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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9f57f44 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,13 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text +*.htm text +*.html text +*.png binary +*.jpg binary +*.svg text +*.pdf binary +*.bmp binary +*.zip binary +*.midi binary +*.mp3 binary diff --git a/79387-0.txt b/79387-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..31350f2 --- /dev/null +++ b/79387-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9502 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79387 *** + + EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY. + + + + + COLLECTION + OF + BRITISH AUTHORS + + TAUCHNITZ EDITION. + + + VOL. 810. + + MAXWELL DREWITT BY F. G. TRAFFORD + + IN TWO VOLUMES. + + VOL. 2. + + + LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ. + + PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES. + + _This Collection + is published with copyright for Continental circulation, but all + purchasers are earnestly requested not to introduce the volumes into + England or into any British Colony._ + + + + + COLLECTION + + OF + + BRITISH AUTHORS. + + VOL. 810. + + + MAXWELL DREWITT BY F. G. TRAFFORD. + + IN TWO VOLUMES. + + VOL. II. + + + + + MAXWELL DREWITT + A NOVEL. + + + BY + + F. G. TRAFFORD, + + AUTHOR OF “GEORGE GEITH,” ETC. + + + _COPYRIGHT EDITION._ + + IN TWO VOLUMES. + + VOL. II. + + + LEIPZIG + + BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ + + 1866. + + _The Right of Translation is reserved._ + + + + + CONTENTS + OF VOLUME II. + + + Page + CHAPTER I. Brian’s Difficulties 1 + — II. At the Dawning 14 + — III. After the Funeral 26 + — IV. Farewell 41 + — V. The Hour of Success 53 + — VI. On the Way to Durrow 68 + — VII. Another Difficulty 83 + — VIII. Harold in Trouble 95 + — IX. An Unfortunate Likeness 113 + — X. Hearing is not Believing 132 + — XI. Called Home 151 + — XII. Geraldine is Satisfied 161 + — XIII. Country Gossip 179 + — XIV. What met Brian 191 + — XV. Madcap’s Last Leap 204 + — XVI. After Long Years 216 + — XVII. The Beginning of the End 228 + — XVIII. Man’s Vengeance 239 + — XIX. Through Connemara 254 + — XX. Brian’s Repentance 266 + — XXI. Sickness unto Death 279 + — XXII. Brighter Days 285 + Conclusion 300 + + + + + MAXWELL DREWITT. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + Brian’s Difficulties. + + +Mr. Gyton returned to London with his uncle, greatly to his disgust, for +he was really enamoured of Geraldine Drewitt; “But the idea of staying +on with a blue-book and a rouge-pot without you!” he remarked to Mr. +Pryor. + +“Cannot you ride?” asked the barrister. + +“Over those winding roads for ever? No. Human nature demands a change.” + +“Cannot you fish?” + +“No. I cannot live on fried trout, and ham and eggs, and whiskey, in +those districts where fish is plentiful: add to which, that I agree with +Dr. Johnson—was not it?—who said a fishing-rod had a worm at one end and +a fool at the other.” + +“Can you not superintend matters at Durrow?” + +“Durrow be hanged! We will come over with a party, but till then, Durrow +sees nothing of your humble servant.” + +“Can you not cultivate a friendship with Harold Drewitt?” + +“Much obliged, but Mr. Harold Drewitt is a young gentleman whom I admire +much more than I like. No, uncle, I return with you to London by the +Kingston and Holyhead packet, if you please.” And Mr. Francis Gyton +locked his portmanteau determinedly. + +“When shall we see you in Connemara again?” asked Lady Emmeline, with +her sweetest smile. + +“Not until next summer, I fear,” answered Mr. Pryor, and his hostess +looked inconsolable. + +“I wish we were going to spend the winter in London,” she said, with a +sigh; and Mrs. Gyton heard of that sigh, and asked her Ladyship to visit +London after Christmas; a visit which Lady Emmeline enjoyed greatly, and +which was most probably the happiest time she ever spent during all the +years that had passed since her marriage with Maxwell Drewitt. + +As for the owner of the Headlands, he felt rejoiced exceedingly when Mr. +Pryor took his leave. The visit had not turned out according to his +anticipations. + +There were several matters in which he had desired Mr. Pryor’s +co-operation and assistance, but he decided that it would be more +prudent to let those matters wait. + +“Twelve months can make no material difference,” argued Mr. Maxwell +Drewitt; “and when he returns, those young people at Kincorth will be +singing to a different tune. And that reminds me I may as well call +round with Ryan, and give him instructions how to proceed.” + +But on the road Maxwell met Mr. Ryan coming post haste to him. + +“Look here,” said the attorney—by this time a shabby, shuffling man of +close on fifty, who smelt even at the earliest hours in the morning of +whiskey, and who would now as soon have thought of calling his employer +Max, as he would of addressing Lord Marsden as “Bob.” + +There had been a time when the pair were very intimate; when they stood +very close together on Fortune’s wheel; but the wheel had gone round +since that, and carried Drewitt up and Ryan down. They were very far +apart now—far as master and man can stand—and though the attorney said +“Look here,” it was not said familiarly, but rather out of the excess of +his own astonishment, with a great anxiety to know how Mr. Drewitt would +receive the contents of the letter he held out for him to read. + +Maxwell glanced over it—then he looked at Ryan. + +“What the devil is the meaning of this?” he said. + +“That there is a fresh hand at the helm,” was the reply. “It is that +young Brian.” + +“Damn him!” said Maxwell heartily. “Had not they some clause by which, +if the interest were not paid, they could sell without power of +redemption?” + +“Yes, if the interest were demanded; but the interest has not been +demanded lately.” + +“And curse you for a fool; why has it not been demanded?” + +“By your own order, sir; by your own order, I assure you,” said Ryan. +“You were afraid of exciting Mr. Drewitt’s apprehensions, and +consequently——” + +“Mr. Archibald, you mean. I am Mr. Drewitt. I am the eldest son of the +eldest son, remember that, if you please.” + +“Mr. Archibald’s apprehensions,” corrected Ryan, “and——” + +“You must get to know what this means,” interrupted Maxwell. “You must +go to old Neill, and ascertain all about it.” + +“I have been, sir, and Neill is quite in the dark himself. This is the +last transaction he is ever to be engaged in for them. Master Brian +requested him to write to us. Had he seen him first he says he would not +have done it. He refused to give him any further information, and begged +him to send all his father’s papers back to Kincorth.” + +“What will be the next move do you expect?” asked Maxwell. + +“To pay off the principal.” + +“They have got a backer,” muttered Maxwell Drewitt, with a shocking +oath, “and that backer is Geoffry Pryor. Are all the papers likely to go +back, Ryan?” he asked, with a certain significance, which made the other +turn a little pale. + +“Neill will not give them up till his costs are paid, and he has a +pretty tidy bill against Mr. Drewitt. He thinks also if he retains the +papers he may get back the business.” + +“You keep him up to that idea,” said Maxwell; “and as for this interest, +let them pay it if they can; and the principal too, for that matter, +curse them! That young fool thinks to get the better of me. So much the +worse for him, that is all.” + +And Maxwell Drewitt turned on his heel, and retraced his steps towards +the Headlands, swearing to himself as he walked along. It was a new +thing for Mr. Maxwell Drewitt to find himself worsted, and he had been +worsted here. + +He thought he had but to step up to Kincorth and take possession, and +behold Kincorth was as far from him as ever. + +Farther perhaps—for there was, as Mr. Ryan had said, a fresh hand at the +helm, who was evidently about to follow his cousin’s example and make +the old property valuable. + +“He is ploughing, he is digging, he is sowing,” Maxwell remarked to Ryan +about three months afterwards; “where does he get the money?” and Ryan’s +thoughts ran back to a time when he had put the same question to himself +with regard to Maxwell, and wondered if this younger and better Drewitt +would be equally successful with his cousin. + +“It is not likely, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Ryan, “that he will do as +well as you have done.” + +“No, faith,” was the reply, “he is working in chains. If the young +beggar did not richly deserve all he gets, I should pity any one who was +trying to work under my uncle. I would rather work for the devil. He +would know his own mind; a thing Archibald Drewitt never did.” + +And what Maxwell Drewitt said was true. + +“But for Kincorth,” wrote Brian to Mr. Pryor, “but for the sake of the +dear old place whose roof I want to keep over the heads of my father and +mother if I am able, I could sometimes almost wish I had rented a +portion of Durrow from you, and tried my luck there. No person can +imagine how hard I find it to carry any point, or to maintain it when +carried. My father thinks I am taking too much on me, and latterly even +Harold has gone over to the enemy. I have no one with me except my +mother and Geraldine. Even my mother thought I ought to defer more to my +father’s opinions, and so I had to tell her about the mortgage. Since +then she has been with me, heart and soul, and indeed but for her I +should often have felt inclined to give up in despair. But I am in the +river now, and I do not mean to sink if I can help it. We have never got +those papers back yet from Mr. Neill. He is keeping them against his +costs, and as the papers cannot be of much importance, I think I shall +not speak again to my father on the subject till you come over. Connor +is doing wonders with Durrow. If the place were his own he could not be +working harder to increase its value. My father’s health does not +improve; on the contrary, those attacks are more frequent. I have been +urging him to go to Dublin, but he seems to think I want him out of the +way. Perhaps when you are next here you may be able to persuade him to +get some first-rate advice. My speaking seems to do more harm than +good.” + +And Brian was quite right. The fact of his proposing anything made Mr. +Drewitt object to it. + +“It is hard upon you Brinbaldy,” said Wilhelmina, who had married years +and years before Mr. Goldich, a man far below herself in birth and +social position. “It is hard upon you. I can remember the time when my +uncle would not cut down a tree because you might not like it; when he +was going to build a house for you at Analore; when we were not allowed +to have a door open for fear the draught might kill you, precious baby +that you were; and now all the county is talking about how badly you and +he hit it off, and how sorry he is Harold is not the eldest son.” + +“If Harold could keep the property together, I am sure I wish he were +the eldest,” sighed Brian. + +“Dear, dear! to think about the fuss they made over you once, and to see +how that young jack-a-napes has cut you out now. My husband says, Brian, +that if he were you, he would not let Maxwell and Harold be so much +together. He says Harold will go to the dogs entirely if he is not got +out of this neighbourhood, and that you ought to see to him.” + +“Can I do everything?” asked Brian. “Am I Harold’s father? am I the +owner of Kincorth? How is it possible for me to do more than I am doing? +Do you think I am master here?” + +“Well, you need not be angry at me for repeating what he says; you need +not snap me up like that for giving you good advice. Go on as you +choose, only don’t blame us if any harm happens to Harold.” + +“There is no harm likely to happen to Harold,” Brian would answer; but +spite of this, as often as not he went straight off to his brother, and +entreated him to stay more at home, not to drink so much, not to mix so +freely with the lower orders, but to remember he was a Drewitt, and +being such, to keep himself to himself. + +“You want to make me a sneak like yourself,” the boy retorted. “You take +too much on you; you set yourself up a great deal too high; you are not +a bit like what you used to be; you are too much of the master before +your time, as Maxwell says.” + +Then calmly, and without a change of colour, Brian damned Maxwell. + +“We will be quits some day,” he remarked. + +“When you have made your fortune out of mangold-wurzel and your fine new +English sheep, I suppose,” taunted Harold, for the English sheep had +proved failures, and the success of the mangold was problematical. + +“I would rather lose money on mangolds than take it out of my wife’s +pocket,” returned Brian; and thus they wrangled on, till oftentimes the +elder brother was sick and tired of his thankless labour—of the work +which was never done, and which, in the opinion of many people, had +better never have been attempted. + +It was hard; and this lad of twenty felt the difficulty of his position +keenly. He rose early, he went to bed late, he fought hard for what he +believed to be right. He did his best to fulfil his promise to Mr. +Pryor, and yet the consequence was that, when Mr. Pryor returned to +Connemara, he found Mr. Drewitt dreadfully dissatisfied with his +son—full of complaints, full of grievances. + +“It is very hard for a man to be so treated by his own child, Mr. +Pryor,” sobbed the invalid. “There is no use in my making any +suggestions. He is only twenty, and I am sixty-four; yet you would +think, to see the way he gets on, he was sixty-four instead of me. I am +sure I managed my own property for many a year before he was born, but +he ignores me completely—completely, sir.” + +“I hope Brian is never disrespectful,” observed the Englishman. + +“No; I cannot make any complaint on that score; he only takes his own +way; he will not be guided by me. Now there’s flax. I wanted him to sow +flax; but do you think he would do it? and I ordered the men to plant +some young trees round that piece of land he is reclaiming over by the +Point. You would hardly credit it, I suppose, but he told them to go on +ploughing, and leave the trees till another season. And those trees, +sir! when he comes to lay that down in grass he will have no shelter for +his cattle; not as much as would shade a sheep.” + +Mr. Pryor took the old man’s hand kindly in his own— + +“My dear Mr. Drewitt,” he began, and his heart was grieved, as he spoke +both for the father and the son. “Will you go back in your own mind +twelve months, and think of your position then—of your position now? I +know, I have good reason for knowing, that had I not advanced money—had +I not, in fact, taken the mortgages on Kincorth myself—the former +mortgagee would have foreclosed ere this; and Brian knew this as well, +and the lad is now working hard to free your property from its +incumbrances. If in all cases he does not follow your advice, I am +confident it is only because he feels that whatever returns money in the +present is of more importance than any improvements calculated to +beautify the property in the future.” + +“But trees, Mr. Pryor—trees are always valuable,” persisted Mr. Drewitt. + +“Not until they grow,” answered Mr. Pryor, with a smile, and that smile +weakened the force of all he had said previously. + +“Of course, I know nothing,” said the old man; “of course, my opinion is +of no weight. I am your debtor, sir, and Brian sees with your eyes—and +I—I might as well be in my coffin.” Having arrived at which sensible +conclusion, Mr. Drewitt burst into tears. + +All in vain, Mr. Pryor begged him to consider how hard Brian was +working, how his endeavours had caused several of Mr. Drewitt’s most +troublesome creditors to cease their persecutions, how there was +comparative comfort at Kincorth. + +“Good Heavens! Mr. Drewitt, what would you have?” went on the +Englishman. “How can Brian possibly do more for you than he is doing?” + +“For himself, Mr. Pryor, you mean,” answered Brian’s parent. “He thinks +the estate will come to him absolutely, when I am dead and gone. It is +not right for a son to act as if his father were already dead and +buried; and I must look out for Harold’s interests—I must see to them.” + +“If you would attend to Harold’s interests in the present,” returned Mr. +Pryor, whose patience was by this time exhausted, “and insist that he +should spend his days in some profitable manner, instead of drinking, +hunting, and consorting with all kinds of bad characters, it would be +more to the purpose, I think, than exalting him over the son who is +trying his best to do his duty.” + +“There you are,” interrupted Mr. Drewitt, “taking Brian’s side, of +course: it only shows me more and more that I must see to Harold—poor +lad—for who would be on his side if I and his mother were gone?” + +“You are right, Mr. Drewitt,” answered Mr. Pryor; “it will be better for +you to see to Harold; it will save much heartburning on the boy’s part +and much misconception on your own. I am sorry you are so ill-advised as +to believe the interests of your two sons can for the present be +separated; but I have done: every man must manage his family and his +affairs for himself, and strangers only do more harm than good by +meddling. I am sure I have,” muttered the lawyer to himself, as he +returned slowly and thoughtfully towards Durrow. + +He had not, however, gained the top of the hill above Kincorth before he +heard some one calling— + +“Oh! Mr. Pryor, do stop, pray, pray do!” and stopping and looking back +he saw Geraldine flying after him. + +“I have run so fast,” she panted. “I want to speak to you. I want to +talk with you so much: may I walk part of the way to Durrow?” + +Might she?—part of the way?—when he would have given all Durrow to have +heard her promise to walk with him all through life. + +At what age does a man’s heart cease to beat faster, I wonder, when a +pretty girl—that is, the pretty girl of his especial fancy—speaks to +him? + +There was a dreadful disparity between them—a quarter of a century, or +thereabouts—which made Geoffry Pryor feel occasionally that he was mad +for thinking of such a thing. + +And perhaps he was mad; but he thought about Geraldine, from morning +till night, for all that. + +“I do so want to talk to you about Brian,” she began. “Home is so +wretched for him, you can have no idea, Mr. Pryor—none;” and Geraldine +lifted her soft dark eyes to the Englishman’s face to see if he were +attending to what she said. “I sometimes think he would be better away, +for poor papa seems to fancy he can do nothing right—nothing.” + +“Your papa is not in a fit state of health to judge accurately on any +subject,” was the reply. + +“But it is so miserable for Brian.” + +“Brian is doing his duty.” + +“It is so hard for him to have to be doing his duty so young,” she +answered. + +“He will find it all the easier when he is old,” replied Mr. Pryor; but +there was nothing unkind in his tone, harsh though the truth might be. + +“Could he not do his duty any place else?” she asked. “He tells me he +could not; that he must make a struggle to keep Kincorth; that he chose +to go into battle, and that he will not turn his back on the fray: but +still, I thought I would ask you,” finished Geraldine; and the dark eyes +were lifted to his once again, and her soft Irish voice laid an accent +at once pathetic and imploring on the “you.” + +“Dear child,” answered Mr. Pryor—she seemed so young and so trustful, so +childlike and so pretty, that he would have liked to gather her in his +arms and carry her to his home, out of the way of sorrow and +trouble—“you would not have your brother a coward; he has elected to +tread a rough road, but he will reach the end some day; and you must +help, and not hinder him on his way.” + +“But if you knew, Mr. Pryor; if you knew—papa is so—so jealous of him, +and Harold is the same; and everybody seems against him—every—every +one.” + +“What a foolish little girl you are!” he said; and the longing grew +stronger to take such a little bundle of folly to himself for ever. “I +am not against Brian, you are not against Brian, your mamma is not +against Brian, many people are very much for Brian, and think him an +amazingly fine young fellow. Besides, he is doing right, and he will be +glad hereafter to think he did strive to keep a roof over his father’s +head. Although Mr. Drewitt does not thank him for it now, Brian will be +glad to remember at some future day how he stood between his father and +the world.” + +“I wish I could be of any use,” she said, with such a wistful look in +her sweet face that Geoffry Pryor would have given more than Durrow to +touch it just once with his lips. + +“You can be of use,” he answered; “you can tell Brian, whenever he is +dispirited, not to lose heart: you can tell him that the evil is only +apparent while the good is real: beyond all”—he hesitated for a moment, +and then went on—“you can tell him to be kind to, and patient and +forbearing with his father; patient as he would be if he were lying on +his death-bed; because, dear Geraldine—may I call you Geraldine?” + +“Yes, anything,” she replied; “because why?” + +“He will not, I fear, have to exercise his patience so long as he +would——” + +“Oh! Mr. Pryor—Mr. Pryor!” and the colour faded out of her face and the +tears sprang into her eyes. + +“My dear, it is true,” he said; “and that thought will make both you and +him very tender and very good.” + +“Papa, my poor, poor papa:” it was all she could say; but she stretched +out her hands towards Mr. Pryor, as though in this dumb fashion she were +asking his help. + +“God knows when it may be,” he went on, taking her hands, “but you must +be prepared any day, my poor child—Geraldine.” + +“Mamma, mamma!” and Geraldine drew her hands away from him and covered +her face from sight; “mamma, mamma! I think I will go home now,” she +added after a pause. “I think I will go back to him: thank you, Mr. +Pryor;” and she left him crying bitterly. + + + + + CHAPTER II. + At the Dawning. + + +It was easy enough to see from Geraldine’s manner that although she had +never put the precarious state of her father’s health before herself +plainly, yet that she had vaguely dreaded the worst. + +As a rule, our fears travel so much faster than actual danger, that +before danger absolutely appears in sight, we are well prepared for its +advent; and there was not one of Mr. Drewitt’s family, unless indeed it +might be Harold, who had not been long prepared for the worst. + +Mrs. Drewitt, and Brian and Geraldine had known, for many a day, that he +could never be better. Once admit the idea that improvement is +impossible, and it is not difficult to imagine that the last change of +all is probable. + +There are times when it is the truest wisdom to look upon our living as +dying; when it is well to meet the mournful truth boldly and without +disguise; when it is well to buckle on all our charity and forbearance; +to call together love, and duty, and tenderness, so that we may not pain +the departing by opposition which might be imperative for their sakes as +well as our own, were they not already at the mouth of that river where +all human leave-takings must be ended. + +“If we had but known how ill he was—If we had only imagined he was +dying!” + +“Had we thought he was in danger!” + +How often we hear these sentences—happy only if we have never had need +to utter them ourselves! + +Geoffry Pryor resolved that Geraldine should have no sorrow of this +kind. It was right for her to understand, and yet the intelligence did +not seem strange to her. + +She had feared—and the fear was true—and she went down the hill towards +Kincorth, crying, as I have said, bitterly. + +As she went Mr. Pryor began to marvel whether he had done right; +whether, after all, Mr. Drewitt’s case was so hopeless; but then he +remembered many an unfailing symptom which assured him that Kincorth +would soon be in want of a new master. + +“And the sooner the better, say I,” was the conclusion he arrived at; +but then his conscience chid him, and he added, “though God knows best.” + +As for Harold, nothing could induce him to think badly of his father’s +state. + +“You told me more than a year ago he could not be cured, and he is alive +now,” he argued. + +“I said I feared he never could be better, and I was right,” answered +Brian. + +“Well, he may live for a hundred years yet,” was the reply. “He is +dying—you are dying—I am dying; but although we are dying we are not +near our deaths; at least I hope not,” added Harold; and he went +whistling out of the gates, to seek for more cheerful companionship +abroad. + +He did not like all work and no play, not he; give him a good tumbler of +punch, a pretty country-girl for partner, and a jolly good dance up at +Regan’s—a public-house on the way to Cragantlet, where he and a lot of +other young fellows got together—and Kincorth might go hang. + + “‘For I’m a fine young Irish gentleman, + All of the ancient school,’” + +Master Harold would shout out as he came reeling home, arm-in-arm with +three or four more as drunk as himself; and Brian, who had never taken a +glass too much wine in his life, looked at his brother and asked +helplessly—“What can I do? what can I do?” + +He never knew where to find Harold when he wanted him; and one night +when the worst, so long apprehended, had to be faced, Brian, flinging +himself on the fastest thing in the stable—Madcap—knew no more where to +go to look for his brother than if he were the greatest stranger in the +world. + +“There is a dance up at Regan’s to-night, sir,” said the man who had +saddled the chesnut; “and if you’ll ride up there, I’ll cut across the +hills to Durrow, for Mr. Maxwell’s dining with Mr. Pryor, and should +Master Harold not be at Regan’s he’ll be there.” + +“Which is the nearest road to Regan’s?” Brian asked, stroking the neck +of the chesnut, who was one of the most fidgety brutes a man ever +undertook to ride. + +“Straight on till Cragantlet, then take the turn before you come to the +gates, and keep on about half-a-mile. He’s nearly sure to be there; but +if he’s not there, you might call at Dan Glynn’s as you’re comin’ back.” + +“I’ll call there as I’m going,” was the reply; for Dan Glynn was an +individual who resided about a mile inland from Duranmore, and who was +reputed to make his living by less honest means than tilling bad land or +sending lean sheep to Ballinasloe fair for the Leinster graziers to buy +and fatten. + +It was a dark night for August, but Brian knew every inch of the road, +and so for that matter did the chesnut, who brought him to the Moor Farm +in less than a quarter of an hour. + +Brian rode straight up to the door and, without dismounting, rapped for +admittance with the handle of his whip. + +There were no lights to be seen, there was no one stirring about the +place; but the youth knew Mr. Glynn’s habits, and not thinking these at +all sufficient reasons for supposing the household had retired to rest, +he jumped to the ground, and with whip and boots made such vigorous +onslaughts on the door as soon brought Mr. Glynn out of his bed to +inquire what the —— he wanted. + +“I want my brother, Glynn; do you know where he is?” + +“The Lord be good to me, it’s Mister Brian. I beg your pardon, sir, I’m +sure; I thought it was some damned gauger. No, I haven’t seen Masther +Harold, not these two days. Anything wrong, sir? can I be of any help?” + +“No, thank you,” answered Brian, who had one foot already in the +stirrup. “I’ll go on to Regan’s.” + +“How’s the Masther, Mister Brian?” + +“Dying, Glynn,” was the reply that came back through the night, for the +chesnut was galloping down the cross road leading to Duranmore, and +Brian turned round in his saddle to shout out these words. + +“Faith, then, an’ if he’s dyin’ it’s not Dan Glynn that’ll go back till +his bed, an’ sleep contint. I’ll follow the boy: shure an’ it’s at a +time like this a man stands in need of company, let him be rich or let +him be poor.” And straightway Mr. Glynn “clapped a saddle” on his black +pony Tom, and cantered away to Cragantlet in pursuit of Brian Drewitt. + +Brian, meantime, had gone galloping on under the darkness. He gave the +chesnut her head, and she went tearing away as though she thought he was +riding a steeple-chase. Over those lonely roads, what did it matter? +Among those desolate hills, who cared if he rode like a fiend through +the night? The same country as Maxwell had traversed, while the moon +shone down on lake, and hill, and bog, and ravine, Brian now dashed +through without turning his eyes to right or left. He thought of his +father—of the great mystery—of how hard he had tried to do his duty—and +of how his reward was— + +“Harold, Harold,” but never once, “Brian, my son.” + +And now his father was going where all his eldest born had tried to +effect could benefit him no more. He would never see Kincorth clear of +debt; never know how disinterested Brian had been; never understand how +this boy-man had worked to free him from anxiety; never comprehend how +wild and reckless, how selfish and thoughtless, his favourite son was +growing up. + +“It is best as it is,” thought Brian, bitterly; “better for him to die +than for Harold to break his heart!” And as he thought this, the sound +of music was borne down the lane, and he heard shouting and laughing and +the noise of the dancers’ feet as they were thumped at regular intervals +upon the earthen floor. + +“Hold my horse, boy,” he shouted to an urchin standing by the open door, +and the boy ran forward and took the mare, and was about to lead her +round to the yard, when Brian stopped him. + +“Don’t put her up,” he said, “I only want to speak a word inside. I +shall be out again in a minute,” and he strode into the house, a +finer-looking man than Harold was ever likely to grow to. + +“Is my brother within, Mrs. Regan?” he asked of the landlady, who met +him at the door. + +“Mr. Brian! an’ it’s welcome ye are, sir. Your brother? I’m not just +sure, sir; will ye step in and sit down while I see?” + +“I’ll see for myself, Mrs. Regan, if you please,” answered Brian, gently +putting the landlady on one side. “You need not be afraid; I’m not going +to scold the boy; nobody is going to be angry with him, only his father +wants to see him before he dies!” + +“God save us all, is he that bad, Mr. Brian?” But Brian had already +flung open the kitchen-door and was among the merrymakers. + +In a moment every dancer stood still, every voice was hushed, and only +the piper who had been playing Paddy O’Rafferty went on with his tune, +unmindful of the intruder. + +“Hush! Jamsie,” said one in his ear, “it is the young master;” and the +piper stopped. + +Although it was summer, a tremendous turf-fire blazed on the hearth, and +collected together in the kitchen were a number of pretty young +country-girls, young farmers, labourers, and two or three gentlemen’s +sons, foremost among whom stood Harold. + +There were wooden forms round the room for the convenience of the +lookers on; there was whiskey in abundance; one or two dogs lay on the +hearth, and the blind piper was accommodated with a seat in a dark +corner. + +“Welcome, Brian!” shouted out Harold, boisterously; “welcome! we’ll get +you a pretty partner and drink your health with three times three.” + +“Not to-night, Harold,” answered Brian. “I want you a minute; come +here;” and thinking all the time of the room in which he had left his +father, of the contrast between the one scene and the other, he led his +brother into the passage, and told him he must hurry home. + +Like one listening in a dream, Harold heard all Brian said in silence. + +In silence also he allowed himself to be taken out of the house into the +darkness, to the spot where the chesnut was standing. + +“Don’t spare her, Harold,” said Brian, helping his brother into the +saddle; “lose no time.” + +“But you, Brian—but you?” and Harold was on the ground again. + +“I’ll walk back,” was the answer. “Hang it! can’t you do as I tell you +for once? Jump up; it is you he wants to see—not me.” + +And Brian almost lifted his brother into his seat as he spoke. + +“Are you all right now?” he asked. + +“Yes, only I wish——” + +Brian struck the mare on her flank, and the creature was off through the +darkness, through the night, bearing Harold towards Kincorth. + +A mile after leaving Regan’s, Brian met Glynn. “Take my pony, Master +Brian,” he said; “I brought him up here on purpose, and I can send to +Kincorth for him in the morning.” + +“And you, Glynn?” + +“I can tramp it,” was the answer; and Brian accepted his offer; only as +he rode he wondered how much of all the respect and civility which was +accorded to him he owed to the fact of his being the eldest son, the +next heir. + +“It is Harold they like,” he reflected, “and not me.” + +But Brian was wrong; the country-people liked Harold much, but they +liked him better. They were fond of the free-mannered impetuous boy, but +they were fonder still of the young gentleman who was doing his best so +soon; who was out with the labourers in the morning, and was overseeing +the men, and planning this and measuring that, from sunrise to sunset. + +“Doing his best to keep the ould place from the stranger,” as they +pathetically said. + +It was two o’clock before Brian reached home. Glynn’s pony cast a shoe +six miles from Kincorth, and the young man had been obliged to walk him +every step of those six miles home. + +“An’ ye never stopped to pick up the shoe, Master Brian,” said Nannie, +who was now stooped with age, and old and withered, regretfully. “I only +hope no harm will come of it. Won’t you eat a bite before you go up to +him? He has been asking for you.” + +“For my brother, I suppose you mean,” answered Brian; “is he not with +him?” + +“Yes; but it has been Brian, Brian, this last two hours. You look white +like, won’t you have a drop of something?” + +“No, Nannie, not now; let me alone, like a good soul. Where is my +mother?” + +“Where wud she be but wid him?” was the reply; and Brian ascended the +staircase and entered his father’s room. + +There lay Mr. Drewitt, waiting for the final summons; there sat Mrs. +Drewitt, and Harold, and Geraldine, and Doctor Sheen. From side to side +the dying man tossed restlessly. “Brian, Brian!” he cried; and Brian +answered, “I am here.” + +“Will you take care of your mother, Brian, and your sister, and—and +Harold?” + +“I will, father,” and the young man bowed his head as though he felt +himself in the presence of something mightier than mortality. + +“Will you be good to him, patient with him?” + +“I will,” and Brian Drewitt took his father’s hand. + +“Swear it,” murmured the dying man. + +“As I hope for peace here and salvation hereafter, I swear!” said Brian. + +“I have left you all,” Mr. Drewitt muttered feebly; “perhaps it is not +right—and I did not mean to do it—but you will be good to him, Brian, +you will?” + +“Before God!” was the reply. + +“And may He enable you to fulfil your vow!” said a voice behind him; and +Brian, looking round, saw the Rector of Duranmore, who laid a kindly +hand on his shoulder. + +“My boy,” he whispered, “you have undertaken great responsibilities this +night; but God will give you strength if you ask for His help.” + +And then they all knelt down, while the clergyman prayed that +intensely-pathetic prayer which is ordered, in the visitation of the +sick, for those for whom there appeareth small hope of recovery. + +“Amen,” said the sick man, but there was no other Amen, only sobs from +the women and Harold, and a profound silence as regarded Brian and +Doctor Sheen. + +“Amen!”—the sands in the glass had almost run out; the sun of his life +was close upon its setting; the river of his existence was flowing out +into the sea. + +Amen! His day was declining; his grass withering. This man was going to +his long home, and the mourners were gathered round about him. + +Amen! He could not take up his life again and make a better thing of it; +he could not go back through the years and redress the wrong, and undo +the misery he had brought on others. For him in this world there was no +future, only a barren and unprofitable past. + +Amen! Throw open the shutters, and fling up the windows, that he may +look his last in the grey light of morning, over the country he has +loved so long. + +“Lift me up,” he said feebly; and they raised him up that he might see +the trees standing quietly in the first blush of dawn—the sea lying +still as a glassy lake—the grand old mountains and Eversbeg’s Head. + +From the far-off mountains, from the nearer hills, from the sea and the +woods, and the cold grey sky, the dying man’s eyes came back slowly to +the room where was a “sound of weeping and a noise of lamentation.” + +Maxwell had come in and stood beside the bed, waiting till his uncle +should notice him. Against an old-fashioned escritoire leant Mr. Pryor, +who felt himself an intruder and a stranger in the midst of such a +scene. The Rector supported the sick man, and whispered some words of +consolation to him. He saw the end coming; he knew the moment when the +keepers of the house tremble, and the strong men bow themselves, and the +grinders cease, was close at hand; and though he could not hear what the +dying man was muttering, he yet liked to see his lips move, hoping it +was in prayer. + +He looked very peaceful; his face was calm and placid; but as he brought +back his eyes from the Bennebeola mountains, from Eversbeg and the +nearer hills, his glance fell on Maxwell, who stepped closer to speak to +him. + +But his uncle turned from him, and calling out “Brian—Brian!” fell +forward into the arms of his first-born. + +And over his father’s grey head, which lay on his bosom, Brian looked +defiantly at his cousin. There was no man living could step between them +now; in that hour his son was closer to Archibald Drewitt than the wife +of his bosom. + +As the magnet attracts iron, so the stronger nature attracts the weaker +in the hour of its most grievous need. + +No man could separate the father and his child now—for still the grey +head lay on Brian’s breast, growing heavier—heavier each moment. + +There was a great silence in the chamber, and then Doctor Sheen walked +round the bed, and taking one cold hand in his, felt the pulse. + +It was gone—the “silver cord was loosed, and the golden bowl broken, and +the pitcher broken at the fountain, and the wheel broken at the +cistern.” + +The dust had returned to the earth, and the spirit unto God who gave it. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + After the Funeral. + + +It was all over—another Drewitt was gone from Kincorth—another Drewitt +was about to swell that grim assemblage who lay shrouded and coffined in +Eversbeg Abbey, waiting for the judgment—and through the darkened rooms +and about the accustomed passages the family moved slowly and +mournfully. Not one was glad Archibald Drewitt had passed to his last +home—not one—child—servant—tenant—relative, unless indeed it might be +Maxwell Drewitt, who was, his wife remarked, a little more irritable +than usual, if that were possible. + +Naturally Brian took the management of affairs. He ordered a hearse from +Galway, the nearest town where such a luxury was obtainable. He +despatched intimations of the death to all the gentry in the +neighbourhood; he sent hat-bands and scarfs to all the clergy, +dissenting, Roman Catholic and Protestant, within reach, (you perceive, +reader, more devolves upon the relations in Ireland than in England,) +and he saw that popular requirements were attended to in the kitchen and +servants’ hall. + +Brian was not one to throw disrespect on his father’s memory by +neglecting any of the customary conventionalities, and accordingly, +while the corpse was watched up stairs by a profusion of ancient women, +in a room lighted by wax candles, whiskey was drunk _ad libitum_ in the +servants’ department, and the house slept neither by day nor by night. + +There is nothing in which Ireland differs more from England than in her +observances concerning the dead; there is nothing which grates more +against English feeling than the riot and disorder of an Irish household +after a death; while the stately and undemonstrative propriety of an +establishment on this side of the water, where there is mourning for the +departed, strikes the Hibernian as cold and unfeeling. + +In Kincorth the popular taste was allowed to run riot. By the lower +orders, Archibald Drewitt had been idolized; by the lower orders, his +loss was lamented exceedingly. It is possible for a vast amount of +regret to co-exist with an unlimited supply of whiskey, and Duranmore +sorrowed over Archibald Drewitt exceedingly. + +As for the family, what more can I say than that they mourned—that Mrs. +Drewitt’s grief was silent, and Harold’s passionate, and Brian’s +stern—that the wife bowed down her head and wept for the husband of her +youth—that the children bewailed themselves for the father they should +never in this world see more? + +All the latter and more unamiable part of Archibald Drewitt’s life was +by common consent ignored—his family, his tenantry, his dependents, and +society generally, never spoke of the man who, grey and bent, full of +fancies and of grievances, had gone about among them, but rather they +talked of the genial Irish gentleman—of the loving, gracious parent—of +the kindly, reckless master, who had dwelt with them for so long. + +“An’ it’s Mr. Brian that will be the proper man to fill his shoes,” +crooned the old people over the turf-fire in the kitchen; “though he is +not so free as his father, and is quieter like, still it’s the cliver +man he’ll make, and it’s the fine place Kincorth will be yit, God bliss +it! The poor Masther had not the same sinse as his son, and he went +through a power of money too, intirely.” + +“But the poor man niver was turned from his dure.” + +“An’ he niver spoke a hard word to man, woman, or child.” + +“An’ he was easily served.” + +“An’ he had always the kind look and the pleasant smile, meet him where +you would.” + +“An’ shure, it wasn’t his fault if he niver looked afther the dirty +money. He wasn’t reared to the like.” + +“Ay, but it ‘ud be betther now for Mr. Brian if his father had thought +o’ them that was to come afther him.” + +“Ye can’t both spend and have,” remarked one man, oracularly; “an’ it’s +no use frettin’ about the goold that can niver be brought back again. He +was good to many a poor body the time of the distress, and it will be +remimbered till him now, God rest his soul!” and the speaker crossed +himself. + +Thus they talked over the turf-fire while the whiskey circulated, and +the servants, who were called away at intervals, returned to communicate +any strange piece of intelligence that had been made known to them +upstairs. + +How the mistress was looking—how Master Harold was taking on—how Miss +Geraldine had fallen fast asleep on the drawing-room sofa, “tired out +wid the grief, poor thing”—how the corpse was looking more and more +beautiful—how they did say the funeral was going to be the grandest +thing ever seen in West Connemara. + +Brian Drewitt had determined in his own soul that what the people said +should prove true. He would do honour to his father. No man should +whisper that a Drewitt of Kincorth went to his long home with a badge of +poverty on his coffin, though that badge had been won for himself by +years of prodigality—of reckless expenditure—of senseless profusion. + +Poor they were, heaven knew—poor in consequence of his father’s bad +management; but they would scrape together enough to bury him, as he +himself might have desired, right royally—as the Drewitts had been wont +to travel to their vault in Eversbeg Abbey, down by the sea. + +The fourth day was that fixed for the funeral. Like Abraham, the Irish +would lose no time about burying their dead “out of their sight.” Not +out of their memories, for there is no country in the world where the +dead are remembered longer, or mourned for more earnestly. Only out of +their sight; and this speedy interment, which so shocks and astonishes +the English, has, I think, its origin in the different customs of the +two countries with regard to the bodies of the deceased. + +Till earth receives earth, the Irish never willingly leave a corpse +alone for a moment. Till the grave is closed, nothing in a house of any +kind, sort, or description, can go on as usual. + +Now, human nature cannot remain with the clay, whence the soul has +departed, beyond a certain period; further, an establishment cannot sit +up for ever. Moreover, the novelty even of a death wears off. It is like +a state visit, exciting for the time, but apt to grow wearisome if long +protracted; and for all these reasons, and for many more of the same +kind, which it would take too long to mention, a “rest day, a guest day, +and a prest day,” are the utmost measure of time that a body honoured, +as is the case in Ireland, ought to intrude its presence on the family. + +The prest day is a stretch of courtesy across the channel; but not to +fail in due respect, Brian accorded it to his father’s remains. + +He required the time to arrange matters to his liking, and when the +morning came he had everything prepared to do honour to the man who was +going, after all these years, to lie down beside Nicholas Drewitt, and +George Drewitt, and all the long line of Drewitts who were waiting in +Eversbeg Abbey for that hour when the “heavens and the earth shall flee +away, and the sea give up her dead, and every mountain and island be +moved out of their place.” + +It was a magnificent funeral; never had such a one passed through +Duranmore before. All the gentry for twenty miles round came in their +private carriages, drawn by the best horses their stables could turn +out; people who had not carriages came on cars, in dogcarts, in gigs, on +horseback. All the men who had ever paid rent to Archibald Drewitt, +though many of them had passed with his lands into the hands of +strangers, came to do honour to him now; all Maxwell Drewitt’s tenantry, +all Lady Emmeline’s, all Mr. Pryor’s, all the tradesfolk out of +Duranmore, all the fishermen, all the labourers, fell into rank behind +the black hearse, with its nodding plumes, with its four stately horses, +that led the way to Eversbeg. + +Under the trees that bent their branches over the road; round the bay +where the waves came rippling up on the shore; through Duranmore—where +the dead had once made himself so busy about rival candidates, about +forgotten politics—past the cottage where Ryan had again taken up his +abode; over the hill beyond Duranmore, and down into the hollow where +the Abbey stood lonely and desolate, the funeral procession wound sadly +and slowly. + +It was as fine a day as ever shone upon the earth; the sunbeams fell in +great patches on the tombstones, on the monuments, on the grass in +Eversbeg graveyard; the great mountains lifted their heads to the blue +sky grandly and unsympathizingly as ever; outside Eversbeg Bay the +Atlantic lay calm and quiet as a lake. The ivy about the east window +waved its branches as the light breeze passed by: frightened at the +incursion of such a multitude, the birds flew out with a great noise and +twitter, while the sheep bounded away like wild deer over the broken +wall and up the hill-side to a convenient distance, where they turned +and looked down upon the scene below as though it had been a spectacle +and they the spectators. + +The rusty gate of the churchyard stood wide, but the hearse could not +pass through it, and the nearest of kin accordingly bore the coffin into +the centre of the ruins, preceded by the Rector of Duranmore, who walked +slowly along, telling to the sea and to the mountains, to the sunshine +and to the mourners, the one great truth that shall endure when there is +no more sea and no more sorrow— + +“He that believeth in me, though he were dead yet shall he live, and +whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.” + +They placed the coffin on trestles, in what had once been the centre of +the Abbey; and there, with no covering but the sky, in the midst of that +ruined church, with nettles and grass underfoot, with the elder-tree +spreading abroad its branches in the chancel, with ferns growing where +the holy water had wont to be placed, the funeral service proceeded. + +Think, oh! reader, of what that service must have sounded at such a time +in such a place. + +Pigmies seemed the men in comparison to the eternal hills, but yet the +Rector lifted up his voice, and declared— + +“‘Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another, before +the mountains were brought forth, or ever the earth and the world were +made. Thou art God from everlasting and world without end.’” + +Many a one present sobbed when that psalm was read out. As David bowed +the heart of all the men of Judah even as the heart of one man, so +almost as one man that great assemblage was moved at the words of the +sweet singer of Israel. But there were two present whose eyes never +moistened, but who looked straight at one another over the coffin, each +seemingly keeping watch on his fellow. + +It was the same when they stood beside the vault; and when the Rector +said, with a perhaps unintentional emphasis— + +“‘Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,’” more than one of the +group round the grave noticed the look Brian Drewitt gave Maxwell. + +“What’s up, do you suppose?” whispered Connor to Dan Glynn, who chanced +to be close at his elbow. + +“I don’t know,” was the reply; “but did you not see the shove Maxwell +gave him when he went to take the right hand in the procession? I +thought coffin and all would have been over.” + +“Have you any idea what it means?” + +“No good,” said Dan, prophetically; and very vaguely Mr. Pryor was +thinking the same thing. + +He could not imagine what had gone wrong, but he felt satisfied the day +would not pass over peaceably; and when the service was finished, when +all that man could ever do for Archibald Drewitt was accomplished, when +the living had left the dead to take his long rest under the shadow of +the hills, within sound of the great sea, the barrister, sitting in the +same carriage with the cousins, would have given much to know the +probable result of the next few hours. + +“Can he have any power we know nothing of?” speculated Mr. Pryor: “have +they had any quarrel unheard of by me?” and he ran over possible and +impossible circumstances likely to account for the hostile attitude +assumed by both. + +Almost in silence the four drove back to Kincorth. In one corner of the +carriage, with his back to the horses, Harold was crying. Beside him +Brian sat with his arms crossed, staring defiantly at Maxwell, who, +employed in biting his nails down to below the quick, never troubled +himself to open his lips to any one. + +But as they passed through the entrance gates and up under the arching +trees to the house, Mr. Pryor noticed that Maxwell bent forward and +looked out—out over lawn and field and garden, with the air of triumph +he had noticed once before. + +“What can be the meaning of it?” marvelled Mr. Pryor, but he was not +left very long in doubt. + +Had Brian not been a drop’s blood to the late owner of Kincorth, Maxwell +could not more completely have ignored his existence than was the case. + +“Pull up those blinds,” were the first words he spoke when he entered +the house. + +“Do nothing of the kind, Robert,” said Brian, and once again he and +Maxwell exchanged glances of defiance. + +“Shall I go away?” asked Mr. Pryor; “you would rather, I am sure, not +have any stranger present when the will is read?” + +“No, stay, if you please,” answered Brian. “I feel as if something were +going to happen, though I have not the remotest idea what. Mr. James +Butler will read the will. Shall we get it over at once?” + +They passed into the dining-room, where Mr. Butler was already seated, +with one sealed packet and several loose papers lying before him. As +Mrs. Drewitt and Geraldine entered he rose, and remained standing till +they had taken their places. For a minute afterwards indeed he stood as +if irresolute, but then drawing up his chair to the table, he said, +addressing himself to Mr. Pryor— + +“I have looked, at Mr. Brian Drewitt’s desire, through all the papers +left by his late father, and can discover no trace of a will likely to +be available at the present moment. I find two or three rough drafts, +which were prepared for him by his former legal adviser, Mr. Bartholomew +Neill, none of which Mr. Neill informs me met with his approval. It +would seem as though he had intended to make some separate provision for +his younger son, but he has failed to carry out that design. An +unfortunate difference between my father and the late Mr. Drewitt +prevented our having such an intimate knowledge of his affairs as might +now be desirable. Mr. Neill has intimated that a will was made by him, +and executed by Mr. Drewitt, which will it would seem as though Mr. +Drewitt must subsequently have destroyed, as I can discover no vestige +of it.” + +“What is that sealed packet there, Mr. Butler?” asked Maxwell. + +“It is a will, dated on the cover, 1818, which would of course be +inoperative at the present juncture, since Mr. Drewitt’s marriage took +place fourteen years subsequently, and marriage renders all wills made +Pryor to that event null and void.” + +“Not all wills, Mr. Butler,” said Mr. Pryor. + +“Read this one, at all events,” broke in Brian Drewitt; and Mr. Butler +took up the packet. “But stop a moment,” he added. “Suppose it should be +of no effect; what would then be the result?” + +“Just the same as though your father had died intestate.” + +“And if he had died intestate?” + +“You would succeed, of course.” + +Across the room Brian looked defiantly at Maxwell, who returned the look +calmly and steadily. + +“Had not we better proceed to business?” he said, addressing Mr. Butler. +“I shall be glad to return home as soon as possible.” + +“And so shall I,” murmured Wilhelmina, thinking of her last baby. + +Mr. Pryor walked across the room and seated himself beside Brian, while +Mr. Butler broke the seals, took out the enclosure, and began. + +There is no need for me, reader, to weary you with the contents of that +will. It had been made shortly after Mr. Drewitt’s accession to +Kincorth, and set forth that as he, the testator, had succeeded to the +property to the exclusion of his eldest brother and his family, he +desired to restore the property to the elder branch after his death. +Never being likely to marry, (he proceeded to declare,) it was his +desire that all his estates, real and personal, should pass to his +brother; or, in the event of his brother’s decease, to Maxwell, son of +the said George Drewitt, chargeable with so-and-so and so-and-so. + +It was a tremendously lengthy document, and Mr. James Butler read on +through the catalogue of estates that had now most of them passed into +other hands—wearily and rapidly. + +“I should think my father must have paid for it by the foot,” he was +considering, when suddenly he turned over the last page and caught sight +of something that made him pause, and glance across at Brian. + +“Go on,” said the young man; “I am attending,” and Mr. Butler went on—to +signed, sealed, and delivered, when he stopped once again. + +“Is that all?” asked Mr. Pryor. + +“No, there is a codicil.” + +“Of what date?” inquired the barrister, rising and standing with both +hands on the table, while Maxwell’s eyes grew darker and darker, and the +veins in his forehead swelled and blackened—“of what date?” + +“September 28th, 1832, more than three months after Mr. Drewitt’s +marriage.” + +“What is the codicil?” said Brian. + +“Read it,” suggested Mr. Pryor, and Mr. Butler read on. + +When he had finished, every man present looked in the face of his +neighbour, for the codicil confirmed the will. It mentioned Mrs. +Drewitt’s jointure; all present were clear on this point, for Mr. Butler +was requested by Mr. Pryor to read it over again. Then the barrister +took the will and looked at it. + +“When will Brian be of age, Mrs. Drewitt?” he asked, turning towards the +widow. + +“The third of next April,” she replied. + +“And what is the date of the codicil, Mr. Butler?” was his next +question. + +“September the 28th, sir,” answered Mr. Butler. + +Mr. Pryor went through a mental calculation, through every turn of which +Maxwell followed him. + +“Did not the 28th fall on a Sunday?” he said, suddenly addressing +Maxwell; but Maxwell was not to be trapped. + +“I am sure I cannot tell,” he said, and he thrust his hands into the +very bottom of his pockets. + +“The best thing, it seems to me, now that we can do is to send for Mr. +Neill,” remarked Mr. Pryor. + +“I doubt if he will come,” said Mr. Butler. + +“Who was Mr. Drewitt’s solicitor in 1832?” asked the barrister. + +“My father,” answered Mr. James Butler. + +“Oh!” remarked Mr. Pryor; then he said to Mr. James Butler, “Is there +anything more to be done?” and Mr. James Butler said that there was not, +so far as he knew. + +“Then we need not detain Mrs. Drewitt: all this must be very unpleasant +to her,” was Mr. Pryor’s next observation, and he held the door open for +her and her daughter to pass out. + +“What does it all mean, Mr. Pryor?” she whispered. “I do not understand +it.” + +“I do not exactly understand it myself yet,” he replied. “We must make +inquiries about the missing will.” + +And he walked back into the dining-room, without, however, closing the +door behind him. + +“I suppose we cannot do any good by standing here, looking at one +another,” he said, making a sign to Brian to remain silent, while +Maxwell marched across the apartment, and taking one hand out of his +pocket slammed to the door. + +“I wish to make a remark,” he commenced, returning to his former +position. “I wish to state that this will has taken me unawares.” + +“You lie!” interrupted Brian. + +“I have not the slightest doubt on the point, Mr. Drewitt,” answered Mr. +Pryor. “And if such a proceeding were not illegal, I should say the best +thing you could do would be to put this will in the fire, and proceed as +though your uncle had died intestate.” + +Maxwell bit his lip, but putting a curb on his temper, he proceeded— + +“I shall do nothing rashly, I shall make no hasty promises. I must think +over the position in which this will places me, before committing myself +in any way. Thirty-seven years have elapsed since my father was +disinherited in favour of Brian’s father, and now, by a curious +fatality, Brian is disinherited for me. The estates were then valuable; +now, most of those estates are owned by strangers, and the property +which is left is heavily mortgaged, as no one knows better than you, Mr. +Pryor. With a large rent-roll, my uncle did nothing for us. Out of the +little his extravagance has left, I will, however, do something for his +children, if they permit me.” + +“You shall never do anything for me,” retorted Brian. “I will never take +a sixpence from you; nor shall one belonging to me, if I can help it.” + +“Be silent, Brian,” entreated Mr. Pryor. + +“I will not be silent,” said Brian. “He has cheated us somehow; if that +other will be destroyed, he had some hand in making away with it. He has +determined for years and years and years to own Kincorth; and he has got +it. Curse you, Maxwell Drewitt! curse you, for a false-hearted, +double-faced, lying scoundrel!” + +“Don’t stop so soon,” sneered Maxwell; “it is safe to insult a man in +his own house.” + +“Then if it be your house, may it prove a sorrowful one to you! may you +never have an hour’s happiness in it! as you are childless, so may you +die desolate!” + +“Take that, you foul-tongued young beggar,” said Maxwell, and he struck +him a back-handed blow across the mouth. + +“Oh! Brian, Brian!” cried Harold, and he flew at Maxwell like a tiger. + +But Maxwell put the boy aside, and holding him from him at arm’s length, +went on— + +“Take your protégé with you, Mr. Pryor, out of my sight; and keep him +out of it, or I may do him an injury. Is it my fault that his father was +a fool? Is it my fault that Kincorth should come back to its rightful +owner? If Brian thinks it does not now belong to me in law, as it always +did in equity, let him contest the point. For my part, I swear that, +while I have a shilling, he shall never now own an acre of my land.” + +“You have done for yourself, at any rate, Brian,” remarked Mr. Goldich, +taking the young man by the arm, and forcibly leading him out of the +room. “What an idiot you must be,” went on Mr. Maxwell Drewitt’s +brother-in-law, “not to stick up to him! because, if the other will be +destroyed—and I have not the remotest doubt in life myself but that your +father did put it in the fire when he took that notion about +Harold—where are you without his help—just tell me that?” + +But Brian refused to answer that or any other question which Mr. Goldich +might feel inclined to propound. + +He said, “I wish to heaven you would leave me alone!” and with this +explicit declaration separated himself from his relative at the foot of +the staircase. + +Very slowly and very wearily he ascended to his own apartment, while Mr. +Goldich returned to the dining-room. + +Maxwell met him in the doorway. + +“You came here to hear the will read, I believe, sir,” he observed. + +“Yes—with Wilhelmina,” answered Mr. Goldich. + +“Then, as you have heard the will read, you and Wilhelmina can both go +home.” + +“Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Mr. Goldich; and he never put his foot +inside Kincorth again. + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + Farewell. + + +The first thing Maxwell Drewitt did when he got rid of his visitors was +to order a room to be prepared for his accommodation. + +“And, Robert, tell Flynn to put the saddle on Madcap, and to bring her +round directly.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Give my compliments to Mrs. Drewitt, and say I shall be glad to speak +to her alone for a few minutes.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +And he walked up and down the room until Robert reappeared. + +“Mrs. Drewitt’s compliments, sir, and she is in the breakfast-parlour.” + +That was the first note of war on Mrs. Drewitt’s part; and Maxwell +accepted it as such. + +Nevertheless, he repaired to the breakfast-parlour, where Mrs. Drewitt +was talking to Mr. Pryor. + +“I thought,” said Maxwell, “I saw you leave with Mr. Butler.” + +“I only went so far as the gate. I wished to speak to Mrs. Drewitt +before I returned to Durrow; but I have said all I had to say, and am +going directly.” + +“Not on my account, I hope,” answered Maxwell, with a great accession of +civility. “I merely wanted to tell Mrs. Drewitt that I trust she will +consider Kincorth her home for the present. I have no desire to make her +position at all unpleasant. I am quite willing to meet her half-way in +any reasonable plan for the future. And if Brian will apologize for his +extraordinary conduct, I am ready to forgive and forget.” + +“But I am not, Maxwell,” she answered. “You have always hated me; and +you have always hated my children. Twenty-one years ago you told me you +disliked me, and why? For twenty-one years you have been scheming and +plotting to get us out of Kincorth; and your schemes and your plots have +been successful. I cannot forget, and I cannot forgive. As if it were +not trouble enough to lose my husband, I must also see my children +beggars.” At which point Mrs. Drewitt burst into tears, and Maxwell +answered— + +“When my father lost this property he accepted that loss without a +murmur. Many a one now living can tell you that. It is not half so hard +for your sons as it was for my father, for they are unencumbered, and he +was married and had a family: you have your jointure; my father had not +a sixpence. Kincorth, and the other farms and estates, which we have +usually put under one head and called Kincorth, brought in at that day +fifteen thousand a year. Without mortgages its nett value was probably +eight thousand a year. Am I stating my case fairly, Mr. Pryor?” + +“I have no reason to suppose otherwise,” was the reply. + +“After thirty-seven years Kincorth returns to the elder branch +absolutely valueless; so valueless that I declare to you, were it not +that it has been in the family for more generations than I could tell +you, I would let Mr. Pryor foreclose to-morrow and trouble myself with +the place no more: do you believe what I am saying?” + +She made no answer, and he proceeded. + +“I must ask you, Mrs. Drewitt, now, to look back to the time when you +came first to Kincorth. What had we out of the property?—food. Had we +anything else? were we well-dressed? were we well-lodged? were not we +thrust to the wall? were we not intruders and dependents in the house of +our fathers? Had we anything which a gentleman’s children had a right to +expect at the hands of the person who had supplanted that gentleman? +Many and various were the humiliations I experienced in those the early +days of my life. But I have no desire to pay back my uncle’s family in +kind. Many a long year ago, Mrs. Drewitt, you were good enough to +sympathise with me and to entreat me not to leave Kincorth—” + +She made a gesture of impatience, but he disregarded it and went on. + +“Since then I have succeeded; I have been prosperous; I am wealthy, and +the owner of the place where I once was little better than a servant. I +do not forget your kindness, but entreat you to remain; to consider this +house your home; to let me help you and your children as you were once +anxious to help me.” + +He had made his speech, and it was not a bad one; and now he waited to +hear what effect it had produced on Mrs. Drewitt. + +“Maxwell,” she answered, “I always admitted your position in life was +not what it ought to have been, until by your own industry and +cleverness you made yourself what you are. I always thought your +grandfather’s will most unjust; and even in this house, from whence my +dead husband has so lately been carried, I am not afraid to say that, +had he acted more wisely and fairly by his brother, his life would have +been a more prosperous one. But,” and here Mrs. Drewitt rose, as if she +could not find breath to speak sitting—as if in her nervous excitement +it was needful for every muscle to be strained, every limb stretched, +“my husband did not act unfairly by design, or through any premeditated +wickedness. He came honestly into Kincorth, and sure am I in my inmost +heart, Maxwell, that you have come dishonestly. I know that for +twenty-one years you have kept this end in view; and you have achieved +your object so far. When I think of my poor boy—when I think of +Brian”—and as she spoke the tears fell like rain over her altered +face—“when I think of how he has worked, of how you set his father +against him, of how you sowed dissension between him and Harold, and of +how you have destroyed every hope and plan of his life, I feel that if I +were to eat your bread it would choke me; that if I were to accept any +grace, any favour, at your hands I should be as bad as you.” + +“What do you think of that, Mr. Pryor, as a civil answer to a kind +offer?” asked Maxwell. + +“I will tell you by-and-by,” replied the Englishman; “meantime I think +Mrs. Drewitt will be more composed at Durrow, where she has no old +associations, where everything will be fresh and new. She is not capable +at present of appreciating your kindness, or in fact of clearly +understanding what you say; and as you are going to take up your +quarters here to-night, your aunt and cousins will accompany me back to +Durrow.” + +“If they do then,” said Maxwell Drewitt, “they shall never return to +Kincorth.” + +“Oh! Kincorth—dear, dear Kincorth,” broke out the widow, and she fell on +her knees, and burying her head in the sofa pillow, sobbed passionately. + +“You had better leave her,” suggested Mr. Pryor, and he drew Maxwell out +of the room. + +“They are a nice comfortable sort of people to have to do with, are not +they?” said Maxwell, with a forced laugh, slowly drawing on his +left-hand glove, and smoothing every wrinkle out of the kid while he +spoke. “There are not many men who would bear having their kindness +flung back in their face as I do. What do you think of the family now, +Mr. Pryor?” + +“I think that they have received a great shock, following on the top of +another great shock, and that consequently every allowance ought to be +made for them, and for what they say under the circumstances.” + +“And what do you think about the whole affair—about the will I mean?” + +“That it must be very unpleasant for you,” was the reply. + +“Well, it is: the property is not worth that,” and Maxwell snapped his +fingers, “only I am glad to have back the old place. If Brian had gone +on with his improvements it would soon have come to the hammer.” + +“I cannot quite agree with you there,” answered the Englishman. He could +see the chesnut waiting for her new master, and he added, “You are going +to ride Harold’s mare?” + +“Harold’s, indeed! I really was not aware.” + +“I thought it was his: did his father not give her to him?” + +“He said so,” answered Maxwell; “but, on the same principle, Brian might +say his father gave him Kincorth.” + +“Of course; you are right. Then you are not going to confirm your +uncle’s present?” + +“Give a lad like that a mare worth two hundred and fifty guineas? If you +have made your money so easily, Mr. Pryor, I have not.” + +The Englishman did not press the point further. “Good-bye,” he said, “I +suppose you will not be back before we leave.” + +“We! Then you really are going to adopt the entire family? Be advised—a +widow and three children is no light responsibility. Besides, you ought +really to consider _les convenances_.” + +“What _convenances_?” asked Mr. Pryor, hurriedly. + +“Why, the world may say one of two things—either that you are going to +marry the widow, who is only about a year or so older than yourself; or +else that you are in love with the daughter. I have long inclined to the +latter opinion myself, and I congratulate you on an arrangement which +will give you such ample opportunities of winning her young affections.” + +“I am your debtor, Mr. Maxwell Drewitt.” + +“Not at all; if you were so, I should be only too proud to be your +creditor.” + +“You are very kind, but I prefer paying my bills as I go on. You have +asked me twice within the last ten minutes what I thought of your +position. Let me give you my answer now. If you have come into Kincorth +honestly, I think we are all dealing very hardly by you; but if you have +come into Kincorth dishonestly, then I think you have not had half your +deserts. And in either case,” added Mr. Pryor, “I must say that I +consider your manner unfortunate.” + +“Our opinions with regard to each other may be identical on the latter +point,” retorted Maxwell; “but I suppose that need not hinder our being +friends in the future as we have been in the past. Good-bye for the +present,” and he held out his hand. + +But Geoffry Pryor refused to take it. He bowed stiffly and walked back +across the hall to the breakfast-parlour, where he had left Mrs. +Drewitt. + +“As you like, my fine fellow,” muttered the new owner of Kincorth; +“those that win may laugh.” But somehow Maxwell Drewitt did not laugh. +He looked—while he rode down the avenue and out of the gates, of that +property which was now his own for life—as unlike a person who had the +remotest intention of laughing as it is possible to conceive. + +After all, the cup of prosperity is not entirely sweet. There are an +immense number of bitters in the pharmacopœia even of success. + +But he had succeeded in annoying Mr. Pryor, that was one great +consolation; and if he could have imagined how desperately he had +wounded his opponent he would have been better pleased still. + +To a man like Geoffry Pryor it does not matter much what the world says; +but it matters excessively what his own conscience tells him; and his +own conscience told him Maxwell had not spoken altogether falsely, for +that he should find it very sweet to have Geraldine living under the +same roof as that which covered his own head. + +“I must go to Waller’s; it is the only way of cutting that knot,” he +decided; and more determined than ever that, so long as he had a shelter +to offer her, Mrs. Drewitt should not remain at Kincorth, he pressed +upon her the necessity of packing her things as soon as possible, and of +taking her departure before Maxwell returned. + +“Your maid could follow with your luggage,” he suggested. + +“Poor old Nannie was the only maid I could ever boast of,” answered Mrs. +Drewitt through her tears. + +“Well, let Nannie put your things together, and the boys can soon find +their own; and I will send Flynn over to Durrow for the car and a light +cart. If there are any of the servants you would like to accompany you +we can make room for them at Durrow.” + +“But how should I ever be able to keep servants?” she inquired. + +“If you are not able to do so, I will find something for them,” he +answered. + +“If I were to take one or two the rest would think I did not care for +them. I had better leave all, I had indeed.” + +She was right, and Mr. Pryor could not help marvelling how so sensible a +woman had never been able to make a wiser man of the owner of Kincorth. + +While he went round to the stable-yard to despatch Flynn to Durrow, she +called the servants together and told them all what they knew +beforehand—that Mr. Brian was heir no longer, that Mr. Maxwell now owned +Kincorth and everything in it. + +“You must not think,” she added, for her sense of justice prevented her +saying anything to prejudice the servants against their new master, or +leaving anything unsaid which it was right they should know—“you must +not think Mr. Maxwell Drewitt is turning us out of Kincorth; on the +contrary, he offered me its hospitality for as long as I liked to +remain. It is by my own wish I leave the house I have loved so well.” +(“Ah! hear that, the craythur!” said some one in the rear.) “I could not +be happy here; and though it is very kind of Mr. Maxwell (dark faces and +lowering looks among the men), still I feel it is best for me to avail +myself of Mr. Pryor’s kindness and go to Durrow till I see what the +future may bring forth. It is so soon—” and Mrs. Drewitt paused to +recover herself—“so soon after my dear husband’s death, and altogether +so sudden and unexpected, that I cannot tell yet where I may go or what +I may do; but wherever I am—” + +She paused again:—“wherever I am”—but it would not do: she put her +handkerchief to her face, and then the women crowded round her weeping +and bewailing themselves, and Mrs. Drewitt sobbed out too. + +She was like a queen among them—she who had come there so lonely and +unwelcomed—and when she said, “You have been my friends; I have loved +you all,” and held out her hand for each to shake ere she departed, they +stooped down and kissed it, men and women alike, and a bitter cry of +lamentation arose to the chamber where Brian sat all alone. + +He knew right well what was the meaning of it. He knew his mother and he +could be but of one mind, and that she meant to leave the house, and +leave it at once; but he did not think where she proposed going, and so +he descended the staircase and entered the drawing-room, where she and +Geraldine and Harold stood, and walked up to her. + +“An’ here’s Masther Brian, ma’am; an’ it’s himself’ll be the comfort to +you from this day forth for ever.” + +“An’ haven’t ye yer childer, ma’am? Shure there’s nobody living can take +them from ye: an’ wouldn’t him that has got Kincorth give Kincorth to +have any one of them for his own?” + +“There’s a silver lining to ivery cloud.” + +“But it’s us that’ll feel it, losing masther and misthress within the +week.” + +“An’ it’s the good masther he was.” + +“An’ the kind misthress you’ve been.” + +“An’ the blissin’ of God will follow ye; and the prayers of the poor +have gone before ye.” + +“She can’t stand it,” said Brian, huskily; “think of what she has gone +through and let her be quiet, Mother; come with me—mother darling.” + +He led her through the servants, who made a way for them to pass out, +and took her to her own room, where he inquired what she meant to do, +what plan she had laid out. + +Then he took the management of affairs on himself. He went and asked Mr. +Pryor what his mother was legally entitled to carry out of Kincorth, and +when Mr. Pryor told him, in strict law, only the clothes she wore, Brian +observed there would be the less packing needful. + +“_He_ can send them after us if he likes,” said Brian, pointing towards +Headlands; “but she shall take nothing except what she has a clear right +to take.” + +“And you, Brian?” + +“I want to be alone for a while. I will walk over the hills to Durrow.” + +“Let me walk with you;” and Brian saw that the Englishman was afraid of +what he might be meaning to do. + +“Trust me,” he said; “I would not shoot Maxwell if there were no gallows +on earth. I am not going to seek an interview with him—upon my honour I +am not;” and Mr. Pryor was satisfied. + +“Mamma wants to go all round the grounds, and would like you to go with +her,” Geraldine came whispering at this juncture. “She wants to go alone +with you,” the girl added, and Brian went. + +Had Mrs. Drewitt been remaining on at Kincorth, I wonder how long a time +would have elapsed ere she set foot on lawn, in field, in garden? But +now, on the very day when the husband she had loved was laid in Eversbeg +Abbey, she walked about the place bidding to each tree and plant and +flower a sorrowful adieu. + +Up the glen she went, and over a plank which was thrown across the +waterfall. She had been timid about that plank in former days, and +afraid to cross it; but now she stepped over without a helping hand. +Where the summer-house had once been she stood and looked down on the +country, speaking never a word. She plucked a leaf here and another +there; she picked up a pebble out of the stream, and pulled a fern and a +piece of moss from beside the waterfall. She went into the garden and +gathered for herself lavender, and heliotrope, and a sprig of bay, and +another of lemon verbena, a morsel of heath, a late-blooming rose, a +spray of fuchsia, two or three scarlet geraniums, and a handful of +woodruffe, and these she tied all together with a piece of ribbon, and +laid aside. + +“When I am dead, Brian,” she said, “you will find those flowers +somewhere among my possessions. You will put them in my coffin. Promise +me, my son.” + +“Mother, mother!” he remonstrated. + +“Promise me,” she insisted, and he did as she wished. + +Thus Agnes Drewitt bade farewell to Kincorth. In her heart she knew she +should tread its pleasant lawns, its shady walks, its sunny gardens, no +more for ever. + +When she drove down the avenue with her children about her to the lodge, +where the way was blocked by a crowd eager to do her honour, eager to +tell her they sorrowed with her sorrow and sympathized with her +distress, she felt that, let who else would, return to Kincorth in +triumph, let who else would, come back to dwell in the familiar rooms, +to take their rest under those magnificent trees, she might return to +Kincorth no more! + + + + + CHAPTER V. + The Hour of Success. + + +Near the gates of Kincorth Brian separated himself from his mother, and +promising to meet her at Durrow, walked back up the avenue towards the +house. He had many things to put together—some few presents to make, +some last words to speak, ere he went out into the world to push his +fortune; and accordingly he retraced his steps slowly up the drive, +thinking of the change that twenty-four hours had wrought in his +prospects, and considering what it would be best for him to do now. +Half-way, Maxwell overtook him, and dismounting, walked with Brian to +the house, leading the chesnut, who looked distressed, as though she had +been ridden fast and far. + +“I am glad to have an opportunity of talking with you alone, Brian,” +said Mr. Maxwell Drewitt. “Is there any earthly reason why we should not +be friends? why you should leave Kincorth at all?” + +“I think there is,” Brian answered. + +“Will you explain what you mean? Will you explain to me why there should +be ill-will between you and me any more than there was between your +father and my father?” + +“Your father and my father were probably different men to what you and I +are,” was the reply. “Your father was wilfully disinherited, and he knew +why; I am disinherited by an accident, or by a fraud; you can best tell +which,” and Brian’s lip curled. + +“You cannot think it other than accidental, surely,” said Maxwell. + +“What I think cannot signify to you so long as you have got Kincorth,” +was the reply. + +“Well now, Brian, that I have got Kincorth, will you tell me what I am +ever likely to make out of it? The mortgages, as you know, are almost +equal to its value. It is not a cheap house to keep up. More will be +expected from the owner of Kincorth than was ever looked for from the +owner of the Headlands. The place will be an expense to me, not a gain; +you must have sense enough to see that yourself.” + +“Give it to me,” said Brian, grimly, “and see if I will complain.” + +“Why, boy, you could never have made money out of it.” + +“I should have tried,” was the reply. And there ensued a long silence, +which Maxwell broke, by saying as they approached the house— + +“Shall we be friends?” + +“No,” Brian answered; “for I mean to put you out of Kincorth, if I can. +If I cannot, then I mean to bide my time, and take my revenge. You need +not look so black, Mr. Maxwell Drewitt. I shall not shoot you; I shall +not come behind you in the dark and smite you under the fifth rib; but I +shall find out your weak point and hurt you there. A year or two is +nothing; I can wait: when you least look for me I shall be at your +side.” + +“You are mad, Brian,” said his cousin. + +“Then it is you who have made me so,” was the reply. + +“Let us be friends.” + +“I told you no, once; I tell you no, twice. There are places where even +you, Maxwell Drewitt, will be unable to injure me, to hinder my +succeeding; and I shall succeed yet; and I shall come back to Kincorth +yet. Let me pass, I am not going to steal anything out of the house. It +is yours now, I know, but it has not been so for long. Let me pass.” + +“Can he have found another will?”—that was the thought which crossed +Maxwell’s mind, and for a moment he stood irresolute. Then he made way, +and Brian entered the house. + +Before many minutes had elapsed he came down the staircase, with a bunch +of keys in his hand. + +“Harold’s luggage and mine is together, and I will send over for both +to-morrow morning. Meantime, if you would like to see that we have taken +nothing belonging to you, there are the keys. Take them,” he insisted, +as Maxwell drew back, and he flung them at his cousin’s feet. + +“I am going now,” the youth said, looking round him with a terrible +despair. “I am going now. Have you anything to say to me before I go?” + +“Let us be friends.” + +“You struck me to-day, Maxwell.” + +“I am sorry for it.” + +“You pushed me aside at my father’s funeral.” + +“Inadvertently.” + +“You have got Kincorth.” + +“Accidentally.” + +“For years you have been trying to put my father against me; you made +him misjudge me towards the last; you tried to frustrate all my efforts +for freeing Kincorth.” + +“I thought I was acting for the best.” + +“Then,” answered Brian Drewitt, “I think I am acting for the best now, +when I refuse your friendship; when I say you are a coward and a +hypocrite; when I cross this threshold, saying that at peace with you I +will never re-enter it.” + +“Brian, you will repent.” + +“And so will you.” + +With which mutual assurances the cousins separated, and while Maxwell +took possession of his new home, Brian strode out of the house and took +the hill-path leading to Durrow. + +He had to pass by the stables on his way through the plantations, and he +turned aside to speak to Flynn, who was the last man to leave the yard. + +“Mr. Maxwell wants you, I think, Flynn,” he said; “and I wish to say +good-bye to the horses; so you can come back here after you have seen +him;” and with that Mr. Brian Drewitt thrust a crumpled note into the +man’s hand, remarking— + +“That will pay you for your overtime.” + +“I don’t need it, Masther Brian,” said Flynn. “I’d work night and day +for you, I would, if working could give you back your own.” + +“Keep it,” returned Brian. “I am not poor—keep it, I can make more; only +go—go away,” and he crossed the yard and pushed open the stable-door, +and went in, closing, but not latching it after him. + +“Gently, my lady,” said the youth: he had walked up the stable and +entered Madcap’s loose box. At sound of his voice, the chesnut turned +round and whinnied. + +Then Brian drew a pistol out of his pocket, looked to the priming, +cocked it, and took aim. + +At the moment, Madcap put her head against his breast, asking in her +mute fashion for the caress to which she was accustomed: finding no +caress given, she lifted her head and looked at him with soft and +inquiring eyes. + +“I cannot do it, Chessy,” he said. “I meant to shoot you, but I must +leave you for others to ride; for others to maltreat if they will—my +beauty—my pet! It would be greater kindness for me to put it out of +anybody’s power to do this; but I cannot—I cannot;” and he put his arms +round her slender neck, and leaned his head against her shoulder, the +chesnut standing still and quiet all the time, as though she had some +human comprehension of what was the matter with him. + +At last she turned her head, and began rubbing it against his breast as +usual. Brian had always petted her more than anybody else, and she in +return, though he was not her master, had been wont to follow him about +the yard and round the meadows like a dog. + +“I must go now, beauty,” Brian said, and he stroked her silky coat +slowly—slowly. “Good-bye,” and thinking there was no one near to see +him, he kissed the white star on her forehead, and then stepped back and +looked at her soft wondering eyes again. + +“Good-bye, Chessy—good-bye,” and he walked out of the stall, not knowing +that Flynn and his cousin were standing in the next box, which chanced +to be vacant, looking on at his leave-taking. + +As he went the chesnut turned round in her stall, and followed him to +the door. She put her head over the top of it, and watched him, with her +great brown sorrowful eyes, out of the stable. + +“Hasn’t she a face just like a Christian, sir?” asked Flynn, but Maxwell +never answered him. + +He had come to the yard suspecting his cousin’s design the moment Flynn +said Mister Brian had told him to go to the house. He had thought to +catch the boy doing mischief, and behold! he only saw that leave-taking, +which is always so pathetic, between a man and a favourite animal. + +Something about the manner of that leave-taking caused Maxwell to walk +back to the house slowly and thoughtfully. He had got Kincorth, a +valueless property, for which he had paid a tremendous price. The man +who once stood between it and him was dead, the man’s widow was gone, +the man’s children were departed likewise, and now as he passed from +room to room, he found each in succession desolate and deserted. + +He ascended the staircase and entered the chamber he had occupied in the +days which were now gone and passed away for ever. He crossed the bare +floor—he threw open the window and looked out. + +In the gathering twilight, the mountains seemed frowning upon him, the +trees to be sunk in gloom; and that feeling of desperate depression he +had felt for the first time as he rode home one night, years and years +before, under the moonlight, came upon him once more. + +Life was then before him: where was his life now? Half gone—more than +half gone—even if he survived to that threescore years and ten beyond +which man’s strength is but labour and sorrow. The twenty-one years had +passed like a watch in the night, like a tale that was told! Twenty more +years, and he should be as old as the man whom he had seen laid that day +in Eversbeg Abbey. + +For twenty-one years he had been scheming, and planning, and plotting, +and his schemes had been in the main successful—he had gained wealth, +position, houses, and lands. + +Suppose he lived for twenty years more, and for twenty to the back of +that, and through the whole of the time went on adding house to house, +and acre to acre—still the twenty, and the twenty, must come to an end +at last, and where would he be then? + +That was Maxwell Drewitt’s dark hour: many such had come to him lately; +for it does not require a man to have either a very sensitive +conscience, or to think much on holy things, to make such considerations +strike home to him at times. + +On the contrary, as sickness seems most terrible to the strong; as pain +seems most dreadful to those who have been exempt from it; as age seems +most wretched to the young; as poverty seems most frightful to the +affluent—so the very fact of a man rarely taking courage to face this +bugbear of our common mortality is sure to make its aspect more +unendurable when it forces itself upon him. + +Maxwell had heard read that morning, beside his uncle’s grave, the words +which he knew must one day be read over his own:— + +“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full +of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it +were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” And now, without in +the least knowing that thousands and thousands of years before the same +ideas had passed through the soul of one in great distress and +tribulation, the owner of Kincorth, leaning out into the night, and +looking away to the lonely hills, was thinking precisely the same +thoughts as those to which Job in his anguish gave utterance. + +“There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again, +and that the tender branch thereof will not cease. Though the root +thereof wax old in the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; +yet through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth boughs like +a plant. But man dieth, and wasteth away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, +and where is he? As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth +and dryeth up: so man lieth down, and riseth not: till the heavens be no +more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep.” + +Friends, oh! friends, is there not something unutterably mournful in the +figure of that man standing lonely, lonely as ever, in the room he had +left when a young man, so many years before? He had been solitary then, +he was solitary now; when he was lying in his grave he could not be more +alone than he felt standing there, looking out into the night. + +Beyond all that he could have expected the wild dreams of his youth had +met with fulfilment. From the position of a dependent he had raised +himself to that of the first landed proprietor in the neighbourhood; +from beggary he had risen to wealth; from indigence, to prosperity and +consideration. If all Galway were not his, he owned quite enough of the +county to make the name of Drewitt a wonder to tourists—a memory in +Connemara. + +There was not a house whose doors did not fly open at his approach. If +he had not effected all he had intended for the people’s good—for the +people’s advancement—that certainly was more their fault than his. He +had learned, as he assured Mr. Pryor, that a nation cannot be civilized +in a day; that a love of tidiness and of cleanliness, a desire for +luxuries, cannot be implanted in one generation, nor yet in two. He had +long comprehended that there was the same distinction between the upper +and lower classes in Ireland in the nineteenth century as existed +between lord and serf in the earlier portions of English history; not to +the extent of a power of life and death—not to the extent of a power of +oppression, or imprisonment, or disposal of the bodies of the poor; but +the same social difference. The lords lived in profusion, with a certain +wasteful magnificence, while their hinds were contented with the +coarsest fare. The lords went about in grand attire, while the serfs +were clothed meanly. Between the two classes in those days there could +have been no more distinction than there is between the rich and the +poor to the present day in Connemara; and it was this state of things +which Maxwell Drewitt at last declared to himself he was not sent into +the world to alter. + +“The rice pot to the Hindoo,” he was wont to say, “the potato kish to +the Irish;” but the meal barrel and the potato kish were both better +supplied on the estates belonging to Maxwell Drewitt than on the estates +of any other man in West Connemara. + +He had no cause to be greatly disappointed on that score; he had done +something for his countrymen and countrywomen, and having done as much +as he thought possible without their own co-operation, Maxwell rested +content. He loved Ireland better than he loved her sons and daughters; +but he loved himself better than Ireland. + +And now having gained the summit of the hill of success, he stood on the +top looking out into the night a lonely man. Most lonely! Was this what +he had bargained for in those days of poverty and struggle? Was this the +end he had striven to reach? Was it thus he had expected to feel when +that end was compassed? Money—station—health—position: he possessed all +these, and yet the man whom he had followed to his grave that morning +was not so lonely as he. + +There is a story current in Ireland about a traitor, by name Parese, who +undertook to give the Castle of Maynooth into the hands of an enemy of +the Fitzgeralds. He stipulated for a certain sum of money, but forgot to +stipulate also for his life; the consequence of which oversight resulted +in the “devil betraying the betrayer,” whose head was cut off as soon as +the reward was counted out. + +Whether this tale be true or false, we need not stop to inquire, seeing +how often analogous cases must have come under the observation of all of +us; but I think that what happened to Parese happened also in a great +measure to Maxwell Drewitt. He had bargained for money and power, and +money and power he had, but nothing more. + +When the bells that now hang in the tower of the church of St. Nicholas, +in Galway, were being cast, it is related that from far and from near, +men and women brought their golden brooches and rings, their precious +ornaments and their stores of silver and gold, and threw them in with +the iron, to the end that all might he fused together. And it is further +stated that the precious metals may be seen shining to this day in the +bells, and that those offerings of the faithful have caused their tones +to be peculiarly sweet and beautiful. + +It is a lovely legend, and all the more lovely because it is so tenderly +suggestive, so touchingly pathetic. The men and the women who flocked to +the place where the casting went on have passed away, and their names +are forgotten on earth; but still the bells peal out the sweet music, +still their silver and their gold make the tone fuller, the notes more +exquisite. + +I cannot help recalling these two stories while I think of Maxwell +standing there in the darkness, spite of all his wealth, alone—alone! He +had not bargained for happiness, thinking success would insure +happiness. + +He cast no stores of love into time’s furnace on faith that he would +receive back, in some shape, principal and interest, and lo! the dark +days were advancing towards him, and there was never a one to take him +by the hand and bid him be of good cheer. + +For money, he had, like Parese, sold his best friends, deserted the +woman who had trusted him, married a wife for whom he did not care; for +money he had schemed to ruin his uncle, and when his schemes failed, he +had accomplished his purpose by more dishonest means still. Money he had +elected to serve—Mammon had been his god, and, as has been cleverly +said, cent. per cent. his prophet; but a man cannot serve two masters—a +man cannot hoard all his wealth, or else spend it entirely on himself, +and still hear God’s bells making sweet music in his ears—music that +never sounds so sweet as to the sick and weary. + +There was a preacher who once undertook to prove that life’s voyage +would be a pleasant one, even were there no hope of land on the other +side, nothing but the long sleep and the cold grave as a finish to each +man’s story. His theory seemed to be, that there is so much enjoyment in +the goodly company, in the lively conversation, in the health-giving +breeze, in the witty anecdote, in the daily work, as to make the journey +a desirable one in itself, without any reference to an expected haven; +and while the goodly company is around us, while the conversation never +flags, while the sky is clear and the body strong, perhaps he may be +right. I have known many who seemed to think so. Only, reader, how is it +when man has to go below; when he is lying in his narrow berth; when the +guests have dropped off one by one; when the voices of the singers are +hushed; when the evil days are come and the years draw nigh when he +shall say, “I have no pleasure in them;” when the sun and the light, and +the stars and the moon be darkened, and the clouds return after the +rain—how is it then? + +Standing in the gathering night—type of that still deeper night which he +would one day have to pass through, Maxwell Drewitt was seized in the +hour of his success, in the hour of his victory, with a strange +horror—with a frightful dread. It seemed but a day to him since he was +young; it would be but a day till he was old, and then— + +Maxwell closed the window, and groped his way out of the room. All in +darkness, he descended the staircase, and when he reached the hall, he +took his hat, and saying to one of the servants, “You need not wait up +for me. I shall not sleep here just at present,” walked out of the +house, and down the avenue, under the trees, past the porter’s +lodge—home. + +“I do not think I shall go up to Kincorth till you can go with me,” he +said to his wife, and Lady Emmeline looked at him in amazement. + +It was the first time during sixteen years she had heard him express a +wish for her companionship, and so much affection astonished her. + +Further, instead of kicking her poodle out of his way with a curse, +Maxwell, thinking of that scene in the stable of which he could not get +rid, stretched his hand towards the creature, and called it by +name—“Prince—Prince!” But Prince, unused, like its mistress, to such +attentions, only crouched behind Lady Emmeline, who, pushing the dog off +the sofa, said— + +“Go, Prince, there.” + +“Come here, Prince,” added Maxwell, and he made a movement to stroke +him; but Prince backed from the proffered caress, and, barking and +growling, retreated under the sofa. + +“Prince is not accustomed to your noticing him,” said Lady Emmeline, +apologetically, but Maxwell did not seem to hear her words. He was +walking up and down the room with his hands buried in his pockets, his +head bent down, his face looking stern and thoughtful. + +“Has Mrs. Drewitt really left Kincorth?” asked Lady Emmeline after a +long pause. + +“Yes, they are all gone,” he answered. + +“Dear, dear; I am very sorry; poor things!” + +“I do not see why the devil you should be sorry for them,” he said, +stopping in his walk; “nor why you should call them poor things. I did +not want them to go. Heaven knows, I would much rather they had stayed. +And as for their being ‘poor things,’ they cannot be a great deal poorer +than they were; and I suspect Mrs. Drewitt knew pretty well what she was +about when she went to Durrow. Pryor is sure to marry Geraldine, and +that, you may say, will be a provision for the family.” + +“How very clever you are, Maxwell,” remarked Lady Emmeline, her old face +lighted up with admiration. “Who could ever have pieced that all +together as you have done? I never should; but now it is as clear as +possible. It is not exactly nice; but still one can scarcely blame +her—can one?” + +“Blame her! though she has placed me in a most awkward position, I +commend her prudence. Candidly, I did not think Mrs. Drewitt had so much +sense,” and Maxwell looked as he spoke at his wife’s face, and wondered +with an unutterable astonishment how he ever came to marry such a fright +of a woman. + +“And Mr. Pryor is so nice, and Geraldine so pretty,” said Lady Emmeline. + +“The only drawback—” Maxwell began, but he stopped in his speech +suddenly and resumed his walk. + +“Is what?” inquired his wife. + +“I was wrong—there is no drawback,” said Maxwell, who did not intend to +make any remarks for the future about disparity of age, if he could +avoid doing so. He had been thinking of something he meant to ask his +wife to do for him, and to compass that object he intended to be civil +to her; civil so far as it was in his nature to be towards any one with +whom he was thrown in daily communication. + +Many a taunt he had flung at her, but he would try to taunt no more. If +she fell into his plan and helped him to carry it out, he would bear +with her silliness; he would say nothing to her about their childless +hearth—about her rouge—her age—her affectation. He would command his +temper and his tongue, and do his best for her, if she would do her best +for him. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + On the Way to Durrow. + + +Through the twilight Brian Drewitt pursued his way over the hills to +Durrow, keeping as near the sea as the nature of the country would +permit. + +Instinctively he felt that the waters rolling on the shore, that the +plash of the waves which rose to his ears, that the noise of the ocean +washing up to the base of the cliffs calmed and comforted him. + +When no human being could have quieted his heart, the voices of the +night and the murmurs of the sea came round and about him, bringing +tranquillity and repose with them. + +All his plans had that day been wrecked, all his hopes had foundered. It +is no easy matter to realize the full extent of such a misfortune in a +minute, and Brian sometimes caught himself wondering about the leases, +about the grass land, about how soon the oats would be fit to reap, even +while he knew, in a dull, stupid kind of way, that the leases, the grass +lands and the oats could never more signify anything to him. + +When we go out of the light we find it difficult to see clearly in the +darkness; and after the flare of excitement in which he had been living +all the day, Brian discovered that the intense stillness, the utter lull +of human passions and human wishes around him, prevented any distinct +thoughts or plans taking shape in his mind. + +For a time everything seemed mixed and confused. He walked on like a +person in a dream, now thinking of one thing, now of another, until at +last, as he drew near Durrow, every incident of the past week came back +to his memory clearly and separately. When it did so, Brian Drewitt +threw himself down on the grass by the edge of the cliff—lay with his +face touching the cool earth—thinking of his past, tracing out his +future. + +He thought of his father; of the coldness that had come between them; of +the way in which he had worked and struggled to free Kincorth; of how +his endeavours had fretted his parent; of how his motives had been +misunderstood, his intentions doubted; of how Harold had been preferred +to him; of how Harold had been everything, he nothing—and Brian’s heart, +as he lay and considered these things, became a perfect well of +bitterness. + +But then, again, he remembered how his father’s grey head had lain on +his breast, how his father’s last action on earth had been to stretch +out his arms towards him, and Brian’s heart was softened, and grew +exceeding tender and sorrowful within him. + +And the waves came rolling on the shore, slowly and gently, and the sea +washed the base of Durrow Cliffs, and it seemed as though he could hear +the voices of the great waters coming nearer and nearer, talking to him, +mourning with him, as if they too had suffered. + +He recollected what his father had said about having left everything to +him. He repeated to himself the warning he had received years and years +before. He called up every word and look of Maxwell’s, and then +suspicion became certainty. Kincorth _had_ been procured by fraud; +though by what fraud Brian was unable to imagine. Which idea brought him +almost to the end of his reflections on the past, by causing him to +wonder what he should do in the future. + +There, however, all seemed vague and shadowy. He could not yet tell what +he ought to do. He had no idea on what course his mother would decide. +He must talk the matter over with Mr. Pryor; and having settled so much, +Brian rose from the ground, and walked onwards for a little distance +towards the house. + +Then he turned and went back to the cliff once more, where he sat down +and listened dreamily to the song which the ocean was murmuring so far +below. Heaven knows what the waves whispered to him, what message the +soft wind brought to his soul—I only can tell, that with hands clasped +over his head, with his face bowed forward on his knees, Brian hearkened +to the sermon which nature preached to him that night, taking, as we all +do, his own construction out of it. + +We have, most of us, some memory of this kind—some scene that, so often +as we think of any great trouble, immediately recurs to our memory. + +With one it is a forest glade, where the sunbeams pour through the +branches and make bright patterns and golden traceries on the turf +beneath; with another, it is a bare expanse of country, upon which the +winter afternoon is darkening down; with a third, it is some river +reach, where trees overhang the waters, and the grass looks green and +beautiful on the banks, and a boat or two is gliding past; while a +fourth sees in imagination the city streets all lighted up, and full of +people hurrying—hurrying away. + +But sadder to my mind than all, is the memory of a sunset watched from a +lonely seashore; a sunset seen over a waste of angry waters, of roaring +billows; or a night-watch on the deck of a vessel, while the stormy +waves are lashing themselves to fury all around; or such a vigil as that +kept by Brian Drewitt, during which his soul seemed to go out of him, +and stand on the shore below, greeting the white foam as it was thrown +upon the shingle, and asking the waters questions that might only be +fitly put if the ocean washed, on one side, the sands of time, but on +the other the headlands of Eternity. + +His life—it was all before him then, to make what he would out of. His +life—he had reached that point in the highway of existence where his +father had once stood, where Maxwell had once stood, where all those who +have grown to man’s estate must surely have paused for a moment to +survey their road. His life—what a much grander thing life would have +seemed to this youth had he looked out at it from the windows of +Kincorth instead of from the cliffs of Durrow! And yet, to my thinking, +it was in his power to make as good a thing of his existence one place +as another; unencumbered by a mortgaged estate, as burdened by it; free +to go where he liked, instead of being chained to one spot, and forced +to make his fortune there. For he determined to make his fortune. He +resembled Maxwell in that respect, and he resembled him, unfortunately, +in another—viz., in his resolution to win back Kincorth. + +“Earth fighting for earth, earth struggling after earth, earth losing +its youthfulness, its innocence, its light-heartedness to gain earth!” +Did the wind and the waves utter no such plaint as this in his ears, as +he sat listening to their voices? Had the night, which had spoken so +plainly to Maxwell, nothing to tell Brian? + +Life, oh! life—who is there that has lived, who would not go back and +try to make a better of it if he could? Who, when the last day comes, +does not think that, if he might be permitted to retrace his steps, to +stand once more on the threshold of existence, his prayer would be to +wash his hands in innocency, and to keep himself unspotted from the +world? + +Stained and soiled, torn and defiled, who does not wish that he could +commence wearing the fleshy garments of our poor mortality once again, +fondly believing he could keep them out of the mire, and bring them +almost white to the end of the journey? And yet, as the instrument can +give forth no music till its strings have been played upon—as we can +never tell the quality of the gold till it comes forth from the +furnace—as we know little of our own capabilities till our strength has +been tested and tried in the battlefield of the world—so there is no +man, or woman either, who dare say that, if return were possible, a +better working out of the great problem would be probable also. + +And for these reasons I do not say that Brian would have passed through +the fire scatheless had he laid out a different course to travel; though +I believe it would have made all the difference had he decided to pursue +his onward path without permitting hatred to gain dominion over +him—without letting envy and malice and all uncharitableness find +lodging in his young heart. + +But yet it was scarcely Brian’s fault that he disliked his cousin so +intensely. He had drunk in that enmity with his mother’s milk; he had +fed on it from his youth upward. Mrs. Drewitt was the one to blame here. +She had been pleased to see Brian at war with Maxwell. She had done her +best to make her son hate the man who desired her son’s inheritance: +for, like all weak people, in striving only to put Brian on his guard +against his cousin’s machinations, she had overdone her part, and caused +her boy to look with suspicion on every act of his relative—to search +for some hidden meaning under every word—to listen greedily to stories +concerning Maxwell’s wickedness, Maxwell’s avariciousness, Maxwell’s +heartlessness—to consider the owner of the Headlands, in fact, as the +_bête noire_ of the county, and to believe that honey could as soon be +bitter as any act of Maxwell Drewitt’s good. + +Add to this the well-meant warning which he had received, and his own +experience of his cousin, and you will see that, unless Brian Drewitt +made up his mind to leave Ireland entirely, to forget Kincorth and +Connemara, and Maxwell, and to start on a new life which should have no +sort of connexion with the past, there could be nothing between the pair +but war to the death for ever. + +In his hour of triumph it might be that Brian would hold out his hand to +Maxwell, and contemptuously offer him friendship as his cousin had +offered friendship to him; but even that was scarcely likely; for in his +hates Brian was more sincere than his cousin. He was a staunch friend, +an open enemy; and if his constitution, his education, his temperament, +his country, and his misfortunes, all tended to render him implacable, +who may blame him? + +It is not so easy to turn the other cheek as those who have never +received a blow on one, would have us believe. We are all rather more +apt to fight for our coat than to bestow our cloak on the thief also. +What man is there that, having Brian Drewitt’s strength of character, +would venture to say he could always keep clear of that dangerous +frontier ground where strength becomes sin? + +Nevertheless, I would it were possible for me to record that the voices +of the night, the murmurs of the sea, the light wind that came down from +among the tops of the hills, taught Brian a different lesson; but alas! +when the youth arose he was the same as when he sat down; death had not +softened him, suffering had not subdued him, nature and silence had no +power to change him. + +When in the after years he returned to Ireland and sat on the cliffs of +Durrow, listening to the plash of the waves, to the sighing of the wind, +he would have given all his wealth, all his influence, aye, and his life +also, if he could but have kept that sorrowful vigil once again, and +learned a different lesson out of it—if he could but have started on his +journey through the world resolved never to look back, but always +forward. + +Through the years, the sea ebbed out, and the sea flowed in; through the +years, in storm and tempest, in calm and sunshine, the waves stole up on +the sands, and kissed the feet of the great rocks lovingly; through the +years, the shore-birds built their nests, and fed their young, and +winged their flight far out over the ocean, and then came back, with +pinions weary and drooping, to the land; through the years, the +fishermen dried their nets, and put out their lines, and pushed off +their boats; through the years, the ships went by, staggering among the +billows, or with their white sails glistening and shining, sped onwards +to their destined haven; through the years, the sun set, and the +darkness drew on, and the great hills hid themselves behind the curtains +of the night; through the years, the deeps never ceased calling unto one +another, now softly, now in louder tones; through the years, the youth +who had once sat and listened to them was a stranger in a strange +country, working for his daily bread. + +He did not know as, at last, he walked away from the edge of the cliff, +that it would be necessary for him to leave Connemara; on the contrary, +he had some vague idea of renting a cottage for his mother, near +Analore, and of trying to make his fortune there. He knew that with +worse land Maxwell had done well, and although there was no Lady +Emmeline for him to marry, yet he thought that, with Mr. Pryor’s help, +he could, perhaps, still weather the storm. + +“I must talk to him,” thought Brian, and he went up to Durrow House, +where Mrs. Connor met Brian in the hall, and informed him that his +mother and brother and sister were all gone to bed, “tired out” as Jenny +expressed it. + +“And Mr. Pryor?” Brian asked. + +“He is staying at Eversbeg with Mr. Waller.” + +“What’s that for?” inquired the youth. + +“He said he thought Mrs. Drewitt would be more comfortable if she felt +she had the house to herself,” was the reply. And then Mrs. Connor went +on to ask what he would have to eat, and brought in supper herself, and +made the boy a cup of strong coffee. Look at her as she sits in the +candlelight—would you think that from her eyes had ever fallen such +passionate tears, that she had ever pleaded so vehemently, that she had +ever loved so unavailingly, as you can remember to have been the case? + +Those calm, kind eyes look now as though sorrow had never dimmed them. +Away in her girlhood, far, far back, lies the dream, and the grief, and +the sorrow, and the sin. + +To such natures, to such gentle, loving women, time is very kind; he +refuses to wear channels in their cheeks, to draw lines across their +foreheads, to take away their beauty, or to destroy their power of +conferring happiness upon others; and thus Jenny was still pleasant to +look upon—pleasant, though she was young no more; though the flush of +her girlish loveliness had faded off her cheeks, though the warm +brightness of her hair was dulled, though the years that had come and +gone could not come and go without leaving traces behind them, still +Jenny was pretty still, and Brian, who liked her greatly, found her face +pleasant, as I have said, to look on. + +Had she done wrong to marry? Jenny’s nature, facile as it was, had yet +set itself resolutely against marrying or giving in marriage; but time, +as it passed by, worked wonders, and Connor’s patient devotion and +enduring constancy prevailed at last. All were dead who knew her +secret—all save Maxwell and one other; and so, after ten years, she +married, and came, as we have seen, with her husband to take charge of +the great house at Durrow. + +Mr. Pryor’s agency was of course immense promotion to Connor. There was +a wonderful difference between living at Durrow Park and in Duranmore +Cottage. Altogether, the Connors were rising people, greatly loved by +the poor, and much appreciated by their employer; and Brian could not +help thinking; while Jenny coaxed him to eat, and set dainty viands +before him, that the Englishman had been fortunate; that no man and no +woman could have been found in the length and breadth of Connemara +likely to suit him better. + +For many a day Jenny and Brian had been friends. She it was who, seeing +the boy idling away his time, sought opportunity and occasion to give +him the caution he spoke of to Mr. Pryor; and now, when all his +struggles, all his efforts had proved of no avail, Mrs. Connor spoke +tearfully of the sorrow that had come upon them, and told the son how +deeply she grieved for his mother. + +“You must be a good boy to her,” she said; “you must make up to her for +what she has lost.” + +“Yes,” answered Brian, “and I mean to try and give her back what she has +lost.” + +“You cannot give her back the dead,” Mrs. Connor remarked, sorrowfully. + +“No; but I may give her back Kincorth,” the youth replied. + +“Mr. Brian,” began Jenny, “since ever I came to Duranmore I have heard +of Kincorth—heard of it as a bone of contention, as a place about which +there had been quarrels, and broils, and heart-burnings, generation +after generation. But for Kincorth, maybe your cousin might have been a +better man: not that I have any reason to speak ill of him,” she went on +hurriedly; “for though I am afraid he did put Timothy out of Mr. +Waller’s agency, still he has stood his friend since, and he has been +very kind to Dennis; but still everybody knows, unless by chance his +wife, that Mr. Maxwell has not been a good man, which I think he might +only for Kincorth——” + +“How do you make that out, Mrs. Connor?” asked Brian, pushing away his +plate as he spoke. + +“You are not eating a bit,” said Jenny, piteously. + +“Never mind me,” answered the young man. “You were speaking about +Maxwell: how do you think Kincorth made him what he is?” + +“Why, this way,” she replied. “He always thought himself wronged, you +know, and it is not for anybody to say, Mr. Brian, that your grandfather +did the thing that was right when he passed by his own eldest son and +left all to your father. Do you think, Mr. Brian, it would have been +fair for Mr. Drewitt to cut you out for Master Harold? Would it, now?” +and Jenny’s voice grew quite earnest and pathetic as she pleaded the +cause of the man she had once loved too well. + +“Putting it in that way, Mrs. Connor, I must agree with you,” he +answered; “but then it was not with Maxwell a question between brother +and brother, but between uncle and nephew. If George Drewitt had been +bitter about the matter, I must say his feelings would have seemed to me +perfectly natural, and if Harold had superseded me, perhaps I should +have felt angry too. That, however, would have been no reason why my son +should feel himself injured. There is no just cause why Maxwell should +have imagined Kincorth belonged of right to him.” + +“Yes, there was, Mr. Brian,” she persisted. “Your father said he would +never marry, and then he did marry. He promised to be a father to his +brother’s children, and then——” + +“Mrs. Connor, he was buried to-day; let what he did and what he left +undone be buried with him,” Brian interrupted. + +“I beg your pardon,” she said, humbly, and the tears came up into her +eyes as she saw how hurt the lad was. “He was a good man and a true, +even if he did leave many a thing undone he ought to have seen to; and +all I meant to say was, that as Kincorth has been a curse and a snare to +your cousin, I hope and pray, Mr. Brian, you will never let it be either +to you. Sure there’s many a place as nice in Ireland. To my fancy, this +house, with its look-out over the sea, is heartsomer than those woods +and mountains”—poor Jenny! she shivered as she spoke—“and I think Dennis +is right in saying you are better without so large a property so heavily +mortgaged. And, indeed,” finished Jenny, “if I was a young gentleman I +would not stay in these parts at all. I would go to England, and see the +world, and make money, and come back here maybe for a month or two in +the year, as Mr. Pryor does, but no longer. For many and many a day +before I was married I used to wish I could go away. I did—I did.” + +“I have not a notion what I shall do yet,” Brian answered, while he took +another cup of coffee from her. “There is one thing, however, I do +know—that wherever I go I shall always feel grateful to you for making +me what I am. But for you I do not think I should have been fit for +anything; and now I do not feel afraid of turning out into the world to +earn my bread.” + +“I told you before, Mr. Brian, that your mother had been my friend once +in a time of bitter trouble, and that if at any hour of the day or night +I could serve her or hers I would get up to do it. You have no call to +feel grateful to me. There is nothing I could do for her, God knows, +that would be half enough—not half.” + +“I cannot fancy your ever having had a trouble, Mrs. Connor,” said the +lad. She was the same in middle age as she had been in youth, a woman +who took men’s fancies, to whom it came easy and natural for them to +talk. “You look as if you never could have known a care.” + +“Do I?” and she dropped her head forward for a moment on her hands. +“There are few who come to my time of life,” she went on, “that have not +met trouble; but there are few who, when in trouble, find such a friend +as I did in your mother. If I could have died to keep this grief from +her, Mr. Brian, I would have done it. You may think that strange now, +having both Dennis and the children to value my life for; but I would, +and it is because I love her, and because I love you for her sake, that +I bid you quit caring for Kincorth—that I want you to make her quit +caring for it too.” + +Brian turned away. He could not bear to think of his mother dependent +even for a shelter on the kindness of friends, on the courtesy of +strangers. + +For himself it would not have mattered, but for her— + +That was the keystone of the lad’s character; that was what had made a +man of him, whilst in years he was yet a boy—love for her—love for the +mother who had not been true to her first allegiance, but who had loved +two other babies since, and her last child, Harold, most of all. + +“What am I to do?” he asked after a pause; “how can I make her cease +caring for her home, for the place to which she came a wife, which she +has left a widow? Tell me, Mrs. Connor,” he added, “what made you think +so many years ago that Maxwell was determined to have Kincorth; what +induced you to warn me; I should like to know that now.” + +“Well, then, you cannot know,” she replied, taking one of the candles +off the table; “for I shall not tell you. If I had to do it again, I am +not sure that I should act as I did then, though I meant my warning for +your good;” and with that Jenny stretched out her hand a little +hesitatingly towards Brian, who stooped and kissed it as though she had +been a queen. As he did so Jenny tore her hand away and broke out crying +hysterically. + +“Have I offended you, Mrs. Connor?” he said, standing abashed at his +boyish gallantry; which was no impertinence, but an act of pure, and +honest homage, and liking. “I am very sorry; I never meant to vex you. +Forgive me—pray, forgive!” + +“Forgive!” she cried; “what have I to forgive? only, Mr. Brian, don’t do +that again—don’t. And may God bless—and may God keep you!” + +Having completed which intelligible sentence Mrs. Connor left the room, +only turning back at the door to suggest that Brian should accompany her +and see the apartment which had been prepared for him. + +“Try to get some sleep,” were her parting words; and worn out in body +and in mind, Brian followed her advice, and was soon forgetful alike of +past, present, and future. