Herbert got off his horse at the gate, and gave it to one of the children at the lodge to lead after him. His horse would not follow him, Clara said to herself as they walked back together towards the house. She could not prevent her mind running off in that direction. She would fain not have thought of Owen as she thus hung upon Herbert's arm, but as yet she had not learned to control her thoughts. His horse had followed him lovingly—the dogs about the place had always loved him—the men and women of the whole country round, old and young, all spoke of him with a sort of love: everybody admired him. As all this passed through her brain, she was hanging on her accepted lover's arm, and listening to his soft sweet words.
"Oh, yes! it will be much better," she said, answering his proposal that she should put off her visit to Castle Richmond. "But I am so sorry that Sir Thomas should be ill. Mr. Prendergast is not a doctor, 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 as much as he had told his mother. He explained that there was some deep sorrow weighing on his father's heart of which they none of them knew anything save its existence; that there might be some misfortune coming on Sir Thomas of which he, Herbert, could not even guess 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. "Poor gentleman! 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 that this misfortune, whatever it be, may not improbably be less serious than 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, she seems to dread some terrible misfortune; but I believe that in her calm judgment she thinks that our worst calamity is the state of my father's health."
Neither in discussing the matter with his mother or Clara, nor in thinking it over when alone, did it ever occur to Herbert that he himself might be individually subject to the misfortune over which his father brooded. Sir Thomas had spoken piteously to him, and called him poor, and had seemed to grieve over what might happen to him; but this had been taken by the son as a part of his father's malady.
Everything around him was now melancholy, and therefore these terms had not seemed to have any special force of their own. He did not think it necessary to warn Clara that bad days might be in store for both of them, or to caution her that their path of love might yet be made rough.
"And whom do you think I met, just now, on horseback?" he asked, as soon as this question of her visit had been decided.
"Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, probably," said Clara. "He went from hence about an hour since."
"Owen Fitzgerald here!" he repeated, as though the tidings of such a visit having been made were not exactly pleasant to him. "I thought that Lady Desmond did not even see him now."
"His visit was to me, Herbert, and I will explain it to you. I was just going to tell you when you first came in, only you began about Castle Richmond."
"And have you seen him?"
"Oh yes, I saw him. Mamma thought it best. Yesterday he wrote a note to me which I will show you." And then she gave him such an account of the interview as was possible to her, making it, at any rate, intelligible to him that Owen had come thither to claim her for himself, 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 than was usual with him.
"Was it? why?" said Clara, innocently. She felt unconsciously that it was painful to her to hear Owen ill spoken of by her lover, and that she would fain excuse him if she could.
"Why, dearest? Think what motives he could have had; what other object than to place you in a painful position, and to cause trouble and 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 think he said that he had heard it but didnot—"
"Did not what, love?"
"I think he said he did not quite believe it;" and then she was forced, much against her will, to describe to her betrothed how Owen had boldly claimed her as his own.
"His conduct has been unpardonable," said Herbert, again. "Nay, it has been ungentlemanlike. He has intruded himself where he well knew that he was not wanted; and he has done so taking advantage of a few words which, under the present circumstances, he should force himself to forget."
"But, Herbert, it is I that have been to blame."
"No; you have not been in the least to blame. I tell you honestly that I can lay no blame at your door. At the age you were then, it was impossible that you should know your own mind. And even had your promise to him been of a much more binding nature, his subsequent conduct, and your mother's remonstrance, as well as your own age, would have released you from it without any taint of falsehood. He knew all this as well as I do; and I am surprised that he should have forced his way into your mother's house with the mere object of causing you embarrassment."
It was marvellous how well Herbert Fitzgerald could lay down the law on 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 gained the prize; and therefore it was so easy for him to acquit his promised bride, and heap reproaches on the head of his rejected rival. Owen had been told that he was not wanted, and of course should have been satisfied with his answer. Why should he intrude himself among happy people with his absurd aspirations? For were they not absurd? Was it not monstrous on his part to suppose that he could marry Clara Desmond?
It was in this way that Herbert regarded the matter. But it was not exactly in that way that Clara looked at it. "He did not force his way in," she said. "He wrote to ask if we would see him; and mamma said that she thought it better."
"That is forcing his way in the sense that I meant it; and if I find that he gives further annoyance I shall tell him what I think about it. I will not have you persecuted."
"Herbert, if you quarrel with him you will make me wretched. I think it would kill me."
"I shall not do it if I can help it, Clara. But it is my duty to protect you, and if it becomes necessary I must do so; you have no father, and no brother of an age to speak to him, and that consideration alone should have saved you from such an attack."
Clara said nothing more, for she knew that she could not speak out to him the feelings of her heart. She could not plead to him that she 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, after all, the tribute of such a man's love could not be regarded by her as an offence. So she said nothing further, but walked on in silence, leaning on his arm.
They were now close to the house, and as they drew near to it Lady Desmond met them on the door-step. "I dare say you have heard that we had a visitor here this morning," she said, taking Herbert's hand in an affectionate motherly way, and smiling on him with all her sweetness.
Herbert said that he had heard it, and expressed an opinion that Mr. Owen Fitzgerald would have been acting far more wisely to have remained at home at Hap House.
"Yes, perhaps so; certainly so," said Lady Desmond, putting her arm within that of her future son, and walking back with him through the great hall. "He would have been wiser; he would have saved dear Clara from a painful half-hour, and he would have saved himself from perhaps years of sorrow. He has been very foolish to remember Clara's childhood as he does remember it. But, my dear Herbert, what can we do? You lords of creation sometimes will be foolish even about such trifling things as women's hearts."
And then, when Herbert still persisted that Owen's conduct had been inexcusable and ungentlemanlike, she softly flattered him into quiescence. "You must not forget," she said, "that he perhaps has loved 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 away from 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 can persuade Clara to be so merciful."
"To tell the truth, Herbert, I think you could persuade her to anything. Of course we must not hurry her too much. As for me, my losing her will be very sad; you can understand that; but I would not allow any feeling of my own to stand in her way for half-an-hour."
