Castle Richmond

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  AFTER BREAKFAST AT HAP HOUSE.

  "I don't think he will," said Mr. Prendergast; and as he spoke,Captain Donnellan's ear could detect that there was somethingapproaching to sarcasm in the tone of the old man's voice. TheCaptain was quite sure that his friend would not be even at the heelof the hunt that day; and without further compunction proceeded tofasten his buckskin gloves round his wrists. The meet was so nearto them, that they had both intended to ride their own hunters fromthe door; and the two nags were now being led up and down upon thegravel.

  But at this moment a terrible noise was heard to take place inthe hall. There was a rush and crushing there which made even Mr.Prendergast to jump from his chair, and drove Captain Donnellan toforget his gloves and run to the door.

  It was as though all the winds of heaven were being driven down thepassage, and as though each separate wind was shod with heavy-heeledboots. Captain Donnellan ran to the door, and Mr. Prendergast withslower steps followed him. When it was opened, Owen was to be seenin the hall, apparently in a state of great excitement; and thegentleman whom he had lately asked to breakfast,--he was to be seenalso, in a position of unmistakeable discomfort. He was at thatmoment proceeding, with the utmost violence, into a large round bedof bushes, which stood in the middle of the great sweep before thedoor of the house, his feet just touching the ground as he went; andthen, having reached his bourne, he penetrated face foremost into thethicket, and in an instant disappeared. He had been kicked out of thehouse. Owen Fitzgerald had taken him by the shoulders, with a runalong the passage and hall, and having reached the door, had appliedthe flat of his foot violently to poor Aby's back, and sent himflying down the stone steps. And now, as Captain Donnellan and Mr.Prendergast stood looking on, Mr. Mollett junior buried himselfaltogether out of sight among the shrubs.

  "You have done for that fellow, at any rate, Owen," said CaptainDonnellan, glancing for a moment at Mr. Prendergast. "I should saythat he will never get out of that alive."

  "Not if he wait till I pick him out," said Owen, breathing very hardafter his exertion. "An infernal scoundrel! And now, Mr. Prendergast,if you are ready, sir, I am." It was as much as he could do to finishthese few words with that sang froid which he desired to assume, soviolent was his attempt at breathing after his late exercise.

  It was impossible not to conceive the idea that, as one disagreeablevisitor had been disposed of in a somewhat summary fashion, so mightbe the other also. Mr. Prendergast did not look like a man who wasin the habit of leaving gentlemen's houses in the manner just nowadopted by Mr. Mollett; but nevertheless, as they had come together,both unwished for and unwelcome, Captain Donnellan did for a momentbethink himself whether there might not be more of such fun, if heremained there on the spot. At any rate, it would not do for him togo to the hunt while such deeds as these were being done. It might bethat his assistance would be wanted.

  Mr. Prendergast smiled, with a saturnine and somewhat bittersmile--the nearest approach to a laugh in which he was known toindulge,--for the same notion came also into his head. "He hasdisposed of him, and now he is thinking how he will dispose of me."Such was Mr. Prendergast's thought about the matter; and that madehim smile. And then, too, he was pleased at what he had seen. Thatthis Mollett was the son of that other Mollett, with whom he had beencloseted at Castle Richmond, was plain enough; it was plain enoughalso to him, used as he was to trace out in his mind the courses ofaction which men would follow, that Mollett junior, having heard ofhis father's calamitous failure at Castle Richmond, had come down toHap House to see what he could make out of the hitherto unconsciousheir. It had been matter of great doubt with Mr. Prendergast, when hefirst heard young Mollett's name mentioned, whether or no he wouldallow him to make his attempt. He, Mr. Prendergast, could by a wordhave spoilt the game; but acting, as he was forced to act, on thespur of the moment, he resolved to permit Mr. Mollett junior to playout his play. He would be yet in time to prevent any ill result toMr. Fitzgerald, should that gentleman be weak enough to succumb toany such ill results. As things had now turned out Mr. Prendergastrejoiced that Mr. Mollett junior had been permitted to play out hisplay. "And now, Mr. Prendergast, if you are ready, I am," said Owen.

  "Perhaps we had better first pick up the gentleman among the trees,"said Mr. Prendergast. And he and Captain Donnellan went down into thebushes.

  "Do as you please about that," said Owen. "I have touched him onceand shall not touch him again." And he walked back into thedining-room.

