PALLIDA MORS.
Mr. Somers, returning from Hap House, gave Owen's message to Herbert
Fitzgerald, but at the same time told him that he did not think any
good would come of such a meeting.
"I went over there," he said, "because I would not willingly omit
anything that Mr. Prendergast had suggested; but I did not expect
any good to come of it. You know what I have always thought of Owen
Fitzgerald."
"But Mr. Prendergast said that he behaved so well."
"He did not know Prendergast, and was cowed for the moment by what he
had heard. That was natural enough. You do as you like, however; only
do not have him over to Castle Richmond."
Owen, however, did not trust solely to Mr. Somers, but on the
following day wrote to Herbert, suggesting that they had better meet,
and begging that the place and time of meeting might be named. He
himself again suggested Hap House, and declared that he would be at
home on any day and at any hour that his "cousin" might name, "only,"
as he added, "the sooner the better." Herbert wrote back by the same
messenger, saying that he would be with him early on the following
morning; and on the following morning he drove up to the door of Hap
House, while Owen was still sitting with his coffee-pot and knife and
fork before him.
Captain Donnellan, whom we saw there on the occasion of our first
morning visit, was now gone, and Owen Fitzgerald was all alone in his
home. The captain had been an accustomed guest, spending perhaps half
his time there during the hunting season; but since Mr. Prendergast
had been at Hap House, he had been made to understand that the master
would fain be alone. And since that day Owen had never hunted, nor
been noticed in his old haunts, nor had been seen talking to his old
friends. He had remained at home, sitting over the fire thinking,
wandering up and down his own avenue, or standing about the stable,
idly, almost unconscious of the grooming of his horses. Once and once
only he had been mounted; and then as the dusk of evening was coming
on he had trotted over quickly to Desmond Court, as though he had
in hand some purport of great moment; but if so he changed his mind
when he came to the gate, for he walked on slowly for three or four
hundred yards beyond it, and then turning his horse's head, slowly
made his way back past the gate, and then trotted quickly home to Hap
House. In these moments of his life he must make or mar himself for
life; 'twas so that he felt it; and how should he make himself, or
how avoid the marring? That was the question which he now strove to
answer.
When Herbert entered the room, he rose from his chair, and walked
quickly up to his visitor, with extended hand, and a look of welcome
in his face. His manner was very different from that with which he
had turned and parted from his cousin, not many days since in the
demesne at Castle Richmond. Then he had intended absolutely to defy
Herbert Fitzgerald; but there was no spirit of defiance now, either
in his hand, or face, or in the tone of his voice.
"I am very glad you have come," said he. "I hope you understood that
I would have gone to you, only that I thought it might be better for
both of us to be here."
Herbert said something to the effect that he had been quite
willing to come over to Hap House. But he was not at the moment so
self-possessed as the other, and hardly knew how to begin the subject
which was to be discussed between them.
"Of course you know that Mr. Prendergast was here?" said Owen.
"Oh yes," said Herbert.
"And Mr. Somers also? I tell you fairly, Herbert, that when Mr.
Somers came, I was not willing to say much to him. What has to be
said must be said between you and me, and not to any third party. I
could not open my heart, nor yet speak my thoughts to Mr. Somers."
In answer to this, Herbert again said that Owen need have no scruple
in speaking to him. "It is all plain sailing; too plain, I fear,"
said he. "There is no doubt whatever now as to the truth of what Mr.
Prendergast has told you."
And then having said so much, Herbert waited for Owen to speak. He,
Herbert himself, had little or nothing to say. Castle Richmond with
its title and acres was not to be his, but was to be the property of
this man with whom he was now sitting. When that was actually and
positively understood between them, there was nothing further to
be said; nothing as far as Herbert knew. That other sorrow of his,
that other and deeper sorrow which affected his mother's name and
station,--as to that he did not find himself called on to speak to
Owen Fitzgerald. Nor was it necessary that he should say anything as
to his great consolation--the consolation which had reached him from
Clara Desmond.
