"He is, then, so much more to you now than I am?"

"He is everything to me now."

"That is all the reply I am to get, then! You acknowledge your falseness, and throw me off without vouchsafing me any answer beyond this."

"What would you have me say? I did do that which was wrong and foolish, when—when we were walking there on the avenue. I did give a promise which I cannot now keep. It was all so hurried that I hardly remember what I said. But of this I am sure, that if I have caused you unhappiness, I am very sorry to have done so. I cannot alter it all now; I cannot unsay what I said then, nor can I offer yon that which I have now absolutely given to another."

And then, as she finished speaking, she did pluck up courage to look him in the face. She was now standing as well as he; but she was so standing that the table, which was placed near the sofa, was still between him and her. As she finished speaking the door opened, and the Countess of Desmond walked slowly into the room.

Owen Fitzgerald, when he saw her, bowed low before her, and then frankly offered her his hand. There was something in his manner to ladies devoid of all bashfulness, and yet never too bold. He seemed to be aware that in speaking to any lady, be she who she might, he was only exercising his undoubted privilege as a man. He never hummed and hawed and shook in his shoes as though the majesty of womanhood were too great for his encounter. There are such men, and many of them, who carry this dread to the last day of their long lives. I have often wondered what women think of men who regard women as too awful for the free exercise of open speech.

"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said accepting the hand which he offered to her, but resuming her own very quickly, and then standing before him in all the dignity which she was able to assume, "I quite concurred with my daughter that it was right that she should see you, as you insisted on such an interview, but you must excuse me if I interrupt it. I must protect her from the embarrassment which your—your vehemence may occasion her."

"Lady Desmond," he replied, "you are quite at liberty, as far as I am concerned, to hear all that passes between us. Your daughter is betrothed to me, and I have come to claim from her the fulfilment of her promise."

"For shame, Mr. Fitzgerald, for shame! When she was a child you extracted from her one word of folly; and now you would take advantage of that foolish word; now, when you know that she is engaged to a man she loves with the full consent of all her friends. I thought I knew you well enough to feel sure that you were not so ungenerous."

"Ungenerous! no; I have not that generosity which would enable me to give up my very heart's blood, the only joy of my soul, to such a one as my cousin Herbert."

"You have nothing to give up, Mr. Fitzgerald: you must have known from the very first that my daughter could not marry you—"

"Not marry me! And why not, Lady Desmond? Is not my blood as good as his?—unless, indeed, you are prepared to sell your child to the highest bidder!"

"Clara, my dear, I think you had better leave the room," said the countess; "no doubt you have assured Mr. Fitzgerald that you are engaged to his cousin Herbert."

"Yes, mamma."

"Then he can have no further claim on your attendance, and his vehemence will terrify you."

"Vehement! how can I help being vehement when, like a ruined gambler, I am throwing my last chance for such a stake?"

And then he intercepted Clara as she stepped towards the drawing-room door. She stopped in her course, and stood still, looking down upon the ground.

"Mr. Fitzgerald," said the countess, "I will thank you to let Lady Clara leave the room. She has given you the answer for which you have asked, and it would not be right in me to permit her to be subjected to further embarrassment."

"I will only ask her to listen to one word. Clara—"

"Mr. Fitzgerald, you have no right to address my daughter with that freedom," said the countess; but Owen hardly seemed to hear her.

"I here, in your hearing, protest against your marriage with Herbert Fitzgerald. I claim your love as my own. I bid you think of the promise which you gave me; and I tell you that as I loved you then with all my heart, so do I love you at this moment; so shall I love you always. Now I will not hinder you any longer."

And then he opened the door for her, and she passed on, bowing to him, and muttering some word of farewell that was inaudible.

He stood for a moment with the door in his hand, meditating whether he might not say good morning to the countess without returning into the room; but as he so stood she called him. "Mr. Fitzgerald," she said; and so he therefore came back, and once more closed the door.

And then he saw that the countenance of Lady Desmond was much changed. Hitherto she had been every inch the countess, stern and cold and haughty; but now she looked at him as she used to look in those old winter evenings when they were accustomed to talk together over the evening fire in close friendliness, while she, Lady Desmond, would speak to him in the intimacy of her heart of her children, Patrick ad Clara.

"Mr. Fitzgerald," she said, and the tone of her voice also was changed. "You are hardly fair to us; are you?"

"Not fair, Lady Desmond?"

"No, not fair. Sit down now, and listen to me for a moment. If you had a child, a penniless girl like Clara, would you be glad to see her married to such a one as you are yourself?"

"In what way do you mean? Speak out, Lady Desmond."

"No; I will not speak out, for I would not hurt you. I myself am too fond of you—as an old friend, to wish to do so. That you may marry and live happily, live near us here, so that we may know you, I most heartily desire. But you cannot marry that child."

"And why not, if she loves me?"

"Nay, not even if she did. Wealth and position are necessary to the station in which she has been born. She is an earl's daughter, penniless as she is. I will have no secrets from you. As a mother, I could not give her to one whose career is such as yours. As the widow of an earl, I could not give her to one whose means of maintaining her are so small. If you will think of this, you will hardly be angry with me."

"Love is nothing, then?"

"Is all to be sacrificed to your love? Think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald, and let me have the happiness of knowing that you consent to this match."

"Never!" said he. "Never!" And so he left the room, without wishing her further farewell.



CHAPTER XV

DIPLOMACY

About a week after the last conversation that has been related as having taken place at the Kanturk Hotel, Mr. Mollett junior was on his way to Castle Richmond. He had on that occasion stated his intention of making such a journey with the view of "freshening the old gentleman up a bit;" and although his father did all in his power to prevent the journey, going so far on one occasion as to swear that if it was made he would throw over the game altogether, nevertheless Aby persevered.

"You may leave the boards whenever you like, governor," said Aby. "I know quite enough of the part to carry on the play."

"You think you do," said the father in his anger; "but you'll find yourself in the dark yet before you've done."

And then again he expostulated in a different tone. "You'll ruin it all, Aby; you will indeed; you don't know all the circumstances; indeed you don't."

"Don't I?" said Aby. "Then I'll not be long learning them."

The father did what he could; but he had no means of keeping his son at home, and so Aby went. Aby doubtless entertained an idea that his father was deficient in pluck for the management of so difficult a matter, and that he could supply what his father wanted. So he dressed himself in his best, and having hired a gig and a man who he flattered himself would look like a private servant, he started from Cork, and drove himself to Castle Richmond.

He had on different occasions been down in the neighbourhood, prowling about like a thief in the night, picking up information, as he called it, and seeing how the land lay; but he had never yet presented himself to any one within the precincts of the Castle Richmond demesne. His present intention was to drive up to the front door, and ask at once for Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, sending in his card if need be, on which were printed the words:—

MR. ABRAHAM MOLLETT, Junior.

With the additional words, "Piccadilly, London," written in the left-hand lower corner.

"I'll take the bull by the horns," said he to himself. "It's better to make the spoon at once, even if we do run some small chance of spoiling the horn." And that he might be well enabled to carry out his purpose with reference to this bull, he lifted his flask to his mouth as soon as he had passed through the great demesne gate, and took a long pull at it. "There's nothing like a little jumping powder," he said, speaking to himself again, and then he drove boldly up the avenue.

He had not yet come in sight of the house when he met two gentlemen walking on the road. They, as he approached, stood a little on one side, not only so as to allow him to pass, but to watch him as he did so. They were Mr. Somers and Herbert Fitzgerald.

"It is the younger of those two men. I'm nearly certain of it," said Somers as the gig approached. "I saw him as he walked by me in Kanturk Street, and I don't think I can mistake the horrid impudence of his face. I beg your pardon, sir,"—and now he addressed Mollett in the gig—"but are you going up to the house?"

"Yes, sir; that's my notion just at present. Any commands that way?"

"This is Mr. Fitzgerald—Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald; and I am Mr. Somers, the agent. Can we do anything for you?"

Aby Mollett raised his hat, and the two gentlemen touched theirs. "Thank'ee, sir," said Aby; "but I believe my business must be with the worthy baro-nett himself; more particularly as I 'appen to know that he's at home."

"My father is not very well," said Herbert, "and I do not think that he will be able to see you."

"I'll take the liberty of hasking and of sending in my card," said Aby; and he gave his horse a flick as intending thus to cut short the conversation. But Mr. Somers had put his hand upon the bridle, and the beast was contented to stand still.

"If you'll have the kindness to wait a moment," said Mr. Somers; and he put on a look of severity, which he well knew how to assume, and which somewhat cowed poor Aby. "You have been down here before, I think," continued Mr. Somers.

"What, at Castle Richmond? No, I haven't. And if I had, what's that to you if Sir Thomas chooses to see me? I hain't hintruding, I suppose."

"You've been down at Kanturk before—once or twice; for I have seen you."

"And supposing I've been there ten or twelve times,—what is there in that?" said Aby.

Mr. Somers still held the horse's head, and stood a moment considering.

"I'll thank you to let go my 'oss," said Aby, raising his whip and shaking the reins.

"What do you say your name is?" asked Mr. Somers.

"I didn't say my name was anything yet. I hain't ashamed of it, however, nor hasn't hany cause to be. That's my name, and if you'll send my card in to Sir Thomas, with my compliments, and say that hi've three words to say to him very particular; why, hi'll be obliged to you." And then Mr. Mollett handed Mr. Somers his card.