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + Another Difficulty. + + +“I have been considering the suggestion you made about Analore, Brian,” +Mr. Pryor said one morning, a fortnight after Mr. Drewitt’s funeral; +“but I should not advise you to commence operations there.” + +“Why not?” asked Brian. He had been over to Analore, and seen the +foundations built up of the house his father had intended for his +residence, and had drawn the granite for some twenty years before. “I +think a good deal might be made of it, and with a comparatively small +outlay, too. The land is very fair—fair, of course I mean, for +Connemara; and my mother would be only too glad to let me do the best I +could with it.” + +“That I supposed; but the reason I object to your doing anything with +Analore is, that it would scarcely answer your purpose, to spend your +youth, money, and time in reclaiming another person’s property. To farm +land is a very different affair from reclaiming it.” + +“But my mother’s interests and mine are identical. What is best for her +must be best for me; and if I reclaim Analore it will be quite as much +to the advantage of all of us as of one.” + +“We need not discuss that question,” answered Mr. Pryor, “since it has +nothing to do with the matter. What I mean is this: Analore only belongs +to your mother for life; and though I trust she will stay with us till +her hair is white, still you would not care to plough and drain and sow +and plant for your cousin’s benefit.” + +“He has nothing to do with Analore. It will surely belong to me—or to +all of us after——” + +“Your mother’s death. No, Brian, it will not; and it is very lucky that +before you began to delve and dig I looked into her settlement. I cannot +imagine how any lawyer could overlook the probability of her having a +family; but that it has been overlooked is certain. Analore belongs to +your mother for life, and to Maxwell afterwards. It would have belonged +to you had your father died intestate. Unless your father were swamped +with debt at the time of his marriage, and that some pressure was +brought to bear upon him, the whole affair is inexplicable; but no one +can alter the wording now, and it is for this reason I say you had +better do nothing with Analore; because, in the first place, you would +be spending your strength on another man’s property; and, in the second, +you would—supposing any one advanced money on the place—have to insure +your mother’s life to secure the lender against loss.” + +“Beaten,” said Brian, “at every turn;” and the pair walked on a step or +two in silence. + +“You will not tell my mother,” were the next words spoken. + +“Why not? I think it is much better for your mother to understand +exactly how you are situated,” replied Mr. Pryor. + +“Harold and Geraldine?” Brian said; and the Englishman understood that +he meant it would pain Mrs. Drewitt to know they would be totally +penniless. + +“I have been down with Neill,” Brian went on; “but he can tell me +nothing about the missing will. He says he gave it back to my father +himself; but that he has some impression the will was returned to his +office; that is, he says, he remembers my father making some mention of +either having left it with Ryan—who was then Neill’s clerk—or of his +having intended to do so.” + +“Rather vague,” remarked Mr. Pryor. + +“Then I went to Ryan. ‘Upon my word, Mr. Brian,’ he said, ‘if I knew +where that will was I would tell you; but Mr. Drewitt never gave it back +to me.’ + +“‘Mr. Neill thinks my father said something to him about having returned +it.’ + +“‘Burned it—depend upon it that was what he said.’ + +“‘But why should he burn the one and not the other?’ I inquired. + +“‘My opinion is,’ he said, ‘that he forgot all about the other, he was +so mighty keen on, just at that time, aye, and indeed for long after you +thought he had done with Mr. Neill, considering how he could leave your +brother independent of you, that it is not for me, or you, or anybody to +say what he did or what he did not do, what he thought or what he did +not think.’ And then what do you think he proposed?” asked Brian. + +“I have not the remotest idea.” + +“He offered to lend me five hundred pounds to work Analore. I asked him +if it was Maxwell’s; but he said every penny of it was his own that he +had made by hard work. ‘I tried to keep it, thinking my sister might +want it some day,’ he added; ‘but if you have it, she can ask for it +should she need it, and it may be of use to you now.’” + +“Well, Brian?” + +“Well, Mr. Pryor, I refused it, of course; but wasn’t it good of him? As +I came home, I called again on Mr. Neill, and told him what Ryan said. +‘It is very possible,’ was all I could get out of him. Then I inquired +if my father had been with him after the mortgage was transferred, and +he said, ‘Yes, often.’ ‘About leaving Harold independent of me,’ I +inquired, and Mr. Neill nodded. So I am beaten there again, you +see—beaten again.” + +“What do you think of doing now?” asked Mr. Pryor. + +“Of trying my old scheme. I should like to get a situation and endeavour +to push my way.” + +“Right; you cannot do better than adhere to that resolution.” + +“Dan Glynn offers, as you know, two hundred and fifty pounds a year for +Analore. I do not think, if I am not to farm it, that we can do better.” + +“Perhaps not. What does Mr. Dan Glynn expect to make out of it?” + +“Potheen, I suspect,” said Brian, laughing; “but does that signify to +us?” + +“Not in the least, if he pays his rent; and at any rate it will be much +less trouble to look up one man than twenty or thirty tenants. He will +not turn the present occupiers out?” + +“They are only occupiers of the ground, you know,” replied Brian; “there +is but one hut on the fifteen hundred acres, and that has the roof off +it. Glynn, however, will not send any of them adrift. He will keep them +all to help.” + +“And now, with regard to this plan of your mother’s about living in +Dublin? Do you not think she had better stay on for a year, at any rate, +at Durrow? The house is there, and empty, and——” + +“I think she would be happier away,” Brian interrupted. “In a house of +her own, no matter how small, she would feel more settled than she could +ever do at Durrow; and besides, Mr. Pryor, there is Harold—we must get +him away from Connemara, at all hazards.” + +“He would be better away certainly, and he must do something to earn his +living; but, Brian, promise me now—promise faithfully you will not +encourage this notion of Mrs. Drewitt’s about going to law: she has not +an inch of ground to stand upon, and it would be beggary. You have no +idea how soon law runs away with money; and she could about as soon +overturn Bennobeola, as put your cousin out of Kincorth now.” + +“Not even if that codicil were proved to be a forgery?” + +“How could it be proved such?” asked Mr. Pryor; but Brian remained +silent, and the barrister went on. + +“I will be perfectly frank with you in this matter. I believe that +codicil to be a forgery. I thought so the moment I heard it read. I +thought it because of many trivial circumstances I had noticed +previously. But you could never convert a jury to the same opinion; it +would be waste of time, of money, and of patience to attempt such a +thing. The solicitor who made the original will, and who, it is +supposed, added the codicil, has been paralyzed these six years, and has +now lost all power of speech. The witnesses are dead. It is the distance +of time, you see, that is so much against us. In law, the codicil is +perfectly regular, and what is worse, perfectly natural. Mr. Neill +explains the absence of another will; and we have no reason to suppose +that Mr. Neill speaks otherwise than truthfully. As for your father’s +talk on his death-bed about having left the place to you, the first +question would be, was he delirious at all during his last illness? and +what could Sheen answer but that he frequently wandered? It is quite one +thing, you see, to be satisfied oneself, and quite another to satisfy a +jury. For which reasons, take my advice, and leave Kincorth to its fate. +After all, the estate is not worth the trouble. Your father did not +leave it as he got it.” + +Brian winced. No one let him imagine Maxwell had secured so great a +prize as he wanted to believe. + +“You will go out into the world,” went on Mr. Pryor, “and make your +fortune, and forget all about Kincorth, as I have forgotten all about my +disappointment when I was beaten at Duranmore before you were born. We +will get you something to do, and you shall do it, and be a rich man +yet; richer than Maxwell, perhaps, and much happier, we will hope.” + +Having uttered which sanguine expectation, Mr. Pryor mounted his horse, +and without asking Brian to accompany him, rode straight to Duranmore. +The first person he went to was Mr. James Butler, with whom he had a +long and confidential chat. Having put up his horse at the “Marsden +Arms,” he walked from The Retreat to Mr. Neill’s office in Duranmore, +and satisfied himself Mr. Neill, at any rate, was not one of the +conspirators. From Mr. Neill’s office he crossed over to Mr. Ryan’s, and +after taking the chair that was nervously handed to him, he commenced +the conversation by thanking the lawyer for his friendly offer to Mr. +Brian Drewitt, “about which offer,” he added, “I have come to speak to +you.” + +“Indeed! it is very kind,” and Mr. Ryan looked as though he would have +liked to skulk round the corner of the next street and get a glass of +whiskey before proceeding to business. + +“Not at all; it is only my duty. I am quite certain when you made so +liberal a proposal that you were not aware of the actual position of +affairs regarding Analore, and a five hundred pound legacy is not one +which it is safe to jeopardize. Uncles do not die every day—do they, Mr. +Ryan?” added the barrister, mercilessly following every thought which +was passing through his listener’s mind. + +“He is considering now whether he told Brian it was a legacy,” thought +Mr. Pryor; while Mr. Ryan answered, vaguely, “That they did not indeed.” + +“And most probably, if anything went astray with this five hundred, you +have no further expectations from your relatives?” + +“None, sir, none—he was the last;” and Mr. Pryor wondered whether Mr. +Ryan had any idea of weeping. + +“That is precisely what I thought: you have got five hundred pounds to +lend, but you have not got five hundred pounds to lose. Analore is not a +desirable property, therefore, for you to risk anything upon, since Mrs. +Drewitt has no power of mortgaging it.” + +“What do you mean, sir?—what do you mean?” and Mr. Pryor saw at once +that his suspicion about Ryan being mixed up in this matter also, was +unfounded. + +“Precisely what I say. Mrs. Drewitt has only a life interest in Analore. +At her death it reverts to Maxwell Drewitt.” + +“And the children?” + +“Have not a sixpence in the world.” + +“The Lord help them!” exclaimed Mr. Ryan. + +“He had need,” answered the other, a little bitterly, “for it would seem +that they are not likely to get much help from man. Mr. Ryan,” he went +on, “probably you know the mystery of that marriage settlement—of course +nothing can make a better or a worse of it now—but as a simple matter of +curiosity, I should like greatly to know how such an instrument came to +be drawn.” + +“I was not Mr. Maxwell’s solicitor then, sir. I had nothing to do with +him then at all, I assure you, sir.” + +“Of course not; and that is the reason why I ask you for information on +the subject—as a mere matter of curiosity.” + +“I do not know anything about it, sir.” + +“Are you quite certain? Was no pressure put on Mr. Drewitt?” + +“There might have been: if there were it wasn’t by me. I was only a +beginner then. I had no good clients at all.” + +“Nor any five hundred pound legacies, we may suppose, Mr. Ryan,” said +the other, with a smile. “I hope you are getting good interest.” + +“I—I haven’t put it out yet—I have it in hand.” + +“Then your amiable relative has died recently, I presume?” + +“Within the last three months.” + +“What a strange people you Irish are!” remarked the other, rising to +depart. “You get a five hundred pound legacy, offer to lend it to a mere +lad on no sufficient security, and still grudge the expense of a +hat-band to prove how sincerely you deplore the dead!” + +The two men were standing and their eyes met. In a moment Mr. Pryor knew +that what he had suspected was true; and Mr. Ryan knew the Englishman +was in possession of his secret. Then Mr. Pryor said good-morning, and +was going away, but the other detained him. + +“For God’s sake, Mr. Pryor,” he said, laying a hand on his shoulder, +“never mention what you are now thinking to any one. He would kill me, +he would. If ever you hear of my being found dead by the roadside, with +a bullet through me, you will know whose bullet it is; though as likely +as not some innocent man may be hung for the murder.” + +“Why do you not leave the country?” + +“I will if you drive me to it,” was the significant answer. + +“Mrs. Drewitt intends to contest the will,” remarked Mr. Pryor. + +“Does she?—then I wish her well out of her troubles,” replied Mr. Ryan. +“If need were, he’d take it from court to court for twenty years. She +has not an inch of ground; you must see that yourself. There is some law +place in London that they say it is as bad for a man to get into as for +a cat to go through hell without her claws. Well, Mrs. Drewitt will find +going to law with her nephew as bad as that, or worse.” + +“And yet you have been his friend for twenty years?” + +“Have I?—more fool Timothy Ryan; that is all I have got to say: but +friend or no friend can make no difference about Mrs. Drewitt. You can +just tell her in confidence, out of your own mind as it were, that those +who sup with the devil need to have a long spoon.” + +The notion tickled the barrister’s fancy, and he laughed outright. + +“I think Mrs. Drewitt would be greatly surprised if I did,” he said. + +“Surprised or not, it is the truth I’m telling you; but I would not tell +it to you if himself wasn’t safe in Dublin at this blessed minute.” + +“If he is in Dublin, he is in Duranmore as well,” answered Mr. Pryor. “I +see his chesnut mare at the door, and I see him throwing the reins to +his groom.” + +“Lord save us! I think he is the devil,” murmured Ryan, nervously +shuffling among his papers. “Good-morning, sir—good-morning,” he added +aloud as his visitor reached the door. + +“I beg your pardon,” said the owner of Kincorth, who was entering the +office as the Englishman left it; “your most obedient, Mr. Pryor,” and +he almost swept the floor with his hat, his mocking bow was so low and +deferential. + +Without answering him by a word, Mr. Pryor bowed in acknowledgment and +passed out, while Maxwell walking straight up to Ryan, took him by the +arm. + +“What brought him here?” said the great man, looking his accomplice full +in the face, as if expecting him to falter in his reply. + +But desperation gave Ryan courage. “He came to inquire about Mrs. +Drewitt’s settlement.” + +“What about it?” + +“She has it only for her lifetime, with no remainder to her children. He +seemed to think I knew all about it, but I did not. I told him it was +the first I had heard of the matter.” + +Maxwell dropped his hold of Mr. Ryan’s arm, and leaning over the back of +a chair, indulged in a long low whistle of delight. + +“Better and better,” he said. “I did not know that either, Ryan. I did +not,” he repeated, noticing a look of incredulity on the lawyer’s face. +“Do you imagine I have had time to read over every paper concerning the +property since I came into possession of it? No such thing. I shall find +plenty to pay, I expect, when I do take that trouble. But if this should +prove to be correct, we may as well make her an offer for Analore. You +can write on chance, Ryan, and tell her she shall have three hundred +a-year for Analore if she likes the offer; or should she prefer to sell +her life interest, I will take the place off her hands. + +“When shall I write, Mr. Drewitt?” + +“To-day, if you choose—yes, better do it at once, for I should like to +have Analore,” answered Maxwell. + +Acting upon which suggestion, Ryan penned a polite epistle to Mrs. +Drewitt, who at once declined the proposal. + +“Having already let Analore,” she finished. + +“Well, it cannot be helped,” sighed Maxwell; “and, besides, it is only +for her life.” + +“Only for her life!” echoed back some mocking fiend within him: “she is +not more than two years older than you! Only for her life!—you may be +dead before her; and then, to whom will you leave Kincorth, and the +Headlands, and Cherryfield, and the property in the Joyce country, and +Analore?” + +Maxwell had decided that point. There was a boy finishing his education +at a very select school in the county Wicklow, whom he meant to make his +heir, whom he intended to send to one of the English universities and +bring up in the way he should go. + +There was a boy to inherit—but alas! that could not make the idea of +“passing away” at all more endurable to the man, who, though he had no +fear of God, had yet an intense horror of death. + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + Harold in Trouble. + + +It was summer once again: summer twelve months after the events recorded +in the last few chapters, and Mrs. Drewitt and Brian, and Harold and +Geraldine, were living far away from Duranmore, far beyond the Connemara +Alps, far beyond sound of the great ocean that washes the headlands of +the “wild west.” + +Brian had got a situation in Dublin, which however necessitated frequent +absences from home. He was working hard, and giving great satisfaction +to his employers; and Mrs. Drewitt, who had greatly crippled her income +by feeing lawyers and running after all manner of people who advised her +to dispute her husband’s will, resided with Harold and Geraldine in a +small house in the outskirts of Dublin. + +From whence Harold walked into the city every morning, and sat at a desk +from nine o’clock till four; an amusement he was never weary of +grumbling about; while his mother, likewise, never wearied in +commiserating him for it. + +In the present, as in the past, it was Harold she pitied, Harold she +loved; it was the bold-eyed, bright-faced boy she clung to—her youngest +born—the Benjamin of her life to her! + +Such likings are natural, perhaps; but they do not generally tend to +make matters pleasanter in the family circle, and perhaps it was quite +as well that Brian’s occupation took him much from home, as otherwise he +might have had less patience than was the case with Harold’s +repinings—with Harold’s conduct. + +For Harold was the same in Dublin as he had been in Connemara—wild, +reckless, dissipated. His acquaintances were none of the most desirable, +his life none of the most regular; but still the mother would not +see—the mother would not believe. + +He was her darling, and nothing it was in his power to do could make him +otherwise. When he found she came to meet him in the summer afternoons, +he walked by a circuitous route home; when he found she sat up for him +at night, he came home early, went to bed with the rest of the +household, and then stole down in his stocking-soles, with his boots in +his hand, and let himself out, taking the door-key with him. + +Of course their servant—who was often unfastening the shutters when +Harold reappeared—knew of these pranks; but she had never the heart to +tell his mother. + +And if she had told Mrs. Drewitt, what difference could it have made? +His mother had no influence over him—none whatever. He had nothing to +say but “I will leave the house,” or “I will go and ask food and lodging +from Maxwell,” and she was silent at once. + +Whenever Maxwell came to Dublin, which was not seldom, Harold always +dined with him, and always came back reeling drunk. + +“Told him—I—bore—no grudge—welcome to—Madcap—poor—old—girl,” the young +rascal would hiccup out, and when induced to go to bed, he invariably +did so under protest, retiring from view between the sheets in his +boots, coat, waistcoat and trousers, and refusing to let go of Mary’s +hand—Mary was their maid-of-all work—until she promised to call him +early. + +“Don’t f—get, Marish. If you’re waking—you know—call me early, Marish +dear.” + +And indeed had it not been for Mary’s repeated calls, Harold could +hardly have kept his situation so long as was the case. + +“Damn business—curse work!” I think that was the refrain of almost every +sentence Harold Drewitt uttered for some months after starting in the +world on his own account, and Mrs. Drewitt listened sympathetically, and +would oftentimes confide to Mary, the maid-of-all-work before honourably +mentioned, the fact, “that she thought that office was killing her poor +boy—he looked so pale, and ill, and thin since he left the country.” + +Mary had her own opinions, which, seeing Master Harold was the lamb +without blemish in his mother’s eyes, she wisely kept to herself. + +But even the fondest parent cannot remain blind for ever, and +accordingly there came a time when Mrs. Drewitt, instead of pitying +Harold, went up to her own room and wept; when she prayed him not to go +to the hotel where Maxwell stopped while in town; when she entreated him +to remember that by business he must live, and that to live he must +work. + +“Look at Brian,” she would remark, and the injudicious speech invariably +made Harold shrug his shoulders, and declare Brian “never was fit to be +anything better than a horse in a mill, or a counting-house drudge, or a +pack-horse which he is,” finished Harold. + +“Now Harold, do not say such things of Brian!” Geraldine would exclaim, +her cheeks all a-glow; and then Harold was wont to laugh and declare— + +“Oh! we all know what makes you so much in love with business; don’t we, +mamma?” For which speech Mrs. Drewitt invariably pulled Master Harold +up. + +In her heart, the mother did not like the way in which Mr. Gyton was +always running over from London; she wished he would either propose or +stay away; and yet, she argued, a man must have some opportunity for +making up his mind. Altogether, I cannot say that the position of the +Drewitt family was one perfectly free from care; but still time +travelled on—on—and the seasons came and went; as they will do whether +people are happy or whether people are sad. + +It was summer once again, and though there is, perhaps, no town in the +three kingdoms where the country seems so near and stone walls so little +oppressive as in Dublin, still Mrs. Drewitt missed the hills, and the +valleys, and the ocean more than she would have cared to acknowledge. + +She had loved Connemara, and she had no other strong ties to any part of +the earth. Mother, and father, and sister, had long been dead, and Sir +Everard Ebbutt was married again, and her sister’s children were very +aristocratic young ladies, who would scarcely have cared to acknowledge +so very unfortunate an individual for their aunt. Altogether, she +mourned greatly after Connemara; and many a time when she and Geraldine +were walking along the Monkstown Road, or pacing slowly round Stephen’s +Green, or sitting at work together in their modestly-furnished house, +the poor lady would say suddenly—“I wonder how the Twelve Pins are +looking now, Geraldine! Must not the sea seem calm seen from Durrow +cliffs to-day?” + +“Yes, mamma,” Geraldine would answer, a little guiltily conscious that +she had kept one thing from her mother’s knowledge, viz., her own +refusal of Durrow and its owner. + +She could have given a comfortable home for life to her mother; she +could have let her spend all the remaining days of her life among the +scenes and the people she had learned to love so much—and she refused. + +Had she done right? For many days Geraldine pondered that question over +and over again, and at last took courage and referred it to her mother. + +They were sitting side by side in one of the loneliest parts of the +Phœnix Park—in one of the glades where the blackberries and the brambles +grow—and in reply to a remark from Mrs. Drewitt about the quietness +being pleasant—about the place being almost as solitary as Connemara, +though so close to Dublin, Geraldine took her mother’s hand in hers, and +said— + +“Mamma, I want to ask you something.” + +“He has proposed”—that was Mrs. Drewitt’s first idea, as she beheld her +daughter’s face covered with blushes. “He has proposed”—the “he” having +reference to Mr. Gyton, who was at that present moment galloping as fast +as an Irish horse could take him to the Broadstone Terminus, whence he +was soon travelling, at the mild pace which seems in fashion across the +Channel by express train, to Galway. + +“I wish you were coming down with me, old fellow,” he said to Harold +Drewitt, who had accompanied him to the station, and who stood with his +hands on the top of the carriage-door, looking very wretched and +disconsolate. “A run into Connemara would do you good.” + +“I know that,” Harold answered, mournfully. + +“Ask leave, and come down on Saturday. There is a car or something that +will bring you on from Galway to Durrow in no time; and my uncle will be +delighted. Shall I tell him to expect you?” + +“I don’t see how I can get away,” hesitated the boy. + +“Nonsense; come on Saturday. Remember, I shall be looking out for you. +Good-bye;” and the train steamed away from the platform, and went +leisurely onwards into the country, through which it proceeded in a +quiet, inoffensive manner, stopping at all sorts of out-of-the-way +stations, where no passengers ever seemed to get in or out; but where +there was always a knot of idlers collected to see the engine and +carriages, as if the seventh wonder of the world were taking a little +tour through Ireland. + +“No need to ask where one is,” remarked Mr. Gyton to a fellow-passenger, +who chanced to be an Englishman; “battered hats, short pipes, ragged +clothes, and plenty of policemen—I beg their pardons—of the constabulary +force.” + +“Fine country, though,” returned the other. + +“So I am told,” answered Mr. Gyton, drily. + +“And the women are so handsome! positively, walking about Dublin +yesterday I met hundreds of lovely faces!” pursued the enthusiastic +gentleman. + +“The town is not large,” remarked his companion, “and it is within the +bounds of possibility that you may have met the same faces many times +over.” + +“There is something in that,” considered the other. + +“And then,” continued Mr. Gyton, “if you pay particular attention to the +subject, you will observe that most Irishwomen—the women who wear gloves +I mean—have a slit in those gloves; either the lady’s hands are plump, +in which case there is an aperture at the side; or her fingers are long, +in which case the nails make a way for themselves through the tips; or +the articles are of an inferior make, which causes gaps about the thumb; +or they are too small and refuse to button. I have made gloves my +study,” added the young swell, “and I never get into a railway carriage +in which there is a woman without adding to my stock of information. I +came up from Kingston yesterday morning with a young lady, and ’pon my +honour, for a long time I thought she had on mittens, she was out at +every finger down to the middle joint!” and Mr. Gyton complacently +surveyed his own well-fitting glove, towards which his companion’s +glance was directed also. + +“Do you smoke?” asked the younger man at last, presenting his cigar-case +to the stranger, who, being graciously pleased to avail himself of the +offered politeness, lit one of Mr. Gyton’s prime Havannah’s, and the +pair, stretched out one on each side the carriage, smoked until they +reached Mullingar, at which point they abandoned their cigars, and +wrapping their railway rugs about them, slept on until the guard came to +collect the tickets and to inform them that “when they reached the next +station they’d be there.” + +“A most original and valuable piece of information,” remarked Mr. Gyton, +yawning desperately. “Now what do you make out of that—we shall be +there? Does he mean we shall be at the next station, or at Galway?” + +“The next station is Galway,” replied the other, referring to his +time-table, and failing in his sleepy condition of mind to perceive any +wit in the young man’s brilliant remarks. “I hope we shall be able to +get a bed.” + +“If my memory serves me right, you can have your choice of about a +hundred,” answered Mr. Gyton, collecting his effects, and humming an +opera air softly the while. + +This was the “he” to whom Mrs. Drewitt had mentally referred while +waiting for the rest of her daughter’s sentence. + +“You often talk, mamma, about Connemara, about the mountains, about the +Atlantic, about those exquisite little bays, about all sorts of things, +in fact,” and Geraldine leaned back her head till it rested gently on +her mother’s shoulder as she spoke. + +“Yes, love.” + +“Would you like to go back there, mamma—to go back to live?” and the +evening sunbeams rested upon the pair, upon the deep mourning of mother +and child, and Mrs. Drewitt stretched out her hand towards those patches +of golden light as though she could touch and retain them. + +“That would depend, Geraldine,” was the answer. “Home to me is now +wherever my children are: if you were all in Connemara, I should love +the West; as you are all in Dublin, I am learning to love it.” + +“You are certain, sure, positive, mamma?” and the pretty head nestled +itself down on Mrs. Drewitt’s shoulder as well as was possible, +considering the millinery miracle, which seemed to be stuck on the top +of various rolls and twists of hair. + +“Certain, love—why?” + +“Because, mamma, we might all go back to Connemara—to Durrow, if I were +to marry Mr. Pryor. He asked me, and I said no; and I have been +miserable ever since—wondering, wondering, whether it was not wrong of +me, when we are so poor, and when he likes me so much.” + +There was a long pause, during the continuance of which Mrs. Drewitt +held her daughter’s hand in hers, and stroked it slowly, slowly, very +tenderly and very gently. “Poor fellow,” she said at last, and Geraldine +began to cry. + +“Have I done wrong, mamma? have I done wrong?” + +“You do not love him, darling?” + +“No, mamma.” + +“You would only marry him for the sake of Durrow, and for what he might +do for me, and Harold, and Brian?” + +“Yes, mamma.” + +“Then, Geraldine, you have done quite right, and never vex yourself +about the matter again. Only it is a pity of him, a great pity!” And +Mrs. Drewitt took up her daughter’s hand and commenced stroking it once +more. + +“I felt that, mamma,” whispered the girl, “but I could not help saying +no. I thought only of myself then; but I have cried myself to sleep many +a night since thinking about you.” + +“My poor child, and I never knew anything about it,” said the mother, +sorrowfully. + +“I could not tell you. I was afraid you might be vexed; I was vexed +myself, and——” Geraldine paused. + +“And what, darling?” + +“Oh, mamma—mamma!” that was all the confession, but it was enough. The +mother knew the daughter’s secret, and the daughter knew her mother +understood the whole business without another word being spoken. + +They sat on for a few minutes longer in silence, and then they walked +home side by side still saying little, and that little having no +connexion with the subject on which they had been talking. + +Mrs. Drewitt made no further remark, asked no single question; only that +night Geraldine cried herself to sleep in her mother’s arms, and until +the early dawning of the summer’s morning Mrs. Drewitt lay awake, and +thought about the husband she should see no more on earth—about the +children whose future seemed so vague and uncertain. + +As for Harold, the household had not much of a life with him until he +worried permission out of his employers to grant him a holiday; then the +very same evening he started for Galway, and worked his way thence by +car and coach to Duranmore, where Mr. Pryor met him. + +“Your letter and Frank’s must have crossed each other,” he said. “He +left for Dublin by the first train from Galway this morning, and wrote +begging you to meet him at Morrison’s.” + +“Then we both slept at the same hotel last night, and never knew it,” +said Harold, disconsolately; “will he be long in Dublin?” + +“Only a few hours. He leaves to-night for Holyhead, and is going direct +to London. His father is very ill.” + +“Wasn’t it queer we should both be in Galway together, and never know +it?” repeated Harold, whose sympathies were none of the keenest, and who +would not have cared very much who lived or who died providing he had +his little comforts. Mr. Pryor, though he had known much more singular +coincidences in the course of his life, agreed that it was “queer,” +while he gave the reins into Harold’s eager hands, and let him drive +back the ten miles to Durrow within the hour. + +For the sister’s sake, Mr. Pryor was very kind to Harold, though his +affection for the boy had never been overwhelming, and consequently +Harold found his stay in Connemara exceedingly pleasant, and was very +much grieved—grieved to the extent of tears when he had to leave. + +“My time’s up,” he said disconsolately to Mr. Pryor. + +“Is it?” remarked that gentleman, sympathetically; “you must get leave +to come and see me next summer.” + +“Ay; but that is such a devilishly long time to look forward to,” +answered Harold. + +“You must employ the interval in breaking yourself of a bad habit,” Mr. +Pryor observed. + +“What is that?” asked Harold, quickly. + +“Swearing,” was the reply. + +“There is no harm in swearing—everybody swears but you.” Fancy the +feelings of a middle-aged gentleman who was obliged to bear such +speeches from a lad. “I don’t know a fellow that does not swear,” went +on Harold; “but then, to be sure, all the fellows I know are young.” + +It would have done Mr. Pryor good to have pitched Master Harold over +Durrow cliff, but one cannot always do as one likes in this world, and +he refrained. + +“You may think I am making fun,” resumed the boy, “but I am not: next +summer does seem a devilishly long time away—that is not swearing, it is +truth—and I sometimes feel when I am looking about me here that I am +looking for the last time—you may laugh if you like, but I do.” + +“What does the lad mean?” marvelled Mr. Pryor. + +“Just what I say; neither more nor less: maybe I may see Connemara +again, and maybe not; but most likely maybe not. I have gone to every +place I could think of to-day, and said good-bye. I feel that I shall +never come back—never—never—never.” And the boy twined his hand in the +branch of a tree against which he was leaning, and, resting his head on +his arm, sobbed aloud. + +“Would you rather not return to Dublin at present?” asked Mr. Pryor, who +really felt impressed by Harold’s grief. “I dare say I could make it all +right with your employers.” + +“No, I must go; but I feel that I am going to meet my fate, Mr. Pryor. +If nothing comes of this, try not to think me a fool; but last night, +after I had been asleep for about a couple of hours, I awoke suddenly in +a cold perspiration and shivering from head to foot. I think you might +have heard my heart beating. I was in such a horrible fright, and there +was a dread on me—a terror; what was it? tell me;” and the boy turned +towards Mr. Pryor, who thought in a moment about Maxwell’s words— + +“He will never make old bones;” and it was true, poor Harold! + +“You were ill,” answered the Englishman. + +“I was not ill,” returned Harold, petulantly; “I was as well as you are. +I had neither ache nor pain; only I was frightened: what frightened me?” + +“You had been dreaming disagreeably.” + +“I had not been dreaming at all—at least if I had I do not remember +anything about it. I was wide awake in the time you could clap hands, +and thinking about death, about Eversbeg, and my father, and that Kathie +I used to hear them talking over when I was a child, Maxwell’s sister. I +have not got over it all day. Do you think me a coward? I am not a +coward; only—only it would be very hard to die and never see Connemara +again.” + +“It would, Harold; but I hope and believe you will see Connemara many +times before you die. And promise me you will go (quietly by yourself, +you know, and without alarming your mother) to some good doctor in +Dublin, and tell him you are not very strong, and to give you a tonic. +Promise me,” and Mr. Pryor slipped a five-pound note into the boy’s +hand, which Harold looked at as well as tears would let him see it. + +“In the night,” he began again, “I made good resolutions—I did, Mr. +Pryor. I wish I could keep to them; I wish I could quit drinking; I wish +I could quit vexing my mother. I’d like to be good. I think it must be +nice to feel good when one wakes like that in the middle of the night.” + +That was the note on which Harold’s sentences began and ended. It was +the common chord of his conversation, until at last Mr. Pryor became +really anxious. + +“He would not get on this way if he were in good health,” thought the +barrister, and when he parted with Harold he felt many misgivings as to +whether he ought not to go so far as Galway, at any rate, with him. + +But there was an absurdity on the face of the thing which could not fail +to strike Mr. Pryor. “The boy does not want to go to work,” he thought; +“and if we make too much of him he will never be good for anything.” As +for spirits, out of doors, Harold’s were at fever-point! + +“Put on your hat, man,” he said to Doyle, who, happy as a lord, was +standing flourishing an old white apology for a hat in the middle of the +High Street of Duranmore. “I have often been drunk myself.” + +“And good-bye, Kitty,” he called out to the barmaid at the “Marsden +Arms;” “see that you’re married against I come back.” + +“Good-bye, Maxwell,” he shouted to his cousin, who was riding by on +Trumpeter. “Take care of Madcap; I may come down some day in the hunting +season, and ask you to let me have one more ride on her.” + +“And good-bye, Mr. Pryor,” he said last of all; “try not to think about +what I told you—it was folly.” + +“Write to me what the doctor says, Harold,” entreated his friend. “All +right,” was the reply and the car drove off. + +Far as he could see, Harold kept waving first his hat and then his +handkerchief, and it was not until the vehicle turned round the base of +the mountain, on the road to Cragantlet, and bore the boy off through +the land of a hundred lakes, that Mr. Pryor could prevail on himself to +retrace his way towards Durrow. + +He could not sleep for thinking of the lad; he resolved to write to +Brian concerning him, and he worried himself almost into a fever over +the matter, while Harold was shouting out snatches of songs, and +pitching compliments to the pretty country girls as they tripped so +daintily over the grass by the wayside, and telling stories, and +plaguing the driver’s life out to let him take the reins, and eating his +supper in Galway, and lying fast asleep in one of those huge beds at the +Railway Hotel in which Finn Macoul and his whole family might find ample +accommodation. + +“If you believe me, sir,” said Harold, who travelled second class, to a +fat priest, his fellow-passenger in the railway carriage the next +morning as far as Athlone, “I had to ring the bell to find myself; I +went wandering over the bed every time I woke trying to discover where +on earth I was;” and the priest took kindly to the boy, and laughed at +his light-hearted merriment, and all the way up to Dublin, Harold found +some one to talk to, some one to laugh with. + +As he drove along the streets leading from Broadstone Station to +Carlisle Bridge, he chatted to the car-driver, and was, as the man +expressed it, “in great heart entirely.” “Pull up at the first shop,” +ordered Mr. Harold, “where they sell cigars; I want some;” and obedient +to the command the man pulled up at a shop in College Green, where +Harold alighted. + +He picked over the cigars with the air of a connoisseur, and, selecting +three dozen of what he considered the best, threw down a pound-note in +payment. He had changed Mr. Pryor’s gift in Galway, and this pound-note +was part of the proceeds. + +“I must send out for silver, sir,” said the man behind the counter, who +had never taken his eyes off Harold’s face (when Harold was not looking +at him) for a moment. + +“All right,” remarked Harold. + +“Sorry to keep you so long waiting,” remarked the shopkeeper, politely +handing his customer a chair. + +“It is of no consequence;” but Harold was kicking his heels with +impatience for all that. + +Time went on. “I think,” said the lad, “they must be quarrying that +silver.” + +“Not at all,” said the shopkeeper; and at the words his messenger +re-entered the place, in company with a policeman. + +“There is your prisoner,” remarked the cigar-dealer; and the policeman +laid his hand on Harold’s shoulder. + +“Come along, young gentleman,” he said. “The less fuss you make, the +better.” + +Advice which Harold followed by striking the policeman right between the +eyes, and then asking what the devil he meant by his cursed impudence. + +“It is your cursed impudence, I think,” said the shopkeeper, “coming +here to change another of your notes.” + +“I never set foot in your doors before, to my knowledge,” answered +Harold, amazed. + +“Well, you have to mine, which is more to the purpose,” was the reply. + +“Will you tell me what you all mean? Are you all mad?” asked Harold, who +began to feel that the affair was getting serious. + +Then half a dozen people began talking at once, and all Harold could +make out as they dragged him along the streets was— + +“Robbery of two thousand pounds—fifty pounds reward—assaulting a +constable in the discharge of his duty—passing the stopped notes.” + +“But now look here, sir,” remarked Harold, to the inspector. “I know no +more what you are all talking about than a baby in arms. That is my name +and address; and I have just come up from Galway, where I have been +staying at Durrow Park with Mr. Geoffry Pryor.” + +“You are not bound to criminate yourself,” interposed the inspector. +“What you say after this caution will be used in evidence against you.” + +“Let it. I am trying to vindicate myself—though, upon my conscience, I +have not the remotest idea of the nature of the crime with which you +charge me. I tell you what it is,” he added, “you have got the wrong +bird in crib; you must have mistaken me for somebody else; before God, I +know nothing of any two thousand pounds!” he added passionately. “I +never saw so much money together in all my life—I never did!” + +“If you can persuade his worship of that, it will be all the better for +you,” was the incredulous reply; and forthwith Harold was locked up, but +not before he sent this message to his mother:— + +“Tell her,” he said to a policeman, “that I am in the station-house; I +have not the remotest idea why. I have done nothing. I cannot think what +you have brought me here for—unless you are all mad.” + +But though the police delivered this message with tolerable accuracy, +they persisted in hunting over all his little possessions, trying to +find some trace of the missing money—of something to criminate the boy. + +“You see he is innocent, you see,” Mrs. Drewitt kept saying, in her +frantic sorrow. + +“Yes, ma’am, we see,” answered the police; and all through that long, +long night Geraldine and her mother kept repeating, as if to reassure +their own faith, “He is innocent! Harold could never have done a thing +like that!” + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + An Unfortunate Likeness. + + +Next day Harold Drewitt was brought before Mr. Boice, charged with +having on the first of August, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred +and fifty-four, stolen two thousand pounds, the property of the Dundalk +and Drogheda Banking Company; when the following evidence was produced:— + +Jeremiah Kearns having been sworn, deposed, that on the day in question +he was an up passenger by the five o’clock express train from Dundalk to +Drogheda. Had with him two thousand pounds in notes, and one thousand +pounds in gold and silver. The gold and silver was packed in a wooden +box hooped with iron; the notes he carried in a black bag. Asked the +guard not to put any one in the carriage with him, and his request was +complied with, until the train arrived at Dunleer, about eight miles +from Drogheda. At that station the guard said he would be obliged to +give him a fellow-passenger, but it was only a young gentleman going on +to Dublin. Seeing the prisoner, made no objection, and they travelled on +together to Drogheda, where the witness got out. + +When he reached the Bank, he found he had lost his bag; spoke to the +car-driver about it, but the car-driver was positive no bag had been +among the luggage, nothing but a portmanteau and the box. Telegraphed at +once to Dublin to search the carriages on the arrival of the train in +Amiens-street. Telegraphed also that the guard would recollect witness’s +fellow-passenger. + +Telegraphed, and sent messages to all their branches, stopping payment +of the notes. + +Several of the notes had been changed by Dublin shopkeepers during the +period which had elapsed between the first and the fifteenth. + +Had received a telegram from the inspector on the previous evening, and +identified the prisoner at the police-station. He was dressed +differently on the day in question, and his hair was now a little +longer, but he had no hesitation in swearing to him as the youth who had +got in at Dunleer. + +Prisoner assisted him to lift the box out at Drogheda, and made a remark +to the effect that it must have something of value inside. Witness did +not suspect such a respectable-looking lad, travelling first class, and +belonging apparently to the upper ranks, of stealing his bag. He thought +he, witness, had forgotten the bag, and that if any other passengers got +in between Drogheda and Dublin, prisoner would be able to give +information concerning them. Had heard the description given by several +Dublin tradesmen of the person who had changed the notes, and identified +that description as answering to his fellow-passenger and the prisoner +at the bar. + +Had no hesitation in declaring the two to be one and the same person. +Was confident he never mentioned that he was carrying money with him; +but thought the guard made some joke about there being no fear of that +young gentleman robbing him. Was in the habit of taking money from one +bank to another; the guard knew him perfectly well. + +Peter Monaghan being sworn, stated, that on the night in question he was +acting as guard on the up express train, which arrived at Dundalk at +five minutes to five o’clock. Recollected Mr. Kearns getting in at that +station, and requesting him, witness, to keep the compartment he +occupied empty if possible. Knew Mr. Kearns well. At Dunleer there were +an unusual number of passengers waiting for the up train, and +consequently asked Mr. Kearns’ permission to put prisoner in the same +compartment. He was such a genteel-looking young gentleman that he +thought there could be no objection. Believed he did make some remark to +that effect, but could not be just certain. At Drogheda Mr. Kearns got +out, and bade witness good-evening. When witness collected the tickets +prisoner was in the train. When the express reached Dublin the +station-master told witness about the telegraphic message, and they both +asked the prisoner if Mr. Kearns had left a bag in the carriage. +Prisoner said, not to his knowledge—that he had not noticed any article +at all when the gentleman got out at Drogheda. Had he done so, he would +have mentioned it to him, witness, at Balbriggan. Several passengers got +into the same compartment at Balbriggan, and one lady who got in at +Drogheda travelled on to Malahide, where every one in that particular +carriage got out except the prisoner. About a mile on the Dublin side of +Malahide a black bag was found next morning by a labourer working on the +line. It must have been thrown out of the right-hand window of the +carriage, as it lay between the metals on the down line. He thought from +the young gentleman’s manner that Mr. Kearns must have taken the bag out +of the train, and lost it between the station and the Bank. Never +suspected the prisoner. + +Had identified him at the station-house the previous evening, but should +not have known him in the “wide-awake” he wore. He had on a hat at +Dunleer. A hat was sent for and tried on. He was able to swear to him +then, though he had fallen away in flesh during the fortnight. + +Michael Brinny, tobacconist, was then sworn and examined. Had a shop in +College Green. Recollected the first of August. Just as his shutters +were being put up on the evening of that day, prisoner came in, and +bought a pipe and some Cavendish tobacco. He had not silver enough to +pay for these articles, and so he laid down a pound-note, out of which +witness returned him twelve and threepence change. Never saw him before, +and never saw him since, until the previous afternoon, when he came to +his shop again, and purchased three dozen of cigars, offering a Bank of +Ireland one-pound note in payment. + +Witness made an excuse about having to send out for change, and kept him +in conversation till his assistant fetched a policeman. Prisoner was +very violent, struck the policeman in the face, declared he did not know +what they were talking about, and gave a great deal of trouble before he +was removed to the station-house. Knew him the moment he came into the +shop, though his hair had grown longer, and his face thinner since he +changed the first note. Thought he tried to disguise his voice, and that +he spoke with more of a West of Ireland accent than when he bought the +Cavendish. + +John Garvan, Daniel Laharan, Thomas Molrhany, and several other +respectable shopkeepers identified the prisoner as having made small +purchases, and changed notes at their establishments; while Barry +Croggan, who appeared with a great lump on his forehead, gave an account +of the assault committed on him by the prisoner; and stated that, but +for the assistance rendered by Mr. Brinny and his shopman, he could not +have retained his prisoner until another policeman came to help him. + +In answer to all these charges, Harold, having been duly cautioned not +to criminate himself, stated that there must be some mistake; that he +never was at Drogheda in his life; that he knew nothing whatever of the +robbery, never having even heard of it till the policeman told him about +it the previous day. Very earnestly Harold protested his innocence; he +said he had not gone out of Dublin the whole summer, except for a week, +the entire of which time he had spent with Mr. Pryor, of Durrow Park. +Being asked by the magistrate if he could recollect where he was on the +first of August, he said he could not; but upon being told what day of +the week the first fell on, he declared he had spent the whole of it in +the company of Mr. Francis Gyton, who could swear to the fact. + +Being requested to send for Mr. Francis Gyton, he said he did not know +where that gentleman was; which reply produced a malevolent chuckle from +the “cloud of witnesses,” and a statement from police constable Croggan +to the effect that prisoner was anything but a respectable young +gentleman, though he believed he had respectable friends. Many of +Harold’s proceedings were recounted for the magistrate’s edification; +and whilst every old sin, every mad prank, every boyish folly was +brought up in judgment against him, the lad leaned forward and covered +his face with his hands to hide the tears of shame and mortification +that he had not strength enough to keep back. + +He had never been alone in any trouble before—never; and now, in the +hour of his bitterest trial, he had not a soul to speak a word in his +favour. + +“If you give me time, sir,” he said at last, looking up and addressing +the magistrate, “I will be able to prove I never was near the place; +that it is all a mistake—” and then he gave a cry of joy, for Brian, who +he thought was far away from Dublin, entered the court at the moment, +and offered to find bail to any amount for his reappearance. + +If he had not assaulted the officer, most probably his brother’s +application would have been listened to; but as it was, the magistrate +refused to entertain the idea even for a moment. + +He could not think of accepting bail in so serious a case, he remarked, +and remanded the prisoner. + +“I am innocent, Brian. I know nothing about the money. Don’t let them +take me back there!” panted out the poor lad in his terror and distress; +but Brian could do nothing except go to a solicitor and place the case +in his hands, write to Mr. Pryor, and send a telegram to London begging +that Mr. Gyton would, if possible, come back to Dublin without delay. + +Then he went home, and it was the hardest day’s work Brian Drewitt ever +performed, facing his mother without Harold. Poor lady! poor mother! +though she did not believe one word of the accusation they had brought +against her youngest born, still she wept till she had no more tears +left to shed at the thought of her boy being in prison—of her darling +being dragged to the dock and tried like a common felon. + +“I did all I could,” said Brian, hoarsely. “I offered to get bail, but +they refused it. I was not there time enough to get a solicitor for him, +but I have found one since. I have written to Mr. Pryor and telegraphed +for Mr. Gyton. Is there anything else you would like tried? Is there +anywhere else you would like me to go? Tell me. You have nothing to do +but say what you would wish, and I will endeavour to accomplish it, +mother.” + +It would not be possible in a whole volume to describe the intense +tenderness—the womanly compassion Brian managed to put into that one +word; and as he spoke it Mrs. Drewitt went up to him and, without +speaking a sentence, flung her arms round his neck and kissed him over +and over again. + +“Mother,” he said, “mother darling,” and he touched her hair, which was +growing grey, grey, and he kissed her forehead, and he let her poor +weary head lie on his breast, but her plaint was still, “Harold, Harold, +my boy, my boy!” + +“I could do no more, mother,” Brian repeated, “and nobody can do +anything more for a week yet. Mr. Gyton will be over here by that time, +and then Harold is sure to be liberated at once.” + +“Brian,” the dear fingers fidgeted with his neck-tie—with the studs in +his shirt, “Brian.” + +“Yes, mother.” + +“Where did Harold get all the money he has lately had to spend?” + +“I have given him some,” answered Brian. + +“But not enough. I should fear not enough.” + +In a moment Brian saw where the sting lay; in an instant he perceived +that though she would not believe, still that she dreaded. + +“Make your mind easy,” he answered confidently. “Wherever Harold had his +money from, it was not got dishonestly. There is some great mistake, but +I could stake my life he is as innocent as I am; whatever the world may +think, we must not turn against him—must we?” + +She placed a hand on each shoulder, and looked Brian full in the face. + +“You are not saying that to comfort me?” she asked. “You have no doubt +yourself?” + +“Not the slightest.” + +“You feel confident he was with Mr. Gyton?” + +“I know he was. At least, I remember your writing to me on the evening +of the first that Mr. Gyton had passed that day through Dublin on his +way to Durrow, and that Harold had seen him off from the Broadstone +Station. Harold could not have been at Broadstone and Drogheda on the +same day; besides, he says he never was at Drogheda in his life. And +whatever his faults may be, he is neither a thief nor a liar. Make your +mind easy. It is a case of mistaken identity; but it is confoundedly +hard lines for Harold to be locked up instead of the fellow who really +did steal the notes.” + +“You think they were stolen then?” said Mrs. Drewitt. + +“They were certainly stolen, and by some one very like Harold; but I +have never seen anybody like Harold in my life. It is a strange +business, and we must wait with patience for the mystery to be +explained.” + +“It is not easy to have patience, Brian,” remarked Mrs. Drewitt, and +then she began crying again about her boy—her poor delicate boy, while +Brian thought within himself that if the one-half he had heard during +the day concerning Harold’s mode of life were true, it was no wonder he +grew delicate, and pale, and thin. + +“Not home any night till well on in the small hours, Mister Brian, as I +am a living sinner,” remarked Mary-of-all-work to him, “and dhrunk five +nights out of the six, and not at the office regular as he ought be. I’m +just telling _you_,” she finished, “for I wouldn’t like that the +misthress would hear anything of it. Dear pity her poor sowl! She thinks +the sun was made to rise and set for him.” All of which was exceedingly +agreeable information for a young man to hear who had his own way to +make in the world, and who had not found his path so far strewed at all +with roses. + +“Never mind,” he thought, as he flung himself wearily on his bed, “it is +all in the day’s work, we shall find rest sometime.” + +Possibly, but the day occasionally proves very long, and the rest is +frequently delayed for an unreasonable period. So Brian discovered, as +the years went on, bringing little repose with them. + +The Dublin papers were posted as regularly to Kincorth as “The Times” to +Durrow, and accordingly Mr. Maxwell Drewitt had the pleasure of seeing +his cousin’s name figuring largely in a column headed, + +“Robbery on the Dublin and Drogheda Railway. Arrest of the Supposed +Thief.” + +“That is the end of you, Master Harold, is it?” remarked Maxwell, as he +finished reading the report. “I wish it had been Brian instead. Why, +bless my soul! he must have been caught the very day he returned from +Galway. I will go up to hear if he can prove his alibi, though I dare +swear it is a lie, and that he was not with Gyton at all. He will very +likely be transported.” Having settled Harold’s affairs in which summary +fashion, Maxwell went about the house and grounds in his usual manner, +and slept soundly, not knowing what the post was bringing to him. + +He got his missive while he sat at breakfast, and opened it dreading no +evil. + +“I should like to see you at once,” he read. “Come to Dublin +immediately, if possible. It is important that you should do so.” + +“What can the fellow mean?” marvelled the owner of Kincorth. “What on +earth can he want?” Then all in a moment he remembered the trial, and +connected the two things together. + +“My God!” he thought, “can he have been mixed up in that? Have they +mistaken the one for the other?” + +He looked for the newspaper which he had put aside in his desk, and +spelled over every word of the evidence. “Thinner—hair longer—more of a +Connaught accent—did not know him till he put on a hat,” he repeated to +himself, “and they have got that other boy locked up for it.” + +He put the paper away again, told his servant to pack his portmanteau, +and to order post-horses, “For I must catch the night mail from Galway +to Dublin,” he explained to the man, who did not seem to understand +things, while he invoked a hundred curses on the head of his wife, who +querulously remarked that he was always going from home. + +“And always likely to do till you are out of it,” he answered, savagely. +They had been living a more wretched life than ever, lately, for Lady +Emmeline had unexpectedly turned restive, and refused to fall in with +her husband’s plans, as he had fondly hoped she would. + +“Anything but that,” she said, firmly. “Anything but another woman’s +child;” and she relapsed into hysterics whenever he ventured to approach +the subject, and adopting the mode of warfare most in favour with her +sex, of digging a moat round her citadel and filling it with tears, +rendered her position alike invulnerable to threats and entreaties. + +He might have known he had no chance of success with her, and by holding +his tongue have kept peace, at any rate; but he preferred trying to +compass his end, and the result was a state of domestic warfare which +caused the servants to declare emphatically that Kincorth was like hell. + +“They never are but bickering and quarrelling, and snapping at one +another from morning till night,” said Lady Emmeline’s maid to a select +assemblage in the servants’ hall. “It was only this morning I heard +master saying he could wait till she was dead; and mistress answered she +would live to spite him.” + +This was what marriage had done for Maxwell Drewitt and for Lady +Emmeline. He had paid his price and got the article he coveted, and this +was the result. No wonder he spent much of his time in Dublin; no wonder +his heart—for he had some human feelings, some need for human +affection—turned hopefully towards his son, whom he meant to make a +great man of one day. + +A great man! Alas! already his dream castle was tottering to its +foundation. It was to prop it up and save it he hastened to Dublin, +where the first person he went to seek was a schoolmaster, grave and +discreet, who resided near that loveliest of all sea-bathing villages, +Bray. + +“You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Blosse,” began Maxwell; he had travelled +all night and looked haggard and exhausted. “You wanted to speak to me.” + +“Yes, Mr. Drewitt, particularly,” was the reply. “I think we might take +a walk if you are not tired. I should like to say what I have got to say +out of doors.” + +“Let us go then,” and Maxwell put on his hat. + +“You will have some breakfast?” + +“Not any; I am ready to go if you are.” + +“Will you not take a glass of wine?” + +“At this hour? no, thank you, Mr. Blosse; let us go,” and he moved +nervously towards the door. + +When they were once out into the open air, he turned towards his +companion inquiringly; but Mr. Blosse said, “Not yet,” and they walked +on—on to the very top of Bray Head; where, unmindful of the view, +unmindful of everything in earth, or sea, or heaven, Maxwell demanded +what was the matter; what Mr. Blosse had to say. + +“That trial, Mr. Drewitt—you know the trial I mean?” + +“Yes,” Maxwell answered. + +“Is not the accused some relative of yours?” + +“My first cousin—go on.” + +“I take it for granted there must be some extraordinary likeness between +him and Arthur,” continued Mr. Blosse. + +“I do not know why you should take anything of the kind for granted, Mr. +Blosse,” said Maxwell, stiffly. “I really do not.” + +“The youth who is in custody did not take that money, Mr. Drewitt,” +observed Mr. Blosse, “and Arthur did; therefore I say some extraordinary +likeness must exist between them.” + +He had been expecting this all along. He had hoped for nothing different +from the moment he opened his letters the previous morning. He had faced +the question as he drove past the desolate lakes, under the shadow of +the lonely hills. He had not concealed the probability of such an +announcement greeting him on his arrival at Bray; and yet now, when the +blow did fall, Maxwell felt it in every nerve of his body—in every vein +of his heart. + +He did not know till then what hopes he had built on the chance of what +this handsome illegitimate flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood +might turn out. He had not realized what dreams he had cherished about +him; how he had been turning year after year more and more to this one +thing which belonged to him, which he called his own on earth, till, +standing on Bray Head, with the blue sea washing a far different strand +from that whereon he was accustomed to gaze below him, with the clear +sky above him, he heard Mr. Blosse speak words that might have been read +out of a death-warrant, judging by the effect they produced. + +For a long time Maxwell stood silent; for a long time he remained +staring down on the sea, while he swallowed, drop by drop, the contents +of that bitter cup. Then when at last he could speak—when at last his +voice would answer to his will, he asked Mr. Blosse to explain +himself—to tell him all the particulars. + +“Begin at the beginning,” said Maxwell, “and do not stop till you get to +the end.” + +“He spent his holidays, as you know,” commenced Mr. Blosse, “partly at +Killarney, with you, and partly with one of his schoolfellows, whose +father has a property near Carlow. He was to have returned here on the +first of August; but he never made his appearance until the evening of +the third, when he stated that he had gone down with a friend to the +North, and that he had come back from Derry that day. I asked him who +his friend was? and he said an officer who was going to be married to +Grey’s sister. I knew Grey’s sister was engaged to an officer, and so I +never thought of disbelieving his story at the time, though I have since +had reason to think he did not go to Derry at all, but only to +Carlingford, in company with some not very desirable acquaintances.” + +“Go on,” interrupted Maxwell. “It is the last part of the story I want +to hear. What makes you think Arthur——” + +“Is the culprit? I think so—because I found the notes secreted in his +bedroom. I noticed something strange about him ever since his return, +and determined to watch his movements. I remarked that he was +perpetually making excuses to leave the library; that he was always +going upstairs; that——” + +“Go on!” entreated Maxwell. “I do not want to know what you noticed; I +want to know what you found.” + +“I found there was a short piece of board loose in his room, and that +these notes were under it—or, rather, not under it, but pushed far away +to one side below the sound boards. I should never have guessed it but +for his own over-anxiety. He could not rest away from the packet; he was +always fancying somebody had discovered it.” + +Maxwell tried hard to keep his hands off the man who had dogged and +watched and trapped his son; and who now sat and told him—not without a +certain subdued triumph—how his sagacity had been rewarded—his trouble +repaid. He dug his nails into his flesh, and looked at his clenched +fists, with the dark look of his wicked youth gathering deeper and +deeper about his eyes. + +“Go on!” he repeated; and Mr. Blosse went on. + +“I had heard of the robbery,” he said; “I had listened to the story +without any great interest, as one does listen to such things, unless +there is some circumstance of special importance connected with them; +but when I saw the notes I taxed Arthur with the theft, and he confessed +all. How Mr. Kearns left the bag behind him——” + +“You can stop now,” Maxwell interrupted; “you have told me all I care to +hear. Now listen to me. I know exactly all you would say, and I can +guess your questions without hearing one of them. First of all, the +money must be sent back to this precious Drogheda Banking Company. +Secondly, this boy—this Harold Drewitt—he must be cleared. He can do +that for himself, I know. Mr. Gyton did leave Dublin for Galway on the +first, and Harold was in his company all the afternoon, at any rate. +Thirdly, you want Arthur out of your house, and you want no fuss, +because you think a fuss would damage you with the parents of your other +pupils. I will take Arthur away with me; and last, but not least, you +desire a pecuniary acknowledgment from me—a suitable thank-offering for +the silence you have maintained, and will maintain, on this subject. Is +there anything which I have overlooked, Mr. Blosse?” + +“Nothing. You are thoughtfulness itself,” was the reply. + +“Now, you can go back to your house and leave me here for half an hour,” +said Maxwell; “at the end of that time I shall want to see Arthur.” + +“But, Mr. Drewitt——” + +“I know my own business, sir, and shall transact it after my own +fashion,” interrupted the owner of Kincorth, and he followed the +retreating figure with his eyes as it grew less and less in the +distance—followed it till it was mixed up among other figures, and lost +to view; then Maxwell himself descended slowly to the shore, and walking +along the beach, which was bare and dry, the tide being out, he kicked +the pebbles before him just as he had done so many years previously when +he lounged home to Kincorth by the edge of Duranmore Bay. + +He had been worsted, and a man like Maxwell Drewitt does not bear such +an indignity patiently. He had longed to kick Mr. Blosse—to taunt him—to +dare him—to defy him; but he was afraid. Mr. Blosse could transport the +boy. He had father and son in his power, and he only refrained from +using that power because he thought it might injure his reputation as an +instructor of the sons of the “nobility and gentry” if it were known a +felon had come out of such an unexceptionable establishment. + +“He has the ball,” reflected Maxwell, “and can make what terms he +chooses, damn him!” and at this point Mr. Drewitt lit a fresh cigar, and +walked on more slowly and leisurely than ever. + +He was thinking—thinking what to do with Arthur. “I will take him to +England,” he decided. “I will put him under the care of some good +clergyman, if there is such a _rara avis_ to be found. I will try to +reform him, for he is mine, and he is all I have.” + +Oh! lonely and desolate, poor and unregarded. There was something about +the departure of that pair—of that father and son, from under his roof +which touched even Mr. Blosse. + +“You may depend upon me, Mr. Drewitt, you may, indeed,” were his parting +words, and he spoke them with a certain warmth of manner upon which +Maxwell’s reply fell like ice. + +“I do not doubt it, Mr. Blosse, for you know it will be to your interest +to remain true to me,” and having uttered this pleasant speech, Maxwell +turned his back on Mr. Blosse, and telling the car-driver to take them +leisurely to Kingston, he and Arthur left Bray behind them. + +Maxwell did not breathe freely until they reached Holyhead, and were +speeding along through the darkness to Chester. He had never reproached +his son—never spoken to him, in fact, on the subject, and he did not +mean to do so till they were safe in London. The notes were in his +possession; but he could do nothing with them for the present. + +Harold was still a prisoner, and “he must remain a prisoner unless Mr. +Gyton can prove a satisfactory alibi,” thought Maxwell. “After all, he +is out of harm’s way where he is, which is more than could be said if he +were at large.” And so far Maxwell was right, for Harold had nothing to +do the whole day long except form good resolutions, and vow, and +declare, and swear he would turn over a new leaf when once he got out of +his present scrape. + +He had been up again before the magistrate, but his solicitor had +procured another remand. Mr. Gyton was in the south of France with his +father, but he would return to England immediately. Mr. Pryor pledged +himself to that, and in order to make assurance doubly sure, started off +in search of his nephew. Brian grew dreadfully anxious as day after day +passed over and still brought no tidings of Mr. Gyton’s movements. He +began to feel on how slight a thread Harold’s chance of escape was +hanging. If anything happened to Frank Gyton—if he were killed in a +railway accident—if he caught a fever and died—if he could not swear to +the date—if, like Mrs. Drewitt, Geraldine, and Harold’s employers, he +had attached no definite memory to the day, or the hour, or the date, +why, then Harold would be convicted; without doubt he would be +convicted. + +“And he never could live out his sentence,” thought Brian, in despair, +“and it would kill my mother; her hair is getting quite white with this +suspense, and that certainly would kill her.” + +He was making some observation of the kind to the solicitor who had +undertaken Harold’s defence, when a telegram arrived from Mr. Gyton. + +“Am in London,” ran the message; “shall be in Dublin to-morrow morning.” + +“I hope he will,” said the lawyer; “for your brother, remember, is to be +brought up again on Thursday, and nothing can save him but a miracle or +an alibi.” + +Which speech sounded anything rather than consolatory, under the +circumstances. + + + + + CHAPTER X. + Hearing is not believing. + + +Thursday arrived, and Harold Drewitt was again brought up on remand +before the magistrate. + +He had been taken into custody on the 15th of August, and it was now the +middle of September; and as he came into court, two or three people +remarked that the air had not seemed to agree with him—that he evidently +wanted a change. “Which he is not likely to get to-day,” observed one +policeman. + +“His witness is here, though, I am told,” was the reply. + +“I don’t care if fifty witnesses were here, they could not bring him out +clear,” answered the other, oracularly; and, indeed, this was the +general feeling in the court. Everybody thought Harold had made a +mistake in not pleading guilty, and begging for mercy, as it was his +first offence, and the temptation had been great. + +In one way the policeman was right. Mr. Gyton could clear him in law, +but Mr. Gyton could never wash him white in the estimation of the +public; and poor Harold appeared to feel this, as he looked round the +court, and saw every eye fastened on him, not compassionately, but +curiously. + +He never seemed to have courage except when he glanced at Brian, who had +been faithful to him through all—faithful, as he had promised his +father, on his death-bed, that he would be to Harold. + +There was the magistrate, severe and incredulous; there were some of the +directors of the Dundalk and Drogheda Banking Company, eager for +revenge; there was Mr. Jeremiah Kearns; there were all the witnesses, +mentally checking off the depositions as they were read aloud, and +thinking how impossible it was any man living could prove an alibi in +the face of such overwhelming evidence. + +One or two fresh witnesses had been procured by the bank from impossible +regions of the earth: the lady who got into the carriage at Drogheda; +the passengers who had travelled from Balbriggan to Malahide;—all were +there to swear to Harold’s identity with the thief. + +The lady was the only person who hesitated about the matter. She could +not swear to the prisoner being her fellow-passenger. “He was very like +him; but—” + +“But what, my dear madam?” suggested the solicitor for the prosecution; +and the court waited for her reply, while the lady still hesitated. + +“Pray tell us in what respect the prisoner is unlike?” suggested the +magistrate, insinuatingly; for the lady was pretty, and his worship had +eyes in his head. + +There was a profound silence in the court, while the witness turned and +looked again at Harold. + +Very imploringly he lifted his eyes to hers, and perhaps that settled +the matter. + +“I cannot swear to the prisoner being the young gentleman with whom I +travelled from Drogheda. He is very like—but——” + +“Pray proceed, we are all attention;” and the solicitor for the +prosecution struck an attitude while he waited for the rest of the +sentence. + +“The young gentleman I travelled with had a slight suspicion of a +moustache and beard coming,” said the lady, desperately, “and——” + +A roar of laughter, in which the magistrate himself could not help +joining, drowned the remainder of her words. + +“You mean, I conclude, that the prisoner’s hirsute appendages have not +as yet made their appearance,” suggested the magistrate. + +“He has likely been hungry where he was, and ate them off,” remarked +some one in the rear. + +“If I hear any more indecent interruptions,” said his worship, “I will +order the court to be cleared.” + +“If ye’d have it cleaned,” observed the same voice; whereupon the police +made a dive into the crowd, and seizing an old woman and a boy, hustled +them outside the door. + +Meantime the solicitor for the prosecution was asking the witness, “if +she did not think it possible she was mistaken—that she had been +thinking of some one else?” + +Upon which the lady got cross and said, “She was not mistaken, and that +she was not thinking of any one else;” and as nothing more could be made +of her, she was ordered to stand down. + +The solicitor for the defence, when it came to his turn, said very +little about the business—as little as he could help. He remarked, that +it was clearly a case of mistaken identity, and observed that the +prisoner had been in Dublin at the very hour when the robbery was said +to have been committed. In support of which he produced Mr. Francis +Gyton, whose appearance made an impression both on the magistrate and +the court generally. + +Mr. Francis Gyton being sworn, deposed, that he was a son of Mr. Gyton, +of the firm of Gyton, Lark, Munday, Hatfield, & Co., Austinfriars, +London. + +“He has got fathers enough,” remarked the former speaker from among the +crowd, and the police made a fresh dive, and this time carried off in +triumph a woman who had an infant in her arms. + +Mr. Gyton proceeded—Knew the prisoner Harold Drewitt very well indeed; +called at his mother’s house, and subsequently at the office of his +employers, on the first of August last. Remembered the day, because he +left London on the evening of the thirty-first of July, by the +twenty-five minutes past eight express, and crossed to Kingston by the +night mail-packet. Was only the one day in Dublin. Left the very evening +of his arrival for Galway. Slept in Galway at the Railway Hotel, and +proceeded the next day to Durrow Park, near Duranmore, the residence of +his uncle, Mr. Henry Pryor. The prisoner dined with him and accompanied +him to the railway station. + +Cross-examined.—Was certain he did not stop the night at Chester. He had +a glass of very bad sherry there, and returned to the compartment he +occupied immediately. Was not left behind. Begged the solicitor for the +prosecution would recollect to whom he was speaking. Had not the +slightest idea whether it was the Ulster, Munster, Leinster, or +Connaught, he came over in. If he, the solicitor, sent down to Kingston, +very probably he could find which of those steam-vessels arrived at +Kingston from Holyhead on the morning of the first of August. + +Knew they had a good passage. Could not possibly be mistaken as to +Harold’s identity, Had been acquainted with him too long for that. Was +certain he only remained in Dublin one day. Did he, the lawyer, think he +should forget his own name next? Left Broadstone by the half-past seven +train. There was one gentleman in the compartment with him. Arrived in +Galway about twelve. Had some cold beef; remembered it, because he had +never seen such a joint before, or since; and a glass of brandy and +water. Slept at the Railway Hotel. Could not recollect the number of his +room; but knew it had three windows in it, and that all of them would +open. Had never in any other house in Ireland seen a window that would +open, or a door that would shut. Was not in love with Ireland. The +solicitor for the prosecution was perfectly correct in that supposition; +but came often to Ireland to see his uncle. Had frequently been told it +was a fine country, but could not say of his own knowledge that such was +the fact. + +Admitted that he liked English customs best. Did not admire Irish +peculiarities when they carried people to the length of shooting +landlords, and locking up an innocent boy for a month, on suspicion of +his having stolen a black bag from a bank clerk. Would swear fifty +times, if the solicitor wished it, that the prisoner could not have been +at Drogheda, because he was at Broadstone; and he, Mr. Gyton, supposed +that even an Irishman was unable to appear in two places at once. Had +kept none of his hotel bills; always tore up the rubbish the moment he +was outside the door; did not consider that a proof of English +extravagance, and could not see, if it were, that it had anything to do +with the matter in hand. Did not know whether the prisoner led a +respectable life or not, and was at a loss to understand what his life +signified to anybody except Mr. Harold Drewitt, and Mr. Harold Drewitt’s +friends. Had come back from France solely for the purpose of giving +evidence in this case; would have come from Jericho for that matter. Was +quite certain prisoner had dined with and accompanied him to the +Broadstone Station. Did not think it at all singular that he could +remember the name of a station while he forgot the name of a boat. Most +probably he had never indeed heard the name of the steamer. Was positive +about the date. How much oftener was the solicitor going to ask him that +question? + +Henry Pryor, sworn, stated that his nephew, the last witness, arrived at +his house on the second of August, and told him he had parted with +Harold Drewitt at the Broadstone Terminus of the Midland Great Western +Railway on the preceding evening. His nephew informed him (Mr. Pryor) +that he had asked Harold to come down to Connemara, and that the boy +would endeavour to get permission to do so. Mr. Gyton was suddenly +summoned back to London, in consequence of the dangerous illness of his +father, with whom he subsequently proceeded abroad, and consequently, +when Harold Drewitt did arrive at Durrow, Mr. Gyton had left that place. +Was certain his nephew arrived in Connemara on the second, and that he +said he had not slept in Dublin, but in Galway. He had known Harold +Drewitt for two years, and believed him to be quite incapable of the +crime laid to his charge. + +After which evidence, the solicitor for the defence intimated that he +did not purpose calling any other witness. It was, as he stated in the +commencement, a clear case of mistaken identity. From the first his +client had said he never travelled by the Belfast Junction, or Dublin +and Drogheda Railway, in his life, and an alibi had now been +unmistakably proved. + +After a good deal of hesitation, his worship fell into this view, and +having remarked that Mr. Gyton’s evidence was irreconcilable with the +assumption of the prisoner’s guilt, and that it appeared to be a most +singular case of mistaken identity, he said that the prisoner must be +discharged. + +There was, however, something in the magistrate’s manner which seemed to +imply “not guilty, but don’t do it again;” for he assured Harold he had +had a very narrow escape, advised him for the future to lead a more +regular life, and began a lecture which the prisoner cut short by +saying— + +“I did not steal those notes, I know nothing about them, who stole them, +or whether they ever were stolen. I never was at Drogheda in my life, +nor at Dundalk either. I never, to my recollection, entered Mr. Brinny’s +shop before the time I went in there for those cigars, and if ever I +chance to meet the person who appears to be so like me, I will take the +value out of his bones for what he has made me suffer during the past +month.” + +This indiscretion on the part of Harold was a perfect godsend to the +magistrate, who told him such language was highly improper, remarked +that he did not seem duly grateful for his escape, and finally dismissed +him with a caution. + +Then the next case was called on, and Harold, to quote the newspaper +reports, left the court with his friends. + +There is, perhaps, no way in which a person can be acquitted which is so +eminently unpleasant as for an acquaintance to come forward and swear +that on such a day, and at such an hour, the accused was with him in +such a place. + +Of course it is better to get off in this way rather than not at all; +but an alibi always sounds too like a pretext to be perfectly +satisfactory to the public; while the released prisoner (if he be +innocent) invariably leaves the court with the comfortable idea either +that a score of people have been in league against him, or else that +there is some blackguard walking about the world wearing his face, +assuming his gait, speaking with his voice, who may be committing fifty +crimes that will, in due time, be fathered on him. + +Harold Drewitt was not, however, old enough to comprehend all that a man +would have felt, had a man stood in the boy’s shoes. He knew he had got +off, and it was impossible that he should understand he had escaped +being committed for trial by the merest shave of the wheel of accident. +Had he been with any of his ordinary companions during the afternoon in +question, there can be no doubt but that the magistrate would have +pooh-poohed the evidence in the prisoner’s favour, while probably the +witnesses for the defence might have got so worried and tormented as to +narrowly escape being committed for perjury. + +Mr. Gyton and Mr. Pryor were not, however, people whose testimony could +be treated with disrespect. They might be mistaken. In his heart the +magistrate thought they were; but still he had no choice but to act on +their evidence and allow Harold to leave the court with his friends; +while many people remarked—that the young fellow had been born under a +lucky planet, and that if he had been a poor boy he would have been +transported. + +“He would, as sure as God made little apples,” observed one man, +indignantly elbowing his way out of the crowd; “for it’s meself knows +the dacent chap that was hung on half the ividence they brought against +this one. If he didn’t stole that money I’d be very glad to know who +did.” + +That was the general feeling throughout Dublin; but Harold knew nothing +about the general feeling, and only remembering that he was free once +more, returned home on a car laughing and amusing himself as usual. + +He mimicked the magistrate; he mimicked the witnesses; he mimicked the +policeman, and went rollicking about the house in the wildest spirits +imaginable. + +He was as thin as a whipping-post and as pale as a corpse; but he +insisted that he was not ill, that his mother should make herself happy +about him. + +“I am not ill,” he said; “not a bit ill; all I want is something to eat +and to get out into the fresh air. We shall have many a walk before the +fine weather is quite gone. There is a fortnight still left of +September. Am I to go back to the office or not?” he added, looking +towards Brian, who said— + +“Your place has been filled up.” + +“Has it? A good job too. There was not one of them came to speak a word +for me, and none of the fellows sent me a line or a message, though they +must have known I did not do it—mustn’t they, mother?” + +“Yes, Harold.” + +“We will go down for a day to Bray, and take a car on to the Dargle, +shall we, mother? I should like that. I’d like to see the purple bloom +of the heather if it’s not quite gone off, and I love the sea down +there.” + +“May we go with you?” asked Mr. Pryor, and Mr. Gyton at once followed +suit, and voted that it would be nice for them to make up several little +parties and go wherever Harold chose. There was an indescribable +tenderness in the manner of all towards the boy who had been, as they +knew, so hardly done by, and who presently insisted on going as far as +Sackville Street, “Just to be sure I am free,” he laughed. + +As Brian had business to attend to, and Mr. Gyton appeared a little loth +to leave Geraldine, Mr. Pryor offered to accompany Harold; and the pair +accordingly sallied forth and walked into Dublin, where the youth at +every turn met some one he knew, some one he paused involuntarily to +speak with. + +But no one voluntarily spoke to him: a cold bow; a nod; a how-d’ye-do; a +reluctant shake hands. Harold could not understand it, and at last +appealed to Mr. Pryor. + +“Am I not innocent? It looks almost as though they thought me guilty, +does not it?” and he drew closer to his companion, who told him— + +“Not to trouble himself about it; that they would learn better in time.” + +“I think,” remarked Harold, after another old acquaintance had passed +without taking the slightest notice of his salutation, “I think it is +nearly time for us to go home;” and, accordingly, they turned and went +back over Carlisle Bridge, and along Westmoreland Street, and past +College Green, and down Nassau Street, and so on to the suburb where +Mrs. Drewitt resided. As they walked along Merrion Square a +disreputable-looking fellow came up and, accosting Harold, shook him so +heartily by the hand as to threaten dislocation of his wrist. + +“Glad to see you out,” he said; “thought at one time you were in Queer +Street for life: when will you be round our way?” + +“I don’t know,” answered Harold, nervously feeling Mr. Pryor touch his +arm warningly. “I am not very well—that is, I have friends—that is, I am +going out of town.” + +“Well, it’s about the best thing you can do till the talk has blown +over. It is a wicked world, and living’s hard work. Good-bye.” + +“Who is that man, Harold?” Mr. Pryor asked a little sternly, and his +tone at once put Harold’s bristles up. + +“He was a very respectable person—very indeed; but had been unfortunate +in business. His name was Grinnell, and he lived some place up near +Mountjoy Square.” + +“Does he really? I should have thought some of those nice respectable +streets in the neighbourhood of St. Patrick’s would have been much more +in his way.” + +Of which speech Harold refused to take any notice. + +“I hope,” continued Mr. Pryor, “that you do not intend keeping up your +acquaintance with him; you are but just starting in life; you have been +extricated with considerable difficulty from a most awkward position, +And it behoves you, therefore, to be doubly careful for the future in +choosing your associates.” + +Still Harold made no answer. + +“I wish you would promise not to have anything more to do with people of +that description: you will ruin your own prospects, and break your +mother’s heart.” + +“Hang it!” interrupted Harold, “one must speak to somebody, and he is +the only fellow who has said a civil word to me since I came out. You +must see for yourself that the ‘genteels’ have cut me; don’t you now?” + +“If they have, do you think you will mend matters by taking up with all +the riff-raff who come and shake hands with you?” + +“You need not call them names if they are not gentlemen,” suggested +Harold. + +“I think I, or any one else who styled the person from whom we have just +parted an honest man would be calling him very much out of his name.” + +“I suppose I am not good enough for you, then?” said Harold pausing. + +“Nonsense, boy. I want to save you from the consequences of your own +want of firmness. You believe in everybody who says a kind word to you, +and the result is you have made intimates and associates of people with +whom you ought never to have exchanged a word. Do you not remember what +the police stated about the character of your companions—swindlers, +betting-men, drunkards, profligates, of every description? If your +mother had only heard the one-half we have heard about you, Harold, she +would be more anxious about you than she is.” + +“I wonder you are not ashamed to be seen out walking with me,” said the +boy. “I am sure I am not fit company for a rich swell like you. Had not +you better take the other side of the street?” added Harold, who was by +this time worked up to a pitch of passionate fury. “We may meet somebody +else who will come between the wind and your nobility. Go on; I will +follow, if you like; it cannot be pleasant for you to feel that you are +out walking with—with—a blackguard and a thief!” + +“Don’t be an idiot, Harold;” and Mr. Pryor laid a hand on the boy’s +shoulder, and led him, or, rather, pushed him, on towards home. + +“I’m not an idiot,” said Harold. “I know you all think I am, and that I +do not understand anything—that I am a fool; but I am as wise as Brian, +though I may not be such an old-fashioned sneak; and I will speak to +whom I like, and go with whom I like, and visit whom I like, without +consulting anybody.” + +“You are resolved to be independent, at any rate,” observed Mr. Pryor. + +“Yes, I am. I mean to stick by the friends who stick by me——” + +“Would you think me impertinent if I ventured to remind you, I and my +nephew have tried to be your friends?” said the barrister. + +“I know you have; I know why, too; because Maxwell told me something +long ago. It is not because you like me, it isn’t. Nobody likes me; and +now you are going to set my mother against me, and tell her every little +thing I have ever done.” + +Having completed which dreadful picture, Harold stopped again in the +very middle of the pavement, and seemed disposed to have a good cry on +the spot. + +There was a car passing at the moment, which Mr. Pryor hailed. “You are +tired, Harold,” he said; “you have tried your strength too much. Jump +up, and let us drive home.” + +When they reached home, Harold went off to bed; but whether because he +was sick, or whether he was sulky, Mr. Pryor could not decide. + +Next day, however, he saw clearly that the young gentleman’s temper was +greatly damaged; for he insisted, against the advice of every one of his +family, on going to his late employers, and asking why they had filled +up his berth. + +“I wish you would not do anything so foolish,” Brian remarked. + +“I am not a child,” was the reply; “and I mean to see to my own business +for myself. I won’t be kept in the dark by anybody.” + +And accordingly he went. + +It was the best thing that could have happened to a youth of Harold’s +peculiar disposition, to be able to hear for himself what the world said +of him. + +He had been so pampered and spoiled at home, that he was never likely to +learn the truth there. Strangers, however, did not stand on so much +ceremony, and when Harold grew impudent, gave him quite as good as he +brought. + +“I know you have got off,” said one of his late employers; “and I know +how you have got off, also—by an alibi; for which I would not give +that!” and he threw a scrap of waste paper on the floor. “Of course, I +am sure Mr. Gyton would not have said what he did unless he fully +believed it to be the truth; but he was mistaken, that is all; and a +very lucky mistake it turned out for you. I really wonder at your +assurance in coming here at all. As for taking you back, I am only too +glad to be rid of you; there is not another house in Dublin who would +have kept so idle, useless, and disreputable a young vagabond for a +week.” + +Harold walked out of the inner office, and as he passed through the +outer looked defiantly at the clerks he had once been intimate with: one +or two nodded; but none came forward to shake hands—to say they were +pleased at his escape. + +He felt tired, but he had no heart to go home; he had taken his own way, +and his own way not having proved a pleasant one, he did not like to go +back and confess to such a disappointment: accordingly he went on—on +along the North Wall, where his respectable friend of the preceding +evening dropped upon him, and proposed that they should go out for a +drive together: “Round by the strawberry-beds, and on as far as Lucan.” + +Harold jumped at the idea. “And we can have some dinner together, and +then spend the evening at Birdley’s; there are to be a lot of fellows +there. What do you say? will ‘the old folks at home,’ be singing all the +evening, ‘Willie, we have missed you?’” + +“No,” answered Harold; “I’m your man.” And while Mrs. Drewitt was +marvelling what in the world could have become of her boy, he was +rattling through the Dublin streets, talking and laughing and joking, as +though he had never been in any trouble, as though he had never been a +prisoner in his life. + +Before evening came he was pretty well exhausted, but still his +companion insisted on taking him to Birdley’s, where he was greeted by +the assembled guests with great enthusiasm; his health being drunk with +all the honours. + +“Now tell us how you did it?” exclaimed one. “How many of the flimsies +did you manage to get off?” asked another. + +“I suppose you have made a bonfire of the rest: it would be no go trying +to pass them now,” said a third. + +“You must have made a tidy haul of it though, altogether,” observed one +unwholesome-looking young man. + +“And how did you contrive to hoodwink those respectable friends of +yours, for I suppose they would have been above sharing the swag.” + +“Tell us all about it?” repeated the first speaker. “Silence now, +gentlemen, if you please. Mr. Harold Drewitt rises to address the +meeting.” + +“I want to know something,” cried Harold, who was indeed on his legs. +“Do you really think I stole those notes?” + +“Draw it mild,” suggested the young man above referred to; who looked +very much as though he had been buried and dug up again. “Stole is such +a confoundedly ugly way of putting it.” + +“Do you believe then I ever was at Drogheda? Do you think I ever saw +that money? Do you imagine that all I said was lies?” + +“Well, very few people looked upon it as the truth,” was the reply. + +“You consider me a thief, then, in plain words?” + +“Oh! no, nothing of the kind; you merely annexed the contents of that +carpet-bag——” + +“I did not—I did not,” Harold vehemently interrupted. “I know no more +who took that money than you do.” (Here the auditors winked at one +another.) “If I never should speak another word, I am as innocent in +this matter as any man among you.” + +“Well, then, who the devil is guilty?” asked the chairman; “for no +person in his senses can suppose all those witnesses were in collusion +against you. It must have been you or your twin brother, if you have +one.” + +“If you look closely at his face, it must strike you as too old, too +second-hand, if I may use the expression, to have served only one body,” +said Mr. Grinnell. “Rely upon it there’s another trunk somewhere that +borrows that face and goes out with it at nights while this good child +is sleeping it its bed.” + +“Gentlemen,” began Harold. + +“We are all attention.” + +“I wish you would believe me.” + +“Lord help the boy, we are so simple we could be made believe anything,” +said his neighbour. + +“I never saw that money. I never changed one of those notes. Everybody +is against me, though I am innocent—innocent;” and Harold’s voice began +to shake a little and his lips to tremble. + +“Really this is becoming affecting,” remarked the corpse-like young +gentleman, addressing Mr. Grinnell. + +“Allow me to perform a parent’s part,” said the chairman, offering +Harold a handkerchief. + +But Harold’s temper was now up: he pitched the handkerchief back at the +speaker; he threw off his coat, and declaring he would fight the matter +out, dared any one to say he was a liar, and requested the company +generally to “come on!” + +“Now, now,” said Mr. Grinnell; “now, now,” and he walked round the +table, and picked up Harold’s coat, and begged him to put it on, and to +sit down and take things peaceably. + +“How can I take things peaceably when you are all against me—all?” asked +Harold, looking first at one of his tormentors and then at another. “Are +you cowards, that none of you will come on, when I ask you? Will you not +even let me fight for my good name? will you not——” + +“Catch him, some of you,” cried the chairman, and involuntarily every +man sprang to his feet, and stretched out his arms towards the boy, who, +stopping suddenly in his sentence, reeled back a few paces, and then +fell into the chair he had pushed away from him. + +“Send for a doctor,” said one. + +“Give him some punch.” + +“He’s had too much already.” + +“No, he hasn’t,” said Grinnell, “he has scarcely tasted a drop.” + +“Get him some water.” + +“Stand back, stand back,” entreated Grinnell, “and open the windows, +some of you; it is not a common faint though, he’s quite gone,” and he +wiped the perspiration from Harold’s face, and put the hair back off his +forehead, and took the clammy hands in his and chafed them gently. + +“I will take him home,” he said, when Harold recovered a little. “Tell +the waiter to call a car. Birdley will lend me something warm to wrap +round him. Are you able to walk now, do you think?” he continued, +addressing Harold, “or shall I carry you? That is right; take hold of my +arm; don’t be afraid of leaning. Now come with me.” + +“Good-night, gentlemen,” Harold said, turning round and addressing the +group that were looking after him. “Likely I shall never see any of you +again; but, whether you believe it or not, I am innocent of what you +think.” + +“He looks to me,” remarked the chairman after he had left the room, “as +though he were going precious fast to that place where it’s best known +what he is. It is a pity, too, for he is a plucky lad;” and there ensued +a great silence, during which every man present was employed wondering +whether it were indeed within the bounds of possibility that Harold had +been mistaken for some one else, who might be thinking at that very +moment how deucedly lucky it was for him that he had escaped scot free. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + Called Home. + + +The September wind blew cold and keen as Mr. Grinnell and Harold drove +along the quays to Carlisle Bridge, and the man that had so strongly +excited Mr. Pryor’s disapproval drew the borrowed rug closer round the +boy, who shivered and trembled as the blast swept by. + +It was better when they entered the south side; there they were +sheltered from the cutting wind, and Harold grew quieter and calmer as +the car bore him nearer and nearer home. He asked Mr. Grinnell not to +drive up to the door, but to set him down at the end of the street where +his mother resided; and then they had a quarrel as to which should pay +the man, that resulted in Harold, as usual, having it all his own way. + +On one point, however, Mr. Grinnell was firm—he would not let the sick +lad walk up the street alone, neither would he allow him to throw aside +Birdley’s rug. “I will take it back with me,” he said. “I am resolved to +see you safe and sound to your own door.” + +Which he did, and then bidding Harold a cheery “good-night,” left Harold +as Brian admitted him. + +“Who was that came with you?” the elder brother asked. + +“A friend of mine, a man who brought me home. I have been ill, Brian—I +have indeed,” and Harold dropped into a chair and put out his white thin +hand deprecatingly towards his brother. + +“I am going to be good,” he said. “I am. If you all will only do what I +ask you, I will never get drunk again. I will try to be a credit to +everybody belonging to me yet. It is not too late, I think, is it?” and +with a gesture which was unspeakably touching, he put Brian’s hand on +the table, and laid his cheek upon it. + +Brian had persuaded his mother and Geraldine to go to bed. The servant, +however, was still up, and now stood in the doorway. She came to ask if +anything more were needed; but seeing Harold’s head bent down and his +brother leaning over him, she remained silent. + +Brian saw her and whispered the one word “Doctor.” + +In a moment, Mary was running down the street, and late though the hour +was, returned in five minutes with a surgeon. + +“My brother is not very well,” said Brian, after the first greetings +were over. “Can you suggest any little thing that will set him to +rights?” + +“I would rather not see a doctor. I do not want any medicine,” remarked +Harold, lifting his head, and looking with his great dark eyes straight +in the face of the surgeon who was feeling his pulse, and counting its +beats with the greatest apparent indifference. “I am quite well,” he +went on, pettishly, trying to wrench away his wrist; and then he dropped +his face again on Brian’s hand, and his brother knew it was to hide the +hot tears, that were falling thick and fast as rain. + +“Hysterical,” said the doctor, calmly; and Harold gave Brian a push, as +a hint that he should contradict the medical statement. + +“His strength has been greatly tried lately, as most probably you know,” +answered the elder brother; and his low, full voice had a great virtue +of quietness in it. “He has suffered much, both mentally and bodily; but +we hope rest and change may do wonders for him. Don’t we, Harold?” + +The boy made no reply, but he pressed his lips on Brian’s hand. + +“Is this the young gentleman, then, who was charged with a crime that +some one else committed?” asked the surgeon; and for those words Harold +turned round and thanked him. + +“Nobody would believe me, sir,” he said. “Nobody, that is, out of my own +home. But I did not do it. I did not, indeed.” + +“That I am sure you did not!” answered the surgeon, heartily; and +immediately he and Harold became good friends; and the boy, pushing back +the mass of black hair that had fallen forward over his face, answered +all the doctor’s questions, and told all his symptoms, so far as he knew +them himself. + +“It is the nights I dread,” he finished. “If you could only give me +something to prevent my being so frightened. It is horrible to be all +alone in the dark, like that;” and he clutched Brian’s hand, and held it +fast while he spoke. + +“Why did you never tell any one of these attacks before?” asked Brian. + +“I told Mr. Pryor. The first of them I ever had at night was the time I +was staying at Durrow; and he tipped me a five-pound note, and made me +promise him to go to some of the great guns here, and ask them about it; +and I meant to go, only, you know, they took me up the very day I came +back—they did.” + +“Poor lad!” said the surgeon, compassionately. + +“I was a poor lad, I think,” answered Harold. “There’s nobody ever can +know what it was—to be like what I have been to-night, in that horrid +place. Another week of it would have killed me; I am sure it would.” + +“Well, we must try to set you up again now,” observed the surgeon, +cheerfully. “If your servant can come with me,” he added, addressing +Brian, “I will send back some medicine with her, and see your brother +early to-morrow morning;” and he stretched out his hand, which the two +youths shook gratefully and departed. + +“You won’t leave me to-night, Brian, will you?” pleaded Harold; and +Brian was just saying that he would not, when Mrs. Drewitt, who had got +up and dressed herself at the sound of a strange voice, came +down-stairs, asking what was the matter. + +“I did not feel up to the mark,” Harold answered; “and that obstinate +Brian must needs go disturb the whole neighbourhood by fetching a doctor +to see me. What a shame it is to have roused you up! but now that you +are here, I want to ask you a favour. I want you and Brian to do +something for me.” + +“What is it, dear?” She was sitting on a chair, drawn close up to his; +her arms were about him, and his head was resting on her breast. + +“I want to go away. I want you to leave Dublin, and take me where I +shall not be known—where I shall not be called a thief and a liar at +every turn.” + +“Who dares call you either the one or the other?” and Brian’s hand +clenched, and his mouth was drawn tight as he asked the question. + +Harold laughed out. + + “Who killed Kildare? who dared Kildare to kill?— + I killed Kildare, and dare kill whom I will,” + +he repeated. “He would go out and fight for me, I do believe,” he said, +turning to his mother; “but he would have to fight all Dublin if he took +up that quarrel. I have found out to-day,” Harold went on, as he kept +curling and uncurling the broad strings of the widow’s cap that fitted +so closely to Mrs. Drewitt’s face, “that there is no place like home, +after all, and that there are no people like our own people, when they +are true to us.” + +“Come up to bed, Harold,” interposed Brian, who dreaded another fit of +weeping. “Come along;” and he lifted his brother off his chair. + +“Wait a moment,” entreated Harold, standing with his arm round Brian’s +neck, and Brian’s arm supporting him. “Wait a moment; will you do what I +say? Will you leave Dublin?” + +Mrs. Drewitt’s glance wandered for a moment round the room. It was not +large; it was not well furnished; but it had been a shelter, and it had +seemed like home. For the instant it appeared hard to have to turn out +once more into the world; to be in middle age a wanderer on the face of +the earth; but the feeling only lasted for a moment; then she said— + +“I will do whatever may be best for my children, and the child that has +most need of me I must consider first.” + +The last few words were addressed to Brian, who answered— + +“Harold has most need of you, mother. Do what he asks. Leaving Ireland +may be the making of him yet.” + +“Do you wish to leave Ireland, Harold?” Mrs. Drewitt inquired, and the +boy nodded. + +“I should like to go to London,” he said; “I want to be lost; I want to +be able to be a good boy. I am tired and sick of being bad and foolish.” + +“Then God forbid we should keep you in the way of temptation!” exclaimed +Brian: “but now come to bed; if you are to travel to London you must +make haste and get strong.” + +“Oh! I shall be all right enough,” answered the lad as he crawled up the +staircase, with Brian’s arm still encircling him, with his right hand +still twined round Brian’s neck. + +And thus it came to pass that, instead of going to the Dargle, or to the +Seven Churches, or to the meeting of the waters, or any of the lovely +places to which Mr. Gyton had planned little excursions, the Drewitts +set about packing up their effects forthwith and removing to London. + +“You can do as you please about it, of course,” said the surgeon to +Brian; “but——” + +“It is his fancy,” the elder brother answered; “and I would not baulk it +for any consideration. And do not tell my mother, Mr. Ross; she will +find it out for herself in time. I know what you mean. I have been +afraid of it from the first.” + +And there was another person who knew also; upon whom the feeling that +he was dying came slowly but surely; who day by day clung to his mother +with a more despairing attachment, with a more passionate love. + +After they removed to London he and she were never separate. In the dull +winter days he sat at the windows of their lodgings, looking out on the +constantly-changing panorama that was passing below. For the sake of her +boy, Mrs. Drewitt had rented apartments in a house that commanded the +view of a crowded thoroughfare; and it was Harold’s delight to sit from +noon to dusk, and from dusk to nightfall, watching the people passing +and repassing, the endless conveyances, the lights, the bustle, the +noise, the excitement. + +Hand clasped in hand, mother and son spent the days thus together. It +was a fearful winter, that of 1854–5, but Harold lived through it. The +spring of 1855 was late, and the season ungenial; but Harold lived to +smell the violets which Geraldine bought for him, and to see the +primrose-roots hawked in baskets about the streets. + +It was a lovely summer, and Harold lived to take many a drive and many a +walk through the great Babylon. He loved the parks—he liked to go where +there were hundreds and hundreds of people, and not a face he knew among +them save one, his mother’s; while she—it was impossible for her not to +know that to Harold’s life there could be but one sequel—an early death: +and when at last, in the September following their arrival in London, +the heart that had once throbbed so high with youth and hope and courage +was cold and quiet, Mrs. Drewitt, alone with her dead, fell on her knees +and thanked God that her boy—her frail, erring, unfortunate boy—belonged +at last solely to Him and her. + +She made no mourning for her child, she raised no cry of grievous +lamentation, of unutterable woe, but she lay through the night thinking +of how he had come home at last—home to the one sure shelter to die in +peace. The touch of his hand seemed never to depart from her; she could +not forget how day after day he had pillowed his head on her bosom; she +could not shut her ears to the “mother—mother” that he kept repeating +towards the last if she left his side for a moment. + +“God has been very good to me, Brian,” she said. “He gave my boy back to +me before he died, and I am content.” + +With some difficulty Brian at last found a resting-place for Harold: not +in one of the great cemeteries, but in a quiet churchyard in one of the +northern suburbs, where the evening sun falls aslant over the graves, +where great trees throw a pleasant shade across the grass, where the +grey church-tower flings its shadow over the tombs, where the bells ring +out Sunday after Sunday, where there is quiet without loneliness, rest +without desertion. + +There Brian laid his brother down to sleep, himself the solitary +mourner. + +Mr. Pryor and Mr. Gyton were both out of town; and in the vast city +Brian Drewitt had no other friend. + +As he left the grave, his thoughts went back to another funeral, at +which he had been chief mourner likewise: where, under the shadow of the +mountains, within sound of the sea, he had seen the mortal remains of +his father placed in the vault of the Drewitts. + +He would have felt better satisfied had Harold slept there likewise. He +would have liked a train of mourners, and a procession such as had wound +down the avenue at Kincorth, and under the trees, and round the bay, and +over Duranmore Hill, and down into the hollow. + +Each man has his special weakness, and this was Brian’s. He had never +felt so fully that they were Drewitts of Kincorth no longer, as when he +followed his brother to the grave alone. + +What did the words graven on his headstone, “Harold Drewitt,” imply to +the men and the women who passed through that churchyard Sunday after +Sunday? Nothing. They only served to show that there a stranger had laid +him down to rest. + +What guess could they make about how the nineteen years of his young +life had been spent? What could they know of his story—his errors—his +repentance—his wrongs? + +But as though it had been all contained in a single page, Brian read the +tale which was now finished over again—over and over again. + +He could see the boy riding round and round the meadows; he could see +the proud glances which both father and mother directed towards their +youngest born; he could see the daring imp taking his leaps, bearing his +tosses, laughing advice to scorn, and mocking at all grave counsels. He +could see him walking about with Maxwell; looking defiantly across the +dinner-table, at the Headlands, at his more prudent brother, and then +draining off his bumper out of mere bravado. He thought of him that +night at Regan’s: he saw him disappear through the darkness on Madcap; +he remembered his life in Dublin, and the great trial which had, so far +as any human being could see, saved his soul, while it destroyed his +life; and then—then there came the days when Harold was tractable as a +child—when he clung to his mother—when he turned back home to die. + +The short story was finished—the tale told—the book closed in this world +for ever. + +It was with the life of Harold Drewitt “as it is with a ship that +passeth over the waves of the sea, which, when it is gone by, the trace +thereof cannot be found, neither the pathway of the keel in the waves; +or, as when a bird hath flown through the air, there is no token of the +way to be found; or, as when an arrow is shot at a mark, it parteth the +air, which immediately cometh together again.” He had “passed away like +a shadow, or as a post that hasteth by.” + +Maxwell Drewitt had been right. It was a young body that Brian left, +with an exceeding bitter and sorrowful heart, to sleep in the grave +until the Judgment-day. + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + Geraldine is Satisfied. + + +In the lives of all men there come long pauses, when the river of +existence seems to flow on without a ripple, when day succeeds to day +without any event of sufficient importance to be set down and chronicled +occurring in the even course of their experience. + +Such a time was the year following Harold’s death to Brian Drewitt. +Though some changes had taken place, they had come about so naturally +that they scarcely seemed changes to him. All perhaps he noticed +specially or cared for particularly was, that he found it would take him +a long time to grow rich, and that during that time he was separated +from revenge and Maxwell and Kincorth. + +Had he forgotten Kincorth, do you imagine? Had trouble driven all +thoughts of vengeance out of his head? Had struggling with the world not +tamed him, experience not subdued him, time not softened him? No, my +reader. The object he had planned to work for in Connemara he was +working for still, and though the end seemed no nearer of attainment, +but further off than ever, yet Brian Drewitt never withdrew his eyes +from it, but kept that distant goal in view by day and night, in +solitude and when he was mixing among his fellows. + +Long ago, I said a person had but to look in Brian Drewitt’s face to +know that he could wait through years. He was waiting through years now +for the end. + +He had been very fortunate in business; fortunate, that is, considering +his training and the age at which he made his start in the world; but +still Brian felt dissatisfied. + +It is not easy to be content with pounds when you have been calculating +thousands; it is difficult to work for small pay when you desire to make +money _ad libitum_ for the purpose of wiping out old scores; and thus, +though Brian was in the receipt of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, he +worked like a galley-slave to make himself of more value to his +employers, who were now not the Dublin firm in whose establishment he +had made his first start in life, but the great London house of Gyton, +Lark, Munday, Hatfield and Company, Austinfriars. + +After his brother’s death he felt that he would like to be nearer his +mother than could possibly be the case if he retained his situation in +Dublin. + +As for asking Mrs. Drewitt and Geraldine to return there, to return to a +country which was now so full of painful associations, he felt that such +a request would be both foolish and unreasonable, and when Mr. Frank +Gyton proposed to him that he should take his chance of the “governor’s +temper,” at a salary of one hundred and fifty, which was an advance of +fifty on the pay of the Dublin firm, Brian close with the offer on the +spot, and three months afterwards walked into the city office as +corresponding and foreign clerk. + +That Mr. Gyton had a temper; that Mr. Munday had a worse; that the +managing clerk had a worse temper than all his principals’ tempers put +together, Brian was not long of finding out; but he had sense enough to +find out at the same time that if he did his work no one could find +fault with him; that if he kept his time, held his tongue, did what he +was told and refrained from idling, nobody would meddle with him. + +Had he been gay and light-hearted, like other lads; had he been given to +merriment, or to merry-making; had he been sociable and lively, like +Harold, with a jeer or a joke for every one, probably he would never +have made way in the good graces of Mr. Gyton; but as matters stood that +gentleman took to him in due time amazingly. + +Mr. Gyton, in the City, was a different man from Mr. Gyton at the +West-end. At the west he did not seem to have much voice in any matter +on which his son and wife chanced to entertain a decided opinion; but in +the City he was an individual of many prejudices, with old-fashioned +ideas; who gave himself all the airs of a millionaire; who was a +martinet in Austinfriars, and who liked to see old heads set on young +shoulders. + +In this respect Brian suited him to a nicety. Brian might have been a +thousand years of age. + +“A most discreet young man,” he remarked to Mr. Munday; and Mr. Munday +agreed that he was, but ventured to observe that it was a pity he +chanced to be born on the wrong side of the channel. + +“As for that, sir,” answered Mr. Gyton, drawing himself up, and taking a +pinch of snuff out of his box, without offering any to Mr. Munday, “as +for that, sir, the Gytons have some Irish blood in their veins. My +grandfather married the niece of an Irish Earl, and my father-in-law was +Irish to the back-bone. Well trained, sir, and well bred, the Irish can +run as well as the best of us.” + +“Then I suppose it is quite true what I hear about your son?” said Mr. +Munday, a little maliciously. + +“What about my son, sir?—what—what about Frank?” + +“It is generally said that Mr. Drewitt has a very charming sister——” + +“And if he have a dozen sisters, Mr. Munday——” + +“Why, in that case, your son could have choice enough.” + +“Of course he could, and he can choose whom he pleases, and he can marry +whom he likes, without consulting every idiot in London on the subject, +I suppose.” + +“Certainly, Mr. Gyton, his own father not excepted, we may conclude.” + +And then the partners had quite a quarrel; they tried who could hit +hardest, who could say the sharpest things, and went on wrangling and +snarling, until Mr. Gyton, looking as red as a turkey-cock and as +pompous as a beadle, remarked, that he supposed his private affairs +might be regarded as separate from those of the firm; and that he wished +Mr. Munday would recollect for the future that he had expressed such a +wish; after which observation, which was delivered in the tone of a +royal command, Mr. Gyton summoned Brian into his private office, and +began catechizing him. + +“How long have you been with us, Drewitt?” + +“Six months, sir.” + +“And you like the business?” + +“I like anything out of which money can be made,” was the reply. + +“Anything honest, I suppose, you mean.” + +“Anything honest and honourable,” agreed Brian. “Anything that a +gentleman may do, and still remain one.” + +“Humph! You call yourself a gentleman, then, do you?” + +Brian flushed scarlet, but had sense enough to make no reply. + +“There—there—don’t be annoyed. I only asked for information. I wanted to +know more of you. An employer ought to understand clearly the position +in life of a person holding your responsible office. Let me see—how did +you happen to come here?—who recommended you?—with whom were you last?” + +Brian told him. + +“And wasn’t there something about your father cutting you out?