CASTLE RICHMOND

by

ANTHONY TROLLOPE

With an Introduction by Algar Thorold

London & New York: MCMVI

INTRODUCTION

"Castle Richmond" was written in 1861, long after Trollope had leftIreland. The characterization is weak, and the plot, although theauthor himself thought well of it, mechanical. 

The value of the story is rather documentary than literary. Itcontains several graphic scenes descriptive of the great Irishfamine. Trollope observed carefully, and on the whole impartially, though his powers of discrimination were not quite fine enough tomake him an ideal annalist. 

Still, such as they were, he has used them here with noinconsiderable effect. His desire to be fair has led him to laystress in an inverse ratio to his prepossessions, and his Priest isa better man than his parson. 

The best, indeed the only piece of real characterization in the bookis the delineation of Abe Mollett. This unscrupulous blackmailer isput before us with real art, with something of the lovingpreoccupation of the hunter for his quarry. Trollope loved a rogue, and in his long portrait gallery there are several really charmingones. He did not, indeed, perceive the aesthetic value of sin--hedid not perceive the esthetic value of anything, --and his analysisof human nature was not profound enough to reach the conception ofsin, crime being to him the nadir of downward possibility--but he hada professional, a sort of half Scotland Yard, half master of houndsinterest in a criminal. "See, " he would muse, "how cunningly thecreature works, now back to his earth, anon stealing an unsuspectedrun across country, the clever rascal;" and his ethical disapprovalever, as usual, with English critics of life, in the foreground, clearly enhanced a primitive predatory instinct not obscurely akin, a cynic might say, to those dark impulses he holds up to ourreprobation. This self-realization in his fiction is one ofTrollope's principal charms. Never was there a more subjectivewriter. Unlike Flaubert, who laid down the canon that the authorshould exist in his work as God in creation, to be, here or there, dimly divined but never recognized, though everywhere latent, Trollope was never weary of writing himself large in every man, woman, or child he described. 

The illusion of objectivity which he so successfully achieves is dueto the fact that his mind was so perfectly contented with itshereditary and circumstantial conditions, was itself so perfectlythe mental equivalent of those conditions. Thus the perfection ofhis egotism, tight as a drum, saved him. Had it been a little lesscomplete, he would have faltered and bungled; as it was, he had thenaive certainty of a child, to whose innocent apprehension the worldand self are one, and who therefore I cannot err. 

ALGAR THOROLD. 

CONTENTS

 I. The Barony of Desmond II. Owen Fitzgerald III. Clara Desmond IV. The Countess V. The Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond VI. The Kanturk Hotel, South Main Street, Cork VII. The Famine Year VIII. Gortnaclough and Berryhill IX. Family Councils X. The Rector of Drumbarrow and his Wife XI. Second Love XII. Doubts XIII. Mr. Mollett returns to South Main Street XIV. The Rejected Suitor XV. Diplomacy XVI. The Path beneath the Elms XVII. Father Barney XVIII. The Relief Committee XIX. The Friend of the Family XX. Two Witnesses XXI. Fair Arguments XXII. The Telling of the Tale XXIII. Before Breakfast at Hap House XXIV. After Breakfast at Hap House XXV. A Muddy Walk on a Wet Morning XXVI. Comfortless XXVII. Comforted XXVIII. For a' that and a' that XXIX. Ill News flies Fast XXX. Pallida Mors XXXI. The First Month XXXII. Preparations for Going XXXIII. The Last Stage XXXIV. Farewell XXXV. Herbert Fitzgerald in London XXXVI. How the Earl was won XXXVII. A Tale of a Turbot XXXVIII. Condemned XXXIX. Fox-hunting in Spinny Lane XL. The Fox in his Earth XLI. The Lobby of the House of Commons XLII. Another Journey XLIII. Playing Rounders XLIV. Conclusion

CHAPTER I

THE BARONY OF DESMOND

I wonder whether the novel-reading world--that part of it, atleast, which may honour my pages-will be offended if I lay the plotof this story in Ireland! That there is a strong feeling againstthings Irish it is impossible to deny. Irish servants need notapply; Irish acquaintances are treated with limited confidence;Irish cousins are regarded as being decidedly dangerous; and Irishstories are not popular with the booksellers. 

For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about anyplace, I ought to know something about Ireland; and I do stronglyprotest against the injustice of the above conclusions. Irishcousins I have none. Irish acquaintances I have by dozens; andIrish friends, also, by twos and threes, whom I can love andcherish--almost as well, perhaps, as though they had been born inMiddlesex. Irish servants I have had some in my house for years, andnever had one that was faithless, dishonest, or intemperate. I havetravelled all over Ireland, closely as few other men can have done, and have never had my portmanteau robbed or my pocket picked. Athotels I have seldom locked up my belongings, and my carelessnesshas never been punished. I doubt whether as much can be said forEnglish inns. 

Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion innovels, as there is in colours and petticoats; and now I fear theyare drugs in the market. It is hard to say why a good story shouldnot have a fair chance of success whatever may be its bent; why itshould not be reckoned to be good by its own intrinsic merits alone;but such is by no means the case. I was waiting once, when I wasyoung at the work, in the back parlour of an eminent publisher, hoping to see his eminence on a small matter of business touching athree--volumed manuscript which I held in my hand. The eminentpublisher, having probably larger fish to fry, could not see me, butsent his clerk or foreman to arrange the business. 

"A novel, is it, sir?" said the foreman. 

"Yes, " I answered; "a novel. "

"It depends very much on the subject, " said the foreman, with athoughtful and judicious frown--"upon the name, sir, and thesubject;--daily life, sir; that's what suits us; daily Englishlife. Now, your historical novel, sir, is not worth the paper it'swritten on. "

I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost asunattractive as historical incident; but, nevertheless, I will makethe attempt. I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old friends, andwould fain say a word of them as I do so. If I do not say that wordnow it will never be said. 

The readability of a story should depend, one would say, on itsintrinsic merit rather than on the site of its adventures. No onewill think that Hampshire is better for such a purpose thanCumberland, or Essex than Leicestershire. What abstract objectioncan there then be to the county Cork?

Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most beautiful partof Ireland is that which lies down in the extreme south-west, withfingers stretching far out into the Atlantic Ocean. This consists ofthe counties Cork and Kerry, or a portion, rather, of thosecounties. It contains Killarney, Glengarriffe, Bantry, andInchigeela; and is watered by the Lee, the Blackwater, and theFlesk. I know not where is to be found a land more rich in all thatconstitutes the loveliness of scenery. 

Within this district, but hardly within that portion of it which ismost attractive to tourists, is situated the house and domain ofCastle Richmond. The river Blackwater rises in the county Kerry, andrunning from west to east through the northern part of the countyCork, enters the county Waterford beyond Fermoy. In its course itpasses near the little town of Kanturk, and through the town ofMallow: Castle Richmond stands close upon its banks, within thebarony of Desmond, and in that Kanturk region through which theMallow and Killarney railway now passes, but which some thirteenyears since knew nothing of the navvy's spade, or even of theengineer's theodolite. 

Castle Richmond was at this period the abode of Sir ThomasFitzgerald, who resided there, ever and always, with his wife, LadyFitzgerald, his two daughters, Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald, and, asoften as purposes of education and pleasure suited, with his sonHerbert Fitzgerald. Neither Sir Thomas nor Sir Thomas's house hadabout them any of those interesting picturesque faults which are sogenerally attributed to Irish landlords, and Irish castles. He wasnot out of elbows, nor was he an absentee Castle Richmond had noappearance of having been thrown out of its own windows. It was agood, substantial, modern family residence, built not more thanthirty years since by the late baronet, with a lawn sloping down tothe river, with kitchen gardens and walls for fruit, with amplestables, and a clock over the entrance to the stable yard. It stoodin a well timbered park duly stocked with deer, --and with foxesalso, which are agricultural animals much more valuable in an Irishcounty than deer. So that as regards its appearance Castle Richmondmight have been in Hampshire or Essex, and as regards his property, Sir Thomas Fitzgerald might have been a Leicestershire baronet. 

Here, at Castle Richmond, lived Sir Thomas with his wife anddaughters, and here, taking the period of our story as being exactlythirteen years since, his son Herbert was staying also in those hardwinter months, his Oxford degree having been taken, and his Englishpursuits admitting of a temporary sojourn in Ireland. 

But Sir Thomas Fitzgerald was not the great man of that part of thecountry--at least, not the greatest man; nor was Lady Fitzgerald byany means the greatest lady. As this greatest lady, and the greatestman also, will, with their belongings, be among the most prominentof our dramatis personae, it may be well that I should not even saya word of them. 

All the world must have heard of Desmond Court. It is the largestinhabited residence known in that part of the world, where rumoursare afloat of how it covers ten acres of ground; how in hewing thestones for it a whole mountain was cut away; how it should have costhundreds of thousands of pounds, only that the money was never paidby the rapacious, wicked, bloodthirsty old earl who caused it to beerected;--and how the cement was thickened with human blood. Sogoes rumour with the more romantic of the Celtic tale-bearers. 

It is a huge place--huge, ungainly, and uselessly extensive; builtat a time when, at any rate in Ireland, men considered neitherbeauty, aptitude, nor economy. It is three stories high, and standsround a quadrangle, in which there are two entrances opposite toeach other. Nothing can be well uglier than that great paved court, in which there is not a spot of anything green, except where thedamp has produced an unwholesome growth upon the stones; nothing canwell be more desolate. And on the outside of the building mattersare not much better. There are no gardens close up to the house, noflower-beds in the nooks and corners, no sweet shrubs peeping in atthe square windows. Gardens there are, but they are away, half amile off; and the great hall door opens out upon a flat, bleak park, with hardly a scrap around it which courtesy can call a lawn. 

Here, at this period of ours, lived Clara, Countess of Desmond, widow of Patrick, once Earl of Desmond, and father of Patrick, nowEarl of Desmond. These Desmonds had once been mighty men in theircountry, ruling the people around them as serfs, and ruling themwith hot iron rods. But those days were now long gone, and traditiontold little of them that was true. How it had truly fared eitherwith the earl, or with their serfs, men did not well know; butstories were ever being told of walls built with human blood, and ofthe devil bearing off upon his shoulder a certain earl who was inany other way quite unbearable, and depositing some small unburntportion of his remains fathoms deep below the soil in an old buryingground near Kanturk. And there had been a good earl, as is alwaysthe case with such families; but even his virtues, according totradition, had been of a useless namby-pamby sort. He had walked tothe shrine of St. Finbar, up in the little island of the GouganeBarra, with unboiled peas in his shoes; had forgiven his tenantsfive years' rent all round, and never drank wine or washed himselfafter the death of his lady wife. 

At the present moment the Desmonds were not so potent either forgood or ill. The late earl had chosen to live in London all hislife, and had sunk down to be the toadying friend, or perhaps Ishould more properly say the bullied flunky, of a sensual, wine-bibbing, gluttonous----king. Late in life when he was broken inmeans and character, he had married. The lady of his choice had beenchosen as an heiress; but there had been some slip between that cupof fortune and his lip; and she, proud and beautiful, for such shehad been--had neither relieved nor softened the poverty of herprofligate old lord. 

She was left at his death with two children, of whom the eldest, Lady Clara Desmond, will be the heroine of this story. The youngest, Patrick, now Earl of Desmond, was two years younger than his sister, and will make our acquaintance as a lad fresh from Eton. 

In these days money was not plentiful with the Desmonds. Not butthat their estates were as wide almost as their renown, and that theDesmonds were still great people in the country's estimation. Desmond Court stood in a bleak, unadorned region, almost among themountains, halfway between Kanturk and Maccoom, and the family hadsome claim to possession of the land for miles around. The earl ofthe day was still the head landlord of a huge district extendingover the whole barony of Desmond, and half the adjacent baronies ofMuskerry and Duhallow; but the head landlord's rent in many caseshardly amounted to sixpence an acre, and even those sixpences didnot always find their way into the earl's pocket. When the late earlhad attained his sceptre, he might probably have been entitled tospend some ten thousand a-year; but when he died, and during theyears just previous to that, he had hardly been entitled to spendanything. 

But, nevertheless, the Desmonds were great people, and owned a greatname. They had been kings once over those wild mountains; and wouldbe still, some said, if every one had his own. Their grandeur wasshown by the prevalence of their name. The barony in which theylived was the barony of Desmond. The river which gave water to theircattle was the river Desmond. The wretched, ragged, poverty-strickenvillage near their own dismantled gate was the town of Desmond. Theearl was Earl of Desmond--not Earl Desmond, mark you; and the familyname was Desmond. The grandfather of the present earl, who hadrepaired his fortune by selling himself at the time of the Union, had been Desmond Desmond, Earl of Desmond. 

The late earl, the friend of the most illustrious person in thekingdom, had not been utterly able to rob his heir of everything, orhe would undoubtedly have done so. At the age of twenty-one theyoung earl would come into possession of the property, damagedcertainly, as far as an actively evil father could damage it by longleases, bad management, lack of outlay, and rack renting;--but stillinto the possession of a considerable property. In the mean time itdid not fare very well, in a pecuniary way, with Clara, the widowedcountess, or with the Lady Clara, her daughter. The means at thewidow's disposal were only those which the family trustees wouldallow her as the earl's mother: on his coming of age she would havealmost no means of her own; and for her daughter no provisionwhatever had been made. 

As this first chapter is devoted wholly to the locale of my story, Iwill not stop to say a word as to the persons or characters ofeither of these two ladies, leaving them, as I did the CastleRichmond family, to come forth upon the canvas as opportunity mayoffer. But there is another homestead in this same barony ofDesmond, of which and of its owner--as being its owner--I will say aword. 

Hap House was also the property of a Fitzgerald. It had originallybeen built by an old Sir Simon Fitzgerald, for the use and behoof ofa second son, and the present owner of it was the grandson of thatman for whom it had been built. And old Sir Simon had given hisoffspring not only a house--he had endowed the house with acomfortable little slice of land, either out from the largepatrimonial loaf, or else, as was more probable, collected togetherand separately baked for this younger branch of the family. Be thatas it may, Hap House had of late years been always regarded asconferring some seven or eight hundred a-year upon its possessor, and when young Owen Fitzgerald succeeded to this property, on thedeath of an uncle in the year 1843, he was regarded as a rich man tothat extent. 

At that time he was some twenty-two years of age, and he came downfrom Dublin, where his friends had intended that he should practiseas a barrister, to set up for himself as a country gentleman. HapHouse was distant from Castle Richmond about four miles, standingalso on the river Blackwater, but nearer to Mallow. It was apleasant, comfortable residence, too large no doubt for such aproperty, as is so often the case in Ireland; surrounded by pleasantgrounds and pleasant gardens, with a gorse fox covert belonging tothe place within a mile of it, with a slated lodge, and a prettydrive along the river. At the age of twenty-two, Owen Fitzgeraldcame into all this; and as he at once resided upon the place, hecame in also for the good graces of all the mothers with unmarrieddaughters in the county, and for the smiles also of many of thedaughters themselves. 

Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald were not his uncle and aunt, butnevertheless they took kindly to him;--very kindly at first, thoughthat kindness after a while became less warm. He was the nearestrelation of the name; and should anything happen--as the fataldeath-foretelling phrase goes--to young Herbert Fitzgerald, hewould become the heir of the family title and of the family place. 

When I hear of a young man sitting down by himself as the master ofa household, without a wife, or even without a mother or sister toguide him, I always anticipate danger. If he does not go astray inany other way, he will probably mismanage his money matters. Andthen there are so many other ways. A house, if it be not madepleasant by domestic pleasant things, must be made pleasant bypleasure. And a bachelor's pleasures in his own house are alwaysdangerous. There is too much wine drunk at his dinner parties. Hisguests sit too long over their cards. The servants know that theywant a mistress; and, in the absence of that mistress, the languageof the household becomes loud and harsh--and sometimes improper. Young men among us seldom go quite straight in their course, unlessthey are, at any rate occasionally, brought under the influence oftea and small talk. 

There was no tea and small talk at Hap House, but there werehunting-dinners. Owen Fitzgerald was soon known for his horses andhis riding. He lived in the very centre of the Duhallow hunt; andbefore he had been six months owner of his property had builtadditional stables, with half a dozen loose boxes for his friends'nags. He had an eye, too, for a pretty girl--not always in the waythat is approved of by mothers with marriageable daughters; but inthe way of which they so decidedly disapprove. 

And thus old ladies began to say bad things. Those pleasanthunting-dinners were spoken of as the Hap House orgies. It wasdeclared that men slept there half the day, having played cards allthe night; and dreadful tales were told. Of these tales one-half wasdoubtless false. But, alas, alas! what if one-half were also true?

It is undoubtedly a very dangerous thing for a young man oftwenty-two to keep house by himself, either in town or country. 

CHAPTER II

OWEN FITZGERALD

I have tied myself down to thirteen years ago as the time of mystory; but I must go back a little beyond this for its first scenes, and work my way up as quickly as may be to the period indicated. Ihave spoken of a winter in which Herbert Fitzgerald was at home atCastle Richmond, having then completed his Oxford doings; but I mustsay something of two years previous to that, of a time when Herbertwas not so well known in the country as was his cousin of Hap House. 

It was a thousand pities that a bad word should ever have beenspoken of Owen Fitzgerald; ten thousand pities that he should everhave given occasion for such bad word. He was a fine, high-spirited, handsome fellow, with a loving heart within his breast, and brightthoughts within his brain. It was utterly wrong that a manconstituted as he was should commence life by living alone in alarge country-house. But those who spoke ill of him should haveremembered that this was his misfortune rather than his fault. Somegreater endeavour might perhaps have been made to rescue him fromevil ways. Very little such endeavour was made at all. Sir Thomasonce or twice spoke to him; but Sir Thomas was not an energetic man;and as for Lady Fitzgerald, though she was in many things all thatwas excellent, she was far too diffident to attempt the reformationof a headstrong young man, who after all was only distantlyconnected with her. 

And thus there was no such attempt, and poor Owen became the subjectof ill report without any substantial effort having been made tosave him. He was a very handsome man--tall, being somewhat over sixfeet in height--athletic, almost more than in proportion--withshort, light chestnut-tinted hair, blue eyes, and a mouth perfect asthat of Phoebus. He was clever, too, though perhaps not educated ascarefully as might have been: his speech was usually rapid, hearty, and short, and not seldom caustic and pointed. Had he fallen amonggood hands, he might have done very well in the world's fight; butwith such a character, and lacking such advantages, it was quite asopen to him to do ill. Alas! the latter chance seemed to have fallento him. 

For the first year of his residence at Hap House, he was popularenough among his neighbours. The Hap House orgies were notcommenced at once, nor when commenced did they immediately becomea subject of scandal; and even during the second year he wastolerated;--tolerated by all, and still flattered by some. 

Among the different houses in the country at which he had becomeintimate was that of the Countess of Desmond. The Countess ofDesmond did not receive much company at Desmond Court. She had notthe means, nor perhaps the will, to fill the huge old house withparties of her Irish neighbours--for she herself was English to thebackbone. Ladies of course made morning calls, and gentlemen too, occasionally; but society at Desmond Court was for some years prettymuch confined to this cold formal mode of visiting. Owen Fitzgerald, however, did obtain admittance into the precincts of the Desmondbarracks. 

He went there first with the young earl, who, then quite a boy, hadhad an ugly tumble from his pony in the hunting-field. The countesshad expressed herself as very grateful for young Fitzgerald's care, and thus an intimacy had sprung up. Owen had gone there once ortwice to see the lad, and on those occasions had dined there; and onone occasion, at the young earl's urgent request, had stayed andslept. 

And then the good-natured people of Muskerry, Duhallow, and Desmondbegan, of course, to say that the widow was going to marry the youngman. And why not? she was still a beautiful woman; not yet forty bya good deal, said the few who took her part; or at any rate, notmuch over, as was admitted by the many who condemned her. We, whohave been admitted to her secrets, know that she was then in truthonly thirty-eight. She was beautiful, proud, and clever; and if itwould suit her to marry a handsome young fellow with a good houseand an unembarrassed income of eight hundred a-year, why should shenot do so? As for him, would it not be a great thing for him to havea countess for his wife, and an earl for his stepson?

What ideas the countess had on this subject we will not just nowtrouble ourselves to inquire. But as to young Owen Fitzgerald, wemay declare at once that no thought of such a wretched alliance everentered his head. He was sinful in many things, and foolish in manythings. But he had not that vile sin, that unmanly folly, whichwould have made a marriage with a widowed countess eligible in hiseyes, merely because she was a countess, and not more than fifteenyears his senior. In a matter of love he would as soon have thoughtof paying his devotions to his far-away cousin, old Miss BarbaraBeamish, of Ballyclahassan, of whom it was said that she had set hercap at every unmarried man that had come into the west riding of thecounty for the last forty years. No; it may at any rate be said ofOwen Fitzgerald, that he was not the man to make up to a widowedcountess for the sake of the reflected glitter which might fall onhim from her coronet. 

But the Countess of Desmond was not the only lady at Desmond Court. I have before said that she had a daughter, the Lady Clara, theheroine of this coming story; and it may be now right that I shouldattempt some short description of her; her virtues and faults, hermerits and defects. It shall be very short; for let an authordescribe as he will, he cannot by such course paint the charactersof his personages on the minds of his readers. It is by gradual, earnest efforts that this must be done--if it be done. Ten, nay, twenty pages of the finest descriptive writing that ever fell fromthe pen of a novelist will not do it. 

Clara Desmond, when young Fitzgerald first saw her, had hardlyattained that incipient stage of womanhood which justifies a motherin taking her out into the gaieties of the world. She was then onlysixteen; and had not in her manner and appearance so much of thewoman as is the case with many girls of that age. She was shy anddiffident in manner, thin and tall in person. If I were to say thatshe was angular and bony, I should disgust my readers, who, disliking the term, would not stop to consider how many sweetestgirls are at that age truly subject to those epithets. Theirundeveloped but active limbs are long and fleshless, the contour oftheir face is the same, their elbows and shoulders are pointed, their feet and hands seem to possess length without breadth. Birthand breeding have given them the frame of beauty, to which comingyears will add the soft roundness of form, and the rich glory ofcolour. The plump, rosy girl of fourteen, though she also is verysweet, never rises to such celestial power of feminine grace as shewho is angular and bony, whose limbs are long, and whose joints aresharp. 

Such was Clara Desmond at sixteen. But still, even then, to thosewho were gifted with the power of seeing, she gave promise of greatloveliness. Her eyes were long and large, and wonderfully clear. There was a liquid depth in them which enabled the gazer to lookdown into them as he would into the green, pellucid transparency ofstill ocean water. And then they said so much--those young eyes ofhers: from her mouth in those early years words came but scantily, but from her eyes questions rained quicker than any other eyes couldanswer them. Questions of wonder at what the world contained, --ofwonder as to what men thought and did; questions as to the inmostheart, and truth, and purpose of the person questioned. And all thiswas asked by a glance now and again; by a glance of those long, shy, liquid eyes, which were ever falling on the face of him shequestioned, and then ever as quickly falling from it. 

Her face, as I have said, was long and thin, but it was the longnessand thinness of growing youth. The natural lines of it were full ofbeauty, of pale silent beauty, too proud in itself to boast itselfmuch before the world, to make itself common among many. Her hairwas already long and rich, but was light in colour, much lighterthan it grew to be when some four or five more years had passed overher head. At the time of which I speak she wore it in simple braidsbrushed back from her forehead, not having as yet learned thatmajestic mode of sweeping it from her face which has in subsequentyears so generally prevailed. 

And what then of her virtues and her faults--of her merits anddefects? Will it not be better to leave them all to time and thecoming pages? That she was proud of her birth, proud of being anIrish Desmond, proud even of her poverty, so much I may say of her, even at that early age. In that she was careless of the world'sesteem, fond to a fault of romance, poetic in her temperament, andtender in her heart, she shared the ordinary--shall I say foibles orvirtues?--of so many of her sex. She was passionately fond of herbrother, but not nearly equally so of her mother, of whom thebrother was too evidently the favoured child. 

She had lived much alone; alone, that is, with her governess andwith servants at Desmond Court. Not that she had been neglected byher mother, but she had hardly found herself to be her mother'scompanion; and other companions there she had had none. When she wassixteen her governess was still with her; but a year later than thatshe was left quite alone, except inasmuch as she was with hermother. 

She was sixteen when she first began to ask questions of OwenFitzgerald's face with those large eyes of hers; and she saw much ofhim and he of her, for the twelve months immediately after that. Much of him, that is, as much goes in this country of ours, wherefour or five interviews in as many months between friends issupposed to signify that they are often together. But thismuch-seeing occurred chiefly during the young earl's holidays. Nowand again he did ride over in the long intervals, and when he did doso was not frowned upon by the countess; and so, at the end of thewinter holidays subsequent to that former winter in which the earlhad had his tumble, people through the county began to say that heand the countess were about to become man and wife. 

It was just then that people in the county were also beginning totalk of the Hay House orgies; and the double scandal reached Owen'sears, one shortly after the other. That orgies scandal did not hurthim much. It is, alas! too true that consciousness of such areputation does not often hurt a young man's feelings. But the otherrumour did wound him. What! he sell himself to a widowed countessalmost old enough to be his mother; or bestow himself rather--forwhat was there in return that could be reckoned as a price? At anyrate, he had given no one cause to utter such falsehood, suchcalumny as that. No; it certainly was not probable that he shouldmarry the countess. 

But this set him to ask himself whether it might or might not bepossible that he should marry some one else. Might it not be wellfor him if he could find a younger bride at Desmond Court? Not fornothing had he ridden over there through those bleak mountains; notfor nothing, nor yet solely with the view of tying flies for theyoung earl's summer fishing, or preparing the new nag for hiswinter's hunting. Those large bright eyes had asked him manyquestions. Would it not be well that he should answer them?

For many months of that year Clara Desmond had hardly spoken to him. Then, in the summer evening, as he and her brother would liesprawling together on the banks of the little Desmond river, whilethe lad was talking of his fish, and his school, and his cricketclub, she would stand by and listen, and so gradually she learned tospeak. 

And the mother also would sometimes be there; or else she wouldwelcome Fitzgerald in to tea, and let him stay there talking asthough they were all at home, till he would have to make a midnightride of it before he reached Hap House. It seemed that no fear as toher daughter had ever crossed the mother's mind; that no idea hadever come upon her that her favoured visitor might learn to love theyoung girl with whom he was allowed to associate on so intimate afooting. Once or twice he had caught himself calling her Clara, andhad done so even before her mother; but no notice had been taken ofit. In truth, Lady Desmond did not know her daughter, for the mothertook her absolutely to be a child, when in fact she was a child nolonger. 

"You take Clara round by the bridge, " said the earl to his friendone August evening, as they were standing together on the banks ofthe river, about a quarter of a mile distant from the sombre oldpile in which the family lived. "You take Clara round by the bridge, and I will get over the stepping-stones. " And so the lad, with hisrod in his hand, began to descend the steep bank. 

"I can get over the stepping-stones, too, Patrick, " said she. 

"Can you though, my gay young woman? You'll be over your ankles ifyou do. That rain didn't come down yesterday for nothing. "

Clara as she spoke had come up to the bank, and now looked wistfullydown at the stepping-stones. She had crossed them scores of times, sometimes with her brother, and often by herself. Why was it thatshe was so anxious to cross them now?

"It's no use your trying, " said her brother who was now half across, and who spoke from the middle of the river. "Don't you let her, Owen. She'll slip in, and then there will be no end of a row up atthe house. "

"You had better come round by the bridge, " said Fitzgerald. "It isnot only that the stones are nearly under water, but they are wet, and you would slip. "

So cautioned, Lady Clara allowed herself to be persuaded, and turnedupwards along the river by a little path that led to a foot bridge. It was some quarter of a mile thither, and it would be the samedistance down the river again before she regained her brother. 

"I needn't bring you with me, you know, " she said to Fitzgerald. "You can get over the stones easily, and I can go very well bymyself. "

But it was not probable that he would let her do so. "Why should Inot go with you?" he said. "When I get there I have nothing to dobut see him fish. Only if we were to leave him by himself he wouldnot be happy. "

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, how very kind you are are! I do so often thinkof it. How dull his holidays would be in this place if it were notfor you!"

"And what a godsend his holidays are to me!" said Owen. "When theycome round I can ride over here and see him, and you--and yourmother. Do you think that I am not dull also, living alone at HapHouse, and that this is not an infinite blessing to me?"

He had named them all--son, daughter, and mother; but there had beena something in his voice, an almost inappreciable something in histone, which had seemed to mark to Clara's hearing that she herselfwas not the least prized of the three attractions. She had felt thisrather than realized it, and the feeling was not unpleasant. 

"I only know that you are very goodnatured, " she continued, "andthat Patrick is very fond of you. Sometimes I think he almost takesyou for a brother. " And then a sudden thought flashed across hermind, and she said hardly a word more to him that evening. 

This had been at the close of the summer holidays. After that he hadbeen once or twice at Desmond Court, before the return of the boyfrom Eton; but on these occasions he had been more with the countessthan with her daughter On the last of these visits, just before theholidays commenced, he had gone over respective a hunter he hadbought for Lord Desmond, and on this occasion he did not even seeClara. 

The countess, when she had thanked him for his trouble in the matterof the purchase, hesitated a moment, and then went on to speak ofother matters. 

"I understand, Mr. Fitzgerald, " said she, "that you have been verygay at Hap House since the hunting commenced. "

"Oh, I don't know, " said Owen, half laughing and half blushing. "It's a convenient place for some of the men, and one must besociable. "

"Sociable! yes, one ought to be sociable certainly. But I am alwaysafraid of the sociability of young men without ladies. Do not beangry with me if I venture as a friend to ask you not to be toosociable. "

"I know what you mean, Lady Desmond. People have been accusing usof--of being rakes. Isn't that it?"

"Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald, that is it. But then I know that I have noright to speak to you on such a--such a subject. "

"Yes, yes; you have every right, " said he, warmly; "more right thanany one else. "

"Oh no; Sir Thomas, you know----"

"Well, yes, Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas is very ill, and so also is LadyFitzgerald; but I do not feel the same interest about them that I doabout you. And they are such humdrum, quiet-going people. As forHerbert, I'm afraid he'll turn out a prig. "

"Well, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you give me the right I shall use it. " Andgetting up from her chair, and coming to him where he stood, shelooked kindly into his face. It was a bonny, handsome face for awoman to gaze on, and there was much kindness in hers as she smiledon him. Nay, there was almost more than kindness, he thought, as hecaught her eye. It was like, --almost like the sweetness of motherlylove. "And I shall scold you, " she continued. "People say that fortwo or three nights running men have been playing cards at Hap Housetill morning. "

"Yes, I had some men there for a week. I could not take theircandles away, and put them to bed; could I, Lady Desmond?"

"And there were late suppers, and drinking of toasts, and headachesin the morning, and breakfast at three o'clock, and gentlemen withvery pale faces when they appeared rather late at the meet--eh, Mr. Fitzgerald?" And she held up one finger at him, as she upbraided himwith a smile. The smile was so sweet, so unlike her usual look;that, to tell the truth, was often too sad and careworn for her age. 

"Such things do happen, Lady Desmond. "

"Ah, yes; they do happen. And with such a one as you, heaven knows Ido not begrudge the pleasure, if it were but now and then, --onceagain and then done with. But you are too bright and too good forsuch things to continue. " And she took his hand and pressed it, as amother or a mother's dearest friend might have done. "It would sogrieve me to think that you should be even in danger of shipwreck. 

"You will not be angry with me for taking this liberty?" shecontinued. 

"Angry! how could any man be angry for such kindness?"

"And you will think of what I say. I would not have you unsociable, or morose, or inhospitable; but--"

"I understand, Lady Desmond; but when young men are together, onecannot always control them. "

"But you will try. Say that you will try because I have asked you. "

He promised that he would, and then went his way, proud in his heartat this solicitude. And how could he not be proud? was she not highin rank, proud in character, beautiful withal, and the mother ofClara Desmond? What sweeter friend could a man have; what counsellormore potent to avert those dangers which now hovered round his head?

And as he rode home he was half in love with the countess. Where isthe young man who has not in his early years been half in love withsome woman older, much older than himself, who has half conqueredhis heart by her solicitude for his welfare?--with some woman whohas whispered to him while others were talking, who has told him insuch gentle, loving tones of his boyish follies, whose tendernessand experience together have educated him and made him manly? Youngmen are so proud, proud in their inmost hearts, of such tendernessand solicitude, as long as it remains secret and wrapt, as it were, in a certain mystery. Such liaisons have the interests of intrigue, without--I was going to say without its dangers. Alas! it may bethat it is not always so. 

Owen Fitzgerald as he rode home was half in love with the countess. Not that his love was of a kind which made him in any way desirousof marrying her, or of kneeling at her feet and devoting himself toher for ever; not that it in any way interfered with the other lovewhich he was beginning to feel for her daughter. But he thought withpleasure of the tone of her voice, of the pressure of her hand, ofthe tenderness which he had found in her eye. 

It was after that time, as will be understood, that some goodnaturedfriend had told him that he was regarded in the county as the futurehusband of Lady Desmond. At first he laughed at this as being--as hehimself said to himself--too good a joke. When the report firstreached him, it seemed to be a joke which he could share sopleasantly with the countess. For men of three and twenty, thoughthey are so fond of the society of women older than themselves, understand so little the hearts and feelings of such women. In hisideas there was an interval as of another generation between him andthe countess. In her thoughts the interval was probably much lessstriking. 

But the accusation was made to him again and again till it woundedhim, and he gave up that notion of a mutual joke with his kindfriend at Desmond Court. It did not occur to him that she could everthink of loving him as her lord and master; but it was brought hometo him that other people thought so. 

A year had now passed by since those winter holidays in which ClaraDesmond had been sixteen, and during which she was described byepithets which will not, I fear, have pleased my readers. Thoseepithets were now somewhat less deserved, but still the necessity ofthem had not entirely passed away. Her limbs were still thin andlong, and her shoulders pointed; but the growth of beauty hadcommenced, and in Owen's eyes she was already very lovely. 

At Christmas-time during that winter a ball was given at CastleRichmond, to celebrate the coming of age of the young heir. It wasnot a very gay affair, for the Castle Richmond folk, even in thosedays, were not very gay people. Sir Thomas, though only fifty, wasan old man for his age; and Lady Fitzgerald, though known intimatelyby the poor all round her, was not known intimately by any but thepoor. Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald, with whom we shall become betteracquainted as we advance in our story, were nice, good girls, andhandsome withal; but they had not that special gift which enablessome girls to make a party in their own house bright in spite of allobstacles. 

We should have but little to do with this ball, were it not thatClara Desmond was here first brought out, as the term goes. It wasthe first large party to which she had been taken, and it was to hera matter of much wonder and inquiry with those wondering, speakingeyes. 

And Owen Fitzgerald was there;--as a matter of course, the readerwill say. By no means so. Previous to that ball Owen's sins had beencommented upon at Castle Richmond, and Sir Thomas had expostulatedwith him. These expostulations had not been received quite sograciously as those of the handsome countess, and there had beenanger at Castle Richmond. 

Now there was living in the house of Castle Richmond one Miss LettyFitzgerald, a maiden sister of the baronet's, older than her brotherby full ten years. In her character there was more of energy, andalso much more of harsh judgment, and of consequent ill-nature, thanin that of her brother. When the letters of invitation were beingsent out by the two girls, she had given a decided opinion that thereprobate should not be asked. But the reprobate's cousins, withthat partiality for a rake which is so common to young ladies, wouldnot abide by their aunt's command, and referred the matter both tomamma and papa. Mamma thought it very hard that their own cousinshould be refused admittance to their house, and very dreadful thathis sins should be considered to be of so deep a dye as to requireso severe a sentence; and then papa, much balancing the matter, gavefinal orders that the prodigal cousin should be admitted. 

He was admitted, and dangerously he used the privilege. Thecountess, who was there, stood up to dance twice, and twice only. She opened the ball with young Herbert Fitzgerald the heir; and inabout an hour afterwards she danced again with Owen. He did not askher twice; but he asked her daughter three or four times, and threeor four times he asked her successfully. 

"Clara, " whispered the mother to her child, after the last of theseoccasions, giving some little pull or twist to her girl's frock asshe did so, "you had better not dance with Owen Fitzgerald againto-night. People will remark about it. "

"Will they?" said Clara, and immediately sat down, checked in heryoung happiness. 

Not many minutes afterwards, Owen came up to her again. "May we haveanother waltz together, I wonder?" he said. 

"Not to-night, I think. I am rather tired already. " And so she didnot waltz again all the evening, for fear she should offend him. 

But the countess, though she had thus interdicted her daughter'sdancing with the master of Hap House, had not done so throughabsolute fear. To her, her girl was still a child; a child without awoman's thoughts, or any of a woman's charms. And then it was sonatural that Clara should like to dance with almost the onlygentleman who was not absolutely a stranger to her. Lady Desmond hadbeen actuated rather by a feeling that it would be well that Clarashould begin to know other persons. 

By that feeling, --and perhaps unconsciously by another, that itwould be well that Owen Fitzgerald should be relieved from hisattendance on the child, and enabled to give it to the mother. Whether Lady Desmond had at that time realized any ideas as to herown interest in this young man, it was at any rate true that sheloved to have him near her. She had refused to dance a second timewith Herbert Fitzgerald; she had refused to stand up with any otherperson who had asked her; but with Owen she would either have dancedagain, or have kept him by her side, while she explained to him withflattering frankness that she could not do so lest others should beoffended. 

And Owen was with her frequently through the evening. She was takento and from supper by Sir Thomas, but any other takings that wereincurred were done by him. He led her from one drawing-room toanother; he took her empty coffee-cup; he stood behind her chair, and talked to her; and he brought her the scarf which she had leftelsewhere; and finally, he put a shawl round her neck while old SirThomas was waiting to hand her to her carriage. Reader, good-natured, middle-aged reader, remember that she was onlythirty-eight, and that hitherto she had known nothing of thedelights of love. By the young, any such hallucination on her part, at her years, will be regarded as lunacy, or at least frenzy. 

Owen Fitzgerald drove home from that ball in a state of mind thatwas hardly satisfactory. In the first place, Miss Letty had made adirect attack upon his morals, which he had not answered in the mostcourteous manner. 

"I have heard a great deal of your doings. Master Owen, " she said tohim. "A fine house you're keeping. "

"Why don't you come and join us, Aunt Letty?" he replied. "It wouldbe just the thing for you. "

"God forbid!" said the old maid, turning up her eyes to heaven. 

"Oh, you might do worse, you know. With us you'd only drink and playcards, and perhaps hear a little strong language now and again. Butwhat's that to slander, and calumny, and bearing false witnessagainst one's neighbour?" and so saying he ended that interview--notin a manner to ingratiate himself with his relative, Miss LettyFitzgerald. 

After that, in the supper-room, more than one wag of a fellow hadcongratulated him on his success with the widow. "She's got somesome sort of a jointure, I suppose, " said one. "She's veryyoung-looking, certainly, to be the mother of that girl, " declaredanother. "Upon my word, she's a handsome woman still, " said a third. "And what title will you get when you marry her, Fitz?" asked afourth, who was rather ignorant as to the phases under which theBritish peerage develops itself. 

Fitzgerald pshawed, and pished, and poohed; and then, breaking awayfrom them, rode home. He felt that he must at any rate put an end tothis annoyance about the countess, and that he must put an end alsoto his state of doubt about the countess's daughter. Clara had beenkind and gracious to him in the first part of the evening; nay, almost more than gracious. Why had she been so cold when he went upto her on that last occasion? why had she gathered herself like asnail into its shell for the rest of the evening?

The young earl had also been at the party, and had exacted a promisefrom Owen that he would be over at Desmond Court on the next day. Ithad almost been on Owen's lips to tell his friend, not only that hewould be there, but what would be his intention when he got there. He knew that the lad loved him well; and almost fancied that, earlas he was, he would favour his friend's suit. But a feeling thatLord Desmond was only a boy, restrained him. It would not be well toinduce one so young to agree to an arrangement of which in after andmore mature years he would so probably disapprove. 

But not the less did Fitzgerald, as he drove home, determine that onthe next day he would know something of his fate: and with thisresolve he endeavoured to comfort himself as he drove up into hisown avenue, and betook himself to his own solitary home. 

CHAPTER III

CLARA DESMOND

It had been Clara Desmond's first ball, and on the following morningshe had much to occupy her thoughts. In the first place, had shebeen pleased or had she not? Had she been most gratified or mostpained?

Girls when they ask themselves such questions seldom give themselvesfair answers. She had liked dancing with Owen Fitzgerald; oh, somuch! She had liked dancing with others too, though she had notknown them, and had hardly spoken to them. The mere act of dancing, with the loud music in the room, and the gay dresses and brightlights around her, had been delightful. But then it had painedher--she knew not why, but it had pained her--when her mother toldher that people would make remarks about her. Had she done anythingimproper on this her first entry into the world? Was her conduct tobe scanned, and judged, and condemned, while she was flatteringherself that no one had noticed her but him who was speaking to her?

Their breakfast was late, and the countess sat, as was her wont, with her book beside her teacup, speaking a word every now and againto her son. 

"Owen will be over here to-day, " said he. "We are going to have aschooling match down on the Callows. " Now in Ireland a schoolingmatch means the amusement of teaching your horses to jump. 

"Will he?" said Lady Desmond, looking up from her book for a moment. "Mind you bring him in to lunch; I want to speak to him. "

"He doesn't care much about lunch, I fancy, " said he; "and, maybe, we shall be halfway to Millstreet by that time. "

"Never mind, but do as I tell you. You expect everybody to be aswild and wayward as yourself. " And the countess smiled on her son ina manner which showed that she was proud even of his wildness andhis waywardness. 

Clara had felt that she blushed when she heard that Mr. Fitzgeraldwas to be there that morning. She felt that her own manner becameconstrained, and was afraid that her mother should look at her. Owenhad said nothing to her about love; and she, child as she was, hadthought nothing about love. But she was conscious of something, sheknew not what. He had touched her hand during those dances as it hadnever been touched before; he had looked into her eyes, and her eyeshad fallen before his glance; he had pressed her waist, and she hadfelt that there was tenderness in the pressure. So she blushed, andalmost trembled, when she heard that he was coming, and was glad inher heart when she found that there was neither anger nor sunshinein her mother's face. 

Not long after breakfast, the earl went out on his horse, and metOwen at some gate or back entrance. In his opinion the old house wasstupid, and the women in it were stupid companions in the morning. His heart for the moment was engaged on the thought of making hisanimal take the most impracticable leaps which he could find, and itdid not occur to him at first to give his mother's message to hiscompanion. As for lunch, they would get a biscuit and glass ofcherry-brandy at Wat M'Carthy's, of Drumban; and as for his motherhaving anything to say, that of course went for nothing. 

Owen would have been glad to have gone up to the house, but in thathe was frustrated by the earl's sharpness in catching him. His nexthope was to get through the promised lesson in horse-leaping asquickly as possible, so that he might return to Desmond Court, andtake his chance of meeting Clara. But in this he found the earl verydifficult to manage. 

"Oh, Owen, we won't go there, " he said, when Fitzgerald proposed acanter through some meadows down by the river-side. "There are onlya few gripes"--Irish for small ditches--"and I have ridden Fireballover them a score of times. I want you to come away towardsDrumban. "

"Drumban! why, Drumban's seven miles from here. "

"What matter? Besides, it's not six the way I'll take you. I want tosee Wat M'Carthy especially. He has a litter of puppies there out ofthat black bitch of his, and I mean to make him give me one ofthem. "

But on that morning, Owen Fitzgerald would not allow himself to betaken so far a-field as Drumban, even on a mission so important asthis. The young lord fought the matter stoutly; but it ended by hisbeing forced to content himself with picking out all the mostdangerous parts of the fences in the river meadows. 

"Why, you've hardly tried your own mare at all, " said the lad, reproachfully. 

"I'm going to hunt her on Saturday, " said Owen; "and she'll havequite enough to do then. "

"Well, you're very slow to-day. You're done up with the dancing, Ithink. And what do you mean to do now?"

"I'll go home with you, I think, and pay my respects to thecountess. "

"By-the-by, I was to bring you in to lunch. She said she wanted tosee you. By jingo, I forgot all about it! But you've all become verystupid among you, I know that. " And so they rode back to DesmondCourt, entering the demesne by one of the straight, dull, levelroads which led up to the house. 

But it did not suit the earl to ride on the road while the grass wasso near him; so they turned off with a curve across what was calledthe park, thus prolonging their return by about double the necessarydistance. 

As they were cantering on, Owen saw her of whom he was in questwalking in the road which they had left. His best chance of seeingher alone had been that of finding her outside the house. He knewthat the countess rarely or never walked with her daughter, andthat, as the governess was gone, Clara was driven to walk byherself. 

"Desmond, " he said, pulling up his horse, "do you go on and tellyour mother that I will be with her almost immediately. "

"Why, where are you off to now?"

"There is your sister, and I must ask her how she is after theball;" and so saying he trotted back in the direction of the road. 

Lady Clara had seen them; and though she had hardly turned her head, she had seen also how suddenly Mr. Fitzgerald had stopped his horse, and turned his course when he perceived her. At the first moment shehad been almost angry with him for riding away from her, and now shefelt almost angry with him because he did not do so. 

He slackened his pace as he came near her, and approached her at awalk. There was very little of the faint heart about Owen Fitzgeraldat any time, or in anything that he attempted. He had now made uphis mind fairly to tell Clara Desmond that he loved her, and to askfor her love in return. He had resolved to do so, and there was verylittle doubt but that he would carry out his resolution. But he hadin nowise made up his mind how he should do it, or what his wordsshould be. And now that he saw her so near him he wanted a moment tocollect his thoughts. 

He took off his hat as he rode up, and asked her whether she wastired after the ball; and then dismounting, he left his mare tofollow as she pleased. 

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, won't she run away?" said Clara, as she gavehim her hand. 

"Oh no; she has been taught better than that. But you don't tell mehow you are. I thought you were tired last night when I saw that youhad altogether given over dancing. " And then he walked on besideher, and the docile mare followed them like a dog. 

"No, I was not tired; at least, not exactly, " said Clara, blushingagain and again, being conscious that she blushed. "But--but--youknow it was the first ball I was ever at. "

"That is just the reason why you should have enjoyed it the more, instead of sitting down as you did, and being dull and unhappy. ForI know you were unhappy; I could see it. "

"Was I?" said Clara, not knowing what else to say. 

"Yes; and I'll tell you what. I could see more than that; it was Ithat made you unhappy. "

"You, Mr. Fitzgerald!"

"Yes, I. You will not deny it, because you are so true. I asked youto dance with me too often. And because you refused me, you did notlike to dance with any one else. I saw it all. Will you deny that itwas so?"

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!" Poor girl! She did not know what to say; howto shape her speech into indifference; how to assure him that hemade himself out to be of too much consequence by far; how to makeit plain that she had not danced because there was no one thereworth dancing with. Had she been out for a year or two, instead ofbeing such a novice, she would have accomplished all this in half adozen words. As it was, her tell-tale face confessed it all, and shewas only able to ejaculate, "Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"

"When I went there last night, " he continued, "I had only onewish--one hope. That was, to see you pleased and happy. I knew itwas your first ball, and I did so long to see you enjoy it. "

"And so I did, till--"

"Till what? Will you not let me ask?"

"Mamma said something to me, and that stopped me from dancing. "

"She told you not to dance with me. Was that it?"

How was it possible that she should have had a chance with him;innocent, young, and ignorant as she was? She did not tell him inwords that so it had been; but she looked into his face with aglance of doubt and pain that answered his question as plainly asany words could have done. 

"Of course she did; and it was I that destroyed it all. I thatshould have been satisfied to stand still and see you happy. How youmust have hated me!"

"Oh no; indeed I did not. I was not at all angry with you. Indeed, why should I have been? It was so kind of you, wishing to dance withme. "

"No; it was selfish--selfish in the extreme. Nothing but one thingcould excuse me, and that excuse--"

"I'm sure you don't want any excuse, Mr. Fitzgerald. "

"And that excuse, Clara, was this: that I love you with all myheart. I had not strength to see you there, and not long to have younear me--not begrudge that you should dance with another. I love youwith all my heart and soul. There, Lady Clara, now you know it all. "

The manner in which he made his declaration to her was almost fiercein its energy. He had stopped in the pathway, and she, unconsciousof what she was doing, almost unconscious of what she was hearing, had stopped also. The mare, taking advantage of the occasion, wascropping the grass close to them. And so, for a few seconds, theystood in silence. 

"Am I so bold, Lady Clara, " said he, when those few seconds had goneby--"Am I so bold that I may hope for no answer?" But still she saidnothing. In lieu of speaking she uttered a long sigh; and thenFitzgerald could bear that she was sobbing. 

"Oh, Clara, I love you so fondly, so dearly, so truly!" said he inan altered voice and with sweet tenderness. "I know my ownpresumption in thus speaking. I know and feel bitterly thedifference in our rank. "

"I--care--nothing--for rank, " said the poor girl, sobbing throughher tears. He was generous, and she at any rate would not be lessso. No; at that moment, with her scanty seventeen years ofexperience, with her ignorance of all that the world had in it ofgrand and great, of high and rich, she did care nothing for rank. That Owen Fitzgerald was a gentleman of good lineage, fit to matewith a lady, that she did know; for her mother, who was a proudwoman, delighted to have him in her presence. Beyond this she caredfor none of the conventionalities of life. Rank! If she waited forrank, where was she to look for friends who would love her? Earlsand countesses, barons and their baronesses, were scarce there wherefate had placed her, under the shadow of the bleak mountains ofMuskerry. Her want, her undefined want, was that some one shouldlove her. Of all men and women whom she had hitherto known, thisOwen Fitzgerald was the brightest, the kindest, the gentlest in hismanner, the most pleasant to look on. And now he was there at herfeet, swearing that he loved her;--and then drawing back as it werein dread of her rank. What did she care for rank?

"Clara, Clara, my Clara! Can you learn to love me?"

She had made her one little effort at speaking when she attempted torepudiate the pedestal on which he affected to place her; but afterthat she could for a while say no more. But she still sobbed, andstill kept her eyes fixed upon the ground. 

"Clara, say one word to me. Say that you do not hate me. " But justat that moment she had not one word to say. 

"If you will bid me do so, I will leave this country altogether. Iwill go away, and I shall not much care whither. I can only stay nowon condition of your loving me. I have thought of this day for thelast year past, and now it has come. "

Every word that he now spoke was gospel to her. Is it not alwaysso, --should it not be so always, when love first speaks to lovingears? What! he had loved her for that whole twelve-month that shehad known him; loved her in those days when she had been wont tolook up into his face, wondering why he was so nice, so much nicerthan any one else that came near her! A year was a great deal toher; and had he loved her through all those days? and after thatshould she banish him from her house, turn him away from his home, and drive him forth unhappy and wretched? Ah, no! She could not beso unkind to him;--she could not be so unkind to her own heart. Butstill she sobbed; and still she said nothing. 

In the mean time they had turned, and were now walking back towardsthe house, the gentle-natured mare still following at their heels. They were walking slowly--very slowly back--just creeping along thepath, when they saw Lady Desmond and her son coming to meet them onthe road. 

"There is your mother, Clara. Say one word to me before we meetthem. "

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald; I am so frightened. What will mamma say?"

"Say about what? As yet I do not know what she may have to say. Butbefore we meet her, may I not hope to know what her daughter willsay? Answer me this, Clara. Can you, will you love me?"

There was still a pause, a moment's pause, and then some sound didfall from her lips. But yet it was so soft, so gentle, so slight, that it could hardly be said to reach even a lover's ear. Fitzgerald, however, made the most of it. Whether it were Yes, orwhether it were No, he took it as being favourable, and Lady ClaraDesmond gave him no sign to show that he was mistaken. 

"My own, own, only loved one, " he said, embracing her, as it were, with his words, since the presence of her approaching mother forbadehim even to take her hand in his, "I am happy now, whatever mayoccur; whatever others may say; for I know that you will be true tome. And remember this--whatever others may say, I also will be trueto you. You will think of that, will you not, love?"

This time she did answer him, almost audibly. "Yes, " she said. Andthen she devoted herself to a vain endeavour to remove the traces ofher tears before her mother should be close to them. 

Fitzgerald at once saw that such endeavour must be vain. At one timehe had thought of turning away, and pretending that they had notseen the countess. But he knew that Clara would not be able to carryout any such pretence; and he reflected also that it might be justas well that Lady Desmond should know the whole at once. That shewould know it, and know it soon, he was quite sure. She could learnit not only from Clara, but from himself. He could not now be thereat the house without showing that he both loved and knew that he wasbeloved. And then why should Lady Desmond not know it? Why should hethink that she would set herself against the match? He had certainlyspoken to Clara of the difference in their rank; but, after all, itwas no uncommon thing for an earl's daughter to marry a commoner. And in this case the earl's daughter was portionless, and the loverdesired no portion. Owen Fitzgerald at any rate might boast that hewas true and generous in his love. 

So he plucked up his courage, and walked on with a smiling face tomeet Lady Desmond and her son; while poor Clara crept beside himwith eyes downcast, and in an agony of terror. 

Lady Desmond had not left the house with any apprehension that therewas aught amiss. Her son had told her that Owen had gone off "to dothe civil to Clara;" and as he did not come to the house within sometwenty minutes after this, she had proposed that they would go andmeet him. 

"Did you tell him that I wanted him?" said the countess. 

"Oh yes, I did; and he is coming, only he would go away to Clara. "

"Then I shall scold him for his want of gallantry, " said LadyDesmond, laughing, as they walked out together from beneath the hugeportal. 

But as soon as she was near enough to see the manner of their gait, as they slowly came towards her, her woman's tact told her thatsomething was wrong;--and whispered to her also what might tooprobably be the nature of that something. Could it be possible, sheasked herself, that such a man as Owen Fitzgerald should fall inlove with such a girl as her daughter Clara?

"What shall I say to mamma?" whispered Clara to him, as they alldrew near together. 

"Tell her everything. "

"But, Patrick--"

"I will take him off with me if I can. " And then they were alltogether, standing in the road. 

"I was coming to obey your behests, Lady Desmond, " said Fitzgerald, trying to look and speak as though he were at his ease. 

"Coming rather tardily, I think, " said her ladyship, not altogetherplayfully. 

"I told him you wanted him, as we were crossing to the house, " saidthe earl. "Didn't I, Owen?"

"Is anything the matter with Clara?" said Lady Desmond, looking ather daughter. 

"No, mamma, " said Clara; and she instantly began to sob and cry. 

"What is it, sir?" And as she asked she turned to Fitzgerald; andher manner now at least had in it nothing playful. 

"Lady Clara is nervous and hysterical. The excitement of the ballhas perhaps been too much for her. I think, Lady Desmond, if youwere to take her in with you it would be well. "

Lady Desmond looked up at him; and he then saw, for the first time, that she could if she pleased look very stern. Hitherto her face hadalways worn smiles, had at any rate always been pleasing when he hadseen it. He had never been intimate with her, never intimate enoughto care what her face was like, till that day when he had carriedher son up from the hall door to his room. Then her countenance hadbeen all anxiety for her darling; and afterwards it had been allsweetness for her darling's friend. From that day to this presentone, Lady Desmond had ever given him her sweetest smiles. 

But Fitzgerald was not a man to be cowed by any woman's looks. Hemet hers by a full, front face in return. He did not allow his eyefor a moment to fall before hers. And yet he did not look at herhaughtily, or with defiance, but with an aspect which showed that hewas ashamed of nothing that he had done, --whether he had doneanything that he ought to be ashamed of or no. 

"Clara, " said the countess, in a voice which fell with awfulseverity on the poor girl's ears, "you had better return to thehouse with me. "

"Yes, mamma. "

"And shall I wait on you to-morrow, Lady Desmond?" said Fitzgerald, in a tone which seemed to the countess to be, in the present stateof affairs, almost impertinent. The man had certainly beenmisbehaving himself, and yet there was not about him the slightestsymptom of shame. 

"Yes; no, " said the countess. "That is, I will write a note to youif it be necessary. Good morning. "

"Good-bye, Lady Desmond, " said Owen. And as he took off his hat withhis left hand, he put out his right to shake hands with her, as wascustomary with him. Lady Desmond was at first inclined to refuse thecourtesy; but she either thought better of such intention, or elseshe had not courage to maintain it; for at parting she did give himher hand. 

"Good-bye, Lady Clara;" and he also shook hands with her, and itneed hardly be said that there was a lover's pressure in the grasp. 

"Good-bye, " said Clara, through her tears, in the saddest, soberesttone. He was going away, happy, light-hearted, with nothing totrouble him. But she had to encounter that fearful task of tellingher own crime. She had to depart with her mother;--her mother, who, though never absolutely unkind, had so rarely been tender with her. And then her brother--!

"Desmond, " said Fitzgerald, "walk as far as the lodge with me like agood fellow. I have something that I want to say to you. "

The mother thought for a moment that she would call her son back;but then she bethought herself that she also might as well bewithout him. So the young earl, showing plainly by his eyes that heknew that much was the matter, went back with Fitzgerald towards thelodge. 

"What is it you have done now?" said the earl. The boy had some sortof an idea that the offence committed was with reference to hissister; and his tone was hardly as gracious as was usual with him. 

This want of kindliness at the present moment grated on Owen's ears;but he resolved at once to tell the whole story out, and then leaveit to the earl to take it in dudgeon or in brotherly friendship ashe might please. 

"Desmond, " said he, "can you not guess what has passed between meand your sister?"

"I am not good at guessing, " he answered, brusquely. 

"I have told her that I loved her, and would have her for my wife;and I have asked her to love me in return. "

There was an open manliness about this which almost disarmed theearl's anger. He had felt a strong attachment to Fitzgerald, and wasvery unwilling to give up his friendship; but, nevertheless, he hadan idea that it was presumption on the part of Mr. Fitzgerald of HapHouse to look up to his sister. Between himself and Owen the earl'scoronet never weighed a feather; he could not have abandoned hisboy's heart to the man's fellowship more thoroughly had that manbeen an earl as well as himself. But he could not get over thefeeling that Fitzgerald's worldly position was beneath that of hissister;--that such a marriage on his sister's part would be amesalliance. Doubting, therefore, and in some sort dismayed--and insome sort also angry--he did not at once give any reply. 

"Well, Desmond, what have you to say to it? You are the head of herfamily, and young as you are, it is right that I should tell you. "

"Tell me! of course you ought to tell me. I don't see what youngnesshas to do with it. What did she say?"

"Well, she said but little; and a man should never boast that a ladyhas favoured him. But she did not reject me. " He paused a moment, and then added, "After all, honesty and truth are the best. I havereason to think that she loves me. "

The poor young lord felt that he had a double duty, and hardly knewhow to perform it. He owed a duty to his sister which was paramountto all others; but then he owed a duty also to the friend who hadbeen so kind to him. He did not know how to turn round upon him andtell him that he was not fit to marry his sister. 

"And what do you say to it, Desmond?"

"I hardly know what to say. It would be a very bad match for her. You, you know, are a capital fellow; the best fellow going. There isnobody about anywhere that I like so much. "

"In thinking of your sister, you should put that out of thequestion. "

"Yes; that's just it. I like you for a friend better than any oneelse. But Clara ought--ought--ought--"

"Ought to look higher, you would say. "

"Yes; that's just what I mean. I don't want to offend you, youknow. "

"Desmond, my boy, I like you the better for it. You are a finefellow, and I thoroughly respect you. But let us talk sensibly aboutthis. Though your sister's rank is high--"

"Oh, I don't want to talk about rank. That's all bosh, and I don'tcare about it. But Hap House is a small place, and Clara wouldn't bedoing well; and what's more, I am quite sure the countess will nothear of it. "

"You won't approve, then?"

"No, I can't say I will. "

"Well, that is honest of you. I am very glad that I have told you atonce. Clara will tell her mother, and at any rate there will be nosecrets. Good-bye, old fellow. "

"Good-bye, " said the earl. Then they shook hands, and Fitzgeraldrode off towards Hap House. Lord Desmond pondered over the mattersome time, standing alone near the lodge; and then walked slowlyback towards the mansion. He had said that rank was all bosh; and inso saying had at the moment spoken out generously the feelings ofhis heart. But that feeling regarded himself rather than his sister;and if properly analyzed would merely have signified that, thoughproud enough of his own rank, he did not require that his friendsshould be of the same standing. But as regarded his sister, hecertainly would not be well pleased to see her marry a small squirewith a small income. 

CHAPTER IV

THE COUNTESS

The countess, as she walked back with her daughter towards thehouse, had to bethink herself for a minute or two as to how sheshould act, and what she would say. She knew, she felt that sheknew, what had occurred. If her daughter's manner had not told her, the downcast eyes, the repressed sobs, the mingled look of shame andfear;--if she had not read the truth from these, she would havelearned it from the tone of Fitzgerald's voice, and the look oftriumph which sat upon his countenance. 

And then she wondered that this should be so, seeing that she hadstill regarded Clara as being in all things a child; and as shethought further, she wondered at her own fatuity, in that she hadallowed herself to be so grossly deceived. 

"Clara, " said she, "what is all this?"

"Oh, mamma!"

"You had better come on to the house, my dear, and speak to methere. In the mean time, collect your thoughts, and remember this, Clara, that you have the honour of a great family to maintain. "

Poor Clara! what had the great family done for her, or how had shebeen taught to maintain its honour? She knew that she was an earl'sdaughter, and that people called her Lady Clara; whereas other youngladies were only called Miss So-and-So. But she had not been taughtto separate herself from the ordinary throng of young ladies by anyother distinction. Her great family had done nothing special forher, nor placed before her for example any grandly noble deeds. Atthat old house at Desmond Court company was scarce, money wasscarce, servants were scarce. She had been confided to the care of avery ordinary governess; and if there was about her anything thatwas great or good, it was intrinsically her own, and by no means dueto intrinsic advantages derived from her grand family. Why shouldshe not give what was so entirely her own to one whom she loved, toone by whom it so pleased her to be loved?

And then they entered the house, and Clara followed her mother tothe countess's own small upstairs sitting-room. The daughter did notordinarily share this room with her mother, and when she entered it, she seldom did so with pleasurable emotion. At the present momentshe had hardly strength to close the door after her. 

"And now, Clara, what is all this?" said the countess, sitting downin her accustomed chair. 

"All which, mamma?" Can any one blame her in that she so farequivocated?

"Clara, you know very well what I mean. What has there been betweenyou and Mr. Fitzgerald?"

The guilt-stricken wretch sat silent for a while, sustaining thescrutiny of her mother's gaze; and then falling from her chair on toher knees, she hid her face in her mother's lap, exclaiming, "Oh, mamma, mamma, do not look at me like that!"

Lady Desmond's heart was somewhat softened by this appeal; nor wouldI have it thought that she was a cruel woman, or an unnaturalmother. It had not been her lot to make an absolute, dearest, heartiest friend of her daughter, as some mothers do; a friendbetween whom and herself there should be, nay could be, no secrets. She could not become young again in sharing the romance of herdaughter's love, in enjoying the gaieties of her daughter's balls, in planning dresses, amusements, and triumphs with her child. Somemothers can do this; and they, I think, are the mothers who enjoymost fully the delights of maternity. This was not the case withLady Desmond; but yet she loved her child, and would have made anyreasonable sacrifice for what she regarded as that child's welfare. 

"But, my dear, " she said, in a softened tone, "you must tell me whathas occurred. Do you not know that it is my duty to ask, and yoursto tell me? It cannot be right that there should be any secretunderstanding between yourself and Mr. Fitzgerald. You know that, Clara, do you not?"

"Yes, mamma, " said Clara, remembering that her lover had bade hertell her mother everything. 

"Well, my love?"

Clara's story was very simple, and did not, in fact, want anytelling. It was merely the old well-worn tale, so common through allthe world. "He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye!"and she, --she was ready to go "to the mountain to hear a love-tale!"One may say that an occurrence so very common could not want muchtelling. 

"Mamma; he says--"

"Well, my dear?"

"He says--. Oh, mamma! I could not help it. "

"No, Clara; you certainly could not help what he might say to you. You could not refuse to listen to him. A lady in such case, when sheis on terms of intimacy with a gentleman, as you were with Mr. Fitzgerald, is bound to listen to him, and to give him an answer. You could not help what he might say, Clara. The question now is, what answer did you give to what he said?"

Clara, who was still kneeling, looked up piteously into her mother'sface, sighed bitterly, but said nothing. 

"He told you that he loved you, I suppose?"

"Yes, mamma. "

"And I suppose you gave him some answer? Eh! my dear?"

The answer to this was another long sigh. 

"But, Clara, you must tell me. It is absolutely necessary that Ishould know whether you have given him any hope, and if so, howmuch. Of course the whole thing must be stopped at once. Young asyou are, you cannot think that a marriage with Mr. Owen Fitzgeraldwould be a proper match for you to make. Of course the whole thingmust cease at once--at once. " Here there was another piteous sigh. "But before I take any steps, I must know what you have said to him. Surely you have not told him that you have any feeling for himwarmer than ordinary regard?"

Lady Desmond knew what she was doing very well. She was perfectlysure that her daughter had pledged her troth to Owen Fitzgerald. Indeed, if she made any mistake in the matter, it was in thinkingthat Clara had given a more absolute assurance of love than had intruth been extracted from her. But she calculated, and calculatedwisely, that the surest way of talking her daughter out of all hope, was to express herself as unable to believe that a child of herswould own to love for one so much beneath her, and to speak of sucha marriage as a thing absolutely impossible. Her method of acting inthis manner had the effect which she desired. The poor girl wasutterly frightened, and began to fear that she had disgracedherself, though she knew that she dearly loved the man of whom hermother spoke so slightingly. 

"Have you given him any promise, Clara?"

"Not a promise, mamma. "

"Not a promise! What then? Have you professed any regard for him?"But upon this Clara was again silent. 

"Then I suppose I must believe that you have professed a regard forhim--that you have promised to love him?"

"No, mamma; I have not promised anything. But when he asked me, I--Ididn't--I didn't refuse him. "

It will be observed that Lady Desmond never once asked her daughterwhat were her feelings. It never occurred to her to inquire, evenwithin her own heart, as to what might be most conducive to herchild's happiness. She meant to do her duty by Clara, and thereforeresolved at once to put a stop to the whole affair. She now desistedfrom her interrogatories, and sitting silent for a while, looked outinto the extent of flat ground before the house. Poor Clara thewhile sat silent also, awaiting her doom. 

"Clara, " said the mother at last, "all this must of course be madeto cease. You are very young, very young indeed, and therefore I donot blame you. The fault is with him--with him entirely. "

"No, mamma. "

"But I say it is. He has behaved very badly, and has betrayed thetrust which was placed in him when he was admitted here sointimately as Patrick's friend. "

"I am sure he has not intended to betray any trust, " said Clara, through her sobs. The conviction was beginning to come upon her thatshe would be forced to give up her lover; but she could not bringherself to hear so much evil spoken of him. 

"He has not behaved like a gentleman, " continued the countess, looking very stern. "And his visits here must of course bealtogether discontinued. I am sorry on your brother's account, forPatrick was very fond of him--"

"Not half so fond as I am, " thought Clara to herself. But she didnot dare to speak her thoughts out loud. 

"But I am quite sure that your brother, young as he is, will notcontinue to associate with a friend who has thought so slightly ofhis sister's honour. Of course I shall let Mr. Fitzgerald know thathe can come here no more; and all I want from you is a promise thatyou will on no account see him again, or hold any correspondencewith him. "

That was all she wanted. But Clara, timid as she was, hesitatedbefore she could give a promise so totally at variance with thepledge which she felt that she had given, hardly an hour since, toFitzgerald. She knew and acknowledged to herself that she had givenhim a pledge, although she had given it in silence. How then was sheto give this other pledge to her mother?

"You do not mean to say that you hesitate?" said Lady Desmond, looking as though she were thunderstruck at the existence of suchhesitation. "You do not wish me to suppose that you intend topersevere in such insanity? Clara, I must have from you a distinctpromise, --or--"

What might be the dreadful alternative the countess did not at thatminute say. She perhaps thought that her countenance might be moreeffective than her speech, and in thinking so she was probablyright. 

It must be remembered that Clara Desmond was as yet only seventeen, and that she was young even for that age. It must be rememberedalso, that she knew nothing of the world's ways, of her ownprivileges as a creature with a soul and heart of her own, or ofwhat might be the true extent of her mother's rights over her. Shehad not in her enough of matured thought to teach her to say thatshe would make no promise that should bind her for ever; but thatfor the present, in her present state, she would obey her mother'sorders. And thus the promise was exacted and given. 

"If I find you deceiving me, Clara, " said the countess, "I willnever forgive you. "

Hitherto, Lady Desmond may probably have played her partwell;--well, considering her object. But she played it very badly inshowing that she thought it possible that her daughter should playher false. It was now Clara's turn to be proud and indignant. 

"Mamma!" she said, holding her head high, and looking at her motherboldly through her tears, "I have never deceived you yet. "

"Very well, my dear. I will take steps to prevent his intruding onyou any further. There may be an end of the matter now. I have nodoubt that he has endeavoured to use his influence with Patrick; butI will tell your brother not to speak of the matter further. " And sosaying, she dismissed her daughter. 

Shortly afterwards the earl came in, and there was a conferencebetween him and his mother. Though they were both agreed on thesubject, though both were decided that it would not do for Clara tothrow herself away on a county Cork squire with eight hundreda-year, a cadet in his family, and a man likely to rise to nothing, still the earl would not hear him abused. 

"But, Patrick, he must not come here any more, " said the countess. 

"Well, I suppose not. But it will be very dull, I know that. I wishClara hadn't made herself such an ass;" and then the boy went away, and talked kindly over the matter to his poor sister. 

But the countess had another task still before her. She must makeknown the family resolution to Owen Fitzgerald. When her childrenhad left her, one after the other, she sat at the window for anhour, looking at nothing, but turning over her own thoughts in hermind. Hitherto she had expressed herself as being very angry withher daughter's lover; so angry that she had said that he wasfaithless, a traitor, and no gentleman. She had called him adissipated spendthrift, and had threatened his future wife, if everhe should have one, with every kind of misery that could fall to awoman's lot; but now she began to think of him perhaps more kindly. 

She had been very angry with him;--and the more so because she hadsuch cause to be angry with herself;--with her own lack of judgment, her own ignorance of the man's character, her own folly withreference to her daughter. She had never asked herself whether sheloved Fitzgerald--had never done so till now. But now she knew thatthe sharpest blow she had received that day was the assurance thathe was indifferent to herself. 

She had never thought herself too old to be on an equality withhim, --on such an equality in point of age as men and women feel whenthey learn to love each other; and therefore it had not occurred toher that he could regard her daughter as other than a child. To LadyDesmond, Clara was a child; how then could she be more to him? Andyet now it was too plain that he had looked on Clara as a woman. Inwhat light then must he have thought of that woman's mother? And so, with saddened heart, but subdued anger, she continued to gazethrough the window till all without was dusk and dark. 

There can be to a woman no remembrance of age so strong as that ofseeing a daughter go forth to the world a married woman. If thatdoes not tell the mother that the time of her own youth has passedaway, nothing will ever bring the tale home. It had not quite cometo this with Lady Desmond;--Clara was not going forth to the worldas a married woman. But here was one now who had judged her as fitto be so taken; and this one was the very man of all others in whoseestimation Lady Desmond would have wished to drop a few of the yearsthat encumbered her. 

She was not, however, a weak woman, and so she performed her task. She had candles brought to her, and sitting down, she wrote a noteto Owen Fitzgerald, saying that she herself would call at Hap Houseat an hour named on the following day. 

She had written three or four letters before she had made up hermind exactly as to the one she would send. At first she had desiredhim to come to her there at Desmond Court; but then she thought ofthe danger there might be of Clara seeing him;--of the danger, also, of her own feelings towards him when he should be there with her, inher own house, in the accustomed way. And she tried to say by letterall that it behoved her to say, so that there need be no meeting. But in this she failed. One letter was stern and arrogant, and thenext was soft-hearted, so that it might teach him to think that hislove for Clara might yet be successful. At last she resolved to goherself to Hap House; and accordingly she wrote her letter anddespatched it. 

Fitzgerald was of course aware of the subject of the threatenedvisit. When he determined to make his proposal to Clara, the matterdid not seem to him to be one in which all chances of success weredesperate. If, he thought, he could induce the girl to love him, other smaller difficulties might be made to vanish from his path. Hehad now induced the girl to own that she did love him; but not theless did he begin to see that the difficulties were far fromvanishing. Lady Desmond would never have taken upon herself to makea journey to Hap House, had not a sentence of absolute banishmentfrom Desmond Court been passed against him. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " she began, as soon as she found herself alone withhim, "you will understand what has induced me to seek you here. After your imprudence with Lady Clara Desmond, I could not of courseask you to come to Desmond Court. "

"I may have been presumptuous, Lady Desmond, but I do not think thatI have been imprudent. I love your daughter dearly and I told herso. Immediately afterwards I told the same to her brother; and she, no doubt, has told the same to you. "

"Yes, she has, Mr. Fitzgerald. Clara, as you are well aware, is achild, absolutely a child; much more so than is usual with girls ofher age. The knowledge of this should, I think, have protected herfrom your advances. "

"But I absolutely deny any such knowledge. And more than that, Ithink that you are greatly mistaken as to her character. "

"Mistaken, sir, as to my own daughter?"

"Yes, Lady Desmond; I think you are. I think--"

"On such a matter, Mr. Fitzgerald, I need not trouble you for anexpression of your thoughts. Nor need we argue that subject anyfurther. You must of course be aware that all ideas of any suchmarriage as this must be laid aside. "

"On what grounds, Lady Desmond?"

Now this appeared to the countess to be rather impudent on the partof the young squire. The reasons why he, Owen Fitzgerald of HapHouse, should not marry a daughter of an Earl of Desmond, seemed toher to be so conspicuous and conclusive, that it could hardly benecessary to enumerate them. And such as they were, it might not bepleasant to announce them in his hearing. But though Owen Fitzgeraldwas so evidently an unfit suitor for an earl's daughter, it mightstill be possible that he should be acceptable to an earl's widow. Ah! if it might be possible to teach him the two lessons at the sametime!

"On what grounds, Mr. Fitzgerald!" she said, repeating his question;"surely I need hardly tell you. Did not my son say the same thing toyou yesterday, as he walked with you down the avenue?"

"Yes; he told me candidly that he looked higher for his sister; andI liked him for his candour, But that is no reason that I shouldagree with him; or, which is much more important, that his sistershould do so. If she thinks that she can be happy in such a home asI can give her, I do not know why he or why you should object. "

"You think, then, that I might give her to a blacksmith, if sheherself were mad enough to wish it?"

"I thank you for the compliment, Lady Desmond. "

"You have driven me to it, sir. "

"I believe it is considered in the world, " said he, --"that is, inour country, that the one great difference is between gentlemen andladies, and those who are not gentlemen or ladies. A lady does notdegrade herself if she marry a gentleman, even though thatgentleman's rank be less high than her own. "

"It is not a question of degradation, but of prudence;--of theordinary caution which I, as a mother, am bound to use as regards mydaughter. Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!" and she now altered her tone as shespoke to him; "we have all been so pleased to know you, so happy tohave you there; why have you destroyed all this by one half-hour'sfolly?"

"The folly, as you call it, Lady Desmond, has been premeditated forthe last twelve months. "

"For twelve months!" said she, taken absolutely by surprise, and inher surprise believing him. 

"Yes, for twelve months. Ever since I began to know your daughter, Ihave loved her. You say that your daughter is a child. I alsothought so this time last year, in our last winter holidays. Ithought so then; and though I loved her as a child, I kept it tomyself. Now she is a woman, and so thinking I have spoken to her asone. I have told her that I loved her, as I now tell you that comewhat may I must continue to do so. Had she made me believe that Iwas indifferent to her, absence, perhaps, and distance might havetaught me to forget her. But such, I think, is not the case. "

"And you must forget her now. "

"Never, Lady Desmond. "

"Nonsense, sir. A child that does not know her own mind, that thinksof a lover as she does of some new toy, whose first appearance inthe world was only made the other night at your cousin's house! youought to feel ashamed of such a passion, Mr. Fitzgerald. "

"I am very far from being ashamed of it, Lady Desmond. "

"At any rate, let me tell you this. My daughter has promised me mostsolemnly that she will neither see you again, nor have anycorrespondence with you. And this I know of her, that her word issacred. I can excuse her on account of her youth; and, young as sheis, she already sees her own folly in having allowed you so toaddress her. But for you, Mr. Fitzgerald, under all thecircumstances I can make no excuse for you. Is yours, do you think, the sort of house to which a young girl should be brought as abride? Is your life, are your companions of that kind which couldmost profit her? I am sorry that you drive me to remind you of thesethings. "

His face became very dark and his brow stern as his sins were thuscast into his teeth. 

"And from what you know of me, Lady Desmond, " he said, --and as hespoke he assumed a dignity of demeanour which made her more inclinedto love him than ever she had been before, --"do you think that Ishould be the man to introduce a young wife to such companions asthose to whom you allude? Do you not know, are you not sure in yourown heart, that my marriage with your daughter would instantly putan end to all that?"

"Whatever may be my own thoughts, and they are not likely to beunfavourable to you--for Patrick's sake, I mean; but whatever maybe my own thoughts, I will not subject my daughter to such a risk. And, Mr. Fitzgerald, you must allow me to say, that your income isaltogether insufficient for her wants and your own. She has nofortune--"

"I want none with her. "

"And--but I will not argue the matter with you. I did not come toargue it, but to tell you, with as little offence as may bepossible, that such a marriage is absolutely impossible. My daughterherself has already abandoned all thoughts of it. "

"Her thoughts then must be wonderfully under her own control. Muchmore so than mine are. "

"Lord Desmond, you may be sure, will not hear of it. "

"Lord Desmond cannot at present be less of a child than his sister. "

"I don't know that, Mr. Fitzgerald. "

"At any rate, Lady Desmond, I will not put my happiness, nor as faras I am concerned in it, his sister's happiness, at his disposal. When I told her that I loved her, I did not speak, as you seem tothink, from an impulse of the moment. I spoke because I loved her;and as I love her, I shall of course try to win her. Nothing canabsolve me from my engagement to her but her marriage with anotherperson. "

The countess had once or twice made small efforts to come to termsof peace with him; or rather to a truce, under which there mightstill be some friendship between them, --accompanied, however, by apositive condition that Clara should be omitted from anyparticipation in it. She would have been willing to say, "Let allthis be forgotten, only for some time to come you and Clara cannotmeet each other. " But Fitzgerald would by no means agree to suchterms; and the countess was obliged to leave his house, having ineffect only thrown down a gauntlet of battle; having in vainattempted to extend over it an olive-branch of peace. 

He helped her, however, into her little pony carriage, and atparting she gave him her hand. He just touched it, and then, takingoff his hat, bowed courteously to her as she drove from his door. 

CHAPTER V

THE FITZGERALDS OF CASTLE RICHMOND

What idea of carrying out his plans may have been prevalent inFitzgerald's mind when he was so defiant of the countess, it may bedifficult to say. Probably he had no idea, but felt at the spur ofthe moment that it would be weak to yield. The consequence was, thatwhen Lady Desmond left Hap House, he was obliged to consider himselfas being at feud with the family. 

The young lord he did see once again during the holidays, and evenentertained him at Hap House; but the earl's pride would not giveway an inch. 

"Much as I like you, Owen, I cannot do anything but oppose it. Itwould be a bad match for my sister, and so you'd feel if you were inmy place. " And then Lord Desmond went back to Eton. 

After that they none of them met for many months. During this timelife went on in a very triste manner at Desmond Court. Lady Desmondfelt that she had done her duty by her daughter; but her tendernessto Clara was not increased by the fact that her foolish attachmenthad driven Fitzgerald from the place. As for Clara herself, she notonly kept her word, but rigidly resolved to keep it. Twice shereturned unopened, and without a word of notice, letters which Owenhad caused to be conveyed to her hand. It was not that she hadceased to love him, but she had high ideas of truth and honour, andwould not break her word. Perhaps she was sustained in her misery bythe remembrance that heroines are always miserable. 

And then the orgies at Hap House became hotter and faster. Hithertothere had perhaps been more smoke than fire, more calumny than sin. And Fitzgerald, when he had intimated that the presence of a youngwife would save him from it all, had not boasted falsely. But nowthat his friends had turned their backs upon him, that he wasbanished from Desmond Court, and twitted with his iniquities atCastle Richmond, he threw off all restraint, and endeavoured toenjoy himself in his own way. So the orgies became fast and furious;all which of course reached the ears of poor Clara Desmond. 

During the summer holidays, Lord Desmond was not at home, but OwenFitzgerald was also away. He had gone abroad, perhaps with theconviction that it would be well that he and the Desmonds should notmeet; and he remained abroad till the hunting season againcommenced. Then the winter came again, and he and Lord Desmond usedto meet in the field. There they would exchange courtesies, and, toa certain degree, show that they were intimate. But all the worldknew that the old friendship was over. And, indeed, all theworld--all the county Cork world--soon knew the reason. And so weare brought down to the period at which our story was to begin. 

We have hitherto said little or nothing of Castle Richmond and itsinhabitants; but it is now time that we should do so, and we willbegin with the heir of the family. At the period of which we arespeaking, Herbert Fitzgerald had just returned from Oxford, havingcompleted his affairs there in a manner very much to thesatisfaction of his father, mother, and sisters; and to theunqualified admiration of his aunt, Miss Letty. I am not aware thatthe heads of colleges and supreme synod of Dons had signified by anygeneral expression of sentiment, that Herbert Fitzgerald had soconducted himself as to be a standing honour and perpetual glory tothe University; but at Castle Richmond it was all the same as thoughthey had done so. There are some kindly-hearted, soft-mindedparents, in whose estimation not to have fallen into disgrace showsthe highest merit on the part of their children. Herbert had notbeen rusticated; had not got into debt, at least not to an extentthat had been offensive to his father's pocket; he had not beenplucked. Indeed, he had taken honours, in some low unnoticeddegree;--unnoticed, that is, at Oxford; but noticed at CastleRichmond by an ovation--almost by a triumph. 

But Herbert Fitzgerald was a son to gladden a father's heart and amother's eye. He was not handsome, as was his cousin Owen; not talland stalwart and godlike in his proportions, as was the reveller ofHap House; but nevertheless, and perhaps not the less, was hepleasant to look on. He was smaller and darker than his cousin; buthis eyes were bright and full of good humour. He was clean lookingand clean made; pleasant and courteous in all his habits; attachedto books in a moderate, easy way, but no bookworm; he had a gentleaffection for bindings and title-pages; was fond of pictures, ofwhich it might be probable that he would some day know more than hedid at present; addicted to Gothic architecture, and alreadyproprietor of the germ of what was to be a collection of coins. 

Owen Fitzgerald had called him a prig; but Herbert was no prig. Noryet was he a pedant; which word might, perhaps, more nearly haveexpressed his cousin's meaning. He liked little bits of learning, the easy outsides and tags of classical acquirements, which come soeasily within the scope of the memory when a man has passed some tenyears between a public school and a university. But though he didlove to chew the cud of these morsels of Attic grass which he hadcropped, certainly without any great or sustained effort, he had nodesire to be ostentatious in doing so, or to show off more than heknew. Indeed, now that he was away from his college friends, he wasrather ashamed of himself than otherwise when scraps of quotationswould break forth from him in his own despite. Looking at his truecharacter, it was certainly unjust to call him either a prig or apedant. 

He was fond of the society of ladies, and was a great favourite withhis sisters, who thought that every girl who saw him must instantlyfall in love with him. He was goodnatured, and, as the only son of arich man, was generally well provided with money. Such a brother isusually a favourite with his sisters. He was a great favourite toowith his aunt, whose heart, however, was daily sinking into hershoes through the effect of one great terror which harassed herrespecting him. She feared that he had become a Puseyite. Now thatmeans much with some ladies in England; but with most ladies of theProtestant religion in Ireland, it means, one may almost say, thevery Father of Mischief himself. In their minds, the pope, with hislady of Babylon, his college of cardinals, and all his community ofpinchbeck saints, holds a sort of second head-quarters of his own atOxford. And there his high priest is supposed to be one wickedinfamous Pusey, and his worshippers are wicked infamous Puseyites. Now, Miss Letty Fitzgerald was strong on this subject, and littleinklings had fallen from her nephew which robbed her of much of herpeace of mind. 

It is impossible that these volumes should be graced by any hero, for the story does not admit of one. But if there were to be a hero, Herbert Fitzgerald would be the man. 

Sir Thomas Fitzgerald at this period was an old man in appearance, though by no means an old man in years, being hardly more thanfifty. Why he should have withered away, as it were, into prematuregreyness, and loss of the muscle and energy of life, none knew;unless, indeed, his wife did know. But so it was. He had, one maysay, all that a kind fortune could give him. He had a wife who wasdevoted to him; he had a son on whom he doted, and of whom all mensaid all good things; he had two sweet, happy daughters; he had apleasant house, a fine estate, position and rank in the world. Hadit so pleased him, he might have sat in Parliament without any ofthe trouble, and with very little of the expense, which usuallyattends aspirants for that honour. And, as it was, he might hope tosee his son in Parliament within a year or two. For among otherpossessions of the Fitzgerald family was the land on which standsthe borough of Kilcommon, a borough to which the old Reform Bill wasmerciful, as it was to so many others in the south of Ireland. 

Why, then, should Sir Thomas Fitzgerald be a silent, melancholy man, confining himself for the last year or two almost entirely to hisown study; giving up to his steward the care even of his own demesneand farm; never going to the houses of his friends, and rarelywelcoming them to his; rarely as it was, and never as it would havebeen, had he been always allowed to have his own way?

People in the surrounding neighbourhood had begun to say that SirThomas's sorrow had sprung from shortness of cash, and that moneywas not so easily to be had at Castle Richmond now-a-days as was thecase some ten years since. If this were so, the dearth of that veryuseful article could not have in any degree arisen fromextravagance. It was well known that Sir Thomas's estate was large, being of a value, according to that public and well-authenticatedrent-roll which the neighbours of a rich man always carry in theirheads, amounting to twelve or fourteen thousand a-year. Now SirThomas had come into the unencumbered possession of this at an earlyage, and had never been extravagant himself or in his family. Hisestates were strictly entailed, and therefore, as he had only a lifeinterest in them, it of course was necessary that he should savemoney and insure his life, to make provision for his daughters. Butby a man of his habits and his property, such a burden as this couldhardly have been accounted any burden at all. That he did, however, in this mental privacy of his carry some heavy burden, was madeplain enough to all who knew him. 

And Lady Fitzgerald was in many things a counterpart of her husband, not in health so much as in spirits. She, also, was old for her age, and woebegone, not only in appearance, but also in the innerworkings of her heart. But then it was known of her that she hadundergone deep sorrows in her early youth, which had left their markupon her brow, and their trace upon her inmost thoughts. Sir Thomashad not been her first husband. When very young, she had beenmarried, or rather, given in marriage, to a man who in a very fewweeks after that ill-fated union had shown himself to be perfectlyunworthy of her. 

Her story, or so much of it as was known to her friends, was this. Her father had been a clergyman in Dorsetshire, burdened with asmall income, and blessed with a large family. She who afterwardsbecame Lady Fitzgerald was his eldest child; and, as Miss Wainwright--Mary Wainwright--had grown up to be the possessor of almostperfect female loveliness. While she was yet very young, a widowerwith an only boy, a man who at that time was considerably less thanthirty, had come into her father's parish, having rented there asmall hunting-box. This gentleman--we will so call him, in lack ofsome other term--immediately became possessed of an establishment, at any rate eminently respectable. He had three hunters, two grooms, and a gig; and on Sundays went to church with a prayer-book in hishand, and a black coat on his back. What more could be desired toprove his respectability?

He had not been there a month before he was intimate in the parson'shouse. Before two months had passed he was engaged to the parson'sdaughter. Before the full quarter had flown by, he and the parson'sdaughter were man and wife; and in five months from the time of hisfirst appearance in the Dorsetshire parish, he had flown from hiscreditors, leaving behind him his three horses, his two grooms, hisgig, his wife, and his little boy. 

The Dorsetshire neighbours, and especially the Dorsetshire ladies, had at first been loud in their envious exclamations as to MissWainwright's luck. The parson and the parson's wife, and poor MaryWainwright herself, had, according to the sayings of that momentprevalent in the county, used most unjustifiable wiles in trappingthis poor rich stranger. Miss Wainwright, as they all declared, hadnot clothes to her back when she went to him. The matter had beengot up and managed in most indecent hurry, so as to rob the poorfellow of any chance of escape. And thus all manner of evil thingswere said, in which envy of the bride and pity of the bridegroomwere equally commingled. 

But when the sudden news came that Mr Talbot had bolted, and whenafter a week's inquiry no one could tell whither Mr. Talbot hadgone, the objurgations of the neighbours were expressed in adifferent tone. Then it was declared that Mr. Wainwright hadsacrificed his beautiful child without making any inquiry as to thecharacter of the stranger to whom he had so recklessly given her. The pity of the county fell to the share of the poor beautiful girl, whose welfare and happiness were absolutely ruined; and the parsonwas pulled to pieces for his sordid parsimony in having endeavouredto rid himself in so disgraceful a manner of the charge of one ofhis children. 

It would be beyond the scope of my story to tell here of the anxiousfamily councils which were held in that parsonage parlour, duringthe time of that daughter's courtship. There had been misgivings asto the stability of the wooer; there had been an anxious wish not tolose for the penniless daughter the advantage of a wealthy match;the poor girl herself had been much cross-questioned as to her ownfeelings. But let them have been right, or let them have been wrongat that parsonage, the matter was settled, very speedily as we haveseen; and Mary Wainwright became Mrs Talbot when she was stillalmost a child. 

And then Mr. Talbot bolted; and it became known to the Dorsetshireworld that he had not paid a shilling for rent, or for butcher'smeat for his human family, or for oats for his equine family, duringthe whole period of his sojourn at Chevychase Lodge. Grandreferences had been made to a London banker, which had been answeredby assurances that Mr. Talbot was as good as the Bank of England. But it turned out that the assurances were forged, and that theletter of inquiry addressed to the London banker had beenintercepted. In short, it was all ruin, roguery, and wretchedness. 

And very wretched they all were, the old father, the young bride, and all that parsonage household. After much inquiry something atlast was discovered. The man had a sister whose whereabouts was madeout; and she consented to receive the child--on condition that thebairn should not come to her empty-handed. In order to get rid ofthis burden, Mr. Wainwright with great difficulty made up thirtypounds. 

And then it was discovered that the man's name was not Talbot. Whatit was did not become known in Dorsetshire, for the poor wiferesumed her maiden name--with very little right to do so, as herkind neighbours observed--till fortune so kindly gave her theprivilege of bearing another honourably before the world. 

And then other inquiries, and almost endless search was made withreference to that miscreant--not quite immediately--for at themoment of the blow such search seemed to be but of little use; butafter some months, when the first stupor arising from their griefhad passed away, and when they once more began to find that thefields were still green, and the sun warm, and that God's goodnesswas not at an end. 

And the search was made not so much with reference to him as to hisfate, for tidings had reached the parsonage that he was no more. Theperiod was that in which Paris was occupied by the allied forces, when our general, the Duke of Wellington, was paramount in theFrench capital, and the Tuileries and Champs Elysees were swarmingwith Englishmen. 

Report at the time was brought home that the soidisant Talbot, fighting his battles under the name of Chichester, had been seen andnoted in the gambling-houses of Paris; that he had been forciblyextruded from some such chamber for non-payment of a gambling debt;that he had made one in a violent fracas which had subsequentlytaken place in the French streets; and that his body had afterwardsbeen identified in the Morgue. 

Such was the story which bit by bit reached Mr. Wainwright's ears, and at last induced him to go over to Paris, so that the absoluteand proof-sustained truth of the matter might be ascertained, andmade known to all men. The poor man's search was difficult andweary. The ways of Paris were not then so easy to an Englishman asthey have since become, and Mr. Wainwright could not himself speak aword of French. But nevertheless he did learn much; so much as tojustify him, as he thought, in instructing his daughter to wear awidow's cap. That Talbot had been kicked out of a gambling-house inthe Rue Richelieu was absolutely proved. An acquaintance who hadbeen with him in Dorsetshire on his first arrival there had seenthis done; and bore testimony of the fact that the man so treatedwas the man who had taken the hunting-lodge in England. This sameacquaintance had been one of the party adverse to Talbot in the rowwhich had followed, and he could not, therefore, be got to say thathe had seen him dead. But other evidence had gone to show that theman who had been so extruded was the man who had perished; and theFrench lawyer whom Mr. Wainwright had employed, at last assured thepoor broken-hearted clergyman that he might look upon it as proved. "Had he not been dead, " said the lawyer, "the inquiry which has beenmade would have traced him out alive. " And thus his daughter wasinstructed to put on her widow's cap, and her mother again calledher Mrs. Talbot. 

Indeed, at that time they hardly knew what to call her, or how toact in the wisest and most befitting manner. Among those who hadtruly felt for them in their misfortunes, who had really pitied themand encountered them with loving sympathy, the kindest and mostvalued friend had been the vicar of a neighbouring parish. Hehimself was a widower without children; but living with him at thattime, and reading with him, was a young gentleman whose father wasjust dead, a baronet of large property, and an Irishman. This wasSir Thomas Fitzgerald. 

It need not now be told how this young man's sympathies were alsoexcited, or how sympathy had grown into love. In telling our tale wefain would not dwell much on the cradledom of our Meleager. Theyoung widow in her widow's cap grew to be more lovely than she hadever been before her miscreant husband had seen her. They whoremembered her in those days told wondrous tales of her surprisingloveliness;--how men from London would come down to see her in theparish church; how she was talked of as the Dorsetshire Venus, onlythat unlike Venus she would give a hearing to no man; how sad shewas as well as lovely; and how impossible it was found to win asmile from her. 

But though she could not smile, she could love; and at last sheaccepted the love of the young baronet. And then the father, who hadso grossly neglected his duty when he gave her in marriage to anunknown rascally adventurer, endeavoured to atone for such neglectby the severest caution with reference to this new suitor. Furtherinquiries were made. Sir Thomas went over to Paris himself with thatother clergyman. Lawyers were employed in England to sift out thetruth; and at last, by the united agreement of some dozen men, allof whom were known to be worthy, it was decided that Talbot wasdead, and that his widow was free to choose another mate. Anothermate she had already chosen, and immediately after this she wasmarried to Sir Thomas Fitzgerald. 

Such was the early life-story of Lady Fitzgerald; and as this waswidely known to those who lived around her--for how could such alife-story as that remain untold?--no one wondered why she shouldbe gentle and silent in her life's course. That she had been anexcellent wife, a kind and careful mother, a loving neighbour to thepoor, and courteous neighbour to the rich, all the county Corkadmitted. She had lived down envy by her gentleness and softhumility, and every one spoke of her and her retiring habits withsympathy and reverence. 

But why should her husband also be so sad--nay, so much sadder? ForLady Fitzgerald, though she was gentle and silent, was not asorrowful woman--otherwise than she was made so by seeing herhusband's sorrow. She had been to him a loving partner, and no mancould more tenderly have returned a wife's love than he had done. One would say that all had run smoothly at Castle Richmond since thehouse had been made happy, after some years of waiting, by the birthof an eldest child and heir. But, nevertheless, those who knew mostof Sir Thomas saw that there was a peacock on the wall. 

It is only necessary to say further a word or two as to the otherladies of the family, and hardly necessary to say that. Mary andEmmeline Fitzgerald were both cheerful girls. I do not mean thatthey were boisterous laughers, that in waltzing they would tearround a room like human steam-engines, that they rode well to houndsas some young ladies now-a-days do--and some young ladies do ridevery well to hounds; nor that they affected slang, and decked theirpersons with odds and ends of masculine costume. In saying that theywere cheerful, I by no means wish it to be understood that they wereloud. 

They were pretty, too, but neither of them lovely, as their motherhad been--hardly, indeed, so lovely as that pale mother was now, even in these latter days. Ah, how very lovely that pale mother was, as she sat still and silent in her own place on the small sofa bythe slight, small table which she used! Her hair was grey, and hereyes sunken, and her lips thin and bloodless; but yet never shall Isee her equal for pure feminine beauty, for form and outline, forpassionless grace, and sweet, gentle, womanly softness. All her sadtale was written upon her brow; and its sadness and all its poetry. One could read there the fearful, all but fatal danger to which herchildhood has been exposed, and the daily thanks with which shepraised her God for having spared and saved her. 

But I am running back to the mother in attempting to say a wordabout her children. Of the two, Emmeline, the younger, was the morelike her; but no one who was a judge of outline could imagine thatEmmeline, at her mother's age, would ever have her mother's beauty. Nevertheless, they were fine, handsome girls, more popular in theneighbourhood than any of their neighbours, well educated, sensible, feminine, and useful; fitted to be the wives of good men. 

And what shall I say of Miss Letty? She was ten years older than herbrother, and as strong as a horse. She was great at walking, andrecommended that exercise strongly to all young ladies as anantidote to every ill, from love to chilblains. She was short anddapper in person; not ugly, excepting that her nose was long, andhad a little bump or excrescence at the end of it. She always wore abonnet, even at meal times; and was supposed by those who were notintimately acquainted with the mysteries of her toilet, to sleep init; often, indeed, she did sleep in it, and gave unmusical evidenceof her doing so. She was not ill-natured; but so stronglyprejudiced on many points as to be equally disagreeable as thoughshe were so. With her, as with the world in general, religion wasthe point on which those prejudices were the strongest; and thepeculiar bent they took was horror and hatred of popery. As shelived in a country in which the Roman Catholic was the religion ofall the poorer classes, and of very many persons who were not poor, there was ample scope in which her horror and hatred could work. Shewas charitable to a fault, and would exercise that charity for thegood of Papists as willingly as for the good of Protestants; but indoing so she always remembered the good cause. She always cloggedthe flannel petticoat with some Protestant teaching, or burdened thelittle coat and trousers with the pains and penalties of idolatry. 

When her brother had married the widow Talbot, her anger with himand her hatred towards her sister-in-law had been extreme. But timeand conviction had worked in her so thorough a change, that she nowalmost worshipped the very spot in which Lady Fitzgerald habituallysat. She had the faculty to know and recognize goodness when she sawit, and she had known and recognized it in her brother's wife. 

Him also, her brother himself, she warmly loved and greatlyreverenced. She deeply grieved over his state of body and mind, andwould have given all she ever had, even her very self, to restorehim to health and happiness. 

The three children of course she loved, and petted, and scolded; andas children bothered them out of all their peace and quietness. Tothe girls she was still almost as great a torment as in theirchildish days. Nevertheless, they still loved, and sometimes obeyedher. Of Herbert she stood somewhat more in awe. He was the futurehead of the family, and already a Bachelor of Arts. In a very fewyears he would probably assume the higher title of a married man ofarts, she thought; and perhaps the less formidable one of a memberof Parliament also. Him, therefore, she treated with deference But, alas! what if he should become a Puseyite!

CHAPTER VI

THE KANTURK HOTEL, SOUTH MAIN STREET, CORK

All the world no doubt knows South Main Street in the city of Cork. In the "ould" ancient days, South and North Main Streets formed thechief thoroughfare through the city, and hence of course theyderived their names. But now, since Patrick Street, and GrandParade, and the South Mall have grown up, Main Street has but littlehonour. It is crowded with second-rate tobacconists and third-rategrocers; the houses are dirty, and the street is narrow; fashionableladies never visit it for their shopping, nor would any respectablecommercial gent stop at an inn within its purlieus. 

But here in South Main Street, at the time, of which I am writing, there was an inn, or public-house, called the Kanturk Hotel. In dearold Ireland they have some foibles, and one of them is a passion forhigh nomenclature. Those who are accustomed to the sort ofestablishments which are met with in England, and much more inGermany and Switzerland, under the name of hotels, might besurprised to see the place in South Main Street which had beendignified with the same appellation. It was a small, dingy house ofthree stories, the front door of which was always open, and thepassage strewed with damp, dirty straw. On the left-hand side as youentered was a sitting-room, or coffee-room as it was announced to beby an appellation painted on the door. There was but one window tothe room, which looked into the street, and was always clouded by adingy-red curtain. The floor was uncarpeted, nearly black with dirt, and usually half covered with fragments of damp straw brought intoit by the feet of customers. A strong smell of hot whisky and wateralways prevailed, and the straggling mahogany table in the centre ofthe room, whose rickety legs gave way and came off whenever anattempt was made to move it, was covered by small greasy circles, the impressions of the bottoms of tumblers which had been made bythe overflowing tipple. Over the chimney there was a round mirror, the framework of which was bedizened with all manner of would-begilt ornaments, which had been cracked, and twisted, and mended tillit was impossible to know what they had been intended to represent;and the whole affair had become a huge receptacle of dust, whichfell in flakes upon the chimney-piece when it was invaded. There wasa second table opposite the window, more rickety than that in thecentre; and against the wall opposite to the fireplace there was anold sideboard, in the drawers of which Tom, the one-eyed waiter, kept knives and forks, and candle-ends, and bits of bread, anddusters. There was a sour smell, as of old rancid butter, about theplace, to which the guests sometimes objected, little inclined asthey generally were to be fastidious. But this was a tender subject, and not often alluded to by those who wished to stand well in thegood graces of Tom. Many things much annoyed Tom; but nothingannoyed him so fearfully as any assertion that the air of theKanturk Hotel was not perfectly sweet and wholesome. 

Behind the coffee-room was the bar, from which Fanny O'Dwyerdispensed dandies of punch and goes of brandy to her father'scustomers from Kanturk. For at this, as at other similarpublic-houses in Irish towns, the greater part of the custom onwhich the publican depends came to him from the inhabitants of oneparticular country district. A large four-wheeled vehicle, called along car, which was drawn by three horses, and travelled over amountain road at the rate of four Irish miles an hour, came dailyfrom Kanturk to Cork, and daily returned. This public conveyancestopped in Cork at the Kanturk Hotel, and was owned by the owner ofthat house, in partnership with a brother in the same trade locatedin Kanturk. It was Mr. O'Dwyer's business to look after thisconcern, to see to the passengers and the booking, the oats, andhay, and stabling, while his well-known daughter, the charming FannyO'Dwyer, took care of the house, and dispensed brandy and whisky tothe customers from Kanturk. 

To tell the truth, the bar was a much more alluring place than thecoffee-room, and Fanny O'Dwyer a more alluring personage than Tom, the one-eyed waiter. This Elysium, however, was not open to allcomers--not even to all comers from Kanturk. Those who had the rightof entry well knew their privilege; and so also did they who hadnot. This sanctum was screened off from the passage by a window, which opened upwards conveniently, as is customary with bar-windows;but the window was blinded inside by a red curtain, so that Fanny'sstool near the counter, her father's wooden armchair, and the oldhorsehair sofa on which favoured guests were wont to sit, were notvisible to the public at large. 

Of the upstair portion of this establishment it is not necessary tosay much. It professed to be an hotel, and accommodation forsleeping was to be obtained there; but the well-being of the housedepended but little on custom of this class. 

Nor need I say much of the kitchen, a graphic description of whichwould not be pleasing. Here lived a cook, who, together with Tom thewaiter, did all that servants had to do at the Kanturk Hotel. Fromthis kitchen lumps of beef, mutton chops, and potatoes didoccasionally emanate, all perfumed with plenteous onions; as alsodid fried eggs, with bacon an inch thick, and other culinary messestoo horrible to be thought of. But drinking rather than eating wasthe staple of this establishment. Such was the Kanturk Hotel inSouth Main Street, Cork. 

It was on a disagreeable, cold, sloppy, raw, winter evening--anevening drizzling sometimes with rain, and sometimes withsleet--that an elderly man was driven up to the door of the hotel ona one-horse car--or jingle, as such conveniences were then called inthe south of Ireland. He seemed to know the house, for with hisoutside coat all dripping as it was he went direct to thebar-window, and as Fanny O'Dwyer opened the door he walked into thatwarm precinct. There he encountered a gentleman, dressed one wouldsay rather beyond the merits of the establishment, who was takinghis ease at full length on Fanny's sofa, and drinking some hotcompound which was to be seen in a tumbler on the chimney-shelf justabove his head. It was now six o'clock in the evening, and thegentleman no doubt had dined. 

"Well, Aby; here I am, as large as life, but as cold as death. Ugh!what an affair that coach is! Fanny, my best of darlings, give me adrop of something that's best for warming the cockles of an oldman's heart. "

"A young wife then is the best thing in life to do that, Mr. Mollett, " said Fanny, sharply, preparing, however, at the same timesome mixture which might be taken more instantaneously. 

"The governor's had enough of that receipt already, " said the man onthe sofa; or rather the man now off the sofa, for he had slowlyarisen to shake hands with the new comer. 

This latter person proceeded to divest himself of his drippinggreatcoat. "Here, Tom, " said he, "bring your old Cyclops eye to bearthis way, will you. Go and hang that up in the kitchen; not too nearthe fire, now; and get me something to eat: none of your muttonchops; but a beefsteak, if there is such a thing in this benightedplace. Well, Aby, how goes on the war?"

It was clear that the elderly gentleman was quite at home in hispresent quarters; for Tom, far from resenting such impertinence, ashe would immediately have done had it proceeded from an ordinaryKanturk customer, declared "that he would do his honour's bidding avthere was such a thing as a beefsteak to be had anywheres in thecity of Cork. "

And indeed the elderly gentleman was a person of whom one mightpremise, judging by his voice and appearance, that he would probablymake himself at home anywhere. He was a hale hearty man, of perhapssixty years of age, who had certainly been handsome, and was evennow not the reverse. Or rather, one may say, that he would have beenso were it not that there was a low, restless, cunning legible inhis mouth and eyes, which robbed his countenance of all manliness. He was a hale man, and well preserved for his time of life; butnevertheless, the extra rubicundity of his face, and certainincipient pimply excrescences about his nose, gave tokens that helived too freely. He had lived freely; and were it not that hisconstitution had been more than ordinarily strong, and that constantexercise and exposure to air had much befriended him, those pimplyexcrescences would have shown themselves in a more advanced stage. Such was Mr. Mollett senior--Mr. Matthew Mollett, with whom it willbe soon our fate to be better acquainted. 

The gentleman who had slowly risen from the sofa was his son, Mr. Mollett junior--Mr. Abraham Mollett, with whom also we shall becomebetter acquainted. The father has been represented as not beingexactly prepossessing; but the son, according to my ideas, was muchless so. He also would be considered handsome by some persons--bywomen chiefly of the Fanny O'Dwyer class, whose eyes are capable ofrecognizing what is good in shape and form, but cannot recognizewhat is good in tone and character. Mr. Abraham Mollett was perhapssome thirty years of age, or rather more. He was a very smart man, with a profusion of dark, much-oiled hair, with dark, copiousmustachoes--and mustachoes being then not common as they are now, added to his otherwise rakish, vulgar appearance--with various ringson his not well-washed hands, with a frilled front to his not latelywashed shirt, with a velvet collar to his coat, and patent-leatherboots upon his feet. 

Free living had told more upon him, young as he was, than upon hisfather. His face was not yet pimply, but it was red and bloated; hiseyes were bloodshot and protruding; his hand on a morning wasunsteady; and his passion for brandy was stronger than that forbeefsteaks; whereas his father's appetite for solid food had neverflagged. Those who were intimate with the family, and were observantof men, were wont to remark that the son would never fill thefather's shoes. These family friends, I may perhaps add, weregenerally markers at billiard-tables, head grooms at race-courses, or other men of that sharp, discerning class. Seeing that Iintroduce these gentlemen to my readers at the Kanturk Hotel, inSouth Main Street, Cork, it may be perhaps as well to add that theywere both Englishmen; so that mistakes on that matter may beavoided. 

The father, as soon as he had rid himself of his upper coat, hisdripping hat, and his goloshes, stood up with his back to thebar-room fire, with his hands in his trousers-pockets, and the tailsof his coat stuck inside his arms. 

"I tell you, Aby, it was cold enough outside that infernal coach. I'm blessed if I've a morsel of feeling in my toes yet. Why thed--don't they continue the railway on to Cork? It's as much as aman's life is worth to travel in that sort of way at this time ofthe year. "

"You'll have more of it, then, if you intend going out of townto-morrow, " said the son. 

"Well; I don't know that I shall. I shall take a day to consider ofit, I think. "

"Consideration be bothered, " said Mollett, junior; "strike when theiron's hot, that's my motto. "

The father here turned half round to his son and winked at him, nodding his head slightly towards the girl, thereby giving tokenthat, according to his ideas, the conversation could not bediscreetly carried on before a third person. 

"All right, " said the son, lifting his joram of brandy and water tohis mouth; an action in which he was immediately imitated by hisfather, who had now received the means of doing so from the hands ofthe fair Fanny. 

"And how about a bed, my dear?" said Mollett senior; "that's amatter of importance too; or will be when we are getting on to thelittle hours. "

"Oh, we won't turn you out, Mr. Mollett, " said Fanny; "we'll find abed for you, never fear. "

"That's all right, then, my little Venus. And now if I had somedinner I'd sit down and make myself comfortable for the evening. "

As he said this Fanny slipped out of the room, and ran down into thekitchen to see what Tom and the cook were doing. The Molletts, father and son, were rather more than ordinary good customers at theKanturk Hotel, and it was politic therefore to treat them well. Mr. Mollett junior, moreover, was almost more than a customer; and forthe sake of the son Fanny was anxious that the father should be welltreated. 

"Well, governor, and what have you done?" said the younger man in alow voice, jumping up from his seat as soon as the girl had leftthem alone. 

"Well, I've got the usual remittance from the man in Bucklersbury. That was all as right as a trivet. "

"And no more than that? Then I tell you what it is; we must be downon him at once. "

"But you forget that I got as much more last month, out of the usualcourse. Come, Aby, don't you be unreasonable. "

"Bother--I tell you, governor, if he don't----" And then MissO'Dwyer returned to her sanctum, and the rest of the conversationwas necessarily postponed. 

"He's managed to get you a lovely steak, Mr. Mollett, " said Fanny, pronouncing the word as though it were written "steek. " "And we'vebeautiful pickled walnuts; haven't we, Mr. Aby? and there'll bekidneys biled" (meaning potatoes) "by the time the 'steek's' ready. You like it with the gravy in, don't you, Mr. Mollett?" And as shespoke she drew a quartern of whisky for two of Beamish andCrawford's draymen, who stood outside in the passage and drank it atthe bar. 

The lovely "steek" with the gravy in it--that is to say, nearlyraw--was now ready, and father and son adjourned to the next room. "Well, Tom, my lad of wax; and how's the world using you?" said Mr. Mollett senior. 

"There ain't much difference, then, " said Tom; "I ain't no younger, nor yet no richer than when yer honour left us--and what is't to be, sir?--a pint of stout, sir?"

As soon as Mr. Mollett senior had finished his dinner, and Tom hadbrought the father and son materials for making whisky-punch, theyboth got their knees together over the fire, and commenced theconfidential conversation which Miss O'Dwyer had interrupted on herreturn to the bar-room. They spoke now almost in a whisper, withtheir heads together over the fender, knowing from experience thatwhat Tom wanted in eyes he made up in ears. 

"And what did Prendergast say when he paid you the rhino?" asked theson. 

"Not a word, " said the other. "After all, I don't think he knows anymore than a ghost what he pays it for: I think he gets freshinstructions every time. But, any ways, there it was, all right. "

"Hall right, indeed! I do believe you'd be satisfied to go ongetting a few dribblets now and then like that. And then if anything'appened to you, why I might go fish. "

"How, Aby, look here--"

"It's hall very well, governor; but I'll tell you what. Since youstarted off I've been thinking a good deal about it, and I've madeup my mind that this shilly-shallying won't do any good: we muststrike a blow that'll do something for us. "

"Well, I don't think we've done so bad already, taking itall-in-all. "

"Ah, that's because you haven't the pluck to strike a good blow. Now, I'll just let you know what I propose--and I tell you fairly, governor, if you'll not hear reason, I'll take the game into my ownhands. "

The father looked up from his drink and scowled at his son, but saidnothing in answer to this threat. 

"By G--I will!" continued Aby. "It's no use 'umbugging, and I meanto make myself understood. While you've been gone I've been down tothat place. "

"You 'aven't seen the old man?"

