Messages came to her, in underhand ways—ways well understood in Ireland, and not always ignored in England—to the effect that all his misdoings arose from his unhappiness; that he drank and gambled only because the gates of Desmond Court were no longer open to him. There was that in Clara's heart which did for a while predispose her to believe somewhat of this, to hope that it might not be altogether false. Could any girl loving such a man not have had some such hope? But then the stories of these revelries became worse and worse, and it was dinned into her ears that these doings had been running on in all their enormity before that day of his banishment. And so, silently and sadly, with no outspoken word either to mother or brother, she had resolved to give him up.

There was no necessity to her for any outspoken word. She had promised her mother to hold no intercourse with the man; and she had kept and would keep her promise. Why say more about it? How she might have reconciled her promise to her mother with an enduring engagement, had Owen Fitzgerald's conduct allowed her to regard her engagement as enduring,—that had been a sore trouble to her while hope had remained; but now no hope remained, and that trouble was over.

And then Herbert Fitzgerald had come across her path, and those sweet, loving, kind Fitzgerald girls, who were always ready to cover her with such sweet caresses, with whom she had known more of the happiness of friendliness than ever she had felt before. They threw themselves upon her like sisters, and she had never before enjoyed sisterly treatment. He had come across her path; and from the first moment she had become conscious of his admiration.

She knew herself to be penniless, and dreaded that she should be looked upon as wishing to catch the rich heir. But every one had conspired to throw them together. Lady Fitzgerald had welcomed her like a mother, with more caressing soft tenderness than her own mother usually vouchsafed to her; and even Sir Thomas had gone out of his usual way to be kind to her.

That her mother would approve of such a marriage she could not doubt. Lady Desmond in these latter days had not said much to her about Owen; but she had said very much of the horrors of poverty. And she had been too subtle to praise the virtues of Herbert with open plain words; but she had praised the comforts of a handsome income and well-established family mansion. Clara at these times had understood more than had been intended, and had, therefore, put herself on her guard against her mother's worldly wisdom; but, nevertheless, the dropping of the water had in some little measure hollowed the stone beneath.

And thus, thinking of these things, she stood at the window for some half-hour after the form of her accepted lover had become invisible in the gathering gloom of the evening.

And then her mother entered the room, and candles were brought. Lady Desmond was all smiles and benignity, as she had been for this last week past, while Herbert Fitzgerald had been coming and going almost daily at Desmond Court. But Clara understood this benignity, and disliked it.

It was, however, now necessary that everything should be told. Herbert had declared that he should at once inform his father and mother, and obtain their permission for his marriage. He spoke of it as a matter on which there was no occasion for any doubt or misgiving. He was an only son, he said, and trusted and loved in everything. His father never opposed him on any subject whatever; and would, he was sure, consent to any match he might propose. "But as to you," he added, with a lover's flattering fervour, "they are all so fond of you, they all think so much of you, that my only fear is that I shall be jealous. They'll all make love to you, Aunt Letty included."

It was therefore essential that she should at once tell her mother, and ask her mother's leave. She had once before confessed a tale of love, and had done so with palpitation of the heart, with trembling of the limbs, and floods of tears. 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?" 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."

"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-looking, 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, 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 allowed 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 we know—"

"Till we know what?" said the countess, with a look of fear about her brow.

"Whether Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald will wish it. If they object—"

"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?"

"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 matter of course; that, doubtless, had been already done.

And then mother and daughter went to bed. The countess, as she did so, was certainly happy to her heart's core. Could it be that she had some hope, unrecognized by herself, that Owen Fitzgerald might now once more be welcomed at Desmond Court? that something might now be done to rescue him from that slough of despond?

And Clara too was happy, though her happiness was mixed. She did love Herbert Fitzgerald. She was sure of that. She said so to herself over and over again. Love him! of course she loved him, and would cherish him as her lord and husband to the last day of her life, the last gasp of her breath.

But still, as sleep came upon her eyelids, she saw in her memory the bright flash of that other lover's countenance, when he first astonished her with the avowal of his love, as he walked beside her under the elms, with his horse following at his heels.



CHAPTER XII

DOUBTS

I believe there is no period of life so happy as that in which a thriving lover leaves his mistress after his first success. His joy is more perfect then than at the absolute moment of his own eager vow, and her half-assenting blushes. Then he is thinking mostly of her, and is to a certain degree embarrassed by the effort necessary for success. But when the promise has once been given to him, and he is able to escape into the domain of his own heart, he is as a conqueror who has mastered half a continent by his own strategy.

It never occurs to him, he hardly believes, that his success is no more than that which is the ordinary lot of mortal man. He never reflects that all the old married fogies whom he knows and despises, have just as much ground for pride, if such pride were enduring; that every fat, silent, dull, somnolent old lady whom he sees and quizzes, has at some period been deemed as worthy a prize as his priceless galleon; and so deemed by as bold a captor as himself.

Some one has said that every young mother, when her first child is born, regards the babe as the most wonderful production of that description which the world has yet seen. And 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 goddess-like, 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.

"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 made herself known at Castle Richmond; and he had no doubt but that all this would be added to his cup of happiness. There was therefore no alloy to debase his virgin gold as he trotted quickly into the stable-yard.

But he resolved that he would say nothing about the matter that night. He could not well tell them all in full conclave together. Early after breakfast he would go to his father's room; and after that, he would find his mother. There would then be no doubt that the news would duly leak out among his sisters and Aunt Letty.

"Again only just barely in time, Herbert," said Mary, as they clustered round the fire before dinner.

"You can't say I ever keep you waiting; and I really think that's some praise for a man who has got a good many things on his hand."

"So it is, Herbert," said Emmeline. "But we have done something too. We have been over to Berryhill; and the people have already begun there: they were at work with their pickaxes among the rocks by the river-side."

"So much the better. Was Mr. Somers there?"

"We did not see him: but he had been there," said Aunt Letty. "But Mrs. Townsend found us. And who do you think came up to us in the most courteous, affable, condescending way?"

"Who? I don't know. Brady, the builder, I suppose."

"No, indeed: Brady was not half so civil, for he kept himself to his own work. It was the Rev. Mr. M'Carthy, if you please."

"I only hope you were civil to him," said Herbert, with some slight suffusion of colour over his face; for he rather doubted the conduct of his aunt to the priest, especially as her great Protestant ally, Mrs. Townsend, was of the party.

"Civil! I don't know what you would have, unless you wanted me to embrace him. He shook hands with us all round. I really thought Mrs. Townsend would have looked him into the river when he came to her."

"She always was the quintessence of absurdity and prejudice," said he.

"Oh, Herbert!" exclaimed Aunt Letty.

"Well; and what of 'Oh, Herbert?' I say she is so. If you and Mary and Emmeline did not look him into the river when he shook hands with you, why should she do so? He is an ordained priest even according to her own tenets,—only she knows nothing of what her own tenets are."

"I'll tell you what they are. They are the substantial, true, and holy doctrines of the Protestant religion, founded on the gospel. Mrs. Townsend is a thoroughly Protestant woman; one who cannot abide the sorceries of popery."

"Hates them as a mad dog hates water; and with the same amount of judgment. We none of us wish to be drowned; but nevertheless there are some good qualities in water."

"But there are no good qualities in popery," said Aunt Letty, with her most extreme energy.

"Are there not?" said Herbert. "I should have thought that belief in Christ, belief in the Bible, belief in the doctrine of a Saviour's atonement, were good qualities. Even the Mahommedan's religion has some qualities that are good."

"I would sooner be a Mahommedan than a Papist," said Aunt Letty, somewhat thoughtlessly, but very stoutly.

"You would alter your opinion after the first week in a harem," said Herbert. And then there was a burst of laughter, in which Aunt Letty herself joined. "I would sooner go there than go to confession," she whispered to Mary, as they all walked off to dinner.

"And how is the Lady Clara's arm?" asked Mary, as soon as they were again once more round the fire.

"The Lady Clara's arm is still very blue," said Herbert.

"And I suppose it took you half an hour to weep over it?" continued his sister.

"Exactly, by Shrewsbury clock."

"And while you were weeping over the arm, what happened to the hand? She did not surrender it, did she, in return for so much tenderness on your part?"

Emmeline thought that Mary was very pertinacious in her badinage, and was going to bid her hold her tongue; but she observed that Herbert blushed, and walked away without further answer. He went to the further end of the long room, and there threw himself on to a sofa. "Could it be that it was all settled?" thought Emmeline to herself.

