices. She would envy the birds asthey seemed to be worked into madness by the winds which still were notstrong enough to drive them from their purposes. To linger there amongthe rocks seemed to be the only delight left to her in life, --exceptthat intense delight which a mother has in loving her child. She herselfread but little, and never put a hand upon the piano. But she had afaculty of sitting and thinking, of brooding over her own past years anddreaming of her daughter's future life, which never deserted her. Withher the days were doubtless very sad, but it cannot truly be said thatthey were dull or tedious. And there was a sparkle of humour about her too, which would sometimesshine the brightest when there was no one by her to appreciate it. Herdaughter would smile at her mother's sallies, --but she did so simplyin kindness. Kate did not share her mother's sense of humour, --did notshare it as yet. With the young the love of fun is gratified generallyby grotesque movement. It is not till years are running on that thegrotesqueness of words and ideas is appreciated. But Mrs. O'Hara wouldexpend her art on the household drudge, or on old Barney Corcoran whocame with the turf, --though by neither of them was she very clearlyunderstood. Now and again she would have a war of words with thepriest, and that, I think, she liked. She was intensely combative, ifground for a combat arose; and would fight on any subject with anyhuman being--except her daughter. And yet with the priest she neverquarrelled; and though she was rarely beaten in her contests with him, she submitted to him in much. In matters touching her religion shesubmitted to him altogether. Kate O'Hara was in face very like her mother;--strangely like, for inmuch she was very different. But she had her mother's eyes, --though herswere much softer in their lustre, as became her youth, --and she had hermother's nose, but without that look of scorn which would come upon hermother's face when the nostrils were inflated. And in that peculiarshortness of the lower face she was the very echo of her mother. But themouth was smaller, the lips less full, and the dimple less exaggerated. It was a fairer face to look upon, --fairer, perhaps, than her mother'shad ever been; but it was less expressive, and in it there wasinfinitely less capability for anger, and perhaps less capability forthe agonising extremes of tenderness. But Kate was taller than hermother, and seemed by her mother's side to be slender. Nevertheless shewas strong and healthy; and though she did not willingly join in thoselonger walks, or expose herself to the weather as did her mother, therewas nothing feeble about her, nor was she averse to action. Life atArdkill Cottage was dull, and therefore she also was dull. Had she beensurrounded by friends, such as she had known in her halcyon school daysat Paris, she would have been the gayest of the gay. Her hair was dark as her mother's, --even darker. Seen by the side ofMiss O'Hara's, the mother's hair was certainly not black, but one couldhardly think that hair could be blacker than the daughter's. But hersfell in curling clusters round her neck, --such clusters as now one neversees. She would shake them in sport, and the room would seem to be fullof her locks. But she used to say herself to her mother that there wasalready to be found a grey hair among them now and again, and she wouldat times shew one, declaring that she would be an old woman before hermother was middle-aged. Her life at Ardkill Cottage was certainly very dull. Memory did butlittle for her, and she hardly knew how to hope. She would read, tillshe had nearly learned all their books by heart, and would play suchtunes as she knew by the hour together, till the poor instrument, subject to the sea air and away from any tuner's skill, was discordantwith its limp strings. But still, with all this, her mind would becomevacant and weary. "Mother, " she would say, "is it always to be likethis?" "Not always, Kate, " the mother once answered. "And when will it be changed?" "In a few days, --in a few hours, Kate. " "What do you mean, mother?" "That eternity is coming, with all its glory and happiness. If it werenot so, it would, indeed, be very bad. " It may be doubted whether any human mind has been able to content itselfwith hopes of eternity, till distress in some shape has embittered life. The preachers preach very well, --well enough to leave many convictionson the minds of men; but not well enough to leave that conviction. Andgodly men live well, --but we never see them living as though such weretheir conviction. And were it so, who would strive and moil in thisworld? When the heart has been broken, and the spirit ground to thedust by misery, then, --such is God's mercy--eternity suffices to makelife bearable. When Mrs. O'Hara spoke to her daughter of eternity, there was but cold comfort in the word. The girl wanted somethinghere, --pleasures, companions, work, perhaps a lover. This had happenedbefore Lieutenant Neville of the 20th Hussars had been seen in thoseparts. And the mother herself, in speaking as she had spoken, had, perhapsunintentionally, indulged in a sarcasm on life which the daughtercertainly had not been intended to understand. "Yes;--it will always belike this for you, for you, unfortunate one that you are. There is noother further look-out in this life. You are one of the wretched to whomthe world offers nothing; and therefore, --as, being human, you musthope, --build your hopes on eternity. " Had the words been read clearly, that would have been their true meaning. What could she do for herchild? Bread and meat, with a roof over her head, and raiment whichsufficed for life such as theirs, she could supply. The life would havebeen well enough had it been their fate, and within their power, to earnthe bread and meat, the shelter and the raiment. But to have it, andwithout work, --to have that, and nothing more, in absolute idleness, wassuch misery that there was no resource left but eternity! And yet the mother when she looked at her daughter almost persuadedherself that it need not be so. The girl was very lovely, --so lovelythat, were she but seen, men would quarrel for her as to who should haveher in his keeping. Such beauty, such life, such capability for givingand receiving enjoyment could not have been intended to wither on a lonecliff over the Atlantic! There must be fault somewhere. But yet to livehad been the first necessity; and life in cities, among the haunts ofmen, had been impossible with such means as this woman possessed. Whenshe had called her daughter to her, and had sought peace under the roofwhich her friend the priest had found for her, peace and a roof toshelter her had been the extent of her desires. To be at rest, andindependent, with her child within her arms, had been all that the womanasked of the gods. For herself it sufficed. For herself she was able toacknowledge that the rest which she had at least obtained was infinitelypreferable to the unrest of her past life. But she soon learned, --as shehad not expected to learn before she made the experiment, --that thatwhich was to her peace, was to her daughter life within a tomb. "Mother, is it always to be like this?" Had her child not carried the weight of good blood, had some smallgrocer or country farmer been her father, she might have come down tothe neighbouring town of Ennistimon, and found a fitting mate there. Would it not have been better so? From that weight of good blood, --orgift, if it please us to call it, --what advantage would ever come to hergirl? It can not really be that all those who swarm in the world belowthe bar of gentlehood are less blessed, or intended to be less blessed, than the few who float in the higher air. As to real blessedness, doesit not come from fitness to the outer life and a sense of duty thatshall produce such fitness? Does any one believe that the Countess has agreater share of happiness than the grocer's wife, or is less subject tothe miseries which flesh inherits? But such matters cannot be changedby the will. This woman could not bid her daughter go and meet thebutcher's son on equal terms, or seek her friends among the milliners ofthe neighbouring town. The burden had been imposed and must be borne, even though it isolated them from all the world. "Mother, is it always to be like this?" Of course the mother knew whatwas needed. It was needed that the girl should go out into the world andpair, that she should find some shoulder on which she might lean, somearm that would be strong to surround her, the heart of some man and thework of some man to which she might devote herself. The girl, when sheasked her question, did not know this, --but the mother knew it. Themother looked at her child and said that of all living creatures herchild was surely the loveliest. Was it not fit that she should go forthand be loved;--that she should at any rate go forth and take her chancewith others? But how should such going forth be managed? And then, --werethere not dangers, terrible dangers, --dangers specially terrible to oneso friendless as her child? Had not she herself been wrecked among therocks, trusting herself to one who had been utterly unworthy, --lovingone who had been utterly unlovely? Men so often are as ravenous wolves, merciless, rapacious, without hearts, full of greed, full of lust, looking on female beauty as prey, regarding the love of woman and hervery life as a toy! Were she higher in the world there might be safety. Were she lower there might be safety. But how could she send her girlforth into the world without sending her certainly among the wolves? Andyet that piteous question was always sounding in her ears. "Mother, isit always to be like this?" Then Lieutenant Neville had appeared upon the scene, dressed in asailor's jacket and trowsers, with a sailor's cap upon his head, witha loose handkerchief round his neck and his hair blowing to the wind. In the eyes of Kate O'Hara he was an Apollo. In the eyes of any girl hemust have seemed to be as good-looking a fellow as ever tied a sailor'sknot. He had made acquaintance with Father Marty at Liscannor, and thepriest had dined with him at Ennis. There had been a return visit, andthe priest, perhaps innocently, had taken him up on the cliffs. There hehad met the two ladies, and our hero had been introduced to Kate O'Hara. CHAPTER VI. I'LL GO BAIL SHE LIKES IT. It might be that the young man was a ravenous wolf, but his manners werenot wolfish. Had Mrs. O'Hara been a princess, supreme in her own rights, young Neville could not have treated her or her daughter with morerespect. At first Kate had wondered at him, but had said but little. Shehad listened to him, as he talked to her mother and the priest about thecliffs and the birds and the seals he had shot, and she had felt thatit was this, something like this, that was needed to make life so sweetthat as yet there need be no longing, no thought, for eternity. It wasnot that all at once she loved him, but she felt that he was a thing tolove. His very appearance on the cliff, and the power of thinking of himwhen he was gone, for a while banished all tedium from her life. "Whyshould you shoot the poor gulls?" That was the first question she askedhim; and she asked it hardly in tenderness to the birds, but becausewith the unconscious cunning of her sex she understood that tendernessin a woman is a charm in the eyes of a man. "Only because it is so difficult to get at them, " said Fred. "I believethere is no other reason, --except that one must shoot something. " "But why must you?" asked Mrs. O'Hara. "To justify one's guns. A man takes to shooting as a matter of course. It's a kind of institution. There ain't any tigers, and so we shootbirds. And in this part of the world there ain't any pheasants, and sowe shoot sea-gulls. " "Excellently argued, " said the priest. "Or rather one don't, for it's impossible to get at them. But I'll tellyou what, Father Marty, "--Neville had already assumed the fashion ofcalling the priest by his familiar priestly name, as strangers do muchmore readily than they who belong to the country, --"I'll tell you what, Father Marty, --I've shot one of the finest seals I ever saw, and ifMorony can get him at low water, I'll send the skin up to Mrs. O'Hara. " "And send the oil to me, " said the priest. "There's some use in shootinga seal. But you can do nothing with those birds, --unless you get enoughof their feathers to make a bed. " This was in October, and before the end of November Fred Neville was, after a fashion, intimate at the cottage. He had never broken bread atMrs. O'Hara's table; nor, to tell the truth, had any outspoken, clearlyintelligible word of love been uttered by him to the girl. But he hadbeen seen with them often enough, and the story had become sufficientlycurrent at Liscannor to make Lady Mary Quin think that she was justifiedin sending her bad news to her friend Lady Scroope. This she did not dotill Fred had been induced, with some difficulty, to pass a night atCastle Quin. Lady Mary had not scrupled to ask a question about MissO'Hara, and had thought the answer very unsatisfactory. "I don't knowwhat makes them live there, I'm sure. I should have thought you wouldhave known that, " replied Neville, in answer to her question. "They are perfect mysteries to us, " said Lady Mary. "I think that Miss O'Hara is the prettiest girl I ever saw in my life, "said Fred boldly, "and I should say the handsomest woman, if it were notthat there may be a question between her and her mother. " "You are enthusiastic, " said Lady Mary Quin, and after that the letterto Scroope was written. In the meantime the seal-skin was cured, --not perhaps in the very bestfashion, and was sent up to Miss O'Hara, with Mr. Neville's compliments. The skin of a seal that has been shot by the man and not purchased is apresent that any lady may receive from any gentleman. The most prudentmamma that ever watched over her dovecote with Argus eyes, permitting notouch of gallantry to come near it, could hardly insist that a seal-skinin the rough should be sent back to the donor. Mrs. O'Hara was by nomeans that most prudent mamma, and made, not only the seal-skin, but thedonor also welcome. Must it not be that by some chance advent such asthis that the change must be effected in her girl's life, should anychange ever be made? And her girl was good. Why should she fear for her?The man had been brought there by her only friend, the priest, and whyshould she fear him? And yet she did fear; and though her face wasnever clouded when her girl spoke of the new comer, though she alwaysmentioned Captain Neville's name as though she herself liked the man, though she even was gracious to him when he shewed himself near thecottage, --still there was a deep dread upon her when her eyes restedupon him, when her thoughts flew to him. Men are wolves to women, andutterly merciless when feeding high their lust. 'Twas thus her ownthoughts shaped themselves, though she never uttered a syllable to herdaughter in disparagement of the man. This was the girl's chance. Wasshe to rob her of it? And yet, of all her duties, was not the duty ofprotecting her girl the highest and the dearest that she owned? If theman meant well by her girl, she would wash his feet with her hair, kissthe hem of his garments, and love the spot on which she had first seenhim stand like a young sea-god. But if evil, --if he meant evil to hergirl, if he should do evil to her Kate, --then she knew that there wasso much of the tiger within her bosom as would serve to rend him limbfrom limb. With such thoughts as these she had hardly ever left themtogether. Nor had such leaving together seemed to be desired by them. As for Kate she certainly would have shunned it. She thought of FredNeville during all her waking moments, and dreamed of him at night. Hiscoming had certainly been to her as the coming of a god. Though he didnot appear on the cliffs above once or twice a week, and had done so butfor a few weeks, his presence had altered the whole tenour of her life. She never asked her mother now whether it was to be always like this. There was a freshness about her life which her mother understood atonce. She was full of play, reading less than was her wont, but stillwith no sense of tedium. Of the man in his absence she spoke but seldom, and when his name was on her lips she would jest with it, --as though thecoming of a young embryo lord to shoot gulls on their coast was quite ajoke. The seal-skin which he had given her was very dear to her, and shewas at no pains to hide her liking; but of the man as a lover she hadnever seemed to think. Nor did she think of him as a lover. It is not by such thinking thatlove grows. Nor did she ever tell herself that while he was there, coming on one day and telling them that his boat would be again there onanother, life was blessed to her, and that, therefore, when he shouldhave left them, her life would be accursed to her. She knew nothing ofall this. But yet she thought of him, and dreamed of him, and her younghead was full of little plans with every one of which he was connected. And it may almost be said that Fred Neville was as innocent in thematter as was the girl. It is true, indeed, that men are merciless aswolves to women, --that they become so, taught by circumstances andtrained by years; but the young man who begins by meaning to be a wolfmust be bad indeed. Fred Neville had no such meaning. On his behalf itmust be acknowledged that he had no meaning whatever when he came againand again to Ardkill. Had he examined himself in the matter he wouldhave declared that he liked the mother quite as well as the daughter. When Lady Mary Quin had thrown at him her very blunt arrow he haddefended himself on that plea. Accident, and the spirit of adventure, had thrust these ladies in his path, and no doubt he liked them thebetter because they did not live as other people lived. Their solitude, the close vicinity of the ocean, the feeling that in meeting them noneof the ordinary conventional usages of society were needed, the wildnessand the strangeness of the scene, all had charms which he admitted tohimself. And he knew that the girl was very lovely. Of course he saidso to himself and to others. To take delight in beauty is assumed to bethe nature of a young man, and this young man was not one to wish todiffer from others in that respect. But when he went back to spend hisChristmas at Scroope, he had never told even himself that he intended tobe her lover. "Good-bye, Mrs. O'Hara, " he said, a day or two before he left Ennis. "So you're going?" "Oh yes, I'm off. The orders from home are imperative. One has to cutone's lump of Christmas beef and also one's lump of Christmas pudding. It is our family religion, you know. " "What a happiness to have a family to visit!" "It's all very well, I suppose. I don't grumble. Only it's a bore goingaway, somehow. " "You are coming back to Ennis?" asked Kate. "Coming back;--I should think so. Barney Morony wouldn't be quiteso quiet if I was not coming back. I'm to dine with Father Marty atLiscannor on the l5th of January, to meet another priest from MilltownMalbay, --the best fellow in the world he says. " "That's Father Creech;--not half such a good fellow, Mr. Neville, asFather Marty himself. " "He couldn't be better. However, I shall be here then, and if I have anyluck you shall have another skin of the same size by that time. " Then heshook hands with them both, and there was a feeling that the time wouldbe blank till he should be again there in his sailor's jacket. When the second week in January had come Mrs. O'Hara heard that thegallant young officer of the 20th was back in Ennis, and she wellremembered that he had told her of his intention to dine with thepriest. On the Sunday she saw Mr. Marty after mass, and managed to havea few words with him on the road while Kate returned to the cottagealone. "So your friend Mr. Neville has come back to Ennis, " she said. "I didn't know that he had come. He promised to dine with me onThursday, --only I think nothing of promises from these young fellows. " "He told me he was to be with you. " "More power to him. He'll be welcome. I'm getting to be a very ould man, Misthress O'Hara; but I'm not so ould but I like to have the young onesnear me. " "It is pleasant to see a bright face like his. " "That's thrue for you, Misthress O'Hara. I like to see 'em bright andganial. I don't know that I ever shot so much as a sparrow, meself, butI love to hear them talk of their shootings, and huntings, and the likeof that. I've taken a fancy to that boy, and he might do pretty much ashe plazes wid me. " "And I too have taken a fancy to him, Father Marty. " "Shure and how could you help it?" "But he mustn't do as he pleases with me. " Father Marty looked up intoher face as though he did not understand her. "If I were alone, as youare, I could afford, like you, to indulge in the pleasure of a brightface. Only in that case he would not care to let me see it. " "Bedad thin, Misthress O'Hara, I don't know a fairer face to look on inall Corcomroe than your own, --that is when you're not in your tantrums, Misthress O'Hara. " The priest was a privileged person, and could saywhat he liked to his friend; and she understood that a priest might saywithout fault what would be very faulty if it came from any one else. "I'm in earnest now, Father Marty. What shall we do if our darling Katethinks of this young man more than is good for her?" Father Marty raisedhis hat and began to scratch his head. "If you like to look at the fairface of a handsome lad--" "I do thin, Misthress O'Hara. " "Must not she like it also?" "I'll go bail she likes it, " said the priest. "And what will come next?" "I'll tell you what it is, Misthress O'Hara. Would you want to keep herfrom even seeing a man at all?" "God forbid. " "It's not the way to make them happy, nor yet safe. If it's to bethat way wid her, she'd better be a nun all out; and I'd be far fromproposing that to your Kate. " "She is hardly fit for so holy a life. " "And why should she? I niver like seeing too many of 'em going that way, and them that are prittiest are the last I'd send there. But if nota nun, it stands to reason she must take chance with the rest of 'em. She's been too much shut up already. Let her keep her heart till he asksher for it; but if he does ask her, why shouldn't she be his wife? Howmany of them young officers take Irish wives home with 'em every year. Only for them, our beauties wouldn't have a chance. " CHAPTER VII. FATHER MARTY'S HOSPITALITY. Such was the philosophy, or, perhaps, it may be better said such was thehumanity of Father Marty! But in encouraging Mrs. O'Hara to receive thisdangerous visitor he had by no means spoken without consideration. Inone respect we must abandon Father Marty to the judgment and censureof fathers and mothers. The whole matter looked at from Lady Scroope'spoint of view was no doubt very injurious to the priest's character. Heregarded a stranger among them, such as was Fred Neville, as fair spoil, as a Philistine to seize whom and capture him for life on behalf of anyIrish girl would be a great triumph;--a spoiling of the Egyptian tothe accomplishment of which he would not hesitate to lend his priestlyassistance, the end to be accomplished, of course, being marriage. ForLord Scroope and his family and his blood and his religious fanaticismhe could entertain no compassion whatever. Father Marty was no greatpolitician, and desired no rebellion against England. Even in the daysof O'Connell and repeal he had been but luke-warm. But justice forIreland in the guise of wealthy English husbands for pretty Irishgirls he desired with all his heart. He was true to his own faith, tothe backbone, but he entertained no prejudice against a good lookingProtestant youth when a fortunate marriage was in question. So littlehad been given to the Irish in these days, that they were bound to takewhat they could get. Lord Scroope and the Countess, had they knownthe priest's views on this matter, would have regarded him as anunscrupulous intriguing ruffian, prepared to destroy the happiness of anoble family by a wicked scheme. But his views of life, as judged fromthe other side, admitted of some excuse. As for a girl breaking herheart, he did not, perhaps, much believe in such a catastrophe. Of asore heart a girl must run the chance, --as also must a man. That youngmen do go about promising marriage and not keeping their promise, heknew well. None could know that better than he did, for he was therepository of half the love secrets in his parish. But all that waspart of the evil coming from the fall of Adam, and must be enduredtill, --till the Pope should have his own again, and be able to set allthings right. In the meantime young women must do the best they couldto keep their lovers;--and should one lover break away, then must thedeserted one use her experience towards getting a second. But how was agirl to have a lover at all, if she were never allowed to see a man? Hehad been bred a priest from his youth upwards, and knew nothing of love;but nevertheless it was a pain to him to see a young girl, good-looking, healthy, fit to be the mother of children, pine away, unsought for, uncoupled, --as it would be a pain to see a fruit grow ripe upon thetree, and then fall and perish for the want of plucking. His philosophywas perhaps at fault, and it may be that his humanity was unrefined. Buthe was human to the core, --and, at any rate, unselfish. That there mightbe another danger was a fact that he looked full in the face. But whatvictory can be won without danger? And he thought that he knew thisgirl, who three times a year would open her whole heart to him inconfession. He was sure that she was not only innocent, but good. Andof the man, too, he was prone to believe good;--though who on such aquestion ever trusts a man's goodness? There might be danger and theremust be discretion; but surely it would not be wise, because evilwas possible, that such a one as Kate O'Hara should be kept from allthat intercourse without which a woman is only half a woman! He hadconsidered it all, though the reader may perhaps think that as aminister of the gospel he had come to a strange conclusion. He himself, in his own defence, would have said that having served many years in theministry he had learned to know the nature of men and women. Mrs. O'Hara said not a word to Kate of the doctrines which the priesthad preached, but she found herself encouraged to mention their newfriend's name to the girl. During Fred's absence hardly a word hadbeen spoken concerning him in the cottage. Mrs. O'Hara had feared thesubject, and Kate had thought of him much too often to allow his name tobe on her tongue. But now as they sat after dinner over their peat firethe mother began the subject. "Mr. Neville is to dine with Father Martyon Thursday. " "Is he, mother?" "Barney Morony was telling me that he was back at Ennis. Barney had togo in and see him about the boat. " "He won't go boating such weather as this, mother?" "It seems that he means it. The winds are not so high now as they werein October, and the men understand well when the sea will be high. " "It is frightful to think of anybody being in one of those little boatsnow. " Kate ever since she had lived in these parts had seen the canoesfrom Liscannor and Lahinch about in the bay, summer and winter, and hadnever found anything dreadful in it before. "I suppose he'll come up here again, " said the mother; but to this Katemade no answer. "He is to sleep at Father Marty's I fancy, and he canhardly do that without paying us a visit. " "The days are short and he'll want all his time for the boating, " saidKate with a little pout. "He'll find half-an-hour, I don't doubt. Shall you be glad to see him, Kate?" "I don't know, mother. One is glad almost to see any one up here. It'sas good as a treat when old Corcoran comes up with the turf. " "But Mr. Neville is not like old Corcoran, Kate. " "Not in the least, mother. I do like Mr. Neville better than Corcoran, because you see with Corcoran the excitement is very soon over. AndCorcoran hasn't very much to say for himself. " "And Mr. Neville has?" "He says a great deal more to you than he does to me, mother. " "I like him very much. I should like him very much indeed if there wereno danger in his coming. " "What danger?" "That he should steal your heart away, my own, my darling, my child. "Then Kate, instead of answering, got up and threw herself at hermother's knees, and buried her face in her mother's lap, and Mrs. O'Haraknew that that act of larceny had already been perpetrated. And how should it have been otherwise? But of such stealing it is alwaysbetter that no mention should be made till the theft has been sanctifiedby free gift. Till the loss has been spoken of and acknowledged, it mayin most cases be recovered. Had Neville never returned from Scroope, andhis name never been mentioned by the mother to her daughter, it may bethat Kate O'Hara would not have known that she had loved him. For awhile she would have been sad. For a month or two, as she lay wakeful inher bed she would have thought of her dreams. But she would have thoughtof them as only dreams. She would have been sure that she could haveloved him had any fair ending been possible for such love; but she wouldhave assured herself that she had been on her guard, and that she wassafe in spite of her dreams. But now the flame in her heart had beenconfessed and in some degree sanctioned, and she would foster it ratherthan quench it. Even should such a love be capable of no good fortune, would it not be better to have a few weeks of happy dreaming than awhole life that should be passionless? What could she do with her ownheart there, living in solitude, with none but the sea gulls to look ather? Was it not infinitely better that she should give it away to such ayoung god as this than let it feed upon itself miserably? Yes, she wouldgive it away;--but might it not be that the young god would not take thegift? On the third day after his arrival at Ennis, Neville was at Liscannorwith the priest. He little dreamed that the fact of his dining andsleeping at Father Marty's house would be known to the ladies at CastleQuin, and communicated from them to his aunt at Scroope Manor. Not thathe would have been deterred from accepting the priest's hospitality orfrightened into accepting that of the noble owner of the castle, had heknown precisely all that would be written about it. He would not havealtered his conduct in a matter in which he considered himself entitledto regulate it, in obedience to any remonstrances from Scroope Manor. Objections to the society of a Roman Catholic priest because of hisreligion he would have regarded as old-fashioned fanaticism. As forEarls and their daughters he would no doubt have enough of them in hisfuture life, and this special Earl and his daughters had not fascinatedhim. He had chosen to come to Ireland with his regiment for this yearinstead of at once assuming the magnificence of his position in England, in order that he might indulge the spirit of adventure before he assumedthe duties of life. And it seemed to him that in dining and sleeping atan Irish priest's house on the shores of the Atlantic, with the prospectof seal shooting and seeing a very pretty girl on the following morning, he was indulging that spirit properly. But Lady Mary Quin thought thathe was misbehaving himself and taking to very bad courses. When sheheard that he was to sleep at the priest's house, she was quite surethat he would visit Mrs. O'Hara on the next day. The dinner at the priest's was very jovial. There was a bottle of sherryand there was a bottle of port, procured, chiefly for the sake ofappearance, from a grocer's shop at Ennistimon;--but the whiskey hadcome from Cork and had been in the priest's keeping for the last dozenyears. He good-humouredly acknowledged that the wine was nothing, butexpressed an opinion that Mr. Neville might find it difficult to beatthe "sperrits. " "It's thrue for you, Father Marty, " said the rivalpriest from Milltown Malbay, "and it's you that should know goodsperrits from bad if ony man in Ireland does. " "'Deed thin, " replied the priest of Liscannor, "barring the famineyears, I've mixed two tumblers of punch for meself every day theseforty years, and if it was all together it'd be about enough to giveMr. Neville a day's sale-shooting on in his canoe. " Immediately afterdinner Neville was invited to light his cigar, and everything was easy, comfortable, and to a certain degree adventurous. There were the twopriests, and a young Mr. Finucane from Ennistimon, --who however wasnot quite so much to Fred's taste as the elder men. Mr. Finucane worevarious rings, and talked rather largely about his father's demesne. Butthe whole thing was new, and by no means dull. As Neville had not leftEnnis till late in the day, --after what he called a hard day's work inthe warrior line, --they did not sit down till past eight o'clock; nordid any one talk of moving till past midnight. Fred certainly made forhimself more than two glasses of punch, and he would have sworn that thepriest had done so also. Father Marty, however, was said by those whoknew him best to be very rigid in this matter, and to have the facultyof making his drink go a long way. Young Mr. Finucane took three orfour, --perhaps five or six, --and then volunteered to join Fred Nevillein a day's shooting under the rocks. But Fred had not been four yearsin a cavalry regiment without knowing how to protect himself in such adifficulty as this. "The canoe will only hold myself and the man, " saidFred, with perfect simplicity. Mr. Finucane drew himself up haughtilyand did not utter another word for the next five minutes. Neverthelesshe took a most affectionate leave of the young officer when half an hourafter midnight he was told by Father Marty that it was time for him togo home. Father Creech also took his leave, and then Fred and the priestof Liscannor were left sitting together over the embers of the turffire. "You'll be going up to see our friends at Ardkill to-morrow, " saidthe priest. "Likely enough, Father Marty. " "In course you will. Sorrow a doubt of that. " Then the priest paused. "And why shouldn't I?" asked Neville. "I'm not saying that you shouldn't, Mr. Neville. It wouldn't be civilnor yet nathural after knowing them as you have done. If you didn't gothey'd be thinking there was a rason for your staying away, and that'dbe worse than all. But, Mr. Neville--" "Out with it, Father Marty. " Fred knew what was coming fairly well, andhe also had thought a good deal upon the matter. "Them two ladies, Mr. Neville, live up there all alone, with sorrow ahuman being in the world to protect them, --barring myself. " "Why should they want protection?" "Just because they're lone women, and because one of them is very youngand very beautiful. " "They are both beautiful, " said Neville. "'Deed and they are, --both of 'em. The mother can look afther herself, and after a fashion, too, she can look afther her daughter. I shouldn'tlike to be the man to come in her way when he'd once decaived her child. You're a young man, Mr. Neville. " "That's my misfortune. " "And one who stands very high in the world. They tell me you're to be agreat lord some day. " "Either that or a little one, " said Neville, laughing. "Anyways you'll be a rich man with a handle to your name. To me, livinghere in this out of the way parish, a lord doesn't matter that. " AndFather Marty gave a fillip with his fingers. "The only lord that mattersme is me bishop. But with them women yonder, the title and the money andall the grandeur goes a long way. It has been so since the world began. In riding a race against you they carry weight from the very awe whichthe name of an English Earl brings with it. " "Why should they ride a race against me?" "Why indeed, --unless you ride a race against them! You wouldn't wish toinjure that young thing as isn't yet out of her teens?" "God forbid that I should injure her. " "I don't think that you're the man to do it with your eyes open, Mr. Neville. If you can't spake her fair in the way of making her your wife, don't spake her fair at all. That's the long and the short of it, Mr. Neville. You see what they are. They're ladies, if there is a ladyliving in the Queen's