"Patrick is mistaken," she said, with her eyes still fixed upon the ground.

"What. You will tell me, then, that I am utterly indifferent to you?"

"No, no, no; I did not say so." And now she got up and took hold of his arm, and looked into his face imploringly. "I did not say so.

But, oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, be kind to me, be forbearing with me, be good to me," and she almost embraced his arm as she appealed to him, with her eyes all swimming with tears.

"Good to you!" he said. And a strong pa.s.sion came upon him, urging him to throw his arm round her slender body, and press her to his bosom. Good to her! would he not protect her with his life's blood against all the world if she would only come to him? "Good to you, Clara! Can you not trust me that I will be good to you if you will let me?"

"But not so, Owen." It was the first time she had ever called him by his name, and she blushed again as she remembered that it was so.

"Not good, as you mean, for now I must trust to another for that goodness. Herbert must be my husband, Owen; but will not you be our friend?"

"Herbert must be your husband!"

"Yes, yes, yes. It is so. Do not look at me in that way, pray do not; what would you have me do? You would not have me false to my troth, and false to my own heart, because you are generous. Be generous to me--to me also."

He turned away from her, and walked the whole length of the long room; away and back, before he answered her, and even then, when he had returned to her, he stood, looking at her before he spoke. And she now looked full into his face, hoping, but yet fearing; hoping that he might yield to her; and fearing his terrible displeasure should he not yield.

"Clara," he said; and he spoke solemnly, slowly, and in a mood unlike his own,--"I cannot as yet read your heart clearly; nor do I know whether you can quite so read it yourself."

"I can, I can," she answered quickly; "and you shall know it all--all, if you wish."

"I want to know but one thing. Whom is it that you love? And, Clara--," and this he said interrupting her as she was about to speak. "I do not ask you to whom you are engaged. You have engaged yourself both to him and to me."

"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"

"I do not blame you; not in the least. But is it not so? as to that I will ask no question, and say nothing; only this, that so far we are equal. But now ask of your own heart, and then answer me. Whom is it then you love?"

"Herbert Fitzgerald," she said. The words hardly formed themselves into a whisper, but nevertheless they were audible enough to him.

"Then I have no further business here," he said, and turned about as though to leave the room.

But she ran forward and stopped him, standing between him and the door. "Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, do not leave me like that. Say one word of kindness to me before you go. Tell me that you forgive me for the injury I have done you."

"Yes, I forgive you."

"And is that all? Oh, I will love you so, if you will let me;--as your friend, as your sister; you shall be our dearest, best, and nearest friend. You do not know how good he is. Owen, will you not tell me that you will love me as a brother loves?"

"No!" and the sternness of his face was such that it was dreadful to look on it. "I will tell you nothing that is false."

"And would that be false?"

"Yes, false as h.e.l.l! What, sit by at his hearth-stone and see you leaning on his bosom! Sleep under his roof while you were in his arms! No, Lady Clara, that would not be possible. That virtue, if it be virtue, I cannot possess."

"And you must go from me in anger? If you knew what I am suffering you would not speak to me so cruelly."

"Cruel! I would not wish to be cruel to you; certainly not now, for we shall not meet again; if ever, not for many years. I do not think that I have been cruel to you."

"Then say one word of kindness before you go!"

"A word of kindness! Well; what shall I say? Every night, as I have lain in my bed, I have said words of kindness to you, since--since--since longer than you will remember; since I first knew you as a child. Do you ever think of the day when you walked with me round by the bridge?"

"It is bootless thinking of that now."

"Bootless! yes, and words of kindness are bootless. Between you and me, such words should be full of love, or they would have no meaning.

What can I say to you that shall be both kind and true?"

"Bid G.o.d bless me before you leave me."

"Well, I will say that. May G.o.d bless you, in this world and in the next! And now, Lady Clara Desmond, good-bye!" and he tendered to her his hand.

She took it, and pressed it between both of hers, and looked up into his face, and stood so while the fast tears ran down her face.

He must have been more or less than man had he not relented then.

"And Owen," she said, "dear Owen, may G.o.d in his mercy bless you also, and make you happy, and give you some one that you can love, and--and--teach you in your heart to forgive the injury I have done you." And then she stooped down her head and pressed her lips upon the hand which she held within her own.

"Forgive you! Well--I do forgive you. Perhaps it may be right that we should both forgive; though I have not wittingly brought unhappiness upon you. But what there is to be forgiven on my side, I do forgive.

And--and I hope that you may be happy." They were the last words that he spoke; and then leading her back to her seat, he placed her there, and without turning to look at her again, he left the room.

