Castle Richmond

by Anthony Trollope

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  FAREWELL.

  He was two hours later than he had intended as he rode up the avenueto Lady Desmond's gate, and his chief thought at the moment was howhe should describe to the countess the scene he had just witnessed.Why describe it at all? That is what we should all say. He had comethere to talk about other things--about other things which must bediscussed, and which would require all his wits. Let him keep thatpoor woman on his mind, but not embarrass himself with any mention ofher for the present. This, no doubt, would have been wise if only ithad been possible; but out of the full heart the mouth speaks.

  But Lady Desmond had not witnessed the scene which I have attemptedto describe, and her heart, therefore, was not full of it, andwas not inclined to be so filled. And so, in answer to Herbert'sexclamation, "Oh, Lady Desmond, I have seen such a sight!" she gavehim but little encouragement to describe it, and by her coldness,reserve, and dignity, soon quelled the expression of his feelings.

  The earl was present and shook hands very cordially with Herbert whenhe entered the room; and he, being more susceptible as being younger,and not having yet become habituated to the famine as his mother was,did express some eager sympathy. He would immediately go down, orsend Fahy with the car, and have her brought up and saved; but hismother had other work to do and soon put a stop to all this.

  "Mr. Fitzgerald," said she, speaking with a smile upon her face, andwith much high-bred dignity of demeanour, "as you and Lady Claraboth wish to see each other before you leave the country, and asyou have known each other so intimately, and considering all thecircumstances, I have not thought it well absolutely to forbid aninterview. But I do doubt its expediency; I do, indeed. And LordDesmond, who feels for your late misfortune as we all do, perfectlyagrees with me. He thinks that it would be much wiser for you bothto have parted without the pain of a meeting, seeing how impossibleit is that you should ever be more to each other than you are now."And then she appealed to her son, who stood by, looking not quite sowise, nor even quite so decided as his mother's words would seem tomake him.

  "Well, yes; upon my word I don't see how it's to be," said the youngearl. "I am deuced sorry for it for one, and I wish I was well off,so that I could give Clara a pot of money, and then I should not careso much about your not being the baronet."

  "I am sure you must see, Mr. Fitzgerald, and I know that you do seeit because you have very properly said so, that a marriage betweenyou and Lady Clara is now impossible. For her such an engagementwould be very bad--very bad indeed; but for you it would be utterruin. Indeed, it would be ruin for you both. Unencumbered as you willbe, and with the good connection which you will have, and with yourexcellent talents, it will be quite within your reach to win foryourself a high position. But with you, as with other gentlemen whohave to work their way, marriage must come late in life, unlessyou marry an heiress. This I think is thoroughly understood by allpeople in our position; and I am sure that it is understood by yourexcellent mother, for whom I always had and still have the mostunfeigned respect. As this is so undoubtedly the case, and as Icannot of course consent that Lady Clara should remain hampered byan engagement which would in all human probability hang over the tenbest years of her life, I thought it wise that you should not seeeach other. I have, however, allowed myself to be overruled; andnow I must only trust to your honour, forbearance, and prudence toprotect my child from what might possibly be the ill effects of herown affectionate feelings. That she is romantic,--enthusiastic toa fault I should perhaps rather call it--I need not tell you. Shethinks that your misfortune demands from her a sacrifice of herself;but you, I know, will feel that, even were such a sacrifice availableto you, it would not become you to accept it. Because you havefallen, you will not wish to drag her down; more especially as youcan rise again--and she could not."

  So spoke the countess, with much worldly wisdom, and withconsiderable tact in adjusting her words to the object which she hadin view. Herbert, as he stood before her silent during the period ofher oration, did feel that it would be well for him to give up hislove, and go away in utter solitude of heart to those dingy studieswhich Mr. Prendergast was preparing for him. His love, or ratherthe assurance of Clara's love, had been his great consolation. Butwhat right had he, with all the advantages of youth, and health, andfriends, and education, to require consolation? And then from momentto moment he thought of the woman whom he had left in the cabin, andconfessed that he did not dare to call himself unhappy.

