"How did you begin with Sir Thomas?"
"How did I begin with him? Let me see. Oh! I just told him who I was; 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, I almost 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 shall just 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 of work to do, 'e should do it. Them's my notions. Do you think a man like 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 roused the father to participate in the son's indignation. "Well; I did my best, 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? What you hask for you hask for because you're able to demand it. That's the ground for hus to take, and by——I'll take it too. There shall be 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, twelve hundred pounds wasn't much."
"I should think not either."
"And that if his son was to be allowed to have itall—"
"A bastard, you know, keeping it away from the proper heir." It may almost be doubted whether, in so speaking, Aby did not almost think that he himself had a legitimate right to inherit the property at Castle 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 I wasn't quite sure he wouldn't make a die of it; and then heaven knows 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 an uncommon deal of pluck yourself."
"Well, I'll try, at any rate."
"It isn't such a pleasant thing to see an old gentleman in that state. And what would happen if he chose to ring the bell and order the 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, and there I should be for the rest of my days. But what would you care for that?" And poor Mr. Mollett senior shook under the bedclothes as his attention became turned to this very dreary aspect of his affairs. "Pluck, indeed! I'll tell you what it is, Aby, I often wonder at my own pluck."
"Psha! Wouldn't a word from you split upon him, and upon her, and upon the young 'un, and ruin 'em? Or a word from me either, for the matter of that?"
Mr. Mollett senior shook again. He repented now, as he had already done twenty times, that he had taken that son of his into his confidence.
"And what on hearth did you say to him?" continued Aby.
"Well, not much more then; at least, not very much more. There was a good deal of words, but they didn't seem to lead to much, except this, 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 no further trouble to nobody then. It would be all smooth sailing for your life, governor, and lots of tin."
"I tell you what it is, Aby, you may just drop that, for I won't have the young lady bothered about it, nor yet the young lady's father."
"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 think fitting."
"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 with that. There's a measure in all things. I won't have it done, so I tell you." And the father turned his face round to the wall.
This was by no means the end of the conversation, though we need not verbatim go through any more of it. It appeared that old Mollett had told Sir Thomas that his permanent silence could be purchased by nothing short of a settled "genteel" income for himself and his son, no absolute sum having been mentioned; and that Sir Thomas had required a fortnight for his answer, which answer was to be conveyed to Mr. Mollett verbally at the end of that time. It was agreed that Mr. Mollett should repeat his visit to Castle Richmond on that day fortnight.
"In the mean time I'll go down and freshen the old gentleman up a bit," said Aby, as he left his father's bedroom.
After the interview between Herbert and his mother, it became an understood thing at Castle Richmond that he was engaged to Lady Clara. Sir Thomas raised no further objection, although it was clear to all the immediate family that he was by no means gratified at his son's engagement. Very little more passed between Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald on the subject. He merely said that he would consider the question of his son's income, and expressed a hope, or perhaps an opinion rather than a hope, that the marriage would not take place quite immediately.
Under these circumstances, Herbert hardly spoke further to his father upon the matter. He certainly did feel sore that he should be so treated—that he should be made to understand that there was a difficulty, but that the difficulty could not be explained to him. No absolute opposition was however made, and he would not therefore complain. As to money, he would say nothing till something should be said to him.
With his mother, however, the matter was different. She had said that she would welcome Clara; and she did so. Immediately after speaking to Sir Thomas she drove over to Desmond Court, and said soft, sweet things to Clara in her most winning way;—said soft things also to the countess, who received them very graciously; took Clara home to Castle Richmond for that night, somewhat to the surprise and much to the gratification of Herbert, who found her sitting slily with the other girls when he came in before dinner; and arranged for her to make a longer visit after the interval of a week or two. Herbert, therefore, was on thoroughly good terms with his mother, and did enjoy some of the delights which he had promised himself.
With his sisters, also, and especially with Emmeline, he was once more in a good humour. To her he made ample apology for his former crossness, and received ample absolution. "I was so harassed," he said, "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 sadly acknowledged. How could any of them talk of their father except in a strain of sadness?
All these things did not happen in the drawing-room at Castle Richmond without also being discussed in the kitchen. It was soon known over the house that Master Herbert was to marry Lady Clara, and, indeed, there was no great pretence of keeping it secret. The girls told the duchess, as they called Mrs. Jones—of course in confidence—but Mrs. Jones knew what such confidence meant, especially as the matter was more than once distinctly alluded to by her ladyship; and thus the story was told, in confidence, to everybody in the establishment, and then repeated by them, in confidence also, to nearly everybody out of it.
Ill news, they say, flies fast; and this news, which, going in that direction, became ill, soon flew to Hap House.
"So young Fitzgerald and the divine Clara are to hit it off, are they?" said Captain Donnellan, who had driven over from Buttevant barracks to breakfast at Hap House on a hunting-morning.
There were other men present, more intimate friends of Owen than this 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 it was too late.
"Who? my cousin Herbert," said Owen, sharply. "Have you heard of this, Barry?"
"Well," said Barry, "those sort of things are always being said, you know. I did hear something of it somewhere. But I can't say I thought much about it." And then the subject was dropped during that morning's breakfast. They all went to the hunt, and in the course of the day Owen contrived to learn that the report was well founded.
That evening, as the countess and her daughter were sitting together over the fire, the gray-headed old butler brought in a letter upon an old silver salver, saying, "For Lady Clara, if you please, my lady."
