Castle Richmond

  CHAPTER XII.

  DOUBTS.

  I believe there is no period of life so happy as that in which athriving lover leaves his mistress after his first success. His joyis more perfect then than at the absolute moment of his own eagervow, and her half-assenting blushes. Then he is thinking mostly ofher, and is to a certain degree embarrassed by the effort necessaryfor success. But when the promise has once been given to him, andhe is able to escape into the domain of his own heart, he is as aconqueror who has mastered half a continent by his own strategy.

  It never occurs to him, he hardly believes, that his success is nomore than that which is the ordinary lot of mortal man. He neverreflects that all the old married fogies whom he knows and despises,have just as much ground for pride, if such pride were enduring; thatevery fat, silent, dull, somnolent old lady whom he sees and quizzes,has at some period been deemed as worthy a prize as his pricelessgalleon; and so deemed by as bold a captor as himself.

  Some one has said that every young mother, when her first child isborn, regards the babe as the most wonderful production of thatdescription which the world has yet seen. And this too is true. ButI doubt even whether that conviction is so strong as the convictionof the young successful lover, that he has achieved a triumph whichshould ennoble him down to late generations. As he goes along he hasa contempt for other men; for they know nothing of such glory ashis. As he pores over his "Blackstone," he remembers that he does so,not so much that he may acquire law, as that he may acquire Fanny;and then all other porers over "Blackstone" are low and mean in hissight--are mercenary in their views and unfortunate in their ideas,for they have no Fanny in view.

  Herbert Fitzgerald had this proud feeling strong within his heartas he galloped away across the greensward, and trotted fast alongthe road, home to Castle Richmond. She was compounded of allexcellences--so he swore to himself over and over again--and being socompounded, she had consented to bestow all these excellences uponhim. Being herself goddess-like, she had promised to take him as theobject of her world's worship. So he trotted on fast and faster, asthough conscious of the half-continent which he had won by his skilland valour.

  She had told him about his cousin Owen. Indeed, the greater number ofthe soft musical words which she had spoken in that long three hours'colloquy had been spoken on this special point. It had behoved her totell him all; and she thought that she had done so. Nay, she had doneso with absolute truth--to the best of her heart's power.

  "You were so young then," he had argued; "so very young."

  "Yes, very young. I am not very old now, you know," and she smiledsweetly on him.

  "No, no; but a year makes so much difference. You were all but achild then. You do not love him now, Clara?"

  "No; I do not love him now," she had answered.

  And then he exacted a second, a third, a fourth assurance, that shedid absolutely, actually, and with her whole heart love him, himHerbert, in lieu of that other him, poor Owen; and with this he,Herbert, was contented. Content; nay, but proud, elated with triumph,and conscious of victory. In this spirit he rode home as fast as hishorse could carry him.

  He too had to tell his tale to those to whom he owed obedience, andto beg that they would look upon his intended bride with eyes oflove and with parental affection. But in this respect he was hardlytroubled with more doubt than Clara had felt. How could any oneobject to his Clara?

  There are young men who, from their positions in life, are obliged toabstain from early marriage, or to look for dowries with their wives.But he, luckily, was not fettered in this way. He could marry as hepleased, so long as she whom he might choose brought with her gentleblood, a good heart, a sweet temper, and such attraction of personand manners as might make the establishment at Castle Richmond proudof his young bride. And of whom could that establishment be moreproud than of Lady Clara Desmond? So he rode home without any doubtto clog his happiness.

  But he had a source of joy which Clara wanted. She was almostindifferent to her mother's satisfaction; but Herbert looked forwardwith the liveliest, keenest anticipation to his mother's gratifiedcaresses and unqualified approval--to his father's kind smile andwarm assurance of consent. Clara had made herself known at CastleRichmond; and he had no doubt but that all this would be added to hiscup of happiness. There was therefore no alloy to debase his virgingold as he trotted quickly into the stable-yard.

