CHAPTER XXVI.
COMFORTLESS.
"But, Mr. Herbert, yer honor, you're wet through andthrough--surely," said the butler, as soon as Fitzgerald was wellinside the hall. Herbert muttered something about his being onlydamp, and that it did not signify. But it did signify,--verymuch,--in the butler's estimation. Whose being wet through couldsignify more; for was not Mr. Herbert to be a baronet, and to havethe spending of twelve thousand a year; and would he not be thefuture husband of Lady Clara? not signify indeed!
"An' shure, Mr. Herbert, you haven't walked to Desmond Court thisblessed morning. Tare an' ages! Well; there's no knowing what youyoung gentlemen won't do. But I'll see and get a pair of trousers ofmy Lord's ready for you in two minutes. Faix, and he's nearly as bigas yourself, now, Mr. Herbert."
But Herbert would hardly speak to him, and gave no assent whatever asto his proposition for borrowing the Earl's clothes. "I'll go in asI am," said he. And the old man looking into his face saw that therewas something wrong. "Shure an' he ain't going to sthrike off now,"said this Irish Caleb Balderstone to himself. He also as well as someothers about Desmond Court had feared greatly that Lady Clara wouldthrow herself away upon a poor lover.
It was now past noon, and Fitzgerald pressed forward into the roomin which Lady Clara usually sat. It was the same in which she hadreceived Owen's visit, and here of a morning she was usually to befound alone; but on this occasion when he opened the door he foundthat her mother was with her. Since the day on which Clara haddisposed of herself so excellently, the mother had spent more ofher time with her daughter. Looking at Clara now through HerbertFitzgerald's eyes, the Countess had began to confess to herself thather child did possess beauty and charm.
She got up to greet her future son-in-law with a sweet smile and thatcharming quiet welcome with which a woman so well knows how to makeher house pleasant to a man that is welcome to it. And Clara, notrising, but turning her head round and looking at him, greeted himalso. He came forward and took both their hands, and it was not tillhe had held Clara's for half a minute in his own that they both sawthat he was more than ordinarily serious. "I hope Sir Thomas is notworse," said Lady Desmond, with that voice of feigned interest whichis so common. After all, if anything should happen to the poor oldweak gentleman, might it not be as well?
"My father has not been very well these last two days," he said.
"I am so sorry," said Clara. "And your mother, Herbert?"
"But Herbert, how wet you are. You must have walked," said theCountess.
Herbert, in a few dull words said that he had walked. He had thoughtthat the walk would be good for him, and he had not expected that itwould be so wet. And then Lady Desmond, looking carefully into hisface, saw that in truth he was very serious;--so much so that sheknew that he had come there on account of his seriousness. But stillhis sorrow did not in any degree go to her heart. He was grievingdoubtless for his father,--or his mother. The house at CastleRichmond was probably sad, because sickness and fear of death werethere;--nay perhaps death itself now hanging over some loved head.But what was this to her? She had had her own sorrows;--enough ofthem perhaps to account for her being selfish. So with a solemn face,but with nothing amiss about her heart, she again asked for tidingsfrom Castle Richmond.
"Do tell us," said Clara, getting up. "I am afraid Sir Thomas is veryill." The old baronet had been kind to her, and she did regard him.To her it was a sorrow to think that there should be any sorrow atCastle Richmond.
"Yes; he is ill," said Herbert. "We have had a gentleman from Londonwith us for the last few days--a friend of my father's. His name isMr. Prendergast."
"Is he a doctor?" asked the Countess.
"No, not a doctor," said Herbert. "He is a lawyer."
It was very hard for him to begin his story; and perhaps the more soin that he was wet through and covered with mud. He now felt cold andclammy, and began to have an idea that he should not be seated therein that room in such a guise. Clara, too, had instinctively learnedfrom his face, and tone, and general bearing that something truly wasthe matter. At other times when he had been there, since that day onwhich he had been accepted, he had been completely master of himself.Perhaps it had almost been deemed a fault in him that he had had noneof the timidity or hesitation of a lover. He had seemed to feel, nodoubt, that he, with his fortune and position at his back, need feelno scruple in accepting as his own the fair hand for which he hadasked. But now--nothing could be more different from this than hismanner was now.