"And is it true, Herbert," asked Owen at last, "that my uncle is so
very ill?" In the time of their kindly intercourse, Owen had always
called Sir Thomas his uncle, though latterly he had ceased to do so.
"He is very ill; very ill indeed," said Herbert. This was a subject
in which Owen had certainly a right to feel interested, seeing that
his own investiture would follow immediately on the death of Sir
Thomas; but Herbert almost felt that the question might as well have
been spared. It had been asked, however, almost solely with the view
of gaining some few moments.
"Herbert," he said at last, standing up from his chair, as he made an
effort to begin his speech, "I don't know how far you will believe
me when I tell you that all this news has caused me great sorrow. I
grieve for your father and your mother, and for you, from the very
bottom of my heart."
"It is very kind of you," said Herbert. "But the blow has fallen, and
as for myself, I believe that I can bear it. I do not care so very
much about the property."
"Nor do I;" and now Owen spoke rather louder, and with his own look
of strong impulse about his mouth and forehead. "Nor do I care so
much about the property. You were welcome to it; and are so still. I
have never coveted it from you, and do not covet it."
"It will be yours now without coveting," replied Herbert; and then
there was another pause, during which Herbert sat still, while Owen
stood leaning with his back against the mantelpiece.
"Herbert," said he, after they had thus remained silent for two or
three minutes, "I have made up my mind on this matter, and I will
tell you truly what I do desire, and what I do not. I do not desire
your inheritance, but I do desire that Clara Desmond shall be my
wife."
"Owen," said the other, also getting up, "I did not expect when I
came here that you would have spoken to me about this."
"It was that we might speak about this that I asked you to come here.
But listen to me. When I say that I want Clara Desmond to be my wife,
I mean to say that I want that, and that only. It may be true that I
am, or shall be, legally the heir to your father's estate. Herbert,
I will relinquish all that, because I do not feel it to be my own. I
will relinquish it in any way that may separate myself from it most
thoroughly. But in return, do you separate yourself from her who was
my own before you had ever known her."
And thus he did make the proposition as to which he had been making
up his mind since the morning on which Mr. Prendergast had come to
him.
Herbert for a while was struck dumb with amazement, not so much at
the quixotic generosity of the proposal, as at the singular mind of
the man in thinking that such a plan could be carried out. Herbert's
best quality was no doubt his sturdy common sense, and that was
shocked by a suggestion which presumed that all the legalities and
ordinary bonds of life could be upset by such an agreement between
two young men. He knew that Owen Fitzgerald could not give away his
title to an estate of fourteen thousand a year in this off-hand way,
and that no one could accept such a gift were it possible to be
given. The estate and title must belong to Owen, and could not
possibly belong to any one else, merely at his word and fancy. And
then again, how could the love of a girl like Clara Desmond be
bandied to and fro at the will of any suitor or suitors? That she had
once accepted Owen's love, Herbert knew; but since that, in a soberer
mood, and with maturer judgment, she had accepted his. How could he
give it up to another, or how could that other take possession of it
if so abandoned? The bargain was one quite impossible to be carried
out; and yet Owen in proposing it had fully intended to be as good as
his word.
"That is impossible," said Herbert in a low voice.
"Why impossible? May I not do what I like with that which is my own?
It is not impossible. I will have nothing to do with that property of
yours. In fact, it is not my own, and I will not take it; I will not
rob you of that which you have been born to expect. But in return for
this--"
"Owen, do not talk of it; would you abandon a girl whom you loved for
any wealth, or any property?"
"You cannot love her as I love her. I will talk to you on this matter
openly, as I have never yet talked to any one. Since first I saw
Clara Desmond, the only wish of my life has been that I might have
her for my wife. I have longed for her as a child longs--if you know
what I mean by that. When I saw that she was old enough to understand
what love meant, I told her what was in my heart, and she accepted my
love. She swore to me that she would be mine, let mother or brother
say what they would. As sure as you are standing there a living man
she loved me with all truth. And that I loved her--! Herbert, I have
never loved aught but her; nothing else!--neither man nor woman, nor
wealth nor title. All I ask is that I may have that which was my
own."