—what was +all that?” + +Once again, Brian gave him the information he wanted. + +“And which of your family have you with you in London?” was the next +question. + +“My mother and only sister,” answered the young man. + +“Dependent upon you, of course?” + +“No, sir; my mother has her settlement, which is quite enough for all +her wants,” Brian said, stiffly. + +“Hah! so much the better. Now just begin and tell me your story right +through—don’t keep anything back—be frank with me, and I will be fair +with you. I am not asking out of idle curiosity—I am not, upon my +honour.” + +Thus exhorted, Brian told all—told everything, even to Harold’s mishap; +and during the course of the recital, Mr. Gyton senior indulged himself +in many pinches of snuff—in many hems, and haws, and God bless me’s, and +upon my soul’s. + +It was early summer, and Mr. Gyton was arrayed in those wonderfully +light trousers for which most City magnates seem to have some kind of +mania; he had on a white waistcoat, displayed an imposing amount of +shirt-collar, wore a lightblue silk cravat, and was shaved as clean as +it was in the art of man to shave a human chin. + +He always carried an immense white silk pocket-handkerchief and an +equally enormous bandana. + +The bandana was now spread out over his knee, like a flag laid over a +railing, and he contemplated the way in which his boots were blacked; +while with his plump legs well apart, and his stomach swelling out under +his white waistcoat, and his heavy guard-chain strolling about over his +chest, he sat and listened to Brian, interrupting him only with the +remarks I have mentioned. + +“Hah! poor lady—very sad—very sad indeed: has Mrs. Gyton been to see her +yet—eh?” + +Mr. Gyton was always fancying his wife was in league with his son, and +he put the question fully expecting to hear that Mrs. Gyton and Mrs. +Drewitt were bosom friends. + +No such thing however. + +“My brother took that affair I mentioned so much to heart,” answered +Brian, “and his health was so bad from the time we left Ireland, that he +could not bear the sight of a stranger at all, and since his death my +mother has never recovered her spirits sufficiently to care for +visiting.” + +“Wonderful—bless me—extraordinary!” + +“We are so differently situated now,” began Brian, who really did not +know what else to say; but Mr. Gyton interrupted him with the remark +that he should have thought—but of course everybody knew their own +business best (the millionaire was apt at times to be ungrammatical)—a +little friendly visiting would have done Mrs. Drewitt good. “It’s not +well to sit moping,” went on the great man; “brooding over sorrow only +makes it worse; and we none of us can live alone—at least, that is my +experience. I am sure when I was so ill, this time two years—let me see, +is it two years? yes, it must be pretty nearly two years—the doctors +told me I must speak to no one, see no one, and think of nothing, for at +least three months.” + +“They considered your case so serious?” suggested Brian, imagining some +observation was expected from him. + +“Serious? yes, indeed, it was serious; but their prescription would have +killed me. I might as well have been put in my coffin at once, and so I +told them. I went abroad, certainly, but what did I do there? I amused +myself as much as possible. I saw everything there was to be seen. I +drove about, I ate foreign kickshaws, I talked French (Brian thought he +would have given something to hear the French to which Dives had treated +the Parisians), and what was the consequence?” + +His clerk faintly hoped that he had come back better. + +“Better! why you see me now. I have been better since than I ever was in +my life; and that’s what your mother ought to have, change and variety, +instead of mouching in the house all day. Mrs. Gyton shall call upon +her; yes, that she shall;” and Mr. Gyton having uttered the last words +as if in answer to an internal protest against any such erratic +proceedings, took a pinch of snuff, blew his nose violently and looked +straight at Brian, who said— + +“I hope, sir, you will not think me rude and ungrateful, but——” + +“But what—what is it you have got to say?” + +“I think my mother would rather—that is, we are so completely removed +from the circle we——” + +“Bless my soul! what ails the boy? he cannot finish a single sentence!” +exclaimed Mr. Gyton, pettishly. “That is a shocking habit for any one to +get into. Out with it!” he finished, working himself up to a pitch of +desperation; “out with whatever you have got to say.” + +“I am quite certain,” said Brian, steadily—so steadily that Mr. Gyton +never guessed what the effort cost him—“that you would rather our house +and your house were kept completely separate, when I tell you Mr. +Francis Gyton once thought my sister very pretty; as she is,” added +Brian. “All things considered, my mother decided it was best he should +not see so much of her, nor she of him. I hope I am not doing wrong in +telling you this, sir. We know exactly where we stand, and we do not +wish to push ourselves into any house under false pretences;” and Mr. +Brian drew himself up to his full height, and looked the very +incarnation of pride and determination. + +“Do you mean to say my son was ever fond of your sister?” asked Mr. +Gyton, facing slowly round. + +“I believe he was. I do not think my mother would ever have said it was +best for him not to see Geraldine, had there not been something of the +kind—and something definite, too.” + +“The young dog!” remarked the parent. + +“I should be sorry to say anything calculated to annoy you, or to +prejudice you against Mr. Francis. But the matter is all settled now; +and you will understand, from what I have said, why I think my mother +would rather Mrs. Gyton did not call.” + +“Thank you. It is always best to speak out fairly and frankly, is not +it? Now there is something else I want to talk to you about. You have +done your best, I think, since you came to us?” + +“I have tried to do my best,” answered Brian, who was in horror lest he +was going to be dismissed. + +“Yes; and those who try generally succeed, don’t they?” said Mrs. Gyton, +whose face seemed to Brian to get redder every moment, while his +shirt-collar became more imposing. “I have been thinking of sending you +abroad, very shortly.” + +“Do you mean to any of the colonies?” asked Brian, hurriedly. + +“No, no—only to France; it is rather a delicate piece of business, and I +want it managed cleverly. If you conducted it to our satisfaction, I +have no doubt we should be able to raise your salary next year.” + +“You are very kind to me, sir,” Brian said. + +“Not at all, not at all. I know what I am about. Take care of what you +do, and you may make your way in the world yet. Now you can go; that is +all I wanted.” + +But still Brian hesitated. + +“I can have no objection to your repeating to Mr. Francis what has +passed between us to-day; but at the same time, sir, I almost wish you +would not mention the matter to him. It is all settled now; and——” + +“Yes—yes—yes—yes,” exclaimed Mr. Gyton, impatiently waving his hand; “I +understand perfectly; be satisfied, I shall not make any mischief;” and +Mr. Gyton rose from his chair as a hint that the interview must be +considered ended, while Brian went back to his desk wondering greatly +whither all his principal’s questions had tended. + +As for Mr. Gyton, he took an early opportunity of seeing Mr. Pryor and +asking him what kind of girl that sister of Drewitt’s might be; which +question Mr. Pryor answered by inquiring why his brother-in-law wanted +to know. + +“Curiosity,” was the reply. + +“Nonsense,” exclaimed Mr. Pryor; “you have heard some of that chatter of +Munday’s about Frank being fond of her, as Frank was, for that matter; +but do not let it influence you against Brian; for though Munday does +not like him, you will never get a more faithful nor trustworthy clerk.” + +“But I want to hear about this girl. Have you seen her?” + +“Have I seen her?” repeated Mr. Pryor, with a nervous laugh. “Have I +seen you? Did not I see them every day in Connemara before they ever +left Kincorth? Did not I tell you I was in the house when her father +died, and that I heard the will read over too? Seen her! I should think +I had.” + +“Do you think Frank really was fond of her?” + +“How is it possible for me to answer such a question? He was at one time +never out of the house, and he proposed for her. There, now the cat is +out of the bag. But he had not courage to ask your consent, and Mrs. +Drewitt would not allow the affair to go on without your knowledge. +Frank asked me about it, and said he feared there was no chance of your +approval; in which opinion, knowing there was no money nor prospect of +any money, I agreed with him.” Mr. Pryor was never weary of having a +fling at his brother-in-law’s money-bags. + +“And so Frank gave her up?” + +“I don’t think he did; I think he is waiting for an opportunity to speak +to you.” + +Thereupon Mr. Gyton grew rampant: was he a bear, was he a brute, was he +a beast, that his own son should be afraid to speak to him on such a +subject? “Hang it! sir,” he said, “was I rolling in money when I married +your sister?” + +“No,” was the reply; “but then neither were you dependent on your father +for your support; and Frank knows, as I know, that there are probably +many young ladies you would prefer to a girl without fortune, and she an +Irishwoman.” + +“Now I’ll tell you what it is, Geoffry,” and at this point Mr. Gyton +became almost purple in the face with indignation, “I won’t have you or +anybody settling my affairs for me, and saying what I should like, or +what I should not. If you must know what I should not like, it would be +one of those Munday girls. I wonder,” he went on, “that you, having just +come into such a handsome property, should not have offered to make +things square for Frank, and he your only near male relative. Not that I +want the money; only I wonder, when these Drewitts seem to be such +_protégés_ of yours.” + +“You need not wonder,” was the reply. “I may marry yet, myself.” + +“The deuce you may!” and Mr. Gyton surveyed him with perplexed +amazement. “Ho, ho! I am beginning to see daylight, I think. Perhaps you +are in love with the girl yourself?” + +“Perhaps I am;” and Geoffry Pryor, seeing that his last chance of +winning Geraldine was slipping through his fingers, stood at bay. +“Indeed,” he proceeded, “there is no use in my making any pretence about +the matter. I did hope—I have hoped year after year since I first knew +her, that some day I might be able to persuade her to become my wife. It +may seem to you a ridiculous rivalry,” added Mr. Pryor, hastily; “but I +think I should have been far the honester lover of the two. Had I +approved of Frank’s conduct in the affair—had I thought it likely he +would make her happy—I love her so well, that—” + +“You would have taken his part against me. I am obliged to you, +Geoffry.” + +“—That I would have done what I could to help him and her, though I do +not pretend to much Quixotism either,” finished Mr. Pryor. + +“I must see this young lady, who seems to have turned all your heads,” +remarked Mr. Gyton. + +“Well, then, listen to one word first. Frank has treated her very +badly.” + +“How dare you say such a thing of my son, sir?” + +“I shall say what I please about my nephew,” retorted Mr. Pryor, coolly. +“And I repeat, Frank has treated her very badly. Now, do not you go and +treat her badly also. Make up your mind what your intentions are in the +matter, and see that Frank has not changed his, and then do what you +like; only don’t let him keep beating about the bush as he has been +doing, ever since he first saw her.” + +“What relative is she to that Lady Emmeline woman who stayed with us one +spring?” + +“Lady Emmeline’s husband and Miss Drewitt are first cousins,” Mr. Pryor +replied. + +“Was that the fellow who got the estate?” + +“The same.” + +“Any chance at all of our clerk having it back again?” + +“Not the slightest.” + +“Are you going over to Ireland this year?” + +“I do not know. No, I think not. I have some intention of selling +Durrow, and buying a place in England.” + +“How long have you taken that idea into your head?” + +“Not very long;” and Mr. Pryor returned his brother-in-law’s stare +unflinchingly. + +“Don’t take it to heart,” said Mr. Gyton, with a certain kindness and +sympathy in his manner; “don’t, there’s a good fellow.” + +“If you don’t take it to heart, I am sure I need not,” answered the +barrister, bitterly; “I thought the very mention of such a _mésalliance_ +would have driven you out of your mind. The longer I live the less I see +one need expect any person to act as it might have been supposed he +would.” + +“Then you are sorry I do not altogether disapprove of the business.” + +“Do you think I am made of iron, that I should be glad?” was the reply; +but Mr. Pryor never afterwards repeated this remark; on the contrary, +when his sister told him how Frank’s wandering habits and unsettled mode +of life had been a source of grief and anxiety to both her and his +father, how anxious they were for their only son to be “settled,” and +how thankful for her part she felt that he had chosen that “dear, sweet, +pretty Geraldine, who was so fond of him,” the barrister resigned +himself to the inevitable, and began marvelling whether he could ever +look on Geraldine as his niece. + +He did not much think his nephew would make any woman very happy; but +still, they were both young, and both in love; and, who knew but that it +was best as it was? + +Geoffry Pryor could not say it was not best, though it ended his dream, +though it crushed out of his heart the hope he had been cherishing for +years. + +“I thought you would have liked Frank to marry either rank or fortune,” +he remarked to his sister. + +“So we should, but Frank has never shown the slightest predilection for +either one or the other, and really young men now-a-days do make such +matches that I am thankful he has chosen a lady by birth, and one whom +we need not be ashamed to present to any person or in any place. There +is young Munday—married his sister’s maid! Mr. Lark has just had to send +his son abroad to keep him out of the way of some most disreputable +connexion. There is Lady Ackington’s step-son run off with the +governess—and in short, my dear Geoffry—” + +“In short, my dear Maria, you think, with me, that Miss Drewitt will +make almost too good a wife for Frank.” + +“I think no such thing,” retorted Mrs. Gyton, indignantly; “for a young +lady in Miss Drewitt’s destitute position to make such a capital match +is remarkable; and had Mr. Gyton not taken such a fancy to her brother +it never could have been brought about. Of course we shall be glad to +see Frank settled. He has promised his father that he will really settle +down to business now, and take that position to which, as the son of the +head of the firm, he is entitled; and if he does that I shall say +meeting with Miss Drewitt was the greatest blessing which could have +befallen him. But, at the same time, I must add, that had he fancied +Miss Ackington, or even one of the Miss Larks, I should infinitely have +preferred a connexion which might have advanced his worldly interests as +well as insured his domestic happiness.” + +“You really are getting eloquent, Maria.” + +“It is enough to make any one indignant to hear the way you talk. A +stranger would really go away with the impression that Miss Drewitt had +ten thousand a year, and that she was conferring some honour on Frank by +accepting him, instead of being only too glad to secure such a catch. +Not but what,” continued Mrs. Gyton, noticing an angry look in her +brother’s face; “not but what I will say, they behaved admirably in the +business, which proves that, though they are poor, they have been +educated in all the ideas of the highest ranks.” + +“What are the ideas of the highest ranks, Maria?” inquired Mr. Pryor. + +“Not to take advantage—to act honourably—to do as you would be done by, +and so forth.” + +“Oh! indeed!” remarked her brother; “after that, I think I may go home +and propose to my housekeeper.” But he did not go home, neither did he +propose to his housekeeper: he drove to the house in Islington which +Brian had taken for his mother after Harold’s death, and found Geraldine +alone in the drawing-room. + +“I have come to wish you joy, dear,” he said; but there was an +unsteadiness in his voice as he spoke, and the hand which held hers +trembled a little. “I hope you will be happy, and wealthy, and wise;” +and he tried to smile; which proved so futile an attempt, that the tears +came into Geraldine’s eyes as she looked at him. + +“I was foolish once,” he went on, “and thought—Ah! well, you know what I +thought. But that is all gone and past now, my child, and we will be +good friends for ever, won’t we?” + +She put her other hand on his shoulder and said, “yes,” with a sob in +her voice. + +“And if ever you are in any trouble or perplexity, you will come to me +as you would to—I am going to be your uncle,” he added abruptly; “so +what need I say more?” + +“I will come,” she replied. + +“And we will forget all the past. You will forget I was ever silly +enough to overlook the fact that I was old enough to be your father; +that the time when I might have found favour in a young girl’s eyes was +in the summers before you were born.” + +“Don’t,” she pleaded; “don’t; I can’t bear it.” + +He put the hair back from her forehead, he held her away from him at +arms’ length, he looked at her sweet sorrowful face—looked at it as he +knew he might never look in her face, or in the face of any other woman +again, and then he took her to him and kissed her, as he had longed to +do that day when they stood together on the hill above Kincorth. + +“Is not there a nursery rhyme, Geraldine, which declares that some go +up, and some go down? I feel that I have been among the latter class; +and yet, if you are happy, my dear, I will make myself happy too. It was +a mistake; that is all; and in this world it has often seemed to me we +pay as dearly for our mistakes as we do for our sins. You may think it a +strange fancy, child. I am not going away from London; at least, I am +only going to Durrow for a month, and I hope often to see you when I +come back; constantly, indeed, after a time: yet still, I want to say +good-bye; that was the chief word I came to speak to you to-day.” + +She knew what he meant; knew that it was not to her he was bidding +farewell, but to the dream that had been so sweet and so exceeding +beautiful. She knew that from thenceforth he wanted her to forget, as he +intended to forget—that from that day forward, she was to seem to him +his nephew’s affianced wife, nothing more. + +Nothing more. When he was standing on the cliffs above Durrow it seemed +to him that the sea kept repeating that refrain eternally: + +Nothing more—nothing—so long as the rain fell, and the wind blew, +nothing for ever! + +But Geraldine was happy, and talked with her mother of brighter days to +come, when she should have no anxiety about ways and means; no need to +pinch and save; no trouble, no sorrow. + +“And they will push Brian on, mamma, and he will get, oh! so rich, and +Frank wants him also to live with us till he marries; so that you need +have no hesitation now about coming to us; and we will make you so +comfortable, mamma, and take every care from you, and you shall be so +happy—so happy!” + +Should she? After a talk like this Mrs. Drewitt would go to her own +room, and fall on her knees, and pray that her son and daughter might +somehow learn the truth which she had not courage enough to tell +them—that the days were not very far off when she should indeed have no +more care, when she should be very happy, but not in this world—ah! no, +not here. + + + + + CHAPTER XIII. + Country Gossip. + + +Mr. Pryor did not make a very long stay in Ireland. He merely remained a +sufficient length of time to receive Mr. Connor’s numerous reports; to +ride round his property; to point out a few improvements he wished made; +to distribute much charity; to be blessed with blessings that were +beyond reason as they were without stint; to drive out a few times; to +renew his acquaintance with the Durrow fishermen, and to hear all the +local news. + +Considering that Mr. Connor had a whole year’s budget to unfold, the +amount of information was not great, although it might be interesting. +The gaugers had been over several times, and the constabulary, too, +about the stills and the smugglers; “And one gauger was not afraid to +say,” went on Mr. Connor, “that if you, sir, did your duty, there would +soon not be a still in Durrow; and about the smugglers, the coastguard +people declared I got share of the cargoes.” + +“We can both bear such remarks, I suppose, Mr. Connor,” said Mr. Pryor, +smiling. + +“They are wild about it, that is the thing, you know, sir. Why, they do +say that even Mr. Drewitt has turned against the stills, and is hunting +them off his property there in the Joyce county. You would not know Mr. +Maxwell, sir, if you were to see him now; he is all for law and order, +and is making himself perfectly detested by everybody, high and low. He +is abroad now, sir; travelling on the Continent with a Mr. Campnell from +Oxford, who they do say is going to be his heir, and who, many people +think, is something nearer even than that; and Lady Emmeline has left +him—did you never hear of it, sir? She has left him and is gone to live +with Mr. Vervensoe and his wife up at Cragantlet. The famine made a poor +man of him, rich though he was once; and they are glad enough to have +Lady Emmeline with them for the sake of what she pays. They do say the +life he led that misguided woman, sir, lately was shocking—shocking. I +could not tell you half the stories that are in everybody’s mouth about +his wickedness, and his cruelty; and it all began, that is, the cruelty, +because she refused to have this young man come to the house as her +nephew, or come to the house while she was in it, in fact, at all.” + +“One cannot wonder at her doing so,” remarked Mr. Pryor. + +“No; but I am told he did—that he said, as she had no children, the +least she could do was to let him have one of his own in the house; and +then she threatened him—I could never rightly make out with what; and +then he struck her; and then she got worse, and said she would leave +him, and expose him; and after that he begged her pardon, and talked to +her for more than an hour, and got somehow to the soft side of her; so +that she said, at last, if he would let her go, and take what she +brought with her, there might be peace between them.” + +“That could only have come through the servants,” remarked Mr. Pryor, +thoughtfully. + +“It came to me, most of it, from my brother-in-law; but where he got it +I cannot say.” + +“And so Lady Emmeline is really gone?” + +“Yes, sir. I met her the other day out driving with Mr. and Mrs. +Vervensoe; and she looked ninety. And, indeed, I was sorry to see her,” +finished Mr. Connor. + +“I wonder if Maxwell Drewitt was married before he met with Lady +Emmeline—secretly, I mean,” said Mr. Pryor. + +“Not a bit of it, sir; there never was a man less in the marrying notion +than that same Mr. Drewitt, if all I have heard from Ryan about his +young days is true. And if you are thinking that he was married first, +and then married Lady Emmeline afterwards, you may put that notion away +altogether. He was always far too wide-awake to get himself into any +mess of that kind. Have you been round by Kincorth, sir? He is putting +up the handsomest entrance there is in this part of the country at all; +and they do tell me the house is like a palace, and that the gardens are +just a show. He has made a second avenue, leading out on Calgillan Road; +so that the drive now goes right through the property. I heard say—but I +don’t know whether it was true or not—that some young lady in England +took a fancy to him, not knowing he was married; and that when he came +home, he cursed and swore at Lady Emmeline for living too long, and +standing in his way.” + +“I think that story must be an invention,” answered Mr. Pryor; “at +least, I give my countrywomen credit for more taste than that would +imply they were possessed of.” + +“I don’t know,” said Mr. Connor; “I fancy there is no way Mr. Drewitt +cannot put on him when he likes. I am sure he came over here one day +wanting gravel out of Durrow River, for his new avenue, and you would +have thought I was Prince Albert, at the very least.” + +“Who is living at the Headlands, now?” asked Mr. Pryor. + +“A Captain Crabbe, his name is; and awful work he and Mr. Drewitt have +about the place not being kept in good order; and about the cows getting +among the plantations. I don’t wonder, myself, at Mr. Drewitt’s being +vexed to see the grounds—you remember how he used to have them; and now +they are as bad as Cragantlet. He says he will never let it to anybody +again, unless an Englishman; and not to him, unless he signs an +agreement to keep the place as it ought to be kept. He goes on +dreadfully, though, when anything puts him out. When you are going along +the Calgillan Road you can hear him cursing his men half a mile off.” + +“What do you suppose is the cause of his ill-temper?” + +“Goodness knows, sir! He never had much of a temper, and now it is worse +than ever. Ryan says, he thinks it must be that the devil he has inside +him wears away his patience, and that he is glad to break out on +anybody. There is one thing sure, he has been worse since Mr. Harold +died. My brother-in-law told me he shut himself up for a whole day when +the news came over, and that no one durst go near him; and I believe he +sent to Galway, and telegraphed over to Mr. Brian, would he like to bury +him in Eversbeg. But Mr. Brian wrote back, he would not be indebted to +him for enough ground even to lay a dog in, let alone a brother.” + +“What an unforgiving set they are!” + +“Yes, sir; and little though you might think it, Mr. Archibald Drewitt +was just the same in some things. There was a man talking to me about +him only the other day, a poor fellow of the name of Byrne, who was +turned off one of Mr. Drewitt’s lots the time you stood for Duranmore. +He would vote for you, and so Mr. Drewitt said he should go, and he got +a farm under Mr. Waller; but someway, nothing went well with him, and +then he took a place as labourer, with Mr. Maxwell. He had always liked +Mr. Drewitt, for he had a kind, affable way with him, and a friendly +look and a pleasant word for tenant and labourer just the same; and of +course whenever he met Mr. Drewitt, for a while he touched his hat to +him, expecting that Mr. Drewitt would give him time of day,[1] or say it +was fine weather for the crops; or perhaps, how are the pigs? or is the +wife getting better, Barney? But Mr. Drewitt never took the least notice +of him, no more than if he hadn’t been speaking to him every week for +the previous ten years. As you may suppose, Barney quit touching his +hat; but he said that about two months before Mr. Drewitt’s death, he +saw him creeping along the road, and that his mind misgave him the +master was not long for this world. So he thought he would like to speak +to him once before he went, (the old fellow cried when he told me about +it), and he stood up close to the roadside of the footpath, so that Mr. +Drewitt could not help seeing him; and he touched his hat, after twenty +years, to his old landlord again, and says: “I was sorry to hear you had +been bad, sir; I hope your honour’s better.” Mr. Drewitt looked him all +over from head to foot, and the man was ragged enough; so perhaps, he +thought his politics had not done much for him; but he never answered +him, no more than if he had been dirt under his feet. Byrne never saw +him after that, but he followed his coffin and saw it put in Eversbeg +Abbey. I call a thing like that carrying hatred too far; but of course I +am no judge.” + +Footnote 1: + + Meaning good-morning, or good-evening. + +Mr. Pryor walked on for a few steps in silence, slowly, thinking of all +his agent had told him while he walked. + +Then he began showing Mr. Connor the alterations he desired to have +made, remarking at the same time— + +“It is very likely my nephew and Miss Geraldine may pay you a visit next +summer, and I should like the place to look its best in honour of them.” + +“Are they going,” began Connor, considering in what suitable form of +words to clothe his question, “are they going to make a match of it?” + +“They are talking of doing so,” answered Mr. Pryor, with a smile which +he could not suppress. + +“I am right glad to hear it, sir, if I may make so free as to say so. If +Miss Geraldine is half as well as every one here wishes her, she will +make him a good wife, and he will be a good husband to her!” + +“Thank you, Connor.” Mr. Pryor said this simply, and as though he was +thanking Connor for some compliment paid to himself. + +“And you think they will come next summer, sir?” + +“I hope so,” answered Mr. Pryor: but many things happened before that +next summer which the barrister then had no idea the future could bring +to pass. + +He went to call on Lady Emmeline ere he returned to London, and found +her what Connor had described—an old withered woman, bent and aged, but +still rouged to the eyes, and dressed in the extreme of the fashion. + +“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Pryor,” she said, entering the room with +skirts so voluminous and crinoline so extensive that it was some time +before the barrister could see which was woman and which steel and silk +and lace. “It was so kind of you to come, considering all things, so +very kind.” + +Mr. Pryor ventured to think it was very kind of her ladyship to say so. + +“It is the truth, it is nothing but the truth; there are not many who +would come running after an old woman like me, though there was a time—” +and Lady Emmeline stopped, and would have coloured had not the rouge on +her face rendered such a performance as impossible as it was +unnecessary. “Do you remember the election at Duranmore, Mr. Pryor? Ah! +who that saw me then would ever have thought I could come to this?” + +When a woman’s case is beyond flattery it is beyond consolation. Mr. +Pryor felt this and held his tongue. + +“You have heard, I suppose,” resumed Lady Emmeline, after leaving a +decent space for compliment had he chosen to fill it up, “that +unfortunate circumstances have compelled me to accept an asylum here. +Ah! dear; to think my husband should ever have treated me as he has +done: and I made him, Mr. Pryor; it was my money made him; and I did +once think he was fond of me, I did indeed.” Poor Lady Emmeline! there +was no falsehood nor affectation about those words; and although her +tears might wear strange channels down her cheeks, giving her a +generally wrung-out and draggled appearance about the face, Mr. Pryor +did not feel inclined even to smile, but listened sympathetically while +the neglected poetess proceeded. + +“I often think of those sweet lines by Moore,” and she repeated— + + “‘When first I met thee warm and true, + There shone such truth about thee, + And on thy lips such promise hung + I thought ’twere sin to doubt thee.’ + +“That was just my case, Mr. Pryor. I believed in him implicitly. I +thought he could say nothing but what was good and true; that he was +brave and honest. I have found how much mistaken I was since those days. +But it is too late now for repentance, almost for regret;” and she went +on whispering, as was her wont, the remainder of the lines— + + “‘Go, deceiver, go— + The heart whose hopes could make it + Trust one so false, so low, + Deserved that thou shouldst break it.’ + +“So false, so low,” she said, shaking her head sadly; “aye, and so base +and cruel, too.” + +Thinking to divert her attention, Mr. Pryor asked her when she had been +last in London, and when she intended paying it another visit, and in +return got more than he bargained for. + +In the spring she hoped to go to London again, but not till then, +unless, indeed, dear Geraldine’s marriage took place first, in which +case she should make a point of being present. + +“I was so truly delighted to hear of the probability of her settling so +well,” went on Lady Emmeline. “At one time, do you know, Mr. Pryor, we +all thought you were to be the fortunate man. Shows how wrongly people +may judge sometimes—even the cleverest people.” Which was a back-handed +blow at her husband. + +Mr. Pryor winced—the wound was still green—but the lady proceeded. “I +was always very fond of Geraldine—fonder than of either of her +brothers—though Brian was a gentlemanlike lad, and promised to grow up +handsome. I thought Geraldine took most after her mother. I suppose she +is greatly improved in her appearance since she went to London?” + +The barrister paused for a moment before he answered. He was thinking of +the Geraldine who had stood talking with him on the way to Durrow, and +wondering in what way Lady Emmeline could imagine it possible for such a +vision of loveliness to be improved. + +“She is thinner,” he said; that seemed the truest and most unconcerned +statement he could make, under the circumstances; “but otherwise I do +not think her much altered.” + +“Ah! Well, that would be an improvement,” said Lady Emmeline. “She was +always a little too plump for perfect elegance.” + +“Opinions may differ on that point,” Mr. Pryor would have answered, but +he fortunately remembered that Lady Emmeline, who had always prided +herself on her graceful figure and perfect elegance, was as thin as a +thread-paper. + +He therefore contented himself with saying, that when she came to London +she would be able to judge for herself; and shortly afterwards took his +leave, though earnestly entreated by Mrs. Vervensoe, _née_ Munks, to +stop for dinner. + +“I had five hundred and sixty-one things I wanted to ask you about,” +said that energetic lady; “and I had twice as many, I know, to tell you; +but, however, if you must go, why you must. It is treating us very +shabbily, though; and I do not know what Mr. Vervensoe will say to me +when he comes in, about letting you go.” + +“You should tell him, ‘a wilful man must have his way,’ and then he can +say nothing,” answered Mr. Pryor. + +“But, really now, is not it mean and shabby?” + +“It would be, perhaps, if I could remain; but as I cannot, you must +exercise your charity, and think as well of me as you can.” + +“There is no fear of our not thinking well of you. Good-bye, then, if it +must be good-bye. Give my love to Geraldine, and tell her I shall expect +a piece of the wedding-cake; she had a bit of mine to dream on, I know, +when she was not three years old.” + +With which pleasing reminiscence Mrs. Vervensoe allowed their visitor to +depart; and accordingly Mr. Pryor rode away from Cragantlet, which, +though twenty miles from Durrow, supposing Duranmore were taken by the +way, was not more than fifteen, if the traveller turned up the lane +leading past Regan’s, crossed the Calgillan coach-road, and then kept +straight on for the ruins of Castle Cronach. + +Under any circumstances it was a long ride, and a lonely; and Mr. Pryor +had got very weary of his own thoughts before he reached the highway, +with its many turnings and windings, along which they had trotted all +four abreast the first day he ever beheld Durrow. + +He had not gone a mile, however, past Castle Cronach, when a new subject +for thought presented itself, in the shape of a jaunting-car, on which +were seated two gentlemen, one on each side, with the driver occupying +the position that of right belongs to him, but which in Ireland he seems +never to assume, unless dire necessity compels his doing so. + +One of the gentlemen was Maxwell Drewitt; the other, a dark moustached +youth, apparently not more than two and twenty, though he had a beard +that might have been growing for a dozen years. + +“Mr. Campnell, I presume,” thought Mr. Pryor, as the car pursued its way +to Duranmore and he to Durrow. “I wonder if he wears that mass of hair +to prevent any one tracing a likeness to his father; if it be his +father,” corrected the barrister. + +“Where could they be coming from, Connor?” he asked during the course of +the evening. + +“Most likely from Castlebar. It is nearer from here to Castlebar than it +is from Galway to here, and a nicer country to pass through too. And so +you saw Mr. Campnell; and what kind of a looking young gentleman is he, +sir, if I may inquire?” + +“He is so covered with hair, it is almost impossible to say what he is +like. He has dark eyes, as well as I could observe, and that is all I +can tell you about him.” + +“And he is only twenty-one, I hear.” + +There was the rustling of a woman’s dress through the hall, and Mr. +Pryor, turning round sharply, guessed that Mrs. Connor had been +listening at the open door. + +There was nothing in their conversation that he cared if all Ireland +were cognizant of, yet the circumstance gave him an uncomfortable +impression, and made him feel a little doubtful about Mrs. Connor’s +entire trustworthiness. + +While she, poor Jenny! she stole out to a field at the back of the +house, where her children were playing in the summer’s evening, and +sitting down on the grass, took the youngest to her heart, while she +thought about the boy she had borne in the times gone by; whom she had +never nursed on her knees; whom she had never folded in her arms; whom +she had been forced to send away; whom she had never through the years +set eyes on; who would never be told the name of his mother, but whom, +she knew, was coming to Kincorth that day, to be, if he lived, +Kincorth’s owner, when perhaps she and his father were both dead. + + + + + CHAPTER XIV. + What met Brian. + + +A winter’s day in London, more especially when that winter’s day happens +to be raw, damp, drizzling and foggy, is one, I think, of the most +depressing ordeals through which a human being can be called to pass—a +day when the streets are sloppy; when the pavements are greasy; when the +passing omnibuses are full of wet men, and wetter women; when people +poke you in the eyes with their umbrellas; when more people poke you in +the ribs, and jostle you into the middle of another set of people, who +shove you back again and probably anathematize you into the bargain; +when there is no business doing in shops, where the gas is lighted, nor +in offices, where the gas is lighted likewise; when if you are out +collecting money, nobody will pay you; when if you owe any person any +money, everybody makes a point of boring you (in the gaslight), and +saying they felt sure of finding you within; when the apples in the +costermongers’ carts look damp and dirty; when there is a dull yellow, +leaden sky above, and an atmosphere you can taste around you; when +London Bridge looks as much like water as the Thames; when you do not +feel as if there ever had been any fine weather on earth; when you are +quite certain there will never be any fine weather again;—this, I say, +is the kind of day to try a man’s equanimity, and to put his +cheerfulness to the test. + +There was one man however who, having been set down by an omnibus coming +from the Borough at the corner of Mansion House and Princes Streets, +walked along, careless of the weather, careless of the passers-by, +careless of the dull leaden sky, of the greasy pavements and the sloppy +horse-roads. He looked neither to right nor left as he strode away after +his business; he was evidently thinking of something pleasant, carrying +his sunshine along with him, as some country-people carry lanterns: that +man was Brian Drewitt; he had just come from Paris, and he was bound for +Austinfriars. + +He wanted to see Mr. Gyton before he left the City, and as it was +getting on for three o’clock he hurried his pace and dashed on towards +Austinfriars as though he were walking for a wager. + +If you do not know Austinfriars, reader, you are not acquainted with one +of the queerest nooks that the march of modern improvement and the +heartlessness of railway companies has left us. Before some new +extension gets its bill passed, I should recommend you to go and see +that curious spot, where, in 1253, says Pennant, “was erected by +Humphrey Bohun, Earl of Hereford, the house of the Augustins, for friars +eremites of that order.” Until very recently, one of the oldest churches +in London (built before 1361) stood about the centre of Austinfriars; +the external walls still, I believe, remain, but the interior was, +unhappily, destroyed by fire some few years since. + +In it were laid great people: Edmund Guy de Meric, who, it is stated, +incited Richard II. to the murder of the Duke of Gloucester; Lucie, +daughter of Barnaby, Lord of Milan; the great Earl of Arundel, beheaded +on Tower Hill, in 1397; the Earl of Oxford, who suffered a similar fate +in 1463; Edward Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, in 1521; while, +twenty-five years afterwards, this church was filled with herrings, by +order of Henry VIII., who used Grey Friars, at the same period, as a +warehouse for wine. + +There are fewer historical records of Austinfriars than of almost any +other spot about the City. In a map of London, A. D. 1563, the old house +of the Augustines is not even marked; yet some gleams of the olden glory +still lie here and there—in its out-of-the-way courts—in its +old-fashioned houses—under the stones of its ancient church—for the +curious in such matters to note, as they pass by. + +Some time, it may be, that I shall ask you, reader who have so often +before this, strayed with me into world-forgotten corners—into silent +and deserted nooks—to turn aside from the bustle and din of the City +streets, and spend a few minutes with me in Austinfriars; but that day +must not be now, when Brian Drewitt is hurrying along to catch the head +of the great house of Gyton, Lark, Munday, Hatfield, and Company, before +he takes his portly person westward. + +Very cheerfully, Brian Drewitt pursued his way. He knew that he had +accomplished the business on which he was sent abroad satisfactorily. + +He felt certain he should receive the praise of his employers for the +manner in which he had performed his mission. It had been intimated to +him more than once, that in being sent abroad he was also being put on +his trial, and that if he stood the test of the negotiation entrusted to +him, his salary would be at once increased, and every facility afforded +him for pushing his way up to the very top of the tree. + +When he reached the top, he had then his vague designs of vengeance to +gratify; but upon the lower branches were hanging sweet home fruits, +that Brian longed to gather. He wanted to prevail on his mother not to +live with Geraldine; to live near, but not with her; to have her all to +himself, to provide with the little luxuries that her delicate health +required—that it would he a pleasure and a pride to him to place around +her. + +If she went with Geraldine, it would be Frank Gyton, and not Brian +Drewitt, whose money might anticipate her wants, and outspeed her very +wishes. No one knew better than Brian how both he and she had saved, and +pinched, to pay the expenses attendant on Harold’s trial—on their +removal to London—on his long sickness—on his early death. Even +Geraldine never fully understood all her mother had denied herself, so +that Harold might not suffer for lack of anything he desired. And now, +hungrily and greedily, the son who did comprehend everything, longed to +have his mother, who had suffered so much, all to himself, that he might +make her life a happy one at last, and render the evening of her days +the calmest, the brightest, the peacefulest portion of her existence. + +There are some men who, from their youth upwards, need to have something +to love—something upon which to pour out all their affection, all their +devotion. It may be father, brother, sister, mother, child, that they +gather into their heart, and keep there: whatever the object may be, it +is love they give, rather than love they receive. It is necessary to +their very existence to be planning, thinking, working, for some one; +and during the entire of his short life, Brian Drewitt had been +planning, thinking, working, for others rather than himself. + +He could scarcely remember the time when the love he felt for his mother +was not a species of idolatry. Instinctively, perhaps, even from +childhood, the stronger nature knew that the weaker had need of it; and +as years went by, and the child became a boy, and the boy a man, this +feeling grew stronger and stronger, till at last Brian came to +understand that whatsoever his mother stood in need of, if it were in +the power of a human being to procure it, she should have her wish +gratified. + +And at last he felt that it would soon be in his power to make his +mother’s life comfortable and happy, and to free it from care. +Comfortable and happy—did I not say once before, that was not to be in +this world for ever? + +Onwards he sped; eager, sanguine, triumphant. Mr. Gyton, senior, was not +gone; and with his snuffbox on the table, with his bandana ready for +use, with his coat thrown well back, and his thumbs stuck in the +arm-holes of his superfine black cloth waistcoat, he listened to Brian’s +narration with every sign of approval visible in his face. + +When Brian had quite finished he said— + +“We did not expect you home until to-morrow; but now that you are here I +believe my son has something to say to you. Meantime, I may add that you +can draw your salary at the rate of two hundred and fifty pounds per +annum from to-morrow.” + +Mr. Gyton had a way of uttering those two words “per annum” which always +seemed to give money its true value in the listener’s ears; and +accordingly, Brian Drewitt thanked him very heartily for the advance, +and had just reached the middle of a neatly-turned sentence when Mr. +Gyton, junior, entered. + +“Don’t stand wasting your time here, Brian,” he said; “but go home at +once. There’s something up there. Geraldine sent here this morning to +know your address, and telegraphed for you.” + +“What is it?” Brian asked: he stretched out his one hand and seized the +table tightly as he spoke. + +“Your mother is very ill, I believe; don’t turn so white, Brian; it may +be nothing to signify. I have told them to get you a cab. Should you +like me to go with you?” + +“No, thank you,” Brian answered; “no—no.” Even then he wanted to have +her all to himself, and he blindly made his way out of Mr. Gyton’s +presence-chamber, and across the clerks’ office, and down the stairs, +and so out into the court, at the entrance to which a hansom was waiting +for him. + +“Drive fast!” that was all he could say; but the man obeyed his +instructions literally. Up the City Road, round by Duncan Terrace, out +across the Lower Road, and then up Upper Street, till they were close to +Canonbury Tower. + +“Set me down here,” Brian said, pushing up the little trap-door, and the +driver pulled up instantly. + +“Your fare?” was the next question; and Brian counted him out a sum, +which even the man’s conscience pricked him for demanding, without a +remonstrance, but stupidly, and as though he were drunk. + +He never could tell what feeling possessed him to stop the cab and walk +quietly up the street where was his home. He never knew how he got from +the cab to the door opposite his own door, where he paused and looked +across the way. + +Every blind in the house was down. + +He saw a gentleman coming out; a gentleman whose carriage stood waiting +for him to enter. Brian crossed the street and asked him what was the +matter. + +“A poor lady has done with all suffering,” was the reply. + +“Mrs. Drewitt?” + +“Yes; are you her son?” + +It was too much, the reaction was too great; and Brian would have fallen +on the pavement, but that he staggered by chance against the doctor’s +brougham. + +“Come in,” said the doctor, “and I will go in with you.” + +“I won’t,” answered Brian; and he turned and walked back down the +street, like one in a dream. + +For hours and hours he walked about before he could face the house +again. With his clothes soaked through, with his hair damp and wet, +shivering with the cold, heartbroken and miserable, Brian Drewitt at +last made up his mind to face the inevitable, and retraced his steps +towards home. + +It was late in the evening when he approached the door; the street-lamps +had long been lighted; the shops in Upper Street were all brilliantly +illuminated as he passed by; the pavements were crowded with people, +well-dressed, lively, happy, thoughtless; with women going to make their +purchases; with women only curious to look through the windows at the +goods displayed within; with men on their way from the City to Holloway +and Highbury; with the husbands, and the brothers, and the lovers of the +females, who were going shopping, or window-gazing, with idlers and +loungers of all descriptions—amongst whom Brian made his way, with a +dull, stupid sorrow tearing at his heart, with a conviction that he was +going home to meet something very dreadful—something that he still +doubted whether he should have strength of mind to meet. + +He lifted his hand to the knocker, and rapped hesitatingly for +admittance. When the servant opened the door she put her apron to her +eyes, and said, “Oh! sir——” + +“I have heard,” Brian interrupted, sharp and stern, and walked straight +into the parlour. + +There sat Geraldine—her eyes red with weeping, her cheeks pale with +watching. Mrs. Gyton was holding one hand, and Frank the other, while a +man whom Brian had never seen before was standing with his back to the +fire, talking vehemently and positively. + +At sight of Brian, he stopped short, and while Geraldine, with a cry, +ran towards her brother, he stooped down and inquired of Mr. Gyton who +the new comer might be. + +“Her brother,” was the answer; and when Brian came forward into the +room, he found his hand clasped in that of the stranger, who said— + +“It is a poor welcome home for you, this—but we did all for her we +could.” + +“May I ask your name?” Brian’s tone was as quiet as though nothing +unusual were lying in the house. + +“Murphy—at your service. It is many a year since I saw you; and it is +just the same time since I saw your poor mother. God help her! she must +have gone through an awful lot of trouble. I can remember her as +young-looking as your sister is now, with her hair as soft and dark +every bit as yours, Miss; but there is one comfort, she can feel no more +sorrow where she is gone: women’s heads are not turned grey with grief +there. Just let him be,” he whispered to Francis Gyton. “You know he +must feel it, so do not try to get him to put on a face before you.” + +Brian had sat down at the table and rested his head on his hand. All at +once he looked up, with no dimness in his eye, with no hesitation in his +voice— + +“I should like to see her,” he said; “may I go up stairs?” + +Geraldine rose to go with him, but Mr. Murphy gently pushed her aside. + +“With your permission,” he observed, taking one of the candles off the +table, and he and Brian left the room. + +“Did you attend her?” Brian asked. + +“No, I was only called in last night. She had a very good doctor, +though—very good. The whole College of Surgeons could not have saved +her, nor all the physicians in London to the back of that.” + +“It was sudden, I suppose?” Brian scarcely spoke above a whisper, and he +drew Mr. Murphy nervously into the drawing-room, still evidently +unwilling to look upon the dead. + +“Towards the last, very; but these cases always are sudden. She must +have known how it would end for a considerable time past.” + +“Can you tell me if she had been long under treatment?” + +“Twelve months, her doctor says; but your sister never knew a syllable +of what was the matter with her. She does not appear to have told a +living soul belonging to her a word about her disease.” + +“And was it incurable from the first?” + +“Yes.” + +“Could money have kept her with us a little longer? had anxiety any +share in hastening her death?” + +“I do not know; I cannot tell. Anxiety always aggravates sickness, as a +rule; and money also, as a rule, alleviates it; but in this particular +case I cannot say. I do not know how she has lived; I can only guess how +she must have suffered.” + +There was a moment’s silence; then Mr. Murphy said, “Are you ready?” and +Brian bent his head in answer. + +The bed-chamber opened off the drawing-room with folding-doors: as Mr. +Murphy turned the handle of one of these, Brian put his hand on the +surgeon’s and held it so tight that he could not shoot back the lock. + +“Shall we wait a while?” he asked. + +“No—no;” and Brian relaxed his grasp and put up his right hand to his +head, as though, fancying he had on his hat, he was going to remove it. + +The bed was made, and unoccupied; there was a fearful formality in the +arrangement of the furniture; something terrible in the prim, frigid +neatness which pervaded the apartment. + +There had been a space cleared in the centre, and there on trestles +stood the shell. + +Mr. Murphy laid his hand on the lid, and looked inquiringly at his +companion. + +Brian nodded, and the surgeon pushed the lid aside. + +There she lay; there she slept the sleep that on this side eternity +knows no waking. She had been tossed by the billows; she had been amid +the waves; she had been buffeted by the winds; she had been beaten +hither and thither by the world’s storms; she had crossed the ocean of +suffering; she had been out in seas of trouble; she had felt the deeps +go over her head, and passed through torrents of tribulation—but it was +all over now—the voyage, the fear, the struggle, the misery—for the Lord +had taken her, after much weariness, unto Himself to rest, and she was +at last brought by Him “unto the haven where she would be.” + +There she lay, with the wrinkles smoothed out of her face; with the +lines care had written erased from her forehead; with the beauty of her +youth almost restored to her—so unlike what she had been in her later +life, so different to what he could remember her, that Brian Drewitt +looked in Mr. Murphy’s face incredulously. + +“That is not my mother?” he said; and he drew back a step. + +“It is all you will ever again see for your mother here,” was the reply, +uttered slowly and thoughtfully. + +Brian stooped over the coffin. Mr. Murphy always believed he was +listening to hear if she breathed; but he was only touching her lips +with his lips—only silently whispering words of tenderness—of passionate +sorrow—that he had a vague feeling she might understand, though she +could never answer. + +“Would you mind leaving me for a minute?” he said, at last. “Would you +go into the next room and wait for me?—if you go down stairs some of +them will be coming up.” + +Without uttering a syllable, Mr. Murphy placed the candle on the +chimneypiece, and left Brian, closing the folding-doors after him. + +The surgeon thought that very likely Brian wanted to have a good cry +unnoticed—unpitied. He had seen as strong natures weeping in their agony +and despair. He knew the blow must have been heavy—the wound sharp; and +he knew, likewise, that at such times sorrow must have its way in some +form or other: for all of which reasons, he left Brian willingly, and, +walking to one of the windows in the drawing-room, lifted a corner of +the blind and looked out. + +Had he been able to see what was passing in the inner chamber, he would +scarcely have remained contemplating the wet street and the flickering +gas-lamps for so long. + +At the head of his mother’s coffin Brian stood erect; one arm was +stretched out over the dead, and he was swearing an oath, to himself, +full of vengeance and of hate. Beside her coffin he was pouring out +imprecations on all who had ever caused her misery—just as Maxwell had +said the peasants sat beside their desolate hearths, cursing the men who +had taken the roofs off their heads, and left them without a shelter +from the storm. + +There were no tears in Brian Drewitt’s eyes—there was no softness in +Brian Drewitt’s heart. We had best come out and close the door, and +leaving him alone; for the days were nigh at hand when he repented him +of his blasphemy—when he covered his face, and acknowledged his sin, and +bowed his head, while that angel of the Lord,—which teaches unto men all +manner of good things—suffering—showed him how God’s ways are not as +man’s ways—how they are eternally wise and eternally just, although, to +our short-sightedness, they may oftentimes seem indeed inscrutable and +past finding out. + + + + + CHAPTER XV. + Madcap’s last Leap. + + +There was a great meet of the Duranmore foxhounds at Kincorth, and on +the lawn and about the drive were hunters in abundance: gentlemen in +scarlet coats and buckskins by the dozen, grooms _ad libitum_, and +hangers-on past counting. + +It was a clear, bright morning. Every man’s spirits were of the highest; +every man’s girths of the tightest; everybody was expecting prime sport; +and the breakfast of which they had just partaken was one certainly not +calculated to damp their courage or to retard their pace. + +Wine had been drunk freely—conversation had circulated more freely +still. Mr. Maxwell Drewitt was a good host, and knew how to make his +guests comfortable; and the absence of a lady of the house tended, in +the opinion of most present, to make the repast pleasanter still. Mr. +Drewitt was perhaps the gayest of all present. He laughed, he joked, he +talked, he drank—not to excess—but certainly beyond his wont; and he +backed his mare, Madcap, to leap Durrow River—if, as was most likely, +the fox took that course—better than the youngest hunter on the lawn. +“She is nine years old,” he said; “but I would not change her for any +other animal in my stable.” + +“It is a shame for you to be hunting her still,” remarked Mr. Frost, who +was Lady Marsden’s nephew. + +“It would be a shame for you to hunt her,” retorted Maxwell; “for you +ride, I suppose, thirteen stone every pound of it; but I, who am a light +weight, cannot possibly distress her; and then she loves the tally-ho! +and the long swinging gallop after the hounds as much as either of us.” + +They had all risen from table by this time, and were standing, some on +the lawn, some in the hall, some on the drive, making altogether a +bright and animated picture. + +Nothing prettier indeed in its way can be imagined than the scene at +Kincorth that morning. Far below lay Duranmore Bay, with its green +islands shining like emeralds in the beams of the midday sun. Although +it was winter, the morning had broken up clear and bright and pleasant; +the mountains were not enveloped in mists; you could see over the +country for miles and miles; in the distance the Twelve Pins showed blue +and distinct against the sky, while for foreground the looker-on had the +lawn and trees and gardens of Kincorth; steeds plunging and pawing; +grooms running hither and thither; the dogs kept in order by the +whipper-in, and red coats and buckskins and top-boots appearing at every +turn. + +The fulness of life seemed to be in that place at that moment; it was +impossible to imagine sickness prostrating one of those men, sorrow +touching one of their hearts, anguish wringing one of their souls. + +The winter’s sun looked down upon the scene, brightening and beautifying +all it touched. + +“One moment, Mr. Drewitt, if you please.” It was Ryan, who spoke to his +employer when Maxwell came out to mount. + +“Make haste, then.” + +“I should like to see you alone.” + +“What a fool you must be, Ryan, coming at this time! I cannot leave my +guests. Say what you have got to say here, or else leave it to a more +convenient opportunity.” + +“I must speak to you in private. Lead your horse up to that privet +hedge, if you do not wish to come into the house, for speak to you I +must and will.” + +Maxwell looked at the man who uttered these words, looked at him from +head to foot, but Ryan never flinched. + +“I am in earnest,” he said; “and I am sober. Let me speak to you; I will +not keep you five minutes.” + +Mr. Drewitt flung the reins to a groom. + +“Hold her a second,” he said, and turned aside with his lawyer. + +“Now, what excuse have you to make for intruding upon me?” he fiercely +demanded: “what do you mean by coming up here at such a time?” + +“I have a letter from London this morning,” said Ryan. “Mrs. Drewitt is +dead.” + +“How the devil does her death concern me?” asked Maxwell. + +“It concerns me,” answered Ryan. “There is her son dead—here is she +dead. Mr. Drewitt, I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it any longer.” + +“What do you mean? Do you think I killed them?” + +“Yes, I do,” returned Ryan; “you and I between us. I wish to God I had +let old Neill do his worst! I wish to the Lord I had been hung, drawn, +and quartered, before I ever was indebted to you for sixpence! But I +won’t hold my tongue any longer. You promised me to do well for Mrs. +Drewitt and her children, and this is the end of it—this!” + +“Ryan, you are drunk,” said his employer, putting a curb upon his temper +as he spoke. + +“If I am, it is on grief then,” was the reply. “Oh! why did I ever put +it in your power to beggar them—to send them away from home, and +friends, and all, to die!” + +“That is a question you ought to be able to answer for yourself without +any difficulty,” sneered Maxwell Drewitt; “and as for holding your +tongue, or not holding it, you can exercise your own discretion. I am +not in your power. You may try to ruin me if you like, but you will only +ruin yourself. You may say you gave the later will to me, and added the +codicil to the former will yourself, at my dictation; but you have only +your own word; you have no proof, no corroborative evidence. And look +here, Ryan,” he added; “so sure as you begin a game of that kind, I will +have you shut up in a mad-house for life. Poor fool! you thought to +frighten me, I suppose. Go home, man, go home; I am not such a born +idiot as to let any created being have the whip-hand of me.” + +“But I have the whip-hand of you,” answered Ryan; “and if you don’t do +the thing that is right by that woman’s children, by—I’ll use it. I am +no fool either, Maxwell Drewitt. Yes, for all your properties, you are +no more than Maxwell Drewitt to me now. And I knew that that Campnell +you are so taken on with is your own son, and that it was he, not Harold +Drewitt, who should have stood in the dock. Ha! have I touched you at +last? Who is the fool now? Can nobody put two and two together, do you +think, but yourself? I won’t keep silence,” he went on passionately; “it +was only last night I was dreaming about Mrs. Drewitt, and I thought she +came to the foot of my bed and said: ‘Ryan, you know all about that +robbery; clear my poor boy’s memory.’ And I believe she was there, that +is, her spirit. I am sure she came and parted the curtains, and spoke +just those very words to me; and I will clear his memory, unless you +give back Kincorth, or Kincorth’s value, to him who has the best right +to it.” + +“They are waiting for me, and I must go,” said Maxwell Drewitt, and his +voice sounded so strange and unnatural, that Ryan’s rage was quieted for +the moment. “What do you mean to do?” he asked. + +“What do you mean to do?” and Maxwell faced round on him like a maniac. + +“I mean to go to London and tell Brian Drewitt all,” was the reply. + +“You can tell nothing without criminating yourself,” said Maxwell. + +“I know that.” + +“And you will tell him—about—tell him of what you suspect, in short?” + +“Yes, everything. I swore long ago I would be even with you one day; and +I will be even with you now.” + +“Are you sure?” + +“Yes, I am;” and the pair drew back a step or two from one another, and +looked each in his enemy’s face as they had done years before—years and +years previously, in that little cottage down by the sea. + +“I don’t think you will,” began Maxwell, after he had stared for a +moment full into Ryan’s eyes; “I don’t think you will. You say Arthur +Campnell is my son, and you say right; but you have not said who Arthur +Campnell’s mother is. Can you guess?” + +“No, and do not want to guess. What can it signify to me who she was?” + +“Will you guess?” + +“I have told you I will not.” + +“Shall I tell you her name?” + +“If you like.” + +“Do you ask me to tell you?” + +“I do not.” + +“Then I will tell you without your asking. Arthur Campnell’s mother +lives over at Durrow, and her husband’s name is Connor. Now do your +worst. The man must get up very early in the morning who means to play +card against card with me.” + +“You are the damndest villain, and the most cursed liar!” + +“Am I? Go and ask your sister if I lie.” + +“I will; and if I find you are lying, as I feel sure you are—if I make +sure you have thrown dirt on her name to shield your son from disgrace, +then, Maxwell Drewitt, then the dogs pity your cries, for I won’t. I +swear I won’t!” + +But he spoke the last words to the air, for Mr. Drewitt had already left +him, and was walking rapidly across the lawn to the spot where his horse +stood. + +In his heart he was cursing the hunt and the guests, the sunshine and +the breeze; and as he rode to the piece of plantation on the side of +Calgillan Hill, where the underwood was thick and the fox hidden away, +he wished he had sent Ryan out of the country long before, and that, let +come or go what would, he had not told him anything about Jenny, whom he +had betrayed and ruined and deserted in the years that were now so very +far behind him—in the years that could return no more. + +“You were right—he has made for Durrow,” said Mr. Frost; and the words +were scarcely out of his lips before the hounds were off in full cry, +and the horses off after them. + +On and away; galloping across the fields; leaping the eternal stone +fences; plunging through bogs; dashing over the moorland—in the +excitement of that mad ride Maxwell forgot everything save the wild +pleasure which is caused by passing at the full top of a horse’s speed +through the air—forgot everything save the pace at which Madcap was +going, and the ease with which she took her leaps. + +“Now for the river!” he said, and as though Madcap had heard his words, +she laid back her ears, and bounded on like a thing possessed, towards +the bank. + +Age had not stiffened her limbs, nor crippled her pace. There was not a +horse in the field could keep up with her save one, and that was a +hunter belonging to Captain Crabbe, and ridden by that gentleman’s son, +who, having been trying all the way to pass Madcap, now shot by, almost +touching the chesnut as he did so, and eliciting a volley of oaths from +Maxwell for his awkwardness. + +Boring on the bit, Madcap tore along. All her spirit was up, and she +flew after Captain Crabbe’s fleabitten old screw, as Maxwell had often +contemptuously called the horse, like the wind. + +Maxwell had his work cut out to hold her. It was a beautiful piece of +turf, smooth and level as a bowling-green. There was no break, no pause, +till they came to the river, which ran broad and deep between two steep +and awkward banks away to the sea. Mr. Crabbe was already close on the +brink; but at that very moment, when he thought he was going to beat the +chesnut for ever—when with a blow of his heel and cut of his whip he was +urging his horse to the leap, the brute swerved suddenly round, and +sticking its plain ugly neck out straight before it, galloped back as +hard as it could go along the way it had come. + +Mr. Crabbe, taken completely unawares by this sudden manœuvre, had +scarcely recovered himself from the shock of the sudden baulk before +there came a tremendous crash. + +Maxwell, tearing on for the leap himself, could not get out of the way. +He saw the collision coming, but was powerless to avert it. He felt a +shock just as though a battering ram had come up against him; a shock +which lifted him right out of the saddle—lifted him so high, that he +could remember the reins being jerked out of his hand; and then he came +down flat, with his back on the ground and his face to the sky; in which +position he lay while the whole field jumped over him. + +“Drewitt’s down—Drewitt’s dead!” was the shout; but not a man could stop +his horse to look after him until Mr. Frost, who had not been going at +quite so furious a pace as the others, managed to pull up, and dismount. + +“I’m not dead,” Maxwell managed to say, “but I’m badly hurt; don’t touch +me. I didn’t try to move because I knew the horses would leap me, and +that if I stirred I should likely have my brains knocked out. Let me lie +quiet for a while; don’t stop for me, go on.” + +But there were about half a dozen gathered about him by this time who +would not go on; who sent to the nearest cabin and had a door taken off +its hinges, on which Maxwell, groaning with pain, was laid gently and +tenderly. + +“The mare?” he said; but nobody answered him. + +“The mare?” he repeated, and Mr. Frost asked— + +“Where is the chesnut? he wants to know.” + +“She is all right,” answered some one. + +“You are not telling me the truth?” Maxwell said, turning his eyes on +the speaker, for he was too much shaken to move his head. “I want to +know about the mare.” + +“Well, then, if you must know, poor old Madcap has taken her last leap, +and she died in taking it.” + +The injured man made no answer; he closed his eyes; whilst all the +people around looked at one another. + +There was not a person present who did not feel grieved at Madcap’s end. + +She had been to each of them almost as a friend—so gallant, so fleet, so +daring, so proud of herself, and her small head, and her arched neck, +and her flowing mane, and her shining coat—so proud, so petted, so +dainty, so conceited, and so beautiful, that Lord Marsden once said, “He +thought there must be a woman’s soul inside her, for that he had never +seen an animal give herself such airs and graces before.” + +Poor Chessy—poor Madcap! She had made on like the rest for her leap, and +taken it—taken it at the worst point she could have chosen. Missing her +footing on the other side, she fought desperately for a moment to keep +herself from slipping while she tried to scramble up the bank. One man +made a clutch at her bridle, but missed it, fortunately, perhaps, for +him; for, with a scream almost such as a human being might have uttered, +she fell backwards into the river. + +Flynn had always said she was as sensible as a Christian, and those who +saw that mad struggle for life, who heard that sound which is never +uttered by a horse, save under the influence of some terrible pain, or +some frightful fear, thought that Madcap must have had a kind of human +comprehension of what the river’s bed held for her—great blocks of +granite, which cut her all to bits; huge stones, against which she was +knocked all to pieces; and just enough water to float her, lying on her +side and kicking convulsively, down the stream, which was dyed red with +her blood. + +Poor Madcap—poor beauty! She kept her head up as long as she could, but +soon her strength failed, her neck sank below the surface, the water +filled her nostrils, and before many minutes it was all over. + +“She had,” as Maxwell’s informant truly said, “taken her last leap, and +died in taking it.” + +“And there’s not her like left in Ireland,” remarked Flynn, who in the +course of the afternoon dragged her, stiff and stark, out of the river, +at a curve half a mile below where the accident happened, and then he +fell to sobbing over her like a child. + +“I’ll hamstring that brute of Crabbe’s the first time I get the chance,” +he said to the grooms who came with him; “a score of such ill-looking +divils wouldn’t make one of her. Not but what we must all die some day,” +he concluded; “and I don’t know that I wouldn’t as soon she had died +that way as any other.” + +As for Maxwell, in the midst of his own pain, in the midst of his own +agony, he could not get the thought of that dead animal out of his mind. + +It was not because he had ever cared for her, as some men do care for +their horses; it was not that her wise, winning ways, her playful +tricks, her never-failing spirit had made him feel for her any real +affection; but he had been proud of her, vain of her. She had been his, +and she was the best mare in the county; and above and beyond all this, +there seemed to Maxwell something more than mere accident about the +whole affair. + +Like many men who are utterly irreligious, he was superstitious; and, +lying there with his eyes shut, his mind was busy, piecing, in a kind of +delirium, past, present, and future into a connected whole. + +He saw Brian bidding his farewell to that mare the night he left +Kincorth and went out into the world. He saw Harold taking that +desperate leap at the Headlands; and he remembered, at the same time, +that Harold was dead. He had heard that morning of Mrs. Drewitt’s death; +he had been asked by Ryan to act justly at last by his uncle’s living +children—and he refused. Ryan had threatened him; and he in return +stabbed the lawyer in his tenderest point. + +He had ridden out on Harold’s mare; and now Madcap was dead, too; while +he was being carried, though he did not know it, straight as the mare +who bore him could go to Durrow. + +The same thing, or worse, might have happened, no matter on what horse +he had been mounted; but, as the “wicked flee when no man pursueth,” so +the wicked likewise are apt to be superstitious about circumstances to +which better men would attach no importance; and the fever, which was +already upon him, made Maxwell look at all things with a fearful and +troubled mind. + +He thought of what Ryan had said about Mrs. Drewitt; and he wondered if, +when he was alone, she would come and stand at the foot of his bed, too. + +How many more times was Harold going to take that hedge?—how often was +his uncle’s head to drop forward on Brian’s breast? He knew they were +carrying him to Kincorth; for he could see Kathleen standing at the +hall-door; and Jenny, too—Jenny, with a child in her arms; he and she +were wandering through the glen. They could not get the cover of the +will opened—the seals would not break. They need not mind—he could tell +them what was in the codicil—he had got Ryan to add it. Yes, and he +could let them into a secret about what would make ink look faded! What +was that? Was the house falling? He was going up in the air—up—up—up; +and then his mind ceased to wander—for he fainted. + + + + + CHAPTER XVI. + After long Years. + + +Ryan stood in the spot where Maxwell had left him until the riders were +all gone—until the last red coat, the last groom, the last whipper-in, +had disappeared from view; then, like a man rousing him from a dream, he +moved slowly away, and took the hill-path towards Durrow. + +Most men have some sense of honour—some point where, if you cut down +deep enough, blood will spout out; and a woman’s virtue was that +sensitive place in Timothy Ryan. + +To him it seemed that a woman should be pure as snow—that for her fame +to be breathed on was for it to be sullied. He had his own ideal of what +the sex should be: and that ideal was very lofty and very beautiful. +Pretty well he knew what men were; he knew more of their bad than of +their good, perhaps; but women! + +The angels were not purer or more holy than the generality of women, in +Ryan’s estimation; and one of the women whom he had loved, honoured, and +adored, for many a year past, was his own sister, of whom Maxwell had +asserted such things as made his very heart stand still. + +But he did not believe it—he would not believe it unless her own lips +condemned her. While he walked across the hills he kept saying this to +himself, and then he would hurry on for a few steps, only again to stop +and linger—linger by the way. + +He sat down on blocks of granite, and pulled the grass and heather up by +the roots, while he thought the matter over, till he went almost mad. + +His own life had not been peculiarly honest or honourable. He had done +many a dirty trick; he had helped Maxwell Drewitt to serve many a man a +mean turn; he had not been scrupulous in the way of business; he had +lent a hand at forging the codicil; he had given, or, rather, allowed +Maxwell to take the second will. + +He had not been at all nice as to what filth he put his hand into, and +he had not felt many qualms of conscience in his life; but now, behold, +there was a spot on his sister’s robe, and he could not bear it; could +not endure to think she had deceived him and her husband, and—and +everybody, thought the poor fellow. + +“I will not believe it,” he ended. “I will go on; I will ask her about +the matter, and then I will return to Kincorth and cram his words down +his lying throat if there were a hundred people with him; for I will not +believe Jenny could be bad—I will not—I will not.” + +It was easy enough to say this—easy enough to repeat the words over and +over, over and over again—but, alas! the more he repeated them the less +he believed them; the more surely conviction stole over his heart that +Jenny had once fallen from her high estate; that Jenny was not pure, not +innocent, not what he had fondly imagined his sister, and Connor’s wife, +and the mother of her children, to be—a woman as much above fear as +beyond reproach. + +Onwards towards Durrow, with the mountains to his right hand and the +Atlantic to his left. But Ryan never looked either to right or left; +never looked, that is, noticing the hills or the sea. His heart was full +to bursting. He had been a bad man, and an unscrupulous, and now the +hour of reckoning was at hand. His health was ruined by drinking, his +nerves were shattered, he had been unhinged by hearing of Mrs. Drewitt’s +death, and now it seemed to him as though sorrows were multiplying upon +him, while he paused at intervals, and asked himself— + +“What if it be true—what if he did not speak falsely after all?” + +Mrs. Connor was alone, and sitting at work in one of the upper rooms, +when her brother entered. He was a frequent visitor, so Jenny did not +attach any importance to his coming till he had been seated for a few +minutes, when, noticing the anxious, troubled expression of his face, +she asked him what was the matter, whether anything was amiss. + +“There is a good deal amiss, Jenny, that I want to talk with you about. +Is Dennis out?” + +“Yes, he has gone to Duranmore, I think. What is wrong, Timothy? Can I +be of any use to you? Is it money? Sure Dennis is always willing to lend +to you when he has it. What is wrong? Tell me.” + +She had laid down her work, and was close beside him. She was a woman +who never could grow old—who had such gentle, clinging ways, such +loving, winning manners, that she was always to Ryan the young sister, +the sweet Jenny whom he had once trembled might go off with Maxwell. + +Once! what was that dread to this? + +“It is not money, Jenny,” he answered. “I wish to God it were! I have +got many a thing to say to you. Go back to your chair, dear, and sit +down. Let me see, where was I?” + +“Going to tell me about this trouble that has come to you,” she said. It +never struck her it could be any trouble relating to her; she had been +safe for so long. There were none alive that knew her secret who would +reveal it; through the years it had never oozed out, and she did not +imagine that after long years her sin could be brought to her +remembrance by any human being. + +“I have bad news, Jenny,” he began, after a moment’s hesitation. She sat +with her hands folded together in her lap, her eyes fixed on his face, +her lips a little parted, and he felt he could not plunge into _that_ +question without leading up to it in some indirect manner. “I have bad +news. Mrs. Drewitt is dead!” + +“Dead!” Mrs. Connor repeated, and the slight colour faded out of her +cheeks, and her eyes brimmed full of tears. “I am very sorry to hear it. +She was a nice lady.” + +“And hardly done by.” + +“I am afraid she was. My heart was sore for her that night she came here +after Mr. Drewitt’s funeral. How did you hear about it, Timothy? did Mr. +Brian write to Mr. Maxwell?” + +“Mr. Brian will never write to Mr. Maxwell, and small blame to him for +it. No, it was Mr. Murphy wrote to me, whatever possessed him—Murphy +that used to be with Sheen, I mean, who was so sweet on you. He’s a +great man now, I believe. Somebody told me he was making two or three +thousand a-year; but maybe it is not true.” + +“She did not stay long after Mr. Harold. I wonder if it was the fretting +killed her.” + +“I don’t know, I am sure—likely as not, for she worshipped the ground he +walked on. He was a fine lad.” + +“He was,” answered Jenny, simply; “but I was fondest of Mr. Brian.” + +“Did you ever see anybody Harold favoured?” asked Ryan, suddenly. + +“Never. Mr. Pryor always said he was the image of his cousin. I never +could see it, though.” + +“Mr. Pryor was right; but there is another person who is more like +Harold than his cousin ever was; that is, another person who must have +been like Harold when he was Harold’s age.” + +“Who is that?” + +“Mr. Campnell, the young gentleman who was at Kincorth last autumn.” + +“I never saw him.” But the colour came back into her cheek, and her eyes +drooped under the look of eager, anxious inquiry her brother fixed upon +her. + +“Say that again, Jenny; say you never saw him.” + +“I never saw him,” she repeated. + +“Is it the truth you are telling me, or is it a lie?” He rose in his +suspense and misery, and stood directly facing her. + +“Why should I tell you a lie about the matter?” she asked. “What can Mr. +Campnell be to me that I should fear to speak the truth? I never set +eyes on him.” + +“And yet Maxwell Drewitt told me, not two hours ago, you were his +mother?” + +The work she had taken up again dropped from her fingers; she lifted her +face to her brother’s with a cry of helpless despair. Against any other +testimony she might have maintained her innocence; but it was useless to +attempt any further denial. Against him—false first and last—false as +cruel—deceitful as relentless—there was no appeal. + +“You need not speak, Jenny,” he said; “you need not rack your brain to +think what other falsehood you can coin to try and deceive me. I see it +is all true. Oh! Jenny, Jenny.” + +She did not say a word—she could not say a word—she was so stunned, so +confused, so wretched, that she could do nothing but sit and wonder if +the misery of the past would all have to be endured over again; if she +had not suffered enough then, that this fresh disgrace was come to +her—that this blow had been dealt to her by _him_. + +“I suppose this was the reason you would not marry for so long. I +suppose this was what made you refuse offer after offer, and live on +single till I’m sure I thought you never were going to be a wife at all. +But though you deceived me, Jenny, I hope you did not deceive him. I +hope you never let any honest man take you as you were, ignorantly.” + +She put out her hands, and there came such a look of horror into her +white face as made Ryan turn round to see what could have caused it. + +Behind him stood Connor, who, having heard the last part of his +brother-in-law’s sentence, asked hoarsely what they were talking +about—what it all meant. + +“It means, I ought never to have married you, Dennis,” she broke out +passionately. “It means, I am all he says, and worse. It means, that +years, and years, and years ago I sinned, and that now my sin has found +me out.” + +“What is it?” he repeated. “I do not understand it at all. Are you both +mad? What is it, Tim? Tell me what she says.” + +“She says she is not what we both took her to be,” answered Ryan, +bitterly. “She confesses—that—that boy Maxwell Drewitt has ‘adopted’ is +her son, and his son, and their son.” + +“And God knows, Dennis, that many a time I would have given anything to +have been able to tell you this—that when you have been telling me how +happy—” the poor creature’s voice was choked with sobs—“how happy you +were, I felt my heart turn cold, thinking about my fault. I did not want +to marry you, Dennis; you know I didn’t. And I have been true and +faithful to you since; and I was so young, and I am the mother of your +children, and you have had every thought of my heart, and every bit of +my love, since ever you took me home. Won’t you forgive, Dennis?—sure +you couldn’t cast me off?” + +She stretched out her arms towards him, but he made no step forward to +take her to him. He averted his face that he might not look at the woman +who had deceived him; who had lain in his bosom, and lived with him +through the years and borne him children, knowing what she knew about +herself all the time. + +“Dennis!” and she was going to fling herself at his feet, but her +brother prevented her. + +“Connor,” he said, holding her back, and standing resolutely between +them, “I don’t ask you—I can’t ask you to keep her. She has brought +shame and disgrace to both of us. She is no more to you now than if she +had never been your wife; but she is my own sister just the same as +ever; so I will e’en take her with me;” and suiting the action to the +word, Ryan drew her arm within his and led her, spite of her struggles +and remonstrances towards the door. + +It was stern justice, stern and sharp, and Jenny rebelled against it. + +“Let me go back to him,” she said; “don’t try to take me from him, Tim. +He is not that hard—he will listen to me, and forgive me.” + +They had reached the door by this time, and one of her children, her +youngest, came running along the passage, calling out “Mammy—Mammy.” + +At the words she fought to free herself, and succeeding, caught the +little fellow to her heart and covered his face with kisses. + +Very resolutely, Ryan took the boy from her and setting him down, said— + +“Run away, Johnny, and play yourself; run away, you have no mother now;” +and he drew his sister’s arm in his once more and walked on towards the +head of the staircase. + +This time Jenny made no effort to free herself; no struggle to return. +With the full sense of her dishonour brought home by that one solitary +sentence, she staggered forward, weeping bitter tears for her shame and +their disgrace. + +Weeping for a stain that the floods of Niagara could not have washed +away; for hearts broken; for sin discovered; for confidence abused; for +love betrayed! + +So they descended the stairs together; she crying audibly; he weeping +tears not to be noticed of men, but seen of God—tears not of brine from +his eyes, but of blood from his heart. + +So, clasping her hand closer and tighter, he guided her down step by +step: he who had never forsaken her in joy or in sorrow—who was true to +her in bad report as in good—who, reckless and unscrupulous and +unprincipled though he might be in most things—who, fallen though he +knew her to be, was her faithful brother still. + +Step by step they descended that broad staircase; but when they reached +the bottom, a hoarse voice called after them to stop; and Connor, +running down the flight, laid his hand on Jenny’s shoulder. + +“Give me my wife!” he said; “she has been a good wife to me, and you +shall not take her from me. Jenny, haven’t you loved me? haven’t you +been true to me since we came together? Only say that, and I won’t mind +the rest. I’ll try to forget it, Jenny—I’ll think it was a bad dream. +There—there—darling; don’t fret. I was stunned like for the minute; but +I could not have let you go; no, I couldn’t, dear, I couldn’t.” + +Her arms were about his neck; her head was resting on his shoulder; her +tears were falling like rain; and she was striving to articulate some +words of thankfulness and blessing, when there was a trampling over the +ground outside of many horses’ hoofs, and of many men’s feet; then a +loud knocking; and then followed a scene of indescribable confusion. + +“It was nearer to bring him here than take him to Kincorth. Shall we +carry him upstairs? He is not dead, though he is badly hurt. Who is it, +d’ye say? It is Mr. Drewitt; who else? He was thrown just on the other +side Durrow River; and the chesnut mare is killed.” + +“God help us!” exclaimed Connor. + +“And we have sent for the doctor; and there’s a heap of gentlemen +outside there; and shall we take him upstairs, or will you make him up a +bed down here? That would be best, if you could do it.” + +“Where is he hurt?” + +“Sorra a one of me knows,” answered the man addressed; “he groaned that +bad at first, I am sure you might have heard him up here; but he’s +fainted now, I think. Likely as not he won’t get over it.” + +By this time several of the gentlemen had alighted and entered the +house. From them Connor learned the particulars of the accident. + +“The rest are gone after the fox,” said Mr. Frost; “but I have have had +enough hunting for to-day; and so I think have my friends here. I never +was more upset in my life.” + +Whereupon Mr. Connor suggested that a little whiskey might not be +unacceptable; or “some wine,” he added. “Mr. Pryor’s Madeira is very +good, I’m told.” + +“Let us have two or three bottles up, then. I should like to hear the +doctor’s opinion of Mr. Drewitt. I have been thinking since, that we +ought perhaps to have taken him to Kincorth; for I suspect he won’t be +able to move from here for many and many a day—unless, indeed, he is +moved away in his coffin.” + +“Well, sir, we must only do our best for him, if he does stay,” answered +Connor, who could not, at such a time, remember his own injuries, or +nurse his own anger. + +Sickness, like death, is a great soother of human passions; and Maxwell +Drewitt’s state was for a long time sufficiently critical to render it +doubtful whether he should ever leave Durrow again, except for his +grave. + +Day followed day—week succeeded to week—and month to month—but still +Maxwell was unable to leave his bed. What he thought of, as he lay +there, weak and faint and helpless, who can tell?—not even Jenny could +imagine—though, judging by the words he let fall in his delirium, his +reveries could scarcely, during convalescence, have been pleasant. + +All through that illness he was nursed and tended by the people he had +injured—by Ryan and Connor and Jenny; and that he ever recovered +sufficiently to leave Durrow and return to Kincorth, was owing more to +their care and attention than to any other cause. + +But Maxwell was not grateful for their kindness. I think he hated them +all bitterly for thus heaping coals of fire upon his head. I believe he +could have struck Ryan when he told him how he had kept forwarding money +to Mr. Campnell, at that gentleman’s request, without waiting for Mr. +Drewitt’s recovery, or troubling him on the subject till he should +regain his strength. + +“And in a letter I had from him the other day,” proceeded the lawyer, +“he says he wishes you would reconsider your decision and purchase him a +commission, as he should prefer a soldier’s life to any other.” + +“If he choose a soldier’s life he must go as a private, and never look +for a shilling from me,” retorted Mr. Drewitt. “The boy is a fool, and +he must be brought to his senses.” + + + + + CHAPTER XVII. + The Beginning of the End. + + +Once again the summer sun was shining over Kincorth—brightly as on the +day this story opened—and under the shadow of the overarching trees +Maxwell Drewitt stood gazing up at the house just as he had done +twenty-five years previously. + +He was then three-and-twenty; he was now eight-and-forty: he was then +full of youth and health and strength; he was now older than his age, a +man stricken and feeble, who might never have a vigorous body or a sound +constitution again. That fall, though it had failed to kill, had yet +injured him permanently. He could know no more what it was to be free +from ache and pain, to care nothing about the weather, to be insensible +to fatigue, to have an iron frame, an indomitable spirit. + +A minute—less than a minute—had sufficed to make him a perfect wreck; a +worn, sickly man, who, having formed no sweet home-ties for himself in +the days of his strength, was now, in the time of his weakness, lonely +and desolate. + +Upon him the sunlight that streamed through the branches of the trees +fell brightly, as they had fallen brightly, if you remember, +five-and-twenty years before. He was starting on life’s journey then; +that journey was nearly over now. + +He had planned then, he had hoped. The plans were now realities, the +hopes certainties. He had longed to possess, and Kincorth was his. He +had determined to be wealthy, and behold he had gold at his command. He +had resolved to make the name of Drewitt notable, and the name of +Drewitt had become remarkable. He had declared he would make the estate +valuable, the property something to talk about, and in the length and +breadth of Connemara there were not two lovelier places than Kincorth +and Headlands. He had made up his mind to have his revenge, and uncle +and aunt and youngest-born were all gone to their graves, poor, and +stricken, and sorrowful, while Brian was a clerk in London—Brian, who +ought to have had Kincorth. + +If success be happiness, Maxwell Drewitt should have been a man without +a care; but the best-mounted horseman has as often that imp sitting +behind him on the crupper as the poorest man riding on the shaggiest +pony. Care, as a rule, indeed, loves high places, and care never left +Maxwell Drewitt’s side now by day or night. + +Care for his own life; care for the man who was to come after him; care +lest the winds of heaven might blow upon his own cheek too roughly; lest +Arthur, the only thing he had on earth belonging to him, should go +hopelessly astray. + +He was doing no good at college; he was spending money as though he had +an income of a thousand pounds a week; he was wild, he was reckless, he +was intractable; and yet Maxwell, in his own fashion, loved him, perhaps +on the same principle that a prisoner loves a rat; namely, because he +had nothing else to care for. + +And the youth knew this, and traded on it; winding the man who had never +been weak before round his finger as easily as Maxwell had wound others +in the days gone by. + +Of his son and of his health, Maxwell Drewitt was thinking while he +stood under the trees, looking up at Kincorth. He felt that for him, +life was over—life with its purposes, its hopes, its successes; and +occasionally he could not help asking himself how it would be when not +only the life of work was over, but the bare life—the living and +breathing that would, he knew, continue after every capacity for +exertion, every power of action had been taken from him. + +House to house, acre to acre, property to property! for this end—to be +standing with the best part of his existence—health—taken away from him; +thinking in solitude of that unknown world concerning which the clergy +preached continually; the secrets of which not one of the departed had +ever returned to reveal. + +The next world! There is a something very terrible to a man like Maxwell +Drewitt in the idea of leaving all he has most enjoyed, most coveted, +most valued, and going away to the cold and silent grave. He could not +bear it; he shrank from the reality of death; he turned away from the +grim spectre; he fled from the unwelcome thoughts that would intrude +themselves upon him. He could not bear to be alone; he would have +anybody to sit with him rather than remain in solitude. He wished he had +not quarrelled with his wife, and made overtures of reconciliation to +her; but Lady Emmeline, now resident in London, refused his offers, and +treated his advances with indifference and coldness. + +He could not get Ryan to come and chat with him, and the evenings were +frightful. He had no strength to endure the racket of company, and it +was not likely that the men he knew would take pity on an invalid, and +bear with his temper in sickness as they had borne with it in health. + +The rector would have come; but Maxwell, after one or two trials, +abandoned that experiment. + +He thought of going away, but he did not know where to go, and, besides, +it was in his nature to cling to his home and his country—to remain in +the midst of the scenery he knew so well rather than take up his abode +in the midst of a great city. He wished he had some one to stay always +with him, always to speak to, always to have at his elbow, whom he could +tell to drive away that demon who always would persist in reminding him +that the days were passing—passing; that there must come an hour when +soul and body would have to be parted—when time would be the shadow, and +eternity the substance. + +If he had even Wilhelmina; but Wilhelmina and her husband and her +children had sailed a year before for America. Susan was in the +country—that is, in England; but then he had always hated Susan, and he +had quarrelled fearfully with Captain, now Colonel, Ellenham about her +fortune. When that individual, who had long been a widower, discovered +that under Mr. Drewitt’s will Susan was entitled to a small fortune, he +married her forthwith; and over the matter of that fortune he and +Maxwell had exchanged such letters as few people have inclination to +send, or leisure to pen. + +No, he had not a soul excepting his son; and his son would not consent +to take up his abode permanently in Connemara—not, at any rate, until he +had seen the world. He wanted to be an officer—he would be an officer; +his father must purchase him a commission. + +In his very last letter he repeated this statement, and expressed a wish +that a remittance might be forwarded to him immediately. + +“I must stop the supplies,” Mr. Drewitt decided, as he walked away from +under the trees, and retraced his steps towards the house slowly and +painfully. “Yes, I must stop the supplies; that will bring him to his +senses.” + +The next letter from his son announced that he had gone to London, and +begged again for money. In reply, Maxwell referred him to his former +letter, and desired him to return home. + +During the week, Arthur wrote once more, and intimated that if “the +needful,” as he called it, were not forthcoming from Connemara, he must +get it elsewhere, and in some mode which might be disagreeable to his +father. + +The tone of the correspondence was, by this time, waxing warm, and +accordingly Mr. Drewitt answered— + +“That for Arthur’s own sake, he hoped he would get it honestly.” + +After that there came a lull; for a month there was not a line from this +unrepentant prodigal, and Maxwell was getting most seriously anxious +about his black sheep, when one morning the post brought two pleasant +pieces of intelligence to him at the same time: news that his son had +enlisted and that the mutiny in India had broken out. + +Arthur was very penitent, very submissive; he had seen quite enough of +soldiering to satisfy him. He wanted to be bought off. If his father +would but buy him off, he would do everything he required. He would +settle in Connemara, and never ask to stir outside the gates of +Kincorth, unless his father permitted him to do so. He would make it the +study of his life to obey and please his parent; he would thankfully +accept any conditions his father chose to impose. He confessed he had +been a bad son; that considering his birth, he had not estimated Mr. +Drewitt’s kindness at its proper value, and he wound up by imploring his +father to get him out of the service somehow. + +“I have got into, perhaps, the very worst regiment I could have done,” +he finished, “and our colonel is one of the most detestable men, they +tell me, in the whole of the British army. His name is Ellenham. + + “Your affectionate son.” + + +Maxwell dropped the letter on the carpet. Were his troubles to have no +end? Had he been prosperous for so long only that the tide might turn at +last, and bring nothing but sorrow to him on its waves? + +What had he done, that in middle life he should be stricken down in the +pride of his health and strength? + +Wherein did he now differ from the Maxwell of former years—that +everything he touched in those days should have gone well with him—while +nothing that he now desired would come to pass—nothing? + +In a moment he had grasped all the facts of the case—in a moment he +realized the complicated difficulties of his position. He knew, if +Colonel Ellenham guessed Arthur to be his son, that he would throw such +obstacles in the way of purchasing his discharge as might make that +discharge impossible to obtain. He was well aware how much the war in +India would increase his embarrassment; and he sat on, pondering and +pondering what he should do—how it would be best for him to proceed, +while his son’s letter lay on the carpet and the newspaper was spread +out before him. + +Look at him now, reader. Would you know him? Remembering what he was +when this story opened, would you have imagined it within the bounds of +probability that—long before old age had laid its hand upon him—long +before winter’s withering frosts had come to pick the green leaves off +the goodly tree—to dry up its sap, to strip it of its beauty, and to +leave it bare and destitute of foliage, almost in the summer of his +life—he could have changed to this? + +Sitting alone there, the terrible ravages sickness and pain had made +were plainly to be traced; and, with Maxwell Drewitt, when once his +physical beauty was destroyed, everything was destroyed; and he who had +once been so haughty—so insolent—so handsome—was now but as any other +bowed and beaten man. + +And in that hour he was humbling himself mentally—he was bending his +proud spirit to ask a favour from a man whom he detested. He only knew +one person in London who would, he felt sure, work for his son’s release +heart and soul—and that person was Geoffry Pryor. + +Yet Geoffry Pryor had read him through in the days gone by; and, reading +him, had refused his proffered hand, and never grasped it since. + +Nevertheless, it was to him Maxwell Drewitt made up his mind to apply. + +“I will send Ryan to Dublin by this night’s mail,” he decided; “and he +can cross to Holyhead to-morrow morning.” + +Sickness had not dulled the keen brain, though it had wasted and worn +his body. He could think rapidly, though it was pain and misery to him +to move swiftly. He could still chalk out a plan, and make others act +upon it, though the days were gone for ever when he could execute his +designs himself and be dependent on no other man living to see that they +were carried out to his satisfaction. + +“Do you think I had better follow you?” he inquired; but Ryan answered, +“No. I am certain, if any person can get him off, Mr. Pryor will find +that man; and you will only knock yourself up by going travelling in +such hot weather as this. No; you keep yourself quiet, and rely on us. I +will do my best—if only for _her_ sake—be sure of that.” + +Yes, they were all rowing in the same boat now. Ryan could never +disassociate his interests from Maxwell, nor Maxwell his from Ryan in +the future for ever. + +The comparison may not seem complimentary to the married state; but in +one respect guilt is very like matrimony. Whether people like or hate, +they must endure each his fellow’s company when once they have bound +themselves together in the bonds of sin. + +It is as difficult for rogues to get a divorce as for husband and wife; +and accordingly what Maxwell and Ryan had been in the beginning, so they +continued to the end. + +“I had better ride to Galway, I suppose,” Ryan observed; “there is no +dependence to be placed on those post-horses.” + +“Nonsense,” answered his employer. “The mail-car can take you as safely +as the letters, I should imagine.” + +“I won’t risk it,” returned Ryan; “there might not he a vacant seat.” + +“And how about your luggage?” + +“The car can bring a carpet-bag after me; there is sure to be room for +that.” + +“One word more, Ryan. Don’t let him out of your sight; bring him +straight back with you here, till we try if we cannot make something of +him. I wish to heaven he was as wise as he is handsome!” + +“He’ll never be wise, I’m right sure of that,” was the reply; “but I +will do what you tell me. I will bring him back to you.” And with that +Ryan left the room, while Maxwell remained fuming over his last words. + +“What right had any man to say his son would never be wise? Was not he +clever enough? was not he young? If he had gone wrong once, what of +that? He should be a credit and a comfort to him yet. Once let him +(Maxwell) have him back again in Connemara, and he would look him out a +wife who should keep him in order, and give him an interest in the +county. + +“Many a girl would snap at such a chance, and he, Maxwell, could take +the opportunity of making a proviso that his heir should assume the name +of Drewitt. + +“It would be pleasant for him to have his son and his son’s wife living +in the house, and the chatter of children’s tongues and the patter of +children’s feet might yet break the funeral silence of the empty rooms, +by the doors of which he dreaded to pass.” + +Always this man had longed for children, and now, with a more terrible +longing than ever, he desired to hear young voices ringing in his +ears—to have something lively and bright to chase away the gloom that +was enveloping him. + +With all his heart and with all his soul he wished he had brought Arthur +home sooner; that he had insisted years and years before on having him +at the Headlands, instead of leaving him among strangers. + +He recollected why he had not done so. How he had calculated on Lady +Emmeline’s death, and on his second marriage, and on the chances of +legitimate issue. + +The scroll of his life could not have been pleasant reading in the days +of which I am now writing, and it was little marvel that Maxwell Drewitt +opened that manuscript as seldom as possible. + +Rather he preferred to dream dreams, and see visions; to picture to +himself the young wife who would make the old house seem home-like and +cheerful, the children who might gambol on the lawn. + +Dreams—dreams—sad and pitiful to think that they could never be +realized! visions so bright that when the disillusion came the man whose +life was almost over could not bear the blow! + +It was on himself he had built before; it was on another he was building +now: that made all the difference. He had been always able to tell what +course he should pursue; but the course his son might adopt was darkness +to him. + +One of the children of this world, he had been wise in his generation; +one of the fools of this world, there was no counting upon what Arthur +might do from day to day. + +And what he finally did was this:— + +While Mr. Pryor, after vainly trying to come to some arrangement with +Colonel Ellenham, was running after one great man after another, to try +to procure Arthur’s discharge, that young gentleman, wearied of the +ill-success attendant on his friend’s efforts, coolly did the most +foolish thing possible under the circumstances, namely, took the matter +into his own hands and deserted. + +“That I ever should have been father to such an idiot!” exclaimed +Maxwell Drewitt when the news reached him. “There is no hope for him +now, unless we can discover where he is and get him out of the country.” + +And even, in fancy, he never again heard the chatter of children’s +tongues or the patter of children’s feet; the lonely rooms he could fill +no more, even in dreams, with light and life and merriment. + +Deeper and darker grew the night, lonelier and more desolate grew the +man—sad and pitiful! sinner that he had been—for the days were come at +last when he said he had no pleasure in them. He had thought to live +long, and to have much enjoyment, and behold he found out in a moment +that what Solomon said was true: “Man knoweth not his time: as the +fishes are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that are caught in the +snare, so are the sons of men snared in an evil time when it falleth +suddenly upon them.” + + + + + CHAPTER XVIII. + Man’s Vengeance. + + +The world had prospered with Brian Drewitt since his mother’s death; his +salary was still indeed not excessive, but he was promised an increase +very shortly, and Mr. Francis Gyton had further thrown out many vague +hints to the effect that in his, Frank Gyton’s opinion, it would be far +jollier if they (he and Brian) were to cut the old connection, and start +in business on their own account. + +“I know I could not stand Munday, so there is no use in my father +talking of taking me into partnership,” he said one evening when he and +Brian were walking up westward together from the City. “I think such a +lot of partners are a damned nuisance, and I should like to get clear of +them. So, to cut the matter short, Brian, whenever I am married I should +like to commence with you. I can find the tin, and you the brains—is it +a bargain?” + +“Your father?” hesitated Brian. + +“My father will be a little restive at first, but when he is tired of +opposition he will give in, and it is of no use mincing the matter, +Brian; Mr. Munday and I cannot remain in the same business together. +What do you say—will you be my man, or will you not?” + +“I will not, without speaking first to your father in the matter. He has +been very kind to me, and—” + +“And you will do the respectful and all the rest of it, and I will do +the dutiful; so that, between us, the old gentleman will be as easily +managed as possible. I should not wonder if he came over to us himself, +for he likes Munday no better than I do.” + +Mrs. Drewitt’s death had of course postponed Geraldine’s marriage, and +as it had also crippled their means, brother and sister were now living +in a cottage at Highgate, which Mr. Gyton entertained some idea of +purchasing for his son. + +“Throw out a drawing-room there, and build a conservatory here, and put +the kitchens at the back, and it would really make a very charming +little residence. Love in a cottage, eh, Geraldine?” + +Whereupon Geraldine blushed and laughed, while the evening sunshine fell +upon her. + +“And you will require coach-house and stabling; in fact, the whole place +will need alteration; but it is a lovely situation—lovely!” and the +great man stood back to admire the view. “I tell you what it is, Miss,” +he went on; “I shall get so fond of this cottage one of these days, that +you will have me taking up my abode here,” and he pinched the girl’s +cheek, who, passing her hand through his arm, said coaxingly— + +“Something has taken up its abode here that would astonish you. I wonder +if I might tell you, or whether you would be shocked. It is a deserter, +a countryman of my own.” + +“A deserter?—you are jesting, Geraldine.” + +“I am not jesting at all,” she answered. “Our servant found him in the +wood-shed, this morning, and he is half-starved, and badly clad, and ill +and miserable.” + +“Good bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Gyton. + +“And I want your help to send him over to America, or Newfoundland, or +some place,” added Geraldine, with that charming ambiguity of expression +which is so pleasing a characteristic of her sex. + +“But—but—but all this is very illegal; extremely improper,” began Mr. +Gyton. + +“We don’t care for law at all in Ireland,” answered Geraldine, demurely; +“and in such a case as this, not much for propriety.” + +“You incorrigible little girl, I don’t know what I must say to you.” + +“Say you will pay his passage out to America,” she suggested. “If I had +the money, I would do it in a minute.” + +“But it is against law: the proper course for you to pursue, would be to +go down to Scotland Yard, and give information that such and such a +person was concealed on your premises.” + +Geraldine broke out into a peal of laughter. “Should you really like me +to go to Scotland Yard, Mr. Gyton?” she suggested. “Would a note not do +as well, or could Frank not call round in the morning? Is there any +reward? I think I should like to get a reward.” + +“What are you talking about?” demanded Lady Emmeline, who was likewise +of the party. “I declare, any person might think it was you and Mr. +Gyton who were engaged, instead of you and Frank.” + +“So we are engaged for life, as father and daughter,” replied the +millionaire; “we were talking about a deserter. Geraldine, it appears, +keeps one among her coals and wood.” + +“You are not serious?” + +“Perfectly serious. I dare say the young man is on view at the present +moment.” + +“Dear me! how romantic!” + +“It is romantic,” added Geraldine; “for he is evidently a gentleman; he +has been to Oxford, at the University, I mean—a student there, or +whatever you call it.” + +“I think, Mr. Gyton, that this affair ought to be investigated,” said +Lady Emmeline. + +“I think so, too,” was the reply. “Suppose we send for a policeman?” + +“If a policeman come here I will smash his skull for him!” remarked +Brian, at this juncture. + +“Dear! dear! what a set of people you Irish are!” observed Mr. Gyton. “A +man has only to shoot his landlord—or be a rebel—or a deserter—or +something of that kind, to engage all your sympathies!” + +“You would not have us give him up?” exclaimed Brian, his voice sounding +loud and angry, as he spoke. + +“Certainly not, sir. To an Englishman I might suggest such a course; but +to an Irishman—never. The proper thing for you to do, is to feed him, +clothe him, love him, and then send him over to America, to hate the +English, and say we are the cause of all Ireland’s misfortunes.” + +For the life of him, Brian could not help laughing. The sketch was so +true—so real and so ready. + +“Could not we get a peep at him?” asked Lady Emmeline. + +“Certainly,” answered Brian; “at five pounds a head.” + +“Is he worth the money, Lady Emmeline, do you consider?” inquired Mr. +Gyton. + +“Now, how can one possibly tell that unless one sees him?” demanded Lady +Emmeline. “You really must allow us some discretion, Brian.” + +“As much as you please,” Brian answered, “if you give me five pounds.” + +“Is it as a charity?” inquired her ladyship. + +“As a charity,” Brian replied, bowing low. + +“Then there is my five pounds,” said Lady Emmeline, putting five +sovereigns into Brian’s hand. + +“And five pounds for me and five for my wife,” added Mr. Gyton. + +“You won’t charge me anything, Brian? I am one of the family,” said Mr. +Francis Gyton. + +“And well able to afford to pay for the sight,” added Brian. + +“What a leech you are! Won’t my I O U do as well? Won’t you trust me? +’Pon my honour, I have not five pounds about me.” + +“I will pay for him,” said Geraldine, drawing out her purse; “but +remember, Frank, it is out of my housekeeping money; so you must give it +back to me honestly.” + +And thus, amidst much laughing, they collected twenty pounds, on the +strength of which the deserter was brought by Brian into the little +parlour of Spring Lodge. + +“Well, but really now, you know—joking apart, excuse me, but, my good +fellow, this is really very irregular,” remarked Mr. Gyton, senior. + +“I suppose no one can know that better than he,” said Brian, looking at +the thin pale face, the hollow cheeks, the unshaved chin, the grisly +moustache, with an interest he could neither have explained nor defined. + +“And where do you come from?” asked Frank Gyton. + +“From Yorkshire,” was the reply; “that young lady (indicating Geraldine) +will have it that I am from Ireland, but she is mistaken.” + +“No, I am not,” answered Geraldine. “No Englishman ever pronounced ‘have +it’—‘haf’t’—as you do.” + +“What is your name?” inquired Mr. Gyton. + +“Ward,” he said; “Charles Ward.” + +“It is not,” exclaimed Lady Emmeline; “it is Campnell, and you are Mr. +Maxwell Drewitt’s illegitimate son.” + +“Do you know him?” asked Brian, hurriedly. + +“Know him? To be sure I do. Didn’t I see him in Connemara last year? +Have not you noticed the likeness between him and Harold?” + +In a moment Brian comprehended what had attracted him about the +deserter. In an instant he formed his plans. The hour of vengeance was +striking at last, and it would be his own fault if he faltered in his +design. + +Through Maxwell’s son he must hurt Maxwell; and soon after he rose, and +left the room. + +While they were all talking together, speaking to Arthur Campnell, +asking him how he chanced to enlist, how he came to desert, Geraldine +left the room likewise. She searched all over the house, she made +inquiries of the servants, their own, and Mr. Gyton, and Lady +Emmeline’s. None knew where Brian had gone; but one man had seen him go +out of the gate, and walk down the hill. + +“Tell Mr. Gyton I want him,” Geraldine said; “not Mr. Frank, but Mr. +Gyton.” And Mr. Gyton came out. “Brian is gone to give information,” she +said; “we must get him away, and at once.” + +“Geraldine, you are dreaming,” exclaimed Mr. Gyton. + +“Am I? You don’t know Brian as well as I do. So long as he thought that +man was simply a deserter, he would have died before letting a hair of +his head be touched; but now he knows him to be Maxwell’s son, he would +put a rope round his neck, and hang him.” + +“God bless my soul! you don’t say no!” + +“I do say so,” she answered; “and I say you know nothing of the Irish, +whose hate is as strong as their love. I noticed his face change, the +moment Lady Emmeline said who Arthur was, and I know he must be got away +from here without a moment’s delay.” + +“But really, that is, you know——” + +“Take him to Mr. Pryor; he will see to him—he will get him off,” said +Geraldine. And accordingly, greatly to his disgust, Mr. Gyton was +persuaded to drive off, with a deserter in his carriage personating +Frank. + +“And now, Geoffry,” added Mr. Gyton, when he had finished his narrative, +“let me entreat of you to get him away as soon as possible. He is no +credit to the family; and one really cannot get through life +respectably, if deserters, and so forth, are to be hidden in our +coal-cellars and larders. Really, Mr. Maxwell Drewitt ought to have more +consideration,” he continued; but Mr. Pryor smiled. + +“Maxwell Drewitt does not know what to do with this boy, whom he means +to make his heir. It is a lamentable business altogether; but, as you +say, there is nothing for it except to get him to Ireland, and out of +the country as soon as possible.” + +“I did not think Brian would really have informed,” remarked Mr. Gyton. + +“It would be hard to say what he might, or what he might not do, where +his cousin is concerned,” was the reply. + +“And with regard to this youth?” + +“Leave him to me.” + +Meanwhile, there were high words waging at Highgate between Geraldine +and her brother. + +She was accusing him of meanness, cowardice, vindictiveness. + +He retorted by saying she was cold, insensible, heartless. + +“Indifferent to our mother’s sufferings—to Harold’s disgrace.” + +“Our mother, on her death-bed, said, that you were to forgive, as you +hoped to be forgiven,” answered Geraldine. + +“You should not talk about what you do not understand, Geraldine,” he +said. + +“I understood that well enough,” she replied; “and I know that long +letter she wrote to you was full of nothing else but regrets for ever +having encouraged your dislike of Maxwell, and not having checked your +desire for revenge.” + +“She was an angel.” + +“She was.” + +“Who never could carry a feeling of resentment; and therefore it behoves +me—I tell you, Geraldine, it behoves me to remember her wrongs, and have +no mercy.” + +“That is not what she would tell you, Brian, if she were alive. But +there is no use in our arguing this point out now, for Maxwell’s son is +now beyond the reach of your vindictiveness.” + +“Are you quite satisfied of that?” + +“Yes, I am. Oh, Brian! do not push this matter further. Think if it had +been Harold!—and he is so like Harold.” + +“So was the lad who stole those notes.” + +“Do you think it was he that took them?” + +“Think!” he repeated, contemptuously; “I am sure of it. What is your +opinion of your protégé, now?” + +There was a long pause, during the continuance of which Geraldine sat +weeping silently. At last, she said— + +“Brian, do you imagine it would comfort Harold to know you were pursuing +that young man for his sake?” + +“It comforts me,” he replied. + +“Now, when he is gone where his innocence is known, what can it matter +to him who goes free on earth?” + +“It matters to his memory, Geraldine.” + +“And who cares for his memory? who but a few that, believing him +innocent in life, cannot doubt him in death?” + +“We need not talk any further about the matter,” said Brian, angrily. “I +am doing what I consider right; and no one shall convince me to the +contrary.” + +“I think I could,” said Mr. Pryor, who, late though the hour was, +entered at the moment. “Brian, you have done very wrong!” + +“I have not!” was the answer. + +“I told you yourself, years ago, you were preparing a bitter cup; but +you would not listen to my warning. That youth was safe here. No one +would have suspected his being concealed in such a house as this; and we +could easily have shipped him off from here to some place of safety. +Now, I candidly say, I do not know what we are to do. Every plan seems +beset with danger and difficulty!” + +“I am glad to hear it,” remarked Brian, sullenly. + +“No, Brian, you are not. Vindictive though you may be, you could not in +cool blood—you could not, I am sure—give that boy over to be flogged and +branded!” + +“I could! believing, as I do, that his father will feel every lash and +every touch of the iron through him.” + +“And his mother, Brian?” + +“The mother of such a son must be as bad as his father.” + +“She is not! I know her well; and I know she is not! Shall I tell you +her name, Brian?” + +“It can have no interest for me,” he answered; “but you may tell me, if +you like.” + +“Mrs. Connor!” + +“No!” Brian started to his feet. “No! I tell you it is not—it shall not +be!” + +“How can you prevent it? the fact is so. Mrs. Connor, when she was Jenny +Bourke—young, pretty, guileless—brought that boy into the world, whom +you have tried your best this night, Brian, to give up to trial and +punishment.” + +“Mr. Pryor, God is my witness! I thought I was only doing my duty!” + +“Duty toward whom?” + +“To my mother’s memory—to Harold’s! For myself and Geraldine, I do not +care—I never have cared; but no soul can give _them_ any comfort or +happiness here. And I vowed—I swore—if ever I could pay Maxwell back any +portion of the suffering he had caused them, I would do so.” + +“Did not your mother leave some parting message for you—some words that +must have sounded as though uttered from her coffin?” asked Mr. Pryor. + +“She did,” was the reply; “but though she might forgive for herself, I +did not think myself bound to comply with her request and forgive for +her. So long as we are in the flesh we must act like men; and it is not +like a man to forgive and forget such injuries as Maxwell heaped on us.” + +“Brian, do you think it is our affair to manage the world—to avenge +wrongs, to requite the virtuous and punish the wicked?” + +“How can I tell?” he answered. “I suppose we are instruments; and when +one sees a man like Maxwell prosperous, happy, respected, what is one to +do—how is one to act?” + +“Not as you have done, at any rate; we are all so mixed up here, that if +we strike a blow we never can tell whose heart may feel the wound most +severely. As in this case, for instance, you never guessed Mrs. Connor +could be mixed up in such a matter.” + +“Well, the young fellow is gone,” answered Brian, impatiently; “he is +not caught, I suppose; and wherever Geraldine sent him, I conclude he is +safe enough.” + +“Is he? there were inquiries at my house not half an hour ago, and if I +had not been quicker than they suspected, the boy would have been now on +his way back to barracks.” + +Brian made no answer; he sat for a long time silent, for many minutes he +never spoke one word; then he rose and left the room in silence. + +“He is sorry,” Geraldine remarked; and Geraldine was right. Brian was +gone away, to mourn in solitude; not that he had tried to punish +Maxwell’s son, but that Maxwell’s son was also Jenny’s boy—poor Jenny, +to whom he had once vowed to be grateful for life. + +Next morning Ryan and his nephew started for Ireland; proceeding +thither, not by the Dublin and Holyhead route, but running down by the +Great Western to Milford Haven, whence they crossed to Waterford; from +which place Mr. Ryan meant to work their way by all manner of curious +routes to Connemara. + +“Once there we shall be safe,” thought Mr. Ryan; but he reckoned without +his host. + +“I wonder if they have reached Kincorth?” Mr. Pryor remarked, the day +but one after their departure, to Brian, who had never opened his lips +on the subject from the night he discovered who the deserter really was +until that present moment. + +“If who have reached Kincorth?” asked the younger man. + +“Ryan and his nephew.” + +“They have not gone to Ireland, surely—they have not been so mad as +that?” exclaimed Brian, all in a hurry and tremble. + +“Why not? it seemed to me a much safer place than London.” + +“But I told them whose son he was—they are certain to be on the +look-out. Why did you say nothing to me—oh! why did not you?” + +They were walking down the Holloway Road at the moment, and Mr. Pryor, +without answering Brian by a word, called a passing Hansom, and jumped +in. + +“Where are you going?” asked Brian. + +“I am going to Lothbury, to the Telegraph Office, to stop your work, if +I can.” + +“Let me go with you.” + +“No;” and Mr. Pryor banged the door of the Hansom and was off. + +Brian had never seen him angry before, never out of temper; and as he +stood there alone on the edge of the broad pavement, between the Seven +Sisters Road and the railway bridge, he began to feel that he had indeed +done more evil than he could readily undo, that he had let his revenge +get the better not merely of his charity but of his prudence, and that +unless he could give some assistance in the matter he should feel +wretched for life. + +Wretched for life! Did he know the meaning of the words he was +whispering to his own soul? had he other than the vaguest comprehension +of the misery he had wrought both for others and himself? + +Flogged—branded! Somehow he derived no sort of satisfaction from the +idea of his enemy being punished now. + +He had kept his pebble and turned it, taken it out and slung it, and +struck his foe in the very place where it had delighted him to think the +blow would take effect. But now that it had taken effect—now that his +enemy was worsted, that his pebble was gone out of his own keeping, that +he had taken his own way, and revenged himself at once on the man who +had cast them out of Kincorth, and the boy who had damaged Harold’s +character past repair—he could not help asking himself what good there +was likely to come of it all to her, or him, or them. + +To him or her? Should he go up to the churchyard sloping towards the +west and tell the earth how he had taken one step forward to the end he +had laid out for himself? Should he whisper to the dead that he had made +the living wretched for their sakes? Should he tell the wind that +stirred the grass growing green on Harold’s grave how the delinquent was +at last discovered, how he had set the officers of justice on his track? +Would not the dead be gratified; could not he make them hear that; would +not the words bring them back to life? Had not he well obeyed his +mother’s dying injunction, that he should forgive as he hoped to be +forgiven; and from the heavens would she not look approvingly at the +base act of vindictive hatred of which he had been guilty? + +Dimly as he walked along all this passed through his mind; vaguely he +began to see he had chosen the wrong path, that others had been right, +that he had been wrong. Somewhere he had heard of a better way of +avenging oneself upon an enemy than by branding and scourging, of a way +which did not raise every feeling of a man’s heart into ten times worse +hatred and antagonism, but which instead “heaped coals of fire upon his +head.” Nothing he could do—nothing—nothing for ever might comfort or +soothe the departed: the “dull cold ear of death” could hearken to no +words that it was in his power to frame: if he killed Maxwell and laid +his body on their graves, what could it profit them? Could he bring them +back again? and if he could, oh God! if he could, would it not be awful +to see them rise up and rejoice because their enemy was brought low? + +Very speedily Brian made up his mind he would follow Mr. Pryor, hear +what he had done, and then, if need were, start that night for Ireland. + +He might be of some use, he might be able to render some assistance; and +“I declare to you, Mr. Pryor,” he said, “that if I could retrace my +steps I would; if I could take that night back and act my part in it +over again, I would not do one thing I have done, not one.” + +“Even a savage would not have been so treacherous, so inhospitable,” +answered Mr. Pryor. + +“I know it,” was the reply; “but are we always able to argue out such +questions coolly? Does the man live who has never believed he has seen +clearly walking through the darkness?” + + + + + CHAPTER XIX. + Through Connemara. + + +Maxwell Drewitt sat alone in the dining-room at Kincorth, waiting for +his son; he had waited many days and yet the fugitive came not, neither +had any tidings of Arthur reached him. + +He had watched for the post, he had strained his ears to catch the sound +of horses’ feet, the noise of coming wheels. He had risen early, and +gone to bed late; he had lain through the night wakeful and restless, +and still there arrived no tidings; he had no data to go upon except Mr. +Pryor’s telegram which he held in his hand. + +Sorrow had told upon him; the suspense, the agony, the alternations of +hope and fear had broken him down more and more. He was old—old and +stricken; and as he crouched over the fire, which a damp autumnal +evening had rendered acceptable, I think a more hopeless picture of the +vanity of human wishes, of the end of human desires, could not have been +presented for consideration. + +Where was the erect carriage, the bold, defiant glance, the indolent +grace of movement, the insolent overbearing manner? Gone, friends, +gone—like the raven hue of his own glossy hair; like the cold brightness +of his eyes; like the beauty he had been proud of, and that women had +been won by; gone—gone for ever. + +The passionless sneer had left his lips and given place to a sort of +irrepressible convulsion. He could not walk now as he had walked in +former years along the shore of Duranmore Bay, kicking the pebbles +before him; but when at last he arose from his chair, in order to make +his way to one of the windows, he had to support himself with a stick +and to catch at chairs and tables as he passed by. + +It was a wild night; the equinoctial gales were blowing their fiercest, +and Maxwell, standing leaning against the window-frame, thought of how +the waves must be lashing up against Eversbeg Head; how the billows must +be raging and tossing outside the bay. + +There was a something so dreary in the idea of that limitless ocean; +those thousands of miles of tempestuous waters; that great expanse of +sea without an island, without a shore, without a rock; those great +deeps, shouting under the night to one another, while the floods clapped +their hands—that Maxwell could not bear it; he had to turn from the +window, and make his way feebly to the hearth, and stir up the fire, and +try to think of a more cheerful subject. + +But what cheerful subject had he to think of—this man, who had lived for +the midday, and not for the night? + +He could think of his boy, but of nothing else—of his boy, who, all +unknown to him, was fleeing through Connemara towards Kincorth; who was +trying to outstrip his pursuers, whom Ryan had promised to mislead, if +possible, at Oughterard. + +Through the night he was riding as if for his life; while the wind +howled down among the mountains and through the valleys, and washed the +waters of the lakes over the low stone walls that are in some places all +that separates them from the highway—he rode on. + +He had lost his hat about six miles on the Duranmore side of Oughterard, +and now, as he galloped through the darkness, the wind tossed his hair +hither and thither, now leaving his forehead bare, and again blinding +him with locks that were dead-black as Harold’s had been. On—on—without +a pause, except when the steepness of the ground necessitated pulling up +his horse and walking—on past the giant mountains; past the eternal +lakes; past the long low line of hills that lay between him and the sea; +past bogs and morasses; over mountain-streams, over brawling +torrents—still on through the darkness towards Kincorth. + +Having gained the Calgillan road, he dismounted, unfastened his girths, +took the saddle off his good steed’s back, and the bridle off his head, +and then turned the animal adrift. Saddle and bridle he carried till he +reached the plantations of Kincorth, when he left the main road, and +hiding his belongings deep in the underwood, made his way across the +fields towards the house. + +“They are after me, father,” were his first words; “but I have got the +start. Mr. Ryan said you were not to keep me here, but forward me on to +Durrow. I don’t know my way there.” + +He stood in the centre of the room while he spoke, with the firelight +flickering over his pale face, with his straight hair tangled and +matted, with a weary, anxious look on his countenance, with a hunted +expression in his dark eyes. + +“Who let you in?” Maxwell asked. It was no time for the interchange of +much ceremony—for many words to be wasted. + +“Dickson; and I have warned him.” + +“Go into the next room for a minute while I ring the bell. Bring wine,” +Maxwell ordered, “and, Dickson, come here for a moment.