CHAPTER XLIII.
PLAYING ROUNDERS.
My story is nearly at its close, and all readers will now know howit is to end. Those difficulties raised by Mr. Die were all made tovanish; and though he implored Mr. Prendergast over and over againto go about this business with a moderated eagerness, that gentlemanwould not consent to let any grass grow under his heels till he hadmade assurance doubly sure, and had seen Herbert Fitzgerald firmlyseated on his throne. All that the women in Spinny Lane had told himwas quite true. The register was found in the archives of the parishof Putney, and Mr. Prendergast was able to prove that Mr. MatthewMollett, now of Spinny Lane, and the Mr. Matthew Mollett thendesignated as of Newmarket in Cambridgeshire, were one and the sameperson; therefore Mr. Mollett's marriage with Miss Wainwright wasno marriage, and therefore, also, the marriage between Sir ThomasFitzgerald and that lady was a true marriage; all which things willnow be plain to any novel-reading capacity, mean as such capacity maybe in respect to legal law.
And I have only further to tell in respect to this part of my story,that the Molletts, both father and son, escaped all punishmentfor the frauds and villanies related in these pages--except suchpunishment as these frauds and villanies, acting by their own innatedestructive forces and poisons, brought down upon their unfortunateheads. For so allowing them to escape I shall be held by many tohave been deficient in sound teaching. "What!" men will say, "notpunish your evil principle! Allow the prevailing evil genius of yourbook to escape scot free, without administering any of that condignpunishment which it would have been so easy for you to allot to them!Had you not treadmills to your hand, and all manner of new prisondisciplines? Should not Matthew have repented in the sackcloth ofsolitary confinement, and Aby have munched and crunched between histeeth the bitter ashes of prison bread and water? Nay, for suchoffences as those did you wot of no penal settlements? Were notPortland and Spike Islands gaping for them? Had you no memory ofDartmoor and the Bermudas?"
Gentle readers, no; not in this instance shall Spike Island or theBermudas be asked to give us their assistance. There is a sackclothharsher to the skin than that of the penal settlement, and ashes morebitter in the crunching than convict rations. It would be sad indeedif we thought that those rascals who escape the law escape also thejust reward of their rascality. May it not rather be believed thatthe whole life of the professional rascal is one long wretchedpunishment, to which, if he could but know it, the rations andcomparative innocence of Bermuda would be so preferable? Is he notalways rolling the stone of Sysiphus, gyrating on the wheel of Ixion,hankering after the waters of Tantalus, filling the sieves of thedaughters of Danaus? He pours into his sieve stolen corn beyondmeasure, but no grain will stay there. He lifts to his lips richcups, but Rhadamanthus the policeman allows him no moment for adraught. The wheel of justice is ever going, while his poor hanginghead is in a whirl. The stone which he rolls never perches for amoment at the top of the hill, for the trade which he follows admitsof no rest. Have I not said truly that he is hunted like a fox,driven from covert to covert with his poor empty craving belly?prowling about through the wet night, he returns with his prey, andfinds that he is shut out from his lair; his bloodshot eye is everover his shoulder, and his advanced foot is ever ready for a start;he stinks in the nostrils of the hounds of the law, and is held byall men to be vermin.
One would say that the rascal, if he but knew the truth, wouldlook forward to Spike Island and the Bermudas with impatience andraptures. The cold, hungry, friendless, solitary doom of unconvictedrascaldom has ever seemed to me to be the most wretched phase ofhuman existence,--that phase of living in which the liver can trustno one, and be trusted by none; in which the heart is ever quailingat the policeman's hat, and the eye ever shrinking from thepoliceman's gaze. The convict does trust his gaoler, at any rate hismaster gaoler, and in so doing is not all wretched. It is Bill Sikesbefore conviction that I have ever pitied. Any man can endure to behanged; but how can any man have taken that Bill Sikes' walk and havelived through it?