"She will be very near you, you know."
"Yes, she will; and therefore, as I was saying, it would be absurd for you to quarrel with Mr. Owen Fitzgerald. For myself, I am sorry for him—very sorry for him. You know the whole story of what occurred between him and Clara, and of course you will understand that my duty at that time was plain. Clara behaved admirably, and if only he would not be so foolish, the whole matter might be forgotten. As far as you and I are concerned I think it may be forgotten."
"But then his coming here?"
"That will not be repeated. I thought it better to show him that we were not afraid of him, and therefore I permitted it. Had I conceived that you would haveobjected—"
"Oh, no!" said Herbert.
"Well, there was not much for you to be afraid of, certainly," said the countess. And so he was appeased, and left the house promising that he, at any rate, would do nothing that might lead to a quarrel with his cousin Owen.
Clara, who had still kept on her bonnet, again walked down with him to the lodge, and encountered his first earnest supplication that an early 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 so reasonable that she should have such reasons. That period of having love made to her must be by far the brightest in her life. Is it not always 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 illness was a reason—only to a certain extent. It would be worse than useless to think of waiting till his father's health should be altogether strong. Just for the present, till Mr. Prendergast should have gone, and perhaps for a fortnight longer, it might be well to wait. But after that—and then he pressed very closely the hand which rested on his arm. And so the matter was discussed between them with language and arguments which were by no means original.
At the gate, just as Herbert was about to remount his horse, they were encountered by a sight which for years past had not been uncommon in the south of Ireland, but which had become frightfully common during the last two or three months. A woman was standing there, of whom you could hardly say that she was clothed, though she was involved in a mass of rags which covered her nakedness. Her head was all uncovered, and her wild black hair was streaming round her face. Behind her back hung two children enveloped among the rags in some mysterious way; and round about her on the road stood three others, of whom the two younger were almost absolutely naked. The eldest of the five was not above seven. They all had the same wild black eyes, and wild elfish straggling locks; but neither the mother nor the children were comely. She was short and broad in the shoulders, though wretchedly thin; her bare legs seemed to be of nearly the same thickness up to the knee, and the naked limbs of the children were like yellow sticks. It is strange how various are the kinds of physical development among the Celtic peasantry in Ireland. In many places they are singularly beautiful, especially as children; and even after labour and sickness shall have told on them as labour and sickness will tell, they still retain a certain softness and grace which is very nearly akin to beauty. But then again in a neighbouring district they will be found to be squat, uncouth, and in no way attractive to the eye. The tint of the complexion, the nature of the hair, the colour of the eyes, shall be the same. But in one place it will seem as though noble blood had produced delicate limbs and elegant stature, whereas in the other a want of noble blood had produced the reverse. The peasants of Clare, Limerick, and Tipperary are, in this way, much more comely than those of Cork and Kerry.
When Herbert and Clara reached the gate they found this mother with her five children crouching at the ditch-side, although it was still mid-winter. They had seen him enter the demesne, and were now waiting 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 came forward, "an' you too, Misther Herbert; and for the love of heaven do something for a poor crathur whose five starving childher have not 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 was usually empty. At the present moment it was wholly so. "I have nothing to give her; not a penny," she said, whispering to her lover.
But Herbert had learned deep lessons of political economy, and was by 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 ladyship too; may the heavens be her bed. And don't I come from Clady; that is 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 war over there about the biler."
Clara looked at her, and thought that she did remember her, but she said nothing. "And who is your husband?" said Herbert.
"Murty Brien, plaze yer honor;" and the woman ducked a curtsey with the heavy load of two children on her back. It must be understood that among the poorer classes in the south and west of Ireland it is almost rare for a married woman to call herself or to be called by her husband's name.
"And is he not at work?"
"Shure, an' he is, yer honor—down beyant Kinsale by the say. But what's four shilling a week for a man's diet, let alone a woman and five bairns?"
"And so he has deserted you?"
"No, yer honor; he's not dasarted me thin. He's a good man and a kind, av' he had the mains. But we've a cabin up here, on her ladyship's ground that is; and he has sent me up among my own people, hoping that times would come round; but faix, yer honor, I'm thinking 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 sup of milk for thim five childher as is starving and dying for the want of it." And she pointed to the wretched, naked brood around her with a gesture which in spite of her ugliness had in it something of tragic grandeur.
"But you know that we will not give money. They will take you in at the poorhouse at Kanturk."
"Is it the poorhouse, yer honor?"
"Or, if you get a ticket from your priest they will give you meal twice a week at Clady. You know that. Why do you not go to Father Connellan?"
"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 a month, and now look at the childher. Look at them, my lady. They are dyin' 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 of them was in truth in a fearful state. It was a child nearly two years of age, but its little legs seemed to have withered away; its cheeks were wan, and yellow and sunken, and the two teeth which it had already cut were seen with terrible plainness through its emaciated lips. Its head and forehead were covered with sores; and then the mother, moving aside the rags, showed that its back and legs were in the same state. "Look to that," she said, almost with scorn. "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 again she covered the child and began to resume her load.
"Do give her something, Herbert, pray do," said Clara, with her whole face suffused with tears.
"You know that we cannot give away money," said Herbert, arguing with Bridget Sheehy, and not answering Clara at the moment. "You understand enough of what is being done to know that. Why do you not go into the Union?"
"Shure thin an' I'll jist tramp on as fur as Hap House, I and my childher; 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 union when I tell him that I've travelled all thim miles to get a dhrink of milk for a sick babe; more by token when I tells him also that I'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 that wish him good luck with his love, in spite of all that's come and gone yet. Come on, bairns, come along; we have seven weary miles to walk." And then, having rearranged her burden on her back, she prepared again to start.
