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CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
BY ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 2S. Vols. 
 
 DOCTOR THOENB 
 
 THE MACDERMOTS OF BALLY- 
 
 CLORAN 
 RACHEL RAY 
 
 THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS 
 TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES 
 CASTLE RICHMOND 
 THE BERTRAMS 
 MISS MACKENZIE 
 THE HELTON ESTATE 
 
 AN EDITOR S TALES 
 
 RALPH THE HEIK 
 
 LA VENDEE 
 
 LADY ANNA 
 
 VICAR OF BULLHAMPTON 
 
 SIR HARRY HOTSPUR 
 
 IS HE POPENJOY? 
 
 AN EYE FOR EYE 
 
 COUSIN HENRY 
 
 LOTTA SCHMIDT 
 
 ORLEY FARM 
 
 CAN YOU FORGIVE HER? 
 
 PHINEAS FINN 
 
 THE DUKE'S CHILDREN 
 
 2S. 6d. Vols. 
 
 HE KNEW HE WAS RIGHT 
 EUSTACE DIAMONDS 
 PHINEAS REDUX 
 THE PRIME MINISTER 
 
 LONDON : WARD, LOCK AND CO., SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C 
 
CASTLE RICHMOND 
 
 J. gohtl 
 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 
 
 authob of 
 'can tott fobgivb hub?" "bblton estate," "eaohel eay," etc. 
 
 NEW EDITION, 
 
 LONDON: 
 WARD, LOCK, & CO., WAEWICK HOUSE, 
 
 SALISBUET SQUARE, B.C. 
 
 NEW YORK : 10 BOND STREET. 
 [All rights reserved.] 
 
Pie 
 
 ■£U4 
 
 .CSS 
 
 P\Liiii,i/> 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ' I, IflE BARONY OF I>E8»0iro - ^ . « | 
 
 H, OWEN FITZGEEALD » . . < a, 7 
 
 in. CLARA DESMOND . - - m ,. 19 
 
 IV. THE COUNTESS - - - - a. .. 29 
 
 V. THE FITZGEEALDS OF CASTLE BICHMOKD - • 38 
 
 VI. THE KANTUEK HOTEL, SOUTH MAIN STBEETj COEK - 48 , 
 
 ru. THE FAMINE YEAE -----., 58 
 
 nn. GORTNACLOUSH AND BBKRYHILL - - ,. 68 
 
 DC. FAMILY COUNCILS ----- . 8> 
 
 X. THE EECTOE OP DBDMBAEEOW AND HIS WIFE . 90 
 
 XI. SECOND LOVE .-»__'.. 102 
 
 ill. DOUBTS -----■-. 112 
 
 IIII. ME. MOLLETT EETUEN8 TO SOUTH MAIN STEEET - 126 
 
 XIV. THE REJECTED SUITOR _ - _ . 138 
 
 XV. DIPLOMACY - . - _ . . 149 
 
 XVI. THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS - - - 159 
 
 KVII. FATHER BARNEY . - - - _ 172 
 
 1VIII. THE RELIEF COMMITTEE . . _ . I79 
 
 XIX. THE FEIBND OF THE FAMILY - - - - 183 
 
 XX. TWO WITNESSES - . . . , 200 
 
 XXI. FAIR ARGUMENTS . . - _ . 214 
 
 XXII. THE TELLING OP THE TALE - . - - 220 
 
 ^Xm. BEFOBE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE - - 280 
 
» CONTENTS. 
 
 CTAP. 
 
 XXIV. AFTEK BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE , . . 241 
 
 XXV. A MUDDY WALK ON A WET MORNINGr . - . 251 
 
 XXVI. COMFOETLESS - . - - . 259 
 
 XXVII. COMFOKTED ------- 271 
 
 IXVin. FOR a' that and a' THAT - = - - 279 
 
 XXIX. ILL NEWS FLIES PAST - - - • - . 289 
 
 XXX. PALLIDA MOBS ---- = - 295 
 
 XXXI. THE FIRST MONTH ------ 309 
 
 XXXII. PREPARATIONS FOR OOINO - . - - 318 
 
 IXXIII. THE LAST STAQB = - » » • - 328 
 
 XXXrV. FAREWELL __-.-- 336 
 
 XXXV. HERBERT FITZGERALD IN lASDON - » - 347' 
 
 XXXVI. HOW THE EARL WAS WON - . - . 357 
 XXXVII. A TALE OF A TURBOT ----- 365 
 
 IXSVIII. CONDEMNED ------ 378 
 
 XXXIX. FOX-miNTINa IN SPINNY LANE - . - 388 
 
 XL. THE FOX IN HIS EARTH . - - - 399 
 
 lU. THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMON* - - 406 
 
 Xlill. ANOTHER JOURNEY - - - » '■ 417 
 
 XUII. PLAYING ROUNDERS - - iH 
 
 nrr. ixsgoujison - - - « -. '■ 4^ 
 
CASTLE RICHMOl^D. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE BARONY OF DESMOND. 
 
 I WONDER whether the novel-reading world — that part of it, at 
 least, which may honour my pages — will be offended if I lay the 
 plot of this story in Ireland ! That there is a strong feeling 
 against things Irish it is impossible to deny. Irish servants need 
 not apply; Irish acquaintances are treated with limited confidence ; 
 Irish cousins are regarded as being decidedly dangerous ; and 
 Irish stories are not popular with the booksellers. 
 
 For myself, I may say that if I ought to know anything about 
 any place, I ought to know so"mething about Ireland ; and I do 
 strongly protest against the injustice of the above conclusions. 
 Irish cousins I have none. Irish acquaintances I have by dozens ; 
 and Irish friends, also, by twos and threes, whom I can love and 
 cherish — almost as well, perhaps, as though they had been bom 
 in Middlesex. Irish servants I have had some in my house for 
 years, and never had one that was faithless, dishonest, or intem- 
 perate. I have travelled all over Ireland, closely as few other 
 men can have done, and have never had my portmanteau robbed 
 or my pocket picked. At hotels I have seldom looked up my 
 belongings, and my carelessness has never been punished. I 
 doubt whether as much can be said for English inns. 
 
 Irish novels were once popular enough. But there is a fashion 
 in novels, as there is in colours and petticoats ; and now I fear 
 they are drugs in the market. It is hard to say why a good 
 story should not have a fair chance of success whatever may be 
 its bent ; why it should not be reckoned to be good by its own 
 intrinsic merits alone ; but such is by no means the case. I was 
 waiting once, when I was young at the work, in the back parlour 
 of an eminent publisher, hoping to see his eminence on a sinaU 
 matter of b'^iness touching a three-volumed manuscript which I 
 
; CASTLE KIOHMOND. 
 
 eld in my hand. The eminent- puhlisher, having probably large» 
 .sh to fry, could not see me, but sent his clerk or foreman tc 
 rrange the business. 
 
 ' A novel, is it, sir ?' said the foreman. 
 " ' Yes,' I answered ; ' a novel.' 
 
 ' It depends very much on the subject,' said the foreman, with e 
 toughtful and judicious frown — ' upon the name, sir, and the sub- 
 set ; — dailjlife, sir ; that's what suits us ; daily EngUsh life. Now 
 •our historical novel, sir, is not worth the paper it's written on.' 
 
 I fear that Irish character is in these days considered almost as 
 tnattractive as historical incident ; but, nevertheless, I will make 
 he attempt. I am now leaving the Green Isle and my old 
 riends, qjid would fain say a word of them as I do so. If I do 
 lot say that word now it will never be said. 
 
 The readability of a story should depend, one wotdd say, on 
 ts intrinsic merit rather than on the site of its adventures. No 
 me will think that Hampshire is better for such a purpose than 
 Cumberland, or Essex than Leicestershire. "What abstract 
 ibjection can there then be to the county Cork ? 
 
 Perhaps the most interesting, and certainly the most beautiful 
 lart of Ireland is that which lies down in the extreme south- 
 rest, with fingers stretching far out into the Atlantic Ocean, 
 ['his consists of the counties Cork and Kerry, or a portion, 
 ather, of those counties. It contains Killamey, Glengarri£Fe, 
 Jantry, and Inchigeela ;, and is watered by the Lee, the Black- 
 uater, and the Elesk. I know not where is to be found a land 
 acre rich in all that constitutes the loveliness of scenery. 
 
 Within this district, but hardly within that portion of it which 
 B most attractive to tourists, is situated the house and domain oi 
 Castle Eichmond. The river Blackwater rises in the county 
 Lerry, and running from west to east through the northern pari 
 if the county Cork, enters the county "Waterford beyond Fermoy. 
 n its course it passes near the little town of Kanturk, an 
 hrough the town of Mallow : Castle Eichmond stands close upon 
 ts banks, within tjie barony of Desmond, and in that Kanturk 
 egion through which the Mallow and Killarney^raLlway iiow 
 )asses, but which some thirteen years since knew nothing of the 
 lavvy's spade, or even of the engineer's Jiieodolite. 
 
 Castle Eichmond was at this' period the abode of Sir Thomas 
 fitzgerald, who resided there, ever and always, with his wife, 
 jady Fitzgerald, his two daughters, Mary and Emmeline Fitz- 
 ;erald, and, as often as purposes of education and pleasure suited, 
 vith his son Herbert Fitzgerald. Neither Sir Thomas nor Sir 
 Thomas's house had about them any of those interesting pictu- 
 ■esque faults which are so generally attributed to Irish landlords 
 
THE BAEONY Off DESMOND. 3 
 
 and Irish castles. He was not out of elbows, nor was he an 
 absentee. Castle Eichmond had no appearance of having been 
 thrown out of its own windows. It was a good, substantia], 
 modern family residence, built not more than thirty years since 
 by the late baronet, with a lawn sloping down to the river, with 
 kitchen gardens and walls for fruit, with ample sta,bles, and a 
 clock over the entrance to the stable yard. It stood in a well- 
 timbered park duly stocked with deer, — and with foxes also, 
 which are agricultural animals much more valuable in an Irish 
 county than deer. So that as regards its appearance Castle 
 Eichmond- might have been in Hampshire or Essex; and as 
 regards his property, Sir Thomas Fitzgerald might have been a 
 Leicestershire baronet. 
 
 Here, at Castle Eichmond, lived Sir Thomas with his wife and 
 daughters; and here, taking the period of our story as being exactly 
 thirteen years since, his son Herbert was staying also in those 
 hard winter months ; his Oxford degree having been taken, and 
 his English pursuits admitting of a temporary sojourn in Ireland. 
 
 But Sir Thomas Fitzgerald was not the great man of that part 
 of the country — at least, not the greatest man ; nor was Lady 
 Fitzgerald by any means the greatest lady. As this greatest 
 lady, and the greatest man also, will, with their belongings, bo 
 among the most prominent of our dramatis personse, it may be 
 well that I should not even say a word of them. 
 
 All the world must have heard of Desmond Court. It is the 
 largest inhabited residence known in that part of the world, 
 where rumours are afloat of how it covers ten acres of ground ; 
 how in hewing the stones for it a whole mountain was cut away ; 
 how it should have cost hundreds of thousands of pounds, only 
 that the money was never paid by the rapacious, wicked, blood- 
 thirsty old earl who caused it to be erected ; — and how the 
 cement was thickened with human blood. So goes rumour with 
 the more romantic of the Celtic tale-bearers. 
 
 It is a huge place — ^huge, ungainly, and uselessly extensive ; 
 built at a time when, at any rate in Ireland, men considered 
 neither beauty, aptitude, nor economy. It is three stories high, 
 and stands roun'd a quadrangle, in which there are two entrance- 
 opposite to each other. Nothing can be well uglier than that 
 great paved court, in which there is not a spot of anything 
 green, except where the damp has produced an unwholesome 
 growth upon the stones; nothing can well be more desolate. 
 And on the outside of the building matters are not much better., 
 There are no gardens close iip to the house, no flower-beds in tiie 
 nooks and corners, no sweet shrubs peeping in at the square 
 windows. Gardens there are, but they are away, half a mile off; 
 
CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 and the great hall door opens out upon a flat, bleak park, with 
 hardly a scrap around it whiph courtesy can call a lawn^ 
 
 Here, at this period of ours, lived Clara, Countess of Des- 
 mond, widow of Patrick, once Earl of Desmond, and father of 
 Patrick, now Earl of Desmond. These Desmonds had once 
 been mighty men in their country, ruling the people around 
 them as soifs, and ruling thorn with hot iron rods. But those 
 days were now long gone, and tradition told little of them that 
 was true. How it had truly fared either with the earl, or with 
 their serfs, men did not well know ; but stories were ever being 
 told -of walls built with human blood, and of the devil bearing ofl: 
 upon his shoulder a certain earl who was in any other way quite 
 unbearable, and depositing some small unbumt portion of his 
 remains fathoms deep below the soil in an old buryihg-ground 
 near Kanturk. And there had' been a good earl, as is always 
 the case with such families j but even his virtues, according to 
 tradition, had been of a useless namby-pamby sort. He had 
 walked to the shrine of St. Finbar, up in the little island of 
 the Gouga,ne Barra, with unboiled peas in his shoes ; had for- 
 given his tenants five years' rent all round, and never drank 
 wine or washed himself after the death of his lady wife. 
 
 At the present moment the Desmonds were not so potent 
 either for good or ill. The late earl had chosen to live in 
 London all his Ufe, and had sunk down to be the toadying 
 Mend, or perhaps I should more properly say the bullied flunkj', 
 
 of a sensual, wine-bibbing, gluttonous king. Late in life, 
 
 when he was broken in means and character, he had married. 
 The lady of his choice had been chosen as an heiress ; but there 
 had been' some slip between that cup of fortune and his lip ; 
 and she, proud and beautiful— for such she had been — had neither 
 relieved nor softened the poverty of her profligate old lord. 
 
 She was left at his d-eath with two children, of whom the 
 eldest. Lady Clara Desmond, will be the heroine of this story. 
 The youngest, Patrick, now Earl of Desmond, was two years 
 younger than his sister, and will make our acquaintance as a 
 lad fresh fiom Eton. 
 
 In these days money was not plentiful with ■tl'* Desmonds. 
 Not but that their estates were as wide almost as their re- 
 nown, and that the Desmonds were still great people in the 
 country's estimation. Desmond Court stood in a bleak, un- 
 adorned region, almost among the mountains, half way between 
 Kanturk and Maccoom, and the family had some claim, to pos- 
 Bession of the land for miles around. The earL of the day was 
 still the head landlord of a huge district extending over the 
 -rhole barony of Desmond, and half the adjacent baronies o£ 
 
THE BAKONY OF DESMOND. 
 
 Muskei-ry and Duhallow ; but the head landlord's rent in many 
 cases hardly amounted to sixpence an acre, and even those 
 sixpences did not always find their way into the earl's pocket. 
 When the late earl had attained his sceptre, he might probably 
 have been entitled to spend some ten thousand a year ; but 
 when he died, and during the years just previous to that, he 
 had hardly been entitled to spend anything. 
 
 But, nevertheless, the Desmonds were great people, and owned 
 a great name. They had been kings once over those wild 
 mountains; and would be still, some said, if every one had 
 his own. Their grandeur was shown by the prevalence of their 
 name. - The barony in which they lived was the barony of 
 Desmond. The river which gave water to their cattle was 
 the river Desmond. The wretched, ragged, poverty-stricken 
 village near their own dismantled gate was the town of Des- 
 mond. The earl was Earl of Desniond — not Earl Desmond, 
 mark you ; and the family name was Desmond. The grand- 
 father of the present earl, who had repaired his fortune bj 
 selling himself at the time of the Union, had been Desmond 
 Desmond, Earl of Desmond. 
 
 The late earl, the friend of the most illustrious person in 
 the kingdom, had not been utterly able to rob his heir of 
 everything, or he would undoubtedly have done so. At the 
 age of twenty-one the young earl would come into possession 
 of the property, damaged certainly, as far as an actively evil 
 father could damage it by long leases, bad management, lack 
 of outlay, and rack-renting ; — but still into the possession of a 
 consideralDle property. In the mean time it did not fare very 
 well, in a pecuniary way, with Clara, the widowed countess, 
 or with the Lady Clara, her daughter. The means at the 
 widow's disposal were only those which the family trustees 
 would allow her as the earl's mother : on his coming of age 
 she would have almost no means of her own; and for her 
 daughter no provision whatever had been made. 
 
 As this first chapter is devoted wholly to the locale of my story, 
 1 will not stop to say a word as to the persons or characters 
 of either of these two ladies, leaving them, as I did the Castle 
 Eichmond family, to come forth upon the canvas as oppor- 
 tunity may offer. But there is another homestead in this same 
 barony of Desmond, . of which and of its owner — as being its 
 owner — I will say a word. 
 
 ._Hap House was also the property of a Eitzgerald. it had 
 originally been built by an old Sir Simon Fitzgerald, for the 
 use and behoof of a second son, and the present owner of it 
 was the grandson of that man for whom it. had beta built 
 
6 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 And old Sir Simon had given his offspring not only a house — 
 he had endowed the house with a comfortable little slice of 
 land, either cut from the large patrimonial loaf, or else, as vraa 
 more probable, collected together and separately baked for 
 this younger branch of the family. Be that as it may, Hap 
 House had of late years been always regarded as conferring 
 some seven or eight hundred a year upon its possessor, and 
 when young Owen Fitzgerald succeeded to this property, on 
 the death of an uncle in the year 1843, he was regarded as a 
 rich man to that extent. 
 
 At that time he was some twenty-two years of age, and he 
 came down from Dublin, where his friends had intended that 
 he should practise as a barrister, to set up for himself as a 
 country gentleman. Hap House was distant from Castle 
 
 - Richmond about four miles, standing also on the river Black- 
 water, but nearer to Mallow. It was a pleasant, comfortable 
 residence, too large no doubt for such a property, as is so 
 often the case in Ireland; surrounded by pleasant grounds 
 and pleasant gardens, with a gorse fox covert belonging to the 
 place within a mile of it, with a slated lodge, and a pretty 
 drive along the river. At the age of twenty-two, Owen 
 Fitzgerald came into all this ; and as he at once resided upon 
 the- place, he came in also for the good graces of all the 
 mothers with unmarried daughters in the county, and for the 
 smiles also of many of the daughters themselves. 
 
 Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald were not his uncle and 
 aunt, but nevertheless they took kindly to him ; — ^very kindly 
 
 vat first, though that kindness after a while became less warm. 
 He was the nearest relation of the name ; and should anything 
 happen— as the fatal- death-foretelling phrase goes — to young 
 Herbert Fitzgerald, he would become the heir of the family .title 
 and "of the family place. 
 
 When ,1 hear of a young man sitting down by himself as 
 the master of a household, without a wife, or even without a 
 mother or sister to guide him, I always anticipate danger. 
 If he does not go astray in any other way, he will probably 
 mismanage his money matters. And then there are so many 
 other ways. A house, if it be not made pleasant by domestic 
 pleasant things, must be made pleasant by pleasure. And a 
 bachelor's pleasures in his own house are always dangerous. 
 There is too much wine drunk at his dinner parties. His 
 guests sit too long over their cards. The servants know that 
 they want a mistress ; and, in the absence of that mistress, the 
 language of the household becomes loud and harsh — and some- 
 times improper. Young men among us seldom go quite straight 
 
OWEN PITZaERA.LD. 7 
 
 in their course, unless they are, at any rate occasionally, brought 
 under the influence of tea and small talk. 
 
 There was no tea and small talk at Hap House, but there 
 were hunting-dinners. Owen Titzgerald was soon known for 
 Ins horses and his riding. He lived in the very centre of the 
 Duhallow hunt ; and before he had been sis months owner of 
 his property had built additional stables, with half a dozen 
 loose boxes for his friends' nags. He had an eye, too, for a 
 pretty girl — not always in the way that is approved of by 
 mothers with marriageable daughters ; but in the way of which 
 they so decidedly disapprove. 
 
 And thus old ladies began to say bad things. Those pleasant 
 hunting-dinners were spoken of as the. Hap House orgies. It 
 was declared that men slept there half the day, having played 
 cards all the night; and dreadful tales were told. Of these 
 tales one-half was doubtless false. But, alas, alas 1 what if one- 
 half were also true ? 
 
 It is undoubtedly a very dangerous tiling for a young man 
 of twenty-two to keep house by himself, either in town or 
 country. . 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 OWEN FITZGERALD. 
 
 I HAVE tied myself down to thirteen years ago as the time of my 
 «tory ; but I must go back a little beyond this for its first scenes, 
 and work my way up as quickly as may be to the period in 
 dicated. 1 have spoken of a winter in which Herbert Fitzgerald 
 was at home at Castle Eiehmond, having then completed his 
 Oxford doings ; but I must say something of two years previous 
 to that, of a time when Herbert was not so well known in the 
 30unty as was his cousin of Hap Hoiise. 
 
 It was a thousand pities that a bad word should ever have been 
 spoken of Owen Fitzgerald ; ten thousand pities that he should 
 >ver have given occasion for such bad word. He was a fine, 
 ligh-spirited, handsome fellow, with a loving heart within his 
 jreast, and bright thoughts vidthin his brain. It was utterly 
 yrong that a man constituted as he was should commence life 
 )y living alone in a large country house. But those who spoke 
 U of him should have remembered that this was his misfortune 
 ■ather than his fault. Some greater endeavour might perhaps 
 lave been made to rescue him from evil ways. Very little such 
 mdeavour was made at all. Sir Thomas once or twice spoke to 
 lim ; but Sir Thomas was not an energetic man ; and as for 
 
8 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald, ttough she was in many things all that was 
 excellent, she was far too diffident to attempt the reformation of a 
 headstrong young man, who after all was only distantly connected 
 •with her. 
 
 And thus there was no such attempt, and poor Owen became 
 the subject of ill report without any substantial effort having been- 
 made to save him. He was a very handsome man — tall, being 
 somewhat over six feet in height — athletic, almost more than in 
 proportion — with short, light chestnut-tinted hair, blue eyes, and 
 a mouth perfect as that of Phosbus. He was clever, too, though 
 perhaps not educated as carefully as might have been : his speech 
 was usually rapid, hearty, and short, and not seldom caustic and 
 pointed. Had he fallen among good hands, he might have done 
 very well in the world's fight ; but with such a character, and 
 lacking such advantages, it was quite as open to him to do ill. 
 Alas ! the latter chance seemed to have fallen to him. 
 
 For the first year of his residence at Hap House, he was popular 
 enough among his neighbours. The .Hap House orgies were not 
 commenced at once, nor when coromenced did they immediately 
 become a subject of scandal ; and even during the second year he 
 was tolerated ; — tolerated by all, and still flattered by some. 
 
 Among the different houses in the country at which he had 
 become intimate was that of the Countess of Desmond. The 
 Countess of Desmond did not receive much company at Desmond 
 Court. She had not the means, nor perhaps the will, to fill the 
 huge old house with parties of her Irish neighbours — for she 
 herself was English to the backbone. Ladies of course made 
 morning calls, and gentlemen too, occasionally ; but society at 
 Desmond Court was for some years pretty much confined to this 
 cold formal mode of visiting. Owen Fitzgerald, however, did 
 obtain admittance into the precincts oi the Desmond barracks. 
 
 He went there first with the young earl, who, then quite a boy, 
 had had an ugly tumble from his pony in the hunting-field. 
 The countess had expressed herself as very grateful for young 
 Fitzgerald's care, and thus an intimacy had sprung up. Owen 
 had gone there once or twice to see the lad, and on those occa- 
 sions had dined there ; and on one occasion; at the yoiing earl's 
 urgent request, had stayed and slept. 
 
 And then the good-natured people of Muskerry, Duhallow, ani 
 Desmond began, of course, to say that the widow was going t( 
 marry the young man. And why not ? she was still a beautifui 
 woman ; not yet forty by a good deal, said the few who took her 
 p^rt ; or at any rate, not much over, as was admitted by the many 
 who .condemned her. We, who. have been admitted to her 
 secrets, know that she was then in truth only thirty-eight. She 
 
OWEN FITZGERALD. 9 
 
 was beautiful, proud, and clever ; and if it would suit her to 
 marry a handsome young fellow with a good house and an un- 
 embarrassed income of eight htindred a year, why should she not 
 do so ? As for him, would it not be a great thing for him to have 
 a countess for his wife, and an earl for his stepson ? 
 
 What ideas the countess had on this subject we will not just 
 now trouble ourselves to inquire. But as to young Owen Fitz 
 gerald, we may declare at once that no thought of such a 
 wretched alliance ever entered his head. He was sinful in many 
 things, and foolish in many things. But he had not that vile 
 sin, that unmanly folly, which would have made a marriage 
 with a widowed countess eligible in his eyes, merely because 
 she was a countess, and not more than fifteen years his senior. 
 In a matter of love he would as soon have thought of paying his 
 devotions to his far-away cousin, old Miss Barbara Beamish, oi 
 Ballyclahassan, of whom it was said that she had set her cap 
 at every unmarried man that had come into the west riding of 
 the county for the last forty years. No ; it may at any rate be 
 said of Owen Fitzgerald, that he was' not the man to make up 
 to a widowed countess for the sake of the reflected glitter wHoL 
 might fall on him from her coronet. 
 
 But the Countess of Desmond was not the only lady at Desmond 
 Court. I have before said that she had a daughter, the Lady 
 Clara, the heroine of this coming story ; and it may be now right 
 that I should attempt some short description of her : her virtues 
 and faults, her merits and defects. It shall be very short; 
 for let an author describe as he will, he cannot by such course 
 paint the xiharacters of his personages on the minds of hia 
 readers. It is by gradual, earnest eflforts that this must be 
 done — if it be done. Ten, nay, twenty pages of the finest de- 
 scriptive writing that ever fell from the pen of a novelist will 
 not do it. 
 
 Clara Desmond, when young Fitzgerald first saw her, had 
 hardly attained that incipient stage of womanhood which justifies 
 a mother in taking her out into the gaieties of the world. She 
 was then only sixteen ; and had not in her manner and appear- 
 ance so much of the woman as is the case with many girls of 
 that age. Sh6 was shy and diffident in manner, thin and tall 
 in person. If I were to say that she was angular and bony, I 
 should disgust my readers, who, disliking the term, would not 
 stop to consider how many sweetest girls are at that age truly 
 subject to those epithets. Their undeveloped but active limbs 
 are long and fleshless,. the contour of their face is the same, their 
 elbows and shoulders are pointed, their feet and hands seem to 
 possess length without breadth. Birth and breeding have given 
 
10 CASTLE RICHMOND. , 
 
 them the frame of beauty, to which coming years will add thei 
 soft roundness of form, and the rich glory of colour. The plnmp,' 
 rosy girl of fourteen, though she also is very sweet, never rises 
 to such celestial power of feminine grace as she who is angular 
 and bony, whose limbs are long, and whose joints are sharp. 
 
 Such was Clara Desmond at sixteen.. But still, even then, to 
 those who were gifted with the power of seeing, she gave promise 
 of great loveliness. Her eyes were long and large, and wonder- 
 fully clear. -There was a liquid depth in them which enabled 
 the gazer to look down into them as he would into the green, 
 pellucid transparency of still ocean water. And then they said 
 so much — those young eyes of hers : from her mouth in those 
 early years words came but scantily, but from her eyes questions 
 rained quickei^ than any other eyes could answer them. Ques- 
 tions of wonder at what the world contained — of wonder as to 
 what men thought and did ; questions as to the inmost heart, 
 and truth, and purpose of the person questioned. And all this 
 was asked by a glance now and again; by a glance of those 
 long, shy, liquid eyes, which were ever falling on the face of 
 nim she questioned, and then ever as quickly falling from it. 
 
 Her face, as I have said, was long and thin, but it was the 
 longness and thinness of growing youth. The natural lines of it 
 were full of beauty, of pale silent beauty, too proud in itself to 
 boafet itself much before the world, to make itself common among 
 many. Her hair was already long and rich, but was light in 
 olour, much lighter than it grew to be when some fou* or five more 
 years had passed over her head. At the time of which I speak 
 she were it in simple braids brushed back from hejr forehead, 
 not having as yet learned that majestic mode of sweeping it 
 from her face which has in subsequent years so generally pre- 
 vailed. 
 
 And what then of her virtues and her faults— of her merits 
 and defects ? Will it not be better to leave them all to time and 
 the coming -pages ? That she was proud of her birth, proud 
 of being an Irish Desmond, proud even of her poverty, so much 
 I may say of her, even at that early age. In that she was 
 careless of the world's esteem, fond to a fault of romance, poetic 
 in her temperament, and tender in her heart, she shared the ordi 
 nary — shall I say foibles or virtues? — of so many of her sex. 
 She was passionately fond of her brother, but not nearly equally 
 so of her mother, of whom the brother was too evidently the 
 favoured child. 
 
 She had lived much alone ; alone, that is^ with her governess, 
 and with servants at Desmond Court. l5'ot that she had been 
 neglected by hej- mother, but she had hardly found herself to be 
 
OWEN FITZGEKALD. 11 
 
 her motner's companion ; and'ot^er companions there she ]iad had 
 none. When she was sixteen her governess was still with her : 
 but a year later than that she was left quite alone, except inas- 
 much as she w as with her mother. 
 
 She was sixteen when she first began to ask questions of 
 Owen Fitzgerald's face with those large eyes of hers ; and she 
 saw much of him, and he of her, for the twelve months immedi- 
 ately after that. Much of him, that is, as much goes in this 
 country of ours, where four or five interviews in as many months 
 between friends is supposed to signify that they are often to- 
 gether. But this much-seeing occurred chiefly during the young 
 earl's holidays. Now and again he did ride over in the long 
 intervals, and when he did do so was not frowned upon by the 
 countess ; and so, at the end of the winter holidays subsequent 
 to that former winter in which the earl had had his tumble, people 
 through the county began to say that he and the countess were 
 about to become man and wife. 
 
 It was just then that people in the county were also beginning 
 to talk of the Hap House orgies ; and the double scandal reached 
 Owen's ears, one shortly after the other. That orgies scandal 
 did not hurt him much. It is, alas ! too true that consciousness 
 of such a reputation does not often hurt a young man's feelings. 
 But the other rumour did wound him. What ! he sell himself to 
 a widowed countess almost old enough to be his mother ; or bestow 
 himself rather, — for what was there in return that could be 
 reckoned as a price ? At any rate, he had given no one cause to 
 utter such falsehood, such calumny as that. No ; it certainly 
 was not probable that he should marry the countess. 
 
 But this set him to ask himself whether it might or might not 
 be possible that he should marry some one else. Might it not be 
 well for him if he could find a younger bride at Desmond Court ? 
 Not for nothing had he ridden over there through those bleak 
 mountains; not for nothing, nor yet solely with the view of 
 tying flies for the young earl's summer fishing, or preparing 
 the new nag for his winter's hunting. Those large bright eyes 
 had asked him many questions. Would it not be well that he 
 should answer them ? 
 
 For many months of that year Clara Desmond had hardly 
 spoken to him. Then, in the summer evening, as he and her 
 brother would lie sprawling together on the banks of the little 
 Desmond river, -whUe the lad was talking of his fish, and his 
 school, and his cricket club, she wordd stand by and listen, 
 md so gradually she learned to speak. 
 
 And the motitier also would sometimes be there ; or else she 
 urould welcome Fitzgerald in to tea, and let him stay there 
 
12 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 talking as though they were all at home, till he would have to 
 make a midnight ride of it before ho reached Hap House. It 
 seemed that ixo fear as to her daughter had ever crossed the 
 mother's miud ; that no idea had ever come upon her that her 
 favoured visitor might learn to love the young girl with whom 
 he was allowed to associate oh so intimate a footing. Once 
 or twice he had caught himself calling her Clara, and hae" 
 done so even before her mother ; hut no notice had been taker, 
 of it. In truth, Lady Desmond did not know her daughter, 
 for the mother took her absolutely to be a child, when in 
 fact she was a chUd no longer. . 
 
 'You take Clai-a round by the bridge,' said the earl to his 
 friend one August evening, as they were standing together 
 t>n the banks of the river, about a quarter of a -mile distant 
 from the sombre old pile in which the, family lived. '^ ' You 
 take Clara round by the bridge, and I will get over the 
 stepping-stones.' And so the lad, with his rod in his hand, 
 -began to descend the steep bank. 
 
 ' I can get over the stepping-stones, too, Patrick,' said she. 
 
 ' Can you though, my gay young woman ? You'll be over 
 your ankles if you do. That rain didn't come down yesterday 
 for nothing.' 
 
 Clara as she spoke had come up to the bank, and now looked 
 wistfully down at the stepping-stones. She had crossed them 
 scores of times, sometimes with her brother, and often by her- 
 self. Why was it that she was so anxious to cross them now ? 
 
 ' It's no use your trying,' said her brother, who was now half 
 across, and who spoke from the middle of the river. ' Don't 
 you let her, Owen. She'll slip in, and then there will be 
 no end of a row up at the house.' 
 
 ' You had better come round by the bridge,' said Fitzgerald. 
 ' It is not only that the stones are nearly under water, but 
 they are wet, and you would slip.' 
 
 So cautioned, Lady Clara allowed herself to be persuaded, and 
 -turned upwards along the river by a little path that led to a foot 
 bridge. It was some quarter of a mile thither, and it would be the 
 same distance down the river again before she regained her brother. 
 
 ' I needn't bring you with me, you know,' she said to Fitz- 
 gerald. ' You can get over the stones easily, and I can go very 
 well by myself.' 
 
 But it was not probable that he would let her do so. ' "Why 
 should I not go with you?' he said. 'When I get there I 
 have nothing to do but see him fish. Only if we were to 
 leave him by himself he would not be happy.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, how very kind you are to him ! I do 
 
OWEN FITZGERALD. 13 
 
 SO often thiak of it. How dull Ids holidays would be in this place 
 if it were not for yon !' 
 
 ' And what a godsend his holidays are to me !' said Owen. 
 ' When they come round I can ride over here and see him, and 
 you — and your mother. Do you think that I am not dull also, 
 liviag alone at Hap House, and that this is not an infinite 
 blessing to me ?' 
 
 He had named them all^son, daughter, and mother; but 
 there had been a something in his voice, an almost inappreci- 
 able something in his tone, which had seemed to mark to 
 Clara's hearing that she herself was not the least prized of the 
 three attractions. She had felt this rather than realized it, 
 and the feeling was not impleasant. 
 
 ' I only know that you are very goodnatured,' she con- 
 tinued, ' and that Patrick is very fond of you. Sometimes 
 I think he almost takes you for a brother.' And then a 
 sudden thought flashed across her mind, and she said hardly 
 a word more to him that evening. 
 
 This had been at the close of the summer holidays. . Aftei 
 that he had been once or twice at Desmond Court, before th( 
 return of the boy from Eton ; but on these occasions he had 
 been more with the countess than with her daughter. On the 
 last of these visits, just before the holidays commenced, he 
 had gone over respecting a hunter he had bought for Lord 
 Desmond, and on this occasion he did not even see Claa-a. 
 
 The countess, when she had thanked him for his trouble in 
 the matter of the purchase, hesitated a moment, and then went 
 on to speak of other matters. 
 
 ' I understand, Mr. Fitzgerald,' said she, ' that you have 
 been very gay at Hap House since the hunting commenced.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know,' said Owen, half laughing and half 
 blushing. ' It's a convenient place for some of the men, and 
 one must be sociable.' 
 
 'Sociable! yes, one ought to be sociable certainly. But I 
 am always afraid of the sociability of young men without ladies. 
 Do not be angry with me if I venture as a friend to ask you 
 not to be too sociable.' 
 
 ' I know what you mean, Lady Desmond. People have been 
 accusing us of — of being rakes. Isn't that it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald, that is it. But then; I know that I 
 have no right to speak to you on such a — such a subject.' 
 
 'Yes, yes; you have every right,' said he, warmly; 'more 
 right than any one else.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; Sir Thomas, you know — ' 
 
 ' Well, yes, Sii Thomas. Sir Thomas is very well, and so 
 
14 CABTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 also is Lady Fitzgerald ; but 1 do not feel the same interest 
 about them that I do about you. And they are such hum- 
 drum, quiet-going people. As for Herbert, I'm afraid he'll , 
 turn out a prig.' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you give me the right I shall 
 use it.' And getting up from her chair, and coming to him 
 where he stood, she looked kindly into his face. It was i a 
 bonny, handsome face for a woman to gaze on, and there was 
 much kindness in hers as she smiled on him. Nay, there was 
 almost more than kindness, he thought, as he caught her eye. 
 It was like,— almost like the sweetness of motherly loYe. 
 ' And I shall scold you,' she continued. ' People say that for 
 two or three nights running men have been playing cards at 
 Hap House till morning.' 
 
 ' Yes, I had some men there for a week. I could not take 
 their candles away, and put them to bed ; could I, Lady 
 Desmond ?' 
 
 ' And there were late suppers, and drinking of toasts, and 
 headaches in the morning, and breakfast at three o'clock, and 
 gentlemen with very pale faces when they appeared rather late 
 at the meet — eh, Mr. Fitzgerald ?' And she held up one 
 finger at him, as she upbraided him with a smile. The smile 
 was so sweet, so unlike her usual look ; that, to tell the truth, 
 was often too sad and careworn for her age. 
 
 ' Such things do happen. Lady Desmond.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ; thBy do happen. And with such a one as you, 
 heaven knows I do not begrudge the pleasure, if it were but 
 now and then, — once again and then done with. But you are 
 too bright and too good for such things to continuef And she 
 took , his hand and pressed it, as . a mother or a mother's dearest 
 friend might have done. ' It would so grieve me to think that 
 you should be even in danger of shipwreck. 
 
 ' You will not be angry with me for taking this liberty ?' 
 she continued. 
 
 ' Angry ! how could any man be angry for such kindness ?' 
 
 ' And you will think of what I say. I would not have you 
 unsociable, or morose, or inhospi^table ; but ' 
 
 ' I understand, Lady Desmond ; but when young men are 
 together, one cannot always control them.' 
 
 > 'But you will try. Say that you will try because I have 
 asked you.' 
 
 He promised that he would, and then went his way, proud in 
 tis heart at this solicitude. And how could he not be proud ? 
 was she not high in rank, proud in character, beautiful withal, 
 and the mother of Clara Desmond ? What sweeter friend could a 
 
^ OWEN FITZGEBALD. 15 
 
 man have ; what counsellor more potent to avert those dangers 
 which now hovered roimd Ms head ? • 
 
 And as he rode home he was half in love with the countess. 
 Where is the young man who has not in his early years been 
 half in, love with some woman older, much older than himself, 
 who has half conquered his heart by her solicitude for his wel- 
 fare ? — with some woman who has whispered to him while others 
 were talking, who has told him in such gentle, loving tones of 
 his boyish follies, whose tenderness and experience together 
 have educated him and made him manly? Young men are so 
 proud, proud in their inmost hearts, of such tenderness apd 
 solicitude, as long as it remains secret an^ wrapt as it were 
 in a certain mystery. Such liaisons have the interests of intrigue 
 without — I was goiag to say without its dangers. Alas ! it may 
 be that it is not always so. , < 
 
 Owen Fitzgerald as he rode home was half in love with the 
 countess. Not that his love was of a kind which made him in 
 any way desirous of marrying her, or of kneeling at her feet 
 and devoting himself to her for ever; not that it in any way 
 interfered with the other love which he was beginning to feel' 
 for her daughter. But he thought with pleasure of the tone oi 
 her voice, of the pressure of her hand, of the tenderness which 
 he had found in- her eye. 
 
 It was after that time, as will be understood, that sorde good- 
 natured friend had told him that he was regarded in the county 
 as the future husband of Lady Desmond. At first he laughed 
 at this as being — as he himself said to himself — too good a joke, 
 When the report first reached him, it seemed to be a joke 
 which he could share so pleasantly with the countess. For 
 men of three-and-twenty, though they are so fond of the society 
 of women older than themselves, understand so little the hearts 
 and feelings of such women. In his ideas there was an interval 
 as of another generation between him and the countess. In her 
 thoughts the interval was probably much less striking. 
 
 But the accusation was made to him again and again till it 
 wounded him, and he gave up that notion of a mutual joke with 
 his kind friend at Desmond Court. It did not occur to him that 
 she could ever think of loving him as her lord and master ; but 
 it was brought home to him that other people thought so. 
 
 A year had now passed by since those winter holidays in 
 which Clara Desmond had been sixteen, and during which she 
 was described by epithets which will not, I fear, have pleased 
 my readers. Those epithets were now somewhat less deserved, 
 but still the necessity of them had not entirely passed away. 
 Her limbs were still thin and long, and her shoulders pointed 
 
16 CASTLE EIOHMOND. '^> 
 
 but the growth of beauty had commenced, and in Owen's eyoB 
 she was already very lovely. 
 
 At Christmas-tune, during that winter a hall was given at, 
 - Castle Eichmond, to celebrate the coming of age of the young- 
 heir. It was not a very gay affair, for the Castle Eichmond 
 folk, even in those days, were not very gay people. Sir Thomas, 
 though only fifty, was an old man for his age; and Lady Fitz- 
 ' gerald, though known intimately by the poor all round her, was 
 not known intimately by any but the poor. Mary and Emme- 
 line Fitzgerald, with whom we shall become better acquainted 
 as we advance in our story, were nice, good girls, and handsome 
 withal ; but they had not that special gift which enables some 
 girls to make a party in their own house bright in spite of all 
 obstacles. 
 
 We should have hut little to do with this ball, were it not that 
 Clara Desmond was here first brought out, as the term goes. 
 It was the first large party to which she had been taken, and 
 it was to her a matter of much wonder and inquiry with those 
 wondering, speaking eyes. 
 
 And Owen Fitzgerald was there ; — as a matter of course, the 
 reader will say. By no means so. Previous to that ball Owen's 
 sins had been commented upon at Castle Eichmond, and Sir Thomas 
 had expostulated with him. These expostulations had not been 
 received quite so graciously as those of the handsome countess, 
 and there had been anger at Castle Eichmond. 
 
 Now there was living in the house of Castle Eichmond one 
 Miss Letty Fitzgerald, a maiden sister of the taronet's, older 
 than her brother by full ten years. In her character there was 
 more of energy, and also much more of harsh judgment, and of 
 consequent ill-nature, than in that of her hrother. When the 
 letters of invitation were being sent out by the two girls, she had 
 given a decided opinion that, the reprobate should not be asked. 
 But the reprobate's cousins, with that partiality for a rake which, 
 is so common to young ladies, would not ahide by their aunt's 
 command-, and referred the matter both to mamma and papa. 
 Mamma thought it very hard that their own cousin should be 
 refused admittance to their house, and very dreadful that his 
 sins should be considered to he of so deep a dye as to require so 
 severe a sentence ; and then papa, much balancing the matter, 
 gave final orders that the prodigal cousin should be admitted. 
 
 'He was admitted, and dangerously he- used the privilege. The 
 countess, who was there, stood up to dance twice, and twice 
 only. ' She opened the ball with young Herbert Fitzgerald the 
 heir ; and in about an hour afterwards she daneed again with 
 Owen. He did not ask ber twice ; '\mt be asked her daughter 
 
OWEN FITZGERALD. 17 
 
 throe or four times, and three or four times lie asked her succea 
 lully. 
 
 ' Clara,' whispered the mother to her child, after the last ol 
 these occasions, giving some little pull or twist to her girl's 
 frock as she did so, ' you had better not dance with Owen Fitz- 
 gerald again to-night. People will remark about it.' 
 
 ' Will they ?' said Clara, and immediately sat down, checked in 
 her young happiness. 
 
 Not many minutes afterwards, Owen came up to her again. 
 ' May we have another waltz together, I wonder ?' he said. 
 
 ' Not to-night, I think. I am rather tired already.'' And so 
 she did not waltz again all the evening, for fear she should offend 
 him. 
 
 But the countess, though she had thus interdicted her daughter's 
 dancing vnih the master of Hap House, had not done so through 
 any absolute fear. To -her, her girl was still a child; a child 
 without a woman's thoughts, or any of a woman's charms. And 
 then it was so natural that Clara should like to dance with 
 almost the only gentleman who was not absolutely a stranger 
 to her. Lady Desmond had been actuated rather by a feeling 
 that it would be well that Clara should begin to know other 
 persons. 
 
 By that feeling, — ^nd perhaps unconsciously by another, that 
 it would be well that Owen Fitzgerald should be relieved from 
 his attendance on the child, and enabled to give it to the mother. 
 Whether Lady Desmond had at that time realized any ideas as to^ 
 her own interest in this young man, it was at any rate true that 
 she loved to have him near her. She had refused to dance a 
 second time with Herbert Fit ^erald ; she had refused to stand 
 up with any other person wl had asked her ; but with Owen 
 she would either have danceii again, or have kept him by iiei 
 side, while she explained to him with flattering frankness that 
 she could not do so lest others should be offended. 
 
 And Owen was with her frequently through the evening. 
 She was taken to and from supper by Sir Thomas, but any 
 other takings that were incurred were done by him. He led her 
 from one drawing-room to another ; he took her empty coffee- 
 cup ; he' stood behind her chair, and talked to her ; and he 
 brought her the scarf which she had left elsewhere ; and finally, 
 he put a shawl round her neck while old Sir Thomas was wait- 
 ing to hand her to her caniage. Eeader, good-natured, middle- 
 aged reader, remember that she was only thirty-eight, and that 
 . hitherto she had known nothing of the delights of love. By 
 the young, any such hallucination on her part, at her years, will 
 * be regarded as lunacy, or at least frenzy. 
 
IS CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 Owen Fitzgerald drove home from that ball in a state of mind 
 that was hardly satisfactory. In the first place, Miss Letty 
 had jnade , a direct attack upon his morals, which he had not 
 answered in the most courteous manner. 
 
 " I have heard a great deal of your doings. Master Owen,' she 
 said to him. ' A fine house you're keeping.' 
 
 ' Why don't you come and join us, Aunt Letty f he replied. 
 ' It would be just the thing for you.' 
 
 'God forbid!' said the old maid, turning up her eyes to 
 heaven. 
 
 ' Oh, you might do worse, you know. With us you'd only 
 drink and play cards, and perhaps hear a little strong language 
 now and again. But what's that to slander, and calumny, and 
 bearing false witness^ against one's neighbour ?'" and so saying he 
 ended that interview — not in a manner to ingratiate himself 
 with his relative. Miss Letty Fitzgerald. 
 
 After that, in the supper-room, more than one wag of a fellow 
 had congratulated him on his success with the widow. ' She's 
 got some sort of a jointure, I suppose,' said one. 'She's very 
 young-looking, certainly, to be the mother of that girl,' declared 
 another. ' Upon my word, she's a handsome woman still,' said 
 ,a third. ' And what title wiQ you get when you marry her, 
 Fitz?' asked a fourth, who was rather ignorant as to' the phases 
 I under which the British peerage develops itself. 
 
 Fitzgerald pshawed, and pished, and poohed ; and then, break- 
 ing away from them, rode home. He felt that he must at any 
 rate put an end to this annoyance about the countess, and that 
 he must put an end also to his state of doubt about the countess's 
 daughter. Clara had been kind and gracious to him in the first' 
 part of the evening ; nay, almost more than gracious. V^'hj had 
 she been so cold when he went up to her on that last occasion ? 
 why had she gathered herself like a snaifiato its shell for the' 
 rest of the evening ? 
 
 The young earl had also been at the party, and had exacted 
 a promise from Owen that he would be over at Desmond Court 
 on the next day. It had almost been on Owen's lips to tell his 
 friend, not only that he would be there, but what would be his 
 intention when he got there. He knew that the lad loved him 
 well ; and almost fancied that, earl as he was, he would favour 
 his friend's suit. But a feeling that Lord Desmond was only a 
 boy, restrained him. It would not be well to induce one so 
 young to agree to an arrangement of which in after and mora 
 mature years he would so probably disapprove. 
 
 But not the less did Fitzgerald, as he drove home, deteimine 
 that on the next day he would know something of his fate : and 
 
CLAEA DESMOND. If) 
 
 with, this resolve he endeavoured to comfort himself as he drove 
 up into his own avenue, and betook himself to his own solitary 
 home. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 CLARA DESMOND. 
 
 It had been Clam Desmond's first ball, and on the following 
 morning she had much to occupy her thoughts. In the first 
 place, had she been pleased or had she not? Had she been 
 most gratified or most pained ? 
 
 Girls when they ask themselves such questions seldom give 
 themselves fair answers. She had liked dancing- with Owen 
 Fitzgerald ; oh, so much ! She had liked dancing wiih others 
 too, though she had not known them, and had hardly spoken to 
 them. The mere act of dancing, with the loud music in the 
 room, and the gay dresses and bright lights around her, had been 
 delightful. But then it had pained her — she knew not why, but 
 it had pained her — when her mother told her that people would 
 make remarks about her. Had she done anything improper on 
 this her first entry into the world? "Was her conduct to be 
 scanned, and judged, and condemned, while she was flattering 
 herself that no one had noticed her but him who was speaking 
 to her? 
 
 Their breakfast was late, and the coimtess sat, as was her 
 wont, with her book beside her teacup, speaking a word every 
 now and again to her son. 
 
 ' Owen will be over here to-day,' said he. ' We are going to 
 have a schooling match down on the Callows.' Now in Ireland" 
 a schooling match means the amusement of teaching your horses '- 
 to jump. / 
 
 ' Will he ?' said Lady Desmond, looking up from her book for 
 a moment. ' Mind you bring him ia to lunch ; I want to speak 
 to him.' 
 
 ' He doesn't care much about lunch, I fancy,' said he; ' and/ 
 maybe, we shall be half way to Millstreet by that time.' / 
 
 ' Never mind, but do as I tell you. You expect everybody to 
 be as wild and wayward as yourself.' And the countess smiled 
 on her son in a manner which showed that she was proud oven 
 of his wildness and his waywardness. 
 
 Clara had felt that she blushed when she heard that Mr. Fitz- 
 gerald was to be there that morning. She felt that her own 
 manner became constrained, and was afraid that her mother 
 should look at her. Owen had said nothing to her about love ; 
 
20 CASTLE BICHMOND. 
 
 and she, child as she was, had thought nothing about love. Btii 
 she was conscious of somethii^g, she knew not what. He had 
 touched her hand during those dances as it had never^ been 
 touched before; he had looked into her eyes, and her eyes had 
 fallen before his glance ; be had pressed her waist, and she had 
 felt that there was tenderness in the pressure. So she blushed, 
 and almost trembled, when she heard that he was coming,_ and 
 was glad in her heart when she found that there was neither 
 anger nor sunshine in her mother's face. 
 
 Not long after breakfast, the earl went out on his horse, and 
 met Owen at some gate or back entrance. In his opinion the old 
 house was stupid, and the women in it were stupid companions 
 in the morning. His heart for the moment was engaged on the 
 thought of making his animal take the most impracticable leaps 
 which he could find, and it did not occur to him at first to give 
 his mother's message to his companion. As for lunch, they would 
 get a biscuit and glass of cherry-brandy at Wat M'Carthy's, of 
 Drumban ; and as for his mother having anything to say, that of 
 course went for nothing. 
 
 Owen would have been glad to have gone up to the house, but 
 in that he was frustrated by the earl's sharpness in catching him. 
 Hi-s next hope was to get through the promised lesson in horse- 
 leaping as quickly as possible, so that he might return to Des- 
 mond Court, and take his chance of meeting Clara. But in this 
 he found the earl very difficult to manage. 
 
 ' Oh, Owen, we won't go there,' he said, when Fitzgerald pro- 
 posed a canter through some meadows down by the river-side. 
 ' There are only a few gripes ' — Irish for small ditches — ' and I 
 have ridden Fireball over them a score of times. I want you to 
 come away towards Drumban.' 
 
 ' Drumban ! why Drumban's seven miles fi'om here.' 
 
 ' What matter? Besides, it's not six the way I'll take you. I 
 want to see Wat M'Carthy especially. He has a litter of puppies- 
 there, out of that black bitch of his, and I mean to make him 
 give me one of them.' 
 
 But on that morning, Owen Fitzgerald would not allow him- 
 self to be taken so far a-field as Drumban, even on a mission so 
 important as this. The young lord fought the matter stoutly ; 
 but it ended by his being forced to content himself with picking 
 out all the most dangerous parts of the fences in the river 
 meadows. * 
 
 ' Why, you've hardly tried your own mare at all,' said the lad 
 reproachfully. 
 
 'I'm going to hunt her on Satiirday,' said Owen; 'and she'U 
 have c^uite enough to do then.' 
 
OLAEA DESMOND. 21 
 
 •Well, you're very slow to-day. You're done up witli the 
 dancing, I think. Aid what do you mean to do now ?' 
 
 ' I'll go home with you, I think, and pay my respects to the 
 countess.' 
 
 ' By-the-by, I was to hring you in to lunch. She said she 
 wanted to see you. By jingo, I forgot all about it ! But you've 
 all become very stupid among you, I know that.' And so they 
 rode back to Desmond Court, entering the demesne by one of 
 the straight, dull, level roads which led up to the house. 
 
 But it did not suit the earl to ride on the road while the grass 
 was so near him ; so they turned off with a curve across what 
 was called the park, thus prolonging their return by about double 
 the necessary distance. 
 
 As they were cantering on, Owen saw her of whom he was in 
 quest walking in the road which they had left. His best chance 
 of seeing her alone had been that of finding her outside the house. 
 He knew that the countess rarely or never walked with her 
 daughter, and that, as the governess was gone, Clara was driven 
 to walk by herself.^ 
 
 ' Desmond,' he said, pulling up his horse, ' do you go on and 
 tell your mother that I will be with her almost immediately.' 
 
 ' Why, where are you oif to now ?' 
 
 ' There is joxir sister, and I must ask her how she is after the 
 ball;' and so saying he trotted back in the direction of the road. 
 
 Lady Clara had seen them; and though she had hardly turned 
 her head, she had seen also how suddenly Mr. Fitzgerald had 
 stopped his horse, and turned his course when he perceived her. 
 At the first moment she had been almost angry with him for 
 riding away from her, and now she felt almost angry with him 
 because he did not do so. 
 
 He slackened his pace as he came near her, and approached 
 her at a walk. There was very little of the faint heart about 
 Owe'i Fitzgerald at any time, or in anything that he atterapted. 
 He had now made up his mind fairly to tell Clara Desmond that 
 he loved her, and to ask for her love in return. He had resolved 
 to do so, and there was very little doubt but that he would carry 
 out his resolution. But he had in nowise made up his mind 
 how he should do it, or what his words should be.''; And now 
 that he saw her so near him he wanted a moment to collect his 
 thoughts. 
 
 He took off his hat as he rode up, and asked her whether she' 
 was tired after the ball-; and then dismounting, he left his mare 
 ;o follow as she pleased. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, won't she run away ?' said Clara, as slie 
 ;ave him her band. 
 
22 CASTLE RiCHMOND. 
 
 ' Oh, lio ; she has heen taught better than that. Bnt you ddii'i 
 tell me how you are. I thought you were tired last night whisii 
 I saw that you had altogether giYen over dancing.' And then 
 he walked' on beside her, and the docile mare followed them like 
 a dog. 
 
 ' ' No, I was not tired ; at least, not exactly,' said Clara, blush- 
 ing again and again, being conscious that she blushed. ' But-— 
 but — yoii know it was the first ball I was ever at.' 
 
 'That is just lie reason why you should have enjoyed it the 
 more, instead of sitting down as you did, and being dull and un- 
 happy. For I know you were unhappy ; I could see it.' 
 
 ' Was I ?' said Clara, not knowing what else to say. 
 
 ' Yes ; and I'll tell you what. I could see more than that ; it 
 was I that made you tmhappy.' 
 
 ' You, Mr. Fitzgerald !' 
 
 ' Yes, I. You will not deny it, because you are so true. 1 
 asked you to dance with me too often. And because you refused 
 me, you did not like to dance with any one else. I saw it all. 
 Will you deny that it was so ?' ^ 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald !' Poor girl ! She did not know what to 
 say ; how to shape her speech into indifference ; how to assure 
 him that he made himself out to be of too much consequence by 
 far ; how to make it plain that she had not danced because there 
 was no one there worth dancing with. Had she been out for a 
 year or two, instead of being such a novice, she would have 
 accomplished all this in half a dozen words. As it was, her tell-tale 
 face confessed it all, and she was only able to ejaculate, ' Oh, Mr. 
 Fitzgerald!' 
 
 ' When I went there last night,' he continued, ' 1 had only one 
 wish — one hope. That was, to see you pleased and happy. 1 
 knew it was your first ball, and I did so long to see you enjoy it.' 
 
 ' And so I did, till ' 
 
 ' Till what ? Will you not let me ask ?' 
 
 ' Mamma said something to me, and that stopped me from 
 dancing.' 
 
 ' She told you not to dance with me. Was that it ?' 
 
 How was it possible that she should have Lad a chance with 
 him ; innocent, young, and ignorant as she was ? She did not 
 '.all him in words that so it had been ; but she looked into his 
 face with a glance of doubt and pain that answered his question 
 as plainly as any words could have done. 
 
 ' Of course she did ; and it was I that destroyed it all, .1 that 
 should have been satisfied to stand still and see you happy. How 
 you must have hated me ! ' ' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; indeed I did not. 1 was not at all angry with you. 4 
 
CLARA DESMOND. 23 
 
 Indeed, why snould I have been?~ It was so kind of yon 
 wishing to dance with me.' 
 
 ' No ; it was selfish — selfish in the extreme. Nothing but one 
 thing could excuse me, and that excuse •' 
 
 ' I'm sure you don't want any excuse, Mr. Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' And that excuse, Clara, was this : that I love you with aU my 
 heart. I had not strength to see you there, and not long to have 
 you near me— not begrudge that you should dance with another. 
 I love you with aU. my heart and soul. There, Lady Clara, now 
 you know it all.' 
 
 The manner in which he made his declaration to her wa,s 
 almost fierce in its energy. He had stopped in the pathway, and 
 she, unconscious of what she was doing, almost unconscious of 
 what she was hearing, had stopped also. The mare, taking ad- 
 vantage of the occasion, was cropping the grass close to them. 
 And so, for a few seconds, they stood in silence. 
 
 ' Am I so bold, Lady Clara,' said he, when those few seconds 
 liad gone by — ' Am I so bold that I may hope for no answer ?' 
 But still she said nothing. In lieu of speaking she uttered a long 
 sigh ; and then Fitzgerald could hear that she was sobbing. 
 
 ' Oh, Clara, I love you so fondly, so dearly; so truly!' said I13 
 h an altered voice and with sweet tenderness. ' I know my oT\'n 
 sresumption in thus speaking. I know and feel bitterly the 
 iifi'erence in our rank.' 
 
 'I — care — nothing — for rank,' said the poor girl, sobbiuL; 
 ;hrough her tears. He was generous, and she at any rate would 
 lot be less so'. No ; at that moment, with her scanty seventeen 
 ^■ears of experience, with her ignorance of all that the world had 
 n it of grand and great, of high and rich, she did care nothing 
 or rank. That Owen Fitzgerald was a gentleman of good linb- 
 ige, fit to mate with a lady, that she did know ; for her mother, 
 vho was a proud woman, delighted to have him in her presence. 
 Beyond this she cared for none of the conventionalities of life. 
 lank ! If she waited for rank, where was she to look for friends 
 vho would love her ? Earls and countesses, barons and their 
 )aronesses, were scarce there where fate had placed her, under 
 he shadow of the bleak mountains of Muskerry. Her want, her 
 mdefined want, was that some one should love her. Of all men 
 nd women whom she had hitherto known, this Owen Fitzgerald , 
 ras the brightest, the kindest, the gentlest in his manner, the 
 lost pleasant to look on. And now he was there at her feet, 
 wearing that he loved her ; — ^and then drawing back as it were 
 a dread of her rank. What did she care for rank ? 
 ' Clara, Clara, my Clara ! Can you learn to love me ?' 
 SLe had made her one little effort at speaking when she at- 
 
24 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 tempted to repudiate the pedestal on which he affected to place 
 her ; but after that she could for a while say no more. But she 
 still sobbed, and still kept her eyes fixed upon the ground. 
 
 ' Clara, say one word to me. Say that you do not hate me. 
 Butjust at that moment she had not one word to say. 
 
 ~ ' If you will bid me do so, I will leave this country altogether, 
 I win go away, and I shall not much care whither. I can onlj 
 sf-ay now on condition of your loving me. I have thought of this 
 day for the last year past, and now it has come.' 
 
 Every word that he now spoke was gospel to her. Is it not 
 always so, — should it not be so always, when love first speaks to 
 loving ears ? What ! he had loved her for that whole twelve- 
 month that she had known him ; loved her in those days when 
 she had been wont to look up into his face, wondering why he 
 was so nice, so much nicer than any one else that came near her ! 
 A year was a great deal to her ; and had he loved her through 
 ' all those days ? and after that should she banish him from her 
 house, turn him away from his home, and drive him forth un- 
 happy and wretched ? Ah, no ! She could not be so unkind to 
 him ; — she could not be so unkind to her own heart. But still 
 she sobbed ; and still she said nothing. 
 
 In the mean time they had turned, and were now walking back 
 towards the house, the gentle-natured mare still following at their 
 heels. They were walking slowly — very slowly back — ^jiist 
 creeping along the path, when they saw Lady Desmond and her 
 son coming to meet them on the road. 
 
 ■'There is your mother, Clara. Say one word to me before we 
 meet them.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald ; I am so frightened. What will mamma 
 nay?' 
 
 ' Say about what ? As yet I do not know what she may have 
 to say. But before we meet her, may I not hope to know what 
 her daughter will say? Answer me this, Clara. Can you, will 
 you love me ?' 
 
 There was still a pause, a moment's pause, and then some 
 fiound did fall from her Hps. But yet it was so soft, so gentle>;' 
 so slight, that it could hardly be said to reach even a lover's ear.< 
 Fitzgerald, however, made the most of it. Whether it were Yes," 
 or whether it were No, he took it as being favourable, and 
 Lady Clara Desmond gave him no sign to show that he was 
 • mistaken. 
 
 ' My own, own, only loved one,' he said, embracing her as it 
 were with his words, since the presence of her approaching mother 
 forbade him even to take her hand in his, ' I am happy now, 
 whatever may occur ; whatever others ma> eav ; for I know that 
 
CLA.EA DESMOND. ^ 25 
 
 you will be true to me. And remember this — whatever othera ; 
 may say, 1 also will be true to you. You will think of that, wiU j 
 you not, love ?' 
 
 This time she did answer him, almost audibly. ' Yes,' she 
 said. And then she devoted herself to a vain endeavour to 
 remove the traces of her tears before her mother should be close 
 to them. 
 
 Fitzgerald at once saw that such endeavour must be vain. At 
 one time he had thought of turning away, and pretending that 
 they had not seen the countess. But he knew that Clara would 
 not be able to carry out any such pretence ; and he reflected also 
 that it might be just as well that Lady Desmond should know 
 the whole at once. , That she would know it, and know it soon, 
 he was quite sure. She could learn it not only from Clara, but 
 from himself. He could not now be there at the house without 
 showing that he both loved and knew that he was beloved. And 
 then why should Lady Desmond not know it ? Why should he 
 think that she would set herself against the match? He had 
 certainly spoken to Clara of the difference in their rank; but, 
 after all, it was no uncommon thing for an earl's daughter to 
 marry a commoner. And in this case the earl's daughter was 
 portionless, and the lover desired no portion. Owen Fitzgerald 
 at any rate might boast that he was true and generous in his 
 love. 
 
 So he plucked up his cotirage, and walked on with a smiling 
 face to meet Lady Desmond and her son ; while poor Clara 
 crept beside him with eyes downcast, and' in an agony of terror. > 
 
 Lady Desmond had not left the house with any apprehen- 
 sion that there was aught amiss. Her sou hacf. told her that 
 Owen had gone off ' to do the civil to Clara;' and as he did not 
 come to the house within some twenty minutes after this, she 
 had proposed that they would go and meet him. 
 
 ' Did you tell him that I wanted him ?' said the countess. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, I did ; and he is coming, only he would go away 
 to Clara.' 
 
 ' Then I shall scold him for his want of gallantry,' said Lady 
 Desmond, laughing, as they walked out together from beneath the 
 huge portal. 
 
 But as soon as she was near enough to see the manner of 
 their gait, as they slowly came on towards her, her woman's 
 tact told -her that something was wrong ; — and whispered to her 
 also what might too probably be the nature of that something. 
 Could it be possible, she asked herself, that such a man as Owen 
 Fitzgerald should fall in love with such a girl as her daughtei 
 Clara? 
 
26 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' What shall I say to mamma ?' -whispered Clara to him, a» 
 they all drew near together. 
 
 ' Tell her everything.' 
 
 ' But, Patrick ' 
 
 ' I will take him off with me if I can.' And then they were 
 all together, standing in the road. 
 
 'I was coming to obey your behests, Lady Desmond,' said 
 Fitzgerald, trying to look and speak as though he wereat his ease. 
 
 ' Coming rather tardily, T think,' said her ladj-^slup, not al- 
 together playfully. 
 
 ' I told him you wanted him, as we were crossing to the 
 house,' said the earl. ' Didn't I, Owen ?' 
 
 ' Is anything the matter with Clara ?' said Lady Desmond, 
 looking at her daughter. 
 
 ' No,, mamma,' said Clara ; and she iastantly began to sob and 
 cry. 
 
 ' What is it, sir ?' And as she asked she tume'd to Fitz- 
 gerald ; and her manner now at least had in it nothing playful. 
 
 'Lady Clara is nervous and hysterical. The excitement of 
 the ball has perhaps b-sen too much for her. I think. Lady 
 Desmond, if you were to take her in with you it would be well.' 
 
 Lady Desmond looke i up at him ; and he then saw, for the 
 first time, that she could if she pleased look yery stem. 
 Hitherto her face had always worn smiles, had at any rate always 
 been pleasing when he had seen it. He had never been intimate 
 with her, never intima,te enough to care what her face was like, 
 till that day when he had carried her son up from the hall door 
 to his room. Then her countenance had been all anxiety for 
 her darling ; and afterwards it had been all sweetness for her 
 darling's friend. From that day to this present one. Lady 
 Desmond had ever given him her sweetest smiles. 
 
 But Fitzgerald was not a man to be cowed by any woman's 
 looks. He met hers by a full, front face in return. He did 
 not allow his eye for a moment to fall before hers. Arid yet he 
 did not look at her haughtily, or with defiance, but with an 
 aspect which showed that he was ashamed of nothing that he 
 had done, — whether he had done anything that he ought to be 
 ashamed of or no". 
 
 ' Clara,' said the countess, in a voice which fell with awful 
 severity on the poor girl's ears, ' you had better return to the 
 house with me.' 
 
 ■' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 ' And shall I wait on you to-morrow. Lady Desmond ?' said 
 Fitzgerald, in a tonfe which seemed to the countess to be, in the 
 present state of affairs, almost impertinent. The man had 
 
CLARA DESMOND. 27 
 
 oertaiuly been misbehaving himself'; and yet there was not 
 about him the slightest symptom of shame. 
 
 ' Yes,; no,' said the countess. ' That is, I will write a note 
 to you if it be necessary. Good morning.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Lady Desmond,' said Owen. And as he took ofl 
 his hat with his left hand, he put out his right to shake hands 
 with her, as was customary with him. Lady Desmond was at 
 first inclined to refuse the courtesy ; but she either thought 
 better of such intention, or else she had not courage to maintein 
 it ; for at parting she did give him her hand. 
 
 ' Good-bye, Lady Clara ;' and he also shook hands with her, 
 and it need hardly be said that there' was a lover's pressure in 
 the grasp. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said Clara, through her tears, in the saddest, 
 soberest tone. He was going away, happy, light hearted, with 
 nothing to trouble him. -But she had to encounter that fearful 
 task of telling her own crime. She had to depart with hei 
 mother ; — her mother, who, though never absolutely unkind, 
 had so rarely been tender with her. And then her brother ' 
 
 ' Desmond,' said Fitzgerald, ' walk as far as the lodge with me 
 like a good fellow. I have something that I want to say to you.' 
 
 The mother thought for a moment that she would call her son 
 back ; but then she bethought herself that she also might as 
 well be without him. So the young earl, showing plainly by 
 his eyes that he knew that much was the matter, went back 
 with Fitzgerald towards the lodge. 
 
 ' What is it you have done now ?' said the earl. The boj 
 had some sort of an idea that the offence committed was with 
 reference to his sister ; and his tone was hardly as gracious as 
 was usual with him. 
 
 This want of kindliness at the present moment grated on 
 Owen's ears ; but he resolved at once to tell the whole story out, 
 and then leave it to the earl to take it in dudgeon or in brotherly 
 friendship as he might please. 
 
 ' Desmond,' said he, ' can you not guess what has passed 
 between me and your sister ?'~ 
 
 ' I am not good at guessing,' he answered, brusquely. 
 
 ' I have told her that I loved her, and would have her for my 
 wife ; and I have asked her to love me in return.' 
 
 There was an open manliness about this which almost dis- 
 a,rmed the earl's anger. He had felt a strong attachment to 
 Fitzgerald, and was very unwilling to give up his friendship ; 
 but, nevertheless, he had an idea that it was presumption on 
 the part of Mr. Fitzgerald of Hap House to look up to his sister. 
 Between himself and Owen the earl's coronet never weighed a 
 
28- CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 feather ; Jie could not have abandoned his boy's heart to the 
 mane's fellowship more thoroughly had that man been an eari 
 as well as himself. But he could not get over the feeling that 
 Fitzgerald's worldly position was beneat^ that o-f his sister ;— that 
 such a marriage on his sister's part would be a mesalliance. 
 Doubting, therefore, and in some sort dismayed — and in some 
 sort also angry — he did not at once give any reply. 
 
 'Wen, Desmond, what have you to say to it? You are 
 the head of her family, and young as you are, it is right that 
 I should tell you.' 
 
 ' Toll me ! of course you ought to tell me. I don't see what 
 youngness has to do with it. Vv hat did she say ?' 
 
 ' Well, she said but little ; and a man should never boast 
 that a lady has favoured him. But she did not reject me.' He 
 paused a moment, and then added, ' After all, honesty and truth 
 ace the best. I have reason to think that she loves me.' 
 
 ' The poor young lord felt that he had a double duty, and 
 hardly knew how to perform it. He owed a duty to his sister '• 
 which was paramount to all others ; but then he owed a duty 
 also to the friend who had been so kind to him. He did not 
 know how to turn round upon him and tell him that he was not 
 fit to marry his sister. 
 
 ' And what do you say to it, Desmond ?' 
 
 ' I hardly know what to say. It would be a very bad match 
 for her. You, you know, are a capital fellow ; the best feUbw 
 going. There is^ nobody about anywhere- that I like so much.' , 
 
 ' In thinking of your sister, you should put that out of the ■ 
 question.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that's just it. I like you for a friend better than any 
 one else. But Clara ought — ought — ought ' 
 
 ' Ought to look higher, you would say.' 
 
 ' Yes ; that's just what I mean. I don't want to offend you, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' Desmond, my boy, I like you the better for it. You are a 
 fine fellow, and I thoroughly respect you. But let us talk 
 sensibly about this. Though your sister's rank is high ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't want to talk about rank. That's all bosh, and I 
 don't care about it. But Hap House is a small place, and Clara 
 wouldn't be doing well ; and what's more, I am quite sure the 
 pountess will not hear of it.' 
 
 ' You won't approve then ?' 
 
 ' No, I can't say I will.' 
 
 'Well, that is honest of you. I am very glad that I have tgld 
 you at once. Clara will tell her mother, and at any rate there 
 win be no secrets. Good-bye, old fellow.' 
 
THE COUNTESS. 29 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said tlie earl. Then they shook hands, and Fitz- 
 gerald rode off towards Hap House. Lord Desmond pondered 
 over the matter some time, standing alone near the lodge ; and 
 then walked slowly back towards the mansion. He had said that 
 rank was all bosh ; and in so saying had at the moment spoken 
 out generously the feelings of his heart. But that feeling re- 
 garded himself rather than his sister ; and if properly analyzed 
 'would merely have signified that, though proud enough of his 
 own raok, he did not require that his friends should be of the 
 same standing. But as regarded his sister, he certainly would 
 not be weU pleased to see her marry a small squire with a small 
 income. 
 
 CHAPTBE IV. 
 
 THE COUKTESS. 
 
 The countess, as she walked back with her daughter towards the 
 house, had to bethink herself for a minute or two as to how she 
 should act, and what she would say. She knew, she ielt that she 
 knew, what had occurred. If her daughter's manner had not 
 lold her, the downcast eyes, the repressed sobs, the mingled look 
 of shame and fear; — if she had not read the truth from these, 
 she would have learned it from the tone of Fitzgerald's voice, 
 and the look of triumph which sat upon his countenance. 
 
 And then she wondered that this should be so, seeing that she 
 had still regarded Clara as being in all things a child ; and as 
 she thought further, she wondered at her own fatuity, in that 
 she had allowed herself to be so grossly deceived. 
 
 ' Clara,' said she, ' what is all this ?' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma !' 
 
 ' You had better come on to the house, my dear, and speak to- 
 me there. In the mean time, collect your thoughts, and re- 
 member this, Clara, that you have the honour of a great family 
 to maintain.' i 
 
 Poor Clara ! what had the great family done for her, or how 
 had she been taught to maintain its honour ? She knew that she 
 was an earl's daughter, and that people called her Lady Clara ; 
 whereas other young ladies were only called Miss So-and-So. 
 But she had not been taught to separate herself from the ordinary 
 throng of young ladies by any other distinction. Her great 
 family had done nothing special for her, nor placed before her 
 for example any grandly noble deeds. At that old house at 
 Desmond Court company was scarce, money was scarce, servants 
 •were scarce. She had been confided to the care of a very ordi« 
 
'60 CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 I nary governess j-and if there was about her anything that was 
 7 great or good, it was intrinsically her own, and by no means 
 \| diie to intrinsic- advantages derived from her grand family. Why 
 / should she not give what was so entirely her own to one whom 
 ( she loved, to- one by whom it so pleased her to be loved ? 
 
 And then they entered the house, and Clara followed her 
 ra«ther to the countess's own small up-stairs sitting-room. The 
 daughter did not ordinarily share this room with -her mother, 
 and when she entered it, she seldom did so with pleasurable 
 emotion. At the present moment she had hardly strength to 
 close the door after her. 
 
 ' And now, Clara, what is all this ?' said the countess, sitting 
 down in her accustomed chair. 
 
 ' All which, mamma ?' Can any one blame her in that she so 
 far equivocated ? 
 
 ' Clara, you know very well what I mean. What has there 
 been between you and Mr. Fitzgerald ?' 
 
 The guilt-stricken- wretch sat silent for a while, sustaining the 
 scrutiny of her mother's gaze ; and then falling from her chair 
 on to her knees, she hid her face in her mother's lap, exclaiming, 
 ' Oh, mamma, mamma, do not look at me like that !' 
 
 Lady Desmond's heart was somewhat softened by this appeal ; . 
 nor would I have it thought that she was a cruel woman, or an 
 unnatural mother. It had not been her lot to make an absolute, 
 dearest, heartiest friend of her daughter, as some mothers do ; a 
 friend between whom and herself there should be, nay, could be, 
 no secrets. She could not become young again in sharing the 
 romance of her daughter's love, in enjoying the gai_eties of her 
 daughter's balls, in planning dresses, amusements, and triumphs 
 with her child. Some mothers can do this ; and they, I think, 
 are the mothers who enjoy most fully the delights of maternity. 
 This was not the case with Lady Desmond ; but yet she loved 
 her child, and would have made any reasonable sacrifice for what 
 she regarded as that child's welfare. 
 
 'But, my dear,' she said, in a softened 'tone, 'you must tell me 
 
 ' what has occurred. Do you not know that it is my duty to ask, 
 
 and yours to teU me ? It cannot be right that there should be 
 
 any secret understanding between yourself and Mr. Fitzgerald. 
 
 You know that, Clara, do you not ?' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma,' said Clara, remembering that her lover had 
 bade her tell her mother everything. 
 
 ' Well, my love ?' 
 
 Clara's story was very simple, and did not, in fact, want any 
 telling. It. was mBrely the old well-worn tale, so common 
 through all the world. ' He had laughed on the lass with hia' 
 
THE COUNTESS. 31 
 
 bonny black eye V and she, — slie was ready to go ' to the moun- 
 tain to hear a love-tale !' One may say that an oocuiTence so 
 very common could not want much telling. 
 
 ' Mamma ; he says ' 
 
 ' Well, my dear ?' 
 
 'He says — . Oh, mamma ! 1 could not help it.' 
 
 ' No, Clara ; you certainly could not help what he might say 
 to you. You could not refuse to listen to him. A lady in such 
 a case, when she is on terms of intimacy with a gentleman, as 
 you were with Mr. Fitzgerald, is bound to listen to him, and to 
 give him an answer. You could not help what he might say, 
 Clara. The question now is, what answer did you give to what 
 he said ?' 
 
 Clara, who was still kneeling, looked up piteously into her 
 ■ mother's face, sighed bitterly, but said nothing. 
 
 ' He told you that he loved you, I suppose ?' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 ' And I suppose you gave him some answer ? Eh ! my dear ?' 
 
 The answer to this was another long sigh. 
 
 ' But, Clara, you must tell me. It is absolutely necessary that 
 I should know whether you have given him any hope, and if so, 
 how much. Of course the whole thing must be stopped at once. 
 Young as you are, you cannot think that a marriage with Mr. 
 Owen Fitzgerald would be a proper match for you to make. 0/ 
 course the whole thing must cease at once — at once.' Here 
 there was another piteous sigh. ' But before I take any steps, I 
 must know what you have said to him. Surely you have not 
 told him that you have any feeling for him warmer than ordinary 
 regai'd ?' 
 
 Lady Desmond knew what she was doing very well. She was 
 perfectly sure that her daughter had pledged her troth to Owen 
 Fitzgerald. Indeed, if she made any mistake in the matter, it 
 was in thinking that Clara had given a more absolute assurance 
 of love than had in truth been extracted from her. But she cal- 
 culated, and calculated wisely, that the surest way of talking 
 her daughter-out of all hope, was to express herself as unable to 
 believe that a child of hers would own to love for one so much 
 beneath her, and. to speak of such a marriage as a thing abso- 
 lutely impossible. Her method of actiug in this manner had the 
 effect which she desired. The poor girl was utterly frightened, 
 and began to fear that she had disgraced herself, though she 
 knew that she dearly loved the man of whom her mother spoka 
 80 slightingly. 
 
 ' Hav} you given him any promise, Clara ?' 
 
 * Not a promise, mamma,' 
 
'& CASTLE EICHMOKD. 
 
 •Not a promise! Wliat then? Have jon professed an^ 
 regard for Hm. ?' But upon this Clara was again silent. 
 
 'Then I suppose I must helieve that you have professed a 
 regard for him — that you have promised to love him ?' 
 ^ ' No', mamma ; I have not promised anything. Bat when he 
 asked me, I — I didn't — I didn't refuse him.' 
 
 It will be observed that Lady Desmond never once asked her 
 daughter what were her feelings. It never occurred to her to 
 inquire, even within her own heart, as to what might be most 
 Conducive to her child's happiness. She meant to do her duty 
 by Clara, and therefore resolved at once to put a stop to the 
 whole affair. She now desisted from her interrogatories, and 
 sitting silent for a while, looked out into the extent of flat ground 
 before the house. Poor Clara the while sat silent also, awaiting 
 her doom. 
 
 ' Clara,' said the mother at last, ' all this must of course be 
 made to cease. You are very young, very young indeed, and 
 therefore I do not blame you. The fault is with him — with him 
 entirely.' 
 
 ' No, mamma.' 
 
 ' But I say it is. He has behaved very badly, and has be- 
 trayed the trust which was placed in him when he was admitted 
 here so intimately as Patrick's friend.' , 
 
 ' I am sure he has not intended to betray any trust,' said Clara, 
 through her sobs. The conviction was beginning to come upon 
 her that she would be forced to give up her lover ; but she could 
 not bring herself to hear so much evil spoken of him. 
 
 ' He has not behaved like a gentleman,' continued the countess, 
 looking very stem. ' And his visits here must of course be alto- 
 gether discontinued. I am sorry on your brother's account, for 
 Patrick was very fond of him ' 
 
 ' Not half so fond as I am,' thought Clara to herself. But she 
 did not dare to speak her thoughts out loud. 
 
 ' But I am quite sure that your brother, young as he is, will 
 not continue to associate with a friend who has thought so 
 slightly of his sister's honour. Of course I shall let Mr. Pitz- 
 ■ gerald kno-jv that he can come here no more ; and all I want from 
 you is a promise that you will on no account see him again, or 
 hold any correspondence with him.' 
 
 That was aU she wanted. But Clara, timid as she was hesi- 
 tated before she could give a promise so totally at variance with 
 the pledge which she felt that she had given, hardly an hour 
 since, to Fitzgerald. She knew and acknowledged to herself that 
 she had given him a pledge, although she had given it in silence. 
 How then was she to give this other pledge to her mother ? 
 
THE COUNTESS. 33 
 
 ' You do not mean to say that you hesitate ?' said Laily Desmond, 
 looking as though she were thunderstruck at the existence of such 
 hesitation. ' You do not wish me to suppose that you intend to 
 persevere in such insanity ? Clara, I must have from you a dis- 
 tinct promise, — or -' 
 
 What might he the dreadful alternative the countess did not at 
 that minute say. She perhaps thought that her countenance 
 might be more effective than her speech, and in thinking so she 
 ■vras probably right. 
 
 It must be remembered that Clara Desmond was as yet only 
 seventeen, and that she was young even for that age. It must be 
 remembered, also, that she knew nothing of the world's ways, of 
 her own privileges as a creature with a soul and heart of her own, 
 or of what might be the true extent of her mother's rights over 
 her. She had not in her enough of matured thought to teach her 
 to say that she would make no promise that should bind her for 
 ever ; but that for the present, in her present state, she would 
 obey her mother's orders. And thus the promise was exacted 
 and given. 
 
 ' If I find yon deceiving me, Clara,' said the countess, ' I will 
 never forgive you.' 
 
 Hitherto, Lady Desmond may probably have played her part 
 well ; — well, considering her object. But she played it very 
 badly in showing that she thought it possible that her daughter 
 should play her false. It was now Clara's turn to be proud and 
 indignant. 
 
 'Mamma!' she said, holding her head high, and looking at 
 her mother boldly through her tears, ' I have never deceived yon 
 yet.' 
 
 ' Very well, my dear. I will take steps to prevent his in- 
 truding on you any further. There may be an end of the matter 
 now. I have no doubt that he has endeavoured to use his in- 
 fluence with Patrick ; but I will tell your brother not to speak of 
 the matter further.' And so saying, she dismissed her daughter. 
 
 Shortly afterwards the earl came in, and there was a confer- 
 ence between him and his mother. Though they were both 
 agreed on the subject, though both were decided that it would 
 not do for Clara to throw herself away on a county Cork squire 
 with eight hundred a year, a cadet in his family, and a man 
 likely to rise to nothing, still the earl would not hear him abused. 
 
 'But, Patrick, he must not come here any more,' said the 
 countess. 
 
 ' Well, I S'ippose not. But it will be very dull, I know that. 
 1 vsdsh Clara f adn't made herself such an ass ;' and then the boy 
 went away, and talted kindly over the matter to his poor sister 
 
34 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 But the coimtess had another task still' befofe her. She miTBi 
 mate known the family resolution to Owen Fitzgerald. When 
 her children had left her, one after the other, she sat at the 
 window for- an hour, looking at nothing, but turning over her 
 own thoughts in her mind. Hitherto she had expressed herself 
 as being very angry with her daughter's lover ; so angry that sht 
 had said that he was faithless, a traitor, and no gentleman. She 
 had called him a dissipated spendthrift, and had threatened his 
 future wife, if ever he should have one, with every kind of miseiy 
 that could fall to a woman's lot ; but now she began to think of 
 him perhaps more kindly. 
 
 She had been very angry with him ; — and the more so because 
 ' she had such cause to be angry with herself ; — with her own lack 
 I of judgment, her own ignorance of the man's character, her own 
 I folly with reference to her daughter. She had never asked her- 
 self whether she loved Fitzgerald — had never done so tUl now. 
 !-But now she knew that the sharpest blow she had received that 
 i day was the assurance that he was indifferent to herself. 
 
 She had never thought herself too old to be on an equality with 
 him, — on such an equality in point of age as men and women 
 feel when they learn to love each other ; and therefore it had 
 not occurred to her that he could regard her daughter as other 
 than a child. To Lady Desmond, Clara was a child ; how then 
 could she be more to him ? And yet now it was too plain that 
 he had looked on Clara as a woman. In what light then must 
 he have thought of that woman's mother? And so, with 
 saddened heart, but subdued anger, she continued to gaze throug^j 
 the window till all without was dusk and dark. 
 , Jl'here can be to a woman no remembrance of age so strong as 
 that of seeing a daughter go forth to the world a married woman. 
 If that, does not tell the mother that the time of her own youth 
 has passed away, nothing will ever bring the tale home. It had - 
 not quite come to this with Lady Desmond ; — Clara was not 
 going forth to the world as a married woman. But here was one 
 . low who had judged her as fit to be so taken ; and this one was 
 the very man of all others in whose estimation Lady Desmond 
 would have wished to drop a few of the years that encumbered 
 her: 
 
 She was not, however, a weak woman, and so she performed 
 her task. She had candles brought to her, and sitting down, she 
 wrote a note to Owen Fitzgerald, saying that she herself would 
 call at Hap House at an hour named on the following day. 
 
 She had written three or four letters before she had made up 
 her mind exactly as to the one she would send. At first she had 
 -desired him to come to her there at Desmond Court i but thes) 
 
THE COtTNTESS. Sf 
 
 8he thought of the danger there might be of Clara seeing him ;-^ 
 of the danger, also, of her own feelings towards him when he 
 should be there with her, in her own house, in the accustomed 
 way. And she tried to say by letter all that it behoved her to 
 say, so that there need be no meeting. But in this she failed 
 One letter was stern and arrogant, and the next was soft-hearted, 
 so that it might teach him to think that his love for Clara migit 
 yet be successful. At last she resolved to go herself to Ha.j> 
 House,; and accordingly she wrote her letter and despatched it. 
 
 Fitzgerald was of course aware of the subject of the threatened 
 visit. When he determined to make his proposal to Clara, the 
 matter did not seem to him to be one in which all chances of 
 success were desperate. If, he thought, he could induce the girl 
 to love him, other smaller difficulties might be made to vanish 
 from his path. He had now induced the girl to own that she 
 did love him ; but not the less did he begin to see that the diffi- 
 culties were far from vanishing. Lady Desmond would never 
 have taken upon herself to make a journey to Hap House, had 
 not a sentence of absolute banishment from Desmond Court been 
 passed ^against him. 
 
 '^Hr. Fitzgerald,' she began, as soon as she found herself alone 
 with him, ' you wiU understand what has induced me to seek you 
 here. After your imprudence with Lady Clara Desmond, 1 
 could not of course ask you to come to Desmond Court.' 
 
 ' I may have been presumptuous, Lady Desmond, but I do not 
 think that I have been imprudent. I love your daughter dearly, 
 and I told her so. Immediately afterwards I told the same to her 
 brother ; and she, no doubt, has told the same to you.' 
 
 'Yes, she has, -Mr. Fitzgerald. Clara, as you are well aware, 
 38 a child, absolutely a child ; much more so than is usual with 
 girls of her age. The knowledge of this should, I think, have 
 protected ier from your advances.' 
 
 ' But I absolutely deny any such knowledge. And more than 
 that, I think that you are greatly mistaken as to her character 
 ' Mistaken, sir, as to my own daughter ?' 
 
 ' Yes, Lady Desmond ; I think you are. I think- ' 
 
 ' On such a matter, Mr. Fitzgerald, I need not trouble you for 
 an expression of your thoughts. Nor need we argue that subject 
 any further. You must of course be aware that all ideas of any 
 such marriage as this must be laid aside.' 
 ' On what groimds. Lady Desmond ?' 
 
 Now this appeared to the countess to be rather impudent on. 
 the part of the young squire. The reasons why he, Owen Fitz- 
 gerald of Hap House^ should not marry a daughter of an Earl of 
 Desmond, seemed to her to be so conspicuous and conclusive 
 
36 OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 that it 'Could hardly be necessary to emimerate them. And eucl! 
 as they were , it might not be pleasant to . announce them in his 
 hearing. But though Owen Fitzgerald was so evidently an unfit 
 suitor for an earl's daughter, it might still be possible that he 
 should be acceptable to an earl's widow. Ah ! if it might be 
 possible to teach him the two lessons at the same time ! 
 
 ' On what grounds, Mr. Fitzgerald !' she said, repeating his 
 qiiestion ; ' surely I need hardly tell you. Did not my son say 
 the same thing to you yesterday, as he walked with you down 
 the avenue ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he told me candidly that he looked higher for his 
 sister ; and I liked him for his candour. But that is no reason 
 that I should agree with him ; or, which is much more important, 
 that his sister should do so. If she thinks that she can be happy 
 in such a home as I can give her, I do not know why he, or why 
 'you should object.' 
 
 ' You think, then, that I might give her to a blacksmith, if 
 she herself were mad enough to wish it ?' 
 
 ' I thank you for the compliment, Lady Desmond.' 
 
 ' You have driven me to it, sir.' 
 
 ' I believe it is considered in the world,' said he, — ' that is, in 
 our country, that the one great difference is between gentlemen 
 and ladies, and those who are not gentlemen or ladies. A lady 
 does not degrade herself if she marry a gentleman, even though 
 that gentleman's rank be less high than her own.' 
 
 ' It is not a question of degradation, but of prudence ; — of the 
 ordinary caution .which I, as a mother, am bound to use as 
 regards my daughter. Oh, Mr. Fitzgera;ld !' and she now 
 altered her tone as she spoke to him ; ' we have all been so 
 pleased to know you, so happy to have you there ; why have you 
 destroyed all this by one half-hour's folly ?' 
 
 'The folly, as you call it, Ladj' Desmond, has been pre- , 
 meditated for the last twelve months.' 
 
 ' For twelve months !' said she, taken absolutely by surprise 
 and in her surprise believing him. 
 
 ■ ' Yes, for twelve months. Ever since I began to know your 
 daughter, I have loved her. You say that your daughter is a 
 child. I also thought so this titne last year, in our last winter 
 holidays. I thought so then ; and though I loved her as a child, 
 I kept 'it to myself. Now she is a woman, and so thinking I 
 have spoken to her as one. I have told her that I loved her, as 
 I now tell you that come what may I must continue to do so. 
 JIad she made me believe that 1 was indifferent to her, absence, 
 perhaps, and distance might have taught me to forget her. But 
 -Buch, I think, is not the case.' 
 
THE COUNTESS. S7 
 
 ' And you must forget her now.' 
 
 ' Never, Lady Desmond.' 
 
 'Nonsense, sir. A child that does not know her own mind, 
 that thinks of a lover as she does of some new toy, whose first 
 appearance in the 'world was only made the other night at your 
 cousin's house ! you ought to feel ashamed of such a passion, Mr. 
 Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' I am very far from being ashamed of it. Lady Desmond.' 
 
 ' At any rate, let me tell you this. My daughter has promised 
 me most solemnly that she will neither see you again, nor have 
 ^ any correspondence with you. And this I know of her, that her 
 word is sacred. I can excuse her on account of her youth ; and, 
 young as she is, she already sees her own folly in having 
 allowed you. so to address her. Bat for you, Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 under all the circumstances I can make no excuse for you. Is 
 yours, do you think, the sort of house to which a young girj 
 should be brought as a bride ? Is your life, are your com- 
 panions of that kind which could most profit her ? I am sorry 
 that, you drive me to remind you of these things.' 
 
 His face became very dark, and his brow stem as his sins 
 were thus cast into his teeth. 
 
 ' And from what you know of me, Lady Desmond,' he said, — 
 and as he spoke he assumed a dignity of demeanour which made 
 her more inclined to love him than ever she had been before, 
 — ' do you think that I should be the man to introduce a young 
 wife to such companions as those to whom you allude ? Do j'ou 
 not know, are you not sure in your own heart, that my marriage 
 with your daughter would instantly put an end to all that?' 
 
 ' "Whatever may be my own thoughts, and they are not likely 
 to be unfavourable to you — for Patrick's sake, I mean ; but what- 
 ever may be my own thoughts, I will not subject my daughter 
 to such a risk. And, Mr. Fitzgerald, you must allow me to say, 
 that your income is altogether insufficient for her wants and 
 your own. She has no fortune •' 
 
 ' I want none with her.' 
 
 ' And but I will not argue the matter with you. 1 did 
 
 not come to argue it, but to tell you, with as little ofience as 
 may be possible, that such a marriage is absolutely impossible. 
 My daughter herself has already abandoned all thoughts of it.' 
 
 ' Her thoughts then must be wonderfully under ■ her own 
 control. Much more so than mine are.' 
 
 ' Lord Desmond, you may be sure, will not hear of it.' 
 
 ' Lord Desmond cannot at present be less of a child than his 
 sister.' 
 
 ' I don't know that, Mr. Fitzgerald.' 
 
38 ^ CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' At any rate, Lady Desmond, I will not put my happiness, 
 aor as far as I am concerned in .it, his sister's happiness, at his 
 disposal. When I told her that I loved her, I did not speak, as 
 you seem to think, from an impulse of the moment. I spoke 
 because I loved her ; and as I love her, I shall of course try to 
 win her. Nothing can absolve me from my engagement to her 
 but her marriage with another person.' 
 
 The countess had on^ or twice made small eiforts to come to 
 terms of peace with him ; or rather to a truce, under which 
 there might still be some friendship between them, — accom- 
 panied, however, by a positive condition that Clara should be 
 omitted from any participation in it. She would have been 
 willing to say, ' Let all this be forgotten, only for some time to 
 come you and- Clara cannot meet each other.' But Fitzgerald 
 would by no means agree to such terms ; and the countess was 
 obliged to leave his house, having in effect only thrown down a 
 gauntlet of battle ; having in vain attempted to extend over it an 
 olive-branch of peace. 
 
 He helped her, however, into her little pony carriage, and at 
 partihg she gave him her hand. He just touched it, and then, 
 taking off his hat, bowed courteously to her as she drove from 
 his door. 
 
 CHAPTEE "V. 
 
 THE PITZGEEALDS OF CASTLE EICHMOSD. 
 
 What idea of carrying out his plans may have been prevalent 
 in Fitzgerald's mind when he was so defiant of the countess, it 
 may be difficult to say. Probably he had no idea, but felt at the 
 spur of the moment that it would be weak to yield. The con- 
 sequence was, that when Lady Desmond left Hap House, he 
 was obliged to consider himself as being at feud with the family. 
 
 The young lord he did see once again during the holidays, 
 and even entertained' him at Hap House ; but the earl's pride 
 would not give way an inch. 
 
 ' Much as I like you, Owen, I cannot do anything but oppose 
 it. It would be a bad match for my sister, and so you'd feel if you 
 were in my place.' And then Lord Desmond went back to 
 Eton. 
 
 After that they none of them met for many months. During 
 this time life went on in a very triste jmanner at Desmond Court. 
 Lady Desmond felt that she had done her duty by her daughter • ' 
 but her tenderness to Clara was not increased by the fact that 
 her fooUsh attachment had driven Fitzgerald from the place. S 
 
THE FTTZGEEALDB OF CASTLE EICHMOND. 39 
 
 As for Clara herself, she not only kept her word, but rigidly 
 resolved to keep it. Twice she returned unopened, and without 
 a word of notice, letters which Owen had caused to be conveyed 
 to her hand. It was not that she had ceased to love hiru, but 
 she had high ideas of truth and honour, and would not break 
 her word. Perhaps she was sustained in her misery by the 
 remembrance that heroines are always miserable. 
 
 And then the orgies at Hap House became hotter and faster. 
 Hitherto there had perhaps been more smoke than fire, more 
 calumny than sin. And Fitzgerald, when he had intimated that 
 the presence of a young wife would save him from it all, had not 
 boasted falsely. But now that his friends had turned their 
 backs upon him, that he was banished from Desmond Court, and 
 twitted with his iniquities at Castle Richmond, he threw off all 
 restraint, and endeavoured to enjoy himself in his own way. 
 So the orgies became fast and furious ; all which of course reached 
 the ears of poor Clara Desmond. 
 
 • During the summer holidays. Lord Desmond was not at home, 
 but Owen Fitzgerald 'w^s also away. He had gone abroad, 
 perhaps with the conviction that it would be well that he and 
 the Desmonds should not meet ; and he remained abroad till the 
 hunting season again commenced. Then the winter came again, 
 and he and Lord Desmond used to meet in the field. There they 
 would exchange courtesies, and, to a certain degree, show that they 
 were intimate. But all the world knew that the old friendship 
 was over. And, indeed, all the world — all the county Cork 
 world — soon knew the reason. And so we are brought down 
 to the period a,t which our story was to begin. 
 
 "We have hitherto said little or nothing of Castle Eichmond 
 and its inhabitants ; but it is now time that we should do so, and 
 we will begin with the heir of the family. At the period of 
 which we are speaking, Herbert Fitzgerald had just returned 
 from Oxford, having completed his affairs there in a manner 
 very much to the satisfaction of his father, mother, and sisters : 
 and to the unqualified admiration of his aunt. Miss Letty. I am 
 not aware that the heads of colleges, and supreme synod of Dons 
 had signified by any general expression of sentiment, that 
 Herbert Fitzgerald had so conducted himself as to be a standing 
 honour and perpetual glory to the University ; but at Castle 
 Eichmond it was all the same as though they had done so. 
 -There are some kindly-hearted, soft-minded parents, in whose 
 estimation not to have fallen into disgrace shows the highest merit 
 on the part of their children. Herbert had not been rusticated ; 
 had not got into debt, at least not to an extent that had been 
 offensive to his father's pocket ; he had not been plucked. 
 
40 CASTLE BIOHMOND. 
 
 Indeed, he had taken honours, in some low unnoticed degree ; — 
 unnoticed, that is, at Oxford; but noticed at Castle Eichmond 
 by an ovation — almost by a triumph. 
 
 But HerbfirtJlitzgerald was a son to gladden a father's heart 
 and a mother's eye. He was not handsome, as was his cousin 
 Owen ; not tall and stalwart and godlike in his proportions, as 
 was the reveller of Hap House ; but nevertheless, and perhaps 
 not the less, was he pleasant to look on. He was smaller and 
 darker than his cousin ; but his eyes were bright and full ol 
 good humour. He was clean looking and clean made ; pleasant 
 and courteous in all his habits ; attached to books ia a moderate, 
 easy way, but no bookworm ; he had a gentle affection for bind 
 ings and title-pages ; was fond of pictures, of which it might be 
 probable that he would some day know more than he did at 
 present ; addicted to Gothic architecture, and already proprietor 
 of the germ of what was to be a collection of coins. 
 
 i Owen Fitzgerald had called him a prig ; but Herbert was no 
 prig. Nor yet was he a pedant ; which word might, perhaps," 
 more nearly have expressed his cousin's meaning. He liked 
 little bits of learning, the easy oufsides and tags of classical "ac- 
 quirements, which come so easily within the scope of the memory 
 when a man has passed some ten years between a public school 
 and a university. But though he did love to chew the cud of 
 
 ', these morsels of Attic grass which he had cropped, certainly 
 without any great or sustained effort, he had no desire to be 
 ostentatious in doing so, or to show off more than he knew. In- 
 deed, now that he was away from his college friends, he was 
 rather ashamed of himself than otherwise when scraps of qtiota- 
 tions would break forth from him in his own despite. Looking 
 at his true character, it was certainly tmjust to call ViiTn either a 
 prig or a pedant. 
 
 He was fond of the society of ladies, and was a great favourite 
 with his sisters, who thought that every girl who saw him must 
 
 V instantly fall in love with him. He was goodnatured, and, as 
 the only son of a rich man, was generally well provided with 
 money. Such a brother is usually a favourite with his sisters. 
 He was a great favourite too with his aunt, whose heart, however 
 was daily sinking into her shoes through the effect of one great 
 
 I terror which harassed her respecting him. She feared that he 
 had become a Puseyite. Now that means much with some ladies 
 in England ; but with most ladies of the Protestant religion in 
 Ireland, it means, one may almost say, the very Father of Mis- 
 chief himself. In their minds, the pope, with his lady of Babylon 
 his college of cardinals, and althis community of pinchbeck saints' 
 holds a sort of second head-quarters of his own at Oxford. And 
 
THE FITZGEKALDS OF CASTLE IIIOHMOND. 41 
 
 there his high priest is supposed to be one wicked iofamoiis 
 Pusey, and his worshippers are wicked infamous Puseyites. 
 Now, Miss Letty Fitzgerald was strong on this subject, and little 
 inklings had fallen from her neph&w which robbed her of much 
 of her peace of mind. 
 
 It is impossible that these volumes should be graced by any 
 hero, for the story does not admit of onoi But if there were te 
 be a hero, Herbert Fitzgerald would be the man. 
 
 Sir Thomas Fitzgerald at this period was an old man in 
 appearance, though by no means an old man in years, being 
 hardly more than fifty. Why he should have withered away as 
 it were into premature grayness, and loss of the muscle and 
 energy of life, none knew ; unless, indeed, his wife did know. 
 But so it was. He had, one may say, all that a kind fortune 
 could give him. He had a wife who was devoted to him ; he 
 had a son on whom he doted, and of whom all men said all good 
 things ; he had two sweet, happy daughters ; he had a pleasant 
 house, a fine estate, position and rank in the world. Had it so 
 pleased him, he might have sat in Parliament without any of the 
 trouble, and with very little of the expense, which usually 
 attends aspirants for that honour. And, as it was, he might hope 
 to see his son in Parliament within a year or two. Foj among 
 other possessions of the Fitzgerald family was th& land on which 
 stands the borough of Kiloommon, a borough, to which the old 
 Eefonnj^ill was merciful, as it was to so many others ia the 
 south of Ireland. 
 
 Why, then, should Sir Thomas Fitzgerald be a silent, melan- 
 choly man, confi n in g'liimseir for the last year or two almost 
 entirely to his own study; giving up to his steward the caro 
 even of his own demesne and farm ; never going to the houses of 
 his friends, and rarely welcoming them to his ; rarely as it was, 
 and never as it would have been, had he been always allowed to 
 have his own way" ? 
 
 People in the surrounding neighbourhood had begun to say 
 that Sir Thomas's sorrow had sprung from shortness of cash, and 
 that money was not so easily to be had at Castle Eichmond now- 
 a-days as was the case some ten years since. If this were so, the 
 dearth of that very useful article could not have in any degree 
 arisen from extravagance. It was well known that Sir Thomas's 
 estate was large, being of a value, according to that public and 
 well-authenticated rent-roll which the neigb-bours of a rich man 
 always carry in their heads, amounting to twelve or fourteen 
 thousand a year. Now Sir Thomas had come into the unencum- 
 bered possession of this at an early age, and had never been 
 extravagant himself or in his family. His estates were strictly 
 
42 OASTLB RICHMOND. 
 
 entailed, and therefore, as lie had only a life interest in them, it 
 of course was necessary that he should save money and insure 
 his life, to make provision for his daughters. But by a man of 
 his habits and his property, such a burden as this could hardly 
 have been accounted any burden at all. That he did, however, 
 in this mental privacy of his carry some heavy burden, was made 
 plain enough to all who knew him. 
 
 j And Lady Fitegerald was in many things a counteT-part of her 
 I husband," not innealth so much as in spirits. She, also, was old 
 I for her age, and woebegone, not only in appearance, but also in 
 the inner workings of her heart; But then it was known of her 
 that she had undergone deep sorrows in her early youth, which 
 had left their mark upon her brow, and their trace upon her in- 
 most thoughts. Sir Thomas had not been her first husband. 
 When very young, she had been married, or rather, given in 
 marriage, to a man who in a very few weeks after that ill-fated ' 
 union had shown himself to be perfectly unworthy of her. 
 
 Her story, or so much of it as was known to her friends, was 
 this. Her father had been a clergyman in^Dorsetshire, burdened 
 with a small income, and blessed with a large" family. She who 
 afterwards became Lady Fitzgerald was his eldest child ; and, as 
 Miss Wainwright — Mary Wainwright — had grown "up to be the 
 possessor of almost perfect female loveliness. While she was yet 
 very young, a widower with an only boy, a man who at that 
 time was considerably less than thirty, had come into her father's 
 parish, having rented there a small hunting-box. This gentleman 
 — we will so call him, in lack of some other term — immediately 
 became possessed of an establishment, at any rate eminently 
 respectable. He had three hunters, two grooms, and a gig ; and - 
 on Sundays went to church with, a prayer-book in his hand, and 
 a black coat on his back. What more could be desired to prove 
 his respectability ? 
 
 He had not been there a month before he was intimate in the 
 parson's house. Before two months had passed he was engaged 
 to the, parson's daughter. Before the full quarter had flown by, 
 he and the parson's daughter were man and wife ; and in five 
 months from the time of his first appearance in the Dorsetshire 
 parish, he had flown from his creditors, leaving behind him his 
 three horses, his two grooms, his gig, his wife, and his little boy. 
 
 The Dorsetshire neighbours, and especially the Dorsetshire 
 ladies, had at first been loud in their envious exclamations as to 
 Miss Wainwright's luck. The parson and the parson's vrife and 
 poor Mary Wainwright herself, had according to the sayings of 
 that moment prevalent in the county, used most unjustifiable wiles 
 in trapping this poor rich stranger. Miss Wainwright, as they 
 
THE FITZGEEALDS OP CASTLE KIOHMOND. 43 
 
 all declared, had not clothes to her back when she went to him. 
 The matter had been got up and managed in most indecent 
 •hurry, so as to rob the poor fellow of any chance of escape. 
 And thus all manner of evil things were said, in which envy of 
 the bride and pity of the bridegroom were equally com- 
 mingled. 
 
 But when the sudden news came that Mr. Talbot had bolted, 
 and when after a week's inquiry no one could tell whither Mr. 
 Talbot had gone, the objurgations of the neighbours were ex- 
 pressed in a different tone. Then it was declared that Mr. 
 Wainwright had saoriiiced his beautiful child withoiit making 
 any inquiry as to the character of the strangpr to whom he had 
 so recklessly given her. The pity of the county fell to the 
 share of the poor beautiful girl, whose welfare and happiness 
 were absolutely ruined ; and the parson was pulled to pieces for 
 his sordid parsimony in having endeavoured to rid himself in so 
 disgraceful a manner of the charge of one of his children. 
 
 It would be beyond the scope of my story to tell here of the ' 
 anxious family councils which were held in that parsonage par- ■ 
 lour, during the time of that daughter's courtship. There had 
 been misgivings as to the stability of the wooer ; there had been an 
 anxious wish not to lose for the penniless daughter the advantage 
 of a wealthy match ; the poor girl herself had been much' cross- , 
 questioned as to her own feelings. But let them have been ' 
 right, or let them have been wrong at that parsonage, the matter 
 was settled, very speedily as we have seen ; and Mary Wain- 
 wright became Mrs. Talbot when she was still almost a child. 
 
 'And then Mr. Talbot bolted ; and it became known to the 
 -Dorsetshire world that he had not paid a shilling for rent, or 
 for butcher's meat for his human family, or for oats for his 
 equine family, during the whole period of his sojourn at Chevy- 
 chase Lodge. Grand references had been made to a London 
 banker, which had been answered by assurances that Mr. Talbot 
 was as good as the Bank of England. But it turned out that the 
 assurances were forged, and that the letter of inquiry addressed 
 to the London banker had been intercepted. In short, it was 
 all ruin, roguery, and wretchedness. 
 
 And very wretched they all were, the old father, the, young 
 bride, ' and all. that parsonage household. After much inquiry 
 something at last was discovered. The man had a sister whose 
 whereabouts was made out ; and she consented to receive the 
 child — on condition that the bairn should not come to her 
 empty-handed. In order to get rid of this burden, Mr. Wain- 
 wi'ight with great difficulty made up thirty pounds. 
 
 And then it was discovered that the man's name was not 
 
44 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 Talbot. What it was did not beeome kaown in Dorsetshire, foi 
 the poor wife resumed her maiden name^with very little right 
 to do so, as her kind neighbours observed— till fortune so kindly 
 ga"ve her the privilege of bearing another honourably before the 
 world. 
 
 And then other inquiries, and almost endless search was made 
 with reference to that miscreant — not quite immediately — for 
 at the moment of the blow such search seemed to be but of little 
 use ; but after some months, when the first stupor arising from 
 * their grief had passed away, and when they once more began 
 to find that the fields were still green, and the sun warm, and 
 that God's goodness was not at an end. 
 
 And the search was made not so much with reference to him 
 as to his fate, for tidings had reached the parsonage that he was 
 no more. The period was that in which Paris was occupied by the 
 allied forces, when our general, the Duke of Wellington, was 
 paramount in the Trench capital, and the Tuileries and Champs 
 Elysees were swarming with Englishmen. 
 
 Eeport at the time was brought home that the soi-disant 
 Talbot, fighting his battles under the name of Chichester, had 
 been seen and noted in the gambling-houses of Paris ; that he had 
 been forcibly extruded from some such chamber for non-payment 
 of a gambling debt ; that he had made one in a violent fracas 
 which had subsequently taken place in the French streets ; and 
 that his body had afterwards been identified in the Morgue. 
 
 Such was the story which bit by bit reached Mr. Wainwright's 
 ears, and at last induced him to go over to Paris, so that the 
 absolute and proof-sustained trath of the matter might be 
 ascertained, and made known to all men. The poor man's 
 search was difficult and weaiy. The ways of Paris were not then 
 so easy to an Englishman as they have since become, and Mr. 
 'Wainwright could not himself speak a word of F.rench. But 
 nevertheless he did' learn much; so much as to justify him " as 
 he_thought, in instructing his daughter to wear a widow's capT 
 That Talbot had been kicked out of a gambling-house in the 
 Eiie Eichelieu was absolutely proved. An acquaintance who 
 had been with him in Dorsetshire on his first arrival there had 
 seen this done ; and bore testimony of the fact that the man so 
 treated was the man who had taken the hunting-lodge in Eng- 
 land. This same acquaintance had been one of the party 
 adverse to Talbot in the row which had followed, and he could 
 not, therefore, be got to say that he had seen him dead. But 
 other evidence had gone to show that the man who had been so 
 extruded- was the man who had perished ; and the French 
 lawyer whom Mr. Wainwiight had employed, at last assured 
 
THE FITZGERALDS OF CASTLE EXOHMOND. 45 
 
 the poor broken-lieartecl clergjinan tliat he miglit look upon it as 
 proved. ' Had lie not Been dead,' saidJJEeT.awyer, ' tte inquiry 
 wticli lias been made wotild have traced him out alive.' And ' 
 thus his daughter was instructed to put on her widow's cap, and 
 her mother again called her Mrs. Talbot, 
 
 Indeed, at that time they hardly knew what to call her, or 
 how to act in the wisest and most befitting manner. Among 
 those who had truly felt for them in their misfortunes, who had 
 really pitied them and encountered them with loving sympathy, 
 the kindest and most valued friend had been the vicar of a neigh- 
 bouring parish. He himself was a widower without children, 
 but living with him at that time, and reading with him, was a 
 young gentleman whose father was just dead, a baronet of large 
 property, and an Irishman. This was Sir Thomas Fitzgerald. 
 
 It need not now be told how this j'oung man's sympathies 
 were also excited, or how sympathy had grown into love. In 
 telling our tale we fain would not dwell much on the cradledom 
 of ourJileleager.- The young widow in her widow's cap grew to 
 be more lovely than she had ever been before Jier miscreant hus- 
 band had seen her. They who remembered her in those days told 
 wondrous tales of her surprising loveliness ; — how men from 
 London would come down to see her in the parish church ; 
 how she was talked of as the Dorsetshire Yenus, only that un- 
 like Venus she would give a hearing to no man ; how sad. she 
 was as well as lovely -^ and how impossible it was found to win 
 a smile from her. 
 
 But though she could not smile, she could love ; and at last she 
 accepted the love of the young baronet. And then the father, 
 who had so grossly neglected his duty when he gave her in 
 marriage to an unknown rascally adventurer, endeavoured to 
 atorie for such neglect by the severest caution with reference to 
 this new suitor. Further inquiries were made. Sir Thomas 
 went over to Paris himself with that other clergyman. Lawyers ' 
 were employed in England to sift out the truth ; and at last, by 
 the united agreement of some dozen men, all of whom were 
 known to be worthy, it was decided that Talbot was dead, and.' 
 that his widow was free to choose another mate. Another mate 
 she had already chosen, and immediately after this she was 
 married to Sir Thomas Fitzgerald. 
 
 Such was the early life-story of Lady Fitzgerald ; and as this 
 was widely known to those who lived around her — for how could 
 such a life-story as that remain untold ? — no one wondered why 
 she should be gentle and silent in her life's course. That she 
 had been an excellent wife, a kind and careful mother, a loving 
 neighbour to -the poor, and courteous neighbour to the rich, all 
 
46 CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 tho county Cork admitted. She had lived down envy by hei 
 gentleness and soft humility, and every one spoke of her and her 
 retiring habits with sympathy and reverence. 
 
 But why should her husband also be so sad — nay, so much 
 sadder ? For Lady Fitzgerald, though she was gentle and silent, 
 was not a sorrowful woman — otherwise than she was made so by 
 seeing h^r husband's sorrow. She had been to him a loving 
 partner, and no man could more tenderly have returned a wife's 
 love than he had done. One would say that all had run smoothly 
 at Gastle Eiohmond since the house had been made happy, aftei 
 some years of waiting, by the birth of an eldest child and heir. 
 'But, nevertheless, those who knew most of Sir Thomas saw that 
 there was a peacock on the wall. 
 
 It is only necessary to say further a word or two as to the 
 other ladies of the family, and hardly necessary to say that. 
 Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald were both cheerful girls. I do 
 Sofmean that they were boisterous laughers, that in waltzing 
 they would tear round a room like human steam-engines, that 
 they rode well to hounds as some young ladies now-a-days do — 
 and sonie young ladies do ride very well to hounds ; nor that 
 they affected slang, and decked their persons with odds and ends 
 of masculine costume. In saying that they were cheerful, I by 
 no means wish it to be understood that they were loud. 
 
 They were pretty, too, but neither of them lovely, as their' 
 mother had been — hardly, indeed, so lovely as that pale mother 
 was now, even in these latter days. Ah, how very lovely that 
 pale mother was, as she sat still and silent in her own place on 
 the small sofa by the slight, small table which she used ! Her 
 hair was gray, and her eyes sunken, and her lips thin and blood 
 less ; but yet never shall I see her equal for pure feminine beauty, 
 for form ahd~butline, for passionless grace, and sweet, gentle, 
 womanly softness. All her sad tale was written upon her brow ; 
 all its sadness and all its poetry. One could read there the fear- 
 ful, all but fatal danger to which her childhood had been exposed, 
 and the daily thanks with which she praised her God for having 
 spared and saved her. 
 
 But I am running back to the mother in attempting to say a 
 word about her children. Of the two, Emmeline, the younger, 
 was the more like her ; but no one who was a j-ttdge of outline 
 could imagine that Emmeline, at her mother's ag6, would ever 
 have her mother's beauty. Nevertheless, they were fine, hand- 
 some girls, more popular in the neighbourhood than any of their 
 neighbours, well educated, sensible, feminine, and useful ; fitted 
 to be the wives of good men. 
 
 And what shall I say of MissXetty ? She was ten years older 
 
THE FITZGEEALDS 01? OASTLE EICHMOND. 47 
 
 than her brother, and as strong as a horse. She was great at 
 walking, and recommended that exercise strongly to all young 
 ladies as an antidote to every ill, from love to chilblains. She' 
 was short and dapper in' person ; not ugly, excepting that her 
 nose was long, and had a little bump or excrescence at the end of 
 it. She always wore a bonnet, even at meal times ; and was 
 supposed, by those who were not intimately acquainted with the 
 mysteries of her toilet, to sleep in it; often, indeed, she did 
 sleep in it, and gave unmusical evidence of her doing so.. She 
 was not illnatured ; but so strongly prejudiced on many points 
 as to be equally disagreeable as though she were s6. With her, 
 as with the world in general, religion was the point on which 
 those prejudices were the sti'cngest ; and the peculiar bent thoy 
 took was horror and hatred of popery. As she lived in a country 
 in which the Eoman Catholic vas the religion of all the poorer 
 classes, and of very many persons who were not poor, there was 
 ample scope in which her horror and hatred could work. She 
 was charitable to a fault, and would exercise that charity for the 
 good of Papists as willingly as for the good of Protestants ; but 
 in doing so she always remembered the good cause. She always 
 Clogged the flannel ^petticoat with some Protestant teaching, or 
 burdened the little coat and trousers with the pains and penalties 
 of idolatry. 
 
 When her brother had married the widow Talbot, her anger 
 with him and her hatred towards her sister-in-law had been ex- 
 treme. But time and conviction had worked in her so thorough 
 a change, that she now almost worshipped the very spot in 
 which Lady Fitzgerald habitually sat. She had the faculty ts 
 know and recognize .goodness when she saw it, and she had 
 known and recognized it in her brother's wife. 
 
 Him also, her brother himself, she warmly loved and greatly 
 reverenced. She deeply grieved over his state of body and mind, 
 and would have given all she ever had, even her very self,- to 
 restore him to health and happiness. 
 
 The three children of course she loved, and petted, and 
 scolded; and as children bothered them out of all their peace 
 and quietness. To the girls she was still almost as great a tor- 
 ment as in their childish days. Nevertheless, they still loved 
 and sometimes obeyed her. Of Herbert she stood somewhat 
 more in awe. He was- the future head of the family, and already 
 a Bachelor of Arts. (In a very few years he would probably^ 
 assume the higher title of a married man of arts, she thought^;' 
 and perhaps the less formidable one of a member of Parliament 
 also. Him, therefore, she treated with deference. But, alas! 
 what if he should become a Pttseyite ! 
 
IS CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 CHAPTEIJ VL 
 
 THE KANTDEK HOTEL, SOUTH MAIN STREET, OOP.i:, 
 
 All the world no doubt knows- South Main Street in the oiiy of 
 fjork. In the ' ould ' ancient days, South and North Main Streets 
 formed the chief thoroughfare through the city, and hence of 
 course they derived their names. But how, since Patricli Street, 
 and Grand Parade, and the South Mall have grown up. Main 
 Street has but little honour. It is crowded with second-rate 
 .obacconists and third-rate grocers ; the houses are dirty, and 
 the street is narrow ; fashionable ladies never visit it for their 
 shopping, ,nor would any respectable commercial gent_ stop at an 
 inn within its purlieus. 
 
 But here in South Main Street, at the time at which I am 
 writing, there was an inn, or public-house, called the Kanturk 
 Hotel. In dear old Ireland they have some foibles, and one of 
 >^thera is a passion for high nomenclature. Those who are accus- ■ 
 tomed to the sort of establishments which are met with in 
 England, and much more in Germany and Switzerland', under 
 the name of hotels, might be surprised to see the place in South 
 Main Street which had been dignified with the same appellation. 
 It was a small, dingy house of three stories, the front door of 
 which was always open, and the passage strewed with damp, 
 dirty straw. On the left-hand side as you entered was a sitting- 
 room, or coffee-room as it was annoiinced to be by an ajjpellatiois 
 painted on the door. There was but one window to the room, 
 which looked into the street, and was always clouded by a 
 dingy-red curtain. The floor was uncarpeted, nearly black with 
 dirt, and usually half covered with fragments of damp straw 
 brought into it by the feet of customers. A strong smell of hot 
 whisky and water always prevailed, and the straggling mahogany 
 table in the centre of the room, whose rickety legs gave way and 
 came off whenever an attempt was made to move it, was covered 
 by small greasy circles, the impressions of the bottoms of tumblers 
 which had been made by the overflowing tipple. Over the 
 chimney there was a round mirror, the framework of which was" 
 bedizened with aU. manner of would-be gilt ornaments, which' 
 had been cracked, and twisted, and mended till it was impossible 
 to know what they had been intended to represent ; and the 
 
THM KAirrUEK HOTEL. 49 
 
 whole affair had become a huge receptacle of dust, which fell in 
 flakes upon the chimney-piece when it was invaded. There was 
 a second table opposite the window, more rickety than that in 
 the centre ; and against the wall opposite to the fireplace there 
 was an old sideboard, in the drawers of which Tom, the one- 
 eyed waiter, kept knives and forks, and candle-ends, and bits of 
 bread, and dusters. There was a sour smell, as of old rancid 
 butter, about the place, to which the guests sometimes objected, 
 little inclined as they generally were to be fastidious. But this 
 was a tender subject, and not often alluded to by those who 
 wished to stand well in the good graces of Tom. Many things 
 much annoyed Tom ; but nothing annoyed him so fearfully as 
 any assertion that the air of the Kanturk Hotel was not perfectly 
 sweet and wholesome. 
 
 Behind the coffee-room was the bar, from which Fanny 
 O'Dwyer dispeAsed dandies of punch atid goes of brandy to 
 her father's customers from Kanturk. For at this, as at other 
 similar public-houses in Irish towns, the greater part of the 
 custom on which the publican depends came to him from the 
 inhabitants of one particular country district. A large four- 
 wheeled vehicle, called a long car, which was drawn by three 
 horses, and travelled over a mountain road at the rate of four 
 Irish miles an hour, came daily from Kanturk to Cork, and daily 
 returned. This public conveyance stopped in Cork at the 
 Kanturk Hotel, and was owned by the owner of that house, in 
 partnership with a brother in the same trade located in Kanturk. 
 It was Mr. O'Dwyer's business to look after this concern, to see 
 to the passengers and the booking, the oats, and hay, and 
 stabling, while his well-known daughter, the charming Fanny 
 O'Dwyer, took care of the house, and dispensed brandy and 
 whis^ to the customers from Kanturk. 
 
 To tell the truth, the bar was a much more alluring place than 
 the coffee-room, and Fanny O'Dwyer a more alluring personage 
 than Tom, the one-eyed waiter. This Elysium, however, was 
 not open to all comers — not even to all comers from Kanturk 
 Those who had the right of entry well knew their privilege ; 
 and so also did they who had not. This sanctum was screened 
 off from the passage by a window, which opened upwards 
 conveniently, as is customary with bar- windows ; but the window 
 was. blinded inside by a red curtain, so that Fanny's stool near 
 the counter, her father's wooden arm-chair, and the old horsehair 
 sofa on which favoured guests were wont to sit, were not visible 
 to the public at large. 
 
 Of the upstair portion of this establishment it is not necessary 
 to say much. It professed to be an hotel, and accommodation 
 
50 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 for sleeping' was to be obtained there ; but the well-being of the 
 house depended but little on custom of this class. 
 , -^or need I say much of the kitchen, a graphic description of 
 which would not be pleasing. Here lived a cook, who, together 
 with Tom the waiter, did all that servants had to do at the.Ean- 
 turk Hotel. From this kitchen lumps of beef, mutton chops, and 
 potatoes did occasionally emanate, all perfumed with plenteous 
 onions ; as also did fried eggs, with bacon an inch thick, and 
 , other culinary messes too horrible to be thought of. But drink- 
 ^ ing rather than eating was the staple of this establishment. Such 
 was the Kanturk Hotel in South Slain Street, Cork. 
 
 It was on a disagreeable, cold, sloppy, t&w, winter evening — 
 an evening drizzling sometimes with rain, and sometimes with 
 sleet — that an elderly man was driven up to the door of the hotel 
 . ox> a one-horse car — or jingle, as such conveniences were then 
 Called in the south of Ireland. He seemed to know the house,' 
 -for \yith his outside coat all dripping as it was he went direct to 
 the bar-window, and as Fanny O'Dwyer opened the door he 
 walked into that warm precinct. There he encountered a gentle- 
 man, dressed one would say rather beyond the merits of the 
 establishment, who was taking his ease at full length on Fanny's 
 sofa, and drinking some hot compound which was to be seen in a 
 tumbler on the chimney-shelf just above his head. It was now 
 six o'clock in the evening, and the gentleman no doubt had 
 dined. 
 