  But he resolved that he would say nothing about the matter thatnight. He could not well tell them all in full conclave together.Early after breakfast he would go to his father's room; and afterthat, he would find his mother. There would then be no doubt that thenews would duly leak out among his sisters and Aunt Letty.

  "Again only just barely in time, Herbert," said Mary, as theyclustered round the fire before dinner.

  "You can't say I ever keep you waiting; and I really think that'ssome praise for a man who has got a good many things on his hand."

  "So it is, Herbert," said Emmeline. "But we have done something too.We have been over to Berryhill; and the people have already begunthere: they were at work with their pickaxes among the rocks by theriver-side."

  "So much the better. Was Mr. Somers there?"

  "We did not see him; but he had been there," said Aunt Letty. "ButMrs. Townsend found us. And who do you think came up to us in themost courteous, affable, condescending way?"

  "Who? I don't know. Brady, the builder, I suppose."

  "No, indeed: Brady was not half so civil, for he kept himself to hisown work. It was the Rev. Mr. M'Carthy, if you please."

  "I only hope you were civil to him," said Herbert, with some slightsuffusion of colour over his face; for he rather doubted the conductof his aunt to the priest, especially as her great Protestant ally,Mrs. Townsend, was of the party.

  "Civil! I don't know what you would have, unless you wanted me toembrace him. He shook hands with us all round. I really thought Mrs.Townsend would have looked him into the river when he came to her."

  "She always was the quintessence of absurdity and prejudice," saidhe.

  "Oh, Herbert!" exclaimed Aunt Letty.

  "Well; and what of 'Oh, Herbert?' I say she is so. If you and Maryand Emmeline did not look him into the river when he shook hands withyou, why should she do so? He is an ordained priest even according toher own tenets,--only she knows nothing of what her own tenets are."

  "I'll tell you what they are. They are the substantial, true, andholy doctrines of the Protestant religion, founded on the gospel.Mrs. Townsend is a thoroughly Protestant woman; one who cannot abidethe sorceries of popery."

  "Hates them as a mad dog hates water; and with the same amount ofjudgment. We none of us wish to be drowned; but nevertheless thereare some good qualities in water."

  "But there are no good qualities in popery," said Aunt Letty, withher most extreme energy.

  "Are there not?" said Herbert. "I should have thought that belief inChrist, belief in the Bible, belief in the doctrine of a Saviour'satonement, were good qualities. Even the Mahommedan's religion hassome qualities that are good."

  "I would sooner be a Mahommedan than a Papist," said Aunt Letty,somewhat thoughtlessly, but very stoutly.

  "You would alter your opinion after the first week in a harem," saidHerbert. And then there was a burst of laughter, in which Aunt Lettyherself joined. "I would sooner go there than go to confession," shewhispered to Mary, as they all walked off to dinner.

  "And how is the Lady Clara's arm?" asked Mary, as soon as they wereagain once more round the fire.

  "The Lady Clara's arm is still very blue," said Herbert.

  "And I suppose it took you half an hour to weep over it?" continuedhis sister.

  "Exactly, by Shrewsbury clock."

  "And while you were weeping over the arm, what happened to the hand?She did not surrender it, did she, in return for so much tendernesson your part?"

  Emmeline thought that Mary was very pertinacious in her badinage, andwas going to bid her hold her tongue; but she observed th
at Herbertblushed, and walked away without further answer. He went to thefurther end of the long room, and there threw himself on to a sofa."Could it be that it was all settled?" thought Emmeline to herself.

  She followed him to the sofa, and sitting beside him, took hold ofhis arm. "Oh, Herbert! if there is anything to tell, do tell me."

  "Anything to tell!" said he. "What do you mean?"

  "Oh! you know. I do love her so dearly. I shall never be contented tolove any one else as your wife--not to love her really, really withall my heart."

  "What geese you girls are!--you are always thinking of love, andweddings, and orange-blossoms."

  "It is only for you I think about them," said Emmeline. "I know thereis something to tell. Dear Herbert, do tell me."

