AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE.
"I don't think he will," said Mr. Prendergast; and as he spoke,
Captain Donnellan's ear could detect that there was something
approaching to sarcasm in the tone of the old man's voice. The
Captain was quite sure that his friend would not be even at the heel
of the hunt that day; and without further compunction proceeded to
fasten his buckskin gloves round his wrists. The meet was so near
to them, that they had both intended to ride their own hunters from
the door; and the two nags were now being led up and down upon the
gravel.
But at this moment a terrible noise was heard to take place in
the hall. There was a rush and crushing there which made even Mr.
Prendergast to jump from his chair, and drove Captain Donnellan to
forget his gloves and run to the door.
It was as though all the winds of heaven were being driven down the
passage, and as though each separate wind was shod with heavy-heeled
boots. Captain Donnellan ran to the door, and Mr. Prendergast with
slower steps followed him. When it was opened, Owen was to be seen
in the hall, apparently in a state of great excitement; and the
gentleman whom he had lately asked to breakfast,--he was to be seen
also, in a position of unmistakeable discomfort. He was at that
moment proceeding, with the utmost violence, into a large round bed
of bushes, which stood in the middle of the great sweep before the
door of the house, his feet just touching the ground as he went; and
then, having reached his bourne, he penetrated face foremost into the
thicket, and in an instant disappeared. He had been kicked out of the
house. Owen Fitzgerald had taken him by the shoulders, with a run
along the passage and hall, and having reached the door, had applied
the flat of his foot violently to poor Aby's back, and sent him
flying down the stone steps. And now, as Captain Donnellan and Mr.
Prendergast stood looking on, Mr. Mollett junior buried himself
altogether out of sight among the shrubs.
"You have done for that fellow, at any rate, Owen," said Captain
Donnellan, glancing for a moment at Mr. Prendergast. "I should say
that he will never get out of that alive."
"Not if he wait till I pick him out," said Owen, breathing very hard
after his exertion. "An infernal scoundrel! And now, Mr. Prendergast,
if you are ready, sir, I am." It was as much as he could do to finish
these few words with that sang froid which he desired to assume, so
violent was his attempt at breathing after his late exercise.
It was impossible not to conceive the idea that, as one disagreeable
visitor had been disposed of in a somewhat summary fashion, so might
be the other also. Mr. Prendergast did not look like a man who was
in the habit of leaving gentlemen's houses in the manner just now
adopted by Mr. Mollett; but nevertheless, as they had come together,
both unwished for and unwelcome, Captain Donnellan did for a moment
bethink himself whether there might not be more of such fun, if he
remained there on the spot. At any rate, it would not do for him to
go to the hunt while such deeds as these were being done. It might be
that his assistance would be wanted.
Mr. Prendergast smiled, with a saturnine and somewhat bitter
smile--the nearest approach to a laugh in which he was known to
indulge,--for the same notion came also into his head. "He has
disposed of him, and now he is thinking how he will dispose of me."
Such was Mr. Prendergast's thought about the matter; and that made
him smile. And then, too, he was pleased at what he had seen. That
this Mollett was the son of that other Mollett, with whom he had been
closeted at Castle Richmond, was plain enough; it was plain enough
also to him, used as he was to trace out in his mind the courses of
action which men would follow, that Mollett junior, having heard of
his father's calamitous failure at Castle Richmond, had come down to
Hap House to see what he could make out of the hitherto unconscious
heir. It had been matter of great doubt with Mr. Prendergast, when he
first heard young Mollett's name mentioned, whether or no he would
allow him to make his attempt. He, Mr. Prendergast, could by a word
have spoilt the game; but acting, as he was forced to act, on the
spur of the moment, he resolved to permit Mr. Mollett junior to play
out his play. He would be yet in time to prevent any ill result to
Mr. Fitzgerald, should that gentleman be weak enough to succumb to
any such ill results. As things had now turned out Mr. Prendergast
rejoiced that Mr. Mollett junior had been permitted to play out his
play. "And now, Mr. Prendergast, if you are ready, I am," said Owen.
"Perhaps we had better first pick up the gentleman among the trees,"
said Mr. Prendergast. And he and Captain Donnellan went down into the
bushes.
"Do as you please about that," said Owen. "I have touched him once
and shall not touch him again." And he walked back into the
dining-room.