 'Well, Aby; here I am, as large as life, but as cold as deatb. 
 Ugh ; what an affair that coach is ! Fanny, my best of darlings, 
 give me a drop of something that's best for warming the cockles 
 of an old man's heart.' 
 
 ' A young wife then is the best thing in life to do thart, Mr. 
 McUett, 'said Fanny, sharply, preparing, however, at the same 
 time, some mixture which might be taken more instantaneously. 
 
 ' The governor's had enough of that receipt already,' said the 
 man on the sofa ; or rather the man now off the sofa, for he had 
 slowly arisen to shake hands with the new comer. 
 
 This latter person proceeded to divest himself of his dripping 
 greatcoat. ' Here, Tom,' said he, ' bring your old Cyclops eye to 
 bear this way, will you. Go and hang that up in the kitchen ; 
 not too near the fire now ; and get me something to eat ; none of 
 , j^Dur mutton chops ; but _ a beefsteak if there is such a thing in 
 this benighted place. Well, Aby, how goes on the war ?' 
 
 It was clear that the elderly gentleman was quite at home in 
 his present quarters ; for Tom, far from resenting such imperti- 
 nence, as he would immediately have done had it proceeded from 
 an ordinary Kanturk customer, declared ' that he would d) his 
 
THE KAJSTUKK HOTEL. 51 
 
 nonoui-'s bidding av there was sucli a thing as a beefeteak to be 
 had anywhere's in the city of Cork.' 
 
 And iadeed the elderly gentleman was a p^-son of whom one 
 might premise, judging by his voice and appearance, that he 
 would probably make himself at home anywhere. He was a hale 
 hearty man, of perhaps sixty years of age, who had certainly 
 been handsome, and was even now not the reverse. Or rather, 
 one may say, that he would have been so were it not that there 
 was a low, restless, cunning legible in his mouth and eyes, which 
 robbed his countenance of all manliness. He was a hale man, 
 and well preserved for his time of life; but nevertheless, the 
 extra rubicundity of his face, and certain incipient pimply ex- 
 crescences about his nose, gave tokens that he lived too freely. 
 He had iived freely ; and were it not that his constitution had 
 been more than ordinarily strong, and that constant exercise and 
 exposure to air had much befriended 'him, those pimply excres- 
 cences would have shown themselves in a more advanced stage. 
 Such was Mr. MoUett senior — Mr. Matthew Mollett, with whom 
 it will be soon our fate to be better acquainted. 
 
 The gentleman who had slowly risen from the sofa was his son, 
 Mr. MoUett junior— Mr. Abraham Mollett, with whom also we 
 shall become better acquainted. The father has been represented 
 as not being exactly prepossessing ; but the son, according to my 
 ideas, was much less so. He also would be considered handsome 
 by some persons — by women chiefly of the Fanny O'Dwyer class, 
 whose eyes are capable of recognizing what is good in shape and 
 form, but cannot recognize what is good in tone and character. 
 Mr. Abraham MoUett was perhaps some thirty years of age, or 
 rather more. He was a very smart man, with a profusion ot 
 dark, much-oiled hair, with dark, copious mustachoes — and mus- ; 
 tachoes being then not common as they are now, added to his 
 otherwise rakish, vulgar appearance — with various rings on his 
 not well-washed hands, with a frilled front to his not lately 
 washed shirt, with a velvet collar to his coat, and patent-leather 
 boots upon his feet. 
 
 Free Hving had told more upon him, young as he was, thar 
 tfpon his father. His face was not yet pimply, but it was red and 
 bloated ; his eyes were bloodshot and protruding ; his hand on a 
 morning was unsteady ; and his passion for brandy was stronger 
 than that for beefsteaks ; whereas his father's appetite for solid food 
 had never flagged.. Those who were intimate with the family, 
 and were observant of men, were wont to remark that the son 
 would never fill the father's shoes. These family friends, I may i 
 perhaps add, were generally markers at billiard-tables, head 
 grooms at race-courses, or other men of that sharp, discerning class. 
 
52 PASl'LE EICHMOITD. 
 
 Seeing that I introduce tliese gentlemen to my readers at th« 
 Kanturk Hotel, in South Main Street, Cork, it may be perhaps 
 as well to add that they were both Englishmen ; so that mistakes 
 on that matter may be avoided. 
 
 The father, as soon as he had rid himself of his upper coat, 
 his dripping hat, and his goloshes, stood up with his back to the' 
 bar-room &re, with his hands in his trousers-pockets, and the 
 tails of his coat stuck inside his arms. 
 
 'Ltell you, Aby, it was cold enough outside that infernal 
 coach. I'm blessed if I've a morsel of feeling in my toes yet. 
 
 i Why the d don't, they continue the railway on to Cork? 
 
 , It's as much as a man's life is ivorth to travel in that sort of way 
 at this time of the year.' 
 
 ' You'll have more of it then if you intend going out of towv. 
 to-morrow,' said the son. 
 
 ' Well, I don't know that I shall. I shall take a day to con 
 sider of it I think.' 
 
 ' Consideration be bothered,' said Mollett juidor ; ' strike when 
 the iron's hot ; that's my motto.' 
 
 The father here turned half round to his son and winked at 
 him, nodding his head slightly towards the girl, thereby giving 
 token that, according to his ideas, the conversation could not 
 be discreetly carried on before a third person. » 
 
 ' All right,' said the son, lifting his joram .of brandy and water 
 to his mouth ; an action in which he was immediately imitated 
 by his father, who had now received the means of doing so from 
 the hands of the fair Fanny. 
 
 ' And how about a bed, my dear ?' said Mollett senior ; ' that's a 
 matter of importance too ; or will be when we are getting on to 
 the little hours.' 
 
 ' Oh, we won't turn you out, Mr. MoUett,' said Taimy ; ' we'll 
 find a bed for you, never fear.' 
 
 '. That's all right then, mylittle Venus. And now if I had 
 some dinner I'd sit down andT'mSke myself comfortable for the 
 evening.' 
 
 Aq, he said this, Fanny slipped out of the room, and ran down 
 into the kitchen to see what Tom and the cook were doing. 
 The Molletts, father and son, were rather more than ordinary 
 good customers at the Kanturk Hotel, and it was politic there- 
 fore to treat them well. Mr. Mollett junior, moreover, was 
 almost more than a customer ; and for the sake of the son, Fanny 
 was anxious that the father should be well treated. 
 
 ' Well, governor, and what have you done ?' said the younger 
 man in a low voice, jumping up from his seat as soon as the girl 
 had left them alone 
 
THE KANTUKK HOTEt 53 
 
 ' Well, I've got tlie usual remittance from the man in Bucklere- 
 
 Diuy. ^ Tliat was all as rigiit as a trivet.' 
 
 'And no more than that? Then I tell you what it is; we 
 must he down on him at once.' 
 
 ' But you forget that I got as much more last month, out of the 
 usual course. Come, Aby, don't you be unreasonable.' 
 
 ' Bother — I tell you, governor, if he don't ' And then 
 
 Miss O'Dwyer returned to her sanctum, ana the rest of the con- 
 versation was necessarily postponed. 
 
 ' He's managed to get you a lovely steak, Mr. MoUett,' said ■ 
 Fanny, pronouncing the word as though it were written ' steek.'j 
 ' And we've beautiful pickled walnuts ; haven't we, Mr. Aby ? 
 and there'll be kidneys biled ' (meaning potatoes) ' by the time 
 the " steek's " ready. You like it with the gravy in, don't you, 
 Mr. Mollett ?' And as she spoke she drew a quartern of whisky 
 for two of Beamish and Crawford's draymen, who stood outside 
 in the passage and drank it at the bar. 
 
 The lovely ' steek ' with the gravy in it — that is to say, nearly 
 raw — was now ready, and father and son adjourned to the next 
 room. ' Well, Tom, my lad of wax ; and how's the world using 
 you ?' said Mr. Mollett senior. 
 
 ' There ain't much difference then,' said Tom ; ' I ain't no 
 younger, nor yet no richer than when yer honour left us — and 
 what is't to be, sir ? — a pint of stout, sir ?' 
 
 As soon as Mr. Mollett senior had finished his dinner, and Tom 
 had brought the father and son materials for making whisky- 
 punch, they both got their knees toother over the fire, and- 
 commenced the confidential conversation which Miss O'Dwyer 
 had interrupted on her return to the bar-room. They spoke 
 now almost in a whisper, with their heads together over the 
 fender, Imowing from experience that what Tom wanted in eyes 
 he made up in ears. 
 
 ' And what did Prendergast say when he paid you the rhino ?' 
 asked the son. 
 
 ' Not a word,' said the other. ' After all, I don't think he kno^A■s 
 any more than a ghost what he pays it for : I think he gets fresli 
 instmctions every time. But, any ways, there it was-, all rigJjt.' 
 ' ' Hall right, indeed ! I do believe you'd be satisfied to go on 
 getting a few dribblets now and then like that. And then if 
 anything 'appooaed to you, why I might go fish.' 
 
 ' How, Aby, look here ' 
 
 ' It's hall very well, governor ; but I'll tell you what. Since 
 you started off I've been thinking a good "deal about it, and I've 
 made up my mind that this shilly-shallying won't do any good : 
 we m.ust strike a blow that'll do something for us.' 
 
64 ' CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' Well, 1 don't think we've done so bad already, taking it all 
 in-all.' 
 
 ' Ah, that's because yon haven't the pluck to strike a good - 
 blowi Now I'll just let you know what I prqpose — and I tell 
 you fairly, governor, if you'll not hear reason, I'll take the gam© 
 into my own hands.' 
 
 The father looked up from his drink and scowled at his son, 
 but said nothing in answer to this threat. 
 
 ' By Q— 1 will !' continued Aby. ' It's no use 'umbugging, 
 and I mean to make myself understood. While you've been 
 gone I've been down to that place.' 
 
 ' You 'aven't seen the old man ?' 
 
 ' No ; I 'aven't taken that step yet ; but I think it's very 
 likely I may before long if you won't hear reason.' 
 
 ' I was a d fool, Aby, ever to let you into the affair at all. 
 
 It's been going on quiet enough for the last ten years, till I let 
 j you into the secret.' 
 
 ' Well, never mind about that. That mischiefs done. But 1 
 think you'll find I'll pull you through a deal better than hever 
 you'd have pulled through yourself. You're already making 
 fcwice more out of it than you did before I knew it. As I was 
 saying, I went down there ; and in my quiet way I did just ven- 
 tre on a few hinquiries.' 
 
 ' I'll be bound you did. You'll blow it all in about another 
 rflonth, and then it'll be all up with the lot of us.' 
 
 ' It's a beautiful place : a lovely spot ; and hall in prime border. 
 They say it's fifteen thousand a year, and that ther«'s not a shil- 
 ling Jipwing on the whole property. Even in these times the 
 tenants are paying the rent, when no one else, far and near, is 
 I getting a penny out of them. I went by another place on the 
 f road — Castle Desmond they call it, and I wish you'd seen the 
 ; difference. The old boy must be rolling in money.' 
 
 ' I don't believe it. There's one as I can trust has told me 
 he's hard up enough sometimes. Why, we've had twelve 
 hundred in the last eight months.' 
 
 ' Twelve hundred ! and what's that ? But, dickens, governor, 
 where has the twelve hundred gone ? I've only seen three of it 
 
 and part of that . Well ; what do you want there, you lono-- 
 
 eared shark, you ?' These last words were addressed to Tom, 
 who had crept into the room, certainly withoutx.'-much prepara- 
 toi'y noise. 
 
 'I was only wanting the thingumbob, yer honour,' said Tom, 
 pretending to search diligently in the drawer for some required 
 article. 
 
 ' Then take youi- thingumbob quickly p.ut of that, and be d 
 
THE KANTUEK HOTEL, 55 
 
 to yoti. And look here ; if you don't knock at the door when 
 next you come in, by heavens I'll throw this tumbler at your yead. 
 
 ' Sui-e and I will, yer honour,' said Tom, withdrawing. 
 
 ' And where on hearth has the twelve hundred pounds gone ?' 
 asked the son, looking severely at the father. 
 
 Old Mr. Mollett mkde no immediate answer in words, but put- 
 ting his left hand to his right elbow, began to shake it. 
 
 ' I do wonder that you kept hon at that work,' said Mollett 
 imaior, reproachfully. ' You never by any chance have a stroke 
 of luck.' 
 
 ' Well, I have been unfortunate lately ; but who know-s what's 
 coming ? And I was deucedly spld by those fellows at the October 
 meeting. If any chap ever was safe, I ought to have been safe 
 then ; but hang me if I didn't drop four hundred of Sir Thomas's 
 shiners coolly on the spot. That was the only big haul I've had out 
 of him all at once ; and the most of it went like water through a 
 sieve within forty-eight hours after I touched it.' And then, 
 having finished this pathetical little story of his misfortune, Mr. 
 Mollett senior finished his glass of toddy. 
 
 ' It's the way of the world, governor ; and it's no use sighing 
 
 • after spilt milk. But I'll tell you what I propose ; and if 
 
 you don't like the task yourself, I have no hobjection in life to 
 
 take it into my own hands. You see the game's so much our 
 
 own that there's nothing on hearth for us to fear.' 
 
 ' I don't know that. If we were all blown, where should we 
 be ' 
 
 ' Why, she's your own •' 
 
 ' H-h-sh, Aby. There's that confounded long-eared fellow at 
 the keyhole, as sure as my name's Matthew ; and if he hears youj 
 the game's all up with a vengeance.' 
 
 ' Lord bless you, what could he hear ? Besides, talking as 
 we are now, he wouldn't catch a word even if he were in the 
 room itself. And now I'll tell you what it is ; do you go down 
 yourself, and make your way into the hold gentleman's room. 
 Just send your own name in boldly. Nobody will know what 
 that means, except himself.' 
 
 ' I did that once before ; and I never shall forget it.' 
 
 ' Yes, you did it once before, and you have had a steady incdme 
 to live on ever since ; not such an income as you might have had. 
 Not such an income as will do for you and me, now that we both 
 know so well what a fine property we have under our thumbs. 
 But, nevertheless, that little visit has been worth something to 
 you. 
 
 ' Upon my word, Aby, I never suffered so much as I did thai 
 day. I didn't know till then that I had a soft heart.' j 
 
56 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 'Soft heart! Oh, bother. Such stuff as that always makes 
 me sick. K I 'ate anything, it's maudlin. Your former visit 
 down there did very well, and now you must make another, or 
 else, by the holy poker ! I'll make it for you.' 
 
 ' And what would you have me say to him if I did manage to 
 -see him?' 
 
 'Perhaps I'd better go ' 
 
 ' That's out of the question. He wouldn't see you, or under- 
 stand who you were. And then you'd make a row, and it would 
 all come out, and the fat would be in the fire.' 
 
 ' Well, I guess I should not take it quite quiet if they didn't 
 treat me as a gentleman should be treated. I ain't always over- 
 quiet if I'm put upon.' 
 
 ' If you go near that house at all I'll have done with it. I'll 
 give up the game.' 
 
 ' ,Well, do you go, at any rate first. Perhaps it may be well 
 that I should follow after with a reminder. Do you go down, 
 and just tell him this, quite coolly, remember ' 
 
 ' Oh, I shall be cool enough.' 
 
 'That, considering hall things, you think he and you ought 
 to ' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Just divide it between you ; share and share alike. Say it's 
 fourteen thousand — and it's more than that — that would be seven 
 for him and seven for you. Tell him you'll agree to that, but 
 you won't take one farthing less.' 
 
 'Aby!' said the father, almost overcome by the grandeur of 
 his son's ideas. 
 
 ' Well ; and what of Haby ? What's the matter now ?' 
 
 ' Expect him to shell out seven thousand pounds a year !' 
 
 • And why not ? He'll do a deal more than that, I expect, 
 if he were quite sure that it would make all things serene. But it 
 won't ; and therefore you must make him another hoffer.' 
 
 ' Another offer!' 
 
 ' Yes. He'll know well enough that you'll be thinking of his 
 death.^ And for all they do say he might pop off any day' 
 
 ' He's a younger man than me, Aby, by full ten years.' 
 
 'What of that? You may pop off any day too," mayn't you? 
 I believe you old fellows don't think of dying nigh as hoften as 
 we young ones.' 
 
 ' You young ones are always looking for us old oiies to go 
 we aU know that well enough.' 
 
 ; That's when you've got anything to leave behind you, which 
 hain't the case with you, governor, just at preseut. But what I 
 was saying is this. He'll know well enough that you can split 
 
■THE KANTUKK HOTEL. 57 
 
 upon his son hafter he's gone, every bit as well as you can split 
 on him now,' , 
 
 ' Oh, I always looked to make the young gentleman pay up hand- 
 some, if so be the old gentleman went off the hooks. And if so 
 be he and I should go off together like, why you'd carry on, of 
 course. You'll have the proofs, yoti know.' 
 
 ' Oh, I should, should I ? Well, we'll look to them by-aind 
 by. But I'll tell you what, governor, the best way is to make 
 all that safe. We'll make him another hoffer — for a regular 
 substantial family harrangement ' 
 
 ' A family arrangement, eh ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; that's the way they always manage things when great 
 family hinterests is at stake. Let him give us a cool seven thou- 
 sand a year between us while he's alive ; let him put you down 
 for twenty thousand when he's dead — that'd come out of the young 
 gentleman's share of the property, of course — and then let him give 
 me his daughter Hemmeline, with another twenty thousand 
 tacked on to her skirt-tail. I should be mum then for hever for 
 the honour of the family.' 
 
 The father for a moment or two was struck dumb by the 
 magnitude of his son's proposition. ' That's what I call playing 
 the game firm,' continued the son. ' Do you lay down your terms 
 before him, substantial, and then stick to 'em. " Them's my 
 terms. Sir Thomas," you'll say. " If you don't like 'em, as I 
 can't halter, why in course I'll go elsewhere." Do you be fii-m 
 to that, and you'll see how the game'U go.' 
 
 ' And you think he'll give you his daughter in marriage ?' 
 
 ' Why not ? I'm honest born, hain't I ? And she's a bastard.' 
 
 ' But, Aby, you don't know what sort of people these axe. 
 You don't know what her breeding has been.' 
 
 ' D her breeding. I know this : she'd get a deuced pretty 
 
 fellow for her husband, and one that girls as good as her has 
 hankered hafter long enough. It won't do, governor, to let 
 people as is in their position pick and choose like. We've the 
 hupper hand, and we must do the picking and choosing.' 
 
 ' She'd never have you, Aby ; not if her father went down on 
 his knees to her to ask her.' 
 
 ' Oh, wouldn't she ? By heaven, then, she shall, and that 
 without any kneeling at all. She shall have me, and be deuced 
 glad to take me. What ! she'd refuse a fellow like me when 
 she knows that she and all belonging to her'd be turned into the 
 streets if she don't have me ! I'm clear of another way of think- 
 ing, then. My opinion is she'd come to me jumping. I'll tell 
 you what, governor, you don't know the sex.' 
 
 Mr. Mollett senior upon this merely shook his head. Perhaps 
 
58 CASTLE BICHMOND. 
 
 the fact was that he knew the sex, somewhat better than his son. 
 It had been his fate during a portion of his life to live among 
 people who were, or ought to have been, gentlemen. He might 
 have been such himself had he not gone wrong in life from the 
 very starting-post. But his son had had no such opportunities. 
 I He did know and could know nothing about ladies and gentle- 
 unen. 
 
 ' You're mistaken, Abyj' said the old man. ' They'd never 
 suffer you to come among them on such a footing as that. They'd 
 sooner go forth to the world as beggars.' 
 
 ' Then, by G ! they shall go forth as beggars. I've said it 
 
 now, father, and I'll stick to it. You know the stuff I'm made 
 of.' As he finished speaking, he swallowed down the last half 
 of a third glass of hot spirits and water, and then glared on his 
 father with angry, bloodshot eyes, and a red, almost lurid face. 
 The unfortunate father was beginning to know the son, and to 
 feel that his son would become his m^aster. 
 
 Shortly after this they were interrupted ; and what further 
 conversation they had on the matter that night took place in 
 their joint bedroom ; to which uninviting retreat it is not now 
 necessary that we should follow them. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE FAMINE TEAK. 
 
 They who were in the south of Ireland during the winter of 
 1846-47 will not readily forget the agony of that period. For 
 many, many years preceding and up to that time, the increasing 
 swarms of the country had been fed upon the potato, and upon 
 the potato only ; and now all at once the potato failed them, and 
 the greater part of eight million human beings were left without 
 food. 
 
 The destruction of the potato was the work of God ; and it 
 was natural to attribute the sufferings which at once over- 
 whelmed the unfortunate countiy to God's anger — to his wrath 
 for the misdeeds of which that country had been guilty. For 
 myself, I do not believe in such exhibitions of God's anger. 
 When wars come, and pestilence, and famine ; when the people 
 of a land are worse than decimated, and the living hardly able 
 to bury the dead, I cannot coincide with those who would 
 deprecate God's wrath by prayers. I do not believe that our 
 ] God stalks darkly along the clouds, laying thousands low with the 
 arrows of death, and those thousands the m-'ii I'gTi.^rant, because 
 
THE BAMINE "SEAK. 59 
 
 men who are not ignorant have displeased Him. Nor, if in his 
 wisdom He did do so, can I think that men's prayers would 
 hinder that which his wisdom had seen to be good and right. 
 
 But though I do not believe in exhibitions of God's anger, I do 
 beUev© in exhibitions of his mercy. When men by their folly 
 and by the shortness of their vision have brought upon them- 
 selves penalties which seem to be overwhelming, to which no end 
 can be seen, which would be overwhelming were no aid coming 
 to us but our own, then God raises his hand, not in anger, but in 
 mercy, and by his wisdom does for us that for which our own 
 wisdom h^s been insufficient. 
 
 •But on no Christian basis can I understand the justice or 
 acknowledge the propriety of asking our Lord to abate his wrath 
 in detail, or to alter his settled purpose. If He be wise, would 
 we change his wisdom ? If He be merciful, would we limit his 
 mercy ? There comes upon us some strange disease, and we bid 
 Him to stay his hand. But the disease, when it has passed by, 
 has taught us lessons of cleanliness, which no master less stem 
 would have made acceptable. A famine strikes us, and we again 
 bejj that that hand may be stayed ; — beg as the Greeks were said 
 to beg when they thought that the anger of Phoebus was hot 
 against them because his priest had been dishonoured*. We so 
 beg, thinking th^t God's anger is hot ala > against us. But, lo ! 
 the famine passes by, and a laxid that had been brought to the 
 dust by man's folly is once more prosperous and happy. 
 
 If this was ever so in the world's history, it Wjis so in Ireland 
 at the time of which I am speaking. The country, especially in 
 the south and west, had been broiight to a terrible pass ; — not as 
 so many said and do say, by the idolatry of popery, or by the 
 sedition of demagogues, or even mainly by the idleness of the 
 people. The idolatry of popery, to my way of thinking, is bad ; 
 though not so bad in Ireland as in most other Papist countries 
 that I have visited. Sedition also is bad ; but in Ireland, in late 
 years, it has not been deep-seated — as may have been noted at 
 Ballingarry and other places, where endeavour was made to bring 
 sedition to its proof. And as for the idleness of Ireland's people^ 
 I am inclined to think they will work under the same compulsion 
 and same persuasion which produce work in other countries. 
 
 The fault had been the lowness of education and consequent 
 want of principle aiqong the middle classes ; and this fault had 
 been found as strongly marked among the Protestants as it had 
 been among the Eoman Catholics. Young men were brought up 
 to do nothing. Property was regarded as having no duties 
 attached to it. Men became rapacious, and determwed to extract 
 the uttermost farthing out of the land within *heir power, let 
 
60 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 the consequences to the people on that land be wnat they 
 might. 
 
 -We used to hear much of absentees. It was not the absence 
 of the absentees that did the damage, but the presence of those 
 they left behind them on the soil. The scourge of Ireland was 
 iihe existence of a class who looked to be gentlemen living on 
 their property, but who should have earned their bread by the 
 work of thfeir brain, or, failing that, by the sveat of their brow. 
 There were men to be found in shoals through the country 
 speaking of their properties and boasting of their places', but who 
 • csvned no properties and had no places when the matter came to 
 be properly sifted. 
 
 Most Englishmen have heard of profii^rent. In Ireland the 
 term is .so common that no man cannot have heard of it. It may, 
 of course, designate a very becoming sort of income. A man 
 may, for instance, take a plot of land for one hundred pounds a 
 year, improve and build on it till it be fairly worth one thou- 
 sand pounds a year, and thus enjoy a profit-rent of nine hundred 
 pounds, Nothing can be better or fairer. But in Ireland the 
 management was very different. Men there held tracts of ground, 
 very often at their full value, paying for them such proportion of 
 rsnt as a farmer could afford to pay in England and live. But, 
 the Irish tenant would by no means consent to be a farmer. It ' 
 was needful to him that he should be a gentleman, and that his 
 sons should be taught to live and amuse themselves as the sons 
 of gentlemen— barring any such small trifle as education. They 
 did live in this way ; and to enable them to do so, they underlet 
 their land in small patches, and at an amount of rent to collect 
 which took the whole labour of their tenants, and the whole pro- 
 duce of the small patch, over and above the quantity of, potatoes 
 absolutely necessary to keep that tenant's body and soul together. 
 
 And thus a state of things was engendered in Irelaind which ' 
 iiscouraged labour, which discouraged improvements in farming, 
 which discouraged any produce from the land except the potato 
 crop ; which maintained one class of men in what they considered 
 to be the gentility of idleness, and another class, the people of ' 
 the country, in the abjectness of poverty. 
 
 If is with thorough rejoicing, almost with triumph, that I 
 ■ declare that the idle, genteel class has been cut up root and 
 branch, has been driven forth out of its holding into the wide 
 world, and has been punished with the penalty of extermination. 
 The poor cotter suffered sorely under the famine, and under the 
 pestilence which followed the famine; but he, as a class, has 
 risen from his bed of suffering a better man. He is thriving as 
 a labour*"; either in his own country or in some newer for hinj 
 
THE FAMINE YEAR. 61 
 
 bettetT— land to which he has emigrated. He, even in Ireland 
 can now get eight and nine shillings a week easier and with more 
 constancy than he could get four some fifteen years since. But 
 the other man has gone, and his place is left happily vacant. 
 
 There are an infinite number of smaller bearings in which this 
 question of the famine, and of agricultural distress in Ireland, 
 may be regarded, and should be regarded by those who wish to 
 understand it. The manner in which the Poor Law was first re- 
 jected and then accepted, and then, if one may say so, swallowed 
 whole by the people ; the way in which emigration has affected 
 them ; the difi'erence in the system of labour there from that here, 
 which in former days was so strong that an agricultural labourer 
 living on his wages and buying food with them, was a person 
 hardly to be found : all these things must be regarded by one who 
 would understand the matter. But seeing that this book of mine 
 is a novel, I have perhaps already written more on a dry subject 
 than many will read. 
 
 Such having been the state of the country, such its wretched- 
 ness, a merciful God sent the remedy which might avail to arrest 
 it ; and we — we deprecated his wrath. But all this will soon be 
 known and acknowledged ; acknowledged as it is acknowledged 
 that new cities rise up in splendour from the ashes into which 
 old cities have been consumed by fire. If this beneficent 
 agency did not from time to time disencumber our crowded 
 places, we should ever be living in narrow alleys with stinking 
 gutters, and supply of water at the minimum. 
 
 But very frightful are the flames as they rush through the 
 chambers of the poor, and very frightful was the course of that 
 violent remedy which brought Ireland out of its misfortunes. 
 Those who saw its course, and watched itS) victims, will not 
 readily forget what they saw. 
 
 Slowly, gradually, and with a voice that was for a long time 
 discredited, the news spread itself through the country that the 
 food of the people was gone. That his own crop was rotten and 
 useless each cotter quickly knew, and realized the idea that he 
 must work for wages if he could get them, or else go to the poor- 
 house. That the crop of his parish or district was gone became 
 evident to the priest, and the parson, and the squire ; and they 
 realized the idea that they must fall on other parishes or other 
 districts for support. But it was long before the fact made itself 
 known that there was no food in any parish, in any district. 
 
 When this was understood, men certainly did put their 
 shoulders to the wheel with a great effort. Much abuse at the 
 time was thrown upon the government ;■ and they who took upon 
 themselves the management of the relief of the poor in the soutL 
 
62 CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 west were -taken most severely to task. I was in the country 
 travelling always through it, during the whole period, and 1 
 have to say— as I did say at the time with a voice that was not 
 very audible — that in my opinion the measures of the govern- 
 ment were prompt, wise, and beneficent ; and I have to say also 
 that the efforts of those who managed the poor were, as a rule, 
 unremitting, honest, impartial, and successful. 
 
 The feeding of four million starving people with food, tff be 
 
 brought from foreign lands, is not an easy job. No government 
 
 could bring the food itself; but by striving to do so it might 
 
 effectually prevent such- bringing on the part of others. _ Nor 
 
 when the food was there, on the quays, was it easy to put it, in 
 
 due propdrtions, into the four million mouths. Some mouths, 
 
 i and they, alas ! the weaker ones, would remain unfed. But the 
 
 'Opportunity was a good one for slashing philanthropical censure ; 
 
 and then the business of the slashing, censorious philanthropist 
 
 ; is so easy, so exciting, and so pleasant ! 
 
 I think that no portion of Ireland suffered more severely during 
 the famine than the counjties Cork and Kerry. The poorest parts 
 were perhaps the parishes lying back from the sea and near to 
 the mountains ; and in the midst of such a district Desmond Court 
 was situated. The region immediately round Castle Eichmond 
 was perhaps better. The tenants there had more means at their - 
 disposal, and did not depend so absolutely on the potato crop ;• 
 but even round Castle Eichmond the distress was very severe.- 
 
 Early in the year relief committees were fonned, on one of 
 which young Herbert Fitzgerald agreed to act. His father pro 
 mised, and was prepared to give his best assistance, both bj 
 money and countenance ; but he pleaded that the state of his 
 health hindered him from active exertion, and therefore his son 
 came forward in his stead on this occasion, as it appeared pro- 
 bable that he would do on all others having reference to the 
 family property. 
 
 This. work brought people together who would hardly hav* 
 met but for such necessity. The priest and the parson of -m 
 parish, men who had hitherto never been in a room togethe^ 
 and between whom neither had known anything of the other but 
 the errors of his doctrine, found themselves fighting for the same . 
 object at the same board, and each for the moment laid aside his 
 religious ferocity. Gentlemen, whose ancestors had come over 
 with Strong bow, or maybe even with Milesius, sat cheek by jowl 
 with retired haberdashers, concerting new soup-kitchens and 
 learning on what smallest modicum of pudding made from Indian, 
 com a famU^ ef seven might be kept alive, and in such condition 
 that the father at least might be able to stand upright 
 
THE FAMINE TEAK. 63 
 
 The town of Kanturk was the head-quarters of that circle to 
 which Herbert Fitzgerald was attached, in which also would 
 have been inchided the owner of Desmond Court, had there been 
 an owner of an age to undertake such work. But the young 
 earl was stiU under sixteen, and the property was represented, 
 as far -as any representation was made, by the countess. 
 
 But even in such a work as this, a work which so strongly 
 brought out what there was of good among the upper classes, 
 ■ there was food for jealousy and ill will. The name of Owen 
 Fitzgerald at this time did not stand high in the locality of 
 which we are speaking. Men had presumed to talk both to him 
 and of him, and he replied to their censures by scorn. Ho 
 would not change his mode of living for them, or allow them to 
 believe that their interference could in any way operate upon his 
 conduct. He had therefore affected a worse character for morals 
 than he had perhaps truly deserved, and had thus thrown off 
 - from him all intimacy with, many of the families ■ among whom 
 he lived. 
 
 When, therefore, he had come forward as others had done, 
 offering to join his brother-magistrates and the clergyman of the 
 di«trict in their efforts, they had, or- he had thought that they 
 had, looked coldly on him. His property was half way between 
 Kanturk and Mallow; and when this occurred he turned his 
 shoulder upon the former place, and professed to act with those 
 whose meetings were held at the latter town. Thus he became 
 altogether divided from that Castle Eichmond neighbourhood 
 to which he was naturally attached by old intimacies and family 
 ties. 
 
 It was a hard time this for the poor countess. I have endea- 
 voured to explain that the position in which she had been left 
 with regard to money was not at any time a very easy one. She 
 possessed high rank and the name of a countess, but very little 
 of that wealth which usually constitutes the chief advantage of 
 such rank and name. But now such means as had been at her 
 disposal were terribly crippled. There was no poorer district 
 than that immediately around her, and none, therefore, in which 
 the poor rates rose to a more fearful proportion of the rent. The 
 country was, and for that matter still is, divided, for purposes ot 
 poor-law rating, into electoral districts. In ordinary times a 
 man, or at any rate a lady, may live and die in his or her own 
 house without much noticing the limits or peculiarities of each 
 district. In one the rate may be one and a penny in the pound, 
 in another only a shilling. But the difference is not large 
 enough to create inquiry. It is divided between the landlord 
 »ud the tenant, and neither perhaps thinks much about it. But 
 
64 OASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 when the demand made rises to seventeen or eighteen shillingi; 
 m the pound — as was the case in some districts in those dsLja, — 
 when out of every pound of rent that he paid the tenant claimed 
 ,to deduct nine shillings for poor rates, that is, half the amount 
 levied — then a landlord becomes anxious enough as to the pecu- 
 liarities of his own electoral division. 
 
 In the case of Protestant clergymen, thjB whole rate had to be 
 paid by the incumbent. A gentleman whose half-yearly rent- 
 charge amounted to perhaps two hundred pounds might have 
 nine-tenths of that sum deducted from him for poor rates. 
 I have known a case in which the proportion has been higher 
 than this. 
 
 And then the tenants in such districts began to decline to pay 
 any rent at all — in very many cases could pay no rent at all. 
 They, too, depended on the potatoes which were gone ; they, 
 too, had been subject to those dreadful demands for poor rates ; 
 and thus a landlord whose property was in any way embarrassed 
 had but a bad time of it. The property from which Lady Des- 
 mond drew her income had been very much embarrassed ; and 
 for her the times were very bad. 
 
 In such periods of misfortune, a woman has always some 
 friend. Let her be who she may, some pair of broad shoulders 
 is forthcoming on which may be laid so much of the burden as is 
 by herself unbearable. It is the great privilege of womanhood, 
 that which compensates them for the want of those other privi- 
 leges which belong exclusively to manhood — sitting in Parlia 
 ment, for instance, preaching sermons, and going on 'Change. 
 
 At this time Lady Desmond would doubtless have chosen tba 
 shoulders of Owen Fitzgerald for the bearing of her burden, had 
 he not turned against her, as he had done. But now there was 
 no hope of that. Those broad shoulders had burdens of their 
 own to bear of another sort, and it was at any rate impossible 
 that he should come to share those of Desmond Court. 
 
 But a champion was forthcoming ; one, indeed, whose shoulders 
 were less broad; on looking at whose head and brow Lady 
 Desmond cotdd not forget her years as she had done while Owen 
 Fitzgerald had been near her ; — but a champion, nevertheless, 
 whom she greatly prized. This was Owen's cousin, Herbert 
 , Fitzgerald. 
 
 ' Mamma,' her daughter said to her one evening, as they wfere 
 sitting together in the only room which they now inhabited 
 'Herbert wants us to go to that place near KiloommOn to- 
 morrow, and says he will send the car at two. I suppose I 
 can go ?' 
 
 There were two things that Lady Desmond noticed in . this ■, 
 
 i: 
 
' THE FAMINE YEATl. 65 
 
 l>rst, tliat her daughter should have called young Mr. Fitzgerald 
 by his Christian name ; and secondly, that it should have come 
 to that with them, that a Fitzgerald Kshonld send a vehicle for a 
 Desmond, seeing that the Desmond could no longer provi<ie a 
 vehicle for herself. 
 
 ' You could have had the pony-chair, my dear.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, mamma ; I would not do that.' The pony was now 
 the only quadruped kept for the countess's own behoof ; and the 
 young earl's hunter vras the only other horse in the Desmond 
 Court stahles. ' I wouldn't do that, mamma ; Mary and Emme- 
 line will not mind coming round.' 
 
 ' But they will have to come round again to bring you back.' 
 
 ' Yes, mamma. Herbert said they wouldn't mind it. We 
 want to see how they are managing at the new soup kitchen 
 they have there. That one at Clady is very bad. The boiler 
 won't boil at all.' 
 
 ' Very well, my dear ; only mind you wrap yourself up.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; I always do.' 
 
 ' But, Clara — ' and Lady Desmond put on her sweetest, 
 smoothest smile as she spoke to her daughter. 
 
 ' Yes, mamma.' 
 
 ' How long have you taken to call young Mr. Fitzgerald by 
 his Christian name ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I never do, mamma,' said Clara, with a blush all over her 
 face; 'not to himself, I mean. You see, Mary and Emmeline 
 are always talking about him.' 
 
 ' And therefore you mean always to talk about him also.' 
 
 ' No, mamma. But one can't help talking about him ; he is 
 doing so much for these poor people. 1 don't think he ever 
 thinks about anything else from morning to night. Emmeline 
 says he always goes to it again after dinner. Don't you think 
 he is very good about it, mamma ?' 
 
 ' Yes, my dear ; very good indeed ; almost good enough to be 
 called Herbert.' 
 
 ' But I don't call him so ; you know I don't,' protested Clara, 
 very energetically. 
 
 ' He is very good,' continued the 'countess ; ' very good 
 indeed. I don't know what on earth we should do without 
 him. If he were my own son, he could hardly be more atten- 
 tive to me.' 
 
 ' Then I may go with the girls to that place ? I always forget 
 the name.' 
 ' ' Gortnaclough, you mean.' 
 
 'Yes, mamma. It is all Sir Thomas's property there; and 
 tiiej have got a regular kitchen, beautifully built. Her — Mr. 
 
66 CASTLE ElOHMOND. 
 
 Fitzgerald says, with a regular cook. I do vdsh. we cotild hare 
 one at Clady.' 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald will he here to-morrow morning, and I will 
 talk to him about it. I fear we have not sufficient funds there.' 
 
 ' No ; that's just it, I do wish I had some money now. You 
 won't mind if I am not home quite early ? We all mean to dino 
 there at the kitchen. The girls will bring something, and then 
 we can stay out the whole afternoon.' 
 
 ' It won't do for you to be out after nightfall, Clara.' 
 
 '.No, I won't, mamma. They did want me to go home with 
 them to Castle Eichmond for to-morrow night ; but I declined 
 that,' and Clara uttered a slight sigh, as though she had declined 
 something that would have been very pleasant to her. 
 
 ' And why did you decline it ?' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know. I didn't know whether you would like 
 it ; and besides — ' 
 
 'Besides what?' 
 
 ' You'd be here all alone, mamma.' 
 
 The countess got up from her chair and coming over to the 
 place where her daughter was sitting, kissed her on her fore- 
 head. ' In such a matter as that, I don't want you to think of 
 me, my dear. I would rather yon went out. I must remain 
 here in this horrid, dull, wretched place ; but that is no reason 
 why you should be buried alive. I would much rather that you 
 went out sometimes.' 
 
 'No, mamina' ; I will remain with you.' 
 
 ' It will be quite right that you should go to Castle -Eichmond 
 to-moiTow. If they send their carriage round here for you ' 
 
 ' It'll only be the car.' 
 
 ' Well, the car ; and if the girls come all that way out of their 
 road in the morning to pick you up, it will be only civil that 
 you should go back by Castle Eichmond, and you would enjoy 
 an evening there with the girls very much.' 
 
 ' But I said decidedly that I would not go.' 
 
 ' Tell them to-morrow as decidedly that yoxi have changed 
 your mindj and will be delighted to accept their invitation. 
 They will understand that it is because you have spoken to me.' 
 
 ' But, mamma ' 
 
 ' You will like going ; will you not ?' 
 
 " Yes ; I shall like it.' 
 
 And BO that matter was settled. On the wholl, Lady 
 Desmond was inclined to admit within her own heart that her 
 daughter had behaved very well in that matter of the banish- 
 ment of Owen Fitzgerald. She knew that Clara had never seen 
 bim, and had refused to open his -letters. Very little had be«itt 
 
THE FAMINE TEAE. fj? 
 
 said upon the subject between the mother and daughter. Once ot 
 twice Owen's name had been mentioned ; and once, when- it had 
 Jbeen mentioned, with heavy blame on account of his alleged sins 
 Clara had ventured to "take his part. 
 
 'People delight to say ill-natured things,' she had said; 'but 
 one is not obliged to believe them all.' 
 
 From that time Lady Desmond had never mentioned his name, 
 rightly judging that Clara would be more likely to condemn him 
 in her own heart- if she did not hear him condemned by others 
 and so the mother and daughter had gone on, as though the former 
 had lost no friend, and the latter had lost no lover. 
 
 For some time after the love adventure, Clara had been pale 
 and drooping, and the countess had been frightened about her ; 
 but latterly she had got over this. The misfortune which had 
 fallen so heavily upon them all seemed to have done her good, 
 She had devoted herself from the first to do her little quota of 
 work towards lessening the suffering around her, and the effort 
 had been salutary to her. 
 
 Whether or no in her heart of hearts she did still think of 
 Owen Fitzgerald, her mother was unable to surmise. From the 
 fire which had flashed from her eyes on that day when she 
 accused the world of saying ill-natured things of him, Lady 
 Desmond had been sure that such was -the case. But she had 
 never ventured to probe her child's heart. She had given very 
 little confidence to Clara, and could not, therefore, and did not 
 expect confidence in return. 
 
 Nor was Clara a girl likely in such a matter to bestow confi- 
 dence on any one. She was one who could hold her heart full, 
 and yet not speak of her heart's fulness. Her mother had called 
 her a child, and in some respects she then was so ; but this 
 childishness had been caused, not by lack of mental power, but 
 want of that conversation with others which is customary to' 
 girls of her age. This want had in some respects made her 
 childish ; for it hindered her froin expressing herself in firm 
 tones, and caused her to blush and hesitate when she spoke. 
 But in some respects it had the opposite effect, and made her 
 older than her age, for she was thoughtful, silent, and patient of 
 endurance. 
 
 Latterly, since this dreary famine-time had come upon them, 
 an intimacy had sprung up between Clara and the Castle Eichmond 
 ■ girls, and in a measure, too, between Clara and Herbert Fitzgerald. 
 Lady Desmond had seen this with great pleasure. Though she 
 had objected to Owen Fitzgerald for her daughter, she had no 
 objection to the Fitzgerald name. Herbert was his father's, odjy 
 son, and heir to the finest property in the county — at any rate, 
 
b'S CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 to the property which at present was the best circTimstanced. 
 Owen Fitzgerald could never be more than a little squire, but 
 Herbert would be a baronet. Owen's utmost' ambition would be 
 to live at Hap House all his life, and die the oracle of the 
 Duhallow himt ; but Herbert would be a member of Parliament, 
 with a house in London. A daughter of the house of Desmond 
 might marry the heir of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, and be thought 
 to have done well ; whereas, she would disgrace herself by be- 
 coming the mistress of Hap House. Lady Desmond, therefore, 
 had been delighted to see this intimacy. 
 
 It had been in no spirit of fault-finding that she had remarked 
 to her daughter as to her use of that Christian name. "What 
 would be better than that they should be to each other as 
 Herbert and Clara ? But the cautious mother had known how 
 easy it would be to frighten her timid, fawn-like child. It was 
 no time, no time, as yet, to question her heart about this second 
 lover — if lover he might be. The countess was much too subtle 
 in her way to frighten her child's heart back to its old passion. 
 That passion doubtless would die from want of food. Let it be 
 starved and die ; and then this other new passion might spring 
 ap. 
 1 The Countess 6f Desmond had no idea that her daughter, with 
 ! severe self-questioning, had taken her own heart to task about 
 this former lover ; had argued with herself that the man who 
 could so sin, could live such a life, and so live in these fearful 
 times, was unworthy of her love, and must b6 torn out of her 
 heart, let the cost be what it might. Of such high resolves on 
 her daughter's part, nay, on the part of any young girl, Lady 
 Desmond had no knowledge. 
 
 Clara Desmond had' determined, slowly determined, to give up 
 the man whom she had owned to love. She had determined that 
 duty and female dignity required her to do so. And. in this 
 manner it had been' done ; not by the childlike forgetfulness 
 which her mother attributed to her. 
 
 And so it was arranged that she should stay the following 
 uight at Castle Richmond. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 QORTNACLOUGH AND BERETHILL. 
 
 And now at last we will get to Castle Richmond, at which plaoo, 
 seeing that it gives the title to our novel, we ought to have 
 arrived long since. 
 
GOETNACtOUGH AND BEEETHILL. 69 
 
 As had been before arranged, the two Miss Pitzgeralds did 
 call at Desmond Court early on the following day, and were 
 delighted at being informed by Lady Desmond that Clara had 
 changed her mind, and would, if they would now allow her, stay 
 the night at Castle Eiohmond. 
 
 ' The truth wa^ she did not like to leave me,' said the countess, 
 whispering prettily into the ear of the eldest of the two girls ; 
 ' but I am delighted that she should have an opportunity of 
 getting out of this dull place for a few hours. It was so good of 
 you to think of her.' 
 
 Miss Fitzgerald made some civil answer, and away they all 
 went. Herbert was on horseback, and. remained some minutes 
 after them to discuss her own difficulties with the countess, and 
 to say a few words about that Glady boiler that would not boil. 
 Clara on this subject had opened her heart to him, and he had 
 resolved that the boiler should be made to. boil. So he said that 
 he would go over and look at it, resolving also to send that which 
 would be much more efficacious than himself, namely, the 
 necessary' means and workmen for bringing about so desirable a 
 result. And then he rode after the girls, and caught the car just 
 as it reached Gortnaclough. 
 
 How they all spent their day at the soup-kitchen, which how- 
 ever, though so called, partook quite as much of the character of 
 a bake-house ; how they studied the art of making yellow Indian 
 meal into puddings ; how the girls wanted to add milk and 
 sugar, not understanding at first the deep principles of political 
 economy, which soon taught them not to waste on the comforts 
 of a few that which was so necessary for the life of many ; how 
 the poor women brought in their sick ailing children, accepting 
 , the proffered food, but bitterly complaining of it as th-ey^ took it, 
 — complaining of it because they wanted money, with which 
 they stilly thought that they could buy potatoes — all this need not i 
 here or now be described. Our present biisiness is to get them 
 all back to Castle Eichmond. 
 
 There had been some talk of their dining at Gortnaclough, 
 because it was known that the ladies at Desmond Court dined 
 early ; but now that Clara was to return to Castle Eiohmond, 
 that idea was given up, and they ull got back' to the house in 
 time for the family dinner. 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Emmeline, walking first into the drawing-room, 
 ' Lady .Clara has come back with us after all, and is gokig to stay 
 here to-night ; we are so glad !' 
 
 Lady Mtzgerald got up from her sofa, and welcomed her 
 young guest with a kiss. 
 
 ' It is very good of you to come,' she said ; ' very good 'ndeed. 
 
70 CASTLE SICHMOND. 
 
 You won't find it dull, I hope, because I know you are thinking 
 about the same thing as these children.' 
 
 Lady Clara muttered some sort of indistinct little protest 
 as to.the impossibility of being dull with her present friends. 
 
 ' Oh, she's as full of corn meal and pints of soup as any one,' 
 said Emmeline ; ' and knows exactly how much turf it takes to 
 boil fifteen stone of pudding ; don't you, Clara ? But come up- 
 stairs, for we haven't long, and I know you are frozen. You 
 must dress with us, dear ; for there will be no fire in your own 
 room, as we didn't expect you.' 
 
 ? I wish we could get them to like it,' said Clara, standing 
 with one foot on the fender, in the middle of the process of dress- 
 ing, so as to warm' her toes ; and her friend Emmeline was 
 standing by her, with her arm round her waist. 
 
 ' I don't think we shall ever do that,' said Mary, who was 
 sitting at the glass brushing her hair ; ' it's so cold, and heavy, 
 and uncomfortable when they get it.' 
 
 ' You see,' said Enmieline, ' though they did only have 
 potatoes before, they always had them quite warm ; and though 
 a dinner of potatoes seems very poor, they did have it all together, 
 in their own houses, you know ; and I think the very cooking 
 it was some comfort to them.' • ^ 
 
 ' And I suppose they couldn't be taught to cook this them- 
 selves, so as to make it comfortable in their own cabins ?' said 
 Clara, despondingly. 
 
 'Herbert says it's impossible,' said Mary. 
 
 ' And I'm sure he knows,'- said Clara. 
 
 ' They would waste more than they would eat,' said Emmeline. 
 ' Besides, it is so hard to cook it as it should be cooked ; some- 
 times it seems impossible to make -it soft.' 
 
 ' So it does,' said Clara, sadly ; ' but if we could only have it 
 hot for them when they come for it, wouldn't that be better ?' 
 
 ' The great thing is to have it for them at all,' said Mary the 
 wise (for she had been studying tlie matter more deeply than hei 
 friend) ; ' there are so many who as yet get none.' 
 
 ' Herbert says that the mUlers will grind up the husks and all 
 at the mills, so as to make the most of it ; that's what makes it so 
 hard to cook,' said Emmeline. 
 
 ' How very wrong of them !' protested Clara ; ' but isn't Her- 
 bert going to have a mill put up of his own ?' 
 , And so they went on, till.I fear they kept the Castle Eichmond 
 dinner waiting for full fifteen minutes. 
 
 Castle Eichmond, too, would have been a dull house, as Lady 
 Fitzgerald had intimated, had it not been that there was a com- 
 mon subject of such vital interest to the whole party. On that 
 
GOETNACLOUGH ANB BEEEYHILL. 71 
 
 subject they were all intent, and -on that subject they talked tha 
 whole evening, planning, preparing, and laying out schemes; 
 devising how their money might he made to go fui'thest ; discus- 
 sing deep questions of political economy, and making, no doubt, 
 many eiTors in their discussions. 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald took a part in all this, and so occasionally did 
 Sir Thomas. Indeed, on this evening he was more active than 
 was usual with him. He got up from his arm-chair, and came 
 to the table, in . order ■ that he might pore over the map of the 
 estate with them ; for they were dividing the property into 
 - districts, and seeing how best the poor might be visited in their 
 own localities. 
 
 And then, as he did so, he became liberal. Liberal, indeed, 
 he always was ; but now he made oifers of assistance more than 
 his son had dared to ask ; and they were all busy, contented, and 
 in a great degree joyous— joyous, though their work arose from 
 the contiguity of such infinite misery. But what can ever be 
 more joyous than efforts made for lessening misery ? 
 
 During all this time Miss Letty was fast asleep m her own 
 arm-chair. But let no one on that account accuse her -of a hard, 
 heart ; for she had nearly walked her old legs off that day in 
 going about from cabin to cabin round the demesne. 
 
 ' But we must consult Somers about that mill,' said Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' Oh, of course,' said Herbert ; ' I know how to talk Somers 
 over.' 
 
 This was added sotto voce to his mother and the girls. Now 
 Mr. Somers was the agent on the estate. 
 
 This mill was to be at Berryhill, a spot also on Sir Thomas's 
 property, but in a different direction from Gortnaolough. There 
 was there what the Americans would call a water privilege, a 
 stream to which some fall of land just there gave power enough 
 to turn a mill; and it was now a question how they might 
 utilize that power; 
 
 During the day just past Clara had been with them, but they 
 were now talking of what they would do when she would have 
 left them. This created some little feeling of awkwardness,, for 
 Clara had put her whole heart into the work at Gortnaolough, 
 and it was evident that she would have been so delighted to 
 continue with them. 
 
 ' But why on earth need you go home to-morrow. Lady Clara?' 
 said Herbert. 
 
 ' Oh, I must ; mamma expects me, you know.' 
 
 'Of course we should send word. Indeed, I must send to 
 Glady to-morrow, and the man must pass by Desmond Court 
 gate.' 
 
72 - .CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, Glara ; and you can write a line. It wonld be suish 
 a pity that yon should not see all about the mill, now that wo 
 have talked it over together. Do tell her to stay, mamma.' 
 
 ' I am sure I wish'she would,' said Lady Fitzgerald. ' Could 
 not Lady Desmond manage to spare you for one day ?' 
 
 ' She is all alone, you know,' said Clara, whose heart, however, 
 was bent on accepting the invitation. 
 
 ' Perhaps she would come over and join us,' said Lady Fitz- 
 gerald, feeling, however, that the subject was not without 
 danger. Sending a carriage for a young girl like Lady Clara 
 did very well, but it might not answer if she were to offer to 
 send for the Countess of Desmond. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma never goes out.' 
 
 ' I'm quite sure she'd like you to stay,' .said Herbert. ' After 
 you were all gone yesterday, she said how delighted she was to 
 have you go away for a little time. And she did say she thought 
 you could not go to a better place than Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 ' I am sure that was "very kind of her,' said Lady Fitzgerald. 
 ' ' Did she ?' said plara, longingly. 
 
 And so after a while it was settled that she should send a line 
 to her mother, saying that she had been persuaded to stay over 
 one other night, and that she should accompany them to inspect 
 the site of this embryo mill at Berry hill. 
 
 - ' And I will write a line to the countess,' said Lady Fitzgerald, 
 ' telling her how impossible it was for you to hold your own 
 intention when we were all attacking you on the other side.' 
 
 And so the matter was settled. 
 
 On the following day they were to leave home almost imme- 
 diately after breakfast ; and on this occasion Miss Letty insisted 
 on going with them. 
 
 ' There's a seat on the car, I know, Herbert,' she said ; ' for 
 you mean to ride ; and I'm just as much interested about the 
 mill as any of you,.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid the day would be too long for you, Aunt Letty,' 
 said Mary : ' we shall stay there, you know, till after four.' 
 
 ' Not a J)it too long. When I'm tired I shall go into Mrs. 
 Townsend's ; the glebe is not ten minutes' drive from BerryhilL' 
 
 The Rev.'.^,neas Townsend was the rector of the parish, and 
 he^as well as his wife, were fast friends of Aunt Letty. As we 
 get on in the story we shall, I trust, become acquainted with the 
 Eev. '.^neas Townsend and his wife. It was ultimately found 
 that there was no getting rid of Aunt Letty, and so the party 
 wa»s made up. 
 
 They were all standing about the hall after breakfast, looking 
 up their shawls and cloaks and ^coats, and Herbert was in the 
 
QOHTNACLOUUH AND BERRTHILL. 73 
 
 jkot of taking special and very suspicious care of Lady Clara's 
 throat, when there came a ring at the door. The visitor, who- 
 ever he might be, was not kept long waiting, for one servant was 
 in the hall, and another just outside the front door with the car, 
 and a third holding Herbert's horse. 
 
 ' I wish to see Sir Thomas,' said a man's voice as soon as tha 
 door was opened ; and the man entered the haU, and then seeing 
 that it was full of ladies, retreated again into the doorway. He 
 was an elderly man, dressed almost more than well, for there 
 was about him a slight affectation of dandyism ; and though he 
 had for the moment been abashed, there was about him also a 
 slight swagger. 'Good morning, ladies,' he said, re-entering 
 again, and bowing to J'oung Herbert, who stood looking at him ; 
 ' I believe Sir Thomas is at home ; would you send your servant 
 in to say that a gentleman wants to see him for a minute or so, 
 on very particular business ? I am a little in a hurry like.' 
 
 The door of the drawing-room was ajar, so that Lady Fitz- 
 gerald, who was sitting there tranquilly in her own seat, could , 
 hear the voice. And she didrhear it, and knew that some stranger 
 had come to trouble her husband. But she did not come forth ; 
 why should she ? was not Herbert there — if, indeed, even Herbert '. 
 could be of jiny service ? 
 
 ' Shall I take your card into Sir Thomas, sir ?' said one of the 
 servants, coming forward. 
 
 ' Card !' said MoUett senior out loud ; ' well, if it is necessary, 
 I believe I have a card.' And he took from his pocket a greasy 
 pocket-book, and extracted from it a piece of pasteboard on which 
 his name was written. ' There ; give that to Sir Thomas. I 
 don't think there's- much doubt but that he'll see me.' And then, 
 uninvited, he sat himself down in one of the hall chairs. 
 
 Sir Thomas's study, the room in which he himself sat, and in 
 which indeed he might almost be said to live at present, — for on 
 many days he only came out to dine, and then again to go to bed, 
 — was at some little distance to the back of the house, and was 
 approached by a passage from the hall. While the servant was 
 gone, the ladies fiiished their wrapping, and got up on the car. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald,' said Clara, laughing, ' I shan't be able to 
 breathe with all that on me.' 
 
 ' Look at Mary and Emmeline,' said he ; ' they have got twice 
 as much, ^ou don't know how cold it is.' 
 
 ' You had better have the fur close to your body,' said Aimt 
 Letty ; ' look here ;' and she showed that her gloves were lined 
 with fiir, and her boots, and that she had gotten some nondescript 
 furry article of attire stuck in underneath the body of her 
 
74 CASTLfi RICHMOND. 
 
 ' But you must let me have them a little looser, Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 said Clara ; ' there, that will do ;' and then they all got upon the 
 car and started. Herbert was perhaps two minutes after them 
 before he mounted ; but when he left the hall the man was" still 
 sitting there;. for the servant had not yet come back from his 
 father's room. 
 
 But the clatter of his horse's hoofs was still distinct enough at 
 the hall door when the servant did come back, and in a serious 
 tone desired the stranger to follow him. ' Sir Thomas will see 
 you,' said the servant, putting some stress on the word will. 
 
 ' Oh, I did not doubt- that the lea,st in the world,' said Mr. 
 lyiollett, as he followed the man along the passage. 
 
 The morning was very cold. There had been rainy weather, 
 but it now appeared to be a settled frost. The roads were rough 
 and hard, and the man who was driving them said a word now 
 and again to his young master as to the expediency of getting 
 frost nails put into the horse's shoes. ' I'd better go gently, Mr. 
 Herbert ; it may be he might come down at some of these 
 pitches.' So they did go gently, and at last arrived safely at 
 Berry hill. 
 
 And very busy they were there all day. The inspection of 
 the site for the mill was not their only employment. Here also 
 was an establishment for distributing food, and a crowd of poor 
 half-fed wretches were there to meet them. Not that at that 
 time things were so bad as they became afterwards. Men were 
 not dying on the road-side, nor as yet had the apathy of want 
 produced its terrible cure for the agony of hunger. The time 
 had not yet come when the famished living skeletons might be 
 seen to reject the food which could no longer serve to prolong 
 their lives. 
 
 Though this had not come as yet, the complaints of the 
 women with their throngs of children were bitter enough ; and 
 it was heart-breaking too to hear the men declare that they had 
 -worked like horses, and that it was hard upon them now to see 
 their children starve like dogs. For in this earlier part of the 
 famine the people did not seem to realize the fact that this 
 scarcity and want had come from God. Though they saw the 
 potatoes rotting in their own gardens, under their own eyes, they 
 still seemed to think that the rich men of the land could stay the 
 famine if .they would ; that the fault was with them ; that the 
 ! famine could be put down if the rich would but stir themselyea 
 to do it. Before it was over they were well aware that no 
 human power could suffice to put it down. . Nay, more than 
 that ; they had almost begun to doubt the power of God to bring 
 back better days. 
 
aORTNAOLOlTGH AKD BEEETHILL. 75 
 
 They strove, and toiled, and planned, and hoped at Benyhill 
 that day. And infinite was the good that was done by such 
 efforts as these. That they could not hinder God's work we al] 
 kijow.; but much they did do to lessen the sufferings around, and 
 many were the lives that were thus saved. 
 
 They were all standing behind the counter of a small store 
 that had been hired in the village — the three girls at least, for 
 Aunt Letty had already gone to the glebe, and Herbert was still 
 down at the ' water privilege,' talking to a millwright and a 
 carpenter. This was a place at which Indian corn flour, that 
 which after a while was generally termed ' meal ' in those famine', 
 days, was sold to the poor. At this period much of it was 
 absolutely given away. This plan, however, was soon found to 
 be injurious ; for hundreds would get it who were not absolutely 
 in want, and would then sell it ; — for the famine by no means 
 irdproved the morals of the people. 
 
 And therefore it was found better to sell the flour'; to sell it 
 at a cheap rate, considerably less sometimes than the cost price ; 
 and to put the means of buying it into the hands of the people 
 by giving them work, and paying them wages. Towards the 
 end of these times, when the full weight of the blow was under- 
 stood, and the subject had been in some sort studied, the general 
 rule was thus to sell the meal at its true price, hindering the 
 exorbitant profit of hucksters by the use of large stores, and to 
 require that all those who could not buy it should seek the 
 means of living within the walls of workhouses. The regular 
 established workhouses, — unions as they were called, — were not 
 as yet n*timerous, but supernumerary houses were provided in 
 every town, and were crowded from the cellars to the roofs. 
 
 It need hardly be explained that no general rule could be 
 established and acted upon at once. The numbers to be dealt 
 with were so great, that the exceptions to. all rules were over- 
 whelming. But such and such like were the efforts made, and 
 these efforts ultimately were successful. 
 
 The three girls were standing behind the counter of a little 
 store which Sir Thomas had hired at BerryhiU, when a woman 
 came into the place with two children in her arms and followed 
 by four others of different ages. She was a gaunt tall creature, 
 with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, aiid her clothes hun^ about 
 her in unintelligible rags. There was a crowd before the 
 counter, fdr those who had been answered or served stood staring 
 at the three ladies, and could hardly be got to go away ; but this 
 woman pressed her way through, pushing some and using haa-sh 
 language to others, till she stood immediately opposite to Clara. 
 
 'Look at that, madam,' she cried, undoing an old handker- 
 
76 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 oliief which she held in her hand, and displaying the contents 
 on the counter ; ' is that what the likes of you calls food for pour 
 people ? is that fit 'ating to give to children ? Would any av 
 ye put such stuff as that into the stomachs of your own bairns ?' and 
 she pointed to the mess which lay revealed upon the handkerchiefs 
 
 The food as food, was not nice to look at ; and could not have 
 been nice to eat, or. probably easy of digestion when eaten. 
 ' ■' Feel of that.' And the woman rubbed her forefinger among 
 it to show that it was rough and hard, and that the particles 
 were as sharp as though sand had been mixed with it. The 
 stuff was half-boiled Indian meal, which had been improperly sub- 
 jected at first to the full heat of boiling water : and in its present 
 state was bad food either for children or grown people. ' Feel of 
 that,' said the woman ; ' would you like to be 'ating that yourself 
 now?' 
 
 ' I don't think you have cooked it quite enough,' said Clara, 
 looking into the woman's face, half with fear and half with pity, 
 and putting, as she spoke, her pretty delicate finger down into 
 the nasty daubed mess of parboiled yellow flour. 
 
 ' Cooked if!' said the woman scornfully. ' All the cooking 
 on 'arth wouldn't make food of that fit for a Christian — feel of the 
 roughness of it ' — and she turned to another woman who stood ^ 
 near her ; ' would you like to be putting sharp points like that 
 into your children's bellies ?' 
 
 It was quite true that the grains of it were hard and sharp, 
 so as to give one an idea that it would make good eating neither 
 for women nor children. The millers and dealers, who of course 
 made their profits in these times, did frequently grind up the 
 whole corn without separating the grain from the husks, and the 
 shell of a grain of Indian corn does not, when ground, become 
 ; soft flour. This woman had reason for her complaints, as had 
 many thousands reason for similar complaints. 
 
 ' Don't be throublin'g the ladies, Kitty,' said an old man stand- 
 ing by ; ' sure and weren't you glad enough to be getting it?' 
 
 "She'd be axing the ladies to go home wid her and cook it for 
 her after giving it her,' said another. 
 
 ' Who says it war guv' me ?' said the angry mother. ' Didn't , 
 I buy it, here at this counter, with Mike's own hard-'amed 
 money ? and it's chaiting us they are. Give me back my money.' 
 And she looked at Clara as though she meant to attack her 
 across the counter. 
 
 'Mr. Fitzgerald is going to put up a mill of his own, and 
 then the com will be better ground,' said Emmeline Fitzgerald, 
 deprecating the woman's wrath. 
 
 ' Put up a mill !' said the woman, stiU in scorn. ' Are you 
 
GOETNACLOUGH AND BERRYHILL. 77 
 
 going to give me back my money ; or food that my poor baims 
 can ate ?' 
 
 This, individual little difficulty was ended by a donation to 
 the angry woman of another lot of meal, in taking away which 
 she was careful not to leave behind her the mess which she had 
 brought in her handkerchief. But she expressed no thanks on 
 being so treated. 
 
 The hardest burden which had to be borne by those who 
 exerted themselves at this period was the ingratitude of the poor 
 for whom they worked ; — or rather I should say thanklessness. 
 To call them ungrateful would imply too deep a reproach, for 
 their convictions were that they were being ill used by the 
 upper classes. "When they received bad meal which they could 
 not cook, and even in their extreme hunger could hardly eat 
 half-cooked ; when they were desired to leave their cabins and 
 gardens, and iiock into the wretched barracks which were pre- 
 pared for them ; when they saw their children wasting away under 
 a suddenly altered system of diet, it would have been unreason- 
 able to expect that they should have been grateful. Grateful 
 for what ? Had they not at any rate a right to claim life, to de- 
 mand food that should keep them ' and their young ones alive ? 
 But not the less was it a hard task for delicate women to work hard, 
 and to feel that all their work was unappreciated by those whom 
 they so thoroughly commiserated, whose sufferings they were 
 so anxious to relieve. 
 
 It was almost dark before they left Berryhill, and then they 
 had to go out of their way to pick up Aunt Letty at Mr. Towns- 
 end's house. 
 
 ' Don't go in whatever you do, girls,' said Herbert ; ' we 
 should never get away.' 
 
 ' Indeed we won't unpack ourselves again before we get home ; 
 will we, Clara ?' 
 
 J Oh, I hope not. I'm very nice now, and so warm. But, 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, is not Mrs. Townsend very queer ?' 
 
 ' Very queer indeed. But you mustn't say a word about her 
 before Aimt Letty. They are sworn brothers-in-arms.' 
 
 'I won't of course. But, Mr. Fitzgerald, she's very good, is 
 she not?' 
 
 ' Yes, in her way. Only it's a pity she's so prejudiced.' 
 
 ' You mean about religion ?' 
 
 ' I mean, about everything. If she wears a bonnet on hei 
 head, she'll think you very wicked because you wear a hat.' 
 
 ' Will she ? what a very funny woman ! But, Mr. Fitzgerald, 1 
 shan't give up my hat, let her say what she will.' 
 
 ' I should rather think not.' 
 
78 Castle eiohmont). - 
 
 ' And Mr. Townsend ? we know him a liltle ; he's veiy good 
 too, isn't he ?' 
 
 ' Do you mean me to answer you truly, or to answer you 
 according to the good-natured idea of never saying any ill of 
 one's neighbour ?' 
 
 ' Oh, both ; if you can.' 
 
 ' Oh both; must I? Well, then, I think him good as a man, 
 but bad as a clergyman.' 
 
 * But I thought he worked so very hard as a clergyman ?' 
 ' ' So he does. But if he works evil rather than good, yoii can'l 
 call him a good clergyman. Mind, you would have my opiuion ; 
 and if I talk treason and heterodoxy and infidelity and papistry, 
 you must only take it for what it's worth.' 
 
 ' I'm sure you won't talk infidelity.' 
 
 ' Nor yet treason ; and then, moreover, Mr. Townsend would 
 be so much better a clergyman, to my way of thinking, if he 
 would sometimes brush his hair, and occasionally put on a 
 clean surplice. But, remember, not a word of all this to Aunt 
 Letty.' 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ; of course not.' 
 
 Mr. Townsend did come otit of the house on the little sweep 
 before the door to help Miss Letty up on the car, though it was 
 dark and piercingly cold. 
 
 ' Well, young ladies, and won't you come in now and warm 
 yourselves ?' 
 
 They all of course deprecated any such idea, and declared 
 that they were already much too late. 
 
 ' Eichard, mind you take care going down Ballydahan Hill,' 
 said the parson, giving a not unnecessary caution to the servant. 
 ' I came up it just now, and it was one sheet of ice.' 
 
 ' Now, Eichard, do be careful,' said Miss Letty. 
 
 ' Never fear, miss,' said Eichard. 
 
 ' We'll take care of you,' said Herbert. ' You're not frightened, 
 Lady Clara, are you ?' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' said Clara ; and so they started. 
 
 It was quite dark and very cold, and there was a-sharp hard, 
 frost. But the lamps of the car were lighted, and the horse 
 seemed to be on his mettle, for he did his work well. Ballydahan 
 Hill was not above a mile from the glebe, and descending that, 
 Eichard, by his young master's orders, got down from his seat 
 and went to the animal's head. Herbert also himself got off, and 
 led his horse down the hill. At first the girls were a little in- 
 clined to be frightened, and Miss Letty found herself obliged to 
 remind them that they couldn't melt the frost by screaming.- 
 Butthey allgot safely down, and were soon chattering -as fast as 
 
GOETNACLOTJGH AND BEREYHILL. 79 
 
 though they were already safe in the dra-wing-room of Castle 
 Eichmond. 
 
 They went on without any accident, till they reached a turn in 
 the road, about two miles from home ; and there, all in a moment, 
 quite suddenly, when nobody was thinking about the frost or the 
 danger, down came the poor horse on his side, his feet having 
 gone quite from under him, and a dreadful cracking sound of 
 broken timber gave notice that a shaft was smashed. A shaft at 
 least was smashed ; if only no other harm was done. 
 
 It can hardly be that Herbert Fitzgerald cared more for such 
 a stranger as Lady Clara Desmond than he did for his own 
 sisters and aunt ; but nevertheless, it was to Lady Clara's assist- 
 ance that he first betook himself. Perhaps he had seen, or 
 fancied that he saw, that she had fallen with the greatest 
 violence. 
 
 'Speak, speak,' said he, as he jumped from his horse close to 
 her side. ' Are you hurt ? do speak to me.' And going-down on 
 his knees on the hard ground, he essayed to lift her in his arms. 
 ' Oh dear, oh dear !' said she. ' No ; I am not hurt ; at least I 
 think not — only just my arm a very little. Where is Emmeline ' 
 Is Emmeline hurt ?' 
 
 ' No,' said Emmeline, picking herself up. ' But, oh dear, dear, 
 I've lost my muff, and I've spoiled my hat ! Where are Mary 
 and Aunt Letty ?' 
 
 After some considerable confusion it was found that nothing 
 was much damaged except the car, one shaft of which was broken 
 altogether in two. Lady Clara's arm was bruised and rather 
 sore, but the three other ladies had altogether escaped. The. 
 quantity of clothes that had been wrapped round them had no 
 doubt enabled them to fall softly. 
 
 ' And what about the horse, Eichard ?' asked young Fitzgerald. 
 
 ' He didn't come upon his knees at all at all, Master Herbert,' 
 
 said Eichard, scrutinizing the animal's legs with the car lamp in 
 
 his hand. ' I don't think he's a taste the worse. But the car. 
 
 Master Herbert, is clane smashed.' 
 
 Such being found to be undoubtedly the fact, there was nothing 
 for it but that the ladies should walk home. Herbert again forgot 
 that the age of his aunt imperatively demanded all the assistance 
 that he could lend her, and with many lamentations that fortune 
 and the frost should have used her so cruelly, he gave his arm to 
 Clara. 
 
 ' But do think of Miss Fitzgerald,' said Clara, speaking gently 
 into his ear. 
 
 ' Who ? oh, my aunt. Aunt Letty never cares for anybody's 
 arm ; she always prefers walking alone.' 
 
80 CASTLE RICHMOND. / 
 
 ' Pie, Mr. Fitzgerald, fie ! It is impossibly to believe such an 
 assertion as that.' And yet Clara did seem to belieTe it ; for she 
 took his proffered arm without further objection. 
 
 It was half-past seven when they reached the hall door, and at 
 that time they had all forgotten the misfortune of the oar in the 
 fun of the dark frosty walk home. Herbert had found a boy to 
 lead his horse, and Eichard was of course left with the ruins in 
 the road. 
 
 ' And how's your arm now?' asked Herbert, tenderly, as they 
 entered in under the porch. 
 
 ' Oh, it does not hurt me hardly at all. I don't mind it in the 
 least.' And then the door was opened for them. 
 
 They all flocked into the hall, and there they were met by 
 Lady Eitzgerald. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' said Mary, ' I know you're quite irightened out 
 ef your life ! But there's nothing the matter. The horse tum- 
 bled down ; but there's nobody hurt.' 
 
 ' And we had to walk home from the turn to Ballycloifgh,' said 
 Emmeline. ' But, oh mamma, what's the matter ?' They all now 
 looked up at Lady Fitzgerald, and it was evident enough that 
 something was the matter ; something to be thought of infinitely 
 more than that accident on the road. 
 
 'Oh, Mary, Mary, what is it?' said Aunt Letty, coniing 
 forward and taking hold of her sister-in-law's hand. ' Is my 
 brother ill?' 
 
 ' Sir Thomas is not very well, and I've been waiting for you 
 so long. Where's Herbert ? I must speak to Herbert.' And 
 then the mother and son left the haU together. 
 
 There was then a silence among the four ladies that were left 
 there standing. At first they followed each other into the 
 drawitig-room, all wrapped up as they were, and sat on chairs 
 apart, saying nothing to eaeh other. At last Aunt Letty got up. 
 
 ' You had better go up-stairs with Lady Clara,' said she ; ' I 
 will go to your mamma.' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Letty, do send us word ; pray send ^ word,' said 
 Emmeliae. 
 
 Mary now began to cry. ' ' I know he's very iU. I'm sure he's 
 very ill. Oh, what shall we do ?' 
 
 'You had better go up-stairs with Lady Clara,' said Aunt 
 Letty. ' I will send you up word immediately.' 
 . ' Oh, don't miad me ; pray don't mind me,' said Clara. ' Pray, 
 pray, don't take notice of me;' and she rushed forward, and 
 throwing herself on her knees before Emmeline, began to kiss 
 hor. 
 
 They remaiaed here, heedless of Aurt Letty's advice, for some 
 
FAMILY COUNCILS. 81 
 
 ten minutes, and then Hertert came to tliem. Tlie two girls 
 flew at him with questions ; while Lady Clara stood by the win- 
 dow, anxious to learn, but unwilling to thrust herself into their 
 family matters, 
 
 'My father has been much troubled to-day, and is not well,' 
 said Herbert. ' But I do not think there is anything to frighten 
 us. Come ; let us go to dinner.' 
 
 The going to dinner was but a sorry farce with any of them ; 
 but ncTertheless, they went through the ceremony, each for the 
 sake of the others. 
 
 ' Mayn't we see him ?' said the girls to their mother, who did 
 come down into the drawing-room for one moment to speak to 
 Clara. 
 
 ' Not to-night, loves. He should" not bo disturbed.' And ao 
 that day came to an end ; not satisfactorily. 
 
 CHAPTEE rX; 
 
 FAMILY COUNCILS. 
 
 Whek the girls and Aunt Letty went to their chambers that 
 night, Herbert returned to his mother's own dressing-room, and 
 there, seated over the fire with her, discussed the matter of his 
 father's sudden attack. He had been again with his father, and 
 Sii' Thomas had seemed glad to have him there ; but now he had 
 left him for the night. 
 
 ' He will sleep now, mother,' said the son ; ' he has taken 
 laudanum.' 
 
 ' I fear he takes that too often now.' 
 
 ' It was good for him to have it to-night. He did not get too 
 much, for I dropped it for him.' And then they sat silent for u 
 few moments together. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Herbert, ' who can this man have been ?' 
 
 ' I have no knowledge — no idea — no guess even,' said Lady 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 ' It is that man's visit that has upset him.' 
 
 'Oh, certainly. I think there is no doubt of that. I was 
 waiting for the man to go, and went in almost before ho was out 
 of the house.' 
 
 'Well?" 
 
 ' And I found your father quite prostrated.' 
 
 ' Not on the floor ?' 
 
 ' No, not exactly on the floor. He was still seated ou. nia 
 chair, but his head was on the table, o^or his arms. 
 
82 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' I have often found him in that way, mother.' 
 
 ' But you never saw him looking as he looked this morning, 
 Herbert. When I went in he was speechless, and he remained 
 80, I shpuld say, for some minutes.' 
 
 ' Was he senseless ?' 
 
 ' No ; he knew me well enough, and gi'asped me by the hand ; 
 and when I would have gone to the bell to ring for assistance, 
 he would not let me. I thought he would have gone into a fit 
 when I attempted it.' 
 
 ' And what did you do ?' 
 
 ' I sat there by him, with his hand in mine, quite quietly 
 And then he uttered a long, deep sigh, and — oh, Herbert !' 
 
 'Well, mother?' 
 
 ' At last, he burst into a flood of tears, and sobbed and cried 
 like a child.' 
 
 'Mother!' 
 
 ' He did, so that it was piteous to see him. But it did him 
 good, for he was better after it. And all the time he never let 
 go my hand, but held it and kissed it. And then he took me by 
 the waist, and kissed me, oh, so often. And all the while his 
 tears were running like the tears of a girl.' And Lady Fitz- 
 gerald, as she told the story, could not herself refrain from 
 weeping. 
 
 ' And did he say anything afterwards about this man ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; not at first, that is. Of course I asked him who he was 
 aa soon as I thought he could bear the question. But he turned 
 away, and merely said that he was a stupid man about some old 
 London business, and that he should have gone to Prendergast. 
 But when, after a while, I pressed him," he said that the man's 
 name .was Mollett, and thathe had, or pretended to have, some 
 claim upon the city property.' 
 
 ' A claim on the city property ! Why, it's not seven hundred 
 a year altogether. If any Mollett could run away with it all, 
 that loss would not affect him like that.' 
 
 'So Lsaid, Herbert ; not exactly in those words, but trying to 
 comfort him. He ther put it off by declaring that it was the 
 consciousness of his inability to see any one on business which 
 affected him so grievously.' 
 
 ' It was that he said to me.' 
 
 ' And there may be something in that, Herbert.' 
 
 ' Yes ;. but then what should make him so weak, to begin with ? 
 If you remember, mother, he was very well, — more like himself 
 than usual last night.' 
 
 ■ On, 1 observed it. He seemed to like having Clara Desmond 
 there.' 
 
TAMILY COUNCILS. 83 
 
 'Didn't he, mother? I observed that too. But then Clara 
 Desmond is such a sweet creature.'. The mother looked at her 
 eon as he said this, but the son did not notice the look. ' I do 
 wonder what the real truth can be,' he continued. ' Do you 
 think there is anything wrong about the property in general ? ' 
 About this estate, here ?' 
 
 ' No, I don't think that,' said the mother, sadly. 
 ' What can it be then ?' But Lady Fitzgerald sat there, and 
 did not answer the question. 'I'll tell you what I wUl do, 
 mother ; I'll go up to London, and see Prendergast, and consult 
 him.' ^ 
 
 ' Oh, no ; you mustn't do that. I am wrong to tell you all 
 this, for he told me to talk to no one. But it would kUl me if I 
 didn't speak of it to you.' 
 
 ' All the same, mother ; I think it would be best to consult 
 Prendergast.' 
 
 ' Not yet, Herbert. I dare say Mr. Prendergast may be a 
 very good sort of man, but we none of us know him. And if, as 
 is very probable, this is only an affair of health, it would be 
 wrong in you to go to a stranger. It might look ' 
 
 ' Look what, mother ?' 
 
 ' People might think — he, I mean— that you wanted to inter- 
 fere.' 
 
 ' But who ought to interfere on his behalf if I don't ?' 
 
 ' Quite true, dearest ; I understand what you mean, and know 
 -how good you are. But perhaps Mr. Prendergast might not. 
 He might think you wanted ' 
 
 ' Wanted what, mother ? I don't understand you.' 
 
 ' Wanted to take the things out of your father's hands.' 
 
 'Oh, mother!' 
 
 'He doesn't know you. And, what is more, I don't think ho 
 knows much of your father. Don't go to him yet.' And Herbert 
 promised that he would not. 
 
 ' And you don't think that this man was ever heie before ?' he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Well, I rather think he was here once before ; many years 
 ago^soon after you went to school.' 
 
 ' So long ago as that ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; not that I remember him, or, indeed, ever knew of his 
 coming then, if he did come. But Jones says that she thinks she 
 remembers him.' 
 
 ' Did Jones see him now ?'• 
 
 ' Yes ; she was in the hall as he passed through on his way 
 out. And it so happened that she let him in and out too when 
 he came before, "That is, if it is the same man.' 
 
84 CASTLE EICHMOND'. 
 
 ' That's very odd.' 
 
 ' It did not happen here. We were at Tenby for a few weeks 
 in the summer.' 
 
 ' I remember ; you went there with the girls just when I went 
 back to school.' 
 
 ' Jones was with us, and Ei chard. We had none other of our 
 own servants. And Jones says that the same man did como 
 ' then ; that he stayed with your father for an hour or two ; and 
 that when he left, your father was depressed — almost as he was 
 yesterday. I well remember that. I know that a man did 
 come to him at Tenby ; and — oh, Herbert !' 
 
 ' What is it, mother ? Speak out at any rate to me.' 
 
 ' Since that man came to him at Tenby he has never been like 
 what he was before.' 
 
 And then there was more questioning between them about 
 Jones and her remembrances. It must be explained that Jones 
 was a very old and very valued servant. She had originally 
 been brought up as a child by Mrs. Wainwright, in that Dorset- 
 shire parsonage, and had since remained firm to the fortunes of 
 the young lady, whose maid she had become on her first marriage. 
 As her mistress had been promoted, so had Jones. At first she 
 had been Kitty to all the world, now she was Mrs. Jones to the 
 world at large, Jones to Sir Thomas and her mistress and of late 
 years to Herbert, and known by all manner of affectionate sobri- I 
 quets to the young ladies. Sometimes they would call heri 
 Johnny, and sometimes the Duchess ; but doubtless they and 
 Mrs. Jones thoroughly understood each other. By the whole 
 establishment Mrs. Jones was held in great respect, and by the 
 younger portion in extreme awe. Her breakfast and tea she had 
 in a little sitting-room by herself; but the solitude of this was ' 
 ECO tremendous for her to endure at dinner-time. At that meal 
 she sat at the head of the- table in the servants' hall, though she 
 never troubled herself to carve, anything except puddings and 
 pies, for which she had a great partiality, and of which she was 
 supposed to be the most undoubted and severe judge knovra. of 
 anywhere in that part of the country. 
 
 She was supposed by aU her brother and sister servants to be 
 a very Croesus for wealth ; and wondrous tales were told of the 
 money she had put by. But as she was certainly honest, and 
 supposed to be very generous to certain poor relations in Dorset-, 
 shire, some of these stories were probably mythic. It was 
 known, however, as a fact, that two Castle Eichmond butlers, 
 one out-door steward, three neighbouring farmers, and one 
 wickedly ambitious coachman, had endeavoured to tempt her 
 to matrimony — in vain. 'She didn't want none of them,' she 
 
ffAMtLY oouirctLs. 85 
 
 told lier mistress. 'And, what was "more, she wouldn't have 
 none of them.' And therefore she remained Mrs. Jones, with 
 "brevet rank. 
 
 It seemed, from what Lady Fitzgerald said, that Mrs. Jones's 
 manner had been somewhat mysterious about this man, MoUott. 
 She had endeavoured to reassure and comfort her mistress, 
 saying that nothing would come of it as nothing had come of 
 that other Tenby visit, and giving it as her counsel that tho 
 ladies should allow the whole matter to pass by without further 
 notice. But at the same time Lady Fitzgerald had remarked' 
 that her manner had been very serious when she first said that 
 she had seen the man before. 
 
 ' Jones,' Lady Fitzgerald had said to her, very earnestly, 'if 
 you know more about this man than you are telling me, you arc 
 bound to speak out, and let me know everything.' 
 
 ' Who — I, my lady? what could I know? Only he do look ta 
 me like the same man, and so I thought it right to say to your 
 ladyship.' 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald had seen that there was nothing more to be 
 gained by cross-questioning, and so she had allowed the matter 
 to drop. But she was by no means satisfied that this servant 
 whom she so trusted did not ■ know more than she had told. , 
 And then Mrs. Jones had been with her in those dreadful ' 
 Dorsetshire days, and an undefined fear began to creep over her 
 very soul. 
 
 ' ' God bless you, my child !' said Lady Fitzgerald, as her son 
 got up to leave her. And then she embraced him with more 
 warmth even than was her wont. ' All .that we can do at 
 present is to be gentle with him, and not to- encourage people 
 around him to talk of his illness.' 
 
 On the next morning Lady Fitzgerald did not come down to 
 breakfast, but sent her love to Clara, and begged her guest 
 to excuse her on accoWt of headache. Sir Thomas rarely came 
 in to breakfast, and therefore his absence was not remark- 
 able. His daughters, however, went up to see him, as did 
 also his sister ; and they all declared that he was very much 
 better. 
 
 ' It was some sudden attack, I suppose ?' said Clara. 
 
 ' Yes, very sudden ; he has had the same before,' said Her- 
 bert. 'But they do not at all affect his -intellect or bodily 
 DOwers. Depression is, I suppose, the name that the doctors 
 would call it.' 
 
 And then at last it became noticeable by theni that Lady 
 Clara did not use her left arm. ' Oh, Clara !' said Emmeline, ' I 
 see now that you are hurt. How selfish wq have been I ^ Oh 
 
96 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 dear, oh dear I' And botli Emmeline and Mary immediately 
 STxrreunded her, examining her arm, and almost carrying her to 
 the sofa. 
 
 ' I don't think it will be much,' said Clara. ' It's only a little 
 stiff.' 
 
 'Oh, Herbert, what' shall we do? Do look here; the inside 
 of her arm is quite black.' i 
 
 Herbert, gently touching her hand, did examine the arm, and 
 declared his opinion that she had received a dreadfully violent 
 blow. Emmeline proposed to send for a doctor to pronounce 
 whether or no it were broken. Mary said that she didn't think 
 it was broken, but that she was sure the patient ought not to be 
 moved -that day, or probably for a week. Aunt Letty, in the 
 mean time, prescribed a cold-water bandage with great authority, 
 and bounced out of the room to fetch the necessary linen and 
 basin of water. 
 
 ' It's nothing at all,' continued Clara. ' And indeed I shall go 
 home to-day ; indeed I shall.' 
 
 ' It might be very bad for your arm that you should be moved,' 
 said Herbert. 
 
 ' And your staying here will not be the least trouble to us 
 We, shall all be so happy to haveyou ; shall we not, Mary ?' 
 
 ' Of course we shall ; and so will mamma.' 
 
 ' I am so sorry to be here now,' said Clara, ' when I know yoa 
 are all in such trouble about Sir Thomas. But as for going,- 
 I shall go as soon as ever you .can make it convenient to send 
 me. Indeed I shall.' And so the matter was discussed between 
 them, Atm.t Letty in. the mean time binding up the bruised arm 
 with cold-water appliances. 
 
 Lady Clara was quite firm about going, and, therefore, at 
 about twelve she was sent. I should say taken, for Emmeline 
 insisted on going with her in the carriage. Herbert would have 
 gone also, but he felt that he ought not to leave Castle Eich- 
 mond that day, on account of his father. But he would cer- 
 tainly ride over, he said, and learn how her -arm was the next 
 morning. 
 
 ' And about Clady, you know,' said Clara. 
 
 ' I wiU go on to Clady also. I did send a man there yester- 
 day to see about the flue. It's the flue that's wrong, I know.' 
 
 'Oh, thank you;. I am so much obliged to you,' said Clara. 
 And then the carriage drove off, and Herbert returned into the 
 morning sitting-room with his sister Mary. 
 
 ' I'll tell you what it is. Master Herbert,' said Mary 
 
 'Well— what is it?' 
 
 ' You are going.to fall in love with her young ladyship.' 
 
FAMn^Y COUNCITiS. 87 
 
 ' -Am I ? Is that all you know about it ? And who are you 
 going to fall in love with pray ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! his young lordship, perhaps ; only he ought to he a^bout 
 ten years older, so that I'm afraid that wouldn't do. But Clara 
 is just the age for you. It really seems as though it were all 
 prepared ready to your hand.' 
 
 ' You girls always do think that those things are ready pre- 
 parea ;' and so saying, Herbert walked off with great manly 
 dignity to some retreat among his own books and papers, there 
 to meditate whether this thing were in truth prepared for him. 
 It certainly was the fact that the house did seem very blank to 
 him now that Clara was gone ; and that he looked forward with 
 impatience to the visit which it was so necessary that he should 
 make on the following day to Clady. 
 
 The house at Castle Eichmond was very silent and quiet that 
 day. When Emmeline came back, she and her sister remained 
 together. Nothing had been said to them about Mollett's visit, 
 and they had no other idea than that this lowness of spirits on 
 their father's part, to which they had gradually become accus- 
 tomed, had become woise and more dangerous to his health 
 than ever. 
 
 Aunt Letty talked much about it to Herbert, to Lady Fitz- 
 gerald, to Jones, and to her brother, and was quite certain that 
 she had penetrated to the .depth of the whole matter. That 
 nasty city property, she said, which had come with her grand- 
 mother, had always given the family more trouble than it was 
 worth. Indeed, her grandmother had been a very troublesome 
 woman altogether ; and no wonder, for though she was a Protes- 
 tant herself, she had had Papist relations in Lancashire. She 
 distinctly remembered to have heard that there was some flaw m 
 the title of that property, and she knew that it was very hard to 
 get some of the tenants to pay any rent. That she had always 
 heard. She was quite sure that this man was some person 
 laying a claim to it, and threatening to prosecute h,s claim a^ 
 law. It was a thousand pities that her brother should allow 
 sach a trifle as this— for after all it was but a tnfle— to fret his 
 spirits and worry him in this way. But it was the wretched 
 state of his health : were he once himself agam, aU such annoy- 
 ances as that would pass him by like the wind. 
 
 tf r,=ri.p\cknowledged that Aunt Letty's memory m this 
 
 It ^^st be actoow g ^ .^ happened, Sir Thomas 
 
 rTv<."^Mrnroperty in the city of London by as firm a tenure 
 
 S'th^'llws aKulms of nis'cpuntry could give him; and 
 
 • !+W bis income thence arising came from, ground rents 
 
 nerih^rter, on which property stood worth some hundreds of 
 
8b CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 thonsands, it was not very probable tliat liis tenants should be 
 in arrear. But wbat slie said had some effect upon Herbert. 
 He was not quite sure whether this might not bo the cause of 
 his father's grief;, and if the story did not have much effect 
 upon Lady Fitzgerald, at any rate it did as well as any other to 
 exercise the ingenuity and affection of Aunt Letty. 
 
 Sir Thomas passed the- whole of that day in his own room;, 
 but during a great portion of the day either his wife, or sister, 
 or son was with him. They endeavoured not to leave him alone 
 with his own thoughts, feeling conscious that something preyed 
 upon his mind, though ignorant as to what that something 
 mi^t be. 
 
 He was quite aware of the nature of their thoughts ; perfectly 
 conscious of the judgment they had formed respecting Mm. He 
 knew that he was subjecting himself, in the eyes not only of his 
 own famUy but of all those around him, to suspicions which 
 must be injurious to him, and yet he could not shake off the 
 feeling that depressed him. 
 
 But at last he did resolve to make an attempt at doing so. 
 For some time in the evening he was altogether alone, and he 
 then strove to force his mind to work upon the matter which 
 occupied it, — ^to arrange his ideas, and bring himself into a state 
 in which he could make a resolution. For hours he had sat, — 
 not thinking upon this subject, for thought is an exertion vrhich 
 requires a combination of ideas and results in the deducing of 
 conclusions from premises ; and no such effort as that had he 
 hitherto made, — but endeavouring to think while he allowed the 
 matter of his grief to lie ever before his mind's eye. 
 
 He had said to himself, over and over "again, that it behoved 
 him to make some great effort to shake off this incubus that 
 depressed him ; but yet no such effort had hitherto been even 
 attempted. Now at last he arose and shook himself, and pro- 
 mised to himself that he would be a man. It might be that the 
 misfortune under which he groaned was heavy, but let one's 
 sorrow be what it may, there is always a better and a worse way 
 of meeting it. Let what trouble may fall on a man's shoulders, 
 a man may always bear it manfully. And are not troubles when 
 so borne half cured ? It is the flinching from pain which makes 
 pain so painful. 
 
 This truth came home to him as he sat there that day, 
 thinking what he should do, endeavouring to think in what way 
 he might best turn himself. But there was this that was espe- 
 cially grievous to him, that he had no friend whom he might 
 consult in this matter. It was a sorrow, the cause of which he 
 could not explain to his own family, and in all other troubles he 
 
FAMILf COUNCILS'. 89 
 
 had sought assistance and looked for counsel there and there 
 only. He had had one hest, steadiest, dearest, truest counsellor, 
 and now it had com© to pass that things were' so placed that in 
 this great trouble he could not go to her. 
 
 And now a friend was so necessary to him ! He felt that he 
 was not fit to judge how he himself should act in this terrible 
 emergency ; that it was absolutely necessary for him that he 
 should allow himself to be guided by some one else. But to 
 whom should he appeal ? 
 
 ' He is a cold man,' said he to himself, as one name did occur 
 to him, ' very cold, almost unfeeling ; but he is honest and just. 
 And then again he sat and thought. 'Yes, he is honest, and 
 just ; and what should I want better than honesty and justice ?' 
 And then, shuddering as he resolved, he did resolve that he 
 would send for this honest and just man. He would send for 
 him ; or, perhaps better still, go to him. At any rate, he would 
 tell him the whole truth of his grief, and then act as the cold, 
 just man should bid him. 
 
 But he need not do this yet — not quite yet. So at least he 
 said to himself, falsely. If a man decide with a fixed decision 
 that his tooth should come out, or his leg be cut off, let the 
 tooth come out or the leg be cut off on the earliest possible 
 opportunity. It is the flinching from such pain that is so - 
 grievously painful. 
 
 But it was something to have brought his mind to bear with a 
 fixed purpose upon these things, and to have resolved upon 
 what he would do, though he still lacked strength to put his 
 resolution immediately to the proof. 
 
 @ Then, later in the evening, his son came and sat with him, 
 and he was able in some sort to declare that the worst of that 
 evil day had passed from him. ' I shall breakfast with you all 
 to-morrow,' he said, and as he spoke a faint smile passed across 
 his face. 
 
 ' Oh ! I hope you will,' said Herbert ; ' we shall be so 
 delighted ; but, father, do not exert yourself too soon.' 
 ' It will do me good, I think.' 
 ' I am sure it will, if the fatigue be not too much.' 
 ' The truth is, Herbert, I have allowed this feeling to grow 
 upon me till I have become weak under it. I know that I 
 ought to make an exertion to throw it off, and it is possible that 
 I may succeed.' 
 
 HerJ)ert muttered some few hopeful words, but he found 
 it very difficult to know what he ought to say. That his father 
 had some secret he was quite sure ; and it is hard .to talk to a 
 man al)out his secret, without knowing what that secret is. 
 
W CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' I have allowed myself to fall into a weajf state,' continued 
 Sir Thomas, speaking slowly, ' while by proper exertion I migh1 
 have avoided it.' 
 
 ' You have been very ill, father,' saiS'Herbert. 
 
 ' Yes, I have been iU, very ill, certainly. But I do not know 
 that any doctor could have helped me.' 
 
 ' Father ' 
 
 'JS^o, Herbert; do not ask me questions; do not inquire; at 
 any rate, not at present. I will endeavour- — now at least I will 
 endeavour — to do my duty. But do not urge me by questions, 
 or appear to notice me if I am infirm.' 
 
 ' But, father, — if we could comfort you ?' 
 ( 'Ah! if you could. But, never mind, I will endeavour to 
 shake off this depression. And, Herbert, comfort your mother ; 
 do not let hei think much of all this, if it can be helped.?' 
 
 ' But how can it be helped ?' 
 
 'And tell her this : there is a matter that troubles my mind,' 
 
 ' Is it about the property, father ?' 
 
 ' No.— yes ; it certainly is about the property in one sense.' 
 
 ' Then do not heed it ; we shall none of us heed it. Who has 
 so good a right to say so as I ?' 
 
 ' Bless you, my darling boy ! But, Herbert, such things must 
 be heeded — more or less, you know : but you may tell your 
 mother this, and perhaps it may comfort her. I have made up 
 my mind to go to London and to see Prendergast ; I will ex- 
 plain the whole of this thing to him, and as he bids me so will 
 I act.' 
 
 This was thought to be satisfactory to a certain extent both 
 by the mother and son. They would have been better pleased 
 had he opened his heart to them and told them everything; but 
 that it was clear he could not bring himself to do. This Mr. 
 Prendergast, they had heard, was a good man ; and in his present 
 state it' was better that he should seek counsel of any man than 
 allow his sorrow to feed upon himself alone. 
 
 OHAPTEE X. 
 
 THE RECTOR OF DEUMBAEROW AND HIS WIPE. 
 
 Herbert Pitzg-erald, in speaking of the Eev. ^neas TownseAd^ 
 to Lady Clara Desmond, had said that in his opinion the reverend" 
 gentleman .was a good man, but a bad clergyman. But there 
 were not a few in the county Cork who would have said iust tha 
 
THE RECTOR OB" DRUMBARROW AND HIS WIPE. 91 
 
 reTerse, and declared him to be a bad man, but a good clergyman. 
 There were others, indeed, who knew him well, who would have 
 declared him to be perfect in both respects, and others again who 
 thought him in both respects to be very bad. Amidst these great 
 diversities of opinion I will venture on none of my own, but will 
 attempt to describe him. 
 
 In Ireland stanch Protestantism consists too much in a hatred 
 of Papistry — in' that rather than in a hatred of those errors 
 against which we Protestants are supposed to protest. Hence 
 the cross — which should, I presume, be the emblem of salvation 
 to us all — creates a feeling of dismay and often of disgust instead 
 of love and reverence ; and the very name of a saint savours in 
 Irish Protestant ears of idolatry, although Irish Protestants on 
 every Sunday profess to believe in a communion of such. These 
 are the feelings rather than the opinions of the most Protestant 
 of Irish Protestants, and it is intelligible that they should have 
 been produced by the close vicinity of Eoman Catholic worship 
 in the minds of men who are energetic and excitable, but not 
 always discreet or argumentative. 
 
 One of such was Mr. Townsend, and few men carried their 
 Protestant fervour further than he did. A cross was to him what 
 a red cloth is supposed to be to a bull ; and so averse was he to 
 the intercession of saints, that he always regarded as a wolf in 
 sheep's clothing a certain English clergyman who had written to 
 him a letter dated from the feast of St. Michael and All Angels. 
 On this account Herbert Fitzgerald took upon himself to say that 
 he regarded him as a bad clergyman : whereas, most of his Pro- 
 testant neighbours looked upon this enthusiasm as his chief 
 excellence. 
 
 And this admiration for him induced his friends to overlook 
 what they must have acknowledged to be defects in his character. 
 Though he had a good living — at least, what the laity in speak- 
 ing of clerical incomes is generally inclined to call a good living, 
 we will say amounting in value to four hundred pounds a year — 
 he was always in debt. This was ftie more inexcusable as he 
 had no children, and had some small private means. 
 
 And nobody knew why he was in debt — in which word nobody 
 he himself must certainly be included. He had no personal 
 expenses of his own; his wife, though she was a very queer 
 woman, as Lady Clara had said, could hardly be called an ex- 
 travagant woman ; there was nothing large or splendid about the 
 way of living at the glebe ; anybody who came there, both he 
 and she were willing to feed as long as they chose to stay, and a 
 good many in this way they did feed ; but they never invited 
 gjllests ; and as for giving regular fixed dinner-parties, as parish 
 
92 aVSTLE KICHMONB. 
 
 rectors do in England, no such idea ever crossed the brain of 
 either Mr. or Mrs. Townsend. 
 / That they were both charitable all the world admitted ; find 
 their admirers professed that hence arose all their difficulties. 
 But their charities were of a most indiscreet kind. Money they 
 rarely had to give, and therefore they would give promises to 
 pay. While their credit with the butcher and baker was good 
 , they would give meat and bread ; and both these functionaries 
 had by this time learned that, though Mr. Townsend might not 
 be able to pay such bills himself, his friends would do so, sooner 
 or later, if duly pressed. And therefore the larder at Drumbarrow 
 Glebe — that was the name of the parish — was never long empty, 
 and then again it was never long full: 
 
 But neither Mr. nor Mrs. Townsend were content to bestow 
 their charities without some other object than that of relieving 
 material wants by their alms. Many infidels, Mr. Townsend 
 argued, had been made believers by the miracle of the loaves 
 and fishes ; and therefore it was permissible for him to make use 
 of the same means for drawing over proselytes to the true church. 
 If he could find hungry Papists and convert them into well-fed 
 Protestants by one and the same process, he must be doing a 
 double good, he argued ; — could by no possibility be doing an 
 evil. 
 
 Such being the character of Mr. Townsend, it will not be 
 thought surprising that he should have his warm admirers and 
 his hot detractors. And they who w^ere inclined to be among 
 the latter were not slow to add up certain little disagreeable 
 eccentricities among the list of his faults, — as young Fitzgerald 
 had done in the matter of the dirty siirplices. 
 
 Mr. Townsend's most uncompromising foe for many years had 
 been the Eev. Bernard M'Carthy, the parish priest for the same 
 ij parish of Drumbarrow. Father Bernard, as he was called by his 
 own flock, or Father Barney, as the Protestants in derision were 
 1 delighted to name him, was much more a man of the world than 
 j his Protestant colleague. He did not do half so many absurd 
 things as did Mr. Townsend, and professed to laugh at what he 
 I called the Protestant madness of the rector. But he also had 
 I been an eager, I may also say, a malicious antagonist. What he 
 called the ' souping ' system of the Protestant clergyman stank in 
 his nostrils — that system by which, as he stated, tire most igno- 
 rant of men were to be induced to leave their faith by the hope 
 of soup, or other food. He was as firmly convinced of the inward 
 heart-destroying iniquity of the parson as the parson was of that 
 of the priest. And so these two men had learned to hate each 
 othei'. And yet neither of them were bad men. 
 
THE EECTOK OP DRUMBAEROW AND HIR WIFE. 9c5 
 
 I do not wish it to ba understood tbat tMs sort of feeling 
 always prevailed in Irish parishes between the priest and the 
 parson even before the days of the famine. I myself have met a 
 priest at a parson's table, and have known more than one parish 
 in which the Protestant and Eoman Catholic clergymen lived 
 together on amicable terms. But such a feeling as that above 
 represented was common, and was by no means held as proof 
 that the parties themselves were quarrelsome or malicious. It 
 was a' part of their religious convictions, and who dares to 
 interfere with the religious convictions of a clergyman ? 
 
 On the day but one after that on which the Castle Eichmond 
 ladies had been thrown from their car on the frosty road, 
 Mr. Townsend and Father Bernard were brought together in an 
 amicable way, or in a way that was intended to be amicable, 
 for the first time in their lives. The relief committee for the 
 district in which they both lived was one and the same, and it 
 was of course well that both should act on it. When the matter 
 was first arranged, Father Bernard took the bull by the horns 
 and went there ; but Mr. Townsend, hearing this, did not do so. 
 But now that it had become evident that much work, and for a 
 long time, would have to be performed at these committees, it 
 was clear that Mr. Townsend, as a Protestant clergyman, could 
 not remain away without neglecting his duty. And so, after 
 many mental struggles and questions of conscience, the parson 
 agreed to meet the prigst. 
 
 The point had been very deeply discussed between the rector 
 and his wife. She had given it as her opinion that priest 
 M'Carthy was pitch, pitch itself in its blackest turpitude, and as 
 such could' not be touched without defilement. Had not all the ' 
 Protestant clergymen of Ireland in a body, or, at any rate, all 
 those who were worth anything, who could with truth be called 
 Protestant clergynien, had they not all refused to enter the doors 
 of the' National schools because they could not do so without ' 
 sharing their ministration there with papist priests ; with priests 
 of the altar of Baal, as Mrs. Townsend called them ? And should 
 they now yield, when, after all, the assistance needed was only 
 for the body — ^not for the soul ? 
 
 It may be seen from this that the. lady's mind was not in its 
 nature logical ; but the extreme absurdity of her arguments, 
 though they did not ultimately have the desired effect, by no 
 means came home to the understanding of her husband. He 
 thought that there was a great deal in what she said, and almost 
 felt that he was yielding to instigations from the evil one ; but 
 pubUo opinion was too strong for him ; public opinion and the 
 innate kindness of his own heart. He felt that at' this very 
 
M OASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 moment he ought to labour specially for the bodies of these pooi 
 people, as at other times he would labour specially- for their 
 souls ; and so he yielded. 
 
 ' Well,' said his wife to him as he got off his car 'at his own 
 door after the meeting, ' what have you done ?' One might have 
 imagined from her tone of voice and her manner that she ex- 
 pected, or at least hoped to hear that the priest had been abso- 
 lutely exterminated and made away with in the good fight. 
 
 Mr. Townsend made no immediate answer, but proceeded to 
 divest himself of his rusty outside coat, and to rub up his stiff, 
 grizzled, bristly, uncombed hair with both his hands, as was his 
 wont when he was not quite satisfied with the state of things. 
 
 ' I,suppose he was there ?' said Mrs. Townsend. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, he was there. He is never away, I take it, when 
 there- is any talking to be done.' Now Mr. TovsTisend dearly 
 loved to hear himself talk, but no man was louder against the 
 sins of other orators. And then he began to ask how many 
 minutes'it wanted to dinner-time. 
 
 Mrs. Townsend knew his ways. She would not have a ghost 
 of a chance of getting from him a true and substantial account of 
 what had really passed if she persevered in direct questions to 
 the effect. So she pretended to drop the matter, and went and 
 fetched hev lord's slippers, the putting on of which constituted 
 his evening toilet ; and then, after some little hurrying inquiry 
 in the kitchen, promised him his dinner in fifteen minutes. 
 
 ' Was Herbert Fitzgerald there ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; he is always there. He's a nice young fellow ; ^a 
 very fine young fellow ; but ' 
 
 'But what?' 
 
 ' He thinks he understands the Irish Eoman Catholics, but he 
 understands them- no more than — than — than this slipper,' he 
 said, having in vain cudgelled his brain for a better comparison. 
 
 ' You know what Aunt Letty says about him. She doubts he 
 isn't quite right, you know.' 
 
 Mrs. To-wnsend by this did not mean to insinuate that Herbert 
 was at all afSicted in that way which we attempt to designate, 
 when we say that one of our friends is not all right, and at the 
 same time touch our heads -with our forefinger. She had intended 
 to convey an impression" that the young man's religious ideas were 
 not exactly of that stanch, true-blue description which she ad- 
 mired. 
 
 ' Well, he has just come from Oxford, you know,' said Mr. 
 Townsend : ' and at the present moment Oxford is the most dan- 
 gerous place to which a young man can be sent.' 
 
 ' And Sir Thomas would send him there, though I remembei 
 
THE EECTOll OP DEUMBAKEOW AND fits WlFE. 95 
 
 telling his aunt over and over again how it virould be.' And Mrs. 
 Townsend as she spoke, shook her head sorrowfully. 
 
 ' I don't mean to say, you know, that he's absolutely bitten.' 
 ' Oh, I know— I understand. When they come to crossings 
 and candlesticks, the next step to the glory of Mary is a very easy 
 one. I would sooner send a yoxuig man to Eome than to Oxford. 
 At the one he might be shocked and disgusted ; but at the other ■ 
 he is cajoled, and cheated, and ruined.' And" then Mrs. 
 Townsend threw herself back in her chair, and threw her eyes 
 up towards the ceiling. 
 
 But there was no hypocrisy or pretence in this expression of 
 her feelings. She did in her heart of hearts believe that there 
 was some college or club of papists at Oxford, emissaries of the 
 Pope or of the Jesuits. In her moments of sterner thought the 
 latter were the enemies she most feared ; whereas, when she wag 
 simply pervaded by her usual chronic hatred of the Irish Eoman 
 Catholic hierarchy, she was wont to inveigh most against the 
 Pope. And this college, she maintained was fearfully successful 
 in drawing away the souls of young English students. Indeed, 
 at Oxford a man had no chance against the devil. Things were 
 better at Cambridge ; though even there there was great danger. 
 
 Look at A and Z ; and she would name two perverts to 
 
 the Church of Eome, of whom she had learned that they were 
 Cambridge men. But, thank God, Trinity College still stood 
 firm. Her idea was, that if there were left any real Protestant 
 truth in the Church of England, that Church should look to feed 
 her lambs by the hands of shepherds chosen from that seminary, 
 and from that seminary only. 
 
 ' But isn't dinner nearly ready ?' said Mr. Townsend, whose 
 ideas were not so exclusively Protestant as were those of his wife. 
 ' I haven't had a morsel since breakfast.' And then his wife, who 
 was peculiarly anxious to keep him in a good humour that all 
 might come out about Eather Barney, made another little visit to 
 the kitchen. 
 
 At last the dinner was seiTed. The weather was very cold, 
 and the rector and his wife considered it more cosy to use only 
 the parlour, and not to migrate into the cold air of a second 
 room. Indeed, during the winter months the drawing-room of 
 Drumbarrow Glebe was only used for visitors, and for' visitors 
 who were not intimate enough in the house to be placed upon the 
 worn chairs and threadbare carpet of the dining-parlour. And 
 very cold was that drawing-room found to be by each visitor. 
 
 But the parlour was warm enough ; warm and cosy, though 
 perhaps at times a little close ; and of evenings there would per 
 vade it a smell of whisky punch, not altogether acceptable to 
 
96 CAStLE RICflMONU. 
 
 unaccustomed nostrilt;. Not that the rector of Drumbarrow was 
 by any means an intemperate man. His single tumbler of 
 whisky toddy, repeated only on Sundays and some other rare 
 occasions, would by no means equal, in point of drinking, the 
 ordinary port of an ordinary English clergyman. But whisky 
 punch does leave behind a savour of its intrinsic virtues, delight- 
 ful no doubt to those who have imbibed its grosser elements, 
 but not equally acceptable to others who may have been less 
 fortunate. 
 
 During dinner there was no conversation about Herbert Fitz- 
 gerald, or the committee, or Father Barney. The old gardener, 
 who waited at table with all his garden clothes on him, and 
 whom the neighbours, with respectful deference, called Mr. 
 Townsend's butler, was a Eoman Catholic ; as, indeed, were all 
 the servants at the glebe, and as are, necessarily, all the native 
 servants in that part of the country. And though Mr. and Mrs. 
 Townsend put great trust in their servanfcJerry as to the ordinary 
 duties of gardening, driving, and butlering, they would not 
 knowingly tnist him with a word of their habitual conversation 
 about the things around them. Their idea was, that eveiy word 
 so heard was carried to the priest, and that the priest kept a book 
 in which every word so uttered was written down. If this were 
 BO through the parish, the priest must in truth have had some- 
 thing to do, both for himself and his private secretary ; for, in 
 spite of all precautions that were taken, Jerry and .Jerry's breth- 
 ren no doubt did hear much of what was said. The repetitions 
 to the priest, however, I must take leave to doubt. 
 
 But after dinner, when the hot water and whisky were on the 
 table, when the two old arm-chairs were drawn cosily up on the 
 rug, each with an old footstool before it ; when the faithful wife 
 had mixed that glass of punch — or jug rather, for, after the old 
 fashion, it was brewed in such a receptacle ; and when, to inspire 
 increased confidence, she had put into it a small extra modicum 
 of the eloquent spirit, then the mouth of the rector was, opened, 
 and Mrs. Townsend was made happy. 
 
 ' And so Father Barney and I have met at last,' said he, rather 
 cheerily, as the hot fumes of the toddy regaled his nostiils. 
 
 ' And how did he behave now ?' 
 
 'Well, he was decent enough— that is, as far as absolute 
 oehaviour went. You can't have a silk purse from off a sow's 
 ear, you know.' 
 
 ' No, indeed ; and goodness knows there's plenty of the sow's 
 ear about him. But now, .^neas, dear, do tell me how it all was 
 just from the beginning.' 
 
 ' He was there before me,' said the husband. 
 
THE EEOTOE OF DKUMBARKOW AND HIS WIFE. itt 
 
 ' Catch a weasel asleep !' said the wife. 
 
 ' I didn't catch him asleep at any rate,' continued he. 'ii© 
 was there before me ; but when I went into the little room where 
 they hold the meeting ' 
 
 ' It's at Berryhill, isn't it?' ' 
 
 ' Yes, at the Widow Casey's. To see that woman bowing and 
 scraping and curtsying i;<^ Father Barney, and she his own 
 Vmother's brother's daughter, was the best thing in the world.' 
 
 ' That was just to do him honour before the quality, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' Exactly. When I went in, there was nobody there but his 
 reverence and Master Herbert.' 
 
 ' As thick as possible, I suppose. Dear, dear ; isn't it dread- 
 ful ? Did I put sugar enough in it, .^Eneas ?' 
 
 ' Well, I don't know ; perhaps you may give me another small 
 lump. At any rate, you didn't forget the whisky.' 
 
 ' I'm sure it isn't a taste 'too strong — and after such work as 
 
 you've had to-day. And so young Fitzgerald and Fathei 
 
 Barney ' 
 
 •Yes, there they were with their heads together. It was 
 something about a mill they were saying.' 
 
 ' Oh, it's perfectly dreadful !' 
 
 'But Herbert-stopped, and introduced me at once to Father 
 Barney.' 
 
 ' What ! a regular introduction ? I like that, indeed.' 
 
 ' He didn't do it altogether badly. He said something about 
 being glad to see two gentlemen together ' 
 
 ' A gentleman, indeed !' 
 
 ' who were both so anxious to do the best they could in 
 
 the parish, and whose influence was so great — or something to 
 that eifect. And then we shook hands.' 
 
 ' You did shake hands ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; if I went there at all, it was necessary that I should 
 do that.' 
 
 ' I'm very glad it was not me, that's all. I don't think I could 
 shake hands with Father Barney.' 
 
 ' There's no knowing what you can do, my dear, till you try.' 
 
 ' H— m,' said Mrs; Townsend, meaning to signify thereby that 
 she was still strong in the' strength of her own impossibilities. 
 
 ' And then there was a little general conversation about the , 
 potato, for no one came in for a quarter of an hour or so. The i 
 priest said that they were as badly off in Limerick and Clare as 
 we are here. Now, I don't believe that ; and when I asked him 
 "how he knew, he quoted the " Freeman." ' 
 ' ' The " Freeman," indeed ! Just like him. I wonder it wasn t 
 
98 CASTLE KlCllMOND. 
 
 the " Nation." ' In Mrs. Townsend's estiiL^ation, the parish priest 
 was much to Llame hecause he did not draw his puhlio informa 
 ; tion from some newspaper specially addicted to the support of 
 the Protestant cause. 
 
 -' And then Somers came in, and he took the chair. I was 
 very much afraid at one time that Father Barney was going to 
 Beat himself there.' 
 
 ' You couldn't possibly have stood that ?' 
 
 ' I had made up my mind what to do. I should have walked 
 about the room, and looked on the whole affair as altogether irre- 
 gular,'-^as though there was no chairman, ^ut Somers was of 
 course the proper man.' 
 
 ' And who else came ?' 
 
 * There was O'Leary, from Boh.erbue.' 
 
 ' He was another Papist ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; there was a majority of them. There was Greilly, 
 the man who has got that large take of land over beyond Banteer ; 
 , and then Father Barney's coadjutor came in.' 
 i ' What ! that wretched-lookmg man from Gortnaclough T 
 
 ' Yes ; he's the curate of the parish, you know.' 
 
 ' And did you shake hands with him too ?' 
 
 ' Indeed I did ; and you never saw a fellow look so ashamed of 
 himself in your life.' 
 
 ' Well, there isn't much shame about them generally.' 
 
 'And there wasn't much about him by-and-by. You never 
 heard a man talk such trash in your life, till Somers put him 
 dovm.' 
 
 ' Oh, he was put down ? I'm glad of that.' 
 
 ' And to do Father Barney justice, he did tell him to hold his 
 tongue. The fool began to make a regular set speech.' 
 
 'Father Barney, I suppose, didn't choose that anybody should 
 do that but himself.' 
 
 ' He did enough for the two, certainly. I never heard a man 
 so fond of his own voice. What he wants is to rule it all just 
 his own way.' 
 
 ' Of course he does ; and that's just what you won't let him 
 do. What other reason can there be for your going there ?' 
 
 And so the matter was discussed. What absolute steps were 
 taken by the committee ; how they agreed to buy so miach mea) 
 of such a merchant, at such a price, and with such funds ; how 
 vit was to be resold, and never given away on any pretext • how 
 Mr. Somers had explained that giving away their mean's was 
 killing the goose that laid the golden eggs, M-hen the young 
 priest, in an attitude for oratory, declared that the poor had no 
 money with which to make the purchase ; and how in a few 
 
THE EECTOE OP DKUMBAREOW AND HIS ■WIPE. lid 
 
 weeks' time they would be able to gi-ind their own flour at 
 Herbert Fitzgei'ald's mill ; — all this was also told. But ttie tell- 
 ing did not give so much gratification to Mrs. Townsend as tho 
 ely tits against the two priests. 
 
 And then, while they were still in the middle of all this ; wheK. 
 the punch-jug had given way to the teapot, and the rector was 
 beginning to bethink himself that a nap in his arin-chair would 
 be very refreshing, Jerry came into the room to announce that 
 Kichard had come over from Castle Eichmond with a note for 
 ' his riverence.' And so Eichard was shown in. 
 
 Now Eichard might very well have sent in his note by Jerry, 
 which after all contained only some information with reference 
 to a list of old women which Herbert Fitzgerald had promised to 
 send over to the glebe. But Eichard knew that the minister 
 would wish to chat with him, and Eichard himself had no indis- 
 position for a little conversation. 
 
 ' I hope yer riverence is quite well then,' said Eichard, as he 
 tendered his note, making a double bow, so as to include them 
 both. 
 
 ' Pretty well, thank you,' said Mrs. Townsend. ' And how's 
 aU the family ?' 
 
 ' Well, then, they're all rightly, considhering. The Masther's 
 no just what he war, you know, ma'am.' 
 
 ' I'm afraid not — I'm afraid not,' said the rector. ' You'll not 
 take a glass of spirits, Eichard ?' 
 
 'Yer riverence knows I never does that,' said Eichard, with; 
 somewhat of a conscious look of high morality, for he was a rigid , 
 teetotaller. 
 
 ' And do you mean, to say that you stick to that always ?' said 
 Mrs. Townsend, who firmly believed that no good could come 
 out of Nazareth, and that even abstinence from whisky must be 
 bad if accompanied by anything in the shape of a Eoman Catho- 
 lic ceremony. 
 
 ' I do mean to say, ma'am, that I never touched a dlirop of 
 anything sthronger than wather, barring tay, since the time I 
 got the pledge from the blessed apostle.' And Eichard boldly 
 crossed himself in the presence of them both. They knew well 
 whom he meant by the blessed apostle : it was Father Mathew. 
 
 "' Temperance is a very good thing, however we may com« by 
 it,' said Mr. Townsend, who meant to imply by this that Eichard's 
 temperance had been coriie by in the worst way possible. 
 
 ' That's thrue for you, sir,' said Eichard ; ' but I never knew 
 any pledge kept, only the blessed apostle's.' By which he meant 
 to imply that no sanctity inherent in Mr. Townsend's sacerdo^ 
 proceedings could be of any such efficacy. 
 
iOO CASTLE KlOHlaOND. 
 
 And then Mr. Townsend read . the note. 'Ah, yes,' said he,- 
 ' tell Mr. Herbert that I'm very much obliged to him. There 
 will be no other answer necessary.' 
 
 ' Very well, yer riverence, I'll be sure to give Mr. Herbert the 
 message.' And Eichard made a sign as though he were going. 
 
 ' But tell mg, Eichard,' said Mrs. Townsend, ' is Sir Thomas 
 •any better? for we have been really very uneasy about him.' 
 
 ' Indeed and he is, ma'am ; a dail betther this morning, the 
 Lord be praised.' 
 
 ' It was a kind of a fit, wasn't it, Eichard ?' asked the parson. 
 
 ' A sort of a fit of illness of some kind, . I'm thinking,' said 
 Eichard,' who had no mind to speak of his family's secrets out of 
 doors. Whatever he might b6 called upon to tell the priest, at 
 any rate he was not called on to tell anything to the parson. 
 
 ' But it was very sudden this time, "^yasn't it, Eichard ?' asked 
 the lady ; ' immediately after that strange man was shown into 
 ;his room — eh ?' 
 
 ' I'm sure, ma'am, I can't say ; but I don't think he was a ■ 
 ha'porth worse than ordinar, till after the gentleman went away. 
 I did hear that he did his business with the gentleman, just as 
 Msual like.' 
 
 ' And then he fell into a fit, didn't he, Eichard ?' 
 
 ' Not that I heard of, ma'am. He did a dail of talking about 
 some law business, I did hear our Mrs. Jones say ; and then 
 afther he warn't just the betther of it.' 
 
 'Was that all?' 
 
 ' And I don't think he's none the worse for it neither, ma'am ; 
 for the masther do seem to have more life in him this day than 
 I'se seen this many a month. Why, he's been out and about 
 with Tier ladyship in the pony-carriage all the morning.' 
 
 ' Has he now ? Well,. I'm delighted to heai^that. It is some 
 trouble about the English estates, I believe, that vexes him ?' 
 
 ' Faix, then, ma'am, I don't just know what it is that ails him, 
 unless it be just that he has too much money for to know what 
 ' to do wid it. That'd be the sore vexation to me, I know.' 
 
 ' Well ; ah, yes ; I suppose I shall see Mrs. Jones to-morrow, 
 or at latest the day after,' said Mrs. Townsend, resolving to pique 
 the man by making him understand that she could easily learn 
 all that she wished to learn from the woman: 'a great comfort 
 Mrs. Jones must be to her ladyship.' 
 
 'Oh yes, ma'am ; 'deed 'an she is,' said Eiohard ; ' 'specially in 
 the matter of puddins and pies, and such like.' 
 
 He was not going to admit Mrs. Jones's superiority, seeing 
 that he had lived in the family long before his present mistress'^ 
 marriage. 
 
THE EECTOE OF DKUMBAREOW AND HIS WIFE. 101 
 
 ' And in a great many other things too, Eichard. She's quite a 
 confidential servant. That's because she's a Protestant, you know.' 
 
 Now of all men, women, and creatures living, Eichard the 
 coachman of Castle Eichmond was the most good-tempered. No 
 amount of anger or scolding, no professional misfortune — such as 
 the falling down of his horse upon the ice, no harliship — such as 
 three hours' perpetual rain when he was upon the box — would 
 make him cross. To him it was a matter of perfect indifference 
 if he were sent off with his car just before breakfast, or called 
 away to some stable work as the dinner was about to smoke in 
 the servants' hall. He was a great eater, but what he didn't eat 
 one day he could eat the next. Such things never ruBSed him, 
 nor was he ever known to say that such a job wasn't his work. 
 He was always willing to nurse a baby, or dig potatoes, or cook 
 a dinner, to the best of his ability, when asked to do so ; but he 
 could not endure to be made less of than a Protestant ; and of all ; 
 Protestants he could ' not endure to be made less of than Mrs. 
 Jones. 
 
 ' 'Oause she's a Protestant, is it, ma'am ?' 
 
 ' Of course, Eichard : you can't but see that Protestants are 
 more trusted, more respected, more thought about than Eomanists, 
 can you ?' 
 
 ' 'Deed then I don't know, ma'am.' 
 
 ' But look at Mrs. Jones.' 
 