  "There is a young bachelor duke coming here to-morrow. He has amillion a year, and three counties all his own; he has blue eyes, andis the handsomest man that ever was seen. Is that news enough?"

  "Very well, Herbert. I would tell you anything."

  "Well; tell me anything."

  "I'll tell you this. I know you're in love with Clara Desmond, andI'm sure she's in love with you; and I believe you are both engaged,and you're not nice at all to have a secret from me. I never teaseyou, as Mary does, and it would make me so happy to know it."

  Upon this he put his arm round her waist and whispered one word intoher ear. She gave an exclamation of delight; and as the tears cameinto her eyes congratulated him with a kiss. "Oh dear, oh dear! I amso happy!" she exclaimed.

  "Hush--sh," he whispered. "I knew how it would be if I told you."

  "But they will all know to-morrow, will they not?"

  "Leave that to me. You have coaxed me out of my secret, and youare bound to keep it." And then he went away well pleased. Thisdescription of delight on his sister's part was the first instalmentof that joy which he had promised himself from the satisfaction ofhis family.

  Lady Fitzgerald had watched all that had passed, and had alreadylearned her mistake--her mistake in that she had prophesied that noimmediate proposal was likely to be made by her son. She now knewwell enough that he had made such a proposal, and that he had beenaccepted.

  And this greatly grieved her. She had felt certain from the fewslight words which Sir Thomas had spoken that there were validreasons why her son should not marry a penniless girl. Thatconversation, joined to other things, to the man's visit, and herhusband's deep dejection, had convinced her that all was not right.Some misfortune was impending over them, and there had been that inher own early history which filled her with dismay as she thought ofthis.

  She had ardently desired to caution her son in this respect,--toguard him, if possible, against future disappointment and futuresorrow. But she could not do so without obtaining in some sort herhusband's assent to her doing so. She resolved that she would talk itover with Sir Thomas. But the subject was one so full of pain, and hewas so ill, and therefore she had put it off.

  And now she saw that the injury was done. Nevertheless, she saidnothing either to Emmeline or to Herbert. If the injury were done,what good could now result from talking? She doubtless would hear itall soon enough. So she sat still, watching them.

  On the following morning Sir Thomas did not come out to breakfast.Herbert went into his room quite early, as was always his custom; andas he left it for the breakfast-parlour he said, "Father, I shouldlike to speak to you just now about something of importance."

  "Something of importance, Herbert; what is it? Anything wrong?" ForSir Thomas was nervous, and easily frightened.

  "Oh dear, no; nothing is wrong. It is nothing that will annoy you; atleast I think not. But it will keep till after breakfast. I will comein again the moment breakfast is over." And so saying he left theroom with a light step.

  In the breakfast-parlour it seemed to him as though everybody wasconscious of some important fact. His mother's kiss was peculiarlysolemn and full of solicitude; Aunt Letty smirked as though she wasaware of something--something over and above the great Protestanttenets which usually supported her; and Mary had no joke to fling athim.

  "Emmeline," he whispered, "you have told."

  "No, indeed," she replied. But what mattered it? Everybody would knownow in a few minutes. So he ate his breakfast, and then returned toSir Thomas.

  "Father," said he, as soon as he had got into the arm-chair, in whichit was his custom to sit when talking with Sir Thomas, "I hope whatI am going to tell you will give you pleasure. I have proposed to ayoung lady, and she has--accepted me."

  "You have proposed, and have been accepted!"

  "Yes, father."

  "And the young lady--?"

  "Is Lady Clara Desmond. I hope you will say that you approve of it.She has no fortune, as we all know, but that will hardly matter tome; and I think you will allow that in every other respect she is--"

  Perfect, Herbert would have said, had he dared to express his truemeaning. But he paused for a moment to look for a less triumphantword; and then paused again, and left his sentence incomplete, whenhe saw the expression of his father's face.

  "Oh, father! you do not mean to say that you do not like her?"

