Castle Richmond Part 17

Lady Clara was quite firm about going, and, therefore, at about twelve she was sent. I should say taken, for Emmeline insisted on going with her in the carriage. Herbert would have gone also, but he felt that he ought not to leave Castle Richmond that day, on account of his father. But he would certainly ride over, he said, and learn how her arm was the next morning.

"And about Clady, you know," said Clara.

"I will go on to Clady also. I did send a man there yesterday to see about the flue. It's the flue that's wrong, I know."

"Oh, thank you; I am so much obliged to you," said Clara. And then the carriage drove off, and Herbert returned into the morning sitting-room with his sister Mary.

"I'll tell you what it is, Master Herbert," said Mary.

"Well--what is it?"

"You are going to fall in love with her young ladys.h.i.+p."

"Am I? Is that all you know about it? And who are you going to fall in love with pray?"

"Oh! his young lords.h.i.+p, perhaps; only he ought to be about ten years older, so that I'm afraid that wouldn't do. But Clara is just the age for you. It really seems as though it were all prepared ready to your hand."

"You girls always do think that those things are ready prepared;"

and so saying, Herbert walked off with great manly dignity to some retreat among his own books and papers, there to meditate whether this thing were in truth prepared for him. It certainly was the fact that the house did seem very blank to him now that Clara was gone; and that he looked forward with impatience to the visit which it was so necessary that he should make on the following day to Clady.

The house at Castle Richmond was very silent and quiet that day. When Emmeline came back, she and her sister remained together. Nothing had been said to them about Mollett's visit, and they had no other idea than that this lowness of spirits on their father's part, to which they had gradually become accustomed, had become worse and more dangerous to his health than ever.

Aunt Letty talked much about it to Herbert, to Lady Fitzgerald, to Jones, and to her brother, and was quite certain that she had penetrated to the depth of the whole matter. That nasty city property, she said, which had come with her grandmother, had always given the family more trouble than it was worth. Indeed, her grandmother had been a very troublesome woman altogether; and no wonder, for though she was a Protestant herself, she had had Papist relations in Lancas.h.i.+re. She distinctly remembered to have heard that there was some flaw in the t.i.tle of that property, and she knew that it was very hard to get some of the tenants to pay any rent. That she had always heard. She was quite sure that this man was some person laying a claim to it, and threatening to prosecute his claim at law.

It was a thousand pities that her brother should allow such a trifle as this,--for after all it was but a trifle, to fret his spirits and worry him in this way. But it was the wretched state of his health: were he once himself again, all such annoyances as that would pa.s.s him by like the wind.

It must be acknowledged that Aunt Letty's memory in this respect was not exactly correct; for, as it happened, Sir Thomas held his little property in the city of London by as firm a tenure as the laws and customs of his country could give him; and seeing that his income thence arising came from ground rents near the river, on which property stood worth some hundreds of thousands, it was not very probable that his tenants should be in arrear. But what she said had some effect upon Herbert. He was not quite sure whether this might not be the cause of his father's grief; and if the story did not have much effect upon Lady Fitzgerald, at any rate it did as well as any other to exercise the ingenuity and affection of Aunt Letty.

Sir Thomas pa.s.sed the whole of that day in his own room; but during a great portion of the day either his wife, or sister, or son was with him. They endeavoured not to leave him alone with his own thoughts, feeling conscious that something preyed upon his mind, though ignorant as to what that something might be.

He was quite aware of the nature of their thoughts; perfectly conscious of the judgment they had formed respecting him. He knew that he was subjecting himself, in the eyes not only of his own family but of all those around him, to suspicions which must be injurious to him, and yet he could not shake off the feeling that depressed him.

But at last he did resolve to make an attempt at doing so. For some time in the evening he was altogether alone, and he then strove to force his mind to work upon the matter which occupied it,--to arrange his ideas, and bring himself into a state in which he could make a resolution. For hours he had sat,--not thinking upon this subject, for thought is an exertion which requires a combination of ideas and results in the deducing of conclusions from premises; and no such effort as that had he hitherto made,--but endeavouring to think while he allowed the matter of his grief to lie ever before his mind's eye.

He had said to himself over and over again, that it behoved him to make some great effort to shake off this incubus that depressed him; but yet no such effort had hitherto been even attempted. Now at last he arose and shook himself, and promised to himself that he would be a man. It might be that the misfortune under which he groaned was heavy, but let one's sorrow be what it may, there is always a better and a worse way of meeting it. Let what trouble may fall on a man's shoulders, a man may always bear it manfully. And are not troubles when so borne half cured? It is the flinching from pain which makes pain so painful.

This truth came home to him as he sat there that day, thinking what he should do, endeavouring to think in what way he might best turn himself. But there was this that was especially grievous to him, that he had no friend whom he might consult in this matter. It was a sorrow, the cause of which he could not explain to his own family, and in all other troubles he had sought a.s.sistance and looked for counsel there and there only. He had had one best, steadiest, dearest, truest counsellor, and now it had come to pa.s.s that things were so placed that in this great trouble he could not go to her.