"No; I 'aven't taken that step yet; but I think it's very likely Imay before long if you won't hear reason. "

"I was a d---fool, Aby, ever to let you into the affair at all. It's been going on quiet enough for the last ten years, till I letyou into the secret. "

"Well, never mind about that. That mischief's done. But I thinkyou'll find I'll pull you through a deal better than hever you'dhave pulled through yourself. You're already making twice more outof it than you did before I knew it. As I was saying, I went downthere; and in my quiet way I did just venture on a few hinquiries. "

"I'll be bound you did. You'll blow it all in about another month, and then it'll be up with the lot of us. "

"It's a beautiful place: a lovely spot; and hall in prime horder. They say it's fifteen thousand a-year, and that there's not ashilling howing on the whole property. Even in these times thetenants are paying the rent, when no one else, far and near, isgetting a penny out of them. I went by another place on the road--Castle Desmond they call it, and I wish you'd seen the difference. The old boy must be rolling in money. "

"I don't believe it. There's one as I can trust has told me he'shard up enough sometimes. Why, we've had twelve hundred in the lasteight months. "

"Twelve hundred! and what's that? But, dickens, governor, where hasthe twelve hundred gone? I've only seen three of it, and part ofthat--. Well; what do you want there, you long-eared shark, you?"These last words were addressed to Tom, who had crept into the room, certainly without much preparatory noise. 

"I was only wanting the thingumbob, yer honour, " said Tom, pretending to search diligently in the drawer for some requiredarticle. 

"Then take your thingumbob quickly out of that, and be d---to you. And look here; if you don't knock at the door when next you come in, by heavens I'll throw this tumbler at your yead. "

"Sure and I will, yer honour, " said Tom, withdrawing. 

"And where on hearth has the twelve hundred pounds gone?" asked theson, looking severely at the father. 

Old Mr. Mollett made no immediate answer in words, but putting hisleft hand to his right elbow, began to shake it. 

"I do wonder that you keep hon at that work, " said Mollett junior, reproachfully. "You never by any chance have a stroke of luck. "

"Well, I have been unfortunate lately; but who knows what's coming?And I was deucedly sold by those fellows at the October meeting. Ifany chap ever was safe, I ought to have been safe then; but hang meif I didn't drop four hundred of Sir Thomas's shiners coolly on thespot. That was the only big haul I've had out of him all at once;and the most of it went like water through a sieve withinforty-eight hours after I touched it. " And then, having finishedthis pathetical little story of his misfortune, Mr. Mollett seniorfinished his glass of toddy. 

"It's the way of the world, governor; and it's no use sighing afterspilt milk. But I'll tell you what I propose; and if you don't likethe task yourself, I have no hobjection in life to take it into myown hands. You see the game's so much our own that there's nothingon hearth for us to fear. "

"I don't know that. If we were all blown, where should we be--"

"Why, she's your own--"

"H-h-sh, Aby. There's that confounded long-eared fellow at thekeyhole, as sure as my name's Matthew; and if he hears you, thegame's all up with a vengeance. "

"Lord bless you, what could he hear? Besides, talking as we are now, he wouldn't catch a word even if he were in the room itself. And nowI'll tell you what it is; do you go down yourself, and make your wayinto the hold gentleman's room. Just send your own name in boldly. Nobody will know what that means, except himself. "

"I did that once before; and I never shall forget it. "

"Yes, you did it once before, and you have had a steady income tolive on ever since; not such an income as you might have had. Notsuch an income as will do for you and me, now that we both know sowell what a fine property we have under our thumbs. But, nevertheless, that little visit has been worth something to you. "

"Upon my word, Aby, I never suffered so much as I did that day. Ididn't know till then that I had a soft heart. "

"Soft heart! Oh, bother. Such stuff as that always makes me sick. IfI 'ate anything, it's maudlin. Your former visit down there did verywell, and now you must make another, or else, by the holy poker!I'll make it for you. "

"And what would you have me say to him if I did manage to see him?"

"Perhaps I'd better go--"

"That's out of the question. He wouldn't see you, or understand whoyou were. And then you'd make a row, and it would all come out, andthe fat would be in the fire. "

"Well, I guess I should not take it quite quiet if they didn't treatme as a gentleman should be treated. I ain't always over-quiet ifI'm put upon. "

"If you go near that house at all I'll have done with it. I'll giveup the game. "

"Well, do you go, at any rate first. Perhaps it may be well that Ishould follow after with a reminder. Do you go down, and just tellhim this, quite coolly, remember--"

"Oh, I shall be cool enough. "

"That, considering hall things, you think he and you ought to--"

"Well?"

"Just divide it between you; share and share alike. Say it'sfourteen thousand--and it's more than that--that would be seven forhim and seven for you. Tell him you'll agree to that, but you won'ttake one farthing less. "

"Aby!" said the father, almost overcome by the grandeur of his son'sideas. 

"Well; and what of Haby? What's the matter now?"

"Expect him to shell out seven thousand pounds a-year!"

"And why not? He'll do a deal more than that, I expect, if he werequite sure that it would make all things serene. But it won't; andtherefore you must make him another hoffer. "

"Another offer!"

"Yes. He'll know well enough that you'll be thinking of his death. And for all they do say he might pop off any day. "

"He's a younger man than me, Aby, by full ten years. "

"What of that? You may pop off any day too, mayn't you? I believeyou old fellows don't think of dying nigh as hoften as we youngones. "

"You young ones are always looking for us old ones to go. We allknow that well enough. "

"That's when you've got anything to leave behind you, which hain'tthe case with you, governor, just at present. But what I was sayingis this. He'll know well enough that you can split upon his sonhafter he's gone, every bit as well as you can split on him now. "

"Oh, I always looked to make the young gentleman pay up handsome, ifso be the old gentleman went off the hooks. And if so be he and Ishould go off together like, why you'd carry on, of course. You'llhave the proofs, you know. "

"Oh, I should, should I? Well, we'll look to them by-and-by. ButI'll tell you what, governor, the best way is to make all that safe. We'll make him another hoffer--for a regular substantial familyharrangement--"

"A family arrangement, eh?"

"Yes; that's the way they always manage things when great familyhinterests is at stake. Let him give us a cool seven thousand a-yearbetween us while he's alive; let him put you down for twentythousand when he's dead--that'd come out of the young gentleman'sshare of the property, of course--and then let him give me hisdaughter Hemmeline, with another twenty thousand tacked on to herskirt-tail. I should be mum then for hever for the honour of thefamily. "

The father for a moment or two was struck dumb by the magnitude ofhis son's proposition. "That's what I call playing the game firm, "continued the son. "Do you lay down your terms before him, substantial, and then stick to 'em. 'Them's my terms, Sir Thomas, 'you'll say. 'If you don't like 'em, as I can't halter, why in courseI'll go elsewhere. ' Do you be firm to that, and you'll see how thegame'll go. "

"And you think he'll give you his daughter in marriage?"

"Why not? I'm honest born, hain't I? And she's a bastard. "

"But, Aby, you don't know what sort of people these are. You don'tknow what her breeding has been. "

"D---her breeding. I know this: she'd get a deuced pretty fellowfor her husband, and one that girls as good as her has hankeredhafter long enough. It won't do, governor, to let people as is intheir position pick and choose like. We've the hupper hand, and wemust do the picking and choosing. "

"She'd never have you, Aby; not if her father went down on his kneesto her to ask her. "

"Oh, wouldn't she? By heaven, then, she shall, and that without anykneeling at all. She shall have me, and be deuced glad to take me. What! she'd refuse a fellow like me when she knows that she and allbelonging to her'd be turned into the streets if she don't have me!I'm clear of another way of thinking, then. My opinion is she'd cometo me jumping. I'll tell you what, governor, you don't know thesex. "

Mr. Mollett senior upon this merely shook his head. Perhaps the factwas that he knew the sex somewhat better than his son. It had beenhis fate during a portion of his life to live among people who were, or ought to have been, gentlemen. He might have been such himselfhad he not gone wrong in life from the very starting-post. But hisson had had no such opportunities. He did know and could knownothing about ladies and gentlemen. 

"You're mistaken, Aby, " said the old man. "They'd never suffer youto come among them on such a footing as that. They'd sooner go forthto the world as beggars. "

"Then, by G--! they shall go forth as beggars. I've said it now, father, and I'll stick to it. You know the stuff I'm made of. " As hefinished speaking, he swallowed down the last half of a third glassof hot spirits and water, and then glared on his father with angry, blood-shot eyes, and a red, almost lurid face. The unfortunatefather was beginning to know the son, and to feel that his son wouldbecome his master. 

Shortly after this they were interrupted; and what furtherconversation they had on the matter that night took place in theirjoint bedroom; to which uninviting retreat it is not now necessarythat we should follow them. 

CHAPTER VII

THE FAMINE YEAR

They who were in the south of Ireland during the winter of 1846-47will not readily forget the agony of that period. For many, manyyears preceding and up to that time, the increasing swarms of thecountry had been fed upon the potato, and upon the potato only; andnow all at once the potato failed them, and the greater part ofeight million human beings were left without food. 

The destruction of the potato was the work of God; and it wasnatural to attribute the sufferings which at once overwhelmed theunfortunate country to God's anger--to his wrath for the misdeeds ofwhich that country had been guilty. For myself, I do not believe insuch exhibitions of God's anger. When wars come, and pestilence, andfamine; when the people of a land are worse than decimated, and theliving hardly able to bury the dead, I cannot coincide with thosewho would deprecate God's wrath by prayers. I do not believe thatour God stalks darkly along the clouds, laying thousands low withthe arrows of death, and those thousands the most ignorant, becausemen who are not ignorant have displeased Him. Nor, if in his wisdomHe did do so, can I think that men's prayers would hinder that whichhis wisdom had seen to be good and right. 

But though I do not believe in exhibitions of God's anger, I dobelieve in exhibitions of his mercy. When men by their folly and bythe shortness of their vision have brought upon themselves penaltieswhich seem to be overwhelming, to which no end can be seen, whichwould be overwhelming were no aid coming to us but our own, then Godraises his hand, not in anger, but in mercy, and by his wisdom doesfor us that for which our own wisdom has been insufficient. 

But on no Christian basis can I understand the justice oracknowledge the propriety of asking our Lord to abate his wrath indetail, or to alter his settled purpose. If He be wise, would wechange his wisdom? If He be merciful, would we limit his mercy?There comes upon us some strange disease, and we bid Him to stay hishand. But the disease, when it has passed by, has taught us lessonsof cleanliness, which no master less stern would have madeacceptable. A famine strikes us, and we again beg that that hand maybe stayed;--beg as the Greeks were said to beg when they thoughtthat the anger of Phoebus was hot against them because his priesthad been dishonoured. We so beg, thinking that God's anger is hotalso against us. But, lo! the famine passes by, and a land that hadbeen brought to the dust by man's folly is once more prosperous andhappy. 

If this was ever so in the world's history, it was so in Ireland atthe time of which I am speaking. The country, especially in thesouth and west, had been brought to a terrible pass;--not, as somany said and do say, by the idolatry of popery, or by the seditionof demagogues, or even mainly by the idleness of the people. Theidolatry of popery, to my way of thinking, is bad; though not so badin Ireland as in most other Papist countries that I have visited. Sedition also is bad; but in Ireland, in late years, it has not beendeep-seated--as may have been noted at Ballingarry and otherplaces, where endeavour was made to bring sedition to its proof. Andas for the idleness of Ireland's people, I am inclined to think theywill work under the same compulsion and same persuasion whichproduce work in other countries. 

The fault had been the lowness of education and consequent want ofprinciple among the middle classes; and this fault had been found asstrongly marked among the Protestants as it had been among the RomanCatholics. Young men were brought up to do nothing. Property wasregarded as having no duties attached to it. Men became rapacious, and determined to extract the uttermost farthing out of the landwithin their power, let the consequences to the people on that landbe what they might. 

We used to hear much of absentees. It was not the absence of theabsentees that did the damage, but the presence of those they leftbehind them on the soil. The scourge of Ireland was the existence ofa class who looked to be gentlemen living on their property, but whoshould have earned their bread by the work of their brain, or, failing that, by the sweat of their brow. There were men to be foundin shoals through the country speaking of their properties andboasting of their places, but who owned no properties and had noplaces when the matter came to be properly sifted. 

Most Englishmen have heard of profit-rent. In Ireland the term is socommon that no man cannot have heard of it. It may, of course, designate a very becoming sort of income. A man may, for instance, take a plot of land for one hundred pounds a-year, improve and buildon it till it be fairly worth one thousand pounds a-year, and thusenjoy a profit-rent of nine hundred pounds. Nothing can be better orfairer. But in Ireland the management was very different. Men thereheld tracts of ground, very often at their full value, paying forthem such proportion of rent as a farmer could afford to pay inEngland and live. But the Irish tenant would by no means consent tobe a farmer. It was needful to him that he should be a gentleman, and that his sons should be taught to live and amuse themselves asthe sons of gentlemen--barring any such small trifle as education. They did live in this way; and to enable them to do so, theyunderlet their land in small patches, and at an amount of rent tocollect which took the whole labour of their tenants, and the wholeproduce of the small patch, over and above the quantity of potatoesabsolutely necessary to keep that tenant's body and soul together. 

And thus a state of things was engendered in Ireland whichdiscouraged labour, which discouraged improvements in farming, whichdiscouraged any produce from the land except the potato crop; whichmaintained one class of men in what they considered to be thegentility of idleness, and another class, the people of the country, in the abjectness of poverty. 

It is with thorough rejoicing, almost with triumph, that I declarethat the idle, genteel class has been cut up root and branch, hasbeen driven forth out of its holding into the wide world, and hasbeen punished with the penalty of extermination. The poor cottersuffered sorely under the famine, and under the pestilence whichfollowed the famine; but he, as a class, has risen from his bed ofsuffering a better man. He is thriving as a labourer either in hisown country or in some newer--for him better--land to which he hasemigrated. He, even in Ireland, can now get eight and nine shillingsa-week easier and with more constancy than he could get four somefifteen years since. But the other man has gone, and his place isleft happily vacant. 

There are an infinite number of smaller bearings in which thisquestion of the famine, and of agricultural distress in Ireland, maybe regarded, and should be regarded by those who wish to understandit. The manner in which the Poor Law was first rejected and thenaccepted, and then, if one may say so, swallowed whole by thepeople; the way in which emigration has affected them; thedifference in the system of labour there from that here, which informer days was so strong that an agricultural labourer living onhis wages and buying food with them, was a person hardly to befound: all these things must be regarded by one who would understandthe matter. But seeing that this book of mine is a novel, I haveperhaps already written more on a dry subject than many will read. 

Such having been the state of the country, such its wretchedness, amerciful God sent the remedy which might avail to arrest it; andwe--we deprecated his wrath. But all this will soon be known andacknowledged; acknowledged as it is acknowledged that new citiesrise up in splendour from the ashes into which old cities have beenconsumed by fire. If this beneficent agency did not from time totime disencumber our crowded places, we should ever be living innarrow alleys with stinking gutters, and supply of water at theminimum. 

But very frightful are the flames as they rush through the chambersof the poor, and very frightful was the course of that violentremedy which brought Ireland out of its misfortunes. Those who sawits course, and watched its victims, will not readily forget whatthey saw. 

Slowly, gradually, and with a voice that was for a long timediscredited, the news spread itself through the country that thefood of the people was gone. That his own crop was rotten anduseless each cotter quickly knew, and realized the idea that he mustwork for wages if he could get them, or else go to the poorhouse. That the crop of his parish or district was gone became evident tothe priest, and the parson, and the squire; and they realized theidea that they must fall on other parishes or other districts forsupport. But it was long before the fact made itself known thatthere was no food in any parish, in any district. 

When this was understood, men certainly did put their shoulders tothe wheel with a great effort. Much abuse at the time was thrownupon the government; and they who took upon themselves themanagement of the relief of the poor in the south-west were takenmost severely to task. I was in the country, travelling alwaysthrough it, during the whole period, and I have to say--as I did sayat the time with a voice that was not very audible--that in myopinion the measures of the government were prompt, wise, andbeneficent; and I have to say also that the efforts of those whomanaged the poor were, as a rule, unremitting, honest, impartial, and successful. 

The feeding of four million starving people with food, to be broughtfrom foreign lands, is not an easy job. No government could bringthe food itself; but by striving to do so it might effectuallyprevent such bringing on the part of others. Nor when the food wasthere, on the quays, was it easy to put it, in due proportions, intothe four million mouths. Some mouths, and they, alas! the weakerones, would remain unfed. But the opportunity was a good one forslashing philanthropical censure; and then the business of theslashing, censorious philanthropist is so easy, so exciting, and sopleasant!

I think that no portion of Ireland suffered more severely during thefamine than the counties Cork and Kerry. The poorest parts wereperhaps the parishes lying back from the sea and near to themountains; and in the midst of such a district Desmond Court wassituated. The region immediately round Castle Richmond was perhapsbetter. The tenants there had more means at their disposal, and didnot depend so absolutely on the potato crop; but even round CastleRichmond the distress was very severe. 

Early in the year relief committees were formed, on one of whichyoung Herbert Fitzgerald agreed to act. His father promised, and wasprepared to give his best assistance, both by money and countenance;but he pleaded that the state of his health hindered him from activeexertion, and therefore his son came forward in his stead on thisoccasion, as it appeared probable that he would do on all othershaving reference to the family property. 

This work brought people together who would hardly have met but forsuch necessity. The priest and the parson of a parish, men who hadhitherto never been in a room together, and between whom neither hadknown anything of the other but the errors of his doctrine, foundthemselves fighting for the same object at the same board, and eachfor the moment laid aside his religious ferocity. Gentlemen, whoseancestors had come over with Strongbow, or maybe even with Milesius, sat cheek by jowl with retired haberdashers, concerting new soupkitchens, and learning on what smallest modicum of pudding made fromIndian corn a family of seven might be kept alive, and in suchcondition that the father at least might be able to stand upright. 

The town of Kanturk was the headquarters of that circle to whichHerbert Fitzgerald was attached, in which also would have beenincluded the owner of Desmond Court, had there been an owner of anage to undertake such work. But the young earl was still undersixteen, and the property was represented, as far as anyrepresentation was made, by the countess. 

But even in such a work as this, a work which so strongly broughtout what there was of good among the upper classes, there was foodfor jealousy and ill will. The name of Owen Fitzgerald at this timedid not stand high in the locality of which we are speaking. Men hadpresumed to talk both to him and of him, and he replied to theircensures by scorn. He would not change his mode of living for them, or allow them to believe that their interference could in any wayoperate upon his conduct. He had therefore affected a worsecharacter for morals than he had perhaps truly deserved, and hadthus thrown off from him all intimacy with many of the familiesamong whom he lived. 

When, therefore, he had come forward as others had done, offering tojoin his brother-magistrates and the clergyman of the district intheir efforts, they had, or he had thought that they had, lookedcoldly on him. His property was halfway between Kanturk and Mallow;and when this occurred he turned his shoulder upon the former place, and professed to act with those whose meetings were held at thelatter town. Thus he became altogether divided from that CastleRichmond neighbourhood to which he was naturally attached by oldintimacies and family ties. 

It was a hard time this for the poor countess. I have endeavoured toexplain that the position in which she had been left with regard tomoney was not at any time a very easy one. She possessed high rankand the name of a countess, but very little of that wealth whichusually constitutes the chief advantage of such rank and name. Butnow such means as had been at her disposal were terribly crippled. There was no poorer district than that immediately around her, andnone, therefore, in which the poor rates rose to a more fearfulproportion of the rent. The country was, and for that matter stillis, divided, for purposes of poor-law rating, into electoraldistricts. In ordinary times a man, or at any rate a lady, may liveand die in his or her own house without much noticing the limits orpeculiarities of each district. In one the rate may be one and apenny in the pound, in another only a shilling. But the differenceis not large enough to create inquiry. It is divided between thelandlord and the tenant, and neither perhaps thinks much about it. But when the demand made rises to seventeen or eighteen shillings inthe pound--as was the case in some districts in those days, --whenout of every pound of rent that he paid the tenant claimed to deductnine shillings for poor rates, that is, half the amount levied--thena landlord becomes anxious enough as to the peculiarities of his ownelectoral division. 

In the case of Protestant clergymen, the whole rate had to be paidby the incumbent. A gentleman whose half-yearly rent-charge amountedto perhaps two hundred pounds might have nine tenths of that sumdeducted from him for poor rates. I have known a case in which theproportion has been higher than this. 

And then the tenants in such districts began to decline to pay anyrent at all--in very many cases could pay no rent at all. They, too, depended on the potatoes which were gone; they, too, had beensubject to those dreadful demands for poor rates; and thus alandlord whose property was in any way embarrassed had but a badtime of it. The property from which Lady Desmond drew her income hadbeen very much embarrassed; and for her the times were very bad. 

In such periods of misfortune, a woman has always some friend. Lether be who she may, some pair of broad shoulders is forthcoming onwhich may be laid so much of the burden as is by herself unbearable. It is the great privilege of womanhood, that which compensates themfor the want of those other privileges which belong exclusively tomanhood--sitting in Parliament, for instance, preaching sermons, andgoing on 'Change. 

At this time Lady Desmond would doubtless have chosen the shouldersof Owen Fitzgerald for the bearing of her burden, had he not turnedagainst her, as he had done. But now there was no hope of that. Those broad shoulders had burdens of their own to bear of anothersort, and it was at any rate impossible that he should come to sharethose of Desmond Court. 

But a champion was forthcoming; one, indeed, whose shoulders wereless broad; on looking at whose head and brow Lady Desmond could notforget her years as she had done while Owen Fitzgerald had been nearher;--but a champion, nevertheless, whom she greatly prized. Thiswas Owen's cousin, Herbert Fitzgerald. 

"Mamma, " her daughter said to her one evening, as they were sittingtogether in the only room which they now inhabited. "Herbert wantsus to go to that place near Kilcommon to-morrow, and says he willsend the car at two. I suppose I can go?"

There were two things that Lady Desmond noticed in this: first, thather daughter should have called young Mr. Fitzgerald by hisChristian name; and secondly, that it should have come to that withthem, that a Fitzgerald should send a vehicle for a Desmond, seeingthat the Desmond could no longer provide a vehicle for herself. 

"You could have had the pony-chair, my dear. "

"Oh no, mamma; I would not do that. " The pony was now the onlyquadruped kept for the countess's own behoof; and the young earl'shunter was the only other horse in the Desmond Court stables. "Iwouldn't do that, mamma; Mary and Emmeline will not mind cominground. "

"But they will have to come round again to bring you back. "

"Yes, mamma. Herbert said they wouldn't mind it. We want to see howthey are managing at the new soup kitchen they have there. That oneat Clady is very bad. The boiler won't boil at all. "

"Very well, my dear; only mind you wrap yourself up. "

"Oh yes; I always do. "

"But, Clara--" and Lady Desmond put on her sweetest, smoothest smileas she spoke to her daughter. 

"Yes, mamma. "

"How long have you taken to call young Mr. Fitzgerald by hisChristian name?"

"Oh, I never do, mamma, " said Clara, with a blush all over her face;"not to himself, I mean. You see, Mary and Emmeline are alwaystalking about him. "

"And therefore you mean always to talk about him also. "

"No, mamma. But one can't help talking about him; he is doing somuch for these poor people. I don't think he ever thinks aboutanything else from morning to night. Emmeline says he always goes toit again after dinner. Don't you think he is very good about it, mamma?"

"Yes, my dear; very good indeed; almost good enough to be calledHerbert. "

"But I don't call him so; you know I don't, " protested Clara, veryenergetically. 

"He is very good, " continued the countess; "very good indeed. Idon't know what on earth we should do without him. If he were my ownson, he could hardly be more attentive to me. "

"Then I may go with the girls to that place? I always forget thename. "

"Gortnaclough, you mean. "

"Yes, mamma. It is all Sir Thomas's property there; and they havegot a regular kitchen, beautifully built, Her--Mr. Fitzgerald says, with a regular cook. I do wish we could have one at Clady. "

"Mr. Fitzgerald will be here to-morrow morning, and I will talk tohim about it. I fear we have not sufficient funds there. "

"No; that's just it. I do wish I had some money now. You won't mindif I am not home quite early? We all mean to dine there at thekitchen. The girls will bring something, and then we can stay outthe whole afternoon. "

"It won't do for you to be out after nightfall, Clara. "

"No, I won't, mamma. They did want me to go home with them to CastleRichmond for to-morrow night; but I declined that, " and Clarauttered a slight sigh, as though she had declined something thatwould have been very pleasant to her. 

"And why did you decline it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I didn't know whether you would like it; andbesides--"

"Besides what?"

"You'd be here all alone, mamma. "

The countess got up from her chair and coming over to the placewhere her daughter was sitting, kissed her on her forehead. "In sucha matter as that, I don't want you to think of me, my dear. I wouldrather you went out. I must remain here in this horrid, dull, wretched place; but that is no reason why you should be buriedalive. I would much rather that you went out sometimes. "

"No, mamma; I will remain with you. "

"It will be quite right that you should go to Castle Richmondto-morrow. If they send their carriage round here for you--"

"It'll only be the car. "

"Well, the car; and if the girls come all that way out of their roadin the morning to pick you up, it will be only civil that you shouldgo back by Castle Richmond, and you would enjoy an evening therewith the girls very much. "

"But I said decidedly that I would not go. "

"Tell them to-morrow as decidedly that you have changed your mind, and will be delighted to accept their invitation. They willunderstand that it is because you have spoken to me. "

"But, mamma--"

"You will like going; will you not?"

"Yes; I shall like it. "

And so that matter was settled. On the whole, Lady Desmond wasinclined to admit within her own heart that her daughter had behavedvery well in that matter of the banishment of Owen Fitzgerald. Sheknew that Clara had never seen him, and had refused to open hisletters. Very little had been said upon the subject between themother and daughter. Once or twice Owen's name had been mentioned;and once, when it had been mentioned, with heavy blame on account ofhis alleged sins, Clara had ventured to take his part. 

"People delight to say ill-natured things, " she had said; "but oneis not obliged to believe them all. "

From that time Lady Desmond had never mentioned his name, rightlyjudging that Clara would be more likely to condemn him in her ownheart if she did not hear him condemned by others: and so the motherand daughter had gone on, as though the former had lost no friend, and the latter had lost no lover. 

For some time after the love adventure, Clara had been pale anddrooping, and the countess had been frightened about her; butlatterly she had got over this. The misfortune which had fallen soheavily upon them all seemed to have done her good. She had devotedherself from the first to do her little quota of work towardslessening the suffering around her, and the effort had been salutaryto her. 

Whether or no in her heart of hearts she did still think of OwenFitzgerald, her mother was unable to surmise. From the fire whichhad flashed from her eyes on that day when she accused the world ofsaying ill-natured things of him, Lady Desmond had been sure thatsuch was the case. But she had never ventured to probe her child'sheart. She had given very little confidence to Clara, and could not, therefore, and did not expect confidence in return. 

Nor was Clara a girl likely in such a matter to bestow confidence onany one. She was one who could hold her heart full, and yet notspeak of her heart's fulness. Her mother had called her a child, andin some respects she then was so; but this childishness had beencaused, not by lack of mental power, but want of that conversationwith others which is customary to girls of her age. This want had insome respects made her childish; for it hindered her from expressingherself in firm tones, and caused her to blush and hesitate when shespoke. But in some respects it had the opposite effect, and made herolder than her age, for she was thoughtful, silent, and patient ofendurance. 

Latterly, since this dreary famine-time had come upon them, anintimacy had sprung up between Clara and the Castle Richmond girls, and in a measure, too, between Clara and Herbert Fitzgerald. LadyDesmond had seen this with great pleasure. Though she had objectedto Owen Fitzgerald for her daughter, she had no objection to theFitzgerald name. Herbert was his father's only son, and heir to thefinest property in the county--at any rate, to the property which atpresent was the best circumstanced. Owen Fitzgerald could never bemore than a little squire, but Herbert would be a baronet. Owen'sutmost ambition would be to live at Hap House all his life, and diethe oracle of the Duhallow hunt; but Herbert would be a member ofParliament, with a house in London. A daughter of the house ofDesmond might marry the heir of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, and bethought to have done well; whereas, she would disgrace herself bybecoming the mistress of Hap House. Lady Desmond, therefore, hadbeen delighted to see this intimacy. 

It had been in no spirit of fault-finding that she had remarked toher daughter as to her use of that Christian name. What would bebetter than that they should be to each other as Herbert and Clara?But the cautious mother had known how easy it would be to frightenher timid fawnlike child. It was no time, no time as yet, toquestion her heart about this second lover--if lover he might be. The countess was much too subtle in her way to frighten her child'sheart back to its old passion. That passion doubtless would die fromwant of food. Let it be starved and die; and then this other newpassion might spring up. 

The Countess of Desmond had no idea that her daughter, with severeself-questioning, had taken her own heart to task about this formerlover; had argued with herself that the man who could so sin, couldlive such a life, and so live in these fearful times, was unworthyof her love, and must be torn out of her heart, let the cost be whatit might. Of such high resolves on her daughter's part, nay, on thepart of any young girl, Lady Desmond had no knowledge. 

Clara Desmond had determined, slowly determined, to give up the manwhom she had owned to love. She had determined that duty and femaledignity required her to do so. And in this manner it had been done;not by the childlike forgetfulness which her mother attributed toher. 

And so it was arranged that she should stay the following night atCastle Richmond. 

CHAPTER VIII

GORTNACLOUGH AND BERRYHILL

And now at last we will get to Castle Richmond, at which place, seeing that it gives the title to our novel, we ought to havearrived long since. 

As had been before arranged, the two Miss Fitzgeralds did call atDesmond Court early on the following day, and were delighted atbeing informed by Lady Desmond that Clara had changed her mind, andwould, if they would now allow her, stay the night at CastleRichmond. 

"The truth was, she did not like to leave me, " said the countess, whispering prettily into the ear of the eldest of the two girls;"but I am delighted that she should have an opportunity of gettingout of this dull place for a few hours. It was so good of you tothink of her. "

Miss Fitzgerald made some civil answer, and away they all went. Herbert was on horseback, and remained some minutes after them todiscuss her own difficulties with the countess, and to say a fewwords about that Clady boiler that would not boil. Clara on thissubject had opened her heart to him, and he had resolved that theboiler should be made to boil. So he said that he would go over andlook at it, resolving also to send that which would be much moreefficacious than himself, namely, the necessary means and workmenfor bringing about so desirable a result. And then he rode after thegirls, and caught the car just as it reached Gortnaclough. 

How they all spent their day at the soup kitchen, which however, though so called, partook quite as much of the character of abake-house; how they studied the art of making yellow Indian mealinto puddings; how the girls wanted to add milk and sugar, notunderstanding at first the deep principles of political economy, which soon taught them not to waste on the comforts of a few thatwhich was so necessary for the life of many; how the poor womenbrought in their sick ailing children, accepting the proffered food, but bitterly complaining of it as they took it, --complaining of itbecause they wanted money, with which they still thought that theycould buy potatoes--all this need not here or now be described. Ourpresent business is to get them all back to Castle Richmond. 

There had been some talk of their dining at Gortnaclough, because itwas known that the ladies at Desmond Court dined early; but now thatClara was to return to Castle Richmond, that idea was given up, andthey all got back to the house in time for the family dinner. 

"Mamma, " said Emmeline, walking first into the drawing-room, "LadyClara has come back with us after all, and is going to stay hereto-night; we are so glad. "

Lady Fitzgerald got up from her sofa, and welcomed her young guestwith a kiss. 

"It is very good of you to come, " she said; "very good indeed. Youwon't find it dull, I hope, because I know you are thinking aboutthe same thing as these children. "

Lady Clara muttered some sort of indistinct little protest as to theimpossibility of being dull with her present friends. 

"Oh, she's as full of corn meal and pints of soup as any one, " saidEmmeline; "and knows exactly how much turf it takes to boil fifteenstone of pudding; don't you, Clara? But come upstairs, for wehaven't long, and I know you are frozen. You must dress with us, dear; for there will be no fire in your own room, as we didn'texpect you. "

"I wish we could get them to like it, " said Clara, standing with onefoot on the fender, in the middle of the process of dressing, so asto warm her toes; and her friend Emmeline was standing by her, withher arm round her waist. 

"I don't think we shall ever do that, " said Mary, who was sitting atthe glass brushing her hair; "it's so cold, and heavy, anduncomfortable when they get it. "

"You see, " said Emmeline, "though they did only have potatoesbefore, they always had them quite warm; and though a dinner ofpotatoes seems very poor, they did have it altogether, in their ownhouses, you know; and I think the very cooking it was some comfortto them. "

"And I suppose they couldn't be taught to cook this themselves, soas to make it comfortable in their own cabins?" said Clara, despondingly. 

"Herbert says it's impossible, " said Mary. 

"And I'm sure he knows, " said Clara. 

"They would waste more than they would eat, " said Emmeline. "Besides, it is so hard to cook it as it should be cooked; sometimesit seem impossible to make it soft. "

"So it does, " said Clara, sadly; "but if we could only have it hotfor them when they come for it, wouldn't that be better?"

"The great thing is to have it for them at all, " said Mary the wise(for she had been studying the matter more deeply than her friend);"there are so many who as yet get none. "

"Herbert says that the millers will grind up the husks and all atthe mills, so as to make the most of it, that's what makes it sohard to cook, " said Emmeline. 

"How very wrong of them!" protested Clara; "but isn't Herbert goingto have a mill put up of his own?"

And so they went on, till I fear they kept the Castle Richmonddinner waiting for full fifteen minutes. 

Castle Richmond, too, would have been a dull house, as LadyFitzgerald had intimated, had it not been that there was a commonsubject of such vital interest to the whole party. On that subjectthey were all intent, and on that subject they talked the wholeevening, planning, preparing, and laying out schemes; devising howtheir money might be made to go furthest; discussing deep questionsof political economy, and making, no doubt, many errors in theirdiscussions. 

Lady Fitzgerald took a part in all this, and so occasionally did SirThomas. Indeed, on this evening he was more active than was usualwith him. He got up from his armchair, and came to the table, inorder that he might pore over the map of the estate with them; forthey were dividing the property into districts, and seeing how bestthe poor might be visited in their own localities. 

And then, as he did so, he became liberal. Liberal, indeed, healways was; but now he made offers of assistance more than his sonhad dared to ask; and they were all busy, contented, and in a greatdegree joyous--joyous, though their work arose from the contiguityof such infinite misery. But what can ever be more joyous thanefforts made for lessening misery?

During all this time Miss Letty was fast asleep in her own armchair. But let no one on that account accuse her of a hard heart; for shehad nearly walked her old legs off that day in going about fromcabin to cabin round the demesne. 

"But we must consult Somers about that mill, " said Sir Thomas. 

"Oh, of course, " said Herbert; "I know how to talk Somers over. "

This was added sotto voce to his mother and the girls. Now, Mr. Somers was the agent on the estate. 

This mill was to be at Berryhill, a spot also on Sir Thomas'sproperty, but in a different direction from Gortnaclough. There wasthere what the Americans would call a water privilege, a stream towhich some fall of land just there gave power enough to turn a mill;and was now a question how they might utilize that power. 

During the day just past Clara had been with them, but they were nowtalking of what they would do when she would have left them. Thiscreated some little feeling of awkwardness, for Clara had put herwhole heart into the work at Gortnaclough, and it was evident thatshe would have been so delighted to continue with them. 

"But why on earth need you go home to-morrow, Lady Clara?" saidHerbert. 

"Oh, I must; mamma expects me, you know. "

"Of course we should send word. Indeed, I must send to Cladyto-morrow, and the man must pass by Desmond Court gate. "

"Oh yes, Clara; and you can write a line. It would be such a pitythat you should not see all about the mill, now that we have talkedit over together. Do tell her to stay, mamma. "

"I am sure I wish she would, " said Lady Fitzgerald. "Could not LadyDesmond manage to spare you for one day?"

"She is all alone, you know, " said Clara, whose heart, however, wasbent on accepting the invitation. 

"Perhaps she would come over and join us, " said Lady Fitzgerald, feeling, however, that the subject was not without danger. Sending acarriage for a young girl like Lady Clara did very well, but itmight not answer if she were to offer to send for the Countess ofDesmond. 

"Oh, mamma never goes out. "

"I'm quite sure she'd like you to stay, " said Herbert. "After youwere all gone yesterday, she said how delighted she was to have yougo away for a little time. And she did say she thought you could notgo to a better place than Castle Richmond. "

"I am sure that was very kind of her, " said Lady Fitzgerald. 

"Did she?" said Clara, longingly. 

And so after a while it was settled that she should send a line toher mother, saying that she had been persuaded to stay over oneother night, and that she should accompany them to inspect the siteof this embryo mill at Berryhill. 

"And I will write a line to the countess, " said Lady Fitzgerald, "telling her how impossible it was for you to hold your ownintention when we were all attacking you on the other side. "

And so the matter was settled. 

On the following day they were to leave home almost immediatelyafter breakfast; and on this occasion Miss Letty insisted on goingwith them. 

"There's a seat on the car, I know, Herbert, " she said; "for youmean to ride; and I'm just as much interested about the mill as anyof you. "

"I'm afraid the day would be too long for you, Aunt Letty, " saidMary: "we shall stay there, you know, till after four. "

"Not a bit too long. When I'm tired I shall go into Mrs. Townsend's;the glebe is not ten minutes' drive from Berryhill. "

The Rev. Aeneas Townsend was the rector of the parish, and he, aswell as his wife, were fast friends of Aunt Letty. As we get on inthe story we shall, I trust, become acquainted with the Rev. AeneasTownsend and his wife. It was ultimately found that there was nogetting rid of Aunt Letty, and so the party was made up. 

They were all standing about the hall after breakfast, looking uptheir shawls and cloaks and coats, and Herbert was in the act oftaking special and very suspicious care of Lady Clara's throat, whenthere came a ring at the door. The visitor, whoever he might be, wasnot kept long waiting, for one servant was in the hall, and anotherjust outside the front door with the car, and a third holdingHerbert's horse. 

"I wish to see Sir Thomas, " said a man's voice as soon as the doorwas opened; and the man entered the hall, and then, seeing that itwas full of ladies, retreated again into the door-way. He was anelderly man, dressed almost more than well, for there was about hima slight affectation of dandyism; and though he had for the momentbeen abashed, there was about him also a slight swagger. "Goodmorning, ladies, " he said, re-entering again, and bowing to youngHerbert, who stood looking at him; "I believe Sir Thomas is at home;would you send your servant in to say that a gentleman wants to seehim for a minute or so, on very particular business? I am a littlein a hurry like. "

The door of the drawing-room was ajar, so that Lady Fitzgerald, whowas sitting there tranquilly in her own seat, could hear the voice. And she did hear it, and knew that some stranger had come to troubleher husband. But she did not come forth; why should she? was notHerbert there--if, indeed, even Herbert could be of any service?

"Shall I take your card in to Sir Thomas, sir?" said one of theservants, coming forward. 

"Card!" said Mollett senior out loud; "well, if it is necessary, Ibelieve I have a card. " And he took from his pocket a greasypocket-book, and extracted from it a piece of pasteboard on whichhis name was written. "There; give that to Sir Thomas. I don't thinkthere's much doubt but that he'll see me. " And then, uninvited, hesat himself down in one of the hall chairs. 

Sir Thomas's study, the room in which he himself sat, and in whichindeed he might almost be said to live at present, --for on many dayshe only came out to dine, and then again to go to bed, --was at somelittle distance to the back of the house, and was approached by apassage from the hall. While the servant was gone, the ladiesfinished their wrapping, and got up on the car. 

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, " said Clara, laughing, "I shan't be able tobreathe with all that on me. "

"Look at Mary and Emmeline, " said he; "they have got twice as much. You don't know how cold it is. "

"You had better have the fur close to your body, " said Aunt Letty;"look here;" and she showed that her gloves were lined with fur, andher boots, and that she had gotten some nondescript furry article ofattire stuck in underneath the body of her dress. 

"But you must let me have them a little looser, Mr. Fitzgerald, "said Clara; "there, that will do, " and then they all got upon thecar and started. Herbert was perhaps two minutes after them beforehe mounted; but when he left the hall the man was still sittingthere; for the servant had not yet come back from his father's room. 

But the clatter of his horse's hoofs was still distinct enough atthe hall door when the servant did come back, and in a serious tonedesired the stranger to follow him. "Sir Thomas will see you, " saidthe servant, putting some stress on the word will. 

"Oh, I did not doubt that the least in the world, " said Mr. Mollett, as he followed the man along the passage. 

The morning was very cold. There had been rainy weather, but it nowappeared to be a settled frost. The roads were rough and hard, andthe man who was driving them said a word now and again to his youngmaster as to the expediency of getting frost nails put into thehorse's shoes. "I'd better go gently, Mr. Herbert; it may be hemight come down at some of these pitches. " So they did go gently, and at last arrived safely at Berryhill. 

And very busy they were there all day. The inspection of the sitefor the mill was not their only employment. Here also was anestablishment for distributing food, and a crowd of poor half-fedwretches were there to meet them. Not that at that time things wereso bad as they became afterwards. Men were not dying on theroad-side, nor as yet had the apathy of want produced its terriblecure for the agony of hunger. The time had not yet come when thefamished living skeletons might be seen to reject the food whichcould no longer serve to prolong their lives. 

Though this had not come as yet, the complaints of the women withtheir throngs of children were bitter enough; and it washeart-breaking too to hear the men declare that they had worked likehorses, and that it was hard upon them now to see their childrenstarve like dogs. For in this earlier part of the famine the peopledid not seem to realize the fact that this scarcity and want hadcome from God. Though they saw the potatoes rotting in their owngardens, under their own eyes, they still seemed to think that therich men of the land could stay the famine if they would; that thefault was with them; that the famine could be put down if the richwould but stir themselves to do it. Before it was over they werewell aware that no human power could suffice to put it down. Nay, more than that; they had almost begun to doubt the power of God tobring back better days. 

They strove, and toiled, and planned, and hoped at Berryhill thatday. And infinite was the good that was done by such efforts asthese. That they could not hinder God's work we all know; but muchthey did do to lessen the sufferings around, and many were the livesthat were thus saved. 

They were all standing behind the counter of a small store that hadbeen hired in the village--the three girls at least, for Aunt Lettyhad already gone to the glebe, and Herbert was still down at the"water privilege, " talking to a millwright and a carpenter. This wasa place at which Indian corn flour, that which after a while wasgenerally termed "meal" in those famine days, was sold to the poor. At this period much of it was absolutely given away. This plan, however, was soon found to be injurious, for hundreds would get itwho were not absolutely in want, and would then sell it;--for thefamine by no means improved the morals of the people. 

And therefore it was found better to sell the flour; to sell it at acheap rate, considerably less sometimes than the cost price, and toput the means of buying it into the hands of the people by givingthem work, and paying them wages. Towards the end of these times, when the full weight of the blow was understood, and the subject hadbeen in some sort studied, the general rule was thus to sell themeal at its true price, hindering the exorbitant profit of huckstersby the use of large stores, and to require that all those who couldnot buy it should seek the means of living within the walls ofworkhouses. The regular established workhouses, --unions as they werecalled, --were not as yet numerous, but supernumerary houses wereprovided in every town, and were crowded from the cellars to theroofs. 

It need hardly be explained that no general rule could beestablished and acted upon at once. The numbers to be dealt withwere so great, that the exceptions to all rules were overwhelming. But such and such like were the efforts made, and these effortsultimately were successful. 

The three girls were standing behind the counter of a little storewhich Sir Thomas had hired at Berryhill, when a woman came into theplace with two children in her arms and followed by four others ofdifferent ages. She was a gaunt tall creature, with sunken cheeksand hollow eyes, and her clothes hung about her in unintelligiblerags. There was a crowd before the counter, for those who had beenanswered or served stood staring at the three ladies, and couldhardly be got to go away; but this woman pressed her way through, pushing some and using harsh language to others, till she stoodimmediately opposite to Clara. 

"Look at that, madam, " she cried, undoing an old handkerchief whichshe held in her hand, and displaying the contents on the counter;"is that what the likes of you calls food for poor people? is thatfit 'ating to give to children? Would any av ye put such stuff asthat into the stomachs of your own bairns?" and she pointed to themess which lay revealed upon the handkerchief. 

The food, as food, was not nice to look at; and could not have beennice to eat, or probably easy of digestion when eaten. 

"Feel of that. " And the woman rubbed her forefinger among it to showthat it was rough and hard, and that the particles were as sharp asthough sand had been mixed with it. The stuff was half-boiled Indianmeal, which had been improperly subjected at first to the full heatof boiling water; and in its present state was bad food either forchildren or grown people. "Feel of that, " said the woman; "would youlike to be 'ating that yourself now?"

"I don't think you have cooked it quite enough, " said Clara, lookinginto the woman's face, half with fear and half with pity, andputting, as she spoke, her pretty delicate finger down into thenasty daubed mess of parboiled yellow flour. 

"Cooked it!" said the woman scornfully. "All the cooking on 'arthwouldn't make food of that fit for a Christian--feel of theroughness of it"--and she turned to another woman who stood nearher; "would you like to be putting sharp points like that into yourchildren's bellies?"

It was quite true that the grains of it were hard and sharp, so asto give one an idea that it would make good eating neither for womennor children. The millers and dealers, who of course made theirprofits in these times, did frequently grind up the whole cornwithout separating the grain from the husks, and the shell of agrain of Indian corn does not, when ground, become soft flour. Thiswoman had reason for her complaints, as had many thousands reasonfor similar complaints. 

"Don't be throubling the ladies, Kitty, " said an old man standingby; "sure and weren't you glad enough to be getting it. "

"She'd be axing the ladies to go home wid her and cook it for herafter giving it her, " said another. 

"Who says it war guv' me?" said the angry mother. "Didn't I buy it, here at this counter, with Mike's own hard-'arned money? and it'schaiting us they are. Give me back my money. " And she looked atClara as though she meant to attack her across the counter. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald is going to put up a mill of his own, and then thecorn will be better ground, " said Emmeline Fitzgerald, deprecatingthe woman's wrath. 

"Put up a mill!" said the woman, still in scorn. "Are you going togive me back my money; or food that my poor bairns can ate?"

This individual little difficulty was ended by a donation to theangry woman of another lot of meal, in taking away which she wascareful not to leave behind her the mess which she had brought inher handkerchief. But she expressed no thanks on being so treated. 

The hardest burden which had to be borne by those who exertedthemselves at this period was the ingratitude of the poor for whomthey worked;--or rather I should say thanklessness. To call themungrateful would imply too deep a reproach, for their convictionswere that they were being ill used by the upper classes. When theyreceived bad meal which they could not cook, and even in theirextreme hunger could hardly eat half-cooked; when they were desiredto leave their cabins and gardens, and flock into the wretchedbarracks which were prepared for them; when they saw their childrenwasting away under a suddenly altered system of diet, it would havebeen unreasonable to expect that they should have been grateful. Grateful for what? Had they not at any rate a right to claim life, to demand food that should keep them and their young ones alive? Butnot the less was it a hard task for delicate women to work hard, andto feel that all their work was unappreciated by those whom they sothoroughly commiserated, whose sufferings they were so anxious torelieve. 

It was almost dark before they left Berryhill, and then they had togo out of their way to pick up Aunt Letty at Mr. Townsend's house. 

"Don't go in whatever you do, girls, " said Herbert; "we should neverget away. "

"Indeed we won't unpack ourselves again before we get home; will we, Clara?"

"Oh, I hope not. I'm very nice now, and so warm. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, is not Mrs. Townsend very queer?"

"Very queer indeed. But you mustn't say a word about her before AuntLetty. They are sworn brothers-in-arms. "

"I won't of course. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, she's very good, is shenot?"

"Yes, in her way. Only it's a pity she's so prejudiced. "

"You mean about religion?"

"I mean about everything. If she wears a bonnet on her head, she'llthink you very wicked because you wear a hat. "

"Will she? what a very funny woman! But, Mr. Fitzgerald, I shan'tgive up my hat, let her say what she will. "

"I should rather think not. "

"And Mr. Townsend? we know him a little; he's very good too, isn'the?"

"Do you mean me to answer you truly, or to answer you according tothe good-natured idea of never saying any ill of one's neighbour?"

"Oh, both; if you can. "

"Oh, both; must I? Well, then, I think him good as a man, but bad asa clergyman. "

"But I thought he worked so very hard as a clergyman?"

"So he does. But if he works evil rather than good, you can't callhim a good clergyman. Mind, you would have my opinion; and if I talktreason and heterodoxy and infidelity and papistry, you must onlytake it for what it's worth. "

"I'm sure you won't talk infidelity. "

"Nor yet treason; and then, moreover, Mr. Townsend would be so muchbetter a clergyman, to my way of thinking, if he would sometimesbrush his hair, and occasionally put on a clean surplice. But, remember, not a word of all this to Aunt Letty. "

"Oh dear, no; of course not. "

Mr. Townsend did come out of the house on the little sweep beforethe door to help Miss Letty up on the car, though it was dark andpiercingly cold. 

"Well, young ladies, and won't you come in now and warm yourselves?"

They all of course deprecated any such idea, and declared that theywere already much too late. 

"Richard, mind you take care going down Ballydahan Hill, " said theparson, giving a not unnecessary caution to the servant. "I came upit just now, and it was one sheet of ice. "

"Now, Richard, do be careful, " said Miss Letty. "Never fear, miss, "said Richard. 

"We'll take care of you, " said Herbert. "You're not frightened, LadyClara, are you?"

"Oh no, " said Clara; and so they started. 

It was quite dark and very cold, and there was a sharp hard frost. But the lamps of the car were lighted, and the horse seemed to be onhis mettle, for he did his work well. Ballydahan Hill was not abovea mile from the glebe, and descending that, Richard, by his youngmaster's orders, got down from his seat and went to the animal'shead. Herbert also himself got off, and led his horse down the hill. At first the girls were a little inclined to be frightened, and MissLetty found herself obliged to remind them that they couldn't meltthe frost by screaming. But they all got safely down, and were soonchattering as fast as though they were already safe in thedrawing-room of Castle Richmond. 

They went on without any accident, till they reached a turn in theroad, about two miles from home; and there, all in a moment, quitesuddenly, when nobody was thinking about the frost or the danger, down came the poor horse on his side, his feet having gone quitefrom under him, and a dreadful cracking sound of broken timber gavenotice that a shaft was smashed. A shaft at least was smashed; ifonly no other harm was done!

It can hardly be that Herbert Fitzgerald cared more for such astranger as Lady Clara Desmond than he did for his own sisters andaunt; but nevertheless, it was to Lady Clara's assistance that hefirst betook himself. Perhaps he had seen, or fancied that he saw, that she had fallen with the greatest violence. 

"Speak, speak, " said he, as he jumped from his horse close to herside. "Are you hurt? do speak to me. " And going down on his knees onthe hard ground, he essayed to lift her in his arms. 

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said she. "No; I am not hurt; at least I thinknot--only just my arm a very little. Where is Emmeline? Is Emmelinehurt?"

"No, " said Emmeline, picking herself up. "But, oh dear, dear, I'velost my muff, and I've spoiled my hat! Where are Mary and AuntLetty?"

After some considerable confusion it was found that nothing was muchdamaged except the car, one shaft of which was broken altogether intwo. Lady Clara's arm was bruised and rather sore, but the threeother ladies had altogether escaped. The quantity of clothes thathad been wrapped round them had no doubt enabled them to fallsoftly. 

"And what about the horse, Richard?" asked young Fitzgerald. 

"He didn't come upon his knees at all at all, Master Herbert, " saidRichard, scrutinizing the animal's legs with the car lamp in hishand. "I don't think he's a taste the worse. But the car, MasterHerbert, is clane smashed. "

Such being found to be undoubtedly the fact, there was nothing forit but that the ladies should walk home. Herbert again forgot thatthe age of his aunt imperatively demanded all the assistance that hecould lend her, and with many lamentations that fortune and thefrost should have used her so cruelly, he gave his arm to Clara. 

"But do think of Miss Fitzgerald, " said Clara, speaking gently intohis ear. 

"Who? oh, my aunt. Aunt Letty never cares for anybody's arm; shealways prefers walking alone. "

"Fie, Mr. Fitzgerald, fie! It is impossible to believe such anassertion as that. " And yet Clara did seem to believe it; for shetook his proffered arm without further objection. 

It was half-past seven when they reached the hall door, and at thattime they had all forgotten the misfortune of the car in the fun ofthe dark frosty walk home. Herbert had found a boy to lead hishorse, and Richard was of course left with the ruins in the road. 

"And how's your arm now?" asked Herbert, tenderly, as they enteredin under the porch. 

"Oh, it does not hurt me hardly at all. I don't mind it in theleast. " And then the door was opened for them. 

They all flocked into the hall, and there they were met by LadyFitzgerald. 

"Oh, mamma, " said Mary, "I know you're quite frightened out of yourlife! But there's nothing the matter. The horse tumbled down; butthere's nobody hurt. "

"And we had to walk home from the turn to Ballyclough, " saidEmmeline. "But, oh mamma, what's the matter?" They all now looked upat Lady Fitzgerald, and it was evident enough that something was thematter; something to be thought of infinitely more than thataccident on the road. 

"Oh, Mary, Mary, what is it?" said Aunt Letty, coming forward andtaking hold of her sister-in-law's hand. "Is my brother ill?"

"Sir Thomas is not very well, and I've been waiting for you so long. Where's Herbert? I must speak to Herbert. " And then the mother andson left the hall together. 

There was then a silence among the four ladies that were left therestanding. At first they followed each other into the drawing-room, all wrapped up as they were and sat on chairs apart, saying nothingto each other. At last Aunt Letty got up. 

"You had better go upstairs with Lady Clara, " said she; "I will goto your mamma. "

"Oh, Aunt Letty, do send us word; pray send us word, " said Emmeline. 

Mary now began to cry. "I know he's very ill. I'm sure he's veryill. Oh, what shall we do?"

"You had better go upstairs with Lady Clara, " said Aunt Letty. "Iwill send you up word immediately. "

"Oh, don't mind me; pray don't mind me, " said Clara. "Pray, pray, don't take notice of me;" and she rushed forward, and throwingherself on her knees before Emmeline, began to kiss her. 

They remained here, heedless of Aunt Letty's advice, for some tenminutes, and then Herbert came to them. The two girls flew at himwith questions; while Lady Clara stood by the window, anxious tolearn, but unwilling to thrust herself into their family matters. 

"My father has been much troubled to-day, and is not well, " saidHerbert. "But I do not think there is anything to frighten us. Come;let us go to dinner. "

The going to dinner was but a sorry farce with any of them; butnevertheless, they went through the ceremony, each for the sake ofthe others. 

"Mayn't we see him?" said the girls to their mother, who did comedown into the drawing-room for one moment to speak to Clara. 

"Not to-night, loves. He should not be disturbed. " And so that daycame to an end; not satisfactorily. 

CHAPTER IX

Family Councils

When the girls and Aunt Letty went to their chambers that night, Herbert returned to his mother's own dressing-room, and there, seated over the fire with her, discussed the matter of his father'ssudden attack. He had been again with his father, and Sir Thomas hadseemed glad to have him there; but now he had left him for the night. 

"He will sleep now, mother, " said the son; "he has taken laudanum. "

"I fear he takes that too often now. "

"It was good for him to have it to-night. He did not get too much, for I dropped it for him. " And then they sat silent for a fewmoments together. 

"Mother, " said Herbert, "who can this man have been?"

"I have no knowledge--no idea--no guess even, " said Lady Fitzgerald. 

"It is that man's visit that has upset him. "

"Oh, certainly. I think there is no doubt of that. I was waiting forthe man to go, and went in almost before he was out of the house. "

"Well?"

"And I found your father quite prostrated. "

"Not on the floor?"

"No, not exactly on the floor. He was still seated on his chair, buthis head was on the table, over his arms. "

"I have often found him in that way, mother. "

"But you never saw him looking as he looked this morning, Herbert. When I went in he was speechless, and he remained so, I should say, for some minutes. "

"Was he senseless?"

"No; he knew me well enough, and grasped me by the hand; and when Iwould have gone to the bell to ring for assistance, he would not letme. I thought he would have gone into a fit when I attempted it. "

"And what did you do?"

"I sat there by him, with his hand in mine, quite quietly. And thenhe uttered a long, deep sigh, and--oh, Herbert!"

"Well, mother?"

"At last, he burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed and cried likea child. "

"Mother!"

"He did, so that it was piteous to see him. But it did him good, forhe was better after it. And all the time he never let go my hand, but held it and kissed it. And then he took me by the waist, andkissed me, oh, so often. And all the while his tears were runninglike the tears of a girl. " And Lady Fitzgerald, as she told thestory, could not herself refrain from weeping. 

"And did he say anything afterwards about this man?"

"Yes; not at first, that is. Of course I asked him who he was assoon as I thought he could bear the question. But he turned away, and merely said that he was a stupid man about some old Londonbusiness, and that he should have gone to Prendergast. But when, after a while, I pressed him, he said that the man's name wasMollett, and that he had, or pretended to have, some claim upon thecity property. "

"A claim on the city property! Why, it's not seven hundred a-yearaltogether. If any Mollett could run away with it all, that losswould not affect him like that. "

"So I said, Herbert; not exactly in those words, but trying tocomfort him. He then put it off by declaring that it was theconsciousness of his inability to see any one on business whichaffected him so grievously. "

"It was that he said to me. "

"And there may be something in that, Herbert. "

"Yes; but then what should make him so weak, to begin with? If youremember, mother, he was very well, --more like himself than usuallast night. "

"Oh, I observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond there. "

"Didn't he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara Desmond issuch a sweet creature. " The mother looked at her son as he saidthis, but the son did not notice the look. "I do wonder what thereal truth can be, " he continued. "Do you think there is anythingwrong about the property in general? About this estate, here?"

"No, I don't think that, " said the mother, sadly. 

"What can it be, then?" But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and did notanswer the question. "I'll tell you what I will do, mother; I'll goup to London, and see Prendergast, and consult him. "

"Oh no; you mustn't do that. I am wrong to tell you all this, for hetold me to talk to no one. But it would kill me if I didn't speak ofit to you. "

"All the same, mother, I think it would be best to consultPrendergast. "

"Not yet, Herbert. I daresay Mr. Prendergast may be a very good sortof man, but we none of us know him. And if, as is very probable, this is only an affair of health, it would be wrong in you to go toa stranger. It might look--"

"Look what, mother?"

"People might think--he, I mean--that you wanted to interfere. "

"But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don't?"

"Quite true, dearest; I understand what you mean, and know how goodyou are. But perhaps Mr. Prendergast might not. He might think youwanted---"

"Wanted what, mother? I don't understand you. "

"Wanted to take the things out of your father's hands. "

"Oh, mother!"

"He doesn't know you. And, what is more, I don't think he knows muchof your father. Don't go to him yet. " And Herbert promised that hewould not. 

"And you don't think that this man was ever here before?" he asked. 

"Well, I rather think he was here once before; many years ago--soonafter you went to school. "

"So long ago as that?"

"Yes; not that I remember him, or, indeed, ever knew of his comingthen, if he did come. But Jones says that she thinks she remembershim. "

"Did Jones see him now?"

"Yes; she was in the hall as he passed through on his way out. Andit so happened that she let him in and out too when he came before. That is, if it is the same man. "

"That's very odd. "

"It did not happen here. We were at Tenby for a few weeks in thesummer. "

"I remember; you went there with the girls just when I went back toschool. "

"Jones was with us, and Richard. We had none other of our ownservants. And Jones says that the same man did come then; that hestayed with your father for an hour or two; and that when he left, your father was depressed--almost as he was yesterday. I wellremember that. I know that a man did come to him at Tenby; and--oh, Herbert!"

"What is it, mother? Speak out, at any rate, to me. "

"Since that man came to him at Tenby he has never been like what hewas before. "

And then there was more questioning between them about Jones and herremembrances. It must be explained that Jones was a very old andvery valued servant. She had originally been brought up as a childby Mrs. Wainwright, in that Dorsetshire parsonage, and had sinceremained firm to the fortunes of the young lady, whose maid she hadbecome on her first marriage. As her mistress had been promoted, sohad Jones. At first she had been Kitty to all the world now she wasMrs. Jones to the world at large, Jones to Sir Thomas and hermistress and of late years to Herbert, and known by all manner ofaffectionate sobriquets to the young ladies. Sometimes they wouldcall her Johnny, and sometimes the Duchess; but doubtless they andMrs. Jones thoroughly understood each other. By the wholeestablishment Mrs. Jones was held in great respect, and by theyounger portion in extreme awe. Her breakfast and tea she had in alittle sitting-room by herself; but the solitude of this was tootremendous for her to endure at dinner-time. At that meal she sat atthe head of the table in the servants' hall, though she nevertroubled herself to carve anything except puddings and pies, forwhich she had a great partiality, and of which she was supposed tobe the most undoubted and severe judge known of anywhere in thatpart of the country. 

She was supposed by all her brother and sister servants to be a veryCroesus for wealth; and wondrous tales were told of the money shehad put by. But as she was certainly honest, and supposed to be verygenerous to certain poor relations in Dorsetshire, some of thesestories were probably mythic. It was known, however, as a fact, thattwo Castle Richmond butlers, one outdoor steward, three neighbouringfarmers, and one wickedly ambitious coachman, had endeavoured totempt her to matrimony--in vain. "She didn't want none of them, " shetold her mistress. "And, what was more, she wouldn't have none ofthem. " And therefore she remained Mrs. Jones, with brevet rank. 

It seemed, from what Lady Fitzgerald said, that Mrs. Jones's mannerhad been somewhat mysterious about this man, Mollett. She hadendeavoured to reassure and comfort her mistress, saying thatnothing would come of it as nothing had come of that other Tenbyvisit, and giving it as her counsel that the ladies should allow thewhole matter to pass by without further notice. But at the same timeLady Fitzgerald had remarked that her manner had been very seriouswhen she first said that she had seen the man before. 

"Jones, " Lady Fitzgerald had said to her, very earnestly, "if youknow more about this man than you are telling me, you are bound tospeak out, and let me know everything. "

"Who--I, my lady? what could I know? Only he do look to me like thesame man, and so I thought it right to say to your ladyship. "

Lady Fitzgerald had seen that there was nothing more to be gained bycross-questioning, and so she had allowed the matter to drop. Butshe was by no means satisfied that this servant whom she so trusteddid not know more than she had told. And then Mrs. Jones had beenwith her in those dreadful Dorsetshire days, and an undefined fearbegan to creep over her very soul. 

"God bless you, my child!" said Lady Fitzgerald, as her son got upto leave her. And then she embraced him with more warmth even thanwas her wont. "All that we can do at present is to be gentle withhim, and not to encourage people around him to talk of his illness. "

On the next morning Lady Fitzgerald did not come down to breakfast, but sent her love to Clara, and begged her guest to excuse her onaccount of headache. Sir Thomas rarely came in to breakfast, andtherefore his absence was not remarkable. His daughters, however, went up to see him, as did also his sister; and they all declaredthat he was very much better. 

"It was some sudden attack, I suppose?" said Clara. 

"Yes, very sudden; he has had the same before, " said Herbert. "Butthey do not at all affect his intellect or bodily powers. Depressionis, I suppose, the name that the doctors would call it. "

And then at last it became noticeable by them that Lady Clara didnot use her left arm. "Oh, Clara!" said Emmeline, "I see now thatyou are hurt. How selfish we have been! Oh dear, oh dear!" And bothEmmeline and Mary immediately surrounded her, examining her arm, andalmost carrying her to the sofa. 

"I don't think it will be much, " said Clara. "It's only a littlestiff. "

"Oh, Herbert, what shall we do? Do look here; the inside of her armis quite black. "

Herbert, gently touching her hand, did examine the arm, and declaredhis opinion that she had received a dreadfully violent blow. Emmeline proposed to send for a doctor to pronounce whether or no itwere broken. Mary said that she didn't think it was broken, but thatshe was sure the patient ought not to be moved that day, or probablyfor a week. Aunt Letty, in the mean time, prescribed a cold-waterbandage with great authority, and bounced out of the room to fetchthe necessary linen and basin of water. 

"It's nothing at all, " continued Clara. "And indeed I shall go hometo-day; indeed I shall. "

"It might be very bad for your arm that you should be moved. " saidHerbert. 

"And your staying here will not be the least trouble to us. We shallall be so happy to have you; shall we not, Mary?"

"Of course we shall; and so will mamma. "

"I am so sorry to be here now, " said Clara, "when I know you are allin such trouble about Sir Thomas. But as for going, I shall go assoon as ever you can make it convenient to send me. Indeed I shall. "And so the matter was discussed between them, Aunt Letty in the meantime binding up the bruised arm with cold-water appliances. 

Lady Clara was quite firm about going, and, therefore, at abouttwelve she was sent. I should say taken, for Emmeline insisted ongoing with her in the carriage. Herbert would have gone also, but hefelt that he ought not to leave Castle Richmond that day, on accountof his father. But he would certainly ride over, he said, and learnhow her arm was the next morning. 

"And about Clady, you know, " said Clara. 

"I will go on to Clady also. I did send a man there yesterday to seeabout the flue. It's the flue that's wrong, I know. "

"Oh, thank you; I am so much obliged to you, " said Clara. And thenthe carriage drove off, and Herbert returned into the morningsitting-room with his sister Mary. 

"I'll tell you what it is, Master Herbert, " said Mary. 

"Well--what is it?"

"You are going to fall in love with her young ladyship. "

"Am I? Is that all you know about it? And who are you going to fallin love with, pray?"

"Oh! his young lordship, perhaps; only he ought to be about tenyears older, so that I'm afraid that wouldn't do. But Clara is justthe age for you. It really seems as though it were all preparedready to your hand. "

"You girls always do think that those things are ready prepared;"and so saying, Herbert walked off with great manly dignity to someretreat among his own books and papers, there to meditate whetherthis thing were in truth prepared for him. It certainly was the factthat the house did seem very blank to him now that Clara was gone;and that he looked forward with impatience to the visit which it wasso necessary that he should make on the following day to Clady. 

The house at Castle Richmond was very silent and quiet that day. When Emmeline came back, she and her sister remained together. Nothing had been said to them about Mollett's visit, and they had noother idea than that this lowness of spirits on their father's part, to which they had gradually become accustomed, had become worse andmore dangerous to his health than ever. 

Aunt Letty talked much about it to Herbert, to Lady Fitzgerald, toJones, and to her brother, and was quite certain that she hadpenetrated to the depth of the whole matter. That nasty cityproperty, she said, which had come with her grandmother, had alwaysgiven the family more trouble than it was worth. Indeed, hergrandmother had been a very troublesome woman altogether; and nowonder, for though she was a Protestant herself, she had had Papistrelations in Lancashire. She distinctly remembered to have heardthat there was some flaw in the title of that property, and she knewthat it was very hard to get some of the tenants to pay any rent. That she had always heard. She was quite sure that this man was someperson laying a claim to it, and threatening to prosecute his claimat law. It was a thousand pities that her brother should allow sucha trifle as this, --for after all it was but a trifle, to fret hisspirits and worry him in this way. But it was the wretched state ofhis health: were he once himself again, all such annoyances as thatwould pass him by like the wind. 

It must be acknowledged that Aunt Letty's memory in this respect wasnot exactly correct; for, as it happened, Sir Thomas held his littleproperty in the city of London by as firm a tenure as the laws andcustoms of his country could give him; and seeing that his incomethence arising came from ground rents near the river, on whichproperty stood worth some hundreds of thousands, it was not veryprobable that his tenants should be in arrear. But what she said hadsome effect upon Herbert. He was not quite sure whether this mightnot be the cause of his father's grief; and if the story did nothave much effect upon Lady Fitzgerald, at any rate it did as well asany other to exercise the ingenuity and affection of Aunt Letty. 

Sir Thomas passed the whole of that day in his own room; but duringa great portion of the day either his wife, or sister, or son waswith him. They endeavoured not to leave him alone with his ownthoughts, feeling conscious that something preyed upon his mind, though ignorant as to what that something might be. 

He was quite aware of the nature of their thoughts; perfectlyconscious of the judgment they had formed respecting him. He knewthat he was subjecting himself, in the eyes not only of his ownfamily but of all those around him, to suspicions which must beinjurious to him, and yet he could not shake off the feeling thatdepressed him. 

But at last he did resolve to make an attempt at doing so. For sometime in the evening he was altogether alone, and he then strove toforce his mind to work upon the matter which occupied it, --toarrange his ideas, and bring himself into a state in which he couldmake a resolution. For hours he had sat, --not thinking upon thissubject, for thought is an exertion which requires a combination ofideas and results in the deducing of conclusions from premises; andno such effort as that had he hitherto made, --but endeavouring tothink while he allowed the matter of his grief to lie ever beforehis mind's eye. 

He had said to himself over and over again, that it behoved him tomake some great effort to shake off this incubus that depressed him;but yet no such effort had hitherto been even attempted. Now at lasthe arose and shook himself, and promised to himself that he would bea man. It might be that the misfortune under which he groaned washeavy, but let one's sorrow be what it may, there is always a betterand a worse way of meeting it. Let what trouble may fall on a man'sshoulders, a man may always bear it manfully. And are not troubleswhen so borne half cured? It is the flinching from pain which makespain so painful. 

This truth came home to him as he sat there that day, thinking whathe should do, endeavouring to think in what way he might best turnhimself. But there was this that was especially grievous to him, that he had no friend whom he might consult in this matter. It was asorrow, the cause of which he could not explain to his own family, and in all other troubles he had sought assistance and looked forcounsel there and there only. He had had one best, steadiest, dearest, truest counsellor, and now it had come to pass that thingswere so placed that in this great trouble he could not go to her. 

And now a friend was so necessary to him! He felt that he was notfit to judge how he himself should act in this terrible emergency;that it was absolutely necessary for him that he should allowhimself to be guided by some one else. But to whom should he appeal?

"He is a cold man, " said he to himself, as one name did occur tohim, "very cold, almost unfeeling; but he is honest and just. " Andthen again he sat and thought. "Yes, he is honest and just; and whatshould I want better than honesty and justice?" And then, shudderingas he resolved, he did resolve that he would send for this honestand just man. He would send for him; or, perhaps better still, go tohim. At any rate, he would tell him the whole truth of his grief, and then act as the cold, just man should bid him. 

But he need not do this yet--not quite yet. So at least he said tohimself, falsely. If a man decide with a fixed decision that histooth should come out, or his leg be cut off, let the tooth come outor the leg be cut off on the earliest possible opportunity. It isthe flinching from such pain that is so grievously painful. 

But it was something to have brought his mind to bear with a fixedpurpose upon these things, and to have resolved upon what he woulddo, though he still lacked strength to put his resolutionimmediately to the proof. 

Then, later in the evening, his son came and sat with him, and hewas able in some sort to declare that the worst of that evil day hadpassed from him. "I shall breakfast with you all to-morrow, " hesaid, and as he spoke a faint smile passed across his face. 

"Oh! I hope you will, " said Herbert; "we shall be so delighted: but, father, do not exert yourself too soon. "

"It will do me good, I think. "

"I am sure it will, if the fatigue be not too much. "

"The truth is, Herbert, I have allowed this feeling to grow upon metill I have become weak under it. I know that I ought to make anexertion to throw it off, and it is possible that I may succeed. "

Herbert muttered some few hopeful words, but he found it verydifficult to know what he ought to say. That his father had somesecret he was quite sure; and it is hard to talk to a man about hissecret, without knowing what that secret is. 

"I have allowed myself to fall into a weak state, " continued SirThomas, speaking slowly, "while by proper exertion I might haveavoided it. "

"You have been very ill, father, " said Herbert. 

"Yes, I have been ill, very ill, certainly. But I do not know thatany doctor could have helped me. "

"Father--"

"No, Herbert; do not ask me questions; do not inquire; at any rate, not at present. I will endeavour--now at least I will endeavour--todo my duty. But do not urge me by questions, or appear to notice meif I am infirm. "

"But, father, --if we could comfort you?"

"Ah! if you could. But, never mind, I will endeavour to shake offthis depression. And, Herbert, comfort your mother; do not let herthink much of all this, if it can be helped. "

"But how can it be helped?"

"And tell her this: there is a matter that troubles my mind. "

"Is it about the property, father?"

"No--yes; it certainly is about the property in one sense. "

"Then do not heed it; we shall none of us heed it. Who has so good aright to say so as I?"

"Bless you, my darling boy! But, Herbert, such things must beheeded--more or less, you know: but you may tell your mother this, and perhaps it may comfort her. I have made up my mind to go toLondon and to see Prendergast; I will explain the whole of thisthing to him, and as he bids me so will I act. "

This was thought to be satisfactory to a certain extent both by themother and son. They would have been better pleased had he openedhis heart to them and told them everything; but that it was clear hecould not bring himself to do. This Mr. Prendergast they had heardwas a good man; and in his present state it was better that heshould seek counsel of any man than allow his sorrow to feed uponhimself alone. 

CHAPTER X

THE RECTOR OF DRUMBARROW AND HIS WIFE

Herbert Fitzgerald, in speaking of the Rev. Aeneas Townsend to LadyClara Desmond, had said that in his opinion the reverend gentlemanwas a good man, but a bad clergyman. But there were not a few in thecounty Cork who would have said just the reverse, and declared himto be a bad man, but a good clergyman. There were others, indeed, who knew him well, who would have declared him to be perfect in bothrespects, and others again who thought him in both respects to bevery bad. Amidst these great diversities of opinion I will ventureon none of my own, but will attempt to describe him. 

In Ireland stanch Protestantism consists too much in a hatred ofPapistry--in that rather than in a hatred of those errors againstwhich we Protestants are supposed to protest. Hence the cross--whichshould, I presume, be the emblem of salvation to us all--creates afeeling of dismay and often of disgust instead of love andreverence; and the very name of a saint savours in Irish Protestantears of idolatry, although Irish Protestants on every Sunday professto believe in a communion of such. These are the feelings ratherthan the opinions of the most Protestant of Irish Protestants, andit is intelligible that they should have been produced by the closevicinity of Roman Catholic worship in the minds of men who areenergetic and excitable, but not always discreet or argumentative. 

One of such was Mr. Townsend, and few men carried their Protestantfervour further than he did. A cross was to him what a red cloth issupposed to be to a bull; and so averse was he to the intercessionof saints, that he always regarded as a wolf in sheep's clothing acertain English clergyman who had written to him a letter dated fromthe feast of St. Michael and All Angels. On this account HerbertFitzgerald took upon himself to say that he regarded him as a badclergyman: whereas, most of his Protestant neighbours looked uponthis enthusiasm as his chief excellence. 

And this admiration for him induced his friends to overlook whatthey must have acknowledged to be defects in his character. Thoughhe had a good living--at least, what the laity in speaking ofclerical incomes is generally inclined to call a good living, wewill say amounting in value to four hundred pounds a-year--he wasalways in debt. This was the more inexcusable as he had no children, and had some small private means. 

And nobody knew why he was in debt--in which word nobody he himselfmust certainly be included. He had no personal expenses of his own;his wife, though she was a very queer woman, as Lady Clara had said, could hardly be called an extravagant woman; there was nothing largeor splendid about the way of living at the glebe; anybody who camethere, both he and she were willing to feed as long as they chose tostay, and a good many in this way they did feed; but they neverinvited guests; and as for giving regular fixed dinner-parties, asparish rectors do in England, no such idea ever crossed the brain ofeither Mr. Or Mrs. Townsend. 

That they were both charitable all the world admitted; and theiradmirers professed that hence arose all their difficulties. Buttheir charities were of a most indiscreet kind. Money they rarelyhad to give, and therefore they would give promises to pay. Whiletheir credit with the butcher and baker was good they would givemeat and bread; and both these functionaries had by this timelearned that, though Mr. Townsend might not be able to pay suchbills himself, his friends would do so, sooner or later, if dulypressed. And therefore the larder at Drumbarrow Glebe--that was thename of the parish--was never long empty, and then again it wasnever long full. 

But neither Mr. Nor Mrs. Townsend were content to bestow theircharities without some other object than that of relieving materialwants by their alms. Many infidels, Mr. Townsend argued, had beenmade believers by the miracle of the loaves and fishes; andtherefore it was permissible for him to make use of the same meansfor drawing over proselytes to the true church. If he could findhungry Papists and convert them into well-fed Protestants by one andthe same process, he must be doing a double good, he argued;--couldby no possibility be doing an evil. 

Such being the character of Mr. Townsend, it will not be thoughtsurprising that he should have his warm admirers and his hotdetractors. And they who were inclined to be among the latter werenot slow to add up certain little disagreeable eccentricities amongthe list of his faults, --as young Fitzgerald had done in the matterof the dirty surplices. 

Mr. Townsend's most uncompromising foe for many years had been theRev. Bernard M'Carthy, the parish priest for the same parish ofDrumbarrow. Father Bernard, as he was called by his own flock, orFather Barney, as the Protestants in derision were delighted to namehim, was much more a man of the world than his Protestant colleague. He did not do half so many absurd things as did Mr. Townsend, andprofessed to laugh at what he called the Protestant madness of therector. But he also had been an eager, I may also say, a maliciousantagonist. What he called the "souping" system of the Protestantclergyman stank in his nostrils--that system by which, as he stated, the most ignorant of men were to be induced to leave their faith bythe hope of soup, or other food. He was as firmly convinced of theinward, heart-destroying iniquity of the parson as the parson was ofthat of the priest. And so these two men had learned to hate eachother. And yet neither of them were bad men. 

I do not wish it to be understood that this sort of feeling alwaysprevailed in Irish parishes between the priest and the parson evenbefore the days of the famine. I myself have met a priest at aparson's table, and have known more than one parish in which theProtestant and Roman Catholic clergymen lived together on amicableterms. But such a feeling as that above represented was common, andwas by no means held as proof that the parties themselves werequarrelsome or malicious. It was a part of their religiousconvictions, and who dares to interfere with the religiousconvictions of a clergyman?

On the day but one after that on which the Castle Richmond ladieshad been thrown from their car on the frosty road, Mr. Townsend andFather Bernard were brought together in an amicable way, or in a waythat was intended to be amicable, for the first time in their lives. The relief committee for the district in which they both lived wasone and the same, and it was of course well that both should act onit. When the matter was first arranged, Father Bernard took the bullby the horns and went there; but Mr. Townsend, hearing this, did notdo so. But now that it had become evident that much work, and for along time, would have to be performed at these committees, it wasclear that Mr. Townsend, as a Protestant clergyman, could not remainaway without neglecting his duty. And so, after many mentalstruggles and questions of conscience, the parson agreed to meet thepriest. 

The point had been very deeply discussed between the rector and hiswife. She had given it as her opinion that priest M'Carthy waspitch, pitch itself in its blackest turpitude, and as such could notbe touched without defilement. Had not all the Protestant clergymenof Ireland in a body, or, at any rate, all those who were worthanything, who could with truth be called Protestant clergymen, hadthey not all refused to enter the doors of the National schoolsbecause they could not do so without sharing their ministrationthere with papist priests; with priests of the altar of Baal, asMrs. Townsend called them? And should they now yield, when, afterall, the assistance needed was only for the body--not for the soul?

It may be seen from this that the lady's mind was not in its naturelogical; but the extreme absurdity of her arguments, though they didnot ultimately have the desired effect, by no means came home to theunderstanding of her husband. He thought that there was a great dealin what she said, and almost felt that he was yielding toinstigations from the evil one; but public opinion was too strongfor him; public opinion and the innate kindness of his own heart. Hefelt that at this very moment he ought to labour specially for thebodies of these poor people, as at other times he would labourspecially for their souls; and so he yielded. 

"Well, " said his wife to him as he got off his car at his own doorafter the meeting, "what have you done?" One might have imaginedfrom her tone of voice and her manner that she expected, or at leasthoped to hear that the priest had been absolutely exterminated andmade away with in the good fight. 

Mr. Townsend made no immediate answer, but proceeded to divesthimself of his rusty outside coat, and to rub up his stiff, grizzled, bristly, uncombed hair with both his hands, as was hiswont when he was not quite satisfied with the state of things. 

"I suppose he was there?" said Mrs. Townsend. 

"Oh yes, he was there. He is never away, I take it, when there isany talking to be done. " Now Mr. Townsend dearly loved to hearhimself talk, but no man was louder against the sins of otherorators. And then he began to ask how many minutes it wanted todinner-time. 

Mrs. Townsend knew his ways. She would not have a ghost of a chanceof getting from him a true and substantial account of what hadreally passed if she persevered in direct questions to the effect. So she pretended to drop the matter, and went and fetched her lord'sslippers, the putting on of which constituted his evening toilet;and then, after some little hurrying inquiry in the kitchen, promised him his dinner in fifteen minutes. 

"Was Herbert Fitzgerald there?"

"Oh yes; he is always there. He's a nice young fellow; a very fineyoung fellow; but--"

"But what?"

"He thinks he understands the Irish Roman Catholics, but heunderstands them no more than--than--than this slipper, " he said, having in vain cudgelled his brain for a better comparison. 

"You know what Aunt Letty says about him. She doubts he isn't quiteright, you know. "

Mrs. Townsend by this did not mean to insinuate that Herbert was atall afflicted in that way which we attempt to designate, when we saythat one of our friends is not all right, and at the same time touchour heads with our forefinger. She had intended to convey animpression that the young man's religious ideas were not exactly ofthat stanch, true-blue description which she admired. 

"Well, he has just come from Oxford, you know, " said Mr. Townsend:"and at the present moment Oxford is the most dangerous place towhich a young man can be sent. "

"And Sir Thomas would send him there, though I remember telling hisaunt over and over again how it would be. " And Mrs. Townsend as shespoke shook her head sorrowfully. 

"I don't mean to say, you know, that he's absolutely bitten. "

"Oh, I know--I understand. When they come to crosses andcandlesticks, the next step to the glory of Mary is a very easy one. I would sooner send a young man to Rome than to Oxford. At the onehe might be shocked and disgusted; but at the other he is cajoled, and cheated, and ruined. " And then Mrs. Townsend threw herself backin her chair, and threw her eyes up towards the ceiling. 

But there was no hypocrisy or pretence in this expression of herfeelings. She did in her heart of hearts believe that there was somecollege or club of papists at Oxford, emissaries of the Pope or ofthe Jesuits. In her moments of sterner thought the latter were theenemies she most feared; whereas, when she was simply pervaded byher usual chronic hatred of the Irish Roman Catholic hierarchy, shewas wont to inveigh most against the Pope. And this college, shemaintained, was fearfully successful in drawing away the souls ofyoung English students. Indeed, at Oxford a man had no chanceagainst the devi. Things were better at Cambridge; though eventhere there was great danger. Look at A--and Z--; and she would nametwo perverts to the Church of Rome, of whom she had learned thatthey were Cambridge men. But, thank God, Trinity College still stoodfirm. Her idea was, that if there were left any real Protestanttruth in the Church of England, that Church should look to feed herlambs by the hands of shepherds chosen from that seminary, and fromthat seminary only. 

"But isn't dinner nearly ready?" said Mr. Townsend, whose ideas werenot so exclusively Protestant as were those of his wife. "I haven'thad a morsel since breakfast. " And then his wife, who was peculiarlyanxious to keep him in a good humour that all might come out aboutFather Barney, made another little visit to the kitchen. 

At last the dinner was served. The weather was very cold, and therector and his wife considered it more cosy to use only the parlour, and not to migrate into the cold air of a second room. Indeed, during the winter months the drawing-room of Drumbarrow Glebe wasonly used for visitors, and for visitors who were not intimateenough in the house to be placed upon the worn chairs and threadbarecarpet of the dining-parlour. And very cold was that drawing-roomfound to be by each visitor. 

But the parlour was warm enough; warm and cosy, though perhaps attimes a little close; and of evenings there would pervade it a smellof whisky punch, not altogether acceptable to unaccustomed nostrils. Not that the rector of Drumbarrow was by any means an intemperateman. His single tumbler of whisky toddy, repeated only on Sundaysand some other rare occasions, would by no means equal, in point ofdrinking, the ordinary port of an ordinary English clergyman. Butwhisky punch does leave behind a savour of its intrinsic virtues, delightful no doubt to those who have imbibed its grosser elements, but not equally acceptable to others who may have been lessfortunate. 

During dinner there was no conversation about Herbert Fitzgerald, orthe committee, or Father Barney. The old gardener, who waited attable with all his garden clothes on him, and whom the neighbours, with respectful deference, called Mr. Townsend's butler, was a RomanCatholic, as, indeed, were all the servants at the glebe, and asare, necessarily, all the native servants in that part of thecountry. And though Mr. And Mrs. Townsend put great trust in theirservant Jerry as to the ordinary duties of gardening, driving, andbutlering, they would not knowingly trust him with a word of theirhabitual conversation about the things around them. Their idea was, that every word so heard was carried to the priest, and that thepriest kept a book in which every word so uttered was written down. If this were so through the parish, the priest must in truth havehad something to do, both for himself and his private secretary, for, in spite of all precautions that were taken, Jerry and Jerry'sbrethren no doubt did hear much of what was said. The repetitions tothe priest, however, I must take leave to doubt. 

But after dinner, when the hot water and whisky were on the table, when the two old armchairs were drawn cozily up on the rug, eachwith an old footstool before it, when the faithful wife had mixedthat glass of punch--or jug rather, for, after the old fashion, itwas brewed in such a receptacle; and when, to inspire increasedconfidence, she had put into it a small extra modicum of theeloquent spirit, then the mouth of the rector was opened, and Mrs. Townsend was made happy. 

"And so Father Barney and I have met at last, " said he, rathercheerily, as the hot fumes of the toddy regaled his nostrils. 

"And how did he behave, now?"

"Well, he was decent enough--that is, as far as absolute behaviourwent. You can't have a silk purse from off a sow's ear, you know. "

"No, indeed; and goodness knows there's plenty of the sow's earabout him. But now, Aeneas, dear, do tell me how it all was, justfrom the beginning. "

"He was there before me, " said the husband. 

"Catch a weasel asleep!" said the wife. 

"I didn't catch him asleep, at any rate, " continued he. "He wasthere before me; but when I went into the little room where theyhold the meeting--"

"It's at Berryhill, isn't it?"

"Yes, at the Widow Casey's. To see that woman bowing and scrapingand curtsying to Father Barney, and she his own mother's brother'sdaughter, was the best thing in the world. "

"That was just to do him honour before the quality, you know. "

"Exactly. When I went in, there was nobody there but his reverenceand Master Herbert. "

"As thick as possible, I suppose. Dear, dear; isn't itdreadful!--Did I put sugar enough in it, Aeneas?"

"Well, I don't know; perhaps you may give me another small lump. Atany rate, you didn't forget the whisky. "

"I'm sure it isn't a taste too strong--and after such work as you'vehad to-day. --And so young Fitzgerald and Father Barney--"

"Yes, there they were with their heads together. It was somethingabout a mill they were saying. "

"Oh, it's perfectly dreadful!"

"But Herbert stopped, and introduced me at once to Father Barney. "

"What! a regular introduction? I like that, indeed. "

"He didn't do it altogether badly. He said something about beingglad to see two gentlemen together--"

"A gentleman, indeed!"

"--who were both so anxious to do the best they could in the parish, and whose influence was so great--or something to that effect. Andthen we shook hands. "

"You did shake hands?"

"Oh yes; if I went there at all, it was necessary that I should dothat. "

"I am very glad it was not me, that's all. I don't think I couldshake hands with Father Barney. "

"There's no knowing what you can do, my dear, till you try. "

"H--m, " said Mrs. Townsend, meaning to signify thereby that she wasstill strong in the strength of her own impossibilities. 

"And then there was a little general conversation about the potato, for no one came in for a quarter of an hour or so. The priest saidthat they were as badly off in Limerick and Clare as we are here. Now, I don't believe that; and when I asked him how he knew, hequoted the 'Freeman. '"

"The 'Freeman, ' indeed! Just like him. I wonder it wasn't the'Nation. '" In Mrs. Townsend's estimation, the parish priest was muchto blame because he did not draw his public information from somenewspaper specially addicted to the support of the Protestant cause. 

"And then Somers came in, and he took the chair. I was very muchafraid at one time that Father Barney was going to seat himselfthere. "

"You couldn't possibly have stood that?"

"I had made up my mind what to do. I should have walked about theroom, and looked on the whole affair as altogether irregular, --asthough there was no chairman. But Somers was of course the properman. "

"And who else came?"

"There was O'Leary, from Boherbue. "

"He was another Papist?"

"Oh yes; there was a majority of them. There was Greilly, the manwho has got that large take of land over beyond Banteer; and thenFather Barney's coadjutor came in. "

"What! that wretched-looking man from Gortnaclough?"

"Yes; he's the curate of the parish, you know. "

"And did you shake hands with him too?"

"Indeed I did; and you never saw a fellow look so ashamed of himselfin your life. "

"Well, there isn't much shame about them generally. "

"And there wasn't much about him by-and-by. You never heard a mantalk such trash in your life, till Somers put him down. "

"Oh, he was put down? I'm glad of that. "

"And to do Father Barney justice, he did tell him to hold histongue. The fool began to make a regular set speech. "

"Father Barney, I suppose, didn't choose that anybody should do thatbut himself. "

"He did enough for the two, certainly. I never heard a man so fondof his own voice. What he wants is to rule it all just his own way. "

"Of course he does; and that's just what you won't let him do. Whatother reason can there be for your going there?"

And so the matter was discussed. What absolute steps were taken bythe committee; how they agreed to buy so much meal of such amerchant, at such a price, and with such funds; how it was to beresold, and never given away on any pretext; how Mr. Somers hadexplained that giving away their means was killing the goose thatlaid the golden eggs, when the young priest, in an attitude fororatory, declared that the poor had no money with which to make thepurchase; and how in a few weeks' time they would be able to grindtheir own flour at Herbert Fitzgerald's mill;--all this was alsotold. But the telling did not give so much gratification to Mrs. Townsend as the sly hits against the two priests. 

And then, while they were still in the middle of all this; when thepunch-jug had given way to the teapot, and the rector was beginningto bethink himself that a nap in his armchair would be veryrefreshing, Jerry came into the room to announce that Richard hadcome over from Castle Richmond with a note for "his riverence. " Andso Richard was shown in. 

Now, Richard might very well have sent in his note by Jerry, whichafter all contained only some information with reference to a listof old women which Herbert Fitzgerald had promised to send over tothe glebe. But Richard knew that the minister would wish to chatwith him, and Richard himself had no indisposition for a littleconversation. 

"I hope yer riverences is quite well, then, " said Richard, as hetendered his note, making a double bow, so as to include them both. 

"Pretty well, thank you, " said Mrs. Townsend. "And how's all thefamily?"

"Well, then, they're all rightly, considhering. The Masther's nojust what he war, you know, ma'am. "

"I'm afraid not--I'm afraid not, " said the rector. "You'll not takea glass of spirits, Richard?"

"Yer riverence knows I never does that, " said Richard, with somewhatof a conscious look of high morality, for he was a rigidteetotaller. 

"And do you mean to say that you stick to that always?" said Mrs. Townsend, who firmly believed that no good could come out ofNazareth, and that even abstinence from whisky must be bad ifaccompanied by anything in the shape of a Roman Catholic ceremony. 

"I do mean to say, ma'am, that I never touched a dhrop of anythingsthronger than wather, barring tay, since the time I got the pledgefrom the blessed apostle. " And Richard boldly crossed himself in thepresence of them both. They knew well whom he meant by the blessedapostle: it was Father Mathew. 

"Temperance is a very good thing, however we may come by it, " saidMr. Townsend, who meant to imply by this that Richard's temperancehad been come by in the worst way possible. 

"That's thrue for you, sir, " said Richard; "but I never knew anypledge kept, only the blessed apostle's. " By which he meant to implythat no sanctity inherent in Mr. Townsend's sacerdotal proceedingscould be of any such efficacy. 

And then Mr. Townsend read the note. "Ah, yes, " said he; "tell Mr. Herbert that I'm very much obliged to him. There will be no otheranswer necessary. "

"Very well, yer riverence, I'll be sure to give Mr. Herbert themessage. " And Richard made a sign as though he were going. 

"But tell me, Richard, " said Mrs. Townsend, "is Sir Thomas anybetter? for we have been really very uneasy about him. "

"Indeed and he is, ma'am; a dail betther this morning, the Lord bepraised. "

"It was a kind of a fit, wasn't it, Richard?" asked the parson. 

"A sort of a fit of illness of some kind, I'm thinking, " saidRichard, who had no mind to speak of his family's secrets out ofdoors. Whatever he might be called upon to tell the priest, at anyrate he was not called on to tell anything to the parson. 

"But it was very sudden this time, wasn't it, Richard?" asked thelady; "immediately after that strange man was shown into his room--eh?"

"I'm sure, ma'am, I can't say; but I don't think he was a ha'porthworse than ordinar, till after the gentleman went away. I did hearthat he did his business with the gentleman, just as usual like. "

"And then he fell into a fit, didn't he, Richard?"

"Not that I heard of, ma'am. He did a dail of talking about some lawbusiness, I did hear our Mrs. Jones say; and then afther he warn'tjust the betther of it. "

"Was that all?"

"And I don't think he's none the worse for it neither, ma'am; forthe masther do seem to have more life in him this day than I'se seenthis many a month. Why, he's been out and about with her ladyship inthe pony-carriage all the morning. "

"Has he now? Well, I'm delighted to hear that. It is some troubleabout the English estates, I believe, that vexes him?"

"Faix, then, ma'am, I don't just know what it is that ails him, unless it be just that he has too much money for to know what to dowid it. That'd be the sore vexation to me, I know. "

"Well; ah, yes; I suppose I shall see Mrs. Jones to-morrow, or atlatest the day after, " said Mrs. Townsend, resolving to pique theman by making him understand that she could easily learn all thatshe wished to learn from the woman: "a great comfort Mrs. Jones mustbe to her ladyship. "

"Oh yes, ma'am; 'deed an' she is, " said Richard; "'specially in thematter of puddins and pies, and such like. "

He was not going to admit Mrs. Jones's superiority, seeing that hehad lived in the family long before his present mistress's marriage. 

"And in a great many other things too, Richard. She's quite aconfidential servant. That's because she's a Protestant, you know. "

Now of all men, women, and creatures living, Richard the coachman ofCastle Richmond was the most good tempered. No amount of anger orscolding, no professional misfortune--such as the falling down ofhis horse upon the ice, no hardship--such as three hours' perpetualrain when he was upon the box--would make him cross. To him it was amatter of perfect indifference if he were sent off with his car justbefore breakfast, or called away to some stable work as the dinnerwas about to smoke in the servants' hall. He was a great eater, butwhat he didn't eat one day he could eat the next. Such things neverruffled him, nor was he ever known to say that such a job wasn't hiswork. He was always willing to nurse a baby, or dig potatoes, orcook a dinner, to the best of his ability, when asked to do so; buthe could not endure to be made less of than a Protestant; and of allProtestants he could not endure to be made less of than Mrs. Jones. 

"'Cause she's a Protestant, is it, ma'am?"

"Of course, Richard; you can't but see that Protestants are moretrusted, more respected, more thought about than Romanists, canyou?"

"'Deed then I don't know, ma'am. "

"But look at Mrs. Jones. "

"Oh, I looks at her often enough; and she's well enough too for awoman. But we all know her weakness. "

"What's that, Richard?" asked Mrs. Townsend, with some interestexpressed in her tone; for she was not above listening to a littlescandal, even about the servants of her great neighbours. 

"Why, she do often talk about things she don't understand. But she'sa great hand at puddins and pies, and that's what one mostly looksfor in a woman. "

This was enough for Mrs. Townsend for the present, and so Richardwas allowed to take his departure, in full self-confidence that hehad been one too many for the parson's wife. 

"Jerry, " said Richard, as they walked out into the yard together toget the Castle Richmond pony, "does they often thry to make aProthestant of you now?"

"Prothestants be d----, " said Jerry, who by no means shared inRichard's good gifts as to temper. 

"Well, I wouldn't say that; at laist, not of all of 'em. "

"The likes of them's used to it, " said Jerry. 

And then Richard, not waiting to do further battle on behalf of hisProtestant friends, trotted out of the yard. 

CHAPTER XI

SECOND LOVE

On the day after Clara's departure, Herbert did, as a matter ofcourse, make his promised visit at Desmond Court. It was on that daythat Sir Thomas had been driving about in the pony-carriage withLady Fitzgerald, as Richard had reported. Herbert had been with hisfather in the morning, and then having seen him and his mother wellpacked up in their shawls and cloaks, had mounted his horse andridden off. 

"I may be kept some time, " said he, "as I have promised to go on toClady, and see after that soup kitchen. "

"I shouldn't wonder if Herbert became attached to Clara Desmond, "said the mother to Sir Thomas, soon after they had begun theirexcursion. 

"Do you think so?" said the baronet; and his tone was certainly notexactly that of approbation. 

"Well, yes; I certainly do think it probable. I am sure he admiresher, and I think it very likely to come to more. Would there be anyobjection?"

"They are both very young, " said Sir Thomas. 

"But in Herbert's position will not a young marriage be the bestthing for him?"

"And she has no fortune; not a shilling. If he does marry young, quite young you know, it might be prudent that his wife should havesomething of her own. "

"They'd live here, " said Lady Fitzgerald, who knew that of all menher husband was usually most free from mercenary feelings and anover-anxiety as to increased wealth, either for himself or for hischildren; "and I think it would be such a comfort to you. Herbert, you see, is so fond of county business, and so little anxious forwhat young men generally consider pleasure. "

There was nothing more said about it at that moment; for thequestion in some measure touched upon money matters andconsiderations as to property, from all of which Lady Fitzgerald atpresent wished to keep her husband's mind free. But towards the endof the drive he himself again referred to it. 

"She is a nice girl, isn't she?"

"Very nice, I think; as far as I've seen her. "

"She is pretty, certainly. "

"Very pretty; more than pretty; much more. She will be beautiful. "

"But she is such a mere child. You do not think that anything willcome of it immediately;--not quite immediately?"

"Oh no; certainly not quite immediately. I think Herbert is notcalculated to be very sudden in any such feelings, or in theexpression of them: but I do think such an event very probablebefore the winter is over. "

In the mean time Herbert spent the whole day over at Desmond Court, or at Clady. He found the countess delighted to see him, and bothshe and Lady Clara went on with him to Clady. It was past five andquite dark before he reached Castle Richmond, so that he barely gothome in time to dress for dinner. 

The dinner-party that evening was more pleasant than usual. SirThomas not only dined with them, but came into the drawing-roomafter dinner, and to a certain extent joined in their conversation. Lady Fitzgerald could see that this was done by a great effort; butit was not remarked by Aunt Letty and the others, who were delightedto have him with them, and to see him once more interested abouttheir interests. 

And now the building of the mill had been settled, and the finalorders were to be given by Herbert at the spot on the followingmorning. 

"We can go with you to Berryhill, I suppose, can't we?" said Mary. 

"I shall be in a great hurry, " said Herbert, who clearly did notwish to be encumbered by his sisters on this special expedition. 

"And why are you to be in such a hurry to-morrow?" asked Aunt Letty. 

"Well, I shall be hurried; I have promised to go to Clady again, andI must be back here early, and must get another horse. "

"Why, Herbert, you are becoming a Hercules of energy, " said hisfather, smiling: "you will have enough to do if you look to all thesoup kitchens on the Desmond property as well as our own. "

"I made a sort of promise about this particular affair at Clady, andI must carry it out, " said Herbert. 

"And you'll pay your devoirs to the fair Lady Clara on your way homeof course, " said Mary. 

"More than probable, " he replied. 

"And stay so late again that you'll hardly be here in time fordinner, " continued Mary: to which little sally her brothervouchsafed no answer. 

But Emmeline said nothing. Lady Clara was specially her friend, andshe was too anxious to secure such a sister-in-law to make any jokeupon such a subject. 

On that occasion nothing more was said about it; but Sir Thomashoped within his heart that his wife was right in prophesying thathis son would do nothing sudden in this matter. 

On the following morning young Fitzgerald gave the necessary ordersat Berryhill very quickly, and then coming back remounted anotherhorse without going into the house. Then he trotted off to Clady, passing the gate of Desmond Court without calling; did what he hadpromised to do at Clady, or rather that which he had made to standas an excuse for again visiting that part of the world so quickly;and after that, with a conscience let us hope quite clear, rode upthe avenue at Desmond Court. It was still early in the day when hegot there, probably not much after two o'clock; and yet Mary hadbeen quite correct in foretelling that he would only be home just intime for dinner. 

But, nevertheless, he had not seen Lady Desmond. Why or how it hadoccurred that she had been absent from the drawing-room the whole ofthe two hours which he had passed in the house, it may beunnecessary to explain. Such, however, had been the fact. The firstfive minutes had been passed in inquiries after the bruise, and, itmust be owned, in a surgical inspection of the still discolouredarm. "It must be very painful, " he had said, looking into her face, as though by doing so he could swear that he would so willingly bearall the pain himself, if it were only possible to make such anexchange. 

"Not very, " she had answered, smiling. "It is only a little stiff. Ican't quite move it easily. "

And then she lifted it up, and afterwards dropped it with a littlelook of pain that ran through his heart. 

The next five minutes were taken up in discussing the case of therecusant boiler, and then Clara discovered that she had better goand fetch her mother. But against the immediate taking of this stephe had alleged some valid reason, and so they had gone on, till thedark night admonished him that he could do no more than save thedinner hour at Castle Richmond. 

The room was nearly dark when he left her, and she got up and stoodat the front window, so that, unseen, she might see his figure as herode off from the house. He mounted his horse within the quadrangle, and coming out at the great old-fashioned ugly portal, galloped offacross the green park with a loose rein and a happy heart. What isit the song says?

"Oh, ladies, beware of a gay young knight Who loves and who ridesaway. "

There was at Clara's heart, as she stood there at the window, somefeeling of the expediency of being beware, some shadow of doubt asto the wisdom of what she had done. He rode away gaily, with a happyspirit, for he had won that on the winning of which he had beenintent. No necessity for caution presented itself to him. He hadseen and loved; had then asked, and had not asked in vain. 

She stood gazing after him, as long as her straining eye could catchany outline of his figure as it disappeared through the gloom of theevening. As long as she could see him, or even fancy that she stillsaw him, she thought only of his excellence; of his high character, his kind heart, his talents--which in her estimation were rankedperhaps above their real value--his tastes, which coincided so wellwith her own, his quiet yet manly bearing, his useful pursuits, hisgait, appearance, and demeanour. All these were of a nature to winthe heart of such a girl as Clara Desmond; and then, probably, insome indistinct way, she remembered the broad acres to which he wasthe heir, and comforted herself by reflecting that this at least wasa match which none would think disgraceful for a daughter even of anEarl of Desmond. 

But sadder thoughts did come when that figure had whollydisappeared. Her eye, looking out into the darkness, could not butsee another figure on which it had often in past times delightedalmost unconsciously to dwell. There, walking on that very road, another lover, another Fitzgerald, had sworn that he loved her; andhad truly sworn so, as she well knew. She had never doubted histruth to her, and did not doubt it now;--and yet she had givenherself away to another. 

And in many things he too, that other lover, had been noble andgracious, and fit for a woman to love. In person he exceeded allthat she had ever seen or dreamed of, and why should we think thatpersonal excellence is to count for nothing in female judgment, whenin that of men it ranks so immeasurably above all other excellences?His bearing, too, was chivalrous and bold, his language full ofpoetry, and his manner of loving eager, impetuous, and of a kin toworship. Then, too, he was now in misfortune, and when has thatfailed to soften even the softness of a woman's heart?

It was impossible that she should not make comparisons, comparisonsthat were so distasteful to her; impossible, also, that she shouldnot accuse herself of some falseness to that first lover. The timeto us, my friends, seems short enough since she was walking there, and listening with childish delight to Owen's protestations of love. It was but little more than one year since: but to her those monthshad been very long. And, reader, if thou hast arrived at any periodof life which enables thee to count thy past years by lustrums; ifthou art at a time of life, past thirty we will say, hast thou notfound that thy years, which are now short enough, were long in thosebygone days?

Those fourteen months were to her the space almost of a second life, as she now looked back upon them. When those earlier vows were made, what had she cared for prudence, for the world's esteem, or analliance that might be becoming to her? That Owen Fitzgerald was agentleman of high blood and ancient family, so much she had cared toknow; for the rest, she had only cared to feel this, that her heartbeat high with pleasure when he was with her. 

Did her heart beat as high now, when his cousin was beside her? No;she felt that it did not. And sometimes she felt, or feared to feel, that it might beat high again when she should again see the loverwhom her judgment had rejected. 

Her judgment had rejected him altogether long before an idea had atall presented itself to her that Herbert Fitzgerald could become hersuitor. Nor had this been done wholly in obedience to her mother'smandate. She had realized in her own mind the conviction that OwenFitzgerald was not a man with whom any girl could at present safelylink her fortune. She knew well that he was idle, dissipated, andextravagant; and she could not believe that these vices had arisenonly from his banishment from her, and that they would cease andvanish whenever that banishment might cease. 

Messages came to her, in underhand ways--ways well understood inIreland, and not always ignored in England--to the effect that allhis misdoings arose from his unhappiness; that he drank and gambledonly because the gates of Desmond Court were no longer open to him. There was that in Clara's heart which did for a while predispose herto believe somewhat of this, to hope that it might not be altogetherfalse. Could any girl loving such a man not have had some such hope?But then the stories of these revelries became worse and worse, andit was dinned into her ears that these doings had been running on inall their enormity before that day of his banishment. And so, silently and sadly, with no outspoken word either to mother orbrother, she had resolved to give him up. 

There was no necessity to her for any outspoken word. She hadpromised her mother to hold no intercourse with the man; and she hadkept and would keep her promise. Why say more about it? How shemight have reconciled her promise to her mother with an enduringengagement, had Owen Fitzgerald's conduct allowed her to regard herengagement as enduring, --that had been a sore trouble to her whilehope had remained; but now no hope remained, and that trouble wasover. 

And then Herbert Fitzgerald had come across her path, and thosesweet, loving, kind Fitzgerald girls, who were always ready to coverher with such sweet caresses, with whom she had known more of thehappiness of friendliness than ever she had felt before. They threwthemselves upon her like sisters, and she had never before enjoyedsisterly treatment. He had come across her path; and from the firstmoment she had become conscious of his admiration. 

She knew herself to be penniless, and dreaded that she should belooked upon as wishing to catch the rich heir. But every one hadconspired to throw them together. Lady Fitzgerald had welcomed herlike a mother, with more caressing soft tenderness than her ownmother usually vouchsafed to her; and even Sir Thomas had gone outof his usual way to be kind to her. 

That her mother would approve of such a marriage she could notdoubt. Lady Desmond in these latter days had not said much to herabout Owen; but she had said very much of the horrors of poverty. And she had been too subtle to praise the virtues of Herbert withopen plain words; but she had praised the comforts of a handsomeincome and well-established family mansion. Clara at these times hadunderstood more than had been intended, and had, therefore, putherself on her guard against her mother's worldly wisdom; but, nevertheless, the dropping of the water had in some little measurehollowed the stone beneath. 

And thus, thinking of these things, she stood at the window for somehalf-hour after the form of her accepted lover had become invisiblein the gathering gloom of the evening. 

And then her mother entered the room, and candles were brought. LadyDesmond was all smiles and benignity, as she had been for this lastweek past, while Herbert Fitzgerald had been coming and going almostdaily at Desmond Court. But Clara understood this benignity, anddisliked it. 

It was, however, now necessary that everything should be told. Herbert had declared that he should at once inform his father andmother, and obtain their permission for his marriage. He spoke of itas a matter on which there was no occasion for any doubt ormisgiving. He was an only son, he said, and trusted and loved ineverything. His father never opposed him on any subject whatever;and would, he was sure, consent to any match he might propose. "Butas to you, " he added, with a lover's flattering fervour, "they areall so fond of you, they all think so much of you, that my only fearis that I shall be jealous. They'll all make love to you, Aunt Lettyincluded. "

It was therefore essential that she should at once tell her mother, and ask her mother's leave. She had once before confessed a tale oflove, and had done so with palpitation of the heart, with tremblingof the limbs, and floods of tears. Then her tale had been receivedwith harsh sternness. Now she could tell her story without anytrembling, with no tears; but it was almost indifferent to herwhether her mother was harsh or tender. 

"What! has Mr. Fitzgerald gone?" said the countess, on entering theroom. 

"Yes, mamma; this half-hour, " said Clara, not as yet coming awayfrom the window. 

"I did not hear his horse, and imagined he was here still. I hope hehas not thought me terribly uncivil, but I could not well leave whatI was doing. "

To this little make-believe speech Clara did not think it necessaryto return any answer. She was thinking how she would begin to saythat for saying which there was so strong a necessity, and she couldnot take a part in small false badinage on a subject which was sonear her heart. 

"And what about that stupid mason at Clady?" asked the countess, still making believe. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald was there again to-day, mamma; and I think it willbe all right now; but he did not say much about it. "

"Why not? you were all so full of it yesterday. "

Clara, who had half turned round towards the light, now again turnedherself towards the window. This task must be done; but the doing ofit was so disagreeable! How was she to tell her mother that sheloved this man, seeing that so short a time since she had declaredthat she loved another?

"And what was he talking about, love?" said the countess, ever sograciously. "Or, perhaps, no questioning on the matter can beallowed. May I ask questions, or may I not? eh, Clara?" and then themother, walking up towards the window, put her fair white hands uponher daughter's two shoulders. 

"Of course you may inquire, " said Clara. 

"Then I do inquire--immediately. What has this preux chevalier beensaying to my Clara, that makes her stand thus solemn and silent, gazing out into the dark night?"

"Mamma!"

"Well, love?"

"Herbert Fitzgerald has--has asked me to be his wife. He hasproposed to me. "

The mother's arm now encircled the daughter lovingly, and themother's lips were pressed to the daughter's forehead. "HerbertFitzgerald has asked you to be his wife, has he? And what answer hasmy bonny bird deigned to make to so audacious a request?"

Lady Desmond had never before spoken to her daughter in tones sogracious, in a manner so flattering, so caressing, so affectionate. But Clara would not open her heart to her mother's tenderness. Shecould not look into her mother's face, and welcome her mother'sconsent with unutterable joy, as she would have done had thatconsent been given a year since to a less prudent proposition. Thatmarriage for which she was now to ask her mother's sanction would ofcourse be sanctioned. She had no favour to beg; nothing for which tobe grateful. With a slight motion, unconsciously, unwillingly, butnot the less positively, she repulsed her mother's caress as sheanswered her question. 

"I have accepted him, mamma; that is, of course, if you do notobject. "

"My own, own child!" said the countess, seizing her daughter in herarms, and pressing her to her bosom. And in truth Clara was, nowprobably for the first time, her own heart's daughter. Her son, though he was but a poor earl, was Earl of Desmond. He too, thoughin truth but a poor earl, was not absolutely destitute, --would intruth be blessed with a fair future. But Lady Clara had hithertobeen felt only as a weight. She had been born poor as povertyitself, and hitherto had shown so little disposition to find forherself a remedy for this crushing evil! But now--now matters wereindeed changed. She had obtained for herself the best match in thewhole country round, and, in doing so, had sacrificed her heart'syoung love. Was she not entitled to all a mother's tenderness? Whoknew, who could know the miseries of poverty so well as the Countessof Desmond? Who then could feel so much gratitude to a child forprudently escaping from them? Lady Desmond did feel grateful to herdaughter. 

"My own, own child; my happy girl, " she repeated. "He is a man towhom any mother in all the land would be proud to see her daughtermarried. Never, never did I see a young man so perfectly worthy of agirl's love. He is so thoroughly well educated, so thoroughly wellconducted, so good-looking, so warm-hearted, so advantageouslysituated in all his circumstances. Of course he will go intoParliament, and then any course is open to him. The property is, Ibelieve, wholly unembarrassed, and there are no younger brothers. You may say that the place is his own already, for old Sir Thomas isalmost nobody. I do wish you joy, my own dearest, dearest Clara!"After which burst of maternal eloquence, the countess pressed herlips to those of her child, and gave her a mother's warmest kiss. 

Clara was conscious that she was thoroughly dissatisfied with hermother, but she could not exactly say why it was so. She did returnher mother's kiss, but she did it coldly, and with lips that werenot eager. 

"I'm glad you think that I have done right, mamma. "

"Right, my love! Of course I think that you have done right: only Igive you no credit, dearest; none in the least; for how could youhelp loving one so lovable in every way as dear Herbert?"

"Credit! no, there is no credit, " she said, not choosing to shareher mother's pleasantry. 

"But there is this credit. Had you not been one of the sweetestgirls that ever was born, he would not have loved you. "

"He has loved me because there was no one else here, " said Clara. 

"Nonsense! No one else here, indeed! Has he not the power if hepleases to go and choose whomever he will in all London. Had he beenmercenary, and wanted money, " said the countess, in a tone whichshowed how thoroughly she despised any such vice, "he might have hadwhat he would. But then he could not have had my Clara. But he haslooked for beauty and manners and high-bred tastes, and anaffectionate heart; and, in my opinion, he could not have been moresuccessful in his search. " After which second burst of eloquence, she again kissed her daughter. 