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Is Flynn gone?” + +“He leaves at six, you know, sir, usually, and it is now eleven.” + +“Could you put the roan horse in the car?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“The other servants are gone to-bed, I suppose?” + +“All, except the cook, sir.” + +“Take the horse and car round to the back avenue, and then sit up for +me. If anybody comes here asking where I am, say I have gone to Lord +Marsden’s to dinner, and will not be back till late—perhaps not till +morning, and—and—you know the rest, Dickson.” + +“Yes, sir. I am to say Mr. Arthur has not been here.” + +“Now go. Of course you will sit up for me. Should there be danger, light +a candle in the blue room, and I will be on my guard; you understand?” + +“Perfectly, sir. But surely you are not going out to-night; excuse me, +sir, but——” + +“Necessity knows no law,” finished Maxwell Drewitt, with something of +his old decision of manner. “Now, Arthur, drink some wine, to put life +into you; for it may be many a night before you are able to put your +head under a roof again.” And while his son followed his advice in +silence, the wretched father sat and looked at the only child he ever +had. + +“Surely you are not coming with me?” said Arthur, as his father arose +and intimated it was time for them to depart. “It is an awful night, +cold, and bleak, and threatening for rain. Let me try to find my way +alone, if you would rather not trust Dickson.” + +“I am not afraid of trusting Dickson,” was the reply; “but I must leave +some one to answer their inquiries should they come.” Arthur shuddered; +too well he knew who _they_ meant. “And as for the night, I shall be +better out; the cold air will not hurt me.” + +Would not it? He knew better; but he knew, also, that anything would be +preferable to remaining at home in suspense; and, besides, after all, +whom could he trust so well as himself—who could keep the secret like he +and Arthur? + +Through the night they pressed on together—father and son. + +As they drove along that interminable road towards Durrow, Maxwell could +not help thinking, that at some previous time he had traversed it under +circumstances similar to the present; and all at once, as they drew near +Castle Cronach, he remembered what Mr. Gyton had said about riding for +one’s life through Connemara; and about how a man who was doing so would +curse those bends and twists and curves. + +There are some things which impress us with such a sense of reality—with +such a feeling that at a future day we shall pass through what we fancy +then—as gives us the idea, when the future day arrives, that we have not +prefigured the event, but that it has actually happened at some former +period. + +This was Maxwell’s state of mind, at all events; and as the keen wind +swept by—as the rain began pattering in his face—as he felt the nipping +night air blowing through and through him, he could not help +occasionally marvelling which was the dream, and which the reality—which +was the shadow, and which the substance. Had he ever ridden along that +road with three companions? Was he driving it in very truth then? Had he +ever been strong enough to ride? Was he only imagining he was driving +now? Were there people following them? Did he hear the sound of horses’ +hoofs behind? + +“It is only the wind,” Arthur kept saying; but Maxwell lashed the roan +on for all that. + +How long the road was! How he did curse those curves! how he did +anathematize the engineer who planned, and the men who made it! How +every winding seemed to double itself in length! how every mile appeared +to quadruple itself in distance! But there, at last, thank God! at last, +was Durrow! + +They soon knocked Mr. Connor up, and explained to him the state of the +case. + +“You are on good terms with the fishermen, Connor,” said Mr. Drewitt; +“get Skerritt to stow Arthur away till he can be taken off in some +smuggling craft. Make it all right with the men; and say, I don’t mind +five hundred pounds when I hear he is safe in France. It is more than +you are worth, boy,” he added. “Don’t you think, now, you have been more +trouble than profit to me, all your life long?” + +His voice shook and trembled as he spoke; and Mr. Connor drew back, +knowing they were about to say farewell to one another. + +“It will be safest for us to leave you in their hands entirely,” +explained Mr. Drewitt; “I am not afraid of any informers among them. +Write to me, when you get clear off. You will have money and clothes +provided for you on board the vessel. If I can, I will join you in +France; but do not attempt to come back to these countries. And now +good-bye, for the present. Good-bye!” + +He held out his hand—he had never been much given to caressing, and it +was the only mode of leave-taking he knew; but Arthur fell on his neck +and wept; and Maxwell felt those tears dropping down into his heart, one +by one. + +It had been a cold heart and a dead—it had lain numb through life, only +to waken up with pain and grief towards the last; and now he felt not +only his son’s tears softening him, but the memory of other tears he had +seen flow—of other sobs he had heard in the night—of other anguish he +had let go away unsoothed—came up before him then—the ghosts of dead +realities, the shadows of things that had all once been. + +A few seconds and it was over; that was no time at which to waste +precious moments in grief or in adieux; and while Connor took Arthur +with him down to the shore, Maxwell drove back to Kincorth through the +night alone. + +That seemed to be his doom—alone—alone for ever—in adversity as in +prosperity—at the end as in the beginning. But in the beginning solitude +had not seemed terrible as it did towards the end; and that fact made +all the difference. + +Through that desolate wilderness he drove back, as I have said, alone; +past great stretches of country, across which the wind went howling and +howling as though, with shrieks and laughter, the storm were running +races over the flat tracts of moorland. For a little distance the road +wound along by the side of Durrow River, where the chesnut had died +taking her leap so gallantly, and then great mountains hemmed him in for +a mile or so, when they swept grandly off to right and left, leaving the +traveller breathing space once more. + +It is a grand country, this Connemara, but desolate beyond all power of +description; the ends of the world seem to be reached when you are +journeying through it; and even when a person has no pressing care, no +special cause for unhappiness, when he is strong and free from anxiety +of mind, there is a weirdness and a solemnity about a night-ride through +his part of that land of the Wild West which must be felt to be +comprehended. + +What, then, must that solitary drive have proved to Maxwell Drewitt, +whose strength was turned into weakness, whose powers of endurance were +not equal to such an undertaking—who, racked with mental and bodily +pain, prostrated by physical suffering, fancied, now that the mountains +were advancing towards him—now that the road was slipping away—now that +the air was full of strange sounds—and again that through the valleys +and up the defiles were coming hundreds and hundreds of armed men +seeking after his son? + +It was fortunate that the roan knew his way to his stable, knew every +turn in the road, every point of danger, every awkward curve, the +position almost of every block of granite, or else Maxwell could +scarcely have guided him home. + +As it was, between two and three o’clock in the morning, when the wind +was a little lulled, and the rain coming down in torrents, the unhappy +man reached Kincorth, and lifting his eyes instinctively to the windows, +saw no light in them. + +“You must be just drowned, sir,” said Dickson, as he helped him off the +car and took the reins out of his trembling hand and assisted him into +the house; “I have a good fire in your own room, sir, and you had better +get off your wet things and go straight away to bed.” + +“Who is that, Dickson, who is that?” Maxwell whispered, seeing that a +man had taken the horse’s head and was leading him round towards the +stables. “There was no light burning—who is it?” + +“No one, sir, but Mr. Brian Drewitt, who came in not ten minutes after +you left. He said he would put up the roan, and set everything right for +the morning, so that I could stay with you. He seems dreadfully +downhearted, and he hasn’t put bite nor sup in his lips since he entered +the doors.” + +“Go to him, Dickson, and tell him not to lay a finger on any horse of +mine; tell him that he shall not stay in my house, nor meddle in my +concerns. It is owing to him that my son is a fugitive this night, +without a place to lay his head in. He has come to gloat over me, to +exult in my defeat; but he shall not stay here; he shall not, by——!” + +Very unceremoniously, Dickson marched his master off to bed. + +“I don’t think, sir,” he answered, “that you rightly know what you are +talking about. I never saw a young gentleman seem in less notion of +exulting, as you call it, than that same Mr. Brian was to-night; and I +am certain sure if Mr. Arthur had been his own brother he could not have +appeared more cut up than he was. When you’re warm in your bed, just see +him, and hear what he has got to say; and if you don’t think then he +means fair, why tell me to put him out, and if I don’t do it my name is +not Michael Dickson. And sure, is not he making himself of use at this +very minute, washing the car and rubbing down the horse, and doing a +stable-boy’s work, only better than any stable-boy ever did it? I know +what Mr. Brian can do. Many a time when I used to be coming up here, I +saw him at work just like a labourer. Let him stay, sir, let him stay; +we’ll want him yet.” + +“It was he gave the information,” muttered Maxwell. + +“So he told me; and he told me why he did it, and how sorry he had been +since. He talked to me for an hour in the dining-room there—for an hour +at the least. And he spoke about his mother, and Mr. Harold, so that it +would have melted the heart of a stone.” + +With a shudder, Maxwell Drewitt turned his head away, and laid it on the +furthermost pillow. + +“Let him come,” he said, faintly; “it may be that we have cross accounts +to settle; let him come;” and Brian came accordingly. + +“Maxwell,” he began, “I am here to help you, if I can. I am here to make +what poor reparation is in my power. There was a time,” he went on, +“when I swore I never would re-enter your doors at peace with you: over +my dead mother’s body, I renewed that oath; and I swore then that if +ever I had a chance of vengeance offered me, I would avail myself of +that chance to the uttermost. Maxwell, I have recalled those oaths. I +would undo that which I have done if I could. I want to help you, if in +my power. Had I known who Arthur’s mother really was, I would have cut +out my tongue before bringing sorrow upon her. Do you believe me, +Maxwell? I never spoke falsely to you in my life; and you may believe it +is the truth I am telling you now.” + +There ensued a long silence, broken only by the sick man’s sobs. “I am +so ill,” he said, “I am so weak—Brian, I thank you—I will take your +offer, I will trust you. If you will, there shall be peace between us at +last. Do you forgive me?” + +“You are pressing me hard, Maxwell,” answered the other. “Hearing what I +hear, guessing what I guess; with my dear ones where no reparation can +be made to them, I cannot say I forgive. But I may try to forgive; will +that content you?” + +“And you will stay with me, Brian, you will stay. I am so sick, and I am +so lonely. It was a fall off the chesnut did it; but I suppose you heard +all about that?” + +“Yes, poor Madcap!” + +“It was not her fault, it was that fool of a Crabbe—it has made wild +work with me, Brian, has not it? I shall never be a man again while I +live—never!” + +While he lived. Brian, keeping watch by the sick man’s bedside, knew +that his existence could not be prolonged much longer, and looking at +that poor wreck of mortality—at that old worn man—he found it hard to +identify him with the Maxwell he had last seen standing just within the +hall door of that house in which he was at length master. + +Then he had been handsome, strong, resolute; now he was a stricken and +hesitating creature, dying by inches, while there was not a human being +related to him, by any close ties of blood, to take his hand and bid him +be of good cheer, as he glided onward to that valley where is the +blackness of the shadow of death. + + + + + CHAPTER XX. + Brian’s Repentance. + + +Before many days Mr. Pryor appeared at Durrow, anxious to know what had +become of Arthur, and how Brian and his cousin were settling their old +scores. + +As for Arthur, Mr. Connor informed him the lad was still lying concealed +in one of the caves in Durrow cliff—“the secretest of all their +hiding-places, Skerritt informs me,” he proceeded—“a cave that no gauger +or coast-guardsman could find out unless he were the devil.” + +“Then as I never heard of the devil taking the form of an exciseman, and +going about the country looking after private stills and cargoes of +smuggled goods, I suppose we may conclude there is every chance of the +young gentleman getting off safe.” + +“He’ll get off right enough, the first time the schooner comes round +this way again. The reward Mr. Drewitt has offered ought to put the men +on their mettle—not, to do them justice, that they need such an +inducement—it’s enough for them to know that a man is flying from the +constituted authorities, and they will strain every nerve to assist him +to escape.” + +“That characteristic of your country-people it is which makes Ireland so +much pleasanter a residence for rogues than for honest men,” remarked +Mr. Pryor. + +“Ah, well, sir; sure you see by this that even very respectable fathers +may have sons in trouble.” + +“I hope you do not call Mr. Drewitt a respectable father, because, in my +opinion, he is nothing of the kind,” answered Mr. Pryor. + +“He is fond of the boy, at any rate,” said Connor, simply; and his +thoughts flew back to that night when through the storm Maxwell drove +his son over to Durrow, and had stood silent while Arthur wept tears of +penitence upon his neck. + +“He’ll never get the better of it, Mr. Brian tells me,” went on the +agent, pursuing his own train of reflection. “He was wet to the skin, +and has not been able to be out of bed since. Well, let him have been +what he will, Mr. Pryor, you would be sorry for him if you were to see +him now—just a shadow of himself, and with the grey hairs more plentiful +than the black, and crow’s feet about his eyes, and a drop of the mouth, +and a twitching of the face that you would wonder what ailed him.” + +“I think I’ll go over and see him,” observed Mr. Pryor. + +“Indeed, sir, and I just would,” agreed Connor; “maybe the day’s not so +very far off when you’ll be glad to remember you did it.” + +“Do you mean, Connor, you really think he is going to die so soon as all +that comes to?” + +“Think, sir! I am sure I believe in my heart he’ll never rise from his +bed again; that he did his last piece of work in this world, the night +he came over here with Mr. Arthur. I did all I could to get him to stop, +and so did my wife, too; but he was so mortally afraid of any of the +Duranmore people guessing where his son was hid away, that nothing would +serve him but round with the horse’s head and back to Kincorth, though +the wind was coming down from among those hills, and blowing off the +Atlantic, fit to tear the house down. And then it began pelting with +rain. I don’t know how he ever got home, and him in the state of health +he was—I do not.” + +Next morning Mr. Pryor walked over the hills to Kincorth, to pay his +visit to Maxwell Drewitt. + +“He will see you if you come upstairs,” Brian said, in answer to the +Englishman’s inquiries; “but I must warn you that he is very +ill—dangerously ill, in my opinion. I have thought it right to tell Lady +Emmeline what I believe about him; and it is very probable she may be +here to-morrow afternoon.” + +“Are you glad you came, Brian?” asked Mr. Pryor. + +“I would not have come for all the property Maxwell owns;” and Brian, +who was head nurse in the sick-room, led his friend gently to the +darkened chamber, which Maxwell was never again to leave till he was +carried out in his coffin. + +“You were right about me, Mr. Pryor,” said Maxwell. “I was not an honest +man; and I did not come into Kincorth fairly; but Brian shall get it +back again when I am gone; and I hope he will have more enjoyment of it +than ever I had.” + +“I trust,” answered Mr. Pryor, “you will live for many a long year to +keep him out of it. Brian will be better and happier working for his +living in London than he ever could be dawdling about Kincorth.” + +He spoke these words cheerfully and heartily, but Maxwell shook his +head. + +“My race is run,” he said, “my day almost finished; and if I could but +once know the boy was safe, I am so tired that I think I would lay my +head down and never raise it again.” + +“You will think differently when once he is clear off,” answered Mr. +Pryor. + +“Shall I?” and Maxwell’s hand strayed idly and listlessly over the +coverlet, picking bits of cotton out of it while he spoke. + +“Why of course you will; anxiety is the chief thing that is the matter +with you now.” + +“Is it?” and the poor wasted fingers still kept picking, picking. + +“I don’t know what I should have done without him,” he said, after a +short pause, turning his eyes towards Brian. “I could not have lived so +long had I been alone. He has been gentler to me than any woman I ever +had about me; and when I look at him I think of his mother, and believe +she has forgiven me——” + +“You can clear that matter up, about Harold,” suggested Mr. Pryor. + +“Yes, when I am gone, and when Arthur is off, you will find a parcel and +letter in that safe over there. You can make what use you like of both; +of course they would not take any proceedings at this distance of time, +but you will settle that with them, won’t you?” + +“And I mean to settle that you shall not talk any more at present, and +that if Mr. Pryor comes here to discuss unpleasant topics he must be +forbidden the house,” broke in Brian. + +“Will you come to my house, then, to-morrow, to dinner?” asked Mr. +Pryor; and Brian promised that if his patient were no worse, he would; +having received which assurance, Mr. Pryor walked back over the hills as +he had come, and noticed as he walked a wicked-looking little schooner +tacking and tacking between Duranmore Point and Durrow. “That is our +friend,” he thought, “and twenty-four hours more will see Arthur out of +the country.” + +“Yes, sir, that’s her,” remarked Skerritt with a knowing wink. “She is +only making believe tacking about there; she is really bound for Mayo, +and then she will be back here about this time to-morrow. We have sent +word to the captain, and it will be all correct.” + +Mr. Pryor was truly rejoiced to hear it, and said so. It was wretched to +think of that lad lying in the cave night after night while he slept +comfortably in a good house close at hand; and his sympathy was strongly +excited for the unhappy father, whose first question when he awoke in +the mornings was always, “Has Arthur got off yet?” and whose last sigh +at night sounded like a moan for the son who had made such grievous +shipwreck of his life. + +“You will bring me back a report of how things are going on, Brian,” he +said as his cousin was leaving for Durrow; “a true report, +remember,—promise me that;” and Brian promised ere he departed. + +It was a lovely afternoon in the early part of October; the trees about +Kincorth were getting very bare of foliage, but there were still enough +leaves left to make the woods look very beautiful in their autumnal +deckings of brown and orange and gold. The sky was clear and bright, and +though there was a stiff breeze blowing, Brian after long watching in +his cousin’s sick room found the wind only make his walk the pleasanter. + +He did not feel in bad spirits as he climbed the hill and pursued the +short cut towards Durrow; rather, on the contrary, his heart was lighter +than it had been for many a day past, for he began to be certain Arthur +would effect his escape safely, and he knew if the youth were once +landed in France that a load of anxiety would be lifted from his +shoulders, a burden of self-reproach taken off his soul. + +It was a delicious afternoon; there was just that feeling of chilliness +in the air which is pleasant when a man who can walk fast has likewise +to walk far; and Brian hurried over the ground feeling that there are +some days in the year when living is a pleasure, and that this was one +of them. + +But yet, as he drew near Durrow, he fancied he saw on the side of the +hill, looking seaward, something which alarmed him—a man with a +telescope. Brian immediately charged down the incline, and came upon a +commonplace-looking individual apparently engaged in digging up bait. + +It seemed a strange place to select for such a purpose; but of course +the man had a right to choose an inconvenient position if he chose, and +Brian remained talking with him for a few minutes while he looked about +to see if he could discover any trace of the telescope or discover what +part of Durrow was best commanded from the spot. + +The whole of Durrow village was concealed by Durrow cliff, and there was +nothing to be discerned except the south side of the principal rock, +which rose sheer out of the sea which now washed its base. + +Any trace of the telescope he failed to detect, though he could have +sworn he saw the brass tube glitter for a moment in the afternoon sun. + +“He was there, was he, the divil!” remarked Skerritt, whom Brian at once +informed of the circumstance. “I wish I had caught him at his spying. +You’re not sure he was spying, arn’t ye? Well, I am, and that’s enough. +Digging earth-worms, too, for a make-believe! Pity he wasn’t feedin’ +them, that’s all I have got to say.” + +“Will it hinder Arthur getting away?” asked Brian, anxiously. + +“Will it hinder the say comin’ in to-morrow morning?” inquired Mr. +Skerritt, which, being decidedly an unlikely result, Brian took heart +again. + +“Are you going out fishing to-night, Skerritt?” inquired Brian, noticing +that the man was preparing his nets and getting his boat ready for sea. + +“I go out fishing most nights,” was the answer; “and now, sir, if you +are as tired of asking questions as I am of answerin’ them, I wish ye +just would go up till the house, and stay in your proper place, which is +up there with the quality,[2] instead of down here with me.” + +Footnote 2: + + Gentlefolks. + +“Your best friends can’t say much for your civility, Skerritt,” remarked +Brian as he moved away. + +“If I am not very civil I am very wise,” was the significant answer; and +Brian departed on the instant. + +“I wish to-night was over—and well over,” said Mr. Pryor, as they stood +together on the lawn, while the afternoon light faded away, and the +twilight deepened, and the darkness drew on. + +“And so do I. Have you any notion at what hour they mean to make their +venture?” returned Brian. + +“Not the least. Skerritt would give me no information on the subject, +and I have not seen a sign of the schooner to-day. The first +intelligence I expect to hear is that he is off safe and sound, and +half-way to France.” + +“Heaven grant it!” Brian replied. + +The words were scarcely out of his lips before there arose such a shout +from the shore, as made Mr. Pryor and Brian exclaim, at the same moment— + +“There is something wrong: let us go down;” and they ran round to the +shelving side of the cliff, and hurried down the path leading to the +sea. + +“They have found the cave,” explained Skerritt; “and they are all here, +police, and gaugers, and soldiers, and all.” + +“And where is Arthur?” + +“You’ll see in a minit,” was the reply. “Now Patsey, my man. Run down +for your life, Mr. Arthur, and out into the sea!” he cried in a voice +like thunder, and, at the same instant, there flared out from the shore +a flame of light that just flashed across the waters and then was +extinguished. + +Quick as thought, another light glanced out from the little schooner, +which had been quietly stealing round a line of rocks that stretched far +away into the ocean; and, next moment, while his eyes were still dazzled +by the sudden glare, Brian heard the plash of oars, and knew that Arthur +was safe in the boat and making for the vessel that alone could ever +bear him to freedom. + +Hoarsely the command for the boat to stop rung out through the night, +and, as a mocking laugh came back across the waters, the corporal gave +the order to fire. + +Three balls went instantly whizzing over the sea; and then there was a +shriek such as Brian never had heard in all his life before—the shriek +of a strong man in his death agony. + +But the boat went on. + +“Fire!” was again the command, and again the balls sought their mark: no +shriek followed this discharge, and, for a minute or two, the corporal +seemed to think his men must have made some mistake, but it was only for +a moment. + +The next, cries for help were borne by the wind to the shore, and there +were frantic entreaties among the women that a boat might be launched on +the instant. + +“Lord help you, mother,” said Skerritt’s son; “don’t you remember every +boat was sent to Duranmore, that they might not be able to get the +advantage over us that way? but then if he is not hit he can swim. There +it is again! That’s not my father’s shout, it is the young fellow’s, and +the boat is settling.” + +The boat was settling. Every one of the balls, except that which struck +Skerritt, had gone through her side. There can be no doubt but that the +men must have happened to fire as she rose on the waves; and now, with +their hands loosely holding their muskets, they stood listening to the +screams of the drowning men. + +“I can’t bear this,” cried Brian; “I must do something;” and he made a +rush towards the sea, but half a dozen people were before him in an +instant, and kept him back from his design. “Have you not got a boat?” +he gasped. + +“Not one. Do you think if we had, it’s myself would be talking to you +now, and my own father and brother out there in the middle of it all?” + +“How many were there altogether?” + +“Just three; and, out of the three, there were two of us.” + +“God pity you,” said Brian, as he sat down on the shore. “And God pity +me, too,” he added to himself, “for this is my doing.” + +There was silence on the sea—silence only broken by the whistling of the +wind—by the plashing of the waves against the rocks. + +Each moment it was growing darker and darker, and though the people +under the cliffs were running hither and thither with lighted torches in +their hands, still nothing could be seen of the tragedy that had just +been enacted. + +Sullenly the sea came rolling up on the shore—sullenly it swept along, +wave succeeding to wave, and billow to billow: though they strained +their eyes out into the night they could see nothing but a waste of +water, but an eternity of ocean. + +Till morning dawned they would not be able to distinguish any object, +and when morning dawned where would be the objects they desired to see? + +“I’ll go and get a boat some place or other,” whispered young Skerritt +to his mother, “and I’ll row round the rocks; may be one of them may +have drifted that way with one of the oars.” + +It was a forlorn hope; but perhaps in the future it comforted that widow +and her son to know everything which could be done, had been done. + +There was no one near the rocks, no one had reached the schooner; but a +week afterwards Skerritt’s body was washed ashore near Clew Head, while +Arthur’s drifted into a little bay about five miles north of Durrow. + +“It was better than being caught,” Mr. Pryor ventured to say at length +to Brian; “but I am grieved about Skerritt.” + +“And it is all my doing,” Brian moaned out; “I shall feel now like a +murderer to the end of my days.” + +For hours Brian sat repeating this one sentence, and it was not until +Mr. Pryor reminded him Maxwell would be expecting tidings, that he could +rouse him from his fit of despairing remorse. + +“I think I had better go round with you and break the news to him,” said +the barrister. + +“No, I will do it—I—and I only,” answered Brian. + +“But it will be so dreadful a task for you.” + +“Only part of my punishment,” he said, with a sort of gloomy +satisfaction; “and I was so happy to-day, and I made so certain he would +get off.” And as he thought of that, he sat down and covered his face +with his hands once more. + +“Brian,” said Mr. Pryor, “some one must go to Kincorth and break this +news to Maxwell; if you do not go, I will; for otherwise he will hear it +suddenly, and in his state of health a shock of the kind might prove +fatal.” + +“Come with me then!” exclaimed Brian, “I have not courage to go alone.” +And accordingly they drove round to Kincorth by the same road as that +Maxwell Drewitt had followed when he took his son to Durrow. + +It was late when they reached Kincorth, but the sick man was still +awake, and anxiously expecting Brian’s return. + +He knew, the moment he saw his cousin and Mr. Pryor enter the room +together, that some misfortune had happened. + +“You bring me bad tidings,” he said. + +“I have no good news,” Brian answered. + +“He is taken?” + +“No, he is not taken; he has escaped that fate.” + +“What do you mean?—if he is not taken, he must have escaped; or has he +not got off yet? Will neither of you speak?—there, you need not tell me, +I know the worst—he’s dead.” + +Brian knelt down by the bedside and buried his face in the coverlet. Mr. +Pryor took one of the wasted hands in his, and drawing a chair close up +to Maxwell’s pillow, told him how his boy had been drowned, how the very +efforts they had made to secure his escape had caused his destruction. + +Very quietly Maxwell listened to him; through the night he talked of +nothing else, but still Brian knelt by the bedside with his face hidden +in the coverlet praying in a very agony of supplication to the Lord Most +High. + +This was vengeance! this was what he had longed for, waited for; this +was the end of all his oaths, of all his hate, ay, and of all his love—a +terrible memory which should abide with him to the end—a gnawing remorse +which, though its teeth might get less sharp in time, was yet certain +never quite to loosen its hold upon him. + +This was vengeance: he would have given his life to be able to live the +past year over again with his present experience, retaining his present +feelings. Oh, for power to wipe the sin he had committed off his +conscience, to bring that boy to life again, to restore even comparative +health to his cousin! + +This was vengeance—to pass through such agony as he had never felt +before, to wrestle with his anguish, to have to rise up and face his +misery, to hear Maxwell’s voice saying faintly, “Do not vex yourself +about it, Brian; I am content that it should be so.” + +This was vengeance. Like him who, in the olden days, drew a bow at a +venture and slew the king of Israel, so Brian had drawn his bow at a +venture, and this was the ruin his arrow had wrought. + +Still the waves rolled on and the sea mourned upon the shore; still the +wind blew keen over the ocean, and the billows tossed and lamented, and +the deeps called out to one another through the night; still in the +darkness the great mountains stood proudly aloof; still Mr. Pryor talked +while the thin fingers picked the cotton more restlessly out of the +coverlet, for the end was very nigh at hand, and Maxwell Drewitt was +soon about to pass into that unknown land which is so “very far off.” + + + + + CHAPTER XXI. + Sickness onto Death. + + +Lady Emmeline arrived from London on the day following that on which the +tragedy recorded in the last chapter was acted out, and with her came +Mrs. Ellenham, who repaired, on hearing of her brother’s illness, by +command of her husband, to the Euston Square railway station, where she +proceeded _viâ_ Holyhead and Kingstown to Galway. + +She had never been in Ireland from the day of her elopement, until she +travelled back thither to see her brother on his death-bed, and she +would not have gone then, only the law of Colonel Ellenham was as that +of the Medes and Persians, and if he said, “go”—which he did in hopes of +a bequest—there was no alternative but to pack up and depart. + +Poor Lady Emmeline was inexpressibly shocked at sight of her husband. +All the love she had once felt for him woke to live again in a moment, +and she wept as genuine tears as she had ever shed in her life when he +put up his white lips to kiss her. + +They had lived latterly like cat and dog, but yet she once loved him, +and she loved him now again when he lay dying, thinking, thinking not of +her, but of many a more attractive woman and most of all of Jenny +Bourke, whom he could see standing by the stream at the back of her +brother’s cottage in all the beauty of her young loveliness, so +innocent, so pure, so tender, and so true. + +As for Susan, her brother saw her, but that was about all he would do. +From others she heard the story of his unhappy son; from others she +learned how her husband was mixed up in the matter. + +“I would go back to London at once,” she said to Mr. Pryor, “if I were +not afraid.” And accordingly, as she was afraid, she remained at +Kincorth, keeping as much out of the way as possible, and generally +conducting herself after a fashion as unlike all the fashions of Susan +Drewitt as can well be imagined. + +Matrimony, or perhaps the absence of matrimony for so many years, had +tamed her effectually, and so she roamed about the place and looked at +the improvements, and wondered if Brian would get Kincorth back again, +and wrote long explanatory letters to her husband, and was considered a +very quiet kind of lady by the servants. + +As for Brian, he never left the sick man by day nor by night; and when +the end drew very near, when every one saw that the sickness could never +be cured, the disease never mastered; when it became a question not of +weeks but of hours, Maxwell could not bear his cousin to leave him for +an instant. + +They had been at deadly feud once, but they were united now; they had +been bitter enemies, but they were now fast friends; and it was Brian, +who, when the last moments came, wiped the damp dews off Maxwell’s face, +and held his hand while he passed through the portals of death. + +Thus he departed. Many a time since, Brian Drewitt has recalled that +scene. + +It was noon—noon on a dull, damp November day. + +The sick man had been lying all the morning thinking, thinking, and at +last he began to talk. + +“What’s that you are saying?” he broke out—and Brian knew from his tone +that he was wandering—“That I made nothing? Give me those maps—reach me +those plans;” and then he went on muttering some words which Brian could +not catch. “There is The Headlands,” he said, in a louder key, “and +Cherryfield, and the Calgillan estates. Isn’t it getting very dark, eh? +What’s that? Are you there, Brian? Have I been asleep?” + +“I don’t know. Do you feel tired?” + +“No; but it is time I was getting to sleep—these winter nights are very +dark. Ring for lights, Brian, I cannot bear this gloom.” + +Brian knew then what was coming, and rose and put his strong arms about +his cousin, and lifted him up a little. + +“Can you see any better now?” he said. + +“No; it is all darkness, all; Brian, is it night or day? Is it light to +you?” + +“It is day, Maxwell, though a very dull day, and I can see well enough.” + +“Then this is death,” he said; and he stood at last face to face with +the foe he had dreaded all his life. + +There was an utter silence for a moment, during which Maxwell appeared +to be solving some problem in his mind. + +Over and over he appeared to be turning the question, while his dim eyes +moved restlessly about, as though striving to catch some gleam, however +feeble, of light. + +“It grows darker,” he said, at last, and the cold dew of death was on +his forehead. + +“It grows darker—don’t leave me, Brian.” But Brian had no thought of +leaving him. + +He had lived without God, but he should not die without man—that was the +idea which passed swiftly through his cousin’s mind. + +“Do not let me go,” he murmured; and the hand which Brian held tight in +his, grew cold as marble. + +“I think I have made a great mistake,”—he spoke these words out so +loudly, that Brian almost started, and they were the last he ever +uttered. The problem was solved, the life-story finished, the purpose +accomplished, the end of all earthly things reached; and with a sigh, +Maxwell Drewitt, who had raised his head a little, fell back dead on his +pillow. + +That was the end. + +He laboured and planted, he sowed and reaped, he got him great +possessions, he amassed wealth in abundance, he accomplished what he +said he would; he made the howling wilderness a smiling plain; he found +Headlands a wretched piece of barren land, and he left it an Eden. +Whatsoever his hand found to do, that he performed; whatsoever his mind +planned, that he executed; and yet when he spoke the last words of his +life—when he summed up the whole story of his endeavours and his +successes—it proved to have been all “a great mistake.” + +Pitiful! most pitiful! In his prime this man was taken away from among +his treasures—from the place he had longed to possess—from the country +of his birth—from the scenes he had loved to gaze over. What did it +matter, then, whether he had been rich or poor, wealthy or indigent, +lofty or lowly, peer or peasant?—what did it matter? what even in life +had the lands and the houses, had the silver and the gold, profited him? + +“I think I have made a great mistake.” Was that sentence spoken in time +or in eternity? Was it uttered as his last farewell to earth, or when he +had passed into the land of shadows? His soul was on the threshold of +both worlds at the moment—to which world was the truth addressed? Was it +spoken with the gloom he had complained of settling down upon him, or +with light ineffable flooding the secrets of our humanity, and making +all those things plain which here we see but as through a glass darkly? + +Draw down the blinds, and tread lightly across the room, wherein there +is no life left, but only the body which once held a soul. + +Maxwell Drewitt has passed into that dim land which he so dreaded to +face. He has gone away, and left his work to be taken up by another +after him. + +Never more may he walk by the sea shore, or stand under the arching +trees that shade the avenue, or ride by lake and river, past mountains +and through the valleys—never more for ever. + +His works remain after him, but he himself is departed into that silent +land where no echoes of the waves of time can reach the ears of the +sleepers. + +With great pomp and ceremony, with grandeur befitting his wealth and his +influence, and the height to which he had climbed, they bore him to +Eversbeg Abbey, and laid him down to rest. + +There, so near to where he made his first start in life, he sleeps +well—free from ambitious hopes, from regretful longings. From all +dreads, from all alarms, he is delivered at last. The unquiet heart is +still, the busy mind hushed into repose. The summer’s sun comes each +year and falls warm and bright on the graves in Eversbeg; but the +summer’s sun cannot quicken the cold body into life. + +The great mountains rear their blue summits to heaven, the lakes ripple +and ripple, the rivers flow onward to the sea, and the boulders and the +blocks of granite lie scattered about on the hill sides—the great +Atlantic beats against the iron-bound coast, and up the thousand bays +the waves steal gently as ever—on that strange country through which +Maxwell rode when he was still young, when he had life all before him, +the moon looks down with as cold a light, playing as many fantastic +tricks, creeping up the hills, and lying in the waters just as she did +then. + +And in the dancing sunlight Kincorth is beautiful as of old; but the man +who coveted Kincorth,—who vowed to have it, who declared before God that +neither woman nor devil should keep it from him,—where is he? + +Lying with the rest of his kindred amid the ruins of Eversbeg, +slumbering with the ivy trailing over his tomb, with the birds +chattering all the day long above his head, dreamlessly, until the hour +comes when he shall have to give an account of that life concerning +which he said—he had made a great mistake. + + + + + CHAPTER XXII. + Brighter Days. + + +When Maxwell Drewitt’s will came to be read, it was discovered that he +had left everything which he possessed to his son; but, as Arthur died +before Maxwell, this will became of none effect, and Brian, the +heir-at-law, succeeded to the properties. + +And what properties they were! There had never been a Drewitt so rich +for many a long day—never been a Drewitt without mortgages—without +debt—without incumbrances, until Maxwell made his fortune, as I have +told you, and left it for Brian to enjoy. + +Amongst the dead man’s papers were found the notes which had been stolen +from Mr. Kearns; and these were delivered to the Dundalk and Drogheda +Banking Company, in precisely the same state as that in which they were +discovered. + +Whatever could be done to clear Harold’s memory from the stain that had +lain on it, was done: there were paragraphs inserted in the newspapers; +there were statements read in court; there were communications made to +friends. Mr. Blosse was induced to open his mouth; and every one agreed +that Harold had been shamefully treated; but that the whole proceeding +was “just on a piece” with the rest of Mr. Maxwell Drewitt’s +performances. + +“There is no chance now, old fellow, I suppose, of your coming into +partnership with me,” said Mr. Francis Gyton, when he and Brian met once +more at Highgate. “Like all the rest of your countrymen, you will begin +to turn up your nose at business—cut the money-making establishment +altogether, and take to doing the idle and patriarchal.” + +“I’ll tell you what I have a great mind to do,” answered Brian. + +“Listen attentively, Geraldine,” said Mr. Gyton. “Crœsus has a great +mind to do something; perhaps it may be something for our benefit.” + +“No, it is not,” Brian replied. “I have a very great mind to sell all +those Irish properties, and go abroad.” + +“Bless my soul!” exclaimed his brother-in-law elect. + +“I hate the places!” went on Brian; “I hate the associations! I hate the +country—” + +“And you hate the people! That is right, go it, my boy!” + +“I wish, Frank, that you would not interrupt me so continually,” said +Brian Drewitt, a little irritably. “There is no human being but myself,” +he proceeded, “can understand the misery I have endured in Ireland—nor +the wretched memories it recalls! If I retain the properties I shall +never reside in Connemara.” + +“You need not offer any of them to me, if that is your benevolent +intention,” said Mr. Gyton, hastily; “for I would not be hired to live +in Ireland at a salary of ten thousand a year! It is all very well when +the weather is fine—and it is all very well when you don’t want much +society; but it is the devil when it rains! and when one is shut up in +the house all day—with a fine sea-view and the toothache! London for +me!” finished Mr. Gyton. “I am of London, Londony; I am of the streets, +streety. I detest high tragedy; and your prodigious funerals; and your +outrageous grief; and your excessive sensibilities; and your despairing +remorse; and your eternal hatreds; and your desperate revenges, seem to +me quite out of place in the civilized nineteenth century!” + +“The end, and aim, and object of which civilized nineteenth century is +to destroy all hatred, as it has destroyed all love!” + +“Well, now, that is really too bad; what do you know about love, +sir?—you who have, ever since I had the honour of making your +acquaintance, been so occupied with a kind of Hibernian Vendetta, that +you have had no leisure even to look at a pretty girl, let alone fall in +love with her.” + +“I was not talking about love of that sort, Frank,” answered Brian; “but +about all descriptions of love—love of friends, parents, children, +sisters, brothers.” + +“If you have any compassion, Brian, do stop,” entreated Mr. Gyton; “do +not treat me to a long dissertation on vehement attachments, or +never-to-be-forgotten griefs. Allow me to remark that, had you been born +in any other country than in Ireland, you would have been a much more +agreeable individual than is the case.” + +“Now, Francis,” interposed Geraldine. + +“My sweet child, I am only speaking the truth. Had your brother stood in +my shoes, he would either have been sent to Oxford or put to business +about the time he began nourishing those romantic ideas on the subject +of Kincorth, which ideas have, fortunately for him, been realised. +Hem!—where was I?—oh! yes, at Oxford or the desk. There are two things +in this world which leave a man very little time for developing his +eccentricities, viz., business and pleasure. In a country where you have +neither, as in Ireland, it follows naturally—” + +“Excuse me interrupting you,” observed Brian, “but Ireland is usually +considered to be a very pleasure-seeking country.” + +“Is it really? where do the poor devils go to seek for it? Precious far +afield I should say. It struck me as being one of the most melancholy +corners of the earth that ever I set my foot in.” + +“Yet I suppose you will allow that there is a small portion of wit in +Ireland?” + +“There may be; I never heard any Irish wit excepting in England.” + +“Probably that was not the fault of the Irish,” answered Brian, with a +slight sneer. + +“Thank you for the implied compliment. What I meant to say when you +tripped me up so short was, that one hears a certain number of stock +anecdotes on this side the channel which spoil one for ordinary Irish +conversation. Every Dublin car-driver is not a wit; on the contrary, I +have never heard a really clever speech from one of them, nor am I +acquainted with any person who has. The manner is amusing, I admit; but +the matter will not bear inspection: all of which brings me round to +what I said at first. I would not have to reside in Ireland—indeed I +would not reside in any place at a great distance from London for ten +thousand a year.” + +“I certainly was not going to ask you to reside in Ireland,” observed +Brian. + +“Then we need not fear any misunderstanding on the subject,” remarked +Mr. Gyton; “and you can proceed with what you were about to say.” + +“I have said all I was about to say.” + +“No, you have not; you were going to tell us why you thought of going +abroad, where you intended travelling to, and what you purposed doing +when you had reached your destination.” + +“There is no use, Frank, in trying to talk seriously to you. Everything +seems to you to bear a comical aspect. To hear you speak I am sure +anybody might think the world was a place only intended by the Almighty +for jibes and jeers, for the fool’s motley, for the cap and bells.” + +“After all, the fool’s bells make more lively music than the passing +bells; which appear to be what you delight to listen to. In sober +earnest though, Brian, I do hate to see a man, a wise man, taking life +after your fashion. Is not there happiness in this world, is not there +sunshine, are not there women’s voices, are not there flowers, and birds +and bees and butterflies? Do you think God ever intended we should let +any sorrow or any suffering so dim our eyes that we should never again +be able to look out on life with a sense of enjoyment, with a thrill of +pleasure? Talk to him, Geraldine; tell him what a madman he is to dwell +so sorrowfully on the past, instead of taking pleasure in the present. +Brian,” he added, and for the first time during their acquaintance there +came a touch of passionate entreaty into his voice, “Brian, my brother, +for God’s sake, put that unhappy boy out of your mind; bury your dead, +and leave their graves, and come and stand out in the sunshine, so that +you may make both yourself and those belonging to you happy once more.” + +With a gesture almost of despair, Brian lifted his head, and looking +over the great city which lay below them, answered— + +“It is too soon yet. You do not know, no man can know, what my life has +been, what I have suffered, how I have sinned. You have never stood, as +I have, at one death-bed after another, where the life had been either +unhappy or wicked. Think of it, Frank: out of your own brighter +experience, judge what mine must have been. Father, mother, brother, +cousin, and cousin’s son—all in five years. Those whom I wanted to make +happy, whom I would have laid down my life to save from grief and +trouble, are all gone where the wealth that is now mine is unavailing. I +never was young; I never had a boy’s heart; I never was like other men I +met, gay and thoughtless and light-hearted. I think you are right, +Frank, after all, and that I was wrong. I believe, had I been brought up +in England, I should have been a better man and a happier than I am ever +likely to be now. Like Maxwell, I have made a great mistake.” + +“Well, rectify it then,” answered Mr. Gyton. “It is not too late; it is +never too late while you have breath in your body. I know what you were +going to say: you were going to make some remark about that Arthur, +whose death you have taken a fancy to charge at your own door. There +never was a better day’s work done for that young gentleman than when he +was put so easily out of harm’s way.” + +“What shocking things you do say, Frank!” remarked Geraldine. + +“If being true makes things shocking, I have no doubt they are so,” he +replied; “but the fact is this. Supposing he had escaped drowning, he +would have lived to be hung to a certainty. I am as positive of that as +I am that I am living. Those are just the kind of youths who come as +surely to the gallows, let them start from what point they may, as that +the sparks fly upward. My uncle is of the same opinion; he thinks that +for the sake of all parties interested it was a great blessing Mr. +Arthur Campnell, or Bourke, or Drewitt, or whatever his name might be, +made his exit when he did. Just fancy that boy in possession of those +properties. I ask you just to fancy it. He would have more misery than +we should ever be able to estimate. Those notes! why you know the lad +who could carry a thing of that kind through coolly must have been the +making of a thorough scoundrel; and if it were only for the suffering he +caused Harold, he richly deserved all he got.” + +“That was the way I argued,” Brian groaned. “Heaven, forgive me!” + +“There can be no worse article for every-day wear than a delicate +conscience like yours; which first thinks it a duty to avenge the dead, +and then turns round and repents having inflicted punishment on the +object of its deadliest hatred. I think you were born a few centuries +too late, Brian. You would have been a capital fellow for the sack-cloth +and scourging days; and in one respect I think those days were a vast +deal better than our own. Men then wore their sorrow out of sight, and +their penitence too; now they go about with faces as long as my arm, +making everybody they meet miserable, because of some trifling sin that +they chance to have committed in years gone by.” + +“That cap fits well, if it were made at random.” + +“I did not make it for you,” answered Mr. Gyton, colouring with vexation +at his own stupidity; “and I don’t want to say anything to vex you, only +take my advice. Come out of your shell—mix in the world—share its +pleasures—enjoy its sunshine—don’t go moping about the Continent alone, +and beyond all things, don’t go shut yourself up in those old Irish +estates till you become a monomaniac. Look out for a nice wife—marry—and +forget. If you have done wrong, you must try and do right for the +future. If you have made a mistake, thank God it is not on your +death-bed you have found it out; but with life, years of it before you, +I trust, to make a better thing of than any Drewitt I ever heard of +dreamt of attempting.” + +“What are you sermonizing about, Frank?” asked Mr. Pryor, who came at +this moment into the room. + +“I am preaching the doctrine of work and common sense in the ears of a +morbid sinner,” was the reply. + +“And is he converted?” inquired his uncle, with a smile. + +“Give me time,” Brian answered, “give me time; only, of one thing be +sure—I will not sit down with my hands folded and sorrow vainly. I will +do my best. I will not fly my duties. I will not attempt to get rid of +my responsibilities; and should it ever please God to remove the weight +that is lying on my heart, I will become a laughing philosopher like +you, Frank, and find sunshine in the darkest places.” + +“That is right!” cried Mr. Gyton, clapping him on the back; while Mr. +Pryor went up to Brian and silently took his hand. + +Perhaps the barrister could better estimate the length and breadth, and +height and depth, of the agony that Brian had passed through than any +other man on earth. He had traced the boy’s progress to manhood, and +seen how each year had brought its trial, each day its necessity for +self-command and self-forgetfulness. + +He knew, who better? how long even a slight wound takes to heal with +some mental constitutions, and he could not marvel at the effect all his +trials had produced on Brian Drewitt. + +For himself, it was many a long day before he could forget either that +night-scene on the coast of the wild West, or that darkened room to +which the man who had thought once no domain large enough for him, was +confined at last. + +His life had been prosperous, but the end was so unutterably sorrowful +that it left an impression on Mr. Pryor’s mind like the wail of a +mournful melody, or the sobbing of the wind among the pines at night. + +Unmourned, unlamented, the man had passed to his long home, without one +to weep over him and say, “Alas! my brother.” + + * * * * * + +It was autumn in Connemara once again; the hills were clad in their +robes of purple heather, and the country looked its loveliest, and there +was a great peace on land, on lake, on sea; while under the arching +trees a bridal party came forth from Kincorth; for the daughter of the +house was going to be married to the man she had loved for so long. + +As a matter of choice, and as a matter of convenience, the bridegroom +would certainly have preferred that the wedding should be solemnized in +London; but it was a fancy of Brian’s that Frank Gyton should take his +sister from amongst her own people; that in the place where she had been +born she should be married; that with much stately ceremony, with every +festive rejoicing, the son of the English merchant should mate with the +daughter of the Irish gentleman. + +Brian would not have been a Drewitt had he not been likewise proud, and +it was more out of pride than out of ostentation that he prepared so +great a feast, and bade so many guests to partake of it. Duranmore had +never seen such a wedding before; such strings of carriages, such +strewing of flowers, such passing under wreaths and garlands, was +unprecedented even in a place where many a well-born bride had been +wooed, and won, and married. + +It was a gay sight, and the hearts of the tenantry rejoiced to see such +a cavalcade leaving the gates of Kincorth. Many a day it was since such +a festival had been held at the old home of the Drewitts; and it seemed, +as the people said, like the good old times come back again when the +bride, blushing and happy, walked out of the church porch, leaning on +her husband’s arm, and passed through the people who had known her from +a child, receiving blessings and praises as she went by. + +Half the county was at the wedding, and there were great folks from +London staying at Durrow, and the whole country side was alive with +carriages and servants, and spectators and guests. + +Lady Emmeline graced the scene with her presence, and presented the +bride with some sweet verses of her own composition, which she secretly +hoped might be read aloud at the breakfast. + +She was looking very old and very haggard, poor lady, but she enjoyed +that wedding immensely, and told everybody how fond she had always been +of Geraldine, and how “many people had taken them for mother and +daughter when they were in London together.” + +Mr. Gyton was in great force; he was perfectly stupendous in the way of +waistcoat, and gold chain and pocket-handkerchiefs. He drank champagne, +and he grew pathetic; he partook of all manner of good things, and did +such justice to the viands set before him that Frank Gyton sent round a +card to Brian Drewitt, on which he had written, in pencil— + +“I hope there is a clever doctor among the company—dread apoplexy.” + +Altogether it was, as Mr. Gyton, junior, declared, enormously jolly. + +“I think that everybody should come to Ireland to be married,” said one +tremendous young swell, who turned R into W in the most cruel and +unintelligible manner imaginable. “I think every body should come to +Ireland to be married, it is such fun.” + +“Yes, and the ten miles’ drive gives one such an appetite,” remarked Mr. +Gyton, senior. + +“And, Frank, what did you mean about the climate?” asked his mother. “We +have had three days without a single drop of rain.” + +“That is because it never rains single drops in Ireland,” was the reply; +“they always fall plenty at a time.” + +“Well, now, you know this is charming,” said one City man. “If one could +make certain of not being shot, I think I should like to end my days +here.” + +“Did you ever see such a view?” + +“What a delicious house!” + +“And how exquisitely furnished!” + +“Don’t you wonder Mr. Drewitt has never married?” + +“Hasn’t had the property long; was a clerk in Mr. Gyton’s office in the +City.” + +“Dear me, how singular!” + +“And he proposed for her in her poverty?” + +“Yes, and takes her from here with a handsome fortune, I am told.” + +“How romantic!” + +“Virtue rewarded.” + +And so the talk ran on, while the groom’s-man implored one of the +bridesmaids to tell him who that wonderful piece of antiquity was, +seated on the other side of the table. + +“That, sir,” said the young lady, demurely, “is my cousin, Lady Emmeline +Drewitt.” + +“I am sure, I beg your pardon; really that is—” + +“She is the widow of the late proprietor of Kincorth,” proceeded Miss +Vervensoe, who rather enjoyed her companion’s confusion. “She is very +wealthy, and has been considered very handsome.” + +“Really, now you speak of it—yes, to be sure, bears traces of having +been very beautiful.” + +“I have never detected those traces myself,” said the young Irish belle, +“for it is little more than a tradition with us. Mr. Pryor, however, +declares he can remember her a most graceful and fascinating woman when +he stood for Duranmore in 1832.” + +“I had not the least idea Pryor was so old—1832 carries us back into the +remote ages of antiquity.” + +“I suppose it does, to about the time the Pyramids were built,” answered +Miss Vervensoe, a little pertly. She had some pretensions to talent, and +indulged in satirical poetry, and on her return home wrote some very +smart lines descriptive of the wedding-breakfast generally, and of her +conversational friend particularly. + +“Are you coming to the ball to-night?” she asked. + +Of course he was. Did not every one intend coming to it, or rather +staying for it, who had got an invitation? “For his part,” and here the +speaker became slightly tender in his manner; “for his part, he quite +agreed with Mr. Sherwood and Mr. Gyton, that everybody ought to come to +Ireland to get married.” + +Which observation Miss Vervensoe shrined in her poem with an addendum of +her own, to the effect that she thought a good many people would have to +bring the wives with them. + +On the whole, Miss Vervensoe was not a nice young lady; not a young lady +it would have been well for Brian Drewitt to marry; though it was her +mother’s intention that he should marry her, if the thing were +compassable. + +Lady Emmeline, also, was very desirous that her sweetest “Anne” should +become mistress of Kincorth; and Mr. Dolf Vervensoe told his daughter +that he should think her a “damned deal cleverer even than she thought +herself, if she could bring Brian Drewitt to book!” + +But through that danger the young man passed scatheless. He was not a +person very easy to satisfy, either in the matter of beauty or of +anything else; and accordingly, he waited, and waited, till, quite by +chance, as it seemed to them both, he met one day with a bright, +loveable, English country-girl, who had been brought up very quietly in +her father’s old-fashioned parsonage-house—whence Brian Drewitt took her +to himself, without any fuss or ceremonial or excitement whatsoever. + +Geraldine always declared he took a fancy to the girl because she +resembled their mother; and Brian did not contradict her assertion. + +When the spring was shyly putting out its soft green leaves—when the +winter’s frosts were over, and the winter’s snows gone—when the balmy +south wind began to blow, bringing flowers and buds on its genial +breath, Brian Drewitt took his young wife home to Kincorth, which he has +never talked of selling from that hour. + +She was his home-angel! his sweet, pretty, cheerful treasure! and he +told her so one day, when she began, in her winning way, to coax him to +tell her why he ever married her—he, so rich! so grand! who might have +wooed and won some wonderful heiress—some great beauty; and he added, +also, a statement which was true as Holy Writ—viz., that, when he first +looked in her face, he felt its expression comfort him as nothing else +had comforted him since that sad day when he stood beside his mother’s +coffin, and felt almost as though his heart were broken! + + + + + CONCLUSION. + + +Thus they were all at rest at last—they who had loved, and they who had +hated; the years had passed by, and brought peace with them—peace to the +dead—peace to the living. + +As for Brian Drewitt, who is a good landlord and a faithful steward, he +can think over the past now without anguish—without despair. + +There was once a time in his life when, had any one foretold that into +so quiet a haven his soul could ever drift, he would have derided the +idea, and scoffed it to scorn; there was once a time when he lived but +for vengeance—once—but that was gone. + +Like a tale that was told—like a watch in the night—like a storm which +was spent, so the great thirst for revenge had died out, and left, it +might be, a still greater grief, but a more holy feeling behind. + +The draught he had once panted and sickened for—the power to ruin +Maxwell—to hurl him from his pinnacle of worldly greatness into the very +depths of poverty—never slackened his feverish thirst, it is true; but +he had drained another goblet to the dregs, and found at the bottom, +bitterness—in its sweetness, death. + +Well, it was all over now; the desire, the sin, the remorse—the fever +which had once dried up his very blood—which had burnt and consumed +him—which had eaten into his heart and torn at his vitals, had subsided; +and he now looked back at the days and the years of his awful sickness +as one might who, having recovered from the frenzy of madness, tries to +recall the sensations, and the events and the phases, and the once great +leading passion of his lunacy. + +So he looked back from a safe and sure haven at last, over the waves of +that troublous ocean where he had waged so unequal a fight; where he had +seen his purest and best hopes shipwrecked; where he had beheld _her_ go +down amongst the billows, never to rise till eternity again; where he +had struck out madly to reach his enemy; where after years he stood by +the shore watching Maxwell sink lower and lower in the flood, +proclaiming with his last breath that life had not been to him all +happiness—that somewhere, or all through, he had made a great mistake. + +The storm had swept by, but it had left traces behind it—such traces as, +that wife, nor child, nor friend, ever after saw Brian Drewitt laugh. + +He said he was well and happy; and so he was; but such passions as had +dwelt in his breast are enemies who never quit a man without leaving +tracks of sorrow and traces of sin, long deep scars and ugly furrows +behind them, that not even the soft caresses of his loving wife, the +sunshine of domestic happiness could entirely heal. + +There was a shade, even to that bright sunshine; for long after his lips +had ceased to pronounce her name; when to mere casual observers the sore +seemed healed, the wound cicatrized; when children climbed his knee, and +young tongues called him father, and tiny hands clutched his hair, and +little essayists in the sublime mystery of walking came toddling towards +him, forcing the grave, stern face to relax and smile—Brian Drewitt was +still weeping at heart for her who had been his mother. + +Whenever he visited London, he often took long morning walks alone, and +by his resolute persistency in refusing her companionship his sister +knew whither he was gone. + +In one direction he invariably turned his steps—to that churchyard +where, as I have said, the setting sun casts its departing rays on the +graves of the loved and lost. + +In that churchyard there is still one little piece of ground kept bright +and beautiful by the living, in remembrance of the dead; and beside that +grave Brian Drewitt will stand motionless, with his arms folded and his +eyes fixed on the only inscription except her name which the white +marble bears: “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” + + + THE END. + + + PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + December 1883. + + Tauchnitz Edition. + + + Latest Volumes: + + A Chance Acquaintance. By William D. Howells, 1 vol. + Treherne’s Temptation. By Alaric Carr, 2 vols. + The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, etc. By Florence Marryat, 1 vol. + Life’s Aftermath. By Emma Marshall, 1 vol. + French Poets and Novelists. By Henry James, 1 vol. + Disarmed. By Miss Betham-Edwards, 1 vol. + Through one Administration. By Mrs. Burnett, 2 vols. + The Mistletoe Bough and other Stories. By Anthony Trollope, 1 vol. + Their Wedding Journey. By W. D. Howells, 1 vol. + Regimental Legends. By J. S. Winter, 1 vol. + June. By Mrs. Forrester, 2 vols. + Phantom Fortune. By Miss Braddon, 3 vols. + Belinda. By Miss Rhoda Broughton, 2 vols. + Phyllis. By the Author of “Molly Bawn,” 2 vols. + A Book of Sibyls. By Miss Thackeray, 1 vol. + Frescoes and other Stories. By Ouida, 1 vol. + Altiora Peto. By Laurence Oliphant, 2 vols. + An Autobiography. By Anthony Trollope, 1 vol. + A Fearful Responsibility, etc. By William D. Howells, 1 vol. + The Professor at the Breakfast-Table. By Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1 vol. + A short History of our own Times. By Justin M^cCarthy, 2 vols. + * * * * * + Klytia. By George Taylor. From the German by Sutton Fraser Corkran, 2 + vols. (_German Authors._) + * * * * * + Rex and Regina; or, The Song of the River. By E. Marshall. With + Illustrations, 1 vol. (_Series for the Young._) + +A complete Catalogue of the Tauchnitz Edition is attached to this work. + +------------------------------------------------------------------------ + + + + + TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES + + + Page Changed from Changed to + + 132 He never seemed to have courage He never seemed to have courage + expect when he except when he + + 202 increased, and very facility increased, and every facility + afforded him for pushing afforded him for pushing + + 270 bare of foliage, but there were bare of foliage, but there were + still enough leaver still enough leaves + + ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. + ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. + ● The caret (^) is used to indicate superscript, whether applied to a + single character (as in 2^d) or to an entire expression (as in + 1^{st}). + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79387 *** diff --git a/79387-h/79387-h.htm b/79387-h/79387-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e06f7aa --- /dev/null +++ b/79387-h/79387-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12124 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> + <head> + <meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1"> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title>Maxwell Drewitt, Vol. 2 of 2 | Project Gutenberg</title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + body { margin-left: 8%; 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} + p {text-align: left; } + div.titlepage {text-align: center; page-break-before: always; + page-break-after: always; } + div.titlepage p {text-align: center; text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; + line-height: 1.5; margin-top: 3em; } + .ph1 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; + margin: .67em auto; page-break-before: always; } + .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; + page-break-before: always; } + .x-ebookmaker p.dropcap:first-letter { float: left; } + hr.invisible { + border: none; + height: 0.5em; + margin: 0; + } + hr.asterisks { + margin: .5em -4em .5em auto; + border: 0; + text-align: center; + color: inherit; + } + hr.asterisks::before { + letter-spacing: 4em; + content: "*****"; + } + </style> + </head> + + <body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79387 ***</div> + + +<div class='tnotes covernote'> + +<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber’s Note:</strong></p> + +<p class='c000'>New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the public domain.</p> + +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> + <div class='nf-center'> + <div><span class='small'>EACH VOLUME SOLD SEPARATELY.</span></div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='border'> + +<div class='chapter ph1'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c001'> + <div><span class='xlarge'>COLLECTION</span></div> + <div><span class='small'>OF</span></div> + <div>BRITISH AUTHORS</div> + <div class='c002'><span class='large'>TAUCHNITZ EDITION.</span></div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c003'> + <div>VOL. 810.</div> + <div class='c002'><span class='large'>MAXWELL DREWITT BY F. G. TRAFFORD</span></div> + <div class='c002'>IN TWO VOLUMES.</div> + <div class='c002'>VOL. 2.</div> + <div class='c003'>LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.</div> + <div class='c002'>PARIS: C. REINWALD, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PÈRES.</div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> + <div class='nf-center'> + <div><em>This Collection</em></div> + <div><em>is published with copyright for Continental circulation, but all purchasers are earnestly requested not to introduce the volumes into England or into any British Colony.</em></div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='chapter ph1'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c001'> + <div><span class='xlarge'>COLLECTION</span></div> + <div class='c002'><span class='small'>OF</span></div> + <div class='c002'>BRITISH AUTHORS.</div> + <div class='c002'><span class='small'>VOL. 810.</span></div> + <div class='c003'><span class='large'>MAXWELL DREWITT BY F. G. TRAFFORD.</span></div> + <div class='c002'><span class='small'>IN TWO VOLUMES.</span></div> + <div class='c002'><span class='small'>VOL. <abbr title='two'>II.</abbr></span></div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='titlepage'> + +<div> + <h1 class='c004'>MAXWELL DREWITT<br> <span class='small'>A NOVEL.</span></h1> +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c003'> + <div><span class='small'>BY</span></div> + <div class='c002'><span class='xlarge'>F. G. TRAFFORD,</span></div> + <div class='c002'><span class='small'>AUTHOR OF “GEORGE GEITH,” ETC.</span></div> + <div class='c003'><em>COPYRIGHT EDITION.</em></div> + <div class='c002'>IN TWO VOLUMES.</div> + <div class='c002'>VOL. <abbr title='two'>II.</abbr></div> + <div class='c003'>LEIPZIG</div> + <div class='c002'>BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ</div> + <div class='c002'>1866.</div> + <div class='c002'><span class='xsmall'><em>The Right of Translation is reserved.</em></span></div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='c001'></div> +<nav data-epub-type="toc"> +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_v'>v</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CONTENTS<br> <span class='c006'>OF VOLUME <abbr title='two'>II.</abbr></span></h2> +</div> + +<table class='table0'> + <tr> + <td class='c007'> </td> + <td class='c008'> </td> + <td class='c009'> </td> + <td class='c010'>Page</td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>CHAPTER</td> + <td class='c008'>I.</td> + <td class='c009'>Brian’s Difficulties</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_1'>1</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>II.</td> + <td class='c009'>At the Dawning</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_14'>14</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>III.</td> + <td class='c009'>After the Funeral</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_26'>26</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>IV.</td> + <td class='c009'>Farewell</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_41'>41</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>V.</td> + <td class='c009'>The Hour of Success</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_53'>53</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>VI.</td> + <td class='c009'>On the Way to Durrow</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_68'>68</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>VII.</td> + <td class='c009'>Another Difficulty</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_83'>83</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>VIII.</td> + <td class='c009'>Harold in Trouble</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_95'>95</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>IX.</td> + <td class='c009'>An Unfortunate Likeness</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_113'>113</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>X.</td> + <td class='c009'>Hearing is not Believing</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_132'>132</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XI.</td> + <td class='c009'>Called Home</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_151'>151</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XII.</td> + <td class='c009'>Geraldine is Satisfied</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_161'>161</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XIII.</td> + <td class='c009'>Country Gossip</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_179'>179</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XIV.</td> + <td class='c009'>What met Brian</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_191'>191</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XV.</td> + <td class='c009'>Madcap’s Last Leap</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_204'>204</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XVI.</td> + <td class='c009'>After Long Years</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_216'>216</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XVII.</td> + <td class='c009'>The Beginning of the End</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_228'>228</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XVIII.</td> + <td class='c009'>Man’s Vengeance</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_239'>239</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XIX.</td> + <td class='c009'>Through Connemara</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_254'>254</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XX.</td> + <td class='c009'>Brian’s Repentance</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_266'>266</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XXI.</td> + <td class='c009'>Sickness unto Death</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_279'>279</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'>——</td> + <td class='c008'>XXII.</td> + <td class='c009'>Brighter Days</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_285'>285</a></td> + </tr> + <tr> + <td class='c007'> </td> + <td class='c008'> </td> + <td class='c009'>Conclusion</td> + <td class='c010'><a href='#Page_300'>300</a></td> + </tr> +</table> +</nav> + +<div class='chapter ph1'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c001'> + <div>MAXWELL DREWITT.</div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER I.<br> <span class='c006'>Brian’s Difficulties.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Gyton returned to London with his uncle, +greatly to his disgust, for he was really enamoured of +Geraldine Drewitt; “But the idea of staying on with a +blue-book and a rouge-pot without you!” he remarked +to Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Cannot you ride?” asked the barrister.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Over those winding roads for ever? No. Human +nature demands a change.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Cannot you fish?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No. I cannot live on fried trout, and ham and +eggs, and whiskey, in those districts where fish is +plentiful: add to which, that I agree with Dr. Johnson—was +not it?—who said a fishing-rod had a worm +at one end and a fool at the other.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can you not superintend matters at Durrow?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Durrow be hanged! We will come over with a +party, but till then, Durrow sees nothing of your +humble servant.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can you not cultivate a friendship with Harold +Drewitt?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Much obliged, but Mr. Harold Drewitt is a young +gentleman whom I admire much more than I like. No, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>uncle, I return with you to London by the Kingston +and Holyhead packet, if you please.” And Mr. Francis +Gyton locked his portmanteau determinedly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“When shall we see you in Connemara again?” +asked Lady Emmeline, with her sweetest smile.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not until next summer, I fear,” answered Mr. +Pryor, and his hostess looked inconsolable.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish we were going to spend the winter in +London,” she said, with a sigh; and Mrs. Gyton heard +of that sigh, and asked her Ladyship to visit London +after Christmas; a visit which Lady Emmeline enjoyed +greatly, and which was most probably the happiest +time she ever spent during all the years that had +passed since her marriage with Maxwell Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for the owner of the Headlands, he felt rejoiced +exceedingly when Mr. Pryor took his leave. The visit +had not turned out according to his anticipations.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There were several matters in which he had desired +Mr. Pryor’s co-operation and assistance, but he +decided that it would be more prudent to let those +matters wait.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Twelve months can make no material difference,” +argued Mr. Maxwell Drewitt; “and when he returns, +those young people at Kincorth will be singing to a +different tune. And that reminds me I may as well +call round with Ryan, and give him instructions how +to proceed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But on the road Maxwell met Mr. Ryan coming +post haste to him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Look here,” said the attorney—by this time a +shabby, shuffling man of close on fifty, who smelt +even at the earliest hours in the morning of whiskey, +and who would now as soon have thought of calling +<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>his employer Max, as he would of addressing Lord +Marsden as “Bob.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There had been a time when the pair were very +intimate; when they stood very close together on Fortune’s +wheel; but the wheel had gone round since that, +and carried Drewitt up and Ryan down. They were +very far apart now—far as master and man can +stand—and though the attorney said “Look here,” +it was not said familiarly, but rather out of the excess +of his own astonishment, with a great anxiety to know +how Mr. Drewitt would receive the contents of the +letter he held out for him to read.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell glanced over it—then he looked at +Ryan.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What the devil is the meaning of this?” he said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That there is a fresh hand at the helm,” was the +reply. “It is that young Brian.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Damn him!” said Maxwell heartily. “Had not +they some clause by which, if the interest were not +paid, they could sell without power of redemption?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, if the interest were demanded; but the +interest has not been demanded lately.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And curse you for a fool; why has it not been +demanded?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“By your own order, sir; by your own order, I +assure you,” said Ryan. “You were afraid of exciting +Mr. Drewitt’s apprehensions, and consequently——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Archibald, you mean. I am Mr. Drewitt. +I am the eldest son of the eldest son, remember that, +if you please.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Archibald’s apprehensions,” corrected Ryan, +“and——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You must get to know what this means,” interrupted +<span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>Maxwell. “You must go to old Neill, and +ascertain all about it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have been, sir, and Neill is quite in the dark +himself. This is the last transaction he is ever to be +engaged in for them. Master Brian requested him to +write to us. Had he seen him first he says he would +not have done it. He refused to give him any further +information, and begged him to send all his father’s +papers back to Kincorth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What will be the next move do you expect?” +asked Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“To pay off the principal.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They have got a backer,” muttered Maxwell +Drewitt, with a shocking oath, “and that backer is +Geoffry Pryor. Are all the papers likely to go back, +Ryan?” he asked, with a certain significance, which +made the other turn a little pale.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Neill will not give them up till his costs are +paid, and he has a pretty tidy bill against Mr. Drewitt. +He thinks also if he retains the papers he may get +back the business.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You keep him up to that idea,” said Maxwell; +“and as for this interest, let them pay it if they can; +and the principal too, for that matter, curse them! +That young fool thinks to get the better of me. So +much the worse for him, that is all.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And Maxwell Drewitt turned on his heel, and retraced +his steps towards the Headlands, swearing to +himself as he walked along. It was a new thing for +Mr. Maxwell Drewitt to find himself worsted, and he +had been worsted here.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He thought he had but to step up to Kincorth and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>take possession, and behold Kincorth was as far from +him as ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Farther perhaps—for there was, as Mr. Ryan had +said, a fresh hand at the helm, who was evidently +about to follow his cousin’s example and make the old +property valuable.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is ploughing, he is digging, he is sowing,” +Maxwell remarked to Ryan about three months afterwards; +“where does he get the money?” and Ryan’s +thoughts ran back to a time when he had put the +same question to himself with regard to Maxwell, and +wondered if this younger and better Drewitt would be +equally successful with his cousin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is not likely, I suppose,” remarked Mr. Ryan, +“that he will do as well as you have done.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, faith,” was the reply, “he is working in +chains. If the young beggar did not richly deserve +all he gets, I should pity any one who was trying to +work under my uncle. I would rather work for the +devil. He would know his own mind; a thing Archibald +Drewitt never did.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And what Maxwell Drewitt said was true.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But for Kincorth,” wrote Brian to Mr. Pryor, +“but for the sake of the dear old place whose roof I +want to keep over the heads of my father and mother +if I am able, I could sometimes almost wish I had +rented a portion of Durrow from you, and tried my +luck there. No person can imagine how hard I find it +to carry any point, or to maintain it when carried. +My father thinks I am taking too much on me, and +latterly even Harold has gone over to the enemy. I +have no one with me except my mother and Geraldine. +Even my mother thought I ought to defer more to my +<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>father’s opinions, and so I had to tell her about the +mortgage. Since then she has been with me, heart +and soul, and indeed but for her I should often have +felt inclined to give up in despair. But I am in the +river now, and I do not mean to sink if I can help it. +We have never got those papers back yet from Mr. +Neill. He is keeping them against his costs, and as +the papers cannot be of much importance, I think I +shall not speak again to my father on the subject till +you come over. Connor is doing wonders with Durrow. +If the place were his own he could not be working +harder to increase its value. My father’s health does +not improve; on the contrary, those attacks are more +frequent. I have been urging him to go to Dublin, +but he seems to think I want him out of the way. +Perhaps when you are next here you may be able to +persuade him to get some first-rate advice. My speaking +seems to do more harm than good.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And Brian was quite right. The fact of his proposing +anything made Mr. Drewitt object to it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is hard upon you Brinbaldy,” said Wilhelmina, +who had married years and years before Mr. Goldich, +a man far below herself in birth and social position. +“It is hard upon you. I can remember the time when +my uncle would not cut down a tree because you +might not like it; when he was going to build a house +for you at Analore; when we were not allowed to have +a door open for fear the draught might kill you, precious +baby that you were; and now all the county is +talking about how badly you and he hit it off, and +how sorry he is Harold is not the eldest son.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If Harold could keep the property together, I am +sure I wish he were the eldest,” sighed Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>“Dear, dear! to think about the fuss they made +over you once, and to see how that young jack-a-napes +has cut you out now. My husband says, Brian, +that if he were you, he would not let Maxwell and +Harold be so much together. He says Harold will go +to the dogs entirely if he is not got out of this neighbourhood, +and that you ought to see to him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can I do everything?” asked Brian. “Am I +Harold’s father? am I the owner of Kincorth? How +is it possible for me to do more than I am doing? Do +you think I am master here?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, you need not be angry at me for repeating +what he says; you need not snap me up like that +for giving you good advice. Go on as you choose, +only don’t blame us if any harm happens to Harold.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is no harm likely to happen to Harold,” +Brian would answer; but spite of this, as often as not +he went straight off to his brother, and entreated him +to stay more at home, not to drink so much, not to +mix so freely with the lower orders, but to remember +he was a Drewitt, and being such, to keep himself to +himself.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You want to make me a sneak like yourself,” the +boy retorted. “You take too much on you; you set +yourself up a great deal too high; you are not a bit +like what you used to be; you are too much of the +master before your time, as Maxwell says.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then calmly, and without a change of colour, Brian +damned Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We will be quits some day,” he remarked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“When you have made your fortune out of +mangold-wurzel and your fine new English sheep, I +suppose,” taunted Harold, for the English sheep had +<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>proved failures, and the success of the mangold was +problematical.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I would rather lose money on mangolds than +take it out of my wife’s pocket,” returned Brian; and +thus they wrangled on, till oftentimes the elder brother +was sick and tired of his thankless labour—of the +work which was never done, and which, in the opinion +of many people, had better never have been attempted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was hard; and this lad of twenty felt the difficulty +of his position keenly. He rose early, he went +to bed late, he fought hard for what he believed to be +right. He did his best to fulfil his promise to Mr. +Pryor, and yet the consequence was that, when Mr. +Pryor returned to Connemara, he found Mr. Drewitt +dreadfully dissatisfied with his son—full of complaints, +full of grievances.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is very hard for a man to be so treated by his +own child, Mr. Pryor,” sobbed the invalid. “There is +no use in my making any suggestions. He is only +twenty, and I am sixty-four; yet you would think, to +see the way he gets on, he was sixty-four instead of +me. I am sure I managed my own property for many +a year before he was born, but he ignores me completely—completely, +sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hope Brian is never disrespectful,” observed the +Englishman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No; I cannot make any complaint on that score; +he only takes his own way; he will not be guided by +me. Now there’s flax. I wanted him to sow flax; +but do you think he would do it? and I ordered the +men to plant some young trees round that piece of +land he is reclaiming over by the Point. You would +hardly credit it, I suppose, but he told them to go on +<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>ploughing, and leave the trees till another season. And +those trees, sir! when he comes to lay that down in +grass he will have no shelter for his cattle; not as +much as would shade a sheep.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor took the old man’s hand kindly in his +own—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My dear Mr. Drewitt,” he began, and his heart +was grieved, as he spoke both for the father and the +son. “Will you go back in your own mind twelve +months, and think of your position then—of your +position now? I know, I have good reason for knowing, +that had I not advanced money—had I not, in +fact, taken the mortgages on Kincorth myself—the +former mortgagee would have foreclosed ere this; and +Brian knew this as well, and the lad is now working +hard to free your property from its incumbrances. If +in all cases he does not follow your advice, I am confident +it is only because he feels that whatever returns +money in the present is of more importance than any +improvements calculated to beautify the property in +the future.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But trees, Mr. Pryor—trees are always valuable,” +persisted Mr. Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not until they grow,” answered Mr. Pryor, with +a smile, and that smile weakened the force of all he +had said previously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Of course, I know nothing,” said the old man; +“of course, my opinion is of no weight. I am your +debtor, sir, and Brian sees with your eyes—and I—I +might as well be in my coffin.” Having arrived at +which sensible conclusion, Mr. Drewitt burst into tears.</p> + +<p class='c012'>All in vain, Mr. Pryor begged him to consider how +hard Brian was working, how his endeavours had +<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>caused several of Mr. Drewitt’s most troublesome creditors +to cease their persecutions, how there was comparative +comfort at Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Good Heavens! Mr. Drewitt, what would you +have?” went on the Englishman. “How can Brian +possibly do more for you than he is doing?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“For himself, Mr. Pryor, you mean,” answered +Brian’s parent. “He thinks the estate will come to +him absolutely, when I am dead and gone. It is not +right for a son to act as if his father were already +dead and buried; and I must look out for Harold’s interests—I +must see to them.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you would attend to Harold’s interests in the +present,” returned Mr. Pryor, whose patience was by +this time exhausted, “and insist that he should spend +his days in some profitable manner, instead of drinking, +hunting, and consorting with all kinds of bad +characters, it would be more to the purpose, I think, +than exalting him over the son who is trying his best +to do his duty.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There you are,” interrupted Mr. Drewitt, “taking +Brian’s side, of course: it only shows me more and +more that I must see to Harold—poor lad—for who +would be on his side if I and his mother were gone?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are right, Mr. Drewitt,” answered Mr. Pryor; +“it will be better for you to see to Harold; it will save +much heartburning on the boy’s part and much misconception +on your own. I am sorry you are so ill-advised +as to believe the interests of your two sons can +for the present be separated; but I have done: every +man must manage his family and his affairs for himself, +and strangers only do more harm than good by +meddling. I am sure I have,” muttered the lawyer to +<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>himself, as he returned slowly and thoughtfully towards +Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had not, however, gained the top of the hill +above Kincorth before he heard some one calling—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! Mr. Pryor, do stop, pray, pray do!” and +stopping and looking back he saw Geraldine flying +after him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have run so fast,” she panted. “I want to +speak to you. I want to talk with you so much: may +I walk part of the way to Durrow?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Might she?—part of the way?—when he +would have given all Durrow to have heard her promise +to walk with him all through life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>At what age does a man’s heart cease to beat +faster, I wonder, when a pretty girl—that is, the +pretty girl of his especial fancy—speaks to him?</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a dreadful disparity between them—a +quarter of a century, or thereabouts—which made +Geoffry Pryor feel occasionally that he was mad for +thinking of such a thing.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And perhaps he was mad; but he thought about +Geraldine, from morning till night, for all that.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do so want to talk to you about Brian,” she +began. “Home is so wretched for him, you can have +no idea, Mr. Pryor—none;” and Geraldine lifted her +soft dark eyes to the Englishman’s face to see if he +were attending to what she said. “I sometimes think +he would be better away, for poor papa seems to fancy +he can do nothing right—nothing.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your papa is not in a fit state of health to judge +accurately on any subject,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But it is so miserable for Brian.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Brian is doing his duty.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>“It is so hard for him to have to be doing his duty +so young,” she answered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He will find it all the easier when he is old,” replied +Mr. Pryor; but there was nothing unkind in his +tone, harsh though the truth might be.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Could he not do his duty any place else?” she +asked. “He tells me he could not; that he must make +a struggle to keep Kincorth; that he chose to go into +battle, and that he will not turn his back on the fray: +but still, I thought I would ask you,” finished Geraldine; +and the dark eyes were lifted to his once again, +and her soft Irish voice laid an accent at once pathetic +and imploring on the “you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dear child,” answered Mr. Pryor—she seemed +so young and so trustful, so childlike and so pretty, +that he would have liked to gather her in his arms +and carry her to his home, out of the way of sorrow +and trouble—“you would not have your brother a +coward; he has elected to tread a rough road, but he +will reach the end some day; and you must help, and +not hinder him on his way.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But if you knew, Mr. Pryor; if you knew—papa +is so—so jealous of him, and Harold is the +same; and everybody seems against him—every—every +one.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What a foolish little girl you are!” he said; and +the longing grew stronger to take such a little bundle +of folly to himself for ever. “I am not against Brian, +you are not against Brian, your mamma is not against +Brian, many people are very much for Brian, and +think him an amazingly fine young fellow. Besides, +he is doing right, and he will be glad hereafter to +think he did strive to keep a roof over his father’s +<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>head. Although Mr. Drewitt does not thank him for +it now, Brian will be glad to remember at some future +day how he stood between his father and the world.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish I could be of any use,” she said, with +such a wistful look in her sweet face that Geoffry +Pryor would have given more than Durrow to touch it +just once with his lips.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You can be of use,” he answered; “you can tell +Brian, whenever he is dispirited, not to lose heart: you +can tell him that the evil is only apparent while the +good is real: beyond all”—he hesitated for a moment, +and then went on—“you can tell him to be kind to, +and patient and forbearing with his father; patient as +he would be if he were lying on his death-bed; +because, dear Geraldine—may I call you Geraldine?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, anything,” she replied; “because why?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He will not, I fear, have to exercise his patience +so long as he would——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! Mr. Pryor—Mr. Pryor!” and the colour +faded out of her face and the tears sprang into her eyes.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My dear, it is true,” he said; “and that thought +will make both you and him very tender and very good.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Papa, my poor, poor papa:” it was all she could +say; but she stretched out her hands towards Mr. Pryor, +as though in this dumb fashion she were asking his help.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“God knows when it may be,” he went on, taking +her hands, “but you must be prepared any day, my +poor child—Geraldine.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mamma, mamma!” and Geraldine drew her hands +away from him and covered her face from sight; +“mamma, mamma! I think I will go home now,” she +added after a pause. “I think I will go back to him: +thank you, Mr. Pryor;” and she left him crying bitterly.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER II.<br> <span class='c006'>At the Dawning.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>It was easy enough to see from Geraldine’s manner +that although she had never put the precarious state of +her father’s health before herself plainly, yet that she +had vaguely dreaded the worst.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As a rule, our fears travel so much faster than +actual danger, that before danger absolutely appears in +sight, we are well prepared for its advent; and there +was not one of Mr. Drewitt’s family, unless indeed it +might be Harold, who had not been long prepared for +the worst.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mrs. Drewitt, and Brian and Geraldine had known, +for many a day, that he could never be better. Once +admit the idea that improvement is impossible, and it +is not difficult to imagine that the last change of all is +probable.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There are times when it is the truest wisdom to +look upon our living as dying; when it is well to meet +the mournful truth boldly and without disguise; when +it is well to buckle on all our charity and forbearance; +to call together love, and duty, and tenderness, so that +we may not pain the departing by opposition which +might be imperative for their sakes as well as our +own, were they not already at the mouth of that river +where all human leave-takings must be ended.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If we had but known how ill he was—If we had +only imagined he was dying!”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span>“Had we thought he was in danger!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>How often we hear these sentences—happy +only if we have never had need to utter them ourselves!</p> + +<p class='c012'>Geoffry Pryor resolved that Geraldine should have +no sorrow of this kind. It was right for her to understand, +and yet the intelligence did not seem strange to +her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She had feared—and the fear was true—and +she went down the hill towards Kincorth, crying, as I +have said, bitterly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As she went Mr. Pryor began to marvel whether +he had done right; whether, after all, Mr. Drewitt’s +case was so hopeless; but then he remembered many +an unfailing symptom which assured him that Kincorth +would soon be in want of a new master.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And the sooner the better, say I,” was the conclusion +he arrived at; but then his conscience chid him, +and he added, “though God knows best.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Harold, nothing could induce him to think +badly of his father’s state.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You told me more than a year ago he could not +be cured, and he is alive now,” he argued.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I said I feared he never could be better, and I +was right,” answered Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, he may live for a hundred years yet,” was +the reply. “He is dying—you are dying—I am +dying; but although we are dying we are not near our +deaths; at least I hope not,” added Harold; and he +went whistling out of the gates, to seek for more cheerful +companionship abroad.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He did not like all work and no play, not he; give +him a good tumbler of punch, a pretty country-girl for +<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>partner, and a jolly good dance up at Regan’s—a +public-house on the way to Cragantlet, where he and +a lot of other young fellows got together—and Kincorth +might go hang.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“‘For I’m a fine young Irish gentleman,</div> + <div class='line in2'>All of the ancient school,’”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c014'>Master Harold would shout out as he came reeling +home, arm-in-arm with three or four more as drunk as +himself; and Brian, who had never taken a glass +too much wine in his life, looked at his brother +and asked helplessly—“What can I do? what can +I do?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He never knew where to find Harold when he +wanted him; and one night when the worst, so long +apprehended, had to be faced, Brian, flinging himself +on the fastest thing in the stable—Madcap—knew +no more where to go to look for his brother than if he +were the greatest stranger in the world.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is a dance up at Regan’s to-night, sir,” +said the man who had saddled the chesnut; “and if +you’ll ride up there, I’ll cut across the hills to Durrow, +for Mr. Maxwell’s dining with Mr. Pryor, and +should Master Harold not be at Regan’s he’ll be +there.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Which is the nearest road to Regan’s?” Brian +asked, stroking the neck of the chesnut, who was one +of the most fidgety brutes a man ever undertook to +ride.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Straight on till Cragantlet, then take the turn +before you come to the gates, and keep on about half-a-mile. +He’s nearly sure to be there; but if he’s not +there, you might call at Dan Glynn’s as you’re comin’ +back.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>“I’ll call there as I’m going,” was the reply; for +Dan Glynn was an individual who resided about a +mile inland from Duranmore, and who was reputed to +make his living by less honest means than tilling bad +land or sending lean sheep to Ballinasloe fair for the +Leinster graziers to buy and fatten.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a dark night for August, but Brian knew +every inch of the road, and so for that matter did the +chesnut, who brought him to the Moor Farm in less +than a quarter of an hour.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian rode straight up to the door and, without +dismounting, rapped for admittance with the handle of +his whip.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There were no lights to be seen, there was no one +stirring about the place; but the youth knew Mr. +Glynn’s habits, and not thinking these at all sufficient +reasons for supposing the household had retired to rest, +he jumped to the ground, and with whip and boots +made such vigorous onslaughts on the door as soon +brought Mr. Glynn out of his bed to inquire what the —— he +wanted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I want my brother, Glynn; do you know where +he is?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The Lord be good to me, it’s Mister Brian. I +beg your pardon, sir, I’m sure; I thought it was some +damned gauger. No, I haven’t seen Masther Harold, +not these two days. Anything wrong, sir? can I be +of any help?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, thank you,” answered Brian, who had one +foot already in the stirrup. “I’ll go on to Regan’s.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How’s the Masther, Mister Brian?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dying, Glynn,” was the reply that came back +through the night, for the chesnut was galloping down +<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>the cross road leading to Duranmore, and Brian turned +round in his saddle to shout out these words.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Faith, then, an’ if he’s dyin’ it’s not Dan Glynn +that’ll go back till his bed, an’ sleep contint. I’ll +follow the boy: shure an’ it’s at a time like this a man +stands in need of company, let him be rich or let him +be poor.” And straightway Mr. Glynn “clapped a +saddle” on his black pony Tom, and cantered away to +Cragantlet in pursuit of Brian Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian, meantime, had gone galloping on under the +darkness. He gave the chesnut her head, and she +went tearing away as though she thought he was riding +a steeple-chase. Over those lonely roads, what did it +matter? Among those desolate hills, who cared if he +rode like a fiend through the night? The same country +as Maxwell had traversed, while the moon shone +down on lake, and hill, and bog, and ravine, Brian +now dashed through without turning his eyes to right +or left. He thought of his father—of the great +mystery—of how hard he had tried to do his duty—and +of how his reward was—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Harold, Harold,” but never once, “Brian, my +son.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And now his father was going where all his eldest +born had tried to effect could benefit him no more. +He would never see Kincorth clear of debt; never know +how disinterested Brian had been; never understand +how this boy-man had worked to free him from anxiety; +never comprehend how wild and reckless, how +selfish and thoughtless, his favourite son was growing +up.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is best as it is,” thought Brian, bitterly; “better +for him to die than for Harold to break his heart!” +<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>And as he thought this, the sound of music was borne +down the lane, and he heard shouting and laughing +and the noise of the dancers’ feet as they were thumped +at regular intervals upon the earthen floor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hold my horse, boy,” he shouted to an urchin +standing by the open door, and the boy ran forward +and took the mare, and was about to lead her round +to the yard, when Brian stopped him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t put her up,” he said, “I only want to speak +a word inside. I shall be out again in a minute,” and +he strode into the house, a finer-looking man than +Harold was ever likely to grow to.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is my brother within, Mrs. Regan?” he asked of +the landlady, who met him at the door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Brian! an’ it’s welcome ye are, sir. Your +brother? I’m not just sure, sir; will ye step in and sit +down while I see?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’ll see for myself, Mrs. Regan, if you please,” +answered Brian, gently putting the landlady on one +side. “You need not be afraid; I’m not going to scold +the boy; nobody is going to be angry with him, only +his father wants to see him before he dies!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“God save us all, is he that bad, Mr. Brian?” But +Brian had already flung open the kitchen-door and was +among the merrymakers.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In a moment every dancer stood still, every voice +was hushed, and only the piper who had been playing +Paddy O’Rafferty went on with his tune, unmindful of +the intruder.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hush! Jamsie,” said one in his ear, “it is the +young master;” and the piper stopped.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Although it was summer, a tremendous turf-fire +blazed on the hearth, and collected together in the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>kitchen were a number of pretty young country-girls, +young farmers, labourers, and two or three gentlemen’s +sons, foremost among whom stood Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There were wooden forms round the room for the +convenience of the lookers on; there was whiskey in +abundance; one or two dogs lay on the hearth, and +the blind piper was accommodated with a seat in a +dark corner.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Welcome, Brian!” shouted out Harold, boisterously; +“welcome! we’ll get you a pretty partner and drink +your health with three times three.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not to-night, Harold,” answered Brian. “I want +you a minute; come here;” and thinking all the time +of the room in which he had left his father, of the +contrast between the one scene and the other, he led +his brother into the passage, and told him he must +hurry home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Like one listening in a dream, Harold heard all +Brian said in silence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In silence also he allowed himself to be taken out +of the house into the darkness, to the spot where the +chesnut was standing.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t spare her, Harold,” said Brian, helping his +brother into the saddle; “lose no time.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But you, Brian—but you?” and Harold was on +the ground again.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’ll walk back,” was the answer. “Hang it! can’t +you do as I tell you for once? Jump up; it is you he +wants to see—not me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And Brian almost lifted his brother into his seat as +he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you all right now?” he asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, only I wish——”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>Brian struck the mare on her flank, and the creature +was off through the darkness, through the night, +bearing Harold towards Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>A mile after leaving Regan’s, Brian met Glynn. +“Take my pony, Master Brian,” he said; “I brought +him up here on purpose, and I can send to Kincorth +for him in the morning.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you, Glynn?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I can tramp it,” was the answer; and Brian accepted +his offer; only as he rode he wondered how +much of all the respect and civility which was accorded +to him he owed to the fact of his being the eldest son, +the next heir.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is Harold they like,” he reflected, “and not +me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But Brian was wrong; the country-people liked +Harold much, but they liked him better. They were +fond of the free-mannered impetuous boy, but they +were fonder still of the young gentleman who was +doing his best so soon; who was out with the labourers +in the morning, and was overseeing the men, and +planning this and measuring that, from sunrise to +sunset.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Doing his best to keep the ould place from the +stranger,” as they pathetically said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was two o’clock before Brian reached home. +Glynn’s pony cast a shoe six miles from Kincorth, and +the young man had been obliged to walk him every +step of those six miles home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ ye never stopped to pick up the shoe, Master +Brian,” said Nannie, who was now stooped with age, +and old and withered, regretfully. “I only hope no +<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>harm will come of it. Won’t you eat a bite before +you go up to him? He has been asking for you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“For my brother, I suppose you mean,” answered +Brian; “is he not with him?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes; but it has been Brian, Brian, this last two +hours. You look white like, won’t you have a drop of +something?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, Nannie, not now; let me alone, like a good +soul. Where is my mother?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Where wud she be but wid him?” was the reply; +and Brian ascended the staircase and entered his father’s +room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There lay Mr. Drewitt, waiting for the final summons; +there sat Mrs. Drewitt, and Harold, and Geraldine, +and Doctor Sheen. From side to side the dying +man tossed restlessly. “Brian, Brian!” he cried; and +Brian answered, “I am here.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you take care of your mother, Brian, and +your sister, and—and Harold?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will, father,” and the young man bowed his +head as though he felt himself in the presence of something +mightier than mortality.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you be good to him, patient with him?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will,” and Brian Drewitt took his father’s hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Swear it,” murmured the dying man.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“As I hope for peace here and salvation hereafter, +I swear!” said Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have left you all,” Mr. Drewitt muttered feebly; +“perhaps it is not right—and I did not mean to do +it—but you will be good to him, Brian, you will?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Before God!” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And may He enable you to fulfil your vow!” said +a voice behind him; and Brian, looking round, saw the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>Rector of Duranmore, who laid a kindly hand on his +shoulder.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My boy,” he whispered, “you have undertaken +great responsibilities this night; but God will give you +strength if you ask for His help.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And then they all knelt down, while the clergyman +prayed that intensely-pathetic prayer which is ordered, +in the visitation of the sick, for those for whom there +appeareth small hope of recovery.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Amen,” said the sick man, but there was no other +Amen, only sobs from the women and Harold, and +a profound silence as regarded Brian and Doctor +Sheen.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Amen!”—the sands in the glass had almost run +out; the sun of his life was close upon its setting; the +river of his existence was flowing out into the sea.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Amen! His day was declining; his grass withering. +This man was going to his long home, and the mourners +were gathered round about him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Amen! He could not take up his life again and +make a better thing of it; he could not go back through +the years and redress the wrong, and undo the misery +he had brought on others. For him in this world +there was no future, only a barren and unprofitable +past.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Amen! Throw open the shutters, and fling up the +windows, that he may look his last in the grey light +of morning, over the country he has loved so long.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Lift me up,” he said feebly; and they raised him +up that he might see the trees standing quietly in the +first blush of dawn—the sea lying still as a glassy +lake—the grand old mountains and Eversbeg’s +Head.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>From the far-off mountains, from the nearer hills, +from the sea and the woods, and the cold grey sky, +the dying man’s eyes came back slowly to the room +where was a “sound of weeping and a noise of lamentation.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell had come in and stood beside the bed, +waiting till his uncle should notice him. Against an +old-fashioned escritoire leant Mr. Pryor, who felt himself +an intruder and a stranger in the midst of such a +scene. The Rector supported the sick man, and +whispered some words of consolation to him. He saw +the end coming; he knew the moment when the keepers +of the house tremble, and the strong men bow themselves, +and the grinders cease, was close at hand; and +though he could not hear what the dying man was +muttering, he yet liked to see his lips move, hoping it +was in prayer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He looked very peaceful; his face was calm and +placid; but as he brought back his eyes from the +Bennebeola mountains, from Eversbeg and the nearer +hills, his glance fell on Maxwell, who stepped closer +to speak to him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But his uncle turned from him, and calling out +“Brian—Brian!” fell forward into the arms of his +first-born.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And over his father’s grey head, which lay on his +bosom, Brian looked defiantly at his cousin. There +was no man living could step between them now; in +that hour his son was closer to Archibald Drewitt than +the wife of his bosom.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As the magnet attracts iron, so the stronger nature +attracts the weaker in the hour of its most grievous +need.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>No man could separate the father and his child +now—for still the grey head lay on Brian’s breast, +growing heavier—heavier each moment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a great silence in the chamber, and +then Doctor Sheen walked round the bed, and taking +one cold hand in his, felt the pulse.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was gone—the “silver cord was loosed, and +the golden bowl broken, and the pitcher broken at the +fountain, and the wheel broken at the cistern.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The dust had returned to the earth, and the spirit +unto God who gave it.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER III.<br> <span class='c006'>After the Funeral.