  One of the grooms who were leading the horses had now gone to theassistance of the fallen hero; and as Captain Donnellan also hadalready penetrated as far as Aby's shoulders, Mr. Prendergast,thinking that he was not needed, returned also to the house. "I hopehe is not seriously hurt," he said.

  "Not he," said Owen. "Those sort of men are as used to be kicked,as girls are to be kissed; and it comes as naturally to them. Butanything short of having his bones broken will be less than hedeserves."

  "May I ask what was the nature of his offence?"

  Owen remained silent for a moment, looking his guest full in theface. "Well; not exactly," said he. "He has been talking of people ofwhom he knows nothing, but it would not be well for me to repeat whathe has said to a perfect stranger."

  "Quite right, Mr. Fitzgerald; it would not be well. But there can beno harm in my repeating it to you. He came here to get money from youfor certain tidings which he brought; tidings which if true would beof great importance to you. As I take it, however, he has altogetherfailed in his object."

  "And how do you come to know all this, sir?"

  "Merely from having heard that man mention his own name. I alsohave come with the same tidings; and as I ask for no money forcommunicating them, you may believe them to be true on my telling."

  "What tidings?" asked Owen, with a frown, and an angry jerk in hisvoice. No remotest notion had yet come in upon his mind that therewas any truth in the story that had been told him. He had looked uponit all as a lie, and had regarded Mollett as a sorry knave who hadcome to him with a poor and low attempt at raising a few pounds. Andeven now he did not believe. Mr. Prendergast's words had been toosudden to produce belief of so great a fact, and his first thoughtwas that an endeavour was being made to fool him.

  "Those tidings which that man has told you," said Mr. Prendergast,solemnly. "That you should not have believed them from him shows onlyyour discretion. But from me you may believe them. I have come fromCastle Richmond, and am here as a messenger from Sir Thomas,--fromSir Thomas and from his son. When the matter became clear to themboth, then it was felt that you also should be made acquainted withit."

  Owen Fitzgerald now sat down, and looked up into the lawyer's face,staring at him. I may say that the power of saying much was for themoment taken away from him by the words that he heard. What! was itreally possible that that title, that property, that place of honourin the country was to be his when one frail old man should drop away?And then again was it really true that all this immeasurable miserywas to fall--had fallen--upon that family whom he had once known sowell? It was but yesterday that he had been threatening all mannerof evil to his cousin Herbert; and had his threats been proved trueso quickly? But there was no shadow of triumph in his feelings.Owen Fitzgerald was a man of many faults. He was reckless,passionate, prone to depreciate the opinion of others, extravagantin his thoughts and habits, ever ready to fight, both morally andphysically, those who did not at a moment's notice agree with him.He was a man who would at once make up his mind that the world waswrong when the world condemned him, and who would not in compliancewith any argument allow himself to be so. But he was not avaricious,nor cruel, nor self-seeking, nor vindictive. In his anger he couldpronounce all manner of ill things against his enemy, as he hadpronounced some ill things against Herbert; but it was not in him tokeep up a sustained wish that those ill things should really come topass. This news which he now heard, and which he did not yet fullycredit, struck him with awe, but created no trium
ph in his bosom.He realized the catastrophe as it affected his cousins of CastleRichmond rather than as it affected himself.

  "Do you mean to say that Lady Fitzgerald--" and then he stoppedhimself. He had not the courage to ask the question which was in hismind. Could it really be the case that Lady Fitzgerald,--that shewhom all the world had so long honoured under that name, was in truththe wife of that man's father,--of the father of that wretch whomhe had just spurned from his house? The tragedy was so deep that hecould not believe in it.

  "We fear that it is so, Mr. Fitzgerald," said Mr. Prendergast. "Thatit certainly is so I cannot say. And therefore, if I may take theliberty to give you counsel, I would advise you not to make toocertain of this change in your prospects."

  "Too certain!" said he, with a bitter laugh. "Do you suppose thenthat I would wish to see all this ruin accomplished? Heavens andearth! Lady Fitzgerald--! I cannot believe it."

  And then Captain Donnellan also returned to the room. "Fitzgerald,"said he, "what the mischief are we to do with this fellow? He saysthat he can't walk, and he bleeds from his face like a pig."

  "What fellow? Oh, do what you like with him. Here: give him a poundnote, and let him go to the d----. And Donnellan, for heaven's sakego to Cecilstown at once. Do not wait for me. I have business thatwill keep me here all day."