Lady Desmond was now surprised, though probably not as yetfrightened. Why should a lawyer have come from London to visit SirThomas at a period of such illness? and why should Herbert havewalked over to Desmond Court to tell them of this illness? There mustbe something in this lawyer's coming which was intended to bear insome way on her daughter's marriage. "But, Herbert," she said, "youare quite wet. Will you not put on some of Patrick's things?"
"No, thank you," said he; "I shall not stay long. I shall soon havesaid what I have got to say."
"But do, Herbert," said Clara. "I cannot bear to see you souncomfortable. And then you will not be in such a hurry to go back."
"Ill as my father is," said he, "I cannot stay long; but I havethought it my duty to come over and tell you--tell you what hashappened at Castle Richmond."
And now the countess was frightened. There was that in Herbert's toneof voice and the form of his countenance which was enough to frightenany woman. What had happened at Castle Richmond? what could havehappened there to make necessary the presence of a lawyer, and at thesame time thus to sadden her future son-in-law? And Clara also wasfrightened, though she knew not why. His manner was so different fromthat which was usual; he was so cold, and serious, and awe-struck,that she could not but be unhappy.
"And what is it?" said the Countess.
Herbert then sat for a few minutes silent, thinking how best heshould tell them his story. He had been all the morning resolving totell it, but he had in nowise as yet fixed upon any method. It wasall so terribly tragic, so frightful in the extent of its reality,that he hardly knew how it would be possible for him to get throughhis task.
"I hope that no misfortune has come upon any of the family," saidLady Desmond, now beginning to think that there might be misfortuneswhich would affect her own daughter more nearly than the illnesseither of the baronet or of his wife.
"Oh, I hope not!" said Clara, getting up and clasping her hands."What is it, Herbert? why don't you speak?" And coming round to him,she took hold of his arm.
"Dearest Clara," he said, looking at her with more tenderness thanhad ever been usual with him, "I think that you had better leave us.I could tell it better to your mother alone."
"Do, Clara, love. Go, dearest, and we will call you by-and-by."
Clara moved away very slowly towards the door, and then she turnedround. "If it is anything that makes you unhappy, Herbert," she said,"I must know it before you leave me."
"Yes, yes; either I or your mother--. You shall be told, certainly."
"Yes, yes, you shall be told," said the countess. "And now go, mydarling." Thus dismissed, Clara did go, and betook herself to her ownchamber. Had Owen had sorrows to tell her, he would have told them toherself; of that she was quite sure. "And now, Herbert, for heaven'ssake what is it?" said the countess, pale with terror. She was fullycertain now that something was to be spoken which would be calculatedto interfere with her daughter's prospects.
We all know the story which Herbert had to tell, and we need nottherefore again be present at the telling of it. Sitting there, wetthrough, in Lady Desmond's drawing-room, he did contrive to utter itall--the whole of it from the beginning to the end, making it clearlyto be understood that he was no longer Fitzgerald of Castle Richmond,but a nameless, pennyless outcast, without the hope of portion orposition, doomed from henceforth to earn his bread in the sweat ofhis brow--if only he could be fortunate enough to find the means ofearning it.
Nor did Lady Desmond once interrupt h
im in his story. She satperfectly still, listening to him almost with unmoved face. She wastoo wise to let him know what the instant working of her mind mightbe before she had made her own fixed resolve; and she had conceivedthe truth much before he had completed the telling of it. Wegenerally use three times the number of words which are necessaryfor the purpose which we have in hand; but had he used six times thenumber, she would not have interrupted him. It was good in him togive her this time to determine in what tone and with what wordsshe would speak, when speaking on her part should become absolutelynecessary. "And now," he concluded by saying--and at this time hewas standing up on the rug--"you know it all, Lady Desmond. It willperhaps be best that Clara should learn it from you."
He had said not a word of giving up his pretensions to Lady Clara'shand; but then neither had he in any way hinted that the matchshould, in his opinion, be regarded as unbroken. He had not spoken ofhis sorrow at bringing down all this poverty on his wife; and surelyhe would have so spoken had he thought their engagement was stillvalid; but then he had not himself pointed out that the engagementmust necessarily be broken, as, in Lady Desmond's opinion, hecertainly should have done.
"Yes," said she, in a cold, low, meaningless voice--in a voice thattold nothing by its tones--"Lady Clara had better hear it from me."But in the title which she gave her daughter, Herbert instantly readhis doom. He, however, remained silent. It was for the countess nowto speak.