  He had listened attentively, although he did thus think of othereloquence besides that of the countess--of the eloquence of thatsilent, solitary, dying woman; but when she had done he hardly knewwhat to say for himself. She did make him feel that it would beungenerous in him to persist in his engagement; but then again,Clara's letters and his sister's arguments had made him feel that itwas impossible to abandon it. They pleaded of heart-feelings so wellthat he could not resist them; and the countess--she pleaded so wellas to world's prudence that he could not resist her.

  "I would not willingly do anything to injure Lady Clara," he said.

  "That's what we all knew," said the young earl. "You see, what isa girl to do like her? Love in a cottage is all very well, and allthat; and as for riches, I don't care about them. It would be apity if I did, for I shall be about the poorest nobleman in thethree kingdoms, I suppose. But a chap when he marries should havesomething; shouldn't he now?"

  To tell the truth the earl had been very much divided in his opinionssince he had come home, veering round a point or two this way or apoint or two that, in obedience to the blast of eloquence to whichhe might be last subjected. But latterly the idea had grown upon himthat Clara might possibly marry Owen Fitzgerald. There was aboutOwen a strange fascination which all felt who had once loved him. Tothe world he was rough and haughty, imperious in his commands, andexacting even in his fellowship; but to the few whom he absolutelyloved, whom he had taken into his heart's core, no man ever was moretender or more gracious. Clara, though she had resolved to banishhim from her heart, had found it impossible to do so till Herbert'smisfortunes had given him a charm in her eyes which was not all hisown. Clara's mother had loved him--had loved him as she never beforehad loved; and now she loved him still, though she had so stronglydetermined that her love should be that of a mother, and not thatof a wife. And the young earl, now that Owen's name was again rifein his ears, remembered all the pleasantness of former days. He hadnever again found such a companion as Owen had been. He had met noother friend to whom he could talk of sport and a man's outwardpleasures when his mind was that way given, and to whom he could alsotalk of soft inward things,--the heart's feelings, and aspirations,and wants. Owen would be as tender with him as a woman, allowing theyoung lad's arm round his body, listening to words which the outerworld would have called bosh--and have derided as girlish. So atleast thought the young earl to himself. And all boys long to beallowed utterance occasionally for these soft tender things;--asalso do all men, unless the devil's share in the world has becomealtogether uppermost with them.

  And the young lad's heart hankered after his old friend. He hadlistened to his sister, and for a while had taken her part; but hismother had since whispered to him that Owen would now be the bettersuitor, the preferable brother-in-law; and that in fact Clara lovedOwen the best, though she felt herself bound by honour to hiskinsman. And then she reminded her son of Clara's former love forOwen--a love which he himself had witnessed; and he thought of theday when with so much regret he had told his friend that he wasunsuited to wed with an earl's penniless daughter. Of the subsequentpleasantness which had come with Herbert's arrival, he had seenlittle or nothing. He had been told by letter that HerbertFitzgerald, the prosperous heir of Castle Richmond, was to be hisfuture brother-in-law, and he had been satisfied. But now, if Owencould return--how pleasant it would be!

  "But a chap when he marries should have something; shouldn't he now?"So spoke the young earl, re-echoing his mother's prudence.

  Herbert did
not quite like this interference on the boy's part. Washe to explain to a young lad from Eton what his future intentionswere with reference to his mode of living and period of marriage? "Ofcourse," he said, addressing himself to the countess, "I shall notinsist on an engagement made under such different circumstances."

  "Nor will you allow her to do so through a romantic feeling ofgenerosity," said the countess.

  "You should know your own daughter, Lady Desmond, better than I do,"he answered; "but I cannot say what I may do at her instance till Ishall have seen her."

  "Do you mean to say that you will allow a girl of her age to talk youinto a proceeding which you know to be wrong?"