dominions. That young thing is as beautifulas Habe, as innocent as a sleeping child, as soft as wax to takeimpression. What armour has she got against such a one as you?" "She shall not need armour. " "If you're a gentleman, Mr. Neville, --as I know you are, --you will notgive her occasion to find out her own wakeness. Well, if it isn't pastone I'm a sinner. It's Friday morning and I mus'n't ate a morsel myself, poor papist that I am; but I'll get you a bit of cold mate and a dropof grog in a moment if you'll take it. " Neville, however, refused thehospitable offer. "Father Marty, " he said, speaking with a zeal which perhaps owedsomething of its warmth to the punch, "you shall find that I am agentleman. " "I'm shure of it, my boy. " "If I can do no good to your friend, at any rate I will do no harm toher. " "That is spoken like a Christian, Mr. Neville, --which I take to be ahigher name even than gentleman. " "There's my hand upon it, " said Fred, enthusiastically. After that hewent to bed. On the following morning the priest was very jolly at breakfast, andin speaking of the ladies at Ardkill made no allusion whatever to theconversation of the previous evening. "Ah no, " he said, when Nevilleproposed that they should walk up together to the cottage before hewent down to his boat. "What's the good of an ould man like me goingbothering? And, signs on, I'm going into Ennistimon to see Pat O'Learyabout the milk he's sending to our Union. The thief of the world, --it'swathering it he is before he sends it. Nothing kills me, Mr. Neville, but when I hear of all them English vices being brought over to thispoor suffering innocent counthry. " Neville had decided on the advice of Barney Morony, that he would onthis morning go down southward along the coast to Drumdeirg rock, in thedirection away from the Hag's Head and from Mrs. O'Hara's cottage; andhe therefore postponed his expedition till after his visit. When FatherMarty started to Ennistimon to look after that sinner O'Leary, FredNeville, all alone, turned the other way to Ardkill. CHAPTER VIII. I DIDN'T WANT YOU TO GO. Mrs. O'Hara had known that he would come, and Kate had known it; and, though it would be unfair to say that they were waiting for him, it isno more than true to say that they were ready for him. "We are so gladto see you again, " said Mrs. O'Hara. "Not more glad than I am to find myself here once more. " "So you dined and slept at Father Marty's last night. What will thegrand people say at the Castle?" "As I sha'n't hear what they say, it won't matter much! Life is notlong enough, Mrs. O'Hara, for putting up with disagreeable people. " "Was it pleasant last night?" "Very pleasant. I don't think Father Creech is half as good as FatherMarty, you know. " "Oh no, " exclaimed Kate. "But he's a jolly sort of fellow, too. And there was a Mr. Finucanethere, --a very grand fellow. " "We know no one about here but the priests, " said Mrs. O'Hara, laughing. "Anybody might think that the cottage was a little convent. " "Then I oughtn't to come. " "Well, no, I suppose not. Only foreigners are admitted to see conventssometimes. You're going after the poor seals again?" "Barney says the tide is too high for the seals now. We're going toDrumdeirg. " "What, --to those little rocks?" asked Kate. "Yes, --to the rocks. I wish you'd both come with me. " "I wouldn't go in one of those canoes all out there for the world, " saidKate. "What can be the use of it?" asked Mrs. O'Hara. "I've got to get the feathers for Father Marty's bed, you know. Ihaven't shot as many yet as would make a pillow for a cradle. " "The poor innocent gulls!" "The poor innocent chickens and ducks, if you come to that, MissO'Hara. " "But they're of use. " "And so will Father Marty's feather bed be of use. Good-bye, Mrs. O'Hara. Good-bye, Miss O'Hara. I shall be down again next week, andwe'll have that other seal. " There was nothing in this. So far, at any rate, he had not broken hisword to the priest. He had not spoken a word to Kate O'Hara that mightnot and would not have been said had the priest been present. But howlovely she was; and what a thrill ran through his arm as he held herhand in his for a moment. Where should he find a girl like that inEngland with such colour, such eyes, such hair, such innocence, --andthen with so sweet a voice? As he hurried down the hill to the beach at Coolroone, where Morony wasto meet him with the boat, he could not keep himself from comparisonsbetween Kate O'Hara and Sophie Mellerby. No doubt his comparisons weremade very incorrectly, --and unfairly; but they were all in favour of thegirl who lived out of the world in solitude on the cliffs of Moher. Andwhy should he not be free to seek a wife where he pleased? In such anaffair as that, --an affair of love in which the heart and the heartalone should be consulted, what right could any man have to dictate tohim? Certain ideas occurred to him which his friends in England wouldhave called wild, democratic, revolutionary and damnable, but which, owing perhaps to the Irish air and the Irish whiskey and the spirit ofadventure fostered by the vicinity of rocks and ocean, appeared to himat the moment to be not only charming but reasonable also. No doubt hewas born to high state and great rank, but nothing that his rank andstate could give him was so sweet as his liberty. To be free to choosefor himself in all things, was the highest privilege of man. Whatpleasure could he have in a love which should be selected for him bysuch a woman as his aunt? Then he gave the reins to some confused notionof an Irish bride, a wife who should be half a wife and half not, --whomhe would love and cherish tenderly but of whose existence no Englishfriend should be aware. How could he more charmingly indulge his spiritof adventure than by some such arrangement as this? He knew that he had given a pledge to his uncle to contract no marriagethat would be derogatory to his position. He knew also that he had givena pledge to the priest that he would do no harm to Kate O'Hara. He feltthat he was bound to keep each pledge. As for that sweet, darling girl, would he not sooner lose his life than harm her? But he was aware thatan adventurous life was always a life of difficulties, and that for suchas live adventurous lives the duty of overcoming difficulties was of allduties the chief. Then he got into his canoe, and, having succeeded inkilling two gulls on the Drumdeirg rocks, thought that for that day hehad carried out his purpose as a man of adventure very well. During February and March he was often on the coast, and hardly onevisit did he make which was not followed by a letter from Castle Quinto Scroope Manor. No direct accusation of any special fault was madeagainst him in consequence. No charge was brought of an improperhankering after any special female, because Lady Scroope found herselfbound in conscience not to commit her correspondent; but very heavyinjunctions were laid upon him as to his general conduct, and he waseagerly entreated to remember his great duty and to come home and settlehimself in England. In the mean time the ties which bound him to thecoast of Clare were becoming stronger and stronger every day. He hadceased now to care much about seeing Father Marty, and would come, whenthe tide was low, direct from Lahinch to the strand beneath the cliffs, from whence there was a path through the rocks up to Ardkill. And therehe would remain for hours, --having his gun with him, but caring littlefor his gun. He told himself that he loved the rocks and the wildness ofthe scenery, and the noise of the ocean, and the whirring of the birdsabove and below him. It was certainly true that he loved Kate O'Hara. "Neville, you must answer me a question, " said the mother to him onemorning when they were out together, looking down upon the Atlantic whenthe wind had lulled after a gale. "Ask it then, " said he. "What is the meaning of all this? What is Kate to believe?" "Of course she believes that I love her better than all the worldbesides, --that she is more to me than all the world can give or take. Ihave told her at least, so often, that if she does not believe it she islittle better than a Jew. " "You must not joke with me now. If you knew what it was to have onechild and only that you would not joke with me. " "I am quite in earnest. I am not joking. " "And what is to be the end of it?" "The end of it! How can I say? My uncle is an old man, --very old, veryinfirm, very good, very prejudiced, and broken-hearted because his ownson, who died, married against his will. " "You would not liken my Kate to such as that woman was?" "Your Kate! She is my Kate as much as yours. Such a thought as thatwould be an injury to me as deep as to you. You know that to me my Kate, our Kate, is all excellence, --as pure and good as she is bright andbeautiful. As God is above us she shall be my wife, --but I cannot takeher to Scroope Manor as my wife while my uncle lives. " "Why should any one be ashamed of her at Scroope Manor?" "Because they are fools. But I cannot cure them of their folly. My unclethinks that I should marry one of my own class. " "Class;--what class? He is a gentleman, I presume, and she is a lady. " "That is very true;--so true that I myself shall act upon the truth. ButI will not make his last years wretched. He is a Protestant, and you areCatholics. " "What is that? Are not ever so many of your lords Catholics? Were theynot all Catholics before Protestants were ever thought of?" "Mrs. O'Hara, I have told you that to me she is as high and good andnoble as though she were a Princess. And I have told you that she shallbe my wife. If that does not content you, I cannot help it. It contentsher. I owe much to her. " "Indeed you do;--everything. " "But I owe much to him also. I do not think that you can gain anythingby quarrelling with me. " She paused for a while before she answered him, looking into his facethe while with something of the ferocity of a tigress. So intent was hergaze that his eyes quailed beneath it. "By the living God, " she said, "if you injure my child I will have the very blood from your heart. " Nevertheless she allowed him to return alone to the house, where sheknew that he would find her girl. "Kate, " he said, going into theparlour in which she was sitting idle at the window, --"dear Kate. " "Well, sir?" "I'm off. " "You are always--off, as you call it. " "Well, --yes. But I'm not on and off, as the saying is. " "Why should you go away now?" "Do you suppose a soldier has got nothing to do? You never calculate, Ithink, that Ennis is about three-and-twenty miles from here. Come, Kate, be nice with me before I go. " "How can I be nice when you are going? I always think when I see you gothat you will never come back to me again. I don't know why you shouldcome back to such a place as this?" "Because, as it happens, the place holds what I love best in all theworld. " Then he lifted her from her chair, and put his arm round herwaist. "Do you not know that I love you better than all that the worldholds?" "How can I know it?" "Because I swear it to you. " "I think that you like me--a little. Oh Fred, if you were to go andnever to come back I should die. Do you remember Mariana? 'My life isdreary. He cometh not, ' she said. She said, 'I am aweary, aweary; Iwould that I were dead!' Do you remember that? What has mother beensaying to you?" "She has been bidding me to do you no harm. It was not necessary. Iwould sooner pluck out my eye than hurt you. My uncle is an old man, --avery old man. She cannot understand that it is better that we shouldwait, than that I should have to think hereafter that I had killed himby my unkindness. " "But he wants you to love some other girl. " "He cannot make me do that. All the world cannot change my heart, Kate. If you can not trust me for that, then you do not love me as I loveyou. " "Oh, Fred, you know I love you. I do trust you. Of course I can wait, ifI only know that you will come back to me. I only want to see you. " Hewas now leaning over her, and her cheek was pressed close to his. Thoughshe was talking of Mariana, and pretending to fear future misery, allthis was Elysium to her, --the very joy of Paradise. She could sit andthink of him now from morning to night, and never find the day an hourtoo long. She could remember the words in which he made his oaths toher, and cherish the sweet feeling of his arm round her body. To haveher cheek close to his was godlike. And then when he would kiss her, though she would rebuke him, it was as though all heaven were in theembrace. "And now good-bye. One kiss, darling. " "No. " "Not a kiss when I am going?" "I don't want you to go. Oh, Fred! Well;--there. Good-bye, my own, own, own beloved one. You'll be here on Monday?" "Yes, --on Monday. " "And be in the boat four hours, and here four minutes. Don't I knowyou?" But he went without answering this last accusation. "What shall we do, Kate, if he deceives us?" said the mother thatevening. "Die. But I am sure he will not deceive us. " Neville, as he made his way down to Liscannor, where his gig was waitingfor him, did ask himself some serious questions about his adventure. What must be the end of it? And had he not been imprudent? It may bedeclared on his behalf that no idea of treachery to the girl evercrossed his mind. He loved her too thoroughly for that. He did loveher--not perhaps as she loved him. He had many things in the world tooccupy his mind, and she had but one. He was almost a god to her. She tohim was simply the sweetest girl that he had ever as yet seen, and onewho had that peculiar merit that she was all his own. No other man hadever pressed her hand, or drank her sweet breath. Was not such a love athousand times sweeter than that of some girl who had been hurried fromdrawing-room to drawing-room, and perhaps from one vow of constancy toanother for half-a-dozen years? The adventure was very sweet. But howwas it to end? His uncle might live these ten years, and he had not theheart, --nor yet the courage, --to present her to his uncle as his bride. When he reached Ennis that evening there was a despatch marked"Immediate, " from his aunt Lady Scroope. "Your uncle is veryill;--dangerously ill, we fear. His great desire is to see you onceagain. Pray come without losing an hour. " Early on the following morning he started for Dublin, but before hewent to bed that night he not only wrote to Kate O'Hara, but enclosedthe note from his aunt. He could understand that though the tidings ofhis uncle's danger was a shock to him there would be something in thetidings which would cause joy to the two inmates of Ardkill Cottage. When he sent that letter with his own, he was of course determined thathe would marry Kate O'Hara as soon as he was a free man. CHAPTER IX. FRED NEVILLE RETURNS TO SCROOPE. The suddenness of the demand made for the heir's presence at Scroope wasperhaps not owing to the Earl's illness alone. The Earl, indeed, wasill, --so ill that he thought himself that his end was very near; but hisillness had been brought about chiefly by the misery to which he hadbeen subjected by the last despatch from Castle Quin to the Countess. "Iam most unwilling, " she said, "to make mischief or to give unnecessarypain to you or to Lord Scroope; but I think it my duty to let you knowthat the general opinion about here is that Mr. Neville shall make MissO'Hara his wife, --_if he has not done so already_. The most dangerousfeature in the whole matter is that it is all managed by the priest ofthis parish, a most unscrupulous person, who would do anything, --heis so daring. We have known him many many years, and we know to whatlengths he would go. The laws have been so altered in favour of theRoman Catholics, and against the Protestants, that a priest can doalmost just what he likes. I do not think that he would scruple for aninstant to marry them if he thought it likely that his prey would escapefrom him. My own opinion is that there has been no marriage as yet, though I know that others think that there has been. " The expression ofthis opinion from "others" which had reached Lady Mary's ears consistedof an assurance from her own Protestant lady's maid that that wicked, guzzling old Father Marty would marry the young couple as soon as lookat them, and very likely had done so already. "I cannot say, " continuedLady Mary, "that I actually know anything against the character of MissO'Hara. Of the mother we have very strange stories here. They live in alittle cottage with one maid-servant, almost upon the cliffs, and nobodyknows anything about them except the priest. If he should be seducedinto a marriage, nothing could be more unfortunate. " Lady Mary probablyintended to insinuate that were young Neville prudently to get out ofthe adventure, simply leaving the girl behind him blasted, ruined, anddestroyed, the matter no doubt would be bad; but in that case the greatmisfortune would have been avoided. She could not quite say this inplain words; but she felt, no doubt, that Lady Scroope would understandher. Then Lady Mary went on to assure her friend that though she and herfather and sisters very greatly regretted that Mr. Neville had not againgiven them the pleasure of seeing him at Castle Quin, no feeling ofinjury on that score had induced her to write so strongly as she haddone. She had been prompted to do so simply by her desire to prevent _amost ruinous alliance_. Lady Scroope acknowledged entirely the truth of these last words. Suchan alliance would be most ruinous! But what could she do? Were she towrite to Fred and tell him all that she heard, --throwing to the windsLady Mary's stupid injunctions respecting secrecy, as she would not havescrupled to do could she have thus obtained her object, --might it not bequite possible that she would precipitate the calamity which she desiredso eagerly to avoid? Neither had she nor had her husband any power overthe young man, except such as arose from his own good feeling. The Earlcould not disinherit him;--could not put a single acre beyond his reach. Let him marry whom he might he must be Earl Scroope of Scroope, and thewoman so married must be the Countess of Scroope. There was already aLady Neville about the world whose existence was a torture to them; andif this young man chose also to marry a creature utterly beneath him andto degrade the family, no effort on their part could prevent him. Butif, as seemed probable, he were yet free, and if he could be got to comeagain among them, it might be that he still had left some feelings onwhich they might work. No doubt there was the Neville obstinacy abouthim; but he had seemed to both of them to acknowledge the sanctity ofhis family, and to appreciate in some degree the duty which he owed toit. The emergency was so great that she feared to act alone. She toldeverything to her husband, shewing him Lady Mary's letter, and theeffect upon him was so great that it made him ill. "It will be betterfor me, " he said, "to turn my face to the wall and die before I knowit. " He took to his bed, and they of his household did think that hewould die. He hardly spoke except to his wife, and when alone withher did not cease to moan over the destruction which had come uponthe house. "If it could only have been the other brother, " said LadyScroope. "There can be no change, " said the Earl. "He must do as it lists himwith the fortune and the name and the honours of the family. " Then on one morning there was a worse bulletin than heretofore given bythe doctor, and Lady Scroope at once sent off the letter which was torecall the nephew to his uncle's bedside. The letter, as we have seen, was successful, and Fred, who caused himself to be carried over fromDorchester to Scroope as fast as post-horses could be made to gallop, almost expected to be told on his arrival that his uncle had departed tohis rest. In the hall he encountered Mrs. Bunce the housekeeper. "Wethink my lord is a little better, " said Mrs. Bunce almost in a whisper. "My lord took a little broth in the middle of the day, and we believehe has slept since. " Then he passed on and found his aunt in the smallsitting-room. His uncle had rallied a little, she told him. She was veryaffectionate in her manner, and thanked him warmly for his alacrity incoming. When he was told that his uncle would postpone his visit tillthe next morning he almost began to think that he had been fussy intravelling so quickly. That evening he dined alone with his aunt, and the conversation duringdinner and as they sat for a few minutes after dinner had referencesolely to his uncle's health. But, though they were alone on thisevening, he was surprised to find that Sophie Mellerby was again atScroope. Lady Sophia and Mr. Mellerby were up in London, but Sophie wasnot to join them till May. As it happened, however, she was dining atthe parsonage this evening. She must have been in the house when Nevillearrived, but he had not seen her. "Is she going to live here?" heasked, almost irreverently, when he was first told that she was in thehouse. "I wish she were, " said Lady Scroope. "I am childless, and sheis as dear to me as a daughter. " Then Fred apologized, and expressedhimself as quite willing that Sophie Mellerby should live and die atScroope. The evening was dreadfully dull. It had seemed to him that the house wasdarker, and gloomier, and more comfortless than ever. He had hurriedover to see a dying man, and now there was nothing for him to do but tokick his heels. But before he went to bed his ennui was dissipated bya full explanation of all his aunt's terrors. She crept down to him atabout nine, and having commenced her story by saying that she had amatter of most vital importance on which to speak to him, she told himin fact all that she had heard from Lady Mary. "She is a mischief-making gossiping old maid, " said Neville angrily. "Will you tell me that there is no truth in what she writes?" asked LadyScroope. But this was a question which Fred Neville was not prepared toanswer, and he sat silent. "Fred, tell me the truth. Are you married?" "No;--I am not married. " "I know that you will not condescend to an untruth. " "If so, my word must be sufficient. " But it was not sufficient. She longed to extract from him some repeatedand prolonged assurance which might bring satisfaction to her ownmind. "I am glad, at any rate, to hear that there is no truth in thatsuspicion. " To this he would not condescend to reply, but sat gloweringat her as though in wrath that any question should be asked him abouthis private concerns. "You must feel, Fred, for your uncle in such amatter. You must know how important this is to him. You have heard whathe has already suffered; and you must know too that he has endeavouredto be very good to you. " "I do know that he has, --been very good to me. " "Perhaps you are angry with me for interfering. " He would not deny thathe was angry. "I should not do so were it not that your uncle is ill andsuffering. " "You have asked me a question and I have answered it. I do not know whatmore you want of me. " "Will you say that there is no truth in all this that Lady Mary says?" "Lady Mary is an impertinent old maid. " "If you were in your uncle's place, and if you had an heir as to whosecharacter in the world you were anxious, you would not think anyoneimpertinent who endeavoured for the sake of friendship to save yourname and family from a disreputable connexion. " "I have made no disreputable connexion. I will not allow the worddisreputable to be used in regard to any of my friends. " "You do know people of the name of O'Hara?" "Of course I do. " "And there is a--young lady?" "I may know a dozen young ladies as to whom I shall not choose toconsult Lady Mary Quin. " "You understand what I mean, Fred. Of course I do not wish to ask youanything about your general acquaintances. No doubt you meet many girlswhom you admire, and I should be very foolish were I to make inquiriesof you or of anybody else concerning them. I am the last person to be soinjudicious. If you will tell me that there is not and never shall beany question of marriage between you and Miss O'Hara, I will not sayanother word. " "I will not pledge myself to anything for the future. " "You told your uncle you would never make a marriage that should bedisgraceful to the position which you will be called upon to fill. " "Nor will I. " "But would not this marriage be disgraceful, even were the young ladyever so estimable? How are the old families of the country to be keptup, and the old blood maintained if young men, such as you are, will notremember something of all that is due to the name which they bear. " "I do not know that I have forgotten anything. " Then she paused before she could summon courage to ask him anotherquestion. "You have made no promise of marriage to Miss O'Hara?" He satdumb, but still looking at her with that angry frown. "Surely your unclehas a right to expect that you will answer that question. " "I am quite sure that for his sake it will be much better that no suchquestions shall be asked me. " In point of fact he had answered the question. When he would not denythat such promise had been made, there could no longer be any doubt ofthe truth of what Lady Mary had written. Of course the whole truth hadnow been elicited. He was not married but he was engaged;--engaged toa girl of whom he knew nothing, a Roman Catholic, Irish, fatherless, almost nameless, --to one who had never been seen in good society, one ofwhom no description could be given, of whom no record could be made inthe peerage that would not be altogether disgraceful, a girl of whom hewas ashamed to speak before those to whom he owed duty and submission! That there might be a way to escape the evil even yet Lady Scroopeacknowledged to herself fully. Many men promise marriage but do notkeep the promise they have made. This lady, who herself was reallygood, --unselfish, affectionate, religious, actuated by a sense ofduty in all that she did, whose life had been almost austerely moral, entertained an idea that young men, such as Fred Neville, very commonlymade such promises with very little thought of keeping them. She did notexpect young men to be governed by principles such as those to whichyoung ladies are bound to submit themselves. She almost supposed thatheaven had a different code of laws for men and women in her conditionof life, and that salvation was offered on very different terms to thetwo sexes. The breach of any such promise as the heir of Scroope couldhave made to such a girl as this Miss O'Hara would be a perjury at whichJove might certainly be expected to laugh. But in her catalogue therewere sins for which no young men could hope to be forgiven; and the sinof such a marriage as this would certainly be beyond pardon. Of the injury which was to be done to Miss O'Hara, it may be said withcertainty that she thought not at all. In her eyes it would be noinjury, but simple justice, --no more than a proper punishment forintrigue and wicked ambition. Without having seen the enemy to thefamily of Scroope, or even having heard a word to her disparagement, shecould feel sure that the girl was bad, --that these O'Haras were vulgarand false impostors, persons against whom she could put out all herstrength without any prick of conscience. Women in such matters arealways hard against women, and especially hard against those whom theybelieve to belong to a class below their own. Certainly no feeling ofmercy would induce her to hold her hand in this task of saving herhusband's nephew from an ill-assorted marriage. Mercy to Miss O'Hara!Lady Scroope had the name of being a very charitable woman. She gaveaway money. She visited the poor. She had laboured hard to make thecottages on the estate clean and comfortable. She denied herself manythings that she might give to others. But she would have no more mercyon such a one as Miss O'Hara, than a farmer's labourer would have on arat! There was nothing more now to be said to the heir;--nothing more for thepresent that could serve the purpose which she had in hand. "Your uncleis very ill, " she murmured. "I was so sorry to hear it. " "We hope now that he may recover. For the last two days the doctor hastold us that we may hope. " "I am so glad to find that it is so. " "I am sure you are. You will see him to-morrow after breakfast. He ismost anxious to see you. I think sometimes you hardly reflect how muchyou are to him. " "I don't know why you should say so. " "You had better not speak to him to-morrow about this affair, --of theIrish young lady. " "Certainly not, --unless he speaks to me about it. " "He is hardly strong enough yet. But no doubt he will do so before youleave us. I hope it may be long before you do that. " "It can't be very long, Aunt Mary. " To this she said nothing, but badehim good-night and he was left alone. It was now past ten, and hesupposed that Miss Mellerby had come in and gone to her room. Why sheshould avoid him in this way he could not understand. But as for MissMellerby herself, she was so little to him that he cared not at allwhether he did or did not see her. All his brightest thoughts were awayin County Clare, on the cliffs overlooking the Atlantic. They might saywhat they liked to him, but he would never be untrue to the girl whomhe had left there. His aunt had spoken of the "affair of--the Irishyoung lady;" and he had quite understood the sneer with which she hadmentioned Kate's nationality. Why should not an Irish girl be as good asany English girl? Of one thing he was quite sure, --that there was muchmore of real life to be found on the cliffs of Moher than in the gloomychambers of Scroope Manor. He got up from his seat feeling absolutely at a loss how to employhimself. Of course he could go to bed, but how terribly dull must lifebe in a place in which he was obliged to go to bed at ten o'clockbecause there was nothing to do. And since he had been there his onlyoccupation had been that of listening to his aunt's sermons. He beganto think that a man might pay too dearly even for being the heir toScroope. After sitting awhile in the dark gloom created by a pair ofcandles, he got up and wandered into the large unused dining-room of themansion. It was a chamber over forty feet long, with dark flock paperand dark curtains, with dark painted wainscoating below the paper, andhuge dark mahogany furniture. On the walls hung the portraits of theScroopes for many generations past, some in armour, some in their robesof state, ladies with stiff bodices and high head-dresses, not beautiesby Lely or warriors and statesmen by Kneller, but wooden, stiff, ungainly, hideous figures, by artists whose works had, unfortunately, been more enduring than their names. He was pacing up and down the roomwith a candle in his hand, trying to realize to himself what life atScroope might be with a wife of his aunt's choosing, and his aunt tokeep the house for them, when a door was opened at the end of the room, away from that by which he had entered, and with a soft noiseless stepMiss Mellerby entered. She did not see him at first, as the light of herown candle was in her eyes, and she was startled when he spoke to her. His first idea was one of surprise that she should be wandering aboutthe house alone at night. "Oh, Mr. Neville, " she said, "you quite tookme by surprise. How do you do? I did not expect to meet you here. " "Nor I you!" "Since Lord Scroope has been so ill, Lady Scroope has been sleeping inthe little room next to his, downstairs, and I have just come from her. " "What do you think of my uncle's state?" "He is better; but he is very weak. " "You see him?" "Oh yes, daily. He is so anxious to see you, Mr. Neville, and so muchobliged to you for coming. I was sure that you would come. " "Of course I came. " "He wanted to see you this afternoon; but the doctor had expresslyordered that he should be kept quiet. Good-night. I am so very glad thatyou are here. I am sure that you will be good to him. " Why should she be glad, and why should she be sure that he would begood to his uncle? Could it be that she also had been told the story ofKate O'Hara? Then, as no other occupation was possible to him, he tookhimself to bed. CHAPTER X. FRED NEVILLE'S SCHEME. On the next morning after breakfast Neville was taken into his uncle'schamber, but there was an understanding that there was to be noconversation on disagreeable subjects on this occasion. His auntremained in the room while he was there, and the conversation wasalmost confined to the expression of thanks on the part of the Earl tohis nephew for coming, and of hopes on the part of the nephew that hisuncle might soon be well. One matter was mooted as to which no doubtmuch would be said before Neville could get away. "I thought it betterto make arrangements to stay a fortnight, " said Fred, --as though afortnight were a very long time indeed. "A fortnight!" said the Earl. "We won't talk of his going yet, " replied Lady Scroope. "Supposing I had died, he could not have gone back in a fortnight, " saidthe Earl in a low moaning voice. "My dear uncle, I hope that I may live to see you in your own place hereat Scroope for many years to come. " The Earl shook his head, but nothingmore was then said on that subject. Fred, however, had carried out hispurpose. He had been determined to let them understand that he would nothold himself bound to remain long at Scroope Manor. Then he wrote a letter to his own Kate. It was the first time he hadaddressed her in this fashion, and though he was somewhat of a gallantgay Lothario, the writing of the letter was an excitement to him. If so, what must the receipt of it have been to Kate O'Hara! He had promisedher that he would write to her, and from the moment that he was gone shewas anxious to send in to the post-office at Ennistimon for the treasurewhich the mail car might bring to her. When she did get it, it wasindeed a treasure. To a girl who really loves, the first love letter isa thing as holy as the recollection of the first kiss. "May I see it, Kate?" said Mrs. O'Hara, as her daughter sat poring over the scrap ofpaper by the window. "Yes, mamma, --if you please. " Then she paused a moment. "But I thinkthat I had rather you did not. Perhaps he did not mean me to shew it. "The mother did not urge her request, but contented herself with comingup behind her child and kissing her. The reader, however, shall have theprivilege which was denied to Mrs. O'Hara. DEAREST KATE, I got here all alive yesterday at four. I came on as fast as ever I could travel, and hardly got a mouthful to eat after I left Limerick. I never saw such beastliness as they have at the stations. My uncle is much better, --so much so that I shan't remain here very long. I can't tell you any particular news, --except this, that that old cat down at Castle Quin, --the one with the crisp-curled wig, --must have the nose of a dog and the ears of a cat and the eyes of a bird, and she sends word to Scroope of everything that she smells and hears and sees. It makes not the slightest difference to me, --nor to you I should think. Only I hate such interference. The truth is old maids have nothing else to do. If I were you I wouldn't be an old maid. I can't quite say how long it will be before I am back at Ardkill, but not a day longer than I can help. Address to Scroope, Dorsetshire, --that will be enough;--to F. Neville, Esq. Give my love to your mother. --As for yourself, dear Kate, if you care for my love, you may weigh mine for your own dear self with your own weights and measures. Indeed you have all my heart. Your own F. N. There is a young lady here whom it is intended that I shall marry. She is the pink of propriety and really very pretty;--but you need not be a bit jealous. The joke is that my brother is furiously in love with her, and that I fancy she would be just as much in love with him only that she's told not to. --A thousand kisses. It was not much of a love letter, but there were a few words in it whichsufficed altogether for Kate's happiness. She was told that she hadall his heart, --and she believed it. She was told that she need not bejealous of the proper young lady, and she believed that too. He senther a thousand kisses; and she, thinking that he might have kissed thepaper, pressed it to her lips. At any rate his hand had rested on it. She would have been quite willing to shew to her mother all theseexpressions of her lover's love; but she