  "But I do not know what to do with this fellow that's bleeding," saidthe captain, piteously, as he took the proffered note. "If he puts upwith a pound note for what you've done to him, he's softer than whatI take him for."

  "He will be very glad to be allowed to escape without being given upto the police," said Mr. Prendergast.

  "But I don't know what to do with him," said Captain Donnellan. "Hesays that he can't stand."

  "Then lay him down on the dunghill," said Owen Fitzgerald; "butfor heaven's sake do not let him interrupt me. And, Donnellan, youwill altogether lose the day if you stay any longer." Whereuponthe captain, seeing that in very truth he was not wanted, did takehimself off, casting as he went one farewell look on Aby as he laygroaning on the turf on the far side of the tuft of bushes.

  "He's kilt intirely, I'm thinking, yer honor," said Thady, who wasstanding over him on the other side.

  "He'll come to life again before dinner-time," said the Captain.

  "Oh, in course he'll do that, yer honor," said Thady; and then addedsotto voce, to himself, as the captain rode down the avenue, "Faix,an' I don't know about that. Shure an' it's the masther has a heavyhand." And then Thady stood for a while perplexed, endeavouring toreanimate Aby by a sight of the pound note which he held out visiblybetween his thumb and fingers.

  And now Mr. Prendergast and Owen were again alone. "And what am I todo?" said Owen, after a pause of a minute or two; and he asked thequestion with a serious solemn voice.

  "Just for the present--for the next day or two--I think that youshould do nothing. As soon as the first agony of this time is overat Castle Richmond, I think that Herbert should see you. It wouldbe very desirable that he and you should take in concert suchproceedings as will certainly become necessary. The absolute proof ofthe truth of this story must be obtained. You understand, I hope, Mr.Fitzgerald, that the case still admits of doubt."

  Owen nodded his head impatiently, as though it were needless on thepart of Mr. Prendergast to insist upon this. He did not wish to takeit for true a moment sooner than was necessary.

  "It is my duty to give you this caution. Many lawyers--I presume youknow that I am a lawyer--"

  "I did not know it," said Owen; "but it makes no difference."

  "Thank you; that's very kind," said Mr. Prendergast; but the sarcasmwas altogether lost upon his hearer. "Some lawyers, as I was saying,would in such a case have advised their clients to keep all theirsuspicions, nay all their knowledge, to themselves. Why play the gameof an adversary? they would ask. But I have thought it better that weshould have no adversary."

  "And you will have none," said Owen; "none in me at least."

  "I am much gratified in so perceiving, and in having such evidencethat my advice has not been indiscreet. It occurred to me that ifyou received the first intimation of these circumstances from othersources, you would be bound on your own behalf to employ an agent tolook after your own interests."

  "I should have done nothing of the kind," said Owen.

  "Ah, but, my dear young friend, in such a case it would have beenyour duty to do so."

  "Then I should have neglected my duty. And do you tell Herbert thisfrom me, that let the truth be what it may, I shall never interrupthim in his title or his property. It is not there that I shall lookeither for justice or revenge. He will understand what I mean."

  But Mr. Prendergast did not, by any means; nor did he enter into thetone of Owen Fitzgerald's mind. They were both just men, but just inan essentially different manner. The justice of Mr. Prendergast hadcome of thought and education. As a young man, when entering on hisprofession, he was probably less just than he was now. He had thoughtabout matters of law and equity, till thought had shown to him thebeauty of equity as it should be practised,--often by the aid of law,and not unfrequently in spite of law. Such was the justice of Mr.Prendergast. That of Owen Fitzgerald had come of impulse and nature,and was the justice of a very young man rather than of a very wiseone. That title and property did not, as he felt, of justice belongto him, but to his cousin. What difference could it make in the truejustice of things, whether or no that wretched man was still alivewhom all the world had regarded as dead? In justice he ought to bedead. Now that this calamity of the man's life had fallen upon SirThomas and Lady Fitzgerald and his cousin Herbert, it would notbe for him to aggravate it by seizing upon a heritage which mightpossibly accrue to him under the letter of the world's law, but whichcould not accrue to him under heaven's law. Such was the justiceof Owen Fitzgerald; and we may say this of it in its dispraise,as comparing it with that other justice, that whereas that of Mr.Prendergast would wear for ever, through ages and ages, that otherjustice of Owen's would hardly have stood the pull of a ten years'struggle. When children came to him, would he not have thought ofwhat might have been theirs by right; and then have thought of whatought to be theirs by right; and so on?