Herbert Fitzgerald, from the first moment of his interrogating the woman, had of course known that he would give her somewhat. In spite of all his political economy, there were but few days in which he did not empty his pocket of his loose silver, with these culpable deviations from his theoretical philosophy. But yet he felt that it was his duty to insist on his rules, as far as his heart would allow him to do so. It was a settled thing at their relief committee that there should be no giving away of money to chance applicants for alms. What money each had to bestow would go twice further by being brought to the general fund—by being expended with forethought and discrimination. This was the system which all attempted, which all resolved to adopt who were then living in the south of Ireland. But the system was impracticable, for it required frames of iron and hearts of adamant. It was impossible not to waste money in almsgiving.
"Oh, Herbert!" said Clara, imploringly, as the woman prepared to start.
"Bridget, come here," said Herbert, and he spoke very seriously, for the woman's allusion to Owen Fitzgerald had driven a cloud across his brow. "Your child is very ill, and therefore I will give you something to help you," and he gave her a shilling and two sixpences.
"May the God in heaven bless you thin, and make you happy, whoever wins the bright darling by your side; and may the good days come back to yer house and all that belongs to it. May yer wife clave to you all her days, and be a good mother to your childher." And she would have gone on further with her blessing had not he interrupted her.
"Go on now, my good woman," said he, "and take your children where they may be warm. If you will be advised by me, you will go to the Union at Kanturk." And so the woman passed on still blessing them. Very shortly after this none of them required pressing to go to the workhouse. Every building that could be arranged for the purpose was filled to overflowing as soon as it was ready. But the worst of the famine had not come upon them as yet. And then Herbert rode back to Castle Richmond.
Mick O'Dwyer's public-house at Kanturk was by no means so pretentious an establishment as that kept by his brother in South Main Street, Cork, but it was on the whole much less nasty. It was a drinking-shop and a public car office, and such places in Ireland are seldom very nice; but there was no attempt at hotel grandeur, and the little room in which the family lived behind the bar was never invaded by customers.
On one evening just at this time—at the time, that is, with which we have been lately concerned—three persons were sitting in this room over a cup of tea. There was a gentleman, middle-aged, but none the worse on that account, who has already been introduced in these pages as Father Bernard M'Carthy. He was the parish priest of Drumbarrow; and as his parish comprised a portion of the town of Kanturk, he lived, not exactly in the town, but within a mile of it. His sister had married Mr. O'Dwyer of South Main Street, and therefore he was quite at home in the little back parlour of Mick O'Dwyer's house in Kanturk. Indeed Father Bernard was a man who made himself at home in the houses of most of his parishioners,—and of some who were not his parishioners.
His companions on the present occasion were two ladies who seemed to be emulous in supplying his wants. The younger and more attractive of the two was also an old friend of ours, being no other than Fanny O'Dwyer from South Main Street. Actuated, doubtless, by some important motive she had left her bar at home for one night, having come down to Kanturk by her father's car, with the intention of returning by it in the morning. She was seated as a guest here on the corner of the sofa near the fire, but nevertheless she was neither too proud nor too strange in her position to administer as best she might to the comfort of her uncle.
The other lady was Mistress O'Dwyer, the lady of the mansion. She was fat, very; by no means fair, and perhaps something over forty. But nevertheless there were those who thought that she had her charms. A better hand at curing a side of bacon there was not in the county Cork, nor a woman who was more knowing in keeping a house straight and snug over her husband's head. That she had been worth more 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 good hand at keeping a house straight and snug.
"Another cup of tay, Father Bernard," said this lady. "It'll be more to 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 tray which stood before the peat fire, holding the muffin dish. "But perhaps 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'll only say that you have a fancy, Father Bernard."
But Father Bernard would not own to any such fancy. The muffin, he said, was quite to his liking, and so was the tea; and from the manner in which he disposed of these delicacies, even Mrs. Townsend might have admitted that this assertion was true, though she was wont to express her belief that nothing but lies could, by any possibility, fall from his mouth.
"And they have been staying with you now for some weeks, haven't they?" 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 away for a day or two, and sometimes the other."
"And they have no business which keeps them in Cork?" continued the priest, who seemed to be very curious on the matter.
"Well, they do have business, I suppose," said Fanny, "but av so I never sees it." Fanny O'Dwyer had a great respect for her uncle, seeing that he filled an exalted position, and was a connexion of whom she could be justly proud; but, though she had now come down to Kanturk with the view of having a good talk with her aunt and uncle about the Molletts, she would only tell as much as she liked to tell, even to the parish priest of Drumbarrow. And we may as well explain here that Fanny had now permanently made up her mind to reject the suit of Mr. Abraham Mollett. As she had allowed herself to see more and more of the little domestic ways of that gentleman, and to become intimate with him as a girl should become with the man she intends to marry, she had gradually learned to think that he hardly came up to her beau ideal of a lover. That he was crafty and false did not perhaps offend her as it should have done. Dear Fanny, excellent and gracious as she was, could herself be crafty on occasions. He drank too, 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, and seldom altogether good tempered. He was bad to his father, and bad to those below him whom he employed. Old Mollett would give away his sixpences with a fairly liberal hand, unless when he was exasperated by drink and fatigue. But Aby seldom gave away a penny. Fanny had sharp eyes, and soon felt that her English lover was not a man to be loved, though he had two rings, a gold chain, and half a dozen fine waistcoats.
And then another offence had come to light in which the Molletts were both concerned. Since their arrival in South Main Street they had been excellent customers—indeed quite a godsend, in this light, to Fanny, who had her own peculiar profit out of such house-customers as they were. They had paid their money like true Britons,—not regularly indeed, for regularity had not been desired, but by a five pound now, and another in a day or two, just as they were wanted. Nothing indeed could be better than this, for bills so paid are seldom rigidly scrutinized. But of late, within the last week, Fanny's requests for funds had not been so promptly met, and only on the day before her visit to Kanturk she had been forced to get her father to take a bill from Mr. Mollett senior for £20 at two months' date. This was a great come-down, as both Fanny and her father felt, and they had begun to think that it might be well to bring their connexion with the Molletts to a close. What if an end had come to the money of these people, and their bills should be dishonoured when due? It was all very well for a man to have claims against Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, but Fanny O'Dwyer had already learnt 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 public entertainment, without flying their names at two months' date."