The countess not unnaturally thought that the despatch had come from Castle Richmond, and smiled graciously as Clara put out her hand for the missive. Lady Desmond again let her eyes drop upon the book which she was reading, as though to show that she was by far too confiding a mamma to interfere in any correspondence between her daughter and her daughter's lover. At the moment Lady Clara had been doing nothing. Her work was, indeed, on her lap, and her workbox was at her elbow; but her thoughts had been far away; far away as regards idea, though not so as to absolute locality; for in her mind she 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 old butler, with a second nod, which on this occasion was addressed to Clara; and then the man withdrew.
Lady Clara blushed ruby red up to the roots of her hair when her eyes fell on the address of the letter, for she knew it to be in the handwriting of Owen Fitzgerald. Perhaps the countess from the corner of her eye may have observed some portion of her daughter's blushes; but if so, she said nothing, attributing them to Clara's natural bashfulness 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 had sent her other letters; but they had been brought to her surreptitiously, had been tendered to her in secret, and had always been 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 no trouble to conceal the facts; and when the countess had once asked, she freely told her what had happened with an absence of any confusion which had quite put Lady Desmond at her ease. But this letter was brought to her in the most open manner, and an answer to it 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 steps under such circumstances had better be taken. In the mean time Clara held out her hand, tendering the letter to her mother.
"You had better open it, my dear, and read it. No doubt it must be answered." Lady Desmond felt that now there could be no danger from Owen Fitzgerald. Indeed she thought that there was not a remembrance of him left in her daughter's bosom; that the old love, such baby-love as there had been, had vanished, quite swept out of that little heart by this new love of a brighter sort. But then Lady Desmond 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 heard tidings which, if true, will go far to drive me to despair. But I will not believe them from any lips save your own. I have heard that you are engaged to marry Herbert Fitzgerald. At once, however, I declare that I do not believe the statement. I have known you too well to think that you can be false.But, at any rate, I beg the favour of an interview with you. After what has passed I think that under any circumstances I have a right to demand it. I have pledged myself to you; and as that pledge has been accepted, I am entitled to some consideration.I write this letter to you openly, being quite willing that you should show it to your mother if you think fit. My messenger will wait, and I do implore you to send me an answer. And remember, Lady Clara, that, having accepted my love, you cannot whistle me down the wind as though I were of no account. After what has passed between us, you cannot surely refuse to see me once more.Ever your own—if you will have it so,Owen Fitzgerald.
Hap House, February, 184—.
My promised Love,
For let what will happen, such you are; I have this morning heard tidings which, if true, will go far to drive me to despair. But I will not believe them from any lips save your own. I have heard that you are engaged to marry Herbert Fitzgerald. At once, however, I declare that I do not believe the statement. I have known you too well to think that you can be false.
But, at any rate, I beg the favour of an interview with you. After what has passed I think that under any circumstances I have a right to demand it. I have pledged myself to you; and as that pledge has been accepted, I am entitled to some consideration.
I write this letter to you openly, being quite willing that you should show it to your mother if you think fit. My messenger will wait, and I do implore you to send me an answer. And remember, Lady Clara, that, having accepted my love, you cannot whistle me down the wind as though I were of no account. After what has passed between us, 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 her mother'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 for a moment, and then said, "Mamma, will you not look at it?"
"Certainly, my dear, if you wish me to do so." And she took the letter from her daughter's hand, and read it.
"Just what one would expect from him, my dear; eager, impetuous, and thoughtless. One should not blame him much, for he does not mean to do harm. But if he had any sense, he would know that he was taking trouble for nothing."
"And what shall I do, mamma?"
"Well, I really think that I should answer him." It was delightful to 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 is foolish in him to persist in remembering two words which you spoke to him as a child; but perhaps it will be well that you should tell him yourself that you were a child when you spoke those two words."
And then Clara sent off the following reply, written under her mother's dictation; though the countess strove very hard to convince her daughter that she was wording it out of her ownhead:—
Lady Clara Desmond presents her compliments to Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, and will see Mr. Owen Fitzgerald at Desmond Court at two o'clock to-morrow, if Mr. Owen Fitzgerald persists in demanding such an interview. Lady Clara Desmond, however, wishes to express her opinion that it would be better avoided.Desmond Court,Thursday evening.
Lady Clara Desmond presents her compliments to Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, and will see Mr. Owen Fitzgerald at Desmond Court at two o'clock to-morrow, if Mr. Owen Fitzgerald persists in demanding such an interview. Lady Clara Desmond, however, wishes to express her opinion that it would be better avoided.
Desmond Court,Thursday evening.
The countess thought that this note was very cold and formal, and would be altogether conclusive; but, nevertheless, at about eleven o'clock that night there came another messenger from Hap House with another letter, saying that Owen would be at Desmond Court at two o'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 very wretched. That she had been right to give up a suitor who lived such a life as Owen Fitzgerald lived she could not doubt. But, nevertheless, was she true in giving him up? Had she made any stipulation as to his life when she accepted his love? If he called her false, as doubtless he would call her, how would she defend herself? Had she any defence to offer? It was not only that she had rejected him, a poor lover; but she had accepted a rich lover! What could 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 do that? In what state did her heart stand towards him? Might it not be that, let her be ever so much on her guard, she would show him some tenderness,—tenderness which would be treason to her present affianced suitor? Oh, why had her mother desired her to go through such an interview as this!
