CHAPTER XXVII.
COMFORTED.
When Herbert Fitzgerald got back to Castle Richmond it was nearlydark. He opened the hall door without ringing the bell, and walkingat once into the dining-room, threw himself into a large leathernchair which always stood near the fire-place. There was a bright fireburning on the hearth, and he drew himself close to it, putting hiswet feet up on to the fender, thinking that he would at any rate warmhimself before he went in among any of the family. The room, withits deep red curtains and ruby-embossed paper, was almost dark, andhe knew that he might remain there unseen and unnoticed for thenext half hour. If he could only get a glass of wine! He tried thecellaret, which was as often open as locked, but now unfortunatelyit was closed. In such a case it was impossible to say whether thebutler had the key or Aunt Letty; so he sat himself down without thatluxury.
By this time, as he well knew, all would have been told to hismother, and his first duty would be to go to her--to go to her andcomfort her, if comfort might be possible, by telling her that hecould bear it all; that as far as he was concerned title and wealthand a proud name were as nothing to him in comparison with hismother's love. In whatever guise he may have appeared before LadyDesmond, he would not go to his mother with a fainting heart. Sheshould not hear his teeth chatter, nor see his limbs shake. So he sathimself down there that he might become warm, and in five minutes hewas fast asleep.
How long he slept he did not know; not very long, probably; butwhen he awoke it was quite dark. He gazed at the fire for a moment,bethought himself of where he was and why, shook himself to get ridof his slumber, and then roused himself in his chair. As he did so asoft sweet voice close to his shoulder spoke to him. "Herbert," itsaid, "are you awake?" And he found that his mother, seated by hisside on a low stool, had been watching him in his sleep.
"Mother!" he exclaimed.
"Herbert, my child, my son!" And the mother and son were fast lockedin each other's arms.
He had sat down there thinking how he would go to his mother andoffer her solace in her sorrow; how he would bid her be of goodcheer, and encourage her to bear the world as the world had nowfallen to her lot. He had pictured to himself that he would findher sinking in despair, and had promised himself that with hisvows, his kisses, and his prayers, he would bring her back to herself-confidence, and induce her to acknowledge that God's mercy wasyet good to her. But now, on awakening, he discovered that she hadbeen tending him in his misery, and watching him while he slept, thatshe might comfort him with her caresses the moment that he awoke tothe remembrance of his misfortunes.
"Herbert, Herbert, my son, my son!" she said again, as she pressedhim close in her arms.
"Mother, has he told you?"
Yes, she had learned it all; but hardly more than she had knownbefore; or, at any rate, not more than she had expected. As she nowtold him, for many days past she had felt that this trouble which hadfallen upon his father must have come from the circumstances of theirmarriage. And she would have spoken out, she said, when the ideabecame clear to her, had she not then been told that Mr. Prendergasthad been invited to come thither from London. Then she knew that shehad better remain silent, at any rate till his visit had been made.
And Herbert again sat in the chair, and his mother crouched, oralmost kneeled, on the cushion at his knee. "Dearest, dearest,dearest mother," he said, as he supported her head against hisshoulder, "we must love each other now more than ever we have loved."
"And you forgive us, Herbert, for all that we have done to you?"
"Mother, if you speak in that way to me you will kill me. My darling,darling mother!"
There was but little more said between them upon the matter--butlittle more, at least, in words; but there was an infinity ofcaresses, and deep--deep assurances of undying love and confidence.And then she asked him about his bride, and he told her where hehad been, and what had happened. "You must not claim her, Herbert,"she said to him. "God is good, and will teach you to bear even thatalso."
"Must I not?" he asked, with a sadly plaintive voice.
"No, my child. You invited her to share your prosperity, and would itbe just--"
"But, mother, if she wills it?"
"It is for you to give her back her troth, then leave it to time andher own heart."
"But if she love me, mother, she will not take back her troth. WouldI take back hers because she was in sorrow?"
"Men and women, Herbert, are different. The oak cares not whether thecreeper which hangs to it be weak or strong. If it be weak the oakcan give it strength. But the staff which has to support the creepermust needs have strength of its own."