  "I will allow no one," he said, "to talk me into a proceeding whichI know to be wrong; nor will I allow any one to talk me out of aproceeding which I believe to be right." And then, having utteredthese somewhat grandiloquent words, he shut himself up as thoughthere were no longer any need for discussing the subject.

  "My poor child!" said the countess, in a low tremulous voice, asthough she did not intend him to hear them. "My poor unfortunatechild!" Herbert as he did hear them thought of the woman in thecabin, and of her misfortunes and of her children. "Come, Patrick,"continued the countess, "it is perhaps useless for us to say anythingfurther at present. If you will remain here, Mr. Fitzgerald, fora minute or two, I will send Lady Clara to wait upon you;" andthen curtsying with great dignity she withdrew, and the youngearl scuffled out after her. "Mamma," he said, as he went, "he isdetermined that he will have her."

  "My poor child!" answered the countess.

  "And if I were in his place I should be determined also. You may aswell give it up. Not but that I like Owen a thousand times the best."

  Herbert did wait there for some five minutes, and then the door wasopened very gently, was gently closed again, and Clara Desmond was inthe room. He came towards her respectfully, holding out his hand thathe might take hers; but before he had thought of how she would actshe was in his arms. Hitherto, of all betrothed maidens, she had beenthe most retiring. Sometimes he had thought her cold when she hadleft the seat by his side to go and nestle closely by his sister. Shehad avoided the touch of his hand and the pressure of his arm, andhad gone from him speechless, if not with anger then with dismay,when he had carried the warmth of his love beyond the touch of hishand or the pressure of his arm. But now she rushed into his embraceand hid her face upon his shoulder, as though she were over glad toreturn to the heart from which those around her had endeavoured tobanish her. Was he or was he not to speak of his love? That had beenthe question which he had asked himself when left alone there forthose five minutes, with the eloquence of the countess ringing in hisears. Now that question had in truth been answered for him.

  "Herbert," she said, "Herbert! I have so sorrowed for you; but I knowthat you have borne it like a man."

  She was thinking of what he had now half forgotten,--the positionwhich he had lost, those hopes which had all been shipwrecked, histitle surrendered to another, and his lost estates. She was thinkingof them as the loss affected him; but he, he had reconciled himselfto all that,--unless all that were to separate him from his promisedbride.

  "Dearest Clara," he said, with his arm close round her waist, whileneither anger nor dismay appeared to disturb the sweetness of thatposition, "the letter which you wrote me has been my chief comfort."Now if he had any intention of liberating Clara from the bond of herengagement,--if he really had any feeling that it behoved him notto involve her in the worldly losses which had come upon him,--hewas taking a very bad way of carrying out his views in that respect.Instead of confessing the comfort which he had received from thatletter, and holding her close to his breast while he did confess it,he should have stood away from her--quite as far apart as he had donefrom the countess; and he should have argued with her, showing herhow foolish and imprudent her letter had been, explaining that itbehoved her now to repress her feelings, and teaching her that peers'daughters as well as housemaids should look out for situations whichwould suit them, guided by prudence and a view to the wages,--notfollow the dictates of impulse and of the heart. This is what heshould have done, according, I believe, to the views of most men andwomen. Instead of that he held her there as close as he could holdher, and left her to do the most of the speaking. I think he wasright. According to my ideas woman's love should be regarded asfair prize of war,--as long as the war has been carried on with dueadherence to the recognized law of nations. When it has been fairlywon, let it be firmly held. I have no opinion of that theory ofgiving up.

  "You knew that I would not abandon you! Did you not know it? say thatyou knew it?" said Clara, and then she insisted on having an answer.

  "I could hardly dare to think that there was so much happiness leftfor me," said Herbert.

  "Then you were a traitor to your love, sir; a false traitor." Butdeep as was the offence for which she arraigned him, it was clearto see that the pardon came as quick as the conviction. "And wasEmmeline so untrue to me also as to believe that?"