felt that it would not be fairto him to expose his allusions to the "beastliness" at the stations. Hemight say what he liked to her; but she understood that she was not atliberty to shew to others words which had been addressed to her in thefreedom of perfect intimacy. "Does he say anything of the old man?" asked Mrs. O'Hara. "He says that his uncle is better. " "Threatened folks live long. Does Neville tell you when he will beback?" "Not exactly; but he says that he will not stay long. He does not likeScroope at all. I knew that. He always says that, --that--" "Says what, dear?" "When we are married he will go away somewhere, --to Italy or Greece orsomewhere. Scroope he says is so gloomy. " "And where shall I go?" "Oh, mother;--you shall be with us, always. " "No, dear, you must not dream of that. When you have him you will notwant me. " "Dear mother. I shall want you always. " "He will not want me. We have no right to expect too much from him, Kate. That he shall make you his wife we have a right to expect. If hewere false to you--" "He is not false. Why should you think him false?" "I do not think it; but if he were--! Never mind. If he be true to you, I will not burden him. If I can see you happy, Kate, I will bear all therest. " That which she would have to bear would be utter solitude forlife. She could look forward and see how black and tedious would be herdays; but all that would be nothing to her if her child were lifted upon high. It was now the beginning of April, which for sportsmen in England isof all seasons the most desperate. Hunting is over. There is literallynothing to shoot. And fishing, --even if there were fishing in Englandworth a man's time, --has not begun. A gentleman of enterprise drivenvery hard in this respect used to declare that there was no remedy forApril but to go and fly hawks in Holland. Fred Neville could not flyhawks at Scroope, and found that there was nothing for him to do. MissMellerby suggested--books. "I like books better than anything, " saidFred. "I always have a lot of novels down at our quarters. But a fellowcan't be reading all day, and there isn't a novel in the house exceptWalter Scott's and a lot of old rubbish. By-the-bye have you read 'AllIsn't Gold That Glitters?'" Miss Mellerby had not read the tale named. "That's what I call a good novel. " Day passed after day and it seemed as though he was expected to remainat Scroope without any definite purpose, and, worse still, without anyfixed limit to his visit. At his aunt's instigation he rode about theproperty and asked questions as to the tenants. It was all to be hisown, and in the course of nature must be his own very soon. There couldnot but be an interest for him in every cottage and every field. But yetthere was present to him all the time a schoolboy feeling that he wasdoing a task; and the occupation was not pleasant to him because it wasa task. The steward was with him as a kind of pedagogue, and continuedto instruct him during the whole ride. This man only paid so mucha year, and the rent ought to be so much more; but there werecircumstances. And "My Lord" had been peculiarly good. This farm wassupposed to be the best on the estate, and that other the worst. Ohyes, there were plenty of foxes. "My Lord" had always insisted that thefoxes should be preserved. Some of the hunting gentry no doubt had madecomplaints, but it was a great shame. Foxes had been seen, two or threeat a time, the very day after the coverts had been drawn blank. As forgame, a head of game could be got up very soon, as there was plenty ofcorn and the woods were large; but "My Lord" had never cared for game. The farmers all shot the rabbits on their own land. Rents were paid tothe day. There was never any mistake about that. Of course the landwould require to be re-valued, but "My Lord" wouldn't hear of such athing being done in his time. The Manor wood wanted thinning very badly. The wood had been a good deal neglected. "My Lord" had never liked tohear the axe going. That was Grumby Green and the boundary of the estatein that direction. The next farm was college property, and was rentedfive shillings an acre dearer than "My Lord's" land. If Mr. Nevillewished it the steward would show him the limit of the estate on theother side to-morrow. No doubt there was a plan of the estate. It wasin "My Lord's" own room, and would shew every farm with its acreage andbounds. Fred thought that he would study this plan on the next dayinstead of riding about with the steward. He could not escape from the feeling that he was being taught his lessonlike a school-boy, and he did not like it. He longed for the freedomof his boat on the Irish coast, and longed for the devotedness of KateO'Hara. He was sure that he loved her so thoroughly that life withouther was not to be regarded as possible. But certain vague ideas veryinjurious to the Kate he so dearly loved crossed his brain. Under theconstant teaching of his aunt he did recognize it as a fact that heowed a high duty to his family. For many days after that first night atScroope not a word was said to him about Kate O'Hara. He saw his uncledaily, --probably twice a day; but the Earl never alluded to his Irishlove. Lady Scroope spoke constantly of the greatness of the positionwhich the heir was called upon to fill and of all that was due to thehonour of the family. Fred, as he heard her, would shake his headimpatiently, but would acknowledge the truth of what she said. He wasinduced even to repeat the promise which he had made to his uncle, and to assure his aunt that he would do nothing to mar or lessen thedignity of the name of Neville. He did become, within his own mind, indoctrinated with the idea that he would injure the position of theearldom which was to be his were he to marry Kate O'Hara. Argumentswhich had appeared to him to be absurd when treated with ridicule byFather Marty, and which in regard to his own conduct he bad determinedto treat as old women's tales, seemed to him at Scroope to be trueand binding. The atmosphere of the place, the companionship of MissMellerby, the reverence with which he himself was treated by thedomestics, the signs of high nobility which surrounded him on all sides, had their effect upon him. Noblesse oblige. He felt that it was so. Thenthere crossed his brain visions of a future life which were injurious tothe girl he loved. Let his brother Jack come and live at Scroope and marry Sophie Mellerby. As long as he lived Jack could not be the Earl, but in regard to moneyhe would willingly make such arrangements as would enable his brotherto maintain the dignity and state of the house. They would divide theincome. And then he would so arrange his matters with Kate O'Hara thathis brother's son should be heir to the Earldom. He had some glimmeringof an idea that as Kate was a Roman Catholic a marriage ceremony mightbe contrived of which this would become the necessary result. Thereshould be no deceit. Kate should know it all, and everything should bedone to make her happy. He would live abroad, and would not call himselfby his title. They would be Mr. And Mrs. Neville. As to the property, that must of course hereafter go with the title, but in giving up somuch to his brother, he could of course arrange as to the provisionnecessary for any children of his own. No doubt his Kate would like tobe the Countess Scroope, --would prefer that a future son of her ownshould be the future Earl. But as he was ready to abandon so much, surely she would be ready to abandon something. He must explain toher, --and to her mother, --that under no other circumstances could hemarry her. He must tell her of pledges made to his uncle before he knewher, of the duty which he owed to his family, and of his own greatdislike to the kind of life which would await him as acting head of thefamily. No doubt there would be scenes, --and his heart quailed as heremembered certain glances which had flashed upon him from the eyes ofMrs. O'Hara. But was he not offering to give up everything for his love?His Kate should be his wife after some Roman Catholic fashion in someRoman Catholic country. Of course there would be difficulties, --theleast of which would not be those glances from the angry mother; butit would be his business to overcome difficulties. There were alwaysdifficulties in the way of any man who chose to leave the common groovesof life and to make a separate way for himself. There were alwaysdifficulties in the way of adventures. Dear Kate! He would never deserthis Kate. But his Kate must do as much as this for him. Did he notintend that, whatever good things the world might have in store for him, his Kate should share them all? His ideas were very hazy, and he knew himself that he was ignorant ofthe laws respecting marriage. It occurred to him, therefore, that he hadbetter consult his brother, and confide everything to him. That Jack waswiser than he, he was always willing to allow; and although he did insome sort look down upon Jack as a plodding fellow, who shot no sealsand cared nothing for adventure, still he felt it to be almost a pitythat Jack should not be the future Earl. So he told his aunt that heproposed to ask his brother to come to Scroope for a day or two beforehe returned to Ireland. Had his aunt, or would his uncle have, anyobjection? Lady Scroope did not dare to object. She by no means wishedthat her younger nephew should again be brought within the influenceof Miss Mellerby's charms; but it would not suit her purpose to giveoffence to the heir by refusing so reasonable request. He would havebeen off to join his brother at Woolwich immediately. So the invitationwas sent, and Jack Neville promised that he would come. Fred knew nothing of the offer that had been made to Miss Mellerby, though he had been sharp enough to discern his brother's feelings. "Mybrother is coming here to-morrow, " he said one morning to Miss Mellerbywhen they were alone together. "So Lady Scroope has told me. I don't wonder that you should wish to seehim. " "I hope everybody will be glad to see him. Jack is just about the verybest fellow in the world;--and he's one of the cleverest too. " "It is so nice to hear one brother speak in that way of another. " "I swear by Jack. He ought to have been the elder brother;--that's thetruth. Don't you like him?" "Who;--I. Oh, yes, indeed. What I saw of him I liked very much. " "Isn't it a pity that he shouldn't have been the elder?" "I can't say that, Mr. Neville. " "No. It wouldn't be just civil to me. But I can say it. When we werehere last winter I thought that my brother was--" "Was what, Mr Neville?" "Was getting to be very fond of you. Perhaps I ought not to say so. " "I don't think that much good is ever done by saying that kind ofthing, " said Miss Mellerby gravely. "It cannot at any rate do any harm in this case. I wish with all myheart that he was fond of you and you of him. " "That is all nonsense. Indeed it is. " "I am not saying it without an object. I don't see why you and I shouldnot understand one another. If I tell you a secret will you keep it?" "Do not tell me any secret that I must keep from Lady Scroope. " "But that is just what you must do. " "But then suppose I don't do it, " said Miss Mellerby. But Fred was determined to tell his secret. "The truth is that both myuncle and my aunt want me to fall in love with you. " "How very kind of them, " said she with a little forced laugh. "I don't for a moment think that, had I tried it on ever so, I couldhave succeeded. I am not at all the sort of man to be conceited in thatway. Wishing to do the best they could for me, they picked you out. Itisn't that I don't think as well of you as they do, but--" "Really, Mr. Neville, this is the oddest conversation. " "Quite true. It is odd. But the fact is you are here, and there isnobody else I can talk to. And I want you to know the exact truth. I'mengaged to--somebody else. " "I ought to break my heart;--oughtn't I?" "I don't in the least mind your laughing at me. I should have minded itvery much if I had asked you to marry me, and you had refused me. " "You haven't given me the chance, you see. " "I didn't mean. What was the good?" "Certainly not, Mr. Neville, if you are engaged to some one else. Ishouldn't like to be Number Two. " "I'm in a peck of troubles;--that's the truth. I would change placeswith my brother to-morrow if I could. I daresay you don't believe that, but I would. I will not vex my uncle if I can help it, but I certainlyshall not throw over the girl who loves me. If it wasn't for the title, I'd give up Scroope to my brother to-morrow, and go and live in someplace where I could get lots of shooting, and where I should never haveto put on a white choker. " "You'll think better of all that. " "Well!--I've just told you everything because I like to be on thesquare. I wish you knew Kate O'Hara. I'm sure you would not wonder thata fellow should love her. I had rather you didn't tell my aunt what Ihave told you; but if you choose to do so, I can't help it. " CHAPTER XI. THE WISDOM OF JACK NEVILLE. Neville had been forced to get his leave of absence renewed on the scoreof his uncle's health, and had promised to prolong his absence till theend of April. When doing so he had declared his intention of returningto Ennis in the beginning of May; but no agreement to that had as yetbeen expressed by his uncle or aunt. Towards the end of the month hisbrother came to Scroope, and up to that time not a word further had beensaid to him respecting Kate O'Hara. He had received an answer from Kate to his letter, prepared in a fashionvery different from that of his own. He had seated himself at a tableand in compliance with the pledge given by him, had scrawled off hisepistle as fast as he could write it. She had taken a whole morning tothink of hers, and had re-copied it after composing it, and had thenread it with the utmost care, confessing to herself, almost with tears, that it was altogether unworthy of him to whom it was to be sent. It wasthe first love letter she had ever written, --probably the first lettershe had ever written to a man, except those short notes which she wouldoccasionally scrawl to Father Marty in compliance with her mother'sdirections. The letter to Fred was as follows;-- ARDKILL COTTAGE, 10th April, 18--. MY DEAREST FRED, I received your dear letter three or four days ago, and it made me so happy. We were sorry that you should have such an uncomfortable journey; but all that would be over and soon forgotten when you found yourself in your comfortable home and among your own friends. I am very glad to hear that your uncle is better. The thought of finding him so ill must have made your journey very sad. As he is so much better, I suppose you will come back soon to your poor little Kate. There is no news at all to send you from Liscannor. Father Marty was up here yesterday and says that your boat is all safe at Lahinch. He says that Barney Morony is an idle fellow, but as he has nothing to do he can't help being idle. You should come back and not let him be idle any more. I think the sea gulls know that you are away, because they are wheeling and screaming about louder and bolder than ever. Mother sends her best love. She is very well. We have had nothing to eat since you went because it has been Lent. So, if you had been here, you would not have been able to get a bit of luncheon. I dare say you have been a great deal better off at Scroope. Father Marty says that you Protestants will have to keep your Lent hereafter, --eighty days at a time instead of forty; and that we Catholics will be allowed to eat just what we like, while you Protestants will have to look on at us. If so, I think I'll manage to give you a little bit. Do come back to your own Kate as soon as you can. I need not tell you that I love you better than all the world because you know it already. I am not a bit jealous of the proper young lady, and I hope that she will fall in love with your brother. Then some day we shall be sisters;--shan't we? I should like to have a proper young lady for my sister so much. Only, perhaps she would despise me. Do come back soon. Everything is so dull while you are away! You would come back to your own Kate if you knew how great a joy it is to her when she sees you coming along the cliff. Dearest, dearest love, I am always your own, own KATE O'HARA. Neville thought of showing Kate's letter to Miss Mellerby, but whenhe read it a second time he made up his mind that he would keep it tohimself. The letter was all very well, and, as regarded the expressionstowards himself, just what it should be. But he felt that it was notsuch a letter as Miss Mellerby would have written herself, and he wasa little ashamed of all that was said about the priest. Neither was heproud of the pretty, finished, French hand-writing, over every letter ofwhich his love had taken so much pains. In truth, Kate O'Hara was bettereducated than himself, and perhaps knew as much as Sophie Mellerby. Shecould have written her letter quite as well in French as in English, andshe did understand something of the formation of her sentences. FredNeville had been at an excellent school, but it may be doubted whetherhe could have explained his own written language. Nevertheless he wasa little ashamed of his Kate, and thought that Miss Mellerby mightperceive her ignorance if he shewed her letter. He had sent for his brother in order that he might explain his schemeand get his brother's advice;--but he found it very difficult to explainhis scheme to Jack Neville. Jack, indeed, from the very first wouldnot allow that the scheme was in any way practicable. "I don't quiteunderstand, Fred, what you mean. You don't intend to deceive her by afalse marriage?" "Most assuredly not. I do not intend to deceive her at all. " "You must make her your wife, or not make her your wife. " "Undoubtedly she will be my wife. I am quite determined about that. Shehas my word, --and over and above that, she is dearer to me than anythingelse. " "If you marry her, her eldest son must of course be the heir to thetitle. " "I am not at all so sure of that. All manner of queer things may bearranged by marriages with Roman Catholics. " "Put that out of your head, " said Jack Neville. "In the first placeyou would certainly find yourself in a mess, and in the next place theattempt itself would be dishonest. I dare say men have crept out ofmarriages because they have been illegal; but a man who arranges amarriage with the intention of creeping out of it is a scoundrel. " "You needn't bully about it, Jack. You know very well that I don't meanto creep out of anything. " "I'm sure you don't. But as you ask me I must tell you what I think. Youare in a sort of dilemma between this girl and Uncle Scroope. " "I'm not in any dilemma at all. " "You seem to think you have made some promise to him which will bebroken if you marry her;--and I suppose you certainly have made her apromise. " "Which I certainly mean to keep, " said Fred. "All right. Then you must break your promise to Uncle Scroope. " "It was a sort of half and half promise. I could not bear to see himmaking himself unhappy about it. " "Just so. I suppose Miss O'Hara can wait. " Fred Neville scratched his head. "Oh yes;--she can wait. There's nothingto bind me to a day or a month. But my uncle may live for the next tenyears now. " "My advice to you is to let Miss O'Hara understand clearly that you willmake no other engagement, but that you cannot marry her as long as youruncle lives. Of course I say this on the supposition that the affaircannot be broken off. " "Certainly not, " said Fred with a decision that was magnanimous. "I cannot think the engagement a fortunate one for you in your position. Like should marry like. I'm quite sure of that. You would wish yourwife to be easily intimate with the sort of people among whom she wouldnaturally be thrown as Lady Scroope, --among the wives and daughters ofother Earls and such like. " "No; I shouldn't. " "I don't see how she would be comfortable in any other way. " "I should never live among other Earls, as you call them. I hate thatkind of thing. I hate London. I should never live here. " "What would you do?" "I should have a yacht, and live chiefly in that. I should go abouta good deal, and get into all manner of queer places. I don't saybut what I might spend a winter now and then in Leicestershire orNorthamptonshire, for I am fond of hunting. But I should have no regularhome. According to my scheme you should have this place, --and sufficientof the income to maintain it of course. " "That wouldn't do, Fred, " said Jack, shaking his head, --"though I knowhow generous you are. " "Why wouldn't it do?" "You are the heir, and you must take the duties with the privileges. Youcan have your yacht if you like a yacht, --but you'll soon get tired ofthat kind of life. I take it that a yacht is a bad place for a nursery, and inconvenient for one's old boots. When a man has a home fixed forhim by circumstances, --as you will have, --he gravitates towards it, let his own supposed predilections be what they may. Circumstances arestronger than predilections. " "You're a philosopher. " "I was always more sober than you, Fred. " "I wish you had been the elder, --on the condition of the younger brotherhaving a tidy slice out of the property to make himself comfortable. " "But I am not the elder, and you must take the position with all theencumbrances. I see nothing for it but to ask Miss O'Hara to wait. If myuncle lives long the probability is that one or the other of you willchange your minds, and that the affair will never come off. " When the younger and wiser brother gave this advice he did not thinkit all likely that Miss O'Hara would change her mind. Penniless youngladies don't often change their minds when they are engaged to the heirsof Earls. It was not at all probable that she should repent the bargainthat she had made. But Jack Neville did think it very probable that hisbrother might do so;--and, indeed, felt sure that he would do so ifyears were allowed to intervene. His residence in County Clare would notbe perpetual, and with him in his circumstances it might well be thatthe young lady, being out of sight, should be out of mind. Jack couldnot exactly declare his opinion on this head. His brother at present wasfull of his promise, full of his love, full of his honour. Nor wouldJack have absolutely counselled him to break his word to the younglady. But he thought it probable that in the event of delay poor MissO'Hara might go to the wall;--and he also thought that for the generalinterests of the Scroope family it would be better that she should doso. "And what are you going to do yourself?" asked Fred. "In respect of what?" "In respect of Miss Mellerby?" "In respect of Miss Mellerby I am not going to do anything, " said Jackas he walked away. In all that the younger brother said to the elder as to poor Kate O'Harahe was no doubt wise and prudent; but in what he said about himself hedid not tell the truth. But then the question asked was one which a manis hardly bound to answer, even to a brother. Jack Neville was much lesslikely to talk about his love affairs than Fred, but not on that accountless likely to think about them. Sophie Mellerby had refused him once, but young ladies have been known to marry gentlemen after refusing themmore than once. He at any rate was determined to persevere, having inhimself and in his affairs that silent faith of which the possessor isso often unconscious, but which so generally leads to success. He foundMiss Mellerby to be very courteous to him if not gracious; and he hadthe advantage of not being afraid of her. It did not strike him thatbecause she was the granddaughter of a duke, and because he was ayounger son, that therefore he ought not to dare to look at her. Heunderstood very well that she was brought there that Fred might marryher;--but Fred was intent on marrying some one else, and Sophie Mellerbywas not a girl to throw her heart away upon a man who did not wantit. He had come to Scroope for only three days, but, in spite of somewatchfulness on the part of the Countess, he found his opportunity forspeaking before he left the house. "Miss Mellerby, " he said, "I don'tknow whether I ought to thank Fortune or to upbraid her for having againbrought me face to face with you. " "I hope the evil is not so oppressive as to make you very loud in yourupbraidings. " "They shall not at any rate be heard. I don't know whether there was anyspice of malice about my brother when he asked me to come here, and toldme in the same letter that you were at Scroope. " "He must have meant it for malice, I should think, " said the young lady, endeavouring, but not quite successfully, to imitate the manner of theman who loved her. "Of course I came. " "Not on my behalf, I hope, Mr. Neville. " "Altogether on your behalf. Fred's need to see me was not very great, and, as my uncle had not asked me, and as my aunt, I fancy, does notaltogether approve of me, I certainly should not have come, --were it notthat I might find it difficult to get any other opportunity of seeingyou. " "That is hardly fair to Lady Scroope, Mr. Neville. " "Quite fair, I think. I did not come clandestinely. I am not ashamedof what I am doing, --or of what I am going to do. I may be ashamed ofthis, --that I should feel my chance of success to be so small. When Iwas here before I asked you to--allow me to love you. I now ask youagain. " "Allow you!" she said. "Yes;--allow me. I should be too bold were I to ask you to return mylove at once. I only ask you to know that because I was repulsed once, Ihave not given up the pursuit. " "Mr. Neville, I am sure that my father and mother would not permit it. " "May I ask your father, Miss Mellerby?" "Certainly not, --with my permission. " "Nevertheless you will not forget that I am suitor for your love?" "I will make no promise of anything, Mr. Neville. " Then, fearing thatshe had encouraged him, she spoke again. "I think you ought to take myanswer as final. " "Miss Mellerby, I shall take no answer as final that is not favourable. Should I indeed hear that you were to be married to another man, thatwould be final; but that I shall not hear from your own lips. You willsay good-bye to me, " and he offered her his hand. She gave him her hand;--and he raised it to his lips and kissed it, asmen were wont to do in the olden days. CHAPTER XII. FRED NEVILLE MAKES A PROMISE. Fred Neville felt that he had not received from his brother theassistance or sympathy which he had required. He had intended to makea very generous offer, --not indeed quite understanding how his offercould be carried out, but still of a nature that should, he thought, have bound his brother to his service. But Jack had simply answered himby sermons;--by sermons and an assurance of the impracticability ofhis scheme. Nevertheless he was by no means sure that his scheme wasimpracticable. He was at least sure of this, --that no human power couldforce him to adopt a mode of life that was distasteful to him. No onecould make him marry Sophie Mellerby, or any other Sophie, and maintaina grand and gloomy house in Dorsetshire, spending his income, not in amanner congenial to him, but in keeping a large retinue of servantsand taking what he called the "heavy line" of an English nobleman. The property must be his own, --or at any rate the life use of it. Heswore to himself over and over again that nothing should induce him toimpoverish the family or to leave the general affairs of the house ofScroope worse than he found them. Much less than half of that which heunderstood to be the income coming from the estates would suffice forhim. But let his uncle or aunt, --or his strait-laced methodical brother, say what they would to him, nothing should induce him to make himself aslave to an earldom. But yet his mind was much confused and his contentment by no meanscomplete. He knew that there must be a disagreeable scene betweenhimself and his uncle before he returned to Ireland, and he knew alsothat his uncle could, if he were so minded, stop his present veryliberal allowance altogether. There had been a bargain, no doubt, thathe should remain with his regiment for a year, and of that year sixmonths were still unexpired. His uncle could not quarrel with him forgoing back to Ireland; but what answer should he make when his uncleasked him whether he were engaged to marry Miss O'Hara, --as of course hewould ask; and what reply should he make when his uncle would demand ofhim whether he thought such a marriage fit for a man in his position. Heknew that it was not fit. He believed in the title, in the sanctity ofthe name, in the mysterious grandeur of the family. He did not thinkthat an Earl of Scroope ought to marry a girl of whom nothing whateverwas known. The pride of the position stuck to him;--but it irked him tofeel that the sacrifices necessary to support that pride should fall onhis own shoulders. One thing was impossible to him. He would not desert his Kate. But hewished to have his Kate, as a thing apart. If he could have given sixmonths of each year to his Kate, living that yacht-life of which he hadspoken, visiting those strange sunny places which his imagination hadpictured to him, unshackled by conventionalities, beyond the sound ofchurch bells, unimpeded by any considerations of family, --and then havemigrated for the other six months to his earldom and his estates, tohis hunting and perhaps to Parliament, leaving his Kate behind him, that would have been perfect. And why not? In the days which must comeso soon, he would be his own master. Who could impede his motions orgainsay his will? Then he remembered his Kate's mother, and the glanceswhich would come from the mother's eyes. There might be difficulty eventhough Scroope were all his own. He was not a villain;--simply a self-indulgent spoiled young man who hadrealized to himself no idea of duty in life. He never once told himselfthat Kate should be his mistress. In all the pictures which he drew forhimself of a future life everything was to be done for her happiness andfor her gratification. His yacht should be made a floating bower forher delight. During those six months of the year which, and which only, the provoking circumstances of his position would enable him to devoteto joy and love, her will should be his law. He did not think himselfto be fickle. He would never want another Kate. He would leave herwith sorrow. He would return to her with ecstasy. Everybody around himshould treat her with the respect due to an empress. But it would bevery expedient that she should be called Mrs. Neville instead of LadyScroope. Could things not be so arranged for him;--so arranged that hemight make a promise to his uncle, and yet be true to his Kate withoutbreaking his promise? That was his scheme. Jack said that his scheme wasimpracticable. But the difficulties in his way were not, he thought, somuch those which Jack had propounded as the angry eyes of Kate O'Hara'smother. At last the day was fixed for his departure. The Earl was already somuch better as to be able to leave his bedroom. Twice or thrice a dayFred saw his uncle, and there was much said about the affairs of theestate. The heir had taken some trouble, had visited some of thetenants, and had striven to seem interested in the affairs of theproperty. The Earl could talk for ever about the estate, every field, every fence, almost every tree on which was familiar to him. Thathis tenants should be easy in their circumstances, a protestant, church-going, rent-paying people, son following father, and daughtersmarrying as their mothers had married, unchanging, never sinking an inchin the social scale, or rising, --this was the wish nearest to his heart. Fred was well disposed to talk about the tenants as long as Kate O'Harawas not mentioned. When the Earl would mournfully speak of his owncoming death, as an event which could not now be far distant, Fred withfullest sincerity would promise that his wishes should be observed. Norents should be raised. The axe should be but sparingly used. It seemedto him strange that a man going into eternity should care about thistree or that;--but as far as he was concerned the trees should standwhile Nature supported them. No servant should be dismissed. Thecarriage horses should be allowed to die on the place. The old charitiesshould be maintained. The parson of the parish should always be awelcome guest at the Manor. No promise was difficult for him to make solong as that one question were left untouched. But when he spoke of the day of his departure as fixed, --as being "theday after to-morrow, "--then he knew that the question must be touched. "I am sorry, --very sorry, that you must go, " said the Earl. "You see a man can't leave the service at a moment's notice. " "I think that we could have got over that, Fred. " "Perhaps as regards the service we might, but the regiment would thinkill of me. You see, so many things depend on a man's staying or going. The youngsters mayn't have their money ready. I said I should remaintill October. " "I don't at all wish to act the tyrant to you. " "I know that, uncle. " Then there was a pause. "I haven't spoken to you yet, Fred, on a matterwhich has caused me a great deal of uneasiness. When you first came Iwas not strong enough to allude to it, and I left it to your aunt. "Neville knew well what was coming now, and was aware that he was movedin a manner that hardly became his manhood. "Your aunt tells me that youhave got into some trouble with a young lady in the west of Ireland. " "No trouble, uncle, I hope. " "Who is she?" Then there was another pause, but he gave a direct answer to thequestion. "She is a Miss O'Hara. " "A Roman Catholic?" "Yes. " "A girl of whose family you know nothing?" "I know that she lives with her mother. " "In absolute obscurity, --and poverty?" "They are not rich, " said Fred. "Do not suppose that I regard poverty as a fault. It is not necessarythat you should marry a girl with any fortune. " "I suppose not, Uncle Scroope. " "But I understand that this young lady is quite beneath yourself inlife. She lives with her mother in a little cottage, withoutservants, --" "There is a servant. " "You know what I mean, Fred. She does not live as ladies live. She isuneducated. " "You are wrong there, my lord. She has been at an excellent school inFrance. " "In France! Who was her father, and what?" "I do not know what her father was;--a Captain O'Hara, I believe. " "And you would marry such a girl as that;--a Roman Catholic; picked upon the Irish coast, --one of whom nobody knows even her parentage orperhaps her real name? It would kill me, Fred. " "I have not said that I mean to marry her. " "But what do you mean? Would you ruin her;--seduce her by false promisesand then leave her? Do you tell me that in cold blood you look forwardto such a deed as that?" "Certainly not. " "I hope not, my boy; I hope not that. Do not tell me that a heartlessscoundrel is to take my name when I am gone. " "I am not a heartless scoundrel, " said Fred Neville, jumping up from hisseat. "Then what is it that you mean? You have thought, have you not, of theduties of the high position to which you are called? You do not supposethat wealth is to be given to you, and a great name, and all theappanages and power of nobility, in order that you may eat more, anddrink more, and lie softer than others. It is because some think so, andact upon such base thoughts, that the only hereditary peerage left inthe world is in danger of encountering the ill will of the people. Areyou willing to be known only as one of those who have disgraced theirorder?" "I do not mean to disgrace it. " "But you will disgrace it if you marry such a girl as that. If she werefit to be your wife, would not the family of Lord Kilfenora have knownher?" "I don't think much of their not knowing her, uncle. " "Who does know her? Who can say that she is even what she pretends tobe? Did you not promise me that you would make no such marriage?" He was not strong to defend his Kate. Such defence would have been inopposition to his own ideas, in antagonism with the scheme which he hadmade for himself. He understood, almost as well as did his uncle, thatKate O'Hara ought not to be made Countess of Scroope. He too thoughtthat were she to be presented to the world as the Countess of Scroope, she would disgrace the title. And yet he would not be