'Twas thus, at that moment, that she congratulated the wife of thefuture Sir Herbert Fitzgerald; and then she allowed Clara to go upto her own room, there to meditate quietly on what she had done, andon that which she was about to do. But late in the evening, LadyDesmond, whose mind was thoroughly full of the subject, again brokeout into triumph. 

"You must write to Patrick to-morrow, Clara. He must hear the goodnews from no one but yourself. "

"Had we not better wait a little, mamma?"

"Why, my love? You hardly know how anxious your brother is for yourwelfare. "

"I knew it was right to tell you, mamma--"

"Right to tell me! of course it was. You could not have had theheart to keep it from me for half a day. "

"But perhaps it may be better not to mention it further till weknow--"

"Till we know what?" said the countess, with a look of fear abouther brow. 

"Whether Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald will wish it. If theyobject--"

"Object! why should they object? how can they object? They are notmercenary people; and you are an earl's daughter. And Herbert is notlike a girl. The property is his own, entailed on him, and he may doas he pleases. "

"In such a matter I am sure he would not wish to displease eitherhis father or his mother. "

"Nonsense, my dear; quite nonsense; you do not at all see thedifference between a young man and a girl. He has a right to doexactly as he likes in such a matter. But I am quite sure that theywill not object. Why should they? How can they?"

"Mr. Fitzgerald says that they will not, " Clara admitted, almostgrudgingly. 

"Of course they will not. I don't suppose they could bringthemselves to object to anything he might suggest. I never knew ayoung man so happily situated in this respect. He is quite a freeagent. I don't think they would say much to him if he insisted onmarrying the cook-maid. Indeed, it seems to me that his word isquite paramount at Castle Richmond. "

"All the same, mamma, I would rather not write to Patrick tillsomething more has been settled. "

"You are wrong there, Clara. If anything disagreeable should happen, which is quite impossible, it would be absolutely necessary thatyour brother should know. Believe me, my love, I only advise you foryour own good. "

"But Mr. Fitzgerald will probably be here to-morrow; or if notto-morrow, next day. "

"I have no doubt he will, love. But why do you call him Mr. Fitzgerald? You were calling him Herbert the other day. Don't youremember how I scolded you? I should not scold you now. "

Clara made no answer to this, and then the subject was allowed torest for that night. She would call him Herbert, she said toherself; but not to her mother. She would keep the use of that nametill she could talk with Emmeline as a sister. Of all heranticipated pleasures, that of having now a real sister was perhapsthe greatest; or, rather, that of being able to talk about Herbertwith one whom she could love and treat as a sister. But Herberthimself would exact the use of his own Christian name, for thedelight of his own ears; that was a matter of course; that, doubtless, had been already done. 

And then mother and daughter went to bed. The countess, as she didso, was certainly happy to her heart's core. Could it be that shehad some hope, unrecognized by herself, that Owen Fitzgerald mightnow once more be welcomed at Desmond Court? that something might nowbe done to rescue him from that slough of despond?

And Clara too was happy, though her happiness was mixed. She didlove Herbert Fitzgerald. She was sure of that. She said so toherself over and over again. Love him! of course she loved him, andwould cherish him as her lord and husband to the last day of herlife, the last gasp of her breath. 

But still, as sleep came upon her eyelids, she saw in her memory thebright flash of that other lover's countenance, when he firstastonished her with the avowal of his love, as he walked beside herunder the elms, with his horse following at his heels. 

CHAPTER XII

DOUBTS

I believe there is no period of life so happy as that in which athriving lover leaves his mistress after his first success. His joyis more perfect then than at the absolute moment of his own eagervow, and her half-assenting blushes. Then he is thinking mostly ofher, and is to a certain degree embarrassed by the effort necessaryfor success. But when the promise has once been given to him, and heis able to escape into the domain of his own heart, he is as aconqueror who has mastered half a continent by his own strategy. 

It never occurs to him, he hardly believes, that his success is nomore than that which is the ordinary lot of mortal man. He neverreflects that all the old married fogies whom he knows and despises, have just as much ground for pride, if such pride were enduring;that every fat, silent, dull, somnolent old lady whom he sees andquizzes, has at some period been deemed as worthy a prize as hispriceless galleon; and so deemed by as bold a captor as himself. 

Some one has said that every young mother, when her first child isborn, regards the babe as the most wonderful production of thatdescription which the world has yet seen. And this too is true. ButI doubt even whether that conviction is so strong as the convictionof the young successful lover, that he has achieved a triumph whichshould ennoble him down to late generations. As he goes along he hasa contempt for other men; for they know nothing of such glory ashis. As he pores over his "Blackstone, " he remembers that he doesso, not so much that he may acquire law, as that he may acquireFanny; and then all other porers over "Blackstone" are low and meanin his sight--are mercenary in their views and unfortunate in theirideas, for they have no Fanny in view. 

Herbert Fitzgerald had this proud feeling strong within his heart ashe galloped away across the greensward, and trotted fast along theroad, home to Castle Richmond. She was compounded of allexcellences--so he swore to himself over and over again--and beingso compounded, she had consented to bestow all these excellencesupon him. Being herself goddess-like, she had promised to take himas the object of her world's worship. So he trotted on fast andfaster, as though conscious of the half-continent which he had wonby his skill and valour. 

She had told him about his cousin Owen. Indeed, the greater numberof the soft musical words which she had spoken in that long threehours' colloquy had been spoken on this special point. It hadbehoved her to tell him all; and she thought that she had done so. Nay, she had done so with absolute truth--to the best of her heart'spower. 

"You were so young then, " he had argued; "so very young. "

"Yes, very young. I am not very old now, you know, " and she smiledsweetly on him. 

"No, no; but a year makes so much difference. You were all but achild then. You do not love him now, Clara?"

"No; I do not love him now, " she had answered. 

And then he exacted a second, a third, a fourth assurance, that shedid absolutely, actually, and with her whole heart love him, himHerbert, in lieu of that other him, poor Owen; and with this he, Herbert, was contented. Content; nay, but proud, elated withtriumph, and conscious of victory. In this spirit he rode home asfast as his horse could carry him. 

He too had to tell his tale to those to whom he owed obedience, andto beg that they would look upon his intended bride with eyes oflove and with parental affection. But in this respect he was hardlytroubled with more doubt than Clara had felt. How could any oneobject to his Clara?

There are young men who, from their positions in life, are obligedto abstain from early marriage, or to look for dowries with theirwives. But he, luckily, was not fettered in this way. He could marryas he pleased, so long as she whom he might choose brought with hergentle blood, a good heart, a sweet temper, and such attraction ofperson and manners as might make the establishment at CastleRichmond proud of his young bride. And of whom could thatestablishment be more proud than of Lady Clara Desmond? So he rodehome without any doubt to clog his happiness. 

But he had a source of joy which Clara wanted. She was almostindifferent to her mother's satisfaction; but Herbert looked forwardwith the liveliest, keenest anticipation to his mother's gratifiedcaresses and unqualified approval--to his father's kind smile andwarm assurance of consent. Clara had made herself known at CastleRichmond; and he had no doubt but that all this would be added tohis cup of happiness. There was therefore no alloy to debase hisvirgin gold as he trotted quickly into the stable-yard. 

But he resolved that he would say nothing about the matter thatnight. He could not well tell them all in full conclave together. Early after breakfast he would go to his father's room; and afterthat, he would find his mother. There would then be no doubt thatthe news would duly leak out among his sisters and Aunt Letty. 

"Again only just barely in time, Herbert, " said Mary, as theyclustered round the fire before dinner. 

"You can't say I ever keep you waiting; and I really think that'ssome praise for a man who has got a good many things on his hand. "

"So it is, Herbert, " said Emmeline. "But we have done something too. We have been over to Berryhill; and the people have already begunthere: they were at work with their pickaxes among the rocks by theriver-side. "

"So much the better. Was Mr. Somers there?"

"We did not see him: but he had been there, " said Aunt Letty. "ButMrs. Townsend found us. And who do you think came up to us in themost courteous, affable, condescending way?"

"Who? I don't know. Brady, the builder, I suppose. "

"No, indeed: Brady was not half so civil, for he kept himself to hisown work. It was the Rev. Mr. M'Carthy, if you please. "

"I only hope you were civil to him, " said Herbert, with some slightsuffusion of colour over his face; for he rather doubted the conductof his aunt to the priest, especially as her great Protestant ally, Mrs. Townsend, was of the party. 

"Civil! I don't know what you would have, unless you wanted me toembrace him. He shook hands with us all round. I really thought Mrs. Townsend would have looked him into the river when he came to her. "

"She always was the quintessence of absurdity and prejudice, " saidhe. 

"Oh, Herbert!" exclaimed Aunt Letty. 

"Well; and what of 'Oh, Herbert?' I say she is so. If you and Maryand Emmeline did not look him into the river when he shook handswith you, why should she do so? He is an ordained priest evenaccording to her own tenets, --only she knows nothing of what her owntenets are. "

"I'll tell you what they are. They are the substantial, true, andholy doctrines of the Protestant religion, founded on the gospel. Mrs. Townsend is a thoroughly Protestant woman; one who cannot abidethe sorceries of popery. "

"Hates them as a mad dog hates water; and with the same amount ofjudgment. We none of us wish to be drowned; but nevertheless thereare some good qualities in water. "

"But there are no good qualities in popery, " said Aunt Letty, withher most extreme energy. 

"Are there not?" said Herbert. "I should have thought that belief inChrist, belief in the Bible, belief in the doctrine of a Saviour'satonement, were good qualities. Even the Mahommedan's religion hassome qualities that are good. "

"I would sooner be a Mahommedan than a Papist, " said Aunt Letty, somewhat thoughtlessly, but very stoutly. 

"You would alter your opinion after the first week in a harem, " saidHerbert. And then there was a burst of laughter, in which Aunt Lettyherself joined. "I would sooner go there than go to confession, " shewhispered to Mary, as they all walked off to dinner. 

"And how is the Lady Clara's arm?" asked Mary, as soon as they wereagain once more round the fire. 

"The Lady Clara's arm is still very blue, " said Herbert. 

"And I suppose it took you half an hour to weep over it?" continuedhis sister. 

"Exactly, by Shrewsbury clock. "

"And while you were weeping over the arm, what happened to the hand?She did not surrender it, did she, in return for so much tendernesson your part?"

Emmeline thought that Mary was very pertinacious in her badinage, and was going to bid her hold her tongue; but she observed thatHerbert blushed, and walked away without further answer. He went tothe further end of the long room, and there threw himself on to asofa. "Could it be that it was all settled?" thought Emmeline toherself. 

She followed him to the sofa, and sitting beside him, took hold ofhis arm. "Oh, Herbert! if there is anything to tell, do tell me. "

"Anything to tell!" said he. "What do you mean?"

"Oh! you know. I do love her so dearly. I shall never be contentedto love any one else as your wife--not to love her really, reallywith all my heart. "

"What geese you girls are!--you are always thinking of love, andweddings, and orange-blossoms. "

"It is only for you I think about them, " said Emmeline. "I knowthere is something to tell. Dear Herbert, do tell me. "

"There is a young bachelor duke coming here to-morrow. He has amillion a-year, and three counties all his own; he has blue eyes, and is the handsomest man that ever was seen. Is that news enough?"

"Very well, Herbert. I would tell you anything. "

"Well; tell me anything. "

"I'll tell you this. I know you're in love with Clara Desmond, andI'm sure she's in love with you; and I believe you are both engaged, and you're not nice at all to have a secret from me. I never teaseyou, as Mary does, and it would make me so happy to know it. "

Upon this he put his arm round her waist and whispered one word intoher ear. She gave an exclamation of delight; and as the tears cameinto her eyes congratulated him with a kiss. "Oh dear, oh dear! I amso happy!" she exclaimed. 

"Hush--sh, " he whispered. "I knew how it would be if I told you. "

"But they will all know to-morrow, will they not?"

"Leave that to me. You have coaxed me out of my secret, and you arebound to keep it. And then he went away well pleased. Thisdescription of delight on his sister's part was the first instalmentof that joy which he had promised himself from the satisfaction ofhis family. "

Lady Fitzgerald had watched all that had passed, and had alreadylearned her mistake--her mistake in that she had prophesied that noimmediate proposal was likely to be made by her son. She now knewwell enough that he had made such a proposal, and that he had beenaccepted. 

And this greatly grieved her. She had felt certain from the fewslight words which Sir Thomas had spoken that there were validreasons why her son should not marry a penniless girl. Thatconversation, joined to other things, to the man's visit, and herhusband's deep dejection, had convinced her that all was not right. Some misfortune was impending over them, and there had been that inher own early history which filled her with dismay as she thought ofthis. 

She had ardently desired to caution her son in this respect, --toguard him, if possible, against future disappointment and futuresorrow. But she could not do so without obtaining in some sort herhusband's assent to her doing so. She resolved that she would talkit over with Sir Thomas. But the subject was one so full of pain, and he was so ill, and therefore she had put it off. 

And now she saw that the injury was done. 

Nevertheless, she said nothing either to Emmeline or to Herbert. Ifthe injury were done, what good could now result from talking? Shedoubtless would hear it all soon enough. So she sat still, watchingthem. 

On the following morning Sir Thomas did not come out to breakfast. Herbert went into his room quite early, as was always his custom;and as he left it for the breakfast-parlour he said, "Father, Ishould like to speak to you just now about something of importance. "

"Something of importance, Herbert; what is it? Anything wrong?" ForSir Thomas was nervous, and easily frightened. 

"Oh dear, no; nothing is wrong. It is nothing that will annoy you;at least, I think not. But it will keep till after breakfast. I willcome in again the moment breakfast is over. " And so saying he leftthe room with a light step. 

In the breakfast-parlour it seemed to him as though everybody wasconscious of some important fact. His mother's kiss was peculiarlysolemn and full of solicitude; Aunt Letty smirked as though she wasaware of something--something over and above the great Protestanttenets which usually supported her; and Mary had no joke to fling athim. 

"Emmeline, " he whispered, "you have told. "

"No, indeed, " she replied. But what mattered it? Everybody wouldknow now in a few minutes. So he ate his breakfast, and thenreturned to Sir Thomas. 

"Father, " said he, as soon as he had got into the armchair, in whichit was his custom to sit when talking with Sir Thomas, "I hope whatI am going to tell you will give you pleasure. I have proposed to ayoung lady, and she has--accepted me. "

"You have proposed, and have been accepted!"

"Yes, father. "

"And the young lady--?"

"Is Lady Clara Desmond. I hope you will say that you approve of it. She has no fortune, as we all know, but that will hardly matter tome; and I think you will allow that in every other respect she is--"

Perfect, Herbert would have said, had he dared to express his truemeaning. But he paused for a moment to look for a less triumphantword; and then paused again, and left his sentence incomplete, whenhe saw the expression of his father's face. 

"Oh, father! you do not mean to say that you do not like her?"

But it was not dislike that was expressed in his father's face, asHerbert felt the moment after he had spoken. There was pain there, and solicitude, and disappointment; a look of sorrow at the tidingsthus conveyed to him; but nothing that seemed to betoken dislike ofany person. 

"What is it, sir? Why do you not speak to me? Can it be that youdisapprove of my marrying?"

Sir Thomas certainly did disapprove of his son's marrying, but helacked the courage to say so. Much misery that had hitherto comeupon him, and that was about to come on all those whom he loved sowell, arose from this lack of courage. He did not dare to tell hisson that he advised him for the present to put aside all such hopes. It would have been terrible for him to do so; but he knew that innot doing so he was occasioning sorrow that would be more terrible. 

And yet he did not do it. Herbert saw clearly that the project wasdistasteful to his father, --that project which he had hoped to haveseen received with so much delight; but nothing was said to himwhich tended to make him alter his purpose. 

"Do you not like her?" he asked his father, almost piteously. 

"Yes, yes; I do like her, we all like her, very much indeed, Herbert. "

"Then why--"

"You are so young, my boy, and she is so very young, and--"

"And what?"

"Why, Herbert, it is not always practicable for the son even of aman of property to marry so early in life as this. She has nothing, you know. "

"So, " said the young man, proudly; "I never thought of looking formoney. "

"But in your position it is so essential if a young man wishes tomarry. "

Herbert had always regarded his father as the most liberal manbreathing, --as open-hearted and open-handed almost to a fault. Tohim, his only son, he had ever been so, refusing him nothing, andlatterly allowing him to do almost as he would with the managementof the estate. He could not understand that this liberality shouldbe turned to parsimony on such an occasion as that of his son'smarriage. 

"You think then, sir, that I ought not to marry Lady Clara?" saidHerbert very bitterly. 

"I like her excessively, " said Sir Thomas. "I think she is a sweetgirl, a very sweet girl, all that I or your mother could desire tosee in your wife; but--"

"But she is not rich. "

"Do not speak to me in that tone, my boy, " said Sir Thomas, with anexpression that would have moved his enemy to pity, let alone hisson. His son did pity him, and ceased to wear the angry expressionof face which had so wounded his father. 

"But, father, I do not understand you, " he said. "Is there any realobjection why I should not marry? I am more than twenty-two, andyou, I think, married earlier than that. "

In answer to this Sir Thomas only sighed meekly and piteously. 

"If you mean to say, " continued the son, "that it will beinconvenient to you to make me any allowance--"

"No, no, no; you are of course entitled to what you want, and aslong as I can give it, you shall have it. "

"As long as you can give it, father!"

"As long as it is in my power, I mean. What can I want of anythingbut for you--for you and them?"

After this Herbert sat silent for a while, leaning on his arm. Heknew that there existed some mischief, but he could not fathom it. Had he been prudent, he would have felt that there was someimpediment to his love; some evil which it behoved him to fathombefore he allowed his love to share it; but when was a loverprudent?

"We should live here, should we not, father? No second establishmentwould be necessary. "

"Of course you would live here, " said Sir Thomas, glad to be able tolook at the subject on any side that was not painful. "Of course youwould live here. For the matter of that, Herbert, the house shouldbe considered as your own if you so wished it. "

Against this the son put in his most violent protest. Nothing onearth should make him consider himself master of Castle Richmond aslong as his father lived. Nor would Clara, --his Clara, wish it. Heknew her well, he boasted. It would amply suffice to her to livethere with them all. Was not the house large enough? And, indeed, where else could he live, seeing that all his interests werenaturally centred upon the property?

And then Sir Thomas did give his consent. It would be wrong to saythat it was wrung from him. He gave it willingly enough, as far asthe present moment was concerned. When it was once settled, heassured his son that he would love Clara as his daughter. But, nevertheless--

The father knew that he had done wrong; and Herbert knew that healso, he himself, had done wrongly. He was aware that there wassomething which he did not understand. But he had promised to seeClara either that day or the next, and he could not bring himself tounsay all that he had said to her. He left his father's roomsorrowful at heart, and discontented. He had expected that histidings would have been received in so far other a manner; that hewould have been able to go from his father's study upstairs to hismother's room with so exulting a step; that his news, when once thematter was ratified by his father's approval, would have flown aboutthe house with so loud a note of triumph. And now it was sodifferent! His father had consented; but it was too plain that therewas no room for any triumph. 

"Well, Herbert!" said Emmeline, jumping up to meet him as hereturned to a small back drawing-room, through which he had gone tohis father's dressing-room. She had calculated that he would comethere, and that she might thus get the first word from him after theinterview was over. 

But there was a frown upon his brow, and displeasure in his eyes. There was none of that bright smile of gratified pride with whichshe had expected that her greeting would have been met. "Is thereanything wrong?" she said. "He does not disapprove, does he?"

"Never mind; and do leave me now. I never can make you understandthat one is not always in a humour for joking. " And so saying, heput her aside, and passed on. 

Joking! That was indeed hard upon poor Emmeline, seeing that herthoughts were so full of him, that her heart beat so warmly for hispromised bride. But she said nothing, shrinking back abashed, andvanishing out of the way. Could it be possible that her fathershould have refused to receive Lady Clara Desmond as hisdaughter-in-law?

He then betook himself to a private territory of his own, where hemight be sure that he would remain undisturbed for some half-hour orso. He would go to his mother, of course, but not quite immediately. He would think over the matter, endeavouring to ascertain what itwas that had made his father's manner and words so painful to him. 

But he could not get his thoughts to work rightly;--which getting ofthe thoughts to work rightly is, by-the-by, as I take it, thehardest work which a man is called upon to do. Not that the subjectto be thought about need in itself be difficult. Were one to saythat thoughts about hydrostatics and pneumatics are difficult to themultitude, or that mental efforts in regions of political economy orethical philosophy are beyond ordinary reach, one would onlypronounce an evident truism, an absurd platitude. But let any mantake any subject fully within his own mind's scope, and strive tothink about it steadily, with some attempt at calculation as toresults. The chances are his mind will fly off, will-he-nill-he, tosome utterly different matter. When he wishes to debate withinhimself that question of his wife's temper, he will find himselfconsidering whether he may not judiciously give away half a dozenpairs of those old boots; or when it behoves him to decide whetherit shall be manure and a green crop, or a fallow season and thengrass seeds, he cannot keep himself from inward inquiry as to themeaning of that peculiar smile on Mrs. Walker's face when he shookhands with her last night. 

Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday can, no doubt, command theirthoughts. If many men could do so, there would be many LordBroughams and many Professor Faradays. 

At the present moment Herbert Fitzgerald had no right to considerhimself as following in the steps of either one or other of thesegreat men. He wished to think about his father's circumstances, buthis mind would fly off to Clara Desmond and her perfections. Andthus, though he remained there for half an hour, with his back tothe fire and his hands in his pockets, his deliberations had donehim no good whatever, --had rather done him harm, seeing that he hadonly warmed himself into a firmer determination to go on with whathe was doing. And then he went to his mother. 

She kissed him, and spoke very tenderly, nay affectionately, aboutClara; but even she, even his mother, did not speak joyously; andshe also said something about the difficulty of providing amaintenance for a married son. Then to her he burst forth, and spokesomewhat loudly. 

"I cannot understand all this, mother. If either you or my fatherknow any reason why I should be treated differently from other sons, you ought to tell me; not leave me to grope about in the dark. "

"But, my boy, we both think that no son was ever entitled to moreconsideration, or to kinder or more liberal treatment. "

"Why do I hear all this, then, about the difficulty of my marrying?Or if I hear so much, why do I not hear more? I know pretty well, Ibelieve, what is my father's income. "

"If you do not, he would tell you for the asking. "

"And I know that I must be the heir to it, whatever it is, --not thatthat feeling would make any difference in my dealings with him, notthe least. And, under these circumstances, I cannot conceive why heand you should look coldly upon my marriage. "

"I look coldly on it, Herbert!"

"Do you not? Do you not tell me that there will be no income for me?If that is to be so; if that really is the case; if the property hasso dwindled away, or become embarrassed--"

"Oh, Herbert! there never was a man less likely to injure his son'sproperty than your father. "

"I do not mean that, mother. Let him do what he likes with it, Ishould not upbraid him, even in my thoughts. But if it beembarrassed; if it has dwindled away; if there be any reason why Ishould not regard myself as altogether untrammelled with regard tomoney, he ought to tell me. I cannot accuse myself of expensivetastes. "

"Dearest Herbert, nobody accuses you of anything. "

"But I do desire to marry; and now I have engaged myself, and willnot break from my engagement, unless it be shown to me that I ambound in honour to do so. Then, indeed--"

"Oh, Herbert! I do not know what you mean. "

"I mean this: that I expect that Clara shall be received as my wifewith open arms--"

"And so she shall be if she comes. "

"Or else that some reason should be given me why she should notcome. As to income, something must be done, I suppose. If the meansat our disposal are less than I have been taught to believe, I atany rate will not complain. But they cannot, I think, be so small asto afford any just reason why I should not marry. "

"Your father, you see, is ill, and one can hardly talk to him fullyupon such matters at present. "

"Then I will speak to Somers. He, at any rate, must know how theproperty is circumstanced, and I suppose he will not hesitate totell me. "

"I don't think Somers can tell you anything. "

"Then what is it? As for the London estate, mother, that is allmoonshine. What if it were gone altogether? It may be that it isthat which vexes my father; but if so, it is a monomania. "

"Oh, my boy, do not use such a word!"

"You know what I mean. If any doubt as to that is creating thisdespondency, it only shows that though we are bound to respect andrelieve my father's state of mind, we are not at all bound to shareit. What would it really matter, mother, if that place in Londonwere washed away by the Thames? There is more than enough left forus all, unless--"

"Ah, Herbert, that is it. "

"Then I will go to Somers, and he shall tell me. My father'sinterest in this property cannot have been involved without hisknowledge; and circumstanced as we and my father are, he is bound totell me. "

"If there be anything within his knowledge to tell, he will tellit. "

"And if there be nothing within his knowledge, then I can only lookupon all this as a disease on my poor father's part. I will do all Ican to comfort him in it; but it would be madness to destroy mywhole happiness because he labours under delusions. "

Lady Fitzgerald did not know what further to say. She half believedthat Sir Thomas did labour under some delusion; but then she halfbelieved also that he had upon his mind a sorrow, terribly real, which was in no sort delusive. Under such circumstances, how couldshe advise her son? Instead of advising him, she caressed him. 

"But I may claim this from you, mother, that if Somers tells menothing which ought to make me break my word to Clara, you willreceive her as your daughter. You will promise me that, will younot?"

Lady Fitzgerald did promise, warmly; assuring him that she alreadydearly loved Clara Desmond, that she would delight in having such adaughter-in-law, and that she would go to her to welcome her as suchas soon as ever he should bid her do so. With this Herbert wassomewhat comforted, and immediately started on his search after Mr. Somers. 

I do not think that any person is to be found, as a rule, attachedto English estates whose position is analogous to that of an Irishagent. And there is a wide misunderstanding in England as to theseIrish functionaries. I have attempted, some pages back, to describethe national delinquencies of a middleman, or profit-renter. InEngland we are apt to think that the agents on Irish properties areto be charged with similar shortcomings. This I can assert to be agreat mistake; and I believe that, as a class, the agents on Irishproperties do their duty in a manner beneficial to the people. 

That there are, or were, many agents who were also middlemen, orprofit-renters, and that in this second position they were anuisance to the country, is no doubt true. But they were no nuisancein their working capacity as agents. That there are some bad agentsthere can be no doubt, as there are also some bad shoemakers. 

The duties towards an estate which an agent performs in Ireland are, I believe, generally shared in England between three or fourdifferent persons. The family lawyer performs part, the estatesteward performs part, and the landlord himself performs part;--asto small estates, by far the greater part. 

In Ireland, let the estate be ever so small--eight hundred a-year, we will say--all the working of the property is managed by theagent. It is he who knows the tenants, and the limits of theirholdings; it is he who arranges leases, and allows--or much moregenerally does not allow--for improvements. He takes the rent, andgives the order for the ejection of tenants if he cannot get it. 

I am far from saying that it would not be well that much of thisshould be done by the landlord himself; that all of it should be sodone on a small property. But it is done by agents; and, as a rule, is, I think, done honestly. 

Mr. Somers was agent to the Castle Richmond property, and as he tookto himself as such five per cent, on all rents paid, and as he wasagent also to sundry other small properties in the neighbourhood, hesucceeded in making a very snug income. He had also an excellenthouse on the estate, and was altogether very much thought of; on thewhole, perhaps, more than was Sir Thomas. But in this respect it wasprobable that Herbert might soon take the lead. 

He was a large, heavy, consequential man, always very busy, asthough aware of being one of the most important wheels that kept theIrish clock agoing; but he was honest, kind-hearted in the main, true as steel to his employers, and good-humoured--as long as he wasallowed to have his own way. In these latter days he had been alittle soured by Herbert's interference, and had even gone so far asto say that, "in his humble judgment, Mr. Fitzgerald was wrong indoing"--so and so. But he generally called him Herbert, was alwayskind to him, and in his heart of hearts loved him dearly. But thatwas a matter of course, for had he not been agent to the estatebefore Herbert was born?

Immediately after his interview with his mother, Mr. Herbert rodeover to Mr. Somers's house, and there found him sitting alone in hisoffice. He dashed immediately into the subject that had brought himthere. "I have come, Mr. Somers, " said he, "to ask you a questionabout the property. "

"About the Castle Richmond property?" said Mr. Somers, rathersurprised by his visitor's manner. 

"Yes; you know in what a state my poor father now is. "

"I know that Sir Thomas is not very well. I am sorry to say that itis long since he has been quite himself. "

"There is something that is preying upon his spirits. "

"I am afraid so, Herbert. "

"Then tell me fairly, Mr. Somers, do you know what it is?"

"Not--in--the least. I have no conception whatever, and never havehad any. I know no cause for trouble that should disquiet him. "

"There is nothing wrong about the property?"

"Not to my knowledge. "

"Who has the title-deeds?"

"They are at Coutts's. "

"You are sure of that?"

"Well; as sure as a man can be of a thing that he does not see. Ihave never seen them there; indeed, have never seen them at all; butI feel no doubt in my own mind as to their being at the bankers. "

"Is there much due on the estate?"

"Very little. No estate in county Cork has less on it. Miss Lettyhas her income, and when Poulnasherry was bought, --that townlandlying just under Berryhill, where the gorse cover is, part of thepurchase money was left on mortgage. That is still due; but theinterest is less than a hundred a-year. "

"And that is all?"

"All that I know of. "

"Could there be encumbrances without your knowing it?"

"I think not. I think it is impossible. Of all men your father isthe last to encumber his estates in a manner unknown to his agent, and to pay off the interest in secret. "

"What is it, then, Mr. Somers?"

"I do not know. " And then Mr. Somers paused. "Of course you haveheard of a visit he received the other day from a stranger?"

"Yes; I heard of it. "

"People about here are talking of it. And he--that man, with ayounger man--they are still living in Cork, at a littledrinking-house in South Main Street. The younger man has been seendown here twice. "

"But what can that mean?"

"I do not know. I tell you everything that I do know. "

Herbert exacted a promise from him that he would continue to tellhim everything which he might learn, and then rode back to CastleRichmond. 

"The whole thing must be a delusion, " he said to himself; andresolved that there was no valid reason why he should make Claraunhappy by any reference to the circumstance. 

CHAPTER XIII

MR. MOLLETT RETURNS TO SOUTH MAIN STREET

I must now take my readers back to that very unsavoury public-housein South Main Street, Cork, in which, for the present, lived Mr. Matthew Mollett and his son Abraham. 

I need hardly explain to a discerning public that Mr. MatthewMollett was the gentleman who made that momentous call at CastleRichmond, and flurried all that household. 

"Drat it!" said Mrs. Jones to herself on that day, as soon as shehad regained the solitude of her own private apartment, after havingtaken a long look at Mr. Mollett in the hall. On that occasion shesat down on a low chair in the middle of the room, put her two handsdown substantially on her two knees, gave a long sigh, and then madethe above exclamation, --"Drat it!"

Mrs. Jones was still thoroughly a Saxon, although she had lived forso many years among the Celts. But it was only when she was quitealone that she allowed herself the indulgence of so peculiarly Saxona mode of expressing either her surprise or indignation. 

"It's the same man, " she said to herself, "as come that day, as sureas eggs;" and then for five minutes she maintained her position, cogitating. "And he's like the other fellow too, " she continued. "Only, somehow he's not like him. " And then another pause. "And yethe is; only it can't be; and he ain't just so tall, and he's olderlike. " And then, still meditating, Mrs. Jones kept her position forfull ten minutes longer; at the end of which time she got up andshook herself. She deserved to be bracketed with Lord Brougham andProfessor Faraday, for she had kept her mind intent on her subject, and had come to a resolution. "I won't say nothing to nobody, noways, " was the expression of her mind's purpose. "Only I'll tellmissus as how he was the man as come to Wales. " And she did tell somuch to her mistress--as we have before learned. 

Mr. Mollett had gone down from Cork to Castle Richmond in oneof those delightful Irish vehicles called a covered car. Aninside-covered car is an equipage much given to shaking, seeing thatit has a heavy top like a London cab, and that it runs on a pair ofwheels. It is entered from behind, and slopes backwards. The sittersits sideways, between a cracked window on one side and a crackeddoorway on the other; and as a draught is always going in at the earnext the window, and out at the ear next the door, it is about ascold and comfortless a vehicle for winter as may be well imagined. Now the journey from Castle Richmond to Cork has to be made rightacross the Boggeragh Mountains. It is over twenty miles Irish; andthe road is never very good. Mr. Mollett, therefore, was five hoursin the covered car on his return journey; and as he had stopped forlunch at Kanturk, and had not hurried himself at that meal, it wasvery dark and very cold when he reached the house in South MainStreet. 

I think I have explained that Mr. Mollett senior was not absolutelya drunkard; but nevertheless, he was not averse to spirits in coldweather, and on this journey had warmed himself with whiskey once ortwice on the road. He had found a shebeen house when he crossed theNad river, and another on the mountaintop, and a third at the pointwhere the road passes near the village of Blarney, and at all theseconvenient resting-spots Mr. Mollett had endeavoured to warmhimself. 

There are men who do not become absolutely drunk, but who do becomeabsolutely cross when they drink more than is good for them; and ofsuch men Mr. Mollett was one. What with the cold air, and what withthe whisky, and what with the jolting, Mr. Mollett was very crosswhen he reached the Kanturk Hotel so that he only cursed the driverinstead of giving him the expected gratuity. 

"I'll come to yer honour in the morning, " said the driver. 

"You may go to the devil in the morning, " answered Mr. Mollett; andthis was the first intimation of his return which reached the earsof his expectant son. 

"There's the governor, " said Aby, who was then flirting with MissO'Dwyer in the bar. "Somebody's been stroking him the wrong way ofthe 'air. "

The charms of Miss O'Dwyer in these idle days had been too much forthe prudence of Mr. Abraham Mollett; by far too much, consideringthat in his sterner moments his ambition led him to contemplate amatch, with a young lady of much higher rank in life. But wine, which "inspires us" and fires us

 "With courage, love, and joy, "

had inspired him with courage to forget his prudence, and withlove for the lovely Fanny. 

"Now, nonsense, Mr. Aby, " she had said to him a few minutes beforethe wheels of the covered car were heard in South Main Street. "Youknow you main nothing of the sort. "

"By 'eavens, Fanny, I mean every word of it; may this drop be mypoison if I don't. This piece of business here keeps me and thegovernor hon and hoff like, and will do for some weeks perhaps; butwhen that's done, honly say the word, and I'll make you Mrs. M. Isn't that fair, now?"

"But, Mr. Aby--"

"Never mind the mister, Fan, between friends. "

"La! I couldn't call you Aby without it; could I?"

"Try, my darling. "

"Well--Aby--there now. It does sound so uppish, don't it? But tellme this now; what is the business that you and the old gentleman isabout down at Kanturk?"

Abraham Mollett hereupon had put one finger to his nose, and thenwinked his eye. 

"If you care about me, as you say you do, you wouldn't be shy ofjust telling me as much as that. "

"That's business, Fan; and business and love don't hamalgamate likewhisky and sugar. "

"Then I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Aby; I don't want to haveanything to do with a man who won't show his rispect by telling mehis sacrets. "

"That's it, is it, Fan?"

"I suppose you think I can't keep a sacret. You think I'd be tellingfather, I suppose. "

"Well, it's about some money that's due to him down there. "

"Who from?"

"He expects to get it from some of those Fitzgerald people. "

In saying so much Mr. Mollett the younger had not utterly abandonedall prudence. He knew very well that the car-driver and others wouldbe aware that his father had been to Castle Richmond; and that itwas more than probable that either he or his father would have tomake further visits there. Indeed, he had almost determined that hewould go down to the baronet himself. Under these circumstances itmight be well that some pretext for these visits should be given. 

"Which Fitzgerald, Mr. Aby? Is it the Hap House young man?"

"Hap House. I never heard of such a place. These people live atCastle Richmond. "

"Oh--h--h! If Mr. Mollett have money due there, sure he have a goodmark to go upon. Why, Sir Thomas is about the richest man in theseparts. "

"And who is this other man; at 'Appy--what is it you call hisplace?"

"Hap House. Oh, it's he is the thorough-going young gentleman. Onlythey say he's a leetle too fast. To my mind, Mr. Owen is thefinest-looking man to be seen anywheres in the county Cork. "

"He's a flame of yours, is he, Fan?"

"I don't know what you main by a flame. But there's not a girl inCork but what likes the glance of his eye. They do say that he'dhave Lady Clara Desmond; only there ain't no money. "

"And what's he to these other people?"

"Cousin, I believe; or hardly so much as that, I'm thinking. But allthe same if anything was to happen to young Mr. Herbert, it wouldall go to him. "

"It would, would it?"

"So people say. "

"Mr. 'Erbert is the son of the old cock at Castle Richmond, isn'the?"

"Just so. He's the young cock; he, he, he!"

"And if he was to be--nowhere like; not his father's son at all, forinstance, it would all go to this 'andsome 'Appy 'Ouse man; wouldit?"

"Every shilling, they say; house, title, and all. "

"Hum, " said Mr. Abraham Mollett; and he began again to calculate hisfamily chances. Perhaps, after all, this handsome young man who wasat present too poor to marry his noble lady love might be the moreliberal man to deal with. But then any dealings with him would killthe golden goose at once. All would depend on the size of the oneegg which might be extracted. 

He certainly felt, however, that this Fitzgerald family arrangementwas one which it was beneficial that he should know; but he feltalso that it would be by no means necessary at present tocommunicate the information to his father. He put it by in his mind, regarding it as a fund on which he might draw if occasion shouldrequire. It might perhaps be pleasant for him to make theacquaintance of this 'andsome young Fitzgerald of 'Appy 'Ouse. 

"And now, Fan, my darling, give us a kiss, " said he, getting up fromhis seat. 

"'Deed and I won't, " said Fan, withdrawing herself among the bottlesand glasses. 

"'Deed and you shall, my love, " said Aby, pertinaciously, as heprepared to follow her through the brittle ware. 

"Hu--sh--be aisy now. There's Tom. He's ears for everything, andeyes like a cat. "

"What do I care for Tom?"

"And father'll be coming in. Be aisy, I tell you. I won't now, Mr. Aby; and that's enough. You'll break the bottle. "

"D---the bottle. That's smashed hany way. Come, Fan, what's a kissamong friends?"

"Cock you up with kisses, indeed! how bad you are for dainties!There; do you hear that? That's the old gentleman;" and then, as thevoice of Mr. Mollett senior was heard abusing the car-driver, MissO'Dwyer smoothed her apron, put her hands to her side hair, andremoved the debris of the broken bottle. 

"Well, governor, " said Aby, "how goes it?"

"How goes it, indeed! It goes pretty well, I dare say, in here, where you can sit drinking toddy all the evening, and doingnothing. "

"Why, what on hearth would you have me be doing? Better here thanpaddling about in the streets, isn't it?"

"If you could do a stroke of work now and then to earn your bread, it might be better. " Now Aby knew from experience that whenever hisfather talked to him about earning his bread, he was half drunk andwhole cross. So he made no immediate reply on that point. 

"You are cold, I suppose, governor, and had better get a bit ofsomething to eat, and a little tea. "

"And put my feet in hot water, and tallow my nose, and go to bed, hadn't I? Miss O'Dwyer, I'll trouble you to mix me a glass ofbrandy-punch. Of all the roads I ever travelled, that's the longestand hardest to get over. Dashed, if I didn't begin to think I'dnever be here. " And so saying he flung himself into a chair, and putup his feet on the two hobs. 

There was a kettle on one of them, which the young lady pushed alittle nearer to the hot coals, in order to show that the watershould be boiling; and as she did so Aby gave her a wink over hisfather's shoulder, by way of conveying to her an intimation that"the governor was a little cut, " or in other language tipsy, andthat the brandy-punch should be brewed with a discreet view to pastevents of the same description. All which Miss O'Dwyer perfectlyunderstood. 

It may easily be conceived that Aby was especially anxious toreceive tidings of what had been done this day down in the Kanturkneighbourhood. He had given his views to his father, as will beremembered; and though Mr. Mollett senior had not professed himselfas absolutely agreeing with them, he had nevertheless owned that hewas imbued with the necessity of taking some great step. He had gonedown to take this great step, and Aby was very anxious to know howit had been taken. 

When the father and son were both sober, or when the son was tipsy, or when the father was absolutely drunk--an accident which wouldoccur occasionally, the spirit and pluck of the son was in theascendant. He at such times was the more masterful of the two, andgenerally contrived, either by persuasion or bullying, to govern hisgovernor. But when it did happen that Mollett pere was half drunkand cross with drink, then, at such moments, Mollett fils had toacknowledge to himself that his governor was not to be governed. 

And, indeed, at such moments his governor could be verydisagreeable--could say nasty, bitter things, showing very littleparental affection, and make himself altogether bad society, notonly to his son, but to his son's companions also. Now it appearedto Aby that his father was at present in this condition. 

He had only to egg him on to further drinking, and the respectablegentleman would become stupid, noisy, soft, and affectionate. Butthen, when in that state, he would blab terribly. It was much withthe view of keeping him from that state, that under the presentcircumstances the son remained with the father. To do the fatherjustice, it may be asserted that he knew his own weakness, and that, knowing it, he had abstained from heavy drinking since he had takenin hand this great piece of diplomacy. 

"But you must be hungry, governor; won't you take a bit ofsomething?"

"Shall we get you a steek, Mr. Mollett?" asked Miss O'Dwyer, hospitably, "or just a bit of bacon with a couple of eggs or so? Itwouldn't be a minute, you know?"

"Your eggs are all addled and bad, " said Mr. Mollett; "and as for abeef-steak, it's my belief there isn't such a thing in all Ireland. "After which civil speech, Miss O'Dwyer winked at Aby, as much as tosay, "You see what a state he's in. "

"Have a bit of buttered toast and a cup of tea, governor, " suggestedthe son. 

"I'm d---if I do, " replied the father. "You're become uncommon fondof tea of late--that is, for other people. I don't see you takemuch of it yourself. "

"A cup of tay is the thing to warm one afther such a journey asyou've had; that's certain, Mr. Mollett, " said Fanny. 

"Them's your ideas about warming, are they, my dear?" said theelderly gentleman. "Do you come and sit down on my knee here for afew minutes or so, and that'd warm me better than all the 'tay' inthe world. "

Aby showed by his face that he was immeasurably disgusted by theiniquitous coarseness of this overture. Miss O'Dwyer, however, looking at the gentleman's age, and his state as regarded liquor, passed it over as of no moment whatsoever. So that when, in thelater part of the evening, Aby expressed to that young lady his deepdisgust, she merely said, "Oh, bother; what matters an old man likethat?"

And then, when they were at this pass, Mr. Dwyer came in. He did notinterfere much with his daughter in the bar room, but he wouldoccasionally take a dandy of punch there, and ask how things weregoing on indoors. He was a fat, thickset man, with a good-humouredface, a flattened nose, and a great aptitude for stable occupations. He was part owner of the Kanturk car, as has been before said, andwas the proprietor of sundry other cars, open cars and covered cars, plying for hire in the streets of Cork. 

"I hope the mare took your honour well down Kanturk and back again, "said he, addressing his elder customer with a chuck of his headintended for a bow. 

"I don't know what you call well, " said Mr. Mollett "She hadn't aleg to stand upon for the last three hours. "

"Not a leg to stand upon! Faix, then, and it's she'd have the fourgood legs if she travelled every inch of the way from Donagh-a-Deeto Ti-vora, " to which distance Mr. O'Dwyer specially referred asbeing supposed to be the longest known in Ireland. 

"She may be able to do that; but I'm blessed if she's fit to go toKanturk and back. "

"She's done the work, anyhow, " said Mr. O'Dwyer, who evidentlythought that this last argument was conclusive. 

"And a precious time she's been about it. Why, my goodness, it wouldhave been better for me to have walked it. As Sir Thomas said tome--"

"What! did you see Sir Thomas Fitzgerald?"

Hereupon Aby gave his father a nudge; but the father either did notappreciate the nudge, or did not choose to obey it. 

"Yes; I did see him. Why shouldn't I?"

"Only they do say he's hard to get to speak to now-a-days. He's notover well, you know, these years back. "

"Well or ill he'll see me, I take it, when I go that distance to askhim. There's no doubt about that; is there, Aby?"

"Can't say, I'm sure, not knowing the gentleman, " said Aby. 

"We holds land from Sir Thomas, we do; that is, me and my brotherMick, and a better landlord ain't nowhere, " said Mr. O'Dwyer. 

"Oh, you're one of the tenants, are you? The rents are paid prettywell, ain't they?"

"To the day, " said Mr. O'Dwyer, proudly. 

"What would you think, now--" Mr. Mollett was continuing; but Abyinterrupted him somewhat violently. 

"Hold your confounded stupid tongue, will you, you old jolterhead;"and on this occasion he put his hand on his father's shoulder andshook him. 

"Who are you calling jolterhead? Who do you dare to speak to in thatway? you impudent young cub you. Am I to ask your leave when I wantto open my mouth?"

Aby had well known that his father in his present mood would notstand the manner in which the interruption was attempted. Nor did hewish to quarrel before the publican and his daughter. But anythingwas better than allowing his father to continue in the strain inwhich he was talking. 

"You are talking of things which you don't hunderstand, and aboutpeople you don't know, " said Aby. "You've had a drop too much on theroad too, and you 'ad better go to bed. "

Old Mollett turned round to strike at his son; but even in hispresent state he was somewhat quelled by Aby's eye. Aby was keenlyalive to the necessity for prudence on his father's part, though hewas by no means able to be prudent himself. 

"Talking of things which I don't understand, am I?" said the oldman. "That's all you know about it. Give me another glass of thatbrandy toddy, my dear. "

But Aby's look had quelled, or at any rate silenced him; and thoughhe did advance another stage in tipsiness before they succeeded ingetting him off to bed, he said no more about Sir Thomas Fitzgeraldor his Castle Richmond secrets. 

Nevertheless, he had said enough to cause suspicion. One would nothave imagined, on looking at Mr. O'Dwyer, that he was a very craftyperson, or one of whose finesse in affairs of the world it would benecessary to stand much in awe. He seemed to be thick, and stolid, and incapable of deep inquiry; but, nevertheless, he was as fond ofhis neighbour's affairs as another, and knew as much about theaffairs of his neighbours at Kanturk as any man in the county Cork. 

He himself was a Kanturk man, and his wife had been a Kanturk woman;no less a person, indeed, than the sister of Father BernardM'Carthy, rest her soul;--for it was now at peace, let us all hope. She had been dead these ten years; but he did not the less keep uphis connection with the old town, or with his brother-in-law thepriest, or with the affairs of the persons there adjacent;especially, we may say, those of his landlord, Sir ThomasFitzgerald, under whom he still held a small farm, in conjunctionwith his brother Mick, the publican at Kanturk. 

"What's all that about Sir Thomas?" said he to his daughter in a lowvoice as soon as the Molletts had left the bar. 

"Well, I don't just know, " said Fanny. She was a good daughter, andloved her father, whose indoor affairs she kept tight enough forhim. But she had hardly made up her mind as yet whether or no itwould suit her to be Mrs. Abraham Mollett. Should such be herdestiny, it might be as well for her not to talk about her husband'smatters. 

"Is it true that the old man did see Sir Thomas to-day?"

"You heard what passed, father; but I suppose it is true. "

"And the young 'un has been down to Kanturk two or three times. Whatcan the like of them have to do with Sir Thomas?"

To this Fanny could only say that she knew nothing about it, whichin the main was true. Aby, indeed, had said that his father had gonedown to collect money that was due to him; but then Fanny did notbelieve all that Aby said. 

"I don't like that young 'un at all, " continued Mr. O'Dwyer. "He's anasty, sneaking fellow, as cares for no one but his own belly. I'mnot over fond of the old 'un neither. "

"They is both free enough with their money, father, " said theprudent daughter. 

"Oh, they is welcome in the way of business, in course. But lookhere, Fan; don't you have nothing to say to that Aby; do you hearme?"

"Who? I? ha, ha, ha!"

"It's all very well laughing; but mind what I says, for I won't haveit. He is a nasty, sneaking, good-for-nothing fellow, besides beinga heretic. What'd your uncle Bernard say?"

"Oh! for the matter of that, if I took a liking to a fellow Ishouldn't ask Uncle Bernard what he had to say. If he didn't likeit, I suppose he might do the other thing. "

"Well, I won't have it. Do you hear that?"

"Laws, father, what nonsense you do talk. Who's thinking about theman? He comes here for what he wants to ate and dhrink, and Isuppose the house is free to him as another. If not we'd bettherjust shut up the front door. " After which she tossed herself up andbegan to wipe her glasses in a rather dignified manner. 

Mr. O'Dwyer sat smoking his pipe and chewing the cud of hisreflections. "They ain't afther no good, I'm sure of that. " Insaying which, however, he referred to the doings of the Mollettsdown at Kanturk, rather than to any amatory proceedings which mighthave taken place between the young man and his daughter. 

On the following morning Mr. Mollett senior awoke with a rackingheadache. My belief is, that when men pay this penalty for drinking, they are partly absolved from other penalties. The penalties ondrink are various. I mean those which affect the body, exclusive ofthose which affect the mind. There are great red swollen noses, verydisagreeable both to the wearer and his acquaintances; there aremorning headaches, awful to be thought of; there are sick stomachs, by which means the offender escapes through a speedy purgatory;there are sallow cheeks, sunken eyes, and shaking shoulders; thereare very big bellies, and no bellies at all; and there is deliriumtremens. For the most part a man escapes with one of thesepenalties. If he have a racking headache, his general health doesnot usually suffer so much as though he had endured no suchimmediate vengeance from violated nature. Young Aby when he drankhad no headaches; but his eye was bloodshot, his cheek bloated, andhis hand shook. His father, on the other hand, could not raise hishead after a debauch; but when that was gone, all ill results of hisimprudence seemed to have vanished. 

At about noon on that day Aby was sitting by his father's bedside. Up to that time it had been quite impossible to induce him to speaka word. He could only groan, swallow soda-water with "hairs of thedog that bit him" in it and lay with his head between his arms. Butsoon after noon Aby did induce him to say a word or two. The door ofthe room was closely shut, the little table was strewed withsoda-water bottles and last drops of small goes of brandy. Abyhimself had a cigar in his mouth, and on the floor near the bed-footwas a plate with a cold, greasy mutton chop, Aby having endeavouredin vain to induce his father to fortify exhausted nature by eating. The appearance of the room and the air within it would not have beenpleasant to fastidious people. But then the Molletts were notfastidious. 

"You did see Sir Thomas, then?"

"Yes, I did see him. I wish, Aby, you'd let me lie just for anotherhour or so. I'd be all right then. The jolting of that confoundedcar has nearly shaken my head to pieces. "

But Aby was by no means inclined to be so merciful. The probabilitywas that he would be able to pump his father more thoroughly in hispresent weak state than he might do in a later part of theafternoon; so he persevered. 

"But, governor, it's so important we should know what we're about. Did you see any one else except himself?"

"I saw them all, I believe, except her. I was told she never showedin the morning; but I'm blessed if I don't think I saw the skirt ofher dress through an open door. I'll tell you what, Aby, I could notstand that. "

"Perhaps, father, after hall it'll be better I should manage thebusiness down there. "

"I believe there won't be much more to manage. But, Aby, do leave menow, there's a good fellow; then in another hour or so I'll get up, and we'll have it all out. "

"When you're out in the open air and comfortable, it won't be fairto be bothering you with business. Come, governor, ten minutes willtell the whole of it if you'll only mind your eye. How did you beginwith Sir Thomas?" And then Aby went to the door, opened it verygently, and satisfied himself that there was nobody listening on thelanding-place. 

Mr. Mollett sighed wearily, but he knew that his only hope was toget this job of talking over. "What was it you were saying, Aby?"

"How did you begin with Sir Thomas?"

"How did I begin with him? Let me see. Oh! I just told him who Iwas; and then he turned away and looked down under the fire like, and I thought he was going to make a faint of it. "

"I didn't suppose he would be very glad to see you, governor. "

"When I saw how badly he took it, and how wretched he seemed, Ialmost made up my mind to go away and never trouble him any more. "

"You did, did you?"

"And just to take what he'd choose to give me. "

"Oh, them's your hideas, hare they? Then I tell you what; I shalljust take the matter into my own hands hentirely. You have no more'eart than a chicken. "

"Ah, that's very well, Aby; but you did not see him. "

"Do you think that would make hany difference? When a man's a job ofwork to do, 'e should do it. Them's my notions. Do you think a manlike that is to go and hact in that way, and then not pay for it?Whose wife is she, I'd like to know?"

There was a tone of injured justice about Aby which almost rousedthe father to participate in the son's indignation. "Well; I did mybest, though the old gentleman was in such a taking, " said he. 

"And what was your best? Come, out with it at once. "

"I--m-m. I--just told him who I was, you know. "

"I guess he understood that quite well. "

"And then I said things weren't going exactly well with me. "

"You shouldn't have said that at all. What matters that to him? Whatyou hask for you hask for because you're able to demand it. That'sthe ground for hus to take, and by---I'll take it too. There shallbe no 'alf-measures with me. "

"And then I told him--just what we were agreed, you know. "

"That we'd go snacks in the whole concern?"

"I didn't exactly say that. "

"Then what the devil did you say?"

"Why, I told him that, looking at what the property was, twelvehundred pounds wasn't much. "

"I should think not either. "

"And that if his son was to be allowed to have it all--"

"A bastard, you know, keeping it away from the proper heir. " It mayalmost be doubted whether, in so speaking, Aby did not almost thinkthat he himself had a legitimate right to inherit the property atCastle Richmond. 

"He must look to pay up handsome. "

"But did you say what 'andsome meant?"

"Well, I didn't--not then. He fell about upon the table like, and Iwasn't quite sure he wouldn't make a die of it; and then heavenknows what might have happened to me. "

"Psha; you 'as no pluck, governor. "

"I'll tell you what it is, Aby, I ain't so sure you'd have such anuncommon deal of pluck yourself. "

"Well, I'll try, at any rate. "

"It isn't such a pleasant thing to see an old gentleman in thatstate. And what would happen if he chose to ring the bell and orderthe police to take me? Have you ever thought of that?"

"Gammon. "

"But it isn't gammon. A word from him would put me into quod, andthere I should be for the rest of my days. But what would you carefor that?" And poor Mr. Mollett senior shook under the bedclothes ashis attention became turned to this very dreary aspect of hisaffairs. "Pluck, indeed! I'll tell you what it is, Aby, I oftenwonder at my own pluck. "

"Psha! Would'nt a word from you split upon him, and upon her, andupon the young 'un, and ruin 'em? Or a word from me either, for thematter of that?"

Mr. Mollett senior shook again. He repented now, as he had alreadydone twenty times, that he had taken that son of his into hisconfidence. 

"And what on hearth did you say to him?" continued Aby. 

"Well, not much more then; at least, not very much more. There was agood deal of words, but they didn't seem to lead to much, exceptthis, just to make him understand that he must come down handsome. "

"And there was nothing done about Hemmiline?"

"No, " said the father, rather shortly. 

"If that was settled, that would be the clincher. There would be nofurther trouble to nobody then. It would be all smooth sailing foryour life, governor, and lots of tin. "

"I tell you what it is, Aby, you may just drop that, for I won'thave the young lady bothered about it, nor yet the young lady'sfather. "

"You won't, won't you?"

"No, I won't; so there's an end of it. "

"I suppose I may pay my distresses to any young lady if I thinkfitting. "

"And have yourself kicked into the ditch. "

"I know too much for kicking, governor. "

"They shall know as much as you do, and more too, if you go on withthat. There's a measure in all things. I won't have it done, so Itell you. " And the father turned his face round to the wall. 

This was by no means the end of the conversation, though we need notverbatim go through any more of it. It appeared that old Mollett hadtold Sir Thomas that his permanent silence could be purchased bynothing short of a settled "genteel" income for himself and his son, no absolute sum having been mentioned; and that Sir Thomas hadrequired a fortnight for his answer, which answer was to be conveyedto Mr. Mollett verbally at the end of that time. It was agreed thatMr. Mollett should repeat his visit to Castle Richmond on that dayfortnight. 

"In the mean time I'll go down and freshen the old gentleman up abit, " said Aby, as he left his father's bedroom. 

CHAPTER XIV

THE REJECTED SUITOR

After the interview between Herbert and his mother, it became anunderstood thing at Castle Richmond that he was engaged to LadyClara. Sir Thomas raised no further objection, although it was clearto all the immediate family that he was by no means gratified at hisson's engagement. Very little more passed between Sir Thomas andLady Fitzgerald on the subject. He merely said that he wouldconsider the question of his son's income, and expressed a hope, orperhaps an opinion rather than a hope, that the marriage would nottake place quite immediately. 

Under these circumstances, Herbert hardly spoke further to hisfather upon the matter. He certainly did feel sore that he should beso treated--that he should be made to understand that there was adifficulty, but that the difficulty could not be explained to him. No absolute position was however made, and he would not thereforecomplain. As to money, he would say nothing till something should besaid to him. 

With his mother, however, the matter was different. She had saidthat she would welcome Clara; and she did so. Immediately afterspeaking to Sir Thomas she drove over to Desmond Court, and saidsoft, sweet things to Clara in her most winning way;--said softthings also to the countess, who received them very graciously; tookClara home to Castle Richmond for that night, somewhat to thesurprise and much to the gratification of Herbert, who found hersitting slily with the other girls when he came in before dinner;and arranged for her to make a longer visit after the interval of aweek or two. Herbert, therefore, was on thoroughly good terms withhis mother, and did enjoy some of the delights which he had promisedhimself. 

With his sisters, also, and especially with Emmeline, he was oncemore in a good humour. To her he made ample apology for his formercrossness, and received ample absolution. "I was so harassed, " hesaid, "by my father's manner that I hardly knew what I was doing. And even now, when I think of his evident dislike to the marriage, it nearly drives me wild. " The truth of all which Emmeline sadlyacknowledged. How could any of them talk of their father except in astrain of sadness?

All these things did not happen in the drawing-room at CastleRichmond without also being discussed in the kitchen. It was soonknown over the house that Master Herbert was to marry Lady Clara, and, indeed, there was no great pretence of keeping it secret. Thegirls told the duchess, as they called Mrs. Jones--of course inconfidence--but Mrs. Jones knew what such confidence meant, especially as the matter was more than once distinctly alluded to byher ladyship; and thus the story was told, in confidence, toeverybody in the establishment, and then repeated by them, inconfidence also, to nearly everybody out of it. 

Ill news, they say, flies fast; and this news, which, going in thatdirection, became ill, soon flew to Hap House. 

"So young Fitzgerald and the divine Clara are to hit it off, arethey?" said Captain Donnellan, who had driven over from Buttevantbarracks to breakfast at Hap House on a hunting-morning. 

There were other men present, more intimate friends of Owen thanthis captain, who had known of Owen's misfortune in that quarter;and a sign was made to Donnellan to bid him drop the subject; but itwas too late. 

"Who? my cousin Herbert, " said Owen, sharply. "Have you heard ofthis, Barry?"

"Well, " said Barry, "those sort of things are always being said, youknow. I did hear something of it somewhere. But I can't say Ithought much about it. " And then the subject was dropped during thatmorning's breakfast. They all went to the hunt, and in the course ofthe day Owen contrived to learn that the report was well founded. 

That evening, as the countess and her daughter were sitting togetherover the fire, the grey-headed old butler brought in a letter uponan old silver salver, saying, "For Lady Clara, if you please, mylady. "

The countess not unnaturally thought that the despatch had come fromCastle Richmond, and smiled graciously as Clara put out her hand forthe missive. Lady Desmond again let her eyes drop upon the bookwhich she was reading, as though to show that she was by far tooconfiding a mamma to interfere in any correspondence between herdaughter and her daughter's lover. At the moment Lady Clara had beendoing nothing. Her work was, indeed, on her lap, and her workbox wasat her elbow; but her thoughts had been far away; far away asregards idea, though not so as to absolute locality; for in her mindshe was walking beneath those elm-trees, and a man was near her, with a horse following at his heels. 

"The messenger is to wait for an answer, my lady, " said the oldbutler, with a second nod, which on this occasion was addressed toClara; and then the man withdrew. 

Lady Clara blushed ruby red up to the roots of her hair when hereyes fell on the address of the letter, for she knew it to be in thehandwriting of Owen Fitzgerald. Perhaps the countess from the cornerof her eye may have observed some portion of her daughter's blushes;but if so, she said nothing, attributing them to Clara's naturalbashfulness in her present position. "She will get over it soon, "the countess may probably have said to herself. 

Clara was indecisive, disturbed in her mind, and wretched. Owen hadsent her other letters; but they had been brought to hersurreptitiously, had been tendered to her in secret, and had alwaysbeen returned by her unopened. She had not told her mother of these;at least, not purposely or at the moment: but she had been at notrouble to conceal the facts; and when the countess had once asked, she freely told her what had happened with an absence of anyconfusion which had quite put Lady Desmond at her ease. But thisletter was brought to her in the most open manner, and an answer toit openly demanded. 

She turned it round slowly in her hand, and then looking up, said, "Mamma, this is from Owen Fitzgerald; what had I better do with it?"

"From Owen Fitzgerald! Are you sure?"

"Yes, mamma. " And then the countess had also to consider what stepsunder such circumstances had better be taken. In the mean time Claraheld out her hand, tendering the letter to her mother. 

"You had better open it, my dear, and read it. No doubt it must beanswered. " Lady Desmond felt that now there could be no danger fromOwen Fitzgerald. Indeed she thought that there was not a remembranceof him left in her daughter's bosom; that the old love, suchbaby-love as there had been, had vanished, quite swept out of thatlittle heart by this new love of a brighter sort. But then LadyDesmond knew nothing of her daughter. 

So instructed, Clara broke the seal, and read the letter, which ranthus:--

"Hap House, February, 184-. 

"My promised Love, "For let what will happen, such you are; I have this morning heardtidings which, if true, will go far to drive me to despair. But Iwill not believe them from any lips save your own. I have heard thatyou are engaged to marry Herbert Fitzgerald. At once, however, Ideclare that I do not believe the statement. I have known you toowell to think that you can be false. 

"But, at any rate, I beg the favour of an interview with you. Afterwhat has passed I think that under any circumstances I have a rightto demand it. I have pledged myself to you; and as that pledge hasbeen accepted, I am entitled to some consideration. 

"I write this letter to you openly, being quite willing that youshould show it to your mother if you think fit. My messenger willwait, and I do implore you to send me an answer. And remember, LadyClara, that, having accepted my love, you cannot whistle me down thewind as though I were of no account. After what has passed betweenus, you cannot surely refuse to see me once more. 

"Ever your own--if you will have it so, "OWEN FITZGERALD. "

She read the letter very slowly, ever and anon looking up at hermother's face, and seeing that her mother was--not reading her book, but pretending to read it. When she had finished it, she held it fora moment, and then said, "Mamma, will you not look at it?"

"Certainly, my dear, if you wish me to do so. " And she took theletter from her daughter's hand, and read it. 

"Just what one would expect from him, my dear; eager, impetuous, andthoughtless. One should not blame him much, for he does not mean todo harm. But if he had any sense, he would know that he was takingtrouble for nothing. "

"And what shall I do, mamma?"

"Well, I really think that I should answer him. " It was delightfulto see the perfect confidence which the mother had in her daughter. "And I think I should see him, if he will insist upon it. It isfoolish in him to persist in remembering two words which you spoketo him as a child; but perhaps it will be well that you should tellhim yourself that you were a child when you spoke those two words. "

And then Clara sent off the following reply, written under hermother's dictation; though the countess strove very hard to convinceher daughter that she was wording it out of her own head:--

"Lady Clara Desmond presents her compliments to Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, and will see Mr. Owen Fitzgerald at Desmond Court at two o'clockto-morrow, if Mr. Owen Fitzgerald persists in demanding such aninterview. Lady Clara Desmond, however, wishes to express heropinion that it would be better avoided. 

"Desmond Court, "Thursday evening. "

The countess thought that this note was very cold and formal, andwould be altogether conclusive; but, nevertheless, at about eleveno'clock that night there came another messenger from Hap House withanother letter, saying that Owen would be at Desmond Court at twoo'clock on the following day. 

"He is very foolish; that is all I can say, " said the countess. 

All that night and all the next morning poor Clara was verywretched. That she had been right to give up a suitor who lived sucha life as Owen Fitzgerald lived she could not doubt. But, nevertheless, was she true in giving him up? Had she made anystipulation as to his life when she accepted his love? If he calledher false, as doubtless he would call her, how would she defendherself? Had she any defence to offer? It was not only that she hadrejected him, a poor lover; but she had accepted a rich lover! Whatcould she say to him when he upbraided her for such sordid conduct?

And then as to her whistling him down the wind. Did she wish to dothat? In what state did her heart stand towards him? Might it not bethat, let her be ever so much on her guard, she would show him sometenderness, --tenderness which would be treason to her presentaffianced suitor? Oh, why had her mother desired her to go throughsuch an interview as this!

When two o'clock came Clara was in the drawing-room. She had saidnothing to her mother as to the manner in which this meeting shouldtake place. But then at first she had had an idea that Lady Desmondwould be present. But as the time came near Clara was still alone. When her watch told her that it was already two, she was still byherself; and when the old servant, opening the door, announced thatMr. Fitzgerald was there, she was still unsupported by the presenceof any companion. It was very surprising that on such an occasionher mother should have kept herself away. 

She had not seen Owen Fitzgerald since that day when they had walkedtogether under the elm-trees, and it can hardly be said that she sawhim now. She had a feeling that she had injured him--had deceived, and in a manner betrayed him; and that feeling became so powerfulwith her that she hardly dared to look him in the face. 

He, when he entered the room, walked straight up to her, and offeredher his hand. He, too, looked round the room to see whether LadyDesmond was there, and not finding her, was surprised. He had hardlyhoped that such an opportunity would be allowed to him for declaringthe strength of his passion. 

She got up, and taking his hand, muttered something; it certainlydid not matter what, for it was inaudible; but such as the wordswere, they were the first spoken between them. 

"Lady Clara, " he began; and then stopped himself; and, considering, recommenced--"Clara, a report has reached my ears which I willbelieve from no lips but your own. "

She now sat down on a sofa, and pointed to a chair for him, but heremained standing, and did so during the whole interview; or rather, walking; for when he became energetic and impetuous, he moved aboutfrom place to place in the room, as though incapable of fixinghimself in one position. 

Clara was ignorant whether or no it behoved her to rebuke him forcalling her simply by her Christian name. She thought that she oughtto do so, but she did not do it. 

"I have been told, " he continued, "that you have engaged yourself tomarry Herbert Fitzgerald; and I have now come to hear acontradiction of this from yourself. "

"But, Mr. Fitzgerald, it is true. "

"It is true that Herbert Fitzgerald is your accepted lover?"

"Yes, " she said, looking down upon the ground, and blushing deeplyas she said it. 

There was a pause of a few moments, during which she felt that thefull fire of his glance was fixed upon her, and then he spoke. 

"You may well be ashamed to confess it, " he said; "you may well feelthat you dare not look me in the face as you pronounce the words. Iwould have believed it, Clara, from no other mouth than your own. "

It appeared to Clara herself now as though she were greatly aculprit. She had not a word to say in her own defence. All thosearguments as to Owen's ill course of life were forgotten; and shecould only remember that she had acknowledged that she loved him, and that she was now acknowledging that she loved another. 

But now Owen had made his accusation; and as it was not answered, hehardly knew how to proceed. He walked about the room, endeavouringto think what he had better say next. 

"I know this, Clara; it is your mother's doing, and not your own. You could not bring yourself to be false, unless by herinstigation. "

"No, " said she; "you are wrong there. It is not my mother's doing:what I have done, I have done myself. "

"Is it not true, " he asked, "that your word was pledged to me? Hadyou not promised me that you would be my wife?"

"I was very young, " she said, falling back upon the only excusewhich occurred to her at the moment as being possible to be usedwithout incriminating him. 

"Young! Is not that your mother's teaching? Why, those were her verywords when she came to me at my house. I did not know that youth wasany excuse for falsehood. "

"But it may be an excuse for folly, " said Clara. 

"Folly! what folly? The folly of loving a poor suitor; the folly ofbeing willing to marry a man who has not a large estate! Clara, Idid not think that you could have learned so much in so short atime. "

All this was very hard upon her. She felt that it was hard, for sheknew that he had done that which entitled her to regard her pledgeto him as at an end; but the circumstances were such that she couldnot excuse herself. 

"Am I to understand, " said Owen Fitzgerald, "that all that haspassed between us is to go for nothing? that such promises as wehave made to each other are to be of no account? To me they aresacred pledges, from which I would not escape even if I could. "

As he then paused for a reply, she was obliged to say something. 

"I hope you have not come here to upbraid me, Mr. Fitzgerald. "

"Clara, " he continued, "I have passed the last year with perfectreliance upon your faith. I need hardly tell you that it has notbeen passed happily, for it has been passed without seeing you. Butthough you have been absent from me, I have never doubted you. Ihave known that it was necessary that we should wait--wait perhapstill years should make you mistress of your own actions: butnevertheless I was not unhappy, for I was sure of your love. "

Now it was undoubtedly the case that Fitzgerald was treating herunfairly; and though she had not her wits enough about her toascertain this by process of argument, nevertheless the idea didcome home to her. It was true that she had promised her love to thisman, as far as such promise could be conveyed by one word of assent;but it was true also that she had been almost a child when shepronounced that word, and that things which had since occurred hadentitled her to annul any amount of contract to which she might havebeen supposed to bind herself by that one word. She bethoughtherself, therefore, that as she was so hard pressed she was forcedto defend herself. 

"I was very young then, Mr. Fitzgerald, and hardly knew what I wassaying: afterwards, when mamma spoke to me, I felt that I was boundto obey her. "

"What, to obey her by forgetting me?"

"No; I have never forgotten you, and never shall. I remember toowell your kindness to my brother; your kindness to us all. "

"Psha! you know I do not speak of that. Are you bound to obey yourmother by forgetting that you have loved me?"

She paused a moment before she answered him, looking now full beforeher, --hardly yet bold enough to look him in the face. 

"No, " she said; "I have not forgotten that I loved you. I shallnever forget it. Child as I was, it shall never be forgotten. But Icannot love you now--not in the manner you would have me. "

"And why not, Lady Clara? Why is love to cease on your part--to bethrown aside so easily by you, while with me it remains so stern afact, and so deep a necessity? Is that just? When the bargain hasonce been made, should it not be equally binding on us both?"

"I do not think you are fair to me, Mr. Fitzgerald, " she said; andsome spirit was now rising in her bosom. 

"Not fair to you? Do you say that I am unfair to you? Speak but oneword to say that the troth which you pledged me a year since shallstill remain unbroken, and I will at once leave you till youyourself shall name the time when my suit may be renewed. "

"You know that I cannot do that. "

"And why not? I know that you ought to do it. "

"No, Mr. Fitzgerald, I ought not. I am now engaged to your cousin, with the consent of mamma and of his friends. I can say nothing toyou now which I cannot repeat to him; nor can I say anything whichshall oppose his wishes. "

"He is, then, so much more to you now than I am?"

"He is everything to me now. "

"That is all the reply I am to get, then! You acknowledge yourfalseness, and throw me off without vouchsafing me any answer beyondthis. "

"What would you have me say? I did do that which was wrong andfoolish, when--when we were walking there on the avenue. I did givea promise which I cannot now keep. It was all so hurried that Ihardly remember what I said. But of this I am sure, that if I havecaused you unhappiness, I am very sorry to have done so. I cannotalter it all now; I cannot unsay what I said then, nor can I offeryon that which I have now absolutely given to another. "

And then, as she finished speaking, she did pluck up courage to lookhim in the face. She was now standing as well as he; but she was sostanding that the table, which was placed near the sofa, was stillbetween him and her. As she finished speaking the door opened, andthe Countess of Desmond walked slowly into the room. 

Owen Fitzgerald, when he saw her, bowed low before her, and thenfrankly offered her his hand. There was something in his manner toladies devoid of all bashfulness, and yet never too bold. He seemedto be aware that in speaking to any lady, be she who she might, hewas only exercising his undoubted privilege as a man. He neverhummed and hawed and shook in his shoes as though the majesty ofwomanhood were too great for his encounter. There are such men, andmany of them, who carry this dread to the last day of their longlives. I have often wondered what women think of men who regardwomen as too awful for the free exercise of open speech. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " she said accepting the hand which he offered toher, but resuming her own very quickly, and then standing before himin all the dignity which she was able to assume, "I quite concurredwith my daughter that it was right that she should see you, as youinsisted on such an interview, but you must excuse me if I interruptit. I must protect her from the embarrassment which your--yourvehemence may occasion her. "

"Lady Desmond, " he replied, "you are quite at liberty, as far as Iam concerned, to hear all that passes between us. Your daughter isbetrothed to me, and I have come to claim from her the fulfilment ofher promise. "

"For shame, Mr. Fitzgerald, for shame! When she was a child youextracted from her one word of folly; and now you would takeadvantage of that foolish word; now, when you know that she isengaged to a man she loves with the full consent of all her friends. I thought I knew you well enough to feel sure that you were not soungenerous. "

"Ungenerous! no; I have not that generosity which would enable me togive up my very heart's blood, the only joy of my soul, to such aone as my cousin Herbert. "

"You have nothing to give up, Mr. Fitzgerald: you must have knownfrom the very first that my daughter could not marry you--"

"Not marry me! And why not, Lady Desmond? Is not my blood as good ashis?--unless, indeed, you are prepared to sell your child to thehighest bidder!"

"Clara, my dear, I think you had better leave the room, " said thecountess; "no doubt you have assured Mr. Fitzgerald that you areengaged to his cousin Herbert. "

"Yes, mamma. "

"Then he can have no further claim on your attendance, and hisvehemence will terrify you. "

"Vehement! how can I help being vehement when, like a ruinedgambler, I am throwing my last chance for such a stake?"

And then he intercepted Clara as she stepped towards thedrawing-room door. She stopped in her course, and stood still, looking down upon the ground. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " said the countess, "I will thank you to let LadyClara leave the room. She has given you the answer for which youhave asked, and it would not be right in me to permit her to besubjected to further embarrassment. "

"I will only ask her to listen to one word. Clara--"

"Mr. Fitzgerald, you have no right to address my daughter with thatfreedom, " said the countess; but Owen hardly seemed to hear her. 

"I here, in your hearing, protest against your marriage with HerbertFitzgerald. I claim your love as my own. I bid you think of thepromise which you gave me; and I tell you that as I loved you thenwith all my heart, so do I love you at this moment; so shall I loveyou always. Now I will not hinder you any longer. "

And then he opened the door for her, and she passed on, bowing tohim, and muttering some word of farewell that was inaudible. 

He stood for a moment with the door in his hand, meditating whetherhe might not say good morning to the countess without returning intothe room; but as he so stood she called him. "Mr. Fitzgerald, " shesaid; and so he therefore came back, and once more closed the door. 

And then he saw that the countenance of Lady Desmond was muchchanged. Hitherto she had been every inch the countess, stern andcold and haughty; but now she looked at him as she used to look inthose old winter evenings when they were accustomed to talk togetherover the evening fire in close friendliness, while she, LadyDesmond, would speak to him in the intimacy of her heart of herchildren, Patrick ad Clara. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " she said, and the tone of her voice also waschanged. "You are hardly fair to us; are you?"

"Not fair, Lady Desmond?"

"No, not fair. Sit down now, and listen to me for a moment. If youhad a child, a penniless girl like Clara, would you be glad to seeher married to such a one as you are yourself?"

"In what way do you mean? Speak out, Lady Desmond. "

"No; I will not speak out, for I would not hurt you. I myself am toofond of you--as an old friend, to wish to do so. That you may marryand live happily, live near us here, so that we may know you, I mostheartily desire. But you cannot marry that child. "

"And why not, if she loves me?"

"Nay, not even if she did. Wealth and position are necessary to thestation in which she has been born. She is an earl's daughter, penniless as she is. I will have no secrets from you. As a mother, Icould not give her to one whose career is such as yours. As thewidow of an earl, I could not give her to one whose means ofmaintaining her are so small. If you will think of this, you willhardly be angry with me. "

"Love is nothing, then?"

"Is all to be sacrificed to your love? Think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald, and let me have the happiness of knowing that you consent to thismatch. "

"Never!" said he. "Never!" And so he left the room, without wishingher further farewell. 

CHAPTER XV

DIPLOMACY

About a week after the last conversation that has been related ashaving taken place at the Kanturk Hotel, Mr. Mollett junior was onhis way to Castle Richmond. He had on that occasion stated hisintention of making such a journey with the view of "freshening theold gentleman up a bit;" and although his father did all in hispower to prevent the journey, going so far on one occasion as toswear that if it was made he would throw over the game altogether, nevertheless Aby persevered. 

"You may leave the boards whenever you like, governor, " said Aby. "Iknow quite enough of the part to carry on the play. "

"You think you do, " said the father in his anger; "but you'll findyourself in the dark yet before you've done. "

And then again he expostulated in a different tone. "You'll ruin itall, Aby; you will indeed; you don't know all the circumstances;indeed you don't. "

"Don't I?" said Aby. "Then I'll not be long learning them. "

The father did what he could; but he had no means of keeping his sonat home, and so Aby went. Aby doubtless entertained an idea that hisfather was deficient in pluck for the management of so difficult amatter, and that he could supply what his father wanted. So hedressed himself in his best, and having hired a gig and a man who heflattered himself would look like a private servant, he started fromCork, and drove himself to Castle Richmond. 

He had on different occasions been down in the neighbourhood, prowling about like a thief in the night, picking up information, ashe called it, and seeing how the land lay; but he had never yetpresented himself to any one within the precincts of the CastleRichmond demesne. His present intention was to drive up to the frontdoor, and ask at once for Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, sending in his cardif need be, on which were printed the words:--

MR. ABRAHAM MOLLETT, Junior. 

With the additional words, "Piccadilly, London, " written in theleft-hand lower corner. 

"I'll take the bull by the horns, " said he to himself. "It's betterto make the spoon at once, even if we do run some small chance ofspoiling the horn. " And that he might be well enabled to carry outhis purpose with reference to this bull, he lifted his flask to hismouth as soon as he had passed through the great demesne gate, andtook a long pull at it. "There's nothing like a little jumpingpowder, " he said, speaking to himself again, and then he droveboldly up the avenue. 

He had not yet come in sight of the house when he met two gentlemenwalking on the road. They, as he approached, stood a little on oneside, not only so as to allow him to pass, but to watch him as hedid so. They were Mr. Somers and Herbert Fitzgerald. 

"It is the younger of those two men. I'm nearly certain of it, " saidSomers as the gig approached. "I saw him as he walked by me inKanturk Street, and I don't think I can mistake the horrid impudenceof his face. I beg your pardon, sir, "--and now he addressed Mollettin the gig--"but are you going up to the house?"

"Yes, sir; that's my notion just at present. Any commands that way?"

"This is Mr. Fitzgerald--Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald; and I am Mr. Somers, the agent. Can we do anything for you?"

Aby Mollett raised his hat, and the two gentlemen touched theirs. "Thank'ee, sir, " said Aby; "but I believe my business must be withthe worthy baro-nett himself; more particularly as I 'appen to knowthat he's at home. "

"My father is not very well, " said Herbert, "and I do not think thathe will be able to see you. "

"I'll take the liberty of hasking and of sending in my card, " saidAby; and he gave his horse a flick as intending thus to cut shortthe conversation. But Mr. Somers had put his hand upon the bridle, and the beast was contented to stand still. 

"If you'll have the kindness to wait a moment, " said Mr. Somers; andhe put on a look of severity, which he well knew how to assume, andwhich somewhat cowed poor Aby. "You have been down here before, Ithink, " continued Mr. Somers. 

"What, at Castle Richmond? No, I haven't. And if I had, what's thatto you if Sir Thomas chooses to see me? I hain't hintruding, Isuppose. "

"You've been down at Kanturk before--once or twice; for I have seenyou. "

"And supposing I've been there ten or twelve times, --what is therein that?" said Aby. 

Mr. Somers still held the horse's head, and stood a momentconsidering. 

"I'll thank you to let go my 'oss, " said Aby, raising his whip andshaking the reins. 

"What do you say your name is?" asked Mr. Somers. 

"I didn't say my name was anything yet. I hain't ashamed of it, however, nor hasn't hany cause to be. That's my name, and if you'llsend my card in to Sir Thomas, with my compliments, and say thathi've three words to say to him very particular; why, hi'll beobliged to you. " And then Mr. Mollett handed Mr. Somers his card. 

"Mollett!" said Mr. Somers very unceremoniously. "Mollett, Mollett. Do you know the name, Herbert?"

Herbert said that he did not. 

"It's about business, I suppose?" asked Mr. Somers. 

"Yes, " said Aby; "private business; very particular. "

"The same that brought your father here;" and Mr. Somers againlooked into his face with a close scrutiny. 

Aby was abashed, and for a moment or two he did not answer. "Well, then; it is the same business, " he said at last. "And I'll thank youto let me go on. I'm not used to be stopped in this way. "

"You can follow us up to the house, " said Mr. Somers to him. "Comehere, Herbert. " And then they walked along the road in such a waythat Aby was forced to allow his horse to walk after them. 

"These are the men who are doing it, " said Mr. Somers in a whisperto his companion. "Whatever is in the wind, whatever may be thecause of your father's trouble, they are concerned in it. They areprobably getting money from him in some way. "

"Do you think so?"

"I do. We must not force ourselves upon your father's confidence, but we must endeavour to save him from this misery. Do you go in tohim with this card. Do not show it to him too suddenly; and thenfind out whether he really wishes to see the man. I will stay aboutthe place; for it may be possible that a magistrate will be wanted, and in such a matter you had better not act. "

They were now at the hall door, and Somers, turning to Mollett, toldhim that Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald would carry the card to his father. And then he added, seeing that Mollett was going to come down, "Youhad better stay in the gig till Mr. Fitzgerald comes back; just sitwhere you are; you'll get an answer all in good time. "

Sir Thomas was crouching over the fire in his study when his sonentered, with his eyes fixed upon a letter which he held in hishand, and which, when he saw Herbert, he closed up and put away. 

"Father, " said Herbert, in a cheerful everyday voice, as though hehad nothing special to communicate, "there is a man in a gig outthere. He says he wants to see you. "

"A man in a gig!" and Herbert could see that his father had alreadybegun to tremble. But every sound made him tremble now. 

"Yes; a man in a gig. What is it he says his name is? I have hiscard here. A young man. "

"Oh, a young man?" said Sir Thomas. 

"Yes, here it is. Abraham Mollett. I can't say that your friendseems to be very respectable, in spite of his gig, " and Herberthanded the card to his father. 

The son purposely looked away as he mentioned the name, as his greatanxiety was not to occasion distress. But he felt that the sound ofthe word had been terrible in his father's ears. Sir Thomas hadrisen from his chair; but he now sat down again, or rather fell intoit. But nevertheless he took the card, and said that he would seethe man. 

"A young man, do you say, Herbert?"

"Yes, father, a young man. And, father, if you are not well, tell mewhat the business is and let me see him. "

But Sir Thomas persisted, shaking his head, and saying that he wouldsee the man himself. 

"Somers is out there. Will you let him do it?"

"No. I wonder, Herbert, that you can tease me so. Let the man besent in here. But, oh, Herbert--Herbert--!"

The young man rushed round and kneeled at his father's knee. "Whatis it, father? Why will you not tell me? I know you have some grief, and cannot you trust me? Do you not know that you can trust me?"

"My poor boy, my poor boy!"

"What is it, father? If this man here is concerned in it, let me seehim. "

"No, no, no. "

"Or at any rate let me be with you when he is here. Let me shareyour trouble if I can do nothing to cure it. "

"Herbert, my darling, leave me and send him in. If it be necessarythat you should bear this calamity, it will come upon you soonenough. "

"But I am afraid of this man--for your sake, father. "

"He will do me no harm; let him come to me. But, Herbert, saynothing to Somers about this. Somers has not seen the man; has he?"

"Yes; we both spoke to him together as he drove up the avenue. "

"And what did he say? Did he say anything?

"Nothing but that he wanted to see you, and then he gave his card toMr. Somers. Mr. Somers wished to save you from the annoyance. "

"Why should it annoy me to see any man? Let Mr. Somers mind his ownbusiness. Surely I can have business of my own without hisinterference. " With this Herbert left his father, and returned tothe hall door to usher in Mr. Mollett junior. 

"Well?" said Mr. Somers, who was standing by the hall fire, and whojoined Herbert at the front door. 

"My father will see the man. "

"And have you learned who he is?"

"I have learned nothing but this--that Sir Thomas does not wish thatwe should inquire. Now, Mr. Mollett, Sir Thomas will see you; so youcan come down. Make haste now, and remember that you are not to staylong, for my father is ill. " And then leading Aby through the halland along a passage, he introduced him into Sir Thomas's room. 

"And, Herbert--" said the father; whereupon Herbert again turnedround. His father was endeavouring to stand, but supporting himselfby the back of his chair. "Do not disturb me for half an hour; butcome to me then, and knock at the door. This gentleman will havedone by that time. "

"If we do not put a stop to this, your father will be in a mad-houseor on his death-bed before long. " So spoke Mr. Somers in a low, solemn whisper when Herbert again joined him at the hall door. 

"Sit down, sir; sit down, " said Sir Thomas, endeavouring to be civiland to seem at his ease at the same time. Aby was himself so muchbewildered for the moment, that he hardly perceived theembarrassment under which the baronet was labouring. 

Aby sat down, in the way usual to such men in such places, on thecorner of his chair, and put his hat on the ground between his feet. Then he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, and after thathe expressed an opinion that he was in the presence of Sir ThomasFitzgerald. 

"And you are Mr. Abraham Mollett, " said Sir Thomas. 

"Yes, Sir Thomas, that's my name. I believe, Sir Thomas, that youhave the pleasure of some slight acquaintance with my father, Mr. Matthew Mollett?"

What a pleasure under such circumstances! Sir Thomas, however, nodded his head, and Aby went on. 

"Well, now, Sir Thomas, business is business; and my father, 'eain't a good man of business. A gen'leman like you, Sir Thomas, hasseen that with 'alf an eye, I know. " And then he waited a moment foran answer; but as he got none he proceeded. 

"My governor's one of the best of fellows going, but 'e ain't sharpand decisive. Sharp's the word now a days, Sir Thomas; ain't it?"and he spoke this in a manner so suited to the doctrine which heintended to inculcate, that the poor old gentleman almost jumped upin his chair. 

And Aby, seeing this, seated himself more comfortably in his own. The awe which the gilt bindings of the books and the thoroughcomfort of the room had at first inspired was already beginning tofade away. He had come there to bully, and though his courage hadfailed him for a moment under the stern eye of Mr. Somers, itquickly returned to him now that he was able to see how weak was hisactual victim. 

"Sharp's the word, Sir Thomas; and my governor, 'e ain't sharp--notsharp as he ought to be in such a matter as this. This is what Icalls a real bit of cheese. Now it's no good going on piddling andpeddling in such a case as this; is it now, Sir Thomas?"

Sir Thomas muttered something, but it was no more than a groan. 

"Not the least use, " continued Aby. "Now the question, as I takesit, is this. There's your son there as fetched me in 'ere; a fineyoung gen'leman 'e is, as ever I saw; I will say that. Well, now;who's to have this 'ere property when you walk the plank--as walk ityou must some day, in course? Is it to be this son of yours, or isit to be this other Fitzgerald of 'Appy 'Ouse? Now, if you ask me, I'm all for your son, though maybe he mayn't be all right as regardsthe dam. "

There was certainly some truth in what Aby had said with referenceto his father. Mr. Mollett senior had never debated the matter interms so sharp and decisive as these were. Think who they were ofwhom this brute was talking to that wretched gentleman; the wife ofhis bosom, than whom no wife was ever more dearly prized; the son ofhis love, the centre of all his hopes, the heir of his wealth--ifthat might still be so. And yet he listened to such words as these, and did not call in his servants to turn the speaker of them out ofhis doors. 

"I've no wish for that 'Appy 'Ouse man, Sir Thomas; not the least. And as for your good lady, she's nothing to me one way or the otherwhatever she may be to my governor--" and here there fell a spasmupon the poor man's heart, which nearly brought him from the chairto the ground; but nevertheless, he still contained himself--"mygovernor's former lady, my own mother, " continued Aby, "whom I neversee'd, she'd gone to kingdom come, you know, before that time, SirThomas. There hain't no doubt about that. So you see--" and hereuponhe dropped his voice from the tone which he had hitherto been usingto an absolute whisper, and drawing his chair close to that of thebaronet, and putting his hands upon his knees, brought his mouthclose to his companion's ear--"So you see, " he said, "when thatyoungster was born, Lady F. Was Mrs. M. --wasn't she? and for thematter of that, Lady F. Is Mrs. M. To this very hour. That's thereal chat; ain't it, Sir Thomas? My stepmother, you know. Thegovernor could take her away with him to-morrow if he chose, according to the law of the land--couldn't he now?"

There was no piddling or peddling about this at any rate. OldMollett in discussing the matter with his victim had done so byhints and inuendos, through long windings, by signs and the droppingof a few dark words. He had never once mentioned in full terms thename of Lady Fitzgerald; had never absolutely stated that he didpossess or ever had possessed a wife. It had been sufficient for himto imbue Sir Thomas with the knowledge that his son Herbert was ingreat danger as to his heritage. Doubtless the two had understoodeach other; but the absolute naked horror of the surmised facts hadbeen kept delicately out of sight. But such delicacy was not toAby's taste. Sharp, short, and decisive; that was his motto. No"longae ambages" for him. The whip was in his hand, as he thought, and he could best master the team by using it. 

And yet Sir Thomas lived and bore it. As he sat there halfstupefied, numbed as it were by the intensity of his grief, hewondered at his own power of endurance. "She is Mrs. M. , you know;ain't she now?" He could sit there and hear that, and yet livethrough it. So much he could do, and did do; but as for speaking, that was beyond him. 

Young Mollett thought that this "freshening up of the old gentleman"seemed to answer; so he continued. "Yes, Sir Thomas, your son's myfavourite, I tell you fairly. But then, you know, if I backs thefavourite, in course I likes to win upon him. How is it to be, now?"and then he paused for an answer, which, however, was notforthcoming. 

"You see you haven't been dealing quite on the square with thegovernor. You two is, has it were, in a boat together. We'll callthat boat the Lady F. , or the Mrs. M. , which ever you like; "--andthen Aby laughed, for the conceit pleased him--"but the hearnings ofthat boat should be divided hequally. Ain't that about the ticket?heh, Sir Thomas? Come, don't be down on your luck. A little quiettalkee-talkee between you and me'll soon put this small matter on aright footing. "

"What is it you want? tell me at once, " at last groaned the poorman. 

"Well now, that's something like; and I'll tell you what we want. There are only two of us you know, the governor and I; and verylonely we are, for it's a sad thing for a man to have the wife ofhis bosom taken from him. "

Then there was a groan which struck even Aby's ear; but Sir Thomaswas still alive and listening, and so he went on. 

"This property here, Sir Thomas, is a good twelve thousand a year. Iknow hall about it as though I'd been 'andling it myself for thelast ten years. And a great deal of cutting there is in twelvethousand a year. You've 'ad your whack out of it, and now we wantsto have hourn. That's Henglish, hain't it?"

"Did your father send you here, Mr. Mollett?"

"Never you mind who sent me, Sir Thomas. Perhaps he did, and perhapshe didn't. Perhaps I came without hany sending. Perhaps I'm more hupto this sort of work than he is. At any rate, I've got the partpretty well by 'eart--you see that, don't you? Well hour hultimatumabout the business is this. Forty thousand pounds paid down on thenail, half to the governor, and half to your 'umble servant, beforethe end of this year; a couple of thousand more in hand for theyear's hexpenses--and--and--a couple of hundred or so now at oncebefore I leave you; for to tell the truth we're run huncommonly dryjust at the present moment. " And then Aby drew his breath and pausedfor an answer. 

Poor Sir Thomas was now almost broken down. His head swam round andround, and he felt that he was in a whirlpool from which there wasno escape. He had heard the sum named, and knew that he had no powerof raising it. His interest in the estate was but for his life, andthat life was now all but run out. He had already begun to feel thathis son must be sacrificed, but he had struggled and endured inorder that he might save his wife. But what could he do now? Whatfurther struggle could he make? His present most eager desire wasthat that horrid man should be removed from his hearing and hiseyesight. 

But Aby had not yet done: he had hitherto omitted to mention one notinconsiderable portion of the amicable arrangement which, accordingto him, would have the effect of once more placing the two familiescomfortably on their feet. "There's one other pint, Sir Thomas, " hecontinued, "and hif I can bring you and your good lady to my way ofthinking on that, why, we may all be comfortable for all that iscome and gone. You've a daughter Hemmeline. "

"What!" said Sir Thomas, turning upon him; for there was still somuch of life left in him that he could turn upon his foe when heheard his daughter's name thus polluted. 

"Has lovely a gal to my way of thinking as my heyes ever rested on;and I'm not haccounted a bad judge of such cattle, I can tell you, Sir Thomas. "

"That will do, that will do, " said Sir Thomas, attempting to rise, but still holding on by the back of his chair. "You can go now, sir;I cannot hear more from you. "

"Go!"

"Yes, sir; go. "

"I know a trick worth two of that, Sir Thomas. If you like to giveme your daughter Hemmeline for my wife, whatever her fortin's to be, I'll take it as part of my half of the forty thousand pounds. Therenow. " And then Aby again waited for a reply. 

But now there came a knock at the door, and following quick upon theknock Herbert entered the room. "Well, father, " said the son. 

"Herbert!"

"Yes, father;" and he went round and supported his father on hisarm. 

"Herbert, will you tell that man to go?"

"Come, sir, you have disturbed my father enough; will you have thekindness to leave him now?"

"I may chance to disturb him more, and you too, sir, if you treat mein that way. Let go my arm, sir. Am I to have any answer from you, Sir Thomas?"

But Sir Thomas could make no further attempt at speaking. He was nowonce more seated in his chair, holding his son's hand, and when heagain heard Mollett's voice he merely made a sign for him to go. 

"You see the state my father is in, Mr. Mollett, " said Herbert; "Ido not know what is the nature of your business, but whatever it maybe, you must leave him now. " And he made a slight attempt to pushthe visitor towards the door. 

"You'd better take care what you're doing, Mr. Fitzgerald, " saidMollett. "By---you had! If you anger me, I might say a word that Icouldn't unsay again, which would put you into queer street, I cantell you. "

"Don't quarrel with him, my boy; pray don't quarrel with him, butlet him leave me, " said Sir Thomas. 

"Mr. Mollett, you see my father's state; you must be aware that itis imperative that he should be left alone. "

"I don't know nothing about that, young gen'leman; business isbusiness, and I hain't got hany answer to my proposals. Sir Thomas, do you say 'Yes' to them proposals. " But Sir Thomas was still dumb. "To all but the last? Come, " continued Aby, "that was put in quiteas much for your good as it was for mine. " But not a word came fromthe baronet. 

"Then I shan't stir, " said Aby, again seating himself. 

"Then I shall have the servants in, " said Herbert, "and a magistratewho is in the hall, " and he put his hand towards the handle of thebell. 

"Well, as the old gen'leman's hill, I'll go now and come again. Butlook you here, Sir Thomas, you have got my proposals, and if I don'tget an answer to them in three days' time, --why you'll hear from mein another way, that's all. And so will her ladyship. " And with thisthreat Mr Abraham Mollett allowed himself to be conducted throughthe passage into the hall, and from thence to his gig. 

"See that he drives away, see that he goes, " said Herbert to Mr. Somers, who was still staying about the place. 

"Oh, I'll drive away fast enough, " said Aby, as he stepped into thegig, "and come back fast enough too, " he muttered to himself. In themean time Herbert had run back to his father's room. 

"Has he gone?" murmured Sir Thomas. 

"Yes, he has gone. There; you can hear the wheels of his gig on thegravel. "

"Oh, my boy, my poor boy!"

"What is it, father? Why do you not tell me? Why do you allow suchmen as that to come and harass you, when a word would keep them fromyou? Father, good cannot come of it. "

"No, Herbert, no, good will not come of it. There is no good to comeat all. "

"Then why will you not tell us?"

"You will know it all soon enough. But, Herbert, do not say a wordto your mother. Not a word as you value my love. Let us save herwhile we can. You promise me that. "

Herbert gave him the required promise. 

"Look here, " and he took up the letter which he had before crumpledin his hand. "Mr. Prendergast will be here next week. I shall telleverything to him. "

Soon afterwards Sir Thomas went to his bed, and there by his bedsidehis wife sat for the rest of the evening. But he said no word to herof his sorrow. 

"Mr. Prendergast is coming here, " said Herbert to Mr. Somers. 

"I am glad of it, though I do not know him, " said Mr. Somers. "For, my dear boy, it is necessary that there should be some one here. "

CHAPTER XVI

THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS

It will be remembered that in the last chapter but one OwenFitzgerald left Lady Desmond in the drawing-room at Desmond Courtsomewhat abruptly, having absolutely refused to make peace with theDesmond faction by giving his consent to the marriage between Claraand his cousin Herbert. And it will perhaps be remembered also, thatLady Desmond had asked for this consent in a manner that was almosthumble. She had shown herself most anxious to keep on friendly termswith the rake of Hap House, --rake and roue, gambler and spendthrift, as he was reputed to be, --if only he would abandon his insane claimto the hand of Clara Desmond. But this feeling she had shown whenthey two were alone together, after Clara had left them. As long asher daughter had been present, Lady Desmond had maintained her toneof indignation and defiance; but, when the door was closed and theytwo were alone, she had become kind in her language and almosttender. 

My readers will probably conceive that she had so acted, overcome byher affection for Owen Fitzgerald and with a fixed resolve to winhim for herself. Men and women when they are written about arealways supposed to have fixed resolves, though in life they are soseldom found to be thus armed. To speak the truth, the countess hadhad no fixed resolve in the matter, either when she had thoughtabout Owen's coming, or when, subsequently, she had found herselfalone with him in her drawing-room. That Clara should not marryhim, --on so much she had resolved long ago. But all danger on thathead was, it may be said, over. Clara, like a good child, hadbehaved in the best possible manner; had abandoned her first lover, a lover that was poor and unfitted for her, as soon as told to doso; and had found for herself a second lover, who was rich, andproper, and in every way desirable. As regards Clara, the countessfelt herself to be safe; and, to give her her due, she had beensatisfied that the matter should so rest. She had not sought anyfurther interview with Fitzgerald. He had come there against heradvice, and she had gone to meet him prompted by the necessity ofsupporting her daughter, and without any other views of her own. 

But when she found herself alone with him; when she looked into hisface, and saw how handsome, how noble, how good it was--good in itsinherent manliness and bravery--she could not but long that thisfeud should be over, and that she might be able once more to welcomehim as her friend. If only he would give up this frantic passion, this futile, wicked, senseless attempt to make them all wretched byan insane marriage, would it not be sweet again to make some effortto rescue him from the evil ways into which he had fallen?

But Owen himself would make no response to this feeling. ClaraDesmond was his love, and he would, of his own consent, yield her tono one. In truth, he was, in a certain degree, mad on this subject. He did think that because the young girl had given him apromise--had said to him a word or two which he called apromise--she was now of right his bride; that there belonged to himan indefeasible property in her heart, in her loveliness, in theinexpressible tenderness of her young springing beauty, of which nosubsequent renouncing on her part could fairly and honestly deprivehim. That others should oppose the match was intelligible to him;but it was hardly intelligible that she should betray him. And, asyet, he did not believe that she herself was the mainspring of thisrenouncing. Others, the countess and the Castle Richmond people, hadfrightened her into falseness; and, therefore, it became him tomaintain his right by any means--almost by any means, within hispower. Give her up of his own free will and voice! Say that HerbertFitzgerald should take her with his consent! that she should go as abride to Castle Richmond, while he stood by and smiled, and wishedthem joy! Never! And so he rode away with a stern heart, leaving herstanding there with something of sternness about her heart also. 

In the meantime, Clara, when she was sure that her rejected suitorwas well away from the place, put on her bonnet and walked out. Itwas her wont at this time to do so; and she was becoming almost acreature of habit, shut up as she was in that old dreary barrack. Her mother very rarely went with her; and she habitually performedthe same journey over the same ground, at the same hour, day afterday. So it had been, and so it was still, --unless HerbertFitzgerald were with her. 

On the present occasion she saw no more of her mother before sheleft the house. She passed the drawing-room door, and seeing that itwas ajar, knew that the countess was there: but she had nothing tosay to her mother as to the late interview, unless her mother hadaught to say to her. So she passed on. In truth her mother hadnothing to say to her. She was sitting there alone, with her headresting on her hand, with that sternness at her heart and a cloudupon her brow, but she was not thinking of her daughter. Had shenot, with her skill and motherly care, provided well for Clara? Hadshe not saved her daughter from all the perils which beset the pathof a young girl? Had she not so brought her child up and put herforth into the world, that, portionless as that child was, all thebest things of the world had been showered into her lap? Why shouldthe countess think more of her daughter? It was of herself she wasthinking; and of what her life would be all alone, absolutely alone, in that huge frightful home of hers, without a friend, almostwithout an acquaintance, without one soul near her whom she couldlove or who would love her. She had put out her hand to OwenFitzgerald, and he had rejected it. Her he had regarded merely asthe mother of the woman he loved. And then the Countess of Desmondbegan to ask herself if she were old and wrinkled and ugly, only fitto be a dowager in mind, body, and in name!

Over the same ground! Yes, always over the same ground. Lady Claranever varied her walk. It went from the front entrance of the court, with one great curve, down to the old ruined lodge which opened onto the road running from Kanturk to Cork. It was here that the rowof elm trees stood, and it was here that she had once walked with ahot, eager lover beside her, while a docile horse followed behindtheir feet. It was here that she walked daily; and was it possiblethat she should walk here without thinking of him?

It was always on the little well-worn path by the road-side, not onthe road itself, that she took her measured exercise; and now, asshe went along, she saw on the moist earth the fresh prints of ahorse's hoofs. He also had ridden down the same way, choosing topass over the absolute spot in which those words had been uttered, thinking of that moment, as she also was thinking of it. She feltsure that such had been the case. She knew that it was this that hadbrought him there--there on to the foot-traces which they had madetogether. 

And did he then love her so truly, --with a love so hot, so eager, sodeeply planted in his very soul? Was it really true that a passionfor her had so filled his heart, that his whole life must by that bemade or marred? Had she done this thing to him? Had she so impressedher image on his mind that he must be wretched without her? Was sheso much to him, so completely all in all as regarded his futureworldly happiness? Those words of his, asserting that love--herlove--was to him a stern fact, a deep necessity--recurred over andover again to her mind. Could it really be that in doing as she haddone, in giving herself to another after she had promised herself tohim, she had committed an injustice which would constantly bebrought up against her by him and by her own conscience? Had she intruth deceived and betrayed him, --deserted him because he was poor, and given herself over to a rich lover because of his riches?

As she thought of this she forgot again that fact--which, indeed, she had never more than half realized in her mind--that he hadjustified her in separating herself from him by his reckless courseof living; that his conduct must be held to have so justified her, let the pledge between them have been of what nature it might. Now, as she walked up and down that path, she thought nothing of hiswickedness and his sins; she thought only of the vows to which shehad once listened, and the renewal of those vows to which it was nowso necessary that her ear should be deaf. 

But was her heart deaf to them? She swore to herself, over and overagain, scores and scores of oaths, that it was so; but each timethat she swore, some lowest corner in the depth of her conscienceseemed to charge her with a falsehood. Why was it that in all herhours of thinking she so much oftener saw his face, Owen's, than shedid that other face of which in duty she was bound to think anddream? It was in vain that she told herself that she was afraid ofOwen, and therefore thought of him. The tone of his voice that rangin her ears the oftenest was not that of his anger and sternness, but the tone of his first assurance of love--that tone which hadbeen so inexpressibly sweet to her--that to which she had listenedon this very spot where she now walked slowly, thinking of him. Thelook of his which was ever present to her eyes was not that on whichshe had almost feared to gaze but an hour ago; but the form andspirit which his countenance had worn when they were together onthat well-remembered day. 

And then she would think, or try to think, of Herbert, and of allhis virtues and of all his goodness. He too loved her well. Shenever doubted that. He had come to her with soft words, and pleasantsmiles, and sweet honeyed compliments--compliments which had beensweet to her as they are to all girls; but his soft words, andpleasant smiles, and honeyed love-making had never given her sostrong a thrill of strange delight as had those few words from Owen. Her very heart's core had been affected by the vigour of hisaffection. There had been in it a mysterious grandeur which had halfcharmed and half frightened her. It had made her feel that he, wereit fated that she should belong to him, would indeed be her lord andruler; that his was a spirit before which hers would bend and feelitself subdued. With him she could realize all that she had dreamedof woman's love, and that dream which is so sweet to some women--ofwoman's subjugation. But could it be the same with him to whom shewas now positively affianced, with him to whom she knew that she didnow owe all her duty? She feared that it was not the same. 

And then again she swore that she loved him. She thought over allhis excellences; how good he was as a son--how fondly his sistersloved him--how inimitable was his conduct in these hard tryingtimes. And she remembered also that it was right in every way thatshe should love him. Her mother and brother approved of it. Thosewho were to be her new relatives approved of it. It was in every wayfitting. Pecuniary considerations were so favourable! But when shethought of that her heart sank low within her breast. Was it truethat she had sold herself at her mother's bidding? Should not theremembrance of Owen's poverty have made her true to him had nothingelse done so?

But be all that as it might, one thing, at any rate, was clear toher, that it was now her fate, her duty--and, as she repeated againand again, her wish to marry Herbert. No thought of rebellionagainst him and her mother ever occurred to her as desirable orpossible. She would be to him a true and loving wife, a wife in veryheart and soul. But, nevertheless, walking thus beneath those trees, she could not but think of Owen Fitzgerald. 

In this mood she had gone twice down from the house to the lodge andback again, and now again she had reached the lodge the third time, making thus her last journey for in these solitary walks her workwas measured. The exercise was needful, but there was little in thetask to make her prolong it beyond what was necessary. But now, asshe was turning for the last time, she heard the sound of a horse'shoof coming fast along the road, and looking from the gate, she sawthat Herbert was coming to her. She had not expected him, but nowshe waited at the gate to meet him. 

It had been arranged that she was to go over in a few days to CastleRichmond, and stay there for a fortnight. This had been settledshortly before the visit made by Mr. Mollett, junior, at that place, and had not as yet been unsettled. But as soon as it was known thatSir Thomas had summoned Mr. Prendergast from London, it was felt bythem all that it would be as well that Clara's visit should bepostponed. Herbert had been especially cautioned by his father, atthe time of Mollett's visit, not to tell his mother anything of whathad occurred, and to a certain extent he had kept his promise. Butit was of course necessary that Lady Fitzgerald should know that Mr. Prendergast was coming to the house, and it was of course impossibleto keep from her the fact that his visit was connected with thelamentable state of her husband's health and spirits. Indeed, sheknew as much as that without any telling. It was not probable thatMr. Prendergast should come there now on a visit of pleasure. 

"Whatever this may be that weighs upon his mind, " Herbert had said, "he will be better for talking it over with a man whom he trusts. "

"And why not with Somers?" said Lady Fitzgerald. 

"Somers is too often with him, too near to him in all the affairs ofhis life. I really think he is wise to send for Mr. Prendergast. Wedo not know him, but I believe him to be a good man. "

Then Lady Fitzgerald had expressed herself as satisfied--assatisfied as she could be, seeing that her husband would not takeher into his confidence; and after this it was settled that Herbertshould at once ride over to Desmond Court, and explain that Clara'svisit had better be postponed. 

Herbert got off his horse at the gate, and gave it to one of thechildren at the lodge to lead after him. His horse would not followhim, Clara said to herself as they walked back together towards thehouse. She could not prevent her mind running off in that direction. She would fain not have thought of Owen as she thus hung uponHerbert's arm, but as yet she had not learned to control herthoughts. His horse had followed him lovingly-the dogs about theplace had always loved him-the men and women of the whole countryround, old and young, all spoke of him with a sort of love:everybody admired him. As all this passed through her brain, she washanging on her accepted lover's arm, and listening to his soft sweetwords. 

"Oh, yes! it will be much better, " she said, answering his proposalthat she should put off her visit to Castle Richmond. "But I am sosorry that Sir Thomas should be ill. Mr. Prendergast is not adoctor, is he?"

And then Herbert explained that Mr. Prendergast was not a doctor, that he was a physician for the mind rather than for the body. Regarding Clara as already one of his own family, he told her asmuch as he had told his mother. He explained that there was somedeep sorrow weighing on his father's heart of which they none ofthem knew anything save its existence; that there might be somemisfortune coming on Sir Thomas of which he, Herbert, could not evenguess the nature; but that everything would be told to this Mr. Prendergast. 

"It is very sad, " said Herbert. 

"Very sad; very sad, " said Clara, with tears in her eyes. "Poorgentleman! I wish that we could comfort him. "

"And I do hope that we may, " said Herbert. 

"Somers seems to think that his mind is partly affected, and thatthis misfortune, whatever it be, may not improbably be less seriousthan we anticipate;-that it weighs heavier on him than it would do, were he altogether well. "

"And your mother, Herbert?"

"Oh, yes; she also is to be pitied. Sometimes, for moments, sheseems to dread some terrible misfortune; but I believe that in hercalm judgment she thinks that our worst calamity is the state of myfather's health. "

Neither in discussing the matter with his mother or Clara, nor inthinking it over when alone, did it ever occur to Herbert that hehimself might be individually subject to the misfortune over whichhis father brooded. Sir Thomas had spoken piteously to him, andcalled him poor, and had seemed to grieve over what might happen tohim; but this had been taken by the son as a part of his father'smalady. 

Everything around him was now melancholy, and therefore these termshad not seemed to have any special force of their own. He did notthink it necessary to warn Clara that bad days might be in store forboth of them, or to caution her that their path of love might yet bemade rough. 

"And whom do you think I met, just now, on horseback?" he asked, assoon as this question of her visit had been decided. 

"Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, probably, " said Clara. "He went from henceabout an hour since. "

"Owen Fitzgerald here!" he repeated, as though the tidings of such avisit having been made were not exactly pleasant to him. "I thoughtthat Lady Desmond did not even see him now. "

"His visit was to me, Herbert, and I will explain it to you. I wasjust going to tell you when you first came in, only you began aboutCastle Richmond. "

"And have you seen him?"

"Oh yes, I saw him. Mamma thought it best. Yesterday he wrote a noteto me which I will show you. " And then she gave him such an accountof the interview as was possible to her, making it, at any rate, intelligible to him that Owen had come thither to claim her forhimself, having heard the rumour of her engagement to his cousin. 

"It was inexcusable on his part--unpardonable!" said Herbert, speaking with an angry spot on his face, and with more energy thanwas usual with him. 

"Was it? why?" said Clara, innocently. She felt unconsciously thatit was painful to her to hear Owen ill spoken of by her lover, andthat she would fain excuse him if she could. 

"Why, dearest? Think what motives he could have had; what otherobject than to place you in a painful position, and to cause troubleand vexation to us all. Did he not know that we were engaged?"

"Oh yes; he knew that;--at least, no; I am not quite sure--I thinkhe said that he had heard it but did not---"

"Did not what, love?"

"I think he said he did not quite believe it;" and then she wasforced, much against her will, to describe to her betrothed how Owenhad boldly claimed her as his own. 

"His conduct has been unpardonable, " said Herbert, again. "Nay, ithas been ungentleman-like. He has intruded himself where he wellknew that he was not wanted; and he has done so taking advantage ofa few words which, under the present circumstances, he should forcehimself to forget. "

"But, Herbert, it is I that have been to blame. "

"No; you have not been in blame. I tell you honestly that I can layno blame at your door. At the age you were then, it was impossiblethat you should know your own mind. And even had your promise to himbeen of a much more binding nature, his subsequent conduct, and yourmother's remonstrance, as well as your own age, would have releasedyou from it without any taint of falsehood. He knew all this as wellas I do; and I am surprised that he should have forced his way intoyour mother's house with the mere object of causing youembarrassment. "

It was marvellous how well Herbert Fitzgerald could lay down the lawon the subject of Clara's conduct, and on all that was due to her, and all that was not due to Owen. He was the victor; he had gainedthe prize; and therefore it was so easy for him to acquit hispromised bride, and heap reproaches on the head of his rejectedrival. Owen had been told that he was not wanted, and of courseshould have been satisfied with his answer. Why should he intrudehimself among happy people with his absurd aspirations? For werethey not absurd? Was it not monstrous on his part to suppose that hecould marry Clara Desmond?