To such punishments will we leave the Molletts, hoping of the elderone, that under the care of those ministering angels in Spinny Lane,his heart may yet be softened; hoping also for the younger one thatsome ministering angel may be appointed also for his aid. 'Tis agrievous piece of work though, that of a ministering angel to such asoul as his. And now, having seen them so far on their mortal career,we will take our leave of both of them.
Mr. Prendergast's object in sparing them was of course that of savingLady Fitzgerald from the terrible pain of having her name broughtforward at any trial. She never spoke of this, even to Herbert,allowing those in whom she trusted to manage those things for herwithout an expression of anxiety on her own part; but she was not theless thankful when she found that no public notice was to be taken ofthe matter.
Very shortly after Herbert's return to Castle Richmond, it wasnotified to him that he need have no fear as to his inheritance; andit was so notified with the great additional comfort of an assuringopinion from Mr. Die. He then openly called himself Sir Herbert, tookupon himself the property which became his by right of the entail,and issued orders for the preparation of his marriage settlement.During this period he saw Owen Fitzgerald; but he did so in thepresence of Mr. Somers, and not a word was then said about LadyClara Desmond. Both the gentlemen, Herbert and Mr. Somers, cordiallythanked the master of Hap House for the way in which he had behavedto the Castle Richmond family, and in reference to the CastleRichmond property during the terrible events of the last two months;but Owen took their thanks somewhat haughtily. He shook hands warmlyenough with his cousin, wishing him joy on the arrangement of hisaffairs, and was at first less distant than usual with Mr. Somers;but when they alluded to his own conduct, and expressed theirgratitude, he declared that he had done nothing for which thanks weredue, and that he begged it to be understood that he laid claim to nogratitude. Had he acted otherwise, he said, he would have deserved tobe kicked out of the presence of all honest men; and to be thankedfor the ordinary conduct of a gentleman was almost an insult. This hesaid looking chiefly at Mr. Somers, and then turning to his cousin,he asked him if he intended to remain in the country.
"Oh, certainly," said Herbert.
"I shall not," said Owen; "and if you know any one who will take alease of Hap House for ten or twelve years, I shall be glad to find atenant."
"And you, where are you going?"
"To Africa in the first instance," said he; "there seems to be somegood hunting there, and I think that I shall try it."
The new tidings were not long in reaching Desmond Court, and thecountess was all alone when she first heard them. With very greatdifficulty, taking as it were the bit between her teeth, Clara hadmanaged to get over to Castle Richmond that she might pay a lastvisit to the Fitzgerald girls. At this time Lady Desmond's mind wasin a terribly distracted state. The rumour was rife about the countrythat Owen had refused to accept the property; and the countessherself had of course been made aware that he had so refused. But shewas too keenly awake to the affairs of the world to suppose that sucha refusal could continue long in force; neither, as she knew well,could Herbert accept of that which was offered to him. It might bethat for some years to come the property might be unenjoyed; the richfruit might fall rotten from the wall; but what would that avail toher or to her child? Herbert would still be a nameless man, and couldnever be master of Castle Richmond.
Nevertheless Clara carried her point, and went over to her friends,leaving the countess all alone. She had now permitted her son toreturn to Eton, finding that he was powerless to aid her. The youngearl was quite willing that his sister should marry Owen Fitzgerald;but he was not willing to use any power of persuasion that he mighthave, in what his mother considered a useful or legitimate manner.He talked of rewarding Owen for his generosity; but Clara would havenothing to do either with the generosity or with the reward. And soLady Desmond was left alone, hearing that even Owen, Owen himself,had now given up the quest, and feeling that it w
as useless to haveany further hope. "She will make her own bed," the countess said toherself, "and she must lie on it."
And then came this rumour that after all Herbert was to be the man.It first reached her ears about the same time that Herbert arrived athis own house, but it did so in such a manner as to make but littleimpression at the moment. Lady Desmond had but few gossips, and ina general way heard but little of what was doing in the country.On this occasion the Caleb Balderston of her house came in, makingstately bows to his mistress, and with low voice, and eyes wideopen, told her what a gossoon running over from Castle Richmond hadreported in the kitchen of Desmond Court. "At any rate, my lady,Mr. Herbert is expected this evening at the house;" and then CalebBalderston, bowing stately again, left the room. This did not makemuch impression, but it made some.
