BEFORE BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE.
It may be imagined that Mr. Mollett's drive back to Cork after his
last visit to Castle Richmond had not been very pleasant; and indeed
it may be said that his present circumstances altogether were as
unpleasant as his worst enemies could desire. I have endeavoured to
excite the sympathy of those who are going with me through this story
for the sufferings of that family of the Fitzgeralds; but how shall
I succeed in exciting their sympathy for this other family of the
Molletts? And yet why not? If we are to sympathise only with the
good, or worse still, only with the graceful, how little will there
be in our character that is better than terrestrial? Those Molletts
also were human, and had strings to their hearts, at which the world
would now probably pull with sufficient vigour. For myself I can
truly say that my strongest feeling is for their wretchedness.
The father and son had more than once boasted among themselves that
the game they were now playing was a high one; that they were, in
fact, gambling for mighty stakes. And in truth, as long as the
money came in to them--flowing in as the result of their own craft
in this game--the excitement had about it something that was very
pleasurable. There was danger, which makes all games pleasant; there
was money in handfuls for daily expenses--those daily wants of the
appetite, which are to such men more important by far than the
distant necessities of life; there was a possibility of future
grandeur, an opening out of magnificent ideas of fortune, which
charmed them greatly as they thought about it. What might they not
do with forty thousand pounds divided between them, or even with a
thousand a year each, settled on them for life? and surely their
secret was worth that money! Nay, was it not palpable to the meanest
calculation that it was worth much more? Had they not the selling
of twelve thousand a year for ever and ever to this family of
Fitzgerald?
But for the last fortnight things had begun to go astray with them.
Money easily come by goes easily, and money badly come by goes badly.
Theirs had come easily and badly, and had so gone. What necessity
could there be for economy with such a milch-cow as that close to
their elbows? So both of them had thought, if not argued; and there
had been no economy--no economy in the use of that very costly
amusement, the dice-box; and now, at the present moment, ready money
having failed to be the result of either of the two last visits to
Castle Richmond, the family funds were running low.
It may be said that ready money for the moment was the one desire
nearest to the heart of Mollett père, when he took that last journey
over the Boggeragh mountains--ready money wherewith to satisfy the
pressing claims of Miss O'Dwyer, and bring back civility, or rather
servility, to the face and manner of Tom the waiter at the Kanturk
Hotel. Very little of that servility can be enjoyed by persons of
the Mollett class when money ceases to be ready in their hands and
pockets, and there is, perhaps, nothing that they enjoy so keenly as
servility. Mollett père had gone down determined that that comfort
should at any rate be forthcoming to him, whatever answer might
be given to those other grander demands, and we know what success
had attended his mission. He had looked to find his tame milch-cow
trembling in her accustomed stall, and he had found a resolute bull
there in her place--a bull whom he could by no means take by the
horns. He had got no money, and before he had reached Cork he had
begun to comprehend that it was not probable that he should get more
from that source.
During a part of the interview between him and Mr. Prendergast, some
spark of mercy towards his victims had glimmered into his heart. When
it was explained to him that the game was to be given up, that the
family at Castle Richmond was prepared to acknowledge the truth, and
that the effort made was with the view of proving that the poor lady
up stairs was not entitled to the name she bore rather than that she
was so entitled, then some slight promptings of a better spirit did
for a while tempt him to be merciful. "Oh, what are you about to do?"
he would have said had Mr. Prendergast admitted of speech from him.
"Why make this terrible sacrifice? Matters have not come to that.
There is no need for you to drag to the light this terrible fact. I
will not divulge it--no not although you are hard upon me in regard
to these terms of mine. I will still keep it to myself, and trust
to you,--to you who are all so rich and able to pay, for what
consideration you may please to give me." This was the state of his
mind when Mrs. Jones's evidence was being slowly evoked from her;
but it had undergone a considerable change before he reached Cork.
By that time he had taught himself to understand that there was no
longer a chance to him of any consideration whatever. Slowly he
had brought it home to himself that these people had resolutely
determined to blow up the ground on which they themselves stood. This
he perceived was their honesty. He did not understand the nature of a
feeling which could induce so fatal a suicide, but he did understand
that the feeling was there, and that the suicide would be completed.