It was in this way that Herbert regarded the matter. But it was notexactly in that way that Clara looked at it. "He did not force hisway in. " she said. "He wrote to ask if we would see him; and mammasaid that she thought it better. "

"That is forcing his way in the sense that I meant it; and if I findthat he gives further annoyance I shall tell him what I think aboutit. I will not have you persecuted. "

"Herbert, if you quarrel with him you will make me wretched. I thinkit would kill me. "

"I shall not do it if I can help it, Clara. But it is my duty toprotect you, and if it becomes necessary I must do so; you have nofather, and no brother of an age to speak to him, and thatconsideration alone should have saved you from such an attack. "

Clara said nothing more, for she knew that she could not speak outto him the feelings of her heart. She could not plead to him thatshe had injured Owen, that she had loved him and then given him up;that she had been false to him: she could not confess that, afterall, the tribute of such a man's love could not be regarded by heras an offence. So she said nothing further, but walked on insilence, leaning on his arm. 

They were now close to the house, and as they drew near to it LadyDesmond met them on the door-step. "I dare say you have heard thatwe had a visitor here this morning, " she said, taking Herbert's handin an affectionate motherly way, and smiling on him with all hersweetness. 

Herbert said that he had heard it, and expressed an opinion that Mr. Owen Fitzgerald would have been acting far more wisely to haveremained at home at Hap House. 

"Yes, perhaps so; certainly so, " said Lady Desmond, putting her armwithin that of her future son, and walking back with him through thegreat hall. "He would have been wiser: he would have saved dearClara from a painful half-hour, and he would have saved himself fromperhaps years of sorrow. He has been very foolish to rememberClara's childhood as he does remember it. But, my dear Herbert, whatcan we do? You lords of creation sometimes will be foolish evenabout such trifling things as women's hearts. "

And then, when Herbert still persisted that Owen's conduct had beeninexcusable and ungentlemanlike, she softly flattered him intoquiescence. "You must not forget, " she said, "that he perhaps hasloved Clara almost as truly as you do. And then what harm can he do?It is not very probable that he should succeed in winning Clara awayfrom you!"

"Oh no, it is not that I mean. It is for Clara's sake. "

"And she, probably, will never see him again till she is your wife. That event will, I suppose, take place at no very remote period. "

"As soon as ever my father's health will admit. That is if I canpersuade Clara to be so merciful. "

"To tell the truth, Herbert, I think you could persuade her toanything. Of course we must not hurry her too much. As for me, mylosing her will be very sad; you can understand that; but I wouldnot allow any feeling of my own to stand in her way forhalf-an-hour. "

"She will be very near you, you know. "

"Yes, she will; and therefore, as I was saying, it would be absurdfor you to quarrel with Mr. Owen Fitzgerald. For myself, I am sorryfor him--very sorry for him. You know the whole story of whatoccurred between him and Clara, and of course you will understandthat my duty at that time was plain. Clara behaved admirably, and ifonly he would not be so foolish, the whole matter might beforgotten. As far as you and I are concerned I think it may beforgotten. "

"But then his coming here?"

"That will not be repeated. I thought it better to show him that wewere not afraid of him, and therefore I permitted it. Had Iconceived that you would have objected--"

"Oh no!" said Herbert. 

"Well, there was not much for you to be afraid of, certainly, " saidthe countess. And so he was appeased, and left the house promisingthat he, at any rate, would do nothing that might lead to a quarrelwith his cousin Owen. 

Clara, who had still kept on her bonnet, again walked down with himto the lodge, and encountered his first earnest supplication that anearly day should be named for their marriage. She had many reasons, excellent good reasons, to allege why this should not be the case. When was a girl of seventeen without such reasons? And it is soreasonable that she should have such reasons. That period of havinglove made to her must be by far the brightest in her life. Is it notalways a pity that it should be abridged?

"But your father's illness, Herbert, you know. "

Herbert acknowledged that, to a certain extent, his father's illnesswas a reason--only to a certain extent. It would be worse thanuseless to think of waiting till his father's health should bealtogether strong. Just for the present, till Mr. Prendergast shouldhave gone, and perhaps for a fortnight longer, it might be well towait. But after that--and then he pressed very closely the handwhich rested on his arm. And so the matter was discussed betweenthem with language and arguments which were by no means original. 

At the gate, just as Herbert was about to remount his horse, theywere encountered by a sight which for years past had not beenuncommon in the south of Ireland, but which had become frightfullycommon during the last two or three months. A woman was standingthere of whom you could hardly say that she was clothed, though shewas involved in a mass of rags which covered her nakedness. Her headwas all uncovered, and her wild black hair was streaming round herface. Behind her back hung two children enveloped among the rags insome mysterious way; and round about her on the road stood threeothers, of whom the two younger were almost absolutely naked. Theeldest of the five was not above seven. They all had the same wildblack eyes, and wild elfish straggling locks; but neither the mothernor the children were comely. She was short ad broad in theshoulders, though wretchedly thin; her bare legs seemed to be ofnearly the same thickness up to the knee, and the naked limbs of thechildren were like yellow sticks. It is strange how various are thekinds of physical development among the Celtic peasantry in Ireland. In many places they are singularly beautiful, especially aschildren; and even after labour and sickness shall have told on themas labour and sickness will tell, they still retain a certainsoftness and grace which is very nearly akin to beauty. But thenagain in a neighbouring district they will be found to be squat, uncouth, and in no way attractive to the eye. The tint of thecomplexion, the nature of the hair, the colour of the eyes, shall bethe same. But in one place it will seem as though noble blood hadproduced delicate limbs and elegant stature, whereas in the other awant of noble blood had produced the reverse. The peasants of Clare, Limerick, and Tipperary are, in this way, much more comely thanthose of Cork and Kerry. 

When Herbert and Clara reached the gate they found this mother withher five children crouching at the ditch-side, although it was stillmid-winter. They had seen him enter the demesne, and were nowwaiting with the patience of poverty for his return. 

"An' the holy Virgin guide an' save you, my lady, " said the woman, almost frightening Clara by the sudden way in which she cameforward, "an' you too, Misther Herbert; and for the love of heavendo something for a poor crathur whose five starving childher havenot had wholesome food within their lips for the last week past. "

Clara looked at them piteously and put her hand towards her pocket. Her purse was never well furnished, and now in these bad days wasusually empty. At the present moment it was wholly so. "I havenothing to give her; not a penny, " she said, whispering to herlover. 

But Herbert had learned deep lessons of political economy, and wasby no means disposed to give promiscuous charity on the road-side. "What is your name, " said he; "and from where do you come?"

"Shure, an' it's yer honor knows me well enough; and her ladyshiptoo; may the heavens be her bed. And don't I come from Clady; thatis two long miles the fur side of it? And my name is Bridget Sheehy. Shure, an' yer ladyship remembers me at Clady the first day ye warover there about the biler. "

Clara looked at her, and thought that she did remember her, but shesaid nothing. "And who is your husband?" said Herbert. 

"Murty Brien, plaze yer honor;" and the woman ducked a curtsey withthe heavy load of two children on her back. It must be understoodthat among the poorer classes in the south and west of Ireland it isalmost rare for a married woman to call herself or to be called byher husband's name. 

"And is he not at work?"

"Shure, an' he is, yer honor--down beyant Kinsale by the say. Butwhat's four shilling a week for a man's diet, let alone a woman andfive bairns?"

"And so he has deserted you?"

"No, yer honor; he's not dasarted me thin. He's a good man and akind, av' he had the mains. But we've a cabin up here, on herladyship's ground that is; and he has sent me up among my ownpeople, hoping that times would come round; but faix, yer honor, I'mthinking that they'll never come round, no more. "

"And what do you want now, Bridget?"

"What is it I'm wanting? just a thrifle of money then to get a supof milk for thim five childher as is starving and dying for the wantof it. " And she pointed to the wretched, naked brood around her witha gesture which in spite of her ugliness had in it something oftragic grandeur. 

"But you know that we will not give money. They will take you in atthe poorhouse at Kanturk. "

"Is it the poorhouse, yer honor?"

"Or, if you get a ticket from your priest they will give you mealtwice a week at Clady. You know that. Why do you not go to FatherConnellan?"

"Is it the mail? An' shure an' haven't I had it the last month past;nothin' else; not a taste of a piaty or a dhrop of milk for nigh amonth, and now look at the childher. Look at them, my lady. They aredyin' by the very road-side. " And she undid the bundle at her back, and laying the two babes down on the road, showed that the elder ofthem was in truth in a fearful state. It was a child nearly twoyears of age, but its little legs seemed to have withered away; itscheeks were wan, and yellow and sunken, and the two teeth which ithad already cut were seen with terrible plainness through itsemaciated lips. Its head and forehead were covered with sores; andthen the mother, moving aside the rags, showed that its back andlegs were in the same state. "Look to that, " she said, almost withscorn. "That's what the mail has done--my black curses be upon it, and the day that it first come nigh the counthry. " And then againshe covered the child and began to resume her load. 

"Do give her something, Herbert, pray do, " said Clara, with herwhole face suffused with tears. 

"You know that we cannot give away money, " said Herbert, arguingwith Bridget Sheehy, and not answering Clara at the moment. "Youunderstand enough of what is being done to know that. Why do you notgo into the Union?"

"Shure thin an' I'll jist tramp on as fur as Hap House, I and mychildher; that is av' they do not die by the road-side. Come on, bairns. Mr. Owen won't be afther sending me to the Kanturk unionwhen I tell him that I've travelled all thim miles to get a dhrinkof milk for a sick babe; more by token when I tells him also thatI'm one of the Desmond tinantry. It's he that loves the Desmonds, Lady Clara, --loves them as his own heart's blood. And it's I thatwish him good luck with his love, in spite of all that's come andgone yet. Come on, bairns, come along; we have seven weary miles towalk. "

And then, having rearranged her burden on her back, she preparedagain to start. 

Herbert Fitzgerald, from the first moment of his interrogating thewoman, had of course known that he would give her somewhat. In spiteof all his political economy, there were but few days in which hedid not empty his pocket of his loose silver, with these culpabledeviations from his theoretical philosophy. But yet he felt that itwas his duty to insist on his rules, as far as his heart would allowhim to do so. It was a settled thing at their relief committee thatthere should be no giving away of money to chance applicants foralms. What money each had to bestow would go twice further by beingbrought to the general fund--by being expended with forethought anddiscrimination. This was the system which all attempted, which allresolved to adopt who were then living in the south of Ireland. Butthe system was impracticable, for it required frames of iron andhearts of adamant. It was impossible not to waste money inalmsgiving. 

"Oh, Herbert!" said Clara, imploringly, as the woman prepared tostart. 

"Bridget, come here, " said Herbert, and he spoke very seriously, forthe woman's allusion to Owen Fitzgerald had driven a cloud acrosshis brow. "Your child is very ill, and therefore I will give yousomething to help you, " and he gave her a shilling and twosixpences. 

"May the God in heaven bless you thin, and make you happy, whoeverwins the bright darling by your side; and may the good days comeback to yer house and all that belongs to it. May yer wife clave toyou all her days, and be a good mother to your childher. " And shewould have gone on further with her blessing had not he interruptedher. 

"Go on now, my good woman, " said he, "and take your children wherethey may be warm. If you will be advised by me, you will go to theUnion at Kanturk. " And so the woman passed on still blessing them. Very shortly after this none of them required pressing to go to theworkhouse. Every building that could be arranged for the purpose wasfilled to overflowing as soon as it was ready. But the worst of thefamine had not come upon them as yet. And then Herbert rode back toCastle Richmond. 

CHAPTER XVII

FATHER BARNEY

Mick O'Dwyer's public-house at Kanturk was by no means sopretentious an establishment as that kept by his brother in SouthMain Street, Cork, but it was on the whole much less nasty. It was adrinking-shop and a public car office, and such places in Irelandare seldom very nice; but there was no attempt at hotel grandeur, and the little room in which the family lived behind the bar wasnever invaded by customers. 

On one evening just at this time--at the time, that is, with whichwe have been lately concerned--three persons were sitting in thisroom over a cup of tea. There was a gentleman, midddle-aged, butnone the worse on that account, who has already been introduced inthese pages as Father Bernard M'Carthy. He was the parish priest ofDrumbarrow; and as his parish comprised a portion of the town ofKanturk, he lived, not exactly in the town, but within a mile of it. His sister had married Mr. O'Dwyer of South Main Street, andtherefore he was quite at home in the little back parlour of MickO'Dwyer's house in Kanturk. Indeed Father Bernard was a man who madehimself at home in the houses of most of his parishioners, --and ofsome who were not his parishioners. 

His companions on the present occasion were two ladies who seemed tobe emulous in supplying his wants. The younger and more attractiveof the two was also an old friend of ours, being no other than FannyO'Dwyer from South Main Street. Actuated, doubtless, by someimportant motive she had left her bar at home for one night, havingcome down to Kanturk by her father's car, with the intention ofreturning by it in the morning. She was seated as a guest here onthe corner of the sofa near the fire, but nevertheless she wasneither too proud nor too strange in her position to administer asbest she might to the comfort of her uncle. 

The other lady was Mistress O'Dwyer, the lady of the mansion. Shewas fat, very; by no means fair, and perhaps something over forty. But nevertheless there were those who thought that she had hercharms. A better hand at curing a side of bacon there was not in thecounty Cork, nor a woman who was more knowing in keeping a housestraight and snug over her husband's head. That she had been worthmore than a fortune to Mick O'Dwyer was admitted by all in Kanturk;for it was known to all that Mick O'Dwyer was not himself a goodhand at keeping a house straight and snug. 

"Another cup of tay, Father Bernard, " said this lady. "It'll be moreto your liking now than the first, you'll find. " Father Barney, perfectly reliant on her word, handed in his cup. 

"And the muffin is quite hot, " said Fanny, stooping down to a traywhich stood before the peat fire, holding the muffin dish. "Butperhaps you'd like a morsel of buttered toast; say the word, uncle, and I'll make it in a brace of seconds. "

"In course she will, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer: "and happy too, av you'llonly say that you have a fancy, Father Bernard. "

But Father Bernard would not own to any such fancy. The muffin, hesaid, was quite to his liking, and so was the tea; and from themanner in which he disposed of these delicacies, even Mrs. Townsendmight have admitted that this assertion was true, though she waswont to express her belief that nothing but lies could, by anypossibility, fall from his mouth. 

"And they have been staying with you now for some weeks, haven'tthey?" said Father Barney. 

"Off and on, " said Fanny. 

"But there's one of them mostly there, isn't he?" added the priest. 

"The two of them is mostly there, just now. Sometimes one goes awayfor a day or two, and sometimes the other. "

"And they have no business which keeps them in Cork?" continued thepriest, who seemed to be very curious on the matter. 

"Well, they do have business, I suppose, " said Fanny, "but av so Inever sees it. "

Fanny O'Dwyer had a great respect for her uncle, seeing that hefilled an exalted position, and was a connexion of whom she could bejustly proud; but, though she had now come down to Kanturk with theview of having a good talk with her aunt and uncle about theMolletts, she would only tell as much as she liked to tell, even tothe parish priest of Drumbarrow. And we may as well explain herethat Fanny had now permanently made up her mind to reject the suitof Mr. Abraham Mollett. As she had allowed herself to see more andmore of the little domestic ways of that gentleman, and to becomeintimate with him as a girl should become with the man she intendsto marry, she had gradually learned to think that he hardly came upto her beau ideal of a lover. That he was crafty and false did notperhaps offend her as it should have done. Dear Fanny, excellent andgracious as she was, could herself be crafty on occasions. He dranktoo, but that came in the way of her profession. It is hard, perhaps, for a barmaid to feel much severity against that offence. But in addition to this Aby was selfish and cruel and insolent, andseldom altogether good tempered. He was bad to his father, and badto those below him whom he employed. Old Mollett would give away hissixpences with a fairly liberal hand, unless when he was exasperatedby drink and fatigue. But Aby seldom gave away a penny. Fanny hadsharp eyes, and soon felt that her English lover was not a man to beloved, though he had two rings, a gold chain, and half a dozen finewaistcoats. 

And then another offence had come to light in which the Mollettswere both concerned. Since their arrival in South Main Street theyhad been excellent customers--indeed quite a godsend, in thislight, to Fanny, who had her own peculiar profit out of suchhouse-customers as they were. They had paid their money like trueBritons, --not regularly indeed, for regularity had not beendesired, but by a five pound now, and another in a day or two, justas they were wanted. Nothing indeed could be better than this, forbills so paid are seldom rigidly scrutinized. But of late, withinthe last week, Fanny's requests for funds had not been so promptlymet, and only on the day before her visit to Kanturk she had beenforced to get her father to take a bill from Mr. Mollett senior for20_l. _ at two months' date. This was a great come-down, as both Fannyand her father felt, and they had begun to think that it might bewell to bring their connexion with the Molletts to a close. What ifan end had come to the money of these people, and their bills shouldbe dishonoured when due? It was all very well for a man to haveclaims against Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, but Fanny O'Dwyer had alreadylearnt that nothing goes so far in this world as ready cash. 

"They do have business, I suppose, " said Fanny. 

"It won't be worth much, I'm thinking, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer, "when they can't pay their weekly bills at a house of publicentertainment, without flying their names at two months' date. "

Mrs. O'Dwyer hated any such payments herself, and looked on them ascertain signs of immorality. That every man should take his drop ofdrink, consume it noiselessly, and pay for it immediately--that washer idea of propriety in its highest form. 

"And they've been down here three or four times, each of them, " saidFather Barney, thinking deeply on the subject. 

"I believe they have, " said Fanny. "But of course I don't know muchof where they've been to. "

Father Barney knew very well that his dear niece had been on muchmore intimate terms with her guest than she pretended. The rumourshad reached his ears some time since that the younger of the twostrangers in South Main Street was making himself agreeable to theheiress of the hotel, and he had intended to come down upon her withall the might of an uncle, and, if necessary, with all the authorityof the Church. But now that Fanny had discarded her lover, he wiselyfelt that it would be well for him to know nothing about it. Bothuncles and priests may know too much--very foolishly. 

"I have seen them here myself, " said he, "and they have both been upat Castle Richmond. "

"They do say as poor Sir Thomas is in a bad way, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer, shaking her head piteously. 

"And yet he sees these men, " said Father Barney. "I know that forcertain. He has seen them, though he will rarely see anybodynow-a-days. "

"Young Mr. Herbert is a-doing most of the business up about theplace, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer. "And people do say as how he is going tomake a match of it with Lady Clara Desmond. And it's the lucky girlshe'll be, for he's a nice young fellow entirely. "

"Not half equal to her other Joe, Mr. Owen that is, " said Fanny. 

"Well, I don't know that, my dear. Such a house and property asCastle Richmond is not likely to go a-begging among the young women. And then Mr. Herbert is not so rampageous like as him of Hap house, by all accounts. "

But Father Barney still kept to his subject. "And they are both atyour place at the present moment, eh, Fanny?"

"They was to dine there, after I left. "

"And the old man said he'd be down here again next Thursday, "continued the priest. "I heard that for certain. I'll tell you whatit is, they're not after any good here. They are Protestants, ain'tthey?"

"Oh, black Protestants, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer. "But you are not takingyour tay, Father Bernard, " and she again filled his cup for him. 

"If you'll take my advice, Fanny, you'll give them nothing morewithout seeing their money. They'll come to no good here, I'm sureof that. They're afther some mischief with that poor old gentlemanat Castle Richmond, and it's my belief the police will have thembefore they've done. "

"Like enough, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer. 

"They may have them to-morrow, for what I care, " said Fanny, whocould not help feeling that Aby Mollett had at one time been notaltogether left without hope as her suitor. 

"But you wouldn't like anything like that to happen in your father'shouse, " said Father Barney. 

"Bringing throuble and disgrace on an honest name, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer. 

"There'd be no disgrace as I knows of, " said Fanny, stoutly. "Fathermakes his money by the public, and in course he takes in any thatcomes the way with money in their pockets to pay the shot. "

"But these Molletts ain't got the money to pay the shot, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer, causticly. "You've about sucked 'em dhry, I'm thinking, andthey owes you more now than you're like to get from 'em. "

"I suppose father'll have to take that bill up, " said Fanny, assenting. And so it was settled down there among them that theMolletts were to have the cold shoulder, and that they should infact be turned out of the Kanturk Hotel as quickly as this could bedone. "Better a small loss at first, than a big one at last, " saidMrs. O'Dwyer, with much wisdom. "They'll come to mischief down here, as sure as my name's M'Carthy, " said the priest. "And I'd be sorryyour father should be mixed up in it. "

And then by degrees the conversation was changed, but not till thetea-things had been taken away, and a square small bottle of veryparticular whisky put on the table in its place. And the sugar alsowas brought, and boiling water in an immense jug, as though FatherBarney were going to make a deep potation indeed, and a lemon in awine-glass; and then the priest was invited, with much hospitality, to make himself comfortable. Nor did the luxuries prepared for himend here; but Fanny, the pretty Fan herself, filled a pipe for him, and pretended that she would light it, for such priests are merryenough sometimes, and can joke as well as other men with theirpretty nieces. 

"But you're not mixing your punch, Father Bernard, " said Mrs. O'Dwyer, with a plaintive melancholy voice, "and the wather gettingcowld and all! Faix then, Father Bernard, I'll mix it for ye, so Iwill. " And so she did, and well she knew how. And then she madeanother for herself and her niece, urging that "a thimbleful woulddo Fanny all the good in life afther her ride acrass them cowldmountains, " and the priest looked on assenting, blowing thecomfortable streams of smoke from his nostrils. 

"And so, Father Bernard, you and Parson Townsend is to meet againto-morrow at Gortnaclough. " Whereupon Father Bernard owned that suchwas the case, with a nod, not caring to disturb the pipe which laycomfortably on his lower lip. 

"Well, well; only to think on it, " continued Mrs. O'Dwyer. "That thesame room should hould the two of ye. " And she lifted up her handsand shook her head. 

"It houlds us both very comfortable, I can assure you, Mrs. O'Dwyer. "

"And he ain't rampageous and highty-tighty? He don't give hisself noairs?"

"Well, no; nothing in particular. Why should the man be such a foolas that?"

"Why, in course? But they are such fools, Father Bernard. They doesthink theyselves such grand folks. Now don't they? I'd give a dandyof punch all round to the company just to hear you put him downonce; I would. But he isn't upsetting at all, then?"

"Not the last time we met, he wasn't; and I don't think he intendsit. Things have come to that now that the parsons know where theyare and what they have to look to. They're getting a lesson they'llnot forget in a hurry. Where are their rent charges to come from--can you tell me that, Mrs. O'Dwyer?"

Mrs. O'Dwyer could not, but she remarked that pride would alwayshave a fall. "And there's no pride like Protesthant pride, " saidFanny. "It is so upsetting, I can't abide it. " All which tended toshow that she had given up her Protestant lover. 

"And is it getthing worse than iver with the poor crathurs?" saidMrs. O'Dwyer, referring, not to the Protestants, but to the victimsof the famine. 

"Indeed it's getting no betther, " said the priest, "and I'm fearingit will be worse before it is over. I haven't married one couple inDrumbarrow since November last. "

"And that's a heavy sign, Father Bernard. "

"The surest sign in the world that they have no money among them atall, at all. And it is bad with thim, Mrs. O'Dwyer, --very bad, verybad indeed. "

"Glory be to God, the poor cratures!" said the soft-hearted lady. "It isn't much the like of us have to give away, Father Bernard; Ineedn't be telling you that. But we'll help, you know, --we'll help. "

"And so will father, uncle Bernard. If you're so bad off about hereI know he'll give you a thrifle for the asking. " In a short time, however, it came to pass that those in the cities could spare no aidto the country. Indeed it may be a question whether the city povertywas not the harder of the two. 

"God bless you both--you've soft hearts, I know. " And Father Barneyput his punch to his lips. "Whatever you can do for me shall not bethrown away. And I'll tell you what, Mrs. O'Dwyer, it does behove usall to put our best foot out now. We will not let them say that thePapists would do nothing for their own poor. "

"'Deed then an' they'll say anything of us, Father Bernard. There'snothing too hot or too heavy for them. "

"At any rate let us not deserve it, Mrs. O'Dwyer. There will be alot of them at Gortnaclough to-morrow, and I shall tell them thatwe, on our side, won't be wanting. To give them their due, I mustsay that they are working well. That young Herbert Fitzgerald's atrump, whether he's Protestant or Catholic. "

"An' they do say he's a strong bearing towards the ould religion, "said Mrs. O'Dwyer. 

"God bless his sweet young face av' he'd come back to us. That'swhat I say. "

"God bless his face any way, say I, " said Father Barney, with awider philanthropy. "He is doing his best for the people, and thetime has come now when we must hang together, if it be any waypossible. " And with this the priest finished his pipe, and wishingthe ladies good night, walked away to his own house. 

CHAPTER XVIII

THE RELIEF COMMITTEE

At this time the famine was beginning to be systematised. Thesternest among landlords and masters were driven to acknowledge thatthe people had not got food, or the means of earning it. The peoplethemselves were learning that a great national calamity hadhappened, and that the work was God's work; and the Government hadfully recognized the necessity of taking the whole matter into itsown hands. They were responsible for the preservation of the people, and they acknowledged their responsibility. 

And then two great rules seemed to get themselves laid down--not bygeneral consent, for there were many who greatly contested theirwisdom--but by some force strong enough to make itself dominant. Thefirst was, that the food to be provided should be earned and notgiven away. And the second was, that the providing of that foodshould be left to private competition, and not in any way beundertaken by the Government. I make bold to say that both theserules were wise and good. 

But how should the people work? That Government should supply thewages was of course an understood necessity; and it was alsonecessary that on all such work the amount of wages should beregulated by the price at which provisions might fix themselves. These points produced questions which were hotly debated by theRelief Committees of the different districts; but at last it gotitself decided, again by the hands of Government, that all hillsalong the country roads should be cut away, and that the peopleshould be employed on this work. They were so employed, --very littleto the advantage of the roads for that or some following years. 

"So you have begun, my men, " said Herbert to a gang of labourerswhom he found collected at a certain point on Ballydahan Hill, whichlay on his road from Castle Richmond to Gortnaclough. In saying thishe had certainly paid them an unmerited compliment, for they hadhitherto begun nothing. Some thirty or forty wretched-looking menwere clustered together in the dirt and slop and mud, on the brow ofthe hill, armed with such various tools as each was able tofind--with tools, for the most part, which would go but a little wayin making Ballydahan Hill level or accessible. This question oftools also came to a sort of understood settlement before long; andwithin three months of the time of which I am writing legions ofwheelbarrows were to be seen lying near every hill; wheelbarrows inhundreds and thousands. The fate of those myriads of wheelbarrowshas always been a mystery to me. 

"So you have begun, my men, " said Herbert, addressing them in akindly voice. There was a couple of gangsmen with them, men a littleabove the others in appearance, but apparently incapable ofcommencing the work in hand, for they also were standing idle, leaning against a bit of wooden paling. It had, however, beendecided that the works at Ballydahan Hill should begin on this day, and there were the men assembled. One fact admitted of no doubt, namely, this, that the wages would begin from this day. 

And then the men came and clustered round Herbert's horse. They werewretched-looking creatures, half-clad, discontented, with hungryeyes, each having at his heart's core a deep sense of injustice donepersonally upon him. They hated this work of cutting hills from thecommencement to the end, --hated it, though it was to bring themwages and save them and theirs from actual famine and death. Theyhad not been accustomed to the discomfort of being taken far fromtheir homes to their daily work. Very many of them had never workedregularly for wages, day after day, and week after week. Up to thistime such was not the habit of Irish cottiers. They held their ownland, and laboured there for a spell; and then they would work for aspell, as men do in England, taking wages; and then they would beidle for a spell. It was not exactly a profitable mode of life, butit had its comforts; and now these unfortunates who felt themselvesto be driven forth like cattle in droves for the first time, suffered the full wretchedness of their position. They were notrough and unruly, or inclined to be troublesome and perhaps violent, as men similarly circumstanced so often are in England;--as Irishmenare when collected in gangs out of Ireland. They had no aptitudesfor such roughness, and no spirits for such violence. But they weremelancholy, given to complaint, apathetic, and utterly withoutinterest in that they were doing. 

"Yz, yer honer, " said one man who was standing, shaking himself, with his hands enveloped in the rags of his pockets. He had on nocoat, and the keen north wind seemed to be blowing through hisbones; cold, however, as he was, he would do nothing towards warminghimself, unless that occasional shake can be considered as a doingof something. "Yz, yer honer; we've begun thin since before daylightthis blessed morning. "

It was now eleven o'clock, and a pick-axe had not been put into theground, nor the work marked. 

"Been here before daylight!" said Herbert. "And has there beennobody to set you to work?"

"Divil a sowl, yer honer, " said another, who was sitting on ahedge-bank leaning with both his hands on a hoe, which he heldbetween his legs, "barring Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady; they two dobe over us, but they knows nothin' o' such jobs as this. "

Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady had with others moved up so as to beclose to Herbert's horse, but they said not a word towardsvindicating their own fitness for command. 

"And it's mortial cowld standing here thin, " said another, "withouta bit to ate or a sup to dhrink since last night, and then only alump of the yally mail. " And the speaker moved about on his toes andheels, desirous of keeping his blood in circulation with thesmallest possible amount of trouble. 

"I'm telling the boys it's home we'd betther be going, " said afourth. 

"And lose the tizzy they've promised us, " said he of the hoe. 

"Sorrow a tizzy they'll pay any of yez for standing here all day, "said an ill-looking little wretch of a fellow, with a black muzzleand a squinting eye; "ye may all die in the road first. " And the manturned away among the crowd, as an Irishman does who has made hisspeech and does not want to be answered. 

"You need have no fear about that, my men, " said Herbert. "Whetheryou be put to work or no you'll receive your wages; you may take myword for that. "

"I've been telling 'em that for the last half-hour, " said the manwith the hoe, now rising to his feet. "'Shure an' didn't Mr. Somersbe telling us that we'd have saxpence each day as long we war hereafore daylight?' said I, yer honer; 'an' shure an' wasn't it blacknight when we war here this blessed morning, and devil a fear of thetizzy?' said I. But it's mortial cowld, an' it'd be asier fur uz tobe doing a spell of work than crouching about on our hunkers down onthe wet ground. "

All this was true. It had been specially enjoined upon them to beearly at their work. An Irishman as a rule will not come regularlyto his task. It is a very difficult thing to secure his servicesevery morning at six o'clock: but make a special point, --tell himthat you want him very early, and he will come to you in the middleof the night. Breakfast every morning punctually at eight o'clock isalmost impossible in Ireland; but if you want one special breakfast, so that you may start by a train at 4 A. M. , you are sure to beserved. No irregular effort is distasteful to an Irishman of thelower classes, not if it entails on him the loss of a day's food andthe loss of a night's rest; the actual pleasure of the irregularityrepays him for all this, and he never tells you that this or that isnot his work. He prefers work that is not his own. Your coachmanwill have no objection to turn the mangle, but heaven and earth puttogether won't persuade him to take the horses out to exercise everymorning at the same hour. These men had been told to come early, andthey had been there on the road-side since five o'clock. It was notsurprising that they were cold and hungry, listless and unhappy. 

And then, as young Fitzgerald was questioning the so-named gangmenas to the instructions they had received, a jaunting car came up tothe foot of the hill. "We war to wait for the ongineer, " Shawn Bradyhad said, "an' shure an' we have waited. " "An' here's one of MistherCarroll's cars from Mallow, " said Thady Molloy, "and that's theongineer hisself. " Thady Molloy was right; this was the engineerhimself, who had now arrived from Mallow. From this time forth, andfor the next twelve months, the country was full of engineers, or ofmen who were so called. I do not say this in disparagement; but theengineers were like the yellow meal. When there is an immensedemand, and that a suddenly immense demand, for any article, it isseldom easy to get it very good. In those days men became engineerswith a short amount of apprenticeship, but, as a rule, they did notdo their work badly. In such days as those, men, if they be men atall, will put their shoulders to the wheel. 

The engineer was driven up to where they were standing, and hejumped off the car among the men who were to work under him withrather a pretentious air. He had not observed, or probably had notknown, Herbert Fitzgerald. He was a very young fellow, still underone-and-twenty, beardless, light-haired, blue-eyed, and fresh fromEngland. "And what hill is this?" said he to the driver. 

"Ballydahan, shure, yer honer. That last war Connick-a-coppul, andthat other, the big un intirely, where the crass road takes away toButtevant, that was Glounthauneroughtymore. Faix and that's been themurthering hill for cattle since first I knew it. Bedad yer honer'll make it smooth as a bowling-green. "

"Ballydahan, " said the young man, taking a paper out of his pocketand looking up the names in his list, "I've got it. There should bethirty-seven of them here. "

"Shure an' here we are these siven hours, " said our friend of thehoe, "and mighty cowld we are. "

"Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady, " called out the engineer, managingthoroughly to Anglicise the pronunciation of the names, though theywere not Celtically composite to any great degree. 

"Yez, we's here, " said Thady, coming forward. And then Herbert cameup and introduced himself, and the young engineer took off his hat. "I came away from Mallow before eight, " said he apologetically; "butI have four of these places to look after, and when one gets to oneof them it is impossible to get away again. There was one placewhere I was kept two hours before I could get one of the men tounderstand what they were to do. What is it you call that big hill?"

"Glounthauneroughtymore, yer honer, " said the driver, to whom thename was as easy and familiar as his own. 

"And you are going to set these men to work now?" said Herbert. 

"Well, I don't suppose they'll do much to-day, Mr. Fitzgerald. ButI must try and explain to the head men how they are to begin. Theyhave none of them any tools, you see. " And then he called out again. "Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady. "

"We's here, " said Thady again; "we did not exactly know whether yerhoner'd be afther beginning at the top or the botthom. That's allthat war staying us. "

"Never fear, " said Shawn, "but we'll have ould Ballydahan level inless than no time. We're the boys that can do it, fair and aisy. "

It appeared to Herbert that the young engineer seemed to be ratherbewildered by the job of work before him, and therefore he rode on, not stopping to embarrass him by any inspection of his work. Inprocess of time no doubt so much of the top of Ballydahan Hill wascarried to the bottom as made the whole road altogether impassablefor many months. But the great object was gained; the men were fed, and were not fed by charity. What did it matter, that the springs ofevery conveyance in the county Cork were shattered by the process, and that the works resulted in myriads of wheelbarrows?

And then, as he rode on towards Gortnaclough, Herbert was overtakenby his friend the parson, who was also going to the meeting of therelief committee. "You have not seen the men at Ballydahan Hill, have you?" said Herbert. 

Mr. Townsend explained that he had not seen them. His road hadstruck on to that on which they now were not far from the top of thehill. "But I knew they were to be there this morning, " said Mr. Townsend. 

"They have sent quite a lad of a fellow to show them how to work, "said Herbert. "I fear we shall all come to grief with theseroad-cuttings. "

"For heaven's sake don't say that at the meeting, " said Mr. Townsend, "or you'll be playing the priests' game out and out. Father Barney has done all in his power to prevent the works. "

"But what if Father Barney be right?" said Herbert. 

"But he's not right, " said the parson, energetically. "He'saltogether wrong. I never knew one of them right in my life yet inanything. How can they be right?"

"But I think you are mixing up road-making and Church doctrine, Mr. Townsend. "

"I hope I may never be in danger of mixing up God and the devil. Youcannot touch pitch and not be defiled. Remember that, HerbertFitzgerald. "

"I will remember nothing of the kind, " said Herbert. "Am I to setmyself up as a judge and say that this is pitch and that is pitch?Do you remember St. Peter on the housetop? Was not he afraid of whatwas unclean?"

"The meaning of that was that he was to convert the Gentiles, andnot give way to their errors. He was to contend with them and notgive way an inch till he had driven them from their idolatry. " Mr. Townsend had been specially primed by his wife that morning withvigorous hostility against Father Barney, and was grieved to hisheart at finding that his young friend was prepared to take thepriest's part in anything. In this matter of the roads Mr. Townsendwas doubtless right, but hardly on the score of the argumentsassigned by him. 

"I don't mean to say that there should be no road-making, " saidHerbert, after a pause. "The general opinion seems to be that wecan't do better. I only say that we shall come to grief about it. Those poor fellows there have as much idea of cutting down a hill asI have; and it seems to me that the young lad whom I left with themhas not much more. "

"They'll learn all in good time. "

"Let us hope it will be in good time. "

"If we once let them have the idea that we are to feed them inidleness, " said Mr. Townsend, "they will want to go on for ever inthe same way. And then, when they receive such immense sums in moneywages, the priests will be sure to get their share. If the matterhad been left to me, I would have paid the men in meal. I wouldnever have given them money. They should have worked and got theirfood. The priest will get a penny out of every shilling; you'll seeelse. " And so the matter was discussed between them as they wentalong to Gortnaclough. 

When they reached the room in which the committee was held theyfound Mr. Somers already in the chair. Priest M'Carthy was therealso, with his coadjutor, the Rev. Columb Creagh--Father Columb ashe was always called; and there was a Mr. O'Leary from Boherbuy, oneof the middlemen as they were formerly named--though, by the way, Inever knew that word to be current in Ireland; it is familiar toall, and was I suppose common some few years since, but I neverheard the peasants calling such persons by that title. He was one ofthose with whom the present times were likely to go very hard. Hewas not a bad man, unless in so far as this, that he had no idea ofowing any duty to others beyond himself and his family. His doctrineat present amounted to this, that if you left the people alone andgave them no false hopes, they would contrive to live somehow. Hebelieved in a good deal, but he had no belief whatever instarvation, --none as yet. It was probable enough that some belief inthis might come to him now before long. There were also one or twoothers; men who had some stake in the country, but men who hadn't atithe of the interest possessed by Sir Thomas Fitzgerald. 

Mr. Townsend again went through the ceremony of shaking hands withhis reverend brethren, and, on this occasion, did not seem to bemuch the worse for it. Indeed, in looking at the two men cursorily, a stranger might have said that the condescension was all on theother side. Mr. M'Carthy was dressed quite smartly. His blackclothes were spruce and glossy; his gloves, of which he still kepton one and showed the other, were quite new; he was clean shaven, and altogether he had a shiny, bright, ebon appearance about himthat quite did a credit to his side of the Church. But our friendthe parson was discreditably shabby. His clothes were all brown, hiswhite neck-tie could hardly have been clean during the lastforty-eight hours, and was tied in a knot, which had worked itselfnearly round to his ear as he had sat sideways on the car; his bootswere ugly and badly brushed, and his hat was very little better thansome of those worn by the workmen--so called--at Ballydahan Hill. But nevertheless, on looking accurately into the faces of both, onemight see which man was the better nurtured and the better born. That operation with the sow's ear is, one may say, seldom successfulwith the first generation. 

"A beautiful morning, this, " said the coadjutor, addressing HerbertFitzgerald, with a very mild voice and an unutterable look offriendship; as though he might have said, "Here we are in a boattogether, and of course we are all very fond of each other. " To tellthe truth, Father Columb was not a nice-looking young man. He wasred-haired, slightly marked with the small-pox, and had a lowforehead and cunning eyes. 

"Yes, it is a nice morning, " said Herbert. "We don't expect anybodyelse here, do we, Somers?"

"At any rate we won't wait, " said Somers. So he sat down in thearm-chair, and they all went to work. 

"I am afraid, Mr. Somers, " said Mr. M'Carthy from the other end ofthe table, where he had constituted himself a sort of deputychairman, "I am afraid we are going on a wrong tack. " The priest hadshuffled away his chair as he began to speak, and was now standingwith his hands upon the table. It is singular how strong apropensity some men have to get upon their legs in this way. 

"How so, Mr. M'Carthy?" said Somers. "But shan't we be all morecomfortable if we keep our chairs? There'll be less ceremony, won'tthere, Mr. Townsend?"

"Oh! certainly, " said Townsend. 

"Less liable to interruption, perhaps, on our legs, " said FatherColumb, smiling blandly. 

But Mr. M'Carthy was far too wise to fight the question, so he satdown. "Just as you like, " said he; "I can talk any way, sitting orstanding, walking or riding; it's all one to me. But I'll tell youhow we are on the wrong tack. We shall never get these men to workin gangs on the road. Never. They have not been accustomed to bedriven like droves of sheep. "

"But droves of sheep don't work on the road, " said Mr. Townsend. 

"I know that, Mr. Townsend, " continued Mr. M'Carthy. "I am quitewell aware of that. But droves of sheep are driven, and these menwon't bear it. "

"'Deed an' they won't, " said Father Columb, having altogether laidaside his bland smile now that the time had come, as he thought, tospeak up for the people. "They may bear it in England, but theywon't here. " And the sternness of his eye was almost invincible. 

"If they are so foolish, they must be taught better manners, " saidMr. Townsend. "But you'll find they'll work just as other men do--look at the navvies. "

"And look at the navvies' wages, " said Father Columb. 

"Besides, the navvies only go if they like it, " said the parishpriest. 

"And these men need not go unless they like it, " said Mr. Somers. "Only with this proviso, that if they cannot manage for themselvesthey must fall into our way of managing for them. "

"What I say, is this, " said Mr. O'Leary. "Let 'em manage for'emselves. God bless my sowl! Why, we shall be skinned alive if wehave to pay all this money back to Government. If Government choosesto squander thousands in this way, Government should bear the brunt. That's what I say. " Eventually, Government, that is, the wholenation, did bear the brunt. But it would not have been very wise topromise this at the time. 

"But we need hardly debate all that at the present moment, " said Mr. Somers. "That matter of the roads has already been decided for us, and we can't alter it if we would. "

"Then we may as well shut up shop, " said Mr. O'Leary. 

"It's all very aisy to talk in that way, " said Father Columb; "butthe Government, as you call it, can't make men work. It can't forceeight millions of the finest pisantry on God's earth--, " and FatherColumb was, by degrees, pushing away the seat from under him, whenhe was cruelly and ruthlessly stopped by his own parish priest. 

"I beg your pardon for a moment, Creagh, " said he; "but perhaps weare getting a little out of the track. What Mr. Somers says is verytrue. If these men won't work on the road--and I don't think theywill--the responsibility is not on us. That matter has been decidedfor us. "

"Men will sooner work anywhere than starve, " said Mr. Townsend. 

"Some men will, " said Father Columb, with a great deal of meaning inhis tone. What he intended to convey was this--that Protestants, nodoubt, would do so, under the dominion of the flesh; but that RomanCatholics, being under the dominion of the Spirit, would perishfirst. 

"At any rate we must try, " said Father M'Carthy. 

"Exactly, " said Mr. Somers; "and what we have now to do is to seehow we may best enable these workers to live on their wages, and howthose others are to live, who, when all is done, will get no wages. "

"I think we had better turn shopkeepers ourselves, and open storesfor them everywhere, " said Herbert. "That is what we are doingalready at Berryhill. "

"And import our own corn, " said the parson. 

"And where are we to get the money?" said the priest. 

"And why are we to ruin the merchants?" said O'Leary, whose brotherwas in the flour-trade, in Cork. 

"And shut up all the small shopkeepers, " said Father Columb, whosemother was established in that line in the neighbourhood ofCastleisland. 

"We could not do it, " said Somers. "The demand upon us would be sogreat, that we should certainly break down. And then where would webe?"

"But for a time, Somers, " pleaded Herbert. 

"For a time we may do something in that way, till other meanspresent themselves. But we must refuse all out-door relief. They whocannot or do not bring money must go into the workhouses. "

"You will not get houses in county Cork sufficient to holdthem, " said Father Bernard. And so the debate went on, notaltogether without some sparks of wisdom, with many sparks alsoof eager benevolence, and some few passing clouds of fuliginousself-interest. And then lists were produced, with the names onthem of all who were supposed to be in want--which were about tobecome, before long, lists of the whole population of the country. And at last it was decided among them, that in their districtnothing should be absolutely given away, except to old women andwidows, --which kind-hearted clause was speedily neutralised bywomen becoming widows while their husbands were still living; andit was decided also, that as long as their money lasted, thesoup-kitchen at Berryhill should be kept open, and mill kept going, and the little shop maintained, so that to some extent a check mightbe maintained on the prices of the hucksters. And in this way theygot through their work, not perhaps with the sagacity of Solomon, but as I have said, with an average amount of wisdom, as will alwaysbe the case when men set about their tasks with true hearts andhonest minds. 

And then, when they parted, the two clergy-men of the parish shookhands with each other again, having perhaps less animosity againsteach other than they had ever felt before. There had been a joke ortwo over the table, at which both had laughed. The priest had wiselyshown some deference to the parson, and the parson had immediatelyreturned it, by referring some question to the priest. How oftendoes it not happen that when we come across those whom we have hatedand avoided all our lives, we find that they are not quite so bad aswe had thought? That old gentleman of whom we wot is never so blackas he has been painted. 

The work of the committee took them nearly the whole day, so thatthey did not separate till it was nearly dark. When they did so, Somers and Herbert Fitzgerald rode home together. 

"I always live in mortal fear, " said Herbert, "that Townsend and thepriests will break out into warfare. "

"As they haven't done it yet, they won't do it now, " said Somers. "M'Carthy is not without sense, and Townsend, queer and intolerantas he is, has good feeling. If he and Father Columb were lefttogether, I don't know what might happen. Mr. Prendergast is to bewith you the day after to-morrow, is he not?"

"So I understood my father to say. "

"Will you let me give you a bit of advice. Herbert?"

"Certainly. "

"Then don't be in the house much on the day after he comes. He'llarrive, probably, to dinner. "

"I suppose he will. "

"If so, leave Castle Richmond after breakfast the next morning, anddo not return till near dinner-time. It may be that your father willnot wish you to be near him. Whatever this matter may be, you may besure that you will know it before Mr. Prendergast leaves thecountry. I am very glad that he is coming. "

Herbert promised that he would take this advice, and he thoughthimself that among other things he might go over to inspect thatClady boiler, and of course call at Desmond Court on his way. Andthen, when they got near to Castle Richmond, they parted company, Mr. Somers stopping at his own place, and Herbert riding home alone. 

CHAPTER XIX

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY

On the day named by Herbert, and only an hour before dinner, Mr. Prendergast did arrive at Castle Richmond. The Great Southern andWestern Railway was not then open as far as Mallow, and the journeyfrom Dublin was long and tedious. "I'll see him of course, " said SirThomas to Lady Fitzgerald; "but I'll put off this business tillto-morrow. " This he said in a tone of distress and agony, whichshowed too plainly how he dreaded the work which he had before him. "But you'll come in to dinner, " Lady Fitzgerald had said. "No, " heanswered, "not to day, love; I have to think about this. " And he puthis hand up to his head, as though this thinking about it hadalready been too much for him. 

Mr. Prendergast was a man over sixty years of age, being, in fact, considerably senior to Sir Thomas himself. But no one would havedreamed of calling Mr. Prendergast an old man. He was short ofstature, well made, and in good proportion; he was wiry, strong, andalmost robust. He walked as though in putting his foot to the earthhe always wished to proclaim that he was afraid of no man and nothing. His hair was grizzled, and his whiskers were grey, and roundabout his mouth his face was wrinkled; but with him even thesethings hardly seemed to be signs of old age. He was said by many whoknew him to be a stern man, and there was that in his face whichseemed to warrant such a character. But he had also the reputationof being a very just man; and those who knew him best could telltales of him which proved that his sternness was at any ratecompatible with a wide benevolence. He was a man who himself hadknown but little mental suffering, and who owned no mental weakness;and it might be, therefore, that he was impatient of such weaknessin others. To chance acquaintances his manners were not soft, orperhaps palatable; but to his old friends his very brusqueness waspleasing. He was a bachelor, well off in the world, and, to acertain extent, fond of society. He was a solicitor by profession, having his office somewhere in the purlieus of Lincoln's Inn, andliving in an old-fashioned house not far distant from that classicspot. I have said that he owned no mental weakness. When I sayfurther that he was slightly afflicted with personal vanity, andthought a good deal about the set of his hair, the shape of hiscoat, the fit of his boots, the whiteness of his hands, and theexternal trim of his umbrella, perhaps I may be considered to havecontradicted myself. But such was the case. He was a handsome mantoo, with clear, bright, gray eyes, a well-defined nose, andexpressive mouth--of which the lips, however, were somewhat toothin. No man with thin lips ever seems to me to be genially human atall points. 

Such was Mr. Prendergast; and my readers will, I trust, feel for SirThomas, and pity him, in that he was about to place his wounds inthe hands of so ruthless a surgeon. But a surgeon, to be of use, should be ruthless in one sense. He should have the power of cuttingand cauterizing, of phlebotomy and bone-handling without effect onhis own nerves. This power Mr. Prendergast possessed, and thereforeit may be said that Sir Thomas had chosen his surgeon judiciously. None of the Castle Richmond family, except Sir Thomas himself, hadever seen this gentleman, nor had Sir Thomas often come across himof late years. But he was what we in England call an old familyfriend; and I doubt whether we in England have any more valuableEnglish characteristic than that of having old family friends. Oldfamily feuds are not common with us now-a-days--not so common aswith some other people. Sons who now hated their father's enemieswould have but a bad chance before a commission of lunacy; but anold family friend is supposed to stick to one from generation togeneration. 

On his arrival at Castle Richmond he was taken in to Sir Thomasbefore dinner. "You find me but in a poor state, " said Sir Thomas, shaking in his fear of what was before him, as the poor wretch doesbefore an iron-wristed dentist who is about to operate. "You will bebetter soon, " Mr. Prendergast had said, as a man always does sayunder such circumstances. What other remark was possible to him?"Sir Thomas thinks that he had better not trouble you with businessto-night, " said Lady Fitzgerald. To this also Mr. Prendergast agreedwillingly. "We shall both of us be fresher to-morrow, afterbreakfast, " he remarked, as if any time made any difference tohim, --as though he were not always fresh, and ready for any workthat might turn up. 

That evening was not passed very pleasantly by the family at CastleRichmond. To all of them Mr. Prendergast was absolutely a stranger, and was hardly the man to ingratiate himself with strangers at thefirst interview. And then, too, they were all somewhat afraid ofhim. He had come down thither on some business which was to themaltogether mysterious, and, as far as they knew, he, and he alone, was to be intrusted with the mystery. He of course said nothing tothem on the subject, but he looked in their eyes as though he wereconscious of being replete with secret importance; and on this veryaccount they were afraid of him. And then poor Lady Fitzgerald, though she bore up against the weight of her misery better than didher husband, was herself very wretched. She could not bring herselfto believe that all this would end in nothing; that Mr. Prendergastwould put everything right, and that after his departure they wouldgo on as happily as ever. This was the doctrine of the younger partof the family, who would not think that anything was radicallywrong. But Lady Fitzgerald had always at her heart the memory of herearly marriage troubles, and she feared greatly, though she fearedshe knew not what. 

Herbert Fitzgerald and Aunt Letty did endeavour to keep up someconversation with Mr. Prendergast; and the Irish famine was, ofcourse, the subject. But this did not go on pleasantly. Mr. Prendergast was desirous of information; but the statements whichwere made to him one moment by young Fitzgerald were contradicted inthe next by his aunt. He would declare that the better educated ofthe Roman Catholics were prepared to do their duty by their country, whereas Aunt Letty would consider herself bound both by partyfeeling and religious duty, to prove that the Roman Catholics werebad in everything. 

"Oh, Herbert, to hear you say so!" she exclaimed at one time, "itmakes me tremble in my shoes. It is dreadful to think that thosepeople should have got such a hold over you. "

"I really think that the Roman Catholic priests are liberal in theirideas and moral in their conduct. " This was the speech which hadmade Aunt Letty tremble in her shoes, and it may, therefore, beconceived that Mr. Prendergast did not find himself able to form anyfirm opinion from the statements then made to him. Instead of doingso, he set them both down as "Wild Irish, " whom it would be insaneto trust, and of whom it was absurd to make inquiries. It may, however, be possibly the case that Mr. Prendergast himself had hisown prejudices as well as Aunt Letty and Herbert Fitzgerald. 

On the following morning they were still more mute at breakfast. Thetime was coming in which Mr. Prendergast was to go to work and evenhe, gifted though he was with iron nerves, began to feel somewhatunpleasantly the nature of the task which he had undertaken. LadyFitzgerald did not appear at all. Indeed during the whole ofbreakfast-time and up to the moment at which Mr. Prendergast wassummoned, she was sitting with her husband, holding his hand inhers, and looking tenderly but painfully into his face. She so satwith him for above an hour, but he spoke to her no word of thisrevelation he was about to make. Herbert and the girls, and evenAunt Letty, sat solemn and silent, as though it was known by themall that something dreadful was to be said and done. At lastHerbert, who had left the room, returned to it. "My father will seeyou now, Mr. Prendergast, if you will step up to him, " said he; andthen he ran to his mother and told her that he should leave thehouse till dinner-time. 

"But if he sends for you, Herbert, should you not be in the way?"

"It is more likely that he should send for you; and, were I toremain here, I should be going into his room when he did not wantme. " And then he mounted his horse and rode off. 

Mr. Prendergast, with serious air and slow steps, and solemn resolveto do what he had to do at any rate with justice, walked away fromthe dining-room to the baronet's study. The task of an old friend isnot always a pleasant one, and Mr. Prendergast felt that it was notso at the present moment. "Be gentle with him, " said Aunt Letty, catching hold of his arm as he went through the passage. He merelymoved his head twice, in token of assent, and then passed on intothe room. 

The reader will have learnt by this time, with tolerable accuracy, what was the nature of the revelation which Sir Thomas was calledupon to make, and he will be tolerably certain as to the advicewhich Mr. Prendergast, as an honest man, would give. In that respectthere was no difficulty. The laws of meum and tuum are sufficientlyclear if a man will open his eyes to look at them. In this case theywere altogether clear. These broad acres of Castle Richmond didbelong to Sir Thomas--for his life. But after his death they couldnot belong to his son Herbert. It was a matter which admitted of nodoubt. No question as to whether the Molletts would or would nothold their tongue could bear upon it in the least. Justice in thiscase must be done, even though the heavens should fall. It was sadand piteous. Stern and hard as was the man who pronounced this doom, nevertheless the salt tear collected in his eyes and blinded him ashe looked upon the anguish which his judgment had occasioned. 

Yes, Herbert must be told that he in the world was nobody; that hemust earn his bread, and set about doing so right soon. Who couldsay that his father's life was worth a twelve-month's purchase? Hemust be told that he was nobody in the world, and instructed also totell her whom he loved, an Earl's daughter, the same tidings; thathe was nobody, that he would come to possess no property, and thatin the law's eyes did not possess even a name. How would his youngheart suffice for the endurance of so terrible a calamity? And thosepretty girls, so softly brought up--so tenderly nurtured; it must beexplained to them too that they must no longer be proud of theirfather's lineage and their mother's fame. And that other Fitzgeraldmust be summoned and told of all this; he on whom they had lookeddown, whom the young heir had robbed of his love, whom they had castout from among them as unworthy. Notice must be sent to him that hewas the heir to Castle Richmond, that he would reign as the futurebaronet in those gracious chambers. It was he who could now make agreat county lady of the daughter of the countess. 

"It will be very soon, very soon, " sobbed forth the poor victim. Andindeed, to look at him one might say that it would be soon. Therewere moments when Mr. Prendergast hardly thought that he would livethrough that frightful day. 

But all of which we have yet spoken hardly operated upon thebaronet's mind in creating that stupor of sorrow which now weighedhim to the earth. It was none of these things that utterly broke himdown and crushed him like a mangled reed. He had hardly mind left toremember his children. It was for the wife of his bosom that hesorrowed. 

The wife of his bosom! He persisted in so calling her through thewhole interview, and, even in his weakness, obliged the strong manbefore him so to name her also. She was his wife before God, andshould be his to the end. Ah! for how short a time was that! "Is sheto leave me?" he once said, turning to his friend, with his handsclasped together, praying that some mercy might be shown to hiswretchedness. "Is she to leave me?" he repeated, and then sank onhis knees upon the floor. 

And how was Mr. Prendergast to answer this question? How was he todecide whether or no this man and woman might still live together ashusband and wife? Oh, my reader, think of it if you can, and putyourself for a moment in the place of that old family friend! "Tellme, tell me; is she to leave me?" repeated the poor victim of allthis misery. 

The sternness and justice of the man at last gave way. "No, " saidhe, "that cannot, I should think, be necessary. They cannot demandthat. " "But you won't desert me?" said Sir Thomas, when this crumbof comfort was handed to him. And he remembered as he spoke, thebloodshot eyes of the miscreant who had dared to tell him that thewife of his bosom might be legally torn from him by the hands ofanother man. "You won't desert me?" said Sir Thomas; meaning bythat, to bind his friend to an obligation that, at any rate, hiswife should not be taken from him. 

"No, " said Mr. Prendergast, "I will not desert you; certainly notthat; certainly not that. " Just then it was in his heart to promisealmost anything that he was asked. Who could have refused suchsolace as this to a man so terribly overburthened?

But there was another point of view at which Mr. Prendergast hadlooked from the commencement, but at which he could not get SirThomas to look at all. It certainly was necessary that the wholetruth in this matter should be made known and declared openly. Thisfair inheritance must go to the right owner and not to the wrong. Though the affliction on Sir Thomas was very heavy, and would beequally so on all the family, he would not on that account, for thesake of saving him and them from that affliction, be justified inrobbing another person of what was legally and actually that otherperson's property. It was a matter of astonishment to Mr. Prendergast that a conscientious man, as Sir Thomas certainly was, should have been able to look at the matter in any other light; thathe should ever have brought himself to have dealings in the matterwith Mr. Mollett. Justice in the case was clear, and the truth mustbe declared. But then they must take good care to find outabsolutely what the truth was. Having heard all that Sir Thomas hadto say, and having sifted all that he did hear, Mr. Prendergastthoroughly believed, in his heart of hearts, that that wretchedmiscreant was the actual and true husband of the poor lady whom hewould have to see. But it was necessary that this should be proved. Castle Richmond for the family, and all earthly peace of mind forthat unfortunate lady and gentleman, were not to be given up on thebare word of a scheming scoundrel, for whom no crime would be tooblack, and no cruelty too monstrous. The proofs must be looked intobefore anything was done, and they must be looked into beforeanything was said--to Lady Fitzgerald. We surely may give her thatname as yet. 

But then, how were they to get at the proofs--at the proofs one wayor the other? That Mollett himself had his marriage certificate SirThomas declared. That evidence had been brought home to his own mindof the identity of the man--though what was the nature of thatevidence he could not now describe--as to that he was quiteexplicit. Indeed, as I have said above, he almost refused toconsider the question as admitting of a doubt. That Mollett was theman to whom his wife had been married he thoroughly believed; and, to tell the truth, Mr. Prendergast was afraid to urge him to lookfor much comfort in this direction. The whole manner of the man, Mollett, had been such as to show that he himself was sure of hisground. Mr. Prendergast could hardly doubt that he was the man, although he felt himself bound to remark that nothing should be saidto Lady Fitzgerald till inquiry had been made. Mr. Mollett himselfwould be at Castle Richmond on the next day but one, in accordancewith the appointment made by himself; and, if necessary, he could bekept in custody till he had been identified as being the man, or asnot being the man, who had married Miss Wainwright. 

"There is nobody living with you now who knew Lady Fitzgerald at----?" asked Mr. Prendergast. 

"Yes, " said Sir Thomas, "there is one maid servant. " And then heexplained how Mrs. Jones had lived with his wife before her firstmarriage, during those few months in which she had been called Mrs. Talbot, and from that day even up to the present hour. 

"Then she must have known this man, " said Mr. Prendergast. 

But Sir Thomas was not in a frame of mind at all suited to thesifting of evidence. He did not care to say anything about Mrs. Jones; he got no crumb of comfort out of that view of the matter. Things had come out, unwittingly for the most part, in hisconversations with Mollett, which made him quite certain as to thetruth of the main part of the story. All those Dorsetshirelocalities were well known to the man, the bearings of the house, the circumstances of Mr. Wainwright's parsonage, the whole historyof those months; so that on this subject Sir Thomas had no doubt;and we may as well know at once that there was no room for doubt. Our friend of the Kanturk Hotel, South Main Street, Cork, was theman who, thirty years before, had married the child-daughter of theDorsetshire parson. 

Mr. Prendergast, however, stood awhile before the fire balancing theevidence. "The woman must have known him, " he said to himself, "andsurely she could tell us whether he be like the man. And LadyFitzgerald herself would know; but then, who would have the hardnessof heart to ask Lady Fitzgerald to confront that man?"

He remained with Sir Thomas that day for hours. The long winterevening had begun to make itself felt by its increasing gloom beforehe left him. Wine and biscuits were sent in to them, but neither ofthem even noticed the man who brought them. Twice in the day, however, Mr. Prendergast gave the baronet a glass of sherry, whichthe latter swallowed unconsciously; and then, at about four, thelawyer prepared to take his leave. "I will see you early to-morrow, "said he, "immediately after breakfast. "

"You are going then?" said Sir Thomas, who greatly dreaded beingleft alone. 

"Not away, you know, " said Mr. Prendergast. "I am not going to leavethe house. "

"No, " said Sir Thomas; "no, of course not, but--" and then hepaused. 

"Eh!" said Mr. Prendergast, "you were saying something. "

"They will be coming in to me now, " said Sir Thomas, wailing like achild; "now, when you are gone; and what am I to say to them?"

"I would say nothing at present; nothing to-day. "

"And my wife?" he asked, again. Through this interview he studiouslycalled her his wife. "Is--is she to know it?"

"When we are assured that this man's story is true, Sir Thomas, shemust know it. That will probably be very soon, --in a day or two. Till then I think you had better tell her nothing. "

"And what shall I say to her?"

"Say nothing. I think it probable that she will not ask anyquestions. If she does, tell her that the business between you andme is not yet over. I will tell your son that at present he hadbetter not speak to you on the subject of my visit here. " And thenhe again took the hand of the unfortunate gentleman, and havingpressed it with more tenderness than seemed to belong to him, heleft the room. 

He left the room, and hurried into the hall and out of the house;but as he did so he could see that he was watched by LadyFitzgerald. She was on the alert to go to her husband as soon as sheshould know that he was alone. Of what then took place between thosetwo we need say nothing, but will wander forth for a while with Mr. Prendergast into the wide-spreading park. 

Mr. Prendergast had been used to hard work all his life, but he hadnever undergone a day of severer toil than that through which he hadjust passed. Nor was it yet over. He had laid it down in a broad wayas his opinion that the whole truth in this matter should bedeclared to the world, let the consequences be what they might; andto this opinion Sir Thomas had acceded without a word ofexpostulation. But in this was by no means included all that portionof the burden which now fell upon Mr. Prendergast's shoulders. Itwould be for him to look into the evidence, and then it would be forhim also--heavy and worst task of all--to break the matter to LadyFitzgerald. 

As he sauntered out into the park, to wander about for half an hourin the dusk of the evening, his head was throbbing with pain. Thefamily friend in this instance had certainly been severely taxed inthe exercise of his friendship. And what was he to do next? How washe to conduct himself that evening in the family circle, knowing, ashe so well did, that his coming there was to bring destruction uponthem all? "Be tender to him, " Aunt Letty had said, little knowinghow great a call there would be on his tenderness of heart, and howlittle scope for any tenderness of purpose. 

And was it absolutely necessary that that blow should fall in allits severity? He asked himself this question over and over again, and always had to acknowledge that it was necessary. There could beno possible mitigation. The son must be told that he was no son--noson in the eye of the law; the wife must be told that she was nowife, and the distant relative must be made acquainted with hisgolden prospects. The position of Herbert and Clara, and of theirpromised marriage, had been explained to him, --and all that toomust be shivered into fragments. How was it possible that thepenniless daughter of an earl should give herself in marriage to ayouth, who was not only penniless also, but illegitimate and withouta profession? Look at it in which way he would, it was all miseryand ruin, and it had fallen upon him to pronounce the doom!

He could not himself believe that there was any doubt as to thegeneral truth of Mollett's statement. He would of course inquire. Hewould hear what the man had to say and see what he had to adduce. Hewould also examine that old servant, and, if necessary--and ifpossible also--he would induce Lady Fitzgerald to see the man. Buthe did feel convinced that on this point there was no doubt. Andthen he lifted up his hands in astonishment at the folly which hadbeen committed by a marriage under such circumstances--as wise menwill do in the decline of years, when young people in the heyday ofyouth have not been wise. "If they had waited for a term of years, "he said, "and if he then had not presented himself!" A term ofyears, such as Jacob served for Rachel, seems so light an affair toold bachelors looking back at the loves of their young friends. 

And so he walked about in the dusk by no means a happy man, nor inany way satisfied with the work which was still before him. How washe to face Lady Fitzgerald, or tell her of her fate? In what wordsmust he describe to Herbert Fitzgerald the position which in futurehe must fill? The past had been dreadful to him, and the futurewould be no less so, in spite of his character as a hard, stern man. 

When he returned to the house he met young Fitzgerald in the hall. "Have you been to your father?" he asked immediately. Herbert, in alow voice, and with a saddened face, said that he had just come fromhis father's room, but Mr. Prendergast at once knew that nothing ofthe truth had been told to him. "You found him very weak, " said Mr. Prendergast. "Oh, very weak, " said Herbert. "More than weak, utterlyprostrate. He was lying on the sofa almost unable to speak. Mymother was with him, and is still there. "

"And she?" He was painfully anxious to know whether Sir Thomas hadbeen weak enough--or strong enough--to tell his wife any of thestory which that morning had been told to him. 

"She is doing what she can to comfort him, " said Herbert; "but it isvery hard for her to be left so utterly in the dark. "

Mr. Prendergast was passing on to his room, but at the foot of thestairs Herbert stopped him again, going up the stairs with him, andalmost whispering into his ear--

"I trust, Mr. Prendergast, " said he, "that things are not to go onin this way. "

"No, no, " said Mr. Prendergast. 

"Because it is unbearable--unbearable for my mother and for me, andfor us all. My mother thinks that some terrible thing has happenedto the property; but if so, why should I not be told?"

"Of anything that really has happened, or does happen, you will betold. "

"I don't know whether you are aware of it, Mr. Prendergast, but I amengaged to be married. And I have been given to understand--thatis, I thought that this might take place very soon. My mother seemsto think that your coming here may--may defer it. If so, I think Ihave a right to expect that something shall be told to me. "

"Certainly you have a right, my dear young friend. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, for your own sake, for all our sakes, wait patiently fora few hours. "

"I have waited patiently. "

"Yes, I know it. You have behaved admirably. But I cannot speak toyou now. This time the day after to-morrow, I will tell youeverything that I know. But do not speak of this to your mother. Imake this promise only to you. " And then he passed on into hisbedroom. 

With this Herbert was obliged to be content. That evening he againsaw his father and mother, but he told them nothing of what hadpassed between him and Mr. Prendergast. Lady Fitzgerald remained inthe study with Sir Thomas the whole evening, nay, almost the wholenight, and the slow hours as they passed there were very dreadful. No one came to table but Aunt Letty, Mr. Prendergast, and Herbert, and between them hardly a word was spoken. The poor girls had foundthemselves utterly unable to appear. They were dissolved in tears, and crouching over the fire in their own room. And the moment thatAunt Letty left the table Mr. Prendergast arose also. He wassuffering, he said, cruelly from headache, and would ask permissionto go to his chamber. It would have been impossible for him to havesat there pretending to sip his wine with Herbert Fitzgerald. 

After this Herbert again went to his father, and then, in the gloomof the evening, he found Mr. Somers in the office, a littlemagistrate's room, that was used both by him and by Sir Thomas. Butnothing passed between them. Herbert had nothing to tell. And thenat about nine he also went up to his bedroom. A more melancholy daythan that had never shed its gloom upon Castle Richmond. 

CHAPTER XX

TWO WITNESSES

Mr. Prendergast had given himself two days to do all that was to bedone, before he told Herbert Fitzgerald the whole of the familyhistory. He had promised that he would then let him know all thatthere was to be known; and he had done so advisedly, consideringthat it would be manifestly unjust to leave him in the dark an hourlonger than was absolutely necessary. To expect that Sir Thomashimself should, with his own breath and his own words, make therevelation either to his son or to his wife, was to expect amanifest impossibility. He would, altogether, have sank under suchan effort, as he had already sank under the effort of telling it toMr. Prendergast; nor could it be left to the judgment of Sir Thomasto say when the story should be told. He had now absolutelyabandoned all judgment in the matter. He had placed himself in thehands of a friend, and he now expected that that friend should doall that there was to be done. Mr. Prendergast had therefore felthimself justified in making this promise. 

But how was he to set about the necessary intervening work, and howpass the intervening hours? It had already been decided that Mr. Abraham Mollett, when he called, should be shown, as usual, into thestudy, but that he should there find himself confronted, not withSir Thomas, but with Mr. Prendergast. But there was some doubtwhether or no Mr. Mollett would come. It might be that he had meansof ascertaining what strangers arrived at Castle Richmond; and itmight be that he would, under the present circumstances, think itexpedient to stay away. This visit, however, was not to take placetill the second day after that on which Mr. Prendergast had heardthe story; and, in the meantime, he had that examination of Mrs. Jones to arrange and conduct. 

The breakfast was again very sad. The girls suggested to theirbrother that he and Mr. Prendergast should sit together bythemselves in a small breakfast parlour, but to this he would notassent. Nothing could be more difficult or embarrassing than aconversation between himself and that gentleman, and he moreover wasunwilling to let it be thought in the household that affairs weregoing utterly wrong in the family. On this matter he need hardlyhave disturbed himself, for the household was fully convinced thatthings were going very wrong. Maid-servants and men-servants canread the meaning of heavy brows and sad faces, of long meetings andwhispered consultations, as well as their betters. The two girls, therefore, and Aunt Letty, appeared at the breakfast-table, but itwas as though so many ghosts had assembled round the urn. 

Immediately after breakfast, Mr. Prendergast applied to Aunt Letty. "Miss Fitzgerald, " said he, "I think you have an old servant of thename of Jones living here. "

"Yes, sure, " said Aunt Letty. "She was living with my sister-in-lawbefore her marriage. "

"Exactly, --and ever since too, I believe, " said Mr. Prendergast, with a lawyer's instinctive desire to divert suspicion from the truepoint. 

"Oh yes, always; Mrs. Jones is quite one of ourselves. "

"Then would you do me the favour to beg Mrs. Jones to oblige me withher company for half an hour or so? There is an excellent fire in myroom, and perhaps Mrs. Jones would not object to step there. "

Aunt Letty promised that Mrs. Jones should be sent, merelysuggesting the breakfast-parlour, instead of the bed-room; and tothe breakfast-parlour Mr. Prendergast at once betook himself, "Whatcan she know about the London property, or about the Irishproperty?" thought Aunt Letty, to herself; and then it occurred toher that, perhaps, all these troubles arose from some sourcealtogether distinct from the property. 

In about a quarter of an hour, a knock came to the breakfast-parlourdoor, and Mrs. Jones, having been duly summoned, entered the roomwith a very clean cap and apron, and with a very low curtsey. "Goodmorning, Mrs. Jones, " said Mr. Prendergast; "pray take a seat;" andhe pointed to an armchair that was comfortably placed near the fire, on the further side of the hearth-rug. Mrs. Jones sat herself down, crossed her hands on her lap, and looked the very personification ofmeek obedience. 

And yet there was something about her which seemed to justify thesoubriquet of duchess, which the girls had given to her. She had acertain grandeur about her cap, and a majestical set about the skirtof her dress, and a rigour in the lines of her mouth, whichindicated a habit of command, and a confidence in her own dignity, which might be supposed to be the very clearest attribute ofduchessdom. 

"You have been in this family a long time. I am told, Mrs. Jones, "said Mr. Prendergast, using his pleasantest voice. 

"A very long time indeed, " said Mrs. Jones. 

"And in a very confidential situation, too. I am told by Sir Thomasthat pretty nearly the whole management of the house is left in yourhands?"

"Sir Thomas is very kind, sir; Sir Thomas always was verykind, --poor gentleman!"

"Poor gentleman, indeed! you may well say that, Mrs. Jones. Thisfamily is in great affliction; you are no doubt aware of that. " AndMr. Prendergast as he spoke got up, went to the door, and saw thatit was firmly closed. 

Mrs. Jones acknowledged that she was aware of it. "It wasimpossible, " she said, "for servants to shut their eyes to things, if they tried ever so. "

"Of course, of course, " said Mr. Prendergast; "and particularly fora person so attached to them all as you are. "

"Well, Mr. Pendrergrass, I am attached to them, certainly. I haveseed 'em all born, sir--that is, the young ladies and Mr. Herbert. And as for her ladyship, I didn't see her born, in course, for we'reboth of an age. But it comes much to the same thing, like. "

"Exactly, exactly; you are quite one of themselves, as Sir Thomas'ssister said to me just now. 'Mrs. Jones is quite one of ourselves. 'Those were her very words. "

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to Miss Letty. "

"Well, as I was saying, a great sorrow has come upon them all, Mrs. Jones. Now, will you tell me this--do you know what it is? Can youguess at all? Do the servants know, down-stairs?"

"I'd rather not be guessing on any such matters, Mr. Pendrergrass. And as for them, if they were impudent enough for the like, they'dnever dare to tell me. Them Irish servants is very impudent betimes, only they're good at the heart too, and there isn't one'd hurt a dogbelonging to the family. "

"I am sure they would not, " said Mr. Prendergast. "But you yourself, you don't know what this trouble is?"

"Not a know, " said Mrs. Jones, looking down and smoothing her apron. 

"Well, now. Of course you understand, Mrs. Jones--and I must explainthis to you to account for my questions. Of course you understandthat I am here as Sir Thomas's friend, to set certain matters rightfor him if I can. "

"I supposed as much as that, if you please, sir. "

"And any questions that I may ask you, I ask altogether on hisbehalf--on his behalf and on that of his wife, Lady Fitzgerald. Itell you, that you may have no scruples as to answering me. "

"Oh, sir, I have no scruples as to that. But of course, sir, inanything I say I must be guided by--by--"

"By your own judgment, you were going to say. "

"Yes, sir; begging pardon for mentioning such a thing to the likesof you, sir. "

"Quite right; quite right. Everybody should use their own judgmentin everything they do or say, more or less. But now, Mrs. Jones, Iwant to know this: you remember her ladyship's first marriage, Idare say. "

"Yes, sir, I remember it, " said Mrs. Jones, shaking her head. 

"It was a sad affair, wasn't it? I remember it well, though I wasvery young then. So were you too, Mrs. Jones. "

"Young enough, surely, sir; and foolish enough too. We were the mostof us that, then, sir. "

"True, true; so we were. But you remember the man, don't you--herladyship's husband? Mr. Talbot, he called himself. " And Mr. Prendergast took some trouble to look as though he did not at allwish to frighten her. 

"Yes, I do remember him. " This she said after a considerable pause. "But it is a very long time ago, you know, Mr. Pendrergrass. "

"A very long time. But I am sure you do remember. You lived in thehouse, you know, for some months. "

"Yes, I did. He was my master for three months, or thereabouts; andto tell the truth, I never got my wages for those three months yet. But that's neither here nor there. "

"Do you believe now, Mrs. Jones, that that Mr. Talbot is stillalive?" He asked the question in a very soft voice, and endeavourednot to startle her by his look as he did so. But it was necessary tohis purpose that he should keep his eye upon her. Half the answer tohis question was to be conveyed by the effect on the muscles of herface which that question would produce. She might perhaps commandher voice to tell a falsehood, but be unable to command her face tosupport it. 

"Believe what, sir?" said she, and the lawyer could immediatelyperceive that she did believe and probably knew that that man whohad called himself Talbot was still alive. 

"Do you believe, Mrs. Jones, that he is alive--her ladyship'sformer husband, you know?"

The question was so terrible in its nature, that Mrs. Jonesabsolutely shook under it. Did she think that that man was stillalive? Why, if she thought that what was she to think of herladyship? It was in that manner that she would have answered thequestion, had she known how; but she did not know; she had thereforeto look about her for some other words which might be equallyevasive. Those which she selected served her turn just as well. "Lord bless you, sir!" she said. It was not that the words wereexpressive, but the tone was decidedly so. It was as though shesaid, "How can that man be alive, who has been dead these twentyyears and more?" But nevertheless, she was giving evidence all thetime against the cause of her poor mistress. 

"You think, then, that he is dead?"

"Dead, sir! Oh, laws! why shouldn't he be dead?" And then there wasa pause between them for a couple of minutes. 

"Mrs. Jones, " said Mr. Prendergast, when he had well considered thematter, "my belief is that your only object and wish is to do goodto your master and mistress. "

"Surely, sir, surely; it would be my bounden duty to do them good, if I knew how. "

"I will tell you how. Speak out to me the whole truth openly andfreely. I am here as the friend of Sir Thomas and of her ladyship. He has sent to me that I may advise him what to do in a greattrouble that has befallen him, and I cannot give him good advicetill I know the truth. "

"What good could it do him, poor gentleman, to know that that man isalive?"

"It will do him good to know the truth; to know whether he be aliveor no. Until he knows that he cannot act properly. "

"Poor gentleman! poor gentleman!" said Mrs. Jones, putting herhandkerchief up to her eyes. 

"If you have any information in this matter--and I think you have, Mrs. Jones--or even any suspicion, it is your duty to tell me. "

"Well, sir, I'm sure I don't say against that. You are Sir Thomas'sfriend to be sure, and no doubt you know best. And I'm a poorignorant woman. But to speak candidly, sir, I don't feel myself freeto talk on this matter. I haven't never made nor marred since I'vebeen in this family, not in such matters as them. What I've seed, I've kep' to myself, and when I've had my suspecs, as a woman can'tbut have 'em, I've kep' them to myself also. And saving yourpresence, sir, and meaning no offence to a gentleman like you, " andhere she got up from her chair and made another curtsey, "I thinkI'd liefer hold my tongue than say anything more on this matter. "And then she remained standing as though she expected permission toretire. 

But there was still another pause, and Mr. Pendergast sat looking atthe fire. "Don't you know, ma'am, " at last he said, with almost anangry voice, "that the man was here, in this house, last week?" Andnow he turned round at her and looked her full in the face. He didnot, however, know Mrs. Jones. It might be difficult to coax herinto free communication, but it was altogether out of his power tofrighten her into it. 

"What I knows, sir, I knows, " said she, "and what I don't know, Idon't know. And if you please, sir, Lady Fitzgerald--she's mymissus; and if I'm to be said anything more to about this herematter, why, I'd choose that her ladyship should be by. " And thenshe made a little motion as though to walk towards the door, but Mr. Prendergast managed to stop her. 

"But we want to spare Lady Fitzgerald, if we can--at any rate, for awhile, " said he. "You would not wish to bring more sorrow upon her, would you?"

"God forbid, Mr. Pendrergrass; and if I could take the sorrow fromher heart, I would willingly, and bear it myself to the grave; forher ladyship has been a good lady to me. But no good never did come, and never will, of servants talking of their missusses. And so ifyou please, sir, I'll make bold to"--and again she made an attemptto reach the door. 

But Mr. Prendergast was not yet persuaded that he could not get fromthe good old woman the information that he wanted, and he waspersuaded that she had the information if only she could beprevailed upon to impart it. So he again stopped her, though on thisoccasion she made some slight attempt to pass him by as she did so. "I don't think, " said she, "that there will be much use in mystaying here longer. "

"Wait half a minute, Mrs. Jones, just half a minute. If I could onlymake you understand how we are all circumstanced here. And I tellyou what; though you will trust me with nothing, I will trust youwith everything. "

"I don't want no trust, sir; not about all this. "

"But listen to me. Sir Thomas has reason to believe--nay, he feelsquite sure--that this man is alive. "

"Poor gentleman! poor gentleman!"

"And has been here in this house two or three times within the lastmonth. Sir Thomas is full sure of this. Now, can you tell me whetherthe man who did come was this Talbot, or was not? If you can answerthat positively, either one way or the other, you will do a serviceto the whole family, --which shall not go unrewarded. "

"I don't want no reward sir. Ask me to tattle of them for rewards, after thirty years!" And she put her apron up to her eyes. 

"Well, then, for the good of the family. Can you say positively thatthe man who came here to your master was Talbot, or that he wasnot?"

"Indeed then, sir, I can't say anything positively, nor for thatmatter, not impositively either. " And then she shut herself updoggedly, and sat with compressed lips, determined to resist all thelawyer's arts. 

Mr. Prendergast did not immediately give up the game, but he failedin learning from her any more than what she had already told him. Hefelt confident that she did know the secret of this man's existenceand presence in the south of Ireland, but he was forced to satisfyhimself with that conviction. So he let her go, giving her his handas she went in token of respect, and receiving her demure curtseywith his kindest smile. "It may be, " thought he to himself, "that Ihave not done with her yet. "

And then he passed another tedious day, --a day that was terriblytedious to them all. He paid a visit to Sir Thomas; but as thatarrangement about Mollett's visit had been made between them, it wasnot necessary that anything should be done or said about thebusiness on hand. It was understood that further action was to bestayed till that visit was over, and therefore for the present hehad nothing to say to Sir Thomas. He did not see Lady Fitzgeraldthroughout the whole day, and it appeared to him, not unnaturally, that she purposely kept out of his way, anticipating evil from hiscoming. He took a walk with Herbert and Mr. Somers, and was drivenas far as the soup-kitchen and mill at Berry Hill, inquiring intothe state of the poor, or rather pretending to inquire. It was apretence with them all, for at the present moment their minds wereintent on other things. And then there was that terrible dinner, that mockery of a meal, at which the three ladies were constrainedto appear, but at which they found it impossible to eat or to speak. Mr. Somers had been asked to join the party, so that the scene afterdinner might be less painful; but even he felt that he could nottalk as was his ordinary wont. Horrible suspicions of the truth hadgradually come upon him; and with a suspicion of such a truth--ofsuch a tragedy in the very household--how could he, or how could anyone hold a conversation? and then at about half-past nine, Mr. Prendergast was again in his bed-room. 

On the next morning he was early with Sir Thomas, persuading him torelinquish altogether the use of his study for that day. On thatevening they were to have another interview there, in which Mr. Prendergast was to tell his friend the result of what had been done. And then he had to arrange certain manoeuvring with the servants inwhich he was forced to obtain the assistance of Herbert. Mollett wasto be introduced into the study immediately on his arrival, and thiswas to be done in such a manner that Mrs. Jones might assuredly beignorant of his arrival. On this duty our old friend Richard wasemployed, and it was contrived that Mrs. Jones should be keptupstairs with her mistress. All this was difficult enough, but hecould not explain even to Herbert the reason why such scheming wasnecessary. Herbert, however, obeyed in silence, knowing thatsomething dreadful was about to fall on them. 

Immediately after breakfast Mr. Prendergast betook himself to thestudy, and there remained with his London newspaper in his hand. Adozen times he began a leading article, in which the law was laiddown with great perspicuity and certainty as to the present state ofIreland; but had the writer been treating of the Sandwich Islands hecould not have attracted less of his attention. He found itimpossible to read. On that evening he would have to reveal toHerbert Fitzgerald what was to be his fate!

Matthew Mollett at his last interview with Sir Thomas had promisedto call on this day, and had been counting the days till that oneshould arrive on which he might keep his promise. He was terribly inwant of cash, and as we all know Aby had entirely failed in raisingthe wind--any immediate fund of wind--on the occasion of his visitto the baronet; and now, when this morning came, old Mollett wasearly on the road. Aby had talked of going with him, but Aby hadfailed so signally on the occasion of the visit which he did make toCastle Richmond, that he had been without the moral strength topersist in his purpose. 

"Then I shall write to the baronet and go alone to London, " saidMollett, pere. 

"Bother!" replied Mollett, fils. "You hain't got the cash, governor. "

"I've got what'll take me there, my boy, whether you know it or not. And Sir Thomas'll be ready enough to send me a remittance when I'monce out of this country. "

And so Aby had given way, --partly perhaps in terror of Mr. Somers'countenance; and Matthew Mollett started again in a covered car onthat cold journey over the Boggeragh mountains. It was stillmid-winter, being now about the end of February, and the country wascolder, and wetter, and more wretched, and the people in thatdesolate district more ragged and more starved than when he had lastcrossed it. But what were their rags and starvation to him? He wasworse off than they were. They were merely dying, as all men mustdo. But he was inhabiting a hell on earth, which no man need do. They came out to him in shoals begging; but they came in vain, getting nothing from him but a curse through his chattering teeth. What right had they to torment with their misery one so much morewretched than themselves?

At a little before twelve the covered car was at the front door ofCastle Richmond house, and there was Richard under the porch. Onformer occasions Mr. Mollett had experienced some little delay inmaking his way into the baronet's presence. The servants had lookedcold upon him, and he had felt as though there might be hotploughshares under his feet at any step which he took. But noweverything seemed to be made easy. Richard took him in tow without amoment's delay, told him confidentially that Sir Thomas was waitingfor him, bade the covered car to be driven round into the yard witha voice that was uncommonly civil, seeing that it was addressed to aCork carman, and then ushered Mr. Mollett through the hall and downthe passage without one moment's delay. Wretched as he had beenduring his journey--wretched as an infernal spirit--his hopes werenow again elated, and he dreamed of a golden paradise. There wassomething pleasant in feeling his mastery over that poor oldshattered baronet. 

"The gentleman to wait upon Sir Thomas, " said Richard, opening thestudy door; and then Mr. Mollett senior found himself in thepresence of Mr. Prendergast. 

Mr. Prendergast was sitting in a high-backed easy-chair, facing thefire, when the announcement was made, and therefore Mollett stillfancied that he was in the presence of Sir Thomas until he was wellinto the room and the door was closed upon him; otherwise he mightprobably have turned on his heels and bolted. He had had three orfour interviews with Mr. Prendergast, having received different sumsof money from that gentleman's hands, and had felt on all suchoccasions that he was being looked through and through. Mr. Prendergast had asked but few questions, never going into the matterof his, Mollett's, pecuniary connexion with Sir Thomas; but therehad always been that in the lawyer's eye which had frightened themiscreant, which had quelled his bluster as soon as it was assumed, and had told him that he was known for a blackguard and a scoundrel. And now when this man, with the terrible grey eye, got up from SirThomas's chair, and wheeling round confronted him, looking him fullin the face, and frowning on him as an honest man does frown on anunconvicted rascal--when, I say, this happened to Mr. Mollettsenior, he thoroughly at that moment wished himself back in London. He turned his eye round to the door, but that was closed behind him. He looked around to see whether Sir Thomas was there, but no one wasin the room with him but Mr. Prendergast. Then he stood still, andas that gentleman did not address him, he was obliged to speak; thesilence was too awful for him--"Oh, Mr. Prendergast!" said he. "Isthat you?"

"Yes, Mr. Mollett, it is I. "

"Oh, ah--I suppose you are here about business of your own. I waswishing to see Sir Thomas about a little business of my own; maybehe's not in the way. "

"No, he is not; not exactly. But perhaps, Mr. Mollett, I can do aswell. You have known me before, you know, and you may say to meopenly anything you have to say to Sir Thomas. "

"Well; I don't know about that, sir; my business is with thebaronet--particular. " Mr. Mollett, as he spoke, strained every nerveto do so without appearance of dismay; but his efforts werealtogether ineffectual. He could not bring himself to look Mr. Prendergast in the face for a moment, or avoid feeling like a dogthat dreads being kicked. All manner of fears came upon him, and hewould at the moment have given up all his hopes of money from theCastle Richmond people to have been free from Mr. Prendergast andhis influence. And yet Mollett was not a coward in the ordinarysense of the word. Indeed he had been very daring in the wholemanagement of this affair. But then a course of crime makes suchviolent demands on a man's courage. Let any one think of thedifference of attacking a thief, and being attacked as a thief! Weare apt to call bad men cowards without much consideration. Mr. Mollett was not without pluck, but his pluck was now quelled. Thecircumstances were too strong against him. 

"Listen to me, Mr. Mollett--; and, look here, sir; never mindturning to the door; you can't go now till you and I have had someconversation. You may make up your mind to this: you will never seeSir Thomas Fitzgerald again--unless indeed he should be in thewitness-box when you are standing in the dock. "

"Mr. Prendergast; sir!"

"Well. Have you any reason to give why you should not be put in thedock? How much money have you got from Sir Thomas during the lasttwo years by means of those threats which you have been using? Youwere well aware when you set about this business that you werecommitting felony; and have probably felt tolerably sure at timesthat you would some day be brought up short. That day has come. "

Mr. Prendergast had made up his mind that nothing could be gained bysoft usage with Mr. Mollett. Indeed nothing could be gained in anyway, by any usage, unless it could be shown that Mollett and Talbotwere not the same person. He could afford therefore to tell thescoundrel that he was a scoundrel, and to declare against him--warto the knife. The more that Mollett trembled, the more abject hebecame, the easier would be the task Mr. Prendergast now had inhand. "Well, sir, " he continued, "are you going to tell me whatbusiness has brought you here to-day?"

But Mr. Mollett, though he did shake in his shoes, did not look atthe matter exactly in the same light. He could not believe that SirThomas would himself throw up the game on any consideration, or thatMr. Prendergast as his friend would throw it up on his behalf. He, Mollett, had a strong feeling that he could have continued to dealeasily with Sir Thomas, and that it might be very hard to deal atall with Mr. Prendergast; but nevertheless the game was still open. Mr. Prendergast would probably distrust the fact of his being thelady's husband, and it would be for him therefore to use theindubitable proofs of the facts that were in his possession. 

"Sir Thomas knows very well what I've come about, " he began, slowly;"and if he's told you, why you know too; and in that case--"

But what might or might not happen in that case Mr. Mollett had notnow an opportunity of explaining, for the door opened and Mrs. Jonesentered the room. 

"When that man comes this morning, " Mr. Prendergast had said toHerbert, "I must get you to induce Mrs. Jones to come to us in thestudy as soon as may be. " He had not at all explained to Herbert whythis was necessary, nor had he been at any pains to prevent theyoung heir from thinking and feeling that some terrible mystery hungover the house. There was a terrible mystery--which indeed would bemore terrible still when it ceased to be mysterious. He thereforequietly explained to Herbert what he desired to have done, andHerbert, awaiting the promised communication of that evening, quietly did as he was bid. 

"You must go down to him, Jones, " he had said. 

"But I'd rather not, sir. I was with him yesterday for two mortalhours; and, oh, Mr. Herbert! it ain't for no good. "

But Herbert was inexorable; and Mrs. Jones, feeling herself overcomeby the weight of the misfortune that was oppressing them all, obeyed, and descending to her master's study, knocked at the door. She knew that Mr. Prendergast was there, and she knew that SirThomas was not; but she did not know that any stranger was in theroom with Mr. Prendergast. Mr. Mollett had not heard the knock, nor, indeed, had Mr. Prendergast; but Mrs. Jones having gone through thisceremony, opened the door and entered. 

"Sir Thomas knows; does he?" said Mr. Prendergast, when Mollettceased to speak on the woman's entrance. "Oh, Mrs. Jones, goodmorning. Here is your old master, Mr. Talbot. "

Mollett of course turned round, and found himself confronted withthe woman. They stared at each other for some moments, and thenMollett said, in a low dull voice, "Yes, she knows me; it was shethat lived with her at Tallyho Lodge. "

"You remember him now, Mrs. Jones; don't you?" said Mr. Prendergast. 

For another moment or two Mrs. Jones stood silent; and then sheacknowledged herself overcome, and felt that the world around herhad become too much for her. "Yes, " said she, slowly; "I remembershim, " and then sinking into a chair near the door, she put her apronup to her eyes, and burst into tears. 

"No doubt about that; she remembers me well enough, " said Mollett, thinking that this was so much gained on his side. "But there ain'ta doubt about the matter at all, Mr. Prendergast. You look here, andyou'll see it all as plain as black and white. " And Mr. Mollettdragged a large pocket-book from his coat, and took out of itcertain documents, which he held before Mr. Prendergast's eyes, still keeping them in his own hand. "Oh, I'm all right; I am, " saidMollett. 

"Oh, you are, are you?" said the lawyer, just glancing at the paper, which he would not appear to heed. "I am glad you think so. "

"If there were any doubt about it, she'd know, " said he, pointingaway up towards the body of the house. Both Mr. Prendergast and Mrs. Jones understood well who was that she to whom he alluded. 

"You are satisfied, at any rate, Mrs. Jones, " said the lawyer. ButMrs. Jones had hidden her face in her apron, and would not look up. She could not understand why this friend of the family should pushthe matter so dreadfully against them. If he would rise from hischair and destroy that wretch who stood before them, then indeed hemight be called a friend!

Mr. Prendergast had now betaken himself to the door, and wasstanding with his back to it, and with his hands in histrousers-pockets, close to the chair on which Mrs. Jones wassitting. He had resolved that he would get that woman's spokenevidence out of her; and he had gotten it. But now, what was he todo with her next?--with her or with the late Mr. Talbot of TallyhoLodge? And having satisfied himself of that fact, which from thecommencement he had never doubted, what could he best do to sparethe poor lady who was so terribly implicated in this man's presence?

"Mrs. Jones, " said he, standing over her, and gently touching hershoulder, "I am sorry to have pained you in this way; but it wasnecessary that we should know, without a doubt, who this manis, --and who he was. Truth is always the best, you know. So good awoman as you cannot but understand that. "

"I suppose it is, sir, --I suppose it is, " said Mrs. Jones, throughher tears, now thoroughly humbled. The world was pretty nearly at anend, as far as she was concerned. Here, in this very house of CastleRichmond, in Sir Thomas's own room, was her ladyship's formerhusband, acknowledged as such! What further fall of the planet intobroken fragments could terrify or drive her from her course morethoroughly than this? Truth! yes, truth in the abstract, might bevery good. But such a truth as this! how could any one ever say thatthat was good? Such was the working of her mind; but she took notrouble to express her thoughts. 

"Yes, " continued Mr. Prendergast, speaking still in a low voice, with a tone that was almost tender, "truth is always best. Look at this wretched man here! He would have killed the wholefamily--destroyed them one by one--had they consented to assist himin concealing the fact of his existence. The whole truth will now beknown; and it is very dreadful; but it will not be so dreadful asthe want of truth. "

"My poor lady! my poor lady!" almost screamed Mrs. Jones from underher apron, wagging her head, and becoming almost convulsive in hergrief. 

"Yes, it is very sad. But you will live to acknowledge that eventhis is better than living in that man's power. "

"I don't know that, " said Mollett. "I am not so bad as you'd makeme. I don't want to distress the lady. "

"No, not if you are allowed to rob the gentleman till there's not aguinea left for you to suck at. I know pretty well the extent of theevil that's in you. If we were to kick you from here to Cork, you'dforgive all that, so that we still allowed you to go on with yourtrade. I wonder how much money you've had from him altogether?"

"What does the money signify? What does the money signify?" saidMrs. Jones, still wagging her head beneath her apron. "Why didn'tSir Thomas go on paying it, and then my lady need know nothing aboutit?"

It was clear that Mrs. Jones would not look at the matter in aproper light. As far as she could see, there was no reason why afair bargain should not have been made between Mollett and SirThomas, --made and kept on both sides, with mutual convenience. Thatdoing of justice at the cost of falling heavens was not intelligibleto her limited philosophy. Nor did she bethink herself, that a leechwill not give over sucking until it be gorged with blood. Mr. Prendergast knew that such leeches as Mr. Mollett never leave theskin as long as there is a drop of blood left within the veins. 

Mr. Prendergast was still standing against the door, where he hadplaced himself to prevent the unauthorized departure of either Mrs. Jones or Mr. Mollett; but now he was bethinking himself that hemight as well bring this interview to an end. "Mr. Mollett, " saidhe, "you are probably beginning to understand that you will not getmuch more money from the Castle Richmond family?"

"I don't want to do any harm to any of them, " said Mollett, humbly;"and if I don't make myself troublesome, I hope Sir Thomas willconsider me. "

"It is out of your power, sir, to do any further harm to any ofthem. You don't pretend to think that after what has passed, you canhave any personal authority over that unfortunate lady?"

"My poor mistress! my poor mistress!" sobbed Mrs. Jones. 

"You cannot do more injury than you at present have done. No one isnow afraid of you; no one here will ever give you another shilling. When and in what form you will be prosecuted for inducing Sir Thomasto give you money, I cannot yet tell. Now, you may go: and Istrongly advise you never to show your face here again. If thepeople about here knew who you are, and what you are, they would notlet you off the property with a whole bone in your skin. Now go, sir. Do you hear me?"

"Upon my word, Mr. Prendergast, I have not intended any harm!"

"Go, sir!"

"And even now, Mr. Prendergast, it can all be made straight, and Iwill leave the country altogether, if you wish it--"

"Go, sir!" shouted Mr. Prendergast. "If you do not move at once, Iwill ring the bell for the servants!"

"Then, if misfortune comes upon them, it is your doing, and notmine, " said Mollett. 

"Oh, Mr. Pendrergrass, if it can be hushed up--" said Mrs. Jones, rising from her chair and coming up to him with her hands claspedtogether. "Don't send him away in your anger; don't'ee now, sir. Think of her ladyship. Do, do, do;" and the woman took hold of hisarm, and looked up into his face with her eyes swimming with tears. Then going to the door she closed it, and returning again, touchedhis arm, and again appealed to him. "Think of Mr. Herbert, sir, andthe young ladies! What are they to be called, sir, if this man is tobe my lady's husband? Oh, Mr. Pendrergrass, let him go away, out ofthe kingdom; do let him go away. "

"I'll be off to Australia by the next boat, if you'll only say theword, " said Mollett. To give him his due, he was not at that momentthinking altogether of himself and of what he might get. The idea ofthe misery which he had brought on these people did, to a certainmeasure, come home to him. And it certainly did come home to himalso, that his own position was very perilous. 

"Mrs. Jones, " said the lawyer, seeming to pay no attention whateverto Mollett's words, "you know nothing of such men as that. If I wereto take him at his word now, he would turn upon Sir Thomas againbefore three weeks were over. "

"By---, I would not! By all that is holy, I would not. Mr. Prendergast, do--. "

"Mr. Mollett, I will trouble you to walk out of this house. I havenothing further to say to you. "

"Oh, very well, sir. " And then slowly Mollett took his departure, and finding his covered car at the door, got into it without sayinganother word to any of the Castle Richmond family. 

"Mrs. Jones, " said Mr. Prendergast, as soon as Mollett was gone, "Ibelieve I need not trouble you any further. Your conduct has doneyou great honour, and I respect you greatly as an honest woman andan affectionate friend. "

Mrs. Jones could only acknowledge this by loud sobs. 

"For the present, if you will take my advice, you will say nothingof this to your mistress. "

"No, sir, no; I shall say nothing. Oh dear! oh dear!"

"The whole matter will be known soon, but in the mean time, we mayas well remain silent. Good day to you. " And then Mrs. Jones alsoleft the room, and Mr. Prendergast was alone. 

CHAPTER XXI

FAIR ARGUMENTS

As Mollett left the house he saw two men walking down the road awayfrom the sweep before the hall door, and as he passed them herecognized one as the young gentleman of the house. He also saw thata horse followed behind them, on the grass by the roadside, not ledby the hand, but following with the reins laid loose upon his neck. They took no notice of him or his car, but allowed him to pass asthough he had no concern whatever with the destinies of either ofthem. They were Herbert and Owen Fitzgerald. 

The reader will perhaps remember the way in which Owen left DesmondCourt on the occasion of his last visit there. It cannot be saidthat what he had heard had in any way humbled him, nor indeed had ittaught him to think that Clara Desmond looked at him altogether withindifference. Greatly as she had injured him, he could not bringhimself to look upon her as the chief sinner. It was Lady Desmondwho had done it all. It was she who had turned against him becauseof his poverty, who had sold her daughter to his rich cousin, androbbed him of the love which he had won for himself. Or perhaps notof the love--it might be that this was yet his; and if so, was itnot possible that he might beat the countess at her own weapons?Thinking over this, he felt that it was necessary for him to dosomething, to take some step; and therefore he resolved to go boldlyto his cousin, and tell him that he regarded Lady Clara Desmond asstill his own. 

On this morning, therefore, he had ridden up to the Castle Richmonddoor. It was now many months since he had been there, and he was nolonger entitled to enter the house on the acknowledged intimatefooting of a cousin. He rode up, and asked the servant with graveceremony whether Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald were at home. He would notgo in, he said, but if Mr. Herbert were there he would wait for himat the porch. Herbert at the time was standing in the dining-room, all alone, gloomily leaning against the mantelpiece. There wasnothing for him to do during the whole of that day but wait for theevening, when the promised revelation would be made to him. He knewthat Mollett and Mrs. Jones were with Mr. Prendergast in the study, but what was the matter now being investigated between them--that hedid not know. And till he knew that, closely as he was himselfconcerned, he could meddle with nothing. But it was already pastnoon and the evening would soon be there. 

In this mood he was interrupted by being told that his cousin Owenwas at the door. "He won't come in at all, Mr. Herbert, " Richard hadsaid; for Richard, according to order, was still waiting about theporch; "but he says that you are to go to him there. " And thenHerbert, after considering the matter for a moment, joined hiscousin at the front entrance. 

"I want to speak to you a few words, " said Owen; "but as I hear thatSir Thomas is not well, I will not go into the house; perhaps youwill walk with me as far as the lodge. Never mind the mare, she willnot go astray. " And so Herbert got his hat and accompanied him. Forthe first hundred yards neither of them said anything. Owen wouldnot speak of Clara till he was well out of hearing from the house, and at the present moment Herbert had not much inclination tocommence a conversation on any subject. 

Owen was the first to speak. "Herbert, " said he, "I have been toldthat you are engaged to marry Lady Clara Desmond. "

"And so I am, " said Herbert, feeling very little inclined to admitof any question as to his privilege in that respect. Things werehappening around him which might have--Heaven only knows whatconsequence. He did fear--fear with a terrible dread that somethingmight occur which would shatter the cup of his happiness, and robhim of the fruition of his hopes. But nothing had occurred as yet. 

"And so I am, " he said; "it is no wonder that you should have heardit, for it has been kept no secret. And I also have heard of yourvisit to Desmond Court. It might have been as well, I think, if youhad stayed away. "

"I thought differently, " said Owen, frowning blackly. "I thoughtthat the most straight-forward thing for me was to go there openly, having announced my intention, and tell them both, mother anddaughter, that I hold myself as engaged to Lady Clara, and that Ihold her as engaged to me. "

"That is absurd nonsense. She cannot be engaged to two persons. "

"Anything that interferes with you, you will of course think absurd. I think otherwise. It is hardly more than twelve months since sheand I were walking there together, and then she promised me herlove. I had known her long and well, when you had hardly seen her. Iknew her and loved her; and what is more, she loved me. Remember, itis not I only that say so. She said it herself, and swore thatnothing should change her. I do not believe that anything haschanged her. "

"Do you mean to say that at present she cares nothing for me? Owen, you must be mad on this matter. "

"Mad; yes, of course; if I think that any girl can care for me whileyou are in the way. Strange as it may appear, I am as mad even asthat. There are people who will not sell themselves even for moneyand titles. I say again, that I do not believe her to be changed. She has been weak, and her mother has persuaded her. To her mother, rank and money, titles and property, are everything. She has soldher daughter, and I have come to ask you, whether, under suchcircumstances, you intend to accept the purchase. "

In his ordinary mood Herbert Fitzgerald was by no means aquarrelsome man. Indeed we may go further than that, and say that hewas very much the reverse. His mind was argumentative rather thanimpulsive, and in all matters he was readier to persuade thanovercome. But his ordinary nature had been changed. It was quite newwith him to be nervous and fretful but he was so at the presentmoment. He was deeply concerned in the circumstances around him, butyet had been allowed no voice in them. In this affair that was sopeculiarly his own, --this of his promised bride, he was determinedthat no voice should be heard but his own; and now, contrary to hiswont, he was ready enough to quarrel with his cousin. 

Of Owen we may say, that he was a man prone to fighting of allsorts, and on all occasions. By fighting I do not mean theold-fashioned resource of putting an end to fighting by the aid oftwo pistols, which were harmless in nineteen cases out of twenty. Insaying that Owen Fitzgerald was prone to fight, I do not allude tofighting of that sort; I mean that he was impulsive, and everanxious to contend and conquer. To yield was to him ignoble, eventhough he might know that he was yielding to the right. To strivefor mastery was to him noble, even though he strove against thosewho had a right to rule, and strove on behalf of the wrong. Such wasthe nature of his mind and spirit; and this nature had impelled himto his present enterprise at Castle Richmond. But he had gonethither with an unwonted resolve not to be passionate. He had, hehad said to himself, right on his side, and he had purposed to argueit out fairly with his more cold-blooded cousin. The reader mayprobably guess the result of these fair arguments on such a subject. "And I have come to ask you, " he said, "whether under suchcircumstances you intend to accept the purchase?"

"I will not allow you to speak of Lady Desmond in such language; norof her daughter, " said Herbert, angrily. 

"Ah! but, Herbert, you must allow me; I have been ill used in thismatter, and I have a right to make myself heard. "

"Is it I that have ill used you? I did not know before thatgentlemen made loud complaints of such ill usage from the hands ofladies. "

"If the ill usage, as you please to call it--"

"It is your own word. "

"Very well. If this ill usage came from Clara Desmond herself, Ishould be the last person to complain of it; and you would be thelast person to whom I should make complaint. But I feel sure that itis not so. She is acting under the influence of her mother, who hasfrightened her into this thing which she is doing. I do not believethat she is false herself. "

"I am sure that she is not false. We are quite agreed there, but itis not likely that we should agree further. To tell you the truthfrankly I think you are ill-judged to speak to me on such a topic. "

"Perhaps in that respect you will allow me to think for myself. ButI have not yet said that which I came to say. My belief is thatunfair and improper restraint is put upon Clara Desmond, that shehas been induced by her mother to accept your offer in opposition toher own wishes, and that therefore it is my duty to look upon her asstill betrothed to me. I do so regard her, and shall act under suchconviction. The first thing that I do therefore is to call upon youto relinquish your claim. "

"What, to give her up?"

"Yes, to give her up;--to acknowledge that you cannot honestly callupon her to fulfil her pledge to you. "

"The man must be raving, " Herbert said. 

"Very probably; but remember this, it may be that he will rave tosome purpose, when such insolence will be but of little avail toyou. Raving! Yes, I suppose that a man poor as I am must be madindeed to set his heart upon anything you may choose to fancy. "

"All that is nonsense; Owen, I ask for nothing but my own. I won herlove fairly, and I mean to keep it firmly. "

"You may possibly have won her hand, but never her heart. You arerich, and it may be that even she will condescend to barter herhand; but I doubt it; I altogether doubt it. It is her mother'sdoing, as it was plain enough for me to see the other day at DesmondCourt; but much as she may fear her mother, I cannot think that shewill go to the altar with a lie in her mouth. "

And then they walked on in silence for a few yards. Herbert wasanxious to get back to the house, and was by no means desirous ofcontinuing this conversation with his cousin. He, at any rate, couldget nothing by talking about Lady Clara Desmond to Owen Fitzgerald. He stopped therefore on the path, and said, that if Owen had nothingfurther to say, he, Herbert, would go back to the house. 

"Nothing further! Nothing further, if you understand me; but you donot. You are not honest enough in this matter to understand anypurpose but your own. "

"I tell you what, Owen: I did not come out here to hear myselfabused; and I will not stand it. According to my idea you had noright whatever to speak to me about Lady Clara Desmond. But you aremy cousin; and therefore I have borne it. It may be as well that weshould both understand that it is once for all. I will not listen toyou again on the same subject. "

"Oh, you won't. Upon my word you are a very great man! You will tellme next, I suppose, that this is your demesne, and will warn meoff!"

"Even if I did that, I should not be wrong, under such provocation. "

"Very well, sir; then I will go off. But remember this, HerbertFitzgerald, you shall live to rue the day when you treated me withsuch insolence. And remember this also, Clara Desmond is not yourwife as yet. Everything now seems happy with you, and fortunate; youhave wealth and a fine house, and a family round you, while I amthere all alone, left like a dog, as far as my own relatives areconcerned. But yet it may come to pass that the Earl of Desmond'sdaughter will prefer my hand to yours, and my house to your house. They who mount high may chance to get a fall. " And then, havinguttered this caution, he turned to his mare, and putting his handupon the saddle, jumped into his seat, and pressing her into agallop, darted off across the grass. 

He had not meant anything specially by his threat; but his heart wassore within him. During some weeks past, he had become sick of thelife that he was leading. He had begun to hate his own solitaryhouse--his house that was either solitary, or filled with riotand noise. He sighed for the quiet hours that were once his atDesmond Court, and the privilege of constant entrance there, which was now denied him. His cousin Herbert had everything athis command--wealth, station, family ties, society, and all theconsideration of high place. Every blessing was at the feet of theyoung heir; but every blessing was not enough, unless Clara Desmondwas also added. All this seemed so cruel to him, as he sat alone inhis parlour at Hap House, meditating on his future course of life!And then he would think of Clara's promise, of her assurance thatnothing should frighten her from her pledge. He thought of this asthough the words had been spoken to him only yesterday. He ponderedover these things till he hated his cousin Herbert; and hating him, he vowed that Clara Desmond should not be his wife. "Is he to haveeverything?" he would say to himself. "No, by leavens! noteverything. He has enough, and may be contented; but he shall nothave all. " And now, with similar thoughts running through his mind, he rode back to Hap House. 

And Herbert turned back to Castle Richmond. As he approached thefront door, he met Mr. Prendergast, who was leaving the house; butthey had no conversation with each other. Herbert was in hopes thathe might now, at once, be put out of suspense. Mollett was gone; andwould it not be better that the tale should be told? But it wasclear that Mr. Prendergast had no intention of lessening by an hourthe interval he had given himself. He merely muttered a few wordspassing on, and Herbert went into the house. 

And then there was another long, tedious, dull afternoon. Herbertsat with his sisters, but they had not the heart to talk to eachother. At about four a note was brought to him. It was from Mr. Prendergast, begging Herbert to meet him in Sir Thomas's study ateight. Sir Thomas had not been there during the day; and now did notintend to leave his own room. They dined at half-past six; and theappointment was therefore to take place almost immediately afterdinner. 

"Tell Mr. Prendergast that I will be there, " he said to the servant. And so that afternoon passed away, and the dinner also, very slowlyand very sadly. 

CHAPTER XXII

THE TELLING OF THE TALE

The dinner passed away as the former dinners had done; and as soonas Aunt Letty got up Mr. Prendergast also rose, and touching Herberton his shoulder, whispered into his ear, "You'll come to me ateight, then. " Herbert nodded his head; and when he was alone helooked at his watch. These slow dinners were not actually very long, and there still remained to him some three-quarters of an hour foranticipation. 

What was to be the nature of this history? That it would affecthimself personally in the closest manner he could not but know. There seemed to be no doubt on the minds of any of them that theaffair was one of money, and his father's money questions were hismoney questions. Mr. Prendergast would not have been sent for withreference to any trifle; nor would any pecuniary difficulty that wasnot very serious have thrown his father into such a state of misery. Could it be that the fair inheritance was absolutely in danger?

Herbert Fitzgerald was by no means a selfish man. As regardedhimself, he could have met ruin in the face with more equanimitythan most young men so circumstanced. The gilt of the world had noteaten into his soul; his heart was not as yet wedded to thesplendour of pinchbeck. This is saying much for him; for how seldomis it that the hearts and souls of the young are able to withstandpinchbeck and gilding? He was free from this pusillanimity; free asyet as regarded himself; but he was hardly free as regarded hisbetrothed. He had promised her, not in spoken words but in histhoughts, rank, wealth, and all the luxuries of his promised highposition; and now, on her behalf, it nearly broke his heart to thinkthat they might be endangered. 

Of his mother's history, he can hardly be said to have knownanything. That there had been something tragic in her early life;that something had occurred before his father's marriage; and thathis mother had been married twice, he had learned, --he hardly knewwhen or from whom. But on such matters there had never beenconversation between him and any of his own family; and it neveroccurred to him that this sorrow arose in any way from this subject. That his father had taken some fatal step with regard to theproperty--had done some foolish thing for which he could not forgivehimself, that was the idea with which his mind was filled. 

He waited, with his watch in his hand, till the dial showed him thatit was exactly eight; and then, with a sinking heart, he walkedslowly out of the dining-room along the passage, and into hisfather's study. For an instant he stood with the handle in his hand. He had been terribly anxious for the arrival of this moment, but nowthat it had come, he would almost fain have had it again postponed. His heart sank very low as he turned the lock, and entering, foundhimself in the presence of Mr. Prendergast. 

Mr. Prendergast was standing with his back to the fire. For him, too, the last hour had been full of bitterness; his heart also hadsunk low within him; his blood had run cold within his veins: hetoo, had it been possible, would have put off this wretched hour. 

Mr. Prendergast, it may be, was not much given to poetry; but thefeeling, if not the words, were there within him. The work which afriend has to perform for a friend is so much heavier than thatwhich comes in the way of any profession!

