CHAPTER XXII.
THE TELLING OF THE TALE.
The dinner passed away as the former dinners had done; and as soonas Aunt Letty got up Mr. Prendergast also rose, and touching Herberton his shoulder, whispered into his ear, "You'll come to me at eightthen." Herbert nodded his head; and when he was alone he lookedat his watch. These slow dinners were not actually very long, andthere still remained to him some three-quarters of an hour foranticipation.
What was to be the nature of this history? That it would affecthimself personally in the closest manner he could not but know.There seemed to be no doubt on the minds of any of them that theaffair was one of money, and his father's money questions were hismoney questions. Mr. Prendergast would not have been sent for withreference to any trifle; nor would any pecuniary difficulty that wasnot very serious have thrown his father into such a state of misery.Could it be that the fair inheritance was absolutely in danger?
Herbert Fitzgerald was by no means a selfish man. As regardedhimself, he could have met ruin in the face with more equanimity thanmost young men so circumstanced. The gilt of the world had not eateninto his soul; his heart was not as yet wedded to the splendour ofpinchbeck. This is saying much for him; for how seldom is it that thehearts and souls of the young are able to withstand pinchbeck andgilding? He was free from this pusillanimity; free as yet as regardedhimself; but he was hardly free as regarded his betrothed. He hadpromised her, not in spoken words but in his thoughts, rank, wealth,and all the luxuries of his promised high position; and now onher behalf, it nearly broke his heart to think that they might beendangered.
Of his mother's history, he can hardly be said to have knownanything. That there had been something tragic in her early life;that something had occurred before his father's marriage; and thathis mother had been married twice, he had learned,--he hardlyknew when or from whom. But on such matters there had never beenconversation between him and any of his own family; and it neveroccurred to him that all this sorrow arose in any way from thissubject. That his father had taken some fatal step with regard to theproperty--had done some foolish thing for which he could not forgivehimself, that was the idea with which his mind was filled.
He waited, with his watch in his hand, till the dial showed him thatit was exactly eight; and then, with a sinking heart, he walkedslowly out of the dining-room along the passage, and into hisfather's study. For an instant he stood with the handle in his hand.He had been terribly anxious for the arrival of this moment, but nowthat it had come, he would almost fain have had it again postponed.His heart sank very low as he turned the lock, and entering, foundhimself in the presence of Mr. Prendergast.
Mr. Prendergast was standing with his back to the fire. For him, too,the last hour had been full of bitterness; his heart also had sunklow within him; his blood had run cold within his veins: he too, hadit been possible, would have put off this wretched hour.
Mr. Prendergast, it may be, was not much given to poetry; but thefeeling, if not the words, were there within him. The work which afriend has to perform for a friend is so much heavier than that whichcomes in the way of any profession!
When Herbert entered the room, Mr. Prendergast came forward fromwhere he was standing, and took him by the hand. "This is a very sadaffair," he said; "very sad."
"At present I know nothing about it," said Herbert. "As I see peopleabout me so unhappy, I suppose it is sad. If there be anything that Ihate, it is a mystery."
"Sit down, Mr. Fitzgerald," said the other; "sit down." And Mr.Prendergast himself sat down in the chair that was ordinarilyoccupied by Sir Thomas. Although he had been thinking about it allthe day, he had not even yet made up his mind how he was to beginhis story. Even now he could not help thinking whether it might bepossible for him to leave it untold. But it was not possible.
"Mr. Fitzgerald," said he, "you must prepare yourself for tidingswhich are very grievous indeed--very grievous."
"Whatever it is I must bear it," said he.
"I hope you have that moral strength which enables a man to bearmisfortune. I have not known you in happy days, and therefore perhapscan hardly judge; but it seems to me that you do possess suchcourage. Did I not think so, I could hardly go through the task thatis before me."
Here he paused as though he expected some reply, some assurance thathis young friend did possess this strength of which he spoke; butHerbert said nothing--nothing out loud. "If it were only for myself!if it were only for myself!" It was thus that he spoke to his ownheart.
