Castle Richmond

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XIX.

  THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY.

  On the day named by Herbert, and only an hour before dinner, Mr.Prendergast did arrive at Castle Richmond. The Great Southern andWestern Railway was not then open as far as Mallow, and the journeyfrom Dublin was long and tedious. "I'll see him of course," saidSir Thomas to Lady Fitzgerald; "but I'll put off this business tillto-morrow." This he said in a tone of distress and agony, whichshowed too plainly how he dreaded the work which he had before him."But you'll come in to dinner," Lady Fitzgerald had said. "No," heanswered, "not to-day, love; I have to think about this." And he puthis hand up to his head, as though this thinking about it had alreadybeen too much for him.

  Mr. Prendergast was a man over sixty years of age, being, in fact,considerably senior to Sir Thomas himself. But no one would havedreamed of calling Mr. Prendergast an old man. He was short ofstature, well made, and in good proportion; he was wiry, strong, andalmost robust. He walked as though in putting his foot to the earthhe always wished to proclaim that he was afraid of no man and nothing. His hair was grizzled, and his whiskers were grey, and roundabout his mouth his face was wrinkled; but with him even these thingshardly seemed to be signs of old age. He was said by many who knewhim to be a stern man, and there was that in his face which seemedto warrant such a character. But he had also the reputation of beinga very just man; and those who knew him best could tell tales ofhim which proved that his sternness was at any rate compatible witha wide benevolence. He was a man who himself had known but littlemental suffering, and who owned no mental weakness; and it mightbe, therefore, that he was impatient of such weakness in others. Tochance acquaintances his manners were not soft, or perhaps palatable;but to his old friends his very brusqueness was pleasing. He wasa bachelor, well off in the world, and, to a certain extent, fondof society. He was a solicitor by profession, having his officesomewhere in the purlieus of Lincoln's Inn, and living in anold-fashioned house not far distant from that classic spot. I havesaid that he owned no mental weakness. When I say further that hewas slightly afflicted with personal vanity, and thought a good dealabout the set of his hair, the shape of his coat, the fit of hisboots, the whiteness of his hands, and the external trim of hisumbrella, perhaps I may be considered to have contradicted myself.But such was the case. He was a handsome man too, with clear, bright,gray eyes, a well-defined nose, and expressive mouth--of which thelips, however, were somewhat too thin. No man with thin lips everseems to me to be genially human at all points.

  Such was Mr. Prendergast; and my readers will, I trust, feel for SirThomas, and pity him, in that he was about to place his wounds in thehands of so ruthless a surgeon. But a surgeon, to be of use, shouldbe ruthless in one sense. He should have the power of cutting andcauterizing, of phlebotomy and bone-handling without effect on hisown nerves. This power Mr. Prendergast possessed, and therefore itmay be said that Sir Thomas had chosen his surgeon judiciously. Noneof the Castle Richmond family, except Sir Thomas himself, had everseen this gentleman, nor had Sir Thomas often come across him oflate years. But he was what we in England call an old family friend;and I doubt whether we in England have any more valuable Englishcharacteristic than that of having old family friends. Old familyfeuds are not common with us now-a-days--not so common as with someother people. Sons who now hated their father's enemies would havebut a bad chance before a commission of lunacy; but an old familyfriend is supposed to stick to one from generation to generation.

  On his arrival at Castle Richmond he was taken in to Sir Thomasbefore dinner. "You find me but in a poor state," said Sir Thomas,shaking in his fear of what was before him, as the poor wretch doesbefore an iron-wristed dentist who is about to operate. "You willbe better soon," Mr. Prendergast had said, as a man always does sayunder such circumstances. What other remark was possible to him?"Sir Thomas thinks that he had better not trouble you with businessto-night," said Lady Fitzgerald. To this also Mr. Prendergastagreed willingly. "We shall both of us be fresher to-morrow, afterbreakfast," he remarked, as if any time made any difference tohim,--as though he were not always fresh, and ready for any work thatmight turn up.

  That evening was not passed very pleasantly by the family at CastleRichmond. To all of them Mr. Prendergast was absolutely a stranger,and was hardly the man to ingratiate himself with strangers at thefirst interview. And then, too, they were all somewhat afraid ofhim. He had come down thither on some business which was to themaltogether mysterious, and, as far as they knew, he, and he alone,was to be intrusted with the mystery. He of course said nothing tothem on the subject, but he looked in their eyes as though he wereconscious of being replete with secret importance; and on this veryaccount they were afraid of him. And then poor Lady Fitzgerald,though she bore up against the weight of her misery better than didher husband, was herself very wretched. She could not bring herselfto believe that all this would end in nothing; that Mr. Prendergastwould put everything right, and that after his departure they wouldgo on as happily as ever. This was the doctrine of the younger partof the family, who would not think that anything was radically wrong.But Lady Fitzgerald had always at her heart the memory of her earlymarriage troubles, and she feared greatly, though she feared she knewnot what.

