CHAPTER XXVIII.
FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.
Herbert as he started from his bed with this letter in his hand feltthat he could yet hold up his head against all that the world coulddo to him. How could he be really unhappy while he possessed such anassurance of love as this, and while his mother was able to give himso glorious an example of endurance? He was not really unhappy. Thelow-spirited broken-hearted wretchedness of the preceding day seemedto have departed from him as he hurried on his clothes, and went offto his sister's room that he might show his letter to Emmeline inaccordance with the promise he had made her.
"May I come in?" he said, knocking at the door. "I must come in,for I have something to show you." But the two girls were dressingand he could not be admitted. Emmeline, however, promised to cometo him, and in about three minutes she was out in the cold littlesitting-room which adjoined their bed-room with her slippers on, andher dressing gown wrapped round her, an object presentable to no maleeyes but those of her brother.
"Emmeline," said he, "I have got a letter this morning."
"Not from Clara?"
"Yes, from Clara. There; you may read it;" and he handed her theprecious epistle.
"But she could not have got your letter?" said Emmeline, before shelooked at the one in her hand.
"Certainly not, for I have it here. I must write another now; but intruth I do not know what to say. I can be as generous as she is."
And then his sister read the letter. "My own Clara!" she exclaimed,as she saw what was the tenor of it. "Did I not tell you so, Herbert?I knew well what she would do and say. Love you ten times better!--ofcourse she does. What honest girl would not? My own beautiful Clara,I knew I could depend on her. I did not doubt her for one moment."But in this particular it must be acknowledged that Miss EmmelineFitzgerald hardly confined herself to the strictest veracity, for shehad lain awake half the night perplexed with doubt. What, oh what,if Clara should be untrue! Such had been the burden of her doubtingmidnight thoughts. "'I will not be given up,'" she continued, quotingthe letter. "No; of course not. And I tell you what, Herbert, youmust not dare to talk of giving her up. Money and titles may betossed to and fro, but not hearts. How beautifully she speaks of dearmamma!" and now the tears began to run down the young lady's cheeks."Oh, I do wish she could be with us! My darling, darling, darlingClara! Unhappy? Yes: I am sure Lady Desmond will give her no peace.But never mind. She will be true through it all; and I said so fromthe first." And then she fell to crying, and embracing her brother,and declaring that nothing now should make her altogether unhappy.
"But, Emmeline, you must not think that I shall take her at her word.It is very generous of her--"
"Nonsense, Herbert!" And then there was another torrent of eloquence,in answering which Herbert found that his arguments were of verylittle efficacy.
And now we must go back to Desmond Court, and see under what all butoverwhelming difficulties poor Clara wrote her affectionate letter.And in the first place it should be pointed out how very wrongHerbert had been in going to Desmond Court on foot, through the mudand rain. A man can hardly bear himself nobly unless his outer aspectbe in some degree noble. It may be very sad, this having to admitthat the tailor does in great part make the man; but such I fear isundoubtedly the fact. Could the Chancellor look dignified on thewoolsack, if he had had an accident with his wig, or allowed hisrobes to be torn or soiled? Does not half the piety of a bishopreside in his lawn sleeves, and all his meekness in his anti-virileapron? Had Herbert understood the world he would have had out thebest pair of horses standing in the Castle Richmond stables, whengoing to Desmond Court on such an errand. He would have brushed hishair, and anointed himself; he would have clothed himself in his richSpanish cloak; he would have seen that his hat was brushed, and hisboots spotless; and then with all due solemnity but with head erect,he would have told his tale out boldly. The countess would still havewished to be rid of him, hearing that he was a pauper; but she wouldhave lacked the courage to turn him from the house as she had done.
But seeing how wobegone he was and wretched, how mean to look at, andlow in his outward presence, she had been able to assume the mastery,and had kept it throughout the interview. And having done this heropinion of his prowess naturally became low, and she felt that hewould have been unable to press his cause against her.
For some time after he had departed, she sat alone in the room inwhich she had received him. She expected every minute that Clarawould come down to her, still wishing however that she might be leftfor a while alone. But Clara did not come, and she was able to pursueher thoughts.