She followed him to the sofa, and sitting beside him, took hold of his arm. "Oh, Herbert! if there is anything to tell, do tell me."

"Anything to tell!" said he. "What do you mean?"

"Oh! you know. I do love her so dearly. I shall never be contented to love any one else as your wife—not to love her really, really with all my heart."

"What geese you girls are!—you are always thinking of love, and weddings, and orange-blossoms."

"It is only for you I think about them," said Emmeline. "I know there is something to tell. Dear Herbert, do tell me."

"There is a young bachelor duke coming here to-morrow. He has a million a-year, and three counties all his own; he has blue eyes, and is the handsomest man that ever was seen. Is that news enough?"

"Very well, Herbert. I would tell you anything."

"Well; tell me anything."

"I'll tell you this. I know you're in love with Clara Desmond, and I'm sure she's in love with you; and I believe you are both engaged, and you're not nice at all to have a secret from me. I never tease you, as Mary does, and it would make me so happy to know it."

Upon this he put his arm round her waist and whispered one word into her ear. She gave an exclamation of delight; and as the tears came into her eyes congratulated him with a kiss. "Oh dear, oh dear! I am so happy!" she exclaimed.

"Hush—sh," he whispered. "I knew how it would be if I told you."

"But they will all know to-morrow, will they not?"

"Leave that to me. You have coaxed me out of my secret, and you are bound to keep it. And then he went away well pleased. This description of delight on his sister's part was the first instalment of that joy which he had promised himself from the satisfaction of his family."

Lady Fitzgerald had watched all that had passed, and had already learned her mistake—her mistake in that she had prophesied that no immediate proposal was likely to be made by her son. She now knew well enough that he had made such a proposal, and that he had been accepted.

And this greatly grieved her. She had felt certain from the few slight words which Sir Thomas had spoken that there were valid reasons why her son should not marry a penniless girl. That conversation, joined to other things, to the man's visit, and her husband's deep dejection, had convinced her that all was not right. Some misfortune was impending over them, and there had been that in her own early history which filled her with dismay as she thought of this.

She had ardently desired to caution her son in this respect,—to guard him, if possible, against future disappointment and future sorrow. But she could not do so without obtaining in some sort her husband's assent to her doing so. She resolved that she would talk it over with Sir Thomas. But the subject was one so full of pain, and he was so ill, and therefore she had put it off.

And now she saw that the injury was done.

Nevertheless, she said nothing either to Emmeline or to Herbert. If the injury were done, what good could now result from talking? She doubtless would hear it all soon enough. So she sat still, watching them.

On the following morning Sir Thomas did not come out to breakfast. Herbert went into his room quite early, as was always his custom; and as he left it for the breakfast-parlour he said, "Father, I should like to speak to you just now about something of importance."

"Something of importance, Herbert; what is it? Anything wrong?" For Sir Thomas was nervous, and easily frightened.

"Oh dear, no; nothing is wrong. It is nothing that will annoy you; at least, I think not. But it will keep till after breakfast. I will come in again the moment breakfast is over." And so saying he left the room with a light step.

In the breakfast-parlour it seemed to him as though everybody was conscious of some important fact. His mother's kiss was peculiarly solemn and full of solicitude; Aunt Letty smirked as though she was aware of something—something over and above the great Protestant tenets which usually supported her; and Mary had no joke to fling at him.

"Emmeline," he whispered, "you have told."

"No, indeed," she replied. But what mattered it? Everybody would know now in a few minutes. So he ate his breakfast, and then returned to Sir Thomas.

"Father," said he, as soon as he had got into the armchair, in which it was his custom to sit when talking with Sir Thomas, "I hope what I am going to tell you will give you pleasure. I have proposed to a young lady, and she has—accepted me."

"You have proposed, and have been accepted!"

"Yes, father."

"And the young lady—?"

"Is Lady Clara Desmond. I hope you will say that you approve of it. She has no fortune, as we all know, but that will hardly matter to me; and I think you will allow that in every other respect she is—"

Perfect, Herbert would have said, had he dared to express his true meaning. But he paused for a moment to look for a less triumphant word; and then paused again, and left his sentence incomplete, when he saw the expression of his father's face.

"Oh, father! you do not mean to say that you do not like her?"

But it was not dislike that was expressed in his father's face, as Herbert felt the moment after he had spoken. There was pain there, and solicitude, and disappointment; a look of sorrow at the tidings thus conveyed to him; but nothing that seemed to betoken dislike of any person.

"What is it, sir? Why do you not speak to me? Can it be that you disapprove of my marrying?"

Sir Thomas certainly did disapprove of his son's marrying, but he lacked the courage to say so. Much misery that had hitherto come upon him, and that was about to come on all those whom he loved so well, arose from this lack of courage. He did not dare to tell his son that he advised him for the present to put aside all such hopes. It would have been terrible for him to do so; but he knew that in not doing so he was occasioning sorrow that would be more terrible.

And yet he did not do it. Herbert saw clearly that the project was distasteful to his father,—that project which he had hoped to have seen received with so much delight; but nothing was said to him which tended to make him alter his purpose.

"Do you not like her?" he asked his father, almost piteously.

"Yes, yes; I do like her, we all like her, very much indeed, Herbert."

"Then why—"

"You are so young, my boy, and she is so very young, and—"

"And what?"

"Why, Herbert, it is not always practicable for the son even of a man of property to marry so early in life as this. She has nothing, you know."

"So," said the young man, proudly; "I never thought of looking for money."

"But in your position it is so essential if a young man wishes to marry."

Herbert had always regarded his father as the most liberal man breathing,—as open-hearted and open-handed almost to a fault. To him, his only son, he had ever been so, refusing him nothing, and latterly allowing him to do almost as he would with the management of the estate. He could not understand that this liberality should be turned to parsimony on such an occasion as that of his son's marriage.

"You think then, sir, that I ought not to marry Lady Clara?" said Herbert very bitterly.

"I like her excessively," said Sir Thomas. "I think she is a sweet girl, a very sweet girl, all that I or your mother could desire to see in your wife; but—"

"But she is not rich."

"Do not speak to me in that tone, my boy," said Sir Thomas, with an expression that would have moved his enemy to pity, let alone his son. His son did pity him, and ceased to wear the angry expression of face which had so wounded his father.

"But, father, I do not understand you," he said. "Is there any real objection why I should not marry? I am more than twenty-two, and you, I think, married earlier than that."

In answer to this Sir Thomas only sighed meekly and piteously.

"If you mean to say," continued the son, "that it will be inconvenient to you to make me any allowance—"

"No, no, no; you are of course entitled to what you want, and as long as I can give it, you shall have it."

"As long as you can give it, father!"

"As long as it is in my power, I mean. What can I want of anything but for you—for you and them?"

After this Herbert sat silent for a while, leaning on his arm. He knew that there existed some mischief, but he could not fathom it. Had he been prudent, he would have felt that there was some impediment to his love; some evil which it behoved him to fathom before he allowed his love to share it; but when was a lover prudent?

"We should live here, should we not, father? No second establishment would be necessary."

"Of course you would live here," said Sir Thomas, glad to be able to look at the subject on any side that was not painful. "Of course you would live here. For the matter of that, Herbert, the house should be considered as your own if you so wished it."

Against this the son put in his most violent protest. Nothing on earth should make him consider himself master of Castle Richmond as long as his father lived. Nor would Clara,—his Clara, wish it. He knew her well, he boasted. It would amply suffice to her to live there with them all. Was not the house large enough? And, indeed, where else could he live, seeing that all his interests were naturally centred upon the property?

And then Sir Thomas did give his consent. It would be wrong to say that it was wrung from him. He gave it willingly enough, as far as the present moment was concerned. When it was once settled, he assured his son that he would love Clara as his daughter. But, nevertheless—

The father knew that he had done wrong; and Herbert knew that he also, he himself, had done wrongly. He was aware that there was something which he did not understand. But he had promised to see Clara either that day or the next, and he could not bring himself to unsay all that he had said to her. He left his father's room sorrowful at heart, and discontented. He had expected that his tidings would have been received in so far other a manner; that he would have been able to go from his father's study upstairs to his mother's room with so exulting a step; that his news, when once the matter was ratified by his father's approval, would have flown about the house with so loud a note of triumph. And now it was so different! His father had consented; but it was too plain that there was no room for any triumph.

"Well, Herbert!" said Emmeline, jumping up to meet him as he returned to a small back drawing-room, through which he had gone to his father's dressing-room. She had calculated that he would come there, and that she might thus get the first word from him after the interview was over.