"But it is possible it may not be true," she said, speaking almost ina whisper, looking, not into his face, but by him, at the fire.
"It is possible; but so barely possible, that I did not think itright to keep the matter from you any longer."
"It would have been very wrong--very wicked, I may say," said thecountess.
"It is only two days since I knew anything of it myself," said he,vindicating himself.
"You were of course bound to let me know immediately," she said,harshly.
"And I have let you know immediately, Lady Desmond." And then theywere both again silent for a while.
"And Mr. Prendergast thinks there is no doubt?" she asked.
"None," said Herbert, very decidedly.
"And he has told your cousin Owen?"
"He did so yesterday; and by this time my poor mother knows it also."And then there was another period of silence.
During the whole time Lady Desmond had uttered no one word ofcondolence--not a syllable of commiseration for all the sufferingsthat had come upon Herbert and his family; and he was beginning tohate her for her harshness. The tenor of her countenance had becomehard; and she received all his words as a judge might have takenthem, merely wanting evidence before he pronounced his verdict. Theevidence she was beginning to think sufficient, and there could be nodoubt as to her verdict. After what she had heard, a match betweenHerbert Fitzgerald and her daughter would be out of the question."It is very dreadful," she said, thinking only of her own child, andabsolutely shivering at the danger which had been incurred.
"It is very dreadful," said Herbert, shivering also. It was almostincredible to him that his great sorrow should be received in such away by one who had professed to be so dear a friend to him.
"And what do you propose to do, Mr. Fitzgerald?" said the countess.
"What do I propose?" he said, repeating her words. "Hitherto I havehad neither time nor heart to propose anything. Such a misfortuneas that which I have told you does not break upon a man withoutdisturbing for a while his power of resolving. I have thought so muchof my mother, and of Clara, since Mr. Prendergast told me all this,that--that--that--" And then a slight gurgling struggle fell upon histhroat and hindered him from speaking. He did not quite sob out, andhe determined that he would not do so. If she could be so harsh andstrong, he would be harsh and strong also.
And again Lady Desmond sat silent, still thinking how she had betterspeak and act. After all she was not so cruel nor so bad as HerbertFitzgerald thought her. What had the Fitzgeralds done for her thatshe should sorrow for their sorrows? She had lived there, in that oldugly barrack, long desolate, full of dreary wretchedness and poverty,and Lady Fitzgerald in her prosperity had never come to her to softenthe hardness of her life. She had come over to Ireland a countess,and a countess she had been, proud enough at first in her littleglory--too proud, no doubt; and proud enough afterwards in herloneliness and poverty; and there she had lived--alone. Whether thefault had been her own or no, she owed little to the kindness of anyone; for no one had done aught to relieve her bitterness. And thenher weak puny child had grown up in the same shade, and was now alovely woman, gifted with high birth, and that special pricelessbeauty which high blood so often gives. There was a prize now withinthe walls of that old barrack--something to be won--something forwhich a man would strive, and a mother smile that her son might winit. And now Lady Fitzgerald had come to her. She had never complainedof this, she said to herself. The bargain between Clara Desmond andHerbert Fitzgerald had been good for both of them, and let it bemade and settled as a bargain. Young Herbert Fitzgerald had moneyand position; her daughter had beauty and high blood. Let it be abargain. But in all this there was nothing to make her love that richprosperous family at Castle Richmond. There are those whose natureit is to love new-found friends at a few hours' warning, but theCountess of Desmond was not one of them. The bargain had been made,and her daughter would have been able to perform her part of it. Shewas still able to give that which she had stipulated to give. ButHerbert Fitzgerald was now a bankrupt, and could give nothing! Wouldit not have been madness to suppose that the bargain should stillhold good?
One person and one only had come to her at Desmond Court, whosecoming had been a solace to her weariness. Of all those among whomshe had lived in cold desolateness for so many years, one only hadgot near her heart. There had been but one Irish voice that shehad cared to hear; and the owner of that voice had loved her childinstead of loving her.
And she had borne that wretchedness too, if not well, at leastbravely. True she had separated that lover from her daughter; but thecircumstances of both had made it right for her, as a mother, to doso. What mother, circumstanced as she had been, would have given hergirl to Owen Fitzgerald? So she had banished from the house the onlyvoice that sounded sweetly in her ears, and again she had been alone.