"But, Owen--" and Herbert touched his cousin's arm.
"Well; why do you not speak? I have spoken plainly enough."
"It is not easy to speak plainly on all subjects. I would not, if I
could avoid it, say a word that would hurt your feelings."
"Never mind my feelings. Speak out, and let us have the truth, in
God's name. My feelings have never been much considered yet--either
in this matter or in any other."
"It seems to me," said Herbert, "that the giving of Lady Clara's hand
cannot depend on your will, or on mine."
"You mean her mother."
"No, by no means. Her mother now would be the last to favour me. I
mean herself. If she loves me, as I hope and believe--nay, am sure--"
"She did love me!" shouted Owen.
"But even if so--. I do not now say anything of that; but even if
so, surely you would not have her marry you if she does not love you
still? You would not wish her to be your wife if her heart belongs to
me?"
"It has been given you at her mother's bidding."
"However given it is now my own and it cannot be returned. Look here,
Owen. I will show you her last two letters, if you will allow me; not
in pride, I hope, but that you may truly know what are her wishes."
And he took from his breast, where they had been ever since he
received them, the two letters which Clara had written to him. Owen
read them both twice over before he spoke, first one and then the
other, and an indescribable look of pain fell on his brow as he did
so. They were so tenderly worded, so sweet, so generous! He would
have given all the world to have had those letters addressed by her
to himself. But even they did not convince him. His heart had never
changed, and he could not believe that there had been any change in
hers.
"I might have known," he said, as he gave them back, "that she would
be too noble to abandon you in your distress. As long as you were
rich I might have had some chance of getting her back, despite the
machinations of her mother. But now that she thinks you are poor--."
And then he stopped, and hid his face between his hands.
And in what he had last said there was undoubtedly something of
truth. Clara's love for Herbert had never been passionate, till
passion had been created by his misfortune. And in her thoughts
of Owen there had been much of regret. Though she had resolved to
withdraw her love, she had not wholly ceased to love him. Judgment
had bade her to break her word to him, and she had obeyed her
judgment. She had admitted to herself that her mother was right in
telling her that she could not join her own bankrupt fortunes to the
fortunes of one who was both poor and a spendthrift; and thus she
had plucked from her heart the picture of the man she had loved,--or
endeavoured so to pluck it. Some love for him, however, had
unwittingly lingered there. And then Herbert had come with his suit,
a suitor fitted for her in every way. She had not loved him as she
had loved Owen. She had never felt that she could worship him, and
tremble at the tones of his voice, and watch the glance of his
eye, and gaze into his face as though he were half divine. But she
acknowledged his worth, and valued him: she knew that it behoved her
to choose some suitor as her husband; and now that her dream was
gone, where could she choose better than here? And thus Herbert had
been accepted. He had been accepted, but the dream was not wholly
gone. Owen was in adversity, ill spoken of by those around her,
shunned by his own relatives, living darkly, away from all that is
soft in life; and for these reasons Clara could not wholly forget her
dream. She had, in some sort, unconsciously clung to her old love,
till he to whom she had plighted her new troth was in adversity,--and
then all was changed. Then her love for Herbert did become a passion;
and then, as Owen had become rich, she felt that she could think of
him without remorse. He was quite right in perceiving that his chance
was gone now that Herbert had ceased to be rich.
"Owen," said Herbert, and his voice was full of tenderness, for at
this moment he felt that he did love and pity his cousin, "we must
each of us bear the weight which fortune has thrown on us. It may
be that we are neither of us to be envied. I have lost all that men
generally value, and you--."
"I have lost all on earth that is valuable to me. But no; it is not
lost,--not lost as yet. As long as her name is Clara Desmond, she
is as open for me to win as she is for you. And, Herbert, think of
it before you make me your enemy. See what I offer you,--not as a
bargain, mind you. I give up all my title to your father's property.