How very terrible was this tragedy that had fallen out in her closeneighbourhood! That was the first thought that came to her now thatHerbert had left her. How terrible, overwhelming, and fatal! Whatcalamity could fall upon a woman so calamitous as this which hadnow overtaken that poor lady at Castle Richmond? Could she liveand support such a burden? Could she bear the eyes of people, whenshe knew the light in which she must be now regarded? To lose atone blow, her name, her pride of place, her woman's rank and highrespect! Could it be possible that she would still live on? It wasthus that Lady Desmond thought; and had any one told her that thisdegraded mother would that very day come down from her room, and sitwatchful by her sleeping son, in order that she might comfort andencourage him when he awoke, she would not have found it in her heartto believe such a marvel. But then Lady Desmond knew but one solacein her sorrows--had but one comfort in her sad reflections. She wasCountess of Desmond, and that was all. To Lady Fitzgerald had beenvouchsafed other solace and other comforts.
And then, on one point the countess made herself fixed as fate, bythinking and re-thinking upon it till no doubt remained upon hermind. The match between Clara and Herbert must be broken off, letthe cost be what it might; and--a point on which there was more roomfor doubt, and more pain in coming to a conclusion--that other matchwith the more fortunate cousin must be encouraged and carried out.For herself, if her hope was small while Owen was needy and of pooraccount, what hope could there be now that he would be rich andgreat? Moreover, Owen loved Clara, and not herself; and Clara's handwould once more be vacant and ready for the winning. For herself, heronly chance had been in Clara's coming marriage.
In all this she knew that there would be difficulty. She was sureenough that Clara would at first feel the imprudent generosity ofyouth, and offer to join her poverty to Herbert's poverty. That wasa matter of course. She, Lady Desmond herself, would have done this,at Clara's age,--so at least to herself she said, and also to herdaughter. But a little time, and a little patience, and a little carewould set all this in a proper light. Herbert would go away and wouldgradually be forgotten. Owen would again come forth from beneath theclouds, with renewed splendour; and then, was it not probable that,in her very heart of hearts, Owen was the man whom Clara had everloved?
And thus having realized to herself the facts which Herbert had toldher, she prepared to make them known to her daughter. She got upfrom her chair, intending at first to seek her, and then, changingher purpose, rang the bell and sent for her. She was astonished tofind how violently she herself was affected; not so much by thecircumstances, as by this duty which had fallen to her of tellingthem to her child. She put one hand upon the other and felt that sheherself was in a tremor, and was conscious that the blood was runningquick round her heart. Clara came down, and going to her customaryseat waited till her mother should speak to her.
"Mr. Fitzgerald has brought very dreadful news," Lady Desmond said,after a minute's pause.
"Oh mamma!" said Clara. She had expected bad tidings, having thoughtof all manner of miseries while she had been up stairs alone; butthere was that in her mother's voice which seemed to be worse thanthe worst of her anticipations.
"Dreadful, indeed, my child! It is my duty to tell them to you;but I must caution you, before I do so, to place a guard upon yourfeelings. That which I have to say must necessarily alter all yourfuture prospects, and, unfortunately
, make your marrying HerbertFitzgerald quite impossible."
"Mamma!" she exclaimed, with a loud voice, jumping from her chair."Not marry him! Why; what can he have done? Is it his wish to breakit off?"
Lady Desmond had calculated that she would best effect her objectby at once impressing her daughter with the idea that, under thecircumstances which were about to be narrated, this marriage wouldnot only be imprudent, but altogether impracticable and out ofthe question. Clara must be made to understand at once, that thecircumstances gave her no option,--that the affair was of such anature as to make it a thing manifest to everybody, that she couldnot now marry Herbert Fitzgerald. She must not be left to thinkwhether she could, or whether she could not, exercise her owngenerosity. And therefore, not without discretion, the countessannounced at once to her the conclusion at which it would benecessary to arrive. But Clara was not a girl to adopt such aconclusion on any other judgment than her own, or to be led in such amatter by the feelings of any other person.
"Sit down, my dear, and I will explain it all. But, dearest Clara,grieved as I must be to grieve you, I am bound to tell you againthat it must be as I say. For both your sakes it must be so; butespecially, perhaps, for his. But when I have told you my story, youwill understand that this must be so."