"Mr. Fitzgerald," continued the lawyer, "I do not know how far youmay be acquainted with the history of your mother's first marriage."
Herbert said that he was hardly acquainted with it in any degree;and explained that he merely knew the fact that his mother had beenmarried before she met Sir Thomas.
"I do not know that I need recount all the circumstances to younow, though doubtless you will learn them. Your mother's conductthroughout was, I believe, admirable."
"I am quite sure of that. No amount of evidence could make me believethe contrary."
"And there is no tittle of evidence to make any one think so. Butin her early youth, when she was quite a child, she was given inmarriage to a man--to a man of whom it is impossible to speak interms too black, or in language too strong. And now, this day--"
But here he paused. It had been his intention to say that that veryman, the first husband of this loved mother now looked upon as deadfor so many years, this miscreant of whom he had spoken--that thisman had been in that room that very day. But he hardly knew how toframe the words.
"Well," said Herbert, "well;" and he spoke in a hoarse voice that wasscarcely audible.
Mr. Prendergast was afraid to bring out the very pith of his story inso abrupt a manner. He wished to have the work over, to feel, that asregarded Herbert it was done,--but his heart failed him when he cameto it.
"Yes," he said, going back as it were to his former thoughts. "Aheartless, cruel, debauched, unscrupulous man; one in whose bosom nogood thing seemed to have been implanted. Your father, when he firstknew your mother, had every reason to believe that this man wasdead."
"And he was not dead?" Mr. Prendergast could see that the young man'sface became perfectly pale as he uttered these words. He became pale,and clutched hold of the table with his hand, and there sat withmouth open and staring eyes.
"I am afraid not," said Mr. Prendergast; "I am afraid not."
"And--"
"I must go further than that, and tell you that he is still living."
"Mr. Prendergast, Mr. Prendergast!" exclaimed the poor fellow,rising up from his chair and shouting out as though for mercy. Mr.Prendergast also rose from his seat, and coming up to him took him bythe arm. "My dear boy, my dear boy, I am obliged to tell you. It isnecessary that you should know it. The fact is as I say, and it isnow for you to show that you are a man."
Who was ever called upon for a stronger proof of manhood than this?In nine cases out of ten it is not for oneself that one has to bebrave. A man, we may almost say, is no man, whose own individualsufferings call for the exercise of much courage. But we are all somixed up and conjoined with others--with others who are weaker anddearer than ourselves, that great sorrows do require great powers ofendurance.
By degrees, as he stood there in silence, the whole truth made itsway into his mind,--as he stood there with his arm still tenderlypressed by that old man. No one now would have called the lawyerstern in looking at him, for the tears were coursing down his cheeks.But no tears came to the relief of young Fitzgerald as the truthslowly came upon him, fold by fold, black cloud upon cloud, till thewhole horizon of his life's prospect was dark as death. He stoodthere silent for some few minutes hardly conscious that he was notalone, as he saw all his joys disappearing from before his mind'seye, one by one; his family pride, the pleasant high-toned duties ofhis station, his promised seat in Parliament and prosperous ambition,the full respect of all the world around him, his wealth and pride ofplace--for let no man be cr
edited who boasts that he can part withthese without regret. All these were gone. But there were losses morebitter than these. How could he think of his affianced bride? and howcould he think of his mother?
No tears came to his relief while the truth, with all its bearings,burnt itself into his very soul, but his face expressed such agonythat it was terrible to be seen. Mr. Prendergast could stand thatsilence no longer, so at last he spoke. He spoke,--for the sake ofwords; for all his tale had been told.
"You saw the man that was here yesterday? That was he, who thencalled himself Talbot."
"What! the man that went away in the car? Mollett?"
"Yes; that was the man."
