Castle Richmond I

CASTLE RICHMOND

‘‘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 affliction 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 property. It was a matter of astonishment to Mr. Prendergast that a conscientious man, as Sir Thomas certainly was, should have been able to look at the matter in any other light; that he should ever have brought himself to have dealings in the matter with Mr. Mollett. Justice in the case was clear, and the truth must be declared. But then they must take good care to find out absolutely what the truth was. Having heard all that Sir Thomas had to say, and having sifted all that he did hear, 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 Richmond for the family, and all earthly peace of mind for that unfortunate lady and gentleman were not to be given up on the bare word of a scheming scoundrel, for whom no crime

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would be too black, and no cruelty too monstrous. The proofs must be looked into before anything was done, 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 admitting 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 Richmond 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 Fitzgerald 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

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she had been called Mrs. Talbot, and from that day even up to the present hour.

‘‘Then she must have known this man,’’ said Mr. Prendergast.

But Sir Thomas was not in a frame of mind at all suited to 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 certain as to the truth of the main part of the story. All those Dorsetshire localities were well known to the man, the bearings 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, had married the child-daughter of the Dorsetshire parson.

Mr. Prendergast, however, stood awhile before the fire balancing 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 Fitzgerald to confront that man?’’

He remained with Sir Thomas that day for hours. The long winter 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 bar-

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onet a glass of sherry, which the latter swallowed unconsciously; and then, at about four, the lawyer prepared to take his leave. ‘‘I will see you early to-morrow,’’ said he, ‘‘immediately after breakfast.’’

‘‘You are going then?’’ said Sir Thomas, who greatly dreaded 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, EXW µµand then he paused.

‘‘Eh!’’ said Mr. Prendergast, ‘‘you were saying something.’’ ‘‘They will be coming in to me now,’’ said Sir Thomas, wail-

ing 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 Thomas, 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.’’

‘‘And what shall I say to her?’’

‘‘Say nothing. I think it probable that she will not ask any questions. If she does, tell her that the business between you and me is not yet over. I will tell your son that at present he had better not speak to you on the subject of my visit here.’’ And then he again took the hand of the unfortunate gentleman, and having pressed it with more tenderness than seemed to belong to him, he left the room.

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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 while with Mr. Prendergast into the widespreading park.

Mr. Prendergast had been used to hard work all his life, but he 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 the 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 circle, 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.

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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 be 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 fragments. 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!

He could not himself believe that there was any doubt as to the general truth of Mollett’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 Lady Fitzgerald 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 astonishment 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, ‘‘and if he then had not presented himself!’’ A term of years, such as Jacob served for Rachel, seems so light an affair to old bachelors looking back at the loves of their young friends.

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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 Fitzgerald, or tell her of her fate? In what words must he describe to Herbert Fitzgerald the 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 comfort 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 HDU

‘‘I trust, Mr. Prendergast,’’ said he, ‘‘that things are not to go on in this way.’’

‘‘No, no,’’ said Mr. Prendergast.

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‘‘Because it is unbearable — unbearable for my mother and for me, and for us all. My mother thinks that some terrible thing has happened to the property; but if so, why should I not be told?’’

‘‘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, but I am engaged to be 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 something shall be told to me.’’

‘‘Certainly you have a right, my dear young friend. But Mr. Fitzgerald, for your own sake, for all our sakes, wait patiently 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 your mother. I make this promise only to you.’’ And then he passed on into his bed-room.

With 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. Prendergast. Lady Fitzgerald remained in the study with Sir Thomas the whole 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 them-

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