  But it was not dislike that was expressed in his father's face, asHerbert felt the moment after he had spoken. There was pain there,and solicitude, and disappointment; a look of sorrow at the tidingsthus conveyed to him; but nothing that seemed to betoken dislike ofany person.

  "What is it, sir? Why do you not speak to me? Can it be that youdisapprove of my marrying?"

  Sir Thomas certainly did disapprove of his son's marrying, but helacked the courage to say so. Much misery that had hitherto come uponhim, and that was about to come on all those whom he loved so well,arose from this lack of courage. He did not dare to tell his son thathe advised him for the present to put aside all such hopes. It wouldhave been terrible for him to do so; but he knew that in not doing sohe was occasioning sorrow that would be more terrible.

  And yet he did not do it. Herbert saw clearly that the project wasdistasteful to his father,--that project which he had hoped to haveseen received with so much delight; but nothing was said to him whichtended to make him alter his purpose.

  "Do you not like her?" he asked his father, almost piteously.

  "Yes, yes; I do like her, we all like her, very much indeed,Herbert."

  "Then why--"

  "You are so young, my boy, and she is so very young, and--"

  "And what?"

  "Why, Herbert, it is not always practicable for the son even of a manof property to marry so early in life as this. She has nothing, youknow."

  "No," said the young man, proudly; "I never thought of looking formoney."

  "But in your position it is so essential if a young man wishes tomarry."

  Herbert had always regarded his father as the most liberal manbreathing,--as open-hearted and open-handed almost to a fault. Tohim, his only son, he had ever been so, refusing him nothing, andlatterly allowing him to do almost as he would with the managementof the estate. He could not understand that this liberality shouldbe turned to parsimony on such an occasion as that of his son'smarriage.

  "You think then, sir, that I ought not to marry Lady Clara?" saidHerbert very bitterly.

  "I like her excessively," said Sir Thomas. "I think she is a sweetgirl, a very sweet girl, all that I or your mother could desire tosee in your wife; but--"

  "But she is not rich."

  "Do not speak to me in that tone, my boy," said Sir Thomas, with anexpression that would have moved his enemy to pity, let alone hisson. His son did pity him, and ceased to wear the angry expression offace which had so wounded his father.

  "But, father, I do not understand you," he said. "Is there any realobjection why I should not marry? I am more than twenty-two, and you,I think, married earlier than that."

  In answer to this Sir Thomas only sighed meekly and piteously.

  "If you mean to say," continued the son, "that it will beinconvenient to you to make me any allowance--"
/>
  "No, no, no; you are of course entitled to what you want, and as longas I can give it, you shall have it."

  "As long as you can give it, father!"

  "As long as it is in my power, I mean. What can I want of anythingbut for you--for you and them?"

  After this Herbert sat silent for a while, leaning on his arm. Heknew that there existed some mischief, but he could not fathomit. Had he been prudent, he would have felt that there was someimpediment to his love; some evil which it behoved him to fathombefore he allowed his love to share it; but when was a lover prudent?

  "We should live here, should we not, father? No second establishmentwould be necessary."

  "Of course you would live here," said Sir Thomas, glad to be able tolook at the subject on any side that was not painful. "Of course youwould live here. For the matter of that, Herbert, the house should beconsidered as your own if you so wished it."

  Against this the son put in his most violent protest. Nothing onearth should make him consider himself master of Castle Richmond aslong as his father lived. Nor would Clara,--his Clara, wish it. Heknew her well, he boasted. It would amply suffice to her to livethere with them all. Was not the house large enough? And, indeed,where else could he live, seeing that all his interests werenaturally centred upon the property?

  And then Sir Thomas did give his consent. It would be wrong to saythat it was wrung from him. He gave it willingly enough, as faras the present moment was concerned. When it was once settled, heassured his son that he would love Clara as his daughter. But,nevertheless--

  The father knew that he had done wrong; and Herbert knew that healso, he himself, had done wrongly. He was aware that there wassomething which he did not understand. But he had promised to seeClara either that day or the next, and he could not bring himselfto unsay all that he had said to her. He left his father's roomsorrowful at heart, and discontented. He had expected that histidings would have been received in so far other a manner; that hewould have been able to go from his father's study up stairs to hismother's room with so exulting a step; that his news, when oncethe matter was ratified by his father's approval, would have flownabout the house with so loud a note of triumph. And now it was sodifferent! His father had consented; but it was too plain that therewas no room for any triumph.