"Mollett!" said Mr. Somers very unceremoniously. "Mollett, Mollett. Do you know the name, Herbert?"

Herbert said that he did not.

"It's about business, I suppose?" asked Mr. Somers.

"Yes," said Aby; "private business; very particular."

"The same that brought your father here;" and Mr. Somers again looked into his face with a close scrutiny.

Aby was abashed, and for a moment or two he did not answer. "Well, then; it is the same business," he said at last. "And I'll thank you to let me go on. I'm not used to be stopped in this way."

"You can follow us up to the house," said Mr. Somers to him. "Come here, Herbert." And then they walked along the road in such a way that Aby was forced to allow his horse to walk after them.

"These are the men who are doing it," said Mr. Somers in a whisper to his companion. "Whatever is in the wind, whatever may be the cause of your father's trouble, they are concerned in it. They are probably getting money from him in some way."

"Do you think so?"

"I do. We must not force ourselves upon your father's confidence, but we must endeavour to save him from this misery. Do you go in to him with this card. Do not show it to him too suddenly; and then find out whether he really wishes to see the man. I will stay about the place; for it may be possible that a magistrate will be wanted, and in such a matter you had better not act."

They were now at the hall door, and Somers, turning to Mollett, told him that Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald would carry the card to his father. And then he added, seeing that Mollett was going to come down, "You had better stay in the gig till Mr. Fitzgerald comes back; just sit where you are; you'll get an answer all in good time."

Sir Thomas was crouching over the fire in his study when his son entered, with his eyes fixed upon a letter which he held in his hand, and which, when he saw Herbert, he closed up and put away.

"Father," said Herbert, in a cheerful everyday voice, as though he had nothing special to communicate, "there is a man in a gig out there. He says he wants to see you."

"A man in a gig!" and Herbert could see that his father had already begun to tremble. But every sound made him tremble now.

"Yes; a man in a gig. What is it he says his name is? I have his card here. A young man."

"Oh, a young man?" said Sir Thomas.

"Yes, here it is. Abraham Mollett. I can't say that your friend seems to be very respectable, in spite of his gig," and Herbert handed the card to his father.

The son purposely looked away as he mentioned the name, as his great anxiety was not to occasion distress. But he felt that the sound of the word had been terrible in his father's ears. Sir Thomas had risen from his chair; but he now sat down again, or rather fell into it. But nevertheless he took the card, and said that he would see the man.

"A young man, do you say, Herbert?"

"Yes, father, a young man. And, father, if you are not well, tell me what the business is and let me see him."

But Sir Thomas persisted, shaking his head, and saying that he would see the man himself.

"Somers is out there. Will you let him do it?"

"No. I wonder, Herbert, that you can tease me so. Let the man be sent in here. But, oh, Herbert—Herbert—!"

The young man rushed round and kneeled at his father's knee. "What is it, father? Why will you not tell me? I know you have some grief, and cannot you trust me? Do you not know that you can trust me?"

"My poor boy, my poor boy!"

"What is it, father? If this man here is concerned in it, let me see him."

"No, no, no."

"Or at any rate let me be with you when he is here. Let me share your trouble if I can do nothing to cure it."

"Herbert, my darling, leave me and send him in. If it be necessary that you should bear this calamity, it will come upon you soon enough."

"But I am afraid of this man—for your sake, father."

"He will do me no harm; let him come to me. But, Herbert, say nothing to Somers about this. Somers has not seen the man; has he?"

"Yes; we both spoke to him together as he drove up the avenue."

"And what did he say? Did he say anything?

"Nothing but that he wanted to see you, and then he gave his card to Mr. Somers. Mr. Somers wished to save you from the annoyance."

"Why should it annoy me to see any man? Let Mr. Somers mind his own business. Surely I can have business of my own without his interference." With this Herbert left his father, and returned to the hall door to usher in Mr. Mollett junior.

"Well?" said Mr. Somers, who was standing by the hall fire, and who joined Herbert at the front door.

"My father will see the man."

"And have you learned who he is?"

"I have learned nothing but this—that Sir Thomas does not wish that we should inquire. Now, Mr. Mollett, Sir Thomas will see you; so you can come down. Make haste now, and remember that you are not to stay long, for my father is ill." And then leading Aby through the hall and along a passage, he introduced him into Sir Thomas's room.

"And, Herbert—" said the father; whereupon Herbert again turned round. His father was endeavouring to stand, but supporting himself by the back of his chair. "Do not disturb me for half an hour; but come to me then, and knock at the door. This gentleman will have done by that time."

"If we do not put a stop to this, your father will be in a mad-house or on his death-bed before long." So spoke Mr. Somers in a low, solemn whisper when Herbert again joined him at the hall door.

"Sit down, sir; sit down," said Sir Thomas, endeavouring to be civil and to seem at his ease at the same time. Aby was himself so much bewildered for the moment, that he hardly perceived the embarrassment under which the baronet was labouring.

Aby sat down, in the way usual to such men in such places, on the corner of his chair, and put his hat on the ground between his feet. Then he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose, and after that he expressed an opinion that he was in the presence of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald.

"And you are Mr. Abraham Mollett," said Sir Thomas.

"Yes, Sir Thomas, that's my name. I believe, Sir Thomas, that you have the pleasure of some slight acquaintance with my father, Mr. Matthew Mollett?"

What a pleasure under such circumstances! Sir Thomas, however, nodded his head, and Aby went on.

"Well, now, Sir Thomas, business is business; and my father, 'e ain't a good man of business. A gen'leman like you, Sir Thomas, has seen that with 'alf an eye, I know." And then he waited a moment for an answer; but as he got none he proceeded.

"My governor's one of the best of fellows going, but 'e ain't sharp and decisive. Sharp's the word now a days, Sir Thomas; ain't it?" and he spoke this in a manner so suited to the doctrine which he intended to inculcate, that the poor old gentleman almost jumped up in his chair.

And Aby, seeing this, seated himself more comfortably in his own. The awe which the gilt bindings of the books and the thorough comfort of the room had at first inspired was already beginning to fade away. He had come there to bully, and though his courage had failed him for a moment under the stern eye of Mr. Somers, it quickly returned to him now that he was able to see how weak was his actual victim.

"Sharp's the word, Sir Thomas; and my governor, 'e ain't sharp—not sharp as he ought to be in such a matter as this. This is what I calls a real bit of cheese. Now it's no good going on piddling and peddling in such a case as this; is it now, Sir Thomas?"

Sir Thomas muttered something, but it was no more than a groan.

"Not the least use," continued Aby. "Now the question, as I takes it, is this. There's your son there as fetched me in 'ere; a fine young gen'leman 'e is, as ever I saw; I will say that. Well, now; who's to have this 'ere property when you walk the plank—as walk it you must some day, in course? Is it to be this son of yours, or is it to be this other Fitzgerald of 'Appy 'Ouse? Now, if you ask me, I'm all for your son, though maybe he mayn't be all right as regards the dam."

There was certainly some truth in what Aby had said with reference to his father. Mr. Mollett senior had never debated the matter in terms so sharp and decisive as these were. Think who they were of whom this brute was talking to that wretched gentleman; the wife of his bosom, than whom no wife was ever more dearly prized; the son of his love, the centre of all his hopes, the heir of his wealth—if that might still be so. And yet he listened to such words as these, and did not call in his servants to turn the speaker of them out of his doors.

"I've no wish for that 'Appy 'Ouse man, Sir Thomas; not the least. And as for your good lady, she's nothing to me one way or the other whatever she may be to my governor—" and here there fell a spasm upon the poor man's heart, which nearly brought him from the chair to the ground; but nevertheless, he still contained himself—"my governor's former lady, my own mother," continued Aby, "whom I never see'd, she'd gone to kingdom come, you know, before that time, Sir Thomas. There hain't no doubt about that. So you see—" and hereupon he dropped his voice from the tone which he had hitherto been using to an absolute whisper, and drawing his chair close to that of the baronet, and putting his hands upon his knees, brought his mouth close to his companion's ear—"So you see," he said, "when that youngster was born, Lady F. was Mrs. M.—wasn't she? and for the matter of that, Lady F. is Mrs. M. to this very hour. That's the real chat; ain't it, Sir Thomas? My stepmother, you know. The governor could take her away with him to-morrow if he chose, according to the law of the land—couldn't he now?"

There was no piddling or peddling about this at any rate. Old Mollett in discussing the matter with his victim had done so by hints and inuendos, through long windings, by signs and the dropping of a few dark words. He had never once mentioned in full terms the name of Lady Fitzgerald; had never absolutely stated that he did possess or ever had possessed a wife. It had been sufficient for him to imbue Sir Thomas with the knowledge that his son Herbert was in great danger as to his heritage. Doubtless the two had understood each other; but the absolute naked horror of the surmised facts had been kept delicately out of sight. But such delicacy was not to Aby's taste. Sharp, short, and decisive; that was his motto. No "longae ambages" for him. The whip was in his hand, as he thought, and he could best master the team by using it.

And yet Sir Thomas lived and bore it. As he sat there half stupefied, numbed as it were by the intensity of his grief, he wondered at his own power of endurance. "She is Mrs. M., you know; ain't she now?" He could sit there and hear that, and yet live through it. So much he could do, and did do; but as for speaking, that was beyond him.

Young Mollett thought that this "freshening up of the old gentleman" seemed to answer; so he continued. "Yes, Sir Thomas, your son's my favourite, I tell you fairly. But then, you know, if I backs the favourite, in course I likes to win upon him. How is it to be, now?" and then he paused for an answer, which, however, was not forthcoming.