Mrs. O'Dwyer hated any such payments herself, and looked on them as certain signs of immorality. That every man should take his drop of drink, consume it noiselessly, and pay for it immediately—that was her idea of propriety in its highest form.
"And they've been down here three or four times, each of them," said Father Barney, thinking deeply on the subject.
"I believe they have," said Fanny. "But of course I don't know much of where they've been to."
Father Barney knew very well that his dear niece had been on much more intimate terms with her guest than she pretended. The rumours had reached his ears some time since that the younger of the two strangers in South Main Street was making himself agreeable to the heiress of the hotel, and he had intended to come down upon her with all the might of an uncle, and, if necessary, with all the authority of the Church. But now that Fanny had discarded her lover, he wisely felt that it would be well for him to know nothing about it. Both uncles and priests may know too much—very foolishly.
"I have seen them here myself," said he, "and they have both been up at 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 for certain. He has seen them, though he will rarely see anybody now-a-days."
"Young Mr. Herbert is a-doing most of the business up about the place," said Mrs. O'Dwyer. "And people do say as how he is going to make a match of it with Lady Clara Desmond. And it's the lucky girl she'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 as Castle 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 at your 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 what it is, they're not after any good here. They are Protestants, ain't they?"
"Oh, black Protestants," said Mrs. O'Dwyer. "But you are not taking your tay, Father Bernard," and she again filled his cup for him.
"If you'll take my advice, Fanny, you'll give them nothing more without seeing their money. They'll come to no good here, I'm sure of that. They're afther some mischief with that poor old gentleman at Castle Richmond, and it's my belief the police will have them before they've done."
"Like enough," said Mrs. O'Dwyer.
"They may have them to-morrow, for what I care," said Fanny, who could not help feeling that Aby Mollett had at one time been not altogether left without hope as her suitor.
"But you wouldn't like anything like that to happen in your father's house," 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. "Father makes his money by the public, and in course he takes in any that comes 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, and they 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 the Molletts were to have the cold shoulder, and that they should in fact be turned out of the Kanturk Hotel as quickly as this could be done. "Better a small loss at first, than a big one at last," said Mrs. 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 sorry your father should be mixed up in it."
And then by degrees the conversation was changed, but not till the tea-things had been taken away, and a square small bottle of very particular whisky put on the table in its place. And the sugar also was brought, and boiling water in an immense jug, as though Father Barney were going to make a deep potation indeed, and a lemon in a wine glass; and then the priest was invited, with much hospitality, to make himself comfortable. Nor did the luxuries prepared for him end here; but Fanny, the pretty Fan herself, filled a pipe for him, and pretended that she would light it, for such priests are merry enough sometimes, and can joke as well as other men with their pretty nieces.
"But you're not mixing your punch, Father Bernard," said Mrs. O'Dwyer, with a plaintive melancholy voice, "and the wather getting cowld and all! Faix then, Father Bernard, I'll mix it for ye, so I will." And so she did, and well she knew how. And then she made another for herself and her niece, urging that "a thimbleful would do Fanny all the good in life afther her ride acrass them cowld mountains," and the priest looked on assenting, blowing the comfortable streams of smoke from his nostrils.
"And so, Father Bernard, you and Parson Townsend is to meet again to-morrow at Gortnaclough." Whereupon Father Bernard owned that such was the case, with a nod, not caring to disturb the pipe which lay comfortably on his lower lip.
"Well, well; only to think on it," continued Mrs. O'Dwyer. "That the same room should hould the two of ye." And she lifted up her hands and 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 no airs?"
"Well, no; nothing in particular. Why should the man be such a fool as that?"
"Why, in course? But they are such fools, Father Bernard. They does think theyselves such grand folks. Now don't they? I'd give a dandy of punch all round to the company just to hear you put him down once; 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 intends it. Things have come to that now that the parsons know where they are and what they have to look to. They're getting a lesson they'll not 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 always have a fall. "And there's no pride like Protesthant pride," said Fanny. "It is so upsetting, I can't abide it." All which tended to show that she had quite given up her Protestant lover.
"And is it getthing worse than iver with the poor crathurs?" said Mrs. O'Dwyer, referring, not to the Protestants, but to the victims of the famine.
"Indeed it's getting no betther," said the priest, "and I'm fearing it will be worse before it is over. I haven't married one couple in Drumbarrow since November last."
"And that's a heavy sign, Father Bernard."
"The surest sign in the world that they have no money among them at all, at all. And it is bad with thim, Mrs. O'Dwyer,—very bad, very bad 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; I needn'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 here I 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 aid to the country. Indeed it may be a question whether the city poverty was not the harder of the two.
"God bless you both—you've soft hearts, I know." And Father Barney put his punch to his lips. "Whatever you can do for me shall not be thrown away. And I'll tell you what, Mrs. O'Dwyer, it does behove us all to put our best foot out now. We will not let them say that the Papists would do nothing for their own poor."
"'Deed then an' they'll say anything of us, Father Bernard. There's nothing too hot or too heavy for them."
"At any rate let us not deserve it, Mrs. O'Dwyer. There will be a lot of them at Gortnaclough to-morrow, and I shall tell them that we, on our side, won't be wanting. To give them their due, I must say that they are working well. That young Herbert Fitzgerald's a trump, 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's what I say."
"God bless his face any way, say I," said Father Barney, with a wider philanthropy. "He is doing his best for the people, and the time has come now when we must hang together, if it be any way possible." And with this the priest finished his pipe, and wishing the ladies good night, walked away to his own house.
At this time the famine was beginning to be systematised. The sternest among landlords and masters were driven to acknowledge that the people had not got food or the means of earning it. The people themselves were learning that a great national calamity had happened, and that the work was God's work; and the Government had fully recognized the necessity of taking the whole matter into its own 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 by general consent, for there were many who greatly contested their wisdom—but by some force strong enough to make itself dominant. The first was, that the food to be provided should be earned and not given away. And the second was, that the providing of that food should be left to private competition, and not in any way be undertaken by the Government. I make bold to say that both these rules were wise and good.