  "Well, Herbert!" said Emmeline, jumping up to meet him as he returnedto a small back drawing-room, through which he had gone to hisfather's dressing-room. She had calculated that he would come there,and that she might thus get the first word from him after theinterview was over.

  But there was a frown upon his brow, and displeasure in his eyes.There was none of that bright smile of gratified pride with whichshe had expected that her greeting would have been met. "Is thereanything wrong?" she said. "He does not disapprove, does he?"

  "Never mind; and do leave me now. I never can make you understandthat one is not always in a humour for joking." And so saying, he puther aside, and passed on.

  Joking! That was indeed hard upon poor Emmeline, seeing that herthoughts were so full of him, that her heart beat so warmly for hispromised bride. But she said nothing, shrinking back abashed, andvanishing out of the way. Could it be possible that her father shouldhave refused to receive Lady Clara Desmond as his daughter-in-law?

  He then betook himself to a private territory of his own, where hemight be sure that he would remain undisturbed for some half-hour orso. He would go to his mother, of course, but not quite immediately.He would think over the matter, endeavouring to ascertain what it wasthat had made his father's manner and words so painful to him.

  But he could not get his thoughts to work rightly;--which getting ofthe thoughts to work rightly is, by-the-by, as I take it, the hardestwork which a man is called upon to do. Not that the subject to bethought about need in itself be difficult. Were one to say thatthoughts about hydrostatics and pneumatics are difficult to themultitude, or that mental efforts in regions of political economyor ethical philosophy are beyond ordinary reach, one would onlypronounce an evident truism, an absurd platitude. But let any mantake any subject fully within his own mind's scope, and strive tothink about it steadily, with some attempt at calculation as toresults. The chances are his mind will fly off, will-he-nill-he,to some utterly different matter. When he wishes to debate withinhimself that question of his wife's temper, he will find himselfconsidering whether he may not judiciously give away half a dozenpairs of those old boots; or when it behoves him to decide whether itshall be manure and a green crop, or a fallow season and then grassseeds, he cannot keep himself from inward inquiry as to the meaningof that peculiar smile on Mrs. Walker's face when he shook hands withher last night.

  Lord Brougham and Professor Faraday can, no doubt, command theirthoughts. If many men could do so, there would be many Lord Broughamsand many Professor Faradays.

  At the present moment Herbert Fitzgerald had no right to considerhimself as following in the steps of either one or other of thesegreat men. He wished to think about his father's circumstances, buthis mind would fly off to Clara Desmond and her perfections. Andthus, though he remained there for half an hour, with his back to thefire and his hands in his pockets, his deliberations had done him nogood whatever,--had rather done him harm, seeing that he had onlywarmed himself into a firmer determination to go on with what he wasdoing. And then he went to his mother.

  She kissed him, and spoke very tenderly, nay affectionately, aboutClara; but even she, even his mother, did not speak joyously; and shealso said something about the difficulty of providing a maintenancefor a married son. Then to her he burst forth, and spoke somewhatloudly.

  "I cannot understand all this, mother. If either you or my fatherknow any reason why I should be treated differently from other sons,you ought to tell me; not leave me to grope about in the dark."

  "But, my boy, we both think that no son was ever entitled to moreconsideration, or to kinder or more liberal treatment."

  "Why do I hear all this, then, about the difficulty of my marrying?Or if I hear so much, why do I not hear more? I know pretty well, Ibelieve, what is my father's income."

  "If you do not, he would tell you for the asking."

  "And I know that I must be the heir to it, whatever it is,--not thatthat feeling would make any difference in my dealings with him, notthe least. And, under these circumstances, I cannot conceive why heand you should look coldly upon my marriage."

