Castle Richmond

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE PATH BENEATH THE ELMS.

  It will be remembered that in the last chapter but one OwenFitzgerald left Lady Desmond in the drawing-room at Desmond Courtsomewhat abruptly, having absolutely refused to make peace with theDesmond faction by giving his consent to the marriage between Claraand his cousin Herbert. And it will perhaps be remembered also, thatLady Desmond had asked for this consent in a manner that was almosthumble. She had shown herself most anxious to keep on friendly termswith the rake of Hap House,--rake and roue, gambler and spendthrift,as he was reputed to be,--if only he would abandon his insane claimto the hand of Clara Desmond. But this feeling she had shown whenthey two were alone together, after Clara had left them. As longas her daughter had been present, Lady Desmond had maintained hertone of indignation and defiance; but, when the door was closed andthey two were alone, she had become kind in her language and almosttender.

  My readers will probably conceive that she had so acted, overcome byher affection for Owen Fitzgerald and with a fixed resolve to win himfor herself. Men and women when they are written about are alwayssupposed to have fixed resolves, though in life they are so seldomfound to be thus armed. To speak the truth, the countess had had nofixed resolve in the matter, either when she had thought about Owen'scoming, or when, subsequently, she had found herself alone with himin her drawing-room. That Clara should not marry him,--on so muchshe had resolved long ago. But all danger on that head was, it maybe said, over. Clara, like a good child, had behaved in the bestpossible manner; had abandoned her first lover, a lover that was poorand unfitted for her, as soon as told to do so; and had found forherself a second lover, who was rich, and proper, and in every waydesirable. As regards Clara, the countess felt herself to be safe;and, to give her her due, she had been satisfied that the mattershould so rest. She had not sought any further interview withFitzgerald. He had come there against her advice, and she had gone tomeet him prompted by the necessity of supporting her daughter, andwithout any other views of her own.

  But when she found herself alone with him; when she looked into hisface, and saw how handsome, how noble, how good it was--good in itsinherent manliness and bravery--she could not but long that this feudshould be over, and that she might be able once more to welcome himas her friend. If only he would give up this frantic passion, thisfutile, wicked, senseless attempt to make them all wretched by aninsane marriage, would it not be sweet again to make some effort torescue him from the evil ways into which he had fallen?

  But Owen himself would make no response to this feeling. ClaraDesmond was his love, and he would, of his own consent, yield her tono one. In truth, he was, in a certain degree, mad on this subject.He did think that because the young girl had given him a promise--hadsaid to him a word or two which he called a promise--she was now ofright his bride; that there belonged to him an indefeasible propertyin her heart, in her loveliness, in the inexpressible tenderness ofher young springing beauty, of which no subsequent renouncing on herpart could fairly and honestly deprive him. That others should opposethe match was intelligible to him; but it was hardly intelligiblethat she should betray him. And, as yet, he did not believe that sheherself was the mainspring of this renouncing. Others, the countessand the Castle Richmond people, had frightened her into falseness;and, therefore, it became him to maintain his right by anymeans--almost by any means, within his power. Give her up of his ownfree will and voice! Say that Herbert Fitzgerald should take her withhis consent! that she should go as a bride to Castle Richmond, whilehe stood by and smiled, and wished them joy! Never! And so he rodeaway with a stern heart, leaving her standing there with something ofsternness about her heart also.

  In the meantime, Clara, when she was sure that her rejected suitorwas well away from the place, put on her bonnet and walked out. Itwas her wont at this time to do so; and she was becoming almost acreature of habit, shut up as she was in that old dreary barrack. Hermother very rarely went with her; and she habitually performed thesame journey over the same ground, at the same hour, day after day.So it had been, and so it was still,--unless Herbert Fitzgerald werewith her.

