THE EARL OF SCROOPE IS IN TROUBLE.
Not a word was said to the young lord on his return home respecting the
O'Haras till he himself had broached the subject. He found his brother
Jack Neville at Scroope on his arrival, and Sophie Mellerby was still
staying with his aunt. A day had been fixed for the funeral, but no one
had ventured to make any other arrangement till the heir and owner
should be there. He was received with solemn respect by the old servants
who, as he observed, abstained from calling him by any name. They knew
that it did not become them to transfer the former lord's title to the
heir till all that remained of the former lord should be hidden from the
world in the family vault; but they could not bring themselves to
address a real Earl as Mr. Neville. His aunt was broken down by sorrow,
but nevertheless, she treated him with a courtly deference. To her he
was now the reigning sovereign among the Nevilles, and all Scroope and
everything there was at his disposal. When he held her by the hand and
spoke of her future life she only shook her head. "I am an old woman,
though not in years old as was my lord. But my life is done, and it
matters not where I go."
"Dear aunt, do not speak of going. Where can you be so well as here?"
But she only shook her head again and wept afresh. Of course it would
not be fitting that she should remain in the house of the young Earl who
was only her nephew by marriage. Scroope Manor would now become a house
of joy, would be filled with the young and light of heart; there would
be feasting there and dancing; horses neighing before the doors, throngs
of carriages, new furniture, bright draperies, and perhaps, alas, loud
revellings. It would not be fit that such a one as she should be at
Scroope now that her lord had left her.
The funeral was an affair not of pomp but of great moment in those
parts. Two or three Nevilles from other counties came to the house, as
did also sundry relatives bearing other names. Mr. Mellerby was there,
and one or two of the late Earl's oldest friends; but the great
gathering was made up of the Scroope tenants, not one of whom failed to
see his late landlord laid in his grave. "My Lord," said an old man to
Fred, one who was himself a peer and was the young lord's cousin though
they two had never met before, "My Lord," said the old man, as soon as
they had returned from the grave, "you are called upon to succeed as
good a man as ever it has been my lot to know. I loved him as a brother.
I hope you will not lightly turn away from his example." Fred made some
promise which at the moment he certainly intended to perform.
On the next morning the will was read. There was nothing in it, nor
could there have been anything in it, which might materially affect the
interests of the heir. The late lord's widow was empowered to take away
from Scroope anything that she desired. In regard to money she was
provided for so amply that money did not matter to her. A whole year's
income from the estates was left to the heir in advance, so that he
might not be driven to any momentary difficulty in assuming the
responsibilities of his station. A comparatively small sum was left to
Jack Neville, and a special gem to Sophie Mellerby. There were bequests
to all the servants, a thousand pounds to the vicar of the
parish,--which perhaps was the only legacy which astonished the
legatee,--and his affectionate love to every tenant on the estate. All
the world acknowledged that it was as good a will as the Earl could have
made. Then the last of the strangers left the house, and the Earl of
Scroope was left to begin his reign and do his duty as best he might.
Jack had promised to remain with him for a few days, and Sophie
Mellerby, who had altogether given up her London season, was to stay
with the widow till something should be settled as to a future
residence. "If my aunt will only say that she will keep the house for a
couple of years, she shall have it," said Fred to the young
lady,--perhaps wishing to postpone for so long a time the embarrassment
of the large domain; but to this Lady Scroope would not consent. If
allowed she would remain till the end of July. By that time she would
find herself a home.
"For the life of me, I don't know how to begin my life," said the new
peer to his brother as they were walking about the park together.
"Do not think about beginning it at all. You won't be angry, and will
know what I mean, when I say that you should avoid thinking too much of
your own position."
"How am I to help thinking of it? It is so entirely changed from what it
was."
"No Fred,--not entirely; nor as I hope, is it changed at all in those
matters which are of most importance to you. A man's self, and his ideas
of the manner in which he should rule himself, should be more to him
than any outward accidents. Had that cousin of ours never died--"
"I almost wish he never had."
"It would then have been your ambition to live as an honourable
gentleman. To be that now should be more to you than to be an Earl and a
man of fortune."
"It's very easy to preach, Jack. You were always good at that. But here
I am, and what am I to do? How am I to begin? Everybody says that I am
to change nothing. The tenants will pay their rents, and Burnaby will
look after things outside, and Mrs. Bunce will look after the things
inside, and I may sit down and read a novel. When the gloom of my
uncle's death has passed away, I suppose I shall buy a few more horses
and perhaps begin to make a row about the pheasants. I don't know what
else there is to do."
"You'll find that there are duties."
