Castle Richmond

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE COUNTESS.

  The countess, as she walked back with her daughter towards the house,had to bethink herself for a minute or two as to how she should act,and what she would say. She knew, she felt that she knew, what hadoccurred. If her daughter's manner had not told her, the downcasteyes, the repressed sobs, the mingled look of shame and fear;--if shehad not read the truth from these, she would have learned it from thetone of Fitzgerald's voice, and the look of triumph which sat uponhis countenance.

  And then she wondered that this should be so, seeing that she hadstill regarded Clara as being in all things a child; and as shethought further, she wondered at her own fatuity, in that she hadallowed herself to be so grossly deceived.

  "Clara," said she, "what is all this?"

  "Oh, mamma!"

  "You had better come on to the house, my dear, and speak to me there.In the mean time, collect your thoughts, and remember this, Clara,that you have the honour of a great family to maintain."

  Poor Clara! what had the great family done for her, or how had shebeen taught to maintain its honour? She knew that she was an earl'sdaughter, and that people called her Lady Clara; whereas other youngladies were only called Miss So-and-So. But she had not been taughtto separate herself from the ordinary throng of young ladies by anyother distinction. Her great family had done nothing special for her,nor placed before her for example any grandly noble deeds. At thatold house at Desmond Court company was scarce, money was scarce,servants were scarce. She had been confided to the care of a veryordinary governess; and if there was about her anything that wasgreat or good, it was intrinsically her own, and by no means due tointrinsic advantages derived from her grand family. Why should shenot give what was so entirely her own to one whom she loved, to oneby whom it so pleased her to be loved?

  And then they entered the house, and Clara followed her mother to thecountess's own small up-stairs sitting-room. The daughter did notordinarily share this room with her mother, and when she entered it,she seldom did so with pleasurable emotion. At the present moment shehad hardly strength to close the door after her.

  "And now, Clara, what is all this?" said the countess, sitting downin her accustomed chair.

  "All which, mamma?" Can any one blame her in that she so farequivocated?

  "Clara, you know very well what I mean. What has there been betweenyou and Mr. Fitzgerald?"

  The guilt-stricken wretch sat silent for a while, sustaining thescrutiny of her mother's gaze; and then falling from her chair on toher knees, she hid her face in her mother's lap, exclaiming, "Oh,mamma, mamma, do not look at me like that!"

  Lady Desmond's heart was somewhat softened by this appeal; nor wouldI have it thought that she was a cruel woman, or an unnatural mother.It had not been her lot to make an absolute, dearest, heartiestfriend of her daughter, as some mothers do; a friend between whomand herself there should be, nay could be, no secrets. She could notbecome young again in sharing the romance of her daughter's love, inenjoying the gaieties of her daughter's balls, in planning dresses,amusements, and triumphs with her child. Some mothers can do this;and they, I think, are the mothers who enjoy most fully the delightsof maternity. This was not the case with Lady Desmond; but yet sheloved her child, and would have made any reasonable sacrifice forwhat she regarded as that child's welfare.

  "But, my dear," she said, in a softened tone, "you must tell me whathas occurred. Do you not know that it is my duty to ask, and yoursto tell me? It cannot be right that there should be any secretunderstanding between yourself and Mr. Fitzgerald. You know that,Clara, do you not?"

  "Yes, mamma," said Clara, remembering that her lover had bade hertell her mother everything.

  "Well, my love?"

  Clara's story was very simple, and did not, in fact, want anytelling. It was merely the old well-worn tale, so common through allthe world. "He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye!"and she,--she was ready to go "to the mountain to hear a love-tale!"One may say that an occurrence so very common could not want muchtelling.

  "Mamma; he says--"

  "Well, my dear?"

  "He says--. Oh, mamma! I could not help it."