But there was a frown upon his brow, and displeasure in his eyes. There was none of that bright smile of gratified pride with which she had expected that her greeting would have been met. "Is there anything wrong?" she said. "He does not disapprove, does he?"

"Never mind; and do leave me now. I never can make you understand that one is not always in a humour for joking." And so saying, he put her aside, and passed on.

Joking! That was indeed hard upon poor Emmeline, seeing that her thoughts were so full of him, that her heart beat so warmly for his promised bride. But she said nothing, shrinking back abashed, and vanishing out of the way. Could it be possible that her father should have refused to receive Lady Clara Desmond as his daughter-in-law?

He then betook himself to a private territory of his own, where he might be sure that he would remain undisturbed for some half-hour or so. He would go to his mother, of course, but not quite immediately. He would think over the matter, endeavouring to ascertain what it was that had made his father's manner and words so painful to him.

But he could not get his thoughts to work rightly;—which getting of the thoughts to work rightly is, by-the-by, as I take it, the hardest work which a man is called upon to do. Not that the subject to be thought about need in itself be difficult. Were one to say that thoughts about hydrostatics and pneumatics are difficult to the multitude, or that mental efforts in regions of political economy or ethical philosophy are beyond ordinary reach, one would only pronounce an evident truism, an absurd platitude. But let any man take any subject fully within his own mind's scope, and strive to think about it steadily, with some attempt at calculation as to results. The chances are his mind will fly off, will-he-nill-he, to some utterly different matter. When he wishes to debate within himself that question of his wife's temper, he will find himself considering whether he may not judiciously give away half a dozen pairs of those old boots; or when it behoves him to decide whether it shall be manure and a green crop, or a fallow season and then grass seeds, he cannot keep himself from inward inquiry as to the meaning of that peculiar smile on Mrs. Walker's face when he shook hands with her last night.

Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday can, no doubt, command their thoughts. If many men could do so, there would be many Lord Broughams and many Professor Faradays.

At the present moment Herbert Fitzgerald had no right to consider himself as following in the steps of either one or other of these great men. He wished to think about his father's circumstances, but his mind would fly off to Clara Desmond and her perfections. And thus, though he remained there for half an hour, with his back to the fire and his hands in his pockets, his deliberations had done him no good whatever,—had rather done him harm, seeing that he had only warmed himself into a firmer determination to go on with what he was doing. And then he went to his mother.

She kissed him, and spoke very tenderly, nay affectionately, about Clara; but even she, even his mother, did not speak joyously; and she also said something about the difficulty of providing a maintenance for a married son. Then to her he burst forth, and spoke somewhat loudly.

"I cannot understand all this, mother. If either you or my father know any reason why I should be treated differently from other sons, you ought to tell me; not leave me to grope about in the dark."

"But, my boy, we both think that no son was ever entitled to more consideration, or to kinder or more liberal treatment."

"Why do I hear all this, then, about the difficulty of my marrying? Or if I hear so much, why do I not hear more? I know pretty well, I believe, what is my father's income."

"If you do not, he would tell you for the asking."

"And I know that I must be the heir to it, whatever it is,—not that that feeling would make any difference in my dealings with him, not the least. And, under these circumstances, I cannot conceive why he and you should look coldly upon my marriage."

"I look coldly on it, Herbert!"

"Do you not? Do you not tell me that there will be no income for me? If that is to be so; if that really is the case; if the property has so dwindled away, or become embarrassed—"

"Oh, Herbert! there never was a man less likely to injure his son's property than your father."

"I do not mean that, mother. Let him do what he likes with it, I should not upbraid him, even in my thoughts. But if it be embarrassed; if it has dwindled away; if there be any reason why I should not regard myself as altogether untrammelled with regard to money, he ought to tell me. I cannot accuse myself of expensive tastes."

"Dearest Herbert, nobody accuses you of anything."

"But I do desire to marry; and now I have engaged myself, and will not break from my engagement, unless it be shown to me that I am bound in honour to do so. Then, indeed—"

"Oh, Herbert! I do not know what you mean."

"I mean this: that I expect that Clara shall be received as my wife with open arms—"

"And so she shall be if she comes."

"Or else that some reason should be given me why she should not come. As to income, something must be done, I suppose. If the means at our disposal are less than I have been taught to believe, I at any rate will not complain. But they cannot, I think, be so small as to afford any just reason why I should not marry."

"Your father, you see, is ill, and one can hardly talk to him fully upon such matters at present."

"Then I will speak to Somers. He, at any rate, must know how the property is circumstanced, and I suppose he will not hesitate to tell me."

"I don't think Somers can tell you anything."

"Then what is it? As for the London estate, mother, that is all moonshine. What if it were gone altogether? It may be that it is that which vexes my father; but if so, it is a monomania."

"Oh, my boy, do not use such a word!"

"You know what I mean. If any doubt as to that is creating this despondency, it only shows that though we are bound to respect and relieve my father's state of mind, we are not at all bound to share it. What would it really matter, mother, if that place in London were washed away by the Thames? There is more than enough left for us all, unless—"

"Ah, Herbert, that is it."

"Then I will go to Somers, and he shall tell me. My father's interest in this property cannot have been involved without his knowledge; and circumstanced as we and my father are, he is bound to tell me."

"If there be anything within his knowledge to tell, he will tell it."

"And if there be nothing within his knowledge, then I can only look upon all this as a disease on my poor father's part. I will do all I can to comfort him in it; but it would be madness to destroy my whole happiness because he labours under delusions."

Lady Fitzgerald did not know what further to say. She half believed that Sir Thomas did labour under some delusion; but then she half believed also that he had upon his mind a sorrow, terribly real, which was in no sort delusive. Under such circumstances, how could she advise her son? Instead of advising him, she caressed him.

"But I may claim this from you, mother, that if Somers tells me nothing which ought to make me break my word to Clara, you will receive her as your daughter. You will promise me that, will you not?"

Lady Fitzgerald did promise, warmly; assuring him that she already dearly loved Clara Desmond, that she would delight in having such a daughter-in-law, and that she would go to her to welcome her as such as soon as ever he should bid her do so. With this Herbert was somewhat comforted, and immediately started on his search after Mr. Somers.

I do not think that any person is to be found, as a rule, attached to English estates whose position is analogous to that of an Irish agent. And there is a wide misunderstanding in England as to these Irish functionaries. I have attempted, some pages back, to describe the national delinquencies of a middleman, or profit-renter. In England we are apt to think that the agents on Irish properties are to be charged with similar shortcomings. This I can assert to be a great mistake; and I believe that, as a class, the agents on Irish properties do their duty in a manner beneficial to the people.

That there are, or were, many agents who were also middlemen, or profit-renters, and that in this second position they were a nuisance to the country, is no doubt true. But they were no nuisance in their working capacity as agents. That there are some bad agents there can be no doubt, as there are also some bad shoemakers.

The duties towards an estate which an agent performs in Ireland are, I believe, generally shared in England between three or four different persons. The family lawyer performs part, the estate steward performs part, and the landlord himself performs part;—as to small estates, by far the greater part.

In Ireland, let the estate be ever so small—eight hundred a-year, we will say—all the working of the property is managed by the agent. It is he who knows the tenants, and the limits of their holdings; it is he who arranges leases, and allows—or much more generally does not allow—for improvements. He takes the rent, and gives the order for the ejection of tenants if he cannot get it.

I am far from saying that it would not be well that much of this should be done by the landlord himself; that all of it should be so done on a small property. But it is done by agents; and, as a rule, is, I think, done honestly.

Mr. Somers was agent to the Castle Richmond property, and as he took to himself as such five per cent, on all rents paid, and as he was agent also to sundry other small properties in the neighbourhood, he succeeded in making a very snug income. He had also an excellent house on the estate, and was altogether very much thought of; on the whole, perhaps, more than was Sir Thomas. But in this respect it was probable that Herbert might soon take the lead.

He was a large, heavy, consequential man, always very busy, as though aware of being one of the most important wheels that kept the Irish clock agoing; but he was honest, kind-hearted in the main, true as steel to his employers, and good-humoured—as long as he was allowed to have his own way. In these latter days he had been a little soured by Herbert's interference, and had even gone so far as to say that, "in his humble judgment, Mr. Fitzgerald was wrong in doing"—so and so. But he generally called him Herbert, was always kind to him, and in his heart of hearts loved him dearly. But that was a matter of course, for had he not been agent to the estate before Herbert was born?