  "Emmeline said--" and then he told her what Emmeline had said.

  "Dearest, dearest Emmeline! give her a whole heart-load of love fromme; now mind you do,--and to Mary, too. And remember this, sir; thatI love Emmeline ten times better than I do you; twenty times--,because she knew me. Oh, if she had mistrusted me--!"

  "And do you think that I mistrusted you?"

  "Yes, you did; you know you did, sir. You wrote and told me so;--andnow, this very day, you come here to act as though you mistrusted mestill. You know you have, only you have not the courage to go on withthe acting."

  And then he began to defend himself, showing how ill it would havebecome him to have kept her bound to her engagements had she fearedpoverty as most girls in her position would have feared it. But onthis point she would not hear much from him, lest the very fact ofher hearing it should make it seem that such a line of conduct werepossible to her.

  "You know nothing about most girls, sir, or about any, I am afraid;not even about one. And if most girls were frightfully heartless,which they are not, what right had you to liken me to most girls?Emmeline knew better, and why could not you take her as a type ofmost girls? You have behaved very badly, Master Herbert, and you knowit; and nothing on earth shall make me forgive you; nothing--butyour promise that you will not so misjudge me any more." And thenthe tears came to his eyes, and her face was again hidden on hisshoulder.

  It was not very probable that after such a commencement the interviewwould terminate in a manner favourable to the wishes of the countess.Clara swore to her lover that she had given him all that she had togive,--her heart, and will, and very self; and swore, also, that shecould not and would not take back the gift. She would remain as shewas now as long as he thought proper, and would come to him wheneverhe should tell her that his home was large enough for them both. Andso that matter was settled between them.

  Then she had much to say about his mother and sisters, and a wordtoo about his poor father. And now that it was settled between themso fixedly, that come what might they were to float together in thesame boat down the river of life, she had a question or two also toask, and her approbation to give or to withhold, as to his futureprospects. He was not to think, she told him, of deciding on anythingwithout at any rate telling her. So he had to explain to her all thefamily plans, making her know why he had decided on the law as hisown path to fortune, and asking for and obtaining her consent to allhis proposed measures.

  In this way her view of the matter became more and more firmlyadopted as that which should be the view resolutely to be taken bythem both. The countess had felt that that interview would be fatalto her; and she had been right. But how could she have prevented it?Twenty times she had resolved that she would prevent it; but twentytimes she had been forced to confess that she was powerless to do so.In these days a mother even can only exercise such power over a childas public opinion permits her to use. "Mother, it was you who broughtus together, and you cannot separate us
now." That had always beenClara's argument, leaving the countess helpless, except as far as shecould work on Herbert's generosity. That she had tried,--and, as wehave seen, been foiled there also. If only she could have taken herdaughter away while the Castle Richmond family were still mersed inthe bitter depth of their suffering,--at that moment when the blowswere falling on them! Then, indeed, she might have done something;but she was not like other titled mothers. In such a step as this shewas absolutely without the means.

  Thus talking together they remained closeted for a mostunconscionable time. Clara had had her purpose to carry out, and toHerbert the moments had been too precious to cause him any regret asthey passed. But now at last a knock was heard at the door, and LadyDesmond, without waiting for an answer to it, entered the room. Claraimmediately started from her seat, not as though she were eitherguilty or tremulous, but with a brave resolve to go on with herpurposed plan.

  "Mamma," she said, "it is fixed now; it cannot be altered now."

  "What is fixed, Clara?"

  "Herbert and I have renewed our engagement, and nothing must nowbreak it, unless we die."

  "Mr. Fitzgerald, if this be true your conduct to my daughter has beenunmanly as well as ungenerous."

  "Lady Desmond, it is true; and I think that my conduct is neitherunmanly nor ungenerous."

  "Your own relations are against you, sir."

  "What relations?" asked Clara, sharply.

  "I am not speaking to you, Clara; your absurdity and romance are sogreat that I cannot speak to you."