But how should the people work? That Government should supply the wages was of course an understood necessity; and it was also necessary that on all such work the amount of wages should be regulated by the price at which provisions might fix themselves. These points produced questions which were hotly debated by the Relief Committees of the different districts; but at last it got itself decided, again by the hands of Government, that all hills along the country roads should be cut away, and that the people should be employed on this work. They were so employed,—very little to the advantage of the roads for that or some following years.
"So you have begun, my men," said Herbert to a gang of labourers whom he found collected at a certain point on Ballydahan Hill, which lay on his road from Castle Richmond to Gortnaclough. In saying this he had certainly paid them an unmerited compliment, for they had hitherto begun nothing. Some thirty or forty wretched-looking men were clustered together in the dirt and slop and mud, on the brow of the hill, armed with such various tools as each was able to find—with tools, for the most part, which would go but a little way in making Ballydahan Hill level or accessible. This question of tools also came to a sort of understood settlement before long; and within three months of the time of which I am writing legions of wheelbarrows were to be seen lying near every hill; wheelbarrows in hundreds and thousands. The fate of those myriads of wheelbarrows has always been a mystery to me.
"So you have begun, my men," said Herbert, addressing them in a kindly voice. There was a couple of gangsmen with them, men a little above the others in appearance, but apparently incapable of commencing the work in hand, for they also were standing idle, leaning against a bit of wooden paling. It had, however, been decided 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 were wretched-looking creatures, half-clad, discontented, with hungry eyes, each having at his heart's core a deep sense of injustice done personally upon him. They hated this work of cutting hills from the commencement to the end,—hated it, though it was to bring them wages and save them and theirs from actual famine and death. They had not been accustomed to the discomfort of being taken far from their homes to their daily work. Very many of them had never worked regularly for wages, day after day, and week after week. Up to this time such was not the habit of Irish cottiers. They held their own land, and laboured there for a spell; and then they would work for a spell, as men do in England, taking wages; and then they would be idle for a spell. It was not exactly a profitable mode of life, but it had its comforts; and now these unfortunates who felt themselves to be driven forth like cattle in droves for the first time, suffered the full wretchedness of their position. They were not rough and unruly, or inclined to be troublesome and perhaps violent, as men similarly circumstanced so often are in England;—as Irishmen are when collected in gangs out of Ireland. They had no aptitudes for such roughness, and no spirits for such violence. But they were melancholy, given to complaint, apathetic, and utterly without interest 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 no coat, and the keen north wind seemed to be blowing through his bones; cold, however, as he was, he would do nothing towards warming himself, unless that occasional shake can be considered as a doing of something. "Yz, yer honer; we've begun thin since before daylight this blessed morning."
It was now eleven o'clock, and a pick-axe had not been put into the ground, nor the work marked.
"Been here before daylight!" said Herbert. "And has there been nobody to set you to work?"
"Divil a sowl, yer honer," said another, who was sitting on a hedge-bank leaning with both his hands on a hoe, which he held between his legs, "barring Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady; they two do be over us, but they knows nothin' o' such jobs as this."
Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady had with the others moved up so as to be close to Herbert's horse, but they said not a word towards vindicating their own fitness for command.
"And it's mortial cowld standing here thin," said another, "without a bit to ate or a sup to dhrink since last night, and then only a lump of the yally mail." And the speaker moved about on his toes and heels, desirous of keeping his blood in circulation with the smallest possible amount of trouble.
"I'm telling the boys it's home we'd betther be going," said a fourth.
"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 muzzle and a squinting eye; "ye may all die in the road first." And the man turned away among the crowd, as an Irishman does who has made his speech and does not want to be answered.
"You need have no fear about that, my men," said Herbert. "Whether you be put to work or no you'll receive your wages; you may take my word for that."
"I've been telling 'em that for the last half-hour," said the man with the hoe, now rising to his feet. "'Shure an' didn't Mr. Somers be telling us that we'd have saxpence each day as long we war here afore daylight?' said I, yer honer; 'an' shure an' wasn't it black night when we war here this blessed morning, and devil a fear of the tizzy?' said I. But it's mortial cowld, an' it'd be asier for uz to be doing a spell of work than crouching about on our hunkers down on the wet ground."
All this was true. It had been specially enjoined upon them to be early at their work. An Irishman as a rule will not come regularly to his task. It is a very difficult thing to secure his services every morning at six o'clock; but make a special point,—tell him that you want him very early, and he will come to you in the middle of the night. Breakfast every morning punctually at eight o'clock is almost impossible in Ireland; but if you want one special breakfast, so that you may start by a train at 4a.m., you are sure to be served. No irregular effort is distasteful to an Irishman of the lower classes, not if it entails on him the loss of a day's food and the loss of a night's rest; the actual pleasure of the irregularity repays him for all this, and he never tells you that this or that is not his work. He prefers work that is not his own. Your coachman will have no objection to turn the mangle, but heaven and earth put together won't persuade him to take the horses out to exercise every morning at the same hour. These men had been told to come early, and they had been there on the road-side since five o'clock. It was not surprising that they were cold and hungry, listless and unhappy.
And then, as young Fitzgerald was questioning the so-named gangmen as to the instructions they had received, a jaunting car came up to the foot of the hill. "We war to wait for the ongineer," Shawn Brady had said, "an' shure an' we have waited." "An' here's one of Misther Carroll's cars from Mallow," said Thady Molloy, "and that's the ongineer hisself." Thady Molloy was right; this was the engineer himself, who had now arrived from Mallow. From this time forth, and for the next twelve months, the country was full of engineers, or of men who were so called. I do not say this in disparagement; but the engineers were like the yellow meal. When there is an immense demand, and that a suddenly immense demand, for any article, it is seldom easy to get it very good. In those days men became engineers with a short amount of apprenticeship, but, as a rule, they did not do their work badly. In such days as those, men, if they be men at all, will put their shoulders to the wheel.
The engineer was driven up to where they were standing, and he jumped off the car among the men who were to work under him with rather a pretentious air. He had not observed, or probably had not known, Herbert Fitzgerald. He was a very young fellow, still under one-and-twenty, beardless, light-haired, blue-eyed, and fresh from England. "And what hill is this?" said he to the driver.
