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CASTLE RICHMOND

dashed to the ground. It was better so, Owen; you would not have been happy with the SURSHUW\ µµ

“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, as you sent us word yourself that day.’’

And then she ceased, and bending down her head bathed his 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 warm 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 their 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, — hav-

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ing 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 love 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 impossible 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 I should do so?’’

‘‘I do not wish it.’’ That was true enough. The wish would have been to wander away with him.

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‘‘I must go, and shall start at once. My very things are packed for my going. I will not be here to have the sound of their marriage bells jangling in my ears. I will not be pointed at as 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 ass, that by this time I have not learned to bear it!’’

‘‘They will always be near you at Castle Richmond.’’

‘‘Ah, Owen, how little you understand! Have we been friends 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 know her. She is excellent, good, devoted; but cold as ice. She will live among the poor, and grace his table; and he will have 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 you. 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 stern. 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 responded to her affection by no tenderness. He had not even said that this might have been so,

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work. The amount of conscientious work then done was most praiseworthy. But it was done almost without hope of success, and done chiefly as 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 so 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 things are yet quite fit for the palates of the guest; — not as fit as a little more time will make them. The cake is still too new, — cakes often are; and the ale is not sufficiently mellowed. But of this I am sure, that the cakes and ale are there; — and 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. Rents 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 Omniscience and Omnipotence by which the black clouds were driven from the Irish firmament. If

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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 Richmond. 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 thankoffering 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 Berryhill and Gortnaclough, and it was acknowledged that the Castle Richmond arrangements 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 cemented in a warm trilateral friendship with Father Barney and the Rev. Æneas Townsend, was obliged to own that many a young English country gentleman might take a lesson from Sir Herbert Fitzgerald in the duties peculiar to his position.

His marriage did not take place till full six months after the period to which our story has brought us. Baronets with twelve thousand a year cannot be married off the hooks, as may be done with ordinary mortals. Settlements of a grandiose nature were required, and were duly concocted. Perhaps

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Mr. Die had something 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 affair of the Mollett connection. 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 tidings as to this reached Castle Richmond. 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 Richmond. To Lady Fitzgerald she was now the same as a daughter, and to Aunt Letty the same as a niece. By the girls she had for months been regarded as a sister. So she remained 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 Richmond. ‘‘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

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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 Richmond, 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: nay, 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?

In the days that were coming, however, she did relax something of her sternness. Clara was of course married

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from Desmond Court, and the very necessity of making some preparations for this festivity was in itself salutary. But indeed it could hardly be called a festivity, — it was so quiet and sombre. Clara 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 ceremony 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 Midsummer 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 friend.

‘‘Ah, yes; I suppose so.’’

‘‘Do you know why?’’ They had never spoken a word about Clara since they 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 have 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

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