He made no further answer to her, but understood that he must do asshe bade him. He understood now also, without many arguments withinhimself, that he had no right to expect from Clara Desmond thatadherence to him and his misfortunes which he would have owed to herhad she been unfortunate. He understood this now; but still he hoped."Two hearts that have once become as one cannot be separated," hesaid to himself that night, as he resolved that it was his duty towrite to her, unconditionally returning to her her pledges.
"But, Herbert, what a state you are in!" said Lady Fitzgerald, asthe flame of the coal glimmering out, threw a faint light upon hisclothes.
"Yes, mother; I have been walking."
"And you are wet!"
"I am nearly dry now. I was wet. But, mother, I am tired and fagged.It would do me good if I could get a glass of wine."
She rang the bell, and gave her orders calmly--though every servantin the house now knew the whole truth,--and then lit a candleherself, and looked at him. "My child, what have you done toyourself? Oh, Herbert, you will be ill!" And then, with his arm roundher waist, she took him up to her own room, and sat by him while hetook off his muddy boots and clammy socks, and made him hot drinks,and tended him as she had done when he was a child. And yet shehad that day heard of her great ruin! With truth, indeed, had Mr.Prendergast said that she was made of more enduring material than SirThomas.
And she endeavoured to persuade him to go to his bed; but in this hewould not listen to her. He must, he said, see his father that night."You have been with him, mother, since--since--."
"Oh, yes; directly after Mr. Prendergast left me."
"Well?"
"He cried like a child, Herbert. We both sobbed together like twochildren. It was very piteous. But I think I left him better than hehas been. He knows now that those men cannot come again to harasshim."
Herbert gnashed his teeth, and clenched his fist as he thought ofthem; but he could not speak of them, or mention their name beforehis mother. What must her thoughts be, as she remembered that elderman and looked back to her early childhood!
"He is very weak," she went on to say: "almost helplessly weak now,and does not seem to think of leaving his bed. I have begged him tolet me send to Dublin for Sir Henry; but he says that nothing ailshim."
"And who is with him now, mother?"
"The girls are both there."
"And Mr. Prendergast?"
Lady Fitzgerald then explained to him, that Mr. Prendergast hadreturned to Dublin that afternoon, starting twenty-four hoursearlier than he intended,--or, at any rate, than he had said thathe intended. Having done his work there, he had felt that he wouldnow only be in the way. And, moreover, though his work was done atCastle Richmond, other work in the same matter had still to be donein England. Mr. Prendergast had very little doubt as to the truthof Mollett's story;--indeed we may say he had no doubt; otherwisehe would hardly have made it known to all that world round CastleRichmond. But nevertheless it behoved him thoroughly to sift thematter. He felt tolerably sure that he should find Mollett in London;and whether he did or no, he should be able to identify, or not toidentify, that scoundrel with the Mr. Talbot who had hired ChevyChase Lodge, in Dorsetshire, and who had undoubtedly married poorMary Wainwright.
"He left a kind message for you," said Lady Fitzgerald.--My readersmust excuse me if I still call her Lady Fi
tzgerald, for I cannotbring my pen to the use of any other name. And it was so also withthe dependents and neighbours of Castle Richmond, when the time camethat the poor lady felt that she was bound publicly to drop hertitle. It was not in her power to drop it; no effort that she couldmake would induce those around her to call her by another name.
"He bade me say," she continued, "that if your future course of lifeshould take you to London, you are to go to him, and look to him asanother father. He has no child of his own," he said, "and you shallbe to him as a son."
"I will be no one's son but yours,--yours and my father's," he said,again embracing her.
And then, when, under his mother's eye, he had eaten and drank andmade himself warm, he did go to his father and found both his sisterssitting there. They came and clustered round him, taking hold ofhis hands and looking up into his face, loving him, and pityinghim, and caressing him with their eyes; but standing there by theirfather's bed, they said little or nothing. Nor did Sir Thomas saymuch;--except this, indeed, that, just as Herbert was leaving him,he declared with a faint voice, that henceforth his son should bemaster of that house, and the disposer of that property--"As long asI live!" he exclaimed with his weak voice; "as long as I live!"