When two o'clock came Clara was in the drawing-room. She had said nothing to her mother as to the manner in which this meeting should take place. But then at first she had had an idea that Lady Desmond would 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 by herself; and when the old servant, opening the door, announced that Mr. Fitzgerald was there, she was still unsupported by the presence of any companion. It was very surprising that on such an occasion her mother should have kept herself away.
She had not seen Owen Fitzgerald since that day when they had walked together under the elm-trees, and it can hardly be said that she saw him now. She had a feeling that she had injured him—had deceived, and in a manner betrayed him; and that feeling became so powerful with her that she hardly dared to look him in the face.
He, when he entered the room, walked straight up to her, and offered her his hand. He, too, looked round the room to see whether Lady Desmond was there, and not finding her, was surprised. He had hardly hoped that such an opportunity would be allowed to him for declaring the strength of his passion.
She got up, and taking his hand, muttered something; it certainly did not matter what, for it was inaudible; but such as the words were, 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 will believe from no lips but your own."
She now sat down on a sofa, and pointed to a chair for him, but he remained standing, and did so during the whole interview; or rather, walking; for when he became energetic and impetuous, he moved about from place to place in the room, as though incapable of fixing himself in one position.
Clara was ignorant whether or no it behoved her to rebuke him for calling her simply by her Christian name. She thought that she ought to do so, but she did not do it.
"I have been told," he continued, "that you have engaged yourself to marry Herbert Fitzgerald; and I have now come to hear a contradiction 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 deeply as she said it.
There was a pause of a few moments, during which she felt that the full 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 feel that you dare not look me in the face as you pronounce the words. I would have believed it, Clara, from no other mouth than your own."
It appeared to Clara herself now as though she were greatly a culprit. She had not a word to say in her own defence. All those arguments as to Owen's ill course of life were forgotten; and she could 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, he hardly knew how to proceed. He walked about the room, endeavouring to 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 her instigation."
"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? Had you not promised me that you would be my wife?"
"I was very young," she said, falling back upon the only excuse which occurred to her at the moment as being possible to be used without incriminating him.
"Young! Is not that your mother's teaching? Why, those were her very words when she came to me at my house. I did not know that youth was any 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 of being willing to marry a man who has not a large estate! Clara, I did not think that you could have learned so much in so short a time."
All this was very hard upon her. She felt that it was hard, for she knew that he had done that which entitled her to regard her pledge to him as at an end; but the circumstances were such that she could not excuse herself.
"Am I to understand," said Owen Fitzgerald, "that all that has passed between us is to go for nothing? that such promises as we have made to each other are to be of no account? To me they are sacred 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 perfect reliance upon your faith. I need hardly tell you that it has not been passed happily, for it has been passed without seeing you. But though you have been absent from me, I have never doubted you. I have known that it was necessary that we should wait—wait perhaps till years should make you mistress of your own actions: but nevertheless I was not unhappy, for I was sure of your love."
Now it was undoubtedly the case that Fitzgerald was treating her unfairly; and though she had not her wits enough about her to ascertain this by process of argument, nevertheless the idea did come home to her. It was true that she had promised her love to this man, 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 she pronounced that word, and that things which had since occurred had entitled her to annul any amount of contract to which she might have been supposed to bind herself by that one word. She bethought herself, therefore, that as she was so hard pressed she was forced to defend herself.
"I was very young then, Mr. Fitzgerald, and hardly knew what I was saying: afterwards, when mamma spoke to me, I felt that I was bound to obey her."
"What, to obey her by forgetting me?"
"No; I have never forgotten you, and never shall. I remember too well your kindness to my brother; your kindness to us all."
"Psha! you know I do not speak of that. Are you bound to obey your mother by forgetting that you have loved me?"
She paused a moment before she answered him, looking now full before her,—hardly yet bold enough to look him in the face.
"No," she said; "I have not forgotten that I loved you. I shall never forget it. Child as I was, it shall never be forgotten. But I cannot 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 be thrown aside so easily by you, while with me it remains so stern a fact, and so deep a necessity? Is that just? When the bargain has once been made, should it not be equally binding on us both?"
"I do not think you are fair to me, Mr. Fitzgerald," she said; and some spirit was now rising in her bosom.
"Not fair to you? Do you say that I am unfair to you? Speak but one word to say that the troth which you pledged me a year since shall still remain unbroken, and I will at once leave you till you yourself 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 to you now which I cannot repeat to him; nor can I say anything which shall 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 your falseness, and throw me off without vouchsafing me any answer beyond this."
"What would you have me say? I did do that which was wrong and foolish, when—when we were walking there on the avenue. I did give a promise which I cannot now keep. It was all so hurried that I hardly remember what I said. But of this I am sure, that if I have caused you unhappiness, I am very sorry to have done so. I cannot alter it all now; I cannot unsay what I said then; nor can I offer you that which I have now absolutely given to another."
And then, as she finished speaking, she did pluck up courage to look him in the face. She was now standing as well as he; but she was so standing that the table, which was placed near the sofa, was still between him and her. As she finished speaking the door opened, and the Countess of Desmond walked slowly into the room.
Owen Fitzgerald, when he saw her, bowed low before her, and then frankly offered her his hand. There was something in his manner to ladies devoid of all bashfulness, and yet never too bold. He seemed to be aware that in speaking to any lady, be she who she might, he was only exercising his undoubted privilege as a man. He never hummed and hawed and shook in his shoes as though the majesty of womanhood were too great for his encounter. There are such men, and many of them, who carry this dread to the last day of their long lives. I have often wondered what women think of men who regard women as too awful for the free exercise of open speech.