And then on the following day Clara wrote to her: this she did afterdeep consideration and much consultation with her friends. It wouldbe unkind, they argued, to leave Lady Desmond in ignorance on sucha subject; and therefore a note was written very guardedly, thejoint production of the three, in which, with the expression of manydoubts, it was told that perhaps after all Herbert might yet be theman. But even then the countess did not believe it.
But during the next week the rumour became a fact through thecountry, and everybody knew, even the Countess of Desmond, that allthat family history was again changed. Lady Fitzgerald, whom they hadall known, was Lady Fitzgerald still, and Herbert was once more onhis throne. When rumours thus became a fact, there was no longer anydoubt about the matter. The countryside did not say that, "perhapsafter all so and so would go in such and such a way," or that "legaldoubts having been entertained, the gentlemen of the long robe wereabout to do this and that." By the end of the first week the affairwas as surely settled in county Cork as though the line of theFitzgeralds had never been disturbed; and Sir Herbert was fullyseated on his throne.
It was well then for poor Owen that he had never assumed the regaliaof royalty: had he done so his fall would have been very dreadful; asit was, not only were all those pangs spared to him, but he achievedat once an immense popularity through the whole country. Everybodycalled him poor Owen, and declared how well he had behaved. Someexpressed almost a regret that his generosity should go unrewarded,and others went so far as to give him his reward: he was tomarry Emmeline Fitzgerald, they said at the clubs in Cork, and aconsiderable slice of the property was destined to give additionalcharms to the young lady's hand and heart. For a month or so OwenFitzgerald was the most popular man in the south of Ireland; that is,as far as a man can be popular who never shows himself.
And the countess had to answer her daughter's letter. "If this beso," she said, "of course I shall be well pleased. My anxiety hasbeen only for your welfare, to further which I have been willing tomake any possible sacrifice." Clara when she read this did not knowwhat sacrifice had been made, nor had the countess thought as shewrote the words what had been the sacrifice to which she had thusalluded, though her heart was ever conscious of it, unconsciously.And the countess sent her love to them all at Castle Richmond. "Shedid not fear," she said, "that they would misinterpret her. LadyFitzgerald, she was sure, would perfectly understand that she hadendeavoured to do her duty by her child." It was by no means abad letter, and, which was better, was in the main a true letter.According to her light she had striven to do her duty, and herconduct was not misjudged, at any rate at Castle Richmond.
"You must not think harshly of mamma," said Clara to her futuremother-in-law.
"Oh no," said Lady Fitzgerald. "I certainly do not think harshly ofher. In her position I should probably have acted as she has done."The difference, however, between them was this, that it was allbut impossible that Lady Fitzgerald should not sympathize with herchildren, while it was almost impossible that the Countess of Desmondshould do so.
And so Lady Desmond remained all alone at Desmond Court, broodingover the things as they now were. For the present it was better thatClara should remain at Castle Richmond, and nothing therefore wassaid of her return on either side. She could not add to her mother'scomfort at home, and why should she not remain happy where she was?She was already a Fitzgerald in heart rather than a Desmond; andwas it not well that she should be so? If she could love HerbertFitzgerald, that was well also. Since the day on which he hadappeared at Desmond Court, wet and dirty and wretched, with a brokenspirit and fortunes as draggled as his dress, he had lost all claimto be a hero in the estimation of Lady Desmond. To her those onlywere heroes whose pride and spirit were never draggled; and such ahero there still was in her close neighbourhood.
Lady Desmond herself was a woman of a mercenary spirit; so at leastit will be said and thought of her. But she was not altogether so,although the two facts were strong against her that she had soldherself for a title, and had been willing to sell her daughter fora fortune. Poverty she herself had endured upon the whole withpatience; and though she hated and scorned it from her very soul, shewould now have given herself in marriage to a poor man without rankor station,--she, a countess, and the mother of an earl; and thatshe would have done with all the romantic love of a girl of sixteen,though she was now a woman verging upon forty!
