FRED NEVILLE RECEIVES A VISITOR AT ENNIS.
For something over three weeks after his walk with the priest Neville
saw neither of the two ladies of Ardkill. Letters were frequent between
the cottage and the barracks at Ennis, but,--so said Fred himself,
military duties detained him with the troop. He explained that he had
been absent a great deal, and that now Captain Johnstone was taking his
share of ease. He was all alone at the barracks, and could not get away.
There was some truth in this, created perhaps by the fact that as he
didn't stir, Johnstone could do so. Johnstone was backwards and forwards,
fishing at Castle Connel, and Neville was very exact in explaining that
for the present he was obliged to give up all the delights of the coast.
But the days were days of trial to him.
A short history of the life of Captain O'Hara was absolutely sent to
him by the Countess of Scroope. The family lawyer, at the instance of
the Earl,--as she said, though probably her own interference had been
more energetic than that of the Earl,--had caused enquiries to be made.
Captain O'Hara, the husband of the lady who was now living on the coast
of County Clare, and who was undoubtedly the father of the Miss O'Hara
whom Fred knew, had passed at least ten of the latter years of his
life at the galleys in the south of France. He had been engaged in
an extensive swindling transaction at Bordeaux, and had thence been
transferred to Toulon, had there been maintained by France,--and was now
in London. The Countess in sending this interesting story to her nephew
at Ennis, with ample documentary evidence, said that she was sure that
he would not degrade his family utterly by thinking of allying himself
with people who were so thoroughly disreputable; but that, after all
that was passed, his uncle expected from him a renewed assurance on the
matter. He answered this in anger. He did not understand why the history
of Captain O'Hara should have been raked up. Captain O'Hara was nothing
to him. He supposed it had come from Castle Quin, and anything from
Castle Quin he disbelieved. He had given a promise once and he didn't
understand why he should be asked for any further assurance. He
thought it very hard that his life should be made a burden to him by
foul-mouthed rumours from Castle Quin. That was the tenour of his letter
to his aunt; but even that letter sufficed to make it almost certain
that he could never marry the girl. He acknowledged that he had bound
himself not to do so. And then, in spite of all that he said about the
mendacity of Castle Quin, he did believe the little history. And it
was quite out of the question that he should marry the daughter of a
returned galley-slave. He did not think that any jury in England would
hold him to be bound by such a promise. Of course he would do whatever
he could for his dear Kate; but, even after all that had passed, he
could not pollute himself by marriage with the child of so vile a
father. Poor Kate! Her sufferings would have been occasioned not by him,
but by her father.
In the meantime Kate's letters to him became more and more frequent,
more and more sad,--filled ever with still increasing warmth of
entreaty. At last they came by every post, though he knew how difficult
it must be for her to find daily messengers into Ennistimon. Would he
not come and see her? He must come and see her. She was ill and would
die unless he came to her. He did not always answer these letters, but
he did write to her perhaps twice a week. He would come very soon,--as
soon as Johnstone had come back from his fishing. She was not to fret
herself. Of course he could not always be at Ardkill. He too had things
to trouble him. Then he told her he had received letters from home which
caused him very much trouble; and there was a something of sharpness
in his words, which brought from her a string of lamentations in
which, however, the tears and wailings did not as yet take the form
of reproaches. Then there came a short note from Mrs. O'Hara herself.
"I must beg that you will come to Ardkill at once. It is absolutely
necessary for Kate's safety that you should do so."
When he received this he thought that he would go on the morrow. When
the morrow came he determined to postpone the journey another day! The
calls of duty are so much less imperious than those of pleasure! On that
further day he still meant to go, as he sat about noon unbraced, only
partly dressed in his room at the barracks. His friend Johnstone was back
in Ennis, and there was also a Cornet with the troop. He had no excuse
whatever on the score of military duty for remaining at home on that
day. But he sat idling his time, thinking of things. All the charm of
the adventure was gone. He was sick of the canoe and of Barney Morony.
