CONCLUSION.
And now my story is told; and were it not for the fashion of the
thing, this last short chapter might be spared. It shall at any rate
be very short.
Were it not that I eschew the fashion of double names for a book,
thinking that no amount of ingenuity in this respect will make a bad
book pass muster, whereas a good book will turn out as such though no
such ingenuity be displayed, I might have called this "A Tale of the
Famine Year in Ireland." At the period of the year to which the story
has brought us--and at which it will leave us--the famine was at its
very worst. People were beginning to believe that there would never
be a bit more to eat in the land, and that the time for hope and
energy was gone. Land was becoming of no value, and the only thing
regarded was a sufficiency of food to keep body and soul together.
Under such circumstances it was difficult to hope.
But energy without hope is impossible, and therefore was there such
an apathy and deadness through the country. It was not that they did
not work who were most concerned to work. The amount of conscientious
work then done was most praiseworthy. But it was done almost without
hope of success, and done chiefly as a matter of conscience. There
was a feeling, which was not often expressed but which seemed to
prevail everywhere, that ginger would not again be hot in the mouth,
and that in very truth the time for cakes and ale in this world was
all over. It was this feeling that made a residence in Ireland at
that period so very sad.
Ah me! how little do we know what is coming to us! Irish cakes and
ale were done and over for this world, we all thought. But in truth
the Irish cakes were only then a-baking, and the Irish ale was being
brewed. I am not sure that these good things are yet quite fit for
the palates of the guest;--not as fit as a little more time will make
them. The cake is still too new,--cakes often are; and the ale is
not sufficiently mellowed. But of this I am sure, that the cakes and
ale are there;--and the ginger, too, very hot in the mouth. Let a
committee of Irish landlords say how the rents are paid now, and what
amount of arrears was due through the country when the famine came
among them. Rents paid to the day: that is the ginger hot in the
mouth which best pleases the palate of a country gentleman.
But if one did in truth write a tale of the famine, after that it
would behove the author to write a tale of the pestilence; and
then another, a tale of the exodus. These three wonderful events,
following each other, were the blessings coming from Omniscience and
Omnipotence by which the black clouds were driven from the Irish
firmament. If one, through it all, could have dared to hope, and have
had from the first that wisdom which has learned to acknowledge that
His mercy endureth for ever! And then the same author going on with
his series would give in his last set,--Ireland in her prosperity.
Of all those who did true good conscientious work at this time, none
exceeded in energy our friend Herbert Fitzgerald after his return to
Castle Richmond. It seemed to him as though some thank-offering were
due from him for all the good things that Providence had showered
upon him, and the best thank-offering that he could give was a
devoted attention to the interest of the poor around him. Mr. Somers
soon resigned to him the chair at those committee meetings at
Berryhill and Gortnaclough, and it was acknowledged that the Castle
Richmond arrangements for soup-kitchens, out-door relief, and
labour-gangs, might be taken as a model for the south of Ireland. Few
other men were able to go to the work with means so ample and with
hands so perfectly free. Mr. Carter even, who by this time had become
cemented in a warm trilateral friendship with Father Barney and the
Rev. Æneas Townsend, was obliged to own that many a young English
country gentleman might take a lesson from Sir Herbert Fitzgerald in
the duties peculiar to his position.
His marriage did not take place till full six months after the period
to which our story has brought us. Baronets with twelve thousand a
year cannot be married off the hooks, as may be done with ordinary
mortals. Settlements of a grandiose nature were required, and were
duly concocted. Perhaps Mr. Die had something to say to them, so
that the great maxim of the law was brought into play. Perhaps also,
though of this Herbert heard no word, it was thought inexpedient to
hurry matters while any further inquiry was possible in that affair
of the Mollett connection. Mr. Die and Mr. Prendergast were certainly
going about, still drawing all coverts far and near, lest their
fox might not have been fairly run to his last earth. But, as I
have said, no tidings as to this reached Castle Richmond. There, in
Ireland, no man troubled himself further with any doubt upon the
subject; and Sir Herbert took his title and received his rents, by
the hands of Mr. Somers, exactly as though the Molletts, father and
son, had never appeared in those parts.