Immediately after his interview with his mother, Mr. Herbert rode over to Mr. Somers's house, and there found him sitting alone in his office. He dashed immediately into the subject that had brought him there. "I have come, Mr. Somers," said he, "to ask you a question about the property."

"About the Castle Richmond property?" said Mr. Somers, rather surprised by his visitor's manner.

"Yes; you know in what a state my poor father now is."

"I know that Sir Thomas is not very well. I am sorry to say that it is long since he has been quite himself."

"There is something that is preying upon his spirits."

"I am afraid so, Herbert."

"Then tell me fairly, Mr. Somers, do you know what it is?"

"Not—in—the least. I have no conception whatever, and never have had any. I know no cause for trouble that should disquiet him."

"There is nothing wrong about the property?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Who has the title-deeds?"

"They are at Coutts's."

"You are sure of that?"

"Well; as sure as a man can be of a thing that he does not see. I have never seen them there; indeed, have never seen them at all; but I feel no doubt in my own mind as to their being at the bankers."

"Is there much due on the estate?"

"Very little. No estate in county Cork has less on it. Miss Letty has her income, and when Poulnasherry was bought,—that townland lying just under Berryhill, where the gorse cover is, part of the purchase money was left on mortgage. That is still due; but the interest is less than a hundred a-year."

"And that is all?"

"All that I know of."

"Could there be encumbrances without your knowing it?"

"I think not. I think it is impossible. Of all men your father is the last to encumber his estates in a manner unknown to his agent, and to pay off the interest in secret."

"What is it, then, Mr. Somers?"

"I do not know." And then Mr. Somers paused. "Of course you have heard of a visit he received the other day from a stranger?"

"Yes; I heard of it."

"People about here are talking of it. And he—that man, with a younger man—they are still living in Cork, at a little drinking-house in South Main Street. The younger man has been seen down here twice."

"But what can that mean?"

"I do not know. I tell you everything that I do know."

Herbert exacted a promise from him that he would continue to tell him everything which he might learn, and then rode back to Castle Richmond.

"The whole thing must be a delusion," he said to himself; and resolved that there was no valid reason why he should make Clara unhappy by any reference to the circumstance.



CHAPTER XIII

MR. MOLLETT RETURNS TO SOUTH MAIN STREET

I must now take my readers back to that very unsavoury public-house in South Main Street, Cork, in which, for the present, lived Mr. Matthew Mollett and his son Abraham.

I need hardly explain to a discerning public that Mr. Matthew Mollett was the gentleman who made that momentous call at Castle Richmond, and flurried all that household.

"Drat it!" said Mrs. Jones to herself on that day, as soon as she had regained the solitude of her own private apartment, after having taken a long look at Mr. Mollett in the hall. On that occasion she sat down on a low chair in the middle of the room, put her two hands down substantially on her two knees, gave a long sigh, and then made the above exclamation,—"Drat it!"

Mrs. Jones was still thoroughly a Saxon, although she had lived for so many years among the Celts. But it was only when she was quite alone that she allowed herself the indulgence of so peculiarly Saxon a mode of expressing either her surprise or indignation.

"It's the same man," she said to herself, "as come that day, as sure as eggs;" and then for five minutes she maintained her position, cogitating. "And he's like the other fellow too," she continued. "Only, somehow he's not like him." And then another pause. "And yet he is; only it can't be; and he ain't just so tall, and he's older like." And then, still meditating, Mrs. Jones kept her position for full ten minutes longer; at the end of which time she got up and shook herself. She deserved to be bracketed with Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday, for she had kept her mind intent on her subject, and had come to a resolution. "I won't say nothing to nobody, noways," was the expression of her mind's purpose. "Only I'll tell missus as how he was the man as come to Wales." And she did tell so much to her mistress—as we have before learned.

Mr. Mollett had gone down from Cork to Castle Richmond in one of those delightful Irish vehicles called a covered car. An inside-covered car is an equipage much given to shaking, seeing that it has a heavy top like a London cab, and that it runs on a pair of wheels. It is entered from behind, and slopes backwards. The sitter sits sideways, between a cracked window on one side and a cracked doorway on the other; and as a draught is always going in at the ear next the window, and out at the ear next the door, it is about as cold and comfortless a vehicle for winter as may be well imagined. Now the journey from Castle Richmond to Cork has to be made right across the Boggeragh Mountains. It is over twenty miles Irish; and the road is never very good. Mr. Mollett, therefore, was five hours in the covered car on his return journey; and as he had stopped for lunch at Kanturk, and had not hurried himself at that meal, it was very dark and very cold when he reached the house in South Main Street.

I think I have explained that Mr. Mollett senior was not absolutely a drunkard; but nevertheless, he was not averse to spirits in cold weather, and on this journey had warmed himself with whiskey once or twice on the road. He had found a shebeen house when he crossed the Nad river, and another on the mountaintop, and a third at the point where the road passes near the village of Blarney, and at all these convenient resting-spots Mr. Mollett had endeavoured to warm himself.

There are men who do not become absolutely drunk, but who do become absolutely cross when they drink more than is good for them; and of such men Mr. Mollett was one. What with the cold air, and what with the whisky, and what with the jolting, Mr. Mollett was very cross when he reached the Kanturk Hotel so that he only cursed the driver instead of giving him the expected gratuity.

"I'll come to yer honour in the morning," said the driver.

"You may go to the devil in the morning," answered Mr. Mollett; and this was the first intimation of his return which reached the ears of his expectant son.

"There's the governor," said Aby, who was then flirting with Miss O'Dwyer in the bar. "Somebody's been stroking him the wrong way of the 'air."

The charms of Miss O'Dwyer in these idle days had been too much for the prudence of Mr. Abraham Mollett; by far too much, considering that in his sterner moments his ambition led him to contemplate a match, with a young lady of much higher rank in life. But wine, which "inspires us" and fires us

"With courage, love, and joy,"

had inspired him with courage to forget his prudence, and with love for the lovely Fanny.

"Now, nonsense, Mr. Aby," she had said to him a few minutes before the wheels of the covered car were heard in South Main Street. "You know you main nothing of the sort."

"By 'eavens, Fanny, I mean every word of it; may this drop be my poison if I don't. This piece of business here keeps me and the governor hon and hoff like, and will do for some weeks perhaps; but when that's done, honly say the word, and I'll make you Mrs. M. Isn't that fair, now?"

"But, Mr. Aby—"

"Never mind the mister, Fan, between friends."

"La! I couldn't call you Aby without it; could I?"

"Try, my darling."

"Well—Aby—there now. It does sound so uppish, don't it? But tell me this now; what is the business that you and the old gentleman is about down at Kanturk?"

Abraham Mollett hereupon had put one finger to his nose, and then winked his eye.

"If you care about me, as you say you do, you wouldn't be shy of just telling me as much as that."

"That's business, Fan; and business and love don't hamalgamate like whisky and sugar."

"Then I'll tell you what it is, Mr. Aby; I don't want to have anything to do with a man who won't show his rispect by telling me his sacrets."

"That's it, is it, Fan?"

"I suppose you think I can't keep a sacret. You think I'd be telling father, I suppose."

"Well, it's about some money that's due to him down there."

"Who from?"

"He expects to get it from some of those Fitzgerald people."

In saying so much Mr. Mollett the younger had not utterly abandoned all prudence. He knew very well that the car-driver and others would be aware that his father had been to Castle Richmond; and that it was more than probable that either he or his father would have to make further visits there. Indeed, he had almost determined that he would go down to the baronet himself. Under these circumstances it might be well that some pretext for these visits should be given.

"Which Fitzgerald, Mr. Aby? Is it the Hap House young man?"

"Hap House. I never heard of such a place. These people live at Castle Richmond."

"Oh—h—h! If Mr. Mollett have money due there, sure he have a good mark to go upon. Why, Sir Thomas is about the richest man in these parts."

"And who is this other man; at 'Appy—what is it you call his place?"

"Hap House. Oh, it's he is the thorough-going young gentleman. Only they say he's a leetle too fast. To my mind, Mr. Owen is the finest-looking man to be seen anywheres in the county Cork."

"He's a flame of yours, is he, Fan?"

"I don't know what you main by a flame. But there's not a girl in Cork but what likes the glance of his eye. They do say that he'd have Lady Clara Desmond; only there ain't no money."

"And what's he to these other people?"

"Cousin, I believe; or hardly so much as that, I'm thinking. But all the same if anything was to happen to young Mr. Herbert, it would all go to him."