  But in speaking of justice, he had also spoken of revenge, and Mr.Prendergast was altogether in the dark. What revenge? He did not knowthat poor Owen had lost a love, and that Herbert had found it. In themidst of all the confused thoughts which this astounding intelligencehad brought upon him, Owen still thought of his love. There Herberthad robbed him--robbed him by means of his wealth; and in that matterhe desired justice--justice or revenge. He wanted back his love.Let him have that and Herbert might yet be welcome to his title andestates.

  Mr. Prendergast remained there for some half-hour longer, explainingwhat ought to be done, and how it ought to be done. Of course hecombated that idea of Owen's, that the property might be allowed toremain in the hands of the wrong heir. Had that been consonant withhis ideas of justice he would not have made his visit to Hap Housethis morning. Right must have its way, and if it should be that LadyFitzgerald's marriage with Sir Thomas had not been legal, Owen, onSir Thomas's death, must become Sir Owen, and Herbert could notbecome Sir Herbert. So much to the mind of Mr. Prendergast was asclear as crystal. Let justice be done, even though these CastleRichmond heavens should fall in ruins.

  And then he took his departure, leaving Owen to his solitude, muchperplexed. "And where is that man?" Mr. Prendergast asked, as he goton to his car.

  "Bedad thin, yer honer, he's very bad intirely. He's jist sitthingover the kitchen fire, moaning and croning this way and that, butsorrow a word he's spoke since the masther hoisted him out o' the bighall door. And thin for blood--why, saving yer honer's presence, he'sone mash of gore."

  "You'd better wash his face for him, and give him a little tea," saidMr. Prendergast, and then he drove away.

  And strange ideas floated across Owen Fitzgerald's brain as he satthere alone, in his hunting gear, leaning on the still covered
breakfast-table. They floated across his brain backwards andforwards, and at last remained there, taking almost the form of adefinite purpose. He would make a bargain with Herbert; let each ofthem keep that which was fairly his own; let Herbert have all thebroad lands of Castle Richmond; let him have the title, the seat inparliament, and the county honour; but for him, Owen--let him haveClara Desmond. He desired nothing that was not fairly his own; butas his own he did regard her, and without her he did not know how toface the future of his life. And in suggesting this arrangement tohimself, he did not altogether throw over her feelings; he did takeinto account her heart, though he did not take into account herworldly prospects. She had loved him--him--Owen; and he would notteach himself to believe that she did not love him still. Her motherhad been too powerful for her, and she had weakly yielded; but as toher heart--Owen could not bring himself to believe that that was gonefrom him.

  They two would make a bargain,--he and his cousin. Honour and renown,and the money and the title would be everything to his cousin.Herbert had been brought up to expect these things, and all the worldaround him had expected them for him. It would be terrible to himto find himself robbed of them. But the loss of Clara Desmond wasequally terrible to Owen Fitzgerald. He allowed his heart to fillitself with a romantic sense of honour, teaching him that it behovedhim as a man not to give up his love. Without her he would livedisgraced in his own estimation; but who would not think the betterof him for refraining from the possession of those Castle Richmondacres? Yes; he would make a bargain with Herbert. Who was there inthe world to deny his right to do so?

  As he sat revolving these things in his mind, he suddenly heard arushing sound, as of many horsemen down the avenue, and going to thewindow, he saw two or three leading men of the hunt, accompanied bythe gray-haired old huntsman; and through and about and under thehorsemen were the dogs, running in and out of the laurels whichskirted the road, with their noses down, giving every now and thenshort yelps as they caught up the uncertain scent from the leaves onthe ground, and hurried on upon the trail of their game.

  "Yo ho! to him, Messenger; hark to him, Maybird; good bitch,Merrylass. He's down here, gen'lemen, and he'll never get awayalive. He came to a bad place when he looked out for going to groundanywhere near Mr. Owen."

  And then there came, fast trotting down through the other horsemen,making his way eagerly to the front, a stout heavy man, with a floridhandsome face and eager eye. He might be some fifty years of age, butno lad there of three-and-twenty was so anxious and impetuous as he.He was riding a large-boned, fast-trotting bay horse, that pressed onas eagerly as his rider. As he hurried forward all made way for him,till he was close to the shrubs in the front of the house.

