CHAPTER XXX.
PALLIDA MORS.
Mr. Somers, returning from Hap House, gave Owen's message to HerbertFitzgerald, but at the same time told him that he did not think anygood would come of such a meeting.
"I went over there," he said, "because I would not willingly omitanything that Mr. Prendergast had suggested; but I did not expectany good to come of it. You know what I have always thought of OwenFitzgerald."
"But Mr. Prendergast said that he behaved so well."
"He did not know Prendergast, and was cowed for the moment by what hehad heard. That was natural enough. You do as you like, however; onlydo not have him over to Castle Richmond."
Owen, however, did not trust solely to Mr. Somers, but on thefollowing day wrote to Herbert, suggesting that they had better meet,and begging that the place and time of meeting might be named. Hehimself again suggested Hap House, and declared that he would be athome on any day and at any hour that his "cousin" might name, "only,"as he added, "the sooner the better." Herbert wrote back by the samemessenger, saying that he would be with him early on the followingmorning; and on the following morning he drove up to the door of HapHouse, while Owen was still sitting with his coffee-pot and knife andfork before him.
Captain Donnellan, whom we saw there on the occasion of our firstmorning visit, was now gone, and Owen Fitzgerald was all alone in hishome. The captain had been an accustomed guest, spending perhaps halfhis time there during the hunting season; but since Mr. Prendergasthad been at Hap House, he had been made to understand that the masterwould fain be alone. And since that day Owen had never hunted, norbeen noticed in his old haunts, nor had been seen talking to his oldfriends. He had remained at home, sitting over the fire thinking,wandering up and down his own avenue, or standing about the stable,idly, almost unconscious of the grooming of his horses. Once and onceonly he had been mounted; and then as the dusk of evening was comingon he had trotted over quickly to Desmond Court, as though he hadin hand some purport of great moment; but if so he changed his mindwhen he came to the gate, for he walked on slowly for three or fourhundred yards beyond it, and then turning his horse's head, slowlymade his way back past the gate, and then trotted quickly home to HapHouse. In these moments of his life he must make or mar himself forlife; 'twas so that he felt it; and how should he make himself, orhow avoid the marring? That was the question which he now strove toanswer.
When Herbert entered the room, he rose from his chair, and walkedquickly up to his visitor, with extended hand, and a look of welcomein his face. His manner was very different from that with which hehad turned and parted from his cousin, not many days since in thedemesne at Castle Richmond. Then he had intended absolutely to defyHerbert Fitzgerald; but there was no spirit of defiance now, eitherin his hand, or face, or in the tone of his voice.
"I am very glad you have come," said he. "I hope you understood thatI would have gone to you, only that I thought it might be better forboth of us to be here."
Herbert said something to the effect that he had been quitewilling to come over to Hap House. But he was not at the moment soself-possessed as the other, and hardly knew how to begin the subjectwhich was to be discussed between them.
"Of course you know that Mr. Prendergast was here?" said Owen.
"Oh yes," said Herbert.
"And Mr. Somers also? I tell you fairly, Herbert, that when Mr.Somers came, I was not willing to say much to him. What has to besaid must be said between you and me, and not to any third party. Icould not open my heart, nor yet speak my thoughts to Mr. Somers."
In answer to this, Herbert again said that Owen need have no scruplein speaking to him. "It is all plain sailing; too plain, I fear,"said he. "There is no doubt whatever now as to the truth of what Mr.Prendergast has told you."
And then having said so much, Herbert waited for Owen to speak. He,Herbert himself, had little or nothing to say. Castle Richmond withits title and acres was not to be his, but was to be the property ofthis man with whom he was now sitting. When that was actually andpositively understood between them, there was nothing further tobe said; nothing as far as Herbert knew. That other sorrow of his,that other and deeper sorrow which affected his mother's name andstation,--as to that he did not find himself called on to speak toOwen Fitzgerald. Nor was it necessary that he should say anything asto his great consolation--the consolation which had reached him fromClara Desmond.