 ' Oh, I looks at her often enough ; and she's well enough too 
 for a woman. But we all know her weakness.' 
 
 ' ^Vhat's that, Eichard ?' asked Mrs. Townsend, with some 
 interest expressed in her tone ; for she was not above listening 
 to a little scandal, even about the servants of her great neigh- 
 bours. J 
 
 ' Why, she do often talk about things she don't understand. 
 But she's a great hand at puddins and pies, and that's what one ' 
 mostly looks for in a woman.' 
 
 This was enough for Mrs. Townsend for the present, and so 
 Eichard was allowed to take his departure, in full self-confidence 
 that he had been one too many for the parson's wife. 
 
 'Jerry,' said Eichard, as they walked out into the yard 
 together to get the Castle Eichmond pony, ' does they often thry 
 io make a Piothestant of you now ?' 
 
 ' Prothestants be d ,' said Jerry, who by no means shared 
 
 !n Eichard's good gifts as to temper. 
 ' Well, I wouldn't say that ; at laist, not of all of 'em.' 
 ' The likes of them's used to it,' said Jerry. 
 And then Eichard, not waiting to do further battle on behalf 
 of his Protestant friends, trotted out of the yard. 
 
102 
 
 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 SECOND LOTE. 
 
 On the day after Clara's departure, Herbert did, as a matter (A 
 cotirse, make his promised visit at Desmond Court. It was on 
 that day that Sir Thomas had been driving about in the poay- 
 carriage with Lady Fitzgerald, as Eichard had reported. Herbert 
 had been with his father in the morning, and then having seen 
 him and his mother well packed up in their shawls and cloaks, 
 had mounted his horse and ridden off. 
 
 ' I may be kept some time,' said he, ' as I have promised to go 
 on to Clady, and see after that soup kitchen.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't wonder if Herbert became attached to Clara 
 Desmond,' said the mother to Sir Thomas, soon after they had 
 begun their excursion. ' 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' said the baronet ; and his tone was cer- 
 tainly not exactly that of approbation. 
 
 '-Well, yes; I certainly do thiokit probable. lam sure he 
 admires her, and I think it very likely to come to more. Would 
 there be any objection ?' 
 
 ' They are both very young,' said Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' But in Herbert's position will not a young marriage be the 
 best thing for him ?' 
 
 ' And she has no fortune ; not a shilling. If he does marry 
 young, quite young you know, it might be prudent that his wife 
 should have something of her own.' 
 
 ' They'd live here,' said Lady Fitzgerald, who knew that ot 
 all men, her husband was usually most free from mercenary 
 feelings and an over-anxiety as to increased wealth, either for 
 himself or for his children ; ' and I think it would be such a 
 comfort to you. Herbert, you see, is so fond of county business, 
 and sq little anxious for what young men generally consider 
 pleasure.' 
 
 There was nothing more said about it at that moment; foi 
 the question in some measure touched upon money matters and 
 considerations as to property, from all of which Lady Fitzgerald 
 at present wished to keep her husband's mind free. But towards 
 the end of the drive he himself again referred to it. 
 
 ' She is a nice girl, isn't she ?' 
 
 ' Very nice, I think ; as far as I've seen her.' ; , 
 
SECONB LOVE. i 103 
 
 • She is pretty, certainly.' 
 
 'Very pretty; more than pretty; much more. She will bo 
 beautiful.^ 
 
 ' But she is such a mere child. You do not think that any- 
 thing will come of it immediately ; — not quite immediately ?' 
 
 ' Oh no ; certainly not quite immediately. I think Herbert 
 is not calculated to be very sudden in any such feelings, or in 
 the [expression of them : but I do think such an event very 
 probable before the winter is over.' 
 
 In the mean time Herbert spent the whole day over at Des 
 . mond Court, or at Clady. He found the countess delighted to 
 see him, and both she and Lady Clara went on with him to 
 Clady. It was past five, and quite dark, before he reached 
 Castle Eichmond, so that he barely got home in time to dress for 
 dinner. 
 
 The dinner-party that evening was more pleasant than usual. 
 Sir Thomas not only dined with them, but came into the draw- 
 ing-room after dinner, and to a certain extent joined in their 
 conversation. Lady Fitzgerald could see that this was done by 
 a great effort ; but it was not remarked by Aunt Letty and the 
 others, who were delighted to have him with them, and to see 
 him once more interested about their interests. 
 
 And now the building of the mill had been settled, and the 
 final orders were to be given by Herbert at the spot on the 
 following morning. 
 
 ' We can go with you to Berryhill, I suppose, can't we ?' said 
 Mary. 
 
 ' I shall be in a great hurry,' said Herbert, who clearly did 
 not wish to be encumbered by his sisters on this special expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 ' And why are you to be in such a hurry to-morrow ?' asked 
 Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' Well, I shall be hurried ; I have promised to' go to Clady 
 again, and I must be back here early, and must get another 
 horse.' 
 
 ' Why, Herbert, you are becoming a Hercules of energy,' 
 said his father, smiling : ' you will have enough to do if you 
 look to all the soup kitchens on the Desmond property as well 
 as our own.' 
 
 ' I made a sort of promise about this particular affair at Clady, 
 and I must carry it out,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' And you'll pay your devoirs to the fair Lady Clara on your 
 way home of course,' said Mary, 
 ' More thin probable,' he replied. 
 •And stay so lats again that you'll hardly be here in time foi 
 
104 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 dinner,' continued Mary : to wMoh little sally her br rthei 
 vouchsafed no answer. 
 
 But Emmeline said nothing. Lady Clara was specially her 
 friend, and she was too anxious to secure such a sister-in-law to 
 make any joke upon such a subject. 
 
 ! On that occasion nothing more was said about it ; but Sir 
 Thomas hoped within his heart that his wife was right in 
 prophesying that his son would do nothing sudden in this 
 matter. 
 
 On the following morning young Fitzgerald gave the necessary 
 orders at BerryhiU very quickly, and, then coming back re-< 
 mounted another horse without going into the house. Then ho 
 trotted off to Clady, passing the gate of Desmond Court without 
 calling ; did what he had promised to do at Clady, or rather that 
 which he had made to stand as an excuse for again visiting that 
 part of the world so quickly ; and after that, with a conscience 
 let us. hope quite clear, rode up the avenue at Desmond Court. 
 It was still early in the day when he got there, probably not 
 much after two o'clock ; and yet Mary had been quite correct in 
 foretelling that he would only be home just in time for dinner. 
 
 But, nevertheless, he had not seen Lady Desmond. Why or 
 how it had occurred that she had been absent from the dra^ving- 
 room the whole of the two hours which he had passed in the 
 house, it may be unnecessary to explain. Such, however, had been 
 the fact. The first five minutes had been passed in inquiries after 
 the bruise, and, it must be owned, in a surgical inspection of the 
 still discoloured arm. ' It must be very painful,' he had said, 
 looking into hfer face, as though by doing so he could swear that 
 he would so willingly bear all the pain himself, if it were only 
 possible to make such an exchange. 
 
 ' Not very,' she had answered, smiling. ' It is onl/ a little 
 Btiff. I can't quite move it easily.' 
 
 ' And then 'she lifted it up, and afterwards dropped it with a 
 little look of pain that ran through his heart. 
 
 The' next five minutes were taken up in discussing the case 
 of the recusant boiler, and then Clara discovered that she had 
 better go and fetch her mother. But against the immediate 
 taking of this step he had alleged some valid reason, and so 
 they had gone on, till the dark night admonished him that he 
 could do no more than save the dinner hour a,t Castle Eich- 
 mond. 
 
 The room was nearly dark when he left her, and she got up 
 and stood at the front window, so that, unseen, she might see 
 his-figure as he rode off from the house. He mounted his horse 
 within the quadrangle, and coming out at the great old-fashioned 
 
SECOND LOVE. 105 
 
 Ugly portal, galloped off across tte green park with a loose 
 lein and a happy heart. What is it the song says ? 
 
 ' Oh, ladies, beware of a gay yonng knight ' 
 Wlio loves and who rides away.' 
 
 There was at Clara's heart, as she slood there at the window, 
 some feeling of the expediency of heing beware, some shadow 
 of donbt as to the wisdom of what she had done. He rode away . 
 gaily, with a, happy spirit, for he had won that on the winning 
 of which he had been intent. No necessity for caution presented 
 itself to him. He had been seen and loved ; had then asked, and 
 had not asked in vain. 
 
 She stood gazing after him, as long as her straining eye could 
 catch any outline of his figure as it disappeared through the gloom 
 of the evening. As long as she could see him, or even fancy that 
 she still saw him, she thought only of his excellence ; of his high 
 character, his kind heart, his talents — which in her estimation 
 were ranked perhaps above their real value — his tastes, which 
 coincided so well with her own, his quiet yet manly bearing, his 
 useful pursuits, his gait, appearance, and demeanour. All these 
 were of a nature to win the heart of such a girl as Clara Des- 
 mond ; and then, probably, in some indistinct way, she remem- 
 bered the broad acres to which he was the heir, and comforted her- 
 self by reflecting that this at least was a match which none would 
 think disgraceful for a daughter even of an Earl of Desmond. 
 
 But sadder thoughts did come when that figure had wholly 
 disappeared. Her eye, looking out into the darkness, could not 
 but see another figure on which it had often in past times 
 delighted almost unconsciously to dwell. There, walking on that 
 very road, another lover, another Fitzgerald, had sworn that he 
 loved her ; and had truly sworn so, as she well knew. She had 
 never doubted his truth to her, and did not doubt ii aow ; — and 
 yet she had given herself away to another. 
 
 And in many things he too, that other lover, had been noble 
 and gracious, and fit for a woman to love. In person he exceeded 
 all that she had ever seen or dreamed of ; and why should we 
 think that personal excellence is to count for nothing in female 
 judgment, -when in that of men it ranks so immeasurably above 
 all Other excellences ? His bearing, too, was chivalrous and 
 bold, his language full of poetry, and his manner of loving 
 eager, impetuous, and of a kin to worship. Then, too, he was 
 now in misfortune ; and when has that failed to soften even the 
 softness of a woman's heart ? 
 
 ' It was impossible that she should not make comparisons, 
 comparisons that were so distasteful to her; imuossible. also, 
 
l06 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 that she should net accuse herself of some falseness to that fiisi 
 lover. TheJime to us, ray friends, seems short enough since 
 she was walking there, and listening with childish delight to 
 Owen's protestations of love. It was but little more than 
 ine year since : but to her those months had been very long. 
 And, reader, if thou hast arrived at any period of life which 
 enables thee to count thy past years by lustrums ; if thou art at 
 a time of life, past thirty we will say, hast thou not found that 
 thy years, which are now short enough, were long in those by- 
 gone days ? 
 
 Those fourteen months were to her the space almost of a 
 second life, as she now looked back upon them. When those 
 earlier vows were maae, wha4; had she cared for prudence, for 
 the world's esteem, or an alliance that might be becoming to 
 ner ? That Owen Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high blood and 
 ancient family, so much she had cared to know ; for the rest, she 
 had only cared to feel this, that her heart beat high with plea- 
 sure when he was with her. 
 
 Did her heart beat as high now, when his cousin was beside 
 her ? No ; she felt that it did not. And sometimes she felt, or 
 feared to feel, that it might beat high again when she should 
 again see the lover whom her judgment had rejected. 
 
 Her judgment had rejected him altogether long before an 
 idea had at all presented itself to her that Herbert Fitzgerald could 
 become her suitor. Nor had this been done wholly in obedience 
 to iter mother's mandate. She had realized in her own mind 
 the conviction that Owen Fitzgerald was not a man with whom 
 any girl could at present safely link her fortune. She knew 
 well that he was idle, dissipated, and extravagant ; and she 
 could not believe these vices had arisen only from his banish- 
 ment from her, and that they would cease and vanish whenever 
 that banishment might cease. 
 
 Messages came to her, in underhand ways — ways well under- 
 stood in Ireland, and not always ignored in England — to the ' 
 effect that all his misdoings arose from his unhappiness ; that he 
 drank and gambled only because the gates of Desmond Court' 
 were no longer open to him, • There was that in Olara's heart 
 which did for a while predispose her to believe somewhat of this, 
 1 to hope that it might not be altogether false. Could any girl 
 loving such a man not have had some such hope ? But then the 
 stories of these revelries became worse and worse, and it was 
 ' dinned into her ears that these doings had been running on in 
 all their enormity before that day of his banishment. And so, 
 '■ silently and sadly, with no-outspoken word either to mother oi 
 brother, she had resolved to give him np. 
 
Second love. 10*? 
 
 There was no necessity to her for any outspoken word. She 
 had promised her raother to hold no interconrse with the man ; 
 and she had kept and would keep her promise. Why say moro 
 about it ? How she might have reconciled her promise to her 
 mother with an enduring engagement, had Owen Fitzgerald's 
 conduct allowed her to regard her engagement as enduring, — that 
 had been a sore trouble to her whHe hope had remained; but 
 now no hope remained, and that trouble was over. 
 
 And then Herbert Fitzgerald had come across her path, and 
 those sweet, loving, kind Fitzgerald girls, who were always 
 ready to cover her with such sweet caresses, with whom she had 
 known more of the happiness of friendliness than ever she had 
 felt before. They threw themselves upon her like sisters, and 
 she had never before enjoyed sisterly treatment. He had come 
 across her path ; and from the first moment she had become con- 
 scious of his admiration. / 
 
 She knew herself to be penniless, and dreaded that she should 
 be looked upon as wishing to catch the rich heir. But every one 
 had conspired to throw them together. Lady Fitzgerald had 
 welcomed her like a mother, with more caressing soft tenderness 
 than her own mother usually vouchsafed to her ; and even Sir 
 Thomas had gone out of his usual way to Tje kind to her. 
 
 That her mother would approve of such a marriage she could 
 jLot doubt. Lady Desmond in these latter days had not said 
 much to her about Owen ; but she had said very much of the 
 horrors of poverty. And she had been too subtle to praise the 
 virtues of Herbert with open plain words ; but she had praised 
 the comforts of a handsome income and well-established family 
 mansion. Clara at these times had understood more than had 
 been intended, and had, therefore, put herself on her guard 
 against her mother's worldly wisdom ; but, nevertheless, the 
 dropping of the water had in some little measure hollowed the 
 stone beneath. 
 
 And thus, thinking of these things, she stood at the windoW 
 for some half-hour after the form of her accepted lover had 
 become invisible in the gathering gloom of the evening. 
 
 And then her mother entered the room, and candles were 
 brought. Lady Desmond was all smiles and benignity, as she 
 had been for this last week past, while Herbert Fitzgerald had 
 been coming and going almost daily at Desmond Court. But 
 Clara understood this benignity, and disliked it. 
 
 It was, however, now necessary that everything should be told. 
 Herbert had declared that he should at once inform his father 
 and mother, and obtain their permission for his marriage. He 
 q»oke of it as a matter on wMch there was no occasion for any 
 
 H 
 
108 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 doubt "or misgiving. He was an only son, he said, and trusted 
 and loved, in everj'tliing. His father never opposed him on any 
 subject whatever •, and would, he was sure, consent to any match 
 he might propost ' But as to you,' he added, with a lover's 
 flattering fervour, ' they are all so fond of you, they all ihink so 
 much of you, that my only fear is that I shall be jealous. They'U 
 all make love to you. Aunt Letty included.' 
 
 It was therefore essential that she should at once tell her 
 mother, and ask her mother's leave. She had once before con- 
 fessed a tale of love, and had done so with palpitation of the 
 heart, with trembling of the limbs, and floods of tears. Then 
 her tale had been received with harsh sternness. Now she could 
 tell her story without any trembling, with no tears ; but it was 
 almost indifferent to her whether her mother was harsh or tender. 
 
 ' What ! has Mr. Fitzgerald gone ?' said the countess, on 
 ejitering the room. 
 
 ' Yes, mamma ; this half-hour,' said Clara, not as yet coming 
 away from the window. 
 
 ' I did not hear his horse, and imagined he was- here still. I 
 hope he has not thought me terribly uncivil, but I could not well 
 leave what I was doing.' 
 
 To this little make-believe speech Clara did not think it neces« 
 eary to return any answer. She was thinking how she would 
 begin to say that for saying which there was so strong a neces- 
 sity, and she could not take a part in small, false badinage on a 
 subject which was so near her heart. 
 
 ' And what about that stupid mason at Clady ?' asked tho 
 countess, still making believe. 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald was there again to-day, mamma ; and I think 
 it will be all right now ; but he did not say much about it.' 
 
 ' Why not ? you were all so full of it yesterday.' 
 
 Clara, who had half turned round towards the light, now again 
 turned herself towards the window. This task must be done ; 
 but the doing of it was so disagreeable ! How was she to tell 
 her mother that she loved this man, seeing that so short a time 
 since she had declared that she loved another? 
 
 'And what was he talking about, love?' said the countess, 
 ever so graciously. ' Or, perhaps, no questioning on the matter 
 can be allowed. May I ask questions, or may I not ? eh, Clara ?' 
 and then the mother, walking up towards the window, put her 
 fair white hands upon her daughter's two shoulders. 
 
 ' Of course you may inquire,' said Clara. 
 
 ' Then I do inquire— immediately. What has this pretix 
 chevalier been saying to my Clara, that makes her stand thus 
 Sol^snn and silent, gazing out into the dark night?' 
 
SECOND LOVE. 103 
 
 ' Mamma !' 
 
 'Well, love?" 
 
 'Herbert Fitzgerald has — has asked me to be his syife. He 
 has proposed to me.' 
 
 The mother's arm now encircled the daughter lovingly, and 
 the mother's lips were pressed to the daughter's forehead. 
 ' Herbert Fitzgerald has asked you to he his wife, has he ? And 
 what answer has my bonny bird deigned to make to so audacious 
 a request ?' 
 
 Lady Desmond had never before spoken to her daughter in ! 
 tones so gracious, in a manner so flattering, so caressing, so i 
 aifectionate. But Clara would not open her heart to her ' 
 mother's tenderness. She could not look into her mother's face, 
 and welcome her mother's consent with unutterable joy, as she 
 would have done had that consent been given a year since to a 
 less prudent proposition. That marriage for which she was now 
 to ask her mother's sanction would of course be sanctioned. She 
 had no favour to beg ; nothing for which to be grateful. With a 
 slight motion, unconsciously, unwillingly, but not the less posi- 
 tively, she repulsed her mother's caress as she answered her 
 question. 
 
 ' I have accepted him, mamma ; that is, of course, if you do 
 not object.' 
 
 ' My own, own child !' said the countess, seizing her daughter 
 in her arms, and pressing her to her bosom. And in truth Clara 
 was, now probably for the first time, her own heart's daughter. 
 Her son, though he was but a poor earl, was Earl of Desmond. 
 He too, though in truth but a poor earl, was not absolutely des- 
 titute, — would in truth be blessed with a fair future. But Lady 
 Clara had hitherto been felt only as a weight. She had been 
 bom poor as poverty itself, and hitherto had shown so little dis- 
 position to find for herself a remedy for thif crushing evil ! But 
 now — now matters were indeed changed. She had obtained for 
 herself the best match in the whole country round, and, in doing 
 so, had sacrificed her heart's young love. Was she not entitled 
 to all a mother's tenderness ? Who knew, who could know the 
 miseries of poverty so well as the Countess of Desmond ? Who 
 then could feel so much gratitude to a child for prudently 
 escaping from them? Lady Desmond did feel grateful to her 
 daughter. 
 
 ' My own, own child ; my happy girl !' she repeated. ' He is 
 a man to whom any mother in all the land would be proud to see 
 her daughter married. Never, never did I see a young man so 
 perfectly worthy of a girl's love. He is so thoroughly weU 
 educated, so thoroughly well conducted, so good-looking, so 
 
100 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 And then Mr. Townsend read . the note. 'Ah,- yes,' said he,- 
 ' tell Mr. Herbert that I'm very much obliged to him. There 
 will be no other answer necessary.' 
 
 ' Very well, yer riverence, I'll be sure to give Mr. Herbert the 
 message.' And Eichard made a sign as though he were going. 
 
 ' But tell me, Eichard,' said Mrs. Townsend, ' is Sir Thomas 
 -any better? for we have been really very uneasy about him.' 
 
 'Indeed and he is, ma'am; a dail betther this morning, the 
 Lord be praised.' 
 
 ' It waa a kind of a fit, wasn't it, Eichard ?' asked the parson. 
 
 ' A sort of a fit of illness of some kind, . I'm thinking,' said 
 Eichard; who had no mind to speak of his family's secrets out of 
 doors. Whatever he might b6 called upon to tell the priest, at 
 any rate he was not called on to tell anything to the parson. 
 ■ ' But it was very sudden this time, ■qrasn't it, Eichard ?' asked 
 the lady ; ' immediately after that strange man was shown into 
 ;his room — eh ?' 
 
 'I'm sure, ma'am, I can't say; but I don't think he was a- 
 ha'porth worse than ordinar, till after the gentleman went away. 
 I did hear that he did his business with the gentleman, just as 
 wsual like.' 
 
 ' And then he fell into a fit, didn't he, Eichard ?' 
 
 ' Not that I heard ofj ma'am. He did a dail of talking about 
 some law business, I did hear our Mrs. Jones say ; and then 
 afther he warn't just the betther of it.' 
 
 'Was that all*' 
 
 • And 1 don't think he's none the worse for it neither, ma'am ; 
 for the masther do seem to have more life in him this day than 
 I'se seen this many a month. Why, he's been out and about 
 with her ladyship in the pony-carriage all the morning.' 
 
 ' Has he now ? Well,_ I'm delighted to hear that. It is some 
 trouble about the English estates, I believe, that vexes him ?' 
 
 ' Faix, then, ma'am, I don't just know what it is that ails him, 
 unless it be just that he has too much money for to know what 
 ' to do wid it. That'd be the sore vexation to me, I know.' 
 
 ' Well ; ah, yes ; I suppose I shall see Mrs. Jones to-morrow, 
 or at latest the day after,' said Mrs. Townsend, resolving to pique 
 the man by making him understand that she could easily learn 
 all that she wished to learn from the woman : ' a great comfort 
 Mrs. Jones must be to her ladyship.' 
 
 '-Oh yes, ma'am ; 'deed 'an she is,' said Eichard ; "specially in 
 the matter of puddins and pies, and such like' 
 
 He was not going to admit Mrs. Jones's superiority, seeing 
 that he had lived in the family long before his present mistress's 
 marriage. 
 
DtiE RECTOR OP DEUMBAKEOW AND HIS WIFE. 101 
 
 ' And in a great many other things too, Eichard. She's quite a 
 confidential servant. That's because she's a Protestant, you kacw.' 
 
 Now of all men, women, and creatures living, Eichard the 
 coachman of Castle Eichmond was the most good-tempered. No 
 amount of anger or scolding, no professional misfortune — such as 
 the falling down of his horse upon the ice, no hailiship — such as 
 three hours' perpetual rain when he was upon the box^ — would 
 make him cross. To him it was a matter of perfect indifference 
 if he were sent off with his car just before breakfast, or called 
 away to some stable work as the dinner was about to smoke in 
 the servants' hall. He was a great eater, but what he didn't eat 
 one day he could eat the next. Such things never ruffled him, 
 nor was he ever known to say that such a job wasn't his work. 
 He was always willing to nurse a baby, or dig potatoes, or cook 
 a dinner, to the best of his ability, when asked to do so ; but he , 
 could not endure to be made less of than a Protestant ; and of all ; 
 Protestants he could not endure to be made less of than Mrs. 
 Jones. 
 
 ' 'Clause she's a Protestant, is it, ma'am ?' 
 
 ' Of course, Eichard : you can't but see that Protestants are 
 more trusted, more respected, more thought about than Eomanists, 
 can you ?' 
 
 ' 'Deed then I don't know, ma'am.' 
 
 ' But look at Mrs. Jones.' 
 
 ' Oh, I looks at her often enough ; and she's well enough too 
 for a woman. But we all know her weakness.' 
 
 ' What's that, Eichard ?' asked Mrs. Townsend, with some 
 interest expressed in her tone ; for she was not above listening 
 to a little scandal, even about the servants of her great neigh- 
 bours. ' , 
 
 ' Why, she do often talk about things she don't understand. 
 But she's a great hand at puddins and pies, and that's what one 
 mostly looks for in a woman.' 
 
 This was enough for Mrs. Townsend for the present, and so 
 Eichard was allowed to take his departure, in full self-confidence 
 that he had been one too many for the parson's wife. 
 
 'JeiTy,' said Eichard, as they walked out into the yard 
 together to get the Castle Eichmond pony, ' does they often thry 
 to make a Piothestant of you now ?' 
 
 ' Prothestants be d ,' said Jerry, who by no means shared 
 
 !n Eichard's good gifts as to temper. 
 ' Well, I wouldn't say that ; at laist, not of all of 'em.' 
 ' The likes of them's used to it,' said Jerry. 
 . And then Eichard, not waiting to do further battle on behalf 
 of his Protestant friends, trotted out of the yard. 
 
102 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 SECOND LOVE. 
 
 On the day after Clara's departure, Herbert did, as a matter of 
 course, make his promised visit at Desmond Court. It was on 
 that day that Sir Thomas had been driving about in the pouy- 
 carriage with Lady Fitzgerald, as Eiohard had reported. Herbert 
 had been with his father in the morning, and then having seen 
 him and his mother well packed up in their shawls and cloaks, 
 had mounted his horse and ridden off. 
 
 ' I may be kept some time,' said he, ' as I have promised to go 
 on to Clady, and see after that soup kitchen.' 
 
 *I shouldn't wonder if Herbert became attached to Clara 
 Desmond,' said the mother to Sir Thomas, soon after they had 
 begun their excursion. i 
 
 ' Do you think so ?' said the baronet ; and his tone was cer- 
 tainly not exactly that of approbation. 
 
 '^Well, yes; I certainly do think- it probable, I am sure he 
 admires her, and I think it very likely to come to more. Would 
 there be any objection ?' 
 
 ' They are both very young,' said Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' But in Herbert's position will not a young marriage be the 
 best thing for him ?' 
 
 ' And she has no fortune ; not a shilling. If he does marry 
 young, quite young you know, it might be prudent that his wife 
 should have something of her own.' 
 
 ' They'd live here,' said Lady Fitzgerald, who knew that ot 
 all men, her husband was usually most free from mercenary 
 feelings and an over-anxiety as to increased wealth, either for 
 himself or for his children ; ' and I think it would be such a 
 comfort to you. Herbert, you see, is so fond of county business, 
 and so little anxious for what young men generally consider 
 pleasure.' 
 
 There was nothing more said about it at that moment; foi 
 the question in some measure touched iipon money matters and 
 considerations as to property, from all of which Lady Fitzgerald 
 at present wished to keep her husband's mind free. But towards 
 the end of the drive he himself again referred to it. 
 
 ' She is a nice girl, isn't she ?' 
 
 ' Very nice, I think ; as far as I've seen her.' 
 
SECONI* LOVE. ) 103 
 
 'She is pretty, certainly.' 
 
 'Very pretty; more than pretty; much more. She will bo 
 beautiful.^ 
 
 ' But she is such a mere child. You do not think that any- 
 thing will come of it immediately ; — not quite immediately ?' 
 
 ' Oh no ; certainly not quite immediately. I think Eterbert 
 is not calculated to be very sudden in any such feelings, or in 
 the [expression of them : but I do think such an event very 
 probable before the winter is over.' 
 
 In the mean time Herbert spent the whole day over at Des 
 mond Court, or at Clady. He found the countess delighted to 
 see him, and both she and Lady Clara went on with him to 
 Clady. It was past five, and quite dark, before he reached 
 Castle Eichmond, so that he barely got home in time to dress for 
 dinner. 
 
 The dinner-party that evening was more pleasant than usual. 
 Sir Thomas not only dined with them, but came into the draw- 
 ing-room after dinner, and to a certain extent joined in their 
 conversation. Lady Fitzgerald could see that this was done by 
 a great effort ; but it was not remarked by Aunt Letty and the 
 others, who were delighted to have him with them, and to see 
 him once more interested about their interests. 
 
 And now the building of the mill had been settled, and the 
 final orders were to be given by Plerbert at the spot on the 
 following morning. 
 
 ' We can go with you to Berryhill, I suppose, can't we ?' said 
 Mary. 
 
 ' I shall be in a great hurry,' said Herbert, who clearly did 
 not wish to be encumbered by his sisters on this special expedi- 
 tion. 
 
 ' And- why are you to be in such a hurry to-morrow ?' asked 
 Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' Well, I shall be hurried ; I have promised to' go to Clady 
 again, and I must be back here early, and must get another 
 horse.' 
 
 ' Why, Herbert, you are becoming a Hercules of energy,' 
 said his father, smiling : ' you will have enough to do if you 
 look to all the soup kitchens on the Desmond property as well 
 as our own.' 
 
 ' I made a sort of promise about this particular affair at Clady, 
 and I must caiTy it out,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' And you'll pay your devoirs to the fair Lady Clara on your 
 way home of course,' said Mary, 
 ' More th^n probable,' he replied. 
 'And stay so lata again that you'll hardly be here in time foi 
 
104 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 dinner,' continued Mary : to wHoh little sally her br )thei 
 vouchsafed no answer. 
 
 But Emmeline said nothing. Lady Clara was specially her 
 friend, and she was too anxious to secure such a sister-in-law to 
 make any joke upon such a subject. 
 
 On that occasion nothing more was said about it ; but Sir 
 Thomas hoped within his heart that hie wife was right in 
 prophesying that his son would do nothing sudden in this 
 matter. 
 
 On the following morning young Fitzgerald gave the necessary 
 prders at Berryhill very quickly, and^ then coming back re-« 
 mounted another horse without going into the house. Then ho 
 trotted off to Glady, passing the gate of Desmond Court without 
 calling ; did what he had promised to do at Clady, or rather that 
 which he had made to stand as an excuse for again visiting that 
 part of the world so quickly ; and after that, with a conscience 
 let us. hope quite clear, rode up the avenue at Desmond Court. 
 It was still early in the day when he got there, probably not 
 much after two o'clock ; and yet Mary had been quite correct in 
 foretelling that he would only be home just in time for dinner. 
 
 But, nevertheless, he had not seen Lady Desmond. "Why or 
 how it had occurred that she had been absent from the drayving- 
 room the whole of the two hours which he had passed in the 
 house, it may be unnecessary to explain. Such, however, had beeA 
 the fact. The first five minutes had been passed in inquiries after 
 the bruise, and, it must be owned, in a surgical inspection of the 
 still discoloured arm. ' It must be very painful,' he had said, 
 looking into h6r face, as though by doing so he could swear that 
 he would so willingly bear all the pain himself, if it were only 
 possible to make such an exchange. 
 
 ' Not very,' she had answered, smiling. ' It is only' a little 
 stiff. I can't quite move it easily.' 
 
 ' And then "she lifted it up, and afterwards dropped it with a 
 little look of pain that ran through his heart. 
 
 The next five minutes were taken up in discussing the case 
 of the recusant boiler, and then Clara discovered that she had 
 better go and fetch her mother. But against the immediate 
 taking of this step he had alleged some valid reason, and so 
 they had gone on, till the dark night admonished him that he 
 could do no more than save the dinner hour at Castle Eioh- 
 mond. 
 
 The room was nearly dark when he left her, and she got up 
 and stood at the front window, so that, unseen, she might see 
 his-figure as he rode off from the house. He mounted his horse 
 within the quadrangle, and coming out at the great old-fashioned 
 
SECOND LOVE. 105 
 
 Ugly portal, galloped oif across the green park with a looise 
 rein and a happy heart. What is it the song says ? 
 
 ' Oh, ladies, beware of a gay yoiing knight 
 Wlio loves and who rides away.' 
 
 There was at Clara's heart, as she siood there at the window, 
 some feeling of the expediency of being beware, some shadow 
 of donbt as to the wisdom of what she had done. He rode away 
 gaily, with a, happy spirit, for he had won th-at on the winning 
 of which he had been intent. No necessity for caution presented 
 itself to him. He had been seen and loved ; had then asked, and 
 had not asked in vain. i 
 
 She stood gazing after him, as long as her straining eye could 
 catch any outline of his figure as it disappeared through the gloom 
 of the evening. As long as she could see him, or even fancy that 
 she still saw him, she thought only of his excellence ; of his high 
 character, his kind heart, his talents — which in her estimation 
 were ranked perhaps above their real value — his tastes, which 
 coincided so well with her own, his quiet yet manly bearing, his 
 useful pursuits, his gait, appearance, and demeanour. All these 
 were of a nature to win the heart of such a girl as Clara Des- 
 mond ; and then, probably, in some indistinct way, she remem- 
 bered the broad acres to which he was the heir, and comforted her- 
 self by reflecting that this at least was a match which none would 
 think disgraceful for a daughter even of an Earl of Desmond. 
 
 But sadder thoughts did come when that figure had wholly 
 disappeared. Her eye, looking out into the darkness, could not 
 but see another figure on which it had often in past times 
 delighted almost unconsciously to dwell. There, walking on that 
 very road, another lover, another Fitzgerald, had sworn that he 
 loved her ; and had truly sworn so, as she well knew. She had 
 never doubted his truth to her, and did not doubt i* aow ; — and 
 yet she had given herself away to another. 
 
 And in many things he too, that other lover, had been noble 
 and gracious, and fit for a woman to love. In person he exceeded 
 all that she had ever seen or dreamed of ; and why should we 
 think that personal excellence is to count for nothing in female 
 judgment, -when in that of men it ranks so immeasurably above 
 all Other excellences ? His bearing, too, was chivalrous and 
 bold, his language full of poetry, and his manner of loving 
 eager, impetuous, and of a kin to worship, Then, too, he was 
 now in misfortune ; and when has that failed to soften even the 
 softness of a woman's heart ? 
 
 It was impossible that she shoiild not make compariscms, 
 Bomparisons that were so distasteful to her; impossible, also. 
 
l06 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 that she should net accuse herself of some falseness to that fii«t 
 lover. The Jime. to us, ray friends, seems short enough since 
 she was walking there, and listening with childish delight to 
 Dwen's protestations of love. It was but little more than 
 me year since : but to her those months had been -very long. 
 And, reader, if thou hast arrived at any period of life which 
 enables thee to count thy past years by lustrums ; if thou art at 
 a time of life, past thirty we will say, hast thou not found that 
 thy years, which are now short enough, were long in those by- 
 gone days ? 
 
 Those fourteen months were to her the space almost of a 
 second life, as she now looked back upon them. When those 
 earlier vows were maae, wha*t had she cared for prudence, for 
 the world's esteem, or an alliance that might be becoming to 
 fler ? That Owen Fitzgerald was a gentleman of high blood and 
 ancient family, so much she had cared to know ; for the rest, she 
 had only cared to feel this, that her heart beat high with plea- 
 sure when he was with her. 
 
 Did her heart beat as high now, when his cousin was beside 
 her? No ; she felt that it did not. And sometimes she felt, or 
 feared to feel, that it might beat high again when she should 
 again see the lover whom her judgment had rejected. 
 
 Her judgment had rejected him altogether long before an 
 idea had at all presented itself to her that Herbert Fitzgerald could 
 become her suitor. Nor had this been done wholly in obedience 
 to Iter mother's mandate. She had realized in her own miad 
 the conviction that Owen Fitzgerald was not a man with whom 
 any girl could at present safely link her fortune. She knew 
 well that he was idle, dissipated, and extravagant ; and she 
 could not believe these vices had arisen only from his banish- 
 ment from her, and that they would cease and- vanish whenever 
 that banishment might cease. 
 
 Messages came to her, in underhand ways — ^ways well under- 
 stood in Ireland, and not always ignored in England — to the 
 effect that all his misdoings arose from his unhappiness ; that he 
 drank and gambled only because the gates of Desmond Court- 
 were no longer open to him, • There was that in Clara's heart 
 which did for a while predispose her to believe somewhat of this, 
 to hope that it might not be altogether false. Could any girl 
 loving such a man not have had some such hope ? But then the 
 stories of these revelries became worse and worse, and it was 
 dinned into her ears that these doings had been running on in 
 all their enormity before that day of his banishment. And so, 
 BUently and sadly, with no -outspoken word either to mother at 
 brother, she had resolved to give him np. 
 
Second loVe. 10? 
 
 Tliere was no necessity to her for any outspoken word. She 
 had promised her mother to hold no intercourse with the man ; 
 .and she had kept and would keep her promise. Why say moro 
 about it ? How she might have reconciled her promise to her 
 mother with an enduring engagement, had Owen Fitzgerald's 
 conduct allowed her to regard her engagement as enduring, — that 
 had been a sore trouble to her while hope had remained ; but 
 now no hope remained, and that trouble was over. 
 
 And then Herbert Fitzgerald had come across her path, and 
 those sweet, loving, kind Fitzgerald girls, who were always 
 ready to cover her with such sweet caresses, with whom she had 
 known more of the happiness of friendliness than ever she had 
 felt before. They threw themselves upon her like sisters, and 
 she had never before enjoyed sisterly treatment. He had come 
 across her path ; and from the first moment she had become con- 
 scious of his admiration. / 
 
 She knew herself to be penniless, and dreaded that she should 
 be looked upon as wishing to catch the rich heir. But every one 
 had conspired to throw them together. Lady Fitzgerald had 
 welcomed her like a mother, with more caressing soft tenderness 
 than her own mother usually vouchsafed to her ; and even Sir 
 Thomas had gone out of his usual way to be kind to her. 
 
 That her mother would approve of such a marriage she could 
 jiot doubt. Lady Desmond in these latter days had not said 
 much to her about Owen ; but she had said very much of the 
 horrors of poverty. And she had been too subtle to praise the ^ 
 virtues of Herbert with open plain words ; but she had praised 
 the comforts of a handsome income and well-established family 
 mansion. Clara at these times had understood more than had 
 been intended, and had, therefore, put herself on her guard 
 against her mother's worldly wisdom ; but, nevertheless, the 
 dropping of the water had in some little measure hollowed the 
 stone beneath. 
 
 And thus, thinking of these things, she stood at the window 
 for some half-hour after the form of her accepted lover had 
 become invisible in the gathering gloom of the evening. 
 
 And then her mother entered the room, and candles were 
 brought. Lady Desmond was all smiles and benignity, as she 
 had been for this last week past, while Herbert Fitzgerald had 
 been coming and going almost daily at Desmond Court. But 
 Clara understood this benignity, and disliked it. 
 
 It was, however, now necessary that everything should be told. 
 Herbert had declared that he should at once inform his father 
 and mother, and obtain their permission for his marriage. Ha 
 spoke of it as a matter on wMch there was no occasion for any 
 
 s 
 
1U8 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 doiilit'or misgiving. He was an only son, he said, and trusted 
 and loved in eveiytHng. His father never opposed him on any 
 subject whatever 'i and would, he was sure, consent to any match 
 he might propost ' But as to you,' he added, with a lover's 
 flattering fervour, ' they are all so fond of you, they all -think so 
 much of you, that my only fear is that I shall be jealous. They'll 
 all make love to you, Aunt Letty included.' 
 
 It was therefore essential that she should at once tell her 
 mother, and ask her mother's leave. She had once before cout 
 " fessed a tale of love, and had done so with palpitation of the 
 heart, with trembling of the limbs, and floods of tears. Then 
 her tale had been received with harsh sternness. Now she could 
 tell her story without any trembling, with no tears ; but it was 
 almost indifferent to her whether her mother was harsh or tender. 
 
 ' What ! has Mr. Fitzgerald gone ?' said the countess, on 
 entering the room. 
 
 ' Yes, mamma ; this half-hour,' said Clara, not as yet coming 
 away from the window. 
 
 ' I did not hear his horse, and imagined he was" here still. 1 
 hope he has not thought me terribly uncivil, but I could not well 
 leave what I was doing.' 
 
 To this little make-believe sj)eech Clara did not think it neces^ 
 sary to return any answer. She was thinking how she would 
 begin to say that for saying which there was so strong a neces- 
 sity, and she could not take a piirt in small, false badinage on a 
 subject which was so near her heart. 
 
 ' And what about that stupid mason at Clady ?' asked tho 
 countess, still making believe. 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald was there again to-day, mamma ; and I think 
 it will be all right now ; but he did not say much about it.' 
 
 ' Why not ? you were all so full of it yesterday.' 
 
 Clara, who had haK turned round towards the light, now again 
 turned herself towards the window. This task must be done; 
 but the doing of it was so disagreeable ! How was she to tell 
 her mother that she loved this man, seeing that so short a time 
 since she had declared that she loved another? 
 
 'And what was he talking about, love?' said the countess, 
 ever so graciously. ' Or, perhaps, no questioning on the matter 
 can be allowed. May I ask questions, or may I not ? eh, Clara ?' 
 and then the mother, walking up towards the window, put her 
 fair white hands upon her daughter's two shoulders. 
 
 ' Of course you may inquire,' said Clara. 
 
 ' Then I do inquire— immediately. What has this preiix 
 chevalier been saying to my Clara, that makes her stand thus 
 solemn and silent, gazing out into the dark night?' 
 
SECOND LOVE. 103 
 
 ' Mamma !' 
 
 •Well, love?" 
 
 'Herbert Fitzgerald has — has asked me to be his wife. He 
 has proposed to me.' 
 
 The mother's arm now encircled the daiighter lovingly, and 
 the mother's lips were pressed to the daughter's forehead. 
 ' Herbert Fitzgerald has asked you to be his wife, has he ? And 
 what answer has my bonny bird deigned to make to so audacious 
 a request ?' 
 
 Lady Desmond had never before spoken to her daughter in | 
 tones so gracious, in a manner so flattering, so caressing, so i 
 affectionate. But Clara would not open her heart to her ; 
 mother's tenderness. She could not look into her mother's face, 
 and welcome her mother's consent with unutterable joy, as she 
 would have done had that consent been given a year since to a 
 less prudent proposition. That marriage for which she was now 
 to ask her mother's sanction would of course be sanctioned. She 
 had no favour to beg ; nothing for which to be grateful. "With a 
 slight motion, unconsciously, unwillingly, but not the less posi- 
 tively, she repulsed her mother's caress as she answered her 
 question. 
 
 ' I have accepted him, mamma ; that is, of course, if you do 
 not object.' 
 
 ' My own, own child !' said the countess, seizing her daughter 
 in her arms, and pressing her to her bosom. And in truth Clara 
 was, now probably for the first time, her own heart's daughter. 
 Her son, though he was but a poor earl, was Earl of Desmond. 
 He too, though in truth but a poor earl, was not absolutely des- 
 titute, — would in truth be blessed with a fair future. But Lady 
 Clara had hitherto been felt only as a weight. She had been 
 bom poor as poverty itself, and hitherto had shown so little dis- 
 position to find for herself a remedy for thi? crushing evil ! But 
 now — now matters were indeed changed. She had obtained for 
 herself the best match in the whole country round, and, in doing 
 so, had sacrificed her heart's young love. Was she not entitled 
 to all a mother's tenderness ? Who knew, who could know the 
 miseries of poverty so well as the Countess of Desmond ? Who 
 then could feel so much gratitude to a child for prudently 
 escaping from them? Lady Desmond did feel gratefal to her 
 daughter. 
 
 ' My own, own child ; my happy girl !' she repeated. ' He is 
 a man to whom any mother in all the land would be proud to see 
 her daughter married. Never, never did I see a young man so 
 perfectly worthy of a girl's love. He is so thoroughly well 
 educated, so thoroughly well conducted, so good-looking, so 
 
110 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 warm-hearted, so advantageously situateil in. all his circum- 
 etances. Of course he will go into Parliament, and then any 
 course is open to him. The property is, I believe, wholly un- 
 embarrassed, and there are no younger brothers. You_ may say 
 that the place is his own already, for old Sir Thomas is almost 
 nobody. "I do wish you joy, my own dearest, dearest Clara!' 
 After which burst of maternal eloquence, the countess pressed 
 her lips to those of her child, and gave her a mother's warmest 
 
 Clara was conscious that she was thoroughly dissatisfied with 
 her mother, but she could not exactly say why it was so. She 
 did return her mother's kiss, but she did it coldly, and. with lips 
 that were not eager. 
 
 ' I'm glad you think that I have done right, mamma.' 
 
 ' Eight, my love ! Of course I think that you have done 
 right : only I give you no credit, dearest; none in the least^; for 
 how could you help loving one so lovable in every way as dear 
 Herbert ?' 
 
 ' Credit ! no, there is no credit,' she said, not choosing to 
 share her mother's pleasantry. 
 
 'But there is this credit. Had you not been one of the 
 sweetest girls that ever was bom, he would not have loved you.' 
 
 ' He has loved me because there was no one else here,' said 
 Clara. ' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! No one else here, indeed ! Has he not the 
 power if he pleases to go and choose whomever he will in all 
 Eondon. Had he been mercenary, and Wanted money,' said the 
 countess, in a tone which showed how thoroughly she despised 
 any such vice, ' he might have had what he would. But then he 
 could not have had my Clara. But he has looked for beauty 
 and manners and high-bred tastes, and an affectionate heart; 
 and, in my opinion, he could not have been more successful in his 
 search.' After which second burst of eloquence, she again kissed 
 her daughter. 
 
 'Twas thus, at that moment, that she congratulated the wife of 
 the future Sir Herbert Fitzgerald ; and then she allowed Clara to 
 go up to her own room, there to meditate quietly on what she 
 had done, and on that which she was about to do. But late in 
 the evening. Lady Desmond, whose mind was thoroughly full of 
 the subjeot,.again broke out into triumph, 
 
 ' You must write to Patrick to-morrow, Clara. He must hear 
 the good news from no one but yourself.' 
 
 ' Had we not better wait a little, mamma ?' 
 
 ' Why, my love ? You hardly know how anxious your brother 
 la for your welfare.' 
 
SECOND LOVE. Ill 
 
 ' I knew it was right to tajl you, mamma ' 
 
 ' Eight to tell me ! of course it was. You cotild not have had 
 the heart to keep it from me for half a day.' 
 
 ' But perhaps it may be better not to mention it farther till 
 we know ' » 
 
 ' Till we know what T said the countess with a look of fear 
 about her brow. 
 
 ' Whether Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald will wish it. If 
 they object ' 
 
 ' Object ! why should they object ? how can they object ? They 
 are not mercenary people ; and you. are an earl's daughter. And 
 Herbert is not like a girl. The property is his own, entailed on 
 him, and lie may do as he pleases.' 
 
 ' In such a matter I am sure he would not wish to displease 
 either his father or his mother.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, my dear ; quite nonsense ; you do not at all sec 
 the difference between a young man and a girl. He has a right 
 to do exactly as he likes in such a matter. But I am quite sure 
 that they will not object. Why should they ? How can they ?' 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald says that they will- not,' Clara admitted, al- 
 most grudgingly. 
 
 ' Of course they will not. I don't suppose they could bring 
 themselves to object to anything he might suggest. I never 
 knew a young man so happily situated in this respect. He is 
 quite a free agent. I don't think they would say much to him if 
 he insisted on marrying the cook-maid. Indeed, it seems to me 
 that his word is quite paramount at Castle Richmond.' 
 
 ' All the same, mamma ; I would rather not write to Patrick till 
 something more has been settled.' 
 
 ' You are wrong there, Clara. If anything disagreeable should 
 happen, which is quite impossible, it would be absolutely neces- 
 sary that your brother should know. Believe me, my love, I 
 only advise you for your own good.' 
 
 ' But Mr. Fitzgerald will probably be here to-morrow ; or if 
 not to-morrow, next day.' 
 
 ' 1 have no doubt he will, love. But why do you call him Mr. 
 Fitzgerald .I" You were calling him Herbert the other day. 
 Don't you remember how I scolded you ? I should not scold 
 you now.' 
 
 Clara made no answer to this, and then the subject was allowed 
 to rest for that night. She would call him Herbert, she said to 
 herself; but not to her mother. She would keep the use of that 
 name till she could talk with Emmeline as a sister. Of all her 
 anticipated pleasures, that of having now a real sister was per- 
 haps the greatest ; or, rather, that of being able to talk about 
 
112 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 Herbert with one whom she could love and treat as a sistei, 
 But Herbert himself would exact the use of his o-rni Christian 
 name, for. the delight of his own ears; that was a matter oi 
 course ; that, doubtless, had been already done. 
 
 And then mother' and daughter went to bed. The cmintess, 
 as she did so, was certainly happy to her heart's core. Could it 
 be that she had some hope, unrecognized by herself, that Owen 
 Fitzgerald might now once more be welcomed at Desmond 
 Court ? that something might now be done to rescue him from 
 that slough of despond ? 
 
 And Clara too was happy, though her happiness was mixed. 
 She did love Herbert Fitzgerald. She was sure of that. She 
 said so to herself over and over again. Love him ! of course she 
 loved him, and would cherish him as her lord and husband to the 
 last day of her life, the last gasp of her breath. 
 
 But still, as sleep came upon her eyelids, she saw in her 
 memory the bright flash of that other lover's countenance, when 
 he first astonished her with the avowal of his love, as he walked 
 beside her under the elms, with his horse following at his heels. 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 DOUBTS. 
 
 / 1 BELIEVE there is no period of life so happy as that in which a 
 thriving lover leaves his mistress after his first success. His joy 
 is more perfect then that at the absolute moment of his own eager 
 vow, and her half-assenting blushes. Then he is thinking mostly, 
 of her, and is to a certain degree embarrassed by the. effort neces- 
 sary for success. But when the promise has once been given to 
 him, and he is able to escape into the domain of his own heart, 
 he is as a conqueror who has mastered half a continent by his 
 own strategy. . 
 
 It never occurs to him, he hardly believes, that his success is 
 no more than that which is the ordinary lot of mortal man. He 
 never reflects that all the old married fogies whom he knows and 
 despises, have just as much ground for pride, if such pride were 
 enduring ; that every fat, silent, dull, somnolent old lady whom 
 he sees and quizzes, has at some period been deemed as worthy 
 a prize as his priceless galleon ; and so deemed by as bold a cap- 
 tor as himself. 
 
 Some one has said that every young mother, when her first 
 child is bom, regards the babe as the most wonderful production 
 of that description which the world has yet seen. And this" too 
 
DOUBTS. lis 
 
 Is true. But, I doubt even whether that conviction is so strong 
 as the conviction of the young successful lover, that he has 
 achieved a triumph which should ennoble him down to late 
 generations. As he goes along he has a contempt for other men ; 
 for they know nothing of such glory as his. As he pores over 
 his ' Blackstone,' he remembers that he does so, not so much.that 
 he may acquire law, as that he may acquire Fanny; and then all 
 other porers over ' Blackstone ' are low and mean in his sight — ■ 
 are mercenary in their views and unfortunate in their ideas, for 
 they have ho Fanny in view. 
 
 Herbert Fitzgerald had this proud feeling strong within his 
 heart as he galloped away across the greensward, and trotted fast 
 Jilong the road, home to Castle Eichmond. She was compounded 
 sf all excellences — so he swore to himself over and over again — 
 and being so compounded, she had consented to bestow all these 
 excellences upon him. Being hersfjf goddess-like, she had pro- 
 mised to take him as the object of her world's worship. So he 
 trotted on fast and faster, as though conscious of the half-continent 
 which he had won by his skill and valour. 
 
 She had told him about his cousin Owen. Indeed, the greater 
 number of the soft musical words which she had spoken in that 
 long three hours' colloquy had been spoken on this special point. 
 It had behoved her to tell him all ; and she thought that she had 
 done so. Nay, she had done so with absolute truth — to the best 
 of her heart's power. 
 
 ' You were so j'oung then,' he had argued ; ' so very young.' 
 
 ' Yes, very young. I am not very old now, you know,' and 
 she smiled sweetly on him. 
 
 ' No, no ; but a year makes so much difference. You were all 
 but a child then. You do not love him now, Clara ?' 
 
 ' No ; I do not love him now,' she had answered. 
 
 And then he exacted a second, a third, a fourth assiu'ance, that 
 she did absolutely, actually, and with her whole heart love him, 
 him Herbert, in lieu of that other him, poor Owen ; and with 
 this he, Herbert, was contented. Content; nay, but proud, 
 elated with triumph, and conscious of victory. In this spirit ha 
 rode home as fast as his horse could carry him. 
 
 He too had to tell his tale to those to whom he owed obedience, 
 and to beg that they would look upon his intended bride with 
 eyes of love and with parental affection. But in this respect he 
 was hardly troubled with more doubt than Clara had felt. How 
 could any one object to his Clara? 
 
 Tliere are young men who, from their positions in life, are 
 obliged to abstain from early marriage, or to look for dcvries 
 with their wiyes. But he, luckily, was not fettered in thip way. 
 
114 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 He could marry as he pleased, so long as she whom he might 
 choose brought with her gentle blood, a good heart, a sweet 
 temper, and such attraction of person and manners as might 
 make the establishment at Castle Eichmond prond of his young 
 bride. And of whom could that establishment be more proud 
 than of Lady Clara Desmond ? So he rode home without any 
 doubt to clog his happiness. 
 
 But he had a source of joy which Clara wanted. She was 
 almost indiiferent to her mother's satisfaction ; but Herbert looked 
 forward with the liveliest, keenest anticipation to his mother's 
 gratified caresses and unqualified approval — to his father's kind 
 smile and warm assurance of consent. Clara had made herself 
 known at Castle Eichmond ; and he had no doubt but that all 
 this would be added to his cup of happiness. There was there- 
 fore no alloy to debase his virgin gold as he trotted quickly into 
 the stable-yard. 
 
 But he resolved that he would say nothing about the matter 
 that night. He could not well tell them all in full conclave 
 together. Early after breakfast he would go to his father's 
 room ; and after that, he would find his mother. There, would' 
 then be no doubt that the news would duly leak out among his 
 sisters and Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' Again only just barely in time, Herbert,' said Mary, as they 
 clustered round the fire before dinner. 
 
 ' You can't say I ever keep you waiting ; and I really think 
 that's some praise for a man who has got a good many things on 
 his hand.' 
 
 ' So it is, Herbert,' said Emmeline. ' But we have done 
 something too. We have been over to Berryhill ; and the people 
 have already begun there : they were at work with their pick- 
 axes among the rocks by the river-side.' 
 
 ' So much the better. Was Mr. Somers there ?' 
 
 'We did not see him; but he had been there,' said Aunt 
 Letty. ' But Mrs. Tovmsend found us. And who do you think 
 came up to us in the most courteous, affable, condescending 
 way?' 
 
 ' Who? I don't know. Brady, the builder, I suppose.' 
 
 ' No, indeed : Brady was not half so civil, for he kept himself 
 to his own work. It was the Eev. Mr. M'Carthy, if you please.' 
 
 ' I only hope you were civil to him,' said Herbert, with some 
 slight suifusion of colour over his face ; for he rather doubted 
 the conduct of his aunt to the priest, especially as her great 
 Protestant ally, Mrs. Townsend, was of the party. 
 
 'Civil! I don't know what you would have, unless you 
 wanted Hie to embrace him He shook Iiands witlt us all round 
 
DCUJBTS. 115 
 
 1 really tliought Mrs. Townsend would "have looked Hm into 
 the river wlieii he came to her.' 
 
 ' She always was the qTiintessence of absurdity and prejudice,' 
 gaid he. 
 
 ' Oh, Herbert !' exclaimed Aunt Letfy. 
 
 ' Well ; and what of " Oh, Herbert ?" I say she is so. If you 
 and Mary and Emmeline did not look him into the river when 
 he shook hands with you, why should she do so ? He is an 
 ordained priest even according to her own tenets, — only she 
 knows nothing of what her own tenets are.' 
 
 ' I'll tell you what they are. They are the substantial, true, i 
 and holy doctrines of the Protestant religion, founded on the i 
 gospel. Mrs. Townsend is a thoroughly Protestant woman ; one 
 who cannot abide the sorceries of popery.' 
 
 ' Hates them as a mad^ dog hates water ; and with the same 
 Smount of judgment. We none of us wish to be drowned ; but 
 nevertheless there are some good qualities in water.' 
 
 ' But there are no good qualities in popery,' said Aunt Letty, 
 with heT most extreme energy. 
 
 ' Are there not ?' said Herbert. ' I should have thought that 
 belief in Christ, belief in the Bible, belief in the doctrine of a 
 Saviour's atonement, were good qualities. Even the Mahomme- 
 dan's religion has some qualities that are good.' 
 
 ' I would sooner be a Mahommedan than a Papist,' said Aunt 
 Letty, somewhat thoughtlessly, but very stoutly. 
 
 ' You would alter your opinion after the first weelc in a harem,' 
 said Herbert. And then there was a burst of laughter, in whicla 
 Aunt Letty herself joined. ' I would sooner go there than go 
 to confession,' she whispered to Mary as they all walked off to 
 dinner. 
 
 ' And how is the Lady Clara's arm ?' asked Mary, as soon as 
 they were again once more round the fire. 
 
 ' The Lady Clara's arm is still very blue,' said Herbert, 
 
 ' And I suppose it took you half an hour to weep over it ?' 
 coutinued his sister. 
 
 'Exactly, by Shrewsbury clock.' 
 
 ' And while you were weeping over the arm, what happened 
 to the hand ? She did not surrender it, did she, in return for so 
 much tenderness on your part ?' 
 
 . Emmeline thought that Mary was very pertinacious in her 
 badinage, and was going to bid her hold her tongue ; but she 
 observed that Herbert blushed, and walked away without further 
 answer. He went to the further end of the long room, and there 
 threw himseK on to a sofa. ' Could it be that it was all settled ?' 
 thought Emmeline to hereelf. 
 
116 . CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 She followed him to the sofa, and sitting beside him, took 
 hold of his arm. ' Oh, Herbert ! if there is anything to tell, do 
 tell me.' 
 
 ' Anything to tell I' said he. ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! you know. I do love her so dearly. I shall never-be 
 contented to love any one else as your wife — not to love her 
 really, really with all my heart.' 
 
 ' What geese you girls are ! you are always thinking of love, 
 and weddings, and orange-blossoms.' 
 
 ' It is only for you I think about them,' said Emmeline. ' 1 
 know there is something to tell. Dear Herbert, do tell me.' 
 
 ' There is a young bachelor duke coming here to-morrow. 
 He has a million a year, and three counties ail his own: he has 
 olue eyes, and is the handsomest man that ever was seen. Is 
 that news enough?'- 
 
 ' Very well, Herbert. I would tell you anything.' 
 
 ' Well ; tell me anything.' 
 
 ' I'll tell you this. I know you're in love with Clara Desmond, 
 and I'm sure she's in love with you ; and I believe you are both 
 engaged, and you're not nice at all to have a secret froni me. 1 
 never tease you, as Mary does, and it would make me so happy 
 to know it.' 
 
 Upon this he put his arjn round her waist and whispered one 
 word into her ear. She gave an exclamation of delight ; and as 
 the tears came into her eyes ■ congratulated him with a kiss. 
 ' Oh dear, oh dear ! I am so happy!' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Hush — sh,' he whispered. ' I knew how it would be if 1 
 told, you.' 
 
 ' But they will all know to-morrow, will they not ?' 
 
 ' Leave that to me. You have coaxed me out of my secret, 
 and you are bound to keep it.' And then he went away well 
 pleased. This description of delight on his sister's part was the 
 first instalment of that joy which he had promised himself from 
 the satisfaction of his family. 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald had watched all that had passed, and had 
 already _ learned her mistake— her mistake in that she had 
 prophesied that no immediate proposal was likely to be made by 
 her son. She now knew well enough that he had made such a 
 proposal, and that he had been accepted. 
 
 And this greatly grieved her. She had felt certain from the 
 few slight words which Sir Thomas had spoken that there were 
 valid reasons why her son should not marry a penniless girl. ; 
 That conversation, joined to other things, to the man's visit and 
 Ler husband's deep dejection, had convinced her that all' was 
 ciot^ right. Some misfortune was impending over them and 
 
DOUBTS. 1 17 
 
 there had heen that in her own early history which filled her 
 with dism-ay as she thonght of this. 
 
 She, had ardently desired to caution her son in this respect, — 
 to guard him, if possible, against future disappointment anj 
 future sorrow. But she could not do so without obtainijig in 
 some sort her husband's assent to her doing so. She resolved 
 that she would talk it over with Sir Thomas. But the subject 
 was one so full of pain, and he was so ill, and therefore she had 
 put it off. 
 
 And now she saw that the injury was done. Nevertheless, she 
 said nothing either to Emmeline or to Herbert. If the injury were 
 done, what good could now result from talking ? She doubtless 
 would hear it all soon enough. So she sat still, watching them. 
 
 On the following morning Sir Thomas did not come out to 
 breakfast. Herbert went into his room quite early, as was 
 always his custom ; and as he left it for the breakfast-parlour he 
 said, ' Father, I should like to speak to you just now about some- 
 thing of importance.' 
 
 ' Something of importance, Herbert ; what is it ? Anything 
 wrong ?' For Sir Thomas was nervous, and easily frightened. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ; nothing is wrong. It is nothing that will 
 annoy you ; at least I think not. But it will keep till after 
 breakfast. I will come in again the moment breakfast is over.' 
 And so saying he left the room with a light step. 
 
 In the breakfast-parlour it seemed to him as though every- 
 body was conscious of some important fact. His mother's kiss 
 was peculiarly solemn and full of solicitude ; Aunt Letty smirked 
 as though she was aware of something — something over and above 
 the great Protestant tenets which usually supported her ; and 
 Mary had no joke to fling at him. 
 
 ' Emmeline,' he whispered, ' you have told.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' she replied. But what mattered it ? Every- 
 body would know now in a few minutes. So he ate his break- 
 fast, and then returned to Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' Father,' said he, as soon as he had got into the arm-chair, in 
 which it w:as his custom to sit when talking with Sir Thomas, 
 ' I hope what I am going to tell you will give you pleasure. I 
 have proposed to a young lady, and she has — accepted me.' 
 
 ' You have proposed, and have been accepted !' 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 ' And the young lady ?' 
 
 ' Is Lady Clara Desmond. I hope you will say that you ap- 
 prove of it. She has no fortune, as we aU know, but that will 
 hardly matter to me ; and I think you will allow that ip everj? 
 other respect she is ' 
 
118 
 
 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 Perfect, Herbert would have said, had he dared to express hia 
 true meaning. But he paused for a moment to look for a less 
 triumphant word ; and then paused again, and left his sentence 
 incomplete, when he saw the expression of his father's face. 
 
 ' Oh, father ! you do not mean to say that you do not lite 
 her ?■ 
 
 But it was not dislike that was expressed in his father's face, 
 as Hertert felt the moment after he had spoken. There was 
 pain there, and solicitude, and disappoinment ; a look of sorrow 
 at the tidings thus conveyed to him ; but nothing that seemed 
 to betoken dislike of any person. 
 
 'What is it, sir? Why do you not speak to me? Can it he 
 that you disapprove of my marrying ?' 
 
 Sir Thomas certainly did disapprove of his son's marrying, but 
 he backed the courage to say so. Much misery that had hither- 
 to come upon him, and that was about to come on all those 
 whom he loved so well, arose from this lack of courage. He did- 
 - not dare to tell his son that he advised him for the present to 
 put aside all such hopes. It would have been terrible for him 
 to do so ; but he knew that in not doing so he was occasioning ' 
 ' sorrow that would be more terrible. 
 
 And yet he did not do it. Herbert saw clearly that the pro 
 ject was distasteful to his father, — that project which he had 
 hoped to have seen received with so mueh delight ; but nothing 
 was said to him which tended to make him alter his purpose. 
 
 ' Do you not like her ?' he asked his father, almost piteously. 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; I do like her, we all like her, very much indeed, ^ 
 Herbert.' 
 
 ' Then why ' 
 
 ' You *-e so young, my boy, and she is so very young, and * 
 
 ' And what ?' 
 
 ' Why, Herbert, it is not always practicable for the son even 
 of a man of property to marry so early in life as this. She has- 
 nothing, you know.' 
 
 ' No,' said the young man, proudly ; ' I never thought of look- 
 ing for money.' 
 
 ' But in your position it is so essential if a young man wishes 
 to marry.' 
 
 Herbert had always regarded his father as the most liberal 
 man breathing,— as open-hearted and open-handed almost to a 
 fault. To him, his only son, he had ever been so, refusing him 
 nothing, and latterly allowing him to do almost as he would 
 with the management of the estate. He could not understand 
 that this liberality should be turned to parsimony on such ac 
 ( ccasiou ag that of his son's niarriage. 
 
GOtJBTS. IIP 
 
 ' You think then, sir, that I ought not to marry Lady Clara ?' 
 said Herbert, very bitterly. 
 
 ' I like her excessively,' said Sir Thomas. ' I think she is a 
 sweet girl, a very sweet girl, all that 1 or your mother could 
 desire to see in j^our wife ; but ' 
 
 ' But she is not rich.' 
 
 ' Do not speak to me in that tone, my boj',' said Sir Thomas, 
 with an expression that would have moved his, enemy to pity, 
 let alone his son. His son did pity him, and ceased to wear the 
 angry expression of face which had so wounded his father. 
 
 ' But, father, I do not understand you,' he said. ' Is there 
 any real objection why I should not marry ? I am more than 
 twenty-two, and you, I think, married earlier than that.' 
 
 In answer to this Sir Thomas only sighed ineekly and piteously. 
 
 ' If you mean to say,' continued the son, ' that it will be in- 
 convenient to you to make me any allowance -' 
 
 ' No, no, no ; you are of course entitled to what you want, and 
 as long as I can give it, you shall have it.' 
 
 ' As long as you can give it, father !' 
 
 ' As long as it is in my power, I mean. What can I want of 
 anything but for you — ^for you and them ?' 
 
 After this Herbert sat silent for a while, leaning on his arm. 
 He knew that there existed some mischief, but he could.^ not 
 fathom it. Had he been prudent, he would have felt that there ;' 
 was some impediment to his love ; some evil which it behoved 
 him ta fathom before he allowed his love to share it ; but when ' 
 was a lover prudent ? 
 
 ' We should live here, should we not, father ? No second 
 establishment would be necessary.' 
 
 ' Of course you would live here,' said Sir Thomas, glad to be 
 able to look at the subject on any side that was not painful. ' Of 
 course you would live here. For the matter of that, Herbert, the 
 house should be considered as your own if you so wished it.' 
 
 Against this the son put in his most violent protest. Nothing 
 on earth should make him consider himself master of Castle 
 Richmond as long as his father lived. Nor would Clara, — his 
 Clara, wish it. He knew her well, he boasted. It would amply 
 sufSoe to her to live there with them all. Was not the house 
 large enough? And, indeed, where else could he live, seeing 
 that all his interests were naturally centred upon the property ? 
 
 And then Sir Thomas did give his consent. It would be 
 wrong to say that it was wrung from him. He gave it willingly 
 enough, as far as the present moment was concerned. When it 
 Was once settled, he assured hie son that he would love Clara as 
 his daughter. But nevertheless 
 
120 CASTLE EIOHMOND, 
 
 'i The father knew that he had done wrong ; and Herbert knew 
 ithat he also, he himself, had done wrongly. He was aware that 
 rthere was something which he did not understand. But he had 
 promised to see Clara either that day or the next, and he could 
 not bring himself to unsay all that he had said to her. He lefl 
 his father's room sorrowful at heart, and discontented. He haci 
 expected that his tidings would have been received in so fai 
 other a manner ; that he would have been able to go from hij 
 father's study up stairs to his mother's room with so exulting a 
 step ; that his news, when once the matter was ratified by his 
 father's approval, would have flown about the house with so loud 
 a note of triumph. And now it was so diiferent ! His father 
 had consented ; but it was too plain that there was no room for 
 any triumph. 
 
 ' Well, Herbert !' said Emmeline, jumping up to meet him as 
 he returned to a small back drawing-room, through which h.{ 
 had gone to his. father's dressing-room. She had calculated thai 
 he would come there, and that she might thus get the 'first word 
 from him after the interview was over. 
 
 But there was a frown upon his brow, and displeasure in his 
 eyes. There was none of that bright smile of gratified pride 
 with which she had expected that her greeting would have been 
 ■' met. ' Is there anything wrong ?' she said. ' He does not dis- 
 approve, does he ?' 
 
 ' Never mind ; and do leave me now. I never can make you 
 understand that one is not always in a hiunour for joking.' And 
 so saying, he put her aside, and passed on. 
 
 Joking ! That .was indeed hard upon poor Emmeline, seeing 
 ,that her thoughts were so full of him, that her heart beat so 
 warmly for his promised bride. But she said nothing, shrinking 
 back abashed, and vanishing out of the way. Could it be 
 possible that her father should have refused to receive Lady 
 Clara Desmond as his daughter-in-law ? 
 
 He then betook himself to a private territory of his own where 
 he might be sure that he wpuld remain undisturbed for somi 
 half-hour or so. He would go to his mother, of course, but no 
 quite immediately. He would think over the matter, endeavour- 
 ing to ascertain what it was that had made his father's manner 
 and words so painful to him. 
 
 But he could not get his thoughts to work lightly ;— which 
 getting of the thoughts to work rightly is, by-the-by, as I take it, 
 Qie hardest work which a man is called upon to do. Not that 
 the subject to be thought about need in itself be difficult 
 Were one to say that thoughts about hydrostatics and pneumatics 
 are difBcult to the multitude, or that mental efforts in regions of 
 
DOUBTS. 121 
 
 political economy or ethical philosopLy are beyond ordinary 
 reach, one would only pronounce an evident truism, an absurd 
 platitude-. But let any man take any subject fully within his own 
 mind's scope, and strive to think about it steadily, with some 
 attempt at calculation as to results. The chances are his mind 
 will fly ofif, will-he-nill-he, to some utterly different matter. 
 When he wishes to debate within himself that question of his 
 wife's temper, he will find himself considering whether he may 
 not judiciously give away half a dozen pairs of those old boots ; 
 or when it behoves him to decide whether it shall be manure and 
 a green crop, or a fallow season and then grass seeds, he cannot 
 keep himself from inward inquiry as to the meaning of that 
 peculiar smile on Mrs. Walker's face when he shook hands with 
 her last night. . 
 
 Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday can, no doubt, com- 
 mand their thoughts. If many men could do so, there would be 
 many Lord Broughams and many Professor Faradays. 
 
 At the present moment Herbert Fitzgerald had no right to 
 consider himself as following in the steps of either one or other 
 of these great men. He wished to think about his father's cir- 
 cumstances, but his mind would fly off to Clara Desmond and her 
 perfections. And thus, though he remained there for half an 
 hour, with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, his 
 delibe^rations had done him no good whatever, — had rather done 
 him liarm, seeing that he had only warmed himself into a firmer 
 determination to go on with what he was doing. And then he 
 went to his mother. 
 
 She kissed' him, and spoke very tenderly, nay affectionately, 
 about Clara; but even she, even his mother, did not speak 
 joyously; and she also said something about the difficulty of 
 providing a maintenance for a married son. Then to her he 
 burst forth, and spoke somewhat loudly. 
 
 ' I cannot understand all this, mother. If either you or my 
 father know any reason why 1 should be treated differently from 
 other sons, you ought to toll me ; not leave me to grope about in 
 the dark.' 
 
 ' But, my boy, we both think that no son was ever entitled to 
 more consideration, or to kinder or more liberal treatment.' 
 
 'Why do I hear all this, then, about the difficulty of my 
 marrying? Or if I hear so much, why do I not hear more? I 
 know pretty well, I believe, what is my father's income.' 
 
 'If you do not, he would tell you for the asking.' 
 
 ' And I know that I must be the heir to it, whatever it is, — 
 not that that feeling would make any difi'erence in my dealings 
 with, him, not the least. And, urder these circumstances, I 
 
122 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 cannot conceive why he and you should look coldly upon my 
 marriage.' 
 
 'I look coldly on it, Herbert!' 
 
 ' Do you not ? Do you not tell me that there will be no income 
 for me ? If that is to be so ; if that really is the case ; if the 
 property has so dwindled away, or become emban-assed— — ' 
 
 ' Oh, Herbert ! there never was a man less likely to injure his 
 son's property than your father.' 
 
 ' I do not mean that, mother. Let him do what he likes with 
 it, I should not upbraid him, even in my thoughts. But if it be 
 embarrassed ; if it has dwindled away ; if there be any reason 
 why I should not regard myself as altogether untrammelled with 
 regard to money, he ought to tell me. I cannot accuse myself of 
 expensive tastes.' 
 
 ' Dearest Herbert, nobody accuses you of anything.' 
 
 ' But I do desire to marry ; and now I have engaged myself, 
 and will not break from my engagement, unless it be shown to 
 me that I am bound in honour to do so. Then, indeed ' 
 
 'Oh, Herbert ! I do not know what you mean.' 
 
 ' I mean this : that I expect that Clara shall be received as my 
 wife with open arms ' 
 
 ' And so she shall be if she comes.' 
 
 ' Or else that some reason should be given me why she should 
 not come. As to income, something must be done, I suppose. 
 If the means at our disposal are less than I have been taught to 
 believe, I at any rate will not complain. But they cannot, I 
 think, be so small as to afford any just reason why I should net 
 marry.' 
 
 ' Your father, you see, is ill; and one can hardly talk to him 
 fully upon such matters at present.' 
 
 ' Then I will speak to Somers. He, at any rate, must know 
 how the property is circumstanced, and I suppose he wUl not 
 hesitate to tell me.' 
 
 ' I don't think Somers can tell you anything.' 
 
 ' Then what is it? As for the London estate, mother, that is 
 all moonshine. What if it were gone altogether? It maybe 
 that it is that which vexes my father ; but if so, it is a mono- 
 mania.' 
 
 ' Oh, my boy, do not use such a word !' 
 
 ' You know what I luean. If any doubt as to that is creating 
 this despondency, it only shows that though we are bound to 
 respect and relieve my father's state of mind, we are not at' aU 
 bound to share it. What would it really matter, mother, if that 
 place in London were washed away by the Thames ? There is 
 more than, enough left for us all, unless ' 
 
DOUBTS. 123 
 
 ' Ah, Herbert, that is it.' 
 
 ' Then I will go to Somers, and he shall tell me. My father's 
 interest in this property cannot have been inYolved without his 
 knowledge ; and cironmstanced as we and my father are, he is 
 bound to tell me.' 
 
 ' If there be anything within his knowledge to tell, he will 
 tell it." 
 
 ' And if there be nothing within his knowledge, then 1 can 
 only look upon all this as a drsease on my poor father's part.. I 
 will do all I can to comfort him in it ; but it would be madness 
 to destroy my whole happiness because he labours under de- 
 lusions.' 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald did not know what further to say. She half 
 believed that Sir Thomas did labour under some delusion ;' but 
 then she half believed also that he had upon his mind a sorrow, 
 terribly real, which was in no sort delusive. Under such cir- 
 cumstances, how could she advise her son ? Instead of advising 
 him, she caressed him. 
 
 ' But I may claim this from you, mother, that if Somers tells 
 me nothing which ought to make me break my word to Clara, 
 you will receive her as your daughter. You will promise me 
 that, will you not ?' 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald did promise, warmly ; assuring him that she 
 already dearly loved Clara Desmond, that she would delight in 
 having such a daughter-in-law, and that she would go to her to 
 welcome her as such as soon as ever he should bid her do so. 
 With this Herbert was somewhat comforted, and immediately 
 started on his search after Mr. Somers. 
 
 I do not think that any person is to be found, as a rule, at- 
 tached to English estates whose position is analogous to that of 
 an Irish agent. And there is a wide misunderstanding in 
 Englaiid as to these Irish functionaries. I have attempted, some 
 pages back, to describe the national delinquencies of a middle- 
 man, or profit-renter. In England we are apt to think that the 
 agents on Irish properties are to be charged with similar short- 
 comings. This I can assert to be a great mistake ; and I believe 
 that, as a class, the agents on Irish properties do their duty in a 
 manner beneficial to the people. 
 
 That there are, or were, many agents who were also middle- 
 men, or profit-renters, and that in this second position they 
 were a nuisance to the country, is no doubt true. But they were 
 no nuisance in their working capacity as agents. That there are 
 some bad agents there can be no doubt, as there are also some 
 bad shoemakers. 
 
 ! The duties towards an estate whinU an agent performs in 
 I - I 
 
124 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 Ireland are, I believe, generally shared in England betweun 
 tki-ee or four different persons. The family lawyer performs 
 part, the estate steward performs part, and the landlord himseH 
 performs part ; — as to small estates, by far the greater part. 
 
 In Ireland, let the estate be ever so small — eight hundred a , 
 year we will say — all the working of the property is managed by 
 the agent. It is he who knows the tenants, and the limits of 
 their holdings ; it is he who arranges leases, and allows — or 
 much more generally does not allow — for improvements. He 
 takes the rent, and gives the order for the ejection of tenants if 
 Tie cannot get it. 
 
 I am far from saying that it would not be well that much of 
 this should be done by the landlord himself; — that all of it should 
 be so done on a small property. But it is done by agents ; and, 
 as a rule is, I think, done honestly. 
 
 Mr. Somers was agent to the Castle Eichmond property, and 
 as he took to himself as such five per cent, on all rents paid, and 
 as he was agent also to sundry other small properties in the 
 neighbourhood, he succeeded in making a very snug- income. 
 He had also an excellent house on the estate, and was altogether 
 very much thought of ; on the w^hole, perhaps, more than was Sir 
 Thomas. But in this respect it was probable that Herbert might 
 soon take the lead. 
 
 He was a large, heavy, consequential man, always very busy, 
 as though aware of being one of the most important wheels that 
 kept the Irish clock agoing ; but he was honest, kind-hearted in 
 the main, true as steel to his employers, and good-humoured^as 
 long as he was allowed to have his own way. In these latter 
 days he had been a little soured by Herbert's interference, and 
 "had even gone so far as to say that, ' in his humble judgment, Mr. 
 ritzgerald was wrong in doing' — so ' and so. But he generally 
 called him Herbert, was always kind to him, and in his heart of 
 hearts loved him dearly. But that was a matter of coursej for 
 had he not been agent to the estate before Herbert was bom ? 
 
 Immediately after his interview with his mother, Mr. Herbert 
 rode over to Mr. Somers's house, and there found him sitting 
 alone in his office. He dashed immediately into the subject that 
 had brought him there. ' I have come, Mr. Somers,? said he, ' to 
 ask you a question about the property.' 
 
 'About the Castle Eichmond property?' said Mr. Somers, 
 rather surprised by his visitor's manner, 
 
 ' Yes ; you know in what a state my poor father now is.' - 
 
 ' I know that Sir Thomas is not very well. I am sorry to saj 
 that it is long gince he has been quite himself.' 1 
 
 ' There is something that is preying upon his spirits.' 
 
DOUBTS. 125 
 
 ' 1 am afraid so, Hertert.' 
 
 ' Tliep. tell me fairly, Mr. Somers, do you know what it is ?' 
 
 'tNoE^in — the least. I have no conception whatever, anu 
 Dever have had any. I know no cause for trouble that should 
 disquiet him.' 
 
 ' There is nothing wrong about the property ?' 
 
 ' Not to my knowledge.' 
 
 ' Who has the title-deeds ?' 
 
 ' They are at Ooutts's.' 
 
 ' You are sure of that ?' 
 
 ' "Well ; as sure as a man can be of a thing that he does not see. 
 I have never seen them there ; indeed, have never seen them at 
 all ; but I feel no doubt in my own mind as to their being at the 
 bankers.' 
 
 ' Is there much due on the estate ?i 
 
 ' Very little. No estate in county Cork has less on it. Miss 
 Letty has her income, and when Poulnasherry was bought — that 
 townland lying just under Berryhill, where the gorze cover is — 
 part of the purchase money was left on mortgage. That is still 
 due ; but the interest is less than a hundred a year.' 
 
 ' And that is all ?' 
 
 ' All that I know of 
 
 ' Could there be encumbrances without your knowing it ?' 
 
 'I think not. I thiok it is impossible. Of all men your 
 father is the last to encumber Ms estates in a manner unknown 
 to his agent, and to pay off the interest in secret.' 
 
 ' What is it then, Mr. Somers ?' 
 
 ' I do not know.' And then Mr. Somers paused. ' Of course 
 you have heard of a visit he received the other day from a 
 stranger ?' 
 
 'Yes; I heard of it.' 
 
 ' People about here are talking of it. And he — that man, with 
 a younger man — they are still living in Cork, at a little drink- 
 iing-hoiise in South Main Street. The younger man has been 
 seen down here twice.' 
 J ' But what can that mean ?' 
 
 ' I do not know. I tell you everything that i do know.' 
 
 Herbert exacted a promise from him that he would continue 
 ,,to tell him everything which he might learn, and then rode back 
 to Castle Richmond. 
 
 ' The whole thing must be a delusion,' he said to himself; and 
 j;esolved that there was no valid reason why he should msukK 
 jlara unhappy by any reference to the circumstance. 
 
12« CASTLE nlOHMOlOJ 
 
 CHAPTEE Xin. 
 
 ME. MOLLETT EETUKNS TO SOUTH MAIN STREET. 
 
 ^ l^MUST now take my readers back to that very unsaToury public- 
 ,hous6 in South Main Street, Cork, in whicli, for the present, 
 lived Mr. Matthew Mollett and his son Abraham. 
 
 I need hardly explain to a discejning public that Mr. Matthew 
 Mollett was the gentleman who made that momentous call at 
 Castle Eichmond, and flurried all that household. 
 
 'Drat it]' said Mrs. Jones> to herself on that day, as soon as 
 she had regained the solitude of her own private apartment, after 
 having taken a long look at Mr. Mollett in the hall. On that 
 occasion she sat down on a low chair in the middle of the room, 
 put her two hands down substantially on her two knees, gave a 
 long sigh, and then made the above exclamation, — 'Drat it!' 
 
 Mrs. Jones was still thoroughly a Saxon, although she had 
 lived for so many years among the Celts. But it was only when 
 she was quite alone that she allowed herself the indulgence of so 
 peculiarly Saxon a mode of expressing either her surprise or 
 indignation. i 
 
 ' It's the same man,' she said to herself, ' as come that day, aa 
 sure as eggs ;' and then for five minutes she maintained her posi- 
 tion, cogitating. ' And he's like the other fellow too,' she con- 
 tinued. ' Only, somehow he's not like him.' And then another 
 pause. ' And yet he is ; only it can't be ; and he ain't just so tall, 
 and he's older like.' And then, still meditating, Mrs. Jones kept ' 
 her position for full ten minutes longer ; at the end of which 
 time she got up and shook herself. She deserved to be bracketed 
 with Lord_ Brougham and Professor Faraday, for she had kept 
 her mind intent on her subject, and had come to a resolutioii, 
 ' I won't say nothing to nobody, noways,' was the expression of 
 her mind's purpose. ' Only I'll tell missus as how he was the 
 man as come to Wales/ And she did tell so much to her mis- 
 tress — as we have before learned. 
 
 Mr. Mollett had gone down from Cork to Castle Eichmond in 
 one of those delightful Irish vehicles called a covered car. An 
 inside-covered car is an equipage much given to shaking; seeing 
 that it has a heavy top like a London cab, and that it runs on a 
 pair of wheels. It is entered from behind, and slopes backwa^s, 
 The sitter sits sideways, between a cracked window on one side 
 
MR. MOLLETT RETURNS Ta SOUTH MAIN STREET. 127 
 
 and a cracked doorway on the other ; and as a draught is always 
 going in at the ear next the window, and out at the ear next the 
 door, it is about as cold and comfortless a vehicle for winter as 
 may be well imagined. Now the journey from Castle Eiohmond 
 to Cork has to be made right across the Boggeragh Mountains. 
 It is over twenty miles Irish ; and the road is never very good. 
 Mr. Mollett, therefore, was five hours in the covered car on his 
 return journey ; and as he had stopped for lunch at Kanturk, 
 and had not hurried himself at that meal, it was very dark and 
 very cold when he reached the I'.ouse in South Main Street. 
 
 I think I have explained that Mr. Mollett senior was not 
 absolutely -a- drunkard ; but nevertheless, he was not averse to 
 spirits in cold weather, and on this journey had warmed himself 
 with whisky once or twice on the road. He had found a shsbeen 
 house when he crossed the Nad river, and another on the moun- 
 tain-top, and a third at the point where the road passes near the 
 village of Blarney, and at all these convenient resting-spots 
 Mr. Mollett had endeavoured to warm himself. 
 
 There are men who do not become absolutely drunk, but who 
 do become absolutely cross when they drink more than is good 
 for them ; and of such men Mr. Mollett was one. What with the 
 cold air, and what with the whisky, and what with the jolting, 
 Mr. Mollett was very cross when he reached the Kanturk Hotel, 
 so that he only cursed the driver instead of giving him the 
 expected gratuity. 
 
 ' I'll come to yer honour in the morning,' said the driver. 
 
 ' You may go to the devil in the morning,' answered Mr. Mollett ; 
 and this was the first intimation of his return which reached the 
 ears of his expectant son. 
 
 ' There's the governor,' said Aby, who was then flirting with 
 Miss O'Dwyer in the bar. ' Somebody's been stroking him the 
 wrong way of the 'air.' 
 
 The charms of Miss O'Dwyer in these idle days had been too 
 much for the prudence of Mr. Abraham Mollett ; by far too much 
 considering that in his sterner moments his ambition led him to 
 contemplate a match with a young lady of much higher rank in 
 life. But wine, which inspires us and fires us 
 
 ' With coiu-age, love, and joy,' 
 
 had inspired him with courage to forgot his prudence, and with 
 love for the lovely Fanny. 
 
 ' Now, nonsense, Mr. Aby,' she had said to him a few minutes 
 before the wheels of the covered oar were heard in South Main 
 Street. ' You know you main nothing of the sort.' 
 " • By 'eavons, Fanny, T mean everv word of it ; may this drop be 
 
1*^8 CASTLE. RICHMOND. 
 
 my poison if I don't. This piece of business here keeps mo and 
 the governor hon and hoff like, and will do for some weeks 
 perhaps; but when that's done, honly say the word, and I'U 
 make you Mrs. M. Isn't that fair now ?' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Aby ' 
 
 ' Never mind the mister. Fan, between friends.' 
 
 ' La ! I couldn't call you Aby without it ; could I ?' 
 
 ' Try, my darling.' 
 
 ' Well — Aby — there now. It does sound so uppish, don't it ? 
 But tell me this now ; what is the business that you and the old 
 gentleman is about down at Kanturk ?' 
 
 Abraham Mollett hereupon had put one finger to his nose, and 
 then winked his eye. 
 . ' If you care about me, as you say you do, you wouldn't be shy 
 of just telling me as much as that.' 
 
 ' That's business, Fan ; and business and love don't hamalga- 
 mate like whisky and sugar.' 
 
 ' Then I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Aby; I don't want to have 
 anything to do with a man who won't show his rispect by telling 
 me his sacrets.' 
 
 ' That's it, is it. Fan ?' 
 
 ' I suppose you think I cati't Ikeet) a saeret. You think I'd be 
 telling father, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Well, it's about some money that's due to him down there.' 
 
 * Who from ?' 
 
 ' He expects to get it from some of those Fitzgerald people.' 
 
 In saying so much Mr. Mollett the younger had not utterly , 
 abandoned all prudence. He knew very well that the car-driver 
 and others would be aware that his father had been to Castlo 
 Eiohmond ; and that it was more than probable that either he or 
 his father would have to make further visits there. Indeed, he 
 had almost determined that he would go down to the baronet 
 himself. Under these circumstances it might be well that some 
 pretext for these visits should be given. 
 
 ' Which Fitzgerald, Mr. Aby ? Is it the Hap House young 
 man?' 
 
 ' Hap House. I never heard of such a place. These people 
 live at Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 ' Oh — h— h ! If Mr. Mollett have money due there, sure he 
 have a goodmark to go upon. Why, Sir Thomas is about the 
 richest man in these parts.' 
 
 ' And who is this other man ; at 'Appy — what is it you call 
 his place ?' 
 
 ' Hap House. Oh, it's he is the thorough-going younc gentle- 
 man. Only they say he's a leetle too fast. To my mind Mr 
 
ME. MOLLETT EETUENS TO SOUTH MAIN STEEET. 129 
 
 Owen is tlie finest-looking man to be seen anywLere's in tiae 
 county Cork.' 
 
 ' He's a flame of yours, is he, Fan ?' 
 
 ' I don't know what you main' by a flame. But there's not a 
 girl in Cijrk but what likes the glance of his eye. They do say 
 that he'd have Lady Clara Desmond ; only there ain't no money.' 
 
 ' And what's he to these other people ?' 
 
 '' Cousin, I believe; or hardly so much as that, I'm thinking. 
 But all the same if anything was to happen to young Mr. Herbert, 
 it would all go to him.' 
 
 ' It would, would it ?' 
 
 ' So people say.' 
 
 ' Mr. 'Erbert is the son of the old cock at Castle Eichmond, 
 isn't he ?' 
 
 ' Just so. He's the young cock ; he, he, he !' 
 
 ' And if he was to be — nowhere like ; not his father's son at 
 all, for instance, it would all go to this 'andsome 'Appy 'Ouse 
 man; would it?' 
 
 ' Every shilling, they say ; house, title, and all.' 
 
 ' Hum,' said Mr. Abraham MoUett ; and he began again to 
 calculate his family chances. Perhaps, after all, this handsome 
 young man who was at present too poor to many his noble lady 
 love might be the more liberal man to deal with. But then any 
 dealings with him would kill the golden goose at once. All 
 would depend on the size of the one egg which might be ex- 
 tracted. 
 
 He certainly felt, however, that this Fitzgerald family arrange- 
 ment was one which it was beneficial that he should know ; but 
 he felt also that it would be by no means necessary at present to 
 communicate the information to his father. He put it by in his 
 mind, regarding it as a fund on which he might draw if occasion 
 should require. It might perhaps be pleasant for him to make 
 the acquaintance of this 'andsome young Fitzgerald of 'Appy 
 'Ouse. 
 
 ' And now, Fan, my darling, give us a kiss,' said he, getting 
 up from his seat. 
 
 ' 'Deed and I won't,' said Fan, withdrawing herself among the 
 bottles and glasses. 
 
 ' 'Deed and you shall, my love,' said Aby, pertinaciously, as he 
 prepared to follow her through the brittle ware. 
 
 ' Hu — sh ! be aisy now. There's Tom. He's ears for every- 
 thing, and eyes like a cat.' 
 
 ' What do I care for Tom ?' 
 
 ' And father '11 be coming in. Be aisy, I tell you. I won'i 
 now, Mr. Aby, and that's enoiigh. You'll break the bottle.' 
 
130 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' D the bottle. That's smashed hany way. Coiko. Fsn 
 
 what's a kiss among friends ?' 
 
 'JDook you up with kisses, indeed ! how had you are for dain-^ 
 ties! There; do you hear that? That's the old gentleman;' 
 and then, as the voice of Mr. MoUett senior was heard abusing 
 the car-driver. Miss O'Dwyer smoothed her apron, put her hands 
 to her side hair, and removed the debris of the broken bottle. 
 
 ' Well, governor,' said Aby, ' how goes it?' 
 
 ' How goes it, indeed ! It goes pretty well, I dare say, in here, 
 where you can sit drinking toddy all the evening, and doing 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' Why, what on hearth would you have me be doing ? Better 
 here than paddling about in the streets, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' If you could do a stroke of work now and then to earn your 
 bread, it might be better.' Now Aby knew from experience that 
 whenever his father talked to him about earning his bread, he 
 was half drunk and whole cross. So he made no immediate 
 reply on that point. 
 
 ' You are cold I suppose, governor, and had better get a bit 
 of something to eat, and a little tea.' 
 
 ' And put my feet in hot water, and taUow my nose, and go to 
 bed, hadn't I ? Miss O'Dwyer, I'll trouble you to mix me a 
 glass of brandy-punch. Of all the roads I ever travelled, that's 
 the longest and hardest to get over. Dashed, if I didn't begin 
 to think I'd never be here.' And so saying he flung himself into 
 a chair, and put up his feet on the two hobs. 
 
 There was a kettle on one of them, which the young lady 
 pushed a little nearer to the hot coals, in order to show that the 
 water should be boiling; and as she did so Aby gave her a 
 wink over his father's shoulder, by way of conveying to her an 
 intimation that ' the governor was a little cut,' or in other 
 language tipsy, and that the brandy-punch should be brewed 
 with a discreet view to past events of the same description. All 
 which Miss O'Dwyer perfectly understood. 
 
 It may easily be conceived that Aby was especially anxious 
 to receive tidings of what had been done this day down in the 
 Kanturk neighbourhood. He had given his views to his father, 
 as will be remembered ; and though Mr. MoUett senior had not 
 professed himself as absolutely agreeing with them, he had never- 
 theless owned that he was imbued with the necessity of taking 
 some great step. He had gone down to take this great step, 
 and Aby was very anxious to know how it had been taken. 
 
 When the father and son were both sober, or when the son 
 was tipsy, or when the father was absolutely drunk— an accident 
 which would occur occasionally, the spirit and pluck of the son 
 
ME. MOLLBTT EETUENS TO SOUTH MAIN STEEBT. 131 
 
 was in the ascendant. He at sucli times was tlie more masterful 
 of the two, and generally contrived, either by persuasion or 
 bullying, .to govern his governor. But when it did happen' that 
 Mollett pere was half di'unk and cross with drink, then, at such 
 moments, Mollett fils had to acknowledge to himself that his 
 governor was not to be governed. 
 
 And, indeed, at such moments his governor could be verj- 
 disagreeable — could say nasty, bitter things, showing very little 
 parental affection, and make himself altogether bad society, not 
 only to his son but to his son's companions also. Now it appeared 
 to Aby that his father was at present in this condition. 
 
 He had only to egg him on to further drinking, and the 
 respectable gentleman would become stupid, noisy, soft, and 
 affectionate. But then, when in that state, - he would blab 
 terribly. It was much with the view of keeping him from that 
 state, that under the present circumstances the son remained 
 with the father. To do the father justice, it may be asserted 
 that he knew his own weakness, and that, knowing- it, he had 
 abstained from heavy drinking since he had taken in hand this 
 great piece of diplomacy. 
 
 ' But you must be hungry, governor ; won't you take a bit of 
 something ?' 
 
 ' Shall we get you a steek, Mr. Mollett ?' asked Miss O'Dwyer, 
 hospitably, ' or jest a bit of bacon with a couple of eggs or so ? 
 It wouldn't be a minute, you know ?' 
 
 'Your eggs are all addled and bad,' said Mr, Mollett : ' and as 
 for a beef-steak, it's my belief there isn't such a thing in all 
 Ireland.' After which civil speech. Miss O'Dwyer winked at 
 Aby, as much as to say, ' You see what a state he's in.' 
 
 ' Have a bit of buttered toast and a cup of tea, governor,' 
 suggested the son. 
 
 ' I'm d ■ if I do,' replied the father. ' You're become un- 
 common fond of tea of late — that is, for other people. I don't 
 see you take much of it yourself.' ' 
 
 ' A cup of tay is the thing to warm one afther such a journey 
 as you've had; that's certain, Mr. Mollett,' _said Fanny. 
 
 ' Them's your ideas about warming, are "they, my dear ?' said 
 the elderly gentleman. ' Do you come and sit down on my knee 
 here for a few minutes or so, and that'd warm me better than all 
 the "tay" in the world.' 
 
 Aby showed by his face that he was immeasurably disgusted 
 by the iniquitous coarseness of this overture.' Miss O'Dwyer, 
 however, looking at the gentleman's age, and his state as regarded 
 liquor, passed it over as of no moment whatsoever. So that 
 when, in the later part of the evening, Aby expressed to tiiit 
 
1532 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 young lady tis deep disgust, slie merelj' said, ' Oh, bother ; what 
 inatters an old man like that ?• 
 
 And then, when they were at this pass, Mr. O'Dwyer came in. 
 He did not interfere much with his daughter in the bar room, 
 but ho would occasionally take a dandy of punch there, and ask 
 how things were going on in doors. He was a fat, thickset man, 
 with a good-humoured face, a flattened nose, and a great aptitude 
 for stable occupations. He was part owner of the Kanturk car, 
 as has been before said, and was the proprietor of sundry otter 
 cars, open cars and covered cars, plying for hire in the streets of 
 Cork. 
 
 ' 1 hope the mare took your honour well down to Kanturk and 
 back again,' said he, addressing his elder customer with a chuck 
 of his head intended for a bow. 
 
 -■ I don't know what you call well,' said Mr. Mollett. ' She 
 hadn't a leg to stand upon for the last three hours.' 
 
 ' Not a leg to stand upon ! Faix, then, and it's she'd have 
 , the four good legs if she travelled every inch of the way from 
 I Donagh-a-Dee to Ti-vora,' to which distance Mr. O'Dwyer 
 j specially referred as being supposed to be the longest known 
 , in Ireland. 
 
 ' She may be able to do that ; but I'm blessed if she's fit to go 
 to Kanturk and back.' 
 
 ' She's done the work, anyhow,' said Mr. O'Dwyer, who evi- 
 dently thought that this last argument was conclusive. 
 
 ' And a precious time she's been about it. Why, my goodness, . 
 it would have been better for me to have walked it. As Sir 
 Thomas said to me ' 
 
 ' What ! did you see Sir Thomas Fitzgerald ?' 
 _ Hereupon Aby gave his father a nudge ; but the father either 
 did not appreciate the nudge, or did not choose to obey it. 
 
 ' Yes ; I did see him. Why shouldn't I ?' 
 
 ' Only they do say he's hard to get to speak to now-a-days. 
 He's not over well, you know=, these years back.' 
 
 ' Well or' ill he'll see me, I take it, when I go that distance to 
 ask him. There's no doubt about that ; is there, Aby ?' 
 
 ' Can't say, I'm sure, not knowing the gentleman,' said Aby. 
 
 ' We holds land from Sir Thomas, we do ; that is, me and my 
 brother Mick, and a better landlord ain't nowhere,' said Mr. 
 O'Dwyer. 
 
 ' Oh, you're one of the tenants, are you ? The rents are paid 
 pretty well, ainl they ?' 
 
 ' To the day,' said Mr. O'Dwyer, proudly. 
 
 ' What would you think now ' Mr. Mollett was contimnui?; 
 
 Aby interrupted him somewhat violently. • . 
 
ME. MOLLETT KETUBNS TO SOUTH MAIN STEEET.'" Ig,"? 
 
 ' Hold your .confounded stupid tongue, will you, you old jolter- 
 head;' and on this occasion he put his hand- on his father's 
 shoulder and shook him. 
 
 ' Who are you calling jolterhead ? Who do you dare to speak 
 to in that way? you impudent .ywung cub you. Am I to ask 
 your leave when I want to open my mouth ?" 
 
 Aby had well knowii that his father in his present mood would 
 not stand the manner in which the interruption was attempted. 
 Nor did he wish to quarrel before the publican and his daughter 
 But anything was better than allowing his father to contiuue in 
 the strain in which he was talking. 
 
 ' You are talking of things which you don't hunderstand, and 
 about people you don't know,' said Aby. ' You've had a drop 
 too much on the road too, and you 'ad better go to bed.' 
 
 Old MoUett turned round to strike at his son ; but even in his 
 present state he was somewhat quelled by Aby's eye. Aby was 
 keenly alive to the necessity for prudence on his father's part, 
 though he was by no means able to be prudent himself. 
 
 ' Talking of things which I don't understand, am I ?' said the 
 old man. ' That's all you know about it. Give me another glass 
 »f that brandy toddy, my dear.' 
 
 But Aby's look had quelled, or at any .rate silenced him; and 
 though he did advance another stage in tipsiness before tbey 
 succeeded in getting him off to bed, he said no more about Sir 
 Thomas Fitzgerald or his Castle Eichmond secrets. 
 
 Xevertheless, he had said enough to cause suspicion. One 
 would not have imagined, on looking at Mr. O'Dwyer, that he 
 was a very crafty person, or one of whose finesse in affairs of the 
 world it would be necessary to stand much in awe. He seemed 
 to be thick, and stolid, and incapable of deep inquiry ; but, 
 nevertheless, he was as fond of his neighbours' affairs as another, 
 and knew as much about the affairs of his neighbours at Eanturk 
 as any man in the county Cork. 
 
 He himself was a Kanturk man, and his wife had been a 
 Kantui'k woman ; no less a person, indeed, than the sister ol 
 Father Bernard M'Carthy, rest her soul ;— for it was now at 
 peace, let us all hope. She had been dead these ten years ; but 
 he did not the less keep xiphis connection with the old town, or 
 with his brother-in-law the priest, or with the affairs of the 
 persons there adjacent; especially, we may say, those of his 
 landlord, Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, under whom he still held a 
 small farm, in conjunction with his brother Mick, the publican 
 at Kanturk. a 
 
 'What's all that about Sir Thomas?' said he to his daughter m 
 a low voice as soon as the Molletts had left the bar. 
 
iy4 'Iv CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 " ---ft 
 ' WcfirT^ •^on't jusf know,' said Fanny. She was a good 
 daughter, and lived her father, whose indoor affairs she kept 
 tight enough for him. But she had hardly made up her mind as 
 yet whether or no it -Wi^-Jd suit her to be Mrs. Abraham Mollett. 
 Should such be her destiny, ->, might be as well for her not to 
 talk about hor husband's matters. ' '■■'■ 
 
 ' Is it true that the old man did see bir i'homas to-day i'' 
 ' You heard what passed, father ; but I suppose it is true.' 
 ' And the young 'un has been down to Kanturk two or three 
 times. What can the like of them have to do with Sir Thomas?' 
 To this Fanny could only say that she knew nothing about it, 
 which in the main was true. Aby, indeed, had said that his 
 father had gone down to collect money that was due to him ; but 
 then Fanny did not believe all that Aby said. 
 
 ' I don't like that young 'un at all,' continued Mr. O'Dwyer. 
 ' He's a nasty, sneaking fellow, as cares for no one but his own 
 belly. I'm not over fond of the old 'un neither.' 
 
 ' They is both free enough with their money, father,' said the 
 prudent daughter. 
 
 ' Oh, they is welcome in the way of business, in course. But 
 look here. Fan ; don't you have nothing to say to that Aby ; do 
 you hear me ?' 
 
 'Who? I? ha, ha, ha!' 
 
 ' It's all very well laughing ; but mind what I says, for I won't 
 have it. He is a nasty, sneaking, good-for-nothing fellow, besides 
 being a heretic. What'd your uncle Bernard say ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! for the matter of that, if I took a liking to a fellow I 
 shouldn't ask. Uncle Bernard what he had to say. If he didn't 
 like it, I suppose he might do the other thing.' 
 ' Well, I won't have it. Do you hear that ?' 
 ' Laws, father, what nonsense you do talk. Who's thinking 
 about the man ? He comes here for what he wa nts to ate and 
 dhrink, and I suppose -the house is free to him as another. If 
 not we'd betther just shut up the front door.' After which she 
 tossed herself up and began to wipe her glasses in a rather 
 dignified manner. 
 
 Mr. O'Dwj'er sat smoking his pipe and chewing the cud of his 
 reflections. ' They ain't afther no good ; I'm sure of that.' In 
 saying which, however, he referred to the doings of the MoUetts 
 down at Kanturk, rather than to any amatory proceedings which 
 might have taken place between the young man and his daughter. 
 On the following morning Mr. Mollett senior awoke with a 
 racking headache. My belief is, that when men pay this penalty 
 for drinking, they are partly absolved from other penalties. The 
 penalties on drink are various. I mean those which affect the 
 
MB. MOLLETT KETUEN8 TO SOUTH MAIN STREET. 135 
 
 body, exclusive of those which affect the mind. There are great 
 red swollen noses, very disagreeable both to the wearer and his 
 acquaintances ; there are morning headaches, awful to be thought 
 of ; there are sick stomachs, by which means the offender escapes 
 through a speedy purgatory; there are sallow cheeks, sunken 
 eyes, and shaking shoulders ; there are very big bellies,, and no 
 bellies at all ; and there is delirium tremens. For the most part 
 a man escapes^ with one of these penalties. If he have a racking 
 headache, his geiieral health does not usually suffer so much as 
 though he had endured no such immediate vengeance from 
 violated nature. Young Aby when he drank had no headaches ; 
 but his eye was bloodshot, his cheek bloated, and his hand shook. 
 His father, on the other hand, could not raise his head after a 
 debauch ; but when that was gone, all ill results of his impru- 
 dence seemed to have vanished. 
 
 At about noon on that day Aby was sitting by his father's bed- 
 side. Up to that time it had been quite impossible to induce 
 him to speak a word. He could only groan, swallow soda water 
 with ' hairs of the dog that bit him ' in it, and lay with his head 
 between his arms. But soon after noon Aby did induce him to 
 say a word or two. The door of the room was closely shut, the 
 little table was strewed with soda-water bottles and last drops of 
 small goes of brandy. Aby himself had a cigar in his mouth, and 
 on the floor near the bed-foot was a plate with a cold, greasy 
 mutton chop, Aby having endeavoured in vain to induce his 
 father to fortify exhausted nature by eating. The appearance of 
 the room and the air within it would not have been pleasant to 
 fastidious people. But then the Molletts were not fastidious. 
 
 ' You did see Sir Thomas, then ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I did see him. I wish, Aby, you'd let me lie just for 
 another hour or so. I'd be all right then. The jolting of that 
 confounded car has nearly shaken my head to pieces.' 
 
 But Aby was by no means inclined to be so merciful. The 
 probability was that he would be able to pump his father more 
 Hioroughly in his present weak state than he might do in a later 
 part of the afternoon ; so he persevered. 
 
 ' But, governor, it's so important we should know what we're 
 about. Did you see any one else except himself ?' 
 
 ' I saw them all I believe, except her. I was told she never 
 showed in the morning ; but I'm blessed if I don't think I saw 
 the skirt of her dress through an open door. I'll tell you what, 
 Aby, I could not stand that.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, father, after haU it'll be better I should manage tha 
 business down there.' 
 
 ' I believe there won't be much more to manage. But, Aby 
 
136 CASTLE EI0HMO.WD.* 
 
 do leaye me now, there's a good fellow; then in another hour or 
 so I'll get Tip, and we'll have it all out.' 
 
 ' When you're out in the open air and comfortable, it won't be' 
 fair to be bothering you with business. Come, governor, ten 
 minutes will tell the whole of it if you'll only mind your eye. 
 How did you begin with Sir Thomas ?' And then Aby went 
 to the door, opened it very gently, and satisfied himself that there 
 was nobody listening on the landing-place. 
 
 Mr. Mollett sighed wearily, but he knew that his only hope 
 was to get this job of talking over. ' What was it you were say- 
 , ing, Aby ?' 
 
 ' 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 jio more 'eart than a chicken.' 
 
 'fAh, that's very well, Aby ; but you did not see him.' 
 
 '^0 you think that would make hany diiference ? 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 ^o 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 
 I 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 
 1 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.' 
 
ME. MOLLETT RETURNS TO SOUTH MAIN STREET. 137 
 
 ' Then what the devil did you say ?' 
 
 ' Why, 1 told him that, looking at what the property was, 
 twelve hundred pounds wasn't much.' 
 
 ' I shoiild think not either.' 
 
 ' And that if his son was to be allowed to have it all ' 
 
 ' A bastard, you know, keeping it away from the proper heir.' 
 It may almost be doubted whether, in so speaking, Aby did not 
 ilmost think that he himself had a legitimate right to inherit tho 
 property at Castle Eichmond. 
 ' ' 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 qtiite 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. MoUett senior shook 
 Tinder 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. MoUett 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 
 
138 -I CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 have the youiig lady bothered about it, nor yet the yonng 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 aaj j'oung lady if 1 
 think fitting.' 
 
 ' And have yourself kicked into the ditch.' 
 
 ' I know too miioh for kiokiag, 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 MoUett had told Sir Thomas that his peroaanent silence 
 could be purchased by nothing short of a settled ' genteel ' in- 
 oome for himself and his son, no absolute sum haying been 
 mentioned ; and that Sir Thomas had required a fortnight for his 
 ainswer, 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 Eichmond 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE REJECTED SUITOE. 
 
 After the interview between Herbert and his mother, it became 
 an understood thing at Castle Eiehmond 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 di&culty, 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 tif_ 
 Bomething should be said t\) him. 
 
THE REJECTED SUITOR. 1.^9 
 
 With his mother, however, the matter wag different. She had 
 eaid that she would welcome Clara ; and she did so. Im- 
 mediately 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 re- 
 ceived them very graciously ; took Clara home to Castle Eichmond 
 for that night, somewhat to the surprise and much to the gratifica- 
 tion 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 
 Eichmond 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 con- 
 fidence meant, especially as the matter was more than once 
 distinctly alluded to by her ladyship ; and thus the story was 
 lold, in confidence, to everybody in the establishment, and then 
 repeated by them, in confidence also, to neanly 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 off, are 
 they ?' said Captain Donnellan, who had driven over from Butte- 
 vant 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. 
 
 ' V/ho ? 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 
 diuing that morning's breakfast. They all went to the hunt, 
 
 K 
 
HO CASTLE BICHMOND.- 
 
 Mid 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 fitting 
 together over the fire, the gray-headed old hutler brought in a 
 letter upon an old silver salver, saying, ' For Lady Clara, if you 
 please, my lady.' ', 
 
 I The _ countess not unnaturally thought that the despatch had 
 come from Castle Kichmohd, and smiled graciously as Clara put 
 out her hand for the missive. Lady Desmond again let her eyes 
 drop upon the hook 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 Kp, and her workbox was at her elbow ; but 
 her thoughts had been faraway ; 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 
 aid 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 ni 
 :;he handwriting of Owen Fitzgerald. Perhaps the countess 
 from the comer 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 hei 
 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 
 
THE EEJECTED SUITOR. 141 
 
 mean time Clara held out her hand, tendering the letter to he* 
 mother. 
 
 ' Yon had better open it, my dear, and read it. No doubt it 
 must be answered.' Lady Desmond felt that now there conld 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 
 ran thus : — 
 
 'Hap House, February 184 — . 
 ' My promised Love, 
 
 ' Foe 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 consi- 
 deration. 
 
 ' 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 can- 
 notjwhistle 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, 
 
142 CASTLE -EICHMOND. 
 
 for he does not mean to do harm. But if he had any sense, he 
 would kno-w that he was taking trouble for nothing.' 
 
 ' And wliat shall I do, mamma ?' 
 
 ' "Well, 1 really think that I should answer him.' It was de- 
 lightful 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 oif 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 own 
 head : — 
 
 ' Lady Clara Desmond presents her compliments to Mr. Owen 
 Fitzgerald, and will see Mr. Owen Fitzgerald at Desmond Court 
 at two o'oloek 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 Des- 
 mond 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 todo 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 diawing-room. She 
 
THE KEJEOTED SUITOE. 143 
 
 had Said uothiug to lier mother as to the maimer in which this 
 meeting should take place. But then at first she had had an idea 
 thtit Lady Desmond would he 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 in- 
 jured him — had deceived, and in a manner betraj^ed 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 tee 
 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, con- 
 sidering, 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, 
 
 hut he remained standing, and did so during the whole intei-view ; 
 
 or rather, walking ; for when he became energetic and impetuous, 
 
 he moved about from place to place in the room, as though in- 
 
 'Capable 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.' 
 1 ' 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 
 
144, CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 ' 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 ovra 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 iny 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 ierself. 
 
 ' 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 1 would not escape even if I 
 could.' 
 
 As he then paused for a reply, she was obliged to say some- 
 thing. 
 
 ' 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 hardf T tell you that it has not 
 
THE KEJEOTED SUITOK. 145 
 
 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 iinfaiiiy ; and though she had not her wits enough about her 
 to ascertain this by process of argniment, 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 con- 
 tract 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. 1 remem- 
 ber 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 lored 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 bd 
 renewed.' 
 
 ' You know that I cannot do that.' 
 
M6 OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' And why not ? I tnow 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 
 Bay nothing to you now which I cannot repeat to him; noi 
 can I say anything which shall oppose his wishes.' 
 
 ' He is then bo 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 
 ^Ijat I said then ; nor can I offer you that which I have now 
 ai/isolutely 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 speak- 
 ing 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 oiFered her his hand. There was some- 
 thing 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 un- 
 doubted privilege as a man. He never himimed 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 ' 
 8s I am concerned, to hear all that passes between us. Youi 
 
THE 'REJECTED SUITOE. l47 
 
 flaughter 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 con- 
 sent 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 cousia Herbert.' 
 
 ' You have nothing to give up, Mr. Fitzgerald : you must have 
 known from the very first that my daughter could not marry 
 you ' 
 
 ' 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 yon.' 
 
 . ' 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 per-- 
 mit her to be subjected to further embarrassment.' 
 
 ' I will only ask her to listen to one word. Clara ' 
 
 '''Mr. Fitzgerald, y5u 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 fe,rewell that 
 was inaudible. 
 
148 CASTlE KICHMOKD. 
 
 He stood for a moment *itli the door in his hand, meditatiEg 
 n'hether he might not saj good morning to the countess without 
 retxirning into the room ; but as he so stood she called him. 
 ' Mr. ritzgerald,' she said ; and so he therefore came hack, and 
 once tQore 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 ac- 
 customed to talk together over the evening fire , in close frendli- 
 ness,' 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 my- 
 self am too. fond of you — as an old friend, to wish to do so. That 
 you may many 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 
 «}f this, you will hardly be angry with me.' 
 
 ' Love is nothipg then ?' 
 
 ' Is aU to be sacrificed to your love ? Think of it, Mr. Eitz- 
 gerald, and let me have the happiness of knowing that you consent 
 to this match.' 
 
 ' ll^fever !' said he. ' Never !' And so he left the room, with 
 c»wt wishing-her further farewell. 
 
149 
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 DU'LOMACY. 
 
 Aeout 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 Eichmond. 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 cany on the play.' 
 
 ' You think you do,' said the father in his anger ; ' but you'l] 
 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 cir- 
 cumstances ; 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 difScult a matter, and that h& 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 Eich- 
 mond. 
 
 He had on different occasions, been down in the neighboiir- 
 hood, prowling about- like a thief in the night, picking up in- 
 formation 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 Eichmond demesne. His present intention was to 
 drive up to the front door, and ask at once for Sir Thomas Fitz- 
 gerald, sending in his card if need be, on which were printed the 
 words : — 
 
 Mr, Abraham Mollett, Junior. 
 
 With the additional words, ' Piccadilly, London,' written in the 
 left-hand lower comer. 
 
 'I'll take the bull by the horns,' said he to himself. 'It's 
 
150 OASTiiE KICHMOITD. 
 
 better to make the spoon at once, even if -we do run some BmaU 
 cliance of spoiling the horn.' And that he might be well enabled 
 to Carry out his ^nrpose with reference to this bull, he lifted his 
 j flask to his mouth as soon as he had passed through the grieat 
 j demesne gate, and took a long pull at it. ' There's nothing like 
 I 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 alble to see you.' 
 
 ' I'll take the liberty of basking and of sending -in my card,' 
 said Aby ; and he gave his horse a flick as intending thus to cut 
 shoi-t 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 Eichmond ? 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. 
 
' DIPLOMACT. 151 
 
 ' I'll thank you to let gc 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 anythingyet. 1 hain't ashamed of it. 
 however, nor hasn't hany cause to be. That's my name, and 
 if you'll send my card into Sir Thomas, with my compliments, 
 and say that hi've three words to say to him very particular; 
 why hi'U 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.' , 
 
 ' Tou 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 irj 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 con- 
 fidence, but we must endeavour to save him from this misery. 
 Do you go into 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 
 nis hand, and which, when he saw Herbert, he closed ug and puf ~ 
 away. 
 
152 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' rather,' said Herbert, in a cheerftil every-^ay voic®, as though 
 he had nothing special to communicate, ' there is a man in a gig 
 ont there. He says he wants to see yon.' 
 
 ' 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 ? 1 
 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 youi 
 friend seems to be very respectable, iu 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 ^eB the man himself. 
 
 ' Somers is out there. Will yon let him do it ?' 
 
 ' No. I wonder, Herbert, that you can tease me bo. 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 
 nave some grief, and cannot you tru^t 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 
 yon 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.' 
 
\ DIPLOMAGY. 1 53 
 
 ' And wliat 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. Seiners 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 Ms father, and 
 returned .to the hall-door to usher in Mr. MoUett 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. MoUett, 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 
 BO 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 tor'-i out his handkerchief and blew his nose, 
 and after that he expiessed an opinion that he was in the pre- 
 sence of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald. 
 
 ' And you are Mr. Abraham MoUett,' said Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' Tes, 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. 
 
 ' \Vell, 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 
 
154 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 waited a moment for an answer ; but as he got none lie pro« 
 oeeded. 
 
 /'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 spokeThi's in a manner so suited to the doctrinn 
 which he intended to inculcate, that the poor old gentleman al- 
 most 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 stem 
 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 thaa a 
 groan. 
 
 ' Not the least use,' continued Aby. ' Now the question, as 1 
 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 wHL 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 re- 
 ference to his father. Mr. MoUett 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 ser- 
 vants 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, 
 
 »r the other^ — whatever she may be to my governor — : ' 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 foimer lady, my own 
 mother,' continued Aby, ' whom I never see'd, she'd gone to king- 
 
IJIPLOMACY. 155 
 
 dom come, you know, before that time. Sir Thomas. There hain't i 
 
 no doiibt about that. So you see ' 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 lavir 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 
 sufScient for him to imbue Sir Thomas with the knowledge that 
 his son Herbert was in great danger as to his heritage. Doubt- 
 less the two had understood each other ; but the absolute naked 
 horror of the surmised facts had been kept delicately out of sight. 
 But^uch (.lelicacy was not to Aby's taste. Sharp, short, and de- 
 cisive ; that was his motto. Ko _' IpngaB ambages ' for him. The 
 whip was in his hand, as he thought, and he could best master 
 the team by using it. 
 
 And yst 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 MoUott 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, 
 whicTi, 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 P., or the Mrs. M., whichever you 
 like ;' — and then Aby laughed, for the conceit pleased him — ' but 
 the beamings 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.' 
 
156 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' What is it you want ? tell me at once,' at last groaned the pooi 
 man. 
 
 ' Well, now, that's something like ; and I'll tell yoii 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 whioh struck even Aby's ear ; but Sir 
 Thomas was still alive and listening, and so be 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 houm. That's Henglish, hain't it ? 
 
 ' Did your father send you here, Mr, MoUett ?' 
 
 ' 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 hunoommonly dry just at the pre- 
 sent 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 
 ktiew 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 eiFect -of once more placino- 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 ail 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 
 
DIiPLOMAOY. 157 
 
 SO much of life left in him that he could trail upon his foe 
 when he heard his daughter's name thus polluted. 
 
 ' Has lovely a gal,, to my way of thinking, as my heyes erer 
 rested on ; and I'm not haocounted a had judge of such cattle, I 
 can tell you, Sir Thomas.' 
 
 ' That will do, that will do,' said Sir Thomas, attempting to 
 rise, hut 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. Lot go my arm, si^ Am I to have any 
 answer from you, Sir Thomas ?' . • 
 
 But Sir Thomas could make no furthel' 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 seethe 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 at- 
 tempt 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 T couldn't unsay aigain, 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 lum leave me,' said Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' Mr. Mollett, you see my father's state ; you must be aware 
 that it is imperative that he shoidd 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 
 
158' OASTLB RIOHMOND. 
 
 was still dumb. ' To all but ihe 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 boll. 
 
 ' ^Vell, 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 lady- 
 ' ship.' And with this threat Mr. Abraham MoUett allowed him- 
 self 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 
 Dedside his wife sat for the rest of the evening. But he said no 
 , word to her of his sorrow. 
 
 'Mr. Prendergast is comiug 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 
 hare.' 
 
16» 
 
 OHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS. 
 
 It will be remembered that in the last chapter but one Owen 
 Fitzgerald left Lady Desihond in the drawing-room at Desmond 
 Court somewhat abruptly, having absolutely refused to make 
 peace with the Desmond faction by giving his consent to thti 
 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 roii6, 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 fixedi 
 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, subse- 
 quently, 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 
 
160 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 Sato his face, and saw how handsome, how noble, how good it 
 leas — good in its inherent manliness and bravery — she could not 
 i6ut 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. 
 Olara 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 tww which he 
 called a promise —she was now of right his bride ; that there be- 
 longed 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 Eichmpnd people, had frightened her 
 into falseness ; and therefore it became him to maintain his light 
 by any means — almost by any means, within his power. Give 
 her up of his ovsm free will and voice ! Say that Herbert Fitz- , 
 gerald should take her with his consent ! that she should go as a 
 bride to Castle Eichmond, while he stood by and smiled, and 
 wished them joy ! Never ! And so he rode away with a stem 
 heart, leaving her standing there with something of sternness 
 about her heart also. 
 
 In the mean time, Olara, 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 groimd, 
 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 ha^ nothing to say to her. She was sitting- 
 there alone, with her head resting on her hand, with that stem- 
 
' THE PATH BENEATH TliE ELMS. 161 
 
 ness at tiei heart and a cloud upon her brow, hut she was not 
 thinMng of her- daughter. Had she not, with her skill and 
 motherly oare, provided well for Clara ? Had she not saved her 
 daughter from all the perils which beset the path of a J^oung 
 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 her- 
 self she was thinking ; and of what her life would be all alone, 
 absolutely alone, in that huge frightful home of hers, withou!t a 
 friend, almost without an acquaintance, without one soul near 
 hex whom she could love or who would love her. She h§d 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 wriakled and ugly, only fit to be a dowager in , 
 mind, body, and in name ! '1 
 
 Over the same ground ! Yes, always over the same grooad. > 
 Lady Clara never varied her walk. It went from the front 
 - entrance of the court, with one great curve, down to the old 
 mined 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 d'ocile 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 dovm 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 kpew : 
 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 com • 
 pletely aU 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 
 
162 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 herself to another after slie had promised herself to him, she bad 
 committed an -injustice which would constantly be brought tip 
 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 lie held to have so justi- 
 fied her, let the pledge between them have been of what nature 
 it might. Now, as she walked up and down that path, she 
 thougm 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 comer 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 
 tdiie 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 lovo 
 — that tone which had been so inexpressibly sweet to her — that 
 to whioh 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 vsdth soft words, 
 and pleasant smiles, and sweet honeyed compliments — compli- 
 ments 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 strolig 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 aifection. 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 spi>h 
 
tB£ PATH BENEATH THE ELMS. 163 
 
 before which hers would bend and feel itself snt'dued. 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 subju- 
 gation. But could it he 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 feai'ed 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 con- 
 siderations were so favourable ! But when she thought of that 
 her heart sank low within her breast. Was it tme that she had 
 sold herself at her mother's bidding ? Should not , the remem- 
 brance 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 soli- 
 tary 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, sne heard the sound of a horse's hoof coming fast alopg 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 Eichmond, 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 aU that it would be as well that 
 Clara's visit should be postponed. Herbert had been eepecially 
 cautioned by his father, at the time of Mollett's visit, not to tail 
 his mother anything of what had occurred, and to a certain ex- 
 
164 
 
 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 tent he hl^il kept iiis promise. But it was of course necessai'v ' 
 tliat Lady Fitzgerald should know that IVIr. 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 lament- 
 able 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. 
 ' So»ers 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. Prender- 
 gast. 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. 
 
 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 
 
 I follow him, Clara said to herself as they walked back together 
 
 I 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 abotit 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 Eichmond. 
 ' But I am so sorry that Sir Thomas should be ill. Mr. Prender- 
 gast 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. Eegarding 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. 
 
THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS. 165 
 
 ' It is very sad,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' Very sad ; very sad,' said Clara, with tears in her eyeB, 
 • Poor gentleman ! I wish that we could comfort him.' 
 
 ' And I do hope that we may,' said Herbert. ' Somers seeme 
 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 piteonsly 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 thei; 
 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 horsebswsk?' 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 Eichmond.' 
 
 ' 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 Her- 
 bert, speaking with an angry spot on his face, and with more 
 energy than was usual with him. 
 
1.G6 OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' 'Was it? why?' said Clara, innocently. She felt unoon- 
 scijously 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 did not ' 
 
 ' 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 ? Tor were they not absurd ? Was 
 it not monstrous on his part to suppose that he could marry 
 Clara Desmond ? 
 