Herbert had said that no evidence could be sufficient to make himbelieve that his mother had been in any way culpable: and suchprobably was the case. He had that reliance on his mother--thatassurance in his mind that everything coming from her mustbe good--that he could not believe her capable of ill. But,nevertheless, he could not prevent himself from asking within hisown breast, how it had been possible that his mother should everhave been concerned with such a wretch as that. It was a questionwhich could not fail to make itself audible. What being on earth wassweeter than his mother, more excellent, more noble, more fitted forthe world's high places, more absolutely entitled to that universalrespect which seemed to be given to her as her own by right? And whatbeing could be more loathsome, more contemptible than he, who was,as he was now told, his mother's husband? There was in it a want ofverisimilitude which almost gave him comfort,--which almost taughthim to think that he might disbelieve the story that was told to him.Poor fellow! he had yet to learn the difference that years may makein men and women--for better as well as for worse. Circumstances hadgiven to the poor half-educated village girl the simple dignity ofhigh station; as circumstances had also brought to the lowest dregsof human existence the man, whose personal bearing, and apparentworldly standing had been held sufficient to give warrant that he wasof gentle breeding and of honest standing; nay, her good fortune insuch a marriage had once been almost begrudged her by all her maidenneighbours.
But Herbert, as he thought of this, was almost encouraged todisbelieve the story. To him, with his knowledge of what his motherwas, and such knowledge as he also had of that man, it did not seempossible. "But how is all this known?" he muttered forth at last.
"I fear there is no doubt of its truth," said Mr. Prendergast. "Yourfather has no doubt whatever; has had none--I must tell you thisplainly--for some months."
"For some months! And why have I not been told?"
"Do not be hard upon your father."
"Hard! no; of course I would not be hard upon him."
"The burden he has had to bear has been very terrible. He has thoughtthat by payments of money to this man the whole thing might beconcealed. As is always the case when such payments are made, theinsatiable love of money grew by what it fed on. He would have pouredout every shilling into that man's hands, and would have died,himself a beggar--have died speedily too under such torments--and yetno good would have been done. The harpy would have come upon you; andyou--after you had innocently assumed a title that was not your ownand taken a property to which you have no right, you then would havehad to own--that which your father must own now."
"If it be so," said Herbert, slowly, "it must be acknowledged."
"Just so, Mr. Fitzgerald; just so. I know you will feel that--insuch matters we can only sail safely by the truth. There is no othercompass worth a man's while to look at."
"Of course not," said Herbert, with hoarse voice. "One does not wishto be a robber and a thief. My cousin shall have what is his own."And then he involuntarily thought of the interview they had had onthat very day. "But why did he not tell me when I spoke to him ofher?" he said, with something approaching to bitterness in his voiceand a slight struggle in his throat that was almost premonitory of asob.
"Ah! it is there that I fear for you. I know what your feelings are;but think of his sorrows, and do not be hard on him."
"Ah me, ah me!" exclaimed Herbert.
"I fear that he will not be with you long. He has already enduredtill he is now almost past the power of suffering more. And yet thereis so much more that he must suffer!"
"My poor father!"
"Think what such as he must have gone through in bringing himselfinto contact with that man; and all this has been done that he mightspare you and your mother. Think of the wound to his consciencebefore he would have lowered himself to an unworthy bargain with aswindler. But this has been done that you might have that which youhave been taught to look on as your own. He has been wrong. No otherverdict can be given. But you, at any rate, can be tender to such afault; you and your mother."
"I will--I will," said Herbert. "But if it had happened a month sinceI could have borne it." And then he thought of his mother, and hatedhimself for what he had said. How could he have borne that withpatience? "And there is no doubt, you say?"
"I think none. The man carries his proofs with him. An old servanthere in the house, too, knows him."
"What, Mrs. Jones?"
"Yes; Mrs. Jones. And the burden of further proof must now, ofcourse, be thrown on us,--not on him. Directly that we believe thestatement, it is for us to ascertain its truth. You and your fathermust not be seen to hold a false position before the world."
"And what are we to do now?"