  Herbert Fitzgerald and Aunt Letty did endeavour to keep up someconversation with Mr. Prendergast; and the Irish famine was,of course, the subject. But this did not go on pleasantly. Mr.Prendergast was desirous of information; but the statements whichwere made to him one moment by young Fitzgerald were contradicted inthe next by his aunt. He would declare that the better educated ofthe Roman Catholics were prepared to do their duty by their country,whereas Aunt Letty would consider herself bound both by party feelingand religious duty, to prove that the Roman Catholics were bad ineverything.

  "Oh, Herbert, to hear you say so!" she exclaimed at one time, "itmakes me tremble in my shoes. It is dreadful to think that thosepeople should have got such a hold over you."

  "I really think that the Roman Catholic priests are liberal in theirideas and moral in their conduct." This was the speech which had madeAunt Letty tremble in her shoes, and it may, therefore, be conceivedthat Mr. Prendergast did not find himself able to form any firmopinion from the statements then made to him. Instead of doing so, heset them both down as "Wild Irish," whom it would be insane to trust,and of whom it was absurd to make inquiries. It may, however, bepossibly the case that Mr. Prendergast himself had his own prejudicesas well as Aunt Letty and Herbert Fitzgerald.

  On the following morning they were still more mute at breakfast. Thetime was coming in which Mr. Prendergast was to go to work, and evenhe, gifted though he was with iron nerves, began to feel somewhatunpleasantly the nature of the task which he had undertaken. LadyFitzgerald did not appear at all. Indeed, during the whole ofbreakfast-time and up to the moment at which Mr. Prendergast wassummoned, she was sitting with her husband, holding his hand in hers,and looking tenderly but painfully into his face. She so sat with himfor above an hour, but he spoke to her no word of this revelation hewas about to make. Herbert and the girls, and even Aunt Letty, satsolemn and silent, as though it was known by them all that somethingdreadful was to be said and done. At last Herbert, who had left theroom, returned to it. "My father will see you now, Mr. Prendergast,if you will step up to him," said he; and then he ran to his motherand told her that he should leave the house till dinner-time.

  "But if he sends for you, Herbert, should you not be in the way?"

  "It is more likely that he should send for you; and, were I to remainhere, I should be going into his room when he did not want me." Andthen he mounted his horse and rode off.

  Mr. Prendergast, with serious air and slow steps, and solemn resolveto do what he had to do at any rate with justice, walked away fromthe dining-room to the baronet's study. The task of an old friendis not always a pleasant one, and Mr. Prendergast felt that it wasnot so at the present moment. "Be gentle with him," said Aunt Letty,catching hold of his arm as he went through the passage. He merelymoved
his head twice, in token of assent, and then passed on into theroom.

  The reader will have learnt by this time, with tolerable accuracy,what was the nature of the revelation which Sir Thomas was calledupon to make, and he will be tolerably certain as to the advice whichMr. Prendergast, as an honest man, would give. In that respect therewas no difficulty. The laws of meum and tuum are sufficiently clearif a man will open his eyes to look at them. In this case they werealtogether clear. These broad acres of Castle Richmond did belong toSir Thomas--for his life. But after his death they could not belongto his son Herbert. It was a matter which admitted of no doubt. Noquestion as to whether the Molletts would or would not hold theirtongue could bear upon it in the least. Justice in this case must bedone, even though the heavens should fall. It was sad and piteous.Stern and hard as was the man who pronounced this doom, neverthelessthe salt tear collected in his eyes and blinded him as he looked uponthe anguish which his judgment had occasioned.

  Yes, Herbert must be told that he in the world was nobody; that hemust earn his bread, and set about doing so right soon. Who could saythat his father's life was worth a twelvemonth's purchase? He mustbe told that he was nobody in the world, and instructed also to tellher whom he loved, an Earl's daughter, the same tidings; that he wasnobody, that he would come to possess no property, and that in thelaw's eyes did not possess even a name. How would his young heartsuffice for the endurance of so terrible a calamity? And thosepretty girls, so softly brought up--so tenderly nurtured; it mustbe explained to them too that they must no longer be proud of theirfather's lineage and their mother's fame. And that other Fitzgeraldmust be summoned and told of all this; he on whom they had lookeddown, whom the young heir had robbed of his love, whom they had castout from among them as unworthy. Notice must be sent to him that hewas the heir to Castle Richmond, that he would reign as the futurebaronet in those gracious chambers. It was he who could now make agreat county lady of the daughter of the countess.