"Tell me, then, mother." She said this, for Lady Desmond had againpaused.
"Won't you sit down, dearest?"
"Well, yes; it does not matter;" and Clara, at her mother's bidding,sat down, and then the story was told to her.
It was a difficult tale for a mother to tell to so young a child--toa child whom she had regarded as being so very young. There werevarious little points of law which she thought that she was obligedto explain; how it was necessary that the Castle Richmond propertyshould go to an heir-at-law, and how it was impossible that Herbertshould be that heir-at-law, seeing that he had not been born inlawful wedlock. All these things Lady Desmond attempted to explain,or was about to attempt such explanation, but desisted on findingthat her daughter understood them as well as she herself did. Andthen she had to make it also intelligible to Clara that Owen wouldbe called on, when Sir Thomas should die, to fill the position andenjoy the wealth accruing to the heir of Castle Richmond. When OwenFitzgerald's name was mentioned a slight blush came upon Clara'scheek; it was very slight, but nevertheless her mother saw it, andtook advantage of it to say a word in Owen's favour.
"Poor Owen!" she said. "He will not be the first to triumph in thischange of fortune."
"I am sure he will not," said Clara. "He is much too generous forthat." And then the countess began to hope that the task might notbe so very difficult. Ignorant woman! Had she been able to read onepage in her daughter's heart, she would have known that the task wasimpossible. After that the story was told out to the end withoutfurther interruption; and then Clara, hiding her face within herhands on the head of the sofa, uttered one long piteous moan.
"It is all very dreadful," said the countess.
"Oh, Lady Fitzgerald, dear Lady Fitzgerald!" sobbed forth Clara.
"Yes, indeed. Poor Lady Fitzgerald! Her fate is so dreadful that Iknow not how to think of it."
"But, mamma--" and as she spoke Clara pushed back from her foreheadher hair with both her hands, showing, as she did so, the form of herforehead, and the firmness of purpose that was written there, legibleto any eyes that could read. "But, mamma, you are wrong about my notmarrying Herbert Fitzgerald. Why should I not marry him? Not now, aswe, perhaps, might have done but for this; but at some future timewhen he may think himself able to support a wife. Mamma, I shall notbreak our engagement; certainly not."
This was said in a tone of voice so very decided that Lady Desmondhad to acknowledge to herself that there would be difficulty in hertask. But she still did not doubt that she would have her way, ifnot by concession on the part of her daughter, then by concession onthe part of Herbert Fitzgerald. "I can understand your generosityof feeling, my dear," she said; "and at your age I should probablyhave felt the same. And therefore I do not ask you to take anysteps towards breaking your engagement. The offer must come from Mr.Fitzgerald, and I have no doubt that it will come. He, as a man ofhonour, will know that he cannot now offer to marry you; and he willalso know, as a man of sense, that it would be ruin for him to thinkof--of such a marriage under his present circumstances."
"Why, mamma? Why should it be ruin to him?"
"Why, my dear? Do you think that a wife with a titled name can be ofadvantage to a young man who has not only got his bread to earn, buteven to look out for a way in which he may earn it?"
"If there be nothing to hurt him but the titled name, that difficultyshall be easily conquered."
"Dearest Clara, you know what I mean. You must be aware that a girlof your rank, and brought up as you have been, cannot be a fittingwife for a man who will now have to struggle with the world at everyturn."
Clara, as this was said to her, and as she prepared to answer,blushed deeply, for she felt herself obliged to speak on a matterwhich had never yet been subject of speech between her and hermother. "Mamma," she said, "I cannot agree with you there. I may havewhat the world calls rank; but nevertheless we have been poor, and Ihave not been brought up with costly habits. Why should I not livewith my husband as--as--as poorly as I have lived with my mother? Youare not rich, dear mamma, and why should I be?"