"You see you haven't been dealing quite on the square with the governor. You two is, has it were, in a boat together. We'll call that boat the Lady F., or the Mrs. M., which ever you like; "—and then Aby laughed, for the conceit pleased him—"but the hearnings of that boat should be divided hequally. Ain't that about the ticket? heh, Sir Thomas? Come, don't be down on your luck. A little quiet talkee-talkee between you and me'll soon put this small matter on a right footing."

"What is it you want? tell me at once," at last groaned the poor man.

"Well now, that's something like; and I'll tell you what we want. There are only two of us you know, the governor and I; and very lonely we are, for it's a sad thing for a man to have the wife of his bosom taken from him."

Then there was a groan which struck even Aby's ear; but Sir Thomas was still alive and listening, and so he went on.

"This property here, Sir Thomas, is a good twelve thousand a year. I know hall about it as though I'd been 'andling it myself for the last ten years. And a great deal of cutting there is in twelve thousand a year. You've 'ad your whack out of it, and now we wants to have hourn. That's Henglish, hain't it?"

"Did your father send you here, Mr. Mollett?"

"Never you mind who sent me, Sir Thomas. Perhaps he did, and perhaps he didn't. Perhaps I came without hany sending. Perhaps I'm more hup to this sort of work than he is. At any rate, I've got the part pretty well by 'eart—you see that, don't you? Well hour hultimatum about the business is this. Forty thousand pounds paid down on the nail, half to the governor, and half to your 'umble servant, before the end of this year; a couple of thousand more in hand for the year's hexpenses—and—and—a couple of hundred or so now at once before I leave you; for to tell the truth we're run huncommonly dry just at the present moment." And then Aby drew his breath and paused for an answer.

Poor Sir Thomas was now almost broken down. His head swam round and round, and he felt that he was in a whirlpool from which there was no escape. He had heard the sum named, and knew that he had no power of raising it. His interest in the estate was but for his life, and that life was now all but run out. He had already begun to feel that his son must be sacrificed, but he had struggled and endured in order that he might save his wife. But what could he do now? What further struggle could he make? His present most eager desire was that that horrid man should be removed from his hearing and his eyesight.

But Aby had not yet done: he had hitherto omitted to mention one not inconsiderable portion of the amicable arrangement which, according to him, would have the effect of once more placing the two families comfortably on their feet. "There's one other pint, Sir Thomas," he continued, "and hif I can bring you and your good lady to my way of thinking on that, why, we may all be comfortable for all that is come and gone. You've a daughter Hemmeline."

"What!" said Sir Thomas, turning upon him; for there was still so much of life left in him that he could turn upon his foe when he heard his daughter's name thus polluted.

"Has lovely a gal to my way of thinking as my heyes ever rested on; and I'm not haccounted a bad judge of such cattle, I can tell you, Sir Thomas."

"That will do, that will do," said Sir Thomas, attempting to rise, but still holding on by the back of his chair. "You can go now, sir; I cannot hear more from you."

"Go!"

"Yes, sir; go."

"I know a trick worth two of that, Sir Thomas. If you like to give me your daughter Hemmeline for my wife, whatever her fortin's to be, I'll take it as part of my half of the forty thousand pounds. There now." And then Aby again waited for a reply.

But now there came a knock at the door, and following quick upon the knock Herbert entered the room. "Well, father," said the son.

"Herbert!"

"Yes, father;" and he went round and supported his father on his arm.

"Herbert, will you tell that man to go?"

"Come, sir, you have disturbed my father enough; will you have the kindness to leave him now?"

"I may chance to disturb him more, and you too, sir, if you treat me in that way. Let go my arm, sir. Am I to have any answer from you, Sir Thomas?"

But Sir Thomas could make no further attempt at speaking. He was now once more seated in his chair, holding his son's hand, and when he again heard Mollett's voice he merely made a sign for him to go.

"You see the state my father is in, Mr. Mollett," said Herbert; "I do not know what is the nature of your business, but whatever it may be, you must leave him now." And he made a slight attempt to push the visitor towards the door.

"You'd better take care what you're doing, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mollett. "By—-you had! If you anger me, I might say a word that I couldn't unsay again, which would put you into queer street, I can tell you."

"Don't quarrel with him, my boy; pray don't quarrel with him, but let him leave me," said Sir Thomas.

"Mr. Mollett, you see my father's state; you must be aware that it is imperative that he should be left alone."

"I don't know nothing about that, young gen'leman; business is business, and I hain't got hany answer to my proposals. Sir Thomas, do you say 'Yes' to them proposals." But Sir Thomas was still dumb. "To all but the last? Come," continued Aby, "that was put in quite as much for your good as it was for mine." But not a word came from the baronet.

"Then I shan't stir," said Aby, again seating himself.

"Then I shall have the servants in," said Herbert, "and a magistrate who is in the hall," and he put his hand towards the handle of the bell.

"Well, as the old gen'leman's hill, I'll go now and come again. But look you here, Sir Thomas, you have got my proposals, and if I don't get an answer to them in three days' time,—why you'll hear from me in another way, that's all. And so will her ladyship." And with this threat Mr Abraham Mollett allowed himself to be conducted through the passage into the hall, and from thence to his gig.

"See that he drives away, see that he goes," said Herbert to Mr. Somers, who was still staying about the place.

"Oh, I'll drive away fast enough," said Aby, as he stepped into the gig, "and come back fast enough too," he muttered to himself. In the mean time Herbert had run back to his father's room.

"Has he gone?" murmured Sir Thomas.

"Yes, he has gone. There; you can hear the wheels of his gig on the gravel."

"Oh, my boy, my poor boy!"

"What is it, father? Why do you not tell me? Why do you allow such men as that to come and harass you, when a word would keep them from you? Father, good cannot come of it."

"No, Herbert, no, good will not come of it. There is no good to come at all."

"Then why will you not tell us?"

"You will know it all soon enough. But, Herbert, do not say a word to your mother. Not a word as you value my love. Let us save her while we can. You promise me that."

Herbert gave him the required promise.

"Look here," and he took up the letter which he had before crumpled in his hand. "Mr. Prendergast will be here next week. I shall tell everything to him."

Soon afterwards Sir Thomas went to his bed, and there by his bedside his wife sat for the rest of the evening. But he said no word to her of his sorrow.

"Mr. Prendergast is coming here," said Herbert to Mr. Somers.

"I am glad of it, though I do not know him," said Mr. Somers. "For, my dear boy, it is necessary that there should be some one here."



CHAPTER XVI

THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS

It will be remembered that in the last chapter but one Owen Fitzgerald left Lady Desmond in the drawing-room at Desmond Court somewhat abruptly, having absolutely refused to make peace with the Desmond faction by giving his consent to the marriage between Clara and his cousin Herbert. And it will perhaps be remembered also, that Lady Desmond had asked for this consent in a manner that was almost humble. She had shown herself most anxious to keep on friendly terms with the rake of Hap House,—rake and roue, gambler and spendthrift, as he was reputed to be,—if only he would abandon his insane claim to the hand of Clara Desmond. But this feeling she had shown when they two were alone together, after Clara had left them. As long as her daughter had been present, Lady Desmond had maintained her tone of indignation and defiance; but, when the door was closed and they two were alone, she had become kind in her language and almost tender.

My readers will probably conceive that she had so acted, overcome by her affection for Owen Fitzgerald and with a fixed resolve to win him for herself. Men and women when they are written about are always supposed to have fixed resolves, though in life they are so seldom found to be thus armed. To speak the truth, the countess had had no fixed resolve in the matter, either when she had thought about Owen's coming, or when, subsequently, she had found herself alone with him in her drawing-room. That Clara should not marry him,—on so much she had resolved long ago. But all danger on that head was, it may be said, over. Clara, like a good child, had behaved in the best possible manner; had abandoned her first lover, a lover that was poor and unfitted for her, as soon as told to do so; and had found for herself a second lover, who was rich, and proper, and in every way desirable. As regards Clara, the countess felt herself to be safe; and, to give her her due, she had been satisfied that the matter should so rest. She had not sought any further interview with Fitzgerald. He had come there against her advice, and she had gone to meet him prompted by the necessity of supporting her daughter, and without any other views of her own.

But when she found herself alone with him; when she looked into his face, and saw how handsome, how noble, how good it was—good in its inherent manliness and bravery—she could not but long that this feud should be over, and that she might be able once more to welcome him as her friend. If only he would give up this frantic passion, this futile, wicked, senseless attempt to make them all wretched by an insane marriage, would it not be sweet again to make some effort to rescue him from the evil ways into which he had fallen?

But Owen himself would make no response to this feeling. Clara Desmond was his love, and he would, of his own consent, yield her to no one. In truth, he was, in a certain degree, mad on this subject. He did think that because the young girl had given him a promise—had said to him a word or two which he called a promise—she was now of right his bride; that there belonged to him an indefeasible property in her heart, in her loveliness, in the inexpressible tenderness of her young springing beauty, of which no subsequent renouncing on her part could fairly and honestly deprive him. That others should oppose the match was intelligible to him; but it was hardly intelligible that she should betray him. And, as yet, he did not believe that she herself was the mainspring of this renouncing. Others, the countess and the Castle Richmond people, had frightened her into falseness; and, therefore, it became him to maintain his right by any means—almost by any means, within his power. Give her up of his own free will and voice! Say that Herbert Fitzgerald should take her with his consent! that she should go as a bride to Castle Richmond, while he stood by and smiled, and wished them joy! Never! And so he rode away with a stern heart, leaving her standing there with something of sternness about her heart also.