a villain! And yethe would not give her up! He could only fall back upon his scheme. "MissO'Hara is as good as gold, " he said; "but I acknowledge that she is notfit to be mistress of this house. " "Fred, " said the Earl, almost in a passion of affectionate solicitude, "do not go back to Ireland. We will arrange about the regiment. No harmshall be done to any one. My health will be your excuse, and the lawyersshall arrange it all. " "I must go back, " said Neville. Then the Earl fell back in his chair andcovered his face with his hands. "I must go back; but I will give you myhonour as a gentleman to do nothing that shall distress you. " "You will not marry her?" "No. " "And, oh, Fred, as you value your own soul, do not injure a poor girlso desolate as that. Tell her and tell her mother the honest truth. Ifthere be tears, will not that be better than sorrow, and disgrace, andruin?" Among evils there must always be a choice; and the Earl thoughtthat a broken promise was the lightest of those evils to a choice amongwhich his nephew had subjected himself. And so the interview was over, and there had been no quarrel. FredNeville had given the Earl a positive promise that he would not marryKate O'Hara, --to whom he had sworn a thousand times that she shouldbe his wife. Such a promise, however, --so he told himself--is neverintended to prevail beyond the lifetime of the person to whom it ismade. He had bound himself not to marry Kate O'Hara while his unclelived, and that was all. Or might it not be better to take his uncle's advice altogether and tellthe truth, --not to Kate, for that he could not do, --but to Mrs. O'Haraor to Father Marty? As he thought of this he acknowledged to himselfthat the task of telling such a truth to Mrs. O'Hara would be almostbeyond his strength. Could he not throw himself upon the priest'scharity, and leave it all to him? Then he thought of his own Kate, andsome feeling akin to genuine love told him that he could not part withthe girl in such fashion as that. He would break his heart were he tolose his Kate. When he looked at it in that light it seemed to him thatKate was more to him than all the family of the Scroopes with all theirglory. Dear, sweet, soft, innocent, beautiful Kate! His Kate who, ashe knew well, worshipped the very ground on which he trod! It was notpossible that he should separate himself from Kate O'Hara. On his return to Ireland he turned that scheme of his over and overagain in his head. Surely something might be done if the priest wouldstand his friend! What if he were to tell the whole truth to thepriest, and ask for such assistance as a priest might give him? But theone assurance to which he came during his journey was this;--that whena man goes in for adventures, he requires a good deal of skill and somecourage too to carry him through them. VOLUME II. CHAPTER I. FROM BAD TO WORSE. As he was returning to Ennis Neville was so far removed from immediatedistress as to be able to look forward without fear to his meeting withthe two ladies at Ardkill. He could as yet take his Kate in his armswithout any hard load upon his heart, such as would be there if he knewthat it was incumbent upon him at once to explain his difficulties. Hisuncle was still living, but was old and still ill. He would naturallymake the most of the old man's age and infirmities. There was everyreason why they should wait, and no reason why such waiting should bringreproaches upon his head. On the night of his arrival at his quarters hedespatched a note to his Kate. Dearest love. Here I am again in the land of freedom and potatoes. I need not trouble you with writing about home news, as I shall see you the day after to-morrow. All to-morrow and Wednesday morning I must stick close to my guns here. After one on Wednesday I shall be free. I will drive over to Lahinch, and come round in the boat. I must come back here the same night, but I suppose it will be the next morning before I get to bed. I sha'n't mind that if I get something for my pains. My love to your mother. Your own, F. N. In accordance with this plan he did drive over to Lahinch. He might havesaved time by directing that his boat should come across the bay to meethim at Liscannor, but he felt that he would prefer not to meet FatherMarty at present. It might be that before long he would be driven totell the priest a good deal, and to ask for the priest's assistance; butat present he was not anxious to see Father Marty. Barney Morony waswaiting for him at the stable where he put up his horse, and went downwith him to the beach. The ladies, according to Barney, were quite welland more winsome than ever. But, --and this information was not givenwithout much delay and great beating about the bush, --there was arumour about Liscannor that Captain O'Hara had "turned up. " Fred wasso startled at this that he could not refrain from showing his anxietyby the questions which he asked. Barney did not seem to think that theCaptain had been at Ardkill or anywhere in the neighbourhood. At anyrate he, Barney, had not seen him. He had just heard the rumour. "Shure, Captain, I wouldn't be telling yer honour a lie; and they do be sayingthat the Captain one time was as fine a man as a woman ever sot eyeson;--and why not, seeing what kind the young lady is, God bless her!" Ifit were true that Kate's father had "turned up, " such an advent mightvery naturally alter Neville's plans. It would so change the position ofthings as to relieve him in some degree from the force of his pastpromises. Nevertheless when he saw Kate coming along the cliffs to meet him, theone thing more certain to him than all other things was that he wouldnever abandon her. She had been watching for him almost from the hour atwhich he had said that he would leave Ennis, and, creeping up among therocks, had seen his boat as it came round the point from Liscannor. Shehad first thought that she would climb down the path to meet him; butthe tide was high and there was now no strip of strand below the cliffs;and Barney Morony would have been there to see; and she resolved that itwould be nicer to wait for him on the summit. "Oh Fred, you have comeback, " she said, throwing herself on his breast. "Yes; I am back. Did you think I was going to desert you?" "No; no. I knew you would not desert me. Oh, my darling!" "Dear Kate;--dearest Kate. " "You have thought of me sometimes?" "I have thought of you always, --every hour. " And so he swore to her thatshe was as much to him as he could possibly be to her. She hung on hisarm as she went down to the cottage, and believed herself to be thehappiest and most fortunate girl in Ireland. As yet no touch of thesorrows of love had fallen upon her. He could not all at once ask her as to that rumour which Morony hadmentioned to him. But he thought of it as he walked with his arm roundher waist. Some question must be asked, but it might, perhaps, be betterthat he should ask it of the mother. Mrs. O'Hara was at the cottage andseemed almost as glad to see him as Kate had been. "It is very pleasantto have you back again, " she said. "Kate has been counting first thehours, and then the minutes. " "And so have you, mother. " "Of course we want to hear all the news, " said Mrs. O'Hara. ThenNeville, with the girl who was to be his wife sitting close beside himon the sofa, --almost within his embrace, --told them how things weregoing at Scroope. His uncle was very weak, --evidently failing; but stillso much better as to justify the heir in coming away. He might perhapslive for another twelve months, but the doctors thought it hardlypossible that he should last longer than that. Then the nephew wenton to say that his uncle was the best and most generous man in theworld, --and the finest gentleman and the truest Christian. He told alsoof the tenants who were not to be harassed, and the servants who werenot to be dismissed, and the horses that were to be allowed to die intheir beds, and the trees that were not to be cut down. "I wish I knew him, " said Kate. "I wish I could have seen him once. " "That can never be, " said Fred, sadly. "No;--of course not. " Then Mrs. O'Hara asked a question. "Has he ever heard of us?" "Yes;--he has heard of you. " "From you?" "No;--not first from me. There are many reasons why I would not havementioned your names could I have helped it. He has wished me to marryanother girl, --and especially a Protestant girl. That was impossible. " "That must be impossible now, Fred, " said Kate, looking up into hisface. "Quite so, dearest; but why should I have vexed him, seeing that he isso good to me, and that he must be gone so soon?" "Who had told him of us?" asked Mrs. O'Hara. "That woman down there at Castle Quin. " "Lady Mary?" "Foul-tongued old maid that she is, " exclaimed Fred. "She writes to myaunt by every post, I believe. " "What evil can she say of us?" "She does say evil. Never mind what. Such a woman always says evil ofthose of her sex who are good-looking. " "There, mother;--that's for you, " said Kate, laughing. "I don't carewhat she says. " "If she tells your aunt that we live in a small cottage, withoutservants, without society, with just the bare necessaries of life, shetells the truth of us. " "That's just what she does say;--and she goes on harping aboutreligion. Never mind her. You can understand that my uncle should beold-fashioned. He is very old, and we must wait. " "Waiting is so weary, " said Mrs. O'Hara. "It is not weary for me at all, " said Kate. Then he left them, without having said a word about the Captain. Hefound the Captain to be a subject very uncomfortable to mention, andthought as he was sitting there that it might perhaps be better to makehis first enquiries of this priest. No one said a word to him about theCaptain beyond what he had heard from his boatman. For, as it happened, he did not see the priest till May was nearly past, and during all thattime things were going from bad to worse. As regarded any services whichhe rendered to the army at this period of his career, the excuses whichhe had made to his uncle were certainly not valid. Some pretence atpositively necessary routine duties it must be supposed that he made;but he spent more of his time either on the sea, or among the cliffswith Kate, or on the road going backwards and forwards, than he did athis quarters. It was known that he was to leave the regiment and becomea great man at home in October, and his brother officers were kind tohim. And it was known also, of course, that there was a young lady downon the sea coast beyond Ennistimon, and doubtless there were jokes onthe subject. But there was no one with him at Ennis having such weightof fears or authority as might have served to help to rescue him. Duringthis time Lady Mary Quin still made her reports, and his aunt's letterswere full of cautions and entreaties. "I am told, " said the Countess, inone of her now detested epistles, "that the young woman has a reprobatefather who has escaped from the galleys. Oh, Fred, do not break ourhearts. " He had almost forgotten the Captain when he received thisfurther rumour which had circulated to him round by Castle Quin andScroope Manor. It was all going from bad to worse. He was allowed by the mother to beat the cottage as much as he pleased, and the girl was allowed to wanderwith him when she would among the cliffs. It was so, although FatherMarty himself had more than once cautioned Mrs. O'Hara that she wasimprudent. "What can I do?" she said. "Have not you yourself taught meto believe that he is true?" "Just spake a word to Miss Kate herself. " "What can I say to her now? She regards him as her husband before God. " "But he is not her husband in any way that would prevent his takinganother wife an' he plases. And, believe me, Misthress O'Hara, them sortof young men like a girl a dale better when there's a little 'Stand off'about her. " "It is too late to bid her to be indifferent to him now, Father Marty. " "I am not saying that Miss Kate is to lose her lover. I hope I'll havethe binding of 'em together myself, and I'll go bail I'll do it fastenough. In the meanwhile let her keep herself to herself a little more. " The advice was very good, but Mrs. O'Hara knew not how to make use ofit. She could tell the young man that she would have his heart's bloodif he deceived them, and she could look at him as though she meant to beas good as her word. She had courage enough for any great emergency. Butnow that the lover had been made free of the cottage she knew not how todebar him. She could not break her Kate's heart by expressing doubts toher. And were he to be told to stay away, would he not be lost to themfor ever? Of course he could desert them if he would, and then they mustdie. It was going from bad to worse certainly; and not the less so becausehe was more than ever infatuated about the girl. When he had calculatedwhether it might be possible to desert her he had been at Scroope. Hewas in County Clare now, and he did not hesitate to tell himself thatit was impossible. Whatever might happen, and to whomever he might befalse, --he would be true to her. He would at any rate be so true to herthat he would not leave her. If he never made her his legal wife, hiswife legal at all points, he would always treat her as wife. When hisuncle the Earl should die, when the time came in which he would beabsolutely free as to his own motions, he would discover the way inwhich this might best be done. If it were true that his Kate's fatherwas a convict escaped from the galleys, that surely would be anadditional reason why she should not be made Countess of Scroope. EvenMrs. O'Hara herself must understand that. With Kate, with his own Kate, he thought that there would be no difficulty. From bad to worse! Alas, alas; there came a day in which thepricelessness of the girl he loved sank to nothing, vanished away, andwas as a thing utterly lost, even in his eyes. The poor unfortunateone, --to whom beauty had been given, and grace, and softness, --andbeyond all these and finer than these, innocence as unsullied as thewhiteness of the plumage on the breast of a dove; but to whom, alas, had not been given a protector strong enough to protect her softness, or guardian wise enough to guard her innocence! To her he was godlike, noble, excellent, all but holy. He was the man whom Fortune, more thankind, had sent to her to be the joy of her existence, the fountain ofher life, the strong staff for her weakness. Not to believe in him wouldbe the foulest treason! To lose him would be to die! To deny him wouldbe to deny her God! She gave him all;--and her pricelessness in his eyeswas gone for ever. He was sitting with her one day towards the end of May on the edge ofthe cliff, looking down upon the ocean and listening to the waves, whenit occurred to him that he might as well ask her about her father. It was absurd he thought to stand upon any ceremony with her. He wasvery good to her, and intended to be always good to her, but it wasessentially necessary to him to know the truth. He was not aware, perhaps, that he was becoming rougher with her than had been his wont. She certainly was not aware of it, though there was a touch of awesometimes about her as she answered him. She was aware that she nowshewed to him an absolute obedience in all things which had not beencustomary with her; but then it was so sweet to obey him; so happy athing to have such a master! If he rebuked her, he did it with his armround her waist, so that she could look into his face and smile as shepromised that she would be good and follow his behests in all things. Hehad been telling her now of some fault in her dress, and she had beenexplaining that such faults would come when money was so scarce. Then hehad offered her gifts. A gift she would of course take. She had alreadytaken gifts which were the treasures of her heart. But he must not paythings for her till, --till--. Then she again looked up into his face andsmiled. "You are not angry with me?" she said. "Kate, --I want to ask you a particular question. " "What question?" "You must not suppose, let the answer be what it may, that it can makeany difference between you and me. " "Oh, --I hope not, " she replied trembling. "It shall make none, " he answered with all a master's assurance andauthority. "Therefore you need not be afraid to answer me. Tidings havereached me on a matter as to which I ought to be informed. " "What matter? Oh Fred, you do so frighten me. I'll tell you anything Iknow. " "I have been told that--that your father--is alive. " He looked downupon her and could see that her face was red up to her very hair. "Yourmother once told me that she had never been certain of his death. " "I used to think he was dead. " "But now you think he is alive?" "I think he is;--but I do not know. I never saw my father so as toremember him; though I do remember that we used to be very unhappy whenwe were in Spain. " "And what have you heard lately? Tell me the truth, you know. " "Of course I shall tell you the truth, Fred. I think mother got aletter, but she did not shew it me. She said just a word, but nothingmore. Father Marty will certainly know if she knows. " "And you know nothing?" "Nothing. " "I think I must ask Father Marty. " "But will it matter to you?" Kate asked. "At any rate it shall not matter to you, " he said, kissing her. Andthen again she was happy; though there had now crept across her heartthe shadow of some sad foreboding, a foretaste of sorrow that was notaltogether bitter as sorrow is, but which taught her to cling closelyto him when he was there and would fill her eyes with tears when shethought of him in his absence. On this day he had not found Mrs. O'Hara at the cottage. She had gonedown to Liscannor, Kate told him. He had sent his boat back to thestrand near that village, round the point and into the bay, as it couldnot well lie under the rocks at high tide, and he now asked Kate toaccompany him as he walked down. They would probably meet her mother onthe road. Kate, as she tied on her hat, was only too happy to be hiscompanion. "I think, " he said, "that I shall try and see Father Marty asI go back. If your mother has really heard anything about your father, she ought to have told me. " "Don't be angry with mother, Fred. " "I won't be angry with you, my darling, " said the master with masterfultenderness. Although he had intimated his intention of calling on the priest thatvery afternoon, it may be doubted whether he was altogether gratifiedwhen he met the very man with Mrs. O'Hara close to the old buryingground. "Ah, Mr. Neville, " said the priest, "and how's it all wid youthis many a day?" "The top of the morning to you thin, Father Marty, " said Fred, tryingto assume an Irish brogue. Nothing could be more friendly than thegreeting. The old priest took off his hat to Kate, and made a low bow, as though he should say, --to the future Countess of Scroope I owe a veryespecial respect. Mrs. O'Hara held her future son-in-law's hand for amoment, as though she might preserve him for her daughter by some showof affection on her own part. "And now, Misthress O'Hara, " said thepriest, "as I've got a companion to go back wid me, I'm thinking I'llnot go up the hill any further. " Then they parted, and Kate looked asthough she were being robbed of her due because her lover could not giveher one farewell kiss in the priest's presence. CHAPTER II. IS SHE TO BE YOUR WIFE? "It's quite a sthranger you are, these days, " said the priest, as soonas they had turned their backs upon the ladies. "Well; yes. We haven't managed to meet since I came back;--have we?" "I've been pretty constant at home, too. But you like them cliffs upthere, better than the village no doubt. " "Metal more attractive, Father Marty, " said Fred laughing;--"not meaninghowever any slight upon Liscannor or the Cork whisky. " "The Cork whisky is always to the fore, Mr. Neville. And how did youlave matters with your noble uncle?" Neville at the present moment was anxious rather to speak of Kate'signoble father than of his own noble uncle. He had declared hisintention of making inquiry of Father Marty, and he thought that heshould do so with something of a high hand. He still had that schemein his head, and he might perhaps be better prepared to discuss itwith the priest if he could first make this friend of the O'Hara familyunderstand how much he, Neville, was personally injured by this "turningup" of a disreputable father. But, should he allow the priest at once torun away to Scroope and his noble uncle, the result of such conversationwould simply be renewed promises on his part in reference to his futureconduct to Kate O'Hara. "Lord Scroope wasn't very well when I left him. By the bye, FatherMarty, I've been particularly anxious to see you. " "'Deed thin I was aisy found, Mr. Neville. " "What is this I hear about--Captain O'Hara?" "What is it that you have heard, Mr. Neville?" Fred looked into thepriest's face and found that he, at least, did not blush. It may be thatall power of blushing had departed from Father Marty. "In the first place I hear that there is such a man. " "Ony way there was once. " "You think he's dead then?" "I don't say that. It's a matter of, --faith, thin, it's a matter of nightwenty years since I saw the Captain. And when I did see him I didn'tlike him. I can tell you that, Mr. Neville. " "I suppose not. " "That lass up there was not born when I saw him. He was a handsome mantoo, and might have been a gentleman av' he would. " "But he wasn't. " "It's a hard thing to say what is a gentleman, Mr. Neville. I don't knowa much harder thing. Them folk at Castle Quin, now, wouldn't scrupleto say that I'm no gentleman, just because I'm a Popish priest. I saythat Captain O'Hara was no gentleman because--he ill-treated a woman. "Father Marty as he said this stopped a moment on the road, turning roundand looking Neville full in the face. Fred bore the look fairly well. Perhaps at the moment he did not understand its application. It may bethat he still had a clear conscience in that matter, and thought that hewas resolved to treat Kate O'Hara after a fashion that would in no waydetract from his own character as a gentleman. "As it was, " continuedthe priest, "he was a low blag-guard. " "He hadn't any money, I suppose?" "'Deed and I don't think he was iver throubled much in respect of money. But money doesn't matter, Mr. Neville. " "Not in the least, " said Fred. "Thim ladies up there are as poor as Job, but anybody that should saythat they weren't ladies would just be shewing that he didn't know thedifference. The Captain was well born, Mr. Neville, av' that makes onyodds. " "Birth does go for something, Father Marty. " "Thin let the Captain have the advantage. Them O'Haras of Kildareweren't proud of him I'm thinking, but he was a chip of that block; andsome one belonging to him had seen the errors of the family ways, inrespect of making him a Papist. 'Deed and I must say, Mr. Neville, whenthey send us any offsets from a Prothestant family it isn't the bestthat they give us. " "I suppose not, Father Marty. " "We can make something of a bit of wood that won't take ony shape atall, at all along wid them. But there wasn't much to boast of along ofthe Captain. " "But is he alive, Father Marty;--or is he dead? I think I've a right tobe told. " "I am glad to hear you ask it as a right, Mr. Neville. You have a rightif that young lady up there is to be your wife. " Fred made no answerhere, though the priest paused for a moment, hoping that he would doso. But the question could be asked again, and Father Marty went on totell all that he knew, and all that he had heard of Captain O'Hara. Hewas alive. Mrs. O'Hara had received a letter purporting to be from herhusband, giving an address in London, and asking for money. He, FatherMarty, had seen the letter; and he thought that there might perhaps be adoubt whether it was written by the man of whom they were speaking. Mrs. O'Hara had declared that if it were so written the handwriting was muchaltered. But then in twelve years the writing of a man who drank hardwill change. It was twelve years since she had last received a letterfrom him. "And what do you believe?" "I think he lives, and that he wrote it, Mr. Neville. I'll tell youGod's truth about it as I believe it, because as I said before, I thinkyou are entitled to know the truth. " "And what was done?" "I sent off to London, --to a friend I have. " "And what did your friend say?" "He says there is a man calling himself Captain O'Hara. " "And is that all?" "She got a second letter. She got it the very last day you was downhere. Pat Cleary took it up to her when you was out wid Miss Kate. " "He wants money, I suppose. " "Just that, Mr. Neville. " "It makes a difference;--doesn't it?" "How does it make a difference?" "Well; it does. I wonder you don't see it. You must see it. " From thatmoment Father Marty said in his heart that Kate O'Hara had lost herhusband. Not that he admitted for a moment that Captain O'Hara's return, if he had returned, would justify the lover in deserting the girl; butthat he perceived that Neville had already allowed himself to entertainthe plea. The whole affair had in the priest's estimation been full ofperil; but then the prize to be won was very great! From the first hehad liked the young man, and had not doubted, --did not now doubt, --butthat if once married he would do justice to his wife. Even thoughKate should fail and should come out of the contest with a scorchedheart, --and that he had thought more than probable, --still the prize wasvery high and the girl he thought was one who could survive such a blow. Latterly, in that respect he had changed his opinion. Kate had shewnherself to be capable of so deep a passion that he was now sure thatshe would be more than scorched should the fire be one to injure andnot to cherish her. But the man's promises had been so firm, so oftenreiterated, were so clearly written, that the priest had almost dared tohope that the thing was assured. Now, alas, he perceived that the embryoEnglish lord was already looking for a means of escape, and alreadythought that he had found it in this unfortunate return of the father. The whole extent of the sorrow even the priest did not know. But he wasdetermined to fight the battle to the very last. The man should make thegirl his wife, or he, Father Marty, parish priest of Liscannor, wouldknow the reason why. He was a man who was wont to desire to know thereason why, as to matters which he had taken in hand. But when he heardthe words which Neville spoke and marked the tone in which they wereuttered he felt that the young man was preparing for himself a way ofescape. "I don't see that it should make any difference, " he said shortly. "If the man be disreputable, --" "The daughter is not therefore disreputable. Her position is notchanged. " "I have to think of my friends. " "You should have thought of that before you declared yourself to her, Mr. Neville. " How true this was now, the young man knew better thanthe priest, but that, as yet, was his own secret. "You do not mean totell me that because the father is not all that he should be, she istherefore to be thrown over. That cannot be your idea of honour. Haveyou not promised that you would make her your wife?" The priest stoppedfor an answer, but the young man made him none. "Of course you havepromised her. " "I suppose she has told you so. " "To whom should she tell her story? To whom should she go for advice?But it was you who told me so, yourself. " "Never. " "Did you not swear to me that you would not injure her? And why shouldthere have been any talk with you and me about her, but that I sawwhat was coming? When a young man like you chooses to spend his hoursday after day and week after week with such a one as she is, with abeautiful young girl, a sweet innocent young lady, so sweet as to makeeven an ould priest like me feel that the very atmosphere she breathesis perfumed and hallowed, must it not mean one of two things;--that hedesires to make her his wife or else, --or else something so vile thatI will not name it in connection with Kate O'Hara? Then as her mother'sfriend, and as hers, --as their only friend near them, I spoke outplainly to you, and you swore to me that you intended no harm to her. " "I would not harm her for the world. " "When you said that, you told me as plainly as you could spake that sheshould be your wife. With her own mouth she never told me. Her motherhas told me. Daily Mrs. O'Hara has spoken to me of her hopes and fears. By the Lord above me whom I worship, and by His Son in whom I rest allmy hopes, I would not stand in your shoes if you intend to tell thatwoman that after all that has passed you mean to desert her child. " "Who has talked of deserting?" asked Neville angrily. "Say that you will be true to her, that you will make her your wifebefore God and man, and I will humbly ask your pardon. " "All that I say is that this Captain O'Hara's coming is a nuisance. " "If that be all, there is an end of it. It is a nuisance. Not that Isuppose he ever will come. If he persists she must send him a littlemoney. There shall be no difficulty about that. She will never ask youto supply the means of keeping her husband. " "It isn't the money. I think you hardly understand my position, FatherMarty. " It seemed to Neville that if it was ever his intention to openout his scheme to the priest, now was his time for doing so. They hadcome to the cross roads at which one way led down to the village and toFather Marty's house, and the other to the spot on the beach where theboat would be waiting. "I can't very well go on to Liscannor, " saidNeville. "Give me your word before we part that you will keep your promise toMiss O'Hara, " said the priest. "If you will step on a few yards with me I will tell you just how I amsituated. " Then the priest assented, and they both went on towards thebeach, walking very slowly. "If I alone were concerned, I would giveup everything for Miss O'Hara. I am willing to give up everything asregards myself. I love her so dearly that she is more to me than all thehonours and wealth that are to come to me when my uncle dies. " "What is to hinder but that you should have the girl you love and youruncle's honours and wealth into the bargain?" "That is just it. " "By the life of me I don't see any difficulty. You're your own masther. The ould Earl can't disinherit you if he would. " "But I am bound down. " "How bound? Who can bind you?" "I am bound not to make Miss O'Hara Countess of Scroope. " "What binds you? You are bound by a hundred promises to make her yourwife. " "I have taken an oath that no Roman Catholic shall become CountessScroope as my wife. " "Then, Mr. Neville, let me tell you that you must break your oath. " "Would you have me perjure myself?" "Faith I would. Perjure yourself one way you certainly must, av' you'vetaken such an oath as that, for you've sworn many oaths that you wouldmake this Catholic lady your wife. Not make a Roman Catholic Countess ofScroope! It's the impudence of some of you Prothestants that kills meentirely. As though we couldn't count Countesses against you and beatyou by chalks! I ain't the man to call hard names, Mr. Neville; but ifone of us is upstarts, it's aisy seeing which. Your uncle's an ould man, and I'm told nigh to his latter end. I'm not saying but what you shouldrespect even his wakeness. But you'll not look me in the face and tellme that afther what's come and gone that young lady is to be cast on oneside like a plucked rose, because an ould man has spoken a foolish word, or because a young man has made a wicked promise. " They were now standing again, and Fred raised his hat and rubbed hisforehead as he endeavoured to arrange the words in which he could bestpropose his scheme to the priest. He had not yet escaped from the ideathat because Father Marty was a Roman Catholic priest, living in avillage in the extreme west of Ireland, listening night and day to theroll of the Atlantic and drinking whisky punch, therefore he would befound to be romantic, semi-barbarous, and perhaps more than semi-lawlessin his views of life. Irish priests have been made by chroniclers ofIrish story to do marvellous things; and Fred Neville thought thatthis priest, if only the matter could be properly introduced, mightbe persuaded to do for him something romantic, something marvellous, perhaps something almost lawless. In truth it might have been difficultto find a man more practical or more honest than Mr. Marty. And thenthe difficulty of introducing the subject was very great. Neville stoodwith his face a little averted, rubbing his forehead as he raised hissailor's hat. "If you could only read my heart, " he said, "you'd knowthat I am as true as steel. " "I'd be lothe to doubt it, Mr. Neville. " "I'd give up everything to call Kate my own. " "But you need give up nothing, and yet have her all your own. " "You say that because you don't completely understand. It may as well betaken for granted at once that she can never be Countess of Scroope. " "Taken for granted!" said the old man as the fire flashed out of hiseyes. "Just listen to me for one moment. I will marry her to-morrow, or at anytime you may fix, if a marriage can be so arranged that she shall neverbe more than Mrs. Neville. " "And what would you be?" "Mr. Neville. " "And what would her son be?" "Oh;--just the same, --when he grew up. Perhaps there wouldn't be a son. " "God forbid that there should on those terms. You intend that yourchildren and her children shall be--bastards. That's about it, Mr. Neville. " The romance seemed to vanish when the matter was submittedto him in this very prosaic manner. "As to what you might choose tocall yourself, that would be nothing to me and not very much I shouldsay, to her. I believe a man needn't be a lord unless he likes to be alord;--and needn't call his wife a countess. But, Mr. Neville, when youhave married Miss O'Hara, and when your uncle shall have died, there canbe no other Countess of Scroope, and her child must be the heir to youruncle's title. " "All that I could give her except that, she should have. " "But she must have that. She must be your wife before God and man, andher children must be the children of honour and not of disgrace. "Ah, --if the priest had known it all! "I would live abroad with her, and her mother should live with us. " "You mean that you would take Kate O'Hara as your misthress! And youmake this as a proposal to me! Upon my word, Mr. Neville, I don't thinkthat I quite understand what it is that you're maning to say to me. Isshe to be your wife?" "Yes, " said Neville, urged by the perturbation of his spirit to give astronger assurance than he had intended. "Then must her son if she have one be the future Earl of Scroope. He maybe Protesthant, --or what you will?" "You don't understand me, Father Marty. " "Faith, and that's thrue. But we are at the baich, Mr. Neville, and I'vetwo miles along the coast to Liscannor. " "Shall I make Barney take you round in the canoe?" "I believe I may as well walk it. Good-bye, Mr. Neville. I'm glad at anyrate to hear you say so distinctly that you are resolved at all hazardsto make that dear girl your wife. " This he said, almost in a whisper, standing close to the boat, with his hand on Neville's shoulder. Hepaused a moment as though to give special strength to his words, andNeville did not dare or was not able to protest against the assertion. Father Marty himself was certainly not romantic in his manner ofmanaging such an affair as this in which they were now both concerned. Neville went back to Ennis much depressed, turning the matter over inhis mind almost hopelessly. This was what had come from his adventures!No doubt he might marry the girl, --postponing his marriage till afterhis uncle's death. For aught he knew as yet that might still bepossible. But were he to do so, he would disgrace his family, anddisgrace himself by breaking the solemn promise he had made. And in suchcase he would be encumbered, and possibly be put beyond the pale of thatsort of life which should be his as Earl of Scroope, by having CaptainO'Hara as his father-in-law. He was aware now that he would be held byall his natural friends to have ruined himself by such a marriage. On the other hand he could, no doubt, throw the girl over. They couldnot make him marry her though they could probably make him pay verydearly for not