One of the grooms who were leading the horses had now gone to the
assistance of the fallen hero; and as Captain Donnellan also had
already penetrated as far as Aby's shoulders, Mr. Prendergast,
thinking that he was not needed, returned also to the house. "I hope
he is not seriously hurt," he said.
"Not he," said Owen. "Those sort of men are as used to be kicked,
as girls are to be kissed; and it comes as naturally to them. But
anything short of having his bones broken will be less than he
deserves."
"May I ask what was the nature of his offence?"
Owen remained silent for a moment, looking his guest full in the
face. "Well; not exactly," said he. "He has been talking of people of
whom he knows nothing, but it would not be well for me to repeat what
he has said to a perfect stranger."
"Quite right, Mr. Fitzgerald; it would not be well. But there can be
no harm in my repeating it to you. He came here to get money from you
for certain tidings which he brought; tidings which if true would be
of great importance to you. As I take it, however, he has altogether
failed in his object."
"And how do you come to know all this, sir?"
"Merely from having heard that man mention his own name. I also
have come with the same tidings; and as I ask for no money for
communicating them, you may believe them to be true on my telling."
"What tidings?" asked Owen, with a frown, and an angry jerk in his
voice. No remotest notion had yet come in upon his mind that there
was any truth in the story that had been told him. He had looked upon
it all as a lie, and had regarded Mollett as a sorry knave who had
come to him with a poor and low attempt at raising a few pounds. And
even now he did not believe. Mr. Prendergast's words had been too
sudden to produce belief of so great a fact, and his first thought
was that an endeavour was being made to fool him.
"Those tidings which that man has told you," said Mr. Prendergast,
solemnly. "That you should not have believed them from him shows only
your discretion. But from me you may believe them. I have come from
Castle Richmond, and am here as a messenger from Sir Thomas,--from
Sir Thomas and from his son. When the matter became clear to them
both, then it was felt that you also should be made acquainted with
it."
Owen Fitzgerald now sat down, and looked up into the lawyer's face,
staring at him. I may say that the power of saying much was for the
moment taken away from him by the words that he heard. What! was it
really possible that that title, that property, that place of honour
in the country was to be his when one frail old man should drop away?
And then again was it really true that all this immeasurable misery
was to fall--had fallen--upon that family whom he had once known so
well? It was but yesterday that he had been threatening all manner
of evil to his cousin Herbert; and had his threats been proved true
so quickly? But there was no shadow of triumph in his feelings.
Owen Fitzgerald was a man of many faults. He was reckless,
passionate, prone to depreciate the opinion of others, extravagant
in his thoughts and habits, ever ready to fight, both morally and
physically, those who did not at a moment's notice agree with him.
He was a man who would at once make up his mind that the world was
wrong when the world condemned him, and who would not in compliance
with any argument allow himself to be so. But he was not avaricious,
nor cruel, nor self-seeking, nor vindictive. In his anger he could
pronounce all manner of ill things against his enemy, as he had
pronounced some ill things against Herbert; but it was not in him to
keep up a sustained wish that those ill things should really come to
pass. This news which he now heard, and which he did not yet fully
credit, struck him with awe, but created no triumph in his bosom.
He realized the catastrophe as it affected his cousins of Castle
Richmond rather than as it affected himself.
"Do you mean to say that Lady Fitzgerald--" and then he stopped
himself. He had not the courage to ask the question which was in his
mind. Could it really be the case that Lady Fitzgerald,--that she
whom all the world had so long honoured under that name, was in truth
the wife of that man's father,--of the father of that wretch whom
he had just spurned from his house? The tragedy was so deep that he
could not believe in it.
"We fear that it is so, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Prendergast. "That
it certainly is so I cannot say. And therefore, if I may take the
liberty to give you counsel, I would advise you not to make too
certain of this change in your prospects."
"Too certain!" said he, with a bitter laugh. "Do you suppose then
that I would wish to see all this ruin accomplished? Heavens and
earth! Lady Fitzgerald--! I cannot believe it."
And then Captain Donnellan also returned to the room. "Fitzgerald,"
said he, "what the mischief are we to do with this fellow? He says
that he can't walk, and he bleeds from his face like a pig."
"What fellow? Oh, do what you like with him. Here: give him a pound
note, and let him go to the d----. And Donnellan, for heaven's sake
go to Cecilstown at once. Do not wait for me. I have business that
will keep me here all day."