"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, accepting the hand which he offered to her, but resuming her own very quickly, and then standing before him in all the dignity which she was able to assume, "I quite concurred with my daughter that it was right that she should see you, as you insisted on such an interview; but you must excuse me if I interrupt it. I must protect her from the embarrassment which your—your vehemence may occasion her."
"Lady Desmond," he replied, "you are quite at liberty, as far as I am concerned, to hear all that passes between us. Your daughter is betrothed to me, and I have come to claim from her the fulfilment of her promise."
"For shame, Mr. Fitzgerald, for shame! When she was a child you extracted from her one word of folly; and now you would take advantage of that foolish word; now, when you know that she is engaged 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 so ungenerous."
"Ungenerous! no; I have not that generosity which would enable me to give up my very heart's blood, the only joy of my soul, to such a one as my cousin Herbert."
"You have nothing to give up, Mr. Fitzgerald: you must have known from the very first that my daughter could not marryyou—"
"Not marry me! And why not, Lady Desmond? Is not my blood as good as his?—unless, indeed, you are prepared to sell your child to the highest bidder!"
"Clara, my dear, I think you had better leave the room," said the countess; "no doubt you have assured Mr. Fitzgerald that you are engaged to his cousin Herbert."
"Yes, mamma."
"Then he can have no further claim on your attendance, and his vehemence will terrify you."
"Vehement! how can I help being vehement when, like a ruined gambler, I am throwing my last chance for such a stake?"
And then he intercepted Clara as she stepped towards the drawing-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 Lady Clara leave the room. She has given you the answer for which you have asked, and it would not be right in me to permit her to be subjected 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 that freedom," said the countess; but Owen hardly seemed to hear her.
"I here, in your hearing, protest against your marriage with Herbert Fitzgerald. I claim your love as my own. I bid you think of the promise which you gave me; and I tell you that as I loved you then with all my heart, so do I love you at this moment; so shall I love you always. Now I will not hinder you any longer."
And then he opened the door for her, and she passed on, bowing to him, and muttering some word of farewell that was inaudible.
He stood for a moment with the door in his hand, meditating whether he might not say good morning to the countess without returning into the room; but as he so stood she called him. "Mr. Fitzgerald," she said; and so he therefore came back, and once more closed the door.
And then he saw that the countenance of Lady Desmond was much changed. Hitherto she had been every inch the countess, stern and cold and haughty; but now she looked at him as she used to look in those old winter evenings when they were accustomed to talk together over the evening fire in close friendliness, while she, Lady Desmond, would speak to him in the intimacy of her heart of her children, Patrick and Clara.
"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, and the tone of her voice also was changed. "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 you had a child, a penniless girl like Clara, would you be glad to see her 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 too fond of you—as an old friend, to wish to do so. That you may marry and live happily, live near us here, so that we may know you, I most heartily 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 the station 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, I could not give her to one whose career is such as yours. As the widow of an earl, I could not give her to one whose means of maintaining her are so small. If you will think of this, you will hardly 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 this match."
"Never!" said he. "Never!" And so he left the room, without wishing her further farewell.
About a week after the last conversation that has been related as having taken place at the Kanturk Hotel, Mr. Mollett junior was on his way to Castle Richmond. He had on that occasion stated his intention of making such a journey with the view of "freshening the old gentleman up a bit;" and although his father did all in his power to prevent the journey, going so far on one occasion as to swear 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. "I know quite enough of the part to carry on the play."
"You think you do," said the father in his anger; "but you'll find yourself in the dark yet before you've done."
And then again he expostulated in a different tone. "You'll ruin it all, 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 son at home, and so Aby went. Aby doubtless entertained an idea that his father was deficient in pluck for the management of so difficult a matter, and that he could supply what his father wanted. So he dressed himself in his best, and having hired a gig and a man who he flattered himself would look like a private servant, he started from Cork, 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 as he called it, and seeing how the land lay; but he had never yet presented himself to any one within the precincts of the Castle Richmond demesne. His present intention was to drive up to the front door, and ask at once for Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, sending in his card if need be, on which were printed thewords:—
Mr. Abraham Mollett, Junior.
With the additional words, "Piccadilly, London," written in the left-hand lower corner.
"I'll take the bull by the horns," said he to himself. "It's better to make the spoon at once, even if we do run some small chance of spoiling the horn." And that he might be well enabled to carry out his purpose with reference to this bull, he lifted his flask to his mouth as soon as he had passed through the great demesne gate, and took a long pull at it. "There's nothing like a little jumping powder," he said, speaking to himself again, and then he drove boldly up the avenue.
He had not yet come in sight of the house when he met two gentlemen walking on the road. They, as he approached, stood a little on one side, not only so as to allow him to pass, but to watch him as he did so. They were Mr. Somers and Herbert Fitzgerald.
"It is the younger of those two men. I'm nearly certain of it," said Somers as the gig approached. "I saw him as he walked by me in Kanturk Street, and I don't think I can mistake the horrid impudence of his face. I beg your pardon, sir,"—and now he addressed Mollett in 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 with the worthy baro-nett himself; more particularly as I 'appen to know that he's at home."
"My father is not very well," said Herbert, "and I do not think that he will be able to see you."
"I'll take the liberty of hasking and of sending in my card," said Aby; and he gave his horse a flick as intending thus to cut short the 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; and he put on a look of severity, which he well knew how to assume, and which somewhat cowed poor Aby. "You have been down here before, I think," continued Mr. Somers.