When Herbert entered the room, Mr. Prendergast came forward fromwhere he was standing, and took him by the hand. "This is a very sadaffair, " he said; "very sad. "

"At present I know nothing about it, " said Herbert. "As I see peopleabout me so unhappy, I suppose it is sad. If there be anything thatI hate, it is a mystery. "

"Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald, " said the other; "sit down. " And Mr. Prendergast himself sat down in the chair that was ordinarilyoccupied by Sir Thomas. Although he had been thinking about it allthe day, he had not even yet made up his mind how he was to beginhis story. Even now he could not help thinking whether it might bepossible for him to leave it untold. 

But it was not possible. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " said he, "you must prepare yourself for tidingswhich are very grievous indeed--very grievous. "

"Whatever it is I must bear it, " said he. 

"I hope you have that moral strength which enables a man to bearmisfortune. I have not known you in happy days, and thereforeperhaps can hardly judge; but it seems to me that you do possesssuch courage. Did I not think so, I could hardly go through the taskthat is before me. "

Here he paused as though he expected some reply, some assurance thathis young friend did possess this strength of which he spoke; butHerbert said nothing--nothing out loud. "If it were only for myself!if it were only for myself!" It was thus that he spoke to his ownheart. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " continued the lawyer, "I do not know how far youmay be acquainted with the history of your mother's first marriage. "

Herbert said that he was hardly acquainted with it in any degree;and explained that he merely knew the fact that his mother had beenmarried before she met Sir Thomas. 

"I do not know that I need recount all the circumstances to you now, though doubtless you will learn them. Your mother's conductthroughout was, I believe, admirable. "

"I am quite sure of that. No amount of evidence could make mebelieve the contrary. "

"And there is no tittle of evidence to make any one think so. But inher early youth, when she was quite a child, she was given inmarriage to a man--to a man of whom it is impossible to speak interms too black, or in language too strong. And now, this day--"

But here he paused. It had been his intention to say that that veryman, the first husband of this loved mother now looked upon as deadfor so many years, this miscreant of whom he had spoken--that thisman had been in that room that very day. But he hardly knew how toframe the words. 

"Well, " said Herbert, "well;" and he spoke in a hoarse voice thatwas scarcely audible. 

Mr. Prendergast was afraid to bring out the very pith of his storyin so abrupt a manner. He wished to have the work over, to feel, that as regarded Herbert it was done, --but his heart failed him whenhe came to it. 

"Yes, " he said, going back as it were to his former thoughts. "Aheartless, cruel, debauched, unscrupulous man; one in whose bosom nogood thing seemed to have been implanted. Your father, when he firstknew your mother, had every reason to believe that this man wasdead. "

"And he was not dead?" Mr. Prendergast could see that the youngman's face became perfectly pale as he uttered these words. Hebecame pale, and clutched hold of the table with his hand, and theresat with mouth open and staring eyes. 

"I am afraid not, " said Mr. Prendergast; "I am afraid not. "

"And--"

"I must go further than that, and tell you that he is still living. "

"Mr. Prendergast, Mr. Prendergast!" exclaimed the poor fellow, rising up from his chair and shouting out as though for mercy. Mr. Prendergast also rose from his seat, and coming up to him took himby the arm. "My dear boy, my dear boy, I am obliged to tell you. Itis necessary that you should know it. The fact is as I say, and itis now for you to show that you are a man. "

Who was ever called upon for a stronger proof of manhood than this?In nine cases out of ten it is not for oneself that one has to bebrave. A man, we may almost say, is no man, whose own individualsufferings call for the exercise of much courage. But we are all somixed up and conjoined with others--with others who are weaker anddearer than ourselves, that great sorrows do require great powers ofendurance. 

By degrees, as he stood there in silence, the whole truth made itsway into his mind, --as he stood there with his arm still tenderlypressed by that old man. No one now would have called the lawyerstern in looking at him, for the tears were coursing down hischeeks. But no tears came to the relief of young Fitzgerald as thetruth slowly came upon him, fold by fold, black cloud upon cloud, till the whole horizon of his life's prospect was dark as death. Hestood there silent for some few minutes hardly conscious that he wasnot alone, as he saw all his joys disappearing from before hismind's eye, one by one; his family pride, the pleasant high-tonedduties of his station, his promised seat in Parliament andprosperous ambition, the full respect of all the world around him, his wealth and pride of place--for let no man be credited who boaststhat he can part with these without regret. All these were gone. Butthere were losses more bitter than these. How could he think of hisaffianced bride? and how could he think of his mother?

No tears came to his relief while the truth, with all its bearings, burnt itself into his very soul, but his face expressed such agonythat it was terrible to be seen. Mr. Prendergast could stand thatsilence no longer, so at last he spoke. He spoke, --for the sake ofwords; for all his tale had been told. 

"You saw the man that was here yesterday? That was he, who thencalled himself Talbot. "

"What! the man that went away in the car? Mollett!"

"Yes; that was the man. "

Herbert had said that no evidence could be sufficient to make himbelieve that his mother had been in any way culpable: and suchprobably was the case. He had that reliance on his mother--thatassurance in his mind that everything coming from her must begood--that he could not believe her capable of ill. But, nevertheless, he could not prevent himself from asking within hisown breast, how it had been possible that his mother should everhave been concerned with such a wretch as that. It was a questionwhich could not fail to make itself audible. What being on earth wassweeter than his mother, more excellent, more noble, more fitted forthe world's high places, more absolutely entitled to that universalrespect which seemed to be given to her as her own by right? Andwhat being could be more loathsome, more contemptible than he, whowas, as he was now told, his mother's husband? There was in it awant of verisimilitude which almost gave him comfort, one--whichalmost taught him to think that he might disbelieve the story thatwas told to him. Poor fellow! he had yet to learn the differencethat years may make in men and women--for better as well as forworse. Circumstances had given to the poor half-educated villagegirl the simple dignity of high station; as circumstances had alsobrought to the lowest dregs of human existence the man, whosepersonal bearing and apparent worldly standing had been heldsufficient to give warrant that he was of gentle breeding and ofhonest standing; nay, her good fortune in such a marriage had oncebeen almost begrudged her by all her maiden neighbours. 

But Herbert, as he thought of this, was almost discouraged todisbelieve the story. To him, with his knowledge of what his motherwas, and with knowledge as he also had of that man, it did not seempossible. "But how is all this known?" he muttered forth at last. 

"I fear there is no doubt of its truth, " said Mr. Prendergast. "Yourfather has no doubt whatever; has had none--I must tell you thisplainly--for some months. "

"For some months! And why have I not been told?"

"Do not be hard upon your father. "

"Hard! no; of course I would not be hard upon him. "

"The burden he has had to bear has been very terrible. He hasthought that by payments of money to this man the whole thing mightbe concealed. As is always the case when such payments are made, theinsatiable love of money grew by what it fed on. He would havepoured out every shilling into that man's hands, and would havedied, himself a beggar--have died speedily too under suchtorments--and yet no good would have been done. The harpy would havecome upon you; and you--after you had innocently assumed a titlethat was not your own and taken a property to which you have noright, you then would have had to own--that which your father mustown now. "

"If it be so, " said Herbert, slowly, "it must be acknowledged. "

"Just so, Mr. Fitzgerald; just so. I know you will feel that--insuch matters we can only sail safely by the truth. There is no othercompass worth a man's while to look at. "

"Of course not, " said Herbert, with hoarse voice. "One does not wishto be a robber and a thief. My cousin shall have what is his own. "And then he involuntarily thought of the interview they had had onthat very day. "But why did he not tell me when I spoke to him ofher?" he said, with something approaching to bitterness in his voiceand a slight struggle in his throat that was almost premonitory of asob. 

"Ah! it is there that I fear for you. I know what your feelings are;but think of his sorrows, and do not be hard on him. "

"Ah me, ah me!" exclaimed Herbert

"I fear that he will not be with you long. He has already enduredtill he is now almost past the power of suffering more. And yetthere is so much more that he must suffer!"

"My poor father!"

"Think what such as he must have gone through in bringing himselfinto contact with that man; and all this has been done that he mightspare you and your mother. Think of the wound to his consciencebefore he would have lowered himself to an unworthy bargain with aswindler. But this has been done that you might have that which youhave been taught to look on as your own. He has been wrong. No otherverdict can be given. But you, at any rate, can be tender to such afault; you and your mother. "

"I will--I will, " said Herbert. "But if it had happened a monthsince I could have borne it. " And then he thought of his mother, andhated himself for what he had said. How could he have borne thatwith patience? "And there is no doubt, you say?"

"I think none. The man carries his proofs with him. An old servanthere in the house, too, knows him. "

"What, Mrs. Jones?"

"Yes; Mrs. Jones. And the burden of further proof must now, ofcourse, be thrown on us, --not on him. Directly that we believe thestatement, it is for us to ascertain its truth. You and your fathermust not be seen to hold a false position before the world. "

"And what are we to do now?"

"I fear that your mother must be told, and Mr. Owen Fitzgerald;and then we must together openly prove the facts, either in oneway or in the other. It will be better that we should do thistogether;--that is, you and your cousin Owen conjointly. Do itopenly, before the world, --so that the world may know that each ofyou desires only what is honestly his own. For myself I tell youfairly that I have no doubt of the truth of what I have told you;but further proof is certainly needed. Had I any doubt I would notpropose to tell your mother. As it is I think it will be wrong tokeep her longer in the dark. "

"Does she suspect nothing?"

"I do not know. She has more power of self-control than your father. She has not spoken to me ten words since I have been in the house, and in not doing so I have thought that she was right. "

"My own mother; my dear mother!"

"If you ask me my opinion, I think that she does suspect thetruth, --very vaguely, with an indefinite feeling that the calamitywhich weighs so heavily on your father has come from this source. She, dear lady, is greatly to be pitied. But God has made her offirmer material than your father, and I think that she will bear hersorrow with a higher courage. "

"And she is to be told also?"

"Yes, I think so. I do not see how we can avoid it. If we do nottell her we must attempt to conceal it, and that attempt must needsbe futile when we are engaged in making open inquiry on the subject. Your cousin, when he hears of this, will of course be anxious toknow what his real prospects are. "

"Yes, yes. He will be anxious, and determined too. "

"And then, when all the world will know it, how is your mother to bekept in the dark? And that which she fears and anticipates is asbad, probably, as the actual truth. If my advice be followed nothingwill be kept from her. "

"We are in your hands, I suppose, Mr. Prendergast?"

"I can only act as my judgment directs me. "

"And who is to tell her?" This he asked with a shudder, and almostin a whisper. The very idea of undertaking such a duty seemed almosttoo much for him. And yet he must undertake a duty almost asterrible, he himself--no one but him--must endure the anguish ofrepeating this story to Clara Desmond and to the countess. But nowthe question had reference to his own mother. "And who is to tellher?" he asked. 

For a moment or two Mr. Prendergast stood silent. He had nothitherto, in so many words, undertaken this task--this that would bethe most dreadful of all. But if he did not undertake it, who would?"I suppose that I must do it, " at last he said, very gently. 

"And when?"

"As soon as I have told your cousin. I will go down to him to-morrowafter breakfast. Is it probable that I shall find him at home?"

"Yes, if you are there before ten. The hounds meet to-morrow atCecilstown, within three miles of him, and he will not leave hometill near eleven. But it is possible that he may have a house fullof men with him. "

"At any rate, I will try. On such an occasion as this he may surelylet his friends go to the hunt without him. "

And then between nine and ten this interview came to an end. "Mr. Fitzgerald, " said Mr. Prendergast, as he pressed Herbert's hand, "you have borne all this as a man should do. No loss of fortune canruin one who is so well able to endure misfortune. " But in this Mr. Prendergast was perhaps mistaken. His knowledge of human nature hadnot carried him sufficiently far. A man's courage under calamity isonly tested when he is left in solitude. The meanest among us canbear up while strange eyes are looking at us. And then Mr. Prendergast went away, and he was alone. 

It had been his habit during the whole of this period of hisfather's illness to go to Sir Thomas at or before bedtime. Thesevisits had usually been made to the study, the room in which he wasnow standing; but when his father had gone to his bedroom at anearlier hour, Herbert had always seen him there. Was he to go to himnow--now that he had heard all this? And if so, how was he to bearhimself there, in his father's presence? He stood still, thinking ofthis, till the hand of the clock showed him that it was past ten, and then it struck him that his father might be waiting for him. Itwould not do for him now, at such a moment, to appear wanting inthat attention which he had always shown. He was still his father'sson, though he had lost the light to bear his father's name. He wasnameless now, a man utterly without respect or standing-place in theworld, a being whom the law ignored except as the possessor of amere life; such was he now, instead of one whose rights andprivileges, whose property and rank all the statutes of the realmand customs of his country delighted to honour and protect. This herepeated to himself over and over again. It as to such a pass asthis, to this bitter disappointment that his father had brought him. But yet it should not be said of him that he had begun to neglecthis father as soon as he had heard the story. 

So with a weary step he walked upstairs, and found Sir Thomas inbed, with his mother sitting by the bedside. His mother held out herhand to him, and he took it, leaning against the bedside. "Has Mr. Prendergast left you?" she asked. 

He told her that Mr. Prendergast had left him, and gone to his ownroom for the night. "And have you been with him all the evening?"she asked. She had no special motive in so asking, but both thefather and the son shuddered at the question. "Yes, " said Herbert;"I have been with him, and now I have come to wish my father goodnight; and you too, mother, if you intend to remain here. " But LadyFitzgerald got up, telling Herbert that she would leave him with SirThomas; and before either of them could hinder her from departing, the father and the son were alone together. 

Sir Thomas, when the door closed, looked furtively up into his son'sface. Might it be that he could read there how much had been alreadytold, or hew much still remained to be disclosed? That Herbert wasto learn it all that evening, he knew; but it might be that Mr. Prendergast had failed to perform his task. Sir Thomas in his hearttrusted that he had failed. He looked up furtively into Herbert'sface, but at the moment there was nothing there that he could read. There was nothing there but black misery; and every face round himfor many days past had worn that aspect. 

For a minute or two Herbert said nothing, for he had not made up hismind whether or no he would that night disturb his father's rest. But he could not speak in his ordinary voice, or bid his father goodnight as though nothing special to him had happened. "Father, " saidhe, after a short pause, "father, I know it all now. "

"My boy, my poor boy, my unfortunate boy!"

"Father, " said Herbert, "do not be unhappy about me, I can bear it. "And then he thought again of his bride--his bride as she was to havebeen; but nevertheless he repeated his last words, "I can bear it, father!"

"I have meant it for the best, Herbert, " said the poor man, pleadingto his child. 

"I know that; all of us well know that. But what Mr. Prendergastsays is true; it is better that it should be known. That man wouldhave killed you had you kept it longer to yourself. "

Sir Thomas hid his face upon the pillow as the remembrance of whathe had endured in those meetings came upon him. The blow that hadtold heaviest was that visit from the son, and the threats which theman had made still rung in his ears--"When that youngster was bornLady F. Was Mrs. M. , wasn't she?. .. My governor could take her awayto-morrow, according to the law of the land, couldn't he now?" Thesewords, and more such as these, had nearly killed him at the time, and now, as they recurred to him, he burst out into childish tears. Poor man! the days of his manhood had gone, and nothing but thetears of a second bitter childhood remained to him. The hot iron hadentered into his soul, and shrivelled up the very muscles of hismind's strength. 

Herbert, without much thought of what he was doing, knelt down bythe bedside and put his hand upon that of his father which lay outupon the sheet. There he knelt for one or two minutes, watching andlistening to his father's sobs. "You will be better now, father, " hesaid, "for the great weight of this terrible secret will be off yourmind. " But Sir Thomas did not answer him. With him there could neverbe any better. All things belonging to him had gone to ruin. Allthose around him whom he had loved--and he had loved those aroundhim very dearly--were brought to poverty and sorrow, and disgrace. The power of feeling this was left to him, but the power of enduringthis with manhood was gone. The blow had come upon him too late inlife. 

And Herbert himself, as he knelt there, could hardly forbear fromtears. Now, at such a moment as this, he could think of no one buthis father, the author of his being, who lay there so grievouslyafflicted by sorrows which were in nowise selfish. "Father, " he saidat last, "will you pray with me?" And then when the poor suffererhad turned his face towards him, he poured forth his prayer to hisSaviour that they all in that family might be enabled to bear theheavy sorrows which God in his mercy and wisdom had now thought fitto lay upon them. I will not make his words profane by repeatingthem here, but one may say confidently that they were not uttered invain. 

"And now, dearest father, good night, " he said as he rose from hisknees, and stretching over the bed, he kissed his father's forehead. 

CHAPTER XXIII

BEFORE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE

It may be imagined that Mr. Mollett's drive back to Cork after hislast visit to Castle Richmond had not been very pleasant; and indeedit may be said that his present circumstances altogether were asunpleasant as his worst enemies could desire. I have endeavoured toexcite the sympathy of those who are going with me through thisstory for the sufferings of that family of the Fitzgeralds, but howshall I succeed in exciting their sympathy for this other family ofthe Molletts? And yet why not? If we are to sympathise only with thegood, or worse still, only with the graceful, how little will therebe in our character that is better than terrestrial? Those Mollettsalso were human, and had strings to their hearts, at which the worldwould now probably pull with sufficient vigour. For myself I cantruly say that my strongest feeling is for their wretchedness. 

The father and son had more than once boasted among themselves thatthe game they were now playing was a high one; that they were, infact, gambling for mighty stakes. And in truth, as long as the moneycame in to them--flowing in as the result of their own craft inthis game--the excitement had about it something that was verypleasurable. There was danger, which makes all games pleasant; therewas money in handfuls for daily expenses--those daily wants of theappetite, which are to such men more important by far than thedistant necessities of life; there was a possibility of futuregrandeur, an opening out of magnificent ideas of fortune, whichcharmed them greatly as they thought about it. What might they notdo with forty thousand pounds divided between them, or even with athousand a-year each, settled on them for life? and surely theirsecret was worth that money! Nay, was it not palpable to the meanestcalculation that it was worth much more? Had they not the selling oftwelve thousand a-year for ever and ever to this family ofFitzgerald?

But for the last fortnight things had begun to go astray with them. Money easily come by goes easily, and money badly come by goesbadly. Theirs had come easily and badly, and had so gone. Whatnecessity could there be for economy with such a milch-cow as thatclose to their elbows? So both of them had thought, if not argued;and there had been no economy--no economy in the use of that verycostly amusement, the dice-box; and now, at the present moment, ready money having failed to be the result of either of the two lastvisits to Castle Richmond, the family funds were running low. 

It may be said that ready money for the moment was the one desirenearest to the heart of Mollett pere, when he took that last journeyover the Boggeragh mountains--ready money wherewith to satisfy thepressing claims of Miss O'Dwyer, and bring back civility, or ratherservility, to the face and manner of Tom the waiter at the KanturkHotel. Very little of that servility can be enjoyed by persons ofthe Mollett class when money ceases to be ready in their hands andpocket, and there is, perhaps, nothing that they enjoy so keenly asservility. Mollett pere had gone down determined that that comfortshould at any rate be forthcoming to him, whatever answer might begiven to those other grander demands, and we know what success hadattended his mission. He had looked to find his tame milch-cowtrembling in her accustomed stall, and he had found a resolute bullthere in her place--a bull whom he could by no means take by thehorns. He had got no money, and before he had reached Cork he hadbegun to comprehend that it was not probable that he should get morefrom that source. 

During a part of the interview between him and Mr. Prendergast, somespark of mercy towards his victims had glimmered into his heart. When it was explained to him that the game was to be given up, thatthe family at Castle Richmond was prepared to acknowledge the truth, and that the effort made was with the view of proving that the poorlady up stairs was not entitled to the name she bore rather thanthat she was so entitled, then some slight promptings of a betterspirit did for a while tempt him to be merciful. "Oh, what are youabout to do?" he would have said had Mr. Prendergast admitted ofspeech from him. "Why make this terrible sacrifice? Matters have notcome to that. There is no need for you to drag to the light thisterrible fact. I will not divulge it--no not although you are hardupon me in regard to these terms of mine. I will still keep it tomyself, and trust to you, --to you who are all so rich and able topay, for what consideration you may please to give me. " This was thestate of his mind when Mrs. Jones's evidence was being slowly evokedfrom her; but it had undergone a considerable change before hereached Cork. By that time he had taught himself to understand thatthere was no longer a chance to him of any consideration whatever. Slowly he had brought it home to himself that these people hadresolutely determined to blow up the ground on which they themselvesstood. This he perceived was their honesty. He did not understandthe nature of a feeling which could induce so fatal a suicide, buthe did understand that the feeling was there, and that the suicidewould be completed. 

And now what was he to do next in the way of earning hisbread? Various thoughts ran through his brain, and differentresolves--half-formed but still, perhaps, capable of shape--presented themselves to him for the future. It was still on thecards--on the cards, but barely so--that he might make money out ofthese people; but he must wait perhaps for weeks before he againcommenced such an attempt. He might perhaps make money out of them, and be merciful to them at the same time;--not money by thousandsand tens of thousands; that golden dream was gone for ever; butstill money that might be comfortably luxurious as long as it couldbe made to last. But then on one special point he made a firm andfinal resolution, --whatever new scheme he might hatch he alone wouldmanage. Never again would he call into his councils that son of hisloins whose rapacious greed had, as he felt sure, brought upon himall this ruin. Had Aby not gone to Castle Richmond, with his crueltyand his greed, frightening to the very death the soul of that poorbaronet by the enormity of his demands, Mr. Prendergast would nothave been there. Of what further chance of Castle Richmond pickingsthere might be Aby should know nothing. He and his son would nolonger hunt in couples. He would shake him off in that escape whichthey must both now make from Cork, and he would not care how long itmight be before he again saw his countenance. 

But then that question of ready money; and that other question, perhaps as interesting, touching a criminal prosecution! How was heto escape if he could not raise the wind? And how could he raise thewind now that his milch-cow had run so dry? He had promised theO'Dwyers money that evening, and had struggled hard to make thatpromise with an easy face. He now had none to give them. His ordersat the inn were treated almost with contempt. For the last threedays they had given him what he wanted to eat and drink, but wouldhardly give him all that he wanted. When he called for brandy theybrought him whisky, and it had only been by hard begging, and byoaths as to the promised money, that he had induced them to supplyhim with the car which had taken him on his fruitless journey toCastle Richmond. As he was driven up to the door in South MainStreet, his heart was very sad on all these subjects. 

Aby was again sitting within the bar, but was no longer basking inthe sunshine of Fanny's smiles. He was sitting there because Fannyhad not yet mustered courage to turn him out. He was half-drunk, forit had been found impossible to keep spirits from him. And there hadbeen hot words between him and Fanny, in which she had twitted himwith his unpaid bill, and he had twitted her with her former love. And things had gone from bad to worse, and she had all but called inTom for aid in getting quit of him; she had, however, refrained, thinking of the money that might be coming, and waiting also tillher father should arrive. Fanny's love for Mr. Abraham Mollett hadnot been long lived. 

I will not describe another scene such as those which had of latebeen frequent in the Kanturk Hotel. The father and the son soonfound themselves together in the small room in which they now bothslept, at the top of the house, and Aby, tipsy as he was, understoodthe whole of what had happened at Castle Richmond. When he heardthat Mr. Prendergast was seen in that room in lieu of Sir Thomas, heknew at once that the game had been abandoned. "But something mayyet be done at 'Appy 'ouse, " Aby said to himself, "only one must bedeuced quick. "

The father and the son of course quarrelled frightfully, like dogsover the memory of a bone which had been arrested from the jaws ofboth of them. Aby said that his father had lost everything by hispusillanimity, and old Mollett declared that his son had destroyedall by his rashness. But we need not repeat their quarrels, norrepeat all that passed between them and Tom before food wasforthcoming to satisfy the old man's wants. As he ate he calculatedhow much he might probably raise upon his watch towards taking himto London, and how best he might get off from Cork without leavingany scent in the nostrils of his son. His clothes he must leavebehind him at the inn, at least all that he could not pack upon hisperson. Lately he had made himself comfortable in this respect, andhe sorrowed over the fine linen which he had worn but once or twicesince it had been bought with the last instalment from Sir Thomas. Nevertheless in this way he did make up his mind for the morrow'scampaign. 

And Aby also made up his mind. Something, at any rate, he hadlearned from Fanny O'Dwyer in return for his honeyed words. WhenHerbert Fitzgerald should cease to be the heir to Castle Richmond, Owen Fitzgerald of Hap House would be the happy man. That knowledgewas his own in absolute independence of his father, and there mightstill be time for him to use it. He knew well the locality of HapHouse, and he would be there early on the following morning. Thesetidings had probably not as yet reached the owner of that blessedabode, and if he could be the first to tell him--! The game theretoo might be pretty enough, if it were played well, by such amaster-hand as his own. Yes; he would be at Hap House early in themorning;--but then, how to get there?

He left his father preparing for bed, and going down into the barfound Mr. O'Dwyer and his daughter there in close consultation. Theywere endeavouring to arrive, by their joint wisdom, at someconclusion as to what they should do with their two guests. Fannywas for turning them out at once. "The first loss is the least, "said she. "And they is so disrispectable. I niver know what they'reafther, and always is expecting the p'lice will be down on them. "But the father shook his head. He had done nothing wrong; the policecould not hurt him; and thirty pounds, as he told his daughter, withmuch emphasis, was "a deuced sight of money. " "The first loss is theleast, " said Fanny, perseveringly; and then Aby entered to them. 

"My father has made a mull of this matter again, " said he, going atonce into the middle of the subject. "'E 'as come back without ashiner. "

"I'll be bound he has, " said Mr. O'Dwyer, sarcastically. 

"And that when 'e'd only got to go two or three miles further, andhall his troubles would have been over. "

"Troubles over, would they?" said Fanny, "I wish he'd have thegoodness to get over his little troubles in this house, by paying usour bill. You'll have to walk if it's not done, and that to-morrow, Mr. Mollett; and so I tell you; and take nothing with you, I cantell you. Father'll have the police to see to that. "

"Don't you be so cruel now, Miss Fanny, " said Aby, with a leeringlook. "I tell you what it is, Mr. O'Dwyer, I must go down again tothem diggings very early to-morrow, starting, say, at four o'clock. "

"You'll not have a foot out of my stables, " said Mr. O'Dwyer. "That's all. "

"Look here, Mr. O'Dwyer; there's been a sight of money due to usfrom those Fitzgerald people down there. You know 'em; and whetherthey're hable to pay or not. I won't deny but what father's 'ad thebest of it, --'ad the best of it, and sent it trolling, bad luck tohim. But there's no good looking hafter spilt milk; is there?"

"If so be that Sir Thomas owed the likes of you money, he would havepaid it without your tramping down there time after time to look forit. He's not one of that sort. "

"No, indeed, " said Fanny; "and I don't believe anything about yourseeing Sir Thomas. "

"Oh, we've seed him hoften enough. There's no mistake about that. But now--" and then, with a mysterious air and low voice, heexplained to them, that this considerable balance of money still dueto them was to be paid by the cousin, "Mr. Owen of 'Appy 'ouse. " Andto substantiate all his story, he exhibited a letter from Mr. Prendergast to his father, which some months since had intimatedthat a sum of money would be paid on behalf of Sir ThomasFitzgerald, if Mr. Mollett would call at Mr. Prendergast's office ata certain hour. The ultimate effect of all this was, that the carwas granted for the morning, with certain dire threats as to anyfurther breach of engagement. 

Very early on the following morning Aby was astir, hoping that hemight manage to complete his not elaborate toilet without disturbinghis father's slumbers. For, it must be known, he had been veryurgent with the O'Dwyers as to the necessity of keeping this journeyof his a secret from his "governor. " But the governor was wideawake, looking at him out of the corner of his closed eye wheneverhis back was turned, and not caring much what he was about to dowith himself. Mollett pere wished to be left alone for that morning, that he also might play his little game in his own solitary fashion, and was not at all disposed to question the movements of his son. 

At about five Aby started for Hap House. His toilet, I have said, was not elaborate; but in this I have perhaps wronged him. Up therein the bed-room he did not waste much time over his soap and water;but he was aware that first impressions are everything, and that oneyoung man should appear smart and clever before another if he wishedto carry any effect with him; so he took his brush and comb in hispocket, and a pot of grease with which he was wont to polish hislong side-locks, and he hurriedly grasped up his pins, and hisrings, and the satin stock which Fanny in her kinder mood had foldedfor him; and then, during his long journey to Hap House, he didperform a toilet which may, perhaps, be fairly called elaborate. 

There was a long, tortuous, narrow avenue, going from the Mallow andKanturk road down to Hap House, which impressed Aby with the ideathat the man on whom he was now about to call was also a biggentleman, and made him more uneasy than he would have been had heentered a place with less pretence. There is a story current, thatin the west of England the grandeur of middle-aged maiden ladies ismeasured by the length of the tail of their cats; and Aby had aperhaps equally correct idea, that the length of the private driveup to a gentleman's house, was a fair criterion of the splendour ofhis position. If this man had about him as much grandeur as SirThomas himself, would he be so anxious as Aby had hoped to obtainthe additional grandeur of Sir Thomas? It was in that direction thathis mind was operating when he got down from the car and rang at thedoor-bell. 

Mr. Owen, as everybody called him, was at home, but not down; and soAby was shown into the dining-room. It was now considerably pastnine; and the servant told him that his master must be there soon, as he had to eat his breakfast and be at the hunt by eleven. Theservant at Hap House was more unsophisticated than those at CastleRichmond, and Aby's personal adornments had had their effect. Hefound himself sitting in the room with the cups and saucers, --aye, and with the silver teaspoons; and began again to trust that hismission might be successful. 

And then the door opened, and a man appeared, clad from top to toein hunting costume. This was not Owen Fitzgerald, but his friendCaptain Donnellan. As it had happened, Captain Donnellan was theonly guest who had graced the festivities of Hap House on theprevious evening; and now he appeared at the breakfast table beforehis host. Aby got up from his chair when the gentleman entered, andwas proceeding to business; but the Captain gave him to understandthat the master of the house was not yet in presence, and so Aby satdown again. What was he to do when the master did arrive? His storywas not one which would well bear telling before a third person. 

And then, while Captain Donnellan was scanning this visitor to hisfriend Owen, and bethinking himself whether he might not be asheriff's officer, and whether if so some notice ought not to beconveyed upstairs to the master of the house, another car was drivenup to the front door. In this case the arrival was from CastleRichmond, and the two servants knew each other well. "Thady, " saidRichard, with much authority in his voice, "this gentl'man is Mr. Prendergast from our place, and he must see the masther before hegoes to the hunt. " "Faix and the masther'll have something to dothis blessed morning, " said Thady, as he showed Mr. Prendergast alsointo the dining-room, and went upstairs to inform his master thatthere was yet another gentleman come upon business. "The Captain hasgot 'em both to hisself, " said Thady, as he closed the door. 

The name of Mr. "Pendhrergrast, " as the Irish servants generallycalled him, was quite unknown to the owner of Hap House, as was alsothat of Mr. Mollett, which had been brought up to him the first ofthe two; but Owen began to think that there must be something veryunusual in a day so singularly ushered in to him. Callers at HapHouse on business were very few, unless when tradesmen in want ofmoney occasionally dropped in upon him. But now that he was sosummoned Owen began to bestir himself with his boots and breeches. Agentleman's costume for a hunting morning is always a slowone--sometimes so slow and tedious as to make him think offorswearing such articles of dress for all future ages. But now hedid bestir himself, --in a moody melancholy sort of manner; for hismanner in all things latterly had become moody and melancholy. 

In the mean time Captain Donnellan and the two strangers sat almostin silence in the dining-room. The Captain, though he did notperhaps know much of things noticeable in this world, did knowsomething of a gentleman, and was therefore not led away, as poorThady had been, by Aby's hat and rings. He had stared Aby full inthe face when he entered the room and having explained that he wasnot the master of the house, had not vouchsafed another word. Butthen he had also seen that Mr. Prendergast was of a different class, and had said a civil word or two, asking him to come near the fire, and suggesting that Owen would be down in less than five minutes. "But the old cock wouldn't crow, " as he afterwards remarked to hisfriend, and so they all three sat in silence, the Captain being verybusy about his knees, as hunting gentlemen sometimes are when theycome down to bachelor breakfasts. 

And then at last Owen Fitzgerald entered the room. He has beendescribed as a handsome man, but in no dress did he look so well aswhen equipped for a day's sport. And what dress that Englishmen everwear is so handsome as this? Or we may perhaps say what other dressdoes English custom allow them that is in any respect not thereverse of handsome. We have come to be so dingy, --in our taste Iwas going to say, but it is rather in our want of taste, --socareless of any of the laws of beauty in the folds and lines andhues of our dress, so opposed to grace in the arrangement of ourpersons, that it is not permitted to the ordinary English gentlemanto be anything else but ugly. Chimney-pot hats, swallow-tailedcoats, and pantaloons that fit nothing, came creeping in upon us, one after the other, while the Georges reigned--creeping in upon uswith such pictures as we painted under the reign of West, and suchhouses as we built under the reign of Nash, till the English eyerequired to rest on that which was constrained, dull, and graceless. For the last two score of years it has come to this, that if a mango in handsome attire he is a popinjay and a vain fool; and as it isbetter to be ugly than to be accounted vain I would not counsel ayoung friend to leave the beaten track on the strength of his ownjudgment. But not the less is the beaten track to be condemned, andabandoned, and abolished, if such be in any way possible. Beauty isgood in all things; and I cannot but think that those old Venetiansenators, and Florentine men of Council, owed somewhat of theircountry's pride and power to the manner in which they clipped theirbeards and wore their flowing garments. 

But an Englishman may still make himself brave when he goes forthinto the hunting field. Custom there allows him colour, and garmentsthat fit his limbs. Strength is the outward characteristic ofmanhood, and at the covert-side he may appear strong. Look at men asthey walk along Fleet-street, and ask yourself whether any outwardsign of manhood or strength can be seen there. And of gentle manhoodoutward dignity should be the trade mark. I will not say that suchoutward dignity is incompatible with a black hat and plaid trousers, for the eye instructed by habit will search out dignity for itselfwherever it may truly exist, let it be hidden by what vile coveringit may. But any man who can look well at his club, will look betteras he clusters round the hounds; while many a one who is comelythere, is mean enough as he stands on the hearth-rug before his clubfire. In my mind men, like churches and books, and women too, shouldbe brave, not mean, in their outward garniture. 

And Owen, as I have said, was brave as he walked into hisdining-room. The sorrow which weighed on his heart had not wrinkledhis brow, but had given him a set dignity of purpose. His tallfigure, which his present dress allowed to be seen, was perfect inits symmetry of strength. His bright chestnut hair clustered roundhis forehead, and his eye shone like that of a hawk. They must havebeen wrong who said that he commonly spent his nights over thewine-cup. That pleasure always leaves its disgusting traces roundthe lips; and Owen Fitzgerald's lips were as full and lusty asApollo's. Mollett, as he saw him, was stricken with envy. "If Icould only get enough money out of this affair to look like that, "was his first thought, as his eye fell on the future heir; notunderstanding, poor wretch that he was, that all the gold ofCalifornia could not bring him one inch nearer to the goal he aimedat. I think I have said before, that your silk purse will not getitself made out of that coarse material with which there are somany attempts to manufacture that article. And Mr. Prendergastrose from his chair when he saw him, with a respect that wasalmost involuntary. He had not heard men speak well of OwenFitzgerald;--not that ill-natured things had been said by the familyat Castle Richmond, but circumstances had prevented the possibilityof their praising him. If a relative or friend be spoken of withoutpraise, he is, in fact, censured. From what he had heard he hadcertainly not expected a man who would look so noble as did theowner of Hap House, who now came forward to ask him his business. 

Both Mr. Prendergast and Aby Mollett rose at the same time. Sincethe arrival of the latter gentleman, Aby had been wondering who hemight be, but no idea that he was that lawyer from Castle Richmondhad entered his head. That he was a stranger like himself, Aby saw;but he did not connect him with his own business. Indeed he had notyet realized the belief, though his father had done so, that thetruth would be revealed by those at Castle Richmond to him at HapHouse. His object now was that the old gentleman should say his sayand begone, leaving him to dispose of the other young man in thetop-boots as best he might. But then, as it happened, that was alsoMr. Prendergast's line of action. 

"Gentlemen, " said Owen, "I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting;but the fact is that I am so seldom honoured in this way in amorning, that I was hardly ready. Donnellan, there's the tea; don'tmind waiting. These gentlemen will perhaps join us. " And then helooked hard at Aby, as though he trusted in Providence that no suchprofanation would be done to his tablecloth. 

"Thank you, I have breakfasted, " said Mr. Prendergast. 

"And so 'ave I, " said Aby, who had eaten a penny loaf in the car, and would have been delighted to sit down at that rich table. But hewas a little beside himself, and not able to pluck up courage forsuch an effort. 

"I don't know whether you two gentlemen have come about the samebusiness, " said Owen, looking from one to the other. 

"No, " said Mr. Prendergast, very confidently, but not verycorrectly. "I wish to speak to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a fewminutes: but my business with you is quite private. "

"So is mine, " said Aby, "very private; very private indeed. "

"Well, gentlemen, I have just half an hour in which to eat mybreakfast, attend to business, get on my horse and leave the house. Out of that twenty-five minutes are very much at your service. Donnellan, I beg your pardon. Do pitch into the broiled bones whilethey are hot, never mind me. And now, gentlemen, if you will walkwith me into the other room. First come first served: that I supposeshould be the order. " And he opened the door and stood with it ajarin his hand. 

"I will wait, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you please, " said Mr. Prendergast;and as he spoke he motioned Mollett with his hand to go to the door. 

"Oh! I can wait, sir, I'd rather wait, sir. I would indeed, " saidAby. "My business is a little particular, and if you'll go on, sir, I'll take up with the gen'leman as soon as you've done, sir. "

But Mr. Prendergast was accustomed to have his own way. "I shouldprefer that you should go first, sir. And to tell the truth, Mr. Fitzgerald, what I have to say to you will take some time. It is ofmuch importance, to yourself and to others; and I fear that you willprobably find that it will detain you from your amusement to-day. "

Owen looked black as he heard this. The hounds were going to draw acovert of his own; and he was not in the habit of remaining awayfrom the drawing of any coverts belonging to himself or others, onany provocation whatever. "That will be rather hard, " said he, "considering that I do not know any more than the man in the moonwhat you've come about. "

"You shall be the sole judge yourself, sir, of the importance of mybusiness with you, " said Mr. Prendergast. 

"Well, Mr. --I forget your name, " said Owen. 

"My name's Mollett, " said Aby. Whereupon Mr. Prendergast looked upat him very sharply, but he said nothing. --He said nothing, but helooked very sharply indeed. He now knew well who this man was, andguessed with tolerable accuracy the cause of his visit. But, nevertheless, at the moment he said nothing. 

"Come along, then, Mr. Mollett. I hope your affair is not likely tobe a very long one also. Perhaps you'll excuse my having a cup oftea sent in to me as you talk to me. There is nothing like savingtime when such very important business is on the tapis. Donnellan, send Thady in with a cup of tea, like a good fellow. Now, Mr. Mollett. "

Mr. Mollett rose slowly from his chair, and followed his host. Hewould have given all he possessed in the world, and that was verylittle, to have had the coast clear. But in such an emergency, whatwas he to do? By the time he had reached the door of thedrawing-room, he had all but made up his mind to tell Fitzgeraldthat, seeing there was so much other business on hand this morningat Hap House, this special piece of business of his must stand over. But then, how could he go back to Cork empty-handed? So he followedOwen into the room, and there opened his budget with what courage hehad left to him. 

Captain Donnellan, as he employed himself on the broiled bones, twice invited Mr. Prendergast to assist him; but in vain. Donnellanremained there, waiting for Owen, till eleven; and then got on hishorse. "You'll tell Fitzgerald, will you, that I've started? He'llsee nothing of to-day's hunt; that's clear. "

"I don't think he will, " said Mr. Prendergast. 

CHAPTER XXIV

AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE

"I don't think he will, " said Mr. Prendergast; and as he spoke, Captain Donnellan's ear could detect that there was somethingapproaching to sarcasm in the tone of the old man's voice. TheCaptain was quite sure that his friend would not be even at the heelof the hunt that day; and without further compunction proceeded tofasten his buckskin gloves round his wrists. The meet was so near tothem, that they had both intended to ride their own hunters from thedoor; and the two nags were now being led up and down upon thegravel. 

But at this moment a terrible noise was heard to take place in thehall. There was a rush and crushing there which made even Mr. Prendergast to jump from his chair, and drove Captain Donnellan toforget his gloves and run to the door. 

It was as though all the winds of heaven were being driven down thepassage, and as though each separate wind was shod with heavy-heeledboots. Captain Donnellan ran to the door, and Mr. Prendergast withslower steps followed him. When it was opened, Owen was to be seenin the hall, apparently in a state of great excitement; and thegentleman whom he had lately asked to breakfast, --he was to be seenalso, in a position of unmistakable discomfort. He was at thatmoment proceeding, with the utmost violence, into a large round bedof bushes, which stood in the middle of the great sweep before thedoor of the house, his feet just touching the ground as he went; andthen, having reached his bourne, he penetrated face foremost intothe thicket, and in an instant disappeared. He had been kicked outof the house. Owen Fitzgerald had taken him by the shoulders, with arun along the passage and hall, and having reached the door, hadapplied the flat of his foot violently to poor Aby's back, and senthim flying down the stone steps. And now, as Captain Donnellan andMr. Prendergast stood looking on, Mr. Mollett junior buried himselfaltogether out of sight among the shrubs. 

"You have done for that fellow, at any rate, Owen, " said CaptainDonnellan, glancing for a moment at Mr. Prendergast. "I should saythat he will never get out of that alive. "

"Not if he wait till I pick him out, " said Owen, breathing very hardafter his exertion. "An infernal scoundrel! And now, Mr. Prendergast, if you are ready, sir, I am. " It was as much as hecould do to finish these few words with that sang froid which hedesired to assume, so violent was his attempt at breathing after hislate exercise. 

It was impossible not to conceive the idea that, as one disagreeablevisitor had been disposed of in a somewhat summary fashion, so mightbe the other also. Mr. Prendergast did not look like a man who wasin the habit of leaving gentlemen's houses in the manner just nowadopted by Mr. Mollett; but nevertheless, as they had come together, both unwished for and unwelcome, Captain Donnellan did for a momentbethink himself whether there might not be more of such fun, if heremained there on the spot. At any rate, it would not do for him togo to the hunt while such deeds as these were being done. It mightbe that his assistance would be wanted. 

Mr. Prendergast smiled, with a saturnine and somewhat bittersmile--the nearest approach to a laugh in which he was known toindulge, --for the same notion came also into his head. "He hasdisposed of him, and now he is thinking how he will dispose of me. "Such was Mr. Prendergast's thought about the matter; and that madehim smile. And then, too, he was pleased at what he had seen. Thatthis Mollett was the son of that other Mollett, with whom he hadbeen closeted at Castle Richmond, was plain enough; it was plainenough also to him, used as he was to trace out in his mind thecourses of action which men would follow, that Mollett junior, having heard of his father's calamitous failure at Castle Richmond, had come down to Hap House to see what he could make out of thehitherto unconscious heir. It had been matter of great doubt withMr. Prendergast, when he first heard young Mollett's name mentioned, whether or no he would allow him to make his attempt. He, Mr. Prendergast, could by a word have spoilt the game; but acting, as hewas forced to act, on the spur of the moment, he resolved to permitMr. Mollett junior to play out his play. He would be yet in time toprevent any ill result to Mr. Fitzgerald, should that gentleman beweak enough to succumb to any such ill results. As things had nowturned out Mr. Prendergast rejoiced that Mr. Mollett junior had beenpermitted to play out his play. "And now, Mr. Prendergast, if youare ready, I am, " said Owen. 

"Perhaps we had better first pick up the gentleman among the trees, "said Mr. Prendergast. And he and Captain Donnellan went down intothe bushes. 

"Do as you please about that, " said Owen. "I have touched him onceand shall not touch him again. " And he walked back into thedining-room. 

One of the grooms who were leading the horses had now gone to theassistance of the fallen hero; and as Captain Donnellan also hadalready penetrated as far as Aby's shoulders, Mr. Prendergast, thinking that he was not needed, returned also to the house. "I hopehe is not seriously hurt, " he said. 

"Not he, " said Owen. "Those sort of men are as used to be kicked, asgirls are to be kissed; and it comes as naturally to them. Butanything short of having his bones broken will be less than hedeserves. "

"May I ask what was the nature of his offence?"

Owen remained silent for a moment, looking his guest full in theface. "Well; not exactly, " said he. "He has been talking of peopleof whom he knows nothing, but it would not be well for me to repeatwhat he has said to a perfect stranger. "

"Quite right, Mr. Fitzgerald; it would not be well. But there can beno harm in my repeating it to you. He came here to get money fromyou for certain tidings which he brought; tidings which if truewould be of great importance to you. As I take it, however, he hasaltogether failed in his object. "

"And how do you come to know all this, sir?"

"Merely from having heard that man mention his own name. I also havecome with the same tidings; and as I ask for no money forcommunicating them, you may believe them to be true on my telling. "

"What tidings?" asked Owen, with a frown, and an angry jerk in hisvoice. No remotest notion had yet come in upon his mind that therewas any truth in the story that had been told him. He had lookedupon it all as a lie, and had regarded Mollett as a sorry knave whohad come to him with a poor and low attempt at raising a few pounds. And even now he did not believe. Mr. Prendergast's words had beentoo sudden to produce belief of so great a fact, and his firstthought was that an endeavour was being made to fool him. 

"Those tidings which that man has told you, " said Mr. Prendergast, solemnly. "That you should not have believed them from him showsonly your discretion. But from me you may believe them. I have comefrom Castle Richmond, and am here as a messenger from SirThomas, --from Sir Thomas and from his son. When the matter becameclear to them both, then it was felt that you also should be madeacquainted with it. "

Owen Fitzgerald now sat down, and looked up into the lawyer's face, staring at him. I may say that the power of saying much was for themoment taken away from him by the words that he heard. What! was itreally possible that that title, that property, that place of honourin the country was to be his when one frail old man should dropaway? And then again was it really true that all this immeasurablemisery was to fall--had fallen--upon that family whom he had onceknown so well? It was but yesterday that he had been threatening allmanner of evil to his cousin Herbert; and had his threats beenproved true so quickly? But there was no shadow of triumph in hisfeelings. Owen Fitzgerald was a man of many faults. He was reckless, passionate, prone to depreciate the opinion of others, extravagantin his thoughts and habits, ever ready to fight, both morally andphysically, those who did not at a moment's notice agree with him. He was a man who would at once make up his mind that the world waswrong when the world condemned him, and who would not in compliancewith any argument allow himself to be so. But he was not avaricious, nor cruel, nor self-seeking, nor vindictive. In his anger he couldpronounce all manner of ill things against his enemy, as he hadpronounced some ill things against Herbert; but it was not in him tokeep up a sustained wish that those ill things should really come topass. This news which he now heard, and which he did not yet fullycredit, struck him with awe, but created no triumph in his bosom. Herealized the catastrophe as it affected his cousins of CastleRichmond rather than as it affected himself. 

"Do you mean to say that Lady Fitzgerald--" and then he stoppedhimself. He had not the courage to ask the question which was in hismind. Could it really be the case that Lady Fitzgerald, --that shewhom all the world had so long honoured under that name, was intruth the wife of that man's father, --of the father of that wretchwhom he had just spurned from his house? The tragedy was so deepthat he could not believe in it. 

"We fear that it is so, Mr. Fitzgerald, " said Mr. Prendergast. "Thatit certainly is so I cannot say. And therefore, if I may take theliberty to give you counsel, I would advise you not to make toocertain of this change in your prospects. "

"Too certain!" said he, with a bitter laugh. "Do you suppose thenthat I would wish to see all this ruin accomplished? Heavens andearth! Lady Fitzgerald--! I cannot believe it. "

And then Captain Donnellan also returned to the room. "Fitzgerald, "said he, "what the mischief are we to do with this fellow? He saysthat he can't walk, and he bleeds from his face like a pig. "

"What fellow? Oh, do what you like with him. Here: give him a poundnote, and let him go to the d----. And Donnellan, for heaven's sakego to Cecilstown at once. Do not wait for me. I have business thatwill keep me here all day. "

"But I do not know what to do with this fellow that's bleeding, "said the captain, piteously, as he took the proffered note. "If heputs up with a pound note for what you've done to him, he's softerthan what I take him for. "

"He will be very glad to be allowed to escape without being given upto the police, " said Mr. Prendergast. 

"But I don't know what to do with him, " said Captain Donnellan. "Hesays that he can't stand. "

"Then lay him down on the dunghill, " said Owen Fitzgerald; "but forheaven's sake do not let him interrupt me. And, Donnellan, you willaltogether lose the day if you stay any longer. " Whereupon thecaptain, seeing that in very truth he was not wanted, did takehimself off, casting as he went one farewell look on Aby as he laygroaning on the turf on the far side of the tuft of bushes. 

"He's kilt intirely, I'm thinking, yer honor, " said Thady, who wasstanding over him on the other side. 

"He'll come to life again before dinner-time, " said the Captain. 

"Oh, in course he'll do that, yer honor, " said Thady; and then addedsotto voce, to himself, as the captain rode down the avenue, "Faix, an' I don't know about that. Shure an' it's the masther has a heavyhand. " And then Thady stood for a while perplexed, endeavouring toreanimate Aby by a sight of the pound note which he held out visiblybetween his thumb and fingers. 

And now Mr. Prendergast and Owen were again alone. "And what am I todo?" said Owen, after a pause of a minute or two; and he asked thequestion with a serious, solemn voice. 

"Just for the present--for the next day or two--I think that youshould do nothing. As soon as the first agony of this time is overat Castle Richmond, I think that Herbert should see you. It would bevery desirable that he and you should take in concert suchproceedings as will certainly become necessary. The absolute proofof the truth of this story must be obtained. You understand, I hope, Mr. Fitzgerald, that the case still admits of doubt. "

Owen nodded his head impatiently, as though it were needless on thepart of Mr. Prendergast to insist upon this. He did not wish to takeit for true a moment sooner than was necessary. 

"It is my duty to give you this caution. Many lawyers--I presume youknow that I am a lawyer--"

"I did not know it, " said Owen; "but it makes no difference. "

"Thank you; that's very kind, " said Mr. Prendergast; but the sarcasmwas altogether lost upon his hearer. "Some lawyers, as I was saying, would in such a case have advised their clients to keep all theirsuspicions, nay all their knowledge, to themselves. Why play thegame of an adversary? they would ask. But I have thought it betterthat we should have no adversary. "

"And you will have none, " said Owen; "none in me, at least. "

"I am much gratified in so perceiving, and in having such evidencethat my advice has not been indiscreet. It occurred to me that ifyou received the first intimation of these circumstances from othersources, you would be bound on your own behalf to employ an agent tolook after your own interests. "

"I should have done nothing of the kind, " said Owen. 

"Ah, but, my dear young friend, in such a case it would have beenyour duty to do so. "

"Then I should have neglected my duty. And do you tell Herbert thisfrom me, that let the truth be what it may, I shall never interrupthim in his title or his property. It is not there that I shall lookeither for justice or revenge. He will understand what I mean. "

But Mr. Prendergast did not, by any means; nor did he enter into thetone of Owen Fitzgerald's mind. They were both just men, but just inan essentially different manner. The justice of Mr. Prendergast hadcome of thought and education. As a young man, when entering on hisprofession, he was probably less just than he was now. He hadthought about matters of law and equity, till thought had shown tohim the beauty of equity as it should be practised, --often by theaid of law, and not unfrequently in spite of law. Such was thejustice of Mr. Prendergast. That of Owen Fitzgerald had come ofimpulse and nature, and was the justice of a very young man ratherthan of a very wise one. That title and property did not, as hefelt, of justice belong to him, but to his cousin. What differencecould it make in the true justice of things, whether or no thatwretched man was still alive whom all the world had regarded asdead? In justice he ought to be dead. Now that this calamity of theman's life had fallen upon Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald and hiscousin Herbert, it would not be for him to aggravate it by seizingupon a heritage which might possibly accrue to him under the letterof the world's law, but which could not accrue to him under heaven'slaw. Such was the justice of Owen Fitzgerald; and we may say this ofit in its dispraise, as comparing it with that other justice, thatwhereas that of Mr. Prendergast would wear for ever, through agesand ages, that other justice of Owen's would hardly have stood thepull of a ten years' struggle. When children came to him, would henot have thought of what might have been theirs by right; and thenhave thought of what ought to be theirs by right; and so on?

But in speaking of justice, he had also spoken of revenge, and Mr. Prendergast was altogether in the dark. What revenge? He did notknow that poor Owen had lost a love, and that Herbert had found it. In the midst of all the confused thoughts which this astoundingintelligence had brought upon him, Owen still thought of his love. There Herbert had robbed him--robbed him by means of his wealth; andin that matter he desired justice--justice or revenge. He wantedback his love. Let him have that and Herbert might yet be welcome tohis title and estates. 

Mr. Prendergast remained there for some half-hour longer, explainingwhat ought to be done, and how it ought to be done. Of course hecombated that idea of Owen's, that the property might be allowed toremain in the hands of the wrong heir. Had that been consonant withhis ideas of justice he would not have made his visit to Hap Housethis morning. Right must have its way, and if it should be that LadyFitzgerald's marriage with Sir Thomas had not been legal, Owen, onSir Thomas's death, must become Sir Owen, and Herbert could notbecome Sir Herbert. So much to the mind of Mr. Prendergast was asclear as crystal. Let justice be done, even though these CastleRichmond heavens should fall in ruins. 

And then he took his departure, leaving Owen to his solitude, muchperplexed. "And where is that man?" Mr. Prendergast asked, as he goton to his car. 

"Bedad thin, yer honor, he's very bad intirely. He's jist sitthingover the kitchen fire, moaning and croning this way and that, butsorrow a word he's spoke since the masther hoisted him out o' thebig hall door. And thin for blood--why, saving yer honer's presence, he's one mash of gore. "

"You'd better wash his face for him, and give him a little tea, "said Mr. Prendergast, and then he drove away. 

And strange ideas floated across Owen Fitzgerald's brain as he satthere alone, in his hunting gear, leaning on the still coveredbreakfast-table. They floated across his brain backwards andforwards, and at last remained there, taking almost the form of adefinite purpose. He would make a bargain with Herbert, let each ofthem keep that which was fairly his own; let Herbert have all thebroad lands of Castle Richmond; let him have the title, the seat inparliament, and the county honour; but for him, Owen--let him haveClara Desmond. He desired nothing that was not fairly his own; butas his own he did regard her, and without her he did not know how toface the future of his life. And in suggesting this arrangement tohimself, he did not altogether throw over her feelings; he did takeinto account her heart, though he did not take into account herworldly prospects. She had loved him--him--Owen; and he would notteach himself to believe that she did not love him still. Her motherhad been too powerful for her, and she had weakly yielded, but as toher heart--Owen could not bring himself to believe that that wasgone from him. 

They two would make a bargain, --he and his cousin. Honour andrenown, and the money and the title would be everything to hiscousin. Herbert had been brought up to expect these things, and allthe world around him had expected them for him. It would be terribleto him to find himself robbed of them. But the loss of Clara Desmondwas equally terrible to Owen Fitzgerald. He allowed his heart tofill itself with a romantic sense of honour, teaching him that itbehoved him as a man not to give up his love. Without her he wouldlive disgraced in his own estimation; but who would not think thebetter of him for refraining from the possession of those CastleRichmond acres? Yes; he would make a bargain with Herbert. Who wasthere in the world to deny his right to do so?

As he sat revolving these things in his mind, he suddenly heard arushing sound, as of many horsemen down the avenue, and going to thewindow, he saw two or three leading men of the hunt, accompanied bythe grey-haired old huntsman; and through and about and under thehorsemen were the dogs, running in and out of the laurels whichskirted the road, with their noses down, giving every now and thenshort yelps as they caught up the uncertain scent from the leaves onthe ground, and hurried on upon the trail of their game. 

"Yo ho! to him, Messenger; hark to him Maybird; good bitch, Merrylass. He's down here, gen'lemen, and he'll never get awayalive. He came to a bad place when he looked out for going to groundanywhere near Mr. Owen. "

And then there came, fast trotting down through the other horsemen, making his way eagerly to the front, a stout heavy man, with aflorid handsome face and eager eye. He might be some fifty years ofage, but no lad there of three-and-twenty was so anxious andimpetuous as he. He was riding a large-boned, fast-trotting bayhorse, that pressed on as eagerly as his rider. As he hurriedforward all made way for him, till he was close to the shrubs in thefront of the house. 

"Bless my soul, gentlemen, " he said, in an angry voice, "how, in thename of all that's good, are hounds to hunt if you press them downthe road in that way? By heavens, Barry, you are enough to drive aman wild. Yoicks, Merrylass! there it is, Pat;"--Pat was thehuntsman--"outside the low wall there, down towards the river. " Thiswas Sam O'Grady, the master of the Duhallow hounds, the god ofOwen's idolatry. No better fellow ever lived, and no master ofhounds, so good; such at least was the opinion common among Duhallowsportsmen. 

"Yes, yer honer, --he did skirt round there, I knows that; but he'sbeen among them laurels at the bottom, and he'll be about the placeand outhouses somewhere. There's a drain here that I knows on, andhe knows on. But Mr. Owen, he knows on it too; and there ain't achance for him. " So argued Pat, the Duhallow huntsman, theexperienced craft of whose aged mind enabled him to run counter tothe cutest dodges of the cutest fox in that and any of the threeneighbouring baronies. 

And now the sweep before the door was crowded with red coats; andOwen, looking from his dining-room window, felt that he must takesome step. As an ordinary rule, had the hunt thus drifted near hishomestead, he would have been off his horse and down among hisbottles, sending up sherry and cherry-brandy; and there would havebeen comfortable drink in plenty, and cold meat, perhaps, not inplenty; and every one would have been welcome in and out of thehouse. But now there was that at his heart which forbade him to mixwith the men who knew him so well, and among whom he was customarilyso loudly joyous. Dressed as he was, he could not go among themwithout explaining why he had remained at home; and as to that, hefelt that he was not able to give any explanation at the presentmoment. 

"What's the matter with Owen?" said one fellow to Captain Donnellan. 

"Upon my word I hardly know. Two chaps came to him this morning, before he was up; about business, they said. He nearly murdered oneof them out of hand; and I believe that he's locked up somewherewith the other this minute. "

But in the mean time a servant came up to Mr. O'Grady, and, touchinghis hat, asked the master of the hunt to go into the house for amoment; and then Mr. O'Grady, dismounting, entered in through thefront door. He was only there two minutes, for his mind was stilloutside, among the laurels, with the fox; but as he put his footagain into the stirrup, he said to those around him that they musthurry away, and not disturb Owen Fitzgerald that day. It may, therefore, easily be imagined that the mystery would spread quicklythrough that portion of the county of Cork. 

They must hurry away;--but not before they could give an account oftheir fox. Neither for gods nor men must he be left, as long as hisskin was whole above ground. There is an importance attaching to thepursuit of a fox, which gives it a character quite distinct fromthat of any other amusement which men follow in these realms. Itjustifies almost anything that men can do, and that at any place andin any season. There is about it a sanctity which forbidsinterruption, and makes its votaries safe under any circumstances oftrespass or intrusion. A man in a hunting county who opposes thecounty hunt must be a misanthrope, willing to live in seclusion, fond of being in Coventry, and in love with the enmity of hisfellow-creatures. There are such men, but they are regarded aslepers by those around them. All this adds to the nobleness of thenoble sport, and makes it worthy of a man's energies. 

And then the crowd of huntsmen hurried round from the front of thehouse to a paddock at the back, and then again through the stableyard to the front. The hounds were about--here, there, andeverywhere, as any one ignorant of the craft would have said, butstill always on the scent of that doomed beast. From one thicket toanother he tried to hide himself, but the moist leaves of theunderwood told quickly of his whereabouts. He tried every hole andcranny about the house, but every hole and corner had been stoppedby Owen's jealous care. He would have lived disgraced for ever inhis own estimation, had a fox gone to ground anywhere about hisdomicile. At last a loud whoop was heard just in front of the halldoor. The poor fox, with his last gasp of strength, had betakenhimself to the thicket before the door, and there the hounds hadkilled him, at the very spot on which Aby Mollett had fallen. 

Standing well back from the window, still thinking of Clara Desmond, Owen Fitzgerald saw the fate of the hunted animal; he saw the pateand tail severed from the carcase by old Pat, and the body thrown tothe hounds, --a ceremony over which he had presided so many scores oftimes; and then, when the hounds had ceased to growl over the bloodyfragments, he saw the hunt move away, back along the avenue to thehigh road. All this he saw, but still he was thinking of ClaraDesmond. 

CHAPTER XXV

A MUDDY WALK ON A WET MORNING

All that day of the hunt was passed very quietly at Castle Richmond. Herbert did not once leave the house, having begged Mr. Somers tomake his excuse at a Relief Committee which it would have been hisbusiness to attend. A great portion of the day he spent with hisfather, who lay all but motionless, in a state that was apparentlyhalf comatose. During all those long hours very little was saidbetween them about this tragedy of their family. Why should more besaid now; now that the worst had befallen them--all that worst, tohide which Sir Thomas had endured such superhuman agony? And thenfour or five times during the day he went to his mother, but withher he did not stay long. To her he could hardly speak upon anysubject, for to her as yet the story had not been told. 

And she, when he thus came to her from time to time, with a softword or two, or a softer kiss, would ask him no question. She knewthat he had learned the whole, and knew also from the solemn cloudon his brow that that whole must be very dreadful. Indeed we maysurmise that her woman's heart had by this time guessed somewhat ofthe truth. But she would inquire of no one. Jones, she was sure, knew it all, but she did not ask a single question of her servant. It would be told to her when it was fitting. Why should she move inthe matter?

Whenever Herbert entered her room she tried to receive him withsomething of a smile. It was clear enough that she was always gladof his coming, and that she made some little show of welcoming him. A book was always put away, very softly and by the slightest motion;but Herbert well knew what that book was, and whence his mothersought that strength which enabled her to live through such anordeal as this. 

And his sisters were to be seen, moving slowly about the house likethe very ghosts of their former selves. Their voices were hardlyheard; no ring of customary laughter ever came from the room inwhich they sat, when they passed their brother in the house theyhardly dared to whisper to him. As to sitting down at table now withMr. Prendergast, that effort was wholly abandoned; they keptthemselves even from the sound of his footsteps. 

Aunt Letty perhaps spoke more than the others, but what could shespeak to the purpose? "Herbert, " she once said, as she caught himclose by the door of the library and almost pulled him into theroom--"Herbert, I charge you to tell me what all this is!"

"I can tell you nothing, dear aunt, nothing;--nothing as yet. "

"But, Herbert, tell me this; is it about my sister?" For very manyyears past Aunt Letty had always called Lady Fitzgerald her sister. 

"I can tell you nothing;--nothing to-day. "

"Then, to-morrow. "

"I do not know--we must let Mr. Prendergast manage this matter as hewill. I have taken nothing on myself, Aunt Letty--nothing. "

"Then I tell you what, Herbert; it will kill me. It will kill usall, as it is killing your father and your darling mother. I tellyou that it is killing her fast. Human nature cannot bear it. Formyself I could endure anything if I were trusted. " And sitting downin one of the high-backed library chairs she burst into a flood oftears; a sight which, as regarded Aunt Letty, Herbert had never seenbefore. 

What if they all died? thought Herbert to himself in the bitternessof the moment. There was that in store for some of them which wasworse than death. What business had Aunt Letty to talk of hermisery? Of course she was wretched, as they all were; but how couldshe appreciate the burden that was on his back? What was ClaraDesmond to her?

Shortly after noon Mr. Prendergast was back at the house; but heslunk up to his room, and no one saw anything of him. At half-pastsix he came down, and Herbert constrained himself to sit at thetable while dinner was served; and so the day passed away. One moreday only Mr. Prendergast was to stay at Castle Richmond; and then, if, as he expected, certain letters should reach him on thatmorning, he was to start for London late on the following day. Itmay well be imagined that he was not desirous of prolonging hisvisit. 

Early on the following morning Herbert started for a long solitarywalk. On that day Mr. Prendergast was to tell everything to hismother, and it was determined between them that her son should notbe in the house during the telling. In the evening, when he camehome, he was to see her. So he started on his walk, resolving someother things also in his mind before he went. He would reach DesmondCourt before he returned home that day, and let the two ladies thereknow the fate that was before them. Then, after that, they might lethim know what was to be his fate;--but on this head he would nothurry them. 

So he started on his walk, resolving to go round by Gortnaclough onhis way to Desmond Court, and then to return home from that place. The road would be more than twenty long Irish miles; but he feltthat the hard work would be of service. It was instinct rather thanthought which taught him that it would be good for him to put somestrain on the muscles of his body, and thus relieve the muscles ofhis mind. If his limbs could become thoroughly tired, --thoroughlytired so that he might wish to rest--then he might hope that for amoment he might cease to think of all this sorrow which encompassedhim. 

So he started on his walk, taking with him a thick cudgel and hisown thoughts. He went away across the demesne and down into the roadthat led away by Gortnaclough and Boherbue towards Castleisland andthe wilds of county Kerry. As he went, the men about the placerefrained from speaking to him, for they all knew that bad news hadcome to the big house. They looked at him with lowered eyes and withtenderness in their hearts, for they loved the very name ofFitzgerald. The love which a poor Irishman feels for the gentlemanwhom he regards as his master--"his masther, " though he has probablynever received from him, in money, wages for a day's work, and inall his intercourse has been the man who has paid money and not theman who received it--the love which he nevertheless feels, if he hasbeen occasionally looked on with a smiling face and accosted with akindly word, is astonishing to an Englishman. I will not say thatthe feeling is altogether good. Love should come of love. Wherepersonal love exists on one side, and not even personal regard onthe other, there must be some mixture of servility. That unboundedrespect for human grandeur cannot be altogether good; for humangreatness, if the greatness be properly sifted, it may be so. 

He got down into the road, and went forth upon his journey at arapid pace. The mud was deep upon the way, but he went through thethickest without a thought of it. He had not been out long beforethere came on a cold, light, drizzling rain, such a rain asgradually but surely makes its way into the innermost rag of a man'sclothing, running up the inside of his waterproof coat, andpenetrating by its perseverance the very folds of his necktie. Suchcold, drizzling rain is the commonest phase of hard weather duringIrish winters, and those who are out and about get used to it andtreat it tenderly. They are euphemistical as to the weather, callingit hazy and soft, and never allowing themselves to carry badlanguage on such a subject beyond the word dull. And yet at such atime one breathes the rain and again exhales it, and become as itwere oneself a water spirit, assuming an aqueous fishlike natureinto one's inner fibres. It must be acknowledged that a man doessometimes get wet in Ireland; but then a wetting there brings nocold in the head, no husky voice, no need for multitudinouspocket-handkerchiefs, as it does here in this land of catarrhs. Itis the east wind and not the rain that kills; and of east wind inthe south of Ireland they know nothing. 

But Herbert walked on quite unmindful of the mist, swinging histhick stick in his hand, and ever increasing his pace as he went. Hewas usually a man careful of such things, but it was nothing to himnow whether he were wet or dry. His mind was so full of theimmediate circumstances of his destiny that he could not think ofsmall external accidents. What was to be his future life in thisworld, and how was he to fight the battle that was now before him?That was the question which he continually asked himself, and yetnever succeeded in answering. How was he to come down from thethrone on which early circumstances had placed him, and hustle andstruggle among the crowd for such approach to other thrones as hissinews and shoulders might procure for him? If he had been only bornto the struggle, he said to himself, how easy and pleasant it wouldhave been to him! But to find himself thus cast out from his placeby an accident--cast out with the eyes of all the world upon him; tobe talked of, and pointed at, and pitied; to have little aidsoffered him by men whom he regarded as beneath him--all this wasterribly sore, and the burden was almost too much for his strength. "I do not care for the money, " he said to himself a dozen times; andin saying so he spoke in one sense truly. But he did care for thingswhich money buys; for outward respect, permission to speak withauthority among his fellow-men, for power and place, and the feelingthat he was prominent in his walk of life. To be in advance of othermen, that is the desire which is strongest in the hearts of allstrong men; and in that desire how terrible a fall had he notreceived from this catastrophe!

And what were they all to do, he and his mother and his sisters? Howwere they to act--now, at once? In what way were they to carrythemselves when this man of law and judgment should have gone fromthem? For himself, his course of action must depend much upon theword which might be spoken to him to-day at Desmond Court. Therewould still be a drop of comfort left at the bottom of his cup if hemight be allowed to hope there. But in truth he feared greatly. Whatthe countess would say to him he thought he could foretell; what itwould behove him to say himself--in matter, though not inwords--that he knew well. Would not the two sayings tally welltogether? and could it be right for him even to hope that the loveof a girl of seventeen should stand firm against her mother's will, when her lover himself could not dare to press his suit? And thenanother reflection pressed on his mind sorely. Clara had alreadygiven up one poor lover at her mother's instance; might she notresume that lover, also at her mother's instance, now that he was nolonger poor? What if Owen Fitzgerald should take from himeverything!

And so he walked on through the mud and rain, always swinging hisbig stick. Perhaps, after all, the worst of it was over with him, when he could argue with himself in this way. It is the first plungeinto the cold water that gives the shock. We may almost say thatevery human misery will cease to be miserable if it be duly faced;and something is done towards conquering our miseries, when we facethem in any degree, even if not with due courage. Herbert had takenhis plunge into the deep, dark, cold, comfortless pool ofmisfortune; and he felt that the waters around him were very cold. But the plunge had been taken, and the worst, perhaps, was gone by. 

As he approached near to Gortnaclough, he came upon one of thosegangs of road-destroyers who were now at work everywhere, earningtheir pittance of "yellow meal" with a pickaxe and a wheelbarrow. Insome sort or other the labourers had been got to their work. Gangsmen there were with lists, who did see, more or lessaccurately, that the men, before they received their sixpence oreightpence for their day's work, did at any rate pass their day withsome sort of tool in their hands. And consequently the surface ofthe hill began to disappear, and there were chasms in the orad, which caused those who travelled on wheels to sit still, staringacross with angry eyes, and sometimes to apostrophize the doer ofthese deeds with very naughty words. The doer was the Board ofWorks, or the "Board" as it was familiarly termed; and were it notthat those ill words must have returned to the bosoms which ventedthem, and have flown no further, no Board could ever have been soterribly curse-laden. To find oneself at last utterly stopped, afterproceeding with great strain to one's horse for half a mile throughan artificial quagmire of slush up to the wheelbox, is harassing tothe customary traveller; and men at that crisis did not bethinkthemselves quite so frequently as they should have done, that apeople perishing from famine is more harassing. 

But Herbert was not on wheels, and was proceeding through the slushand across the chasm, regardless of it all, when he was stopped bysome of the men. All the land thereabouts was Castle Richmondproperty; and it was not probable that the young master of it allwould be allowed to pass through some two score of his own tenantrywithout greetings, and petitions, and blessings, and complaints. 

"Faix, yer honer, thin, Mr. Herbert, " said one man, standing at thebottom of the hill, with the half-filled wheelbarrow still hangingin his hands--an Englishman would have put down the barrow while hewas speaking, making some inner calculation about the waste of hismuscles; but an Irishman would despise himself for such loweconomy--"Faix, thin, yer honer, Mr. Herbert; an' it's yourself is asight good for sore eyes. May the heavens be your bed, for it's youis the frind to a poor man. "

"How are you, Pat?" said Herbert, without intending to stop. "Howare you, Mooney? I hope the work suits you all. " And then he wouldat once have passed on, with his hat pressed down low over his brow. 

But this could be by no means allowed. In the first place, theexcitement arising from the young master's presence was too valuableto be lost so suddenly; and then, when might again occur soexcellent a time for some mention of their heavy grievances? Menwhose whole amount of worldly good consists in a bare allowance ofnauseous food, just sufficient to keep body and soul together, mustbe excused if they wish to utter their complaints to ears that canhear them. 

"Arrah, yer honer, thin, we're none on us very well, and how couldwe, with the male at a penny a pound?" said Pat. 

"Sorrow to it for male, " said Mooney. "It's the worst vittles iver aman tooked into the inside of him. Saving yer honer's presence it'sas much as I can do to raise the bare arm of me since the day Ifirst began with the yally male. "

"It's as wake as cats we all is, " said another, who from the wearyway in which he dragged his limbs about certainly did not himselfseem to be gifted with much animal strength. 

"And the childer is worse, yer honer, " said a fourth. "The male isbad for them intirely. Saving yer honer's presence, their bellies isgone away most to nothing. "

"And there's six of us in family, yer honer, " said Pat. "Six mouthsto feed; and what's eight pennorth of yally male among such a lot asthat, let alone the Sundays, when there's nothing?"

"An' shure, Mr. Herbert, " said another, a small man with a squeakingvoice, whose rags of clothes hardly hung on to his body, "warn't Ihere with the other boys the last Friday as iver was? Ax Pat Condonelse, yer honer; and yet when they comed to give out the wages, theysconced me of--. " And so on. There were as many complaints to bemade as there were men, if only he could bring himself to listen tothem. 

On ordinary occasions Herbert would listen to them, and answer them, and give them, at any rate, the satisfaction which they derived fromdiscoursing with him, if he could give them no other satisfaction. But now, on this day, with his own burden so heavy at his heart, hecould not even do this. He could not think of their sorrows; his ownsorrow seemed to him to be so much the heavier. So he passed on, running the gauntlet through them as best he might, and shaking themoff from him, as they attempted to cling round his steps. Nothing isso powerful in making a man selfish as misfortune. 

And then he went on to Gortnaclough. He had not chosen his walk tothis place with any fixed object, except this perhaps, that itenabled him to return home round by Desmond Court. It was one of theplaces at which a Relief Committee sat every fortnight, and therewas a soup-kitchen here, which, however, had not been so successfulas the one at Berryhill; and it was the place of residence selectedby Father Barney's coadjutor. But in spite of all this, when Herbertfound himself in the wretched, dirty, straggling, damp street of thevillage, he did not know what to do or where to betake himself. Thatevery eye in Gortnaclough would be upon him was a matter of course. He could hardly turn round on his heel and retrace his steps throughthe village, as he would have to do in going to Desmond Court, without showing some pretext for his coming there; so he walked intothe little shop which was attached to the soup-kitchen, and there hefound the Rev. Mr. Columb Creagh, giving his orders to the littlegirl behind the counter. 

Herbert Fitzgerald was customarily very civil to the Roman Catholicpriests around him, --somewhat more so, indeed, than seemed good tothose very excellent ladies, Mrs. Townsend and Aunt Letty; but italways went against the grain with him to be civil to the Rev. Columb Creagh; and on this special day it would have gone againstthe grain with him to be civil to anybody. But the coadjutor knewhis character, and was delighted to have an opportunity of talkingto him, when he could do so without being snubbed either by Mr. Somers, the chairman, or by his own parish priest. Mr. Creagh hadrejoiced much at the idea of forming one at the same council boardwith county magistrates and Protestant parsons; but the fruition ofhis promised delights had never quite reached his lips. He had beenlike Sancho Panza in his government; he had sat down to the grandtable day after day, but had never yet been allowed to enjoy therich dish of his own oratory. Whenever he had proposed to helphimself, Mr. Somers or Father Barney had stopped his mouth. Nowprobably he might be able to say a word or two; and though the glorywould not be equal to that of making a speech at the Committee, still it would be something to be seen talking on equal terms, andon affairs of state, to the young heir of Castle Richmond. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald! well, I declare! And how are you, sir?" And he tookoff his hat and bowed, and got hold of Herbert's hand, shaking itruthlessly; and altogether he made him very disagreeable. 

Herbert, though his mind was not really intent on the subject, askedsome question of the girl as to the amount of meal that had beensold, and desired to see the little passbook that they kept at theshop. 

"We are doing pretty well, Mr. Fitzgerald, " said the coadjutor;"pretty well. I always keep my eye on, for fear things should gowrong, you know. "

"I don't think they'll do that, " said Herbert. 

"No; I hope not. But it's always good to be on the safe side, youknow. And to tell you the truth, I don't think we're altogether onthe right tack about them shops. It's very hard on a poor woman--"

Now, the fact was, though the Relief Committee at Gortnaclough wasattended by magistrates, priests, and parsons, the shop there wasHerbert Fitzgerald's own affair. It had been stocked with his or hisfather's money; the flour was sold without profit at his risk, andthe rent of the house and wages of the woman who kept it came out ofhis own pocket-money. Under these circumstances he did not see causewhy Mr. Creagh should interfere, and at the present moment was notwell inclined to put up with such interference. 

"We do the best we can, Mr. Creagh, " said he, interrupting thepriest. "And no good will be done at such a time as this byunnecessary difficulties. "

"No, no, certainly not. But still I do think--" And Mr. Creagh wasgirding up his loins for eloquence, when he was again interrupted. 

"I am rather in a hurry to-day, " said Herbert, "and therefore, ifyou please, we won't make any change now. Never mind the bookto-day, Sally. Good day, Mr. Creagh. " And so saying, he left theshop and walked rapidly back out of the village. 

The poor coadjutor was left alone at the shop-door, anathematizingin his heart the pride of all Protestants. He had been told thatthis Mr. Fitzgerald was different from others, that he was a manfond of priests and addicted to the "ould religion;" and so hearing, he had resolved to make the most of such an excellent disposition. But he was forced to confess to himself that they were all alike. Mr. Somers could not have been more imperious, nor Mr. Townsend moreinsolent. 

And then, through the still drizzling rain, Herbert walked on toDesmond Court. By the time that he reached the desolate-lookinglodge at the demesne gate, he was nearly wet through, and wasbesmeared with mud up to his knees. But he had thought nothing ofthis as he walked along. His mind had been intent on the scene thatwas before him. In what words was he to break the news to ClaraDesmond and her mother? and with what words would they receive thetidings? The former question he had by no means answered to his ownsatisfaction, when, all muddy and wet, he passed up to the housethrough that desolate gate. 

"Is Lady Desmond at home?" he asked of the butler. "Her ladyship isat home, " said the grey-haired old man, with his blandest smile, "and so is Lady Clara. " He had already learned to look on the heirof Castle Richmond as the coming saviour of the impoverished Desmondfamily. 

CHAPTER XXVI

COMFORTLESS

"But, Mr. Herbert, yer honor, you're wet through andthrough--surely, " said the butler, as soon as Fitzgerald was wellinside the hall. Herbert muttered something about his being onlydamp, and that it did not signify. But it did signify, --verymuch, --in the butler's estimation. Whose being wet through couldsignify more; for was not Mr. Herbert to be a baronet, and to havethe spending of twelve thousand a-year; and would he not be thefuture husband of Lady Clara? not signify indeed!

"An' shure, Mr. Herbert, you haven't walked to Desmond Court thisblessed morning. Tare an' ages! Well; there's no knowing what youyoung gentlemen won't do. But I'll see and get a pair of trousers ofmy Lord's ready for you in two minutes. Faix, and he's nearly as bigas yourself, now, Mr. Herbert. "

But Herbert would hardly speak to him, and gave no assent whateveras to his proposition for borrowing the Earl's clothes. "I'll go inas I am, " said he. And the old man looking into his face saw thatthere was something wrong. "Shure an' he ain't going to sthrike offnow, " said this Irish Caleb Balderstone to himself. He also as wellas some others about Desmond Court had feared greatly that LadyClara would throw herself away upon a poor lover. 

It was now past noon, and Fitzgerald pressed forward into the roomin which Lady Clara usually sat. It was the same in which she hadreceived Owen's visit, and here of a morning she was usually to befound alone; but on this occasion when he opened the door he foundthat her mother was with her. Since the day on which Clara haddisposed of herself so excellently, the mother had spent more of hertime with her daughter. Looking at Clara now through HerbertFitzgerald's eyes, the Countess had began to confess to herself thather child did possess beauty and charm. 

She got up to greet her future son-in-law with a sweet smile andthat charming quiet welcome with which a woman so well knows how tomake her house pleasant to a man that is welcome to it. And Clara, not rising, but turning her head round and looking at him, greetedhim also. He came forward and took both their hands, and it was nottill he had held Clara's for half a minute in his own that they bothsaw that he was more than ordinarily serious. "I hope Sir Thomas isnot worse, " said Lady Desmond, with that voice of feigned interestwhich is so common. After all, if anything should happen to the poorold weak gentleman, might it not be as well?

"My father has not been very well these last two days, " he said. 

"I am so sorry, " said Clara. "And your mother, Herbert?"

"But, Herbert, how wet you are. You must have walked, " said theCountess. 

Herbert, in a few dull words, said that he had walked. He hadthought that the walk would be good for him, and he had not expectedthat it would be so wet. And then Lady Desmond, looking carefullyinto his face, saw that in truth he was very serious;--so much sothat she knew that he had come there on account of his seriousness. But still his sorrow did not in any degree go to her heart. He wasgrieving doubtless for his father, --or his mother. The house atCastle Richmond was probably sad, because sickness and fear of deathwere there;--nay, perhaps death itself now hanging over some lovedhead. But what was this to her? She had had her own sorrows;--enoughof them perhaps to account for her being selfish. So with a solemnface, but with nothing amiss about her heart, she again asked fortidings from Castle Richmond. 

"Do tell us, " said Clara, getting up. "I am afraid Sir Thomas isvery ill. " The old baronet had been kind to her, and she did regardhim. To her it was a sorrow to think that there should be any sorrowat Castle Richmond. 

"Yes; he is ill, " said Herbert. "We have had a gentleman from Londonwith us for the last few days--a friend of my father's. His name isMr. Prendergast. "

"Is he a doctor?" asked the Countess. 

"No, not a doctor, " said Herbert. "He is a lawyer. "

It was very hard for him to begin his story; and perhaps the more soin that he was wet through and covered with mud. He now felt coldand clammy, and began to have an idea that he should not be seatedthere in that room in such a guise. Clara, too, had instinctivelylearned from his face, and tone, and general bearirg that somethingtruly was the matter. At other times when he had been there, sincethat day on which he had been accepted, he had been completelymaster of himself. Perhaps it had almost been deemed a fault in himthat he had had none of the timidity or hesitation of a lover. Hehad seemed to feel, no doubt, that he, with his fortune and positionat his back, need feel no scruple in accepting as his own the fairhand for which he had asked. But now--nothing could be moredifferent from this than his manner was now. 

Lady Desmond was now surprised, though probably not as yetfrightened. Why should a lawyer have come from London to visit SirThomas at a period of such illness? and why should Herbert havewalked over to Desmond Court to tell them of this illness? Theremust be something in this lawyer's coming which was intended to bearin some way on her daughter's marriage. "But, Herbert, " she said, "you are quite wet. Will you not put on some of Patrick's things?"

"No, thank you, " said he; "I shall not stay long. I shall soon havesaid what I have got to say. "

"But do, Herbert, " said Clara. "I cannot bear to see you souncomfortable. And then you will not be in such a hurry to go back. "

"Ill as my father is, " said he, "I cannot stay long; but I havethought it my duty to come over and tell you--tell you what hashappened at Castle Richmond. "

And now the countess was frightened. There was that in Herbert'stone of voice and the form of his countenance which was enough tofrighten any woman. What had happened at Castle Richmond? what couldhave happened there to make necessary the presence of a lawyer, andat the same time thus to sadden her future son-in-law? And Claraalso was frightened, though she knew not why. His manner was sodifferent from that which was usual; he was so cold, and serious, and awe-struck, that she could not but be unhappy. 

"And what is it?" said the countess. 

Herbert then sat for a few minutes silent, thinking how best heshould tell them his story. He had been all the morning resolving totell it, but he had in nowise as yet fixed upon any method. It wasall so terribly tragic, so frightful in the extent of its reality, that he hardly knew how it would be possible for him to get throughhis task. 

"I hope that no misfortune has come upon any of the family, " saidLady Desmond, now beginning to think that there might be misfortuneswhich would affect her own daughter more nearly than the illnesseither of the baronet or of his wife. 

"Oh, I hope not!" said Clara, getting up and clasping her hands. "What is it, Herbert? why don't you speak?" And coming round to him, she took hold of his arm. 

"Dearest Clara, " he said, looking at her with more tenderness thanhad ever been usual with him, "I think that you had better leave us. I could tell it better to your mother alone. "

"Do, Clara, love. Go, dearest, and we will call you by-and-by. "

Clara moved away very slowly toward the door, and then she turnedround. "If it is anything that makes you unhappy, Herbert, " shesaid, "I must know it before you leave me. "

"Yes, yes; either I or your mother--. You shall be told, certainly. "

"Yes, yes, you shall be told, " said the countess. "And now go, mydarling. " Thus dismissed, Clara did go, and betook herself to herown chamber. Had Owen had sorrows to tell her, he would have toldthem to herself; of that she was quite sure. "And now, Herbert, forheaven's sake what is it?" said the countess, pale with terror. Shewas fully certain now that something was to be spoken which would becalculated to interfere with her daughter's prospects. 

We all know the story which Herbert had to tell, and we need nottherefore again be present at the telling of it. Sitting there, wetthrough, in Lady Desmond's drawing-room, he did contrive to utter itall--the whole of it from the beginning to the end, making itclearly to be understood that he was no longer Fitzgerald of CastleRichmond, but a nameless, pennyless outcast, without the hope ofportion or position, doomed from henceforth to earn his bread in thesweat of his brow--if only he could be fortunate enough to find themeans of earning it. 

Nor did Lady Desmond once interrupt him in his story. She satperfectly still, listening to him almost with unmoved face. She wastoo wise to let him know what the instant working of her mind mightbe before she had made her own fixed resolve; and she had conceivedthe truth much before he had completed the telling of it. Wegenerally use three times the number of words which are necessaryfor the purpose which we have in hand; but had he used six times thenumber, she would not have interrupted him. It was good in him togive her this time to determine in what tone and with what words shewould speak, when speaking on her part should become absolutelynecessary. "And now, " he concluded by saying--and at this time hewas standing up on the rug--"you know it all, Lady Desmond. It willperhaps be best that Clara should learn it from you. "

He had said not a word of giving up his pretensions to Lady Clara'shand; but then neither had he in any way hinted that the matchshould, in his opinion, be regarded as unbroken. He had not spokenof his sorrow at bringing down all this poverty on his wife: andsurely he would have so spoken had he thought their engagement wasstill valid; but then he had not himself pointed out that theengagement must necessarily be broken, as, in Lady Desmond'sopinion, he certainly should have done. 

"Yes, " said she, in a cold, low, meaningless voice--in a voice thattold nothing by its tones--"Lady Clara had better hear it from me. "But in the title which she gave her daughter, Herbert instantly readhis doom. He, however, remained silent. It was for the countess nowto speak. 

"But it is possible it may not be true, " she said, speaking almostin a whisper, looking not into his face, but by him, at the fire. 

"It is possible, but so barely possible, that I did not think itright to keep the matter from you any longer. "

"It would have been very wrong--very wicked, I may say, " said thecountess. 

"It is only two days since I knew anything of it myself, " said he, vindicating himself. 

"You were of course bound to let me know immediately, " she said, harshly. 

"And I have let you know immediately, Lady Desmond. " And then theywere both again silent for a while. 

"And Mr. Prendergast thinks there is no doubt?" she asked. 

"None, " said Herbert, very decidedly. 

"And he has told your cousin Owen?"

"He did so yesterday, and by this time my poor mother knows italso. " And then there was another period of silence. 

During the whole time Lady Desmond had uttered no one word ofcondolence--not a syllable of commiseration for all the sufferingsthat had come upon Herbert and his family; and he was beginning tohate her for her harshness. The tenor of her countenance had becomehard, and she received all his words as a judge might have takenthem, merely wanting evidence before he pronounced his verdict. Theevidence she was beginning to think sufficient, and there could beno doubt as to her verdict. After what she had heard, a matchbetween Herbert Fitzgerald and her daughter would be out of thequestion. "It is very dreadful, " she said, thinking only of her ownchild, and absolutely shivering at the danger which had beenincurred. 

"It is very dreadful, " said Herbert, shivering also. It was almostincredible to him that his great sorrow should be received in such away by one who had professed to be so dear a friend to him. 

"And what do you propose to do, Mr. Fitzgerald?" said the countess. 

"What do I propose?" he said, repeating her words. "Hitherto I havehad neither time nor heart to propose anything. Such a misfortune asthat which I have told you does not break upon a man withoutdisturbing for a while his power of resolving. I have thought somuch of my mother, and of Clara, since Mr. Prendergast told me allthis, that--that--that--" And then a slight gurgling struggle fellupon his throat and hindered him from speaking. He did not quite sobout, and he determined that he would not do so. If she could be soharsh and strong, he would be harsh and strong also. 

And again Lady Desmond sat silent, still thinking how she had betterspeak and act. After all she was not so cruel nor so bad as HerbertFitzgerald thought her. What had the Fitzgeralds done for her thatshe should sorrow for their sorrows? She had lived there, in thatold ugly barrack, long desolate, full of dreary wretchedness andpoverty, and Lady Fitzgerald in her prosperity had never come to herto soften the hardness of her life. She had come over to Ireland acountess, and a countess she had been, proud enough at first in herlittle glory--too proud, no doubt; and proud enough afterwards inher loneliness and poverty; and there she had lived--alone. Whetherthe fault had been her own or no, she owed little to the kindness ofany one; for no one had done aught to relieve her bitterness. Andthen her weak puny child had grown up in the same shade, and was nowa lovely woman, gifted with high birth, and that special pricelessbeauty which high blood so often gives. There was a prize now withinthe walls of that old barrack--something to be won--something forwhich a man would strive, and a mother smile that her son might winit. And now Lady Fitzgerald had come to her. She had nevercomplained of this, she said to herself. The bargain between ClaraDesmond and Herbert Fitzgerald had been good for both of them, andlet it be made and settled as a bargain. Young Herbert Fitzgeraldhad money and position; her daughter had beauty and high blood. Letit be a bargain. But in all this there was nothing to make her lovethat rich prosperous family at Castle Richmond. There are thosewhose nature it is to love new-found friends at a few hours'warning, but the Countess of Desmond was not one of them. Thebargain had been made, and her daughter would have been able toperform her part of it. She was still able to give that which shehad stipulated to give. But Herbert Fitzgerald was now a bankrupt, and could give nothing! Would it not have been madness to supposethat the bargain should still hold good?

One person and one only had come to her at Desmond Court, whosecoming had been a solace to her weariness. Of all those among whomshe had lived in cold desolateness for so many years, one only hadgot near her heart. There had been but one Irish voice that she hadcared to hear; and the owner of that voice had loved her childinstead of loving her. 

And she had borne that wretchedness too, if not well, at leastbravely. True, she had separated that lover from her daughter; butthe circumstances of both had made it right for her, as a mother, todo so. What mother, circumstanced as she had been, would have givenher girl to Owen Fitzgerald? So she had banished from the house theonly voice that sounded sweetly in her ears, and again she had beenalone. 

And then, perhaps, thoughts had come to her, when Herbert Fitzgeraldwas frequent about the place, a rich and thriving wooer, that Owenmight come again to Desmond Court, when Clara had gone to CastleRichmond. Years were stealing over her. Ah, yes. She knew that fullwell. All her youth and the pride of her days she had given up forthat countess-ship which she now wore so gloomily--given up forpieces of gold which had turned to stone and slate and dirt withinher grasp. Years, alas! were fast stealing over her. Butnevertheless she had something to give. Her woman's beauty was notall faded; and she had a heart which was as yet virgin--which hadhitherto loved no other man. Might not that suffice to cover a fewyears, seeing that in return she wanted nothing but love? And so shehad thought, lingering over her hopes, while Herbert was there athis wooing. 

It may be imagined with what feelings at her heart she had seen andlistened to the frank attempt made by Owen to get back his childishlove. But that too she had borne, bravely, if not well. It had notangered her that her child was loved by the only man she had everloved herself. She had stroked her daughter's hair that day, andkissed her cheek, and bade her be happy with her better, richerlover. And had she not been right in this? Nor had she been angryeven with Owen. She could forgive him all, because she loved him. But might there not even yet be a chance for her when Clara shouldin very truth have gone to Castle Richmond?

But now! How was she to think about all this now? And thinking ofthese things, how was it possible that she should have heart left tofeel for the miseries of Lady Fitzgerald? With all her miserieswould not Lady Fitzgerald still be more fortunate than she? Let comewhat might, Lady Fitzgerald had had a life of prosperity and love. No; she could not think of Lady Fitzgerald, nor of Herbert: shecould only think of Owen Fitzgerald, of her daughter, and ofherself. 

He, Owen, was now the heir to Castle Richmond, and would, as far asshe could learn, soon become the actual possessor. He, who had beencast forth from Desmond Court as too poor and contemptible in theworld's eye to be her daughter's suitor, would become the richinheritor of all those broad acres, and that old coveted familyhonour. And this Owen still loved her daughter--loved her not asHerbert did, with a quiet, gentleman-like, every-day attachment, butwith the old, true, passionate love of which she had read in books, and dreamed herself, before she had sold herself to be a countess. That Owen did so love her daughter, she was very sure. And then, asto her daughter; that she did not still love this new heir in herheart of hearts--of that the mother was by no means sure. That herchild had chosen the better part in choosing money and a title, shehad not doubted; and that having so chosen Clara would be happy, --ofthat also she did not doubt. Clara was young, she would say, and herheart in a few months would follow her hand. 

But now! How was she to decide, sitting here with Herbert Fitzgeraldbefore her, gloomy as death, cold, shivering, and muddy, telling ofhis own disasters with no more courage than a whipped dog? As shelooked at him she declared to herself twenty times in half a secondthat he had not about him a tithe of the manhood of his cousin Owen. Women love a bold front, and a voice that will never own its masterto have been beaten in the world's fight. Had Owen came there withsuch a story, he would have claimed his right boldly to the lady'shand, in spite of all that the world had done to him. 

"Let her have him, " said Lady Desmond to herself, and the strugglewithin her bosom was made and over. No wonder that Herbert, lookinginto her face for pity, should find that she was harsh and cruel. She had been sacrificing herself, and had completed the sacrifice. Owen Fitzgerald, the heir to Castle Richmond, Sir Owen as he wouldsoon be, should have her daughter. They two, at any rate, should behappy. And she--she would live there at Desmond Court, lonely as shehad ever lived. While all this was passing through her mind, shehardly thought of Herbert and his sorrows. That he must be given upand abandoned, and left to make what best fight he could by himself;as to that how was it possible that she as a mother should have anydoubt?

And yet it was a pity--a thousand pities. Herbert Fitzgerald, withhis domestic virtues, his industry and thorough respectability, would so exactly have suited Clara's taste and mode of life--had heonly continued to be the heir of Castle Richmond. She and Owen wouldnot enter upon the world together with nearly the same fair chanceof happiness. Who could prophecy to what Owen might be led with hispassionate impulses, his strong will, his unbridled temper, and hislove of pleasure? That he was noble-hearted, affectionate, brave, and tender in his inmost spirit, Lady Desmond was very sure; butwere such the qualities which would make her daughter happy? WhenClara should come to know her future lord as Clara's mother knewhim, would Clara love him and worship him as her mother did? Themother believed that Clara had not in her bosom heart enough forsuch a love. But then, as I have said before, the mother did notknow the daughter. 

"You say that you will break all this to Clara, " said Herbert, having during this silence turned over some of his thoughts also inhis mind. "If so I may as well leave you now. You can imagine that Iam anxious to get back to my mother. "

"Yes, it will be better that I should tell her. It is very sad, verysad, very sad indeed. "

"Yes, it is a hard load for a man to bear, " he answered, speakingvery, very slowly. "But for myself I think I can bear it, if--"

"If what?" asked the countess. 

"If Clara can bear it. "

And now it was necessary that Lady Desmond should speak out. She didnot mean to be unnecessarily harsh, but she did mean to be decided, and as she spoke her face became stern and ill-favoured. "That Clarawill be terribly distressed, " she said, "terribly, terriblydistressed, " repeating her words with great emphasis, "of that I amquite sure. She is very young, and will, I hope, in time get overit. And then too I think she is one whose feelings, young as she is, have never conquered her judgment. Therefore I do believe that, withGod's mercy, she will be able to bear it. But, Mr. Fitzgerald--"

"Well?"

"Of course you feel with me--and I am sure that with your excellentjudgment it is a thing of course--that everything must be overbetween you and Lady Clara. " And then she came to a full stop asthough all had been said that could be considered necessary. 

Herbert did not answer at once, but stood there shivering andshaking in his misery. He was all but overcome by the chill of hiswet garments; and though he struggled to throw off the dead feelingof utter cold which struck him to the heart, he was quite unable tomaster it. He could hardly forgive himself that on such an occasionhe should have been so conquered by his own outer feelings, but nowhe could not help himself. He was weak with hunger too--though hedid not know it, for he had hardly eaten food that day, and wasnearly exhausted with the unaccustomed amount of hard exercise whichhe had taken. He was, moreover, thoroughly wet through, and heavyladen with the mud of the road. It was no wonder that Lady Desmondhad said to herself that he looked like a whipped dog. 

"That must be as Lady Clara shall decide, " he said at last, barelyuttering the words through his chattering teeth. 

"It must be as I say, " said the countess firmly; "whether by herdecision or by yours--or if necessary by mine. But if your feelingsare, as I take them to be, those of a man of honour, you will notleave it to me or to her. What! now that you have the world tostruggle with, would you seek to drag her down into the struggle?"

"Our union was to be for better or worse. I would have given her allthe better, and--"

"Yes; and had there been a union she would have bravely borne herpart in sharing the worst. But who ought to be so thankful as youthat this truth has broken upon you before you had clogged yourselfwith a wife of high birth but without fortune? Alone, a man educatedas you are, with your talents, may face the world without fearinganything. But how could you make your way now if my daughter wereyour wife? When you think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald, you will cease towish for it. "

"Never; I have given my heart to your daughter, and I cannot takeback the gift. She has accepted it, and she cannot return it. "

"And what would you have her do?" Lady Desmond asked, with anger andalmost passion in her voice. 

"Wait--as I must wait, " said Herbert. "That will be her duty, as Ibelieve it will also be her wish. "

"Yes, and wear out her young heart here in solitude for the next tenyears, and then learn when her beauty and her youth are gone--. Butno, Mr. Fitzgerald; I will not allow myself to contemplate such aprospect either for her or for you. Under the lamentablecircumstances which you have now told me it is imperative that thismatch should be broken off. Ask your own mother and hear what shewill say. And if you are a man you will not throw upon my poor childthe hard task of declaring that it must be so. You, by yourcalamity, are unable to perform your contract with her; and it isfor you to announce that that contract is therefore over. "

Herbert in his present state was unable to argue with Lady Desmond. He had in his brain, and mind, and heart, and soul--at least so hesaid to himself afterwards, having perhaps but a loose idea of thedifferent functions of these four different properties--a thoroughconviction that as he and Clara had sworn to each other that forlife they would live together and love each other, no misfortune toeither of them could justify the other in breaking that oath;--could even justify him in breaking it, though he was the one on whommisfortune had fallen. He, no doubt, had first loved Clara for herbeauty; but would he have ceased to love her, or have cast her fromhim, if, by God's will, her beauty had perished and gone from her?Would he not have held her closer to his heart, and told her, withstrong comforting vows, that his love had now gone deeper than that;that they were already of the same bone, of the same flesh, of thesame family and hearthstone? He knew himself in this, and knew thathe would have been proud so to do, and so to feel, --that he wouldhave cast from him with utter indignation any who would havecounselled him to do or to feel differently. And why should Clara'sheart be different from his?

All this, I say, was his strong conviction. But, nevertheless, herheart might be different. She might look on that engagement oftheirs with altogether other thoughts and other ideas; and if so hisvoice should never reproach her;--not his voice, however his heartmight do so. Such might be the case with her, but he did not thinkit; and therefore he would not pronounce that decision which Clara'smother expected from him. 

"When you have told her of this, I suppose I may be allowed to seeher, " he said, avoiding the direct proposition which Lady Desmondhad made to him. 

"Allowed to see her?" said Lady Desmond, now also in her turnspeaking very slowly. "I cannot answer that question as yet; notquite immediately, I should say. But if you will leave the matter inmy hands, I will write to you, if not to-morrow, then the next day. "

"I would sooner that she should write. "

"I cannot promise that--I do not know how far her good sense andstrength may support her under this affliction. That she will sufferterribly, on your account as well as on her own, you may be quitesure. " And then, again, there was a pause of some moments. 

"I, at any rate, shall write to her, " he then said, "and shall tellher that I expect her to see me. Her will in this matter shall be mywill. If she thinks that her misery will be greater in being engagedto a poor man, than, --than in relinquishing her love, she shallhear no word from me to overpersuade her. But, Lady Desmond, I willsay nothing that shall authorize her to think that she is given upby me, till I have in some way learned from herself what her ownfeelings are. And now I will say good-bye to you. "

"Good-bye, " said the countess, thinking that it might be as wellthat the interview should be ended. "But, Mr. Fitzgerald, you arevery wet; and I fear that you are very cold. You had better takesomething before you go. " Countess as she was, she had no carriagein which she could send him home; no horse even on which he couldride. "Nothing, thank you, Lady Desmond, " he said; and so, withoutoffering her the courtesy of his hand, he walked out of the room. 

He was very angry with her, as he tried to make the blood runquicker in his veins by hurrying down the avenue into the road athis quickest pace. So angry with her, that for a while, in hisindignation, he almost forgot his father and his mother and his ownfamily tragedy. That she should have wished to save her daughterfrom such a marriage might have been natural; but that she shouldhave treated him so coldly, so harshly--without one spark of love orpity, --him, who to her had been so loyal during his courtship of herdaughter! It was almost incredible to him. Was not his story onethat would have melted the heart of a stranger--at which men wouldweep? He himself had seen tears in the eyes of that dry, time-worn, world-used London lawyer, as the full depth of the calamity hadforced itself upon his heart. Yes, Mr. Prendergast had not been ableto repress his tears when he told the tale; but Lady Desmond hadshed no tears when the tale had been told to her. No soft woman'smessage had been sent to the afflicted mother on whom it had pleasedGod to allow so heavy a hand to fall. No word of tenderness had beenuttered for the sinking father. There had been no feeling for thehousehold which was to have been so nearly linked with her own. No. Looking round with greedy eyes for wealth for her daughter, LadyDesmond had found a match that suited her. Now that match no longersuited her greed, and she could throw from her without a struggle toher feelings the suitor that was now poor, and the family of thesuitor that was now neither grand nor powerful. 

And then too he felt angry with Clara, though he knew that as yet, at any rate, he had no cause. In spite of what he had said and felt, he would imagine to himself that she also would be cold and untrue. "Let her go, " he said to himself. "Love is worth nothing--nothing ifit does not believe itself to be of more worth than everythingbeside. If she does not love me now in my misery--if she would notchoose me now for her husband--her love has never been worthy thename. Love that has no faith in itself, that does not value itselfabove all worldly things, is nothing. If it be not so with her, lether go back to him. "

It may easily be understood who was the him. And then Herbert walkedon so rapidly that at length his strength almost failed him, and inhis exhaustion he had more than once to lean against a gate on theroad-side. With difficulty at last he got home, and dragged himselfup the long avenue to the front door. Even yet he was not warmthrough to his heart, and he felt as he entered the house that hewas quite unfitted for the work which he might yet have to do beforehe could go to his bed. 

CHAPTER XXVII

COMFORTED

When Herbert Fitzgerald got back to Castle Richmond it was nearlydark. He opened the hall door without ringing the bell, and walkingat once into the dining room, threw himself into a large leathernchair which always stood near the fire-place. There was a brightfire burning on the hearth, and he drew himself close to it, puttinghis wet feet up on to the fender, thinking that he would at any ratewarm himself before he went in among any of the family. The room, with its deep-red curtains and ruby-embossed paper, was almostdark, and he knew that he might remain there unseen and unnoticedfor the next half-hour. If he could only get a glass of wine! Hetried the cellaret, which was as often open as locked, but nowunfortunately it was closed. In such a case it was impossible to saywhether the butler had the key or Aunt Letty; so he sat himself downwithout that luxury. 

By this time, as he well knew, all would have been told to hismother, and his first duty would be to go to her--to go to her andcomfort her, if comfort might be possible, by telling her that hecould bear it all; that as far as he was concerned title and wealthand a proud name were as nothing to him in comparison with hismother's love. In whatever guise he may have appeared before LadyDesmond, he would not go to his mother with a fainting heart. Sheshould not hear his teeth chatter, nor see his limbs shake. So hesat himself down there that he might become warm, and in fiveminutes he was fast asleep. 

How long he slept he did not know; not very long, probably; but whenhe awoke it was quite dark. He gazed at the fire for a moment, bethought himself of where he was and why, shook himself to get ridof his slumber, and then roused himself in his chair. As he did so asoft sweet voice close to his shoulder spoke to him. "Herbert, " itsaid, "are you awake?" And he found that his mother, seated by hisside on a low stool, had been watching him in his sleep. 

"Mother!" he exclaimed. 

"Herbert, my child, my son!" And the mother and son were fast lockedin each other's arms. 

He had sat down there thinking how he would go to his mother andoffer her solace in her sorrow; how he would bid her be of goodcheer, and encourage her to bear the world as the world had nowfallen to her lot. He had pictured to himself that he would find hersinking in despair, and had promised himself that with his vows, hiskisses, and his prayers, he would bring her back to herself-confidence, and induce her to acknowledge that God's mercy wasyet good to her. But now, on awakening, he discovered that she hadbeen tending him in his misery, and watching him while he slept, that she might comfort him with her caresses the moment that heawoke to the remembrance of his misfortunes. 

"Herbert, Herbert, my son, my son!" she said again, as she pressedhim close in her arms. 

"Mother, has he told you?"

Yes, she had learned it all; but hardly more than she had knownbefore; or, at any rate, not more than she had expected. As she nowtold him, for many days past she had felt that this trouble whichhad fallen upon his father must have come from the circumstances oftheir marriage. And she would have spoken out, she said, when theidea became clear to her, had she not then been told that Mr. Prendergast had been invited to come thither from London. Then sheknew that she had better remain silent, at any rate till his visithad been made. 

And Herbert again sat in the chair, and his mother crouched, oralmost kneeled, on the cushion at his knee. "Dearest, dearest, dearest mother, " he said, as he supported her head against hisshoulder, "we must love each other now more than ever we haveloved. "

"And you forgive us, Herbert, for all that we have done to you?"

"Mother, if you speak in that way to me you will kill me. Mydarling, darling mother!"

There was but little more said between them upon the matter--butlittle more, at least, in words; but there was an infinity ofcaresses, and deep--deep assurances of undying love and confidence. And then she asked him about his bride, and he told her where he hadbeen, and what had happened. "You must not claim her, Herbert, " shesaid to him. "God is good, and will teach you to bear even thatalso. "

"Must I not?" he asked, with a sadly plaintive voice. 

"No, my child. You invited her to share your prosperity, and wouldit be just--"

"But, mother, if she wills it?"

"It is for you to give her back her troth, then leave it to time andher own heart. "

"But if she love me, mother, she will not take back her troth. WouldI take back hers because she was in sorrow?"

"Men and women, Herbert, are different. The oak cares not whetherthe creeper which hangs to it be weak or strong. If it be weak theoak can give it strength. But the staff which has to support thecreeper must needs have strength of its own. "

He made no further answer to her, but understood that he must do asshe bade him. He understood now also, without many arguments withinhimself, that he had no right to expect from Clara Desmond thatadherence to him and his misfortunes which he would have owed to herhad she been unfortunate. He understood this now; but still hehoped. "Two hearts that have once become as one cannot beseparated, " he said to himself that night, as he resolved that itwas his duty to write to her, unconditionally returning to her herpledges. 

"But, Herbert, what a state you are in!" said Lady Fitzgerald, asthe flame of the coal glimmering out, threw a faint light upon hisclothes. 

"Yes, mother; I have been walking. "

"And you are wet!"

"I am nearly dry now. I was wet. But, mother, I am tired and fagged. It would do me good if I could get a glass of wine. "

She rang the bell, and gave her orders calmly--though every servantin the house now knew the whole truth, --and then lit a candleherself, and looked at him. "My child, what have you done toyourself? Oh, Herbert, you will be ill!" And then, with his arm roundher waist, she took him up to her own room, and sat by him while hetook off his muddy boots and clammy socks, and made him hot drinks, and tended him as she had done when he was a child. And yet she hadthat day heard of her great ruin! With truth, indeed, had Mr. Prendergast said that she was made of more enduring material thanSir Thomas. 

And she endeavoured to persuade him to go to his bed; but in this hewould not listen to her. He must, he said, see his father thatnight. "You have been with him, mother, since--since--"

"Oh yes; directly after Mr. Prendergast left me. "

"Well?"

"He cried like a child, Herbert. We both sobbed together like twochildren. It was very piteous. But I think I left him better than hehas been. He knows now that those men cannot come again to harasshim. "

Herbert gnashed his teeth, and clenched his fist as he thought ofthem; but he could not speak of them, or mention their name beforehis mother. What must her thoughts be, as she remembered that elderman and looked back to her early childhood!

"He is very weak, " she went on to say: "almost helplessly weak now, and does not seem to think of leaving his bed. I have begged him tolet me send to Dublin for Sir Henry; but he says that nothing ailshim. "

"And who is with him now, mother?"

"The girls are both there. "

"And Mr. Prendergast?"

Lady Fitzgerald then explained to him, that Mr. Prendergast hadreturned to Dublin that afternoon, starting twenty-four hoursearlier than he intended, --or, at any rate, than he had said that heintended. Having done his work there, he had felt that he would nowonly be in the way. And, moreover, though his work was done atCastle Richmond, other work in the same matter had still to be donein England. Mr. Prendengast had very little doubt as to the truth ofMollett's story;--indeed we may say he had no doubt; otherwise hewould hardly have made it known to all that world round CastleRichmond. But nevertheless it behoved him thoroughly to sift thematter. He felt tolerably sure that he should find Mollett inLondon; and whether he did or no, he should be able to identify, ornot to identify, that scoundrel with the Mr. Talbot who had hiredChevy-chase Lodge, in Dorsetshire, and who had undoubtedly marriedpoor Mary Wainwright. 

"He left a kind message for you, " said Lady Fitzgerald. --My readersmust excuse me if I still call her Lady Fitzgerald, for I cannotbring my pen to the use of any other name. And it was so also withthe dependents and neighbours of Castle Richmond, when the time camethat the poor lady felt that she was bound publicly to drop hertitle. It was not in her power to drop it: no effort that she couldmake would induce those around her to call her by another name. 

"He bade me say, " she continued, "that if your future course of lifeshould take you to London, you are to go to him, and look to him asanother father. He has no child of his own, " he said, "and you shallbe to him as a son. "

"I will be no one's son but yours, --yours and my father's, " he said, again embracing her. 

And then, when, under his mother's eye, he had eaten and drank andmade himself warm, he did go to his father and found both hissisters sitting there. They came and clustered round him, takinghold of his hands and looking up into his face, loving him, andpitying him, and caressing him with their eyes, but standing thereby their father's bed, they said little or nothing. Nor did SirThomas say much, --except this, indeed, that, just as Herbert wasleaving him, he declared with a faint voice, that henceforth his sonshould be master of that house, and the disposer of thatproperty--"As long as I live!" he exclaimed with his weak voice; "aslong as I live!"

"No, father, not so. "

"Yes, yes! as long as I live. It will be little that you will have, even so--very little. But so it shall be as long as I live. "

Very little indeed, poor man, for, alas! his days were numbered. 

And then, when Herbert left the room, Emmeline followed him. She hadever been his dearest sister, and now she longed to be with him thatshe might tell him how she loved him, and comfort him with hertears. And Clara too--Clara whom she had welcomed as a sister!--shemust learn now how Clara would behave, for she had already madeherself sure that her brother had been at Desmond Court, the heraldof his own ruin. 

"May I come with you, Herbert?" she asked, closing in round him andgetting under his arm. How could he refuse her? So they wenttogether and sat over a fire in a small room that was sacred to herand her sister, and there, with many sobs on her part and muchwould-be brave contempt of poverty on his, they talked over thealtered world as it now showed itself before them. 

"And you did not see her?" she asked, when with many efforts she hadbrought the subject round to Clara Desmond and her brother's walk toDesmond Court. 

"No; she left the room at my own bidding. I could not have told itmyself to her. "

"And you cannot know, then, what she would say?"

"No, I cannot know what she would say; but I know now what I mustsay myself. All that is over, Emmeline. I cannot ask her to marry abeggar. "

"Ask her; no! there will be no need of asking her; she has alreadygiven you her promise. You do not think that she will desert you?you do not wish it?"

