Castle Richmond II

CASTLE RICHMOND

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 circumstances 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 difficulties.’’

‘‘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, anathematizing in his heart the pride of all Protestants. He had been told that this Mr. Fitzgerald was different from others, that he was a man fond of priests and addicted to the ‘‘ould religion;’’ and so hearing, he had resolved to make the most of such an excellent disposition. But he was forced to confess to himself that they were all alike. Mr. Somers could 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 along. His mind

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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 when 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 began to confess to herself that her child did possess beauty and charm.

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.

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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 Richmond 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 Richmond.

‘‘Do tell us,’’ said Clara, getting up. ‘‘I am afraid Sir Thomas 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 Richmond.

‘‘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 learned from his face, and tone, and general bearing that something truly was the matter.

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At other times when he had been there, since that day on which he had been accepted, he had been completely master of himself. Perhaps 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.’’

‘‘Ill 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 Richmond.’’

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 Richmond? what could have happened there to make necessary the presence of a lawyer, and at the same time thus to

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sadden her future son-in-law? And Clara also was frightened, though she knew not why. His manner was so different from that which was usual; he was so cold, and serious, and awestruck, that she could not but be 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.’’

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‘‘Yes, yes, you shall be told,’’ said the countess. ‘‘And now go, my darling.’’ Thus dismissed, Clara did go, and betook herself to her own chamber. Had Owen had sorrows to tell her, 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 that something was to be spoken which would be calculated to interfere 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 understood that he was no longer Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond, but a nameless, pennyless 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 sat perfectly still, listening to him almost with unmoved face. She was too wise to let him know what the instant working of her 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 to determine in what tone and with what words she would speak, when speaking on her part should become absolutely necessary. ‘‘And now,’’ he concluded by saying —

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and at this time he was standing up on the rug — ‘‘you know it all, Lady Desmond. It will 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 countess 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 bound to let me know immediately,’’ she said, harshly.

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‘‘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 my poor mother knows it also.’’ And then there was another period of silence.

During the whole time Lady Desmond had uttered no one word of condolence — not a syllable of commiseration for all the sufferings that had come upon Herbert and his family; and he was beginning to hate her for her harshness. The tenor of her 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 beginning to think sufficient, 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 received 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

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