"What, at Castle Richmond? No, I haven't. And if I had, what's that to you if Sir Thomas chooses to see me? I hain't hintruding, I suppose."
"You've been down at Kanturk before—once or twice; for I have seen you."
"And supposing I've been there ten or twelve times,—what is there in that?" said Aby.
Mr. Somers still held the horse's head, and stood a moment considering.
"I'll thank you to let go my 'oss," said Aby raising his whip and shaking 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'll send my card in to Sir Thomas, with my compliments, and say that hi've three words to say to him very particular; why hi'll be obliged 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 again looked 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 you to 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. "Come here, Herbert." And then they walked along the road in such a way that Aby was forced to allow his horse to walk after them.
"These are the men who are doing it," said Mr. Somers in a whisper to his companion. "Whatever is in the wind, whatever may be the cause of your father's trouble, they are concerned in it. They are probably 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 to him with this card. Do not show it to him too suddenly; and then find out whether he really wishes to see the man. I will stay about the 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, told him that Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald would carry the card to his father. And then he added, seeing that Mollett was going to come down, "You had better stay in the gig till Mr. Fitzgerald comes back; just sit where you are; you'll get an answer all in good time."
Sir Thomas was crouching over the fire in his study when his son entered, with his eyes fixed upon a letter which he held in his hand, and which, when he saw Herbert, he closed up and put away.
"Father," said Herbert, in a cheerful every-day voice, as though he had nothing special to communicate, "there is a man in a gig out there. He says he wants to see you."
"A man in a gig!" and Herbert could see that his father had already begun 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 his card here. A young man."
"Oh, a young man?" said Sir Thomas.
"Yes, here it is. Abraham Mollett. I can't say that your friend seems to be very respectable, in spite of his gig," and Herbert handed the card to his father.
The son purposely looked away as he mentioned the name, as his great anxiety was not to occasion distress. But he felt that the sound of the word had been terrible in his father's ears. Sir Thomas had risen from his chair; but he now sat down again, or rather fell into it. But nevertheless he took the card, and said that he would see the man.
"A young man do you say, Herbert?"
"Yes, father, a young man. And, father, if you are not well, tell me what the business is and let me see him."
But Sir Thomas persisted, shaking his head, and saying that he would see 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 be sent in here. But, oh, Herbert—Herbert—!"
The young man rushed round and kneeled at his father's knee. "What is 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 see him."
"No, no, no."
"Or at any rate let me be with you when he is here. Let me share your trouble if I can do nothing to cure it."
"Herbert, my darling, leave me and send him in. If it be necessary that you should bear this calamity, it will come upon you soon enough."
"But I am afraid of this man—for your sake, father."
"He will do me no harm; let him come to me. But, Herbert, say nothing 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 to Mr. Somers. Mr. Somers wished to save you from the annoyance."
"Why should it annoy me to see any man? Let Mr. Somers mind his own business. Surely I can have business of my own without his interference." With this Herbert left his father, and returned to the hall-door to usher in Mr. Mollett junior.
"Well?" said Mr. Somers, who was standing by the hall fire, and who joined 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 that we should inquire. Now, Mr. Mollett, Sir Thomas will see you; so you can come down. Make haste now, and remember that you are not to stay long, for my father is ill." And then leading Aby through the hall and along a passage, he introduced him into Sir Thomas's room.
"And Herbert—" said the father; whereupon Herbert again turned round. His father was endeavouring to stand, but supporting himself by the back of his chair. "Do not disturb me for half an hour; but come to me then, and knock at the door. This gentleman will have done by that time."
"If we do not put a stop to this, your father will be in a mad-house or 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 civil and to seem at his ease at the same time. Aby was himself so much bewildered for the moment, that he hardly perceived the embarrassment under which the baronet was labouring.
Aby sat down, in the way usual to such men in such places, on the corner 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 that he expressed an opinion that he was in the presence of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald.
"And you are Mr. Abraham Mollett," said Sir Thomas.
"Yes, Sir Thomas, that's my name. I believe, Sir Thomas, that you have 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, 'e ain't a good man of business. A gen'leman like you, Sir Thomas, has seen that with 'alf an eye, I know." And then he waited a moment for an answer; but as he got none he proceeded.
"My governor's one of the best of fellows going, but 'e ain't sharp and 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 he intended to inculcate, that the poor old gentleman almost jumped up in his chair.
And Aby, seeing this, seated himself more comfortably in his own. The awe which the gilt bindings of the books and the thorough comfort of the room had at first inspired was already beginning to fade away. He had come there to bully, and though his courage had failed him for a moment under the stern eye of Mr. Somers, it quickly returned to him now that he was able to see how weak was his actual victim.
"Sharp's the word, Sir Thomas; and my governor, 'e ain't sharp—not sharp as he ought to be in such a matter as this. This is what I calls a real bit of cheese. Now it's no good going on piddling and peddling 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 takes it, is this. There's your son there as fetched me in 'ere; a fine young 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 it you must some day, in course? Is it to be this son of yours, or is it 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 regards the dam."