"But I do not know what to do with this fellow that's bleeding," said
the captain, piteously, as he took the proffered note. "If he puts up
with a pound note for what you've done to him, he's softer than what
I take him for."
"He will be very glad to be allowed to escape without being given up
to the police," said Mr. Prendergast.
"But I don't know what to do with him," said Captain Donnellan. "He
says that he can't stand."
"Then lay him down on the dunghill," said Owen Fitzgerald; "but
for heaven's sake do not let him interrupt me. And, Donnellan, you
will altogether lose the day if you stay any longer." Whereupon
the captain, seeing that in very truth he was not wanted, did take
himself off, casting as he went one farewell look on Aby as he lay
groaning on the turf on the far side of the tuft of bushes.
"He's kilt intirely, I'm thinking, yer honor," said Thady, who was
standing over him on the other side.
"He'll come to life again before dinner-time," said the Captain.
"Oh, in course he'll do that, yer honor," said Thady; and then added
sotto voce, to himself, as the captain rode down the avenue, "Faix,
an' I don't know about that. Shure an' it's the masther has a heavy
hand." And then Thady stood for a while perplexed, endeavouring to
reanimate Aby by a sight of the pound note which he held out visibly
between his thumb and fingers.
And now Mr. Prendergast and Owen were again alone. "And what am I to
do?" said Owen, after a pause of a minute or two; and he asked the
question with a serious solemn voice.
"Just for the present--for the next day or two--I think that you
should do nothing. As soon as the first agony of this time is over
at Castle Richmond, I think that Herbert should see you. It would
be very desirable that he and you should take in concert such
proceedings as will certainly become necessary. The absolute proof of
the truth of this story must be obtained. You understand, I hope, Mr.
Fitzgerald, that the case still admits of doubt."
Owen nodded his head impatiently, as though it were needless on the
part of Mr. Prendergast to insist upon this. He did not wish to take
it for true a moment sooner than was necessary.
"It is my duty to give you this caution. Many lawyers--I presume you
know that I am a lawyer--"
"I did not know it," said Owen; "but it makes no difference."
"Thank you; that's very kind," said Mr. Prendergast; but the sarcasm
was altogether lost upon his hearer. "Some lawyers, as I was saying,
would in such a case have advised their clients to keep all their
suspicions, nay all their knowledge, to themselves. Why play the game
of an adversary? they would ask. But I have thought it better that we
should have no adversary."
"And you will have none," said Owen; "none in me at least."
"I am much gratified in so perceiving, and in having such evidence
that my advice has not been indiscreet. It occurred to me that if
you received the first intimation of these circumstances from other
sources, you would be bound on your own behalf to employ an agent to
look after your own interests."
"I should have done nothing of the kind," said Owen.
"Ah, but, my dear young friend, in such a case it would have been
your duty to do so."
"Then I should have neglected my duty. And do you tell Herbert this
from me, that let the truth be what it may, I shall never interrupt
him in his title or his property. It is not there that I shall look
either for justice or revenge. He will understand what I mean."
But Mr. Prendergast did not, by any means; nor did he enter into the
tone of Owen Fitzgerald's mind. They were both just men, but just in
an essentially different manner. The justice of Mr. Prendergast had
come of thought and education. As a young man, when entering on his
profession, he was probably less just than he was now. He had thought
about matters of law and equity, till thought had shown to him the
beauty of equity as it should be practised,--often by the aid of law,
and not unfrequently in spite of law. Such was the justice of Mr.
Prendergast. That of Owen Fitzgerald had come of impulse and nature,
and was the justice of a very young man rather than of a very wise
one. That title and property did not, as he felt, of justice belong
to him, but to his cousin. What difference could it make in the true
justice of things, whether or no that wretched man was still alive
whom all the world had regarded as dead? In justice he ought to be
dead. Now that this calamity of the man's life had fallen upon Sir
Thomas and Lady Fitzgerald and his cousin Herbert, it would not
be for him to aggravate it by seizing upon a heritage which might
possibly accrue to him under the letter of the world's law, but which
could not accrue to him under heaven's law. Such was the justice
of Owen Fitzgerald; and we may say this of it in its dispraise,
as comparing it with that other justice, that whereas that of Mr.
Prendergast would wear for ever, through ages and ages, that other
justice of Owen's would hardly have stood the pull of a ten years'
struggle. When children came to him, would he not have thought of
what might have been theirs by right; and then have thought of what
ought to be theirs by right; and so on?