"And is it true, Herbert," asked Owen at last, "that my uncle is sovery ill?" In the time of their kindly intercourse, Owen had alwayscalled Sir Thomas his uncle, though latterly he had ceased to do so.
"He is very ill; very ill indeed," said Herbert. This was a subjectin which Owen had certainly a right to feel interested, seeing thathis own investiture would follow immediately on the death of SirThomas; but Herbert almost felt that the question might as well havebeen spared. It had been asked, however, almost solely with the viewof gaining some few moments.
"Herbert," he said at last, standing up from his chair, as he made aneffort to begin his speech, "I don't know how far you will believeme when I tell you that all this news has caused me great sorrow. Igrieve for your father and your mother, and for you, from the verybottom of my heart."
"It is very kind of you," said Herbert. "But the blow has fallen, andas for myself, I believe that I can bear it. I do not care so verymuch about the property."
"Nor do I;" and now Owen spoke rather louder, and with his own lookof strong impulse about his mouth and forehead. "Nor do I care somuch about the property. You were welcome to it; and are so still. Ihave never coveted it from you, and do not covet it."
"It will be yours now without coveting," replied Herbert; and thenthere was another pause, during which Herbert sat still, while Owenstood leaning with his back against the mantelpiece.
"Herbert," said he, after they had thus remained silent for two orthree minutes, "I have made up my mind on this matter, and I willtell you truly what I do desire, and what I do not. I do not desireyour inheritance, but I do desire that Clara Desmond shall be mywife."
"Owen," said the other, also getting up, "I did not expect when Icame here that you would have spoken to me about this."
"It was that we might speak about this that I asked you to come here.But listen to me. When I say that I want Clara Desmond to be my wife,I mean to say that I want that, and that only. It may be true that Iam, or shall be, legally the heir to your father's estate. Herbert,I will relinquish all that, because I do not feel it to be my own. Iwill relinquish it in any way that may separate myself from it mostthoroughly. But in return, do you separate yourself from her who wasmy own before you had ever known her."
And thus he did make the proposition as to which he had been makingup his mind since the morning on which Mr. Prendergast had come tohim.
Herbert for a while was struck dumb with amazement, not so much atthe quixotic generosity of the proposal, as at the singular mind ofthe man in thinking that such a plan could be carried out. Herbert'sbest quality was no doubt his sturdy common sense, and that wasshocked by a suggestion which presumed that all the legalities andordinary bonds of life could be upset by such an agreement betweentwo young men. He knew that Owen Fitzgerald could not give away histitle to an estate of fourteen thousand a year in this off-hand way,and that no one could accept such a gift were it possible to begiven. The estate and title must belong to Owen, and could notpossibly belong to any one else, merely at his word and fancy. Andthen again, how could the love of a girl like Clara Desmond bebandied to and fro at the will of any suitor or suitors? That she hadonce accepted Owen's love, Herbert knew; but since that, in a soberermood, and with maturer judgment, she had accepted his. How could hegive it up to another, or how could that other take possession of itif so abandoned? The bargain was one quite impossible to be carriedout; and yet Owen in proposing it had fully intended to be as good ashis word.
"That is impossible," said Herbert in a low voice.
"Why impossible? May I not do what I like with that wh
ich is my own?It is not impossible. I will have nothing to do with that property ofyours. In fact, it is not my own, and I will not take it; I will notrob you of that which you have been born to expect. But in return forthis--"
"Owen, do not talk of it; would you abandon a girl whom you loved forany wealth, or any property?"
"You cannot love her as I love her. I will talk to you on this matteropenly, as I have never yet talked to any one. Since first I sawClara Desmond, the only wish of my life has been that I might haveher for my wife. I have longed for her as a child longs--if you knowwhat I mean by that. When I saw that she was old enough to understandwhat love meant, I told her what was in my heart, and she accepted mylove. She swore to me that she would be mine, let mother or brothersay what they would. As sure as you are standing there a living manshe loved me with all truth. And that I loved her--! Herbert, I havenever loved aught but her; nothing else!--neither man nor woman, norwealth nor title. All I ask is that I may have that which was myown."