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>It was all over—another Drewitt was gone from +Kincorth—another Drewitt was about to swell that +grim assemblage who lay shrouded and coffined in +Eversbeg Abbey, waiting for the judgment—and +through the darkened rooms and about the accustomed +passages the family moved slowly and mournfully. Not +one was glad Archibald Drewitt had passed to his last +home—not one—child—servant—tenant—relative, +unless indeed it might be Maxwell Drewitt, who +was, his wife remarked, a little more irritable than +usual, if that were possible.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Naturally Brian took the management of affairs. +He ordered a hearse from Galway, the nearest town +where such a luxury was obtainable. He despatched +intimations of the death to all the gentry in the neighbourhood; +he sent hat-bands and scarfs to all the clergy, +dissenting, Roman Catholic and Protestant, within +reach, (you perceive, reader, more devolves upon the +relations in Ireland than in England,) and he saw that +popular requirements were attended to in the kitchen +and servants’ hall.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian was not one to throw disrespect on his father’s +memory by neglecting any of the customary conventionalities, +and accordingly, while the corpse was +watched up stairs by a profusion of ancient women, in +a room lighted by wax candles, whiskey was drunk <em>ad +<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>libitum</em> in the servants’ department, and the house slept +neither by day nor by night.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There is nothing in which Ireland differs more from +England than in her observances concerning the dead; +there is nothing which grates more against English +feeling than the riot and disorder of an Irish household +after a death; while the stately and undemonstrative +propriety of an establishment on this side of the water, +where there is mourning for the departed, strikes the +Hibernian as cold and unfeeling.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In Kincorth the popular taste was allowed to run +riot. By the lower orders, Archibald Drewitt had been +idolized; by the lower orders, his loss was lamented +exceedingly. It is possible for a vast amount of regret +to co-exist with an unlimited supply of whiskey, and +Duranmore sorrowed over Archibald Drewitt exceedingly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for the family, what more can I say than that +they mourned—that Mrs. Drewitt’s grief was silent, +and Harold’s passionate, and Brian’s stern—that the +wife bowed down her head and wept for the husband +of her youth—that the children bewailed themselves +for the father they should never in this world see +more?</p> + +<p class='c012'>All the latter and more unamiable part of Archibald +Drewitt’s life was by common consent ignored—his +family, his tenantry, his dependents, and society +generally, never spoke of the man who, grey and bent, +full of fancies and of grievances, had gone about among +them, but rather they talked of the genial Irish gentleman—of +the loving, gracious parent—of the +kindly, reckless master, who had dwelt with them for +so long.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>“An’ it’s Mr. Brian that will be the proper man to +fill his shoes,” crooned the old people over the turf-fire +in the kitchen; “though he is not so free as his father, +and is quieter like, still it’s the cliver man he’ll make, +and it’s the fine place Kincorth will be yit, God bliss +it! The poor Masther had not the same sinse as his +son, and he went through a power of money too, intirely.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But the poor man niver was turned from his +dure.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ he niver spoke a hard word to man, woman, +or child.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ he was easily served.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ he had always the kind look and the pleasant +smile, meet him where you would.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ shure, it wasn’t his fault if he niver looked +afther the dirty money. He wasn’t reared to the like.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ay, but it ‘ud be betther now for Mr. Brian if his +father had thought o’ them that was to come afther +him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ye can’t both spend and have,” remarked one +man, oracularly; “an’ it’s no use frettin’ about the +goold that can niver be brought back again. He was +good to many a poor body the time of the distress, and +it will be remimbered till him now, God rest his soul!” +and the speaker crossed himself.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Thus they talked over the turf-fire while the whiskey +circulated, and the servants, who were called away at +intervals, returned to communicate any strange piece +of intelligence that had been made known to them +upstairs.</p> + +<p class='c012'>How the mistress was looking—how Master Harold +was taking on—how Miss Geraldine had fallen fast +<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>asleep on the drawing-room sofa, “tired out wid the +grief, poor thing”—how the corpse was looking +more and more beautiful—how they did say the +funeral was going to be the grandest thing ever seen +in West Connemara.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian Drewitt had determined in his own soul that +what the people said should prove true. He would do +honour to his father. No man should whisper that a +Drewitt of Kincorth went to his long home with a +badge of poverty on his coffin, though that badge had +been won for himself by years of prodigality—of +reckless expenditure—of senseless profusion.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Poor they were, heaven knew—poor in consequence +of his father’s bad management; but they +would scrape together enough to bury him, as he himself +might have desired, right royally—as the Drewitts +had been wont to travel to their vault in Eversbeg +Abbey, down by the sea.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The fourth day was that fixed for the funeral. +Like Abraham, the Irish would lose no time about +burying their dead “out of their sight.” Not out of +their memories, for there is no country in the world +where the dead are remembered longer, or mourned for +more earnestly. Only out of their sight; and this +speedy interment, which so shocks and astonishes the +English, has, I think, its origin in the different customs +of the two countries with regard to the bodies of the +deceased.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Till earth receives earth, the Irish never willingly +leave a corpse alone for a moment. Till the grave is +closed, nothing in a house of any kind, sort, or description, +can go on as usual.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Now, human nature cannot remain with the clay, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span>whence the soul has departed, beyond a certain period; +further, an establishment cannot sit up for ever. Moreover, +the novelty even of a death wears off. It is like +a state visit, exciting for the time, but apt to grow +wearisome if long protracted; and for all these reasons, +and for many more of the same kind, which it would +take too long to mention, a “rest day, a guest day, +and a prest day,” are the utmost measure of time that +a body honoured, as is the case in Ireland, ought to +intrude its presence on the family.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The prest day is a stretch of courtesy across the +channel; but not to fail in due respect, Brian accorded +it to his father’s remains.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He required the time to arrange matters to his +liking, and when the morning came he had everything +prepared to do honour to the man who was going, +after all these years, to lie down beside Nicholas +Drewitt, and George Drewitt, and all the long line of +Drewitts who were waiting in Eversbeg Abbey for that +hour when the “heavens and the earth shall flee away, +and the sea give up her dead, and every mountain and +island be moved out of their place.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a magnificent funeral; never had such a +one passed through Duranmore before. All the gentry +for twenty miles round came in their private carriages, +drawn by the best horses their stables could turn out; +people who had not carriages came on cars, in dogcarts, +in gigs, on horseback. All the men who had +ever paid rent to Archibald Drewitt, though many of +them had passed with his lands into the hands of +strangers, came to do honour to him now; all Maxwell +Drewitt’s tenantry, all Lady Emmeline’s, all Mr. Pryor’s, +all the tradesfolk out of Duranmore, all the fishermen, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>all the labourers, fell into rank behind the black hearse, +with its nodding plumes, with its four stately horses, +that led the way to Eversbeg.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Under the trees that bent their branches over the +road; round the bay where the waves came rippling +up on the shore; through Duranmore—where the dead +had once made himself so busy about rival candidates, +about forgotten politics—past the cottage where Ryan +had again taken up his abode; over the hill beyond +Duranmore, and down into the hollow where the Abbey +stood lonely and desolate, the funeral procession wound +sadly and slowly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was as fine a day as ever shone upon the earth; +the sunbeams fell in great patches on the tombstones, +on the monuments, on the grass in Eversbeg graveyard; +the great mountains lifted their heads to the blue sky +grandly and unsympathizingly as ever; outside Eversbeg +Bay the Atlantic lay calm and quiet as a lake. The +ivy about the east window waved its branches as the +light breeze passed by: frightened at the incursion of +such a multitude, the birds flew out with a great noise +and twitter, while the sheep bounded away like wild +deer over the broken wall and up the hill-side to a +convenient distance, where they turned and looked +down upon the scene below as though it had been a +spectacle and they the spectators.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The rusty gate of the churchyard stood wide, but +the hearse could not pass through it, and the nearest +of kin accordingly bore the coffin into the centre of +the ruins, preceded by the Rector of Duranmore, who +walked slowly along, telling to the sea and to the +mountains, to the sunshine and to the mourners, the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>one great truth that shall endure when there is no +more sea and no more sorrow—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He that believeth in me, though he were dead +yet shall he live, and whosoever liveth and believeth +in me shall never die.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>They placed the coffin on trestles, in what had +once been the centre of the Abbey; and there, with no +covering but the sky, in the midst of that ruined +church, with nettles and grass underfoot, with the +elder-tree spreading abroad its branches in the chancel, +with ferns growing where the holy water had wont to +be placed, the funeral service proceeded.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Think, oh! reader, of what that service must have +sounded at such a time in such a place.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Pigmies seemed the men in comparison to the +eternal hills, but yet the Rector lifted up his voice, +and declared—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“‘Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation +to another, before the mountains were brought +forth, or ever the earth and the world were made. +Thou art God from everlasting and world without +end.’”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Many a one present sobbed when that psalm was +read out. As David bowed the heart of all the men +of Judah even as the heart of one man, so almost as +one man that great assemblage was moved at the words +of the sweet singer of Israel. But there were two +present whose eyes never moistened, but who looked +straight at one another over the coffin, each seemingly +keeping watch on his fellow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was the same when they stood beside the vault; +and when the Rector said, with a perhaps unintentional +emphasis—</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>“‘Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,’” +more than one of the group round the grave noticed +the look Brian Drewitt gave Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What’s up, do you suppose?” whispered Connor +to Dan Glynn, who chanced to be close at his elbow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t know,” was the reply; “but did you not +see the shove Maxwell gave him when he went to take +the right hand in the procession? I thought coffin +and all would have been over.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Have you any idea what it means?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No good,” said Dan, prophetically; and very +vaguely Mr. Pryor was thinking the same thing.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could not imagine what had gone wrong, but +he felt satisfied the day would not pass over peaceably; +and when the service was finished, when all that man +could ever do for Archibald Drewitt was accomplished, +when the living had left the dead to take his long rest +under the shadow of the hills, within sound of the +great sea, the barrister, sitting in the same carriage +with the cousins, would have given much to know the +probable result of the next few hours.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can he have any power we know nothing of?” +speculated Mr. Pryor: “have they had any quarrel +unheard of by me?” and he ran over possible and impossible +circumstances likely to account for the hostile +attitude assumed by both.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Almost in silence the four drove back to Kincorth. +In one corner of the carriage, with his back to the +horses, Harold was crying. Beside him Brian sat with +his arms crossed, staring defiantly at Maxwell, who, +employed in biting his nails down to below the quick, +never troubled himself to open his lips to any one.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But as they passed through the entrance gates and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>up under the arching trees to the house, Mr. Pryor +noticed that Maxwell bent forward and looked out—out +over lawn and field and garden, with the air of +triumph he had noticed once before.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What can be the meaning of it?” marvelled Mr. +Pryor, but he was not left very long in doubt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had Brian not been a drop’s blood to the late +owner of Kincorth, Maxwell could not more completely +have ignored his existence than was the case.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Pull up those blinds,” were the first words he +spoke when he entered the house.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do nothing of the kind, Robert,” said Brian, and +once again he and Maxwell exchanged glances of defiance.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Shall I go away?” asked Mr. Pryor; “you would +rather, I am sure, not have any stranger present when +the will is read?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, stay, if you please,” answered Brian. “I feel +as if something were going to happen, though I have +not the remotest idea what. Mr. James Butler will +read the will. Shall we get it over at once?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>They passed into the dining-room, where Mr. Butler +was already seated, with one sealed packet and several +loose papers lying before him. As Mrs. Drewitt and +Geraldine entered he rose, and remained standing till +they had taken their places. For a minute afterwards +indeed he stood as if irresolute, but then drawing up +his chair to the table, he said, addressing himself to +Mr. Pryor—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have looked, at Mr. Brian Drewitt’s desire, +through all the papers left by his late father, and can +discover no trace of a will likely to be available at the +present moment. I find two or three rough drafts, +which were prepared for him by his former legal adviser, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>Mr. Bartholomew Neill, none of which Mr. Neill +informs me met with his approval. It would seem as +though he had intended to make some separate provision +for his younger son, but he has failed to carry +out that design. An unfortunate difference between my +father and the late Mr. Drewitt prevented our having +such an intimate knowledge of his affairs as might now +be desirable. Mr. Neill has intimated that a will was +made by him, and executed by Mr. Drewitt, which +will it would seem as though Mr. Drewitt must subsequently +have destroyed, as I can discover no vestige +of it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is that sealed packet there, Mr. Butler?” +asked Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is a will, dated on the cover, 1818, which +would of course be inoperative at the present juncture, +since Mr. Drewitt’s marriage took place fourteen years +subsequently, and marriage renders all wills made Pryor +to that event null and void.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not all wills, Mr. Butler,” said Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Read this one, at all events,” broke in Brian +Drewitt; and Mr. Butler took up the packet. “But +stop a moment,” he added. “Suppose it should be of +no effect; what would then be the result?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Just the same as though your father had died +intestate.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And if he had died intestate?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You would succeed, of course.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Across the room Brian looked defiantly at Maxwell, +who returned the look calmly and steadily.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Had not we better proceed to business?” he said, +addressing Mr. Butler. “I shall be glad to return home +as soon as possible.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>“And so shall I,” murmured Wilhelmina, thinking +of her last baby.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor walked across the room and seated himself +beside Brian, while Mr. Butler broke the seals, +took out the enclosure, and began.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There is no need for me, reader, to weary you with +the contents of that will. It had been made shortly +after Mr. Drewitt’s accession to Kincorth, and set forth +that as he, the testator, had succeeded to the property +to the exclusion of his eldest brother and his family, +he desired to restore the property to the elder branch +after his death. Never being likely to marry, (he proceeded +to declare,) it was his desire that all his estates, +real and personal, should pass to his brother; or, in the +event of his brother’s decease, to Maxwell, son of the +said George Drewitt, chargeable with so-and-so and +so-and-so.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a tremendously lengthy document, and Mr. +James Butler read on through the catalogue of estates +that had now most of them passed into other hands—wearily +and rapidly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should think my father must have paid for it +by the foot,” he was considering, when suddenly he +turned over the last page and caught sight of something +that made him pause, and glance across at +Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go on,” said the young man; “I am attending,” +and Mr. Butler went on—to signed, sealed, and delivered, +when he stopped once again.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is that all?” asked Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, there is a codicil.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Of what date?” inquired the barrister, rising and +standing with both hands on the table, while Maxwell’s +<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>eyes grew darker and darker, and the veins in his forehead +swelled and blackened—“of what date?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“September 28th, 1832, more than three months +after Mr. Drewitt’s marriage.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is the codicil?” said Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Read it,” suggested Mr. Pryor, and Mr. Butler +read on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When he had finished, every man present looked +in the face of his neighbour, for the codicil confirmed +the will. It mentioned Mrs. Drewitt’s jointure; all present +were clear on this point, for Mr. Butler was requested +by Mr. Pryor to read it over again. Then the +barrister took the will and looked at it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“When will Brian be of age, Mrs. Drewitt?” he +asked, turning towards the widow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The third of next April,” she replied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And what is the date of the codicil, Mr. Butler?” +was his next question.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“September the 28th, sir,” answered Mr. Butler.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor went through a mental calculation, through +every turn of which Maxwell followed him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Did not the 28th fall on a Sunday?” he said, +suddenly addressing Maxwell; but Maxwell was not to +be trapped.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am sure I cannot tell,” he said, and he thrust +his hands into the very bottom of his pockets.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The best thing, it seems to me, now that we can +do is to send for Mr. Neill,” remarked Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I doubt if he will come,” said Mr. Butler.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who was Mr. Drewitt’s solicitor in 1832?” asked +the barrister.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My father,” answered Mr. James Butler.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh!” remarked Mr. Pryor; then he said to Mr. +<span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>James Butler, “Is there anything more to be done?” +and Mr. James Butler said that there was not, so far +as he knew.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then we need not detain Mrs. Drewitt: all this +must be very unpleasant to her,” was Mr. Pryor’s next +observation, and he held the door open for her and her +daughter to pass out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What does it all mean, Mr. Pryor?” she whispered. +“I do not understand it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not exactly understand it myself yet,” he +replied. “We must make inquiries about the missing +will.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And he walked back into the dining-room, without, +however, closing the door behind him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I suppose we cannot do any good by standing +here, looking at one another,” he said, making a sign +to Brian to remain silent, while Maxwell marched across +the apartment, and taking one hand out of his pocket +slammed to the door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish to make a remark,” he commenced, returning +to his former position. “I wish to state that +this will has taken me unawares.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You lie!” interrupted Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have not the slightest doubt on the point, Mr. +Drewitt,” answered Mr. Pryor. “And if such a proceeding +were not illegal, I should say the best thing +you could do would be to put this will in the fire, and +proceed as though your uncle had died intestate.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell bit his lip, but putting a curb on his +temper, he proceeded—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I shall do nothing rashly, I shall make no hasty +promises. I must think over the position in which this +will places me, before committing myself in any way. +<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>Thirty-seven years have elapsed since my father was +disinherited in favour of Brian’s father, and now, by a +curious fatality, Brian is disinherited for me. The +estates were then valuable; now, most of those estates +are owned by strangers, and the property which is left +is heavily mortgaged, as no one knows better than +you, Mr. Pryor. With a large rent-roll, my uncle did +nothing for us. Out of the little his extravagance has +left, I will, however, do something for his children, if +they permit me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You shall never do anything for me,” retorted +Brian. “I will never take a sixpence from you; nor +shall one belonging to me, if I can help it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Be silent, Brian,” entreated Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will not be silent,” said Brian. “He has cheated +us somehow; if that other will be destroyed, he had +some hand in making away with it. He has determined +for years and years and years to own Kincorth; +and he has got it. Curse you, Maxwell Drewitt! curse +you, for a false-hearted, double-faced, lying scoundrel!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t stop so soon,” sneered Maxwell; “it is safe +to insult a man in his own house.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then if it be your house, may it prove a sorrowful +one to you! may you never have an hour’s happiness +in it! as you are childless, so may you die desolate!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Take that, you foul-tongued young beggar,” said +Maxwell, and he struck him a back-handed blow across +the mouth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! Brian, Brian!” cried Harold, and he flew at +Maxwell like a tiger.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But Maxwell put the boy aside, and holding him +from him at arm’s length, went on—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Take your protégé with you, Mr. Pryor, out of +<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>my sight; and keep him out of it, or I may do him +an injury. Is it my fault that his father was a fool? +Is it my fault that Kincorth should come back to its +rightful owner? If Brian thinks it does not now belong +to me in law, as it always did in equity, let him +contest the point. For my part, I swear that, while I +have a shilling, he shall never now own an acre of +my land.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You have done for yourself, at any rate, Brian,” +remarked Mr. Goldich, taking the young man by the +arm, and forcibly leading him out of the room. “What +an idiot you must be,” went on Mr. Maxwell Drewitt’s +brother-in-law, “not to stick up to him! because, if the +other will be destroyed—and I have not the remotest +doubt in life myself but that your father did put it in +the fire when he took that notion about Harold—where +are you without his help—just tell me that?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But Brian refused to answer that or any other question +which Mr. Goldich might feel inclined to propound.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He said, “I wish to heaven you would leave me +alone!” and with this explicit declaration separated +himself from his relative at the foot of the staircase.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very slowly and very wearily he ascended to his +own apartment, while Mr. Goldich returned to the +dining-room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell met him in the doorway.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You came here to hear the will read, I believe, +sir,” he observed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes—with Wilhelmina,” answered Mr. Goldich.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then, as you have heard the will read, you and +Wilhelmina can both go home.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, I’m damned!” exclaimed Mr. Goldich; and +he never put his foot inside Kincorth again.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER IV.<br> <span class='c006'>Farewell.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>The first thing Maxwell Drewitt did when he got +rid of his visitors was to order a room to be prepared +for his accommodation.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And, Robert, tell Flynn to put the saddle on +Madcap, and to bring her round directly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Give my compliments to Mrs. Drewitt, and say I +shall be glad to speak to her alone for a few minutes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And he walked up and down the room until Robert +reappeared.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mrs. Drewitt’s compliments, sir, and she is in the +breakfast-parlour.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>That was the first note of war on Mrs. Drewitt’s +part; and Maxwell accepted it as such.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Nevertheless, he repaired to the breakfast-parlour, +where Mrs. Drewitt was talking to Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I thought,” said Maxwell, “I saw you leave with +Mr. Butler.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I only went so far as the gate. I wished to +speak to Mrs. Drewitt before I returned to Durrow; +but I have said all I had to say, and am going +directly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not on my account, I hope,” answered Maxwell, +with a great accession of civility. “I merely wanted +to tell Mrs. Drewitt that I trust she will consider Kincorth +<span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>her home for the present. I have no desire to +make her position at all unpleasant. I am quite willing +to meet her half-way in any reasonable plan for the +future. And if Brian will apologize for his extraordinary +conduct, I am ready to forgive and forget.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But I am not, Maxwell,” she answered. “You +have always hated me; and you have always hated my +children. Twenty-one years ago you told me you disliked +me, and why? For twenty-one years you have +been scheming and plotting to get us out of Kincorth; +and your schemes and your plots have been successful. +I cannot forget, and I cannot forgive. As if it were +not trouble enough to lose my husband, I must also +see my children beggars.” At which point Mrs. Drewitt +burst into tears, and Maxwell answered—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“When my father lost this property he accepted +that loss without a murmur. Many a one now living +can tell you that. It is not half so hard for your sons +as it was for my father, for they are unencumbered, +and he was married and had a family: you have your +jointure; my father had not a sixpence. Kincorth, and +the other farms and estates, which we have usually put +under one head and called Kincorth, brought in at +that day fifteen thousand a year. Without mortgages +its nett value was probably eight thousand a year. +Am I stating my case fairly, Mr. Pryor?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have no reason to suppose otherwise,” was the +reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“After thirty-seven years Kincorth returns to the +elder branch absolutely valueless; so valueless that I +declare to you, were it not that it has been in the family +for more generations than I could tell you, I +would let Mr. Pryor foreclose to-morrow and trouble +<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>myself with the place no more: do you believe what I +am saying?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She made no answer, and he proceeded.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must ask you, Mrs. Drewitt, now, to look back +to the time when you came first to Kincorth. What +had we out of the property?—food. Had we anything +else? were we well-dressed? were we well-lodged? +were not we thrust to the wall? were we not intruders +and dependents in the house of our fathers? Had we +anything which a gentleman’s children had a right to +expect at the hands of the person who had supplanted +that gentleman? Many and various were the humiliations +I experienced in those the early days of my life. +But I have no desire to pay back my uncle’s family +in kind. Many a long year ago, Mrs. Drewitt, you +were good enough to sympathise with me and to entreat +me not to leave Kincorth—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She made a gesture of impatience, but he disregarded +it and went on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Since then I have succeeded; I have been prosperous; +I am wealthy, and the owner of the place +where I once was little better than a servant. I do +not forget your kindness, but entreat you to remain; +to consider this house your home; to let me help you +and your children as you were once anxious to help +me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had made his speech, and it was not a bad +one; and now he waited to hear what effect it had produced +on Mrs. Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Maxwell,” she answered, “I always admitted +your position in life was not what it ought to have +been, until by your own industry and cleverness you +made yourself what you are. I always thought your +<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>grandfather’s will most unjust; and even in this house, +from whence my dead husband has so lately been carried, +I am not afraid to say that, had he acted more +wisely and fairly by his brother, his life would have +been a more prosperous one. But,” and here Mrs. +Drewitt rose, as if she could not find breath to speak +sitting—as if in her nervous excitement it was needful +for every muscle to be strained, every limb stretched, +“my husband did not act unfairly by design, or through +any premeditated wickedness. He came honestly into +Kincorth, and sure am I in my inmost heart, Maxwell, +that you have come dishonestly. I know that for +twenty-one years you have kept this end in view; and +you have achieved your object so far. When I think +of my poor boy—when I think of Brian”—and as +she spoke the tears fell like rain over her altered face—“when +I think of how he has worked, of how you +set his father against him, of how you sowed dissension +between him and Harold, and of how you have +destroyed every hope and plan of his life, I feel that +if I were to eat your bread it would choke me; that if +I were to accept any grace, any favour, at your hands +I should be as bad as you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you think of that, Mr. Pryor, as a civil +answer to a kind offer?” asked Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will tell you by-and-by,” replied the Englishman; +“meantime I think Mrs. Drewitt will be more +composed at Durrow, where she has no old associations, +where everything will be fresh and new. She is not +capable at present of appreciating your kindness, or in +fact of clearly understanding what you say; and as +you are going to take up your quarters here to-night, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span>your aunt and cousins will accompany me back to +Durrow.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If they do then,” said Maxwell Drewitt, “they +shall never return to Kincorth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! Kincorth—dear, dear Kincorth,” broke out +the widow, and she fell on her knees, and burying her +head in the sofa pillow, sobbed passionately.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You had better leave her,” suggested Mr. Pryor, +and he drew Maxwell out of the room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They are a nice comfortable sort of people to +have to do with, are not they?” said Maxwell, with a +forced laugh, slowly drawing on his left-hand glove, +and smoothing every wrinkle out of the kid while he +spoke. “There are not many men who would bear +having their kindness flung back in their face as I do. +What do you think of the family now, Mr. Pryor?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think that they have received a great shock, +following on the top of another great shock, and that +consequently every allowance ought to be made for +them, and for what they say under the circumstances.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And what do you think about the whole affair—about +the will I mean?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That it must be very unpleasant for you,” was +the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, it is: the property is not worth that,” and +Maxwell snapped his fingers, “only I am glad to have +back the old place. If Brian had gone on with his +improvements it would soon have come to the hammer.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I cannot quite agree with you there,” answered +the Englishman. He could see the chesnut waiting for +her new master, and he added, “You are going to ride +Harold’s mare?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Harold’s, indeed! I really was not aware.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>“I thought it was his: did his father not give her +to him?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He said so,” answered Maxwell; “but, on the +same principle, Brian might say his father gave him +Kincorth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Of course; you are right. Then you are not +going to confirm your uncle’s present?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Give a lad like that a mare worth two hundred +and fifty guineas? If you have made your money so +easily, Mr. Pryor, I have not.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The Englishman did not press the point further. +“Good-bye,” he said, “I suppose you will not be back +before we leave.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We! Then you really are going to adopt the entire +family? Be advised—a widow and three children is +no light responsibility. Besides, you ought really to +consider <em>les convenances</em>.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What <em>convenances</em>?” asked Mr. Pryor, hurriedly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why, the world may say one of two things—either +that you are going to marry the widow, who is +only about a year or so older than yourself; or else +that you are in love with the daughter. I have long +inclined to the latter opinion myself, and I congratulate +you on an arrangement which will give you such ample +opportunities of winning her young affections.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am your debtor, Mr. Maxwell Drewitt.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not at all; if you were so, I should be only too +proud to be your creditor.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are very kind, but I prefer paying my bills +as I go on. You have asked me twice within the last +ten minutes what I thought of your position. Let me +give you my answer now. If you have come into +Kincorth honestly, I think we are all dealing very +<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>hardly by you; but if you have come into Kincorth +dishonestly, then I think you have not had half your +deserts. And in either case,” added Mr. Pryor, “I must +say that I consider your manner unfortunate.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Our opinions with regard to each other may be +identical on the latter point,” retorted Maxwell; “but +I suppose that need not hinder our being friends in the +future as we have been in the past. Good-bye for the +present,” and he held out his hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But Geoffry Pryor refused to take it. He bowed +stiffly and walked back across the hall to the breakfast-parlour, +where he had left Mrs. Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“As you like, my fine fellow,” muttered the new +owner of Kincorth; “those that win may laugh.” But +somehow Maxwell Drewitt did not laugh. He looked—while +he rode down the avenue and out of the +gates, of that property which was now his own for life—as +unlike a person who had the remotest intention of +laughing as it is possible to conceive.</p> + +<p class='c012'>After all, the cup of prosperity is not entirely +sweet. There are an immense number of bitters in the +pharmacopœia even of success.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But he had succeeded in annoying Mr. Pryor, that +was one great consolation; and if he could have imagined +how desperately he had wounded his opponent he would +have been better pleased still.</p> + +<p class='c012'>To a man like Geoffry Pryor it does not matter +much what the world says; but it matters excessively +what his own conscience tells him; and his own conscience +told him Maxwell had not spoken altogether +falsely, for that he should find it very sweet to have +Geraldine living under the same roof as that which +covered his own head.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>“I must go to Waller’s; it is the only way of cutting +that knot,” he decided; and more determined than +ever that, so long as he had a shelter to offer her, +Mrs. Drewitt should not remain at Kincorth, he pressed +upon her the necessity of packing her things as soon +as possible, and of taking her departure before Maxwell +returned.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your maid could follow with your luggage,” he +suggested.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Poor old Nannie was the only maid I could ever +boast of,” answered Mrs. Drewitt through her tears.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, let Nannie put your things together, and +the boys can soon find their own; and I will send +Flynn over to Durrow for the car and a light cart. If +there are any of the servants you would like to accompany +you we can make room for them at Durrow.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But how should I ever be able to keep servants?” +she inquired.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you are not able to do so, I will find something +for them,” he answered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If I were to take one or two the rest would think +I did not care for them. I had better leave all, I had +indeed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She was right, and Mr. Pryor could not help marvelling +how so sensible a woman had never been able +to make a wiser man of the owner of Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>While he went round to the stable-yard to despatch +Flynn to Durrow, she called the servants together and +told them all what they knew beforehand—that Mr. +Brian was heir no longer, that Mr. Maxwell now owned +Kincorth and everything in it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You must not think,” she added, for her sense +of justice prevented her saying anything to prejudice +<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>the servants against their new master, or leaving anything +unsaid which it was right they should know—“you +must not think Mr. Maxwell Drewitt is turning +us out of Kincorth; on the contrary, he offered me its +hospitality for as long as I liked to remain. It is by +my own wish I leave the house I have loved so well.” +(“Ah! hear that, the craythur!” said some one in the +rear.) “I could not be happy here; and though it is +very kind of Mr. Maxwell (dark faces and lowering +looks among the men), still I feel it is best for me to +avail myself of Mr. Pryor’s kindness and go to Durrow +till I see what the future may bring forth. It is so +soon—” and Mrs. Drewitt paused to recover herself—“so +soon after my dear husband’s death, and altogether +so sudden and unexpected, that I cannot tell +yet where I may go or what I may do; but wherever +I am—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She paused again:—“wherever I am”—but it +would not do: she put her handkerchief to her face, +and then the women crowded round her weeping and +bewailing themselves, and Mrs. Drewitt sobbed out +too.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She was like a queen among them—she who had +come there so lonely and unwelcomed—and when +she said, “You have been my friends; I have loved +you all,” and held out her hand for each to shake ere +she departed, they stooped down and kissed it, men +and women alike, and a bitter cry of lamentation arose +to the chamber where Brian sat all alone.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He knew right well what was the meaning of it. +He knew his mother and he could be but of one mind, +and that she meant to leave the house, and leave it at +once; but he did not think where she proposed going, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>and so he descended the staircase and entered the +drawing-room, where she and Geraldine and Harold +stood, and walked up to her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ here’s Masther Brian, ma’am; an’ it’s himself’ll +be the comfort to you from this day forth for +ever.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ haven’t ye yer childer, ma’am? Shure there’s +nobody living can take them from ye: an’ wouldn’t +him that has got Kincorth give Kincorth to have any +one of them for his own?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There’s a silver lining to ivery cloud.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But it’s us that’ll feel it, losing masther and +misthress within the week.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ it’s the good masther he was.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ the kind misthress you’ve been.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“An’ the blissin’ of God will follow ye; and the +prayers of the poor have gone before ye.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She can’t stand it,” said Brian, huskily; “think +of what she has gone through and let her be quiet, +Mother; come with me—mother darling.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He led her through the servants, who made a way +for them to pass out, and took her to her own room, +where he inquired what she meant to do, what plan +she had laid out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then he took the management of affairs on himself. +He went and asked Mr. Pryor what his mother +was legally entitled to carry out of Kincorth, and when +Mr. Pryor told him, in strict law, only the clothes she +wore, Brian observed there would be the less packing +needful.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“<em>He</em> can send them after us if he likes,” said +Brian, pointing towards Headlands; “but she shall +<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>take nothing except what she has a clear right to +take.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you, Brian?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I want to be alone for a while. I will walk over +the hills to Durrow.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let me walk with you;” and Brian saw that the +Englishman was afraid of what he might be meaning +to do.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Trust me,” he said; “I would not shoot Maxwell +if there were no gallows on earth. I am not going to +seek an interview with him—upon my honour I am +not;” and Mr. Pryor was satisfied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mamma wants to go all round the grounds, and +would like you to go with her,” Geraldine came +whispering at this juncture. “She wants to go alone +with you,” the girl added, and Brian went.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had Mrs. Drewitt been remaining on at Kincorth, +I wonder how long a time would have elapsed ere she +set foot on lawn, in field, in garden? But now, on the +very day when the husband she had loved was laid in +Eversbeg Abbey, she walked about the place bidding +to each tree and plant and flower a sorrowful adieu.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Up the glen she went, and over a plank which was +thrown across the waterfall. She had been timid about +that plank in former days, and afraid to cross it; but +now she stepped over without a helping hand. Where +the summer-house had once been she stood and looked +down on the country, speaking never a word. She +plucked a leaf here and another there; she picked up +a pebble out of the stream, and pulled a fern and a +piece of moss from beside the waterfall. She went into +the garden and gathered for herself lavender, and +heliotrope, and a sprig of bay, and another of lemon +<span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>verbena, a morsel of heath, a late-blooming rose, a +spray of fuchsia, two or three scarlet geraniums, and +a handful of woodruffe, and these she tied all together +with a piece of ribbon, and laid aside.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“When I am dead, Brian,” she said, “you will find +those flowers somewhere among my possessions. You +will put them in my coffin. Promise me, my son.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mother, mother!” he remonstrated.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Promise me,” she insisted, and he did as she +wished.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Thus Agnes Drewitt bade farewell to Kincorth. +In her heart she knew she should tread its pleasant +lawns, its shady walks, its sunny gardens, no more for +ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When she drove down the avenue with her children +about her to the lodge, where the way was blocked by +a crowd eager to do her honour, eager to tell her they +sorrowed with her sorrow and sympathized with her +distress, she felt that, let who else would, return to +Kincorth in triumph, let who else would, come back +to dwell in the familiar rooms, to take their rest under +those magnificent trees, she might return to Kincorth +no more!</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER V.<br> <span class='c006'>The Hour of Success.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Near the gates of Kincorth Brian separated himself +from his mother, and promising to meet her at +Durrow, walked back up the avenue towards the house. +He had many things to put together—some few presents +to make, some last words to speak, ere he went +out into the world to push his fortune; and accordingly +he retraced his steps slowly up the drive, thinking of +the change that twenty-four hours had wrought in his +prospects, and considering what it would be best for +him to do now. Half-way, Maxwell overtook him, and +dismounting, walked with Brian to the house, leading +the chesnut, who looked distressed, as though she had +been ridden fast and far.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am glad to have an opportunity of talking with +you alone, Brian,” said Mr. Maxwell Drewitt. “Is there +any earthly reason why we should not be friends? why +you should leave Kincorth at all?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think there is,” Brian answered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you explain what you mean? Will you explain +to me why there should be ill-will between you +and me any more than there was between your father +and my father?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your father and my father were probably different +men to what you and I are,” was the reply. “Your +father was wilfully disinherited, and he knew why; I +am disinherited by an accident, or by a fraud; you can +best tell which,” and Brian’s lip curled.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>“You cannot think it other than accidental, surely,” +said Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What I think cannot signify to you so long as +you have got Kincorth,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well now, Brian, that I have got Kincorth, will +you tell me what I am ever likely to make out of it? +The mortgages, as you know, are almost equal to its +value. It is not a cheap house to keep up. More will +be expected from the owner of Kincorth than was +ever looked for from the owner of the Headlands. The +place will be an expense to me, not a gain; you must +have sense enough to see that yourself.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Give it to me,” said Brian, grimly, “and see if I +will complain.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why, boy, you could never have made money +out of it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should have tried,” was the reply. And there +ensued a long silence, which Maxwell broke, by saying +as they approached the house—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Shall we be friends?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No,” Brian answered; “for I mean to put you out +of Kincorth, if I can. If I cannot, then I mean to bide +my time, and take my revenge. You need not look so +black, Mr. Maxwell Drewitt. I shall not shoot you; +I shall not come behind you in the dark and smite +you under the fifth rib; but I shall find out your weak +point and hurt you there. A year or two is nothing; +I can wait: when you least look for me I shall be at +your side.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are mad, Brian,” said his cousin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then it is you who have made me so,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let us be friends.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I told you no, once; I tell you no, twice. There +<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>are places where even you, Maxwell Drewitt, will be +unable to injure me, to hinder my succeeding; and I +shall succeed yet; and I shall come back to Kincorth +yet. Let me pass, I am not going to steal anything +out of the house. It is yours now, I know, but it has +not been so for long. Let me pass.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can he have found another will?”—that was +the thought which crossed Maxwell’s mind, and for a +moment he stood irresolute. Then he made way, and +Brian entered the house.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Before many minutes had elapsed he came down +the staircase, with a bunch of keys in his hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Harold’s luggage and mine is together, and I will +send over for both to-morrow morning. Meantime, if +you would like to see that we have taken nothing belonging +to you, there are the keys. Take them,” he +insisted, as Maxwell drew back, and he flung them at +his cousin’s feet.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am going now,” the youth said, looking round +him with a terrible despair. “I am going now. Have +you anything to say to me before I go?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let us be friends.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You struck me to-day, Maxwell.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am sorry for it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You pushed me aside at my father’s funeral.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Inadvertently.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You have got Kincorth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Accidentally.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“For years you have been trying to put my father +against me; you made him misjudge me towards the +last; you tried to frustrate all my efforts for freeing +Kincorth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I thought I was acting for the best.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>“Then,” answered Brian Drewitt, “I think I am +acting for the best now, when I refuse your friendship; +when I say you are a coward and a hypocrite; when I +cross this threshold, saying that at peace with you I +will never re-enter it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Brian, you will repent.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And so will you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>With which mutual assurances the cousins separated, +and while Maxwell took possession of his new +home, Brian strode out of the house and took the hill-path +leading to Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had to pass by the stables on his way through +the plantations, and he turned aside to speak to Flynn, +who was the last man to leave the yard.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Maxwell wants you, I think, Flynn,” he said; +“and I wish to say good-bye to the horses; so you can +come back here after you have seen him;” and with +that Mr. Brian Drewitt thrust a crumpled note into the +man’s hand, remarking—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That will pay you for your overtime.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t need it, Masther Brian,” said Flynn. “I’d +work night and day for you, I would, if working could +give you back your own.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Keep it,” returned Brian. “I am not poor—keep +it, I can make more; only go—go away,” and +he crossed the yard and pushed open the stable-door, +and went in, closing, but not latching it after him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Gently, my lady,” said the youth: he had walked +up the stable and entered Madcap’s loose box. At +sound of his voice, the chesnut turned round and +whinnied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then Brian drew a pistol out of his pocket, looked +to the priming, cocked it, and took aim.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>At the moment, Madcap put her head against his +breast, asking in her mute fashion for the caress to +which she was accustomed: finding no caress given, +she lifted her head and looked at him with soft and +inquiring eyes.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I cannot do it, Chessy,” he said. “I meant to +shoot you, but I must leave you for others to ride; +for others to maltreat if they will—my beauty—my +pet! It would be greater kindness for me to put +it out of anybody’s power to do this; but I cannot—I +cannot;” and he put his arms round her slender +neck, and leaned his head against her shoulder, the +chesnut standing still and quiet all the time, as though +she had some human comprehension of what was the +matter with him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>At last she turned her head, and began rubbing it +against his breast as usual. Brian had always petted +her more than anybody else, and she in return, though +he was not her master, had been wont to follow him +about the yard and round the meadows like a dog.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must go now, beauty,” Brian said, and he +stroked her silky coat slowly—slowly. “Good-bye,” +and thinking there was no one near to see him, he +kissed the white star on her forehead, and then stepped +back and looked at her soft wondering eyes again.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Good-bye, Chessy—good-bye,” and he walked +out of the stall, not knowing that Flynn and his cousin +were standing in the next box, which chanced to be +vacant, looking on at his leave-taking.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As he went the chesnut turned round in her stall, +and followed him to the door. She put her head over +the top of it, and watched him, with her great brown +sorrowful eyes, out of the stable.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>“Hasn’t she a face just like a Christian, sir?” +asked Flynn, but Maxwell never answered him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had come to the yard suspecting his cousin’s +design the moment Flynn said Mister Brian had told +him to go to the house. He had thought to catch the +boy doing mischief, and behold! he only saw that +leave-taking, which is always so pathetic, between a +man and a favourite animal.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Something about the manner of that leave-taking +caused Maxwell to walk back to the house slowly and +thoughtfully. He had got Kincorth, a valueless property, +for which he had paid a tremendous price. The +man who once stood between it and him was dead, +the man’s widow was gone, the man’s children were +departed likewise, and now as he passed from room to +room, he found each in succession desolate and deserted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He ascended the staircase and entered the chamber +he had occupied in the days which were now gone and +passed away for ever. He crossed the bare floor—he +threw open the window and looked out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In the gathering twilight, the mountains seemed +frowning upon him, the trees to be sunk in gloom; and +that feeling of desperate depression he had felt for the +first time as he rode home one night, years and years +before, under the moonlight, came upon him once +more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Life was then before him: where was his life now? +Half gone—more than half gone—even if he survived +to that threescore years and ten beyond which +man’s strength is but labour and sorrow. The twenty-one +years had passed like a watch in the night, like a +tale that was told! Twenty more years, and he should +<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>be as old as the man whom he had seen laid that day +in Eversbeg Abbey.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For twenty-one years he had been scheming, and +planning, and plotting, and his schemes had been in +the main successful—he had gained wealth, position, +houses, and lands.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Suppose he lived for twenty years more, and for +twenty to the back of that, and through the whole of +the time went on adding house to house, and acre to +acre—still the twenty, and the twenty, must come to +an end at last, and where would he be then?</p> + +<p class='c012'>That was Maxwell Drewitt’s dark hour: many such +had come to him lately; for it does not require a man +to have either a very sensitive conscience, or to think +much on holy things, to make such considerations strike +home to him at times.</p> + +<p class='c012'>On the contrary, as sickness seems most terrible to +the strong; as pain seems most dreadful to those who +have been exempt from it; as age seems most wretched +to the young; as poverty seems most frightful to the +affluent—so the very fact of a man rarely taking +courage to face this bugbear of our common mortality +is sure to make its aspect more unendurable when it +forces itself upon him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell had heard read that morning, beside his +uncle’s grave, the words which he knew must one day +be read over his own:—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Man that is born of a woman hath but a short +time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and +is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, +and never continueth in one stay.” And now, without +in the least knowing that thousands and thousands of +years before the same ideas had passed through the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span>soul of one in great distress and tribulation, the owner +of Kincorth, leaning out into the night, and looking +away to the lonely hills, was thinking precisely the +same thoughts as those to which Job in his anguish +gave utterance.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it +will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof +will not cease. Though the root thereof wax old in +the earth, and the stock thereof die in the ground; yet +through the scent of water it will bud, and bring forth +boughs like a plant. But man dieth, and wasteth +away: yea, man giveth up the ghost, and where is he? +As the waters fail from the sea, and the flood decayeth +and dryeth up: so man lieth down, and riseth not: till +the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be +raised out of their sleep.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Friends, oh! friends, is there not something unutterably +mournful in the figure of that man standing +lonely, lonely as ever, in the room he had left when a +young man, so many years before? He had been +solitary then, he was solitary now; when he was lying +in his grave he could not be more alone than he felt +standing there, looking out into the night.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Beyond all that he could have expected the +wild dreams of his youth had met with fulfilment. +From the position of a dependent he had raised himself +to that of the first landed proprietor in the neighbourhood; +from beggary he had risen to wealth; from indigence, +to prosperity and consideration. If all Galway +were not his, he owned quite enough of the county to +make the name of Drewitt a wonder to tourists—a +memory in Connemara.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was not a house whose doors did not fly +<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>open at his approach. If he had not effected all he +had intended for the people’s good—for the people’s +advancement—that certainly was more their fault +than his. He had learned, as he assured Mr. Pryor, +that a nation cannot be civilized in a day; that a love +of tidiness and of cleanliness, a desire for luxuries, +cannot be implanted in one generation, nor yet in two. +He had long comprehended that there was the same +distinction between the upper and lower classes in +Ireland in the nineteenth century as existed between +lord and serf in the earlier portions of English history; +not to the extent of a power of life and death—not +to the extent of a power of oppression, or imprisonment, +or disposal of the bodies of the poor; but the +same social difference. The lords lived in profusion, +with a certain wasteful magnificence, while their hinds +were contented with the coarsest fare. The lords went +about in grand attire, while the serfs were clothed +meanly. Between the two classes in those days there +could have been no more distinction than there is between +the rich and the poor to the present day in +Connemara; and it was this state of things which Maxwell +Drewitt at last declared to himself he was not +sent into the world to alter.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The rice pot to the Hindoo,” he was wont to say, +“the potato kish to the Irish;” but the meal barrel and +the potato kish were both better supplied on the estates +belonging to Maxwell Drewitt than on the estates of +any other man in West Connemara.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had no cause to be greatly disappointed on +that score; he had done something for his countrymen +and countrywomen, and having done as much as he +thought possible without their own co-operation, Maxwell +<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>rested content. He loved Ireland better than he +loved her sons and daughters; but he loved himself +better than Ireland.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And now having gained the summit of the hill of +success, he stood on the top looking out into the night +a lonely man. Most lonely! Was this what he had +bargained for in those days of poverty and struggle? +Was this the end he had striven to reach? Was it +thus he had expected to feel when that end was compassed? +Money—station—health—position: he +possessed all these, and yet the man whom he had +followed to his grave that morning was not so lonely +as he.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There is a story current in Ireland about a traitor, +by name Parese, who undertook to give the Castle of +Maynooth into the hands of an enemy of the Fitzgeralds. +He stipulated for a certain sum of money, but +forgot to stipulate also for his life; the consequence of +which oversight resulted in the “devil betraying the +betrayer,” whose head was cut off as soon as the reward +was counted out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Whether this tale be true or false, we need not +stop to inquire, seeing how often analogous cases must +have come under the observation of all of us; but I +think that what happened to Parese happened also in +a great measure to Maxwell Drewitt. He had bargained +for money and power, and money and power +he had, but nothing more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When the bells that now hang in the tower of the +church of St. Nicholas, in Galway, were being cast, it +is related that from far and from near, men and women +brought their golden brooches and rings, their precious +ornaments and their stores of silver and gold, and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>threw them in with the iron, to the end that all might +he fused together. And it is further stated that the +precious metals may be seen shining to this day in the +bells, and that those offerings of the faithful have +caused their tones to be peculiarly sweet and beautiful.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It is a lovely legend, and all the more lovely because +it is so tenderly suggestive, so touchingly pathetic. +The men and the women who flocked to the +place where the casting went on have passed away, +and their names are forgotten on earth; but still the +bells peal out the sweet music, still their silver and +their gold make the tone fuller, the notes more exquisite.</p> + +<p class='c012'>I cannot help recalling these two stories while I +think of Maxwell standing there in the darkness, spite +of all his wealth, alone—alone! He had not bargained +for happiness, thinking success would insure +happiness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He cast no stores of love into time’s furnace on +faith that he would receive back, in some shape, principal +and interest, and lo! the dark days were advancing +towards him, and there was never a one to +take him by the hand and bid him be of good cheer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For money, he had, like Parese, sold his best +friends, deserted the woman who had trusted him, +married a wife for whom he did not care; for money +he had schemed to ruin his uncle, and when his +schemes failed, he had accomplished his purpose by +more dishonest means still. Money he had elected to +serve—Mammon had been his god, and, as has been +cleverly said, cent. per cent. his prophet; but a man +cannot serve two masters—a man cannot hoard all +his wealth, or else spend it entirely on himself, and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>still hear God’s bells making sweet music in his ears—music +that never sounds so sweet as to the sick and +weary.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a preacher who once undertook to prove +that life’s voyage would be a pleasant one, even were +there no hope of land on the other side, nothing but +the long sleep and the cold grave as a finish to each +man’s story. His theory seemed to be, that there is +so much enjoyment in the goodly company, in the +lively conversation, in the health-giving breeze, in the +witty anecdote, in the daily work, as to make the +journey a desirable one in itself, without any reference +to an expected haven; and while the goodly company +is around us, while the conversation never flags, while +the sky is clear and the body strong, perhaps he may +be right. I have known many who seemed to think +so. Only, reader, how is it when man has to go below; +when he is lying in his narrow berth; when the +guests have dropped off one by one; when the voices +of the singers are hushed; when the evil days are +come and the years draw nigh when he shall say, “I +have no pleasure in them;” when the sun and the +light, and the stars and the moon be darkened, and +the clouds return after the rain—how is it then?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Standing in the gathering night—type of that +still deeper night which he would one day have to +pass through, Maxwell Drewitt was seized in the hour +of his success, in the hour of his victory, with a strange +horror—with a frightful dread. It seemed but a day +to him since he was young; it would be but a day till +he was old, and then—</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell closed the window, and groped his way +out of the room. All in darkness, he descended the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>staircase, and when he reached the hall, he took his +hat, and saying to one of the servants, “You need not +wait up for me. I shall not sleep here just at present,” +walked out of the house, and down the avenue, +under the trees, past the porter’s lodge—home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not think I shall go up to Kincorth till you +can go with me,” he said to his wife, and Lady Emmeline +looked at him in amazement.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was the first time during sixteen years she had +heard him express a wish for her companionship, and +so much affection astonished her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Further, instead of kicking her poodle out of his +way with a curse, Maxwell, thinking of that scene in +the stable of which he could not get rid, stretched his +hand towards the creature, and called it by name—“Prince—Prince!” +But Prince, unused, like its mistress, +to such attentions, only crouched behind Lady Emmeline, +who, pushing the dog off the sofa, said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go, Prince, there.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Come here, Prince,” added Maxwell, and he made +a movement to stroke him; but Prince backed from +the proffered caress, and, barking and growling, retreated +under the sofa.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Prince is not accustomed to your noticing him,” +said Lady Emmeline, apologetically, but Maxwell did +not seem to hear her words. He was walking up and +down the room with his hands buried in his pockets, +his head bent down, his face looking stern and thoughtful.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Has Mrs. Drewitt really left Kincorth?” asked +Lady Emmeline after a long pause.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, they are all gone,” he answered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dear, dear; I am very sorry; poor things!”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>“I do not see why the devil you should be sorry +for them,” he said, stopping in his walk; “nor why +you should call them poor things. I did not want +them to go. Heaven knows, I would much rather +they had stayed. And as for their being ‘poor things,’ +they cannot be a great deal poorer than they were; and +I suspect Mrs. Drewitt knew pretty well what she was +about when she went to Durrow. Pryor is sure to +marry Geraldine, and that, you may say, will be a +provision for the family.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How very clever you are, Maxwell,” remarked +Lady Emmeline, her old face lighted up with admiration. +“Who could ever have pieced that all together +as you have done? I never should; but now it is as +clear as possible. It is not exactly nice; but still one +can scarcely blame her—can one?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Blame her! though she has placed me in a most +awkward position, I commend her prudence. Candidly, +I did not think Mrs. Drewitt had so much sense,” and +Maxwell looked as he spoke at his wife’s face, and +wondered with an unutterable astonishment how he +ever came to marry such a fright of a woman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And Mr. Pryor is so nice, and Geraldine so pretty,” +said Lady Emmeline.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The only drawback—” Maxwell began, but he +stopped in his speech suddenly and resumed his walk.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is what?” inquired his wife.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was wrong—there is no drawback,” said Maxwell, +who did not intend to make any remarks for the +future about disparity of age, if he could avoid doing +so. He had been thinking of something he meant to +ask his wife to do for him, and to compass that object +he intended to be civil to her; civil so far as it was in +<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>his nature to be towards any one with whom he was +thrown in daily communication.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Many a taunt he had flung at her, but he would +try to taunt no more. If she fell into his plan and +helped him to carry it out, he would bear with her +silliness; he would say nothing to her about their childless +hearth—about her rouge—her age—her +affectation. He would command his temper and his +tongue, and do his best for her, if she would do her +best for him.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VI.<br> <span class='c006'>On the Way to Durrow.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Through the twilight Brian Drewitt pursued his +way over the hills to Durrow, keeping as near the sea +as the nature of the country would permit.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Instinctively he felt that the waters rolling on the +shore, that the plash of the waves which rose to his +ears, that the noise of the ocean washing up to the +base of the cliffs calmed and comforted him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When no human being could have quieted his +heart, the voices of the night and the murmurs of the +sea came round and about him, bringing tranquillity +and repose with them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>All his plans had that day been wrecked, all his +hopes had foundered. It is no easy matter to realize +the full extent of such a misfortune in a minute, and +Brian sometimes caught himself wondering about the +leases, about the grass land, about how soon the oats +would be fit to reap, even while he knew, in a dull, +stupid kind of way, that the leases, the grass lands +and the oats could never more signify anything to +him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When we go out of the light we find it difficult +to see clearly in the darkness; and after the flare of +excitement in which he had been living all the day, +Brian discovered that the intense stillness, the utter +lull of human passions and human wishes around him, +prevented any distinct thoughts or plans taking shape +in his mind.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>For a time everything seemed mixed and confused. +He walked on like a person in a dream, now thinking +of one thing, now of another, until at last, as he drew +near Durrow, every incident of the past week came +back to his memory clearly and separately. When it +did so, Brian Drewitt threw himself down on the grass +by the edge of the cliff—lay with his face touching +the cool earth—thinking of his past, tracing out his +future.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He thought of his father; of the coldness that had +come between them; of the way in which he had +worked and struggled to free Kincorth; of how his +endeavours had fretted his parent; of how his motives +had been misunderstood, his intentions doubted; of how +Harold had been preferred to him; of how Harold had +been everything, he nothing—and Brian’s heart, as +he lay and considered these things, became a perfect +well of bitterness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But then, again, he remembered how his father’s +grey head had lain on his breast, how his father’s last +action on earth had been to stretch out his arms towards +him, and Brian’s heart was softened, and grew +exceeding tender and sorrowful within him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And the waves came rolling on the shore, slowly +and gently, and the sea washed the base of Durrow +Cliffs, and it seemed as though he could hear the +voices of the great waters coming nearer and nearer, +talking to him, mourning with him, as if they too had +suffered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He recollected what his father had said about +having left everything to him. He repeated to himself +the warning he had received years and years before. +He called up every word and look of Maxwell’s, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>and then suspicion became certainty. Kincorth <em>had</em> +been procured by fraud; though by what fraud Brian +was unable to imagine. Which idea brought him +almost to the end of his reflections on the past, by +causing him to wonder what he should do in the +future.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There, however, all seemed vague and shadowy. +He could not yet tell what he ought to do. He had +no idea on what course his mother would decide. He +must talk the matter over with Mr. Pryor; and having +settled so much, Brian rose from the ground, and +walked onwards for a little distance towards the house.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then he turned and went back to the cliff once +more, where he sat down and listened dreamily to the +song which the ocean was murmuring so far below. +Heaven knows what the waves whispered to him, what +message the soft wind brought to his soul—I only +can tell, that with hands clasped over his head, with +his face bowed forward on his knees, Brian hearkened +to the sermon which nature preached to him that +night, taking, as we all do, his own construction out +of it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>We have, most of us, some memory of this kind—some +scene that, so often as we think of any great +trouble, immediately recurs to our memory.</p> + +<p class='c012'>With one it is a forest glade, where the sunbeams +pour through the branches and make bright patterns +and golden traceries on the turf beneath; with another, +it is a bare expanse of country, upon which the winter +afternoon is darkening down; with a third, it is some +river reach, where trees overhang the waters, and the +grass looks green and beautiful on the banks, and a +boat or two is gliding past; while a fourth sees in +<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>imagination the city streets all lighted up, and full of +people hurrying—hurrying away.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But sadder to my mind than all, is the memory of +a sunset watched from a lonely seashore; a sunset seen +over a waste of angry waters, of roaring billows; or a +night-watch on the deck of a vessel, while the stormy +waves are lashing themselves to fury all around; or +such a vigil as that kept by Brian Drewitt, during +which his soul seemed to go out of him, and stand on +the shore below, greeting the white foam as it was +thrown upon the shingle, and asking the waters questions +that might only be fitly put if the ocean washed, +on one side, the sands of time, but on the other the +headlands of Eternity.</p> + +<p class='c012'>His life—it was all before him then, to make +what he would out of. His life—he had reached +that point in the highway of existence where his father +had once stood, where Maxwell had once stood, where +all those who have grown to man’s estate must surely +have paused for a moment to survey their road. His +life—what a much grander thing life would have +seemed to this youth had he looked out at it from the +windows of Kincorth instead of from the cliffs of +Durrow! And yet, to my thinking, it was in his +power to make as good a thing of his existence one +place as another; unencumbered by a mortgaged estate, +as burdened by it; free to go where he liked, instead +of being chained to one spot, and forced to make his +fortune there. For he determined to make his fortune. +He resembled Maxwell in that respect, and he resembled +him, unfortunately, in another—viz., in his +resolution to win back Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Earth fighting for earth, earth struggling after +<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>earth, earth losing its youthfulness, its innocence, its +light-heartedness to gain earth!” Did the wind and +the waves utter no such plaint as this in his ears, as +he sat listening to their voices? Had the night, +which had spoken so plainly to Maxwell, nothing to +tell Brian?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Life, oh! life—who is there that has lived, who +would not go back and try to make a better of it if +he could? Who, when the last day comes, does not +think that, if he might be permitted to retrace his +steps, to stand once more on the threshold of existence, +his prayer would be to wash his hands in innocency, +and to keep himself unspotted from the world?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Stained and soiled, torn and defiled, who does not +wish that he could commence wearing the fleshy garments +of our poor mortality once again, fondly believing +he could keep them out of the mire, and bring +them almost white to the end of the journey? And +yet, as the instrument can give forth no music till its +strings have been played upon—as we can never tell +the quality of the gold till it comes forth from the +furnace—as we know little of our own capabilities +till our strength has been tested and tried in the battlefield +of the world—so there is no man, or woman +either, who dare say that, if return were possible, a +better working out of the great problem would be +probable also.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And for these reasons I do not say that Brian +would have passed through the fire scatheless had he +laid out a different course to travel; though I believe +it would have made all the difference had he decided +to pursue his onward path without permitting hatred +to gain dominion over him—without letting envy +<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>and malice and all uncharitableness find lodging in his +young heart.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But yet it was scarcely Brian’s fault that he disliked +his cousin so intensely. He had drunk in that +enmity with his mother’s milk; he had fed on it from +his youth upward. Mrs. Drewitt was the one to blame +here. She had been pleased to see Brian at war with +Maxwell. She had done her best to make her son +hate the man who desired her son’s inheritance: for, +like all weak people, in striving only to put Brian on +his guard against his cousin’s machinations, she had +overdone her part, and caused her boy to look with +suspicion on every act of his relative—to search for +some hidden meaning under every word—to listen +greedily to stories concerning Maxwell’s wickedness, +Maxwell’s avariciousness, Maxwell’s heartlessness—to +consider the owner of the Headlands, in fact, as +the <em>bête noire</em> of the county, and to believe that honey +could as soon be bitter as any act of Maxwell Drewitt’s +good.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Add to this the well-meant warning which he had +received, and his own experience of his cousin, and +you will see that, unless Brian Drewitt made up his +mind to leave Ireland entirely, to forget Kincorth and +Connemara, and Maxwell, and to start on a new life +which should have no sort of connexion with the past, +there could be nothing between the pair but war to +the death for ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In his hour of triumph it might be that Brian +would hold out his hand to Maxwell, and contemptuously +offer him friendship as his cousin had offered +friendship to him; but even that was scarcely likely; +for in his hates Brian was more sincere than his cousin. +<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>He was a staunch friend, an open enemy; and if his +constitution, his education, his temperament, his country, +and his misfortunes, all tended to render him implacable, +who may blame him?</p> + +<p class='c012'>It is not so easy to turn the other cheek as those +who have never received a blow on one, would have +us believe. We are all rather more apt to fight for +our coat than to bestow our cloak on the thief also. +What man is there that, having Brian Drewitt’s strength +of character, would venture to say he could always +keep clear of that dangerous frontier ground where +strength becomes sin?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Nevertheless, I would it were possible for me to +record that the voices of the night, the murmurs of the +sea, the light wind that came down from among the +tops of the hills, taught Brian a different lesson; but +alas! when the youth arose he was the same as when +he sat down; death had not softened him, suffering +had not subdued him, nature and silence had no power +to change him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When in the after years he returned to Ireland +and sat on the cliffs of Durrow, listening to the plash +of the waves, to the sighing of the wind, he would +have given all his wealth, all his influence, aye, and +his life also, if he could but have kept that sorrowful +vigil once again, and learned a different lesson out of +it—if he could but have started on his journey +through the world resolved never to look back, but +always forward.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Through the years, the sea ebbed out, and the sea +flowed in; through the years, in storm and tempest, in +calm and sunshine, the waves stole up on the sands, +and kissed the feet of the great rocks lovingly; through +<span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>the years, the shore-birds built their nests, and fed +their young, and winged their flight far out over the +ocean, and then came back, with pinions weary and +drooping, to the land; through the years, the fishermen +dried their nets, and put out their lines, and pushed +off their boats; through the years, the ships went by, +staggering among the billows, or with their white sails +glistening and shining, sped onwards to their destined +haven; through the years, the sun set, and the darkness +drew on, and the great hills hid themselves behind +the curtains of the night; through the years, the deeps +never ceased calling unto one another, now softly, now +in louder tones; through the years, the youth who had +once sat and listened to them was a stranger in a +strange country, working for his daily bread.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He did not know as, at last, he walked away from +the edge of the cliff, that it would be necessary for +him to leave Connemara; on the contrary, he had some +vague idea of renting a cottage for his mother, near +Analore, and of trying to make his fortune there. He +knew that with worse land Maxwell had done well, +and although there was no Lady Emmeline for him to +marry, yet he thought that, with Mr. Pryor’s help, he +could, perhaps, still weather the storm.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must talk to him,” thought Brian, and he went +up to Durrow House, where Mrs. Connor met Brian in +the hall, and informed him that his mother and brother +and sister were all gone to bed, “tired out” as Jenny +expressed it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And Mr. Pryor?” Brian asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is staying at Eversbeg with Mr. Waller.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What’s that for?” inquired the youth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He said he thought Mrs. Drewitt would be more +<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>comfortable if she felt she had the house to herself,” +was the reply. And then Mrs. Connor went on to ask +what he would have to eat, and brought in supper +herself, and made the boy a cup of strong coffee. +Look at her as she sits in the candlelight—would +you think that from her eyes had ever fallen such +passionate tears, that she had ever pleaded so vehemently, +that she had ever loved so unavailingly, as +you can remember to have been the case?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Those calm, kind eyes look now as though sorrow +had never dimmed them. Away in her girlhood, far, +far back, lies the dream, and the grief, and the sorrow, +and the sin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>To such natures, to such gentle, loving women, +time is very kind; he refuses to wear channels in their +cheeks, to draw lines across their foreheads, to take +away their beauty, or to destroy their power of conferring +happiness upon others; and thus Jenny was +still pleasant to look upon—pleasant, though she was +young no more; though the flush of her girlish loveliness +had faded off her cheeks, though the warm +brightness of her hair was dulled, though the years +that had come and gone could not come and go without +leaving traces behind them, still Jenny was pretty +still, and Brian, who liked her greatly, found her face +pleasant, as I have said, to look on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had she done wrong to marry? Jenny’s nature, +facile as it was, had yet set itself resolutely against +marrying or giving in marriage; but time, as it passed +by, worked wonders, and Connor’s patient devotion +and enduring constancy prevailed at last. All were +dead who knew her secret—all save Maxwell and +one other; and so, after ten years, she married, and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>came, as we have seen, with her husband to take +charge of the great house at Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor’s agency was of course immense promotion +to Connor. There was a wonderful difference +between living at Durrow Park and in Duranmore +Cottage. Altogether, the Connors were rising people, +greatly loved by the poor, and much appreciated by +their employer; and Brian could not help thinking; +while Jenny coaxed him to eat, and set dainty viands +before him, that the Englishman had been fortunate; +that no man and no woman could have been found in +the length and breadth of Connemara likely to suit +him better.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For many a day Jenny and Brian had been friends. +She it was who, seeing the boy idling away his time, +sought opportunity and occasion to give him the caution +he spoke of to Mr. Pryor; and now, when all his +struggles, all his efforts had proved of no avail, Mrs. +Connor spoke tearfully of the sorrow that had come +upon them, and told the son how deeply she grieved +for his mother.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You must be a good boy to her,” she said; “you +must make up to her for what she has lost.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes,” answered Brian, “and I mean to try and +give her back what she has lost.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You cannot give her back the dead,” Mrs. Connor +remarked, sorrowfully.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No; but I may give her back Kincorth,” the +youth replied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Brian,” began Jenny, “since ever I came +to Duranmore I have heard of Kincorth—heard of +it as a bone of contention, as a place about which +there had been quarrels, and broils, and heart-burnings, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>generation after generation. But for Kincorth, maybe +your cousin might have been a better man: not that I +have any reason to speak ill of him,” she went on +hurriedly; “for though I am afraid he did put Timothy +out of Mr. Waller’s agency, still he has stood his friend +since, and he has been very kind to Dennis; but still +everybody knows, unless by chance his wife, that Mr. +Maxwell has not been a good man, which I think he +might only for Kincorth——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How do you make that out, Mrs. Connor?” asked +Brian, pushing away his plate as he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are not eating a bit,” said Jenny, piteously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Never mind me,” answered the young man. “You +were speaking about Maxwell: how do you think Kincorth +made him what he is?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why, this way,” she replied. “He always thought +himself wronged, you know, and it is not for anybody +to say, Mr. Brian, that your grandfather did the thing +that was right when he passed by his own eldest son +and left all to your father. Do you think, Mr. Brian, +it would have been fair for Mr. Drewitt to cut you +out for Master Harold? Would it, now?” and Jenny’s +voice grew quite earnest and pathetic as she pleaded +the cause of the man she had once loved too well.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Putting it in that way, Mrs. Connor, I must +agree with you,” he answered; “but then it was not +with Maxwell a question between brother and brother, +but between uncle and nephew. If George Drewitt +had been bitter about the matter, I must say his feelings +would have seemed to me perfectly natural, and +if Harold had superseded me, perhaps I should have +felt angry too. That, however, would have been no +reason why my son should feel himself injured. There +<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>is no just cause why Maxwell should have imagined +Kincorth belonged of right to him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, there was, Mr. Brian,” she persisted. “Your +father said he would never marry, and then he did +marry. He promised to be a father to his brother’s +children, and then——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mrs. Connor, he was buried to-day; let what he +did and what he left undone be buried with him,” +Brian interrupted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I beg your pardon,” she said, humbly, and the +tears came up into her eyes as she saw how hurt the +lad was. “He was a good man and a true, even if he +did leave many a thing undone he ought to have seen +to; and all I meant to say was, that as Kincorth has +been a curse and a snare to your cousin, I hope and +pray, Mr. Brian, you will never let it be either to you. +Sure there’s many a place as nice in Ireland. To my +fancy, this house, with its look-out over the sea, is +heartsomer than those woods and mountains”—poor +Jenny! she shivered as she spoke—“and I think +Dennis is right in saying you are better without so +large a property so heavily mortgaged. And, indeed,” +finished Jenny, “if I was a young gentleman I would +not stay in these parts at all. I would go to England, +and see the world, and make money, and come back +here maybe for a month or two in the year, as Mr. +Pryor does, but no longer. For many and many a +day before I was married I used to wish I could go +away. I did—I did.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have not a notion what I shall do yet,” Brian +answered, while he took another cup of coffee from +her. “There is one thing, however, I do know—that +<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>wherever I go I shall always feel grateful to you +for making me what I am. But for you I do not +think I should have been fit for anything; and now I +do not feel afraid of turning out into the world to earn +my bread.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I told you before, Mr. Brian, that your mother +had been my friend once in a time of bitter trouble, +and that if at any hour of the day or night I could +serve her or hers I would get up to do it. You have +no call to feel grateful to me. There is nothing I +could do for her, God knows, that would be half enough—not +half.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I cannot fancy your ever having had a trouble, +Mrs. Connor,” said the lad. She was the same in +middle age as she had been in youth, a woman who +took men’s fancies, to whom it came easy and natural +for them to talk. “You look as if you never could +have known a care.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do I?” and she dropped her head forward for a +moment on her hands. “There are few who come to +my time of life,” she went on, “that have not met +trouble; but there are few who, when in trouble, find +such a friend as I did in your mother. If I could +have died to keep this grief from her, Mr. Brian, I +would have done it. You may think that strange +now, having both Dennis and the children to value +my life for; but I would, and it is because I love her, +and because I love you for her sake, that I bid you +quit caring for Kincorth—that I want you to make +her quit caring for it too.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian turned away. He could not bear to think of +his mother dependent even for a shelter on the kindness +of friends, on the courtesy of strangers.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>For himself it would not have mattered, but for +her—</p> + +<p class='c012'>That was the keystone of the lad’s character; that +was what had made a man of him, whilst in years he +was yet a boy—love for her—love for the mother +who had not been true to her first allegiance, but who +had loved two other babies since, and her last child, +Harold, most of all.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What am I to do?” he asked after a pause; +“how can I make her cease caring for her home, for +the place to which she came a wife, which she has +left a widow? Tell me, Mrs. Connor,” he added, +“what made you think so many years ago that Maxwell +was determined to have Kincorth; what induced +you to warn me; I should like to know that now.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, then, you cannot know,” she replied, taking +one of the candles off the table; “for I shall not tell +you. If I had to do it again, I am not sure that I +should act as I did then, though I meant my warning +for your good;” and with that Jenny stretched out her +hand a little hesitatingly towards Brian, who stooped +and kissed it as though she had been a queen. As he +did so Jenny tore her hand away and broke out crying +hysterically.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Have I offended you, Mrs. Connor?” he said, +standing abashed at his boyish gallantry; which was +no impertinence, but an act of pure, and honest homage, +and liking. “I am very sorry; I never meant to vex +you. Forgive me—pray, forgive!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Forgive!” she cried; “what have I to forgive? +only, Mr. Brian, don’t do that again—don’t. And +may God bless—and may God keep you!”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>Having completed which intelligible sentence Mrs. +Connor left the room, only turning back at the door to +suggest that Brian should accompany her and see the +apartment which had been prepared for him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Try to get some sleep,” were her parting words; +and worn out in body and in mind, Brian followed her +advice, and was soon forgetful alike of past, present, +and future.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VII.<br> <span class='c006'>Another Difficulty.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>“I have been considering the suggestion you made +about Analore, Brian,” Mr. Pryor said one morning, +a fortnight after Mr. Drewitt’s funeral; “but I should +not advise you to commence operations there.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why not?” asked Brian. He had been over to +Analore, and seen the foundations built up of the +house his father had intended for his residence, and +had drawn the granite for some twenty years before. +“I think a good deal might be made of it, and with a +comparatively small outlay, too. The land is very fair—fair, +of course I mean, for Connemara; and my +mother would be only too glad to let me do the best I +could with it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That I supposed; but the reason I object to your +doing anything with Analore is, that it would scarcely +answer your purpose, to spend your youth, money, +and time in reclaiming another person’s property. +To farm land is a very different affair from reclaiming +it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But my mother’s interests and mine are identical. +What is best for her must be best for me; and if I +reclaim Analore it will be quite as much to the advantage +of all of us as of one.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We need not discuss that question,” answered Mr. +Pryor, “since it has nothing to do with the matter. +What I mean is this: Analore only belongs to your +<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>mother for life; and though I trust she will stay with +us till her hair is white, still you would not care to +plough and drain and sow and plant for your cousin’s +benefit.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He has nothing to do with Analore. It will surely +belong to me—or to all of us after——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your mother’s death. No, Brian, it will not; and +it is very lucky that before you began to delve and +dig I looked into her settlement. I cannot imagine how +any lawyer could overlook the probability of her having +a family; but that it has been overlooked is certain. +Analore belongs to your mother for life, and to Maxwell +afterwards. It would have belonged to you had +your father died intestate. Unless your father were +swamped with debt at the time of his marriage, and +that some pressure was brought to bear upon him, the +whole affair is inexplicable; but no one can alter the +wording now, and it is for this reason I say you had +better do nothing with Analore; because, in the first +place, you would be spending your strength on another +man’s property; and, in the second, you would—supposing +any one advanced money on the place—have +to insure your mother’s life to secure the lender against +loss.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Beaten,” said Brian, “at every turn;” and the +pair walked on a step or two in silence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You will not tell my mother,” were the next words +spoken.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why not? I think it is much better for your +mother to understand exactly how you are situated,” +replied Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Harold and Geraldine?” Brian said; and the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>Englishman understood that he meant it would pain +Mrs. Drewitt to know they would be totally penniless.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have been down with Neill,” Brian went on; +“but he can tell me nothing about the missing will. +He says he gave it back to my father himself; but +that he has some impression the will was returned to +his office; that is, he says, he remembers my father +making some mention of either having left it with +Ryan—who was then Neill’s clerk—or of his having +intended to do so.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Rather vague,” remarked Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then I went to Ryan. ‘Upon my word, Mr. +Brian,’ he said, ‘if I knew where that will was I +would tell you; but Mr. Drewitt never gave it back +to me.’</p> + +<p class='c012'>“‘Mr. Neill thinks my father said something to him +about having returned it.’</p> + +<p class='c012'>“‘Burned it—depend upon it that was what he +said.’</p> + +<p class='c012'>“‘But why should he burn the one and not the +other?’ I inquired.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“‘My opinion is,’ he said, ‘that he forgot all about +the other, he was so mighty keen on, just at that time, +aye, and indeed for long after you thought he had +done with Mr. Neill, considering how he could leave +your brother independent of you, that it is not for me, +or you, or anybody to say what he did or what he +did not do, what he thought or what he did not +think.’ And then what do you think he proposed?” +asked Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have not the remotest idea.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He offered to lend me five hundred pounds to +work Analore. I asked him if it was Maxwell’s; but +<span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>he said every penny of it was his own that he had +made by hard work. ‘I tried to keep it, thinking my +sister might want it some day,’ he added; ‘but if you +have it, she can ask for it should she need it, and it +may be of use to you now.’”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, Brian?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, Mr. Pryor, I refused it, of course; but +wasn’t it good of him? As I came home, I called +again on Mr. Neill, and told him what Ryan said. ‘It +is very possible,’ was all I could get out of him. Then +I inquired if my father had been with him after the +mortgage was transferred, and he said, ‘Yes, often.’ +‘About leaving Harold independent of me,’ I inquired, +and Mr. Neill nodded. So I am beaten there again, +you see—beaten again.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you think of doing now?” asked Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Of trying my old scheme. I should like to get a +situation and endeavour to push my way.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Right; you cannot do better than adhere to that +resolution.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dan Glynn offers, as you know, two hundred and +fifty pounds a year for Analore. I do not think, if I +am not to farm it, that we can do better.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Perhaps not. What does Mr. Dan Glynn expect +to make out of it?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Potheen, I suspect,” said Brian, laughing; “but +does that signify to us?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not in the least, if he pays his rent; and at any +rate it will be much less trouble to look up one man +than twenty or thirty tenants. He will not turn the +present occupiers out?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They are only occupiers of the ground, you +<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>know,” replied Brian; “there is but one hut on the +fifteen hundred acres, and that has the roof off it. +Glynn, however, will not send any of them adrift. He +will keep them all to help.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And now, with regard to this plan of your mother’s +about living in Dublin? Do you not think she +had better stay on for a year, at any rate, at Durrow? +The house is there, and empty, and——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think she would be happier away,” Brian interrupted. +“In a house of her own, no matter how +small, she would feel more settled than she could ever +do at Durrow; and besides, Mr. Pryor, there is Harold—we +must get him away from Connemara, at all +hazards.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He would be better away certainly, and he must +do something to earn his living; but, Brian, promise +me now—promise faithfully you will not encourage +this notion of Mrs. Drewitt’s about going to law: she +has not an inch of ground to stand upon, and it would +be beggary. You have no idea how soon law runs +away with money; and she could about as soon overturn +Bennobeola, as put your cousin out of Kincorth +now.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not even if that codicil were proved to be a +forgery?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How could it be proved such?” asked Mr. Pryor; +but Brian remained silent, and the barrister went on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will be perfectly frank with you in this matter. +I believe that codicil to be a forgery. I thought so +the moment I heard it read. I thought it because of +many trivial circumstances I had noticed previously. +But you could never convert a jury to the same +opinion; it would be waste of time, of money, and of +<span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>patience to attempt such a thing. The solicitor who +made the original will, and who, it is supposed, added +the codicil, has been paralyzed these six years, and +has now lost all power of speech. The witnesses are +dead. It is the distance of time, you see, that is so +much against us. In law, the codicil is perfectly regular, +and what is worse, perfectly natural. Mr. Neill +explains the absence of another will; and we have no +reason to suppose that Mr. Neill speaks otherwise than +truthfully. As for your father’s talk on his death-bed +about having left the place to you, the first question +would be, was he delirious at all during his last illness? +and what could Sheen answer but that he frequently +wandered? It is quite one thing, you see, to +be satisfied oneself, and quite another to satisfy a jury. +For which reasons, take my advice, and leave Kincorth +to its fate. After all, the estate is not worth the +trouble. Your father did not leave it as he got it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian winced. No one let him imagine Maxwell +had secured so great a prize as he wanted to believe.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You will go out into the world,” went on Mr. +Pryor, “and make your fortune, and forget all about +Kincorth, as I have forgotten all about my disappointment +when I was beaten at Duranmore before you +were born. We will get you something to do, and +you shall do it, and be a rich man yet; richer than +Maxwell, perhaps, and much happier, we will hope.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Having uttered which sanguine expectation, Mr. +Pryor mounted his horse, and without asking Brian to +accompany him, rode straight to Duranmore. The +first person he went to was Mr. James Butler, with +whom he had a long and confidential chat. Having +put up his horse at the “Marsden Arms,” he walked +<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>from The Retreat to Mr. Neill’s office in Duranmore, +and satisfied himself Mr. Neill, at any rate, was not +one of the conspirators. From Mr. Neill’s office he +crossed over to Mr. Ryan’s, and after taking the chair +that was nervously handed to him, he commenced the +conversation by thanking the lawyer for his friendly +offer to Mr. Brian Drewitt, “about which offer,” he +added, “I have come to speak to you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Indeed! it is very kind,” and Mr. Ryan looked +as though he would have liked to skulk round the +corner of the next street and get a glass of whiskey +before proceeding to business.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not at all; it is only my duty. I am quite certain +when you made so liberal a proposal that you +were not aware of the actual position of affairs regarding +Analore, and a five hundred pound legacy is not +one which it is safe to jeopardize. Uncles do not die +every day—do they, Mr. Ryan?” added the barrister, +mercilessly following every thought which was passing +through his listener’s mind.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is considering now whether he told Brian it +was a legacy,” thought Mr. Pryor; while Mr. Ryan answered, +vaguely, “That they did not indeed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And most probably, if anything went astray with +this five hundred, you have no further expectations +from your relatives?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“None, sir, none—he was the last;” and Mr. +Pryor wondered whether Mr. Ryan had any idea of +weeping.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is precisely what I thought: you have got +five hundred pounds to lend, but you have not got five +hundred pounds to lose. Analore is not a desirable +<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>property, therefore, for you to risk anything upon, +since Mrs. Drewitt has no power of mortgaging it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you mean, sir?—what do you mean?” +and Mr. Pryor saw at once that his suspicion about +Ryan being mixed up in this matter also, was unfounded.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Precisely what I say. Mrs. Drewitt has only a +life interest in Analore. At her death it reverts to +Maxwell Drewitt.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And the children?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Have not a sixpence in the world.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The Lord help them!” exclaimed Mr. Ryan.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He had need,” answered the other, a little bitterly, +“for it would seem that they are not likely to get +much help from man. Mr. Ryan,” he went on, “probably +you know the mystery of that marriage settlement—of +course nothing can make a better or a +worse of it now—but as a simple matter of curiosity, +I should like greatly to know how such an instrument +came to be drawn.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was not Mr. Maxwell’s solicitor then, sir. I had +nothing to do with him then at all, I assure you, +sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Of course not; and that is the reason why I ask +you for information on the subject—as a mere matter +of curiosity.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not know anything about it, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you quite certain? Was no pressure put on +Mr. Drewitt?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There might have been: if there were it wasn’t +by me. I was only a beginner then. I had no good +clients at all.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nor any five hundred pound legacies, we may +<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>suppose, Mr. Ryan,” said the other, with a smile. “I +hope you are getting good interest.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I—I haven’t put it out yet—I have it in +hand.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then your amiable relative has died recently, I +presume?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Within the last three months.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What a strange people you Irish are!” remarked +the other, rising to depart. “You get a five hundred +pound legacy, offer to lend it to a mere lad on no +sufficient security, and still grudge the expense of a +hat-band to prove how sincerely you deplore the +dead!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The two men were standing and their eyes met. +In a moment Mr. Pryor knew that what he had +suspected was true; and Mr. Ryan knew the Englishman +was in possession of his secret. Then Mr. Pryor said +good-morning, and was going away, but the other detained +him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“For God’s sake, Mr. Pryor,” he said, laying a +hand on his shoulder, “never mention what you are +now thinking to any one. He would kill me, he +would. If ever you hear of my being found dead by +the roadside, with a bullet through me, you will know +whose bullet it is; though as likely as not some innocent +man may be hung for the murder.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why do you not leave the country?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will if you drive me to it,” was the significant +answer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mrs. Drewitt intends to contest the will,” remarked +Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Does she?—then I wish her well out of her +troubles,” replied Mr. Ryan. “If need were, he’d take +<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>it from court to court for twenty years. She has not +an inch of ground; you must see that yourself. There +is some law place in London that they say it is as +bad for a man to get into as for a cat to go through +hell without her claws. Well, Mrs. Drewitt will find +going to law with her nephew as bad as that, or +worse.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And yet you have been his friend for twenty +years?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Have I?—more fool Timothy Ryan; that is all +I have got to say: but friend or no friend can make +no difference about Mrs. Drewitt. You can just tell +her in confidence, out of your own mind as it were, +that those who sup with the devil need to have a long +spoon.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The notion tickled the barrister’s fancy, and he +laughed outright.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think Mrs. Drewitt would be greatly surprised +if I did,” he said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Surprised or not, it is the truth I’m telling you; +but I would not tell it to you if himself wasn’t safe in +Dublin at this blessed minute.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If he is in Dublin, he is in Duranmore as well,” +answered Mr. Pryor. “I see his chesnut mare at +the door, and I see him throwing the reins to his +groom.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Lord save us! I think he is the devil,” murmured +Ryan, nervously shuffling among his papers. “Good-morning, +sir—good-morning,” he added aloud as his +visitor reached the door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I beg your pardon,” said the owner of Kincorth, +who was entering the office as the Englishman left it; +“your most obedient, Mr. Pryor,” and he almost swept +<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>the floor with his hat, his mocking bow was so low +and deferential.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Without answering him by a word, Mr. Pryor +bowed in acknowledgment and passed out, while Maxwell +walking straight up to Ryan, took him by the +arm.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What brought him here?” said the great man, +looking his accomplice full in the face, as if expecting +him to falter in his reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But desperation gave Ryan courage. “He came to +inquire about Mrs. Drewitt’s settlement.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What about it?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She has it only for her lifetime, with no remainder +to her children. He seemed to think I knew +all about it, but I did not. I told him it was the first +I had heard of the matter.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell dropped his hold of Mr. Ryan’s arm, and +leaning over the back of a chair, indulged in a long +low whistle of delight.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Better and better,” he said. “I did not know +that either, Ryan. I did not,” he repeated, noticing +a look of incredulity on the lawyer’s face. “Do you +imagine I have had time to read over every paper +concerning the property since I came into possession +of it? No such thing. I shall find plenty to pay, I +expect, when I do take that trouble. But if this should +prove to be correct, we may as well make her an offer +for Analore. You can write on chance, Ryan, and +tell her she shall have three hundred a-year for Analore +if she likes the offer; or should she prefer to sell her +life interest, I will take the place off her hands.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“When shall I write, Mr. Drewitt?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“To-day, if you choose—yes, better do it at +<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>once, for I should like to have Analore,” answered +Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Acting upon which suggestion, Ryan penned a +polite epistle to Mrs. Drewitt, who at once declined +the proposal.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Having already let Analore,” she finished.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, it cannot be helped,” sighed Maxwell; “and, +besides, it is only for her life.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Only for her life!” echoed back some mocking +fiend within him: “she is not more than two years +older than you! Only for her life!—you may be +dead before her; and then, to whom will you leave +Kincorth, and the Headlands, and Cherryfield, and the +property in the Joyce country, and Analore?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell had decided that point. There was a +boy finishing his education at a very select school in +the county Wicklow, whom he meant to make his heir, +whom he intended to send to one of the English universities +and bring up in the way he should go.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a boy to inherit—but alas! that could +not make the idea of “passing away” at all more endurable +to the man, who, though he had no fear of +God, had yet an intense horror of death.