And now what was he to do next in the way of earning his
bread? Various thoughts ran through his brain, and different
resolves--half-formed but still, perhaps, capable of shape--presented
themselves to him for the future. It was still on the cards--on the
cards, but barely so--that he might make money out of these people;
but he must wait perhaps for weeks before he again commenced such an
attempt. He might perhaps make money out of them, and be merciful to
them at the same time;--not money by thousands and tens of thousands;
that golden dream was gone for ever; but still money that might be
comfortably luxurious as long as it could be made to last. But then
on one special point he made a firm and final resolution,--whatever
new scheme he might hatch he alone would manage. Never again would he
call into his councils that son of his loins whose rapacious greed
had, as he felt sure, brought upon him all this ruin. Had Aby not
gone to Castle Richmond, with his cruelty and his greed, frightening
to the very death the soul of that poor baronet by the enormity of
his demands, Mr. Prendergast would not have been there. Of what
further chance of Castle Richmond pickings there might be Aby should
know nothing. He and his son would no longer hunt in couples. He
would shake him off in that escape which they must both now make from
Cork, and he would not care how long it might be before he again saw
his countenance.
But then that question of ready money; and that other question,
perhaps as interesting, touching a criminal prosecution! How was he
to escape if he could not raise the wind? And how could he raise
the wind now that his milch-cow had run so dry? He had promised the
O'Dwyers money that evening, and had struggled hard to make that
promise with an easy face. He now had none to give them. His orders
at the inn were treated almost with contempt. For the last three days
they had given him what he wanted to eat and drink, but would hardly
give him all that he wanted. When he called for brandy they brought
him whisky, and it had only been by hard begging, and by oaths as to
the promised money, that he had induced them to supply him with the
car which had taken him on his fruitless journey to Castle Richmond.
As he was driven up to the door in South Main Street, his heart was
very sad on all these subjects.
Aby was again sitting within the bar, but was no longer basking in
the sunshine of Fanny's smiles. He was sitting there because Fanny
had not yet mustered courage to turn him out. He was half-drunk, for
it had been found impossible to keep spirits from him. And there had
been hot words between him and Fanny, in which she had twitted him
with his unpaid bill, and he had twitted her with her former love.
And things had gone from bad to worse, and she had all but called
in Tom for aid in getting quit of him; she had, however, refrained,
thinking of the money that might be coming, and waiting also till her
father should arrive. Fanny's love for Mr. Abraham Mollett had not
been long lived.
I will not describe another scene such as those which had of late
been frequent in the Kanturk Hotel. The father and the son soon found
themselves together in the small room in which they now both slept,
at the top of the house; and Aby, tipsy as he was, understood the
whole of what had happened at Castle Richmond. When he heard that
Mr. Prendergast was seen in that room in lieu of Sir Thomas, he knew
at once that the game had been abandoned. "But something may yet be
done at 'Appy 'ouse," Aby said to himself, "only one must be deuced
quick."
The father and the son of course quarrelled frightfully, like dogs
over the memory of a bone which had been arrested from the jaws of
both of them. Aby said that his father had lost everything by his
pusillanimity, and old Mollett declared that his son had destroyed
all by his rashness. But we need not repeat their quarrels, nor
repeat all that passed between them and Tom before food was
forthcoming to satisfy the old man's wants. As he ate he calculated
how much he might probably raise upon his watch towards taking him to
London, and how best he might get off from Cork without leaving any
scent in the nostrils of his son. His clothes he must leave behind
him at the inn, at least all that he could not pack upon his person.
Lately he had made himself comfortable in this respect, and he
sorrowed over the fine linen which he had worn but once or twice
since it had been bought with the last instalment from Sir Thomas.
Nevertheless in this way he did make up his mind for the morrow's
campaign.