In the meantime, Clara, when she was sure that her rejected suitor was well away from the place, put on her bonnet and walked out. It was her wont at this time to do so; and she was becoming almost a creature of habit, shut up as she was in that old dreary barrack. Her mother very rarely went with her; and she habitually performed the same journey over the same ground, at the same hour, day after day. So it had been, and so it was still,—unless Herbert Fitzgerald were with her.

On the present occasion she saw no more of her mother before she left the house. She passed the drawing-room door, and seeing that it was ajar, knew that the countess was there: but she had nothing to say to her mother as to the late interview, unless her mother had aught to say to her. So she passed on. In truth her mother had nothing to say to her. She was sitting there alone, with her head resting on her hand, with that sternness at her heart and a cloud upon her brow, but she was not thinking of her daughter. Had she not, with her skill and motherly care, provided well for Clara? Had she not saved her daughter from all the perils which beset the path of a young girl? Had she not so brought her child up and put her forth into the world, that, portionless as that child was, all the best things of the world had been showered into her lap? Why should the countess think more of her daughter? It was of herself she was thinking; and of what her life would be all alone, absolutely alone, in that huge frightful home of hers, without a friend, almost without an acquaintance, without one soul near her whom she could love or who would love her. She had put out her hand to Owen Fitzgerald, and he had rejected it. Her he had regarded merely as the mother of the woman he loved. And then the Countess of Desmond began to ask herself if she were old and wrinkled and ugly, only fit to be a dowager in mind, body, and in name!

Over the same ground! Yes, always over the same ground. Lady Clara never varied her walk. It went from the front entrance of the court, with one great curve, down to the old ruined lodge which opened on to the road running from Kanturk to Cork. It was here that the row of elm trees stood, and it was here that she had once walked with a hot, eager lover beside her, while a docile horse followed behind their feet. It was here that she walked daily; and was it possible that she should walk here without thinking of him?

It was always on the little well-worn path by the road-side, not on the road itself, that she took her measured exercise; and now, as she went along, she saw on the moist earth the fresh prints of a horse's hoofs. He also had ridden down the same way, choosing to pass over the absolute spot in which those words had been uttered, thinking of that moment, as she also was thinking of it. She felt sure that such had been the case. She knew that it was this that had brought him there—there on to the foot-traces which they had made together.

And did he then love her so truly,—with a love so hot, so eager, so deeply planted in his very soul? Was it really true that a passion for her had so filled his heart, that his whole life must by that be made or marred? Had she done this thing to him? Had she so impressed her image on his mind that he must be wretched without her? Was she so much to him, so completely all in all as regarded his future worldly happiness? Those words of his, asserting that love—her love—was to him a stern fact, a deep necessity—recurred over and over again to her mind. Could it really be that in doing as she had done, in giving herself to another after she had promised herself to him, she had committed an injustice which would constantly be brought up against her by him and by her own conscience? Had she in truth deceived and betrayed him,—deserted him because he was poor, and given herself over to a rich lover because of his riches?

As she thought of this she forgot again that fact—which, indeed, she had never more than half realized in her mind—that he had justified her in separating herself from him by his reckless course of living; that his conduct must be held to have so justified her, let the pledge between them have been of what nature it might. Now, as she walked up and down that path, she thought nothing of his wickedness and his sins; she thought only of the vows to which she had once listened, and the renewal of those vows to which it was now so necessary that her ear should be deaf.

But was her heart deaf to them? She swore to herself, over and over again, scores and scores of oaths, that it was so; but each time that she swore, some lowest corner in the depth of her conscience seemed to charge her with a falsehood. Why was it that in all her hours of thinking she so much oftener saw his face, Owen's, than she did that other face of which in duty she was bound to think and dream? It was in vain that she told herself that she was afraid of Owen, and therefore thought of him. The tone of his voice that rang in her ears the oftenest was not that of his anger and sternness, but the tone of his first assurance of love—that tone which had been so inexpressibly sweet to her—that to which she had listened on this very spot where she now walked slowly, thinking of him. The look of his which was ever present to her eyes was not that on which she had almost feared to gaze but an hour ago; but the form and spirit which his countenance had worn when they were together on that well-remembered day.

And then she would think, or try to think, of Herbert, and of all his virtues and of all his goodness. He too loved her well. She never doubted that. He had come to her with soft words, and pleasant smiles, and sweet honeyed compliments—compliments which had been sweet to her as they are to all girls; but his soft words, and pleasant smiles, and honeyed love-making had never given her so strong a thrill of strange delight as had those few words from Owen. Her very heart's core had been affected by the vigour of his affection. There had been in it a mysterious grandeur which had half charmed and half frightened her. It had made her feel that he, were it fated that she should belong to him, would indeed be her lord and ruler; that his was a spirit before which hers would bend and feel itself subdued. With him she could realize all that she had dreamed of woman's love, and that dream which is so sweet to some women—of woman's subjugation. But could it be the same with him to whom she was now positively affianced, with him to whom she knew that she did now owe all her duty? She feared that it was not the same.

And then again she swore that she loved him. She thought over all his excellences; how good he was as a son—how fondly his sisters loved him—how inimitable was his conduct in these hard trying times. And she remembered also that it was right in every way that she should love him. Her mother and brother approved of it. Those who were to be her new relatives approved of it. It was in every way fitting. Pecuniary considerations were so favourable! But when she thought of that her heart sank low within her breast. Was it true that she had sold herself at her mother's bidding? Should not the remembrance of Owen's poverty have made her true to him had nothing else done so?

But be all that as it might, one thing, at any rate, was clear to her, that it was now her fate, her duty—and, as she repeated again and again, her wish to marry Herbert. No thought of rebellion against him and her mother ever occurred to her as desirable or possible. She would be to him a true and loving wife, a wife in very heart and soul. But, nevertheless, walking thus beneath those trees, she could not but think of Owen Fitzgerald.

In this mood she had gone twice down from the house to the lodge and back again, and now again she had reached the lodge the third time, making thus her last journey for in these solitary walks her work was measured. The exercise was needful, but there was little in the task to make her prolong it beyond what was necessary. But now, as she was turning for the last time, she heard the sound of a horse's hoof coming fast along the road, and looking from the gate, she saw that Herbert was coming to her. She had not expected him, but now she waited at the gate to meet him.

It had been arranged that she was to go over in a few days to Castle Richmond, and stay there for a fortnight. This had been settled shortly before the visit made by Mr. Mollett, junior, at that place, and had not as yet been unsettled. But as soon as it was known that Sir Thomas had summoned Mr. Prendergast from London, it was felt by them all that it would be as well that Clara's visit should be postponed. Herbert had been especially cautioned by his father, at the time of Mollett's visit, not to tell his mother anything of what had occurred, and to a certain extent he had kept his promise. But it was of course necessary that Lady Fitzgerald should know that Mr. Prendergast was coming to the house, and it was of course impossible to keep from her the fact that his visit was connected with the lamentable state of her husband's health and spirits. Indeed, she knew as much as that without any telling. It was not probable that Mr. Prendergast should come there now on a visit of pleasure.

"Whatever this may be that weighs upon his mind," Herbert had said, "he will be better for talking it over with a man whom he trusts."

"And why not with Somers?" said Lady Fitzgerald.

"Somers is too often with him, too near to him in all the affairs of his life. I really think he is wise to send for Mr. Prendergast. We do not know him, but I believe him to be a good man."

Then Lady Fitzgerald had expressed herself as satisfied—as satisfied as she could be, seeing that her husband would not take her into his confidence; and after this it was settled that Herbert should at once ride over to Desmond Court, and explain that Clara's visit had better be postponed.

Herbert got off his horse at the gate, and gave it to one of the children at the lodge to lead after him. His horse would not follow him, Clara said to herself as they walked back together towards the house. She could not prevent her mind running off in that direction. She would fain not have thought of Owen as she thus hung upon Herbert's arm, but as yet she had not learned to control her thoughts. His horse had followed him lovingly-the dogs about the place had always loved him-the men and women of the whole country round, old and young, all spoke of him with a sort of love: everybody admired him. As all this passed through her brain, she was hanging on her accepted lover's arm, and listening to his soft sweet words.

"Oh, yes! it will be much better," she said, answering his proposal that she should put off her visit to Castle Richmond. "But I am so sorry that Sir Thomas should be ill. Mr. Prendergast is not a doctor, is he?"

And then Herbert explained that Mr. Prendergast was not a doctor, that he was a physician for the mind rather than for the body. Regarding Clara as already one of his own family, he told her as much as he had told his mother. He explained that there was some deep sorrow weighing on his father's heart of which they none of them knew anything save its existence; that there might be some misfortune coming on Sir Thomas of which he, Herbert, could not even guess the nature; but that everything would be told to this Mr. Prendergast.

"It is very sad," said Herbert.

"Very sad; very sad," said Clara, with tears in her eyes. "Poor gentleman! I wish that we could comfort him."

"And I do hope that we may," said Herbert.

"Somers seems to think that his mind is partly affected, and that this misfortune, whatever it be, may not improbably be less serious than we anticipate;-that it weighs heavier on him than it would do, were he altogether well."