Men and women only know so much of themselves and others ascircumstances and their destiny have allowed to appear. Had itperchance fallen to thy lot, O my forensic friend, heavy ladenwith the wisdom of the law, to write tales such as this of mine,how charmingly might not thy characters have come forth upon thecanvas--how much more charmingly than I can limn them! While, on theother hand, ignorant as thou now tellest me that I am of the veryalphabet of the courts, had thy wig been allotted to me, I might havegathered guineas thick as daisies in summer, while to thee perhapsthey come no faster than snow-drops in the early spring. It is allin our destiny. Chance had thrown that terrible earl in the way ofthe poor girl in her early youth, and she had married him. She hadmarried him, and all idea of love had flown from her heart. All ideaof love, but not all the capacity--as now within this last year ortwo she had learned, so much to her cost.
Long months had passed since she had first owned this to herself,since she had dared to tell herself that it was possible even for herto begin the world again, and to play the game which women love toplay, once at least before they die. She could have worshipped thisman, and sat at his feet, and endowed him in her heart with heroism,and given him her soft brown hair to play with when it suited herHercules to rest from his labours. She could have forgotten heryears, and have forgotten too the children who had now grown up toseize the world from beneath her feet--to seize it before she herselfhad enjoyed it. She could have forgotten all that was past, and havebeen every whit as young as her own daughter. If only--!
It is so, I believe, with most of us who have begun to turn the hill.I myself could go on to that common that is at this moment before me,and join that game of rounders with the most intense delight. "ByGeorge! you fellow, you've no eyes; didn't you see that he hadn'tput his foot in the hole. He'll get back now that long-backed,hard-hitting chap, and your side is done for the next half-hour!" Butthen they would all be awestruck for a while; and after that, whenthey grew to be familiar with me, they would laugh at me becauseI loomed large in my running, and returned to my ground scant ofbreath. Alas, alas! I know that it would not do. So I pass by,imperious in my heavy manhood, and one of the lads respectfullyabstains from me though the ball is under my very feet.
But then I have had my game of rounders. No horrible old earl withgloating eyes carried me off in my childhood and robbed me of thepleasure of my youth. That part of my cake has been eaten, and, inspite of some occasional headache, has been digested not altogetherunsatisfactorily. Lady Desmond had as yet been allowed no slice ofher cake. She had never yet taken her side in any game of rounders.But she too had looked on and seen how jocund was the play; she alsohad acknowledged that that running in the ring, that stout hitting ofthe ball, that innocent craft, that bringing back by her own skilland with her own hand of some long-back
ed fellow, would be pleasantto her as well as to others. If only she now could be chosen in atthat game! But what if the side that she cared for would not haveher?
But _tempus edax rerum_, though it had hardly nibbled at her heart orwishes, had been feeding on the freshness of her brow and the bloomof her lips. The child with whom she would have loved to play keptaloof from her too, and would not pick up the ball when it rolledto his feet. All this, if one thinks of it, is hard to bear. It isvery hard to have had no period for rounders, not to be able even tolook back to one's games, and to talk of them to one's old comrades!"But why then did she allow herself to be carried off by the wickedwrinkled earl with the gloating eyes?" asks of me the prettiest girlin the world, just turned eighteen. Oh heavens! Is it not possiblethat one should have one more game of rounders? Quite impossible, Omy fat friend! And therefore I answer the young lady somewhat grimly."Take care that thou also art not carried off by a wrinkled earl. Isthy heart free from all vanity? Of what nature is the heroism thatthou worshippest?" "A nice young man!" she says, boldly, though inwords somewhat different. "If so it will be well for thee; but did Inot see thine eyes hankering the other day after the precious stonesof Ophir, and thy mouth watering for the flesh-pots of Egypt? WasI not watching thee as thou sattest at that counter, so frightfullyintent? Beware!" "The grumpy old fellow with the bald head!" she saidshortly afterwards to her bosom friend, not careful that her wordsshould be duly inaudible.