And Aby also made up his mind. Something at any rate he had learned
from Fanny O'Dwyer in return for his honeyed words. When Herbert
Fitzgerald should cease to be the heir to Castle Richmond, Owen
Fitzgerald of Hap House would be the happy man. That knowledge was
his own in absolute independence of his father, and there might still
be time for him to use it. He knew well the locality of Hap House,
and he would be there early on the following morning. These tidings
had probably not as yet reached the owner of that blessed abode, and
if he could be the first to tell him--! The game there too might be
pretty enough, if it were played well, by such a master-hand as his
own. Yes; he would be at Hap House early in the morning;--but then,
how to get there?
He left his father preparing for bed, and going down into the bar
found Mr. O'Dwyer and his daughter there in close consultation.
They were endeavouring to arrive, by their joint wisdom, at some
conclusion as to what they should do with their two guests. Fanny
was for turning them out at once. "The first loss is the least,"
said she. "And they is so disrispectable. I niver know what they're
afther, and always is expecting the p'lice will be down on them."
But the father shook his head. He had done nothing wrong; the police
could not hurt him; and thirty pounds, as he told his daughter, with
much emphasis, was "a deuced sight of money." "The first loss is
the least," said Fanny, perseveringly; and then Aby entered to them.
"My father has made a mull of this matter again," said he, going at
once into the middle of the subject. "'E 'as come back without a
shiner."
"I'll be bound he has," said Mr. O'Dwyer, sarcastically.
"And that when 'e'd only got to go two or three miles further, and
hall his troubles would have been over."
"Troubles over, would they?" said Fanny. "I wish he'd have the
goodness to get over his little troubles in this house, by paying us
our bill. You'll have to walk if it's not done, and that to-morrow,
Mr. Mollett; and so I tell you; and take nothing with you, I can tell
you. Father 'll have the police to see to that."
"Don't you be so cruel now, Miss Fanny," said Aby, with a leering
look. "I tell you what it is, Mr. O'Dwyer, I must go down again to
them diggings very early to-morrow, starting, say, at four o'clock."
"You'll not have a foot out of my stables," said Mr. O'Dwyer. "That's
all."
"Look here, Mr. O'Dwyer; there's been a sight of money due to us from
those Fitzgerald people down there. You know 'em; and whether they're
hable to pay or not. I won't deny but what father's 'ad the best of
it,--'ad the best of it, and sent it trolling, bad luck to him. But
there's no good looking hafter spilt milk; is there?"
"If so be that Sir Thomas owed the likes of you money, he would have
paid it without your tramping down there time after time to look for
it. He's not one of that sort."
"No, indeed," said Fanny; "and I don't believe anything about your
seeing Sir Thomas."
"Oh, we've seed him hoften enough. There's no mistake about that. But
now--" and then, with a mysterious air and low voice, he explained
to them, that this considerable balance of money still due to
them was to be paid by the cousin, "Mr. Owen of Appy 'ouse." And
to substantiate all his story, he exhibited a letter from Mr.
Prendergast to his father, which some months since had intimated that
a sum of money would be paid on behalf of Sir Thomas Fitzgerald, if
Mr. Mollett would call at Mr. Prendergast's office at a certain hour.
The ultimate effect of all this was, that the car was granted for
the morning, with certain dire threats as to any further breach of
engagement.
Very early on the following morning Aby was astir, hoping that he
might manage to complete his not elaborate toilet without disturbing
his father's slumbers. For, it must be known, he had been very urgent
with the O'Dwyers as to the necessity of keeping this journey of
his a secret from his "governor." But the governor was wide awake,
looking at him out of the corner of his closed eye whenever his back
was turned, and not caring much what he was about to do with himself.
Mollett père wished to be left alone for that morning, that he also
might play his little game in his own solitary fashion, and was not
at all disposed to question the movements of his son.
At about five Aby started for Hap House. His toilet, I have said, was
not elaborate; but in this I have perhaps wronged him. Up there in
the bed-room he did not waste much time over his soap and water; but
he was aware that first impressions are everything, and that one
young man should appear smart and clever before another if he wished
to carry any effect with him; so he took his brush and comb in his
pocket, and a pot of grease with which he was wont to polish his long
side-locks, and he hurriedly grasped up his pins, and his rings, and
the satin stock which Fanny in her kinder mood had folded for him;
and then, during his long journey to Hap House, he did perform a
toilet which may, perhaps, be fairly called elaborate.