  "It will be very soon, very soon," sobbed forth the poor victim. Andindeed, to look at him one might say that it would be soon. Therewere moments when Mr. Prendergast hardly thought that he would livethrough that frightful day.

  But all of which we have yet spoken hardly operated upon thebaronet's mind in creating that stupor of sorrow which now weighedhim to the earth. It was none of these things that utterly broke himdown and crushed him like a mangled reed. He had hardly mind leftto remember his children. It was for the wife of his bosom that hesorrowed.

  The wife of his bosom! He persisted in so calling her through thewhole interview, and, even in his weakness, obliged the strong manbefore him so to name her also. She was his wife before God, andshould be his to the end. Ah! for how short a time was that! "Is sheto leave me?" he once said, turning to his friend, with his handsclasped together, praying that some mercy might be shown to hiswretchedness. "Is she to leave me?" he repeated, and then sank on hisknees upon the floor.

  And how was Mr. Prendergast to answer this question? How was he todecide whether or no this man and woman might still live togetheras husband and wife? Oh, my reader, think of it if you can, and putyourself for a moment in the place of that old family friend! "Tellme, tell me; is she to leave me?" repeated the poor victim of allthis misery.

  The sternness and justice of the man at last gave way. "No," saidhe, "that cannot, I should think, be necessary. They cannot demandthat." "But you won't desert me?" said Sir Thomas, when this crumbof comfort was handed to him. And he remembered as he spoke, thebloodshot eyes of the miscreant who had dared to tell him that thewife of his bosom might be legally torn from him by the hands ofanother man. "You won't desert me?" said Sir Thomas; meaning by that,to bind his friend to an obligation that, at any rate, his wifeshould not be taken from him.

  "No," said Mr. Prendergast, "I will not desert you; certainly notthat; certainly not that." Just then it was in his heart to promisealmost anything that he was asked. Who could have refused such solaceas this to a man so terribly overburthened?

  But there was another point of view at which Mr. Prendergast hadlooked from the commencement, but at which he could not get SirThomas to look at all. It certainly was necessary that the wholetruth in this matter should be made known and declared openly. Thisfair inheritance must go to the right owner and not to the wrong.Though the affliction on Sir Thomas was very heavy, and would beequally so on all the family, he would not on that account, for thesake of saving him and them from that affliction, be justified inrobbing another person of what was legally and actually that otherperson's property. It was a matter of astonishment to Mr. Prendergastthat a conscientious man, as Sir Thomas certainly was, should havebeen able to look at the matter in any other light; that he shouldever have brought himself to have dealings in the matter with Mr.Mollett. Justice in the case was clear, and the truth must bedeclared. But then they must take good care to find out absolutelywhat the truth was. Having heard all that Sir Thomas had to say,and having sifted all that he did hear, Mr. Prendergast thoroughlybelieved, in his heart of hearts, that that wretched miscreant wasthe actual and true husband of the poor lady whom he would have tosee. But it was necessary that this should be proved. Castle Richmondfor the family, and all earthly peace of mind for that unfortunatelady and gentleman were not to be given up on the bare word of ascheming scoundrel, for whom no crime would be too black, and nocruelty too monstrous. The proofs must be looked into before anythingwas done, and they must be looked into before anything was said--toLady Fitzgerald. We surely may give her that name as yet.

  But then, how were they to get at the proofs--at the proofs one wayor the other? That Mollett himself had his marriage certificate SirThomas declared. That evidence had been brought home to his ownmind of the identity of the man--though what was the nature of thatevidence he could not now describe--as to that he was quite explicit.Indeed, as I have said above, he almost refused to consider thequestion as admitting of a doubt. That Mollett was the man to whomhis wife had been married he thoroughly believed; and, to tell thetruth, Mr. Prendergast was afraid to urge him to look for muchcomfort in this direction. The whole manner of the man, Mollett, hadbeen such as to show that he himself was sure of his ground. Mr.Prendergast could hardly doubt that he was the man, although hefelt himself bound to remark that nothing should be said to LadyFitzgerald till inquiry had been made. Mr. Mollett himself would beat Castle Richmond on the next day but one, in accordance with theappointment made by himself; and, if necessary, he could be kept incustody till he had been identified as being the man, or as not beingthe man, who had married Miss Wainwright.