  On the present occasion she saw no more of her mother before she leftthe house. She passed the drawing-room door, and seeing that it wasajar, knew that the countess was there; but she had nothing to say toher mother as to the late interview, unless her mother had aught tosay to her. So she passed on. In truth her mother had nothing to sayto her. She was sitting there alone, with her head resting on herhand, with that sternness at her heart and a cloud upon her brow, butshe was not thinking of her daughter. Had she not, with her skilland motherly care, provided well for Clara? Had she not saved herdaughter from all the perils which beset the path of a young girl?Had she not so brought her child up and put her forth into the world,that, portionless as that child was, all the best things of the worldhad been showered into her lap? Why should the countess think moreof her daughter? It was of herself she was thinking; and of what herlife would be all alone, absolutely alone, in that huge frightfulhome of hers, without a friend, almost without an acquaintance,without one soul near her whom she could love or who would love her.She had put out her hand to Owen Fitzgerald, and he had rejected it.Her he had regarded merely as the mother of the woman he loved. Andthen the Countess of Desmond began to ask herself if she were old andwrinkled and ugly, only fit to be a dowager in mind, body, and inname!

  Over the same ground! Yes, always over the same ground. Lady Claranever varied her walk. It went from the front entrance of the court,with one great curve, down to the old ruined lodge which opened on tothe road running from Kanturk to Cork. It was here that the row ofelm trees stood, and it was here that she had once walked with a hot,eager lover beside her, while a docile horse followed behind theirfeet. It was here that she walked daily; and was it possible that sheshould walk here without thinking of him?

  It was always on the little well-worn path by the road-side, not onthe road itself, that she took her measured exercise; and now, as shewent along, she saw on the moist earth the fresh prints of a horse'shoofs. He also had ridden down the same way, choosing to pass overthe absolute spot in which those words had been uttered, thinking ofthat moment, as she also was thinking of it. She felt sure that suchhad been the case. She knew that it was this that had brought himthere--there on to the foot-traces which they had made together.

  And did he then love her so truly,--with a love so hot, so eager, sodeeply planted in his very soul? Was it really true that a passionfor her had so filled his heart, that his whole life must by that bemade or marred? Had she done this thing to him? Had she so impressedher image on his mind that he must be wretched without her? Was sheso much to him, so completely all in all as regarded his futureworldly happiness? Those words of his, asserting that love--herlove--was to him a stern fact, a deep necessity--recurred over andover again to her mind. Could it really be that in doing as she haddone, in giving herself to another after she had promised herself tohim, she had committed an injustice which would constantly be broughtup against her by him and by her own conscience? Had she in truthdeceived and betrayed him,--deserted him because he was poor, andgiven herself over to a rich lover because of his riches?

  As she thought of this she forgot again that fact--which, indeed, shehad never more than half realized in her mind--that he had justifiedher in separating herself from him by his reckless course of living;that his conduct must be held to have so justified her, let thepledge between them have been of what nature it might. Now, as shewalked up and down that path, she thought nothing of his wickednessand his sins; she thought only of the vows to which she had oncelistened, and the renewal of those vows to which it was now sonecessary that her ear should be deaf.

  But was her heart deaf to them? She swore to herself, over and overagain, scores and scores of oaths, that it was so; but each time thatshe swore, some lowest corner in the depth of her conscience seemedto charge her with a falsehood. Why was it that in all her hours ofthinking she so much oftener
saw his face, Owen's, than she did thatother face of which in duty she was bound to think and dream? Itwas in vain that she told herself that she was afraid of Owen, andtherefore thought of him. The tone of his voice that rang in herears the oftenest was not that of his anger and sternness, but thetone of his first assurance of love--that tone which had been soinexpressibly sweet to her--that to which she had listened on thisvery spot where she now walked slowly, thinking of him. The look ofhis which was ever present to her eyes was not that on which shehad almost feared to gaze but an hour ago; but the form and spiritwhich his countenance had worn when they were together on thatwell-remembered day.