There was a long, tortuous, narrow avenue, going from the Mallow
and Kanturk road down to Hap House, which impressed Aby with the
idea that the man on whom he was now about to call was also a big
gentleman, and made him more uneasy than he would have been had he
entered a place with less pretence. There is a story current, that
in the west of England the grandeur of middle-aged maiden ladies
is measured by the length of the tail of their cats; and Aby had a
perhaps equally correct idea, that the length of the private drive up
to a gentleman's house, was a fair criterion of the splendour of his
position. If this man had about him as much grandeur as Sir Thomas
himself, would he be so anxious as Aby had hoped to obtain the
additional grandeur of Sir Thomas? It was in that direction that his
mind was operating when he got down from the car and rang at the
door-bell.
Mr. Owen, as everybody called him, was at home, but not down; and
so Aby was shown into the dining-room. It was now considerably past
nine; and the servant told him that his master must be there soon, as
he had to eat his breakfast and be at the hunt by eleven. The servant
at Hap House was more unsophisticated than those at Castle Richmond,
and Aby's personal adornments had had their effect. He found himself
sitting in the room with the cups and saucers,--aye, and with the
silver tea-spoons; and began again to trust that his mission might be
successful.
And then the door opened, and a man appeared, clad from top to toe in
hunting costume. This was not Owen Fitzgerald, but his friend Captain
Donnellan. As it had happened, Captain Donnellan was the only guest
who had graced the festivities of Hap House on the previous evening;
and now he appeared at the breakfast table before his host. Aby got
up from his chair when the gentleman entered, and was proceeding to
business; but the Captain gave him to understand that the master of
the house was not yet in presence, and so Aby sat down again. What
was he to do when the master did arrive? His story was not one which
would well bear telling before a third person.
And then, while Captain Donnellan was scanning this visitor to
his friend Owen, and bethinking himself whether he might not be a
sheriff's officer, and whether if so some notice ought not to be
conveyed up stairs to the master of the house, another car was driven
up to the front door. In this case the arrival was from Castle
Richmond, and the two servants knew each other well. "Thady," said
Richard, with much authority in his voice, "this gentl'man is Mr.
Prendergast from our place, and he must see the masther before he
goes to the hunt." "Faix and the masther 'll have something to do
this blessed morning," said Thady, as he showed Mr. Prendergast also
into the dining-room, and went up stairs to inform his master that
there was yet another gentleman come upon business. "The Captain has
got 'em both to hisself," said Thady, as he closed the door.
The name of Mr. "Pendhrergrast," as the Irish servants generally
called him, was quite unknown to the owner of Hap House, as was also
that of Mr. Mollett, which had been brought up to him the first of
the two; but Owen began to think that there must be something very
unusual in a day so singularly ushered in to him. Callers at Hap
House on business were very few, unless when tradesmen in want of
money occasionally dropped in upon him. But now that he was so
summoned Owen began to bestir himself with his boots and breeches.
A gentleman's costume for a hunting morning is always a slow
one--sometimes so slow and tedious as to make him think of
forswearing such articles of dress for all future ages. But now he
did bestir himself,--in a moody melancholy sort of manner; for his
manner in all things latterly had become moody and melancholy.
In the mean time Captain Donnellan and the two strangers sat almost
in silence in the dining-room. The Captain, though he did not perhaps
know much of things noticeable in this world, did know something of
a gentleman, and was therefore not led away, as poor Thady had been,
by Aby's hat and rings. He had stared Aby full in the face when he
entered the room, and having explained that he was not the master
of the house, had not vouchsafed another word. But then he had also
seen that Mr. Prendergast was of a different class, and had said a
civil word or two, asking him to come near the fire, and suggesting
that Owen would be down in less than five minutes. "But the old cock
wouldn't crow," as he afterwards remarked to his friend, and so they
all three sat in silence, the Captain being very busy about his
knees, as hunting gentlemen sometimes are when they come down to
bachelor breakfasts.
