Castle Richmond Part 47

"Mr. Fitzgerald," continued the lawyer, "I do not know how far you may 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 been married before she met Sir Thomas.

"I do not know that I need recount all the circ.u.mstances to you now, though doubtless you will learn them. Your mother's conduct throughout was, I believe, admirable."

"I am quite sure of that. No amount of evidence could make me believe the contrary."

"And there is no t.i.ttle of evidence to make any one think so. But in her early youth, when she was quite a child, she was given in marriage to a man--to a man of whom it is impossible to speak in terms too black, or in language too strong. And now, this day--"

But here he paused. It had been his intention to say that that very man, the first husband of this loved mother now looked upon as dead for so many years, this miscreant of whom he had spoken--that this man had been in that room that very day. But he hardly knew how to frame the words.

"Well," said Herbert, "well;" and he spoke in a hoa.r.s.e voice that was scarcely audible.

Mr. Prendergast was afraid to bring out the very pith of his story in so abrupt a manner. He wished to have the work over, to feel, that as regarded Herbert it was done,--but his heart failed him when he came to it.

"Yes," he said, going back as it were to his former thoughts. "A heartless, cruel, debauched, unscrupulous man; one in whose bosom no good thing seemed to have been implanted. Your father, when he first knew your mother, had every reason to believe that this man was dead."

"And he was not dead?" Mr. Prendergast could see that the young man's face became perfectly pale as he uttered these words. He became pale, and clutched hold of the table with his hand, and there sat with mouth 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 by the arm. "My dear boy, my dear boy, I am obliged to tell you. It is necessary that you should know it. The fact is as I say, and it is now 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 be brave. A man, we may almost say, is no man, whose own individual sufferings call for the exercise of much courage. But we are all so mixed up and conjoined with others--with others who are weaker and dearer than ourselves, that great sorrows do require great powers of endurance.

By degrees, as he stood there in silence, the whole truth made its way into his mind,--as he stood there with his arm still tenderly pressed by that old man. No one now would have called the lawyer stern in looking at him, for the tears were coursing down his cheeks.

But no tears came to the relief of young Fitzgerald as the truth slowly came upon him, fold by fold, black cloud upon cloud, till the whole horizon of his life's prospect was dark as death. He stood there silent for some few minutes hardly conscious that he was not alone, as he saw all his joys disappearing from before his mind's eye, one by one; his family pride, the pleasant high-toned duties of his station, his promised seat in Parliament and prosperous ambition, the full respect of all the world around him, his wealth and pride of place--for let no man be credited who boasts that he can part with these without regret. All these were gone. But there were losses more bitter than these. How could he think of his affianced bride? and how could 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 agony that it was terrible to be seen. Mr. Prendergast could stand that silence no longer, so at last he spoke. He spoke,--for the sake of words; for all his tale had been told.

"You saw the man that was here yesterday? That was he, who then called 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 him believe that his mother had been in any way culpable: and such probably was the case. He had that reliance on his mother--that a.s.surance in his mind that everything coming from her must be good--that he could not believe her capable of ill. But, nevertheless, he could not prevent himself from asking within his own breast, how it had been possible that his mother should ever have been concerned with such a wretch as that. It was a question which could not fail to make itself audible. What being on earth was sweeter than his mother, more excellent, more n.o.ble, more fitted for the world's high places, more absolutely ent.i.tled to that universal respect which seemed to be given to her as her own by right? And what being 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 of verisimilitude which almost gave him comfort,--which almost taught him 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 make in men and women--for better as well as for worse. Circ.u.mstances had given to the poor half-educated village girl the simple dignity of high station; as circ.u.mstances had also brought to the lowest dregs of human existence the man, whose personal bearing, and apparent worldly standing had been held sufficient to give warrant that he was of gentle breeding and of honest standing; nay, her good fortune in such a marriage had once been almost begrudged her by all her maiden neighbours.

But Herbert, as he thought of this, was almost encouraged to disbelieve the story. To him, with his knowledge of what his mother was, and such knowledge as he also had of that man, it did not seem possible. "But how is all this known?" he muttered forth at last.

"I fear there is no doubt of its truth," said Mr. Prendergast. "Your father has no doubt whatever; has had none--I must tell you this plainly--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 thought that by payments of money to this man the whole thing might be concealed. As is always the case when such payments are made, the insatiable love of money grew by what it fed on. He would have poured out every s.h.i.+lling into that man's hands, and would have died, himself a beggar--have died speedily too under such torments--and yet no good would have been done. The harpy would have come upon you; and you--after you had innocently a.s.sumed a t.i.tle that was not your own and taken a property to which you have no right, you then would have had 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--in such matters we can only sail safely by the truth. There is no other compa.s.s worth a man's while to look at."

"Of course not," said Herbert, with hoa.r.s.e voice. "One does not wish to 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 on that very day. "But why did he not tell me when I spoke to him of her?" he said, with something approaching to bitterness in his voice and a slight struggle in his throat that was almost premonitory of a sob.

"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 endured till he is now almost past the power of suffering more. And yet there is so much more that he must suffer!"

"My poor father!"

"Think what such as he must have gone through in bringing himself into contact with that man; and all this has been done that he might spare you and your mother. Think of the wound to his conscience before he would have lowered himself to an unworthy bargain with a swindler. But this has been done that you might have that which you have been taught to look on as your own. He has been wrong. No other verdict can be given. But you, at any rate, can be tender to such a fault; you and your mother."

"I will--I will," said Herbert. "But if it had happened a month since I could have borne it." And then he thought of his mother, and hated himself for what he had said. How could he have borne that with patience? "And there is no doubt, you say?"

"I think none. The man carries his proofs with him. An old servant here in the house, too, knows him."

"What, Mrs. Jones?"

"Yes; Mrs. Jones. And the burden of further proof must now, of course, be thrown on us,--not on him. Directly that we believe the statement, it is for us to ascertain its truth. You and your father must 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; and then we must together openly prove the facts, either in one way or in the other. It will be better that we should do this together;--that is, you and your cousin Owen conjointly. Do it openly, before the world,--so that the world may know that each of you desires only what is honestly his own. For myself I tell you fairly that I have no doubt of the truth of what I have told you; but further proof is certainly needed. Had I any doubt I would not propose to tell your mother. As it is I think it will be wrong to keep her longer in the dark."

"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 the truth,--very vaguely, with an indefinite feeling that the calamity which weighs so heavily on your father, has come from this source.

She, dear lady, is greatly to be pitied. But G.o.d has made her of firmer material than your father, and I think that she will bear her sorrow 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 tell her we must attempt to conceal it, and that attempt must needs be futile when we are engaged in making open inquiry on the subject.