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VIII.<br> <span class='c006'>Harold in Trouble.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>It was summer once again: summer twelve months +after the events recorded in the last few chapters, and +Mrs. Drewitt and Brian, and Harold and Geraldine, +were living far away from Duranmore, far beyond the +Connemara Alps, far beyond sound of the great ocean +that washes the headlands of the “wild west.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian had got a situation in Dublin, which however +necessitated frequent absences from home. He +was working hard, and giving great satisfaction to his +employers; and Mrs. Drewitt, who had greatly crippled +her income by feeing lawyers and running after all +manner of people who advised her to dispute her husband’s +will, resided with Harold and Geraldine in a +small house in the outskirts of Dublin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>From whence Harold walked into the city every +morning, and sat at a desk from nine o’clock till four; +an amusement he was never weary of grumbling about; +while his mother, likewise, never wearied in commiserating +him for it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In the present, as in the past, it was Harold she +pitied, Harold she loved; it was the bold-eyed, bright-faced +boy she clung to—her youngest born—the +Benjamin of her life to her!</p> + +<p class='c012'>Such likings are natural, perhaps; but they do not +generally tend to make matters pleasanter in the family +circle, and perhaps it was quite as well that Brian’s +<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>occupation took him much from home, as otherwise he +might have had less patience than was the case with +Harold’s repinings—with Harold’s conduct.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For Harold was the same in Dublin as he had +been in Connemara—wild, reckless, dissipated. His +acquaintances were none of the most desirable, his life +none of the most regular; but still the mother would +not see—the mother would not believe.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He was her darling, and nothing it was in his +power to do could make him otherwise. When he +found she came to meet him in the summer afternoons, +he walked by a circuitous route home; when he found +she sat up for him at night, he came home early, went +to bed with the rest of the household, and then stole +down in his stocking-soles, with his boots in his +hand, and let himself out, taking the door-key with +him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Of course their servant—who was often unfastening +the shutters when Harold reappeared—knew of +these pranks; but she had never the heart to tell his +mother.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And if she had told Mrs. Drewitt, what difference +could it have made? His mother had no influence over +him—none whatever. He had nothing to say but +“I will leave the house,” or “I will go and ask food +and lodging from Maxwell,” and she was silent at +once.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Whenever Maxwell came to Dublin, which was not +seldom, Harold always dined with him, and always +came back reeling drunk.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Told him—I—bore—no grudge—welcome +to—Madcap—poor—old—girl,” the young +<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>rascal would hiccup out, and when induced to go to +bed, he invariably did so under protest, retiring from +view between the sheets in his boots, coat, waistcoat +and trousers, and refusing to let go of Mary’s hand—Mary +was their maid-of-all work—until she promised +to call him early.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t f—get, Marish. If you’re waking—you +know—call me early, Marish dear.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And indeed had it not been for Mary’s repeated +calls, Harold could hardly have kept his situation so +long as was the case.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Damn business—curse work!” I think that was +the refrain of almost every sentence Harold Drewitt +uttered for some months after starting in the world on +his own account, and Mrs. Drewitt listened sympathetically, +and would oftentimes confide to Mary, the +maid-of-all-work before honourably mentioned, the fact, +“that she thought that office was killing her poor boy—he +looked so pale, and ill, and thin since he left +the country.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mary had her own opinions, which, seeing Master +Harold was the lamb without blemish in his mother’s +eyes, she wisely kept to herself.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But even the fondest parent cannot remain blind +for ever, and accordingly there came a time when Mrs. +Drewitt, instead of pitying Harold, went up to her own +room and wept; when she prayed him not to go to the +hotel where Maxwell stopped while in town; when she +entreated him to remember that by business he must +live, and that to live he must work.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Look at Brian,” she would remark, and the injudicious +speech invariably made Harold shrug his +shoulders, and declare Brian “never was fit to be +<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>anything better than a horse in a mill, or a counting-house +drudge, or a pack-horse which he is,” finished +Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now Harold, do not say such things of Brian!” +Geraldine would exclaim, her cheeks all a-glow; and +then Harold was wont to laugh and declare—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! we all know what makes you so much in +love with business; don’t we, mamma?” For which +speech Mrs. Drewitt invariably pulled Master Harold +up.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In her heart, the mother did not like the way in +which Mr. Gyton was always running over from London; +she wished he would either propose or stay away; +and yet, she argued, a man must have some opportunity +for making up his mind. Altogether, I cannot +say that the position of the Drewitt family was one +perfectly free from care; but still time travelled on—on—and +the seasons came and went; as they will +do whether people are happy or whether people are +sad.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was summer once again, and though there is, +perhaps, no town in the three kingdoms where the +country seems so near and stone walls so little oppressive +as in Dublin, still Mrs. Drewitt missed the hills, +and the valleys, and the ocean more than she would +have cared to acknowledge.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She had loved Connemara, and she had no other +strong ties to any part of the earth. Mother, and +father, and sister, had long been dead, and Sir Everard +Ebbutt was married again, and her sister’s children +were very aristocratic young ladies, who would scarcely +have cared to acknowledge so very unfortunate an individual +for their aunt. Altogether, she mourned +<span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>greatly after Connemara; and many a time when she +and Geraldine were walking along the Monkstown +Road, or pacing slowly round Stephen’s Green, or +sitting at work together in their modestly-furnished +house, the poor lady would say suddenly—“I wonder +how the Twelve Pins are looking now, Geraldine! +Must not the sea seem calm seen from Durrow cliffs +to-day?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, mamma,” Geraldine would answer, a little +guiltily conscious that she had kept one thing from +her mother’s knowledge, viz., her own refusal of Durrow +and its owner.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She could have given a comfortable home for life +to her mother; she could have let her spend all the +remaining days of her life among the scenes and the +people she had learned to love so much—and she +refused.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had she done right? For many days Geraldine +pondered that question over and over again, and at last +took courage and referred it to her mother.</p> + +<p class='c012'>They were sitting side by side in one of the loneliest +parts of the Phœnix Park—in one of the glades +where the blackberries and the brambles grow—and +in reply to a remark from Mrs. Drewitt about the quietness +being pleasant—about the place being almost +as solitary as Connemara, though so close to Dublin, +Geraldine took her mother’s hand in hers, and said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mamma, I want to ask you something.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He has proposed”—that was Mrs. Drewitt’s first +idea, as she beheld her daughter’s face covered with +blushes. “He has proposed”—the “he” having reference +to Mr. Gyton, who was at that present moment +galloping as fast as an Irish horse could take him to +<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>the Broadstone Terminus, whence he was soon travelling, +at the mild pace which seems in fashion across the +Channel by express train, to Galway.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish you were coming down with me, old +fellow,” he said to Harold Drewitt, who had accompanied +him to the station, and who stood with his +hands on the top of the carriage-door, looking very +wretched and disconsolate. “A run into Connemara +would do you good.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know that,” Harold answered, mournfully.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ask leave, and come down on Saturday. There +is a car or something that will bring you on from Galway +to Durrow in no time; and my uncle will be delighted. +Shall I tell him to expect you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t see how I can get away,” hesitated the +boy.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nonsense; come on Saturday. Remember, I shall +be looking out for you. Good-bye;” and the train +steamed away from the platform, and went leisurely +onwards into the country, through which it proceeded +in a quiet, inoffensive manner, stopping at all sorts of +out-of-the-way stations, where no passengers ever +seemed to get in or out; but where there was always a +knot of idlers collected to see the engine and carriages, +as if the seventh wonder of the world were taking a +little tour through Ireland.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No need to ask where one is,” remarked Mr. Gyton +to a fellow-passenger, who chanced to be an Englishman; +“battered hats, short pipes, ragged clothes, and +plenty of policemen—I beg their pardons—of the +constabulary force.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Fine country, though,” returned the other.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“So I am told,” answered Mr. Gyton, drily.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>“And the women are so handsome! positively, +walking about Dublin yesterday I met hundreds of +lovely faces!” pursued the enthusiastic gentleman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The town is not large,” remarked his companion, +“and it is within the bounds of possibility that you +may have met the same faces many times over.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is something in that,” considered the +other.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And then,” continued Mr. Gyton, “if you pay +particular attention to the subject, you will observe +that most Irishwomen—the women who wear gloves +I mean—have a slit in those gloves; either the lady’s +hands are plump, in which case there is an aperture at +the side; or her fingers are long, in which case the +nails make a way for themselves through the tips; or +the articles are of an inferior make, which causes gaps +about the thumb; or they are too small and refuse to +button. I have made gloves my study,” added the +young swell, “and I never get into a railway carriage +in which there is a woman without adding to my stock +of information. I came up from Kingston yesterday +morning with a young lady, and ’pon my honour, for +a long time I thought she had on mittens, she was out +at every finger down to the middle joint!” and Mr. +Gyton complacently surveyed his own well-fitting +glove, towards which his companion’s glance was directed +also.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you smoke?” asked the younger man at last, +presenting his cigar-case to the stranger, who, being +graciously pleased to avail himself of the offered politeness, +lit one of Mr. Gyton’s prime Havannah’s, and +the pair, stretched out one on each side the carriage, +smoked until they reached Mullingar, at which point +<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>they abandoned their cigars, and wrapping their railway +rugs about them, slept on until the guard came to +collect the tickets and to inform them that “when they +reached the next station they’d be there.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“A most original and valuable piece of information,” +remarked Mr. Gyton, yawning desperately. “Now +what do you make out of that—we shall be there? +Does he mean we shall be at the next station, or at +Galway?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The next station is Galway,” replied the other, +referring to his time-table, and failing in his sleepy +condition of mind to perceive any wit in the young +man’s brilliant remarks. “I hope we shall be able to +get a bed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If my memory serves me right, you can have +your choice of about a hundred,” answered Mr. Gyton, +collecting his effects, and humming an opera air softly +the while.</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was the “he” to whom Mrs. Drewitt had +mentally referred while waiting for the rest of her +daughter’s sentence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You often talk, mamma, about Connemara, about +the mountains, about the Atlantic, about those exquisite +little bays, about all sorts of things, in fact,” and +Geraldine leaned back her head till it rested gently on +her mother’s shoulder as she spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, love.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Would you like to go back there, mamma—to +go back to live?” and the evening sunbeams rested +upon the pair, upon the deep mourning of mother and +child, and Mrs. Drewitt stretched out her hand towards +those patches of golden light as though she could touch +and retain them.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>“That would depend, Geraldine,” was the answer. +“Home to me is now wherever my children are: if you +were all in Connemara, I should love the West; as you +are all in Dublin, I am learning to love it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are certain, sure, positive, mamma?” and the +pretty head nestled itself down on Mrs. Drewitt’s +shoulder as well as was possible, considering the millinery +miracle, which seemed to be stuck on the top of +various rolls and twists of hair.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Certain, love—why?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Because, mamma, we might all go back to Connemara—to +Durrow, if I were to marry Mr. Pryor. He +asked me, and I said no; and I have been miserable +ever since—wondering, wondering, whether it was +not wrong of me, when we are so poor, and when he +likes me so much.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a long pause, during the continuance of +which Mrs. Drewitt held her daughter’s hand in hers, +and stroked it slowly, slowly, very tenderly and very +gently. “Poor fellow,” she said at last, and Geraldine +began to cry.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Have I done wrong, mamma? have I done +wrong?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You do not love him, darling?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, mamma.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You would only marry him for the sake of Durrow, +and for what he might do for me, and Harold, +and Brian?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, mamma.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then, Geraldine, you have done quite right, and +never vex yourself about the matter again. Only it is +a pity of him, a great pity!” And Mrs. Drewitt took +<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>up her daughter’s hand and commenced stroking it +once more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I felt that, mamma,” whispered the girl, “but I +could not help saying no. I thought only of myself +then; but I have cried myself to sleep many a night +since thinking about you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My poor child, and I never knew anything about +it,” said the mother, sorrowfully.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I could not tell you. I was afraid you might +be vexed; I was vexed myself, and——” Geraldine +paused.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And what, darling?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh, mamma—mamma!” that was all the confession, +but it was enough. The mother knew the +daughter’s secret, and the daughter knew her mother +understood the whole business without another word +being spoken.</p> + +<p class='c012'>They sat on for a few minutes longer in silence, +and then they walked home side by side still saying +little, and that little having no connexion with the +subject on which they had been talking.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mrs. Drewitt made no further remark, asked no +single question; only that night Geraldine cried herself +to sleep in her mother’s arms, and until the early +dawning of the summer’s morning Mrs. Drewitt lay +awake, and thought about the husband she should see +no more on earth—about the children whose future +seemed so vague and uncertain.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Harold, the household had not much of a +life with him until he worried permission out of his +employers to grant him a holiday; then the very same +evening he started for Galway, and worked his way +<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>thence by car and coach to Duranmore, where Mr. +Pryor met him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your letter and Frank’s must have crossed each +other,” he said. “He left for Dublin by the first train +from Galway this morning, and wrote begging you to +meet him at Morrison’s.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then we both slept at the same hotel last night, +and never knew it,” said Harold, disconsolately; “will +he be long in Dublin?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Only a few hours. He leaves to-night for Holyhead, +and is going direct to London. His father is +very ill.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Wasn’t it queer we should both be in Galway +together, and never know it?” repeated Harold, whose +sympathies were none of the keenest, and who would +not have cared very much who lived or who died +providing he had his little comforts. Mr. Pryor, though +he had known much more singular coincidences in the +course of his life, agreed that it was “queer,” while he +gave the reins into Harold’s eager hands, and let him +drive back the ten miles to Durrow within the hour.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For the sister’s sake, Mr. Pryor was very kind to +Harold, though his affection for the boy had never +been overwhelming, and consequently Harold found +his stay in Connemara exceedingly pleasant, and was +very much grieved—grieved to the extent of tears +when he had to leave.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My time’s up,” he said disconsolately to Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is it?” remarked that gentleman, sympathetically; +“you must get leave to come and see me next +summer.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>“Ay; but that is such a devilishly long time to look +forward to,” answered Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You must employ the interval in breaking yourself +of a bad habit,” Mr. Pryor observed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is that?” asked Harold, quickly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Swearing,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is no harm in swearing—everybody swears +but you.” Fancy the feelings of a middle-aged gentleman +who was obliged to bear such speeches from a +lad. “I don’t know a fellow that does not swear,” +went on Harold; “but then, to be sure, all the fellows +I know are young.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>It would have done Mr. Pryor good to have pitched +Master Harold over Durrow cliff, but one cannot always +do as one likes in this world, and he refrained.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You may think I am making fun,” resumed the +boy, “but I am not: next summer does seem a devilishly +long time away—that is not swearing, it is +truth—and I sometimes feel when I am looking about +me here that I am looking for the last time—you +may laugh if you like, but I do.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What does the lad mean?” marvelled Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Just what I say; neither more nor less: maybe I +may see Connemara again, and maybe not; but most +likely maybe not. I have gone to every place I could +think of to-day, and said good-bye. I feel that I shall +never come back—never—never—never.” And +the boy twined his hand in the branch of a tree against +which he was leaning, and, resting his head on his +arm, sobbed aloud.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Would you rather not return to Dublin at present?” +asked Mr. Pryor, who really felt impressed by Harold’s +<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>grief. “I dare say I could make it all right with your +employers.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, I must go; but I feel that I am going to +meet my fate, Mr. Pryor. If nothing comes of this, +try not to think me a fool; but last night, after I had +been asleep for about a couple of hours, I awoke +suddenly in a cold perspiration and shivering from +head to foot. I think you might have heard my heart +beating. I was in such a horrible fright, and there +was a dread on me—a terror; what was it? tell me;” +and the boy turned towards Mr. Pryor, who thought +in a moment about Maxwell’s words—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He will never make old bones;” and it was true, +poor Harold!</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You were ill,” answered the Englishman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was not ill,” returned Harold, petulantly; “I +was as well as you are. I had neither ache nor pain; +only I was frightened: what frightened me?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You had been dreaming disagreeably.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I had not been dreaming at all—at least if I +had I do not remember anything about it. I was wide +awake in the time you could clap hands, and thinking +about death, about Eversbeg, and my father, and that +Kathie I used to hear them talking over when I was +a child, Maxwell’s sister. I have not got over it all +day. Do you think me a coward? I am not a coward; +only—only it would be very hard to die and never +see Connemara again.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It would, Harold; but I hope and believe you +will see Connemara many times before you die. And +promise me you will go (quietly by yourself, you know, +and without alarming your mother) to some good doctor +in Dublin, and tell him you are not very strong, and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>to give you a tonic. Promise me,” and Mr. Pryor +slipped a five-pound note into the boy’s hand, which +Harold looked at as well as tears would let him see it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“In the night,” he began again, “I made good resolutions—I +did, Mr. Pryor. I wish I could keep to +them; I wish I could quit drinking; I wish I could +quit vexing my mother. I’d like to be good. I think +it must be nice to feel good when one wakes like that +in the middle of the night.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>That was the note on which Harold’s sentences +began and ended. It was the common chord of his +conversation, until at last Mr. Pryor became really +anxious.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He would not get on this way if he were in good +health,” thought the barrister, and when he parted +with Harold he felt many misgivings as to whether +he ought not to go so far as Galway, at any rate, +with him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But there was an absurdity on the face of the thing +which could not fail to strike Mr. Pryor. “The boy +does not want to go to work,” he thought; “and if we +make too much of him he will never be good for anything.” +As for spirits, out of doors, Harold’s were at +fever-point!</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Put on your hat, man,” he said to Doyle, who, +happy as a lord, was standing flourishing an old white +apology for a hat in the middle of the High Street of +Duranmore. “I have often been drunk myself.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And good-bye, Kitty,” he called out to the barmaid +at the “Marsden Arms;” “see that you’re married against +I come back.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Good-bye, Maxwell,” he shouted to his cousin, +who was riding by on Trumpeter. “Take care of +<span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>Madcap; I may come down some day in the hunting +season, and ask you to let me have one more ride +on her.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And good-bye, Mr. Pryor,” he said last of all; +“try not to think about what I told you—it was +folly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Write to me what the doctor says, Harold,” +entreated his friend. “All right,” was the reply and +the car drove off.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Far as he could see, Harold kept waving first his +hat and then his handkerchief, and it was not until +the vehicle turned round the base of the mountain, on +the road to Cragantlet, and bore the boy off through +the land of a hundred lakes, that Mr. Pryor could +prevail on himself to retrace his way towards Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could not sleep for thinking of the lad; he +resolved to write to Brian concerning him, and he +worried himself almost into a fever over the matter, +while Harold was shouting out snatches of songs, and +pitching compliments to the pretty country girls as +they tripped so daintily over the grass by the wayside, +and telling stories, and plaguing the driver’s life out +to let him take the reins, and eating his supper in +Galway, and lying fast asleep in one of those huge +beds at the Railway Hotel in which Finn Macoul and +his whole family might find ample accommodation.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you believe me, sir,” said Harold, who travelled +second class, to a fat priest, his fellow-passenger in the +railway carriage the next morning as far as Athlone, +“I had to ring the bell to find myself; I went wandering +over the bed every time I woke trying to discover +where on earth I was;” and the priest took kindly to +the boy, and laughed at his light-hearted merriment, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>and all the way up to Dublin, Harold found some one +to talk to, some one to laugh with.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As he drove along the streets leading from Broadstone +Station to Carlisle Bridge, he chatted to the car-driver, +and was, as the man expressed it, “in great +heart entirely.” “Pull up at the first shop,” ordered +Mr. Harold, “where they sell cigars; I want some;” +and obedient to the command the man pulled up at +a shop in College Green, where Harold alighted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He picked over the cigars with the air of a connoisseur, +and, selecting three dozen of what he considered +the best, threw down a pound-note in payment. +He had changed Mr. Pryor’s gift in Galway, and this +pound-note was part of the proceeds.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must send out for silver, sir,” said the man behind +the counter, who had never taken his eyes off +Harold’s face (when Harold was not looking at him) +for a moment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“All right,” remarked Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Sorry to keep you so long waiting,” remarked the +shopkeeper, politely handing his customer a chair.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is of no consequence;” but Harold was kicking +his heels with impatience for all that.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Time went on. “I think,” said the lad, “they +must be quarrying that silver.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not at all,” said the shopkeeper; and at the +words his messenger re-entered the place, in company +with a policeman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is your prisoner,” remarked the cigar-dealer; +and the policeman laid his hand on Harold’s +shoulder.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Come along, young gentleman,” he said. “The +less fuss you make, the better.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>Advice which Harold followed by striking the +policeman right between the eyes, and then asking +what the devil he meant by his cursed impudence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is your cursed impudence, I think,” said the +shopkeeper, “coming here to change another of your +notes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I never set foot in your doors before, to my knowledge,” +answered Harold, amazed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, you have to mine, which is more to the +purpose,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you tell me what you all mean? Are you +all mad?” asked Harold, who began to feel that the +affair was getting serious.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then half a dozen people began talking at once, +and all Harold could make out as they dragged him +along the streets was—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Robbery of two thousand pounds—fifty pounds +reward—assaulting a constable in the discharge of his +duty—passing the stopped notes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But now look here, sir,” remarked Harold, to the +inspector. “I know no more what you are all talking +about than a baby in arms. That is my name and address; +and I have just come up from Galway, where I +have been staying at Durrow Park with Mr. Geoffry +Pryor.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are not bound to criminate yourself,” interposed +the inspector. “What you say after this caution +will be used in evidence against you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let it. I am trying to vindicate myself—though, +upon my conscience, I have not the remotest idea of +the nature of the crime with which you charge me. I +tell you what it is,” he added, “you have got the +wrong bird in crib; you must have mistaken me for +<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>somebody else; before God, I know nothing of any +two thousand pounds!” he added passionately. “I never +saw so much money together in all my life—I never +did!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you can persuade his worship of that, it will +be all the better for you,” was the incredulous reply; +and forthwith Harold was locked up, but not before he +sent this message to his mother:—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Tell her,” he said to a policeman, “that I am in +the station-house; I have not the remotest idea why. I +have done nothing. I cannot think what you have +brought me here for—unless you are all mad.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But though the police delivered this message with +tolerable accuracy, they persisted in hunting over all +his little possessions, trying to find some trace of the +missing money—of something to criminate the boy.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You see he is innocent, you see,” Mrs. Drewitt +kept saying, in her frantic sorrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, ma’am, we see,” answered the police; and all +through that long, long night Geraldine and her +mother kept repeating, as if to reassure their own faith, +“He is innocent! Harold could never have done a +thing like that!”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER IX.<br> <span class='c006'>An Unfortunate Likeness.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Next day Harold Drewitt was brought before Mr. +Boice, charged with having on the first of August, in +the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-four, +stolen two thousand pounds, the property of the Dundalk +and Drogheda Banking Company; when the following +evidence was produced:—</p> + +<p class='c012'>Jeremiah Kearns having been sworn, deposed, that +on the day in question he was an up passenger by the +five o’clock express train from Dundalk to Drogheda. +Had with him two thousand pounds in notes, and one +thousand pounds in gold and silver. The gold and +silver was packed in a wooden box hooped with iron; +the notes he carried in a black bag. Asked the guard +not to put any one in the carriage with him, and his +request was complied with, until the train arrived at +Dunleer, about eight miles from Drogheda. At that +station the guard said he would be obliged to give +him a fellow-passenger, but it was only a young gentleman +going on to Dublin. Seeing the prisoner, made +no objection, and they travelled on together to Drogheda, +where the witness got out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When he reached the Bank, he found he had lost +his bag; spoke to the car-driver about it, but the car-driver +was positive no bag had been among the luggage, +nothing but a portmanteau and the box. Telegraphed +at once to Dublin to search the carriages on the arrival +<span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>of the train in Amiens-street. Telegraphed also +that the guard would recollect witness’s fellow-passenger.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Telegraphed, and sent messages to all their branches, +stopping payment of the notes.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Several of the notes had been changed by Dublin +shopkeepers during the period which had elapsed between +the first and the fifteenth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had received a telegram from the inspector on the +previous evening, and identified the prisoner at the +police-station. He was dressed differently on the day +in question, and his hair was now a little longer, but +he had no hesitation in swearing to him as the youth +who had got in at Dunleer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Prisoner assisted him to lift the box out at Drogheda, +and made a remark to the effect that it must have +something of value inside. Witness did not suspect +such a respectable-looking lad, travelling first class, and +belonging apparently to the upper ranks, of stealing +his bag. He thought he, witness, had forgotten the +bag, and that if any other passengers got in between +Drogheda and Dublin, prisoner would be able to give +information concerning them. Had heard the description +given by several Dublin tradesmen of the person +who had changed the notes, and identified that description +as answering to his fellow-passenger and the prisoner +at the bar.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had no hesitation in declaring the two to be one +and the same person. Was confident he never mentioned +that he was carrying money with him; but thought the +guard made some joke about there being no fear of +that young gentleman robbing him. Was in the habit +<span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>of taking money from one bank to another; the guard +knew him perfectly well.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Peter Monaghan being sworn, stated, that on the +night in question he was acting as guard on the up +express train, which arrived at Dundalk at five minutes +to five o’clock. Recollected Mr. Kearns getting in at that +station, and requesting him, witness, to keep the compartment +he occupied empty if possible. Knew Mr. +Kearns well. At Dunleer there were an unusual number +of passengers waiting for the up train, and consequently +asked Mr. Kearns’ permission to put prisoner in the +same compartment. He was such a genteel-looking +young gentleman that he thought there could be no +objection. Believed he did make some remark to that +effect, but could not be just certain. At Drogheda +Mr. Kearns got out, and bade witness good-evening. +When witness collected the tickets prisoner was in the +train. When the express reached Dublin the station-master +told witness about the telegraphic message, and +they both asked the prisoner if Mr. Kearns had left a +bag in the carriage. Prisoner said, not to his knowledge—that +he had not noticed any article at all +when the gentleman got out at Drogheda. Had he +done so, he would have mentioned it to him, witness, +at Balbriggan. Several passengers got into the same +compartment at Balbriggan, and one lady who got in +at Drogheda travelled on to Malahide, where every +one in that particular carriage got out except the +prisoner. About a mile on the Dublin side of Malahide +a black bag was found next morning by a labourer +working on the line. It must have been thrown out +of the right-hand window of the carriage, as it lay +between the metals on the down line. He thought +<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>from the young gentleman’s manner that Mr. Kearns +must have taken the bag out of the train, and lost it +between the station and the Bank. Never suspected +the prisoner.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had identified him at the station-house the previous +evening, but should not have known him in the “wide-awake” +he wore. He had on a hat at Dunleer. A hat +was sent for and tried on. He was able to swear to +him then, though he had fallen away in flesh during +the fortnight.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Michael Brinny, tobacconist, was then sworn and +examined. Had a shop in College Green. Recollected +the first of August. Just as his shutters were being +put up on the evening of that day, prisoner came in, +and bought a pipe and some Cavendish tobacco. He +had not silver enough to pay for these articles, and +so he laid down a pound-note, out of which witness +returned him twelve and threepence change. Never +saw him before, and never saw him since, until the +previous afternoon, when he came to his shop again, +and purchased three dozen of cigars, offering a Bank +of Ireland one-pound note in payment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Witness made an excuse about having to send out +for change, and kept him in conversation till his assistant +fetched a policeman. Prisoner was very violent, +struck the policeman in the face, declared he did not +know what they were talking about, and gave a great +deal of trouble before he was removed to the station-house. +Knew him the moment he came into the shop, +though his hair had grown longer, and his face +thinner since he changed the first note. Thought he +tried to disguise his voice, and that he spoke with +<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>more of a West of Ireland accent than when he bought +the Cavendish.</p> + +<p class='c012'>John Garvan, Daniel Laharan, Thomas Molrhany, +and several other respectable shopkeepers identified the +prisoner as having made small purchases, and changed +notes at their establishments; while Barry Croggan, +who appeared with a great lump on his forehead, gave +an account of the assault committed on him by the +prisoner; and stated that, but for the assistance rendered +by Mr. Brinny and his shopman, he could not have +retained his prisoner until another policeman came to +help him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In answer to all these charges, Harold, having +been duly cautioned not to criminate himself, stated +that there must be some mistake; that he never was +at Drogheda in his life; that he knew nothing whatever +of the robbery, never having even heard of it till the +policeman told him about it the previous day. Very +earnestly Harold protested his innocence; he said he +had not gone out of Dublin the whole summer, except +for a week, the entire of which time he had spent +with Mr. Pryor, of Durrow Park. Being asked by the +magistrate if he could recollect where he was on the +first of August, he said he could not; but upon being +told what day of the week the first fell on, he declared +he had spent the whole of it in the company of Mr. +Francis Gyton, who could swear to the fact.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Being requested to send for Mr. Francis Gyton, he +said he did not know where that gentleman was; which +reply produced a malevolent chuckle from the “cloud +of witnesses,” and a statement from police constable +Croggan to the effect that prisoner was anything but +a respectable young gentleman, though he believed he +<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>had respectable friends. Many of Harold’s proceedings +were recounted for the magistrate’s edification; and +whilst every old sin, every mad prank, every boyish +folly was brought up in judgment against him, the lad +leaned forward and covered his face with his hands to +hide the tears of shame and mortification that he had +not strength enough to keep back.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had never been alone in any trouble before—never; +and now, in the hour of his bitterest trial, he +had not a soul to speak a word in his favour.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you give me time, sir,” he said at last, looking +up and addressing the magistrate, “I will be able to +prove I never was near the place; that it is all a +mistake—” and then he gave a cry of joy, for Brian, +who he thought was far away from Dublin, entered +the court at the moment, and offered to find bail to +any amount for his reappearance.</p> + +<p class='c012'>If he had not assaulted the officer, most probably +his brother’s application would have been listened to; +but as it was, the magistrate refused to entertain the +idea even for a moment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could not think of accepting bail in so serious +a case, he remarked, and remanded the prisoner.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am innocent, Brian. I know nothing about the +money. Don’t let them take me back there!” panted +out the poor lad in his terror and distress; but Brian +could do nothing except go to a solicitor and place the +case in his hands, write to Mr. Pryor, and send a +telegram to London begging that Mr. Gyton would, if +possible, come back to Dublin without delay.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then he went home, and it was the hardest day’s +work Brian Drewitt ever performed, facing his mother +without Harold. Poor lady! poor mother! though she +<span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>did not believe one word of the accusation they had +brought against her youngest born, still she wept till +she had no more tears left to shed at the thought of +her boy being in prison—of her darling being dragged +to the dock and tried like a common felon.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I did all I could,” said Brian, hoarsely. “I +offered to get bail, but they refused it. I was not +there time enough to get a solicitor for him, but I have +found one since. I have written to Mr. Pryor and +telegraphed for Mr. Gyton. Is there anything else you +would like tried? Is there anywhere else you would +like me to go? Tell me. You have nothing to do +but say what you would wish, and I will endeavour to +accomplish it, mother.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>It would not be possible in a whole volume to +describe the intense tenderness—the womanly compassion +Brian managed to put into that one word; and +as he spoke it Mrs. Drewitt went up to him and, without +speaking a sentence, flung her arms round his neck +and kissed him over and over again.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mother,” he said, “mother darling,” and he touched +her hair, which was growing grey, grey, and he kissed +her forehead, and he let her poor weary head lie on +his breast, but her plaint was still, “Harold, Harold, +my boy, my boy!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I could do no more, mother,” Brian repeated, +“and nobody can do anything more for a week yet. +Mr. Gyton will be over here by that time, and then +Harold is sure to be liberated at once.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Brian,” the dear fingers fidgeted with his neck-tie—with +the studs in his shirt, “Brian.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, mother.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>“Where did Harold get all the money he has lately +had to spend?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have given him some,” answered Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But not enough. I should fear not enough.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>In a moment Brian saw where the sting lay; in an +instant he perceived that though she would not believe, +still that she dreaded.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Make your mind easy,” he answered confidently. +“Wherever Harold had his money from, it was not got +dishonestly. There is some great mistake, but I could +stake my life he is as innocent as I am; whatever the +world may think, we must not turn against him—must +we?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She placed a hand on each shoulder, and looked +Brian full in the face.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are not saying that to comfort me?” she +asked. “You have no doubt yourself?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not the slightest.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You feel confident he was with Mr. Gyton?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know he was. At least, I remember your writing +to me on the evening of the first that Mr. Gyton had +passed that day through Dublin on his way to Durrow, +and that Harold had seen him off from the Broadstone +Station. Harold could not have been at Broadstone +and Drogheda on the same day; besides, he says he +never was at Drogheda in his life. And whatever his +faults may be, he is neither a thief nor a liar. Make +your mind easy. It is a case of mistaken identity; but +it is confoundedly hard lines for Harold to be locked +up instead of the fellow who really did steal the +notes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You think they were stolen then?” said Mrs. +Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>“They were certainly stolen, and by some one very +like Harold; but I have never seen anybody like Harold +in my life. It is a strange business, and we must wait +with patience for the mystery to be explained.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is not easy to have patience, Brian,” remarked +Mrs. Drewitt, and then she began crying again about +her boy—her poor delicate boy, while Brian thought +within himself that if the one-half he had heard during +the day concerning Harold’s mode of life were true, it +was no wonder he grew delicate, and pale, and thin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not home any night till well on in the small +hours, Mister Brian, as I am a living sinner,” remarked +Mary-of-all-work to him, “and dhrunk five nights out +of the six, and not at the office regular as he ought +be. I’m just telling <em>you</em>,” she finished, “for I wouldn’t +like that the misthress would hear anything of it. +Dear pity her poor sowl! She thinks the sun was +made to rise and set for him.” All of which was exceedingly +agreeable information for a young man to +hear who had his own way to make in the world, and +who had not found his path so far strewed at all with +roses.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Never mind,” he thought, as he flung himself +wearily on his bed, “it is all in the day’s work, we +shall find rest sometime.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Possibly, but the day occasionally proves very long, +and the rest is frequently delayed for an unreasonable +period. So Brian discovered, as the years went on, +bringing little repose with them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The Dublin papers were posted as regularly to +Kincorth as “The Times” to Durrow, and accordingly +Mr. Maxwell Drewitt had the pleasure of seeing his +cousin’s name figuring largely in a column headed,</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>“Robbery on the Dublin and Drogheda Railway. Arrest +of the Supposed Thief.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is the end of you, Master Harold, is it?” +remarked Maxwell, as he finished reading the report. +“I wish it had been Brian instead. Why, bless my +soul! he must have been caught the very day he returned +from Galway. I will go up to hear if he can +prove his alibi, though I dare swear it is a lie, and that +he was not with Gyton at all. He will very likely be +transported.” Having settled Harold’s affairs in which +summary fashion, Maxwell went about the house and +grounds in his usual manner, and slept soundly, not +knowing what the post was bringing to him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He got his missive while he sat at breakfast, and +opened it dreading no evil.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should like to see you at once,” he read. “Come +to Dublin immediately, if possible. It is important that +you should do so.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What can the fellow mean?” marvelled the owner +of Kincorth. “What on earth can he want?” Then +all in a moment he remembered the trial, and connected +the two things together.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My God!” he thought, “can he have been mixed +up in that? Have they mistaken the one for the +other?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He looked for the newspaper which he had put +aside in his desk, and spelled over every word of the +evidence. “Thinner—hair longer—more of a Connaught +accent—did not know him till he put on a +hat,” he repeated to himself, “and they have got that +other boy locked up for it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He put the paper away again, told his servant to +pack his portmanteau, and to order post-horses, “For +<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>I must catch the night mail from Galway to Dublin,” +he explained to the man, who did not seem to understand +things, while he invoked a hundred curses on the +head of his wife, who querulously remarked that he +was always going from home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And always likely to do till you are out of it,” +he answered, savagely. They had been living a more +wretched life than ever, lately, for Lady Emmeline had +unexpectedly turned restive, and refused to fall in +with her husband’s plans, as he had fondly hoped she +would.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Anything but that,” she said, firmly. “Anything +but another woman’s child;” and she relapsed into +hysterics whenever he ventured to approach the subject, +and adopting the mode of warfare most in favour with +her sex, of digging a moat round her citadel and filling +it with tears, rendered her position alike invulnerable +to threats and entreaties.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He might have known he had no chance of success +with her, and by holding his tongue have kept peace, +at any rate; but he preferred trying to compass his +end, and the result was a state of domestic warfare +which caused the servants to declare emphatically that +Kincorth was like hell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They never are but bickering and quarrelling, +and snapping at one another from morning till night,” +said Lady Emmeline’s maid to a select assemblage in +the servants’ hall. “It was only this morning I heard +master saying he could wait till she was dead; and +mistress answered she would live to spite him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was what marriage had done for Maxwell +Drewitt and for Lady Emmeline. He had paid his +price and got the article he coveted, and this was the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>result. No wonder he spent much of his time in Dublin; +no wonder his heart—for he had some human feelings, +some need for human affection—turned hopefully +towards his son, whom he meant to make a great +man of one day.</p> + +<p class='c012'>A great man! Alas! already his dream castle was +tottering to its foundation. It was to prop it up and +save it he hastened to Dublin, where the first person +he went to seek was a schoolmaster, grave and discreet, +who resided near that loveliest of all sea-bathing villages, +Bray.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Blosse,” began +Maxwell; he had travelled all night and looked haggard +and exhausted. “You wanted to speak to me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, Mr. Drewitt, particularly,” was the reply. +“I think we might take a walk if you are not tired. +I should like to say what I have got to say out of +doors.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let us go then,” and Maxwell put on his hat.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You will have some breakfast?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not any; I am ready to go if you are.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you not take a glass of wine?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“At this hour? no, thank you, Mr. Blosse; let us +go,” and he moved nervously towards the door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When they were once out into the open air, he +turned towards his companion inquiringly; but Mr. +Blosse said, “Not yet,” and they walked on—on to +the very top of Bray Head; where, unmindful of the +view, unmindful of everything in earth, or sea, or +heaven, Maxwell demanded what was the matter; what +Mr. Blosse had to say.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That trial, Mr. Drewitt—you know the trial I +mean?”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>“Yes,” Maxwell answered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is not the accused some relative of yours?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My first cousin—go on.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I take it for granted there must be some extraordinary +likeness between him and Arthur,” continued +Mr. Blosse.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not know why you should take anything of +the kind for granted, Mr. Blosse,” said Maxwell, stiffly. +“I really do not.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The youth who is in custody did not take that +money, Mr. Drewitt,” observed Mr. Blosse, “and Arthur +did; therefore I say some extraordinary likeness must +exist between them.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had been expecting this all along. He had +hoped for nothing different from the moment he opened +his letters the previous morning. He had faced the +question as he drove past the desolate lakes, under the +shadow of the lonely hills. He had not concealed the +probability of such an announcement greeting him on +his arrival at Bray; and yet now, when the blow did +fall, Maxwell felt it in every nerve of his body—in +every vein of his heart.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He did not know till then what hopes he had built +on the chance of what this handsome illegitimate flesh +of his flesh and blood of his blood might turn out. +He had not realized what dreams he had cherished +about him; how he had been turning year after year +more and more to this one thing which belonged to +him, which he called his own on earth, till, standing +on Bray Head, with the blue sea washing a far different +strand from that whereon he was accustomed to +gaze below him, with the clear sky above him, he +heard Mr. Blosse speak words that might have been +<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>read out of a death-warrant, judging by the effect they +produced.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For a long time Maxwell stood silent; for a long +time he remained staring down on the sea, while he +swallowed, drop by drop, the contents of that bitter +cup. Then when at last he could speak—when at +last his voice would answer to his will, he asked +Mr. Blosse to explain himself—to tell him all the +particulars.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Begin at the beginning,” said Maxwell, “and do +not stop till you get to the end.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He spent his holidays, as you know,” commenced +Mr. Blosse, “partly at Killarney, with you, and partly +with one of his schoolfellows, whose father has a property +near Carlow. He was to have returned here on +the first of August; but he never made his appearance +until the evening of the third, when he stated that he +had gone down with a friend to the North, and that +he had come back from Derry that day. I asked him +who his friend was? and he said an officer who was +going to be married to Grey’s sister. I knew Grey’s +sister was engaged to an officer, and so I never thought +of disbelieving his story at the time, though I have +since had reason to think he did not go to Derry at +all, but only to Carlingford, in company with some not +very desirable acquaintances.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go on,” interrupted Maxwell. “It is the last +part of the story I want to hear. What makes you +think Arthur——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is the culprit? I think so—because I found +the notes secreted in his bedroom. I noticed something +strange about him ever since his return, and +determined to watch his movements. I remarked that +<span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>he was perpetually making excuses to leave the library; +that he was always going upstairs; that——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go on!” entreated Maxwell. “I do not want to +know what you noticed; I want to know what you found.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I found there was a short piece of board loose in +his room, and that these notes were under it—or, +rather, not under it, but pushed far away to one side +below the sound boards. I should never have guessed +it but for his own over-anxiety. He could not rest +away from the packet; he was always fancying somebody +had discovered it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell tried hard to keep his hands off the man +who had dogged and watched and trapped his son; +and who now sat and told him—not without a certain +subdued triumph—how his sagacity had been +rewarded—his trouble repaid. He dug his nails into +his flesh, and looked at his clenched fists, with the +dark look of his wicked youth gathering deeper and +deeper about his eyes.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go on!” he repeated; and Mr. Blosse went on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I had heard of the robbery,” he said; “I had +listened to the story without any great interest, as one +does listen to such things, unless there is some circumstance +of special importance connected with them; +but when I saw the notes I taxed Arthur with the +theft, and he confessed all. How Mr. Kearns left the +bag behind him——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You can stop now,” Maxwell interrupted; “you +have told me all I care to hear. Now listen to me. +I know exactly all you would say, and I can guess +your questions without hearing one of them. First of +all, the money must be sent back to this precious +Drogheda Banking Company. Secondly, this boy—this +<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>Harold Drewitt—he must be cleared. He can +do that for himself, I know. Mr. Gyton did leave +Dublin for Galway on the first, and Harold was in his +company all the afternoon, at any rate. Thirdly, you +want Arthur out of your house, and you want no fuss, +because you think a fuss would damage you with the +parents of your other pupils. I will take Arthur away +with me; and last, but not least, you desire a pecuniary +acknowledgment from me—a suitable thank-offering +for the silence you have maintained, and will maintain, +on this subject. Is there anything which I have overlooked, +Mr. Blosse?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nothing. You are thoughtfulness itself,” was the +reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now, you can go back to your house and leave +me here for half an hour,” said Maxwell; “at the end +of that time I shall want to see Arthur.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But, Mr. Drewitt——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know my own business, sir, and shall transact +it after my own fashion,” interrupted the owner of +Kincorth, and he followed the retreating figure with +his eyes as it grew less and less in the distance—followed +it till it was mixed up among other figures, +and lost to view; then Maxwell himself descended +slowly to the shore, and walking along the beach, +which was bare and dry, the tide being out, he kicked +the pebbles before him just as he had done so many +years previously when he lounged home to Kincorth +by the edge of Duranmore Bay.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had been worsted, and a man like Maxwell +Drewitt does not bear such an indignity patiently. He +had longed to kick Mr. Blosse—to taunt him—to +dare him—to defy him; but he was afraid. Mr. +<span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>Blosse could transport the boy. He had father and +son in his power, and he only refrained from using +that power because he thought it might injure his reputation +as an instructor of the sons of the “nobility +and gentry” if it were known a felon had come out of +such an unexceptionable establishment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He has the ball,” reflected Maxwell, “and can +make what terms he chooses, damn him!” and at this +point Mr. Drewitt lit a fresh cigar, and walked on more +slowly and leisurely than ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He was thinking—thinking what to do with +Arthur. “I will take him to England,” he decided. +“I will put him under the care of some good clergyman, +if there is such a <em>rara avis</em> to be found. I will +try to reform him, for he is mine, and he is all I +have.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Oh! lonely and desolate, poor and unregarded. +There was something about the departure of that pair—of +that father and son, from under his roof which +touched even Mr. Blosse.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You may depend upon me, Mr. Drewitt, you may, +indeed,” were his parting words, and he spoke them +with a certain warmth of manner upon which Maxwell’s +reply fell like ice.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not doubt it, Mr. Blosse, for you know it will +be to your interest to remain true to me,” and having +uttered this pleasant speech, Maxwell turned his back +on Mr. Blosse, and telling the car-driver to take them +leisurely to Kingston, he and Arthur left Bray behind +them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell did not breathe freely until they reached +Holyhead, and were speeding along through the darkness +to Chester. He had never reproached his son—never +<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>spoken to him, in fact, on the subject, and he +did not mean to do so till they were safe in London. +The notes were in his possession; but he could do nothing +with them for the present.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Harold was still a prisoner, and “he must remain +a prisoner unless Mr. Gyton can prove a satisfactory +alibi,” thought Maxwell. “After all, he is out of +harm’s way where he is, which is more than could be +said if he were at large.” And so far Maxwell was +right, for Harold had nothing to do the whole day long +except form good resolutions, and vow, and declare, +and swear he would turn over a new leaf when once +he got out of his present scrape.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had been up again before the magistrate, but +his solicitor had procured another remand. Mr. Gyton +was in the south of France with his father, but he +would return to England immediately. Mr. Pryor +pledged himself to that, and in order to make assurance +doubly sure, started off in search of his nephew. Brian +grew dreadfully anxious as day after day passed over +and still brought no tidings of Mr. Gyton’s movements. +He began to feel on how slight a thread Harold’s +chance of escape was hanging. If anything happened +to Frank Gyton—if he were killed in a railway accident—if +he caught a fever and died—if he could +not swear to the date—if, like Mrs. Drewitt, Geraldine, +and Harold’s employers, he had attached no definite +memory to the day, or the hour, or the date, why, +then Harold would be convicted; without doubt he +would be convicted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And he never could live out his sentence,” thought +Brian, in despair, “and it would kill my mother; her +<span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>hair is getting quite white with this suspense, and that +certainly would kill her.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He was making some observation of the kind to +the solicitor who had undertaken Harold’s defence, +when a telegram arrived from Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Am in London,” ran the message; “shall be in +Dublin to-morrow morning.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hope he will,” said the lawyer; “for your +brother, remember, is to be brought up again on +Thursday, and nothing can save him but a miracle or +an alibi.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Which speech sounded anything rather than consolatory, +under the circumstances.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER X.<br> <span class='c006'>Hearing is not believing.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Thursday arrived, and Harold Drewitt was again +brought up on remand before the magistrate.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had been taken into custody on the 15th of +August, and it was now the middle of September; and +as he came into court, two or three people remarked +that the air had not seemed to agree with him—that +he evidently wanted a change. “Which he is not +likely to get to-day,” observed one policeman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“His witness is here, though, I am told,” was the +reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t care if fifty witnesses were here, they +could not bring him out clear,” answered the other, +oracularly; and, indeed, this was the general feeling +in the court. Everybody thought Harold had made a +mistake in not pleading guilty, and begging for mercy, +as it was his first offence, and the temptation had been +great.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In one way the policeman was right. Mr. Gyton +could clear him in law, but Mr. Gyton could never +wash him white in the estimation of the public; and +poor Harold appeared to feel this, as he looked round +the court, and saw every eye fastened on him, not +compassionately, but curiously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He never seemed to have courage <a id='t132'></a>except when he +glanced at Brian, who had been faithful to him through +all—faithful, as he had promised his father, on his +death-bed, that he would be to Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>There was the magistrate, severe and incredulous; +there were some of the directors of the Dundalk and +Drogheda Banking Company, eager for revenge; there +was Mr. Jeremiah Kearns; there were all the witnesses, +mentally checking off the depositions as they were read +aloud, and thinking how impossible it was any man +living could prove an alibi in the face of such overwhelming +evidence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>One or two fresh witnesses had been procured by +the bank from impossible regions of the earth: the lady +who got into the carriage at Drogheda; the passengers +who had travelled from Balbriggan to Malahide;—all +were there to swear to Harold’s identity with the +thief.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The lady was the only person who hesitated about +the matter. She could not swear to the prisoner being +her fellow-passenger. “He was very like him; but—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But what, my dear madam?” suggested the solicitor +for the prosecution; and the court waited for her +reply, while the lady still hesitated.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Pray tell us in what respect the prisoner is unlike?” +suggested the magistrate, insinuatingly; for the +lady was pretty, and his worship had eyes in his head.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a profound silence in the court, while +the witness turned and looked again at Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very imploringly he lifted his eyes to hers, and +perhaps that settled the matter.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I cannot swear to the prisoner being the young +gentleman with whom I travelled from Drogheda. He +is very like—but——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Pray proceed, we are all attention;” and the solicitor +for the prosecution struck an attitude while he +waited for the rest of the sentence.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>“The young gentleman I travelled with had a +slight suspicion of a moustache and beard coming,” said +the lady, desperately, “and——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>A roar of laughter, in which the magistrate himself +could not help joining, drowned the remainder of +her words.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You mean, I conclude, that the prisoner’s hirsute +appendages have not as yet made their appearance,” +suggested the magistrate.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He has likely been hungry where he was, and +ate them off,” remarked some one in the rear.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If I hear any more indecent interruptions,” said +his worship, “I will order the court to be cleared.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If ye’d have it cleaned,” observed the same voice; +whereupon the police made a dive into the crowd, and +seizing an old woman and a boy, hustled them outside +the door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Meantime the solicitor for the prosecution was asking +the witness, “if she did not think it possible she +was mistaken—that she had been thinking of some +one else?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Upon which the lady got cross and said, “She was +not mistaken, and that she was not thinking of any +one else;” and as nothing more could be made of her, +she was ordered to stand down.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The solicitor for the defence, when it came to his +turn, said very little about the business—as little as +he could help. He remarked, that it was clearly a +case of mistaken identity, and observed that the prisoner +had been in Dublin at the very hour when the +robbery was said to have been committed. In support +of which he produced Mr. Francis Gyton, whose +<span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>appearance made an impression both on the magistrate +and the court generally.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Francis Gyton being sworn, deposed, that he +was a son of Mr. Gyton, of the firm of Gyton, Lark, +Munday, Hatfield, & Co., Austinfriars, London.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He has got fathers enough,” remarked the former +speaker from among the crowd, and the police made a +fresh dive, and this time carried off in triumph a woman +who had an infant in her arms.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Gyton proceeded—Knew the prisoner Harold +Drewitt very well indeed; called at his mother’s house, +and subsequently at the office of his employers, on the +first of August last. Remembered the day, because he +left London on the evening of the thirty-first of July, +by the twenty-five minutes past eight express, and +crossed to Kingston by the night mail-packet. Was +only the one day in Dublin. Left the very evening of +his arrival for Galway. Slept in Galway at the Railway +Hotel, and proceeded the next day to Durrow +Park, near Duranmore, the residence of his uncle, Mr. +Henry Pryor. The prisoner dined with him and accompanied +him to the railway station.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Cross-examined.—Was certain he did not stop the +night at Chester. He had a glass of very bad sherry +there, and returned to the compartment he occupied +immediately. Was not left behind. Begged the solicitor +for the prosecution would recollect to whom he +was speaking. Had not the slightest idea whether it +was the Ulster, Munster, Leinster, or Connaught, he +came over in. If he, the solicitor, sent down to Kingston, +very probably he could find which of those steam-vessels +arrived at Kingston from Holyhead on the +morning of the first of August.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>Knew they had a good passage. Could not possibly +be mistaken as to Harold’s identity, Had been +acquainted with him too long for that. Was certain +he only remained in Dublin one day. Did he, the +lawyer, think he should forget his own name next? +Left Broadstone by the half-past seven train. There +was one gentleman in the compartment with him. Arrived +in Galway about twelve. Had some cold beef; +remembered it, because he had never seen such a joint +before, or since; and a glass of brandy and water. +Slept at the Railway Hotel. Could not recollect the +number of his room; but knew it had three windows +in it, and that all of them would open. Had never in +any other house in Ireland seen a window that would +open, or a door that would shut. Was not in love +with Ireland. The solicitor for the prosecution was +perfectly correct in that supposition; but came often to +Ireland to see his uncle. Had frequently been told it +was a fine country, but could not say of his own knowledge +that such was the fact.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Admitted that he liked English customs best. Did +not admire Irish peculiarities when they carried people +to the length of shooting landlords, and locking up an +innocent boy for a month, on suspicion of his having +stolen a black bag from a bank clerk. Would swear +fifty times, if the solicitor wished it, that the prisoner +could not have been at Drogheda, because he was at +Broadstone; and he, Mr. Gyton, supposed that even an +Irishman was unable to appear in two places at once. +Had kept none of his hotel bills; always tore up the +rubbish the moment he was outside the door; did not +consider that a proof of English extravagance, and +could not see, if it were, that it had anything to do +<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>with the matter in hand. Did not know whether the +prisoner led a respectable life or not, and was at a +loss to understand what his life signified to anybody +except Mr. Harold Drewitt, and Mr. Harold Drewitt’s +friends. Had come back from France solely for the +purpose of giving evidence in this case; would have +come from Jericho for that matter. Was quite certain +prisoner had dined with and accompanied him to the +Broadstone Station. Did not think it at all singular +that he could remember the name of a station while +he forgot the name of a boat. Most probably he had +never indeed heard the name of the steamer. Was +positive about the date. How much oftener was the +solicitor going to ask him that question?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Henry Pryor, sworn, stated that his nephew, the +last witness, arrived at his house on the second of +August, and told him he had parted with Harold +Drewitt at the Broadstone Terminus of the Midland +Great Western Railway on the preceding evening. +His nephew informed him (Mr. Pryor) that he had +asked Harold to come down to Connemara, and that +the boy would endeavour to get permission to do so. +Mr. Gyton was suddenly summoned back to London, +in consequence of the dangerous illness of his father, +with whom he subsequently proceeded abroad, and +consequently, when Harold Drewitt did arrive at +Durrow, Mr. Gyton had left that place. Was certain +his nephew arrived in Connemara on the second, and +that he said he had not slept in Dublin, but in Galway. +He had known Harold Drewitt for two years, and believed +him to be quite incapable of the crime laid to +his charge.</p> + +<p class='c012'>After which evidence, the solicitor for the defence +<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>intimated that he did not purpose calling any other +witness. It was, as he stated in the commencement, a +clear case of mistaken identity. From the first his +client had said he never travelled by the Belfast +Junction, or Dublin and Drogheda Railway, in his +life, and an alibi had now been unmistakably proved.</p> + +<p class='c012'>After a good deal of hesitation, his worship fell +into this view, and having remarked that Mr. Gyton’s +evidence was irreconcilable with the assumption of the +prisoner’s guilt, and that it appeared to be a most +singular case of mistaken identity, he said that the +prisoner must be discharged.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was, however, something in the magistrate’s +manner which seemed to imply “not guilty, but don’t +do it again;” for he assured Harold he had had a very +narrow escape, advised him for the future to lead a +more regular life, and began a lecture which the prisoner +cut short by saying—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I did not steal those notes, I know nothing about +them, who stole them, or whether they ever were +stolen. I never was at Drogheda in my life, nor at +Dundalk either. I never, to my recollection, entered +Mr. Brinny’s shop before the time I went in there for +those cigars, and if ever I chance to meet the person +who appears to be so like me, I will take the value +out of his bones for what he has made me suffer during +the past month.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>This indiscretion on the part of Harold was a perfect +godsend to the magistrate, who told him such +language was highly improper, remarked that he did +not seem duly grateful for his escape, and finally dismissed +him with a caution.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then the next case was called on, and Harold, to +<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>quote the newspaper reports, left the court with his +friends.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There is, perhaps, no way in which a person can +be acquitted which is so eminently unpleasant as for +an acquaintance to come forward and swear that on +such a day, and at such an hour, the accused was with +him in such a place.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Of course it is better to get off in this way rather +than not at all; but an alibi always sounds too like a +pretext to be perfectly satisfactory to the public; while +the released prisoner (if he be innocent) invariably +leaves the court with the comfortable idea either that +a score of people have been in league against him, or +else that there is some blackguard walking about the +world wearing his face, assuming his gait, speaking +with his voice, who may be committing fifty crimes +that will, in due time, be fathered on him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Harold Drewitt was not, however, old enough to +comprehend all that a man would have felt, had a +man stood in the boy’s shoes. He knew he had got +off, and it was impossible that he should understand +he had escaped being committed for trial by the merest +shave of the wheel of accident. Had he been with +any of his ordinary companions during the afternoon +in question, there can be no doubt but that the magistrate +would have pooh-poohed the evidence in the prisoner’s +favour, while probably the witnesses for the +defence might have got so worried and tormented as +to narrowly escape being committed for perjury.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Gyton and Mr. Pryor were not, however, people +whose testimony could be treated with disrespect. They +might be mistaken. In his heart the magistrate thought +they were; but still he had no choice but to act on +<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>their evidence and allow Harold to leave the court +with his friends; while many people remarked—that +the young fellow had been born under a lucky planet, +and that if he had been a poor boy he would have +been transported.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He would, as sure as God made little apples,” +observed one man, indignantly elbowing his way out +of the crowd; “for it’s meself knows the dacent chap +that was hung on half the ividence they brought +against this one. If he didn’t stole that money I’d be +very glad to know who did.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>That was the general feeling throughout Dublin; +but Harold knew nothing about the general feeling, +and only remembering that he was free once more, returned +home on a car laughing and amusing himself +as usual.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He mimicked the magistrate; he mimicked the +witnesses; he mimicked the policeman, and went rollicking +about the house in the wildest spirits imaginable.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He was as thin as a whipping-post and as pale as +a corpse; but he insisted that he was not ill, that his +mother should make herself happy about him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am not ill,” he said; “not a bit ill; all I want +is something to eat and to get out into the fresh air. +We shall have many a walk before the fine weather is +quite gone. There is a fortnight still left of September. +Am I to go back to the office or not?” he added, +looking towards Brian, who said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your place has been filled up.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Has it? A good job too. There was not one of +them came to speak a word for me, and none of the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>fellows sent me a line or a message, though they must +have known I did not do it—mustn’t they, mother?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, Harold.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We will go down for a day to Bray, and take a +car on to the Dargle, shall we, mother? I should like +that. I’d like to see the purple bloom of the heather +if it’s not quite gone off, and I love the sea down +there.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“May we go with you?” asked Mr. Pryor, and Mr. +Gyton at once followed suit, and voted that it would +be nice for them to make up several little parties and +go wherever Harold chose. There was an indescribable +tenderness in the manner of all towards the boy +who had been, as they knew, so hardly done by, and +who presently insisted on going as far as Sackville +Street, “Just to be sure I am free,” he laughed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As Brian had business to attend to, and Mr. Gyton +appeared a little loth to leave Geraldine, Mr. Pryor +offered to accompany Harold; and the pair accordingly +sallied forth and walked into Dublin, where the youth +at every turn met some one he knew, some one he +paused involuntarily to speak with.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But no one voluntarily spoke to him: a cold bow; +a nod; a how-d’ye-do; a reluctant shake hands. Harold +could not understand it, and at last appealed to Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Am I not innocent? It looks almost as though +they thought me guilty, does not it?” and he drew +closer to his companion, who told him—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not to trouble himself about it; that they would +learn better in time.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think,” remarked Harold, after another old acquaintance +had passed without taking the slightest +<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>notice of his salutation, “I think it is nearly time for +us to go home;” and, accordingly, they turned and +went back over Carlisle Bridge, and along Westmoreland +Street, and past College Green, and down Nassau +Street, and so on to the suburb where Mrs. Drewitt resided. +As they walked along Merrion Square a disreputable-looking +fellow came up and, accosting Harold, +shook him so heartily by the hand as to threaten dislocation +of his wrist.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Glad to see you out,” he said; “thought at one +time you were in Queer Street for life: when will you +be round our way?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t know,” answered Harold, nervously feeling +Mr. Pryor touch his arm warningly. “I am not +very well—that is, I have friends—that is, I am +going out of town.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, it’s about the best thing you can do till the +talk has blown over. It is a wicked world, and living’s +hard work. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who is that man, Harold?” Mr. Pryor asked a +little sternly, and his tone at once put Harold’s bristles +up.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He was a very respectable person—very indeed; +but had been unfortunate in business. His name was +Grinnell, and he lived some place up near Mountjoy +Square.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Does he really? I should have thought some +of those nice respectable streets in the neighbourhood +of St. Patrick’s would have been much more in his +way.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Of which speech Harold refused to take any +notice.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hope,” continued Mr. Pryor, “that you do not +<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>intend keeping up your acquaintance with him; you +are but just starting in life; you have been extricated +with considerable difficulty from a most awkward +position, And it behoves you, therefore, to be doubly +careful for the future in choosing your associates.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Still Harold made no answer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish you would promise not to have anything +more to do with people of that description: you will +ruin your own prospects, and break your mother’s +heart.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hang it!” interrupted Harold, “one must speak +to somebody, and he is the only fellow who has said +a civil word to me since I came out. You must see +for yourself that the ‘genteels’ have cut me; don’t you +now?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If they have, do you think you will mend matters +by taking up with all the riff-raff who come and +shake hands with you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You need not call them names if they are not +gentlemen,” suggested Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think I, or any one else who styled the person +from whom we have just parted an honest man would +be calling him very much out of his name.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I suppose I am not good enough for you, then?” +said Harold pausing.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nonsense, boy. I want to save you from the +consequences of your own want of firmness. You +believe in everybody who says a kind word to you, +and the result is you have made intimates and associates +of people with whom you ought never to have +exchanged a word. Do you not remember what the +police stated about the character of your companions—swindlers, +betting-men, drunkards, profligates, of +<span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>every description? If your mother had only heard the +one-half we have heard about you, Harold, she would +be more anxious about you than she is.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wonder you are not ashamed to be seen out +walking with me,” said the boy. “I am sure I am +not fit company for a rich swell like you. Had not +you better take the other side of the street?” added +Harold, who was by this time worked up to a pitch of +passionate fury. “We may meet somebody else who +will come between the wind and your nobility. Go +on; I will follow, if you like; it cannot be pleasant for +you to feel that you are out walking with—with—a +blackguard and a thief!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t be an idiot, Harold;” and Mr. Pryor laid a +hand on the boy’s shoulder, and led him, or, rather, +pushed him, on towards home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’m not an idiot,” said Harold. “I know you all +think I am, and that I do not understand anything—that +I am a fool; but I am as wise as Brian, though I +may not be such an old-fashioned sneak; and I will +speak to whom I like, and go with whom I like, and +visit whom I like, without consulting anybody.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are resolved to be independent, at any rate,” +observed Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, I am. I mean to stick by the friends who +stick by me——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Would you think me impertinent if I ventured to +remind you, I and my nephew have tried to be your +friends?” said the barrister.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know you have; I know why, too; because +Maxwell told me something long ago. It is not because +you like me, it isn’t. Nobody likes me; and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>now you are going to set my mother against me, and +tell her every little thing I have ever done.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Having completed which dreadful picture, Harold +stopped again in the very middle of the pavement, and +seemed disposed to have a good cry on the spot.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a car passing at the moment, which Mr. +Pryor hailed. “You are tired, Harold,” he said; “you +have tried your strength too much. Jump up, and let +us drive home.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>When they reached home, Harold went off to bed; +but whether because he was sick, or whether he was +sulky, Mr. Pryor could not decide.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Next day, however, he saw clearly that the young +gentleman’s temper was greatly damaged; for he insisted, +against the advice of every one of his family, +on going to his late employers, and asking why they +had filled up his berth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish you would not do anything so foolish,” +Brian remarked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am not a child,” was the reply; “and I mean +to see to my own business for myself. I won’t be kept +in the dark by anybody.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And accordingly he went.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was the best thing that could have happened to +a youth of Harold’s peculiar disposition, to be able to +hear for himself what the world said of him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had been so pampered and spoiled at home, +that he was never likely to learn the truth there. +Strangers, however, did not stand on so much ceremony, +and when Harold grew impudent, gave him quite as +good as he brought.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know you have got off,” said one of his late +employers; “and I know how you have got off, also—by +<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>an alibi; for which I would not give that!” and he +threw a scrap of waste paper on the floor. “Of course, +I am sure Mr. Gyton would not have said what he did +unless he fully believed it to be the truth; but he was +mistaken, that is all; and a very lucky mistake it +turned out for you. I really wonder at your assurance +in coming here at all. As for taking you back, I +am only too glad to be rid of you; there is not another +house in Dublin who would have kept so idle, +useless, and disreputable a young vagabond for a +week.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Harold walked out of the inner office, and as he +passed through the outer looked defiantly at the clerks +he had once been intimate with: one or two nodded; +but none came forward to shake hands—to say they +were pleased at his escape.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He felt tired, but he had no heart to go home; he +had taken his own way, and his own way not having +proved a pleasant one, he did not like to go back and +confess to such a disappointment: accordingly he went +on—on along the North Wall, where his respectable +friend of the preceding evening dropped upon him, +and proposed that they should go out for a drive together: +“Round by the strawberry-beds, and on as far as +Lucan.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Harold jumped at the idea. “And we can have +some dinner together, and then spend the evening at +Birdley’s; there are to be a lot of fellows there. What +do you say? will ‘the old folks at home,’ be singing +all the evening, ‘Willie, we have missed you?’”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No,” answered Harold; “I’m your man.” And +while Mrs. Drewitt was marvelling what in the world +could have become of her boy, he was rattling through +<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>the Dublin streets, talking and laughing and joking, +as though he had never been in any trouble, as though +he had never been a prisoner in his life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Before evening came he was pretty well exhausted, +but still his companion insisted on taking him to Birdley’s, +where he was greeted by the assembled guests +with great enthusiasm; his health being drunk with all +the honours.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now tell us how you did it?” exclaimed one. +“How many of the flimsies did you manage to get off?” +asked another.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I suppose you have made a bonfire of the rest: +it would be no go trying to pass them now,” said a +third.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You must have made a tidy haul of it though, +altogether,” observed one unwholesome-looking young +man.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And how did you contrive to hoodwink those respectable +friends of yours, for I suppose they would +have been above sharing the swag.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Tell us all about it?” repeated the first speaker. +“Silence now, gentlemen, if you please. Mr. Harold +Drewitt rises to address the meeting.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I want to know something,” cried Harold, who +was indeed on his legs. “Do you really think I stole +those notes?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Draw it mild,” suggested the young man above +referred to; who looked very much as though he had +been buried and dug up again. “Stole is such a confoundedly +ugly way of putting it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you believe then I ever was at Drogheda? Do +you think I ever saw that money? Do you imagine +that all I said was lies?”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>“Well, very few people looked upon it as the +truth,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You consider me a thief, then, in plain words?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! no, nothing of the kind; you merely annexed +the contents of that carpet-bag——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I did not—I did not,” Harold vehemently interrupted. +“I know no more who took that money than +you do.” (Here the auditors winked at one another.) +“If I never should speak another word, I am as innocent +in this matter as any man among you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, then, who the devil is guilty?” asked the +chairman; “for no person in his senses can suppose all +those witnesses were in collusion against you. It must +have been you or your twin brother, if you have one.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you look closely at his face, it must strike you +as too old, too second-hand, if I may use the expression, +to have served only one body,” said Mr. Grinnell. +“Rely upon it there’s another trunk somewhere that +borrows that face and goes out with it at nights while +this good child is sleeping it its bed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Gentlemen,” began Harold.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We are all attention.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish you would believe me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Lord help the boy, we are so simple we could be +made believe anything,” said his neighbour.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I never saw that money. I never changed one of +those notes. Everybody is against me, though I am +innocent—innocent;” and Harold’s voice began to +shake a little and his lips to tremble.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Really this is becoming affecting,” remarked the +corpse-like young gentleman, addressing Mr. Grinnell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Allow me to perform a parent’s part,” said the +chairman, offering Harold a handkerchief.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span>But Harold’s temper was now up: he pitched the +handkerchief back at the speaker; he threw off his +coat, and declaring he would fight the matter out, +dared any one to say he was a liar, and requested the +company generally to “come on!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now, now,” said Mr. Grinnell; “now, now,” and +he walked round the table, and picked up Harold’s +coat, and begged him to put it on, and to sit down +and take things peaceably.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How can I take things peaceably when you are +all against me—all?” asked Harold, looking first at +one of his tormentors and then at another. “Are you +cowards, that none of you will come on, when I ask +you? Will you not even let me fight for my good +name? will you not——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Catch him, some of you,” cried the chairman, +and involuntarily every man sprang to his feet, and +stretched out his arms towards the boy, who, stopping +suddenly in his sentence, reeled back a few paces, and +then fell into the chair he had pushed away from him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Send for a doctor,” said one.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Give him some punch.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He’s had too much already.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, he hasn’t,” said Grinnell, “he has scarcely +tasted a drop.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Get him some water.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Stand back, stand back,” entreated Grinnell, “and +open the windows, some of you; it is not a common +faint though, he’s quite gone,” and he wiped the perspiration +from Harold’s face, and put the hair back off +his forehead, and took the clammy hands in his and +chafed them gently.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will take him home,” he said, when Harold recovered +<span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>a little. “Tell the waiter to call a car. Birdley +will lend me something warm to wrap round him. Are +you able to walk now, do you think?” he continued, +addressing Harold, “or shall I carry you? That is +right; take hold of my arm; don’t be afraid of leaning. +Now come with me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Good-night, gentlemen,” Harold said, turning +round and addressing the group that were looking after +him. “Likely I shall never see any of you again; but, +whether you believe it or not, I am innocent of what +you think.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He looks to me,” remarked the chairman after he +had left the room, “as though he were going precious +fast to that place where it’s best known what he is. It +is a pity, too, for he is a plucky lad;” and there ensued +a great silence, during which every man present was +employed wondering whether it were indeed within the +bounds of possibility that Harold had been mistaken +for some one else, who might be thinking at that very +moment how deucedly lucky it was for him that he +had escaped scot free.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XI.<br> <span class='c006'>Called Home.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>The September wind blew cold and keen as Mr. +Grinnell and Harold drove along the quays to Carlisle +Bridge, and the man that had so strongly excited Mr. +Pryor’s disapproval drew the borrowed rug closer round +the boy, who shivered and trembled as the blast swept by.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was better when they entered the south side; +there they were sheltered from the cutting wind, and +Harold grew quieter and calmer as the car bore him +nearer and nearer home. He asked Mr. Grinnell not +to drive up to the door, but to set him down at the +end of the street where his mother resided; and then +they had a quarrel as to which should pay the man, +that resulted in Harold, as usual, having it all his +own way.</p> + +<p class='c012'>On one point, however, Mr. Grinnell was firm—he +would not let the sick lad walk up the street alone, +neither would he allow him to throw aside Birdley’s +rug. “I will take it back with me,” he said. “I am +resolved to see you safe and sound to your own door.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Which he did, and then bidding Harold a cheery +“good-night,” left Harold as Brian admitted him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who was that came with you?” the elder brother +asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“A friend of mine, a man who brought me home. +I have been ill, Brian—I have indeed,” and Harold +dropped into a chair and put out his white thin hand +deprecatingly towards his brother.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>“I am going to be good,” he said. “I am. If you +all will only do what I ask you, I will never get drunk +again. I will try to be a credit to everybody belonging +to me yet. It is not too late, I think, is it?” and +with a gesture which was unspeakably touching, he +put Brian’s hand on the table, and laid his cheek +upon it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian had persuaded his mother and Geraldine to +go to bed. The servant, however, was still up, and +now stood in the doorway. She came to ask if anything +more were needed; but seeing Harold’s head bent +down and his brother leaning over him, she remained +silent.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian saw her and whispered the one word “Doctor.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>In a moment, Mary was running down the street, +and late though the hour was, returned in five minutes +with a surgeon.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My brother is not very well,” said Brian, after +the first greetings were over. “Can you suggest any +little thing that will set him to rights?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I would rather not see a doctor. I do not want +any medicine,” remarked Harold, lifting his head, and +looking with his great dark eyes straight in the face +of the surgeon who was feeling his pulse, and counting +its beats with the greatest apparent indifference. “I +am quite well,” he went on, pettishly, trying to wrench +away his wrist; and then he dropped his face again +on Brian’s hand, and his brother knew it was to hide +the hot tears, that were falling thick and fast as rain.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hysterical,” said the doctor, calmly; and Harold +gave Brian a push, as a hint that he should contradict +the medical statement.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>“His strength has been greatly tried lately, as most +probably you know,” answered the elder brother; and +his low, full voice had a great virtue of quietness in +it. “He has suffered much, both mentally and bodily; +but we hope rest and change may do wonders for him. +Don’t we, Harold?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The boy made no reply, but he pressed his lips on +Brian’s hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is this the young gentleman, then, who was +charged with a crime that some one else committed?” +asked the surgeon; and for those words Harold turned +round and thanked him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nobody would believe me, sir,” he said. “Nobody, +that is, out of my own home. But I did not do it. +I did not, indeed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That I am sure you did not!” answered the +surgeon, heartily; and immediately he and Harold +became good friends; and the boy, pushing back the +mass of black hair that had fallen forward over his +face, answered all the doctor’s questions, and told all +his symptoms, so far as he knew them himself.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is the nights I dread,” he finished. “If you +could only give me something to prevent my being so +frightened. It is horrible to be all alone in the dark, +like that;” and he clutched Brian’s hand, and held it +fast while he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why did you never tell any one of these attacks +before?” asked Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I told Mr. Pryor. The first of them I ever had +at night was the time I was staying at Durrow; and +he tipped me a five-pound note, and made me promise +him to go to some of the great guns here, and ask +them about it; and I meant to go, only, you know, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>they took me up the very day I came back—they +did.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Poor lad!” said the surgeon, compassionately.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was a poor lad, I think,” answered Harold. +“There’s nobody ever can know what it was—to be +like what I have been to-night, in that horrid place. +Another week of it would have killed me; I am sure +it would.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, we must try to set you up again now,” +observed the surgeon, cheerfully. “If your servant +can come with me,” he added, addressing Brian, “I +will send back some medicine with her, and see your +brother early to-morrow morning;” and he stretched +out his hand, which the two youths shook gratefully +and departed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You won’t leave me to-night, Brian, will you?” +pleaded Harold; and Brian was just saying that he +would not, when Mrs. Drewitt, who had got up and +dressed herself at the sound of a strange voice, came +down-stairs, asking what was the matter.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I did not feel up to the mark,” Harold answered; +“and that obstinate Brian must needs go disturb the +whole neighbourhood by fetching a doctor to see me. +What a shame it is to have roused you up! but now +that you are here, I want to ask you a favour. I want +you and Brian to do something for me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is it, dear?” She was sitting on a chair, +drawn close up to his; her arms were about him, and +his head was resting on her breast.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I want to go away. I want you to leave Dublin, +and take me where I shall not be known—where +I shall not be called a thief and a liar at every turn.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who dares call you either the one or the other?” +<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>and Brian’s hand clenched, and his mouth was drawn +tight as he asked the question.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Harold laughed out.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“Who killed Kildare? who dared Kildare to kill?—</div> + <div class='line in2'>I killed Kildare, and dare kill whom I will,”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c014'>he repeated. “He would go out and fight for me, I +do believe,” he said, turning to his mother; “but he +would have to fight all Dublin if he took up that +quarrel. I have found out to-day,” Harold went on, +as he kept curling and uncurling the broad strings of +the widow’s cap that fitted so closely to Mrs. Drewitt’s +face, “that there is no place like home, after all, and +that there are no people like our own people, when +they are true to us.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Come up to bed, Harold,” interposed Brian, who +dreaded another fit of weeping. “Come along;” and +he lifted his brother off his chair.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Wait a moment,” entreated Harold, standing with +his arm round Brian’s neck, and Brian’s arm supporting +him. “Wait a moment; will you do what I say? +Will you leave Dublin?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mrs. Drewitt’s glance wandered for a moment round +the room. It was not large; it was not well furnished; +but it had been a shelter, and it had seemed like +home. For the instant it appeared hard to have to +turn out once more into the world; to be in middle +age a wanderer on the face of the earth; but the feeling +only lasted for a moment; then she said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will do whatever may be best for my children, +and the child that has most need of me I must consider +first.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The last few words were addressed to Brian, who +answered—</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>“Harold has most need of you, mother. Do what he +asks. Leaving Ireland may be the making of him yet.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you wish to leave Ireland, Harold?” Mrs. +Drewitt inquired, and the boy nodded.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should like to go to London,” he said; “I want +to be lost; I want to be able to be a good boy. I am +tired and sick of being bad and foolish.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then God forbid we should keep you in the way +of temptation!” exclaimed Brian: “but now come to +bed; if you are to travel to London you must make +haste and get strong.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! I shall be all right enough,” answered the +lad as he crawled up the staircase, with Brian’s arm +still encircling him, with his right hand still twined +round Brian’s neck.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And thus it came to pass that, instead of going +to the Dargle, or to the Seven Churches, or to the +meeting of the waters, or any of the lovely places to +which Mr. Gyton had planned little excursions, the +Drewitts set about packing up their effects forthwith +and removing to London.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You can do as you please about it, of course,” +said the surgeon to Brian; “but——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is his fancy,” the elder brother answered; +“and I would not baulk it for any consideration. And +do not tell my mother, Mr. Ross; she will find it out +for herself in time. I know what you mean. I have +been afraid of it from the first.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And there was another person who knew also; +upon whom the feeling that he was dying came slowly +but surely; who day by day clung to his mother with +a more despairing attachment, with a more passionate +love.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>After they removed to London he and she were +never separate. In the dull winter days he sat at the +windows of their lodgings, looking out on the constantly-changing +panorama that was passing below. +For the sake of her boy, Mrs. Drewitt had rented +apartments in a house that commanded the view of a +crowded thoroughfare; and it was Harold’s delight to +sit from noon to dusk, and from dusk to nightfall, +watching the people passing and repassing, the endless +conveyances, the lights, the bustle, the noise, the excitement.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Hand clasped in hand, mother and son spent the +days thus together. It was a fearful winter, that of +1854–5, but Harold lived through it. The spring of +1855 was late, and the season ungenial; but Harold +lived to smell the violets which Geraldine bought for +him, and to see the primrose-roots hawked in baskets +about the streets.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a lovely summer, and Harold lived to take +many a drive and many a walk through the great +Babylon. He loved the parks—he liked to go +where there were hundreds and hundreds of people, and +not a face he knew among them save one, his mother’s; +while she—it was impossible for her not to know +that to Harold’s life there could be but one sequel—an +early death: and when at last, in the September +following their arrival in London, the heart that had +once throbbed so high with youth and hope and +courage was cold and quiet, Mrs. Drewitt, alone with +her dead, fell on her knees and thanked God that her +boy—her frail, erring, unfortunate boy—belonged +at last solely to Him and her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She made no mourning for her child, she raised no +<span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>cry of grievous lamentation, of unutterable woe, but +she lay through the night thinking of how he had +come home at last—home to the one sure shelter to +die in peace. The touch of his hand seemed never to +depart from her; she could not forget how day after +day he had pillowed his head on her bosom; she could +not shut her ears to the “mother—mother” that he +kept repeating towards the last if she left his side for +a moment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“God has been very good to me, Brian,” she said. +“He gave my boy back to me before he died, and I +am content.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>With some difficulty Brian at last found a resting-place +for Harold: not in one of the great cemeteries, +but in a quiet churchyard in one of the northern +suburbs, where the evening sun falls aslant over the +graves, where great trees throw a pleasant shade across +the grass, where the grey church-tower flings its shadow +over the tombs, where the bells ring out Sunday after +Sunday, where there is quiet without loneliness, rest +without desertion.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There Brian laid his brother down to sleep, himself +the solitary mourner.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor and Mr. Gyton were both out of town; +and in the vast city Brian Drewitt had no other +friend.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As he left the grave, his thoughts went back to +another funeral, at which he had been chief mourner +likewise: where, under the shadow of the mountains, +within sound of the sea, he had seen the mortal remains +of his father placed in the vault of the Drewitts.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He would have felt better satisfied had Harold slept +there likewise. He would have liked a train of mourners, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>and a procession such as had wound down the +avenue at Kincorth, and under the trees, and round +the bay, and over Duranmore Hill, and down into the +hollow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Each man has his special weakness, and this was +Brian’s. He had never felt so fully that they were +Drewitts of Kincorth no longer, as when he followed +his brother to the grave alone.</p> + +<p class='c012'>What did the words graven on his headstone, +“Harold Drewitt,” imply to the men and the women +who passed through that churchyard Sunday after +Sunday? Nothing. They only served to show that +there a stranger had laid him down to rest.</p> + +<p class='c012'>What guess could they make about how the nineteen +years of his young life had been spent? What +could they know of his story—his errors—his repentance—his +wrongs?</p> + +<p class='c012'>But as though it had been all contained in a single +page, Brian read the tale which was now finished over +again—over and over again.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could see the boy riding round and round the +meadows; he could see the proud glances which both +father and mother directed towards their youngest born; +he could see the daring imp taking his leaps, bearing +his tosses, laughing advice to scorn, and mocking at +all grave counsels. He could see him walking about +with Maxwell; looking defiantly across the dinner-table, +at the Headlands, at his more prudent brother, and +then draining off his bumper out of mere bravado. He +thought of him that night at Regan’s: he saw him disappear +through the darkness on Madcap; he remembered +his life in Dublin, and the great trial which had, so far +as any human being could see, saved his soul, while it +<span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>destroyed his life; and then—then there came the +days when Harold was tractable as a child—when +he clung to his mother—when he turned back home +to die.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The short story was finished—the tale told—the +book closed in this world for ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was with the life of Harold Drewitt “as it is with +a ship that passeth over the waves of the sea, which, +when it is gone by, the trace thereof cannot be found, +neither the pathway of the keel in the waves; or, as +when a bird hath flown through the air, there is no +token of the way to be found; or, as when an arrow is +shot at a mark, it parteth the air, which immediately +cometh together again.” He had “passed away like a +shadow, or as a post that hasteth by.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell Drewitt had been right. It was a young +body that Brian left, with an exceeding bitter and +sorrowful heart, to sleep in the grave until the Judgment-day.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XII.<br> <span class='c006'>Geraldine is Satisfied.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>In the lives of all men there come long pauses, +when the river of existence seems to flow on without a +ripple, when day succeeds to day without any event of +sufficient importance to be set down and chronicled occurring +in the even course of their experience.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Such a time was the year following Harold’s death +to Brian Drewitt. Though some changes had taken +place, they had come about so naturally that they +scarcely seemed changes to him. All perhaps he noticed +specially or cared for particularly was, that he +found it would take him a long time to grow rich, and +that during that time he was separated from revenge +and Maxwell and Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had he forgotten Kincorth, do you imagine? Had +trouble driven all thoughts of vengeance out of his +head? Had struggling with the world not tamed him, +experience not subdued him, time not softened him? +No, my reader. The object he had planned to work +for in Connemara he was working for still, and though +the end seemed no nearer of attainment, but further +off than ever, yet Brian Drewitt never withdrew his +eyes from it, but kept that distant goal in view by day +and night, in solitude and when he was mixing among +his fellows.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Long ago, I said a person had but to look in Brian +Drewitt’s face to know that he could wait through +<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>years. He was waiting through years now for the +end.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had been very fortunate in business; fortunate, +that is, considering his training and the age at which +he made his start in the world; but still Brian felt dissatisfied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It is not easy to be content with pounds when you +have been calculating thousands; it is difficult to work +for small pay when you desire to make money <em>ad +libitum</em> for the purpose of wiping out old scores; and +thus, though Brian was in the receipt of a hundred +and fifty pounds a year, he worked like a galley-slave +to make himself of more value to his employers, who +were now not the Dublin firm in whose establishment +he had made his first start in life, but the great London +house of Gyton, Lark, Munday, Hatfield and Company, +Austinfriars.</p> + +<p class='c012'>After his brother’s death he felt that he would like +to be nearer his mother than could possibly be the case +if he retained his situation in Dublin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for asking Mrs. Drewitt and Geraldine to return +there, to return to a country which was now so full of +painful associations, he felt that such a request would +be both foolish and unreasonable, and when Mr. Frank +Gyton proposed to him that he should take his chance +of the “governor’s temper,” at a salary of one hundred +and fifty, which was an advance of fifty on the pay +of the Dublin firm, Brian close with the offer on the +spot, and three months afterwards walked into the city +office as corresponding and foreign clerk.</p> + +<p class='c012'>That Mr. Gyton had a temper; that Mr. Munday had +a worse; that the managing clerk had a worse temper +than all his principals’ tempers put together, Brian was +<span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span>not long of finding out; but he had sense enough to +find out at the same time that if he did his work no +one could find fault with him; that if he kept his time, +held his tongue, did what he was told and refrained +from idling, nobody would meddle with him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had he been gay and light-hearted, like other lads; +had he been given to merriment, or to merry-making; +had he been sociable and lively, like Harold, with a +jeer or a joke for every one, probably he would never +have made way in the good graces of Mr. Gyton; but +as matters stood that gentleman took to him in due +time amazingly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Gyton, in the City, was a different man from +Mr. Gyton at the West-end. At the west he did not +seem to have much voice in any matter on which his +son and wife chanced to entertain a decided opinion; +but in the City he was an individual of many prejudices, +with old-fashioned ideas; who gave himself all +the airs of a millionaire; who was a martinet in Austinfriars, +and who liked to see old heads set on young +shoulders.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In this respect Brian suited him to a nicety. Brian +might have been a thousand years of age.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“A most discreet young man,” he remarked to Mr. +Munday; and Mr. Munday agreed that he was, but +ventured to observe that it was a pity he chanced to +be born on the wrong side of the channel.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“As for that, sir,” answered Mr. Gyton, drawing +himself up, and taking a pinch of snuff out of his box, +without offering any to Mr. Munday, “as for that, sir, +the Gytons have some Irish blood in their veins. My +grandfather married the niece of an Irish Earl, and my +father-in-law was Irish to the back-bone. Well trained, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>sir, and well bred, the Irish can run as well as the +best of us.