"It would, would it?"

"So people say."

"Mr. 'Erbert is the son of the old cock at Castle Richmond, isn't he?"

"Just so. He's the young cock; he, he, he!"

"And if he was to be—nowhere like; not his father's son at all, for instance, it would all go to this 'andsome 'Appy 'Ouse man; would it?"

"Every shilling, they say; house, title, and all."

"Hum," said Mr. Abraham Mollett; and he began again to calculate his family chances. Perhaps, after all, this handsome young man who was at present too poor to marry his noble lady love might be the more liberal man to deal with. But then any dealings with him would kill the golden goose at once. All would depend on the size of the one egg which might be extracted.

He certainly felt, however, that this Fitzgerald family arrangement was one which it was beneficial that he should know; but he felt also that it would be by no means necessary at present to communicate the information to his father. He put it by in his mind, regarding it as a fund on which he might draw if occasion should require. It might perhaps be pleasant for him to make the acquaintance of this 'andsome young Fitzgerald of 'Appy 'Ouse.

"And now, Fan, my darling, give us a kiss," said he, getting up from his seat.

"'Deed and I won't," said Fan, withdrawing herself among the bottles and glasses.

"'Deed and you shall, my love," said Aby, pertinaciously, as he prepared to follow her through the brittle ware.

"Hu—sh—be aisy now. There's Tom. He's ears for everything, and eyes like a cat."

"What do I care for Tom?"

"And father'll be coming in. Be aisy, I tell you. I won't now, Mr. Aby; and that's enough. You'll break the bottle."

"D—-the bottle. That's smashed hany way. Come, Fan, what's a kiss among friends?"

"Cock you up with kisses, indeed! how bad you are for dainties! There; do you hear that? That's the old gentleman;" and then, as the voice of Mr. Mollett senior was heard abusing the car-driver, Miss O'Dwyer smoothed her apron, put her hands to her side hair, and removed the debris of the broken bottle.

"Well, governor," said Aby, "how goes it?"

"How goes it, indeed! It goes pretty well, I dare say, in here, where you can sit drinking toddy all the evening, and doing nothing."

"Why, what on hearth would you have me be doing? Better here than paddling about in the streets, isn't it?"

"If you could do a stroke of work now and then to earn your bread, it might be better." Now Aby knew from experience that whenever his father talked to him about earning his bread, he was half drunk and whole cross. So he made no immediate reply on that point.

"You are cold, I suppose, governor, and had better get a bit of something to eat, and a little tea."

"And put my feet in hot water, and tallow my nose, and go to bed, hadn't I? Miss O'Dwyer, I'll trouble you to mix me a glass of brandy-punch. Of all the roads I ever travelled, that's the longest and hardest to get over. Dashed, if I didn't begin to think I'd never be here." And so saying he flung himself into a chair, and put up his feet on the two hobs.

There was a kettle on one of them, which the young lady pushed a little nearer to the hot coals, in order to show that the water should be boiling; and as she did so Aby gave her a wink over his father's shoulder, by way of conveying to her an intimation that "the governor was a little cut," or in other language tipsy, and that the brandy-punch should be brewed with a discreet view to past events of the same description. All which Miss O'Dwyer perfectly understood.

It may easily be conceived that Aby was especially anxious to receive tidings of what had been done this day down in the Kanturk neighbourhood. He had given his views to his father, as will be remembered; and though Mr. Mollett senior had not professed himself as absolutely agreeing with them, he had nevertheless owned that he was imbued with the necessity of taking some great step. He had gone down to take this great step, and Aby was very anxious to know how it had been taken.

When the father and son were both sober, or when the son was tipsy, or when the father was absolutely drunk—an accident which would occur occasionally, the spirit and pluck of the son was in the ascendant. He at such times was the more masterful of the two, and generally contrived, either by persuasion or bullying, to govern his governor. But when it did happen that Mollett pere was half drunk and cross with drink, then, at such moments, Mollett fils had to acknowledge to himself that his governor was not to be governed.

And, indeed, at such moments his governor could be very disagreeable—could say nasty, bitter things, showing very little parental affection, and make himself altogether bad society, not only to his son, but to his son's companions also. Now it appeared to Aby that his father was at present in this condition.

He had only to egg him on to further drinking, and the respectable gentleman would become stupid, noisy, soft, and affectionate. But then, when in that state, he would blab terribly. It was much with the view of keeping him from that state, that under the present circumstances the son remained with the father. To do the father justice, it may be asserted that he knew his own weakness, and that, knowing it, he had abstained from heavy drinking since he had taken in hand this great piece of diplomacy.

"But you must be hungry, governor; won't you take a bit of something?"

"Shall we get you a steek, Mr. Mollett?" asked Miss O'Dwyer, hospitably, "or just a bit of bacon with a couple of eggs or so? It wouldn't be a minute, you know?"

"Your eggs are all addled and bad," said Mr. Mollett; "and as for a beef-steak, it's my belief there isn't such a thing in all Ireland." After which civil speech, Miss O'Dwyer winked at Aby, as much as to say, "You see what a state he's in."

"Have a bit of buttered toast and a cup of tea, governor," suggested the son.

"I'm d—-if I do," replied the father. "You're become uncommon fond of tea of late—that is, for other people. I don't see you take much of it yourself."

"A cup of tay is the thing to warm one afther such a journey as you've had; that's certain, Mr. Mollett," said Fanny.

"Them's your ideas about warming, are they, my dear?" said the elderly gentleman. "Do you come and sit down on my knee here for a few minutes or so, and that'd warm me better than all the 'tay' in the world."

Aby showed by his face that he was immeasurably disgusted by the iniquitous coarseness of this overture. Miss O'Dwyer, however, looking at the gentleman's age, and his state as regarded liquor, passed it over as of no moment whatsoever. So that when, in the later part of the evening, Aby expressed to that young lady his deep disgust, she merely said, "Oh, bother; what matters an old man like that?"

And then, when they were at this pass, Mr. Dwyer came in. He did not interfere much with his daughter in the bar room, but he would occasionally take a dandy of punch there, and ask how things were going on indoors. He was a fat, thickset man, with a good-humoured face, a flattened nose, and a great aptitude for stable occupations. He was part owner of the Kanturk car, as has been before said, and was the proprietor of sundry other cars, open cars and covered cars, plying for hire in the streets of Cork.

"I hope the mare took your honour well down Kanturk and back again," said he, addressing his elder customer with a chuck of his head intended for a bow.

"I don't know what you call well," said Mr. Mollett "She hadn't a leg to stand upon for the last three hours."

"Not a leg to stand upon! Faix, then, and it's she'd have the four good legs if she travelled every inch of the way from Donagh-a-Dee to Ti-vora," to which distance Mr. O'Dwyer specially referred as being supposed to be the longest known in Ireland.

"She may be able to do that; but I'm blessed if she's fit to go to Kanturk and back."

"She's done the work, anyhow," said Mr. O'Dwyer, who evidently thought that this last argument was conclusive.

"And a precious time she's been about it. Why, my goodness, it would have been better for me to have walked it. As Sir Thomas said to me—"

"What! did you see Sir Thomas Fitzgerald?"

Hereupon Aby gave his father a nudge; but the father either did not appreciate the nudge, or did not choose to obey it.

"Yes; I did see him. Why shouldn't I?"

"Only they do say he's hard to get to speak to now-a-days. He's not over well, you know, these years back."

"Well or ill he'll see me, I take it, when I go that distance to ask him. There's no doubt about that; is there, Aby?"

"Can't say, I'm sure, not knowing the gentleman," said Aby.

"We holds land from Sir Thomas, we do; that is, me and my brother Mick, and a better landlord ain't nowhere," said Mr. O'Dwyer.

"Oh, you're one of the tenants, are you? The rents are paid pretty well, ain't they?"

"To the day," said Mr. O'Dwyer, proudly.

"What would you think, now—" Mr. Mollett was continuing; but Aby interrupted him somewhat violently.

"Hold your confounded stupid tongue, will you, you old jolterhead;" and on this occasion he put his hand on his father's shoulder and shook him.

"Who are you calling jolterhead? Who do you dare to speak to in that way? you impudent young cub you. Am I to ask your leave when I want to open my mouth?"

Aby had well known that his father in his present mood would not stand the manner in which the interruption was attempted. Nor did he wish to quarrel before the publican and his daughter. But anything was better than allowing his father to continue in the strain in which he was talking.