"I suppose I shall. Something is expected of me. I am to keep up the
honour of the family; but it really seems to me that the best way of
doing so would be to sit in my uncle's arm chair and go to sleep as he
did."
"As a first step in doing something you should get a wife for yourself.
If once you had a settled home, things would arrange themselves round
you very easily."
"Ah, yes;--a wife. You know, Jack, I told you about that girl in County
Clare."
"You must let nothing of that kind stand in your way."
"Those are your ideas of high moral grandeur! Just now my own personal
conduct was to be all in all to me, and the rank nothing. Now I am to
desert a girl I love because I am an English peer."
"What has passed between you and the young lady, of course I do not
know."
"I may as well tell you the whole truth," said Fred. And he told it. He
told it honestly,--almost honestly. It is very hard for a man to tell a
story truly against himself, but he intended to tell the whole truth.
"Now what must I do? Would you have me marry her?" Jack Neville paused
for a long time. "At any rate you can say yes, or no."
"It is very hard to say yes, or no."
"I can marry no one else. I can see my way so far. You had better tell
Sophie Mellerby everything, and then a son of yours shall be the future
Earl."
"We are both of us young as yet, Fred, and need not think of that. If
you do mean to marry Miss O'Hara you should lose not a day;--not a day."
"But what if I don't. You are always very ready with advice, but you
have given me none as yet."
"How can I advise you? I should have heard the very words in which you
made your promise before I could dare to say whether it should be kept
or broken. As a rule a man should keep his word."
"Let the consequences be what they may?"
"A man should keep his word certainly. And I know no promise so solemn
as that made to a woman when followed by conduct such as yours has
been."
"And what will people say then as to my conduct to the family? How will
they look on me when I bring home the daughter of that scoundrel?"
"You should have thought of that before."
"But I was not told. Do you not see that I was deceived there. Mrs.
O'Hara clearly said that the man was dead. And she told me nothing of
the galleys."
"How could she tell you that?"
"But if she has deceived me, how can I be expected to keep my promise? I
love the girl dearly. If I could change places with you, I would do so
this very minute, and take her away with me, and she should certainly be
my wife. If it were only myself, I would give up all to her. I would, by
heaven. But I cannot sacrifice the family. As to solemn promises, did I
not swear to my uncle that I would not disgrace the family by such a
marriage? Almost the last word that I spoke to him was that. Am I to be
untrue to him? There are times in which it seems impossible that a man
should do right."
"There are times in which a man may be too blind to see the right," said
Jack,--sparing his brother in that he did not remind him that those
dilemmas always come from original wrong-doing.
"I think I am resolved not to marry her," said Fred.
"If I were in your place I think I should marry her," said Jack;--"but I
will not speak with certainty even of myself."
"I shall not. But I will be true to her all the same. You may be sure
that I shall not marry at all." Then he recurred to his old scheme. "If
I can find any mode of marrying her in some foreign country, so that her
son and mine shall not be the legitimate heir to the title and estates,
I would go there at once with her, though it were to the further end of
the world. You can understand now what I mean when I say that I do not
know how to begin." Jack acknowledged that in that matter he did
understand his brother. It is always hard for a man to commence any new
duty when he knows that he has a millstone round his neck which will
probably make that duty impracticable at last.
He went on with his life at Scroope for a week after the funeral without
resolving upon anything, or taking any steps towards solving the O'Hara
difficulty. He did ride about among the tenants, and gave some trifling
orders as to the house and stables. His brother was still with him, and
Miss Mellerby remained at the Manor. But he knew that the thunder-cloud
must break over his head before long, and at last the storm was
commenced. The first drops fell upon him in the soft form of a letter
from Kate O'Hara.
DEAREST FRED,
I am not quite sure that I ought to address you like that; but
I always shall unless you tell me not. We have been expecting a
letter from you every day since you went. Your friend from Ennis
came here, and brought us the news of your uncle's death. We
were very sorry; at least I was certainly. I liked to think of
you a great deal better as my own Fred, than as a great lord.
But you will still be my own Fred always; will you not?
Mother said at once that it was a matter of course that you
should go to England; but your friend, whose name we never heard,
said that you had sent him especially to promise that you would
write quite immediately, and that you would come back very soon.
I do not know what he will think of me, because I asked him
whether he was quite, quite sure that you would come back. If he
thinks that I love you better than my own soul, he only thinks
the truth.