And then, perhaps, thoughts had come to her, when Herbert Fitzgeraldwas frequent about the place, a rich and thriving wooer, that Owenmight come again to Desmond Court, when Clara had gone to CastleRichmond. Years were stealing over her. Ah, yes. She knew that fullwell. All her youth and the pride of her days she had given up forthat countess-ship which she now wore so gloomily--given up forpieces of gold which had turned to stone and slate and dirt withinher grasp. Years, alas, were fast stealing over her! But neverthelessshe had something to give. Her woman's beauty was not all faded; andshe had a heart which was as yet virgin--which had hitherto lovedno other man. Might not that suffice to cover a few years, seeingthat in return she wanted nothing but love? And so she had thought,lingering over her hopes, while Herbert was there at his wooing.
It may be imagined with what feelings at her heart she had seen andlistened to the frantic attempt made by Owen to get back his childishlove. But that too she had borne, bravely, if not well. It had notangered her that her child was loved by the only man she had everloved herself. She had stroked her daughter's hair that day, andkissed her cheek, and bade her be happy with her better, richerlover. And had she not been right in this? Nor had she been angryeven with Owen. She could forgive him all, because she loved him. Butmight there not even yet be a chance for her when Clara should invery truth have gone to Castle Richmond?
But now! How was she to think about all this now? And thinking ofthese things, how was it possible that she should have heart left tofeel for the miseries of Lady Fitzgerald? With all her miseries wouldnot Lady Fitzgerald still be more fortunate than she? Let come whatmight, Lady Fitzgerald had had a life of prosperity and love. No; shecould not think of Lady Fitzgerald, nor of H
erbert: she could onlythink of Owen Fitzgerald, of her daughter, and of herself.
He, Owen, was now the heir to Castle Richmond, and would, as faras she could learn, soon become the actual possessor. He, who hadbeen cast forth from Desmond Court as too poor and contemptible inthe world's eye to be her daughter's suitor, would become the richinheritor of all those broad acres, and that old coveted familyhonour. And this Owen still loved her daughter--loved her not asHerbert did, with a quiet, gentleman-like, every-day attachment, butwith the old, true, passionate love of which she had read in books,and dreamed herself, before she had sold herself to be a countess.That Owen did so love her daughter, she was very sure. And then, asto her daughter; that she did not still love this new heir in herheart of hearts--of that the mother was by no means sure. That herchild had chosen the better part in choosing money and a title, shehad not doubted; and that having so chosen Clara would be happy,--ofthat also she did not doubt. Clara was young, she would say, and herheart in a few months would follow her hand.
But now! How was she to decide, sitting there with Herbert Fitzgeraldbefore her, gloomy as death, cold, shivering, and muddy, telling ofhis own disasters with no more courage than a whipped dog? As shelooked at him she declared to herself twenty times in half a secondthat he had not about him a tithe of the manhood of his cousin Owen.Women love a bold front, and a voice that will never own its masterto have been beaten in the world's fight. Had Owen came there withsuch a story, he would have claimed his right boldly to the lady'shand, in spite of all that the world had done to him.
"Let her have him," said Lady Desmond to herself; and the strugglewithin her bosom was made and over. No wonder that Herbert, lookinginto her face for pity, should find that she was harsh and cruel. Shehad been sacrificing herself, and had completed the sacrifice. OwenFitzgerald, the heir to Castle Richmond, Sir Owen as he would soonbe, should have her daughter. They two, at any rate, should be happy.And she--she would live there at Desmond Court, lonely as she hadever lived. While all this was passing through her mind, she hardlythought of Herbert and his sorrows. That he must be given up andabandoned, and left to make what best fight he could by himself; asto that how was it possible that she as a mother should have anydoubt?
And yet it was a pity--a thousand pities. Herbert Fitzgerald, withhis domestic virtues, his industry and thorough respectability, wouldso exactly have suited Clara's taste and mode of life--had he onlycontinued to be the heir of Castle Richmond. She and Owen would notenter upon the world together with nearly the same fair chance ofhappiness. Who could prophecy to what Owen might be led with hispassionate impulses, his strong will, his unbridled temper, and hislove of pleasure? That he was noble-hearted, affectionate, brave, andtender in his inmost spirit, Lady Desmond was very sure; but weresuch the qualities which would make her daughter happy? When Clarashould come to know her future lord as Clara's mother knew him, wouldClara love him and worship him as her mother did? The mother believedthat Clara had not in her bosom heart enough for such a love. Butthen, as I have said before, the mother did not know the daughter.