  And then she would think, or try to think, of Herbert, and of allhis virtues and of all his goodness. He too loved her well. Shenever doubted that. He had come to her with soft words, and pleasantsmiles, and sweet honeyed compliments--compliments which had beensweet to her as they are to all girls; but his soft words, andpleasant smiles, and honeyed love-making had never given her sostrong a thrill of strange delight as had those few words fromOwen. Her very heart's core had been affected by the vigour of hisaffection. There had been in it a mysterious grandeur which had halfcharmed and half frightened her. It had made her feel that he, wereit fated that she should belong to him, would indeed be her lord andruler; that his was a spirit before which hers would bend and feelitself subdued. With him she could realize all that she had dreamedof woman's love; and that dream which is so sweet to some women--ofwoman's subjugation. But could it be the same with him to whom shewas now positively affianced, with him to whom she knew that she didnow owe all her duty? She feared that it was not the same.

  And then again she swore that she loved him. She thought over all hisexcellences; how good he was as a son--how fondly his sisters lovedhim--how inimitable was his conduct in these hard trying times. Andshe remembered also that it was right in every way that she shouldlove him. Her mother and brother approved of it. Those who were tobe her new relatives approved of it. It was in every way fitting.Pecuniary considerations were so favourable! But when she thought ofthat her heart sank low within her breast. Was it true that she hadsold herself at her mother's bidding? Should not the remembrance ofOwen's poverty have made her true to him had nothing else done so?

  But be all that as it might, one thing, at any rate, was clear toher, that it was now her fate, her duty--and, as she repeated againand again, her wish to marry Herbert. No thought of rebellion againsthim and her mother ever occurred to her as desirable or possible.She would be to him a true and loving wife, a wife in very heart andsoul. But, nevertheless, walking thus beneath those trees, she couldnot but think of Owen Fitzgerald.

  In this mood she had gone twice down from the house to the lodge andback again; and now again she had reached the lodge the third time,making thus her last journey: for in these solitary walks her workwas measured. The exercise was needful, but there was little in thetask to make her prolong it beyond what was necessary. But now, asshe was turning for the last time, she heard the sound of a horse'shoof coming fast along the road; and looking from the gate, she sawthat Herbert was coming to her. She had not expected him, but now shewaited at the gate to meet him.

  It had been arranged that she was to go over in a few days to CastleRichmond, and stay there for a fortnight. This had been settledshortly before the visit made by Mr. Mollett junior, at that place,and had not as yet been unsettled. But as soon as it was known thatSir Thomas had summoned Mr. Prendergast from London, it was feltby them all that it would be as well that Clara's visit should bepostponed. Herbert had been especially cautioned by his father, atthe time of Mollett's visit, not to tell his mother anything of whathad occurred, and to a certain extent he had kept his promise. Butit was of course necessary that Lady Fitzgerald should know that Mr.Prendergast was coming to the house, and it was of course impossibleto keep from her the fact that his visit was connected with thelamentable state of her husband's health and spirits. Indeed, sheknew as much as that without any telling. It was not probable thatMr. Prendergast should come there now on a visit of pleasure.

  "Whatever this may be that weighs upon his mind," Herbert had said,"he will be better for talking it over with a man whom he trusts."

  "And why not with Somers?" said Lady Fitzgerald.

  "Somers is too often with him, too near to him in all the affairs ofhis life. I really think he is wise to send for Mr. Prendergast. Wedo not know him, but I believe him to be a good man."

  Then Lady Fitzgerald had expressed herself as satisfied--as satisfiedas she could be, seeing that her husband would not take her into hisconfidence; and after this it was settled that Herbert should at onceride over to Desmond Court, and explain that Clara's visit had betterbe postponed.

  Herbert got off his horse at the gate, and gave it to one of thechildren at the lodge to lead after him. His horse would not followhim, Clara said to herself as they walked back together towards thehouse. She could not prevent her mind running off in that direction.She would fain not have thought of Owen as she thus hung uponHerbert's arm, but as yet she had not learned to control herthoughts. His horse had followed him lovingly--the dogs about theplace had always loved him--the men and women of the whole countryround, old and young, all spoke of him with a sort of love: everybodyadmired him. As all this passed through her brain, she was hanging onher accepted lover's arm, and listening to his soft sweet words.

  "Oh, yes! it will be much better," she said, answering his proposalthat she should put off her visit to Castle Richmond. "But I am sosorry that Sir Thomas should be ill. Mr. Prendergast is not a doctor,is he?"