I will sign any paper that your lawyers may bring to me, which may
serve to give you back your inheritance. As for me, I would scorn to
take that which belongs in justice to another. I will not have your
property. Come what may, I will not have it. I will give it up to
you, either as to my enemy or as to my friend."
"I sincerely hope that we may be friends, but what you say is
impossible."
"It is not impossible. I hereby pledge myself that I will not take
an acre of your father's lands; but I pledge myself also that I will
always be your enemy if Clara Desmond becomes your wife: and I mean
what I say. I have set my heart on one thing, and on one thing only,
and if I am ruined in that I am ruined indeed."
Herbert remained silent, for he had nothing further that he knew how
to plead; he felt as other men would feel, that each of them must
keep that which Fate had given him. Fate had decreed that Owen should
be the heir to Castle Richmond, and the decree thus gone forth must
stand valid; and Fate had also decreed that Owen should be rejected
by Clara Desmond, which other decree, as Herbert thought, must be
held as valid also. But he had no further inclination to argue upon
the subject: his cousin was becoming hot and angry; and Herbert was
beginning to wish that he was on his way home, that he might be once
more at his father's bedside, or in his mother's room, comforting her
and being comforted.
"Well," said Owen, after a while in his deep-toned voice; "what do
you say to my offer?"
"I have nothing further to say: we must each take our own course; as
for me, I have lost everything but one thing, and it is not likely
that I shall throw that away from me."
"Nor, so help me Heaven in my need! will I let that thing be filched
from me. I have offered you kindness and brotherly love, and wealth,
and all that friendship could do for a man; give me my way in this,
and I will be to you such a comrade and such a brother."
"Should I be a man, Owen, were I to give up this?"
"Be a man! Yes! It is pride on your part. You do not love her; you
have never loved her as I have loved; you have not sat apart long
months and months thinking of her, as I have done. From the time she
was a child I marked her as my own. As God will help me when I die,
she is all that I have coveted in this world;--all! But her I have
coveted with such longings of the heart, that I cannot bring myself
to live without her;--nor will I." And then again they both were
silent.
"It may be as well that we should part now," said Herbert at last.
"I do not know that we can gain anything by further talking on this
subject."
"Well, you know that best; but I have one further question to ask
you."
"What is it, Owen?"
"You still think of marrying Clara Desmond?"
"Certainly; of course I think of it."
"And when? I presume you are not so chicken-hearted as to be afraid
of speaking out openly what you intend to do."
"I cannot say when; I had hoped that it would have been very soon;
but all this will of course delay it. It may be years first."
These last were the only pleasant words that Owen had heard. If there
were to be a delay of years, might not his chance still be as good
as Herbert's? But then this delay was to be the consequence of his
cousin's ruined prospects--and the accomplishment of that ruin Owen
had pledged himself to prevent! Was he by his own deed to enable
his enemy to take that very step which he was so firmly resolved to
prevent?
"You will give me your promise," said he, "that you will not marry
her for the next three years? Make me that promise, and I will make
you the same."
Herbert felt that there could be no possibility of his now marrying
within the time named, but nevertheless he would not bring himself
to make such a promise as this. He would make no bargain about Clara
Desmond, about his Clara, which could in any way admit a doubt as to
his own right. Had Owen asked him to promise that he would not marry
her during the next week he would have given no such pledge. "No,"
said he, "I cannot promise that."
"She is now only seventeen."
"It does not matter. I will make no such promise, because on such a
subject you have no right to ask for any. When she will consent to
run her risk of happiness in coming to me, then I shall marry her."
Owen was now walking up and down the room with rapid steps. "You have
not the courage to fight me fairly," said he.
"I do not wish to fight you at all."
"Ah, but you must fight me! Shall I see the prey taken out of my
jaws, and not struggle for it? No, by heavens! you must fight me; and
I tell you fairly, that the fight shall be as hard as I can make it.