 I 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 
 
THE PATH BENEATH THK ELMS. ~ 167 
 
 find that he gives further annoyance I shall tell him what I 
 think about it. I will not have yoa 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 yau 
 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 
 bhat 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 I' 
 
 ' 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 wUl, 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 
 
:68 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 anything. Of course we must not hurry her too much. As foi 
 tne, my losing her will he 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 he 
 ahsurd for you to quarrel with Mr. Owen Fitzgerald. For 
 myself, I am sorry for him — very sorry or him. Yoii 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 ?' 
 
 ' Th?it 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 have objected ' 
 
 ' 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 suppli- 
 cation 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 w^as 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 argu- 
 ments 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 
 
THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS. 169 
 
 K'omau 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 uncoveied, and her 
 wild hlack 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 looks ; 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 sick 
 ness will tell, they stUl retain a certain softness and gracfc 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, tha 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, Lime- 
 rick, 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 wliich 
 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 hei 
 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 i.er lover. _ _ I 
 
 But Herbert had learned deep lessons of political economy, j 
 and was by no means disposed to give promiscuous charity on 
 
170 , OASTLE RICHMOSTD. 
 
 the road-sido. 'What is your name,' said he ; ' and from where 
 do you come ?'- 
 
 her 
 
 come 
 Ciady ; that is two long miles the fur side of it ? And 
 my name is Bridget Sheehy. Shure, an' yer ladyship remem- 
 bers me at Cladytlie 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 ?' 
 
 ' Whit 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 wiU. give ■ you 
 meal twice a week at Clady. You know that. Why do you not 
 go to Father Connellan ?' 
 
 ' Isit the mail ? An' shure an' haven't I had it, the last month 
 past ; nothin' else ; not a taste of a praty 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 bnndle at her back, and laying the two babes down on the 
 road si lowed that the elder of them was in truth in a fearful 
 state. It was a child nearly two years of age, but its little logs 
 fseemed to have withered away ; its cheeks were wan, and yellow 
 
THE PATH BENEATH THE ji^.^ 
 
 and sunken, and the two teeth which it had .„„ i„,i,-„o ™k„ 
 
 . ,, : -ii 1 • ,, 1 ., ^0 iauies who 
 
 seen with terrible plainnesa through its emaciai ^,,j,g,„j, „_ j 
 
 head and forehead were covered with sores ; ana ° v,™™ 
 
 mother, moving aside the rags, showed that its back and .^ 
 
 were in the same state. ' Look to that,' she sai'd, almost t , 
 
 scorn. ' That's what the mail has done — my black curses ;. 
 
 upon it, and the day that it first come nigh the counthiy.' 
 
 And then again she covered the child and began to resume her 
 
 load. 
 
 ' Do give her something, Herbert, pray do,' said Clara, with. 
 lier 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 Desm.ond 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 some- 
 what. 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. ;lt 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 
 «ystem was impracticable, for it required frames of iron aiid 
 hearts of adamant. It was impossible not to waste money Id 
 almsgiving. 
 
 'Oh, Herbert!' said Clara, imploringly, as the woman pre- 
 pared to start. 
 
 M 
 
170 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 the road-side. i3 here,' said Herbert, and he spoke very 
 
 do you come-'°'flie woman's allusiou to Owen Fitzgerald had 
 ' Shur-^'cloud across his brow. ' Your child is very ill, and 
 
 lad;5iM-6 I will give you something to help you,' and he gave 
 
 froia shilling and two sixpences. 
 
 y May the-J&od in heaven bless you thin, and make you hajjpy, 
 'whoever wins the bright darling by your side ; and may the- 
 good days come back to ye'r 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 noi>- 
 come upon them as yet. And then Herbert rode back to Castle 
 Eichmond. 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 FATHER BARNEY. 
 
 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 a,t 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 
 hia parishioners. 
 
FATHER BARNEY. 17S 
 
 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 Tanny O'Dwyer from South Main Street. Actu- 
 ated, 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 ovej' ' 
 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 know- 
 ing 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 man 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 som.e 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 fs 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 ?' con- 
 |;inued the priest, who seemed to be very curious on the matter. 
 
174 CASTLE EICHTHOND. 
 
 'Well, they do. have business, I suppoise,' said Fanny, 'but 
 so I never sees it.' Fanny O'Dwyer had a great respect for I 
 uncle, seeing that he filled an exalted position, and was 
 connection of wBom she could be justly proud ; but, though s 
 had now come down to Kanturk with the view of having a goi 
 talk with her aunt and uncle about the MoUetts, she woOld on 
 tell as much as she liked to tell, even to the parish priest 
 Drumbarrow. And we may as well explain here that Fam 
 had now permanently made up her mind to reject the suit 
 Mr. Abraham MoUett. As she had allowed herself to see mo 
 and more of the little domestic ways of that gentleman, and 
 become intimate with him as a girl should become with the mi 
 she intends to marry, she had gradually learned to think that ] 
 hardly came up to her beau ideal of a lover. That he was craf 
 and false did not perhaps oiFend her as it should have don 
 Dear Fanny, excellent and gracious as she was, could herself 1 
 crafty on occasions. He drank too, but that came in the way 
 her profession. It is hard, perhaps, for a barmaid to feel mu( 
 severity against that offence. But in addition to this Aby w 
 selfish and cruel and insolent, and seldom altogether go( 
 tempered. He was bad to his father, and bad to those belo 
 him whom he employed. Old MoUett would give away his si 
 pences with a fairly liberal hand, unless when he was exasperatf 
 by drink and fatigue. But Aby seldom gave away a penn 
 Fanny had sharp eyes, and soon felt that her English lover wi 
 not a man to be loved, though he had two rings, a gold chai 
 and half a dozen fine waistcoats. 
 
 And then another offence had come to light in which tl 
 MoUetts were both concerned. Since their arrival in Soui 
 Main Street they had been excellent customers — indeed quite 
 godsend, in this light, to Fanny, who had her own peculiar proi 
 out of such house-customers as they were. They had paid the 
 money like true Britons, — not regularly indeed, for regular! 
 had not been desired, but by a five pound now, and another in 
 day or two, just as they were wanted. Nothing indeed could 1 
 better than this, for bills so paid are seldom rigidly scrutinize 
 But of late, within the last week, Fanny's requests for funds hi 
 not been so promptly met, and only on the day before her vis 
 to Kanturk she had been forced to get her father to take a hi 
 from Mr. MoUett senior for 201. at two months' date. This w. 
 a great come-down, as both Fanny and her father felt, and th( 
 had begun to think that it might be well to 'Ering their connectic 
 with ihe MoUette to a close. What if an end had come to tl 
 money of these people, and their biUs should be dishononif 
 when due? It was all very well for a man to nave elain 
 
FATH-ES BARNEY. 175 
 
 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 ne- 
 cessary, with all the authority of the Church. But now that 
 Fanny had discarded her lover, he wisely felt that it would be i 
 well for him to know nothing about it. Both uncles and priests j 
 may know too much — very foolishly. ' 
 
 ' I have seen them here myself,' said he, ' and they have both 
 been up at Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 ' They do say as poor Sir Thomas is in a bad way,' said Mrs, 
 O'Dwj'^er, 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 aboui 
 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 en- 
 tirely. 
 
 ' Not half equal to her other Joe, Mr. Owen that is,' said 
 Fanny. 
 
 ' Well, 1 don't know that, my dear. Such a House and propei-ty 
 as Castle Eichmond 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, aftet I left.' 
 
176 OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' Axii the old man said he'd be down here again next Thnra- 
 day,' continued the priest. ' I heard that for certain. I'll tell 
 ' yon what it is, they're not after any good here. They are Pro- 
 testants, 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 Piiohmond, 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 MoUett 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 MoUetts ain't got the money to pay the shot,' said 
 Mrs. O'Dwyer, eausticly. ' 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 '11 • have to take that biU up,' «aid 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 oiT the table in its place, 1 
 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^ wine glass; and then the ' 
 priest was invited, with much hospitality, to make himself com- 
 fortable. Nor did the luxuries prepared for him end here ; but 
 Fanny, the pretty Fan herself, filled a pipe for him, and' pro- 
 
FITHER BARNEY. 17? 
 
 tended that slie would light it, for such priests are men-y 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'Dwj'-er. 
 ' That the same room sbould hold the two of ye.' And she 
 lifted up her hands and shook her head. 
 
 ' It boulds 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. Xow 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 tlaeir 
 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 jsride like Frotesthant 
 pride,' said Fanny. ' It is so upsetting, I can't abide it.' All 
 which tended to show that she had quite given up her Protes- 
 tant lover. 
 
 , ; And is it getthing worse than iver with the poor crathurs ?' 
 .said Mrs. O'Dwyer, referring, not to the Protestants, but to thp 
 victims of the famine. 
 
 ' Indeed it's getting no betther,' said the priest, ' and I'm 
 
178 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 fearing it will be worse before it is over. I haven't married cm 
 couple in Dnimbarrow since November last.' 
 
 ' And that's a heavy sign, Father Bernard.' 
 
 ' The surest sign in the world that they have no money amonj 
 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-heartec 
 lady. ' It isn't much the like of us have to give away, Fathei 
 Bernard; I needn't be telling you that. But we'll help, yoi 
 know, — we'll help.' 
 
 ' And so will father, uncle Bernard. Tf you're so bad of 
 about here I know he'll give you a thrifle for the asking.' In a 
 short time, however, it came to piiSiS that those in the cities 
 could spare no aid to the country. Indeed it may be a questior 
 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 car 
 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 foi 
 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 teD 
 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 61 
 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'fl 
 come back to us. That's what I say.' ' 
 
 ' God bless his face any way, say I,' said Father Barney, witl 
 a vsdder philanthropy. ' He is doing his best for the people, and 
 the time has come now when we must hang together, if it b« 
 any way possible.' And with this the priest finished his pipe 
 and wishing the ladies good night, walked away to his owi 
 House. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE RELIEF COMMITTEE, 
 
 r this time the famine was beginning to be systematised. The 
 
 ernest among landlords and masters were driven to acknow- 
 
 -=> that the people had not got food or the means of earning it. 
 
 )eople themselves were learning that a great national cala- 
 
 ■had happened, and that the work was God's work ; and the 
 
 jrnment had fully recog-nised the necessity of taking the 
 
 e matter into its own hands. They were responsible for 
 
 a preservation of the people, and they acknowledged their 
 
 sponsibility. 
 
 And then two great rules seemed to get themselves laid down 
 ■not by general consent, for there were many who greatly con- 
 sted their wisdom — but by some force strong enough to make 
 lelf dominant. - The first was, that the food to be provided 
 ould be earned and not given away. And the second was, 
 at the providing of that food should be left to private compe- 
 ;ion, and not in any way be undertaken by the Government, 
 make bold to say that both these rules were wise and good. 
 But how should the people work ? That Government should 
 pply the wages was of course an understood necessity ; and it 
 ps als.o necessary that on all such work the amount of wages 
 jDuld be regulated by the price at which provisions might fix 
 i^mselves. These points produced questions which were hotly _ 
 jiated Joj the Eeliftf Committees of the different districts ; but 
 last it got itself decided, again by the hands of Government, 
 jit all hills along the country road should be cut away, and 
 \ the people should be employed on this work. They were 
 ^^ mployed, — very little to the advantage of the roads for that 
 J ime following years. 
 
 ,r you have begun, my men,' said Herbert to a gang of 
 g. irers whom he found collected at a certain point on Bally- 
 n Hill, which lay on his road from Castle Richmond to 
 paclough. In saying this he h^d^certainly paid them an 
 jf-'rited compliment, for they^feM hitherto begun nothing. 
 thirty or forty wretchsa-looking^^men were clustered 
 er in the dirt and slop/ and mud^'on the brow of the hill, 
 with snch various toc/ls as each was able to find — with ^ 
 for the most part, which would go but a little way iijnc- 
 
 , but if 
 
 sq 
 
 la 
 

 180 CASTLE 'eIOHJ;^ ,V. ■t.'^.c 
 
 piaVing Ballydahan Hill level or accessible. This question ol 
 Miools also came to a sort of und^stood settlement before long ,' 
 and witbin 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 
 imyriads of wheelbarrows has always been a mystery to me. 
 
 ' So you have begun, my men,' said Herbert, addressing them 
 iu' a kindly voice. There was a couple of gangsmen with them, 
 men a little above the others in appearance, but apparently inca^ 
 ^pable of commencing the work in hand, for they also werl 
 standing idle, leaning against a bit of wooden paling. • It had 
 however, been decided that the works at Ballydahan Hill shouL' 
 begin on this day, and there were the men assembled. _ One fac 
 admitted of no doubt, namely, this, that the wages would begi: 
 from this day. 
 
 And then the men came and clustered round Herbert's horse 
 They werewretched-looking creatures, half-clad, discontented, witi 
 hungry eyes, each having at his heart's core a deep sense 
 injustice done personally upon him. They hated this work 
 cutting hills from the commencement to the end, — hated 
 though it was to bring them wages and save them and the: 
 from actual famine and death. They had not been accustome" 
 to the discomfort of being taken far from their homes to the: 
 daily work. Very many of them had never worked regularly 
 for wages, day after day, and week after week. Up to this tire 
 such was not the habit of Irish cottiers. They held their ow 
 land, and laboured there for a spell ; and then they would wojj 
 for a spell, as men do in England, taking wages ; and then thi 
 would be idle for a spell. It was not exactly a profitable moi 
 -of life, but it had its comforts ; and now these unfortunates "«/'' 
 felt themselves to be driven forth like cattle in droves for 
 first time, sufiered the full wretchedness of their position. T( 
 were not rough and unruly, or inclined to be troublesome '^^ 
 perhaps violent, as men similarly circumstanced so often a*? 
 England ; — as Irishmen are when collected in gangs 0'"?^ 
 Ireland. They had no aptitudes for such roughness, a '^ '^ 
 «pirits for such violence. But they were melancholy, gi' ■: 
 complaint, apathetic, and utterly without interest in thr "' 
 were doing. 1 *» 
 
 'Yz, yer honer,' said one man who was standing, s*"®? 
 himself, with his hands qii>«loped in the rags of his f. . 
 Ho had on ho coat';' .and the keen north wind seome(!r™»j 
 blowing through his bones ; cold, nowever, as he was, h*®** j 
 do nothing towards warming himself, unless that occ!^ 
 hake can be considered as a doing of something. ' YWrn 
 
THE RELIEF COMMITTEE. 181 
 
 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. 
 
 ^i ' Been here before daylight !' said Herbert. ' And has there 
 ■'been nobody to set yon 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 MoUoy and Shawn Brady ; 
 f^they two do be over us, but they knows nothia' o' such jobs as 
 Ithis.' 
 
 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 
 j 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 thd hoe. 
 
 ' Sorrow a tizzy they'll pay any of yez for standing here all 
 
 day,' said an ill-looldng 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 ; 
 
 yon 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 devU 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 eaily at their work. An Irishman as a rule will not come 
 regularly to his task. It i.^ a very difficult thing to secure his 
 (services every morning at six o'clock ; but make a special point, 
 E — tell him that you want him very early, and he will come to 
 tvou in the middle of the night. Breakfast every morning punc- 
 itually at eight o'dock ia almost impossible in Irelaud; but if 
 
182 OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 you want one special breakfast, so that you may start by a train 
 
 j at 4 A.M., you are sure to be served. Xo irregular effort is 
 
 i 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 hungrj', 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 
 
 engineer,' Shawn Brady had said, ' an' shure an' we have waited.' 
 
 ' An' here's one of Misther Carroll's cars from Mallow,' said 
 
 Thady MoUoy, ' and that's the engineer hisself.' Thady.Molloy 
 
 was right ; this was the engineer himseK, 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, 
 
 j and that a suddenly immense demand, for any article, it is 
 
 I 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 undei 
 _ him with rather a pretentious air. He had not observed, or pro- 
 bably had not known, Herbert Fitzgerald. He was a very 
 young fellow, still under one-and-twenty, beardless, light-haired, 
 blu»-eyed, and fresh from England. ' And what hill is this ?' 
 said he to the driver. 
 
 'BaUydahan, shure, yer honor. That last war Connick-a> 
 Coppul, and tha/- other, the big un intirely, where the crass road 
 takes away to Buttevant, that was Glounthaunerought3'more. 
 Faix and that's been the murthering hill for cattle since first 
 I knew it. Bedad yer honer'U make smooth as a bowling- 
 green.' 
 
 ' BaUydahan,' said the young man, taking a paper out of his 
 pocket and looking up the names in his list, ' I've got it. There 
 phould be thirty-seven of them here,' 
 
THE RELIEF COMMITTEE. 183 
 
 ' Shiire an' tere we are these siven hours,' said our friend of 
 the hoe, ' and mighty co-wld 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 engi- 
 neer took off his hat. ' 1 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 hUl ?' 
 
 ' 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 
 hi-s 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 convey- , 
 ance in the county Cork were shattered by the process, and that , 
 the works resulted in myraids 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 froia the 
 top of the hUl. ' But I knew they were to be there thig 
 morning,' said Mr. Townsend. 
 
184 - CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' Tbey 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. Eemember 
 that, Herbert Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' I will remember nothing of the kind,' said Herbert. ' Am 1 
 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 nol 
 he afraid of what was unclean ?' 
 
 ' The meaning of that was that he was to convert the GentileSi 
 and not give way to their errors. He was to contend with thenj 
 arid not give way an inch till he had driven them from theii 
 idolatry.' Mr. Tovmsend 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 mattei 
 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. Tte priest will get a penny 
 out of every shilling ; you'll see else.' And so the matter was 
 diaoussed between them as they went along to Gortnaclough. 
 
TEE KELI'SF COJaMITTEE. 186 
 
 ^Vheu thoy lecxched the room in whicli. the committee ,waa 
 held thoy found Mr. Somers already in the ■ chair. Priest ! 
 -McCarthy was#*theie also, with his Coadjutor, the Eev. Columb i 
 Creagh — Father Columb as h'=', was always called : and there was 
 a Mr. O'Leary from Boherhuy, one of the middlemen as they ' 
 were formerlj' named,-(;though by the way T never knew that 
 word to be current- in Ireland ; it is familiar to all, and was 1 
 suppose common some few j^ears since, Ijut I never heard the 
 peasants calling such persons by that title J 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 ho 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 yerj 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 bom. That opera- 
 tion 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 teU the truth, Father Columb was not a nice-looking 
 
186 CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 young man. He was red-haired, slightry marked with the small 
 pox, and had a low forehead and cunning eyes. 
 
 'Yes, it is, a nice morning,' said Herbert. ' \^ 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 shufded 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 sha'n't we be 
 all rnore 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. Tov?n- . 
 send. 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 ' Peed 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.' 
 
THE BELIEF COMMITTEE. 1S7 
 
 ' What I say, is this,' said Mr. O'Leary. ' Let 'em manage foi 
 '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, Govern- 
 ment 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 Oolumb ; 
 ' but the Government, as you call it, can't make men work. It 
 can't force eight millions of the finest pisantry on God's earth 
 
 ,' and Father Columb was, by degrees, pushing away the 
 
 from under him, when he was cruelly and ruthlessly stopped 
 lis own parish priest. 
 
 [ 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. 
 
 ' Sone men will,' said Father Columb, with a great deal of 
 meanuig 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 Eoman 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 com,' 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 Tip all the small shopkeepers,' said Father ColumT:^ 
 "whose mother was established in that line in the neighbourhood 
 of Castleisland. 
 
 'We could not do it,' said Somers. 'The demand upon us 
 
188 OASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 would be so great, that we should certainly break down. And 
 then where would we be ?' 
 
 ' But for a time, Somere,' pleaded Herbert. 
 ' For a time we may do something in that way, (111 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 sufBcient 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 
 countrjr. 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 
 moneji 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 
 i 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 parism 
 shook hands with each other again, having perhaps less animo- 
 sity 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 no't 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 m 
 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.' 
 
 I ' As they havn't done it yet, they won't do it now,' said 
 
 I Somers. 'M'Carthy is not without sense, and Townsend, quc(" 
 
 and intolerant as he is, has good feeling. If he and Fathi 
 
 I 
 
THE FRIENX) OF TUB FAMILY. 189 
 
 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 imderstood 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 Eichmond after breakfast the next morn- 
 ing, 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 Eichmond 
 they parted company, Mr. Somers stopping at his own place, 
 and Herbert riding home alone. 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 On the day named by Herbert, and only an hour before dinner, 
 Mr. Prendergast did arrive at Castle Eichmond. The Great 
 Southern and Western Eailway was not then open as far as Mal- 
 low, and the journey from Dublin was long and tedious. ' I'll see i 
 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 hei 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. Pr endergast 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 
 .wity, strong, and almost robust. He walked as though in put 
 
190 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ting his foot to tlie earth he always wished to proclaim that ha 
 was afraid of no man and no thing. His hair was grizzled, and 
 his whiskers were gray, and round about his mouth his face was 
 wrinkled; hut with him even these things hardly seemed to he 
 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 him- 
 self 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 acquaintancesi 
 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 iit 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, 1 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 hav-e the 
 power of cutting and cauterizing, of phlebotomy and bone-hand = 
 ling without effect on his own nerves. This power Mr. PrendeKj 
 gast possessed, and therefore it may be said that Sir Thomas had 
 chosen his surgeon judiciously. None of the Castle Eichmond 
 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 1 
 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-daj>e — not so 
 common as with some other people. Sons who now hated their 
 father's enemies would have but a bad chance, before a commis-.J 
 
THE FKIEND OF THE FAMILY. .191 
 
 sion of lunacy ; but an old family friend is supposed to stick to 
 one from generation to generation. 
 
 On his arrival at Castle Eichmond he was taken in to Sir 
 Thomas before dinner. ' You find me but in a poor state,' said 
 Sir Thomas, shaking in his foar of what was before him, as the 
 poor wietch does before an iron-wristed dentist who is about to 
 operate. ' You will be better soon,' Mr. Prendergast had said, 
 as a ma,n 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 
 tu]n Tip. 
 
 Tliat evening was not passed verj' pleasantly by the family at 
 Castle . Richmond. To all of them Mr. Prendergast was abso- 
 lutely 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, ho, and he alone, was to be intrusted with the 
 mysteiy. He of course said nothing to them on the subject, but 
 h<3 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 Eoman Catholics were prepared to do 
 their duty by their country, whereas Aunt Letty would con- 
 sider herself bound both by party feeling and religious duty, to 
 prove that the Eoman Catholics were bad in everything. 
 
192 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' Oh, Herbert, to hear you say so !' she exclaimed at one time, 
 ' it makes me tremble in my shoes. It is dreadful to think ttaf 
 those people should have got such a hold over you.' 
 
 ' I really think that the Eoman 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 him- 
 self 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 break- 
 fast. The time was coming in which Mr. Prendergasfwas 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 sununoned, 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 thoiJgh 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 
 ^main here, I should be going into his room when he did not 
 want me.' And then he mounted his horse and rode oif. 
 
 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 thedining-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 wi^^ 
 him,' said Aunt Letty, catching hold of his arm as he went 
 through the passage. He merely moved his head twice, in toke:i 
 Vif assent, and then passed on into the room. ^ 
 
 The reader will have learnt by this time, with tolerahlo 
 accuracy, what was the nature of the revelation which Sil 
 
THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY. 193 
 
 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 Eiohmond 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. Stem 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. 
 
 Yes, Herbert must be told that he in the world was nobody ; 
 that he must earn his bread, and set about doing so right soon. 
 Who could say that his father's life was worth a twelvemonth's 
 purchase ? He must be told that he was nobody in the world, 
 and instructed also to tell her whom he loved, an earl's 
 daughter, the same tidings ; that he was nobody, that he would 
 come to possess no property, and that in the law's eyes did not 
 possess even a name. How would his young heart suffice for 
 the endurance of so terrible a calamity ? And those pretty girls, 
 so softly brought up — so tenderly nurtured ; it must be explained 
 to them too that they must no longer be proud of their father's 
 lineage and their mother's fame. And that other Fitzgerald 
 must be summoned and told of all this ; he on whom they had 
 looked down, whom the young heir had robbed of his love, 
 whom they had cast out from among them as unworthy. Notice 
 must be sent to him that he was the heir to Castle Eichmond, 
 that he would reign as the future baronet in those gracious 
 chambers. It was he who could now make a great county lady 
 of the daughter of the countess. 
 
 ' It will be very soon, very soon,' sobbed forth the poor 
 victim. And indeed, to look at him one might say that it would 
 be soon. There were moments when Mr. Prendergast hardly 
 thought that he would live through that frightful day. 
 
 But aU of which we have yet spoken hardly operated upon, 
 the baronet's mind in creating that stupor of sorrow which now 
 weighed him to the earth. It was none of these things that 
 utterly broke him down and crushed him like a mangled reed. 
 He had hardly mind left to remember his children. It was for i 
 the wife of his bosom that he sorrowed. 
 
 The wife of his bosom ! He persisted in so calling her 
 
194 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 througli the wliole interyjew, and, even in his weakness, obliged 
 the strong man Defore him so to name her also. She was hia 
 wife before God, and should be his to the end. Ah ! for how 
 .short a time was that ! ' Is she to leave me ?' he once said, 
 turning to his friend, with his hands clasped together, praying 
 that some mercy might be shown to his wretchedness. ' Is she 
 to leave me ?' he repeated, and then sunk on his knees upon the 
 floor. 
 
 And how was Mr. Prendergast to answer this question ? How 
 was he to decide whether or no this man and woman might still 
 liye together as husband and wife? Oh, my reader,-- think of it 
 "If you can, and put yourself for a moment in the place of that 
 old family friend! 'Tell me, tell me; is she to leave me?' 
 repeated the poor victim of all this misery. 
 
 The sternness and justice of the man at last gave way. ' No, 
 said he, 'that cannot, I should think, be necessary. They 
 cannot demand that.' ' But you won't desert me ?' said Sir 
 Thomas, when this crumb of comfort was handed to him. And 
 he remembered as he spoke, the bloodshot eyes of the miscreant 
 who had dared to tell him that the wife of his bosom might be 
 legally torn from him by the hands of another, man. ' You won't 
 desert me ?' said Sir Thomas ; meaning by that, to bind his 
 friend to an obligation that, at any rate, his wife should not be 
 taken from him. 
 
 'No,' said Mr. Prendergast, 'I will not desert you; certainly 
 not that ; certainly not that.' Just then it was- in his heart to 
 promise almost anything that he was asked. Who could have 
 refused such solace as this to a man so terribly overburthened ? 
 
 But there was another point of view at which Mr. Prendergast 
 had looked from the commencement, but at which he could not 
 get Sir Thomas to look at all. It certainly was necessary that 
 the whole truth in this matter should be made known and 
 declared openly. ^This fair inheritance must go to the right 
 owner and not to the wrong. Though the afiSiction on Sir 
 Thomas was very heavy, and would be equally so on all the 
 family, he would not on that account, for the sake of saving him 
 and them from that affliction, be justified in robbing another 
 person of what was legally and actually that, other person's pro- 
 perty. _ It was a matter of astonishment to Mr. Prendergast that 
 a conscientious man, as Sir Thomas ceitainly was, should have 
 been able to look at the matter in any other light; that he 
 should ever have brought himself to have dealings in the matter 
 with Mr. Mollett. Justice in the case was clear, and the tinith 
 must be declared. But tb'-n they must take good care to find 
 out absolutely what the truth was. Having heard all that Si" 
 
THE FRIEND UF, THE FAMILY. 195 
 
 Thomas had to say, and having sifted all that he did hoar, Mr. 
 Prendergast thoroughly believed, in his heart- of hearts, that that 
 ■wretched miscreant was the actual and true husband of the poor 
 lady whom he would have to see. ' But it was necessary that 
 this should be proved. Castle Eichmond for the family, .and all 
 earthly peace of mind for that unfortunate lady and genileman 
 were not to 'be given up on the bare word of a scheming 
 scoundrel, for whom no crime would be too black, and no cruelty 
 too monstrous. The proofs must be looked into before anything 
 was doas, and they must be looked into before anything was 
 said — -to Lady Fitzgerald. We surely may give her that name _ 
 as yet. 
 
 But then, how were they to get at the proofs — at the proofs 
 one way or the other ? That Mollett himself had his marriage 
 certificate Sir Thomas declared. That evidence had been 
 brought home to his own mind of the identity of the man — ■ 
 though what was the nature of that evidence he could not now 
 describe — as to that he was quite explicit. Indeed, as I have 
 said above, he -almost refused to consider the question as admit- 
 ting of a doubt. That Mollett was the man to whom his wife 
 had been married he thoroughly believed ; and, to tell the truth, 
 Mr. Prendergast was afraid to urge him to look for much comfort 
 in this direction. The whole manner of the man, Mollett, had 
 been such as to show that he himself was sure of his ground. 
 Mr. Prendergast could hardly doubt that he was the man, 
 although he felt himself bound to remark that nothing should be 
 said to Lady Fitzgerald till inquiry had been made. Mr. 
 Mollett himself would be at Castle Eichmond on the next day 
 but one, in accordance with the appointment made by himself; 
 and, if necessary, he could be kept in custody till he had been 
 identified as being the man, or as not being the man, who had 
 married Miss Wainwright. 
 
 ' There is nobody living with you now who knew Lady Fitz- - 
 
 gerald at ?' asked Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 'Yes,' said Sir Thomas, 'there is one maid servant.' And' 
 then he explained how Mrs. Jones had lived with his wife before 
 her first marriage, during those few months in which she haci 
 been called Mrs. Talbot, and from that day even up to the 
 present hour. 
 
 ' Then she must have known this man,' said Mr. Prendergast. 
 But Sir Thomas was not in a frame of mind at all suited to 
 the sifting of evidence. He did not care to say anything about 
 Mrs. Jones ; he got no crumb of comfort out of that view of the 
 matter. Things had come out, unwittingly for the most part, in 
 his conversations with Mollett, which made him quite certa,)* 
 
196 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 as to the truth of the main part of the story. All those Dorset- 
 sliire localities wtre well known to the man, the beariiigs of the 
 house, the circumstances of Mr. Wainwright's parsonage, the 
 whole history of those months; so that on this subject Sir 
 Thomas had no doubt ; and we may as well know at once that 
 there was no room for doubt. Our friend of the Kanturk Hotel, 
 'South Main Street, Cork, was the man who, thirty years before, 
 ~ Jiad married the child-daughter of the Dorsetshire parson. 
 
 "Mr. Prendergast, howeyer, stood awhile before the fire balanc- 
 ing the evidence. ' The woman must have known him,' he said 
 to himself, ' and surely she could tell us whether he be like the 
 man. And Lady Fitzgerald herself would know ; but then who 
 would have the hardness of heart to ask Lady Eitzgeraldrto con- 
 front that man?' 
 
 He remained with Sii: Thomas that day for hours. The long 
 vinter evening had begun to make itself felt by its increasing 
 gloom before he left him. Wine and biscuits were sent in to 
 them, but neither of them even noticed the man who brought 
 them. Twice in the day, however, Mr. Prendergast gave the 
 baronet a glass of sherry, which the latter swallowed uncon- 
 sciously ; and then, at about four, the lawyer prepared to take 
 his leave. ' I will see you early to-inorrow,' said he, ' imme- 
 diately after breakfast.' 
 
 ' You are going then '? said Sir Thomas, who greatly dreaded 
 being left alone. 
 
 ' Not away, you know,'' said Mr. Prendergast. ' I am not ' 
 going to leave the house.' 
 
 ' No,' said Sir Thomas ; ' no, of course not, but — ' and then he 
 paused. 
 
 ' Eh !' said Mr. Prendergast, ' you were saying something.' 
 
 ' They will be coming into me now,' said Sir Thomas, wailing 
 like a child ; ' now, when you are gone ; and what am I to say 
 to them ?' 
 
 ' I would say nothing at present ; nothing to-day.' 
 
 ' And my wife ?' he asked, again. Through this interview he 
 studiously called her his wife. ' Is — is she to know it ?' 
 ^ 'When we are assured that this man's story is true. Sir 
 
 ThomaB, she must know it. That will probably be very soon, 
 
 in a day or two. Till then I think you had better tell her 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' Aid what shall I say to her ?' 
 
 ' Say nothing. I think it probable that she vnll not ask any 
 questions. If she does, tell her that the business between you 
 and me is not yet over. I will teU your son that at present he 
 had better not speak to you on the subject of my visit fccre. 
 
THE FEIEND OF THE FAMILY. 197 
 
 And then he again took the hand of the^nnfoi-tunate gentleman, 
 and having pressed it with more tenderness than seemed to 
 belong to him, he left the room. 
 
 He left the room, and hurried into the hall and out of the 
 house ; but as he did so he could see that he was watched by 
 Lady Fitzgerald. She was on the alert to go to her husband as 
 soon as she should know that he was alone. Of what then took 
 place between those two we need say nothing, but will wander 
 forth for a whUe with Mr. Prendergast into the wide-spreading 
 park. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast had been used to hard work all his life, but 
 ae had never undergone a day of severer toil than that through 
 which he had just past. Nor was it yet over. He had laid it 
 down in a broad way as his opinion that the whole truth in this 
 matter should be declared to the world, let ihe consequences be 
 what they might; and to this opinion Sir Thomas had acceded 
 without a word of expostulation. But in this was by no means 
 included all that portion of the burden which now fell upon Mr. 
 Prendergast's shoulders. It would be for him to look into, the 
 evidence, and then it would be for him also — heavy and worst 
 task of all — to break the matter to Lady Fitzgerald. 
 
 As he sauntered out into the park, to wander about for half 
 an hour in the dusk of the evening, his head was throbbing with 
 pain. The family friend in this instance had certainly been 
 severely taxed in the exercise of his friendship. And what was 
 he to do next ? How was he to conduct himself that evening in 
 the family dircle, knowing, as he so well did, that his coming 
 there was to bring destruction upon them all ? ' Be tender to 
 him,' Aunt Letty had said, little knowing how great a call there 
 would be on his tenderness of heart, and how little scope for any 
 tenderness of purpose. 
 
 And was it absolutely necessary that that blow should fall in 
 all its severity ? He asked himself this question over and over 
 again, and always had to acknowledge that it was necessary. 
 There could be no possible mitigation. The son must be told 
 that he was no son — no son in the eye of the law ; the wife must 
 be told that she was no wife, and the distant relative must bo 
 made acquainted with his golden prospects. The position of 
 Herbert and Clara, and of their promised marriage, had been 
 explained to him, — and all that too must be shivered into frag- 
 ments. How was it possible that the penniless daughter of an 
 earl should give herself in marriage to a youth, who was not only 
 penniless also, but illegitimate and without a profession ? Look 
 at it in which way he would, it was all misery and ruin, and it 
 had fallen upon him to pronounce the doom ! 
 
198 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 He could not himself believe that there was any doubt as to 
 the general truth of MoUett's statement. He would of course 
 inquire. He would hear what the man had to say and see what 
 he had to adduce. He would also examine that old servant, and, 
 if necessary — and if possible also — he would induce Ladj' Fitz- 
 gerald to see the man. But he did feel convinced that on this 
 point there was no doubt. And then he lifted up his hands 
 in astoniKhment'at the folly which had been committed by a 
 marriage under such circumstances — as wise men will do in the 
 decline of years, when young people in the heyday of youth have 
 not been wise. ' If they had waited for a term of years,^ he said, 
 j 'and if he then had not presented himself!' A term of years, 
 such as Jacob served for Eachel, seems so light an affair to old 
 bachelors looking back at the loves of their young friends. 
 
 And so he walked about in the dusk by no means a happy man, 
 nor in any way satisfied with the work which was still before 
 
 him. How was he to face Lady Fitzoerald, or tell her of her 
 
 .fate? In what words must he describe to H erbert~Fitzgerald 
 ffii'position which in future he must fill ? The past had been 
 dreadful to him, and the future would be no less so, in spite of 
 his character as a hard, stern man. 
 
 When he returned to the house he met young Fitzgerald in 
 the hall. ' Have you been to your father ?' he asked immediately. 
 Herbert, in a low voice, and with a saddened face, said that he 
 had just come from his father's room' ; but Mr. Prendergast at 
 once knew that nothing of the truth had been told to him. ' You 
 found him very weak,' said Mr. Prendergast. ' Oh, very weak,' 
 said Herbert. ' More than weak ; utterly prostrate. He was 
 lying on the sofa almost unable to speak. My mother was with 
 him and is still there.' 
 
 ' And she ?' He .was painfully anxious to know whether Sir 
 Thomas had been weak enough — or strong enough — to tell his 
 wife any of the story which that morning had been told to him. 
 
 ' She is <doing what she can to coiafort him,' said Herbert ; 
 ' but it is very hard for her to be left so utterly in the dark.' 
 
 Mr. Prendergast was passing on to his room, but at the foot of 
 the stairs Herbert stopped him again, going up the stairs with 
 him, and almost whispering into his ear — -i- 
 
 'I trust, Mr. Prendergast,' said he, 'that things are not to go 
 on in this way.' 
 
 ' No, no,' said Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 ' Because it is unbearable — unbearable for my mother and for 
 me, and ibr us all. My mother thinks that some tei-rible thin" i 
 has happened to the property; but if so, why should I not be i 
 tolfl?' . . • . I 
 
THE FRIEND OF ^HE FAMILY. 199 
 
 ' Of anything that really has happened, or does happen,, you 
 will be told.' 
 
 ' I don't know whether you are aware of it, Mr. Prendergast, 
 hut I am engaged to he married. And I have been given to 
 understand — that is, I thought that this might take place very 
 soon. My mother seems to think that your coming here may — 
 may defer it. If so, I think I have a right to expect that some- 
 thing shall be told to me.' 
 
 ' Certainly you have a right, my dear young friend. But Mr. 
 Fitzgerald, for your own sake, for all our sakes, wait patiently 
 for a few hours.' 
 
 ' I have waited patiently.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know it. You have behaved admirably. But I cannot 
 speak to you now. This time the day after to-morrow, I will 
 tell you everything that I know. But do not speak of this to 
 /our mother. I make this promise only to you.' And then he 
 passed on into his bedroom. 
 
 AYith this Herbert was obliged to be content. That evening 
 he again saw his father and mother, but he told them nothing 
 of what had passed between him and Mr. Prendei'gast. . Lady 
 Fitzgerald remained in the study with Sir Thomas the -v/liole 
 evening, nay, almost the whole night, and the slow hours as they 
 passed there were very dreadful. No one came to table but 
 Aunt Letty, Mr. Prendergast, and Herbert, and between ■ them 
 hardly a word was spoken. The poor girls had found themselves 
 utterly unable to appear. They were dissolved in tears, and 
 crouching over the fire in their own room. And the moment 
 that Aunt Letty left the table Mr. Prendergast arose also. He 
 was suffering, he said, cruelly' from headache, and would ask 
 permission to go to his chamber. It would have been impossible 
 for him to have sat there pretending to sip his wine with Herbert 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 After this Herbert again went to his father, and then, in the 
 gloom of the evening, he found Mr. Somers in the office, a little 
 magistrate's room, that was used both by him arrl by Sir Thomas. 
 But nothing passed between them. Plerbert naei nothing to tell. 
 And then at about nine ho also went iip to his bedroom. A 
 more melancholy day thau that had nevor eJjp.d its gl«)in xwou 
 Castle Kichmoud. 
 
200 CASTLE EICHMOHD. 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 TWO WITNESSES. 
 
 Me. Peendeegast had given himself two days to do all that was 
 to be done, before he told Herbert Fitzgerald the whole of the 
 family history. He had promised that he would then let him 
 know all that there was to be known ; and he had done so ad- 
 visedly, considering that it- would be manifestly unjust to leave 
 him in. the dark an hour longer than was absolutely necessary. 
 To expect that Sir Thomas himseK should, with his. own breath 
 and his own words, make the revelation either to his son or to 
 his wife, was to expect a manifest impossibility. He wquld, 
 altogether, have sunk under such an effort, as he had already 
 sunk under the effort of telling it to Mr. Prendergast ; nor could 
 it be left to the judgment of Sir Thomas to say when .the story 
 should be told. He had now absolutely abandoned all judgment 
 in the matter. He had placed himself in the hands of a friend, 
 ,and he now expected that that friend should do all that there 
 was to be done. Mr. Prendergast had therefore felt himself justi- 
 fied in making this promise. 
 
 But how was he to set about the necessary intervening work, 
 and how pass the intervening hours ? It had already been decided 
 that Mr. Abraham MoUett, when he called, should be shown, as 
 usual, into the study, but that he should there find himself con- 
 fronted, not with Sir Thomas, but with Mr. Prendergast. But 
 there was some doubt whether or no Mr. Mollett would come. 
 It might be that he had means of ascertaining what strangers 
 arrived at Castle Eichmond; and it might be, that he would, 
 under the present circumstances, think it expedient to stay away. 
 This visit, however, was not to take place till the second day 
 after that on which Mr. Prendergast had heard the story ; and, 
 in the meantime, he had that examination of Mrs. Jones to 
 arrange and conduct. 
 
 The breakfast was again very sad. The girls suggested to 
 their brother that he and Mr. Prendergast should sit together by 
 themselves in a small breakfast-parlour, but to this he would not 
 assent. Nothing could be more difficult or embarrassing than a 
 conversation between himself and that gentleman, and he more- 
 over was unwilling to let it be thought in the household that 
 affairs were going utterly wrong in the family. On this matter 
 
TWO WITNESSES. '201 
 
 ha need hardly have disturbed liimself, for the household was 
 fully convinced that things were going very wrong. Maid-ser- 
 vants and men-servants can read the meaning of heavy brows 
 and sad faces, of long meetings and whispered consultations, as 
 well as their betters. The two girls, therefore, and Aunt Letty, 
 appeared at the breakfast-table, but it was as though so many 
 ghosts had assembled round the um. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast, Mr. Prendergast applied to Aunt 
 Letty. ' Miss Fitzgerald,' said he, ' I think you have an old 
 servant of the name of Jones living here.' 
 
 ' Yes, sure,' said Aunt Letty. ' She was living with my sister- 
 in-law before her marriage.' 
 
 ' Exactly,— and ever since too, I believe,' said Mr. Prendergast, 
 with a lawyer's instinctive desire to divert suspicion from the 
 true point. 
 
 ' Oh yes, always ; Mrs. Jones is quite one of ourselves.' 
 
 ' Xlien would you do me the favour to beg Mrs. Jones to oblige 
 me with her company for half an hour or so. There is an excel- 
 lent fire in my room, and perhaps Mrs. Jones would not object 
 to step there.' 
 
 Aunt Letty promised that Mrs. Jones should be sent, merely 
 suggesting the breakfast-parlour, instead of the bedroom; and 
 to the breakfEist-parlour Mr. Prendergast at once betook himself. 
 
 ' What can she know about the London property, or about the 
 Irish property?' thought Aunt Letty, to herself; and then it 
 occurred to her that, perhaps, all these troubles arose from some 
 source altogether, distinct from the property. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour, a knock came to the breakfast- 
 parlour door, and Mrs. Jones, having been duly summoned, 
 entered the room with a very clean cap and apron, and with 
 a very low curtsey. 'Good morning, Mrs. .Jones,' said Mr. 
 Prendergast ; ' pray take a seat ;' and he pointed to an arm-chair 
 that was comfortably placed near the fire, on the further side of 
 the hearth-rug. Mrs. Jones sat herself down, crossed her hands 
 on her lap, and looked the very personification of meek obedience. 
 And yet there was something about her which seemed to 
 justify the soubriquet of duchess, which the girls had given to 
 her. She had a certain grandeur about her cap, and a majestical 
 set about the skirt of her dress, and a rigour in the lines of her 
 mouth, which indicated a habit of command, and a confidence in 
 her own dignity, which might be supposed to be the very clearest 
 attribute of duchessdom. 
 
 ' You have been in this family a long time, I am told, Mrs. 
 Jones,' said Mr. Prendergast, using his pleasantest voice. 
 ' A very long time indeed,' said Mrs. Jones. 
 
202 CASTLE T?ICHMOND. 
 
 ' And in a very coufidential situation, too. I am told by Sit 
 Thomas :tliat pretty nearly the whole management of the house 
 is left in your hands.' 
 
 ' Sir Thomas is very kind, sir ; Sir Thomas always was very 
 kind, — poor gentleman !' 
 
 ' Poor gentleman indeed ! you may well say that, Mrs. Jones. 
 This family is in great affliction ; you are no doubt aware of 
 that.' And Mr. Prendergast as he spoke got up, went to the 
 door, and saw that it was firmly closed. 
 
 Mrs. Jones acknowledged that she was aware of it. ' It was 
 impossible,' she said, ' for servants to shut their eyes to things,' 
 if they tried ever so.' 
 
 ' Of course, of course,' said Mr. Prendergast; ' and particularly 
 for a person so attached to them all as you are.' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Pendrergrass, I am attached to them, certainly. 
 I have seed 'em all Ibom, sir — that is, the young ladies and Mr. 
 Herbert; A-nd as for her ladyship, I didn't see her born, in 
 course, for we're both of an age. But it comes much to the same ' 
 thing, like.' 
 
 ' Exactly, exactly ; you are quite one of themselves, as Sir 
 Thomas's sister said to me just now. "Mrs Jones is quite one 
 of ourselves."- Those were her very words.' 
 
 'I'm sure -I'm much obliged to Miss Letty.' 
 
 ' Well, as I was saying, a great sorrow has come upon them 
 . all, Mrs. Jones. Now will you tell me this — do you know what^ 
 it is ? Can you guess at all ? Do the servants know, down stairs ?'' 
 
 ' I'd rather not be guessing on any such matters, Mr. Pendrer 
 grass.~ And as for them, if they were impudent enough for the 
 like, thej''d never dare to tell me. Them Irish servants is very 
 impudent betimes, only they're good at the heart too, and there 
 isn't one 'd hurt a dog belonging to the family/ 
 
 'I am sure they would not,' said Mr. Prendergast. 'But you 
 yourself, you don't know what this trouble is ?' 
 
 'Not a know,' said Mrs. Jones, looking down and smoothing 
 Irer apron. 
 
 'Well, now. Of course you understand, Mrs. Jones — and I 
 must explain this to you to account for my questions. Of course 
 you understand that I am here as Sir Thomas's friend, to set 
 certain matters right for him if I can.' 
 
 ' I supposed as nmch as that, if you please, sir.' 
 
 ' And any questions that I may ask you, I ask altogether on 
 his behalf — on his behalf and on that of his wife, Lady Fitzgerald. 
 I tell you, that you may have no scruples as to answering me.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, I haY6 no scruples as to that. But of course, sir, in 
 anything I say I mnst be guided by — by — ' 
 
TWO WITNESSES. 203 
 
 ' By your own judgment you were going to say.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; begging pardon for mentioning suola a thing to ,the 
 likes of yon, sir.' 
 
 ' Quite rjglit ; quite right. Everybody should use their own 
 judgment in everything they do or say, more or less. But now 
 Mrs. Jones, I want to know this : you remember her ladyship's 
 first marriage, I dare say.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, I remember it,' said Mrs. Jones, shaking her head. 
 
 ' It was a sad affair, wasn't it ? I remember it well, though 1 
 was very young then. So were you too, Mrs. Jones.' 
 
 ' Young enough, surely, sir ; and foolish enough too. We 
 were the most of us that, then, sir.' 
 
 ' True, true ; so we were. But you remember the man, don't 
 you — her ladyship's husband? Mr. Talbot, he called himself.' 
 And Mr. Prendergast took some trouble to look as though he did 
 not at all wish to frighten her. 
 
 ' Yes, I do remember him.' This she said after a considerable 
 pause. * But it is a very long time ago, you know, Mr. Pendrer- 
 grass.' 
 
 ' A very lo'ig time. But I am sure you do remember. ■ You 
 lived in the house, jou know, for some months.' 
 
 ' Yes, I did. He was my master for three months, or there- 
 abouts ; and to tell the truth, I never got my wages for those 
 three months yet. But that's neither here nor there.' 
 
 • ' Do you believe now, Mrs. Jones, that that Mr. Talbot is still 
 alive ?' He asked the question in a very soft voice, and en- 
 deavoured not to startle her by his look as he did so. But it 
 was necessary to his purpose that he should keep his eye upon 
 her. Half the answer to his question was to be conveyed. by the 
 effect on the muscles of her face which that question would 
 produce. She might perhaps command her voice to tell a false- 
 nood, but be unable to command her face to support it. 
 
 ' Believe what, sir ?' said she, and the lawyer could imme- 
 diately perceive that she did believe and probably knew that 
 that man who had called himself Talbot was still alive. 
 
 ' Do you believe, Mrs. Jones, that he is alive — her ladyship's 
 former husband, you know ?' 
 
 The question was so terrible in its nature, that Mrs. Jones 
 absolutely shook under it. Did she think that that man was 
 still alive ? Why, if she thought that what was she to think of 
 her ladyship ? It was in that manner that she would have 
 answered the question, had she known how; but she did not 
 know ; she had therefore to look about her for some other words 
 which might be equally evasive. Those which she selected 
 served her turn just as well. 'Lord bless you, sir!' she sai<il, 
 
 o 
 
 i 
 
204 , CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 It -wras not that the words were expressive, hut the tone was 
 decidedly so. It was as though she said, ' How can that man 
 be alive, who has been dead these twenty years and- more ?' But 
 nevertheless, she was giving evidence all the time against "the 
 cause of her poor mistress. 
 , ' You think, then, that he is dead ?' 
 
 ' Dead, sir! Oh, laws! why shouldn't he he dead?' And then 
 there was a pause between them for a couple of minutes. 
 
 'Mrs. Jones,' said Mr. Prendergast, when he had well con- 
 sidered the matter, ' my belief is that your only object and wish 
 is to do good to your master and mistress.' 
 
 ' Surely, sir, surely ; it would be my hounden duty to do them 
 good, if I knew how.' 
 
 'I will tell you how. Speak out to me the whole truth 
 openly and freely. I am here as the friend of Sir Thomas and 
 of her ladyship. He has sent to me that I may advise him what 
 to do in a great trouble that has befallen him, and I cannot give 
 him good advice till I know the truth.' 
 
 ' What good could it do him, poor gentleman, to know that 
 that man is alive ?' 
 
 ' It will do him good to know the truth ; to know whether he 
 be alive or no. Until he knows that he cannot act properly.' 
 
 'Poor gentleman! poor gentleman!' said Mrs. Jones, putting 
 her handkerchief up to her eyes. 
 
 ' If you have any informatien in this matter — and I think you 
 have, Mrs. Jones — or even any siftpicion, it is your duty to tell 
 me.' 
 
 ' Well, sir, I'm sure I don't say against that. You are Sir 
 Thomas's friend to be sure, and no doubt you know best. And 
 I'm a poor ignorant woman. But to speak candidly, sir, I don't 
 ,,feel myself free to talk on this matter. I haven't never made nor 
 marred since I've been in this family, not in such matters as 
 ' them. What I've seed, I've kep' to myself, and when I've had 
 my suspecs, as a woman can't but have 'em, I've kep' them to 
 myself also. And saving your presence, sir, and meaning no 
 offence to a gentleman like you,' and here she got up from lier 
 chair and made another curtsey, 'I think I'd liefer hold my 
 tongue than say anything more on this matter.' And then 
 she remained standing as though she expected permission to 
 retire. 
 
 But there was still another pause, tod Mr. Prendergast sat 
 looking at the fire. ' Don't you know, ma'am,' at last he said, 
 with almost an angry voice, 'that the man was here, in this 
 bouse, last week ?' And now he turned round at her and looked 
 her full in the face. He did not. however,. know Mrs. JoneSi 
 
TWO WITNESSES. 205 
 
 It might be difficult to coax her into free communication, but it 
 ■was altogether out of his power to frighten her into it. 
 
 ' What I knows, sir, I knows,' said she, ' and what I don't 
 know, I don't know. And if you please, sir. Lady Fitzgerald — 
 she's my missus ; and if I'm to be said anything more to abjiit 
 this here matter, why, I'd choose that her ladyship should be 
 by.' And then she made a little motion as though to walk to- 
 wards the door, but Mr. Prendergast managed to stop her. 
 
 * But we want to spare Lady Fitzgerald, if we can-^at any rate 
 for a while,' said he. ' You would not wish to bring more sorrow 
 upon her, would you ?' 
 
 ' God forbid, Mr. Pendrergrass ; and if I could take the sorrow 
 from her heart, I would willingly, and bear it myself to the 
 grave; for her ladyship has been a good lady to me. But no 
 good never did come, and never will, of servants talking of their 
 missusses. And so if you please, sir, I'll make bold to ' —and 
 again she made an attempt to reach the door. 
 
 But Mr. Prendergast was not yet persuaded that he could not 
 get from the good old' woman the information that he "wanted, 
 and he was persuaded that she had the information if only she 
 could be prevailed upon to impart it. So he again stopped her, 
 though on this occasion she made some slight attempt to pass 
 him by as she did so. ' I don't think,' said she, ' that there will 
 be much use in my staying here longer.' 
 
 ' Wait half a minute, Mrs. Jones, just half a minute. If I could 
 only make you understand how we are all circumstanced here. 
 And I tell you what ; though you wiU. trust me with nothing, I 
 will trust you with everything.' 
 
 ' I don't want no trust, sir ; not about all this.' 
 ' But listen to me. Sir Thomas has reason to believe — nay, he 
 feels quite sure — that this man is alive.' 
 'Poor gentleman ! poor gentleman !' 
 
 'And has been here in this house two or three times within 
 the last month. Sir Thomas is full sure of this. Now can you 
 tell me whether the man who did come was this Talbot, or was 
 not ? If you can answer that positively, either one way or the 
 other, you will do a service to the whole family, — which shall 
 not go unrewarded.' 
 
 ' I don't want no reward, sir. Ask me to tattle of them for 
 rewards, after thirty years !' And she put her apron up to her 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Well, then, for the good of the family. Can you say positively 
 that the man who came here to your master was Talbot, or that 
 he was not ?' 
 
 ' Indeed then, sir, I can't say anything positively, nor for that 
 
206 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 matter, not impositively either.' And theti she shut herself up 
 doggedly, and sat with compressed lips, determined to resist aU 
 the lawyer's arts. 
 
 Mr. Pjrendergast did not- immediately give up the game, but 
 he failed in learning from her any more than what she had al- 
 
 ^ ready told him. He felt confident that she did know the secret 
 of this man's existence and presence in the south of Ireland, but 
 he was forced to satisfy himself with that conyiction. So he let 
 her go, giving her his hand as she went in token of respect, -and 
 i"ec6iving her demure curtsey with his kindest smile. ' It may 
 be,' thought he to himself, 'that I have not done with her yet.' 
 
 And then he passed another tedious day, — a day that was 
 terribly tedious to them all. He paid a visit to Sir Thomas ; but 
 as that arrangement about Mollett's visit had been made between 
 them, it was not necessary that anything should be done or said 
 about the business on hand. It was understood that further 
 action was to be stayed till that visit was over, and therefore for 
 the present he had nothing to say to Sir Thomas. He did npt 
 see Lady Fitzgerald throughout the whole day, and it appeared 
 to him, not unnaturally, that she purposely kept out of his way, 
 anticipating evil from his coming. He took a walk with Herbert 
 and Mr. Somers, and was driven as far as the soup-kitchen and 
 mill at Berry Hill, inquiring into the state of the poor, or rather 
 pretending to inquire. It was a pretence with them all, for at 
 the present moment their minds were intent on other things. 
 And then there was that terrible dinner, that mockery of a meal, 
 at which the three ladies were constrained to appear, but at which ' 
 they found it impossible to eat or to speak. Mr. Somers had been 
 asked to join the party, so that the scene after dinner might be 
 less painful ; but even he felt that he could not talk as was his 
 
 i ordinary wont. Horrible suspicions of the truth had gradually 
 come upon him ; and with a suspicion of such a truth — of such a 
 
 j tragedy in the very household — how could he, or how could any 
 
 • one hold a conversation ? and then at about half -past nine, 
 Mr. Prendergast was again in his bedroom. 
 
 On the next morning he was early with Sir Thomas, persuad 
 ing him to relinquish altogether the use of his study for that day. 
 On that evening they were to have another interview there, in 
 which Mr. Prendergast was to tell his friend the result of what 
 had-been done. And then he had to arrange certain manoeuvring 
 with the servants in which he was forced to obtain the assistance 
 of Herbert. MoUett was to be introduced into the study imme- 
 diately on his arrival, and this was to be done in such a manne: 
 that Mrs. Jones might assuredly be ignorant of his arrival. On 
 this duty our old friend Richard was employed, and it was con- 
 
TWO WITNESSES. 207 
 
 trived tliat Mrs. Jones slaould be kept up stairs witli her mistress. 
 All this was difficult enough, but he could not explain even to 
 Herbert the reason why such scheming was necessary. Herbert, 
 however, obeyed in silence, kaowing that something dreadful 
 was about to fall on them. 
 
 Immediately after breakfast Mr. Prendergast betook himself to 
 the study, and there remained with his London newspaper in his 
 hand. A dozen times he began a leading article, in which the 
 law was laid down with great perspicuity and .certainty as to the 
 present state of Ireland ; but had the writer been treating of the 
 Sandwich Islands he could not have attracted less of his attentitjn. 
 He found it impossible to read. On that evening he would have 
 to reveal to Herbert Fitzgerald what was to be his fate ! 
 
 Matthew MoUett at his last interview with Sir Thomas had 
 promised to call on this day, and had been counting the days till 
 that one should arrive on which he might keep his promise. He 
 was terribly in want of cash, and as we all know Aby had entirely 
 failed in raising the wind — any immediate fund of wind — on the 
 occasion of his visit to the baronet; and now, when this morning 
 came, old Mollett was early on the road. Aby Tiad talked of 
 going with him, but Aby had failed so signally on the occasion 
 of the visit which he did make to Castle Eichmond, that he had 
 been without the moral strength to persist in his purpose. 
 
 ' Then I shall write to the baronet and go alone to London,' 
 said Mollett, pere. 
 
 'Bother!' replied Mollett, fils. 'You hain't got the eash, 
 governor.' 
 
 ' I've got what '11 take me there, my boy, whether you know it 
 or not. And Sir Thomas '11 be ready enough to send me a remit- 
 tance when I'm once out of this country.' 
 
 And so Aby had given way, — partly perhaps in terror of Mr. 
 Somers' countenance ; and Matthew Mollett started again in a 
 covered car on that cold journey over the Boggeragh mountains. 
 It was still mid-winter, being now about the end of February, 
 and the country was colder, and wetter, and more wretched, and 
 the people in Aat desolate district more ragged and more starved 
 than when he had last crossed it. But what were their rags anel 
 starvation to him? He was worse off than they were. They 
 were merely dying, as all men must do. But he was inhabiting 
 a hell on earth, which no man need do. They came out to him 
 in shoals begging ; but they came in vain, getting nothing from 
 bim but a curse through his chattering teeth. What right had 
 they to torment with their misery one so much more wretched 
 than themselves ? 
 
 At. a little before twelve the covered car was at the front door 
 
208 OASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 of Castle Eiohmond house, and there was Eichard under the 
 porch. On former occasions Mr. Mollett had experienced some 
 little delay in making his way into the baronet's presence. The 
 servants had looked cold upon him, and he had felt as though 
 there might beJiot_ploughshares under his feet at any step which 
 he took. But now everything seemed to be made easy. Eichard 
 took him in tow without a moment's delay, told him confidentially 
 that Sir Thomas was waiting for hitn, bade the covered car to be 
 driven round into the yard with a voice that was uncommonly 
 civil, seeing that it was addressed to a Cork carman, and then 
 ushered Mr. Mollett through the hall and down the passage 
 without one moment's delay. Wretched as he had been during 
 his journey — wretched as an infernal spirit — his hopes were now 
 again elated, and he dreamed of a golden paradise. There was 
 something pleasant in feeling his mastery over that poor old 
 shattered baronet. 
 
 ' The gentleman to wait upon Sir Thomas,' said Eichard, open- 
 ing the study door ; and then Mr. Mollett senior found himself 
 in the presence of Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast was sitting in a high-backed easy chair, facing 
 the fire, when the announcement wan made, and therefore Mollett 
 still fancied that he was in the presence of Sir Thomas until he 
 was well into the room and' the door was closed upon him; 
 otherwise he might probably have turned on his heels and 
 bolted^ He had had three or four interviews with Mr. Pren- 
 dergast, having received different sums of money from that 
 gentleman's hands, and had felt on all such occasions that he 
 was being looked through and through. Mr. Prendergast had 
 asked but few questions, never going into the matter of his, 
 Mollett's, pecuniary connexion with Sir Thomas ; but there had 
 always been that in the lawyer's eye which had frightened the 
 miscreant, which had quelled his bluster as soon as it was as- 
 sumed, and had told him that he was known for a blackguard 
 and a scoundrel. And now when this man, with a terrible gray 
 eye, got up from Sir Thomas's chair, and wheeling round con- 
 fronted him, looking him full in the face, and frowning on him 
 as an honest man does frown on an unconvicted rascal-^when, I 
 say, this happened to Mr. Mollett senior, he thoroughly at that 
 moment wished himself back in London. He tiu-ned his eyo 
 round to the door, but that was closed behind him. He looked 
 round to see whether Sir Thomas was there, but no one was in 
 the room with him but Mr. Prendergast. Then he stood stiU, 
 and as that gentleman did not address him, he was obliged to 
 speak ; the silence was too awful for him — ' Oh, Mr. Prendergast I' 
 said b«. 'Is that you?" 
 
TWO "WITNESSES. 209 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Mollett, it is I.' 
 
 ' Oh, ah — I suppose you are here ahout business of your own. 
 I was -wishing to see Sir Thomas about a little business of my 
 own ; maybe he's not in the way.' 
 
 ' No, he is not ; not exactly. But perhaps, Mr. Mollett, I oan 
 do as well. You have known me before, you know, and you may 
 say to me openly anything you have to say to Sir Thomas.' 
 
 'Well; I don't know about that, sir; my business is with the 
 baronet — particular.' Mr. Mollett, as he spoke, strained every 
 nerve to do so without appearance of dismay ; but his efforts 
 were altogether ineffectual. He could not bring himself to look 
 Mr. Prendergast in the face for a moment, or avoid feeling like a 
 dog that dreads being kicked. All manner of fears came upon 
 him, and he would at the moment have given up all his hopes of 
 money from the Castle Eichmond people to have been free from 
 Mr. Prendergast and his influence. And yet Mollett was not a i 
 coward in the ordinary sense ofthe word. Indeed he had been 
 very daring in the whole management of this affair. But then a ' 
 course of crime makes such violent demands on a man's courage. ; , 
 Let any one think of the difference of attacking a thief, and 
 being attacked as a thief! We are apt to call bad men cowards j 
 without much consideration. Mr. Mollett was not without pluck, > 
 but his pluck was now quelled. The circumstances were too i 
 strong against him. 
 
 ' Listen to- me, Mr. Mollett ; and, look here, sir; never 
 
 mind turning to the door ; you can't go now tUl you and I have 
 had some conversation. You may make up your mind to this ; 
 you will never see Sir Thomas Fitzgerald again — unless indeed he 
 should be in the witness-box when you are standing in the dock.' 
 
 ' Mr. Prendergast ; sir !' 
 
 ' Well. Have you any reason to give why you should not be 
 put in the dock? How much money have you got from Sir' 
 Thomas during the last two years by means of those threats] 
 which you have been using ? You were well aware when you 
 set about this business that you were committing felony; and 
 have probably felt tolerably sure at times that you would some 
 day be brought up short. That day has come.' 
 
 Mr. Prendergast had made up his mind that nothing could be 
 gained by soft usage with Mr. Mollett. Indeed nothing could 
 be gained in any way, by any usage, unless it could be shown 
 that MoUett and Talbot were not the same person. He could 
 afford therefore to tell the scoundi-el that he was a scoundrel, 
 and to declare against him — war to the knife. The more that 
 Mollett trembled, the more abject he became, the easier would 
 be the task Mr. Prendergast now had in hand. ' AVell, sir,' he 
 
210 OASTLE K1CHMON0. 
 
 continued, ' are you going to tell me what business has brought 
 you here to-day ?' 
 
 But Mr. Mollett, though he did shake in his shoes, did not look 
 at the matter exactly in the same light. He could not believe 
 that Sir Thomas would himself throw up the game on any con- 
 sideration, or that Mr. Prendergast as his friend would throw it 
 up on his behalf. He, Mollett, had a strong feeling that he cotild 
 have continued to deal easily with Sir Thomas, and that it might 
 be very hard t© deal at all with Mr. Prendergast ; but nevertheless 
 the game was still open. Mr. Prendergast would probably dis- 
 trust the fact of his being the lady's husband, and itwould be 
 for him therefore to use the indubitable proofs of the facts that 
 were in his possession. 
 
 ' Sir Thomas knows very well what I've come about,' he began, 
 slowly ; ' and if he's told you, why you know too ; and in that 
 case .' 
 
 But what might or might not happen in that case Mr. Mollett 
 had "not now an opportunity of explaining, for the door opened 
 and Mrs. Jones entered the room. 
 
 ' '\Vhen that man comes this morning,' Mri Prendergast had 
 said to Herbert, ' I must get you to induce Mrs. Jones to come 
 to us in the study as soon as may be.' He had not at all ex- 
 plained to Herbert why this was necessary, nor had he been at 
 any pains to prevent the young heir from thinking and feeling 
 that some terrible mystery hung over the house, s There was a 
 terrible mystery — which indeed would be more terrible stiU 
 when it ceased to be mj'sterious. He therefore quietly explained 
 to Herbert what he desired to have done, and Herbert, awaiting 
 the promised communication of that evening, quietly did as he 
 was bid. 
 
 ' You must go down to him, Jones,' he had said. 
 
 ' But I'd rather not, sir. I was with him yesterday for two 
 mortal hours ; and, oh, Mr. Herbert ! it ain't for no good.' 
 
 But Herbert was inexorable ; and Mrs. Jones, feeling herself 
 overcome by the weight of the misfortune that was oppressing 
 them all, obeyed, and descending to her master's study, knocked 
 at the door. She knew that Mr. Prendergast was there, and she 
 knew that Sir Thomas was not ; but she did not know that any 
 stranger was in the room with Mr. Prendergast. Mr. Mollett had 
 not heard the knock,- nor, indeed, had Mr. Prendergast ; but Mrs. 
 Jones having gone through this ceremony, opened the door and 
 entered. 
 
 ' Sir Thomas knows ; does he ?' said Mr. Prendergast, when 
 Mollett ceased to speak on the woman's entrance. 'Oh, Mra 
 Jones, good morning. Here is your old master, Mr. Talbot.' 
 
TWO WITNESSES. 211 
 
 Moilell of course turned round, and found himself confronted 
 with the woman, They stared at each other for some moments, , 
 and then Mollett said, in a low dull voice, ' Yes, she knows me ; 
 it was she that lived jvith her at Tallyho Lodge.' 
 
 'You rememher him now, Mrs. Jones; don't you?' said Mr. 
 Prendergast. 
 
 For another mo-ment or two Mrs. Jones stood silent ; and then 
 she acknowledged herself overcome, and felt that the world 
 around her .had become too much for ' her. ' Yes,' said she, 
 slowly ; ' I remembers him,' and then sinking into a chair near 
 the door, she put her apron up to her eyes, and burst into tears. 
 
 ' No doubt about that ; she remembers me well enough,' said 
 Mollett, thinking that this was so much gained on his side. ' But 
 there ain't a doubt about the matter at all, Mr. Prendergast. 
 You look here, and you'll see it all as plain as black and white.' 
 And Mr. Mollett dragged a large pocket-book frorn his coat, and 
 took out of it certain documents, which he held before Mr; Pren- 
 dergast's eyes, still keeping them iip. his own hand. ' Oh, I'm all 
 right ; I am,' said Mollett. 
 
 ' Oh, you are, are you ?' said the lawyer, just glancing at the 
 paper, which he would not appear to heed. ' I am glad you 
 think so.' 
 
 ' If there were any doubt about it, she'd know,' said he, point- 
 ing away up towards the body of the house. Both Mr. Prender- 
 gast and Mrs. Jones understood well who was that she to whom 
 he alluded. 
 
 ' You are satisfied at any rate, Mrs. Jones,' said the lawyer. 
 But Mrs. Jones had hidden her face in her apron, and would not 
 look up. She could not understand why. this friend of the family 
 should push the matter so dreadfully against them. If he would 
 rise from his chair and destroy that wretch who stood before 
 them, then indeed he might be called a friend ! 
 
 Mr. Prendergast had now betaken himself to the door, and 
 v\'as standing with his back to it, and with his hands in his 
 trousers-pockets, close to the chair on which Mrs. Jones was 
 sitting. He had resolved that he would get that woman's spoken 
 evidence out of her ; and he had gotten it. But now, what was 
 he to do with her next ? — with her or with the late Mr. Talbot 
 of Tallyho Lodge ? And having satisfied himself of that faot- 
 whichfrom the commencement he had never doubted, what could 
 he best do to spare the poor lady who was so terribly implicated 
 ia this man's presence ? 
 
 ' Mrs. Jones,' said he, standing over her, and gently touching 
 her shoulder, ' I am sorry to have pained you in this way ; but 
 it was necessary that we should know, without a doubt, who 
 
'212 ' CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 fJiis man is, — and who lie was. Truth is always the best, yoa 
 , - know. So good a woman as you cannot but understand that.' 
 
 ' I suppose it is, sir, — I suppose it is,' said Mrs. Jones, through 
 her tears, now thoroughly humbled. The world was pretty 
 nearly at an end, as far as she was concerned. Here, in this 
 very house of Castle Eichmond, in Sir Thomas's own room, was 
 her, ladyship's former husband, acknowledged as such ! What 
 further fall of the planet into broken fragments could terrify, or 
 -drive her from her course more thoroughly than this ? Truth ! 
 yes, truth in the abstract might be very good. But such a truth 
 I as this ! how could any one ever say that that was good ? Such 
 was the working of her mind ; but she took no trouble to express 
 [ her thoughts. 
 
 ' Yes,' continued Mr. Prendergast, speaking still in a low 
 V voice, with a tone that was almost tender, ' truth is always best, 
 i Look at this wretched man here ! He would have killed the 
 whole family — destroyed them one by one — had they consented 
 to assist him in concealing the fact of his existence. The whole 
 ' truth will now be known ; and it is very dreadful ; but it will 
 not be so dreadful as the want of truth.' 
 
 'My poor lady! my poor lady!' almost screamed Mrs. Jones 
 from under her apron, wagging her head and becoming almost 
 convulsive in her grief. 
 
 ' Yes, it is very sad. But you will live to acknowledge that 
 even this is better than living in that man's power.' 
 
 ' I don't know that,' said MoUett. ' I am not so bad as you'd 
 make me. I don't want to distress the lady.' 
 
 ' No, not if you are allowed to rob the gentleman till there's 
 noi a guinea left for you to suck at. I know pretty well the 
 extent of the evil that's in you. If we were to kick you from 
 here to Cork, you'd forgive all that, so that -we still allowed j'ou 
 to go on with your trade. I wonder how much money you've 
 had from him altogether ?' 
 
 ' What does the money signify ? What does the money 
 signify?' said Mrs. Jones, still wagging her head beneatb her 
 apron. ' Why didn't Sir Thomas go on paying it, and then my 
 lady need know nothing about it ?' 
 
 It was clear that Mrs. Jones would not look at the matter in a 
 proper light. As far as she could see, there was no reason why 
 i a fair bargain should not have been made between Mollett and 
 I Sir Thomas, — made and kept on both sides, with mutual con- 
 venience. That doing of justice at the cost of falling -heavens 
 was not intelligible to her limited philosophy. Nor did she 
 i bethink herself, that a leech will not give over sucking until it 
 ' be gorged with blood. Mr. Prendergast knew that such leeches 
 
TWO WITNESSES. 213 
 
 as Mr. Moilett never leave the skin as long as there is a drori of 
 blood left within the veins. . •' 
 
 Mr. Prendergast was still standing against the door, where he 
 had placed himself to prevent the unauthorized departure of 
 either Mrs. Jones or Mr. Moilett ; but now he was bethinking 
 himself that he might as well bring this interview to an end. 
 ' Mr. Moilett,' said he, ' you are probably beginning to under- 
 stand that you will not get much more money from the Castle 
 Eichmond family ?' 
 
 ' I don't want to do any harm to any of them,' said Moilett, 
 humbly ; ' and if I don't make myself troublesome, I hope Sir 
 Thomas will consider me.' 
 ._ ' It is out of your power, sir, to do any further harm to any of 
 them. You don't pretend to think that after what has passed, 
 you can have any personal authority over that unfortunate lady ?' 
 
 ' My poor mistress ! my poor mistress !' sobbed Mrs. Jones. 
 
 ' You cannot do more injury than you at present have done. 
 No one is now afraid of you ; no one here will ever give you 
 another shilling. "When and in what form you will be prosecuted 
 for inducing Sir Thomas to give you money, I cam:iot yet tell. 
 Now, you may go ; and I strongly advise you never to show your 
 face here again. If the people about here knew who you are, 
 and what you are, they would not let you off the property with 
 a whole bone in your skin. Now go, sir. Do you hear me ?' 
 
 ' Upon my word, Mr. Prendergast, I have not intended any 
 harm !' 
 
 ' Go, sir !' 
 
 ' And even now, Mr. Prendergast, it can all be made straight, 
 and I will leave the country altogether, if you wish it — ' 
 
 ' Go, sir !' shouted Mr. Prendergast. ' If you do not move at 
 once, I will ring the bell for the servants !' 
 
 ' Then, if misfortune comes upon them, it is your doing, and 
 not mine,' said Moilett. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Prendrergrass, if it can be hushed up — ' said Mrs. 
 Jones, rising from her chair and coming up to him with hei' 
 nands clasped together. ' Don't send him away in your anger ; 
 dont'ee now, sir. Think of her ladyship. Do, do, do;' and the 
 woman took hold of his arm, and looked up into his face with 
 her eyes swimming with tears. Then going to the door she 
 closed it, and returning again, touched his arm, and again 
 appealed to him. ' Think of Mr. Herbert, sir, and the young 
 ladies ! What are they to be called, sir, if this man is to be my 
 lady's husband ? Oh, Mr. Pendrergrass, let him go away, out of 
 the kingdom ; do let him go away.' 
 
 ' I'll be off to Australia by the next boat, if yon'U only say the 
 
214 CAKTLE IUCHMOND. 
 
 word,' said Mollett. To. give him his due, he was not at thai 
 I momeiit thinking altogether of himself and of what he might get. 
 I The idea of the misery which he had brotight on these people 
 I did, to a certain measure, come home to him. And it certainlj' 
 ! did come home to him also, that his own position was very perilous. 
 
 'Mrs. Jones,' said the lawyer, seeming to pay no attention 
 whatever to Mollett's words, ' you know nothing of such men as 
 that. If I were to take him at his word now, he would turn 
 upon Sir Thomas again before three weeks were over.' 
 
 ' By , I would not ! By all that is holy, I would not 
 
 Mr. Prendergast, do — .' 
 
 ' Mr. Mollett, I will trouble you to walk out of this house. 1 
 have nothing further to say to you,' 
 
 'Oh, very well, sir.' And then slowly Mollett took his 
 departure, and finding his covered car at the door, got into it 
 without saying another word to any of the Castle Eichmond 
 famil3^ 
 
 ' Mrs. Jones,' said Mr. Prendergast, as soon as Mollett was 
 gone, ' I believe I need not trouble you any further. Your 
 conduct has done you great honour, and I respect you greatly aa 
 an honest woman and an affectionate friend.' 
 
 Mrs. Jones could onlj' aclaiowledge this by loud sobs. 
 
 * For the present, if you wi 1 take my advice, you wiU say 
 nothing of this to your mistress ' 
 
 ' No, sir, no ; I shall say nothing. Oh, dear ! oh dear !' 
 
 ' The whole matter will be known soon, but in the mean time, 
 we may as well remain silent. Good day to you.' And then 
 Mrs. Jones also left the room, and Mr. Prendergast was alone. 
 
 OHAPTEE XXI. 
 
 'fair arguments. 
 
 As Mollett left the house he saw two men walking down the 
 road away from the sweep before the hall-door, and as he passed 
 them he recognised one as the young gentleman of the house. 
 He also saw that a horse followed behind them, on the grass by 
 the roadside, not led" by the hand, but following with the reins 
 laid loose upon his neck. They took no notice of him or his car, 
 but allowed him to pass as though he had no concern whatever 
 with the destinies of either of them. They were Herbert and 
 Owen Fitzgerald. 
 
 The reader will perhaps remember the way in which Owen 
 
PAIR AEGUMENTS. 215 
 
 left Desmond Comt oh the occasion of his last visit there. . It 
 cannot be said that what he had heard had in any way humbled 
 him, nor indeed had it taught him to think that Clara Desmond 
 looked at him' altogether with indifference. Greatly as she had 
 injured him, he could not bring himself to look upon her as the 
 chief sinner. It was Lady Desmond who had done it all. It 
 was she who had turned against him because of his poverty, who 
 had sold her daughter to his rich cousin, and robbed him of the 
 love which he had won for himself. Or perhaps not of the love 
 ^t might be that this was yet his ; and if so, was it not possible 
 that he might beat the countess at her own weapons ? Thinking 
 over this, he felt that it was necessary for him to do something, 
 to take some step ; and therefore he resolved to go boldly to his _ 
 cousin, and tell him that he regarded Lady Clara Desmond as 
 still his own. 
 
 On this morning, therefore, he had ridden up to the Castle 
 Eichmond door. It was now many months since he had been 
 iihere, and he was no longer entitled to enter the house on the 
 acknowledged intimate footing of a cousin. He rode up, and 
 asked the servant with grave ceremony whether Mr, Herbert 
 Fitzgerald were at home. He would not go in, he safd, but if 
 Mr. Herbert were there he would wait for him at the porch. 
 Herbert at the time was standing in the dining-room, all alone, 
 gloomily leaning against the mantelpiece. There was nothing 
 for him to do during the whole of that day but wait for the even- 
 ing, when the promised revelation would be made to him. ' He 
 knew that Mollett and Mrs. Jones were with Mr. Prendergast in 
 the study, but what was the matter now being investigated 
 between them — that he did not know. And till he knew that, 
 closely as he was himself concerned, he could meddle with 
 nothing. But it was already past noon and the evening would 
 soon be there. 
 
 In this mood he was interrupted by being told that his cousin 
 Owen was at the door. ' He won't come in at all, Mr. Herbert,' 
 Eichard had said ; for Eiphard, according to order, was still 
 waiting about the porch ; ' but he says that you are to go to him 
 there.' And then Herbert, after considering the matter foi a 
 moment, joined his cousin at the front entrance. 
 
 ' I want to speak to you a few words,' said Owen ; ' but as I 
 hear thai Sir Thomas is not well, I will not go into the house ; 
 perhaps you will walk with me as far as the lodge. Never miud 
 the mare, she will not go astray.' And so Herbert got his hat 
 and' accompanied him. For the first hundred yards neither of 
 them said anything. Owen would not speak of Clara till he was 
 well out of hearing from the house, and at the present moment 
 
216 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 Herbert had. not much inclmation to commence a conversation on 
 any subject. 
 
 Owen' was the first to speak. ' Herbert,' said he, ' I have been 
 told that you are engaged to marry Lady Clara Desmond.' 
 
 ' And so I am,' said Herbert, feeling very little inclined to 
 admit of any question as to his privilege in that respect. Things 
 were happening around him which might have — -Heaven only 
 knows what consequence. He did fear — fear with a terrible 
 dread that something might occur which would shatter the cup 
 of his happiness, and rob him of the fruition of his hopes. But 
 nothing had occurred as, yet. ' And so I am,' he said; ' it is no 
 wonder that you should f\ave heai^d it, for it has been kept no 
 secret. And I also have \ieard of your visit to Desmond Court. 
 It might have been as wel^, I think, if you had stayed away.' 
 
 ' I thought differently,' said Owen, frowning blackly. ' I 
 thought that the most straightforward thing for me was to go 
 there openly, having annouHced my intention, and tell them both, 
 mother and daughter, that I hold myself as engaged to Lady Clara, 
 and that I hold her as engaged to me.' 
 
 ' That is absurd nonsense. She cannot be engaged to two 
 persons.' 
 
 ' Anything that interferes with you, you will of course think 
 absurd. I think otherwise. It is hardly more than twelve . 
 months since she and I were walking there together, and then' 
 she promised me her love. I had known her long and well, 
 when you had hardly seen her. I knew her and loved her ; and 
 what is more, she loved me. Eemember, it is not I -only that 
 say so. She said it herself, and swore that nothing should 
 change her. I do not believe that anything has changed her.'' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that at present she cares nothing for me ? 
 Owen, you must be mad on this matter.' 
 
 ' Mad ; yes, of course ; if I think that any girl can care for me 
 while you are in the way. Strange as it may appear, I am as 
 mad even as that. There are people who will not sell themselves 
 even for money and titles. I say again, that I do not believe 
 her to be changed. She has been weak, and her mother has 
 persuaded her. To her mother, rank and money, titles and 
 property, are everything. She has sold her daughter, and I 
 have oome to ask you, whether, under such circumstances, you 
 intend to accept the purchase.' 
 
 In his ordinary mood Herbert Ktzgerald was by no means a 
 quarrelsome man. Indeed wo may go further than that, and say 
 that he was very much the reverse. Hfs mind was argumen- " 
 tative ratl\er than impulsive, and in all matters he was readier j 
 *^o persuadeth an overcome. But his ordinary nature had been 
 
FAIR ARGUMENTS. 21? 
 
 Clanged. It was quite new with him to be nervous and fretful, 
 but he Wis so at the present moment. He was deeply concerned 
 in the circumstances around him, but yet had been allowed no 
 voice in them. In this affair that was so peculiarly his own, — 
 this of his promised bride, — he was determined that no voice 
 should bo heard but his own ; and now, contrary to his wont, he 
 was ready enough to quarrel with his cousin. 
 
 Of Owen we may say, that he was a man prone to fighting of 
 all sorts, and on all occasions. By fighting I do not mean the 
 old-fashioned resource of putting an end to fighting by the aid of 
 two pistols, which were harmless in nineteen cases' out of twenty. 
 In saying that Owen Fitzgerald was prone to fight, 1 do not; 
 allude to fighting of that sort ; I mean that he was impulsive,! 
 and ever anxious to contend and conquer. To yield was to him' 
 ignoble, even though he might know that he was yielding to the'^- 
 right. To strive for mastery was to him noble, even though hei 
 strove against those who had a right to rule, and strove on behalf, 
 of the wrong. Such was the nature of his mind and spirit ; and 
 this nature had impelled him to his present enterprise at Castle 
 Eiohmond. But he had gone thither with an unwonted resolve 
 not to be passionate. He had, he had said to himself, right on 
 his side, and he had purposed to argue it out fairly with his more 
 cold-blooded cousin. The reader may probably guess the result 
 of these fair arguments on such a subject. ' And I have come to 
 ask you,' he said, 'whether under such circumstances you intend 
 to accept the purchase ?' 
 
 ' I will not allow yon to speak of Lady Desmond in such 
 language ; nor of her daughter,' said Herbert, angrily. 
 
 ' Ah ! but, Herbert, you must allow me ; I have been ill used 
 in this matter, and I have a right to make myself heard.' 
 
 ' Is it I that have ill used you ? I did not know before that 
 gentlemen made loud complaints of such ill usage from the hands 
 of ladies.' 
 
 ' If the ill usage, as you please to call it — •' 
 
 ' It is your own word.' 
 
 ' Very vs^ell. If this ill usage came from Clara Desmond her- 
 self, I should i>e the last person to complain of it; and you would 
 be, the last person to whom I should make complaint. But I 
 feel sure that it is not so. She is acting under the influence of 
 her mother, who has frightened her into this thing which" she is 
 dqing. I do not believe that she is false herself 
 
 ' ' I am sure that she is not false. We are quite agreed there, 
 but it is not likely that we should agree further. To tell you 
 the truth frankly I think you are ill-judged to speak to me on 
 ■such a topic' 
 
218 CASTLE EICHMO^^D. 
 
 ' PeAaps in that respect you will allow me to think for myself. 
 B.ut I have not yet said that which I came to say. My belief is 
 that unfair and improper restBaint is put' upon Clara Desmond, 
 "that she has been induced by her mother to accept your offer in 
 opposition to her own wishes, and that therefore it is my duty to 
 look, upon her as still betrothed to me. I do so regard her, and 
 shall act under such conviction. The first thing that I do there- 
 fore is to call upon you to relinquish your claim.' 
 
 ' What, to give her up ?' 
 
 ' Yes, to give her up ; — ^to acknowledge that you cannot 
 honestly call upon her to fulfil her pledge to you.' 
 
 ' The man must be raving,' Herbert said. 
 
 ' Very probably ; but remember this, it may be that he will 
 rave to some purpose, when such insolence will be but of little 
 avail to you. Eaving ! Yes, I suppose that a man poor as I am 
 must. be mad indeed to set his heart upon anythiiig that you 
 may choose to fancy.' 
 
 ' All that: is nonsense, Owen ; I ask for, nothing but my own. 
 I won her love fairly, and I mean to keep it firmly.' 
 ' 'You may possibly. have won her hand, but never her h«art, 
 You are rich, and it may be that even she will condescend to 
 barter her hand ; but I doubt it ; I altogether doubt it. It is 
 her mother's doing, as it was plain enough for me to see the othei 
 day at Desmond Court ; but much as she may fear her mother, I 
 cannot think that she will go to the altar with a lio in her 
 mouth.' 
 
 And then they walked on in silence for a few yards. Herbert 
 was anxious to get back to the house, and was by no means de- 
 sirous of continuing this conversation with his cousin. He at 
 any rate could get nothing by talking about Lady Clara Desmond 
 to Owen Fitzgerald. He stopped therefore on the path, and said, 
 that if Owen had nothing further to say, he, Herbert, woidd go 
 back to the house. 
 
 ' Nothing further ! Nothing further, if you understand me ; but 
 you do not. You are not honest enough in this matter to under- , 
 stand any purpose but your own.' 
 
 ' I tell you what, Owen ; I did not come out here to hear ipy- 
 self abused ; and I will not stand it. According to my idea you 
 had no right whatever to speals; to me about Lady Clara Desmond. 
 But. you are my cousin; and therefore I have borne it. Itimaj 
 be as well that we should both understand that it is once for "all. 
 T will not listen to you again on the same subject.' 
 
 ' Oh, you won't. Upon my word you are a very great man ! 
 You will tell me next, I suppose, that this is your demesne, and 
 wiU waiTi me- off!' 
 
FAIK ARGUMENTS. 219 
 
 ' Even if I did that, I should not he wrong, under such pro- 
 vocation,' 
 
 ' Very well, sir ; then I wUl go off. But remember this, 
 Herbert Fitzgerald, you shall live to rue the day when you treated 
 me with such insolence. And remember this also, Clara Des- 
 mond is not your wife as yet. Everything now seems happy 
 with you, and fortunate; j^ou have wealth and- a fine house, and 
 a family round you, while I am there all alone, left like a dog, 
 as far as my own relatives are concerned. But yet it may come 
 to pass that the Earl of Desmond's daughter will prefer my hand 
 to yours, and my house to your house. They who mount liigh 
 may chance to get a fall.' And then, having uttered this caution, 
 he turned to his mare, and putting his hand upon the saddle, 
 jumped into his seat,- and pressing her into a gallop, darted off 
 across the grass 
 
 Ho had hot meant anything specially by his threat ; but his 
 heart was sore within him. During some weeks past, he had 
 become sick of the life that he was leading. He had begun to 
 hate his own molitary house- — his house that was either solitary, 
 or filled with riot and noise. He sighed for the quiet hours that 
 were once his at Desmond Court, and the privilege of constant 
 entrance there, which was now denied him. His cousin Herbert 
 had everything at his command — ^wealth, station, family ties, 
 society, and all the consideration of high place. Eveiy blessing 
 was at the feet of the young heir ; but every blessing was not 
 enough, unless Clara Desmond was also added. A.11 this seemed 
 so cruel to him, as he sat alone in his parlour at Hap House, 
 meditating on his future course of life ! And then he would 
 think of Clara's promise, of her assurance thai nothing should 
 frighten her from her pledge. He thought of this as though the 
 words had been spoken to him only yesterday. He pondered 
 over these things till he hated his cousin Herbert ; and hating 
 him, he vowed that Clara Desmond should not be his wife. ' Is 
 he to have everything?' he would say to himself. 'No, by 
 heavens I not everything. He has enough, and may be con- 
 tented; but he shall not have all.' And now, with similar 
 thoughts running through his mind, he rode back to Hap 
 House. 
 
 And Herbert turned back to Castle Eichmond. As he ap- 
 proached the front door, he met Mr. Prendergast, who was 
 leaving the house; but they had no conversation with each 
 other. Herbert was in hopes that he might now, at once, be 
 put out of suspense. MoUett was gone; and would it not be 
 better that the tale should be told ? But it was clear that Mr. 
 '/%:endergast had no intention of lessening by an hour the interval 
 
 V 
 
220 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 he had given himself. He merely muttered a few words passing 
 on, and Herbert went into the house. 
 
 And then there was another long, tedious, dull afternoon. 
 Herbert sat with his sisters, but they had not the heart to talk 
 to each other. At about four a note was brought to him. It 
 was from Mr. Prendergast, begging Herbert to meet him in Sir 
 Thomas's study at eight. Sir Thomas had not been there during 
 the day ; and now did not intend to leave his own room. They 
 dined at half-past six; and the appointment was therefore to 
 take place almost immediately after dinner. 
 
 ' Tell Mr. Prendergast that I will be there,' he said to the 
 servant. And so that afternoon passed away, and the dinner 
 also, very slowly and very sadly. 
 
 OHAPTEE XXII. 
 
 THE TELLING OF THE TALE. 
 
 The dinner passed away as the former dinners had done ; and 
 as soon as Aunt Letty got up Mr. Prendergast also rose, and 
 touching Herbert on his shoulder, whispered into his ear, ' You'll 
 come to me at eight then.' Herbert nodded his head ; and when 
 he was alone he looked at his watch. These slow dinners were 
 not actually very long, and there still remained to him some 
 three-quarters of an hour for anticipation. 
 
 What was to be the nature of this history ? That it would 
 affect himself personally in the closest manner he could not but 
 know. There seemed to be no doubt on the minds of any, of 
 them that the affair was one of money, and his father's money 
 questions were his money questions. Mr. Prendergast would 
 not have been sent for with reference to any tr^e ; nor would 
 any pecuniary difficulty that was not very serious have thrown 
 his father into such a state of misery. Could it be that the fair 
 inheritance was absolutely in danger ? 
 
 Herbert Fitzgerald was by no means a selfish man. Aa 
 regarded himself, he could have met ruin in the face with more 
 equanimity than most young men so circumstanced. The gilt of 
 the world had not eaten into his soul ; his heart was not as yet 
 wedded to the splendour of pinchbeck. This is saying much for 
 him ; for how seldom is it that the hearts and souls of the young 
 are able to withstand_j)inchbeek and gilding ! He was free 
 from this pusillanimity ; free as yet as regarded himself; but he 
 was hardly free as regarded his betrothed. He had promised; 
 her, not in spoken words but in his thoughts, rank, wealth, jind 
 
THE TELLING OP THE TALE. 221 
 
 ill the luxuries of his promised high position ; and now on he; 
 behalf, it nearly broke his heart to think that they might hi 
 sndangered. 
 
 Of his mother's history, he can hardly he said to have known 
 anything. That there had been something tragic in her early 
 life ; that something had occurred before his father's marriage ; 
 a,nd that his mother had been married twice, he had learned, — 
 be hardly knew when or from whom. But on such matters 
 there had never been conversation between him and any of his 
 own family ; and it never occurred to him that all this sorrow 
 arose in any way from this subject. That his father had taken 
 some fatal step with regard to the property — had done some 
 foolish thing for which he could not forgive himself, that was the 
 idea with which his mind was filled. 
 
 He waited, with his watch in his hand, till the dial showed 
 him that it was exactly eight ; and then, with a sinking heart, 
 he walked slowly out of the dining-rojjilta along the passage, and 
 into his father's study. For an instant^e stood with the handle 
 in his hand. He had been terribly anxious for the arrival of 
 this moment, but now that it had come, he would almost fain 
 have had it again postponed. His heart sank very low as he 
 turned the lock, and entering, found himself in the presence of 
 Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast v/as standing with his back to the fire. Toi 
 him, too, the last hour had been full of bitterness ; his heart also 
 had sunk low within him ; his blood had run cold within his 
 veins : he too, had it been possible, would have put oif this 
 wretched hour. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast, it may be, was not much given to poetry ; 
 but the feeling, if not the words, were there within him. The 
 work which a friend has to perform for a friend is so much 
 heavier than that which comes in the way of any profession ! ' 
 
 "When Herbert entered the room, Mr. Prendergast came 
 forward from where he was standing, and took him by the hand. 
 ' This is a very sad afiair,' he said ; ' very sad.' 
 
 ' At present I know, nothing about it,' said Herbert. ' As 
 I see people about me so unhappy, I suppose it is sad. If there 
 he anything that I hate, it is a mystery.' 
 
 ' Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald,' said the other ; ' sit down.' And 
 Mr. Prendergast himself sat down in the chair that was ordi- 
 narily occupied by Sir Thomas. Although he had been thinking 
 about it all the day, he had not even yet made up his mind how 
 He was to begin his story. Even now he could not help thinking 
 whether it might be possible for him to leave it untold. But it 
 was not possible. 
 
222 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 'Mr. Fitzgerald,' said he, 'yon must prepare yourselt fot 
 tidings which are very grievous indeed — very grievous.' 
 
 ' Whatever it is I must bear it,' said he. 
 
 ' I hope you have that moral strength which ena,lL)les a man 
 to bear misfortune.' I have not known you in happy days, and 
 therefore perhaps can hardly judge ; but it seems to me that you 
 do possess such courage. Did I not think so, I could hardly go 
 through-the task that is before me.' 
 
 Here he paused as though he expected some reply, some assur- 
 ance that his young friend did possess this strength of wMoh he 
 spoke ; but Herbert said nothing — nothing out loud ' If it were 
 only for myself! if it were only for myself!' It was thus that 
 he spoke to his own heart. 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald,' continued the lawyer, ' I do not know how 
 far yau may be acquainted with* the history of your m.other's first 
 marriage.' 
 
 Herbert said that he was hardly acquainted with it in any 
 degree ; and explained that he merely knew the fact that his 
 mother had been married before she met Sir Thomas. 
 
 ' I do not know that I need recount all the circumstances to 
 you now, though doubtless you will learn them. Your mother's 
 conduct throughout was, I believe, admirable.' 
 
 ' I am quite sure of that. No amount of evidence could make 
 me believe the contrary.' 
 
 ' And there is no tittle of evidence to make any one think so. 
 But in her early youth, when she wafl quite a child, she was 
 given in marriage to a man — to a man of whom it is impossible 
 to speak in terms too black, or in language too strong. And 
 now, this day — ' 
 
 But here he paused. It had been his intention to say tha 
 that very man, the first husband of this loved mother no\» 
 looked upon as dead' for so many years, this miscreant of whom 
 he had spoken — that this man ■ had been in that room that very 
 day. But he hardly knew how to frame the words. 
 
 ' Well,' said Herbert, ' well ;' and he spoke in a hoarse voice 
 that was scarcely audible. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast was afraid to bring out the very pith of his 
 story in so abrupt a manner. He wished to have the work over, 
 to feel, that as regarded Herbert it was done, — but his hear^ - 
 failed him when he came to it. 
 
 'Yes,' he s&id going back as it were to liis former thoughts. 
 ' A heartless, cruel, debauched, unscrupulous man ; one in 
 whose bosom no good thing seemed to have been implanted. Youi 
 father, when he first knew your mother, had every reason to 
 believe that this man was dead.' 
 
 MO: 
 
THE TELLING OF THE TALE. 
 
 223 
 
 ' And he was not dead ?' Mr. Prendergast could see that the 
 young man's face became perfectly pale as he uttered these 
 words. He became pale, and clutched hold of the table with his 
 hand, and there sat with mouth open and staring eyes. 
 
 ' I am afraid not,' said Mr. Prendergast ; ' I am afraid not.' 
 
 'And—' 
 
 ' I must go further than that, and tell you that he is still living.' 
 
 ' Mr. Prendergast, Mr. Prendergast !' exclaimed the poor 
 fellow, rising up from his chair and shouting out as though for 
 mercy. Mr. Prendergast also rose from his seat, and coming up 
 to him took him by the arm. ' My dear boy, my dear boj', 1 am 
 obliged to tell you. It is necessary that you should know it. 
 The fact is as I say, and it is now for you to show that you are 
 a man.' 
 
 Who was ever called upon for a stronger proof of manhood 
 than this ? In nine cases out of ten it is not for oneself that one 
 has to be brave. A man, we may almost say, is no man, whose 
 own individual sufferings call for the exercise of much courage. 
 But we are all so mixed up and conjoined with others — with 
 others who are weaker and dearer than ourselves, that great 
 sorrows do require great powers of endurance . 
 
 By degrees, as he stood there in silence, the whole truth made 
 its way into his mind, — as he stood there with his arm still 
 tenderly pressed by that old man. No one now would have 
 called the lawyer stern in looking at him, for the tears were 
 coursing down his cheeks. But no tears came to the relief of 
 young Fitzgerald as the truth slowly came upon him, fold by 
 fold, black cloud upon cloud, till the whole horizon of Lis- life's 
 prospect was dark as death. He stood there silent for some few 
 minutes, hardly conscious that he was not alone, as he saw all 
 his joys disappearing from before his mind's eye, one by one ; 
 his family pride, the pleasant high-toned duties of his station, 
 his promised seat in Parliament and prosperous ambition, the 
 full respect of all the world around him, his wealth and pride of 
 place — for let no man be credited who boasts that he can part 
 with these without regi;et. All these were gone. But there 
 were losses more bitter than these. How could he think of his 
 affianced bride ? and how could he think of his mother ? 
 
 No tears came to his relief while the truth, with all its bear- 
 ings, burnt itself into his very soul, but his face expressed such 
 agony that it was terrible to . be seen. Mr. Prendergast could 
 stand that silence no longer, so at last he spoke. He spoke,—; 
 for the sake of words ; for all his tale had been tcld. 
 
 ' You saw the man that was here yesterday ? That was he, 
 who then called himself Talbot.' 
 
224. CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' What ! the man that went away in the car ? Mollett ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; that was the man.' 
 
 Herbert had said that no evidence could be sufficient to make 
 him believe that his mother had been in any way culpable : and 
 such probably was the case. He had that reliance on his mother 
 —that assurance in his mind that everything coming from her 
 nust be good — that he could not believe her capable of ilL 
 But, nevertheless, he could not prevent himself from asking 
 within his own breast, how it had been possible that his mother 
 should ever have been concerned with such a wretch as that. 
 It was a question which could not fail to make itself audible. 
 What being on earth was sweeter than his mother, more excel- 
 lent, niore noble, more fitted for the world's high places, more 
 absolutely entitled to that universal respect which seemed to be 
 given to her as her own by right ? And what being could be 
 more loathsome, more contemptible than he, who was, as he was 
 now told, his mother's husband ? There was in it a want of 
 verisimilitude which almost gave him comfort, — which almost 
 taught him to think that he might disbelieve the story that was 
 told to him. Poor fellow ! he had yet to learn the difference 
 that years may make in men and women — ^for better as well as 
 for worse. Circumstances had given to the poor half-educated 
 village girl the simple dignity of high station ; as circumstances 
 had also brought to the lowest dregs of human existence the 
 man, whose personal bearing, and apparent worldly standing 
 had been held sufficient to give warrant that he was of gentle 
 breeding and of honest standing ; nay, her good fortune in such 
 a marriage had once been almost begrudged her by all her 
 maiden neighbours. 
 
 But Herbert, as he thought of this, was almost encouraged to 
 disbelieve the story. To him, with his knowledge of what his 
 mother was, and such knowledge as he also had of that man, it 
 did not seem possible. ' But how is all this known ?' he mut- 
 tered forth at last. 
 
 ' I fear there is no doubt of its truth,' said Mr. Prendergast. 
 ' Your father has no doubt whatever ; has had none — I must tell 
 you this plainly — ^for some months.' 
 
 ' For some months ! And why have I not been told ?' 
 
 ' Do not be hard upon your father.' 
 
 ' Hard ! no ; of course I would not be hard upon him.' 
 
 ' The burden he has had to bear has been very terrible. He 
 has thc^ight that by payments of money to this man the whole 
 thing might be concealed. As is always the case when such 
 payments are made, the insatiable love of money grew by what 
 it ted on. He would have poured out every shilling into ihaA 
 
THE TELLING Ot THE TALE. 225 
 
 man's hands, and would have died, himself a heggar— have died 
 speedily too under such torments — and yet no good would have 
 been done. The harpy would have come upon you ; and you — 
 after you had innocently assumed a title that was.not your own 
 and taken a property to which you have no right, you then 
 • would have had to own — that which your father must own 
 now.' 
 
 ' If it he so,' said Herbert, slowly, ' it must he acknow- 
 ledged.' 
 
 ' Just so, Mr. Fitzgerald ; just so. I know you will feel thatf 
 — in such matters we can only sail safely by the truth. Therei 
 is no other compass worth a man's while to look at.' ' 
 
 ' Of course not,' said Herbert, with hoarse voice. ' One does 
 not wish to be a robber and a thief. My cousin shall have what 
 is his own.' And then he involuntarily thought of the interview 
 they had had on that very day. ' But why did he not tell me 
 when I spoke to him of her ?' he said, with something approach- 
 ing to bitterness in his voice and a "slight struggle in his throat 
 that was almost premonitory of a sob. 
 
 ' Ah ! it is there that I fear for you. I know what your feel- 
 ings are ; but think of his sorrows, and do not be hard on him.' 
 ' Ah me, ah me !' exclaimed Herbert. 
 I fear that he will not be with you long. He has already 
 endured till he is now almost past the power of suffering more. 
 And yet there. is so much more that he must suffer '' 
 ' My poor father !' 
 
 ' Think what such as he must have gone through in bringing 
 himself into contact with that man ; and all this has been done 
 that he might spare you and your mother. Think of the wound 
 to his conscience before he would have lowered himself to an 
 unworthy bargain with a swindler. But this has been done that 
 you might have that which you have been taught to look on as 
 your own. He has been wrong. No other verdict can be given. 
 But you, at any rate, , can be tender, to such a fault ; you and 
 your mother.' 
 
 ' I will — I will,' said Herbert. ' But if it had happened a 
 month since I could have home it.' And then he thought of his 
 mother, and hated himself for what he had said. How could he 
 have borne that with patience? 'And there is no doubt, you 
 say?' 
 
 ' ' I think none. The man carries his proofs with him. An 
 old servant here in the house, too, knows him.' 
 ' What, Mrs. Jones ?' 
 
 'Yes; Mrs. Jones. And the burden of further proof must 
 now, of course, be thrown on us, — not on him. Directly that 
 
226 CASTLE BIOHMOND 
 
 we believe the statement, it is for us to ascertain its truth. Yon 
 and your father must not be seen to hold a false position before 
 the world,,' 
 
 ' And what" are we to do now ?' 
 
 ' I fear that your mother must be told, and Mr. Owen FUz- 
 gerald; and then we must together openly prove the -facts, ' 
 either in one way or in the other. It will be better that we 
 should do this together ;■ — that is, you and your cousin Owen 
 conjointly. Do it openly, before the world, — so that the world 
 may know that each of you desires only what is honestly hi,s 
 own. For myself I tell you fairly that I have no doubt of the 
 truth of what I have told you ; but further proof is certainly 
 needed. Had I any doubt I would not propose to tell your 
 mother. As it is I think it will be wrong to keep her longer in 
 the dark.' 
 
 ' Does she suspect nothing ?' 
 
 ' I do not know. She has more power of self-control than your 
 father. She has not spoken to me ten words since I have been 
 in the house, and in not doing so I have thought that she was 
 right.' 
 
 ' My own mother ; my own dear mother !' 
 
 ' If you ask me my opinion, I think that she does suspect the 
 
 truth, — very vaguely, with an indefinite feeling that the calamity 
 
 which weighs so heavily on your father, has come fi-om this' 
 
 1 source. She, dear lady, is greatly to be pitied. But God hac 
 
 I made her of firmer material than your father, and I think thai 
 
 l-ehe will bear her sorrow with a higher courage.' 
 
 * And she is to be told also ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I think so. I do not see how we can avoid it. ' If we 
 do not tell her we must a,ttempt to conceal it, and that attempt 
 must needs be futile when we are engaged in making open 
 inquiry on the subject. Your cousin, when he hears of this, 
 will of course be anxious to know what his real prospects are.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes. He wiU be anxious, and determined too.' 
 
 ' And then, when all the workl will know it, how is your 
 mother to be kept in the dark ? And that which she fears and 
 anticipates is as bad, probably, as the actual truth. If my 
 advice be followed nothing will be kept from her.' 
 
 ■ We are in your hands, I suppose, Mr. Prendergast.' 
 
 ' I can only act as my judgment directs me.' 
 
 ' And who is to tell her ?' This he asked with a shudder, and 
 almost in a whisper. The very idea of undertaking such a duty 
 seemed almost too much for him. And yet he must undertake a 
 duty almost as terrible ; he himself — no one but him — must 
 endure the anguish of repeating this story to Clara Desmond ant" 
 
THE TELLING OF THE TALE. 227 
 
 to the countess. Biit now the question had reference to his own 
 mother. ' And who is to t«ll her ?' he asked. 
 
 For a moment or two Mr. Prendergast stood silent. He had 
 not hitherto, in so many words, undertaken this task — this that 
 would he the most dreadful of all. But if he did not undertake 
 it, who would ? ' I suppose that I must do it,' at last he said, 
 very gently. 
 
 'And when?' 
 
 ' As soon as I have told your cousin. I will go down to him 
 to-morrow after breakfast. Is it probable that I shall find him 
 at home ?' 
 
 ' Yes, if you are there before ten. The hounds meet to-morrow 
 at Cecilstown, within three miles of him, and he will not leave 
 home till near eleven. But it is possible that he may have a 
 house full of men with him.' 
 
 ' At any rate I will try. On such an occasion as this he may 
 • surely let his friends go to the hunt without him.' 
 
 And then between nine and ten this interview came to an end. 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald,' said Mr. Prendergast, as he pressed Herbert's 
 hand, ' you have borne all this as a man should do. No loss of 
 fortune can ruin one who is so well able to endure misfortune.' < 
 ■ But in this Mr. Prendergast was perhaps mistaken. His know- 1 
 ledge of human nature had not carried him sufficiently far. A I 
 man's courage under calamity is only tested when he is left in 
 solitude. The meanest among us can bear up while strange eyes 
 are looking at us. And then Mr. Prendergast went aWay, and 
 he was alone. 
 
 It had been his habit during the whole of this period of his 
 father's illness to go to Sir Thomas at or before bedtime. These 
 visits had usually been made to the study, the room in which he 
 was now standing ; but when his father had gone to his bedroom 
 at an earlier hour, Herbert had always seen him there. Was he to 
 go to him now — now that he had heard all this ? And if so, how 
 was he to bear himself there, in his father's presence ? He 
 stood still, thinking of this, till the hand of the clock showed 
 him that it was past ten, and then it struck him that his father 
 might be waiting for him. It would not do 'for him now, at such 
 a moment, to appear wanting in that attention which he had 
 always shown. He was still his father's son, though he had lost 
 the right to bear his father's name. He was nameless now, a 
 man utterly without respect or standing-place in the world, a 
 being whom the law ignored except as the possessor of a mere 
 life ; such was he now, instead of one whose rights and privileges, 
 whose property and rank all the statutes of the realm and customs 
 of his country delighted to honour and protect. This he repeated 
 
228 Castle Richmond. 
 
 to himself over and over again. It was to such a pass as this, ic 
 this hitter disappointment that his father had brought him. But 
 yet it should not be said of him that he had begun to neglect his 
 father as soon as he had heard the story. 
 
 So with a weary step he walked up stairs, and found Sir 
 Thomas in bed, with his mother sitting by the bedside. His 
 mother hold out her hand to him, and he took it, leaning against' 
 the bedside. ' Has Mr. Prendergast left you ?' she asked. 
 
 He told her that Mr. Prendergast had left him, and gone to 
 his own room for the night. ' And have you been with him all 
 the evening ?' she asked. She had no special motive in so asking, 
 but both the father and the son shuddered at the question. ' Yes,' 
 said Herbert ; ' I have been with him, and now I have come to 
 wish my father good night ; and you too, mother, if you intend 
 to remain here.' But Lady Fitzgerald got up, telling Herbert 
 that she would leave him with Sir Thomas ; and before either of 
 them could hinder her from departing, the father and the son 
 were alone together. 
 
 Sir Thomas, when the door closed, looked furtively up into 
 his son's face. Might it be that he could read there how much 
 had been already told, or how much still remained to be disclosed ? 
 That Herbert was to learn it all that evening, he knew ;• but it 
 might be that Mr. Prendergast had failed to perform his task. 
 Sir Thomas in his heart trusted that he had failed. He looked 
 up furtively into Herbert's face, but at the moment there was 
 nothing there that he could read. There was nothing there but 
 black misery ; and every face round him for many days past had 
 worn that aspect. 
 
 For a minute or two Herbert said nothing, fcr he had not made . 
 up his mind whether or no he would that night disturb his 
 father's rest. But he could not speak in. his ordinary voice, or 
 bid his father good-night as though nothing special to him had 
 happened. ' Father,' said he, after a short pause, ' father, I know 
 it all now.' 
 
 ' My "boy, my poor boy, my unfortunate boy !' 
 
 ' Father,' said Herbert, . ' do not be unhappy about me, I can 
 bear it.' And then he thought again of his bride — his bride as 
 she was to have been ; but nevertheless he repeated his last 
 words, ' I can bear it, father !' 
 
 ' I have meant it for the best, Herbert,' said the poor man, 
 pleading to his child. 
 
 'I know that; all of us well know that. But what Mr, 
 Prendergast says is true ; it is better that it shbuld be known. 
 That man would have killed you had you kept it longer to your- 
 self.' 
 
THE TELLING OF THE TALE. 229 
 
 Sir Thomas Lid his face upon the pillow as the rememhrance 
 of what he had endured in those meetings came upon him. The 
 blow that had told heaviest was that visit from the son, and the 
 threats which the man had made still rung in his ears — ' When 
 that youngster was born Lady F. was Mrs. M., wasn't she ? . . , . 
 My governor could take her away to-morrow, according to the 
 law of the land, couldn't he now ?' These words, and more such 
 as these, had nearly killed him at the time, and now, as they 
 recun-edto him, he burst out into childish tears. Poor man! ' 
 tlie days of his manhood had gone, and nothing but the tears of 
 a second bitter childhood remained to him. The hot iron had 
 entered into his soul, and shrivelled up the very muscles of hi? 
 mind's strength. 
 
 Herbert, w^ithout much thought of what he was doing, knelt 
 down by the bedside and put his hand upon that of his father, 
 which lay out upon the sheet. There he knelt for one or two 
 minutes, watching and listening to his father's sobs. ' You will 
 be better now, father,' he said, 'for the great weight of this 
 terrible secret will be off your mind.' But Sir Thomas did not 
 answer him. With him there could never be any better. All 
 things belonging to him had gone to ruin. All those around him 
 whom he had loved — and he had loved those around him very 
 dearly — were brought to poverty, and sorrow, and disgrace, i 
 The power of feeling this was left to him, but the power oTj 
 enduring this with manhood was gone. The blow, had come}' 
 upon him too late in life. 
 
 And Herbert himself, as he knelt there, could hardly forbear 
 from tears. Now, at such a moment as this, he. could think of 
 no one but his father, the author of his being, who lay there so 
 grievously afSicted by sorrows which were in nowise selfish. 
 ' Father,' he said at last, ' will you pray with me ?' And then 
 when the poor sufferer had turned his face towards him, he 
 poured forth his prayer to his Saviour that they all in that family 
 might be enabled to bear the heavy sorrows which God in his I 
 mercy and wisdom had now thought fit to lay upon them. I ( 
 will not make his words profane by repeating them here, but one - 
 may say confidently that they were not uttered in vain. 
 
 ' And now, dearest father, good night,' he said as he rose from 
 his knees'; and stretching over the bed, he kissed his father's 
 forehead. 
 
230 OASTLE KIOBMOND 
 
 CHAPTER XXIll. 
 
 BEFORE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. 
 
 It may be imagmed that Mr. Mollett's drive back to Cork aft«i 
 his last visit to Castle Eichmond had not been very pleasant ; 
 and indeed it may be said that his present ciromnstances 
 "altogether were as unpleasant as his worst enemies could desire. 
 I have endeavoured to excite the sympathy of those who are 
 going Virith me through this story for the sufferings of that family 
 of the Fitzgeralds ; but how shall I succeed in exciting their 
 sympathy for this other family of the Molletts? .And yet why 
 not? If we are to sympathize only with the good, or worse stUl, 
 only with the graceful, how little will there be in our character 
 that is better than terrestrial ? Those Molletts also were human, 
 and had strings to their hearts, at which the world would now 
 probably pull with sufScient vigour. For myself I can truly say 
 that my strongest feeling is for their wretchedness. 
 
 The father and son had more than once boasted among them- 
 selves that the game they were now playing was a high one ; 
 that they were, in fact, gambling for mighty stakes. And in 
 truth, as long as the money came in to them — flowing in as the 
 result of their own craft in this game — the excitement had about 
 it something that was very pleasurable. There w;as danger, 
 which makes all games pleasant ; there was money in handfuls 
 for daily expenses^those daily wants of the appetite, which are 
 to such men more important by far than the distant necessities 
 of life ; there was a possibility of future grandeur, an opening 
 out of magnificent ideas of fortune, which charmed them greatly, 
 as they thought about it. What might they not do with forty 
 thousand pounds divided between .them, or even with a thousand 
 a year each, settled on them for life ? and surely their secret was 
 worth that money ! ■ Nay, was if not palpable to the meanest 
 calculation that it was worth much more ? Had they not the 
 selling of twelve thousand a year for ever and ever to this family 
 of Fitzgerald ? 
 
 But for the last fortnight things had begun to go astray with 
 them. Money easily come by goes easily, and money badly 
 come by goes badly. Theirs had come easily and badly, and 
 had so gone. What necessity could there be for economy with 
 8ucb a milch-cow as that close to their elbows ? So both of thenji 
 
BEFOEE BBEAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. 231 
 
 had thought, if not argtied ; and there had bden no economy — 
 no economy in the -use, of that very costly amusement, the dice- 
 box; and now, at the present moment, ready money having 
 failed to be the result of either of the two last visits to Castle 
 Kiclimond, the family funds were running low. 
 
 It may be said that ready money for the moment was the one 
 desire nearest to the heart of Mollett pere, when he took that 
 last journey over the Boggeragh mountains — ^ready money where- 
 with to satisfy the pressing claims of Miss O'Dwyer, and bring 
 back civility,, or rather servility, to the face and manner of Tom 
 the waiter at the Kanturk Hotel. Very little of that servility 
 can be enjoyed by persons of the Mollett class when money 
 ceases to be ready in their hands and pockets, and there is, 
 perhaps, nothing that they enjoy so keenly as servility. Mollett 
 pere had gone down determined that that comfort should at any 
 rate be forthcoming to him, whatever answer might be given to 
 those other grander demands, and we know what success had 
 attended his mission. He had looked to find his tame milch-cow 
 trembling in her accustomed stall, and he had found a resolute 
 bull there in her place — a bull whom he could by no means take 
 by the horns. He had got no money, and before he had reached 
 Cork he had begun to comprehend that it was not probable that 
 he should get more from that source. 
 
 During a part of the interview between him and Mr. Prender- 
 gast, some spark of mercy towards his victims had glimmered 
 into his heart. When it was explained to him that the game was 
 to be given \vp, that the family at Castle Eichmond was prepared 
 to acknowledge the truth, and that the effort made was with the 
 view of proving that the poor lady up-stairs was not entitled to 
 the name she bore rather than that she was so entitled, theni'' 
 some slight promptings of a better spirit did for a while tempt!' 
 him to be merciful. ' Oh, what are you about to do ?' he would-. 
 have said had Mr. Prendergast admitted of speech from him. 
 ' Why make this terrible sacrifice ? Matters have not come to 
 that. There is no need for you to drag to the light this terrible 
 fact. I will not divulge it — no, not although you are hard upon 
 me in regard to tjiese terms of mine. I will still keep it to my- 
 self, and trust to ynu, — to you who are all so rich and able to 
 pay, for what consideration you may please to give me.' This 
 was the state of his mind when Mrs. Jones's evidence was being 
 slowly evoked from her ; but it had undergone a considerable 
 change before he reached Cork. By that time heuljad taught 
 himself to understand that there was no longer a chance to him 
 sf any consideration whatever. Slowly he had br(?Jight it home 
 to himself that these people had resolutely determined to blow 
 
232 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 up the ground on which they themselves stood. This he per- 
 . ceived was their honesty. He did not' understand the nature ot 
 a feeling which could induce so fatal a suicide, but he did under- 
 stand that the feeling was there, and that the suicide would be 
 completed. 
 
 And now what was he to do next in the way of earning his 
 bread ? Various thoughts ran through his brain, and different 
 resolves— half -formed but still, perhaps, capable of shape — pre-, 
 sented themselves to him for the future. It was still on the 
 cards — on the cards, but barely so — that he might make money 
 out of these people ; but he must wait perhaps for weeks before 
 he again commenced such an attempt. He might perhaps make 
 money out of them, and be merciful to them at the same time; — 
 not money by thousands and tens of thousands ; that golden , 
 dream was gone for ever ; but still money that might be com- 
 fortably luxurious as long as it could be made to last. But then 
 on one special point he made a firm and final resolution, — ^what- 
 ever new scheme he might hatch he alone would manage. 
 Never again would he call into his councils that son of his loins 
 whose rapacious greed had, as he felt sure, brought upon him all 
 this ruin. Had Aby not gone to Castle Eichmond, with his 
 cruelty and his greed, frightening to the very death the soul of 
 that poor baronet by the enormity of his demands, Mr. Prender- 
 gast would not have been there. Of what further chance of 
 Castle Eichmond pickings there might be Aby should know 
 nothing. He and his son would no longer hunt in couples. He 
 would shake him off in that escape which they must both now 
 make from Cork, and he would not care how long it might be 
 before he again saw his countenance. 
 
 But then that question of ready money ; and that other qftes- 
 tion, perhaps as interesting, touching a criminal prosecution I 
 How was he to escape if he could not raise the wind ? And how 
 could he raise the wind now that his milch-cow had run so dry 'i 
 He had promised the O'Dwyers money that evening, and had 
 struggled hard to make that promise with an easy face. He now 
 had none to give them. His orders at the inn were treated 
 almost with contempt. For the last three days they had given' 
 him what he wanted to eat and drink, but would hardly give him 
 all that he wanted. When he called for brandy they brought 
 him whisky, and it had only been by hard begging, and by oathf 
 as to the promised money, that he had induced them to supplj 
 liim with, the car which had taken him on his fruitless journey 
 to Castle. Eichmond. As he was driven up to the door in South 
 Main Street, his heart w as very sad on all these subjects. 
 
 Aby was again sitting within the bar, but was no longer bask 
 
BEFORE BEEAKl'AST AT HAP HOUSE. 233 
 
 iag in tlie sunsliine of Fanny's smiles. He was sitting there 
 because Fanny had not yet mustered courage to tnru him out. 
 He was half-drunk, for it had been found impossible to keep 
 spirits from him. And there had been hot words between him 
 and Fanny, in which she had twitted him with his unpaid bill, 
 and he had twitted her with her formet love. And things had 
 gone from bad to worse, and she had all but called in Tom for 
 aid in getting quit of him ; she had, however, refrained, thinking 
 of the money that might be coming, and waiting also till her 
 father should arrive. Fanny's love for Mr. Abraham Mollett had 
 not been long lived. 
 
 I will not describe another scene such as those which had of, 
 jate been frequent in the Kanturk Hotel. The father and the 
 son soon found themselves together in the small room in .which 
 they now both slept, at the top of the house ; and Aby, tipsy as 
 he was, understood the whole of what had happened at Castle 
 Eichmond. When he heard that Mr. Prendergast was seen in 
 that room in lieu of Sir Thomas, he knew at once that the game 
 had been abandoned. ' But something may yet be done at ' Appy 
 'ouse,' Aby said to himself, ' only one must be deuced quick.' 
 
 The father and the son of course quarrelled frightfully, like 
 dogs over the memory of a bone which had been arrested from 
 the jaws of both of them. Aby said that his father had lost 
 everything by his pusillanimity, and old Mollett declared that 
 his son had destroyed all by his rashness. But we need not 
 repeat their quarrels, nor all that passed between them and 
 Tom before food was forthcoming to satisfy the old "map's 
 wants. As he ate he calculated how much he might probably 
 raise upon his watch towards taking him to London, and how 
 best he might get off from Cork without leaving any scent in the 
 nostrils of his son. His clothes he must leave behind him at the 
 inn, at least all that he could not pack upon his person. Lately 
 he had made himself comfortable in this respect, and he sorrowed 
 over the fine linen which he had worn but once or twice since it 
 
 _ had been bought with the last instalment from Sir Thomas. 
 Nevertheless in this way he did make up his mind for the 
 morrow's campaign. 
 
 And Aby also made up his mind. Something at any rate he 
 had learned from Fanny O'Dwyer in return for his honeyed 
 words. When Herbert Fitzgerald -should cease to be the heir to 
 Castle Eichmond, Owen Fitzgerald of Hap House would be the 
 
 ■ happy man. That knowledge was his own in absolute indepen- 
 dence of his father, and there might still be time for him to use 
 it. He knew well the locality of Hap House, and he would be 
 thgre early on the following morning. These tidings had probably 
 
234 ViABTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 not as yet reached the owner of that blessed abode, and if he 
 
 could be the first to tell him ! The game there too might be 
 
 pretty enough, if it were played well, by such a master-hand as 
 !iis own. Yes ; he would be at Hap House early in the morning ; 
 ^but then, how to get there ? 
 
 He left his father preparing for bed, and going down into the 
 bar found Mr. O'Dwyer and his daughter there in close consulta- 
 tion; They were endeavouring to arrive, by their joint wisdom, 
 at some conclvision as to what they should do with their two 
 gnests. Fanny was for turning them out at once. ' The first 
 loss is the least,' said she. ' And they is so disrispectable. I 
 niver know what they're afther, and always is expecting the 
 p'lice will be down on them.' I5ut the father shook his head. 
 He had done nothing wrong ; the police could not hurt him ; and 
 thirty pounds, as he told his daughter, with much emphasis, was 
 ' a deuced sight of money.' ' The first loss is the least,' said 
 Fanny, perseveringly ; and then Aby entered to them. 
 
 'My father has made a mull of this matter again,' said he, 
 going at once into the middle of the subject. ' 'E 'as come back 
 withoiit a shiner.' 
 
 ' rUbe bound he has,' said Mr. O'Dwyer, sarcastically. 
 
 ' And that when e'd only got to go two or three miles further, 
 and hall his troubles would have been over.' 
 
 ' Troubles over, would they ?' said Fanny. ' 1 wish he'd have 
 the goodness to get over his little troubles in this, house, by pay- 
 ing us our bill You'll have to walk if it's not done, and that to- 
 morrow, Mr. MoUett ; and so I tell you ; and take nothing with 
 you, I can tell you. Father '11 have the police to see to that.' 
 
 'Don't you be so cruel now, Miss Fanny,' said Aby, vrath a 
 leering look. ' I tell you what it is, Mr. O'Dwyer, 1 must go 
 down again to them diggings verj' early to-morrow, starting, say, 
 at four o'clock.' 
 