  And then Herbert explained that Mr. Prendergast was not a doctor,that he was a physician for the mind rather than for the body.Regarding Clara as already one of his own family, he told her as muchas he had told his mother. He explained that there was some deepsorrow weighing on his father's heart of which they none of them knewanything save its existence; that there might be some misfortunecoming on Sir Thomas of which he, Herbert, could not even guess thenature; but that everything would be told to this Mr. Prendergast.

  "It is very sad," said Herbert.

  "Very sad; very sad," said Clara, with tears in her eyes. "Poorgentleman! I wish that we could comfort him."

  "And I do hope that we may," said Herbert. "Somers seems to thinkthat his mind is partly affected, and that this misfortune, whateverit be, may not improbably be less serious than we anticipate;--thatit weighs heavier on him than it would do, were he altogether well."

  "And your mother, Herbert?"

  "Oh, yes; she also is to be pitied. Sometimes, for moments, she seemsto dread some terrible misfortune; but I believe that in her calmjudgment she thinks that our worst calamity is the state of myfather's health."

  Neither in discussing the matter with his mother or Clara, nor inthinking it over when alone, did it ever occur to Herbert that hehimself might be individually subject to the misfortune over whichhis father brooded. Sir Thomas had spoken piteously to him, andcalled him poor, and had seemed to grieve over what might happen tohim; but this had been taken by the son as a part of his father'smalady.

  Everything around him was now melancholy, and therefore these termshad not seemed to have any special force of their own. He did notthink it necessary to warn Clara that bad days might be in store forboth of them, or to caution her that their path of love might yet bemade rough.

  "And whom do you think I met, just now, on horseback?" he asked, assoon as this question of her visit had been decided.

  "Mr. Owen Fitzgerald, probably," said Clara. "He went from henceabout an hour since."

  "Owen Fitzgerald here!" he repeated, as though the tidings of such avisit having been made were not exactly pleasant to him. "I thoughtthat Lady Desmond did not even see him now."

  "His visit was to me, Herbert, and I will explain it to you. I wasjust going to tell you when you first came in, only you began aboutCastle Richmond."

  "And have you seen him?"

  "Oh yes, I saw him. Mamma thought
it best. Yesterday he wrote a noteto me which I will show you." And then she gave him such an accountof the interview as was possible to her, making it, at any rate,intelligible to him that Owen had come thither to claim her forhimself, having heard the rumour of her engagement to his cousin.

  "It was inexcusable on his part--unpardonable!" said Herbert,speaking with an angry spot on his face, and with more energy thanwas usual with him.

  "Was it? why?" said Clara, innocently. She felt unconsciously that itwas painful to her to hear Owen ill spoken of by her lover, and thatshe would fain excuse him if she could.

  "Why, dearest? Think what motives he could have had; what otherobject than to place you in a painful position, and to cause troubleand vexation to us all. Did he not know that we were engaged?"

  "Oh yes; he knew that;--at least, no; I am not quite sure--I think hesaid that he had heard it but did not--"

  "Did not what, love?"

  "I think he said he did not quite believe it;" and then she wasforced, much against her will, to describe to her betrothed how Owenhad boldly claimed her as his own.

  "His conduct has been unpardonable," said Herbert, again. "Nay, ithas been ungentlemanlike. He has intruded himself where he well knewthat he was not wanted; and he has done so taking advantage of a fewwords which, under the present circumstances, he should force himselfto forget."

  "But, Herbert, it is I that have been to blame."

  "No; you have not been in the least to blame. I tell you honestlythat I can lay no blame at your door. At the age you were then, itwas impossible that you should know your own mind. And even had yourpromise to him been of a much more binding nature, his subsequentconduct, and your mother's remonstrance, as well as your own age,would have released you from it without any taint of falsehood. Heknew all this as well as I do; and I am surprised that he shouldhave forced his way into your mother's house with the mere object ofcausing you embarrassment."