  "No, Clara; you certainly could not help what he might say to you.You could not refuse to listen to him. A lady in such a case, whenshe is on terms of intimacy with a gentleman, as you were with Mr.Fitzgerald, is bound to listen to him, and to give him an answer. Youcould not help what he might say, Clara. The question now is, whatanswer did you give to what he said?"

  Clara, who was still kneeling, looked up piteously into her mother'sface, sighed bitterly, but said nothing.

  "He told you that he loved you, I suppose?"

  "Yes, mamma."

  "And I suppose you gave him some answer? Eh! my dear?"

  The answer to this was another long sigh.

  "But, Clara, you must tell me. It is absolutely necessary that Ishould know whether you have given him any hope, and if so, how much.Of course the whole thing must be stopped at once. Young as you are,you cannot think that a marriage with Mr. Owen Fitzgerald would be aproper match for you to make. Of course the whole thing must ceaseat once--at once." Here there was another piteous sigh. "But beforeI take any steps, I must know what you have said to him. Surely youhave not told him that you have any feeling for him warmer thanordinary regard?"

  Lady Desmond knew what she was doing very well. She was perfectlysure that her daughter had pledged her troth to Owen Fitzgerald.Indeed, if she made any mistake in the matter, it was in thinkingthat Clara had given a more absolute assurance of love than had intruth been extracted from her. But she calculated, and calculatedwisely, that the surest way of talking her daughter out of all hope,was to express herself as unable to believe that a child of herswould own to love for one so much beneath her, and to speak of sucha marriage as a thing absolutely impossible. Her method of actingin this manner had the effect which she desired. The poor girl wasutterly frightened, and began to fear that she had disgraced herself,though she knew that she dearly loved the man of whom her motherspoke so slightingly.

  "Have you given him any promise, Clara?"

  "Not a promise, mamma."

  "Not a promise! What then? Have you professed any regard for him?"But upon this Clara was again silent.

  "Then I suppose I must believe that you have professed a regard forhim--that you have promised to love him?"

  "No, mamma; I have not promised anything. But when he asked me, I--Ididn't--I didn't refuse him."

  It will be observed that Lady Desmond never once asked her daughterwhat were her feelings. It never occurred to her to inquire, evenwithin her own heart, as to what might be most conducive to herchild's happiness. She meant to do her duty by Clara, and thereforeresolved at once to put a stop to the whole affair. She now desistedfrom her interrogatories, and sitting silent for a while, looked outinto the extent of flat ground before the house. Poor Clara the whilesat silent also, awaiting her doom.

  "Clara," said the mother at last, "all this must of course be made tocease. You are very young, very young indeed, and therefore I do notblame you. The fault is with him--with him entirely."

  "No, mamma."

  "But I say it is. He has behaved very badly, and has betrayed thetrust which was placed in him when he was admitted here so intimatelyas Patrick's friend."

  "I am sure he has not intended to betray any trust," said Clara,through her sobs. The conviction was beginning to come upon her thatshe would be forced to give up her lover; but she could not bringherself to hear so much evil spoken of him.

  "He has not behaved like a gentleman," continued the countess,looking very stern. "And his visits here must of course be altogetherdiscontinued. I am sorry on your brother's account, for Patrick wasvery fond of him--"

  "Not half so fond as I am," thought Clara to herself. But she did notdare to speak her thoughts out loud.

  "But I am quite sure that your brother, young as he is, will notcontinue to associate with a friend who
has thought so slightly ofhis sister's honour. Of course I shall let Mr. Fitzgerald know thathe can come here no more; and all I want from you is a promise thatyou will on no account see him again, or hold any correspondence withhim."

  That was all she wanted. But Clara, timid as she was, hesitatedbefore she could give a promise so totally at variance with thepledge which she felt that she had given, hardly an hour since, toFitzgerald. She knew and acknowledged to herself that she had givenhim a pledge, although she had given it in silence. How then was sheto give this other pledge to her mother?