"You say that you will break all this to Clara," said Herbert, havingduring this silence turned over some of his thoughts also in hismind. "If so I may as well leave you now. You can imagine that I amanxious to get back to my mother."
"Yes, it will be better that I should tell her. It is very sad, verysad, very sad indeed."
"Yes; it is a hard load for a man to bear," he answered, speakingvery, very slowly. "But for myself I think I can bear it, if--"
"If what?" asked the countess.
"If Clara can bear it."
And now it was necessary that Lady Desmond should speak out. She didnot mean to be unnecessarily harsh; but she did mean to be decided,and as she spoke her face became stern and ill-favoured. "ThatClara will be terribly distressed," she said, "terribly, terriblydistressed," repeating her words with great emphasis, "of that I amquite sure. She is very young, and will, I hope, in time get over it.And then too I think she is one whose feelings, young as she is, havenever conquered her judgment. Therefore I do believe that, with God'smercy, she will be able to bear it. But, Mr. Fitzgerald--"
"Well?"
"Of course you feel with me--and I am sure that with your excellentjudgment it is a thing of course--that everything must be overbetween you and Lady Clara." And then she came to a full stop asthough all had been said that could be considered necessary.
Herbert did not answer at once, but stood there shivering and shakingin his misery. He was all but overcome by the chill of his wetgarments; and though he struggled to throw off the dead feeling ofutter cold which struck him to the heart, he was quite unable tomaster it. He could hardly forgive himself that on such an occasionhe should have been so conquered by his own outer feelings, but nowhe could not help himself. He was weak with hunger too--though he didnot know it, for he had hardly eaten food that day, and was nearlyexhausted with the unaccustomed amount of hard exercise which he hadtaken. He was moreover thoroughly wet through, and heavy laden withthe mud of the road. It was no wonder that Lady Desmond had said toherself that he looked like a whipped dog.
"That must be as Lady Clara shall decide," he said at last, barelyuttering the words through his chattering teeth.
"It must be as I say," said the countess firmly; "whether by herdecision or by yours--or if necessary by mine. But if your feelingsare, as I take them to be, those of a man of honour, you will notleave it to me or to her. What! now that you have the world tostruggle with, would you seek to drag her down into the struggle?"
"Our union was to be for better or worse. I would have given her allthe better, and--"
"Yes; and had there been a union she would have bravely borne herpart in sharing the worst. But who ought to be so thankful as youthat this truth has broken upon you before you had clogged yourselfwith a wife of high birth but without fortune? Alone, a man educatedas you are, with your talents, may face the world without fearinganything. But how could you make your way now if my daughter wereyour wife? When you think of it, Mr. Fitzgerald, you will cease towish for it."
"Never; I have given my heart to your daughter, and I cannot takeback the gift. She has accepted it, and she cannot return it."
"And what would you have her do?" Lady Desmond asked, with anger andalmost passion in her voice.
"Wait--as I must wait," said Herbert. "That will be her duty, as Ibelieve it will also be her wish."
"Yes, and wear out her young heart here in solitude for the nextten years, and then learn when her beauty and her youth are gone--.But no, Mr. Fitzgerald; I will not allow myself to contemplatesuch a prospect either for her or for you. Under the lamentablecircumstances which you have now told me it is imperative that thismatch should be broken off. Ask your own mother and hear what shewill say. And if you are a man you will not throw upon my poor childthe hard task of declaring that it must be so. You, by your calamity,are unable to perform your contract with her; and it is for you toannounce that that contract is therefore over."
Herbert in his present state was unable to argue with Lady Desmond.He had in his brain, and mind, and heart, and soul--at least so hesaid to himself afterwards, having perhaps but a loose idea of thedifferent functions of these four different properties--a thoroughconviction that as he and Clara had sworn to each other that for lifethey would live together and love each other, no misfortune to eitherof them could justify the other in breaking that oath;--could evenjustify him in breaking it, though he was the one on whom misfortunehad fallen. He, no doubt, had first loved Clara for her beauty; butwould he have ceased to love her, or have cast her from him, if,by God's will, her beauty had perished and gone from her? Would henot have held her closer to his heart, and told her, with strongcomforting vows, that his love had now gone deeper than that; thatthey were already of the same bone, of the same flesh, of the samefamily and hearthstone? He knew himself in this, and knew that hewould have been proud so to do, and so to feel,--that he would havecast from him with utter indignati
on any who would have counselledhim to do or to feel differently. And why should Clara's heart bedifferent from his?