  It was marvellous how well Herbert Fitzgerald could lay down the lawon the subject of Clara's conduct, and on all that was due to her,and all that was not due to Owen. He was the victor; he had gainedthe prize; and therefore it was so easy for him to acquit hispromised bride, and heap reproaches on the head of his rejectedrival. Owen had been told that he was not wanted, and of courseshould have been satisfied with his answer. Why should he intrudehimself among happy people with his absurd aspirations? For were theynot absurd? Was it not monstrous on his part to suppose that he couldmarry Clara Desmond?

  It was in this way that Herbert regarded the matter. But it was notexactly in that way that Clara looked at it. "He did not force hisway in," she said. "He wrote to ask if we would see him; and mammasaid that she thought it better."

  "That is forcing his way in the sense that I meant it; and if I findthat he gives further annoyance I shall tell him what I think aboutit. I will not have you persecuted."

  "Herbert, if you quarrel with him you will make me wretched. I thinkit would kill me."

  "I shall not do it if I can help it, Clara. But it is my duty toprotect you, and if it becomes necessary I must do so; you haveno father, and no brother of an age to speak to him, and thatconsideration alone should have saved you from such an attack."

  Clara said nothing more, for she knew that she could not speak out tohim the feelings of her heart. She could not plead to him that shehad injured Owen, that she had loved him and then given him up; thatshe had been false to him: she could not confess that, after all,the tribute of such a man's love could not be regarded by her asan offence. So she said nothing further, but walked on in silence,leaning on his arm.

  They were now close to the house, and as they drew near to it LadyDesmond met them on the door-step. "I dare say you have heard thatwe had a visitor here this morning," she said, taking Herbert's handin an affectionate motherly way, and smiling on him with all hersweetness.

  Herbert said that he had heard it, and expressed an opinion thatMr. Owen Fitzgerald would have been acting far more wisely to haveremained at home at Hap House.

  "Yes, perhaps so; certainly so," said Lady Desmond, putting her armwithin that of her future son, and walking back with him throughthe great hall. "He would have been wiser; he would have saved dearClara from a painful half-hour, and he would have saved himself fromperhaps years of sorrow. He has been very foolish to remember Clara'schildhood as he does remember it. But, my dear Herbert, what can wedo? You lords of creation sometimes will be foolish even about suchtrifling things as women's hearts."

  And then, when Herbert still persisted that Owen's conduct had beeninexcusable and ungentlemanlike, she softly flattered him intoquiescence. "You must not forget," she said, "that he perhaps hasloved Clara almost as truly as you do. And then what harm can he do?It is not very probable that he should succeed in winning Clara awayfrom you!"

  "Oh no, it is not that I mean. It is for Clara's sake."

  "And she, probably, will never see him again till she is your wife.That event will, I suppose, take place at no very remote period."

  "As soon as ever my father's health will admit. That is if I canpersuade Clara to be so merciful."

  "To tell the truth, Herbert, I think you could persuade her toanything. Of course we must not hurry her too much. As for me, mylosing her will be very sad; you can understand that; but I would notallow any feeling of my own to stand in her way for half-an-hour."

  "She will be very near you, you know."

  "Yes, she will; and therefore, as I was saying, it would be absurdfor you to quarrel with Mr. Owen Fitzgerald. For myself, I am sorryfor him--very sorry for him. You know the whole story of whatoccurred between him and Clara, and of course you will understandthat my duty at that time was plain. Clara behaved admirably, and ifonly he would not be so foolish, the whole matter might be forgotten.As far as you and I are concerned I think it may be forgotten."

  "But then his coming here?"

  "That will not be repeated. I thought it better to show him that wewere not afraid of him, and therefore I permitted it. Had I conceivedthat you would have objected--"

  "Oh, no!" said Herbert.

  "Well, there was not much for you to be afraid of, certainly," saidthe countess. And so he was appeased, and left the house promisingthat he, at any rate, would do nothing that might lead to a quarrelwith his cousin Owen.

  Clara, who had still kept on her bonnet, again walked down with himto the lodge, and encountered his first earnest supplication that anearly day should be named for their marriage. She had many reasons,excellent good reasons, to allege why this should not be the case.When was a girl of seventeen without such reasons? And it is soreasonable that she should have such reasons. That period of havinglove made to her must be by far the brightest in her life. Is it notalways a pity that it should be abridged?