  "There is nobody living with you now who knew Lady Fitzgerald at--?"asked Mr. Prendergast.

  "Yes," said Sir Thomas, "there is one maid servant." And then heexplained how Mrs. Jones had lived with his wife before her firstmarriage, during those few months in which she had been called Mrs.Talbot, and from that day even up to the present hour.

  "Then she must have known this man," said Mr. Prendergast.

  But Sir Thomas was not in a frame of mind at all suited to thesifting of evidence. He did not care to say anything about Mrs.Jones; he got no crumb of comfort out of that view of the matter.Things had come out, unwittingly for the most part, in hisconversations with Mollett, which made him quite certain as tothe truth of the main part of the story. All those Dorsetshirelocalities were well known to the man, the bearings of the house,the circumstances of Mr. Wainwright's parsonage, the whole historyof those months; so that on this subject Sir Thomas had no doubt;and we may as well know at once that there was no room for doubt.Our friend of the Kanturk Hotel, South Main Street, Cork, was theman who, thirty years before, had married the child-daughter of theDorsetshire parson.

  Mr. Prendergast, however, stood awhile before the fire balancingthe evidence. "The woman must have known him," he said to himself,"and surely she could tell us whether he be like the man. And LadyFitzgerald herself would know; but then who would have the hardnessof heart to ask Lady Fitzgerald to confront that man?"<
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  He remained with Sir Thomas that day for hours. The long winterevening had begun to make itself felt by its increasing gloom beforehe left him. Wine and biscuits were sent in to them, but neitherof them even noticed the man who brought them. Twice in the day,however, Mr. Prendergast gave the baronet a glass of sherry, whichthe latter swallowed unconsciously; and then, at about four, thelawyer prepared to take his leave. "I will see you early to-morrow,"said he, "immediately after breakfast."

  "You are going then?" said Sir Thomas, who greatly dreaded being leftalone.

  "Not away, you know," said Mr. Prendergast. "I am not going to leavethe house."

  "No," said Sir Thomas; "no, of course not, but--" and then he paused.

  "Eh!" said Mr. Prendergast, "you were saying something."

  "They will be coming in to me now," said Sir Thomas, wailing like achild; "now, when you are gone; and what am I to say to them?"

  "I would say nothing at present; nothing to-day."

  "And my wife?" he asked, again. Through this interview he studiouslycalled her his wife. "Is--is she to know it?"

  "When we are assured that this man's story is true, Sir Thomas, shemust know it. That will probably be very soon,--in a day or two. Tillthen I think you had better tell her nothing."

  "And what shall I say to her?"

  "Say nothing. I think it probable that she will not ask anyquestions. If she does, tell her that the business between you and meis not yet over. I will tell your son that at present he had betternot speak to you on the subject of my visit here." And then he againtook the hand of the unfortunate gentleman, and having pressed itwith more tenderness than seemed to belong to him, he left the room.

  He left the room, and hurried into the hall and out of the house; butas he did so he could see that he was watched by Lady Fitzgerald. Shewas on the alert to go to her husband as soon as she should know thathe was alone. Of what then took place between those two we need saynothing, but will wander forth for a while with Mr. Prendergast intothe wide-spreading park.

  Mr. Prendergast had been used to hard work all his life, but he hadnever undergone a day of severer toil than that through which he hadjust past. Nor was it yet over. He had laid it down in a broad way ashis opinion that the whole truth in this matter should be declaredto the world, let the consequences be what they might; and to thisopinion Sir Thomas had acceded without a word of expostulation. Butin this was by no means included all that portion of the burden whichnow fell upon Mr. Prendergast's shoulders. It would be for him tolook into the evidence, and then it would be for him also--heavy andworst task of all--to break the matter to Lady Fitzgerald.

  As he sauntered out into the park, to wander about for half an hourin the dusk of the evening, his head was throbbing with pain. Thefamily friend in this instance had certainly been severely taxed inthe exercise of his friendship. And what was he to do next? How washe to conduct himself that evening in the family circle, knowing, ashe so well did, that his coming there was to bring destruction uponthem all? "Be tender to him," Aunt Letty had said, little knowinghow great a call there would be on his tenderness of heart, and howlittle scope for any tenderness of purpose.