 'You'll not have a foot out of my stables,' said Mr. O'Dwyer. 
 ' That's all.' 
 
 ' Look here, Mr. O'Dwyer ; there's been a sight of money due 
 to us from those Fitzgerald people down there. You know"'em ; 
 and whether they're' habte to pay or not. I won't deny but 
 what father's 'ad the best of it, — 'ad the best of it, and sent it 
 trolling, bad luck to him. But there's no good looking hafter 
 spilt milk ; is there ?' 
 
 'If so be that Sir Thomas owed the likes of you money, he' 
 would have paid it without your tramping dovni there time after 
 time to look for it. He's not one of that sort.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' sai'd Fanny ; ' and I don't believe anything about 
 your seeing Sir Thomas.' 
 
BEFORE BEEAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE 235 
 
 ' Oh, ws've seed him hoften enough. There's no mistake 
 
 about that. But now ' and then, with a mysterious air and 
 
 low voice, he explained to them, that this considerable bahince 
 of money still due to them was to he paid by the cousin, ' Mr. 
 Owen of Appy 'ouse.' And to substantiate all his story, ho 
 exhibited a letter from Mr. Prendergast to his father, which some 
 months since had intimated that a sum of money would be paid 
 on behalf of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, if Mr. Mollett would call at 
 Mr. Prendergast's office at a certain hour. The ultimate effect of 
 all this was, that the car was granted for the morning, with 
 certain dire threats as to any further breach of engagement. 
 
 Very early on the following morning Aby was astir, hoping 
 that he might manage to complete his not elaborate toilet without 
 disturbing his father's slumbers. For, it must be known, he had 
 been very urgent with the O'Dwyers as to the necessity of keep- 
 ing this journey of his a secret from his ' governor.' But the 
 governor was wide awake, looking at him out of the corner of 
 his closed eye whenever his back was turned, and not caring 
 much what he was about to do with himself. Mollett pere 
 wished to be left alone for that morning, that he also might play 
 his little game in his own solitary fashion, and was not at all 
 disposed to question the movements of his son. 
 
 At about five Aby started for Hap House. His toilet, I have 
 said, was not elahorate ; but in this I have perhaps wronged 
 him. Up there in the hed-room he did not waste much time 
 over his soap and water ; but he was aware that first impressions 
 are everything, and that one young man should appear smart 
 and clever before another if he wished to carry any effect with 
 him; so he took his brush and comb in his pocket, and a pot of 
 grease with which he was wont to polish his long side-locks, 
 and he hurriedly grasped up his pins, and his rings, and the 
 satin stock which Fanny in her kinder mood had folded for him ; 
 and then, during his long journey to Hap House, he did perform 
 a toilet which may, perhaps, he fairly called elaborate. 
 
 There was a long, tortuous, narrow avenue, going from the 
 Mallow and Kanturk road down to Hap House, which impressed 
 Aby with the idea that the man on whom he was now ahout to 
 call was also a big gentleman, and made him more uneasy than 
 he would have heen had he entered a place with less pretence. 
 There is a story current, that in the west of England the gran- 
 deur of middle-aged maiden ladies is measured by the length of 
 the tail of their cats ; and Aby had a perhaps equally correct 
 idea, that the length of the private drive up to a gentleman's 
 house, was a fair criterion of the splendour of his position. _ If 
 this man bad ahout him as much grandeur as Sir Thomas him 
 
 Q 
 
236 CASTLE KIOHMOND. 
 
 self, would he be so anxious as Ahj had hoped to obtain tha 
 additional grandeur of Sir Thomas ? It was in that direction 
 that his mind was operating when he got down from the car and 
 rang at the door-bell. 
 
 Mr. Owen, as everybody called him, was at home, but not 
 down; and so Aby was shown into the dining-room. It was 
 now considerably past nine^ and the servant told him that his 
 master must be there soon, as he had to eat his breakfast and be 
 at the hunt by eleven. The servant at Hap House was more 
 unsophisticated than those at Castle Eiohmond, and Aby's per- 
 sonal adornments had had their effect. He found himself sitting 
 in the room with the cups and saucers,-^aye, and with the 
 silver tea-spoons ; and began again to trust that his mission 
 might be successful. 
 
 And then the door opened, and a man appeared, clad from top 
 to toe' in hunting costume. This was not Owen Fitzgerald, but 
 his friend Captain Donnellan. As it had happened. Captain 
 Donnellan was the only guest who had graced the festivities of 
 Hap House on the previous evening ; and now he appeared at 
 the breakfast-table before his host. Aby got up from his chair 
 when the gentleman entered, and was proceeding to business ; 
 but the Captain gave him to understand that the master of the 
 house was not yet in presence, and so Aby sat down again. 
 What was he to do when the master did arrive ? His storj' was 
 not one which would well bear telling before a third person. 
 
 And then, while Captain Donnellan was scanning this visitor 
 to his friend Owen, and bethinking himself whether he might 
 not be .a sheriff's officer, and whether if so some notice ought not 
 to be conveyed up stairs to the master of the house, another car 
 was driven up to the front door. In this case the arrival was 
 from Castle Eichmond, and the two servants knew each other 
 well. ' Thady,' said Eichard, with much authority in his voice, 
 ' this gentl'man is Mr. Prendergast from our place, and he must 
 see the masther before he goes to the hunt.' Taix and the 
 masther '11 have something to do this blessed morning,' said 
 Thady, as he showed Mr. Prendergast also into the dining-room, _ 
 and went up stairs to inform his master that there was yet 
 another gentleman come on business. ' The Captain has got 'em 
 both to hisself,' said Thady, as he closed the door. 
 
 The name of Mr. ' Pendhrergrast,' as the Irish servants gene- 
 rally called him, was quite unlmown to the owner of Hap House, 
 as was also that of Mr. Mollett, which had been brought up to 
 him the first of the two ; but Owen oegan to think that there 
 must be something very unusual in a day so singularly ushered, 
 in to him. Callers at Hap House on business were verv few. " 
 
I BEFORE BRBAKFASr AT HAP HOUSE. 237 
 
 unless when tradesmen in want of money occasionally dropped in 
 upon him. But now that he was so summoned Owen began to 
 bestir himself with his boots and breeches. A gentleman's 
 costume for a hunting morning is always a slow one — sometimes 
 so slow and tedious as to make him think of forswearing such 
 articles of dress for all future ages. But now he did bestir him- 
 self, — in a moody melancholy sort of manner ; for his manner in 
 all things latterly had become moody and melancholy. 
 
 In the mean time Captain Donnellan and the two strangers 
 sat almost in silence in the dining-room. The Captain, though 
 he did not perhaps know much of things noticeable in this 
 world, did know something of a gentleman, and was therefore 
 not led away, as poor Thady had been, by Aby's hat and rings. 
 He had stared Aby full in the face when he entered the 
 room, and having -explained that he was not the master of the 
 house, had not vouchsafed another word. But then he had also 
 seen that Mr. Prendergast was of a different class, and had said 
 a civil word or two, asking him to come near the fire, and sug- 
 gesting that Owen would be down in less than five minutes. 
 ' But the old cock wouldn't crow,' as he afterwards remarked to 
 his friend, and so they all three sat in silence, the Captain being ' 
 very busy about his kneesi as hunting gentlemen sometimes are 
 when tbey come down to bachelor breakfasts. 
 
 And then at last Owen Fitzgerald entered the room. He has 
 been described as a handsome man, but in no dress did he look 
 so well as when equipped for a day's sport. And what dress' 
 that^Englishmen ever wear is so handsoine as this ? Or we may 
 perhaps say what other dress does English custom allow them 
 -hat is in any respect not the reverse of handsome. We have 
 come to be so dingy, — in our taste I was going to say, but it is 
 rather in our want of taste, — so careless of any of the laws of 
 beauty in the folds and lines and hues of our dress, so opposed to 
 -grace in the arrangement of our persons, that it is not permitted 
 to the ordinary English gentleman to be anything else but ugly. 
 Chimney-pot hats, swallow-tailed coats, and pantaloons that fit 
 nothing, came creeping in upon us, one after the other, while 
 the Georges reigned — creeping in upon us with such pictures as 
 we painted under the reign of West, and such houses as we 
 built under the reign of Nash, till the English eye required to 
 rest on that which was constrained, dull, and graceless. For 
 the last two score of years it has corcfe to this, that if a man gc 
 in handsome attire he is a popinjay and a vain fool ; and as it is j 
 better to be ugly than to be accounted vain I would not counsel [ 
 a young friend to leave the beaten track on the strength of his i 
 -own judgment. But not the less is the beaten track to be con. 
 
238 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 demned, and abandoned, and abolislied, if such be in any way 
 ) possible. __Beauty is good , in all things ; and I cannot bxit think 
 , that those old Venetian senators, and Florentine men of Council, 
 owed somewhat of their country's pride and power to the manner 
 ' in which they clipped their beards and wore their flowing garments. 
 But an Englishman may still make himself brave when he 
 goes forth into the hunting field. Custom there allows him 
 colour, and garments that fit his limbs. Strength is the outward 
 characteristic of manhood, and at the covert-side he may appear 
 strong. Look at men as they walk along Fleet-street, and ask 
 yourself whether any outward sign of manhood or strength 
 can be seen there. And of gentle manhood outward dignity 
 should be the trade mark. I will not say that such outward 
 dignity is incompatible with a black hat and plaid trousers, for 
 the eye instructed by habit will search out dignity for itself wher- 
 ever it may truly exist, let it be hidden by what vile covering it 
 may. But any man who can look well at his club, will look 
 better as he clusters round the hounds ; while many a one who it 
 comely there, is mean enough as he stands on the hearth-rug before 
 his club fire. In my mind men, Kke churches and books, and women 
 too, should be brave, not mean, in their outward garniture. 
 
 ' And Owen, as I have said, was brave as he walked into his 
 dining-room. The sorrow which weighed on his heart had not 
 wrinkled his brow, but had given him a set dignity of purpose. 
 His tall figure, which his present dress allowed to be seen, was 
 perfect in its symmetry of strength. His bright cliestnut hair 
 clustered round his forehead, and his eye shone like that of a 
 hawk. They must have been wrong who said that he commonly 
 spent his nights over the wine-cup. That pleasure always 
 leaves its disgusting traces round ttie lips ; and Owen Fitz- 
 gerald's lips were as full and lusty as^ipollo's. MoUett, as he 
 saw him, was stricken with envy. ' If I could only get enough 
 money out of this affair to look like that,' was his first thought, 
 as his eye fell on the future heir; not understanding, poor 
 wretch that ho was, that all the gold of California could not 
 bring him one inch nearer to the goal he aimed at. I think I- 
 have said before, that your sUk purse will not get itself made 
 out of that coarse material with which there are so many 
 attempts to manufacture that article. And Mr. Prendergast rose 
 from his chair when he saw him, with a respect that was almost 
 involuntary. He had not heard men speak well of Owen Fitz- 
 gerald ; — not that ill-natured things had been said by the family 
 at Castle Bichmond, but circumstances had prevented the possi- 
 bility of their praising him. If a relative or friend be spoken of 
 without praise, he is, in fact, censured. From what Lc had 
 
BEFORE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSH. 239 
 
 heard he had certainly not expected a man who would look so 
 noble as did the owner of Hap House, who now came forward to 
 ask him his business. 
 
 Both Mr. Prendergast and Aby MoUett rose at the same time. 
 Since the arrival of the latter gentleman, Aby had been wonder- 
 ing who he might be, but no idea that he was that lawyer from 
 Castle Eichmond had entered his head. That he was a stranger 
 like himself, Aby saw ; but he did not connect him with his own^ 
 business. Indeed he had not yet realized the belief, though his 
 father had done so, that the truth would be revealed by those at 
 Castle Eichmond to him at Hap House. His object now was 
 that the old gentleman should say his say and be gone, leaving 
 him to dispose of the other young man in the top-boots as best 
 he might. But then, as it happened, that was also Mr. Prender- 
 gast's line of action. 
 
 ' Gentlemen,' said Owen, ' I beg your pardon for keeping you 
 waiting ; but the fact is that I am so seldom honoured in this 
 way in a morning, that I was hardly ready. Donnellan, there's 
 the tea ; don't mind waiting. These gentlemen will perhaps 
 join us.' And then he looked hard at Aby, as though he trusted 
 in Providence that no such profanation would be done to his 
 table-cloth. 
 
 ' Thank you, I have breakfasted,' said Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 ' And so 'ave I,' said Aby, who had eaten a penny loaf in the 
 car, and would have been delighted to sit down at that rich table. 
 But he was a little beside himself, and not able to pluck up 
 courage for such an effort. 
 
 ' I don't know whether you two gentlemen have come about 
 the same business,' said Owen, looking from one to the other. 
 
 ' No,' said Mr. Prendergast, very confidently, but not very 
 correctly. ' I wish to speak to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a few 
 minutes : but my business with you is quite private.' 
 
 ' So is mine,' said Aby, ' very private ; very private indeed.' 
 
 ' Well, gentlemen, I have just half an hour in which to eat 
 my breakfast, attend to business, get on my horse and leave the 
 house. Out of that twenty-five minutes are very much at your 
 service. Donnellan, I beg your pardon. Do pitch into the 
 broiled bones while they are hot ; never mind me. And now, 
 gentlemen, if you will walk with me into the other room. First 
 come first served : that I suppose should be the order.' And he 
 opened the door and stood with it ajar in his hand. 
 
 ' I will wait, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you please,' said Mr. Prender- 
 gast ; and as he spoke he motioned Mollett with his hand to go to 
 the door. 
 
 ' Oh ! I can wait, sir ; I'd rather wait, sir. I would indeei* 
 
240 ' CASTLE EfCHMOND. 
 
 said Aby. My business is a little particular ; and if you'll go oa, 
 sir, I'll take up with tlie gen'leman as' soon as you've done, sir.' 
 
 But Mr. Prendergast was accustomed to have his own way. ' I 
 should prefer that you should go first, sir. And to tell the truth, 
 Mr. ritzgerald, what^ I have to say to you will take some time. 
 It is of much importance, to yourself and to others ; and I feai 
 -that you will probably find that it will detain you from your 
 amusement to-day.' 
 
 Owen looked black as he heard this. The hounds were going 
 to draw a covert of his own ; and he was not in the habit of 
 remaining away from the drawing of any coverts, belonging to 
 himself or others, on any provocation whatever. ' That will be 
 rather hard,' said he, ' considering that I do. not know any more 
 than the man in the moon what you've come about.' 
 
 ' You shall be the sole judge yourself, sir, of the importance of 
 my business with you,' said Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. ; I forget your name,' said Owen. 
 
 ; ' My name's Mollett,' said Aby. Whereupon Mr. Prendergast 
 looked up at him very sharply, but he said nothing. — He said 
 nothing, but he looked very sharply indeed. He now knew 
 ,well who this man was, and guessed with tolerable accuracy the 
 cause of his visit. But, nevertheless, at the moment he said 
 nothing. 
 
 ' Come along, then, Mr. Mollett. I hope your affair is not 
 likely to be a very long one also. Perhaps you'll excuse my 
 having a cup of tea sent into me as you talk to me. There is 
 nothing like saving time when such very important business is 
 on the tapis. Donnellan, send Thady in with a cup of tea, like 
 a good fellow. Now, Mr. Mollett.' 
 
 Mr. Mollett rose slowly from his chair, and followed his host. 
 He would have given all he possessed in the world, and that was 
 very little, to have had the coast clear. But in such an emer- 
 /gency, what was he to do ? By the time he had reached the 
 door of the drawing-room, he had all but made up his mind to 
 tell 5'itzgerald that, seeing there was so much other business on 
 hand this morning at Hap House, this special piece of business 
 of his must stand over. But then, how could he go back to Cork 
 empty-handed ? So he followed Owen into the room, and there 
 opened his budget with what courage he had left to him. 
 "Captain Donnellan, as ho employed himself on the broiled 
 bones, twice invited Mr. Prendergast to assist him ; but in vain. 
 Donnellan remained there, waiting for Owen, till eleven ; and 
 then got on his horse. ' You'll tell Fitzgerald, will you, that I've 
 started ? He'll see nothing of to-day's hunt ; that's clear. 
 (■* I don't think he will,' said Mr. Prend6rgastr\ 
 
24] 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. 
 
 ' J i>os't think he will,' said Mr. Prendergast ; and as he spoke, 
 Captain Donnollan's ear could detect that there was something 
 approaching to sarcasm in the tone of the old man's voice. The 
 Captain was quite sure that his friend would not be even at the 
 heel of the hunt that day ; and without further compunction 
 proceeded to fasten his buckskin gloves round his wrists. The 
 meet was so near to them, that they had both intended to ride 
 their own hunters from the door ; and the two nags were now 
 being led up and down upon the gravel. 
 
 But at this moment a terrible noise wag heard to take place in 
 the hall. There w^as a rush and crushing there which made even 
 Mr. Prendergast to jump from his chair, and drove Captain Don- 
 nellan to forget his gloves and run to the door. 
 
 It was as though all the winds of heaven were being driven 
 down the passage, and as though each separate wind was shod 
 with heavy-heeled boots. Captain Donnellan ran to the door, 
 and Mr. Prendergast with slower steps followed him. When it 
 was opened, Owen was to be seen in the hall, apparently in a 
 state of great excitement ; and the gentleman whom he had 
 lately asked to breakfast, — he was to be seen also, in a position 
 of unmistakeable discomfort. He was at that moment proceed- 
 ing, with the utmost violence, into a large round bed of bushes, 
 which stood in the middle of the great sweep before the door of 
 ■Jhe house, his feet just touching the ground as he went ; and 
 then, having reached his bourne, he penetrated face foremost 
 into the thicket, and in an instant disappeared. He had been 
 kicked out of the house. Owen Fitzgerald had taken him by 
 the shoulders, with a run along the passage and hall, and having 
 reached the door, had applied the flat of his foot violently to 
 poor Aby's back, and sent him flying down the stone steps. And . 
 now, as Captain Donnellan and Mr. Prendergast stood looking 
 9n, Mr. MoUett junior- buried himself altogether out of sight 
 among the shrubs. 
 
 'You have done for that fellow, at any rate, Owen,' said 
 Captain Donnellan, glancing for a moment at Mr. Prendergast. 
 ' I should say that he wUl never get out of that alive.' 
 
242 OASTLK filCHMOND.- 
 
 ' Not if lie wait till I pick tim out,' said Owen, breathing very 
 hiitrd after his exertion. 'An infernal scoundrel! And no'vi, 
 Mr. Prendergast, if you are ready, sir, I am.' It was as much 
 as he could do to finish these few words with that sang froid 
 which he desired to assume, so violent was his attempt at breath- 
 ing after his late exercise. 
 
 It was impossible not to conceive the idea that, as one disagree- 
 able visitor had been disposed of in a somewhat summary fashion, 
 so might be the other also. Mr. Prendergast did not look like a 
 man who was in the habit of leaving gentlemen's houses in the 
 manner just now adopted by Mr. Mollett ; but nevertheless, as 
 they liad come together, both unwished for and unwelcome, 
 Captain DonneUan did for a moment hethink himself whether 
 there might not be more of such fun, if he remained there on the- 
 spot. At any rate, it would not do for him to go to the hunt 
 while such deeds as these were being done. It might be that 
 his assistance would be wanted. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast smiled, with a saturnine and somewhat bitter 
 smile — the nearest approach to a laugh in which he was known 
 to indulge, — for the same notion came also into his head. ' He 
 has disposed of him, and now he is thinking how he will dispose 
 of me.' Such was Mr. Prendergast's thought about the matter ; 
 and that made him i^mile. And then, too, he was pleased at 
 what he had seen. That this Mollett was the son of that other 
 Mollett, with whom he had been closeted at Castle Eichmond, 
 was plain enough ; it was plain enough also to him, used as he 
 was to trace out in his mind the courses of action which men 
 would follow, that Mollett junior, having heard of his father's 
 calamitous failure at Castle Eichmond, had come down to Hap 
 House to see what he could make out of the hitherto unconscious 
 heir. It had been matter of great doubt with Mr. Prendergast, 
 "when he first heard young MoUett's name mentioned, whether 
 or no he would allow him to make his attempt. He, Mr. Pren- 
 dergast, could by a word have spoilt the game ; but acting, as he 
 was forced to act, on the spur of the moment, he resolved to 
 permit Mr. Mollett junior to play out his play. He would be 
 yet in time to prevent any ill result to Mr. Fitzgerald, should 
 that gentleman be weak enough to succumb to any such ill 
 results. As things had now turned out Mr. Prendergast rejoiced 
 that Mr. Mollett junior had been permitted to play out his play. 
 'And now, Mr. Prendergast, if you are ready, I am,' said Owen. 
 
 ' Perhaps we had better first pick up the gentleman among 
 the trees,' said Mr. Prendergast. And he and Captain Donnellan 
 went down into the bushes. 
 
 ' Do as you please about that, said Owen. ' I have touched 
 
AFTER BEEAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. . 243 
 
 nim once and stall not touch him again.' And he walked hack 
 into the dining-room. 
 
 One of the grooms 'who were leading the horses had now gone 
 to the assistance of the fallen hero ; and as Captain Donnellan 
 also had already penetrated as far as Aby's shoulders, Mr. Pren- 
 dergast, thinking that he was not needed, returned also to the 
 house. ' I hope he is not seriously hurt,' he said. 
 
 ' Not he,' said Owen. 'Those sort of men are as used to be 
 kicked, as girls are to be kissed ; and it comes as naturally to 
 them. But anything short of having his bones broken will be 
 less than he deserves.' 
 
 ' May I ask what was the nature of his offence ?' 
 
 Owen remained silent for a moment, looking his guest full in 
 the face. ' Well ; not exactly,' said he. ' He has been talking 
 of people of whom he knows nothing, but it would not be well 
 for me to repeat what he has said to a perfect stranger.' 
 
 ' Quite right, Mr. Fitzgerald ; it would not be well. But there 
 can be no harm in my repeating it to you. He came here to get 
 money from you for cerfiiin tidings which he brought ; tidings 
 which if true would be of great importance to you. As I take it, 
 however, he has altogether failed in his object.' 
 
 ' And how do you come to know all this, sir ?' 
 
 ' Merely from bar ■■■ ,.2ieard that man mention his own name. 
 I also have con); know abHi same tidings ; and as I ask for no 
 money for cok i • And then Th^i. you may believe them to be 
 true on my tf "eo reanimate Abj- by , 
 
 'What tidi ou# visibly between his fcfrown, and an angry jerk 
 in his voice.vir. Prendergast and Owen ' come in upon his mirA 
 that there wau, ?' gaid Owen after a pause^-Aad been told him. 
 He had look&^g question with.a 1 1 lo nad regarded MoUett as a 
 
 sorry knave Wi present for the nwfith a pwor and low attempt 
 
 at raising a few,tMng. Asbi";i even now he did not believe. 
 Mr. Prendergast'sichmor'^"«l been too sudiien to produce belief 
 of so great a fact, ai-* Jus l^.gt thought wsis that an endeavour 
 was being made to ipol ii™- 
 
 ' Those tidings wL'/Jl. ^^ha^.'. .^^^ him t-c^ld you,' said Mr. Pren- 
 - dergast, solemnly. ' That you should not have believed them 
 from-tim shows only your discretion. But from me you may 
 believe them. I have come from Castle Eichmond, and am here 
 as a messenger from Sir Thomas, — from Sir Thomas and from 
 his son. When the matter became clear to them both, then it 
 was felt that you also should be made acquainted with it.' 
 
 Owen Fitzgerald now sat down, and looked up into the lawyer's 
 face, staring at him. I may say that the power of saying much 
 was for the moment taken away from him by the words that he 
 
244 CASTLE KICHMOUD, 
 
 heard. What ! was it really possible that that title, that property, 
 - that place of honour in the coTmtry was to he his when one frail ' 
 old man should drop away ? And then, again, was it really true 
 that all this immeasurable misery was to fall — had fallen^upois 
 that family whom he had once known so well ? It was . but 
 jesterday that he had been threatening all manner of evil to his 
 cousin Herbert ; and had his threats been proved true so quickly ? 
 But there was no shadow of triumph in his feelings. Owen 
 Fitzgerald was a man of many faults. He was reckless, pas- 
 sionate, prone to depreciate the opinion of others, extravagant in 
 his thoughts and habits, ever ready to fight, both morally and 
 physically, those who did not at a moment's notice agree with 
 ! him. He was a man who would at once make up his mind that 
 i the world was wrong when the world condemned him, and who 
 ' would not in compliance with any argument allow himself to be 
 'i so. But he was not avaricious, nor cruel, nor self-seeking, nor 
 vindictive. In his anger he could pronoimce all manner of iU 
 thing's against his enemy, as he had pronounced some ill things 
 against Herbert ; but it was not in him to keep up a sustained 
 wish that those ill things should really come to pass. This news 
 which he now heard, and which he did not yet fully credit, 
 struck him with awe, but created no triumph in his bosom." He 
 realized the catastrophe as it affectedv...^; ?. cousins of Castle 
 Eichmond rather than as it affected hk, as the so 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that /h closeted at Ca^i' and then he 
 stopped himself. He had ran encriigh also to him the question 
 which wa^ in his mind. Ad the "coin kcs of ac^oi, se that Lady 
 Fitzgerald, — that she w'li junior, having; h av. of hg honoured 
 under that name, vr^jtr^'i'^tle Richmoniii h;, ■' , ■ Ai's father, — of 
 
 the father of that , wreidijnake ovit of fli .i]iert> «ied from his 
 hoiise? The tragedy was ff 'at doubt with Mr.i not believe 
 in it. ■ '"■M,' fime menti' 
 
 ' We fear that it i.'s so, Mr. Fitzge^I'^^tempt. -idr. Prendergast. 
 ' That it certainly is sj I cannot say- -^ — therefore, if I may 
 take the liberty to give you counsel.- ^ "(^ouid advise you not to 
 jnake too certain of thiis change -'"• j—'il'r pi^spects.' 
 
 ' Too certain !' said he, with a bitter laugh. ' Do you suppose 
 then that I would wish to see all this ruin accomplished?- 
 Heavens and earth ! Lady Fitzgerald — ! I cannot believe it.' 
 And then Captain Donnellan also returned to the room, 
 ' Fitzgerald,' said he, ' what the mischief are we to do with this 
 fdlow ? He says that he can't walk, and he bleeds from Kis face 
 like a pig.' 
 
 ' What fellow ? Oh, do what you like with him. Here : give 
 him a pound note, and let him go tc the d . And Donnellan.-ii 
 
AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. 245 
 
 fot heaven's sake go to Ceeilstown at once. Do not wait for me. 
 I have business that will keep me here all day.' 
 
 ' But I do not know what to do with this fellow that's bleed- 
 ing,' said the captain, piteously, as he took the proiTered note. 
 ' If he puts up with a pound note for what you've done to him, 
 he's softer than what I take him for.' 
 
 ' He will be very glad to be allowed to escape without being 
 given up to the police,' said Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 ' But I don't know what to do with him,' said Captain Donnellai?- 
 ' He says that he can't stand.' 
 
 ' Then lay him down on the dunghill,' said Owen Fitzgerald ; 
 ' but for heaven's sake do not let him interrupt me. . And, 
 Donnellan, you will altogether lose the day if yQu stay any 
 longer.' Whereupon the captain, seeing that in very truth he 
 was not wanted, did take himself oif, casting as he went one 
 farewell look on Aby as he lay groaning on the turf on the far 
 side of the tuft of bushes. 
 
 'He's kilt intirely, I'm thinking, yer honor,' said Thady, who 
 was standing over him on the other side. 
 
 ' He'll come to life again before dinner-time,' said the 
 captain. 
 
 ' Oh, in course he'll do that, yer honor,' said Thady ; and then 
 added, sotto voce to himself, as the captain rode down the avenue, 
 ' Paix, an' I don't know about that. Shure an' it's the raasther 
 has a heavy hand.' And then Thady stood for a while perplexed, 
 endeavouring to reanimate Aby by a sight of the pound note 
 which he held out visibly between his thumb and fingers. 
 
 And now Mr. Prendergast and Owen were again alone. ' And 
 what am I to do ?' said Owen, after a pause of a minute or two ; 
 and he asked the question with a serious solemn voice. 
 
 ' Just for the present — for the next day or two — -I think that 
 you should do nothing. As soon as the first agony of this time 
 is over at Castle Eichmond, I think that Herbert should see yoif. 
 It would be very desirable that he and you should take in 
 concert such proceedings as will certainly become necessary. 
 The absolute proof of th^ truth of this story must be obtained. 
 Yon understand, I, hope, Mr. Fitzgerald, that the case still admits 
 of doubt.' 
 
 Owen nodded his head impatiently, as though it were needless 
 on the part of Mr. Prendergast to insist upon this. He did not 
 wish to take it for true a moment sooner than was necessary. 
 
 ' It is my duty to give you this caution. Many lawyers — I 
 presume you know that I am a lawyer — ' 
 
 ' I did not know it,' said Owen ; ' but it makes no diflference.' 
 
 ' Th».ak you ; that's very kind,' said Mr. Prendergast ; but the 
 
246 ' CASTLE EICHMtND. 
 
 sarcasm was altogether lost upon Lis hearer. ' Some lawyers, as 
 I was saying, would in snch a case have advised their clients to 
 keep all their suspicions, nay all their knowledge, to themselves. 
 Why plaj' the game of an adversary ? they would ask. But I 
 have thought it better that we should have no adversary.' 
 
 ' And you will have none,' said Owen ; ' none in me at least.' 
 
 ' I am junoh gratified in so perceiving, and in having such 
 evidence that my advice has not been indiscreet. It occurred to 
 me that if you received the first intimation of these circumstawies 
 from other sources, you would be bound on your own behalf to 
 employ an agent to look after your own. interests.' 
 
 ' I should have done nothing of the kind,' said Owen. 
 
 ' Ah, but,, ray dear young friend, in such a case it would have 
 been your duty to do so.' 
 
 ' Then I should have neglected my duty. And do you tell 
 Herbert this from me, that let the truth be what it may, I shall 
 never interrupt him in his tide or his property. It is not there 
 that I shall look either for justice or revenge. He will under- 
 stand what I mean.' 
 
 But Mr. Prendergast did not, by any means ; nor did he enter - 
 into the tone of Owen Fitzgerald's mind. They were both just 
 men, but just in. an essentially different manner. The justice of 
 Mr. Prendergast had come of thought and educa,tion. As a 
 young man, when entering on his profession, he was probably 
 less just than he was now. He had thought about matters "of 
 law and equity, till thought had shown to him the heauty of 
 equity as it should be practised, — often by the aid of law, and 
 not unfrequently in spite of law. Such was the justice of Mr. 
 Prendergast. That of Owen Fitzgerald had come of impulse and 
 nature, and was the justice of a very young man rather than of a 
 very wise one. That title and property did not, as he felt, of 
 justice belong to him, but to his cousin. "What difierence could 
 it make, in the true justice of things, whether or no that wretched 
 man was still alive whom all the world had regarded as dead? 
 In justice he ought to be dead. Now that this calamity of the 
 man's life had fallen upon Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald and 
 his cousin Herbert, it would not be for him -to sggravate it by 
 seizing upon a heritage which might possibly accrue to him 
 under the letter of the world's law, but which could not accrue 
 ^to him under heaven's law. Such was the justice of Owen 
 (Fitzgerald ; and we may say this of it in its dispraise, as com- 
 Iparing it with that other justice, that whereas that of Mr. Pren- 
 : dergast would wear for ever, through ages and ages, that other 
 , justice of Owen's would hardly have stood the pull of a ten years' 
 I struggle. When children came to him, would he not have 
 
AFTEB BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. 247 
 
 thougtit of what might have heen theirs hy right ; and then have 
 thought of what ought to be theirs by right ; and so on ? 
 
 But in speaking of justice, he had also spoken of revenge, and 
 Mr. Prendergast was altogether in the dark. What revenge ? 
 ?Ie did not know that poor Owen had lost a love, and that 
 Herbert had found it. In the midst of all the confused thoughts 
 which this astounding intelligence had brought upon him, Owen 
 still thought of his love. There Herbert had robbed him — 
 robbed him by means of his wealth ; and in that matter he desired 
 justice — ^justice or revenge. He wanted back his love. Let him 
 have that and Herbert might yet be welcome to his title , and 
 estates. ' 
 
 Mr. Prendergast remained there for some half-hour longer, 
 explaining what ought to be done, and how it ought to be done. 
 Of course he combated that idea of Owen's, that the property 
 might be allowed to remain in the hands of the wrong heir. Had 
 that been consonant with his ideas of justice he would not have 
 made his visit to Hap House this morning. Eight must have its 
 way, and if it should be that Lady Fitzgerald's marriage with 
 Sir Thomas had not been legal, Owen, on Sir Thomas's death, 
 must become Sir Owen, and Herbert could not become Sir 
 Herbert. So much to the mind of Mr. Prendergast was as clear/ 
 as crystal. Let justice be done, even though these Castle Eioh-y' 
 mond heavens should fall in ruins. 
 
 And then he took his departure, leaving Owen to his solitude, 
 much perplexed. 'And where is that, man?' Mr. Prendergast 
 asked, as he got on to his car. 
 
 ' Bedad thin, yer honer, he's very bad intirely. He's jist 
 sitthing over the kitchen fire, moaning and croning this way and 
 tha"t, but sorrow a word he's spoke since the masther hoisted him 
 out o' the big hall door. And thm for blood — wny, saving yer 
 honor's presence, he's one mash of gore.' 
 
 ' You'd better wash his face for him, and give him a little tea,' 
 Said Mr. Prendergast, and then he drove away. 
 
 And strange ideas floated across Owen Fitzgerald's brain as ne 
 sat there alojae, in his hunting gear, leaning on the still covered 
 breakfast-table. They floated across his brain backwards and 
 forwards, and at last remained there, taking almost the form of a 
 definite purpose. He would make a bargain with Herbert ; let 
 each of them keep that which was fairly his own ; let Herbert 
 have all the broad lands of Castle Eichmond ; let him have the 
 title, the seat in parliament, and the county honour ; but for him, 
 Owen— let him have Clara Desmond. He desired nothing that 
 was not fairly his own ; but as his own he did regard her, and 
 without her he did not know h jw to face the future of his life. 
 
248 castl:^ Richmond. , , 
 
 And in suggesting this arrangement to himself, he did noi 
 altogether throw over her feelings ; he did take into account hei 
 heart, though he did not take into accsount her worldly' prospects. 
 She had loved him — him — Owen ; and he would not teach him- 
 self to helieve that she did not love him still. Her mother 
 had been too powerful for her, and she had weakly yielded ; but 
 as to her heart — Owen could not bring himself to believe that 
 that was gone from him. 
 
 They two would make a bargain, — he and his cousin. HcHiour 
 and renown, and the money and the title would be everything to 
 his cousin. Herbert had been brought up to expect these things, 
 and all the world around him had expected them for him. It 
 would be terrible to him to find himself robbed of them. But 
 the loss of Clara Desmond was equally terrible to Owen Fitz- 
 gerald. He allowed his heart to fill itself with a romantic sense 
 of honour, teaching him that it behoved him as a man not to give 
 up his love. Without her he would live disgraced in his own 
 estimation ; but who would not think the better of him for 
 refraining from the possession of those Castle Eichmond acres ? 
 Yes ; he would make a bargain with Herbert. "Who was there 
 in the world to deny his right to da so ? 
 
 , As he sat revolving these things in his mind, he suddenly 
 heard ,a rushing sound, as of many horsemen down the avenue, 
 and going to the window, he saw two or three leading men of 
 the hunt, accompanied by the gray-haired old huntsman; and.; 
 through and about and under the horsemen w^ere the dogs, i 
 running in and out of the laurels which skirted the road, wift 
 their noses down, giving every now and then short yelps as they 
 caught up the uncertain scent from the leaves on the ground, and 
 hurried on upon the trail of their game. 
 
 'Yo ho! to him. Messenger! hark to him, Maybird; good 
 bitch, Merrylass. He's down here, gen'lemen, and he'll never" 
 get away alive. He came to a bad place when he looked out for 
 going to ground anywhere near Mr. Owen.' , 
 
 And then there came, fast trotting down through the other i 
 horsemen, making his way eagerly to the front, a stout heavy ' 
 man, with a florid handsome face and eager eye. He might he 
 some fifty years of age, but no lad there of three-and-twenty was 
 so anxious and impetuous as he. He Was riding a large-boned, 
 fast-trotting bay horse, that pressed on as eagerly as his rider. 
 As he hurried forward all made way for him, till he was close to 
 tlM shrubs in the front of the house. 
 
 'Bless my sotd, gentlemen,' he said, in an angry voice, 'how,'' 
 in the name of all that's good, are hounds to hunt if you presr ' 
 them down the road in that way ? By heavens, Barry, you"'^ 
 
AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE. 249 
 
 ecoiigli to drive a man wild. Yoicks, Merrylass ! there it is, 
 Pat ;' — ^Pat was the huntsman- — ' outside the low wall there, down / 
 towards the river.' This was Sam O'Grady, the master of the: 
 Duhallow hounds, the god of O wen'sTdolatry . No better fellow ^ 
 ever lived, and no master of hounds, so good ; such at least was ■' 
 the opinion common among Duhallow sportsmen. 
 
 ' Yes, yer honer, — he did skirt round there, I knows that ; but 
 he's been among them laurels at the bottom, and he'll be about 
 the place and out-houses somewhere. There's a drain here that 
 I knows on, and he knows on. But Mr. Owen, he knows on it 
 too ; ■ and there aint a chance for him.' So argued Pat, the 
 Duhallow huntsman, the experienced craft of whose aged mind 
 enabled him to run counter to the cutest dodges of the cutest fox 
 in that and any of the three neighbouring baronies. 
 
 And now the sweep before the door was crowded with red- 
 coats ; and Owen, looking from his dining-room window, felt 
 that he must take some step. As an ordinary rule, had the hunt 
 thus drifted near his homestead, he would have been off his horse 
 and down among his bottles, sending up sherry and cherry- 
 brandy ; and there would have been comfortable drink in plenty, 
 and cold meat, perhaps, not in plenty ; and every one would 
 have been welcome in and out of the house. But now there was 
 ^ that at his heart which forbade him to mix with the men who 
 knew him so well, and among whom he was customarily so loudly 
 joyous. Dressed as he was, he could not go among them with- 
 out explaining why he had remained at home ; and as to that, he 
 felt that he was not able to give any explanation at the present 
 moment. 
 
 ' What's the matter with Owen ?' said one fellow to Captain 
 Donnellan. 
 
 ' Upon my word I hardly know. Two chaps came to him 
 this morning, before he was up ; about business, they said. He 
 nearly murdered one of them out of hand ; and I believe that 
 he's locked up somewhere with the other this minute.' 
 
 But in the meantime a servant came up to Mr. O'Grady, and, 
 touching his hat, asked the master of the hunt to go into the 
 house for a moment ; and then Mr. O'Grady, dismounting, 
 entered in through the front door. He was only there two 
 minutes, for his mind was still outside, among the laurels, with 
 the fox ; but as he put his foot again into the stirrup, he said to , 
 those around him that they must hurry away, and not disturb; 
 Owen Fitzgerald that day. It may, therefore, easily be imagined , 
 that the mystery would spread quickly through that portion oi ( 
 the county of Cork. _ ' 
 
 f,. They must hurry away ; — but not before they could give an 
 
250 CASTLE ETCaMOND. 
 
 acoounl of their fox. Neither for gods nor men must he be lefii 
 as long as his skin was whole above ground. There is an 
 importance attaching to the pursuit of a fox, which gives it a 
 character quite distinct from that of any other amusement which 
 men follow in these realms. It justifies almost anything that 
 men can do, and that at any place and in any season. There is 
 about it a sanctity which forbids interruption, and makes its 
 votaries safe under any circumstances of trespass or intrusion. 
 A man in a hunting county who opposes the county hunt-must 
 be a misanthrope, willing to live .in seclusion, fond of being in 
 Coventry, and in love with the enmity of his fellow-creatures. 
 There are such men, but they are regarded as lepers by those 
 around them. All this adds to the nobleness of the noble sport, 
 and makes it worthy of a man's energies. . -" v 
 
 And then the crowd of huntsmen hurried round from the front 
 of the house to a paddock at the back, and then again through 
 the stable yard to the front. The hounds were about — here, 
 there, and everywhere, as any one ignorant of the craft would 
 have said, but still always on the scent of that doomed beast. 
 From one thicket to a Qother' he tried to hide Jiimself, but the 
 moist leaves of the imderwood told quickly of ^^s whereabouts. 
 He tried every hole and cranny about the hotiSt,, but every hole 
 and comer had been stopp-jd by Owen's jealous care. He would 
 have lived disgraced .for jvei in his own estimation, had a fox 
 gone to ground anywhere about iiis domicile. At last a loud 
 whoop was heard just in front of the hall door. The poor fox, 
 with his last gasp of strength, had betiiken himself to the thicket 
 before the door, and there the dogs had killed him, at the very 
 spot on which Aby Mollett had fallen.. 
 
 Standing well back from the window, still thinking of Clara 
 -Desmond, Owen Fitzgerald saw ths- fate of the hunted animal ; 
 he saw the head and tail severed from the carcase by ol4 Pat, 
 and the body thrown to the hounds, — a ceremony over which he 
 had presided- so many scores of times ; and then, when the dogs 
 had ceased to growl over the bloody fragments, he saw the hunt 
 move away, back along the avenue to the high road. All this 
 he saw, but still he was thinking of Clara "Desmond. 
 
^1 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 A MUDDY WALK ON A WET MOKNIIf0. 
 
 kth that day of the hunt was passed very quietly at CabtJ^ 
 Eichmond. Herbert did not once leave the house, haviug 
 begged Mr. Somers to make his excuse at a Belief Committee 
 which it would have been his business to attend. A great 
 portion of the day he spent with his father, who lay all but 
 motionless, in a state that was apparently half comatose. During 
 all those long hours very little was said between them about this 
 tragedy of their family. Why should more be said now ; now 
 that the worst had befallen them — all that worst, to hide which 
 Sir Thomas had endured such superhuman, agony? And then 
 four or five times during the day he went to his mother, but 
 with her he did not stay long. To her he could hardly speak 
 upon any subject, fof to her as yet the story had not been told. 
 
 And she, when he thus came to her from time to time, with a 
 soft word or two, or a softer kiss, would ask him no question. 
 She knew that he had learned the whole, and knew also from the 
 solemn cloud on his brow that that whole must be very dreadful 
 Indeed we may surmise that her woman's heart had by this time 
 guessed somewhat of the truth. But she would inquire of no 
 one. Jones, she was sure, knew it all ; but she did not ask 
 a single question of her servant. It would be told to her when 
 it was fitting. "Why should she move in the matter ? 
 
 Whenever Herbert entered her room she tried to receive hiin 
 with something of a smile. It was clear enough that she was 
 always glad of his coming, and that she made some little show of 
 welcoming him. A book was always put away, veiy softly and ^ 
 by the slightest motion : but Herbert well knew what that book 5 
 was, and whence his mother sought that strength which enabled 
 her to live through such an ordeal as this. 
 
 And his sisters were to be seen, moving slowly about the 
 house like the very ghosts of their former selves. Their voices 
 were hardly beard; n» ring of customary laughter ever came 
 from the room in which they sat; when they passed their 
 brother in the house they hardly dared to whisper to him. As 
 to sitting down at table now with Mr. Prendergast, that eifort 
 was wholly abandoned; they kept themselves even from tha 
 sound of his footsteps. 
 
252 CASTLE . ElCHMOND. 
 
 Aunt Letty perhaps spoke more tlian. the others, but what 
 
 could she speak to tiie purpose ? ' Herbert,' she once said, as 
 
 -she caught him close hj the door of the library and almost 
 
 pulled him into the room, — ' Herbert, I charge you to tell me 
 
 what all this is !' 
 
 ' I can tell you nothing, dear aunt, nothing ;— nothing as yet.' 
 
 ' But, Herbert, tell me this ; is it about my sister ?' For very 
 many years past Aunt Letty had always called Lady FitzgeraW ^ 
 her sister. 
 
 ' I can tell you nothing ; — nothing to-day,' 
 
 ' Then, to-morrow.' 
 
 ' I do not know — we must let Mr. Prendergast manage thie 
 matter as he will. I have taken nothing on myself. Aunt Letty 
 — nothing.' 
 
 ' Then I tell you what, Herbert ; it -will kill me. It wUl kill 
 Us all, as it is killing your father and your darling mother. 
 I tell you that it is killing her fast. Human nature cannot bear 
 it. For myself I could endure anything if I were trusted.' 
 And sitting down in one of the high-backed library chairs she 
 burst into a flood of tears; a sight which, as regarded Aunt 
 Letty, Herbert had never seen before. 
 
 What if they all died? thought Herbert to himself in the 
 bitterness of the moment. There was that in 'store for some of 
 them which was worse than death. What business had Aunt 
 Letty to talk of her misery ? Of course she was wretched, as 
 they all were ; but how could she appreciate the burden that was 
 on his back ? What was Clara Desmond to her ? 
 
 Shortly after noon Mr. Prendergast was back at the house; 
 but he jlank up to his room, and no one saw anything of him. ' 
 At half-past six he came down, and Herbert constrained himself 
 to sit at the table while dinner was served ; and so the day 
 passed away. One more day only Mr. Prendergast was to stay 
 at Castle Eiohmond ; and then, if, as he expected, certain letters 
 should reach him on that morning, he was to start for London 
 late on the following day. It may well be imagined that he was 
 not desirous of prolonging his visit. 
 
 Early on the following laoming Herbert started for a long 
 solitary walk. On that day Mr. Prendergast was to tell every-: 
 thing to his mother, and it was determined between them that 
 her son should not be in the house during the telling. In the 
 evening, when he came home, he was to see her. So he started 
 on his walk, resolving some other things also in his mind before 
 he Went. He would reach Desmond Court before he returned- 
 home that day, and let the two ladies there know, the fate that 
 was before them. Then after that, they might let him knoii,' 
 
fl. MUDDY WALK ON A WET MOENING. 253 
 
 what was to be his fate ; — hut on this head he would not hurry 
 theni. 
 
 So he started on his walk, resolving to go round by Gortna 
 clqugh on his way to Desmond Court, and then to return home 
 Tom" thit place. The road would be more than twenty long 
 Irish miles ; but he felt that the hard work would be of service. 
 It was instinct rather than thought which taught him that it 
 would be good for him to put some strain on the muscles of his 
 body, and thus relieve the muscles of his mind. If his limbs 
 could become thoroughly tired, — thoroughly tired so that he 
 might wish to rest, — then he might hope that for a moment he 
 might cease to think of all this sorrow which encompassed him. 
 
 So he started on his walk, taking with him a thick cudgel and 
 his own thoughts. He went away across the demesne and down 
 into the road that led away by Gortnacloiigh and Boherbue 
 towards Castleisland and the wilds of county Kerry. As he 
 went, the men about the place refrained from speaking to him, 
 for they all knew that bad news had come to the big house. 
 They looked at him with lowered eyes and with tenderness in 
 their hearts, for they loved the very name of Fitzgerald. The 
 iove which a poor Irishman feels for the gentlemah whom he 
 regards as his master — ' his masther,' though he has probably 
 never received from him, in money, wages for a day's work, and 
 in all his intercourse has been the man who has paid money and 
 not the man who received it — the iove which he nevertheless 
 feels, if he has been occasionally looked on with a smiling face 
 and accosted with a kindly word, -is astonishing to an English- 
 man. I will not say that the feeling is altogether good. Love 
 should come of love. Where personal love exists on one side, | 
 and not even personal regard on the other, there must be some 
 mixture of servility. That unbounded respect for human 
 grandeur cannot be altogether good ; for human greatness, if the 
 greatness be properly sifted, it may be so. 
 
 He got down into the« road, and went forth upon his journey 
 at a rapid pace. The mud was deep upon the way, but he went 
 through the thickest without a thought of it. He had not been 
 out long before there came on a cold, light, drizzling rain, such 
 a rain as gradually but surely makes its way into the innermost 
 rag of a man's clothing, running up the inside of his waterproof 
 coat, and penetrating by its perseverance the very folds of his 
 necktie. Siich cold, drizzling rain is the commonest phase ; 
 of hard weather during Irish winters, and those who are out and I 
 'about get used to it and treat it tenderly. They are euphemis- * 
 tical as to the weather, calling it hazy and soft, and never 
 lUowing themselves to carry bad language on such a subject 
 
254 CASTLE KICBMOND. 
 
 beyond the word dull. , And yet at such a time one breathes the 
 rain and again exhales it, and hecome as it were oneself a water 
 spirit, assuming an aqueous flshlike nature into one's inner 
 fibres. It must be acknowledged that a man does sometimes get 
 wet in Irsland ; but then a wetting there brings no cold in the 
 head, no husky voice, no need for multitudinous pocket-handker- 
 I chiefs, as it does here in this land of catarrhs. It is the east 
 wind and not the rain that kills ; and of east wind in the south 
 of Ireland they know nothing. 
 
 But Herbert walked on quite unmindful of the mist, swinging 
 his thick stick in his hand, and ever increasing his pace as he 
 went. He was usually a man careful of such things, but it was 
 nothing to him now whether he were wet or dry. His mind was 
 so full of the immediate circumstances of his destiny that he 
 could not think of small external accidents. What was to be his 
 future life in this world, and how was he to fight the battle that 
 was now before him ? That was the question which he con- 
 tinually asked himself, and yet never succeeded in answering, t 
 How was he to come down from the throne on which early 
 circumstances had placed him, and hustle and struggle among 
 the crowd for such approach to other thrones as his sinews and 
 shoulders might procure for him ? If he had been only bom to 
 tlie struggle, he said to himself, how easy and pleasant it would 
 have been to him! But to find himself "thus cast out from his 
 place by an accident — oast out with the eyes of all the world 
 upon, him; to be talked of, and pointed at, and pitied; to have 
 little aids offered him by men whom he regarded as beneath 
 him — all this was terribly sore, and the burden was almost too 
 much for his strength. ' I do not care for the money,' he said 
 to himself a dozen times ; and in saying so he spoke in one sense 
 truly. But he did care for things which money buys; for 
 outward respect, permission to speak with authoriiy among his 
 feUow-men, for power and place, and the feeling that he was 
 prominent in his walk of life. To be in advance of other men, 
 that is the desire which is strongest in the hearts of all strong 
 men ; and in that desire how terrible a fall had he not received 
 from this catastrophe ! 
 
 And what were they all to do, he and his mother and his 
 sisters ? How were they to act — now, at once ? In what way 
 were they to carry themselves when this man of law and judg- 
 ment should have gone from them ? For himself, his course of 
 action must depend much upon the word which might be spoken 
 to him to-day at Desmond Court. There would stUl be a drop 
 of comfort left at the bottom of his cup if he might be allowed to 
 hope there. But in truth he feared greatly. "What the countess 
 
A MUDDY WALK OK A WET MOENING. 255 > 
 
 would say to him he thought he could foretell ; what it would 
 behove him to say himself — in matter, though not in words — 
 that he luiew well. Would not the two sayings tally well 
 together ? and could it he right for him even to hope that the 
 love of a girl of seventeen should stand firm against her mother's 
 will, when her lover himself could not dare to press his suit ? 
 And then another reflection pressed on his mind sorely. Clara 
 had already given up one poor lover at her mother's instance ; 
 might she not resume that lover, also at her mother's instance, 
 now that he was no longer poor ? What if Owen Fitzgerald 
 should take from him everything ! 
 
 And so he walked on through the mud afd rain, always 
 swinging his big stick. Perhaps, after all, the worst of it was 
 over with him, when he could argue with himself in this way- 
 It is the first plunge into the cold water that gives the shock. 
 We may almost say that every human misery will cease to be ' 
 miserable if it be duly faced; and something is done towards' 
 conque^'tcg our miseries, when we face them in any degree, even 
 if not witn due courage. Herhert had taken his plunge into the 
 deep, dark, cold, comfortless pool of misfortune; and he felt 
 that the waters around him were very cold. But the plimge had 
 been taken, and the worst, perhaps, was gone by. 
 
 As he approached near to Gortnaclough, he came upon one of 
 those gangs of road-destroyers who were now at work every- 
 where, earning their pittance of ' yellow meal ' with a pickaxe 
 and a wheelbarrow. In some sort or other the laboTirers had 
 been got to their work. Gangsmen there were with lists, who 
 did see, more or less acchrately, that the men, before they 
 received their sixpence or eightpence for their day's work, did 
 at any rate pass their day with some sort of tool in their hands. 
 And consequently the surface of the hill began to disappear, and 
 there were chasms in the road, which caused those who travelled 
 on wheels to sit still, staring across with angry eyes, and some- 
 times to apostrophize the doer of these deeds with very naughty 
 words. The doer was the Board of Works, or the ' Board ' as it 
 was familiarly termed; and were it not that those ill words 
 must have returned to the bosoms which vented them, and have 
 flown no further, no Board could ever have been so terribly 
 curse-laden. To find oneself at last utterly stopped, after pro- 
 ceeding with great strain to one's horse for half a mile through ^ 
 an artificial quagmire of slush up to the wheelbox, is harassing 
 to the customary traveller ; and men at that crisis did not 
 bethink themselves quite so frequently aS they should have done, 
 that a people perishing from famine is more harassing. 
 
 But Herbert was not on wheels, and was proceeding through 
 
256 CASTLE ElOHMOND. 
 
 the slush and across the chasm, regardless of it all, when he was 
 stopped by some of the men. AU the land thereabouts was 
 Castle Eichmond property; and it was not probable that the 
 young master of it all would be allowed to pass through some 
 two score of his own tenantry without greetings, and petitions, 
 and blessings, and complaints. 
 
 ' Faix, yer honer, thin, Mr. Herbert,' said one man, standing 
 at the bottom of the hill, with the half-filled wheelbarrow still 
 hanging in his hands — an Englishman would have put down the 
 barrow while he was speaking, making some inner calculation 
 about the waste of his muscles ; but an Irishman wotild despise 
 himself for such low economy — 'Faix, thin, yer honer, Mr. 
 Herbert ; an' it's yourself is a sight good for sore eyes. May 
 the heavens be yonr bed, for it's you is the frind to a poor man.' 
 
 ' How are you, Pat ?' said Herbert, without intendingjo stop. 
 ' How are yon, Mooney ? I hope the work suits you all.' And 
 then he would at once have passed on, with his hat pressed down 
 low over his brow. 
 
 But this could be by no means allowed. In the first place, 
 the excitement arising from the young master's presence was too 
 valuable to be lost so sudderdy ; and then, when might again 
 occnr so excellent a time for some mention of their heavy griev- 
 ances ? Men whoso whole amount of worldly good consists in a 
 bare allowance of nauseous food, just sufiicient to keep body and 
 soul together, must be excused if they wish to utter their com- 
 plaints to ears that can hear them. 
 
 ' Arrah, yer honer, thin, we're none on us very well ; and 
 how could we, with the male at a peimy a pound ?' said Pat. 
 
 ' Sorrow to it for male,' said Mooney. ' It's the worst vittles 
 iver a man tooked into the inside of him. Saving yer honor's 
 presence it's as much as I can do to raise the bare arm of me 
 since the day I first began with the yally male.' 
 
 ' It's as wake as cats we all is,' said another, who from the 
 weary way in which he dragged his limbs about certainly did 
 not himself seem to be gifted with much animal strength. 
 
 ' And the childer is worse, yer honer,' said a fourth. ' The 
 male is bad for them intirely. Saving yer honer's presence, 
 their bellies is gone away most to nothing.' 
 
 ' And thei^e's six of us in family, yer honer,' said Pat. ' Six 
 moifths to feed ; and what's eight pennoith of yally male among 
 such a lot as that ; let alone the Sundays, when there's nothing?' 
 
 'An' shure, Mr. Herbert,' said another, a small man with a 
 squeaking voice, whose rags of clothes hardly hung on to hii 
 body, ' warn't I here with the other boys the last Friday as ivei 
 was? Ax Pat Condon else, yer honer; and yet when thej 
 
>. MUDDY WALK ON A WET MOKNING. 257 
 
 eomed to give out the wages, they sconced me of .' And so 
 
 on. There were as many complaints to he made as there were 
 men, if only he could bring himself to listen to them. 
 
 On ordinary occasions Herbert would listen to them, and 
 answer them, and give them, at any rate, the satisfaction which 
 they derived from discoursing with him, if he could give them 
 no other satisfaction. But now, on this day, with his own 
 burden so heavy at his heart, he could not even do this. He 
 could not think of their sorrows ; his own sorrow seemed to him 
 to be so much the heavier. So he passed on, running the gaunt- 
 let through them as best he might, and shaking them .off from j 
 him, as they attempted to cling round his steps. Nothing is so j 
 powerful in making a man selfish as misfortune. ' 
 
 And then he went on to Gortnaolough. He had not chosen 
 his walk to this place with any fixed object, except this perhaps, 
 that it enabled him to return home round by Desmond Court. It 
 was one of the places at which a Eelief Committee sat every fort- 
 night, and there was a soup-kitchen here, which, however, had 
 not been so successful as the one at BerryhD.1; and it was the 
 place of residence selected by Father Barney's coadjutor. But 
 in spite of all this, when Herbert found himself in the wretched, 
 dirty, straggling, damp street of the village, he did not know 
 what to do or where to betake himself. That every eye in 
 Gortnaolough would be upon him was a matter of course. He 
 could hardly turn round on his heel and retrace his steps 
 through the village, as he would have to do in going to Desmond 
 Court, without showing some pretext for his coming there ; so 
 he walked into the little shop which was attached to the soup- 
 kitchen, and there he found the Eev. Mr. Columb Creagh, 
 giving his orders to the little girl behind the counter, , 
 
 Herbert Fitzgerald was customarily very civil to the Eoman 
 Catholic priests around him, — somewhat more so, indeed, than 
 seemed good to those very excellent ladies, Mrs. Townsend and 
 Aunt Letty ; but it always went against the grain with him to 
 be civil to the Kev. Columb Creagh ; and on this special day it 
 would have gone against the grain with him to be civil to any- 
 body. But the coadjutor knew his character, and was delighted 
 to have an opportunity of talking to him, when he could do so 
 without being snubbed either by Mr. Somers, the chairman, or 
 by his own parish priest. Mr. Creagh had rejoiced much at the 
 idea of forming one at the same council board with county 
 magistrates and Protestant parsons ; but the fruition of his pro- 
 mised delights had never quite reached his lips. He had been 
 like Sancho Panza in his government ; he had sat down to tho 
 grand table day after day, but had never yet been allowed tr 
 
258 CASTLE EICHMOND, 
 
 enjoy the ricli dish of Ms own oratory. Whenever he had pro- 
 posed to help himself, Mr. Somers or Father Barney had stopped 
 his mouth. Now prohablyhe might be able to say a word or 
 two ; and though the glory would not be equal to that of mating 
 a speech at the Committee, gtill it would be something to be 
 seen talking on equal terms, and on affairs of state, to the young 
 heir of Castle Eichmond. 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald ! well, I declare ! And how are you, sir ?' 
 And he took off his hat and bowed, and got hold of Herbert's 
 hand, shaking it ruthlessly ; and altogether he made him very- 
 disagreeable. 
 
 Herbert, though his mind was not really intent on the subject, 
 asked somq question of the girl as to the amount of meal that 
 had been sold, and desired to see the little passbook that they 
 kept at the shop. 
 
 ' We are doing pretty well, Mr. Fitzgerald,' said the coadjutor ; 
 ' pretty well. 1 always keep my eye on, for fear things should 
 go wrong, you know.' 
 
 ' I don't think they'll do that,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' No ; I hope not. But it's always good to be on the safe side, 
 you know. And to tell you the truth, I don't think we're 
 altogether on the right tack about them shops. It's very hard 
 on a poor woman — ' 
 
 Now the fact was, though the Eelief Committee at Gortnaclough 
 was attended by magistrates, priests, and parsons, the shop there 
 was Herbert Fitzgerald's own 'affair. It had been stocked with 
 his or his father's money ; the flour was sold without profit at 
 his risk, and the rent of the house and wages of the woman who 
 kept it came out of his own pocket-money. Under these cir- 
 cumstances he did not see cause why Mr. Creagh should interfere, 
 and at the present moment was not well inclined to put up with 
 such interference. 
 
 ' We do the best we can, Mr. Creagh,' said he, interrupting the 
 priest. ' And no good will be done at such a time as this by 
 unnecessary difficultiefi.' 
 
 ' No, no, certainly not. But still I do think — ' And Mr. Creagh 
 was girding up his loins for eloquence, when he was again 
 interrupted. 
 
 ' I am rather in a hurry to-day,' said Herbert, ' and therefore, 
 if you please, we won't make any change now. Never mind the 
 book to-day, Sally. Good day, Mr. Creagh.' And so saying, he 
 left the shop and walked rapidly back out of the village. 
 
 The poor coadjutor was left alone at the shop -door, anathema- 
 tizing in his heart the pride of all Protestants. He had been 
 told tliat this Mr. Fitzgerald was different from others, that hf 
 
COMFOETLESS. 259 
 
 was a man fond of priests and addicted to the ' ould religion;'! 
 and so tearing, he had resolved to make the most -of such an i 
 excellent disposition. But he was forced to confess to himgelf 
 that they were all alike. Mr. Somers ccfuld not have been more | 
 imperious, nor Mr. Townsend more insolent. 
 
 And then, through the still drizzling rain, Herbert walked on 
 to Desmond Court. By the time that he reached the desolate- 
 looking lodge at the demesne gate, he was nearly wet through, 
 and was besmeared with mud up to his knees. But he had 
 thought nothing of this as he walked &long. His mind had been 
 intent on the scene that was before him. In what words was he 
 to break the news to Clara Desmond and her mother ? and with 
 what words would they receive the tidings ? The former ques- 
 tion he had by no means answered to his own satisfaction, when, 
 all muddy and wet, he passed up to the house through that deso- 
 late gate. 
 
 ' Is Lady Desmond at home ?' he asked of the butler. ' Her 
 ladyship is at home,' said the gray-haired old man, with his 
 blandest smile, ' and so is Lady Clara.' He had already learned 
 to look on the heir of Castle Eichmond as the coming saviour of 
 the impoverished Desmond family. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVI. 
 
 COMFORTLESS. ' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Herbert, yer honor, you're wet through and through — 
 surely,' said the butler, as soon as Fitzgerald was well inside the 
 hall. Herbert muttered something about his being only damp, 
 and that it did not signify. But it did signify, — very much, — 
 in the butler's estimation. "Whose being wet through could 
 signify more, for was not Mr. Herbert to be a baronet, and to 
 have the spending of twelve thousand a year ; and would he not 
 be the future husband of Lady Clara? not signify indeed I 
 
 ' An' shure, Mr. Herbert, you haven't walked to Desmond 
 Court this blessed morning. Tare an' ages ! Well ; there's no 
 knowing what you young gentlemen won't do. But I'll see and 
 get a pair of trousers of my Lord's ready for you in two minutes. 
 Faix, and he's nearly as big as yourself new, Mr. Herbert.' 
 
 But Herbert would hardly speak to him, and gave no assent 
 whatever as to his proposition for borrowing the earl's clothes 
 ' I'll go in as I am,' said he. And the old man looking into his 
 face saw that there was something wrong. ' Shure aji' he ain't 
 
260 Castle Richmond. 
 
 going io sthrike off now,' said tliis Irisli Caleb Balderstone to 
 himself. He also as well as some otKers aBouFBesmond Court 
 had feared greatly that Lady Clara would throw herself away 
 upon a poor lover. • 
 
 It was now past noon, and Fitzgerald pressed forward into the 
 room in which Lady Clara usually sat. It was the same in 
 which she had received Owen's visit, and here of a morning she 
 was usually to be found alone ; but on this occasion jyhen he 
 opened the door he found that her mother was with her. Since 
 the day on which Clara had disposed of herself so excellently, 
 the mother had spent more of her time with her daughter. 
 Looking at Clara now through Herbert Fitzgerald's eyes, the 
 countess had begun to confess to herself that her child did 
 possess beauty and charms. 
 
 She got up to greet her future son-in-law with a sweet smile 
 ' and that charming quiet welcome with which a woman so well 
 knows how to make her house pleasant to a man that is welcome 
 to it. And Clara, not rising, but turning her head round and 
 looking at him, greeted him also. He came forward and took 
 both their hands, and it was not till he had held Clara's for half 
 a -minute in his own that they both saw that he was more than 
 ordinarily serious. ' I hope Sir Thomas is not worse,' said Lady 
 Desmond, with that voice of feigned interest which is so common. 
 ' After all, if anything should happen to the poor old weak 
 gentleman, might it not be as well ?' 
 
 ' My father has not been very well these last two days,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' I am so sorry,' said Clara. ' And your mother, Herbert?' 
 
 ' But Herbert, how wet you are. You must have walked,' said 
 the countess. 
 
 Herbert, in a few dull words said that he had walked. He 
 had thought that the walk would be good for him, and he had 
 not expected that it would be so wet. And then Lady Desmond, 
 looking carefully into his face, saw that in truth he was very 
 serious ; — so much so that she knew that he had come there on 
 account of his seriousness. But still his sorrow did not in any 
 degree go to her heart. He was grieving doubtless for his 
 father, — or his mother. The house at Castle Eichmond was 
 probably sad, because sickness and' fear of death were there ; — 
 nay, perhaps death itself now hanging over some loved head. 
 But what was this to her? She had had her own sorrows; — 
 enough of them perhaps to account for her being selfish. So 
 with a solemn face, but with nothing amiss about her heart; she 
 again asked for tidings from Castle Eichmond. 
 
 ' Do tell us,' said Clara, getting up. ' I am afraid Sir Thomw 
 
COMFORTLESS. 2(T\ 
 
 is very ill.' The old baronet had been kind to her, and she did 
 regard him. To her it was a sorrow to think that there should 
 be any sorrow at Castle Eichmond. 
 
 'Yes; he is ill,' said Herbert. 'We have had a gentleman 
 from London with us for the last few days — a friend of my 
 father's. His name is Mr. Prendergast.' 
 ' Is he a doctor ?' asked the countess. 
 ' No, not a doctor,' said Herbert. ' He is a lawyer.' 
 It was very hard for him to begin his story ; and perhaps the 
 more so in that he was wet through and covered with mud. He 
 now felt cold and clammy, and began to have an idea that 
 he should not be seated there in that room in such a guise. 
 Clara, too, had instinctively leamed_ from his face, and tone, and 
 general bearing that something truly was the matter. At other 
 times when he had been there, since that day on which he had 
 been accepted, he had been completely master of himself. Per- 
 haps it had almost been deemed a fault in him that he had had 
 none of the timidity or hesitation of a lover. He had seemed to 
 feel, no doubt, that he, with his fortune and position at his 
 back, need feel no scruple in accepting as his own the fair hand 
 for which he had asked. But now — nothing could be more 
 different from this than his manner was now. 
 
 Lady Desmond was now surprised, though probably not 
 as yet frightened. Why should a lawyer have come from 
 London to visit Sir Thomas at a period of such illness? and why 
 should Herbert have walked over to Desmond Court to tell them 
 of this illness? There must be something in this lawyer's 
 coming which was intended to bear in some way on her 
 daughter's marriage. 'But, Herbert,' she said, 'you are quite 
 wet. Will you not put on some of Patrick's things ?' 
 
 ' No, thank you,' said he ; ' I shall not stay long. I shall 
 soon have said what I have got to say.' 
 
 ' But do, Herbert,' said Clara. ' I cannot bear to see you so 
 uncomfortable. And then you will not be in such a hurry to go 
 back.' 
 
 ' 111 as my father is,' said he, ' I cannot stay long ; but I have 
 thought it my duty to come over and tell you — tell you what has 
 happened at Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 And now the countess was frightened. There was that in 
 Herbert's tone of voice and the form of his countenance which 
 was enough to frighten any woman. What had happened at 
 Castle Eichmond? what could have happened there to make 
 necessary the presence of a lawyer, and at the same time thus to 
 sadden her future son-in-law ? And Clara also was frightened 
 though she knew not why. His manner was so different ftora 
 
262 CASTLE RICHMOND.. 
 
 that which ^as usnal. ; he was so cold, arul serious, and awe- 
 struck, that she could not but he unhappy. 
 
 ' And what is it ?' said the countess. 
 
 Herbert then sat for a few minutes silent, thinking how best 
 he should tell them his story. He had been all the morning 
 resolving to tell it, but he had in nowise as yet fixed upon any 
 method. It was all so terribly tragic, so frightful in the extent 
 of its reality, that he hardly knew how it would be possible for 
 him to get through his task. 
 
 ' I hope that no misfortune has come upon any of the family,' 
 said Lady Desmond, now beginning to think that there might be 
 misfortunes which would affect her own daughter more nearly 
 than the illness either of the_ baronet or of his wife. 
 
 ' Oh, I hope not !' said Clara, getting up and clasping her 
 hands. ' What is it, Herbert ? why don't you speak ?' And 
 coming round to him, she took hold of his arm. 
 
 ' Dearest Clara,' he said, looking at her with more tenderness 
 than had ever been usual with him, ' I think that you had 
 better leave us. I could tell it better to your mother alone.' 
 
 ' Do, Clara, love. Go, dearest, and we will call you by-and- 
 
 by.' 
 
 Clara moved away very slowly towards the door, and then she 
 turned round, ' If it is anything that makes you unhappy, 
 Herbert,' she Said, ' I must know it before you leave me.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ; either I or your mother — . You shall be told, 
 certainly.' 
 
 ! ' Yes, yes, you shall be told,' said the countess. ' And now 
 [go, my darling.' Thus dismissed, Clara did go, and betook 
 j herself to her own chamber. Had Owen had sorrows to tell her, 
 I he would have told them to herself; of that she was quite sure. 
 ''And now, Herbert, for heaven's sake what is it?' said the 
 countess, pale with terror. She was fully certain now lliat 
 something was to be spoken which would be calculated to inter- 
 fere with her daughter's prospects. 
 
 We all know the story which Herbert had to tell, and we 
 need not therefore again be present at the telling of it. Sitting 
 there, wet through, in Lady Desmond's drawing-room, he did 
 contrive to utter it all — the whole of it from the beginning to 
 the end, making it clearly to "be nnderstood that he was no 
 longer Fitzgerald of Castle Eichmond, but a nameless, penniless 
 outcast, without the hope of portion or position, doomed from 
 henceforth to earn his bread in the sweat of his brow — if only 
 he could be fortunate enough to find the means of earning it. 
 
 Nor did Lady Desmond once interrupt him in his story. She 
 Bat perfectly still, listening to him almost with unmoved face; 
 
COMPOKTLESh. - 263 
 
 Slie was too wise to let him know what the instant working of 
 aer mind might be before she had made her own fixed resolve ; 
 and she had conceived the truth much before he had completed 
 the telling of it. We generally use three times the number of 
 words which are necessary for the purpose which we have in 
 hand ; but had he used six times the number, she would not 
 have interrupted him. It was good in him to give her this time I 
 to determine in what tone and with what words she -wouldi 
 speak, when speaking on her part should become absolutely' 
 necessary. ' And now,' he concluded by saying — and at this 
 time he was standing up on the rug — ' you know it all. Lady 
 Desmond. It wiU perhaps be best that Clara should learn it 
 from you.' 
 
 He had said not a word of giving up his pretensions to Lady 
 Clara's hand ; but then neither had he in any way hinted that 
 the match should, in his opinion, be regarded as unbroken. He 
 had not spoken of his sorrow at bringing down all this poverty 
 on his wife ; and surely he would have so spoken had he 
 thought their engagement was still valid ; but then he had not 
 himself pointed out that the engagement must necessarily be 
 broken, as, in Lady Desmond's opinion, he certainly should 
 have done. 
 
 ' Yes,' said she, in a cold, low, meaningless voice — ^in a voice 
 that told nothing by its tones — ' Lady Clara had better hear it 
 from me.' But in the title which she gave her daughter, 
 Herbert instantly read his doom. He, however, remained 
 silent. It was for the cormtess now to speak. 
 
 'But it is possible it may not be true,' she said, speaking 
 almost in a whisper, looking, not into his face, but by him, at 
 the fire. 
 
 ' It is possible ;- but so barely possible, that I did not think it 
 right to keep the matter from you any longer.' 
 
 ' It would have been very wrong — very wicked, I may say,' 
 said the countess. 
 
 ' It is only two days since I knew anything of it myself,' said 
 he, vindicating himself. 
 
 ' You were of course boimd to let me know immediately,' she 
 said, harshly. 
 
 ' And I have .let you know immediately. Lady Desmond.' 
 And then they were both again silent for a while. 
 
 ' And Mr. Prendergast thinks there is no doubt ?' she asked. 
 
 ' None,' said Herbert, very decidedly. 
 
 ' And he has told your cousin Owen ?' 
 
 'He did so yesterday; and by this time ray poor mothei 
 knows it also.' And then there was another period of silence. 
 
i64 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 DiiriDg the whole time Lady Desmond had uttered no one 
 word of Gondolence— ^not a syllable of commiseration for all the 
 sufferings that bad come upon Herbert and his family ; and h« 
 was beginning to hate her for her harshness. The tenor of hei 
 countenance had become hard ; and she received all his words 
 as a judge might have taken them, merely wanting evidence 
 before he pronounced his verdict. The evidence she was begin- 
 ning to think sufScient, and there could be no doubt as to her 
 verdict. After what she had heard, a match between Herbert 
 Fitzgerald and her daughter would be out of the question. ' It 
 is very dreadful,' she said, thinking only of her own child, and 
 absolutely shivering at the danger which had been incurred. 
 
 ' It is very dreadful,' said Herbert, shivering also; It was 
 almost incredible to him that his great sorrow should be re- 
 ceived in such a way by one who had professed to be so dear a 
 friend to him. 
 
 ' And what do you propose to do, Mr. Fitzgerald ?' said the 
 countess. 
 
 ' "What do I propose ?' he said, repeating her words. * Hitherto 
 I have had neither time nor heart to propose anything. Such 
 a misfortune as that which I have told you does not break upon 
 a man without disturbing for a while his power of resolving. 
 I have thought so much of my mother, and of Clara, since Mr. 
 Prendergast told me all this, that — that^ — that — ' And then a 
 slight gurgling struggle fell upon his throat and hindered him 
 from speaking. He did not quite sob out, and he determined 
 that he would not do so. If she could be so harsh and strong, 
 he would be harsh and strong also. 
 
 And again Lady Desmond sat silent, still thinking how she 
 had better speak and act. After all she was not so cruel nor so 
 bad as Herbert Fitzgerald thought her. What had the Fitz- 
 geralds done for her that she should sorrow for their sorrows ? 
 I She had lived there, in that old ugly barrack, long desolate, full 
 of dreary wretchedness and poverty, and Lady Fitzgerlad in her 
 prosperity had never come to her to soften the hardness of her 
 life. She had come over to Ireland a countess, and a countess 
 she had been, proud enough at first in her little glory — too 
 proud, no doubt ; and proud enough afterwards in her loneliness 
 and poverty; and there she had lived — alone. Whether the 
 fault had been her own or no, she owed little to the kindness of 
 any one ; for no one had done aught to relieve her bitterness, 
 ^nd then her weak puny child had grown up in the same shade, 
 and was now a lovely woman, gifted with high birth, and that 
 special pricelsss beauty which high blood so often gives. There 
 was a prize now within the walls of that old barrack — some- 
 
COMPOBTLESS. 265 
 
 thing to De won — something for which a man would strive, and 
 a mother smile that her son might win it. And now Lady Fitz- 
 gerald had come to her. She had never complained of this, she 
 said to herself. The bargain between Clara Desmond and 
 Herbert Fitzgerald had been good for both of them, and let ft be 
 made and settled as a bargain. Young Herbert Fitzgerald had 
 money and position ; her daughter had beauty and high blood. 
 Let it be a bargain. But in all this there was nothing to make 
 her love that rich prosperous family at Castle Eichmond. There 
 are those whose nature it is to love new-found friends at a few 
 hours' warning, but the Countess of Desmond was not one of 
 them. The bargain had been made, and her daughter would 
 have been able to perform her part of it. She was still able to 
 give that which she had stipulated to give. But Herbert Fitz-, 
 gerald was now a bankrupt, and could give nothing ! Would it 
 not have been madness to suppose that the bargain should still 
 hold good ? 
 
 One person and one only had come to her at Desmond Court, 
 whose coming had been a solace to her weariness. Of all those 
 among whom she had lived in cold desolateness for so many 
 years, one only had got near her heart. There had been but ' 
 one Irish voice that she had cared to hear ; and the owner of / 
 that voice had loved her child instead of loving her. 
 
 And she had borne that wretchedness too, if not well, at least 
 bravely. True she had separated that lover from her daughter ; 
 but the circumstances of both had made it right for her, as 
 a mother, to do so. What mother, circumstanced as she had 
 been, would have given her girl to Owen Fitzgerald ? So she 
 had banished from the house the only voice that sounded sweetly 
 in her ears, and again she had been alone. 
 
 And then, perhaps, thoughts had come to her, when Herbert 
 Fitzgerald was frequent about the place, a rich and thriving 
 wooer, that Owen might come again to Desmond Court, when 
 Clara had gone to Castle Eichmond. Years were stealing over 
 her. Ah, yes. She knew 'that full well. All her youth and 
 the pride of her days she had given up for that countess-ship 
 which she now wore so gloomily — given up for pieces of gold 
 which had turned to stone and slate and dirt within her grasp. 
 Years, alas, were fast stealing over her ! But nevertheless she 
 had something to give. Her woman's beauty was not all faded ; 
 and she had a heart which was as yet virgin — which had 
 hitherto loved no other man. Might not that suffice to cover a few 
 years, seeing that in return she wanted nothing but love? And 
 so she had thought, lingering over h.er hopes, while Herbert was 
 there at hie wooing. 
 
2eb CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 It may be imagined witli what feelings at her heart she had 
 ■ seen and listened to the frantic attempt made by Owen to get 
 , back his childish love. But that too she had borne, bravely, if 
 not well. It had not angered her that her child was loved by 
 the only man she had ever loved herself. She had stroked her 
 daughter's hair that day, and kissed her cheek, and bade her be 
 happy with her better, richer lover. And had she not been 
 right in this ? Nor had she been angry even with Owen. She 
 could forgive him all, because she loved him. But might there 
 not even yet be a chance for her when Clara should in very 
 truth have gone to Castle Eichmond ? 
 
 But now ! How was she to think about all this now ? And 
 thinking of these things, how was . it possible that she should 
 Lave heart left to feel for the miseries of Lady Fitzgerald? 
 With all her miseries would not Lady Fitzgerald still be more 
 - fortunate than she ? Let come what might. Lady Fitzgerald 
 had had a life of prosperity and love. No ; she could not think 
 of Lady Fitzgerald, nor of Herbert: she could only think of 
 Owen Fitzgerald, of her daughter, and of herself. 
 
 He, Owen, was now the heir to Castle Eichmond, and would, 
 
 as far as she could learn, soon become the actual possessor. He, 
 
 who had been cast forth from Desmond Court as too poor and 
 
 contemptible in the world's eye to be her daughter's suitor, 
 
 would become the rich inheritor of all those broad acres, and 
 
 \ that old coveted family honour. And this Owen still loved her 
 
 ) daughter — loved her not as Herbert did, with a quiet, gentle- 
 
 / man-like, every-day attachment, but with the old, true, passion- 
 
 ', ate love of which she had read in books, and dreamed herself, 
 
 / before she had. sold herself to be a countess. That Owen did so 
 
 ' love her daughter, she was very sure. And then, as to her 
 
 daughter ; that she did not still love this new heir in her heart 
 
 of hearts — of that the mother was by no means sure. That her 
 
 child had chosen the better part in choosing money and a 
 
 title, she had not doubted ; and that having so chosen Clara 
 
 would be happy, — of that also she did not doubt. Clara 'was 
 
 young, she would say, and her heart in a few months would 
 
 follow her hand. 
 
 But now ! How was she to decide, sitting there with Herber* 
 Fitzgerald before her, gloomy as death, cold, shivering, and 
 muddy, telling of his own disasters with no more courage than a 
 whipped dog? As she looked at him she declared to herself 
 twenty times in half a second that he had not about him a tithe 
 of the manhood of his cousin Owen. Women love a bold front, 
 and a voice that will never own its master to have been beaten 
 in the world's fight. Had Owen came there with such a story, 
 
COMFORTLESS. 267 
 
 he would have claimed his right boldly to the lady's hand, in 
 spite of all that the world had done to him. 
 
 ' Let her have him,' said Lady Desmond to herself ; and the 
 struggle within her bosom was made and over. No wonder that | 
 Herbert, looking into her face for pity, should find that she was 
 harsh and cruel. She had been sacrificing herself, and had com- 
 pleted the sacrifice. Owen Fitzgerald, the heir to Castle Eioh- ; 
 mond, Sir Owen as he would soon be, should have her daughter. 
 They two, at any rate, should be happy. And she — she would 
 live there at Desmond Court, lonely as she had ever lived, 
 "While all this was passing through her mind, she hardly thought 
 of Herbert and his sorrows. That he must be given up and 
 abajidoned, and left to make what best fight he could by him- 
 self; as to that how was it possible that she as a mother should 
 have any doubt ? 
 
 And yet it was a pity — a thousand pities. Herbert Fitz- 
 gerald, with his domestic virtues, his industry and thorough 
 respectability, ■ would so exactly have suited Clara's taste and 
 mode of life — had he only continued to be the heir of Castle 
 Eichmond. She and Owen would not enter upon the world 
 together with nearly the same fair chance of happiness. Who 
 could prophesy to what Owen might be led with his passionate 
 impulses, his strong will, his unbridled temper, and his love of 
 pleasure ? That he was noble-hearted, affectionate, brave, and 
 tender in his inmost spirit, Lady Desmond was very sure ; but 
 were such the qualities which would make her daughter happy ? 
 When Clara should come to know her future lord as Clara's 
 mother knew him, would Clara love him and worship him as 
 her mother did ? The mother believed that Clara had not in her 
 bosom heart enough for such a love. But then, as I have said 
 before, the motlier did not know the daughter. 
 
 ' You say that you will break all this to Clara,' said Herbert, 
 having during this silence turned over some of his thoughts also 
 in his mind. ' If so I may as well leave you now. You can 
 imagine that I am anxious to get back to my mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, it will be better that I should tell her. It is very sad, 
 very sad, very sad indeed.' 
 
 ' Yes ; it is a hard load for a man to bear,' he answered, 
 speaking very, very slowly. ' But for myself I think I can bear 
 it, if—' 
 
 ' If what ?' asked the countess. 
 
 ' If Clara can bear it.' 
 
 And now it was necessary that Lady Desmond should speak 
 out. She did not mean to be unnecessarily harsh ; but she did 
 mean to be decided, and as she spoke her face became stern and 
 
268 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ill-favoured. ' That Clara will he terribly distressed,' she said 
 ' terribly, terribly distressed,' repeating her words with grea' 
 emphasis, ' of that I am quite sure. She is very young, anc 
 will,- 1 hope, in time get over it. And then too I think she if 
 one whose feelings, young as she is, have never conquered hei 
 judgment. Therefore I do believe tha,t, with God's mercy, shi 
 will be able to bear it. But, Mr. Fitzgerald — ' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' Of course you feel with me — and I am sure that with youi 
 excellent judgment it is a thing of course — that everything 
 must be over between you and Lady Clara.' And then she 
 came to a full stop as though all had been said that could be con- 
 sidered necessary. 
 
 Herbert did not answer at once, but stood there shivering and 
 shaking in his misery. He was all but overcome by the chill ol 
 his wet garments ; and though he struggled to throw off the 
 dead feeling of utter cold which struck him to the heart, he was 
 quite unable to master it. "He could hardly forgive himself thai 
 on such an occasion he should have been so conquered bj 
 his own outer feelings, but now he could not help himself. He 
 was weak with hunger too — ^though he did not know it, for he 
 bad hardly eaten food that day, and was nearly exhausted with 
 the unaccustomed amount of hard exercise which he had taken. 
 He was moreover thoroughly wet through, and heavy laden with 
 the mud of the road. It was no wonder that Lady Desmond had 
 said to herself that he looked like a whipped dog. 
 
 ' That must be as Lady Clara shall decide,' he said at last, 
 barely uttering the words through his chattering teeth. 
 
 ' It must be as I say,' said the countess, firmly; ' whether bj 
 her decision or by yours — or if necessary by mine. But if your 
 feelings are, as I take them to be, those of a man of honour, you 
 will not leave it to me or to her. What ! now that you have the 
 world to struggle with, would you seek to drag her down into 
 the struggle ?' 
 
 ' Our union was to be for better or worse. I would have 
 given her all the better, and — ■' 
 
 ' Yes ; and had there been a union she would have bravely 
 borne her part in sharing the worst. But who ought to be so 
 thankful as you that this truth has broken upon you before you 
 had clogged yourself with a wife of high birth but without 
 fortun6 ? Alone, a man educated as you'are, with your talents, 
 may face the world without fearing anything. But how could 
 you make your way now if my daughter were your wife? 
 When you think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald, you will cease to wish 
 for if 
 
COMFORTLESS. 269 
 
 'Never; I have given my heart to your daughter and 1 
 cannot take back the gift. She has accepted it, and she cannot 
 return it.' 
 
 ' And what would you have her do ?' Lady Desmond asked, 
 with anger and almost passion in her voice. 
 
 ' Wait — as I must wait,' said Herbert. , ' That will be her 
 duty, as I believe it will also be her wish.' 
 
 ' Yes, and wear out her young heart here in solitude for the 
 next ten years, and then learn, when her beauty and her youth 
 are gone — . But no, Mr. Fitzgerald ; I will not allow myself 
 to contemplate such a prospect either for her or for you. Under 
 the lamentable circumstances which you have now told me it is 
 imperative that this match should be broken off. Ask your 
 own mother and hear what she will say. And if you are a man 
 you will not throw upon my poor child the hard task of declar- 
 ing that it must be so. You, by your calamity, are unable to 
 perform your contract with her ; and it is for you to annoimce 
 that that contract is therefore over.' 
 
 Herbert in his present state was unable to argue with Lady 
 Desmond. He had in his brain, and mind, and heart, and soul 
 — at least so he said to himself afterwards, having perhaps but a 
 loose idea of the different functions of these four different pro- 
 perties — ^a thorough conviction that as he and Clara had sworn 
 to each other that for life they would live together and love 
 each other, no misfortune to either of them could justify the 
 other in breaking that oath ; — could even justify him in breaking, 
 it, though he was the one on whom misfortune had fallen. He, 
 no doubt, had first loved Clara for her beauty; but would. he 
 have ceased to love her, or have cast her from him, if, by God's 
 will, her beauty had perished and gone from her ? Would he 
 not have held her closer to his heart, and told her, with strong 
 comforting vows, that his love had now gone deeper than that ; 
 that they were already of the same bone, of the same flesh, of the 
 same family and hearthstone ? He knew himself in this, and 
 knew that he would have been proud so to do, and so to feel, — 
 that he would have cast from him with utter indignation any 
 who would have counselled him to do or to feel differently. 
 And why should Clara's heart be different from his ? 
 
 All this, 1 say, was his strong conviction. But, nevertheless, 
 her heart might be different. She might look on that engage- 
 ment of theirs with altogether other thoughts and other ideas ; 
 and if so his voice should neVer reproach her; — not his voice, 
 however his heart might do so. Such might be the case with 
 her, but he did not thiiik it ; and therefore he would not pro 
 noimce that decision which Clara's mother expected from him. 
 
270 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' When yon have told her of this, I suppose I may bo alloweS 
 - to see her,' he said, avoiding the direct proposition which Ladj 
 Desmond had made to him. 
 
 ' Allowed to see her ?' said Lady Desmond, now also in her 
 turn speaking very slowly. ' I cannot answer that question as 
 yet ; not quite immediately, I should say. But if you will 
 leave the matter in my hands, I will write to you, if not to- 
 morrow, then the next day.' 
 
 ' I would sooner that she should write.' 
 
 ' I cannot promise that — I do not know how far her good 
 sense and strength may support her under this affliction. That 
 she will suffer terribly, on your account as well as on her own, 
 you may be quite sure.' And then, again, there was a pause of 
 some moments. 
 
 ' I at any rate shall write to her,' he tlien said, ' and shall tell 
 her that I expect her to see me. Her will in this matter shall 
 be my will. If she thinks that her misery will be greater in 
 being engaged to a poor man, than, — than in relinquishing her 
 love, she shall hear no word from me to overpersuade her. But, 
 Lady Desmond, I will say nothing that shall authorize her to 
 think that she is given up by me, till I have in some way 
 learned from herself what her own feelings are. And now I 
 will say good-bye to you.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' said the countess, thinking that it might be as 
 well that the interview should be ended. ' But, Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 you are very wet ; and I fear that you are very cold. You had 
 better take something before you go.' Countess as she was she 
 had no carriage in which she could send him home ; no horse 
 even on which he could ride. ' Nothing, thank you. Lady 
 Desmond,' he said ; and so, without offering her the courtesy of 
 his hand, he walked out of the room. 
 
 He was very angry with her, as he tried to make the blood run 
 quicker in his veins by hurrying down the avenue into the road 
 at his quickest .pace. So angry with her, that for a while, in his 
 indignation, he almost forgot his father and his mother and his 
 own family tragedy. That she should have wished to save her 
 daughter from such a marriage might have been natural ; but 
 that she should have treated him so coldly, so harshly — without 
 one spark of love or pity, — him, who to her had been so loyal 
 during his courtship of her daughter ! It was almost incredible 
 to him. Was not his story one that would have melted the 
 heart of a stranger — at which men would weep? He himself 
 had seen tears in the eyes of that dry time-worn world-used 
 London lawyer, as the full depli of the calamity had forced itself 
 unon his heart. Yes. Mr. PreUderffaat had not ho.pin nW« to 
 
COMFOETED. 271 
 
 repress his tears when lie told the tale ; but Lady Desmond had 
 shed no tears when the tale had been told to her. No soft 
 woman's message had been sent to the afflicted mother on. whom 
 it had pleased God to allow so heavy a hand to fall. No word. of 
 tenderness had been uttered for the sinking father. There had 
 been no feeling for the household which was to have been so 
 nearly linked with her own. No. Looking round with greedy 
 eyes for wealth for her daughter, Lady Desmond had found a 
 match that suited her. Now that match no longer suited her 
 greed, and she could throw from her without a struggle to her 
 feelings the suitor that was now poor, and the famUy of the 
 suitor that was now neither grand nor powerful. 
 
 And then too he felt angry with Clara, though he knew that as 
 yet, at any rate, he had no cause. In spite of what he had said 
 and felt, he would imagine to himself that she also would be cold 
 and untrue. ' Let her go,' he said to himself. ' Love is worth 
 nothing — nothing if it does not believe itself to be of more worth 
 than everything beside. If she does not love me now in my 
 misery — if she would not choose me now for her husband — her 
 love has never been worthy the name. Love that has no faith 
 in itself, that does not value itself above all worldly things, is 
 nothing. If it be not so with her, let her go back to him.' 
 
 It may easily be understood who was the him. And then 
 Herbert walked on so rapidly that at length his strength almost 
 failed him, and in his exiaustion he had more than once to lean 
 against a gate on the road-side. With difficulty at last he got 
 home, and dragged himself up the long avenue to the front door. 
 Even yet he was not warm through to his heart, and he felt as 
 he entered the house that he was quite unfitted for the work 
 which he might yet have to do before he could go to his bed. 
 
 CHAPTEB XXVII. 
 
 COMFOETED. 
 
 When Herbert Fitzgerald got back to Castle Eichmond it was 
 nearly dark. He opened the hall door without ringing the bell, 
 and walking at once into the dining-room, threw himself into a 
 large leathern chair which always stood near the fire-place. 
 There was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and he drew him- 
 self close to it, putting his wet feet up on to the fender, thinking 
 that he would at any rate warm himself before he went in among 
 any of the family. The room, with its deep red cui-tains and 
 
VSr^ CASTLE RICHMOND 
 
 ruby-embossed paper, was almost dark, and ke knew tbat he 
 might remain there unseen and nnnoticed for the next half hour 
 If he ^could only get a glass of wine ! He tried the cellaret, 
 which was as often open as locked, bist now nnfortunately it was 
 closed. In such a case it was impossible to say whether the 
 butler had the key or Aunt Letty ; so he sat himself down with- 
 out that luxury. 
 
 By this time, as he well knew, all would have been told to his 
 mother, and his first duty would be to go to her — to go to her 
 and comfort her, if comfort might be possible, by telling her that 
 he could bear it all ; that as far as he was concerned title and 
 wealth and a proud name were as nothing to him in comparison 
 with his mother's love. In whatever guise he may have appeared 
 before Lady, Desmond, he would not go to his mother with a 
 fainting heart. She should not hear his teeth chatter, nor see 
 his limbs shake. So -he sat himseK down there that he migh; 
 become warm, and in five minutes he was fast asleep. 
 
 How long he slept he did not know ; not very long, probably ; 
 but when he awoke it was quite dark. He gazed at the fire for a 
 moment, bethought himself of where he was and why, shook 
 himself to get rid of his slumber, and then roused himself in his 
 chair. As he did so a soft sweet voice close to his shoulder spoke 
 to him. ' Herbert,' it said, ' are you awake ?' And he found 
 that his mother, seated by his side on a low stool, had beer 
 watching him in his sleep. 
 
 ' Mother !' he exclaimed. 
 
 '' Herbert, my child, my son !' And the mother and son were 
 fast locked in each other's arms. 
 
 He had sat down there thinking how he would go to his 
 mother and offer her solace in her sorrow ; how he would bid her 
 be of good cheer, and encourage her to bear the world as the 
 world had now fallen to her lot. He had pictured to himself that 
 he would find her slicking in despair, and had promised himself 
 that with his vows, his kisses, and his prayers, he would bring 
 her back to her self-confidence, and induce her to acknowledge 
 that God's mercy was yet good to her. But now, on awakening, 
 he discovered that she had been tending him in his misery, and 
 ' watching him while he slept, that she might comfort him vpith 
 her caresses the moment that he awoke to the remembrance of his 
 misfortunes. 
 
 ' Herbert, Herbert, my son, my son ! ' she said again, as she 
 pressed him close in her arms. 
 Mother, has he told you ?' 
 
 Yes, she had learned it all; but hardly more than she had 
 known before ; or, at any rate, not more than she had expected, 
 
COiaFORTED. 273 
 
 As she now told him, for many days past she had felt that this 
 trouble which had fallen upon his father must have come from 
 the circumstances of their marriage. And she would have spoken 
 out, she said, when the idea became clear to her, had she not 
 then beeij told that Mr. Prendergast had been invited to come 
 thither from London. Then she knew that she had better remain 
 silent, at any rate till his visit had been made. 
 
 And Herbert again sat in the chair, and his mother crouched, 
 or almost kneeled, on the cushion at his knee. ' Dearest, dearest, 
 dearest mother,' he said, as he supported ,her head against his 
 shoulder, ' we must love each other now more than ever we have 
 loved.' 
 
 ' And you forgive us, Herbert, for all that we have done tc 
 you?' 
 
 ' Mother, if you speak in that way to me you will kill mo. 
 My darling, darling mother !' 
 
 There was but little more said between them upon the matter 
 — but little more, at least, in words ; but there was an infinity of 
 Caresses, and deep — deep assurances of undying love and confi- 
 dence. And then she asked him about his bride, and he told her 
 where he had been, and what had happened. ' You must not 
 claim her, Herbert,' she said to him. 'God is good, and will 
 teach you to bear even that also.' 
 
 ' Must I not ?' he asked, with a sadly plaintive voice. 
 ' iSTo, my chUd. You invited her to share your prosperity, and 
 would it be just — ' 
 
 ' But, mother, if she wills it ?' 
 
 ' It is for you to give her back her troth, then leave it to time 
 and her own heai-t.' 
 
 ' But if she love me, mother, she will not take back her troth. 
 Would I take back hers because she was in sorrow ?' 
 
 ' Men and women, Herbert, are different. The oak cares not 
 whether the creeper which hangs to it be weak or strong. If it 
 be weak the oak can give it strength. But the staff which has 
 to support the creeper must needs have strength of its own.' 
 
 He made no further answer to her, but understood that he 
 must do as she bade him. He understood now also, without 
 many arguments within himself, that he had no right to expect 
 from Clara Desmond that adherence to him and his misfortunes 
 which he would have owed to her had she been unfortunate. 
 He understood this now ; but still he hoped. ' Two hearts that 
 have once become as one cannot be separated,' he said tc himself 
 that night, as he resolved that it was his duty to write to her^ 
 unconditionally returning to her her pledges. 
 
 ' But, Herbert, what a state you are in !' said Lady Fitzgerald 
 
274 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 as tlie flame of the coal glimmering out, threw a faint light u 
 his clothes. 
 
 ' Yes, mother ; I have been walking.' 
 
 ' And you a];e wet !' 
 
 ' I am nearly dry now. I was wet. But, mother, 1 am tired 
 and fagged. It would do me good if I coula get a glass of wine. 
 
 She rang the hell, and gave her orders calmly — though every 
 servant in the house now knew the whole truth, — and then b't a 
 candle herself, and looked at him. ' My child, what have you 
 done to yourself? Oh, Herbert, you will be ill! ' And then, 
 with his arm round her waist, she took him up to her own room, 
 and sat by him while he took off his muddy boots and clammy 
 socks, and made him hot drinks, and tended him as she had done 
 when he was a child. And yet she had that day heard of her 
 great ruin ! With truth, indeed, had Mr. Prendergast said that 
 she was made of more enduring material than Sir Thomas. 
 
 And she endeavoured to persuade him to go to Ids bed; but 
 in this he would not listen to her. He must, he said, see his 
 father that night. You have been with him, mjther, since— 
 since — .' 
 
 ' Oh, yes ; directly after Mr. Prendergast left n?e.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' He cried like a child, Herbert. We both sobbed together 
 like two children. It was very piteous. But 'i think I left him 
 better than he has been. He knows now tha'j those men cannot 
 come again to harass him.' 
 
 Herbert gnashed his teeth, and clenched his fist as he thought 
 of them ; but he could not speak of them, or mention their name 
 before his mother. What must her thoughts be, as she re- 
 membered that elder man and looked back to her early child 
 hood 1 
 
 ' He is very weak,' she went on to say : ' almost helplessly 
 weak now, and does not seem to think of leaving his bed. I 
 have begged hinrto let me send to Dublin for- Sir Henry ; but ho 
 says that nothing ails him.' 
 
 ' And who is with him now, mother ?" 
 
 ' The girls are both there.' 
 
 • And Mr. Prendergast ?' 
 
 Lady Fitzgerald then explained to him, that Mr. Prendergast 
 had returned to Dublin that afternoon, starting twenty -four 
 hours earlier than he intended, — or, at any rate, than he had said 
 that he intended. Having done his work there, he had felt that 
 he would now only be in the way. And, moreover, though his 
 work was done at Castle Eichmond, other work in the same 
 matter had still to be done in England. Mr. Prendergast had 
 
COMFORTED. 27r) 
 
 very little doubt as to tlie truth, of Mollett's story ; — indeed wo 
 may say he had no doubt ; otherwise he would hardly have made 
 it known to all that world round Castle Eichmond. But never- 
 theless it behoved him thoroughly to sift the matter. He felt 
 tolerably sure that he should find MoUett in London ; and 
 whether he did or no, he should be able to identify, or not to 
 identify, that scoundrel with the Mr. Talbot who had hired 
 Chevy Chase Lodge, in Dorsetshire, and who had undoubtedly 
 married poor Mary Waiuwright. 
 
 ' He left a kind message for. you,' said Lady Fitzgerald. — -Hy 
 readers must excuse me if I still call her Lady Fitzgerald, for I 
 cannot bring my pen to the use of any other name. And it was 
 so also with the dependents and neighbours of Castle Eichmond 
 when the time came that the poor lady felt that she was bound 
 jpublicly to drop her title. It was not in her power to drop it ; 
 no effort that she could make would induce those around her to 
 call her by another name. 
 
 ' He bade me say,' she continued, ' that if your future course of 
 life should take you to London, you are to go to him, and look 
 to him as another father. He has no child of his own,' he said 
 ' and you shall be to him as a son.' 
 
 ' I will be no one's son but yours, — yours and my father's,' he 
 said, again embracing her. 
 
 And then, when, under his mother's eye, he had eaten and 
 drunk and made himself warm, he did go to his father and found 
 both his sisters sitting there-. They came and clusterec" jund 
 him, taking hold of his hands and looldng up into his face, loving 
 him, and pitying him, and caressing him with their eyes ; but 
 standing there by their father's bed, they said little or nothing. 
 Nor did Sir Thomas say much; — except this, indeed, that, just 
 as Herbert was leaving him, he declared with a faint voice that 
 henceforth his son should be master of that house, and the dis- 
 poser of that property — ' As long as I live ! ' he exclaimed with 
 his weak voice ; ' as long as I live !' 
 
 ' No, father ; not so.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes ! as long as I live. It will be little that you will 
 have, even so — very little. But so it shall be as long as I live.' 
 
 Very little indeed, poor man, for, alas ! his days were numbered. 
 
 And then, when Herbert left the room, Bmmeline followed 
 him. She had ever been his dearest sister, and now she longed 
 to be with him that she might tell him how she loved him, and 
 comfort him with her tears. And Clara too — Clara whom she 
 Lad ever welcomed as a sister ! — she must learn now how Clara 
 would behavo, for she had already made herself sure that hei 
 brother had been at Desmond Court, the herald of his own ruin. 
 
276 . dASTLR EIOHMOND. 
 
 ' May I come with you, Herbert ?' she asked, closing in round 
 him and getting under his arm. How could he refuse her ? So 
 they went together and sat over a fire in a small room that was 
 sacred to her and her sister, and there, with many sobs- on her 
 part and much would-be brave contempt of poverty on his, they 
 talked over the altered world as it now showed itself before them. 
 . ' And you did not see her ?'. she asked, when with many efforts 
 she had brought the subject round to Clara Desmond and her 
 brother's walk to Desmond Court. 
 
 ' No ; she left the room at my own bidding. 1 could not have 
 told it myself to her.' 
 
 ' And you cannot know then what she would say ?' 
 
 ' ISTo, I cannot know wl^at she would say ; but I know now 
 what I must say myself. All that is over, Emmeline. I cannot 
 ask her to marry a beggar.' 
 
 ' Ask her ; no ! there will be no need of asking her.; she has 
 already given you her promise. You do not think that she will 
 desert you ? you do not wish it ?' 
 
 Herein were contained two distinct questions, the latter of 
 which Herbert did not care to answer. ' I shall not call it 
 desertion,' he said ; ' indeed the proposal will come from me. 
 I shall write to her, telling her that she need think about me no 
 longer. Only that I am so weary I would do it now.' 
 
 - And how will she answer you ? If she is the Clara that I 
 take^her for she will throw your proposal back into your face. 
 She vvii.. tell you that it is not in your power to reject her now. 
 She will swear to you, that let your words be what they may, 
 -she will think of you — more now than she has ever thought in 
 better days. She will tell you of her love in words that she 
 could not use before. I know she wiR. I know that she is good, 
 and true, and honest, and generous. Oh, I should die if I 
 thought she were false ! But, Herbert, I am sure that she is 
 true. You can write your letter, and we shall see.' 
 
 Herbert, with wise arguments learned from his mother, 
 reasoned with his sister, explaining to her that Clara was now 
 hy no means bound to cling to him ; but as he spoke them his 
 arm fastened itself closely round his sister's waist, for the words 
 which she uttered with so much energy were comfortable to 
 him. 
 
 And then, seated there, before he moved from the room, he 
 made her ^ring him pens, ink, and paper, and he wrote his 
 letter to Clara Desmond. She would fain have stayed with him 
 while he did so, sitting at his feet, and looking into his face, and 
 trying to encourage his hope as to what Clara's answer might 
 be : but this he would uol allow ; so she went atrain to hfii'; 
 
COMFORTED. 277 
 
 fathei's room, haying succeeded in obtaining a promise that 
 Clara's answer should be shown to her. And the letter, when it 
 was written, copied, and recopied, ran as follows : — 
 
 ' Castle Eichmond, night. 
 
 ' My dearest Clara,' It was with great difficulty that he 
 
 could satisfy himself with that, or indeed with any other mode 
 of commencement. In the short little love-notes which had 
 hitherto gone from him, sent from house to house, he had written 
 to her with appellations of endearment of his own— as all lovers 
 do ; and as all lovers seem to think that no lovers have done 
 before themselves — with appellations which are so sweet to 
 those who write, and so musical to those who read, but which 
 sound so ludicrous when barbarously made public in hideous law 
 courts by brazen-browed lawyers with mercenary tongues. In 
 this way only had he written, and each of these sweet silly songs 
 Df love had been as full of honey as words could make it. But 
 he had never yet written to her, on a full sheet of paper, a 
 sensible positive letter containing thoughts and facts, as men do 
 write to women and women also to men, when the lollypops and 
 candied sugar-drops of early love have passed away. Now he was 
 to write his first serious letter to her, — and probably his last,— 
 and it was with difficulty that he could get himself over the iijst 
 three words ; but there they were decided on at last. 
 
 • My dearest Clara, 
 
 ' Before you get this your mother vrill have told you all 
 ihat which I could not bring myself to speak out yesterday, as 
 long as you were in the room. I am sure you will imderstand 
 now why I begged you to gQ away, and will not think the worse 
 of me for doing so. You now know the whole truth, and I am 
 sure that you will feel for us all here. 
 
 ' Having thought a good deal upon the matter, chiefly during 
 my walk home from Desmond Court, and indeed since I have 
 been at home, I have come to the resolution that everything be- 
 ^ween us must be over. It would be unmanly in me to wish to 
 ruin you because I myself am ruined. Our engagement was, of 
 course, made on the presumption that I should inherit my father's 
 estate ; as it is I shall not do so, and therefore I beg that you 
 will regard ihat engagement as at an end. Of my own love for 
 you I will say nothing. But I know that you have loved me 
 truly, and that all this, therefore, will cause you great grief. Tt 
 is better, however, that it should be so, than that I should seek 
 to hold you to a promise which was made iinder such different 
 circumstances. 
 
'278 CASTLE RICHMOND, 
 
 ' You ■will, of course, show this letter to your mother. She, at 
 any rate, will approve of what I am now doing ; an& so will you 
 when you allow yourself to consider it oahnly. 
 * ' We have not known each other so long that there is much 
 for us to give back to each other. If you do not think it wrong 
 I should like still to keep that look of your hair, to remind me of 
 my first love — and, as I think, my only one. And you, I hope, 
 will not he afraid to have near you the one little present that I 
 made you. 
 
 'And now, dearest Clara, good-bye. Let us always think, 
 each of the other, as of a very dear friend. May God bless you, 
 and preserve you, and make you happy. 
 
 ' Yours, with sincere affection, 
 
 ' Heebeet Fitzgerald.' 
 
 This, when at last he had succeeded in wriliing it, he read 
 over and over again; but on each occasion he said to himself 
 -that it was cold and' passionless, stilted and unmeaning. It by 
 no means pleased him, and seemed as though it could bring but 
 one answer — a cold acquiescence in the proposal which he so 
 coldly made. But yet he knew not how to improve it. And 
 aft( r all it was a true exposition of that which he had determined 
 to say. All the world — her world and his world — would think 
 it better that they should part ; and let the struggle cost him 
 what it would, he would teach himself to wish that it might be 
 so — if not for his own sake, then for hers. So he fastened the 
 letter, and taking it with him determined to send it over, so that 
 it should reach Clara quite early on the following morning. 
 
 ' And then having once more visited his father, and once more 
 kissed his mother, he betook himself to bed. It had been with 
 him one of those days which seem to pass away without reference 
 to usual hours and periods. It had been long dark, and he 
 seemed to have been hanging about the house, doing nothir^ and 
 aiding hobody, till he was weary of himself. So he went off to 
 bed, almost wondering, as he bethought hipaself of what had 
 happened to him within the last two days, that he was able to 
 bear the burden of his life so easily as he did. He betook him- 
 self to bed ; and with the letter close at his hand, so that he 
 might despatch it when he awoke, he was soon asleep. After 
 , all, that walk, terrible as it had been, was in the end serviceable 
 to him. 
 
 He slept without waking till the light of the~ February morning 
 was begining to dawn into his room, and then he was roused by 
 a servant knocking at the door. It was grievous enough, that 
 awaking to his sorrow after the pleasant dreams of the night. 
 
FOE A THAT AND A THAT. 279 
 
 'Here is a letter, Mr. Herbert, from Desmond Cc«rt,' 
 Eichaid. ' The boy as bronght it eays as how — ' 
 
 ' A letter from Desmond Octirt,' said Herbert, putting out Ms 
 hand greedily. 
 
 ' Yes, Mr. Herbert. The boy's been here this hour and better. 
 I wam't just up and about myself, or I wouldn't have let 'em 
 keep it from you, not half a minute.' 
 
 ' And where is he ? I have a letter to send to Desmond Court. 
 But never mind. Perhaps — ' 
 
 ' It's no good minding, for the gossoon's gone back any ways.' 
 And then Eiohard, having drawn the blind, and placed a little 
 table by the bed-head, left his young master to read the de- 
 spatch from Desmond Court. Herbert, till he saw the writing, 
 feared that it was from the countess ; but the letter was from 
 Clara. She also had thought good to write before she betook 
 herself to bed, and she had been earlier in despatching her mes- 
 senger. Here is her letter : 
 
 ' Dear Herbert, my own Herbert, 
 
 ' I have heard it all. But remember this ; nothing, 
 nothing, nothing can make any change between you and me. I 
 will hear of no arguments that are to separate us. I know before- 
 hand what you will say, but I will not regard it — not in the least. 
 I love you ten times the more for all your unliappiness ; and as 
 I would have shared your good fortune, I claim my right ■ to 
 share your bad fortune. Pray believe me, that nothing shall turn 
 me from this ; for I will not be given up. 
 
 ' Give my Isindest love to your dear, dear, dearest mother— 
 my mother, as she is and must be; and to my darling girls. I 
 do so wirJi I could be with them, and with you, my own Herbert 
 I cannot help writing in confusion, but I will explain all when 
 I see you. I have been so unhappy. 
 
 ' Your own faithful 
 ' Clara.' 
 
 Having read this, Herbert Fitzgerald, in spite of his affliction, 
 was comforted. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXVIII. 
 
 FOE a' that and a' that. 
 
 Herbert as he started from his bed with this letter in his hand 
 felt that he could yet hold up his head against all that the world 
 could do to him. How could he be really unhappy while he 
 possessed such an assurance of love as this, and while his mother . 
 
280 CASTLE ElOHMOND. 
 
 was able to give Mm so glorious an example of endttrance ? He 
 was not really unhappy. The low-spirited broken-hearted 
 wretchedness of the preceding day seemed to have departed 
 from him as he hurried on his clothes, and went off to his sister's 
 room that he might show his letter to Emmeline in accordance 
 with the promise he had mad© her. 
 
 , ' May 1 come in ?' he said, knocking at the door. ' I must 
 -come in, for I have something to show you.' But the two girls 
 were dressing and he could not be admitted. Emmeline, how- 
 ever, promised to come to him, and in about three minutes she 
 was out in the cold little sitting-room which adjoined their bed- 
 room, with her slippers on, and her dressing-gown wrapped round 
 her, an object presentable to no male eyes but those of her 
 brother. 
 
 ' Emmeline,' said he, ' I have got a letter this morning.' 
 
 'Not from Clara?' 
 
 ' Yes, from Clara. There ; you may read it ;' and he handed 
 her the precious epistle. 
 
 'But she could not have got your letter,' said Emmeline, 
 before she looked at the one in her hand. 
 
 ' Certainly not, for I have it here. I must write another now ; 
 but in truth I do not know what to say. I can be as generous 
 as she is.' 
 
 And then his sister read the letter. 'My own Clara!' she 
 exclaimed, as she saw what was the tenor of it. ' Did I not tell 
 you so, Herbert? I knew well what she would do and say. 
 Love you ten times better ! — of course she does. What honest 
 girl would not ? My own beautiful Clara, I knew I could 
 depend on her. I did not doubt her for one moment.' But in 
 _ this particular it must be acknowledged that Miss Emmeline 
 Fitzgerald hardly confined herself to the strictest veracity, for 
 she had lain awake half the night perplexed with doubt. What, 
 oh what, if Clara should be untrue ! Such had been the burden 
 of her doubting midnight thoughts. ' " I will not be given up," ' 
 she continued, quoting the letter. ' No ; of cours^ not. And I 
 tell you what, Herbert, you must not dare to talk of giving her, 
 up. Money and titles may be tossed to and fro, but not hearts. 
 How beautifully she speaks of dear mamma!' and now the tears 
 began to run down the young lady's cheeks. ' Oh, I do wish she 
 could be with us! My darling, darling, darling Clara! Un- 
 happy ? Yes : I am sure Lady Desmond will give her no peace. 
 But never mind. She will be true through it all ; and I said'sd 
 from the fijst.' And then she fell to crying,- and embracing her 
 brother, and declaring that nothing now r%uld make her alto- 
 gethor unhappy. 
 
FOB A THAT AND A THAT. 281 
 
 • But, Emmeline, you must not think that I shall take hei at 
 her word. It is very generous of her — ' 
 
 'Nonsense, Herbert!' And then there was another torrent of 
 eloquence, in answering which Herbert found that his arguments 
 were of very little efficacy. 
 
 AndJM)WL_we must go back to Desmond Court, and see under 
 what all but overwhelming difficulties poor Clara wrote her 
 affectionate letter. And in the first place it should be pointed 
 out how very wrong Herbert had been in going to Desmond 
 Court on foot, through the mud and rain. A man can hardly 
 bear himself nobly unless his outer aspect be in some degree 
 noble. It may be very sad, this having to admit that the tailor 
 does in great part make the man ; but such, I fear, is undoubtedly 
 the fact. Could the Chancellor look dignified on the woolsack, 
 if he had had an accident with his wig, or allowed his robes to be 
 torn or soiled ? Does not half the piety of a bishop reside in his 
 lawn sleeves, and all his meekness in his anti-virile apron ? Had 
 Jlerbert understood the world he would have had out the best" 
 pair~of horses standing in the Castle Eichmond stables, when 
 going to Desmond Court on such an errand. He would have 
 brushed his hair, and anointed himself; he would have clothed 
 himself in his rich Spanish cloak ; he would have seen that his 
 hat was brushed, and his boots spotless ; and then with all due 
 solemnity, but with head erect, he would have told his tale out 
 boldly. The countess would still have wished to be rid of him 
 hearing that he was a pauper ; but she would have lacked the 
 courage to turn him from the house as she had done. 
 
 But seeing how wobegone he was and wretched, how mean to 
 look at, and low in his outward presence, she had been able to 
 assume the mastery, and had kept it throughout the interview. 
 And having done this her opinion of his prowess naturally 
 became low, and she felt that he would have been unable to press 
 his cause against her. 
 
 For some time after he had departed, she sat alone in the room 
 in which she had received him. She expected every minute 
 that Clara would come down to her, still wishing however that 
 she might be left for a while alone. But Clara did not come, 
 and she was able to pursue her thoughts. 
 
 How very terrible was this tragedy that had fallen out in her 
 close neighbourhood ! That was the first thought that came to 
 her now that Herbert had left her. How terrible, overwhelming, 
 and fatal ! What calamity could fall upon a woman so calamitous 
 as this which had now overtaken that poor lady at Castle Eich- 
 mond ? Could she dive and support such a burden? Could she 
 
282 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 bear tlie eyes of people, when she knew the light in which shj 
 
 tmist he now regarded? To lose at one hlow, her name, hei 
 
 pride of place, her woman's rank and high respect! Could it be 
 
 possible that she would still live on ? It was thus that Ladj 
 
 Desmond thought ; and had any one told her that this degraded 
 
 mother would that very day come down from her room, and sit 
 
 watchful by her sleeping son, in order that she might-comfort 
 
 and encourage him when he awoke, she would not have found it 
 
 1 in he^r heart to believe such a marvel. But then Lady Desmond 
 
 j knew but one solace in her sorrows — had but one comfort in her 
 
 1 sad reflections. She was Countess of Desmond, and that was aU. 
 
 To Lady Fitzgerald had been vouchsafed other solace and other 
 
 I comforts. 
 
 And then, on one point the countess made herself fixed as fate, 
 by thinking and re-thinking upon it till no doubt remained upon 
 her mind. The match between Clara and Herbert must be 
 broken off, let the cost be what it might ; and — a point on which 
 there was more room for doubt, and more pain in coming to a 
 conclusion — that other match with the more fortunate cousin 
 must be , encouraged and carried out. For herself, if her hope 
 was small while Owen was needy and of poor account, what hope 
 could there be now that he would be rich and great ? Moreover, 
 Owen loved Clara, and not herself; and Clara's hand would once 
 more be vacant and ready for the winning. For herself, her only 
 chance had been in Clara's coming marriage.' 
 
 In all this she knew that there would be difficulty. She was 
 sure enough that Clara woidd at first feel the imprudent gene- 
 rosity of youth and offer to join her poverty to Herbert's poverty. 
 That was a matter of course. She, Lady Desmond herself, would 
 have done this, at Clara's age, — so at least to herself she said, 
 and also to her daughter. But a little time, and a little patience, 
 and a little care would set aU this in a proper light. Herbert 
 would go away and would gradually be forgotten. Owen woidd 
 again come forth from beneath the clouds, with renewed splendour; 
 and then, was it not probable that, in her very heart of hearts, 
 Owen was the man whom Clara had ever loved ? 
 
 And thus having realized to herself the facts which Herbert 
 had told her, she prepared to make them known to her daughter. 
 She got up from her chair, intending at first to seek her, and 
 then, changing hor purpose, rang the bell and sent for her. She 
 was astonished to find how violently she herself was affected; 
 not so much by the circumstances, as by this duty which had 
 fallen to her of telling them to her chUd. She put one hand upon 
 the other and felt that she herself was in a tremor, and was con- 
 
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 283 
 
 Bcious that the blood was running quick round her heart. Clara 
 came down, and going to her customary seat waited till her 
 mother should speak to her. 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald has brought very dreadful news,' Lady Des- 
 mond said, after a minute's pause. 
 
 'Oh mamma!' said Clara. She had expected bad tidings, 
 having thought of all manner of miseries while she had been 
 up stairs alone ; but there was that in her mother's voice which 
 seemed to be worse than the worst of her anticipations. 
 
 ' Dreadful, indeed, my child ! It is my duty to tell them to 
 you ; but I must caution you, before I do so, to place a guard 
 upon your feelings. That which I have to say must necessarily 
 alter all your future prospects, and, unfortunately, make your 
 marrying Herbert Fitzgerald quite impossible.' 
 
 ' Mamma !' she exclaimed, with a loud voice, jumping from 
 her chair. ' Not marry him ! Why ; what can he have done ? 
 Is it his wish to break it off?' 
 
 Lady Desmond had calculated that she would best effect her 
 object by at once impressing her daughter with the idea that, 
 under the circumstances which were about to be narrated, this 
 marriage would not only be imprudent, but altogether impracti- 
 cable and out of the question. Clara must be made to understand 
 at once, that the circumstances gave her no option, — that the 
 affair was of such a nature as to make it a thing manifest to 
 everybody, that she could not now marry Herbert Fitzgerald; 
 She must not be left to think whether she could, or whether she 
 could not, exercise her own generosity. And therefore, not 
 without discretion, the countess announced at once to her the , 
 conclusion at which it would be necessary to arrive. But Clara 
 was not a girl to adopt such a conclusion on any other judgment 
 than her own, or to be led in such a matter by the feelings of 
 any other person. 
 
 ' Sit -down, my dear, and I vidll explain it all. But, dearest 
 Clara, grieved as I must be to grieve you, I am bound to tell you 
 again that it must be as I say. For both your sakes it must be 
 so ; but especially, perhaps, for his. But when I have told you 
 my story, you will understand that this must be so.' 
 
 ' Tell me, then, mother.' She said this, for Lady -Desmond 
 had again paused. 
 
 ' Won't you sit down, dearest?' 
 
 'Well, yes; it does not matter;' and Clara, at her mother's 
 bidding, sat down, and then the story was told to her. 
 
 It was a difficult tale for a mother to tell to so young a child — 
 to a child whom she had regarded as being so very young. ThorQ_ 
 wore various little points of law which she thought that she was 
 
284 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 ^obliged to explain; how it was necessary that the Castle Eich- 
 mond property should go to an heir-kt-law, and how_ it was 
 impossible that Herbert should be that heir-at-law, seeing that 
 he had not been bom in lawful wedlock. All these things Lady 
 Desmond attempted to explain, or was about to attempt sud. 
 explanation, but desisted on finding that her daughter understood 
 them as well as she herself did. And then she had to make it 
 also intelligible to Clara that Owen would be called on, when 
 Sir Thomas should die, to fill the position and enjoy the wealth 
 acci-uing to the heir of Castle Richmond. When Owen Fitzgerald's 
 ifame was mentioned a slight blush came upon Clara's cheek ; it 
 was Tcry slight, but nevertheless her mother saw it, and took 
 advantage of it tb say a word in Owen's favour. 
 
 'Poor Owen !' she said. ' He will not be the first to triumph 
 in this change of fortune.' 
 
 ' I am sure he vnU not,' said Clara. ' He is much too generous 
 
 j for that.' And then the countess began to hope that the task 
 
 ' might not be so very difficult. Ignorant woman ! Had she been 
 
 j able to read one page in her daughter's heart, she would have 
 
 I known that the task was impossible. After that the story was 
 
 told out to the end without further interruption ; and then Clara, 
 
 hiding her face within her hands on the head of the sofa, uttered 
 
 one long piteous moan. 
 
 ' It is all very dreadful,' said the countess. 
 
 ' Oh, Lady Fitzgerald, dear Lady Fitzgerald !' sobbed forth 
 Clara. 
 
 ' Yes, indeed. Poor Lady Fitzgerald ! Her fate is so dreadful 
 that I know not how to think of it.' 
 
 ' But, mamma — ' and as she spoke Clam pushed back from her 
 fajifehead her hair with both her hands, showing, as she did so, 
 tiie form of her foreiead, and the firmness of purpose that ■was 
 written there, legible to any eyes that could read. ' But, mamma, 
 you are wrong about my not marrying Herbert Fitzgerald. WiiJ 
 should I not marry him ? Not now, as we, perhaps, might have 
 done but for this ; but at some future time when he may thidk 
 himself able to support a wife. Mamma, I shall not break our 
 engagement ; certainly not.' 
 
 This was said in a tone of voice so very decided that Lady 
 Desmond had to acknowledge to herself that there would be 
 difficulty in her task. But she still did not doubt that she would 
 have her way, if not by concession on the part of her daughter, 
 then by concession on the part of Herbert Fitzgerald. ' I can 
 understand your generosity of feeling, my dear,' she said ; * and at 
 your age I should probably have felt the same. And therefore 1 
 do not ask you /to take any steps towards breaking your engage- 
 
FOE a' that and a' that. 285 
 
 mont. The offer must come from Mr. Fitzgerald, and I have no 
 doubt that it will come. He, as a man of honour, will know that 
 he cannot now oGfer to marry you; and he will also know, as a 
 man of sense, that it would be ruin for him to think of — of such 
 a marriage under his present circumstances.' 
 
 ' Why, mamma ? Why should it be ruin to him ?' 
 
 ' Why, my dear ? Do you think that a wife with a titled namo 
 can be of advantage to a young man who has not only got his 
 bread to earn, but even to look out for a way in which he may 
 earn it ?' 
 
 ' If there be nothing to hurt him but the titled name, that 
 difficulty shall be easily conquered.' 
 