"And your mother, Herbert?"

"Oh, yes; she also is to be pitied. Sometimes, for moments, she seems to dread some terrible misfortune; but I believe that in her calm judgment she thinks that our worst calamity is the state of my father's health."

Neither in discussing the matter with his mother or Clara, nor in thinking it over when alone, did it ever occur to Herbert that he himself might be individually subject to the misfortune over which his father brooded. Sir Thomas had spoken piteously to him, and called him poor, and had seemed to grieve over what might happen to him; but this had been taken by the son as a part of his father's malady.

Everything around him was now melancholy, and therefore these terms had not seemed to have any special force of their own. He did not think it necessary to warn Clara that bad days might be in store for both of them, or to caution her that their path of love might yet be made rough.

"And whom do you think I met, just now, on horseback?" he asked, as soon as this question of her visit had been decided.

"Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, probably," said Clara. "He went from hence about an hour since."

"Owen Fitzgerald here!" he repeated, as though the tidings of such a visit having been made were not exactly pleasant to him. "I thought that Lady Desmond did not even see him now."

"His visit was to me, Herbert, and I will explain it to you. I was just going to tell you when you first came in, only you began about Castle Richmond."

"And have you seen him?"

"Oh yes, I saw him. Mamma thought it best. Yesterday he wrote a note to me which I will show you." And then she gave him such an account of the interview as was possible to her, making it, at any rate, intelligible to him that Owen had come thither to claim her for himself, having heard the rumour of her engagement to his cousin.

"It was inexcusable on his part—unpardonable!" said Herbert, speaking with an angry spot on his face, and with more energy than was usual with him.

"Was it? why?" said Clara, innocently. She felt unconsciously that it was painful to her to hear Owen ill spoken of by her lover, and that she would fain excuse him if she could.

"Why, dearest? Think what motives he could have had; what other object than to place you in a painful position, and to cause trouble and vexation to us all. Did he not know that we were engaged?"

"Oh yes; he knew that;—at least, no; I am not quite sure—I think he said that he had heard it but did not—-"

"Did not what, love?"

"I think he said he did not quite believe it;" and then she was forced, much against her will, to describe to her betrothed how Owen had boldly claimed her as his own.

"His conduct has been unpardonable," said Herbert, again. "Nay, it has been ungentleman-like. He has intruded himself where he well knew that he was not wanted; and he has done so taking advantage of a few words which, under the present circumstances, he should force himself to forget."

"But, Herbert, it is I that have been to blame."

"No; you have not been in blame. I tell you honestly that I can lay no blame at your door. At the age you were then, it was impossible that you should know your own mind. And even had your promise to him been of a much more binding nature, his subsequent conduct, and your mother's remonstrance, as well as your own age, would have released you from it without any taint of falsehood. He knew all this as well as I do; and I am surprised that he should have forced his way into your mother's house with the mere object of causing you embarrassment."

It was marvellous how well Herbert Fitzgerald could lay down the law on the subject of Clara's conduct, and on all that was due to her, and all that was not due to Owen. He was the victor; he had gained the prize; and therefore it was so easy for him to acquit his promised bride, and heap reproaches on the head of his rejected rival. Owen had been told that he was not wanted, and of course should have been satisfied with his answer. Why should he intrude himself among happy people with his absurd aspirations? For were they not absurd? Was it not monstrous on his part to suppose that he could marry Clara Desmond?

It was in this way that Herbert regarded the matter. But it was not exactly in that way that Clara looked at it. "He did not force his way in." she said. "He wrote to ask if we would see him; and mamma said that she thought it better."

"That is forcing his way in the sense that I meant it; and if I find that he gives further annoyance I shall tell him what I think about it. I will not have you persecuted."

"Herbert, if you quarrel with him you will make me wretched. I think it would kill me."

"I shall not do it if I can help it, Clara. But it is my duty to protect you, and if it becomes necessary I must do so; you have no father, and no brother of an age to speak to him, and that consideration alone should have saved you from such an attack."

Clara said nothing more, for she knew that she could not speak out to him the feelings of her heart. She could not plead to him that she had injured Owen, that she had loved him and then given him up; that she had been false to him: she could not confess that, after all, the tribute of such a man's love could not be regarded by her as an offence. So she said nothing further, but walked on in silence, leaning on his arm.

They were now close to the house, and as they drew near to it Lady Desmond met them on the door-step. "I dare say you have heard that we had a visitor here this morning," she said, taking Herbert's hand in an affectionate motherly way, and smiling on him with all her sweetness.

Herbert said that he had heard it, and expressed an opinion that Mr. Owen Fitzgerald would have been acting far more wisely to have remained at home at Hap House.

"Yes, perhaps so; certainly so," said Lady Desmond, putting her arm within that of her future son, and walking back with him through the great hall. "He would have been wiser: he would have saved dear Clara from a painful half-hour, and he would have saved himself from perhaps years of sorrow. He has been very foolish to remember Clara's childhood as he does remember it. But, my dear Herbert, what can we do? You lords of creation sometimes will be foolish even about such trifling things as women's hearts."

And then, when Herbert still persisted that Owen's conduct had been inexcusable and ungentlemanlike, she softly flattered him into quiescence. "You must not forget," she said, "that he perhaps has loved Clara almost as truly as you do. And then what harm can he do? It is not very probable that he should succeed in winning Clara away from you!"

"Oh no, it is not that I mean. It is for Clara's sake."

"And she, probably, will never see him again till she is your wife. That event will, I suppose, take place at no very remote period."

"As soon as ever my father's health will admit. That is if I can persuade Clara to be so merciful."

"To tell the truth, Herbert, I think you could persuade her to anything. Of course we must not hurry her too much. As for me, my losing her will be very sad; you can understand that; but I would not allow any feeling of my own to stand in her way for half-an-hour."

"She will be very near you, you know."

"Yes, she will; and therefore, as I was saying, it would be absurd for you to quarrel with Mr. Owen Fitzgerald. For myself, I am sorry for him—very sorry for him. You know the whole story of what occurred between him and Clara, and of course you will understand that my duty at that time was plain. Clara behaved admirably, and if only he would not be so foolish, the whole matter might be forgotten. As far as you and I are concerned I think it may be forgotten."

"But then his coming here?"

"That will not be repeated. I thought it better to show him that we were not afraid of him, and therefore I permitted it. Had I conceived that you would have objected—"

"Oh no!" said Herbert.

"Well, there was not much for you to be afraid of, certainly," said the countess. And so he was appeased, and left the house promising that he, at any rate, would do nothing that might lead to a quarrel with his cousin Owen.

Clara, who had still kept on her bonnet, again walked down with him to the lodge, and encountered his first earnest supplication that an early day should be named for their marriage. She had many reasons, excellent good reasons, to allege why this should not be the case. When was a girl of seventeen without such reasons? And it is so reasonable that she should have such reasons. That period of having love made to her must be by far the brightest in her life. Is it not always a pity that it should be abridged?

"But your father's illness, Herbert, you know."

Herbert acknowledged that, to a certain extent, his father's illness was a reason—only to a certain extent. It would be worse than useless to think of waiting till his father's health should be altogether strong. Just for the present, till Mr. Prendergast should have gone, and perhaps for a fortnight longer, it might be well to wait. But after that—and then he pressed very closely the hand which rested on his arm. And so the matter was discussed between them with language and arguments which were by no means original.

At the gate, just as Herbert was about to remount his horse, they were encountered by a sight which for years past had not been uncommon in the south of Ireland, but which had become frightfully common during the last two or three months. A woman was standing there of whom you could hardly say that she was clothed, though she was involved in a mass of rags which covered her nakedness. Her head was all uncovered, and her wild black hair was streaming round her face. Behind her back hung two children enveloped among the rags in some mysterious way; and round about her on the road stood three others, of whom the two younger were almost absolutely naked. The eldest of the five was not above seven. They all had the same wild black eyes, and wild elfish straggling locks; but neither the mother nor the children were comely. She was short ad broad in the shoulders, though wretchedly thin; her bare legs seemed to be of nearly the same thickness up to the knee, and the naked limbs of the children were like yellow sticks. It is strange how various are the kinds of physical development among the Celtic peasantry in Ireland. In many places they are singularly beautiful, especially as children; and even after labour and sickness shall have told on them as labour and sickness will tell, they still retain a certain softness and grace which is very nearly akin to beauty. But then again in a neighbouring district they will be found to be squat, uncouth, and in no way attractive to the eye. The tint of the complexion, the nature of the hair, the colour of the eyes, shall be the same. But in one place it will seem as though noble blood had produced delicate limbs and elegant stature, whereas in the other a want of noble blood had produced the reverse. The peasants of Clare, Limerick, and Tipperary are, in this way, much more comely than those of Cork and Kerry.

When Herbert and Clara reached the gate they found this mother with her five children crouching at the ditch-side, although it was still mid-winter. They had seen him enter the demesne, and were now waiting with the patience of poverty for his return.

"An' the holy Virgin guide an' save you, my lady," said the woman, almost frightening Clara by the sudden way in which she came forward, "an' you too, Misther Herbert; and for the love of heaven do something for a poor crathur whose five starving childher have not had wholesome food within their lips for the last week past."

Clara looked at them piteously and put her hand towards her pocket. Her purse was never well furnished, and now in these bad days was usually empty. At the present moment it was wholly so. "I have nothing to give her; not a penny," she said, whispering to her lover.