  And was it absolutely necessary that that blow should fall in all itsseverity? He asked himself this question over and over again, andalways had to acknowledge that it was necessary. There could be nopossible mitigation. The son must be told that he was no son--no sonin the eye of the law; the wife must be told that she was no wife,and the distant relative must be made acquainted with his goldenprospects. The position of Herbert and Clara, and of their promisedmarriage, had been explained to him,--and all that too must beshivered into fragments. How was it possible that the pennilessdaughter of an earl should give herself in marriage to a youth,who was not only penniless also, but illegitimate and without aprofession? Look at it in which way he would, it was all misery andruin, and it had fallen upon him to pronounce the doom!

  He could not himself believe that there was any doubt as to thegeneral truth of Mollett's statement. He would of course inquire. Hewould hear what the man had to say and see what he had to adduce.He would also examine that old servant, and, if necessary--and ifpossible also--he would induce Lady Fitzgerald to see the man. But hedid feel convinced that on this point there was no doubt. And thenhe lifted up his hands in astonishment at the folly which had beencommitted by a marriage under such circumstances--as wise men willdo in the decline of years, when young people in the heyday of youthhave not been wise. "If they had waited for a term of years," hesaid, "and if he then had not presented himself!" A term of years,such as Jacob served for Rachel, seems so light an affair to oldbachelors looking back at the loves of their young friends.

  And so he walked about in the dusk by no means a happy man, nor inany way satisfied with the work which was still before him. How washe to face Lady Fitzgerald, or tell her of her fate? In what wordsmust he describe to Herbert Fitzgerald the position which in futurehe must fill? The past had been dreadful to him, and the future wouldbe no less so, in spite of his character as a hard, stern man.

  When he returned to the house he met young Fitzgerald in the hall."Have you been to your father?" he asked immediately. Herbert, in alow voice, and with a saddened face, said that he had just come fromhis father's room; but Mr. Prendergast at once knew that nothing ofthe truth had been told to him. "You found him very weak," said Mr.Prendergast. "Oh, very weak," said Herbert. "More than weak, utterlyprostrate. He was lying on the sofa almost unable to speak. My motherwas with him and is still there."

  "And she?" He was painfully anxious to know whether Sir Thomas hadbeen weak enough--or strong enough--to tell his wife any of the storywhich that morning had been told to him.

  "She is doing what she can to comfort him," said Herbert; "but it isvery hard for her to be left so utterly in the dark."

  Mr. Prendergast was passing on to his room, but at the foot of thestairs Herbert stopped him again, going up the stairs with him, andalmost whispering into his ear--

  "I trust, Mr. Prendergast," said he, "that things are not to go on inthis way."

  "No, no," said Mr. Prendergast.

  "Because it is unbearable--unbearable for my mother and for me, andfor us all. My mother thinks that some terrible thing has happened tothe property; but if so, why should I not be told?"

  "Of anything that really has happened, or does happen, you will betold."

  "I don't know whether you are aware of it, Mr. Prendergast, but I amengaged to be married. And I have been given to understand--that is,I thought that this might take place very soon. My mother seems tothink that your coming here may--may defer it. If so, I think I havea right to expect that something shall be told to me."

  "Certainly you have a right, my dear young friend. But Mr.Fitzgerald, for your own sake, for all our sakes, wait patiently fora few hours."

  "I have waited patiently."

  "Yes, I know it. You have behaved admirably. But I cannot speakto you now. This time the day after to-morrow, I will tell youeverything that I know. But do not speak of this to your mother.I make this promise only to you." And then he passed on into hisbed-room.

  With this Herbert was obliged to be content. That evening he againsaw his father and mother, but he told them nothing of what hadpassed between him and Mr. Prendergast. Lady Fitzgerald remained inthe study with Sir Thomas the whole evening, nay, almost the wholenight, and the slow hours as they passed there were very dreadful.No one came to table but Aunt Letty, Mr. Prendergast, and Herbert,and between them hardly a word was spoken. The poor girls had foundthemselves utterly unable to appear. They were dissolved in tears,and crouching over the fire in their own room. And the momentthat Aunt Letty left the table Mr. Prendergast arose also. He wassuffering, he said, cruelly from headache, and would ask permissionto go to his chamber. It would have been impossible for him to havesat there pretending to sip his wine with Herbert Fitzgerald.

  After this Herbert again went to his father, and then, in thegloom of the evening, h
e found Mr. Somers in the office, a littlemagistrate's room, that was used both by him and by Sir Thomas. Butnothing passed between them. Herbert had nothing to tell. And then atabout nine he also went up to his bedroom. A more melancholy day thanthat had never shed its gloom upon Castle Richmond.