Lady Desmond did not answer her daughter at once; but she was notsilent because an answer failed her. Her answer would have been readyenough had she dared to speak it out. "Yes, it is true; we have beenpoor. I, your mother, did by my imprudence bring down upon my headand on yours absolute, unrelenting, pitiless poverty. And because Idid so, I have never known one happy hour. I have spent my days inbitter remorse--in regretting the want of those things which it hasbeen the more terrible to want as they are the customary attributesof people of my rank. I have been driven to hate those around mewho have been rich, because I have been poor. I have been utterlyfriendless because I have been poor. I have been able to do none ofthose sweet, soft, lovely things, by doing which other women winthe smiles of the world, because I have been poor. Poverty and ranktogether have made me wretched--have left me without employment,without society, and without love. And now would you tell me thatbecause I have been poor you would choose to be poor also?" It wouldhave been thus that she would have answered, had she been accustomedto speak out her thoughts. But she had ever been accustomed toconceal them.
"I was thinking quite as much of him as of you," at last she said."Such an engagement to you would be fraught with much misery, but tohim it would be ruinous."
"I do not think it, mamma."
"But it is not necessary, Clara, that you should do anything. Youwill wait, of course, and see what Herbert may say himself."
"Herbert--"
"Wait half a moment, my love. I shall be very much surprised if wedo not find that Mr. Fitzgerald himself will tell you that the matchmust be abandoned."
"But that will make no difference, mamma."
"No difference, my dear! You cannot marry him against his will. Youdo not mean to say that you would wish to bind him to his engagement,if he himself thought it would be to his disadvantage?"
"Yes; I will bind him to it."
"Clara!"
"I will make him know that it is not for his disadvantage. I willmake him understand that a friend and companion who loves him asI love him--as no one else will ever love him now--for I love himbecause he was so high-fortuned when he came to me, and because heis now so low-fortuned--that such a wife as I will be, cannot be aburden to him. I will cling to him whether he throws me off or no. Aword from him might have broken our engagement before, but a thousandwords cannot do it now."
Lady Desmond stared at her daughter, for Clara, in her excitement,was walking up and down the room. The countess had certainly notexpected all this, and she was beginning to think that the subjectfor the present might as well be left alone. But Clara had not doneas yet.
"Mamma," she s
aid, "I will not do anything without telling you; butI cannot leave Herbert in all his misery to think that I have nosympathy with him. I shall write to him."
"Not before he writes to you, Clara! You would not wish to beindelicate?"
"I know but little about delicacy--what people call delicacy; but Iwill not be ungenerous or unkind. Mamma, you brought us two together.Was it not so? Did you not do so, fearing that I might--might stillcare for Herbert's cousin? You did it; and half wishing to obey you,half attracted by all his goodness, I did learn to love HerbertFitzgerald; and I did learn to forget--no; but I learned to cease tolove his cousin. You did this and rejoiced at it; and now what youdid must remain done."
"But, dearest Clara, it will not be for his good."
"It shall be for his good. Mamma, I would not desert him now for allthat the world could give me. Neither for mother nor brother could Ido that. Without your leave I would not have given him the right toregard me as his own; but now I cannot take that right back again,even at your wish. I must write to him at once, mamma, and tell himthis."
"Clara, at any rate you must not do that; that at least I mustforbid."
"Mother, you cannot forbid it now," the daughter said, after walkingtwice the length of the room in silence. "If I be not allowed to senda letter, I shall leave the house and go to him."
This was all very dreadful. Lady Desmond was astounded at the mannerin which her daughter carried herself, and the voice with which shespoke. The form of her face was altered, and the very step with whichshe trod was unlike her usual gait. What would Lady Desmond do? Shewas not prepared to confine her daughter as a prisoner, nor could shepublicly forbid the people about the place to go upon her message.
"I did not expect that you would have been so undutiful," she said.
"I hope I am not so," Clara answered. "But now my first duty is tohim. Did you not sanction our loving each other? People cannot callback their hearts and their pledges."
"You will at any rate wait till to-morrow, Clara."
"It is dark now," said Clara, despondingly, looking out through thewindow upon the falling night; "I suppose I cannot send to-night."
"And you will show me what you write, dearest?"
"No, mamma. If I wrote it for your eyes it could not be the same asif I wrote it only for his."
Very gloomy, sombre, and silent, was the Countess of Desmond all thatnight. Nothing further was said about the Fitzgeralds between herand her daughter, before they went to bed; and then Lady Desmond didspeak a few futile words.
"Clara," she said. "You had better think over what we have beensaying, in bed to-night. You will be more collected to-morrowmorning."