But in speaking of justice, he had also spoken of revenge, and Mr.
Prendergast was altogether in the dark. What revenge? He did not know
that poor Owen had lost a love, and that Herbert had found it. In the
midst of all the confused thoughts which this astounding intelligence
had brought upon him, Owen still thought of his love. There Herbert
had robbed him--robbed him by means of his wealth; and in that matter
he desired justice--justice or revenge. He wanted back his love.
Let him have that and Herbert might yet be welcome to his title and
estates.
Mr. Prendergast remained there for some half-hour longer, explaining
what ought to be done, and how it ought to be done. Of course he
combated that idea of Owen's, that the property might be allowed to
remain in the hands of the wrong heir. Had that been consonant with
his ideas of justice he would not have made his visit to Hap House
this morning. Right must have its way, and if it should be that Lady
Fitzgerald's marriage with Sir Thomas had not been legal, Owen, on
Sir Thomas's death, must become Sir Owen, and Herbert could not
become Sir Herbert. So much to the mind of Mr. Prendergast was as
clear as crystal. Let justice be done, even though these Castle
Richmond heavens should fall in ruins.
And then he took his departure, leaving Owen to his solitude, much
perplexed. "And where is that man?" Mr. Prendergast asked, as he got
on to his car.
"Bedad thin, yer honer, he's very bad intirely. He's jist sitthing
over the kitchen fire, moaning and croning this way and that, but
sorrow a word he's spoke since the masther hoisted him out o' the big
hall door. And thin for blood--why, saving yer honer's presence, he's
one mash of gore."
"You'd better wash his face for him, and give him a little tea," said
Mr. Prendergast, and then he drove away.
And strange ideas floated across Owen Fitzgerald's brain as he sat
there alone, in his hunting gear, leaning on the still covered
breakfast-table. They floated across his brain backwards and
forwards, and at last remained there, taking almost the form of a
definite purpose. He would make a bargain with Herbert; let each of
them keep that which was fairly his own; let Herbert have all the
broad lands of Castle Richmond; let him have the title, the seat in
parliament, and the county honour; but for him, Owen--let him have
Clara Desmond. He desired nothing that was not fairly his own; but
as his own he did regard her, and without her he did not know how to
face the future of his life. And in suggesting this arrangement to
himself, he did not altogether throw over her feelings; he did take
into account her heart, though he did not take into account her
worldly prospects. She had loved him--him--Owen; and he would not
teach himself to believe that she did not love him still. Her mother
had been too powerful for her, and she had weakly yielded; but as to
her heart--Owen could not bring himself to believe that that was gone
from him.
They two would make a bargain,--he and his cousin. Honour and renown,
and the money and the title would be everything to his cousin.
Herbert had been brought up to expect these things, and all the world
around him had expected them for him. It would be terrible to him
to find himself robbed of them. But the loss of Clara Desmond was
equally terrible to Owen Fitzgerald. He allowed his heart to fill
itself with a romantic sense of honour, teaching him that it behoved
him as a man not to give up his love. Without her he would live
disgraced in his own estimation; but who would not think the better
of him for refraining from the possession of those Castle Richmond
acres? Yes; he would make a bargain with Herbert. Who was there in
the world to deny his right to do so?
As he sat revolving these things in his mind, he suddenly heard a
rushing sound, as of many horsemen down the avenue, and going to the
window, he saw two or three leading men of the hunt, accompanied by
the gray-haired old huntsman; and through and about and under the
horsemen were the dogs, running in and out of the laurels which
skirted the road, with their noses down, giving every now and then
short yelps as they caught up the uncertain scent from the leaves on
the ground, and hurried on upon the trail of their game.
"Yo ho! to him, Messenger; hark to him, Maybird; good bitch,
Merrylass. He's down here, gen'lemen, and he'll never get away
alive. He came to a bad place when he looked out for going to ground
anywhere near Mr. Owen."
And then there came, fast trotting down through the other horsemen,
making his way eagerly to the front, a stout heavy man, with a florid
handsome face and eager eye. He might be some fifty years of age, but
no lad there of three-and-twenty was so anxious and impetuous as he.
He was riding a large-boned, fast-trotting bay horse, that pressed on
as eagerly as his rider. As he hurried forward all made way for him,
till he was close to the shrubs in the front of the house.