  "But your father's illness, Herbert, you know."

  Herbert acknowledged that, to a certain extent, his father's illnesswas a reason--only to a certain extent. It would be worse thanuseless to think of waiting till his father's health should bealtogether strong. Just for the present, till Mr. Prendergast shouldhave gone, and perhaps for a fortnight longer, it might be well towait. But after that--and then he pressed very closely the hand whichrested on his arm. And so the matter was discussed between them withlanguage and arguments which were by no means original.

  At the gate, just as Herbert was about to remount his horse, theywere encountered by a sight which for years past had not beenuncommon in the south of Ireland, but which had become frightfullycommon during the last two or three months. A woman was standingthere, of whom you could hardly say that she was clothed, though shewas involved in a mass of rags which covered her nakedness. Her headwas all uncovered, and her wild black hair was streaming round herface. Behind her back hung two children enveloped among the rags insome mysterious way; and round about her on the road stood threeothers, of whom the two younger were almost absolutely naked. Theeldest of the five was not above seven. They all had the same wildblack eyes, and wild elfish stragg
ling locks; but neither themother nor the children were comely. She was short and broad in theshoulders, though wretchedly thin; her bare legs seemed to be ofnearly the same thickness up to the knee, and the naked limbs of thechildren were like yellow sticks. It is strange how various are thekinds of physical development among the Celtic peasantry in Ireland.In many places they are singularly beautiful, especially as children;and even after labour and sickness shall have told on them as labourand sickness will tell, they still retain a certain softness andgrace which is very nearly akin to beauty. But then again in aneighbouring district they will be found to be squat, uncouth, and inno way attractive to the eye. The tint of the complexion, the natureof the hair, the colour of the eyes, shall be the same. But in oneplace it will seem as though noble blood had produced delicate limbsand elegant stature, whereas in the other a want of noble blood hadproduced the reverse. The peasants of Clare, Limerick, and Tipperaryare, in this way, much more comely than those of Cork and Kerry.

  When Herbert and Clara reached the gate they found this mother withher five children crouching at the ditch-side, although it was stillmid-winter. They had seen him enter the demesne, and were now waitingwith the patience of poverty for his return.

  "An' the holy Virgin guide an' save you, my lady," said the woman,almost frightening Clara by the sudden way in which she came forward,"an' you too, Misther Herbert; and for the love of heaven dosomething for a poor crathur whose five starving childher have nothad wholesome food within their lips for the last week past."

  Clara looked at them piteously and put her hand towards her pocket.Her purse was never well furnished, and now in these bad days wasusually empty. At the present moment it was wholly so. "I havenothing to give her; not a penny," she said, whispering to her lover.

  But Herbert had learned deep lessons of political economy, and was byno means disposed to give promiscuous charity on the road-side. "Whatis your name," said he; "and from where do you come?"

  "Shure, an' it's yer honor knows me well enough; and her ladyshiptoo; may the heavens be her bed. And don't I come from Clady; thatis two long miles the fur side of it? And my name is Bridget Sheehy.Shure, an' yer ladyship remembers me at Clady the first day ye warover there about the biler."

  Clara looked at her, and thought that she did remember her, but shesaid nothing. "And who is your husband?" said Herbert.

  "Murty Brien, plaze yer honor;" and the woman ducked a curtsey withthe heavy load of two children on her back. It must be understoodthat among the poorer classes in the south and west of Ireland it isalmost rare for a married woman to call herself or to be called byher husband's name.

  "And is he not at work?"

  "Shure, an' he is, yer honor--down beyant Kinsale by the say. Butwhat's four shilling a week for a man's diet, let alone a woman andfive bairns?"

  "And so he has deserted you?"

  "No, yer honor; he's not dasarted me thin. He's a good man anda kind, av' he had the mains. But we've a cabin up here, on herladyship's ground that is; and he has sent me up among my own people,hoping that times would come round; but faix, yer honor, I'm thinkingthat they'll never come round, no more."