  "You do not mean to say that you hesitate?" said Lady Desmond,looking as though she were thunderstruck at the existence of suchhesitation. "You do not wish me to suppose that you intend topersevere in such insanity? Clara, I must have from you a distinctpromise,--or--"

  What might be the dreadful alternative the countess did not at thatminute say. She perhaps thought that her countenance might be moreeffective than her speech, and in thinking so she was probably right.

  It must be remembered that Clara Desmond was as yet only seventeen,and that she was young even for that age. It must be remembered also,that she knew nothing of the world's ways, of her own privileges asa creature with a soul and heart of her own, or of what might bethe true extent of her mother's rights over her. She had not in herenough of matured thought to teach her to say that she would make nopromise that should bind her for ever; but that for the present, inher present state, she would obey her mother's orders. And thus thepromise was exacted and given.

  "If I find you deceiving me, Clara," said the countess, "I will neverforgive you."

  Hitherto, Lady Desmond may probably have played her part well;--well,considering her object. But she played it very badly in showing thatshe thought it possible that her daughter should play her false. Itwas now Clara's turn to be proud and indignant.

  "Mamma!" she said, holding her head high, and looking at her motherboldly through her tears, "I have never deceived you yet."

  "Very well, my dear. I will take steps to prevent his intruding onyou any further. There may be an end of the matter now. I have nodoubt that he has endeavoured to use his influence with Patrick; butI will tell your brother not to speak of the matter further." And sosaying, she dismissed her daughter.

  Shortly afterwards the earl came in, and there was a conferencebetween him and his mother. Though they were both agreed on thesubject, though both were decided that it would not do for Clara tothrow herself away on a county Cork squire with eight hundred a year,a cadet in his family, and a man likely to rise to nothing, still theearl would not hear him abused.

  "But, Patrick, he must not come here any more," said the countess.

  "Well, I suppose not. But it will be very dull, I know that. I wishClara hadn't made herself such an ass;" and then the boy went away,and talked kindly over the matter to his poor sister.

  But the countess had another task still before her. She must makeknown the family resolution to Owen Fitzgerald. When her childrenhad left her, one after the other, she sat at the window for an hour,looking at nothing, but turning over her own thoughts in her mind.Hitherto she had expressed herself as being very angry with herdaughter's lover; so angry that she had said that he was faithless,a traitor, and no gentleman. She had called him a dissipatedspendthrift, and had threatened his future wife, if ever he shouldhave one, with every kind of misery that could fall to a woman's lot;but now she began to think of him perhaps more kindly.

  She had been very angry with him;--and the more so because she hadsuch cause to be angry with herself;--with her own lack of judgment,her own ignorance of the man's character, her own folly withreference to her daughter. She had never asked herself whether sheloved Fitzgerald--had never done so till now. But now she knew thatthe sharpest blow she had received that day was the assurance that hewas indifferent to herself.

  She had never thought herself too old to be on an equality withhim,--on such an equality in point of age as men and women feel whenthey learn to love each other; and therefore it had not occurred toher that he could regard her daughter as other than a child. To LadyDesmond, Clara was a child; how then could she be more to him? Andyet now it was too plain that he had looked on Clara as a woman. Inwhat light then must he have thought of that woman's mother? And so,with saddened heart, but subdued anger, she continued to gaze throughthe window till all without was dusk and dark.

  There can be to a woman no remembrance of age so strong as that ofseeing a daughter go forth to the world a married woman. If that doesnot tell the mother that the time of her own youth has passed away,nothing will ever bring the tale home. It had not quite come to thiswith Lady Desmond;--Clara was not going forth to the world as amarried woman. But here was one now who had judged her as fit tobe so taken; and this one was the very man of all others in whoseestimation Lady Desmond would have wished to drop a few of the yearsthat encumbered her.

  She was not, however, a weak woman, and so she performed her task.She had candles brought to her, and sitting down, she wrote a note toOwen Fitzgerald, saying that she herself would call at Hap House atan hour named on the following day.