Herein were contained two distinct questions, the latter of whichHerbert did not care to answer. "I shall not call it desertion, " hesaid; "indeed the proposal will come from me. I shall write to her, telling her that she need think about me no longer. Only that I amso weary I would do it now. "

"And how will she answer you? If she is the Clara that I take herfor she will throw your proposal back into your face. She will tellyou that it is not in your power to reject her now. She will swearto you, that let your words be what they may, she will think ofyou--more now than she has ever thought in better days. She willtell you of her love in words that she could not use before. I knowshe will. I know that she is good, and true, and honest, andgenerous. Oh, I should die if I thought she were false! But, Herbert, I am sure that she is true. You can write your letter, andwe shall see. "

Herbert, with wise arguments learned from his mother, reasoned withhis sister, explaining to her that Clara was now by no means boundto cling to him, but as he spoke them his arm fastened itselfclosely round his sister's waist, for the words which she utteredwith so much energy were comfortable to him. 

And then, seated there, before he moved from the room, he made herbring him pens, ink, and paper, and he wrote his letter to ClaraDesmond. She would fain have stayed with him while he did so, sitting at his feet, and looking into his face, and trying toencourage his hope as to what Clara's answer might be; but this hewould not allow; so she went again to her father's room, havingsucceeded in obtaining a promise that Clara's answer should be shownto her. And the letter, when it was written, copied, and recopied, ran as follows. --

"Castle Richmond, ----night. 

"My dearest Clara, "--It was with great difficulty that he couldsatisfy himself with that, or indeed with any other mode ofcommencement. In the short little love-notes which had hithertogone from him, sent from house to house, he had written to herwith appellations of endearment of his own--as all lovers do;and as all lovers seem to think that no lovers have done beforethemselves--with appellations which are so sweet to those who write, and so musical to those who read, but which sound so ludicrous whenbarbarously made public in hideous law courts by brazen-browedlawyers with mercenary tongues. In this way only had he written, andeach of these sweet silly songs of love had been as full of honey aswords could make it. But he had never yet written to her, on a fullsheet of paper, a sensible positive letter containing thoughts andfacts, as men do write to women and women also to men, when thelollypops and candied sugar-drops of early love have passed away. Now he was to write his first serious letter to her, --and probablyhis last, and it was with difficulty that he could get himself overthe first three words; but there they were decided on at last. 

"My dearest Clara, "Before you get this your mother will have told you all that which Icould not bring myself to speak out yesterday, as long as you werein the room. I am sure you will understand now why I begged you togo away, and not think the worse of me for doing so. You now knowthe whole truth, and I am sure that you will feel for us all here. 

"Having thought a good deal upon the matter, chiefly during my walkhome from Desmond Court, and indeed since I have been at home, Ihave come to the resolution that everything between us must be over. It would be unmanly in me to wish to ruin you because I myself amruined. Our engagement was, of course, made on the presumption thatI should inherit my father's estate; as it is I shall not do so, andtherefore I beg that you will regard that engagement as at an end. Of my own love for you I will say nothing. But I know that you haveloved me truly, and that all this, therefore, will cause you greatgrief. It is better, however, that it should be so, than that Ishould seek to hold you to a promise which was made under suchdifferent circumstances. 

"You will, of course, show this letter to your mother. She, at anyrate, will approve of what I am now doing; and so will you when youallow yourself to consider it calmly. 

"We have not known each other so long that there is much for us togive back to each other. If you do not think it wrong I should likestill to keep that lock of your hair, to remind me of my firstlove--and, as I think, my only one. And you, I hope, will not beafraid to have near you the one little present that I made you. 

"And now, dearest Clara, good-bye. Let us always think, each of theother, as of a very dear friend. May God bless you, and preserveyou, and make you happy. 

"Yours, with sincere affection, "HERBERT FITZGERALD. "

This, when at last he had succeeded in writing it, he read over andover again; but on each occasion he said to himself that it was coldand passionless, stilted and unmeaning. It by no means pleased him, and seemed as though it could bring but one answer--a coldacquiescence in the proposal which he so coldly made. But yet heknew not how to improve it. And after all it was a true expositionof that which he had determined to say. All the world--her world andhis world--would think it better that they should part, and let thestruggle cost him what it would, he would teach himself to wish thatit might be so--if not for his own sake, then for hers. So hefastened the letter, and taking it with him determined to send itover, so that it should reach Clara quite early on the followingmorning. 

And then having once more visited his father, and once more kissedhis mother, he betook himself to bed. It had been with him one ofthose days which seem to pass away without reference to usual hoursand periods. It had been long dark, and he seemed to have beenhanging about the house, doing nothing and aiding nobody, till hewas weary of himself. So he went off to bed, almost wondering, as hebethought himself of what had happened to him within the last twodays, that he was able to bear the burden of his life so easily ashe did. He betook himself to bed, and with the letter close at hishand, so that he might despatch it when he awoke, he was soonasleep. After all, that walk, terrible as it had been, was in theend serviceable to him. 

He slept without waking till the light of the February morning wasbeginning to dawn into his room, and then he was roused by a servantknocking at the door. It was grievous enough that awaking to hissorrow after the pleasant dreams of the night. 

"Here is a letter, Mr. Herbert, from Desmond Court, " said Richard. "The boy as brought it says as how--"

"A letter from Desmond Court, " said Herbert, putting out his handgreedily. 

"Yes, Mr. Herbert. The boy's been here this hour and better. Iwarn't just up and about myself, or I wouldn't have let 'em keep itfrom you, not half a minute. "

"And where is he? I have a letter to send to Desmond Court. Butnever mind. Perhaps--"

"It's no good minding, for the gossoon's gone back any ways. " Andthen Richard, having drawn the blind, and placed a little table bythe bed-head, left his young master to read the despatch fromDesmond Court. Herbert, till he saw the writing, feared that it wasfrom the countess; but the letter was from Clara. She also hadthought good to write before she betook herself to bed, and she hadbeen earlier in despatching her messenger. Here is her letter:

"Dear Herbert, my own Herbert, "I have heard it all. But remember this; nothing, nothing, NOTHINGcan make any change between you and me. I will hear of no argumentsthat are to separate us. I know beforehand what you will say, but Iwill not regard it--not in the least. I love you ten times the morefor all your unhappiness; and as I would have shared your goodfortune, I claim my right to share your bad fortune. PRAY BELIEVEME, that nothing shall turn me from this; for I will NOT BE GIVENUP. 

"Give my kindest love to your dear, dear, dearest mother--my mother, as she is and must be; and to my darling girls. I do so wish I couldbe with them, and with you, my own Herbert. I cannot help writing inconfusion, but I will explain all when I see you. I have been sounhappy. 

"Your own faithful

"CLARA. "

Having read this, Herbert Fitzgerald, in spite of his affliction, was comforted. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT

Herbert as he started from his bed with this letter in his hand feltthat he could yet hold up his head against all that the world coulddo to him. How could he be really unhappy while he possessed such anassurance of love as this, and while his mother was able to give himso glorious an example of endurance? He was not really unhappy. Thelow-spirited broken-hearted wretchedness of the preceding day seemedto have departed from him as he hurried on his clothes, and went offto his sister's room that he might show his letter to Emmeline inaccordance with the promise he had made her. 

"May I come in?" he said, knocking at the door. "I must come in, forI have something to show you. " But the two girls were dressing andhe could not be admitted. Emmeline however, promised to come to him, and in about three minutes she was out in the cold littlesitting-room which adjoined their bedroom with her slippers on, andher dressing gown wrapped round her, an object presentable to nomale eyes but those of her brother. 

"Emmeline, " said he, "I have got a letter this morning. "

"Not from Clara?"

"Yes, from Clara. There; you may read it;" and he handed her theprecious epistle. 

"But she could not have got your letter?" said Emmeline, before shelooked at the one in her hand. 

"Certainly not, for I have it here. I must write another now; but intruth I do not know what to say. I can be as generous as she is. "

And then his sister read the letter. "My own Clara!" she exclaimed, as she saw what was the tenor of it. "Did I not tell you so, Herbert? I knew well what she would do and say. Love you ten timesbetter!--of course she does. What honest girl would not? My ownbeautiful Clara, I knew I could depend on her. I did not doubt herfor one moment. " But in this particular it must be acknowledged thatMiss Emmeline Fitzgerald hardly confined herself to the strictestveracity, for she had lain awake half the night perplexed withdoubt. What, oh what, if Clara should be untrue! Such had been theburden of her doubting midnight thoughts. "'I will not be givenup, '" she continued, quoting the letter. "No; of course not. And Itell you what, Herbert, you must not dare to talk of giving her up. Money and titles may be tossed to and fro, but not hearts. Howbeautifully she speaks of dear mamma!" and now the tears began torun down the young lady's cheeks. "Oh, I do wish she could be withus! My darling, darling, darling Clara! Unhappy? Yes: I am sure LadyDesmond will give her no peace. But never mind. She will be truethrough it all; and I said so from the first. " And then she fell tocrying, and embracing her brother, and declaring that nothing nowshould make her altogether unhappy. 

"But, Emmeline, you must not think that I shall take her at herword. It is very generous of her--"

"Nonsense, Herbert!" And then there was another torrent ofeloquence, in answering which Herbert found that his arguments wereof very little efficacy. 

And now we must go back to Desmond Court, and see under what all butoverwhelming difficulties poor Clara wrote her affectionate letter. And in the first place it should be pointed out how very wrongHerbert had been in going to Desmond Court on foot, through the mudand rain. A man can hardly bear himself nobly unless his outeraspect be in some degree noble. It may be very sad, this having toadmit that the tailor does in great part make the man; but such Ifear is undoubtedly the fact. Could the Chancellor look dignified onthe woolsack, if he had had an accident with his wig, or allowed hisrobes to be torn or soiled? Does not half the piety of a bishopreside in his lawn sleeves, and all his meekness in his anti-virileapron? Had Herbert understood the world he would have had out thebest pair of horses standing in the Castle Richmond stables, whengoing to Desmond Court on such an errand. He would have brushed hishair and anointed himself; he would have clothed himself in his richSpanish cloak; he would have seen that his hat was brushed, and hisboots spotless; and then with all due solemnity, but with headerect, he would have told his tale out boldly. The countess wouldstill have wished to be rid of him, hearing that he was a pauper;but she would have lacked the courage to turn him from the house asshe had done. 

But seeing how woebegone he was and wretched, how mean to look at, and low in his outward presence, she had been able to assume themastery, and had kept it throughout the interview. And having donethis her opinion of his prowess naturally became low, and she feltthat he would have been unable to press his cause against her. 

For some time after he had departed, she sat alone in the room inwhich she had received him. She expected every minute that Clarawould come down to her, still wishing, however, that she might beleft for a while alone. But Clara did not come, and she was able topursue her thoughts. 

How very terrible was this tragedy that had fallen out in her closeneighbourhood! That was the first thought that came to her now thatHerbert had left her. How terrible, overwhelming, and fatal! Whatcalamity could fall upon a woman so calamitous as this which had nowovertaken that poor lady at Castle Richmond? Could she live andsupport such a burden? Could she bear the eyes of people, when sheknew the light in which she must be now regarded? To lose at oneblow, her name, her pride of place, her woman's rank and highrespect! Could it be possible that she would still live on? It wasthus that Lady Desmond thought; and had any one told her that thisdegraded mother would that very day come down from her room, and sitwatchful by her sleeping son, in order that she might comfort andencourage him when he awoke, she would not have found it in herheart to believe such a marvel. But then Lady Desmond knew but onesolace in her sorrows--had but one comfort in her sad reflections. She was Countess of Desmond, and that was all. To Lady Fitzgeraldhad been vouchsafed other solace and other comforts. 

And then, on one point the countess made herself fixed as fate, bythinking and re-thinking upon it till no doubt remained upon hermind. The match between Clara and Herbert must be broken off, letthe cost be what it might; and--a point on which there was moreroom for doubt, and more pain in coming to a conclusion--that othermatch with the more fortunate cousin must be encouraged and carriedout. For herself, if her hope was small while Owen was needy and ofpoor account, what hope could there be now that he would be rich andgreat? Moreover, Owen loved Clara, and not herself; and Clara's handwould once more be vacant and ready for the winning. For herself heronly chance had been in Clara's coming marriage. 

In all this she knew that there would be difficulty. She was sureenough that Clara would at first feel the imprudent generosity ofyouth, and offer to join her poverty to Herbert's poverty. That wasa matter of course. She, Lady Desmond herself, would have done this, at Clara's age, --so at least to herself she said, and also to herdaughter. But a little time, and a little patience, and a littlecare would set all this in a proper light. Herbert would go away andwould gradually be forgotten. Owen would again come forth frombeneath the clouds, with renewed splendour; and then, was it notprobable that, in her very heart of hearts Owen was the man whomClara had ever loved?

And thus having realized to herself the facts which Herbert had toldher, she prepared to make them known to her daughter. She got upfrom her chair, intending at first to seek her, and then, changingher purpose, rang the bell and sent for her. She was astonished tofind how violently she herself was affected; not so much by thecircumstances, as by this duty which had fallen to her of tellingthem to her child. She put one hand upon the other and felt that sheherself was in a tremor, and was conscious that the blood wasrunning quick round her heart. Clara came down, and going to hercustomary seat waited till her mother should speak to her. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald has brought very dreadful news, " Lady Desmond said, after a minute's pause. 

"Oh mamma!" said Clara. She had expected bad tidings, having thoughtof all manner of miseries while she had been upstairs alone; butthere was that in her mother's voice which seemed to be worse thanthe worst of her anticipations. 

"Dreadful, indeed, my child! It is my duty to tell them to you; butI must caution you, before I do so, to place a guard upon yourfeelings. That which I have to say must necessarily alter all yourfuture prospects, and, unfortunately, make your marrying HerbertFitzgerald quite impossible. "

"Mamma!" she exclaimed, with a loud voice, jumping from her chair. "Not marry him! Why; what can he have done? Is it his wish to breakit off?"

Lady Desmond had calculated that she would best effect her object byat once impressing her daughter with the idea that, under thecircumstances which were about to be narrated, this marriage wouldnot only be imprudent, but altogether impracticable and out of thequestion. Clara must be made to understand at once, that thecircumstances gave her no option, --that the affair was of such anature as to make it a thing manifest to everybody, that she couldnot now marry Herbert Fitzgerald. She must not be left to thinkwhether she could, or whether she could not, exercise her owngenerosity. And therefore, not without discretion, the countessannounced at once to her the conclusion at which it would benecessary to arrive. But Clara was not a girl to adopt such aconclusion on any other judgment than her own, or to be led in sucha matter by the feelings of any other person. 

"Sit down, my dear, and I will explain it all. But, dearest Clara, grieved as I must be to grieve you, I am bound to tell you againthat it must be as I say. For both your sakes it must be so; butespecially, perhaps, for his. But when I have told you my story, youwill understand that this must be so. "

"Tell me, then, mother. " She said this, for Lady Desmond had againpaused. 

"Won't you sit down, dearest?"

"Well, yes; it does not matter;" and Clara, at her mother's bidding, sat down, and then the story was told to her. 

It was a difficult tale for a mother to tell to so young a child--toa child whom she had regarded as being so very young. There werevarious little points of law which she thought that she was obligedto explain; how it was necessary that the Castle Richmond propertyshould go to an heir-at-law, and how it was impossible that Herbertshould be that heir-at-law, seeing that he had not been born inlawful wedlock. All these things Lady Desmond attempted to explain, or was about to attempt such explanation, but desisted on findingthat her daughter understood them as well as she herself did. Andthen she had to make it also intelligible to Clara that Owen wouldbe called on, when Sir Thomas should die, to fill the position andenjoy the wealth accruing to the heir of Castle Richmond. When OwenFitzgerald's name was mentioned a slight blush came upon Clara'scheek; it was very slight, but nevertheless her mother saw it, andtook advantage of it to say a word in Owen's favour. 

"Poor Owen!" she said. "He will not be the first to triumph in thischange of fortune. "

"I am sure he will not, " said Clara. "He is much too generous forthat. " And then the countess began to hope that the task might notbe so very difficult. Ignorant woman! Had she been able to read onepage in her daughter's heart, she would have known that the task wasimpossible. After that the story was told out to the end withoutfurther interruption, and then Clara, hiding her face within herhands on the head of the sofa, uttered one long piteous moan. 

"It is all very dreadful, " said the countess. 

"Oh, Lady Fitzgerald, dear Lady Fitzgerald!" sobbed forth Clara. 

"Yes, indeed. Poor Lady Fitzgerald! Her fate is so dreadful that Iknow not how to think of it. "

"But, mamma--" and as she spoke Clara pushed back from her foreheadher hair with both her hands, showing, as she did so, the form ofher forehead, and the firmness of purpose that was written there, legible to any eyes that could read. "But, mamma, you are wrongabout my not marrying Herbert Fitzgerald. Why should I not marryhim? Not now, as we, perhaps, might have done but for this; but atsome future time when he may think himself able to support a wife. Mamma, I shall not break our engagement; certainly not. "

This was said in a tone of voice so very decided that Lady Desmondhad to acknowledge to herself that there would be difficulty in hertask. But she still did not doubt that she would have her way, ifnot by concession on the part of her daughter, then by concession onthe part of Herbert Fitzgerald. "I can understand your generosity offeeling, my dear, " she said; "and at your age I should probably havefelt the same. And therefore I do not ask you to take any stepstowards breaking your engagement. The offer must come from Mr. Fitzgerald, and I have no doubt that it will come. He, as a man ofhonour, will know that he cannot now offer to marry you; and he willalso know, as a man of sense, that it would be ruin for him to thinkof--of such a marriage under his present circumstances. "

"Why, mamma? Why should it be ruin to him?"

"Why, my dear? Do you think that a wife with a titled name can be ofadvantage to a young man who has not only got his bread to earn, buteven to look out for a way in which he may earn it?"

"If there be nothing to hurt him but the titled name, thatdifficulty shall be easily conquered. "

"Dearest Clara, you know what I mean. You must be aware that a girlof your rank, and brought up as you have been, cannot be a fittingwife for a man who will now have to struggle with the world at everyturn. "

Clara, as this was said to her, and as she prepared to answer, blushed deeply, for she felt herself obliged to speak on a matterwhich had never yet been subject of speech between her and hermother. "Mamma, " she said, "I cannot agree with you there. I mayhave what the world calls rank; but nevertheless we have been poor, and I have not been brought up with costly habits. Why should I notlive with my husband as--as--as poorly as I have lived with mymother? You are not rich, dear mamma, and why should I be?"

Lady Desmond did not answer her daughter at once; but she was notsilent because an answer failed her. Her answer would have beenready enough had she dared to speak it out. "Yes, it is true; wehave been poor. I, your mother, did by my imprudence bring down uponmy head and on yours absolute, unrelenting, pitiless poverty. Andbecause I did so, I hae never known one happy hour. I have spent mydays in bitter remorse--in regretting the want of those things whichit has been the more terrible to want as they are the customaryattributes of people of my rank. I have been driven to hate thosearound me who have been rich, because I have been poor. I have beenutterly friendless because I have been poor. I have been able to donone of those sweet, soft, lovely things, by doing which other womenwin the smiles of the world, because I have been poor. Poverty andrank together have made me wretched--have left me withoutemployment, without society, and without love. And now would youtell me that because I have been poor you would choose to be pooralso?" It would have been thus that she would have answered, had shebeen accustomed to speak out her thoughts. But she had ever beenaccustomed to conceal them. 

"I was thinking quite as much of him as of you, " at last she said. "Such an engagement to you would be fraught with much misery, but tohim it would be ruinous. "

"I do not think it, mamma. "

"But it is not necessary, Clara, that you should do anything. Youwill wait, of course, and see what Herbert may say himself. "

"Herbert--"

"Wait half a moment, my love. I shall be very much surprised if wedo not find that Mr. Fitzgerald himself will tell you that the matchmust be abandoned. "

"But that will make no difference, mamma. "

"No difference, my dear! You cannot marry him against his will. Youdo not mean to say that you would wish to bind him to hisengagement, if he himself thought it would be to his disadvantage?"

"Yes; I will bind him to it. "

"Clara!"

"I will make him know that it is not for his disadvantage. I willmake him understand that a friend and companion who loves him as Ilove him--as no one else will ever love him now--for I love himbecause he was so high-fortuned when he came to me, and because heis now so low-fortuned--that such a wife as I will be, cannot be aburden to him. I will cling to him whether he throws me off or no. Aword from him might have broken our engagement before, but athousand words cannot do it now. "

Lady Desmond stared at her daughter, for Clara, in her excitement, was walking up and down the room. The countess had certainly notexpected all this, and she was beginning to think that the subjectfor the present might as well be left alone. But Clara had not doneas yet. 

"Mamma. " she said, "I will not do anything without telling you; butI cannot leave Herbert in all his misery to think that I have nosympathy with him. I shall write to him. "

"Not before he writes to you, Clara! You would not wish to beindelicate?"

"I know but little about delicacy--what people call delicacy; but Iwill not be ungenerous or unkind. Mamma, you brought us twotogether. Was it not so? Did you not do so, fearing that Imight--might still care for Herbert's cousin? You did it; and halfwishing to obey you, half attracted by all his goodness, I did learnto love Herbert Fitzgerald; and I did learn to forget--no; but Ilearned to cease to love his cousin. You did this and rejoiced atit; and now what you did must remain done. "

"But, dearest Clara, it will not be for his good. "

"It shall be for his good. Mamma, I would not desert him now for allthat the world could give me. Neither for mother nor brother could Ido that. Without your leave I would not have given him the right toregard me as his own; but now I cannot take that right back again, even at your wish. I must write to him at once, mamma, and tell himthis. "

"Clara, at any rate you must not do that, that at least I mustforbid. "

"Mother, you cannot forbid it now, " the daughter said, after walkingtwice the length of the room in silence. "If I be not allowed tosend a letter, I shall leave the house and go to him. "

This was all very dreadful. Lady Desmond was astounded at the mannerin which her daughter carried herself, and the voice with which shespoke. The form of her face was altered, and the very step withwhich she trod was unlike her usual gait. What would Lady Desmonddo? She was not prepared to confine her daughter as a prisoner, norcould she publicly forbid the people about the place to go upon hermessage. 

"I did not expect that you would have been so undutiful, " she said. 

"I hope I am not so, " Clara answered. "But now my first duty is tohim. Did you not sanction our loving each other? People cannot callback their hearts and their pledges. "

"You will, at any rate, wait till tomorrow, Clara. "

"It is dark now, " said Clara, despondingly, looking out through thewindow upon the falling night; "I suppose I cannot send to-night. "

"And you will show me what you write, dearest?"

"No, mamma. If I wrote it for your eyes it could not be the same asif I wrote it only for his. "

Very gloomy, sombre, and silent, was the Countess of Desmond allthat night. Nothing further was said about the Fitzgeralds betweenher and her daughter, before they went to bed; and then Lady Desmonddid speak a few futile words. 

"Clara, " she said. "You had better think over what we have beensaying, in bed to-night. You will be more collected to-morrowmorning. "

"I shall think of it of course, " said Clara; "but thinking can makeno difference, " and then just touching her mother's forehead withher lips she went off slowly to her room. 

What sort of a letter she wrote when she got there, we have alreadyseen; and have seen also that she took effective steps to have herletter carried to Castle Richmond at an hour sufficiently early inthe morning. There was no danger that the countess would stop themessage, for the letter had been read twenty times by Emmeline andMary, and had been carried by Herbert to his mother's room, beforeLady Desmond had left her bed. "Do not set your heart on it toowarmly, " said Herbert's mother to him. 

"But is she not excellent?" said Herbert. "It is because she speaksof you in such a way--"

"You would not wish to bring her into misery, because of herexcellence. "

"But, mother, I am still a man, " said Herbert. This was too much forthe suffering woman, the one fault of whose life had brought her sonto such a pass, and throwing her arm round his neck she wept uponhis shoulders. 

There were other messengers went and came that day between DesmondCourt and Castle Richmond. Clara and her mother saw nothing of eachother early in the morning; they did not breakfast together, nor wasthere a word said between them on the subject of the Fitzgeralds. But Lady Desmond early in the morning--early for her, that is--senther note also to Castle Richmond. It was addressed to Aunt Letty, Miss Letitia Fitzgerald, and went to say that Lady Desmond was veryanxious to see Miss Letty. Under the present circumstances of thefamily, as described to Lady Desmond by Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald, shefelt that she could not ask to see "his mother";--it was thus thatshe overcame the difficulty which presented itself to her as to theproper title now to be given to Lady Fitzgerald;--but perhaps MissLetty would be good enough to see her, if she called at such andsuch an hour. Aunt Letty, much perplexed, had nothing for it, but tosay that she would see her. The countess must now be looked on asclosely connected with the family--at any rate, until that matchwere broken off; and therefore Aunt Letty had no alternative. Andso, precisely at the hour named, the countess and Aunt Letty wereseated together in the little breakfast-room of which mention hasbefore been made. 

No two women were ever closeted together who were more unlike eachother, --except that they had one common strong love for family rank. But in Aunt Letty it must be acknowledged that this passion was notunwholesome or malevolent in its course of action. She delighted inbeing a Fitzgerald, and in knowing that her branch of theFitzgeralds had been considerable people ever since her Normanancestor had come over to Ireland with Strongbow. But then she hada useful idea that considerable people should do a considerabledeal of good. Her family pride operated more inwardly thanoutwardly, --inwardly as regarded her own family, and not outwardlyas regarded the world. Her brother, and her nephew, and hersister-in-law, and nieces, were, she thought, among the highestcommoners in Ireland; they were gentlefolks of the first water, andwalked openly before the world accordingly, proving their claim togentle blood by gentle deeds and honest conduct. Perhaps she didthink too much of the Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond; but the sinwas one of which no recording angel could have made much in hisentry. That she was a stupid old woman, prejudiced in the highestdegree, and horribly ignorant of all the world beyond her own verynarrow circle, --even of that, I do not think that the recordingangel could, under the circumstances, have made a great deal. 

And now how was her family pride affected by this horriblecatastrophe that had been made known to her? Herbert the heir, whomas heir she had almost idolized, was nobody. Her sister-in-law, whomshe had learned to love with the whole of her big heart, was nosister-in-law. Her brother was one, who, in lieu of adding glory tothe family, would always be regarded as the most unfortunate of theFitzgerald baronets. But with her, human nature was stronger thanfamily pride, and she loved them all, not better, but more tenderlythan ever. 

The two ladies were closeted together for about two hours; and then, when the door was opened, Aunt Letty might have been seen with herbonnet much on one side, and her poor old eyes and cheeks red withweeping. The countess, too, held her handkerchief to her eyes as shegot back into her pony-carriage. She saw no one else there but AuntLetty; and from her mood when she returned to Desmond Court it mightbe surmised that from Aunt Letty she had learned little to comforther. 

"They will be beggars!" she said to herself--"beggars!"--when thedoor of her own room had closed upon her. And there are few peoplein the world who held such beggary in less esteem than did theCountess of Desmond. It may almost be said that she hated herself onaccount of her own poverty. 

CHAPTER XXIX

ILL NEWS FLIES FAST

A dull, cold, wretched week passed over their heads at CastleRichmond, during which they did nothing but realize the truth oftheir position; and then came a letter from Mr. Prendergast, addressed to Herbert, in which he stated that such inquiries as hehad hitherto made left no doubt on his mind that the man namedMollett, who had lately made repeated visits at Castle Richmond, washe who had formerly taken the house in Dorsetshire under the name ofTalbot. In his packet Mr. Prendergast sent copies of documents andof verbal evidence which he had managed to obtain; but with theactual details of these it is not necessary that I should troublethose who are following me in this story. In this letter Mr. Prendergast also recommended that some intercourse should be hadwith Owen Fitzgerald. It was expedient, he said, that all theparties concerned should recognize Owen's position as the heirpresumptive to the title and estate; and as he, he said, had foundMr. Fitzgerald of Hap House to be forbearing, generous, andhigh-spirited, he thought that this intercourse might be conductedwithout enmity or ill blood. And then he suggested that Mr. Somersshould see Owen Fitzgerald. 

All this Herbert explained to his father gently and withoutcomplaint; but it seemed now as though Sir Thomas had ceased tointerest himself in the matter. Such battle as it had been in hispower to make he had made to save his son's heritage and his wife'sname and happiness, even at the expense of his own conscience. Thatbattle had gone altogether against him, and now there was nothingleft for him but to turn his face to the wall and die. Absoluteruin, through his fault, had come upon him and all that belonged tohim, --ruin that would now be known to the world at large; and it wasbeyond his power to face that world again. In that the glory wasgone from the house of his son, and of his son's mother, the glorywas gone from his own house. He made no attempt to leave his bed, though strongly recommended so to do by his own family doctor. Andthen a physician came down from Dublin, who could only feel, whatever he might say, how impossible it is to administer to a minddiseased. The mind of that poor man was diseased past all curing inthis world, and there was nothing left for him but to die. 

Herbert, of course, answered Clara's letter, but he did not go overto see her during that week, nor indeed for some little timeafterwards. He answered it at considerable length, professing hisready willingness to give back to Clara her troth, and evenrecommending her, with very strong logic and unanswerable argumentsof worldly sense, to regard their union as unwise and evenimpossible; but nevertheless there protruded through all his senseand all his rhetoric, evidences of love and of a desire for lovereturned, which were much more unanswerable than his arguments, andmuch stronger than his logic. Clara read his letter, not as he wouldhave advised her to read it, but certainly in the manner which bestpleased his heart, and answered it again, declaring that all that hesaid was no avail. He might be false to her if he would. If throughfickleness of heart and purpose he chose to abandon her, she wouldnever complain--never at least aloud. But she would not be false tohim, nor were her inclinations such as to make it likely that sheshould be fickle, even though her affection might be tried by adelay of years. Love with her had been too serious to be thrownaside. All which was rather strong language on the part of a younglady, but was thought by those other young ladies at Castle Richmondto show the very essence of becoming young-ladyhood. They pronouncedClara to be perfect in feeling and in judgment, and Herbert couldnot find it in his heart to contradict them. 

And of all these doings, writings, and resolves, Clara dutifullytold her mother. Poor Lady Desmond was at her wits' end in thematter. She could scold her daughter, but she had no other power ofdoing anything. Clara had so taken the bit between her teeth that itwas no longer possible to check her with any usual rein. In thesedays young ladies are seldom deprived by force of paper, pen, andink, and the absolute incarceration of such an offender would bestill more unusual. Another countess would have taken her daughteraway, either to London and a series of balls, or to the South ofItaly, or to the family castle in the North of Scotland, but poorLady Desmond had not the power of other countesses. Now that it wasput to the trial, she found that she had no power, even over her owndaughter. "Mamma, it was your own doing, " Clara would say; and thecountess would feel that this alluded not only to her daughter'sengagement with Herbert the disinherited, but also to hernon-engagement with Owen the heir. 

Under these circumstances Lady Desmond sent for her son. The earlwas still at Eton, but was now grown to be almost a man--such a manas forward Eton boys are at sixteen--tall, and lathy, and handsome, with soft incipient whiskers, a bold brow and blushing cheeks, withall a boy's love for frolic still strong within him, but some touchof a man's pride to check it. In her difficulty Lady Desmond sentfor the young earl, who had now not been home since the previousmidsummer, hoping that his young manhood might have some effect insaving his sister from the disgrace of a marriage which would makeher so totally bankrupt both in wealth and rank. 

Mr. Somers did go once to Hap House, at Herbert's instigation; butvery little came of his visit. He had always disliked Owen, regarding him as an unthrift, any close connexion with whom couldonly bring contamination on the Fitzgerald property; and Owen hadreturned the feeling tenfold. His pride had been wounded by what hehad considered to be the agent's insolence, and he had stigmatizedMr. Somers to his friends as a self-seeking, mercenary prig. Verylittle, therefore, came of the visit. Mr. Somers, to give him hisdue, had attempted to do his best; being anxious, for Herbert'ssake, to conciliate Owen; perhaps having--and why not?--someeye to the future agency. But Owen was hard, and cold, anduncommunicative, --very unlike what he had before been to Mr. Prendergast. But then Mr. Prendergast had never offended his pride. 

"You may tell my cousin Herbert, " he said, with some little specialemphasis on the word cousin, "that I shall be glad to see him, assoon as he feels himself able to meet me. It will be for the good ofus both that we should have some conversation together. Will youtell him, Mr. Somers, that I shall be happy to go to him, or to seehim here? Perhaps my going to Castle Richmond, during the presentillness of Sir Thomas, may be inconvenient. " And this was all thatMr. Somers could get from him. 

In a very short time the whole story became known to everybody roundthe neighbourhood. And what would have been the good of keeping itsecret? There are some secrets, --kept as secrets because they cannotwell be discussed openly, --which may be allowed to leak out with somuch advantage! The day must come, and that apparently at no distanttime, when all the world would know the fate of that Fitzgeraldfamily; when Sir Owen must walk into the hall of Castle Richmond, the undoubted owner of the mansion and demesne. Why then keep itsecret? Herbert openly declared his wish to Mr. Somers that thereshould be no secret in the matter. "There is no disgrace, " he said, thinking of his mother; "nothing to be ashamed of, let the world saywhat it will. "

Down in the servants' hall the news came to them gradually, whispered about from one to another. They hardly understood what itmeant, or how it had come to pass; but they did know that theirmaster's marriage had been no marriage, and that their master's sonwas no heir. Mrs. Jones said not a word in the matter to any one. Indeed, since that day on which she had been confronted withMollett, she had not associated with the servants at all, but hadkept herself close to her mistress. She understood what it all meantperfectly; and the depth of the tragedy had so cowed her spirit thatshe hardly dared to speak of it. Who told the servants, --or who doestell servants of such matters, it is impossible to say, but beforeMr. Prendergast had been three days out of the house they all knewthat the Mr. Owen of Hap House was to be the future master of CastleRichmond. 

"An' a sore day it'll be; a sore day, a sore day, " said Richard, seated in an armchair by the fire, at the end of the servants' hall, shaking his head despondingly. 

"Faix, an' you may say that, " said Corney, the footman. "ThatMisther Owen will go tatthering away to the divil, when the oldplace comes into his hans. No fear he'll make it fly. "

"Sorrow seize the ould lawyer for coming down here at all at all, "said the cook. 

"I never knew no good come of thim dry ould bachelors, " said Biddythe housemaid; "specially the Englishers. "

"The two of yez are no better nor simpletons, " said Richard, magisterially. "'Twarn't he that done it. The likes of him couldn'tdo the likes o' that. "

"And what was it as done it?" said Biddy. 

"Ax no questions, and may be you'll be tould no lies, " repliedRichard. 

"In course we all knows it's along of her ladyship's marriage whichwarn't no marriage, " said the cook. "May the heavens be her bed whenthe Lord takes her! A betther lady nor a kinder-hearted niverstepped the floor of a kitchen. "

"'Deed an that's thrue for you, cook, " said Biddy, with the cornerof her apron up to her eyes. "But tell me, Richard, won't poor Mr. Herbert have nothing?"

"Never you mind about Mr. Herbert, " said Richard, who had seen Biddygrow up from a slip of a girl, and therefore was competent to snubher at every word. 

"Ah, but I do mind, " said the girl. "I minds more about him than erea one of 'em; and av' that Lady Clara won't have em a cause ofthis--"

"Not a step she won't, thin, " said Corney. "She'll go back to Mr. Owen. He was her fust love. You'll see else. " And so the matter wasdiscussed in the servants' hall at the great house. 

But perhaps the greatest surprise, the greatest curiosity, and thegreatest consternation, were felt at the parsonage. The rumourreached Mr. Townsend at one of the Relief Committees;--and Mrs. Townsend from the mouth of one of her servants, during his absence, on the same day; and when Mr. Townsend returned to the parsonage, they met each other with blank faces. 

"Oh, Aeneas!" said she, before she could get his greatcoat from offhis shoulders, "have you heard the news?"

"What news?--about Castle Richmond?"

"Yes; about Castle Richmond. " And then she knew that he had heardit. 

Some glimmering of Lady Fitzgerald's early history had been known toboth of them, as it had been known almost to all in the country; butin late years this history had been so much forgotten, that men hadceased to talk of it, and this calamity therefore came with all theweight of a new misfortune. 

"And, Aeneas, who told you of it?" she asked, as they sat togetherover the fire, in their dingy, dirty parlour. 

"Well, strange to say, I heard it first from Father Barney. "

"Oh, mercy! and is it all about the country in that way?"

"Herbert, you know, has not been at any one of the Committees forthe last ten days, and Mr. Somers for the last week past has been assilent as death; so much so, that that horrid creature, FatherColumb, would have made a regular set speech the other day atGortnaclough, if I hadn't put him down. "

"Dear, dear, dear!" said Mrs. Townsend. 

"And I was talking to Father Barney about this, to-day--about Mr. Somers, that is. "

"Yes, yes, yes!"

"And then he said, 'I suppose you know what has happened at CastleRichmond?'"

"How on earth had he learned?" asked Mrs. Townsend, jealous that aRoman Catholic priest should have heard such completely Protestantnews before the Protestant parson and his wife. 

"Oh, they learn everything--from the servants, I suppose. "

"Of course, the mean creatures!" said Mrs. Townsend, forgetting, probably, her own little conversation with her own man-of-all-workthat morning. "But go on, Aeneas. "

"'What has happened, ' said I, 'at Castle Richmond?' 'Oh, youhaven't heard, ' said he. And I was obliged to own that I had not, though I saw that it gave him a kind of triumph. 'Why, ' said he, 'very bad news has reached them indeed; the worst of news. ' And thenhe told me about Lady Fitzgerald. To give him his due, I must saythat he was very sorry--very sorry. 'The poor young fellow!' hesaid--'the poor young fellow!' And I saw that he turned away hisface to hide a tear. "

"Crocodile tears!" said Mrs. Townsend. 

"No, they were not, " said her reverend lord; "and Father Barney isnot so bad as I once thought him. "

"I hope you are not going over too, Aeneas?" And his consort almostcried as such a horrid thought entered her head. In her ideas anyfeeling short of absolute enmity to a servant of the Church of Romewas an abandonment of some portion of the Protestant basis of theChurch of England. "The small end of the wedge, " she would call it, when people around her would suggest that that the heart of a RomanCatholic priest might possibly not be altogether black and devilish. 

"Well, I hope not, my dear, " said Mr. Townsend, with a slight touchof sarcasm in his voice. "But, as I was saying, Father Barney toldme then that this Mr. Prendergast--"

"Oh, I had known of his being there from the day of his coming. "

"This Mr Prendergast, it seems, knew the whole affair, frombeginning to end. "

"But how did he know it, Aeneas?"

"That I can't tell you. He was a friend of Sir Thomas before hismarriage, I know that. And he has told them that it is of no usetheir attempting to keep it secret. He was over at Hap House withOwen Fitzgerald before he went. "

"And has Owen Fitzgerald been told?"

"Yes, he has been told--told that he is to be the next heir, soFather Barney says. "

Mrs. Townsend wished in her heart that the news could have reachedher through a purer source, but all this, coming though it did fromFather Barney, tallied too completely with what she herself hadheard to leave on her mind any doubt of its truth. And then shebegan to think of Lady Fitzgerald and her condition, of Herbert andof his, and of the condition of them all, till by degrees her mindpassed away from Father Barney and all his iniquities. 

"It is very dreadful, " she said, in a low voice. 

"Very dreadful, very dreadful. I hardly know how to think of it. AndI fear that Sir Thomas will not live many months to give them eventhe benefit of his life interest. "

"And when he dies all will be gone?"

"Everything. "

And then tears stood in her eyes also, and in his also after awhile. It is very easy for a clergyman in his pulpit to preacheloquently upon the vileness of worldly wealth, and the futility ofworldly station; but where will you ever find one who, when the timeof proof shall come, will give proof that he himself feels what hepreaches? Mr. Townsend was customarily loud and eager upon thissubject, and yet he was now shedding tears because his young friendHerbert was deprived of his inheritance. 

CHAPTER XXX

PALLIDA MORS

Mr. Somers, returning from Hap House, gave Owen's message to HerbertFitzgerald, but at the same time told him that he did not think anygood would come of such a meeting. 

"I went over there, " he said, "because I would not willingly omitanything that Mr. Prendergast had suggested; but I did not expectany good to come of it. You know what I have always thought of OwenFitzgerald. "

"But Mr. Prendergast said that he behaved so well. "

"He did not know Prendergast, and was cowed for the moment by whathe had heard. That was natural enough. You do as you like, however;only do not have him over to Castle Richmond. "

Owen, however, did not trust solely to Mr. Somers, but on thefollowing day wrote to Herbert, suggesting that they had bettermeet, and begging that the place and time of meeting might be named. He himself again suggested Hap House, and declared that he would beat home on any day and at any hour that his "cousin" might name, "only, " as he added, "the sooner the better. " Herbert wrote back bythe same messenger, saying that he would be with him early on thefollowing morning; and on the following morning he drove up to thedoor of Hap House, while Owen was still sitting with his coffee-potand knife and fork before him. 

Captain Donnellan, whom we saw there on the occasion of our firstmorning visit, was now gone, and Owen Fitzgerald was all alone inhis home. The captain had been an accustomed guest, spending perhapshalf his time there during the hunting season, but since Mr. Prendergast had been at Hap House, he had been made to understandthat the master would fain be alone. And since that day Owen hadnever hunted, nor been noticed in his old haunts, nor had been seentalking to his old friends. He had remained at home, sitting overthe fire thinking, wandering up and down his own avenue, or standingabout the stable, idly, almost unconscious of the grooming of hishorses. Once and once only he had been mounted, and then as the duskof evening was coming on he had trotted over quickly to DesmondCourt, as though he had in hand some purport of great moment, but ifso he changed his mind when he came to the gate, for he walked onslowly for three or four hundred yards beyond it, and then, turninghis horse's head, slowly made his way back past the gate, and thentrotted quickly home to Hap House. In these moments of his life hemust make or mar himself for life, 'twas so that he felt it, and howshould he make himself, or how avoid the marring? That was thequestion which he now strove to answer. 

When Herbert entered the room, he rose from his chair, and walkedquickly up to his visitor, with extended hand, and a look of welcomein his face. His manner was very different from that with which hehad turned and parted from his cousin not many days since in thedemesne at Castle Richmond. Then he had intended absolutely to defyHerbert Fitzgerald; but there was no spirit of defiance now, eitherin his hand, or face, or in the tone of his voice. 

"I am very glad you have come, " said he. "I hope you understood thatI would have gone to you, only that I thought it might be better forboth of us to be here. "

Herbert said something to the effect that he had been quitewilling to come over to Hap House. But he was not at the moment soself-possessed as the other, and hardly knew how to begin thesubject which was to be discussed between them. 

"Of course you know that Mr. Prendergast was here?" said Owen. 

"Oh yes, " said Herbert. 

"And Mr. Somers also? I tell you fairly, Herbert, that when Mr. Somers came, I was not willing to say much to him. What has to besaid must be said between you and me, and not to any third party. Icould not open my heart, nor yet speak my thoughts, to Mr. Somers. "

In answer to this, Herbert again said that Owen need have no scruplein speaking to him. "It is all plain sailing; too plain, I fear, "said he. "There is no doubt whatever now as to the truth of what Mr. Prendergast has told you. "

And then having said so much, Herbert waited for Owen to speak. He, Herbert himself, had little or nothing to say. Castle Richmond withits title and acres was not to be his, but was to be the property ofthis man with whom he was now sitting. When that was actually andpositively understood between them, there was nothing further to besaid; nothing as far as Herbert knew. That other sorrow of his, thatother and deeper sorrow which affected his mother's name andstation, --as to that he did not find himself called on to speak toOwen Fitzgerald. Nor was it necessary that he should say anything asto his great consolation--the consolation which had reached himfrom Clara Desmond. 

"And is it true, Herbert, " asked Owen at last, "that my uncle is sovery ill?" In the time of their kindly intercourse, Owen had alwayscalled Sir Thomas his uncle, though latterly he had ceased to do so. 

"He is very ill; very ill indeed, " said Herbert. This was a subjectin which Owen had certainly a right to feel interested, seeing thathis own investiture would follow immediately on the death of SirThomas; but Herbert almost felt that the question might as well havebeen spared. It had been asked, however, almost solely with the viewof gaining some few moments. 

"Herbert, " he said at last, standing up from his chair, as he madean effort to begin his speech, "I don't know how far you willbelieve me when I tell you that all this news has caused me greatsorrow. I grieve for your father and your mother, and for you, fromthe very bottom of my heart. "

"It is very kind of you, " said Herbert. "But the blow has fallen, and as for myself, I believe that I can bear it. I do not care sovery much about the property. "

"Nor do I;" and now Owen spoke rather louder, and with his own lookof strong impulse about his mouth and forehead. "Nor do I care somuch about the property. You were welcome to it; and are so still. Ihave never coveted it from you, and do not covet it. "

"It will be yours now without coveting, " replied Herbert; and thenthere was another pause, during which Herbert sat still, while Owenstood leaning with his back against the mantelpiece. 

"Herbert, " said he, after they had thus remained silent for two orthree minutes, "I have made up my mind on this matter, and I willtell you truly what I do desire, and what I do not. I do not desireyour inheritance, but I do desire that Clara Desmond shall be mywife. "

"Owen, " said the other, also getting up, "I did not expect when Icame here that you would have spoken to me about this. "

"It was that we might speak about this that I asked you to comehere. But listen to me. When I say that I want Clara Desmond to bemy wife, I mean to say that I want that, and that only. It may betrue that I am, or shall be, legally the heir to your father'sestate. Herbert, I will relinquish all that, because I do not feelit to be my own. I will relinquish it in any way that may separatemyself from it most thoroughly. But in return, do you separateyourself from her who was my own before you had ever known her. "

And thus he did make the proposition as to which he had been makingup his mind since the morning on which Mr. Prendergast had come tohim. 

Herbert for a while was struck dumb with amazement, not so much atthe quixotic generosity of the proposal, as at the singular mind ofthe man in thinking that such a plan could be carried out. Herbert'sbest quality was no doubt his sturdy common sense, and that wasshocked by a suggestion which presumed that all the legalities andordinary bonds of life could be upset by such an agreement betweentwo young men. He knew that Owen Fitzgerald could not give away histitle to an estate of fourteen thousand a year in this off-handway, and that no one could accept such a gift were it possible to begiven. The estate and title must belong to Owen, and could notpossibly belong to any one else, merely at his word and fancy. Andthen again, how could the love of a girl like Clara Desmond bebandied to and fro at the will of any suitor or suitors? That shehad once accepted Owen's love, Herbert knew; but since that, in asoberer mood, and with maturer judgment, she had accepted his. Howcould he give it up to another, or how could that other takepossession of it if so abandoned? The bargain was one quiteimpossible to be carried out; and yet Owen in proposing it had fullyintended to be as good as his word. 

"That is impossible, " said Herbert, in a low voice. 

"Why impossible? May I not do what I like with that which is my own?It is not impossible. I will have nothing to do with that propertyof yours. In fact, it is not my own, and I will not take it; I willnot rob you of that which you have been born to expect. But inreturn for this--"

"Owen, do not talk of it; would you abandon a girl whom you lovedfor any wealth, or any property?"

"You cannot love her as I love her. I will talk to you on thismatter openly, as I have never yet talked to any one. Since first Isaw Clara Desmond, the only wish of my life has been that I mighthave her for my wife. I have longed for her as a child longs--if youknow what I mean by that. When I saw that she was old enough tounderstand what love meant, I told her what was in my heart, and sheaccepted my love. She swore to me that she would be mine, let motheror brother say what they would. As sure as you are standing there aliving man she loved me with all truth. And that I loved her--!Herbert, I have never loved aught but her; nothing else!--neitherman nor woman, nor wealth nor title. All I ask is that I may havethat which was my own. "

"But, Owen--" and Herbert touched his cousin's arm. 

"Well; why do you not speak? I have spoken plainly enough. "

"It is not easy to speak plainly on all subjects. I would not, if Icould avoid it, say a word that would hurt your feelings. "

"Never mind my feelings. Speak out, and let us have the truth, inGod's name. My feelings have never been much considered yet--eitherin this matter or in any other. "

"It seems to me, " said Herbert, "that the giving of Lady Clara'shand cannot depend on your will, or on mine. "

"You mean her mother. "

"No, by no means. Her mother now would be the last to favour me. Imean herself. If she loves me, as I hope and believe--nay, amsure--"

"She did love me!" shouted Owen. 

"But even if so--I do not now say anything of that; but even if so, surely you would not have her marry you if she does not love youstill? You would not wish her to be your wife if her heart belongsto me?"

"It has been given you at her mother's bidding. "

"However given it is now my own, and it cannot be returned. Lookhere, Owen. I will show you her last two letters, if you will allowme; not in pride, I hope, but that you may truly know what are herwishes. " And he took from his breast, where they had been ever sincehe received them, the two letters which Clara had written to him. Owen read them both twice over before he spoke, first one and thenthe other, and an indescribable look of pain fell on his brow as hedid so. They were so tenderly worded, so sweet, so generous! Hewould have given all the world to have had those letters addressedby her to himself. But even they did not convince him. His heart hadnever changed, and he could not believe that there had been anychange in hers. 

"I might have known, " he said, as he gave them back, "that she wouldbe too noble to abandon you in your distress. As long as you wererich I might have had some chance of getting her back, despite themachinations of her mother. But now that she thinks you are poor--"And then he stopped, and hid his face between his hands. 

And in what he had last said there was undoubtedly something oftruth. Clara's love for Herbert had never been passionate, tillpassion had been created by his misfortune. And in her thoughts ofOwen there had been much of regret. Though she had resolved towithdraw her love, she had not wholly ceased to love him. Judgmenthad bade her to break her word to him, and she had obeyed herjudgment. She had admitted to herself that her mother was right intelling her that she could not join her own bankrupt fortunes to thefortunes of one who was both poor and a spendthrift, and thus shehad plucked from her heart the picture of the man she had loved, --orendeavoured so to pluck it. Some love for him, however, hadunwittingly lingered there. And then Herbert had come with his suit, a suitor fitted for her in every way. She had not loved him as shehad loved Owen. She had never felt that she could worship him, andtremble at the tones of his voice, and watch the glance of his eye, and gaze into his face as though he were half divine. But sheacknowledged his worth, and valued him: she knew that it behoved herto choose some suitor as her husband; and now that her dream wasgone, where could she choose better than here? And thus Herbert hadbeen accepted. He had been accepted, but the dream was not whollygone. Owen was in adversity, ill spoken of by those around her, shunned by his own relatives, living darkly, away from all that issoft in life; and for these reasons Clara could not wholly forgether dream. She had, in some sort, unconsciously clung to her oldlove, till he to whom she had plighted her new troth was inadversity, --and then all was changed. Then her love for Herbert didbecome a passion; and then, as Owen had become rich, she felt thatshe could think of him without remorse. He was quite right inperceiving that his chance was gone now that Herbert had ceased tobe rich. 

"Owen, " said Herbert, and his voice was full of tenderness, for atthis moment he felt that he did love and pity his cousin, "we musteach of us bear the weight which fortune has thrown on us. It may bethat we are neither of us to be envied. I have lost all that mengenerally value, and you--"

"I have lost all on earth that is valuable to me. But no, it is notlost, --not lost as yet. As long as her name is Clara Desmond, she isas open for me to win as she is for you. And, Herbert, think of itbefore you make me your enemy. See what I offer you, --not as abargain, mind you. I give up all my title to your father's property. I will sign any paper that your lawyers may bring to me, which mayserve to give you back your inheritance. As for me, I would scorn totake that which belongs in justice to another. I will not have yourproperty. Come what may, I will not have it. I will give it up toyou, either as to my enemy or as to my friend. "

"I sincerely hope that we may be friends, but what you say isimpossible. "

"It is not impossible. I hereby pledge myself that I will not takean acre of your father's lands; but I pledge myself also that I willalways be your enemy if Clara Desmond becomes your wife: and I meanwhat I say. I have set my heart on one thing, and on one thing only, and if I am ruined in that I am ruined indeed. "

Herbert remained silent, for he had nothing further that he knew howto plead; he felt as other men would feel, that each of them mustkeep that which Fate had given him. Fate had decreed that Owenshould be the heir to Castle Richmond, and the decree thus goneforth must stand valid; and Fate had also decreed that Owen shouldbe rejected by Clara Desmond, which other decree, as Herbertthought, must be held as valid also. But he had no furtherinclination to argue upon the subject: his cousin was becoming hotand angry; and Herbert was beginning to wish that he was on his wayhome, that he might be once more at his father's bedside, or in hismother's room, comforting her and being comforted. 

"Well, " said Owen, after a while in his deep-toned voice, "what doyou say to my offer?"

"I have nothing further to say: we must each take our own course; asfor me, I have lost everything but one thing, and it is not likelythat I shall throw that away from me. "

"Nor, so help me Heaven in my need! will I let that thing be filchedfrom me. I have offered you kindness and brotherly love, and wealth, and all that friendship could do for a man, give me my way in this, and I will be to you such a comrade and such a brother. "

"Should I be a man, Owen, were I to give up this?"

"Be a man! Yes! It is pride on your part. You do not love her; youhave never loved her as I have loved; you have not sat apart longmonths and months thinking of her, as I have done. From the time shewas a child I marked her as my own. As God will help me when I die, she is all that I have coveted in this world;--all! But her I havecoveted with such longings of the heart, that I cannot bring myselfto live without her;--nor will I. " And then again they both weresilent. 

"It may be as well that we should part now, " said Herbert at last. "I do not know that we can gain anything by further talking on thissubject. "

"Well, you know that best; but I have one further question to askyou. "

"What is it, Owen?"

"You still think of marrying Clara Desmond?"

"Certainly; of course I think of it. "

"And when? I presume you are not so chicken-hearted as to be afraidof speaking out openly what you intend to do. "

"I cannot say when; I had hoped that it would have been very soon;but all this will of course delay it. It may be years first. "

These last were the only pleasant words that Owen had heard. Ifthere were to be a delay of years, might not his chance still be asgood as Herbert's? But then this delay was to be the consequence ofhis cousin's ruined prospects--and the accomplishment of that ruinOwen had pledged himself to prevent! Was he by his own deed toenable his enemy to take that very step which he was so firmlyresolved to prevent?

"You will give me your promise, " said he, "that you will not marryher for the next three years? Make me that promise, and I will makeyou the same. "

Herbert felt that there could be no possibility of his now marryingwithin the time named, but nevertheless he would not bring himselfto make such a promise as this. He would make no bargain about ClaraDesmond, about his Clara, which could in any way admit a doubt as tohis own right. Had Owen asked him to promise that he would not marryher during the next week he would have given no such pledge. "No, "said he, "I cannot promise that. "

"She is now only seventeen. "

"It does not matter. I will make no such promise, because on such asubject you have no right to ask for any. When she will consent torun her risk of happiness in coming to me, then I shall marry her. "

Owen was now walking up and down the room with rapid steps. "Youhave not the courage to fight me fairly, " said he. 

"I do not wish to fight you at all. "

"Ah, but you must fight me! Shall I see the prey taken out of myjaws, and not struggle for it? No, by heavens! you must fight me;and I tell you fairly, that the fight shall be as hard as I can makeit. I have offered you that which one living man is seldom able tooffer to another, --money, and land, and wealth, and station; allthese things I throw away from me, because I feel that they shouldbe yours; and I ask only in return the love of a young girl. I askthat because I feel that it should be mine. If it has gone fromme--which I do not believe--it has been filched and stolen by athief in the night. She did love me, if a girl ever loved a man; butshe was separated from me, and I bore that patiently because Itrusted her. But she was young and weak, and her mother was strongand crafty. She has accepted you at her mother's instance; and wereI base enough to keep from you your father's inheritance, her motherwould no more give her to you now than she would to me then. This istrue; and if you know it to be true--as you do know--you will bemean, and dastard, and a coward--you will be no Fitzgerald if youkeep from me that which I have a right to claim as my own. Notfight! Ay, but you must fight. We cannot both live here in thiscountry if Clara Desmond become your wife. Mark my words, if thattake place, you and I cannot live here alongside of each other'shouses. " He paused for a moment after this, and then added, "You cango now if you will, for I have said out my say. "

And Herbert did go, --almost without uttering a word of adieu. Whatcould he say in answer to such threats as these? That his cousin wasin every way unreasonable, --as unreasonable in his generosity as hewas in his claims, he felt convinced. But an unreasonable man, though he is one whom one would fain conquer by arguments were itpossible, is the very man on whom arguments have no avail. A madmanis mad because he is mad. Herbert had a great deal that was verysensible to allege in favour of his views, but what use of alleginganything of sense to such a mind as that of Owen Fitzgerald? So hewent his way without further speech. 

When he was gone, Owen for a time went on walking his room, and thensank again into his chair. Abominably irrational as his method ofarranging all these family difficulties will no doubt seem to allwho may read it, to him it had appeared not only an easy but a happymode of bringing back contentment to everybody. He was quite seriousin his intention of giving up his position as heir to CastleRichmond. Mr. Prendergast had explained to him that the property wasentailed as far as him, but no farther; and had done this, doubtless, with the view, not then expressed, to some friendlyarrangement by which a small portion of the property might be savedand restored to the children of Sir Thomas. But Owen had looked atit quite in another light. He had, in justice, no right to inquireinto all those circumstances of his old cousin's marriage. Such aunion was a marriage in the eye of God, and should be held as suchby him. He would take no advantage of so terrible an accident. 

He would take no advantage. So he said to himself over and overagain; but yet, as he said it, he resolved that he would takeadvantage. He would not touch the estate; but surely if he abstainedfrom touching it, Herbert would be generous enough to leave to himthe solace of his love! And he had no scruple in allotting to Clarathe poorer husband instead of the richer. He was no poorer now thanwhen she had accepted him. Looking at it in that light, had he not aright to claim that she should abide by her first acceptance? Couldany one be found to justify the theory that a girl may throw over apoor lover because a rich lover comes in the way? Owen had his ownideas of right and wrong--ideas which were not without a basis ofstrong, rugged justice; and nothing could be more antagonistic tothem than such a doctrine as this. And then he still believed in hisheart that he was dearer to Clara than that other richer suitor. Heheard of her from time to time, and those who had spoken to him hadspoken of her as pining for love of him. In this there had been muchof the flattery of servants, and something of the subservience ofthose about him who wished to stand well in his graces. But he hadbelieved it. He was not a conceited man, nor even a vain man. He didnot think himself more clever than his cousin; and as for personalappearance, it was a matter to which his thoughts never descended;but he had about him a self-dependence and assurance in his ownmanhood, which forbade him to doubt the love of one who had told himthat she loved him. 

And he did not believe in Herbert's love. His cousin was, as hethought, of a calibre too cold for love. That Clara was valued byhim, Owen did not doubt--valued for her beauty, for her rank, forher grace and peerless manner; but what had such value as that to dowith love? Would Herbert sacrifice everything for Clara Desmond?would he bid Pelion fall on Ossa? would he drink up Esil? All thiswould Owen do, and more; he would do more than any Laertes had everdreamed. He would give up for now and for ever all title to thoserich lands which made the Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond the men ofgreatest mark in all their county. 

And thus he fanned himself into a fury as he thought of his cousin'swant of generosity. Herbert would be the heir, and because he wasthe heir he would be the favoured lover. But there might yet be timeand opportunity; and at any rate Clara should not marry withoutknowing what was the whole truth. Herbert was ungenerous, but Clarastill might be just. If not, --then, as he had said before, he wouldfight out the battle to the end as with an enemy. 

Herbert, when he got on to his horse to ride home, was forced toacknowledge to himself that no good whatever had come from his visitto Hap House. Words had been spoken which might have been muchbetter left unspoken. An angry man will often cling to his angerbecause his anger has been spoken; he will do evil because he hasthreatened evil, and is ashamed to be better than his words. Andthere was no comfort to be derived from those lavish promises madeby Owen with regard to the property. To Herbert's mind they weremere moonshine--very graceful on the part of the maker, but meaningnothing. No one could have Castle Richmond but him who owned itlegally. Owen Fitzgerald would become Sir Owen, and would, as amatter of course, be Sir Owen of Castle Richmond. There was nocomfort on that score; and then, on that other score, there was somuch discomfort. Of giving up his bride Herbert never for a momentthought; but he did think, with increasing annoyance, of the angrythreats which had been pronounced against him. 

When he rode into the stable-yard as was his wont, he found Richardwaiting for him. This was not customary; as in these latter daysRichard, though he always drove the car, as a sort of subsidiarycoachman to the young ladies to whom the car was supposed to belongin fee, did not act as general groom. He had been promoted beyondthis, and was a sort of hanger-on about the house, half indoorservant and half out, doing very much what he liked, and givingadvice to everybody, from the cook downwards. He thanked God that heknew his place, he would often say; but nobody else knew it. Nevertheless, everybody liked him; even the poor housemaid whom hesnubbed. 

"Is anything the matter?" asked Herbert, looking at the man'ssorrow-laden face. 

'"Deed an' there is, Mr. Herbert; Sir Thomas is--"

"My father is not dead!" exclaimed Herbert. 

"Oh no, Mr. Herbert; it's not so bad as that; but he is veryfailing, --very failing. My lady is with him now. "

Herbert ran into the house, and at the bottom of the chief stairs hemet one of his sisters, who had heard the steps of his horse. 

"Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come!" said she. Her eyes andcheeks were red with tears, and her hand, as her brother took it, was cold and numbed. 

"What is it, Mary? Is he worse?"

"Oh, so much worse. Mamma and Emmeline are there. He has asked foryou three or four times, and always says that he is dying. I hadbetter go up and say that you are here. "

"And what does my mother think of it?"

"She has never left him, and therefore I cannot tell; but I knowfrom her face that she thinks that he is--dying. Shall I go up, Herbert?" and so she went; and Herbert, following softly on histoes, stood in the corridor outside the bedroom-door, waiting tillhis arrival should have been announced. It was but a minute, andthen his sister, returning to the door, summoned him to enter. 

The room had been nearly darkened, but as there were no curtains tothe bed, Herbert could see his mother's face as she knelt on a stoolat the bedside. His father was turned away from him, and lay withhis hand inside his wife's, and Emmeline was sitting on the foot ofthe bed, with her face between her hands, striving to stifle hersobs. "Here is Herbert now, dearest, " said Lady Fitzgerald, with alow, soft voice, almost a whisper, yet clear enough to cause noeffort in the hearing. "I knew that he would not be long. " AndHerbert, obeying the signal of his mother's eye, passed round to theother side of the bed. 

"Father, " said he, "are you not so well to-day?"

"My poor boy, my poor ruined boy!" said the dying man, hardlyarticulating the words as he dropped his wife's hand and took thatof his son. Herbert found that it was wet, and clammy, and cold, andalmost powerless in its feeble grasp. 

"Dearest father, you are wrong if you let that trouble you; all thatwill never trouble me. Is it not well that a man should earn his ownbread? Is it not the lot of all good men?" But still the old manmurmured with his broken voice, "My poor boy, my poor boy!"

The hopes and aspirations of his eldest son are as the breath of hisnostrils to an Englishman who has been born to land and fortune. What had not this poor man endured in order that his son might beSir Herbert Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond? But this was no longerpossible; and from the moment that this had been brought home tohim, the father had felt that for him there was nothing left but todie. "My poor boy, " he muttered, "tell me that you have forgivenme. "

And then they all knelt round the bed and prayed with him; andafterwards they tried to comfort him, telling him how good he hadbeen to them; and his wife whispered in his ear that if there hadbeen fault, the fault was hers, but that her conscience told herthat such fault had been forgiven; and while she said this shemotioned the children away from him, and strove to make himunderstand that human misery could never kill the soul, and shouldnever utterly depress the spirit. "Dearest love, " she said, stillwhispering to him in her low, sweet voice--so dear to him, bututterly inaudible beyond--"if you would cease to accuse yourself sobitterly, you might yet be better, and remain with us to comfortus. "

But the slender, half-knit man, whose arms are without muscles andwhose back is without pith, will strive in vain to lift the weightwhich the brawny vigour of another tosses from the ground almostwithout an effort. It is with the mind and the spirit as with thebody; only this, that the muscles of the body can be measured, butnot so those of the spirit. Lady Fitzgerald was made of other stuffthan Sir Thomas; and that which to her had cost an effort, but withan effort had been done surely, was to him as impossible as thelabour of Hercules. "My poor boy, my poor ruined boy!" he stillmuttered, as she strove to comfort him. 

"Mamma has sent for Mr. Townsend, " Emmeline whispered to herbrother, as they stood together in the bow of the window. 

"And do you really think he is so bad as that?"

"I am sure that mamma does. I believe he had some sort of a fitbefore you came. At any rate, he did not speak for two hours. "

"And was not Finucane here?" Finucane was the Mallow doctor. 

"Yes; but he had left before papa became so much worse. Mamma hassent for him also. "

But I do not know that it boots to dally longer in a dying chamber. It is an axiom of old that the stage curtain should be drawn beforethe inexorable one enters in upon his final work. Dr. Finucane didcome, but his coming was all in vain. Sir Thomas had known that itwas in vain, and so also had his patient wife. There was that minddiseased, towards the cure of which no Dr. Finucane could make anypossible approach. And Mr. Townsend came also, let us hope not invain; though the cure which he fain would have perfected can hardlybe effected in such moments as those. Let us hope that it had beenalready effected. The only crying sin which we can lay to the chargeof the dying man is that of which we have spoken; he had endeavouredby pensioning falsehood and fraud to preserve for his wife her name, and for his son that son's inheritance. Even over this, deep as itwas, the recording angel may have dropped some cleansing tears ofpity. 

That night the poor man died, and the Fitzgeralds who sat in thechambers of Castle Richmond were no longer the owners of themansion. There was no speech of Sir Herbert among the servants asthere would have been had these tidings not have reached them. Dr. Finucane had remained in the house, and even he, in speaking of theson, had shown that he knew the story. They were strangers therenow, as they all knew--intruders, as they would soon be consideredin the house of their cousin Owen; or rather not their cousin. Inthat he was above them by right of his blood, they had no right toclaim him as their relation. 

It may be said that at such a moment all this should not have beenthought of; but those who say so know little, as I imagine, of thetrue effect of sorrow. No wife and no children ever grieved moreheartily for a father; but their grief was blacker and more gloomyin that they knew that they were outcasts in the world. 

And during that long night, as Herbert and his sisters sat upcowering round the fire, he told them of all that had been said atHap House. "And can it not be as he says?" Mary had asked. 

"And that Herbert should give up his wife!" said Emmeline. 

"No; but the other thing. "

"Do not dream of it, " said Herbert. "It is all, all impossible. Thehouse that we are now in belongs to Sir Owen Fitzgerald. "

CHAPTER XXXI

THE FIRST MONTH

And now I will beg my readers to suppose a month to have passed bysince Sir Thomas Fitzgerald died. It was a busy month in Ireland. Itmay probably be said that so large a sum of money had never beencirculated in the country in any one month since money had beenknown there; and yet it may also be said that so frightful amortality had never occurred there from the want of that which moneybrings. 

It was well understood by all men now that the customary food of thecountry had disappeared. There was no longer any difference ofopinion between rich and poor, between Protestant and RomanCatholic; as to that, no man dared now to say that the poor, if leftto themselves, could feed themselves, or to allege that thesufferings of the country arose from the machinations ofmoney-making speculators. The famine was an established fact, andall men knew that it was God's doing, --all men knew this, though fewcould recognize as yet with how much mercy God's hand was stretchedout over the country. 

Or may it not perhaps be truer to say that in such matters there isno such thing as mercy--no special mercies--no other mercy thanthat fatherly, forbearing, all-seeing, perfect goodness by which theCreator is ever adapting this world to the wants of His creatures, and rectifying the evils arising from their faults and follies? Sedquo Musa tendis? Such discourses of the gods as these are not to befitly handled in such small measures. 

At any rate, there was the famine, undoubted now by any one; anddeath, who in visiting Castle Richmond may be said to have knockedat the towers of a king, was busy enough also among the cabins ofthe poor. And now the great fault of those who were the mostaffected was becoming one which would not have been at first sightexpected. One would think that starving men would become violent, taking food by open theft--feeling, and perhaps not without sometruth, that the agony of their want robbed such robberies of itssin. But such was by no means the case. I only remember one instancein which the bakers' shops were attacked; and in that instance thework was done by those who were undergoing no real suffering. AtClonmel, in Tipperary, the bread was one morning stripped away fromthe bakers' shops; but at that time, and in that place, there wasnothing approaching to famine. The fault of the people was apathy. It was the feeling of the multitude that the world and all that wasgood in it was passing away from them; that exertion was useless, and hope hopeless. "Ah, me! your honour, " said a man to me, "there'll never be a bit and a sup again in the county Cork! Thelife of the world is fairly gone!"

And it was very hard to repress this feeling. The energy of a mandepends so much on the outward circumstances that encumber him! Itis so hard to work when work seems hopeless--so hard to trust wherethe basis of our faith is so far removed from sight! When largetracts of land went out of cultivation, was it not natural to thinkthat agriculture was receding from the country, leaving the greenhills once more to be brown and barren, as hills once green havebecome in other countries? And when men were falling in thehighways, and women would sit with their babes in their arms, listless till death should come to them, was it not natural to thinkthat death was making a huge success--that he, the inexorable one, was now the inexorable indeed?

There were greatly trusting hearts that could withstand the weightof this terrible pressure, and thinking minds which saw that goodwould come out of this great evil; but such hearts and such mindswere not to be looked for among the suffering poor, and were not, perhaps, often found even among those who were not poor orsuffering. It was very hard to be thus trusting and thoughtful whileeverything around was full of awe and agony. 

The people, however, were conscious of God's work, and were becomingdull and apathetic. They clustered about the roads, working lazilywhile their strength lasted them; and afterwards, when strengthfailed them for this, they clustered more largely in thepoor-houses. And in every town--in every assemblage of houses whichin England would be called a village, there was a poor-house. Anybig barrack of a tenement that could be obtained at a moment'snotice, whatever the rent, became a poor-house in the course oftwelve hours, --in twelve, nay, in two hours. What was necessary butthe bare walls, and a supply of yellow meal? Bad provision this forall a man's wants, --as was said often enough by irrationalphilanthropists; but better provision than no shelter and no yellowmeal! It was bad that men should be locked up at night without anyof the appliances of decency; bad that they should be herdedtogether for day after day with no resource but the eating twice aday of enough unsavoury food to keep life and soul together;--verybad, ye philanthropical irrationalists! But is not a choice of evilsall that is left to us in many a contingency? Was not even thisbetter than that life and soul should be allowed to part, withoutany effect at preserving their union?

And thus life and soul were kept together, the government of the dayhaving wisely seen what, at so short a notice, was possible for themto do, and what was absolutely impossible. It is in such emergenciesas these that the watching and the wisdom of a government arenecessary; and I shall always think--as I did think then--that thewisdom of its action and the wisdom of its abstinence from actionwere very good. And now again the fields in Ireland are green, andthe markets are busy, and money is chucked to and fro like aweathercock which the players do not wish to have abiding with them;and the tardy speculator going over to look for a bit of land comesback muttering angrily that fancy prices are demanded. "They'll runyou up to thirty-three years' purchase, " says the tardy speculator, thinking, as it seems, that he is specially ill used. Agriculturalwages have been nearly doubled in Ireland during the last fifteenyears. Think of that, Master Brook. Work for which, at six shillingsa week, there would be a hundred hungry claimants in 1845, --in thegood old days before the famine, when repeal was so immediatelyexpected--will now fetch ten shillings, the claimants being by nomeans numerous. In 1843 and 1844, I knew men to work for fourpence aday--something over the dole on which we are told, being mostlyincredulous as we hear it, that a Coolie labourer can feed himselfwith rice in India;--not one man or two men, the broken-downincapables of the parish, but the best labour of the country. Oneand twopence is now about the cheapest rate at which a man can behired for agricultural purposes. While this is so, and while theprices are progressing, there is no cause for fear, let Bishops Aand B, and Archbishops C and D fret and fume with never so greatvexation touching the clipped honours of their father the Pope. 

But again, Quo Musa tendis? I could write on this subject for a weekwere it not that Rhadamanthus awaits me, Rhadamanthus the critic, and Rhadamanthus is, of all things, impatient of an episode. 

Life and soul were kept together in those terrible days, --that is, the Irish life and soul generally. There were many slips, in whichthe union was violently dissolved, --many cases in which the yellowmeal allowed was not sufficient, or in which it did not reach thesufferer in time to prevent such dissolution, --cases which whennumbered together amounted to thousands. And then the pestilencecame, taking its victims by tens of thousands, --but that was afterthe time with which we shall have concern here; and immigrationfollowed, taking those who were saved by hundreds of thousands. Butthe millions are still there, a thriving people, for His mercyendureth for ever. 

During this month, the month ensuing upon the death of Sir ThomasFitzgerald, Herbert could of course pay no outward attention to thewants or relief of the people. He could make no offer of assistance, for nothing belonged to him, nor could he aid in the councils of thecommittees, for no one could have defined the position of thespeaker. And during that month nothing was defined about CastleRichmond. Lady Fitzgerald was still always called by her title. Thepeople of the country, including the tradesmen of the neighbouringtowns, addressed the owner of Hap House as Sir Owen; and graduallythe name was working itself into common use, though he had taken nosteps to make himself legally entitled to wear it. But no one spokeof Sir Herbert. The story was so generally known, that none were soignorant as to suppose him to be his father's heir. The servantsabout the place still called him Mr. Herbert, orders to that effecthaving been specially given; and the peasants of the country, withthat tact which graces them, and with that anxiety to abstain fromgiving pain which always accompanies them unless when angered, carefully called him by no name. They knew that he was not SirHerbert, but they would not believe but what, perchance, he might beso yet on some future day. So they took off their old hats to him, and passed him silently in his sorrow, or if they spoke to him, addressed his honour simply, omitting all mention of that Christianname, which the poor Irishman is generally so fond of using. "MisterBlake" sounds cold and unkindly in his ears. It is the "Masther, " or"His honour, " or if possible "Misther Thady. " Or if there be anyhandle, that is used with avidity. Pat is a happy man when he canaddress his landlord as "Sir Patrick. "

But now the "ould masther's son" could be called by no name. Menknew not what he was to be, though they knew well that he was notthat which he ought to be. And there were some who attempted toworship Owen as the rising sun; but for such of them as had neverworshipped him before that game was rather hopeless. In those dayshe was not much seen, neither hunting nor entertaining company; butwhen seen he was rough enough with those who made any deep attemptto ingratiate themselves with his coming mightiness. And during thismonth he went over to London, having been specially invited so to doby Mr. Prendergast; but very little came of his visit there, exceptthat it was certified to him that he was beyond all doubt thebaronet. "And there shall be no unnecessary delay, Sir Owen, " saidMr. Prendergast, "in putting you into full possession of all yourrights. " In answer to which Owen had replied that he was not anxiousto be put in possession of any rights. That as far as any activedoing of his own was concerned, the title might lie in abeyance, andthat regarding the property he would make known his wish to Mr. Prendergast very quickly after his return to Ireland. But heintimated at the same time that there could be no ground fordisturbing Lady Fitzgerald, as he had no intention under anycircumstances of living at Castle Richmond. 

"Had you not better tell Lady Fitzgerald that yourself?" said Mr. Prendergast, catching at the idea that his friend's widow--myreaders will allow me so to call her--might be allowed to liveundisturbed at the family mansion, if not for life, at any rate fora few years. If this young man were so generous, why should it notbe so? He would not want the big house, at any rate, till he weremarried. 

"It would be better that you should say so, " said Owen. "I haveparticular reasons for not wishing to go there. "

"But allow me to say, my dear young friend--and I hope I may callyou so, for I greatly admire the way in which you have taken allthese tidings--that I would venture to advise you to drop theremembrance of any unpleasantness that may have existed. You shouldnow feel yourself to be the closest friend of that family. "

"So I would if--, " and then Owen stopped short, though Mr. Prendergast gave him plenty of time to finish his sentence were heminded to do so. 

"In your present position, " continued the lawyer, "your influencewill be very great. "

"I can't explain it all, " said Owen; "but I don't think my influencewill be great at all. And what is more, I do not want any influenceof that sort. I wish Lady Fitzgerald to understand that she is atperfect liberty to stay where she is, --as far as I am concerned. Notas a favour from me, mind; for I do not think that she would take afavour from my hands. "

"But, my dear sir!"

"Therefore you had better write to her about remaining there. "

Mr. Prendergast did write to her, or rather to Herbert: but in doingso he thought it right to say that the permission to live at CastleRichmond should be regarded as a kindness granted them by theirrelative. "It is a kindness which, under the circumstances, yourmother may, I think, accept without compunction; at any rate, forsome time to come, --till she shall have suited herself withouthurrying her choice; but, nevertheless, it must be regarded as agenerous offer on his part; and I do hope, my dear Herbert, that youand he will be fast friends. "

But Mr. Prendergast did not in the least comprehend the workings ofOwen's mind; and Herbert, who knew more of them than any one else, did not understand them altogether. Owen had no idea of granting anyfavour to his relatives, who, as he thought, had never granted anyto him. What Owen wanted, --or what he told himself that hewanted, --was justice. It was his duty as a just man to abstain fromtaking hold of those acres, and he was prepared to do his duty. Butit was equally Herbert's duty as a just man to abstain from takinghold of Clara Desmond, and he was resolved that he would never beHerbert's friend if Herbert did not perform that duty. And then, though he felt himself bound to give up the acres, --though he didregard this as an imperative duty, he nevertheless felt also thatsomething was due to him for his readiness to perform such aduty, --that some reward should be conceded to him; what this rewardwas to be, or rather what he wished it to be, we all know. 

Herbert had utterly refused to engage in any such negotiation; butOwen, nevertheless, would not cease to think that something mightyet be done. Who was so generous as Clara, and would not Claraherself speak out if she knew how much her old lover was prepared todo for this newer lover? Half a dozen times Owen made up his mind toexplain the whole thing to Mr. Prendergast; but when he foundhimself in the presence of the lawyer, he could not talk about love. Young men are so apt to think that their seniors in age cannotunderstand romance, or acknowledge the force of a passion. But herethey are wrong, for there would be as much romance after forty asbefore, I take it, were it not checked by the fear of ridicule. SoOwen stayed a week in London, seeing Mr. Prendergast every day; andthen he returned to Hap House. 

In the mean time life went on at a very sad pace at Desmond Court. There was no concord whatever between the two ladies residing there. The mother was silent, gloomy, and sometimes bitter, seldom saying aword about Herbert Fitzgerald or his prospects, but saying that wordwith great fixity of purpose when it was spoken. "No one, " she said, "should attribute to her the poverty and misery of her child. Thatmarriage should not take place from her house, or with her consent. "And Clara for the most part was silent also. In answer to such wordsas the above she would say nothing; but when, as did happen once ortwice, she was forced to speak, she declared openly enough that noearthly consideration should induce her to give up her engagement. 

And then the young earl came home, brought away from his school inorder that his authority might have effect on his sister. To speakthe truth, he was unwilling enough to interfere, and would havedeclined to come at all could he have dared to do so. Eton was nowmore pleasant to him than Desmond Court, which, indeed, had butlittle of pleasantness to offer to a lad such as he was now. He wassixteen, and manly for his age, but the question in dispute atDesmond Court offered little attraction even to a manly boy ofsixteen. In that former question as to Owen he had said a word ortwo, knowing that Owen could not be looked upon as a fitting husbandfor his sister, but now he knew not how to counsel her again as toHerbert, seeing that it was but the other day that he had written along letter, congratulating her on that connection. 

Towards the end of the month, however, he did arrive, making gladhis mother's heart as she looked at his strong limbs and hishandsome open face. And Clara, too, threw herself so warmly into hisarms that he did feel glad that he had come to her. "Oh, Patrick, itis so sweet to have you here!" she said, before his mother had hadtime to speak to him. 

"Dearest Clara!"

"But, Patrick, you must not be cruel to me. Look here, Patrick, youare my only brother, and I so love you that I would not offend youor turn you against me for worlds. You are the head of our family, too, and nothing should be done that you do not like. But if so muchdepends on you, you must think well before you decide on anything. "

He opened his young eyes and looked intently into her face, forthere was an earnestness in her words that almost frightened him. "You must think well of it before you speak, Patrick; and rememberthis, you and I must be honest and honourable, whether we be poor orno. You remember about Owen Fitzgerald, how I gave way then becauseI could do so without dishonour. But now--"

"But, Clara, I do not understand it all as yet. "

"No; you cannot, --not as yet--and I will let mamma tell you thestory. All I ask is this, that you will think of my honour beforeyou say a word that can favour either her or me. " And then hepromised her that he would do so; and his mother, when on thefollowing morning she told him all the history, found him reservedand silent. 

"Look at his position, " said the mother, pleading her cause beforeher son. "He is illegitimate, and--"

"Yes, but, mother--"

"I know all that, my dear; I know what you would say; and no one canpity Mr. Fitzgerald's position more than I do; but you would not onthat account have your sister ruined. It is romance on her part. "

"But what does he say?"

"He is quite willing to give up the match. He has told me so, andsaid as much to his aunt, whom I have seen three times on thesubject. "

"Do you mean that he wishes to give it up?"

"No;--at least, I don't know. If he does, he cannot express such awish, because Clara is so headstrong. Patrick, in my heart I do notbelieve that she cares for him. I have doubted it for some time. "

"But you wanted her to marry him. "

"So I did. It was an excellent match, and in a certain way she didlike him; and then, you know, there was that great danger about poorOwen. It was a great danger then. But now she is so determined aboutthis, because she thinks it would be ungenerous to go back from herword; and in this way she will ruin the very man she wishes toserve. Of course he cannot break off the match if she persists init. What I want you to perceive is this, that he, utterly pennilessas he is, will have to begin the world with a clog round his neck, because she is so obstinate. What could possibly be worse for himthan a titled wife without a penny?" And in this way the countesspleaded her side of the question before her son. 

It was quite true that she had been three times to Castle Richmond, and had thrice driven Aunt Letty into a state bordering ondistraction. If she could only get the Castle Richmond people totake it up as they ought to do! It was thus she argued withherself, --and with Aunt Letty also, endeavouring to persuade herthat these two young people would undoubtedly ruin each other, unless those who were really wise and prudent, and who understoodthe world--such as Aunt Letty, for instance--would interfere toprevent it. 

Aunt Letty on the whole did agree with her, though she greatlydisliked her. Miss Fitzgerald had strongly planted within her bosomthe prudent old-world notion, that young gentlefolks should not loveeach other unless they have plenty of money; and that, ifunfortunately such did love each other, it was better that theyshould suffer all the pangs of hopeless love than marry and trust toGod and their wits for bread and cheese. To which opinion of AuntLetty's, as well as to some others entertained by that lady withmuch pertinacity, I cannot subscribe myself as an adherent. 

Lady Desmond had wit enough to discover that Aunt Letty did agreewith her in the main, and on this account she was eager in seekingher assistance. Lady Fitzgerald of course could not be seen, andthere was no one else at Castle Richmond who could be supposed tohave any weight with Herbert. And therefore Lady Desmond was veryeloquent with Aunt Letty, talking much of the future miseries of thetwo young people, till the old lady had promised to use her bestefforts in enlisting Lady Fitzgerald on the same side. "You cannotwonder, Miss Fitzgerald, that I should wish to put an end to thecruel position in which my poor girl is placed. You know how much agirl suffers from that kind of thing. "

Aunt Letty did dislike Lady Desmond very much; but, nevertheless, she could not deny the truth of all this, and therefore it may besaid that the visits of the countess to Castle Richmond were on thewhole successful. 

And the month wore itself away also in that sad household, and theFitzgeralds were gradually becoming used to their position. Familydiscussions were held among them as to what they should do, andwhere they should live in future. Mr. Prendergast had written, seeing that Owen had persisted in refusing to make the offerpersonally himself--saying that there was no hurry for any removal. "Sir Owen, " he said, --having considered deeply whether or no hewould call him by the title or no, and having resolved that it wouldbe best to do so at once--"Sir Owen was inclined to behave verygenerously. Lady Fitzgerald could have the house and demesne at anyrate for twelve months, and by that time the personal property leftby Sir Thomas would be realized, and there would be enough, " Mr. Prendergast said, "for the three ladies to live 'in decent quietcomfort. '" Mr. Prendergast had taken care before he left CastleRichmond that a will should be made and duly executed by Sir Thomas, leaving what money he had to his three children by name, --in trustfor their mother's use. Till the girls should be of age that trustwould be vested in Herbert. 

"Decent quiet comfort!" said Mary to her brother and sister as theyconned the letter over; "how comfortless it sounds!"

And so the first month after the death of Sir Thomas passed by, andthe misfortunes of the Fitzgerald family ceased to be the onlysubject spoken of by the inhabitants of county Cork. 

CHAPTER XXXII

PREPARATIONS FOR GOING

At the end of the month, Herbert began to prepare himself for facingthe world. The first question to be answered was that one which isso frequently asked in most families, but which had never yet beennecessary in this--What profession would he follow? All manners ofways by which an educated man can earn his bread had been turnedover in his mind, and in the minds of those who loved him, beginningwith the revenues of the Archbishop of Armagh, which was AuntLetty's idea, and ending with a seat at a government desk, which washis own. Mr. Prendergast had counselled the law; not his own lowerbranch of the profession, but a barrister's full-blown wig, adding, in his letter to Lady Fitzgerald, that if Herbert would come toLondon, and settle in chambers, he, Mr. Prendergast, would see thathis life was made agreeable to him. But Mr. Somers gave otheradvice. In those days Assistant Poor-Law Commissioners were beingappointed in Ireland, almost by the score, and Mr. Somers declaredthat Herbert had only to signify his wish for such a position, andhe would get it. The interest which he had taken in the welfare ofthe poor around him was well known, and as his own story was wellknown also, there could be no doubt that the government would bewilling to assist one so circumstanced, and who when assisted wouldmake himself so useful. Such was the advice of Mr. Somers; and hemight have been right but for this, that both Herbert and LadyFitzgerald felt that it would be well for them to move out of thatneighbourhood, --out of Ireland altogether, if such could bepossible. 

Aunt Letty was strong for the Church. A young man who haddistinguished himself at the University so signally as her nephewhad done, taking his degree at the very first attempt, and that inso high a class of honour as the fourth, would not fail to succeedin the Church. He might not perhaps succeed as to Armagh; that sheadmitted, but there were some thirty other bishoprics to be had, andit would be odd if, with his talents, he did not get one of them. Think what it would be if he were to return to his own country asBishop of Cork, Cloyne, and Ross, as to which amalgamation of sees, however, Aunt Letty had her own ideas. He was slightly tainted withthe venom of Puseyism, Aunt Letty said to herself; but nothing woulddispel this with so much certainty as the theological studiesnecessary for ordination. And then Aunt Letty talked it over bythe hour together with Mrs. Townsend, and both those ladies wereagreed that Herbert should get himself ordained as quickly aspossible;--not in England, where there might be danger even inordination, but in good, wholesome, Protestant Ireland, wherea Church of England clergyman was a clergyman of the Church ofEngland, and not a priest, slipping about in the mud halfway betweenEngland and Rome. 

Herbert himself was anxious to get some employment by which he mightimmediately earn his bread, but not unnaturally wished that Londonshould be the scene of his work. Anywhere in Ireland he would beknown as the Fitzgerald who ought to have been the Fitzgerald ofCastle Richmond. And then too, he, as other young men, had anundefined idea, that as he must earn his bread London should be hisground. He had at first been not ill inclined to that Churchproject, and had thus given a sort of ground on which Aunt Letty wasable to stand, --had, as it were, given her some authority forcarrying on an agitation in furtherance of her own views; butHerbert himself soon gave up this idea. A man, he thought, to be aclergyman should have a very strong predilection in favour of thatprofession; and so he gradually abandoned that idea, --actuated, aspoor Aunt Letty feared, by the agency of the evil one, workingthrough the means of Puseyism. 

His mother and sisters were in favour of Mr. Prendergast's views, and as it was gradually found by them all that there would not beany immediate pressure as regarded pecuniary means, that seemed atlast to be their decision. Herbert would remain yet for three orfour weeks at Castle Richmond, till matters there were somewhat morethoroughly settled, and would then put himself into the hands of Mr. Prendergast in London. Mr. Prendergast would select a legal tutorfor him, and proper legal chambers; and then not long afterwards hismother and sisters should follow, and they would live together atsome small villa residence near St. John's Wood Road, or perhaps outat Brompton. 

It is astonishing how quickly in this world of ours chaos willsettle itself into decent and graceful order, when it is properlylooked in the face, and handled with a steady hand which is notsparing of the broom. Some three months since, everything at CastleRichmond was ruin; such ruin, indeed, that the very power of livingunder it seemed to be doubtful. When first Mr. Prendergast arrivedthere, a feeling came upon them all as though they might hardly dareto live in a world which would look at them as so thoroughlydegraded. As regards means, they would be beggars! and as regardsposition, so much worse than beggars! A broken world was in truthfalling about their ears, and it was felt to be impossible that theyshould endure its convulsions and yet live. 

But now the world had fallen, the ruin had come, and they werealready strong in future hopes. They had dared to look at theirchaos, and found that it still contained the elements of order. There was much still that marred their happiness, and forbade thejoyousness of other days. Their poor father had gone from them intheir misery, and the house was still a house of mourning; and theirmother too, though she bore up so wonderfully against her fate, andfor their sakes hoped and planned and listened to their wishes, wasa stricken woman. That she would never smile again with anyheartfelt joy they were all sure. But, nevertheless, their chaos wasconquered, and there was hope that the fields of life would againshow themselves green and fruitful. 

On one subject their mother never spoke to them, nor had evenHerbert dared to speak to her: not a word had been said in thathouse since Mr. Prendergast left it as to the future whereabouts orfuture doings of that man to whom she had once given her hand at thealtar. But she had ventured to ask by letter a question of Mr. Prendergast. Her question had been this: What must I do that he maynot come to me or to my children? In answer to this Mr. Prendergasthad told her, after some delay, that he believed she need fearnothing. He had seen the man, and he thought that he might assureher that she would not be troubled in that respect. 

"It is possible, " said Mr. Prendergast, "that he may apply to you byletter for money. If so, give him no answer whatever, but send hisletters to me. "

"And are you all going?" asked Mrs. Townsend of Aunt Letty, with alachrymose voice soon after the fate of the family was decided. Theywere sitting together with their knees over the fire in Mrs. Townsend's dining-parlour, in which the perilous state of thecountry had been discussed by them for many a pleasant hourtogether. 

"Well, I think we shall; you see, my sister would never be happyhere. "

"No, no; the shock and the change would be too great for her. PoorLady Fitzgerald! And when is that man coming into the house?"

"What, Owen?"

"Yes! Sir Owen I suppose he is now. "

"Well, I don't know; he does not seem to be in any hurry. I believethat he has said that my sister may continue to live there if shepleases. But of course she cannot do that. "

"They do say about the country, " whispered Mrs. Townsend, "that herefuses to be the heir at all. He certainly has not had any cardsprinted with the title on them--I know that as a fact. "

"He is a very singular man, very. You know I never could bear him, "said Aunt Letty. 

"No, nor I either. He has not been to our church once these sixmonths. But it's very odd, isn't it? Of course you know the story?"

"What story?" asked Aunt Letty. 

"About Lady Clara. Owen Fitzgerald was dreadfully in love with herbefore your Herbert had ever seen her. And they do say that he hassworn his cousin shall never live if he marries her. "

"They can never marry now, you know. Only think of it. There wouldbe three hundred a year between them. --Not at present, that is, "added Aunt Letty, looking forward to a future period after her owndeath. 

"That is very little, very little indeed, " said Mrs. Townsend, remembering, however, that she herself had married on less. "But, Miss Fitzgerald, if Herbert does not marry her do you think thisOwen will?"

"I don't think she'd have him. I am quite sure she would not. "

"Not when he has all the property, and the title too?"

"No, nor double as much. What would people say of her if she did?But, however, there is no fear, for she declares that nothing shallinduce her to give up her engagement with our Herbert. "

And so they discussed it backward and forward in every way, eachhaving her own theory as to that singular rumour which was goingabout the country, signifying that Owen had declined to accept thetitle. Aunt Letty, however, would not believe that any good couldcome from so polluted a source, and declared that he had his ownreasons for the delay. "It's not for any love of us, " she said, "ifhe refuses to take either that or the estate. " And in this she wasright. But she would have been more surprised still had she learnedthat Owen's forbearance arose from a strong anxiety to do what wasjust in the matter. 

"And so Herbert won't go into the Church?"

And Letty shook her head sorrowing. 

"Aeneas would have been so glad to have taken him for atwelvemonth's reading, " said Mrs. Townsend. "He could have comehere, you know, when you went away, and been ordained at Cork, andgot a curacy close in the neighbourhood, where he was known. Itwould have been so nice; wouldn't it?"

Aunt Letty would not exactly have advised the scheme as suggested byMrs. Townsend. Her ideas as to Herbert's clerical studies would havebeen higher than this. Trinity College, Dublin, was in herestimation the only place left for good Church of Englandecclesiastical teaching. But as Herbert was obstinately bent ondeclining sacerdotal life, there was no use in dispelling Mrs. Townsend's bright vision. 

"It's all of no use, " she said; "he is determined to go to the bar. "

"The bar is very respectable, " said Mrs. Townsend, kindly. 

"And you mean to go with them, too?" said Mrs. Townsend, afteranother pause. "You'll hardly be happy, I'm thinking, so far awayfrom your old home. "

"It is sad to change at my time of life, " said Aunt Letty, plaintively. "I'm sixty-two now. "

"Nonsense, " said Mrs. Townsend, who, however, knew her age to a day. 

"Sixty-two if I live another week, and I have never yet had any homebut Castle Richmond. There I was born, and till the other day I hadevery reason to trust that there I might die. But what does itmatter?"

"No, that's true of course, what does it matter where we are whilewe linger in this vale of tears? But couldn't you get a little placefor yourself somewhere near here? There's Callaghan's cottage, withthe two-acre piece for a cow, and as nice a spot of a garden asthere is in the county Cork. "

"I wouldn't separate myself from her now, " said Aunt Letty, "for allthe cottages and all the gardens in Ireland. The Lord has beenpleased to throw us together, and together we will finish ourpilgrimage. Whither she goes, I will go, and where she lodges, Iwill lodge; her people shall be my people, and her God my God. " Andthen Mrs. Townsend said nothing further of Callaghan's prettycottage, or of the two-acre piece. 

But one reason for her going Aunt Letty did not give, even to herfriend Mrs. Townsend. Her income, that which belonged exclusively toherself, was in no way affected by these sad Castle Richmondrevolutions. This was a comfortable, --we may say a generousprovision for an old maiden lady, amounting to some six hundred ayear, settled upon her for life, and this, if added to what could besaved and scraped together, would enable them to live comfortably, as far as means were concerned, in that suburban villa to which theywere looking forward. But without Aunt Letty's income that suburbanvilla must be but a poor home. Mr. Prendergast had calculated thatsome fourteen thousand pounds would represent the remaining propertyof the family, with which it would be necessary to purchasegovernment stock. Such being the case, Aunt Letty's income was verymaterial to them. 

"I trust you will be able to find some one there who will preach thegospel to you, " said Mrs. Townsend, in a tone that showed howserious were her misgivings on the subject. 

"I will search for such a one, at any rate, " said Aunt Letty. "Youneed not be afraid that I shall be a backslider. "

"But they have crosses now over the communion tables in the churchesin England, " said Mrs. Townsend. 

"I know it is very bad, " said Aunt Letty. "But there will always bea remnant left. The Lord will not utterly desert us. " And then shetook her departure, leaving Mrs. Townsend with the conviction thatthe land to which her friend was going was one in which the light ofthe gospel no longer shone in its purity. 

It was not wonderful that they should all be anxious to get awayfrom Castle Richmond, for the house there was now not a pleasant onein which to live. Let all those who have houses and the adjuncts ofhouses think how considerable a part of their life's pleasuresconsists in their interest in the things around them. When will theseakale be fit to cut, and when will the crocuses come up? will theviolets be sweeter than ever? and the geranium cuttings, are theythriving? we have dug, and manured, and sown, and we look forward tothe reaping, and to see our garners full. The very furniture whichministers to our daily uses is loved and petted; and in decoratingour rooms we educate ourselves in design. The place in church whichhas been our own for years, --is not that dear to us, and the voicethat has told us of God's tidings--even though the drone become moreevident as it waxes in years, and though it grows feeble andindolent? And the faces of those who have lived around us, do we notlove them too, the servants who have worked for us, and the childrenwho have first toddled beneath our eyes and prattled in our ears, and now run their strong races, screaming loudly, splashing us asthey pass--very unpleasantly? Do we not love them all? Do they notall contribute to the great sum of our enjoyment? All men love suchthings, more or less, even though they know it not. And women lovethem even more than men. 

And the Fitzgeralds were about to leave them all. The early buds ofspring were now showing themselves, but how was it possible thatthey should look to them? One loves the bud because one expects theflower. The seakale now was beyond their notice, and though theyplucked the crocuses, they did so with tears upon their cheeks. After much consideration the church had been abandoned by all exceptAunt Letty and Herbert. That Lady Fitzgerald should go there wasimpossible, and the girls were only too glad to be allowed to staywith their mother. And the schools in which they had taught sincethe first day in which teaching had been possible for them, had tobe abandoned with such true pangs of heart-felt sorrow. 

From the time when their misery first came upon them, from the dayswhen it first began to be understood that the world had gone wrongat Castle Richmond, this separation from the schools had commenced. The work had been dropped for a while, but the dropping had in factbeen final, and there was nothing further to be done than thesaddest of all leave-taking. The girls had sent word to thechildren, perhaps imprudently, that they would go down and say aword of adieu to their pupils. The children had of course told theirmothers, and when the girls reached the two neat buildings whichstood at the corner of the park, there were there to meet them, notunnaturally, a concourse of women and children. 

In former prosperous days the people about Castle Richmond had, as arule, been better to do than their neighbours. Money wages had beenmore plentiful, and there had been little or no subletting of land;the children had been somewhat more neatly clothed, and the womenless haggard in their faces; but this difference was hardlyperceptible any longer. To them, the Miss Fitzgeralds, looking atthe poverty-stricken assemblage, it almost seemed as though themisfortune of their house had brought down its immediateconsequences on all who had lived within their circle; but this wasthe work of the famine. In those days one could rarely see anymember of a peasant's family bearing in his face a look of health. The yellow meal was a useful food--the most useful, doubtless, whichcould at that time be found; but it was not one that was gratifyingeither to the eye or palate. 

The girls had almost regretted their offer before they had left thehouse. It would have been better, they said to themselves, to havehad the children up in the hall, and there to have spoken theirfarewells, and made their little presents. The very entering thoseschool-rooms again would almost be too much for them; but thisconsideration was now too late, and when they got to the corner ofthe gate, they found that there was a crowd to receive them. "Mary, I must go back, " said Emmeline, when she first saw them; but AuntLetty, who was with them, stepped forward, and they soon foundthemselves in the school-room. 

"We have come to say good-bye to you all, " said Aunt Letty, tryingto begin a speech. 

"May the heavens be yer bed then, the lot of yez, for ye war alwaysgood to the poor. May the Blessed Virgin guide and protect yewherever ye be"--a blessing against which Aunt Letty at once entereda little inward protest, perturbed though she was in spirit. "Maythe heavens rain glory on yer heads, for ye war always the finestfamily that war ever in the county Cork!"

"You know, I dare say, that we are going to leave you, " continuedAunt Letty. 

"We knows it, we knows it; sorrow come to them as did it all. Faix, an' there'll niver be any good in the counthry, at all at all, whenyou're gone, Miss Emmeline; an' what'll we do at all for the want ofyez, and when shall we see the likes of yez? Eh, Miss Letty, butthere'll be sore eyes weeping for ye; and for her leddyship too; maythe Lord Almighty bless her, and presarve her, and carry her sowl toglory when she dies; for av there war iver a good woman on God's'arth, that woman is Leddy Fitzgerald. "

And then Aunt Letty found that there was no necessity for her tocontinue her speech, and indeed no possibility of her doing so evenif she were so minded. The children began to wail and cry, and themothers also mixed loud sobbings with their loud prayers; andEmmeline and Mary, dissolved in tears, sat themselves down, drawingto them the youngest bairns and those whom they had loved the best, kissing their sallow, famine-stricken, unwholesome faces, andweeping over them with a love of which hitherto they had been hardlyconscious. 

There was not much more in the way of speech possible to any ofthem, for even Aunt Letty was far gone in tender wailing; and it waswonderful to see the liberties that were taken even with thatvenerable bonnet. The women had first of all taken hold of her handsto kiss them, and had kissed her feet, and her garments, and hershoulders, and then behind her back they had made crosses on her, although they knew how dreadfully she would have raged had shecaught them polluting her by such doings; and they grasped her armsand embraced them, till at last, those who were more daring, reachedher forehead and her face, and poor old Aunt Letty, who in heremotion could not now utter a syllable, was almost pulled to piecesamong them. 

Mary and Emmeline had altogether surrendered themselves, and werethe centres of clusters of children who hung upon them. And the sobsnow were no longer low and tearful, but they had grown into long, protracted groanings, and loud wailings, and clapping of hands, andtearings of the hair. O, my reader, have you ever seen a railwaytrain taking its departure from an Irish station, with a freight ofIrish emigrants? If so, you know how the hair is torn, and how thehands are clapped, and how the low moanings gradually swell intonotes of loud lamentation. It means nothing, I have heard mensay, --men and women too. But such men and women are wrong. It meansmuch; it means this: that those who are separated, not only loveeach other, but are anxious to tell each other that they so love. Wehave all heard of demonstrative people. A demonstrative person, Itake it, is he who is desirous of speaking out what is in his heart. For myself I am inclined to think that such speaking out has itsgood ends. "The faculty of silence! is it not of all things the mostbeautiful?" That is the doctrine preached by a great latter-dayphilosopher; for myself, I think that the faculty of speech is muchmore beautiful--of speech if it be made but by howlings, andwailings, and loud clappings of the hand. What is in a man, let itcome out and be known to those around him, if it be bad it will findcorrection, if it be good it will spread and be beneficent. 

And then one woman made herself audible over the sobs of thecrowding children; she was a gaunt, high-boned woman, but she wouldhave been comely, if not handsome, had not the famine come upon her. She held a baby in her arms, and another little toddling thing hadbeen hanging on her dress till Emmeline had seen it, and plucked itaway; and it was now sitting in her lap quite composed, and suckinga piece of cake that had been given to it. "An' it's a bad day forus all, " said the woman, beginning in a low voice, which becamelouder and louder as she went on, "it's a bad day for us all thattakes away from us the only rale friends that we iver had, and theback of my hand to them that have come in the way, bringin' sorrow, an' desolation, an' misery on gentlefolks that have been good to thepoor since iver the poor have been in the land, rale gentlefolks, sich as there ain't no others to be found nowadays in any of theseparts. O'hone, o'hone! but it's a bad day for us and for thechilder, for where shall we find the dhrop to comfort us or the bitto ate when the sickness comes on us, as it's likely to come now, when the Fitzgeralds is out of the counthry. May the Lord blessthem, and keep them, and presarve them, and the Holy Virgin havethem in her keepin'!"

"Wh--i--s--h--h, " said Aunt Letty, who could not allow such idolatryto pass by unobserved or unrebuked. 

"An' shure the blessin' of a poor woman cannot haram you, " continuedthe mother, "an' I'll tell you what, neighbours, it'll be a bad dayfor him that folk call the heir when he puts his foot in thathouse. "

"'Deed an' that's thrue for you, Bridget Magrath, " said anothervoice from among the crowd of women. 

"A bad day intirely, " continued the woman, with the baby; "av thehouse stans over his head when he does the like o' that, there'll beno justice in the heavens. "

"But, Mrs. Magrath, " said Aunt Letty, trying to interrupt her, "youmust not speak in that way; you are mistaken in supposing that Mr. Owen--"

"We'll all live to see, " said the woman; "for the time's comin'quick upon us now. But it's a bad law that kills our ould mastherover our heads, an' takes away from us our ould misthress. An' asfor him they calls Mr. Owen--"

But the ladies found it impossible to listen to her any longer, sowith some difficulty they extricated themselves from the crowd bywhich they were surrounded, and once more shaking hands with thosewho were nearest to them escaped into the park, and made their wayback towards the house. 

They had not expected so much demonstration, and were not a littledisconcerted at the scene which had taken place. Aunt Letty hadnever been so handled in her life, and hardly knew how to make herbonnet sit comfortably on her head; and the two girls werespeechless till they were half across the park. 

"I am glad we have been, " said Emmeline at last, as soon as theremains of her emotion would allow her to articulate her words. 

"It would have been dreadful to have gone away without seeing them, "said Mary. "Poor creatures, poor dear creatures; we shall neveragain have any more people to be fond of us like that!"

"There is no knowing, " said Aunt Letty; "the Lord giveth and theLord taketh away, and blessed is the name of the Lord. You are bothyoung, and may come back again; but for me--"

"Dear Aunt Letty, if we come back you shall come too. "

"If I only thought that my bones could lie here near my brother's. But never mind; what signifies it where our bones lie?" And thenthey were silent for a while, till Aunt Letty spoke again. "I meanto be quite happy over in England; I believe I shall be happiest ofyou all if I can find any clergyman who is not half perverted toidolatry. "

This took place some time before the ladies left CastleRichmond, --perhaps as much as three weeks; it was even beforeHerbert's departure, who started for London the day but one afterthe scene here recorded; he had gone to various places to take hislast farewell; to see the Townsends at their parsonage; to call onFather Barney at Kanturk, and had even shaken hands with the Rev. Mr. Creagh, at Gortnaclough. But one farewell visit had been put offfor the last. It was now arranged that he was to go over to DesmondCourt and see Clara before he went. There had been some difficultyin this, for Lady Desmond had at first declared that she could notfeel justified in asking him into her house; but the earl was now athome, and her ladyship had at last given her consent: he was to seethe countess first, and was afterwards to see Clara--alone. He haddeclared that he would not go there unless he were to be allowed aninterview with her in private. The countess, as I have said, at lastconsented, trusting that her previous eloquence might be efficaciousin counteracting the ill effects of her daughter's imprudence. Onthe day after that interview he was to start for London; "never toreturn, " as he said to Emmeline, "unless he came to seek his wife. "

"But you will come to seek your wife, " said Emmeline, stoutly; "Ishall think you faint-hearted if you doubt it. "

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE LAST STAGE

On the day before his departure for London, Herbert Fitzgerald oncemore got on his horse--the horse that was to be no longer his afterthat day--and rode off towards Desmond Court. He had alreadyperceived how foolish he had been in walking thither through the mudand rain when last he went there, and how much he had lost by hissad appearance that day, and by his want of personal comfort. So hedressed himself with some care--dressing not for his love, but forthe countess, --and taking his silver-mounted whip in his glovedhand, he got up on his well-groomed nag with more spirit than he hadhitherto felt. 

Nothing could be better than the manner in which, at this time, theservants about Castle Richmond conducted themselves. Most ofthem--indeed, all but three--had been told that they must go, and inso telling them, the truth had been explained. It had been "found, "Aunt Letty said to one of the elder among them, that Mr. Herbert wasnot the heir to the property, and therefore the family was obligedto go away. Mrs. Jones of course accompanied her mistress. Richardhad been told, both by Herbert and by Aunt Letty, that he had betterremain and live on a small patch of land that should be provided forhim. But in answer to this he stated his intention of removinghimself to London. If the London air was fit for "my leddy and MissLetty, " it would be fit for him. "It's no good any more talking, Mr. Herbert, " said Richard, "I main to go. " So there was no moretalking, and he did go. 

But all the other servants took their month's warning with tears andblessings, and strove one beyond another how they might best servethe ladies of the family to the end. "I'd lose the little fingersoff me to go with you, Miss Emmeline; so I would, " said one poorgirl, --all in vain. If they could not keep a retinue of servants inIreland, it was clear enough that they could not keep them inLondon. 

The groom who held the horse for Herbert to mount, touched his hatrespectfully as his young master rode off slowly down the avenue, and then went back to the stables to meditate with awe on thechanges which had happened in his time, and to bethink himselfwhether or no he could bring himself to serve in the stables of Owenthe usurper. 

Herbert did not take the direct road to Desmond Court, but wentround as though he were going to Gortnaclough, and then turning awayfrom the Gortnaclough road, made his way by a cross lane towardsClady and the mountains. He hardly knew himself whether he had anyobject in this beyond one which he did not express even tohimself, --that, namely, of not being seen on the way leading toDesmond Court. But this he did do, thereby riding out of thedistrict with which he was most thoroughly acquainted, and passingby cabins and patches of now deserted land which were strange tohim. It was a poor, bleak, damp, undrained country, lying beyond theconfines of his father's property, which in good days had never beenpleasant to the eye, but which now in these days--days that were sodecidedly bad, was anything but pleasant. It was one of those tractsof land which had been divided and subdivided among the cottierstill the fields had dwindled down to parts of acres, each surroundedby rude low banks, which of themselves seemed to occupy a quarter ofthe surface of the land. The original landmarks, the big earthenbanks, --banks so large that a horse might walk on the top ofthem, --were still visible enough, showing to the practised eye whathad once been the fields into which the land had been divided; butthese had since been bisected and crossected, and intersected byfamily arrangements, in which brothers had been jealous of brothers, and fathers of their children, till each little lot contained but arood or two of available surface. 

This had been miserable enough to look at, even when those roods hadbeen cropped with potatoes or oats; but now they were not cropped atall, nor was there preparation being made for cropping them. Theyhad been let out under the con-acre system, at so much a rood, forthe potato season, at rents amounting sometimes to ten or twelvepounds the acre; but nobody would take them now. There, in thatelectoral division, the whole proceeds of such land would hardlyhave paid the poor rates, and therefore the land was leftuncultivated. 

The winter was over, for it was now April, and had any tillage beenintended, it would have been commenced--even in Ireland. It was thebeginning of April, but the weather was still stormy and cold, andthe east wind, which, as a rule, strikes Ireland with but a lightland, was blowing sharply. On a sudden a squall of rain cameon, --one of those spring squalls which are so piercingly cold, butwhich are sure to pass by rapidly, if the wayfarer will havepatience to wait for them. Herbert, remembering his formerdiscomfiture, resolved that he would have such patience, anddismounting from his horse at a cabin on the roadside, entered ithimself, and led his horse in after him. In England no one wouldthink of taking his steed into a poor man's cottage, and wouldhardly put his beast into a cottager's shed without leave asked andgranted, but people are more intimate with each other, and takegreater liberties in Ireland. It is no uncommon thing on a wethunting-day to see a cabin packed with horses, and the childrenmoving about among them, almost as unconcernedly as though theanimals were pigs. But then the Irish horses are so well manneredand good-natured. 

The cabin was one abutting as it were on the road, not standing backupon the land, as is most customary; and it was built in an angle ata spot where the road made a turn, so that two sides of it stoodclose out in the wayside. It was small and wretched to look at, without any sort of outside shed, or even a scrap of potato-gardenattached to it, --a miserable, low-roofed, damp, ragged tenement, aswretched as any that might be seen even in the county Cork. 

But the nakedness of the exterior was as nothing to the nakedness ofthe interior. When Herbert entered, followed by his horse, his eyeglanced round the dark place, and it seemed to be empty ofeverything. There was no fire on the hearth, though a fire on thehearth is the easiest of all luxuries for an Irishman to acquire, and the last which he is willing to lose. There was not an articleof furniture in the whole place; neither chairs, nor table, nor bed, nor dresser; there was there neither dish, nor cup, nor plate, noreven the iron pot in which all the cookery of the Irish cottiers'menage is usually carried on. Beneath his feet was the damp earthenfloor, and around him were damp, cracked walls, and over his headwas the old lumpy thatch, through which the water was alreadydropping; but inside was to be seen none of those articles of dailyuse which are usually to be found in the houses even of the poorest. 

But, nevertheless, the place was inhabited. Squatting in the middleof the cabin, seated on her legs crossed under her, with nothingbetween her and the wet earth, there crouched a woman with a childin her arms. At first, so dark was the place, Herbert hardly thoughtthat the object before him was a human being. She did not move whenhe entered, or speak to him, or in any way show sign of surprisethat he should have come there. There was room for him and his horsewithout pushing her from her place; and, as it seemed, he might havestayed there and taken his departure without any sign having beenmade by her. 

But as his eyes became used to the light he saw her eyes gleamingbrightly through the gloom. They were very large and bright as theyturned round upon him while he moved--large and bright, but with adull, unwholesome brightness, --a brightness that had in it none ofthe light of life. 