"You are talking of things which you don't hunderstand, and about people you don't know," said Aby. "You've had a drop too much on the road too, and you 'ad better go to bed."

Old Mollett turned round to strike at his son; but even in his present state he was somewhat quelled by Aby's eye. Aby was keenly alive to the necessity for prudence on his father's part, though he was by no means able to be prudent himself.

"Talking of things which I don't understand, am I?" said the old man. "That's all you know about it. Give me another glass of that brandy toddy, my dear."

But Aby's look had quelled, or at any rate silenced him; and though he did advance another stage in tipsiness before they succeeded in getting him off to bed, he said no more about Sir Thomas Fitzgerald or his Castle Richmond secrets.

Nevertheless, he had said enough to cause suspicion. One would not have imagined, on looking at Mr. O'Dwyer, that he was a very crafty person, or one of whose finesse in affairs of the world it would be necessary to stand much in awe. He seemed to be thick, and stolid, and incapable of deep inquiry; but, nevertheless, he was as fond of his neighbour's affairs as another, and knew as much about the affairs of his neighbours at Kanturk as any man in the county Cork.

He himself was a Kanturk man, and his wife had been a Kanturk woman; no less a person, indeed, than the sister of Father Bernard M'Carthy, rest her soul;—for it was now at peace, let us all hope. She had been dead these ten years; but he did not the less keep up his connection with the old town, or with his brother-in-law the priest, or with the affairs of the persons there adjacent; especially, we may say, those of his landlord, Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, under whom he still held a small farm, in conjunction with his brother Mick, the publican at Kanturk.

"What's all that about Sir Thomas?" said he to his daughter in a low voice as soon as the Molletts had left the bar.

"Well, I don't just know," said Fanny. She was a good daughter, and loved her father, whose indoor affairs she kept tight enough for him. But she had hardly made up her mind as yet whether or no it would suit her to be Mrs. Abraham Mollett. Should such be her destiny, it might be as well for her not to talk about her husband's matters.

"Is it true that the old man did see Sir Thomas to-day?"

"You heard what passed, father; but I suppose it is true."

"And the young 'un has been down to Kanturk two or three times. What can the like of them have to do with Sir Thomas?"

To this Fanny could only say that she knew nothing about it, which in the main was true. Aby, indeed, had said that his father had gone down to collect money that was due to him; but then Fanny did not believe all that Aby said.

"I don't like that young 'un at all," continued Mr. O'Dwyer. "He's a nasty, sneaking fellow, as cares for no one but his own belly. I'm not over fond of the old 'un neither."

"They is both free enough with their money, father," said the prudent daughter.

"Oh, they is welcome in the way of business, in course. But look here, Fan; don't you have nothing to say to that Aby; do you hear me?"

"Who? I? ha, ha, ha!"

"It's all very well laughing; but mind what I says, for I won't have it. He is a nasty, sneaking, good-for-nothing fellow, besides being a heretic. What'd your uncle Bernard say?"

"Oh! for the matter of that, if I took a liking to a fellow I shouldn't ask Uncle Bernard what he had to say. If he didn't like it, I suppose he might do the other thing."

"Well, I won't have it. Do you hear that?"

"Laws, father, what nonsense you do talk. Who's thinking about the man? He comes here for what he wants to ate and dhrink, and I suppose the house is free to him as another. If not we'd betther just shut up the front door." After which she tossed herself up and began to wipe her glasses in a rather dignified manner.

Mr. O'Dwyer sat smoking his pipe and chewing the cud of his reflections. "They ain't afther no good, I'm sure of that." In saying which, however, he referred to the doings of the Molletts down at Kanturk, rather than to any amatory proceedings which might have taken place between the young man and his daughter.

On the following morning Mr. Mollett senior awoke with a racking headache. My belief is, that when men pay this penalty for drinking, they are partly absolved from other penalties. The penalties on drink are various. I mean those which affect the body, exclusive of those which affect the mind. There are great red swollen noses, very disagreeable both to the wearer and his acquaintances; there are morning headaches, awful to be thought of; there are sick stomachs, by which means the offender escapes through a speedy purgatory; there are sallow cheeks, sunken eyes, and shaking shoulders; there are very big bellies, and no bellies at all; and there is delirium tremens. For the most part a man escapes with one of these penalties. If he have a racking headache, his general health does not usually suffer so much as though he had endured no such immediate vengeance from violated nature. Young Aby when he drank had no headaches; but his eye was bloodshot, his cheek bloated, and his hand shook. His father, on the other hand, could not raise his head after a debauch; but when that was gone, all ill results of his imprudence seemed to have vanished.

At about noon on that day Aby was sitting by his father's bedside. Up to that time it had been quite impossible to induce him to speak a word. He could only groan, swallow soda-water with "hairs of the dog that bit him" in it and lay with his head between his arms. But soon after noon Aby did induce him to say a word or two. The door of the room was closely shut, the little table was strewed with soda-water bottles and last drops of small goes of brandy. Aby himself had a cigar in his mouth, and on the floor near the bed-foot was a plate with a cold, greasy mutton chop, Aby having endeavoured in vain to induce his father to fortify exhausted nature by eating. The appearance of the room and the air within it would not have been pleasant to fastidious people. But then the Molletts were not fastidious.

"You did see Sir Thomas, then?"

"Yes, I did see him. I wish, Aby, you'd let me lie just for another hour or so. I'd be all right then. The jolting of that confounded car has nearly shaken my head to pieces."

But Aby was by no means inclined to be so merciful. The probability was that he would be able to pump his father more thoroughly in his present weak state than he might do in a later part of the afternoon; so he persevered.

"But, governor, it's so important we should know what we're about. Did you see any one else except himself?"

"I saw them all, I believe, except her. I was told she never showed in the morning; but I'm blessed if I don't think I saw the skirt of her dress through an open door. I'll tell you what, Aby, I could not stand that."

"Perhaps, father, after hall it'll be better I should manage the business down there."

"I believe there won't be much more to manage. But, Aby, do leave me now, there's a good fellow; then in another hour or so I'll get up, and we'll have it all out."

"When you're out in the open air and comfortable, it won't be fair to be bothering you with business. Come, governor, ten minutes will tell the whole of it if you'll only mind your eye. How did you begin with Sir Thomas?" And then Aby went to the door, opened it very gently, and satisfied himself that there was nobody listening on the landing-place.

Mr. Mollett sighed wearily, but he knew that his only hope was to get this job of talking over. "What was it you were saying, Aby?"

"How did you begin with Sir Thomas?"

"How did I begin with him? Let me see. Oh! I just told him who I was; and then he turned away and looked down under the fire like, and I thought he was going to make a faint of it."

"I didn't suppose he would be very glad to see you, governor."

"When I saw how badly he took it, and how wretched he seemed, I almost made up my mind to go away and never trouble him any more."

"You did, did you?"

"And just to take what he'd choose to give me."

"Oh, them's your hideas, hare they? Then I tell you what; I shall just take the matter into my own hands hentirely. You have no more 'eart than a chicken."

"Ah, that's very well, Aby; but you did not see him."

"Do you think that would make hany difference? When a man's a job of work to do, 'e should do it. Them's my notions. Do you think a man like that is to go and hact in that way, and then not pay for it? Whose wife is she, I'd like to know?"

There was a tone of injured justice about Aby which almost roused the father to participate in the son's indignation. "Well; I did my best, though the old gentleman was in such a taking," said he.

"And what was your best? Come, out with it at once."

"I—m-m. I—just told him who I was, you know."

"I guess he understood that quite well."

"And then I said things weren't going exactly well with me."

"You shouldn't have said that at all. What matters that to him? What you hask for you hask for because you're able to demand it. That's the ground for hus to take, and by—-I'll take it too. There shall be no 'alf-measures with me."

"And then I told him—just what we were agreed, you know."

"That we'd go snacks in the whole concern?"

"I didn't exactly say that."

"Then what the devil did you say?"

"Why, I told him that, looking at what the property was, twelve hundred pounds wasn't much."

"I should think not either."

"And that if his son was to be allowed to have it all—"

"A bastard, you know, keeping it away from the proper heir." It may almost be doubted whether, in so speaking, Aby did not almost think that he himself had a legitimate right to inherit the property at Castle Richmond.

"He must look to pay up handsome."

"But did you say what 'andsome meant?"

"Well, I didn't—not then. He fell about upon the table like, and I wasn't quite sure he wouldn't make a die of it; and then heaven knows what might have happened to me."