"But, Owen--" and Herbert touched his cousin's arm.
"Well; why do you not speak? I have spoken plainly enough."
"It is not easy to speak plainly on all subjects. I would not, if Icould avoid it, say a word that would hurt your feelings."
"Never mind my feelings. Speak out, and let us have the truth, inGod's name. My feelings have never been much considered yet--eitherin this matter or in any other."
"It seems to me," said Herbert, "that the giving of Lady Clara's handcannot depend on your will, or on mine."
"You mean her mother."
"No, by no means. Her mother now would be the last to favour me. Imean herself. If she loves me, as I hope and believe--nay, am sure--"
"She did love me!" shouted Owen.
"But even if so--. I do not now say anything of that; but even ifso, surely you would not have her marry you if she does not love youstill? You would not wish her to be your wife if her heart belongs tome?"
"It has been given you at her mother's bidding."
"However given it is now my own and it cannot be returned. Look here,Owen. I will show you her last two letters, if you will allow me; notin pride, I hope, but that you may truly know what are her wishes."And he took from his breast, where they had been ever since hereceived them, the two letters which Clara had written to him. Owenread them both twice over before he spoke, first one and then theother, and an indescribable look of pain fell on his brow as he didso. They were so tenderly worded, so sweet, so generous! He wouldhave given all the world to have had those letters addressed by herto himself. But even they did not convince him. His heart had neverchanged, and he could not believe that there had been any change inhers.
"I might have known," he said, as he gave them back, "that she wouldbe too noble to abandon you in your distress. As long as you wererich I might have had some chance of getting her back, despite themachinations of her mother. But now that she thinks you are poor--."And then he stopped, and hid his face between his hands.
And in what he had last said there was undoubtedly something oftruth. Clara's love for Herbert had never been passionate, tillpassion had been created by his misfortune. And in her thoughtsof Owen there had been much of regret. Though she had resolved towithdraw her love, she had not wholly ceased to love him. Judgmenthad bade her to break her word to him, and she had obeyed herjudgment. She had admitted to herself that her mother was right intelling her that she could not join her own bankrupt fortunes to thefortunes of one who was both poor and a spendthrift; and thus shehad plucked from her heart the picture of the man she had loved,--orendeavoured so to pluck it. Some love for him, however, hadunwittingly lingered there. And then Herbert had come with his suit,a suitor fitted for her in every way. She had not loved him as shehad loved Owen. She had never felt that she could worship him, andtremble at the tones of his voice, and watch the glance of hiseye, and gaze into his face as though he were half divine. But sheacknowledged his worth, and valued him: she knew that it behoved herto choose some suitor as her husband; and now that her dream wasgone, where could she choose better than here? And thus Herbert hadbeen accepted. He had been accepted, but the dream was not whollygone. Owen was in adversity, ill spoken of by those around her,shunned by his own relatives, living darkly, away from all that issoft in life; and for these reasons Clara could not wholly forget herdream. She had, in some sort, unconsciously clung to her old love,till he to whom she had plighted her new troth was in adversity,--andthen all was changed. Then her love for Herbert did become a passion;and then, as Owen had become rich, she felt that she could think ofhim without remorse. He was quite right in perceiving that his chancewas gone now that Herbert had ceased to be rich.
"Owen," said Herbert, and his voice was full of tenderness, for atthis moment he felt that he did love and pity his cousin, "we musteach of us bear the weight which fortune has thrown on us. It maybe that we are neither of us to be envied. I have lost all that mengenerally value, and you--."
"I have lost all on earth that is valuable to me. But no; it is notlost,--not lost as yet. As long as her name is Clara Desmond, sheis as open for me to win as she is for you. And, Herbert, think ofit before you make me your enemy. See what I offer you,--not as abargain, mind you. I give up all my title to your father's property.I will sign any paper that your lawyers may bring to me, which mayserve to give you back your inheritance. As for me, I would scorn totake that which belongs in justice to another. I will not have yourproperty. Come what may, I will not have it. I will give it up toyou, either as to my enemy or as to my friend."