And then at last Owen Fitzgerald entered the room. He has been
described as a handsome man, but in no dress did he look so well as
when equipped for a day's sport. And what dress that Englishmen ever
wear is so handsome as this? Or we may perhaps say what other dress
does English custom allow them that is in any respect not the reverse
of handsome. We have come to be so dingy,--in our taste I was going
to say, but it is rather in our want of taste,--so careless of any of
the laws of beauty in the folds and lines and hues of our dress, so
opposed to grace in the arrangement of our persons, that it is not
permitted to the ordinary English gentleman to be anything else but
ugly. Chimney-pot hats, swallow-tailed coats, and pantaloons that fit
nothing, came creeping in upon us, one after the other, while the
Georges reigned--creeping in upon us with such pictures as we painted
under the reign of West, and such houses as we built under the reign
of Nash, till the English eye required to rest on that which was
constrained, dull, and graceless. For the last two score of years
it has come to this, that if a man go in handsome attire he is a
popinjay and a vain fool; and as it is better to be ugly than to be
accounted vain I would not counsel a young friend to leave the beaten
track on the strength of his own judgment. But not the less is the
beaten track to be condemned, and abandoned, and abolished, if such
be in any way possible. Beauty is good in all things; and I cannot
but think that those old Venetian senators, and Florentine men of
Council, owed somewhat of their country's pride and power to the
manner in which they clipped their beards and wore their flowing
garments.
But an Englishman may still make himself brave when he goes forth
into the hunting field. Custom there allows him colour, and garments
that fit his limbs. Strength is the outward characteristic of
manhood, and at the covert-side he may appear strong. Look at men as
they walk along Fleet-street, and ask yourself whether any outward
sign of manhood or strength can be seen there. And of gentle manhood
outward dignity should be the trade mark. I will not say that such
outward dignity is incompatible with a black hat and plaid trousers,
for the eye instructed by habit will search out dignity for itself
wherever it may truly exist, let it be hidden by what vile covering
it may. But any man who can look well at his club, will look better
as he clusters round the hounds; while many a one who is comely
there, is mean enough as he stands on the hearth-rug before his club
fire. In my mind men, like churches and books, and women too, should
be brave, not mean, in their outward garniture.
And Owen, as I have said, was brave as he walked into his
dining-room. The sorrow which weighed on his heart had not wrinkled
his brow, but had given him a set dignity of purpose. His tall
figure, which his present dress allowed to be seen, was perfect in
its symmetry of strength. His bright chestnut hair clustered round
his forehead, and his eye shone like that of a hawk. They must have
been wrong who said that he commonly spent his nights over the
wine-cup. That pleasure always leaves its disgusting traces round the
lips; and Owen Fitzgerald's lips were as full and lusty as Apollo's.
Mollett, as he saw him, was stricken with envy. "If I could only get
enough money out of this affair to look like that," was his first
thought, as his eye fell on the future heir; not understanding, poor
wretch that he was, that all the gold of California could not bring
him one inch nearer to the goal he aimed at. I think I have said
before, that your silk purse will not get itself made out of that
coarse material with which there are so many attempts to manufacture
that article. And Mr. Prendergast rose from his chair when he saw
him, with a respect that was almost involuntary. He had not heard
men speak well of Owen Fitzgerald;--not that ill-natured things had
been said by the family at Castle Richmond, but circumstances had
prevented the possibility of their praising him. If a relative or
friend be spoken of without praise, he is, in fact, censured. From
what he had heard he had certainly not expected a man who would look
so noble as did the owner of Hap House, who now came forward to ask
him his business.
Both Mr. Prendergast and Aby Mollett rose at the same time. Since the
arrival of the latter gentleman, Aby had been wondering who he might
be, but no idea that he was that lawyer from Castle Richmond had
entered his head. That he was a stranger like himself, Aby saw; but
he did not connect him with his own business. Indeed he had not
yet realized the belief, though his father had done so, that the
truth would be revealed by those at Castle Richmond to him at Hap
House. His object now was that the old gentleman should say his say
and begone, leaving him to dispose of the other young man in the
top-boots as best he might. But then, as it happened, that was also
Mr. Prendergast's line of action.