Some idea that all was not yet over with her had come upon her poorheart,--upon Lady Desmond's heart, soon after Owen Fitzgerald hadmade himself familiar in her old mansion. We have read how that ideawas banished, and how she had ultimately resolved that that man whomshe could have loved herself should be given up to her own child whenshe thought that he was no longer poor and of low rank. She could notsympathize with her daughter,--love with her love, and rejoice withher joy; but she could do her duty by her, and according to herlights she endeavoured so to do.
But now again all was turned and changed and altered. Owen of HapHouse was once more Owen of Hap House only, but still in her eyesheroic, as it behoved a man to be. He would not creep about thecountry with moaning voice and melancholy eyes, with draggled dressand outward signs of wretchedness. He might be wretched, but he wouldstill be manly. Could it be possible that to her should yet be giventhe privilege of soothing that noble, unbending wretchedness? By nomeans possible, poor, heart-laden countess; thy years are all againstthee. Girls whose mouths will water unduly for the flesh-pots ofEgypt must in after life undergo such penalties as these. Art thounot a countess?
But not so did she answer herself. Might it not be possible? Ah,might it not be possible? And as the question was even then beingasked, perhaps for the ten thousandth time, Owen Fitzgerald stoodbefore her. She had not yet seen him since the new news had goneabroad, and had hardly yet conceived how it might be possible thatshe should do so. But now as she thought of him there he was. Theytwo were together,--alone together; and the door by which he hadentered had closed upon him before she was aware of his presence.
"Owen Fitzgerald!" she said, starting up and giving him both herhands. This she did, not of judgment, nor yet from passion, but ofimpulse. She had been thinking of him with such kindly thoughts,and now he was there it became natural that her greeting should bekindly. It was more so than it had ever been to any but her son sincethe wrinkled, gloating earl had come and fetched her.
"Yes, Owen Fitzgerald," said he, taking the two hands that wereoffered to him, and holding them awhile; not pressing them as a manwho loved her, who could have loved her, would have done. "After allthat has gone and passed between us, Lady Desmond, I cannot leave thecountry without saying one word of farewell to you."
"Leave the country!" she exclaimed. "And where are you going?"
As she looked into his face with her hands still in his,--for she didnot on the moment withdraw them, she felt that he had never beforelooked so noble, so handsome, so grand. Leave the country! ah, yes;and why should not she leave it also? What was there to bind her tothose odious walls in which she had been immolated during the besthalf of her life?
"Where are you going?" she asked, looking almost wildly up at him.
"Somewhere very far a-field, Lady Desmond," he said; and then thehands dropped from him. "You will understand at any rate that HapHouse will not be a fitting residence for me."
"I hate the whole country," said she, "the whole place hereabouts.I have never been happy here. Happy! I have never been other thanunhappy. I have been wretched. What would I not give to leave italso?"
"To you it cannot be intolerable as it will be to me. You have knownso thoroughly where all my hopes were garnered, that I need not tellyou why I must go from Hap House. I think that I have been wronged,but I do not desire that others should think so. And as for you andme, Lady Desmond, though we have been enemies, we have been friendsalso."
"Enemies!" said she, "I hope not." And she spoke so softly, sounlike her usual self, in the tones so suited to a loving, clingingwoman, that though he did not understand it, he was startled ather tenderness. "I have never felt that you were my enemy, Mr.Fitzgerald; and certainly I never was an enemy to you."
"Well; we were opposed to each other. I thought that you were robbingme of all I valued in life; and you, you thought--"
"I thought that Clara's happiness demanded rank and wealth andposition. There; I tell you my sins fairly. You may say that I wasmercenary if you will,--mercenary for her. I thought that I knew whatwould be needful for her. Can you be angry with a mother for that?"
"She had given me a promise! But never mind. It is all over now. Idid not come to upbraid you, but to tell you that I now know how itmust be, and that I am going."
"Had you won her, Owen," said the countess, looking intently into hisface, "had you won her, she would not have made you happy."