 ' Dearest Clara, you know what T mean. You must be aware 
 that a girl of your rank, and brought up as you have been, can- 
 not be a fitting wife for a man who will now have to struggle 
 with thc'world at every turn.' 
 
 Clara, as this was said to her, and as she prepared to answer, 
 blushed deeply, for she felt herself obliged to speak on a matter 
 which had never yet been subject of speech between her and her 
 mother. ' Mamma,' she said, ' I cannot agree with you there. I 
 may have what the world calls rank ; but nevertheless we have 
 been poor, and I have not been brought up with costly habits. , 
 Why should I not live with my husband as — as — as poorly as I 
 have lived with my mother ? You are not rich, dear mamma, 
 and why should I be ?' ' ' 
 
 Lady Desmond did not answer her daughter at once ; but she 
 was not silent because an answer failed her. Her answer would 
 have been ready enough had she dared to speak it out. ' Yes, it 
 is true ; we have been poor. I, your mother, did by my imjsru- 
 dence bring down upon my head and on yours absolute, unre- 
 lenting, pitiless poverty. And because I did so, I have never 
 known one happy hour. I have spent my days in bitter remorse — 
 in regretting the want of those things which it has been the more 
 terrible to want as they are the customary attributes of people of 
 my rank. I have been driven to hate those around me who have 
 been rich, because I have been poor. I have been utterly friend- 
 less because I have been poor. I have been able to do none of 
 those sweet, soft, lovely things, by doing which other women 
 win the smiles of the world, because I have been poor. Poverty ' 
 and rank together have made me wretched — have left me without 1 
 employment, without society, and without love. And now would | 
 you tell me that because I have been poor you would choose to i 
 be poor also ?' It would have been thus that she would have ; 
 answered, had, she been accustomed to speak out her thoughts. ' 
 But she had ever been accustomed to conceal tnem. 
 
286 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' I fr&s thinking quite as much of him as of you,' at last shu 
 Bald. ' Such an engagement to you would he fraught with much 
 misery, but t6 him it would be ruinous.' 
 
 ' I do not think it, mamma.' 
 
 ' But it is not necessary, Clara, that you should do anything. . 
 You will wait, of course, and see what Herbert may say himseK,' 
 
 ' Herbert—' 
 
 ' Wait half a moment, my love. I shall be very much surprised 
 if we do not find that Mr. Fitzgerald himself will tell you that 
 the match must be abandoned.' 
 
 ' But that wiU make no difference, mamma.' 
 
 ' No difference, my dear ! You cannot marry him against his 
 will. You do not mean to say that you would wish to bind him 
 to his . engagement, if he himself thought it would be to his dis- 
 advantage ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; I will bind him to it.' 
 
 'Clara!' 
 
 ' I will make him know that it is not for his disadvantage. I 
 will make him understand that a friend and companion who 
 loves him as I love him — as no one else will ever love him now 
 ■ — ^for I love him because he was so Tiigh-fortuned when he came 
 to me, and because he is now so low-fortuned — that such a wife 
 as I will be, cannot be a burden to him. I will cling to him 
 whether he throws me off or no. A word from him might have 
 broken our engagement before, but a thousand words cannot do 
 it now.' 
 
 Lady Desmond stared at her daughter, for Clara, in her excite- 
 ment, was walking up and down the room. The countess had 
 certainly not expected all this, and she was beginning to think 
 that the subject for the present might as well be left alone. But 
 Clara had not done as yet. 
 
 ' Mamma,' she said, ' I will not do anything without telling 
 you ; but I cannot leave Herbert in all his misery to think that 
 I have no sympathy with him. I shall write to him.' 
 
 'Not before he writes to you, Clara! You would not wish to 
 be indelicate ?' 
 
 ' I know but little about delicacy — ^what people call delicacy ; 
 but I will not be ungeuerous or unkind. Mamma, you brought 
 us two together. Was it not so? Did you not do so, fearing 
 that I might — might still care for Herbert's cousin ? You did it ; 
 and half wishing to obey you, half attracted by all his goodness, 
 I did learn to love Herbert Fitzgerald ; and I did learn to forget 
 ■ — no ; but I learned to cease to love his cousin. You did thia^ 
 and rejoiced at it : and now what you did must remain done.' 
 
 ' But, dearest Clara, it will not be .for his good.' 
 
FOE A' THAT AND A' THAT. 287 
 
 ' It shall be for his good. Mamma, I would not desert him 
 now for all that the world could give me. Neither for mother 
 nor brother could I do that. Without your leave I would not 
 Jiave given him the right to regard me as his own ; but now I 
 cannot take that right back again, even at your wish. I must 
 write to him at once, mamma, and tell him this.' 
 
 ' Clara, at any rate you must not do that ; that at least I must 
 forbid.' 
 
 ' Mother, you cannot forbid it now,' the daughter said, after 
 walking twice the length of the room in silence. ' If I ije not 
 allowed to send a letter I shall leave the house and go to him.' 
 
 This was all very dreadful. Lady Desmond was astounded at 
 the manner in which her daughter carried herself, and the voice 
 with which she spoke. The form of her face was altered, unA 
 the very step with which she trod was unlike her usual gait 
 AVhat would Lady Desmond do ? She was not prepared to con 
 fine her daughter as a prisoner, nor could she publicly forbid the 
 people about the place to go upon her message. 
 
 ' I did not expect that you would have been so undutiful,' she 
 said. 
 
 ' I hope I am not so,' Clara answered. ' But now my first duty 
 is to him. Did you not sanction our loving each other ? People 
 cannot call back their hearts and their pledges.' 
 
 ' You will at any rate wait till to-morrow, Clara.' 
 
 ' It is dark now,' said Clara, despondingly, looking out through 
 the window upon the falling night ; ' I suppose I cannot send to- 
 night.' 
 
 ' And you will show me what you write, dearest ?' 
 
 ' No, mamma. If I wrote it for your ej'es it could not be the 
 same as if 1 wrote it only for his.' 
 
 Very gloomy, sombre, and silent was the Countess of Desmond 
 all that night. Nothing further was said about the Pitzgeralds 
 Detween her and her daughter before they went to bed; and 
 then Lady Desmond did speak a few futile words. 
 
 ' Clara,' she said, ' you had better think over what we have 
 been saying, in bed to-night. You will be more collected to- 
 morrow morning.' 
 
 ' I shall think of it, of course,' said Clara ; ' but thinking can 
 make no difference,' and then just touching her mother's forehead 
 with her lips she went off slowly to her room. 
 
 What sort of a letter she wrote when she got there we have 
 already seen ; and have seen also that she took effective steps to 
 have her letter carried to Castle Eichmond at an hour sufficiently 
 early in the morning. There was no danger that the 'sountess 
 would stop the message, for the letter had been read twenty 
 
288 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 times by Emmeline and Mary, and had iDeen carried by Herbeil 
 to his mother's room, before Lady Desmond had left her bed. 
 ' Do not set your heart on it too warmly,' said Herbert's mother 
 to him. 
 
 ' But is she not excellent ?' said Herbert. ' It is because she 
 speaks of you in such a way — ' 
 
 ' You would not wish to bring her into misery, because of her 
 excellence ?' 
 
 ' But, mother, I am still a man,' said Herbert. This was too 
 much for the suffering woman, the one fault of whose life had 
 brought her son to such a pass, and throwing her arm round his 
 neck she wept upon his shoulders. , 
 
 There were other messengers went and came that day between 
 Desmond CoTU't and Castle Eichmond. Clara and her mother 
 saw nothing of each other early in the morning ; they did not 
 breakfast together, nor was there a word said between them on 
 the subject of the Fitzgeralds. But Lady Desmond early in the 
 morning — early for her that is — sent her note also to Castle 
 Eichmond. It was addressed to Aunt Letty, Miss Letitia Fitz- 
 gerald, and went to say that Lady Desmond was very anxious to 
 see Miss Letty. Under the present circumstances of the family, 
 as described to Lady Desmond by Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald, sht 
 felt that she could not ask to see ' his mother ;' — it was thus that 
 she overcame the difficulty which presented itself to her as to the 
 proper title now to be given to Lady Fitzgerald ; — but perhaps 
 Miss Letty woidd be good enough to see her, if she called at such 
 and such an hour. Aunt Letty, much perplexed, had nothing 
 for it, but to say that she wotild see her. The countess must 
 now be looked on as closely connected with the family — at any 
 rate until that match were broken off; and therefore Aunt Letty 
 had no alternative. And so, precisely at the hour named, the 
 countess and Aunt Letty were seated together in the little 
 Dreakfast-room of which mention has before been made. 
 
 No two women were ever closeted together who were more 
 unlike each other, — except that they had one common strong j 
 love for family rank. But in Aunt Letty it must be acknow- ' 
 lodged that this passion was not unwholesome or malevolent in 
 its course of action. She delighted in being a Fitzgerald, and in 
 knowing that her branch of the Fitzgeralds had been considerable 
 people ever since her ISTorman ancestor had come over to Ireland 
 with Strongbow. But then she had a useful idea that consider- '' 
 able people should do a considerable deal of good. Her family 
 pride operated more inwardly than outwardly, — inwardly, as ' 
 regarded her own family, and not outwardly as regarded the 
 world. Her brother, and her nepheWj and her sister-in-law and 
 
ILL NEWS FLIES PAST. 289 
 
 nieces, were, she thouglit, among the higliest commoners in 
 Ireland ; they were gentlefolks of the first water, and walked 
 openly before the world accordingly, proving their claim to 
 gentle blood by gentle deeds and honest conduct. Perhaps she] 
 did think too much of the Pitzgeralds of Castle Eiohmond ; but : 
 ijie sin was one of which no recording angel could have made 
 much in his entry. That she was a stupid old woman, prejudiced ■ 
 in the highest degree, and horribly ignorant of all the world i 
 beyond her own very narrow circle, — even of that, I do not think, 
 that the racording angel could, under the circumstances, have > 
 made a great deal. 
 
 And now how was her family pride affected by this horrible 
 catastrophe that had been made known to her ? Herbert the 
 heir, whom as heir she had almost idolized, was nobody. Her 
 sister-in-law, whom she had learned to love with the whole of 
 her big heart, was no sister-in-law. Her brother was one, who, 
 in lieu of adding glory to the family, f-would always be regarded 
 as the most unfortunate of the Fitzgerald baronets. But with 
 her, human nature was stronger than family pride, and she loved 
 them all, not better, but more tenderly than ever. 
 
 The two ladies were closeted together for about two hours ; 
 and then, when the door was opened, Aunt Letty might have 
 been seen with her bonnet much on one side, and her poor old 
 eyes and cheeks red with weeping. The countess, too, held her ^ 
 handkerchief to her eyes as she got back into her pony carriage. 
 She saw no one else there but Aunt Letty ; and from her mood 
 when she returned to Desmond Court it might be surmised that 
 from Aunt Letty she had learned little to comfort her. 
 
 ' They will be beggars !' she said to herself — ' beggars !' — when ) 
 the door of her own room had closed upon her. And there are; 
 few people in the world who held such beggary in less esteem' 
 than did the Countess of Desmond. It may almost be said that , 
 she hated herself on account of her own poverty. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 UJL NEWS FLIES FitST. 
 
 A DULL, cold, wretched week passed over their heads at Castle 
 Eiohmond, during which they did nothing but realize the truth 
 of their position ; and then came a letter from Mr. Prendergast, 
 addressed to Herbert, in which he stated that such inquiries as 
 he had hitherto made left no doubt on his mind that the man 
 named MoUett, who had lately made repeated visits at Oastl« 
 
290 CASTLE KIOHMOND. 
 
 Riclimoiid, was lie who had formerly taken the 'house in Dorsec- 
 shire under the name of Talhot. In his packet Mr. Ptendergast 
 sent copies of documents and of verbal evidence which he had 
 managed to obtain ; but with the actual details of these it is not 
 ^necessary that I should trouble those who are following me in 
 this story. In this letter Mr. Prendergast also recomniended 
 that some intercourse should be had with Owen Fitzgerald. It 
 was expedient, he said, that all the parties concerned should re- 
 .cognise Owen's position as the heir presumptive to the title and 
 estate ; and as he, he said, had found Mr. Fitzgerald of Hap 
 _ House to be forbearing; generous, and high-spirited, he thought 
 that this intercourse might be conducted without enmity or ill 
 blood. And then he suggested that Mr. Somers should see Owen 
 Fitzgerald. 
 
 All this Herbert explained to his father gently and without 
 complaint ; but it seemed now as though Sir Thomas had ceased 
 to interest himself in the tnatter. Such battle as it had been in 
 his power to make he had made to save his son's heritage and his 
 wife's name and happiness, even at the expense of his own con- 
 science. That battle had gone altogether against him, and now 
 there was nothing left for him but to turn his face to the wall 
 and'die. Absolute ruin, through his fault, had come upon him 
 and all that belonged to him, — ruin that would now be known to 
 the world at large ; and it was beyond his power to face that 
 world again. In that the glory was gone firom the house of his 
 son, and of his son's mother, the glory was gone from his" own 
 house. He made no attempt to leave his bed, though strongly 
 recommended so to do by his own family doctor. And then a 
 physician came down from Dublin, who could only feel, whatever 
 he might say, how impossible it is to administer to a mihd 
 disea,sed. The mind of that poor man was diseased past all 
 curing in this world, and there was nothing left for him but to 
 iie. 
 
 Herbert, of course, answered Clara's letter, but he did not go 
 over to see her during that week, nor indeed for some little time 
 afterwards. He answered it at considerable length, professing - 
 his ready willingness to give back to Clara her troth, and even 
 recommending her, with very strong logic and unanswerable ^ 
 arguments of worldly sense, to regard their union as unwise and 
 even impossible ; but nevertheless there protruded through all 
 his sense and all his rhetoric, evidences of love and of a desire for 
 love returned, which were much more unanswerable tlian his 
 arguments, and much stronger than his logic. Clara read hia 
 letter, not as he would have advised her to read it, but certainly 
 in the manner which best pleased his heart, and answered it again. 
 
rtL NEWS FLIES FAST. 2^1" 
 
 declaring tliat all tHat lie said was no avail. He migM be false 
 to her if lie would. If througli fickleness of heart and piii-poso 
 he chose to abandon her, she would never complain — never at 
 least aloud. But she would not be false to him ; nor were her 
 inclinations such as to make it likely that she should be fickle, 
 even though her affection might be tried by a delay of years. 
 Love with her had been too serious to be thrown aside. All 
 which was rather strong language on the part of a young lady, 
 but was thought by those other young ladies at Castle Eichmond 
 to show the very essence of becoming young-ladyhood. They 
 pronounced Clara to be perfect in feeling and in judgment, and 
 Herbert could not find it in his heart to contradict them. 
 
 And of all these doings, writings, and resolves, Clara dutifully 
 told her mother. Poor Lady Desmond was at her wits' end in 
 tlie matter. She could scold her daughter, but she had no other 
 power'of doing anything. Clara had so taken the bit between 
 her teeth that it was no longer possible to check her with any . 
 usual rein. In these days young ladies are seldom deprived by | 
 force of paper, pen, and ink ; and the absolute incarceration of 
 such an offender would be still more unusual. Another countess j 
 would have taken her daughter away, either to London and a' 
 series of balls, or to the South of Italy, or to the family castle in 
 the North of Scotland; but poor Lady Desmond had not the 
 power of other countesses. Now that it was put to the trial, she 
 found, that she had no power, even over her own daughter. 
 ' Mamma, it was your own doing,' Clara would say ; and the 
 countess would feel that this alluded not only to her daughter's 
 engagement with Herbert the disinheritec? but also to_ her non- 
 engagement with Owen the heir. 
 
 Under these circumstances Lady Desmond sent for her son. 
 The earl was stUl at Eton, but was now grown to be almost a 
 man — such a man as forward Eton boys are at sixteen — tall, and 
 JLatby, and handsome, with soft incipient whiskers, a bold brow 
 and blushing cheeks, with all a boy's love for frolic still strong 
 within him, but some touch of a man's pride to check it. In her 
 difficulty Lady Desmond sent for the young earl, who had now 
 not been home since the previous midsummer, hoping that his 
 young manhood might have some effect in saving his sister from 
 the disgrace of a marriage which would make her so totally 
 bankrupt both in wealth and rank. 
 
 Mr. Somers did go once to Hap House, at Herbert's instiga- 
 tion ; but very little came of his visit. He had alwaysdisUktd 
 Owen, regarding. him as_an_iinthrift, and close connexion with 
 whom'could only bring contamTnation on the Fitzgerald properly ; 
 and Owenliiid returned the feeling tenfold. His pride had been 
 
^92 ' CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 wounded by what lie had considered to be the agent's insolence, 
 and he had stigmatised Mr. Somers to his friends as a self-seeking, 
 mercenary prig. Very little, therefore, came of the visit. Mr. 
 Somers, to give him his due, had attempted to do his best ; being 
 afixious, for Herbert's sake, to conoLliate Owen ; perhaps having 
 — and why not? — some eye to the future agency. But Owen 
 was hard, and cold, and uncommunicative, — very unlike what he 
 had before been to Mr. Prendergast. But then Mr. Prendergast 
 had never offended his pride. 
 
 ' You may tell my cousin Herbert,' he said, with some little 
 special emphasis on the word cousin, ' that I shall be glad to see 
 him, as soon as he feels himself able to meet me. It will be for 
 the good of us both that we should have some conversation 
 together. Will you tell him, Mr. Somers, that I shall be happy 
 to go to him, or to see him here ? Perhaps my going to Castle 
 Eiohmond, during the present illness of Sir Thomas, may be in- 
 convenient.' And this was all that Mr. Somers could get from him. 
 
 Tn a very short time the whole story became known to every- 
 body round the neighbourhood. And what would have been the 
 good of keeping it secret? There are some secrets, — kept as 
 secrets because they cannot well be discussed openly, — which 
 may be allowed to leak out with so much advantage ! The day 
 must come, and that apparently at no distant time, when all the 
 world would know the fate of that Fitzgerald family ; when Sir 
 Owen must walk into the hall of Castle Eichmond, the undoubted 
 owner of the mansion and demesne. Why then keep it secret ? 
 Herbert openly declared his wish to Mr. Somers that there should 
 be no secret in the matter. ' There is no disgrace,' he said^ 
 thinking of his mother; 'nothing to be ashamed of, let , the 
 world say what it will.' 
 
 Down in the servants' hall the news came to them gradually, 
 whispered about from one to another. They hardly understood 
 what it meant, or how it had come to pass ; but they did know 
 that their master's marriage had been no marriage, and that their 
 aastgj's son was no heir. Mrs. Jones said not a word in the 
 matt^to any one. Indeed, since that day on which she had 
 been confronted with Mollett, she had not associated with the 
 servants at all, but had kept herself close to her mistress! She 
 understood what it all meant perfectly ; and the depth of the 
 tragedy had so cowed her spirit that she hardly dared to speak of 
 it. Who told the servants ; — or who does tell the servants of 
 Buch matters, it is impossible to say; but before Mr. PrendergMt 
 had been three days out of the house they all knew that the Mr. 
 Oweii of Hap House was to be the future master of Castle Eioh- 
 mond. 
 
ILL NEWS FLIES PAST. 293 
 
 'An' a sore day it'll be ; a sore day, a sore day,' said Eichard, 
 seated in an arm-chair by the fire, at the end of the servants' 
 nail, shaking his head despondingly. 
 
 ' Paix, an' you may say that,' said Oorney, the footman. ' That 
 Misther Owen will go tatthering away to the divil, when the old 
 place comes into his hans. No fear he'll make it fly.' 
 
 ' Sorrow seize the ould lawyer for coming down here at all at 
 all,' said the cook. 
 
 ' 1 never knew no good come of thim dry ould bachelors,' said 
 Biddy the housemaid ; ' specially the EnglisherR.' 
 
 ' The two of j'ez are no better nor simpletons,' said Eichard, 
 magisterially. ' Twam't he that done it. The likes of him 
 couldn't do the likes o' that.' 
 
 ' And what was it as done it ?' said Biddy. 
 
 ' Ax no questions, and may be you'll be tould no lies,' replied 
 Eichard. 
 
 ' In course we all knows it's along of her ladyship's marriage 
 which wam't no marriage,' said the cook. ' May the heavens be 
 her bed when the Lord takes her ! A betther lady nor a kinder- 
 hearted niver stepped the floor of a kitchen.' 
 
 ' 'Deed an' that's thrue for you, cook,' said Biddy, with the 
 comer of her apron up to her eyes. ' But tell me, Eichard, won't 
 poor Mr. Herbert have nothing ?' 
 
 ' Never you mind about Mr. Herbert,' said Eichard, who had 
 seen Biddy grow up from a slip of a girl, and therefore was com- 
 petent to snub her at every word. 
 
 ' Ah, but 1 do mind,' said the girl. ' I minds more about him 
 than ere a one of 'em; and av' that Lady Clara won't have em a 
 cause of this — ' 
 
 ' Not a step she won't, thin,' said Corney. ' She'll go back to 
 Mr. Owen. He was her fust love. You'll see else.' And so the 
 matter was discussed in the servants hall at the great house. 
 
 But perhaps the greatest surprise, the greatest curiosity, and 
 the greatest consternation, were felt at the parsonage. The 
 rumour reached Mr. Townsend at one of the Belief Committees ; 
 — and Mrs. Townsend from the mouth of, one of her servants, 
 during his absence, on the same day ; and when Mr. Townsend 
 returned to the parsonage, they met each other with blank faces. 
 
 ' Oh, .^neas !' said she, before she could get his greatcoat from 
 off his shoulders, ' have you heard the news ?' 
 ' What news ?— about Castle Eichmond ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; about Castle Eichmond.' And then she knew th.at he 
 had heard it. 
 
 Some glimmering of Lady Fitzgerald's early history had been 
 known to both of them, as it had been known almost to all in tlia 
 
294 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 country; 'but in late years this history had been so muca for. 
 : gotten, that men had ceased to talk of it, and this calamity 
 therefore came with the weight of a new misfortune 
 
 ' And, iEneas, who told you of it ?' she asked, as they sat 
 together over the fire, in their dingy, dirty parlour. 
 
 ' Well, strange to say, I heard it first from Father Barney.' 
 ' Oh, mercy ! and is it all about the country in that way ?' 
 ' Herbert, you know, has not been at any one of the Com- 
 mittees for the last ten days, and Mr. Somers, for the last week 
 past has been as silent as death ; so much so, that that horrid 
 creature. Father Columb, would have made a regular set speech 
 the other day at Gortnaclough, if I hadn't put him down.' 
 ' Dear, dear, dear !' said Mrs. Townsend. 
 
 'And I was talking to Father Barney about this, today — 
 about Mr. Somers, that is.' 
 ' Yes, yes, yes !' 
 
 ' And then he said, " I suppose you know what has happened 
 at Castle Eichmond?"' • 
 
 ' How on earth had he learned '' asked Mrs. Townsend, jealous 
 that a Eoman Catholic priest should have heard such completely 
 Protestant news before the Protestant parson and his wife. 
 ' Oh, they learn everything — ^from the servants I suppose.' 
 'Of course, the mean creatures!' said Mrs. Townsend, for- 
 getting, probably, her own little conversation with her own man 
 of all v/ork that morning. ' But go on, jSIneas.' 
 
 " ' What has happened," said I, " at Castle Eichmond ?" '" Oh, 
 you haven't heard," said he. And I was obliged to own that I 
 had not, though I saw that it gave him a kind of triumph.l 
 '; " Why," said he, " very bad news has reached them indeed ; the^ 
 I worst of news." And then he told me about Lady Fitzgejald. 
 : To give him his due, I must say that he was very sorry — very, 
 I sorry. "The poor young fellow!" he said — "The poor young 
 I fellow !" And I saw that he turned away his face to hide a tear.' 
 f ' Crocodile tears !' said Mrs. Townsend. 
 
 J 'No, they were not,' said her reverend lord; 'and Father 
 ; Barney is not so bad as I once thought him.' 
 
 ' 1 hope you are not going over too, ^neas ?' And his consort 
 almost cried as such a horrid thought entered her head. In her 
 ideas any feeling short of absolute enmity to a servant of the 
 Church of Eome was an abandonment of some portion of the 
 Protestant basis of the Church of England. ' The small end of 
 the wedge,' she would call it, when people round her would 
 suggest that the heart of a Eoman Catholic priest might possibly 
 not be altogether black and devilish. 
 
 ' Well, I hope not, my dear.'- said Mr, Townsend, with a slight 
 
PALLIDA MORS. 295 
 
 touch of sarcasm in his voice. ' But, as I was saying, Father 
 Barney told mo then that this Mr. Prendergast — ' 
 
 ' Oh, I had known of his being there from the day of his cominj^.' 
 
 ' This Mr. Prendergast, it seems, knew the whole affair, from 
 beginning to end.' 
 
 ' But ho\y did he know it, ^neas ?' 
 _ ' That I can't tell you. He was a friend of Sir Thomas before 
 his marriage ; I know that. And he has told them that it is of 
 no use their attempting to keep it secret. He was over ait Hap 
 House with Owen Fitzgerald before he went.' 
 
 ' And has Owen Fitzgerald been told ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he has been told — told that he is to be the next heir ; 
 so Father Barney says.' 
 
 Mrs. Townsend wished in her heart that the news could have 
 reached her through a purer source ; but all this, coming though 
 it did from Father Barney, tallied too completely with what 
 she herself had heard to leave on her mind any doubt of its truth. 
 And then she began to think of Lady Fitzgerald and her con- 
 dition, of Herbert and of his, and of the condition of them all, 
 till by degrees her mind passed away from Father barney and all 
 his iniquities. 
 
 ' It is very dreadful,' she said, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Very dreadful, very dreadful. I hardly know how to think , 
 of it. And I fear that Sir Thomas will not live many months to 
 give them even the benefit of his life interest.' 
 
 ' And when he dies all will be gone ?' 
 
 ' Everything.' 
 
 And then tears stood in her eyes also, and in his also after a > / 
 while. It is very easy for a clergyman in his pulpit to preach / 
 eloquently upon the vileness of worldly wealth, and the futility \ 
 of worldly station ; but where will you ever find one, who, whsa 
 the time of proof shall come, will give proof that he himself feels ' 
 what he preaches? Mr. Townsend was customarily loud and 
 eager upon this subject, and yet he was now shedding tears 
 because his young friend Herbert was deprived of his inherit- 
 ance. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXX. 
 
 PALLIDA MOES. 
 
 Mr. Somers, returning from Hap House, gave Owen's message 
 
 to Herbert Fitzgerald, but at the same time told him that he did 
 
 not think any good would come of such a meeting. , 
 
 ' I went over there/ he said, ' because I would not willingly 
 
2.96 OASTLE -EICHMOND. 
 
 omit anything that Mr. Prendergast had suggested ; hut I did 
 not fexpect any good to come of it. You know what I have 
 always thought of Owen Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' But Mr. Prendergast said that he hehaved so well.' 
 ' He did not kngw Prendergast, and was cowed for the 
 moment hy what he iiad heard. That was natural enough. You 
 do as'yoXi like, however; only do not have him over to Castle 
 Eichmond.' 
 
 Owen, however, did not trust solely to Mr. Somers, but on 
 the following day wrote to Herbert, suggesting that they had 
 better meet, and begging that the place and time of meeting 
 ,'might be named. He himself again suggested Hap House, and 
 declared that he would be at home on any day and at any hour 
 that his ' cousin ' might name, ' only,' as he added, ' the sooner 
 the better.' Herbert wrote back by the same messenger, saying 
 that he would be with him early on the following morning ; and 
 on the following morning he drove up to the door of Hap House, 
 while Owen was still sitting with his coffee-pot and knife and 
 fork before l;.im. 
 
 « Captain Donnellan, whom we saw there on the occasion of our 
 first morning visit, was now gone, and Owen Fitzgerald was all 
 alone in his home. The captain had been an accustomed guest, 
 spending perhaps half his time there during the hunting season ; 
 but since Mr. Prendergast had been at Hap House, he had been 
 made to understatid that the master would fain be alone. And 
 since that day Owen had never hunted, nor been noticed in his 
 old haunts, nor had been seen talking to his old friends. He 
 had remained at home, sitting over the fire thinking, ' wandering 
 up and down his own avenue, or standing about the stable, idly, 
 almost unconscious of the groomin-g of his horses. Once and 
 once only he had been mounted ; and then as the dusk of even- 
 ing was coming on he had trotted over quickly to Desmond 
 Court, as though he had in hand some purport of great moment ; 
 but if so he changed his mind when he came to the gate, for he 
 walked on slowly for three or four hundred yards beyond it, and 
 then turning his horse's head, slowly made his way back past 
 the gate, and then trotted quickly home to Hap House. In these 
 moments of his life he must make or mar himself for life ; 'twas 
 so that he felt it ; and how should he make himself, or how 
 avoid the marriage ? That was the question which he now strove 
 to answer. 
 
 When Herbert entered the room, he rose from his chair, and 
 walked quickly up to his visitor, with extended hand, and a look 
 ot welcome in his face. His manner was very different from 
 that with which he had turned and parted from his cousin, not 
 
PALLIDA MOBS, 29? 
 
 " raaay days since in tiie demesne of Castle Biclimond. Then be 
 had intended absolutely to defy Herbert Fitzgerald ; but there 
 was no spirit of defiance now, either in hia hand, or face, or in 
 the tone of his voice. 
 
 ' I am very glad you have come,' said he. ' I hope you undevr- 
 stood that I would have gone to you, only that I thought it 
 might be better for both of us to be here.' 
 
 Herbert said something to the effect that he had been quite 
 willing to come over to Hap House. But he was not at the 
 moment so self-possessed as the other, and hardly knew how to 
 begin the subject which was to be discussed between them. 
 
 ' Of course you know that Mr. Prendergast was' here ?' said 
 Owen. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' And Mr. Somers also ? I tell you fairly, Herbert, that when 
 Mr. Somers came, I was not willing to say much to him. What 
 has to be said must be said between you and me, and not to any 
 third party. I could not open my heart, nor yet- speak my 
 thoughts to Mr. Somers.' 
 
 In answer to this, Herbert again said that Owen need have no 
 scruple in speaking to him. ' It is all plain sailing ; too plain, I 
 fear,' said he. ' There is no doubt whatever now as to the truth 
 of what Mr. Prendergast has told you.' 
 
 And then having said so much, Herbert waited for Owen to 
 speak. He, Herbert himself, had little or nothing to say. 
 Castle Eichmond with its title and acres was not to be his, but 
 was to be the property of this man with whom he was now sit=- 
 ting. When that was actually and positively understood between 
 them, there was nothing further to be said ; nothing as far as 
 Herbert knew. That other sorrow of his, that other and deeper 
 sorrow which affected his mother's name and station, — as to that 
 he did not find himself called on to speak to Owen Fitzgerald. 
 Nor was it necessary that he should say anything as to his great 
 consolation — the consolation which had reached him from Clara 
 Desmond. 
 
 ' And is it true, Herbert,' asked Owen at last, ' that my uncle 
 is so very ill?' In the time of their kindly intercourse, Owen 
 had, always caUed Sir Thomas his uncle, though latterly he had 
 ceased to do so. 
 
 ' Ho is very ill ; very ill indeed,' said Herbert. This was a 
 subject in which Owen had certainly a right to feel interested, 
 seeing that his own investiture would follow immediately on the 
 death of Sir Thomas ; but Hetbert almost felt that the question 
 might as well have been spared. 1 fc had been asked, however, 
 almost solely with the view of gaining some few moments. 
 
298 ^ CAiSTLE KIOHMOND. 
 
 ' Herbert,' he said at last, standing up, from his chair, as he 
 made an eiTort to begin his speech, ' I don't know how far yoTi ' 
 will believe me when I tell you that all this news has caused me 
 > great sorrow. I grieve for your father and your mother, and for 
 you, from the very bottom of my heart.' 
 
 ' It is very kind of you,' said Herbert. ' But the blow has 
 fallen, and as for myself, I believe that I can bear it. I do not ■ 
 care so very much about the property.' 
 
 ' Nor do I ;' and now Owen spoke rather louder, and with his 
 own look of strong impulse about his mouth and forehead. 
 ' Nor do I care so much about the property. Tou were welcome 
 to it ; and are so still. I have never coveted it Jrom you, and 
 do not covet it.' 
 
 _' It will be yours now without coveting,' replied Herbert ; 
 and- then there was another pause, during which Herbert sat 
 still, while Owen stood leaning with his back against the mantel- 
 piece. 
 
 'Herbert,' said he, after they had thus remained silent for 
 two or three minutes, ' I have made up my mind on this matter, 
 and I will tell you truly what I do desire, and what I do not. 
 I do not desire your inheritance, but I do desire that Clara 
 Desmond shall be my wife.' 
 
 ' Owen,' said the other, also getting up, ' I did not expect 
 when I came here that you would have spoken to me about this.' 
 
 ' It was that we might speak about this that I asked you to 
 come here; But listen to me. When I say that I want Clara 
 Desmond to be my wife, I mean to say that I want that, and 
 that only. It may be true that I am, or shall be, legally the 
 heir to your father's estate. Herbert, I will relinquish all that, 
 because I do not feel it to be my own. I will relinquish it in 
 any way that may separate myself from it most thoroughly. 
 But in return, do you separate yourself from her who was my 
 own before you had ever known her.' 
 
 And thus he did make the proposition as to which he had 
 been making up his mind since the morning on which Mr. 
 Prendergast had come to him. 
 
 Herbert for a while was struck dumb with amazement, not so 
 much at the quixotic generosity of the proposal, as _at the sin- 
 gular mind of the man in thinking that such a plan could be 
 carried out. Herbert's best quality was no doubt his sturdy 
 common sense, and that was shocked by a suggestion which 
 presumed that all the legalities and ordinary bonds of life could 
 be upset by such an agreement between two young men. He 
 knew that Owen Titzgerald could not give away his title to an 
 estate of fourteen thousand a year in this off-hand way, and that 
 
PALLIDA MOKS. 209 
 
 no one could accept such a gift wei^ it possible to be giveiu 
 The estate and title must belong to Owen, ^nd could not 
 possibly belong to any one else, merely at bis, word and fancy. 
 And then again, how could the love of a girl like Clara Fitz- 
 gerald be bandied to and fro at the will of any suitor or suitors ? . 
 That she had once accepted Owen's love, Herbert knew ; but ' 
 since that, in a soberer mood, and with maturer judgment, she 
 had accepted his. How could he give it up to another, or how 
 could that Other take possession of it if so abandoned ? The 
 bargain was one quite impossible to be carried out ; and yet 
 Owen in proposing it had fully intended to be as good as hie 
 word. 
 
 ' That is impossible,' said Herbert, in a low voice. 
 
 ' Why impossible ? May I not do what I like with that which 
 is my own ? It is not impossible. I will Jiave nothing to do 
 with that property of yoiiis. In fact, it is not my own, and I 
 will not take it ; I will not rob you of that which you have been 
 bom to expect. But in return for this ' 
 
 ' Owen, do not talk of it ; would you abandon a girl whom you 
 loved for any wealth, or any property ?' 
 
 ' You cannot love her as I love her. I will talk to you on this 
 matter openly, as I have never yet talked to any one. Since 
 first I saw Clara Desmond, the only wish of my life has been that 
 I might have her for my wife. T have longed for her as a child 
 longs — if you know what I mean by that. When I saw that she 
 was old enough to understand what love meant, I told her what 
 was in my heart, and she accepted my love. She swore to me 
 that she would be mine, let mother or brother say what they 
 would. As sure as you are standing there a living man she 
 
 loved me with all truth. And that I loved her ! Herbert, 
 
 I have never loved aught but her ; nothing else ! — neither man 
 nor woman, nor wealth nor title. All I ask is that I may have 
 that which was my own.' 
 
 ' But, Owen — ' and Herbert touched his cousin's arm. 
 
 ' Well ; why do you not speak ? I have spoken plainly 
 enough.' 
 
 ' It is not easy to speak plainly on all subjects. I would not, 
 if I could avoid it, say a word that would hurt your feelings.' 
 
 ' Never mind my feeiings. Speak out, and let us have the 
 truth, in God's name. My feelings have never been much con- 
 sidered yet — ^either in this matter or in any other.' 
 
 'It seems to me,' said Herbert, 'that the giving of Lrtdy 
 Clara's hand cannot depend on your will, or on mine.' 
 
 ' You mean her mother.' 
 
 ' N9, by no means. Her mother now would be the Ust to 
 
 D 
 
300 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 fevour ma. I lyean herself. If she loves me, as I hope and be- 
 lieve — nay, am sure — ' 
 
 ' She did love me !' shouted Owen. 
 
 ' But even if so . I do not now say anything of that ; 
 
 but even if so, surely you would not have her marry you if she 
 does not love you still ? You would not wish her to be yoni 
 wife if her heart belongs to me ?' 
 
 ' It has been given you at her mother's bidding.' 
 
 ' However given it is now my own and it cannot be returned. 
 Look here, Owen. I will show you her last two letters, if you 
 will allow me ; not in pride, I hope, but that you may truly 
 know what are her wishes.' And he took from his breast, 
 where they had been ever since he received them, the two 
 letters which Clara had written to him. Owen read them both 
 twice over before he spoke, first one and then the other, and an 
 indescribable look of pain fell on his brow as he did so. They 
 were so tenderly worded, so sweet, so generous ! He would 
 have given all the world to have had those letters addressed by 
 her to himself. But even they did not convince him. His 
 heart had never changed, and he could not believe that there 
 had been any change in hers. 
 
 ' I might have known,' he said, as he gave them back, ' that 
 she would be too noble to abaiidon you in your distress. As 
 long as you were rich I might have had some chance of getting 
 her back, despite the machinations of her mother. But now that 
 she thinks you are poor — .' And then he stopped, and hid his 
 face between his hands. 
 ; And in what he had last said there was undoubtedly some- 
 I thing of truth. Clara's love for Herbert had never been pas- 
 ; sionate, till passion had been created by his misfortune. And in 
 her thoughts of Owen there had been much of regret. Though 
 she had resolved to withdraw her love, she had not wholly 
 ceased to love him. Judginent had bade her to break her worf, 
 ta him, and she had obeyed her judgment. She had admitted to 
 herself that her mother was right in telling her that she could 
 not join her own bankrupt fortunes to the fortunes of one who 
 was both poor and a spendthrift ; and thus she had plucked from 
 her heart the picture of the man she had loved, — or endeavoured 
 so to pluck it. Some love for him, however, had unwittingly 
 lingered there. And then Herbert had come with his suit, a 
 suitor fitted for her in every way. She had not loved him as die 
 had loved Owen. She had never felt that ishe could worship 
 him, and tremble at the tones of his voice, and watch the glance 
 of his eye, and gaze into his face as though he were half divine. 
 But she acknowledged his worth, and valued him : she knew 
 
PALLIDA MOES. 301 
 
 that it behoved her to choose some suitor as her husband ; and 
 now that her dream was gone, where could she choose better 
 than here? And thus Herbert had been accepted. He had 
 Deen accepted, but the dream was not wholly gone. Owen was 
 in adversity, ill spoken of by those around her, shunned by his 
 own relatives, living darkly, away from all that is soft in life ; 
 and for these reasons Clara could not wholly forget her dream. 
 She had, in some sort, unconsciously clung to her old love, till 
 he to whom she had plighted her new troth was in adversity, — 
 and then all was changed. Then her love for Herbert did be- 
 come a passion ; and then, as Owen had become rich, she felt 
 that she could think of him without remorse. He was quite 
 right in perceiving that his chance was gone now that Herbert 
 had ceased to be rich. 
 
 ' Owen,' said Herbert, and his voice was full of tenderness, for 
 at this moment he felt that he did love and pity his cousin, ' we 
 must each of us bear the weight which fortune has thrown on us. 
 It may be that we are neither of us to be envied. I have lost all 
 that men generally value, and you — ' 
 
 ' I have lost all on earth that is valuable to me. But no ; it is 
 not lost, — not lost as yet. As long as her name is Clara Des- 
 mond, she is as open for me to win as she is for you. And, 
 Herbert, think of it before you make me your enemy. See 
 what I offer you,— not as a bargain, mind you. I give up all 
 my title to your father's property. I will sign any paper that 
 your lawyers may bring to me, which may serve to give you 
 back your inheritance. As for me, I would scorn to take that, 
 which belongs in justice to another. I will not have your: 
 property. Come what may, I will not have it. I will give iti 
 up to you, either as to my enemy or as to my friend.' 
 
 ' I sincerely hope that we may be friends, but what you say is 
 impossible.' 
 
 ' It is not impossible. ' I hereby pledge myself that I will not 
 take an acre of your father's lands ; but I pledge myself also that 
 I will always be your enemy if Clara Desmond becomes your wife 
 and I mean what I say. I have set my heart on one thing, ana 
 one thing only, and if I am mined in that I am ruined indeed.' 
 
 Herbert remained silent, for he had nothing further that he 
 knew how to plead ; he felt, as other men would feel, that ea6h 
 of them must keep that which Fate had given him. Fate had 
 decreed that Owen should be the heir to Castle Eichmond, and 
 the decree thus gone forth must stand valid ; and Fate had also 
 decreed that Owen should be rejected by Clara Desmond, which 
 other decree, as Herbert thought, must be held as valid also, 
 But he had no further inclination to argue upon the subject ■ 
 
3D2 
 
 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 his cousin was becoming hot and angry ; and Herbert was be 
 ginning to wish that he was on his way home, that he might bo 
 once more at his father's bedside, or in his mother's room, com- 
 forting her abd being comforted. 
 
 ' Well,' said Owen, after a while in his deep-toned voice ; 
 ' what do yon say to my offer ?' 
 
 ''I have nothing further to say: we must each take our own _ 
 course ; as for me, I have lost everything but one thing, and it is 
 not likely that I shall throw that away from me.' 
 
 ' Nor, so help me Heaven in my need ! will I let that thing be 
 filched from me. I have offered you kindness and brotherly 
 love, and wealth, and all that friendship could do for a man ; 
 give me my way in this, and I will be to you such a comrade 
 and such a brother.' 
 
 ' Should I be a man, Owen, were I to give up this ?' 
 
 ' Be a man ! Yes ! It is pride on your part. Tou do not love 
 her ; you have never loved her as I ha,ve loved ; yoii have not 
 sat apart long months and months thinking of her, as I -have 
 done. From the time she was a child I marked her as my own. 
 As God will help me when I die, she is all that I have coveted 
 in this world ; — all ! But her I have coveted with such long- 
 ings of the heart, that I cannot bring myself to live without her; 
 — nor will I.' And then again they both were silent. 
 
 ' It may be as well that we should part now,' said Herbert at 
 last. ' I do not know that we can gain anything by further 
 talking on this subject.' 
 
 ' Well, you know that best; but I have one further question 
 to ask you.' 
 
 'What is it, Owen?' 
 
 ' You still think of marrying Clara Desmond ?' 
 
 ' Certainly ; of course I think of it.' 
 
 ' And when ? I presume you are not so chicken-hearted as to 
 be afraid of speaking out openly what you intend to do.' 
 
 ' I cannot say when ; I had hoped that it would have been very 
 soon ; but all this will of course delay it. It may be years first.' 
 
 These last were the only pleasant words that Owen had 
 heard. If there were to be a delay of years, might not his 
 chance still be as good as Herbert's ? But then this delay was 
 to be the consequence of his cousin's ruined prospects — and tte 
 accomplishment of that ruin Owen had pledged himself to pre- 
 vent ! Was he by his own deed to enable his enemy to take 
 that very step which he was so firmly resolved to prevent ? 
 
 ' You will give me your promise,' said he, ' that you will not 
 marry her for the next three years ? , Make me that promis6,.and 
 I will make you the same.' 
 
PALLIDA MOKS. 
 
 Herbert felt tliat there could be no possibility of bis ri"*' 
 marrying, within the time named, but nevertheless' he would ntJc 
 bring himself to make such a promise as this. He would make 
 no bargain about Clara Desmond, about his Clara, which could in 
 any way admit a doubt as to his own right. Had Owen asked 
 him to promise that ho would not marry her during the next 
 week he would have given no such pledge. ' No/ said he, ' I can- 
 not promise that.' 
 
 ' She is now only seventeen.' 
 
 ' It does not matter. I will make no such promise, because on 
 such a subject you have no right to ask for any. When she will 
 consent to run her risk of happiness in coming to me, then 1 
 shall marry her.' 
 
 Owen was now walking up and down the room with rapid 
 steps. ' You have not the courage to fight me fairly,' said he. 
 
 ' I do not wish to fight you at all.' 
 
 ' Ah, but you must fight me ! Shall I see the prey taken out ot/ 
 my jaws, and not struggle for it ? No, by heavens ! you must 
 fight me ; and I tell you fairly, that the fight shall be as hard as 
 I can make it. I have offered you that which one living man is 
 seldom able to ofier to another, — money, and land, and wealth, 
 and station ; all these things I throw away from me, because I 
 feel that they should be yours ; and I ask only in return the love 
 v/f a young girl. I ask that because I feel that it should be 
 mine. If it has gone from me — which I do not believe — it has 
 been filched and stolen by a thief in the night. She did love me, 
 if a girl ever loved a man ; but she was separated from me, and 
 I bore that patiently because I trusted her. But she was young 
 and weak, and her mother was strong and crafty. She has 
 accepted you at her mother's instance ; and were I base enough 
 to keep from you your father's inheritance, her mother would no 
 more give her to you now than she would to me then. This is 
 true; and if you know it to be true — as you do know, you will 
 be mean, and dastard, and a coward — you will be no Fitzgerald 
 if you keep from me that which I have a right to claim as my 
 own. Not fight ! Ay, but you must fight ! We cannot both 
 live here in this country if Clara Desmond become your wife. 
 Mark my words, if that take place, you and I cannot live here 
 alongside of each other's houses.' He paused for a moment after 
 this, and then added, ' You can go now if you will, for I have said 
 out my say.' 
 
 And Herbert did go, — almost without uttering a word of 
 adieu. What could he say in answer to such threats as these ? 
 That his cousin was in every way unreasonable, — as unreasonable 
 in his generosity as he was jn his claims, he felt convinced. But 
 
ijj[)2 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 j^OgUnreasonaHe man, thougli he is one whom one would fain 
 -ojquef by arguments were it possible, is the very man on 
 whom arguments have no avail. A madman is mad because he 
 is mad. Herbert had a great deal that was very sensible to al- 
 lege in favour of his views, but what use of alleging anything 
 of sense to such a mind as that of Owen Fitzgerald ? So he 
 went his way without further speech. 
 
 When he was gone, Owen for a time went on walking his 
 room, and then sank again into his chair. Abominably irra- 
 tional as his method of arranging all these family difficulties will 
 no doubt seem to all who may read of it, to him it had appeared 
 not only an easy but a happy mode of bringing back content- 
 ment to everybody. He was quite serious in his intention of 
 -giving up his position as heir to Castle Eichmond. Mr. Pren- 
 . dergast had explained to him that the property was entailed as 
 far as him, but no farther ; and had done this, doubtless, with 
 the view, not then expressed, to some friendly arrangement by 
 which a small portion of the property might be saved and 
 restored to the children of Sir Thomas. But Owen had looked 
 at it quite in another light. He had, in justice, no right to 
 inquire into all those circumstances of his old co^isin's marriage. 
 Such a union was a marriage in the eye of^ God, and should be 
 held as such by him. He would take no advantage of so terrible 
 an accident. 
 
 He would take no advantage. So he said to himself over and 
 over again ; but yet, as he said it, he resolved that he would 
 take advantage. He would not touch the estate ; but surely if 
 he abstained from touching it, Herbert would be generous 
 enough to leave to him the solace of his love ! And he had no 
 "scruple in allotting to Clara the poorer husband instead of 
 the richer. He was no poorer now than when she had ac- 
 cepted him. Looking at it in that light, had he not a right to 
 claim that she should abide by her first acceptance ? Could any 
 one be found to justify the theory that a girl may throw over a 
 poor lover because a rich lover comes in the way ? Owen had 
 his own ideas of right and wrong— ideas which were not with- 
 out a basis of strong, rugged justice ; and nothing could be more 
 antagonistic to them tlian such a doctrine as this. And then he 
 still believed in his heart that he was dearer to Clara than that 
 other richer suitor. He heard of her from time to time, and 
 those who had spoken to him had spoken of her as pining for 
 love of him. In this there had been much of the flattery of 
 servants, and oi;mething of the subservience of those about him 
 who wished to stand well in his graces. But he had believed it. 
 He was not a conceited man, nor even a vain man. He did not 
 
think himself more clever than his cousin ; and as for personal 
 appearance, it was a matter to which his thoughts never de- 
 scended ; but he had about him a self-dependence and assurance 
 in his own manhood, which forbade him to doubt the love of one 
 who had told him that she loved him. 
 
 And he did not believe in Herbert's love. His cousin was, 
 as he thought, of a calibre too cold for love. That Clara was 
 valued by -him, Owen did not doubt — valued for her beauty, foi 
 her rank, for her grace and peerless manner ; but what had such 
 value as that to do with love ? Would Herbert sacrifice every- , 
 thing for Clara Desmond ? would he bid Pelion fall on Ossa ? 1^ 
 would he drink up Esil ? All this would Owen do, and more ; ( 
 he would do more than any Laertes had ever dreamed. He i 
 would give up for now and for ever all title to those rich lands 
 flfhich made the Fitzgeralds of Castle Eichmond the men of 
 gi'eatest mark in all their county. 
 
 And thus he fanned himself into a fury as he thought of his 
 ^cousin's :want of generosity. Herbert would be the heir, and 
 because he was the heir he would be the favoured lover. But 
 there might yet be time and opportunity ; and at any rate 
 Clara should not marry without knowing what was the whole 
 truth. Herbert was ungenerous, but Clara still might be just. 
 If notj^then, as he had said before, he would fight out the 
 battle to the end as with an enemy. 
 
 Herbert, when he got on to, his horse to ride home, was forced 
 to acknowledge to himself that no good whatever had come from 
 his visit to Hap House. Words had been spoken which might 
 have been much better left unspoken. An angry man will often 
 cling to his anger because his anger has been spoken ; he will do 
 evil because he has threatened evil, and is ashamed to be better 
 than his words. And there was no comfort to be derived from 
 those lavish promises made by Owen with regard to the pro- 
 perty. To Herbert's mind they were mere moonshine — very 
 graceful on the part of the maker, but meaning nothing. No 
 one could have Castle Eichmond but him who owned it legally. 
 Owen Fitzgerald would become Sir Owen, and would, as a 
 matter of course, be Sir Owen of Castle Eichmond. There was 
 no comfort on that score ; and then, on that other score, there 
 was so much discomfort. Of giving up his bride Herbert never 
 for a moment thought ; but he did think, with increasing annoy- 
 ance, pf the angry threats which" had been pronounced against 
 him. 
 
 When he rode into the stable-yard as was his wont, he found 
 Richard waiting for him. This was not customary ; as in these 
 latter days Eichard, though he always drove the car, as a sort d 
 
H06 CABTl/B BICHMOHD.' 
 
 sTibsidiarj ooacliinan to the young ladies to whom the oar was 
 supposed to belong in fee, did not act as -general groom. He 
 had been promoted beyond this, and was a sort of hanger-on 
 about the house, half indoor servant and half out, doing very ' 
 much what he liked, and giving advice to everybody, from the 
 cook downwards. He thanked God that he knew his place, he 
 would often say ; but nobody else knew it. Nevertheless every- 
 body liked him ; even the poor housemaid whom he snubbed. 
 
 ' Is anything the matter ?' asked Herbert, looking at the man's 
 porrow- laden face. 
 
 ' 'Deed an' there is, Mr. Herbert ; Sir Thomas is — ' 
 
 ' My father is not dead !' exclaimed Herbert. 
 
 ' Oh no, Mr. Herbert ; it's not so bad as that ; hurt he is very , 
 failing, — ^very failing. My lady is with him now.' 
 
 Herbert ran into the house, and at the bottom of the chief , 
 stairs he met one of his sisters who had heard the steps of his 
 horse. ' Oh, Herbert, I am so glad you have come !' said she. 
 Her eyes and cheeks were red with tears, and her hand, as her 
 brother took it, was cold and numbed. 
 
 ' What is it, Mary ? is he worse ?' 
 
 ' Oh, so much worse. Mamma and Emmeline are there. He 
 has asked for you three or four times, and always says that he is 
 dying. I had better go up and say that you are here.' 
 
 ' And what does my mother think of it ?' 
 
 'She has never left him, and therefore I cannot tell; but 1 
 know from her face that she thinks that he is — dying. Shall I 
 go up, Herbert ?' and so she went, and Herbert, following softly 
 on his toes, stood in the corridor outside the bedroom-door, 
 waiting till his arrival should have been announced. It. was 
 but a minute, and then his sister, returning to the door, sum- 
 moned him to enter. 
 
 The room had been nearly darkened, but as there were no 
 curtains to the bed, Herbert could see his mother's face as she 
 knelt on a stool at the bedside. His father was turned away 
 from him, and lay with his hand inside his wife's, and EnuneUne 
 was sitting on tiie foot of the bed, with her face between her 
 hands, striving to stifle her sobs. ' Here is Herbert now, 
 dearest,' said Lady Fitzgerald, with a low, soft voice, almost a 
 whisper, yet clear enough. to cause no effort in the hearing.. ' I 
 knew that he would not be long.' And Herbert, obeying the 
 signal of his mother's eye, passed round to the other side of the 
 bed. 
 
 ' Father,' said he, ' are you not so well to-day ?' 
 
 ' My poor boy, my poor ruined boy !' said the dying man, 
 hardly articBlating the words as he dropped his wife's hand and 
 
PALLIDA MOftS. 307 
 
 took that of his son. Herbert found that it was wet, and clammy, 
 and cold, and almost powerless in its feeble grasp. 
 
 ' Dearest father, you are wrong if you let that trouble you ; all 
 that will never trouble me. Is it not well that a man should 
 earn his own bread ? Is it not the lot of all good men ?' But still 
 the old man murmured with his broken voice, ' My pdor boy, 
 my poor boy!' 
 
 The hopes and aspirations of his eldest son are as the breath 
 of his nostrils to an Englishman who has been born to land and 
 fortune. What had not this poor man endured in order that his 
 son might be Sir Herbert Fitzgerald of Castle Eiohmond ? But 
 this was no longer possible ; and from the moment that this had 
 been brought home to him, the father had felt that for him there 
 was nothing left but to die. ' My poor boy,' he muttered, ' tell 
 me that you have forgiven me.' 
 
 And then they all knelt round the bed and prayed with him ; 
 and afterwards they tried to comfort him, tailing him how good 
 he had been to them ; and his wife whispered in his ear that If 
 there had been fault, the fault was hers, but that her conscience 
 told her that such fault had been forgiven ; and while she said 
 this she motioned the children away from him, and strove to 
 make him understand that human misery could never kill the soul, 
 and should never utterly depress the spirit. ' Dearest love,' she 
 said, still whispering to him in her low, sweet voice — so dear to 
 him, but utterly inaudible beyond — ' if you would cease to aecuse 
 yourself so bitterly, you might yet be better, and remain with us 
 to comfort us.' 
 
 But the slender, half-knit man, whose arms are Vithqut 
 muscles and whose back is without pith, will strive in vain to 
 lift the weight which the brawny vigour of another tosses from 
 the ground almost without an. effort. It is with the mind and 
 the spirit as with the body ; only this, that the muscles of the 
 bo'dy can be measured, but not so those of the spirit. Lady 
 Fitzgerald was made of other stuff than Sir Thomas ; and that 
 which to her had cost an effort, but with an effort had been done 
 surely, was to him as impossible as the labour of Herculej. 
 ' My poor boy, my poor ruined boy !' he still muttered, as she 
 strove to comfort him. 
 
 ' Mamma has sent for Mr. Townsend,' Emmeline whispered to 
 her brother, as they stood together in the bow of the window. 
 
 ' And do you really think he is so bad as that ?' 
 
 ' I am sure that mamma does. I believe he had sonle sort of a. 
 fit before you came. At any rate, he did not speak for two hours.' 
 
 ' And was not Finucane here ?' Finucane was the Mallow 
 doctor. 
 
308 CASTLE ElCttMOND, 
 
 ' Yes ; but he had left before papa became so' much worse 
 Mamma has sent for him also.' 
 
 But I do not know that it boots to dally longer in a dying 
 chamber. It is an axiom of old that the stage curtain should be 
 drawn before the inexorable on^ enters in upon his final work. 
 Doctor Finucane did come, but his coming was all in vain. 
 Sir Thomas had known that it was in vain, a,nd so also had 
 his patient wife. There was that mind diseased, towards the 
 cure of which no Doctor Finucane could make any possible 
 approach. And Mr. Townsend came also, let ua hope not in 
 vain ; though the cure which he fain would have perfected 
 can hardly be effected in such moments as those. Let us 
 hope that it had been already effected. The only crying sin 
 which we can lay to the charge of the dying man is that of 
 which we have spoken ; he had endeavoured by pensioning 
 falsehood and fraud to preserve for his wife her name, and for his 
 son that son's inheritance. Even over this, deep as it was, the re- 
 cording angel may have dropped some cleansing tears of pity. 
 
 That night the poor laan died, and the Fitzgeralds who sat in 
 the chambers of Castle Eichmond were no longer the owners of 
 the mansion. There was no speech of Sir Herbert among the 
 servants as there would have been had these tidings not have 
 reached them. Dr. Finucane had remained in the house, and 
 even he, in speaking of the son, had shown that he knew the 
 story. They were strangers there now, as they all knew — 
 intruders, as they would soon be considered in the house of 
 their cousin Owen ; or rather not their cousin. In that he was 
 above them by right of his blood, they had no right to claim him 
 as their relation. 
 
 It may be said that at such a moment all this should not have 
 been thought of; but those who say so know little, as I imagine, 
 of the true effect of sorrow^. No wife and no children ever 
 , grieved more heartily for a father ; but their grief was blacker 
 and more gloomy in that they knew that they' were outcasts in 
 the world. 
 
 - And during that long night as Herbert and his sisters sat up 
 cowering round the fire, he told them of all that had been said at 
 Hap House. ' And can it not be as he says ?' Mary had asked. 
 
 ' And that Herbert should give up his wife !' said Emmeline. 
 
 ' No ; but that other thing.' 
 
 'Do not dream of it,' said Herbert. 'It is all, all impossible 
 The house that we are now in belongs to Sir Owen Fitzgerald,' 
 
309 
 
 OHAPTEE XXXL 
 
 THE FIBST MONTH. 
 
 And now I will beg my readers to suppose a, month to have 
 'passed hy since Sir Thomas Fitzgerald ctied. It was a busy 
 month in Ireland. It may probably be said that so large a sum 
 of money had never been circulated in the country in any one 
 month since money had been known there ; and yet it may also 
 be said that so frightful a mortality had never occurred there 
 from the want of that which money brings. It was well under- 
 stood by all men now that the customary food of the country had 
 disappeared. There was no longer any diiference of opinion 
 between rich and poor, between Protestant and Eoman Catholic ; 
 as to that, no man dared now to say that the poor, if left to 
 Themselves, could feed themselves, or to allege that the suffer- 
 ings of the country arose from the machinations of money- 
 making speculators. The famine was an established fact, and 
 all men knew that it was God's doing, — all men knew this, 
 though few could recognize as yet with how much mercy God's 
 hand was stretched out over the country. 
 
 Or may it not perhaps be truer to say that in such matters 
 there is no such thing as mercy — no special mercies — no other 
 mercy than that fatherly, forbearing, all-seeing, perfect goodness 
 by which the Creator is ever adapting this world to the wants of 
 his creatures, and rectifying the evils arising from their faults 
 and follies ? Sed quo Musa tendis ? Such discourses of the gods 
 as these are not to be fitly handled in such small measures. 
 
 At any rate, there was the famine, imdoubted now by any 
 one ; and death, who in visiting Castle Richmond may be said 
 to have knocked at the towers of a king, was busy enough also 
 among the cabins of the poor. And now the great fault of those 
 who were the most affected was becoming one which would not 
 have been at first expected. One would think that starving men 
 would become violent, taking food by open theft — feeling, and 
 perhaps not without some truth, that the agony of their want 
 robbed such robberies of its sin. But such was by no means the 
 case, I only remember one instance in which the bakers' shops 
 were attacked ; and in that instance the work was done by 
 those who were undergoing no real suffering. At Clonmel, in 
 Tipperary, the bread was one morning stripped away from the 
 
*510 ' CASTLE EICHMOND, 
 
 takers' shops ; but at that time, and ia that place, there was no 
 thing approaching to famine. The fault of the people was 
 apathy. It was the feeling of the multitude that th^ world and 
 all that was good in it was passing away from them ; that exer- 
 tion was useless, and hope hopeless. ' Ah, me ! your honour,' 
 sa,id a man to me, ' there'll never be a bit and a sup again in tl»e 
 county Cork ! The life of the world is fairly gone !' 
 
 And it was very hard to repress this feeling. The energy of 
 a man depends so much on the outward circumstances that en- 
 cumber him ! It is so hard to work when work seems hopeless 
 
 ' — so hard to trust where the basis of our faith is so far removed 
 from sight ! "When large tracts of land went out of cultivation, 
 was it not natural to think that agriculture was receding from 
 the country, leaving the green hills once more to be brown and 
 barren, as hills once green have become in other countries ? 
 And when men were falling in the highways, and women would 
 sit with their babes in their arms, listless till death should come 
 to them, was it not natural to think that death was making a 
 huge success — that he, the inexorable one, was now the inex- 
 orable indeed ? 
 
 There were greatly trusting hearts that could withstand the 
 weight of this terrible pressure, and thinking minds which saw 
 that good would come out of this great evil ; but such hearts and 
 such minds were not to be looked for among the suffering poor ; 
 and were, not, perhaps, often found even among those who were 
 not poof or suffering. It was very hard to be thus trusting and 
 thoughtful while everything around was full of awe and agony. 
 
 > The people, however, were conscious of God's work, and were 
 becoming dull and apathetic. They clustered about the roads, 
 working lazily while their strength lasted them ; and afterwards, 
 when strength failed them for this, they clustered more largely 
 in the poor-houses. And in every town^n every assem- 
 blage of houses which in England would be called a village, 
 there was a poor-hguse. Any big barrack of a tenement that 
 could be obtained at -a moment's notice, whatever the rent, 
 became a poor-house in the course of twelve hours ; — in twelve, 
 nay, in two hours. What was necessary but the bare walls, and 
 a stapply of yellow meal ? Bad provision this for all a man's 
 wants, — as was said often enough by irrational philanthropists ; 
 but better provision than no shelter and no yellow meal 1 Ht 
 was bad that men should be locked up at night without any of 
 the appliances ~of deceney ; bad that they should be herded 
 together for day after day with no resource but the eating twice 
 a day of enough unsavoury food to keep life and soul together^ 
 Very bad, ye philanthropical irrationalists . But is not a cE^de 
 
THE FIEST MONTH. 311 
 
 of evils all tliat is left to us in many a contingency ? Was not 
 even this better tlian that life and.sonl should be allowed to part, 
 without any effort at preserving their union ? 
 
 And thus /iiie and soul were kept together, the government of 
 the day having wisely seen what, at so short a notice, was pos- 
 sible for them to do, and what was absolutely impossible. It is 
 in such emergencies as these that the watching and the wisdom 
 of a government are necessary ; and I shall always think — as I did 
 think then — that the wisdom of its action and the wisdom of its ab- 
 stinence from action were very good, f And now again the fields in 
 Ireland are green, and the marketSUTe busy, and money is chucked 
 to and fro like a weathercock which the players do not wish to have 
 abiding with them ; and the tardy speculator going over to look for 
 a bit of land comes back muttering angrily that fancy prices are 
 demanded. ' They'll run you up to thirty-three years' purchase,' 
 says the tardy speculator, ^thinking, as it seems, that he is 
 specially ill used. Agricultural wages have been nearly doubled 
 in Ireland during the last fifteen years. Think of that, Master 
 Brook. Work for which, at six shillings a week, there would be 
 aTtrundred hungry claimants in 1845, — in the good old days 
 before the famine, when repeal was so immediately expected — 
 will now fetch ten shillings, the claimants being by no means 
 numerous. In 1843 and 1844, I knew men to work for four- 
 pence a day — something over the dole on which we are told, 
 being mostly incredulous as we hear it, that a Coolie labourer 
 can feed himself with rice in India ; — not one man or two men, 
 the broken-down incapables of the paiish, but the best labour of 
 the country. One and twopence is now about the cheapest rate 
 at which a man can be hired for agricultural purposes. While 
 this is so, and while the prices are progressing, there is no cause 
 for fear, let Bishops A and B, and Archbishops G and D fret and 
 fume with never so great vexation touching the clipped honours ' 
 of their father the Pope. 
 
 But again ; Quo Musa tendis ? I could write on this subje'ct- 
 for a week were it not that Ehadamanthus awaits me, Ehada- 
 manthus the critic ; and Ehadamanthus is, of all things, impatient 
 of an episode. 
 
 Life and soul were kept together in those terrible days ; — that 
 is, the Irish life and soul generally. There were many slips, in 
 which the union was violently dissolved, — many cases in -n-hich 
 the yellow meal allowed was not sufficient, or in which it did 
 "not reach the sufferer in time to prevent such dissolution, — cases 
 which when numbered together amounted to thousands. And 
 then the pestilence came, taking its victims by tens of thousands, 
 — jbut that was after the time with which we shall have concern 
 
'rflii OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 here ; and immigration followed, taking those who were saved 
 by huBdreds of thousands. But the -millions are still there, a 
 thriving people ; for His mercy e ndureth for ev er_ 
 
 During this moHtlr,The"montE~ ensuing upon the death of Sir 
 Thomas Fitzgerald, Herbert could of course pay no outward 
 attention to -the wants or relief of the people. He could make 
 no offer of assistance, for nothing belonged to him ; nor could he 
 aid in the councils of the committees, for no one could have 
 defined the position of the speaker. And during that month 
 nothing was defined about Castle Eichmond. Lady Pitzgerald 
 was still always called by her title. The people of the country, 
 including the tradesmen of the neighbouring towns, addressed 
 the owner of Hap House as Sir Owen ; and gradually the name 
 was working itself into common use, though he had taken no 
 steps to make himself legally entitled to wear it. But no one 
 spoke of Sir Herbert. The story was so generally known, that 
 none were so ignorant as to suppose him to be his father's heir. 
 The servants about the place still called him Mr. Herbert, orders to 
 I that effect having been specially given; and the peasants of 
 the country, with that tact which graces them, and with that 
 anxiety to abstain from giving pain which always accompanies 
 them unless when angered, carefully called him by no name. 
 They knew that he was not Sir Herbert ; but they would not 
 believe but what, perchance, he might be so yet on some future 
 day. So they took off their old hats to him, and passed him 
 silently in his sorrow ; or if they spoke to him, addressed his 
 honour simply, omitting all mention of that Christian name, 
 which the poor Irishman is generally so fond of using. ' Mister 
 Blake ' sounds cold and unkindly in his ears. It is the 
 ' Masther,' or ' His honour,' or if possible ' Misther Thady.' 
 Or if there be any handle, that is used with avidity ; Pat is a 
 jaappy man when he can address his landlord as ' Sir Patrick.' 
 
 But now the ' ould masther's son ' could be called by no 
 name. Men knew not what he was to be, though they knew 
 well that he was not that which he ought to be. And there 
 were some who attempted to worship Owen as the rising sun ; 
 but for such of them as had never worshipped him before that 
 game was rather hopeless. In those days he was not much 
 seen, neither hunting nor entertaining company ; but when seen 
 he was rough enough with those who made any deep attempt to 
 ingratiate themselves with his coming mightiness. And during 
 this month he went over to London, having been specially in- " 
 vited so to do by Mr. Prendergast : but very little came of his 
 visit there, except that it was certified to him that he was 
 beyond all doubt the baronet. ' And there shall be no unneces- 
 
THE FIRST MONTH. 313 
 
 sary delay, Sir Owen,' said Mr. Prendergast, • in putting you 
 into full possessioit of all your rights.' In answer to which 
 Owen had replied that he was not anxious to he put in possession 
 of any rights. That as far as any active doing of his own was 
 concerned, the title might lie in abeyance, and that regarding 
 the property he would make known his wish to Mr. Prendergast 
 very quickly after his return to Ireland. But he intimated at 
 the same time that there could be no ground for disturbing Lady 
 Fitzgerald, as he had no intention under any circumstances of 
 living at Castle Richmond. 
 
 ' Had you not better tell Lady Fitzgerald that yourself ?' said 
 Mr. Prendergasi^ catching at the idea that his friend's v^idow — 
 my readers will allow me so to call her — might be allowed to 
 live undisturbed at the family mansion, if not for life, at any rate 
 for a few years. If this young man were so generous, why 
 should it not be so ? He would not want the big house, at any 
 rate, till he were married. 
 
 ' It would be better that you should say so,' said Owen. ' I 
 itave particular reasons for not wishing to go there.' 
 
 'But' allow me to say, my dear young friend — and I hope I 
 may call you so, for I greatly admire the way in which you 
 have taken all these tidings — that I would venture to advise 
 you to drop the remembrance of any unpleasantness that may 
 have existed. You should now feel yourself to be the closest 
 friend of that family.' 
 
 ' So I would if ,' and then Owen stopped short, though 
 
 Mr. Prendergast gave him plenty of time to finish his sentence 
 were he minded to do so. 
 
 'In your present position,' continued the lawyer, 'your_ in- 
 fluence will be very great' 
 
 ' 1 can't explain it aU,' said Owen ; ' but I don't think my 
 influence will be great at all. And what is more, 1 do not want 
 any influence of that sort. I wish Lady Fitzgerald to under- 
 stand that she is at perfect liberty to stay where she is, — as far 
 I am concerned. Not as a favour from me, mind ; for I do not 
 thini that she would take a favour from my hands.' 
 
 ' But, my dear sir !' 
 
 ' Therefore you had better write to her about remaining there.' 
 
 Mr. Prendergast did write to her, or rather to Herbert : but in 
 doing so he thought it right to say that the permission to live at 
 Castle Eichmond should be regarded as a kindness granted them 
 by their relative. ' It is a kindness which, under the circum- 
 stances, your mother may, I think, accept without compunction ; 
 at- any rate, for some time to come, — till she shall have suited 
 herself without huj'rying her choice ; but, nevertheless, it must 
 
314 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 be regarded as a generous offer on his part ; and I do hope, my 
 dear Herbert, that you and he will be fast friends.' 
 
 But Mr. Prendergast did not in the least comprehend the 
 workings of Owen's mind ; and Herbert, who knew more of 
 them than any one else, did not understand them altogether 
 Owen had no idea of granting any favour to his relatives, who, 
 as he thought, had never granted any to him. What Owen 
 wanted, — or what he told himself that he wanted, — was justice. 
 It was his duty as a just man to abstain from taking hold of 
 those acres, and he was prepared to do his duty. But it was 
 equally Herbert's duty, as a just man to abstain from taking hold 
 of Clara Desmond, and he was resolved that he would never be 
 Herbert's friend if Herbert did not perform that duty. And 
 then, though he felt himself bound to give up the acres,- — though 
 he did regard this aji an imperative duty, he nevertheless felt also 
 that SQmethifigjwas due to liim for his readiness to perform such 
 a duty,— sjthat some reward should be conceded to him ; what this 
 reward was to be, or rather what he wished it to be, we all know. 
 
 Herbert had utterly refused to engage in any such negotiation ; 
 but Owen, nevertheless, would not cease to think that something 
 might yet be done. Who was so generous as Clara, and would 
 not Clara herself speak out if she knew how much her old lover 
 wa!s prepared to do for this newer lover ? Half a dozen times 
 Owien ma^e up his mind to explain the whole thing to Mr. Pren- 
 dergast ; but when he found himself in the presence of the 
 lawyer, he could not talk about love. Young men are so apt to 
 think that their seniors in age cannot understand romance, or 
 aoknowtedge the force' of a passion. But here they are wrong, 
 for there would be as much romance after forty as before, I take 
 it, were it nojt checked by the fear of ridicule. So Owen stayed 
 a week iSi London, seeing Mr. Prendergast every day ; and then 
 he returned to Hap Souse. 
 
 In the mean time life went on at a very sad pace at Desmond 
 Court. There was no concord whatever between the two ladies 
 residing there. The mother was silent, gloomy, and sometimes 
 bitter, seldom saying a word about Herbert Fitzgerald or his 
 prospects, but saying that , word with great fixity of purpose 
 when it was spoken. ' No one,' she said, ' should attribute to 
 her the poverty and misery of her child. That marriage should 
 not take place from her house, or with her consent.' And Clara 
 for the most part was silent also. In answer to such words as 
 the above she would say nothing ; but when, as did happen once 
 or twice, she was forced to speak, she declared openly enougb'Ji 
 that no earthly consideration should induce her to give up hei 
 engagement. 
 
THE FIKST MONTH. 315 
 
 And tlien the young 6arl canae home, hrought away from his 
 school in order that his authority might have eifect on his sister. 
 To speak the truth, he was unwilling enough to interfere, and 
 would haye declined to come at all could he have dared to do so. 
 Eton was now more pleasant to him than Desmond Court, 
 which, indeed, had but little of pleasantness to offer to a lad 
 such as he was now. He was sixteen, and manly for his age ; 
 hut the question in dispute at Desmond Court offered little at- 
 traction even to a manly boy of sixteen. In that former question 
 as to Owen he had said a word or two, knowing that Owen could 
 not be looked upon as a fitting husband for his sister ; but now 
 he knew not how to counsel her again as to Herbert, seeing that 
 it. was but the other day that he had written a long letter, con- 
 gratulating her on that connexion. 
 
 Towards the end of the month, ho^vever, he did arrive, making 
 glad his mother's heart as she looked at his strong limbs and 
 his handsome open face. And Clara, too, threw herself so 
 warmly into his arms that he did feel glad that he had come to 
 her. ' Oh, Patrick, it is so sweet to have you here !' she said, 
 before his mother had had time to speak to him, 
 
 'Dearest Clara!' 
 
 ' But, Patrick, you must not be cruel to me. Look^ here, 
 Patrick ; you are my only brother, and I so love you that I 
 woiild not offend you or turn you against me for worlds. You 
 are the head of our family, too, and nothing should be done that 
 you do not like. But if so much depends on you, you inust 
 think well before you decide on anything.' 
 
 He opened his young eyes and looked intently into her face, 
 for there was an earnestness in her words that almost frightened 
 him. ' You must think well of it all before you speak, Patrick ; 
 and remember this, you and I must be honest and honourable, 
 whether we be poor or no. You remember about Owen Fitzgerald, 
 how I gave way then because I could do so without dishonour,- 
 But now — ' 
 
 ' But, Clara, I do not understand it all as yet.' 
 
 ' No ; you cannot, — not as yet — and I will let mamma tell you 
 the story. All I ask is this, that you will think of my honour 
 before you say a word that can favour either her or me.' And 
 then he promised her that he would do so ; and his mother, 
 when on the following morning she told him all the history, 
 found him reserved and silent. 
 
 ' Look at his position,' said the mother, pleading her cause 
 before her son. ' He is illegitimate, and — ' 
 
 ' Yes, but mother — ' 
 
 'I know all that, my dear; T know what you would say ; aad 
 
316 CASTIE EICHMOND 
 
 no one can pity Mr. Fitzgerald's- position more than I do; -but 
 you would not On that account have your sister ruined. It :b 
 romance on lier part.' 
 
 ' But what does he say ?' 
 
 ' He is quite willing to give up the match. He nas told me 
 so, and said as much to his aunt, whom I have seen three times 
 on the subject.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that he wishes to give it up ?' 
 
 ' No, — at least I don't know. If he does, he cannot express 
 such a wish, because Clara is so headstrong. Patrick, in my 
 heart I do not believe that she cares for him. I have doubted it 
 for some time.' 
 
 ' But you wanted her to marry him.' 
 
 ' So I did. It was an excellent match, and in a certain way 
 she did like him ; and then, you know, there was that great 
 danger about poor Owen. It was a great danger then. But 
 now she is so determined about this, because she thinks it would 
 be ungenerous to go back from her word ; and in this way she 
 will ruin the very man she wishes to serve. Of course he 
 cannot break off the match if she persists in it. "What I want 
 you to perceive is this, that he, utterly penniless a^ he is, will 
 have to begin the world with a clog round his neck, because she 
 is so obstinate. "What could possibly be worse for him than a 
 titled wife without a peimy ?' And in this way the countess 
 pleaded her side of the question before her son. 
 
 It was quite true that she had been three times to Castle 
 Eichmond, and had thrice driven Aunt Letty into a state border- 
 ing on distraction. If she could only get the Castle Piiohmond 
 people to take it up as they ought to do ! It was thus she 
 argued with herself, — and with Aunt Letty also, endeavouring 
 to persuade her that these two young people would undoubtedly 
 ruin each Other, unless those who were really wise and prudent, 
 and who understood the world — such as Aunt Letty, for instance 
 — would interfere to prevent it. 
 
 Awa£ Letty on the whole did agree with her, though she 
 
 g^ewlj disliked her. Miss Fitzgerald had strongly planted 
 
 y\riihm her bosom the prudent old-world notion, that young 
 
 ^ gentlefolks should not love each other unless they have plenty 
 
 \pf money ; and that if unfortunately such did love each other, it 
 
 was better that they should suffer all the pangs of hopeless love 
 
 thW marry and trust to God and their wits for bread and cheese. 
 
 To^^ich opinion of Aunt Letty's, as well as to some others en- 
 
 tertamed by that lady -with much pertinacity, I cannot subscrifc« 
 
 myselr>as an adherent. 
 
 Lady Desmond had wit enough to discover that Aunt Letty; 
 
THE FIEST MONTH. 317 
 
 did agree witli her in tlie main, and on this account she was 
 eager in seeking her assistance. Lady Fitzgerald of cotirse 
 could not be seen, and there was no one else at Castle Eichmond 
 who could be supposed to have any weight with Herbert. And 
 therefore Lady Desmond was very eloquent witii Aunt Letty, 
 talking much of the future miseries of the two young people, till 
 the old lady had promised to use her best efforts in enlisting 
 Lady Fitzgerald on the same side. ' Yon cannot wonder. Miss 
 Fitzgerald, that I should wish to put an end to, the cruel position 
 in which my poor girl is placed. You know how much a girl 
 suffers from that kind of thing.' 
 
 Axint Letty did dislike Lady Desmond very much ; but, 
 nevertheless, she could not deny the truth of all this ; and 
 therefore it may be said that the visits of the countess to Castle 
 Eichmond were on the whole successful. 
 
 And the month wore itself away also in that sad household, 
 and the Fitzgeralds were gradually becoming used to their 
 position. Family discussions were held among them as to what 
 they should do, and where they should live in future. Mr. 
 Prendergast had written, seeing that Owen had persisted in 
 refusing to make the offer personally himself — saying that there 
 was no hurry for any removal. ' Sir Owen,' he said,' — having 
 considered deeply whether or no he would call him by the title 
 or no, and having resolved that it would be best to do so at once 
 — ' Sir Owen was inclined to behave very generously. Lady 
 Fitzgerald could have the house and demesne at any rate for 
 twelve months, and by that time the personal property left 
 by Sir Thomas would be realized, and there would be enough,' 
 Mr. Prendergast said, ' for the three ladies to live " in decent 
 qui«t comfort." ' Mr. Prendergast had taken care before he left 
 Castle Eichmond that a will should be made and duly executed 
 by Sir Thomas, leaving what money he had to his three chil- 
 dren by name, — in trust for their mother's use. Till the girls 
 should be of age that trust would be vested in Herbert. 
 
 ' Decent quiet comfort !' said Mary to her brother and sister 
 as they conned the letter over ; ' how comfortless it sounds !' 
 
 And so the first month after the death of Sir Thomas passed 
 by, and the misfortunes of the Fitzgerald family ceased to be the 
 onlj' e^ibjoct spoken of by the inhabitants of county Corlr . 
 
818 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIl. 
 
 PREPAKATIONS FOE GOING. 
 
 At tho end of the montli, Herbert began to prepare himsell' foJ 
 faciag the world. The first question to be answered, was that 
 one which is so frequently asked in most families, but which had 
 never yet been necessary in this — What profession would he 
 follow? -All manners of ways by which an educated man can 
 earn his bread had been turned over in his mind, and in the 
 minds of those who loved him, beginning with the revenues of 
 the Archbishop of Armagh, which was Aunt Letty's idea, and 
 ending with a seat at a government desk, which was his own. 
 Mr. Prendergast had counselled the law ; not his own lower 
 branch of the profession, but a barrister's full-blown wig, adding, 
 in his letter to Lady Fitzgerald, that if Herbert would come to 
 London, and settle in chambers, he, Mr. Prendergast, would see 
 that his life was made agreeable to him. But Mr. Somers gave 
 other advice. In those days Assistant Poor-Law Commissioners, 
 were being appointed in Ireland, almost by the score, and Mr. 
 Somers declared that Herbert had only to signify his wish for 
 such a position, and he would get it. The interest which he 
 had taken in the welfare of the poor around him was well 
 known, and as his own story was well known also, there could 
 be no doubt that the government would be willing to assist om ^ 
 so circumstanced, and who when assisted would make himself so 
 ■useful. Such was the advice dr Mr. Somers ; and he might have 
 been right but for this, that both Herbert and Lady Fitzgerald 
 felt that it would be well for them to move out of that neigh- 
 bourhood, — out of Ireland altogether, if such could be possible. 
 
 Aunt Letty was strong for the Church. A young man who 
 had distinguished himself at the University so signally as her 
 nephew had done, taking his degree at the very first attempt, and- 
 that in so high a class of honour as the fourth, would not fail to 
 succeed in the Church. He might not perhaps succeed as to 
 Armagh ; that she admitted ; but there were some thirty othei 
 bishoprics to be had, and it would be odd if, with his talents, he 
 did not get one of them. Think what it would be if he were to 
 return to his own country as Bishop of Cork, Cloyne, and Eoss, as 
 to which amalgamation Of sees, however, Aunt Letty had her 
 own ideas. He was slightly tainted with the- venom of 
 
PEEPAEATIONS FOK GOING. 319 
 
 ,' tigeyism, Aunt Letty said to herself; 'but nothing would dispel 
 this wi'th so much certainty as the theological studies necessary 
 for ordination. And then Aunt Letty talked it over by the hour 
 together with Mrs. Townsend, and both those ladies were agreed 
 that Herbert should get himself ordained as quickly as possible ; 
 — njtin England, where there might be danger even in ordina- 
 tion, bui in good, wholesome, Protestant Ireland, where a Church 
 of England clergyman was a clergyman of the Church of 
 England, and not a priest, "slipping about in the mud half way 
 between England and Eome. 
 
 Herbert himself was anxious to get some employment by 
 which he might immediately earn his bread, but not unnaturally 
 wished that London should be the scene of his work. Anj^- 
 where in Ireland he would be known as the Fitzgerald who 
 ought to have been Fitzgerald of Castle Eichmond. And' then 
 too, he, as other young men, had an undefined idea that, as he 
 must earn his bread, London should be his ground. He had at 
 first been not ill inclined to that Church project, and hud thus 
 given a sort of ground on which Aunt Letty was able to stand, — 
 had, as it were, given her some authority for carrying on an 
 agitation in furtherance of her own views ; but Herbert himself 
 soon gave up this idea. A man, he thought, to be a clergyman 
 should have a very strong predilection in favour of that profes- 
 sion ; and so he gradually abandoned that idea, — actuated, as 
 poor Aunt Letty feared, by the agency of the evil one, working 
 through the means of Puseyism. 
 
 His mother and sisters were in favour of Mr. Prendergast's 
 views, and as it was gradually found by them all that there 
 would not be any immediate pressure as regarded pecuniary 
 means, that seemed at last to be their decision. Herbert would 
 remain yet for three or four weeks at Castle Eichmond, till 
 matters there were somewhat more thoroughly settled, and 
 would then put himself into the hands of Mr. Prendergast in 
 London. Mr. Prendergast would select a legal tutor for him, 
 and proper legal chambers ; and then not long afterwards his 
 mother and sisters should follow, and they would live togethojr 
 at some small villa residence near St. John's Wood Eoad, or per- 
 haps out at Brompton. 
 
 It is astonishing how quickly in this world of ours chaos will^ 
 settle itself into decent and graceful order, when it is properly 
 looked in the face, and handled with a steady hand which is not/ 
 sparing of the broom. Some three months since, everything at 
 Castle Eichmond was ruin ; such ruin, indeed, that the verj' 
 power of living under it seemed to be doubtful. When first Mr. 
 Prendergast arrived there, a feeling came upon them all as 
 
320 ' CASTLE KICHMONK. 
 
 though they might hardly dare to live in a world which would 
 look at them as so thoroughly degraded. As regards means, they 
 would be beggars ! and as regards position, so much worse than 
 beggars ! - A broken world was in truth falling about their ears, 
 and it was felt to be impossible that they should endure its con- 
 v'llsions and j'et li-ve. 
 
 But now the world had fallen, the ruin had come, and they 
 were already strong in future hopes. They had dared to look at 
 their chaos, and found that it still contained the elements of 
 order. There was much still that marred their happiness, and for- 
 bade the joyousness of other days. Their poor father had gone from 
 them in their misery, and the house was still a house of mourn- 
 ing ; and their mother too, though she bore up so wonderfully 
 against her fate, and for their sakes hoped and planned and 
 listened to their wishes, was a stricken woman. That she would 
 never smile again with any heartfelt joy they were -all sure. 
 But, nevertheless, their chaos was conquered, and there was hope 
 that the fields of life would again show themselves green and 
 fruitful. 
 
 On one subject their mother never spoke to them, nor had even 
 Herbert dared to speak to her : not a word had been said in that 
 house since Mr. Prendergast left it as to the future whereabouts 
 or future doings of that man to whom she had once given her 
 hand at the altar. But she had ventured to ask by letter a 
 question of Mr. Prendergast. Her question had been this: 
 What must I do that he may not come to me or to my children ? 
 In answer to this Mr. Prendergast had told her, after- some delay, 
 that ha believed she need fear nothing. He had seen the 
 man, and he thought that he might assure her that she would not 
 be troubled in that respect. 
 
 ' It is possible,' said Mr. Prendergast, ' that he may apply to 
 you by letter for money. If so, give him no answer whatever, 
 but send his letters to me.' 
 
 ' And are you all going ?' asked Mrs. Townsend of Aunt 
 Letty, with a lachrymose voice soon after the fate of the family 
 was decided. They were sitting together with their knees over 
 the fire in Mrs. Townsend's dining-parlour, in wt ich the perilous 
 state of the country had been ais(;ussed by them for many a 
 pleasant hour together. 
 
 ' Well, I think we shall ; you see, my sister would never be 
 happy here.' 
 
 ' No, no ; the shock and the change would be too great for 
 her. Poor Lady Fitzgerald ! And when is that man coming 
 into the house ?' 
 
 ' What, Owen ?' 
 
I'liKrARATIONS FOR GOINO. 321 
 
 ' /es ! Sir Owen I suppose lie is now.' 
 
 ' Well, I don't know ; he does not seem to be in any hurry, 
 I believe that he has said that my sister may continue to live 
 there if she pleases. But of course she cannot do that.' 
 
 ' They do say about the country,' whispered Mrs. Tovvnsend, 
 ' that he refuses to be the heir at all. He certainly has not had 
 any cards printed with the title on them — I know that as a fact. 
 
 ' He is a very singular man, very. You know I never could 
 bear him,' said Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' No, nor I either. He has not been to our church once these 
 six months. But it's very odd, isn't it ? Of course you know 
 the story ?' 
 
 ' What story ?' asked Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' About Lady Clara. Owen Fitzgerald was dreadfully in love 
 with her before your Herbert had ever seen her. And they do 
 say that he has sworn his cousin shall never live if he marries 
 her.' 
 
 ' They can never marry now, you know. Only think of it. 
 There would be three hundred a year between them. — Not at ) 
 present, that is,' added Aunt Letty, looking forward to a future! 
 period after her own death. 
 
 ' That is very little, very little indeed,' said Mrs. Townsend, 
 remembering, however, that she herself had married on less. 
 • But, Miss Fitzgerald, if Herbert does not marry her do you 
 think this Owen will ?' 
 
 ' I don't think she'd have him. I am quite sure she would 
 not.' 
 
 ' Not when he has all the property, and the title too ?' 
 
 'No, nor double as much. What would people say of her 
 if she did ? But, however, there is no fear, for she declares that 
 nothing shall induce her to give up her engagement with otii 
 Herbert.' 
 
 And so they discussed it backward and forward in every way, 
 each having her own theory as to that singular rumour which 
 was going about the countrj', signifying that Owen had declined 
 to accept the title. Aunt Letty, however, would not believe 
 tliat any good could come from so polluted a source, and 
 declared that he had his own reasons for the delay. ' It's not foi 
 any love of us,' she said, ' if he refuses to take either that or the 
 estate.' And in this she was right. But she would have been 
 more surprised still had she learned that Owen's forbearance 
 aiose from a strong anxiety to do what was just in the matter. 
 
 ' And so Herbert won't go into the Church ?' 
 
 And Letty shook her head sorrowing. 
 
 ' ^neas would have been so glad to have taker, him ior a 
 
322 CASTLE BICHMOND. 
 
 twelvemontli's reading,' said Mrs. Townsend. ' He could have 
 ■ come here, yOu know, when you went away, and been ordained 
 at Cork, and got a curacy close in the neighbourhood, where he 
 was known. It would have been so nice ; wouldn't it ?' 
 
 Aunt Letty would not exactly have advised the scheme 
 as suggested by Mrs. Townsend. Her ideas as to Herbert's 
 clerical studies would have been higher than this. Trinity 
 Oollege, Dublin, was in her estimation the only place left for 
 good Church of England ecclesiastical teaching. But as Herbert 
 was obstinately bent on deelining sacerdotal life, there was no 
 Use in dispelling Mrs. To'vfnsend's bright vision. 
 
 ' It's all of no use,' she said ; ' he is determined to go to the 
 bar.' 
 
 ' The bar is very respectable,' said Mrs. Townsend, kindly. 
 
 ' And you mean to go with them, too ?' said Mrs. Townsend, 
 after another pause. ' You'll hardly be happy, I'm thinking, so 
 far away from your old home.' 
 
 ' It is sad to change at my time of life,' said Aunt Letty, 
 plaintively. ' I'm sixty-two now.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Mrs. Townsend, who, however, knew her 
 age to a day. 
 
 ' Sixty-two if I live another week, and I have never yet had 
 any home but Castle Eichmond. There I was born, and till the 
 other day I had every reason to trust that there I might die. 
 But what does it matter ?' 
 
 ' No, that's true of course ; what does it matter where we are 
 while we linger in this vale of tears ? But couldn't you get a 
 iittle place for yourself somewhere near here ? There's Callar 
 ghan's cottage, with the two-acre piece for a cow, and as nice a 
 spot of a garden as there is in the county Cork.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't separate myself from her now,' said Aunt Letty, 
 ' for all the cottages and all the gardens in Ireland. The Lord has 
 been pleased to throw us together, and together we will finish our 
 pilgrimage. Whither she goes, I will go, and where she lodges, 
 I will lodge ; her people shall be my people, and her God my 
 God.' And then Mrs. Townsend said nothing further of Calla- 
 ghan's pretty cottage, or of the two-acre piece. 
 
 ' But one reason for her going Aunt Letty did not give, even to 
 her friend Mrs. Townsend. Her income, that which belonged 
 exclusively to herself, was in no way affected by these sad 
 Castle Eichmond revolutions. This was a comfortable, — we 
 may say a generous provision for an old maiden lady, amounting 
 to some six hundred a year, settled upon her for life, and this, if 
 added to what could be saved and scraped together, would 
 enable them t^ l»"» '»"»»&^rtably as far as means were conceraod. 
 
FKEPAEATIONS FOR GOING. 323 
 
 in that suburban villa to whicli they were looking forward. 
 But without Aunt Letty's income that suburban villa must be bui 
 a poor home. Mr. Prendergast had calculated that some fourteen 
 thousand pounds would represent the remaining property of the 
 family, with which it would be necessary to purchase government 
 stock. Such being the case, Aunt Letty's income was very ma- 
 terial to them. 
 
 ' I trust you will be able to find some one there who Vill 
 preach the gospel to ycu,' said Mrs. Townsend, m a tone that 
 showed how serious were her misgivings on the subject. 
 
 ' I will search for suck a one at any rate,' said Aunt Letty. 
 ' You need not be afraid that I shall be a backslider.' 
 
 ' But they have crosses now over the communion tables in the. 
 churches of England,' said Mrs. Townsend. 
 
 ' I know it is very bad,' said Aunt Letty. ' But there will 
 always be a remnant left. The Lord will not utterly desert us.' 
 And then she took her departure, leaving Mrs. Townsend with 
 the conviction that the land to which her friend was going was 
 one in which 'the light of the gospel no longer shone in its 
 purity. 
 
 It was not wonderful that they should all be anxious to get 
 away from Castle Eichmond, for the house there was now not a 
 pleasant one in which to live. Let all those who have houses 
 and the adjuncts of houses think how considerable a part of their 
 lifes pleasures consists in their interest in the things around 
 them. When will the sea-kale be fit to cut, and when will the 
 crocuses come up ? will the violets be sweeter than ever ? and 
 the geranium cuttings, are they thriving? we have dug, and 
 manured, and sown, and we look forward to the reaping, and to 
 see our gamers full. The very furniture which ministers to our 
 daily uses is loved and petted ; and in decorating our rooms we 
 educate ourselves in design. The place in church which has 
 been our own for years, — is not that dear to us, and the voice 
 that has told us of God's tidings — even though the drone become 
 more evident as it waxes in years, and though it grows feeble 
 and indolent ? And the faces of those who have lived around 
 us, do we not love them too, the servants who have worked for 
 us, and the children who have first toddled beneath our eyes and 
 prattled in our ears, and now run their strong races, screaming 
 loudly, splashing us as they pass — very unpleasantly ? Do we 
 iiot love them all ? Do they not all contribute to the great sum 
 of our enjoyment? All men love such things, more or less, even 
 though they know it not. And women love them even more 
 khan men. 
 And the i'itzgeralds were about to leave them all The ear'^j 
 
324 CASTLE lUCHMONB. 
 
 buds of spring were now showing tliemselves, but how was i\ 
 possible that they should look to them ? One loves the bud be- 
 cause one expects the flower. The sea-kale now was beyond 
 their notice, and though they plucked the crocuses, they did so 
 with "tears upon their cheeks. After much consideration the 
 church had been abandoned by all except Aunt Letty and. Her, 
 bert. That Lady Fitzgerald should go there was impossible, 
 and the girls were only too glad to be allowed to stay with their 
 mother. And the schools in which they had taught since the 
 first day in which teaching had been possible for them, had to be 
 abandoned with such true pangs of heartfelt sorrow. 
 
 From the time when their misery first came upon them, from 
 the days when it first began to be understood that the world had 
 gone wrong at Castle Eichmond, this separation from the schools 
 had commenced. The work had been dropped for a while, but 
 the dropping had in fact been final, and there was nothing further 
 to be done than the saddest of all leave-taking. The girls had 
 sent word to the children, perhaps imprudently, that they would 
 go down and say a word of adieu to their pupils. The children 
 had of course told their mothers, and when the girls reached the 
 two neat buildings, which stood at the comer of the park, thei'e 
 were there to meet them, not unnaturally, a concourse of women 
 and children. 
 
 In former prosparous days the people about Castle Eichmond 
 had, as a rule, been better to do than their neighbours. Money 
 wages had been more plentiful, and there had been little or no 
 sub-letting of land ; the children had been somewhat more neatly 
 clothed, and the women less haggard in their faces ; but this 
 difference was hardly perceptible any longer. To them, the 
 l^iss Fitzgeralds, looking at the poverty-stricken assemblage, it 
 almost seemed as though the misfortune of their house had 
 (brought down its immediate consequences on all who had lived 
 ■ysrithin their circle ; but this was the work of the famine. In those 
 days one could rarely see any member of a peasant's family bear- 
 ing in his face a look of health. The yellow meal was a useful 
 food — the most useful, doubtless, which could at that time be 
 found ; but it was not one that was gratifying either to the eye 
 or palate. ^ 
 
 The girls had almost regretted their offer before they had left 
 the house. It would have been better, they said to themselves, 
 to have had the children up in the hall, and there to have spoken 
 their farewells, and made their little presents. The very enter- 
 ing those schoolrooms again would almost be too much for them ; 
 but this consideration was now too late, and when they got to 
 the comer oi the gate, they found that there was a crowd to re- 
 
' PEEPAEATlONS I'OE GOING 325 
 
 ceive them. ' Mary, I must go back,' said Emmeline, when she 
 first saw them ; but Aunt Letty, who was with them, stepped 
 forward, and they soon found themselves in the schoolroom. 
 
 ' We have come to say good-bye to you all,' said Aunt Letty, 
 trying to begin a speech. 
 
 ' May the heavens be yer bed then, the lot of yez, for ye wai 
 always good to the poor. May the Blessed Virgin guide and 
 protect ye wherever ye be ;' — a blessing against which Aunt 
 Letty at once entered a little inward protest, perturbed though she , 
 was in spirit. ' May the heavens rain glory on yer heads, for ye 
 war always the finest fam.ily that war ever in the county Cork !' 
 
 ' You know, I dare say, that we are going to leave you,' con 
 tinned Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' We knows it, we knows it ; sorrow come to them as did it all. 
 Faix, an' there'll niver be any good in the counthry, at all at all, 
 when you're gone, Miss Emmeline ; an' what'll we do at all for 
 the want of yez, and when shall we see the likes of yez ? Eh, 
 Miss Letty, but there'll be sore eyes weeping for ye ; and for her 
 leddyship too ; may the Lord Almighty bless her, and presarve 
 her, and carry her sowl to glory when she dies ; for av there 
 war iver a good woman on God's 'arth, that woman is Leddy 
 Fitzgerald.' 
 
 And then Aunt Letty found that there was no necessity for her 
 to continue her speech, and indeed no possibility of her doing so 
 even if she were so minded. The children began to wail and 
 cry, and the mothers also mixed loud sobbings with their loud 
 prayers ; and Emmeline and Mary, dissolved in tears, sat them- 
 selves down, drawing to them the youngest bairns and those 
 whom they had loved the best, kissing their sallow, famine- 
 stricken, unwholesome faces, and weeping over them with a 
 love of which hitherto they had been hardly conscious. 
 
 There was not much more in the way of speech possible to any 
 of them, for even Aunt Letty was far gone in tender wailing ; 
 and it was wonderful to see the liberties that were taken even 
 with that venerable bonnet. The women had first of all taken 
 hold of her hands to kiss them, and had kissed her feet, and her 
 garments, and her shoulders, and then behind her back they had 
 made crosses on her, although they knew how dreadfully she 
 would have raged had she caught them polluting her by such 
 doings ; and they grasped her arms and embraced them, till at 
 last, those who were more daring, reached her forehead and her 
 face, and poor old Aunt Letty, who in her emotion could not now 
 utter a syllable, was almost pulled to pieces among them. 
 
 Mary and Emmeline had altogether surrendered themselves, 
 and were the centres of clusters of children -who hung upon 
 
320 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 tliem. And the sobs now were no longer low and tearful, but 
 they had grown into long, protracted groanings, and loud wail 
 ings, and clapping of hands, and tearings of the hair. 0, my 
 reader, have 5'ou ever seen a railway train taking its deparBiiTff 
 'iroffi~aii Irish station with a freight of Irish emigrants ? if so, 
 you know how the hair is torn, and how the hands are clapped, 
 and how the low moaning^ gradually swell into notes of loud 
 lamentation. It means nothing, I have heard men say, — men 
 and women too. But such men and women are wrong. It 
 means much ; it means this : that those who are separated, not 
 only love each other, but are anxious to tell each other that they 
 so love. We have all heard of demonstrative people. A demon- 
 strative person, I take it, is he who is desirous of speaking out 
 what is in his heart. For myself I am inclined to think that such 
 speaking out has its good ends. ' The faculty of silence ! is it 
 not of all things the most beautiful ?' That is the doctrine 
 preached by a great latter-day philosopher ; for myself I think 
 that the faculty of speech is much more beautiful — of speech if 
 it be made but by bowlings, and wailings, and loud clappings ot 
 the hand. What is in a man, let it come out and be faiown to 
 those around him ; if it be bad it will find correction ; if it be 
 good it will spread and be beneficent. 
 
 And then one woman made herself audible over the sobs of the 
 crowding children ; she was a gaunt, high-boned woman, but she 
 would have been comely, if not handsome, had not the famine 
 come upon her. She held a baby in her arms, and another little 
 toddling thing had been hanging on her dress till Emmeline had - 
 seen it, and plucked it away ; and it was now sitting in her lap 
 quite composed, and sucking a piece of cake that had been given 
 to it. ' An' it's a bad day for us all,' said the woman, beginning 
 in a low voice, which became louder and louder as she went on ; 
 ' it's a bad day for us all that takes away from us the only rale 
 friends that we iver had, and the back of my hand to them that 
 have come in the way, bringin' sorrow an' desolation, an' misery - 
 on gentlefolks that have been good to the poor since iver the 
 poor have been in the land ; rale gentlefolks, sich as there ain 
 no others to be found now-a-days in any of these parts. O'hone 
 o'hone ! but it's a bad day for us and for the childer ; for where 
 shall we find the dhrop to comfort us or the bit to ate when the 
 sickness comes on us, as it's likely to come now, when the Fitz- 
 geralds is out of the counthry. May the Lord bless them, and 
 keep them, and presarve them, and the Holy Virgin have them 
 in her keepia' !' 
 
 ' Wh — i— s— h— h,' said Aunt Letty, who could not allow 
 such idolatry to pass by unobserved or unrebuked. 
 
^ PBEPAEATIONS FOE GOING. 327 
 
 ' An' Bhure the blessin' of a poor ■woman cannot haram you," 
 continued the mother ; ' an' I'll tell yon what, neighbours, it'll 
 be a bad day for him that folk call the heir when he puts his 
 foot in-that house.' 
 
 ' Deed an' that's thrue for you, Bridget Magrath,' said anothe. 
 voice- from among the crowd of women. 
 
 ' A bad day intirely,' continued the woman with the baby ; 
 ' av the house stans over his head when he does the like o' that,' 
 there'll be no justice in the heavens.' 
 
 ' But, Mrs. Magrath,' said Aunt Letty, trying to interrupt her, 
 ' you must not speak in that way ; you are mistaken in supposing 
 that Mr. Owen—' 
 
 ' We'll all live to see,' said the woman ; ' for the time's oomin' 
 quick upon us now. But it's a bad law that kills our ould 
 masther over our heads, an' takes away from us our ould 
 misthress. An' as for him they calls Mr. Owen — ' 
 
 But the ladies found it impossible to listen to her any longer, 
 so with some difficulty they extricated theiaselves from the crowd 
 by which they were surrounded, and once more shaking hands 
 with those who were nearest to them escaped into the park, and 
 made their way back towards the house. 
 
 They had not expected so much demonstration, and were not a 
 little disconcerted at the scene which had taken place. Aunt 
 Letty had never been so handled in her life, and hardly knew 
 how to make her bonnet sit comfortably on her head; and the 
 two girls were speechless till they were half across the park. 
 
 ' I am glad we have been,' said Emmeline at last, as soon as 
 the remains of her emotion would allow her to articulate her- 
 words. • 
 
 ' It would have been (ireadful to have gone away without 
 seeing them,' said Mary. ' Poor creatures, poor dear creatures / 
 we shall never again have any more people to be fond of us likff 
 that !' 
 
 ' There is no knowing,' said Aunt Letty ; ' the Lord giveth 
 and the Lord taketh away, and blessed is the name of the Lord. 
 You are both young, and may come back again ; but for me — ■' 
 
 ' Dear Aunt Letty, if we come back you shall come too.' 
 
 ' If I only thought that my bones could lie here near my 
 brother's. But never mind ; what signifies it where our bones 
 lie ?' And then they were silent for a while, till Aunt Letty 
 spoke again. ' I mean to be quite happy over in England; ,1 
 believe I shall be happiest of you all if I can find any clergyman 
 who is not half perverted to idolatry.' 
 
 This took place some time before the ladies left Castle Rich 
 mond, — perhaps as much as three weeks ; it was even before 
 
328 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 Herbert's departure, who started for London the day but one 
 after the scene here recorded ; he had gone to various places to 
 take his last farewell,; to see the Townsends at the parsonage ; 
 ta call on Father Barney at Kanturk, and had even shaken hands 
 with the Eev. Mr. Creagh, at Gortnaclough. But one farewell 
 visit had been put oif for the last-. It was now arranged that he 
 was to go over to Desmond Court and see Clara before he went. 
 There had been some difficulty in this, for Lady Desmond had at 
 first declared that she could not feel justified in asking him into- 
 her house ; but the earl was now at home, and her ladyship had 
 at last given her consent : he was to see the countess first, and 
 was afterwards to see Clara — alone. He had declared that he 
 would not go there unless he were to be allowed an interview 
 with her in private. The countess, as I have said, at last con- 
 sented, trusting that her previous eloquence might be efficacious 
 in counteracting the ill effects of her daughter's imprudence. 
 On the day after that interview he was to start for London ; 
 ' never to return,' as he said to Emmeline, ' unless he came to 
 seek his wife.' 
 
 ' But you will come to seek your wife,' said Emmeline, stoutly ; 
 ' I shall think you faint-hearted if you doubt it.' 
 
 OHAPTEE XXXIII. 
 
 THE LAST STAGE. 
 
 On the day before his departure for London, Herbert EitzgeraM 
 once more got on his horse — the horse that was to be no longer ■ 
 his after that day — and rode off towards Desmond Court. He 
 had already perceived how foolish he had been in walking thither 
 through the mud and rain when last he went there, and how 
 much he had lost by his sad appearance that day, and by his 
 want of personal comfort. So he dressed himself with some care 
 — dressing not for his love, but for the countess, — and taking his 
 silver-mounted whip in his gloved hand, he got up on his well- 
 groomed nag with more spirit than he had hitherto felt. 
 
 Nothing could be better than the manner in which, at this 
 time, the servants about Castle Eichmond conducted themselves 
 Most of them — indeed, all but three — had been told that they 
 must go ; and in So telling them, the truth had been explained. 
 It had been ' found,''Aunt Letty said to one of the elder among 
 them, that Mr. Herbert was not the heir to the property, and 
 therefore the family was obliged to go away. Mrs. Jones of 
 
THE LAST STAGE. 329 
 
 course accompanied her mistress. Kichard had been told, Ijoth 
 by Herbert and by Aunt Letty, that he had better remain and 
 live on a small patch of land that should be provided for him. 
 But in ans'wer to this he stated his intention of removing himself 
 to London. If the London air was fit for ' my leddy and Miss' 
 Letty,' it would be for him. It's no good any more talking, Mr. 
 Herbert,' said Eichard, ' T main to go.' So there was no more 
 talking, and he did go. 
 
 But all the other servants took their month's warning with 
 tears and blessings, and strove one beyond another how they 
 might best serve the ladies of the family to the end. ' I'd lose 
 the little fingers off me to go with you, Miss Emmeline ; so I 
 would,' said one poor girl,^ — all in vain. If they could not keep 
 a retinue of sei-vants in Ireland, it was clear enough that, they 
 oould not keep them in London. 
 
 The groom who held the hoi'se for Herbert to mount, touched 
 his hat respectfully as his yoiing master rode off slowly down the 
 avenue, and then went back to the stables to meditate with awe 
 on the changes which had happened in his time, and to bethink 
 himself whether or no he could bring himself to serve in the 
 stables of Owen the usurper. 
 
 Herbert did not take the direct road to Desmond Court, but 
 went round as though he were going to Gortnaclough,- and then 
 turning away from the Gortnaclough road, niade his way by a 
 cross lane towards Clady and the mountains. He hardly knew 
 himself whether he had any object in this beyond one which ho 
 did not express even- to himself, — that, namely, of not being seen 
 on the way leading to Desmond Court. But this he did do, 
 thereby riding out of the district with which he was most 
 thoroughly acquainted, and passing by cabins and patches of 
 now deserted land which were strange to him. It was a poor, 
 bleak, damp, undrained country, lying beyond the confines of his 
 father's property, which in good days had never been pleasant 
 to the eye, but which now in these days — days that were so 
 decidedly bad, was anything but pleasant. It was one of those 
 tracts of land which had been divided and subdivided among 
 the cottiers till the fields had dwindled down to parts of acres, 
 each surrounded by rude low banks, which of themselves seemed 
 to occupy a quarter of the surface of the land. The original 
 landmarks, the big earthen banks, — banks so large that a horse 
 might walk on the top of them, — were still visible enough, 
 showing to the practised eye what had once been the fields into 
 which the land had been divided; but these had since been 
 bisected and crossected, and intersected by family arrangements, 
 in which brothers had been jealous of brothers, and fathers of 
 
330 OA.STLE RICHMOND. 
 
 fheir children, till each little lot contained hut a rood or two of 
 available surface. 
 
 This had been miserable enough to look at, even when those 
 roods had been cropped with potatoes or oats; but now they 
 were not cropped at all, nor was there preparation being made 
 for cropping them. They had been let out under the con-acre" 
 system, at so much a rood, for the potato season, at rents amoimt- 
 ing sometimes to ten or twelve pounds an acre ; but nobody 
 [Would take them now. There, in that electoral division, the 
 (whole proceeds of such land would hardly have paid the poor 
 'rates, and therefore the land was left uncultivated. 
 
 The winter was over, for it was now April, and had any til- 
 lage been intended, it would have been commenced — even in 
 Ireland. It was the beginning of April, but the weather was 
 still stormy and cold, and the east wind, which, as a rule, strikes 
 Ireland with but a light hand, was blowing sharply. On a 
 ^udden a squall of rain came on, — one of those spring squalls 
 which are so piercingly cold, but which are sure to pass by 
 rapidly, if the wayfarer will have patience to ■wait for them. 
 Herbert, remembering his former discomfiture, resolved that he 
 would have such patience, and dismounting from his horse at a 
 cabin on the roadside, entered it himself, and led his horse in 
 after him. In England no one would think of taking his steed 
 ,' into a poor man's cottage, and would hardly put his beast into a' 
 cottager's shed without leave asked and granted ; but people are 
 I more intimate with each other, and take greater liberties in 
 ' Ireland. It is no uncommon thing on a wet hunting-day to see 
 a cabin packed with horses, an-d the children moving about 
 i among them, almost as unconcernedly as though the animals 
 i were pigs. But then the Irish horsed are so well mannered and 
 ' / good-natured. ' 
 
 The cabin was one abutting as it were on the road, not stand- 
 ing back upon the land, as is most customary ; and it was built 
 in an angle at a spot where the road made a turn, so that two 
 sides of it stood close out in the wayside. It was small and 
 wretched to look at, without any sort of outside shed, or even a 
 scrap of potato-garden attached to it, — a miserable, low-roofed, 
 damp, ragged tenement, as wretched as any that' might be seen 
 even in the county Cork. 
 
 But the nakedness of the exterior was as nothing to the naked- 
 ness of the interior. When Herbert entered, followed by his 
 horse, his eye glanced round the dark place, and it seemed to be 
 empty of everything. There was no fire on the hearth, though 
 a fire on the hearth is the easiest of all luxuries for an Irishman 
 to acquire and the last which he is willing to lose. There was 
 
THE LAST STAGU. 33l 
 
 iiot an article of furniture in tlie whole place ; neither chaiia 
 nor table, nor bod, nor dresser ; there was there neither dish, 
 nor cup, nor plate, nor even the iron pot in which all the cookery 
 of the Irish cottiers' menage is usually carried on. Beneath hia 
 feet was the damp earthen floor, and around him were damp, 
 cracked walls, and over his head was the old lumpy thatch, 
 through which the water was already dropping ; but inside waf 
 to be seen none of those articles of daily use which are usually 
 to be fouiid in the houses even of the poorest. 
 
 But, nevertheless, the place was inhabited. Squatting in the 
 middle of the cabin, seated on her legs crossed under her, with 
 nothing between her and the wet earth, there crouched a woman 
 with a child in her arms. At first, so dark was the place, 
 Herbert hardly thought that the object before him was a human 
 being. She did not move when he entered, or speak to him, or 
 in any way show sign of surprise that he should come there. 
 There was room for him and his horse without pushing her from 
 her place ; and, as it seemed, he might have stayed there and taken 
 his departure without any sign having been made by her. 
 
 But as his eyes became used to the light he saw her eyes 
 gleaming brightly thi-ough the gloom. They were very large 
 and bright as they turned round upon him while he iaoved— 
 large 'and bright, but with a dull, unwholesome brightness, — a 
 brightness that had in it none of the light of life. 
 
 And then he looked at her more closely. She had on her 
 some rag of clothing which barely sufficed to cover her naked- 
 ness, and the baby which she held in her arms was covered in 
 some sort ; but he could see, as he came to stand close over 
 her, that these garments were but loose rags which were hardly 
 fastened round her body. Her rough short hair hung down upon 
 her back, clotted with dirt, and the head and face of the child 
 which she held was covered with dirt and sores. On no more 
 wi'etched object, in its desolate solitude, did the eye of man ever 
 fall. 
 
 In those days there was a form of face which came upon the 
 sufferers when their state of misery was far advanced, and which 
 was a sure sign that their last stage of misery was nearly run. 
 The mouth would fall and seem to hang, the lips at the two ends 
 of the m.outh would be dragged down, and the lower parts of the 
 cheeks would fall as though they had been dragged and pulled. 
 There were no signs of acute agony when this phasis of counte- 
 nance was to be seen, none of the horrid symptoms of gnawing 
 hunger by which one generally supposes tha.t famine is accom- 
 panied. The look is one of apathy, desolation, and death. When 
 custom had made these signs easily legible, the poor doomed 
 
332 • CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 wretcli was known with certainty. ' It's no use in life meddling 
 with him ; he's gone/ said a lady to me in the far west of the 
 south of Ireland, while the poor boy, whose doom was thus 
 spoken, stood by listening. Her delicacy did not equal her 
 energy in doing good, — for she did much good ; but in truth il 
 was difficult to be delicate when the hands were so fiill. And 
 then she pointed out to me the signs on the lad's face, and I 
 found that her reading was correct. 
 
 The famine was not old enough at the time of which we are 
 speaking for Herbert to have learned all this, or he would have 
 known that there was no hope left in this world for the pooi 
 creature whom he saw before him. The skin of her cheek had 
 fallen, and her mouth was draqged, and the mark of death was 
 upon her ; but the agony c vant was past. She sat there 
 listless, indifferent, hardly ca^_.jole of suffering, even for her 
 child, waiting her doom unconsciously. 
 
 As he had entered without eliciting a word from her, so might 
 he have departed without any outward sign of notice ; but this 
 would have been impossible on his part. ' I have come in Qut 
 of the rain for shelter,' said he, looking down on her. 
 
 ' Out o" the rain, is it ?' said she, still fixing on him her glassy 
 bright eyes. ' Yer honour's welcome thin.' But she did not 
 attempt to move, nor show any of' those symptoms of reverence 
 which are habitual to the Irish when, those of a higher rank 
 enter their cabins. 
 
 ' You seem to be very poorly off here,' said Herbert, looking' 
 round the bare walls of the cabin. ' Have you no chair, and no 
 bed to lie on ?' 
 
 ' 'Deed no,' said she. 
 
 'And no fire?' said he, for the damp and chill of the place 
 struck through his bones. 
 
 ' 'Deed no,' she said again ; but she made no wail as to her 
 wants, and uttered no complaint as to her misery. 
 
 ' And are you living here by yourself, without furniture or 
 utensils of any kind ?' 
 
 ' It's jist as yer honour sees it,' answered she. 
 
 For a while Herbert stood stiU, looking round him, for the 
 woman was so motionless and uncommunicative that he hardly 
 knew how to talk to her. That she was in the lowest depth of 
 distress was evident enough, and it behoved him to administer to 
 her immediate 'wants before he left her; but what eould he do 
 for one who seemed to be so indifferent to herself? He stood for 
 a time looking round him till he could see through the gloom 
 that there was a bundle of straw lying in the dark corner beyoA 
 the hearth, and that the straw was huddled up, as though the^ 
 
THE LAST STAGE. 333 
 
 were sometihing lying under it. Seeing this he left the bridle 
 of his horse, and stepping across the cabin moved the straw with 
 the handle of his whip. As he did so he turned his back from 
 the wall in which the small window-hole had been ;gierced, so 
 that a gleam of light fell upon the bundle at his feet, and he 
 could see that the body of a child was lying there, stripped of 
 every vestige of clothing. 
 
 For a minute or two he said nothing — hardly, indeed, knowing 
 how to speak, and looking from the corpse-like woman back to 
 the life-like corpse, and then from the corpse back to the woman, 
 as though he expected that she w»uld say something unasked. 
 But she did not say a word, though she so turned her head that 
 her eyes rested on him. 
 
 He then knelt down and put his hand, upon the body, and 
 found that it was not yet stone cold. The cbUd apparently had 
 been about four years old, while that still living in her arms 
 might "perhaps be half that age. 
 
 ' Was she your own ?' asked Herbert, speaking hardly above 
 his bjeath. 
 
 ' 'Deed, yes !' said the woman. ' She was my own, own little 
 Kitty.' But there was no tear in her eye or gurgling sob audible 
 from her throat. 
 
 ' And when did she die ?' he asked. 
 
 ' 'Deed, thia, and I don't jist know — not exactly ;' and sinking 
 lower down upon her haunches, she put up to her forehead the 
 hand with which she had supported herself. on the floor — the- 
 hand which was not occupied with the baby — and pushing back 
 with it the loose hairs from her face, tried to make an effort at 
 thinking. 
 
 ' She was alive in the night, wasn't she?' he said. 
 
 ' I b'lieve thin she was, yer honour. 'Twas broad day, I'm 
 thinking, when she guv' over moaning. She warn't that way 
 when he went away.' 
 
 And who's he ?' 
 
 ' Jist Mike, thin.' 
 
 'And is Mike your husband?' he asked. She was not very 
 willing to talk; but it appeared at last that Mike was her 
 husband, and that having become a cripple through rheumatism, 
 he had not been able to work on the roads. In this condition ' 
 he and his should of course have gone into a poor-house. It was 
 easy enough to give such advice in such cases when one came 
 across them, and such advice when given at that time was usually 
 followed ; but there were so many who had no advice, who. could 
 get no aid, who knew not which way to turn themselves ! This 
 wretched man had succeeded in finding some one who would give 
 
334 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 him his food — food enoiigh to keep himself alive — for such work 
 as he could do in spite of his rheumatism, and this work to the 
 last he would not abandon. Even this was better to him than 
 the poor-house. But then, as long as a man found work out of 
 the poor-house, his wife and children would not be admitted 
 into it. They would not be admitted if the fact of the working/ 
 husband was known. The rule in-itself was salutary, as without 
 it a man could work, earning such wages as were adjudged to he 
 needful for a family, and at the same time send his wife and 
 children to be supported on the rates. But in some cases, such 
 as this, it pressed very cruelly. Exceptions were of course made 
 in such cases, if they were known : but then it was so hard to 
 know them ! , 
 
 This man Mike, the husband of that woman, and the father of 
 those children, alive and dead, had now gone to his work, leaving 
 his home without one morsel of food within it, and the wife of 
 his bosom and children of his love without the hope of gettingi; 
 any. And then looking closely round him, Herbert could see 
 that a small basin or bowl lay on the floor near her, capable. Oi 
 holding perhaps a pint ; and on lifting it he saw that there still 
 clung to it a-few grains of uncooked Indian corn-flour- — the yellow 
 meal, as it was called. Her husband, she said at last, had 
 brought home with him in his cap a handful of this flour, stolen 
 from the place where he was working — perhaps a quarter of a 
 pound, then worth over a farthing, and she had mixed this with 
 water in a basin ; and this was the food which had sustained her, 
 or rather had. not sustained her, since yesterday morning — hei 
 and her two children, the one that was living and the one that 
 was dead. 
 
 Such was her story, told by her in the fewest of words. AnJ 
 then he asked her as to her hopes for the future. But though 
 she cared, as it seemed, but little for the past, for the future siie 
 cared less. ' 'Deed, thin, an' I don't jist know.' She would say 
 no more than that, and would not even raise her voice to ask for 
 alms when he pitied her in her misery. But with her the agony^ 
 of death was already over 
 
 ' And the child that you nave in your arms,' he said, ' is it not 
 cold ?' And he stood close over her, and put out his hand and 
 touched the baby's body. As he did so, she made some motion 
 as though to arrange the clothing closer round the child's limts 
 but Herbert could see that she was making an eifort to hide her 
 own Jiakedness. It was the only effort that she made while he 
 stood there beside her. . I 
 
 ' Is she not cold ?' he said again, when he had turned nig face 
 away to relieve her fiom her embarrassment. ' 
 
THE LAST 9TAGE. 335 
 
 ' Oowld,' she muttered, with a vacant face and wondc-iing tone 
 of voice, as though she did not quite understand him. ' I suppose 
 she is cowld. Whywouldn't she be cowld ? We're cowld enough, 
 if that's alL' But still she did not stir from the spot on which 
 she sat; and the child, though it gave from time to time a low 
 moan that was almost inaudible, lay still in her arms, with its 
 big eyes staring into vacancy. 
 
 He felt that he was stricken with horror as he remained there 
 m the cabin with the dying woman and the naked corpse of the 
 poor dead child. But what was he to do ? He could not go and 
 leave them without succour. The woman had made no plaint of 
 her suffering, and had asked for nothing ; but he felt that it would 
 be impossible to abandon her without offering her relief ; nor 
 was it possible that he should leave the body of the child in that 
 horribly ghastly state. So he took from" his pocket his silk 
 handkerchief, and, returning to the corner of the cabin, spread it 
 ns a covering over the corpse. At first he did not like to touch 
 the small naked dwindled remains of humanity from which life 
 bad fled ; but gradually he overcame his disgust; and kneeling 
 down, he straightened the limbs and closed the eyes, and folded 
 the handkerchief round the slender body. The mother looked 
 on him the while, shaking her head slowly, as though asking 
 him with all the voice that was left to her, whether it were not 
 piteous ; but of words she still uttered none. 
 
 And then ho took from his pocket a silver coin or two, and 
 tendered them to her. These she did take, muttering some word 
 of thanks, but they caused her no emotion of joy. ' She was 
 there waiting,' she said, ' till Mike should return,' and there she 
 would stil wait, even though she should die with the silver in 
 her hand. 
 
 ' 1 will send some one to you,' he said, as he took his departure ; 
 ' some one that shall take the poor child and bury it, and who 
 shall move you and the other one into the workhouse.' She 
 thanked him once more with some low muttered words, but the 
 promise brought her no joy. And when the succour came it' 
 was all too late, for the mother and the two children never left 
 the cabin till they left it together, wrapped in their workhouse ' 
 shrouds. 
 
 Herbert, as he remounted his horse and rode quietly on, forgo'i 
 for a while both himself and Clara Desmond. Whatevei might 
 be the extent of his own calamity, how could he think himself 
 unhappy after what he had seen ? how could he repine at aught 
 that the world had done for him, having now witnessed to how 
 low a state of misery a fellow human being might be brought ? 
 Could he, after that dare to consider himself unfortunate ? 
 
336 CASTLE KICHMONO. 
 
 Before he reached Desmond Court he did make some arrange- 
 ments for the poor woman, and directed that a cart might be 
 sent for her, so that she might be carried to the union workhouse 
 at Kanturk. But his efforts in her service were of little avail. 
 People then did not think much of a dying woman, and were in 
 no special hurry to obey Herbert's behest. 
 
 ' A woman to be carried to the union, is it ? For Mr. Fitz- 
 gerald, eh ? What Mr. Fitzgerald says must be done, in course. 
 But sure av' it's done before dark, won't that be time enough for 
 the likes of her ?' 
 