  "Bless my soul, gentlemen," he said, in an angry voice, "how, in thename of all that's good, are hounds to hunt if you press them downthe road in that way? By heavens, Barry, you are enough to drivea man wild. Yoicks, Merrylass! there it is, Pat;"--Pat was thehuntsman--"outside the low wall there, down towards the river." Thiswas Sam O'Grady, the master of the Duhallow hounds, the god of Owen'sidolatry. No better fellow ever lived, and no master of hounds, sogood; such at least was the opinion common among Duhallow sportsmen.

  "Yes, yer honer,--he did skirt round there, I knows that; but he'sbeen among them laurels at the bottom, and he'll be about the placeand outhouses somewhere. There's a drain here that I knows on, and heknows on. But Mr. Owen, he knows on it too; and there aint a chancefor him." So argued Pat, the Duhallow huntsman, the experienced craftof whose aged mind enabled him to run counter to the cutest dodgesof the cutest fox in that and any of the three neighbouring baronies.

  And now the sweep before the door was crowded with red coats; andOwen, looking from his dining-room window, felt that he must takesome step. As an ordinary rule, had the hunt thus drifted near hishomestead, he would have been off his horse and down among hisbottles, sending up sherry and cherry-brandy; and there would havebeen comfortable drink in plenty, and cold meat, perhaps, not inplenty; and every one would have been welcome in and out of thehouse. But now there was that at his heart which forbade him to mixwith the men who knew him so well, and among whom he was customarilyso loudly joyous. Dressed as he was, he could not go among themwithout explaining why he had remained at home; and as to that, hefelt that he was not able to give any explanation at the presentmoment.

  "What's the matter with Owen?" said one fellow to Captain Donnellan.

  "Upon my word I hardly know. Two chaps came to him this morning,before he was up; about business, they said. He nearly murdered oneof them out of hand; and I believe that he's locked up somewhere withthe other this minute."

  But in the meantime a servant came up to Mr. O'Grady, and, touchinghis hat, asked the master of the hunt to go into the house for amoment; and then Mr. O'Grady, dismounting, entered in through thefront door. He was only there two minutes, for his mind was stilloutside, among the laurels, with the fox; but as he put his footagain into the stirrup, he said to those around him that theymust hurry away, and not disturb Owen Fitzgerald that day. It may,therefore, easily be imagined that the mystery would spread quicklythrough that portion of the county of Cork.

  They must hurry away;--but not before they could give an account oftheir fox. Neither for gods nor men must he be left, as long as hisskin was whole above ground. There is an importance attaching to thepursuit of a fox, which gives it a character quite distinct from thatof any other amusement which men follow in these realms. It justifiesalmost anything that men can do, and that at any place and in anyseason. There is about it a sanctity which forbids interruption,and makes its votaries safe under any circumstances of trespass orintrusion. A man in a hunting county who opposes the county hunt mustbe a misanthrope, willing to live in seclusion, fond of being inCoventry, and in love with the enmity of his fellow-creatures. Thereare such men, but they are regarded as lepers by those around them.All this adds to the nobleness of the noble sport, and makes itworthy of a man's energies.

  And then the crowd of huntsmen hurried round from the front ofthe house to a paddock at the back, and then again through thestable yard to the front. The hounds were about--here, there, andeverywhere, as any one ignorant of the craft would have said, butstill always on the scent of that doomed beast. From one thicketto another he tried to hide himself, but the moist leaves of theunderwood told quickly of his whereabouts. He tried every hole andcranny about the house, but every hole and corner had been stopped byOwen's jealous care. He would have lived disgraced for ever in hisown estimation, had a fox gone to ground anywhere about his domicile.At last a loud whoop was heard just in front of the hall door. Thepoor fox, with his last gasp of strength, had betaken himself to thethicket before the door, and there the dogs had killed him, at thevery spot on which Aby Mollett had fallen.

  Standing well back from the window, still thinking of Clara Desmond,Owen Fitzgerald saw the fate of the hunted animal; he saw the headand tail severed from the carcase by old Pat, and the body thrown tothe hounds,--a ceremony over which he had presided so many scores oftimes; and then, when the dogs had ceased to growl over the bloodyfragments, he saw the hunt move away, back along the avenue to thehigh road. All this he saw, but still he was thinking of ClaraDesmond.