There was certainly some truth in what Aby had said with reference to his father. Mr. Mollett senior had never debated the matter in terms sharp and decisive as these were. Think who they were of whom this brute was talking to that wretched gentleman; the wife of his bosom, than whom no wife was ever more dearly prized; the son of his love, the centre of all his hopes, the heir of his wealth—if that 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 of his 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 other—whatever she may be to mygovernor—"and here there fell a spasm upon the poor man's heart, which nearly brought him from the chair to the ground; but, nevertheless, he still contained himself—"my governor's former lady, my own mother," continued Aby, "whom I never see'd, she'd gone to kingdom come, you know, before that time, Sir Thomas. There hain't no doubt about that. So yousee—"and hereupon he dropped his voice from the tone which he had hitherto been using to an absolute whisper, and drawing his chair close to that of the baronet, and putting his hands upon his knees, brought his mouth close to his companion's ear—"So you see," he said, "when that youngster was born, Lady F. was Mrs. M.—wasn't she? and for the matter of that, Lady F. is Mrs. M. to this very hour. That's the real chat; ain't it, Sir Thomas? My stepmother, you know. The governor 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. Old Mollett in discussing the matter with his victim had done so by hints and inuendos, through long windings, by signs and the dropping of a few dark words. He had never once mentioned in full terms the name of Lady Fitzgerald; had never absolutely stated that he did possess or ever had possessed a wife. It had been sufficient for him to imbue Sir Thomas with the knowledge that his son Herbert was in great danger as to his heritage. Doubtless the two had understood each other; but the absolute naked horror of the surmised facts had been kept delicately out of sight. But such delicacy was not to Aby's taste. Sharp, short, and decisive; that was his motto. No "longæ 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 half stupefied, numbed as it were by the intensity of his grief, he wondered 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 live through 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 my favourite, I tell you fairly. But then, you know, if I backs the favourite, in course I likes to win upon him. How is it to be, now?" and then he paused for an answer, which, however, was not forthcoming.
"You see you haven't been dealing quite on the square with the governor. You two is, has it were, in a boat together. We'll call that boat the Lady F., or the Mrs. M., which ever you like;"—and then Aby laughed, for the conceit pleased him—"but the hearnings of that boat should be divided hequally. Ain't that about the ticket? heh, Sir Thomas? Come, don't be down on your luck. A little quiet talkee-talkee between you and me'll soon put this small matter on a right footing."
"What is it you want? tell me at once," at last groaned the poor man.
"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 very lonely we are, for it's a sad thing for a man to have the wife of his bosom taken from him."
Then there was a groan which struck even Aby's ear; but Sir Thomas was still alive and listening, and so he went on.
"This property here, Sir Thomas, is a good twelve thousand a year. I know hall about it as though I'd been 'andling it myself for the last ten years. And a great deal of cutting there is in twelve thousand a year. You've 'ad your whack out of it, and now we wants to 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 perhaps he didn't. Perhaps I came without hany sending. Perhaps I'm more hup to this sort of work than he is. At any rate, I've got the part pretty well by 'eart—you see that, don't you? Well, hour hultimatum about the business is this. Forty thousand pounds paid down on the nail, half to the governor, and half to your 'umble servant, before the end of this year; a couple of thousand more in hand for the year's hexpenses—and—and—a couple of hundred or so now at once before I leave you; for to tell the truth we're run huncommonly dry just at the present moment." And then Aby drew his breath and paused for an answer.
Poor Sir Thomas was now almost broken down. His head swam round and round, and he felt that he was in a whirlpool from which there was no escape. He had heard the sum named, and knew that he had no power of raising it. His interest in the estate was but for his life, and that life was now all but run out. He had already begun to feel that his son must be sacrificed, but he had struggled and endured in order that he might save his wife. But what could he do now? What further struggle could he make? His present most eager desire was that that horrid man should be removed from his hearing and his eyesight.
But Aby had not yet done: he had hitherto omitted to mention one not inconsiderable portion of the amicable arrangement which, according to him, would have the effect of once more placing the two families comfortably on their feet. "There's one other pint, Sir Thomas," he continued, "and hif I can bring you and your good lady to my way of thinking on that, why, we may all be comfortable for all that is come and gone. You've a daughter Hemmeline."
"What!" said Sir Thomas, turning upon him; for there was still so much of life left in him that he could turn upon his foe when he heard 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 give me 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. There now." And then Aby again waited for a reply.
But now there came a knock at the door, and following quick upon the knock Herbert entered the room. "Well, father," said the son.
"Herbert!"
"Yes, father;" and he went round and supported his father on his arm.
"Herbert, will you tell that man to go?"
"Come, sir, you have disturbed my father enough; will you have the kindness to leave him now?"
"I may chance to disturb him more, and you too, sir, if you treat me in 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 now once more seated in his chair, holding his son's hand, and when he again 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; "I do not know what is the nature of your business, but whatever it may be, you must leave him now." And he made a slight attempt to push the visitor towards the door.
"You'd better take care what you're doing, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mollett. "By——you had! If you anger me, I might say a word that I couldn't unsay again, which would put you into queer street, I can tell you."
"Don't quarrel with him, my boy; pray don't quarrel with him, but let him leave me," said Sir Thomas.
"Mr. Mollett, you see my father's state; you must be aware that it is imperative that he should be left alone."
"I don't know nothing about that, young gen'leman; business is business, 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 quite as much for your good as it was for mine." But not a word came from the baronet.
"Then I shan't stir," said Aby, again seating himself.
"Then I shall have the servants in," said Herbert, "and a magistrate who is in the hall;" and he put his hand towards the handle of the bell.
"Well, as the old gen'leman's hill, I'll go now and come again. But look you here, Sir Thomas, you have got my proposals, and if I don't get an answer to them in three days' time,—why you'll hear from me in another way, that's all. And so will her ladyship." And with this threat Mr. Abraham Mollett allowed himself to be conducted through the 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 the gig, "and come back fast enough too," he muttered to himself. In the mean 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 the gravel."