"Ballydahan, shure, yer honer. That last war Connick-a-coppul, and that other, the big un intirely, where the crass road takes away to Buttevant, that was Glounthauneroughtymore. Faix and that's been the murthering 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 pocket and looking up the names in his list, "I've got it. There should be thirty-seven of them here."
"Shure an' here we are these siven hours," said our friend of the hoe, "and mighty cowld we are."
"Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady," called out the engineer, managing thoroughly to Anglicise the pronunciation of the names, though they were not Celtically composite to any great degree.
"Yez, we's here," said Thady, coming forward. And then Herbert came up and introduced himself, and the young engineer took off his hat. "I came away from Mallow before eight," said he apologetically; "but I have four of these places to look after, and when one gets to one of them it is impossible to get away again. There was one place where I was kept two hours before I could get one of the men to understand what they were to do. What is it you call that big hill?"
"Glounthauneroughtymore, yer honer," said the driver, to whom the name 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. But I must try and explain to the head men how they are to begin. They have 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 yer honer'd be afther beginning at the top or the botthom. That's all that war staying us."
"Never fear," said Shawn, "but we'll have ould Ballydahan level in less 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 rather bewildered by the job of work before him, and therefore he rode on, not stopping to embarrass him by any inspection of his work. In process of time no doubt so much of the top of Ballydahan Hill was carried to the bottom as made the whole road altogether impassable for 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 of every 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 overtaken by his friend the parson, who was also going to the meeting of the relief 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 had struck on to that on which they now were not far from the top of the hill. "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 these road-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's altogether wrong. I never knew one of them right in my life yet in anything. 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. You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. Remember that, Herbert Fitzgerald."
"I will remember nothing of the kind," said Herbert. "Am I to set myself 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 what was unclean?"
"The meaning of that was that he was to convert the Gentiles, and not give way to their errors. He was to contend with them and not give way an inch till he had driven them from their idolatry." Mr. Townsend had been specially primed by his wife that morning with vigorous hostility against Father Barney, and was grieved to his heart at finding that his young friend was prepared to take the priest's part in anything. In this matter of the roads Mr. Townsend was doubtless right, but hardly on the score of the arguments assigned by him.
"I don't mean to say that there should be no road-making," said Herbert, after a pause. "The general opinion seems to be that we can'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 as I have; and it seems to me that the young lad whom I left with them has 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 in idleness," said Mr. Townsend, "they will want to go on for ever in the same way. And then, when they receive such immense sums in money wages, the priests will be sure to get their share. If the matter had been left to me, I would have paid the men in meal. I would never have given them money. They should have worked and got their food. The priest will get a penny out of every shilling; you'll see else." And so the matter was discussed between them as they went along to Gortnaclough.
When they reached the room in which the committee was held they found Mr. Somers already in the chair. Priest McCarthy was there also, with his coadjutor, the Rev. Columb Creagh—Father Columb as he was always called; and there was a Mr. O'Leary from Boherbuy, one of the middlemen as they were formerly named,—though by the way I never knew that word to be current in Ireland; it is familiar to all, and was I suppose common some few years since, but I never heard the peasants calling such persons by that title. He was one of those with whom the present times were likely to go very hard. He was not a bad man, unless in so far as this, that he had no idea of owing any duty to others beyond himself and his family. His doctrine at present amounted to this, that if you left the people alone and gave them no false hopes, they would contrive to live somehow. He believed in a good deal, but he had no belief whatever in starvation,—none as yet. It was probable enough that some belief in this might come to him now before long. There were also one or two others; men who had some stake in the country, but men who hadn't a tithe of the interest possessed by Sir Thomas Fitzgerald.
Mr. Townsend again went through the ceremony of shaking hands with his reverend brethren, and, on this occasion, did not seem to be much the worse for it. Indeed, in looking at the two men cursorily a stranger might have said that the condescension was all on the other side. Mr. M'Carthy was dressed quite smartly. His black clothes were spruce and glossy; his gloves, of which he still kept on one and showed the other, were quite new; he was clean shaven, and altogether he had a shiny, bright, ebon appearance about him that quite did a credit to his side of the church. But our friend the parson was discreditably shabby. His clothes were all brown, his white neck-tie could hardly have been clean during the last forty-eight hours, and was tied in a knot, which had worked itself nearly round to his ear as he had sat sideways on the car; his boots were ugly and badly brushed, and his hat was very little better than some of those worn by the workmen—so called—at Ballydahan Hill. But, nevertheless, on looking accurately into the faces of both, one might see which man was the better nurtured and the better born. That operation with the sow's ear is, one may say, seldom successful with the first generation.
"A beautiful morning, this," said the coadjutor, addressing Herbert Fitzgerald, with a very mild voice and an unutterable look of friendship; as though he might have said, "Here we are in a boat together, and of course we are all very fond of each other." To tell the truth, Father Columb was not a nice-looking young man. He was red-haired, slightly marked with the small-pox, and had a low forehead and cunning eyes.
"Yes, it is, a nice morning," said Herbert. "We don't expect anybody else here, do we, Somers?"
"At any rate we won't wait," said Somers. So he sat down in the arm-chair, and they all went to work.
"I am afraid, Mr. Somers," said Mr. M'Carthy from the other end of the table, where he had constituted himself a sort of deputy chairman, "I am afraid we are going on a wrong tack." The priest had shuffled away his chair as he began to speak, and was now standing with his hands upon the table. It is singular how strong a propensity some men have to get upon their legs in this way.
"How so, Mr. M'Carthy?" said Somers. "But shan't we be all more comfortable if we keep our chairs? There'll be less ceremony, won't there, Mr. Townsend?"
"Oh! certainly," said Townsend.
"Less liable to interruption, perhaps, on our legs," said Father Columb, smiling blandly.