All this, I say, was his strong conviction. But, nevertheless, herheart might be different. She might look on that engagement of theirswith altogether other thoughts and other ideas; and if so his voiceshould never reproach her;--not his voice, however his heart mightdo so. Such might be the case with her, but he did not think it; andtherefore he would not pronounce that decision which Clara's motherexpected from him.
"When you have told her of this, I suppose I may be allowed to seeher," he said, avoiding the direct proposition which Lady Desmond hadmade to him.
"Allowed to see her?" said Lady Desmond, now also in her turnspeaking very slowly. "I cannot answer that question as yet; notquite immediately, I should say. But if you will leave the matter inmy hands, I will write to you, if not to-morrow, then the next day."
"I would sooner that she should write."
"I cannot promise that--I do not know how far her good sense andstrength may support her under this affliction. That she will sufferterribly, on your account as well as on her own, you may be quitesure." And then, again, there was a pause of some moments.
"I at any rate shall write to her," he then said, "and shall tellher that I expect her to see me. Her will in this matter shall be mywill. If she thinks that her misery will be greater in being engagedto a poor man, than,--than in relinquishing her love, she shall hearno word from me to overpersuade her. But, Lady Desmond, I will saynothing that shall authorize her to think that she is given up by me,till I have in some way learned from herself, what her own feelingsare. And now I will say good-bye to you."
"Good-bye," said the countess, thinking that it might be as well thatthe interview should be ended. "But, Mr. Fitzgerald, you are verywet; and I fear that you are very cold. You had better take somethingbefore you go." Countess as she was she had no carriage in which shecould send him home; no horse even on which he could ride. "Nothing,thank you, Lady Desmond," he said; and so, without offering her thecourtesy of his hand he walked out of the room.
He was very angry with her, as he tried to make the blood runquicker in his veins by hurrying down the avenue into the road athis quickest pace. So angry with her, that for a while, in hisindignation, he almost forgot his father and his mother and his ownfamily tragedy. That she should have wished to save her daughterfrom such a marriage might have been natural; but that she shouldhave treated him so coldly, so harshly--without one spark of loveor pity,--him, who to her had been so loyal during his courtship ofher daughter! It was almost incredible to him. Was not his story onethat would have melted the heart of a stranger--at which men wouldweep? He himself had seen tears in the eyes of that dry time-wornworld-used London lawyer, as the full depth of the calamity hadforced itself upon his heart. Yes, Mr. Prendergast had not been ableto repress his tears when he told the tale; but Lady Desmond had shedno tears when the tale had been told to her. No soft woman's messagehad been sent to the afflicted mother on whom it had pleased God toallow so heavy a hand to fall. No word of tenderness had been utteredfor the sinking father. There had been no feeling for the householdwhich was to have been so nearly linked with her own. No. Lookinground with greedy eyes for wealth for her daughter, Lady Desmondhad found a match that suited her. Now that match no longer suitedher greed, and she could throw from her without a struggle to herfeelings the suitor that was now poor, and the family of the suitorthat was now neither grand nor powerful.
And then too he felt angry with Clara, though he knew that as yet, atany rate, he had no cause. In spite of what he had said and felt, hewould imagine to himself that she also would be cold and untrue. "Lether go," he said to himself. "Love is worth nothing--nothing if itdoes not believe itself to be of more worth than everything beside.If she does not love me now in my misery--if she would not choose menow for her husband--her love has never been worthy the name. Lovethat has no faith in itself, that does not value itself above allworldly things, is nothing. If it be not so with her, let her go backto him."
It may easily be understood who was the him. And then Herbert walkedon so rapidly that at length his strength almost failed him, and inhis exhaustion he had more than once to lean against a gate on theroad-side. With difficulty at last he got home, and dragged himselfup the long avenue to the front door. Even yet he was not warmthrough to his heart, and he felt as he entered the house that he wasquite unfitted for the work which he might yet have to do before hecould go to his bed.
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