"Psha; you 'as no pluck, governor."

"I'll tell you what it is, Aby, I ain't so sure you'd have such an uncommon deal of pluck yourself."

"Well, I'll try, at any rate."

"It isn't such a pleasant thing to see an old gentleman in that state. And what would happen if he chose to ring the bell and order the police to take me? Have you ever thought of that?"

"Gammon."

"But it isn't gammon. A word from him would put me into quod, and there I should be for the rest of my days. But what would you care for that?" And poor Mr. Mollett senior shook under the bedclothes as his attention became turned to this very dreary aspect of his affairs. "Pluck, indeed! I'll tell you what it is, Aby, I often wonder at my own pluck."

"Psha! Would'nt a word from you split upon him, and upon her, and upon the young 'un, and ruin 'em? Or a word from me either, for the matter of that?"

Mr. Mollett senior shook again. He repented now, as he had already done twenty times, that he had taken that son of his into his confidence.

"And what on hearth did you say to him?" continued Aby.

"Well, not much more then; at least, not very much more. There was a good deal of words, but they didn't seem to lead to much, except this, just to make him understand that he must come down handsome."

"And there was nothing done about Hemmiline?"

"No," said the father, rather shortly.

"If that was settled, that would be the clincher. There would be no further trouble to nobody then. It would be all smooth sailing for your life, governor, and lots of tin."

"I tell you what it is, Aby, you may just drop that, for I won't have the young lady bothered about it, nor yet the young lady's father."

"You won't, won't you?"

"No, I won't; so there's an end of it."

"I suppose I may pay my distresses to any young lady if I think fitting."

"And have yourself kicked into the ditch."

"I know too much for kicking, governor."

"They shall know as much as you do, and more too, if you go on with that. There's a measure in all things. I won't have it done, so I tell you." And the father turned his face round to the wall.

This was by no means the end of the conversation, though we need not verbatim go through any more of it. It appeared that old Mollett had told Sir Thomas that his permanent silence could be purchased by nothing short of a settled "genteel" income for himself and his son, no absolute sum having been mentioned; and that Sir Thomas had required a fortnight for his answer, which answer was to be conveyed to Mr. Mollett verbally at the end of that time. It was agreed that Mr. Mollett should repeat his visit to Castle Richmond on that day fortnight.

"In the mean time I'll go down and freshen the old gentleman up a bit," said Aby, as he left his father's bedroom.



CHAPTER XIV

THE REJECTED SUITOR

After the interview between Herbert and his mother, it became an understood thing at Castle Richmond that he was engaged to Lady Clara. Sir Thomas raised no further objection, although it was clear to all the immediate family that he was by no means gratified at his son's engagement. Very little more passed between Sir Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald on the subject. He merely said that he would consider the question of his son's income, and expressed a hope, or perhaps an opinion rather than a hope, that the marriage would not take place quite immediately.

Under these circumstances, Herbert hardly spoke further to his father upon the matter. He certainly did feel sore that he should be so treated—that he should be made to understand that there was a difficulty, but that the difficulty could not be explained to him. No absolute position was however made, and he would not therefore complain. As to money, he would say nothing till something should be said to him.

With his mother, however, the matter was different. She had said that she would welcome Clara; and she did so. Immediately after speaking to Sir Thomas she drove over to Desmond Court, and said soft, sweet things to Clara in her most winning way;—said soft things also to the countess, who received them very graciously; took Clara home to Castle Richmond for that night, somewhat to the surprise and much to the gratification of Herbert, who found her sitting slily with the other girls when he came in before dinner; and arranged for her to make a longer visit after the interval of a week or two. Herbert, therefore, was on thoroughly good terms with his mother, and did enjoy some of the delights which he had promised himself.

With his sisters, also, and especially with Emmeline, he was once more in a good humour. To her he made ample apology for his former crossness, and received ample absolution. "I was so harassed," he said, "by my father's manner that I hardly knew what I was doing. And even now, when I think of his evident dislike to the marriage, it nearly drives me wild." The truth of all which Emmeline sadly acknowledged. How could any of them talk of their father except in a strain of sadness?

All these things did not happen in the drawing-room at Castle Richmond without also being discussed in the kitchen. It was soon known over the house that Master Herbert was to marry Lady Clara, and, indeed, there was no great pretence of keeping it secret. The girls told the duchess, as they called Mrs. Jones—of course in confidence—but Mrs. Jones knew what such confidence meant, especially as the matter was more than once distinctly alluded to by her ladyship; and thus the story was told, in confidence, to everybody in the establishment, and then repeated by them, in confidence also, to nearly everybody out of it.

Ill news, they say, flies fast; and this news, which, going in that direction, became ill, soon flew to Hap House.

"So young Fitzgerald and the divine Clara are to hit it off, are they?" said Captain Donnellan, who had driven over from Buttevant barracks to breakfast at Hap House on a hunting-morning.

There were other men present, more intimate friends of Owen than this captain, who had known of Owen's misfortune in that quarter; and a sign was made to Donnellan to bid him drop the subject; but it was too late.

"Who? my cousin Herbert," said Owen, sharply. "Have you heard of this, Barry?"

"Well," said Barry, "those sort of things are always being said, you know. I did hear something of it somewhere. But I can't say I thought much about it." And then the subject was dropped during that morning's breakfast. They all went to the hunt, and in the course of the day Owen contrived to learn that the report was well founded.

That evening, as the countess and her daughter were sitting together over the fire, the grey-headed old butler brought in a letter upon an old silver salver, saying, "For Lady Clara, if you please, my lady."

The countess not unnaturally thought that the despatch had come from Castle Richmond, and smiled graciously as Clara put out her hand for the missive. Lady Desmond again let her eyes drop upon the book which she was reading, as though to show that she was by far too confiding a mamma to interfere in any correspondence between her daughter and her daughter's lover. At the moment Lady Clara had been doing nothing. Her work was, indeed, on her lap, and her workbox was at her elbow; but her thoughts had been far away; far away as regards idea, though not so as to absolute locality; for in her mind she was walking beneath those elm-trees, and a man was near her, with a horse following at his heels.

"The messenger is to wait for an answer, my lady," said the old butler, with a second nod, which on this occasion was addressed to Clara; and then the man withdrew.

Lady Clara blushed ruby red up to the roots of her hair when her eyes fell on the address of the letter, for she knew it to be in the handwriting of Owen Fitzgerald. Perhaps the countess from the corner of her eye may have observed some portion of her daughter's blushes; but if so, she said nothing, attributing them to Clara's natural bashfulness in her present position. "She will get over it soon," the countess may probably have said to herself.

Clara was indecisive, disturbed in her mind, and wretched. Owen had sent her other letters; but they had been brought to her surreptitiously, had been tendered to her in secret, and had always been returned by her unopened. She had not told her mother of these; at least, not purposely or at the moment: but she had been at no trouble to conceal the facts; and when the countess had once asked, she freely told her what had happened with an absence of any confusion which had quite put Lady Desmond at her ease. But this letter was brought to her in the most open manner, and an answer to it openly demanded.

She turned it round slowly in her hand, and then looking up, said, "Mamma, this is from Owen Fitzgerald; what had I better do with it?"

"From Owen Fitzgerald! Are you sure?"

"Yes, mamma." And then the countess had also to consider what steps under such circumstances had better be taken. In the mean time Clara held out her hand, tendering the letter to her mother.

"You had better open it, my dear, and read it. No doubt it must be answered." Lady Desmond felt that now there could be no danger from Owen Fitzgerald. Indeed she thought that there was not a remembrance of him left in her daughter's bosom; that the old love, such baby-love as there had been, had vanished, quite swept out of that little heart by this new love of a brighter sort. But then Lady Desmond knew nothing of her daughter.

So instructed, Clara broke the seal, and read the letter, which ran thus:—

"Hap House, February, 184-.

"My promised Love,

"For let what will happen, such you are; I have this morning heard tidings which, if true, will go far to drive me to despair. But I will not believe them from any lips save your own. I have heard that you are engaged to marry Herbert Fitzgerald. At once, however, I declare that I do not believe the statement. I have known you too well to think that you can be false.

"But, at any rate, I beg the favour of an interview with you. After what has passed I think that under any circumstances I have a right to demand it. I have pledged myself to you; and as that pledge has been accepted, I am entitled to some consideration.

"I write this letter to you openly, being quite willing that you should show it to your mother if you think fit. My messenger will wait, and I do implore you to send me an answer. And remember, Lady Clara, that, having accepted my love, you cannot whistle me down the wind as though I were of no account. After what has passed between us, you cannot surely refuse to see me once more.