And then he looked at her more closely. She had on her some rag ofclothing which barely sufficed to cover her nakedness, and the babywhich she held in her arms was covered in some sort; but he couldsee, as he came to stand close over her, that these garments werebut loose rags which were hardly fastened round her body. Her roughshort hair hung down upon her back, clotted with dirt, and the headand face of the child which she held was covered with dirt andsores. On no more wretched object, in its desolate solitude, did theeye of man ever fall. 

In those days there was a form of face which came upon the suffererswhen their state of misery was far advanced, and which was a suresign that their last stage of misery was nearly run. The mouth wouldfall and seem to hang, the lips at the two ends of the mouth wouldbe dragged down, and the lower parts of the cheeks would fall asthough they had been dragged and pulled. There were no signs ofacute agony when this phasis of countenance was to be seen, none ofthe horrid symptoms of gnawing hunger by which one generallysupposes that famine is accompanied. The look is one of apathy, desolation, and death. When custom had made these signs easilylegible, the poor doomed wretch was known with certainty. "It's nouse in life meddling with him; he's gone, " said a lady to me in thefar west of the south of Ireland, while the poor boy, whose doom wasthus spoken, stood by listening. Her delicacy did not equal herenergy in doing good, --for she did much good; but in truth it wasdifficult to be delicate when the hands were so full. And then shepointed out to me the signs on the lad's face, and I found that herreading was correct. 

The famine was not old enough at the time of which we are speakingfor Herbert to have learned all this, or he would have known thatthere was no hope left in this world for the poor creature whom hesaw before him. The skin of her cheek had fallen, and her mouth wasdragged, and the mark of death was upon her; but the agony of wantwas past. She sat there listless, indifferent, hardly capable ofsuffering, even for her child, waiting her doom unconsciously. 

As he had entered without eliciting a word from her, so might hehave departed without any outward sign of notice; but this wouldhave been impossible on his part. "I have come in out of the rainfor shelter, " said he, looking down on her. 

"Out o' the rain, is it?" said she, still fixing on him her glassybright eyes. "Yer honour's welcome thin. " But she did not attempt tomove, nor show any of those symptoms of reverence which are habitualto the Irish when those of a higher rank enter their cabins. 

"You seem to be very poorly off here, " said Herbert, looking roundthe bare walls of the cabin. "Have you no chair, and no bed to lieon?"

"'Deed, no, " said she. 

"And no fire?" said he, for the damp and chill of the place struckthrough to his bones. 

"'Deed, no, " she said again; but she made no wail as to her wants, and uttered no complaint as to her misery. 

"And are you living here by yourself, without furniture or utensilsof any kind?"

"It's jist as yer honour sees it, " answered she. 

For a while Herbert stood still, looking round him, for the womanwas so motionless and uncommunicative that he hardly knew how totalk to her. That she was in the lowest depth of distress wasevident enough, and it behoved him to administer to her immediatewants before he left her; but what could he do for one who seemed tobe so indifferent to herself? He stood for a time looking round himtill he could see through the gloom that there was a bundle of strawlying in the dark corner beyond the hearth, and that the straw washuddled up, as though there were something lying under it. Seeingthis he left the bridle of his horse, and, stepping across thecabin, moved the straw with the handle of his whip. As he did so heturned his back from the wall in which the small window-hole hadbeen pierced, so that a gleam of light fell upon the bundle at hisfeet, and he could see that the body of a child was lying there, stripped of every vestige of clothing. 

For a minute or two he said nothing--hardly indeed, knowing how tospeak, and looking from the corpse-like woman back to the lifelikecorpse, and then from the corpse back to the woman, as though heexpected that she would say something unasked. But she did not say aword, though she so turned her head that her eyes rested on him. 

He then knelt down and put his hand upon the body, and found that itwas not yet stone cold. The child apparently had been about fouryears old, while that still living in her arms might perhaps be halfthat age. 

"Was she your own?" asked Herbert, speaking hardly above his breath. 

"'Deed, yes!" said the woman. "She was my own, own little Kittie. "But there was no tear in her eye or gurgling sob audible from herthroat. 

"And when did she die?" he asked. 

"'Deed, thin, and I don't jist know--not exactly;" and sinking lowerdown upon her haunches, she put up to her forehead the hand withwhich she had supported herself on the floor--the hand which was notoccupied with the baby, and pushing back with it the loose hairsfrom her face, tried to make an effort at thinking. 

"She was alive in the night, wasn't she?" he said. 

"I b'lieve thin she was, yer honour. 'Twas broad day, I'm thinking, when she guv' over moaning. She warn't that way when he went away. "

"And who's he?"

"Jist Mike, thin. "

"And is Mike your husband?" he asked. She was not very willing totalk; but it appeared at last that Mike was her husband, and thathaving become a cripple through rheumatism, he had not been able towork on the roads. In this condition he and his should of coursehave gone into a poor-house. It was easy enough to give such advicein such cases when one came across them, and such advice when givenat that time was usually followed; but there were so many who had noadvice, who could get no aid, who knew not which way to turnthemselves! This wretched man had succeeded in finding some one whowould give him his food--food enough to keep himself alive--for suchwork as he could do in spite of his rheumatism, and this work to thelast he would not abandon. Even this was better to him than thepoor-house. But then, as long as a man found work out of thepoor-house, his wife and children would not be admitted into it. They would not be admitted if the fact of the working husband wasknown. The rule in itself was salutary, as without it a man couldwork, earning such wages as were adjudged to be needful for afamily, and at the same time send his wife and children to besupported on the rates. But in some cases, such as this, it pressedvery cruelly. Exceptions were of course made in such cases, if theywere known: but then it was so hard to know them!

This man Mike, the husband of that woman, and the father of thosechildren, alive and dead, had now gone to his work, leaving his homewithout one morsel of food within it, and the wife of his bosom andchildren of his love without the hope of getting any. And thenlooking closely round him, Herbert could see that a small basin orbowl lay on the floor near her, capable of holding perhaps a pint;and on lifting it he saw that there still clung to it a few grainsof uncooked Indian corn-flour--the yellow meal, as it was called. Her husband, she said at last, had brought home with him in his capa handful of this flour, stolen from the place where he wasworking--perhaps a quarter of a pound, then worth over a farthing, and she had mixed this with water in a basin; and this was the foodwhich had sustained her, or rather had not sustained her, sinceyesterday morning--her and her two children, the one that wasliving and the one that was dead. 

Such was her story, told by her in the fewest of words. And then heasked her as to her hopes for the future. But though she cared, asit seemed, but little for the past, for the future she cared less. "'Deed, thin, an' I don't jist know. " She would say no more thanthat, and would not even raise her voice to ask for alms when hepitied her in her misery. But with her the agony of death wasalready over. 

"And the child that you have in your arms, " he said, "is it notcold?" And he stood close over her, and put out his hand and touchedthe baby's body. As he did so, she made some motion as though toarrange the clothing closer round the child's limbs, but Herbertcould see that she was making an effort to hide her own nakedness. It was the only effort that she made while he stood there besideher. 

"Is she not cold?" he said again, when he had turned his face awayto relieve her from her embarrassment. 

"Cowld, " she muttered, with a vacant face and wondering tone ofvoice, as though she did not quite understand him. "I suppose she iscould. Why wouldn't she be could? We're could enough, if that'sall. " But still she did not stir from the spot on which she sat; andthe child, though it gave from time to time a low moan that wasalmost inaudible, lay still in her arms, with its big eyes staringinto vacancy. 

He felt that he was stricken with horror as he remained there in thecabin with the dying woman and the naked corpse of the poor deadchild. But what was he to do? He could not go and leave them withoutsuccour. The woman had made no plaint of her suffering, and hadasked for nothing; but he felt that it would be impossible toabandon her without offering her relief; nor was it possible that heshould leave the body of the child in that horribly ghastly state. So he took from his pocket his silk handkerchief, and, returning tothe corner of the cabin, spread it as a covering over the corpse. Atfirst he did not like to touch the small, naked, dwindled remains ofhumanity from which life had fled; but gradually he overcame hisdisgust, and kneeling down, he straightened the limbs and closed theeyes, and folded the handkerchief round the slender body. The motherlooked on him the while, shaking her head slowly, as though askinghim with all the voice that was left to her, whether it were notpiteous; but of words she still uttered none. 

And then he took from his pocket a silver coin or two, and tenderedthem to her. These she did take, muttering some word of thanks, butthey caused in her no emotion of joy. "She was there waiting, " shesaid, "till Mike should return, " and there she would still wait, even though she should die with the silver in her hand. 

"I will send some one to you, " he said, as he took his departure;"some one that shall take the poor child and bury it, and who shallmove you and the other one into the workhouse. " She thanked him oncemore with some low muttered words, but the promise brought her nojoy. And when the succour came it was all too late, for the motherand the two children never left the cabin till they left ittogether, wrapped in their workhouse shrouds. 

Herbert, as he remounted his horse and rode quietly on, forgot for awhile both himself and Clara Desmond. Whatever might be the extentof his own calamity, how could he think himself unhappy after whathe had seen? how could he repine at aught that the world had donefor him, having now witnessed to how low a state of misery a fellowhuman being might be brought? Could he, after that, dare to considerhimself unfortunate?

Before he reached Desmond Court he did make some arrangements forthe poor woman, and directed that a cart might be sent for her, sothat she might be carried to the union workhouse at Kanturk. But hisefforts in her service were of little avail. People then did notthink much of a dying woman, and were in no special hurry to obeyHerbert's behest. 

"A woman to be carried to the union, is it? For Mr. Fitzgerald, eh?What Mr. Fitzgerald says must be done, in course. But sure av' it'sdone before dark, won't that be time enough for the likes of her?"

But had they flown to the spot on the wings of love, it would nothave sufficed to prolong her life one day. Her doom had been spokenbefore Herbert had entered the cabin. 

CHAPTER XXXIV

FAREWELL

He was two hours later than he had intended as he rode up the avenueto Lady Desmond's gate, and his chief thought at the moment was howhe should describe to the countess the scene he had just witnessed. Why describe it at all? That is what we should all say. He had comethere to talk about other things--about other things which must bediscussed, and which would require all his wits. Let him keep thatpoor woman on his mind, but not embarrass himself with any mentionof her for the present. This, no doubt, would have been wise if onlyit had been possible; but out of the full heart the mouth speaks. 

But Lady Desmond had not witnessed the scene which I have attemptedto describe, and her heart, therefore, was not full of it, and wasnot inclined to be so filled. And so, in answer to Herbert'sexclamation, "Oh, Lady Desmond, I have seen such a sight!" she gavehim but little encouragement to describe it, and by her coldness, reserve, and dignity, soon quelled the expression of his feelings. 

The earl was present, and shook hands very cordially with Herbertwhen he entered the room; and he, being more susceptible as beingyounger, and not having yet become habituated to the famine as hismother was, did express some eager sympathy. He would immediately godown, or send Fahy with the car, and have her brought up and saved, but his mother had other work to do, and soon put a stop to allthis. 

"Mr. Fitzgerald, " said she, speaking with a smile upon her face, andwith much high-bred dignity of demeanour, "as you and Lady Claraboth wish to see each other before you leave the country, and as youhave known each other so intimately, and considering all thecircumstances, I have not thought it well absolutely to forbid aninterview. But I do doubt its expediency; I do, indeed. And LordDesmond, who feels for your late misfortune as we all do, perfectlyagrees with me. He thinks that it would be much wiser for you bothto have parted without the pain of a meeting, seeing how impossibleit is that you should ever be more to each other than you are now. "And then she appealed to her son, who stood by, looking not quite sowise, nor even quite so decided as his mother's words would seem tomake him. 

"Well, yes; upon my word I don't see how it's to be, " said the youngearl. "I am deuced sorry for it for one, and I wish I was well off, so that I could give Clara a pot of money, and then I should notcare so much about your not being the baronet. "

"I am sure you must see, Mr. Fitzgerald, and I know that you do seeit because you have very properly said so, that a marriage betweenyou and Lady Clara is now impossible. For her such an engagementwould be very bad--very bad indeed; but for you it would be utterruin. Indeed, it would be ruin for you both. Unencumbered as youwill be, and with the good connection which you will have, and withyour excellent talents, it will be quite within your reach to winfor yourself a high position. But with you, as with other gentlemenwho have to work their way, marriage must come late in life, unlessyou marry an heiress. This I think is thoroughly understood by allpeople in our position; and I am sure that it is understood by yourexcellent mother, for whom I always had and still have the mostunfeigned respect. As this is so undoubtedly the case, and as Icannot of course consent that Lady Clara should remain hampered byan engagement which would in all human probability hang over the tenbest years of her life, I thought it wise that you should not seeeach other. I have, however, allowed myself to be overruled, and nowI must only trust to your honour, forbearance, and prudence toprotect my child from what might possibly be the ill effects of herown affectionate feelings. That she is romantic, --enthusiastic to afault, I should perhaps rather call it--I need not tell you. Shethinks that your misfortune demands from her a sacrifice of herself;but you, I know, will feel that, even were such a sacrificeavailable to you, it would not become you to accept it. Because youhave fallen, you will not wish to drag her down; more especially asyou can rise again--and she could not. "

So spoke the countess, with much worldly wisdom, and withconsiderable tact in adjusting her words to the object which she hadin view. Herbert, as he stood before her silent during the period ofher oration, did feel that it would be well for him to give up hislove, and go away in utter solitude of heart to those dingy studieswhich Mr. Prendergast was preparing for him. His love, or rather theassurance of Clara's love, had been his great consolation. But whatright had he, with all the advantages of youth, and health, andfriends, and education, to require consolation? And then from momentto moment he thought of the woman whom he had left in the cabin, andconfessed that he did not dare to call himself unhappy. 

He had listened attentively, although he did thus think of othereloquence besides that of the countess--of the eloquence of thatsilent, solitary, dying woman; but when she had done he hardly knewwhat to say for himself. She did make him feel that it would beungenerous in him to persist in his engagement; but then again, Clara's letters and his sister's arguments had made him feel that itwas impossible to abandon it. They pleaded of heart-feelings so wellthat he could not resist them; and the countess--she pleaded so wellas to world's prudence that he could not resist her. 

"I would not willingly do anything to injure Lady Clara, " he said. 

"That's what we all knew, " said the young earl. "You see, what is agirl to do like her? Love in a cottage is all very well, and allthat; and as for riches, I don't care about them. It would be a pityif I did, for I shall be about the poorest nobleman in the threekingdoms, I suppose. But a chap when he marries should havesomething; shouldn't he now?"

To tell the truth the earl had been very much divided in hisopinions since he had come home, veering round a point or two thisway or a point or two that, in obedience to the blast of eloquenceto which he might be last subjected. But latterly the idea had grownupon him that Clara might possibly marry Owen Fitzgerald. There wasabout Owen a strange fascination which all felt who had once lovedhim. To the world he was rough and haughty, imperious in hiscommands, and exacting even in his fellowship; but to the few whomhe absolutely loved, whom he had taken into his heart's core, no manever was more tender or more gracious. Clara, though she hadresolved to banish him from her heart, had found it impossible to doso till Herbert's misfortunes had given him a charm in her eyeswhich was not all his own. Clara's mother had loved him--had lovedhim as she never before had loved; and now she loved him still, though she had so strongly determined that her love should be thatof a mother, and not that of a wife. And the young earl, now thatOwen's name was again rife in his ears, remembered all thepleasantness of former days. He had never again found such acompanion as Owen had been. He had met no other friend to whom hecould talk of sport and a man's outward pleasures when his mind wasthat way given, and to whom he could also talk of soft inwardthings, --the heart's feelings, and aspirations, and wants. Owenwould be as tender with him as a woman, allowing the young lad's armround his body, listening to words which the outer world would havecalled bosh--and have derided as girlish. So at least thought theyoung earl to himself. And all boys long to be allowed utteranceoccasionally for these soft tender things;--as also do all men, unless the devil's share in the world has become altogetheruppermost with them. 

And the young lad's heart hankered after his old friend. He hadlistened to his sister, and for a while had taken her part; but hismother had since whispered to him that Owen would now be the bettersuitor, the preferable brother-in-law; and that in fact Clara lovedOwen the best, though she felt herself bound by honour to hiskinsman. And then she reminded her son of Clara's former love forOwen--a love which he himself had witnessed; and he thought of theday when with so much regret he had told his friend that he wasunsuited to wed with an earl's penniless daughter. Of the subsequentpleasantness which had come with Herbert's arrival, he had seenlittle or nothing. He had been told by letter that HerbertFitzgerald, the prosperous heir of Castle Richmond, was to be hisfuture brother-in-law, and he had been satisfied. But now, if Owencould return--how pleasant it would be!

"But a chap when he marries should have something; shouldn't henow?" So spoke the young earl, re-echoing his mother's prudence. 

Herbert did not quite like this interference on the boy's part. Washe to explain to a young lad from Eton what his future intentionswere with reference to his mode of living and period of marriage?"Of course, " he said, addressing himself to the countess, "Ishall not insist on an engagement made under such differentcircumstances. "

"Nor will you allow her to do so through a romantic feeling ofgenerosity, " said the countess. 

"You should know your own daughter, Lady Desmond, better than I do, "he answered; "but I cannot say what I may do at her instance till Ishall have seen her. "

"Do you mean to say that you will allow a girl of her age to talkyou into a proceeding which you know to be wrong?"

"I will allow no one, " he said, "to talk me into a proceeding whichI know to be wrong; nor will I allow any one to talk me out of aproceeding which I believe to be right. " And then, having utteredthese somewhat grandiloquent words, he shut himself up as thoughthere were no longer any need for discussing the subject. 

"My poor child!" said the countess, in a low tremulous voice, asthough she did not intend him to hear them. "My poor unfortunatechild!" Herbert as he did hear them thought of the woman in thecabin, and of her misfortunes and of her children. "Come, Patrick, "continued the countess, "it is perhaps useless for us to sayanything further at present. If you will remain here, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a minute or two, I will send Lady Clara to wait uponyou;" and then curtsying with great dignity she withdrew, and theyoung earl scuffled out after her. "Mamma, " he said, as he went, "heis determined that he will have her. "

"My poor child!" answered the countess. 

"And if I were in his place I should be determined also. You may aswell give it up. Not but that I like Owen a thousand times thebest. "

Herbert did wait there for some five minutes, and then the door wasopened very gently, was gently closed again, and Clara Desmond wasin the room. He came towards her respectfully, holding out his handthat he might take hers; but before he had thought of how she wouldact she was in his arms. Hitherto, of all betrothed maidens, she hadbeen the most retiring. Sometimes he had thought her cold when shehad left the seat by his side to go and nestle closely by hissister. She had avoided the touch of his hand and the pressure ofhis arm, and had gone from him speechless, if not with anger thenwith dismay, when he had carried the warmth of his love beyond thetouch of his hand or the pressure of his arm. But now she rushedinto his embrace and hid her face upon his shoulder, as though shewere over glad to return to the heart from which those around herhad endeavoured to banish her. Was he or was he not to speak of hislove? That had been the question which he had asked himself whenleft alone there for those five minutes, with the eloquence of thecountess ringing in his ears. Now that question had in truth beenanswered for him. 

"Herbert, " she said, "Herbert! I have so sorrowed for you; but Iknow that you have borne it like a man. "

She was thinking of what he had now half forgotten, --the positionwhich he had lost, those hopes which had all been shipwrecked, histitle surrendered to another, and his lost estates. She was thinkingof them as the loss affected him, but he, he had reconciled himselfto all that, --unless all that were to separate him from his promisedbride. 

"Dearest Clara, " he said, with his arm close round her waist, whileneither anger nor dismay appeared to disturb the sweetness of thatposition, "the letter which you wrote me has been my chief comfort. "Now if he had any intention of liberating Clara from the bond ofher engagement, --if he really had any feeling that it behoved himnot to involve her in the worldly losses which had come uponhim, --he was taking a very bad way of carrying out his views in thatrespect. Instead of confessing the comfort which he had receivedfrom that letter, and holding her close to his breast while he didconfess it, he should have stood away from her--quite as far apartas he had done from the countess; and he should have argued withher, showing her how foolish and imprudent her letter had been, explaining that it behoved her now to repress her feelings, andteaching her that peers' daughters as well as housemaids should lookout for situations which would suit them, guided by prudence and aview to the wages, --not follow the dictates of impulse and of theheart. This is what he should have done, according, I believe, tothe views of most men and women. Instead of that he held her thereas close as he could hold her, and left her to do the most of thespeaking. I think he was right. According to my ideas woman's loveshould be regarded as fair prize of war, --as long as the war hasbeen earned on with due adherence to the recognized law of nations. When it has been fairly won, let it be firmly held. I have noopinion of that theory of giving up. 

"You knew that I would not abandon you! Did you not know it? saythat you knew it?" said Clara, and then she insisted on having ananswer. 

"I could hardly dare to think that there was so much happiness leftfor me, " said Herbert. 

"Then you were a traitor to your love, sir; a false traitor. " Butdeep as was the offence for which she arraigned him, it was clear tosee that the pardon came as quick as the conviction. "And wasEmmeline so untrue to me also as to believe that?"

"Emmeline said--" and then he told her what Emmeline had said. 

"Dearest, dearest Emmeline! give her a whole cart-load of love fromme; now mind you do, --and to Mary, too. And remember this, sir; thatI love Emmeline ten times better than I do you; twenty times--, because she knew me. Oh, if she had mistrusted me--!"

"And do you think that I mistrusted you?"

"Yes, you did; you know you did, sir. You wrote and told me so;--andnow, this very day, you come here to act as though you mistrusted mestill. You know you have, only you have not the courage to go onwith the acting. "

And then he began to defend himself, showing how ill it would havebecome him to have kept her bound to her engagements had she fearedpoverty as most girls in her position would have feared it. But onthis point she would not hear much from him, lest the very fact ofher hearing it should make it seem that such a line of conduct werepossible to her. 

"You know nothing about most girls, sir, or about any, I am afraid;not even about one. And if most girls were frightfully heartless, which they are not, what right had you to liken me to most girls?Emmeline knew better, and why could not you take her as a type ofmost girls? You have behaved very badly, Master Herbert, and youknow it; and nothing on earth shall make me forgive you;nothing--but your promise that you will not so misjudge me anymore. " And then the tears came to his eyes, and her face was againhidden on his shoulder. 

It was not very probable that after such a commencement theinterview would terminate in a manner favourable to the wishes ofthe countess. Clara swore to her lover that she had given him allthat she had to give, --her heart, and will, and very self; andswore, also, that she could not and would not take back the gift. She would remain as she was now as long as he thought proper, andwould come to him whenever he should tell her that his home waslarge enough for them both. And so that matter was settled betweenthem. 

Then she had much to say about his mother and sisters, and a wordtoo about his poor father. And now that it was settled between themso fixedly, that come what might they were to float together in thesame boat down the river of life, she had a question or two also toask, and her approbation to give or to withhold, as to his futureprospects. He was not to think, she told him, of deciding onanything without at any rate telling her. So he had to explain toher all the family plans, making her know why he had decided on thelaw as his own path to fortune, and asking for and obtaining herconsent to all his proposed measures. 

In this way her view of the matter became more and more firmlyadopted as that which should be the view resolutely to be taken bythem both. The countess had felt that that interview would be fatalto her; and she had been right. But how could she have prevented it?Twenty times she had resolved that she would prevent it; but twentytimes she had been forced to confess that she was powerless to doso. In these days a mother even can only exercise such power over achild as public opinion permits her to use. "Mother, it was you whobrought us together, and you cannot separate us now. " That hadalways been Clara's argument, leaving the countess helpless, exceptas far as she could work on Herbert's generosity. That she hadtried, --and, as we have seen, been foiled there also. If only shecould have taken her daughter away while the Castle Richmond familywere still mersed in the bitter depth of their suffering, --at thatmoment when the blows were falling on them! Then, indeed, she mighthave done something; but she was not like other titled mothers. Insuch a step as this she was absolutely without the means. 

Thus talking together they remained closeted fora mostunconscionable time. Clara had had her purpose to carry out, and toHerbert the moments had been too precious to cause him any regret asthey passed. But now at last a knock was heard at the door, and LadyDesmond, without waiting for an answer to it, entered the room. Clara immediately started from her seat, not as though she wereeither guilty or tremulous, but with a brave resolve to go on withher purposed plan. 

"Mamma, " she said, "it is fixed now; it cannot be altered now. "

"What is fixed, Clara?"

"Herbert and I have renewed our engagement, and nothing must nowbreak it, unless we die. "

"Mr. Fitzgerald, if this be true your conduct to my daughter hasbeen unmanly as well as ungenerous. "

"Lady Desmond, it is true; and I think that my conduct is neitherunmanly nor ungenerous. "

"Your own relations are against you, sir. "

"What relations?" asked Clara, sharply. 

"I am not speaking to you, Clara; your absurdity and romance are sogreat that I cannot speak to you. "

"What relations, Herbert?" again asked Clara; for she would not forthe world have had Lady Fitzgerald against her. 

"Lady Desmond has, I believe, seen my Aunt Letty two or three timeslately; I suppose she must mean her. "

"Oh, " said Clara, turning away as though she were now satisfied. Andthen Herbert, escaping from the house as quickly as he could, rodehome with a renewal of that feeling of triumph which he had onceenjoyed before when returning from Desmond Court to Castle Richmond. 

On the next day Herbert started for London. The parting was sadenough, and the occasion of it was such that it could hardly beotherwise. "I am quite sure of one thing, " he said to his sisterEmmeline, "I shall never see Castle Richmond again. " And, indeed, one may say that small as might be his chance of doing so, his wishto do so must be still less. There could be no possible inducementto him to come back to a place which had so nearly been his own, andthe possession of which he had lost in so painful a manner. Everytree about the place, every path across the wide park, every hedgeand ditch and hidden leafy corner, had had for him a specialinterest, --for they had all been his own. But all that was now over. They were not only not his own, but they belonged to one who wasmounting into his seat of power over his head. 

He had spent the long evening before his last dinner in going roundthe whole demesne alone, so that no eye should witness what he felt. None but those who have known the charms of a country-house early inlife can conceive the intimacy to which a man attains with all thevarious trifling objects round his own locality; how he knows thebark of every tree, and the bend of every bough; how he has markedwhere the rich grass grows in tufts, and where the poorer soil isalways dry and bare; how he watches the nests of the rooks, and theholes of the rabbits, and has learned where the thrushes build, andcan show the branch on which the linnet sits. All these things hadbeen dear to Herbert, and they all required at his hand some lastfarewell. Every dog, too, he had to see, and to lay his hand on theneck of every horse. This making of his final adieu under suchcircumstances was melancholy enough. 

And then, too, later in the evening, after dinner, all the servantswere called into the parlour that he might shake hands with them. There was not one of them who had not hoped, as lately as threemonths since, that he or she would live to call Herbert Fitzgeraldmaster. Indeed, he had already been their master--their youngmaster. All Irish servants especially love to pay respect to the"young masther;" but Herbert now was to be their master no longer, and the probability was that he would never see one of them again. 

He schooled himself to go through the ordeal with a manly gait andwith dry eyes, and he did it; but their eyes were not dry, not eventhose of the men. Mrs. Jones and a favourite girl whom the youngladies patronized were not of the number, for it had been decidedthat they should follow the fortunes of their mistress; but Richardwas there, standing a little apart from the others, as being now ona different footing. He was to go also, but before the scene wasover he also had taken to sobbing violently. 

"I wish you all well and happy, " said Herbert, making his littlespeech, "and regret deeply that the intercourse between us should bethus suddenly severed. You have served me and mine well and truly, and it is hard upon you now, that you should be bid to go and seekanother home elsewhere. "

"It isn't that we mind, Mr. Herbert; it ain't that as frets us, "said one of the men. 

"It ain't that at all, at all, " said Richard, doing chorus; "butthat yer honour should be robbed of what is yer honour's own. "

"But you all know that we cannot help it, " continued Herbert; "amisfortune has come upon us which nobody could have foreseen, andtherefore we are obliged to part with our old friends and servants. "

At the word friends the maid-servants all sobbed. "And 'deed we isyour frinds, and true frinds, too, " wailed the cook. 

"I know you are, and it grieves me to feel that I shall see you nomore. But you must not be led to think by what Richard says thatanybody is depriving me of that which ought to be my own. I am nowleaving Castle Richmond because it is not my own, but justly belongsto another, --to another who, I must in justice tell you, is in nohurry to claim his inheritance. We none of us have any ground fordispleasure against the present owner of this place, my cousin, SirOwen Fitzgerald. "

"We don't know nothing about Sir Owen, " said one voice. 

"And don't want, " said another, convulsed with sobs. 

"He's a very good sort of young gentleman--of his own kind, nodoubt, " said Richard. 

"But you can all of you understand, " continued Herbert, "that asthis place is no longer our own, we are obliged to leave it; and aswe shall live in a very different way in the home to which we aregoing, we are obliged to part with you, though we have no reason tofind fault with any one among you. I am going to-morrow morningearly, and my mother and sisters will follow after me in a fewweeks. It will be a sad thing too for them to say good-bye to youall, as it is for me now; but it cannot be helped. God bless youall, and I hope that you will find good masters and kind mistresses, with whom you may live comfortably, as I hope you have done here. "

"We can't find no other mistresses like her leddyship, " sobbed outthe senior housemaid. 

"There ain't niver such a one in the county Cork, " said the cook;"in a week of Sundays you wouldn't hear the breath out of her aboveher own swait nathural voice. "

"I've driv' her since iver--" began Richard; but he was going to saysince ever she was married, but he remembered that this allusionwould be unbecoming, so he turned his face to the doorpost, andbegan to wail bitterly. 

And then Herbert shook hands with them all, and it was pretty to seehow the girls wiped their hands in their aprons before they gavethem to him, and how they afterwards left the room with their apronsup to their faces. The women walked out first, and then the men, hanging down their heads, and muttering as they went, each somelittle prayer that fortune and prosperity might return to the houseof Fitzgerald. The property might go, but according to their viewsHerbert was always, and always would be, the head of the house. Andthen, last of all, Richard went. "There ain't one of 'em, Mr. Herbert, as wouldn't guv his fist to go wid yer, and think nothingabout the wages. "

He was to start very early, and his packing was all completed thatnight. "I do so wish we were going with you, " said Emmeline, sittingin his room on the top of a corded box, which was to follow him bysome slower conveyance. 

"And I do so wish I was staying with you, " said he. 

"What is the good of staying here now?" said she; "what pleasure canthere be in it? I hardly dare to go outside the house door for fearI should be seen. "

"But why? We have done nothing that we need be ashamed of. "

"No; I know that. But, Herbert, do you not find that the pity of thepeople is hard to bear? It is written in their eyes, and meets oneat every turn. "

"We shall get rid of that very soon. In a few months we shall beclean forgotten. "

"I do not know about being forgotten. "

"You will be as clean forgotten, --as though you had never existed. And all these servants who are now so fond of us, in three months'time will be just as fond of Owen Fitzgerald, if he will let themstay here; it's the way of the world. "

That Herbert should have indulged in a little morbid misanthropy onsuch an occasion was not surprising. But I take leave to think thathe was wrong in his philosophy; we do make new friends when we loseour old friends, and the heart is capable of cure as is the body;were it not so, how terrible would be our fate in this world! But weare so apt to find fault with God's goodness to us in this respect, arguing, of others if not of ourselves, that the heart once widowedshould remain a widow through all rime. I, for one, think that theheart should receive its new spouses with what alacrity it may, andalways with thankfulness. 

"I suppose Lady Desmond will let us see Clara, " said Emmeline. 

"Of course you must see her. If you knew how much she talks aboutyou, you would not think of leaving Ireland without seeing her. "

"Dear Clara! I am sure she does not love me better than I do her. But suppose that Lady Desmond won't let us see her! and I know thatit will be so. That grave old man with the bald head will come outand say that 'the Lady Clara is not at home, ' and then we shall haveto leave without seeing her. But it does not matter with her as itmight with others, for I know that her heart will be with us. "

"If you write beforehand to say that you are coming, and explainthat you are doing so to say good-bye, then I think they will admityou. "

"Yes; and the countess would take care to be there, so that I couldnot say one word to Clara about you. Oh, Herbert! I would giveanything if I could have her here for one day, --only for one day. "But when they talked it over they both of them decided that thiswould not be practicable. Clara could not stay away from her ownhouse without her mother's leave, and it was not probable that hermother would give her permission to stay at Castle Richmond. 

CHAPTER XXXV

HERBERT FITZGERALD IN LONDON

On the following morning the whole household was up and dressed veryearly. Lady Fitzgerald--the poor lady made many futile attempts todrop her title, but hitherto without any shadow of success--LadyFitzgerald was down in the breakfast parlour at seven, as also wereAunt Letty, and Mary, and Emmeline. Herbert had begged his mothernot to allow herself to be disturbed, alleging that there was nocause, seeing that they all so soon would meet in London; but shewas determined that she would superintend his last meal at CastleRichmond. The servants brought in the trays with melancholy silence, and now that the absolute moment of parting had come the girls couldnot speak lest the tears should come and choke them. It was not thatthey were about to part with him; that parting would only be for amonth. But he was now about to part from all that ought to have beenhis own. He sat down at the table in his accustomed place, with aforced smile on his face, but without a word, and his sisters putbefore him his cup of tea, and the slice of ham that had been cutfor him, and his portion of bread. That he was making an effort theyall saw. He bowed his head down over the tea to sip it, and took theknife in his hand, and then he looked up at them, for he knew thattheir eyes were on him; he looked up at them to show that he couldstill endure it. But, alas! he could not endure it. The struggle wastoo much for him; he pushed his plate violently from him into themiddle of the table, and dropping his head upon his hands, he burstforth into audible lamentations. 

Oh, my friends! be not hard on him in that he was thus weeping likea woman. It was not for his lost wealth that he was wailing, noreven for the name or splendour that could be no longer his; nor wasit for his father's memory, though he had truly loved his father;nor for his mother's sorrow, or the tragedy of her life's history. For none of these things were his tears flowing and his sobs comingso violently that it nearly choked him to repress them. Nor could hehimself have said why he was weeping. 

It was the hundred small things from which he was parting for everthat thus disturbed him. The chair on which he sat, the carpet onthe floor, the table on which he leaned, the dull old picture of hisgreat-grandfather over the fire-place, --they were all his oldfamiliar friends, they were all part of Castle Richmond, --of thatCastle Richmond which he might never be allowed to see again. 

His mother and sisters came to him, hanging over him, and theyjoined their tears together. "Do not tell her that I was like this, "said he at last. 

"She will love you the better for it if she has a true woman's heartwithin her breast, " said his mother. 

"As true a heart as ever breathed, " said Emmeline, through her sobs. 

And then they pressed him to eat, but it was in vain. He knew thatthe food would choke him if he attempted it. So he gulped down thecup of tea, and with one kiss to his mother he rushed from them, refusing Aunt Letty's proffered embrace, passing through the line ofservants without another word to one of them, and burying himself inthe post-chaise which was to carry him the first stage on hismelancholy journey. 

It was a melancholy journey all through. From the time that he leftthe door at Castle Richmond that was no longer his own, till hereached the Euston Station in London, he spoke no word to any onemore than was absolutely necessary for the purposes of histravelling. Nothing could be more sad than the prospect of hisresidence in London. Not that he was without friends there, for hebelonged to a fashionable club to which he could still adhere if itso pleased him, and had all his old Oxford comrades to fall backupon if that were of any service to him. But how is a man to walkinto his club who yesterday was known as his father's eldest son andthe heir to a baronetcy and twelve thousand a year, and who to-dayis known as nobody's son and the heir to nothing? Men would feel somuch for him and pity him so deeply! That was the worst feature ofhis present position. He could hardly dare to show himself more thanwas absolutely necessary till the newness of his tragedy was wornoff. 

Mr. Prendergast had taken lodgings for him, in which he was toremain till he could settle himself in the same house with hismother. And this house, in which they were all to live, had alsobeen taken, --up in that cheerful locality near Harrow-on-the-Hill, called St. John's Wood Road, the cab fares to which from any centralpart of London are so very ruinous. But that house was not yetready, and so he went into lodgings in Lincoln's Inn Fields. Mr. Prendergast had chosen this locality because it was near thechambers of that great Chancery barrister, Mr. Die, under whosebeneficent wing Herbert Fitzgerald was destined to learn all themysteries of the Chancery bar. The sanctuary of Mr. Die's wig was inStone Buildings, immediately close to that milky way ofvice-chancellors, whose separate courts cluster about the old chapelof Lincoln's Inn; and here was Herbert to sit, studious, for thenext three years, --to sit there instead of at the various reliefcommittees in the vicinity of Kanturk. And why could he not be ashappy at the one as at the other? Would not Mr. Die be as amusing asMr. Townsend; and the arguments of Vice-Chancellor Stuart's courtquite as instructive as those heard in the committee room atGortnaclough?

On the morning of his arrival in London he drove to his lodgings, and found a note there from Mr. Prendergast asking him to dinner onthat day, and promising to take him to Mr. Die on the followingmorning. Mr. Prendergast kept a bachelor's house in BloomsburySquare, not very far from Lincoln's Inn--just across Holborn, as allLondoners know; and there he would expect Herbert at seven o'clock. "I will not ask any one to meet you, " he said, "because you will betired after your journey, and perhaps more inclined to talk to methan to strangers. "

Mr. Prendergast was one of those old-fashioned people who thinkthat a spacious substantial house in Bloomsbury Square, at a rent ofa hundred and twenty pounds a year, is better worth having than anarrow, lath-and-plaster, ill-built tenement at nearly double theprice out westward of the Parks. A quite new man is necessarilyafraid of such a locality as Bloomsbury Square, for he has no chanceof getting any one into his house if he do not live westward. Whowould dine with Mr. Jones in Woburn Terrace, unless he had known Mr. Jones all his days, or unless Jones were known as a top sawyer insome walk of life? But Mr. Prendergast was well enough known to hisold friends to be allowed to live where he pleased, and he was notvery anxious to add to their number by any new fashionableallurements. 

Herbert sent over to Bloomsbury Square to say that he would be thereat seven o'clock, and then sat himself down in his new lodgings. Itwas but a dingy abode, consisting of a narrow sitting-room lookingout into the big square from over a covered archway, and a narrowerbedroom looking backwards into a dull, dirty-looking, crookedstreet. Nothing, he thought, could be more melancholy than such ahome. But then, what did it signify? His days would be passed in Mr. Die's chambers, and his evenings would be spent over his law bookswith closed windows and copious burnings of the midnight oil. ForHerbert had wisely resolved that hard work, and hard work alone, could mitigate the misery of the present position. 

But he had no work for the present day. He could not at once unpackhis portmanteau and begin his law studies on the moment. It wasabout noon when he had completed the former preparation, and eatensuch breakfast as his new London landlady had gotten for him. Andthe breakfast had not of itself been bad, for Mrs. Whereas had beena daughter of Themis all her life, waiting upon scions of the lawsince first she had been able to run for a penn'orth of milk. Shehad been laundress on a stairs for ten years, having married a lawstationer's apprentice, and now she owned the dingy house over thecovered way, and let her own lodgings with her own furniture; norwas she often without friends who would recommend her zeal andhonesty, and make excuse for the imperiousness of her ways and thetoo great fluency of her by no means servile tongue. 

"Oh, Mrs. --, " said Herbert, "I beg your pardon, but might I ask yourname?"

"No offence, sir, none in life. My name's Whereas. Martha Whereas, and 'as been now for five-and-twenty year. There be'ant many of thegen'lemen about the courts here as don't know some'at of me. And Iknew some'at of them too, before they carried their wigs so grandly. My husband, that's Whereas, --you'll all'ays find him at the littlestationer's shop outside the gate in Carey Street. You'll know himsome of these days, I'll go bail, if you're going to Mr. Die;anyways you'll know his handwrite. Tea to your liking, sir? Iall'ays gets cream for gentlemen, sir, unless they tells me not. Milk a 'alfpenny, sir; cream tuppence; three 'alfpence difference;hain't it, sir? So now you can do as you pleases, and if you likebacon and heggs to your breakfastesses you've only to say the words. But then the heggs hain't heggs, that's the truth; and they hain'tchickens, but some'at betwixt the two. "

And so she went on during the whole time that he was eating, movingabout from place to place, and putting back into the places whichshe had chosen for them anything which he had chanced to move; nowdusting a bit of furniture with her apron, and then leaning on theback of a chair while she asked him some question as to his habitsand future mode of living. She also wore a bonnet, apparently as acustomary part of her house costume, and Herbert could not helpthinking that she looked very like his Aunt Letty. 

But when she had gone and taken the breakfast things with her, thenbegan the tedium of the day. It seemed to him as though he had nomeans of commencing his life in London until he had been with Mr. Prendergast or Mr. Die. And so new did it all feel to him, sostrange and wonderful, that he hardly dared to go out of the houseby himself and wander about the premises of the Inn. He was notabsolutely a stranger in London, for he had been elected at a clubbefore he had left Oxford, and had been up in town twice, staying oneach occasion some few weeks. Had he therefore been asked about themetropolis some four months since at Castle Richmond, he would haveprofessed that he knew it well. Starting from Pall Mall he couldhave gone to any of the central theatres, or to the Parks, or to thehouses of Parliament, or to the picture galleries in June. But nowin that dingy big square he felt himself to be absolutely astranger; and when he did venture out he watched the corners, inorder that he might find his way back without asking questions. 

And then he roamed round the squares and about the little courts, and found out where were Stone Buildings, --so called because theyare so dull and dead and stony-hearted; and as his courage increasedhe made his way into one of the courts, and stood up for a while onan uncomfortable narrow step, so that he might watch the proceedingsas they went on, and it all seemed to him to be dull and deadly. There was no life and amusement such as he had seen at the AssizeCourt in county Cork, when he was sworn in as one of the Grand Jury. There the gentlemen in wigs--for on the Munster circuit they do wearwigs, or at any rate did then--laughed and winked and talkedtogether joyously; and when a Roman Catholic fisherman fromBerehaven was put into the dock for destroying the boat and nets ofa Protestant fisherman from Dingle in county Kerry, who had chancedto come that way, "not fishing at all, at all, yer honour, but justsouping, " as the Papist prisoner averred with great emphasis, thegentlemen of the robe had gone to the fight with all the animationand courage of Matadors and Picadors in a bull-ring. It wasdelightful to see the way in which Roman Catholic skill combatedProtestant fury, with a substratum below of Irish fun which showedto everybody that is was not all quite in earnest;--that the greatO'Fagan and the great Fitzberesford could sit down togetherafterwards with all the pleasure in life over their modicum ofclaret in the barristers' room at the Imperial hotel. And then thejudge had added to the life of the meeting, helping to bamboozle andmake miserable a wretch of a witness who had been caught in the actof seeing the boat smashed with a fragment of rock, and was now, inconsequence, being impaled alive by his lordship's assistance. 

"What do you say your name is?" demanded his lordship, angrily. 

"Rowland Houghton, " said the miserable stray Saxon tourist who hadso unfortunately strayed that way on the occasion. 

"What?" repeated the judge, whose ears were sharper to such soundsas O'Shaughnessy, Macgillycuddy, and O'Callaghan. 

"Rowland Houghton, " said the offender, in his distress; quicker, louder, and perhaps not more distinctly than before. 

"What does the man say?" said the judge, turning his head downtowards a satellite who sat on a bench beneath his cushion. 

The gentleman appealed to pronounced the name for the judge'shearing with a full rolling Irish brogue, that gave great delightthrough all the court: "R-rowland Hough-h-ton, me lor-r-d. "

Whereupon his lordship threw up his hands in dismay. "Oulan Outan!"said he. "Oulan Outan! I never heard such a name in my life!" Andthen, having thoroughly impaled the wicked witness, and addedmaterially to the amusement of the day, the judge wrote down thename in his book; and there it is to this day, no doubt, OulanOutan. And when one thinks of it, it was monstrous that an Englishwitness should go into an Irish law court with such a name asRowland Houghton. 

But here, in the dark dingy court to which Herbert had penetrated inLincoln's Inn, there was no such life as this. Here, whatever skillthere might be, was of a dark subterranean nature, quiteunintelligible to any minds but those of experts; and as for fury orfun, there was no spark either of one or of the other. The judge satback in his seat, a tall, handsome, speechless man, not asleep, forhis eye from time to time moved slowly from the dingy barrister whowas on his legs to another dingy barrister who was sitting with hishands in his pockets, and with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. Thegentleman who was in the act of pleading had a huge open paper inhis hand, from which he droned forth certain legal quiddities of thedullest and most uninteresting nature. He was in earnest, for therewas a perpetual energy in his drone, as a droning bee might dronewho was known to drone louder than other drones. But it was acontinuous energy supported by perseverance, and not by impulse; andseemed to come of a fixed determination to continue the reading ofthat paper till all the world should be asleep. A great part of theworld around was asleep; but the judge's eye was still open, and onemight say that the barrister was resolved to go on till that eyeshould have become closed in token of his success. 

Herbert remained there for an hour, thinking that he might learnsomething that would be serviceable to him in his coming legalcareer; but at the end of the hour the same thing was going on, --thejudge's eye was still open, and the lawyer's drone was stillsounding; and so he came away, having found himself absolutelydozing in the uncomfortable position in which he was standing. 

At last the day wore away, and at seven o'clock he found himself inMr. Prendergast's hall in Bloomsbury Square; and his hat andumbrella were taken away from him by an old servant looking verymuch like Mr. Prendergast himself;--having about him the same lookof the stiffness of years, and the same look also of excellentpreservation and care. 

"Mr. Prendergast is in the library, sir, if you please, " said theold servant; and so saying he ushered Herbert into the backdown-stairs room. It was a spacious, lofty apartment, well fitted upfor a library, and furnished for that purpose with exceedingcare;--such a room as one does not find in the flashy new houses inthe west, where the dining-room and drawing-room occupy all of thehouse that is visible. But then, how few of those who live in flashynew houses in the west require to have libraries in London!

As he entered the room Mr. Prendergast came forward to meet him, andseemed heartily glad to see him. There was a cordiality about himwhich Herbert had never recognized at Castle Richmond, and anappearance of enjoyment which had seemed to be almost foreign to thelawyer's nature. Herbert perhaps had not calculated, as he shouldhave done, that Mr. Prendergast's mission in Ireland had notadmitted of much enjoyment. Mr. Prendergast had gone there to do ajob of work, and that he had done, very thoroughly; but he certainlyhad not enjoyed himself. 

There was time for only few words before the old man again enteredthe room, announcing dinner; and those few words had no referencewhatever to the Castle Richmond sorrow. He had spoken of Herbert'slodging, and of his journey, and a word or two of Mr. Die, and thenthey went in to dinner. And at dinner too the conversation whollyturned upon indifferent matters, upon reform at Oxford, the state ofparties, and of the peculiar idiosyncrasies of the Irish Low Churchclergymen, on all of which subjects Herbert found that Mr. Prendergast had a tolerably strong opinion of his own. The dinnerwas very good, though by no means showy, --as might have beenexpected in a house in Bloomsbury Square--and the wine excellent, as might have been expected in any house inhabited by Mr. Prendergast. 

And then, when the dinner was over, and the old servant had slowlyremoved his last tray, when they had each got into an arm-chair, andwere seated at properly comfortable distances from the fire, Mr. Prendergast began to talk freely; not that he at once plunged intothe middle of the old history, or began with lugubrious force torecapitulate the horrors that were now partly over; but gradually heveered round to those points as to which he thought it good that heshould speak before setting Herbert at work on his new London life. 

"You drink claret, I suppose?" said Mr. Prendergast, as he adjusteda portion of the table for their evening symposium. 

"Oh yes, " said Herbert, not caring very much at that moment what thewine was. 

"You'll find that pretty good; a good deal better than what you'llget in most houses in London nowadays. But you know a man alwayslikes his own wine, and especially an old man. "

Herbert said something about it being very good, but did not givethat attention to the matter which Mr. Prendergast thought that itdeserved. Indeed, he was thinking more about Mr. Die and StoneBuildings than about the wine. 

"And how do you find my old friend Mrs. Whereas?" asked the lawyer. 

"She seems to be a very attentive sort of woman. "

"Yes; rather too much so sometimes. People do say that she neverknows how to hold her tongue. But she won't rob you, nor yet poisonyou; and in these days that is saying a very great deal for a womanin London. " And then there was a pause, as Mr Prendergast sipped hiswine with slow complacency. "And we are to go to Mr. Die to-morrow, I suppose?" he said, beginning again. To which Herbert replied thathe would be ready at any time in the morning that might be suitable. 

"The sooner you get into harness the better. It is not only that youhave much to learn, but you have much to forget also. "

"Yes, " said Herbert, "I have much to forget indeed; more than I canforget, I'm afraid, Mr. Prendergast. "

"There is, I fancy, no sorrow which a man cannot forget; that is, asfar as the memory of it is likely to be painful to him. You will notabsolutely cease to remember Castle Richmond and all itscircumstances; you will still think of the place and all the peoplewhom you knew there; but you will learn to do so without the painwhich of course you now suffer. That is what I mean by forgetting. "

"Oh, I don't complain, sir. "

"No, I know you don't; and that is the reason why I am so anxious tosee you happy. You have borne the whole matter so well that I amquite sure that you will be able to live happily in this new life. That is what I mean when I say that you will forget CastleRichmond. "

Herbert bethought himself of Clara Desmond, and of the woman whom hehad seen in the cabin, and reflected that even at present he had noright to be unhappy. 

"I suppose you have no thought of going back to Ireland?" said Mr. Prendergast. 

"Oh, none in the least. "

"On the whole I think you are right. No doubt a family connection isa great assistance to a barrister, and there would be reasons whichwould make attorneys in Ireland throw business into your hands at anearly period of your life. Your history would give you an eclatthere, if you know what I mean. "

"Oh yes, perfectly; but I don't want that. "

"No. It is a kind of assistance which in my opinion a man should notdesire. In the first place, it does not last. A man so buoyed up isapt to trust to such support, instead of his own steady exertions;and the firmest of friends won't stick to a lawyer long if he canget better law for his money elsewhere. "

"There should be no friendship in such matters, I think. "

"Well, I won't say that. But the friendship should come of theservice, not the service of the friendship. Good, hard, steady, andenduring work, --work that does not demand immediate acknowledgmentand reward, but that can afford to look forward for its results, --it is that, and that only, which in my opinion will insure to aman permanent success. "

"It is hard though for a poor man to work so many years without anincome, " said Herbert, thinking of Lady Clara Desmond. 

"Not hard if you get the price of your work at last. But you canhave your choice. A moderate fixed income can now be had by anybarrister early in life, --by any barrister of fair parts and soundacquirements. There are more barristers now filling salaried placesthan practising in the courts. "

"But those places are given by favour. "

"No; not so generally, --or if by favour, by that sort of favourwhich is as likely to come to you as to another. Such places are notgiven to incompetent young men because their fathers and mothers askfor them. But won't you fill your glass?"

"I am doing very well, thank you. "

"You'll do better if you'll fill your glass, and let me have thebottle back. But you are thinking of the good old historical dayswhen you talk of barristers having to wait for their incomes. Therehas been a great change in that respect, --for the better, as you ofcourse will think. Nowadays a man is taken away from his boat-racingand his skittle-ground to be made a judge. A little law and a greatfund of physical strength--that is the extent of the demand. " AndMr. Prendergast plainly showed by the tone of his voice that he didnot admire the wisdom of this new policy of which he spoke. 

"But I suppose a man must work five years before he can earnanything, " said Herbert, still despondingly; for five years is along time to an expectant lover. 

"Fifteen years of unpaid labour used not to be thought too great aprice to pay for ultimate success, " said Mr. Prendergast, almostsighing at the degeneracy of the age. "But men in those days wereambitious and patient. "

"And now they are ambitious and impatient, " suggested Herbert. 

"Covetous and impatient might perhaps be the truer epithets, " saidMr. Prendergast, with grim sarcasm. 

It is sad for a man to feel, when he knows that he is fast goingdown the hill of life, that the experience of old age is to be nolonger valued nor its wisdom appreciated. The elderly man of thisday thinks that he has been robbed of his chance in life. When hewas in his full physical vigour he was not old enough for mentalsuccess. He was still winning his spurs at forty. But at fifty--sodoes the world change--he learns that he is past his work. By someunconscious and unlucky leap he has passed from the unripeness ofyouth to the decay of age, without even knowing what it was to be inhis prime. A man should always seize his opportunity; but thechanges of the times in which he has lived have never allowed him tohave one. There has been no period of flood in his tide which mightlead him on to fortune. While he has been waiting patiently for highwater the ebb has come upon him. Mr. Prendergast himself had been asuccessful man, and his regrets, therefore, were philosophicalrather than practical. As for Herbert, he did not look upon thequestion at all in the same light as his elderly friend, and on thewhole was rather exhilarated by the tone of Mr. Prendergast'ssarcasm. Perhaps Mr. Prendergast had intended that such should beits effect. 

The long evening passed away cosily enough, leaving on Herbert'smind an impression that in choosing to be a barrister he hadcertainly chosen the noblest walk of life in which a man could earnhis bread. Mr. Prendergast did not promise him either fame orfortune, nor did he speak by any means in high enthusiasticlanguage; he said much of the necessity of long hours, of tediouswork, of Amaryllis left by herself in the shade, and of Neaera'slocks unheeded; but nevertheless he spoke in a manner to arouse theambition and satisfy the longings of the young man who listened tohim. There were much wisdom in what he did, and much benevolencealso. 

And then at about eleven o'clock, Herbert having sat out the secondbottle of claret, betook himself to his bed at the lodgings over thecovered way. 

CHAPTER XXXVI

HOW THE EARL WAS WON

It was not quite at first that the countess could explain to her sonhow she now wished that Owen Fitzgerald might become her son-in-law. She had been so steadfast in her opposition to Owen when the earlhad last spoken of the matter, and had said so much of the wickedlydissipated life which Owen was leading, that she feared to shock theboy. But by degrees she brought the matter round, speaking of Owen'sgreat good fortune, pointing out how much better he was suited forriches than for poverty, insisting warmly on all his good qualitiesand high feelings, and then saying at last, as it were withoutthought, "Poor Clara! She has been unfortunate, for at one time sheloved Owen Fitzgerald much better than she will ever love his cousinHerbert. "

"Do you think so, mother?"

"I am sure of it. The truth is, Patrick, you do not understand yoursister; and indeed it is hard to do so. I have also always had aninward fear that she had now engaged herself to a man whom she didnot love. Of course as things were then it was impossible that sheshould marry Owen; and I was glad to break her off from thatfeeling. But she never loved Herbert Fitzgerald. "

"Why, she is determined to have him, even now. "

"Ah, yes! That is where you do not understand her. Now, at thisspecial moment, her heart is touched by his misfortune, and shethinks herself bound by her engagement to sacrifice herself withhim. But that is not love. She has never loved any one butOwen, --and who can wonder at it? for he is a man made for a woman tolove. "

The earl said nothing for a while, but sat balancing himself on theback legs of his chair. And then, as though a new idea had struckhim, he exclaimed, "If I thought that, mother, I would find out whatOwen thinks of it himself. "

"Poor Owen!" said the countess. "There is no doubt as to what hethinks;" and then she left the room, not wishing to carry theconversation any further. 

Two days after this, and without any further hint from his mother, he betook himself along the banks of the river to Hap House. In hiscourse thither he never let his horse put a foot upon the road, butkept low down upon the water meadows, leaping over all the fences, as he had so often done with the man whom he was now going to see. It was here, among these banks, that he had received his earliestlessons in horsemanship, and they had all been given by OwenFitzgerald. It had been a thousand pities, he had thought, that Owenhad been so poor as to make it necessary for them all to discouragethat love affair with Clara. He would have been so delighted towelcome Owen as his brother-in-law. And as he strode along over theground, and landed himself knowingly over the crabbed fences, hebegan to think how much pleasanter the country would be for him ifhe had a downright good fellow and crack sportsman as his fastfriend at Castle Richmond. Sir Owen Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond!He would be the man to whom he would be delighted to give his sisterClara. 

And then he hopped in from one of Owen's fields into a small paddockat the back of Owen's house, and seeing one of the stable-boysabout the place, asked him if his master was at home. 

"Shure an' he's here thin, yer honour;" and Lord Desmond could hearthe boy whispering, "It's the young lord hisself. " In a moment OwenFitzgerald was standing by his horse's side. It was the first timethat Owen had seen one of the family since the news had been spreadabroad concerning his right to the inheritance of Castle Richmond. 

"Desmond, " said he, taking the lad's hand with one of his, andputting the other on the animal's neck, "this is very good of you. Iam delighted to see you. I had heard that you were in the country. "

"Yes; I have been home for this week past. But things are all so atsixes and sevens among us all that a fellow can't go and do justwhat he would like. "

Owen well understood what he meant. "Indeed, they are at sixes andsevens; you may well say that. But get off your horse, old fellow, and come into the house. Why, what a lather of heat the mare's in!"

"Isn't she? it's quite dreadful. That chap of ours has no more ideaof condition than I have of--of--of--of an archbishop. I've justtrotted along the fields, and put her over a ditch or two, and yousee the state she's in. It's a beastly shame. "

"I know of old what your trottings are, Desmond; and what a ditch ortwo means. You've been at every bank between this and Banteer asthough you were going for a steeple-chase plate. "

"Upon my honour, Owen--"

"Look here, Patsey. Walk that mare up and down here, between thisgate and that post, till the big sweat has all dried on her; andthen stick to her with a whisp of straw till she's as soft as silk. Do you hear?"

Patsey said that he did hear; and then Owen, throwing his arm overthe earl's shoulder, walked slowly towards the house. 

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, old boy, " said Owen, pressing his young friend with something almost like an embrace. "You will hardly believe how long it is since I have seen a facethat I cared to look at. "

"Haven't you?" said the young lord, wondering. He knew thatFitzgerald had now become heir to a very large fortune, or ratherthe possessor of that fortune, and he could not understand why a manwho had been so popular while he was poor should be deserted nowthat he was rich. 

"No, indeed, have I not. Things are all at sixes and sevens, as yousay. Let me see. Donnellan was here when you last saw me; and I wassoon tired of him when things became serious. "

"I don't wonder you were tired of him. "

"But, Desmond, how's your mother?"

"Oh, she's very well. These are bad times for poor people like us, you know. "

"And your sister?"

"She's pretty well too, thank you" And then there was a pause. "You've had a great change in your fortune since I saw you, have younot?" said the earl, after a minute or two. And there it occurred tohim for the first time, that, having refused his sister to this manwhen he was poor, he had now come to offer her to him when he wasrich. "Not that that was the reason, " he said to himself. "But itwas impossible then, and now it would be so pleasant. "

"It is a sad history, is it not?" said Owen. 

"Very sad, " said the earl, remembering, however, that he had riddenover there with his heart full of joy, --of joy occasioned by thatvery catastrophe which now, following his friend's words like aparrot, he declared to be so very sad. 

And now they were in the dining-room in which Owen usually lived, and were both standing on the rug, as two men always do stand whenthey first get into a room together. And it was clear to see thatneither of them knew how to break at once into the sort of loving, genial talk which each was longing to have with the other. It is soeasy to speak when one has little or nothing to say; but often sodifficult when there is much that must be said: and the same paradoxis equally true of writing. 

Then Owen walked away to the window, looking out among the shrubsinto which Aby Mollett had been precipitated, as though he couldcollect his thoughts there; and in a moment or two the earl followedhim, and looked out also among the shrubs. "They killed a foxexactly there the other day; didn't they?" asked the earl, indicating the spot by a nod of his head. 

"Yes, they did. " And then there was another pause. "I'll tell youwhat it is, Desmond, " Owen said at last, going back to the rug andspeaking with an effort. "As the people say, 'a sight of you is goodfor sore eyes. ' There is a positive joy to me in seeing you. It islike a cup of cold water when a man is thirsty. But I cannot put thedrink to my lips till I know on what terms we are to meet. When lastwe saw each other, we were speaking of your sister; and now that wemeet again, we must again speak of her. Desmond, all my thoughts areof her; I dream of her at night, and find myself talking to herspirit when I wake in the morning. I have much else that I ought tothink of; but I go about thinking of nothing but of her. I am toldthat she is engaged to my cousin Herbert. Nay, she has told me soherself, and I know that it is so. But if she becomes his wife--anyman's wife but mine--I cannot live in this country. "

He had not said one word of that state of things in his life'shistory of which the countryside was so full. He had spoken ofHerbert, but he had not alluded to Herbert's fall. He had spoken ofsuch hope as he still might have with reference to Clara Desmond;but he did not make the slightest reference to that change in hisfortunes--in his fortunes, and in those of his rival--which mighthave so strong a bias on those hopes, and which ought so to have inthe minds of all worldly, prudent people. It was to speak of thisspecially that Lord Desmond had come thither; and then, ifopportunity should offer, to lead away the subject to that otherone; but now Owen had begun at the wrong end. If called upon tospeak about his sister at once, what could the brother say, exceptthat she was engaged to Herbert Fitzgerald?

"Tell me this, Desmond, whom does your sister love?" said Owen, speaking almost fiercely in his earnestness. "I know so much of you, at any rate, that whatever may be your feelings you will not lie tome, "--thereby communicating to the young lord an accusation, whichhe very well understood, against the truth of the countess, hismother. 

"When I have spoken to her about this she declares that she isengaged to Herbert Fitzgerald. "

"Engaged to him! yes, I know that; I do not doubt that. It has beendinned into my ears now for the last six months till it isimpossible to doubt it. And she will marry him too, if no oneinterferes to prevent it. I do not doubt that either. But, Desmond, that is not the question that I have asked. She did love me; andthen she was ordered by her mother to abandon that love, and to giveher heart to another. That in words she has been obedient, I knowwell; but what I doubt is this, --that she has in truth been able soto chuck her heart about like a shuttlecock. I can only say that Iam not able to do it. "

How was the earl to answer him? The very line of argument whichOwen's mind was taking was exactly that which the young lord himselfdesired to promote. He too was desirous that Clara should go back toher first love. He himself thought strongly that Owen was a man morefitted than Herbert for the worshipful adoration of such a girl ashis sister Clara. But then he, Desmond, had opposed the match whileOwen was poor, and how was he to frame words by which he mightencourage it now that Owen was rich?

"I have been so little with her, that I hardly know, " he said. "But, Owen--"

"Well?"

"It is so difficult for me to talk to you about all this. "

"Is it?"

"Why, yes. You know that I have always liked you--always. No chapwas ever such a friend to me as you have been;" and he squeezedOwen's arm with strong boyish love. 

"I know all about it, " said Owen. 

"Well; then all that happened about Clara. I was young then, youknow, "--he was now sixteen--"and had not thought anything about it. The idea of you and Clara falling in love had never occurred to me. Boys are so blind, you know. But when it did happen--you rememberthat day, old fellow, when you and I met down at the gate?"

"Remember it!" said Owen. He would remember it, as he thought, whenhalf an eternity should have passed over his head. 

"And I told you then what I thought. I don't think I am a particularfellow myself about money and rank and that sort of thing. I am aspoor as a church mouse, and so I shall always remain; and for myselfI don't care about it. But for one's sister, Owen--you never had asister, had you?"

"Never, " said Owen, hardly thinking of the question. 

"One is obliged to think of such things for her. We should all go torack and ruin, the whole family of us, box and dice, --as indeed wehave pretty well already--if some of us did not begin to look aboutus. I don't suppose I shall ever marry and have a family. I couldn'tafford it, you know. And in that case Clara's son would be Earl ofDesmond; or if I died she would be Countess of Desmond in her ownright. " And the young lord looked the personification of familyprudence. 

"I know all that, " said Owen; "but you do not suppose that I wasthinking of it?"

"What; as regards yourself. No; I am sure you never did. But, looking to all that, it would never have done for her to marry a manas poor as you were. It is not a comfortable thing to be a very poornobleman, I can tell you. "

Owen again remained silent. He wanted to talk the earl over intofavouring his views, but he wanted to do so as Owen of Hap House, not as Owen of Castle Richmond. He perceived at once from the toneof the boy's voice, and even from his words, that there was nolonger anything to be feared from the brother's opposition; andperceiving this, he thought that the mother's opposition might nowperhaps also be removed. But it was quite manifest that this hadcome from what was supposed to be his altered position. "A man aspoor as you were, " Lord Desmond had said, urging that though now themarriage might be well enough, in those former days it would havebeen madness. The line of argument was very clear; but as Owen wasas poor as ever, and intended to remain so, there was nothing in itto comfort him. 

"I cannot say that I, myself, have so much worldly wisdom as youhave, " said he at last, with something like a sneer. 

"Ah, that is just what I knew you would say. You think that I amcoming to you now, and offering to make up matters between you andClara because you are rich!"

"But can you make up matters between me and Clara?" said Owen, eagerly. 

"Well, I do not know. The countess seems to think it might be so. "

And then again Owen was silent, walking about the room with hishands behind his back. Then, after all, the one thing of this worldwhich his eye regarded as desirable was within his reach. He hadthen been right in supposing that that face which had once looked upto his so full of love had been a true reflex of the girl'sheart, --that it had indicated to him love which was not changeable. It was true that Clara, having accepted a suitor at her mother'sorder, might now be allowed to come back to him! As he thought ofthis, he wondered at the endurance and obedience of a woman's heartwhich could thus give up all that it held as sacred at the instanceof another. But even this, though it was but little flattering toClara, by no means lessened the transport which he felt. He had hadthat pride in himself, that he had never ceased to believe that sheloved him. Full of that thought, of which he had not dared to speak, he had gone about, gloomily miserable since the news of herengagement with Herbert had reached him, and now he learned, as hethought with certainty, that his belief had been well grounded. Through all that had passed Clara Desmond did love him still!

But as to this overture of reconciliation that was now made to him, how was he to accept it or reject it? It was made to him because hewas believed to be Sir Owen Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond, a baronetof twelve thousand a year, instead of a poor squire, whose wifewould have to look narrowly to the kitchen, in order that food insufficiency might be forthcoming for the parlour. That he wouldbecome Sir Owen he thought probable; but that he would be Sir Owenof Hap House and not of Castle Richmond he had firmly resolved. Hehad thought of this for long hours and hours together, and felt thathe could never again be happy were he to put his foot into thathouse as its owner. Every tenant would scorn him, every servantwould hate him, every neighbour would condemn him; but this would beas nothing to his hatred of himself, to his own scorn and his owncondemnation. And yet how great was the temptation to him now! If hewould consent to call himself master of Castle Richmond, Clara'shand might still be his. 

So he thought; but those who know Clara Desmond better than he didwill know how false were his hopes. She was hardly the girl to havegone back to a lover when he was rich, whom she had rejected when hewas poor. 

"Desmond, " said he, "come here and sit down;" and both sat leaningon the table together, with their arms touching. "I understand itall now, I think; and remember this, my boy, that whomever I mayblame, I do not blame you; that you are true and honest I am sure;and, indeed, there is only one person whom I do blame. " He did notsay that this one person was the countess, but the earl knew just aswell as though he had been told. 

"I understand all this now, " he repeated, "and before we go anyfurther, I must tell you one thing; I shall never be owner of CastleRichmond. "

"Why, I thought it was all settled!" said the earl, looking up withsurprise. 

"Nothing at all is settled. To every bargain there must be twoparties, and I have never yet become a party to the bargain whichshall make me owner of Castle Richmond. "

"But is it not yours of right?"

"I do not know what you call right. "

"Right of inheritance, " said the earl, who, having succeeded to hisown rank by the strength of the same right enduring through manyages, looked upon it as the one substantial palladium of thecountry. 

"Look here, old fellow, and I'll tell you my views about this. SirThomas Fitzgerald, when he married that poor lady who is stillstaying at Castle Richmond, did so in the face of the world with thefull assurance that he made her his legal wife. Whether such a caseas this ever occurred before I don't know, but I am sure of this, that in the eye of God she is his widow. Herbert Fitzgerald wasbrought up as the heir to all that estate, and I cannot see that hecan fairly be robbed of that right because another man has been avillain. The title he cannot have, I suppose, because the law won'tgive it him; but the property can be made over to him, and as far asI am concerned it shall be made over. No earthly consideration shallinduce me to put my hand upon it, for in doing so I should look uponmyself as a thief and a scoundrel. "

"And you mean then that Herbert will have it all, just the same asit was before?"

"Just the same as regards the estate. "

"Then why has he gone away?"

"I cannot answer for him. I can only tell you what I shall do. Idare say it may take months before it is all settled. But now, Desmond, you know how I stand; I am Owen Fitzgerald of Hap House, now as I have ever been, that and nothing more, --for as to thehandle to my name it is not worth talking about. "

They were still sitting at the table, and now they both sat silent, not looking at each other, but with their eyes fixed on the wood. Owen had in his hand a pen, which he had taken from the mantelpiece, and unconsciously began to trace signs on the polished surfacebefore him. The earl sat with his forehead leaning on his two hands, thinking what he was to say next. He felt that he himself loved theman better than ever; but when his mother should come to hear allthis, what would she say?

"You know it all now, my boy, " said Owen, looking up at last; and ashe did so there was an expression about his face to which the youngearl thought that he had never seen the like. There was a gleam inhis eye which, though not of joy, was so bright; and a smile roundhis mouth which was so sweet, though full of sadness! "How can shenot love him?" said he to himself, thinking of his sister. "And now, Desmond, go back to your mother and tell her all. She has sent youhere. "

"No, she did not send me, " said the boy, stoutly, --almost angrily;"she does not even know that I have come. "

"Go back then to your sister. "

"Nor does she know it. "

"Nevertheless, go back to them, and tell them both what I have toldyou; and tell them this also, that I, Owen Fitzgerald of Hap House, still love her better than all that the world else can give me;indeed, there is nothing else that I do love, --except you, Desmond. But tell them also that I am Owen of Hap House still--that andnothing more. "

"Owen, " said the lad, looking up at him; and Fitzgerald as heglanced into the boy's face could see that there was that arisingwithin his breast which almost prevented him from speaking. 

"And look, Desmond, " continued Fitzgerald; "do not think that Ishall blame you because you turn from me, or call you mercenary. Doyou do what you think right. What you said just now of yoursister's--, well, of the possibility of our marriage, you said underthe idea that I was a rich man. You now find that I am a poor man;and you may consider that the words were never spoken. "

"Owen!" said the boy again; and now that which was before rising inhis breast had risen to his brow and cheeks, and was telling itstale plainly in his eyes. And then he rose from his chair, turningaway his face, and walking towards the window; but before he hadgone two steps he turned again, and throwing himself on Fitzgerald'sbreast, he burst out into a passion of tears. 

"Come, old fellow, what is this? This will never do, " said Owen. Buthis own eyes were full of tears also, and he too was nearly pastspeaking. 

"I know you will think--I am a boy and a--fool, " said the earl, through his sobs, as soon as he could speak; "but I can't--help it. "

"I think you are the dearest, finest, best fellow that ever lived, "said Fitzgerald, pressing him with his arm. 

"And I'll tell you what, Owen, you should have her to-morrow if itwere in my power, for, by heaven! there is not another man so worthyof a girl in all the world; and I'll tell her so; and I don't carewhat the countess says. And, Owen, come what come may, you shallalways have my word;" and then he stood apart, and rubbing his eyeswith his arm, tried to look like a man who was giving this pledgefrom his judgment, not from his impulse. 

"It all depends on this, Desmond; whom does she love? See her alone, Desmond, and talk softly to her, and find out that. " This he saidthoughtfully, for in his mind "love should still be lord of all. "

"By heavens! if I were her, I know whom I should love, " said thebrother. 

"I would not have her as a gift if she did not love me, " said Owen, proudly; "but if she do, I have a right to claim her as my own. "

And then they parted, and the earl rode back home with a quieterpace than that which had brought him there, and in a different mood. He had pledged himself now to Owen, --not to Owen of Castle Richmond, but to Owen of Hap House--and he intended to redeem his pledge if itwere possible. He had been so conquered by the nobleness of hisfriend, that he had forgotten his solicitude for his family and hissister. 

CHAPTER XXXVII

A TALE OF A TURBOT

It would have been Owen Fitzgerald's desire to disclaim theinheritance which chance had put in his way in absolute silence, hadsuch a course been possible to him. And, indeed, not being very wellconversant with matters of business, he had thought for a while thatthis might be done--or at any rate something not far different fromthis. To those who had hitherto spoken to him upon the subject, toMr. Prendergast, Mr. Somers, and his cousin, he had disclaimed theinheritance, and that he had thought would have sufficed. That SirThomas should die so quickly after the discovery had not of coursebeen expected by anybody; and much, therefore, had not been thoughtat the moment of these disclaimers;--neither at the moment, norindeed afterwards, when Sir Thomas did die. 

Even Mr. Somers was prepared to admit that as the game had beengiven up, --as his branch of the Fitzgeralds, acting under the adviceof their friend and lawyer, admitted that the property must go fromthem--even he, much as he contested within his own breast thepropriety of Mr. Prendergast's decisions, was fain to admit now thatit was Owen's business to walk in upon the property. Any words whichhe may have spoken on the impulse of the moment were empty words. When a man becomes heir to twelve thousand a year, he does not giveit up in a freak of benevolence. And, therefore, when Sir Thomas hadbeen dead some four or five weeks, and when Herbert had gone awayfrom the scene which was no longer one of interest to him, it wasnecessary that something should be done. 

During the last two or three days of his life Sir Thomas hadexecuted a new will, in which he admitted that his son was not theheir to his estates, and so disposed of such moneys as it was in hispower to leave as he would have done had Herbert been a younger son. Early in his life he himself had added something to the property, some two or three hundred a year, and this, also, he left of courseto his own family. Such having been done, there would have been noopposition made to Owen had he immediately claimed the inheritance;but as he made no claim, and took no step whatever, --as he appearedneither by himself, nor by letter, nor by lawyer, nor by agent, --asno rumour ever got about as to what he intended to do, Mr. Somersfound it necessary to write to him. This he did on the day ofHerbert's departure, merely asking him, perhaps with scant courtesy, who was his man of business, in order that he, Mr. Somers, as agentto the late proprietor, might confer with him. With but scantcourtesy, --for Mr. Somers had made one visit to Hap House since thenews had been known, with some intention of ingratiating himselfwith the future heir; but his tenders had not been graciouslyreceived. Mr. Somers was a proud man, and though his position inlife depended on the income he received from the Castle Richmondestate, he would not make any further overture. So his letter wassomewhat of the shortest, and merely contained the request abovenamed. 

Owen's reply was sharp, immediate, and equally short, and wascarried back by the messenger from Castle Richmond who had broughtthe letter, to which it was an answer. It was as follows:--

"Hap House, Thursday morning, two o'clock. "

(There was no other date; and Owen probably was unaware that hisletter being written at two P. M. Was not written on Thursdaymorning. )

"DEAR SIR, "I have got no lawyer, and no man of business; nor do I mean toemploy any if I can help it. I intend to make no claim to Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald's property of Castle Richmond; and if it benecessary that I should sign any legal document making over to himany claim that I may have, I am prepared to do so at any moment. Ashe has got a lawyer, he can get this arranged, and I suppose Mr. Prendergast had better do it. 

"I am, dear sir, "Your faithful servant, "OWEN FITZGERALD of Hap House. "

And with those four or five lines he thought it would be practicablefor him to close the whole affair. 

This happened on the day of Herbert's departure, and on the daypreceding Lord Desmond's visit to Hap House; so that on the occasionof that visit, Owen looked upon the deed as fully done. He hadput it quite beyond his own power to recede now, even had he sowished. And then came the tidings to him, --true tidings as hethought, --that Clara was still within his reach if only he weremaster of Castle Richmond. That this view of his position did for amoment shake him I will not deny; but it was only for a moment: andthen it was that he had looked up at Clara's brother, and bade himgo back to his mother and sister, and tell them that Owen of HapHouse was Owen of Hap House still;--that and nothing more. ClaraDesmond might be bought at a price which would be too costly evenfor such a prize as her. It was well for him that he so resolved, for at no price could she have been bought. 

Mr. Somers, when he received that letter, was much inclined to doubtwhether or no it might not be well to take Owen at his word. Afterall, what just right had he to the estate? According to the eternaland unalterable laws of right and wrong ought it not to belong toHerbert Fitzgerald? Mr. Somers allowed his wish on this occasion tobe father to many thoughts much at variance from that line ofthinking which was customary to him as a man of business. In hisordinary moods, law with him was law, and a legal claim a legalclaim. Had he been all his life agent to the Hap House propertyinstead of to that of Castle Richmond, a thought so romantic wouldnever have entered his head. He would have scouted a man as nearly amaniac who should suggest to him that his client ought to surrenderan undoubted inheritance of twelve thousand a year on a point offeeling. He would have rejected it as a proposed crime, and talkedmuch of the indefeasible rights of the coming heirs of the new heir. He would have been as firm as a rock, and as trenchant as a sword indefence of his patron's claims. But now, having in his hands thatshort, pithy letter from Owen Fitzgerald, he could not but look atthe matter in a more Christian light. After all, was not justice, immutable justice, better than law? And would not the property beenough for both of them? Might not law and justice make acompromise? Let Owen be the baronet, and take a slice of four orfive thousand, and add that to Hap House; and then if these thingswere well arranged, might not Mr. Somers still be agent to themboth?

Meditating all this in his newly tuned romantic frame of mind, Mr. Somers sat down and wrote a long letter to Mr. Prendergast, enclosing the short letter from Owen, and saying all that he, as aman of business with a new dash of romance, could say on such asubject. This letter, not having slept on the road as Herbert did inDublin, and having been conveyed with that lightning rapidity forwhich the British Post-office has ever been remarkable--andespecially that portion of it which has reference to the sisterisland, --was in Mr. Prendergast's pocket when Herbert dined withhim. That letter, and another to which we shall have to refer morespecially. But so much at variance were Mr. Prendergast's ideas fromthose entertained by Mr. Somers, that he would not even speak toHerbert on the subject. Perhaps, also, that other more importantletter, which, if we live, we shall read at length, might also havehad some effect in keeping him silent. 

But in truth Mr. Somers' mind, and that of Mr. Prendergast, did notwork in harmony on this subject. Judging of the two men together bytheir usual deeds and ascertained character, we may say that therewas much more romance about Mr. Prendergast than there was about Mr. Somers. But then it was a general romance, and not one with anindividual object. Or perhaps we may say, without injury to Mr. Somers, that it was a true feeling, and not a false one. Mr. Prendergast, also, was much more anxious for the welfare of HerbertFitzgerald than that of his cousin; but then he could feel on behalfof the man for whom he was interested that it did not behove him totake a present of an estate from the hands of the true owner. 

For more than a week Mr. Somers waited, but got no reply to hisletter, and heard nothing from Mr. Prendergast; and during this timehe was really puzzled as to what he should do. As regarded himself, he did not know at what moment his income might end, or how long heand his family might be allowed to inhabit the house which he nowheld: and then he could take no steps as to the tenants; couldneither receive money nor pay it away, and was altogether at hiswits' ends. Lady Fitzgerald looked to him for counsel in everything, and he did not know how to counsel her. Arrangements were to be madefor an auction in the house as soon as she should be able to move;but would it not be a thousand pities to sell all the furniture ifthere was a prospect of the family returning? And so he waited forMr. Prendergast's letter with an uneasy heart and vexation ofspirit. 

But still he attended the relief committees, and worked at thesoup-kitchens attached to the estate, as though he were still theagent to Castle Richmond; and still debated warmly with FatherBarney on one side, and Mr. Townsend on the other, on that vexatiousquestion of out-door relief. And now the famine was in full swing;and, strange to say, men had ceased to be uncomfortable about it;--such men, that is, as Mr. Somers and Mr. Townsend. The cutting offof maimed limbs, and wrenching out from their sockets of smashedbones, is by no means shocking to the skilled practitioner. Anddying paupers, with "the drag" in their face--that certain sign ofcoming death of which I have spoken--no longer struck men to theheart. Like the skilled surgeon, they worked hard enough at whatgood they could do, and worked the better in that they could treatthe cases without express compassion for the individuals that mettheir eyes. In administering relief one may rob five unseensufferers of what would keep them in life if one is moved to bestowall that is comfortable on one sufferer that is seen. Was it wise tospend money in alleviating the last hours of those whose doom wasalready spoken, which money, if duly used, might save the lives ofothers not yet so far gone in misery? And so in one sense those whowere the best in the county, who worked the hardest for the poor andspent their time most completely among them, became the hardest ofheart, and most obdurate in their denials. It was strange to seedevoted women neglecting the wants of the dying, so that they mighthusband their strength and time and means for the wants of those whomight still be kept among the living. 

At this time there came over to the parish of Drumbarrow a youngEnglish clergyman who might be said to be in many respects the veryopposite to Mr. Townsend. Two men could hardly be found in the sameprofession more opposite in their ideas, lives, purposes, andpursuits;--with this similarity, however, that each was a sincere, and on the whole an honest man. The Rev. Mr. Carter was much thejunior, being at that time under thirty. He had now visited Irelandwith the sole object of working among the poor, and distributingaccording to his own judgment certain funds which had been collectedfor this purpose in England. 

And indeed there did often exist in England at this time amisapprehension as to Irish wants, which led to some misuses of thefunds which England so liberally sent. It came at that time to bethe duty of a certain public officer to inquire into a charge madeagainst a seemingly respectable man in the far west of Ireland, purporting that he had appropriated to his own use a sum of twelvepounds sent to him for the relief of the poor of his parish. It hadbeen sent by three English maiden ladies to the relieving officer ofthe parish of Kilcoutymorrow, and had come to his hands, he thenfilling that position. He, so the charge said, --and unfortunatelysaid so with only too much truth, --had put the twelve pounds intohis own private pocket. The officer's duty in the matter took him tothe chairman of the Relief Committee, a stanch old Roman Catholicgentleman nearly eighty years of age, with a hoary head and whitebeard, and a Milesian name that had come down to him throughcenturies of Catholic ancestors;--a man urbane in his manner, of theold school, an Irishman such as one does meet still here and therethrough the country, but now not often--one who, above all things, was true to the old religion. 

Then the officer of the government told his story to the old Irishgentleman--with many words, for there were all manner of smallcollateral proofs, to all of which the old Irish gentleman listenedwith a courtesy and patience which were admirable. And when theofficer of the government had done, the old Irish gentleman thusreplied:--

"My neighbour Hobbs, "--such was the culprit's name--"has undoubtedlydone this thing. He has certainly spent upon his own uses thegenerous offering made to our poor parish by those noble-mindedladies, the three Miss Walkers. But he has acted with perfecthonesty in the matter. "

"What!" said the government officer, "robbing the poor, and at sucha time as this!"

"No robbery at all, dear sir, " said the good old Irish gentleman, with the blandest of all possible smiles; "the excellent MissWalkers sent their money for the Protestant poor of the parish ofKilcoutymorrow, and Mr. Hobbs is the only Protestant within it. " Andfrom the twinkle in the old man's eye, it was clear to see that histriumph consisted in this, --that not only he had but one Protestantin the parish, but that that Protestant should have learned solittle from his religion. 

But this is an episode. And nowadays no episodes are allowed. 

And now Mr. Carter had come over to see that if possible certainEnglish funds were distributed according to the wishes of thegenerous English hearts by whom they had been sent. For as someEnglish, such as the three Miss Walkers, feared on the one hand thatthe Babylonish woman so rampant in Ireland might swallow up theirmoney for Babylonish purposes; so, on the other hand, did othersdread that the too stanch Protestantism of the church militant inthat country might expand the funds collected for undoubted bodilywants in administering to the supposed wants of the soul. No suchfaults did, in truth, at that time prevail. The indomitable force ofthe famine had absolutely knocked down all that; but there had beenthings done in Ireland, before the famine came upon them, which gavereasonable suspicion for such fears. 

Mr. Townsend among others had been very active in soliciting aidfrom England, and hence had arisen a correspondence between him andMr. Carter; and now Mr. Carter had arrived at Drumbarrow with arespectable sum to his credit at the provincial bank, and an intensedesire to make himself useful in this time of sore need. Mr. Carterwas a tall, thin, austere-looking man; one, seemingly, who hadmacerated himself inwardly and outwardly by hard living. He had ahigh, narrow forehead, a sparse amount of animal development, thinlips, and a piercing, sharp, gray eye. He was a man, too, of fewwords, and would have been altogether harsh in his appearance hadthere not been that in the twinkle of his eye which seemed to saythat, in spite of all that his gait said to the contrary, thecockles of his heart might yet be reached by some play of wit--ifonly the wit were to his taste. 

Mr. Carter was a man of personal means, so that he not only was notdependent on his profession, but was able--as he also was willing--to aid that profession by his liberality. In one thing only was hepersonally expensive. As to his eating and drinking it was, or mighthave been for any solicitude of his own, little more than bread andwater. As for the comforts of home, he had none, for since hisordination his missions had ever been migrating. But he alwaysdressed with care, and consequently with expense, for carefuldressing is ever expensive. He always wore new black gloves, and avery long black coat which never degenerated to rust, black clothtrousers, a high black silk waistcoat, and a new black hat. Everything about him was black except his neck, and that was alwaysscrupulously white. 

Mr. Carter was a good man--one may say a very good man--for he gaveup himself and his money to carry out high views of charity andreligion, in which he was sincere with the sincerity of his wholeheart, and from which he looked for no reward save such as the godlyever seek. But yet there was about him too much of the Pharisee. Hewas greatly inclined to condemn other men, and to think nonerighteous who differed from him. And now he had come to Ireland witha certain conviction that the clergy of his own Church there weremen not to be trusted; that they were mere Irish, and little betterin their habits and doctrines than under-bred dissenters. He hadbeen elsewhere in the country before he visited Drumbarrow, and hadshown this too plainly; but then Mr. Carter was a very young man, and it is not perhaps fair to expect zeal and discretion also fromthose who are very young. 

Mrs. Townsend had heard of him, and was in dismay when she foundthat he was to stay with them at Drumbarrow parsonage for threedays. If Mr. Carter did not like clerical characters of her stamp, neither did she like them of the stamp of Mr. Carter. She had heardof him, of his austerity, of his look, of his habits, and in herheart she believed him to be a Jesuit. Had she possessed full swayherself in the parish of Drumbarrow, no bodies should have beensaved at such terrible peril to the souls of the whole parish. Butthis Mr Carter came with such recommendation--with such assurancesof money given and to be given, of service done and to bedone, --that there was no refusing him. And so the husband, moreworldly wise than his wife, had invited the Jesuit to his parsonage. 

"You'll find, Aeneas, he'll have mass in his room in the morninginstead of coming to family prayers, " said the wife. 

"But what on earth shall we give him for dinner?" said the husband, whose soul at the present moment was among the flesh-pots, andindeed Mrs. Townsend had also turned over that question in herprudent mind. 

"He'll not eat meat in Lent, you may be sure, " said Mrs. Townsend, remembering that that was the present period of the year. 

"And if he would there is none for him to eat, " said Mr. Townsend, calling to mind the way in which the larder had of late beenemptied. 

Protestant clergymen in Ireland in those days had very frequentlyother reasons for fasting than those prescribed by ecclesiasticalcanons. A well-nurtured lady, the wife of a parish rector in thecounty Cork, showed me her larder one day about that time. Itcontained two large loaves of bread, and a pan full of stuff which Ishould have called paste, but which she called porridge. It was allthat she had for herself, her husband, her children, and hercharity. Her servants had left her before she came to that pass. Andshe was a well-nurtured, handsome, educated woman, born to suchcomforts as you and I enjoy every day, --oh, my reader! perhapswithout much giving of thanks for them. Poor lady! the struggle wastoo much for her, and she died under it. 

Mr. Townsend was, as I have said, the very opposite to Mr. Carter, but he also was a man who could do without the comforts of life, ifthe comforts of life did not come readily in his way. He liked hisglass of whisky punch dearly, and had an idea that it was good forhim. Not caring much about personal debts, he would go in debt forwhisky. But if the whisky and credit were at an end, the loss didnot make him miserable. He was a man with a large appetite, and whotook great advantage of a good dinner when it was before him, nay, he would go a long distance to insure a good dinner; but, nevertheless, he would leave himself without the means of getting amutton chop, and then not be unhappy. Now Mr. Carter would have beenvery unhappy had he been left without his superfine long black coat. 

In tendering his invitation to Mr. Carter, Mr. Townsend hadexplained that with him the res angusta domi, which was always aprevailing disease, had been heightened by the circumstances of thetime; but that of such crust and cup as he had, his brother Englishclergyman would be made most welcome to partake. In answer to this, Mr. Carter had explained that in these days good men thought butlittle of crusts and cups, and that as regarded himself, nature hadso made him that he had but few concupiscences of that sort. Andthen, all this having been so far explained and settled, Mr. Cartercame. 

The first day the two clergymen spent together at Berryhill, andfound plenty to employ them. They were now like enough to be in wantof funds at that Berryhill soup-kitchen, seeing that the greatfount of supplies, the house, namely, of Castle Richmond, would soonhave stopped running altogether. And Mr. Carter was ready to providefunds to some moderate extent if all his questions were answeredsatisfactorily. "There was to be no making of Protestants, " he said, "by giving away of soup purchased with his money. " Mr. Townsendthought that this might have been spared him. "I regret to say, "replied he, with some touch of sarcasm, "that we have no time forthat now. " "And so better, " said Mr. Carter, with a sarcasm of ablunter sort. "So better. Let us not clog our alms with impossibleconditions which will only create falsehood. " "Any conditions areout of the question when one has to feed a whole parish, " answeredMr. Townsend. 

And then Mr Carter would teach them how to boil their yellow meal, on which subject he had a theory totally opposite to the practice ofthe woman employed at the soup-kitchen. "Av we war to hocus it that, yer riverence, " said Mrs. Daly, turning to Mr. Townsend, "thecrathurs couldn't ate a bit of it; it wouldn't bile at all, at all, not like that. "

"Try it, woman, " said Mr. Carter, when he had uttered his receiptoracularly for the third time. 

"'Deed, an' I won't, " said Mrs. Daly, whose presence there waspretty nearly a labour of love, and who was therefore independent. "It'd be a sin an' a shame to spile Christian vittels in them times, an' I won't do it. " And then there was some hard work that day; andthough Mr. Townsend kept his temper with his visitor, seeing that hehad much to get and nothing to give, he did not on this occasionlearn to alter his general opinion of his brethren of the EnglishHigh Church. 

And then, when they got home, very hungry after their toil, Mr. Townsend made another apology for the poorness of his table. "I amalmost ashamed, " said he, "to ask an English gentleman to sit downto such a dinner as Mrs. Townsend will put before you. "

"And indeed then it isn't much, " said Mrs. Townsend; "just a bit offish I found going the road. "

"My dear madam, anything will suffice, " said Mr. Carter, somewhatpretentiously. And anything would have sufficed. Had they put beforehim a mess of that paste of which I have spoken he would have ate itand said nothing, --ate enough of it at least to sustain him till themorrow. 

But things had not come to so bad a pass as this at Drumbarrowparsonage; and, indeed, that day fortune had been propitious;fortune which ever favours the daring. Mrs. Townsend, knowing thatshe had really nothing in the house, had sent Jerry to waylay theLent fishmonger, who twice a week was known to make his way fromKanturk to Mallow with a donkey and panniers, and Jerry had returnedwith a prize. 

And now they sat down to dinner, and lo and behold, to the greatsurprise of Mr. Carter, and perhaps also to the surprise of thehost, a magnificent turbot smoked upon the board. The fins no doubthad been cut off to render possible the insertion of the animal intothe largest of the Drumbarrow parsonage kitchen-pots, --an injuryagainst which Mr. Townsend immediately exclaimed angrily. "Mygoodness, they have cut off the fins!" said he, holding up bothhands in deep dismay. According to his philosophy, if he did have aturbot, why should he not have it with all its perfections aboutit--fins and all?

"My dear Aeneas!" said Mrs. Townsend, looking at him with that agonyof domestic distress which all wives so well know how to assume. 

Mr. Carter said nothing. He said not a word, but he thought much. This then was their pretended poorness of living; with all theirmock humility, these false Irishmen could not resist the opportunityof showing off before the English stranger, and of putting on theirtable before him a dish which an English dean could afford only ongala days. And then this clergyman, who was so loudly anxious forthe poor, could not repress the sorrow of his heart because the richdelicacy was somewhat marred in the cooking. "It was too bad, "thought Mr. Carter to himself, "too bad. "

"None, thank you, " said he, drawing himself up with gloomyreprobation of countenance. "I will not take any fish, I am muchobliged to you. "

Then the face of Mrs. Townsend was one on which neither Christiannor heathen could have looked without horror and grief. What, theman whom in her heart she believed to be a Jesuit, and for whomnevertheless, Jesuit though he was, she had condescended to caterwith all her woman's wit!--this man, I say, would not eat fish inLent! And it was horrible to her warm Irish heart to think thatafter that fish now upon the table there was nothing to come but twoor three square inches of cold bacon. Not eat turbot in Lent! Had hebeen one of her own sort she might have given him credit for trueantagonism to popery; but every inch of his coat gave the lie tosuch a supposition as that. 

"Do take a bit, " said Mr. Townsend, hospitably. "The fins should nothave been cut off, otherwise I never saw a finer fish in my life. "

"None, I am very much obliged to you, " said Mr. Carter, withsternest reprobation of feature. 

It was too much for Mrs. Townsend. "Oh, Aeneas, " said she, "what arewe to do?" Mr. Townsend merely shrugged his shoulders, while hehelped himself. His feelings were less acute, perhaps, than those ofhis wife, and he, no doubt, was much more hungry. Mr. Carter thewhile sat by, saying nothing, but looking daggers. He also washungry, but under such circumstances he would rather starve thaneat. 

"Don't you ever eat fish, Mr. Carter?" said Mr. Townsend, proceedingto help himself for a second time, and poking about round the edgesof the delicate creature before him for some relics of the glutinousmorsels which he loved so well. He was not, however, enjoying it ashe should have done, for seeing that his guest ate none, and thathis wife's appetite was thoroughly marred, he was alone in hisoccupation. No one but a glutton could have feasted well under suchcircumstances, and Mr. Townsend was not a glutton. 

"Thank you, I will eat none to-day, " said Mr. Carter, sitting boltupright, and fixing his keen gray eyes on the wall opposite. 

"Then you may take away, Biddy; I've done with it. But it's athousand pities such a fish should have been so wasted. "

The female heart of Mrs. Townsend could stand these wrongs nolonger, and with a tear in one corner of her eye, and a gleam ofanger in the other, she at length spoke out. "I am sure then I don'tknow what you will eat, Mr. Carter, and I did think that all youEnglish clergymen always ate fish in Lent, --and indeed nothing else;for indeed people do say that you are much the same as the papistsin that respect. "

"Hush, my dear!" said Mr. Townsend. 

"Well, but I can't hush when there's nothing for the gentleman toeat. "

"My dear madam, such a matter does not signify in the least, " saidMr. Carter, not unbending an inch. 

"But it does signify, it signifies a great deal; and so you'd knowif you were a family man;"--"as you ought to be, " Mrs. Townsendwould have been delighted to add. "And I'm sure I sent Jerry fivemiles, and he was gone four hours to get that bit of fish from PaddyMagrath, as he stops always at Ballygibblin Gate; and indeed Ithought myself so lucky, for I only gave Jerry one and sixpence. Butthey had an uncommon take of fish yesterday at Skibbereen, and--"

"One and sixpence!" said Mr. Carter, now slightly relaxing his browfor the first time. 

"I'd have got it for one and three, " said Mr. Townsend, upon whosemind an inkling of the truth was beginning to dawn. 

"Indeed and you wouldn't, Aeneas; and Jerry was forced to promisethe man a glass of whisky the first time he comes this road, whichhe does sometimes. That fish weighed over nine pounds, every ounceof it. "

"Nine fiddlesticks, " said Mr. Townsend. 

"I weighed it myself, Aeneas, with my own hands, and it was ninepounds four ounces before we were obliged to cut it, and as firm asa rock the flesh was. "

"For one and sixpence!" said Mr. Carter, relaxing still a littlefurther, and condescending to look his hostess in the face. 

"Yes, for one and six, and now--"

"I'm sure I'd have bought it for one and four, fins and all, " saidthe parson, determined to interrupt his wife in her pathos. 

"I'm sure you would not then, " said his wife, taking his assertionin earnest. "You could never market against Jerry in your life; Iwill say that for him. "

"If you will allow me to change my mind, I think I will have alittle bit of it, " said Mr. Carter, almost humbly. 

"By all means, " said Mr. Townsend. "Biddy, bring that fish back. NowI think of it, I have not half dined myself yet. "

And then they all three forgot their ill humours, and enjoyed theirdinner thoroughly, --in spite of the acknowledged fault as touchingthe lost fins of the animal. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII

CONDEMNED

I have said that Lord Desmond rode home from Hap House that day in aquieter mood and at a slower pace than that which had brought himthither, and in truth it was so. He had things to think of now muchmore serious than any that had filled his mind as he had canteredalong, joyously hoping that after all he might have for his brotherthe man that he loved, and the owner of Castle Richmond also. Thiswas now impossible; but he felt that he loved Owen better than everhe had done, and he was pledged to fight Owen's battle, let Owen beever so poor. 

"And what does it signify after all?" he said to himself, as he rodealong. "We shall all be poor together, and then we sha'n't mind itso much; and if I don't marry, Hap House itself will be something toadd to the property;" and then he made up his mind that he could behappy enough, living at Desmond Court all his life, so long as hecould have Owen Fitzgerald near him to make life palatable. 

That night he spoke to no one on the subject, at least to no one ofhis own accord. When they were alone his mother asked him where hehad been; and when she learned that he had been at Hap House, shequestioned him much as to what had passed between him and Owen; buthe would tell her nothing, merely saying that Owen had spoken ofClara with his usual ecstasy of love, but declining to go into thesubject at any length. The countess, however, gathered from him thathe and Owen were on kindly terms together, and so far she feltsatisfied. 

On the following morning he made up his mind "to have it out, " as hecalled it, with Clara; but when the hour came his courage failedhim: it was a difficult task--that which he was now to undertake--ofexplaining to her his wish that she should go back to her old lover, not because he was no longer poor, but, as it were in spite of hispoverty, and as a reward to him for consenting to remain poor. As hehad thought about it while riding home, it had seemed feasibleenough. He would tell her how nobly Owen was going to behave toHerbert, and would put it to her whether, as he intended willinglyto abandon the estate, he ought not to be put into possession of thewife. There was a romantic justice about this which he thought wouldtouch Clara's heart. But on the following morning when he came tothink what words he would use for making his little proposition, thepicture did not seem to him to be so beautiful. If Clara reallyloved Herbert--and she had declared that she did twenty timesover--it would be absurd to expect her to give him up merely becausehe was not a ruined man. But then, which did she love? His motherdeclared that she loved Owen. "That's the real question, " said theearl to himself, as on the second morning he made up his mind thathe would "have it out" with Clara without any further delay. He mustbe true to Owen; that was his first great duty at the presentmoment. 

"Clara, I want to talk to you, " he said, breaking suddenly into theroom where she usually sat alone o' mornings. "I was at Hap Housethe day before yesterday with Owen Fitzgerald, and to tell you thetruth at once, we were talking about you the whole time we werethere. And now what I want is, that something should be settled, sothat we may all understand one another. "

These words he spoke to her quite abruptly. When he first said thathe wished to speak to her, she had got up from her chair to welcomehim, for she dearly loved to have him there. There was nothing sheliked better than having him to herself when he was in a softbrotherly humour; and then she would interest herself about hishorse, and his dogs, and his gun, and predict his life for him, sending him up as a peer to Parliament, and giving him a noble wife, and promising him that he should be such a Desmond as would redeemall the family from their distresses. But now as he rapidly broughtout his words, she found that on this day her prophecies must regardherself chiefly. 

"Surely, Patrick, it is easy enough to understand me, " she said. 

"Well, I don't know; I don't in the least mean to find fault withyou. "

"I am glad of that, dearest, " she said, laying her hand upon hisarm. 

"But my mother says one thing, and you another, and Owen another;and I myself, I hardly know what to say. "

"Look here, Patrick, it is simply this: I became engaged to Herbertwith my mother's sanction and yours; and now--"

"Stop a moment, " said the impetuous boy, "and do not pledge yourselfto anything till you have heard me. I know that you are cut to theheart about Herbert Fitzgerald losing his property. "

"No, indeed; not at all cut to the heart; that is as regardsmyself. "

"I don't mean as regards yourself; I mean as regards him. I haveheard you say over and over again that it is a piteous thing that heshould be so treated. Have I not?"

"Yes, I have said that, and I think so. "

"And I think that most of your great--great--great love for him, ifyou will, comes from that sort of feeling. "

"But, Patrick, it came long before. "

"Dear Clara, do listen to me, will you? You may at any rate do asmuch as that for me. " And then Clara stood perfectly mute, lookinginto his handsome face as he continued to rattle out his words ather. 

"Now, if you please, Clara, you may have the means of giving back tohim all his property, every shilling that he ever had, or expectedto have. Owen Fitzgerald, --who certainly is the finest fellow thatever I came across in all my life, or ever shall, if I live to fivehundred, --says that he will make over every acre of Castle Richmondback to his cousin Herbert if--" Oh, my lord, my lord, what a schemeis this you are concocting to entrap your sister! Owen Fitzgeraldinserted no "if, " as you are well aware! "If, " he continued, withsome little qualm of conscience, "if you will consent to be hiswife. "

"Patrick!"

"Listen, now listen. He thinks, and, Clara, by the heavens above me!I think also, that you did love him better than you ever lovedHerbert Fitzgerald. " Clara as she heard these words blushed ruby redup to her very hair, but she said never a word. "And I think, and hethinks, that you are bound now to Herbert by his misfortunes--thatyou feel that you cannot desert him because he has fallen so low. ByGeorge, Clara, I am proud of you for sticking to him through thickand thin, now that he is down! But the matter will be very difficultif you have the means of giving back to him all that he has lost, asyou have. Owen will be poor, but he is a prince among men. Byheaven, Clara, if you will only say that he is your choice, Herbertshall have back all Castle Richmond! and I--I shall never marry, andyou may give to the man that I love as my brother all that there isleft to us of Desmond. "

There was something grand about the lad's eager tone of voice as hemade his wild proposal, and something grand also about his heart. Hemeant what he said, foolish as he was either to mean or to say it. Clara burst into tears, and threw herself into his arms. "You don'tunderstand, " she said, through her sobs, "my own, own brother, youdo not understand. "

"But, by Jove! I think I do understand. As sure as you are a livinggirl he will give back Castle Richmond to Herbert Fitzgerald. "

She recovered herself, and leaving her brother's arms, walked awayto the window, and from thence looked down to that path beneath theelms which was the spot in the world which she thought of theoftenest, but as she gazed, there was no lack of loyalty in herheart to the man to whom she was betrothed. It seemed to her asthough those childish days had been in another life, as though Owenhad been her lover in another world, --a sweet, childish, innocent, happy world which she remembered well, but which was now disseveredfrom her by an impassable gulf. She thought of his few words oflove, --so few that she remembered every word that he had thenspoken, and thought of them with a singular mixture of pain andpleasure. And now she heard of his noble self-denial with a thrillwhich was in no degree enhanced by the fact that she, or evenHerbert, was to be the gainer by it. She rejoiced at his nobility, merely because it was a joy to her to know that he was so noble. Andyet all through this she was true to Herbert. Another work-a-dayworld had come upon her in her womanhood, and as that came she hadlearned to love a man of another stamp, with a love that wasquieter, more subdued, and perhaps, as she thought, more enduring. Whatever might be Herbert's lot in life, that lot she would share. Her love for Owen should never be more to her than a dream. 

"Did he send you to me?" she said at last, without turning her faceaway from the window. 

"Yes, then, he did; he did send me to you, and he told me to saythat as Owen of Hap House he loved you still. And I, I promised todo his bidding; and I promised, moreover, that as far as my goodword could go with you, he should have it. And now you know it all;if you care for my pleasure in the matter you will take Owen, andlet Herbert have his property. By Jove! if he is treated in that wayhe cannot complain. "

"Patrick, " said she, returning to him and again laying her hand onhim. "You must now take my message also. You must go to him and bidhim come here that I may see him. "

"Who? Owen?"

"Yes, Owen Fitzgerald. "

"Very well, I have no objection in life. " And the earl thought thatthe difficulty was really about to be overcome. "And about mymother?"

"I will tell mamma. "

"And what shall I say to Owen?"

"Say nothing to him, but bid him come here. But wait, Patrick; yes, he must not misunderstand me; I can never, never, never marry him. "

"Clara!"

"Never, never; it is impossible. Dear Patrick, I am so sorry to makeyou unhappy, and I love you so very dearly, --better than ever, Ithink, for speaking as you do now. But that can never be. Let himcome here, however, and I myself will tell him all. " At last, disgusted and unhappy though he was, the earl did accept thecommission, and again on that afternoon rode across the fields toHap House. 

"I will tell him nothing but that he is to come, " said the earl tohimself as he went thither. And he did tell Owen nothing else. Fitzgerald questioned him much, but learned but little from him. "Byheavens, Owen, " he said, "you must settle the matter between you, for I don't understand it. She has bid me ask you to come to her;and now you must fight your own battle. " Fitzgerald of course saidthat he would obey, and so Lord Desmond left him. 

In the evening Clara told her mother. "Owen Fitzgerald is to be hereto-morrow, " she said. 

"Owen Fitzgerald; is he?" said the countess. She hardly knew how tobear herself, or how to interfere so as to assist her own object; orhow not to interfere, lest she should mar it. 

"Yes, mamma. Patrick saw him the other day, and I think it is betterthat I should see him also. "

"Very well, my dear. But you must be aware, Clara, that you havebeen so very--I don't wish to say headstrong exactly--so veryentetee about your own affairs, that I hardly know how to speak ofthem. If your brother is in your confidence I shall be satisfied. "

"He is in my confidence, and so may you be also, mamma, if youplease. "

But the countess thought it better not to have any conversationforced upon her at that moment; and so she asked her daughter for nofurther show of confidence then. It would probably be as well thatOwen should come and plead his own cause. 

And Owen did come. All that night and on the next morning the poorgirl remained alone in a state of terrible doubt. She had sent forher old lover, thinking at the moment that no one could explain tohim in language so clear as her own what was her fixed resolve. Andshe had too been so moved by the splendour of his offer, that shelonged to tell him what she thought of it. The grandeur of thatoffer was enhanced tenfold in her mind by the fact that it had beenso framed as to include her in this comparative poverty with whichOwen himself was prepared to rest contented. He had known that shewas not to be bought by wealth, and had given her credit for anobility that was akin to his own. 

But yet, now that the moment was coming, how was she to talk to him?How was she to speak the words which would rob him of his hope, andtell him that he did not, could not, never could possess that onetreasure which he desired more than houses and lands, or station andrank? Alas, alas! If it could have been otherwise! If it could havebeen otherwise! She also was in love with poverty;--but at any rate, no one could accuse her now of sacrificing a poor lover for a richone. Herbert Fitzgerald would be poor enough. 

And then he came. They had hitherto met but once since thatafternoon, now so long ago--that afternoon to which she looked backas to another former world--and that meeting had been in the veryroom in which she was now prepared to receive him. But her feelingstowards him had been very different then. Then he had almost forcedhimself upon her, and for months previously she had heard nothing ofhim but what was evil. He had come complaining loudly, and her hearthad been somewhat hardened against him. Now he was there at herbidding, and her heart and very soul were full of tenderness. Sherose rapidly, and sat down again, and then again rose as she heardhis footsteps; but when he entered the room she was standing in themiddle of it. 

"Clara, " he said, taking the hand which she mechanically held out, "I have come here now at your brother's request. "

Her name sounded so sweet upon his lips. No idea occurred to herthat she ought to be angry with him for using it. Angry with him!Could it be possible that she should ever be angry with him--thatshe ever had been so?

"Yes, " she said. "Patrick said something to me which made me thinkthat it would be better that we should meet. "

"Well, yes; it is better. If people are honest they had alwaysbetter say to each other's faces that which they have to say. "

"I mean to be honest, Mr. Fitzgerald. "

"Yes, I am sure you do; and so do I also. And if this is so, whycannot we say each to the other that which we have to say? My talewill be a very short one; but it will be true if it is short. "

"But, Mr. Fitzgerald--"

"Well, Clara?"

"Will you not sit down?" And she herself sat upon the sofa; and hedrew a chair for himself near to her; but he was too impetuous toremain seated on it long. During the interview between them he wassometimes standing, and sometimes walking quickly about the room;and then for a moment he would sit down, or lean down over her onthe sofa arm. 

"But, Mr. Fitzgerald, it is my tale that I wish you to hear. "

"Well; I will listen to it. " But he did not listen; for before shehad spoken a dozen words he had interrupted her, and poured out uponher his own wild plans and generous schemes. She, poor girl, hadthought to tell him that she loved Herbert, and Herbert only--as alover. But that if she could love him, him Owen, as a brother and afriend, that love she would so willingly give him. And then shewould have gone on to say how impossible it would have been forHerbert, under any circumstances, to have availed himself of suchgenerosity as that which had been offered. But her eloquence was allcut short in the bud. How could she speak with such a storm ofimpulse raging before her as that which was now strong within OwenFitzgerald's bosom?

He interrupted her before she had spoken a dozen words, in orderthat he might exhibit before her eyes the project with which hisbosom was filled. This he did, standing for the most part beforeher, looking down upon her as she sat beneath him, with her eyesfixed upon the floor, while his were riveted on her down-turnedface. She knew it all before--all this that he had to say to her, orshe would hardly have understood it from his words, they were sorapid and vehement. And yet they were tender, too; spoken in aloving tone, and containing ever and anon assurances of respect, anda resolve to be guided now and for ever by her wishes, --even thoughthose wishes should be utterly subversive of his happiness. 

"And now you know it all, " he said, at last. "And as for my cousin'sproperty, that is safe enough. No earthly consideration would induceme to put a hand upon that, seeing that by all justice it is his. "But in this she hardly yet quite understood him. "Let him have whatluck he may in other respects, he shall still be master of CastleRichmond. If it were that that you wanted--as I know it is not--thatI cannot give you. I cannot tell you with what scorn I should regardmyself if I were to take advantage of such an accident as this torob any man of his estate. "

Her brother had been right, so Clara felt, when he declared thatOwen Fitzgerald was the finest fellow that ever he had come across. She made another such declaration within her own heart, only withwords that were more natural to her. He was the noblest gentleman ofwhom she had ever heard, or read, or thought. 

"But, " continued Owen, "as I will not interfere with him in thatwhich should be his, neither should he interfere with me in thatwhich should be mine. Clara, the only estate that I claim, is yourheart. "

And that estate she could not give him. On that at any rate she wasfixed. She could not barter herself about from one to the othereither as a make-weight or a counterpoise. All his pleading was invain; all his generosity would fail in securing to him this onereward that he desired. And now she had to tell him so. 

"Your brother seems to think, " he continued, "that you still--;" butnow it was her turn to interrupt him. 

"Patrick is mistaken, " she said, with her eyes still fixed upon theground. 

"What. You will tell me, then, that I am utterly indifferent toyou?"

"No, no, no; I did not say so. " And now she got up and took hold ofhis arm, and looked into his face imploringly. "I did not say so. But, oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, be kind to me, be forbearing with me, begood to me, " and she almost embraced his arm as she appealed to him, with her eyes all swimming with tears. 

"Good to you!" he said. And a strong passion came upon him, urginghim to throw his arm round her slender body, and press her to hisbosom. Good to her! would he not protect her with his life's bloodagainst all the world if she would only come to him? "Good to you, Clara! Can you not trust me that I will be good to you if you willlet me?"

"But not so, Owen. " It was the first time she had ever called him byhis name, and she blushed again as she remembered that it was so. "Not good, as you mean, for now I must trust to another for thatgoodness. Herbert must be my husband, Owen; but will not you be ourfriend?"

"Herbert must be your husband!"

"Yes, yes, yes. It is so. Do not look at me in that way, pray donot; what would you have me do? You would not have me false to mytroth, and false to my own heart, because you are generous. Begenerous to me--to me also. "

He turned away from her, and walked the whole length of the longroom; away and back, before he answered her, and even then, when hehad returned to her, he stood looking at her before he spoke. Andshe now looked full into his face, hoping, but yet fearing; hopingthat he might yield to her; and fearing his terrible displeasureshould he not yield. 

"Clara, " he said; and he spoke solemnly, slowly, and in a moodunlike his own, --"I cannot as yet read your heart clearly; nor do Iknow whether you can quite so read it yourself. "

"I can, I can, " she answered quickly; "and you shall know itall--all, if you wish. "

"I want to know but one thing. Whom is it that you love? And, Clara, "--and this he said interrupting her as she was about tospeak--"I do not ask you to whom you are engaged. You have engagedyourself both to him and to me. "

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"

"I do not blame you, not in the least. But is it not so? as to thatI will ask no question, and say nothing; only this, that so far weare equal. But now ask of your own heart, and then answer me. Whomis it then you love?"