Pray,--pray write at once. Mother is getting vexed because there
is no letter. I am never vexed with my own darling love, but I
do so long for a letter. If you knew how I felt, I do think you
would write almost every day,--if it were only just one short
word. If you would say, 'Dear Love,' that would be enough. And
pray come. Oh do, do, pray come! Cannot you think how I must
long to see you! The gentleman who came here said that you would
come, and I know you will. But pray come soon. Think, now, how
you are all the world to me. You are more than all the world to
me.
I am not ill as I was when you were here. But I never go outside
the door now. I never shall go outside the door again till you
come. I don't care now for going out upon the rocks. I don't care
even for the birds as you are not here to watch them with me. I
sit with the skin of the seal you gave me behind my head, and I
pretend to sleep. But though I am quite still for hours I am not
asleep, but thinking always of you.
We have neither seen or heard anything more of my father,
and Father Marty says that you have managed about that very
generously. You are always generous and good. I was so wretched
all that day, that I thought I should have died. You will not
think ill of your Kate, will you, because her father is bad?
Pray write when you get this, and above all things let us know
when you will come to us.
Always, always, and always,
Your own
KATE.
Two days after this, while the letter was still unanswered, there came
another from Mrs. O'Hara which was, if possible, more grievous to him
than that from her daughter.
"My Lord," the letter began. When he read this he turned from it with a
sickening feeling of disgust. Of course the woman knew that he was now
Earl of Scroope; but it would have been so desirable that there should
have been no intercourse between her and him except under the name by
which she had hitherto known him. And then in the appellation as she
used it there seemed to be a determination to reproach him which must,
he knew, lead to great misery.
MY LORD,
The messenger you sent to us brought us good news, and told us
that you were gone home to your own affairs. That I suppose was
right, but why have you not written to us before this? Why have
you not told my poor girl that you will come to her, and atone
to her for the injury you have done in the only manner now
possible? I cannot and do not believe that you intend to evade
the solemn promises that you have made her, and allow her to
remain here a ruined outcast, and the mother of your child. I
have thought you to be both a gentleman and a christian, and I
still think so. Most assuredly you would be neither were you
disposed to leave her desolate, while you are in prosperity.
I call upon you, my lord, in the most solemn manner, with all
the energy and anxiety of a mother,--of one who will be of all
women the most broken-hearted if you wrong her,--to write at
once and let me know when you will be here to keep your promise.
For the sake of your own offspring I implore you not to delay.
We feel under deep obligations to you for what you did in
respect of that unhappy man. We have never for a moment doubted
your generosity.
Yours, My Lord,
With warmest affection, if you will admit it,
C. O'HARA.
P.S. I ask you to come at once and keep your word. Were you to
think of breaking it, I would follow you through the world.
The young Earl, when he received this, was not at a loss for a moment to
attribute the body of Mrs. O'Hara's letter to Father Marty's power of
composition, and the postscript to the unaided effort of the lady
herself. Take it as he might--as coming from Mrs. O'Hara or from the
priest,--he found the letter to be a great burden to him. He had not as
yet answered the one received from Kate, as to the genuineness of which
he had entertained no doubt. How should he answer such letters? Some
answer must of course be sent, and must be the forerunner of his future
conduct. But how should he write his letter when he had not as yet
resolved what his conduct should be?
He did attempt to write a letter, not to either of the ladies, but to
the priest, explaining that in the ordinary sense of the word he could
not and would not marry Miss O'Hara, but that in any way short of that
legitimate and usual mode of marriage, he would bind himself to her, and
that when so bound he would be true to her for life. He would make any
settlement that he, Father Marty, might think right either upon the
mother or upon the daughter. But Countess of Scroope the daughter of
that Captain O'Hara should not become through his means. Then he
endeavoured to explain the obligation laid upon him by his uncle, and
the excuse which he thought he could plead in not having been informed
of Captain O'Hara's existence. But the letter when written seemed to him
to be poor and mean, cringing and at the same time false. He told
himself that it would not suffice. It was manifest to him that he must
go back to County Clare, even though he should encounter Mrs. O'Hara,
dagger in hand. What was any personal danger to himself in such an
affair as this? And if he did not fear a woman's dagger, was he to fear
a woman's tongue,--or the tongue of a priest? So he tore the letter, and
resolved that he would write and name a day on which he would appear at
Ardkill. At any rate such a letter as that might be easily written, and
might be made soft with words of love.
DEAREST KATE,
I will be with you on the 15th or on the 16th at latest. You
should remember that a man has a good deal to do and think of
when he gets pitchforked into such a new phase of life as mine.
Do not, however, think that I quarrel with you, my darling.
That I will never do. My love to your mother.
Ever your own,
FRED.
I hate signing the other name.
This letter was not only written but sent.