I have offered you that which one living man is seldom able to offer
to another,--money, and land, and wealth, and station; all these
things I throw away from me, because I feel that they should be
yours; and I ask only in return the love of a young girl. I ask that
because I feel that it should be mine. If it has gone from me--which
I do not believe--it has been filched and stolen by a thief in the
night. She did love me, if a girl ever loved a man; but she was
separated from me, and I bore that patiently because I trusted her.
But she was young and weak, and her mother was strong and crafty. She
has accepted you at her mother's instance; and were I base enough to
keep from you your father's inheritance, her mother would no more
give her to you now than she would to me then. This is true; and
if you know it to be true--as you do know, you will be mean, and
dastard, and a coward--you will be no Fitzgerald if you keep from me
that which I have a right to claim as my own. Not fight! Ay, but you
must fight. We cannot both live here in this country if Clara Desmond
become your wife. Mark my words, if that take place, you and I cannot
live here alongside of each other's houses." He paused for a moment
after this, and then added, "You can go now if you will, for I have
said out my say."
And Herbert did go,--almost without uttering a word of adieu. What
could he say in answer to such threats as these? That his cousin was
in every way unreasonable,--as unreasonable in his generosity as he
was in his claims, he felt convinced. But an unreasonable man, though
he is one whom one would fain conquer by arguments were it possible,
is the very man on whom arguments have no avail. A madman is mad
because he is mad. Herbert had a great deal that was very sensible to
allege in favour of his views, but what use of alleging anything of
sense to such a mind as that of Owen Fitzgerald? So he went his way
without further speech.
When he was gone, Owen for a time went on walking his room, and then
sank again into his chair. Abominably irrational as his method of
arranging all these family difficulties will no doubt seem to all
who may read of it, to him it had appeared not only an easy but a
happy mode of bringing back contentment to everybody. He was quite
serious in his intention of giving up his position as heir to Castle
Richmond. Mr. Prendergast had explained to him that the property was
entailed as far as him, but no farther; and had done this, doubtless,
with the view, not then expressed, to some friendly arrangement by
which a small portion of the property might be saved and restored
to the children of Sir Thomas. But Owen had looked at it quite in
another light. He had, in justice, no right to inquire into all
those circumstances of his old cousin's marriage. Such a union was
a marriage in the eye of God, and should be held as such by him. He
would take no advantage of so terrible an accident.
He would take no advantage. So he said to himself over and over
again; but yet, as he said it, he resolved that he would take
advantage. He would not touch the estate; but surely if he abstained
from touching it, Herbert would be generous enough to leave to him
the solace of his love! And he had no scruple in allotting to Clara
the poorer husband instead of the richer. He was no poorer now than
when she had accepted him. Looking at it in that light, had he not a
right to claim that she should abide by her first acceptance? Could
any one be found to justify the theory that a girl may throw over a
poor lover because a rich lover comes in the way? Owen had his own
ideas of right and wrong--ideas which were not without a basis of
strong, rugged justice; and nothing could be more antagonistic to
them than such a doctrine as this. And then he still believed in his
heart that he was dearer to Clara than that other richer suitor. He
heard of her from time to time, and those who had spoken to him had
spoken of her as pining for love of him. In this there had been much
of the flattery of servants, and something of the subservience of
those about him who wished to stand well in his graces. But he had
believed it. He was not a conceited man, nor even a vain man. He did
not think himself more clever than his cousin; and as for personal
appearance, it was a matter to which his thoughts never descended;
but he had about him a self-dependence and assurance in his own
manhood, which forbade him to doubt the love of one who had told him
that she loved him.
And he did not believe in Herbert's love. His cousin was, as he
thought, of a calibre too cold for love. That Clara was valued by
him, Owen did not doubt--valued for her beauty, for her rank, for her
grace and peerless manner; but what had such value as that to do with
love? Would Herbert sacrifice everything for Clara Desmond? would he
bid Pelion fall on Ossa? would he drink up Esil? All this would Owen
do, and more; he would do more than any Laertes had ever dreamed.