"Oh, my boy, my poor boy!"
"What is it, father? Why do you not tell me? Why do you allow such men as that to come and harass you, when a word would keep them from you? Father, good cannot come of it."
"No, Herbert, no; good will not come of it. There is no good to come at all."
"Then why will you not tell us?"
"You will know it all soon enough. But Herbert, do not say a word to your mother. Not a word as you value my love. Let us save her while we can. You promise me that."
Herbert gave him the required promise.
"Look here," and he took up the letter which he had before crumpled in his hand. "Mr. Prendergast will be here next week. I shall tell everything to him."
Soon afterwards Sir Thomas went to his bed, and there by his bedside his wife sat for the rest of the evening. But he said no word to her of 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."
It will be remembered that in the last chapter but one Owen Fitzgerald left Lady Desmond in the drawing-room at Desmond Court somewhat abruptly, having absolutely refused to make peace with the Desmond faction by giving his consent to the marriage between Clara and his cousin Herbert. And it will perhaps be remembered also, that Lady Desmond had asked for this consent in a manner that was almost humble. She had shown herself most anxious to keep on friendly terms with the rake of Hap House,—rake and roué, gambler and spendthrift, as he was reputed to be,—if only he would abandon his insane claim to the hand of Clara Desmond. But this feeling she had shown when they two were alone together, after Clara had left them. As long as her daughter had been present, Lady Desmond had maintained her tone of indignation and defiance; but, when the door was closed and they two were alone, she had become kind in her language and almost tender.
My readers will probably conceive that she had so acted, overcome by her affection for Owen Fitzgerald and with a fixed resolve to win him for herself. Men and women when they are written about are always supposed to have fixed resolves, though in life they are so seldom found to be thus armed. To speak the truth, the countess had had no fixed resolve in the matter, either when she had thought about Owen's coming, or when, subsequently, she had found herself alone with him in her drawing-room. That Clara should not marry him,—on so much she had resolved long ago. But all danger on that head was, it may be said, over. Clara, like a good child, had behaved in the best possible manner; had abandoned her first lover, a lover that was poor and unfitted for her, as soon as told to do so; and had found for herself a second lover, who was rich, and proper, and in every way desirable. As regards Clara, the countess felt herself to be safe; and, to give her her due, she had been satisfied that the matter should so rest. She had not sought any further interview with Fitzgerald. He had come there against her advice, and she had gone to meet him prompted by the necessity of supporting her daughter, and without any other views of her own.
But when she found herself alone with him; when she looked into his face, and saw how handsome, how noble, how good it was—good in its inherent manliness and bravery—she could not but long that this feud should be over, and that she might be able once more to welcome him as her friend. If only he would give up this frantic passion, this futile, wicked, senseless attempt to make them all wretched by an insane marriage, would it not be sweet again to make some effort to rescue him from the evil ways into which he had fallen?
But Owen himself would make no response to this feeling. Clara Desmond was his love, and he would, of his own consent, yield her to no one. In truth, he was, in a certain degree, mad on this subject. He did think that because the young girl had given him a promise—had said to him a word or two which he called a promise—she was now of right his bride; that there belonged to him an indefeasible property in her heart, in her loveliness, in the inexpressible tenderness of her young springing beauty, of which no subsequent renouncing on her part could fairly and honestly deprive him. That others should oppose the match was intelligible to him; but it was hardly intelligible that she should betray him. And, as yet, he did not believe that she herself was the mainspring of this renouncing. Others, the countess and the Castle Richmond people, had frightened her into falseness; and, therefore, it became him to maintain his right by any means—almost by any means, within his power. Give her up of his own free will and voice! Say that Herbert Fitzgerald should take her with his consent! that she should go as a bride to Castle Richmond, while he stood by and smiled, and wished them joy! Never! And so he rode away with a stern heart, leaving her standing there with something of sternness about her heart also.
In the meantime, Clara, when she was sure that her rejected suitor was well away from the place, put on her bonnet and walked out. It was her wont at this time to do so; and she was becoming almost a creature of habit, shut up as she was in that old dreary barrack. Her mother very rarely went with her; and she habitually performed the same journey over the same ground, at the same hour, day after day. So it had been, and so it was still,—unless Herbert Fitzgerald were with her.
On the present occasion she saw no more of her mother before she left the house. She passed the drawing-room door, and seeing that it was ajar, knew that the countess was there; but she had nothing to say to her mother as to the late interview, unless her mother had aught to say to her. So she passed on. In truth her mother had nothing to say to her. She was sitting there alone, with her head resting on her hand, with that sternness at her heart and a cloud upon her brow, but she was not thinking of her daughter. Had she not, with her skill and motherly care, provided well for Clara? Had she not saved her daughter from all the perils which beset the path of a young girl? Had she not so brought her child up and put her forth into the world, that, portionless as that child was, all the best things of the world had been showered into her lap? Why should the countess think more of her daughter? It was of herself she was thinking; and of what her life would be all alone, absolutely alone, in that huge frightful home of hers, without a friend, almost without an acquaintance, without one soul near her whom she could love or who would love her. She had put out her hand to Owen Fitzgerald, and he had rejected it. Her he had regarded merely as the mother of the woman he loved. And then the Countess of Desmond began to ask herself if she were old and wrinkled and ugly, only fit to be a dowager in mind, body, and in name!