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then I suppose it is quite true what I hear about +your son?” said Mr. Munday, a little maliciously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What about my son, sir?—what—what about +Frank?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is generally said that Mr. Drewitt has a very +charming sister——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And if he have a dozen sisters, Mr. Munday——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why, in that case, your son could have choice +enough.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Of course he could, and he can choose whom +he pleases, and he can marry whom he likes, without +consulting every idiot in London on the subject, I +suppose.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Certainly, Mr. Gyton, his own father not excepted, +we may conclude.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And then the partners had quite a quarrel; they +tried who could hit hardest, who could say the sharpest +things, and went on wrangling and snarling, until Mr. +Gyton, looking as red as a turkey-cock and as pompous +as a beadle, remarked, that he supposed his private +affairs might be regarded as separate from those of the +firm; and that he wished Mr. Munday would recollect +for the future that he had expressed such a wish; after +which observation, which was delivered in the tone of +a royal command, Mr. Gyton summoned Brian into his +private office, and began catechizing him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How long have you been with us, Drewitt?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Six months, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you like the business?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I like anything out of which money can be made,” +was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>“Anything honest, I suppose, you mean.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Anything honest and honourable,” agreed Brian. +“Anything that a gentleman may do, and still remain +one.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Humph! You call yourself a gentleman, then, do +you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian flushed scarlet, but had sense enough to +make no reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There—there—don’t be annoyed. I only asked +for information. I wanted to know more of you. An +employer ought to understand clearly the position in +life of a person holding your responsible office. Let me +see—how did you happen to come here?—who recommended +you?—with whom were you last?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian told him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And wasn’t there something about your father +cutting you out?—what was all that?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Once again, Brian gave him the information he +wanted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And which of your family have you with you in +London?” was the next question.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My mother and only sister,” answered the young +man.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dependent upon you, of course?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, sir; my mother has her settlement, which is +quite enough for all her wants,” Brian said, stiffly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hah! so much the better. Now just begin and +tell me your story right through—don’t keep anything +back—be frank with me, and I will be fair with you. +I am not asking out of idle curiosity—I am not, upon +my honour.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Thus exhorted, Brian told all—told everything, +even to Harold’s mishap; and during the course of the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>recital, Mr. Gyton senior indulged himself in many +pinches of snuff—in many hems, and haws, and God +bless me’s, and upon my soul’s.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was early summer, and Mr. Gyton was arrayed +in those wonderfully light trousers for which most City +magnates seem to have some kind of mania; he had +on a white waistcoat, displayed an imposing amount +of shirt-collar, wore a lightblue silk cravat, and was +shaved as clean as it was in the art of man to shave +a human chin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He always carried an immense white silk pocket-handkerchief +and an equally enormous bandana.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The bandana was now spread out over his knee, +like a flag laid over a railing, and he contemplated +the way in which his boots were blacked; while with +his plump legs well apart, and his stomach swelling out +under his white waistcoat, and his heavy guard-chain +strolling about over his chest, he sat and listened to +Brian, interrupting him only with the remarks I have +mentioned.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hah! poor lady—very sad—very sad indeed: +has Mrs. Gyton been to see her yet—eh?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Gyton was always fancying his wife was in +league with his son, and he put the question fully expecting +to hear that Mrs. Gyton and Mrs. Drewitt were +bosom friends.</p> + +<p class='c012'>No such thing however.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My brother took that affair I mentioned so much +to heart,” answered Brian, “and his health was so bad +from the time we left Ireland, that he could not bear +the sight of a stranger at all, and since his death my +mother has never recovered her spirits sufficiently to +care for visiting.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>“Wonderful—bless me—extraordinary!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We are so differently situated now,” began Brian, +who really did not know what else to say; but Mr. +Gyton interrupted him with the remark that he should +have thought—but of course everybody knew their +own business best (the millionaire was apt at times to +be ungrammatical)—a little friendly visiting would +have done Mrs. Drewitt good. “It’s not well to sit +moping,” went on the great man; “brooding over +sorrow only makes it worse; and we none of us can +live alone—at least, that is my experience. I am +sure when I was so ill, this time two years—let me +see, is it two years? yes, it must be pretty nearly two +years—the doctors told me I must speak to no one, +see no one, and think of nothing, for at least three +months.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They considered your case so serious?” suggested +Brian, imagining some observation was expected from +him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Serious? yes, indeed, it was serious; but their +prescription would have killed me. I might as well +have been put in my coffin at once, and so I told them. +I went abroad, certainly, but what did I do there? I +amused myself as much as possible. I saw everything +there was to be seen. I drove about, I ate foreign +kickshaws, I talked French (Brian thought he would +have given something to hear the French to which +Dives had treated the Parisians), and what was the +consequence?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>His clerk faintly hoped that he had come back +better.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Better! why you see me now. I have been better +since than I ever was in my life; and that’s what your +<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>mother ought to have, change and variety, instead of +mouching in the house all day. Mrs. Gyton shall call +upon her; yes, that she shall;” and Mr. Gyton having +uttered the last words as if in answer to an internal +protest against any such erratic proceedings, took a +pinch of snuff, blew his nose violently and looked +straight at Brian, who said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hope, sir, you will not think me rude and ungrateful, +but——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But what—what is it you have got to say?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think my mother would rather—that is, we +are so completely removed from the circle we——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Bless my soul! what ails the boy? he cannot finish +a single sentence!” exclaimed Mr. Gyton, pettishly. +“That is a shocking habit for any one to get into. +Out with it!” he finished, working himself up to a +pitch of desperation; “out with whatever you have got +to say.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am quite certain,” said Brian, steadily—so +steadily that Mr. Gyton never guessed what the effort +cost him—“that you would rather our house and +your house were kept completely separate, when I tell +you Mr. Francis Gyton once thought my sister very +pretty; as she is,” added Brian. “All things considered, +my mother decided it was best he should not see so +much of her, nor she of him. I hope I am not doing +wrong in telling you this, sir. We know exactly where +we stand, and we do not wish to push ourselves into +any house under false pretences;” and Mr. Brian drew +himself up to his full height, and looked the very incarnation +of pride and determination.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you mean to say my son was ever fond of +your sister?” asked Mr. Gyton, facing slowly round.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>“I believe he was. I do not think my mother +would ever have said it was best for him not to see +Geraldine, had there not been something of the kind—and +something definite, too.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The young dog!” remarked the parent.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should be sorry to say anything calculated to +annoy you, or to prejudice you against Mr. Francis. +But the matter is all settled now; and you will understand, +from what I have said, why I think my mother +would rather Mrs. Gyton did not call.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Thank you. It is always best to speak out fairly +and frankly, is not it? Now there is something else I +want to talk to you about. You have done your best, +I think, since you came to us?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have tried to do my best,” answered Brian, who +was in horror lest he was going to be dismissed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes; and those who try generally succeed, don’t +they?” said Mrs. Gyton, whose face seemed to Brian +to get redder every moment, while his shirt-collar became +more imposing. “I have been thinking of sending +you abroad, very shortly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you mean to any of the colonies?” asked +Brian, hurriedly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, no—only to France; it is rather a delicate +piece of business, and I want it managed cleverly. +If you conducted it to our satisfaction, I have no +doubt we should be able to raise your salary next +year.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are very kind to me, sir,” Brian said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not at all, not at all. I know what I am about. +Take care of what you do, and you may make your +way in the world yet. Now you can go; that is all I +wanted.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>But still Brian hesitated.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I can have no objection to your repeating to Mr. +Francis what has passed between us to-day; but at the +same time, sir, I almost wish you would not mention +the matter to him. It is all settled now; and——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes—yes—yes—yes,” exclaimed Mr. Gyton, +impatiently waving his hand; “I understand perfectly; +be satisfied, I shall not make any mischief;” and Mr. +Gyton rose from his chair as a hint that the interview +must be considered ended, while Brian went back to +his desk wondering greatly whither all his principal’s +questions had tended.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Mr. Gyton, he took an early opportunity of +seeing Mr. Pryor and asking him what kind of girl +that sister of Drewitt’s might be; which question Mr. +Pryor answered by inquiring why his brother-in-law +wanted to know.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Curiosity,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nonsense,” exclaimed Mr. Pryor; “you have heard +some of that chatter of Munday’s about Frank being +fond of her, as Frank was, for that matter; but do not +let it influence you against Brian; for though Munday +does not like him, you will never get a more faithful +nor trustworthy clerk.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But I want to hear about this girl. Have you +seen her?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Have I seen her?” repeated Mr. Pryor, with a +nervous laugh. “Have I seen you? Did not I see +them every day in Connemara before they ever left +Kincorth? Did not I tell you I was in the house when +her father died, and that I heard the will read over +too? Seen her! I should think I had.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you think Frank really was fond of her?”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>“How is it possible for me to answer such a question? +He was at one time never out of the house, and +he proposed for her. There, now the cat is out of the +bag. But he had not courage to ask your consent, and +Mrs. Drewitt would not allow the affair to go on without +your knowledge. Frank asked me about it, and said +he feared there was no chance of your approval; in +which opinion, knowing there was no money nor prospect +of any money, I agreed with him.” Mr. Pryor +was never weary of having a fling at his brother-in-law’s +money-bags.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And so Frank gave her up?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t think he did; I think he is waiting for an +opportunity to speak to you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Thereupon Mr. Gyton grew rampant: was he a +bear, was he a brute, was he a beast, that his own son +should be afraid to speak to him on such a subject? +“Hang it! sir,” he said, “was I rolling in money when +I married your sister?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No,” was the reply; “but then neither were you +dependent on your father for your support; and Frank +knows, as I know, that there are probably many young +ladies you would prefer to a girl without fortune, and +she an Irishwoman.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now I’ll tell you what it is, Geoffry,” and at this +point Mr. Gyton became almost purple in the face with +indignation, “I won’t have you or anybody settling +my affairs for me, and saying what I should like, +or what I should not. If you must know what I should +not like, it would be one of those Munday girls. I +wonder,” he went on, “that you, having just come into +such a handsome property, should not have offered to +make things square for Frank, and he your only near +<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>male relative. Not that I want the money; only I +wonder, when these Drewitts seem to be such <em>protégés</em> +of yours.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You need not wonder,” was the reply. “I may +marry yet, myself.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The deuce you may!” and Mr. Gyton surveyed +him with perplexed amazement. “Ho, ho! I am beginning +to see daylight, I think. Perhaps you are in +love with the girl yourself?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Perhaps I am;” and Geoffry Pryor, seeing that +his last chance of winning Geraldine was slipping +through his fingers, stood at bay. “Indeed,” he proceeded, +“there is no use in my making any pretence +about the matter. I did hope—I have hoped year +after year since I first knew her, that some day I +might be able to persuade her to become my wife. It +may seem to you a ridiculous rivalry,” added Mr. Pryor, +hastily; “but I think I should have been far the +honester lover of the two. Had I approved of Frank’s +conduct in the affair—had I thought it likely he +would make her happy—I love her so well, that—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You would have taken his part against me. I am +obliged to you, Geoffry.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“—That I would have done what I could to help +him and her, though I do not pretend to much Quixotism +either,” finished Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must see this young lady, who seems to have +turned all your heads,” remarked Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, then, listen to one word first. Frank has +treated her very badly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How dare you say such a thing of my son, sir?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I shall say what I please about my nephew,” retorted +Mr. Pryor, coolly. “And I repeat, Frank has +<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>treated her very badly. Now, do not you go and +treat her badly also. Make up your mind what your +intentions are in the matter, and see that Frank has +not changed his, and then do what you like; only +don’t let him keep beating about the bush as he has +been doing, ever since he first saw her.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What relative is she to that Lady Emmeline +woman who stayed with us one spring?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Lady Emmeline’s husband and Miss Drewitt are +first cousins,” Mr. Pryor replied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Was that the fellow who got the estate?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The same.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Any chance at all of our clerk having it back +again?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not the slightest.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you going over to Ireland this year?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not know. No, I think not. I have some +intention of selling Durrow, and buying a place in +England.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How long have you taken that idea into your head?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not very long;” and Mr. Pryor returned his +brother-in-law’s stare unflinchingly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t take it to heart,” said Mr. Gyton, with a +certain kindness and sympathy in his manner; “don’t, +there’s a good fellow.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you don’t take it to heart, I am sure I need +not,” answered the barrister, bitterly; “I thought the +very mention of such a <em>mésalliance</em> would have driven +you out of your mind. The longer I live the less I +see one need expect any person to act as it might have +been supposed he would.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then you are sorry I do not altogether disapprove +of the business.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>“Do you think I am made of iron, that I should +be glad?” was the reply; but Mr. Pryor never afterwards +repeated this remark; on the contrary, when his +sister told him how Frank’s wandering habits and unsettled +mode of life had been a source of grief and +anxiety to both her and his father, how anxious they +were for their only son to be “settled,” and how thankful +for her part she felt that he had chosen that “dear, +sweet, pretty Geraldine, who was so fond of him,” the +barrister resigned himself to the inevitable, and began +marvelling whether he could ever look on Geraldine as +his niece.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He did not much think his nephew would make +any woman very happy; but still, they were both +young, and both in love; and, who knew but that it +was best as it was?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Geoffry Pryor could not say it was not best, though +it ended his dream, though it crushed out of his heart +the hope he had been cherishing for years.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I thought you would have liked Frank to marry +either rank or fortune,” he remarked to his sister.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“So we should, but Frank has never shown the +slightest predilection for either one or the other, and +really young men now-a-days do make such matches +that I am thankful he has chosen a lady by birth, and +one whom we need not be ashamed to present to any +person or in any place. There is young Munday—married +his sister’s maid! Mr. Lark has just had to +send his son abroad to keep him out of the way of +some most disreputable connexion. There is Lady +Ackington’s step-son run off with the governess—and +in short, my dear Geoffry—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“In short, my dear Maria, you think, with me, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>that Miss Drewitt will make almost too good a wife +for Frank.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think no such thing,” retorted Mrs. Gyton, indignantly; +“for a young lady in Miss Drewitt’s destitute +position to make such a capital match is remarkable; +and had Mr. Gyton not taken such a fancy to +her brother it never could have been brought about. +Of course we shall be glad to see Frank settled. He +has promised his father that he will really settle down +to business now, and take that position to which, as +the son of the head of the firm, he is entitled; and if +he does that I shall say meeting with Miss Drewitt +was the greatest blessing which could have befallen +him. But, at the same time, I must add, that had he +fancied Miss Ackington, or even one of the Miss Larks, +I should infinitely have preferred a connexion which +might have advanced his worldly interests as well as +insured his domestic happiness.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You really are getting eloquent, Maria.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is enough to make any one indignant to hear +the way you talk. A stranger would really go away +with the impression that Miss Drewitt had ten thousand +a year, and that she was conferring some honour on +Frank by accepting him, instead of being only too +glad to secure such a catch. Not but what,” continued +Mrs. Gyton, noticing an angry look in her brother’s +face; “not but what I will say, they behaved admirably +in the business, which proves that, though they +are poor, they have been educated in all the ideas of +the highest ranks.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What are the ideas of the highest ranks, Maria?” +inquired Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>“Not to take advantage—to act honourably—to +do as you would be done by, and so forth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Oh! indeed!” remarked her brother; “after that, +I think I may go home and propose to my housekeeper.” +But he did not go home, neither did he +propose to his housekeeper: he drove to the house in +Islington which Brian had taken for his mother after +Harold’s death, and found Geraldine alone in the +drawing-room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have come to wish you joy, dear,” he said; but +there was an unsteadiness in his voice as he spoke, +and the hand which held hers trembled a little. “I +hope you will be happy, and wealthy, and wise;” and +he tried to smile; which proved so futile an attempt, +that the tears came into Geraldine’s eyes as she looked +at him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was foolish once,” he went on, “and thought—Ah! +well, you know what I thought. But that is all +gone and past now, my child, and we will be good +friends for ever, won’t we?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She put her other hand on his shoulder and said, +“yes,” with a sob in her voice.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And if ever you are in any trouble or perplexity, +you will come to me as you would to—I am going +to be your uncle,” he added abruptly; “so what need +I say more?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will come,” she replied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And we will forget all the past. You will forget +I was ever silly enough to overlook the fact that +I was old enough to be your father; that the time +when I might have found favour in a young girl’s +eyes was in the summers before you were born.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span>“Don’t,” she pleaded; “don’t; I can’t bear it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He put the hair back from her forehead, he held +her away from him at arms’ length, he looked at her +sweet sorrowful face—looked at it as he knew he +might never look in her face, or in the face of any +other woman again, and then he took her to him and +kissed her, as he had longed to do that day when they +stood together on the hill above Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is not there a nursery rhyme, Geraldine, which +declares that some go up, and some go down? I feel +that I have been among the latter class; and yet, if +you are happy, my dear, I will make myself happy +too. It was a mistake; that is all; and in this world +it has often seemed to me we pay as dearly for our +mistakes as we do for our sins. You may think it a +strange fancy, child. I am not going away from London; +at least, I am only going to Durrow for a month, +and I hope often to see you when I come back; constantly, +indeed, after a time: yet still, I want to say +good-bye; that was the chief word I came to speak to +you to-day.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She knew what he meant; knew that it was not +to her he was bidding farewell, but to the dream that +had been so sweet and so exceeding beautiful. She +knew that from thenceforth he wanted her to forget, as +he intended to forget—that from that day forward, +she was to seem to him his nephew’s affianced wife, +nothing more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Nothing more. When he was standing on the cliffs +above Durrow it seemed to him that the sea kept repeating +that refrain eternally:</p> + +<p class='c012'>Nothing more—nothing—so long as the rain +fell, and the wind blew, nothing for ever!</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>But Geraldine was happy, and talked with her +mother of brighter days to come, when she should +have no anxiety about ways and means; no need to +pinch and save; no trouble, no sorrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And they will push Brian on, mamma, and he +will get, oh! so rich, and Frank wants him also to live +with us till he marries; so that you need have no hesitation +now about coming to us; and we will make you +so comfortable, mamma, and take every care from you, +and you shall be so happy—so happy!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Should she? After a talk like this Mrs. Drewitt +would go to her own room, and fall on her knees, and +pray that her son and daughter might somehow learn +the truth which she had not courage enough to tell +them—that the days were not very far off when she +should indeed have no more care, when she should be +very happy, but not in this world—ah! no, not here.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIII.<br> <span class='c006'>Country Gossip.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Mr. Pryor did not make a very long stay in Ireland. +He merely remained a sufficient length of time +to receive Mr. Connor’s numerous reports; to ride round +his property; to point out a few improvements he +wished made; to distribute much charity; to be blessed +with blessings that were beyond reason as they were +without stint; to drive out a few times; to renew his +acquaintance with the Durrow fishermen, and to hear +all the local news.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Considering that Mr. Connor had a whole year’s +budget to unfold, the amount of information was not +great, although it might be interesting. The gaugers +had been over several times, and the constabulary, too, +about the stills and the smugglers; “And one gauger +was not afraid to say,” went on Mr. Connor, “that if +you, sir, did your duty, there would soon not be a +still in Durrow; and about the smugglers, the coastguard +people declared I got share of the cargoes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We can both bear such remarks, I suppose, Mr. +Connor,” said Mr. Pryor, smiling.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They are wild about it, that is the thing, you +know, sir. Why, they do say that even Mr. Drewitt +has turned against the stills, and is hunting them off +his property there in the Joyce county. You would +not know Mr. Maxwell, sir, if you were to see him +now; he is all for law and order, and is making himself +<span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>perfectly detested by everybody, high and low. +He is abroad now, sir; travelling on the Continent +with a Mr. Campnell from Oxford, who they do say is +going to be his heir, and who, many people think, is +something nearer even than that; and Lady Emmeline +has left him—did you never hear of it, sir? She has +left him and is gone to live with Mr. Vervensoe and +his wife up at Cragantlet. The famine made a poor +man of him, rich though he was once; and they are +glad enough to have Lady Emmeline with them for +the sake of what she pays. They do say the life he +led that misguided woman, sir, lately was shocking—shocking. +I could not tell you half the stories that +are in everybody’s mouth about his wickedness, and +his cruelty; and it all began, that is, the cruelty, because +she refused to have this young man come to the +house as her nephew, or come to the house while she +was in it, in fact, at all.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“One cannot wonder at her doing so,” remarked +Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No; but I am told he did—that he said, as she +had no children, the least she could do was to let him +have one of his own in the house; and then she +threatened him—I could never rightly make out with +what; and then he struck her; and then she got worse, +and said she would leave him, and expose him; and +after that he begged her pardon, and talked to her for +more than an hour, and got somehow to the soft side +of her; so that she said, at last, if he would let her +go, and take what she brought with her, there might +be peace between them.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That could only have come through the servants,” +remarked Mr. Pryor, thoughtfully.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>“It came to me, most of it, from my brother-in-law; +but where he got it I cannot say.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And so Lady Emmeline is really gone?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir. I met her the other day out driving +with Mr. and Mrs. Vervensoe; and she looked ninety. +And, indeed, I was sorry to see her,” finished Mr. +Connor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wonder if Maxwell Drewitt was married before +he met with Lady Emmeline—secretly, I mean,” said +Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not a bit of it, sir; there never was a man less +in the marrying notion than that same Mr. Drewitt, if +all I have heard from Ryan about his young days is +true. And if you are thinking that he was married +first, and then married Lady Emmeline afterwards, +you may put that notion away altogether. He was +always far too wide-awake to get himself into any +mess of that kind. Have you been round by Kincorth, +sir? He is putting up the handsomest entrance +there is in this part of the country at all; and they do +tell me the house is like a palace, and that the gardens +are just a show. He has made a second avenue, +leading out on Calgillan Road; so that the drive now +goes right through the property. I heard say—but I +don’t know whether it was true or not—that some +young lady in England took a fancy to him, not knowing +he was married; and that when he came home, he +cursed and swore at Lady Emmeline for living too +long, and standing in his way.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think that story must be an invention,” answered +Mr. Pryor; “at least, I give my countrywomen +credit for more taste than that would imply they were +possessed of.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>“I don’t know,” said Mr. Connor; “I fancy there +is no way Mr. Drewitt cannot put on him when he +likes. I am sure he came over here one day wanting +gravel out of Durrow River, for his new avenue, and +you would have thought I was Prince Albert, at the +very least.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who is living at the Headlands, now?” asked Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“A Captain Crabbe, his name is; and awful work +he and Mr. Drewitt have about the place not being +kept in good order; and about the cows getting among +the plantations. I don’t wonder, myself, at Mr. Drewitt’s +being vexed to see the grounds—you remember +how he used to have them; and now they are as bad +as Cragantlet. He says he will never let it to anybody +again, unless an Englishman; and not to him, unless +he signs an agreement to keep the place as it +ought to be kept. He goes on dreadfully, though, +when anything puts him out. When you are going +along the Calgillan Road you can hear him cursing +his men half a mile off.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you suppose is the cause of his ill-temper?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Goodness knows, sir! He never had much of a +temper, and now it is worse than ever. Ryan says, he +thinks it must be that the devil he has inside him +wears away his patience, and that he is glad to break +out on anybody. There is one thing sure, he has been +worse since Mr. Harold died. My brother-in-law told +me he shut himself up for a whole day when the news +came over, and that no one durst go near him; and I +believe he sent to Galway, and telegraphed over to +Mr. Brian, would he like to bury him in Eversbeg. +<span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>But Mr. Brian wrote back, he would not be indebted +to him for enough ground even to lay a dog in, let +alone a brother.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What an unforgiving set they are!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir; and little though you might think it, +Mr. Archibald Drewitt was just the same in some +things. There was a man talking to me about him +only the other day, a poor fellow of the name of Byrne, +who was turned off one of Mr. Drewitt’s lots the time +you stood for Duranmore. He would vote for you, +and so Mr. Drewitt said he should go, and he got a +farm under Mr. Waller; but someway, nothing went +well with him, and then he took a place as labourer, +with Mr. Maxwell. He had always liked Mr. Drewitt, +for he had a kind, affable way with him, and a friendly +look and a pleasant word for tenant and labourer just +the same; and of course whenever he met Mr. Drewitt, +for a while he touched his hat to him, expecting that +Mr. Drewitt would give him time of day,<a id='r1'></a><a href='#f1' class='c015'><sup>[1]</sup></a> or say it +was fine weather for the crops; or perhaps, how are +the pigs? or is the wife getting better, Barney? But +Mr. Drewitt never took the least notice of him, no +more than if he hadn’t been speaking to him every +week for the previous ten years. As you may suppose, +Barney quit touching his hat; but he said that +about two months before Mr. Drewitt’s death, he saw +him creeping along the road, and that his mind misgave +him the master was not long for this world. So +he thought he would like to speak to him once before +he went, (the old fellow cried when he told me about +it), and he stood up close to the roadside of the footpath, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>so that Mr. Drewitt could not help seeing him; +and he touched his hat, after twenty years, to his old +landlord again, and says: “I was sorry to hear you +had been bad, sir; I hope your honour’s better.” Mr. +Drewitt looked him all over from head to foot, and the +man was ragged enough; so perhaps, he thought his +politics had not done much for him; but he never answered +him, no more than if he had been dirt under +his feet. Byrne never saw him after that, but he followed +his coffin and saw it put in Eversbeg Abbey. I +call a thing like that carrying hatred too far; but of +course I am no judge.”</p> + +<div class='footnote' id='f1'> +<p class='c012'><a href='#r1'>1</a>. Meaning good-morning, or good-evening.</p> +</div> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor walked on for a few steps in silence, +slowly, thinking of all his agent had told him while +he walked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then he began showing Mr. Connor the alterations +he desired to have made, remarking at the same +time—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is very likely my nephew and Miss Geraldine +may pay you a visit next summer, and I should like +the place to look its best in honour of them.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are they going,” began Connor, considering in +what suitable form of words to clothe his question, +“are they going to make a match of it?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They are talking of doing so,” answered Mr. +Pryor, with a smile which he could not suppress.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am right glad to hear it, sir, if I may make so +free as to say so. If Miss Geraldine is half as well as +every one here wishes her, she will make him a good +wife, and he will be a good husband to her!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Thank you, Connor.” Mr. Pryor said this simply, +and as though he was thanking Connor for some compliment +paid to himself.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>“And you think they will come next summer, +sir?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hope so,” answered Mr. Pryor: but many things +happened before that next summer which the barrister +then had no idea the future could bring to +pass.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He went to call on Lady Emmeline ere he returned +to London, and found her what Connor had +described—an old withered woman, bent and aged, +but still rouged to the eyes, and dressed in the extreme +of the fashion.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am so glad to see you, Mr. Pryor,” she said, +entering the room with skirts so voluminous and crinoline +so extensive that it was some time before the barrister +could see which was woman and which steel and +silk and lace. “It was so kind of you to come, considering +all things, so very kind.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor ventured to think it was very kind of +her ladyship to say so.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is the truth, it is nothing but the truth; there +are not many who would come running after an old +woman like me, though there was a time—” and Lady +Emmeline stopped, and would have coloured had not +the rouge on her face rendered such a performance as +impossible as it was unnecessary. “Do you remember +the election at Duranmore, Mr. Pryor? Ah! who that +saw me then would ever have thought I could come to +this?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>When a woman’s case is beyond flattery it is +beyond consolation. Mr. Pryor felt this and held his +tongue.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You have heard, I suppose,” resumed Lady Emmeline, +after leaving a decent space for compliment +<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>had he chosen to fill it up, “that unfortunate circumstances +have compelled me to accept an asylum here. +Ah! dear; to think my husband should ever have +treated me as he has done: and I made him, Mr. +Pryor; it was my money made him; and I did once +think he was fond of me, I did indeed.” Poor Lady +Emmeline! there was no falsehood nor affectation about +those words; and although her tears might wear strange +channels down her cheeks, giving her a generally +wrung-out and draggled appearance about the face, +Mr. Pryor did not feel inclined even to smile, but +listened sympathetically while the neglected poetess +proceeded.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I often think of those sweet lines by Moore,” and +she repeated—</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“‘When first I met thee warm and true,</div> + <div class='line in2'>There shone such truth about thee,</div> + <div class='line'>And on thy lips such promise hung</div> + <div class='line in2'>I thought ’twere sin to doubt thee.’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c012'>“That was just my case, Mr. Pryor. I believed in him +implicitly. I thought he could say nothing but what +was good and true; that he was brave and honest. I +have found how much mistaken I was since those days. +But it is too late now for repentance, almost for regret;” +and she went on whispering, as was her wont, +the remainder of the lines—</p> + +<div class='lg-container-b c013'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“‘Go, deceiver, go—</div> + <div class='line in2'>The heart whose hopes could make it</div> + <div class='line'>Trust one so false, so low,</div> + <div class='line in2'>Deserved that thou shouldst break it.’</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<p class='c012'>“So false, so low,” she said, shaking her head sadly; +“aye, and so base and cruel, too.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Thinking to divert her attention, Mr. Pryor asked +<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>her when she had been last in London, and when she +intended paying it another visit, and in return got +more than he bargained for.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In the spring she hoped to go to London again, +but not till then, unless, indeed, dear Geraldine’s marriage +took place first, in which case she should make +a point of being present.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was so truly delighted to hear of the probability +of her settling so well,” went on Lady Emmeline. “At +one time, do you know, Mr. Pryor, we all thought you +were to be the fortunate man. Shows how wrongly +people may judge sometimes—even the cleverest +people.” Which was a back-handed blow at her +husband.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor winced—the wound was still green—but +the lady proceeded. “I was always very fond of +Geraldine—fonder than of either of her brothers—though +Brian was a gentlemanlike lad, and promised +to grow up handsome. I thought Geraldine took most +after her mother. I suppose she is greatly improved +in her appearance since she went to London?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The barrister paused for a moment before he answered. +He was thinking of the Geraldine who had +stood talking with him on the way to Durrow, and +wondering in what way Lady Emmeline could imagine +it possible for such a vision of loveliness to be improved.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She is thinner,” he said; that seemed the truest +and most unconcerned statement he could make, under +the circumstances; “but otherwise I do not think her +much altered.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ah! Well, that would be an improvement,” said +<span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>Lady Emmeline. “She was always a little too plump +for perfect elegance.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Opinions may differ on that point,” Mr. Pryor +would have answered, but he fortunately remembered +that Lady Emmeline, who had always prided herself +on her graceful figure and perfect elegance, was as +thin as a thread-paper.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He therefore contented himself with saying, that +when she came to London she would be able to judge +for herself; and shortly afterwards took his leave, though +earnestly entreated by Mrs. Vervensoe, <em>née</em> Munks, to +stop for dinner.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I had five hundred and sixty-one things I wanted +to ask you about,” said that energetic lady; “and I +had twice as many, I know, to tell you; but, however, +if you must go, why you must. It is treating us +very shabbily, though; and I do not know what Mr. +Vervensoe will say to me when he comes in, about +letting you go.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You should tell him, ‘a wilful man must have +his way,’ and then he can say nothing,” answered Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But, really now, is not it mean and shabby?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It would be, perhaps, if I could remain; but as I +cannot, you must exercise your charity, and think as +well of me as you can.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is no fear of our not thinking well of you. +Good-bye, then, if it must be good-bye. Give my love +to Geraldine, and tell her I shall expect a piece of the +wedding-cake; she had a bit of mine to dream on, I +know, when she was not three years old.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>With which pleasing reminiscence Mrs. Vervensoe +allowed their visitor to depart; and accordingly Mr. +<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>Pryor rode away from Cragantlet, which, though twenty +miles from Durrow, supposing Duranmore were taken +by the way, was not more than fifteen, if the traveller +turned up the lane leading past Regan’s, crossed the +Calgillan coach-road, and then kept straight on for the +ruins of Castle Cronach.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Under any circumstances it was a long ride, and a +lonely; and Mr. Pryor had got very weary of his own +thoughts before he reached the highway, with its +many turnings and windings, along which they had +trotted all four abreast the first day he ever beheld +Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had not gone a mile, however, past Castle +Cronach, when a new subject for thought presented +itself, in the shape of a jaunting-car, on which were +seated two gentlemen, one on each side, with the +driver occupying the position that of right belongs to +him, but which in Ireland he seems never to assume, +unless dire necessity compels his doing so.</p> + +<p class='c012'>One of the gentlemen was Maxwell Drewitt; the +other, a dark moustached youth, apparently not more +than two and twenty, though he had a beard that +might have been growing for a dozen years.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Campnell, I presume,” thought Mr. Pryor, as +the car pursued its way to Duranmore and he to +Durrow. “I wonder if he wears that mass of hair to +prevent any one tracing a likeness to his father; if it +be his father,” corrected the barrister.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Where could they be coming from, Connor?” he +asked during the course of the evening.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Most likely from Castlebar. It is nearer from +here to Castlebar than it is from Galway to here, and +a nicer country to pass through too. And so you saw +<span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>Mr. Campnell; and what kind of a looking young gentleman +is he, sir, if I may inquire?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is so covered with hair, it is almost impossible +to say what he is like. He has dark eyes, as +well as I could observe, and that is all I can tell you +about him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And he is only twenty-one, I hear.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was the rustling of a woman’s dress through +the hall, and Mr. Pryor, turning round sharply, +guessed that Mrs. Connor had been listening at the +open door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was nothing in their conversation that he +cared if all Ireland were cognizant of, yet the circumstance +gave him an uncomfortable impression, and made +him feel a little doubtful about Mrs. Connor’s entire +trustworthiness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>While she, poor Jenny! she stole out to a field at +the back of the house, where her children were playing +in the summer’s evening, and sitting down on the +grass, took the youngest to her heart, while she thought +about the boy she had borne in the times gone by; +whom she had never nursed on her knees; whom she +had never folded in her arms; whom she had been +forced to send away; whom she had never through the +years set eyes on; who would never be told the name +of his mother, but whom, she knew, was coming to +Kincorth that day, to be, if he lived, Kincorth’s +owner, when perhaps she and his father were both +dead.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIV.<br> <span class='c006'>What met Brian.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>A winter’s day in London, more especially when +that winter’s day happens to be raw, damp, drizzling +and foggy, is one, I think, of the most depressing +ordeals through which a human being can be called to +pass—a day when the streets are sloppy; when the +pavements are greasy; when the passing omnibuses are +full of wet men, and wetter women; when people poke +you in the eyes with their umbrellas; when more people +poke you in the ribs, and jostle you into the middle +of another set of people, who shove you back again +and probably anathematize you into the bargain; when +there is no business doing in shops, where the gas is +lighted, nor in offices, where the gas is lighted likewise; +when if you are out collecting money, nobody +will pay you; when if you owe any person any money, +everybody makes a point of boring you (in the gaslight), +and saying they felt sure of finding you within; +when the apples in the costermongers’ carts look damp +and dirty; when there is a dull yellow, leaden sky +above, and an atmosphere you can taste around you; +when London Bridge looks as much like water as the +Thames; when you do not feel as if there ever had +been any fine weather on earth; when you are quite +certain there will never be any fine weather again;—this, +I say, is the kind of day to try a man’s equanimity, +and to put his cheerfulness to the test.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>There was one man however who, having been set +down by an omnibus coming from the Borough at the +corner of Mansion House and Princes Streets, walked +along, careless of the weather, careless of the passers-by, +careless of the dull leaden sky, of the greasy pavements +and the sloppy horse-roads. He looked neither +to right nor left as he strode away after his business; +he was evidently thinking of something pleasant, carrying +his sunshine along with him, as some country-people +carry lanterns: that man was Brian Drewitt; +he had just come from Paris, and he was bound for +Austinfriars.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He wanted to see Mr. Gyton before he left the +City, and as it was getting on for three o’clock he +hurried his pace and dashed on towards Austinfriars +as though he were walking for a wager.</p> + +<p class='c012'>If you do not know Austinfriars, reader, you are +not acquainted with one of the queerest nooks that the +march of modern improvement and the heartlessness of +railway companies has left us. Before some new extension +gets its bill passed, I should recommend you +to go and see that curious spot, where, in 1253, says +Pennant, “was erected by Humphrey Bohun, Earl of +Hereford, the house of the Augustins, for friars eremites +of that order.” Until very recently, one of the oldest +churches in London (built before 1361) stood about +the centre of Austinfriars; the external walls still, I +believe, remain, but the interior was, unhappily, destroyed +by fire some few years since.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In it were laid great people: Edmund Guy de Meric, +who, it is stated, incited Richard <abbr title='the second'>II.</abbr> to the murder of +the Duke of Gloucester; Lucie, daughter of Barnaby, +Lord of Milan; the great Earl of Arundel, beheaded +<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>on Tower Hill, in 1397; the Earl of Oxford, who +suffered a similar fate in 1463; Edward Stafford, Duke +of Buckingham, in 1521; while, twenty-five years afterwards, +this church was filled with herrings, by order of +Henry <abbr title='the eighth'>VIII.</abbr>, who used Grey Friars, at the same period, +as a warehouse for wine.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There are fewer historical records of Austinfriars +than of almost any other spot about the City. In a +map of London, <span class='fss'>A. D.</span> 1563, the old house of the +Augustines is not even marked; yet some gleams of +the olden glory still lie here and there—in its out-of-the-way +courts—in its old-fashioned houses—under +the stones of its ancient church—for the +curious in such matters to note, as they pass by.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Some time, it may be, that I shall ask you, reader +who have so often before this, strayed with me into +world-forgotten corners—into silent and deserted +nooks—to turn aside from the bustle and din of the +City streets, and spend a few minutes with me in +Austinfriars; but that day must not be now, when +Brian Drewitt is hurrying along to catch the head +of the great house of Gyton, Lark, Munday, Hatfield, +and Company, before he takes his portly person westward.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very cheerfully, Brian Drewitt pursued his way. +He knew that he had accomplished the business on +which he was sent abroad satisfactorily.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He felt certain he should receive the praise of his +employers for the manner in which he had performed +his mission. It had been intimated to him more than +once, that in being sent abroad he was also being put +on his trial, and that if he stood the test of the negotiation +entrusted to him, his salary would be at once +<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>increased, and <a id='t202'></a>every facility afforded him for pushing +his way up to the very top of the tree.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When he reached the top, he had then his vague +designs of vengeance to gratify; but upon the lower +branches were hanging sweet home fruits, that Brian +longed to gather. He wanted to prevail on his mother +not to live with Geraldine; to live near, but not with +her; to have her all to himself, to provide with the +little luxuries that her delicate health required—that +it would he a pleasure and a pride to him to place +around her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>If she went with Geraldine, it would be Frank +Gyton, and not Brian Drewitt, whose money might +anticipate her wants, and outspeed her very wishes. +No one knew better than Brian how both he and she +had saved, and pinched, to pay the expenses attendant +on Harold’s trial—on their removal to London—on +his long sickness—on his early death. Even +Geraldine never fully understood all her mother had +denied herself, so that Harold might not suffer for lack +of anything he desired. And now, hungrily and +greedily, the son who did comprehend everything, +longed to have his mother, who had suffered so much, +all to himself, that he might make her life a happy +one at last, and render the evening of her days the +calmest, the brightest, the peacefulest portion of her +existence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There are some men who, from their youth upwards, +need to have something to love—something +upon which to pour out all their affection, all their +devotion. It may be father, brother, sister, mother, +child, that they gather into their heart, and keep +there: whatever the object may be, it is love they +<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>give, rather than love they receive. It is necessary to +their very existence to be planning, thinking, working, +for some one; and during the entire of his short life, +Brian Drewitt had been planning, thinking, working, +for others rather than himself.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could scarcely remember the time when the +love he felt for his mother was not a species of +idolatry. Instinctively, perhaps, even from childhood, +the stronger nature knew that the weaker had need of +it; and as years went by, and the child became a boy, +and the boy a man, this feeling grew stronger and +stronger, till at last Brian came to understand that +whatsoever his mother stood in need of, if it were in +the power of a human being to procure it, she should +have her wish gratified.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And at last he felt that it would soon be in his +power to make his mother’s life comfortable and happy, +and to free it from care. Comfortable and happy—did +I not say once before, that was not to be in this +world for ever?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Onwards he sped; eager, sanguine, triumphant. +Mr. Gyton, senior, was not gone; and with his snuffbox +on the table, with his bandana ready for use, with +his coat thrown well back, and his thumbs stuck in +the arm-holes of his superfine black cloth waistcoat, he +listened to Brian’s narration with every sign of approval +visible in his face.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When Brian had quite finished he said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We did not expect you home until to-morrow; +but now that you are here I believe my son has something +to say to you. Meantime, I may add that you +can draw your salary at the rate of two hundred and +fifty pounds per annum from to-morrow.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>Mr. Gyton had a way of uttering those two words +“per annum” which always seemed to give money its +true value in the listener’s ears; and accordingly, +Brian Drewitt thanked him very heartily for the advance, +and had just reached the middle of a neatly-turned +sentence when Mr. Gyton, junior, entered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t stand wasting your time here, Brian,” he +said; “but go home at once. There’s something up +there. Geraldine sent here this morning to know your +address, and telegraphed for you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is it?” Brian asked: he stretched out his one +hand and seized the table tightly as he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your mother is very ill, I believe; don’t turn so +white, Brian; it may be nothing to signify. I have +told them to get you a cab. Should you like me to +go with you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, thank you,” Brian answered; “no—no.” +Even then he wanted to have her all to himself, and +he blindly made his way out of Mr. Gyton’s presence-chamber, +and across the clerks’ office, and down the +stairs, and so out into the court, at the entrance to +which a hansom was waiting for him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Drive fast!” that was all he could say; but the +man obeyed his instructions literally. Up the City +Road, round by Duncan Terrace, out across the Lower +Road, and then up Upper Street, till they were close +to Canonbury Tower.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Set me down here,” Brian said, pushing up the +little trap-door, and the driver pulled up instantly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your fare?” was the next question; and Brian +counted him out a sum, which even the man’s conscience +pricked him for demanding, without a remonstrance, +but stupidly, and as though he were drunk.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>He never could tell what feeling possessed him to +stop the cab and walk quietly up the street where was +his home. He never knew how he got from the cab +to the door opposite his own door, where he paused +and looked across the way.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Every blind in the house was down.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He saw a gentleman coming out; a gentleman +whose carriage stood waiting for him to enter. Brian +crossed the street and asked him what was the matter.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“A poor lady has done with all suffering,” was the +reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mrs. Drewitt?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes; are you her son?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was too much, the reaction was too great; and +Brian would have fallen on the pavement, but that he +staggered by chance against the doctor’s brougham.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Come in,” said the doctor, “and I will go in with +you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I won’t,” answered Brian; and he turned and +walked back down the street, like one in a dream.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For hours and hours he walked about before he +could face the house again. With his clothes soaked +through, with his hair damp and wet, shivering with +the cold, heartbroken and miserable, Brian Drewitt at +last made up his mind to face the inevitable, and retraced +his steps towards home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was late in the evening when he approached the +door; the street-lamps had long been lighted; the shops +in Upper Street were all brilliantly illuminated as he +passed by; the pavements were crowded with people, +well-dressed, lively, happy, thoughtless; with women +going to make their purchases; with women only +curious to look through the windows at the goods displayed +<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>within; with men on their way from the City +to Holloway and Highbury; with the husbands, and +the brothers, and the lovers of the females, who were +going shopping, or window-gazing, with idlers and +loungers of all descriptions—amongst whom Brian +made his way, with a dull, stupid sorrow tearing at +his heart, with a conviction that he was going home +to meet something very dreadful—something that he +still doubted whether he should have strength of mind +to meet.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He lifted his hand to the knocker, and rapped +hesitatingly for admittance. When the servant opened +the door she put her apron to her eyes, and said, “Oh! +sir——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have heard,” Brian interrupted, sharp and stern, +and walked straight into the parlour.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There sat Geraldine—her eyes red with weeping, +her cheeks pale with watching. Mrs. Gyton was holding +one hand, and Frank the other, while a man +whom Brian had never seen before was standing with +his back to the fire, talking vehemently and positively.</p> + +<p class='c012'>At sight of Brian, he stopped short, and while +Geraldine, with a cry, ran towards her brother, he +stooped down and inquired of Mr. Gyton who the new +comer might be.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Her brother,” was the answer; and when Brian +came forward into the room, he found his hand clasped +in that of the stranger, who said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is a poor welcome home for you, this—but +we did all for her we could.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“May I ask your name?” Brian’s tone was as quiet +as though nothing unusual were lying in the house.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>“Murphy—at your service. It is many a year +since I saw you; and it is just the same time since I +saw your poor mother. God help her! she must have +gone through an awful lot of trouble. I can remember +her as young-looking as your sister is now, with her +hair as soft and dark every bit as yours, Miss; but +there is one comfort, she can feel no more sorrow +where she is gone: women’s heads are not turned grey +with grief there. Just let him be,” he whispered to +Francis Gyton. “You know he must feel it, so do not +try to get him to put on a face before you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian had sat down at the table and rested his +head on his hand. All at once he looked up, with +no dimness in his eye, with no hesitation in his +voice—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should like to see her,” he said; “may I go up +stairs?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Geraldine rose to go with him, but Mr. Murphy +gently pushed her aside.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“With your permission,” he observed, taking one +of the candles off the table, and he and Brian left the +room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Did you attend her?” Brian asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, I was only called in last night. She had a +very good doctor, though—very good. The whole +College of Surgeons could not have saved her, nor all +the physicians in London to the back of that.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It was sudden, I suppose?” Brian scarcely spoke +above a whisper, and he drew Mr. Murphy nervously +into the drawing-room, still evidently unwilling to look +upon the dead.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Towards the last, very; but these cases always +<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>are sudden. She must have known how it would end +for a considerable time past.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can you tell me if she had been long under treatment?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Twelve months, her doctor says; but your sister +never knew a syllable of what was the matter with her. +She does not appear to have told a living soul belonging +to her a word about her disease.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And was it incurable from the first?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Could money have kept her with us a little +longer? had anxiety any share in hastening her +death?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not know; I cannot tell. Anxiety always +aggravates sickness, as a rule; and money also, as a +rule, alleviates it; but in this particular case I cannot +say. I do not know how she has lived; I can only +guess how she must have suffered.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a moment’s silence; then Mr. Murphy +said, “Are you ready?” and Brian bent his head in +answer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The bed-chamber opened off the drawing-room with +folding-doors: as Mr. Murphy turned the handle of one +of these, Brian put his hand on the surgeon’s and held +it so tight that he could not shoot back the lock.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Shall we wait a while?” he asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No—no;” and Brian relaxed his grasp and put +up his right hand to his head, as though, fancying he +had on his hat, he was going to remove it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The bed was made, and unoccupied; there was a +fearful formality in the arrangement of the furniture; +something terrible in the prim, frigid neatness which +pervaded the apartment.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>There had been a space cleared in the centre, and +there on trestles stood the shell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Murphy laid his hand on the lid, and looked +inquiringly at his companion.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian nodded, and the surgeon pushed the lid +aside.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There she lay; there she slept the sleep that on +this side eternity knows no waking. She had been +tossed by the billows; she had been amid the waves; +she had been buffeted by the winds; she had been +beaten hither and thither by the world’s storms; she +had crossed the ocean of suffering; she had been out +in seas of trouble; she had felt the deeps go over her +head, and passed through torrents of tribulation—but +it was all over now—the voyage, the fear, the +struggle, the misery—for the Lord had taken her, +after much weariness, unto Himself to rest, and she +was at last brought by Him “unto the haven where +she would be.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There she lay, with the wrinkles smoothed out of +her face; with the lines care had written erased from +her forehead; with the beauty of her youth almost restored +to her—so unlike what she had been in her +later life, so different to what he could remember her, +that Brian Drewitt looked in Mr. Murphy’s face incredulously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is not my mother?” he said; and he drew +back a step.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is all you will ever again see for your mother +here,” was the reply, uttered slowly and thoughtfully.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian stooped over the coffin. Mr. Murphy always +believed he was listening to hear if she breathed; but +he was only touching her lips with his lips—only +<span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>silently whispering words of tenderness—of passionate +sorrow—that he had a vague feeling she might understand, +though she could never answer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Would you mind leaving me for a minute?” he +said, at last. “Would you go into the next room and +wait for me?—if you go down stairs some of them +will be coming up.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Without uttering a syllable, Mr. Murphy placed +the candle on the chimneypiece, and left Brian, closing +the folding-doors after him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The surgeon thought that very likely Brian wanted +to have a good cry unnoticed—unpitied. He had +seen as strong natures weeping in their agony and +despair. He knew the blow must have been heavy—the +wound sharp; and he knew, likewise, that at such +times sorrow must have its way in some form or other: +for all of which reasons, he left Brian willingly, and, +walking to one of the windows in the drawing-room, +lifted a corner of the blind and looked out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Had he been able to see what was passing in the +inner chamber, he would scarcely have remained contemplating +the wet street and the flickering gas-lamps +for so long.</p> + +<p class='c012'>At the head of his mother’s coffin Brian stood +erect; one arm was stretched out over the dead, and he +was swearing an oath, to himself, full of vengeance and +of hate. Beside her coffin he was pouring out imprecations +on all who had ever caused her misery—just +as Maxwell had said the peasants sat beside their desolate +hearths, cursing the men who had taken the +roofs off their heads, and left them without a shelter +from the storm.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There were no tears in Brian Drewitt’s eyes—there +<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>was no softness in Brian Drewitt’s heart. We +had best come out and close the door, and leaving him +alone; for the days were nigh at hand when he repented +him of his blasphemy—when he covered his +face, and acknowledged his sin, and bowed his head, +while that angel of the Lord,—which teaches unto +men all manner of good things—suffering—showed +him how God’s ways are not as man’s ways—how +they are eternally wise and eternally just, although, to +our short-sightedness, they may oftentimes seem indeed +inscrutable and past finding out.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XV.<br> <span class='c006'>Madcap’s last Leap.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>There was a great meet of the Duranmore foxhounds +at Kincorth, and on the lawn and about the +drive were hunters in abundance: gentlemen in scarlet +coats and buckskins by the dozen, grooms <em>ad libitum</em>, +and hangers-on past counting.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a clear, bright morning. Every man’s spirits +were of the highest; every man’s girths of the tightest; +everybody was expecting prime sport; and the breakfast +of which they had just partaken was one certainly +not calculated to damp their courage or to retard their +pace.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Wine had been drunk freely—conversation had +circulated more freely still. Mr. Maxwell Drewitt was +a good host, and knew how to make his guests comfortable; +and the absence of a lady of the house tended, +in the opinion of most present, to make the repast +pleasanter still. Mr. Drewitt was perhaps the gayest +of all present. He laughed, he joked, he talked, he +drank—not to excess—but certainly beyond his +wont; and he backed his mare, Madcap, to leap Durrow +River—if, as was most likely, the fox took that +course—better than the youngest hunter on the lawn. +“She is nine years old,” he said; “but I would not +change her for any other animal in my stable.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is a shame for you to be hunting her still,” +remarked Mr. Frost, who was Lady Marsden’s nephew.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>“It would be a shame for you to hunt her,” retorted +Maxwell; “for you ride, I suppose, thirteen stone +every pound of it; but I, who am a light weight, cannot +possibly distress her; and then she loves the +tally-ho! and the long swinging gallop after the hounds +as much as either of us.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>They had all risen from table by this time, and +were standing, some on the lawn, some in the hall, +some on the drive, making altogether a bright and +animated picture.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Nothing prettier indeed in its way can be imagined +than the scene at Kincorth that morning. Far below +lay Duranmore Bay, with its green islands shining like +emeralds in the beams of the midday sun. Although +it was winter, the morning had broken up clear and +bright and pleasant; the mountains were not enveloped +in mists; you could see over the country for miles and +miles; in the distance the Twelve Pins showed blue +and distinct against the sky, while for foreground the +looker-on had the lawn and trees and gardens of Kincorth; +steeds plunging and pawing; grooms running +hither and thither; the dogs kept in order by the +whipper-in, and red coats and buckskins and top-boots +appearing at every turn.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The fulness of life seemed to be in that place at +that moment; it was impossible to imagine sickness +prostrating one of those men, sorrow touching one of +their hearts, anguish wringing one of their souls.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The winter’s sun looked down upon the scene, +brightening and beautifying all it touched.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“One moment, Mr. Drewitt, if you please.” It was +Ryan, who spoke to his employer when Maxwell came +out to mount.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span>“Make haste, then.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I should like to see you alone.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What a fool you must be, Ryan, coming at this +time! I cannot leave my guests. Say what you have +got to say here, or else leave it to a more convenient +opportunity.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must speak to you in private. Lead your horse +up to that privet hedge, if you do not wish to come +into the house, for speak to you I must and will.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell looked at the man who uttered these +words, looked at him from head to foot, but Ryan never +flinched.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am in earnest,” he said; “and I am sober. Let +me speak to you; I will not keep you five minutes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Drewitt flung the reins to a groom.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hold her a second,” he said, and turned aside +with his lawyer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now, what excuse have you to make for intruding +upon me?” he fiercely demanded: “what do you mean +by coming up here at such a time?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have a letter from London this morning,” said +Ryan. “Mrs. Drewitt is dead.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How the devil does her death concern me?” asked +Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It concerns me,” answered Ryan. “There is her +son dead—here is she dead. Mr. Drewitt, I can’t +stand it. I won’t stand it any longer.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you mean? Do you think I killed +them?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, I do,” returned Ryan; “you and I between +us. I wish to God I had let old Neill do his worst! I +wish to the Lord I had been hung, drawn, and quartered, +before I ever was indebted to you for sixpence! +<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>But I won’t hold my tongue any longer. You promised +me to do well for Mrs. Drewitt and her children, and +this is the end of it—this!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ryan, you are drunk,” said his employer, putting +a curb upon his temper as he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If I am, it is on grief then,” was the reply. “Oh! +why did I ever put it in your power to beggar them—to +send them away from home, and friends, and all, +to die!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is a question you ought to be able to answer +for yourself without any difficulty,” sneered Maxwell +Drewitt; “and as for holding your tongue, or not holding +it, you can exercise your own discretion. I am +not in your power. You may try to ruin me if you +like, but you will only ruin yourself. You may say +you gave the later will to me, and added the codicil +to the former will yourself, at my dictation; but you +have only your own word; you have no proof, no corroborative +evidence. And look here, Ryan,” he added; +“so sure as you begin a game of that kind, I will have +you shut up in a mad-house for life. Poor fool! you +thought to frighten me, I suppose. Go home, man, go +home; I am not such a born idiot as to let any created +being have the whip-hand of me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But I have the whip-hand of you,” answered Ryan; +“and if you don’t do the thing that is right by that +woman’s children, by—I’ll use it. I am no fool either, +Maxwell Drewitt. Yes, for all your properties, you are +no more than Maxwell Drewitt to me now. And I knew +that that Campnell you are so taken on with is your +own son, and that it was he, not Harold Drewitt, who +should have stood in the dock. Ha! have I touched +you at last? Who is the fool now? Can nobody put +<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>two and two together, do you think, but yourself? I +won’t keep silence,” he went on passionately; “it was +only last night I was dreaming about Mrs. Drewitt, +and I thought she came to the foot of my bed and +said: ‘Ryan, you know all about that robbery; clear +my poor boy’s memory.’ And I believe she was there, +that is, her spirit. I am sure she came and parted the +curtains, and spoke just those very words to me; and +I will clear his memory, unless you give back Kincorth, +or Kincorth’s value, to him who has the best right +to it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They are waiting for me, and I must go,” said +Maxwell Drewitt, and his voice sounded so strange +and unnatural, that Ryan’s rage was quieted for the +moment. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you mean to do?” and Maxwell faced +round on him like a maniac.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I mean to go to London and tell Brian Drewitt +all,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You can tell nothing without criminating yourself,” +said Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know that.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you will tell him—about—tell him of +what you suspect, in short?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, everything. I swore long ago I would be +even with you one day; and I will be even with you +now.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you sure?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, I am;” and the pair drew back a step or +two from one another, and looked each in his enemy’s +face as they had done years before—years and years +previously, in that little cottage down by the sea.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t think you will,” began Maxwell, after he +<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>had stared for a moment full into Ryan’s eyes; “I +don’t think you will. You say Arthur Campnell is my +son, and you say right; but you have not said who +Arthur Campnell’s mother is. Can you guess?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, and do not want to guess. What can it signify +to me who she was?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you guess?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have told you I will not.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Shall I tell you her name?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you like.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you ask me to tell you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do not.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then I will tell you without your asking. Arthur +Campnell’s mother lives over at Durrow, and her husband’s +name is Connor. Now do your worst. The +man must get up very early in the morning who means +to play card against card with me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are the damndest villain, and the most +cursed liar!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Am I? Go and ask your sister if I lie.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will; and if I find you are lying, as I feel sure +you are—if I make sure you have thrown dirt on +her name to shield your son from disgrace, then, Maxwell +Drewitt, then the dogs pity your cries, for I +won’t. I swear I won’t!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But he spoke the last words to the air, for Mr. +Drewitt had already left him, and was walking rapidly +across the lawn to the spot where his horse stood.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In his heart he was cursing the hunt and the +guests, the sunshine and the breeze; and as he rode to +the piece of plantation on the side of Calgillan Hill, +where the underwood was thick and the fox hidden +away, he wished he had sent Ryan out of the country +<span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>long before, and that, let come or go what would, he +had not told him anything about Jenny, whom he had +betrayed and ruined and deserted in the years that +were now so very far behind him—in the years that +could return no more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You were right—he has made for Durrow,” said +Mr. Frost; and the words were scarcely out of his lips +before the hounds were off in full cry, and the horses +off after them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>On and away; galloping across the fields; leaping +the eternal stone fences; plunging through bogs; dashing +over the moorland—in the excitement of that mad +ride Maxwell forgot everything save the wild pleasure +which is caused by passing at the full top of a horse’s +speed through the air—forgot everything save the +pace at which Madcap was going, and the ease with +which she took her leaps.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now for the river!” he said, and as though +Madcap had heard his words, she laid back her ears, +and bounded on like a thing possessed, towards the +bank.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Age had not stiffened her limbs, nor crippled her +pace. There was not a horse in the field could keep +up with her save one, and that was a hunter belonging +to Captain Crabbe, and ridden by that gentleman’s +son, who, having been trying all the way to pass +Madcap, now shot by, almost touching the chesnut as +he did so, and eliciting a volley of oaths from Maxwell +for his awkwardness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Boring on the bit, Madcap tore along. All her +spirit was up, and she flew after Captain Crabbe’s +fleabitten old screw, as Maxwell had often contemptuously +called the horse, like the wind.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>Maxwell had his work cut out to hold her. It was +a beautiful piece of turf, smooth and level as a bowling-green. +There was no break, no pause, till they came +to the river, which ran broad and deep between two +steep and awkward banks away to the sea. Mr. Crabbe +was already close on the brink; but at that very moment, +when he thought he was going to beat the +chesnut for ever—when with a blow of his heel and +cut of his whip he was urging his horse to the leap, +the brute swerved suddenly round, and sticking its +plain ugly neck out straight before it, galloped back +as hard as it could go along the way it had come.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Crabbe, taken completely unawares by this +sudden manœuvre, had scarcely recovered himself from +the shock of the sudden baulk before there came a +tremendous crash.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell, tearing on for the leap himself, could not +get out of the way. He saw the collision coming, but +was powerless to avert it. He felt a shock just as +though a battering ram had come up against him; a +shock which lifted him right out of the saddle—lifted +him so high, that he could remember the reins being +jerked out of his hand; and then he came down flat, +with his back on the ground and his face to the sky; +in which position he lay while the whole field jumped +over him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Drewitt’s down—Drewitt’s dead!” was the shout; +but not a man could stop his horse to look after him +until Mr. Frost, who had not been going at quite so +furious a pace as the others, managed to pull up, and +dismount.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’m not dead,” Maxwell managed to say, “but +I’m badly hurt; don’t touch me. I didn’t try to move +<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>because I knew the horses would leap me, and that if +I stirred I should likely have my brains knocked out. +Let me lie quiet for a while; don’t stop for me, +go on.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But there were about half a dozen gathered about +him by this time who would not go on; who sent to +the nearest cabin and had a door taken off its hinges, +on which Maxwell, groaning with pain, was laid gently +and tenderly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The mare?” he said; but nobody answered him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The mare?” he repeated, and Mr. Frost asked—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Where is the chesnut? he wants to know.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She is all right,” answered some one.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are not telling me the truth?” Maxwell said, +turning his eyes on the speaker, for he was too much +shaken to move his head. “I want to know about the +mare.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, then, if you must know, poor old Madcap +has taken her last leap, and she died in taking it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The injured man made no answer; he closed his +eyes; whilst all the people around looked at one +another.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was not a person present who did not feel +grieved at Madcap’s end.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She had been to each of them almost as a friend—so +gallant, so fleet, so daring, so proud of herself, +and her small head, and her arched neck, and her +flowing mane, and her shining coat—so proud, so +petted, so dainty, so conceited, and so beautiful, that +Lord Marsden once said, “He thought there must be +a woman’s soul inside her, for that he had never seen +an animal give herself such airs and graces before.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Poor Chessy—poor Madcap! She had made on +<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>like the rest for her leap, and taken it—taken it at +the worst point she could have chosen. Missing her +footing on the other side, she fought desperately for a +moment to keep herself from slipping while she tried +to scramble up the bank. One man made a clutch at +her bridle, but missed it, fortunately, perhaps, for him; +for, with a scream almost such as a human being might +have uttered, she fell backwards into the river.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Flynn had always said she was as sensible as a +Christian, and those who saw that mad struggle for +life, who heard that sound which is never uttered by +a horse, save under the influence of some terrible pain, +or some frightful fear, thought that Madcap must have +had a kind of human comprehension of what the river’s +bed held for her—great blocks of granite, which cut +her all to bits; huge stones, against which she was +knocked all to pieces; and just enough water to float +her, lying on her side and kicking convulsively, down +the stream, which was dyed red with her blood.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Poor Madcap—poor beauty! She kept her head +up as long as she could, but soon her strength failed, +her neck sank below the surface, the water filled her +nostrils, and before many minutes it was all over.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She had,” as Maxwell’s informant truly said, +“taken her last leap, and died in taking it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And there’s not her like left in Ireland,” remarked +Flynn, who in the course of the afternoon dragged +her, stiff and stark, out of the river, at a curve half a +mile below where the accident happened, and then he +fell to sobbing over her like a child.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’ll hamstring that brute of Crabbe’s the first time +I get the chance,” he said to the grooms who came +with him; “a score of such ill-looking divils wouldn’t +<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>make one of her. Not but what we must all die some +day,” he concluded; “and I don’t know that I wouldn’t +as soon she had died that way as any other.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Maxwell, in the midst of his own pain, in +the midst of his own agony, he could not get the +thought of that dead animal out of his mind.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was not because he had ever cared for her, as +some men do care for their horses; it was not that her +wise, winning ways, her playful tricks, her never-failing +spirit had made him feel for her any real +affection; but he had been proud of her, vain of her. +She had been his, and she was the best mare in the +county; and above and beyond all this, there seemed +to Maxwell something more than mere accident about +the whole affair.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Like many men who are utterly irreligious, he was +superstitious; and, lying there with his eyes shut, his +mind was busy, piecing, in a kind of delirium, past, +present, and future into a connected whole.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He saw Brian bidding his farewell to that mare +the night he left Kincorth and went out into the world. +He saw Harold taking that desperate leap at the Headlands; +and he remembered, at the same time, that Harold +was dead. He had heard that morning of Mrs. Drewitt’s +death; he had been asked by Ryan to act justly +at last by his uncle’s living children—and he refused. +Ryan had threatened him; and he in return stabbed +the lawyer in his tenderest point.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had ridden out on Harold’s mare; and now +Madcap was dead, too; while he was being carried, +though he did not know it, straight as the mare who +bore him could go to Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The same thing, or worse, might have happened, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>no matter on what horse he had been mounted; but, as +the “wicked flee when no man pursueth,” so the +wicked likewise are apt to be superstitious about circumstances +to which better men would attach no importance; +and the fever, which was already upon him, +made Maxwell look at all things with a fearful and +troubled mind.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He thought of what Ryan had said about Mrs. +Drewitt; and he wondered if, when he was alone, she +would come and stand at the foot of his bed, too.</p> + +<p class='c012'>How many more times was Harold going to take +that hedge?—how often was his uncle’s head to drop +forward on Brian’s breast? He knew they were carrying +him to Kincorth; for he could see Kathleen standing +at the hall-door; and Jenny, too—Jenny, with a +child in her arms; he and she were wandering through +the glen. They could not get the cover of the will +opened—the seals would not break. They need not +mind—he could tell them what was in the codicil—he +had got Ryan to add it. Yes, and he could let them +into a secret about what would make ink look faded! +What was that? Was the house falling? He was going +up in the air—up—up—up; and then his mind +ceased to wander—for he fainted.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVI.<br> <span class='c006'>After long Years.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Ryan stood in the spot where Maxwell had left +him until the riders were all gone—until the last red +coat, the last groom, the last whipper-in, had disappeared +from view; then, like a man rousing him from +a dream, he moved slowly away, and took the hill-path +towards Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Most men have some sense of honour—some point +where, if you cut down deep enough, blood will spout +out; and a woman’s virtue was that sensitive place in +Timothy Ryan.</p> + +<p class='c012'>To him it seemed that a woman should be pure as +snow—that for her fame to be breathed on was for +it to be sullied. He had his own ideal of what the sex +should be: and that ideal was very lofty and very +beautiful. Pretty well he knew what men were; he +knew more of their bad than of their good, perhaps; +but women!</p> + +<p class='c012'>The angels were not purer or more holy than the +generality of women, in Ryan’s estimation; and one of +the women whom he had loved, honoured, and adored, +for many a year past, was his own sister, of whom +Maxwell had asserted such things as made his very +heart stand still.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But he did not believe it—he would not believe +it unless her own lips condemned her. While he +walked across the hills he kept saying this to himself, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>and then he would hurry on for a few steps, only again +to stop and linger—linger by the way.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He sat down on blocks of granite, and pulled the +grass and heather up by the roots, while he thought +the matter over, till he went almost mad.</p> + +<p class='c012'>His own life had not been peculiarly honest or +honourable. He had done many a dirty trick; he had +helped Maxwell Drewitt to serve many a man a mean +turn; he had not been scrupulous in the way of business; +he had lent a hand at forging the codicil; he +had given, or, rather, allowed Maxwell to take the +second will.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had not been at all nice as to what filth he +put his hand into, and he had not felt many qualms +of conscience in his life; but now, behold, there was a +spot on his sister’s robe, and he could not bear it; +could not endure to think she had deceived him and +her husband, and—and everybody, thought the poor +fellow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will not believe it,” he ended. “I will go on; +I will ask her about the matter, and then I will return +to Kincorth and cram his words down his lying throat +if there were a hundred people with him; for I will +not believe Jenny could be bad—I will not—I +will not.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was easy enough to say this—easy enough to +repeat the words over and over, over and over again—but, +alas! the more he repeated them the less he +believed them; the more surely conviction stole over +his heart that Jenny had once fallen from her high +estate; that Jenny was not pure, not innocent, not +what he had fondly imagined his sister, and Connor’s +<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>wife, and the mother of her children, to be—a woman +as much above fear as beyond reproach.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Onwards towards Durrow, with the mountains to +his right hand and the Atlantic to his left. But Ryan +never looked either to right or left; never looked, that +is, noticing the hills or the sea. His heart was full to +bursting. He had been a bad man, and an unscrupulous, +and now the hour of reckoning was at +hand. His health was ruined by drinking, his nerves +were shattered, he had been unhinged by hearing of +Mrs. Drewitt’s death, and now it seemed to him as +though sorrows were multiplying upon him, while he +paused at intervals, and asked himself—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What if it be true—what if he did not speak +falsely after all?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mrs. Connor was alone, and sitting at work in one +of the upper rooms, when her brother entered. He +was a frequent visitor, so Jenny did not attach any +importance to his coming till he had been seated for a +few minutes, when, noticing the anxious, troubled expression +of his face, she asked him what was the +matter, whether anything was amiss.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is a good deal amiss, Jenny, that I want +to talk with you about. Is Dennis out?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, he has gone to Duranmore, I think. What +is wrong, Timothy? Can I be of any use to you? Is +it money? Sure Dennis is always willing to lend to +you when he has it. What is wrong? Tell me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She had laid down her work, and was close beside +him. She was a woman who never could grow old—who +had such gentle, clinging ways, such loving, +winning manners, that she was always to Ryan the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>young sister, the sweet Jenny whom he had once +trembled might go off with Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Once! what was that dread to this?</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is not money, Jenny,” he answered. “I wish +to God it were! I have got many a thing to say to +you. Go back to your chair, dear, and sit down. Let +me see, where was I?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Going to tell me about this trouble that has come +to you,” she said. It never struck her it could be any +trouble relating to her; she had been safe for so long. +There were none alive that knew her secret who would +reveal it; through the years it had never oozed out, +and she did not imagine that after long years her sin +could be brought to her remembrance by any human +being.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have bad news, Jenny,” he began, after a moment’s +hesitation. She sat with her hands folded together +in her lap, her eyes fixed on his face, her lips +a little parted, and he felt he could not plunge into +<em>that</em> question without leading up to it in some indirect +manner. “I have bad news. Mrs. Drewitt is dead!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dead!” Mrs. Connor repeated, and the slight +colour faded out of her cheeks, and her eyes brimmed +full of tears. “I am very sorry to hear it. She was +a nice lady.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And hardly done by.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am afraid she was. My heart was sore for her +that night she came here after Mr. Drewitt’s funeral. +How did you hear about it, Timothy? did Mr. Brian +write to Mr. Maxwell?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Brian will never write to Mr. Maxwell, and +small blame to him for it. No, it was Mr. Murphy +wrote to me, whatever possessed him—Murphy that +<span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span>used to be with Sheen, I mean, who was so sweet on +you. He’s a great man now, I believe. Somebody +told me he was making two or three thousand a-year; +but maybe it is not true.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She did not stay long after Mr. Harold. I wonder +if it was the fretting killed her.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t know, I am sure—likely as not, for she +worshipped the ground he walked on. He was a fine +lad.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He was,” answered Jenny, simply; “but I was +fondest of Mr. Brian.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Did you ever see anybody Harold favoured?” asked +Ryan, suddenly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Never. Mr. Pryor always said he was the image +of his cousin. I never could see it, though.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Pryor was right; but there is another person +who is more like Harold than his cousin ever was; +that is, another person who must have been like Harold +when he was Harold’s age.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who is that?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mr. Campnell, the young gentleman who was at +Kincorth last autumn.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I never saw him.” But the colour came back +into her cheek, and her eyes drooped under the look +of eager, anxious inquiry her brother fixed upon +her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Say that again, Jenny; say you never saw him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I never saw him,” she repeated.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is it the truth you are telling me, or is it a lie?” +He rose in his suspense and misery, and stood directly +facing her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why should I tell you a lie about the matter?” +she asked. “What can Mr. Campnell be to me that +<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>I should fear to speak the truth? I never set eyes on +him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And yet Maxwell Drewitt told me, not two hours +ago, you were his mother?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The work she had taken up again dropped from +her fingers; she lifted her face to her brother’s with a +cry of helpless despair. Against any other testimony +she might have maintained her innocence; but it was +useless to attempt any further denial. Against him—false +first and last—false as cruel—deceitful as +relentless—there was no appeal.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You need not speak, Jenny,” he said; “you need +not rack your brain to think what other falsehood you +can coin to try and deceive me. I see it is all true. +Oh! Jenny, Jenny.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She did not say a word—she could not say a +word—she was so stunned, so confused, so wretched, +that she could do nothing but sit and wonder if the +misery of the past would all have to be endured over +again; if she had not suffered enough then, that this +fresh disgrace was come to her—that this blow had +been dealt to her by <em>him</em>.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I suppose this was the reason you would not marry +for so long. I suppose this was what made you refuse +offer after offer, and live on single till I’m sure I +thought you never were going to be a wife at all. But +though you deceived me, Jenny, I hope you did not +deceive him. I hope you never let any honest man +take you as you were, ignorantly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She put out her hands, and there came such a look +of horror into her white face as made Ryan turn round +to see what could have caused it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Behind him stood Connor, who, having heard the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>last part of his brother-in-law’s sentence, asked hoarsely +what they were talking about—what it all meant.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It means, I ought never to have married you, +Dennis,” she broke out passionately. “It means, I am +all he says, and worse. It means, that years, and +years, and years ago I sinned, and that now my sin +has found me out.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is it?” he repeated. “I do not understand +it at all. Are you both mad? What is it, Tim? Tell +me what she says.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She says she is not what we both took her to be,” +answered Ryan, bitterly. “She confesses—that—that +boy Maxwell Drewitt has ‘adopted’ is her son, +and his son, and their son.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And God knows, Dennis, that many a time I +would have given anything to have been able to tell +you this—that when you have been telling me how +happy—” the poor creature’s voice was choked with +sobs—“how happy you were, I felt my heart turn +cold, thinking about my fault. I did not want to +marry you, Dennis; you know I didn’t. And I have +been true and faithful to you since; and I was so +young, and I am the mother of your children, and +you have had every thought of my heart, and every +bit of my love, since ever you took me home. Won’t +you forgive, Dennis?—sure you couldn’t cast me +off?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>She stretched out her arms towards him, but he +made no step forward to take her to him. He averted +his face that he might not look at the woman who had +deceived him; who had lain in his bosom, and lived +with him through the years and borne him children, +knowing what she knew about herself all the time.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>“Dennis!” and she was going to fling herself at +his feet, but her brother prevented her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Connor,” he said, holding her back, and standing +resolutely between them, “I don’t ask you—I can’t +ask you to keep her. She has brought shame and disgrace +to both of us. She is no more to you now than +if she had never been your wife; but she is my own +sister just the same as ever; so I will e’en take her +with me;” and suiting the action to the word, Ryan +drew her arm within his and led her, spite of her +struggles and remonstrances towards the door.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was stern justice, stern and sharp, and Jenny +rebelled against it.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let me go back to him,” she said; “don’t try to +take me from him, Tim. He is not that hard—he +will listen to me, and forgive me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>They had reached the door by this time, and one +of her children, her youngest, came running along the +passage, calling out “Mammy—Mammy.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>At the words she fought to free herself, and succeeding, +caught the little fellow to her heart and covered +his face with kisses.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very resolutely, Ryan took the boy from her and +setting him down, said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Run away, Johnny, and play yourself; run away, +you have no mother now;” and he drew his sister’s +arm in his once more and walked on towards the head +of the staircase.</p> + +<p class='c012'>This time Jenny made no effort to free herself; no +struggle to return. With the full sense of her dishonour +brought home by that one solitary sentence, she +staggered forward, weeping bitter tears for her shame +and their disgrace.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>Weeping for a stain that the floods of Niagara +could not have washed away; for hearts broken; for +sin discovered; for confidence abused; for love betrayed!</p> + +<p class='c012'>So they descended the stairs together; she crying +audibly; he weeping tears not to be noticed of men, +but seen of God—tears not of brine from his eyes, +but of blood from his heart.</p> + +<p class='c012'>So, clasping her hand closer and tighter, he guided +her down step by step: he who had never forsaken her +in joy or in sorrow—who was true to her in bad +report as in good—who, reckless and unscrupulous +and unprincipled though he might be in most things—who, +fallen though he knew her to be, was her +faithful brother still.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Step by step they descended that broad staircase; +but when they reached the bottom, a hoarse voice called +after them to stop; and Connor, running down the flight, +laid his hand on Jenny’s shoulder.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Give me my wife!” he said; “she has been a +good wife to me, and you shall not take her from me. +Jenny, haven’t you loved me? haven’t you been true +to me since we came together? Only say that, and I +won’t mind the rest. I’ll try to forget it, Jenny—I’ll +think it was a bad dream. There—there—darling; +don’t fret. I was stunned like for the minute; +but I could not have let you go; no, I couldn’t, dear, +I couldn’t.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Her arms were about his neck; her head was resting +on his shoulder; her tears were falling like rain; +and she was striving to articulate some words of thankfulness +and blessing, when there was a trampling over +the ground outside of many horses’ hoofs, and of many +<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>men’s feet; then a loud knocking; and then followed a +scene of indescribable confusion.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It was nearer to bring him here than take him to +Kincorth. Shall we carry him upstairs? He is not +dead, though he is badly hurt. Who is it, d’ye say? +It is Mr. Drewitt; who else? He was thrown just on +the other side Durrow River; and the chesnut mare is +killed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“God help us!” exclaimed Connor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And we have sent for the doctor; and there’s a +heap of gentlemen outside there; and shall we take +him upstairs, or will you make him up a bed down +here? That would be best, if you could do it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Where is he hurt?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Sorra a one of me knows,” answered the man +addressed; “he groaned that bad at first, I am sure you +might have heard him up here; but he’s fainted now, +I think. Likely as not he won’t get over it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>By this time several of the gentlemen had alighted +and entered the house. From them Connor learned +the particulars of the accident.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The rest are gone after the fox,” said Mr. Frost; +“but I have have had enough hunting for to-day; and +so I think have my friends here. I never was more +upset in my life.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Whereupon Mr. Connor suggested that a little +whiskey might not be unacceptable; or “some wine,” +he added. “Mr. Pryor’s Madeira is very good, I’m +told.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let us have two or three bottles up, then. I +should like to hear the doctor’s opinion of Mr. Drewitt. +I have been thinking since, that we ought perhaps to +have taken him to Kincorth; for I suspect he won’t be +<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>able to move from here for many and many a day—unless, +indeed, he is moved away in his coffin.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, sir, we must only do our best for him, if +he does stay,” answered Connor, who could not, at +such a time, remember his own injuries, or nurse his +own anger.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Sickness, like death, is a great soother of human +passions; and Maxwell Drewitt’s state was for a long +time sufficiently critical to render it doubtful whether +he should ever leave Durrow again, except for his +grave.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Day followed day—week succeeded to week—and +month to month—but still Maxwell was unable +to leave his bed. What he thought of, as he lay there, +weak and faint and helpless, who can tell?—not +even Jenny could imagine—though, judging by the +words he let fall in his delirium, his reveries could +scarcely, during convalescence, have been pleasant.</p> + +<p class='c012'>All through that illness he was nursed and tended +by the people he had injured—by Ryan and Connor +and Jenny; and that he ever recovered sufficiently to +leave Durrow and return to Kincorth, was owing more +to their care and attention than to any other cause.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But Maxwell was not grateful for their kindness. +I think he hated them all bitterly for thus heaping +coals of fire upon his head. I believe he could have +struck Ryan when he told him how he had kept forwarding +money to Mr. Campnell, at that gentleman’s +request, without waiting for Mr. Drewitt’s recovery, or +troubling him on the subject till he should regain his +strength.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And in a letter I had from him the other day,” +proceeded the lawyer, “he says he wishes you would +<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>reconsider your decision and purchase him a commission, +as he should prefer a soldier’s life to any other.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If he choose a soldier’s life he must go as a private, +and never look for a shilling from me,” retorted +Mr. Drewitt. “The boy is a fool, and he must be +brought to his senses.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVII.<br> <span class='c006'>The Beginning of the End.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Once again the summer sun was shining over +Kincorth—brightly as on the day this story opened—and +under the shadow of the overarching trees +Maxwell Drewitt stood gazing up at the house just as +he had done twenty-five years previously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He was then three-and-twenty; he was now eight-and-forty: +he was then full of youth and health and +strength; he was now older than his age, a man stricken +and feeble, who might never have a vigorous body or +a sound constitution again. That fall, though it had +failed to kill, had yet injured him permanently. He +could know no more what it was to be free from ache +and pain, to care nothing about the weather, to be +insensible to fatigue, to have an iron frame, an indomitable +spirit.</p> + +<p class='c012'>A minute—less than a minute—had sufficed +to make him a perfect wreck; a worn, sickly man, +who, having formed no sweet home-ties for himself in +the days of his strength, was now, in the time of his +weakness, lonely and desolate.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Upon him the sunlight that streamed through the +branches of the trees fell brightly, as they had fallen +brightly, if you remember, five-and-twenty years before. +He was starting on life’s journey then; that +journey was nearly over now.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had planned then, he had hoped. The plans +<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>were now realities, the hopes certainties. He had +longed to possess, and Kincorth was his. He had determined +to be wealthy, and behold he had gold at his +command. He had resolved to make the name of +Drewitt notable, and the name of Drewitt had become +remarkable. He had declared he would make the +estate valuable, the property something to talk about, +and in the length and breadth of Connemara there +were not two lovelier places than Kincorth and Headlands. +He had made up his mind to have his revenge, +and uncle and aunt and youngest-born were all gone +to their graves, poor, and stricken, and sorrowful, while +Brian was a clerk in London—Brian, who ought to +have had Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>If success be happiness, Maxwell Drewitt should +have been a man without a care; but the best-mounted +horseman has as often that imp sitting behind him on +the crupper as the poorest man riding on the shaggiest +pony. Care, as a rule, indeed, loves high places, and +care never left Maxwell Drewitt’s side now by day or +night.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Care for his own life; care for the man who was +to come after him; care lest the winds of heaven might +blow upon his own cheek too roughly; lest Arthur, the +only thing he had on earth belonging to him, should +go hopelessly astray.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He was doing no good at college; he was spending +money as though he had an income of a thousand +pounds a week; he was wild, he was reckless, he was +intractable; and yet Maxwell, in his own fashion, loved +him, perhaps on the same principle that a prisoner +loves a rat; namely, because he had nothing else to +care for.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>And the youth knew this, and traded on it; winding +the man who had never been weak before round +his finger as easily as Maxwell had wound others in +the days gone by.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Of his son and of his health, Maxwell Drewitt was +thinking while he stood under the trees, looking up at +Kincorth. He felt that for him, life was over—life +with its purposes, its hopes, its successes; and occasionally +he could not help asking himself how it would +be when not only the life of work was over, but the +bare life—the living and breathing that would, he +knew, continue after every capacity for exertion, every +power of action had been taken from him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>House to house, acre to acre, property to property! +for this end—to be standing with the best part of +his existence—health—taken away from him; +thinking in solitude of that unknown world concerning +which the clergy preached continually; the secrets of +which not one of the departed had ever returned to +reveal.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The next world! There is a something very terrible +to a man like Maxwell Drewitt in the idea of +leaving all he has most enjoyed, most coveted, most +valued, and going away to the cold and silent grave. +He could not bear it; he shrank from the reality of +death; he turned away from the grim spectre; he fled +from the unwelcome thoughts that would intrude themselves +upon him. He could not bear to be alone; he +would have anybody to sit with him rather than remain +in solitude. He wished he had not quarrelled +with his wife, and made overtures of reconciliation to +her; but Lady Emmeline, now resident in London, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>refused his offers, and treated his advances with indifference +and coldness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could not get Ryan to come and chat with +him, and the evenings were frightful. He had no +strength to endure the racket of company, and it was +not likely that the men he knew would take pity on +an invalid, and bear with his temper in sickness as +they had borne with it in health.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The rector would have come; but Maxwell, after +one or two trials, abandoned that experiment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He thought of going away, but he did not know +where to go, and, besides, it was in his nature to cling +to his home and his country—to remain in the midst +of the scenery he knew so well rather than take up +his abode in the midst of a great city. He wished he +had some one to stay always with him, always to speak +to, always to have at his elbow, whom he could tell +to drive away that demon who always would persist +in reminding him that the days were passing—passing; +that there must come an hour when soul and body +would have to be parted—when time would be the +shadow, and eternity the substance.</p> + +<p class='c012'>If he had even Wilhelmina; but Wilhelmina and +her husband and her children had sailed a year before +for America. Susan was in the country—that is, in +England; but then he had always hated Susan, and he +had quarrelled fearfully with Captain, now Colonel, +Ellenham about her fortune. When that individual, +who had long been a widower, discovered that under +Mr. Drewitt’s will Susan was entitled to a small fortune, +he married her forthwith; and over the matter of +that fortune he and Maxwell had exchanged such +<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>letters as few people have inclination to send, or leisure +to pen.</p> + +<p class='c012'>No, he had not a soul excepting his son; and his +son would not consent to take up his abode permanently +in Connemara—not, at any rate, until he had +seen the world. He wanted to be an officer—he +would be an officer; his father must purchase him a +commission.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In his very last letter he repeated this statement, +and expressed a wish that a remittance might be forwarded +to him immediately.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I must stop the supplies,” Mr. Drewitt decided, +as he walked away from under the trees, and retraced +his steps towards the house slowly and painfully. “Yes, +I must stop the supplies; that will bring him to his +senses.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The next letter from his son announced that he +had gone to London, and begged again for money. In +reply, Maxwell referred him to his former letter, and +desired him to return home.</p> + +<p class='c012'>During the week, Arthur wrote once more, and +intimated that if “the needful,” as he called it, were +not forthcoming from Connemara, he must get it elsewhere, +and in some mode which might be disagreeable +to his father.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The tone of the correspondence was, by this time, +waxing warm, and accordingly Mr. Drewitt answered—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That for Arthur’s own sake, he hoped he would +get it honestly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>After that there came a lull; for a month there was +not a line from this unrepentant prodigal, and Maxwell +was getting most seriously anxious about his black +sheep, when one morning the post brought two pleasant +<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>pieces of intelligence to him at the same time: +news that his son had enlisted and that the mutiny in +India had broken out.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Arthur was very penitent, very submissive; he had +seen quite enough of soldiering to satisfy him. He +wanted to be bought off. If his father would but buy +him off, he would do everything he required. He would +settle in Connemara, and never ask to stir outside the +gates of Kincorth, unless his father permitted him to +do so. He would make it the study of his life to obey +and please his parent; he would thankfully accept any +conditions his father chose to impose. He confessed he +had been a bad son; that considering his birth, he had +not estimated Mr. Drewitt’s kindness at its proper value, +and he wound up by imploring his father to get him +out of the service somehow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have got into, perhaps, the very worst regiment +I could have done,” he finished, “and our colonel is +one of the most detestable men, they tell me, in the +whole of the British army. His name is Ellenham.</p> + +<div class='lg-container-r'> + <div class='linegroup'> + <div class='group'> + <div class='line'>“Your affectionate son.”