  "What relations, Herbert?" again asked Clara; for she would not forthe world have had Lady Fitzgerald against her.

  "Lady Desmond has, I believe, seen my Aunt Letty two or three timeslately; I suppose she must mean her."

  "Oh," said Clara, turning away as though she were now satisfied. Andthen Herbert, escaping from the house as quickly as he could, rodehome with a renewal of that feeling of triumph which he had onceenjoyed before when returning from Desmond Court to Castle Richmond.

  On the next day Herbert started for London. The parting was sadenough, and the occasion of it was such that it could hardly beotherwise. "I am quite sure of one thing," he said to his sisterEmmeline, "I shall never see Castle Richmond again." And, indeed,one may say that small as might be his chance of doing so, his wishto do so must be still less. There could be no possible inducementto him to come back to a place which had so nearly been his own,and the possession of which he had lost in so painful a manner.Every tree about the place, every path across the wide park, everyhedge and ditch and hidden leafy corner, had had for him a specialinterest,--for they had all been his own. But all that was now over.They were not only not his own, but they belonged to one who wasmounting into his seat of power over his head.

  He had spent the long evening before his last dinner in going roundthe whole demesne alone, so that no eye should witness what he felt.None but those who have known the charms of a country-house early inlife can conceive the intimacy to which a man attains with all thevarious trifling objects round his own locality; how he knows thebark of every tree, and the bend of every bough; how he has markedwhere the rich grass grows in tufts, and where the poorer soil isalways dry and bare; how he watches the nests of the rooks, and theholes of the rabbits, and has learned where the thrushes build, andcan show the branch on which the linnet sits. All these things hadbeen dear to Herbert, and they all required at his hand some lastfarewell. Every dog, too, he had to see, and to lay his hand onthe neck of every horse. This making of his final adieu under suchcircumstances was melancholy enough.

  And then, too, later in the evening, after dinner, all the servantswere called into the parlour that he might shake hands with them.There was not one of them who had not hoped, as lately as threemonths since, that he or she would live to call Herbert Fitzgeraldmaster. Indeed, he had already been their master--their young master.All Irish servants especially love to pay respect to the "youngmasther;" but Herbert now was to be their master no longer, and theprobability was that he would never see one of them again.

  He schooled himself to go through the ordeal with a manly gait andwith dry eyes, and he did it; but their eyes were not dry, not eventhose of the men. Mrs. Jones and a favourite girl whom the youngladies patronized were not of the number, for it had been decidedthat they should follow the fortunes of their mistress; but Richardwas there, standing a little apart from the others, as being now on adifferent footing. He was to go also, but before the scene was overhe also had taken to sobbing violently.

  "I wish you all well and happy," said Herbert, making his littlespeech, "and regret deeply that the intercourse between us should bethus suddenly severed. You have served me and mine well and truly,and it is hard upon you now, that you should be bid to go and seekanother home elsewhere."

  "It isn't that we mind, Mr. Herbert; it ain't that as frets us," saidone of the men.

  "It ain't that at all, at all," said Richard, doing chorus; "but thatyer honour should be robbed of what is yer honour's own."

  "But you all know that we cannot help it," continued Herbert; "amisfortune has come upon us which nobody could have foreseen, andtherefore we are obliged to part with our old friends and servants."

  At the word friends the maid-servants all sobbed. "And 'deed we isyour frinds, and true frinds, too," wailed the cook.

  "I know you are, and it grieves me to feel that I shall see you nomore. But you must not be led to think by what Richard says thatanybody is depriving me of that which ought to be my own. I am nowleaving Castle Richmond because it is not my own, but justly belongsto another;--to another who, I must in justice tell you, is in nohurry to claim his inheritance. We none of us have any ground fordispleasure against the present owner of this place, my cousin, SirOwen Fitzgerald."

  "We don't know nothing about Sir Owen," said one voice.

  "And don't want," said another, convulsed with sobs.