It was six months before the marriage was celebrated, but during a
considerable part of that time Clara remained a visitor at Castle
Richmond. To Lady Fitzgerald she was now the same as a daughter, and
to Aunt Letty the same as a niece. By the girls she had for months
been regarded as a sister. So she remained in the house of which she
was to be the mistress, learning to know their ways, and ingratiating
herself with those who were to be dependent on her.
"But I had rather stay with you, mamma, if you will allow me," Clara
had said to her mother when the countess was making some arrangement
with her that she should return to Castle Richmond. "I shall be
leaving you altogether so soon now!" And she got up close to her
mother's side caressingly, and would fain have pressed into her arms
and kissed her, and have talked to her of what was coming, as a
daughter loves to talk to a loving mother. But Lady Desmond's heart
was sore and sad and harsh, and she preferred to be alone.
"You will be better at Castle Richmond, my dear: you will be much
happier there, of course. There can be no reason why you should come
again into the gloom of this prison."
"But I should be with you, dearest mamma."
"It is better that you should be with the Fitzgeralds now; and as
for me--I must learn to live alone. Indeed I have learned it, so you
need not mind for me." Clara was rebuffed by the tone rather than the
words, but she still looked up into her mother's face wistfully. "Go,
my dear," said the countess--"I would sooner be alone at present."
And so Clara went. It was hard upon her that even now her mother
would not accept her love.
But Lady Desmond could not be cordial with her daughter. She made
more than one struggle to do so, but always failed. She could,--she
thought that she could, have watched her child's happiness with
contentment had Clara married Owen Fitzgerald--Sir Owen, as he would
then have been. But now she could only remember that Owen was lost to
them both, lost through her child's fault. She did not hate Clara:
nay, she would have made any sacrifice for her daughter's welfare;
but she could not take her lovingly to her bosom. So she shut herself
up alone, in her prison as she called it, and then looked back upon
the errors of her life. It was as well for her to look back as to
look forward, for what joy was there for which she could dare to
hope?
In the days that were coming, however, she did relax something of
her sternness. Clara was of course married from Desmond Court, and
the very necessity of making some preparations for this festivity
was in itself salutary. But indeed it could hardly be called
a festivity,--it was so quiet and sombre. Clara had but two
bridesmaids, and they were Mary and Emmeline Fitzgerald. The
young earl gave away his sister, and Aunt Letty was there, and Mr.
Prendergast, who had come over about the settlements; Mr. Somers
also attended, and the ceremony was performed by our old friend Mr.
Townsend. Beyond these there were no guests at the wedding of Sir
Herbert Fitzgerald.
The young earl was there, and at the last the wedding had been
postponed a week for his coming. He had left Eton at Midsummer in
order that he might travel for a couple of years with Owen Fitzgerald
before he went to Oxford. It had been the lad's own request, and had
been for a while refused by Owen. But Fitzgerald had at last given
way to the earl's love, and they had started together for Norway.
"They want me to be home," he had said one morning to his friend.
"Ah, yes; I suppose so."
"Do you know why?" They had never spoken a word about Clara since
they had left England together, and the earl now dreaded to mention
her name.
"Know why!" replied Owen; "of course I do. It is to give away your
sister. Go home, Desmond, my boy; when you have returned we will talk
about her. I shall bear it better when I know that she is his wife."
And so it was with them. For two years Lord Desmond travelled with
him, and after that Owen Fitzgerald went on upon his wanderings
alone. Many a long year has run by since that, and yet he has never
come back to Hap House. Men of the county Cork now talk of him as one
whom they knew long since. He who took his house as a stranger is
a stranger no longer in the country, and the place that Owen left
vacant has been filled. The hounds of Duhallow would not recognize
his voice, nor would the steed in the stable follow gently at his
heels. But there is yet one left who thinks of him, hoping that she
may yet see him before she dies.