"No, father; not so."
"Yes, yes! as long as I live. It will be little that you will have,even so--very little. But so it shall be as long as I live."
Very little indeed, poor man, for, alas! his days were numbered.
And then, when Herbert left the room, Emmeline followed him. She hadever been his dearest sister, and now she longed to be with him thatshe might tell him how she loved him, and comfort him with her tears.And Clara too--Clara whom she had welcomed as a sister!--she mustlearn now how Clara would behave, for she had already made herselfsure that her brother had been at Desmond Court, the herald of hisown ruin.
"May I come with you, Herbert?" she asked, closing in round him andgetting under his arm. How could he refuse her? So they went togetherand sat over a fire in a small room that was sacred to her and hersister, and there, with many sobs on her part and much would-be bravecontempt of poverty on his, they talked over the altered world as itnow showed itself before them.
"And you did not see her?" she asked, when with many efforts she hadbrought the subject round to Clara Desmond and her brother's walk toDesmond Court.
"No; she left the room at my own bidding. I could not have told itmyself to her."
"And you cannot know then what she would say?"
"No, I cannot know what she would say; but I know now what I mustsay myself. All that is over, Emmeline. I cannot ask her to marry abeggar."
"Ask her; no! there will be no need of asking her; she has alreadygiven you her promise. You do not think that she will desert you? youdo not wish it?"
Herein were contained two distinct questions, the latter of whichHerbert did not care to answer. "I shall not call it desertion," hesaid; "indeed the proposal will come from me. I shall write to her,telling her that she need think about me no longer. Only that I am soweary I would do it now."
"And how will she answer you? If she is the Clara that I take herfor she will throw your proposal back into your face. She will tellyou that it is not in your power to reject her now. She will swearto you, that let your words be what they may, she will think ofyou--more now than she has ever thought in better days. She will tellyou of her love in words that she could not use before. I know shewill. I know that she is good, and true, and honest, and generous.Oh, I should die if I thought she were false! But, Herbert, I am surethat she is true. You can write your letter, and we shall see."
Herbert, with wise arguments learned from his mother, reasoned withhis sister, explaining to her that Clara was now by no means bound tocling to him; but as he spoke them his arm fastened itself closelyround his sister's waist, for the words which she uttered with somuch energy were comfortable to him.
And then, seated there, before he moved from the room, he made herbring him pens, ink, and paper, and he wrote his letter to ClaraDesmond. She would fain have stayed with him while he did so, sittingat his feet, and looking into his face, and trying to encourage hishope as to what Clara's answer might be; but this he would not allow;so she went again to her father's room, having succeeded in obtaininga promise that Clara's answer should be shown to her. And the letter,when it was written, copied, and recopied, ran as follows:--
Castle Richmond, ---- night.
My dearest Clara,--
It was with great difficulty that he could satisfy himself with that,or indeed with any other mode of commencement. In the short littlelove-notes which had hitherto gone from him, sent from house tohouse, he had written to her with appellations of endearment of hisown--as all lovers do; and as all lovers seem to think that no lovershave done before themselves--with appellations which are so sweet tothose who write, and so musical to those who read, but which soundso ludicrous when barbarously made public in hideous law courts bybrazen-browed lawyers with mercenary tongues. In this way only hadhe written, and each of these sweet silly songs of love had been asfull of honey as words could make it. But he had never yet written toher, on a full sheet of paper, a sensible positive letter containingthoughts and facts, as men do write to women and women also to men,when the lollypops and candied sugar-drops of early love have passedaway. Now he was to write his first serious letter to her,--andprobably his last,--and it was with difficulty that he could gethimself over the first three words; but there they were decided on atlast.
My dearest Clara,
Before you get this your mother will have told you all that which I could not bring myself to speak out yesterday, as long as you were in the room. I am sure you will understand now why I begged you to go away, and will not think the worse of me for doing so. You now know the whole truth, and I am sure that you will feel for us all here.