  "I look coldly on it, Herbert!"

  "Do you not? Do you not tell me that there will be no income for me?If that is to be so; if that really is the case; if the property hasso dwindled away, or become embarrassed--"

  "Oh, Herbert! there never was a man less likely to injure his son'sproperty than your father."

  "I do not mean that, mother. Let him do what he likes with it,I should not upbraid him, even in my thoughts. But if it beembarrassed; if it has dwindled away; if there be any reason whyI should not regard myself as altogether untrammelled with regardto money, he ought to tell me. I cannot accuse myself of expensivetastes."

  "Dearest Herbert, nobody accuses you of anything."

  "But I do desire to marry; and now I have engaged myself, and willnot break from my engagement, unless it be shown to me that I ambound in honour to do so. Then, indeed--"

  "Oh, Herbert! I do not know what you mean."

  "I mean this: that I expect that Clara shall be received as my wifewith open arms--"

  "And so she shall be if she comes."

  "Or else that some reason should be given me why she should not come.As to income, something must be done, I suppose. If the means at ourdisposal are less than I have been taught to believe, I at any ratewill not complain. But they cannot, I think, be so small as to affordany just reason why I should not marry."

  "Your father, you see, is ill, and one can hardly talk to him fullyupon such matters at present."

  "Then I will speak to Somers. He, at any rate, must know how theproperty is circumstanced, and I suppose he will not hesitate to tellme."

/>   "I don't think Somers can tell you anything."

  "Then what is it? As for the London estate, mother, that is allmoonshine. What if it were gone altogether? It may be that it is thatwhich vexes my father; but if so, it is a monomania."

  "Oh, my boy, do not use such a word!"

  "You know what I mean. If any doubt as to that is creating thisdespondency, it only shows that though we are bound to respect andrelieve my father's state of mind, we are not at all bound to shareit. What would it really matter, mother, if that place in London werewashed away by the Thames? There is more than enough left for us all,unless--"

  "Ah, Herbert, that is it."

  "Then I will go to Somers, and he shall tell me. My father's interestin this property cannot have been involved without his knowledge; andcircumstanced as we and my father are, he is bound to tell me."

  "If there be anything within his knowledge to tell, he will tell it."

  "And if there be nothing within his knowledge, then I can only lookupon all this as a disease on my poor father's part. I will do all Ican to comfort him in it; but it would be madness to destroy my wholehappiness because he labours under delusions."

  Lady Fitzgerald did not know what further to say. She half believedthat Sir Thomas did labour under some delusion; but then she halfbelieved also that he had upon his mind a sorrow, terribly real,which was in no sort delusive. Under such circumstances, how couldshe advise her son? Instead of advising him, she caressed him.

  "But I may claim this from you, mother, that if Somers tells menothing which ought to make me break my word to Clara, you willreceive her as your daughter. You will promise me that, will younot?"

  Lady Fitzgerald did promise, warmly; assuring him that she alreadydearly loved Clara Desmond, that she would delight in having sucha daughter-in-law, and that she would go to her to welcome her assuch as soon as ever he should bid her do so. With this Herbert wassomewhat comforted, and immediately started on his search after Mr.Somers.

  I do not think that any person is to be found, as a rule, attachedto English estates whose position is analogous to that of an Irishagent. And there is a wide misunderstanding in England as to theseIrish functionaries. I have attempted, some pages back, to describethe national delinquencies of a middleman, or profit-renter. InEngland we are apt to think that the agents on Irish properties areto be charged with similar shortcomings. This I can assert to be agreat mistake; and I believe that, as a class, the agents on Irishproperties do their duty in a manner beneficial to the people.

  That there are, or were, many agents who were also middlemen, orprofit-renters, and that in this second position they were a nuisanceto the country, is no doubt true. But they were no nuisance in theirworking capacity as agents. That there are some bad agents there canbe no doubt, as there are also some bad shoemakers.