"I sincerely hope that we may be friends, but what you say isimpossible."
"It is not impossible. I hereby pledge myself that I will not takean acre of your father's lands; but I pledge myself also that I willalways be your enemy if Clara Desmond becomes your wife: and I meanwhat I say. I have set my heart on one thing, and on one thing only,and if I am ruined in that I am ruined indeed."
Herbert remained silent, for he had nothing further that he knew howto plead; he felt as other men would feel, that each of them mustkeep that which Fate had given him. Fate had decreed that Owen shouldbe the heir to Castle Richmond, and the decree thus gone forth muststand valid; and Fate had also decreed that Owen should be rejectedby Clara Desmond, which other decree, as Herbert thought, must beheld as valid also. But he had no further inclination to argue uponthe subject: his cousin was becoming hot and angry; and Herbert wasbeginning to wish that he was on his way home, that he might be oncemore at his father's bedside, or in his mother's room, comforting herand being comforted.
"Well," said Owen, after a while in his deep-toned voice; "what doyou say to my offer?"
"I have nothing further to say: we must each take our own course; asfor me, I have lost everything but one thing, and it is not likelythat I shall throw that away from me."
"Nor, so help me Heaven in my need! will I let that thing be filchedfrom me. I have offered you kindness and brotherly love, and wealth,and all that friendship could do for a man; give me my way in this,and I will be to you such a comrade and such a brother."
"Should I be a man, Owen, were I to give up this?"
"Be a man! Yes! It is pride on your part. You do not love her; youhave never loved her as I have loved; you have not sat apart longmonths and months thinking of her, as I have done. From the time shewas a child I marked her as my own. As God will help me when I die,she is all that I have coveted in this world;--all! But her I havecoveted with such longings of the heart, that I cannot bring myselfto live without her;--nor will I." And then again they both weresilent.
"It may be as well that we should part now," said Herbert at last."I do not know that we can gain anything by further talking on thissubject."
"Well, you know that best; but I have one further question to askyou."
"What is it, Owen?"
"You still think of marrying Clara Desmond?"
"Certainly; of course I think of it."
"And when? I presume you are not so chicken-hear
ted as to be afraidof speaking out openly what you intend to do."
"I cannot say when; I had hoped that it would have been very soon;but all this will of course delay it. It may be years first."
These last were the only pleasant words that Owen had heard. If therewere to be a delay of years, might not his chance still be as goodas Herbert's? But then this delay was to be the consequence of hiscousin's ruined prospects--and the accomplishment of that ruin Owenhad pledged himself to prevent! Was he by his own deed to enablehis enemy to take that very step which he was so firmly resolved toprevent?
"You will give me your promise," said he, "that you will not marryher for the next three years? Make me that promise, and I will makeyou the same."
Herbert felt that there could be no possibility of his now marryingwithin the time named, but nevertheless he would not bring himselfto make such a promise as this. He would make no bargain about ClaraDesmond, about his Clara, which could in any way admit a doubt as tohis own right. Had Owen asked him to promise that he would not marryher during the next week he would have given no such pledge. "No,"said he, "I cannot promise that."
"She is now only seventeen."
"It does not matter. I will make no such promise, because on such asubject you have no right to ask for any. When she will consent torun her risk of happiness in coming to me, then I shall marry her."
Owen was now walking up and down the room with rapid steps. "You havenot the courage to fight me fairly," said he.
"I do not wish to fight you at all."
