Castle Richmond II

CASTLE RICHMOND

‘‘But those places are given by favour.’’

‘‘No; not so generally, — or if by favour, by that sort of favour which is as likely to come to you as to another. Such places are not given to incompetent young men because their fathers and mothers ask for them. But won’t you fill your 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 man is taken away 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 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 labour 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.

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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 his 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 man, and his regrets, therefore, were philosophical rather than practical. As for Herbert, he did not look upon the question at all in the same light as his elderly friend, 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 Herbert’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 he speak by any means in high enthusiastic language; he said much of the necessity of long hours, of tedious work, of Amaryllis left by herself in

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break her off from that feeling. But she never loved Herbert Fitzgerald.’’

‘‘Why, she is determined to have him, even now.’’

‘‘Ah, yes! That is where you do not understand her. Now, at this special moment, her heart is touched by his misfortune, and she thinks herself bound 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 made 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 been 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

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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 Richmond. Sir Owen Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond! He would be the man to whom he would be delighted 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 his right to the inheritance of Castle Richmond.

‘‘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.’’

‘‘Yes; I have been home for this week past. But things are all so at sixes and sevens among us all that a fellow can’t go and do just what he 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 lather 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.

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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 whisp 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 understand why a man who had been 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 him when things became serious.’’

‘‘I don’t wonder you were tired of him.’’ ‘‘But, Desmond, how’s your mother?’’

‘‘Oh, she’s very well. These are bad times for poor people like us, you know.’’

‘‘And your sister?’’

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‘‘She’s pretty well too, thank you.’’ And then there was a pause. ‘‘You’ve 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.’’

‘‘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 full 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 usually 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 which each was longing to have with 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 must be said: and the same paradox is equally true of writing.

Then Owen walked away to the window, looking out among the shrubs into which Aby Mollett had been precipitated, as though he could collect his thoughts there; and 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.

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‘‘Yes, they did.’’ And then there was another pause. ‘‘I’ll 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 speaking of your sister; and now that we meet again, we must again speak of her. Desmond, all my thoughts are of her; I dream 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. Nay, she has 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 country.’’

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 in 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 had come thither; and then, if opportunity should offer, to lead away the subject to that other one; but now Owen had begun at the wrong end. If called upon to speak about his sis-

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ter at once, what 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?

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