He would give up for now and for ever all title to those rich lands
which made the Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond the men of greatest
mark in all their county.
And thus he fanned himself into a fury as he thought of his cousin's
want of generosity. Herbert would be the heir, and because he was the
heir he would be the favoured lover. But there might yet be time and
opportunity; and at any rate Clara should not marry without knowing
what was the whole truth. Herbert was ungenerous, but Clara still
might be just. If not,--then, as he had said before, he would fight
out the battle to the end as with an enemy.
Herbert, when he got on to his horse to ride home, was forced to
acknowledge to himself that no good whatever had come from his visit
to Hap House. Words had been spoken which might have been much better
left unspoken. An angry man will often cling to his anger because
his anger has been spoken; he will do evil because he has threatened
evil, and is ashamed to be better than his words. And there was
no comfort to be derived from those lavish promises made by Owen
with regard to the property. To Herbert's mind they were mere
moonshine--very graceful on the part of the maker, but meaning
nothing. No one could have Castle Richmond but him who owned it
legally. Owen Fitzgerald would become Sir Owen, and would, as a
matter of course, be Sir Owen of Castle Richmond. There was no
comfort on that score; and then, on that other score, there was so
much discomfort. Of giving up his bride Herbert never for a moment
thought; but he did think, with increasing annoyance, of the angry
threats which had been pronounced against him.
When he rode into the stable-yard as was his wont, he found Richard
waiting for him. This was not customary; as in these latter days
Richard, though he always drove the car, as a sort of subsidiary
coachman to the young ladies to whom the car was supposed to belong
in fee, did not act as general groom. He had been promoted beyond
this, and was a sort of hanger-on about the house, half indoor
servant and half out, doing very much what he liked, and giving
advice to everybody, from the cook downwards. He thanked God that
he knew his place, he would often say; but nobody else knew it.
Nevertheless everybody liked him; even the poor housemaid whom he
snubbed.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Herbert, looking at the man's
sorrow-laden face.
"'Deed an' there is, Mr. Herbert; Sir Thomas is--"
"My father is not dead!" exclaimed Herbert.
"Oh no, Mr. Herbert; it's not so bad as that; but he is very
failing,--very failing. My lady is with him now."
Herbert ran into the house, and at the bottom of the chief stairs
he met one of his sisters who had heard the steps of his horse. "Oh,
Herbert, I am so glad you have come!" said she. Her eyes and cheeks
were red with tears, and her hand, as her brother took it, was cold
and numbed.
"What is it, Mary? is he worse?"
"Oh, so much worse. Mamma and Emmeline are there. He has asked for
you three or four times, and always says that he is dying. I had
better go up and say that you are here."
"And what does my mother think of it?"
"She has never left him, and therefore I cannot tell; but I know from
her face that she thinks that he is--dying. Shall I go up, Herbert?"
and so she went, and Herbert, following softly on his toes, stood
in the corridor outside the bedroom-door, waiting till his arrival
should have been announced. It was but a minute, and then his sister,
returning to the door, summoned him to enter.
The room had been nearly darkened, but as there were no curtains to
the bed, Herbert could see his mother's face as she knelt on a stool
at the bedside. His father was turned away from him, and lay with his
hand inside his wife's, and Emmeline was sitting on the foot of the
bed, with her face between her hands, striving to stifle her sobs.
"Here is Herbert now, dearest," said Lady Fitzgerald, with a low,
soft voice, almost a whisper, yet clear enough to cause no effort in
the hearing. "I knew that he would not be long." And Herbert, obeying
the signal of his mother's eye, passed round to the other side of the
bed.
"Father," said he, "are you not so well to-day?"
"My poor boy, my poor ruined boy!" said the dying man, hardly
articulating the words as he dropped his wife's hand and took that
of his son. Herbert found that it was wet, and clammy, and cold, and
almost powerless in its feeble grasp.