"Ah, but you must fight me! Shall I see the prey taken out of myjaws, and not struggle for it? No, by heavens! you must fight me; andI tell you fairly, that the fight shall be as hard as I can make it.I have offered you that which one living man is seldom able to offerto another,--money, and land, and wealth, and station; all thesethings I throw away from me, because I feel that they should beyours; and I ask only in return the love of a young girl. I ask thatbecause I feel that it should be mine. If it has gone from me--whichI do not believe--it has been filched and stolen by a thief in thenight. She did love me, if a girl ever loved a man; but she wasseparated from me, and I bore that patiently because I trusted her.But she was young and weak, and her mother was strong and crafty. Shehas accepted you at her mother's instance; and were I base enough tokeep from you your father's inheritance, her mother would no moregive her to you now than she would to me then. This is true; andif you know it to be true--as you do know, you will be mean, anddastard, and a coward--you will be no Fitzgerald if you keep from methat which I have a right to claim as my own. Not fight! Ay, but youmust fight. We cannot both live here in this country if Clara Desmondbecome your wife. Mark my words, if that take place, you and I cannotlive here alongside of each other's houses." He paused for a momentafter this, and then added, "You can go now if you will, for I havesaid out my say."
And Herbert did go,--almost without uttering a word of adieu. Whatcould he say in answer to such threats as these? That his cousin wasin every way unreasonable,--as unreasonable in his generosity as hewas in his claims, he felt convinced. But an unreasonable man, thoughhe is one whom one would fain conquer by arguments were it possible,is the very man on whom arguments have no avail. A madman is madbecause he is mad. Herbert had a great deal that was very sensible toallege in favour of his views, but what use of alleging anything ofsense to such a mind as that of Owen Fitzgerald? So he went his waywithout further speech.
When he was gone, Owen for a time went on walking his room, and thensank again into his chair. Abominably irrational as his method ofarranging all these family difficulties will no doubt seem to allwho may read of it, to him it had appeared not only an easy but ahappy mode of bringing back contentment to everybody. He was quiteserious in his intention of giving up his position as heir to CastleRichmond. Mr. Prendergast had explained to him that the property wasentailed as far as him, but no farther; and had done this, doubtless,with the view, not then expressed, to some friendly arrangement bywhich a small portion of the property might be saved and restoredto the children of Sir Thomas. But Owen had looked at it quite inanother light. He had, in justice, no right to inquire into allthose circumstances of his old cousin's marriage. Such a union wasa marriage in the eye of God, and should be held as such by him. Hewould take no advantage of so terrible an accident.
He would take no advantage. So he said to himself over and overagain; but yet, as he said it, he resolved that he would takeadvantage. He would not touch the estate; but surely if he abstainedfrom touching it, Herbert would be generous enough to leave to himthe solace of his love! And he had no scruple in allotting to Clarathe poorer husband instead of the richer. He was no poorer now thanwhen she had accepted him. Looking at it in that light, had he not aright to claim that she should abide by her first acceptance? Couldany one be found to justify the theory that a girl may throw over apoor lover because a rich lover comes in the way? Owen had his ownideas of right and wrong--ideas which were not without a basis ofstrong, rugged justice; and nothing could be more antagonistic tothem than such a doctrine as this. And then he still believed in hisheart that he was dearer to Clara than that other richer suitor. Heheard of her from time to time, and those who had spoken to him hadspoken of her as pining for love of him. In this there had been muchof the flattery of servants, and something of the subservience ofthose about him who wished to stand well in his graces. But he hadbelieved it. He was not a conceited man, nor even a vain man. He didnot think himself more clever than his cousin; and as for personalappearance, it was a matter to which his thoughts never descended;but he had about him a self-dependence and assurance in his ownmanhood, which forbade him to doubt the love of one who had told himthat she loved him.
And he did not believe in Herbert's love. His cousin was, as hethought, of a calibre too cold for love. That Clara was valued byhim, Owen did not doubt--valued for her beauty, for her rank, for hergrace and peerless manner; but what had such value as that to do withlove? Would Herbert sacrifice everything for Clara Desmond? would hebid Pelion fall on Ossa? would he drink up Esil? All this would Owendo, and more; he would do more than any Laertes had ever dreamed.He would give up for now and for ever all title to those rich landswhich made the Fitzgeralds of Castle Richmond the men of greatestmark in all their county.