But Herbert had learned deep lessons of political economy, and was by no means disposed to give promiscuous charity on the road-side. "What is your name," said he; "and from where do you come?"

"Shure, an' it's yer honor knows me well enough; and her ladyship too; may the heavens be her bed. And don't I come from Clady; that is two long miles the fur side of it? And my name is Bridget Sheehy. Shure, an' yer ladyship remembers me at Clady the first day ye war over there about the biler."

Clara looked at her, and thought that she did remember her, but she said nothing. "And who is your husband?" said Herbert.

"Murty Brien, plaze yer honor;" and the woman ducked a curtsey with the heavy load of two children on her back. It must be understood that among the poorer classes in the south and west of Ireland it is almost rare for a married woman to call herself or to be called by her husband's name.

"And is he not at work?"

"Shure, an' he is, yer honor—down beyant Kinsale by the say. But what's four shilling a week for a man's diet, let alone a woman and five bairns?"

"And so he has deserted you?"

"No, yer honor; he's not dasarted me thin. He's a good man and a kind, av' he had the mains. But we've a cabin up here, on her ladyship's ground that is; and he has sent me up among my own people, hoping that times would come round; but faix, yer honor, I'm thinking that they'll never come round, no more."

"And what do you want now, Bridget?"

"What is it I'm wanting? just a thrifle of money then to get a sup of milk for thim five childher as is starving and dying for the want of it." And she pointed to the wretched, naked brood around her with a gesture which in spite of her ugliness had in it something of tragic grandeur.

"But you know that we will not give money. They will take you in at the poorhouse at Kanturk."

"Is it the poorhouse, yer honor?"

"Or, if you get a ticket from your priest they will give you meal twice a week at Clady. You know that. Why do you not go to Father Connellan?"

"Is it the mail? An' shure an' haven't I had it the last month past; nothin' else; not a taste of a piaty or a dhrop of milk for nigh a month, and now look at the childher. Look at them, my lady. They are dyin' by the very road-side." And she undid the bundle at her back, and laying the two babes down on the road, showed that the elder of them was in truth in a fearful state. It was a child nearly two years of age, but its little legs seemed to have withered away; its cheeks were wan, and yellow and sunken, and the two teeth which it had already cut were seen with terrible plainness through its emaciated lips. Its head and forehead were covered with sores; and then the mother, moving aside the rags, showed that its back and legs were in the same state. "Look to that," she said, almost with scorn. "That's what the mail has done—my black curses be upon it, and the day that it first come nigh the counthry." And then again she covered the child and began to resume her load.

"Do give her something, Herbert, pray do," said Clara, with her whole face suffused with tears.

"You know that we cannot give away money," said Herbert, arguing with Bridget Sheehy, and not answering Clara at the moment. "You understand enough of what is being done to know that. Why do you not go into the Union?"

"Shure thin an' I'll jist tramp on as fur as Hap House, I and my childher; that is av' they do not die by the road-side. Come on, bairns. Mr. Owen won't be afther sending me to the Kanturk union when I tell him that I've travelled all thim miles to get a dhrink of milk for a sick babe; more by token when I tells him also that I'm one of the Desmond tinantry. It's he that loves the Desmonds, Lady Clara,—loves them as his own heart's blood. And it's I that wish him good luck with his love, in spite of all that's come and gone yet. Come on, bairns, come along; we have seven weary miles to walk."

And then, having rearranged her burden on her back, she prepared again to start.

Herbert Fitzgerald, from the first moment of his interrogating the woman, had of course known that he would give her somewhat. In spite of all his political economy, there were but few days in which he did not empty his pocket of his loose silver, with these culpable deviations from his theoretical philosophy. But yet he felt that it was his duty to insist on his rules, as far as his heart would allow him to do so. It was a settled thing at their relief committee that there should be no giving away of money to chance applicants for alms. What money each had to bestow would go twice further by being brought to the general fund—by being expended with forethought and discrimination. This was the system which all attempted, which all resolved to adopt who were then living in the south of Ireland. But the system was impracticable, for it required frames of iron and hearts of adamant. It was impossible not to waste money in almsgiving.

"Oh, Herbert!" said Clara, imploringly, as the woman prepared to start.

"Bridget, come here," said Herbert, and he spoke very seriously, for the woman's allusion to Owen Fitzgerald had driven a cloud across his brow. "Your child is very ill, and therefore I will give you something to help you," and he gave her a shilling and two sixpences.

"May the God in heaven bless you thin, and make you happy, whoever wins the bright darling by your side; and may the good days come back to yer house and all that belongs to it. May yer wife clave to you all her days, and be a good mother to your childher." And she would have gone on further with her blessing had not he interrupted her.

"Go on now, my good woman," said he, "and take your children where they may be warm. If you will be advised by me, you will go to the Union at Kanturk." And so the woman passed on still blessing them. Very shortly after this none of them required pressing to go to the workhouse. Every building that could be arranged for the purpose was filled to overflowing as soon as it was ready. But the worst of the famine had not come upon them as yet. And then Herbert rode back to Castle Richmond.



CHAPTER XVII

FATHER BARNEY

Mick O'Dwyer's public-house at Kanturk was by no means so pretentious an establishment as that kept by his brother in South Main Street, Cork, but it was on the whole much less nasty. It was a drinking-shop and a public car office, and such places in Ireland are seldom very nice; but there was no attempt at hotel grandeur, and the little room in which the family lived behind the bar was never invaded by customers.

On one evening just at this time—at the time, that is, with which we have been lately concerned—three persons were sitting in this room over a cup of tea. There was a gentleman, midddle-aged, but none the worse on that account, who has already been introduced in these pages as Father Bernard M'Carthy. He was the parish priest of Drumbarrow; and as his parish comprised a portion of the town of Kanturk, he lived, not exactly in the town, but within a mile of it. His sister had married Mr. O'Dwyer of South Main Street, and therefore he was quite at home in the little back parlour of Mick O'Dwyer's house in Kanturk. Indeed Father Bernard was a man who made himself at home in the houses of most of his parishioners,—and of some who were not his parishioners.

His companions on the present occasion were two ladies who seemed to be emulous in supplying his wants. The younger and more attractive of the two was also an old friend of ours, being no other than Fanny O'Dwyer from South Main Street. Actuated, doubtless, by some important motive she had left her bar at home for one night, having come down to Kanturk by her father's car, with the intention of returning by it in the morning. She was seated as a guest here on the corner of the sofa near the fire, but nevertheless she was neither too proud nor too strange in her position to administer as best she might to the comfort of her uncle.

The other lady was Mistress O'Dwyer, the lady of the mansion. She was fat, very; by no means fair, and perhaps something over forty. But nevertheless there were those who thought that she had her charms. A better hand at curing a side of bacon there was not in the county Cork, nor a woman who was more knowing in keeping a house straight and snug over her husband's head. That she had been worth more than a fortune to Mick O'Dwyer was admitted by all in Kanturk; for it was known to all that Mick O'Dwyer was not himself a good hand at keeping a house straight and snug.

"Another cup of tay, Father Bernard," said this lady. "It'll be more to your liking now than the first, you'll find." Father Barney, perfectly reliant on her word, handed in his cup.

"And the muffin is quite hot," said Fanny, stooping down to a tray which stood before the peat fire, holding the muffin dish. "But perhaps you'd like a morsel of buttered toast; say the word, uncle, and I'll make it in a brace of seconds."

"In course she will," said Mrs. O'Dwyer: "and happy too, av you'll only say that you have a fancy, Father Bernard."

But Father Bernard would not own to any such fancy. The muffin, he said, was quite to his liking, and so was the tea; and from the manner in which he disposed of these delicacies, even Mrs. Townsend might have admitted that this assertion was true, though she was wont to express her belief that nothing but lies could, by any possibility, fall from his mouth.

"And they have been staying with you now for some weeks, haven't they?" said Father Barney.

"Off and on," said Fanny.

"But there's one of them mostly there, isn't he?" added the priest.

"The two of them is mostly there, just now. Sometimes one goes away for a day or two, and sometimes the other."

"And they have no business which keeps them in Cork?" continued the priest, who seemed to be very curious on the matter.

"Well, they do have business, I suppose," said Fanny, "but av so I never sees it."

Fanny O'Dwyer had a great respect for her uncle, seeing that he filled an exalted position, and was a connexion of whom she could be justly proud; but, though she had now come down to Kanturk with the view of having a good talk with her aunt and uncle about the Molletts, she would only tell as much as she liked to tell, even to the parish priest of Drumbarrow. And we may as well explain here that Fanny had now permanently made up her mind to reject the suit of Mr. Abraham Mollett. As she had allowed herself to see more and more of the little domestic ways of that gentleman, and to become intimate with him as a girl should become with the man she intends to marry, she had gradually learned to think that he hardly came up to her beau ideal of a lover. That he was crafty and false did not perhaps offend her as it should have done. Dear Fanny, excellent and gracious as she was, could herself be crafty on occasions. He drank too, but that came in the way of her profession. It is hard, perhaps, for a barmaid to feel much severity against that offence. But in addition to this Aby was selfish and cruel and insolent, and seldom altogether good tempered. He was bad to his father, and bad to those below him whom he employed. Old Mollett would give away his sixpences with a fairly liberal hand, unless when he was exasperated by drink and fatigue. But Aby seldom gave away a penny. Fanny had sharp eyes, and soon felt that her English lover was not a man to be loved, though he had two rings, a gold chain, and half a dozen fine waistcoats.