  She had written three or four letters before she had made up her mindexactly as to the one she would send. At first she had desired himto come to her there at Desmond Court; but then she thought of thedanger there might be of Clara seeing him;--of the danger, also, ofher own feelings towards him when he should be there with her, in herown house, in the accustomed way. And she tried to say by letter allthat it behoved her to say, so that there need be no meeting. But inthis she failed. One letter was stern and arrogant, and the next wassoft-hearted, so that it might teach him to think that his love forClara might yet be successful. At last she resolved to go herself toHap House; and accordingly she wrote her letter and despatched it.

  Fitzgerald was of course aware of the subject of the threatenedvisit. When he determined to make his proposal to Clara, the matterdid not seem to him to be one in which all chances of success weredesperate. If, he thought, he could induce the girl to love him,other smaller difficulties might be made to vanish from his path.He had now induced the girl to own that she did love him; but notthe less did he begin to see that the difficulties were far fromvanishing. Lady Desmond would never have taken upon herself to make ajourney to Hap House, had not a sentence of absolute banishment fromDesmond Court been passed against him.

  "Mr. Fitzgerald," she began, as soon as she found herself alone withhim, "you will understand what has induced me to seek you here. Afteryour imprudence with Lady Clara Desmond, I could not of course askyou to come to Desmond Court."

  "I may have been presumptuous, Lady Desmond, but I do not think thatI have been imprudent. I love your daughter dearly, and I told herso. Immediately afterwards I told the same to her brother; and she,no doubt, has told the same to you."

  "Yes, she has, Mr. Fitzgerald. Clara, as you are well aware, is achild, absolutely a child; much more so than is usual with girls ofher age. The knowledge of this should, I think, have protected herfrom your advances."

  "But I absolutely deny any such knowledge. And more than that, Ithink that you are greatly mistaken as to her character."

  "Mistaken, sir, as to my own daughter?"

  "Yes, Lady Desmond; I think you are. I think--"

  "On such a matter, Mr. Fitzgerald, I need not trouble you for anexpression of your thoughts. Nor need we argue that subject anyfurther. You must of course be aware that all ideas of any suchmarriage as this must be laid aside."

  "On what grounds, Lady Desmond?"

  Now this appeared to the countess to be rather impudent on the partof the young squire. The reasons why he, Owen Fitzgerald of HapHouse, should not marry a daughter of an Earl of Desmond, seemed toher to be so conspicuous and conclusive, that it could hardly benecessary to enumerate them. And such as they were, it might not bepleasant to announce them in his hearing. But though Owen Fitzgeraldwas so evidently an unfit suitor for an earl's daughter, it mightstill be possible that h
e should be acceptable to an earl's widow.Ah! if it might be possible to teach him the two lessons at the sametime!

  "On what grounds, Mr. Fitzgerald!" she said, repeating his question;"surely I need hardly tell you. Did not my son say the same thing toyou yesterday, as he walked with you down the avenue?"

  "Yes; he told me candidly that he looked higher for his sister; and Iliked him for his candour. But that is no reason that I should agreewith him; or, which is much more important, that his sister should doso. If she thinks that she can be happy in such a home as I can giveher, I do not know why he, or why you should object."

  "You think, then, that I might give her to a blacksmith, if sheherself were mad enough to wish it?"

  "I thank you for the compliment, Lady Desmond."

  "You have driven me to it, sir."

  "I believe it is considered in the world," said he,--"that is, inour country, that the one great difference is between gentlemenand ladies, and those who are not gentlemen or ladies. A lady doesnot degrade herself if she marry a gentleman, even though thatgentleman's rank be less high than her own."

  "It is not a question of degradation, but of prudence;--of theordinary caution which I, as a mother, am bound to use as regards mydaughter. Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!" and she now altered her tone as shespoke to him; "we have all been so pleased to know you, so happy tohave you there; why have you destroyed all this by one half-hour'sfolly?"