  "And what do you want now, Bridget?"

  "What is it I'm wanting? just a thrifle of money then to get a sup ofmilk for thim five childher as is starving and dying for the want ofit." And she pointed to the wretched, naked brood around her with agesture which in spite of her ugliness had in it something of tragicgrandeur.

  "But you know that we will not give money. They will take you in atthe poorhouse at Kanturk."

  "Is it the poorhouse, yer honor?"

  "Or, if you get a ticket from your priest they will give you mealtwice a week at Clady. You know that. Why do you not go to FatherConnellan?"

  "Is it the mail? An' shure an' haven't I had it, the last month past;nothin' else; not a taste of a piaty or a dhrop of milk for nigh amonth, and now look at the childher. Look at them, my lady. They aredyin' by the very road-side." And she undid the bundle at her back,and laying the two babes down on the road showed that the elder ofthem was in truth in a fearful state. It was a child nearly two yearsof age, but its little legs seemed to have withered away; its cheekswere wan, and yellow and sunken, and the two teeth which it hadalready cut were seen with terrible plainness through its emaciatedlips. Its head and forehead were covered with sores; and then themother, moving aside the rags, showed that its back and legs were inthe same state. "Look to that," she said, almost with scorn. "That'swhat the mail has done--my black curses be upon it, and the day thatit first come nigh the counthry." And then again she covered thechild and began to resume her load.

  "Do give her something, Herbert, pray do," said Clara, with her wholeface suffused with tears.

  "You know that we cannot give away money," said Herbert, arguingwith Bridget Sheehy, and not answering Clara at the moment. "Youunderstand enough of what is being done to know that. Why do you notgo into the Union?"

  "Shure thin an' I'll jist tramp on as fur as Hap House, I and mychildher; that is av' they do not die by the road-side. Come on,bairns. Mr. Owen won't be afther sending me to the Kanturk union whenI tell him that I've travelled all thim miles to get a dhrink ofmilk for a sick babe; more by token when I tells him also that I'mone of the Desmond tinantry. It's he that loves the Desmonds, LadyClara,--loves them as his own heart's blood. And it's I that wish himgood luck with his love, in spite of all that's come and gone yet.Come on, bairns, come along; we have seven weary miles to walk." Andthen, having rearranged her burden on her back, she prepared again tostart.

  Herbert Fitzgerald, from the first moment of his interrogating thewoman, had of course known that he would give her somewhat. In spiteof all his political economy, there were but few days in which hedid not empty his pocket of his loose silver, with these culpabledeviations from his theoretical philosophy. But yet he felt that itwas his duty to insist on his rules, as far as his heart would allowhim to do so. It was a settled thing at their relief committee thatthere should be no giving away of money to chance applicants foralms. What money each had to bestow would go twice further by beingbrought to the general fund--by being expended with forethought anddiscrimination. This was the system which all attempted, which allresolved to adopt who were then living in the south of Ireland.But the system was impracticable, for it required frames of ironand hearts of adamant. It was impossible not to waste money inalmsgiving.

  "Oh, Herbert!" said Clara, imploringly, as the woman prepared tostart.

  "Bridget, come here," said Herbert, and he spoke very seriously, forthe woman's allusion to Owen Fitzgerald had driven a cloud acrosshis brow. "Your child is very ill, and therefore I will give yousomething to help you," and he gave her a shilling and two sixpences.

  "May the God in heaven bless you thin, and make you happy, whoeverwins the bright darling by your side; and may the good days come backto yer house and all that belongs to it. May yer wife clave to youall her days, and be a good mother to your childher." And she wouldhave gone on further with her blessing had not he interrupted her.

  "Go on now, my good woman," said he, "and take your children wherethey may be warm. If you will be advised by me, you will go to theUnion at Kanturk." And so the woman passed on still blessing them.Very shortly after this none of them required pressing to go to theworkhouse. Every building that could be arranged for the purpose wasfilled to overflowing as soon as it was ready. But the worst of thefamine had not come upon them as yet. And then Herbert rode back toCastle Richmond.