  "He's a very good sort of young gentleman--of his own kind, nodoubt," said Richard.

  "But you can all of you understand," continued Herbert, "that as thisplace is no longer our own, we are obliged to leave it; and as weshall live in a very different way in the home to which we are going,we are obliged to part with you, though we have no reason to findfault with any one among you. I am going to-morrow morning early, andmy mother and sisters will follow after me in a few weeks. It will bea sad thing too for them to say good-bye to you all, as it is for menow; but it cannot be helped. God bless you all, and I hope that youwill find good masters and kind mistresses, with whom you may livecomfortably, as I hope you have done here."

  "We can't find no other mistresses like her leddyship," sobbed outthe senior housemaid.

  "There ain't niver such a one in the county Cork," said the cook; "ina week of Sundays you wouldn't hear the breath out of her above herown swait nathural voice."

  "I've driv' her since iver--" began Richard; but he was going to saysince ever she was married, but he remembered that this allusionwould be unbecoming, so he turned his face to the door-post, andbegan to wail bitterly.

  And then Herbert shook hands with them all, and it was pretty to seehow the girls wiped their hands in their aprons before they gave themto him, and how they afterwards left the room with their aprons up totheir faces. The women walked out first, and then the men, hangingdown their heads, and muttering as they went, each some little prayerthat fortune and prosperity might return to the house of Fitzgerald.The property might go, but according to their views Herbert wasalways, and always would be, the head of the house. And then, last ofall, Richard went. "There ain't one of 'em, Mr. Herbert, as wouldn'tguv his fist to go wid yer, and think nothing about the wages."

  He was to start very early, and his packing was all completed thatnight. "I do so wish we were going with you," said Emmeline, sittingin his room on the top of a corded box, which was to follow him bysome slower conveyance.

  "And I do so wish I was staying with you," said he.

  "What is the good of st
aying here now?" said she; "what pleasure canthere be in it? I hardly dare to go outside the house door for fear Ishould be seen."

  "But why? We have done nothing that we need be ashamed of."

  "No; I know that. But, Herbert, do you not find that the pity of thepeople is hard to bear? It is written in their eyes, and meets one atevery turn."

  "We shall get rid of that very soon. In a few months we shall beclean forgotten."

  "I do not know about being forgotten."

  "You will be as clean forgotten,--as though you had never existed.And all these servants who are now so fond of us, in three months'time will be just as fond of Owen Fitzgerald, if he will let themstay here; it's the way of the world."

  That Herbert should have indulged in a little morbid misanthropy onsuch an occasion was not surprising. But I take leave to think thathe was wrong in his philosophy; we do make new friends when we loseour old friends, and the heart is capable of cure as is the body;were it not so, how terrible would be our fate in this world! But weare so apt to find fault with God's goodness to us in this respect,arguing, of others if not of ourselves, that the heart once widowedshould remain a widow through all time. I, for one, think that theheart should receive its new spouses with what alacrity it may, andalways with thankfulness.

  "I suppose Lady Desmond will let us see Clara," said Emmeline.

  "Of course you must see her. If you knew how much she talks aboutyou, you would not think of leaving Ireland without seeing her."

  "Dear Clara! I am sure she does not love me better than I do her. Butsuppose that Lady Desmond won't let us see her! and I know that itwill be so. That grave old man with the bald head will come out andsay that 'the Lady Clara is not at home,' and then we shall have toleave without seeing her. But it does not matter with her as it mightwith others, for I know that her heart will be with us."

  "If you write beforehand to say that you are coming, and explain thatyou are doing so to say good-bye, then I think they will admit you."

  "Yes; and the countess would take care to be there, so that I couldnot say one word to Clara about you. Oh, Herbert! I would giveanything if I could have her here for one day,--only for one day."But when they talked it over they both of them decided that thiswould not be practicable. Clara could not stay away from her ownhouse without her mother's leave, and it was not probable that hermother would give her permission to stay at Castle Richmond.