 But had they flown to the spot on the wings of love, it would 
 not have sufBced to prolong her life one day. Her doom had 
 been spoken before Herbert had entered the cabin. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXIV. 
 
 FAEEWELL. 
 
 He was two hours later than he had intended as he rode up the 
 avenue to Lady Desmond's gate, and his chief thought at the 
 moment was how he' should describe to the countess the scene he 
 had just witnessed. Why describe it at all ? That is what we 
 should all say. He had come there to talk about other things— 
 aboilt 6ther things which must be discussed, and which would 
 require all his wits. Let him keep that poor woman on his> 
 mind, but not embarrass himself with any mention of her for thp 
 present. This, no doubt, would have been wise if only it had 
 been possible ; but out of the full heart the mouth speaks. 
 
 But Lady Desmond had not witnessed the scene which I have 
 attempted to describe, and her heart, therefore, was not full of it, 
 and was not inclined to be so filled. And so, in answer t(?- 
 Herbert's exclamation, ' Oh, Lady Desmond, 1 have seen such a 
 sight!' she gave him but little encouragement to describe it, and 
 by her coldness, reserve, and dignity, soon quelled the expression 
 of his feelings. 
 
 The earl was present and shook hands very cordially with 
 Herbert when he entered the room ; and he, being more suscep- 
 tible as being younger, and not having yet become habituated to 
 the famine as his mother was, did express some eager sympathy. 
 He would immediately go down, or send Fahy Avith the car, and 
 have her brought up and saved ; but his mother had other woA 
 to do and soon put a stop to all this. 
 
 'Mr. Fitzgerald,' said she, speaking with a smile upon Uei 
 
FAREWELL. 337 
 
 face, and with iinsch high-bred dignity of demeanour, ' as you 
 and Lady Clara both wish to see each other before jou leave the 
 coTintiy, and as you have known each other so intimately, and 
 considering all the circumstances, I have not thought it well 
 absolutely to forbid an interview. But 1 do doubt its expediency ; 
 I do, indeed. And Lord Desmond, who feels for your late mis- 
 fortune as we all do, perfectly agrees with me. He thinks that 
 it would be much wiser for you to have parted without the pain 
 of a meeting, seeing how impossible it is that you should ever 
 be more to each other than you are now.' And then she appealed 
 to her son, who stood by, looking not quite so wise, nor even 
 quite so decided as his mother's words would seem to make him. 
 
 ' Well, yes ; upon my word I don't see how it's to be,' said the 
 young earl. ' I am deuced sorry for it for one, and I wish I was 
 well off, so that I could give Clara a pot of money, and then 
 should not care so much about your not being the baronet.' 
 
 ' I am sure you must see, Mr. Fitzgerald, and I know that you 
 do see it because you have very properly said so, that a marriage 
 between you and Lady Clara is now impossible. For her such 
 an engagement would be very bad — very bad indeed ; but for 
 yon it would be utter ruin. Indeed, it would be ruin for you 
 both. Unencumbered as you will be, and with the good con- 
 nection which you will have, and with your excellent talents, it 
 will be quite within your reach to win for yourself a high 
 position. But with yOu, as with other gentlemen who have to 
 work their way, marriage must come late in life, unless you 
 marry an heiress. This I think is thoroughly understood by all 
 people in our position ; and I am sure that it is understood by .youi 
 excellent mother, for whom I always had and still have the most 
 unfeigned respect. As this is so undoubtedly the case, and as I 
 cannot of course consent that Lady Clara should remain hampered 
 by ah engagement which would in all hunaan probability hang 
 over the ten best years of her life, I thought it wise that you 
 should not see each other. I have, however, allowed myself to 
 be overruled ; and now I must only trust to your honour, for- 
 bearance, and prudence to protect my child from what might , 
 possibly be the ill effects of her own affectionate feelings. That 
 she is romantic, — enthusiastic to a fault I should perhaps rather I 
 call it— I need not tell you. She thinks that your misfortune 
 demands from her a sacrifice of herself ; but you, I know, will 
 feel that, even were such a sacrifice available to you, it would 
 not become you to accept it. Because you have fallen, you will 
 not wish to drag her down ; more especially as you can rise 
 again— and she could not.' 
 
 So spoke the countess, with much worldly wisdom, and with 
 
338 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 considerable tact in adjusting her words to tlie object which she 
 had in view. Herbert, as he stood before her silent during the 
 period of her oration, did -feel that it would be well for him to 
 give up his love, and go away in utter solitude of heart to thosf 
 dingy studies which Mr. Prendergast was preparing for hiin 
 His love, or'rather the assurance of Clara's love, had been his 
 great consolation. But what right had he, with all the advan- 
 tages of youth, and health, and friends, and education, to require • 
 consolation ? And then from moment to moment he thought of 
 
 > he woman whom he had left in the cabin, and confessed that he 
 did not dare to call himself unhappy. 
 
 He had listened attentively, although he did thus think of 
 other eloquence besides that of the countess — of the eloquence of 
 that silent, solitary, dying woman ; but when she had done he 
 
 , hardly knew what to say for himself. She did make him feel 
 that it would be ungenerous in him to persist in his engagement : 
 but then again, Clara's letters and his sister's arguments had 
 made him feel that it was impossible to abandon it. They 
 pleaded of heart-feelings so well that he could not resist them ; 
 and the countess — she pleaded so well as to world's prudence 
 that he could -not resist her. 
 
 ' I would not willingly do anything to injure Lady Clara,' he 
 said. ■ 
 
 ' That's what we all know,' said the young earl. ' You see, 
 
 1 what is a girl to do like her ? Love in a cottage is all very well, 
 
 / ii,nd all that ; and as for riches, I don't care about them. It 
 would be a pity if I did, for 1 shall be about the poorest noble- 
 man in the three kingdoms, I suppose. But a chap when he 
 maiTies should have something ; shouldn't he now ?' 
 
 To tell the truth the earl had been very much divided in his 
 opinions since he had come home, veering round a point or two 
 this way or a point or two that, in obedience to the blast of 
 eloquence to which he might be last subjected. But latterly the 
 idea had grown upon him that Clara might possibly marry Owen 
 
 ^ Fitzgerald. There was about Owen a strange fascination which 
 all felt who had once loved him. To the world he was rough 
 and haughty, imperious in his commands, and- exacting even in 
 his fellowship ; but to the few whom he absolutely loved, whom he 
 had taken into his heart's core, no man ever was more tender or 
 more gracious. Clara, though she had resolved to banish him 
 from her heart, had found it impossible to do so till Herbert's 
 misfortunes had given him a charm in her eyes which was not 
 all his own. Clara's mother had loved him— had loved him as 
 she never before had loved ; and now she loved him still, though 
 she had so strongly determined thath-er love should be that of a 
 
FAREWELL, 339 
 
 mother, and not that of a wife. And the young earl, now that 
 Owen's name was again rife in his ears, remembered all the 
 pleasantness of former days. He had never again found such a 
 companion as Owen had been. He had met no other friend to 
 whom he could talk of sport and a man's outward pleasures when 
 his mind was that way given, and to whom he could also talk of 
 soft inward things, — the heart's feelings, and aspirations, and 
 wants. Owen would be as tender with him as a woman, allowing 
 the young lad's arm round his body, listening to words which 
 .the outer world would have called bosh — and have derided as 
 girlish. So at least thought the young earl to himself. And all 
 boys long to be allowed utterance occasionally for these soft 
 tender things ; — as also do' all men, unless the devil's share in 
 the world has become altogether uppermost with them. 
 
 And the young lad's heart hankered after his old friend. He - 
 had listened to his sister, andTTor a while had taken her part ; 
 but his mother had since whispered to him that Owen would 
 now be the better suitor, the preferable brother-in-law ; and that 
 in fact Clara loved Owen the best, though she felt herself bound 
 by honour to his kinsman. And then she reminded her son of 
 Clara's former love for Owen — a love which he himself had 
 witnessed ; and he thought of the day when with so much regret 
 he had told his friend that he was unsuited to wed with an earl's 
 penniless daughter. Of the subsequent pleasantness which had 
 come with Herbert's arrival, he had seen little or nothing. He 
 had been told by letter that Herbert Fitzgerald, the prosperous 
 heir of Castle Eichmond, was to be his future brother-in-law, 
 and he had been satisfied. But now, if Owen could return — how 
 pleasant it would be ! , 
 
 ' But a chap when he marries should have something ; shoiildn't 
 he now ?' So spoke the young earl, re-echoing his mother'? 
 prudence. 
 
 Herbert did not quite like this interference on the boy's part. 
 Was he to explain to a young lad from Eton what his future 
 intentions were with reference to his mode of living and period 
 of marriage ? ' Of course,' he said, addressing himself to the 
 countess, ' I shall not insist on an engagement made under such 
 different circumstances.' 
 
 ' Nor will you allow her to do so through a romantic feeling of 
 generosity,' said the countess. 
 
 ' You should know your own daughter. Lady Desmond, better 
 than I do,' he answered ; ' but I cannot say what I may do at her 
 instance till I shall have seen her.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that you will allow a girl of her age to 
 talk you into a proceeding which you know to be wrong ?' 
 
340 ' OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' I will allow no one,' he said, '' to talk me into a proceeding 
 wMcli I know to be wrong ; nor will I allow any one to talk me 
 o'lit of a proceeding which I believe to be right.' And then, 
 having uttered these somewhat grandiloquent words, he shut 
 himself tip as though there were no longer any need for discus- 
 sing the subject. 
 
 'My poor child!' said the countess, in a low tremulous voice, 
 as though she did not intend him to hear them. ' My poor un- 
 fortunate child !' Herbert as he did hear them thought of the 
 woman in the cabin, and of her misfortunes and of her children. 
 ' Come, Patrick,' continued the countess, ' it is perhaps useless 
 for us to say anything further at present. If you will remain 
 here, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a minute or two, I will send Lady Clara 
 to wait upon you ;' and then curtsying with great dignity she 
 withdrew, and the young earl scufiSed out after her. ' Mamma,' 
 he said, as he went, ' he is determined that he will have her.' 
 
 ' My poor child !' answered the countess. 
 
 ' And if I were in his place I should be determined also. You 
 may as well give it up. Not but that I like Owen a thousand 
 times the best.' 
 
 Herbert did wait there for some five minutes, and then the 
 door was opened very gently, was gently closed again, and Clara 
 Desmond was in the room. He came towards her respectfully, 
 holding out his hand that he might take hers ; but before he had 
 thought of how. she would act she was in his arms. Hitherto, of 
 all betrothed maidens, she had been the most retiring. Some- 
 times he had thought her cold when she had left the seat by his 
 side to go and nestle closely by his sister. She had avoided the 
 touch of his hand and the pressure of his arm, and had gone from 
 him speechless, if not with anger then with dismay, when he had 
 carried the warmth of his love beyond the touch of his hand or 
 the pressure of his arm. But now she rushed into his embrace 
 and hid her face upon his shoulder, as though she were over glad 
 to return to the heart from which those around her had endea- 
 voured to banish her. Was he or was he not to speak of his love ? 
 That had been the question which he had asked himself when 
 left alone there for those five minutes, with the eloquence of the 
 countess ringing in his ears. Now that question had in truth 
 been answered for him. 
 
 ' Herbert,' siie said, ' Herbert ! I have so sorrowed for you ; 
 but I know that you have borne it like a man.' 
 
 She was thinking of what he had now half forgotten, — the 
 position which he had lost, those hopes which had all been ship- 
 wrecked, his title surrendered to another, and his lost estates. 
 She was thinking of them as the loss affected him ; but he, -he 
 
PAEEWELL. 341 
 
 had reconciled himself to all that, — unless all that were to sepa- 
 rate him from his promised bride. 
 
 'Dearest Clara,' he said, with his ami close round her waist, 
 while neither anger nor dismay appeared to disturb the sweet- 
 ness of that position, ' the letter which you wrote me has been 
 my chief comfort.' Now if he had any intention of liberating 
 Clara from the bond of her engagement, — if he really had any 
 feeling that it behoved him not to involve her in the worldly 
 losses which had come upon him, — he was taking a very bad way 
 of carrying out his views in that respect. Instead of confessing 
 the comfort which he had received from that letter, and holding 
 her close to his breast while he did confess it, he should have 
 stood away from her — quite as far apart as he had done from the 
 countess ; and he should have" argued with her, showing her hov?' 
 foolish and imprudent her letter had been, explaining that it 
 behoved her now to repress her feelings, and teaching her that 
 peers' daughters as well as housemaids should look out for situa- 
 tions which would suit them, guided by prudence and a view to 
 the wages, — not follow the dictates of impulse and of the heart. 
 This is what he should have done, according, I believe, to the 
 views of most men and women. Instead of that he held her 
 there as close as he could hold her, and left her to do the most 
 of the speaking. I think he was right. According to my ideas 
 woman's love should be regarded as fair prize of war, — as long as 
 the war has been carried on with due adherence to the recognized 
 law of nations. When it has been fairly won, let it be firmly 
 held. I have no opinion of that theory of giving up. 
 
 ' You knew that I would not abandon you ! Did you not 
 know it ? say that you knew it ?' said Clara, and then she in- 
 sisted on having an ans'^er. 
 
 ' I could hardly dare to think that there was so much happi- 
 fiesh left for me,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' Then you were a traitor to your love, sir ; a false traitor.' 
 Bui, deep as was the offence for which she arraigned him, it was 
 clear to see that the pardon came as quick as the conviction 
 ' And was Emmeline so untrue to me also as to believe that ?' 
 
 ' Emmeline said — ' and then he told her what Emmeline had 
 said. 
 
 ' Dearest, dearest Emmeline ! give her a wholfe heart-load ot 
 love from me; now mind you do, — and to Mary, too. And 
 remember this, sir ; that I love Emmeline ten times better than 
 I do you ; twenty times — because she knew me. Oh, if she had 
 mistrusted me — i' 
 
 ' And do you think that I mistrusted you ?' 
 
 <■ Yaei, you did ; you know you did, sir. You wrote aud +'al«J 
 
342 CASTLE EICHMOKD. 
 
 me so ; — and now, this very day, you come here to act as though 
 you mistrusted me still. You know you have, only you have 
 not the courage to go on with the acting.' 
 
 And then he began to defend himself, showing how ill it would 
 nave become him to have kept her bound to her engagenrents 
 had she feared poverty as most girls in her position would have 
 , feared it. But on this point she would not hear much from him, 
 lest the very fact of her hearing it should make it seem that such 
 a line of conduct were possible to her. 
 
 ' You know nothing about most girls, sir, or about any, I am 
 afraid-; not even about one. And if most girls were frightfully 
 heartless, which they are not, what right had you to liken me to 
 most girls ? Emmeline knew better, and why could not you 
 take her as a type of most girls ? You have behaved very badly, 
 Master Herbert, and you know it ; and nothing on earth shall 
 make me forgive you ; nothing — but your promise that you will 
 not so misjudge me any more.' Ard then the tears came to hie 
 eyes, and her face was again hidden on his shoulder. 
 
 It was not very probable that after such a commencement the 
 interview would terminate in a mau aer favourable to the wishes 
 of the oountess. Clara swore to her lover that she had given 
 him all that she had to give, — her heart, and will, and very self ; 
 and swore, also, that she could not and would not take Ijack the 
 gift. She would remain as she was now as long as he thought 
 proper, and would come to him whenever he should tell her that 
 his home was large enough for them both. And so that matter 
 was settled between them. 
 
 Then she had much to *say about his mother and sisters, and a 
 
 word too about his poor father. And now that it was settled 
 
 between them so fixedly, that come what might they were to 
 
 float together in the same boat down the river of life, she had a 
 
 question or two also to ask, and her approbation to give or to 
 
 withhold, as to his future prospects. He was not tothink, she 
 
 told him, of deciding on anything without at any rate telling 
 
 her. So he had to explain to her all the family plans, making 
 
 her know why he had decided on the law as his own path to 
 
 fortune, and asking for and obtaining her consent to all his pro ■ 
 
 posed measures. 
 
 In this way her view of the matter became more and more 
 
 ' firmly adopted as that which should be the view resolutely to be 
 
 taken by them both. The countess had felt that that interview 
 
 would be fatal to her ; and she had been right. But how could 
 
 , she have prevented it? Twenty times she had resolved that 
 
 I she would prevent it ; but twenty times she had been forced to 
 
 I confess that she was powerless to do so. In these davs a mother 
 
FAREWELL. 343 
 
 even can only exercise sucB: power over a child as public opinion 
 permits her to use. ' Mother, it was you who brought us to- 
 gether, and you cannot separate us now.' That had always been 
 Clara's argument, leaving the countess helpless, except as far as 
 she could work on Herbert's generosity. That she had tried, — 
 and, as we have seen, been foiled there also. If only she could 
 have taken her daughter away while the Castle Richmond family 
 were still mersed in the bitter depth of their suffering, — at that 
 moment when the blows were falling on them ! Then, indeed, 
 she might have done something ; but she was not like other 
 titled mothers. In such a step as this she was absolutely with- 
 out the, means. 
 
 Thus talking together they remained closeted for a most uncon- 
 scionable time. Clara had had her purpose to carry out, and to 
 Herbert the moments had been too precious to cause him any 
 regret as they passed. But now at last a knock was heard at the 
 door, and Lady Desmond, without waiting for an answer to it, 
 entered the room. Clara immediately started from her seat, not 
 as though she were either guilty or tremulous, but with a brave 
 resolve to go on with her purposed plan. 
 
 ' Mamma,' she said, ' it is fixed now ;. it cannot be altered now. 
 
 ' What is fixed, Clara ?' 
 
 ' Herbert and I have renewed our engagement, and nothing 
 must now break it, unless we die.' 
 
 ' Mr. Fitzgerald, if this be true your conduct to my daughter 
 has been unmanly as well as ungenerous.' 
 
 ' Lady Desmond, it is true ; and I think that my conduct is 
 neither unmanly nor ungenerous.' 
 
 ' Your own relations are against you, sir.' 
 
 ' What relations ?' asked Clara, sharply. 
 
 ' I am not speaking to you, Clara ; your absurdity and romanc€ 
 are so great that I cannot speak to you.' 
 
 ' What relations, Herbert ?' again asked Clara ; for she would 
 not for the world have had Lady Fitzgerald against her. 
 
 ' Lady Desmond has, I believe, seen my Aunt Letty two or 
 three times lately ; I suppose she must mean her,' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Clara, turning away as though she were now satis- 
 fied. And then Herbert, escaping from the house as quickly as 
 he could, rode home with a renewal of that feeling of triumph 
 which he had once enjoyed before when returning from Desmond 
 Court to Castle Eiohmond. 
 
 On the next day Herbert started for London. The parting 
 was sad enough, and the occasion of it was such that it could 
 hardly be otherwise. ' I am quite sure of one thing,' he said to 
 his sister Emmeline ; ' I shall never see Castle Eichmond again.' 
 
344 OASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 And, indeed, one may say that small as might be his chance cif 
 doing so, his wish to do so iuust be still less. There could be 
 no possible inducement to him to come back to a place which had 
 so nearly been his own, and the possession of which he had lost 
 in so painful a manner. Every ti'ee abeut the place, every path 
 across the wide park, every hedge and ditch and hidden leafy 
 corner, had had for him a special interest, — for they had all been 
 his own. But all that was now over. They were not only not 
 his own, but they belonged to one who was mounting into his 
 seat of power over his head. 
 
 He had spent the long evening before his last dinner in going 
 round the whole demesne alone, so that no eye should witness 
 what he felt. None but those who have known the charms of a 
 country-house early in life can conceive the intimacy to which a 
 man attains with all the various trifling objects round his own 
 locality ; how he knows the bark of everj' tree, and the bend of 
 every bough ; how he has marked where the rich grass grows in 
 tufts, and where the poorer soil is always_dry and bare ; how he 
 watches the nests of the rooks, and the holes of the rabbits, and 
 Aas learned where the thrushes build, and can show the branch 
 on which the linnet sits. All these things had been aear to 
 Herbert, and they all required at his hand some last farewell. 
 Every dog, too, he had to see, and to lay his hand on the neck of 
 every horse. This making of his final adieu under such circum- 
 stances was melancholy enough. 
 
 And then, too, later in the evening, after dinner, all the ser 
 vants were called into the parlour that he might shake hands 
 with them. There was not one of them who had not hoped, as 
 lately as three months since, that he or she would live to call 
 Herbert Fitzgerald master.i Indeed, he had already been theii 
 jnaster — their young master. All Irish servants especially love 
 ^^to pay respect to the ' young masther ;' but Herbert now was to 
 "be their master no longer, and the probability was that he- would 
 never see one of them again. 
 
 He schooled himself to go through the ordeal with a manlj 
 gait and with dry eyes, and he did it ; but their eyes were not 
 dry, not even those of the men. Mrs. Jones and a favourite gul 
 whom the young ladies patronized were not of the niunber, for 
 it had been decided that they should follow the fortunes of their 
 mistress ; but Eichard was there, standing a little apart from the 
 others, as being now on a different footing. He was to go also, but 
 before the scene was over he also had taken to sobbing violently - 
 
 'I wish you all well and happy,' said Herbert, making his 
 litlle speech, ' and regret deeply that the intercourse between us 
 should be thus suddenly severed. You hare served me and 
 
JAEEWELIi. 345 
 
 mine well and trply, and' it is hard upon yon now, that you 
 should be bid to go and seek another home elsewhere.' 
 
 ' It isn't that we mind, Mr. Herbert; it ain't that as frets us,' 
 said one of the men. 
 
 'It ain't that at all, at all,' said Eichard, doing chorus; 'but 
 that yer honour should be robbed of what is yer honour's own.' 
 
 ' But you all know that we cannot help it,' continued Herbert ; 
 ' a misfortune has come upon us which nobody could have foreseen, 
 and therefore we are obliged to part with our old friends and 
 servants.' 
 
 At the word friends the inaid-sei-vants all sobbed. 'And 'deed 
 we is your frinds, and true frinds, too,' wailed the cook. 
 
 ' I know you are, and it grieves me to feel that I shall see you 
 no more. But you must not be led to think by what Eichard 
 says that anybody is depriving me of that which ought to be my 
 own. I am now leaving Castle Eiohmond because it is not my 
 own, but justly belongs to another ; — to another who; I must in 
 justice tell you, is in no hurry j:o claim his inheritance. We 
 none of us have any ground for displeasure against the present 
 owner of this place, my cousin, Sir Owen Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' We don't know nothing about Sir Owen,' said one voice. 
 
 ' And don't want,' said another, convulsed with sobs. 
 
 ' He's a very good sort of young gentleman — of his own kind, 
 no doubt,' said Eichard. 
 
 ' But you can all of you imderstand,' continued Herbert, ' that 
 as this place is no longer our own, we are obliged to leave it ; and 
 as we shall live in a very different way in the home to which 
 we are going, we are obliged to part with you, though we have 
 no reason to find fault with any one among you. I am going to- 
 morrow morning early, and my mother and sisters will follow 
 after me in a few weeks. It will be a sad thing too for them to 
 say good-bye to you all, as it is for me now ; but it cannot be 
 helped. God bless you all, and I hope that you will find good 
 masters and kind mistresses, with whom you may live comfort- 
 ably, as I hope you have done here.' 
 
 ' We can't find no other mistresses like her leddyship,' sobbed 
 out the senior housemaid. 
 
 ' There ain't niver such a one in the county Cork,' said the 
 cook; ' in a week of Sundays you wouldn't hear the breath out 
 of her above her own swait nathural voice.' 
 
 'I've driv' her since iver — ' began Eichard : he was going to 
 say since ever she was married, but he remembered that this 
 allusion would be unbecoming, so he turned his face to the door- 
 post, and began to wail bitterly. 
 
 And then Herbert shook hands vdth them all, and it was pretty 
 
346 ' OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 to see how the girls wiped their hands in their aprons befora 
 they gave them to him, and how they afterwards left the rooia 
 with their aprons up to their faces. The women walked out 
 first, and then the men, hanging down their heads, and muttering' 
 as they went, each some little prayer that fortune and prosperity 
 might return to the house of Fitzgerald. The property might 
 go, but according to their views Herbert was always, and always 
 would be, the head of the house. And then, last of all, Eichard 
 went. ' There ain't one of 'em, Mr. Herbert, as wouldn'tguv 
 Jiis_£st-to go wid yer, and think nothing about the wages.' 
 
 He was to start very early, and his packing was all completed 
 that night. ' I do so wish we were going with you,' said Emme- 
 line, sitting in his room on the top of a corded box, which was 
 to follow him by some slower conveyance. 
 
 ' And I do so wish I was staying with you,' said he. 
 
 J "What is the good of staying here now ?' said she ; ' what 
 pleasure can there be in it? I h,»rdly dare to go outside the 
 house door for fear I should be seen.' 
 
 ' But why ? We have done nothing that we need be ashamed 
 of.' 
 
 'No; 1 know that. But, Herbert, do you not find that the 
 pity of the people is hard to bear ? It is written in their eyes, 
 and meets one at every turn.' 
 
 ' We shall get rid of that very soon. In a few months we 
 shall be clean forgotten.' 
 
 ' I do not know about being forgotten.' 
 
 ' You will be as clean forgotten,^as though you had never 
 existed. And all these servants who are now so fond of us, in 
 three months' time will be just as fond of Owen Fitzgerald, if he 
 will let them stay here ; it's the way of the world.' 
 
 That Herbert should have indulged in a little morbid misan- 
 .thropy on such an occasion was not surprising. But I take leave 
 to think that he was wrong in his philosophy ; we do make new 
 ' friends when we lose our old friends, and the heart is capable of 
 cure as is the body ; were it not so, how terrible would be our 
 fate in this world ! But we are so apt to find fault with God's 
 goodness to us in this respect, arguing, of others if not of ourselves, 
 that the heart once widowed should remain a widow through all 
 time. I, for one, think that the heart should receive its new 
 spouses with what alacrity it may, and always with thankfulness. 
 
 ' I suppose Lady Desmond will let us see Clara,' said Emme- 
 line. 
 
 ' Of course you must see her. If you knew how much she 
 talks about you, vou would not tkink of leaving Ireland without 
 seeing her.' 
 
FAREWELL. 347 
 
 ' Dear Clara ! '1 am stire she does not love me better ttan J 
 do her. But suppose that Lady Desmond won't let ns see her ! 
 and I know that it will be so. That grave old man with th'a 
 lald head will come out and say that " the Lady Clara is not at 
 home," and then we shall have to leave without seeing her. 
 But it does not matter with her as it might with others, for I 
 know that her heart will be with us.' 
 
 ' If you write beforehand to say that yon are coming, ana 
 explain that you are doing so to say good-bye, then I think they 
 will admit you.' 
 
 ' Yes ; and the countess would take care to be there, so that I 
 could not say one word to Clara about you. Oh, Herbert! 1 
 would give anything if I could have her here for one day,— only 
 for one day.' But when they talked it over they both of them 
 decided that this would not be practicable. Clara conld not stay 
 away from her own house without her mother's leave, and it was 
 not probable that her mother would give her permission to stay 
 at Castle Eichmond. 
 
 CHAPTJOE XXXV. 
 
 HERBEET FITZGERALD Df LONDON. 
 
 On the following morning the whole household was> up and 
 dressed very early. Lady ritzgr,erald — the poor lady made many 
 fatile attempts to drop her title, but hitherto without any shadow 
 ■of success — Lady Fitzgerald was down in the breakfast parloui 
 at seven, as also were Aunt Letty, and Mary, and Emmeline. 
 Herbert had begged his mother not to allow herself to be dis- 
 turbed, alleging that there was no cause, seeing that they all so 
 soon would meet in London ; but she was determined that she 
 would superintend hi? last meal at Castle Eichmond. The ser- 
 vants brought in the trays with melancholy silence, and now 
 •that the absolute moment of parting had come the girls could not 
 speak lest the tears Should come and choke them. It was not 
 that they were about to part with him ; that parting would only 
 be for a month. But he was now about to part froro ^J 'z&\ 
 ought to have been his own. He sat down at tha iauie m his 
 accustomed place, with a forced smile on his face, but without a 
 word, and his sisters put before him his cup of tea, and the slice 
 of ham that had been out for him, and his portion of bread 
 That he was making an effort they all saw. He bowed his head 
 down over the tea to sip it and took the knife in his hand, an# 
 then he looked iip at them, for he knew that their eyes weiJf 
 
 z 
 
34.8 CASTLE RiCHMOND 
 
 on Mm ; he looked up at them to show that he could still endure 
 it. But, alas ! he could not endure it. The struggle was too. 
 much for him ; he pushed his plate violently from him into the 
 middle of the table, and dropping his head upon his,hands he 
 burst forth into audible lamentations. 
 
 Qh^jay friends ! be not hard on him in that he was thus weep- 
 ing like a woman. It was not for his lost wealth that he was 
 wailing, nor even for the name or splendour that could he no 
 longer his ; nor was it for his father's memory, though he had 
 truly loved his father ; nor for his mother's sorrow, or the tragedy 
 of her life's history. For none of these things were his tears 
 flowing and his sobs coming so violently that it nearly choked 
 him to repress them. Nor could he himself have said why he 
 was weeping. 
 
 It was the hundred small things from which he was parting 
 for ever that thus disturbed him. The chair on which he sat, 
 the carpet on- the floor, the table on which he leaned, the dull 
 old picture of his great-grandfather over the fireplace, — they 
 were all his old familiar friends, they were all part of Castle 
 Eichmond, — of that Castle Eichmond which he might never be 
 allowed to see again. 
 
 His mother and sisters came to him, hanging over him, and 
 they joined their tears together. ' Do not tell her that I was 
 like this,' said he at last. 
 
 ' She will love you the better for it if she has a true woman's 
 heart within her breast,' said his mother. 
 
 ' As true a heart as ever breathed,' said Emmeline through her - 
 sobs. 
 
 And then they pressed him to eat, but it was in vain. He 
 knew that the food would choke him if he attempted it. So he 
 gulped down the cup of tea, and vsdth one kiss to his mother he 
 rushed from them, refusing Aunt Letty's proffered embrace, 
 passing through the line of servants without another word to one 
 of them, and burying himself in the post-chaise which was to 
 carry him the first stage on his melancholy journey. 
 
 It was a melancholy journey all through. From the time that 
 be left the door at Castle Eichmond that was no longer his own, 
 i-l\ he reached the Euston Station in London, he spokfrno word 
 to any one more than was absolutely necessary for the purposes 
 of his travelling. Nothing could be more sad than the prospeclf, 
 of his residence in London. Not that he was without frien|s ' 
 there, for he belonged to a fashionable club to which he could 
 still adhere if it so pleased him, and had all his old Oxford com- 
 rades' to fall back upon if that were of any service to him. But 
 bow is a man to walk into his club who vesterday was known -; 
 
HERBERT FITZGEKALD IN LONDON. 349 
 
 as his father's eldest son and the heir to a baronetcy and twelve 
 tliousand a year, and who to-day is known as nobody's son and 
 the heir to nothing ? Men would feel so much for him and pity 
 him so deeply ! That was the worst feature of his present 
 position. He could hardly dare to show himself more than was 
 absolutely necessary till the newness of his tragedy was worn 
 off. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast had taken lodgings for him, in which he was 
 to remain till he could settle himself in the same house with his 
 mother. And this house, in which they were all to live, had 
 also been taken, — up in that cheerful locality near Harrow- on 
 the-Hill, called St. John's Wood Eoad, the cab fares to which 
 from any central part of London are so very ruinous. But that 
 Qouse was not yet ready, and so he went into lodgings in Lincoln's 
 Inn Fields. Mr. Prendergast had chosen this locality because it 
 was near the chambers of that_greatChancery barrister, Mr. Die, 
 under whose beneficent wing Herbert Fitzgerald was destined 
 to learn all the mysteries of the Chancery bar. The sanctuary 
 of Mr. Die's wig was in Stone Buildings, immediately close to 
 that milky way of vice-chancellors, whose separate courts cluster 
 about the old chapel of Lincoln's Inn ; and here was Herbert to 
 sit, studious, for the next three years, — to sit there instead of af; 
 the various relief committees in the vicinity of Kanturk. And 
 why could he not be as happy at the one as at the other ? Would 
 not Mr. Die be as amusing as Mr. Townsend ; and the arguments 
 of Vice-Chancellor Stuart's court quite as instructive as those 
 heard in the committee room at Gortnaclough ? 
 
 On the morning of his arrival in London he drove to his lodg- 
 ings, and found a note there from Mr. Prendergast asking him 
 to dinner on that day, and promising to take him to Mr. Die on 
 the following morning. Mr. Prendergast kept a bachelor's house 
 in Bloomsbury Square, not very far from Lincoln's Inn — just 
 across Holbom, as all Londoners know; and there he would 
 expect Herbert at seven o'clock. ' I will not ask a,ny one to 
 meet you,' he said, ' because you will be tired after your journey, 
 and perhaps more inclined to talk to me than to strangers.' 
 
 Mr. Prendergast was one of those old-fashioned people who 
 think that a spacious substantial house in Bloomsbury Square, at 
 a rent of a hundred and twenty poiands a year, is better worth 
 having than a narrow, lath and plaster, ill-built tenement at 
 nearly double the price out westward of the parks. A quite 
 new man is necessarily afraid of such a locality as Bloomsbuiy 
 Square, for he has no chance of getting any one into his house if 
 he do not Mve westward. Who would dine with Mr. Jones in 
 Wobum Terrace, unless he had known Mr. Jones all his days, 
 
3^50 CASTLE KIGHMOND. ■■ 
 
 or unless Jones were known as a top sawyer in some walk of 
 life ? But Mr. Prendergast was well enough known to his old 
 friends to be allowed to live where he pleased, and he was not 
 very anxious to add to their numher by any new fashionable, 
 allurements. 
 
 Herbert sent over to Bloomsbury Square to say that he would 
 be there at seven o'clock, and then sat himself down in his new 
 lodgings. It was but a dingy abode, consisting of a narrow 
 sitting-room looking out into the big square from over a covered 
 archway, and a narrower bedroom_ looking backwards into a dull, 
 dirty-looking, crooked street. Nothing, he thought, could be 
 more melancholy than such a home. But then what did it 
 signify ? His days would be passed in Mr. Die's chambers, and 
 his evenings would be spent over his law books with closed 
 windows and copious burnings of the midnight oil. For Herbert 
 had wisely resolved that hard work, and hard work alone, could 
 mitigate the misery of his present position. 
 
 But he had no work for the present day. He could not at 
 once unpack his portmanteau and begin his law studies on the 
 moment. It was about noon when he had completed the former 
 preparation, and eaten such breakfast as his new London land- 
 lady had gotten for him. And the breakfast had not of itself 
 Ibeen bad, forJMrs^ "Whereas had been a daughter of Themis all 
 iher life, waiting uponTsciGirs of the law since first she had been 
 |able to run for a penn'orth of milk. She had been laundress on 
 a stairs for ten years, having married a law stationer's apprentice, 
 and now she owned the dingy house over the .covered way, and 
 ,let her own lodgings with her own furniture ; nor was she often 
 iwithout friends who would recommend her zeal and honesty, and 
 make excuse for the imperiousness of her ways and the too great 
 i fluency of her by no means servile tongue. 
 
 ' Oh, Mrs. ,' said Herbert. ' I beg your pardon, but might 
 
 I ask your name ?' 
 
 ' No offence, sir ; none in life. My name's "Whereas. Martha 
 Whereas, and 'as been now for five-and-twenty year. There 
 be'ant many of the gen'lemen about the courts here as don't 
 know some'at of me. And I knew some'at of them too, beforfe 
 they carried their wigs so grandly. My husband, that's Whereas, 
 —you'll all'ays find him at the little stationer's shop outside the 
 gate in Carey Street. You'll know him some of these days, I'll go 
 baU, if you're going to Mr. Die ; anyways you'll know his hand- 
 write. Tea tc ^ow liking, sir ? I all'ays gets cream for gentle- 
 men, sir, unless iE.«y tells me not. Milk a 'alfpenny, sir ; cream 
 tuppence ; Uue© Wpence difference ; hain't it, sir ? So now 
 jou can do i»g ^ou pleases, and if you like bacon and heggs to 
 
HERBERT FITZGER\LD IN LONDON. 351 
 
 yuiu breakfastesses youVe only to say the words. But then the 
 hoggs hain't heggs, that's the truth ; and they hain't chickens, 
 but some'at betwixt the two.' 
 
 And so she went on during the whole time that he was eating, 
 moving about from place to place, and putting back into tho 
 places which she had ch6sen for them anything which he had 
 chanced to move ; now dusting a bit of furniture with her apron, 
 and then leaning on the back of a chair while she asked him 
 some question as to his habits and future mode of living. She 
 also wore a bonnet, apparently as a customary part of her house 
 costume, and Herbert could not help thinking that she looked 
 very like his Aunt Letty. 
 
 But when she had gone and taken the breakfast things with 
 her, then began the tedium of the day. It seemed to him as 
 though he had no means of commencing his life in London until 
 he had been with Mr. Prendergast or Mr. Die. And so new did 
 it all feel to him, so strange and wonderful, that he hardly dared 
 to go out of the house by himself and wander about the premises 
 of the Inn. He was not absolutely a stranger in London, for he 
 had been elected at a club before he had left Oxford, and had 
 been up in town twice, staying on each occasion some few weeks. 
 Had he therefore been asked about the metropolis some four 
 months since at Castle Eichmond, he would have professed that 
 he knew it well. Starting, from Pall Mall he could have gone to 
 any of the central theatres, or to the Parks, or to the houses of 
 Parliament, or to the picture galleries in June. But now in 
 that dingy Isig square he felt himself to be absolutely a stranger ; 
 and when he did venture out he watched the corners, in order 
 that he might find his way back without asking questions. 
 
 And then he roamed round the squares and about the little 
 courts, and found out where were Stone Buildings, — so called 
 because they are so dull and dead and stony-hearted : and as his 
 courage increased he made his way into one of the courts, and 
 stood up for a while on an uncomfortable narrow step, so that he 
 might watch the proceedings as they went on, and it all seemed 
 to him to be dull and deadly. There was no life and amusement 
 such as he had seen at the Assize Court in county Cork, when 
 he was sworn in as ' one of the Grand Jury. There the gentle- 
 men in wigs— for on the Munster circuit they do wear wigs, or 
 at any rate did then — laughed and winked and talked together 
 joyously ; and when a Eoman Catholic fisherman from Berehaven 
 was put into the dock for destroying the boat and nets of a 
 Protestant fisherman from Dingle in county Kerry, who had 
 chanced to come that way, ' not fishing at all, at all, yer honour, 
 but just souping,' as the Papist prisoner averred with great 
 
352 (CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 emphasis, the gentiemen of the rohe had gone to the fight with all 
 the animation and courage of Matadors and Picadors in a hull- 
 ring. It was delightful to see the way in which Eoman Catholic 
 skill combated -Protestant fury, with a substratum below of Irish 
 fun which showed to everybody that it was not all quite in 
 earnest ; — that the great O'Fagan and the great Fitzberesford 
 jcould sit down together afterwards with all the pleasure in life 
 jover their modicum of claret in the barristers' room at the 
 ilmperial hotel. And then the judge had added to the life of the 
 meeting, helping to bamboozle and make miserable a wretch of 
 a witness who had been caught in the act of seeing the boat 
 smashed with a fragment of rock, and was now, in consequence, 
 being impaled alive by his lordship's assistance. 
 
 ' Wtat do you say your name is ?' demanded his lordship, 
 angrily. 
 
 ' Eowland Houghton,' s&id the miserable stray Sftxon touriF^ 
 who had so unfortunately strayed that way on the occasion 
 
 ' What ?' repeated the judge, whose ears were sharpeT to such 
 sounds as O'Shaughnessy, Macgillycuddy, and O'Callaghan. 
 
 ' Eowland Houghton,' said the offender, in his distress ; quicker, 
 louder, and perhaps not more distinctly than before. 
 
 ' What does the man say ?' said the judge, turning his head 
 down towards a satellite who sat on a bench beneath his cushion. 
 
 The gentleman appealed to pronounced the name for the 
 judge's hearing with a full rolling Irish brogue, that gave great 
 delight through all the court ; ' E-rowland Hough-h-ton, me 
 lor-r-d.' 
 
 Whereupon his lordship threw up his hands in dismay. 
 ' Oulan Outan !' said he. ' Oulan Outan ! I never heard such a 
 name in my life !' And then, having thoroughly impaled the 
 wicked witness, and added materially to the amusement of the 
 day, the judge wrote down the name in his book ; and there it is 
 to this day, no doubt, Oulan Outan. And when one thinks of it, 
 it was monstrous that an English witness should go into an Irish 
 law court with such a name as Eowland Houghton. 
 
 But here, in the dark dingy court to which Herbert had pene- 
 trated in Lincoln's Inn, there was no such life as this. Here, 
 whatever skill there might be, was of a dark subterranean nature, 
 quite unintelligible to any minds but those of experts ; and as ' 
 for fury or fun, there was no spark either of one or of the other. 
 The judge sat back in his seat, a tall, handsome, speechless man, 
 not asleep, for his eye from time to time moved slowly from the 
 dingy barrister who was on his legs to another dingy barrister 
 who was sitting with his hands in his pockets, and with his eyes 
 fixed upon the ceiling. The gentleman who was in iixe act of 
 
HEftBERT FITZaEBALD J» I.O5D0N. 353 
 
 pleading had a huge open paper in his hand, from which he 
 droned forth certain legal quiddities of the dullest and most 
 uninteresting nature. He was in earnest, for there was a per- 
 petual energy in -his drohe7as a droning bee might drone who 
 was known to drone louder than other drones. But it was a 
 ■ continuous energy supported by perseverance, and not by im- 
 pulse ; and seemed to come of a fixed deterrqination to continue 
 the reading of that paper till all the world should be asleep. A 
 great part of the world around was asleep ; but the judge's eye 
 was still open, and one might say that the barrister was resolved 
 to go on till that eye should have become closed in token of his 
 success. 
 
 Herbert remained there for an hour, thinking that he might 
 learn something that would be serviceable to. him in his coming 
 legal career ; but at the end of the hour the same thing was going 
 on, — the judge's eye was still open, and the lawj^er's drone was 
 still sounding ; and so he came away, having found himself 
 absolutely dozing in the uncomfortable position in which he wus 
 standing. 
 
 At last the day wore away, and at seven o'clock he found 
 himself in Mr. Prendergast's hall in Bloomsbury Square ; and 
 his hat and umbrella were taken away from him by an old ser- 
 vant looking very inuch like Mr. Prendergast himself; — having 
 about him the same look of the stiffness of years, and the same 
 look also of excellent preservation and care. 
 
 ' Mr. Prendergast is in the library, sir, if you please,' said the 
 old servant; and so saying he ushered Herbert into the back 
 down-stairs room. It was a spacious, lofty apartment, well fitted 
 up for a library, and furnished for that purpose with -exceeding 
 care ; — such a room as one does not find in the flashy new houses 
 in the west, where the dining-room and drawing-room occupy 
 all of the house that is visible. But then, how few of those whc" 
 live in flashy new houses in the west require to have libraries m/ 
 London ! 
 
 As he entered the room Mr. Prendergast came forward to meet 
 him, and seemed heartily glad to see him. There was a cordiality 
 about him which Herbert had never recognized at Castle Eich- 
 mond, and an appearance of enjoyment which had seemed to be 
 almost foreigTi to the lawyer's nature. Herbert perhaps had not 
 calculated, as he should have done, that Mr. Prendergast'b 
 mission in Ireland had not admitted of much enjoyment. Mr. 
 Prendergast had gone there to do a job of work, and that he had 
 done, very thoroughly ; but he certainly had not enjoyed himself. 
 
 There was time for only few words before the old man again 
 entered the room, announcing dinner ; and those few words had 
 
354 CASTLE KiCHMONJU. 
 
 no reference whatever to the Castle Eiclimond sorrow. He Lad 
 spoken of Herbert's lodging, and of his journey, and a word or 
 two of Mr. Die, and then they went in to dinner. And at dfeiner 
 too the conversation wholly turned upon indifferent matters, 
 {upon reform at Oxford, the state of parties, and of the peculiar 
 fidiosyncrasies of the Irish Low Church clergymen, on all of 
 which subjects Herbert found that Mr. Prendergast had a 
 tolerably strong opinion of his own. The dinner was very good, 
 though by no means showy, — as might have been expected in 
 a house in Bloomsbury Square — and the wine excellent, as 
 might have been expected in any house inhabited by Mr. Pren- 
 dergast. 
 
 And then, when the dinner was over, and the old servant had 
 slowly removed his last tray, when they had each got into an 
 arm-chair, and were seated at properly comfortable distances 
 from the fire, Mr. Prendergast began to talk freely ; not that he 
 at once plunged into the middle of the old history, or began with 
 lugubrious force to recapitulate the horrors that were now partly 
 over ; but gradually he veered round to those points as to which 
 he thought it good that he should speak before setting Herbert 
 at work on his new London life. 
 
 ' You drink claret, I suppose ?' said Mr. Prendergast, as he 
 adjusted a portion of the table for their evening symposium. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' said Herbert, not caring very much at that moment 
 what the wine was. 
 
 ' You'll find that pretty good ; a good deal better than what 
 you'll get in most houses in London now-a-days. But you know 
 a man always likes his own wine, and especially an old man.' 
 
 Herbert said something about it being very good, but did not 
 give that attention to the matter which Mr. Prendergast thought 
 that it deserved. Indeed, he was thinking more about Mr. Die 
 and Stone Buildings than ab'out the wine. 
 
 ' And how do you find my old friend Mrs. Whereas ?' asked 
 the lawyer. 
 
 ' She seems to be a very attentive sort of woman.' 
 
 ' Yes ; rather too much so sometimes. People do say that she 
 never knows how to hold her tongue. But sho won't rob you, 
 nor yet poison you ; and in these days that,is saying a very great 
 deal for a woman in London.' And then there was a pause, as 
 Mr. Prendergast sipped his wine with slow complacency. ' And 
 we are to go to Mr. Die tomorrow, I suppose ?' he said, beginning 
 again. To which Herbert replied that he would be ready at any 
 time in the morning that might be suitable. ' 
 
 ' The sooner you get into harness the better. It is not only 
 that you have much to leaxft, but you have much to forget also.' 
 
HEKBEKT FITZGEIRALI' IN LONTIOH. 355 
 
 ' Yos,' said Herbert, ' I have much to forget indeed ; more than 
 1 can forget, I'm afraid, Mr. Prendergast.' 
 
 ' There is, I fancy, no son-ow which a man cannot forget ; tbat 
 is, as far as the memory of it is likely to be painful to him. You 
 wiU not absolutely cease to remember Castle Kiohmond and all 
 its circumstances ; you will stiU think of the place and all the 
 people whom you knew there ; but you will learn to do so with- 
 out the pain which of course you now suifer. That is what I 
 mean by forgetting.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't complain, sir.' 
 
 ' No, I know you don't ; and that is the reason why I am so 
 anxious to see you happy. You have borne the whole matter so 
 well that I am quite sure that you will be able to live happily in 
 this new life. That is what I mean when I say that you will 
 forget Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 Herbert bethought himself of Clara Desmond, and of the 
 woman whom he had seen in the cabin, and reflected that even 
 at present he had no right to be unhappy. 
 
 ' I suppose you have no thought of going back to Ireland ?' 
 said Mr. Prendergast. 
 
 ' Oh, none in the least.' 
 
 ' On the whole I think you are right. No doubt a family con- 
 nection is a great assistance to a barrister, and there would be 
 reasons which would make attorneys in Ireland throw business 
 into your hands at an early period of your life. Your history 
 would give you an eclat there, if you know what I mean.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, perfectly ; but I don't want that, ' 
 
 ' No. It is a kind of assistance which in .my opinion a man 
 should not desire. In the first place, it does no.t last. A man 
 so buoyed np is apt to trust to such support, instead of his own 
 steady exertions ; and the firmest of friends won't stick to a 
 lawyer long if he can get better law for his money elsewhere.' 
 
 ' There should be no friendship in such matters, I think.' i 
 
 ' Well, I won't say that. But the friendship should come of \ 
 the service, not t^e service of the friendship. Good, hard, steady, i 
 and enduring work, — work that does not demand immediate 
 acknowledgment and reward, but that can afford to look forward 
 for its results, — it is that, and that only which in my opinion 
 will insure to a man permanent success.' 
 
 ' It is hard though for a poor man to work • so many years 
 without an income,' said Herbert, thinking of Lady Clara Des- 
 mond. 
 
 ' Not hard if you get the price of your work at last. But you 
 can have your choice. A moderate fixed income can now be had 
 by finy barrister early in life. — by any barrister of fair parts and 
 
35S CASTLE EICHMONIJ. 
 
 sound acquirements. There are more barristers now filling 
 salaried places than practising in the courts.' 
 
 ' But those places are "given by favour.' 
 
 ' No ; not so generally,— or if by favour, by that sort ol favour 
 which is as likely to come to you as to another. Such places are 
 not giveii to incompetent young men because their fathers and 
 mothers-ask for them. But won't you fill yoiir glass ?' 
 
 ' I am doing very well, thank you.' 
 
 ' You'll do better if you'll fill your glass, and let me have the 
 
 bottle back. But you are thinking of the good old historical 
 
 days when you talk of barristers having to wait for their incomes. 
 
 There has been a great change in that respect, — for the better, 
 
 as you of course will think. Now-a-days a raan is taken away 
 
 1 from his boat-racing and his skittle-ground to be made a judge. 
 
 ■ A little law and a great fund of physical strength — that is the 
 
 [extent of the demand.' And Mr. Prendergast plainly showed by 
 
 ! the tone of his voice that he did not admire the wisdom of this 
 
 I new policy of which he spoke. 
 
 ' But I suppose a man must work five years before he can earn 
 anything,' said Herbert, still despondingly ; for five years is a 
 long time to an expectant lover. 
 
 'Fifteen years of unpaid laTDOur used not to be thought too 
 great a price to pay for ultimate success,' said Mr. Prendergast, 
 almost sighing at the degeneracy of the age. ' But men in those 
 days were ambitious and patient.' 
 
 'And now they are ambitious and impatient,' suggested 
 Herbert. 
 
 ' Covetous and impatient might perhaps be the truer epithets,' 
 said Mr. Prendergast with grim sarcasm. 
 
 It is sad for a man to feel, when he knows that he is fast going 
 down the hill of life, that the experience of old age is to be no 
 longer valued nor its wisdom appreciated. The- elderly man of 
 this day thinks that he has been robbed of his chance in life. 
 When he was in his full physical vigour he was not old enough 
 for mental success. He was still winning his spurs at forty. 
 But at fifty— so does the world change — he learns that he is past 
 nis work. By some unconscious and unlucky leap he has passed 
 from the unripeness of youth to the decay of age, without even 
 knowing what it was to be in his prime. A man should always 
 seize his opportunity ; but the changes of the times in which he 
 has lived have never allowed him to have one. There has been 
 no period of flood in his tide which might lead him on to fortune. 
 While he has been waiting patiently for high water the ebb has 
 come upon him. Mr. Prendergast himself had been a successful 
 ma-n, and his regrets, therefore, were pldlossphica] rathei- than 
 
HOW THE EAEL WAS WON. 357 
 
 practical. As for Herbert, he did not look upon tlie question ai 
 all in the same light as his elderly friendj and on the whole was 
 rather exhilarated by the tone of Mr. Prendergast's sarcasm. 
 Perhaps Mr. Prendergast had intended that such should be its 
 effect. 
 
 The long evening passed away cosily enough, leaving on Her- 
 bert's mind an impression that in choosing to be a barrister he 
 had certainly chosen the noblest walk of life in which a man could 
 earn his bread. Mr. Prendergast did not promise him either 
 fame or fortune, nor did ho speak by any means in high enthusi- 
 astic language ; he said much of the necessity of long hours, of 
 tedious work, of Amaryllis left by herself in the shade, and of 
 Nesera's locks unheeded ; but nevertheless he spoke in a manner 
 to arouse the ambition and satisfy the longings of the young man 
 who listened to him. There was much wisdom in what he did, 
 and much benevolence also. 
 
 And then at about eleven o'clock, Herbert having sat out the 
 second bottle of claret, betook himself to his bed at the lodgings 
 over the covered way. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVI. 
 
 HOW THE EAEL WAS WON. 
 
 It was not quite at first that the countess could ex-plain to her 
 son how she now wished that Owen Fitzgerald might become her 
 son-in-law. She had been so steadfast in her opposition to Owen 
 when the earl had last spoken of the matter, and had said so 
 much of the wickedly dissipated life which Owen was leading, 
 that she feared to shock the boy. But by degrees she brought 
 the-matter round-, speaking of Owen's great good fortune, point- 
 ing out how much better he was suited for riches than for poverty, 
 insisting waimly on all his good qualities and high feelings, and 
 then saying at last, as it were without thought, ' Px)or Clara ! 
 She has been unfortunate, for at one time she loved Owen Pitz- 
 gerald much better than she will ever love his cousin Herbert.' 
 
 ' Do you think so, mother ?' 
 
 ' I am sure of it. The truth is, Patrick, you do not understand 
 your sister ; and indeed it is hard to do so. I have also always had 
 an inward fear that she had now engaged herself to a man whom 
 she did not love. Of course as things were then it was impossible 
 that she should marry Owen ; and I was glad to break her ofi 
 from that feeling. But she' never loved Herbert Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' Why, she is determined to bare hiai, even jiow.' 
 
558 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 Ah, yes! That is where you do not understand her. No-w 
 at this special moment, her heart is touched by his misfortune, 
 and she thinks herself b6und by her engagement to sacrifice" 
 herself with him. But that is not love. She has never loved 
 any one but Owen, — and who can wonder at it ? for he is a man 
 riiade for a woman to love.' 
 
 The earl said nothing for a while, but sat balancing himself on 
 the back legs of his chair. And then, as though a new idea had 
 struck him, he exclaimed, ' If I thought that, mother, I would 
 find out what Owen thinks of it himself.' 
 
 ' Poor Owen !' said the countess. ' There is no doubt as to 
 what he thinks ;' and then she left the room, not wishing to 
 carry the conversation any further. 
 
 Two days after this, and without any further hint from his 
 mother, he betook himself along the banks of the river to Hap 
 House. In his course thither he never let his horse put a foot 
 upon the road, but kept low down upon the water meadows, 
 .leaping over all the fences, as he had so often done with the man 
 whom he was now going to see. It was here, among these banks, 
 that he had received his earliest lessons in horsemanship, and 
 they had all bee'n given by Owen Fitzgerald. It had been a 
 thousand pities, he had thought, that Owen had been so poor as 
 to make it necessary for them all to discourage that love affair 
 with Clara. He would have been so delighted to welcome Owen 
 as his brother-in-law. And as he strode along over the ground,., 
 and landed himself knowingly over the crabbed fences, he began 
 to think how much pleasanter the country would be for him if 
 he had a downright good fellow and crack sportsman as his fast 
 friend at Castle Eichmond. Sir Owen Fitzgerald of Castle 
 Eichmond ! He would be the man to whom he would be de- 
 lighted to give his sister Clara. 
 
 And then he hopped in from one of Owen's fields into a small 
 paddock at the back of Owen's house, and seeing one of the 
 stable-boys about the place, asked him if his master was at home. 
 
 'Shure an' he's here thin, yer honour;' and Lord Desmond 
 could hear the boy whispering, ' It's the young lord hisself.' In 
 a moment Owen Fitzgerald was standing by his horse's side.. It 
 was the first time that Owen had seen one of the family since 
 the news had been spread abroad concerning hie right to the 
 inheritance of Castle Eichmond. 
 
 ' Desmond,' said he, taking the lad's hand with one of his, 
 and putting the other on the animal's neck, ' this is very good 
 of you. I am.delighted to see you. I had heard that you were 
 in the country.' 
 
 ' Yea • I have been home for this week past. But thino-s are 
 
HOW THE EA.EL WAS WON. 369 
 
 all so at sixes ^^d sevens among us all tliat a fellow can't go and 
 do just what lie would like.' 
 
 Owen well understood what he meant. ' Indeed they are at 
 sixes and sevens ; you may well say that. But get off your 
 horse, old fellow, and come into the house. Why, what a lathei 
 of heat the mare's in.' 
 
 ' Isn't she ? it's quite dreadful. That chap of ours has no 
 more idea of condition than I have of — of — of — of an archbishop. 
 I've just trotted along the fields, and put her over a ditch or two, 
 and you see the state she's in. It's a beastly shame.' 
 
 ' I know of old what your trottings are, Desmond ; and. what 
 a ditch or two means. You've been at every bank between this 
 and Banteer as though you were going for a steeplechase plate.' 
 
 ' Upon my honour, Owen — ' 
 
 ' Look here, Patsey. Walk that mare up and down here, 
 between this gate and that post, till the big sweat has all dried 
 on her ; and then stick to her with a wisp of straw till she's as 
 soft as silk. Do you hear ?' 
 
 Patsey said that he did hear ; and then Owen, throwing his 
 arm over the earl's shoulder, walked slowly towards the house. 
 
 ' I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, old. boy,' said 
 Owen, pressing his young friend with something almost like an 
 embrace. ' You will hardly believe how long it is since I have 
 seen a face that I cared to look at.' 
 
 ' Haven't you ?' said the young lord, wondering. He knew 
 that Fitzgerald had now become heir to a very large fortune, 
 or rather the possessor of that fortune, and he could not un- 
 derstand why a man who had taen so popular while he was poor 
 should be deserted now that he was rich. ' 
 
 'No, indeed, have I not. Things are all at sixes and sevens 
 as you say. Let me see. Donnellan was here when you last saw 
 me ; and I was soon tired of Mm when things became serious.' 
 
 ' I don't wonder you were tired of him.' 
 
 ' But, Desmond, how's your niother ?' 
 
 ' Oh, she's very well. These are bad times for poor people 
 like us, you know.' 
 
 ' And your sister ?' 
 
 ' She's pretty well too, thank you.' And then there was a 
 pause. ' You have had a great change in your fortune since I 
 saw you, have you not ?' said the earl, after a minute or two. 
 And there it occurred to him for the first time, that, having 
 refused his sister to this man when he was poor, he had now 
 come to offer her to him when he was rich. Not that that was 
 the reason,' he said to himself. 'But it. was impossible then, 
 and now it would be so pleasant.' 
 
360 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' It is a sad history, is it not?' said Owen. 
 
 ' Very sad,' said the earl, remembering, however, that he had 
 ridden over there with his heart fuH of joy, — of joy occasioned 
 by that very catastrophe which now, following his friend's words 
 like a parrot, he declared to be so very sad. 
 
 And now they were in the dining-room in which Owen ttsually 
 lived, and were both standing on the rug, as two men always do 
 stand when they first get into a room together. And it was 
 clear to see that neither of them knew how to break at once into 
 -the sort of loving, genial talk whioh~ each was longing to have" 
 ■vrith the other. It is so easy to speak when one has little or 
 "\nothing to say ; but often so difficult when there is much that 
 ']3(iust be said : and the same paradox is equally true of writing. ■ 
 
 Then Owen walked away to the window, looking out among i 
 the shrubs into ' which Aby Mollett had been precipitated, as ' 
 though he could collect his thoughts there ; in a moment or two • 
 the earl followed him, and looked out also among the shrubs. 
 
 ' They killed a fox exactly there the other day ; didn't they ? 
 asked the earl, indicating the spot by a nod of his head. 
 
 ' Yes, they did.' And then there was another pause. ' I'U tell 
 you what it is, Desmond,' Owen said at last, going back to the 
 rug and speaking with an effort. ' As the people say, " a sight 
 of you is good for sore eyes." There is a positive joy to me in 
 seeing you. It is like a cup of cold water when a man is thirsty, 
 But I cannot put the drink to my lips till I know on what terms 
 we are to meet. When last we saw each other, we were speak 
 ing of your sister; and now that we meet again, we must again; 
 speak of her. Desmond, all my thoughts are Qf her ; I di-eam of 
 her at night, and find myself talking to her spirit when I wake 
 in the morning. I have much else that I ought to think of; but 
 I go about thinking of nothing but of her. I am told that she is , 
 engaged to my cousin Herbert. JSTay, she ha& told me so herself, ' 
 and I know that it is so. But if she becomes his wife — any 
 man's wife but mine — I cannot live in this co_tintry.' 
 
 He had not said one word of that state of things in his life's 
 history of which the country side was so full. He had spoken ' 
 of Herbert, but he had not alluded to Herbert's fall. He had 
 spoken of such hope as he still might have with reference to 
 Clara Desmond ; but he did not make the' slightest reference to 
 that change in _ his fortunes — in his fortunes, and those of his 
 rival — which might have so strong a bias on those hopes, and 
 which ought so to have in the^ minds of all worldly, prudent 
 people. It was to speak of this specially that Lord Desmond^ 
 tad come thither ; and then, if opportunity should offer, to leaA 
 away the subjert to that other one ; but now Owen fead begun at 
 
HOW THE EAEL' WAS WON. 361 
 
 the wrong end. If called upon to speak about his sister at once, 
 ■vs'hat could the brother say, except that she was. engaged to 
 Herbert Fitzgerald ? 
 
 ' Tell me this, Desmond ; whom does your sister love ?' said 
 Owen, speaking almost fiercely in his' earnestness. ' I know so 
 much of you, at any rate, that whatever may be your feelings 
 you will not lie to me,' — thereby communicating to the young 
 lord an accusation, which he very well understood, against the 
 truth of the countess, his mother. 
 
 ' When I have spoken to her about this she declares that she 
 is engaged to Herbert Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' Engaged to him ! yes, I know that ; I do not doubt that 
 It has been dinned into my ears now for the last six months till 
 it is impossible to doubt it. And she will marry him too, if no 
 one- interferes to prevent it. I do not doubt that either. But, 
 Desmond, that is not the question that I have asked. She did 
 love me ; and then she was ordered by her mother to abandon 
 that love, and to give her heart to another. That in words she 
 has been obedient, I know well ; but what I doubt is this, — that 
 she has in truth been able so to chuck her heart about like a 
 shuttlecock. I can only say that I am not able to do it.' 
 
 How was the earl to answer him ? The very line of argument 
 which Owen's mind was taking was exactly that which the 
 young lord himself desired to promote. He too was desirous 
 that Clara should go back to her first love. He himself thought 
 strongly that Owen was a man more fitted than Herbert for the 
 worshipful adoration of such a girl as his sister Clara. But then 
 he, Desmond, had opposed the match while Owen was poor, and 
 how was he to frame words by which he might encourage it now 
 that Owen was rich ? 
 
 ' I have been so little with her, that I hardly know,' he said. 
 ' But, Owen—' 
 'WeU?' 
 
 It is so difScult for me to talk to you about all this.' 
 'Is it?' 
 
 ' Why, yes. You know that T have always liked you — always. 
 No chap was ever such a friend to me as you have been ;' and 
 he squeezed Owen's arm with strong boyish love. 
 ' I know all about it,' said Owen. 
 
 ' Well ; then all that happened about Clara. I was young 
 then, you know,' — he was now sixteen — ' and had not thought 
 'anything about it. The idea of you and Clara falling in love 
 had never occurred to me. Boys are so blind, you know. But 
 when it did happen — you remember that day, old fellow, when 
 you and 1 met down at the gate ?' 
 
362 CASTLE EICHMONU. 
 
 'Eemember it!' said Owen. He would remember it, as Be 
 thought, when half an eternity should have passed over his head. 
 
 ' And I told you then what I thought. I don't think I am a 
 particular fellow myself about money and rank and that sort of 
 thing. I am as poor as a' church mouse, and so I shall always 
 remain ; and for myself I don't care about it. But for one's 
 sister, Owen — you never had a sister, had you ?' 
 
 'Never,' said Owen, hardly thinking of the question. 
 
 ' Qne is obliged to think of such things for her. We should all 
 go to rack and ruin, the whole family of us, box and dice, — as 
 indeed we have pretty well already — if some of us did not begin 
 to look about us. I don't suppose I shall ever marry and have a 
 family. I couldn't afford it, you know. And in th^ case Clara's 
 son would be Earl of Desmond ; or if I died she would be Countess 
 of Desmond in her own right.' And the young lord looked the j ., 
 personification of family prudence. 
 
 ' I know all that,' said Owen ; ' but you do not suppose that 1 
 was thinking of it ?' 
 
 ' What ; as regards yourself. No ; I am sure you never did. 
 But, looking to all that, it would never have done for her to 
 marry a man as poor as you were. It is not a comfortable thing 
 to be a very poor nobleman, I can tell you.' 
 
 Owen again remained silent. He wanted to talk the earl over 
 into favouring his views, but he wanted to do so as Owen of Hap 
 House, not as Owen of Castle Eichmond. He perceived at once 
 from the- tone of the boy's voice, and even from his words, that 
 there was no longer anything to be feared from the brother's 
 opposition ; and perceiving this, he thought that the mother's 
 opposition might now perhaps also be removed. 'But it was 
 quite manifest that this had come from what was supposed to be 
 .his altered position. 'A man as poor as yoil were,' Lord Des- 
 mond had said, urging that though now the marriage might be 
 well enough, in those former days it would have been madness. 
 The line of argument was very clear ; but as Owen was as poor 
 as ever, and intended to remain so, there was nothing ia it to 
 comfort him. 
 
 ' I cannot say that I, myself, have so much worldly wisdom as 
 you have,' said he at last, with something like a sneer. 
 
 ' Ah, that is just what I knew you would say. You think that 
 I am coming to you now, and offering to make uj matters be- 
 tween you and Clara because you are rich !' 
 
 ; But can you make up matters between me and Clara ?' said 
 Owen, eagerly. 
 
 ' Well, 1 do not know. The countess seems to think it might 
 be so.' 
 
HOW THE EARL WAS WON. 368 
 
 And then again Owen was silent, walking atout the room 
 with his hands behind his back. Then after all the one thing of 
 this world which his eye regarded as desirable was within his 
 reach- He had then been right in supposing that that face 
 which had once looked up to his so full of love had been a true 
 reflex of the girl's heart, — that it had indicated to him love which 
 was not changeable. It was true that Clara, having accepted a 
 suitor at her mother's order, might now be allowed to come back 
 to him ! As he thought of this, he wondered at the endurance 
 and obedience of a woman's heart which could thus give up all 
 that it held as sacred at the instance of another. But even this, 
 though it was but little flattering to Clara, by no means lessened 
 the transport which he felt. He had had that pride in himself, 
 that he had never ceased to believe that she loved him. Pull of 
 that thought, of which he had not dared to speak, he had gone 
 about, gloomily miserable since the news of her engagement with 
 Herbert had reached him, and now he learned, as he thought 
 with certainty, that his belief had been well grounded. Through 
 all that had passed Clara Desmond did love him still ! 
 
 But as to this overture of reconciliation that was now made 
 to him ; how was he to accept it or reject it ? It was made to 
 him because he was believed to be Sir Owen Fitzgerald of Castle 
 Kichmond, a baronet of twelve thousand a year, instead of a poor 
 squire, whose wife would have to look narrowly to the kitchen, 
 in order that food in sufficiency might be forthcoming for the 
 parlour. That he would become Sir Owen he thought probable ; 
 but that he would be Sir Oweu of Hap House and not of Castle 
 Eichmond he had firmly resolved. He had thought of this for 
 long hours and hours together, and felt that he could never again 
 be happy were he to put his foot into that house as its owner. 
 Every tenant would scorn him, ever-y servant would hate him, 
 every neighbour would condemn him ; but this would be as 
 nothing to his hatred of himself, to his own scorn and his own 
 condemnation. And yet how great was the temptation to him 
 now ! If he would consent to call himself master of Castle Eich- 
 mond, Clara's hand might still be his. 
 
 So he thought ; but those who know Clata Desmond better 
 than he did will know how false were his hopes. She was 
 hardly the girl to have gone back to a lover when he was rich, 
 whom she had rejected when he was poor. 
 
 ' Desmond,' said he, ' come here and sit down ;' and both sat 
 leaning on the table together, with their arms touching. ' I 
 understand it all now I think ; and remember this, my boy, that 
 whopaever I may blame, I do not blame you ; that you are true 
 and honest I am sure; and, indeed, there is only one person 
 
 2 a 
 
364 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 whom I do blame.' He did not say that this one person was the 
 comitess, hut the earl knew just as well as though he had been 
 told. - 
 
 ' I understand all this now,' he repeated, ' and before we go 
 any further, I must tell you one thing ; I shall never be owner 
 of Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 ' Why, I thought it was all settled !' said the earl, looking up 
 with surprise. 
 
 ' Nothing at all is settled. To every bargain there must be 
 two parties, and I have never j'et become a party to the bargain 
 which shall make me owner of Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 ' But is it not yours of right ?' 
 
 ' I do not know what you call right/ 
 
 ' Eight of inheritance,' said the earl, who, having succeeded to. 
 his own rank by the strength of the same right enduring through 
 many ages, looked upon it as the one substantial palladium of 
 the country. 
 
 ' Look here, old fellow, and I'll tell you my views about this. 
 Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, when he married that poor lady who is 
 still staying at Castle Eichmond, did so in the face of the world 
 with the full assurance that he made her his legal wife. Whether 
 such a case as this ever occurred before I don't know, but I am 
 sure of this that in the eye of God she is his widow. Herbert 
 Fitzgerald was brought up as the heir to all that estate, and I 
 cannot ^ee that he can fairly be robbed of that right because 
 another man has been a villain. The title he cannot have, I 
 suppose, because the law won't give it him ; but the property 
 can be made over to him, aiid as far as I am concerned it shall 
 be made over. No earthly consideration shall induce me to put 
 my hand upon it, for in doing so I should look upon myself as a 
 thief and a scoundrel.' 
 
 ' And you mean then that Herbert will have it all, just the 
 same as it was before ?' 
 
 ' Just the same as regards the estate.' 
 
 ' Then why has he gone away ?' 
 
 ' I cannot answer for him. I can only tell you what I shall 
 do. I dare say it may take months before it is all settled. But 
 now, Desmond, you know how I stand ; I am Owen Fitzgerald 
 of Hap House, now as I have ever been, that and nothing more, 
 — for as to the handle to my name it is not worth talking -about' 
 
 They were still sitting at the table, and now they both sat 
 silent, not looking at each other, but with their eyes fixed on the 
 wood. Owen had in his hand ajjen, which he had taken from 
 tlie mantelpiece, and unconsciously began to trace signs on the 
 polished surface before him. The earl sat with his forehead 
 
. HOW THE EAEL WAS WON. 365 
 
 leaning on his two hands, thinking what he was to say next. 
 He felt that he himself loved the man better than ever ; but when 
 his mother should come to hear all this, what would she say ? 
 
 ' You know it all' now, my boy,' said Owen, looking up at last ; 
 and as he did so there was an expression about his face to which 
 the young earl thought that he had never seen the like. There 
 was a gleam in his eye which, though not of joy, was so bright ; 
 and a smile roimd his mouth which was so sweet, though full of 
 sadness ! ' How can she not love him ?' said he to himself, 
 thinking of his sister. ' And now, Desmond, go back to your 
 mother and tell her all. She has sent you here.' 
 
 ' No, she did not send me,' said the boy, stoutly, — almost 
 angrily ; ' she does not even know that I have come.' 
 ' Gro back then to your sister.' 
 ' Nor does she know it.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless, go back to them, and tell them both what 1 
 have told you ; and tell them this also, that I, Owen Fitzgerald 
 of Hap House, still love her better than all that the world else 
 can give me ; indeed, there is nothing else that I do love, — 
 except you, Desmond. But tell them, also, that I am Owen of 
 Hap House still — that and nothing more.' 
 
 ' Owen,' said the lad, looking up at him ; and Fitzgerald as he 
 glanced into the boy's face could see that there was that arising 
 within his breast which almost prevented him from speaking. 
 
 ' And look, Desmond,' continued Fitzgerald ; ' do not think 
 that I shall blame you because you turn from me, or call you 
 mercenary. Do you do what you think right. What you said 
 
 just now of your sister's , well, of the possibility of out 
 
 marriage, you said under the idea that I was a rich man. You 
 now find that I am a poor man ; and you may consider that the 
 words were never spoken.' 
 
 ' Owen !'' said the boy again ; and now that which was before 
 rising in his breast had risen to his brow and cheeks, and was 
 telling its. tale plainly in his eyes. And then he rose from his 
 -chair, turning away his face, and walking towards the window ; 
 but before he had gone two steps he turned again, and throwing 
 himself on Fitzgerald's breast, he burst out into a passion of tears. 
 ' Come, old fellow, what is this ? This wiH never do,' said 
 Owen. But his own eyes were full of tears also, and he too was 
 nearly past speaking. 
 
 ' I know you will think — I am a boy and a— fool,' said the 
 earl, through his sobs, as soon as he could speak ; ' but I can't — 
 help it.' 
 
 ' I think you are the dearest, finest, best fellow that ever lived, 
 said Fitzgerald, pressing him with hia arm. 
 
' 366 • CASTLE RICHMOND 
 
 ' And I'll tell you what, Owen, you should have her to-moiTo-w 
 if it were in my power, for, by heaven ! there is not another man 
 so worthy of a girl in all the world ; and I'll tell her so ; aAd I 
 don't care what the countess says. And, Owen, come what come 
 may, you shall always have my word ;' and then he stood apart, 
 and rubbing his eyes with his arm tried to look like_ a man who 
 was giving his pledge from his judgment, not fiom his impulse. 
 
 i ' It all depends on this, Desmond ; whom does she love ? See 
 her alone, Desmond, and talk softly to her, and find out that.' 
 
 ■^.This he said thoughtfully, for in his mind 'love should still be 
 
 'lord of aU.' 
 
 ' By heavens ! if I were her, I know whom I should love,' said 
 the brother. 
 
 'I would not have her as a gift if she did not love me,' said 
 Owen, proudly ; ' but if she do, I have a right to claim her as 
 my own.' 
 
 And then they parted, and the earl rode back home with a 
 quieter pace than that which had brought him there, and in a 
 different mood. He had pledged himself now to Owen,-^not to 
 Owen of Castle Eichmond, but to Owen of Hap House — and he 
 intended to redeem his pledge if it were possible. He had been 
 so conquered by the nobleness of his friend, that he had forgotten 
 his solicitude for his family and his sister. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXYII. 
 
 A TALE OF A TUEBOT. 
 
 It would have been Owen Fitzgerald's desire to disclaim the 
 inheritance which chance had put in his way in absolute silence, 
 had such a course been possible to him. And, indeed, not being 
 very well conversant with matters of business, he had thought 
 for a while that this might be done — or at any rate something not 
 ^ far different from this. To those who had hitherto spoken to him 
 upon the subject, to Mr. Prendergast, Mr. Somers, and his cousin, 
 he had disclaimed the inheritance, and that he had thought would 
 have sufficed. That Sir Thomas should die so quickly after the 
 discovery had not of course been expected by anybody; and 
 much, therefore, had not been thought at the moment of these 
 disclaimers ;— neither at the moment, nor indeed afterwards, 
 when Sir Thomas did die. 
 
 Even Mr. Somers was prepared to admit that as the a-araa had 
 
A TALE OP A TUEBOT. 367 
 
 been given up, — as his branch of the Fitzgeralds, acting under 
 the advice of their friend and lawyer, admitted the property' 
 must go from them — even he, much as he contested within his 
 own breast the propriety of Mr. Prendergast's decisions, was faiit 
 to admit now that it was Owen's business to walk in upon the 
 property. Any words which he may have spoken on the impulse 
 of the moment were empty words. When a man becomes heir to 
 twelve thousand a year, he does not give it up in a freak of 
 benevolence. And, therefore, when Sir Thomas had been dead 
 some four or five weeks, and when Herbert had gone away from 
 the scene which was no longer one of interest to him, it was 
 necessary that something should be done. 
 
 During the last two or three days* of his life Sir Thomas had 
 executed a new will, in which he admitted that his son was not 
 the heir to his estates, and so disposed of such moneys as it was 
 in his power to leave as he would have done had Herbert been a 
 younger son. Early in his life he himself had added something 
 to the property, some two or three hundred a year, and this, 
 also, he left of course to his own family. Such having been 
 done, there would have been no opposition made to Owen'liad he 
 immediately claimed the inheritance ; but as he made no claim, 
 and took no step whatever,— as he appeared neither by himself, 
 nor by letter, nor by lawyer, nor by agent, — as no rumour ever 
 got about as to what he intended to do, Mr. Somers found it 
 necessary to write to him. This he did on the day of Herbert's 
 departure, merely asking him, perhaps with scant courtesy, who 
 was his man of business, in order that he, Mr. Somers, as agent 
 to the late proprietor, might confer with him. With but scant 
 courtesy, — for Mr. Somers had made one visit to Hap House 
 since the news had been known, with some intention of ingra- 
 tiating himself with the future heir ; but his tenders had not 
 been graciously received. Mr. Somers was a proud man, and 
 though his position in life depended on the income he received 
 from the Castle Eichmond estate, he would not make any further 
 overture. So his letter was somewhat of the shortest, and merely 
 contained the request above named. 
 
 Owen's reply was sharp, immediate, and equally short, and 
 was carried back by the messenger from Castle Eichmond who 
 had brought the letter, to which it was an answer. It was as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' Hap House, Thursday morning, two o'clock. 
 
 (There was no other date ; and Owen probably was unaware 
 fcat his letter being written at two • M. was not written on 
 Thursday morning.) 
 
366 ' OAsa?LE kiohmoSd. 
 
 ' Dear Sir, 
 
 ' I have got no lawyer, and no man of business ; nor d» 
 I mean to employ any if I can help it. I intend to make no claim 
 to Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald's property of Castle Eichmond ; and if 
 it be necessary that I should sign any legal document making 
 over to him any claim that I may have, I am prepared to do so 
 at any moment. As he has got a lawyer, he can get this arranged, 
 and I suppose Mr. Prendergast had better do it. 
 ' I am, dear sir, 
 
 ' Your faithful servant, 
 ' Owen Fitzgerald of Hap House. 
 And with those four or five lines he thought it would be 
 practicable for him to close the whole affair. 
 
 This happened on the day of Herbert's departure, and on the 
 day preceding Lord Desmond's visit to Hap House ; so that -en 
 the occasion of that visit, Owen looked upon the deed as fully 
 done. He had put it quite beyond his own power to recede 
 now, even had he so wished. Aiid then came the tidings to him, 
 — ^true tidings as he thought,^ — ^that Clara was still within his 
 reach if only he were master of Castle Eichmond. That this view 
 sf his position did for a moment shake him I will not deny ; but 
 it was only for a moment : and then it was that he had looked up at 
 Clara's brother, and bade him go back to his mother and sister, 
 and tell them that Owen of Hap House was Owen of Hap House 
 
 ! still ; — that and nothing more. Clara Desmond might be bought - 
 
 j at a price which would be too costly even for such a prize as her. 
 
 i It was well for him that he so resolved, for at no price could she 
 
 1 have been bought. 
 
 Mr. Somers, when he received that letter., was much inclined 
 
 ' to doubt whether or no it might be well to take Owen at his 
 word. After all, what just right had he to the estate? According 
 to the eternal and unalterable laws of right and wrong ought it not 
 to belong to Herbert Fitzgerald ? Mr. Somers allowed his wish on 
 this occasion to be father to many thoughts much at variance 
 from that line of thinking which was customary to him as a man 
 of business. In his ordinary moods, law with him was law, and 
 a legal claim a legal claim. Had he been all his life agent 
 to the Hap House property instead of to that of Castle Eichmond, 
 a thought so romantic would never have' entered his head. He 
 would have scouted a man as nearly a maniac who should suggest 
 to him that his client ought to surrender an undoubted in- 
 heritance of twelve thousand a year on a point of feeling. He 
 wouVd have rejected it as a proposed crime, and talked much of 
 the indefeasible rights of the coming heirs of the new heir. He 
 would have been as.frm as a rock, and as trenchant as a swcrt" 
 
A TALE OF A TUKBOT. 869 
 
 in defence of his patron's claims. But now, having in hhs bands 
 that short, pithy letter from Owen Fitzgerald, he could not but 
 look at the matter in a more Christian light. After all' was not 
 justice, immutable justice, better than law ? And would not the 
 property be enough for both of them ? Might not law and 
 justice make a compromise? Let Owen be the baronet, and 
 take a slice of four or five thousand, and add that to Hap House ; 
 and then if these things were well arranged, might not Mr. 
 Somers still be agent to them both ? 
 
 Meditating all this in his newly tuned romantic frame of mind 
 Mr. Somers sat down and WTote a long letter to Mr. Prendergast, 
 enclosing the short letter from Owen, and saying all that he, as 
 a man of business with a new dash of romance, could say on suah 
 a subject. This letter, not having slept on the road as Herbert?" 
 did in Dublin, and having been conveyed with that lightning 
 rapidity for which the British Post-office has ever been remark- 
 able — and especially that portion of it which has reference to, the 
 sister island, — was in Mr. Prendergast's pocket when Herbert 
 dined with him. That letter, and another to which we shall 
 have to refer more specially. But so much at variance were 
 Mr. Prendergast's ideas from those entertained by Mr. Somers,^ 
 that he would not even speak to Herbert on the subject. Perhaps, 
 also, that other more important letter, which, if we live, we 
 shall read at length, might also have had some effect in keeping 
 him silent. 
 
 But in truth Mr. Somers' mind, and that of Mr. Prendergast, | 
 did not work in harmony on this subject. Judging of the two 
 men together by their usual deeds and ascertained character, wo ( 
 may say that(^ere was much more romance about Mr. Prender- 
 gast than there was about Mr. Somers. But then it was a general ', 
 romance, and not one with an individual object. Or perhaps we 
 may say, without injury to Mr. Somers, that it was a true feeling, ' 
 and not a false one^ Mr. Prendergast, also, was much more anxious ; 
 for the welfare of Herbert Fitzgerald than that of his cousin ; butj 
 then he could feel on behalf of the man for whom he was! 
 interested that it did not behove him to take a present of an> 
 estate from the hands of the true owner. 
 
 For more than a week Mr. Somers waited, but got no reply to 
 his letter, and heard nothing from Mr. Prendergast ; and during 
 this time he was really puzzled as to what he should do. As re- 
 garded himself, he did not know at what moment his income 
 might end, or how long he and his family might be allowed to 
 inhabit the house which he now held : and then he ouold take no 
 steps as to the tenants ; could neither receive money nor pay it 
 away, and was- altogether at his wits' ends. Lady FitzgeraW 
 
370 CASTLK ElOHMOND. 
 
 looked to biiu for counsel in everything, and he did not know 
 how to counsel hei'. Arrangements were to be made for aii 
 auction in the house as soon as she should he able to move ; but 
 ' would it not be a thousand pities to sell all the furniture if there 
 was. a prospect of the family returning ? And so he waited for 
 Mr. Prendergast's letter with an uneasy heart and vexation of 
 spirit. 
 
 But still he attended the relief committees, and worked at the 
 soup-kitchens attached to the estate, as though he were still the 
 agent to Castle Eichmond ; and still debated wai-mly with Father 
 Barney on one side, and Mr. Townsend on the other, on that 
 vexatious question of out-door relief. And now the jamine^was 
 in full swing; and strange to say, men had ceased to be uncom- 
 fortable about it ; — such men, that is, as Mr. Somers and Mr. 
 Townsend. The cutting off of maimed limbs, and wrenching out 
 from their sockets of smashed bones, is by no means shockir g to 
 the skilled practitioner. And dying paupers, with ' the drag ' in 
 their face — that certain sign of coming death of which I have 
 spoken — no longer struck men to the heart. Like the skilled 
 surgeon, they worked hard enough at what goed they could do, 
 and worked the better in that they could treat the cases without 
 express compassion for the individuals that met their eyes. In 
 administering relief one may rob five unseen sufferers of what, 
 would keep them in life if one is moved to bestow all that is 
 comfortable on one sufferer that is seen. . Was it wise to spend 
 money in alleviating the last hours of those whose doom* was' 
 already spoken, which money, if duly used, might save the lives 
 of others not yet so far gone in misery ? And so in one sense 
 those who were the best in the county, who worked the hardest 
 for the poor and spent their time most completely among them, 
 became the hardest of heart, and most obdurate in their denials. It 
 was strange to see devoted women neglecting the wants of the dy- 
 ing, so that they might husband their strength and time and means 
 for the wants of those who might still be kept among the living.' 
 At this time there came over to the parish of Drumbarrow a 
 young English clergyman who might be said to be in many respects 
 the very opposite to Mr. Tovmsend. Two men could hardly be 
 found in the same profession more opposite in their inp:„s, lives, 
 purposes, and pursuits : — with this similarity, however, that each 
 was a sincere, and on the whole an honest man. The Eev. Mr. 
 Carter was much the junior, being at that time under" thiTtj; 
 He had now visited Ireland with the sole object of working 
 among the poor, and distributing, according to his own judg- 
 ment, certain funds which had, been collected for this purpose in 
 England. 
 
A TALE OF A TUEBOT. 371 
 
 And indeed there did often exist in England at this time a 
 misapprehension as to Irish wants, which led to some misuses of 
 the funds which England so liberally sent. It came at that 
 // time to be the duty of a certain public officer to inquire into a 
 \\ charge made against a seemingly respectable man in the far west 
 of Ireland, purporting that he had appropriated to his own use a 
 sum of twelve pounds sent to him for the relief of the poor of his 
 parish. It had "been sent by three English maiden ladies to the 
 relieving officer of the parish of KUcoutymorrow, and had come 
 to his hands, he then filling that position. He, so the charge 
 said, — and unfortunately said so with only too much truth, — had 
 put the twelve pounds into his own private pocket. The officer's 
 duty in the matter took him to the chairman of the relief com- 
 mittee, a stanch old Eoman Catholic gentleman nearly eighty/ 
 years of age, with a hoaiy head and white beard, and a Milesian \ 
 name that had come down to him through centuries of Catholic / 
 ancestors ; — a man urbane in his manner, of the old school, anS 
 Irishman such as one does meet still here and there through the ■ 
 country, but now not often — one who above all things was true to /' 
 the old religion. 
 
 Then the officer of the government told his story to the old 
 Irish gentleman— with many words, for there were all manner of " 
 small collateral proofs, to all of which the old Irish gentleman 
 listened with a courtesy and patience which were admirable. And 
 when the officer of the government had done, the old Irish gentle- 
 man thus replied : — 
 
 ' My neighbour Hobbs,'— such was the culprit's name — ' has 
 undoubtedly done this thing. He has certainly spent upon his own 
 uses the generous offering made to our poor parish by those noble- 
 minded ladies, the three Miss Walkers. But he has acted withi 
 perfect honesty in the matter.' 
 
 ' What !' said the government officer, ' robbing the poor, and at 
 , such a time as this !' 
 
 ' No robbery at all, dear sir,' said the good old Irish gentle- 
 man, with the blandest of all possible smiles ; ' the excellent 
 Miss Walkers sent their money for the Protestant poor of the 
 parish of Kilcoutymorrow, and Mr. Hobbs is the only Protestant 
 within it.' And from the twinkle in -the old man's eye, it was 
 clear to see that his triumph consisted in this, — that not only he 
 ■ iad but one Protestant in the parish, but that that Protestant 
 should have learned so little from his religion. 
 
 But this is an episode. And nowadays no episodes are 
 allowed. 
 
 -And now Mr. Carter had c jme over to see that if possible . 
 certain English funds were distributed accordinsr to the wishes of' 
 
 ' 2 B 2 
 
372 CASTLE BICHMOlsJ. J 
 
 the generous English hearts by whom they had been sent. Eoi 
 as some English, such as the three Miss Walkers, feared on the 
 one hand that the Babylonish woman so rampant in Ireland 
 might swallow np their money for Babylonish purposes ; so, on 
 the other hand, did others dread that the too stanch Protestanti^ 
 of the church militant in that country might expend the funds 
 collected for undoubted bodily wants in administering to the 
 supposed wants of the soul. No such faults did, in truth, at that . 
 time prevail. The indomitable force of the famine had abg6lutely 
 knocked down all that ; but there had been things done in Ire- 
 land, before the famine came upon them, which gave reasonable 
 suspicion for such fears. 
 
 Mr. Townsend among others had been "very active in soliciting 
 aid from England, and hence had arisen a correspondence be- 
 tween him and Mr. Carter ; and now Mr. Carter had arrived at 
 Drumbari'ow with a respectable sum to his credit at the provincial 
 bank, and an intense desire to make himself useful in this time of 
 sore need. Mr. Carte r was a tall, thin, austere-looking man; 
 one, seemingly, who bad macerated himsolf inwardly and 
 outwardly by hard living. He had a high, narrow forehead, a 
 sparse amount of animal development, thin lips, and a piercing, 
 sharp, gray eye. He was a man, too, of few words, and would 
 have been altogether harsh in his appearance had there not been , 
 that in the twinkle of his eye which seemed to say that, in spite 
 of all that his gait said to the contrary, the cockles of his heart 
 might yet be reached by some play of wit — if only the wit were 
 to his taste. 
 
 Mx. Carter was a man of personal means, so that he not only 
 was not dependent on his profession, but was able — as he also 
 was willing — to aid that j)rofession by his liberality. In one 
 thing only was he personally expensive. As to his eating and 
 drinking it was, or it -might have been for any solicitude of his 
 own, little more than bread and water. As for the comforts of 
 home, he had none, for since his ordination his missions had ever 
 been migrating. But he always dressed with- care, and conse- 
 quently with expense, for careful dressing is ever expensive. 
 He always wore new black gloves, and a very long black coat 
 which never degenerated to rust, black cloth trousers, a high 
 black silk waistcoat, and a new black hat. Everything about 
 him was black except his neck, and that was always scrupulously 
 white. 
 
 Mr. Carter was a good man, — one may say a very good man — 
 for he gave up himself and his money to carry out High 
 views of 'charity and religion, in which he was sincere with the 
 tincerity of his whole heart, and from which he looked for no 
 
A TALE OP A TUEBOT. 373 
 
 reward save sucli as the godly ever seek. But yet there was 
 about him too much of the Pharisee. He was greatly inclined to 
 condemn other men, and to think none righteous who differed 
 from him. And now he had come to Ireland with a certain con- [ 
 -viction that the clergy of his own church there were men not to be I 
 trusted ; that they were mere Irish, and little better in their \ 
 habits and doctrines than under-bred dissenters. He had been ' 
 elsewhere in the country before he visited Drumbarrow, and had 
 shown this too plainly ; but then Mr. Carter was a very young 
 man, and it is not perhaps fair to expect zeal and discretion also 
 from those who are very young. 
 
 Mrs. Townsend had heard of him, and was in dismay when 
 she foimd that he was to stay with them at Drumbarrow parsonage 
 for three days. If Mr. Carter did not like clerical characters of 
 her stamp neither did she like them of the stamp of Mr. Carter. 
 She had heard of him, of his austerity, of his look, of his habits, 
 and in her heart she believed him to be a Jesuit. Had she! 
 possessed full sway herself in the parish of Drumbarrow, noi 
 bodies should have been saved at such terrible peril to the soulsj 
 of the whole parish. But this Mr. Carter came with such recom-| 
 mendation — with such assurances of money given and to be 
 given, of service done and to be done, — that there was no refusing 
 him. And so the husband, more worldly wise than his wife, had 
 invited the Jesuit to his parsonage. 
 
 ' You'll find, ^neas, he'll have mass in his room in the morn- 
 aig^ustead of coming to family prayers,' said the wife. 
 
 ' But what on earth shall we give him for dinner ?' said the 
 husband, whose soul at the present moment was among the flesh- 
 pots ; and indeed Mrs. Townsend had also turned over that 
 question in her prudent mind. 
 
 ' He'll not eat meat in Lent, you may be sure,' said Mrs. 
 Townsend, remembering that that was the present time of the year. 
 
 ' And if he would there is none for him to eat,' said Mr. 
 Townsend, calling to mind the way in which the larder had of 
 late been emptied. 
 
 Protestant clergymen in Ireland in those days had very fre- 1 
 'pently other reasons for fasting than those prescribed by ! 
 ecclesiastical canons. A well-nurtured lady, the wife of a ' 
 parish rector in the county Cork, showed me her larder one day 
 about that time. It contained two large loaves of bread, and a 
 pan full of stuff which I should have called paste, but which she 
 called porridge. It was all that she had for herself, her husband, 
 her children, and her charity. Her servants had left her before 
 she came to that pass. And she was a well-nurtured, handsome, 
 educated woman, born to such comforts as you and I enjoy everj 
 
874 V OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 \ day, — oh, my reader ! perhaps without much giving of thanks for 
 \ them. Poor lady ! the struggle was too much for her, and she 
 1 died under it. 
 
 Mr. Townsend was, as I have said, the verj' opposite to Mr. 
 Carter, but he also was a man who eould do without the comforts 
 of life, if the comforts of life did not come readily in his way. 
 He liked his glass of whisky punch dearly, and had an idea that 
 it was good for him. Not caring much about personal debts, he 
 would go in debt for whisky. But if the whisky and credit were 
 , at an end, the loss did not make him miserable. He was a man 
 with a large appetite, and who took great advantage of a good 
 dinner when it was before him ; nay, he would go a long 
 distance to insure a good dinner; but, nevertheless, he 
 would leave himself without the means of getting a mutton chop, 
 and then not be unhappy. Now Mr. Carter would have been 
 very unhappy had he been left without his superfine long black 
 coat. 
 
 In tendering his invitation to Mr. Carter, Mr. Townsend had 
 explained that with him the res angusta dom i, which was always a 
 prevailing disease, had been heightened by the circumstances of the 
 time ; but that of such crust and cup as he had, his brother English 
 clergyman would be made most welcome to partake. In answer to 
 this, .Mr. Carter had explained that in these days good men 
 thought but little of crusts and cups, and that as regarded him- 
 self, nature had so made him that he had but few concupiscences 
 of that sort. And then, all this having been so far explained and 
 settled, Mr. Carter came. 
 
 The first day the two clergymen spent together at Berryhill, 
 and found plenty to employ them. They were now like enough to 
 be in want of funds at that Berryhill soup-kitchen, seeing that the 
 great fount of supplies, the house, namely, of Castle Eiohmond, 
 would soon have stopped running altogether. And Mr. Carter 
 was ready to provide funds to sonie moderate extent if all his ques- 
 tions were answered satisfactorily. ' There was to be no making of 
 Protestants,' he said, ' by giving away of soup purchased with his 
 money.' Mr. Townsend thought that this might have been spared 
 him. 'I regret to say,' replied he, with some touch of sarcasm, ' that 
 we have no time for that now.' ' And so better,' said Mr. Carter, 
 with a sarcasm of a blunter sort. ' So better. Let us iiot clog 
 our alms with impossible conditions which will only create false- 
 hood.' ' Any conditions are out of the question when one has to 
 feed a whole parish,' answered Mr. Townsend. 
 
 And then Mr. Carter would teach them how to boil their 
 yellow meal, on which subject he had a theory totally opposite 
 to the practice of the woman employed at the soup-kitchen. ' Av 
 
A TALE OF A TUEBOT. - 375 
 
 we war to liocus it that, yer riverenoe,' said Mrs. Daly, turning 
 to Mr. Townsend, ' the crathurs couldn't ate a bit of it ; it wouldn't " 
 bile at all, at all, not like that.' 
 
 ' Try it, woman,' said Mr. Carter, when he he had uttered his 
 receipt oracularly for the third time. 
 
 ' 'Deed an' I won't,' said Mrs. Daly, whose presence there was 
 pretty nearly a labour of love, and who was therefore independent. 
 ' It 'd be a sin an' a shame to spile Christian vittels in them 
 times, an' I won't do it.' And then there was some hard work 
 that day ; and though Mr. Townsend kept his temper with his 
 visitor, seeing that he had much to get and nothing to give, he 
 did not on this occasion learn to alter his general opinion of 
 ois brethren of the English high church. 
 
 And then, when they got home, very hungry after their 
 
 toil, Mr. Townsend made another apology for the poorness of 
 
 bistable. 'lam almost ashamed,' said he, ' to ask an English 
 
 ■ gentleman to sit down to such a dinner as Mrs. Townsend wiU 
 
 , put before you.' 
 
 ' And indeed then it isn't much,' said Mrs. Townsend ; ' just a 
 bit of fish I found going the road.' / 
 
 'My dear madam, anything will suffice,' said Mr. Carter, 
 somewhat pretentiously. And anything would have sufficed. 
 Had they put before him a mess of that paste of which I have 
 spoken he would have ate it and said nothing, — ate enough of it 
 at least to sustain him till the morrow. 
 
 But things had not come to so bad a pass as this at Drumbarrow 
 parsonage ; and, indeed, that day fortune had been propitious ; — 
 fortune which ever favours the daring. Mrs. Townsend, know- 
 ing that she had really nothing in the house, had sent Jerry to 
 waylay the Lent fishmonger, who twice a week was known to 
 make his way from Kanturk to Mallow with a donkey and 
 panniers ; and Jerry had returned with a prize. 
 
 And now they sat down to dinner, and lo and behold, to the 
 great surprise of Mr. Carter, and perhaps also to the surprise of 
 the host, a magnificent turbot smoked upon the board. The fins 
 no doubt had been cut off to render possible the insertion of the 
 animal into the largest of the Drumbarrow parsonage kitchen- 
 pots, — an injury against which Mr. Townsend immediately ex- 
 claimed angrily. ' My goodness, they have cut off the fins !' said 
 he, holding up both hands in deep dismay. According to his philo- 
 Bophy, if he did have a turbot, why should he not have it with 
 all its perfections about it — fins and all ? 
 
 'My dear iEneas !' said Mrs. Townsend, looking at him with 
 that agony of domestic distress which all wives so well know 
 how to assume. 
 
376 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 Mr. Carter said nothing. He said not a word, but he thought 
 much. This then was their pretended poorness of living ! with 
 all their mock humility, these false Irishmen could not resist the 
 opportunity of showing off before the English stranger, and of 
 putting on their table before him a dish which an English dean 
 could afford only on gala days. And then this clergyman, who 
 was so loudly anxious for the poor, could not repress the sorrow of 
 his heart because the rich delicacy was somewhat marred in the 
 cooking. ' It was too bad, ' thought Mr. Carter to himself, ' too had.' 
 
 ' None, tha;nk you,' said he, drawing himself up with gloomy 
 reprobation of countenance. ' I will not take any fish, I am 
 much obliged to you.' 
 
 Then the face of Mrs. Townsend was one on which neithei 
 Christian nor heathen could have looked without horror and 
 grief. What, the man whom in her heart she believed to be a 
 Tesuit, ,and for whom nevertheless, Jesuit though he was, she 
 had condescended to cater with all her woman's wit ! — this man," 
 I say, would not eat fish in Lent ! And it was horrible to her 
 warm Irish heart to think that after that fish now upon the table 
 there was nothing to come but two or three square inches of cold 
 bacon. Not eat turbot in Lent ! Had he been one of her own 
 sort she might have given him credit for true antagonism to 
 popery ; but every inch of his coat gave the lie to such a sup- 
 position as that. 
 
 ' Do take a bit,' said Mr. Townsend, hospitably. ' The fins 
 should not have been cut off, otherwise I never saw a finer fish 
 in my life.' 
 
 ' None, I am very much obliged to you,' said Mr. Carter, with 
 sternest reprobation of feature. 
 
 It was too much for Mrs. Townsend. ' Oh, j3Gneas,' said she, 
 what are we to do ?' Mr. Townsend merely shrugged his 
 shoulders, while he helped himself. His feelings were less 
 acute, perhaps, than those of his wife, and he, no doubt, was 
 much more hungry. Mr. Carter the while sat by, saying nothing,' 
 but looking daggers. He also was hungry, but under such cir- 
 cumstances he would rather starve than eat. 
 
 'Don't you ever eat fish, Mr. Carter?' said Mr. Tovmsend, 
 proceeding to help himself for a second time, and poking about 
 round the edges of the delicate creature before him for some 
 relics of the glutinous morsels which he loved so well. He was 
 . not, however, enjoying it as he should have done, for seeing that 
 his guest ate none, and that his wife's appetite was thoroughly 
 marred, he was alone in his occupation. No one but a gluttot 
 could have feasted well under such circumstances, and Mr. 
 Townsend was not a glutton. 
 
A TALE OF A TUEBOT. 377 
 
 ' Thank you, I will eat none to-day,' said Mr. Carter, sitting 
 bolt upright, and fixing his keen gray eyes on the wall oppo- 
 site. 
 
 ' Then you may take away, Biddy ; I've done with it. But . 
 it's a thousand pities such a fish should have been so wasted.' 
 
 The female heart of Mrs. Townsend could stand these wrongs 
 no longer, and with a tear in one corner of her eye, and a gleam 
 of anger in the other, she at length thus spoke out. ' I am sure 
 then I don't kiiow what you will eat, Mr. Carter, and I did think 
 that all you English clergymen always ate fish in Lent, —and 
 indeed nothing else ; for indeed people do say that you are much 
 the same as the papists in that respect.' 
 
 ' Hush, my dear !' said Mr. Townsend. 
 
 ' "Well, but I can't hush when there's nothing for the gentleman 
 to eat.' 
 
 ' My dear madam, such a matter does not signify in the least,' 
 said Mr. Carter, not unbending an inch. 
 
 ' But it does signify ; it signifies a great deal ; and so you'd 
 know if you were a family man ;' — ' as you ought to be,' Mrs. 
 Townsend would have been delighted to add. ' And I'm sure I 
 sent Jerry five miles, and he was gone four hours to get that bit 
 of fish from Paddy Magrath, as he stops always at Ballygibblin 
 Gate ; and indeed I thought myself so lucky, for I only gave 
 Jerry one and sixpence. But they had an uncommon take of fish 
 yesterday at Skibbereen, and — '. 
 
 ' One and sixpeiice !' said Mr. Carter, now slightly relaxing 
 his brow for the first time. 
 
 ' I'd have got it for one and three,' said Mr. Townsend, upon 
 whose mind an inkling of the truth was beginning to dawn. 
 
 ' Indeed and you wouldn't, .^neas ; and Jerry was forced to 
 promise the man a glass of whisky the first time he comes this 
 road, which he does sometimes. That fish weighed over nine 
 pounds, every ounce of it.' 
 
 ' Nine fiddlesticks,' said Mr. Townsend. 
 
 ' I weighed it myself, .lEneas, with my own hands, and it was 
 nine pounds four ounces before we were obliged to out it, and as 
 firm as a rock the flesh was.' 
 
 ' For one and sixpence !' said Mr. Carter, relaxing still a little 
 farther, and condescending to look his hostess in the face. 
 
 ' Yes, for one and six ; and now — ' 
 
 ' I'm sure I'd have bought it for one and four, fins and all,' 
 said the parson, determined to interrupt his wife in her pathos. 
 
 ' I'm sure you would not then,' said his wife, taking his asser- 
 tion in earnest. ' You could never market against Jerry in your 
 'vfe ; 1 wU] say that for him.' 
 
378 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' If you'll allow me to change my mind, I think I will have % 
 little hit of it,' said Mr. Carter, almost humhly., 
 
 ' By all means,' said Mr. Townsend. ' Biddy, hring that fish 
 hack. Now I think of it, I have not half dined myself yet' 
 
 And then they all three forgot their ill humours, and enjoyed 
 their dinner thoroughly, — in spite of the acknowledged fault as 
 touching the lost fins of the animal. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXXVIII. 
 
 CONDEMNED. 
 
 I HAVE said that Lord Desmond rode home from Hap House that 
 day in a quieter mood and at a slower pace than that which had 
 hrought him thither ; and in truth it was so. He had things to 
 think of now much more serious than any that had filled his 
 mind as he had cantered along, joyously hoping that after- all he 
 might have for his brother the man that he loved, and the owner 
 of Castle Eichmond also. This was now impossible ; but he felt 
 that he loved Owen better than ever he had done, and he was 
 pledged to fight Owen's battle, let Oweii be ever so poor. 
 
 ' And what does it signify after all ?' he said to himself, as he 
 rode along. ' We shall all be poor together, and then we sha'n't 
 mind it so much ; and if I don't marry, Hap House itself will he 
 something to add to the property ;' and then he made up his 
 mind that he could be happy enough, living at Desmond Court 
 all his life, so long as he could have Owen Fitzgerald near him 
 to make life palatable. 
 
 That night he spoke to no one on the subject, at least to no 
 one of his own accord. When they were alone his mother asked 
 him where he had been ; and when she learned that he had been 
 at Hap House, she questioned him much as to what^had passed- 
 between him and Owen ; but he would tell her nothing, merely 
 saying that Owen had spoken of Clara with his usual ecstasy of 
 love, but declining to go into the subject at any length. The 
 countess, however, gathered from him that he and Owen were on 
 kindly terms together, and so far she felt satisfied. ' 
 
 On the following morning he made up his niind ' to have it 
 out,' as he called it, with Clara ; but when the hour came his 
 courage failed him : it was a difficult task — that which he was 
 now to undertake — of explaining to her his wish that she should. ' 
 go back to her old lover, not because he was no longer poor, bat, 
 as it were in spite of his poverty, and as a reward to him foi. 
 ooDsenting to remain poor. As he had thought about it while- 
 
CONDEMKED. 379 
 
 riding home, it had seemed feasible enough.- He would tell her 
 how nobly Owen was going to behave to Herbert, and would put 
 it to her whether, as he intended willingly to abandon the estate, 
 he ought not to be put into possession of the wife. There was a 
 romantio justice about this which he thought would toi.ich Clara's 
 heart. - But on the following morning when he 'came to think 
 what words he would use for making his little proposition, the 
 picture did not seem to him to be so beautiful. If Clara really 
 loved Herbert — and she had declared that she did twenty times 
 over — it would be absurd to expect her to give him up merely 
 because he was not a ruined man. But then, which did she 
 love ? His mother declared that she loved Owen. ' That's the 
 real question,' said the earl to himself, as on the second morning- 
 he made up his mind that he would ' have it out ' with Clara 
 without any further delay. He must be true to Owen; that was 
 his first great duty at the present moment. 
 
 ' Clara, I want to talk to you,' he said, breaking suddenly 
 into the room where she usually sat alone o' mornings. 'I was 
 at Hap House the day before yesterday with Owen Fitzgerald, 
 and to tell you the truth at once, we were talking about you the 
 whole time we were there. And now what I want is, that some- 
 thing should be settled, so that we may all understand one 
 another.' 
 
 These words he spoke to her quite abruptly. When he first 
 said that he wished to speak to her, she had got up from her 
 chair to welcome him, for she dearly loved to have him there. 
 There was nothing she liked better than having him to herself 
 when he was in a soft brotherly humour ; and then she would 
 interest herself about his horse, and his dogs, and his gun, and , 
 predict his life for him, sending him up as a peer to parliament, 
 and giving him a noble wife, and promising him that he should 
 he such a Desmond as would redeem all the family from their 
 distresses. But now as he rapidly brought out his words, she 
 found that on this day her prophecies must regard herself 
 chiefly. 
 
 ' Surely, Patrick, it is easy enough to understand me,' she said. 
 
 ' Well, I don't know ; I don't in the least mean to find fault 
 with you.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that, dearest,' she said, laying her hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 ' But my mother says one thing, and you another, and Owen 
 another ; and I myself, I hardly know what to say.' 
 
 ' Look here, Patrick, it is simply this : I became engaged tc 
 Herbert with my mother's sanction and yours ; and now — ' 
 
 ' Stop a moment,' said the impetuous boy, ' and do not pledge 
 
 '2 b' 
 
380 , OASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 yourself to anything till you Lave heard me. I know that yon 
 are cut to the heart about Herbert Ktzgerald losing his property." 
 
 ' No, indeed ; not at all cut to the heart ; that is as regarda 
 myself.' 
 
 ' 1 don't mean as regards yourself; I mean as regards Mm. 1 
 have heard you gay over and over again that it is a piteous thing 
 that he should be so treated. Have I not?' 
 
 'Yes, I have said that, and I think so.' 
 
 ' And I think that most of your great — great-^great love for 
 him, if you will, comes from that sort of feeling.' 
 
 ' But, Patrick, it came long before.' 
 
 ' Dear Clara, do listen to me, will you? You may at .any rate 
 do as much as that for me.' And then Clara stood perfectly 
 mute, looking into his handsome face as he continued to rattle 
 out his words at her. , 
 
 ' Now if you please, Clara, you may have the means of givingi 
 back to him all his property, every shilling that he ever had, '"' 
 expected to have. Owen Fitzgerald, — who certainly is the finvot 
 fellow that ever I came across in all my life, or ever shall, if I 
 live to five hundred, — says that he will make over every acre of 
 t Castle Eichmond back to his cousin Herbert if — ' Oh, my lord,- 
 ■ my lord, what a scheme is this you are concocting to entrap your 
 sister ! Owen Fitzgerald inserted no ' if,' as you are weU aware ! 
 'If he continued, with some little qualm of conscience, ' if you 
 will consent to be his wife.' 
 
 'Patrick!' 
 
 ' Listen, now listen. He thinks, and, Clara, by the heavens; 
 above me ! I think also that you did love him better than yo;i 
 ever loved Herbert Fitzgerald.' Clara as she heard these words 
 blushed ruby red up to her very hair, but she said never a word* 
 ' And I think, and he thinks, that you are bound now to Herbert 
 by bis misfortunes — that you feel that you cannot desert him 
 because he has fallen so low. By George, Clara, I am proud of 
 you for sticking to him through thick and thin, now that he is 
 down ! But the matter will be very difficult if you have the 
 means of giving back to him all that he has lost, as you have. 
 Owen will be poor, but he is a prince among men. By heaven, 
 Clara, if you will only say that he is your choice, Herbert shall 
 have back all Castle Eichmond ! and I — I shall never marry, 
 and you may give to the man that I love as my brother all that 
 there is left to us of Desmond.' 
 
 There was something grand about the lad's eager tone of voice 
 as he made his wild proposal, and something grand also about 
 liis heart. He meant what he said, foolish as he was' either te 
 mean or to say it. Clara burst into tears, and. thi-ew herself into ., 
 
CONDEMNED, 381 
 
 his arms. ' You don't understand,' she said, through her sobs, 
 ' mjr own, own brother ; you do not understand.' 
 
 '_ But, by Jove ! I think I do understand. As sure as you are 
 a living girl he will give back Castle Eichmond to Herbert Fitz- 
 gerald.' 
 
 She recovered herself, and leaving her brother's arms, walked 
 away to the window, and from thence looked down to that path 
 beneath the elms which was the spot in the world which she 
 thought of the oftenest ; but as she gazed, there was no lack of 
 loyalty in her heart to the man to whom she was betrothed. It 
 seemed to her as though those childish days had been in another 
 life ; as though Owen had been her lover in another world, — a 
 sweet, childish, innocent, happy world which she remembered 
 well, but which was now dissevered from her by an impassable 
 gulf. She thought of his few words of love,- — so few that she 
 remembered every word that he had then spoken, and thought 
 of them with a singular mixture of pain and pleasure. And now 
 she heard of his noble self-denial with a thrill which was in no 
 degree enhanced by the fact that she, or even Herbert, was to be 
 the gainer by it. She rejoiced at his nobility, merely becautie it 
 was a joy to her to know that he was so noble. And yet all 
 through this she was true to Herbert. Another work-a-day woiid 
 had come upon her in her womanhood, and as that came she had 
 learned to love a man of another stamp, with a love that was 
 quieter, more subdued, and perhaps, as she thought, more endur- 
 ing. Whatever might be Herbert's lot in life, that lot she would 
 share. Her love for Owen should never be more to her than a 
 dream. 
 
 ' Did he send you to me ?' she said at last, without turning her 
 face away from the window. 
 
 ' Yes, then, he did ; he did send me to you, and he told me to 
 say that as Owen of Hap House he loved you still. And I, I 
 promised to do his bidding ; and I promised, moreover, that as 
 far as my good word could go with you, he should have it. And 
 now you know it all ; if you care for my pleasure in the matter 
 you will take Owen, and let Herbert have his property. By 
 Jove .' if he is treated in that way he cannot complain.' 
 
 'Patrick,' said she, returning to him and again laying her 
 hand on him, ' you must now ts ce my message also. You must 
 go to him and bid him come here that I may see him.' 
 
 ' Who ? Owen ?' 
 
 ' Yes, Owen Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' Very well, I have no objection in life.' And the earl thought 
 that the difSoulty was really about to be overcome. ' And about 
 my mother ?' 
 
382 CASTLE BIOHM.ON1>. 
 
 ' I will tell mamma.' ^ 
 
 ' And what shall I say to Owen ?' 
 
 ' Say nothing to him, hut hid him come here. But wait, 
 Patrick ; yes ; he must not misunderstand me ; - 1 can never, 
 never, never marry him.' 
 
 'Clara!' 
 
 ' Never, never j it is impossible. Dear Patrick, I am so sorry 
 to make you unhappy, and I love you so very dearly, — better 
 than ever, I think, for speaking as you do now. But that can' 
 never he. Let him come here, however, and I myself will teU 
 him all.' At last, disgusted and unhappy though he was, the- 
 earl did accept the commission, and again on that afternoon rode 
 across the fields to Hap House. 
 
 ' I will tell him nothing but that he is to come,' said the earl 
 to himself as he went thither. And he did tell Owen nothing *; 
 else. Fitzgerald questioned him much, but learned but little 
 from him. ' By heavens, Owen,' he said, ' you must settle the 
 matter between you, for I don't understand it. She has bid me 
 ask you to come to her ; and now you must fight your own 
 battle.' Fitzgerald of course said that he would obey, and so 
 Lord Desmond left him. 
 
 In the evening Clara told her mother. ' Owen Fitzgerald is 
 to be here to-morrow,' she said. ' 
 
 ' Owen Fitzgerald ; is he ?' said the countess. She ' hardly 
 knew how to bear herself, or how to interfere so as to assist her 
 own object ; or how not to interfere, lestshe should mar it. 
 
 ' Yes, mamma. Patrick saw him the other day, and I think it 
 is better that I should see him also.' 
 
 ' Very well, my dear. But you must be aware, Clara, that 
 you have been so very — I don't wish to say headstrong exactly— 
 so very entetee about your own affairs, that I hardly know how to 
 speak of them. If your brother is in your confidence I shall be 
 satisfied.' 
 
 ' He is in my confidence ; and so may you be also, mamma, if 
 you please,* ; 
 
 But the countess thought it better not to have any conversation -I 
 forced upon her at that moment ; and so she asked her daughter , 
 for no further show of confidence then. It would probably 1)6 
 as well that Owen should come and plead his own cause. 
 
 And Owen did come. All that night and on the next morning 
 the poor girl remained alone in a state of terrible doubt. She 
 had sent for her old lover, thinking at the moment that no one - 
 could explain to him in language so clear as her own what was 
 her fixed resolve. And she had too been so moved by the splen- 
 doui of his offer, that she longed to tell him what she thought of 
 
CONDEMNED. 383 
 
 it. The grandeiir of that offer was enhanced tenfold in her mind. 
 by the fact that it had been so framed as to include her in this 
 comparative pcf^ity with which Owen himself was prepared to 
 rest contented. He had known that she was not to be bonght by 
 wealth, and had given her credit for a nobility that was akia to 
 his own. 
 
 But yet, now that the moment was coming, how was she to 
 talk to him ? How was she to speak the words which would rob 
 him of his hope, and tell him that he did not, could, not, never 
 could possess that one treasure which he desired more than, 
 houses and lands, or station and rank ? Alas, alas ! If it could | 
 have been otherwise ! If it could have been otherwigfe ! She 
 also was iu love with poverty ; — but at any rate no one could : 
 accuse her now of sacrificing a poor lover for a rich one. Herbert I 
 Fitzgerald would be poor enough. 
 
 And then he came. They had hitherto met but once since 
 that afternoon, now so long ago — that afternoon to which she 
 looked back as to another former world — and that meeting had 
 been in the very room in which she was now prepared to receive 
 him. But her feelings towards him had been very different then. 
 Then he had almost forced himself upon her, and for months " 
 previously she had heard nothing of him but what wae evil. 
 He had come complaining loudly, and her heart had been some- 
 what hardened against him. Now he was there at her bidding, 
 and her heart and very sonl were fidl of tenderness. She rose 
 rapidly, and sat down again, and theji again rose as she heard his 
 footsteps ; but when he entered the room she was standing in the 
 middle of it. 
 
 ' Clara,' he said, taking the hand which she mechanically held 
 out, ' I have come here now at your brother's request.' 
 
 Her name sounded so sweet upon his lips. No idea occurred 
 to her that she ought to be angry with him for using it. Angry 
 with him ! Could it be possible that she should ever be angry 
 with him— that she ever had been so ? 
 
 'Yes,' she said. 'Patrick said something to me which made 
 me think that it would be better that we should meet.' 
 
 ' Well, yes ; it is better. If people are honest they had always 
 better say to each other's faces that which they have to say.' 
 
 ' I mean to be honest, Mr. Fitzgerald.' 
 
 ' Yes, I am sure yon do ; and so do I also. And if this is so, 
 why cannot we say each to the other liiat which we have to say ? 
 My tale will be a very short one ; but it will be true if it is 
 Bhort.' 
 
 ' But, Mr. Fitzgerald-- ' 
 
884 - CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 ' Will you not sit down ?' And she herself sat upon the sofa ; 
 ahd he drew a chair for himself near to her ; but he was too 
 impetuouii to remain seated on it long. During the interview 
 between them he was sometimes standing, and sometimes walk- 
 ing quickly about the room ; and then for a- moment he would 
 sit down, or lean down over her on the sofa arm. ( 
 
 ' But, Mr. Fitzgerald, it is my tale that I wish you to hear.' 
 
 ' Well ; I will listen to it.' But he did not listen ; for before 
 she had spoken a dozen words he had interrupted her, and 
 poured out upon her his own wild plans and generous^schemes. 
 She, poor girl, had thought to tell him that she loved Herbert, 
 and Herbert only — as a lover. But that if she could love him, 
 him Owen, as a brother and a friend, that love she would so 
 willingly give him. And then she would have gone on to say 
 how impossible it would have been for Herbert, under any cir- 
 cumstances, to have availed himself of such generosity as that 
 which had been offered. But her eloquence was all cut short in 
 the bud. How could she speak with such a storm of impulse 
 raging before her as that which was now strong within Owen 
 ^Fitzgerald's bosom ? 
 
 He interrupted her before she had spoken a dozen words, in 
 order that he might exhibit before her eyes the project with 
 which his besom was filled. This he did, standing for the most 
 part before her, looking down upon her as she sat beneath him, 
 with her eyes fixed upon the floor, while his were riveted on her " 
 down-turned face. She knew it all before — all this thathe had 
 to say to her, or she would hardly have understood it from his 
 words, they were so rapid and vehement. And yet they wei-e 
 tender, too ; spoken in a loving tone, and containing ever and 
 anon assurances of respect, and a resolve to be guided now and 
 for ever by her wishes, — even though those wishes should be 
 utterly subversive of his happiness. 
 
 ' And now you know it all,' he said, at last. ' And as for my 
 cousin's property, that is safe enough. No earthly consideration 
 would induce me to put a hand upon that, seeing that by all 
 justice it is his.' But in this she hardly yet quite understood 
 him. ' Let him have what luck he may in otber respects, he 
 shall still be master of Castle Eichmond. If it were that that you 
 wanted — as I know it is not — that I cannot give you. I cannot 
 tell you with what scorn I should regard myself if I were to 
 take advantage of such an accident as this to rob any man of his 
 estate.' 
 
 Her brother had been right, so Clara felt, when he declared 
 that Owen Fizgerald was the finest fellow that ever he had 
 come across. She made another s'uch declaration within' her 
 
CONDEMNED. ' ^^ 
 
 own heart, only with words that were more natural to her. iie/ 
 was the noblest gentleman of whom she had ever heard, or reaQ,« 
 or thought. 
 
 ' But,' continued Owen, ' as I will not interfere with him in 
 that which should be liis, neither should he interfere with mo in 
 that which should be mine. Clara, the only estate that I claim 
 is your heart.' 
 
 And that estate she could not give him. On that at any rate 
 she was fixed. She could not barter herself about from one to 
 the other either as a make-weight or a counterpoise. All his 
 pleading was in vain; all his generosity would fail in securing 
 to him this one reward that he desired. And now she had to 
 tell him so. 
 
 'Your brother seems to think,' he continued, 'that you 
 still ;' but now it was her turn to interrupt him. 
 
 ' Patrick is mistaken,' she said, with her eyes still fixed upon 
 the ground. 
 
 ' What ! You will tell me, then, that I am utterly indifferent 
 to you ?• 
 
 ' No, no, no ; I did not say so.' And now she got up and took 
 hold of his arm, and looked into his face imploringly. ' I did 
 not say so. But, oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, be kind to me, be forbear- 
 ing with me, be good to me,' and she almost embraced his 
 arm as she appealed to him, with her eyes all swimming with 
 tears. 
 
 ' Good to you !' he said. And a strong passion came upon I 
 him, urging him to throw his arm round her slender body, and j 
 prese her to his bosom. Good to her !^ would he not protect her ■ 
 with his life's blood against all the worid if she wou]d onlyl 
 come to him ? ' Good to jou, Clara ! Can you not tnist me that ' 
 I will be good to you if you will let me ?' 
 
 ' But not so, Owen.' It was the first time she had ever called 
 him by his name, and she blushed again as she remeipbered that 
 it was so. ' Not good, as you mean, for now I must trast lo 
 another for that goodness. Herbert must be my husband, Owen ■; 
 but will you not be our friend ?' 
 
 ' Herbert must be your husband !' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, yes. It is so. Do not look at me in that way, 
 pray do not; what would you have nve Jo? You would not 
 have me false to my troth, and false to my own heart, because 
 you are generous. Be generous to me — to me also.' 
 
 He turned away from her, and walked the whole length of tha 
 long room ; away and back before he answered her, and even 
 then, when he had returned to her, he stood looking at hei 
 before he spoke. And she now looked full into his face, hoping, 
 
886 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 but yet fearing ; hoping that he might yield to her ; and fearing 
 his terrible displeasure should he not yield. 
 
 ' Clara,' he said ; and he spoke solemnly, slowly, and in a 
 mood unlike his own, — ' I cannot as yet read your heart clearly , 
 nor do I know whether you can quite so read it yourself.' 
 
 ' I can, I can,' she answered quickly ; ' and you shall know it 
 all — all. if you wish.' 
 
 ' I want to know hut one thing. Whom is it that you love ? 
 And, Clara — ,' and this he said intermpting her as she was about 
 to speak. ' I do not ask you to whom you are engaged. Yon 
 have engaged yourself both to him and to me.' 
 
 'Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!' 
 
 ' I do not blame you ; not in the least. But is it not so ? As 
 to that I will ask no question, and say nothing ; only this, that 
 80 far we are equal: But now ask of your own heart, and then 
 answer me. Whom is it then you love ?' 
 
 ' Herbert Fitzgerald,' she said. The words hardly formed 
 themselves into a whisper, but nevertheless they were audible 
 enough to him. 
 
 ' Then I have no further business here,' he said, and turned 
 about as though to leave the room. 
 
 But she ran forward and stopped him, standing between him 
 and the door. ' Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, do not leave me like that. 
 Say one word of kindness to me before you go. Tell me that 
 you forgive me for the injury I have done you.' 
 
 ' Yes, I forgive you.' 
 
 * And is that all ? Oh, I will love you so, if you will let me ; — 
 as your friend, as your, sister ; you shall be our dearest, best, and 
 nearest friend. You do hot know how good he is. Owen, wiU 
 you not tell me that you will love me as a brother loves ?' ' 
 
 ' No !' and the sternness of his face was such that it was dread- 
 ful tolook on it. ' I will tell you nothing that is false.'' 
 
 ' And would that be false ?' 
 
 ' Yes, false as hell ! \'t'hat, sit by at his hearth-stone and see 
 you leaning on his bosom ! Sleep under his roof while you were 
 in his arms ! No, Lady Clara, that would not be possible. That 
 virtue, if it be virtue, I cannot possess.' 
 
 ' And you must go from me in anger ? If you knew what I 
 am suffering you would not speak to me so cruelly.' 
 