"Bless my soul, gentlemen," he said, in an angry voice, "how, in the
name of all that's good, are hounds to hunt if you press them down
the road in that way? By heavens, Barry, you are enough to drive
a man wild. Yoicks, Merrylass! there it is, Pat;"--Pat was the
huntsman--"outside the low wall there, down towards the river." This
was Sam O'Grady, the master of the Duhallow hounds, the god of Owen's
idolatry. No better fellow ever lived, and no master of hounds, so
good; such at least was the opinion common among Duhallow sportsmen.
"Yes, yer honer,--he did skirt round there, I knows that; but he's
been among them laurels at the bottom, and he'll be about the place
and outhouses somewhere. There's a drain here that I knows on, and he
knows on. But Mr. Owen, he knows on it too; and there aint a chance
for him." So argued Pat, the Duhallow huntsman, the experienced craft
of whose aged mind enabled him to run counter to the cutest dodges
of the cutest fox in that and any of the three neighbouring baronies.
And now the sweep before the door was crowded with red coats; and
Owen, looking from his dining-room window, felt that he must take
some step. As an ordinary rule, had the hunt thus drifted near his
homestead, he would have been off his horse and down among his
bottles, sending up sherry and cherry-brandy; and there would have
been comfortable drink in plenty, and cold meat, perhaps, not in
plenty; and every one would have been welcome in and out of the
house. But now there was that at his heart which forbade him to mix
with the men who knew him so well, and among whom he was customarily
so loudly joyous. Dressed as he was, he could not go among them
without explaining why he had remained at home; and as to that, he
felt that he was not able to give any explanation at the present
moment.
"What's the matter with Owen?" said one fellow to Captain Donnellan.
"Upon my word I hardly know. Two chaps came to him this morning,
before he was up; about business, they said. He nearly murdered one
of them out of hand; and I believe that he's locked up somewhere with
the other this minute."
But in the meantime a servant came up to Mr. O'Grady, and, touching
his hat, asked the master of the hunt to go into the house for a
moment; and then Mr. O'Grady, dismounting, entered in through the
front door. He was only there two minutes, for his mind was still
outside, among the laurels, with the fox; but as he put his foot
again into the stirrup, he said to those around him that they
must hurry away, and not disturb Owen Fitzgerald that day. It may,
therefore, easily be imagined that the mystery would spread quickly
through that portion of the county of Cork.
They must hurry away;--but not before they could give an account of
their fox. Neither for gods nor men must he be left, as long as his
skin was whole above ground. There is an importance attaching to the
pursuit of a fox, which gives it a character quite distinct from that
of any other amusement which men follow in these realms. It justifies
almost anything that men can do, and that at any place and in any
season. There is about it a sanctity which forbids interruption,
and makes its votaries safe under any circumstances of trespass or
intrusion. A man in a hunting county who opposes the county hunt must
be a misanthrope, willing to live in seclusion, fond of being in
Coventry, and in love with the enmity of his fellow-creatures. There
are such men, but they are regarded as lepers by those around them.
All this adds to the nobleness of the noble sport, and makes it
worthy of a man's energies.
And then the crowd of huntsmen hurried round from the front of
the house to a paddock at the back, and then again through the
stable yard to the front. The hounds were about--here, there, and
everywhere, as any one ignorant of the craft would have said, but
still always on the scent of that doomed beast. From one thicket
to another he tried to hide himself, but the moist leaves of the
underwood told quickly of his whereabouts. He tried every hole and
cranny about the house, but every hole and corner had been stopped by
Owen's jealous care. He would have lived disgraced for ever in his
own estimation, had a fox gone to ground anywhere about his domicile.
At last a loud whoop was heard just in front of the hall door. The
poor fox, with his last gasp of strength, had betaken himself to the
thicket before the door, and there the dogs had killed him, at the
very spot on which Aby Mollett had fallen.
Standing well back from the window, still thinking of Clara Desmond,
Owen Fitzgerald saw the fate of the hunted animal; he saw the head
and tail severed from the carcase by old Pat, and the body thrown to
the hounds,--a ceremony over which he had presided so many scores of
times; and then, when the dogs had ceased to growl over the bloody
fragments, he saw the hunt move away, back along the avenue to the
high road. All this he saw, but still he was thinking of Clara
Desmond.