Castle Richmond I

CASTLE RICHMOND

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. 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 necessary to return any answer. She was thinking how she would begin to say that for saying which there was so strong a necessity, 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 the 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?’’

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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 preux chevalier been saying to my Clara, that makes her stand thus

solemn and silent, gazing out into the dark night?’’ ‘‘Mamma!’’

‘‘Well, love?’’

‘‘Herbert Fitzgerald has — has asked me to be his wife. He 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 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 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 positively, 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.’’

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‘‘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 destitute, — would in truth be blessed with a fair future. But Lady Clara had hitherto been felt only as a weight. She had been born poor as poverty itself, and hitherto had shown so little disposition to find for herself a remedy for this 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 well educated, so thoroughly well conducted, so good-look- ing, so warm-hearted, so advantageously situated in all his circumstances. Of course he will go into Parliament, and then any course is open to him. The property is, I believe, wholly unembarrassed, 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,

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the countess pressed her lips to those of her child, and gave her a mother’s warmest kiss.

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.’’ ‘‘Right, 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 born, he would not have loved you.’’

‘‘He has loved me because there was no one else here,’’ said Clara.

‘‘Nonsense! No one else here, indeed! Has he not the power if he pleases to go and choose whomever he will in all London. 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 al-

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lowed 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 subject, 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 is for your welfare.’’

‘‘I knew it was right to tell you, mamma — ‘‘

‘‘Right to tell me! of course it was. You could not have had the heart to keep it from me for half a day.’’

‘‘But perhaps it may be better not to mention it further till

“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 he 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 see 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?’’

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‘‘Mr. Fitzgerald says that they will not,’’ Clara admitted, almost 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 necessary 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.’’

‘‘I have no doubt he will, love. But why do you call him Mr. Fitzgerald? You were calling him Herbert the other day. Don’t 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 perhaps the greatest; or, rather, that of being able to talk about Herbert with one whom she could love and treat as a sister. But Herbert himself would exact the use of his own Christian name, for the delight of his own ears; that was a mat-

ter of course; that, doubtless, had been already done.

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this too 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 no Fanny in view.

Herbert Fitzgerald had this proud feeling strong within his heart as he galloped away across the greensward, and trotted fast along the road, home to Castle Richmond. She was compounded of 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 herself goddesslike, she had promised 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 young then,’’ he had argued; ‘‘so very young.’’ ‘‘Yes, very young. I am not very old now, you know,’’ and

she smiled sweetly on him.

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‘‘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 assurance, 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 he 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?

There are young men who, from their positions in life, are obliged to abstain from early marriage, or to look for dowries with their wives. But he, luckily, was not fettered in this way. 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 Richmond proud 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 indifferent 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

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