"I fear that your mother must be told, and Mr. Owen Fitzgerald; andthen we must together openly prove the facts, either in one way or inthe other. It will be better that we should do this together;--thatis, you and your cousin Owen conjointly. Do it openly, before theworld,--so that the world may know that each of you desires only whatis honestly his own. For myself I tell you fairly that I have nodoubt of the truth of what I have told you; but further proof iscertainly needed. Had I any doubt I would not propose to tell yourmother. As it is I think it will be wrong to keep her longer in thedark."
"Does she suspect nothing?"
"I do not know. She has more power of self-control than your father.She has not spoken to me ten words since I have been in the house,and in not doing so I have thought that she was right."
"My own mother; my dear mother!"
"If you ask me my opinion, I think that she does suspect thetruth,--very vaguely, with an indefinite feeling that the calamitywhich weighs so heavily on your father, has come from this source.She, dear lady, is greatly to be pitied. But God has made her offirmer material than your father, and I think that she will bear hersorrow with a higher courage."
"And she is to be told also?"
"Yes, I think so. I do not see how we can avoid it. If we do not tellher we must attempt to conceal it, and that attempt must needs befutile when we are engaged in making open inquiry on the subject.Your cousin, when he hears of this, will of course be anxious to knowwhat his real prospects are."
"Yes, yes. He will be anxious, and determined too."
"And then, when all the world will know it, how is your mother to bekept in the dark? And that which she fears and anticipates is as bad,probably, as the actual truth. If my advice be followed nothing willbe kept from her."
"We are in your hands, I suppose, Mr. Prendergast?"
"I can only act as my judgment directs me."
"And who is to tell her?" This he asked with a shudder, and almost ina whisper. The very idea of undertaking such a duty seemed almost toomuch for him. And yet he must undertake a duty almost as terrible; hehimself--no one but him--must endure the anguish of repeating thisstory to Clara Desmond and to the countess. But now the question hadreference to his own mother. "And who is to tell her?" he asked.
For a moment or two Mr. Prendergast stood silent. He had nothitherto, in so many words, undertaken this task--this that would bethe most dreadful of all. But if he did not undertake it, who would?"I suppose that I must do it," at last he said, very gently.
"And when?"
"As soon as I have told your cousin. I will go down to him to-morrowaft
er breakfast. Is it probable that I shall find him at home?"
"Yes, if you are there before ten. The hounds meet to-morrow atCecilstown, within three miles of him, and he will not leave hometill near eleven. But it is possible that he may have a house full ofmen with him."
"At any rate I will try. On such an occasion as this he may surelylet his friends go to the hunt without him."
And then between nine and ten this interview came to an end. "Mr.Fitzgerald," said Mr. Prendergast, as he pressed Herbert's hand,"you have borne all this as a man should do. No loss of fortune canruin one who is so well able to endure misfortune." But in this Mr.Prendergast was perhaps mistaken. His knowledge of human nature hadnot carried him sufficiently far. A man's courage under calamityis only tested when he is left in solitude. The meanest among uscan bear up while strange eyes are looking at us. And then Mr.Prendergast went away, and he was alone.
It had been his habit during the whole of this period of his father'sillness to go to Sir Thomas at or before bedtime. These visitshad usually been made to the study, the room in which he was nowstanding; but when his father had gone to his bedroom at an earlierhour, Herbert had always seen him there. Was he to go to him now--nowthat he had heard all this? And if so, how was he to bear himselfthere, in his father's presence? He stood still, thinking of this,till the hand of the clock showed him that it was past ten, and thenit struck him that his father might be waiting for him. It would notdo for him now, at such a moment, to appear wanting in that attentionwhich he had always shown. He was still his father's son, though hehad lost the right to bear his father's name. He was nameless now, aman utterly without respect or standing-place in the world, a beingwhom the law ignored except as the possessor of a mere life; such washe now, instead of one whose rights and privileges, whose propertyand rank all the statutes of the realm and customs of his countrydelighted to honour and protect. This he repeated to himself overand over again. It was to such a pass as this, to this bitterdisappointment that his father had brought him. But yet it should notbe said of him that he had begun to neglect his father as soon as hehad heard the story.