And now a friend was so necessary to him! He felt that he was not fit to judge how he himself should act in this terrible emergency; that it was absolutely necessary for him that he should allow himself to be guided by some one else. But to whom should he appeal?

"He is a cold man," said he to himself, as one name did occur to him, "very cold, almost unfeeling; but he is honest and just." And then again he sat and thought. "Yes, he is honest and just; and what should I want better than honesty and justice?" And then, shuddering as he resolved, he did resolve that he would send for this honest and just man. He would send for him; or, perhaps better still, go to him.

At any rate, he would tell him the whole truth of his grief, and then act as the cold, just man should bid him.

But he need not do this yet--not quite yet. So at least he said to himself, falsely. If a man decide with a fixed decision that his tooth should come out, or his leg be cut off, let the tooth come out or the leg be cut off on the earliest possible opportunity. It is the flinching from such pain that is so grievously painful.

But it was something to have brought his mind to bear with a fixed purpose upon these things, and to have resolved upon what he would do, though he still lacked strength to put his resolution immediately to the proof.

Then, later in the evening, his son came and sat with him, and he was able in some sort to declare that the worst of that evil day had pa.s.sed from him. "I shall breakfast with you all to-morrow," he said, and as he spoke a faint smile pa.s.sed across his face.

"Oh! I hope you will," said Herbert; "we shall be so delighted: but, father, do not exert yourself too soon."

"It will do me good, I think."

"I am sure it will, if the fatigue be not too much."

"The truth is, Herbert, I have allowed this feeling to grow upon me till I have become weak under it. I know that I ought to make an exertion to throw it off, and it is possible that I may succeed."

Herbert muttered some few hopeful words, but he found it very difficult to know what he ought to say. That his father had some secret he was quite sure; and it is hard to talk to a man about his secret, without knowing what that secret is.

"I have allowed myself to fall into a weak state," continued Sir Thomas, speaking slowly, "while by proper exertion I might have avoided it."

"You have been very ill, father," said Herbert.

"Yes, I have been ill, very ill, certainly. But I do not know that any doctor could have helped me."

"Father--"

"No, Herbert; do not ask me questions; do not inquire; at any rate, not at present. I will endeavour--now at least I will endeavour--to do my duty. But do not urge me by questions, or appear to notice me if I am infirm."

"But, father,--if we could comfort you?"

"Ah! if you could. But, never mind, I will endeavour to shake off this depression. And, Herbert, comfort your mother; do not let her think much of all this, if it can be helped."

"But how can it be helped?"

"And tell her this: there is a matter that troubles my mind."

"Is it about the property, father?"

"No--yes; it certainly is about the property in one sense."

"Then do not heed it; we shall none of us heed it. Who has so good a right to say so as I?"

"Bless you, my darling boy! But, Herbert, such things must be heeded--more or less, you know: but you may tell your mother this, and perhaps it may comfort her. I have made up my mind to go to London and to see Prendergast; I will explain the whole of this thing to him, and as he bids me so will I act."

This was thought to be satisfactory to a certain extent both by the mother and son. They would have been better pleased had he opened his heart to them and told them everything; but that it was clear he could not bring himself to do. This Mr. Prendergast they had heard was a good man; and in his present state it was better that he should seek counsel of any man than allow his sorrow to feed upon himself alone.

CHAPTER X.

THE RECTOR OF DRUMBARROW AND HIS WIFE.

Herbert Fitzgerald, in speaking of the Rev. aeneas Townsend to Lady Clara Desmond, had said that in his opinion the reverend gentleman was a good man, but a bad clergyman. But there were not a few in the county Cork who would have said just the reverse, and declared him to be a bad man, but a good clergyman. There were others, indeed, who knew him well, who would have declared him to be perfect in both respects, and others again who thought him in both respects to be very bad. Amidst these great diversities of opinion I will venture on none of my own, but will attempt to describe him.

In Ireland stanch Protestantism consists too much in a hatred of Papistry--in that rather than in a hatred of those errors against which we Protestants are supposed to protest. Hence the cross--which should, I presume, be the emblem of salvation to us all--creates a feeling of dismay and often of disgust instead of love and reverence; and the very name of a saint savours in Irish Protestant ears of idolatry, although Irish Protestants on every Sunday profess to believe in a communion of such. These are the feelings rather than the opinions of the most Protestant of Irish Protestants, and it is intelligible that they should have been produced by the close vicinity of Roman Catholic wors.h.i.+p in the minds of men who are energetic and excitable, but not always discreet or argumentative.

One of such was Mr. Townsend, and few men carried their Protestant fervour further than he did. A cross was to him what a red cloth is supposed to be to a bull; and so averse was he to the intercession of saints, that he always regarded as a wolf in sheep's clothing a certain English clergyman who had written to him a letter dated from the feast of St. Michael and All Angels. On this account Herbert Fitzgerald took upon himself to say that he regarded him as a bad clergyman: whereas, most of his Protestant neighbours looked upon this enthusiasm as his chief excellence.