"Dearest father, you are wrong if you let that trouble you; all that
will never trouble me. Is it not well that a man should earn his own
bread? Is it not the lot of all good men?" But still the old man
murmured with his broken voice, "My poor boy, my poor boy!"
The hopes and aspirations of his eldest son are as the breath of his
nostrils to an Englishman who has been born to land and fortune.
What had not this poor man endured in order that his son might be
Sir Herbert Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond? But this was no longer
possible; and from the moment that this had been brought home to him,
the father had felt that for him there was nothing left but to die.
"My poor boy," he muttered, "tell me that you have forgiven me."
And then they all knelt round the bed and prayed with him; and
afterwards they tried to comfort him, telling him how good he had
been to them; and his wife whispered in his ear that if there had
been fault, the fault was hers, but that her conscience told her that
such fault had been forgiven; and while she said this she motioned
the children away from him, and strove to make him understand that
human misery could never kill the soul, and should never utterly
depress the spirit. "Dearest love," she said, still whispering to
him in her low, sweet voice--so dear to him, but utterly inaudible
beyond--"if you would cease to accuse yourself so bitterly, you might
yet be better, and remain with us to comfort us."
But the slender, half-knit man, whose arms are without muscles and
whose back is without pith, will strive in vain to lift the weight
which the brawny vigour of another tosses from the ground almost
without an effort. It is with the mind and the spirit as with the
body; only this, that the muscles of the body can be measured, but
not so those of the spirit. Lady Fitzgerald was made of other stuff
than Sir Thomas; and that which to her had cost an effort, but with
an effort had been done surely, was to him as impossible as the
labour of Hercules. "My poor boy, my poor ruined boy!" he still
muttered, as she strove to comfort him.
"Mamma has sent for Mr. Townsend," Emmeline whispered to her brother,
as they stood together in the bow of the window.
"And do you really think he is so bad as that?"
"I am sure that mamma does. I believe he had some sort of a fit
before you came. At any rate, he did not speak for two hours."
"And was not Finucane here?" Finucane was the Mallow doctor.
"Yes; but he had left before papa became so much worse. Mamma has
sent for him also."
But I do not know that it boots to dally longer in a dying chamber.
It is an axiom of old that the stage curtain should be drawn before
the inexorable one enters in upon his final work. Doctor Finucane did
come, but his coming was all in vain. Sir Thomas had known that it
was in vain, and so also had his patient wife. There was that mind
diseased, towards the cure of which no Doctor Finucane could make any
possible approach. And Mr. Townsend came also, let us hope not in
vain; though the cure which he fain would have perfected can hardly
be effected in such moments as those. Let us hope that it had been
already effected. The only crying sin which we can lay to the charge
of the dying man is that of which we have spoken; he had endeavoured
by pensioning falsehood and fraud to preserve for his wife her name,
and for his son that son's inheritance. Even over this, deep as it
was, the recording angel may have dropped some cleansing tears of
pity.
That night the poor man died, and the Fitzgeralds who sat in the
chambers of Castle Richmond were no longer the owners of the mansion.
There was no speech of Sir Herbert among the servants as there would
have been had these tidings not have reached them. Dr. Finucane had
remained in the house, and even he, in speaking of the son, had shown
that he knew the story. They were strangers there now, as they all
knew--intruders, as they would soon be considered in the house of
their cousin Owen; or rather not their cousin. In that he was above
them by right of his blood, they had no right to claim him as their
relation.
It may be said that at such a moment all this should not have been
thought of; but those who say so know little, as I imagine, of the
true effect of sorrow. No wife and no children ever grieved more
heartily for a father; but their grief was blacker and more gloomy in
that they knew that they were outcasts in the world.
And during that long night as Herbert and his sisters sat up cowering
round the fire, he told them of all that had been said at Hap House.
"And can it not be as he says?" Mary had asked.
"And that Herbert should give up his wife!" said Emmeline.
"No; but that other thing."
"Do not dream of it," said Herbert. "It is all, all impossible. The
house that we are now in belongs to Sir Owen Fitzgerald."