And then another offence had come to light in which the Molletts were both concerned. Since their arrival in South Main Street they had been excellent customers—indeed quite a godsend, in this light, to Fanny, who had her own peculiar profit out of such house-customers as they were. They had paid their money like true Britons,—not regularly indeed, for regularity had not been desired, but by a five pound now, and another in a day or two, just as they were wanted. Nothing indeed could be better than this, for bills so paid are seldom rigidly scrutinized. But of late, within the last week, Fanny's requests for funds had not been so promptly met, and only on the day before her visit to Kanturk she had been forced to get her father to take a bill from Mr. Mollett senior for 20l. at two months' date. This was a great come-down, as both Fanny and her father felt, and they had begun to think that it might be well to bring their connexion with the Molletts to a close. What if an end had come to the money of these people, and their bills should be dishonoured when due? It was all very well for a man to have claims against Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, but Fanny O'Dwyer had already learnt that nothing goes so far in this world as ready cash.

"They do have business, I suppose," said Fanny.

"It won't be worth much, I'm thinking," said Mrs. O'Dwyer, "when they can't pay their weekly bills at a house of public entertainment, without flying their names at two months' date."

Mrs. O'Dwyer hated any such payments herself, and looked on them as certain signs of immorality. That every man should take his drop of drink, consume it noiselessly, and pay for it immediately—that was her idea of propriety in its highest form.

"And they've been down here three or four times, each of them," said Father Barney, thinking deeply on the subject.

"I believe they have," said Fanny. "But of course I don't know much of where they've been to."

Father Barney knew very well that his dear niece had been on much more intimate terms with her guest than she pretended. The rumours had reached his ears some time since that the younger of the two strangers in South Main Street was making himself agreeable to the heiress of the hotel, and he had intended to come down upon her with all the might of an uncle, and, if necessary, with all the authority of the Church. But now that Fanny had discarded her lover, he wisely felt that it would be well for him to know nothing about it. Both uncles and priests may know too much—very foolishly.

"I have seen them here myself," said he, "and they have both been up at Castle Richmond."

"They do say as poor Sir Thomas is in a bad way," said Mrs. O'Dwyer, shaking her head piteously.

"And yet he sees these men," said Father Barney. "I know that for certain. He has seen them, though he will rarely see anybody now-a-days."

"Young Mr. Herbert is a-doing most of the business up about the place," said Mrs. O'Dwyer. "And people do say as how he is going to make a match of it with Lady Clara Desmond. And it's the lucky girl she'll be, for he's a nice young fellow entirely."

"Not half equal to her other Joe, Mr. Owen that is," said Fanny.

"Well, I don't know that, my dear. Such a house and property as Castle Richmond is not likely to go a-begging among the young women. And then Mr. Herbert is not so rampageous like as him of Hap house, by all accounts."

But Father Barney still kept to his subject. "And they are both at your place at the present moment, eh, Fanny?"

"They was to dine there, after I left."

"And the old man said he'd be down here again next Thursday," continued the priest. "I heard that for certain. I'll tell you what it is, they're not after any good here. They are Protestants, ain't they?"

"Oh, black Protestants," said Mrs. O'Dwyer. "But you are not taking your tay, Father Bernard," and she again filled his cup for him.

"If you'll take my advice, Fanny, you'll give them nothing more without seeing their money. They'll come to no good here, I'm sure of that. They're afther some mischief with that poor old gentleman at Castle Richmond, and it's my belief the police will have them before they've done."

"Like enough," said Mrs. O'Dwyer.

"They may have them to-morrow, for what I care," said Fanny, who could not help feeling that Aby Mollett had at one time been not altogether left without hope as her suitor.

"But you wouldn't like anything like that to happen in your father's house," said Father Barney.

"Bringing throuble and disgrace on an honest name," said Mrs. O'Dwyer.

"There'd be no disgrace as I knows of," said Fanny, stoutly. "Father makes his money by the public, and in course he takes in any that comes the way with money in their pockets to pay the shot."

"But these Molletts ain't got the money to pay the shot," said Mrs. O'Dwyer, causticly. "You've about sucked 'em dhry, I'm thinking, and they owes you more now than you're like to get from 'em."

"I suppose father'll have to take that bill up," said Fanny, assenting. And so it was settled down there among them that the Molletts were to have the cold shoulder, and that they should in fact be turned out of the Kanturk Hotel as quickly as this could be done. "Better a small loss at first, than a big one at last," said Mrs. O'Dwyer, with much wisdom. "They'll come to mischief down here, as sure as my name's M'Carthy," said the priest. "And I'd be sorry your father should be mixed up in it."

And then by degrees the conversation was changed, but not till the tea-things had been taken away, and a square small bottle of very particular whisky put on the table in its place. And the sugar also was brought, and boiling water in an immense jug, as though Father Barney were going to make a deep potation indeed, and a lemon in a wine-glass; and then the priest was invited, with much hospitality, to make himself comfortable. Nor did the luxuries prepared for him end here; but Fanny, the pretty Fan herself, filled a pipe for him, and pretended that she would light it, for such priests are merry enough sometimes, and can joke as well as other men with their pretty nieces.

"But you're not mixing your punch, Father Bernard," said Mrs. O'Dwyer, with a plaintive melancholy voice, "and the wather getting cowld and all! Faix then, Father Bernard, I'll mix it for ye, so I will." And so she did, and well she knew how. And then she made another for herself and her niece, urging that "a thimbleful would do Fanny all the good in life afther her ride acrass them cowld mountains," and the priest looked on assenting, blowing the comfortable streams of smoke from his nostrils.

"And so, Father Bernard, you and Parson Townsend is to meet again to-morrow at Gortnaclough." Whereupon Father Bernard owned that such was the case, with a nod, not caring to disturb the pipe which lay comfortably on his lower lip.

"Well, well; only to think on it," continued Mrs. O'Dwyer. "That the same room should hould the two of ye." And she lifted up her hands and shook her head.

"It houlds us both very comfortable, I can assure you, Mrs. O'Dwyer."

"And he ain't rampageous and highty-tighty? He don't give hisself no airs?"

"Well, no; nothing in particular. Why should the man be such a fool as that?"

"Why, in course? But they are such fools, Father Bernard. They does think theyselves such grand folks. Now don't they? I'd give a dandy of punch all round to the company just to hear you put him down once; I would. But he isn't upsetting at all, then?"

"Not the last time we met, he wasn't; and I don't think he intends it. Things have come to that now that the parsons know where they are and what they have to look to. They're getting a lesson they'll not forget in a hurry. Where are their rent charges to come from— can you tell me that, Mrs. O'Dwyer?"

Mrs. O'Dwyer could not, but she remarked that pride would always have a fall. "And there's no pride like Protesthant pride," said Fanny. "It is so upsetting, I can't abide it." All which tended to show that she had given up her Protestant lover.

"And is it getthing worse than iver with the poor crathurs?" said Mrs. O'Dwyer, referring, not to the Protestants, but to the victims of the famine.

"Indeed it's getting no betther," said the priest, "and I'm fearing it will be worse before it is over. I haven't married one couple in Drumbarrow since November last."

"And that's a heavy sign, Father Bernard."

"The surest sign in the world that they have no money among them at all, at all. And it is bad with thim, Mrs. O'Dwyer,—very bad, very bad indeed."

"Glory be to God, the poor cratures!" said the soft-hearted lady. "It isn't much the like of us have to give away, Father Bernard; I needn't be telling you that. But we'll help, you know,—we'll help."

"And so will father, uncle Bernard. If you're so bad off about here I know he'll give you a thrifle for the asking." In a short time, however, it came to pass that those in the cities could spare no aid to the country. Indeed it may be a question whether the city poverty was not the harder of the two.

"God bless you both—you've soft hearts, I know." And Father Barney put his punch to his lips. "Whatever you can do for me shall not be thrown away. And I'll tell you what, Mrs. O'Dwyer, it does behove us all to put our best foot out now. We will not let them say that the Papists would do nothing for their own poor."

"'Deed then an' they'll say anything of us, Father Bernard. There's nothing too hot or too heavy for them."

"At any rate let us not deserve it, Mrs. O'Dwyer. There will be a lot of them at Gortnaclough to-morrow, and I shall tell them that we, on our side, won't be wanting. To give them their due, I must say that they are working well. That young Herbert Fitzgerald's a trump, whether he's Protestant or Catholic."

"An' they do say he's a strong bearing towards the ould religion," said Mrs. O'Dwyer.

"God bless his sweet young face av' he'd come back to us. That's what I say."

"God bless his face any way, say I," said Father Barney, with a wider philanthropy. "He is doing his best for the people, and the time has come now when we must hang together, if it be any way possible." And with this the priest finished his pipe, and wishing the ladies good night, walked away to his own house.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE RELIEF COMMITTEE

At this time the famine was beginning to be systematised. The sternest among landlords and masters were driven to acknowledge that the people had not got food, or the means of earning it. The people themselves were learning that a great national calamity had happened, and that the work was God's work; and the Government had fully recognized the necessity of taking the whole matter into its own hands. They were responsible for the preservation of the people, and they acknowledged their responsibility.

And then two great rules seemed to get themselves laid down—not by general consent, for there were many who greatly contested their wisdom—but by some force strong enough to make itself dominant. The first was, that the food to be provided should be earned and not given away. And the second was, that the providing of that food should be left to private competition, and not in any way be undertaken by the Government. I make bold to say that both these rules were wise and good.