"As to that it was for me to judge--for me and her. I thoughtit would, and was willing to peril all in the trial. And so wasshe--willing at one time. But never mind; it is useless to talk ofthat."
"Quite useless now."
"I did think--when it was as they said in my power to give him backhis own,--I did think;--but no, it would have been mean to look forpayment. It is all over, and I will say nothing further; not a word.I am not a girl to harp on such a thing day after day, and to growsick with love. I shall be better away. And therefore I am going, andI have now come to say good-bye, because we were friends in old days,Lady Desmond."
Friends in old days! They were old days to him, but they were no morethan the other day to her. It was as yet hardly more than two yearssince she had first known him, and yet he looked on the acquaintanceas one that had run out its time and required to be ended. She wouldso fain have been able to think that the beginning only had as yetcome to them. But there he was, anxious to bid her adieu, and whatwas she to say to him?
"Yes, we were friends. You have been my only friend here I think. Youwill hardly believe with how much true friendship I have thought ofyou when the feud between us--if it was a feud--was at the strongest.Owen Fitzgerald, I have loved you through it all."
Loved him? She was so handsome as she spoke, so womanly, so graceful,there was still about her so much of the charm of beauty, that hecould hardly take the word when coming from her mouth as applicableto ordinary friendship. And yet he did so take it. They had all lovedeach other--as friends should love--and now that he was going shehad chosen to say as much. He felt the blood tingle his cheek at thesound of her words; but he was not vain enough to take it in itsusual sense. "Then we will part as friends," said he--tamely enough.
"Yes, we will part," she said. And as she spoke the blood mantleddeep on her neck and cheek and forehead, and a spirit came out ofher eye, such as never had shone there before in his presence. "Yes,we will part," and she took up his right hand, and held it closely,pressed between both her own. "And as we must part I will tell youall. Owen Fitzgerald, I have loved you with all my heart,--with allthe love that a woman h
as to give. I have loved you, and have neverloved any other. Stop, stop," for he was going to interrupt her. "Youshall hear me now to the last,--and for the last time. I have lovedyou with such love--such love as you perhaps felt for her, but as shewill never feel. But you shall not say, nay you shall not think thatI have been selfish. I would have kept you from her when you werepoor as you are now,--not because I loved you. No; you will neverthink that of me. And when I thought that you were rich, and the headof your family, I did all that I could to bring her back for you. DidI not, Owen?"
"Yes, I think you did," he muttered between his teeth, hardly knowinghow to speak.
"Indeed, indeed I did so. Others may say that I was selfish for mychild, but you shall not think that I was selfish for myself. I sentfor Patrick, and bade him go to you. I strove as mothers do strivefor their children. I taught myself,--I strove to teach myself toforget that I had loved you. I swore on my knees that I would loveyou only as my son,--as my dear, dear son. Nay, Owen, I did; on myknees before my God."
He turned away from her to rub the tears from his eyes, and in doingso he dragged his hand away from her. But she followed him, and againtook it. "You will hear me to the end now," she said; "will you not?you will not begrudge me that? And then came these other tidings, andall that scheme was dashed to the ground. It was better so, Owen; youwould not have been happy with the property--"
"I should never have taken it."
"And she, she would have clung closer to him as a poor man than evershe had done when he was rich. She is her mother's daughter there.And then--then-- But I need not tell you more. You will know it allnow. If you had become rich, I would have ceased to love you; but Ishall never cease now that you are again poor,--now that you are Owenof Hap House again, as you sent us word yourself that day."
And then she ceased, and bending down her head bathed his hand withher tears. Had any one asked him that morning, he would have saidthat it was impossible that the Countess of Desmond should weep.And now the tears were streaming from her eyes as though she were abroken-hearted girl. And so she was. Her girlhood had been postponedand marred,--not destroyed and made away with, by the wrinkled earlwith the gloating eyes.