 ' Cruel ! I would not wish to be cruel to you ; certainly nof 
 now, for we shall not meet again ; if ever, not for many years. 
 [ do not think that I have been cruel to you.' 
 
 ' Then say one word of kindness before you go !' 
 
 'A word of kindness! Well ; what shall I say ? Eveiy night, 
 as T have lain ia mv bed, I have said words of kindness to v<w. 
 
CONDEMNED 387 
 
 since — since — since longer than you will remember; since ] 
 first knew you as a child. Do you ever think of the day when 
 you walked with me round by the bridge ?' 
 
 ' It is bootless thinking of that now.' 
 
 ' Bootless ! yes, and words of kindness are bootless. Between 
 you and me, such words should be full of love, or they would 
 have no meaning. What can I say to you that shall be both kind 
 and true ?' 
 
 ' Bid God bless me before you leave me.' 
 
 ' Well, I wUl say that. May God bless you, in this world and . 
 in the next! And now, Lady Clara Desmond, good-bye!' and 
 he tendered to her his hand. 
 
 She took it, and pressed it between both of hers, and looked 
 up iato his face, and stood so, while the fast tears ran down her 
 face. He must have been more or less than man had he not 
 relented then. ' And Owen,' she said, ' dear Owen, may God in 
 his mercy bless you also, and make you happy, and give you 
 some one that you can love, and — and — teach you in your heart 
 to forgive the injury I have done you.' And then she stooped 
 down her head and pressed her lips upon the hand which she 
 held within her own. 
 
 'Forgive you ! Well — I do forgive you. Perhaps it may be 
 right that we should both forgive ; though I have not wittingly 
 brought unhappiness upon you. But what there is to be forgiven 
 on my side, I do forgive. And — and I hope that you may be 
 happy.' They were the last words that he spoke; and then 
 leading her back to her seat, he placed her there, and withoiit 
 turning to look at her again, he left the room. 
 
 He hurried down into the court, and called for his horse. As 
 he stood there, when his foot was in the stirrup, and his hand on 
 the animal's neck. Lord Desmond came up to him. ' Good-bye, 
 Desmond,' he said. ' It is all over ; God knows when you and I 
 may meet again..' And without waiting for a word of reply he 
 rode out under the porch, and putting spurs to his horse, galloped 
 fast across the park. The earl, when he spoke of it after-warrts 
 to his mother, said that Owen's lace had been as it wtiro <» 
 thunderclond. 
 
38^ OASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIS. 
 
 FOX-HUNTING IN" SPINNT LANK. 
 
 I THINK it will be aokaowledged that Mr. Prendergast had said 
 no word throughout the conversation recorded in a late chapter 
 as having taken place between him and Herbert Fitzgerald c ver 
 their wine, which could lead IJerbert to think it possible that he 
 might yet recover his lost inheritance ; but nevertheless during 
 the whole of that evening he held in his jpocket a letter, received 
 by him only that afternoon, which did encourage him to think 
 that such an event might at any rate be possible. And,-indeed, 
 Jie held in his ,pocket two letters having a tendency to the same 
 effect, but we shall have nothing now to say as to that letter 
 from Mr. Somers of w^hich we have spoken before. 
 
 It must be understood that up to this time certain inquiries 
 had been going on with reference to the life of Mr. Matthew*' 
 MoUett, and that these inquiries were being made by agents 
 employed by Mr. Prendergast. He had found that Mollett's 
 identity with Talbot had been so fully proved as to make it, in 
 his opinion, absolutely necessary that Herbert and his mother 
 should openly give up Castle Eichmond. But, nevertheless, 
 without a hope, ' and in obedience solely to what he felt that 
 prudence demanded in so momentous a matter, he did prosecute 
 all manner of inquiries ; — but prosecuted them altogether in vain. 
 And now, thou most acvfte^ of lawyers, this new twinkling 
 spark of hope has come to thee from a source whence thou least 
 expectedst it ! 
 
 Qund minime reris Graid pandetur db urbe. 
 
 And then, as soon as Herbert was gone from him, crossing one 
 leg over the other as he sat in his easy chair, he took it from his 
 pocket and read it for the third time. The signature at the end 
 of it was very plain and legible, being that of a scholar no less 
 accomplished than Mr. Abraham MoUett. This letter we will 
 have entire, though it was not perhaps as short as it might have 
 been. It ran as follows : — 
 
 45 Tabernacle row Londoii 
 April— 1847. 
 Eespectit Sir — 
 
 ' In hall them doings aoout the Fitsjerrals at Carsal Eic/.- 
 mon I halways felt the most profound respict for you because 
 
FOX-HUNTING IN 'SPINNY LANE. 389 
 
 you wanted to do tlie thing as was rite wicli was what I halways 
 wanted to myself only coodent becase of the guvnor. " Let the 
 right un win, guvnor," said I, hover hand hover again ; hut no, 
 he woodent. And what cood the likes of me do then seeing as 
 ow I was obligated by the forth comanment to honor my father 
 and mother, wich however if it wasent that she was ded leving 
 me a horphand there woodent av been none of this trobbel. If 
 she ad lived Mr. Pindargrasp Ide av been brot hup honest, and 
 thats what I weps for. But she dide and my guvnor why hes 
 been a gitten the rong side of the post hever sins that hunfor- 
 tunate day. Praps you knows Mr. Pindargrasp what it is to 
 lose a mother in your herly hinfantsey. But I was at the guvnor 
 hovers and hovers agin, but hall of no yuse. " He as stumpt 
 hoff with my missus and now he shall stump hup the reddy." 
 -Them was .^my guvnors ho'wn words halwaj-s. Well, Mr. Pin- 
 dargrasp ; what does I do. It wamt no good my talking to him 
 he was for going so confounedly the rong side of the post. But 
 I new as how Appy ouse Fitsjerral was the orse as ort to win. 
 Leestways I thawt I new it, and so you thawt too Mr. Pindar- 
 grasp only we was both running the rong cent. But what did I 
 do when I was so confounedly disgusted by my guvnor ankring 
 after the baronnites money wich it wasnt rite nor yet onest. 
 Why I went meself to Appy ouse as you noes Mr. Pindargrasp, 
 and was the first to tel the Appy ouse gent hall about it. But 
 wat dos he do. Hoh, Mr. Pindargrasp, I shal never fergit that 
 faitel day and only he got me hunewairs by the scruf 6f the nek 
 Im has good a man as he he very day of tlie week. But you was 
 ther Mr. Pindargrasp and noes wat I got for befrindin the Appy 
 ouse side wich was agin the guvnor and he as brot me to the loest 
 pich of distress in the way of rino seein the guvnor as cut of my 
 halowence becase T wint agin his hinterest. 
 
 ' And now Mr. Pindargrasp I ave a terrible secret to hunraffel 
 wich will put the sadel on the rite orse at last and as I does hall 
 this agin my own guvnor wich of corse I love derely I do hope 
 Mr. Pindargrasp you wont see me haltoogether left in the lerch. 
 A litel something to go on with at furst wood be very agrebbel 
 for indeed Mr. Pindargrasp its uncommon low water with your 
 umbel servant at this presant moment. And now wat I has to 
 say is this — Lady Fits wamt niver my guvnors wife hat all 
 becase why hed a wife alivin has I can pruv and will and shes 
 alivin now number 7 Spinny lane CentbotoUfs intheheast. Now 
 I do call that noos worse a Jews high Mr. Pindargrasp and I opea 
 youll see me honestly delt with sein as how I corns forward and 
 tels it hall without any haskin and cood keep it all to miself and 
 no one coodent bo the wiser only I chews to do the thing as is rite, 
 
392 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 And the lawyer felt that, lie might perhaps be inclined to give 
 Bome little- assistance to poor Aby in the soreness of his needs. 
 Foxes will not do well in aty country which is not provided 
 with their natural foad. Eats they eat, and if rats be plentiful 
 it is so far good. But one should not begrudge them occasional 
 geese and turkeys, or even break one's heart if they like a lamb- 
 in season. A fox will always run well when he has come far 
 from home seeking his breakfast. 
 
 Poor Aby, when he had been so cruelly treated by the ' gent 
 of Appy ouse,' whose side in the family dispute he had latterly 
 been so anxious to take, had remained crouching for some hour 
 or two in Owen's kitchen, absolutely mute. The servants there 
 for a while felt sure that he was dj'ing ; but in their master's 
 present mood they did not dare to go near him with any such 
 tidings. And then when the hounds were gone, and the place was 
 again quiet, Aby gradually roused himself, allowed them to 
 wash the blood from his hands and face, to restore him to life by 
 whisky and scraps of food, and gradually got himself into his car, 
 and so back to the Kanturk Hotel, m South Main Street, Cork. 
 
 But, alas ! his state there was more wretched by far than it 
 had been in the Hap House kitchen. That his father had fled 
 was no more than he expected. Each had known that the othei- 
 wotild now play some separate secret game. But not the less 
 did he complain loudly when he heard that 'his guvnor 'had not 
 paid the bill, and had left neither money nor message for him. 
 How Fanny had scorned and upbraided him, and ordered Tom to 
 turn him out of the house ' neck and crop ;' how he had squared 
 ,at Tom, and ultimately had been turned J3ut of the house ' neck 
 and crop,' — whatever that may mean — by Fanny's father, needs 
 not here to be particularly narrated. With much suffering and 
 many privations — such as foxes in their solitary wanderings so 
 often know — he did find his way to London ; and did, moreover, 
 by means of such wiles as foxes have, find out something as to 
 his ' guvnor's ' whereaboiits, and some secrets also as to his 
 ' guvnor ' which his ' guvnor ' would fain have kept to himself ' 
 had it been possible. And then, also, he again found for himself 
 a sort of home — or hole rather — in his old original gorse covert 
 of London; somewhere among the Jews we may surmise, from 
 the name of the row from which he dated ; and here, setting to' 
 Work once more with his usual cunning industry, — for your fox 
 is very industrious, — he once more attempted to build up a slender 
 fortune by means of the ' Fitsjerral ' family. The grand days iff 
 which he could look for the hand of the fair Emmeline wore aU 
 gone by ; but still the property had been too good not to leavj 
 something for which he might grasp. Properly worked, hj 
 
FOX-HUNTING IN SPlNNY LANE. • 393 
 
 himself alone, as lie said to himself, it might still yield him some 
 comfortahle returns, especially as he should be able to throw 
 over that ' confouned old guvnor of his.' 
 
 He remained at home the whole of the day after his letter was 
 written, indeed for the next three days, thinking that Mr. Pren- 
 dergast would come to him, or send for him ; but Mr. Prender- 
 gast did neither the one nor the other. Mr. Prendergast took 
 his advice instead, and putting himself into a Hansom cab, had 
 himself driven to ' Centbotollfs intheheast.' 
 
 Spinny Lane, St. Botolph's in the East, when at last it was 
 found, was not exactly the sort of place that Mr. Prendergast had 
 expected. It must be known that he did not allow the cabman 
 to drive him up to the very door indicated, nor even to the lane 
 itself; but contented himself with leaving the cab at St. Botolph's 
 church. The huntsman in looking after his game is as wilyTis 
 the fox himself. Men do not talk at the covert side — or at any 
 rate they ought not. And they should stand together dis- 
 creetly at the non-running side. A.11 manner of wiles and silences 
 and discretions are necessary, though too often broken through 
 by the uninstructed, — much to their own discomfort. And so in 
 hunting his fox, Mr. Prendergast did not dash up loudly into 
 the covert, but discreetly left his cab at the church of St. Bo- 
 tolph's. 
 
 Spinny Lane, when at last found by intelligence given to him 
 at the baker's, — never in such vmknown regions ask a lad in the 
 
 , street, for he invariably will accompany you, talking of your 
 whereabouts very loudly, so that people stare at you, and ask 
 each other what can possibly be your business in those parts. 
 Spinny Lane, I say, was not the sort of loc,ality that he had ex- 
 pected. He knew the look of the half-protected, half-condemned 
 Alsatias of the present-day rascals, and Spinny Lane did not at 
 9II beaj: their character. It was a street of small new tenements, 
 fluilt, as yet, only on one side of the way, vrith the pavement 
 only one third finished, and the stones in the road as yet un- 
 broken and untrodden. Of such streets there are thousands now 
 round London. They are to be found in every suburb, creating 
 wonder in all thoughtful minds as to who can be their tens of 
 thousands of occupants. The houses are a little too good for arti- 
 sans, too small and too silent to be the abode of various lodgers, 
 and too mean for clerks who live on salaries. They are as dull- 
 looking as Lethe itself, dull and silent, dingy and repulsive. 
 But they are not discreditable in appearance, and never have that 
 
 vMohais^ look which by some unknown sympathy in bricks and 
 mortar atTaShes itself to the residences of professional ruffians. 
 JSumber seven he found to be as quiet and decent a house as 
 
394 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 any in the rov», and having inspected it from a little distance 
 he walked up briskly to the door, and rang the beU. He walked 
 up briskly in order that his advance might not be seen; unless, 
 indeed,- as he Hegan to think not, impossible, Aby's statement was 
 altogether a hoax. 
 
 ' Does a woman named Mrs. Mary Swan live hefe ?' he asked 
 ofa decent-looking young woman of some seven or eight and 
 twenty, who opened the door for him. She was decent looking, 
 but poverty stricken and wan with work and care, and with that 
 heaviness about her which perpetual sorrow always -gives. 
 Otherwise she would not have been ill-featured-; and even as it 
 was she was feminine and softJ.n her gait -and manner.' 'Does 
 Mrs. Mary Swan live here ?' asked Mr. Prendergast in a mild 
 voice. 
 
 She at once said Mrs. Mary Swan did live there; but she 
 stood with the door in her hand by no means fully opened, as 
 though she did not wish to ask him to enter ; and yet there was 
 nothing in her tone to repel him. Mr. Prendergast at once felt 
 that he was on the right scent, and that it behoved him -at any 
 irate to make his way into that house; for if ever a modest- 
 ■ilooking daughter was like an immodest-looking father, that young 
 ijwoman was like Mr. MoUett senior. 
 
 ■ ' Then I will see her, if you please,' said Mr. Prendergast, 
 entering the passage without her invitation. Not that he 
 pushed in with roughness ; but she receded before the authority 
 of his tme, and obeyed the command which she read in his eye. 
 The poor young woman hesitated as though it had been her in- 
 tention to declare that Mrs. Swan was not within ; but if so, she 
 had not strength to carry out her purpose, for' in the next 
 moment Mr. Prendergast found himself in the presence of the 
 woman he had come to seek. 
 
 'Mrs. Mary Swan ?' said Mr. Prendergast, asking a question as 
 to her identity. 
 
 ' Yes, sir, that is my name,' said a sickly-looking elderly 
 woman, rising from her chair. 
 
 The room in which the two had" been sitting was very poor ; 
 but nevertheless it was neat, and arranged with some attention to 
 appearance. It was not carpeted, but Qiere was a piece of drug- 
 get some three yirds long spread before the fireplace. The wall 
 had been papered from time to time with scraps of different 
 coloured paper, as opportunity offered. The table on which the 
 work of the two women was lying was very old and somewhat 
 rickety, but it was of mahogany ; and Mi«. Mary Swan herself 
 was accommodated with a high-backed aim-chair, which gave 
 gome appearance of comfort to her position. It was now spring ;, 
 
POX-HUNTING IN SPINNY LANE. 395 
 
 but they had a small, very small fire in the small grate, on which 
 a pot had been placed in hopes that it might be induced to boil. 
 All these things did the eye of Mr. Prendergast take in ; but the 
 fact which his eye took in with its keenest glance was this, — 
 that on the other side of the fire to that on which sat Mrs. 
 Mary Swan, there was a second arm-chair standing close over 
 the fender, an ordinary old mahogany chair, in which it was 
 evident that the younger woman had not been sitting. Her place 
 had been close to the table-side, where her needles and thread 
 V 3re still lying. But the arm-chair was placed idly away from 
 ajy accommodation for work, and had, as Mr. Prendergast 
 thought, been recently filled by some idle person. ' 
 
 The woman who rose from her chair as she declared herself to 
 be Mary Swan was old and sickly looking, but nevertheless there 
 was that about her which was prepossessing. Her face was thin 
 and delicate and pale, and not hard and coarse; her voice was 
 low, as a woman's should be, and her hands were white and 
 email. Her clothes, though very poor, were neat, and worn as a 
 poor lady might have worn them. Though there was in her 
 face an aspect almost of terror as she owned to her name in the 
 stranger's presence, yet there was also about her a certain 
 amount of female dignity, which made Mr. Prendergast feel that 
 it behoved bim to treat her not only with gentleness, but also with 
 respect. 
 
 ' I want to say a few words to you,' said he, ' in consequence of a 
 letter I have received ; perhaps you will allow me to sit down 
 for a minute or two.' 
 
 ' Certainly, sir, certainly. This is my daughter, Mary Swan ; 
 do you wish that she should leave the room, sir?' And Mary 
 Swan, as her mother spoke, got up and prepared to depart quietly. 
 
 ' By no means, by no means,' said Mr. Prendergast, putting his 
 hand out so as to detain her. ' I would much rather that she should 
 remain, as it may be very likely that she may assist me in my 
 inquiries. You will know who I am, no doubt, when I mention 
 my name ; Mr. Mollett will have mentioned me to you — I am 
 Mj. Prendergast.' 
 
 ' No, sir, he never did,' said Mrs. Swan. 
 
 'Oh!' said Mr. Prendergast, having ascertained that Mr. Mol- 
 lett was at any rate well known at No. 7 Spinny Lane. ' I 
 thought that he might probably have done so. He is at home at 
 present, T believe ?' 
 - ' Sir ?' said Mary Swan senior. - 
 
 'Your father is at home, I believe?' said Mr. Prendergast, 
 turning to the young woman. 
 
 'Sir ?' said Marj' Swan junior. It was clear at any rate that 
 
 2 G 
 
396 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 tte women were not practised liars, for they could not l)ring 
 themselves on the spur of the moment to deny that he was in the 
 house. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast did not wish to he confronted at present with 
 Matthew MoUett. Such a step might or might not be desirable 
 before the termination of the interview ; but at the present 
 moment he thought that he might probably learn more from the 
 two women as they were than he would do if Mollett were 
 with them. 
 
 It had been acknowledged to him that Mollett was living in 
 that house, that he was now at home, and also that the younger 
 woman present before him was the child of Mollett and of Mary 
 Swan the elder. That the young wornan was older than Herbert 
 Fitzgerald, and that therefore the connection between Mollett 
 and her mother must have been prior to that marriage down in 
 Dorsetshire, he was sure ; but then it might still be possible 
 that there had been no marriage between Mollett and Mary 
 Swan. If he could show that they had been man and wife when 
 that cliild was born, then would his old friend Mr. Die lose his 
 new pnpil. 
 
 ' I have a letter in my pocket, Mrs. Swan,, from Abraham 
 Mollett — ' Mr. Prendergast commenced, pulling out the letter in 
 questiun. 
 
 ■ He is nothing to me, sir,' said the woman, almost in a tone 
 of anger. ' 1 know nothing whatever about him.' 
 
 ' So I should have supposed from the respectability of your 
 appearance, if I may be allowed to say so.' 
 
 ' Nothing at all, sir ; and as for that, we do try to keep our- 
 selves respectable. But this is a very hard world for some 
 people to live in. It has been very hard to me and this poor 
 girl here.' 
 
 ' It is a hard world to some people, and to some honest people, 
 too,— which is harder still.' 
 
 ' AVe've always tried to be honest,' said Mary Swan the elder. 
 
 ' I am sure you have ; and permit me to saj% madam, that you- 
 will find it at the last to be the best policy ; at the last, even as far 
 as this world Is concerned. But about this letter— rl can assure 
 you that I have never thought of identifying you with Abraham 
 Mollett.' 
 
 ' His mother was dead, sir, before ever I set eyes on him or 
 
 his father; and though I tried to do my ' and then she 
 
 Btopped herself suddenly. Honesty might be the best -policy, 
 but, nevertheless, was it necessary that she should tell every 
 thing to this -stranger? > - 
 
 ' Ah, yes ; Abraham's mother was dead before you were mar 
 
FOX-HUNTITSTG IN SPINNY LANE. 397 
 
 ried,' said Mr. Prendergast, hunting his fox ever so craftUy,— 
 his fox whom he knew to be lying in ambush up stairs. It was 
 of course possible that old MoUett should slip away out of the 
 back door and over a wall. If foxes did not do those sort of 
 things they would not be worth half the attention that is paid to 
 them. But Mr. Prendergast was well on the scent ; all that a 
 sportsman wants is good scent. He would rather not have a 
 view till the run comes to its close. ' But,' continued Mr. 
 Prendergast, ' it is necessary that I should say a few words te 
 you about this letter. Abraham's mother was, I suppose, not 
 exactly an — an educated woman ?' 
 
 ' I never saw her, sir.' 
 
 ' She died when he was very young ?' 
 
 ' Four years old, sir.' 
 
 ' And her son hardly seems to have had much education ?' 
 
 ' It was his own fault, sir ; I sent him to school when he came 
 to me, though, goodness knows, sir, I was short enough of 
 means of doing so. He had better opportunities than my own 
 daughter there ; and though I say it myself, who ought not to say 
 it, she is a good scholar.' 
 
 ' I'm sure she is, — and a very good young woman too, if I can 
 judge by her appearance. But about this letter. I am afraid 
 your husband has not been so particular in his way of living as 
 he should have been.' 
 
 ' What could I do, sir? a poor weak woman !' 
 
 ' Nothing ; what you could do, I'm sure you did do.' 
 
 ' I've always kept a house over my head, though it's very 
 humble, as you see, sir. And he has had a morsel to eat and a 
 cup to drink of when he has come here. It is not often that he 
 has troubled me this many years past.' 
 
 ' Mother,' said Mary Swan the younger, ' the gentleman won't 
 care to know about — about all that between you and father."' 
 
 ' Ah, but it is just what I do care to know.' 
 
 ' But, sir, father perhaps mightn't choose it.' < 
 
 The obedience of women to men — to those men to whom they 
 are legally bound — is, I tliink, the most remarkable trait in 
 human nature. Nothing equals it but the instinctive loyalty of 
 a dog. Of course we hear of gray mares, and of garments worn 
 by the wrong persons. Xanthippe doubtless did live, and the 
 character from time to time is repeated ; but the rule, I think,, 
 is as I have said. 
 
 'Mrs. Swan,' said Mr. Prendergast, ' I should think myself dis- 
 honest were I to worm your secrets out of you, seeing that you 
 are yourself so truthful and so respectable.' Perhaps it may be 
 thought that Mr. Prendergast was a little late in looking at tho 
 
398 CASTLE EIOHMOND. 
 
 matter in this light. ' But it behoves me to learn much of the 
 early history of your husband, who is now living with you here, 
 and whose name, as I take it, is not Swan, but Mollett.r: Your 
 maiden name probably was Swan ?' 
 
 ' But I was honestly married, sir, in the parish church at Put- 
 ney, and that young woman was honestly born.' 
 
 ' I am quite sure of it. I have never doubted -it. But as I 
 was saying, I have come here for information about your hus- 
 band, and I do not like to ask you questions off your guard,' — 
 oh, Mr. Prendergast ! — ' and therefore I think it right to tell 
 you, that neither I nor those for whom I am concerned have any 
 wish to bear more heavily than we can help upon your husband, 
 if he will only come forward with willingness to do that which 
 we can make him. do either willingly or unwillingly.' 
 
 ' But what was it about Abraham's letter, sir ?' 
 
 ' Well, it does not so much signify now.' 
 
 ' It was he sent you here, was it, sir ? How has he learned 
 where we are, Mary ?' and the poor woman turned to her daughter. 
 ' The truth is, sir, he has never known anything of us for these 
 twenty years ; nor we of him. I have not set eyes on him for 
 more than twenty years, — not that I know of. And he never 
 knew me by any other name than Swan, and when he was a 
 child he took me for his aunt.' 
 
 ' He hasn't known then that you and his father were husband 
 and wife ?' 
 
 ' I have always thought he didn't, sir. But how — ' 
 
 Then after all the young fox had not been so full of craft as 
 the elder one, thought Mr. Prendergast to himself. But never- 
 theless he still liked the old fox best. There are foxes that 
 run so uncommonly short that you can never get a burst afte'r 
 them. 
 
 ' I suppose, Mrs. Swan,' continued Mr. Prendergast, ' that you 
 have heard the name of Fitzgerald ?' 
 
 The poor woman sat silent and amazed, but after a moment the 
 daughter answered him. 'My mother, sir, would rather that 
 you should ask her no questions.' 
 
 ' But, my good girl, your mother, 1 suppose, would wish to 
 protect your father, and she would -not wish to answer these 
 questions in a court of law.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid !' said the poor woman. 
 
 ' Your father has behaved very badly to an unfortunate lady 
 whose friend I am, and on her behalf I must learn the truth.' ' 
 
 ' He has behaved badly, sir, to a great many ladies,' said Mrs. 
 Swan, or Mrs. MoUett as we may now call her, 
 
 ' You are aware are you not, that he went through a form of 
 
THE FOX IN HIS EARTH. , 399 
 
 marriage with this lady many years ago ?' said Mr. Prendergast, 
 almost severely. 
 
 ' Let him answer for himself,' said the true wife. ' Mary, go 
 up stairs, and ask your fether to come down.' 
 
 CHAPTEE XL. 
 
 THE FOX IN HIS EARTH. 
 
 Mary Swan the younger hesitated a moment before she executed 
 her mother's order, not saying anything, but looking doubtfully 
 up into her mother's face. ' Go, my dear,' said the old woman, 
 ' and ask your father to come down. It is no use denying him.' 
 
 '•None in the least,' said Mr. Prendergast; and then the 
 daughter went. 
 
 For ten minutes the lawyer and the old woman sat alone, 
 during which time the ear of the former was keenly alive to any 
 steps that might be heard on the stairs or above head. Not that 
 he would himself have taken any active measures to prevent Mr. 
 Mollett's escape, had such an attempt been made. The woman 
 could be a better witness for him than the man, and there would 
 be no fear of her running. Nevertheless, he was anxious that 
 Mollett should, of his own accord, come into his presence. 
 
 ' I am sorry to keep you so long waiting, sir,' said Mrs. Swan. 
 
 ' It does not signify. I can easily understand that your hus- 
 band should wish to reflect a little before he speaks to me. I 
 can forgive that.' 
 
 'And, sir — •' 
 
 'WeU, Mrs. Mollett?' 
 
 ' Are you going to do anything to punish him, sir ? If a 
 poor woman may venture to speak a word, I would beg you on 
 my bended knees to be merciful to him. If you would forgive 
 him now I think he would live honest, and be sorry for what he 
 has done.' 
 
 ' He has worked terrible evil,' said Mr. Prendergast solemnly. 
 ' Do you know that he has harassed a poor gentleman into his 
 grave ?' 
 
 ' Heaven be merciful to him !' said the poor woman. ' But, sir, 
 was not that his son ? Was it not A hraham Mollett who did 
 that ? Oh, sir, if you will let a poor wife speak, it is he that has 
 been worse than his father.' 
 
 Before Mr. Prendergast had made up his mind how he would an- 
 swer her, he keard the sound of footsteps slowly descending upon 
 
400 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 the stairs. They were those of a person who stepped heavily and 
 feebly, and it was still a minute before the door was opened. 
 
 ' Sir,' said the woman. ' Sir,' and as she spoke she looked eagerly 
 into his face — ' " Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that 
 trespass against us." We should all remember that, sir.' 
 
 ' True, Mrs. MoUett, quite true ;' and Mr. Prendergast rose 
 from his chair as the door opened. 
 
 It will be remembered that Mr. Prendergast and Matthew 
 MoUett had met once before, in the room usually occupied by 
 Sir Thomas Fitzgerald. On that occasion Mr. MoUett had at 
 any rate entered the chamber with some of the prestige of power 
 about him. He had come to Castle Eichmond.as the man having 
 the whip hand ; and though his courage had certainly faUen 
 somewhat before he left it, nevertheless he had not been so 
 beaten down but what he was able to say a word or two for him- 
 self. He had been well in health and decent in appearance, and 
 even as he left the room had hardly reaUzed the absolute ruin 
 which had fallen upon him. 
 
 But now he looked as though he had realized it with sufSoient 
 clearness. He was lean and sick and pale, and seemed to be ten 
 years older then when Mr. Prendergast had last seen LIm. He 
 was wrapped in an old dressing-gown, and had a nightcap on 
 his head, and coughed violently before he got himself into his 
 chair. It is hard for any tame domestic animal to know through 
 : w^hat fire and water a poor fox is driven as it is hunted from hole 
 to hole and covert to covert. It is a wonderful fact, but no less 
 a fact, that no men work so hard and work for so little pay as 
 scoundrels who strive to live without any work at all, and to 
 feed on the sweat of other men's brows. Poor Matthew MoUett 
 had suffered dire misfortune, had encountered very hard lines, 
 betwixt that day on which he stole away from the Kanturk Hotel 
 in South Main Street, Cork, and that other day on which he 
 presented himself, cold and himgry and almost sick to death, at 
 the door of his .wife's house in Spinny Lane, St. Botolph's in tne 
 East. 
 
 He never showed himself there unless when hard pressed 
 indeed, and then he would skidk in, seeking for shelter and food, 
 and pleading with bated voice his husband right to assistance 
 and comfort. Nor was his plea ever denied hira. 
 
 On this occasion he had arrived in very bad plight indeed ; he 
 had brought away from Cork nothing but what he could carry on 
 his body, and had been forced to pawn what he could pawn in 
 order that he might subsist. And then he iad been taken with 
 ague, and with the fit strong on him had crawled away to Spinny 
 Lane, and had there beer nursed by the mother and daughtei 
 
THE FOX IN HIS EAETH. 401 
 
 whom ho had ill used, deserted, and betrayed'. ' When the devil 
 was sick the devil a monk would be ;' and now his wife, credu- 
 lous as all women are in such matters, believed the devil's 
 
 protestations. A time may perhaps come when even Bui 
 
 stop! — or I may chance to tread on the corns of orthodoxy. 
 "^Vhat I mean to insinuate is this ; that it was on the cards that 
 Mr. MoUett would now at last turn over a new leaf. 
 
 ' How do you do, JV^r. MoUett?' said Mr. Prendergast. ' I am 
 sorry to see you looking so poorly.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. I am poorly enough certainly. I have been very 
 ill since I last had the pleasure of seeing you, sir.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes, that was at Castle Eichmond ; was it not ? Well, 
 you have done the best thing that a man can do ; you have come 
 home to your wife and family now that you are ill and require 
 their attendance.' 
 
 Mr. MoUett looked up at him with a countenance fuU of 
 unutterable woe and weakness. What was he to say on such a 
 subject in such a company ? There sat his wife and daughter, 
 his veritable wife and true-bom daughter, on whom he was now 
 dependent, and in whose hands he lay, as a sick man does lie in 
 the hands of women : could he deny them ? And there sat the 
 awful Mr. J^rendergast, the representative of all that Fitzgerald 
 interest which he had so wronged, and who up to this morning 
 had at any rate believed the storjf with which he, MoUett, had 
 pushed his fortunes in county Cork. Could he- in his presence 
 acknowledge that Lady Fitzgerald had never been his wife? It 
 must be confessed that he was in a sore plight. And then 
 remember his ague ! 
 
 ' You feel j'ourself tolerably comfortable, I suppose, now that 
 you are with your wife and daughter,' continued Mr. Prendergast, 
 most inhumanly. 
 
 Mr. Mollett continued to look at him so piteously from beneath 
 his nightcap. ' I am better than I was, thank you, sir,' said he. 
 
 ' There is nothing like the bosom of one's family for restoring 
 one to health ; is there, Mrs. MoUett ;- or for keeping one in 
 health?' 
 
 '1 wish you gentlemen would think so,' said sbe, drily. 
 
 ' As for me 1 never was blessed with a wife. When I am sick 
 I have to trust to hired attendance. In that respect I am not s 
 fortunate as your husband : I am only an old bachelor.' 
 
 ' Oh, ain't you, sir ?' said Mrs. Mollett ; ' and perhaps it's best 
 so. It ain't all married people that are the happiest.' 
 
 The daughter during this time was sitting intent on her work, 
 not lifting her face from the shirt she was sewing. But aii 
 observer might have seen from her forehead and eye that she 
 
402 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 was not only listening to what was feaid, but thinking and medi 
 tating on the scene before her. 
 
 ' Well, Mr. MoUett,' said Mr. Prendergast, ' you at any rate 
 are not an old bachelor.' Mr. Mollett still looked piteously at 
 him, but said nothing. It may be thought that in all this Mr. 
 Prendergast was more cruel than necessary, but it must be 
 remembered that it was incumbent on him to bring the poor 
 wretch before him down absolutely on his marrow-bones. MoUett 
 must be made to confess his sin, and own that this woman before 
 him was his real wife ; and the time for mercy had not com- 
 menced tUl that had been done. 
 
 And then his daughter spoke, seeing how things were" going 
 with him. ' Father,' said she, ' this gentleman has called because 
 he has had a letter from Abraham Mollett ; and he was speaking 
 about what Abraham has been doing in Ireland.' 
 
 ' Oh dear, oh dear !' said poor Mollett. ' The unfortunate 
 young man ; that wretched, unfortunate, young man ! He will 
 bring me to the grave at last— to the grave at last.' 
 
 ' Come, Mr. MoUett,' said Mr. Prendergast, now getting up and 
 standing with his back to the fire, ' I do not know that you and 
 I need beat about the bush much longer. I suppose I may speak 
 openly before these ladies as to what has been takipg place in 
 county Cork.' 
 
 'Sir!'^ said Mr. Mollett, with a look of deprecation about his 
 mouth that ought to have moved the.lawyer's heart. 
 
 * I know nothiiig about it,' said Mrs. Mollett, very stiffly. 
 
 ' Yes, mother, we do know something about it ; and the gentle- 
 man may speak out if it so pleases him. It wUl be better, 
 father, for you that he should do so.' 
 
 ' Very weU, my dear,' said Mr. MoUett, in the lowest possible 
 voice; 'whatever the gentleman likes — only I do hope — 'and 
 he uttered a deep sigh, and gave no further expression to his 
 hopes or wishes. 
 
 ■ ' I presume, in the first place,' began Mr, Prendergast, ' that 
 this lady here is your legal wife, and this younger lady your 
 legitimate daughter ? There is no doubt I take it as to that?' 
 
 'Not — any — doubt— in the world, sir,' said Mrs. MoUett, who - 
 claimed to be sojie4ure. ' I have got my marriage lines to show, 
 sir. Abraham's mother was dead just six, months before we came 
 together ; and then we were married just six months after that.' 
 
 ' WeU, Mr. Mollett, I suppose you do not wish to contradict 
 that?' 
 
 ' He can't, sir, whether he wish it or not,' said Mrs. Mollett. 
 
 'Could you show me that — that marriage 'certificate?' asked 
 Mr. Prendergast. 
 
THE FOX IN HIS EARTH. 403 
 
 Mrs. MoUett looked rather doubtful as to this. It may Tbe, that 
 much as she trusted in her husband's reform, she did not wish to 
 let him know where she kept this important paJIadium of her 
 rights, 
 
 ' It can be forthcoming, sir, whenever it may be wanted,' said 
 Mary Mollett the younger; and then Mr. Prendergast, seeing' 
 what was passing through the minds of the two women, did not 
 press that matter any further. 
 
 ' But I should be glad to hear from your own lips, Mr. MoUett, 
 that you acknowledge the marriage, which took place at — at 
 Fulham, I think you said, ma'am ?' 
 
 ' At Putney, sir ; at Putney parish church, in the year of our 
 Lord eighteen hundred and fourteen.' 
 
 ' Ah, that was the year before Mr. Mollett went into Dorsetshire.' 
 
 ' Yes, sir. He didn't stay with me long, not at that time. He 
 went away and left me ; and then all that happened, that you^ 
 know of — down in Dorsetshire, as they told me. And afterwards 
 when he went away on his keeping, leaving Aby behind, I took 
 the child, and said that I was his aunt. There were reasons 
 then ; and I feared But never mind about that, sir ; for any- 
 thing that I was wrong enough to say then to the contrary, I am 
 his • lawful wedded wife, and before my face he won't deny it. 
 And then when he was sore pressed and in trouble he came back 
 to me, and after that Mary here was bom ; and one other, a boy, 
 who, God rest him, has gone from these troubles. And since that 
 it is not often that h-e has been with me. But now, now that he 
 is here, you shotdd have pity on us, and give him another chance.' 
 
 But still Mr. Mollett had said nothing himself. He sat during 
 all this time, wearily moving his head to and fro, as though the 
 conversation were anything but comfortable to him. And, in- 
 deed, it cannot be presumed to have been very pleasant. He 
 moved his head slowly and wearily to and fro ; every now and 
 then lifting up one hand weakly, as though deprecating any 
 recurrence to circumstances so decidedly unpleasant. But Mr. 
 Prendergast was determiaed that he should speak. 
 
 ' Mr. Mollett,' said he, 'I must beg you to say in so many 
 words, whether the statement of this lady is correct or is in- 
 correct. Do you acknowledge her for your lawful wife ?' 
 
 ' He daren't deny me, sir,'' said the woman, who was, perhaps, 
 a little too eager in the matter. 
 
 ' JFather, why don't you behave like a man and speak ?' said 
 his. daughter, now turning upon him. ' You have done ill to all 
 of us ; — to so many ; but now—' 
 
 ' And are you going to turn against me, Mary ?' he whined 
 out, almost crying. 
 
404 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 ' Turn againpt you ! no, I have never done that. But look at 
 mother. Would you let that gentleman think that she is — what 
 I won't name before him ? Will you say that I am not your 
 honest-bom child ? You have done very wickedly, and you 
 must now make what amends is in your power. If you do not 
 answerhim'here he will make you answer in some worse place 
 than this.' 
 
 ' What is it I am to say, sir ?' he whined out again. 
 
 ' Is this lady here your legal wife ?' 
 
 ' Yesi sir,' said the poor man, whimpering. 
 
 ' And that marriage ceremony which you went through in 
 Dorsetshire with Miss Wainwright was not a legal marriage ?' 
 
 ' I suppose not, sir.' 
 
 ' You were well aware at the time that you were committing 
 bigamy ?' 
 
 'Sir!' 
 
 ' You knew, I say, that you were committing bigamy ; that 
 the child whom you were professing to marry would not become 
 your wife through that ceremony. I say that you knew all this 
 at the time ? Come, Mr. Mollett, answer me, if you do not wish 
 me to have you dragged out of this by apoliceman and taken at 
 once before a magistrate.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir ! be merciful to us ; pray be merciful to us,' said . 
 Mrs. Mollett, holding up her apron to her eyes. 
 
 ' Father, whj' don't you speak out plainly to the gentleman ? 
 He will forgive you, if you do that.' 
 
 ' Am I to criminate myself, sir ?' said Mr. Mollett, still in the 
 humblest voice in the world, and hardlj- above his breath. 
 
 After all, this fox had still some running left in him, Mr. 
 Prendergast thought to himself. He was not even yet so 
 thoroughly beaten but what he had a dodge or two remaining at 
 his service. ' Am I to criminate myself, sir ?' he asked, as inno- 
 cently as a child might ask whether or no she were to stand 
 longer in the corner. 
 
 ' You may do as you like about that, Mr. Mollett,' said the 
 lawyer ; ' I am neither a magistrate nor a policeman ; and at the 
 piesent moment I am not acting even as a lavyyer. , I am the 
 friend of a family whom you have misused and defrauded most 
 outrageously. You have killed the father of that family — ' 
 
 ' Oh, gracious !' said Mrs. Mollett. 
 
 ' Yes, madam, he has done so ; and nearly broken the heart cf 
 that poor lady, and driven her son from the house which is his 
 own. You have done all this in order that you might swindle 
 them out of money for your vile indulgences, while you left | 
 your own wife and your own child to starve at home. In thd 1 
 
THE roX IN HIS EABTH. 405 
 
 whole course of my life I never came across so mean a scoun- 
 drel; and now you chaffer with me as to, whether or no you 
 shall criminate yourself! Scoundrel and villain as you are — a 
 double-dyed scoundvel, stUl there are reasons why I shall not 
 wish to have you gibbeted, as you deserve.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, he has done nothing that would come to that !' said 
 the poor wife. 
 
 ' You had better let the gentleman finish,' said the daughter. 
 ' He doesn't mean that father will be hung.' 
 
 ' It would be too good for him,' said Mr. Prendergast, who was 
 now absolutely almost out of temper. ' But I do not wish to be 
 his executioner. For the peace of that, family which you have 
 so brutally plundered and ill used, I shall remain quiet,- — if I 
 can attain my object vrithout a public prosecution. But, remem- 
 ber, that I guarantee nothing to you. For aught I know you 
 may be in gaol before the night is come. All 1 have to tell you 
 is this, that if by obtaining a confession from you I am able to 
 restore my friends to their property without a prosecution, I 
 shall do so. Now you may answer me or not, as you like.' 
 
 ' Trust him, father,' said the daughter. ' It will be best for 
 you.' 
 
 ' But I have told him everything,' said Mollett. ' What more 
 does he want of me ?' 
 
 ' I want you to give your written acknowledgment that when 
 you went through that ceremcmy of ijiarriage with Miss Wain- 
 wright in Dorsetshire, you committed bigamy, and that you knew 
 at that time that you were doing so.' 
 
 Mr. Mollett, as a matter of course, gave him the written docu- 
 ment, and then Mr. Prendergast took his leave, bowing gra- 
 ciously to the two women, and not deigning to cast his eyes 
 again on the abject wretch who crouched by the fire. 
 
 ' Don't be hard on a poor creature who has fallen so low,' said 
 Mrs. Mollett, as he left the room. But Mary Mollett junior 
 followed him to the door and opened it for him. ' Sir,' she said, 
 addressing him with some hesitation as he was preparing to depart. 
 ^ ' Well, Miss Mollett ; if 1 could do anything for you it would 
 gratify me, for I sincerely feel for you, — both for you and for 
 your mother.' 
 
 ' Thank you, sir ; I don't know that there is anything you 
 can do for us — except to spare him. The thief on the cross was 
 forgiven, .sir.' 
 
 ' But the thief on the cross repented.' 
 
 ' And who shall say that he does not repent ? You cannot tell 
 of his heart by scripture word, as you can of that other one. But 
 our Lord has taught us that it is gDod to forgive the worst of sin- 
 
406 ■ CASTLE -RICHMOND. 
 
 ners. Tell that poor lady to tlmik of this when she rememben 
 him in her prayers.' 
 
 ' I will, Miss MoUett ; indeed, indeed I will ;' and then as he 
 left her he gave her his hand in token of respect. And so he 
 walked aws^y out of Spinny Lane. 
 
 CHAPTEE XLl. 
 
 THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 
 
 Me. Peendergast as he walked out of Spinny Lane, and back to 
 St. Botolph's ohurcli, and as he returned thence again to Blooms- 
 bury Square in his cab, had a good deal of which to think, In 
 the first place it must be explained that he was not altogether 
 self-satisfied with the manner in which things had gone. That ■ 
 he would have made almost any sacrifice to recover the property ; 
 for Herbert Fitzgerald, is certainly true ; and it is as true that, 
 he would have omitted no possible effort to discover all thatj 
 which he had now discovered, almost without necessity for any 
 efibrt. But nevertheless he was not altogether pleased i he had.; 
 made up his mind a month or two ago that Lady Fitzgerald was ; 
 not the lawful wife of her husband ; and had come to this con- 
 clusion on, as he stiU thought, sufficient evidence. But now he 
 was proved to have been wrong ; his character for shrewdness and 
 discernment would be damaged, and his great ally and chum Mi'. 
 Die, the Chancery barrister, would be down on him with unmiti- 
 gated sarcasm. A man who has been right so frequently as Mr. 
 Prendergast, does not like to find that he is .ever in the wrong. 
 And then, had his decision not have been sudden, might not the 
 life of that old baronet have been saved ? ■ 
 
 Mr. Prendergast could not help feeling this in some degree 
 as he drove away to Bloomsbury Square ; but nevertheless he hs& 
 also the feeling of having achieved a great triumph." It was 
 with him as with a man who has made a fortune when he has 
 declared to his friends that he should infallibly be ruined. It 
 piques him to think how wrong he has been in his prophecy;: 
 but still it is very pleasant to have made one's fortune. s 
 
 When he found himself at the top of Chancery Lane in HolbomJ 
 he stopped his cab and got out of it. He had by that time made 
 up his mind as to what he would do ; so he walked briskly do'Wn 
 to Stone Buildings, and nodding to the old clerk, with whom/he 
 was very intimate, asked if he could see Mr. Die. It was his 
 second visit 4o those chambers that morning, seeing that ho had 
 been there early in the day, introducing Herbert to his mvi 
 
 1 
 
THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OP CroMMONS. 407 
 
 Gamaliel. ' Yes, Mr. Die is in,' said the clerk, smiling, and so 
 Mr; Prendergast passed on iato the well-known dingy temple ol 
 the Chancery god himself. 
 
 There he remained for full an hour, a message in the mean- 
 while having been sent out to Herbert Fitzgerald, begging hito 
 not to leave the chambers till he should have seen Mr. Die ; 
 ' and your friend Mr. Prendergast is with him,' said the clerk. 
 ' A very nice gentleman is Mr. Prendergast, uncommon clever 
 too ; but it seems to me that he never can hold his own when he 
 comes across our Mr. Die.' ^i,^ ■:;'■- 
 
 At the end of the hour Herbert was suinmoned into the sanc- 
 tum, and there he found Mr. Die sitting in his accustomed chair, 
 with his body much bent, nursing the calf of his leg, which was 
 always enveloped in a black, well-fitting close pantaloon, and 
 smUing very blandly. Mr. Prendergast had in his countenance not 
 quite so sweet an aspect. Mr. Die had repeated to him, perhaps 
 once too often, a very well-known motto of his ; one by the aid 
 of which he professed to have steered himself safely through the 
 shoals of life — himself and perhaps some others. It was a motto • 
 which he would have loved to see inscribed over the great gates 
 of the noble inn to which he belonged : and which, indeed, a few 
 years since might have been inscribed there with much justice. 
 JJlfestina lente,' Mr. Die would say to all those who came to him 
 in any sort of hurry. And then when men accused him of being 
 dilatory by premeditation, he would say no, he had always recom- 
 mended despatch. ' Pestina,' he would say ; ' festina ' by all 
 means; but 'festina lente.' The doctrine had at any late 
 thriven with the teacher, for Mr. Die had amassed a large foituiae. 
 Herbert at once saw that Mr. Prendergast was a little fluttered. 
 Judging from what he had seen of the lawyer in Ireland, he 
 would have said that it was impossible to flutter Mr. Prender. 
 gast; but in truth greatness is great only till it encounters 
 greater greatness. Mars and Apollo are terrible and magnificent 
 gods till one is enabled to see them seated at the foot of Jove's 
 great- throne. That ApoHo, Mr. Prendergast, though greatly 
 in favour with the old Chancery Jupiter, had now been reminded 
 that he had also on this occasion driven his team too fast, and 
 been nearly as indiscreet in his own rash offering. 
 
 ' We are very sorry to keep you waiting here, Mr. Fitzgerald,' 
 said Mr, Die, giving his hand to the young man, without, how- 
 ever, rising from his chair ; ' especially sorry, seeing that it is your 
 first day in harness. But your friend Mr. Prendergast thinks it 
 as well that we should talk over together a piece of business 
 which does not seem as yet to be quite settled.' 
 Herbert of course declaored -that he had been in no hurry to go 
 
408 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 away ; ne was, lie said, quite ready to talk over anything ; but 
 to his 'mind at that moment nothing occurred more momentous 
 than the nature of the agreement between himself and BIr. Die» 
 There was an honorarium which it was presumed Mr. Die woiilj: 
 expect, and which Herbert Fitzgerald had ready for the occa-; 
 sion. 
 
 ' I hardly know how to describe what has taken place this 
 morning, since I saw ycu," said Mr. Prendergast, whose features' 
 told plainly that something more impori,^nt than the honorarinm- 
 was now on the tapis. 
 
 ' What has taken place ?' said Herbert, whose mind now flew 
 off to Castle Eichmond. 
 
 ' Gently, gently,' said Mr. Die ; ' in the whole course of my 
 legal experience, — and that now has been a very long ex- 
 perience, — ^I have never come across so, — so singular a familyd 
 history as this of yours, Mr. Fitzgerald. When our friend Mr; 
 Prendergast here, on his return from Ireland, first told me the 
 whole of it, I -wjas inclined to think that he had formed a right 
 and just decision — ' 
 
 ' There can be no doubt about that,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' Stop a moment, my dear sir ; wait half a moment — a just 
 decision, I say — regarding the evidence of the facts as con- 
 clusive. But I was not quite so certain that he might not have 
 been a little — premature perhaps may be too strong a word— a 
 little too assured in taking those facts as proved.' 
 
 ' But they were proved,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' I shall always maintain that there was ample grdtmd, to 
 induce me to recommend your poor father so to regard them,'' 
 said Mr. Prendergast, stoutly. ' You must remember that those 
 men would instantly have been at work on the other side ; indeed, 
 one of them did attempt it.' 
 
 ' Without any signal success, I believe,' said Mr. Die. 
 
 ' My father thought you were quite right, Mr. Prendergast,' 
 said Herbert, with a tear forming in his eye ; ' and though it 
 may be possible that the affair hurried him to his death, there 
 was no alternative but that he should know the whole.' At this 
 Mr. Prendergast seemed to wince as he sat in his chair. ' ' And 
 I am sure of this,' continued Herbert, ' that had he been left to 
 the yillanies of those two men, his last days would have been 
 much less comfortable than they were. My mother feels that.^ 
 quite as strongly as I do.' And then Mr. Prendergast looked as 
 though he were somewhat reassured. 
 
 ' ] t was a difficult crisis in which to act,' said Mr. Prendergast 
 ' and I can only say that I did so to the best of my poor judg' 
 ment.' 
 
THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OP COMMONS. 409 
 
 'It was a difiBoult crisis in whicli to act,' said Mr. Die, 
 ikssenting. 
 
 ' But why is all this brotight up now ?' asked Herbert. 
 
 ' Festina lente,' said Mr. Die ; ' lente, lente, lente ; always 
 lente. The more haste we make in trying to understand each 
 other, with the less speed shall we arrive at that object.' 
 
 ' What is it, Mr. Prendergast ?' again demanded Herbert, who 
 was now too greatly excited to care much for the Chancery 
 wisdom of the great barrister. ' Has anything new turned up 
 about — about those Molletts ?' 
 
 ' Yes, Herbert, something has turned up — ' 
 
 ' Eemember, Prendergast, that your evidence is again in- 
 complete.' 
 
 ' Upon my word, sir, I do not think it is : it would be 
 sufficient for any intellectual jury in a Common Law court, 
 said Mr. Prendergast, who sometimes, behind his back, gave to 
 Mr. Die the surname of Cunctator.. 
 
 ' But juries in Common Law courts are not always intelligent. 
 And you may be sure, Prendergast, that any gentleman taking 
 up the case on the other side would have as much to say for his 
 client as your counsel would have for yours. Eememloer, you 
 have not even been to Putney yet.' 
 
 ' Been to Putney !' said Herbert, who was becoming uneasy. 
 
 ' The onus probandi would lie with them,' said Mr. Prender- 
 gast. ' We take possession of that which is our own till it is 
 proved to belong to others.' 
 
 ' You have already abandoned the possession.' 
 
 ' No ; we have done nothing already : we have taken no legal 
 step ; when we believed — ' 
 
 ' Having bj' your own act put yourself in your present posi- 
 tion, 1 think you ought to be very careful before you take up 
 another.' 
 
 ' Certainly we ought to be careful. But I do maintain that 
 we may be too punctilious. As a matter of course I shall go to 
 Putney.' 
 
 ' To Putndy !' said Herbert Fitzgerald. 
 
 ' Yes, Herbert, and now if Mr. Die will permit, I will tell 
 you what has happened. On yesterday afternoon, before you 
 came to dine with me, I received that letter. J^o, that is from 
 your cousin, Owen Fitzgerald. You must see that also by-and- 
 by. It was this one, — from the younger Mollett, the man whom 
 you saw that day in your poor father's room.' 
 
 Herbert anxiously put out iiis hand for the letter, but he was 
 again interrupted by Mr. Die. ' I beg your pardon Mr. Fitzgerald, 
 for a moment. Prendergast, let me see that letter again, will 
 
410 > CASTLE EICHMOHD. 
 
 you ? And taking told of it," he proceeded to read it veiy care- 
 fully, still nursing his leg with his left hand, while he held the 
 letter with his right. 
 
 'What's it all about?' Baid Herbert, appealing to Prendeigast 
 almost in a whisper. 
 
 '. ' Lente, leatV lent^. ^J dear Mr. Fitzgerald,' said Mr. Die, 
 while his eyes were still intent upon the paper. ' If you will 
 take advantage of the experience of gray hairs, and bald heads,'— 
 his own was as bald all round as a big white stone — 'you -must 
 put up with some of the disadvantages of a momentary delay. 
 Suppose now, Prendergast, that he is acting in concert with 
 'those people in — what do you call the street?' 
 
 ' In Spinny Lane.' 
 
 ' Yes ; with his father and the two women there.' 
 
 ' What could they gain by that ?' 
 
 ' Share with him whatever he might be able to get out of 
 you.' 
 
 ' The man would never- accuse himself of bigamy for that. 
 Besides, you should have seen the women, Die.' 
 
 ' Seen the women ! Tsh — ^tsh — tsh ; I have seen enough of 
 them, young and old, to know that a clean apron and a humble- 
 -tone and a down-tui'ned eye don't always go with a true tongue 
 and an honest heart. Women are now the most successful 
 \ swindlers of the age! That profession at any rata is ,aflt. closed 
 against them.' - 
 
 ' You will not find these women to be swindlers ; at least! 
 think not.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but we want to be sure, Prendergast ;' and then Mr. 
 Die finishsd the letter, very leisurely, as Herbert thought. 
 
 When he had finished it, he folded it 'up and gave it back to 
 Mr. Prendergast. ' I don't think but what you've a strong 
 prinia facie case ; so strong that perhaps you are right to explain 
 the whole matter to our young friend here, who is so deeply con- 
 cerned in it. But at the same time I should caution him that 
 the matter is still enveloped in doubt.' 
 
 Herbert eagerly put out his hand for the letter. ' You may 
 , trust me with it,' said he : ' I am not of a sanguine temperament, 
 nor easily excited ; and you may be sure that I will not take it 
 for more than it is worth.' So saying, he at last got hold of the 
 letter, and managed to read it through much more quickly than 
 Mr. Die had done. As he did so he became very red in the face, 
 and too plainly showed that he had made a fa,lse boast in speak- 1 
 ing of the coolness of his temperampnt. Indeed, the stakes were 
 so high that it was difficult for a young man to be cool while he 
 was playing the game : he had made up his mind to lose, and to 
 
THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 411 
 
 that he had beeu reconciled ; but now again every pulse of his 
 heart and every nerve of his body was disturbed. 'Was ne'^'oi 
 "lis wife,' he said out loud when he got to that part of the letter. 
 ' His real wife living now in Spinny Lane I Do you believe that, 
 Mr. Prendergast ?' 
 
 ' Yes, 1 do,' said the attorney. 
 
 ' Lentfe, lente, lente,' said the barrister, quite oppressed by his 
 friend's unprofessional abruptness. 
 
 ' But I do believe it,' said Mr. Prendergast : ' you must 
 always understand, Herbert, that this new story may possibly 
 not be true — ' 
 
 ' Quite possible,' said Mr. Die, with something almost ap- 
 proaching to a slight laugh. 
 
 ' But the evidence is so strong,' continued the other, ' that I 
 do believe it heartilj'. I have been to that house, and seen the 
 man, old Mollett, and the woman whom I believe to be his wife, 
 and a daughter who lives with them. As far as raj poor judg- 
 ment goes,' and he made a bow of deference towards the bar- 
 rister, whose face, however, seemed to say that in his opinion 
 the judgment of his friend Mr. Prendergast did not always go 
 very far — ' As far as my poor judgment goes, the women are 
 honest and respectable. The man is as great a villain as there is 
 unhung — unless his son be a greater one ; but he is now so 
 driven into a corner, that the truth may be more serviceable to 
 him than a lie.' 
 
 'People of that sort are never driven into a corner,' said Mi. 
 Die ; ' they may sometimes be crushed to death.' 
 
 ' Well, I believe the matter is as I tell you. There at anj' 
 rate is MoUett's assurance that it is so. The woman has been 
 residing in the same place for years, and will come forward at 
 any time to prove that she was married to this man before he 
 ever saw — before he wont to Dorsetshire : she has her marriage 
 certificate ; and as far as I can learn there is no one able or wil- 
 ling to raise the question against you. Your cousin Owen cer- 
 tainly will not do so.' 
 
 ' It will hardly do to depend upon that,' said Mr. Die, with 
 another sneer. ' Twelve thousand a year is a great provocative 
 )o litigation.' 
 
 ' If he does we must fight him ; that's all. Of course steps 
 frill be taken at once to get together in the proper legal form all 
 5vidence of every description which may bear on the sttbject, so 
 that should the question ever be raised again, the whole maltei 
 may be in a nutshell.' 
 
 'You'll find it a nutshell very difficult to crack in iive-antl 
 twenty years' time,' said Mr. Die. 
 
 2 t> 
 
412 CASTLE KIOHMOND. 
 
 ' And what would you advise me to do ?' asked Herbert. 
 That after all was now the main question, and it was discussul 
 between them for a long time, till the shades of evening camo 
 upon thorn, and the dull dingy chambers became almost dark as 
 they sat there. Mr. Die at first conceived that it would be well 
 that Herbert should still stick to the law. What indeed could 
 be more conducive to salutary equanimity in the mind of a 
 young man so singularly circumstanced, than the study of 
 Blackstone, of Coke, and of Chitty? as long as he remained 
 there, at work in those chambers, amusing himself occasionally 
 with the eloquence of the neighbouring courts, there might be 
 reasonable hope that he would be able to keep his mind equally 
 poised, so that neither success nor failure, as regarded his Irish 
 inheritance, should affect him injuriously. Thus at least argued 
 Mr. Die. But at this point Herbert seemed to have views of his 
 own : he said that in the first place he must be with his mother ; 
 and then, in the next place, as it was now clear that he was not 
 to throw up Castle Eichmond — as it would not now behove him 
 to allow any one else to call himself master there — ^it would be 
 nis duty to reassume the place of master. ' The onus proband! 
 will now rest with them,' he said, repeating Mr. Prendergast's 
 words ; and then he was ultimately successful in persuading 
 even Mr. Die to agree that it would be better for him to go to 
 Ireland than to remain in Lond(m, sipping the delicious honey of 
 Chancery buttercups. 
 
 ' And you will assume the title, I suppose ?' said Mr. Die. 
 ' Not at any rate till I get to Castle Eichmond,' he said, blush- 
 ing. He had so completely abandoned all thought of being Sir 
 Herbert Titzgerald, that he had now almost felt a<shamed of saj-- 
 ing that he should so far presume as to call himself by that name. 
 • And then he and Mr. Prendergast went away and dined 
 together, leaving Mr. Die to complete his legal work for the day. 
 At this he would often sit till nine or ten, or even eleven in the 
 evening, without any apparent ill results from such effects, and 
 then go home to his dinner and port wine. He was alread}' 
 inearly seventy, and work seemed to have no eifect on him. In 
 'what Medea's caldron is it that the great lawyers so cook them- 
 'jselves, that they are able to achieve half an immortality, even 
 ] while the body still clings to the soul? Mr. Die, though he 
 would talk of his bald head, had no idea of giving way to time. 
 ' Superannuated ! The men who think of superannuation at sixty 
 i are those whose lives have been idle, not they who have really 
 ■ buckled themselves to work. It is my opinion that nothing 
 seasons the mind for endurance like hard work. Port wine 
 ', should perhaps be addev'i. 
 
THE LOBBY OP THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 413 
 
 It was not till Herbert ouce more found himself alone that he 
 fully realized this new change in his position. He had dined 
 with Mr. Prendergast at that gentleman's club, and had been 
 specially called upon to enjoy himself, drinking as it were to his 
 own restoration in large glasses of some special claret, which Mr. 
 Prendergast assured him was very extraordinary. 
 
 'You may be as satisfied as that you are sitting there that 
 that's 34,' said he ; ' and I hardly know anywhere else that you'll 
 get it.' * 
 
 This assertion Herbert was not in the least inclined to dispute. 
 In the first place, he was not quite clear what 34 meant, and 
 than any other number, 32 or 36, would have suited his palate as 
 well. But he drank the 34, and tried to look as though he ap 
 preciated it. 
 
 ' Our wines here are wonderfully cheap,' said Mr. Prender- 
 gast, becoming confidential ; ' but nevertheless we have raised 
 the price of that to twelve shillings. ^Ve'll have another 
 bottle.' 
 
 During all this Herbert could hardly think of his own fate 
 and fortune, though, indeed, he could hardly think of anything 
 else. He was eager to be alone, that he might think, and was 
 nearly broken-hearted when the second bottle of 34 made its 
 appearance. Something, however, was arranged in those inter- 
 calary moments between the raising of the glasses. Mr. Pren- 
 dergast said that he would write both to Owen Fitzgerald and 
 to Mr. Somers ; and it was agreed that Herbert should imme- 
 diately return to Castle Eichmond, merely giving his mother 
 time to have notice of his coming. 
 
 And then at last he got away, and started by himself for a 
 night walk through the streets of London. It seemed to him 
 now to be a month since he had arrived there ; but in truth i* 
 was only (. a the yesterday that he had got out of the train at 
 the Euston Station. He had come up, looking forward to live in 
 London all his life, and now his London life was over, — unless, 
 indeed, those other hopes should come back to him, unless he 
 should appear again, not as a student in Mr. Die's chamber, but 
 as one of the council of the legislature assembled to make laws 
 for the governance of Mr. Die and of others. It was singular 
 how greatly this episode in his life had humbled him. in his own 
 esteem. Six months ago he had thought himself almost too good 
 for Castle Eichmond, and had regarded a seat in Parliament aa 
 the only place which he could fitly fill without violation to his 
 nature. But now he felt as though he should hardly dare to 
 show himself within the walls of that assembly. He had been 
 80 knocked about by circumstances, so rudely toppled from his 
 
414 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 high place, — he had found it necessary to pat himself so coin 
 l)letely into the hands of other people, that his self-pride had all 
 left him. That it would in fact return might be held as cei-tain, 
 but the lessoa which he had learned would not altogether be 
 thrown away upon him. 
 
 At this moment, as I was saying, he felt himself to be com- 
 pletely humbled. A lie spoken by one of the meanest of God's 
 creatures had turned him away from all his pursuits, and broken 
 all his hopes; and now another word from this man was to 
 restore him, — if only that other word should not appear to be 
 the greater lie ! and then that there should be such question as 
 to his mother's name and fame — as to the very name by which 
 she should now be called ! that it should depend on the amount 
 of infamy of which that wretch had been guilty, whether or no 
 the woman whom in the world he most honoured was entitled to 
 any share of respect from the world around her! That she 
 • was entitled to the respect of all good men, let the truth in 
 , these matters be where it might, Herbert knew, and all who 
 I heard the story would acknowledge. But respect is of two sorts, 
 ;and the outer respect of the world cannot be parted with con- 
 veniently. 
 
 He did acknowledge himself to be a humbled man, — more 
 so than he had ever yet done, or had been like to do, while 
 conscious of the loss which had fallen on him. It was at this 
 moment when he began to perceive that his fortune would 
 I return to him, when he became aware that he was knocked 
 about like a shuttlecock from a battledore, that his pride came 
 I by its first fall. MoUett was in truth the great man, — the 
 Warwick who was to make and unmake the kings of Castle 
 Eiohmond. A month ago, and it had pleased Earl MoUett to 
 Bay that Owen Fitzgerald should reign ; but there had been a 
 turn upon the cards, and now he. King Herbert, was to be again 
 installed. 
 
 He walked down all alone through St. James's Street, and by 
 Pall Mall and Charing Cross, feeling rather than thinking of all 
 this. Those doubts of Mr. Die did not trouble him much. He 
 fully believed that he should regain his title and property ; or 
 rather that he should never lose them. But he thought that he 
 could never show himself about the country again as he had 
 done before all this was known. In spite of Jais good fortune he 
 was sad at heart, little conscious of tlie good that all this would 
 do him. 
 
 He went on by the Horse Guards and Treasury Chambers into 
 j Parliament Street, and so up to the new Houses of Parliament, 
 i and sauntered into Westminster Hall ; and there, at the piivi 
 
THE LOBBY OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 415 
 
 leged door between the lamps on his left hand, he saw busy men 
 going in and ont, some slow and dignified, others hot, hasty, and I 
 anxious, and he felt as though the regions to and from which they i 
 passed must be far out of his reach. Could he aspire to pass 
 those august lamp-posts, he whose very name depended on what '. 
 in truth might have been the earlj' doings of a low scoundrel 
 who was now skulking from the law ? 
 
 And then he went on, and mounting by the public stairs and 
 anterooms found his way to the lobby of the house. There he 
 stood with his back to the ginger-beer stall, moody and melan- 
 choly, looking on as men in the crowd pushed forward to speak 
 to members whom they knew ; or, as it sometimes appeared, to 
 members whom they did not know. There was somewhat of 
 interest going on in the house, for the throng was thick, and 
 ordinary men sometimes jostled themselves on into the middle of 
 the hall — with impious steps ; for on those centre stones none 
 but legislators should presume to stand. 
 
 ' Stand back, gentlemen, stand back ; back a little, if you 
 please, sir,' said a very courteous but peremptory policeman, so 
 moving the throng that Herbert, who had been behind, in no 
 way anxious for a forward place, or for distinguishing nods 
 from passing members, found himself suddenly in the front rank, 
 in the immediate neighbourhood of a cluster of young senators 
 who were cooling themselves in the lobby after the ardour of 
 the debate. 
 
 ' It was as pretty a thing as ever I saw in my life,' said one, 
 ' and beautifully ridden.' Surely it must have been the Spring 
 Meeting and not the debate that they were discussing. 
 
 ' I don't know much about that,' said another, and the voice 
 sounded on Herbert's ears as it might almost be the voice of a 
 brother. ' I know I lost the odds. But I'll have a bottle of 
 soda-water. Hallo, Fitzgerald ! Why — ;' and then the young 
 member stopped himself, for Herbert Fitzgerald's story was rife 
 about London at this time. 
 
 ' How do you do, Moulsey ?' said Herbert, very glumly, for 
 he did not at all like being recognized. This was Lord Moulsey, 
 the eldest son of the Earl of Hampton Court, who was now 
 member for the Eiver Eegions, and had been one of Herbert's 
 most intimate friends at Oxford. 
 
 ' I did not exactly expect to see you here,' said Lord Moulsey, 
 drawing him apart. ' And upon my soul I was never so cut up 
 in my life as when I heard all that. Is it true ?' 
 
 'True! why no; — it was true, but I don't think it is. That 
 is to say — upon my word I don't know. It's all unsettled--- 
 Qood evening to you,' And again nodding his head at hip iJd 
 
416 CASTLE EIOIIMONP. 
 
 friend iu a very sombre maimer, lie skulked off and made hia 
 way out of Westminster Hall. 
 
 'Do you know who that was?' said Lord Moulsey going 
 back to his ally. ' That was young Fitzgerald, the poor fellow 
 who has been done out of his title and all his property. You 
 have heard about his mother, haven't you ?' 
 
 'Was that young Fitzgerald?' said the other senator, appa- 
 rently more interested in this subject than he had even been 
 about the pretty riding. 'I wish I'd looked at him. Poor 
 fellow ! How does he bear it ?' 
 
 ' Upon my word then, I never saw a fellow so changed in my 
 life. He and I were like brothers, but he would hardly speak 
 to me. Perhaps I ought to have written to him. But he says 
 it's not settled.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's all gammon. It's settled enough. Why they've 
 given up the place. I heard all about it the other day from 
 Sullivan O'Leary. They are not even making any fight 
 Sullivan O'Leary says they are the greatest fools in the world.' 
 
 ' Upon my word I think young Fitzgerald was mad just now. 
 His manner was so very odd.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't wonder. I know I should go mad if my mother 
 turned out to be somebody else's wife.' And then they both 
 sauntered ■ away. 
 
 Herbert was doubly angry with himself as he made his way 
 down into the noble old haU, — angry that he had gone where 
 there was a possibility of his being recognized, and angry also thai 
 he had behaved himself with so little presence of mind when he 
 was recognized. He felt that he had been taken aback, that he 
 had been beside himself, and unable to maintain his own dignity ; 
 he had run away from his old intimate friend because he Lad 
 been unable to bear being looked on as the hero of a family 
 tragedy. ' He would go back to Ireland,' he said to himself, 
 ' and he would never leave it again. Perhaps he might teach 
 himself there to endure the eyes and voices of men around him. 
 Nothing at any rate should induce him to come again to Lon- 
 don.' And so he went home to bed in a mood by no means so 
 happy as might have been expected from the result of the day's 
 doings. And yet he had been cheerful enough when he wrri 
 to Mr. Die's chambers in the morning. 
 
417 
 
 CHAPTEE XLIL 
 
 ANOTITER JOURNEY. 
 
 On ilie following day he did go back to Ireland, stopping a night 
 in Dublin on the road, so that his mother might receive his 
 letter, and that his cousin and Somers might receive those 
 written by Mr. Prendergast. He spent one night in Dublin, 
 and then went on, so that he might arrive at Castle Eiohmond 
 after dark. In his present mood he dreaded to be seen return- 
 ing, even bj' his own people about the place. 
 
 At Buttevant he was met by his own car and by Eichard, as 
 he had desired ; but he found that he was utterly frustrated as 
 to that method of seating himself in his vehicle which he had 
 premised to himself. He was still glum and gloomy enough 
 whsn the coach stopped, for he had been all alone, thinking 
 over many things — thinking of his father's death and his 
 mother's early life — of all that he had suffered and might yet 
 have to suffer, and above all things dreading the consciousness 
 that men were talking of him and staring at him. In this 
 mood he was preparing to leave the coach when he found him- 
 self approaching near to that Buttevant stage ; but he had mors 
 to go through at present than he expected. 
 
 ' There's his honour — Hurrah ! God bless his sweet face that's 
 come among us agin this day ! Hurrah for Sir Herbert, boys ! 
 hurrah I The rail ould Fitzgerald '11 be back agin among us, 
 glory be to God and the Blessed Virgin ! Hurrah foi- Sir 
 Herbert !' and flien there was a shout that seemed to be re- 
 peated all down the street of Buttevant. 
 
 But that was nothing to what was coming. Herbert, when 
 he first heard this, r?ti;oatocl fc^r a mnment back into the coach. 
 But there was little use in that. It was necessary that he 
 should descend, and had he not done so he would have been 
 dragged out. He put his foot on the steps, and then found 
 himself seized in the arms of a man outside, and pressed and 
 embraced as though he had been a baby. 
 
 'Ugh, ugh, ugh!' exclaimed a A'oice, the owner of which 
 intended to send forth notes of joy ; but so overcome was he by 
 the intensity of his own feelings that he was in nowise able to 
 moderate his voice either for joy or sorrow. ' Ugh, ugh, ugh ! 
 Eh' Sir Herbert! birt it's I that am proud to see yer honour 
 
418 CASTLE RICHMOND 
 
 tills day,~wjd yer onwn name, wid yer ouwn name. Glory be 
 to God; oh dear! oil dear! And I knew the Lord 'd nivet 
 forgit us that way, and let the waiid go intirely wrong like that. 
 For av you we];en't the masther. Sir Herbert, as you are, the 
 Lord presarve you to us, divil a masthor 'd iver be able to hould 
 a loot in Castle Eichmond, and that's God's ouwn thruth.' 
 
 ' And that's thme for you, Eichard,' said another, whom 
 Herbert in the confusion could not recognize, though his voice 
 was familiar to him. ' 'Deed and the boys had it all made out. 
 But what matthers now Sir Herbert's back ?' 
 
 ' And God bless the day and the hour that he came to us !' 
 And then leaving his master's arm and coal to which he had stUl 
 stuck, he began to busy himself loudly about the travelling gear. 
 ' Coachman, where's Sir Herbert's portmantel ? Yes ; that's Sir 
 Herbert's hat-box. 'Deed, an' I ought to know it well. And the 
 black bag ; yes, that'll be Sir Herbert's, to be sure,' and so on. 
 
 Nor was this all. The name seemed to run like wildfire 
 through all the Buttevantians there assembled ; and no sound 
 Beomed to reach our hero's name but that of Sir Herbert, Sir 
 Herbert. Everybody took hold of him, and kissed his hand, 
 . nd pulled his skirts, and stroked his face. His hat was knocked 
 off, and put on again amid thousands of blessings. It was nearly 
 dark, and his eyes were dazed by the coach lanterns which were 
 earned about, so that he could hardly see his friends ; but the 
 one sound which was dinned into his ears was that of Sir Her- 
 bert, Sir Herbert. 
 
 Had he thought about it when starting from Dublin early that 
 morning he would have said that it would have killed him to 
 nave heard himself so greeted in the public street, but as it was 
 he found that he got over it very easily. Before he was well 
 seated on his car it may be questioned whether he was not so 
 used to his name, that he would have been startled to hear him- 
 self designated as Mr. Fitzgerald. For half a minute he had 
 been wretched, and had felt a disgust at poor Eichard which he 
 thought at the moment would be insuperable; but when he was 
 on the car, and the poor fellow came round to tuck the apron in 
 under his feet, he could not help giving him his hand, and fra 
 ternizing with him. 
 
 ' And how is my mothei, Eichard ?' 
 
 ' ' Deed then, Sir Herbert, me lady is surprising — very quiet- 
 like ; but her leddyship was always that, and as swee t to fliem 
 as comes nigh her as flowers in May; but sure that's nath'U'al tc 
 her leddyship.' 
 
 ' And, Eichard — ' 
 
 ' Yos, Sir HerbpTt-' 
 
ANOTHER JOURNEY. 419 
 
 ' Was Mr. Owen over at Castle Eichmond since I left ?' 
 ' Sorrow a foot, Sir Herbert. Nor no one ain't heard on him, 
 nor seen him. And I will say this on him — ' 
 'Don't say anything against him, Eichard.' 
 'No, snrely not, seeing he is yer honour's far-away cousin, 
 Sir Herbert. But what I war going to say waru't agin Mr. 
 Owen at all, at all. For they do say that cart-ropes wouldn't 
 have dragged him to Castle Eichmond ; and that only yer 
 honour has come back to yer own, — and why not? — there 
 wouldn't have been any masther in Castle Eichmond at all, at 
 all. That's what they do say.' 
 
 ' There's no knowing how it will go yet, Eichard.' 
 ' 'Deed, an' I know how it '11 go very well. Sir Herbert, and 
 so does Mr. Somers, God bless him ! 'Twas only this morning 
 he tould me. An', faix, it's he has the right to be glad.' 
 ' He is a very old friend.' 
 
 ' So is we all ould f rinds, an' we're all glad — out of our skins 
 wid gladness. Sir Herbert. 'Deed an' I thought the eend of the 
 warld had come when I heerd it, for my head went round and 
 round and round as I stood in the stable, and only for the fork I 
 had a hould of, I'd have been down among the crathur's legs.' 
 
 And then it struck Herbert that as they were going on he 
 heard the footsteps of some one running after the car, always at 
 an equal distance behind them. ' Who's that rimning, Eichard ?' 
 ' Sure an' that's just Larry Carson, yer honour's own boy, 
 that minds yer honour's own nag, Sir Herbert. But, faix, I 
 suppose ye'll be having a dozen of 'em now.' 
 ' Stop and take him up ; you've room there.' 
 ' Eoom enough. Sir Herbert an' yer honour's so good. Here, 
 Larry, yer born fool, Sir Herbert, says ye're to get up. He would 
 come over, Sir Herbert, just to say he'd been the first to see your 
 honour.' 
 
 ' God — bless — yer honour — Sir Herbert,' exclaimed the poor 
 fellow, out of breath, as he took his seat. It was his voice that 
 Sir Herbert had recognized among the crowd, angry enougli at 
 that moment. But in future days it was remembered in Larr}' 
 Carson's favour, that he had come over to Castle Eichmond to 
 see his master, contented to run the whole road back to Castle 
 Eichmond behind the car. A better fate, however, was his, for 
 he made one in the triumphal entry up the avenue. 
 
 When they got to the lodge it was quite dark — so dark that 
 even Eichard, who was experienced in night-driving, declared 
 that a cat. could not see. .However, they turned in at the great 
 gates without any accident, the accustomed woman coming out 
 to open theru. 
 
120 CASTLE ElOiMOND. 
 
 ' An' is his konour there thin ?' said the woman ; ' and may 
 God hless you, Sir Herbert, and ye'ro welcome hack to yer 
 own ; so ye are !' 
 
 And then a warm large hand was laid npon his leg, and a 
 warm Yoice sounded greeting in his ear. ' Herbert, my boy. 
 how are you? This is well, is it not?' It was Mr. Somers, who 
 had been waiting there for him at the lodge gate. 
 
 Upon the whole he could not but acknowledge to himself that 
 it was well. Mr. Somers got up beside him on the car, so that 
 by this time it was well laden. ' And how does my mother take 
 it ?' Herbert asked. 
 
 ' Very quietly. Your Aunt Letty told me that she had spent 
 most of her time in prayer since she heard it. But Miss Letty 
 seems to think that on your account she is very full of joy.' 
 
 ' And the girls T 
 
 ' Oh ! the girls — what girls ? Well, they must answer for 
 themselves ; I left them about half an hour ago, and now yon 
 hear their voices in the porch.' 
 
 He did hear the voices in the porch plainly, though he could 
 not distinguish them, as the horse's feet and the car wheels rattled 
 over the gravel. But as the car stopped at the door with somewhat 
 of a crash, he heard Emmeline say, ' There's Herbert,' and then 
 as he got down they all retreated in among the lights in the 
 hall. 
 
 ' God bless your honour, Sir Herbert. An' it's you that are 
 welcome back this blessed night to Castle Eichmond.' Such 
 and such like were the greetings which met him from twenty 
 diiferent voices as he essayed to enter the house. Every ser- 
 vant and groom about the place was there, and some few of the 
 nearest tenants, — of those who had lived near enough to hear 
 the glad tidings since the morning. A dozen, at any rate, took 
 his hands as he strove to make his way through them ; and 
 though he was never quite sure about it, he believed that one or 
 two had kissed him in the dark. At last he found himself in 
 the hall, and even then the first person who got hold of him 
 was Mrs. Jones. 
 
 ' And so you've come back to us after all, Mr. Herbert— Sir 
 Herbert I should say, begging your pardon, sir; and it's all 
 right about my lady. I never thought to be so happy again, 
 never — never — never.' And then she retreated with her apron 
 up to her eyes, leaving him in the arms of Aunt Letty. 
 
 ' The Lord giveth, and the Jiord taketh away. Blessed be the 
 name of the Lord. Oh ! Herbert, my darling boy. I hope this 
 maj' be a lesson and a warning to you, so that you may flee from 
 the wrath to come.' Aunt Jmity,- — had time been allowed to 
 
ANOTHER JOUKNEY. Vl'd 
 
 rejoiced for her children greatly, thanking God that she had 
 not entailed on them an existence without a name. But foi 
 herself, as she now told Herbert, outside life was all over. Her 
 children and the poor she might still have with her, but beyondj 
 nothing in this world ; — to them would be confined all her wishes 
 on this side the grave. 
 
 But nevertheless she could be warm in her greetings to her 
 son. She could understand that though she were dead to the 
 world he need not be so, — nor indeed ought to be so. Things 
 that were now all ending with her were but beginning with 
 him. She had no feeling that taught her to think tbat it was 
 bad for him to be a man of rank and fortune, the head of his 
 family, and the privileged one of his race. It had been perhaps 
 "aer greatest misery that she, by her doing, had placed him in 
 he terrible position which he had lately been called upon to fill. 
 
 ' Dearest mother, it did not make me unhappy,' he ,said, 
 caressing her. 
 
 ' Yen bore it like a man, Herbert, as I shall ever remon.ber. 
 But it did make me unhappy, — more unhappy than it tiiiould 
 have done, when we remember how very short is our time here 
 below.' 
 
 He remained with his mother for more than an hour, and 
 then returned to the drawing-room, where the girls were 
 waiting for him with the tea-things arranged before them. 
 
 ' I was very nearly coming up to fetch you,' said Marj% ' onl^' 
 that we knew how much mamma must have to say to j'ou.' 
 
 ' We dined early because we are all so upset,' said Emmeline ; 
 ' and Clara must be dying for her tea.' 
 
 ' And why should Clara die for tea any more than any one else f ' 
 asked Lady Clara herself. 
 
 I will not venture to say what hour it was before they sepa- 
 rated for bed. They sat there with their feet over the fender, 
 talking about things gone and things coming, — and there were 
 so many of such things for them to discuss ! Even yet, as one of 
 the girls remarked. Lady Desmond had not heard of the last 
 change, or if she had so heard, had had no time to communicate 
 with her daughter upon the subject. 
 
 And then Owen was spoken of with the warmest praise' by 
 lliem all, and Clara explained openly what had been the full 
 ■enor of his intended conduct. 
 
 ' That would have been impossible,' said Herbert. 
 
 'But it was not the less noble in him, was it?' said Clara, 
 eagerly. But she did not tell how Owen Fitzgerald had prayed 
 thiither love might be given back to him, as his reward for 
 what he wished to do on behalf of his cousin. Now, at least, ai 
 
424 3ASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 Ms moment it was not told ; yet the day did come when all 
 hat was described, — a day when Owen in his absence ■was 
 regarded by them both among the dearest of their friends. 
 
 But even on that night Clara resolved that he should have 
 some meed of praise. ' Has he not been noble ?' she said, appeal- 
 ing to him who was to be her husband ; ' has he not been verj 
 noble ?' 
 
 Herbert, too happy to be jealous, acknowledged that it was so. 
 
 OHAPTEEXLIII. \ 
 
 PLAYING KOUNDEES. 
 
 IMv story is nearly at its close, and all readers will now know 
 -iuw it is to end. Those difficulties raised by Mr. Die were all 
 made^to- vunish ; and though he implored Mr. Prendergast over 
 and over again to go about this business with a moderated eager- 
 ness, that gentleman would not consent to let any grass grow 
 under his heels till he had made assurance doubly sure, and had 
 seen Herbert Fitzgerald firmly seated on his throne. All that 
 the women in Spinny Lane had told him was quite true. The 
 register was found in the archives of the parish of Putney, and 
 Mr. Prendergast was able to prove that Mr. Matthew Mollett, 
 now of Spinny Lane, and the Mr. Matthew Mollett then desig- 
 nated as of Newmarket in Cambridgeshire, were one and the 
 same person ; therefore Mr. MoUett's marriage with Miss Wain- 
 wright was no marriage, and therefore, also, the marriage be- 
 tween Sir Thomas Fitzgerald and that lady was a true marriage ; 
 all whicb. things will now be plain to any novel-reading capacity, 
 mean as such capacity may be in respect to legal law. 
 
 And I have only further to tell in respect to this part of my 
 story, that the Molletts, both father and son, escaped all punish- 
 ment fur the frauds and vin:(niei; voliifcnd in these pages — except 
 such punishment as these irauds and villanies, acting by their 
 own innate destructive forces and poisons, brought down upon 
 their unfortunate heads. For so allowing them to escape I shalT 
 be held by many to have been deficient in sound teaching.] 
 ' What !' men wUl say, ' not punish your evil principle ! Allow 
 the prevailing evil genius of your book to escape scot free, with- ) 
 out administering any of that condign punishment which it would 
 have been so easy for you to allot to them ! Had vou not tread- 
 mills to your hand, and all manner of new prison disciplines? 
 Should not Matthew have i-epented in the sackcloth of soliiary 
 ' confinement, and Aby have munched and crunched between his 
 
PLAYING ROUNDERS. 425 
 
 teeth the bitter ashes of prison bread and water ? Nay, for such 
 offences as those did you wot of no penal settlements ? Weie 
 not Portland and Spike Islands gaping for them ? Had you no 
 memory of Dartmoor and the Bermudas ?' 
 
 Gentle readers, no ; not in this instance shall Spike Island or 
 the Bermudas be asked to give us their assistance. There is a 
 sackcloth harsher to the skin than that of the penal settlement, i 
 and ashes more bitter in the crunching than convict rations. It 
 would be sad indeed if we thought that those rascals who escape 
 the law escape also the just reward of their rascality. May it 
 not rather be believed that the whole life of the professional 
 rascal is one long wretched punishment, to which, if he could 
 but know it, the rations and compaiative innocence of Bermuda 
 would be so preferable ? Is he not always rolling the ston&of 
 Sisyphus, gyrating on the wheel of Ixion, hankering after the 
 waters of Tantalus, filling the sieves of the daughters of Danaiis? 
 He pours into his sieve stolen corn beyond measure, but no grain 
 will stay there. He lifts to his lips rich cups, but Ehadamanthus 
 the policeman allows him no moment for a draught. The wheel 
 of justice is ever going, while his poor hanging head is in a 
 wlurl. The stone which he rolls never perches for a moment at 
 the top of the hill, for the trade which he follows admits of 
 no rest. Have I not said truly that he is hunted like a fox, 
 driven from covert to covert with his poor empty craving belly ? 
 prowling about through the wet night, he returns with his prey, 
 and finds that he is shut out from his lair ; his bloodshot eye is 
 ever over his shoulder, and his advanced foot is ever ready for a 
 start ; he stinks in the nostrils of the hounds of the law, and is 
 held by all men to be vermin. 
 
 One would say that the rascal, if he but knew the truth, would 
 look forward to Spike Island and the Bermudas with impatience 
 and raptures. The cold, hungry, friendless, solitary doom of un- ] 
 convicted rascaldom has ever seemed to me to be the most wretched ' 
 phase of human existence, — that phase of living in which the : 
 liver can trust no one, and be trusted by none ; in which the \ 
 heart is ever quailing at the policeman's hat, and the eye ever 
 shrinking from the policeman's gaze. The convict does trust his 
 gaoler, at any rate his master gaoler, and in so doing is not all 
 wretched. It is Bill Sikes before conviction that I have ever I 
 pitied. Any man can endure to be hanged ; but how can any 
 man have taken that Bill Sikes' walk and have lived through it.? 
 
 To such punishments will we leave tlie Molletts, hoping of 
 the elder one, that under the care of those ministering angels in 
 Spinny Lane, his heart may yet be softened ; hoping also for the 
 younger one that some ministering angel may V>e appointed also 
 
426 CASTLE KICHMOND. 
 
 for his aia. 'Tis a grievous piece of work thongli, that of a 
 ministering angel to such a soul as his. And now, having seen 
 them so far on their mortal career, we will take our leave of both 
 of them. 
 
 Mr. Prendergast's object in sparing them was of course that of 
 saving Lady Fitzgerald from the terrible pain of having her 
 name brought forward at any trial. She never spoke of this, 
 even to Herbert, allowing those in whom she trusted to manage 
 those things for her without an expression of anxiety on her own 
 part; but she was not the less thankful when she found that no 
 public notice was to be taken of the matter. 
 
 Very shortly after Herbert's return to Castle Eiohmond, it 
 was notified to him that he need have no fear as to his inherit- 
 ance ; and it was so notified with the great additional comfort of 
 an assuring opinion from Mr. Die. He then openly called him- 
 self Sir Herbert, took upon himself the property which became 
 his by right of the entail, and issued orders for the preparation 
 of his marriage settlement. During this period he saw Owen 
 Fitzgerald ; but he did so in the presence of Mr. Somers, 
 and not a word was then said about Lady Clara Desmond. 
 Both the gentlemen, Herbert and Mr. Somers, cordially thanked 
 the master of Hap House for the w^ay in which he had behaved 
 to the Castle Eichmond family, and in reference to the Castle 
 Eichmond property during the terrible events of the last two 
 months ; but Owen took their thanks somewhat haughtily. He 
 shook hands warmly enough with his cousin, wishing him joy 
 on the aiTangement of his affairs, and was at first less distant 
 than usual with Mr. Somers ; feut when they alluded to his own 
 conduct, and expressed their gratitude, he declared that he had 
 done nothing for which thanks were due, and that he beg^ted it 
 to be understood that he laid claim to no gratitude. Had he 
 acted otherwise, he said, he would have deserved to be kicked 
 out of the presence of all honest men ; and to be thanked for the 
 ordinary conduct of a gentleman was almost an insult. This he 
 said looking chiefly at Jlr. Somers, ioid then turning to his 
 cousin, he asked him if he intended to remain in the countrj'. 
 
 ' Oh, certainty,' said Herbert. 
 
 ' I shall not,' said Owen ; ' and if you know any one who will 
 take a lease of Hap House for ten or twelve j-ears, I shall be glad 
 to find a tenant.' 
 
 ' And you, where are you going ?' 
 / ' To Africa in the first instance,' said he; 'there seems to he 
 ' some good hunting there, and I think that I shall try it.' 
 
 The new tidings were not long in reaching Desmond Court, and 
 the coimtess was all alone when she first heard them. With very 
 
PLAYING liOUNDEES. 427 
 
 great difficulty, taking as it were the bit between her teeth, CJlara 
 had managed to get over to Castle Eichmond that she might pay 
 a last visit to the Fitzgerald girls. At this time Lady Desmond's 
 mind was in a terribly distracted state. The rumour was rife 
 aboTit the country that Owen had refused to accept the property ; 
 and the countess herself had of course been made aware that he 
 had so refused. But she was too keenly awake to the affairs of 
 the world to suppose that such a refusal could continue long in 
 force ; neither, as she knew well, could Herbert accept of that 
 which was offered to him. It might be that for some years to 
 come the property might be unenjoyed ; the rich fruit might fall 
 rotten from the wall ; but what would that avail to her or to her 
 child ? Herbert would still be a nameless man, and could never 
 be master of Castle Eichmond. 
 
 Nevertheless Clara can-ied her point, and went over to her 
 friends, leaving the countess all alone. She had now permitted 
 her son to return to Eton, finding that he was powerless to 
 aid her. The young earl was quite willing that his sister should 
 marry Owen Fitzgerald; but he was not willing to use any 
 power of persuasion that he might have, in what his mother con 
 sidered a useful or legitimate manner. He talked of rewarding 
 Owen for his generosity ; but Clara would have nothing to do 
 either with the generosity or with the reward. And so Lady 
 Desmond was left alone, hearing that even Owen, Owen himself, 
 had now given up the quest, and feeling that it was useless to 
 have any further hope. ' She will make her own bed,' the 
 countess said to herself, ' and she must lie on it.' 
 
 And then came this rumour that after all Herbert was to be 
 the man. It first reached her ears about the same time that 
 Herbert arrived at his own house; but it did so in such a 
 manner as to make but little impression at the moment. Lady 
 Desmond had but few gossips, and in a general way heard but 
 little of what was doing in the country. On this occasion the 
 Caleb Balderston of her house came in, making stately bows to 
 his mistress, and with low voice, and eyes wide open, told her 
 what a gossoon running over from Castle Eichmond had reported 
 in the kitchen of Desmond Court. ' At any rate, my lady, Mr. 
 Herbert is expected this evening at the house ;' and then Caleb 
 Balderston, bowing stately again, left the room. This did not 
 make much impression, but it made some. 
 
 And then on the following day Clara wrote to her; this she 
 did after deep consideration and much consultation with her 
 friends. It would be unkind, they argue^l, to leave Lady Des- 
 mond in ignorance on such a subject ; and therefore a note was 
 urri+toTi iTArir (ma.rdedlv. the ioint TDroduction of the three, in 
 
428 CASTLE ItlCHMOND. 
 
 which, with the expression of many doubts, it was told thai 
 perhaps after all Herbert might yet be the man. But even then 
 he countess did not believe it. 
 
 But during the next week the rumour became a fact through 
 the country, and everybody knew, even the Countess of Des- 
 mond, that all that family history was again changed. Lady 
 Fitzgerald, whom they had all known, was Lady Fitzgerald stiU, 
 and Herbert was once more on his throne. When rumours 
 thus became a fact, there was no longer any doubt about the 
 matter. The country-side did not say that, ' perhaps after all 
 so and so would go in such and such a way,' or that ' legal 
 doubts having been entertained, the gentlemen of the long robe 
 were about to do this and that.' By the end of the first week, 
 the affair was as surely settled in county Cork as though the 
 line of the Fitzgeralds had never been disturbed ; and Sir Her ■ 
 bert was fully seated on his throne. 
 
 It was well then for poor Owen that he had never assumed 
 the regalia of royalty : had he done so his fall would have been 
 very dreadful ; as it was, not only were all those pangs spared 
 to him, but he achieved at once an immense popularity through 
 the whole country. Everybody called him poor Owen, and 
 declared how well he had behaved. Some expressed almost a 
 regret that his generosity should go unrewarded, and others 
 went so far as to give him his reward: he W£is to maiTj 
 Emmeline Fitzgerald, they said at the clubs in Cork, and a 
 considerable slice of the property was destined to give addi- 
 tional charms to the young lady's hand and heart. For a month 
 or so Owen Fitzgerald was the most popular man in the 
 south of Ireland ; that is, as far as a man can be popular who 
 never shows himself. 
 
 And the countess had to answer her daughter's letter. ' If 
 this be so,' she said, ' of course 1 shall be well pleased. My 
 anxiety has been only for your welfare, to further which I have 
 been willing to make any possible sacrifice.' Clara when she 
 read this did not know what sacrifice had been made, nor had 
 the countess thought as she wrote the words what had been the 
 sacrifice to which she had thus alluded, though her heart was 
 ever conscious of it, unconsciously. And the countess sent her 
 love to them all at Castle Eichmond. ' She did not fear,' she 
 said, ' that they would misinterpret her. Lady Fitzgerald, she 
 was sure, would perfectlj^ understand that she had endeavoured 
 to do her duty by her child.' It was by no means a bad letter, 
 and, which was better, was in the main a true letter. According 
 to her light she had striven to do her duty, and her conduct was 
 not misjudged, at any rate at Castle Eichmond. 
 
PLAYING EOUNDEES. 429 
 
 'You must not think harshly of mamma,' said Clara to hex 
 future mother-in-law. 
 
 ' Oh no,' said Lady Fitzgerald. ' I certainly do not think 
 harshly of her. In her position I should probably have acted as , 
 she has done.' The difference, however, between them was this, '• 
 that it was all but impossible that Lady Fitzgerald should not 
 sympathize with her children, while it was almost impossible 
 that the Countess of Desmond should do so. 
 
 And so Lady Desmond remained all alone at Desmond Court, 
 brooding over the things as they now were. For the present it 
 was better that Clara should remain at Castle Eichmond, and 
 nothing therefore was said of her return on either side. She 
 could not add to her mother's comfort at home, and why should 
 she not remain happy where she was ? She was already a Fitz- 
 gerald in heart rather than a Desmond ; and was it not well that 
 she should be so ? If she could love Herbert Fitzgerald, that was 
 well also. Since the day on which he had appeared at Desmond 
 Court, wet and dirty and wretched, with a broken spirit and 
 fortunes as draggled as his dress, he had lost all claim to be a 
 hero in the estimation of Lady Desmond. To her those only 
 were heroes whose pride and spirit were never draggled ; and 
 such a hero there still was in her close neighbourhood. 
 
 Lady Desmond herself was a woman of a mercenary spirit ; so ' 
 at least it wiU be said and thought of her. But she w"as not al- 
 together so, although the two facts were strong against her that 
 she had sold herself for a title, and had been willing to sell her 
 daughter for a fortune. Poverty she herself had endured upon 
 the whole with patience ; and though she hated and scorned it 
 from her very soul, she would now have given herself in marriage 
 to a poor man without rank or station, — she, a countess, and the 
 mother of an earl ; and that she would have done with all the 
 romantic love of a girl of sixteen, though she was now a woman 
 verging upon forty ! 
 
 Men and women only know so much of themselves and others 
 as circumstances and their destiny have allowed to appear. Had 
 it perchance fallen to thy lot, Hmy forensic friend, heavy laden 
 with the wisdom of the law, to write~tales such as this of mine, 
 how charmingly might not thy characters have come forth upon 
 the canvas — ^how much more charmingly than I can limn them ! 
 While, on the other hand, ignorant as thou now tellest me that I 
 am of the very alphabet of the courts, had thy wig been allotted 
 to me, I might have gathered guineas thick as daisies in 
 summer, while to thee perhaps they come no faster than snow- 
 drops in the early spring. It is all in our destiny. Chance had 
 fbi-nwn that terrible earl in the way of the T)oor airl in her earlv i 
 
430 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 youth, and she had married him. She had married him, and all 
 idea of love had flown from her heart. All idea of love, but not 
 all the capacity — — as now within this last year or two she had 
 learned, so much to her cost. 
 
 Long months had passed since she had first owned this to her- 
 self, since she had dared to tell herself that it was possible even 
 for her to begin the world again, and to play the game which 
 women love to play, once at least before they die. She could 
 have worshipped this man, and sat at his feet, and endowed him 
 in her heart with heroism, and given him her soft brown hair to 
 play with when it suited her Hercules to rest from his labours. 
 She could have forgotten her years, and have forgotten too the 
 children who had now grown up to seize the world from beneath 
 her feet — to seize it before she herself had enjoyed it. She could 
 have forgotten all that was past, and have been every whit as 
 young as her own daughter. If only — ! 
 
 It is so, I believe, with most of us who have begun to turn the 
 hill. I myself could go on to that common that is at this moment 
 before me, and join that game of rounders with the most intense 
 delight. ' By George ! you fellow, you've no eyes ; didn't you 
 see that he hadn't put his foot in the hole ? He'll get back now 
 that long-backed, hard-hitting chap, and your side is done for 
 the next half-hour!' But then they would all be awestruck for 
 'A while ; and after that, when they grew to be familiar with me, 
 they would laugh at me because I loomed large in my running, 
 and returned to my ground scant of breath. Alas, alas ! I know 
 that it would not do. So I pass by, imperious in my heavy 
 manhood, and one of the lads respectfully abstains from me 
 though the ball is under my very feet. 
 
 ; But then I have had my game of rounders. No horrible old 
 earl with gloating eyes carried me off in my childhood and 
 robbed me of the pleasure of my youth. That part of my cako 
 'i has been eaten, and, in spite of some occasional headache, has 
 I been digested not altogether unsatisfactorily. Lady Desmond 
 : had as yet been allowed no slice of her cake. She had never yet 
 taken her side in any game of rounders. But she too had looked on 
 and seen how jocund was the play ; she also had acknowledged 
 that that running in the ring, that stout hitting of the ball, that inno- 
 cent craft, that bringing back by her own s£ll and with her own 
 hand of some long-backed fellow, would be pleasant to her as well 
 as to others. If only she now could be chosen in at that game ! 
 But what if the side that she cared for would not have her ': 
 
 But tempm edax rerum, though it had hardly nibbled at hei 
 heart or wishes, had been feeding on the freshness of her brow 
 and the bloom of her lips. The child with whom she would have 
 
PLAYING BOUNDERS. 431 
 
 loved to play kept aloof from her too, and would not pick up the 
 ball when it rolled to his feet. All this, if one thinks of it, ifl 
 hard to bear. It is very hard to have had no period for rounders, 
 not to be able even to look back to one's games, and to talk of 
 them to one's old comrades ! ' But why then did she allow he]>] 
 self to be carried off by the wicked wrinkled earl with the gloat- 
 ing eyes ?' asks of me the prettiest girl in the world, just turned 
 eighteen. Oh heavens ! Is it not possible that one should have 
 one more game of rounders ? Quite impossible, my fat friend ! 
 And therefore I answer the young lady somewhat grimly. ' Take 
 care that thou also art not carried off by a wrinkled earl. Is thy 
 heart free from all vanity ? Of what nature is the heroism that 
 •ihou worshippest ?' 'A nice young man!' she says, boldly, 
 though in words somewhat different. ' If so it will be well for 
 thee ; but did I not see thine eyes hankering the other day after 
 the precious stones of Ophir, and thy mouth watering for the 
 flesh-pots of Egypt? Was. I not watching thee as thou sattest at 
 that counter, so frightfully intent? Beware!' 'The grumpy 
 old fellow with the bald head ! ' she said shortly afterwards to her 
 bosom friend, not careful that her words should he duly inaudible. 
 
 Some idea that all was not yet over with her had come upon 
 her poor heart, — upon Lady Desmond's heart, soon after Owen 
 Fitzgerald had made himself familiar in her old mansion. We 
 have read how that idea was banished, and how she had ulti- 
 mately resolved that that man whom she could have loved herself 
 should be given up to her own child when she thought that he 
 was no longer poor and of low rank. She could not sympathize 
 with her daughter, — love with her love, and rejoice with her 
 joy ; but she could do her duty by her, and according to her 
 lights she endeavoured so to do. 
 
 But now again all was turned and changed and altered. Owen 
 of Hap House was once more Owen of Hap House only, but still 
 in her eyes heroic, as it behoved a man to be. He would not 
 creep about the country with moaning voice and melancholy 
 eyes, with draggled dress and outward signs of wretciaedness. 
 He might be wretched, but he would still be manly. Could it 
 be possible that to her should yet be given the privilege of 
 soothing that noble, unbending wretchedness ? By no means J 
 possible, poor, heart-laden countess ; thy jears are all against 
 thee. Girls whose mouths will water unduly for the flesh-pots 
 of Egypt must in after life undergo such penalties as these. Art ; 
 thou not a countess ? 
 
 But not so did she answer herself Might it not be possible .' 
 Ah, might it not be possible ? And as the question was even 
 'hen bein!r.'"''^«d, nerhans for the ten thousandth time, Owen 
 
432 CASTLE EICHMOND. 
 
 Fitzgerald stood before her. Siie liad not yet seen him since the 
 new news had gone abroad, and had hardly yet conceived how it 
 might be possible that she should do so. But now as she thought 
 of him there he was. They two were together, — alone together ; 
 and the door by which he had entered had closed upon him 
 before she was aware of his presence. 
 
 ' Owen Fitzgerald I' she said, starting up and giving him both 
 her hands. This she did, not of judgment, nor yet from passion, 
 but of impulse. She had been thinking of him with such kindly 
 thoughts, and now he was there it became natural that her 
 greeting should be kindly. It was more so than it had ever been 
 to any but her son since the wrinkled, gloating earl had come 
 and fetched her. 
 
 ' Yes, Owen Fitzgerald,' said he, taking the two hands that 
 were offered to him, and holding them a while ; not pressing 
 them as a man who loved her, who could have loved her, would 
 have done. ' After all that has gone and passed between us. 
 Lady Desmond, I cannot leave the country without saying one 
 word of farewell to you.' 
 
 'Leave the country!' she exclaimed. 'And where are you 
 going?' 
 
 As she looked into his face with her hands still in his, — for 
 she did not on the moment withdraw them, she felt that he had 
 never before looked so noble, so handsome, so grand. Leave the 
 country ! ah yes ; and why should not she leave it also ? What 
 was there to bind her to those odious walls in which she had 
 been immolated during the best half of her life ? 
 
 ' Where are you going ?' she asked, looking almost wildly up 
 at him. 
 
 ' Somewhere very far a-field, Lady Desmond,' he said ; and 
 ^nen the hands dropped from him. ' You will understand at 
 any rate that Hap House will not be a fitting residence for me.' 
 
 ' T hate the whole country,' said she, ' the whole place here- 
 abouts. I have never been happy here. Happy ! 1 have never 
 been other than unhappy. I have been wretched. What would 
 I not give to leave it also ?' 
 
 ' To you it cannot be intolerable as it will be to me. You 
 have known so thoroughly where all my hopes were garnered, 
 that I need not tell you why I must go from Hap House. 1 
 think that I have been wronged, but 1 do not desire that others 
 should think so. And as for you and me, Lady Desmond, though 
 we have been enemies, we have been friends also.' 
 
 'Enemies!' said she, ' I hope not.' And she spoke so softly, 
 so unlike her usual self, in the tones so suited to a loving, cling- 
 ing woman, that though he did not understand it, he was startled 
 
PLAYtKU KOtJNDERS. 433 
 
 fl+ her tenderness. ' 1 have never felt that you were my enemy, 
 Ml'. Fitzgerald ; and certainly I never was an enemy to yon.' 
 
 ' Well; we were opposed to each other. I thought that you 
 were robbing me of all I valued in life ; and you, you thought — ' 
 
 ' 1 thought that Clara's happiness demanded rank and wealth 
 and position. There ; I tell you my sins fairly. You may say 
 that 1 was mercenary if you will, — mercenary for her. I thought 
 that I knew what would be needful for her. Can you be angry 
 with a mother for that ?' 
 
 ' She had given me a promise ! But never mind. It is all over 
 _ow. 1 did not come to upbraid you, but to tell you that I now 
 know how it must be, and that I am going.' 
 
 ' Had you won her, Owen,' said the countess, looking intently 
 into his face, ' had you won her, she would not have made you 
 happy.' 
 
 ' As to that it was for me to judge — for me and her. I thought 
 it would, and was willing to peril all in the trial. And so was 
 she — willing at one time. But never mind ; it is useless to talk 
 of that.' 
 
 ' Quite useless now.' 
 
 ' I did think — when it was as they said in my power to give 
 him back his own, — I did think ; — but no, it would have been 
 mean to look for payment. It is all over, and I will say nothing 
 further ; not a word. I am not a girl to harp on such a thing 
 day after day, and to grow sick with love. I shall be better 
 away. And therefore I am going, and I have now come to say 
 good-bye, because we were friends in old days, Lady Desmond.' 
 
 Friends in old days ! They were old days to him, but they 
 were no more than the other day to her. It was as yet hardly 
 more than two years since she had first known him, and yet he 
 looked on the acquaintance as one that had run out its time and 
 required to be ended. She would so fain have been able to think 
 that the beginning only had as yet come to them. But there he 
 was, anxious to bid her adieu, and what was she to say to him ? 
 
 ' Yes, we were friends. You have been my only friend here 1 
 think. You vdll hardly believe with how much true friendship 
 I have thought of you when the feud between us — if it was a 
 feud — was at the strongest. Owen Fitzgerald, I have loved you 
 through it all.' 
 
 Loved him ? She was so handsome as she spoke, so womanly, 
 so graceful, there was still about her so much of the charm of 
 beauty, that he could hardly take the word when coming from 
 her mouth as applicable to ordinary friendship. And yet he did 
 so take it. They had all loved each other — as friends should 
 loTe- and now that h^ was going she had chosen to say as mucli. 
 
434 CASTLE RICHMOi^I). 
 
 Ho felt the blood tingle his cheek at the sound of her words ; but 
 he was not vain enough to take it in its usual sense. ' Then we 
 will part as friends,' said he — tamely enough. 
 
 ' Yes, we will part,' she said. And as she spoke the blood 
 mantled deep on her neck and cheek and forehead, and a spirit 
 came out of her eye, such as never had shone there before in his 
 presence. 'Yes, we will part,' and she took up his right hand, 
 anfl held it closely, pressed between both her own. ' And as we 
 must part 1 will tell you all. Owen Fitzgerald, I have loved 
 you with all my heart, — with all the love that a woman has to 
 give. I have loved you, and have never loved any other. Stop, 
 stop,' for he was going to interrupt her. ' You shall hear me now 
 to the last, — and for the last time. I have loved you with such 
 love — such love as you perhaps felt for her, but as she will never 
 feel. But you shall not say, nay you shall not think that I have 
 been selfish. I would have kept you from her when you were 
 poor as you are now, — not because I loved you. No ; you will 
 never think that of me. And when I thought that you were 
 rich, and the head of your family, I did all that I could to bring 
 her back for you, Did I not, Owen ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I think you did,' he muttered between his teeth, hardly 
 knowing how to speak. 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed I did so. Others may say that I was selfish 
 for my child, but you shall not think that I was selfish for 
 myself. I sent for Patrick, and bade him go to you. I strove 
 as mothers do strive for their children. I taught myself, — 1 
 strove to teach myself to forget that I had loved you. I swore 
 on my knees that I would love you only as my son, — as my dear, 
 dear son. Nay, Owen, I did : on my knees before my God.' 
 
 He turned away from her to rub the tears from his eyes, and 
 in doing so he dragged his hand away from her. But she fol- 
 lowed him, and again took it. ' You will hear me to the end 
 now,' she said ; ' will you not ? you will not begrudge me that ? 
 And then came these other tidings, and all that scheme was 
 dashed to the ground. It was better so, Owen ; you would not 
 have been happy with the property — ' 
 
 ' I should never have taken it.' 
 
 ' And she, she would have clung closer to him as a poor man 
 than ever she had done when he was rich. She is her mother's 
 daughter there. And then — then —but I need not tell you more. 
 You will know it all now. If you had become rich, I would 
 have ceased to love you ; but I shall never cease now that you 
 are again poor,— now that you are Owen of Hap House again, aa 
 you sent u?; word yourself that day.' 
 
 And then she ceased, and bending down her head bathed his 
 
PLAYING KOUNDERS. 435 
 
 hand with her tears. Had any one asked him that morning, he 
 would have said that it was impossible that the Countess of 
 Desmond should weep. And now the tears were streaming from 
 her eyes as though she were a broken-hearted girl. And so she 
 was. Her girlhood had been postponed and marred, — not 
 destroyed and made away with, by the wrinkled earl with the 
 gloating eyes. 
 
 She had said all now, and she stood there, still holding his 
 hand in hers, but with her head turned from him. It was his 
 turn to speak now, and how was he to answer her ? I know 
 how most men would have answered ; — by the pressure of an 
 arm, by a waiTQ kiss, by a promise of love, and by a feeling that 
 such love was possible. And then most men would have gone 
 home, leaving the woman triumphant, and have repented 
 bitterly as they sat moody over th«ir own fires, with their wine- 
 bottles before them. But it was not so with Owen Fitzgerald. 
 His heart was to him a reality. He had loved with all his power 
 and strength, with all the vigour of his soul, — having chosen to 
 love. But he would not now be enticed by pity into a bastard 
 feeling, which would die away when the tenderness of the 
 moment was no longer present to his eye and touch. His lov< 
 for Clara had been such that he could not even say that he loved 
 another. 
 
 ' Dear Lady Desmond,' he began. 
 
 ' Ah, Owen ; we are to part now, part for ever,' she said ; ' speak 
 to me once in your life as though we were equal friends. Cannot 
 you forget for one minute that I am Countess of Desmond ?' 
 
 Mary, Countess of Desmond ; such was her name and title. 
 But so little familiar had he been with the name by which he 
 had never heard her called, that in his confusion he could not 
 remember it. And had he done so, he could not have brought 
 himself to use it. ' Yes,' he said ; ' we must part. It is impos- 
 sible for me to remain here.' 
 
 ' Doubly impossible now,' she replied, half reproaching him. 
 
 ' Yes ; doubly impossible now. Is it not better that the truth 
 should be spoken ?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. I have spoken it — too plainly.' 
 
 ' And so will I speak it plainly. We cannot control our own 
 hearts. Lady Desmond. It is, as you say, doubly impossible now. 
 All the love I have had to give she has had, — and has. Such 
 being so, why should I stay here ? or could you wish that J 
 should do so ?' 
 
 ' I do not wish it.' That was true enough. The wish would 
 have been to wander away with him. 
 
 ' I must go, and shall start at once. My verj' things are packed 
 
436 cas*Le uichmoNd. 
 
 for my going. I will not be here to have the sound of iheii 
 marriage bells jangling in my ears. I will not be pointed at sc 
 the man who has been duped on every side.' 
 
 ' Ah me, that I was a man too, — that I could go away and 
 make for myself a life !' 
 
 ' You have Desmond with you.' 
 
 ' No, no. He will go too ; of course he will go. He will go, 
 and I shall be utterly alone. What a fool I am,-- what an asa, 
 that by this time I have not learned to bear it ! ' 
 
 ' They will always be near you at Castle Eichmond.' 
 
 ' Ah, Owen, how little you understand ! Have we been frieni^e 
 while we lived under the same roof? And now that she is there, 
 do you think that she will heed me ? I tell you that you do not 
 ' enow her. She is excellent, good, devoted ; but cold as ice. 
 tihe will live among the poor, and grace his table ; and he will 
 aave all that he wants. In twelve months, Owen, she would 
 have turned your heart to a stone.' 
 
 ' It is that already I think,' said he. ' At any rate, it will be 
 so to all others. Good-bye, Lady Desmond.' 
 
 • Good-bye, Owen ; and God bless yon. My secret will be safe 
 with you.' 
 
 ' Safe ! yes, it will be safe.' And then, as she put her cheek 
 up to him, he kissed it and left her. 
 
 He had been very stem. She had laid bare to him her whole 
 heart, and he had answered her love by never a word. He had 
 made no reply in any shape, — given her no thanks for her heart's 
 treasure. He had Kesponded to her aflFection by no tenderness. 
 He had not even said that this might have been so, had that 
 other not have come to pass. By no word had he alluded to her 
 confession, — but had regarded her delusion as monstrous, a thing 
 of which no word was to be spoken. 
 
 So at least said the countess to herself, sitting there all alone 
 where he had left her. ' He regards me as old and worn. In 
 his eyes I am wrinkled and ugly.' 'Twas thus that her thoughts 
 expressed themselves ; and then she walked across the room 
 towards the mirror, but when there she could not look in it : she 
 turned her back upon it without a glance, and returned to her 
 seat by the window. "What mattered it now ? It was her doom 
 to live there alone for the term of life with which it might still 
 please God to afflict her. 
 
 And then looking out from the window her eyes fell upon Owen 
 as he rode slowly down across the park. His horse was walking 
 very slowly, and it seemed as though he himself were unconscious 
 of the pace. As long as he remained in sight she did not take 
 her eyes from his figure, gazing at him pai^jfully as he grew 
 
CONCLUSION. 431 
 
 dimmer and moto dim in tlie disiance. Then at last lie turned 
 l-whind the bushes near the lodge, and she felt that she was all 
 siloiuk. It was the last that she ever saw of Owen Fitzgerald. 
 
 Unfortunate girl, marred in thy childhood by that wrinkled \ 
 tVi -with the gloating eyes ; or marred rather by thine own | 
 vanity ! Those flesh-pots of Egypt ! Are they not always thus 
 bitter in the eating ? 
 
 CHAPTEK XLIV. 
 
 COKCLnSION. 
 
 And now my story is told ; and were it not for the fashion of 
 the thing, this last short chapter might be spared. It shall at 
 any rate be very short. 
 
 Were it not that I eschew the fashion of double names for a 
 book, thinking that no amount of ingenuity in this respect will 
 make a bad book pass muster, whereas a good book will turn ; 
 out as such though no such ingenuity be displayed, I might have ■ 
 called this ' A Tale of the Eamine Year in Ireland.' At the 
 period of the year to which the story has brought us — and at 
 which it will leave us — the famine was at its very worst. People 
 were beginning to believe that there would never be a bit more 
 k) eat in the land, and that the time for hope and energy was 
 gone. I^nd was becoming of no value, and the only thing re- 
 garded was a sufficiency of food to keep body and soul together. 
 Under such circumstances it was difficult to hope. 
 
 But energy without hope is impossible, and therefore was there 
 such an apathy and deadness through the country. It was not 
 that they did not work who were most concerned to work. The 
 amount of conscientious work then done was most praiseworthy. 
 But it was done almost without hope of success, and done chiefly 
 dS a matter of conscience. There was a feeling, which was not 
 often expressed but which seemed to prevail everywhere, that 
 ginger would not again be hot in the mouth, and that in very 
 truth the time for cakes and ale in this world was all over. It 
 was this feeling that made a residence in Ireland at that period 
 BO very sad. 
 
 Ah me ! how little do we know what is coming to us ! Irish 
 cakes and ale were done and over for this world, we all thought. 
 But in truth the Irish cakes were only then a-baking, and the 
 Irish ale was being brewed. I am not sure that these good 
 tilings are yet quite fit for the palates of the guest ; — not as fit 
 a» a little more time will make them. The cake is still too new, 
 — cakes o:Qien are ; and the ale is not sufficiently mellowed. Bui 
 
438 CASTLE KICItMOND. 
 
 Df this I am sure, that the cakes and ale are there ; — aud the 
 ginger, too, very hot in the mouth. Let a committee of Irish 
 landlords say how the rents are paid now, and what amount of 
 arrears was due through the country when the famine came 
 among them. Eents paid to the day : that is the ginger hot in 
 the mouth which best pleases the palate of a country gentleman. 
 
 But if one did in truth write a tale of the famine, after that it 
 would behove the author to write a tale of the pestilence ; and 
 then another, a tale of the exodus. These three wonderful events, 
 following each other, were the blessings coming from Omni- 
 science and Omnipotence by which the black clouds were driven 
 from the Irish firmament. If one, through it all, could have 
 dared to hope, and have had from the first that wisdom which 
 has learned to acknowledge that His mercy endureth for ever ! 
 And then the same author going on with his series would give in 
 his last set, — Ireland in her prosperity. 
 
 Of all those who did true good conscientious work at this time, 
 none exceeded in energy our friend Herbert Fitzgerald after his 
 return to Castle Eichmond. It seemed to him as though some 
 thank-offering were due from him for all the good things that 
 Providence had showered upon him, and the best thank-offering 
 that he could give was a devoted attention to the interest of the 
 poor around him. Mr. Somers soon resigned to him the chair at 
 those committee meetings at Berry hill and Gortnaclough, and it 
 was acknowledged that the Castle Eif Jimond airangements for 
 soup-kitchens, out-door relief, and labour-gangs, might be taken 
 as a model for the south of Ireland. Few other men were able 
 to go to the work with means so ample and with hands so perfectly 
 free. Mr. Carter even, who by this time had become cemeaced 
 in a warm trilateral friendship with Father Barney and the Eev. 
 -^neas Townsend, w, s obliged to own that many a young 
 English country gentlb.3ian might take a lesson from Sir Her- 
 bert Fitzgerald in the duties peculiar to his position. 
 
 His marriage did not take place till fail six months after the 
 period to which our story has brougnt ns. Baronets with twelve 
 thousand a year cannot be married off the hooks, as may be done 
 Tiath ordinary mortals. Settlements of a grandiose nature were 
 required, and were duly concocted. Perhaps Mr. Die had some- 
 thing to say to them, so that the great maxim of the law was 
 brought into play. Perhaps also, though of this Herbert heard 
 no word, it was thought inexpedient to hurry matters while any 
 further inquiry was possible in that affau- of the MoUott connec- 
 tion. Mr. Die and Mr. Prendergast were certainly going about, 
 still drawing all coverts far and near, lest their fox might not 
 have been fairly run to his last earth But, as I have said, no 
 
CONCLUSION. 439 
 
 tidings as fe "his reached Castle Eiclimond. There, in Ireland, 
 no man troubled himself further with any doubt upon the subject ; 
 and Sir Herbert took his title and received his rents, by the 
 hands of Mr. Somers, exactly as though the Molletts, father and 
 son, had never appeared in those parts. 
 
 It was six months before the marriage was celebrated, but 
 during a considerable part of that time Clara remained a visitor 
 at Castle Eichmond. To Lady Fitzgerald she was now the same 
 as a daughter, and to Aunt Letty the same as ^ niece. By the 
 girls she had for months been regarded as a sister. So she re- 
 mained in the house of which she was to be the mistress, learning 
 to know their ways, and ingratiating herself with those who 
 were to be dependent on her. 
 
 ' But I had rather stay with you, mamma, if you will allow 
 me,' Clara had said to her mother when the countess was making 
 some arrangement with her that she should return to Castle 
 Eichmond. 'I shall be leaving you altogether so soon now!' 
 And she got up close to her mother's side caressingly, and would 
 fain have pressed into her arms and kissed her, and have talked 
 to her of what was coming, as a daughter loves to talk to a loving 
 mother. But Lady Desmond's heart was sore and sad and harsh, 
 and she preferred to be alone. 
 
 ' You will be better at Castle Eichmond, my dear : you will 
 be much happier there, of course. There can be no reason why 
 you should come again into the gloom of this prison.' 
 
 ' But I should be with you, dearest mamma.' 
 
 ' It is better that you should be with the Fitzgeralds now ; 
 and as for me — I must learn to live alone. Indeed I have 
 learned it, so you need not mind for me.' Clara was rebuffed by 
 the tone rather than the words, but she still looked up into her 
 mother's face wistfully. ' Go, my dear,' said the countess — ' I 
 would sooner be alone at present.' And so Clara went. It was hard 
 upon her that even now her mother would not accept her love. 
 
 But Lady Desmond could not be cordial with her daughter, 
 She made more than one struggle to do so, but always failed. 
 She could, — she thought that she could, have watched her child's 
 happiness with contentment had Clara married Owen Fitzgerald 
 — Sir Owen, as he would then have been. But now she could 
 only remember that Owen was lost to them both, lost through 
 her child's fault. She did not hate Clara : naj', she would have 
 made any sacrifice for her daughter's welfare ; but she could not 
 take her lovingly to her bosom. So she shut herself up alone, 
 in her prison as she called it, and then looked back upon the 
 errors of her life. It was as well for her to look back as to look 
 forward, for what joy was there for which she could dare to hope ? 
 
440 CASTLE RICHMOND. 
 
 In the days that were coming, however, she did relax soma 
 thing of her sternness. Glara was of course married from Des- 
 mond Court, and the very necessity of making some preparations 
 for this festivity was in itself salutary. But indeed it coul(i 
 hardly be called a festivity, — it was so quiet and sombre. Clan 
 had but two bridesmaids, and they were Mary and Emmeline 
 Fitzgerald. The young earl gave away his sister, and Aunt 
 Letty was there, and Mr. Prendergast, who had come over about 
 the settlements ; Mr. Somers also attended, and the ceremonj 
 was performed by our old friend Mr. Townsend. Beyond these 
 there were no guests at the wedding of Sir Herbert Fitzgerald. 
 
 The young earl was there, and at the last the wedding had been 
 postponed a week for his coming. He had left Eton at Mid- 
 summer in order that he might travel for a couple of years with 
 Owen Fitzgerald before he went to Oxford. It had been the 
 lad's own request, and had been for a while refused by Owen. 
 But Fitzgerald had at last given way to the earl's love, and they 
 had started together for Norway. 
 
 ' They want me to be home,' he had said one morning to his 
 ''riend. 
 
 ' Ah, yes ; I suppose so.' 
 
 ' Do you know why ?' They had never spoken a word about 
 Clara since thej' had left England together, and the earl now 
 dreaded to mention her name. 
 
 ' Know why !' replied Owen; ' of course I do. It is to give 
 away your sister. Go home, Desmond, my boy ; when you liave 
 returned we will talk about her. I shall bear it better when I 
 know that she is his wife.' 
 
 And so it was with them. For two years Lord Desmond 
 travelled with him, and after that Owen Fitzgerald went on 
 upon his wanderings alone. Many a long year has run by since 
 that, and yet he has never come back to Hap House. Men of 
 the county Cork now talk of him as one whom they knew long 
 since. He who took his house as a stranger is a stranger no 
 longer in the country, and the place that Owen left vacant has 
 been filled. The hounds of Duhallow would not recognize his 
 voice, nor would the steed in the stable follow gently at his 
 heels. But there is yet one left who thinks of him, hoping that 
 rfie may yet see him before she dies. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 By the Same. 
 
 85 Neal Malone. By the Same. 
 
 86 X. ■/. Z. A Detective Story. 
 
 By A. K. Green. 
 
 87 The Secret Police. By John 
 
 Lang. 
 
 London : WARD, LOCK & CO., Salisbury Square, E.C. 
 New 1fork: 10, Bond Street. 
 
 J. OGDEN ANB CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C, 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5684.C35 1880 
 
 Castle Rlchmond:a novel. 
 
 3 1924 013 564 962