</div> + </div> + </div> +</div> + +<hr class=“invisible”> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell dropped the letter on the carpet. Were +his troubles to have no end? Had he been prosperous +for so long only that the tide might turn at last, and +bring nothing but sorrow to him on its waves?</p> + +<p class='c012'>What had he done, that in middle life he should +be stricken down in the pride of his health and +strength?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Wherein did he now differ from the Maxwell of +former years—that everything he touched in those +days should have gone well with him—while nothing +that he now desired would come to pass—nothing?</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>In a moment he had grasped all the facts of the +case—in a moment he realized the complicated difficulties +of his position. He knew, if Colonel Ellenham +guessed Arthur to be his son, that he would throw +such obstacles in the way of purchasing his discharge +as might make that discharge impossible to obtain. He +was well aware how much the war in India would increase +his embarrassment; and he sat on, pondering +and pondering what he should do—how it would be +best for him to proceed, while his son’s letter lay on +the carpet and the newspaper was spread out before him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Look at him now, reader. Would you know him? +Remembering what he was when this story opened, +would you have imagined it within the bounds of probability +that—long before old age had laid its hand +upon him—long before winter’s withering frosts had +come to pick the green leaves off the goodly tree—to +dry up its sap, to strip it of its beauty, and to leave it +bare and destitute of foliage, almost in the summer of +his life—he could have changed to this?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Sitting alone there, the terrible ravages sickness +and pain had made were plainly to be traced; and, +with Maxwell Drewitt, when once his physical beauty +was destroyed, everything was destroyed; and he who +had once been so haughty—so insolent—so handsome—was +now but as any other bowed and beaten +man.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And in that hour he was humbling himself mentally—he +was bending his proud spirit to ask a favour +from a man whom he detested. He only knew one +person in London who would, he felt sure, work for +his son’s release heart and soul—and that person was +Geoffry Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>Yet Geoffry Pryor had read him through in the +days gone by; and, reading him, had refused his proffered +hand, and never grasped it since.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Nevertheless, it was to him Maxwell Drewitt made +up his mind to apply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will send Ryan to Dublin by this night’s mail,” +he decided; “and he can cross to Holyhead to-morrow +morning.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Sickness had not dulled the keen brain, though it +had wasted and worn his body. He could think rapidly, +though it was pain and misery to him to move +swiftly. He could still chalk out a plan, and make +others act upon it, though the days were gone for ever +when he could execute his designs himself and be dependent +on no other man living to see that they were +carried out to his satisfaction.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you think I had better follow you?” he inquired; +but Ryan answered, “No. I am certain, if +any person can get him off, Mr. Pryor will find that +man; and you will only knock yourself up by going +travelling in such hot weather as this. No; you keep +yourself quiet, and rely on us. I will do my best—if +only for <em>her</em> sake—be sure of that.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Yes, they were all rowing in the same boat now. +Ryan could never disassociate his interests from Maxwell, +nor Maxwell his from Ryan in the future for +ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The comparison may not seem complimentary to +the married state; but in one respect guilt is very like +matrimony. Whether people like or hate, they must +endure each his fellow’s company when once they have +bound themselves together in the bonds of sin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It is as difficult for rogues to get a divorce as for +<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>husband and wife; and accordingly what Maxwell and +Ryan had been in the beginning, so they continued to +the end.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I had better ride to Galway, I suppose,” Ryan +observed; “there is no dependence to be placed on +those post-horses.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Nonsense,” answered his employer. “The mail-car +can take you as safely as the letters, I should +imagine.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I won’t risk it,” returned Ryan; “there might not +he a vacant seat.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And how about your luggage?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The car can bring a carpet-bag after me; there is +sure to be room for that.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“One word more, Ryan. Don’t let him out of your +sight; bring him straight back with you here, till we +try if we cannot make something of him. I wish to +heaven he was as wise as he is handsome!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He’ll never be wise, I’m right sure of that,” was +the reply; “but I will do what you tell me. I will +bring him back to you.” And with that Ryan left the +room, while Maxwell remained fuming over his last +words.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What right had any man to say his son would +never be wise? Was not he clever enough? was not +he young? If he had gone wrong once, what of that? +He should be a credit and a comfort to him yet. Once +let him (Maxwell) have him back again in Connemara, +and he would look him out a wife who should keep +him in order, and give him an interest in the county.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Many a girl would snap at such a chance, and +he, Maxwell, could take the opportunity of making a +proviso that his heir should assume the name of Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>“It would be pleasant for him to have his son and +his son’s wife living in the house, and the chatter of +children’s tongues and the patter of children’s feet +might yet break the funeral silence of the empty rooms, +by the doors of which he dreaded to pass.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Always this man had longed for children, and now, +with a more terrible longing than ever, he desired to +hear young voices ringing in his ears—to have something +lively and bright to chase away the gloom that +was enveloping him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>With all his heart and with all his soul he wished +he had brought Arthur home sooner; that he had insisted +years and years before on having him at the +Headlands, instead of leaving him among strangers.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He recollected why he had not done so. How he +had calculated on Lady Emmeline’s death, and on his +second marriage, and on the chances of legitimate +issue.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The scroll of his life could not have been pleasant +reading in the days of which I am now writing, and +it was little marvel that Maxwell Drewitt opened that +manuscript as seldom as possible.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Rather he preferred to dream dreams, and see visions; +to picture to himself the young wife who would +make the old house seem home-like and cheerful, the +children who might gambol on the lawn.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Dreams—dreams—sad and pitiful to think that +they could never be realized! visions so bright that +when the disillusion came the man whose life was almost +over could not bear the blow!</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was on himself he had built before; it was on +another he was building now: that made all the difference. +He had been always able to tell what course he +<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>should pursue; but the course his son might adopt was +darkness to him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>One of the children of this world, he had been wise +in his generation; one of the fools of this world, there +was no counting upon what Arthur might do from day +to day.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And what he finally did was this:—</p> + +<p class='c012'>While Mr. Pryor, after vainly trying to come to +some arrangement with Colonel Ellenham, was running +after one great man after another, to try to procure +Arthur’s discharge, that young gentleman, wearied of +the ill-success attendant on his friend’s efforts, coolly +did the most foolish thing possible under the circumstances, +namely, took the matter into his own hands +and deserted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That I ever should have been father to such an +idiot!” exclaimed Maxwell Drewitt when the news +reached him. “There is no hope for him now, unless we +can discover where he is and get him out of the country.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And even, in fancy, he never again heard the chatter +of children’s tongues or the patter of children’s feet; +the lonely rooms he could fill no more, even in dreams, +with light and life and merriment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Deeper and darker grew the night, lonelier and +more desolate grew the man—sad and pitiful! sinner +that he had been—for the days were come at last +when he said he had no pleasure in them. He had +thought to live long, and to have much enjoyment, and +behold he found out in a moment that what Solomon +said was true: “Man knoweth not his time: as the +fishes are taken in an evil net, and as the birds that +are caught in the snare, so are the sons of men snared +in an evil time when it falleth suddenly upon them.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVIII.<br> <span class='c006'>Man’s Vengeance.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>The world had prospered with Brian Drewitt since +his mother’s death; his salary was still indeed not excessive, +but he was promised an increase very shortly, +and Mr. Francis Gyton had further thrown out many +vague hints to the effect that in his, Frank Gyton’s +opinion, it would be far jollier if they (he and Brian) +were to cut the old connection, and start in business +on their own account.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know I could not stand Munday, so there is no +use in my father talking of taking me into partnership,” +he said one evening when he and Brian were +walking up westward together from the City. “I think +such a lot of partners are a damned nuisance, and I +should like to get clear of them. So, to cut the matter +short, Brian, whenever I am married I should like to +commence with you. I can find the tin, and you the +brains—is it a bargain?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Your father?” hesitated Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My father will be a little restive at first, but +when he is tired of opposition he will give in, and it +is of no use mincing the matter, Brian; Mr. Munday +and I cannot remain in the same business together. +What do you say—will you be my man, or will you +not?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will not, without speaking first to your father +in the matter. He has been very kind to me, and—”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>“And you will do the respectful and all the rest of +it, and I will do the dutiful; so that, between us, the +old gentleman will be as easily managed as possible. I +should not wonder if he came over to us himself, for +he likes Munday no better than I do.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mrs. Drewitt’s death had of course postponed Geraldine’s +marriage, and as it had also crippled their means, +brother and sister were now living in a cottage at +Highgate, which Mr. Gyton entertained some idea of +purchasing for his son.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Throw out a drawing-room there, and build a +conservatory here, and put the kitchens at the back, +and it would really make a very charming little residence. +Love in a cottage, eh, Geraldine?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Whereupon Geraldine blushed and laughed, while +the evening sunshine fell upon her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you will require coach-house and stabling; +in fact, the whole place will need alteration; but it is +a lovely situation—lovely!” and the great man stood +back to admire the view. “I tell you what it is, Miss,” +he went on; “I shall get so fond of this cottage one of +these days, that you will have me taking up my abode +here,” and he pinched the girl’s cheek, who, passing +her hand through his arm, said coaxingly—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Something has taken up its abode here that would +astonish you. I wonder if I might tell you, or whether +you would be shocked. It is a deserter, a countryman +of my own.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“A deserter?—you are jesting, Geraldine.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am not jesting at all,” she answered. “Our +servant found him in the wood-shed, this morning, and +he is half-starved, and badly clad, and ill and miserable.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>“Good bless me!” exclaimed Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And I want your help to send him over to America, +or Newfoundland, or some place,” added Geraldine, +with that charming ambiguity of expression which is +so pleasing a characteristic of her sex.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But—but—but all this is very illegal; extremely +improper,” began Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We don’t care for law at all in Ireland,” answered +Geraldine, demurely; “and in such a case as this, not +much for propriety.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You incorrigible little girl, I don’t know what I +must say to you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Say you will pay his passage out to America,” +she suggested. “If I had the money, I would do it in +a minute.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But it is against law: the proper course for you +to pursue, would be to go down to Scotland Yard, and +give information that such and such a person was concealed +on your premises.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Geraldine broke out into a peal of laughter. “Should +you really like me to go to Scotland Yard, Mr. Gyton?” +she suggested. “Would a note not do as well, or could +Frank not call round in the morning? Is there any +reward? I think I should like to get a reward.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What are you talking about?” demanded Lady +Emmeline, who was likewise of the party. “I declare, +any person might think it was you and Mr. Gyton who +were engaged, instead of you and Frank.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“So we are engaged for life, as father and daughter,” +replied the millionaire; “we were talking about a deserter. +Geraldine, it appears, keeps one among her +coals and wood.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are not serious?”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>“Perfectly serious. I dare say the young man is +on view at the present moment.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dear me! how romantic!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is romantic,” added Geraldine; “for he is evidently +a gentleman; he has been to Oxford, at the +University, I mean—a student there, or whatever +you call it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think, Mr. Gyton, that this affair ought to be +investigated,” said Lady Emmeline.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think so, too,” was the reply. “Suppose we +send for a policeman?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If a policeman come here I will smash his skull +for him!” remarked Brian, at this juncture.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dear! dear! what a set of people you Irish are!” +observed Mr. Gyton. “A man has only to shoot his +landlord—or be a rebel—or a deserter—or something +of that kind, to engage all your sympathies!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You would not have us give him up?” exclaimed +Brian, his voice sounding loud and angry, as he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Certainly not, sir. To an Englishman I might +suggest such a course; but to an Irishman—never. +The proper thing for you to do, is to feed him, clothe +him, love him, and then send him over to America, to +hate the English, and say we are the cause of all Ireland’s +misfortunes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>For the life of him, Brian could not help laughing. +The sketch was so true—so real and so ready.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Could not we get a peep at him?” asked Lady +Emmeline.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Certainly,” answered Brian; “at five pounds a +head.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is he worth the money, Lady Emmeline, do you +consider?” inquired Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>“Now, how can one possibly tell that unless one +sees him?” demanded Lady Emmeline. “You really +must allow us some discretion, Brian.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“As much as you please,” Brian answered, “if you +give me five pounds.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is it as a charity?” inquired her ladyship.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“As a charity,” Brian replied, bowing low.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then there is my five pounds,” said Lady Emmeline, +putting five sovereigns into Brian’s hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And five pounds for me and five for my wife,” +added Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You won’t charge me anything, Brian? I am +one of the family,” said Mr. Francis Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And well able to afford to pay for the sight,” +added Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What a leech you are! Won’t my I O U do as +well? Won’t you trust me? ’Pon my honour, I have +not five pounds about me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I will pay for him,” said Geraldine, drawing +out her purse; “but remember, Frank, it is out of my +housekeeping money; so you must give it back to me +honestly.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And thus, amidst much laughing, they collected +twenty pounds, on the strength of which the deserter +was brought by Brian into the little parlour of Spring +Lodge.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, but really now, you know—joking apart, +excuse me, but, my good fellow, this is really very +irregular,” remarked Mr. Gyton, senior.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I suppose no one can know that better than he,” +said Brian, looking at the thin pale face, the hollow +cheeks, the unshaved chin, the grisly moustache, with +an interest he could neither have explained nor defined.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>“And where do you come from?” asked Frank +Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“From Yorkshire,” was the reply; “that young +lady (indicating Geraldine) will have it that I am from +Ireland, but she is mistaken.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, I am not,” answered Geraldine. “No Englishman +ever pronounced ‘have it’—‘haf’t’—as +you do.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What is your name?” inquired Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ward,” he said; “Charles Ward.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is not,” exclaimed Lady Emmeline; “it is +Campnell, and you are Mr. Maxwell Drewitt’s illegitimate +son.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you know him?” asked Brian, hurriedly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Know him? To be sure I do. Didn’t I see him +in Connemara last year? Have not you noticed the +likeness between him and Harold?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>In a moment Brian comprehended what had +attracted him about the deserter. In an instant he +formed his plans. The hour of vengeance was striking +at last, and it would be his own fault if he faltered in +his design.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Through Maxwell’s son he must hurt Maxwell; +and soon after he rose, and left the room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>While they were all talking together, speaking +to Arthur Campnell, asking him how he chanced to +enlist, how he came to desert, Geraldine left the room +likewise. She searched all over the house, she made +inquiries of the servants, their own, and Mr. Gyton, +and Lady Emmeline’s. None knew where Brian had +gone; but one man had seen him go out of the gate, +and walk down the hill.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Tell Mr. Gyton I want him,” Geraldine said; +<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>“not Mr. Frank, but Mr. Gyton.” And Mr. Gyton +came out. “Brian is gone to give information,” she +said; “we must get him away, and at once.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Geraldine, you are dreaming,” exclaimed Mr. +Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Am I? You don’t know Brian as well as I do. +So long as he thought that man was simply a deserter, +he would have died before letting a hair of his head +be touched; but now he knows him to be Maxwell’s +son, he would put a rope round his neck, and hang +him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“God bless my soul! you don’t say no!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I do say so,” she answered; “and I say you +know nothing of the Irish, whose hate is as strong as +their love. I noticed his face change, the moment +Lady Emmeline said who Arthur was, and I know +he must be got away from here without a moment’s +delay.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But really, that is, you know——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Take him to Mr. Pryor; he will see to him—he +will get him off,” said Geraldine. And accordingly, +greatly to his disgust, Mr. Gyton was persuaded to +drive off, with a deserter in his carriage personating +Frank.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And now, Geoffry,” added Mr. Gyton, when he +had finished his narrative, “let me entreat of you to +get him away as soon as possible. He is no credit to +the family; and one really cannot get through life +respectably, if deserters, and so forth, are to be hidden +in our coal-cellars and larders. Really, Mr. Maxwell +Drewitt ought to have more consideration,” he continued; +but Mr. Pryor smiled.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Maxwell Drewitt does not know what to do with +<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>this boy, whom he means to make his heir. It is a +lamentable business altogether; but, as you say, there +is nothing for it except to get him to Ireland, and out +of the country as soon as possible.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I did not think Brian would really have informed,” +remarked Mr. Gyton.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It would be hard to say what he might, or what +he might not do, where his cousin is concerned,” was +the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And with regard to this youth?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Leave him to me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Meanwhile, there were high words waging at Highgate +between Geraldine and her brother.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She was accusing him of meanness, cowardice, +vindictiveness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He retorted by saying she was cold, insensible, +heartless.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Indifferent to our mother’s sufferings—to Harold’s +disgrace.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Our mother, on her death-bed, said, that you +were to forgive, as you hoped to be forgiven,” answered +Geraldine.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You should not talk about what you do not understand, +Geraldine,” he said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I understood that well enough,” she replied; “and +I know that long letter she wrote to you was full of +nothing else but regrets for ever having encouraged +your dislike of Maxwell, and not having checked your +desire for revenge.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She was an angel.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She was.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who never could carry a feeling of resentment; +and therefore it behoves me—I tell you, Geraldine, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>it behoves me to remember her wrongs, and have no +mercy.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is not what she would tell you, Brian, if she +were alive. But there is no use in our arguing this +point out now, for Maxwell’s son is now beyond the +reach of your vindictiveness.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you quite satisfied of that?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, I am. Oh, Brian! do not push this matter +further. Think if it had been Harold!—and he is +so like Harold.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“So was the lad who stole those notes.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you think it was he that took them?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Think!” he repeated, contemptuously; “I am +sure of it. What is your opinion of your protégé, +now?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a long pause, during the continuance +of which Geraldine sat weeping silently. At last, she +said—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Brian, do you imagine it would comfort Harold +to know you were pursuing that young man for his +sake?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It comforts me,” he replied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now, when he is gone where his innocence is +known, what can it matter to him who goes free on +earth?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It matters to his memory, Geraldine.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And who cares for his memory? who but a few +that, believing him innocent in life, cannot doubt him +in death?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“We need not talk any further about the matter,” +said Brian, angrily. “I am doing what I consider +right; and no one shall convince me to the contrary.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think I could,” said Mr. Pryor, who, late though +<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>the hour was, entered at the moment. “Brian, you +have done very wrong!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have not!” was the answer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I told you yourself, years ago, you were preparing +a bitter cup; but you would not listen to my +warning. That youth was safe here. No one would +have suspected his being concealed in such a house as +this; and we could easily have shipped him off from +here to some place of safety. Now, I candidly say, I +do not know what we are to do. Every plan seems +beset with danger and difficulty!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am glad to hear it,” remarked Brian, sullenly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, Brian, you are not. Vindictive though you +may be, you could not in cool blood—you could +not, I am sure—give that boy over to be flogged +and branded!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I could! believing, as I do, that his father will +feel every lash and every touch of the iron through him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And his mother, Brian?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The mother of such a son must be as bad as his +father.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She is not! I know her well; and I know she is +not! Shall I tell you her name, Brian?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It can have no interest for me,” he answered; +“but you may tell me, if you like.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Mrs. Connor!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No!” Brian started to his feet. “No! I tell +you it is not—it shall not be!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How can you prevent it? the fact is so. Mrs. +Connor, when she was Jenny Bourke—young, pretty, +guileless—brought that boy into the world, whom +you have tried your best this night, Brian, to give up +to trial and punishment.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>“Mr. Pryor, God is my witness! I thought I was +only doing my duty!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Duty toward whom?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“To my mother’s memory—to Harold’s! For myself +and Geraldine, I do not care—I never have +cared; but no soul can give <em>them</em> any comfort or happiness +here. And I vowed—I swore—if ever I +could pay Maxwell back any portion of the suffering +he had caused them, I would do so.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Did not your mother leave some parting message +for you—some words that must have sounded as +though uttered from her coffin?” asked Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She did,” was the reply; “but though she might +forgive for herself, I did not think myself bound to +comply with her request and forgive for her. So long +as we are in the flesh we must act like men; and it is +not like a man to forgive and forget such injuries as +Maxwell heaped on us.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Brian, do you think it is our affair to manage the +world—to avenge wrongs, to requite the virtuous +and punish the wicked?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How can I tell?” he answered. “I suppose we +are instruments; and when one sees a man like Maxwell +prosperous, happy, respected, what is one to do—how +is one to act?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not as you have done, at any rate; we are all so +mixed up here, that if we strike a blow we never can +tell whose heart may feel the wound most severely. +As in this case, for instance, you never guessed Mrs. +Connor could be mixed up in such a matter.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, the young fellow is gone,” answered Brian, +impatiently; “he is not caught, I suppose; and wherever +Geraldine sent him, I conclude he is safe enough.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>“Is he? there were inquiries at my house not half +an hour ago, and if I had not been quicker than they +suspected, the boy would have been now on his way +back to barracks.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian made no answer; he sat for a long time +silent, for many minutes he never spoke one word; +then he rose and left the room in silence.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is sorry,” Geraldine remarked; and Geraldine +was right. Brian was gone away, to mourn in solitude; +not that he had tried to punish Maxwell’s son, but that +Maxwell’s son was also Jenny’s boy—poor Jenny, to +whom he had once vowed to be grateful for life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Next morning Ryan and his nephew started for +Ireland; proceeding thither, not by the Dublin and +Holyhead route, but running down by the Great +Western to Milford Haven, whence they crossed to +Waterford; from which place Mr. Ryan meant to work +their way by all manner of curious routes to Connemara.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Once there we shall be safe,” thought Mr. Ryan; +but he reckoned without his host.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wonder if they have reached Kincorth?” Mr. +Pryor remarked, the day but one after their departure, +to Brian, who had never opened his lips on the subject +from the night he discovered who the deserter +really was until that present moment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If who have reached Kincorth?” asked the +younger man.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ryan and his nephew.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They have not gone to Ireland, surely—they +have not been so mad as that?” exclaimed Brian, all +in a hurry and tremble.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>“Why not? it seemed to me a much safer place +than London.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But I told them whose son he was—they are +certain to be on the look-out. Why did you say nothing +to me—oh! why did not you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>They were walking down the Holloway Road at +the moment, and Mr. Pryor, without answering Brian +by a word, called a passing Hansom, and jumped in.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Where are you going?” asked Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am going to Lothbury, to the Telegraph Office, +to stop your work, if I can.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let me go with you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No;” and Mr. Pryor banged the door of the Hansom +and was off.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian had never seen him angry before, never out +of temper; and as he stood there alone on the edge of +the broad pavement, between the Seven Sisters Road +and the railway bridge, he began to feel that he had +indeed done more evil than he could readily undo, that +he had let his revenge get the better not merely of +his charity but of his prudence, and that unless he +could give some assistance in the matter he should feel +wretched for life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Wretched for life! Did he know the meaning of +the words he was whispering to his own soul? had he +other than the vaguest comprehension of the misery he +had wrought both for others and himself?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Flogged—branded! Somehow he derived no sort +of satisfaction from the idea of his enemy being punished +now.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had kept his pebble and turned it, taken it out +and slung it, and struck his foe in the very place +where it had delighted him to think the blow would +<span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>take effect. But now that it had taken effect—now +that his enemy was worsted, that his pebble was gone +out of his own keeping, that he had taken his own +way, and revenged himself at once on the man who +had cast them out of Kincorth, and the boy who had +damaged Harold’s character past repair—he could +not help asking himself what good there was likely to +come of it all to her, or him, or them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>To him or her? Should he go up to the churchyard +sloping towards the west and tell the earth how +he had taken one step forward to the end he had laid +out for himself? Should he whisper to the dead that +he had made the living wretched for their sakes? +Should he tell the wind that stirred the grass growing +green on Harold’s grave how the delinquent was at +last discovered, how he had set the officers of justice +on his track? Would not the dead be gratified; could +not he make them hear that; would not the words +bring them back to life? Had not he well obeyed his +mother’s dying injunction, that he should forgive as he +hoped to be forgiven; and from the heavens would she +not look approvingly at the base act of vindictive +hatred of which he had been guilty?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Dimly as he walked along all this passed through +his mind; vaguely he began to see he had chosen the +wrong path, that others had been right, that he had +been wrong. Somewhere he had heard of a better +way of avenging oneself upon an enemy than by +branding and scourging, of a way which did not raise +every feeling of a man’s heart into ten times worse +hatred and antagonism, but which instead “heaped +coals of fire upon his head.” Nothing he could do—nothing—nothing +for ever might comfort or soothe +<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>the departed: the “dull cold ear of death” could +hearken to no words that it was in his power to frame: +if he killed Maxwell and laid his body on their graves, +what could it profit them? Could he bring them back +again? and if he could, oh God! if he could, would it +not be awful to see them rise up and rejoice because +their enemy was brought low?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very speedily Brian made up his mind he would +follow Mr. Pryor, hear what he had done, and then, if +need were, start that night for Ireland.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He might be of some use, he might be able to +render some assistance; and “I declare to you, Mr. +Pryor,” he said, “that if I could retrace my steps I +would; if I could take that night back and act my +part in it over again, I would not do one thing I have +done, not one.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Even a savage would not have been so treacherous, +so inhospitable,” answered Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I know it,” was the reply; “but are we always +able to argue out such questions coolly? Does the man +live who has never believed he has seen clearly walking +through the darkness?”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIX.<br> <span class='c006'>Through Connemara.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Maxwell Drewitt sat alone in the dining-room at +Kincorth, waiting for his son; he had waited many +days and yet the fugitive came not, neither had any +tidings of Arthur reached him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had watched for the post, he had strained his +ears to catch the sound of horses’ feet, the noise of +coming wheels. He had risen early, and gone to bed +late; he had lain through the night wakeful and restless, +and still there arrived no tidings; he had no data +to go upon except Mr. Pryor’s telegram which he held +in his hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Sorrow had told upon him; the suspense, the +agony, the alternations of hope and fear had broken +him down more and more. He was old—old and +stricken; and as he crouched over the fire, which a +damp autumnal evening had rendered acceptable, I +think a more hopeless picture of the vanity of human +wishes, of the end of human desires, could not have +been presented for consideration.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Where was the erect carriage, the bold, defiant +glance, the indolent grace of movement, the insolent +overbearing manner? Gone, friends, gone—like the +raven hue of his own glossy hair; like the cold brightness +of his eyes; like the beauty he had been proud +of, and that women had been won by; gone—gone +for ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>The passionless sneer had left his lips and given +place to a sort of irrepressible convulsion. He could +not walk now as he had walked in former years along +the shore of Duranmore Bay, kicking the pebbles before +him; but when at last he arose from his chair, in +order to make his way to one of the windows, he had +to support himself with a stick and to catch at chairs +and tables as he passed by.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a wild night; the equinoctial gales were +blowing their fiercest, and Maxwell, standing leaning +against the window-frame, thought of how the waves +must be lashing up against Eversbeg Head; how the +billows must be raging and tossing outside the bay.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a something so dreary in the idea of +that limitless ocean; those thousands of miles of tempestuous +waters; that great expanse of sea without an +island, without a shore, without a rock; those great +deeps, shouting under the night to one another, while +the floods clapped their hands—that Maxwell could +not bear it; he had to turn from the window, and +make his way feebly to the hearth, and stir up the +fire, and try to think of a more cheerful subject.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But what cheerful subject had he to think of—this +man, who had lived for the midday, and not for +the night?</p> + +<p class='c012'>He could think of his boy, but of nothing else—of +his boy, who, all unknown to him, was fleeing +through Connemara towards Kincorth; who was trying +to outstrip his pursuers, whom Ryan had promised to +mislead, if possible, at Oughterard.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Through the night he was riding as if for his life; +while the wind howled down among the mountains and +through the valleys, and washed the waters of the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>lakes over the low stone walls that are in some places +all that separates them from the highway—he rode on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had lost his hat about six miles on the Duranmore +side of Oughterard, and now, as he galloped +through the darkness, the wind tossed his hair hither +and thither, now leaving his forehead bare, and again +blinding him with locks that were dead-black as +Harold’s had been. On—on—without a pause, except +when the steepness of the ground necessitated +pulling up his horse and walking—on past the giant +mountains; past the eternal lakes; past the long low +line of hills that lay between him and the sea; past +bogs and morasses; over mountain-streams, over brawling +torrents—still on through the darkness towards +Kincorth.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Having gained the Calgillan road, he dismounted, +unfastened his girths, took the saddle off his good +steed’s back, and the bridle off his head, and then +turned the animal adrift. Saddle and bridle he carried +till he reached the plantations of Kincorth, when he +left the main road, and hiding his belongings deep in +the underwood, made his way across the fields towards +the house.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They are after me, father,” were his first words; +“but I have got the start. Mr. Ryan said you were +not to keep me here, but forward me on to Durrow. +I don’t know my way there.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He stood in the centre of the room while he spoke, +with the firelight flickering over his pale face, with his +straight hair tangled and matted, with a weary, anxious +look on his countenance, with a hunted expression in +his dark eyes.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who let you in?” Maxwell asked. It was no +<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>time for the interchange of much ceremony—for +many words to be wasted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dickson; and I have warned him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go into the next room for a minute while I ring +the bell. Bring wine,” Maxwell ordered, “and, Dickson, +come here for a moment.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is Flynn gone?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He leaves at six, you know, sir, usually, and it +is now eleven.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Could you put the roan horse in the car?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The other servants are gone to-bed, I suppose?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“All, except the cook, sir.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Take the horse and car round to the back avenue, +and then sit up for me. If anybody comes here asking +where I am, say I have gone to Lord Marsden’s to +dinner, and will not be back till late—perhaps not +till morning, and—and—you know the rest, Dickson.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir. I am to say Mr. Arthur has not been +here.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now go. Of course you will sit up for me. +Should there be danger, light a candle in the blue +room, and I will be on my guard; you understand?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Perfectly, sir. But surely you are not going out +to-night; excuse me, sir, but——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Necessity knows no law,” finished Maxwell Drewitt, +with something of his old decision of manner. “Now, +Arthur, drink some wine, to put life into you; for it +may be many a night before you are able to put your +head under a roof again.” And while his son followed +his advice in silence, the wretched father sat and +looked at the only child he ever had.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>“Surely you are not coming with me?” said Arthur, +as his father arose and intimated it was time for +them to depart. “It is an awful night, cold, and +bleak, and threatening for rain. Let me try to find +my way alone, if you would rather not trust Dickson.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am not afraid of trusting Dickson,” was the +reply; “but I must leave some one to answer their inquiries +should they come.” Arthur shuddered; too well +he knew who <em>they</em> meant. “And as for the night, I +shall be better out; the cold air will not hurt me.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Would not it? He knew better; but he knew, +also, that anything would be preferable to remaining +at home in suspense; and, besides, after all, whom +could he trust so well as himself—who could keep +the secret like he and Arthur?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Through the night they pressed on together—father +and son.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As they drove along that interminable road towards +Durrow, Maxwell could not help thinking, that +at some previous time he had traversed it under circumstances +similar to the present; and all at once, as +they drew near Castle Cronach, he remembered what +Mr. Gyton had said about riding for one’s life through +Connemara; and about how a man who was doing so +would curse those bends and twists and curves.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There are some things which impress us with such +a sense of reality—with such a feeling that at a +future day we shall pass through what we fancy then—as +gives us the idea, when the future day arrives, +that we have not prefigured the event, but that it has +actually happened at some former period.</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was Maxwell’s state of mind, at all events; +and as the keen wind swept by—as the rain began +<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>pattering in his face—as he felt the nipping night +air blowing through and through him, he could not +help occasionally marvelling which was the dream, and +which the reality—which was the shadow, and which +the substance. Had he ever ridden along that road +with three companions? Was he driving it in very +truth then? Had he ever been strong enough to ride? +Was he only imagining he was driving now? Were +there people following them? Did he hear the sound +of horses’ hoofs behind?</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is only the wind,” Arthur kept saying; but +Maxwell lashed the roan on for all that.</p> + +<p class='c012'>How long the road was! How he did curse those +curves! how he did anathematize the engineer who +planned, and the men who made it! How every winding +seemed to double itself in length! how every mile +appeared to quadruple itself in distance! But there, +at last, thank God! at last, was Durrow!</p> + +<p class='c012'>They soon knocked Mr. Connor up, and explained +to him the state of the case.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are on good terms with the fishermen, Connor,” +said Mr. Drewitt; “get Skerritt to stow Arthur +away till he can be taken off in some smuggling craft. +Make it all right with the men; and say, I don’t mind +five hundred pounds when I hear he is safe in France. +It is more than you are worth, boy,” he added. “Don’t +you think, now, you have been more trouble than profit +to me, all your life long?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>His voice shook and trembled as he spoke; and +Mr. Connor drew back, knowing they were about to +say farewell to one another.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It will be safest for us to leave you in their +hands entirely,” explained Mr. Drewitt; “I am not +<span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>afraid of any informers among them. Write to me, +when you get clear off. You will have money and +clothes provided for you on board the vessel. If I +can, I will join you in France; but do not attempt to +come back to these countries. And now good-bye, for +the present. Good-bye!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He held out his hand—he had never been much +given to caressing, and it was the only mode of leave-taking +he knew; but Arthur fell on his neck and wept; +and Maxwell felt those tears dropping down into his +heart, one by one.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It had been a cold heart and a dead—it had lain +numb through life, only to waken up with pain and +grief towards the last; and now he felt not only his +son’s tears softening him, but the memory of other +tears he had seen flow—of other sobs he had heard +in the night—of other anguish he had let go away +unsoothed—came up before him then—the ghosts of +dead realities, the shadows of things that had all once +been.</p> + +<p class='c012'>A few seconds and it was over; that was no time +at which to waste precious moments in grief or in +adieux; and while Connor took Arthur with him down +to the shore, Maxwell drove back to Kincorth through +the night alone.</p> + +<p class='c012'>That seemed to be his doom—alone—alone for +ever—in adversity as in prosperity—at the end as +in the beginning. But in the beginning solitude had +not seemed terrible as it did towards the end; and that +fact made all the difference.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Through that desolate wilderness he drove back, +as I have said, alone; past great stretches of country, +across which the wind went howling and howling as +<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>though, with shrieks and laughter, the storm were +running races over the flat tracts of moorland. For a +little distance the road wound along by the side of +Durrow River, where the chesnut had died taking her +leap so gallantly, and then great mountains hemmed +him in for a mile or so, when they swept grandly off +to right and left, leaving the traveller breathing space +once more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It is a grand country, this Connemara, but desolate +beyond all power of description; the ends of the world +seem to be reached when you are journeying through +it; and even when a person has no pressing care, no +special cause for unhappiness, when he is strong and +free from anxiety of mind, there is a weirdness and a +solemnity about a night-ride through his part of that +land of the Wild West which must be felt to be comprehended.</p> + +<p class='c012'>What, then, must that solitary drive have proved +to Maxwell Drewitt, whose strength was turned into +weakness, whose powers of endurance were not equal +to such an undertaking—who, racked with mental +and bodily pain, prostrated by physical suffering, +fancied, now that the mountains were advancing towards +him—now that the road was slipping away—now +that the air was full of strange sounds—and +again that through the valleys and up the defiles were +coming hundreds and hundreds of armed men seeking +after his son?</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was fortunate that the roan knew his way to his +stable, knew every turn in the road, every point of +danger, every awkward curve, the position almost of +every block of granite, or else Maxwell could scarcely +have guided him home.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>As it was, between two and three o’clock in the +morning, when the wind was a little lulled, and the +rain coming down in torrents, the unhappy man +reached Kincorth, and lifting his eyes instinctively to +the windows, saw no light in them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You must be just drowned, sir,” said Dickson, as +he helped him off the car and took the reins out of +his trembling hand and assisted him into the house; +“I have a good fire in your own room, sir, and you +had better get off your wet things and go straight +away to bed.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Who is that, Dickson, who is that?” Maxwell +whispered, seeing that a man had taken the horse’s +head and was leading him round towards the stables. +“There was no light burning—who is it?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No one, sir, but Mr. Brian Drewitt, who came in +not ten minutes after you left. He said he would put +up the roan, and set everything right for the morning, so +that I could stay with you. He seems dreadfully +downhearted, and he hasn’t put bite nor sup in his +lips since he entered the doors.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Go to him, Dickson, and tell him not to lay a +finger on any horse of mine; tell him that he shall not +stay in my house, nor meddle in my concerns. It is +owing to him that my son is a fugitive this night, +without a place to lay his head in. He has come to +gloat over me, to exult in my defeat; but he shall not +stay here; he shall not, by——!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very unceremoniously, Dickson marched his master +off to bed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t think, sir,” he answered, “that you rightly +know what you are talking about. I never saw a +young gentleman seem in less notion of exulting, as +<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>you call it, than that same Mr. Brian was to-night; +and I am certain sure if Mr. Arthur had been his own +brother he could not have appeared more cut up than +he was. When you’re warm in your bed, just see him, +and hear what he has got to say; and if you don’t +think then he means fair, why tell me to put him out, +and if I don’t do it my name is not Michael Dickson. +And sure, is not he making himself of use at this +very minute, washing the car and rubbing down the +horse, and doing a stable-boy’s work, only better than +any stable-boy ever did it? I know what Mr. Brian +can do. Many a time when I used to be coming up +here, I saw him at work just like a labourer. Let +him stay, sir, let him stay; we’ll want him yet.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It was he gave the information,” muttered Maxwell.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“So he told me; and he told me why he did it, +and how sorry he had been since. He talked to me +for an hour in the dining-room there—for an hour +at the least. And he spoke about his mother, and +Mr. Harold, so that it would have melted the heart of +a stone.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>With a shudder, Maxwell Drewitt turned his head +away, and laid it on the furthermost pillow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Let him come,” he said, faintly; “it may be that +we have cross accounts to settle; let him come;” and +Brian came accordingly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Maxwell,” he began, “I am here to help you, if +I can. I am here to make what poor reparation is in +my power. There was a time,” he went on, “when I +swore I never would re-enter your doors at peace with +you: over my dead mother’s body, I renewed that +oath; and I swore then that if ever I had a chance of +<span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>vengeance offered me, I would avail myself of that +chance to the uttermost. Maxwell, I have recalled +those oaths. I would undo that which I have done if +I could. I want to help you, if in my power. Had I +known who Arthur’s mother really was, I would have +cut out my tongue before bringing sorrow upon her. +Do you believe me, Maxwell? I never spoke falsely +to you in my life; and you may believe it is the truth +I am telling you now.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There ensued a long silence, broken only by the +sick man’s sobs. “I am so ill,” he said, “I am so +weak—Brian, I thank you—I will take your offer, +I will trust you. If you will, there shall be peace between +us at last. Do you forgive me?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You are pressing me hard, Maxwell,” answered +the other. “Hearing what I hear, guessing what I +guess; with my dear ones where no reparation can be +made to them, I cannot say I forgive. But I may +try to forgive; will that content you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you will stay with me, Brian, you will stay. +I am so sick, and I am so lonely. It was a fall off +the chesnut did it; but I suppose you heard all about +that?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, poor Madcap!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It was not her fault, it was that fool of a Crabbe—it +has made wild work with me, Brian, has not +it? I shall never be a man again while I live—never!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>While he lived. Brian, keeping watch by the sick +man’s bedside, knew that his existence could not be +prolonged much longer, and looking at that poor wreck +of mortality—at that old worn man—he found it +hard to identify him with the Maxwell he had last +<span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>seen standing just within the hall door of that house +in which he was at length master.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Then he had been handsome, strong, resolute; now +he was a stricken and hesitating creature, dying by +inches, while there was not a human being related to +him, by any close ties of blood, to take his hand and +bid him be of good cheer, as he glided onward to +that valley where is the blackness of the shadow of +death.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XX.<br> <span class='c006'>Brian’s Repentance.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Before many days Mr. Pryor appeared at Durrow, +anxious to know what had become of Arthur, and how +Brian and his cousin were settling their old scores.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Arthur, Mr. Connor informed him the lad +was still lying concealed in one of the caves in Durrow +cliff—“the secretest of all their hiding-places, Skerritt +informs me,” he proceeded—“a cave that no gauger +or coast-guardsman could find out unless he were the +devil.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then as I never heard of the devil taking the +form of an exciseman, and going about the country +looking after private stills and cargoes of smuggled +goods, I suppose we may conclude there is every +chance of the young gentleman getting off safe.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He’ll get off right enough, the first time the +schooner comes round this way again. The reward +Mr. Drewitt has offered ought to put the men on their +mettle—not, to do them justice, that they need such +an inducement—it’s enough for them to know that +a man is flying from the constituted authorities, and +they will strain every nerve to assist him to escape.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That characteristic of your country-people it is +which makes Ireland so much pleasanter a residence +for rogues than for honest men,” remarked Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Ah, well, sir; sure you see by this that even very +respectable fathers may have sons in trouble.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>“I hope you do not call Mr. Drewitt a respectable +father, because, in my opinion, he is nothing of the +kind,” answered Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is fond of the boy, at any rate,” said Connor, +simply; and his thoughts flew back to that night when +through the storm Maxwell drove his son over to +Durrow, and had stood silent while Arthur wept tears +of penitence upon his neck.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He’ll never get the better of it, Mr. Brian tells +me,” went on the agent, pursuing his own train of +reflection. “He was wet to the skin, and has not +been able to be out of bed since. Well, let him have +been what he will, Mr. Pryor, you would be sorry for +him if you were to see him now—just a shadow of +himself, and with the grey hairs more plentiful than +the black, and crow’s feet about his eyes, and a drop +of the mouth, and a twitching of the face that you +would wonder what ailed him.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think I’ll go over and see him,” observed Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Indeed, sir, and I just would,” agreed Connor; +“maybe the day’s not so very far off when you’ll be +glad to remember you did it.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do you mean, Connor, you really think he is +going to die so soon as all that comes to?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Think, sir! I am sure I believe in my heart he’ll +never rise from his bed again; that he did his last +piece of work in this world, the night he came over +here with Mr. Arthur. I did all I could to get him to +stop, and so did my wife, too; but he was so mortally +afraid of any of the Duranmore people guessing where +his son was hid away, that nothing would serve him +but round with the horse’s head and back to Kincorth, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>though the wind was coming down from among those +hills, and blowing off the Atlantic, fit to tear the house +down. And then it began pelting with rain. I don’t +know how he ever got home, and him in the state of +health he was—I do not.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Next morning Mr. Pryor walked over the hills to +Kincorth, to pay his visit to Maxwell Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He will see you if you come upstairs,” Brian said, +in answer to the Englishman’s inquiries; “but I must +warn you that he is very ill—dangerously ill, in my +opinion. I have thought it right to tell Lady Emmeline +what I believe about him; and it is very probable +she may be here to-morrow afternoon.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you glad you came, Brian?” asked Mr. +Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I would not have come for all the property +Maxwell owns;” and Brian, who was head nurse in +the sick-room, led his friend gently to the darkened +chamber, which Maxwell was never again to leave till +he was carried out in his coffin.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You were right about me, Mr. Pryor,” said Maxwell. +“I was not an honest man; and I did not come +into Kincorth fairly; but Brian shall get it back again +when I am gone; and I hope he will have more enjoyment +of it than ever I had.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I trust,” answered Mr. Pryor, “you will live for +many a long year to keep him out of it. Brian will +be better and happier working for his living in London +than he ever could be dawdling about Kincorth.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>He spoke these words cheerfully and heartily, but +Maxwell shook his head.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My race is run,” he said, “my day almost finished; +and if I could but once know the boy was safe, I am +<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>so tired that I think I would lay my head down and +never raise it again.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You will think differently when once he is clear +off,” answered Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Shall I?” and Maxwell’s hand strayed idly and +listlessly over the coverlet, picking bits of cotton out +of it while he spoke.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Why of course you will; anxiety is the chief thing +that is the matter with you now.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is it?” and the poor wasted fingers still kept +picking, picking.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t know what I should have done without +him,” he said, after a short pause, turning his eyes +towards Brian. “I could not have lived so long had +I been alone. He has been gentler to me than any +woman I ever had about me; and when I look at him +I think of his mother, and believe she has forgiven +me——”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You can clear that matter up, about Harold,” +suggested Mr. Pryor.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, when I am gone, and when Arthur is off, +you will find a parcel and letter in that safe over +there. You can make what use you like of both; of +course they would not take any proceedings at this +distance of time, but you will settle that with them, +won’t you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And I mean to settle that you shall not talk any +more at present, and that if Mr. Pryor comes here to +discuss unpleasant topics he must be forbidden the +house,” broke in Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will you come to my house, then, to-morrow, to +dinner?” asked Mr. Pryor; and Brian promised that if +his patient were no worse, he would; having received +<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>which assurance, Mr. Pryor walked back over the hills +as he had come, and noticed as he walked a wicked-looking +little schooner tacking and tacking between +Duranmore Point and Durrow. “That is our friend,” +he thought, “and twenty-four hours more will see Arthur +out of the country.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, sir, that’s her,” remarked Skerritt with a +knowing wink. “She is only making believe tacking +about there; she is really bound for Mayo, and then +she will be back here about this time to-morrow. We +have sent word to the captain, and it will be all correct.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Pryor was truly rejoiced to hear it, and said +so. It was wretched to think of that lad lying in the +cave night after night while he slept comfortably in +a good house close at hand; and his sympathy was +strongly excited for the unhappy father, whose first +question when he awoke in the mornings was always, +“Has Arthur got off yet?” and whose last sigh at +night sounded like a moan for the son who had made +such grievous shipwreck of his life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You will bring me back a report of how things +are going on, Brian,” he said as his cousin was leaving +for Durrow; “a true report, remember,—promise me +that;” and Brian promised ere he departed.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a lovely afternoon in the early part of +October; the trees about Kincorth were getting very +bare of foliage, but there were still enough <a id='t270'></a>leaves +left to make the woods look very beautiful in their +autumnal deckings of brown and orange and gold. +The sky was clear and bright, and though there was +a stiff breeze blowing, Brian after long watching in +his cousin’s sick room found the wind only make his +walk the pleasanter.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>He did not feel in bad spirits as he climbed the +hill and pursued the short cut towards Durrow; rather, +on the contrary, his heart was lighter than it had been +for many a day past, for he began to be certain Arthur +would effect his escape safely, and he knew if the +youth were once landed in France that a load of +anxiety would be lifted from his shoulders, a burden +of self-reproach taken off his soul.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a delicious afternoon; there was just that +feeling of chilliness in the air which is pleasant when +a man who can walk fast has likewise to walk far; +and Brian hurried over the ground feeling that there +are some days in the year when living is a pleasure, +and that this was one of them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But yet, as he drew near Durrow, he fancied he +saw on the side of the hill, looking seaward, something +which alarmed him—a man with a telescope. +Brian immediately charged down the incline, and came +upon a commonplace-looking individual apparently engaged +in digging up bait.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It seemed a strange place to select for such a purpose; +but of course the man had a right to choose an +inconvenient position if he chose, and Brian remained +talking with him for a few minutes while he looked +about to see if he could discover any trace of the +telescope or discover what part of Durrow was best +commanded from the spot.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The whole of Durrow village was concealed by +Durrow cliff, and there was nothing to be discerned +except the south side of the principal rock, which rose +sheer out of the sea which now washed its base.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Any trace of the telescope he failed to detect, +<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>though he could have sworn he saw the brass tube +glitter for a moment in the afternoon sun.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He was there, was he, the divil!” remarked +Skerritt, whom Brian at once informed of the circumstance. +“I wish I had caught him at his spying. +You’re not sure he was spying, arn’t ye? Well, I am, +and that’s enough. Digging earth-worms, too, for a +make-believe! Pity he wasn’t feedin’ them, that’s all +I have got to say.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will it hinder Arthur getting away?” asked Brian, +anxiously.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Will it hinder the say comin’ in to-morrow morning?” +inquired Mr. Skerritt, which, being decidedly an +unlikely result, Brian took heart again.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you going out fishing to-night, Skerritt?” inquired +Brian, noticing that the man was preparing his +nets and getting his boat ready for sea.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I go out fishing most nights,” was the answer; +“and now, sir, if you are as tired of asking questions +as I am of answerin’ them, I wish ye just would go +up till the house, and stay in your proper place, which +is up there with the quality,<a id='r2'></a><a href='#f2' class='c015'><sup>[2]</sup></a> instead of down here +with me.”</p> + +<div class='footnote' id='f2'> +<p class='c012'><a href='#r2'>2</a>. Gentlefolks.</p> +</div> + +<p class='c012'>“Your best friends can’t say much for your civility, +Skerritt,” remarked Brian as he moved away.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If I am not very civil I am very wise,” was the +significant answer; and Brian departed on the instant.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish to-night was over—and well over,” said +Mr. Pryor, as they stood together on the lawn, while +the afternoon light faded away, and the twilight +deepened, and the darkness drew on.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>“And so do I. Have you any notion at what hour +they mean to make their venture?” returned Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not the least. Skerritt would give me no information +on the subject, and I have not seen a sign of the +schooner to-day. The first intelligence I expect to +hear is that he is off safe and sound, and half-way to +France.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Heaven grant it!” Brian replied.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The words were scarcely out of his lips before there +arose such a shout from the shore, as made Mr. Pryor +and Brian exclaim, at the same moment—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is something wrong: let us go down;” and +they ran round to the shelving side of the cliff, and +hurried down the path leading to the sea.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“They have found the cave,” explained Skerritt; +“and they are all here, police, and gaugers, and +soldiers, and all.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And where is Arthur?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You’ll see in a minit,” was the reply. “Now +Patsey, my man. Run down for your life, Mr. Arthur, +and out into the sea!” he cried in a voice like thunder, +and, at the same instant, there flared out from the +shore a flame of light that just flashed across the waters +and then was extinguished.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Quick as thought, another light glanced out from +the little schooner, which had been quietly stealing +round a line of rocks that stretched far away into the +ocean; and, next moment, while his eyes were still +dazzled by the sudden glare, Brian heard the plash of oars, and knew that Arthur was safe in the boat +and making for the vessel that alone could ever bear +him to freedom.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Hoarsely the command for the boat to stop rung +<span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>out through the night, and, as a mocking laugh came +back across the waters, the corporal gave the order +to fire.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Three balls went instantly whizzing over the sea; +and then there was a shriek such as Brian never had +heard in all his life before—the shriek of a strong +man in his death agony.</p> + +<p class='c012'>But the boat went on.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Fire!” was again the command, and again the +balls sought their mark: no shriek followed this discharge, +and, for a minute or two, the corporal seemed +to think his men must have made some mistake, but +it was only for a moment.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The next, cries for help were borne by the wind to +the shore, and there were frantic entreaties among +the women that a boat might be launched on the +instant.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Lord help you, mother,” said Skerritt’s son; “don’t +you remember every boat was sent to Duranmore, that +they might not be able to get the advantage over us +that way? but then if he is not hit he can swim. +There it is again! That’s not my father’s shout, it is +the young fellow’s, and the boat is settling.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>The boat was settling. Every one of the balls, except +that which struck Skerritt, had gone through her +side. There can be no doubt but that the men must +have happened to fire as she rose on the waves; and +now, with their hands loosely holding their muskets, +they stood listening to the screams of the drowning +men.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I can’t bear this,” cried Brian; “I must do something;” +and he made a rush towards the sea, but half +a dozen people were before him in an instant, and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>kept him back from his design. “Have you not got a +boat?” he gasped.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Not one. Do you think if we had, it’s myself +would be talking to you now, and my own father and +brother out there in the middle of it all?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How many were there altogether?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Just three; and, out of the three, there were two +of us.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“God pity you,” said Brian, as he sat down on the +shore. “And God pity me, too,” he added to himself, +“for this is my doing.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was silence on the sea—silence only broken +by the whistling of the wind—by the plashing of the +waves against the rocks.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Each moment it was growing darker and darker, +and though the people under the cliffs were running +hither and thither with lighted torches in their hands, +still nothing could be seen of the tragedy that had just +been enacted.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Sullenly the sea came rolling up on the shore—sullenly +it swept along, wave succeeding to wave, and +billow to billow: though they strained their eyes out +into the night they could see nothing but a waste of +water, but an eternity of ocean.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Till morning dawned they would not be able to distinguish +any object, and when morning dawned where +would be the objects they desired to see?</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’ll go and get a boat some place or other,” +whispered young Skerritt to his mother, “and I’ll row +round the rocks; may be one of them may have drifted +that way with one of the oars.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a forlorn hope; but perhaps in the future it +<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>comforted that widow and her son to know everything +which could be done, had been done.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was no one near the rocks, no one had +reached the schooner; but a week afterwards Skerritt’s +body was washed ashore near Clew Head, while Arthur’s +drifted into a little bay about five miles north +of Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It was better than being caught,” Mr. Pryor ventured +to say at length to Brian; “but I am grieved +about Skerritt.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And it is all my doing,” Brian moaned out; “I +shall feel now like a murderer to the end of my +days.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>For hours Brian sat repeating this one sentence, +and it was not until Mr. Pryor reminded him Maxwell +would be expecting tidings, that he could rouse him +from his fit of despairing remorse.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think I had better go round with you and break +the news to him,” said the barrister.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, I will do it—I—and I only,” answered +Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“But it will be so dreadful a task for you.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Only part of my punishment,” he said, with a +sort of gloomy satisfaction; “and I was so happy to-day, +and I made so certain he would get off.” And as +he thought of that, he sat down and covered his face +with his hands once more.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Brian,” said Mr. Pryor, “some one must go to +Kincorth and break this news to Maxwell; if you do +not go, I will; for otherwise he will hear it suddenly, +and in his state of health a shock of the kind might +prove fatal.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Come with me then!” exclaimed Brian, “I have +<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>not courage to go alone.” And accordingly they drove +round to Kincorth by the same road as that Maxwell +Drewitt had followed when he took his son to Durrow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was late when they reached Kincorth, but the +sick man was still awake, and anxiously expecting +Brian’s return.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He knew, the moment he saw his cousin and Mr. +Pryor enter the room together, that some misfortune +had happened.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You bring me bad tidings,” he said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have no good news,” Brian answered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“He is taken?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, he is not taken; he has escaped that fate.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What do you mean?—if he is not taken, he +must have escaped; or has he not got off yet? Will +neither of you speak?—there, you need not tell me, +I know the worst—he’s dead.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian knelt down by the bedside and buried his +face in the coverlet. Mr. Pryor took one of the wasted +hands in his, and drawing a chair close up to Maxwell’s +pillow, told him how his boy had been drowned, how +the very efforts they had made to secure his escape +had caused his destruction.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Very quietly Maxwell listened to him; through the +night he talked of nothing else, but still Brian knelt +by the bedside with his face hidden in the coverlet +praying in a very agony of supplication to the Lord +Most High.</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was vengeance! this was what he had longed +for, waited for; this was the end of all his oaths, of +all his hate, ay, and of all his love—a terrible memory +which should abide with him to the end—a +gnawing remorse which, though its teeth might get less +<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>sharp in time, was yet certain never quite to loosen its +hold upon him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was vengeance: he would have given his life +to be able to live the past year over again with his +present experience, retaining his present feelings. Oh, +for power to wipe the sin he had committed off his +conscience, to bring that boy to life again, to restore +even comparative health to his cousin!</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was vengeance—to pass through such agony +as he had never felt before, to wrestle with his anguish, +to have to rise up and face his misery, to hear Maxwell’s +voice saying faintly, “Do not vex yourself about +it, Brian; I am content that it should be so.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>This was vengeance. Like him who, in the olden +days, drew a bow at a venture and slew the king of +Israel, so Brian had drawn his bow at a venture, and +this was the ruin his arrow had wrought.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Still the waves rolled on and the sea mourned upon +the shore; still the wind blew keen over the ocean, and +the billows tossed and lamented, and the deeps called +out to one another through the night; still in the darkness +the great mountains stood proudly aloof; still Mr. +Pryor talked while the thin fingers picked the cotton +more restlessly out of the coverlet, for the end was +very nigh at hand, and Maxwell Drewitt was soon +about to pass into that unknown land which is so +“very far off.”</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXI.<br> <span class='c006'>Sickness onto Death.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Lady Emmeline arrived from London on the day +following that on which the tragedy recorded in the last +chapter was acted out, and with her came Mrs. Ellenham, +who repaired, on hearing of her brother’s illness, +by command of her husband, to the Euston Square +railway station, where she proceeded <em>viâ</em> Holyhead and +Kingstown to Galway.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She had never been in Ireland from the day of her +elopement, until she travelled back thither to see her +brother on his death-bed, and she would not have gone +then, only the law of Colonel Ellenham was as that of +the Medes and Persians, and if he said, “go”—which +he did in hopes of a bequest—there was no alternative +but to pack up and depart.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Poor Lady Emmeline was inexpressibly shocked +at sight of her husband. All the love she had once +felt for him woke to live again in a moment, and she +wept as genuine tears as she had ever shed in her life +when he put up his white lips to kiss her.</p> + +<p class='c012'>They had lived latterly like cat and dog, but yet +she once loved him, and she loved him now again when +he lay dying, thinking, thinking not of her, but of many +a more attractive woman and most of all of Jenny +Bourke, whom he could see standing by the stream at +the back of her brother’s cottage in all the beauty of +her young loveliness, so innocent, so pure, so tender, +and so true.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>As for Susan, her brother saw her, but that was +about all he would do. From others she heard the +story of his unhappy son; from others she learned how +her husband was mixed up in the matter.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I would go back to London at once,” she said to +Mr. Pryor, “if I were not afraid.” And accordingly, +as she was afraid, she remained at Kincorth, keeping +as much out of the way as possible, and generally conducting +herself after a fashion as unlike all the fashions +of Susan Drewitt as can well be imagined.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Matrimony, or perhaps the absence of matrimony +for so many years, had tamed her effectually, and so +she roamed about the place and looked at the improvements, +and wondered if Brian would get Kincorth back +again, and wrote long explanatory letters to her husband, +and was considered a very quiet kind of lady +by the servants.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Brian, he never left the sick man by day +nor by night; and when the end drew very near, when +every one saw that the sickness could never be cured, +the disease never mastered; when it became a question +not of weeks but of hours, Maxwell could not bear his +cousin to leave him for an instant.</p> + +<p class='c012'>They had been at deadly feud once, but they were +united now; they had been bitter enemies, but they +were now fast friends; and it was Brian, who, when the +last moments came, wiped the damp dews off Maxwell’s +face, and held his hand while he passed through the +portals of death.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Thus he departed. Many a time since, Brian +Drewitt has recalled that scene.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was noon—noon on a dull, damp November +day.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>The sick man had been lying all the morning thinking, +thinking, and at last he began to talk.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What’s that you are saying?” he broke out—and +Brian knew from his tone that he was wandering—“That +I made nothing? Give me those maps—reach +me those plans;” and then he went on muttering +some words which Brian could not catch. “There +is The Headlands,” he said, in a louder key, “and +Cherryfield, and the Calgillan estates. Isn’t it getting +very dark, eh? What’s that? Are you there, Brian? +Have I been asleep?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I don’t know. Do you feel tired?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No; but it is time I was getting to sleep—these +winter nights are very dark. Ring for lights, Brian, +I cannot bear this gloom.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian knew then what was coming, and rose and +put his strong arms about his cousin, and lifted him +up a little.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Can you see any better now?” he said.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No; it is all darkness, all; Brian, is it night or +day? Is it light to you?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is day, Maxwell, though a very dull day, and +I can see well enough.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Then this is death,” he said; and he stood at +last face to face with the foe he had dreaded all his +life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was an utter silence for a moment, during +which Maxwell appeared to be solving some problem +in his mind.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Over and over he appeared to be turning the question, +while his dim eyes moved restlessly about, as +though striving to catch some gleam, however feeble, +of light.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>“It grows darker,” he said, at last, and the cold +dew of death was on his forehead.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It grows darker—don’t leave me, Brian.” But +Brian had no thought of leaving him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He had lived without God, but he should not die +without man—that was the idea which passed swiftly +through his cousin’s mind.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Do not let me go,” he murmured; and the hand +which Brian held tight in his, grew cold as marble.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think I have made a great mistake,”—he +spoke these words out so loudly, that Brian almost +started, and they were the last he ever uttered. The +problem was solved, the life-story finished, the purpose +accomplished, the end of all earthly things reached; +and with a sigh, Maxwell Drewitt, who had raised his +head a little, fell back dead on his pillow.</p> + +<p class='c012'>That was the end.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He laboured and planted, he sowed and reaped, he +got him great possessions, he amassed wealth in abundance, +he accomplished what he said he would; he +made the howling wilderness a smiling plain; he found +Headlands a wretched piece of barren land, and he +left it an Eden. Whatsoever his hand found to do, +that he performed; whatsoever his mind planned, that +he executed; and yet when he spoke the last words of +his life—when he summed up the whole story of his +endeavours and his successes—it proved to have been +all “a great mistake.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Pitiful! most pitiful! In his prime this man was +taken away from among his treasures—from the place +he had longed to possess—from the country of his +birth—from the scenes he had loved to gaze over. +What did it matter, then, whether he had been rich or +<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>poor, wealthy or indigent, lofty or lowly, peer or +peasant?—what did it matter? what even in life had +the lands and the houses, had the silver and the gold, +profited him?</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think I have made a great mistake.” Was that +sentence spoken in time or in eternity? Was it uttered +as his last farewell to earth, or when he had passed +into the land of shadows? His soul was on the threshold +of both worlds at the moment—to which world was +the truth addressed? Was it spoken with the gloom he +had complained of settling down upon him, or with +light ineffable flooding the secrets of our humanity, and +making all those things plain which here we see but +as through a glass darkly?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Draw down the blinds, and tread lightly across the +room, wherein there is no life left, but only the body +which once held a soul.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Maxwell Drewitt has passed into that dim land +which he so dreaded to face. He has gone away, and +left his work to be taken up by another after him.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Never more may he walk by the sea shore, or stand +under the arching trees that shade the avenue, or ride +by lake and river, past mountains and through the +valleys—never more for ever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>His works remain after him, but he himself is departed +into that silent land where no echoes of the +waves of time can reach the ears of the sleepers.</p> + +<p class='c012'>With great pomp and ceremony, with grandeur befitting +his wealth and his influence, and the height to +which he had climbed, they bore him to Eversbeg Abbey, +and laid him down to rest.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There, so near to where he made his first start in +life, he sleeps well—free from ambitious hopes, from +<span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>regretful longings. From all dreads, from all alarms, +he is delivered at last. The unquiet heart is still, the +busy mind hushed into repose. The summer’s sun +comes each year and falls warm and bright on the +graves in Eversbeg; but the summer’s sun cannot +quicken the cold body into life.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The great mountains rear their blue summits to +heaven, the lakes ripple and ripple, the rivers flow onward +to the sea, and the boulders and the blocks of +granite lie scattered about on the hill sides—the +great Atlantic beats against the iron-bound coast, and +up the thousand bays the waves steal gently as ever—on +that strange country through which Maxwell +rode when he was still young, when he had life all +before him, the moon looks down with as cold a light, +playing as many fantastic tricks, creeping up the hills, +and lying in the waters just as she did then.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And in the dancing sunlight Kincorth is beautiful +as of old; but the man who coveted Kincorth,—who +vowed to have it, who declared before God that neither +woman nor devil should keep it from him,—where +is he?</p> + +<p class='c012'>Lying with the rest of his kindred amid the ruins +of Eversbeg, slumbering with the ivy trailing over his +tomb, with the birds chattering all the day long above +his head, dreamlessly, until the hour comes when he +shall have to give an account of that life concerning +which he said—he had made a great mistake.</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXII.<br> <span class='c006'>Brighter Days.</span></h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>When Maxwell Drewitt’s will came to be read, it +was discovered that he had left everything which he +possessed to his son; but, as Arthur died before Maxwell, +this will became of none effect, and Brian, the +heir-at-law, succeeded to the properties.</p> + +<p class='c012'>And what properties they were! There had never +been a Drewitt so rich for many a long day—never +been a Drewitt without mortgages—without debt—without +incumbrances, until Maxwell made his fortune, +as I have told you, and left it for Brian to enjoy.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Amongst the dead man’s papers were found the +notes which had been stolen from Mr. Kearns; and +these were delivered to the Dundalk and Drogheda +Banking Company, in precisely the same state as that +in which they were discovered.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Whatever could be done to clear Harold’s memory +from the stain that had lain on it, was done: there +were paragraphs inserted in the newspapers; there were +statements read in court; there were communications +made to friends. Mr. Blosse was induced to open his +mouth; and every one agreed that Harold had been +shamefully treated; but that the whole proceeding was +“just on a piece” with the rest of Mr. Maxwell Drewitt’s +performances.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is no chance now, old fellow, I suppose, of +your coming into partnership with me,” said Mr. Francis +<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>Gyton, when he and Brian met once more at Highgate. +“Like all the rest of your countrymen, you will +begin to turn up your nose at business—cut the +money-making establishment altogether, and take to +doing the idle and patriarchal.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I’ll tell you what I have a great mind to do,” +answered Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Listen attentively, Geraldine,” said Mr. Gyton. +“Crœsus has a great mind to do something; perhaps it +may be something for our benefit.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, it is not,” Brian replied. “I have a very +great mind to sell all those Irish properties, and go +abroad.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Bless my soul!” exclaimed his brother-in-law +elect.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hate the places!” went on Brian; “I hate the +associations! I hate the country—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And you hate the people! That is right, go it, +my boy!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I wish, Frank, that you would not interrupt me +so continually,” said Brian Drewitt, a little irritably. +“There is no human being but myself,” he proceeded, +“can understand the misery I have endured in Ireland—nor +the wretched memories it recalls! If I retain +the properties I shall never reside in Connemara.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“You need not offer any of them to me, if that is +your benevolent intention,” said Mr. Gyton, hastily; +“for I would not be hired to live in Ireland at a salary +of ten thousand a year! It is all very well when the +weather is fine—and it is all very well when you +don’t want much society; but it is the devil when it +rains! and when one is shut up in the house all day—with +a fine sea-view and the toothache! London +<span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>for me!” finished Mr. Gyton. “I am of London, Londony; +I am of the streets, streety. I detest high +tragedy; and your prodigious funerals; and your +outrageous grief; and your excessive sensibilities; and +your despairing remorse; and your eternal hatreds; and +your desperate revenges, seem to me quite out of place +in the civilized nineteenth century!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“The end, and aim, and object of which civilized +nineteenth century is to destroy all hatred, as it has +destroyed all love!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, now, that is really too bad; what do you +know about love, sir?—you who have, ever since I +had the honour of making your acquaintance, been so +occupied with a kind of Hibernian Vendetta, that you +have had no leisure even to look at a pretty girl, let +alone fall in love with her.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I was not talking about love of that sort, Frank,” +answered Brian; “but about all descriptions of love—love +of friends, parents, children, sisters, brothers.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“If you have any compassion, Brian, do stop,” +entreated Mr. Gyton; “do not treat me to a long dissertation +on vehement attachments, or never-to-be-forgotten +griefs. Allow me to remark that, had you +been born in any other country than in Ireland, you +would have been a much more agreeable individual +than is the case.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Now, Francis,” interposed Geraldine.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“My sweet child, I am only speaking the truth. +Had your brother stood in my shoes, he would either +have been sent to Oxford or put to business about the +time he began nourishing those romantic ideas on the +subject of Kincorth, which ideas have, fortunately for +him, been realised. Hem!—where was I?—oh! +<span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>yes, at Oxford or the desk. There are two things in +this world which leave a man very little time for +developing his eccentricities, viz., business and pleasure. +In a country where you have neither, as in Ireland, it +follows naturally—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Excuse me interrupting you,” observed Brian, +“but Ireland is usually considered to be a very pleasure-seeking +country.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Is it really? where do the poor devils go to seek +for it? Precious far afield I should say. It struck me +as being one of the most melancholy corners of the +earth that ever I set my foot in.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yet I suppose you will allow that there is a small +portion of wit in Ireland?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There may be; I never heard any Irish wit excepting +in England.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Probably that was not the fault of the Irish,” +answered Brian, with a slight sneer.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Thank you for the implied compliment. What I +meant to say when you tripped me up so short was, +that one hears a certain number of stock anecdotes on +this side the channel which spoil one for ordinary Irish +conversation. Every Dublin car-driver is not a wit; +on the contrary, I have never heard a really clever +speech from one of them, nor am I acquainted with +any person who has. The manner is amusing, I admit; +but the matter will not bear inspection: all of which +brings me round to what I said at first. I would not +have to reside in Ireland—indeed I would not reside +in any place at a great distance from London for ten +thousand a year.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I certainly was not going to ask you to reside in +Ireland,” observed Brian.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>“Then we need not fear any misunderstanding on +the subject,” remarked Mr. Gyton; “and you can proceed +with what you were about to say.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have said all I was about to say.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“No, you have not; you were going to tell us why +you thought of going abroad, where you intended +travelling to, and what you purposed doing when you +had reached your destination.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There is no use, Frank, in trying to talk seriously +to you. Everything seems to you to bear a comical +aspect. To hear you speak I am sure anybody might +think the world was a place only intended by the +Almighty for jibes and jeers, for the fool’s motley, for +the cap and bells.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“After all, the fool’s bells make more lively music +than the passing bells; which appear to be what you +delight to listen to. In sober earnest though, Brian, I +do hate to see a man, a wise man, taking life after +your fashion. Is not there happiness in this world, is +not there sunshine, are not there women’s voices, are +not there flowers, and birds and bees and butterflies? +Do you think God ever intended we should let any +sorrow or any suffering so dim our eyes that we should +never again be able to look out on life with a sense of +enjoyment, with a thrill of pleasure? Talk to him, +Geraldine; tell him what a madman he is to dwell so +sorrowfully on the past, instead of taking pleasure in +the present. Brian,” he added, and for the first time +during their acquaintance there came a touch of passionate +entreaty into his voice, “Brian, my brother, for +God’s sake, put that unhappy boy out of your mind; +bury your dead, and leave their graves, and come and +<span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>stand out in the sunshine, so that you may make both +yourself and those belonging to you happy once more.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>With a gesture almost of despair, Brian lifted his +head, and looking over the great city which lay below +them, answered—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“It is too soon yet. You do not know, no man +can know, what my life has been, what I have suffered, +how I have sinned. You have never stood, as I have, +at one death-bed after another, where the life had been +either unhappy or wicked. Think of it, Frank: out of +your own brighter experience, judge what mine must +have been. Father, mother, brother, cousin, and cousin’s +son—all in five years. Those whom I wanted to +make happy, whom I would have laid down my life to +save from grief and trouble, are all gone where the +wealth that is now mine is unavailing. I never was +young; I never had a boy’s heart; I never was like +other men I met, gay and thoughtless and light-hearted. +I think you are right, Frank, after all, and +that I was wrong. I believe, had I been brought up +in England, I should have been a better man and a +happier than I am ever likely to be now. Like Maxwell, +I have made a great mistake.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, rectify it then,” answered Mr. Gyton. “It +is not too late; it is never too late while you have +breath in your body. I know what you were going to +say: you were going to make some remark about that +Arthur, whose death you have taken a fancy to charge +at your own door. There never was a better day’s +work done for that young gentleman than when he was +put so easily out of harm’s way.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What shocking things you do say, Frank!” remarked +Geraldine.</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>“If being true makes things shocking, I have no +doubt they are so,” he replied; “but the fact is this. +Supposing he had escaped drowning, he would have +lived to be hung to a certainty. I am as positive of +that as I am that I am living. Those are just the kind +of youths who come as surely to the gallows, let them +start from what point they may, as that the sparks fly +upward. My uncle is of the same opinion; he thinks +that for the sake of all parties interested it was a great +blessing Mr. Arthur Campnell, or Bourke, or Drewitt, +or whatever his name might be, made his exit when he +did. Just fancy that boy in possession of those properties. +I ask you just to fancy it. He would have +more misery than we should ever be able to estimate. +Those notes! why you know the lad who could carry +a thing of that kind through coolly must have been the +making of a thorough scoundrel; and if it were only +for the suffering he caused Harold, he richly deserved +all he got.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That was the way I argued,” Brian groaned. +“Heaven, forgive me!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“There can be no worse article for every-day wear +than a delicate conscience like yours; which first thinks +it a duty to avenge the dead, and then turns round +and repents having inflicted punishment on the object +of its deadliest hatred. I think you were born a few +centuries too late, Brian. You would have been a +capital fellow for the sack-cloth and scourging days; +and in one respect I think those days were a vast deal +better than our own. Men then wore their sorrow out +of sight, and their penitence too; now they go about +with faces as long as my arm, making everybody they +<span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>meet miserable, because of some trifling sin that they +chance to have committed in years gone by.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That cap fits well, if it were made at random.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I did not make it for you,” answered Mr. Gyton, +colouring with vexation at his own stupidity; “and I +don’t want to say anything to vex you, only take my +advice. Come out of your shell—mix in the world—share +its pleasures—enjoy its sunshine—don’t +go moping about the Continent alone, and beyond all +things, don’t go shut yourself up in those old Irish +estates till you become a monomaniac. Look out for +a nice wife—marry—and forget. If you have done +wrong, you must try and do right for the future. If +you have made a mistake, thank God it is not on your +death-bed you have found it out; but with life, years +of it before you, I trust, to make a better thing of +than any Drewitt I ever heard of dreamt of attempting.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What are you sermonizing about, Frank?” asked +Mr. Pryor, who came at this moment into the room.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am preaching the doctrine of work and common +sense in the ears of a morbid sinner,” was the reply.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And is he converted?” inquired his uncle, with a +smile.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Give me time,” Brian answered, “give me time; +only, of one thing be sure—I will not sit down with +my hands folded and sorrow vainly. I will do my +best. I will not fly my duties. I will not attempt to +get rid of my responsibilities; and should it ever please +God to remove the weight that is lying on my heart, +I will become a laughing philosopher like you, Frank, +and find sunshine in the darkest places.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is right!” cried Mr. Gyton, clapping him on +<span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>the back; while Mr. Pryor went up to Brian and silently +took his hand.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Perhaps the barrister could better estimate the +length and breadth, and height and depth, of the agony +that Brian had passed through than any other man on +earth. He had traced the boy’s progress to manhood, +and seen how each year had brought its trial, each +day its necessity for self-command and self-forgetfulness.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He knew, who better? how long even a slight +wound takes to heal with some mental constitutions, +and he could not marvel at the effect all his trials had +produced on Brian Drewitt.</p> + +<p class='c012'>For himself, it was many a long day before he +could forget either that night-scene on the coast of the +wild West, or that darkened room to which the man +who had thought once no domain large enough for him, +was confined at last.</p> + +<p class='c012'>His life had been prosperous, but the end was so +unutterably sorrowful that it left an impression on Mr. +Pryor’s mind like the wail of a mournful melody, or +the sobbing of the wind among the pines at night.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Unmourned, unlamented, the man had passed to his +long home, without one to weep over him and say, +“Alas! my brother.”</p> + +<hr class=asterisks> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>It was autumn in Connemara once again; the hills +were clad in their robes of purple heather, and the +country looked its loveliest, and there was a great +peace on land, on lake, on sea; while under the arching +trees a bridal party came forth from Kincorth; for the +daughter of the house was going to be married to the +man she had loved for so long.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As a matter of choice, and as a matter of convenience, +the bridegroom would certainly have preferred +that the wedding should be solemnized in London; but +it was a fancy of Brian’s that Frank Gyton should take +his sister from amongst her own people; that in the +place where she had been born she should be married; +that with much stately ceremony, with every festive +rejoicing, the son of the English merchant should mate +with the daughter of the Irish gentleman.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Brian would not have been a Drewitt had he not +been likewise proud, and it was more out of pride than +out of ostentation that he prepared so great a feast, +and bade so many guests to partake of it. Duranmore +had never seen such a wedding before; such strings of +carriages, such strewing of flowers, such passing under +wreaths and garlands, was unprecedented even in a +place where many a well-born bride had been wooed, +and won, and married.</p> + +<p class='c012'>It was a gay sight, and the hearts of the tenantry +rejoiced to see such a cavalcade leaving the gates of +Kincorth. Many a day it was since such a festival +had been held at the old home of the Drewitts; and it +seemed, as the people said, like the good old times +come back again when the bride, blushing and happy, +walked out of the church porch, leaning on her husband’s +arm, and passed through the people who had +<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>known her from a child, receiving blessings and praises +as she went by.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Half the county was at the wedding, and there +were great folks from London staying at Durrow, and +the whole country side was alive with carriages and +servants, and spectators and guests.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Lady Emmeline graced the scene with her presence, +and presented the bride with some sweet verses of her +own composition, which she secretly hoped might be +read aloud at the breakfast.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She was looking very old and very haggard, poor +lady, but she enjoyed that wedding immensely, and +told everybody how fond she had always been of +Geraldine, and how “many people had taken them for +mother and daughter when they were in London together.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Mr. Gyton was in great force; he was perfectly +stupendous in the way of waistcoat, and gold chain and +pocket-handkerchiefs. He drank champagne, and he +grew pathetic; he partook of all manner of good things, +and did such justice to the viands set before him that +Frank Gyton sent round a card to Brian Drewitt, on +which he had written, in pencil—</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I hope there is a clever doctor among the company—dread +apoplexy.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Altogether it was, as Mr. Gyton, junior, declared, +enormously jolly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I think that everybody should come to Ireland to +be married,” said one tremendous young swell, who +turned R into W in the most cruel and unintelligible +manner imaginable. “I think every body should come +to Ireland to be married, it is such fun.”</p> + +<p class='c012'><span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>“Yes, and the ten miles’ drive gives one such an +appetite,” remarked Mr. Gyton, senior.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And, Frank, what did you mean about the +climate?” asked his mother. “We have had three +days without a single drop of rain.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That is because it never rains single drops in +Ireland,” was the reply; “they always fall plenty at a +time.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Well, now, you know this is charming,” said one +City man. “If one could make certain of not being +shot, I think I should like to end my days here.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Did you ever see such a view?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“What a delicious house!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And how exquisitely furnished!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Don’t you wonder Mr. Drewitt has never married?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Hasn’t had the property long; was a clerk in Mr. +Gyton’s office in the City.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Dear me, how singular!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“And he proposed for her in her poverty?”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Yes, and takes her from here with a handsome +fortune, I am told.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“How romantic!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Virtue rewarded.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>And so the talk ran on, while the groom’s-man +implored one of the bridesmaids to tell him who that +wonderful piece of antiquity was, seated on the other +side of the table.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“That, sir,” said the young lady, demurely, “is my +cousin, Lady Emmeline Drewitt.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I am sure, I beg your pardon; really that is—”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“She is the widow of the late proprietor of Kincorth,” +proceeded Miss Vervensoe, who rather enjoyed +<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>her companion’s confusion. “She is very wealthy, and +has been considered very handsome.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Really, now you speak of it—yes, to be sure, +bears traces of having been very beautiful.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I have never detected those traces myself,” said +the young Irish belle, “for it is little more than a tradition +with us. Mr. Pryor, however, declares he can +remember her a most graceful and fascinating woman +when he stood for Duranmore in 1832.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I had not the least idea Pryor was so old—1832 +carries us back into the remote ages of antiquity.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>“I suppose it does, to about the time the Pyramids +were built,” answered Miss Vervensoe, a little pertly. +She had some pretensions to talent, and indulged in +satirical poetry, and on her return home wrote some +very smart lines descriptive of the wedding-breakfast +generally, and of her conversational friend particularly.</p> + +<p class='c012'>“Are you coming to the ball to-night?” she asked.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Of course he was. Did not every one intend coming +to it, or rather staying for it, who had got an invitation? +“For his part,” and here the speaker became +slightly tender in his manner; “for his part, he +quite agreed with Mr. Sherwood and Mr. Gyton, that +everybody ought to come to Ireland to get married.”</p> + +<p class='c012'>Which observation Miss Vervensoe shrined in her +poem with an addendum of her own, to the effect that +she thought a good many people would have to bring +the wives with them.</p> + +<p class='c012'>On the whole, Miss Vervensoe was not a nice young +lady; not a young lady it would have been well for +Brian Drewitt to marry; though it was her mother’s +<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>intention that he should marry her, if the thing were +compassable.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Lady Emmeline, also, was very desirous that her +sweetest “Anne” should become mistress of Kincorth; +and Mr. Dolf Vervensoe told his daughter that he +should think her a “damned deal cleverer even than +she thought herself, if she could bring Brian Drewitt +to book!”</p> + +<p class='c012'>But through that danger the young man passed +scatheless. He was not a person very easy to satisfy, +either in the matter of beauty or of anything else; and +accordingly, he waited, and waited, till, quite by +chance, as it seemed to them both, he met one day +with a bright, loveable, English country-girl, who had +been brought up very quietly in her father’s old-fashioned +parsonage-house—whence Brian Drewitt +took her to himself, without any fuss or ceremonial or +excitement whatsoever.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Geraldine always declared he took a fancy to the +girl because she resembled their mother; and Brian did +not contradict her assertion.</p> + +<p class='c012'>When the spring was shyly putting out its soft +green leaves—when the winter’s frosts were over, +and the winter’s snows gone—when the balmy south +wind began to blow, bringing flowers and buds on its +genial breath, Brian Drewitt took his young wife home +to Kincorth, which he has never talked of selling from +that hour.</p> + +<p class='c012'>She was his home-angel! his sweet, pretty, cheerful +treasure! and he told her so one day, when she began, +in her winning way, to coax him to tell her why he +ever married her—he, so rich! so grand! who might +have wooed and won some wonderful heiress—some +<span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>great beauty; and he added, also, a statement which +was true as Holy Writ—viz., that, when he first +looked in her face, he felt its expression comfort him +as nothing else had comforted him since that sad day +when he stood beside his mother’s coffin, and felt almost +as though his heart were broken!</p> + +<div class='chapter'> + <span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span> + <h2 class='c005'>CONCLUSION.</h2> +</div> + +<p class='c011'>Thus they were all at rest at last—they who +had loved, and they who had hated; the years had +passed by, and brought peace with them—peace to +the dead—peace to the living.</p> + +<p class='c012'>As for Brian Drewitt, who is a good landlord and +a faithful steward, he can think over the past now +without anguish—without despair.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was once a time in his life when, had any +one foretold that into so quiet a haven his soul could +ever drift, he would have derided the idea, and scoffed +it to scorn; there was once a time when he lived but +for vengeance—once—but that was gone.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Like a tale that was told—like a watch in the +night—like a storm which was spent, so the great +thirst for revenge had died out, and left, it might be, +a still greater grief, but a more holy feeling behind.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The draught he had once panted and sickened for—the +power to ruin Maxwell—to hurl him from his +pinnacle of worldly greatness into the very depths of +poverty—never slackened his feverish thirst, it is +true; but he had drained another goblet to the dregs, +and found at the bottom, bitterness—in its sweetness, +death.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Well, it was all over now; the desire, the sin, the +remorse—the fever which had once dried up his very +blood—which had burnt and consumed him—which +<span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>had eaten into his heart and torn at his vitals, had +subsided; and he now looked back at the days and the +years of his awful sickness as one might who, having +recovered from the frenzy of madness, tries to recall +the sensations, and the events and the phases, and the +once great leading passion of his lunacy.</p> + +<p class='c012'>So he looked back from a safe and sure haven at +last, over the waves of that troublous ocean where he +had waged so unequal a fight; where he had seen his +purest and best hopes shipwrecked; where he had +beheld <em>her</em> go down amongst the billows, never to rise +till eternity again; where he had struck out madly to +reach his enemy; where after years he stood by the +shore watching Maxwell sink lower and lower in the +flood, proclaiming with his last breath that life had not +been to him all happiness—that somewhere, or all +through, he had made a great mistake.</p> + +<p class='c012'>The storm had swept by, but it had left traces +behind it—such traces as, that wife, nor child, nor +friend, ever after saw Brian Drewitt laugh.</p> + +<p class='c012'>He said he was well and happy; and so he was; +but such passions as had dwelt in his breast are enemies +who never quit a man without leaving tracks of +sorrow and traces of sin, long deep scars and ugly +furrows behind them, that not even the soft caresses of +his loving wife, the sunshine of domestic happiness +could entirely heal.</p> + +<p class='c012'>There was a shade, even to that bright sunshine; +for long after his lips had ceased to pronounce her +name; when to mere casual observers the sore seemed +healed, the wound cicatrized; when children climbed +his knee, and young tongues called him father, and +tiny hands clutched his hair, and little essayists in the +<span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>sublime mystery of walking came toddling towards +him, forcing the grave, stern face to relax and smile—Brian +Drewitt was still weeping at heart for her +who had been his mother.</p> + +<p class='c012'>Whenever he visited London, he often took long +morning walks alone, and by his resolute persistency +in refusing her companionship his sister knew whither +he was gone.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In one direction he invariably turned his steps—to +that churchyard where, as I have said, the setting +sun casts its departing rays on the graves of the loved +and lost.</p> + +<p class='c012'>In that churchyard there is still one little piece of +ground kept bright and beautiful by the living, in remembrance +of the dead; and beside that grave Brian +Drewitt will stand motionless, with his arms folded and +his eyes fixed on the only inscription except her name +which the white marble bears: “Blessed are the pure +in heart, for they shall see God.”</p> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c003'> + <div><span class='small'>THE END.</span></div> + <div class='c003'>PRINTING OFFICE OF THE PUBLISHER.</div> + </div> +</div> + +<div class='pbb'> + <hr class='pb c002'> +</div> + +<div class='chapter ph2'> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c001'> + <div><span class='c006'>December 1883.</span></div> + <div class='c002'>Tauchnitz Edition.</div> + </div> +</div> + +</div> + +<div class='nf-center-c0'> +<div class='nf-center c003'> + <div><span class='large'>Latest Volumes:</span></div> + </div> +</div> + + <ul class='ul_1'> + <li>A Chance Acquaintance. 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