Having thought a good deal upon the matter, chiefly during my walk home from Desmond Court, and indeed since I have been at home, I have come to the resolution that everything between us must be over. It would be unmanly in me to wish to ruin you because I myself am ruined. Our engagement was, of course, made on the presumption that I should inherit my father's estate; as it is I shall not do so, and therefore I beg that you will regard that engagement as at an end. Of my own love for you I will say nothing. But I know that you have loved me truly, and that all this, therefore, will cause you great grief. It is better, however, that it should be so, than that I should seek to hold you to a promise which was made under such different circumstances.
You will, of course, show this letter to your mother. She, at any rate, will approve of what I am now doing; and so will you when you allow yourself to consider it calmly.
We have not known each other so long that there is much for us to give back to each other. If you do not think it wrong I should like still to keep that lock of your hair, to remind me of my first love--and, as I think, my only one. And you, I hope, will not be afraid to have near you the one little present that I made you.
And now, dearest Clara, good-bye. Let us always think, each of the other, as of a very dear friend. May God bless you, and preserve you, and make you happy.
Yours, with sincere affection,
HERBERT FITZGERALD.
This, when at last he had succeeded in writing it, he read over andover again; but on each occasion he said to himself that it wascold and passionless, stilted and unmeaning. It by no means pleasedhim, and seemed as though it could bring but one answer--a coldacquiescence in the proposal which he so coldly made. But yet he knewnot how to improve it. And after all it was a true exposition ofthat which he had determined to say. All the world--her world andhis world--would think it better that they should part; and let thestruggle cost him what it would, he would teach himself to wishthat it might be so--if not for his own sake, then for hers. So hefastened the letter, and taking it with him determined to send itover, so that i
t should reach Clara quite early on the followingmorning.
And then having once more visited his father, and once more kissedhis mother, he betook himself to bed. It had been with him one ofthose days which seem to pass away without reference to usual hoursand periods. It had been long dark, and he seemed to have beenhanging about the house, doing nothing and aiding nobody, till hewas weary of himself. So he went off to bed, almost wondering, as hebethought himself of what had happened to him within the last twodays, that he was able to bear the burden of his life so easily as hedid. He betook himself to bed; and with the letter close at his hand,so that he might despatch it when he awoke, he was soon asleep. Afterall, that walk, terrible as it had been, was in the end serviceableto him.
He slept without waking till the light of the February morning wasbeginning to dawn into his room, and then he was roused by a servantknocking at the door. It was grievous enough, that awaking to hissorrow after the pleasant dreams of the night.
"Here is a letter, Mr. Herbert, from Desmond Court," said Richard."The boy as brought it says as how--"
"A letter from Desmond Court," said Herbert, putting out his handgreedily.
"Yes, Mr. Herbert. The boy's been here this hour and better. I warn'tjust up and about myself, or I wouldn't have let 'em keep it fromyou, not half a minute."
"And where is he? I have a letter to send to Desmond Court. But nevermind. Perhaps--"
"It's no good minding, for the gossoon's gone back any ways." Andthen Richard, having drawn the blind, and placed a little table bythe bed-head, left his young master to read the despatch from DesmondCourt. Herbert, till he saw the writing, feared that it was from thecountess; but the letter was from Clara. She also had thought good towrite before she betook herself to bed, and she had been earlier indespatching her messenger. Here is her letter:
Dear Herbert, my own Herbert,
I have heard it all. But remember this; nothing, nothing, _nothing_ can make any change between you and me. I will hear of no arguments that are to separate us. I know beforehand what you will say, but I will not regard it--not in the least. I love you ten times the more for all your unhappiness; and as I would have shared your good fortune, I claim my right to share your bad fortune. _Pray believe me_, that nothing shall turn me from this; for I will _not be given up_.
Give my kindest love to your dear, dear, dearest mother--my mother, as she is and must be; and to my darling girls. I do so wish I could be with them, and with you, my own Herbert. I cannot help writing in confusion, but I will explain all when I see you. I have been so unhappy.
Your own faithful
CLARA.
Having read this, Herbert Fitzgerald, in spite of his affliction, wascomforted.
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