"Herbert Fitzgerald, " she said. The words hardly formed themselvesinto a whisper, but nevertheless they were audible enough to him. 

"Then I have no further business here, " he said, and turned about asthough to leave the room. 

But she ran forward and stopped him, standing between him and thedoor. "Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, do not leave me like that. Say one wordof kindness to me before you go. Tell me that you forgive me for theinjury I have done you. "

"Yes, I forgive you. "

"And is that all? Oh, I will love you so, if you will let me, --asyour friend, as your sister; you shall be our dearest, best, andnearest friend. You do not know how good he is. Owen, will you nottell me that you will love me as a brother loves?"

"No!" and the sternness of his face was such that it was dreadful tolook on it. "I will tell you nothing that is false. "

"And would that be false?"

"Yes, false as hell! What, sit by at his hearthstone and see youleaning on his bosom! Sleep under his roof while you were in hisarms! No, Lady Clara, that would not be possible. That virtue, if itbe virtue, I cannot possess. "

"And you must go from me in anger? If you knew what I am sufferingyou would not speak to me so cruelly. "

"Cruel! I would not wish to be cruel to you; certainly not now, forwe shall not meet again; if ever, not for many years. I do not thinkthat I have been cruel to you. "

"Then say one word of kindness before you go!"

"A word of kindness! Well; what shall I say? Every night, as I havelain in my bed, I have said words of kindness to you, since--since--since longer than you will remember; since I first knew youas a child. Do you ever think of the day when you walked with meround by the bridge?"

"It is bootless thinking of that now. "

"Bootless! yes, and words of kindness are bootless. Between you andme, such words should be full of love, or they would have nomeaning. What can I say to you that shall be both kind and true?"

"Bid God bless me before you leave me. "

"Well. I will say that. May God bless you, in this world and in thenext! And now, Lady Clara Desmond, good-bye!" and he tendered to herhis hand. 

She took it, and pressed it between both of hers, and looked up intohis face, and stood so while the fast tears ran down her face. Hemust have been more or less than man had he not relented then. "And, Owen, " she said, "dear Owen, may God in His mercy bless you also, and make you happy, and give you some one that you can love, and--and--teach you in your heart to forgive the injury I have doneyou. " And then she stooped down her head and pressed her lips uponthe hand which she held within her own. 

"Forgive you! Well--I do forgive you. Perhaps it may be right thatwe should both forgive; though I have not wittingly broughtunhappiness upon you. But what there is to be forgiven on my side, Ido forgive. And--and I hope that you may be happy. " They were thelast words that he spoke; and then leading her back to her seat, heplaced her there, and without turning to look at her again, he leftthe room. 

He hurried down into the court, and called for his horse. As hestood there, when his foot was in the stirrup, and his hand on theanimal's neck, Lord Desmond came up to him. "Goodbye, Desmond, " hesaid. "It is all over; God knows when you and I may meet again. " Andwithout waiting for a word of reply he rode out under the porch, andputting spurs to his horse, galloped fast across the park. The earl, when he spoke of it afterwards to his mother, said that Owen's facehad been as it were a thunder-cloud. 

CHAPTER XXXIX

FOX-HUNTING IN SPINNY LANE

I think it will be acknowledged that Mr. Prendergast had said noword throughout the conversation recorded in a late chapter ashaving taken place between him and Herbert Fitzgerald over theirwine, which could lead Herbert to think it possible that he mightyet recover his lost inheritance; but nevertheless during the wholeof that evening he held in his pocket a letter, received by him onlythat afternoon, which did encourage him to think that such an eventmight at any rate be possible. And, indeed, he held in his pockettwo letters, having a tendency to the same effect, but we shall havenothing now to say as to that letter from Mr. Somers of which wehave spoken before. 

It must be understood that up to this time certain inquiries hadbeen going on with reference to the life of Mr. Matthew Mollett, andthat these inquiries were being made by agents employed by Mr. Prendergast. He had found that Mollett's identity with Talbot hadbeen so fully proved as to make it, in his opinion, absolutelynecessary that Herbert and his mother should openly give up CastleRichmond. But, nevertheless, without a hope, and in obedience solelyto what he felt that prudence demanded in so momentous a matter, hedid prosecute all manner of inquiries;--but prosecuted themaltogether in vain. And now, O thou most acute of lawyers, this newtwinkling spark of hope has come to thee from a source whence thouleast expectedst it!

Quod minime reris Graia pandetur ab urbe. 

And then, as soon as Herbert was gone from him, crossing one legover the other as he sat in his easy chair, he took it from hispocket and read it for the third time. The signature at the end ofit was very plain and legible, being that of a scholar no lessaccomplished than Mr. Abraham Mollett. This letter we will haveentire, though it was not perhaps as short as it might have been. Itran as follows:--

"45 Tabernacle row London April--1847. 

"RESPECTIT SIR--

"In hall them doings about the Fitsjerrals at Carsal Richmon Ihalways felt the most profound respict for you because you wanted todo the thing as was rite wich was what I halways wanted to myselfonly coodent becase of the guvnor. 'Let the right un win, guvnor, 'said I, hover hand hover again; but no, he woodent. And what coodthe likes of me do then seeing as ow I was obligated by the forthcomanment to honor my father and mother, wich however if it wasentthat she was ded leving me a horphand there woodent av been none ofthis trobbel. If she ad livd Mr. Pindargrasp Ide av been brot huphonest, and thats what I weps for. But she dide and my guvnor whyhes been a gitten the rong side of the post hever sins thathunfortunate day. Praps you knows Mr. Pindargrasp what it is to losea mother in your herly hinfantsey. But I was at the guvnor hoversand hovers agin, but hall of no yuse. 'He as stumpt hoff with mymissus and now he shall stump hup the reddy. ' Them was my guvnorshown words halways. Well, Mr. Pindargrasp; what does I do. It warntno good my talking to him he was for going so confounedly the rongside of the post. But I new as how Appy ouse Fitsjerral was the orseas ort to win. Leestways I thawt I new it, and so you thawt too Mr. Pindargrasp only we was both running the rong cent. But what did Ido when I was so confounedly disgusted by my guvnor ankring afterthe baronnites money wich it wasn't rite nor yet onest. Why I wentmeself to Appy ouse as you noes Mr. Pindargrasp, and was the firstto tel the Appy ouse gent hall about it. But what dos he do. Hoh, Mr. Pindargrasp, I shal never forgit that faitel day and only he gotme hunewairs by the scruf of the nek Im has good a man as he heveryday of the week. But you was ther Mr. Pindargrasp and noes wat I gotfor befrindin the Appy ouse side wich was agin the guvnor and he asbrot me to the loest pich of distress in the way of rino seein theguvnor as cut of my halowence becase I wint agin his hinterest. 

"And now Mr. Pindargrasp I ave a terrible secret to hunraffel wichwill put the sadel on the rite orse at last and as I does hall thisagin my own guvnor wich of corse I love derely I do hope Mr. Pindargrasp you wont see me haltoogether left in the lerch. A litelsomething to go on with at furst wood be very agrebbel for indeedMr. Pindargrasp its uncommon low water with your umbel servant atthis presant moment. And now wat I has to say is this--Lady Fitswarnt niver my guvnors wife hat all becase why hed a wife alivin hasI can pruv and will and shes alivin now number 7 Spinny laneCentbotollfs intheheast. Now I do call that noos worse a Jews highMr. Pindargrasp and I opes youll see me honestly delt with sein ashow I coms forward and tels it hall without any haskin and cood keepit all to miself and no one coodent be the wiser only I chews to dothe thing as is rite. 

"You may fine out hall about it hall at number 7 Spinny lane and Iadvises you to go there immejat. Missus Mary Swan thats what shecalls herself but her richeous name his Mollett--and why not seeinwho is er usban. So no more at presence but will come foward hanyday to pruv hall this agin my guvnor becase he arnt doing the thingas is rite and I looks to you Mr. Pindargrasp to see as I gitssomeat ansum sein as ow I coms forward agin the Appy ouse gent andfor the hother party oos side you is a bakkin. 

"I ham respictit Sir

"Your umbel servant to command, "ABM. MOLLETT. "

I cannot say that Mr. Prendergast believed much of this terriblylong epistle when he first received it, or felt himself imbued withany great hope that his old friend's wife might be restored to hername and rank, and his old friend's son to his estate and fortune. But nevertheless he knew that it was worth inquiry. That Aby Molletthad been kicked out of Hap House in a manner that must have beenmortifying to his feelings, Mr. Prendergast had himself seen; andthat he would, therefore, do anything in his power to injure OwenFitzgerald, Mr. Prendergast was quite sure. That he was a vilerwretch even than his father, Mr. Prendergast suspected, --havingbeen led to think so by words which had fallen from Sir Thomas, andbeing further confirmed in that opinion by the letter now in hishand. He was not, therefore, led into any strong opinion that thesenew tidings were of value. And, indeed, he was prone to disbelievethem, because they ran counter to a conviction which had alreadybeen made in his own heart, and had been extensively acted on byhim. Nevertheless he resolved that even Aby's letter deservedattention, and that it should receive that attention early on thefollowing morning. 

And thus he had sat for the three hours after dinner, chattingcomfortably with his young friend, and holding this letter in hispocket. Had he shown it to Herbert, or spoken of it, he would haveutterly disturbed the equilibrium of the embryo law student, andrendered his entrance in Mr. Die's chambers absolutely futile. "Tenwill not be too early for you, " he had said. "Mr. Die is always inhis room by that hour. " Herbert had of course declared that tenwould not be at all too early for him; and Mr. Prendergast hadobserved that after leaving Mr. Die's chambers, he himself would goon to the City. He might have said beyond the City, for his intendedexpedition was to Spinny lane, at St. Botolph's in the East WhenHerbert was gone he sat musing over his fire with Aby's letter stillin his hand. A lawyer has always a sort of affection for ascoundrel, --such affection as a hunting man has for a fox. He lovesto watch the skill and dodges of the animal, to study the wiles bywhich he lives, and to circumvent them by wiles of his own, stillmore wily. It is his glory to run the beast down; but then he wouldnot for worlds run him down, except in conformity with certain laws, fixed by old custom for the guidance of men in such sports. And thetwo-legged vermin is adapted for pursuit as is the fox with fourlegs. He is an unclean animal, leaving a scent upon his trail, whichthe nose of your acute law hound can pick up over almost any ground. And the more wily the beast is, the longer he can run, the moretrouble he can give in the pursuit, the longer he can stand upbefore a pack of legal hounds, the better does the forensicsportsman love and value him. There are foxes of so excellent anature, so keen in their dodges, so perfect in their cunning, soskilful in evasion, that a sportsman cannot find it in his heart topush them to their destruction unless the field be very large sothat many eyes are looking on. And the feeling is I think the samewith lawyers. 

Mr. Prendergast had always felt a tenderness towards the Molletts, father and son, --a tenderness which would by no means have preventedhim from sending them both to the halter had that been necessary, and had they put themselves so far in his power. Much as thesportsman loves the fox, it is a moment to him of keen enjoymentwhen he puts his heavy boot on the beast's body, --the expectant dogsstanding round demanding their prey--and there both beheads andbetails him. "A grand old dog, " he says to those around him. "I knowhim well. It was he who took us that day from Poulnarer, throughCastlecor, and right away to Drumcollogher. " And then he throws theheavy carcase to the hungry hounds. And so could Mr. Prendergasthave delivered up either of the Molletts to be devoured by the dogsof the law; but he did not the less love them tenderly while theywere yet running. 

And so he sat with the letter in his hand, smiling to think that thefather and son had come to grief among themselves; smiling also atthe dodge by which, as he thought most probable, Aby Mollett wasstriving to injure the man who had kicked him, and raise a littlemoney for his own private needs. There was too much earnestness inthat prayer for cash to leave Mr. Prendergast in any doubt as toAby's trust that money would be forthcoming. There must be somethingin the dodge, or Aby would not have had such trust. 

And the lawyer felt that he might, perhaps, be inclined to give somelittle assistance to poor Aby in the soreness of his needs. Foxeswill not do well in any country which is not provided with theirnatural food. Rats they eat, and if rats be plentiful it is so fargood. But one should not begrudge them occasional geese and turkeys, or even break one's heart if they like a lamb in season. A fox willalways run well when he has come far from home seeking hisbreakfast. 

Poor Aby, when he had been so cruelly treated by the "gent of Appyouse, " whose side in the family dispute he had latterly been soanxious to take, had remained crouching for some hour or two inOwen's kitchen, absolutely mute. The servants there for a while feltsure that he was dying; but in their master's present mood they didnot dare to go near him with any such tidings. And then when thehounds were gone, and the place was again quiet, Aby graduallyroused himself, allowed them to wash the blood from his hands andface, to restore him to life by whisky and scraps of food, andgradually got himself into his car, and so back to the KanturkHotel, in South Main Street, Cork. 

But, alas, his state there was more wretched by far than it had beenin the Hap House kitchen. That his father had fled was no more thanhe expected. Each had known that the other would now play someseparate secret game. But not the less did he complain loudly whenhe heard that "his guvnor" had not paid the bill, and had leftneither money nor message for him. How Fanny had scorned andupbraided him, and ordered Tom to turn him out of the house "neckand crop;" how he had squared at Tom, and ultimately had been turnedout of the house "neck and crop, "--whatever that may mean--byFanny's father, needs not here to be particularly narrated. Withmuch suffering and many privations--such as foxes in their solitarywanderings so often know--he did find his way to London; and did, moreover, by means of such wiles as foxes have, find out somethingas to his "guvnor's" whereabouts, and some secrets also as to his"guvnor" which his "guvnor" would fain have kept to himself had itbeen possible. And then, also, he again found for himself a sort ofhome--or hole rather--in his old original gorse covert of London;somewhere among the Jews, we may surmise, from the name of the rowfrom which he dated; and here, setting to work once more with hisusual cunning industry, --for your fox is very industrious, --he oncemore attempted to build up a slender fortune by means of the"Fitsjerral" family. The grand days in which he could look for thehand of the fair Emmeline were all gone by; but still the propertyhad been too good not to leave something for which he might grasp. Properly worked, by himself alone, as he said to himself, it mightstill yield him some comfortable returns, especially as he should beable to throw over that "confounded old guvnor of his. "

He remained at home the whole of the day after his letter waswritten, indeed for the next three days, thinking that Mr. Prendergast would come to him, or send for him; but Mr. Prendergastdid neither the one nor the other. Mr. Prendergast took his adviceinstead, and putting himself into a Hansom cab, had himself drivento "Centbotollfs intheheast. "

Spinny Lane, St. Botolph's in the East, when at last it was found, was not exactly the sort of place that Mr. Prendergast had expected. It must be known that he did not allow the cabman to drive him up tothe very door indicated, nor even to the lane itself; but contentedhimself with leaving the cab at St. Botolph's church. The huntsmanin looking after his game is as wily as the fox himself. Men do nottalk at the covert side--or at any rate they ought not. And theyshould stand together discreetly at the non-running side. All mannerof wiles and silences and discretions are necessary, though toooften broken through by the uninstructed, --much to their owndiscomfort. And so in hunting his fox, Mr. Prendergast did not dashup loudly into the covert, but discreetly left his cab at the churchof St. Botolph's. 

Spinny Lane, when at last found by intelligence given to him at thebaker's, --never in such unknown regions ask a lad in the street, forhe invariably will accompany you, talking of your whereabouts veryloudly, so that people stare at you, and ask each other what canpossibly be your business in those parts--Spinny Lane, I say, wasnot the sort of locality that he had expected. He knew the look ofthe half-protected, half-condemned Alsatias of the present-dayrascals, and Spinny Lane did not at all bear their character. It wasa street of small new tenements, built, as yet, only on one side ofthe way, with the pavement only one third finished, and the stonesin the road as yet unbroken and untrodden. Of such streets there arethousands now round London. They are to be found in every suburb, creating wonder in all thoughtful minds as to who can be their tensof thousands of occupants. The houses are a little too good forartisans, too small and too silent to be the abode of variouslodgers, and too mean for clerks who live on salaries. They are asdull-looking as Lethe itself, dull and silent, dingy and repulsive. But they are not discreditable in appearance, and never have thatMohawk look which by some unknown sympathy in bricks and mortarattaches itself to the residences of professional ruffians. 

Number seven he found to be as quiet and decent a house as any inthe row, and having inspected it from a little distance he walked upbriskly to the door, and rang the bell. He walked up briskly inorder that his advance might not be seen; unless, indeed, as hebegan to think not impossible, Aby's statement was altogether ahoax. 

"Does a woman named Mrs. Mary Swan live here?" he asked of adecent-looking young woman of some seven or eight and twenty, whoopened the door for him. She was decent looking, but povertystricken and wan with work and care, and with that heaviness abouther which perpetual sorrow always gives. Otherwise she would nothave been ill featured; and even as it was she was feminine and softin her gait and manner. "Does Mrs. Mary Swan live here?" asked Mr. Prendergast in a mild voice. 

She at once said Mrs. Mary Swan did live there; but she stood withthe door in her hand by no means fully opened, as though she did notwish to ask him to enter; and yet there was nothing in her tone torepel him. Mr. Prendergast at once felt that he was on the rightscent, and that it behoved him at any rate to make his way into thathouse; for if ever a modest-looking daughter was like animmodest-looking father, that young woman was like Mr. Mollettsenior. 

"Then I will see her, if you please, " said Mr. Prendergast, enteringthe passage without her invitation. Not that he pushed in withroughness, but she receded before the authority of his tone, andobeyed the command which she read in his eye. The poor young womanhesitated as though it had been her intention to declare that Mrs. Swan was not within; but if so, she had not strength to carry outher purpose, for in the next moment Mr. Prendergast found himself inthe presence of the woman he had come to seek. 

"Mrs. Mary Swan?" said Mr. Prendergast, asking a question as to heridentity. 

"Yes, sir, that is my name, " said a sickly-looking elderly woman, rising from her chair. 

The room in which the two had been sitting was very poor; butnevertheless it was neat, and arranged with some attention toappearance. It was not carpeted, but there was a piece of druggetsome three yards long spread before the fireplace. The wall had beenpapered from time to time with scraps of different coloured paper, as opportunity offered. The table on which the work of the two womenwas lying was very old and somewhat rickety, but it was of mahogany;and Mrs. Mary Swan herself was accommodated with a high-backedarm-chair, which gave some appearance of comfort to her position. Itwas now spring; but they had a small, very small fire in the smallgrate, on which a pot had been placed in hopes that it might beinduced to boil. All these things did the eye of Mr. Prendergasttake in; but the fact which his eye took in with its keenest glancewas this, --that on the other side of the fire to that on which satMrs. Mary Swan, there was a second arm-chair standing close over thefender, an ordinary old mahogany chair, in which it was evident thatthe younger woman had not been sitting. Her place had been close tothe table-side, where her needles and thread were still lying. Butthe arm-chair was placed idly away from any accommodation for work, and had, as Mr. Prendergast thought, been recently filled by someidle person. 

The woman who rose from her chair as she declared herself to be MarySwan was old and sickly looking, but nevertheless there was thatabout her which was prepossessing. Her face was thin and delicateand pale, and not hard and coarse; her voice was low, as a woman'sshould be, and her hands were white and small. Her clothes, thoughvery poor, were neat, and worn as a poor lady might have worn them. Though there was in her face an aspect almost of terror as she ownedto her name in the stranger's presence, yet there was also about hera certain amount of female dignity, which made Mr. Prendergast feelthat it behoved him to treat her not only with gentleness, but alsowith respect. 

"I want to say a few words to you, " said he, "in consequence of aletter I have received; perhaps you will allow me to sit down for aminute or two. "

"Certainly, sir, certainly. This is my daughter, Mary Swan; do youwish that she should leave the room, sir?" And Mary Swan, as hermother spoke, got up and prepared to depart quietly. 

"By no means, by no means, " said Mr. Prendergast, putting his handout so as to detain her. "I would much rather that she shouldremain, as it may be very likely that she may assist me in myinquiries. You will know who I am, no doubt, when I mention my name;Mr. Mollett will have mentioned me to you--I am Mr. Prendergast. "

"No, sir, he never did, " said Mrs. Swan. 

"Oh!" said Mr. Prendergast, having ascertained that Mr. Mollett wasat any rate well known at No. 7, Spinny Lane. "I thought that hemight probably have done so. He is at home at present, I believe?"

"Sir?" said Mary Swan senior. 

"Your father is at home, I believe?" said Mr. Prendergast, turningto the younger woman. 

"Sir?" said Mary Swan junior. It was clear at any rate that thewomen were not practised liars, for they could not bring themselveson the spur of the moment to deny that he was in the house. 

Mr. Prendergast did not wish to be confronted at present withMatthew Mollett. Such a step might or might not be desirable beforethe termination of the interview; but at the present moment hethought that he might probably learn more from the two women as theywere than he would do if Mollett were with them. 

It had been acknowledged to him that Mollett was living in thathouse, that he was now at home, and also that the younger womanpresent before him was the child of Mollett and of Mary Swan theelder. That the young woman was older than Herbert Fitzgerald, andthat therefore the connection between Mollett and her mother musthave been prior to that marriage down in Dorsetshire, he was sure;but then it might still be possible that there had been no marriagebetween Mollett and Mary Swan. If he could show that they had beenman and wife when that child was born, then would his old friend Mr. Die lose his new pupil. 

"I have a letter in my pocket, Mrs. Swan, from Abraham Mollett--"Mr. Prendergast commenced, pulling out the letter in question. 

"He is nothing to me, sir, " said the woman, almost in a tone ofanger. "I know nothing whatever about him. "

"So I should have supposed from the respectability of yourappearance, if I may be allowed to say so. "

"Nothing at all, sir; and as for that, we do try to keep ourselvesrespectable. But this is a very hard world for some people to livein. It has been very hard to me and this poor girl here. "

"It is a hard world to some people, and to some honest people, too, --which is harder still. "

"We've always tried to be honest, " said Mary Swan the elder. 

"I am sure you have; and permit me to say, madam, that you will findit at the last to be the best policy;--at the last, even as far asthis world is concerned. But about this letter--I can assure youthat I have never thought of identifying you with Abraham Mollett. "

"His mother was dead, sir, before ever I set eyes on him or hisfather; and though I tried to do my--" and then she stopped herselfsuddenly. Honesty might be the best policy, but, nevertheless, wasit necessary that she should tell everything to this stranger?

"Ah, yes; Abraham's mother was dead before you were married, " saidMr. Prendergast, hunting his fox ever so craftily, --his fox whom heknew to be lying in ambush upstairs. It was of course possible thatold Mollett should slip away out of the back door and over a wall. If foxes did not do those sort of things they would not be worthhalf the attention that is paid to them. But Mr. Prendergast waswell on the scent; all that a sportsman wants is good scent. Hewould rather not have a view till the run comes to its close. "But, "continued Mr. Prendergast, "it is necessary that I should say a fewwords to you about this letter. Abraham's mother was, I suppose, notexactly an--an educated woman?"

"I never saw her, sir. "

"She died when he was very young?"

"Four years old, sir. "

"And her son hardly seems to have had much education?"

"It was his own fault, sir; I sent him to school when he came to me, though, goodness knows, sir, I was short enough of means of doingso. He had better opportunities than my own daughter there, andthough I say it myself, who ought not to say it, she is a goodscholar. "

"I'm sure she is, --and a very good young woman too, if I can judgeby her appearance. But about this letter. I am afraid your husbandhas not been so particular in his way of living as he should havebeen. "

"What could I do, sir? a poor weak woman!"

"Nothing; what you could do, I'm sure you did do. "

"I've always kept a house over my head, though it's very humble, asyou see, sir. And he has had a morsel to eat and a cup to drink ofwhen he has come here. It is not often that he has troubled me thismany years past. "

"Mother, " said Mary Swan the younger, "the gentleman won't care toknow about, about all that between you and father. "

"Ah, but it is just what I do care to know. "

"But, sir, father perhaps mightn't choose it. "

The obedience of women to men--to those men to whom they are legallybound--is, I think, the most remarkable trait in human nature. Nothing equals it but the instinctive loyalty of a dog. Of course wehear of gray mares, and of garments worn by the wrong persons. Xanthippe doubtless did live, and the character from time to time isrepeated; but the rule, I think, is as I have said. 

"Mrs. Swan, " said Mr. Prendergast, "I should think myself dishonestwere I to worm your secrets out of you, seeing that you are yourselfso truthful and so respectable. " Perhaps it may be thought that Mr. Prendergast was a little late in looking at the matter in thislight. "But it behoves me to learn much of the early history of yourhusband, who is now living with you here, and whose name, as I takeit, is not Swan, but Mollett. Your maiden name probably was Swan?"

"But I was honestly married, sir, in the parish church at Putney, and that young woman was honestly born. "

"I am quite sure of it. I have never doubted it. But as I wassaying, I have come here for information about your husband, and Ido not like to ask you questions off your guard, "--oh, Mr. Prendergast!--"and therefore I think it right to tell you, thatneither I nor those for whom I am concerned have any wish to bearmore heavily than we can help upon your husband, if he will onlycome forward with willingness to do that which we can make him doeither willingly or unwillingly. "

"But what was it about Abraham's letter, sir?"

"Well, it does not so much signify now. "

"It was he sent you here, was it, sir? How has he learned where weare, Mary?" and the poor woman turned to her daughter. "The truthis, sir, he has never known anything of us for these twenty years, nor we of him. I have not set eyes on him for more than twentyyears, --not that I know of. And he never knew me by any other namethan Swan, and when he was a child he took me for his aunt. "

"He hasn't known then that you and his father were husband andwife?"

"I have always thought he didn't, sir. But how--"

Then after all the young fox had not been so full of craft as theelder one, thought Mr. Prendergast to himself. But nevertheless, hestill liked the old fox best. There are foxes that run so uncommonlyshort that you can never get a burst after them. 

"I suppose, Mrs. Swan, " continued Mr. Prendergast, "that you haveheard the name of Fitzgerald?"

The poor woman sat silent and amazed, but after a moment thedaughter answered him. "My mother, sir, would rather that you shouldask her no questions. "

"But, my good girl, your mother, I suppose, would wish to protectyour father, and she would not wish to answer these questions in acourt of law. "

"Heaven forbid!" said the poor woman. 

"Your father has behaved very badly to an unfortunate lady whosefriend I am, and on her behalf I must learn the truth. "

"He has behaved badly, sir, to a great many ladies, " said Mrs. Swan, or Mrs. Mollett as we may now call her. 

"You are aware, are you not, that he went through a form of marriagewith this lady many years ago?" said Mr. Prendergast, almostseverely. 

"Let him answer for himself, " said the true wife. "Mary, goupstairs, and ask your father to come down. "

CHAPTER XL

THE FOX IN HIS EARTH

Mary Swan the younger hesitated a moment before she executed hermother's order, not saying anything, but looking doubtfully up intoher mother's face. "Go, my dear, " said the old woman, "and ask yourfather to come down. It is no use denying him. "

"None in the least, " said Mr. Prendergast; and then the daughterwent. 

For ten minutes the lawyer and the old woman sat alone, during whichtime the ear of the former was keenly alive to any steps that mightbe heard on the stairs or above head. Not that he would himself havetaken any active measures to prevent Mr. Mollett's escape, had suchan attempt been made. The woman could be a better witness for himthan the man, and there would be no fear of her running. Nevertheless, he was anxious that Mollett should, of his own accord, come into his presence. 

"I am sorry to keep you so long waiting, sir, " said Mrs. Swan. 

"It does not signify. I can easily understand that your husbandshould wish to reflect a little before he speaks to me. I canforgive that. "

"And, sir--"

"Well, Mrs. Mollett?"

"Are you going to do anything to punish him, sir? If a poor womanmay venture to speak a word, I would beg you on my bended knees tobe merciful to him. If you would forgive him now I think he wouldlive honest, and be sorry for what he has done. "

"He has worked terrible evil, " said Mr. Prendergast solemnly. "Doyou know that he has harassed a poor gentleman into his grave?"

"Heaven be merciful to him!" said the poor woman. "But, sir, was notthat his son? Was it not Abraham Mollett who did that? Oh, sir, ifyou will let a poor wife speak, it is he that has been worse thanhis father. "

Before Mr. Prendergast had made up his mind how he would answer her, he heard the sound of footsteps slowly descending upon the stairs. They were those of a person who stepped heavily and feebly, and itwas still a minute before the door was opened. 

"Sir, " said the woman. "Sir, " and as she spoke she looked eagerlyinto his face--"Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them thattrespass against us. We should all remember that, sir. "

"True, Mrs. Mollett, quite true, " and Mr. Prendergast rose from hischair as the door opened. 

It will be remembered that Mr. Prendergast and Matthew Mollett hadmet once before, in the room usually occupied by Sir ThomasFitzgerald. On that occasion Mr. Mollett had at any rate entered thechamber with some of the prestige of power about him. He had come toCastle Richmond as the man having the whip hand; and though hiscourage had certainly fallen somewhat before he left it, nevertheless he had not been so beaten down but what he was able tosay a word or two for himself. He had been well in health and decentin appearance, and even as he left the room had hardly realized theabsolute ruin which had fallen upon him. 

But now he looked as though he had realized it with sufficientclearness. He was lean and sick and pale, and seemed to be ten yearsolder than when Mr. Prendergast had last seen him. He was wrapped inan old dressing-gown, and had a night-cap on his head, and coughedviolently before he got himself into his chair. It is hard for anytame domestic animal to know through what fire and water a poor foxis driven as it is hunted from hole to hole and covert to covert. Itis a wonderful fact, but no less a fact, that no men work so hardand work for so little pay as scoundrels who strive to live withoutany work at all, and to feed on the sweat of other men's brows. PoorMatthew Mollett had suffered dire misfortune, had encountered veryhard lines, betwixt that day on which he stole away from the KanturkHotel in South Main Street, Cork, and that other day on which hepresented himself, cold and hungry and almost sick to death, at thedoor of his wife's house in Spinny Lane, St. Botolph's in the East. 

He never showed himself there unless when hard pressed indeed, andthen he would skulk in, seeking for shelter and food, and pleadingwith bated voice his husband right to assistance and comfort. Norwas his plea ever denied him. 

On this occasion he had arrived in very bad plight indeed: he hadbrought away from Cork nothing but what he could carry on his body, and had been forced to pawn what he could pawn in order that hemight subsist. And then he had been taken with ague, and with thefit strong on him had crawled away to Spinny Lane, and had therebeen nursed by the mother and daughter whom he had ill used, deserted, and betrayed. "When the devil was sick the devil a monkwould be;" and now his wife, credulous as all women are in suchmatters, believed the devil's protestations. A time may perhaps comewhen even--But stop!--or I may chance to tread on the corns oforthodoxy. What I mean to insinuate is this; that it was on thecards that Mr. Mollett would now at last turn over a new leaf. 

"How do you do, Mr. Mollett?" said Mr. Prendergast. "I am sorry tosee you looking so poorly. "

"Yes, sir. I am poorly enough certainly. I have been very ill sinceI last had the pleasure of seeing you, sir. "

"Ah, yes, that was at Castle Richmond; was it not? Well, you havedone the best thing that a man can do; you have come home to yourwife and family now that you are ill and require their attendance. "

Mr. Mollett looked up at him with a countenance full of unutterablewoe and weakness. What was he to say on such a subject in such acompany? There sat his wife and daughter, his veritable wife andtrue-born daughter, on whom he was now dependent, and in whose handshe lay, as a sick man does lie in the hands of women: could he denythem? And there sat the awful Mr. Prendergast, the representative ofall that Fitzgerald interest which he had so wronged, and who up tothis morning had at any rate believed the story with which he, Mollett, had pushed his fortunes in county Cork. Could he in hispresence acknowledge that Lady Fitzgerald had never been his wife?It must be confessed that he was in a sore plight. And then rememberhis ague!

"You feel yourself tolerably comfortable, I suppose, now that youare with your wife and daughter, " continued Mr. Prendergast, mostinhumanly. 

Mr. Mollett continued to look at him so piteously from beneath hisnightcap. "I am better than I was, thank you, sir, " said he. 

"There is nothing like the bosom of one's family for restoring oneto health; is there, Mrs. Mollett;--or for keeping one in health?"

"I wish you gentlemen would think so, " said she, dryly. 

"As for me, I never was blessed with a wife. When I am sick I haveto trust to hired attendance. In that respect I am not so fortunateas your husband; I am only an old bachelor. "

"Oh, ain't you, sir?" said Mrs. Mollett; "and perhaps it's best so. It ain't all married people that are the happiest. "

The daughter during this time was sitting intent on her work, notlifting her face from the shirt she was sewing. But an observermight have seen from her forehead and eye that she was not onlylistening to what was said, but thinking and meditating on the scenebefore her. 

"Well, Mr. Mollett, " said Mr. Prendergast, "you at any rate are notan old bachelor. " Mr. Mollett still looked piteously at him, butsaid nothing. It may be thought that in all this Mr. Prendergast wasmore cruel than necessary, but it must be remembered that it wasincumbent on him to bring the poor wretch before him down absolutelyon his marrow-bones. Mollett must be made to confess his sin, andown that this woman before him was his real wife; and the time formercy had not commenced till that had been done. 

And then his daughter spoke, seeing how things were going with him. "Father, " said she, "this gentleman has called because he has had aletter from Abraham Mollett: and he was speaking about what Abrahamhas been doing in Ireland. "

"Oh dear, oh dear!" said poor Mollett. "The unfortunate young man;that wretched, unfortunate young man! He will bring me to the graveat last--to the grave at last. "

"Come, Mr. Mollett, " said Mr. Prendergast, now getting up andstanding with his back to the fire, "I do not know that you and Ineed beat about the bush much longer. I suppose I may speak openlybefore these ladies as to what has been taking place in countyCork. "

"Sir!" said Mr. Mollett, with a look of deprecation about his mouththat ought to have moved the lawyer's heart. 

"I know nothing about it, " said Mrs. Mollett, very stiffly. 

"Yes, mother, we do know something about it; and the gentleman mayspeak out if it so pleases him. It will be better, father, for youthat he should do so. "

"Very well, my dear, " said Mr. Mollett, in the lowest possiblevoice; "whatever the gentleman likes--only I do hope--" and heuttered a deep sigh, and gave no further expression to his hopes orwishes. 

"I presume, in the first place, " began Mr. Prendergast, "that thislady here is your legal wife, and this younger lady your legitimatedaughter? There is no doubt, I take it, as to that?"

"Not--any--doubt--in the world, sir, " said the Mrs. Mollett, whoclaimed to be so de jure. "I have got my marriage lines to show, sir. Abraham's mother was dead just six months before we cametogether; and then we were married just six months after that. "

"Well, Mr. Mollett; I suppose you do not wish to contradict that?"

"He can't, sir, whether he wish it or not, " said Mrs. Mollett. 

"Could you show me that--that marriage certificate?" asked Mr. Prendergast. 

Mrs. Mollett looked rather doubtful as to this. It may be, that muchas she trusted in her husband's reform, she did not wish to let himknow where she kept this important palladium of her rights. 

"It can be forthcoming, sir, whenever it may be wanted, " said MaryMollett the younger; and then Mr. Prendergast, seeing what waspassing through the minds of the two women, did not press thatmatter any further. 

"But I should be glad to hear from your own lips, Mr. Mollett, thatyou acknowledge the marriage, which took place at--at Fulham, Ithink you said, ma'am?"

"At Putney, sir; at Putney parish church, in the year of our Lordeighteen hundred and fourteen. "

"Ah, that was the year before Mr. Mollett went into Dorsetshire. "

"Yes, sir. He didn't stay with me long, not at that time. He wentaway and left me: and then all that happened, that you know of--down in Dorsetshire, as they told me. And afterwards when he wentaway on his keeping, leaving Aby behind, I took the child, and saidthat I was his aunt. There were reasons then; and I feared--Butnever mind about that, sir; for anything that I was wrong enough tosay then to the contrary, I am his lawful wedded wife, and before myface he won't deny it. And then when he was sore pressed and introuble he came back to me, and after that Mary here was born; andone other, a boy, who, God rest him, has gone from these troubles. And since that it is not often that he has been with me. But now, now that he is here, you should have pity on us, and give himanother chance. "

But still Mr. Mollett had said nothing himself. He sat during allthis time, wearily moving his head to and fro, as though theconversation were anything but comfortable to him. And, indeed, itcannot be presumed to have been very pleasant. He moved his headslowly and wearily to and fro; every now and then lifting up onehand weakly, as though deprecating any recurrence to circumstancesso decidedly unpleasant. But Mr. Prendergast was determined that heshould speak. 

"Mr. Mollett, " said he, "I must beg you to say in so many words, whether the statement of this lady is correct or is incorrect. Doyou acknowledge her for your lawful wife?"

"He daren't deny me, sir, " said the woman, who was, perhaps, alittle too eager in the matter. 

"Father, why don't you behave like a man and speak?" said hisdaughter, now turning upon him. "You have done ill to all of us;--to so many; but now--"

"And are you going to turn against me, Mary?" he whined out, almostcrying. 

"Turn against you! no, I have never done that. But look at mother. Would you let that gentleman think that she is--what I won't namebefore him? Will you say that I am not your honest-born child? Youhave done very wickedly, and you must now make what amends is inyour power. If you do not answer him here he will make you answer insome worse place than this. "

"What is it I am to say, sir?" he whined out again. 

"Is this lady here your legal wife?"

"Yes, sir, " said the poor man, whimpering. 

"And that marriage ceremony which you went through in Dorsetshirewith Miss Wainwright was not a legal marriage?"

"I suppose not, sir. "

"You were well aware at the time that you were committing bigamy?"

"Sir!"

"You knew, I say, that you were committing bigamy; that the childwhom you were professing to marry would not become your wife throughthat ceremony. I say that you knew all this at the time? Come, Mr. Mollett, answer me, if you do not wish me to have you dragged out ofthis by a policeman and taken at once before a magistrate. "

"Oh, sir! be merciful to us; pray be merciful to us, " said Mrs. Mollett, holding up her apron to her eyes. 

"Father, why don't you speak out plainly to the gentleman? He willforgive you, if you do that. "

"Am I to criminate myself, sir?" said Mr. Mollett, still in thehumblest voice in the world, and hardly above his breath. 

After all, this fox had still some running left in him, Mr. Prendergast thought to himself. He was not even yet so thoroughlybeaten but what he had a dodge or two remaining at his service. "AmI to criminate myself, sir?" he asked, as innocently as a childmight ask whether or no she were to stand longer in the corner. 

"You may do as you like about that, Mr. Mollett, " said the lawyer;"I am neither a magistrate nor a policeman; and at the presentmoment I am not acting even as a lawyer. I am the friend of a familywhom you have misused and defrauded most outrageously. You killedthe father of that family--"

"Oh, gracious!" said Mrs. Mollett

"Yes, madam, he has done so; and nearly broken the heart of thatpoor lady, and driven her son from the house which is his own. Youhave done all this in order that you might swindle them out of moneyfor your vile indulgences, while you left your own wife and your ownchild to starve at home. In the whole course of my life I never cameacross so mean a scoundrel; and now you chaffer with me as towhether or no you shall criminate yourself! Scoundrel and villain asyou are--a double-dyed scoundrel, still there are reasons why Ishall not wish to have you gibbeted, as you deserve. "

"Oh, sir, he has done nothing that would come to that!" said thepoor wife. 

"You had better let the gentleman finish, " said the daughter. "Hedoesn't mean that father will be hung. "

"It would be too good for him, " said Mr. Prendergast, who was nowabsolutely almost out of temper. "But I do not wish to be hisexecutioner. For the peace of that family which you have so brutallyplundered and ill-used, I shall remain quiet, --if I can attain myobject without a public prosecution. But, remember, that I guaranteenothing to you. For aught I know you may be in gaol before the nightis come. All I have to tell you is this, that if by obtaining aconfession from you I am able to restore my friends to theirproperty without a prosecution, I shall do so. Now you may answer meor not, as you like. "

"Trust him, father, " said the daughter. "It will be best for you. "

"But I have told him everything, " said Mollett. "What more does hewant of me?"

"I want you to give your written acknowledgment that when you wentthrough that ceremony of marriage with Miss Wainwright inDorsetshire, you committed bigamy, and that you knew at that timethat you were doing so. "

Mr. Mollett, as a matter of course, gave him the written document, and then Mr. Prendergast took his leave, bowing graciously to thetwo women, and not deigning to cast his eyes again on the abjectwretch who crouched by the fire. 

"Don't be hard on a poor creature who has fallen so low, " said Mrs. Mollett as he left the room. But Mary Mollett junior followed him tothe door and opened it for him. "Sir, " she said, addressing him withsome hesitation as he was preparing to depart. 

"Well, Miss Mollett; if I could do anything for you it would gratifyme, for I sincerely feel for you, --both for you and for yourmother. "

"Thank you, sir; I don't know that there is anything you can do forus--except to spare him. The thief on the cross was forgiven, sir. "

"But the thief on the cross repented. "

"And who shall say that he does not repent? You cannot tell of hisheart by scripture word, as you can of that other one. But our Lordhas taught us that it is good to forgive the worst of sinners. Tellthat poor lady to think of this when she remembers him in herprayers. "

"I will, Miss Mollett; indeed, indeed I will;" and then as he lefther he gave her his hand in token of respect. And so he walked awayout of Spinny Lane. 

CHAPTER XLI

THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS

Mr. Prendergast as he walked out of Spinny Lane, and back to St. Botolph's church, and as he returned thence again to BloomsburySquare in his cab, had a good deal of which to think. In the firstplace it must be explained that he was not altogether self-satisfiedwith the manner in which things had gone. That he would have madealmost any sacrifice to recover the property for Herbert Fitzgerald, is certainly true; and it is as true that he would have omitted nopossible effort to discover all that which he had now discovered, almost without necessity for any effort. But nevertheless he was notaltogether pleased; he had made up his mind a month or two ago thatLady Fitzgerald was not the lawful wife of her husband; and had cometo this conclusion on, as he still thought, sufficient evidence. Butnow he was proved to have been wrong; his character for shrewdnessand discernment would be damaged, and his great ally and chum Mr. Die, the Chancery barrister, would be down on him with unmitigatedsarcasm. A man who has been right so frequently as Mr. Prendergast, does not like to find that he is ever in the wrong. And then, hadhis decision not have been sudden, might not the life of that oldbaronet have been saved?

Mr. Prendergast could not help feeling this in some degree as hedrove away to Bloomsbury Square; but nevertheless he had also thefeeling of having achieved a great triumph. It was with him as witha man who has made a fortune when he has declared to his friendsthat he should infallibly be ruined. It piques him to think howwrong he has been in his prophecy; but still it is very pleasant tohave made one's fortune. 

When he found himself at the top of Chancery Lane in Holborn, hestopped his cab and got out of it. He had by that time made up hismind as to what he would do; so he walked briskly down to StoneBuildings, and nodding to the old clerk, with whom he was veryintimate, asked if he could see Mr. Die. It was his second visit tothose chambers that morning, seeing that he had been there early inthe day, introducing Herbert to his new Gamaliel. "Yes, Mr. Die isin, " said the clerk, smiling; and so Mr. Prendergast passed on intothe well-known dingy temple of the Chancery god himself. 

There he remained for full an hour, a message in the mean whilehaving been sent out to Herbert Fitzgerald, begging him not to leavethe chambers till he should have seen Mr. Die; "and your friend Mr. Prendergast is with him, " said the clerk. "A very nice gentleman isMr. Prendergast, uncommon clever too; but it seems to me that henever can hold his own when he comes across our Mr. Die. "

At the end of the hour Herbert was summoned into the sanctum, andthere he found Mr. Die sitting in his accustomed chair, with hisbody much bent, nursing the calf of his leg, which was alwaysenveloped in a black, well-fitting close pantaloon, and smiling veryblandly. Mr. Prendergast had in his countenance not quite so sweetan aspect. Mr. Die had repeated to him, perhaps once too often, avery well-known motto of his; one by the aid of which he professedto have steered himself safely through the shoals of life--himselfand perhaps some others. It was a motto which he would have loved tosee inscribed over the great gates of the noble inn to which hebelonged; and which, indeed, a few years since might have beeninscribed there with much justice. "Festina lente, " Mr. Die wouldsay to all those who came to him in any sort of hurry. And then whenmen accused him of being dilatory by premeditation, he would say no, he had always recommended despatch. "Festina, " he would say;"festina" by all means; but "festina lente. " The doctrine had at anyrate thriven with the teacher, for Mr. Die had amassed a largefortune. 

Herbert at once saw that Mr. Prendergast was a little fluttered. Judging from what he had seen of the lawyer in Ireland, he wouldhave said that it was impossible to flutter Mr. Prendergast; but intruth greatness is great only till it encounters greater greatness. Mars and Apollo are terrible and magnificent gods till one isenabled to see them seated at the foot of Jove's great throne. ThatApollo, Mr. Prendergast, though greatly in favour with the oldChancery Jupiter, had now been reminded that he had also on thisoccasion driven his team too fast, and been nearly as indiscreet inhis own rash offering. 

"We are very sorry to keep you waiting here, Mr. Fitzgerald, " saidMr. Die, giving his hand to the young man without, however, risingfrom his chair; "especially sorry, seeing that it is your first dayin harness. But your friend Mr. Prendergast thinks it as well thatwe should talk over together a piece of business which does not seemas yet to be quite settled. "

Herbert of course declared that he had been in no hurry to go away;he was, he said, quite ready to talk over anything; but to his mindat that moment nothing occurred more momentous than the nature ofthe agreement between himself and Mr. Die. There was an honorariumwhich it was presumed Mr. Die would expect, and which HerbertFitzgerald had ready for the occasion. 

"I hardly know how to describe what has taken place this morningsince I saw you, " said Mr. Prendergast, whose features told plainlythat something more important than the honorarium was now on thetapis. 

"What has taken place?" said Herbert, whose mind now flew off toCastle Richmond. 

"Gently, gently, " said Mr. Die; "in the whole course of my legalexperience, --and that now has been a very long experience, --I havenever come across so, --so singular a family history as this ofyours, Mr. Fitzgerald. When our friend Mr. Prendergast here, on hisreturn from Ireland, first told me the whole of it, I was inclinedto think that he had formed a right and just decision--"

"There can be no doubt about that, " said Herbert. 

"Stop a moment, my dear sir; wait half a moment--a just decision, Isay--regarding the evidence of the facts as conclusive. But I wasnot quite so certain that he might not have been a little--prematureperhaps may be too strong a word--a little too assured in takingthose facts as proved. "

"But they were proved, " said Herbert. 

"I shall always maintain that there was ample ground to induce me torecommend your poor father so to regard them, " said Mr. Prendergast, stoutly. "You must remember that those men would instantly have beenat work on the other side; indeed, one of them did attempt it. "

"Without any signal success, I believe, " said Mr. Die. 

"My father thought you were quite right, Mr. Prendergast, " saidHerbert, with a tear forming in his eye; "and though it may bepossible that the affair hurried him to his death, there was noalternative but that he should know the whole. " At this Mr. Prendergast seemed to wince as he sat in his chair. "And I am sureof this, " continued Herbert, "that had he been left to the villaniesof those two men, his last days would have been much lesscomfortable than they were, My mother feels that quite as stronglyas I do. " And then Mr. Prendergast looked as though he were somewhatreassured. 

"It was a difficult crisis in which to act, " said Mr. Prendergast, "and I can only say that I did so to the best of my poor judgment. "

"It was a difficult crisis in which to act, " said Mr. Die, assenting. 

"But why is all this brought up now?" asked Herbert. 

"Festina lente, " said Mr. Die; "lente, lente, lente; always lente. The more haste we make in trying to understand each other, with theless speed shall we arrive at that object. "

"What is it, Mr. Prendergast?" again demanded Herbert, who was nowtoo greatly excited to care much for the Chancery wisdom of thegreat barrister. "Has anything new turned up about--about thoseMolletts?"

"Yes, Herbert, something has turned up--"

"Remember, Prendergast, that your evidence is again incomplete. "

"Upon my word, sir, I do not think it is: it would be sufficient forany intellectual jury in a Common Law court, " said Mr. Prendergast, who sometimes, behind his back, gave to Mr. Die the surname ofCunctator. 

"But juries in Common Law courts are not always intelligent. And youmay be sure, Prendergast, that any gentleman taking up the case onthe other side would have as much to say for his client as yourcounsel would have for yours. Remember, you have not even been toPutney yet. "

"Been to Putney!" said Herbert, who was becoming uneasy. 

"The onus probandi would lie with them, " said Mr. Prendergast. "Wetake possession of that which is our own till it is proved to belongto others. "

"You have already abandoned the possession. "

"No; we have done nothing already: we have taken no legal step; whenwe believed--"

"Having by your own act put yourself in your present position, Ithink you ought to be very careful before you take up another. "

"Certainly we ought to be careful. But I do maintain that we may betoo punctilious. As a matter of course I shall go to Putney. "

"To Putney!" said Herbert Fitzgerald. 

"Yes, Herbert, and now, if Mr. Die will permit, I will tell you whathas happened. On yesterday afternoon, before you came to dine withme, I received that letter. No, that is from your cousin, OwenFitzgerald. You must see that also by-and-by. It was this one, --from the younger Mollett, the man whom you saw that day in your poorfather's room. "

Herbert anxiously put out his hand for the letter, but he was againinterrupted by Mr. Die. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fitzgerald, for amoment. Prendergast, let me see that letter again, will you?" Andtaking hold of it, he proceeded to read it very carefully, stillnursing his leg with his left hand, while he held the letter withhis right. 

"What's it all about?" said Herbert, appealing to Prendergast almostin a whisper. 

"Lente, lente, lente, my dear Mr. Fitzgerald, " said Mr. Die, whilehis eyes were still intent upon the paper. "If you will takeadvantage of the experience of grey hairs, and bald heads, "--his ownwas as bald all round as a big white stone--"you must put up withsome of the disadvantages of a momentary delay. Suppose now, Prendergast, that he is acting in concert with those people in--whatdo you call the street?"

"In Spinny Lane. "

"Yes; with his father and the two women there. "

"What could they gain by that?"

"Share with him whatever he might be able to get out of you. "

"The man would never accuse himself of bigamy for that. Besides, youshould have seen the women, Die. "

"Seen the women! Tsh--tsh--tsh; I have seen enough of them, youngand old, to know that a clean apron and a humble tone and adown-turned eye don't always go with a true tongue and an honestheart. Women are now the most successful swindlers of the age! Thatprofession at any rate is not closed against them. "

"You will not find these women to be swindlers; at least I thinknot. "

"Ah! but we want to be sure, Prendergast;" and then Mr. Die finishedthe letter, very leisurely, as Herbert thought. 

When he had finished it, he folded it up and gave it back to Mr. Prendergast. "I don't think but what you've a strong prima faciecase; so strong that perhaps you are right to explain the wholematter to our young friend here, who is so deeply concerned in it. But at the same time I should caution him that the matter is stillenveloped in doubt. "

Herbert eagerly put out his hand for the letter. "You may trust mewith it, " said he: "I am not of a sanguine temperament, nor easilyexcited; and you may be sure that I will not take it for more thanit is worth. " So saying, he at last got hold of the letter, andmanaged to read it through much more quickly than Mr. Die had done. As he did so he became very red in the face, and too plainly showedthat he had made a false boast in speaking of the coolness of histemperament. Indeed, the stakes were so high that it was difficultfor a young man to be cool while he was playing the game: he hadmade up his mind to lose, and to that he had been reconciled; butnow again every pulse of his heart and every nerve of his body wasdisturbed. "Was never his wife, " he said out loud when he got tothat part of the letter. "His real wife living now in Spinny Lane!Do you believe that, Mr. Prendergast?"

"Yes, I do, " said the attorney. 

"Lente, lente, lente, " said the barrister, quite oppressed by hisfriend's unprofessional abruptness. 

"But I do believe it, " said Mr. Prendergast: "you must alwaysunderstand, Herbert, that this new story may possibly not be true--"

"Quite possible, " said Mr. Die, with something almost approaching toa slight laugh. 

"But the evidence is so strong, " continued the other, "that I dobelieve it heartily. I have been to that house, and seen the man, old Mollett, and the woman whom I believe to be his wife, and adaughter who lives with them. As far as my poor judgment goes, " andhe made a bow of deference towards the barrister, whose face, however, seemed to say, that in his opinion the judgment of hisfriend Mr. Prendergast did not always go very far--"As far as mypoor judgment goes, the women are honest and respectable. The man isas great a villain as there is unhung--unless his son be a greaterone; but he is now so driven into a corner, that the truth may bemore serviceable to him than a lie. "

"People of that sort are never driven into a corner, " said Mr. Die;"they may sometimes be crushed to death. "

"Well, I believe the matter is as I tell you. There at any rate isMollett's assurance that it is so. The woman has been residing inthe same place for years, and will come forward at any time to provethat she was married to this man before he ever saw--before he wentto Dorsetshire: she has her marriage certificate; and as far as Ican learn there is no one able or willing to raise the questionagainst you. Your cousin Owen certainly will not do so. "

"It will hardly do to depend upon that, " said Mr. Die, with anothersneer. "Twelve thousand a-year is a great provocative tolitigation. "

"If he does we must fight him; that's all. Of course steps will betaken at once to get together in the proper legal form all evidenceof every description which may bear on the subject, so that shouldthe question ever be raised again, the whole matter may be in anutshell. "

"You'll find it a nutshell very difficult to crack infive-and-twenty years' time, " said Mr. Die. 

"And what would you advise me to do?" asked Herbert. 

That after all was now the main question, and it was discussedbetween them for a long time, till the shades of evening came uponthem, and the dull dingy chambers became almost dark as they satthere. Mr. Die at first conceived that it would be well that Herbertshould stick to the law. What indeed could be more conducive tosalutary equanimity in the mind of a young man so singularlycircumstanced, than the study of Blackstone, of Coke, and of Chitty?as long as he remained there, at work in those chambers, amusinghimself occasionally with the eloquence of the neighbouring courts, there might be reasonable hope that he would be able to keep hismind equally poised, so that neither success nor failure as regardedhis Irish inheritance should affect him injuriously. Thus at leastargued Mr. Die. But at this point Herbert seemed to have views ofhis own: he said that in the first place he must be with his mother;and then, in the next place, as it was now clear that he was not tothrow up Castle Richmond--as it would not now behove him to allowany one else to call himself master there, --it would be his duty toreassume the place of master. "The onus probandi will now rest withthem, " he said, repeating Mr. Prendergast's words; and then he wasultimately successful in persuading even Mr. Die to agree that itwould be better for him to go to Ireland than to remain in London, sipping the delicious honey of Chancery buttercups. 

"And you will assume the title, I suppose?" said Mr. Die. 

"Not, at any rate, till I get to Castle Richmond, " he said, blushing. He had so completely abandoned all thought of being SirHerbert Fitzgerald, that he had now almost felt ashamed of sayingthat he should so far presume as to call himself by that name. 

And then he and Mr. Prendergast went away and dined together, leaving Mr. Die to complete his legal work for the day. At this hewould often sit till nine or ten, or even eleven in the evening, without any apparent ill results from such effects, and then go hometo his dinner and port wine. He was already nearly seventy, and workseemed to have no effect on him. In what Medea's caldron is it thatthe great lawyers so cook themselves, that they are able to achievehalf an immortality, even while the body still clings to the soul?Mr. Die, though he would talk of his bald head, had no idea ofgiving way to time. Superannuated! The men who think ofsuperannuation at sixty are those whose lives have been idle, notthey who have really buckled themselves to work. It is my opinionthat nothing seasons the mind for endurance like hard work. Portwine should perhaps be added. 

It was not till Herbert once more found himself alone that he fullyrealized this new change in his position. He had dined with Mr. Prendergast at that gentleman's club, and had been specially calledupon to enjoy himself, drinking as it were to his own restoration inlarge glasses of some special claret, which Mr. Prendergast assuredhim was very extraordinary. 

"You may be as satisfied as that you are sitting there that that's34, " said he; "and I hardly know anywhere else that you'll get it. "

This assertion Herbert was not in the least inclined to dispute. Inthe first place, he was not quite clear what 34 meant, and then anyother number, 32 or 36, would have suited his palate as well. But hedrank the 34, and tried to look as though he appreciated it. 

"Our wines here are wonderfully cheap, " said Mr. Prendergast, becoming confidential; "but nevertheless we have raised the price ofthat to twelve shillings. We'll have another bottle. "

During all this Herbert could hardly think of his own fate andfortune, though, indeed, he could hardly think of anything else. Hewas eager to be alone, that he might think, and was nearlybroken-hearted when the second bottle of 34 made its appearance. Something, however, was arranged in those intercalary momentsbetween the raising of the glasses. Mr. Prendergast said that hewould write both to Owen Fitzgerald and to Mr. Somers; and it wasagreed that Herbert should immediately return to Castle Richmond, merely giving his mother time to have notice of his coming. 

And then at last he got away, and started by himself for a nightwalk through the streets of London. It seemed to him now to be amonth since he had arrived there; but in truth it was only on theyesterday that he had got out of the train at the Euston Station. Hehad come up, looking forward to live in London all his life, and nowhis London life was over, --unless, indeed, those other hopes shouldcome back to him, unless he should appear again, not as a student inMr. Die's chamber, but as one of the council of the legislatureassembled to make laws for the governance of Mr. Die and of others. It was singular how greatly this episode in his life had humbled himin his own esteem. Six months ago he had thought himself almost toogood for Castle Richmond, and had regarded a seat in Parliament asthe only place which he could fitly fill without violation to hisnature. But now he felt as though he should hardly dare to showhimself within the walls of that assembly. He had been so knockedabout by circumstances, so rudely toppled from his high place, --hehad found it necessary to put himself so completely into the handsof other people, that his self-pride had all left him. That it wouldin fact return might be held as certain, but the lesson which he hadlearned would not altogether be thrown away upon him. At thismoment, as I was saying, he felt himself to be completely humbled. Alie spoken by one of the meanest of God's creatures had turned himaway from all his pursuits, and broken all his hopes; and nowanother word from this man was to restore him, --if only that otherword should not appear to be the greater lie! and then that thereshould be such question as to his mother's name and fame--as to thevery name by which she should now be called! that it should dependon the amount of infamy of which that wretch had been guilty, whether or no the woman whom in the world he most honoured wasentitled to any share of respect from the world around her! That shewas entitled to the respect of all good men, let the truth in thesematters be where it might, Herbert knew, and all who heard the storywould acknowledge. But respect is of two sorts, and the outerrespect of the world cannot be parted with conveniently. 

He did acknowledge himself to be a humbled man, --more so than he hadever yet done, or had been like to do, while conscious of the losswhich had fallen on him. It was at this moment when he began toperceive that his fortune would return to him, when he became awarethat he was knocked about like a shuttlecock from a battledore, thathis pride came by its first fall. Mollett was in truth the greatman, --the Warwick who was to make and unmake the kings of CastleRichmond. A month ago, and it had pleased Earl Mollett to say thatOwen Fitzgerald should reign; but there had been a turn upon thecards, and now he, King Herbert, was to be again installed. 

He walked down all alone through St. James's Street, and by PallMall and Charing Cross, feeling rather than thinking of all this. Those doubts of Mr. Die did not trouble him much. He fully believedthat he should regain his title and property; or rather that heshould never lose them. But he thought that he could never showhimself about the country again as he had done before all this wasknown. In spite of his good fortune he was sad at heart, littleconscious of the good that all this would do him. 

He went on by the Horse Guards and Treasury Chambers into ParliamentStreet, and so up to the new Houses of Parliament, and saunteredinto Westminster Hall; and there, at the privileged door between thelamps on his left hand, he saw busy men going in and out, some slowand dignified, others hot, hasty, and anxious, and he felt as thoughthe regions to and from which they passed must be far out of hisreach. Could he aspire to pass those august lamp-posts, he whosevery name depended on what in truth might have been the early doingsof a low scoundrel who was now skulking from the law?

And then he went on, and mounting by the public stairs and anteroomsfound his way to the lobby of the house. There he stood with hisback to the ginger-beer stall, moody and melancholy, looking on asmen in the crowd pushed forward to speak to members whom they knew, or, as it sometimes appeared, to members whom they did not know. There was somewhat of interest going on in the house, for the throngwas thick, and ordinary men sometimes jostled themselves on into themiddle of the hall--with impious steps, for on those centre stonesnone but legislators should presume to stand. 

"Stand back, gentlemen, stand back; back a little, if you please, sir, " said a very courteous but peremptory policeman, so moving thethrong that Herbert, who had been behind, in no way anxious for aforward place, or for distinguishing nods from passing members, found himself suddenly in the front rank, in the immediateneighbourhood of a cluster of young senators who were coolingthemselves in the lobby after the ardour of the debate. 

"It was as pretty a thing as ever I saw in my life, " said one, "andbeautifully ridden. " Surely it must have been the Spring Meeting andnot the debate that they were discussing. 

"I don't know much about that, " said another, and the voice soundedon Herbert's ears as it might almost be the voice of a brother. "Iknow I lost the odds. But I'll have a bottle of soda-water. Hallo, Fitzgerald! Why--;" and then the young member stopped himself, forHerbert Fitzgerald's story was rife about London at this time. 

"How do you do, Moulsey?" said Herbert, very glumly, for he did notat all like being recognized. This was Lord Moulsey, the eldest sonof the Earl of Hampton Court, who was now member for the RiverRegions, and had been one of Herbert's most intimate friends atOxford. 

"I did not exactly expect to see you here, " said Lord Moulsey, drawing him apart. "And upon my soul I was never so cut up in mylife as when I heard all that. Is it true?"

"True! why no;--it was true, but I don't think it is. That is tosay--upon my word I don't know. It's all unsettled--Good evening toyou. " And again nodding his head at his old friend in a very sombremanner, he skulked off and made his way out of Westminster Hall. 

"Do you know who that was?" said Lord Moulsey, going back to hisally. "That was young Fitzgerald, the poor fellow who has been doneout of his title and all his property. You have heard about hismother, haven't you?"

"Was that young Fitzgerald?" said the other senator, apparently moreinterested in this subject than he had even been about the prettyriding. "I wish I'd looked at him. Poor fellow! How does he bearit?"

"Upon my word, then, I never saw a fellow so changed in my life. Heand I were like brothers, but he would hardly speak to me. Perhaps Iought to have written to him. But he says it's not settled. "

"Oh, that's all gammon. It's settled enough. Why, they've given upthe place. I heard all about it the other day from Sullivan O'Leary. They are not even making any fight. Sullivan O'Leary says they arethe greatest fools in the world. "

"Upon my word I think young Fitzgerald was mad just now. His mannerwas so very odd. "

"I shouldn't wonder. I know I should go mad if my mother turned outto be somebody else's wife. " And then they both sauntered away. 

Herbert was doubly angry with himself as he made his way down intothe noble old hall, --angry that he had gone where there was apossibility of his being recognized, and angry also that he hadbehaved himself with so little presence of mind when he wasrecognized. He felt that he had been taken aback, that he had beenbeside himself, and unable to maintain his own dignity; he had runaway from his old intimate friend because he had been unable to bearbeing looked on as the hero of a family tragedy. "He would go backto Ireland, " he said to himself, "and he would never leave it again. Perhaps he might teach himself there to endure the eyes and voicesof men around him. Nothing at any rate should induce him to comeagain to London. " And so he went home to bed in a mood by no meansso happy as might have been expected from the result of the day'sdoings. And yet he had been cheerful enough when he went to Mr. Die's chambers in the morning. 

CHAPTER XLII

ANOTHER JOURNEY

On the following day he did go back to Ireland, stopping a night inDublin on the road, so that his mother might receive his letter, andthat his cousin and Somers might receive those written by Mr. Prendergast. He spent one night in Dublin, and then went on, so thathe might arrive at Castle Richmond after dark. In his present moodhe dreaded to be seen returning, even by his own people about theplace. 

At Buttevant he was met by his own car and by Richard, as he haddesired; but he found that he was utterly frustrated as to thatmethod of seating himself in his vehicle which he had promised tohimself. He was still glum and gloomy enough when the coach stopped, for he had been all alone, thinking over many things--thinking ofhis father's death and his mother's early life--of all that he hadsuffered and might yet have to suffer, and above all things dreadingthe consciousness that men were talking of him and staring at him. In this mood he was preparing to leave the coach when he foundhimself approaching near to that Buttevant stage; but he had more togo through at present than he expected. 

"There's his honour--Hurrah! God bless his sweet face that's comeamong us agin this day! Hurrah for Sir Herbert, boys! hurrah! Therail ould Fitzgerald 'll be back agin among us, glory be to God andthe Blessed Virgin! Hurrah for Sir Herbert!" and then there was ashout that seemed to be repeated all down the street of Buttevant. 

But that was nothing to what was coming. Herbert, when he firstheard this, retreated for a moment back into the coach. But therewas little use in that. It was necessary that he should descend, andhad he not done so he would have been dragged out. He put his footon the steps, and then found himself seized in the arms of a manoutside, and pressed and embraced as though he had been a baby. 

"Ugh, ugh, ugh!" exclaimed a voice, the owner of which intended tosend forth notes of joy; but so overcome was he by the intensity ofhis own feelings that he was in nowise able to moderate his voiceeither for joy or sorrow. 

"Ugh, ugh, ugh! Eh! Sir Herbert! but it's I that am proud to see yerhonour this day, --wid yer ouwn name, wid yer ouwn name. Glory be toGod; oh dear! oh dear! And I knew the Lord'd niver forgit us thatway, and let the warld go intirely wrong like that. For av youweren't the masther, Sir Herbert, as you are, the Lord presarve youto us, divil a masther'd iver be able to hould a foot in CastleRichmond, and that's God's ouwn thruth. "

"And that's thrue for you, Richard, " said another, whom Herbert inthe confusion could not recognize, though his voice was familiar tohim. "'Deed and the boys had it all made out. But what matthers nowSir Herbert's back?"

"And God bless the day and the hour that he came to us!" And thenleaving his master's arm and coat to which he had still stuck, hebegan to busy himself loudly about the travelling gear. "Coachman, where's Sir Herbert's port-mantel? Yes; that's Sir Herbert'shat-box. 'Deed an' I ought to know it well. And the black bag; yes, that'll be Sir Herbert's, to be sure, " and so on. 

Nor was this all. The name seemed to run like wildfire through allthe Buttevantians there assembled; and no sound seemed to reach ourhero's name but that of Sir Herbert, Sir Herbert. Everybody tookhold of him, and kissed his hand, and pulled his skirts, and strokedhis face. His hat was knocked off, and put on again amid thousandsof blessings. It was nearly dark, and his eyes were dazed by thecoach lanterns which were carried about, so that he could hardly seehis friends; but the one sound which was dinned into his ears wasthat of Sir Herbert, Sir Herbert. 

Had he thought about it when starting from Dublin early that morninghe would have said that it would have killed him to have heardhimself so greeted in the public street, but as it was he found thathe got over it very easily. Before he was well seated on his car itmay be questioned whether he was not so used to his name, that hewould have been startled to hear himself designated as Mr. Fitzgerald. For half a minute he had been wretched, and had felt adisgust at poor Richard which he thought at the moment would beinsuperable; but when he was on the car, and the poor fellow cameround to tuck the apron in under his feet, he could not help givinghim his hand, and fraternizing with him. 

"And how is my mother, Richard?"

"'Deed then, Sir Herbert, me lady is surprising--very quiet-like;but her leddyship was always that, and as sweet to them as comesnigh her as flowers in May; but sure that's nathural to herleddyship. "

"And, Richard--"

"Yes, Sir Herbert. "

"Was Mr. Owen over at Castle Richmond since I left?"

"Sorrow a foot, Sir Herbert. Nor no one ain't heard on him, nor seenhim. And I will say this on him--"

"Don't say anything against him, Richard. "

"No, surely not, seeing he is yer honour's far-away cousin, SirHerbert. But what I war going to say warn't agin Mr. Owen at all, atall. For they do say that cart-ropes wouldn't have dragged him toCastle Richmond; and that only yer honour has come back to yerown, --and why not?--there wouldn't have been any masther in CastleRichmond at all, at all. That's what they do say. "

"There's no knowing how it will go yet, Richard. "

"'Deed, an' I know how it 'll go very well, Sir Herbert, and so doesMr. Somers, God bless him! 'Twas only this morning he tould me. An', faix, it's he has the right to be glad. "

"He is a very old friend. "

"So is we all ould frinds, an' we're all glad--out of our skins widgladness, Sir Herbert. 'Deed an' I thought the eend of the warld hadcome when I heerd it, for my head went round and round and round asI stood in the stable, and only for the fork I had a hould of, I'dhave been down among the crathur's legs. "

And then it struck Herbert that as they were going on he heard thefootsteps of some one running after the car, always at an equaldistance behind them. "Who's that running, Richard?"

"Sure an' that's just Larry Carson, yer honour's own boy, that mindsyer honour's own nag, Sir Herbert. But, faix, I suppose ye'll behaving a dozen of 'em now. "

"Stop and take him up; you've room there. "

"Room enough, Sir Herbert, an' yer honour's so good. Here, Larry, yer born fool, Sir Herbert says ye're to get up. He would come over, Sir Herbert, just to say he'd been the first to see yer honour. "

"God--bless--yer honour--Sir Herbert, " exclaimed the poor fellow, out of breath, as he took his seat. It was his voice that SirHerbert had recognized among the crowd, angry enough at that moment. But in future days it was remembered in Larry Carson's favour, thathe had come over to Castle Richmond to see his master, contented torun the whole road back to Castle Richmond behind the car. A betterfate, however, was his, for he made one in the triumphal entry upthe avenue. 

When they got to the lodge it was quite dark--so dark that evenRichard, who was experienced in night-driving, declared that a catcould not see. However, they turned in at the great gates withoutany accident, the accustomed woman coming out to open them. 

"An' is his honour there thin?" said the woman; "and may God blessyou, Sir Herbert, and ye're welcome back to yer own; so ye are!"

And then a warm large hand was laid upon his leg, and a warm voicesounded greeting in his ear. "Herbert, my boy, how are you? This iswell, is it not?" It was Mr. Somers who had been waiting there forhim at the lodge gate. 

Upon the whole he could not but acknowledge to himself that it waswell. Mr. Somers got up beside him on the car, so that by this timeit was well laden. "And how does my mother take it?" Herbert asked. 

"Very quietly. Your Aunt Letty told me that she had spent most ofher time in prayer since she heard it. But Miss Letty seems to thinkthat on your account she is very full of joy. "

"And the girls?"

"Oh! the girls--what girls? Well, they must answer for themselves; Ileft them about half an hour ago, and now you hear their voices inthe porch. "

He did hear the voices in the porch plainly, though he could notdistinguish them, as the horse's feet and the car wheels rattledover the gravel. But as the car stopped at the door with somewhat ofa crash, he heard Emmeline say, "There's Herbert, " and then as hegot down they all retreated in among the lights in the hall. 

"God bless your honour, Sir Herbert. An' it's you that are welcomeback this blessed night to Castle Richmond. " Such and such like werethe greetings which met him from twenty different voices as heessayed to enter the house. Every servant and groom about the placewas there, and some few of the nearest tenants, --of those who hadlived near enough to hear the glad tidings since the morning. Adozen, at any rate, took his hands as he strove to make his waythrough them, and though he was never quite sure about it, hebelieved that one or two had kissed him in the dark. At last hefound himself in the hall, and even then the first person who gothold of him was Mrs. Jones. 

"And so you've come back to us after all, Mr. Herbert--Sir Herbert Ishould say, begging your pardon, sir; and it's all right about mylady. I never thought to be so happy again, never--never--never. "And then she retreated with her apron up to her eyes, leaving him inthe arms of Aunt Letty. 

"The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name ofthe Lord. Oh! Herbert, my darling boy. I hope this may be a lessonand a warning to you, so that you may flee from the wrath to come. "Aunt Letty, had time been allowed to her, would certainly haveshown that the evil had all come from tampering with papisticalabominations; and that the returning prosperity of the house ofCastle Richmond was due to Protestant energy and truth. But muchtime was not allowed to Aunt Letty, as Herbert hurried on after hissisters. 

As he had advanced they had retreated, and now he heard them in thedrawing-room. He began to be conscious that they were not alone, --that they had some visitor with them, and began to be conscious alsowho that visitor was. And when he got himself at last into the room, sure enough there were three girls there, two running forward tomeet him from the fireplace to which they had retreated, and theother lingering a little in their rear. 

"Oh, Herbert!" and "oh, Herbert!" and then their arms were thrownabout his neck, and their warm kisses were on his cheeks--kissesnot unmixed with tears; for of course they began to cry immediatelythat he was with them, though their eyes had been dry enough for thetwo or three hours before. Their arms were about his neck, and theirkisses on his cheeks, I have said, --meaning thereby the arms andkisses of his sisters, for the third young lady still lingered alittle in the rear. 

"Was it not lucky Clara was here when the news came to us thismorning?" said Mary. 

"Such difficulty as we have had to get her, " said Emmeline. "It wasto have been her farewell visit to us; but we will have no morefarewells now; will we, Clara?"

And now at last he had his arm round her waist, or as near to thatposition as he was destined to get it on the present occasion. Shegave him her hand, and let him hold that fast, and smiled on himthrough her soft tears, and was gracious to him with her sweet wordsand pleasant looks; but she would not come forward and kiss himboldly as she had done when last they had met at Desmond Court. Heattempted it now; but he could get his lips no nearer to hers thanher forehead; and when he tried to hold her she slipped away fromhim, and he continually found himself in the embraces of hissisters, --which was not the same thing at all. "Never mind, " he saidto himself; "his day would soon come round. "

"You did not expect to find Clara here, did you?" asked Emmeline. 

"I hardly know what I have expected, or not expected, for the lasttwo days. No, certainly, I had no hope of seeing her to-night. "

"I trust I am not in the way, " said Clara. 

Whereupon he made another attempt with his arm, but when he thoughthe had caught his prize, Emmeline was again within his grasp. 

"And my mother?" he then said. It must be remembered that he hadonly yet been in the room for three minutes, though his littleefforts have taken longer than that in the telling. 

"She is upstairs, and you are to go to her. But I told her that weshould keep you for a quarter of an hour, and you have not been herehalf that time yet. "

"And how has she borne all this?"

"Why, well on the whole. When first she heard it this morning, whichshe did before any of us, you know--"

"Oh yes, I wrote to her. "

"But your letter told her nothing. Mr. Somers came down almost assoon as your letter was here. He had heard also--from Mr. Prendergast, I think it was, and Mr. Prendergast said a great dealmore than you did. "

"Well?"

"We thought she was going to be ill at first, for she became so verypale, --flushing up sometimes for half a minute or so; but after anhour or two she became quite calm. She has seen nobody since but usand Aunt Letty. "

"She saw me, " said Clara. 

"Oh yes, you; you are one of us now, --just the same as ourselves, isn't she, Herbert?"

Not exactly the same, Herbert thought. And then he went upstairs tohis mother. 

This interview I will not attempt to describe. Lady Fitzgerald hadbecome a stricken woman from the first moment that she had heardthat that man had returned to life, who in her early girlhood hadcome to her as a suitor. Nay, this had been so from the first momentthat she had expected his return. And these misfortunes had comeupon her so quickly that, though they had not shattered her in bodyand mind as they had shattered her husband, nevertheless they hadtold terribly on her heart. The coming of those men, the agony ofSir Thomas, the telling of the story as it had been told to her byMr. Prendergast, the resolve to abandon everything--even a name bywhich she might be called, as far as she herself was concerned, thedeath of her husband, and then the departure of her ruined son, had, one may say, been enough to destroy the spirit of any woman. Herspirit they had not utterly destroyed. Her powers of endurance weregreat, --and she had endured, still hoping. But as the uttermostmalice of adversity had not been able altogether to depress her, soneither did returning prosperity exalt her, --as far as she herselfwas concerned. She rejoiced for her children greatly, thanking Godthat she had not entailed on them an existence without a name. Butfor herself, as she now told Herbert, outside life was all over. Herchildren and the poor she might still have with her, but beyond, nothing in this world, --to them would be confined all her wishes onthis side the grave. 

But nevertheless she could be warm in her greetings to her son. Shecould understand that though she were dead to the world he need notbe so, --nor indeed ought to be so. Things that were now all endingwith her were but beginning with him. She had no feeling that taughther to think that it was bad for him to be a man of rank andfortune, the head of his family, and the privileged one of his race. It had been perhaps her greatest misery that she, by her doing, hadplaced him in the terrible position which he had lately been calledupon to fill. 

"Dearest mother, it did not make me unhappy, " he said, caressingher. 

"You bore it like a man, Herbert, as I shall ever remember. But itdid make me unhappy, --more unhappy than it should have done, whenwe remember how very short is our time here below. "

He remained with his mother for more than an hour, and then returnedto the drawing-room, where the girls were waiting for him with thetea-things arranged before them. 

"I was very nearly coming up to fetch you, " said Mary, "only that weknew how much mamma must have to say to you. "

"We dined early because we are all so upset, " said Emmeline; "andClara must be dying for her tea. "

"And why should Clara die for tea any more than any one else?" askedLady Clara herself. 

I will not venture to say what hour it was before they separated forbed. They sat there with their feet over the fender, talking aboutthings gone and things coming, --and there were so many of suchthings for them to discuss! Even yet, as one of the girls remarked, Lady Desmond had not heard of the last change, or if she had soheard, had had no time to communicate with her daughter upon thesubject. 

And then Owen was spoken of with the warmest praise by them all, andClara explained openly what had been the full tenor of his intendedconduct. 

"That would have been impossible, " said Herbert. 

"But it was not the less noble in him, was it?" said Clara, eagerly. But she did not tell how Owen Fitzgerald had prayed that her lovemight be given back to him, as his reward for what he wished to doon behalf of his cousin. Now, at least, at this moment it was nottold; yet the day did come when all that was described, --a day whenOwen in his absence was regarded by them both among the dearest oftheir friends. 

But even on that night Clara resolved that he should have some meedof praise. "Has he not been noble?" she said, appealing to him whowas to be her husband; "has he not been very noble?"

Herbert, too happy to be jealous, acknowledged that it was so. 

CHAPTER XLIII

PLAYING ROUNDERS

My story is nearly at its close, and all readers will now know howit is to end. Those difficulties raised by Mr. Die were all made tovanish; and though he implored Mr. Prendergast over and over againto go about this business with a moderated eagerness, that gentlemanwould not consent to let any grass grow under his heels till he hadmade assurance doubly sure, and had seen Herbert Fitzgerald firmlyseated on his throne. All that the women in Spinny Lane had told himwas quite true. The register was found in the archives of the parishof Putney, and Mr. Prendergast was able to prove that Mr. MatthewMollett, now of Spinny Lane, and the Mr. Matthew Mollett thendesignated as of Newmarket in Cambridgeshire, were one and the sameperson; therefore Mr. Mollett's marriage with Miss Wainwright was nomarriage, and therefore, also, the marriage between Sir ThomasFitzgerald and that lady was a true marriage; all which things willnow be plain to any novel-reading capacity, mean as such capacitymay be in respect to legal law. 

And I have only further to tell in respect to this part of my story, that the Molletts, both father and son, escaped all punishments forthe frauds and villanies related in these pages--except suchpunishment as these frauds and villanies, acting by their own innatedestructive forces and poisons, brought down upon their unfortunateheads. For so allowing them to escape I shall be held by many tohave been deficient in sound teaching. "What!" men will say, "notpunish your evil principle! Allow the prevailing evil genius of yourbook to escape scot free, without administering any of that condignpunishment which it would have been so easy for you to allot tothem! Had you not treadmills to your hand, and all manner of newprison disciplines? Should not Matthew have repented in thesackcloth of solitary confinement, and Aby have munched and crunchedbetween his teeth the bitter ashes of prison bread and water? Nay, for such offences as those did you wot of no penal settlements? Werenot Portland and Spike Islands gaping for them? Had you no memory ofDartmoor and the Bermudas?"

Gentle readers, no; not in this instance shall Spike Island or theBermudas be asked to give us their assistance. There is a sackclothharsher to the skin than that of the penal settlement, and ashesmore bitter in the crunching than convict rations. It would be sadindeed if we thought that those rascals who escape the law escapealso the just reward of their rascality. May it not rather bebelieved that the whole life of the professional rascal is one longwretched punishment, to which, if he could but know it, the rationsand comparative innocence of Bermuda would be so preferable? Is henot always rolling the stone of Sysiphus, gyrating on the wheel ofIxion, hankering after the waters of Tantalus, filling the sieves ofthe daughters of Danaus? He pours into his sieve stolen corn beyondmeasure, but no grain will stay there. He lifts to his lips richcups, but Rhadamanthus the policeman allows him no moment for adraught. The wheel of justice is ever going, while his poor hanginghead is in a whirl. The stone which he rolls never perches for amoment at the top of the hill, for the trade which he follows admitsof no rest. Have I not said truly that he is hunted like a fox, driven from covert to covert with his poor empty craving belly?prowling about through the wet night, he returns with his prey, andfinds that he is shut out from his lair; his bloodshot eye is everover his shoulder, and his advanced foot is ever ready for a start;he stinks in the nostrils of the hounds of the law, and is held byall men to be vermin. 

One would say that the rascal, if he but knew the truth, would lookforward to Spike Island and the Bermudas with impatience andraptures. The cold, hungry, friendless, solitary doom of unconvictedrascaldom has ever seemed to me to be the most wretched phase ofhuman existence, --that phase of living in which the liver can trustno one, and be trusted by none; in which the heart is ever quailingat the policeman's hat, and the eye ever shrinking from thepoliceman's gaze. The convict does trust his gaoler, at any rate hismaster gaoler, and in so doing is not all wretched. It is Bill Sikesbefore conviction that I have ever pitied. Any man can endure to behanged; but how can any man have taken that Bill Sikes' walk andhave lived through it?

To such punishments will we leave the Molletts, hoping of the elderone, that under the care of those ministering angels in Spinny Lane, his heart may yet be softened; hoping also for the younger one thatsome ministering angel may be appointed also for his aid. 'Tis agrievous piece of work though, that of a ministering angel to such asoul as his. And now, having seen them so far on their mortalcareer, we will take our leave of both of them. 

Mr. Prendergast's object in sparing them was of course that ofsaving Lady Fitzgerald from the terrible pain of having her namebrought forward at any trial. She never spoke of this, even toHerbert, allowing those in whom she trusted to manage those thingsfor her without an expression of anxiety on her own part; but shewas not the less thankful when she found that no public notice wasto be taken of the matter. 

Very shortly after Herbert's return to Castle Richmond, it wasnotified to him that he need have no fear as to his inheritance; andit was so notified with the great additional comfort of an assuringopinion from Mr. Die. He then openly called himself Sir Herbert, took upon himself the property which became his by right of theentail, and issued orders for the preparation of his marriagesettlement. During this period he saw Owen Fitzgerald; but he did soin the presence of Mr. Somers, and not a word was then said aboutLady Clara Desmond. Both the gentlemen, Herbert and Mr. Somers, cordially thanked the master of Hap House for the way in which hehad behaved to the Castle Richmond family, and in reference to theCastle Richmond property during the terrible events of the last twomonths; but Owen took their thanks somewhat haughtily. He shookhands warmly enough with his cousin, wishing him joy on thearrangement of his affairs, and was at first less distant than usualwith Mr. Somers; but when they alluded to his own conduct, andexpressed their gratitude, he declared that he had done nothing forwhich thanks were due, and that he begged it to be understood thathe laid claim to no gratitude. Had he acted otherwise, he said, hewould have deserved to be kicked out of the presence of all honestmen; and to be thanked for the ordinary conduct of a gentleman wasalmost an insult. This he said looking chiefly at Mr. Somers, andthen turning to his cousin, he asked him if he intended to remain inthe country. 

"Oh, certainly, " said Herbert. 

"I shall not, " said Owen; "and if you know any one who will take alease of Hap House for ten or twelve years, I shall be glad to finda tenant. "

"And you, where are you going?"

"To Africa in the first instance, " said he; "there seems to be somegood hunting there, and I think that I shall try it. "

The new tidings were not long in reaching Desmond Court, and thecountess was all alone when she first heard them. With very greatdifficulty, taking as it were the bit between her teeth, Clara hadmanaged to get over to Castle Richmond that she might pay a lastvisit to the Fitzgerald girls. At this time Lady Desmond's mind wasin a terribly distracted state. The rumour was rife about thecountry that Owen had refused to accept the property; and thecountess herself had of course been made aware that he had sorefused. But she was too keenly awake to the affairs of the world tosuppose that such a refusal could continue long in force; neither, as she knew well, could Herbert accept of that which was offered tohim. It might be that for some years to come the property might beunenjoyed; the rich fruit might fall rotten from the wall; but whatwould that avail to her or to her child? Herbert would still be anameless man, and could never be master of Castle Richmond. 

Nevertheless Clara carried her point, and went over to her friends, leaving the countess all alone. She had now permitted her son toreturn to Eton, finding that he was powerless to aid her. The youngearl was quite willing that his sister should marry Owen Fitzgerald;but he was not willing to use any power of persuasion that he mighthave, in what his mother considered a useful or legitimate manner. He talked of rewarding Owen for his generosity; but Clara would havenothing to do either with the generosity or with the reward. And soLady Desmond was left alone, hearing that even Owen, Owen himself, had now given up the quest, and feeling that it was useless to haveany further hope. "She will make her own bed, " the countess said toherself, "and she must lie on it. "

And then came this rumour that after all Herbert was to be the man. It first reached her ears about the same time that Herbert arrivedat his own house, but it did so in such a manner as to make butlittle impression at the moment. Lady Desmond had but few gossips, and in a general way heard but little of what was doing in thecountry. On this occasion the Caleb Balderston of her house came in, making stately bows to his mistress, and with low voice, and eyeswide open, told her what a gossoon running over from Castle Richmondhad reported in the kitchen of Desmond Court. "At any rate, my lady, Mr. Herbert is expected this evening at the house;" and then CalebBalderston, bowing stately again, left the room. This did not makemuch impression, but it made some. 

And then on the following day Clara wrote to her: this she did afterdeep consideration and much consultation with her friends. It wouldbe unkind, they argued, to leave Lady Desmond in ignorance on such asubject; and therefore a note was written very guardedly, the jointproduction of the three, in which, with the expression of manydoubts, it was told that perhaps after all Herbert might yet be theman. But even then the countess did not believe it. 

But during the next week the rumour became a fact through thecountry, and everybody knew, even the Countess of Desmond, that allthat family history was again changed. Lady Fitzgerald, whom theyhad all known, was Lady Fitzgerald still, and Herbert was once moreon his throne. When rumours thus became a fact, there was no longerany doubt about the matter. The countryside did not say that, "perhaps after all so and so would go in such and such a way, " orthat "legal doubts having been entertained, the gentlemen of thelong robe were about to do this and that. " By the end of the firstweek the affair was as surely settled in county Cork as though theline of the Fitzgeralds had never been disturbed; and Sir Herbertwas fully seated on his throne. 

It was well then for poor Owen that he had never assumed the regaliaof royalty: had he done so his fall would have been very dreadful;as it was, not only were all those pangs spared to him, but heachieved at once an immense popularity through the whole country. Everybody called him poor Owen, and declared how well he hadbehaved. Some expressed almost a regret that his generosity shouldgo unrewarded, and others went so far as to give him his reward: hewas to marry Emmeline Fitzgerald, they said at the clubs in Cork, and a considerable slice of the property was destined to giveadditional charms to the young lady's hand and heart. For a month orso Owen Fitzgerald was the most popular man in the south of Ireland;that is, as far as a man can be popular who never shows himself. 

And the countess had to answer her daughter's letter. "If this beso, " she said, "of course I shall be well pleased. My anxiety hasbeen only for your welfare, to further which I have been willing tomake any possible sacrifice. " Clara when she read this did not knowwhat sacrifice had been made, nor had the countess thought as shewrote the words what had been the sacrifice to which she had thusalluded, though her heart was ever conscious of it, unconsciously. And the countess sent her love to them all at Castle Richmond. "Shedid not fear, " she said, "that they would misinterpret her. LadyFitzgerald, she was sure, would perfectly understand that she hadendeavoured to do her duty by her child. " It was by no means a badletter, and, which was better, was in the main a true letter. According to her light she had striven to do her duty, and herconduct was not misjudged, at any rate at Castle Richmond. 

"You must not think harshly of mamma, " said Clara to her futuremother-in-law. 

"Oh no, " said Lady Fitzgerald. "I certainly do not think harshly ofher. In her position I should probably have acted as she has done. "The difference, however, between them was this, that it was all butimpossible that Lady Fitzgerald should not sympathize with herchildren, while it was almost impossible that the Countess Desmondshould do so. 

And so Lady Desmond remained all alone at Desmond Court, broodingover the things as they now were. For the present it was better thatClara should remain at Castle Richmond, and nothing therefore wassaid of her return on either side. She could not add to her mother'scomfort at home, and why should she not remain happy where she was?She was already a Fitzgerald in heart rather than a Desmond; and wasit not well that she should be so? If she could love HerbertFitzgerald, that was well also. Since the day on which he hadappeared at Desmond Court, wet and dirty and wretched, with a brokenspirit and fortunes as draggled as his dress, he had lost all claimto be a hero in the estimation of Lady Desmond. To her those onlywere heroes whose pride and spirit were never draggled; and such ahero there still was in her close neighbourhood. 

Lady Desmond herself was a woman of a mercenary spirit; so at leastit will be said and thought of her. But she was not altogether so, although the two facts were strong against her that she had soldherself for a title, and had been willing to sell her daughter for afortune. Poverty she herself had endured upon the whole withpatience; and though she hated and scorned it from her very soul, she would now have given herself in marriage to a poor man withoutrank or station, --she, a countess, and the mother of an earl; andthat she would have done with all the romantic love of a girl ofsixteen, though she was now a woman verging upon forty!

Men and women only know so much of themselves and others ascircumstances and their destiny have allowed to appear. Had itperchance fallen to thy lot, O my forensic friend, heavy laden withthe wisdom of the law, to write tales such as this of mine, howcharmingly might not thy characters have come forth upon thecanvas--how much more charmingly than I can limn them! While, on theother hand, ignorant as thou now tellest me that I am of the veryalphabet of the courts, had thy wig been allotted to me, I mighthave gathered guineas thick as daisies in summer, while to theeperhaps they come no faster than snow-drops in the early spring. Itis all in our destiny. Chance had thrown that terrible earl in theway of the poor girl in her early youth, and she had married him. She had married him, and all idea of love had flown from her heart. All idea of love, but not all the capacity--as now within this lastyear or two she had learned, so much to her cost. 

Long months had passed since she had first owned this to herself, since she had dared to tell herself that it was possible even forher to begin the world again, and to play the game which women loveto play, once at least before they die. She could have worshippedthis man, and sat at his feet, and endowed him in her heart withheroism, and given him her soft brown hair to play with when itsuited her Hercules to rest from his labours. She could haveforgotten her years, and have forgotten too the children who had nowgrown up to seize the world from beneath her feet--to seize itbefore she herself had enjoyed it. She could have forgotten all thatwas past, and have been every whit as young as her own daughter. Ifonly--!

It is so, I believe, with most of us who have begun to turn thehill. I myself could go on to that common that is at this momentbefore me, and join that game of rounders with the most intensedelight. "By George! you fellow, you've no eyes; didn't you see thathe hadn't put his foot in the hole. He'll get back now thatlong-backed, hard-hitting chap, and your side is done for the nexthalf-hour!" But then they would all be awestruck for a while; andafter that, when they grew to be familiar with me, they would laughat me because I loomed large in my running, and returned to myground scant of breath. Alas, alas! I know that it would not do. SoI pass by, imperious in my heavy manhood, and one of the ladsrespectfully abstains from me though the ball is under my very feet. 

But then I have had my game of rounders. No horrible old earl withgloating eyes carried me off in my childhood and robbed me of thepleasure of my youth. That part of my cake has been eaten, and, inspite of some occasional headache, has been digested not altogetherunsatisfactorily. Lady Desmond had as yet been allowed no slice ofher cake. She had never yet taken her side in any game of rounders. But she too had looked on and seen how jocund was the play; she alsohad acknowledged that that running in the ring, that stout hittingof the ball, that innocent craft, that bringing back by her ownskill and with her own hand of some long-backed fellow, would bepleasant to her as well as to others. If only she now could bechosen in at that game! But what if the side that she cared forwould not have her?

But tempus edax rerum, though it had hardly nibbled at her heart orwishes, had been feeding on the freshness of her brow and the bloomof her lips. The child with whom she would have loved to play keptaloof from her too, and would not pick up the ball when it rolled tohis feet. All this, if one thinks of it, is hard to bear. It is veryhard to have had no period for rounders, not to be able even to lookback to one's games, and to talk of them to one's old comrades! "Butwhy then did she allow herself to be carried off by the wickedwrinkled earl with the gloating eyes?" asks of me the prettiest girlin the world, just turned eighteen. Oh heavens! Is it not possiblethat one should have one more game of rounders? Quite impossible, Omy fat friend! And therefore I answer the young lady somewhatgrimly. "Take care that thou also art not carried off by a wrinkledearl. Is thy heart free from all vanity? Of what nature is theheroism that thou worshippest?" "A nice young man!" she says, boldly, though in words somewhat different. "If so it will be wellfor thee; but did I not see thine eyes hankering the other day afterthe precious stones of Ophir, and thy mouth watering for theflesh-pots of Egypt? Was I not watching thee as thou sattest at thatcounter, so frightfully intent? Beware!"

"The grumpy old fellow with the bald head!" she said shortlyafterwards to her bosom friend, not careful that her words should beduly inaudible. 

Some idea that all was not yet over with her had come upon her poorheart, --upon Lady Desmond's heart, soon after Owen Fitzgerald hadmade himself familiar in her old mansion. We have read how that ideawas banished, and how she had ultimately resolved that that man whomshe could have loved herself should be given up to her own childwhen she thought that he was no longer poor and of low rank. Shecould not sympathize with her daughter, --love with her love, andrejoice with her joy; but she could do her duty by her, andaccording to her lights she endeavoured so to do. 

But now again all was turned and changed and altered. Owen of HapHouse was once more Owen of Hap House only, but still in her eyesheroic, as it behoved a man to be. He would not creep about thecountry with moaning voice and melancholy eyes, with draggled dressand outward signs of wretchedness. He might be wretched, but hewould still be manly. Could it be possible that to her should yet begiven the privilege of soothing that noble, unbending wretchedness?By no means possible, poor, heart-laden countess; thy years are allagainst thee. Girls whose mouths will water unduly for theflesh-pots of Egypt must in after life undergo such penalties asthese. Art thou not a countess?

But not so did she answer herself. Might it not be possible? Ah, might it not be possible? And as the question was even then beingasked, perhaps for the ten thousandth time, Owen Fitzgerald stoodbefore her. She had not yet seen him since the new news had goneabroad, and had hardly yet conceived how it might be possible thatshe should do so. But now as she thought of him there he was. Theytwo were together, --alone together; and the door by which he hadentered had closed upon him before she was aware of his presence. 

"Owen Fitzgerald!" she said, starting up and giving him both herhands. This she did, not of judgment, nor yet from passion, but ofimpulse. She had been thinking of him with such kindly thoughts, andnow he was there it became natural that her greeting should bekindly. It was more so than it had ever been to any but her sonsince the wrinkled, gloating earl had come and fetched her. 

"Yes, Owen Fitzgerald, " said he, taking the two hands that wereoffered to him, and holding them awhile; not pressing them as a manwho loved her, who could have loved her, would have done. "After allthat has gone and passed between us, Lady Desmond, I cannot leavethe country without saying one word of farewell to you. "

"Leave the country!" she exclaimed. "And where are you going?"

As she looked into his face with her hands still in his, --for shedid not on the moment withdraw them, she felt that he had neverbefore looked so noble, so handsome, so grand. Leave the country!ah, yes; and why should not she leave it also? What was there tobind her to those odious walls in which she had been immolatedduring the best half of her life?

"Where are you going?" she asked, looking almost wildly up at him. 

"Somewhere very far a-field, Lady Desmond, " he said; and then thehands dropped from him. 

"You will understand, at any rate, that Hap House will not be afitting residence for me. "

"I hate the whole country, " said she, "the whole place hereabouts. Ihave never been happy here. Happy! I have never been other thanunhappy. I have been wretched. What would I not give to leave italso?"

"To you it cannot be intolerable as it will be to me. You have knownso thoroughly where all my hopes were garnered, that I need not tellyou why I must go from Hap House. I think that I have been wronged, but I do not desire that others should think so. And as for you andme, Lady Desmond, though we have been enemies, we have been friendsalso. "

"Enemies!" said she, "I hope not. " And she spoke so softly, sounlike her usual self, in the tones so suited to a loving, clingingwoman, that though he did not understand it, he was startled at hertenderness. "I have never felt that you were my enemy, Mr. Fitzgerald; and certainly I never was an enemy to you. "

"Well; we were opposed to each other. I thought that you wererobbing me of all I valued in life; and you, you thought--"

"I thought that Clara's happiness demanded rank and wealth andposition. There; I tell you my sins fairly. You may say that I wasmercenary if you will, mercenary for her. I thought that I knew whatwould be needful for her. Can you be angry with a mother for that?"

"She had given me a promise! But never mind. It is all over now. Idid not come to upbraid you, but to tell you that I now know how itmust be, and that I am going. "

"Had you won her, Owen, " said the countess, looking intently intohis face, "had you won her, she would not have made you happy. "

"As to that it was for me to judge--for me and her. I thought itwould, and was willing to peril all in the trial. And so wasshe--willing at one time. But never mind, it is useless to talk ofthat. "

"Quite useless now. "

"I did think--when it was, as they said, in my power to give himback his own, --I did think, --but no, it would have been mean to lookfor payment. It is all over, and I will say nothing further, not aword. I am not a girl to harp on such a thing day after day, and togrow sick with love. I shall be better away. And therefore I amgoing, and I have now come to say goodbye, because we were friendsin old days, Lady Desmond. "

Friends in old days! They were old days to him, but they were nomore than the other day to her. It was as yet hardly more than twoyears since she had first known him, and yet he looked on theacquaintance as one that had run out its time and required to beended. She would so fain have been able to think that the beginningonly had as yet come to them. But there he was, anxious to bid heradieu, and what was she to say to him?

"Yes, we were friends. You have been my only friend here, I think. You will hardly believe with how much true friendship I have thoughtof you when the feud between us--if it was a feud--was at thestrongest. Owen Fitzgerald, I have loved you through it all. "

Loved him? She was so handsome as she spoke, so womanly, sograceful, there was still about her so much of the charm of beauty, that he could hardly take the word when coming from her mouth asapplicable to ordinary friendship. And yet he did so take it. Theyhad all loved each other--as friends should love-and now that he wasgoing she had chosen to say as much. He felt the blood tingle hischeek at the sound of her words; but he was not vain enough to takeit in its usual sense. "Then we will part as friends, " saidhe--tamely enough. 

"Yes, we will part, " she said. And as she spoke the blood mantleddeep on her neck and cheek and forehead, and a spirit came out ofher eye, such as never had shone there before in his presence. "Yes, we will part, " and she took up his right hand, and held it closely, pressed between both her own. "And as we must part I will tell youall. Owen Fitzgerald, I have loved you with all my heart, --with allthe love that a woman has to give. I have loved you, and have neverloved any other. Stop, stop, " for he was going to interrupt her. "You shall hear me now to the last, --and for the last time. I haveloved you with such love--such love as you perhaps felt for her, butas she will never feel. But you shall not say, nay you shall notthink that I have been selfish. I would have kept you from her whenyou were poor as you are now, --not because I loved you. No; you willnever think that of me. And when I thought that you were rich, andthe head of your family, I did all that I could to bring her backfor you. Did I not, Owen?"

"Yes, I think you did, " he muttered between his teeth, hardlyknowing how to speak. 

"Indeed, indeed I did so. Others may say that I was selfish for mychild, but you shall not think that I was selfish for myself. I sentfor Patrick, and bade him go to you. I strove as mothers do strivefor their children. I taught myself, --I strove to teach myself toforget that I had loved you. I swore on my knees that I would loveyou only as my son, --as my dear, dear son. Nay, Owen, I did; on myknees before my God. "

He turned away from her to rub the tears from his eyes, and in doingso he dragged his hand away from her. But she followed him, andagain took it. "You will hear me to the end now, " she said; "willyou not? you will not begrudge me that? And then came these othertidings, and all that scheme was dashed to the ground. It was betterso, Owen; you would not have been happy with the property--"

"I should never have taken it. "

"And she, she would have clung closer to him as a poor man than evershe had done when he was rich. She is her mother's daughter there. And then--then--But I need not tell you more. You will know it allnow. If you had become rich, I would have ceased to love you; but Ishall never cease now that you are again poor, --now that you areOwen of Hap House again, as you sent us word yourself that day. "

And then she ceased, and bending down her head bathed his hand withher tears. Had any one asked him that morning, he would have saidthat it was impossible that the Countess of Desmond should weep. Andnow the tears were streaming from her eyes as though she were abroken-hearted girl. And so she was. Her girlhood had been postponedand marred, --not destroyed and made away with, by the wrinkled earlwith the gloating eyes. 

She had said all now, and she stood there, still holding his hand inhers, but with her head turned from him. It was his turn to speaknow, and how was he to answer her. I know how most men would haveanswered;--by the pressure of an arm, by a warm kiss, by a promiseof love, and by a feeling that such love was possible. And then mostmen would have gone home, leaving the woman triumphant, and haverepented bitterly as they sat moody over their own fires, with theirwine-bottles before them. But it was not so with Owen Fitzgerald. His heart was to him a reality. He had loved with all his power andstrength, with all the vigour of his soul, --having chosen to love. But he would not now be enticed by pity into a bastard feeling, which would die away when the tenderness of the moment was no longerpresent to his eye and touch. His love for Clara had been such thathe could not even say that he loved another. 

"Dear Lady Desmond, " he began. 

"Ah, Owen; we are to part now, part for ever, " she said; "speak tome once in your life as though we were equal friends. Cannot youforget for one minute that I am Countess of Desmond?"

Mary, Countess of Desmond; such was her name and title. But solittle familiar had he been with the name by which he had neverheard her called, that in his confusion he could not remember it. And had he done so, he could not have brought himself to use it. "Yes, " he said; "we must part. It is impossible for me to remainhere. "

"Doubly impossible now, " she replied, half reproaching him. 

"Yes; doubly impossible now. Is it not better that the truth shouldbe spoken?"

"Oh yes. I have spoken it--too plainly. "

"And so will I speak it plainly. We cannot control our own hearts, Lady Desmond. It is, as you say, doubly impossible now. All the loveI have had to give she has had, --and has. Such being so, why shouldI stay here? or could you wish that I should do so?"

"I do not wish it. " That was true enough. The wish would have beento wander away with him. 

"I must go, and shall start at once. My very things are packed formy going. I will not be here to have the sound of their marriagebells jangling in my ears. I will not be pointed at as the man whohas been duped on every side. "

"Ah me, that I was a man too, --that I could go away and make formyself a life!"

"You have Desmond with you. "

"No, no. He will go too; of course he will go. He will go, and Ishall be utterly alone. What a fool I am, --what an ass, that by thistime I have not learned to bear it!"

"They will always be near you at Castle Richmond. "

"Ah, Owen, how little you understand! Have we been friends while welived under the same roof? And now that she is there, do you thinkthat she will heed me? I tell you that you do not know her. She isexcellent, good, devoted; but cold as ice. She will live among thepoor, and grace his table; and he will have all that he wants. Intwelve months, Owen, she would have turned your heart to a stone. "

"It is that already, I think, " said he. "At any rate, it will be soto all others. Good-bye, Lady Desmond. "

"Good-bye, Owen; and God bless you. My secret will be safe withyou. "

"Safe! yes, it will be safe. " And then, as she put her cheek up tohim, he kissed it and left her. 

He had been very stern. She had laid bare to him her whole heart, and he had answered her love by never a word. He had made no replyin any shape, --given her no thanks for her heart's treasure. He hadresponded to her affection by no tenderness. He had not even saidthat this might have been so, had that other not have come to pass. By no word had he alluded to her confession, --but had regarded herdelusion as monstrous, a thing of which no word was to be spoken. 

So at least said the countess to herself, sitting there all alonewhere he had left her. "He regards me as old and worn. In his eyes Iam wrinkled and ugly. " 'Twas thus that her thoughts expressedthemselves; and then she walked across the room towards the mirror, but when there she could not look in it: she turned her back upon itwithout a glance, and returned to her seat by the window. Whatmattered it now? It was her doom to live there alone for the term oflife with which it might still please God to afflict her. 

And then looking out from the window her eyes fell upon Owen as herode slowly down across the park. His horse was walking very slowly, and it seemed as though he himself were unconscious of the pace. Aslong as he remained in sight she did not take her eyes from hisfigure, gazing at him painfully as he grew dimmer and more dim inthe distance. Then at last he turned behind the bushes near thelodge, and she felt that she was all alone. It was the last that sheever saw of Owen Fitzgerald. 

Unfortunate girl, marred in thy childhood by that wrinkled earl withthe gloating eyes; or marred rather by thine own vanity! Thoseflesh-pots of Egypt! Are they not always thus bitter in the eating?

CHAPTER XLIV

CONCLUSION

And now my story is told; and were it not for the fashion of thething, this last short chapter might be spared. It shall at any ratebe very short. 

Were it not that I eschew the fashion of double names for a book, thinking that no amount of ingenuity in this respect will make a badbook pass muster, whereas a good book will turn out as such thoughno such ingenuity be displayed, I might have called this "A Tale ofthe Famine Year in Ireland. " At the period of the year to which thestory has brought us--and at which it will leave us--the famine wasat its very worst. People were beginning to believe that there wouldnever be a bit more to eat in the land, and that the time for hopeand energy was gone. Land was becoming of no value, and the onlything regarded was a sufficiency of food to keep body and soultogether. Under such circumstances it was difficult to hope. 

But energy without hope is impossible, and therefore was there suchan apathy and deadness through the country. It was not that they didnot work who were most concerned to work. The amount ofconscientious work then done was most praiseworthy. But it was donealmost without hope of success, and done chiefly as a matter ofconscience. There was a feeling, which was not often expressed butwhich seemed to prevail everywhere, that ginger would not again behot in the mouth, and that in very truth the time for cakes and alein this world was all over. It was this feeling that made aresidence in Ireland at that period so very sad. 

Ah me! how little do we know what is coming to us! Irish cakes andale were done and over for this world, we all thought. But in truththe Irish cakes were only then a-baking, and the Irish ale was beingbrewed. I am not sure that these good things are yet quite fit forthe palates of the guest;--not as fit as a little more time willmake them. The cake is still too new, --cakes often are; and the aleis not sufficiently mellowed. But of this I am sure, that the cakesand ale are there;--and the ginger, too, very hot in the mouth. Leta committee of Irish landlords say how the rents are paid now, andwhat amount of arrears was due through the country when the faminecame among them. Rents paid to the day: that is the ginger hot inthe mouth which best pleases the palate of a country gentleman. 

But if one did in truth write a tale of the famine, after that itwould behove the author to write a tale of the pestilence; and thenanother, a tale of the exodus. These three wonderful events, following each other, were the blessings coming from Omniscience andOmnipotence by which the black clouds were driven from the Irishfirmament. If one through it all could have dared to hope, and havehad from the first that wisdom which has learned to acknowledge thatHis mercy endureth for ever! And then the same author going on withhis series would give in his last set, --Ireland in her prosperity. 

Of all those who did true good conscientious work at this time, noneexceeded in energy our friend Herbert Fitzgerald after his return toCastle Richmond. It seemed to him as though some thank-offering weredue from him for all the good things that Providence had showeredupon him, and the best thank-offering that he could give was adevoted attention to the interest of the poor around him. Mr. Somerssoon resigned to him the chair at those committee meetings atBerryhill and Gortnaclough, and it was acknowledged that the CastleRichmond arrangements for soup-kitchens, out-door relief, andlabour-gangs, might be taken as a model for the south of Ireland. Few other men were able to go to the work with means so ample andwith hands so perfectly free. Mr. Carter even, who by this time hadbecome cemented in a warm trilateral friendship with Father Barneyand the Rev. Aeneas Townsend, was obliged to own that many a youngEnglish country gentleman might take a lesson from Sir HerbertFitzgerald in the duties peculiar to his position. 

His marriage did not take place till full six months after theperiod to which our story has brought us. Baronets with twelvethousand a-year cannot be married off the hooks, as may be donewith ordinary mortals. Settlements of a grandiose nature wererequired, and were duly concocted. Perhaps Mr. Die had something tosay to them, so that the great maxim of the law was brought intoplay. Perhaps also, though of this Herbert heard no word, it wasthought inexpedient to hurry matters while any further inquiry waspossible in that affair of the Mollett connection. Mr. Die and Mr. Prendergast were certainly going about, still drawing all covertsfar and near, lest their fox might not have been fairly run to hislast earth. But, as I have said, no tidings as to this reachedCastle Richmond. There, in Ireland, no man troubled himself furtherwith any doubt upon the subject; and Sir Herbert took his title andreceived his rents, by the hands of Mr. Somers, exactly as thoughthe Molletts, father and son, had never appeared in those parts. 

It was six months before the marriage was celebrated, but during aconsiderable part of that time Clara remained a visitor at CastleRichmond. To Lady Fitzgerald she was now the same as a daughter, andto Aunt Letty the same as a niece. By the girls she had for monthsbeen regarded as a sister. So she remained in the house of which shewas to be the mistress, learning to know their ways, andingratiating herself with those who were to be dependent on her. 

"But I had rather stay with you, mamma, if you will allow me, " Clarahad said to her mother when the countess was making some arrangementwith her that she should return to Castle Richmond. "I shall beleaving you altogether so soon now!" And she got up close to hermother's side caressingly, and would fain have pressed into her armsand kissed her, and have talked to her of what was coming, as adaughter loves to talk to a loving mother. But Lady Desmond's heartwas sore and sad and harsh, and she preferred to be alone. 

"You will be better at Castle Richmond, my dear: you will be muchhappier there, of course. There can be no reason why you should comeagain into the gloom of this prison. "

"But I should be with you, dearest mamma. "

"It is better that you should be with the Fitzgeralds now; and asfor me--I must learn to live alone. Indeed I have learned it, so youneed not mind for me. " Clara was rebuffed by the tone rather thanthe words, but she still looked up into her mother's face wistfully. "Go, my dear, " said the countess--"I would sooner be alone atpresent. " And so Clara went. It was hard upon her that even now hermother would not accept her love. 

But Lady Desmond could not be cordial with her daughter. She mademore than one struggle to do so, but always failed. She could, --shethought that she could, have watched her child's happiness withcontentment had Clara married Owen Fitzgerald--Sir Owen, as he wouldthen have been. But now she could only remember that Owen was lostto them both, lost through her child's fault. She did not hateClara: nay, she would have made any sacrifice for her daughter'swelfare; but she could not take her lovingly to her bosom. So sheshut herself up alone, in her prison as she called it, and thenlooked back upon the errors of her life. It was as well for her tolook back as to look forward, for what joy was there for which shecould dare to hope?

In the days that were coming, however, she did relax something ofher sternness. Clara was of course married from Desmond Court, andthe very necessity of making some preparations for this festivitywas in itself salutary. But indeed it could hardly be called afestivity, --it was so quiet and sombre. Clara had but twobridesmaids, and they were Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald. The youngearl gave away his sister, and Aunt Letty was there, and Mr. Prendergast, who had come over about the settlements; Mr. Somersalso attended, and the ceremony was performed by our old friend Mr. Townsend. Beyond these there were no guests at the wedding of SirHerbert Fitzgerald. 

The young earl was there, and at the last the wedding had beenpostponed a week for his coming. He had left Eton at Midsummer inorder that he might travel for a couple of years with OwenFitzgerald before he went to Oxford. It had been the lad's ownrequest, and had been for a while refused by Owen. But Fitzgeraldhad at last given way to the earl's love, and they had startedtogether for Norway. 

"They want me to be home, " he had said one morning to his friend. 

"Ah, yes; I suppose so. "

"Do you know why?" They had never spoken a word about Clara sincethey had left England together, and the earl now dreaded to mentionher name. 

"Know why!" replied Owen; "of course I do. It is to give away yoursister. Go home, Desmond, my boy; when you have returned we willtalk about her. I shall bear it better when I know that she is hiswife. "

And so it was with them. For two years Lord Desmond travelled withhim, and after that Owen Fitzgerald went on upon his wanderingsalone. Many a long year has run by since that, and yet he has nevercome back to Hap House. Men of the county Cork now talk of him asone whom they knew long since. He who took his house as a strangeris a stranger no longer in the country, and the place that Owen leftvacant has been filled. The hounds of Duhallow would not recognizehis voice, nor would the steed in the stable follow gently at hisheels. But there is yet one left who thinks of him, hoping that shemay yet see him before she dies.