He hurried down into the court, and called for his horse. As he stood there, when his foot was in the stirrup, and his hand on the animal's neck, Lord Desmond came up to him. "Good-bye, Desmond," he said. "It is all over; G.o.d knows when you and I may meet again." And without waiting for a word of reply he rode out under the porch, and putting spurs to his horse, galloped fast across the park. The earl, when he spoke of it afterwards to his mother, said that Owen's face had been as it were a thundercloud.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

FOX-HUNTING IN SPINNY LANE.

I think it will be acknowledged that Mr. Prendergast had said no word throughout the conversation recorded in a late chapter as having taken place between him and Herbert Fitzgerald over their wine, which could lead Herbert to think it possible that he might yet recover his lost inheritance; but nevertheless during the whole of that evening he held in his pocket a letter, received by him only that afternoon, which did encourage him to think that such an event might at any rate be possible. And, indeed, he held in his pocket two letters, having a tendency to the same effect, but we shall have nothing now to say as to that letter from Mr. Somers of which we have spoken before.

It must be understood that up to this time certain inquiries had been going on with reference to the life of Mr. Matthew Mollett, and that these inquiries were being made by agents employed by Mr.

Prendergast. He had found that Mollett's ident.i.ty with Talbot had been so fully proved as to make it, in his opinion, absolutely necessary that Herbert and his mother should openly give up Castle Richmond. But, nevertheless, without a hope, and in obedience solely to what he felt that prudence demanded in so momentous a matter, he did prosecute all manner of inquiries;--but prosecuted them altogether in vain. And now, O thou most acute of lawyers, this new twinkling spark of hope has come to thee from a source whence thou least expectedst it!

_Quod minime reris Graia pandetur ab urbe._

And then, as soon as Herbert was gone from him, crossing one leg over the other as he sat in his easy chair, he took it from his pocket and read it for the third time. The signature at the end of it was very plain and legible, being that of a scholar no less accomplished than Mr. Abraham Mollett. This letter we will have entire, though it was not perhaps as short as it might have been. It ran as follows:--

45 Tabernacle row London.

April--1847.

Respect.i.t Sir--

In hall them doings about the Fitsjerrals at Carsal Richmon I halways felt the most profound respict for you because you wanted to do the thing as was rite wich was what I halways wanted to myself only coodent becase of the guvnor. "Let the right un win, guvnor," said I, hover hand hover again; but no, he woodent. And what cood the likes of me do then seeing as ow I was obligated by the forth comanment to honor my father and mother, wich however if it wasent that she was ded leving me a horphand there woodent av been none of this trobbel. If she ad livd Mr.

Pindargrasp Ide av been brot hup honest, and thats what I weps for. But she dide and my guvnor why hes been a gitten the rong side of the post hever sins that hunfortunate day. Praps you knows Mr. Pindargrasp what it is to lose a mother in your herly hinfantsey. But I was at the guvnor hovers and hovers agin, but hall of no yuse. "He as stumpt hoff with my missus and now he shall stump hup the reddy." Them was my guvnors hown words halways. Well, Mr.

Pindargrasp; what does I do. It warnt no good my talking to him he was for going so confounedly the rong side of the post. But I new as how Appy ouse Fitsjerral was the orse as ort to win. Leestways I thawt I new it, and so you thawt too Mr. Pindargrasp only we was both running the rong cent. But what did I do when I was so confounedly disgusted by my guvnor ankring after the baronnites money wich it wasnt rite nor yet onest. Why I went meself to Appy ouse as you noes Mr. Pindargrasp, and was the first to tel the Appy ouse gent hall about it. But wat dos he do. Hoh, Mr. Pindargrasp, I shal never forgit that faitel day and only he got me hunewairs by the scruf of the nek Im has good a man as he hevery day of the week. But you was ther Mr. Pindargrasp and noes wat I got for befrindin the Appy ouse side wich was agin the guvnor and he as brot me to the loest pich of distress in the way of rino seein the guvnor as cut of my halowence becase I wint agin his hinterest.

And now Mr. Pindargrasp I ave a terrible secret to hunraffel wich will put the sadel on the rite orse at last and as I does hall this agin my own guvnor wich of corse I love derely I do hope Mr. Pindargrasp you wont see me haltoogether left in the lerch. A litel something to go on with at furst wood be very agrebbel for indeed Mr.

Pindargrasp its uncommon low water with your umbel servant at this presant moment. And now wat I has to say is this--Lady Fits warnt niver my guvnors wife hat all becase why hed a wife alivin has I can pruv and will and shes alivin now number 7 Spinny lane Centbotollfs intheheast.

Now I do call that noos worse a Jews high Mr. Pindargrasp and I opes youll see me honestly delt with sein as how I coms forward and tels it hall without any haskin and cood keep it all to miself and no one coodent be the wiser only I chews to do the thing as is rite.