doing so. If he could only harden his heart sufficientlyhe could escape in that way. But he was not hard, and he did feel thatso escaping, he would have a load on his breast which would make hislife unendurable. Already he was beginning to hate the coast of Ireland, and to think that the gloom of Scroope Manor was preferable to it. CHAPTER III. FRED NEVILLE RECEIVES A VISITOR AT ENNIS. For something over three weeks after his walk with the priest Nevillesaw neither of the two ladies of Ardkill. Letters were frequent betweenthe cottage and the barracks at Ennis, but, --so said Fred himself, military duties detained him with the troop. He explained that he hadbeen absent a great deal, and that now Captain Johnstone was taking hisshare of ease. He was all alone at the barracks, and could not get away. There was some truth in this, created perhaps by the fact that as hedidn't stir, Johnstone could do so. Johnstone was backwards and forwards, fishing at Castle Connel, and Neville was very exact in explaining thatfor the present he was obliged to give up all the delights of the coast. But the days were days of trial to him. A short history of the life of Captain O'Hara was absolutely sent tohim by the Countess of Scroope. The family lawyer, at the instance ofthe Earl, --as she said, though probably her own interference had beenmore energetic than that of the Earl, --had caused enquiries to be made. Captain O'Hara, the husband of the lady who was now living on the coastof County Clare, and who was undoubtedly the father of the Miss O'Harawhom Fred knew, had passed at least ten of the latter years of hislife at the galleys in the south of France. He had been engaged inan extensive swindling transaction at Bordeaux, and had thence beentransferred to Toulon, had there been maintained by France, --and was nowin London. The Countess in sending this interesting story to her nephewat Ennis, with ample documentary evidence, said that she was sure thathe would not degrade his family utterly by thinking of allying himselfwith people who were so thoroughly disreputable; but that, after allthat was passed, his uncle expected from him a renewed assurance on thematter. He answered this in anger. He did not understand why the historyof Captain O'Hara should have been raked up. Captain O'Hara was nothingto him. He supposed it had come from Castle Quin, and anything fromCastle Quin he disbelieved. He had given a promise once and he didn'tunderstand why he should be asked for any further assurance. Hethought it very hard that his life should be made a burden to him byfoul-mouthed rumours from Castle Quin. That was the tenour of his letterto his aunt; but even that letter sufficed to make it almost certainthat he could never marry the girl. He acknowledged that he had boundhimself not to do so. And then, in spite of all that he said about themendacity of Castle Quin, he did believe the little history. And itwas quite out of the question that he should marry the daughter of areturned galley-slave. He did not think that any jury in England wouldhold him to be bound by such a promise. Of course he would do whateverhe could for his dear Kate; but, even after all that had passed, hecould not pollute himself by marriage with the child of so vile afather. Poor Kate! Her sufferings would have been occasioned not by him, but by her father. In the meantime Kate's letters to him became more and more frequent, more and more sad, --filled ever with still increasing warmth ofentreaty. At last they came by every post, though he knew how difficultit must be for her to find daily messengers into Ennistimon. Would henot come and see her? He must come and see her. She was ill and woulddie unless he came to her. He did not always answer these letters, buthe did write to her perhaps twice a week. He would come very soon, --assoon as Johnstone had come back from his fishing. She was not to fretherself. Of course he could not always be at Ardkill. He too had thingsto trouble him. Then he told her he had received letters from home whichcaused him very much trouble; and there was a something of sharpnessin his words, which brought from her a string of lamentations inwhich, however, the tears and wailings did not as yet take the formof reproaches. Then there came a short note from Mrs. O'Hara herself. "I must beg that you will come to Ardkill at once. It is absolutelynecessary for Kate's safety that you should do so. " When he received this he thought that he would go on the morrow. Whenthe morrow came he determined to postpone the journey another day! Thecalls of duty are so much less imperious than those of pleasure! On thatfurther day he still meant to go, as he sat about noon unbraced, only. Partly dressed in his room at the barracks. His friend Johnstone was backin Ennis, and there was also a Cornet with the troop. He had no excusewhatever on the score of military duty for remaining at home on thatday. But he sat idling his time, thinking of things. All the charm ofthe adventure was gone. He was sick of the canoe and of Barney Morony. He did not care a straw for the seals or wild gulls. The moaning of theocean beneath the cliff was no longer pleasurable to him, --and as to themoaning at their summit, to tell the truth, he was afraid of it. Thelong drive thither and back was tedious to him. He thought now more ofthe respectability of his family than of the beauty of Kate O'Hara. But still he meant to go, --certainly would go on this very day. He haddesired that his gig should be ready, and had sent word to say that hemight start at any moment. But still he sat in his dressing-gown atnoon, unbraced, with a novel in his hand which he could not read, and apipe by his side which he could not smoke. Close to him on the table laythat record of the life of Captain O'Hara, which his aunt had sent him, every word of which he had now examined for the third or fourth time. Ofcourse he could not marry the girl. Mrs. O'Hara had deceived him. Shecould not but have known that her husband was a convict;--and had keptthe knowledge back from him in order that she might allure him to themarriage. Anything that money could do, he would do. Or, if they wouldconsent, he would take the girl away with him to some sunny distantclime, in which adventures might still be sweet, and would then devoteto her--some portion of his time. He had not yet ruined himself, buthe would indeed ruin himself were he, the heir to the earldom ofScroope, to marry the daughter of a man who had been at the Frenchgalleys! He had just made up his mind that he would be firm in thisresolution, --when the door opened and Mrs. O'Hara entered his room. "Mrs. O'Hara. " She closed the door carefully behind her before she spoke, excluding themilitary servant who had wished to bar her entrance. "Yes, sir; as youwould not come to us I have been forced to come to you. I know it all. When will you make my child your wife?" Yes. In the abjectness of her misery the poor girl had told her motherthe story of her disgrace; or, rather, in her weakness had suffered hersecret to fall from her lips. That terrible retribution was to come uponher which, when sin has been mutual, falls with so crushing a weightupon her who of the two sinners has ever been by far the less sinful. She, when she knew her doom, simply found herself bound by stillstronger ties of love to him who had so cruelly injured her. She was hisbefore; but now she was more than ever his. To have him near her, togive her orders that she might obey them, was the consolation that shecoveted, --the only consolation that could have availed anything to her. To lean against him, and to whisper to him, with face averted, withhalf-formed syllables, some fervent words that might convey to him atruth which might be almost a joy to her if he would make it so, --wasthe one thing that could restore hope to her bosom. Let him come and benear to her, so that she might hide her face upon his breast. But hecame not. He did not come, though, as best she knew how, she had thrownall her heart into her letters. Then her spirit sank within her, and shesickened, and as her mother knelt over her, she allowed her secret tofall from her. Fred Neville's sitting-room at Ennis was not a chamber prepared for thereception of ladies. It was very rough, as are usually barrack rooms inoutlying quarters in small towns in the west of Ireland, --and it wasalso very untidy. The more prudent and orderly of mankind might hardlyhave understood why a young man, with prospects and present wealth suchas belonged to Neville, should choose to spend a twelvemonth in such aroom, contrary to the wishes of all his friends, when London was opento him, and the continent, and scores of the best appointed houses inEngland, and all the glories of ownership at Scroope. There were gunsabout, and whips, hardly half a dozen books, and a few papers. Therewere a couple of swords lying on a table that looked like a dresser. Theroom was not above half covered with its carpet, and though there werethree large easy chairs, even they were torn and soiled. But all thishad been compatible with adventures, --and while the adventures weresimply romantic and not a bit troublesome, the barracks at Ennis hadbeen to him by far preferable to the gloomy grandeur of Scroope. And now Mrs. O'Hara was there, telling him that she knew of all! Not fora moment did he remain ignorant of the meaning of her communication. Andnow the arguments to be used against him in reference to the marriagewould be stronger than ever. A silly, painful smile came across hishandsome face as he attempted to welcome her, and moved a chair for heraccommodation. "I am so sorry that you have had the trouble of comingover, " he said. "That is nothing. When will you make my child your wife?" How was he toanswer this? In the midst of his difficulties he had brought himself toone determination. He had resolved that under no pressure would he marrythe daughter of O'Hara, the galley-slave. As far as that, he had seenhis way. Should he now at once speak of the galley-slave, and, withexpressions of regret, decline the alliance on that reason? Havingdishonoured this woman's daughter should he shelter himself behind thedishonour of her husband? That he meant to do so ultimately is true;but at the present moment such a task would have required a harderheart than his. She rose from her chair and stood close over him as sherepeated her demand, "When will you make my child your wife?" "You do not want me to answer you at this moment?" "Yes;--at this moment. Why not answer me at once? She has told me all. Mr. Neville, you must think not only of her, but of your child also. " "I hope not that, " he said. "I tell you that it is so. Now answer me. When shall my Kate become yourwife?" He still knew that any such consummation as that was quite out of thequestion. The mother herself as she was now present to him, seemed tobe a woman very different from the quiet, handsome, high-spirited, butlow-voiced widow whom he had known, or thought that he had known, atArdkill. Of her as she had there appeared to him he had not been ashamedto think as one who might at some future time be personally related tohimself. He had recognized her as a lady whose outward trappings, poorthough they might be, were suited to the seclusion in which she lived. But now, although it was only to Ennis that she had come from her nestamong the rocks, she seemed to be unfitted for even so much intercoursewith the world as that. And in the demand which she reiterated over himshe hardly spoke as a lady would speak. Would not all they who wereconnected with him at home have a right to complain if he were to bringsuch a woman with him to England as the mother of his wife. "I can'tanswer such a question as that on the spur of the moment, " he said. "You will not dare to tell me that you mean to desert her?" "Certainly not. I was coming over to Ardkill this very day. The trap isordered. I hope Kate is well?" "She is not well. How should she be well?" "Why not? I didn't know. If there is anything that she wants that I canget for her, you have only to speak. " In the utter contempt which Mrs. O'Hara now felt for the man sheprobably forgot that his immediate situation was one in which it wasnearly impossible that any man should conduct himself with dignity. Having brought himself to his present pass by misconduct, he coulddiscover no line of good conduct now open to him. Moralists might tellhim that let the girl's parentage be what it might, he ought to marryher; but he was stopped from that, not only by his oath, but by aconviction that his highest duty required him to preserve his familyfrom degradation. And yet to a mother, with such a demand on her lipsas that now made by Mrs. O'Hara, --whose demand was backed by suchcircumstances, --how was it possible that he should tell the truth andplead the honour of his family? His condition was so cruel that it wasno longer possible to him to be dignified or even true. The mother againmade her demand. "There is one thing that you must do for her beforeother things can be thought of. When shall she become your wife?" It was for a moment on his tongue to tell her that it could not be sowhile his uncle lived;--but to this he at once felt that there were twoobjections, directly opposed to each other, but each so strong as tomake any such reply very dangerous. It would imply a promise, which hecertainly did not intend to keep, of marrying the girl when his uncleshould be dead; and, although promising so much more than he intendedto perform, would raise the ungovernable wrath of the woman before him. That he should now hesitate, --now, in her Kate's present condition, --asto redeeming those vows of marriage which he had made to her in herinnocence, would raise a fury in the mother's bosom which he feared toencounter. He got up and walked about the room, while she stood with hereyes fixed upon him, ever and anon reiterating her demand. "No day mustnow be lost. When will you make my child your wife?" At last he made a proposition to which she assented. The tidingswhich she had brought him had come upon him very suddenly. He wasinexpressibly pained. Of course Kate, his dearest Kate, was everythingto him. Let him have that afternoon to think about it. On the morrow hewould assuredly visit Ardkill. The mother, full of fears, resolving thatshould he attempt to play her girl false and escape from her she wouldfollow him to the end of the world, but feeling that at the presentmoment she could not constrain him, accepted his repeated promise as tothe following day; and at last left him to himself. CHAPTER IV. NEVILLE'S SUCCESS. Neville sat in his room alone, without moving, for a couple of hoursafter Mrs. O'Hara had left him. In what way should he escape from themisery and ruin which seemed to surround him? An idea did cross hismind that it would be better for him to fly and write the truth fromthe comparatively safe distance of his London club. But there wouldbe a meanness in such conduct which would make it impossible that heshould ever again hold up his head. The girl had trusted to him, and bytrusting to him had brought herself to this miserable pass. He couldnot desert her. It would be better that he should go and endure allthe vials of their wrath than that. To her he would still be tenderlyloving, if she would accept his love without the name which he could notgive her. His whole life he would sacrifice to her. Every luxury whichmoney could purchase he would lavish on her. He must go and make hisoffer. The vials of wrath which would doubtless be poured out upon hishead would not come from her. In his heart of hearts he feared boththe priest and the mother. But there are moments in which a man feelshimself obliged to encounter all that he most fears;--and the man whodoes not do so in such moments is a coward. He quite made up his mind to start early on the following morning; butthe intermediate hours were very sad and heavy, and his whole outlookinto life was troublesome to him. How infinitely better would it havebeen for him had he allowed himself to be taught a twelvemonth sincethat his duty required him to give up the army at once! But he had madehis bed, and now he must lie upon it. There was no escape from thisjourney to Ardkill. Even though he should be stunned by their wrath hemust endure it. He breakfasted early the next day, and got into his gig before nine. He must face the enemy, and the earlier that he did it the better. Hisdifficulty now lay in arranging the proposition that he would make andthe words that he should speak. Every difficulty would be smoothed andevery danger dispelled if he would only say that he would marry the girlas quickly as the legal forms would allow. Father Marty, he knew, wouldsee to all that, and the marriage might be done effectually. He hadquite come to understand that Father Marty was practical rather thanromantic. But there would be cowardice in this as mean as that othercowardice. He believed himself to be bound by his duty to his family. Were he now to renew his promise of marriage, such renewal would becaused by fear and not by duty, and would be mean. They should tear himpiecemeal rather than get from him such a promise. Then he thought ofthe Captain, and perceived that he must make all possible use of theCaptain's character. Would anybody conceive that he, the heir of theScroope family, was bound to marry the daughter of a convict returnedfrom the galleys? And was it not true that such promise as he had madehad been obtained under false pretences? Why had he not been told of theCaptain's position when he first made himself intimate with the motherand daughter? Instead of going as was his custom to Lahinch, and then rowing acrossthe bay and round the point, he drove his gig to the village ofLiscannor. He was sick of Barney Morony and the canoe, and never desiredto see either of them again. He was sick indeed, of everything Irish, and thought that the whole island was a mistake. He drove however boldlythrough Liscannor and up to Father Marty's yard, and, not finding thepriest at home, there left his horse and gig. He had determined thathe would first go to the priest and boldly declare that nothing shouldinduce him to marry the daughter of a convict. But Father Marty was notat home. The old woman who kept his house believed that he had gone intoEnnistown. He was away with his horse, and would not be back till dinnertime. Then Neville, having seen his own nag taken from the gig, startedon his walk up to Ardkill. How ugly the country was to his eyes as he now saw it. Here and therestood a mud cabin, and the small, half-cultivated fields, or ratherpatches of land, in which the thin oat crops were beginning to begreen, were surrounded by low loose ramshackle walls, which were littlemore than heaps of stone, so carelessly had they been built and sonegligently preserved. A few cocks and hens with here and there amiserable, starved pig seemed to be the stock of the country. Not atree, not a shrub, not a flower was there to be seen. The road wasnarrow, rough, and unused. The burial ground which he passed was theliveliest sign of humanity about the place. Then the country becamestill wilder, and there was no road. The oats also ceased, and thewalls. But he could hear the melancholy moan of the waves, which he hadonce thought to be musical and had often sworn that he loved. Now theplace with all its attributes was hideous to him, distasteful, andabominable. At last the cottage was in view, and his heart sank verylow. Poor Kate! He loved her dearly through it all. He endeavoured totake comfort by assuring himself that his heart was true to her. Not forworlds would he injure her;--that is, not for worlds, had any worldsbeen exclusively his own. On account of the Scroope world, --which was aworld general rather than particular, --no doubt he must injure her mosthorribly. But still she was his dear Kate, his own Kate, his Kate whomhe would never desert. When he came up to the cottage the little gate was open, and he knewthat somebody was there besides the usual inmates. His heart at oncetold him that it was the priest. His fate had brought him face to facewith his two enemies at once! His breath almost left him, but he knewthat he could not run away. However bitter might be the vials of wrathhe must encounter them. So he knocked at the outer door and, after hiscustom, walked into the passage. Then he knocked again at the door ofthe one sitting-room, --the door which hitherto he had always passed withthe conviction that he should bring delight, --and for a moment there wasno answer. He heard no voice and he knocked again. The door was openedfor him, and as he entered he met Father Marty. But he at once saw thatthere was another man in the room, seated in an arm chair near thewindow. Kate, his Kate, was not there, but Mrs. O'Hara was standing atthe head of the sofa, far away from the window and close to the door. "It is Mr. Neville, " said the priest. "It is as well that he should comein. " "Mr. Neville, " said the man rising from his chair, "I am informed thatyou are a suitor for the hand of my daughter. Your prospects in life aresufficient, sir, and I give my consent. " The man was a thing horrible to look at, tall, thin, cadaverous, ill-clothed, with his wretched and all but ragged overcoat buttonedclose up to his chin, with long straggling thin grizzled hair, red-nosed, with a drunkard's eyes, and thin lips drawn down at thecorners of the mouth. This was Captain O'Hara; and if any man everlooked like a convict returned from work in chains, such was theappearance of this man. This was the father of Fred's Kate;--the manwhom it was expected that he, Frederic Neville, the future Earl ofScroope, should take as his father-in-law! "This is Captain O'Hara, "said the priest. But even Father Marty, bold as he was, could not assumethe voice with which he had rebuked Neville as he walked with him, nownearly a month ago, down to the beach. Neville did feel that the abomination of the man's appearancestrengthened his position. He stood looking from one to another, whileMrs. O'Hara remained silent in the corner. "Perhaps, " said he, "I hadbetter not be here. I am intruding. " "It is right that you should know it all, " said the priest. "As regardsthe young lady it cannot now alter your position. This gentleman mustbe--arranged for. " "Oh, certainly, " said the Captain. "I must be--arranged for, and that sosoon as possible. " The man spoke with a slightly foreign accent and ina tone, as Fred thought, which savoured altogether of the galleys. "Youhave done me the honour, I am informed, to make my daughter all yourown. These estimable people assure me that you hasten to make her yourwife on the instant. I consent. The O'Haras, who are of the very oldestblood in Europe, have always connected themselves highly. Your uncleis a most excellent nobleman whose hand I shall be proud to grasp. " Ashe thus spoke he stalked across the room to Fred, intending at once tocommence the work of grasping the Neville family. "Get back, " said Fred, retreating to the door. "Is it that you fail to believe that I am your bride's father?" "I know not whose father you may be. Get back. " "He is what he says he is, " said the priest. "You should bear with himfor a while. " "Where is Kate?" demanded Fred. It seemed as though, for the moment, he were full of courage. He looked round at Mrs. O'Hara, but nobodyanswered him. She was still standing with her eyes fixed upon theman, almost as though she thought that she could dart out upon him anddestroy him. "Where is Kate?" he asked again. "Is she well?" "Well enough to hide herself from her old father, " said the Captain, brushing a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. "You shall see her presently, Mr. Neville, " said the priest. Then Neville whispered a word into the priest's ear. "What is it thatthe man wants?" "You need not regard that, " said Father Marty. "Mr. Marty, " said the Captain, "you concern yourself too closely in myaffairs. I prefer to open my thoughts and desires to my son-in-law. Hehas taken measures which give him a right to interfere in the family. Ha, ha, ha. " "If you talk like that I'll stab you to the heart, " said Mrs. O'Hara, jumping forward. Then Fred Neville perceived that the woman had a daggerin her hand which she had hitherto concealed from him as she stood upagainst the wall behind the head of the sofa. He learnt afterwards thatthe priest, having heard in Liscannor of the man's arrival, had hurriedup to the cottage, reaching it almost at the same moment with theCaptain. Kate had luckily at the moment been in her room and had notseen her father. She was still in her bed and was ill;--but during thescene that occurred afterwards she roused herself. But Mrs. O'Hara, even in the priest's presence, had at once seized the weapon from thedrawer, --showing that she was prepared even for murder, had murder beenfound necessary by her for her relief. The man had immediately asked asto the condition of his daughter, and the mother had learned that herchild's secret was known to all Liscannor. The priest now laid his handupon her and stopped her, but he did it in all gentleness. "You'll havea fierce pig of a mother-in-law, Mr. Neville, " said the Captain, "butyour wife's father, --you'll find him always gentle and open to reason. You were asking what I wanted. " "Had I not better give him money?" suggested Neville. "No, " said the priest shaking his head. "Certainly, " said Captain O'Hara. "If you will leave this place at once, " said Neville, "and come to meto-morrow morning at the Ennis barracks, I will give you money. " "Give him none, " said Mrs. O'Hara. "My beloved is unreasonable. You would not be rid of me even were he tobe so hard. I should not die. Have I not proved to you that I am onewhom it is hard to destroy by privation. The family has been under acloud. A day of sunshine has come with this gallant young nobleman. Letme partake the warmth. I will visit you, Mr. Neville, certainly;--butwhat shall be the figure?" "That will be as I shall find you then. " "I will trust you. I will come. The journey hence to Ennis is long forone old as I am, and would be lightened by so small a trifle as--shallI say a bank note of the meanest value. " Upon this Neville handed himtwo bank notes for £1 each, and Captain O'Hara walked forth out of hiswife's house. "He will never leave you now, " said the priest. "He cannot hurt me. I will arrange with some man of business to pay hima stipend as long as he never troubles our friend here. Though all theworld should know it, will it not be better so?" Great and terrible is the power of money. When this easy way out oftheir immediate difficulties had been made by the rich man, evenMrs. O'Hara with all her spirit was subdued for the moment, and thereproaches of the priest were silenced for that hour. The young manhad seemed to behave well, had stood up as the friend of the sufferingwomen, and had been at any rate ready with his money. "And now, " hesaid, "where is Kate?" Then Mrs. O'Hara took him by the hand and ledhim into the bedroom in which the poor girl had buried herself from herfather's embrace. "Is he gone?" she asked before even she would throwherself into her lover's arms. "Neville has paid him money, " said the mother. "Yes, he has gone, " said Fred; "and I think, --I think that he willtrouble you no more. " "Oh, Fred, oh, my darling, oh, my own one. At last, at last you havecome to me. Why have you stayed away? You will not stay away again? Oh, Fred, you do love me? Say that you love me. " "Better than all the world, " he said pressing her to his bosom. He remained with her for a couple of hours, during which hardly a wordwas said to him about his marriage. So great had been the effect uponthem all of the sudden presence of the Captain, and so excellent hadbeen the service rendered them by the trust which the Captain had placedin the young man's wealth, that for this day both priest and mother wereincapacitated from making their claim with the vigour and intensity ofpurpose which they would have shewn had Captain O'Hara not presentedhimself at the cottage. The priest left them soon, --but not till it hadbeen arranged that Neville should go back to Ennis to prepare for hisreception of the Captain, and return to the cottage on the day afterthat interview was over. He assumed on a sudden the practical views ofa man of business. He would take care to have an Ennis attorney withhim when speaking to the Captain, and would be quite prepared to go tothe extent of two hundred a year for the Captain's life, if the Captaincould be safely purchased for that money. "A quarter of it would do, "said Mrs. O'Hara. The priest thought £2 a week would be ample. "I'll beas good as my word, " said Fred. Kate sat looking into his face thinkingthat he was still a god. "And you will certainly be here by noon on Sunday?" said Kate, clingingto him when he rose to go. "Most certainly. " "Dear, dear Fred. " And so he walked down the hill to the priest's housealmost triumphantly. He thought himself fortunate in not finding thepriest who had ridden off from Ardkill to some distant part of theparish;--and then drove himself back to Ennis. CHAPTER V. FRED NEVILLE IS AGAIN CALLED HOME TO SCROOPE. Neville was intent upon business, and had not been back in Ennis fromthe cottage half an hour before he obtained an introduction to anattorney. He procured it through the sergeant-major of the troop. Thesergeant-major was intimate with the innkeeper, and the innkeeper wasable to say that Mr. Thaddeus Crowe was an honest, intelligent, andpeculiarly successful lawyer. Before he sat down to dinner Fred Nevillewas closeted at the barracks with Mr. Crowe. He began by explaining to Mr. Crowe who he was. This he did in orderthat the attorney might know that he had the means of carrying out hispurpose. Mr. Crowe bowed, and assured his client that on that score hehad no doubts whatever. Nevertheless Mr. Crowe's first resolve, when heheard of the earldom and of the golden prospects, was to be very carefulnot to pay any money out of his own pocket on behalf of the youngofficer, till he made himself quite sure that it would be returned tohim with interest. As the interview progressed, however, Mr. Crowe beganto see his way, and to understand that the golden prospects were notpleaded because the owner of them was himself short of cash. Mr. Crowesoon understood the whole story. He had heard of Captain O'Hara, andbelieved the man to be as thorough a blackguard as ever lived. WhenNeville told the attorney of the two ladies, and of the anxiety which hefelt to screen them from the terrible annoyance of the Captain's visits, Mr. Crowe smiled, but made no remark. "It will be enough for you to knowthat I am in earnest about it, " said the future Earl, resenting even thesmile. Mr. Crowe bowed, and asked his client to finish the story. "Theman is to be with me to-morrow, here, at twelve, and I wish you to bepresent. Mr. Crowe, my intention is to give him two hundred pounds ayear as long as he lives. " "Two hundred a year!" said the Ennis attorney, to whom such an annuityseemed to be exorbitant as the purchase-money for a returned convict. "Yes;--I have already mentioned that sum to his wife, though not tohim. " "I should reconsider it, Mr. Neville. " "Thank you;--but I have made up my mind. The payments will be made ofcourse only on condition that he troubles neither of the ladies eitherpersonally or by letter. It might be provided that it shall be paid tohim weekly in France, but will not be paid should he leave that country. You will think of all this, and will make suggestions to-morrow. I shallbe glad to have the whole thing left in your hands, so that I needsimply remit the cheques to you. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure ofseeing you to-morrow at twelve. " Mr. Crowe promised to turn the matterover in his mind and to be present at the hour named. Neville carriedhimself very well through the interview, assuming with perfect ease themanners of the great and rich man who had only to give his orders with acertainty that they would be obeyed. Mr. Crowe, when he went out fromthe young man's presence, had no longer any doubt on his mind as to hisclient's pecuniary capability. On the following day at twelve o'clock, Captain O'Hara, punctual to theminute, was at the barracks; and there also sitting in Neville's room, was the attorney. But Neville himself was not there, and the Captainimmediately felt that he had been grossly imposed upon and swindled. "And who may I have the honour of addressing, when I speak to you, sir?"demanded the Captain. "I am a lawyer. " "And Mr. Neville, --my own son-in-law, --has played me that trick!" Mr. Crowe explained that no trick had been played, but did so inlanguage which was no doubt less courteous than would have been used hadMr. Neville been present. As, however, the cause of our hero's absenceis more important to us than the Captain's prospects that must be firstexplained. As soon as the attorney left him Neville had sat down to dinner with histwo brother officers, but was not by any means an agreeable companion. When they attempted to joke with him as to the young lady on thecliffs, he showed very plainly that he did not like it; and when CornetSimpkinson after dinner raised his glass to drink a health to MissO'Hara, Mr. Neville told him that he was an impertinent ass. It was thensomewhat past nine, and it did not seem probable that the evening wouldgo off pleasantly. Cornet Simpkinson lit his cigar, and tried to winkat the Captain. Neville stretched out his legs and pretended to go tosleep. At this moment it was a matter of intense regret to him that hehad ever seen the West of Ireland. At a little before ten Captain Johnstone retired, and the Cornet attemptedan apology. He had not meant to say anything that Neville would notlike. "It doesn't signify, my dear boy; only as a rule, never mentionwomen's names, " said Neville, speaking as though he were fully fitted byhis experience to lay down the law on a matter so delicate. "Perhaps onehadn't better, " said the Cornet, --and then that little difficulty wasover. Cornet Simpkinson however thought of it all afterwards, and feltthat that evening and that hour had been more important than any otherevening or any other hour in his life. At half-past ten, when Neville was beginning to think that he would takehimself to bed, and was still cursing the evil star which had broughthim to County Clare, there arose a clatter at the outside gate of thesmall barrack-yard. A man had posted all the way down from Limerick anddesired to see Mr. Neville at once. The man had indeed come direct fromScroope, --by rail from Dublin to Limerick, and thence without delay onto Ennis. The Earl of Scroope was dead, and Frederic Neville was Earl ofScroope. The man brought a letter from Miss Mellerby, telling him thesad news and conjuring him in his aunt's name to come at once to theManor. Of course he must start at once for the Manor. Of course he mustattend as first mourner at his uncle's grave before he could assume hisuncle's name and fortune. In that first hour of his greatness the shock to him was not so greatbut that he at once thought of the O'Haras. He would leave Ennis thefollowing morning at six, so as to catch the day mail train out ofLimerick for Dublin. That was a necessity; but though so very short aspan of time was left to him, he must still make arrangements about theO'Haras. He had hardly heard the news half an hour before he himselfwas knocking at the door of Mr. Crowe the attorney. He was admitted, and Mr. Crowe descended to him in a pair of slippers and a veryold dressing-gown. Mr. Crowe, as he held his tallow candle up tohis client's face, looked as if he didn't like it. "I know I mustapologize, " said Neville, "but I have this moment received news of myuncle's death. " "The Earl?" "Yes. " "And I have now the honour of--speaking to the Earl of Scroope. " "Never mind that. I must start for England almost immediately. I haven'tabove an hour or two. You must see that man, O'Hara, without me. " "Certainly, my lord. " "You shouldn't speak to me in that way yet, " said Neville angrily. "Youwill be good enough to understand that the terms are fixed;--two hundreda year as long, as he remains in France and never molests anyone eitherby his presence or by letter. Thank you. I shall be so much obligedto you! I shall be back here after the funeral, and will arrange aboutpayments. Good-night. " So it happened that Captain O'Hara had no opportunity on that occasionof seeing his proposed son-in-law. Mr. Crowe, fully crediting the powerconfided to him, did as he was bidden. He was very harsh to the poorCaptain; but in such a condition a man can hardly expect that peopleshould not be harsh to him. The Captain endeavoured to hold up his head, and to swagger, and to assume an air of pinchbeck respectability. Butthe attorney would not permit it. He required that the man should ownhimself to be penniless, a scoundrel, only anxious to be bought; andthe Captain at last admitted the facts. The figure was the one thingimportant to him, --the figure and the nature of the assurance. Mr. Crowehad made his calculations, and put the matter very plainly. A certainnumber of francs, --a hundred francs, --would be paid to him weekly at anytown in France he might select, --which however would be forfeited by anyletter written either to Mrs. O'Hara, to Miss O'Hara, or to the Earl. "The Earl!" ejaculated the Captain. Mr. Crowe had been unable to refrain his tongue from the delicioustitle, but now corrected himself. "Nor Mr. Neville, I mean. No one willbe bound to give you a farthing, and any letter asking for anything morewill forfeit the allowance altogether. " The Captain vainly endeavouredto make better terms, and of course accepted those proposed to him. Hewould live in Paris, --dear Paris. He took five pounds for his journey, and named an agent for the transmission of his money. And so Fred Neville was the Earl of Scroope. He had still one other taskto perform before he could make his journey home. He had to send tidingsin some shape to Ardkill of what had happened. As he returned to thebarracks from Mr. Crowe's residence he thought wholly of this. Thatother matter was now arranged. As one item of the cost of his adventurein County Clare he must pay two hundred a year to that reprobate, theCaptain, as long as the reprobate chose to live, --and must also pay Mr. Crowe's bill for his assistance. This was a small matter to him as hiswealth was now great, and he was not a man by nature much prone to thinkof money. Nevertheless it was a bad beginning of his life. Though he haddeclared himself to be quite indifferent on that head, he did feel thatthe arrangement was not altogether reputable, --that it was one whichhe could not explain to his own man of business without annoyance, andwhich might perhaps give him future trouble. Now he must prepare hismessage for the ladies at Ardkill, --especially to the lady whom on hislast visit to the cottage he had found armed with a dagger for thereception of her husband. And as he returned back to the barracksit occurred to him that a messenger might be better than a letter. "Simpkinson, " he said, going at once into the young man's bed-room, "have you heard what has happened to me?" Simpkinson had heard all aboutit, and expressed himself as "deucedly sorry" for the old man's death, but seemed to think that there might be consolation for that sorrow. "Imust go to Scroope immediately, " said Neville. "I have explained it allto Johnstone, and shall start almost at once. I shall first lie down andget an hour's sleep. I want you to do something for me. " Simpkinson wasdevoted. Simpkinson would do anything. "I cut up a little rough just nowwhen you mentioned Miss O'Hara's name. " Simpkinson declared that he didnot mind it in the least, and would never pronounce the name again aslong as he lived. "But I want you to go and see her to-morrow, " saidNeville. Then Simpkinson sat bolt upright in bed. Of course the youthful warrior undertook the commission. What youthfulwarrior would not go any distance to see a beautiful young lady on acliff, and what youthful warrior would not undertake any journey tooblige a brother officer who was an Earl? Full instructions were at oncegiven to him. He had better ask to see Mrs. O'Hara, --in describing whomNeville made no allusion to the dagger. He was told how to knock atthe door, and send in word by the servant to say that he had called onbehalf of Mr. Neville. He was to drive as far as Liscannor, and then getsome boy to accompany him on foot as a guide. He would not perhaps mindwalking two or three miles. Simpkinson declared that were it ten hewould not mind it. He was then to tell Mrs. O'Hara--just the truth. Hewas to say that a messenger had come from Scroope announcing the deathof the Earl, and that Neville had been obliged to start at once forEngland. "But you will be back?" said Simpkinson. Neville paused a moment. "Yes, I shall be back, but don't say anythingof that to either of the ladies. " "Must I say I don't know? They'll be sure to ask, I should say. " "Of course they'll ask. Just tell them that the whole thing has beenarranged so quickly that nothing has been settled, but that they shallhear from me at once. You can say that you suppose I shall be back, butthat I promised that I would write. Indeed that will be the exact truth, as I don't at all know what I may do. Be as civil to them as possible. " "That's of course. " "They are ladies, you know. " "I supposed that. " "And I am most desirous to do all in my power to oblige them. You cansay that I have arranged that other matter satisfactorily. " "That other matter?" "They'll understand. The mother will at least, and you'd better say thatto her. You'll go early. " "I'll start at seven if you like. " "Eight or nine will do. Thank you, Simpkinson. I'm so much obliged toyou. I hope I shall see you over in England some day when things are alittle settled. " With this Simpkinson was delighted, --as he was alsowith the commission entrusted to him. And so Fred Neville was the Earl of Scroope. Not that he owned even tohimself that the title and all belonging to it were as yet in his ownpossession. Till the body of the old man should be placed in the familyvault he would still be simply Fred Neville, a lieutenant in HerMajesty's 20th Hussars. As he travelled home to Scroope, to the oldgloomy mansion which was now in truth not only his home, but his ownhouse, to do just as he pleased with it, he had much to fill his mind. He was himself astonished to find with how great a weight his newdignities sat upon his shoulders, now that they were his own. But afew months since he had thought and even spoken of shifting them fromhimself to another, so that he might lightly enjoy a portion of thewealth which would belong to him without burdening himself with theduties of his position. He would take his yacht, and the girl he loved, and live abroad, with no present record of the coronet which would havedescended to him, and with no assumption of the title. But already thatfeeling had died away within him. A few words spoken to him by thepriest and a few serious thoughts within his own bosom had sufficed toexplain to him that he must be the Earl of Scroope. The family honourshad come to him, and he must support them, --either well or ill as hisstrength and principles might govern him. And he did understand that itwas much to be a peer, an hereditary legislator, one who by the chanceof his birth had a right to look for deferential respect even from hiselders. It was much to be the lord of wide acres, the ruler of a largedomain, the landlord of many tenants who would at any rate regardthemselves as dependent on his goodness. It was much to be so placedthat no consideration of money need be a bar to any wish, --that theconsiderations which should bar his pleasures need be only those ofdignity, character, and propriety. His uncle had told him more than oncehow much a peer of England owed to his country and to his order;--howsuch a one is bound by no ordinary bonds to a life of high resolves, andgood endeavours. "Sans reproche" was the motto of his house, and wasemblazoned on the wall of the hall that was now his own. If it might bepossible to him he would live up to it and neither degrade his order norbetray his country. But as he thought of all this, he thought also of Kate O'Hara. With whatdifficulties had he surrounded the commencement of this life which hepurposed to lead! How was he to escape from the mess of trouble which hehad prepared for himself by his adventures in Ireland. An idea floatedacross his mind that very many men who stand in their natural manhoodhigh in the world's esteem, have in their early youth formed ties suchas that which now bound him to Kate O'Hara, --that they have been sillyas he had been, and had then escaped from the effects of their follywithout grievous damage. But yet he did not see his mode of escape. Ifmoney could do it for him he would make almost any sacrifice. If wealthand luxury could make his Kate happy, she should be happy as a Princess. But he did not believe either of her or of her mother that any moneywould be accepted as a sufficient atonement. And he hated himself forsuggesting to himself that it might be possible. The girl was good, andhad trusted him altogether. The mother was self-denying, devoted, andhigh-spirited. He knew that money would not suffice. He need not return to Ireland unless he pleased. He could send over someagent to arrange his affairs, and allow the two women to break theirhearts in their solitude upon the cliffs. Were he to do so he did notbelieve that they would follow him. They would write doubtless, butpersonally he might, probably, be quit of them in this fashion. Butin this there would be a cowardice and a meanness which would make itimpossible that he should ever again respect himself. And thus he again entered Scroope, the lord and owner of all that he sawaround him, --with by no means a happy heart or a light bosom. CHAPTER VI. THE EARL OF SCROOPE IS IN TROUBLE. Not a word was said to the young lord on his return home respecting theO'Haras till he himself had broached the subject. He found his brotherJack Neville at Scroope on his arrival, and Sophie Mellerby was stillstaying with his aunt. A day had been fixed for the funeral, but no onehad ventured to make any other arrangement till the heir and ownershould be there. He was received with solemn respect by the old servantswho, as he observed, abstained from calling him by any name. They knewthat it did not become them to transfer the former lord's title to theheir till all that remained of the former lord should be hidden from theworld in the family vault; but they could not bring themselves toaddress a real Earl as Mr. Neville. His aunt was broken down by sorrow, but nevertheless, she treated him with a courtly deference. To her hewas now the reigning sovereign among the Nevilles, and all Scroope andeverything there was at his disposal. When he held her by the hand andspoke of her future life she only shook her head. "I am an old woman, though not in years old as was my lord. But my life is done, and itmatters not where I go. " "Dear aunt, do not speak of going. Where can you be so well as here?"But she only shook her head again and wept afresh. Of course it wouldnot be fitting that she should remain in the house of the young Earl whowas only her nephew by marriage. Scroope Manor would now become a houseof joy, would be filled with the young and light of heart; there wouldbe feasting there and dancing; horses neighing before the doors, throngsof carriages, new furniture, bright draperies, and perhaps, alas, loudrevellings. It would not be fit that such a one as she should be atScroope now that her lord had left her. The funeral was an affair not of pomp but of great moment in thoseparts. Two or three Nevilles from other counties came to the house, asdid also sundry relatives bearing other names. Mr. Mellerby was there, and one or two of the late Earl's oldest friends; but the greatgathering was made up of the Scroope tenants, not one of whom failed tosee his late landlord laid in his grave. "My Lord, " said an old man toFred, one who was himself a peer and was the young lord's cousin thoughthey two had never met before, "My Lord, " said the old man, as soon asthey had returned from the grave, "you are called upon to succeed asgood a man as ever it has been my lot to know. I loved him as a brother. I hope you will not lightly turn away from his example. " Fred made somepromise which at the moment he certainly intended to perform. On the next morning the will was read. There was nothing in it, norcould there have been anything in it, which might materially affect theinterests of the heir. The late lord's widow was empowered to take awayfrom Scroope anything that she desired. In regard to money she wasprovided for so amply that money did not matter to her. A whole year'sincome from the estates was left to the heir in advance, so that hemight not be driven to any momentary difficulty in assuming theresponsibilities of his station. A comparatively small sum was left toJack Neville, and a special gem to Sophie Mellerby. There were bequeststo all the servants, a thousand pounds to the vicar of theparish, --which perhaps was the only legacy which astonished thelegatee, --and his affectionate love to every tenant on the estate. Allthe world acknowledged that it was as good a will as the Earl could havemade. Then the last of the strangers left the house, and the Earl ofScroope was left to begin his reign and do his duty as best he might. Jack had promised to remain with him for a few days, and SophieMellerby, who had altogether given up her London season, was to staywith the widow till something should be settled as to a futureresidence. "If my aunt will only say that she will keep the house for acouple of years, she shall have it, " said Fred to the younglady, --perhaps wishing to postpone for so long a time the embarrassmentof the large domain; but to this Lady Scroope would not consent. Ifallowed she would remain till the end of July. By that time she wouldfind herself a home. "For the life of me, I don't know how to begin my life, " said the newpeer to his brother as they were walking about the park together. "Do not think about beginning it at all. You won't be angry, and willknow what I mean, when I say that you should avoid thinking too much ofyour own position. " "How am I to help thinking of it? It is so entirely changed from what itwas. " "No Fred, --not entirely; nor as I hope, is it changed at all in thosematters which are of most importance to you. A man's self, and his ideasof the manner in which he should rule himself, should be more to himthan any outward accidents. Had that cousin of ours never died--" "I almost wish he never had. " "It would then have been your ambition to live as an honourablegentleman. To be that now should be more to you than to be an Earl and aman of fortune. " "It's very easy to preach, Jack. You were always good at that. But hereI am, and what am I to do? How am I to begin? Everybody says that I amto change nothing. The tenants will pay their rents, and Burnaby willlook after things outside, and Mrs. Bunce will look after the thingsinside, and I may sit down and read a novel. When the gloom of myuncle's death has passed away, I suppose I shall buy a few more horsesand perhaps begin to make a row about the pheasants. I don't know whatelse there is to do. " "You'll find that there are duties. " "I suppose I shall. Something is expected of me. I am to keep up thehonour of the family; but it really seems to me that the best way ofdoing so would be to sit in my uncle's arm chair and go to sleep as hedid. " "As a first step in doing something you should get a wife for yourself. If once you had a settled home, things would arrange themselves roundyou very easily. " "Ah, yes;--a wife. You know, Jack, I told you about that girl in CountyClare. " "You must let nothing of that kind stand in your way. " "Those are your ideas of high moral grandeur! Just now my own personalconduct was to be all in all to me, and the rank nothing. Now I am todesert a girl I love because I am an English peer. " "What has passed between you and the young lady, of course I do notknow. " "I may as well tell you the whole truth, " said Fred. And he told it. Hetold it honestly, --almost honestly. It is very hard for a man to tell astory truly against himself, but he intended to tell the whole truth. "Now what must I do? Would you have me marry her?" Jack Neville pausedfor a long time. "At any rate you can say yes, or no. " "It is very hard to say yes, or no. " "I can marry no one else. I can see my way so far. You had better tellSophie Mellerby everything, and then a son of yours shall be the futureEarl. " "We are both of us young as yet, Fred, and need not think of that. Ifyou do mean to marry Miss O'Hara you should lose not a day;--not a day. " "But what if I don't. You are always very ready with advice, but youhave given me none as yet. " "How can I advise you? I should have heard the very words in which youmade your promise before I could dare to say whether it should be keptor broken. As a rule a man should keep his word. " "Let the consequences be what they may?" "A man should keep his word certainly. And I know no promise so solemnas that made to a woman when followed by conduct such as yours hasbeen. " "And what will people say then as to my conduct to the family? How willthey look on me when I bring home the daughter of that scoundrel?" "You should have thought of that before. " "But I was not told. Do you not see that I was deceived there. Mrs. O'Hara clearly said that the man was dead. And she told me nothing ofthe galleys. " "How could she tell you that?" "But if she has deceived me, how can I be expected to keep my promise? Ilove the girl dearly. If I could change places with you, I would do sothis very minute, and take her away with me, and she should certainly bemy wife. If it were only myself, I would give up all to her. I would, byheaven. But I cannot sacrifice the family. As to solemn promises, did Inot swear to my uncle that I would not disgrace the family by such amarriage? Almost the last word that I spoke to him was that. Am I to beuntrue to him? There are times in which it seems impossible that a manshould do right. " "There are times in which a man may be too blind to see the right, " saidJack, --sparing his brother in that he did not remind him that thosedilemmas always come from original wrong-doing. "I think I am resolved not to marry her, " said Fred. "If I were in your place I think I should marry her, " said Jack;--"but Iwill not speak with certainty even of myself. " "I shall not. But I will be true to her all the same. You may be surethat I shall not marry at all. " Then he recurred to his old scheme. "IfI can find any mode of marrying her in some foreign country, so that herson and mine shall not be the legitimate heir to the title and estates, I would go there at once with her, though it were to the further end ofthe world. You can understand now what I mean when I say that I do notknow how to begin. " Jack acknowledged that in that matter he didunderstand his brother. It is always hard for a man to commence any newduty when he knows that he has a millstone round his neck which willprobably make that duty impracticable at last. He went on with his life at Scroope for a week after the funeral withoutresolving upon anything, or taking any steps towards solving the O'Haradifficulty. He did ride about among the tenants, and gave some triflingorders as to the house and stables. His brother was still with him, andMiss Mellerby remained at the Manor. But he knew that the thunder-cloudmust break over his head before long, and at last the storm wascommenced. The first drops fell upon him in the soft form of a letterfrom Kate O'Hara. DEAREST FRED, I am not quite sure that I ought to address you like that; but I always shall unless you tell me not. We have been expecting a letter from you every day since you went. Your friend from Ennis came here, and brought us the news of your uncle's death. We were very sorry; at least I was certainly. I liked to think of you a great deal better as my own Fred, than as a great lord. But you will still be my own Fred always; will you not? Mother said at once that it was a matter of course that you should go to England; but your friend, whose name we never heard, said that you had sent him especially to promise that you would write quite immediately, and that you would come back very soon. I do not know what he will think of me, because I asked him whether he was quite, quite sure that you would come back. If he thinks that I love you better than my own soul, he only thinks the truth. Pray, --pray write at once. Mother is getting vexed because there is no letter. I am never vexed with my own darling love, but I do so long for a letter. If you knew how I felt, I do think you would write almost every day, --if it were only just one short word. If you would say, 'Dear Love, ' that would be enough. And pray come. Oh do, do, pray come! Cannot you think how I must long to see you! The gentleman who came here said that you would come, and I know you will. But pray come soon. Think, now, how you are all the world to me. You are more than all the world to me. I am not ill as I was when you were here. But I never go outside the door now. I never shall go outside the door again till you come. I don't care now for going out upon the rocks. I don't care even for the birds as you are not here to watch them with me. I sit with the skin of the seal you gave me behind my head, and I pretend to sleep. But though I am quite still for hours I am not asleep, but thinking always of you. We have neither seen or heard anything more of my father, and Father Marty says that you have managed about that very generously. You are always generous and good. I was so wretched all that day, that I thought I should have died. You will not think ill of your Kate, will you, because her father is bad? Pray write when you get this, and above all things let us know when you will come to us. Always, always, and always, Your own KATE. Two days after this, while the letter was still unanswered, there cameanother from Mrs. O'Hara which was, if possible, more grievous to himthan that from her daughter. "My Lord, " the letter began. When he read this he turned from it with asickening feeling of disgust. Of course the woman knew that he was nowEarl of Scroope; but it would have been so desirable that there shouldhave been no intercourse between her and him except under the name bywhich she had hitherto known him. And then in the appellation as sheused it there seemed to be a determination to reproach him which must, he knew, lead to great misery. MY LORD, The messenger you sent to us brought us good news, and told us that you were gone home to your own affairs. That I suppose was right, but why have you not written to us before this? Why have you not told my poor girl that you will come to her, and atone to her for the injury you have done in the only manner now possible? I cannot and do not believe that you intend to evade the solemn promises that you have made her, and allow her to remain here a ruined outcast, and the mother of your child. I have thought you to be both a gentleman and a christian, and I still think so. Most assuredly you would be neither were you disposed to leave her desolate, while you are in prosperity. I call upon you, my lord, in the most solemn manner, with all the energy and anxiety of a mother, --of one who will be of all women the most broken-hearted if you wrong her, --to write at once and let me know when you will be here to keep your promise. For the sake of your own offspring I implore you not to delay. We feel under deep obligations to you for what you did in respect of that unhappy man. We have never for a moment doubted your generosity. Yours, My Lord, With warmest affection, if you will admit it, C. O'HARA. P. S. I ask you to come at once and keep your word. Were you to think of breaking it, I would follow you through the world. The young Earl, when he received this, was not at a loss for a moment toattribute the body of Mrs. O'Hara's letter to Father Marty's power ofcomposition, and the postscript to the unaided effort of the ladyherself. Take it as he might--as coming from Mrs. O'Hara or from thepriest, --he found the letter to be a great burden to him. He had not asyet answered the one received from Kate, as to the genuineness of whichhe had entertained no doubt. How should he answer such letters? Someanswer must of course be sent, and must be the forerunner of his futureconduct. But how should he write his letter when he had not as yetresolved what his conduct should be? He did attempt to write a letter, not to either of the ladies, but tothe priest, explaining that in the ordinary sense of the word he couldnot and would not marry Miss O'Hara, but that in any way short of thatlegitimate and usual mode of marriage, he would bind himself to her, andthat when so bound he would be true to her for life. He would make anysettlement that he, Father Marty, might think right either upon themother or upon the daughter. But Countess of Scroope the daughter ofthat Captain O'Hara should not become through his means. Then heendeavoured to explain the obligation laid upon him by his uncle, andthe excuse which he thought he could plead in not having been informedof Captain O'Hara's existence. But the letter when written seemed to himto be poor and mean, cringing and at the same time false. He toldhimself that it would not suffice. It was manifest to him that he mustgo back to County Clare, even though he should encounter Mrs. O'Hara, dagger in hand. What was any personal danger to himself in such anaffair as this? And if he did not fear a woman's dagger, was he to feara woman's tongue, --or the tongue of a priest? So he tore the letter, andresolved that he would write and name a day on which he would appear atArdkill. At any rate such a letter as that might be easily written, andmight be made soft with words of love. DEAREST KATE, I will be with you on the 15th or on the 16th at latest. You should remember that a man has a good deal to do and think of when he gets pitchforked into such a new phase of life as mine. Do not, however, think that I quarrel with you, my darling. That I will never do. My love to your mother. Ever your own, FRED. I hate signing the other name. This letter was not only written but sent. CHAPTER VII. SANS REPROCHE. Three or four days after writing his letter to Kate O'Hara, the Earltold his aunt that he must return to Ireland, and he named the day onwhich he would leave Scroope. "I did not think that you would go backthere, " she said. He could see by the look of her face and by theanxious glance of her eye that she had in her heart the fear of KateO'Hara, --as he had also. "I must return. I came away at a moment's notice. " "But you have written about leaving the regiment. " "Yes;--I have done that. In the peculiar circumstances I don't supposethey will want me to serve again. Indeed I've had a letter, just aprivate note, from one of the fellows at the Horse Guards explaining allthat. " "I don't see why you should go at all;--indeed I do not. " "What am I to do about my things? I owe some money. I've got three orfour horses there. My very clothes are all about just as I left themwhen I came away. " "Any body can manage all that. Give the horses away. " "I had rather not give away my horses, " he said laughing. "The fact is Imust go. " She could urge nothing more to him on that occasion. She didnot then mention the existence of Kate O'Hara. But he knew well that shewas thinking of the girl, and he knew also that the activity of LadyMary Quin had not slackened. But his aunt, he thought, was more afraidof him now that he was the Earl than she had been when he was only theheir; and it might be that this feeling would save him from the mentionof Kate O'Hara's name. To some extent the dowager was afraid of her nephew. She knew at leastthat the young man was all-powerful and might act altogether as helisted. In whatever she might say she could not now be supported by theauthority of the Lord of Scroope. He himself was lord of Scroope; andwere he to tell her simply to hold her tongue and mind her own businessshe could only submit. But she was not the woman to allow any sense offear, or any solicitude as to the respect due to herself, to stand inthe way of the performance of a duty. It may be declared on her behalfthat had it been in her nephew's power to order her head off inpunishment for her interference, she would still have spoken had sheconceived it to be right to speak. But within her own bosom there had been dreadful conflicts as to thatduty. Lady Mary Quin had by no means slackened her activity. Lady MaryQuin had learned the exact condition of Kate O'Hara, and had sent thenews to her friend with greedy rapidity. And in sending it Lady MaryQuin entertained no slightest doubt as to the duty of the present Earlof Scroope. According to her thinking it could not be the duty of anEarl of Scroope in any circumstances to marry a Kate O'Hara. There arewomen, who in regard to such troubles as now existed at Ardkill cottage, always think that the woman should be punished as the sinner and thatthe man should be assisted to escape. The hardness of heart of suchwomen, --who in all other views of life are perhaps tender andsoft-natured, --is one of the marvels of our social system. It is asthough a certain line were drawn to include all women, --a line, but, alas, little more than a line, --by overstepping which, or rather bybeing known to have overstepped it, a woman ceases to be a woman in theestimation of her own sex. That the existence of this feeling has strongeffect in saving women from passing the line, none of us can doubt. Thatits general tendency may be good rather than evil, is possible. But thehardness necessary to preserve the rule, a hardness which must beexclusively feminine but which is seldom wanting, is a marvellousfeature in the female character. Lady Mary Quin probably thought butlittle on the subject. The women in the cottage on the cliff, who werebefriended by Father Marty, were to her dangerous scheming RomanCatholic adventurers. The proper triumph of Protestant virtue requiredthat they should fail in their adventures. She had always known thatthere would be something disreputable heard of them sooner or later. When the wretched Captain came into the neighbourhood, --and she soonheard of his coming, --she was gratified by feeling that her convictionshad been correct. When the sad tidings as to poor Kate reached her ears, she had "known that it would be so. " That such a girl should be madeCountess of Scroope in reward for her wickedness would be to her anevent horrible, almost contrary to Divine Providence, --a testimony thatthe Evil One was being allowed peculiar power at the moment, and wouldno doubt have been used in her own circles to show the ruin that hadbeen brought upon the country by Catholic emancipation. She did not fora moment doubt that the present Earl should be encouraged to break anypromises of marriage to the making of which he might have been allured. But it was not so with Lady Scroope. She, indeed, came to the sameconclusion as her friend, but she did so with much difficulty and aftermany inward struggles. She understood and valued the customs of themagic line. In her heart of hearts she approved of a different code ofmorals for men and women. That which merited instant, and as regardedthis world, perpetual condemnation in a woman, might in a man be veryeasily forgiven. A sigh, a shake of the head, and some small innocentstratagem that might lead to a happy marriage and settlement in lifewith increased income, would have been her treatment of such sin for theheirs of the great and wealthy. She knew that the world could not affordto ostracise the men, --though happily it might condemn the women. Nevertheless, when she came to the single separated instance, though herheart melted with no ruth for the woman, --in such cases the woman mustbe seen before the ruth is felt, --though pity for Kate O'Hara did notinfluence her, she did acknowledge the sanctity of a gentleman's word. If, as Lady Mary told her, and as she could so well believe, the presentEarl of Scroope had given to this girl a promise that he would marryher, if he had bound himself by his pledged word, as a nobleman and agentleman, how could she bid him become a perjured knave? Sans reproche!Was he thus to begin to live and to deserve the motto of his house bythe conduct of his life? But then the evil that would be done was so great! She did not for amoment doubt all that Lady Mary told her about the girl. The worst of ithad indeed been admitted. She was a Roman Catholic, ill-born, ill-connected, damaged utterly by a parent so low that nothing lowercould possibly be raked out of the world's gutters. And now the girlherself was--a castaway. Such a marriage as that of which Lady Maryspoke would not only injure the house of Scroope for the presentgeneration, but would tend to its final downfall. Would it not be knownthroughout all England that the next Earl of Scroope would be thegrandson of a convict? Might there not be questions as to the legitimacyof the assumed heir? She herself knew of noble families which had beenscattered, confounded, and almost ruined by such imprudence. Hithertothe family of Scroope had been continued from generation to generationwithout stain, --almost without stain. It had felt it to be a fortunatething that the late heir had died because of the pollution of hiswretched marriage. And now must evil as bad befall it, worse evilperhaps, through the folly of this young man? Must that proud motto betaken down from its place in the hall from very shame? But the evil hadnot been done yet, and it might be that her words could save the housefrom ruin and disgrace. She was a woman of whom it may be said that whatever difficulty shemight have in deciding a question she could recognise the necessity of adecision and could abide by it when she had made it. It was with greatdifficulty that she could bring herself to think that an Earl of Scroopeshould be false to a promise by which he had seduced a woman, but shedid succeed in bringing herself to such thought. Her very heart bledwithin her as she acknowledged the necessity. A lie to her wasabominable. A lie, to be told by herself, would have been hideous toher. A lie to be told by him, was worse. As virtue, what she calledvirtue, was the one thing indispensable to women, so was truth the onething indispensable to men. And yet she must tell him to lie, and havingresolved so to tell him, must use all her intellect to defend thelie, --and to insist upon it. He was determined to return to Ireland, and there was nothing that shecould do to prevent his return. She could not bid him shun a dangersimply because it was a danger. He was his own master, and were she todo so he would only laugh at her. Of authority with him she had none. Ifshe spoke, he must listen. Her position would secure so much to her fromcourtesy, --and were she to speak of the duty which he owed to his nameand to the family he could hardly laugh. She therefore sent to him amessage. Would he kindly go to her in her own room? Of course heattended to her wishes and went. "You mean to leave us to-morrow, Fred, "she said. We all know the peculiar solemnity of a widow's dress, --thelook of self-sacrifice on the part of the woman which the dress creates;and have perhaps recognised the fact that if the woman be deterred by nonecessities of oeconomy in her toilet, --as in such materialcircumstances the splendour is more perfect if splendour be theobject, --so also is the self-sacrifice more abject. And with this widowan appearance of melancholy solemnity, almost of woe, was natural toher. She was one whose life had ever been serious, solemn, and sad. Wealth and the outward pomp of circumstances had conferred upon her acertain dignity; and with that doubtless there had reached her somefeeling of satisfaction. Religion too had given her comfort, and aroutine of small duties had saved her from the wretchedness of ennui. But life with her had had no laughter, and had seldom smiled. Now in thefirst days of her widowhood she regarded her course as run, and lookedupon herself as one who, in speaking, almost spoke from the tomb. Allthis had its effect upon the young lord. She did inspire him with acertain awe; and though her weeds gave her no authority, they