And thus he fanned himself into a fury as he thought of his cousin'swant of generosity. Herbert would be the heir, and because he was theheir he would be the favoured lover. But there might yet be time andopportunity; and at any rate Clara should not marry without knowingwhat was the whole truth. Herbert was ungenerous, but Clara stillmight be just. If not,--then, as he had said before, he would fightout the battle to the end as with an enemy.
Herbert, when he got on to his horse to ride home, was forced toacknowledge to himself that no good whatever had come from his visitto Hap House. Words had been spoken which might have been much betterleft unspoken. An angry man will often cling to his anger becausehis anger has been spoken; he will do evil because he has threatenedevil, and is ashamed to be better than his words. And there wasno comfort to be derived from those lavish promises made by Owenwith regard to the property. To Herbert's mind they were meremoonshine--very graceful on the part of the maker, but meaningnothing. No one could have Castle Richmond but him who owned itlegally. Owen Fitzgerald would become Sir Owen, and would, as amatter of course, be Sir Owen of Castle Richmond. There was nocomfort on that score; and then, on that other score, there was somuch discomfort. Of giving up his bride Herbert never for a momentthought; but he did think, with increasing annoyance, of the angrythreats which had been pronounced against him.
When he rode into the stable-yard as was his wont, he found Richardwaiting for him. This was not customary; as in these latter daysRichard, though he always drove the car, as a sort of subsidiarycoachman to the young ladies to whom the car was supposed to belongin fee, did not act as general groom. He had been promoted beyondthis, and was a sort of hanger-on about the house, half indoorservant and hal
f out, doing very much what he liked, and givingadvice to everybody, from the cook downwards. He thanked God thathe knew his place, he would often say; but nobody else knew it.Nevertheless everybody liked him; even the poor housemaid whom hesnubbed.
"Is anything the matter?" asked Herbert, looking at the man'ssorrow-laden face.
"'Deed an' there is, Mr. Herbert; Sir Thomas is--"
"My father is not dead!" exclaimed Herbert.
"Oh no, Mr. Herbert; it's not so bad as that; but he is veryfailing,--very failing. My lady is with him now."
Herbert ran into the house, and at the bottom of the chief stairshe met one of his sisters who had heard the steps of his horse. "Oh,Herbert, I am so glad you have come!" said she. Her eyes and cheekswere red with tears, and her hand, as her brother took it, was coldand numbed.
"What is it, Mary? is he worse?"
"Oh, so much worse. Mamma and Emmeline are there. He has asked foryou three or four times, and always says that he is dying. I hadbetter go up and say that you are here."
"And what does my mother think of it?"
"She has never left him, and therefore I cannot tell; but I know fromher face that she thinks that he is--dying. Shall I go up, Herbert?"and so she went, and Herbert, following softly on his toes, stoodin the corridor outside the bedroom-door, waiting till his arrivalshould have been announced. It was but a minute, and then his sister,returning to the door, summoned him to enter.
The room had been nearly darkened, but as there were no curtains tothe bed, Herbert could see his mother's face as she knelt on a stoolat the bedside. His father was turned away from him, and lay with hishand inside his wife's, and Emmeline was sitting on the foot of thebed, with her face between her hands, striving to stifle her sobs."Here is Herbert now, dearest," said Lady Fitzgerald, with a low,soft voice, almost a whisper, yet clear enough to cause no effort inthe hearing. "I knew that he would not be long." And Herbert, obeyingthe signal of his mother's eye, passed round to the other side of thebed.
"Father," said he, "are you not so well to-day?"
"My poor boy, my poor ruined boy!" said the dying man, hardlyarticulating the words as he dropped his wife's hand and took thatof his son. Herbert found that it was wet, and clammy, and cold, andalmost powerless in its feeble grasp.