  "The folly, as you call it, Lady Desmond, has been premeditated forthe last twelve months."

  "For twelve months!" said she, taken absolutely by surprise, and inher surprise believing him.

  "Yes, for twelve months. Ever since I began to know your daughter, Ihave loved her. You say that your daughter is a child. I also thoughtso this time last year, in our last winter holidays. I thought sothen; and though I loved her as a child, I kept it to myself. Now sheis a woman, and so thinking I have spoken to her as one. I have toldher that I loved her, as I now tell you that come what may I mustcontinue to do so. Had she made me believe that I was indifferent toher, absence, perhaps, and distance might have taught me to forgether. But such, I think, is not the case."

  "And you must forget her now."

  "Never, Lady Desmond."

  "Nonsense, sir. A child that does not know her own mind, that thinksof a lover as she does of some new toy, whose first appearance in theworld was only made the other night at your cousin's house! you oughtto feel ashamed of such a passion, Mr. Fitzgerald."

  "I am very far from being ashamed of it, Lady Desmond."

  "At any rate, let me tell you this. My daughter has promised memost solemnly that she will neither see you again, nor have anycorrespondence with you. And this I know of her, that her word issacred. I can excuse her on account of her youth; and, young asshe is, she already sees her own folly in having allowed you so toaddress her. But for you, Mr. Fitzgerald, under all the circumstancesI can make no excuse for you. Is yours, do you think, the sort ofhouse to which a young girl should be brought as a bride? Is yourlife, are your companions of that kind which could most profit her? Iam sorry that you drive me to remind you of these things."

  His face became very dark, and his brow stern as his sins were thuscast into his teeth.

  "And from what you know of me, Lady Desmond," he said,--and as hespoke he assumed a dignity of demeanour which made her more inclinedto love him than ever she had been before,--"do you think that Ishould be the man to introduce a young wife to such companions asthose to whom you allude? Do you not know, are you not sure in yourown heart, that my marriage with your daughter would instantly put anend to all that?"

  "Whatever may be my own thoughts, and they are not likely to beunfavourable to you--for Patrick's sake, I mean; but whatever maybe my own thoughts, I will not subject my daughter to such a risk.And, Mr. Fitzgerald, you must allow me to say, that your incomeis altogether insufficient for her wants and your own. She has nofortune--"

  "I want none with her."

  "And--but I will not argue the matter with you. I did not come toargue it, but to tell you, with as little offence as may be possible,that such a marriage is absolutely impossible. My daughter herselfhas already abandoned all thoughts of it."

  "Her thoughts then must be wonderfully under her own control. Muchmore so than mine are."

  "Lord Desmond, you may be sure, will not hear of it."

  "Lord Desmond cannot at present be less of a child than his sister."

  "I don't know that, Mr. Fitzgerald."

  "At any rate, Lady Desmond, I will not put my happiness, nor as faras I am concerned in it, his sister's happiness, at his disposal.When I told her that I loved her, I did not speak, as you seem tothink, from an impulse of the moment. I spoke because I loved her;and as I love her, I shall of course try to win her. Nothing canabsolve me from my engagement to her but her marriage with anotherperson."

  The countess had once or twice made small efforts to come to terms ofpeace with him; or rather to a truce, under which there might stillbe some friendship between them,--accompanied, however, by a positivecondition that Clara should be omitted from any participation in it.She would have been willing to say, "Let all this be forgotten, onlyfor some time to come you and Clara cannot meet each other." ButFitzgerald would by no means agree to such terms; and the countesswas obliged to leave his house, having in effect only thrown down agauntlet of battle; having in vain attempted to extend over it anolive-branch of peace.

  He helped her, however, into her little pony carriage, and at partingshe gave him her hand. He just touched it, and then, taking off hishat, bowed courteously to her as she drove from his door.