did giveher weight. "Yes; I shall start to-morrow, " he replied. "And you still mean to go to Ireland?" "Yes;--I must go to Ireland. I shan't stay there, you know. " Then she paused a moment before she proceeded. "Shall you see--thatyoung woman when you are there?" "I suppose I shall see her. " "Pray do not think that I desire to interfere with your private affairs. I know well that I have no right to assume over you any of thataffectionate authority which a mother might have, --though in truth Ilove you as a son. " "I would treat you just as I would my own mother. " "No, Fred; that cannot be so. A mother would throw her arms round youand cling to you if she saw you going into danger. A mother would followyou, hoping that she might save you. " "But there is no danger. " "Ah, Fred, I fear there is. " "What danger?" "You are now the head of one of the oldest and the noblest families inthis which in my heart I believe to be the least sinful among the sinfulnations of the wicked world. " "I don't quite know how that may be;--I mean about the world. Of courseI understand about the family. " "But you love your country?" "Oh yes. I don't think there's any place like England, --to live in. " "And England is what it is because there are still some left among uswho are born to high rank and who know how to live up to the standardthat is required of them. If ever there was such a man, your uncle wassuch a one. " "I'm sure he was;--just what he ought to have been. " "Honourable, true, affectionate, self-denying, affable to all men, butever conscious of his rank, giving much because much had been given tohim, asserting his nobility for the benefit of those around him, proudof his order for the sake of his country, bearing his sorrows with thedignity of silence, a nobleman all over, living on to the end sansreproche! He was a man whom you may dare to imitate, though to followhim may be difficult. " She spoke not loudly, but clearly, looking himfull in the face as she stood motionless before him. "He was all that, " said Fred, almost overpowered by the sinceresolemnity of his aunt's manner. "Will you try to walk in his footsteps?" "Two men can never be like one another in that way. I shall never bewhat he was. But I'll endeavour to get along as well as I can. " "You will remember your order?" "Yes, I will. I do remember it. Mind you, aunt, I am not glad that Ibelong to it. I think I do understand about it all, and will do my best. But Jack would have made a better Earl than I shall do. That's thetruth. " "The Lord God has placed you, --and you must pray to Him that He willenable you to do your duty in that state of life to which it has pleasedHim to call you. You are here and must bear his decree; and whether itbe a privilege to enjoy, you must enjoy it, or a burden to bear, youmust endure it. " "It is so of course. " "Knowing that, you must know also how incumbent it is upon you not todefile the stock from which you are sprung. " "I suppose it has been defiled, " said Fred, who had been looking intothe history of the family. "The ninth Earl seems to have married nobodyknows whom. And his son was my uncle's grandfather. " This was a blow to Lady Scroope, but she bore it with dignity andcourage. "You would hardly wish it to be said that you had copied theonly one of your ancestors who did amiss. The world was rougher thenthan it is now, and he of whom you speak was a soldier. " "I'm a soldier too, " said the Earl. "Oh, Fred, is it thus you answer me! He was a soldier in rough times, when there were wars. I think he married when he was with the army underMarlborough. " "I have not seen anything of that kind, certainly. " "Your country is at peace, and your place is here, among your tenantry, at Scroope. You will promise me, Fred, that you will not marry this girlin Ireland?" "If I do, the fault will be all with that old maid at Castle Quin. " "Do not say that, Fred. It is impossible. Let her conduct have been whatit may, it cannot make that right in you which would have been wrong, orthat wrong which would have been right. " "She's a nasty meddlesome cat. " "I will not talk about her. What good would it do? You cannot at anyrate be surprised at my extreme anxiety. You did promise your uncle mostsolemnly that you would never marry this young lady. " "If I did, that ought to be enough. " He was now waxing angry and hisface was becoming red. He would bear a good deal from his uncle's widow, but he felt his own power and was not prepared to bear much more. "Of course I cannot bind you. I know well how impotent I am, --howpowerless to exercise control. But I think, Fred, that for your uncle'ssake you will not refuse to repeat your promise to me, if you intend tokeep it. Why is it that I am so anxious? It is for your sake, and forthe sake of a name which should be dearer to you than it is even to me. " "I have no intention of marrying at all. " "Do not say that. " "I do say it. I do not want to keep either you or Jack in the dark as tomy future life. This young lady, --of whom, by the by, neither you norLady Mary Quin know anything, shall not become Countess of Scroope. Tothat I have made up my mind. " "Thank God. " "But as long as she lives I will make no woman Countess of Scroope. LetJack marry this girl that he is in love with. They shall live here andhave the house to themselves if they like it. He will look after theproperty and shall have whatever income old Mellerby thinks proper. Iwill keep the promise I made to my uncle, --but the keeping of it willmake it impossible for me to live here. I would prefer now that youshould say no more on the subject. " Then he left her, quitting the roomwith some stateliness in his step, as though conscious that at such amoment as this it behoved him to assume his rank. The dowager sat alone all that morning thinking of the thing she haddone. She did now believe that he was positively resolved not to marryKate O'Hara, and she believed also that she herself had fixed him inthat resolution. In doing so had she or had she not committed a deadlysin? She knew almost with accuracy what had occurred on the coast ofClare. A young girl, innocent herself up to that moment, had beenenticed to her ruin by words of love which had been hallowed in her earsby vows of marriage. Those vows which had possessed so deadly anefficacy, were now to be simply broken! The cruelty to her would bedamnable, devilish, --surely worthy of hell if any sin of man can be socalled! And she, who could not divest herself of a certain pride takenin the austere morality of her own life, she who was now a widow anxiousto devote her life solely to God, had persuaded the man to this sin, inorder that her successor as Countess of Scroope might not be, in heropinion, unfitting for nobility! The young lord had promised her that hewould be guilty of this sin, so damnable, so devilish, telling her as hedid so, that as a consequence of his promise he must continue to live alife of wickedness! In the agony of her spirit she threw herself uponher knees and implored the Lord to pardon her and to guide her. But evenwhile kneeling before the throne of heaven she could not drive the prideof birth out of her heart. That the young Earl might be saved from thedamning sin and also from the polluting marriage;--that was the prayershe prayed. CHAPTER VIII. LOOSE ABOUT THE WORLD. The Countess was seen no more on that day, --was no more seen at least byeither of the two brothers. Miss Mellerby was with her now and again, but on each occasion only for a few minutes, and reported that LadyScroope was ill and could not appear at dinner. She would, however, seeher nephew before he started on the following morning. Fred himself was much affected by the interview with his aunt. No doubthe had made a former promise to his uncle, similar to that which had nowbeen exacted from him. No doubt he had himself resolved, after what hehad thought to be mature consideration that he would not marry the girl, justifying to himself this decision by the deceit which he thought hadbeen practised upon him in regard to Captain O'Hara. Nevertheless, hefelt that by what had now occurred he was bound more strongly againstthe marriage than he had ever been bound before. His promise to hisuncle might have been regarded as being obligatory only as long as hisuncle lived. His own decision he would have been at liberty to changewhen he pleased to do so. But, though his aunt was almost nothing tohim, --was not in very truth his aunt, but only the widow of his uncle, there had been a solemnity about the engagement as he had now madeit with her, which he felt to be definitely binding. He must go toArdkill prepared to tell them absolutely the truth. He would make anyarrangement they pleased as to their future joint lives, so long as itwas an arrangement by which Kate should not become Countess of Scroope. He did not attempt to conceal from himself the dreadful nature of thetask before him. He knew what would be the indignation of the priest. Hecould picture to himself the ferocity of the mother, defending her youngas a lioness would her whelp. He could imagine that that dagger mightagain be brought from its hiding place. And, worse than all, he wouldsee the girl prostrate in her woe, and appealing to his love and to hisoaths, when the truth as to her future life should be revealed to her. But yet he did not think of shunning the task before him. He could notendure to live a coward in his own esteem. He was unlike himself and very melancholy. "It has been so good ofyou to remain here, " he said to Sophie Mellerby. They had now becomeintimate and almost attached to each other as friends. If she hadallowed a spark of hope to become bright within her heart in regard tothe young Earl that had long since been quenched. She had acknowledgedto herself that had it been possible in other respects they would nothave suited each other, --and now they were friends. "I love your aunt dearly and have been very glad to be with her. " "I wish you would learn to love somebody else dearly. " "Perhaps I shall, some day, --somebody else; though I don't at all knowwho it may be. " "You knew whom I mean. " "I suppose I do. " "And why not love him? Isn't he a good fellow?" "One can't love all the good fellows, Lord Scroope. " "You'll never find a better one than he is. " "Did he commission you to speak for him?" "You know he didn't. You know that he would be the last man in the worldto do so?" "I was surprised. " "But I had a reason for speaking. " "No doubt. " "I don't suppose it will have any effect with you;--but it is somethingyou ought to know. If any man of my age can be supposed to have made uphis mind on such a matter, you may believe that I have made up my mindthat I will--never marry. " "What nonsense, Lord Scroope. " "Well;--yes; perhaps it is. But I am so convinced of it myself that Ishall ask my brother to come and live here--permanently, --as master ofthe place. As he would have to leave his regiment it would of course benecessary that his position here should be settled, --and it shall besettled. " "I most sincerely hope that you will always live here yourself. " "It won't suit me. Circumstances have made it impossible. If he will notdo so, nor my aunt, the house must be shut up. I am most anxious thatthis should not be done. I shall implore him to remain here, and to behere exactly as I should have been, --had things with me not have been sovery unfortunate. He will at any rate have a house to offer you, if--" "Lord Scroope!" "I know what you are going to say, Sophie. " "I don't know that I am as yet disposed to marry for the sake of a houseto shelter me. " "Of course you would say that; but still I think that I have been rightto tell you. I am sure you will believe my assurance that Jack knowsnothing of all this. " That same evening he said nearly the same thing to his brother, thoughin doing so he made no special allusion to Sophie Mellerby. "I know thatthere is a great deal that a fellow should do, living in such a house asthis, but I am not the man to do it. It's a very good kind of life, ifyou happen to be up to it. I am not, but you are. " "My dear Fred, you can't change the accidents of birth. " "In a great measure I can; or at least we can do so between us. Youcan't be Lord Scroope, but you can be master of Scroope Manor. " "No I can't;--and, which is more, I won't. Don't think I am uncivil. " "You are uncivil, Jack. " "At any rate I am not ungrateful. I only want you to understandthoroughly that such an arrangement is out of the question. In nocondition of life would I care to be the locum tenens for another man. You are now five or six and twenty. At thirty you may be a married manwith an absolute need for your own house. " "I would execute any deed. " "So that I might be enabled to keep the owner of the property out of theonly place that is fit for him! It is a power which I should not use, and do not wish to possess. Believe me, Fred, that a man is bound tosubmit himself to the circumstances by which he is surrounded, when itis clear that they are beneficial to the world at large. There must bean Earl of Scroope, and you at present are the man. " They were sitting together out upon the terrace after dinner, and for atime there was silence. His brother's arguments were too strong for theyoung lord, and it was out of his power to deal with one so dogmatic. But he did not forget the last words that had been spoken. It may bethat "I shall not be the man very long, " he said at last. "Any of us may die to-day or to-morrow, " said Jack. "I have a kind of presentiment, --not that I shall die, but that I shallnever see Scroope again. It seems as though I were certainly leaving forever a place that has always been distasteful to me. " "I never believe anything of presentiments. " "No; of course not. You're not that sort of fellow at all. But I am. Ican't think of myself as living here with a dozen old fogies about theplace all doing nothing, touching their hats, my-lording me at everyturn, looking respectable, but as idle as pickpockets. " "You'll have to do it. " "Perhaps I shall, but I don't think it. " Then there was again silencefor a time. "The less said about it the better, but I know that I've gota very difficult job before me in Ireland. " "I don't envy you, Fred;--not that. " "It is no use talking about it. It has got to be done, and the soonerdone the better. What I shall do when it is done, I have not the mostremote idea. Where I shall be living this day month I cannot guess. Ican only say one thing certainly, and that is that I shall not come backhere. There never was a fellow so loose about the world as I am. " It was terrible that a young man who had it in his power to do so muchgood or so much evil should have had nothing to bind him to the bettercourse! There was the motto of his house, and the promises which he hadmade to his uncle persuading him to that which was respectable and as hethought dull; and opposed to those influences there was an unconquerablefeeling on his own part that he was altogether unfitted for the kindof life that was expected of him. Joined to this there was the fact ofthat unfortunate connection in Ireland from which he knew that it wouldbe base to fly, and which, as it seemed to him, made any attempt atrespectability impossible to him. Early on the following morning, as he was preparing to start, his auntagain sent for him. She came out to him in the sitting-room adjoiningher bedroom and there embraced him. Her eyes were red with weeping, andher face wan with care. "Fred, " she said; "dear Fred. " "Good-bye, aunt. The last word I have to say is that I implore you notto leave Scroope as long as you are comfortable here. " "You will come back?" "I cannot say anything certain about that. " She still had hold of him with both hands and was looking into his facewith loving, frightened, wistful eyes. "I know, " she said, "that youwill be thinking of what passed between us yesterday. " "Certainly I shall remember it. " "I have been praying for you, Fred; and now I tell you to look to yourFather which is in Heaven for guidance, and not to take it from any poorfrail sinful human being. Ask Him to keep your feet steady in the path, and your heart pure, and your thoughts free from wickedness. Oh, Fred, keep your mind and body clear before Him, and if you will kneel to Himfor protection, He will show you a way through all difficulties. " It wasthus that she intended to tell him that his promise to her, made on theprevious day, was to count for nought, and that he was to marry the girlif by no other way he could release himself from vice. But she could notbring herself to declare to him in plain terms that he had better marryKate O'Hara, and bring his new Countess to Scroope in order that shemight be fitly received by her predecessor. It might be that the Lordwould still show him a way out of the two evils. But his brother was more clear of purpose with him, as they walkedtogether out to the yard in which the young Earl was to get into hiscarriage. "Upon the whole, Fred, if I were you I should marry thatgirl. " This he said quite abruptly. The young lord shook his head. "Itmay be that I do not know all the circumstances. If they be as I haveheard them from you, I should marry her. Good-bye. Let me hear from you, when you have settled as to going anywhere. " "I shall be sure to write, " said Fred as he took the reins and seatedhim in the phaeton. His brother's advice he understood plainly, and that of his aunt hethought that he understood. But he shook his head again as he toldhimself that he could not now be guided by either of them. CHAPTER IX. AT LISCANNOR. The young lord slept one night at Ennis, and on the third morning afterhis departure from Scroope, started in his gig for Liscannor and thecliffs of Moher. He took a servant with him and a change of clothes. Andas he went his heart was very heavy. He could not live a coward in hisown esteem. Were it not so how willingly would he have saved himselffrom the misery of this journey, and have sent to his Kate to bid hercome to him in England! He feared the priest, and he feared his Kate'smother;--not her dagger, but her eyes and scorching words. He altogetherdoubted his own powers to perform satisfactorily the task before him. Heknew men who could do it. His brother Jack would do it, were it possiblethat his brother Jack should be in such a position. But for himself, hewas conscious of a softness of heart, a feminine tenderness, which, --todo him justice, --he did not mistake for sincerity, that rendered himunfit for the task before him. The farther he journeyed from Scroopeand the nearer that he found himself to the cliffs the stronger didthe feeling grow within him, till it had become almost tragical in itsdominion over him. But still he went on. It was incumbent on him to payone more visit to the cliffs and he journeyed on. At Limerick he did not even visit the barracks to see his latecompanions of the regiment. At Ennis he slept in his old room, and ofcourse the two officers who were quartered there came to him. But theyboth declared when they left him that the Earl of Scroope and FredNeville were very different persons, attributing the difference solelyto the rank and wealth of the new peer. Poor Simpkinson had expectedlong whispered confidential conversations respecting the ladies ofArdkill; but the Earl had barely thanked him for his journey; and thewhispered confidence, which would have been so delightful, was at onceimpossible. "By Heaven, there's nothing like rank to spoil a fellow. Hewas a good fellow once. " So spoke Captain Johnstone, as the two officersretreated together from the Earl's room. And the Earl also saw Mr. Crowe the attorney. Mr. Crowe recognized atits full weight the importance of a man whom he might now call "My Lord"as often as he pleased, and as to whose pecuniary position he had madesome gratifying inquiries. A very few words sufficed. Captain O'Harahad taken his departure, and the money would be paid regularly. Mr. Crowe also noticed the stern silence of the man, but thought that itwas becoming in an Earl with so truly noble a property. Of the CastleQuin people who could hardly do more than pay their way like countrygentlefolk, and who were mere Irish, Mr. Crowe did not think much. Every hour that brought the lord nearer to Liscannor added a weight tohis bosom. As he drove his gig along the bleak road to Ennistimon hisheart was very heavy indeed. At Maurice's mills, the only resting-placeon the road, it had been his custom to give his horse a mouthful ofwater; but he would not do so now though the poor beast would fainhave stopped there. He drove the animal on ruthlessly, himself drivenby a feeling of unrest which would not allow him to pause. He hatedthe country now, and almost told himself that he hated all whom itcontained. How miserable was his lot, that he should have bound himselfin the opening of his splendour, in the first days of a career thatmight have been so splendid, to misfortune that was squalid and mean asthis. To him, to one placed by circumstances as he was placed, it wassqualid and mean. By a few soft words spoken to a poor girl whom hehad chanced to find among the rocks he had so bound himself with vilemanacles, had so crippled, hampered and fettered himself, that hewas forced to renounce all the glories of his station. Wealth almostunlimited was at his command, --and rank, and youth, and such personalgifts of appearance and disposition as best serve to win general love. He had talked to his brother of his unfitness for his earldom; but hecould have blazoned it forth at Scroope and up in London, with the bestof young lords, and have loved well to do so. But this adventure, as hehad been wont to call it, had fallen upon him, and had broken him as itwere in pieces. Thousands a year he would have paid to be rid of hisadventure; but thousands a year, he knew well, were of no avail. Hemight have sent over some English Mr. Crowe with offers almost royal;but he had been able so to discern the persons concerned as to know thatroyal offers, of which the royalty would be simply money royalty, couldbe of no avail. How would that woman have looked at any messengerwho had come to her with offers of money, --and proposed to take herchild into some luxurious but disgraceful seclusion? And in whatlanguage would Father Marty have expressed himself on such a proposedarrangement? And so the Earl of Scroope drove on with his heart fallingever lower and lower within his bosom. It had of course been necessary that he should form some plan. Heproposed to get rooms for one night at the little inn at Ennistimon, to leave his gig there, and then to take one of the country cars on toLiscannor. It would, he thought, be best to see the priest first. Lethim look at his task which way he would, he found that every part of itwas bad. An interview with Father Marty would be very bad, for he mustdeclare his intentions in such a way that no doubt respecting them mustbe left on the priest's mind. He would speak only to three persons;--butto all those three he must now tell the certain truth. There were causesat work which made it impossible that Kate O'Hara should become Countessof Scroope. They might tear him to pieces, but from that decision hewould not budge. Subject to that decision they might do with him andwith all that belonged to him almost as they pleased. He would explainthis first to the priest if it should chance that he found the priest athome. He left his gig and servant at Ennistimon and proceeded as he hadintended along the road to Liscannor on an outside car. In themid-distance about two miles out of the town he met Father Marty ridingon the road. He had almost hoped, --nay, he had hoped, --that the priestmight not be at home. But here was the lion in his path. "Ah, my Lord, "said the priest in his sweetest tone of good humour, --and his tones whenhe was so disposed were very sweet, --"Ah, my Lord, this is a sight goodfor sore eyes. They tould me you were to be here to-day or to-morrow, and I took it for granted therefore it 'd be the day afther. But you'reas good as the best of your word. " The Earl of Scroope got off the car, and holding the priest's hand, answered the kindly salutation. But hedid so with a constrained air and with a solemnity which the priestalso attributed to his newly-begotten rank. Fred Neville, --as he hadbeen a week or two since, --was almost grovelling in the dust beforethe priest's eyes; but the priest for the moment thought that he waswrapping himself up in the sables and ermine of his nobility. However, he had come back, --which was more perhaps than Father Marty hadexpected, --and the best must be made of him with reference to poorKate's future happiness. "You're going on to Ardkill, I suppose, myLord, " he said. "Yes;--certainly; but I intended to take the Liscannor road on purposeto see you. I shall leave the car at Liscannor and walk up. You couldnot return, I suppose?" "Well, --yes, --I might. " "If you could, Father Marty--" "Oh, certainly. " The priest now saw that there was something more in theman's manner than lordly pride. As the Earl got again up on his car, thepriest turned his horse, and the two travelled back through the villagewithout further conversation. The priest's horse was given up to the boyin the yard, and he then led the way into the house. "We are not muchaltered in our ways, are we, my Lord?" he said as he moved a bottle ofwhiskey that stood on the sideboard. "Shall I offer you lunch?" "No, thank you, Father Marty;--nothing, thank you. " Then he made a gaspand began. The bad hour had arrived, and it must be endured. "I havecome back, as you see, Father Marty. That was a matter of course. " "Well, yes, my Lord. As things have gone it was a matter of course. " "I am here. I came as soon as it was possible that I should come. Ofcourse it was necessary that I should remain at home for some days afterwhat has occurred at Scroope. " "No doubt;--no doubt. But you will not be angry with me for saying thatafter what has occurred here, your presence has been most anxiouslyexpected. However here you are, and all may yet be well. As God'sminister I ought perhaps to upbraid. But I am not given to muchupbraiding, and I love that dear and innocent young face too well todesire anything now but that the owner of it should receive at yourhands that which is due to her before God and man. " He perceived that the priest knew it all. But how could he wonder atthis when that which ought to have been her secret and his had becomeknown even to Lady Mary Quin? And he understood well what the priestmeant when he spoke of that which was due to Kate O'Hara before Godand man; and he could perceive, or thought that he perceived, that thepriest did not doubt of the coming marriage, now that he, the victim, was again back in the west of Ireland. And was he not the victim of ascheme? Had he not been allured on to make promises to the girl whichhe would not have made had the truth been told him as to her father?He would not even in his thoughts accuse Kate, --his Kate, --of beinga participator in these schemes. But Mrs. O'Hara and the priest hadcertainly intrigued against him. He must remember that. In the terribletask which he was now compelled to begin he must build his defencechiefly upon that. Yes; he must begin his work, now, upon the instant. With all his golden prospects, --with all his golden honours already inhis possession, --he could wish himself dead rather than begin it. But hecould not die and have done it. "Father. Marty, " he said, "I cannot makeMiss O'Hara Countess of Scroope. " "Not make her Countess of Scroope! What will you make her then?" "As to that, I am here to discuss it with you. " "What is it you main, sir? Afther you have had your will of her, andpolluted her sweet innocence, you will not make her your wife! Youcannot look me in the face, Mr. Neville, and tell me that. " There the priest was right. The young Earl could not look him in theface as he stammered out his explanation and proposal. The burly, strongold man stood perfectly still and silent as he, with hesitating andill-arranged words, tried to gloze over and make endurable his pastconduct and intentions as to the future. He still held some confusedidea as to a form of marriage which should for all his life bind himto the woman, but which should give her no claim to the title, and herchild no claim either to the title or the property. "You should havetold me of this Captain O'Hara, " he said, as with many half-formedsentences he completed his suggestions. "And it's on me you are throwing the blame?" "You should have told me, Father Marty. " "By the great God above me, I did not believe that a man could be sucha villain! As I look for glory I did not think it possible! I shouldhave tould you! Neither did I nor did Mistress O'Hara know or believethat the man was alive. And what has the man to do with it? Is she vilebecause he has been guilty? Is she other than you knew her to be whenyou first took her to your bosom, because of his sin?" "It does make a difference, Mr. Marty. " "Afther what you have done it can make no difference. When you swore toher that she should be your wife, and conquered her by so swearing, wasthere any clause in your contract that you were not to be bound if youfound aught displaising to you in her parentage?" "I ought to have known it all. " "You knew all that she knew;--all that I knew. You knew all that hermother knew. No, Lord Scroope. It cannot be that you should be sounutterably a villain. You are your own masther. Unsay what you havesaid to me, and her ears shall never be wounded or her heart broken bya hint of it. " "I cannot make her Countess of Scroope. You are a priest, and can usewhat words you please to me;--but I cannot make her Countess ofScroope. " "Faith, --and there will be more than words used, my young lord. As toyour plot of a counterfeit marriage, --" "I said nothing of a counterfeit marriage. " "What was it you said, then? I say you did. You proposed to me, --to me apriest of God's altar, --a false counterfeit marriage, so that those twopoor women, who you are afraid to face, might be cajoled and chaited andruined. " "I am going to face them instantly. " "Then must your heart be made of very stone. Shall I tell you theconsequences?" Then the priest paused awhile, and the young man, bursting into tears, hid his face against the wall. "I will tell you theconsequences, Lord Scroope. They will die. The shame and sorrow whichyou have brought on them, will bring them to their graves, --and so therewill be an end of their throubles upon earth. But while I live thereshall be no rest for the sole of your foot. I am ould, and may soonbe below the sod, but I will lave it as a legacy behind me that youriniquity shall be proclaimed and made known in high places. While I liveI will follow you, and when I am gone there shall be another to takethe work. My curse shall rest on you, --the curse of a man of God, andyou shall be accursed. Now, if it suits you, you can go up to them atArdkill and tell them your story. She is waiting to receive her lover. You can go to her, and stab her to the heart at once. Go, sir! Unlessyou can change all this and alter your heart even as you hear my words, you are unfit to find shelter beneath my roof. " Having so spoken, waiting to see the effect of his indignation, thepriest went out, and got upon his horse, and went away upon his journey. The young lord knew that he had been insulted, was aware that words hadbeen said to him so severe that one man, in his rank of life, rarelyutters them to another; and he had stood the while with his face turnedto the wall speechless and sobbing! The priest had gone, telling himto leave the house because his presence disgraced it; and he had madeno answer. Yet he was the Earl of Scroope, --the thirteenth Earl ofScroope, --a man in his own country full of honours. Why had he comethere to be called a villain? And why was the world so hard upon himthat on hearing himself so called he could only weep like a girl? Had hedone worse than other men? Was he not willing to make any retributionfor his fault, --except by doing that which he had been taught to thinkwould be a greater fault? As he left the house he tried to harden hisheart against Kate O'Hara. The priest had lied to him about her father. They must have known that the man was alive. They had caught him amongthem, and the priest's anger was a part of the net with which they hadintended to surround him. The stake for which they had played had beenvery great. To be Countess of Scroope was indeed a chance worth somerisk. Then, as he breasted the hill up towards the burial ground, hetried to strengthen his courage by realizing the magnitude of his ownposition. He bade himself remember that he was among people who were hisinferiors in rank, education, wealth, manners, religion and nationality. He had committed an error. Of course he had been in fault. Did he wishto escape the consequences of his own misdoing? Was not his presencethere so soon after the assumption of his family honours sufficientevidence of his generous admission of the claims to which he wassubject? Had he not offered to sacrifice himself as no other man wouldhave done? But they were still playing for the high stakes. Theywere determined that the girl should be Countess of Scroope. He wasdetermined that she should not be Countess of Scroope. He was stillwilling to sacrifice himself, but his family honours he would notpollute. And then as he made his way past the burial ground and on towards thecliff there crept over him a feeling as to the girl very different fromthat reverential love which he had bestowed upon her when she was stillpure. He remembered the poorness of her raiment, the meekness of herlanguage, the small range of her ideas. The sweet soft coaxing lovingsmile, which had once been so dear to him, was infantine and ignoble. She was a plaything for an idle hour, not a woman to be taken out intothe world with the high name of Countess of Scroope. All this was the antagonism in his own heart against the indignant wordswhich the priest had spoken to him. For a moment he was so overcomethat he had burst into tears. But not on that account would he be beatenaway from his decision. The priest had called him a villain and hadthreatened and cursed him! As to the villainy he had already made uphis mind which way his duty lay. For the threats it did not become himto count them as anything. The curses were the result of the man'sbarbarous religion. He remembered that he was the Earl of Scroope, andso remembering summoned up his courage as he walked on to the cottage. CHAPTER X. AT ARDKILL. Sharp eyes had watched for the young lord's approach. As he came near tothe cottage the door was opened and Kate O'Hara rushed out to meet him. Though his mind was turned against her, --was turned against her as hardand fast as all his false reasonings had been able to make it, --he couldnot but accord to her the reception of a lover. She was in his arms andhe could not but press her close to his bosom. Her face was held upto his, and of course he covered it with kisses. She murmured to himsweet warm words of passionate love, and he could not but answer withendearing names. "I am your own, --am I not?" she said as she still clungto him. "All my own, " he whispered as he tightened his arm round herwaist. Then he asked after Mrs. O'Hara. "Yes; mother is there. She will bealmost as glad to see you as I am. Nobody can be quite so glad. OhFred, --my darling Fred, --am I still to call you Fred?" "What else, my pet?" "I was thinking whether I would call you--my Lord. " "For heaven's sake do not. " "No. You shall be Fred, --my Fred; Fred to me, though all the worldbesides may call you grand names. " Then again she held up her face tohim and pressed the hand that was round her waist closer to her girdle. To have him once more with her, --this was to taste all the joys ofheaven while she was still on earth. They entered the sitting-room together and met Mrs. O'Hara close to thedoor. "My Lord, " she said, "you are very welcome back to us. Indeed weneed you much. I will not upbraid you as you come to make atonement foryour fault. If you will let me I will love you as a son. " As she spokeshe held his right hand in both of hers, and then she lifted up her faceand kissed his cheek. He could not stay her words, nor