  The duties towards an estate which an agent performs in Irelandare, I believe, generally shared in England between three or fourdifferent persons. The family lawyer performs part, the estatesteward performs part, and the landlord himself performs part;--as tosmall estates, by far the greater part.

  In Ireland, let the estate be ever so small--eight hundred a year wewill say--all the working of the property is managed by the agent. Itis he who knows the tenants, and the limits of their holdings; it ishe who arranges leases, and allows--or much more generally does notallow--for improvements. He takes the rent, and gives the order forthe ejection of tenants if he cannot get it.

  I am far from saying that it would not be well that much of thisshould be done by the landlord himself;--that all of it should be sodone on a small property. But it is done by agents; and, as a ruleis, I think, done honestly.

  Mr. Somers was agent to the Castle Richmond property, and as he tookto himself as such five per cent. on all rents paid, and as he wasagent also to sundry other small properties in the neighbourhood,he succeeded in making a very snug income. He had also an excellenthouse on the estate, and was altogether very much thought of; on thewhole, perhaps, more than was Sir Thomas. But in this respect it wasprobable that Herbert might soon take the lead.

  He was a large, heavy, consequential man, always very busy, as thoughaware of being one of the most important wheels that kept the Irishclock agoing; but he was honest, kind-hearted in the main, true assteel to his employers, and good-humoured--as long as he was allowedto have his own way. In these latter days he had been a little souredby Herbert's interference, and had even gone so far as to say that,"in his humble judgment, Mr. Fitzgerald was wrong in doing"--so andso. But he generally called him Herbert, was always kind to him, andin his heart of hearts loved him dearly. But that was a matter ofcourse, for had he not been agent to the estate before Herbert wasborn?

  Immediately after his interview with his mother, Mr. Herbert rodeover to Mr. Somers's house, and there found him sitting alone in hisoffice. He dashed immediately into the subject that had brought himthere. "I have come, Mr. Somers," said he, "to ask you a questionabout the property."

  "About the Castle Richmond property?" said Mr. Somers, rathersurprised by his visitor's manner.

  "Yes; you know in what a state my poor father now is."

  "I know that Sir Thomas is not very well. I am sorry to say that itis long since he has been quite himself."

  "There is something that is preying upon his spirits."

  "I am afraid so, Herbert."

  "Then tell me fairly, Mr. Somers, do you know what it is?"

  "Not--in--the least. I have no conception whatever, and never havehad any. I know no cause for trouble that should disquiet him."

  "There is nothing wrong about the property?"

  "Not to my knowledge."

  "Who has the title-deeds?"

  "They are at Coutts's."

  "You are sure of that?"

  "Well; as sure as a man can be of a thing that he does not see. Ihave never seen them there; indeed, have never seen them at all; butI feel no doubt in my own mind as to their being at the bankers."

  "Is there much due on the estate?"

  "Very little. No estate in county Cork has less on it. Miss Letty hasher income, and when Poulnasherry was bought,--that townland lyingjust under Berryhill, where the gorse cover is, part of the purchasemoney was left on mortgage. That is still due; but the interest isless than a hundred a year."

  "And that is all?"

  "All that I know of."

  "Could there be encumbrances without your knowing it?"

  "I think not. I think it is impossible. Of all men your father is thelast to encumber his estates in a manner unknown to his agent, and topay off the interest in secret."

  "What is it then, Mr. Somers?"

  "I do not know." And then Mr. Somers paused. "Of course you haveheard of a visit he received the other day from a stranger?"

  "Yes; I heard of it."

  "People about here are talking of it. And he--that man, witha younger man--they are still living in Cork, at a littledrinking-house in South Main Street. The younger man has been seendown here twice."

  "But what can that mean?"

  "I do not know. I tell you everything that I do know."

  Herbert exacted a promise from him that he would continue to tell himeverything which he might learn, and then rode back to CastleRichmond.

  "The whole thing must be a delusion," he said to himself; andresolved that there was no valid reason why he should make Claraunhappy by any reference to the circumstance.