"Gentlemen," said Owen, "I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting;
but the fact is that I am so seldom honoured in this way in a
morning, that I was hardly ready. Donnellan, there's the tea; don't
mind waiting. These gentlemen will perhaps join us." And then he
looked hard at Aby, as though he trusted in Providence that no such
profanation would be done to his table-cloth.
"Thank you, I have breakfasted," said Mr. Prendergast.
"And so 'ave I," said Aby, who had eaten a penny loaf in the car, and
would have been delighted to sit down at that rich table. But he was
a little beside himself, and not able to pluck up courage for such an
effort.
"I don't know whether you two gentlemen have come about the same
business," said Owen, looking from one to the other.
"No," said Mr. Prendergast, very confidently, but not very correctly.
"I wish to speak to you, Mr. Fitzgerald, for a few minutes: but my
business with you is quite private."
"So is mine," said Aby, "very private; very private indeed."
"Well, gentlemen, I have just half an hour in which to eat my
breakfast, attend to business, get on my horse and leave the house.
Out of that twenty-five minutes are very much at your service.
Donnellan, I beg your pardon. Do pitch into the broiled bones while
they are hot; never mind me. And now, gentlemen, if you will walk
with me into the other room. First come first served: that I suppose
should be the order." And he opened the door and stood with it ajar
in his hand.
"I will wait, Mr. Fitzgerald, if you please," said Mr. Prendergast;
and as he spoke he motioned Mollett with his hand to go to the door.
"Oh! I can wait, sir; I'd rather wait, sir. I would indeed," said
Aby. "My business is a little particular; and if you'll go on, sir,
I'll take up with the gen'leman as soon as you've done, sir."
But Mr. Prendergast was accustomed to have his own way. "I should
prefer that you should go first, sir. And to tell the truth, Mr.
Fitzgerald, what I have to say to you will take some time. It is of
much importance, to yourself and to others; and I fear that you will
probably find that it will detain you from your amusement to-day."
Owen looked black as he heard this. The hounds were going to draw
a covert of his own; and he was not in the habit of remaining away
from the drawing of any coverts, belonging to himself or others,
on any provocation whatever. "That will be rather hard," said he,
"considering that I do not know any more than the man in the moon
what you've come about."
"You shall be the sole judge yourself, sir, of the importance of my
business with you," said Mr. Prendergast.
"Well, Mr.-- I forget your name," said Owen.
"My name's Mollett," said Aby. Whereupon Mr. Prendergast looked up
at him very sharply, but he said nothing.--He said nothing, but
he looked very sharply indeed. He now knew well who this man was,
and guessed with tolerable accuracy the cause of his visit. But,
nevertheless, at the moment he said nothing.
"Come along, then, Mr. Mollett. I hope your affair is not likely to
be a very long one also. Perhaps you'll excuse my having a cup of tea
sent in to me as you talk to me. There is nothing like saving time
when such very important business is on the tapis. Donnellan, send
Thady in with a cup of tea, like a good fellow. Now, Mr. Mollett."
Mr. Mollett rose slowly from his chair, and followed his host. He
would have given all he possessed in the world, and that was very
little, to have had the coast clear. But in such an emergency,
what was he to do? By the time he had reached the door of the
drawing-room, he had all but made up his mind to tell Fitzgerald
that, seeing there was so much other business on hand this morning at
Hap House, this special piece of business of his must stand over. But
then, how could he go back to Cork empty-handed? So he followed Owen
into the room, and there opened his budget with what courage he had
left to him.
Captain Donnellan, as he employed himself on the broiled bones,
twice invited Mr. Prendergast to assist him; but in vain. Donnellan
remained there, waiting for Owen, till eleven; and then got on his
horse. "You'll tell Fitzgerald, will you, that I've started? He'll
see nothing of to-day's hunt; that's clear."
"I don't think he will," said Mr. Prendergast.