She had said all now, and she stood there, still holding his hand inhers, but with her head turned from him. It was his turn to speaknow, and how was he to answer her. I know how most men would haveanswered;--by the pressure of an arm, by a warm kiss, by a promiseof love, and by a feeling that such love was possible. And then mostmen would have gone home, leaving the woman triumphant, and haverepented bitterly as they sat moody over their own fires, with theirwine-bottles before them. But it was not so with Owen Fitzgerald.His heart was to him a reality. He had loved with all his power andstrength, with all the vigour of his soul,--having chosen to love.But he would not now be enticed by pity into a bastard feeling,which would die away when the tenderness of the moment was no longerpresent to his eye and touch. His love for Clara had been such thathe could not even say that he loved another.
"Dear Lady Desmond," he began.
"Ah, Owen; we are to part now, part for ever," she said; "speak to meonce in your life as though we were equal friends. Cannot you forgetfor one minute that I am Countess of Desmond?"
Mary, Countess of Desmond; such was her name and title. But so littlefamiliar had he been with the name by which he had never heard hercalled, that in his confusion he could not remember it. And had hedone so, he could not have brought himself to use it. "Yes," he said;"we must part. It is impossible for me to remain here."
"Doubly impossible now," she replied, half reproaching him.
"Yes; doubly impossible now. Is it not better that the truth shouldbe spoken?"
"Oh, yes. I have spoken it--too plainly."
"And so will I speak it plainly. We cannot control our own hearts,Lady Desmond. It is, as you say, doubly impossible now. All the loveI have had to give she has had,--and has. Such being so, why should Istay here? or could you wish that I should do so?"
"I do not wish it." That was true enough. The wish would have been towander away with him.
"I must go, and shall start at once. My very things are packed for mygoing. I will not be here to have the sound of their marriage bellsjangling in my ears. I will not be pointed at as the man who has beenduped on every side."
"Ah me, that I was a man too,--that I could go away and make formyself a life!"
"You have Desmond with you."
"No, no. He will go too; of course he will go. He will go, and Ishall be utterly alone. What a fool I am,--what an ass, that by thistime I have not learned to bear it!"
"They will always be near you at Castle Richmond."
"Ah, Owen, how little you understand! Have we been friends while welived under the same roof? And now that she is there, do you thinkthat she will heed me? I tell you that you do not know her. She isexcellent, good, devoted; but cold as ice. She will live among thepoor, and grace his table; and he will have all that he wants. Intwelve months, Owen, she would have turned your heart to a stone."
"It is that already I think," said he. "At any rate, it will be so toall others. Good-bye, Lady Desmond."
"Good-bye, Owen; and God bless you. My secret will be safe with you."
"Safe! yes, it will be safe." And then, as she put her cheek up tohim, he kissed it and left her.
He had been very stern. She had laid bare to him her whole heart,and he had answered her love by never a word. He had made no replyin any shape,--given her no thanks for her heart's treasure. He hadresponded to her affection by no tenderness. He had not even saidthat this might have been so, had that other not have come to pass.By no word had he alluded to her confession,--but had regarded herdelusion as monstrous, a thing of which no word was to be spoken.
So at least said the countess to herself, sitting there all alonewhere he had left her. "He regards me as old and worn. In his eyesI am wrinkled and ugly." 'Twas thus that her thoughts expressedthemselves; and then she walked across the room towards the mirror,but when there she could not look in it: she turned her back uponit without a glance, and returned to her seat by the window. Whatmattered it now? It was her doom to live there alone for the term oflife with which it might still please God to afflict her.
And then looking out from the window her eyes fell upon Owen as herode slowly down across the park. His horse was walking very slowly,and it seemed as though he himself were unconscious of the pace.As long as he remained in sight she did not take her eyes from hisfigure, gazing at him painfully as he grew dimmer and more dim in thedistance. Then at last he turned behind the bushes near the lodge,and she felt that she was all alone. It was the last that she eversaw of Owen Fitzgerald.
Unfortunate girl, marred in thy childhood by that wrinkled earlwith the gloating eyes; or marred rather by thine own vanity! Thoseflesh-pots of Egypt! Are they not always thus bitter in the eating?
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