could he refuse the kiss. And yet tohim the kiss was as the kiss of Judas, and the words were false words, plotted words, pre-arranged, so that after hearing them there should beno escape for him. But he would escape. He resolved again, even then, that he would escape; but he could not answer her words at the moment. Though Mrs. O'Hara held him by the hand, Kate still hung to his otherarm. He could not thrust her away from him. She still clung to him whenhe released his right hand, and almost lay upon his breast when heseated himself on the sofa. She looked into his eyes for tenderness, andhe could not refrain himself from bestowing upon her the happiness. "Oh, mother, " she said, "he is so brown;--but he is handsomer than ever. " Butthough he smiled on her, giving back into her eyes her own soft look oflove, yet he must tell his tale. He was still minded that she should have all but the one thing, --allif she would take it. She should not be Countess of Scroope; but inany other respect he would pay what penalty might be required for histransgression. But in what words should he explain this to those twowomen? Mrs. O'Hara had called him by his title and had claimed him asher son. No doubt she had all the right to do so which promises made byhimself could give her. He had sworn that he would marry the girl, andin point of time had only limited his promise by the old Earl's life. The old Earl was dead, and he stood pledged to the immediate performanceof his vow, --doubly pledged if he were at all solicitous for the honourof his future bride. But in spite of all promises she should never beCountess of Scroope! Some tinkling false-tongued phrase as to lover's oaths had once passedacross his memory and had then sufficed to give him a grain of comfort. There was no comfort to be found in it now. He began to tell himself, in spite of his manhood, that it might have been better for him and forthem that he should have broken this matter to them by a well-chosenmessenger. But it was too late for that now. He had faced the priest andhad escaped from him with the degradation of a few tears. Now he was inthe presence of the lioness and her young. The lioness had claimed himas a denizen of the forest; and, would he yield to her, she no doubtwould be very tender to him. But, as he was resolved not to yield, hebegan to find that he had been wrong to enter her den. As he looked ather, knowing that she was at this moment softened by false hopes, hecould nevertheless see in her eye the wrath of the wild animal. How washe to begin to make his purpose known to them. "And now you must tell us everything, " said Kate, still encircled by hisarm. "What must I tell you?" "You will give up the regiment at once?" "I have done so already. " "But you must not give up Ardkill;--must he, mother?" "He may give it up when he takes you from it, Kate. " "But he will take you too, mother?" The lioness at any rate wanted nothing for herself. "No, love. I shallremain here among my rocks, and shall be happy if I hear that you arehappy. " "But you won't part us altogether, --will you, Fred?" "No, love. " "I knew he wouldn't. And mother may come to your grand house and creepinto some pretty little corner there, where I can go and visit her, andtell her that she shall always be my own, own, own darling mother. " He felt that he must put a stop to this in some way, though the doingof it would be very dreadful. Indeed in the doing of it the whole ofhis task would consist. But still he shirked it, and used his wit incontriving an answer which might still deceive without being false inwords. "I think, " said he, "that I shall never live at any grand house, as you call it. " "Not live at Scroope?" asked Mrs. O'Hara. "I think not. It will hardly suit me. " "I shall not regret it, " said Kate. "I care nothing for a grand house. Ishould only be afraid of it. I know it is dark and sombre, for you havesaid so. Oh, Fred, any place will be Paradise to me, if I am there withyou. " He felt that every moment of existence so continued was a renewed lie. She was lying in his arms, in her mother's presence, almost as hisacknowledged wife. And she was speaking of her future home as beingcertainly his also. But what could he do? How could he begin to tell thetruth? His home should be her home, if she would come to him, --not ashis wife. That idea of some half-valid morganatic marriage had againbeen dissipated by the rough reproaches of the priest, and could only beused as a prelude to his viler proposal. And, though he loved the girlafter his fashion, he desired to wound her by no such vile proposal. Hedid not wish to live a life of sin, if such life might be avoided. If hemade his proposal, it would be but for her sake; or rather that he mightshow her that he did not wish to cast her aside. It was by asserting tohimself that for her sake he would relinquish his own rank, were thatpossible, that he attempted to relieve his own conscience. But, in themean time, she was in his arms talking about their joint future home!"Where do you think of living?" asked Mrs. O'Hara in a tone which shewedplainly the anxiety with which she asked the question. "Probably abroad, " he said. "But mother may go with us?" The girl felt that the tension of his armwas relaxed, and she knew that all was not well with him. And if therewas ought amiss with him, how much more must it be amiss with her? "Whatis it, Fred?" she said. "There is some secret. Will you not tell itto me?" Then she whispered into his ear words intended for him alone, though her mother heard them. "If there be a secret you should tell itme now. Think how it is with me. Your words are life and death to menow. " He still held her with loosened arms but did not answer her. Hesat, looking out into the middle of the room with fixed eyes, and hefelt that drops of perspiration were on his brow. And he knew that theother woman was glaring at him with the eyes of an injured lioness, though he did not dare to turn his own to her face. "Fred, tell me; tellme. " And Kate rose up, with her knees upon the sofa, bending over him, gazing into his countenance and imploring him. "There must be disappointment, " he said; and he did not know the soundof his own voice. "What disappointment? Speak to me. What disappointment?" "Disappointment!" shrieked the mother. "How disappointment? There shallbe no disappointment. " Rising from her chair, she hurried across theroom, and took her girl from his arms. "Lord Scroope, tell us what youmean. I say there shall be no disappointment. Sit away from him, Kate, till he has told us what it is. " Then they heard the sound of a horse'sfoot passing close to the window, and they all knew that it was thepriest. "There is Father Marty, " said Mrs. O'Hara. "He shall make youtell it. " "I have already told him. " Lord Scroope as he said this rose and movedtowards the door; but he himself was almost unconscious of the movement. Some idea probably crossed his mind that he would meet the priest, butMrs. O'Hara thought that he intended to escape from them. She rushed between him and the door and held him with both her hands. "No; no; you do not leave us in that way, though you were twice anEarl. " "I am not thinking of leaving you. " "Mother, you shall not hurt him; you shall not insult him, " said thegirl. "He does not mean to harm me. He is my own, and no one shall touchhim. " "Certainly I will not harm you. Here is Father Marty. Mrs. O'Hara youhad better be tranquil. You should remember that you have heard nothingyet of what I would say to you. " "Whose fault is that? Why do you not speak? Father Marty, what does hemean when he tells my girl that there must be disappointment for her?Does he dare to tell me that he hesitates to make her his wife?" The priest took the mother by the hand and placed her on the chair inwhich she usually sat. Then, almost without a word, he led Kate from theroom to her own chamber, and bade her wait a minute till he should comeback to her. Then he returned to the sitting-room and at once addressedhimself to Lord Scroope. "Have you dared, " he said, "to tell them whatyou hardly dared to tell to me?" "He has dared to tell us nothing, " said Mrs. O'Hara. "I do not wonder at it. I do not think that any man could say to herthat which he told me that he would do. " "Mrs. O'Hara, " said the young lord, with some return of courage nowthat the girl had left them, "that which I told Mr. Marty this morning, I will now tell to you. For your daughter I will do anything that youand she and he may wish, --but one thing. I cannot make her Countess ofScroope. " "You must make her your wife, " said the woman, shouting at him. "I will do so to-morrow if a way can be found by which she shall notbecome Countess of Scroope. " "That is, he will marry her without making her his wife, " said thepriest. "He will jump over a broomstick with her and will ask me to helphim, --so that your feelings and hers may be spared for a week or so. Mrs. O'Hara, he is a villain, --a vile, heartless, cowardly reprobate, solow in the scale of humanity that I degrade myself by spaking to him. Hecalls himself an English peer! Peer to what? Certainly to no one worthyto be called a man!" So speaking, the priest addressed himself to Mrs. O'Hara, but as he spoke his eyes were fixed full on the face of theyoung lord. "I will have his heart out of his body, " exclaimed Mrs. O'Hara. "Heart;--he has no heart. You may touch his pocket;--or his pride, what he calls his pride, a damnable devilish inhuman vanity; or hisname, --that bugbear of a title by which he trusts to cover his baseness;or his skin, for he is a coward. Do you see his cheek now? But as forhis heart, --you cannot get at that. " "I will get at his life, " said the woman. "Mr. Marty, you allow yourself a liberty of speech which even yourpriesthood will not warrant. " "Lay a hand upon me if you can. There is not blood enough about you todo it. Were it not that the poor child has been wake and too trusting, Iwould bid her spit on you rather than take you for her husband. " Then hepaused, but only for a moment. "Sir, you must marry her, and there mustbe an end of it. In no other way can you be allowed to live. " "Would you murder me?" "I would crush you like an insect beneath my nail. Murder you! Have youthought what murder is;--that there are more ways of murder than one?Have you thought of the life of that young girl who now bears in herwomb the fruit of your body? Would you murder her, --because she lovedyou, and trusted you, and gave you all simply because you asked her; andthen think of your own life? As the God of Heaven is above me, and seesme now, and the Saviour in whose blood I trust, I would lay down my lifethis instant, if I could save her from your heartlessness. " So saying hetoo turned away his face and wept like a child. After this the priest was gentler in his manner to the young man, andit almost seemed as though the Earl was driven from his decision. Heceased, at any rate, to assert that Kate should never be Countess ofScroope, and allowed both the mother and Father Marty to fall into astate of doubt as to what his last resolve might be. It was decided thathe should go down to Ennistimon and sleep upon it. On the morrow hewould come up again, and in the meantime he would see Father Marty atthe inn. There were many prayers addressed to him both by the mother andthe priest, and such arguments used that he had been almost shaken. "Butyou will come to-morrow?" said the mother, looking at the priest as shespoke. "I will certainly come to-morrow. " "No doubt he will come to-morrow, " said Father Marty, --who intendedto imply that if Lord Scroope escaped out of Ennistimon without hisknowledge, he would be very much surprised. "Shall I not say a word to Kate?" the Earl asked as he was going. "Not till you are prepared to tell her that she shall be your wife, "said the priest. But this was a matter as to which Kate herself had a word to say. Whenthey were in the passage she came out from her room, and again rushedinto her lover's arms. "Oh, Fred, let me told, --let me told. I will gowith you anywhere if you will take me. " "He is to come up to-morrow, Kate, " said her mother. "He will be here early to-morrow, and everything shall be settled then, "said the priest, trying to assume a happy and contented tone. "Dearest Kate, I will be here by noon, " said Lord Scroope, returning thegirl's caresses. "And you will not desert me?" "No, darling, no. " And then he went, leaving the priest behind him atthe cottage. Father Marty was to be with him at the inn by eight, and then the wholematter must be again discussed. He felt that he had been very weak, thathe had made no use, --almost no use at all, --of the damning fact of theCaptain's existence. He had allowed the priest to talk him down in everyargument, and had been actually awed by the girl's mother, and yet hewas determined that he would not yield. He felt more strongly than ever, now that he had again seen Kate O'Hara, that it would not be right thatsuch a one as she should be made Countess of Scroope. Not only would shedisgrace the place, but she would be unhappy in it, and would shame him. After all the promises that he had made he could not, and he would not, take her to Scroope as his wife. How could she hold up her head beforesuch women as Sophie Mellerby and others like her? It would be known byall his friends that he had been taken in and swindled by low peoplein the County Clare, and he would be regarded by all around him asone who had absolutely ruined himself. He had positively resolved thatshe should not be Countess of Scroope, and to that resolution he wouldadhere. The foul-mouthed priest had called him a coward, but he wouldbe no coward. The mother had said that she would have his life. Ifthere were danger in that respect he must encounter it. As he returnedto Ennistimon he again determined that Kate O'Hara should never becomeCountess of Scroope. For three hours Father Marty remained with him that night, but did notshake him. He had now become accustomed to the priest's wrath and couldendure it. And he thought also that he could now endure the mother. Thetears of the girl and her reproaches he still did fear. "I will do anything that you can dictate short of that, " he said againto Father Marty. "Anything but the one thing that you have sworn to do?" "Anything but the one thing that I have sworn not to do. " For he hadtold the priest of the promises he had made both to his uncle and to hisuncle's widow. "Then, " said the priest, as he crammed his hat on his head, and shookthe dust off his feet, "if I were you I would not go to Ardkillto-morrow if I valued my life. " Nevertheless Father Marty slept atEnnistimon that night, and was prepared to bar the way if any attemptat escape were made. CHAPTER XI. ON THE CLIFFS. No attempt at escape was made. The Earl breakfasted by himself at aboutnine, and then lighting a cigar, roamed about for a while round the Inn, thinking of the work that was now before him. He saw nothing of FatherMarty though he knew that the priest was still in Ennistimon. And hefelt that he was watched. They might have saved themselves that trouble, for he certainly had no intention of breaking his word to them. So hetold himself, thinking as he did so, that people such as these couldnot understand that an Earl of Scroope would not be untrue to his word. And yet since he had been back in County Clare he had almost regrettedthat he had not broken his faith to them and remained in England. At half-past ten he started on a car, having promised to be at thecottage at noon, and he told his servant that he should certainly leaveEnnistimon that day at three. The horse and gig were to be ready for himexactly at that hour. On this occasion he did not go through Liscannor, but took the otherroad to the burial ground. There he left his car and slowly walkedalong the cliffs till he came to the path leading down from them to thecottage. In doing this he went somewhat out of his way, but he had timeon his hands and he did not desire to be at the cottage before the hourhe had named. It was a hot midsummer day, and there seemed to be hardlya ripple on the waves. The tide was full in, and he sat for a whilelooking down upon the blue waters. What an ass had he made himself, coming thither in quest of adventures! He began to see now the meaningof such idleness of purpose as that to which he had looked for pleasureand excitement. Even the ocean itself and the very rocks had lost theircharm for him. It was all one blaze of blue light, the sky above andthe water below, in which there was neither beauty nor variety. Howpoor had been the life he had chosen! He had spent hour after hour in acomfortless dirty boat, in company with a wretched ignorant creature, inorder that he might shoot a few birds and possibly a seal. All the worldhad been open to him, and yet how miserable had been his ambition! Andnow he could see no way out of the ruin he had brought upon himself. When the time had come he rose from his seat and took the path down tothe cottage. At the corner of the little patch of garden ground attachedto it he met Mrs. O'Hara. Her hat was on her head, and a light shawlwas on her shoulders as though she had prepared herself for walking. He immediately asked after Kate. She told him that Kate was within andshould see him presently. Would it not be better that they two should goup on the cliffs together, and then say what might be necessary for themutual understanding of their purposes? "There should be no talking ofall this before Kate, " said Mrs. O'Hara. "That is true. " "You can imagine what she must feel if she is told to doubt. LordScroope, will you not say at once that there shall be no doubt? You mustnot ruin my child in return for her love!" "If there must be ruin I would sooner bear it myself, " said he. And thenthey walked on without further speech till they had reached a pointsomewhat to the right, and higher than that on which he had sat before. It had ever been a favourite spot with her, and he had often sat therebetween the mother and daughter. It was almost the summit of the cliff, but there was yet a higher pitch which screened it from the north, sothat the force of the wind was broken. The fall from it was almostprecipitous to the ocean, so that the face of the rocks immediatelybelow was not in view; but there was a curve here in the line of theshore, and a little bay in the coast, which exposed to view the wholeside of the opposite cliff, so that the varying colours of the rocksmight be seen. The two ladies had made a seat upon the turf, by movingthe loose stones and levelling the earth around, so that they could sitsecurely on the very edge. Many many hours had Mrs. O'Hara passed uponthe spot, both summer and winter, watching the sunset in the west, andlistening to the screams of the birds. "There are no gulls now, " shesaid as she seated herself, --as though for a moment she had forgottenthe great subject which filled her mind. "No;--they never show themselves in weather like this. They only comewhen the wind blows. I wonder where they go when the sun shines. " "They are just the opposite to men and women who only come around youin fine weather. How hot it is!" and she threw her shawl back from hershoulders. "Yes, indeed. I walked up from the burial ground and I found that it wasvery hot. Have you seen Father Marty this morning?" "No. Have you?" she asked the question turning upon him very shortly. "Not to-day. He was with me till late last night. " "Well. " He did not answer her. He had nothing to say to her. In facteverything had been said yesterday. If she had questions to ask he wouldanswer them. "What did you settle last night? When he went from me anhour after you were gone, he said that it was impossible that you shouldmean to destroy her. " "God forbid that I should destroy her. " "He said that, --that you were afraid of her father. " "I am. " "And of me. " "No;--not of you, Mrs. O'Hara. " "Listen to me. He said that such a one as you cannot endure the presenceof an uneducated and ill-mannered mother-in-law. Do not interrupt me, Lord Scroope. If you will marry her, my girl shall never see my faceagain; and I will cling to that man and will not leave him for a moment, so that he shall never put his foot near your door. Our name shall neverbe spoken in your hearing. She shall never even write to me if you thinkit better that we shall be so separated. " "It is not that, " he said. "What is it, then?" "Oh, Mrs. O'Hara, you do not understand. You, --you I could love dearly. " "I would have you keep all your love for her. " "I do love her. She is good enough for me. She is too good; and so areyou. It is for the family, and not for myself. " "How will she harm the family?" "I swore to my uncle that I would not make her Countess of Scroope. " "And have you not sworn to her again and again that she should be yourwife? Do you think that she would have done for you what she has done, had you not so sworn? Lord Scroope, I cannot think that you really meanit. " She put both her hands softly upon his arm and looked up to himimploring his mercy. He got up from his seat and roamed along the cliff, and she followedhim, still imploring. Her tones were soft, and her words were thewords of a suppliant. Would he not relent and save her child fromwretchedness, from ruin and from death. "I will keep her with me tillI die, " he said. "But not as your wife?" "She shall have all attention from me, --everything that a woman's heartcan desire. You two shall be never separated. " "But not as your wife?" "I will live where she and you may please. She shall want nothing thatmy wife would possess. " "But not as your wife?" "Not as Countess of Scroope. " "You would have her as your mistress, then?" As she asked this questionthe tone of her voice was altogether altered, and the threateninglion-look had returned to her eyes. They were now near the seat, confronted to each other; and the fury of her bosom, which for a whilehad been dominated by the tenderness of the love for her daughter, wasagain raging within her. Was it possible that he should be able to treatthem thus, --that he should break his word and go from them scathless, happy, joyous, with all the delights of the world before him, leavingthem crushed into dust beneath his feet. She had been called upon fromher youth upwards to bear injustice, --but of all injustice surely thiswould be the worst. "As your mistress, " she repeated, --"and I hermother, am to stand by and see it, and know that my girl is dishonoured!Would your mother have borne that for your sister? How would it be ifyour sister were as that girl is now?" "I have no sister. " "And therefore you are thus hard-hearted. She shall never be yourharlot;--never. I would myself sooner take from her the life I gave her. You have destroyed her, but she shall never be a thing so low as that. " "I will marry her, --in a foreign land. " "And why not here? She is as good as you. Why should she not bear thename you are so proud of dinning into our ears? Why should she not be aCountess? Has she ever disgraced herself? If she is disgraced in youreyes you must be a Devil. " "It is not that, " he said hoarsely. "What is it? What has she done that she should be thus punished? Tellme, man, that she shall be your lawful wife. " As she said this shecaught him roughly by the collar of his coat and shook him with her arm. "It cannot be so, " said the Earl Of Scroope. "It cannot be so! But I say it shall, --or, --or--! What are you, thatshe should be in your hands like this? Say that she shall be your wife, or you shall never live to speak to another woman. " The peril of hisposition on the top of the cliff had not occurred to him;--nor did itoccur to him now. He had been there so often that the place gave him nosense of danger. Nor had that peril, --as it was thought afterwards bythose who most closely made inquiry on the matter, --ever occurred toher. She had not brought him there that she might frighten him withthat danger, or that she might avenge herself by the power which it gaveher. But now the idea flashed across her maddened mind. "Miscreant, " shesaid. And she bore him back to the very edge of the precipice. "You'll have me over the cliff, " he exclaimed hardly even yet puttingout his strength against her. "And so I will, by the help of God. Now think of her! Now think of her!"And as she spoke she pressed him backwards towards his fall. He hadpower enough to bend his knee, and to crouch beneath her grasp on to theloose crumbling soil of the margin of the rocks. He still held her byher cuff and it seemed for a moment as though she must go with him. But, on a sudden, she spurned him with her foot on the breast, the rag ofcloth parted in his hand, and the poor wretch tumbled forth alone intoeternity. That was the end of Frederic Neville, Earl of Scroope, and the end, too, of all that poor girl's hopes in this world. When you stretch yourselfon the edge of those cliffs and look down over the abyss on the seabelow it seems as though the rocks were so absolutely perpendicular, that a stone dropped with an extended hand would fall amidst the waves. But in such measurement the eye deceives itself, for the rocks in truthslant down; and the young man, as he fell, struck them again and again;and at last it was a broken mangled corpse that reached the blue watersbelow. Her Kate was at last avenged. The woman stood there in her solitude forsome minutes thinking of the thing she had done. The man had injuredher, --sorely, --and she had punished him. He had richly deserved thedeath which he had received from her hands. In these minutes, asregarded him, there was no remorse. But how should she tell the newsto her child? The blow which had thrust him over would, too probably, destroy other life than his. Would it not be better that her girl shouldso die? What could prolonged life give her that would be worth herhaving? As for herself, --in these first moments of her awe she took nothought of her own danger. It did not occur to her that she might tellhow the man had ventured too near the edge and had fallen by mischance. As regarded herself she was proud of the thing she had accomplished; buthow should she tell her child that it was done? She slowly took the path, not to the cottage, but down towards theburial ground and Liscannor, passing the car which was waiting in vainfor the young lord. On she walked with rapid step, indifferent to theheat, still proud of what she had done, --raging with a maddened pride. How little had they two asked of the world! And then this man had cometo them and robbed them of all that little, had spoiled them ruthlessly, cheating them with lies, and then excusing himself by the grandeur ofhis blood! During that walk it was that she first repeated to herselfthe words that were ever afterwards on her tongue; An Eye for an Eye. Was not that justice? And, had she not taken the eye herself, would anyCourt in the world have given it to her? Yes;--an eye for an eye! Deathin return for ruin! One destruction for another! The punishment had beenjust. An eye for an eye! Let the Courts of the world now say what theypleased, they could not return to his earldom the man who had plunderedand spoiled her child. He had sworn that he would not make her KateCountess of Scroope! Nor should he make any other woman a Countess! Rapidly she went down by the burying ground, and into the priest'shouse. Father Marty was there, and she stalked at once into hispresence. "Ha;--Mrs. O'Hara! And where is Lord Scroope?" "There, " she said, pointing out towards the ocean. "Under the rocks!" "He has fallen!" "I thrust him down with my hands and with my feet. " As she said this, she used her hand and her foot as though she were now using her strengthto push the man over the edge. "Yes, I thrust him down, and he fellsplashing into the waves. I heard it as his body struck the water. Hewill shoot no more of the sea-gulls now. " "You do not mean that you have murdered him?" "You may call it murder if you please, Father Marty. An eye for an eye, Father Marty! It is justice, and I have done it. An Eye for an Eye!" CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION. The story of the poor mad woman who still proclaims in her seclusion thejustice of the deed which she did, has now been told. It may perhaps bewell to collect the scattered ends of the threads of the tale for thebenefit of readers who desire to know the whole of a history. Mrs. O'Hara never returned to the cottage on the cliffs after theperpetration of the deed. On the unhappy priest devolved the duty ofdoing whatever must be done. The police at the neighbouring barrackswere told that the young lord had perished by a fall from the cliffs, and by them search was made for the body. No real attempt was set onfoot to screen the woman who had done the deed by any concealment of thefacts. She herself was not alive to the necessity of making any suchattempt. "An eye for an eye!" she said to the head-constable when theman interrogated her. It soon became known to all Liscannor, toEnnistimon, to the ladies at Castle Quin, and to all the barony ofCorcomroe that Mrs. O'Hara had thrust the Earl of Scroope over thecliffs of Moher, and that she was now detained at the house of FatherMarty in the custody of a policeman. Before the day was over it wasdeclared also that she was mad, --and that her daughter was dying. The deed which the woman had done and the death of the young lord wereboth terrible to Father Marty; but there was a duty thrown upon him moreawful to his mind even than these. Kate O'Hara, when her motherappeared at the priest's house, had been alone at the cottage. Bydegrees Father Marty learned from the wretched woman something of thecircumstances of that morning's work. Kate had not seen her lover thatday, but had been left in the cottage while her mother went out to meetthe man, and if possible to persuade him to do her child justice. Thepriest understood that she would be waiting for them, --or more probablysearching for them on the cliffs. He got upon his horse and rode up thehill with a heavy heart. What should he tell her; and how should he tellit? Before he reached the cottage she came running down the hillside to him. "Father Marty, where is mother? Where is Mr. Neville? You know. I seethat you know. Where are they?" He got off his horse and put his armround her body and seated her beside himself on the rising bank by thewayside. "Why don't you speak?" she said. "I cannot speak, " he murmured. "I cannot tell you. " "Is he--dead?" He only buried his face in his hands. "She has killedhim! Mother--mother!" Then, with one loud long wailing shriek, she fellupon the ground. Not for a month after that did she know anything of what happened aroundher. But yet it seemed that during that time her mind had not beenaltogether vacant, for when she awoke to self-consciousness, she knew atleast that her lover was dead. She had been taken into Ennistimon andthere, under the priest's care, had been tended with infinitesolicitude; but almost with a hope on his part that nature might giveway and that she might die. Overwhelmed as she was with sorrows past andto come would it not be better for her that she should go hence and beno more seen? But as Death cannot be barred from the door when he knocksat it, so neither can he be made to come as a guest when summoned. Shestill lived, though life had so little to offer to her. But Mrs. O'Hara never saw her child again. With passionate entreatiesshe begged of the police that her girl might be brought to her, that shemight be allowed if it were only to see her face or to touch her hand. Her entreaties to the priest, who was constant in his attendance uponher in the prison to which she was removed from his house, werepiteous, --almost heartbreaking. But the poor girl, though she was meek, silent, and almost apathetic in her tranquillity, could not even bearthe mention of her mother's name. Her mother had destroyed the father ofthe child that was to be born to her, her lover, her hero, her god; andin her remembrance of the man who had betrayed her, she learned toexecrate the mother who had sacrificed everything, --her very reason, --inavenging the wrongs of her child! Mrs. O'Hara was taken away from the priest's house to the County Gaol, but was then in a condition of acknowledged insanity. That she hadcommitted the murder no one who heard the story doubted, but of herguilt there was no evidence whatever beyond the random confession of amaniac. No detailed confession was ever made by her. "An eye for aneye, " she would say when interrogated, --"Is not that justice? A toothfor a tooth!" Though she was for a while detained in prison it wasimpossible to prosecute her, --even with a view to an acquittal on theground of insanity; and while the question was under discussion amongthe lawyers, provision for her care and maintenance came from anothersource. As also it did for the poor girl. For a while everything was done forher under the care of Father Marty;--but there was another Earl ofScroope in the world, and as soon as the story was known to him and thecircumstances had been made clear, he came forward to offer on behalf ofthe family whatever assistance might now avail them anything. As monthsrolled on the time of Kate O'Hara's further probation came, but Fatespared her the burden and despair of a living infant. It was at lastthought better that she should go to her father and live in France withhim, reprobate though the man was. The priest offered to find a home forher in his own house at Liscannor; but, as he said himself, he was anold man, and one who when he went would leave no home behind him. Andthen it was felt that the close vicinity of the spot on which her loverhad perished would produce a continued melancholy that might crush herspirits utterly. Captain O'Hara therefore was desired to come and fetchhis child, --and he did so, with many protestations of virtue for thefuture. If actual pecuniary comfort can conduce to virtue in such a man, a chance was given him. The Earl of Scroope was only too liberal in thesettlement he made. But the settlement was on the daughter and not onthe father; and it is possible therefore that some gentle restraint mayhave served to keep him out of the deep abysses of wickedness. The effects of the tragedy on the coast of Clare spread beyond Ireland, and drove another woman to the verge of insanity. When the Countess ofScroope heard the story, she shut herself up at Scroope and would see noone but her own servants. When the succeeding Earl came to the housewhich was now his own, she refused to admit him into her presence, anddeclined even a renewed visit from Miss Mellerby who at that time hadreturned to her father's roof. At last the clergyman of Scroopeprevailed, and to him she unburdened her soul, --acknowledging, with anenergy that went perhaps beyond the truth, the sin of her own conduct inproducing the catastrophe which had occurred. "I knew that he hadwronged her, and yet I bade him not to make her his wife. " That was thegist of her confession and she declared that the young man's blood wouldbe on her hands till she died. A small cottage was prepared for her onthe estate, and there she lived in absolute seclusion till deathrelieved her from her sorrows. And she lived not only in seclusion, but in solitude almost to herdeath. It was not till four years after the occurrences which have beenhere related that John fourteenth Earl of Scroope brought a bride hometo Scroope Manor. The reader need hardly be told that that bride wasSophie Mellerby. When the young Countess came to live at the Manor theold Countess admitted her visits and at last found some consolation inher friend's company. But it lasted not long, and then she was takenaway and buried beside her lord in the chancel of the parish church. When it was at last decided that the law should not interfere at all asto the personal custody of the poor maniac who had sacrificed everythingto avenge her daughter, the Earl of Scroope selected for her comfort theasylum in which she still continues to justify from morning to night, and, alas, often all the night long, the terrible deed of which she isever thinking. "An eye for an eye, " she says to the woman who watchesher. "Oh, yes, ma'am; certainly. " "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth! Is it not so? An eye for aneye!"