"I shall think of it of course," said Clara; "but thinking can makeno difference," and then just touching her mother's forehead with herlips she went off slowly to her room.
What sort of a letter she wrote when she got there, we have alreadyseen; and have seen also that she took effective steps to have herletter carried to Castle Richmond at an hour sufficiently early inthe morning. There was no danger that the countess would stop themessage, for the letter had been read twenty times by Emmeline andMary, and had been carried by Herbert to his mother's room, beforeLady Desmond had left her bed. "Do not set your heart on it toowarmly," said Herbert's mother to him.
"But is she not excellent?" said Herbert. "It is because she speaksof you in such a way--"
"You would not wish to bring her into misery, because of herexcellence."
"But, mother, I am still a man," said Herbert. This was too much forthe suffering woman, the one fault of whose life had brought her sonto such a pass, and throwing her arm round his neck she wept upon hisshoulders.
There were other messengers went and came that day between DesmondCourt and Castle Richmond. Clara and her mother saw nothing of eachother early in the morning; they did not breakfast together, nor wasthere a word said between them on the subject of the Fitzgeralds.But Lady Desmond early in the morning--early for her that is--senther note also to Castle Richmond. It was addressed to Aunt Letty,Miss Letitia Fitzgerald, and went to say that Lady Desmond was veryanxious to see Miss Letty. Under the present circumstances of thefamily, as described to Lady Desmond by Mr. Herbert Fitzgerald, shefelt that she could not ask to see "his mother;"--it was thus thatshe overcame the difficulty which presented itself to her as to theproper title now to be given to Lady Fitzgerald;--but perhaps MissLetty would be good enough to see her, if she called at such and suchan hour. Aunt Letty, much perplexed, had nothing for it, but to saythat she would see her. The countess must now be looked on as closelyconnected with the family--at any rate until that match were brokenoff; and therefore Aunt Letty had no alternative. And so, preciselyat the hour named, the countess and Aunt Letty were seated togetherin the little breakfast-room of which mention has before been made.
No two women were ever closeted together who were more unlike eachother,--except that they had one common strong love for family rank.But in Aunt Letty it must be acknowledged that this passion was notunwholesome or malevolent in its course of action. She delighted inbeing a Fitzgerald, and in knowing that her branch of the Fitzgeraldshad been considerable people ever since her Norman ancestor had comeover to Ireland with Strongbow. But then she had a useful idea thatconsiderable people should do a considerable deal of good. Her familypride operated more inwardly than outwardly,--inwardly as regardedher own family, and not outwardly as regarded the world. Her brother,and her nephew, and her sister-in-law, and nieces, were, she thought,among the highest commoners in Ireland; they were gentlefolks of thefirst water, and walked openly before the world accordingly, provingtheir claim to gentle blood by gentle deeds and honest conduct.Perhaps she did think too much of the Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond;but the sin was one of which no recording angel could have made muchin his entry. That she was a stupid old woman, prejudiced in thehighest degree, and horribly ignorant of all the world beyond her ownvery narrow circle,--even of that, I do not think that the recordingangel could, under the circumstances, have made a great deal.
And now how was her family pride affected by this horriblecatastrophe that had been made known to her? Herbert the heir, whomas heir she had almost idolized, was nobody. Her sister-in-law, whomshe had learned to love with the whole of her big heart, was nosister-in-law. Her brother was one, who, in lieu of adding glory tothe family, would always be regarded as the most unfortunate of theFitzgerald baronets. But with her, human nature was stronger thanfamily pride, and she loved them all, not better, but more tenderlythan ever.
The two ladies were closeted together for about two hours; and then,when the door was opened, Aunt Letty might have been seen with herbonnet much on one side, and her poor old eyes and cheeks red withweeping. The countess, too, held her handkerchief to her eyes as shegot back into her pony carriage. She saw no one else there but AuntLetty; and from her mood when she returned to Desmond Court it mightbe surmised that from Aunt Letty she had learned little to comforther.
"They will be beggars!" she said to herself--"beggars!"--when thedoor of her own room had closed upon her. And there are few people inthe world who held such beggary in less esteem than did the Countessof Desmond. It may almost be said that she hated herself on accountof her own poverty.