So with a weary step he walked up stairs, and found Sir Thomas inbed, with his mother sitting by the bedside. His mother held out herhand to him, and he took it, leaning against the bedside. "Has Mr.Prendergast left you?" she asked.
He told her that Mr. Prendergast had left him, and gone to his ownroom for the night. "And have you been with him all the evening?" sheasked. She had no special motive in so asking, but both the fatherand the son shuddered at the question. "Yes," said Herbert; "I havebeen with him, and now I have come to wish my father good night; andyou too, mother, if you intend to remain here." But Lady Fitzgeraldgot up, telling Herbert that she would leave him with Sir Thomas; andbefore either of them could hinder her from departing, the father andthe son were alone together.
Sir Thomas, when the door closed, looked furtively up into his son'sface. Might it be that he could read there how much had been alreadytold, or how much still remained to be disclosed? That Herbert wasto learn it all that evening, he knew; but it might be that Mr.Prendergast had failed to perform his task. Sir Thomas in his hearttrusted that he had failed. He looked up furtively into Herbert'sface, but at the moment there was nothing there that he could read.There was nothing there but black misery; and every face round himfor many days past had worn that aspect.
For a minute or two Herbert said nothing, for he had not made up hismind whether or no he would that night disturb his father's rest.But he could not speak in his ordinary voice, or bid his fathergood-night as though nothing special to him had happened. "Father,"said he, after a short pause, "father, I know it all now."
"My boy, my poor boy, my unfortunate boy!"
"Father," said Herbert, "do not be unhappy about me, I can bear it."And then he thought again of his bride--his bride as she was to havebeen; but nevertheless he repeated his last words, "I can bear it,father!"
"I have meant it for the best, Herbert," said the poor man, pleadingto his child.
"I know that; all of us well know that. But what Mr. Prendergast saysis true; it is better that it should be known. That man would havekilled you had you kept it longer to yourself."
Sir Thomas hid his face upon the pillow as the remembrance of what hehad endured in those meetings came upon him. The blow that had toldheaviest was that visit from the son, and the threats which the manhad made still rung in his ears--"When that youngster was born LadyF. was Mrs. M., wasn't she? . . . My governor could take her awayto-morrow, according to the law of the land, couldn't he now?" Thesewords, and more such as these, had nearly killed him at the time, andnow, as they recurred to him, he burst out into childish tears. Poorman! the days of his manhood had gone, and nothing but the tears ofa second bitter childhood remained to him. The hot iron had enteredinto his soul, and shrivelled up the very muscles of his mind'sstrength.
Herbert, without much thought of what he was doing, knelt down bythe bedside and put his hand upon that of his father which lay outupon the sheet. There he knelt for one or two minutes, watching andlistening to his father's sobs. "You will be better now, father," hesaid, "for the great weight of this terrible secret will be off yourmind." But Sir Thomas did not answer him. With him there could neverbe any better. All things belonging to him had gone to ruin. Allthose around him whom he had loved--and he had loved those around himvery dearly--were brought to poverty, and sorrow, and disgrace. Thepower of feeling this was left to him, but the power of enduring thiswith manhood was gone. The blow had come upon him too late in life.
And Herbert himself, as he knelt there, could hardly forbear fromtears. Now, at such a moment as this, he could think of no one buthis father, the author of his being, who lay there so grievouslyafflicted by sorrows which were in nowise selfish. "Father," he saidat last, "will you pray with me?" And then when the poor suffererhad turned his face towards him, he poured forth his prayer to hisSaviour that they all in that family might be enabled to bear theheavy sorrows which God in his mercy and wisdom had now thought fitto lay upon them. I will not make his words profane by repeating themhere, but one may say confidently that they were not uttered in vain.
"And now, dearest father, good night," he said as he rose from hisknees; and stretching over the bed, he kissed his father's forehead.
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