Over the same ground! Yes, always over the same ground. Lady Clara never varied her walk. It went from the front entrance of the court, with one great curve, down to the old ruined lodge which opened on to the road running from Kanturk to Cork. It was here that the row of elm trees stood, and it was here that she had once walked with a hot, eager lover beside her, while a docile horse followed behind their feet. It was here that she walked daily; and was it possible that she should walk here without thinking of him?
It was always on the little well-worn path by the road-side, not on the road itself, that she took her measured exercise; and now, as she went along, she saw on the moist earth the fresh prints of a horse's hoofs. He also had ridden down the same way, choosing to pass over the absolute spot in which those words had been uttered, thinking of that moment, as she also was thinking of it. She felt sure that such had been the case. She knew that it was this that had brought him there—there on to the foot-traces which they had made together.
And did he then love her so truly,—with a love so hot, so eager, so deeply planted in his very soul? Was it really true that a passion for her had so filled his heart, that his whole life must by that be made or marred? Had she done this thing to him? Had she so impressed her image on his mind that he must be wretched without her? Was she so much to him, so completely all in all as regarded his future worldly happiness? Those words of his, asserting that love—her love—was to him a stern fact, a deep necessity—recurred over and over again to her mind. Could it really be that in doing as she had done, in giving herself to another after she had promised herself to him, she had committed an injustice which would constantly be brought up against her by him and by her own conscience? Had she in truth 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 had justified her in separating herself from him by his reckless course of 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 his wickedness and his sins; she thought only of the vows to which she had once listened, and the renewal of those vows to which it was now so necessary that her ear should be deaf.
But was her heart deaf to them? She swore to herself, over and over again, scores and scores of oaths, that it was so; but each time that she swore, some lowest corner in the depth of her conscience seemed to charge her with a falsehood. Why was it that in all her hours of thinking she so much oftener saw his face, Owen's, than she did that other face of which in duty she was bound to think and dream? It was in vain that she told herself that she was afraid of Owen, and therefore thought of him. The tone of his voice that rang in her ears the oftenest was not that of his anger and sternness, but the tone of his first assurance of love—that tone which had been so inexpressibly sweet to her—that to which she had listened on this very spot where she now walked slowly, thinking of him. The look of his which was ever present to her eyes was not that on which she had almost feared to gaze but an hour ago; but the form and spirit which his countenance had worn when they were together on that well-remembered day.
And then she would think, or try to think, of Herbert, and of all his virtues and of all his goodness. He too loved her well. She never doubted that. He had come to her with soft words, and pleasant smiles, and sweet honeyed compliments—compliments which had been sweet to her as they are to all girls; but his soft words, and pleasant smiles, and honeyed love-making had never given her so strong a thrill of strange delight as had those few words from Owen. Her very heart's core had been affected by the vigour of his affection. There had been in it a mysterious grandeur which had half charmed and half frightened her. It had made her feel that he, were it fated that she should belong to him, would indeed be her lord and ruler; that his was a spirit before which hers would bend and feel itself subdued. With him she could realize all that she had dreamed of woman's love; and that dream which is so sweet to some women—of woman's subjugation. But could it be the same with him to whom she was now positively affianced, with him to whom she knew that she did now owe all her duty? She feared that it was not the same.
And then again she swore that she loved him. She thought over all his excellences; how good he was as a son—how fondly his sisters loved him—how inimitable was his conduct in these hard trying times. And she remembered also that it was right in every way that she should love him. Her mother and brother approved of it. Those who were to be her new relatives approved of it. It was in every way fitting. Pecuniary considerations were so favourable! But when she thought of that her heart sank low within her breast. Was it true that she had sold herself at her mother's bidding? Should not the remembrance of Owen's poverty have made her true to him had nothing else done so?
But be all that as it might, one thing, at any rate, was clear to her, that it was now her fate, her duty—and, as she repeated again and again, her wish to marry Herbert. No thought of rebellion against him and her mother ever occurred to her as desirable or possible. She would be to him a true and loving wife, a wife in very heart 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 and back again; and now again she had reached the lodge the third time, making thus her last journey: for in these solitary walks her work was measured. The exercise was needful, but there was little in the task to make her prolong it beyond what was necessary. But now, as she was turning for the last time, she heard the sound of a horse's hoof coming fast along the road; and looking from the gate, she saw that Herbert was coming to her. She had not expected him, but now she waited at the gate to meet him.
It had been arranged that she was to go over in a few days to Castle Richmond, and stay there for a fortnight. This had been settled shortly 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 that Sir Thomas had summoned Mr. Prendergast from London, it was felt by them all that it would be as well that Clara's visit should be postponed. Herbert had been especially cautioned by his father, at the time of Mollett's visit, not to tell his mother anything of what had occurred, and to a certain extent he had kept his promise. But it was of course necessary that Lady Fitzgerald should know that Mr. Prendergast was coming to the house, and it was of course impossible to keep from her the fact that his visit was connected with the lamentable state of her husband's health and spirits. Indeed, she knew as much as that without any telling. It was not probable that Mr. 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 of his life. I really think he is wise to send for Mr. Prendergast. We do not know him, but I believe him to be a good man."
Then Lady Fitzgerald had expressed herself as satisfied—as satisfied as she could be, seeing that her husband would not take her into his confidence; and after this it was settled that Herbert should at once ride over to Desmond Court, and explain that Clara's visit had better be postponed.