But Mr. M'Carthy was far too wise to fight the question, so he sat down. "Just as you like," said he; "I can talk any way, sitting or standing, walking or riding; it's all one to me. But I'll tell you how we are on the wrong tack. We shall never get these men to work in gangs on the road. Never. They have not been accustomed to be driven 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 quite well aware of that. But droves of sheep are driven, and these men won't bear it."
"'Deed an' they won't," said Father Columb, having altogether laid aside his bland smile now that the time had come, as he thought, to speak up for the people. "They may bear it in England, but they won't here." And the sternness of his eye was almost invincible.
"If they are so foolish, they must be taught better manners," said Mr. 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 parish priest.
"And these men need not go unless they like it," said Mr. Somers. "Only with this proviso, that if they cannot manage for themselves they 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 we have to pay all this money back to Government. If Government chooses to squander thousands in this way, Government should bear the brunt. That's what I say." Eventually, Government, that is the whole nation, did bear the brunt. But it would not have been very wise to promise 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; "but the Government, as you call it, can't make men work. It can't force eight millions of the finest pisantry on God'searth—,"and Father Columb was, by degrees, pushing away the seat from under him, when he was cruelly and ruthlessly stopped by his own parish priest.
"I beg your pardon for a moment, Creagh," said he; "but perhaps we are getting a little out of the track. What Mr. Somers says is very true. If these men won't work on the road—and I don't think they will—the responsibility is not on us. That matter has been decided for us."
"Men will sooner work anywhere than starve," said Mr. Townsend.
"Some men will," said Father Columb, with a great deal of meaning in his tone. What he intended to convey was this—that Protestants, no doubt, would do so, under the dominion of the flesh; but that Roman Catholics, being under the dominion of the Spirit, would perish first.
"At any rate we must try," said Father M'Carthy.
"Exactly," said Mr. Somers; "and what we have now to do is to see how we may best enable these workers to live on their wages, and how those others are to live, who, when all is done, will get no wages."
"I think we had better turn shopkeepers ourselves, and open stores for them everywhere," said Herbert. "That is what we are doing already 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 brother was in the flour-trade, in Cork.
"And shut up all the small shopkeepers," said Father Columb, whose mother was established in that line in the neighbourhood of Castleisland.
"We could not do it," said Somers. "The demand upon us would be so great, that we should certainly break down. And then where would we be?"
"But for a time, Somers," pleaded Herbert.
"For a time we may do something in that way, till other means present themselves. But we must refuse all out-door relief. They who cannot or do not bring money must go into the workhouses."
"You will not get houses in county Cork sufficient to hold them," said Father Bernard. And so the debate went on, not altogether without some sparks of wisdom, with many sparks also of eager benevolence, and some few passing clouds of fuliginous self-interest. And then lists were produced, with the names on them of all who were supposed to be in want—which were about to become, before long, lists of the whole population of the country. And at last it was decided among them, that in their district nothing should be absolutely given away, except to old women and widows,—which kindhearted clause was speedily neutralised by women becoming widows while their husbands were still living; and it was decided also, that as long as their money lasted, the soup-kitchen at Berryhill should be kept open, and mill kept going, and the little shop maintained, so that to some extent a check might be maintained on the prices of the hucksters. And in this way they got through their work, not perhaps with the sagacity of Solomon, but as I have said, with an average amount of wisdom, as will always be the case when men set about their tasks with true hearts and honest minds.
And then, when they parted, the two clergymen of the parish shook hands with each other again, having perhaps less animosity against each other than they had ever felt before. There had been a joke or two over the table, at which both had laughed. The priest had wisely shown some deference to the parson, and the parson had immediately returned it, by referring some question to the priest. How often does it not happen that when we come across those whom we have hated and avoided all our lives, we find that they are not quite so bad as we had thought? That old gentleman of whom we wot is never so black as he has been painted.
The work of the committee took them nearly the whole day, so that they 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 the priests 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 intolerant as he is, has good feeling. If he and Father Columb were left together, I don't know what might happen. Mr. Prendergast is to be with 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'll arrive, probably, to dinner."
"I suppose he will."
"If so, leave Castle Richmond after breakfast the next morning, and do not return till near dinner-time. It may be that your father will not wish you to be near him. Whatever this matter may be, you may be sure that you will know it before Mr. Prendergast leaves the country. I am very glad that he is coming."
Herbert promised that he would take this advice, and he thought himself that among other things he might go over to inspect that Clady boiler, and of course call at Desmond Court on his way. And then, when they got near to Castle Richmond they parted company, Mr. Somers stopping at his own place, and Herbert riding home alone.
On the day named by Herbert, and only an hour before dinner, Mr. Prendergast did arrive at Castle Richmond. The Great Southern and Western Railway was not then open as far as Mallow, and the journey from Dublin was long and tedious. "I'll see him of course," said Sir Thomas to Lady Fitzgerald; "but I'll put off this business till to-morrow." This he said in a tone of distress and agony, which showed too plainly how he dreaded the work which he had before him. "But you'll come in to dinner," Lady Fitzgerald had said. "No," he answered, "not to-day, love; I have to think about this." And he put his hand up to his head, as though this thinking about it had already 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 have dreamed of calling Mr. Prendergast an old man. He was short of stature, well made, and in good proportion; he was wiry, strong, and almost robust. He walked as though in putting his foot to the earth he always wished to proclaim that he was afraid of no man and no thing. His hair was grizzled, and his whiskers were grey, and round about his mouth his face was wrinkled; but with him even these things hardly seemed to be signs of old age. He was said by many who knew him to be a stern man, and there was that in his face which seemed to warrant such a character. But he had also the reputation of being a very just man; and those who knew him best could tell tales of him which proved that his sternness was at any rate compatible with a wide benevolence. He was a man who himself had known but little mental suffering, and who owned no mental weakness; and it might be, therefore, that he was impatient of such weakness in others. To chance acquaintances his manners were not soft, or perhaps palatable; but to his old friends his very brusqueness was pleasing. He was a bachelor, well off in the world, and, to a certain extent, fond of society. He was a solicitor by profession, having his office somewhere in the purlieus of Lincoln's Inn, and living in an old-fashioned house not far distant from that classic spot. I have said that he owned no mental weakness. When I say further that he was slightly afflicted with personal vanity, and thought a good deal about the set of his hair, the shape of his coat, the fit of his boots, the whiteness of his hands, and the external trim of his umbrella, perhaps I may be considered to have contradicted myself. But such was the case. He was a handsome man too, with clear, bright, gray eyes, a well-defined nose, and expressive mouth—of which the lips, however, were somewhat too thin. No man with thin lips ever seems to me to be genially human at all points.