"Dearest father, you are wrong if you let that trouble you; all thatwill never trouble me. Is it not well that a man should earn his ownbread? Is it not the lot of all good men?" But still the old manmurmured with his broken voice, "My poor boy, my poor boy!"
The hopes and aspirations of his eldest son are as the breath of hisnostrils to an Englishman who has been born to land and fortune.What had not this poor man endured in order that his son might beSir Herbert Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond? But this was no longerpossible; and from the moment that this had been brought home to him,the father had felt that for him there was nothing left but to die."My poor boy," he muttered, "tell me that you have forgiven me."
And then they all knelt round the bed and prayed with him; andafterwards they tried to comfort him, telling him how good he hadbeen to them; and his wife whispered in his ear that if there hadbeen fault, the fault was hers, but that her conscience told her thatsuch fault had been forgiven; and while she said this she motionedthe children away from him, and strove to make him understand thathuman misery could never kill the soul, and should never utterlydepress the spirit. "Dearest love," she said, still whispering tohim in her low, sweet voice--so dear to him, but utterly inaudiblebeyond--"if you would cease to accuse yourself so bitterly, you mightyet be better, and remain with us to comfort us."
But the slender, half-knit man, whose arms are without muscles andwhose back is without pith, will strive in vain to lift the weightwhich the brawny vigour of another tosses from the ground almostwithout an effort. It is with the mind and the spirit as with thebody; only this, that the muscles of the body can be measured, butnot so those of the spirit. Lady Fitzgerald was made of other stuffthan Sir Thomas; and that which to her had cost an effort, but withan effort had been done surely, was to him as impossible as thelabour of Hercules. "My poor boy, my poor ruined boy!" he stillmuttered, as she strove to comfort him.
"Mamma has sent for Mr. Townsend," Emmeline whispered to her brother,as they stood together in the bow of the window.
"And do you really think he is so bad as that?"
"I am sure that mamma does. I believe he had some sort of a fitbefore you came. At any rate, he did not speak for two hours."
"And was not Finucane here?" Finucane was the Mallow doctor.
"Yes; but he had left before papa became so much worse. Mamma hassent for him also."
But I do not know that it boots to dally longer in a dying chamber.It is an axiom of old that the stage curtain should be drawn beforethe inexorable one enters in upon his final work. Doctor Finucane didcome, but his coming was all in vain. Sir Thomas had known that itwas in vain, and so also had his patient wife. There was that minddiseased, towards the cure of which no Doctor Finucane could make anypossible approach. And Mr. Townsend came also, let us hope not invain; though the cure which he fain would have perfected can hardlybe effected in such moments as those. Let us hope that it had beenalready effected. The only crying sin which we can lay to the chargeof the dying man is that of which we have spoken; he had endeavouredby pensioning falsehood and fraud to preserve for his wife her name,and for his son that son's inheritance. Even over this, deep as itwas, the recording angel may have dropped some cleansing tears ofpity.
That night the poor man died, and the Fitzgeralds who sat in thechambers of Castle Richmond were no longer the owners of the mansion.There was no speech of Sir Herbert among the servants as there wouldhave been had these tidings not have reached them. Dr. Finucane hadremained in the house, and even he, in speaking of the son, had shownthat he knew the story. They were strangers there now, as they allknew--intruders, as they would soon be considered in the house oftheir cousin Owen; or rather not their cousin. In that he was abovethem by right of his blood, they had no right to claim him as theirrelation.
It may be said that at such a moment all this should not have beenthought of; but those who say so know little, as I imagine, of thetrue effect of sorrow. No wife and no children ever grieved moreheartily for a father; but their grief was blacker and more gloomy inthat they knew that they were outcasts in the world.
And during that long night as Herbert and his sisters sat up coweringround the fire, he told them of all that had been said at Hap House."And can it not be as he says?" Mary had asked.
"And that Herbert should give up his wife!" said Emmeline.
"No; but that other thing."
"Do not dream of it," said Herbert. "It is all, all impossible. Thehouse that we are now in belongs to Sir Owen Fitzgerald."