He did not care a straw for the seals or wild gulls. The moaning of the
ocean beneath the cliff was no longer pleasurable to him,--and as to the
moaning at their summit, to tell the truth, he was afraid of it. The
long drive thither and back was tedious to him. He thought now more of
the respectability of his family than of the beauty of Kate O'Hara.
But still he meant to go,--certainly would go on this very day. He had
desired that his gig should be ready, and had sent word to say that he
might start at any moment. But still he sat in his dressing-gown at
noon, unbraced, with a novel in his hand which he could not read, and a
pipe by his side which he could not smoke. Close to him on the table lay
that record of the life of Captain O'Hara, which his aunt had sent him,
every word of which he had now examined for the third or fourth time. Of
course he could not marry the girl. Mrs. O'Hara had deceived him. She
could not but have known that her husband was a convict;--and had kept
the knowledge back from him in order that she might allure him to the
marriage. Anything that money could do, he would do. Or, if they would
consent, he would take the girl away with him to some sunny distant
clime, in which adventures might still be sweet, and would then devote
to her--some portion of his time. He had not yet ruined himself, but
he would indeed ruin himself were he, the heir to the earldom of
Scroope, to marry the daughter of a man who had been at the French
galleys! He had just made up his mind that he would be firm in this
resolution,--when the door opened and Mrs. O'Hara entered his room.
"Mrs. O'Hara."
She closed the door carefully behind her before she spoke, excluding the
military servant who had wished to bar her entrance. "Yes, sir; as you
would not come to us I have been forced to come to you. I know it all.
When will you make my child your wife?"
Yes. In the abjectness of her misery the poor girl had told her mother
the story of her disgrace; or, rather, in her weakness had suffered her
secret to fall from her lips. That terrible retribution was to come upon
her which, when sin has been mutual, falls with so crushing a weight
upon her who of the two sinners has ever been by far the less sinful.
She, when she knew her doom, simply found herself bound by still
stronger ties of love to him who had so cruelly injured her. She was his
before; but now she was more than ever his. To have him near her, to
give her orders that she might obey them, was the consolation that she
coveted,--the only consolation that could have availed anything to her.
To lean against him, and to whisper to him, with face averted, with
half-formed syllables, some fervent words that might convey to him a
truth which might be almost a joy to her if he would make it so,--was
the one thing that could restore hope to her bosom. Let him come and be
near to her, so that she might hide her face upon his breast. But he
came not. He did not come, though, as best she knew how, she had thrown
all her heart into her letters. Then her spirit sank within her, and she
sickened, and as her mother knelt over her, she allowed her secret to
fall from her.
Fred Neville's sitting-room at Ennis was not a chamber prepared for the
reception of ladies. It was very rough, as are usually barrack rooms in
outlying quarters in small towns in the west of Ireland,--and it was
also very untidy. The more prudent and orderly of mankind might hardly
have understood why a young man, with prospects and present wealth such
as belonged to Neville, should choose to spend a twelvemonth in such a
room, contrary to the wishes of all his friends, when London was open
to him, and the continent, and scores of the best appointed houses in
England, and all the glories of ownership at Scroope. There were guns
about, and whips, hardly half a dozen books, and a few papers. There
were a couple of swords lying on a table that looked like a dresser. The
room was not above half covered with its carpet, and though there were
three large easy chairs, even they were torn and soiled. But all this
had been compatible with adventures,--and while the adventures were
simply romantic and not a bit troublesome, the barracks at Ennis had
been to him by far preferable to the gloomy grandeur of Scroope.
And now Mrs. O'Hara was there, telling him that she knew of all! Not for
a moment did he remain ignorant of the meaning of her communication. And
now the arguments to be used against him in reference to the marriage
would be stronger than ever. A silly, painful smile came across his
handsome face as he attempted to welcome her, and moved a chair for her
accommodation. "I am so sorry that you have had the trouble of coming
over," he said.