Such was Mr. Prendergast; and my readers will, I trust, feel for Sir Thomas, and pity him, in that he was about to place his wounds in the 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 cutting and cauterizing, of phlebotomy and bone-handling without effect on his own nerves. This power Mr. Prendergast possessed, and therefore it may be said that Sir Thomas had chosen his surgeon judiciously. None of the Castle Richmond family, except Sir Thomas himself, had ever seen this gentleman, nor had Sir Thomas often come across him of late years. But he was what we in England call an old family friend; and I doubt whether we in England have any more valuable English characteristic than that of having old family friends. Old family feuds are not common with us now-a-days—not so common as with some other people. Sons who now hated their father's enemies would have but a bad chance before a commission of lunacy; but an old family friend is supposed to stick to one from generation to generation.
On his arrival at Castle Richmond he was taken in to Sir Thomas before 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 does before an iron-wristed dentist who is about to operate. "You will be better soon," Mr. Prendergast had said, as a man always does say under such circumstances. What other remark was possible to him? "Sir Thomas thinks that he had better not trouble you with business to-night," said Lady Fitzgerald. To this also Mr. Prendergast agreed willingly. "We shall both of us be fresher to-morrow, after breakfast," he remarked, as if any time made any difference to him,—as though he were not always fresh, and ready for any work that might turn up.
That evening was not passed very pleasantly by the family at Castle Richmond. To all of them Mr. Prendergast was absolutely a stranger, and was hardly the man to ingratiate himself with strangers at the first interview. And then, too, they were all somewhat afraid of him. He had come down thither on some business which was to them altogether mysterious, and, as far as they knew, he, and he alone, was to be intrusted with the mystery. He of course said nothing to them on the subject, but he looked in their eyes as though he were conscious of being replete with secret importance; and on this very account they were afraid of him. And then poor Lady Fitzgerald, though she bore up against the weight of her misery better than did her husband, was herself very wretched. She could not bring herself to believe that all this would end in nothing; that Mr. Prendergast would put everything right, and that after his departure they would go on as happily as ever. This was the doctrine of the younger part of the family, who would not think that anything was radically wrong. But Lady Fitzgerald had always at her heart the memory of her early marriage troubles, and she feared greatly, though she feared she knew not what.
Herbert Fitzgerald and Aunt Letty did endeavour to keep up some conversation with Mr. Prendergast; and the Irish famine was, of course, the subject. But this did not go on pleasantly. Mr. Prendergast was desirous of information; but the statements which were made to him one moment by young Fitzgerald were contradicted in the next by his aunt. He would declare that the better educated of the Roman Catholics were prepared to do their duty by their country, whereas Aunt Letty would consider herself bound both by party feeling and religious duty, to prove that the Roman Catholics were bad in everything.
"Oh, Herbert, to hear you say so!" she exclaimed at one time, "it makes me tremble in my shoes. It is dreadful to think that those people should have got such a hold over you."
"I really think that the Roman Catholic priests are liberal in their ideas and moral in their conduct." This was the speech which had made Aunt Letty tremble in her shoes, and it may, therefore, be conceived that Mr. Prendergast did not find himself able to form any firm opinion from the statements then made to him. Instead of doing so, he set them both down as "Wild Irish," whom it would be insane to trust, and of whom it was absurd to make inquiries. It may, however, be possibly the case that Mr. Prendergast himself had his own prejudices as well as Aunt Letty and Herbert Fitzgerald.
On the following morning they were still more mute at breakfast. The time was coming in which Mr. Prendergast was to go to work, and even he, gifted though he was with iron nerves, began to feel somewhat unpleasantly the nature of the task which he had undertaken. Lady Fitzgerald did not appear at all. Indeed, during the whole of breakfast-time and up to the moment at which Mr. Prendergast was summoned, she was sitting with her husband, holding his hand in hers, and looking tenderly but painfully into his face. She so sat with him for above an hour, but he spoke to her no word of this revelation he was about to make. Herbert and the girls, and even Aunt Letty, sat solemn and silent, as though it was known by them all that something dreadful was to be said and done. At last Herbert, who had left the room, returned to it. "My father will see you now, Mr. Prendergast, if you will step up to him," said he; and then he ran to his mother and told her that he should leave the house 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 to remain here, I should be going into his room when he did not want me." And then he mounted his horse and rode off.
Mr. Prendergast, with serious air and slow steps, and solemn resolve to do what he had to do at any rate with justice, walked away from the dining-room to the baronet's study. The task of an old friend is not always a pleasant one, and Mr. Prendergast felt that it was not so at the present moment. "Be gentle with him," said Aunt Letty, catching hold of his arm as he went through the passage. He merely moved his head twice, in token of assent, and then passed on into the room.
The reader will have learnt by this time, with tolerable accuracy, what was the nature of the revelation which Sir Thomas was called upon to make, and he will be tolerably certain as to the advice which Mr. Prendergast, as an honest man, would give. In that respect there was no difficulty. The laws of meum and tuum are sufficiently clear if a man will open his eyes to look at them. In this case they were altogether clear. These broad acres of Castle Richmond did belong to Sir Thomas—for his life. But after his death they could not belong to his son Herbert. It was a matter which admitted of no doubt. No question as to whether the Molletts would or would not hold their tongue could bear upon it in the least. Justice in this case must be done, even though the heavens should fall. It was sad and piteous. Stern and hard as was the man who pronounced this doom, nevertheless the salt tear collected in his eyes and blinded him as he looked upon the anguish which his judgment had occasioned.