But how should the people work? That Government should supply the wages was of course an understood necessity; and it was also necessary that on all such work the amount of wages should be regulated by the price at which provisions might fix themselves. These points produced questions which were hotly debated by the Relief Committees of the different districts; but at last it got itself decided, again by the hands of Government, that all hills along the country roads should be cut away, and that the people should be employed on this work. They were so employed,—very little to the advantage of the roads for that or some following years.

"So you have begun, my men," said Herbert to a gang of labourers whom he found collected at a certain point on Ballydahan Hill, which lay on his road from Castle Richmond to Gortnaclough. In saying this he had certainly paid them an unmerited compliment, for they had hitherto begun nothing. Some thirty or forty wretched-looking men were clustered together in the dirt and slop and mud, on the brow of the hill, armed with such various tools as each was able to find—with tools, for the most part, which would go but a little way in making Ballydahan Hill level or accessible. This question of tools also came to a sort of understood settlement before long; and within three months of the time of which I am writing legions of wheelbarrows were to be seen lying near every hill; wheelbarrows in hundreds and thousands. The fate of those myriads of wheelbarrows has always been a mystery to me.

"So you have begun, my men," said Herbert, addressing them in a kindly voice. There was a couple of gangsmen with them, men a little above the others in appearance, but apparently incapable of commencing the work in hand, for they also were standing idle, leaning against a bit of wooden paling. It had, however, been decided that the works at Ballydahan Hill should begin on this day, and there were the men assembled. One fact admitted of no doubt, namely, this, that the wages would begin from this day.

And then the men came and clustered round Herbert's horse. They were wretched-looking creatures, half-clad, discontented, with hungry eyes, each having at his heart's core a deep sense of injustice done personally upon him. They hated this work of cutting hills from the commencement to the end,—hated it, though it was to bring them wages and save them and theirs from actual famine and death. They had not been accustomed to the discomfort of being taken far from their homes to their daily work. Very many of them had never worked regularly for wages, day after day, and week after week. Up to this time such was not the habit of Irish cottiers. They held their own land, and laboured there for a spell; and then they would work for a spell, as men do in England, taking wages; and then they would be idle for a spell. It was not exactly a profitable mode of life, but it had its comforts; and now these unfortunates who felt themselves to be driven forth like cattle in droves for the first time, suffered the full wretchedness of their position. They were not rough and unruly, or inclined to be troublesome and perhaps violent, as men similarly circumstanced so often are in England;—as Irishmen are when collected in gangs out of Ireland. They had no aptitudes for such roughness, and no spirits for such violence. But they were melancholy, given to complaint, apathetic, and utterly without interest in that they were doing.

"Yz, yer honer," said one man who was standing, shaking himself, with his hands enveloped in the rags of his pockets. He had on no coat, and the keen north wind seemed to be blowing through his bones; cold, however, as he was, he would do nothing towards warming himself, unless that occasional shake can be considered as a doing of something. "Yz, yer honer; we've begun thin since before daylight this blessed morning."

It was now eleven o'clock, and a pick-axe had not been put into the ground, nor the work marked.

"Been here before daylight!" said Herbert. "And has there been nobody to set you to work?"

"Divil a sowl, yer honer," said another, who was sitting on a hedge-bank leaning with both his hands on a hoe, which he held between his legs, "barring Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady; they two do be over us, but they knows nothin' o' such jobs as this."

Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady had with others moved up so as to be close to Herbert's horse, but they said not a word towards vindicating their own fitness for command.

"And it's mortial cowld standing here thin," said another, "without a bit to ate or a sup to dhrink since last night, and then only a lump of the yally mail." And the speaker moved about on his toes and heels, desirous of keeping his blood in circulation with the smallest possible amount of trouble.

"I'm telling the boys it's home we'd betther be going," said a fourth.

"And lose the tizzy they've promised us," said he of the hoe.

"Sorrow a tizzy they'll pay any of yez for standing here all day," said an ill-looking little wretch of a fellow, with a black muzzle and a squinting eye; "ye may all die in the road first." And the man turned away among the crowd, as an Irishman does who has made his speech and does not want to be answered.

"You need have no fear about that, my men," said Herbert. "Whether you be put to work or no you'll receive your wages; you may take my word for that."

"I've been telling 'em that for the last half-hour," said the man with the hoe, now rising to his feet. "'Shure an' didn't Mr. Somers be telling us that we'd have saxpence each day as long we war here afore daylight?' said I, yer honer; 'an' shure an' wasn't it black night when we war here this blessed morning, and devil a fear of the tizzy?' said I. But it's mortial cowld, an' it'd be asier fur uz to be doing a spell of work than crouching about on our hunkers down on the wet ground."

All this was true. It had been specially enjoined upon them to be early at their work. An Irishman as a rule will not come regularly to his task. It is a very difficult thing to secure his services every morning at six o'clock: but make a special point,—tell him that you want him very early, and he will come to you in the middle of the night. Breakfast every morning punctually at eight o'clock is almost impossible in Ireland; but if you want one special breakfast, so that you may start by a train at 4 A.M., you are sure to be served. No irregular effort is distasteful to an Irishman of the lower classes, not if it entails on him the loss of a day's food and the loss of a night's rest; the actual pleasure of the irregularity repays him for all this, and he never tells you that this or that is not his work. He prefers work that is not his own. Your coachman will have no objection to turn the mangle, but heaven and earth put together won't persuade him to take the horses out to exercise every morning at the same hour. These men had been told to come early, and they had been there on the road-side since five o'clock. It was not surprising that they were cold and hungry, listless and unhappy.

And then, as young Fitzgerald was questioning the so-named gangmen as to the instructions they had received, a jaunting car came up to the foot of the hill. "We war to wait for the ongineer," Shawn Brady had said, "an' shure an' we have waited." "An' here's one of Misther Carroll's cars from Mallow," said Thady Molloy, "and that's the ongineer hisself." Thady Molloy was right; this was the engineer himself, who had now arrived from Mallow. From this time forth, and for the next twelve months, the country was full of engineers, or of men who were so called. I do not say this in disparagement; but the engineers were like the yellow meal. When there is an immense demand, and that a suddenly immense demand, for any article, it is seldom easy to get it very good. In those days men became engineers with a short amount of apprenticeship, but, as a rule, they did not do their work badly. In such days as those, men, if they be men at all, will put their shoulders to the wheel.

The engineer was driven up to where they were standing, and he jumped off the car among the men who were to work under him with rather a pretentious air. He had not observed, or probably had not known, Herbert Fitzgerald. He was a very young fellow, still under one-and-twenty, beardless, light-haired, blue-eyed, and fresh from England. "And what hill is this?" said he to the driver.

"Ballydahan, shure, yer honer. That last war Connick-a-coppul, and that other, the big un intirely, where the crass road takes away to Buttevant, that was Glounthauneroughtymore. Faix and that's been the murthering hill for cattle since first I knew it. Bedad yer honer 'll make it smooth as a bowling-green."

"Ballydahan," said the young man, taking a paper out of his pocket and looking up the names in his list, "I've got it. There should be thirty-seven of them here."

"Shure an' here we are these siven hours," said our friend of the hoe, "and mighty cowld we are."

"Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady," called out the engineer, managing thoroughly to Anglicise the pronunciation of the names, though they were not Celtically composite to any great degree.

"Yez, we's here," said Thady, coming forward. And then Herbert came up and introduced himself, and the young engineer took off his hat. "I came away from Mallow before eight," said he apologetically; "but I have four of these places to look after, and when one gets to one of them it is impossible to get away again. There was one place where I was kept two hours before I could get one of the men to understand what they were to do. What is it you call that big hill?"

"Glounthauneroughtymore, yer honer," said the driver, to whom the name was as easy and familiar as his own.

"And you are going to set these men to work now?" said Herbert.

"Well, I don't suppose they'll do much to-day, Mr. Fitzgerald. But I must try and explain to the head men how they are to begin. They have none of them any tools, you see." And then he called out again. "Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady."

"We's here," said Thady again; "we did not exactly know whether yer honer'd be afther beginning at the top or the botthom. That's all that war staying us."

"Never fear," said Shawn, "but we'll have ould Ballydahan level in less than no time. We're the boys that can do it, fair and aisy."

It appeared to Herbert that the young engineer seemed to be rather bewildered by the job of work before him, and therefore he rode on, not stopping to embarrass him by any inspection of his work. In process of time no doubt so much of the top of Ballydahan Hill was carried to the bottom as made the whole road altogether impassable for many months. But the great object was gained; the men were fed, and were not fed by charity. What did it matter, that the springs of every conveyance in the county Cork were shattered by the process, and that the works resulted in myriads of wheelbarrows?

And then, as he rode on towards Gortnaclough, Herbert was overtaken by his friend the parson, who was also going to the meeting of the relief committee. "You have not seen the men at Ballydahan Hill, have you?" said Herbert.

Mr. Townsend explained that he had not seen them. His road had struck on to that on which they now were not far from the top of the hill. "But I knew they were to be there this morning," said Mr. Townsend.

"They have sent quite a lad of a fellow to show them how to work," said Herbert. "I fear we shall all come to grief with these road-cuttings."

"For heaven's sake don't say that at the meeting," said Mr. Townsend, "or you'll be playing the priests' game out and out. Father Barney has done all in his power to prevent the works."