"That is nothing. When will you make my child your wife?" How was he to
answer this? In the midst of his difficulties he had brought himself to
one determination. He had resolved that under no pressure would he marry
the daughter of O'Hara, the galley-slave. As far as that, he had seen
his way. Should he now at once speak of the galley-slave, and, with
expressions of regret, decline the alliance on that reason? Having
dishonoured this woman's daughter should he shelter himself behind the
dishonour of her husband? That he meant to do so ultimately is true;
but at the present moment such a task would have required a harder
heart than his. She rose from her chair and stood close over him as she
repeated her demand, "When will you make my child your wife?"
"You do not want me to answer you at this moment?"
"Yes;--at this moment. Why not answer me at once? She has told me all.
Mr. Neville, you must think not only of her, but of your child also."
"I hope not that," he said.
"I tell you that it is so. Now answer me. When shall my Kate become your
wife?"
He still knew that any such consummation as that was quite out of the
question. The mother herself as she was now present to him, seemed to
be a woman very different from the quiet, handsome, high-spirited, but
low-voiced widow whom he had known, or thought that he had known, at
Ardkill. Of her as she had there appeared to him he had not been ashamed
to think as one who might at some future time be personally related to
himself. He had recognized her as a lady whose outward trappings, poor
though they might be, were suited to the seclusion in which she lived.
But now, although it was only to Ennis that she had come from her nest
among the rocks, she seemed to be unfitted for even so much intercourse
with the world as that. And in the demand which she reiterated over him
she hardly spoke as a lady would speak. Would not all they who were
connected with him at home have a right to complain if he were to bring
such a woman with him to England as the mother of his wife. "I can't
answer such a question as that on the spur of the moment," he said.
"You will not dare to tell me that you mean to desert her?"
"Certainly not. I was coming over to Ardkill this very day. The trap is
ordered. I hope Kate is well?"
"She is not well. How should she be well?"
"Why not? I didn't know. If there is anything that she wants that I can
get for her, you have only to speak."
In the utter contempt which Mrs. O'Hara now felt for the man she
probably forgot that his immediate situation was one in which it was
nearly impossible that any man should conduct himself with dignity.
Having brought himself to his present pass by misconduct, he could
discover no line of good conduct now open to him. Moralists might tell
him that let the girl's parentage be what it might, he ought to marry
her; but he was stopped from that, not only by his oath, but by a
conviction that his highest duty required him to preserve his family
from degradation. And yet to a mother, with such a demand on her lips
as that now made by Mrs. O'Hara,--whose demand was backed by such
circumstances,--how was it possible that he should tell the truth and
plead the honour of his family? His condition was so cruel that it was
no longer possible to him to be dignified or even true. The mother again
made her demand. "There is one thing that you must do for her before
other things can be thought of. When shall she become your wife?"
It was for a moment on his tongue to tell her that it could not be so
while his uncle lived;--but to this he at once felt that there were two
objections, directly opposed to each other, but each so strong as to
make any such reply very dangerous. It would imply a promise, which he
certainly did not intend to keep, of marrying the girl when his uncle
should be dead; and, although promising so much more than he intended
to perform, would raise the ungovernable wrath of the woman before him.
That he should now hesitate,--now, in her Kate's present condition,--as
to redeeming those vows of marriage which he had made to her in her
innocence, would raise a fury in the mother's bosom which he feared to
encounter. He got up and walked about the room, while she stood with her
eyes fixed upon him, ever and anon reiterating her demand. "No day must
now be lost. When will you make my child your wife?"
At last he made a proposition to which she assented. The tidings
which she had brought him had come upon him very suddenly. He was
inexpressibly pained. Of course Kate, his dearest Kate, was everything
to him. Let him have that afternoon to think about it. On the morrow he
would assuredly visit Ardkill. The mother, full of fears, resolving that
should he attempt to play her girl false and escape from her she would
follow him to the end of the world, but feeling that at the present
moment she could not constrain him, accepted his repeated promise as to
the following day; and at last left him to himself.