"Ever your own—if you will have it so,

"OWEN FITZGERALD."

She read the letter very slowly, ever and anon looking up at her mother's face, and seeing that her mother was—not reading her book, but pretending to read it. When she had finished it, she held it for a moment, and then said, "Mamma, will you not look at it?"

"Certainly, my dear, if you wish me to do so." And she took the letter from her daughter's hand, and read it.

"Just what one would expect from him, my dear; eager, impetuous, and thoughtless. One should not blame him much, for he does not mean to do harm. But if he had any sense, he would know that he was taking trouble for nothing."

"And what shall I do, mamma?"

"Well, I really think that I should answer him." It was delightful to see the perfect confidence which the mother had in her daughter. "And I think I should see him, if he will insist upon it. It is foolish in him to persist in remembering two words which you spoke to him as a child; but perhaps it will be well that you should tell him yourself that you were a child when you spoke those two words."

And then Clara sent off the following reply, written under her mother's dictation; though the countess strove very hard to convince her daughter that she was wording it out of her own head:—

"Lady Clara Desmond presents her compliments to Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, and will see Mr. Owen Fitzgerald at Desmond Court at two o'clock to-morrow, if Mr. Owen Fitzgerald persists in demanding such an interview. Lady Clara Desmond, however, wishes to express her opinion that it would be better avoided.

"Desmond Court,

"Thursday evening."

The countess thought that this note was very cold and formal, and would be altogether conclusive; but, nevertheless, at about eleven o'clock that night there came another messenger from Hap House with another letter, saying that Owen would be at Desmond Court at two o'clock on the following day.

"He is very foolish; that is all I can say," said the countess.

All that night and all the next morning poor Clara was very wretched. That she had been right to give up a suitor who lived such a life as Owen Fitzgerald lived she could not doubt. But, nevertheless, was she true in giving him up? Had she made any stipulation as to his life when she accepted his love? If he called her false, as doubtless he would call her, how would she defend herself? Had she any defence to offer? It was not only that she had rejected him, a poor lover; but she had accepted a rich lover! What could she say to him when he upbraided her for such sordid conduct?

And then as to her whistling him down the wind. Did she wish to do that? In what state did her heart stand towards him? Might it not be that, let her be ever so much on her guard, she would show him some tenderness,—tenderness which would be treason to her present affianced suitor? Oh, why had her mother desired her to go through such an interview as this!

When two o'clock came Clara was in the drawing-room. She had said nothing to her mother as to the manner in which this meeting should take place. But then at first she had had an idea that Lady Desmond would be present. But as the time came near Clara was still alone. When her watch told her that it was already two, she was still by herself; and when the old servant, opening the door, announced that Mr. Fitzgerald was there, she was still unsupported by the presence of any companion. It was very surprising that on such an occasion her mother should have kept herself away.

She had not seen Owen Fitzgerald since that day when they had walked together under the elm-trees, and it can hardly be said that she saw him now. She had a feeling that she had injured him—had deceived, and in a manner betrayed him; and that feeling became so powerful with her that she hardly dared to look him in the face.

He, when he entered the room, walked straight up to her, and offered her his hand. He, too, looked round the room to see whether Lady Desmond was there, and not finding her, was surprised. He had hardly hoped that such an opportunity would be allowed to him for declaring the strength of his passion.

She got up, and taking his hand, muttered something; it certainly did not matter what, for it was inaudible; but such as the words were, they were the first spoken between them.

"Lady Clara," he began; and then stopped himself; and, considering, recommenced—"Clara, a report has reached my ears which I will believe from no lips but your own."

She now sat down on a sofa, and pointed to a chair for him, but he remained standing, and did so during the whole interview; or rather, walking; for when he became energetic and impetuous, he moved about from place to place in the room, as though incapable of fixing himself in one position.

Clara was ignorant whether or no it behoved her to rebuke him for calling her simply by her Christian name. She thought that she ought to do so, but she did not do it.

"I have been told," he continued, "that you have engaged yourself to marry Herbert Fitzgerald; and I have now come to hear a contradiction of this from yourself."

"But, Mr. Fitzgerald, it is true."

"It is true that Herbert Fitzgerald is your accepted lover?"

"Yes," she said, looking down upon the ground, and blushing deeply as she said it.

There was a pause of a few moments, during which she felt that the full fire of his glance was fixed upon her, and then he spoke.

"You may well be ashamed to confess it," he said; "you may well feel that you dare not look me in the face as you pronounce the words. I would have believed it, Clara, from no other mouth than your own."

It appeared to Clara herself now as though she were greatly a culprit. She had not a word to say in her own defence. All those arguments as to Owen's ill course of life were forgotten; and she could only remember that she had acknowledged that she loved him, and that she was now acknowledging that she loved another.

But now Owen had made his accusation; and as it was not answered, he hardly knew how to proceed. He walked about the room, endeavouring to think what he had better say next.

"I know this, Clara; it is your mother's doing, and not your own. You could not bring yourself to be false, unless by her instigation."

"No," said she; "you are wrong there. It is not my mother's doing: what I have done, I have done myself."

"Is it not true," he asked, "that your word was pledged to me? Had you not promised me that you would be my wife?"

"I was very young," she said, falling back upon the only excuse which occurred to her at the moment as being possible to be used without incriminating him.

"Young! Is not that your mother's teaching? Why, those were her very words when she came to me at my house. I did not know that youth was any excuse for falsehood."

"But it may be an excuse for folly," said Clara.

"Folly! what folly? The folly of loving a poor suitor; the folly of being willing to marry a man who has not a large estate! Clara, I did not think that you could have learned so much in so short a time."

All this was very hard upon her. She felt that it was hard, for she knew that he had done that which entitled her to regard her pledge to him as at an end; but the circumstances were such that she could not excuse herself.

"Am I to understand," said Owen Fitzgerald, "that all that has passed between us is to go for nothing? that such promises as we have made to each other are to be of no account? To me they are sacred pledges, from which I would not escape even if I could."

As he then paused for a reply, she was obliged to say something.

"I hope you have not come here to upbraid me, Mr. Fitzgerald."

"Clara," he continued, "I have passed the last year with perfect reliance upon your faith. I need hardly tell you that it has not been passed happily, for it has been passed without seeing you. But though you have been absent from me, I have never doubted you. I have known that it was necessary that we should wait—wait perhaps till years should make you mistress of your own actions: but nevertheless I was not unhappy, for I was sure of your love."

Now it was undoubtedly the case that Fitzgerald was treating her unfairly; and though she had not her wits enough about her to ascertain this by process of argument, nevertheless the idea did come home to her. It was true that she had promised her love to this man, as far as such promise could be conveyed by one word of assent; but it was true also that she had been almost a child when she pronounced that word, and that things which had since occurred had entitled her to annul any amount of contract to which she might have been supposed to bind herself by that one word. She bethought herself, therefore, that as she was so hard pressed she was forced to defend herself.

"I was very young then, Mr. Fitzgerald, and hardly knew what I was saying: afterwards, when mamma spoke to me, I felt that I was bound to obey her."

"What, to obey her by forgetting me?"

"No; I have never forgotten you, and never shall. I remember too well your kindness to my brother; your kindness to us all."

"Psha! you know I do not speak of that. Are you bound to obey your mother by forgetting that you have loved me?"

She paused a moment before she answered him, looking now full before her,—hardly yet bold enough to look him in the face.

"No," she said; "I have not forgotten that I loved you. I shall never forget it. Child as I was, it shall never be forgotten. But I cannot love you now—not in the manner you would have me."

"And why not, Lady Clara? Why is love to cease on your part—to be thrown aside so easily by you, while with me it remains so stern a fact, and so deep a necessity? Is that just? When the bargain has once been made, should it not be equally binding on us both?"

"I do not think you are fair to me, Mr. Fitzgerald," she said; and some spirit was now rising in her bosom.

"Not fair to you? Do you say that I am unfair to you? Speak but one word to say that the troth which you pledged me a year since shall still remain unbroken, and I will at once leave you till you yourself shall name the time when my suit may be renewed."

"You know that I cannot do that."

"And why not? I know that you ought to do it."

"No, Mr. Fitzgerald, I ought not. I am now engaged to your cousin, with the consent of mamma and of his friends. I can say nothing to you now which I cannot repeat to him; nor can I say anything which shall oppose his wishes."